And Then She Was Five...

On my 5th birthday, I received a pink bike.  My mom made a little treasure hunt for it throughout the house and when I ended up in the back yard, there it was, shining brightly, awaiting the adventures we would have together.  I remember most of that experience so vividly; I can still feel the warm July air; I can still see the blue demin dress I was wearing; I can still hear the anticipation in my mom’s voice of what was about to happen.  Five is a special number for a kid, and my family made it special for me; so special that 28 years later, I still think of it and smile.

When Son turned five two years ago, it was special.  One whole hand required to tell the world how old you are.  He was finishing up his last year of preschool and climbing trees and playing soccer.  When did my firstborn baby become a little kid?  He suddenly seemed so big which made it easier for me to still then look at Daughter as my baby.   She was still then my constant companion; my running buddy, my napper, my go-to girl to head to Target with.  All this independence that came along with Son turning 5 was still a bit overshadowed by this Girl who still needed me to do so many things with her, for her.  I stopped to enjoy it a bit more because if Son could turn five so quickly, it was only a matter of time before I would blink and she would be right there, letting go of my hand to climb a little higher on that tree.

And now She is five.  And how special She is.

For if you know my Daughter, you know that there is no one quite like her.  A Girl who marches to the beat of her own drum.  A Girl who eschews a Princess dress in favor of a ninja sword.  A Girl who seems to be filled with so much silliness that you can’t help but smile when you glance at her in spite of yourself.  A Girl who reminds me so much of myself as a child: putting on shows in the front yard for no one in particular, slamming doors not once but twice to make sure her mood is recognized, making up stories with facial expressions as big as her imagination.  Her sense of humor is one of her greatest attributes, for even her Brother can’t help but laugh at her antics.  When she wants your attention, she demands it.  Don’t you dare ignore her.  I can already see her wings sprouting; I can see that she is going to want to fly.  And I know that I will have no choice but to sit back and watch her soar.

As I watch my Children grow, I am so overwhelmed with gratitude.  And I can’t believe, even though eeeevveerrryyyone likes to tell me, I really can’t believe how quickly the years go by.  Enjoy every minute, they say.  And while I am maybe not enjoying every minute, I am doing my best to remember that any moment, any day, any adventure my Kids experience has the possibility of being locked in their brains forever and I can only hope that they look back and remember that it was...special.

Happy Birthday, Baby Girl.  May your life be as big as that imagination of yours.  May your life bring you as much joy as you bring to me.

I love you to the moon and back.

Fancy That

Once upon a time, way back when Son was in his first year of preschool, and Daughter was just the sweetest little attachment on my boob, I experienced my first “Ski Week.”  Yes.  You read that correctly.  “Ski Week.”  Not spring break.  Nope.  That comes later.  (Just a few convenient weeks AFTER Ski Week actually.)  I remember looking at the calendar posted outside his classroom and thinking to myself, (or more likely saying out loud to the innocent bystanders near me):  What. The Fuck. Is Ski Week?  

Funnily enough, growing up in Iowa with ALL THAT SNOW, we didn’t have Ski Week.

We had snow days.

For when, you know, it was TOO DANGEROUS to go to school.

But here, in Fancy Southern California, they have “Ski Week” so Fancy Kids can go and see the snow they are so deprived of.  In case it’s not coming across the way I have intended, I was pretty bitter about the concept of this so-called Ski Week.  That first year of preschool, I had a two year old and a newborn and the THOUGHT of NOT HAVING those 8 hours a week Son went to school because Fancy California Kids had to go skiing made me cry.  My first question was: If we are NOT skiing during Ski Week, may I please still drop off Son at his classroom?  Turns out: no.  You may not.  Second question: Someone tell me again WHAT IN THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE?

Short version: schools in certain Fancy Communities were losing money because so many Fancy Families were taking their Fancy Kids skiing over Presidents Day weekend and staying the entire week so schools were losing money so Fancy Communities said WHAT THE HECK!  Let’s make Ski Week a Thing!

Flash forward 4 years.  

What did the Gelato Family do during Ski Week?

Go skiing.  Duh.  

It’s one of those moments when I looked at myself and thought...I am sometimes, once in awhile, hopefully not very often, that very person I used to make fun of.  And, whenever possible, still enjoy making fun of.  I mean, does the very fact that our family went skiing during Ski Week make me...Fancy?  Are people snickering at me?  (Answer: Yes.  Always.  For many more reasons, I’m sure, than skiing on specifically assigned week to do so.)  

As a child growing up middle class in Iowa, I was not privy to such experiences. A great vacation to us was a HOTEL!  With a POOL!  Amazing.  In fact, one of my greater joys in life is comparing Husband’s childhood vacations with my own.  Let’s just say...we never made it to Kauai.  Or Australia.  Or Whistler.  But we did make it to Omaha and Chicago.  And let’s not forget South Dakota.  A cooler full of sandwiches and RC Cola, a deck of cards to keep us occupied, and we were off.  And I remember them all with great fondness.  (Probably more fondness than my mother who I’m sure would have died and gone to heaven if she could have just handed us all an iPad and some headphones.)  So, it definitely is an...adjustment...for me to get my Children to appreciate these vacations.  I mean, it’s certainly not their fault that they are being raised in this Fancy Community, but it doesn’t mean they get to be dicks about it.  Point in case: when we told Son that we were going to go to Mammoth for Ski Week- his response?  “Mammoth?  Again?”  Daughter wasn’t much better: “Do we HAVE to go to Ski School?”  No, you little assholes.  You don’t HAVE to go to Ski School, you GET to go to Ski School.  I mean...WHO ARE THESE PEOPLE?  

And then it hit me.

Oh.My.God.  

They’re Fancy.  

Don’t worry.  I know what to do.

Nothing knocks down a little Fancy like some unpaid manual labor.  You don’t do it for allowance, you do it because I told you too.  Also, I’m thirsty.  Aaaannnddd....I could use a snack.  And could you keep it down out there while you’re washing the windows?  Mama’s shows on are.

If anyone’s going to be Fancy in this house, it’s gonna be me.

Here’s to being not so Fancy.  Until you deserve to be so.

Sleep…Interrupted

One thing you know for sure before you have a baby...one thing that is and always will be THE TRUTH, is that you will be tired.  In the beginning, it’s that ‘What the Hell Happened to My Life and Why is He Crying Again’ kind of tired.   1AM feeding?  Doable. 4AM feeding?  That one hurts.  But even during those 4AM feedings, after being sprung awake and falling out of bed and stumbling down the hallway in darkness, I had nothing but coos and ahhs and songs and kisses and hugs and a gentle rock to put the babe back to sleep.  It was lovely torture to be so tired.  And as I would quietly walk back down the hallway to my bed, it seemed my eyes would barely be closed and I would be asleep myself, knowing in 3 hours, the wake up call would be the same.

But 7 years and two kids later, Mama ain’t so nice anymore at 4AM.

While I have survived or just blacked out many Phases of Bedtime Battles, I am now much more unwilling to be a loving, caring Mother at 4AM.  These Phases include, but are not limited too:

*Son’s Night Terror Phase
*Son’s ‘I must eat 5 grapes before I go to bed or I will make your life a living hell’ Phase
*’Every single light in the house must be on all night’ Phase
*Daughters ‘5AM is when I want to start my day, okay?' Phase

While in these Phases, they seem inescapable; like for the REST of your LIFE one child will wake up trembling from a night terror while grape juice is sliding off his chin and the other is yelling at you in the middle of the night “WHY DID YOU TURN THE HALL LIGHT OFF?” and just when you doze off to sleep, somebody’s internal clock from hell rings at 5 am and it’s time to be a Parent.

But...as a Phase implies, it passes, and soon enough bedtime is predictable, and for the most part, everyone can put their heads on their pillows with the expectation that it will be a civilized 7 AM before we all see each other again.  

But there are always exceptions.  Oh YES, there are exceptions.  

And these exceptions...let’s just say they are not always a welcome break from my ever-increasing struggle to Sleep Normally.  

These Exceptions include but are not limited too:

*Extreme dehydration at 2 AM followed by IMMEDIATE need for fresh water
*Daughters inability to cover her own head with her own sheet and the need for IMMEDIATE assistance 
*Crippling leg pain.  Or thumb pain.  Or left big toe pain.  Or elbow pain.  Band aid needed IMMEDIATELY.  Yes.  Band aids apparently cure crippling leg pain at 3AM.
*Inexplicable concept that ice melts.  Ice cubes needed in cup IMMEDIATELY.  

Whenever these Exceptions occur, the following usually happens:

I JOLT upright,  confused and sleepy, practically breaking my leg as I tumble out of bed to get to the Children’s shared room before ONE wakes up the OTHER ONE and then I slowly begin to realize that I have been awoken from slumber because Ice. Melted.  Instead of reacting with gentle love, it’s much more likely that I don’t speak for fear of saying something that would sound really mean, laced with four letter words, so instead I just take the damn cup and put some damn ice in it and try not to throw it back in their bed and then I say I love you! in this weird voice that’s implying that maybe love isn’t what I’m necessarily feeling at the moment and then I shut the door and mumble all those four letter words I was just keeping on the inside moments ago under my breath because I know it’s going to be very hard for me to get back to sleep because apparently as you get older, sleeping soundly is like this elusive mystery, so NOW I don’t get to sleep for the REST of the DAMN night because SOMEONE CAN’T DRINK ROOM TEMPERATURE WATER AT 2 AM?  WHERE DID I GO WRONG?

But I will at least attempt to put myself back to sleep and as I crawl back into bed, Husband mumbles something to the effect of “Everything okay?”, I think, oh yes.  Everything’s great.  I’m going to go ahead and pick up that copy of War and Peace I’ve been meaning to tackle because ICE CUBES have now prevented me from sleeping for at least two more hours.  And there I will lie, trying my hardest to think lovely thoughts to put me back to sleep...and I get so close...it’s like sleep is just tempting me...letting me fall into it’s fluffy little pillow...and then I...hear...it.  That sound.

You know that sound.
That loud breathing sound that turns into that loud snoring sound.  
That sound that makes you seethe with anger.
That sound that makes you shove your Spouse perhaps a liiitttlllee to rough to get him to roll over. 
That sound that makes you want to sit up and shout-OKAY!  I GET it!  You’re SLEEPING.  And I’m NOT.  You are SO GOOD at sleeping!   ANY CHANCE YOU COULD DO IT SILENTLY?  

No?  

Fine.

Turns out, 4AM is a great time to binge watch Orange is the New Black.
Now those ladies have real problems.

Happy Sleeping.  It’s nice work if you can get it.

Elf on a M'Fing Shelf

Can I just start this post with one big SIIIGGGHHHH?  That’s me exhaling great disappointment in myself.  I...oh man....how do I admit this?  Yesterday, I went to Target and I...um....I...I BOUGHT THE DAMN ELF ON A SHELF, OKAY?  You people....all you PEOPLE with your little ELVES with names like Tingles and Joy and Snowball...I couldn’t take the PRESSURE anymore of my Offspring asking me, badgering me, with their sad, little, pathetic eyes...why don’t WE have an Elf on a Shelf?  And instead of giving them my honest answer of-”Because Mommy is lazy and can barely remember to put chocolate in the Advent Calendar every night  so how can She be expected to move a money-sucking little Elf around each night, and, also, I think you should just be able to BELIEVE in Santa without any extra stimulation because you are a LITTLE KID and that’s what LITTLE KIDS do...blindly believe in Santa”...I told them something to the effect of-”I’M the Elf on the Shelf and I should be the only motivation you need to have good behavior because me and Santa are likethis.”  That worked last year.  This year...not so much.  It seemed as if every house I entered, there was this little Elf staring deep into my soul, pleading with me, begging me, asking me the question...Why?  Why am I, this cute little Elf, so bad?  Why can’t you bring your Children the joy and magic they deserve?  WHAT KIND OF MOTHER ARE YOU?  And, trust me, there are only so many times that you can have an imaginary conversation with an un-living thing before you crack.  

But that is not all.

No.  No it is not.

As I strolled into Target, spending my obligatory $1.95 first on a coffee, I must have had a lost look on my face because a Friendly, Well-Meaning Employee actually stopped me and asked me if I needed help finding something.  Me? Help finding something  in TARGET?  Um...yes...uh...actually I do.  Do you guys sell, um....you know, the, ahem... Elf on a Shelf?  She swiftly moved me along, telling me that why YES, of course they do, actually they have them in three different spots in the store and she took me to the first and there it was.  Except...wait...it’s a GIRL elf?  I didn’t even know they made those!  And then she asked me...did you want a boy or a girl?  And I looked at her, my eyes panicked at the thought of Son losing his shit over a GIRL Elf and asking me 68 questions about why all his friends got a boy and he got a girl and then I thought of how Daughter wouldn’t care if it was a boy or a girl and GOOD GOD YES LADY TAKE ME TO THE BOY ELVES!  And then, I hung my head in shame as she directed me to the back of the store.  Et, tu, Gelato Mama?  Giving in to the sexist ways of our society?  AN ELF ON THE SHELF AND REFUSAL TO BUY GIRL?  Who am I?  Some days I don’t even know anymore.  SIIIGGGHHHH.  

So.  There you have it.  Boy Elf on Motherf*#%*ing Shelf.  Currently, he is perched on a lamp where the Children will notice him when they get home from school, but can’t touch him because WE DON’T WANT TO RUIN THE MAGIC.

Which.

I admit.

It probably will be pretty magical to see their faces light up at the sight of their new friend.

But after that...it’s just going to be a pain in the ass.

Brightly Lit Dressing Rooms

Okay.  I mean.  Why?  You know what I’m talking about.  Why do dressing rooms have florescent lights?  This makes no sense to me. Who is in charge of this?  Is it somebody’s idea of a joke?  Not only do you have to go jean shopping today, you get to do it in a small room bright with unflattering light!  Oh, those pants feel a little tight?  Well, to make you feel even BETTER about yourself, we’ve gone ahead and put special lighting in here to highlight those unfortunate stretch marks your Firstborn inflicted upon you while in-utero, and juuusstt in case you are all like, these are my Warrior Marks, not Stretch Marks, that doesn’t explain how your lower abdomen slightly resembles a burrito when you bend over, so just go ahead and get a better view of that.  And OH!!  We’ve also gone ahead and installed this dressing room with TWO mirrors...one BEHIND you, so when you’re like, trying on bathing suits, you can get a goooood look at your ass in these florescent lights.  I mean, they say almost every woman has cellulite, but in case you thought maybe you didn’t, YOU WERE WRONG.  And there it is in all it’s glory.  BWHAAAA!!!!  

You would think that maybe it’s just the Targets of the world with badly lit dressing rooms.  But no. Nope.  Bra shopping at Nordstroms?  Yep.  Go ahead and take your shirt off and let a nice lady feel you up while staring at the bra strap fat in terrible lighting.  Or that time I went to JCrew looking for a pair of shorts and instead left crying and more convinced than ever that I should just not wear shorts.  Ever.  (Side note-Do you think Michelle Obama ever left JCrew crying?)  And I realize that maybe this...aversion...I have to Brightly Lit Dressing Rooms says more about my insecurities and body dysmorphia, but, still, would it kill retails stores to put in a nice, dim light?  Or just one that doesn’t make me feel like I’m in a line up?   Think how much better bathing suit shopping would be if they put in a skinny mirror and a 55 watt lightbulb?  Damn, I might even buy two bathing suits then!  I might want to try them all on because LOOK HOW GOOD I LOOK IN THIS LIGHT!!  And when you think about it that way, really, who can say that I am doing anything except trying to boost retail sales to improve our economy?  We don’t need women leaving dressing rooms crying!  We need them leaving full of confidence and empty wallets!  THIS IS FOR YOU, AMERICA!

You’re welcome.

Really Skinny People

The thing about living in an area of the country where people are ultra-obsessed with carbs and protein and bones protruding through their bodies is that you easily lose sight of what is “normal.”  As you can imagine, when one is surrounded by professional volleyball players and wannabe swimsuit models, it is quite easy to develop a complex and/or psychological issues.  And you know, damn it!  I’m tired of feeling fat all the time because all these Really Skinny People just can’t bring it down a notch.  Good God, what is this desire to be less than zero?  I will never, ever be a Really Skinny Person and I don’t even want to be, so why am I always feeling so bad about myself because my ass can fill out my jeans?  So, in order to try and put a stop, at least a temporary one, to my feelings of inadequacy, I’ve composed a couple of lists to remind me that Really Skinny People might be really skinny, but they are also maybe just a teensy weensy, little tiny bit crazy.

Really Skinny People have many fears.  Among them:

Sugar

Bread

Gluten 
Calories
Bread
Missed workouts
Spin class being cancelled
Bread
Going from a size 2 to a size 4.  (Fat ass.)
Running out of kale
Bread

Really Skinny People also have many obsessions.  Among them:

Whole Foods
Coconuts
Organic coconuts
Coconut water
Coconut milk
Coconut oil
Calories
Kale
Whole Foods
Coconuts

(I’m not sure, but I wouldn’t be surprised if some of these Really Skinny People survive on coconut alone.)

Also, on a somewhat related side note: I’ve recently decided that I can’t be friends with anyone who wants to get a chicken in their backyard so they can have fresh eggs. I don’t want to not like you, but you’re making it hard with this Urban Chicken Coop thing. 

I just...can’t...jump on board of the Really Skinny People ship.  It’s too consuming. So, I’m going to try and forgive myself for my imperfections and maybe even try to enjoy them.  So, go ahead and get back to your kale smoothies.  I’m going to go have an ice cream cone with my kids.

Teenagers Drinking Coffee/Almond Milk/Waiting in Line

Sometimes I feel like I don’t even need to explain things...like Teenagers Drinking Coffee should really be enough for someone to read and say, Oh yes...that is totally annoying, but if for some reason you’re all...what?  Why is it annoying for teenagers to drink coffee?...I’ll share.

First of all, Teenagers: please stop trying to be all grown up and stuff.  Trust me...you have the rest of your life to be Grown.  I still feel like an insecure 16 year old who is not nearly Grown, but for the sake of my Children, I need to appear that I’m Grown and like...know how to do stuff.  Drinking coffee makes you look like you want to be Grown, but really, just stop drinking coffee and go outside and play with your friends.  You’ll thank me later.

Second of all, this makes me angry because of the giggles I am forced to listen to as seven 15 year old girls, dressed alarmingly hipster prostitutes, order  frapuccinos with no whipped cream, followed by the 27 minutes I have to wait while the sole barista makes the said frappucinos.  Because you know what?  All I want is a cup of coffee.  I don’t even want a latte or a mocha.  And no, I do not want anything with soy or almond milk because, although I don’t necessarily have anything against soy beans or almonds, I just don’t want to sound like an asshole when I order coffee.  I just want coffee.  In a cup.  I’ll add the cream myself.  Cream from a cow.  When did dairy become the devil?  When did almonds step up and be all, Oh, Dairy...I am now the new Superior Milk in the Land?  Also, I think Starbucks should have a special line for people like me.    All the frappucino and soy chai almond tea people can stand in one line and the people who take approximately 17 seconds to order, receive and pay for their coffee can stand in another line? Wouldn’t that make the world a better place?  Everybody wins.  Again, you can thank me later.

And while we’re at it, Teenage Girls?  Put some damn clothes on.  Your worth and value in this life are so much more than your booty shorts.  Think about it.  (And your Mother let you wear that?  Oh wait...she’s wearing the same thing.  You might be screwed.)