Sum-Sum-Summertime

So, it’s almost that time of year again.  And I know what you’re thinking...isn’t every day Father’s Day?  No, no, no, not that holiday.  The really, really...really long one that comes right after that.  The one that lasts not just for a day or a week, but months. Come to think of it, some of you may be experiencing this holiday RIGHT NOW.

Summertime.

Here’s the thing about summer.  I’m ready.  I’m down.  I am waiting for it with my arms wide open, ready to be embraced in a big, warm hug of no morning rush, no homework, no drill sergeant scheduling.  No leaving the house strictly by 8 am, fingers crossed that Offspring sorta kinda brushed their teeth.  No making lunches covertly in the corner praying the Children don’t notice you and when they do, because they always will, this happens:

What are you putting in my lunch?
Food.
What kind of food?
Food you can eat.
Tell me what it is!
It doesn’t matter.
YES IT DOES!
You like it, don’t worry.
WHAT IS IT?
It’ll be a surprise.
YOU KNOW I DON’T LIKE SANDWICHES!
Go bother your father.
He’s in the bathroom!
Of course he is.

So yeah, summer has a smiley face on it right now.  A big, beaming smile that will ultimately start to fade into a crooked, deranged one come August.  But we’ll get to that another time.  Like, in August.  If I’m still alive.  Or not in Mexico.

Now, I’m not one to ship my kids off to camp week after week in the summer.  I don’t “work,”  I “stay home” and have “lots of time to run errands” and “work out” so there’s no reason, besides mental sanity, (which is completely overrated), for them to be gone day after day, week after week. Also-damn!  Those camps are expensive.  Also-damn!  You gotta be on top of that shit in like March and I’m too lazy to think about summer in March.  I don’t WANT to think about summer in March.  I want to think about March.  

 So, as much as I know that my kids will drive me crazy during the dog days of summer, I will try embrace the fact that it’s the 10 weeks or so of the year that we’re not racing off to something, we’re not getting mad about homework or being dragged out of bed.  Sure, we’re getting mad that HER ELBOW TOUCHED MY PLATE, but that sort of behavior is enjoyed year round.   I want my kids to remember summer the way I remember it; long, lazy days filled with the outdoors and my imagination.  I know that I can’t replicate my own experiences for my Children and I certainly want them to have their own, not to mention that summer in Iowa and summer at the beach will have their obvious differences, but I desire for them to have the sense of freedom that summer should hold for kids.  These years are slipping by too fast and what I wouldn’t give to have one more day to feel the grass upon my back with the sun shining on my face, the scent of lilacs in my nose, and the day wide, wide open in front of me.  

What does that song say?  Summertime and the livin is easy?

Here’s to easy living this summer to you and yours.

(Also-I’ll most likely be insane by the 4th of July so maybe just check in.)

Shopping S.O.S

A few months ago, my well-loved gym shoes were worn out and it was decided that a new pair was needed.  Husband, although his shoes were not as...well worn...as mine, decided that he, too, could use a new pair and it just so happened we found ourselves at The Large Sports Store where we were most likely buying yet another pair of cleats or goggles or socks for Small Children who, apparently, CONSTANTLY NEED THINGS.  (On a somewhat related side note: Go buy stock in The Large Sports Store.  They have all of our money.)  So there we are, lamenting the joys and costs of Children Playing Sports, when Husband suggested that while we were conveniently located inside The Large Sports Store, we should look for new gym shoes.  

I looked at him blankly and said, but the Children are here.  
He was like, um, yeah, they are.  
Then I was like, I mean, they’re like WITH us.  
And he was all, uh huh, like what’s your point?   
And then I was all:

OH YEAH!  Husband doesn’t SHOP with the Children!  

When Husband needs something, he just...goes to buy it.  By himself.  He can concentrate and not be distracted by Small Children playing “spy” inside the clothing racks.  He can make a Thoughtful Choice about the purchase he is intending to make. I imagine it something like this:  Hmmm....I like this shirt.  Maybe I should take a couple different sizes with me to the dressing room where I will be able to take a good, long look and check myself out from different angles to decide that yes, this is a good shirt, or no, I do not like this shirt.  I shall put it back.  

It’s all so civilized.  

Which is the OPPOSITE experience of attempting to purchase anything with Small Children.

Which is why I stared at him blankly while the Children were running sprints around us at the fake track The Large Sports Store decided painting around the Shoe Department was a good idea and wondered if Husband was actually in the same place as me or if he was some weird hologram my eyes had imagined because surely, SURELY, he can’t mean he wants to buy shoes, like...now.  

But he did.

Now me, being well practiced in Making Bad Decisions While Shopping with Children, I knew the first step to this process was to just point to a few pair of shoes I liked when the Sales Person decided to eventually stroll over as slowly as possible to see if I needed help.  Then while I am waiting the 27 minutes for him to come back, I will search The Large Sports Store for the Children, where I will find them shooting hoops in the middle of the aisle at that nifty basketball hoop that just so happens to be erected.  I will then drag them back to the track so they can continue their sprints and I will see Husband trying on shoes, trying to make a Thoughtful Choice, AS IF NOBODY ELSE IS EVEN THERE.   I see my little pile of shoe choices and try a pair on and notice it is suddenly too quiet and ask Husband where the Children went and he will not know so I will shove the shoes back in the box and tell him, here, these are fine and then I will go discover the Children have taken up golf, more like hockey golf, at the putting green  The Large Sports Store has so thoughtfully provided.  And I will drag them back to the Shoe Department to continue their sprints and we will all wait, as impatiently as possible, for Husband to debate on which shoe feels better, as he has one on each foot as he continues this Thoughtful Choice Process.   And my head will try not to explode.

And when I get those new pair of shoes out to wear for the first time at the gym, I realized, yet again, that I made a terrible choice.  As they hurt my feet.  My gym shoes hurt my feet.  That’s not cool.  Heels hurt my feet, yes, but that is expected, required even, out of shoe that has a heel on it.  Gym shoes:  they are not supposed to hurt.  But mine did.  

Because of the Children.  

I’m pretty sure I’ve racked up enough Bad Decisions While Shopping with Children that we could have perhaps gone to Fiji.  But instead...I’m just gonna go look for some new shoes.  By myself.  

In Fiji.

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.