THINGS THAT ARE ON MY MIND TODAY

Two very different things have captivated me today.  I've referenced it before, but I will write it again, as my box from a good friend notes:  "The writer must write what he has to say.  Not speak it."  So here is what I have to say today.

NOT A TOSS-UP

Tonight at my children’s elementary school there will be a Ham Toss.  We are not participating.  We will not be there for a few reasons, the most important of which is the idea does not intrigue me at all.  I do not see the entertainment, humor or athletic benefit to this family outing.  My children do not know it, but there are school activities that they do not attend because I am not interested in it for myself.  It sounds selfish, but I can only sit in an elementary school cafetorium so many times a year and call it quality entertainment.  I pick and choose what events seem the most reasonable for the family as a whole.

Second to not being interested, I do not know the purpose of the event, i.e. is it for fun, fundraising, spirit building or something else completely different that tossing hams in a gym signifies.  I am an information snob:  if you do not give me enough of it ahead of time, I shut down and have no interest to pursue the facts any further.  This could be an event that sponsors, or supports, a great cause but because that information was not on the flier that came home, I am unaware and uninterested.  Logic would tell me that since there was no clear charitable recipient to this activity, then it is for fun.  That takes me right back to reason number one for not participating:  I do not see this as a fun event.

Reason number three flooded into my head this morning as I was getting dressed.  Despite the fact that I have no interest in participating in this evening’s activity, I found myself obsessing about its pending occurrence.  My first thought is, what an incredible waste of food!  Maybe I do not understand the actual event, but the flier did say that it was a ham toss.  How else can I expect the activity to run, except but to assume that people will be tossing hams?  In addition, once said hams have landed on the floor, do the organizers and participants expect those hams to be picked up, brought home, baked and served for dinner?  Am I unaware of a pre-Easter food drive?  I would rather purchase my ham at Stop & Shop than bring home a beaten, floor-strewn ham.  Additionally, how can anyone justify the blatant misuse of food at any time of the year, but particularly heading into a religious holiday weekend?  I think anyone’s God would disapprove of such sloth and squander.

Following closely behind reason number three is reason number four:  where is PETA when you need them?! I cannot help but think of all of the pigs that were slaughtered SPECIFICALLY to be eventually consumed by humans.  Instead, these poor pigs gave their lives to be cured, maple-glazed and then thrown around a gym, only to be tossed in the trash.  If that is not animal cruelty, then I do not know what is.

I am sure I am missing the true spirit of this activity, but for now, I will leave the ham tossing to other Sturbridge residents.  I will continue to be an information snob, concerned with the fate of the pig, while avoiding telling my children that they are missing a town event that they never even knew was on the calendar.  Instead, our family will toss a ball to our dog, have a tossed salad with dinner, and maybe my husband will toss one back with me after the kids go to bed.  That is all the tossing that this family will do tonight.

 

MY BABY, MY SON

I always knew that the day would come that my son was taller than I was, stopped believing in the Tooth Fairy and Santa Clause, and started being more concerned about society’s impression of him than his mother’s impression of him.  I just never figured it would all happen in one eight-day period.

Last Tuesday, March 12, 2013 my son, my first born, my Mini-Me, stood behind me at my parents’ house, and judged by his father while his grandfather wielded a level, discovered that he was indeed a scoche taller than his mother was.  I turned and hugged him, with a smile on my face, and sadness in my heart.  I knew it would come someday, but you never really know how you will feel when you have to reconcile that not only is your child growing into an adult, but that this child, who is still more than one third my age, is now someone else I have to literally look up to.

I am fortunate enough right now that Jakob has never been a behavioral problem child.  I hope that he never will be.  At least for now I am not concerned about how to “handle” him now that he is taller than I am.  He is respectful, lovable, and sensitive and for some reason still loves to spend time with his mom.  I could not have asked for a better son.  He amazes me with the amount of conversation and time that he seems to enjoy with me.  At least as recently as a few weeks ago, he was not embarrassed when I showed up at the bus stop on a snowy afternoon to offer him a ride, and I was delighted when he actually hugged me when he got in the car.  I hold onto those moments, praying that moment is not the last of its kind, and there will be more.

Along with gaining a quarter inch on me, my son has also managed to grow out of his childhood appearance and expectations.  It was Wednesday or Thursday of last week when he pulled at his shirt in such a way to reveal his pants slung down lower than usual, his boxer shorts visible just above the waistline of his jeans.  When I asked him why he was wearing his pants that way, his reply resembled that of any TV pre-teen answering his mom’s questions.  It was brief, barely audible and conveyed the notion that that was what kids do.  It was clear to me at that point, why he had not cut his fingernails, despite two requests from me to do so.

In addition, his last baby tooth came out on Wednesday, March 20, the first day of spring.  How ironic!  My son’s last week of winter at twelve years old brought new height, new fashion and new permanent teeth into his life.  With that comes new revelation.  After losing his tooth, he danced around saying, “Money, money, money!  I can’t wait for you to put money under my pillow!”  I could not even look him in the eye when I asked him why he thought I would be putting money under his pillow.  Again, his reply:  “Because that’s what you do.”  It was a standoff moment and a bluff, but in the end, he had the truth, crest-fallen for a moment, but also even more secure in his position that he was indeed getting older.  When he followed up with, “I suppose now you will tell me that there isn’t a Santa Claus,” I took a different route, expounding on the virtues of believing in magic, wonder, fantasy and beautiful sentiments in life, regardless of what reality actually dictates.  It was not a yes or no answer to the Santa Claus debate, but a mother’s last futile attempt at holding onto something that had already surely slipped away from her.

“Well somebody better tell me the truth at some point.  Because one day I will grow up, get married and have kids.  And if we all wake up on Christmas morning and there are no presents under the tree, I will be just as surprised as they are and I won’t know what to tell them!”  It was not sad, it was sweet.  It was not regret, it was acceptance.  It was not annoyance, it was humor.  It was Jakob.  It  was the perfect coming-of-age moment that any mother could have with her son.  He is not a baby anymore, but he will always be my baby.  Taller, wiser, more socially aware, he is, and always will be, my son.

WHY HAND-ME-DOWNS MAKE ME A BETTER MOM

I started this piece in April 2009.  At the time, I didn't know what to do with it, only that I needed to write it.  Now that I have a blog, it seems fitting to give it a permanent home.  Since it is 4 years later than when it was originally penned, some of the content seems out of sync with my life, but the sentiment is still the same.  I have edited it appropriately (mostly) for the current time.

 

I have never been a slave to fashion, but I have considered myself fashionable.  I have never been a shop-a-holic, but not because I did not want to buy things, but because I was too cheap to buy them.  In addition, I have never been a clotheshorse but I love new clothes – brand new and new to me.  Therefore, I love hand-me-downs, for myself and for my children.

Hand-me-downs free me from all the stress, guilt and financial responsibility of acquiring the clothes and maintaining them.  Hand-me-downs allow me to sit at home and wait for the fashions to come to me.  I do not have to spend gas and time driving to multiple stores to look at and try on clothes, only to be frustrated with either the fit or the price tag or both.  As a stay-at-home mother of three children, I have found little time to peruse racks and rounders for the perfect outfit.  I tried going to Old Navy to buy a pair of jeans when my youngest was still in a car carrier.  The largest fitting room they had was still not roomy enough for me, my 5-year-old son, 2-year-old daughter, a 5-in-one stroller system and three pairs of jeans.  I left with the same clothes I wore in, vowing never again to clothes shop for myself with three children in tow.  I would rather take three kids to the dentist on the same day than attempt to try on clothes with children peeking under the sides of the changing stall and threatening to open the door and wait for me outside.  There is no outfit sized perfectly to fit with a clearance or sale sticker large enough to get me to do it again.

When my sister shows up at my house with a bag of clothes, I am as excited as if there were gold in those bags.  For me it is a golden opportunity to add to my wardrobe without the hassle of travel time and store associates asking if I need another size.  Why not offer me a new mirror?  One that only shows my face, not how large my ass has gotten.  Why don’t they offer me better lighting instead of the harsh fluorescents that show me every wrinkle and freckle that I have managed to avoid in the soft GE “True” Reveal lighting I use in my bathroom?

My bedroom is the perfect dressing room with the light I like, the accessories I need to determine if the new article truly will go with “that,” and no intrusions on a solitary modeling experience.  If it fits, it goes directly on a hanger and into the closet.  No biting at plastic fasteners to remove tags.  No worries about whether it will shrink the first time I wash it – it has already been washed.  AND NO GUILT.  I did not spend a dime and I increased my wardrobe options for dinner out with family or friends.

With clothes from my sister, I also get the bonus of name-brand clothing.  It is way better than Marshall’s or TJ Maxx!  Remember:  I am cheap.  Even when I have the opportunity to shop, sans children, I rarely buy the good stuff because I want to make my dollar go as far as possible.  I would rather come home with three or four middle-of-the-road quality items, than one expensive one.

As much as I do not enjoy shopping for myself with three children in tow, I dread even more shopping for one of them.  Inevitably, because of either finances or time, I am always shopping for just one child and not all three.  Whoever’s turn it is to be in the spotlight always wants more than I can afford, and as they get older I discover they truly do have their own sense of style and are increasingly drawn to fashions that I do not approve.  (I want to blame someone, anyone, on Disney or Nickelodeon for their influence, but in reality, the Bratz are far more inappropriate in their fashion selections.  Where is Strawberry Shortcake when you need her?)  The two children who are not getting new outfits or new shoes are left to roam and dream and pester me with “Why can’t I get something, too?" and “Can we go home now?”  I find myself shopping for my children only when they truly need something.  It takes sneakers with dog doo on the bottom, ankle-length pants turned capris, and suddenly midriff-baring tops to get me to the store to shop for them.  If only there was a better way…

Enter my neighbors, friends and sister-in-law with bags of clothes from their older children.  I am saved!  My children are all at ages that hand-me-downs are still cool for them.  They are more excited to wear Shawn, Kylie, MyKenzie, Maddie, Payton and Shannon’s clothes than they are to wear anything that came from the Gap or The Children’s Place.  My children cherish clothes already worn by someone they look up to or love.  It is their badge of honor, to be worn with pride, not thrown to the bottom of the closet with too small socks and unisex sweatshirts.  My girls believe that the original owner specifically selected the item and “wanted” them to have it.  My son simply thinks his cousin’s clothes are cool.  As long as my children look forward to wearing their friends and families’ clothes, I will keep accepting those bags.  When the anticipation turns to polite appreciation and finally annoyance, I will be forced to return to the mall to do my shopping.  However, for now, I enjoy shopping out of bags that come to my door with no signature required.

With kids growing out of their clothes faster than they can wear them out, buyer’s remorse is challenged even more when a garment has been pushed to its limit in durability by purity: dirt.  When we first moved into our home, it was only the second finished house on the street.  To our left were two foundations, to our right a nearly finished home except for light fixtures and across from us the largest dirt pile you had ever seen.  On Labor Day weekend, two families closed on their recently finished homes and their children joined our children outside.  We watched as the kids dug at the pile in search of buried treasure.  They scaled its sides to find the path of least resistance to the top.  Much to our disappointment, they descended this grass-less mountain on their bottoms.  Standing, they brushed the surface debris away, turned and scaled again.  One mother looked at me and said, “I can’t believe she just did that in Gymboree shorts.”  I thought God made dirt and dirt don’t hurt.  Well, dirt hurts my kids’ clothes.  Why is dirt so hard to get out?  There seems to be no amount of Clorox 2 or Spray-N-Wash Stain Stick that can fully get out ground-in dirt.

Alas – I need something else to arm myself against the never-ending pursuit of clean, purchased clothes: the hand-me-down!  Gymboree shorts and Lands End dresses are worn with the full intent of daring the odds and inviting the stain battle.  It is not that I encourage my children to smear mud on their laps or wipe the Popsicle drips from their chins with the bottom of their shirt, but I am not as horrified when it happens.  I have come to realize that my frustration with my children does NOT come from them “not listening” to my incessant demands for proper manners – it comes from their lack of attention to pro-active cleanliness.  When I see them swipe the back of their sleeve across their mouth or wipe their hand on the side of their leg, I hear myself inside my head saying, “Now I have to stain stick that.”  It is not my children's lack of manners that drives me to fuss; it is the dread of overly soiled laundry!

So how does all this make me a better mom?  It is not because I take the money I save and lavish my children with iPads, X-Box or a Kindle Fire HD – they have none of these things.  We do not take them on weekend get-a-ways and we do not pay for private anything lessons.  They do not go to private schools and despite my husband’s impression of their rooms and our basement, they do NOT own all the latest and best toys.  Hand-me-downs make me a better Mom because I am not emotionally or financially invested in the products.  I do not wince when they come home from school with paint on their sleeves.  The hives are kept to a minimum when they splash through mud puddles and the backs of their pants are speckled with grayish-brown dots.  I am not lamenting the care I took in selecting the theme or color of an outfit only to have its picturesque front dappled by a Sharpie.  The hand-me-down has saved me from giving my kids “the face" of silent frustration.  The hand-me-down spares my children the wrath of a tooth-clenched mother wielding a Tide-To-Go Pen. 

The hand-me-down has allowed me to “relax” in my clothes. I do not stress about what got on me and I do not stress about whether it will come out. As a mom who nursed all three of her children until they were walking, I became accustomed to chest-level spots and mishaps. The beauty of breast milk is that it does not stain like formula. Nevertheless, all children must graduate from breast to cup and from milk to chicken fingers. And those chicken fingers usually come with ketchup. For some reason my children seem to think nothing of cleansing themselves on my clothes. Whether they are patting my behind gently to tap off the orange crumbs left from Cheetos, or pressing their faces into my stomach in search of a hug, there is always a residue of them left behind.

Even my instincts to cradle them when they are sad or hurt ends in a chest full of tears, snot and anything left on the corners of their mouth from lunch.  If I had spent pain-staking hours searching high and low for the perfect white “T” I would be either pushing them away and handing them a Kleenex, or cursing their little drippy bodies as I retired to the washroom…again. When that perfect (in this case green) “T”was a shirt that had already stood the test of time with another wearer, I’m not as crushed when it comes out of the washer looking only slightly less stained than the way it went in.  One more try later, I resign myself to the fact that the shirt is ruined. I mentally thank Kelli for saving me the $29.99 at Ann Taylor and throw the shirt at the top of my dust-cloth pile.  I have some of the most fashionable dust cloths you can image.

I am not exactly the most put together person or pristine dresser.  I am not impeccable in my appearance or my wardrobe.    I did not grow up as a prissy kid, although I didn’t want to get sandy in the sand box – to me the sandbox was a dirty place that belonged at the beach, and even there I didn’t want sand in my bathing suit…or my shoes.  I have always been good about washing my hands, but in the kitchen I have learned – the hard way – to wear an apron.  So why am I so stressed about my kids being dirty?  I do not know why I am such a messy-phobe.

If I transfer my obsession to my children, am I denying them some right of passage, some divine understanding of childhood?  Am I allowing them to BE children:  carefree, stress-free, un-obsessed and oblivious to the social expectations of adults longing for perfection?  Am I denying myself the joy of watching my children devour life with reckless abandon and determined consumption?  If any of this is true then the hand-me-down allows me to be frivolous and ambivalent.  They even allow me to be devilish for just a few moments when I realize it’s O.K. to spray whip cream into their mouths, and pat floured hand-prints onto their backs when making cookies.

Chocolate cake batter is meant to rise and set in the pan in the oven, but it tastes better when sucked off the back of a sleeve.  Art pieces are all the more masterful when created fully clothed, and completely unsmocked.  Spring days are meant to be experienced outside, lying in the grass, or on the driveway, a Popsicle in hand.  It does not matter if the shirt is from Walmart or the pants are from Old Navy.  It is O.K.  It is a hand-me-down.