Middle School, Oh how I Hate Thee…

Why am I, a 40 something year old, complaining about middle school? Because experiencing it as a parent of middle schoolers is ALMOST worse than having experienced it as a student myself.

Gee, I wonder why the following strategy is not working – Continue reading

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Parent Gushing Facebook Translation

In light of the recent flurry of verbose parents’ ranting status updates about their fabulous children on Facebook, here is my translation of the subtext of said posts:

My child is so utterly fantastically superior to most any other child and it must be my uncanny parenting skills that have facilitated such an undeniable fact. Thank goodness, he/she has achieved x, y or z and has a trophy, certificate, report card, beautiful face, exceptional talent or remarkable astuteness (or all of them) to exhibit as indisputable evidence that he/she is a gift to humanity. Actually, thank me for being such an extraordinary parent and being able to produce and rear such high quality offspring. And especially, thank Facebook for enabling me to alert the public to the greatness in their midst so they can be sure to start ass kissing my 2, 5, 9, 12 year old right now before he/she hits the big time. To be more concise, the world would spin off its axis without he/she/us. 

I just wonder sometimes who people are directing their posts to when they gush and brag relentlessly. I know they’re proud. But that takes one sentence to convey, if it needs conveying at all.  Of course I have occasionally, though rarely, been guilty of posting about my terrific children myself – still, I try to at least keep it to one sentence. I don’t think I’m better than the gushers, just get a kick out of pondering how awesomely funny it would be if they just went all out and posted my interpretation of their status updates. I wonder how many “likes” they’d get . 😉

Make Every Worry a Wish …

Woman blowing dandelion

“Life is full of misery, loneliness, and suffering – and it’s all over much too soon.”– Woody Allen

I made one of my resolutions early this year. After the massacre in Newtown, I made a conscious decision to count my blessings. Something internal and unconscious shifted too. Every time I felt the urge to complain or my heart raced with anxiety, an inner censor tugged at me, reminding me … life is short and I have a chance. I have my beautiful healthy children, I have my own health and resourcefulness, I have this moment and the ability to hope for the future. Those luxuries were lost for the parents and families in Newtown. Those luxuries are lost everyday for so many across the globe and right next door. Continue reading

My Pseudo-Bio

I am a mother. I care deeply about being present for my children. Though I feel scattered and faltering much of the time. I miss nature. I am lazy at heart unless intrinsically and overwhelmingly passionate about what I am doing. I miss nature. I feel beautiful sometimes but not beautiful enough. I love to write, but mostly so I can be “heard,” understood. I love men, want a man in my life, want to soften and fall into one, but am terrified of surrendering. I want a garden. I want a kitchen with concrete countertops and stainless appliances. I want an audi. I want to get parenting right. I want to be divorced but I don’t want to be a divorcée. I like to edit, motion pictures, text, words, life … I like to research, analyze, dissect (concepts, not creatures). I liked being vegan, felt cleaner and clearer but I crave meat. I’m an easy crier, a sap, a dreamer, a cynical romantic. I hate being looked at but want to be recognized. I’m starting to feel jealous of young people which is just awful. I love acting but feel ugly when I do it. I still feel like a dork. Stupid. Maybe not stupid, but lame and secretly genius but socially inept. I think that none of this really matters but every detail means something. I want more friends but so many people irk me. I don’t believe in true altruism but do believe I should be more generous and charitable. I want to be special but I really believe everyone is special which means no one is really that special. I thrive on approval and accolades but the establishment can fuck itself.

I don’t want to care about what people will say about me when I’m dead. I’ll be dead!

I care about children, nature and the environment, movies, literature (wish I’d read more and would read more), education, women’s rights, men’s rights, human rights, animal rights. I care about clean air, healthy food and water, the truth about medicine and how we sicken ourselves.

I want to travel. I want enough money to do what I want when I want. I want to do big or do nothing.

It’s Wine O’clock Somewhere

My neighbor/friend/comrade in overwhelmed parenthood-ness, likes to say, as the sun sets on our block, “it’s wine o’clock.” This is broadcast to me via a yell from down the street, a text message or a whisper accompanied by the removal of wine from her fridge and distribution into our glasses. For her, an appropriate wine glass. For me, a shot glass (or as she calls it, “a thimble”). I feel like a midget drinking from my tiny wares. But my petite frame renders me an undignified lightweight. Even though I only partake once in a while, those nights are a little mellower, a little funnier, a little closer to manageable. With a little imbibing our veils come off, I learn more about her wilder, thinner, more exciting days and she learns more about mine. It’s a bonding thing. So, why not drink more or at least more often? Continue reading