Making Friends

On vacation, we took Dylan to the pool. There was another little boy there who was his age, and Dylan didn't seem to know what to do. Jim and I coached him, when the boy asked his name, "Tell him your name...Ask him his name...Throw the ball back to him...". So simple - the rules for making friends when you're two. Swap names, share the ball, boom - friends.

When you are an adult it is much harder. Where do you meet them? What do you say? When is it too soon to invite them over for dinner? To get their number? To have a serious conversation, rather than idle chit-chat? Sometimes, I feel like making friends as an adult is harder than dating ever was. The women I'm trying to become friends with are so busy. I find myself analyzing what they say, much like my old dating self would. SHE said we should get together soon. Did she mean that, or just say it to be nice? What did she mean by soon? Should I call her, or wait until she calls me? If I call her, will she think I'm too desperate for a friend? It's ridiculous.

It doesn't help that I'm a woman. Men have it so easy. They just say, "Oh, you like poker? My buddies and I play on Wednesday nights if you ever want to join us". If beer is involved, it's pretty much a done deal.

It also doesn't help that I'm not normal. Well, I guess I should say, I'm not a typical woman. I don't like to shop. I don't really care where you found your shoes, (they won't have my size anyway). I don't want to swap recipes, (unless it's made with 5 ingredients or less, and can be thrown in a crock pot). I'm not going to join a book club, (love books, but don't have much time to read, and hate feeling pressured to read something by a deadline). I'm certainly not going to join a cooking club, (see above), and I don't knit or scrapbook.

The only thing that makes me "one of the girls", that makes me a card carrying member of a club is this - I am a mom. I am in the Mom's Club, figuratively and literally. You see, I joined the local Mom's Club over a year ago.

I don't discuss the new literary genius they discovered at book club. I don't astound them with my mouth watering desserts at cooking club. I don't discuss the texture of yarn and brainstorm new patterns at knitting club. But, after more than a year of failed play groups, (due to poorly matched schedules and constant changes made by the "play group coordinator"), I have started my own play group. I didn't want to step on anyone's toes, (I didn't really care), but when my 2 year old told me, "We need friends", drastic measures had to be taken.

So, I'm in the familiar role of initiator once again, arranging meetings at the park and inviting strangers to my home, in the hope that somehow, my son and I will figure this friend thing out together. Maybe I'll take a ball to the next meeting. Hopefully someone will throw it back.

The Trophy

The Pittsburgh Penguins play the Detroit Red Wings tonight for the Stanley Cup.

When I was a teenager I loved hockey. I knew the names of all the players. I watched every game. It might have had something to do with the cute guys on the team. With teenage girls, most things do.

These days I don't enjoy it. Right now, some of you are shaking your head in disgust, and taking me off your blog list, but it's true. I enjoy watching football (does that redeem me even a little?), but I find hockey stressful and boring. Stressful and boring - those two words don't seem to go together, do they? But they do, oh, they do.

To me, hockey is like my life. I rush over to this side of the ice to do the laundry. I rush over to this side to get the groceries. I rush back over to that side to pay the bills. I rush back to the other side to clean up dinner. Back over here to pack the diaper bag. Back over there to put the clothes away. Back and forth, back and forth, all with a great deal of energy, but nothing all that exciting happening. I just have to rush back over there again.

Unlike hockey, when you're a mom, no one cheers when you finish that billionth load of laundry. Their voice doesn't raise to a crescendo "and it LOOKS LIKE SHE MIGHT ACTUALLY REMEMBER TO TAKE THIS LOAD OUT OF THE DRYER....no, she didn't". Some padding would really help prevent the bumps and bruises I get from a very clumsy and active toddler who likes to use my body as a jungle gym. A face mask would make me feel a lot safer with all those balls flying around, too.

But, in spite of all this, I'll be glued to my TV tonight, watching as the Penguins hopefully win the Stanley Cup. Because you know, if I'm not getting a trophy for all this work, at least they should.

Shenandoah Vacation - Part 2

The things I want to remember:

* We loaded the car with so much stuff, that Dylan had to get in the front and climb through the middle into his car seat. At one point, we looked back, and he had snacks all over the seat! He was helping himself!

* How we successfully avoided the timeshare tour. (You're welcome, Jim).

* How Dylan went right to sleep in "the vacation bed" (pack and play).

* Dylan FINALLY drinking from a straw for the first time, and how pleased with himself he looked.

* The Super Nanny-like episode that occurred at nap time, when Dylan realized he could climb out of the pack and play, and how mean I felt when I stuck to the "no pool if you don't take a nap" statement.

* Jim commenting "I'm afraid there is a pocket protector in his future" when Dylan was counting while splashing, and "cleaning" all the numbers on the sides of the pool.

* Watching Jim and Dylan happily playing in the pool. Adorable!

* The deer we saw every single day, so close, and not the least bit afraid.

* Going to the arcade and Dylan getting a "lucky" 8 bouncy ball out of a machine, and how much he loved that thing! (He held it in his hand during his nap).

* How many times Jim and I had to search for that dang ball, and how we wondered (on the last day) how many quarters we would have to put in the machine to get another one. (Luckily, we found it).

* Taking Skyline Drive home, and how gorgeous the scenery was!

* Dylan pulling the coats and pillow down on top of himself in his car seat, giggling and announcing, "I made a mess!!"

* Stopping at Skyland Lodge for lunch, and Jim's chicken sandwich arriving RAW, which resulted in free dessert. What might have been Dylan's favorite part of the trip - Ice Cream! (He kept saying "Mmmm!")

* While we were on vacation, Dylan asking several times to "go home". Us saying "this is our vacation home...We'll go home in X more days". Then, on Sunday, (one day after being home), him saying, "I want to go to our OTHER home!"

I might have gone a bit overboard with the pictures! I took HUNDREDS, and had a hard time narrowing it down. You won't hurt my feelings if you don't watch the whole video. (It is two songs, "Shenandoah", the Bob Dylan version, and "Big Rock Candy Mountain", from the O Brother, Where Art Thou soundtrack. Oh, and the video is almost six minutes long!) I mostly make them for Dylan, who watches them over and over again.

Photo and video editing at www.OneTrueMedia.com

Shenandoah Vacation - Part 1

I'm sure you've heard the phrase, "What goes around comes around"? It seems to refer to the bad stuff people do to others coming back to them at some point. I like to think it also applies to the good stuff.

See, when we bought our house last year, the small yard came with a big above-ground pool, that we didn't want. The previous owner begged us to give it a chance, and we did last summer, but we just didn't have the time or money or yard for that pool. This spring we decided to get rid of it.

To make a long story short (or shorter), we decided to give it away for free to a member of the Mom's Club that I belong to. All they had to do was take it down, and haul it away. The whole idea was that Jim and I wouldn't have to deal with it. But, somehow, Jim ended up out in the yard on numerous occasions, using OUR power tools to help the husband dismantle it, and I became very cranky. "A free pool and free labor?! COME ON!!", the ranter ranted.

Until about a month later, when I sent out a mass email to the Mom's Club again, this time asking for ideas for places JIm and I could go for our anniversary. The mom who took the pool emailed back that they own a timeshare at a resort in Virginia, and since "they owe us", they could get us a really good deal on a week's stay. And, that is how it "came back around", and how the ranter became the raver.

We've always been beach people, choosing to always vacation near sand and surf. But, now I understand the beckoning call of the mountains. Their beauty inspires and their vastness humbles. You find your muscles relaxing with each exhaled breath. You feel alive and rejuvenated.

I think it is important for all of us to occasionally be in a place that reminds us that the world is beautiful. The problem with that, though, (for me at least), is that I'm always left wanting more. I get sad thinking about all the places I will never get to go, all the sights I will never get to see, but I am so grateful that I got to see the Shenandoah Mountains. And, to them I say, "I hope that someday we "come back around"".

*Pictures should be up by Thursday!

Mound of Venus

(My guest poster today is JCK from Motherscribe. I love to read her blog, because she captures the beauty in the everyday moments of raising children. She also writes honestly about the frustrations. And, as you'll see in this post, she's funny. If this post doesn't make you laugh, seek help.)


I have just confirmed two things. That I am not into S&M. And… if you are going to experience pain, tis’ best to take that shot of JD beforehand. Yes. Have that shot or two of self-medication. Skip the cola. That little bit of sugar won’t do anything to prevent the onslaught of FIRE that occurs when you choose to have hair ripped out of your nether region. Hair.. RIPPED OUT.

You see, I went to get my usual done. My upper leg wax that I get every 6-8 weeks. It's a bit painful, but bearable for the result. Dreamy smooth skin. I hadn’t had a bikini wax in years and thought ..why not treat myself? Treat. Yeah…I DID just say that. So, I go to my usual gal and say that I want a little bit more taken off this time. Note my use of those three words… A. Little. Bit. I pointed to the area. She nodded. We communicated. Or, so I thought. Apparently, a little bit means something very different to me than it does to my anesthesiologist. Oh yeah, I mean aesthetician. I SO could have used an anesthesiologist, though... Oh, my…YES. I could have. It would have been so lovely to sleep through THE PAIN.

Is there not something additionally horrific about a nice woman talking in a quiet voice, the two of you sharing stories of your lives, and every mmmm... 30 seconds or so she causes you PAIN? There you are chatting nicely back and forth. She lays the warm wax on your skin, which feels kind of soothing…lulling you into a false state of relaxation and then…RIPPPPPP. Silent Scream. Pain. PAIN. That was PAIN. And then she does it again and AGAIN- yet checking in with me every once in a while to make sure I'm O.K.?

O.K.?

Yeah…sure. But, what THE HELL just happened? I believe my Mound of Venus has been RIPPED OFF. And maybe my Vagina, too. Is it still there? I look. I think it is. Still there. Gulp.. Gulp. Trying not to cry… I smile back at her through clenched teeth. Can she tell I’m faking the smile? Would another woman NOT EXPECTING this much PAIN have BITCH SLAPPED her? But, I can’t do that.... Damn! I'm a nice middle-aged suburban woman. I’m a mother for God’s sake! I stay SILENT. We talk of other things. Anything. Best NOT to focus on the PAIN. Or… to look down. I flip over onto my stomach. Dear God. Let my ass be hairless. It seems the worst is over. Phwwwooooo...We finish. Amazingly my panties still seem to be on. I thought they had been shredded. No blood? No evidence of the carnage? I'm shocked.

I thank her. I get dressed. I pay her. I feel lighter. So MUCH lighter. I walk out. Am I taller? I believe I AM taller. Did my body unravel into a stretching yoga pose whilst I was on the madwoman's table? Oh, no…it is just that I’m walking higher. My feet aren’t really touching the ground because my entire VA JAY JAY is on FIRE. And I’m...well, I'm ...hop walking. Kind of like a cowboy who has been in the saddle all day with burrs in his britches. Except not.

I get home and drop trou. Panties next. And what greets my eyes? Oh…NOOOO. Oh, no, no, nooooo. My VA JAY JAY looks like it is a VA HEY HEY for air traffic controllers. The hair (what’s left of it) resembles a…a… a landing strip. Yes. A. Landing. Strip. IT IS HIDEOUS. Hideous, I tell you. Some fucking feminist I am.

There IS a silver lining in all this. Isn't there? There is! Tonight, once I can walk again, I’ll have a new signal system for my husband. No more WINK WINK NOD NOD.

Hey, honey! Lookie lookie! Just in case you didn’t know where to put the engine down, here’s your very own landing strip!

...................................Now, you know sweetie…staring is RUDE.
................Come on DOWN...BIG BOY!

What would Mae West say?

Are ya gonna be a LOOKIE LOO or a WINNAH, Big Boy?

On second thought…I think I’ll have the lights out and have him fumble around for the goodies. But, that's later. Right now? I’m going to lie down and put ice on my mons pubis. And in my next life…I’m going to come back as a hairless Norwegian.

Belly Laughs

(Today's guest poster is Jenn from Juggling Life, and boy she isn't kidding with that name. She is the queen of multi-tasking, and often, her posts make my head spin, but I love reading about her fun life! She is the kind of person that everyone wants as a friend, and a mom who everyone probably goes to for advice!)


Though the youngest of my four children is a freshman in high school, I find that I faithfully read and enjoy several blogs written by moms of babies and toddlers. (Jen's being one of them). I think I read them because they take me back to what was a magical time in my life--and, I like to think, my children's lives. All of the different stages of life and parenting have their positives and negatives--and I wouldn't want to be stuck in the baby/toddler years forever, but they were sure fun while they lasted.
My firstborn was MVP--an 8 lb., red-headed, pop-eyed (from the suction), slightly-bruised thing at birth. Now he is a strapping 6'2, not the least-bit pop-eyed, 19-year old. I won't be the first to tell you the time flies.
MVP and I spent a lot of time at night alone as the job my husband worked required long, late hours. One night I was sitting on our bed, MVP facing me in my lap; I was playing patty-cake with him. He was 2-months old.
Now, as a new mother and an inveterate researcher and devourer of information, I knew exactly what and when every developmental milestone was. Belly laughs were 3 months.
Yet at some point during our game of patty-cake MVP's grins turned into giggles turned into belly laughs. I was in love with the kid already, but if I hadn't been . . .! We spent an entire evening laughing at and with each other. It was a magical night and one I will always remember.
That header up there? It takes me back!

I wuv you

(As I mentioned in my last post, I am on vacation this week. My guest poster today is Jonny's Mommy, over at Boondock Ramblings. What can I say about Jonny's Mommy? Sometimes her posts make me laugh, sometimes they make me cry, but I always enjoy them. She is my most loyal reader and commenter, so I just LOVE her. )


I am so excited to be guest posting for the infamous Jen at Rants and Raves! I’ve been reading Jen for quite awhile now, keeping up, especially, on her son Dylan, a mere two weeks younger than my Jonathan. Of course I also love reading about her hunky husband Jim (I’m sure she would say this. Of course, I’m not saying he’s hunky. I mean, he is, but . . . I’m not saying that, because that would be inappropriate . . . ya’ know speaking about another woman’s husband that way. OK. Listen, I’m trying to be nice and honest. He’s hunky. But so is my hubby. That’s all I’m sayin’. Movin’ on.)

What impresses me most about Jen’s Dylan is how smart the kid is. I mean, he is really smart. And so articulate. I have to admit, there were times I was a bit jealous of how articulate and smart that little Dylan was. I began comparing him to my little guy. I imagined he was already telling his mommy and daddy he loved them, when, no matter how many times I prompted him, I couldn’t convince Jonathan to tell me he loves me.

Then it hit me -- my little guy is pretty smart himself. Maybe he wasn’t talking as well, or as early as Dylan, but what he didn’t say, Jonathan made up in actions, something he continues to do.

I am constantly amazed at what Jonathan does and as he begins to speak more I am also amazed at what he says. I may not always understand him, but I do now, more than ever, understand he’s developed his parents’ sense of humor, sarcasm, and smart mouth.

On Memorial Day Jonathan and I traveled to my parents, about 45 minutes away. At the end of the day Jonathan was not interested in climbing in the car to go home. He wanted to collect rocks and put them in his bucket, in the ditch, and anywhere else he could find to throw and store rocks.

I gave him about 15 minutes of “rock play” and then lifted him into the car and told him we had to head home to see daddy (the man who stayed home, cleaned the house and did all the grocery shopping. Isn’t he amazing? Later that night he also jammed his knee while playing with his son and remained in severe agony for part of the night, shrugging it off because he said he was simply glad his son had had fun.).

Once in his car seat Jonathan took his pail, filled with rocks, and turned it upside down in the seat next to him. Rocks were spread all over the back seat of our car.

“Jonathan! I said you could keep them in the pail! Not pour them all over the car!” I shouted and started scooping up the rocks and tossing them back into the driveway.

Then I heard it, at least I’m pretty sure I heard it: “Mama,” in a very pitiful tone. “I wuv you.”

That might be what I said, but I heard this: “But mama. I love you. Why are you yelling at me?”

I gasped a little, looked Jonathan in the eye and said “Did you just say I love you?”

He grinned sheepishly, bowed his head, and said “Yeah, mama.”

He knew I would melt like hot butter on a summer day. I kissed his forehead and said “Oh, baby, I love you too.”

I hooked his seatbelt, shut the door, turned away and muttered to myself: “You little stinker.”

I’m pretty sure that all along that kid knew how to say “I love you” and was waiting for just the right moment -- the moment he could whip that emotional arsenal out and shoot his way out of trouble. Little stinker.