A Day in Paradise

There's nothing worse than being the sick mother of a well child. Today I am heartsick. I miss my dad. Twenty-four years ago at the age of 40, he died.

Every right of passage has been met with a deep sigh because he wasn't there. He missed every one of them. The loss felt especially personal because my dad died by suicide. In one agonizing moment, he made a decision that he couldn't take back, destroying his life and what was once normal for those who loved him.

So, what's a broken-hearted mom to do on the anniversary of her father's death? Go to Santa's Workshop. My husband, child and I made our second annual pilgrimage to the Lark Toy Store, which we like to call Santa's Workshop. Lark is the world's largest independent toy store.

Here's the setup. We are going to Santa's workshop for a preview. He and the elves are too busy, so we won't be seeing them. However, I will make a list and pass it along to Santa. He'll take it under advisement while deciding which gifts he will deliver on Christmas morning. In actuality, Santa will bring whichever toy received the most sustained playtime, plus a couple little things.

My job is to write it all down without judgment. I was having a tough time. I caught myself telling the kid that this toy wasn't that great: "I don't know, I think this is kind of cheap."

I heard it. I heard myself metaphorically peeing on the good time because I felt sad. I have seen this kind of mood go on indefinitely in the past, dangling precariously close to depression.

But today it didn't. I did what all moms do when we don't feel good - whatever is in front of us to be done. Kiddo indicated what was cool in word and deed. I made note.

In the end, we had some fun. We played with everything in the store, and rode the hand-carved carousel. We bought Jelly Belly's, licorice and all-day suckers.

I had a bit of a cry in the car on the way home. When we got home, I hugged the kiddo and said, "You are Larry's grandchild. Do you remember meeting him in heaven before you were born?"

"Yes," said the kid, "he told me he loved me."

Of course he did. I would have expected nothing less.

Numero Uno

My kid likes to win. We have races to the car and back to the house. We have drinking water races. Bike races. Shower races. Sometimes, I learn that am the loser in a race, and I didn't even know I was competing.

"How could our child be so competitive?" my husband and I have asked each other. The kid does not participate in competitive sports, just swimming lessons and Cirque du Soleil-type circus class. My husband and I have scratched our heads for at least two years.

And then, there was Uno.

We began with open hands to learn the basics. We were having a blast, and then it turned. I started saying things like, "Let's stick it to Daddy."

As I'm certain you are aware, when you have one card left in your hand, you have to shout "Uno" before your fellow players catch it or suffer a penalty. Well, the kiddo forgot, and I shouted, "Uno," and pointed aggressively as if to say gotcha.

I made my child cry.

In that moment, I got it. The competitive thing comes from me, and possibly Dad. I will leave him to contemplate his own dark side.

We have talked a lot about being a "gracious winner or loser." When we win, can we thank the other team for being so on their game that the level of our game rose up to meet it? If we lost, can we be happy for the victor and know that we did our best?

We all need to experience the thrill of victory and agony of defeat and know how to move on to the next moment. Can we trust that we will get another chance to play and that it could be different?

Clearly, I need some more practice.

Butt Crack is Whack

I have been surrounded by crack lately - not the powerfully addictive form of cocaine. Rather, I have been forced to witness an endless parade of butt cracks. At every school event or activity, there is at least one mom who while kneeling or sitting criss-cross applesauce on the gym floor shares too much information.

I assume this epidemic began when jeans were on the low rise. Moms everywhere watched fashion experts who told us not to wear the mom jeans. You know, the ones with the waist that sits just under your ribcage with the small pockets that make your backside look like the broad side of a barn.

So as not to be caught in the mom jeans, we gave them up in favor of the boot cut, low rise jeans that were the rage. We traded the wide seat for muffin tops.

I tried the low rise jeans after I had the kid. Every time I wore them, I was reminded of the extra roll of baby weight that had appeared where my lovely waist used to be. The low rise waist sliced right through the worst of it. What's more, I was always on hyper alert for a change in temperature so that I could pre-empt any plumber moments. Find me a sleep deprived new mom who has the brain capacity to diaper, feed, bathe and entertain a newborn while keeping tabs on her pants. I went straight to yoga pants and stayed there for 3 years. I did have one pair of what I formerly referred to as my fat jeans that worked; however, I tore the seat out of them in a freak movement class accident which resulted in my mooning the entire community center. See previous post, You Can't Save Your Face and Your Ass at the Same Time. Ladies, I do feel your pain.

I completely understand that times are tight and that clothing, shoes, boots and winter gear for kids who are constantly growing is the financial priority. It certainly is at our house. Thankfully, there are lots of mid rise jeans available in every price point. I found some at Target last year for $16. They are not the designer Not My Daughter's Jeans, but I don't have to fret about the muffin tops or plumber's smiles. I figure I have at least one more season before the Target jean's seat warranty expires.

Until mom's rise to the mid rise occasion, let's have a moment of silence for the still suffering mom caught in low rise hell and agree to avert our gaze from the potentially distracting derriere's while seated in the gym.

Walk the Vote

I am a patriot, and today the kiddo and I walked the walk, literally. Together, my 5 year old and I knocked on doors to encourage folks to vote for 4-1/2 hours. Most of our neighbors had already gone to the polls early this morning. I am not surprised because we live in Minnesota, the votingest state in the union.

In our precinct, every identified voter will receive 3 visits reminding her to vote. We were the first wave. Every home received a door tag. If the residents had already been to the polls, the kiddo left a green door tag, indicating that no one need visit them again today. If they were not home, the kid hung a blue door tag. The blue tags on the homes let the afternoon and evening volunteers know to knock again with and neighborly reminder to get to their polling place. We were prepared to inform them where to go to vote or offer a ride if they needed one.

When our work was finished, we voted. I cast my ballot, and the kid got to cast one as well. I am proud to say that in Minnesota, the children have an official ballot with the pictures of the candidates so they could identify their chosen candidate. The kids got to vote for our 3 referendums also.

Every time I vote, truly, every single time, I am filled with such gratitude for the privilege that I cry. The tears typically start flowing as soon as I get in line at the polling place. People have worked tirelessly and even died so that I can stand in line and be heard.

As a stay-at-home mom, I often feel that my voice isn't important because I am not out in the working world, mixing it up, lobbying for my values. I don't bring home the big bucks so there are some people who really don't care what I believe. However, on this day, what I think counts just as much as a billionaire, but not more than someone who is living in more desperate circumstances.

On the other hand, I have 6 hours to devote to my country today. Today, we were heard. We made a difference.

I am a patriot: a person who loves, supports, and defends his or her country and its interests with devotion. I am also a parent. All you have to do is substitute the word "child" for "country," and you've got my job description.

My parents taught me that you must vote. It is your duty as a citizen. I am proud to say that my kid has accompanied me in voting every year of her life.

Thank you to all the patriots with whom we walked today.

Alan Greenspan says, "I dunno."

"Hey, Alan Greenspan, what happened to the economy? I dunno," chirps my 5 year old, with a wink and a very authentic looking Alan Greenspan shrug.

Such is the economic discourse in our kitchen most mornings. We listen to the morning news while getting ready for our day. The economic news is frightening, but when I heard Alan Greenspan's response to legitimate questions about the results of his economic care and direction, we had to laugh. It also reminded me of a recent conversation I had with my kid.

"Why did you throw balls of wet Kleenex at Mommy's neck while I was driving? Have you lost your mind?"

"I dunno."

I have to say I believed it. There are times in one's life when, upon reflection, the only possible response is - well, it seemed like the thing to do at the time. This line of thinking sums up virtually every decision I made during my first two years of college.

Maybe why did this happen isn't the question. I rephrased, "Was there any part of you that thought that throwing balls of wet Kleenex at Mommy's neck while she was driving on 35W South in rush hour was a bad idea?"

"Yeah."

"So, you had a small feeling that maybe throwing wet Kleenex's at Mommy while she was driving was a bad idea?"

"Yeah."

"Then that is why there will be consequences. When a very small voice tells us that maybe what we're about to do isn't a good idea, we must listen to it. When we go against what that still, small voice is telling us, we suffer. We could have driven right into the ditch, but we didn't. We were lucky this time. Obviously, you need some regulation to make sure that you practice listening to that small voice within you."

The regulatory action taken was to remove the Kleenex box out from the back seat. If the kid needs a tissue, I'll distribute accordingly. Water is now served in bottles only, no cups. The kid's needs are met, but in a way that does not threaten the safety of all the passengers in the car.

Perhaps I will loosen these restrictions when I see evidence that the kiddo is listening to that small voice.

Over the last couple of months I have wondered if anybody associated with this financial crisis had even some teeny, tiny inkling that maybe what they were doing was not a good idea. I suspect the answer, if folks are like me, is no. Success happens, it's exciting and you want more. Things get moving really fast, you get tired, lose perspective. It's there, but you're so busy and so out of practice in listening to the voice that you really don't hear it. Eventually, there will be a crash. When the crash happens, it doesn't just affect us, it touches everyone around us.

Some regulation is necessary. When a kid steps out of line, parents provide structure to give them a chance to listen to the voice within. If the voice is telling us, this seems like a bad idea, it probably is.

I can tell you that I haven't been pelted with wet Kleenex since.