Halloweenie

I am a big weenie.  A Halloweenie, to be precise.

Every year, I hide out on Halloween.  I don't know why.  I like candy.  I like children.  I like costumes.  But for some reason, all of those things combined make me want to become a shut-in...straight up Boo Radley style ala To Kill a Mockingbird.  Maybe it's the forced "awh, soo cute" conversation when a child with a hatchet jutting out of his brain stands before me, or being scared of what the 18-year-old trick-or-treaters will do to my house if I don't act like it's perfectly okay for them to be there.  Or, maybe I'm traumatized from all of the sexy service worker constumes my peers donned during my 20s while I awkwardly par-tayed as an asexual bumble bee, field hockey player, or Waldo from Where's Waldo. 

However, now that I'm a parent, my Halloweenie-ness is dwindling.  Since EJ's first two Halloweens have been canceled by bad or catastrophic weather, this year is the first time I'm actually looking forward to the day.  I can't wait to have EJ and I greet our trick-or-treating guests and then slowly toddle around the neighborhood stock-piling candy for me, errr, I mean him.  Plus, EJ is going to be Elmo, so that is just too adorable (and a good photo to share with his high-school girlfriend down the road).  Who knows, maybe next year, I'll even go to a grown-up Halloween party after trick-or-tricking.  Perhaps Halloween is more sweet than scary, Boo.

When I Grow Up

I turned 35 today.  Does this:

a) scare the crap out of me?  (As all of my students know, 35 rounds up).

b) feel extremely exhilarating? (I have bookmarked articles on how certain years of your life are better than all the others, so I will pull out the late 30's ones and just go with those until 40 hits).

c) seem utterly ridiculous? (This morning, why did that nice Starbucks barista say, "Have a good day, ma'am"?)

The answer is C...C, C, C.

I know we grow up and grow old, but what about our inner psyche?  Despite having a child, getting divorced, lamenting about high cost of living, watching HGTV obsessively, covering some gray hairs, tending to achy joints, giving into the desire to be asleep by 10 on school nights, saving for retirement, reminiscing about the simpler days of my youth, and wishing those damn teenagers would like stop saying like already, I am still a kid at heart.  Or, maybe a preteen. Or, more like a twenty-something (because of the booze).  I certainly don't feel like a real grown-up.

I read Sandra Cisneros' Eleven to my class, and although it's written for children, the story describes beautifully how when you turn a year older, you're still just really all the ages underneath that number.  We all have days when we are versions of our two, ten, twelve, and twenty-year-old selves, so we shouldn't be defined by our outermost age layer.  So, I'm not really only 35.  In fact, my younger self pops up all the time.  I still laugh when someone farts.  I still want to cry (and sometimes do) when things can't or don't go my way.  I still get grossed out by gross, icky stuff.  I still love hanging with my boyfriend and picking out my outfits the night before school.  I still get worried about being called to the principal's office, and fight the urge to roll my eyes at the adults in my life.  I still have no idea what exactly I want to be when I grow up, and I still sometimes forget that my family and friends should not be taken for granted. 

As I enter into another year of life, I'm not going to set a grown-up goal like I usually do.  Instead, I'm going to try to live a little more fully in those inner layers.  That seems like a lot more fun, since messing up and trying new things is part of what your youth is all about.  I'll learn to be 35 one day...but probably not for a couple of years.


 

The Family Tree

EJ just had his first homework assignment.  Light reminder, he's two years old.  He (read, I) had to draw a picture of his house and who lives in it for a class discussion on families.  (Side note, I can only imagine the enthralling discussion he and his peers will engage in). 

This homework assignment was traumatizing for me. 

I tried putting it off.  I tried blowing it off, with some crazy mumbling about it not being important or relevant for kids to know about their families. Finally, the teacher in me took over, and I found myself sitting glumly at my desk.  I would get this done...I am a nerd and it was, after all, assigned.

Prior to beginning my drawing, I perused EJ's class directory, only to see that my little bugger is the only kid with just his mom's name in the "Parents" column.  Eesh.  I know that single parents are everywhere, but I'm still not super siked to display it on 11x13 construction paper.  I mean, EJ's everyday family is his grandma and I...we don't even have a cat or goldfish to jazz it up.  As I faced this fact, I imagined the other class moms using brand new, fine-point colored pencils to sketch and shade perfect replicas of their husbands, kids, dogs, and butlers.  I, on the other hand, had only dulled, broken crayons....the perfect metaphor for how I was feeling.

I got to sketching.  Two tall stick figures and one short.  The brown broken crayon was perfect to replicate my big wavy hair, but my short-haired mother had what looked like gray beanie on her head.  I tried to girly her up with a huge pink bow, but now it looked like Ethan was being raised by a stick-figure Maria Menounos (my hair dream) and Minnie Mouse.  Or, by a progressive lesbian couple.

I moved on...the worst was over and the house part would be easy.  Blue house, door, some windows.  Unfortunately, I grabbed the wrong crayon, and accidentally shaded 2/3 of the house purple before I realized my error.  Since it was too late to go back, I committed to the color choice, and now Ethan lived in a violet purple house with Maria and Minnie.  I threw some bushes out front, slapped on an orange sun, and quickly folded up the paper before EJ saw it and started asking questions.

Families are made up of the people who love you, no matter whether they're your blood or not.  I think it's time for me to really get that there is no normal when it comes to their size or makeup.  EJ and I have a lot of people who love and support us, so it doesn't matter if they live in our purple house with us or not.  Lesson learned.  Assignment done.

Busy Bee

I've encountered a lot of writing disguised as lists lately.  Clever bloggers. 

People certainly don't have the time to read paragraphs and paragraphs of prose, but they do have time to read lists.  "Five things you shouldn't..." or "Fifteen ways to...." or "Ten types of...."   Clever bloggers.  You suck me in too because I may not have time to put on that extra swipe of deodorant in the morning (you know, that reassurance coat before you walk out the door?), but I can glance over a list (aka a numbered eight-paragraph essay) linked to a friend's Facebook status and hopefully become existentially enlightened while I'm in line at Dunkin' Donuts. 

The barrage of list-essays got me thinking about the last month of my life.  It's been busy, busy, busy, and in the precious free moments I can wrangle out of my day, I'll talk to anyone and everyone about just how busy I am....or, truth be told, sit alone in my bathroom for five minutes and examine my chin pores.

I think I've written about having a case of the "busies" before.  It's rampant in our society.  I think it serves two purposes.  First, it explains why you've been a crappy friend, or only shampooed your kid's hair two days this week, or neglected that paleo diet you were starting, or haven't been able to write your blog, or forgot to train for that 10K (oops...all me).  It definitely abates the guilt.  Second, it gives you a sense of purpose, because if you're not super busy and occupied, then what are you?  It's like our busy-ness ups our status in the world.  (note: there are probably many more reasons, but I don't have time to think about them).

The truth is, we really ARE busy and trying to do it all.  I get it.  Still, I'd like to take myself out of the busy race, or at the very least, stop trying to come in first place.  I don't think that on my death bed I'll happily brandish my to-do lists from my thirties and tell my family I done good getting crap done. 

So, here's a list for you:

Three times today I had absolutely nothing to do and did nonsense:

1) 5:30-5:40 a.m.: read my horoscope and browsed preppy chicks' outfits on Instragram.  This oddly makes me happy (should I have said perused I the Times?)

2) 6:40-6:55 a.m.: Sat EJ in my lap, tousled his semi-clean hair, and watched Thomas the train and his co-workers mess up things on Sodor yet again.

3) Right now.  Eating soup and writing this.  Also, just checked chin pores in compact mirror. 

I know we're busy.  I know we like how digestible lists are.  Maybe let's stop reading so many of them and start listing the tiny moments of calm, breaks, and nothingness in our busy days.  It's in those moments that the good stuff happens.

An Open Letter to Celebrities Who Write Children's Books

I'm jumping on the open letter bandwagon.

If I read EJ one more book written by an actor/singer/athlete turned children's author (they were all gifts!), I am going to lose it.  I mean, c'mon. What's next...move over Goodnight Moon because Kim Kardashian has written an inspirational tale about North West overcoming diarrhea?  It's all too much.  There is even a section on Amazon.com entitled, "Children's Book's Written by Celebrities." Really, Leanne Rimes and Terrell Owens?


Dear Celebrity Children's Book Author,

You are already a famous, notable/notorious, wealthy person.  Why must you add "children's author" to your IMDB resume? I'm not saying you can't write AT ALL....memoir it away...but please stay out of the children's section of Barnes and Noble. 

My plea comes on two fronts. The first is personal.  You see, at parties, when I introduce myself as a teacher and people look away or roll their eyes, I quickly add in the fact that I hope to write books for children one day.  That at least extends their interest and the conversation for a good minute, until I'm asked what I'd like to write about and I shrug my shoulders and say, "dunno yet."  The key word is YET, celebrity...a brilliant idea is buried somewhere in my brain, and if you have your ghost writer keep typing away and cranking out more kids' books, who's even going to listen to my story pitch one day...down the road...in the distant future?  I beg you, stick to your real craft and stop wading in my dream pool.  

My second plea comes on a parental front.  I've had to accept your voice infiltrating every animated film my son watches--I don't need to see your name engraved on the spine of a book about brushing teeth.  Normal people can fashion a children's tale about teeth-brushing just fine, thank you very much. Madonna, I will give you a nod for Mr. Peabody's Apples, but other than that, most books written by celebrities are the pits. I don't need to read EJ a pointless snoozer from you, Jaime Lee Curtis; I already eat your probiotic yogurt.  

In closing, please stop being greedy.  You are already everywhere...the small and big screens, magazines, billboards, clothing sections of department stores (really, Adam Levine at Kmart?), etc.  Stay off of our children's bookshelves and let some hardworking, everyday authors have the spotlight. Thank you.

Enough

Enough: to a degree that is not very high or very low; to a reasonable extent.

I'm not using this word correctly.

In moments of quiet retrospect, when I'm bombarding my mind with questions or statements, I certainly don't think of enough as reasonable.  To me, it means A LOT....the extreme even.  Am I smart enough?  I'm not reading enough. I'm not wealthy enough.  Do I have enough friends?  Is my wardrobe stylish enough?  Am I thin enough? I didn't work out enough this week. Am I doing enough?  I haven't traveled enough.  I'm not cooking enough. Am I fun enough?  Is my relationship exciting enough? And so on.  

Now that I'm a parent, I am putting my enoughs onto EJ.  Does he say enough?  Is his diet varied enough? Is he doing enough? Does he have enough friends?  Does he imagine enough?  Does he play nicely enough? He doesn't sleep enough.  He didn't eat enough.  Did he have enough fun today?  He doesn't help pick up his toys enough.

If I were to answer yes to all of my enough questions, I guess I would be an underweight, perfectly coiffed, War and Peace reading, philanthropic, decathlon participating, Hermes bag-toting woman who hosts parties every weekend.  Oh, and my son would be a verbose, articulate, early-enrollment Mensa member (is that a thing?), with a full social schedule and a steady of diet of the newest "it" vegetables and grains (hemp, swiss chard, and bulgur?), who cleans his room, sleeps twelve hours a night, and never gets upset....all at age 2.

I don't know where I got my version of enough from. My enough life sounds like the bad Bravo reality shows, which I swear I've stopped watching...mostly.  Anyways, that imagined life is cliche, ridiculous, and most importantly, unattainable.  It's keeping up with the Joneses gone mad wrong. Too much not enoughs can wreak havoc on you, and make great days only good, good days only okay, and bad days horrific.  Not worth it, my friend.

Tonight, EJ was throwing a tantrum because I wouldn't let him eat something out of the garbage.  I was tired, frustrated, and mentally running through all of the things I didn't get done today for him and for myself.  The not enough record started playing in my head.  It all felt pretty tragic.  Just then EJ ran out of the kitchen, ripped off his diaper, and started running around the living room like a maniac, literally going balls to the wall and having a blast.  I couldn't help but laugh and admire his physical metaphor.  How profound. Leaving your diaper behind and going all out is enough.  Or, just showing up and muddling through your day is enough. Enough is whatever you want it to be in any moment. I am enough. EJ is enough.You are enough.

EJ's Name Game

What would you do?

You are five months pregnant. Your husband has cheated on you and you are getting divorced.  He has moved across the country and you don't know if he'll ever be back.  You are more than a little hurt/pissed/shocked, and all of the baby names the two of you liked are now out of the question. Oh, and you've just found out you're having a boy.

Your sister calls and suggests the name Ethan.  You don't immediately hate it, and upon further review, it means "enduring" and "strong"...two words you've had to embrace.  Perfect. Done. Lovely. He'll be Ethan.

Now for the middle name.  You want to honor the afore-mentioned sister (an E herself) and match Ethan's middle initial to her's...J.  No J's pop out at you immediately.  This is tiring.  Jorge, Jim, John, Jerry...nothing fits.  Hold it.  You are Irish.  You've taken shots before.  Jameson.  Sounds a little snazzy/preppy, and even though you don't love whiskey, you can't name him Jagermeister.  So that's that. He's EJ.

Uh oh.  Last name.  You know you are ditching your married name ASAP, and it's hard for you to even say it out loud at the moment.  You have other things on your plate, so you block it from your mind for a few months. As your divorce proceedings ebb and flow, moments of calm and anger dictate solutions to the last name conundrum.  You've found out that you can actually name your son anything you want, and when you are pissed or hurt eccentric names flow freely.  Cute E. Pie. Aquaman. A symbol ala Prince circa 1993. When you are calm, you plan to stick with the status quo and use your married name. After all, you are a rule-follower and kids usually take their father's name.

Then it's time to give birth.  You haven't really heard from your husband in months, save for a last-minute email asking if you want him to be in the room for the birth.  No thanks.  You've already assembled a crack-team of birth coaches who are all piled in the room singing your praises and whispering words of encouragement. It's like Lilith Fair...not at dude in sight, except for the one you're all trying to coax out. Then he comes.  He is 7 lbs. 11 oz. and a real person.  An instantaneous  true love.  He's EJ.  You snuggle and cuddle and cry...partially from joy and partially from fear that you have no idea what you're doing and the hospital will only offer babysitting services for the next two days.

You wake up the next morning and it's crunch time.  The official people need to know his official name.  A woman walks in with an offical-looking clipboard.  "Can you please give me your son's full name?"  EJ. "And his last name?" Ummmm.  "Well, is his father in the picture?"  Not right now.  "Do you know the father?" Yes....I stopped turning tricks years ago (awkward silence).  "You know what, why don't I come back in an hour?"  Yes, please, that will be great (I don't like you, official lady!).

Just then, a nurse wheels EJ in from the babysitting room.  He is wrapped up and you swear he makes a cooing noise as you snuggle him into your chest.  For the first time in this name game, you think about him as a boy and then a man whose name and legacy are important and will far outlive you and the memory of this petty divorce.  It's not time for bitterness.  He was a planned baby, and even though your marriage is over, you have to honor it for his sake. Whoa, Whoa...hold on though...you just pushed this baby out of your body all on your own! You'll be doing everything for this little nugget, and then one day you'll have to hear him ask you why you have a different last name?  No, no, no, nu uh, no. Back to square one.  But wait, you majored in journalism.  You know a little bit about words and stuff.  Eureka! The hypen.  EJK-M. Everyone wins. 

The official lady comes back in.  You find your words again and spell out his full name.  "Boy, that's long." Yes, and it's wonderful.  

EJ's name is long and wonderful and slightly ridiculous-cool and one day, EJ can decide to keep, shorten, or change it.  At least then it will be his choice.  He deserves that.