A Quick PSA For Sports Parents

                School is in the air again and you know what that means…no time to breathe between work schedules, sports schedules, and playing parent taxi to the pint size piranhas who live with you. Down becomes up, up becomes down, and the flipping equinoxes are wreaking havoc on your sleep schedules. Ahh…the good times we will look back on fondly one day, am I right?

But right now, I’m not going to lie, it kinda (totally) sucks.

                It’s not just because we are spending most of our free time in a car on the way to practice or a game, or spending more time in a car returning from a practice or a game. It’s not juggling schedules of multiple sports kids and trying to shove dinner down their throat at either 3:30 or 8:30. It’s not even being so exhausted that your eye bags have their own set of bags. It’s the damn whacked out sports parents. (Plus all the things I mentioned before too. But mostly the parents.)

Because I was a nerd growing up, I didn’t have the exposure to the athletic world that has become my life as the mom of two sporty boys. So I don’t know if there have been generations of A-hole sports parents or if this is a new trend singular to the meaner era we are currently living in. (THAT is a whole other blog post someday.) Is there a handbook for dummies for nerd parents who breed jocks? If there is, I haven’t come across it yet. How about a cliff’s notes version? Cheat sheet?

As it’s fall, soccer season is in full swing. Both child number 3 and 4 play. One is in varsity high school soccer. The other is on a grade 5/6 travel team. I haven’t noticed a lot of the BS from the younger kid’s games. The varsity games however, are “off the chain” as the kids are apt to say. (Like a decade ago because slang moves faster than the speed of light and I’m old and hold onto old terms that tickle my fancy. For proof see: “tickle my fancy”.) If you’ve never had the pleasure of sitting at a high school sporting event amongst a bunch of overzealous douche canoe sports parents, I highly un-recommend it. It’s kind of tragic. And definitely not for the faint of heart.

Now, I want you to keep in mind that these are adults. Grown ass men and women who act like their kid walks on water and cannot ever be called on a foul or whatever the ref is saying down there. I just know he blows the whistle and half the crowd will boo while the other half clap. Now, I myself have indulged in ref bashing, but all in good humor and only because they are all like 230 years old and can’t hear what I am saying anyway. I think that dissing the ref calls is standard protocol for all sports events. It’s probably in some how-to-sports handbook. What isn’t in the handbook though, is making derogatory comments about the KIDS who are playing the game. I’m not talking about the “he got a little handsy there” or “I think number 12 is pushing a lot tonight”. No, I mean the parents who will call the kids names (moron, dumbass, idiot etc.) or say mean things about a TEENAGER who is participating in a high school athletic competition. I’d like to say that this is a gross over embellishment and I’ve never seen it happen. I’d also like to say that I didn’t know the kid it was said about, or that he is one of the nicest kids I’ve ever met. I’d ALSO like to say I punched that imbecile parent in his mouth. Sadly, however, I cannot say any of those things.

But let me reiterate this part if you didn’t catch it: IT’S. A. HIGH. SCHOOL. SPORTS. COMPETITION.

Your kid aint going pro Lucinda. They are not being scouted by David Beckham’s agent and they are definitely not going to be the next Pele or Messi. (Do you like how I worked the knowledge of the only 3 soccer players I know in there?) You’ll be lucky if they continue playing through college. Even if they do, they probably aren’t going to make time for it on the weekends once their 9-5 kicks in and they become members of the sad adulthood membership that no one wants and yet are anyway. If they were going to go pro, do you think they’d thank you for being the jerk causing a ruckus in the stands? Here’s an idea: Why don’t we stop perpetuating the overzealous doucheyness and just be supportive and practice good sportsmanship? Is that so much to ask?

So Ben, back off. Calm your tits Tiffani with an i. It’s just a bunch of kids kicking a ball up and down the field. Take a chill pill. No literally. Take a Xanax or something.

 

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How to Introvert

Introverts are going to take over the world someday.

Ha ha ha ha ha. Just kidding! Unless it’s happening from the safety of home over a zoom meeting, the world is safe from an introvert takeover.

There are a lot of misconceptions floating around regarding introverts. I think that term has become synonymous with anti-social. That’s really not true. (Well, mostly.) We are as social as anyone else. We will just need to leave earlier so that we can find some peace, quiet and 5 minutes (or hours) to hear our own thoughts. What, you'd like to know more about that shy, solitary animal known as the introvert? I thought you'd never ask! May I present:

A Guide for Introverting

You must love your own company. I have met people who are unable to be alone. Like EVER. They need people around all the time. I don’t understand this. I love being alone. Quiet does not intimidate me, it rejuvenates me. It puts the pep in my step and the twinkle in my eye. Some people need a three ring circus all the time. I need a circus that went out of business due to a huge clown scandal and is now abandoned.

You must have introvert hobbies. Much like enjoying our own company, introverts also have a variety of hobbies suited to our solitude. This is why you see us enjoying solo activities like reading, writing, gardening, quilting, podcast/audiobook listening, or tv watching. We can amuse ourselves for hours on end without human interaction. In fact, our happy place almost always includes a secluded place where we can while away hours pursuing these hobbies. Don’t worry, we will come up for air and be social again…eventually. (There's a greater possibility of this happening if there's food involved though.)

You must be a great listener. Introverts can be Chatty Cathys (or Chatty Chads), but we also can be amazing listeners. If you need someone to vent to, we are the ones who have your back. Spew all that workplace vitriol and feel better about yourself for having a safe space to get it all out. We won’t judge, believe me, we’ve met “people”. And we’re generally not big fans. We will probably be impressed that you kept that volcano inside for as long as you did without going on a punching spree.

You have a small group of friends. When you’re an introvert, you don’t need scads of people in your circle. In fact, your circle will probably be small and contain a handful of close, trusted individuals. We are loyal to those we deem “our people” however and have no issues becoming the problem if you mess with someone we love.

You’re creative and/or are a problem solver. Is it because we spend so much time in our heads that we can come up with creative outlets and solutions? Maybe. Is that is why we tend to like making art or music or writing? Again, it’s possible. When you become one with the gray matter you’re hauling around upstairs (I mean your head, not like jars in the attic. Gross.) you can untangle those puzzling matters easier than one who hasn’t even met their brain. (That’s probably less an introvert thing than having to deal with stupid people though.)

You like socializing in small doses. Even the most reclusive of souls need to “people” occasionally. While we may not party hardy every single weekend, we have been known to cut a rug every now and again. Sure our social battery drains faster than a late model iPhone in dire need of upgrade, but we earn bonus points for every hour we can manage to stay upright and not melt into an overstimulated puddle of human.

If you can relate to these, congratulations! Your introvert application has been approved. We will send the zoom link for next month’s World Domination Planning Meeting to the email address provided on the application. Happy Introverting!

 

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My Theories Could Use a Conspiracy

          Comedian Ron Funches has a monologue (Skit? Set? Bit?) where he’s talking about someone who doesn’t believe in conspiracy theories and he replies, “I understand not believing in ALL of them, but you don’t believe in ANY of them? You think that the government is just batting a thousand?”

If you have never heard it, it’s quite funny. Not only because it’s true, but also because Funches has delivery and comedic timing down to a T. While I am not a tinfoil hat wearing conspiracy theorist, I do enjoy a good conspiracy. Maybe it’s my love of spooky, paranormal crap. Or perhaps it’s because they’re interesting. Whatever the reason, I do enjoy some of them.

Now, before you come for me, I’m not talking about the whacked ones. I don’t think that Elvis Presley and Michael Jackson are still alive and in hiding. I’m not claiming the moon landing was fake or that the Government is hiding proof of aliens…oh wait, that one was actually on 2023’s bingo card. Scratch that. All I’m saying is that a well thought out, coincidental conspiracy theory adds a little spice to life. Some je ne sais quoi if you will. (I think that's French for "all that and a bag of chips".)

The idea that is currently holding me enthralled is that The Simpson’s, you know the animated show that’s been on since the 1900’s, has some sort of predictive superpowers. They are apparently the Nostradamus of cartoons. And while it may sound too crazy to be true, the parallels that I have seen have truly induced a thought provoking “well I’ll be darned” and even a “That’s just crazy!”.

Now whether or not this is just some creative editing, I don’t know. The point of a conspiracy is that you can’t look too closely under the surface lest you burst the belief bubble with too many facts. I don’t want to ruin the intrigue with evidence or any contrary thoughts. I just want to revel in the wonder that there’s someone on the Simpson’s writing staff having psychic episodes and predicting things that actually happen.

Picture it: Writer guy is sitting, stumped, at his desk, hoping for some inspiration. All of a sudden he goes into a fugue state and when he emerges, an entire episode has been mapped out.

Or perhaps its writer chick with a keen third eye that she’s repressed her whole life. She’s aways had “feelings” but has always chalked it up to intuition. Writing is her passion and despite her predictions coming true multiple times she’s still unaware of her goddess like powers because she’s pretty much a hermit and often works remotely from home.

(Uh, yeah, so I like to read fiction…probably not apparent though, right?)

This has all the makings of a perfect conspiracy recipe. A little mysticism, a pinch of uncertainty, and just enough realism to make even the most diehard cynic have a kernel of doubt. At the very least, it beats the Covid-vaccine-tracking-device conspiracy theory, right?

 

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Just Give Me a Quiet Place to Lose My Sh!t

           The mood is somber here at triple M today. It’s been 9 days since my daughter unexpectedly left us from what we believe to be an undiagnosed cardiac issue. It’s been 9 days since I lost one fourth of my heart.

            I am from the generation that was told, “If you don’t stop crying, I’ll give you a reason to cry.” The generation taught that tears were a weakness, and feelings were for sissies. The generation where it was the oldest child’s responsibility to set an example for their siblings. We were raised to shove those pesky feelings down so deep that we wouldn’t be able to find them with a map and a microscope.

            After the initial shock and the rivers of (sissy) tears of that first day, I found myself to be almost numb. Everyone expected me to be a sobbing mess on the floor, but it’s hard to fall apart when you’ve lived so long being told to hold it together. Even if you’re only held together by duct tape and sheer strength of will. Humor is the crutch holding me upright. I lean on it pretty hard. “How can you joke at a time like this?” Because if I don’t laugh, I’ll crumble into 1,000 pieces.

And oldest daughters don’t break.

After the shock came the decision fatigue. You don’t realize how much has goes into the planning of a funeral. Obituary, prayer cards, burial versus cremation, flowers, headstones, burial plots...it’s a lot. I survived those first few days by checking items off a list. But at the end of the day, I felt like one more decision to make might have just sent me over the edge. If you had asked me if I wanted chocolate ice cream or strawberry, it probably would have short circuited my brain.

We have been fortunate enough to have a beautiful support system of family, friends and co-workers. Many times over the past week we were told “If you need anything, please let me know.” Which would be great if we knew what we needed. But we didn’t. We still don’t. We are taking everything one day at a time, one hour at a time, one minute at a time. We are Dory and tell ourselves to just keep swimming.

“Please let me know if there’s anything you need.”

I need my child. I need a lifetime more of memories. I need to see their face every Sunday at the dinner table. I need song recommendations and Tik Toks sent at 1 AM. I need a time machine so that I can go back and hold on to that last hug a little longer.

But I can’t say that.

So instead, I smile and say, “Thank you.”  

My oldest son, who was closest to his sister, said he was angry that the world has continued in her absence. When answering work call questions, he wants to ask, “Haven’t you heard the news?” And I get it. Because our world has ceased to be the same. We have to find our new normal. We envy those who haven’t had a catastrophic event turn everything upside down.

So I put on my brave face for the world. The one that says “Yes, I will survive this tragedy.” I will try to find out how to live in a world without that beautiful soul that should be here. I will try not to be angry with a deity that would take a life so young, one that had barely lived. And I will try to find a quiet place to grieve and cry my sissy tears.  

 

 

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Sometimes You're the Windshield, Sometimes You're the Bug

            Some months when I come here to write my blog, the creative juices flow so well that I have to bring a cork to stop from flooding the entire room. Other months I struggle to find something to say or strain to find my sense of humor about whatever I’m writing about.

This month is one of the struggle months.

I don’t even know why. I’m rarely at a loss for words and I always have an opinion on something. If you don’t believe me, ask my husband. We are two opiniated peas in a pod. Yet this month the words have dried up faster than a glass of water in the Sahara. Trying to force this blog this month is like trying to have a bowel movement after eating an entire wheel of cheese. (At least I imagine so, never having eaten an entire block of cheese in one sitting.)

But that’s life right? Sometimes you’re the windshield, cruising along life with a clear view and a goal of where you are going. Other days you’re the bug, flying along and having a pretty decent day until WHAM! A windshield jumps out in front of you and now you’re a bug sandwich.

(Quick verbal detour here: WHAT is in bug guts that makes it impossible to clean with my windshield wipers and washer fluid? I am using Windex and literal squeegees, and this stuff is like cement. What’s worse, sometimes it smears. So now you have cement bug gut lines across the window. It’s maddening.)

Being the oldest daughter, Generation X, a people pleaser (pick any or all reasons), I loathe letting anyone down. Even if it’s the 9.5 people who come here every month to read a quirky anecdote from my life. (Why .5 you ask? Because I’m sure that at least one person finds themselves here accidentally and leaves without finishing the post. Or a Gen Z finds themselves lost to all my antiquated references. Or someone just finds me abrasive and not their cup of reading material. So half.)

So this is really just a lengthy apology letter. To all 7 ¾ of you who may visit here monthly looking for a small chuckle or a glimmer of hope that your kids will grow out of their d-bag phase. (*Still 50/50 odds there, sorry.) And for any of you who may feel the need to get their monthly quota of mayhem, well, I guess it’s a good thing that I’ve been writing this blog for over a decade now. Go back and binge some classic mayhem from the early days.

I was probably funnier back then anyway.

Well, probably less tired at least.

            Until next month my amigos. I’m sure I’ll have plenty to say. And if not, I’ll make up something believable. You know, kinda what I do every other month!

 

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Just Take the Dang Picture Already

                 I’m one of those moms who takes hundreds of pictures. Vacations, outings, holidays, special moments, soccer matches or Saturday morning…..I have almost 2 dozen photo albums and a bulging Shutterfly account. If you’re wondering, yes, they are all notated on the back and in chronological order in albums. (C’mon, it’s like you don’t even know me after 10 years.)

                Because if there is one thing that I’ve learned in my 26 years of parenting…if you blink, you’ll find yourself the parent of a 26 year old, wondering what the hell happened and where your size 6 jeans went. (They were last seen many, many maternity pants ago.)

                I think pictures are my way of coping with children who refuse to stay little forever. (Even though I ask them pretty much weekly to stop growing up.) In six months I will have a senior in high school for the third time. My youngest will be starting middle school. I find myself in this weird flux where I am starting to look forward to a time when we are empty nesters and able to travel and trying to hold onto every single moment from their childhood before they fly the coop for good. If you had told me 20 years ago that I would one day become a maudlin old lady, I would call you a bald-faced liar. And yet, here I am. A maudlin old mom trying to hold on to her babies through digital imagery.

                I think back to the early years of my two oldest children, before digital cameras and pictures you could order straight to your mailbox, and I feel like they got gypped. Not only do I have limited photos of them, but I have hardly any pictures of me with them. (This was pre-selfie. I know, I’m ancient. I prefer the term “antique” though.) And as I got older, I started to get very self-conscious about being memorialized as I was in that moment. I felt awkward, messy, fat or unkempt. I didn’t want my kids to remember mom as I was at that specific point in time. Which was stupid since that’s exactly how they remember me. But instead of judging me for having messy hair or a squishy tummy, they remember hugs and snuggle and laughs. If there is one thing I could go back and tell myself, it would be to take the picture. You are going to want those memories one day. Messy hair, exhausted from sleepless newborn nights, or in a bathing suit at the beach, just take the picture. I can’t believe how many more memories I could have saved in pictures that I didn’t want to take. (Just think, I could be well over two dozen albums by now!)

                By the time that I got over myself, I was always the one behind the camera, not in front of it. There are many vacations and Christmases past where there might be one, possibly two, pictures of me. I enlisted my husband to take photos of me just to have proof that I was actually there. Now I just have to get him to send them to me. I got a glimpse of his camera roll the other day and there were so many adorable pics of the boys on there that I had never seen, let alone saved and printed for the albums. (Yeah, I would definitely be over 24 with those.)

                In our kitchen we have a digital screen that we view pictures on. It cycles through them and it’s a nice variety of images from the last few years. Probably my favorite picture on there is one that was taken by a stranger. When you’re trying to incorporate your whole family in a picture it’s usually a selfie type of snap with someone’s head half out of the picture or squished in at the bottom. You are grateful to have the whole family together but it’s not the same as a picture taken by someone else, with entire bodies of all family members! (Look at that, we had legs the whole time!) So when this lovely women saw us struggling to squish ourselves together for this picture she offered to take it for us. I try to pay that small favor forward whenever I can. If I see someone doing the selfie squish, I will offer to take their picture. Or if I see the photographer combo swap with them taking turns to get everyone in the pics, I will offer to take the picture. Because one day, it might be their favorite picture too.

                While I’m not telling you to meet my fanatical level of picture taking, (it’s probably best if you start slow and work up to obsessive), I do encourage you to take more pictures. Friends, family, pets, sunsets, flowers…. whatever makes you happy. And if your eye spies the selfie squish or photographer swap, offer to take the picture. Maybe we can all pay it forward enough to make it a thing.

 

 

 

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America Needs to Swipe Left

Well, it’s another election year, and while I am the last person who usually knows anything about politics, I find myself unable to stay quiet on the debacle that our Presidential process has turned into.

                I feel like this is a lifetime movie where the young, jaded divorcee is trying dating apps. But not the good dating apps, the really terrible ones.  Where the potential suitors (candidates) have too much spray tan and are actually 20 years older than their profile pic. They chat you up, saying all the right buzz words, and then after months of thinking you’ve found the one, agree to meet in person, and then you find out that you’ve been catfished.

                Swipe left America.

                It’s mind boggling to me, that in a country with 341 million people, that our best candidates are great grandpa, napping in his recliner at the family potluck, and his younger con-man brother who’s on the back porch trying to scam your second cousin into a sketchy timeshare. Both have one foot in the grave and the other foot in dementia. Which brings me to my next question. Why aren’t there age limitations on the president? We won’t allow anyone younger than 35 but you can be 5 minutes away from death and still qualify for a good ole campaign run? I agree that we are in desperate need of term limits, but we also need to give serious consideration to the age at election. If you are eligible for social security, maybe you should stay home and watch reruns of Mash. That’s all I’m saying.

                Please, don’t get it twisted. I’m not an ageist. Until it comes to the person we are giving access to the big, red war button. Then yeah, I really want someone who doesn’t have age related hand shakes. Call me crazy, but I’d feel a lot better about a president with a cool head and calm hands. It’s not even asking that much. I am not asking for a rocket scientist to run the country. (Although, maybe we should have some educational requirements. This is, after all, like the biggest job that one person could ever have. Managing an entire country. Responsible for its entire military system. I mean, uh yeah, kind of a super huge deal.)

Wait, I’m getting off topic again.

                But even if we discount the age factor, we definitely should not discount criminal activity. If you ever have, or are currently, facing federal indictment, that should disqualify you. Hell, if you’ve faced any indictment at all, have criminal charges on your record of any sort, or if you stole gum in the fifth grade…maybe we shouldn’t consider you trustworthy enough for this position. I don’t care if you’re the Pope or God himself. If we can tie nefarious, treasonous, or downright illegal acts to your person, you’re out of here. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200. We are in serious debt and cannot afford it anyway. Why this isn’t second nature anyway, I cannot fathom. I guess I can chalk this up to yet another sentence that I never thought I’d say. (Uh, or type.)  

                I guess America is the jaded divorcee. We have suffered through two bad marriages and we don’t really want to date anymore, but everyone keeps telling us that there are plenty of fish in the sea. (Which, quick side note, is a weird metaphor for relationships. Wouldn’t that be better advice if you were starving and someone stole the fish you caught? Anyhoo.) We keep trying to break up with these poor candidates but this dating app, I mean democratic process, doesn’t seem to want to work with us.

                Plus the app is buggy as hell and keeps crashing. Someone needs to put in a ticket with the developers.

 

For those who practice the Pagan Rabbit Holiday:

 Happy Easter to my Peeps. (See what I did there?)

 

 

 

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People Need to Reset Their Privacy Settings

           In this digital day and age of internet creepers and prevalent social media bullying, parents have to teach their children safety rules and online etiquette. You know, in addition to manners, respect, walking, talking, bathing, feeding, and the basic human functions that we already have to cram into 18 short years. We have to hammer home the importance of not talking to strangers both in real life and online. Most significantly, we have to ensure that they know to NEVER reveal personal information online.

Sadly, there are a lot of adults who did not get taught this lesson.

Yes, that’s right, I’m talking about all the people who overshare extremely personal information that no one needs to know other than god and themselves. (To be honest, God has also asked that you stopped sharing info with him. It’s causing him anxiety.) The people who are so in love with themselves that they post countless selfies, lest we forget what they look like when the last pic was posted 4 and a half minutes ago.

I’m not sure why people feel like they need to blast all the intimate details of their lives on social media. Is it that they need the attention? Is it a generational thing? Gen X came with automatic privacy settings set to the highest level and we will happily mind our own damn business, thank you very much. I’m just saying, it’s real cringe to read these overzealous posts.

(It’s ok for me to say “cringe”. I got permission from one of their generation to use it in this extremely applicable setting. It might have sounded a little like “Don’t say that ever again” , but I'm sure that was granting me permission.)

But if you DO decide that you can’t stop posting things like #divorced or #breakup or #single or #thesedamnkids, then I demand a full account. I don’t just want one side either. I’m going to need a complete, detailed account of both sides of the story if I am truly going to pick which side I’m on. If you want to air your dirty laundry, stop half assing it and just put it all out there. It’s our right as the friends and/or family being subjected to these overly dramatic ramblings. When I’m making my popcorn to sit down and devour the latest session of “Your Big Fat, Melodramatic Life”, I need to know if you’re the antagonist or the protagonist. Am I rooting for you or against you? Are you the perpetrator of the crime of the victim? If you’re going to drag us into your saga, then make sure we are invested. How are we supposed to care from one series of questionable hashtags on a photo? (Which has to be a selfie of course. It’s in the handbook of rules handed out at the over sharer’s anonymous meetings. Which is never anonymous because they all want you to know who they are.)

I don’t want to know. Honestly, I don’t. I don’t use social media to be (shudder) social. I use it to be stalk my favorite celebrities and post funny memes. I use it to post pictures of my kids for family members that we don’t see often. I use it to watch standup comedy and funny animal videos. If you want to involve those pesky feelings that Gen X was trained to ignore, then you’re going to have to do better than a few cryptic words and number signs. (Yes younglings, the hashtag was a boring old number sign when I was your age. That’s your historical fact for the day. You’re welcome.)

Now, unless you’ve gotten both sides of your story ready to be presented, complete with colorful graphs and damning evidence, I’ll just go back over here to minding my own business. It’s not as exciting as everything y’all got going on, but it’s definitely a lot more peaceful.

Well, until the kids find my hiding spot again.

 

 

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At Least There's Still Mayhem

When I started this blog eleven years ago (eleven years?!?!?), the moniker modern mom mayhem was extremely fitting. Not only was there chaos and mayhem in my house, I was young (ish) and very hip. Okay, that’s a lie. I have never been hip, unless you count Huey Lewis telling us that it was “hip to be square” in which case, I have been hip ALL MY LIFE.

But as usual, I digress.

Sometime during this last decade, I went to bed modern and woke up an old lady. Now you might be thinking there’s some exaggeration going on, which is quite blasphemous as I am always serious, but I can assure you that I could only wish I was joking. Instead, my youthful vitality has been slowly stolen by that evil bitch Aging. If you have the opportunity, avoid her at all costs. Here are some of the sneaky pranks that Aging plays with me constantly.

My knees sound like Rice Krispies every time I bend down. Apparently, they are not only for breakfast as that wicked woman filled my kneecaps with them and then has the audacity to snicker every time they snap, crackle and pop.

I have graduated to being able to “sleep wrong” which is always fun when you end up with an uncomfortable crick somewhere, most likely your neck. For some reason, it takes 3 days for this uncomfortable muscle knot to untie, so you just have to settle for not moving your head to the right for three days until it works itself out. Or until you sleep wrong again but end up with the crick in your back now, thus helping you forget about the previous one.

I find myself having conversations with people my age about “the work ethic of kids these days”. If you’ve ever opened your mouth and grandma tumbled out, that’s another classic Aging prank. She delights in substituting all your cool conversations with turns of phrase heard only in nursing homes and your grandparents’ parlor. (Dang it! There’s another one. Who even says parlor anymore?)

All the music that I used to think was so old is cool to me now because it has memories. Sure, I might not have had a hair band music addiction in the 80’s. but now hearing Twisted Sister lament about how they’re not going to take it or Whitesnake tell us here I go again, and somehow I’m getting all the feels from my childhood. (Wait a minute…I wasn't old enough to listen to hairbands in the 80’s!) As if that wasn’t bad enough, I’m old enough to know what Muzak is and remember jamming out in elevators. I mean, not me. Nope, definitely not me. <whistles a blithe tune with hands in my pockets>

(If you don’t know what Muzak is, google it! Sigh.)

Aging also likes to play a super fun game where you get a new superpower for your birthday. Only it isn’t a power and it’s probably not super either. It’s a game she calls “What new pain do I have this year?” Last year she gave me the gift of calf muscle cramps every time I stretch. And to think that I didn’t get her anything!

If anytime you get around other people your age, you start reminiscing about “the good old days”, that is a sure sign that Aging has been tampering with your memories. Sure, growing up in the 70’s and 80’s was awesome. But there were also scary things like a plethora of kidnapper vans, “stop drop, and roll” and the swamp of sadness. The fact that we are now looking back with rose colored glasses at lawn jarts means that it’s time for our cholesterol medicine.

I’m stuck in between being old enough to know better and not old enough for a senior discount. My brain thinks we’re 30, my body thinks we are 70 and my sense of humor is 22. I can’t remember where I left my phone but can remember all the lyrics to Warren G’s “Regulate”, circa 1994. Some days I feel like I need to find an adultier adult and other days I can’t believe how young these idiots are today. Aging’s most cruel joke is to leave us in this paradoxical age crisis.

Yeah, I told you. She’s good.

If the closest I ever get to being hip is having a hip replacement, then so be it. Fortunately for me, I have plenty of youthful strength in my children. They’ll need it to push their doddering old mom around in her wheel chair.

“I don’t care if I’m only 45, I used to push you around in a stroller for the first 3 years of your life.”

 

 

 

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Ban ALL the Elves. (And Possibly the Shelves Too)

             Four years ago, when my son was going through his “I want an elf on the shelf” kick, I wrote a blog post titled “Just Say No! (To Elves). After a few guilt ridden Christmases of having to be the big ol' meanie and put my foot down over the “No Elves Allowed” in our clubhouse, I thought that we had passed that hurdle. All was quiet…

Until this year.

Apparently, my youngest son’s best friend (an only child mind you) has an elf. I’m sure it’s got some stupid cutesy name like Twinkle or Cookie or Tinsel since it’s Elf Law to name it something nauseatingly sweet. As if just owning the damn thing wasn’t bad enough, Cocoa or Snowflake or whatever its name is, brings the kid PRESENTS. Yeah, so guess whose campaign to get a freaking elf has been renewed? Yup, you guessed it. My smallest con artist, upon seeing that this inanimate creep brings gifts is now all “PLEASE can we get an elf?”.

Wasn’t the whole idea of the elf to just watch your kid? Which, to be quite honest, is really creepy. It’s freaky thinking some middle-aged man can watch you all the time to know if you’re bad or good but at least he’s not watching you from inside your house. But I digress. Anyway, when this whole shebang started, that was the extent of it. Then people got the brilliant idea to make this spooky doll do tricks and shenanigans, which I find to be very conflicting with the whole ‘Keeping tabs for Santa” gig that the elf has going on. What kind of babysitter is pulling pranks and making messes? One that’s immediately fired from my house, that’s who. Yet people seem perfectly fine making up these elaborate scenarios of elf hijinks. They now even have kits that you can buy with props and what not. Whomever came up with the idea of this sinister bastard and his accessories has to be laughing all the way to the bank.

Once this trend started, it 100% reaffirmed my decision to ban all shelf sitting elves from my house.

And then, one day, some brilliant parent got the idea that the elf can brings gifts! (Probably the same one who came up with participation trophies.) Speaking from a Gen X parenting perspective, I can promise you that my children are receiving the spoils of my own latchkey kid, left-to my own-devices-for-hours, sent-outside-to-play-all-day childhood. I am 1,000 percent positive that they do not need extra gifts. Hell, I already go overboard for every birthday and holiday.

Our children, however, don’t see it this way. They are growing up in this over abundant world that we live in. Where everyone, and everything, is “extra” and thus has become the norm. Besides, what child has thought, “No, I don’t believe I need random gifts, thank you.” Probably not a single one. At least, not one that’s not a pod people or an alien hiding amongst us. (Now that someone let THAT secret out. But that’s a story for another time.) Which means that I get yet another reason to be the dink parent. So thanks for that, all you overachieving parents. 

Probably the part that annoys me the most though, is that your kid is going to school bragging about the spoils their elf is bringing them to kids whose parents may be struggling to even put food on the table. It’s hard to believe in Christmas magic when some households are just managing to scrape by. This stupid bleeding heart of mine thinks about those children all the time. And I worry about them. (Ugh, it was so much easier when I had a black, shriveled lump where my heart should be. When did I turn into such a chump? Feelings. Ick.)

Currently I’m standing firm. He’s turning 10 next month so I am fully aware that we are on borrowed time with Christmas magic. You’d think that would just tip me into the “get it” category, but I don’t think people understand how the thought of adding just “one more” chore during this Christmas season might just send me over the edge. I’m already over extended, making Christmas magical and shit. I don’t have time for creepy dolls. 

And I don’t care what cutesy name you give it. It’s still a stalker.

 

 

 

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