Happy-mother's Happy Mother's Day

The other day I read a magazine article about some male professional athletes and how they adjusted to being the fathers of girls – and only girls. Or maybe it was about some female celebrities who were mothers of boys – and only boys.

Whichever it was, the point of the article was how wonderfully challenging and ultimately rewarding it was to be the parent of children who were not the same gender as you. Wasn't it amazing that this big, burly, studly-stud athlete could put aside all that testosterone, pull off the helmet and put on a tiarra to enjoy a tea party with his little girls? How marvelous that this petite, delicate-flower of an actress could stow her estrogen in a Dooney and Burke bag and risk nail breakage just to play race cars with her little boys!

Give me a break.

In our little family microcosm, it doesn't matter how many X or Y chromosomes match. It doesn't matter if they share more than 50% of your DNA. It doesn't matter if they're from Mars and you're from Venus.

Because in our family, I am from Earth and my children are from an entirely different galaxy. A galaxy that is far, far, far away and completely, totally, 180 degrees different from mine.

I used to dream about raising mini-me's – not just in looks but in interests and hobbies. I know it happens. I've seen the Christmas card pictures. The family who sings together. The family softball team. The family on stage together, on the race track together, in the orchestra together, on the hunt together, in the kitchen together, at the pageant together …. (Oh, wait a minute, that was Honey Boo Boo. Never mind.)

In short, I imagined my kids and I would share a multitude of interests. In fact, not so much.

In practice, not at all.

When the Royal Progeny were young I shared all the things I love with them. I took them to plays, musicals and concerts. We visited museums, libraries, and historical markers. I schlepped them through quilt shops, kitchen stores, garden centers and book stores. I hauled them (not exactly kicking and screaming, but certainly sighing and whining) to piano lessons, swimming lessons, dance classes (Princess) and tumbling (Prince). One summer all three of us took tennis lessons (and played a couple awkward games of two-on-one tennis).

None of it stuck.

And I was OK with that. Except for the swimming part, which I consider more of a safety thing than anything else. But what can you do?

I learned to see it from their perspective.

Instead of spending my Saturdays at speech contests, I spent them at volleyball and softball tournaments.

Instead of seeing Billy Joel live and in concert, I saw Iron Maiden.

Instead of the Chicago Museum of Art, we go to the Museum of Science and Industry.

Instead of a piano recital, we play disc golf.

Instead of Garrison Keiller, I get roller skating.

Instead of quilting, we lift weights.

Instead of the antique shop, we went paddle boarding.

Instead of sitting poolside at the aquatic center, I sit ramp-side at the skateboard park (and cringe).

Instead of Spamalot on stage. I get Iron Man on the big screen. Instead of Les Miserables on the big screen, I get Netflix on my laptop.

Instead of swooning at a Billy Joel concert, I will be reeling at a One Direction concert (I'm noticing a disturbing musical bias here).

Instead of raising mini-me's, we've raised mini-thems.

And I'm OK with that. (Well, except for the not seeing Billy Joel part.) But what can you do?

Because being a mom to these two alien life forms has been wonderfully challenging and ultimately rewarding.

And I've learned so much.

And had so much fun.

And they make me so very happy.

Here's to a Happy happy-mother Mother's Day.

Goin' to Home Ec in a Handbasket

A funny thing happened to me on the way to the Erma Bombeck Writer's Workshop 2014.

I became a Home Ec teacher.

Well, technically I'm a long-term substitute Family and Consumer Science Teacher. But when I teach it, it's Home Ec.

I guess it's not funny ha-ha, unless you're part of my immediate family or friends. Judging from their responses when I told them the news, the thought of me teaching youngsters how to cook and sew correctly and successfully is pee-your-pants funny.

And it's not funny ironic, because irony doesn't mean what anyone thinks it does. Then again, “a situation that is strange or funny because things happen in a way that seems to be the opposite of what you expected” (thank you Merriam-Webster) does pretty much sum things up. I certainly wouldn't describe myself as your typical “Becky Home-Ecky.” More of a “Becky's Home's Wreckied.”

It's more like funny in a way that makes you go “Hmmm, well, that settles it. The world as we know it is truly going to hell in a handbasket and I have front row seats.”

I myself believe it's just another one of those things that proves that God has a sense of humor, and I am the butt of the joke.

I was at a crossroads. I enjoyed my part-time job(s), but I was approaching (yes, damn it, approaching) middle-age with no a clear career path in sight. Whether we like it or not, many people – at least me – define themselves by their jobs and/or income earning potential. Although wife/mother/daughter is a more-than-full-time job with great benefits (usually), the earning potential is, shall we say, non-existent. Ditto with my current blogging initiative.

It was time for me to decide whether I wanted to write, or get off the pot and find a job that actually paid enough cash for me to buy those new shoes I wanted.

So I did what any rational, well-educated, independent, self-sufficient, Catholic-convert gal would do.

I prayed.

“Please God, send me a sign. Should I purse my life-long dream of becoming a writer, or settle for a life of toil and drudgery as a slave to the man?” (I wasn't at all biased.)

Then I received an email notifying me that registration for the Erma Bombeck Writer's Workshop had just opened.

So I applied.

And lo! As choirs of angels sang, I was bathed in a golden light and a confirmation email was delivered unto me: “Congratulations! You will be attending the EBWW in Dayton, Ohio, in April.” The world is your oyster, huzzah, huzzah! (OK, I might have imagined that last part).

Then I received another email.

Was I interested in a long-term, part-time substitute position teaching Family and Consumer Science at the local high school?

Really, God? Did I lisp? I said “sign,” singular. As in one clear, neon-arrow, you-are-here sign.

Now, considering I had just put the four-day workshop, and five-night hotel stay on my credit card – and that the combined monthly income from my two part-time jobs would cover about one tank of gas for the drive out there, it was a pretty tempting offer. Maybe God had a plan after all?

Tempting, even though I'm an English and Communications major, with a license to teach English and Journalism. Hmmm, back to that sign thing. Did you really think this over? Did I forget to sign my name on my prayer? I'm already working as a part-time bookkeeper... how much different could teaching Home Ec be?

A lot, as it turns out.

But, long-story short(ish), after spending nearly a month panicking, updating my substitute teaching license, and scouring the internet for lesson plans, I was teaching Home Ec, I mean Family and Consumer Science.

No. I mean Home Ec.

I realize “Family Consumer Science” is the politically correct term, chosen to more accurately depict the wide range of topics studied. However, given that “Economics” is “the social science that studies the behavior of individuals, households and organizations... when they manage or use scarce resources, which have alternative uses, to achieve desired ends” (thank you Wikipedia), I think that Home Ec pretty much sums up “Family Consumer Science,” and does so in fewer words.

And people know what you're talking about when you say Home Ec.

Use words you know. That's what I learned from being an English and Communications major.

Maybe they aren't so different after all. Maybe a sign is a sign, after all.

Billy on the Brain

I returned from the Erma Bombeck Writer's Workshop renewed, refreshed, reinvigorated, and ready to write.

And infected with the mother of all earworms.

Oh, I've had songs stuck in my head before – goofy little musical snippets that come and go within a an hour (or so). But this is the entire Billy Joel catalog. All the time.

For more than a week now.

As earworms go, it's not that bad. Joel's richly layered instrumentals, his melt-your-panties voice and multi-genre mastery mean something different is always playing – in my brain. Rock, pop, do-wop, ballads, instrumentals, gospel, a Latin beat, classical....

But after a while? (Say... a week?) The novelty wears off.

I think that variety (and seductive voice) is what exposed me to the earworm in the first place. I listened to the Billy Joel channel on XM radio for the entire eight-hour drive from Eastern Iowa to Dayton, Ohio. I don't remember any repeats until half-way through Indiana, and by then I was a goner, hypnotized by that voice. Mmmmm, that voice....

Still, the soundtrack in my brain didn't start playing until after I listened to the same channel for the entire return trip as well. That's 16 hours of Billy Joel in 4 days, not including driving around while (getting lost) in Dayton. Technically I think you could say at that point the music merely provided a background for my eight-hour Billy Joel fantasy (in which we run away together and live happily ever after).

When I finally pulled in to the driveway at home, I felt kind of guilty about dreaming of running away. Then I realized the family had piled their dirty dishes on the counter right next to the empty dishwasher, and the baskets of clean laundry had still not been put away. I decided Billy Joel was right:

Sometimes a fantasy is all you need... to keep you from killing your family.

After a couple days of “All Billy Joel, All the Time” playing in my head, I had had enough. I tried to force him out by listening to other types of music. But XM radio was in cahoots with the earworm. Both the 80's  and Deep Tracks channels (my stand-bys) teamed up to promote the heck out of the Billy Joel channel by playing – what else? – Billy Joel songs.

When I finally did find something else to listen to, it triggered a sonic smackdown in my brain. It was bad enough when one Billy Joel tune tried to forced out another (Rootbeer Rag is particularly tenacious), but when I introduced a new artist things really got ugly. The reverb from “Billy vs. The Bangles” gave me a headache that left me whimpering in the driver's seat.

Then I switched to the “if you can't beat 'em, join 'em” method. It may seem counter-intuitive, but I've resorted to playing Billy Joel music on my iPod while I try to work. Having his music in the background seems to pacify some auditory gate keeper while freeing up functional brain space for other things. Things like writing, reading, carrying on a conversation... breathing.

My Darling Daughter, the Princess, decided this was a sign of weakness and instituted a cold-turkey, “No Joel Anytime” intervention. Her “cure” caused a variety of withdrawl symptoms, including a physical craving so severe I tried to sneak out on a totally unnecessary errand just so I drive the XM-equipped car. She caught me and commandeered the keys, because in our family the driver gets to choose the radio station.

Unless Mom's driving.

And that may be the real cause of my current Billy Joel obsession. On my fateful Iowa/Ohio/Iowa roadtrip I had complete control of the radio. And I chose to listen to Billy Joel. For 16-plus hours.

And that may be why my family doesn't let me control the radio when they're with me.

The influence of this earworm has gone way beyond normal. It was bad enough when I started unconsciously changing lyrics (Midwest girl, She's been living in her corn-fed world...), but then I realized the earworm was getting involved in my internal monolog:

Me: “Gosh, I've had these Billy Joel tunes running through my head for a long time. I wonder if this is normal, or if ...”

Earworm: I may be crazy.

You may be thinking I need to lighten up, or at least sit back and enjoy the free mental downloads. Sooner or later this earworm is bound to pack up and infect someone else. Someday I'll wake up all bleary-eyed and fuzzy-eared with a nasty musical hangover. I'll shake my head at my iPod filled with Billy Joel tunes and wonder what came over me.

You may be wrong, for all I know. But you may be right.

That's How My Cookie Crumbles

Not to brag or anything, but (Spoiler Alert: Bragging Ahead!) I make awesome cinnamon rolls. My cinnamon rolls are so light and fluffy you'll think St. Peter himself took them out of the oven just in time to greet you at the pearly gates.

My caramel pecan rolls have made a grown woman (me) cry. My breads and rolls are airy and flaky at least 90% of the time. I once made a batch of kolaches so buttery and rich that they made even the most die-hard kolache haters love kolaches.

So why can't I make slice and bake cookies?

My point is I can bake. I can bake the heck out of things. Just call me Queen Betty Jo Crocker-Pillsbury.

So why can't I make slice and bake cookies?

I can bake. But sometimes I don't want to bake. When I get a hankering for a hot, gooey, chocolate chip cookie (preferably with pecans) I barely have time to preheat the oven, let alone mix thoroughly. When I'm jonesin' for a cookie, the time and effort required for homemade, is more time and effort than I have.

All those aforementioned rolls, buns and breads have nothing to do with me being some sort of baking savant. I'm not the dough whisperer. All I do is read and follow the recipe, cross my fingers and hope for the best.

With slice and bake you don't even have to follow a recipe. There is no measuring. No proofing the yeast. No letting the dough rest or punching it down.

There are only two vital instructions: “Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Bake 11-12 minutes.”

How can two more minutes possibly make the difference between an oozing lump of raw dough and a dried-out charcoal briquet?

And yet, that's what I made. One dozen mummified, chocolate chip hockey pucks.

Chockey pucks.

I needed a cookie fix bad. I made a special trip to the store, dusted off the cookie sheets, and even waited for the oven to preheat. Soon the aroma of baking cookies filled the house. I ran to the oven when the timer (I used a timer!) went off, but those anemic, melty blobs were far from “golden brown.”

Back in the oven they went. Two minutes on the timer.

In an instant, the house-warming smell of baking was replaced by the house-clearing stench of carbonized cookies. I tried to snatch edibility from the jaws of defeat by quickly transferring the cookies from the pan to the cooling rack. But the damage was done, and the cookies were over-done.

“Ohhh, they're fine,” I told the Little Prince. “Just a little on the done side. See? Not a speck of black,” I said, showing him the bottom of a cookie. And it was true. Somehow they managed to burn from the inside out. There was no visible sign of burnt-ness. That's what made the taste test such a surprise.

The Little Prince stood by my side, waiting expectantly for my reaction as I took a bite. (Would I gag? Break a tooth?) I didn't say a word, but my labored chewing (and the loud crunching) must have been clue enough. He smiled and patted my arm, then took a handful of Oreos and snuck out of the kitchen.

My wonderful husband picked up two cookies and disappeared into his office. I haven't checked his trash can, but I wouldn't blame him if he threw the cookies away. That was my first thought when I bit into my cookie.

The Princess returned home. “Mmmmm, what smells so good?”

“Burnt cookies.”

“They smell delicious. It can't be that ba...”. She took one look at the chockey pucks and made herself a bag of microwave popcorn.

My Grandma once ruined a pan of Rice Krispie treats. I don't know if it was the marshmallows or the cereal or what, but those were the driest, most tasteless desert I had ever eaten. Until my last batch of slice and bake cookies.

I've been told that Grandma used to bake angel food cakes. From scratch. Multiple cakes at a time.

I wonder how she would have done with slice and bake cookies.

Fun Runs Running Funner

I've spent the last two weeks dreading this Saturday.

Three weeks ago, in a fit of optimism, enthusiasm and joi de vivre (opti-thusi-joi?) I signed up for a 5k. Three weeks ago I figured I had enough time to train so that I could run well enough to not embarrass myself. Three weeks ago I walk/jogged a mile and a half on my first day of training and was feeling pretty smug.

Then thing got really, really busy. Just they do every year at this time. Just like I should have known would happen again. Just like I let totally blindside me again! Now I'm just two days out from the run, and my to do list is still at least 5k long. And my first training run was also my last training run.

There's no backing out though, because I've already registered and sent in my money. I'm not dedicated or foolhardy, but I am cheap. And stubborn. But mostly cheap. If I was to travel back in time and find myself boarding the Titanic and they told me tickets were non-refundable, I would grab a life vest and settle in for the ride.

The fact that I get out of breath walking to the refrigerator isn't enough to dissuade me from going, either. The Princess and I did three runs in the past three months without training. They were more about the fun than the run - “Hey, let's spend the night in Des Moines and run 5k in a tutu.” “Let's run around North Liberty after dark on a path lit by glow sticks.” “Let's run a mile in downtown Iowa City wearing Halloween costumes.”

We jogged a little, walked a little, had a lot of fun and got some exercise. I figured that was the whole point. We survived with only a few days worth of aches and pains after each.

Our lack of training isn't something I'm particularly proud of. (Being lapped by a chihuahua in a Batman cape really should have been a more effective motivator.) In fact, after every run, we'd gasp and say “We've really got to start training for these things.”

While the Princess and I didn't train to run, it's not like we just rolled off the couch, slipped on some tennies and headed out. We've been working out at the gym. Unfortunately, pushing a prowler loaded with 70 pounds for 30 yards is a lot different that pulling my ass loaded with 70 pounds for 3 miles. And I sincerely hope they won't make me stop at each mile mark and do a set of bicep curls – not the 12-oz. kind, either.

That reminds me of a girl I used to work with who did “hashing” runs. These “Hash House Harriers” runs involved following a marked trail (instead of a mapped course) and stopping to chug beers every so often. Back then it sounded fun and crazy. Now it sounds mostly crazy, and a little nauseating.

This Saturday's run/walk is a “Pancake Dash,” complete with pancake breakfast. I think it sounds like fun. I'm not sure I'll partake of the pancakes, but breakfast means coffee and that will keep me going. Heck, if they had Eric Balfour holding a trucker-sized mug of coffee at the finish line I'd set all kinds of speed records!

Now if you were to combine the hashing and the dashing you could end up with something really fun. Like a Mimosa cocktail run! Or maybe a Mimosa walk... which could lead into a Bloody Mary walk... and on to some little quiches and sausages, with fruit, or sweet rolls.

In other words, a brunch buffet.

That sounds like my kind of 5k.

Musical Wheelchairs

What kind of music will I be listening to when I'm in the nursing home?

This question has been on my mind for a while now. In fact, I've pretty much been obsessing over it since attending the nursing home's November group birthday party with the Queen Mother. (In case you were wondering, no, I wasn't included as an honoree. Age discrimination.) The entertainment at the party was a Name That Tune activity, and I am happy (?) to say I did, in fact, name those tunes.

“Oh, You Beautiful Doll,” “The Tennessee Waltz,” “Five Foot Two, Eyes of Blue (Has Anybody Seen My Gal),” and “An Irish Lullaby (Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ra).” I've heard them all, and I can sing – well, hum – them all.

I try to avoid visiting the Queen during the afternoon activity time, because we don't actually get to visit when there's a performer. But sometimes schedules collide and I end up staying for their musical guest. Maybe the Queen and I get just as much out of holding hands and listening to the music as we do from talking.

“The Blue Skirt Waltz.” “A Bushel and a Peck.” “Till There Was You.” "Mr. Sandman."

These songs are the musical equivalent of comfort food for me. I remember hearing them on the radio in my Grandparents' kitchen. “The Lawrence Welk Show” was the original Must See TV for Sunday nights when I was growing up. In fact, I still like to tune in to WMT AM and listen to Leo Greco's Variety Time and Musical Memories with Jim Doyne. I'm quite familiar with a range of old Broadway Musical tunes, and songs from the 1930's, 40's and 50's, otherwise known as “Adult Standards.”

I admire the folks who are willing to share their talents by performing at nursing homes. I envy their ability not just to sing, but also to play guitar, accordion or keyboard (or even the musical spoons and washboard). Does anyone under the age of 60 still know how to play accordion – other than my friend, Queen Martha?

These musical visits always give me the urge to polish up my piano skills. The last time this happened I went so far as to look for sheet music during the Little Prince's drum lesson at West Music. He asked if they had a section labeled “Music for Old Farts in Nursing Homes.” Surprisingly, they didn't.

No worries, I need to look to the future. I need to find music that will be playing, not necessarily what is being played now. Using the Queen Mother as a statistical representative for current nursing home residents, I have concluded that the music being performed was popular during their childhood or when they were young adults. But when I used that criteria to extrapolate results for myself, my brain exploded. I just can't imagine sitting around in a wheelchair listening to Prince, Bon Jovi, Guns 'N Roses, or Michael Jackson.

In fact, some of the songs that were hits during my “target years” may not be so popular when played for a bunch of Seasoned Citizens. Will we still be able to bust a move to “Footloose”? We may need more than “Ice, Ice Baby” for our aching muscles if we do. I'm not sure the “Simply Irresistible” back up singers will look quite as irresistible when they're 90. Billy Squire's “The Stroke” and Olivia Newton John's “Heart Attack” will have a whole different meaning, as will “Don't You (Forget About Me)”, “Who Can It Be Now”, “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go” and “Every Breath You Take.”

On the up-side, West Music did have sheet music books featuring hits of the 1970's, 80's and beyond, as well as the music of Queen, The Beatles (Paul McCartney is 71), Led Zepplin (Jimmy Page is 69), Rolling Stones (Mick Jagger is 70) and Madonna (a mere 55).

I'm just not sure how they're going to sound on the accordion.

Super Wonder Mom

I have two superhero t-shirts that I like to wear on days I know I'll be facing overwhelming odds.

Putting on that Wonder Woman t-shirt or the Superman t-shirt helps me gird my loins on those days I'm heading into battle with rampaging mutant laundry monsters, or thwarting an evil genius bent on burying the world in meaningless paperwork, or attending meetings that bend the time-space continuum all out of shape, or just shrugging off the lingering after-effects of soul-sucking Blue Meanies. Pretty much any day I'm just not sure how I'm ever going to get it all done.

I know those t-shirts don't give me any real superpowers, except maybe added self-confidence. Wearing them is more like a little joke to myself. I imagine striking the superhero pose – feet shoulder-width apart, fists on my hips, chest up and out, head tilted to the side – and announcing “Stand aside citizens, I'll finish that report, whip up some soup and deliver it to the school, attend the birthday party at the nursing home, and still be back in time to take the Princess to the gym. I'm (dramatic pause) Wonder Mom.”

But lately I've started to think maybe I have developed some... unique superpowers of my own.

It all started when I was grousing to myself about the four baskets of clean laundry sitting in the living room just waiting for someone – anyone – to fold and/or put them away. “It's like no one else in this family can even see them,” I thought to myself. Then it occurred to me, “maybe no one else in this family really CAN see them!”

Crazy? Maybe, but how else can you explain why the rest of the family had been walking around these baskets for days without even touching them?

Then there were other incidents: dirty dishes left downstairs or next to – but not in – the dishwasher, popcorn bags on the Princess' bedroom floor, pop cans on the Prince's desk, piles of shoes, backpacks, books and papers everywhere. I was the only one bothered by these things... because I was the only one who could see them!

I have developed... Super Clutter Vision!

Sure, it's not quite as exciting as X-Ray Vision, or even night vision, but still... it's something.

To test my theory I gathered the children for a little fun family bonding over laundry folding. “Where? Why?” they asked. Mmmm hmmm, I suspected as much. After I led them to the baskets and guided their little hands to the handles, it was like a fog had lifted.

But another surprise awaited!

After explaining the basics of folding (don't wad, roll or crumple), I discovered that I could easily fold three baskets-full of clothes in the same amount of time it took the two of them to fold one basket-full... together!

I have developed... Super Folding Powers!

This led to the discovery that I am the only one who can put folded clothes away so that they stay folded! Apparently there is some sort of gravitational force around the children's dressers that disrupts the orderliness of folded laundry, so that what starts out as folded in the basket ends up as a blob when placed in the drawers. It is I, and I alone, who have the power to overcome this trans-dimensional distortion.

Super Laundry Putting-Away Power!

OK, that one might be stretching it a bit, but what about these super powers:

Cat Telepathy – I'm the only one who can tell when it's time to clean the cat's litter box (well, at least the only one who ever does anything about it), and usually the only one who knows it's time to feed him (Max's powers are getting stronger here).

Enhanced Hearing – I can actually hear the Princess rolling her eyes at me... from the other room. When atmospheric pressure is just right I can hear that rattle from down the hall, in the basement, even over the phone, or via text message!

ESTPP – Extrasensory Toilet Paper Perception. Not only am I usually the only person to know when the bathroom is out of toilet paper, I'm the only one with the ability to load it correctly!

So, in light of all the speculation that I was involved in the cleaning events that occurred in the living room, the kitchen and the bathroom... the wild accusations that I'm a superhero... the truth is...

I am Iron Mom.