Category Archives: Children

Drinking games

  

I'm so proud

  Wow.  Good old mom.  Has she ever changed.  Yesterday, I was standing in the grocery line, waiting.  The woman in front of me clearly knew the checker.  I couldn’t help but overhear this inspiring tidbit.

 

 Mom:  Yeah, that’s my beer.  Well, my kid’s, actually.  I let my son and his girlfriend have beer at home.  They’re in high school now, so it’s…

Checker:  Better than having them go drink somewhere else.

 

Mom:  Right.  Oh, this is so funny.  The other day, they were playing the f-word drinking game.  You know what that is, right?  The F-Bomb?

 Checker:  Gotcha.  Don’t have to spell it out for me.

 Mom:  Well, the kids were watching this movie, and every time they heard the F-word, they had to take a drink.  (Mom laughs indulgently).  Yeah, they got plastered.  Put ‘em to bed in my son’s room.

 Me:  (thinking as I drove home) Golly, I was watching Ozzie and Harriet just the other day, with my eldest (high school age, sweet, loving, adorable, virginal, drug-free ooo, I love her so much I could eat her with a spoon) daughter, and I realized:  I’m such an old-fashioned dirt-bag of a mom.  Geez, what a loser. Here I thought I was doing her a favor by steering her away from the harrowing foibles of my misspent youth.  My poor kid.  How the bleepity, bleep is she going to learn to drink?  Neither Ozzie nor Harriet dropped the F-Bomb once!  When I got home, I immediately threw that DVD out.  Then, I took inventory of our cupboards and realized, if she’s gonna get high, she’s gonna have to settle for tablespoon of vanilla on the rocks.  Couple the vanilla with Ricky Nelson and her seven-year-old brother (who will occasionally crawl into bed with her when he has his recurring bad snake dream) you ain’t got much of a partay, know-whut-ahm-sayin-ma-man?

 

 So, I’m headed back to the store for a copy of Bruce Willis’s Die Hard with a Vengeance, a case of Bud, a pack of smokes and a bag boy or two.  We’ll giter up to speed.  That way, she’ll be more acceptable in today’s society.  After all, I wouldn’t want her to be…different.

 Carolyn

 

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Filed under Anxiety, Children, Health, Marriage, Menopause, Motherhood, parenthood

Another Get Rich Quick Scheme Down the Toilet

Heeeeeellllppp meeeeee!

Ohmigosh, Wendy!  Last night I had a dream that J. Lilly, President of Pillsbury wrote us a letter.  It was so terrifying!  So real!  I woke up in a sweat (could have been a hot flash) and scribbled down what I remembered on a candy wrapper I found lying near my bed: 

To TooHotMamas:

(Whoever you are and whatever your racket is)  

 Stop harassing me about winning my contest, or I’ll be forced to take out a restraining order against you both.  The only reason I haven’t contacted the authorities yet, is because my sister is menopausal and tells me you are both out of your minds. 

In answer to a few of your many and varied accusations:  No, the contest was not rigged, nor am I related to the winners and yes I eat Pillsbury products in my home and have no signs of these ‘pathogens’ you allude to.  

Also, since Jack Bauer is a FICTIONAL television character (24), I cannot take the threat that you would report my contest to the Counter Terrorist Unit seriously.  I can’t believe Jack Bauer would take it seriously.  In a shoot out, everyone knows the doughboy has no vital organs and can withstand intense heat.  Jack Bauer, though impressive, would never survive a pre-heated 350 oven for more than 30 minutes. 

TooHotMamas, I will not be bullied into, and I’m quoting here, “Taking you to the stars with your two-ingredient Pancake Sauce”, and must reiterate: Winning my contest will not solve your myriad problems.  In fact you both may wish to consider counseling.  I’ve heard this stage of life is hard on many women and can lead to delusional behavior.  

Thank you for including the pictures of your children in your missive of terror and yes, aside from needing braces, they are all exceedingly attractive. 

You will be contacted from my lawyers for your issues with our contest protocol, and must sign sworn statements to hold Pillsbury harmless, if you wish to participate in the future. 

Sincerely, 

John Lilly, CEO Pillsbury Corporation

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Filed under aging, Anxiety, Children, Cooking, hot flash, Marriage, Menopause, Motherhood, Pillsbury Bakeoff, Weight gain, Weight Loss

Keyboarding for the Menopausally Impaired

I think it’s about time we woman of a certain age created our own secret texting language.  I’ve begun breaking ground in this realm and thought I’d share what I like to call:  Not Your Daughter’s Way, Texting.

 Some adorable key functions:

 Ω Mom is in the garden

%  The unfortunate breast augmentation key

‰ Sue the surgeon key

+  The “I shouldn’t have had that last brownie” key

~  The “I could take it or leave it tonight, honey” key

#  The “my ridiculously expensive eye cream isn’t working” key

*  The ceiling fan key.  Trust me, it’s amazing how many times you might need to refer to a ceiling fan, but don’t have the time or energy to type it all out.

 And some helpful mom abbreviations:

 GCYRBMHE  =  Go Clean Your Room Before My Head Explodes

WDTDRI?GHOOHBMHE  =  What Did The Dog Roll In?  Get Him Out Of Here Before My Head Explodes

ITMHJE= I Think My Head Just Exploded

 Some new interpretations on the old standards:

BF = Barely Functioning

BFF= Barely Functioning Friend

LOL = Lots of Liposuction

OMG =  Short for Omega 3

 A text sentence might look like: My BFF Wendy sez OMG 4 no LOL

 Translated:  My barely functioning friend, Wendy recommends that you take Omega 3 oils for optimum health and to avoid unhealthy weight gain during the Menopausal years.

 My response might look like:  I no-no! I’m such %!

 Translated:  I did not know that!  I’m such a boob!

Okay, the system is new and needs some work.

 Carolyn

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Filed under Children, Marriage, Menopause, Motherhood

I Will Wax For George Clooney

My husband’s a guest star on the TV show Leverage. He informed me several days ago that we are going to the wrap party, which is tomorrow night.  For the past week and a half, he’s been telling me how beautiful the women and men are on this show.

Deciding to walk my talk, I opted to approach this party very differently from the way I have approached similar celeb-studded parties in the past.  I used to make sure my makeup was fresh, my hair was highlighted, and my wardrobe was new.  This time?  I have one Maybelline eyeshadow duo with a broken plastic lid and gouges in the little cakes of color from my daughter’s attempt to apply the stuff to her dolls with a bobby pin.  That stubborn gray in my hair will simply have to be appreciated as Mother Nature’s highlights.  And those wrinkles–hey, some of those lines are vertical; they might be slimming.  As for my boring wardrobe:  I’m a work-at-home mom on a budget.  Cotton will have to do.

I felt really good about my decision to go au naturel and simply enjoy the view and the company.  No one’s going to be looking at me, anyway.  That last realization is one of the sweet gifts of no longer being twenty.

And then…

Today, with fewer than twenty-four hours left, my darling husband mentioned that the gorgeous Italian woman he’s seen on the set is Elisabetta Canalis, George Clooney’s current extraordinary  squeeze. Continue reading

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Filed under aging, Children, Marriage, Menopause, Motherhood, Writing

Everything old is new again

Like any seven-year-old, my daughter cannot wait to be a teenager.  Her target age:  nineteen.

“Mom, does this headband make me look nineteen?”  Absolutely.  And you could add another year if you detached the Minnie Mouse ears.

“Mom, look at my ballet slippers.”  (Extending her foot with a lovely pointed toe.)  “Do my legs look nineteen?”

“Listen, Mom, listen.  Does this song make me sound–”  Yes, sweetheart, yes, singing “We Are The Dinosaurs” at the top of your lungs absolutely makes you sound nineteen.

I’m not sure why she targeted that particular age.  Nineteen was certainly not my best year.  I was in my third year of college, a good forty pounds overweight, struggling to know more, do more and be more than I was comfortable with.

Nineteen was almost thirty years ago.  Now I’m trying to look younger, feel younger and still trying to do more than I am comfortable with.  Not that I  want to be nineteen again.  Noooo thank you.  But forty-two…yeah, that was a great year.

“Hey, world, if I wear this makeup, do I look 42 again?”

“If I lose ten pounds, will I look 42?  Will you like me better?  Take me more seriously?  Hire me?”

Recently, I was with the twenty-five-year-old niece of a dear friend.  When I say the girl is stunningly beautiful, I am issuing a gross understatement.  And yet she felt it necessary to have her first BOTOX injection at 24.  Apparently that is no longer uncommon; you get a head start on wrinkle prevention that way.

Annette Bening was my acting teacher twenty-six years ago.  She was, by far, the most confident woman I had ever met.  Today, she is one of the few actresses of her generation with the guts to age gracefully.   She is, by all accounts, the very hands-on mother to four young people.  Google her, and you will find that she spends a great deal of her time giving back to her community in addition to conducting what has amounted to a thoughtful, intelligent and wildly successful career.

Check the imdb boards, and you will discover that she is being slammed–rudely–for daring to age naturally.  One poster wrote that Warren Beatty is now “too good for her.”  Another brain trust labeled her “a hag.”

Great.  These are probably people who get tattoos and piercings so they can be unique.  I’m not knocking that, but guess what?  Aging naturally in Hollywood is probably as unique anyone is going to get.

I wonder if a woman posted the crack about Warren Beatty or the uber-intelligent hag comment?  Lord, I hope not.

Annette:  You glow, woman.  And may I say, “Thank you” for living the wisdom of taking yourself seriously…but not too seriously.  And for spending more time working to improve the world instead of your own skin.

Libbi, my darling daughter:  Slow down, baby.  There’s plenty of time.  Live the moment, because the time that yawns endlessly now will someday seem achingly brief.  And you don’t want to miss a second by trying to be someone else.  (Or even an older–or younger–version of yourself.

Note to me:  Ditto.

Wendy

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Like Totally

 

You like want us to clean? What's up with that?

 

I have teenaged girls. I love it, as I am a connoisseur of sarcasm and they just give me so much…fodder.   

Take today for example:   

15 year old:  Mom, when a man has his prostate removed, is he still, like, a man?   

Me:  No, darling.  The moment the prostate is removed, the poor slob becomes a unicorn.   

13 year old:  I would rather die, than eat a fly.   

Me:  You’re telling me that you’d rather light yourself on fire than eat a house fly?  Be torn apart by a grizzly bear?  Eaten by an alligator?  Sit on a stick of dynamite?    

15 year old: Mom!  Look!  The dog is lactating!  Eeew!  Hey…I wonder what it tastes like?   

Me:  Why don’t you hold her over your cereal bowl in the morning and find out?   

I know, I know, I should aim for a more mature, maternal tone.  But come on.  Like, they both totally wanted to throw their stupid printer away.  Until I plugged it in.   

Carolyn

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Filed under Children, Marriage, Menopause, Motherhood, parenthood, The Bi-Racial Family

Yurt Locker

OMG! I'm so totally beautiful!

 I just spent the week in a Yurt at the beach with 6 middle school girls (one of them was my daughter) for a Science Field Study.  Ohmigosh.  The shrieking, the mess, the ADHD, the horrible house-keeping skills and that’s just ME. 

 The girls?  Hopeless.  

OVERHEARD IN MY YURT:

“I’m incredibly beautiful.  Not to brag or anything, it’s just true.  But, when I straighten my hair?  I’m even more beautiful.  Not to sound vain.” 

“That’s okay.  It’s good to be vain.  And you are really beautiful.”

“Yeah.”

 WHAT DATING IN 6TH GRADE REALLY MEANS: 

 Sit at the opposite end of the cafeteria and don’t look at each other.  Ever.  (Looking is for 7th grade).

 Getting to wear the boy’s hoodie?  You’re as good as married.  Pick out the china.  

 OVERHEARD IN THE CAFETERIA: 

“I gave his hoody back!”  Mass hysteria and giggling.  “And I loaded the pocket with candy!”  More mass hysteria. 

“Ooo, tight move!”

“Yeah!  He like said, I love candy!”  MASSIVE HYSTERIA.  “He said love!”

 DURING TRUTH OR DARE:

“Next time?  I dare you to give his hoody back and tell him you never want to wear it again because it totally smells like B.O.” 

 OVERHEARD ON THE BUS:

“Don’t worry, Mr. Smith, but you might want to count noses again…” 

 Alarmed, Mr. Smith asks, “Are we short a student?” 

“No.  But I’m pretty sure I saw that guy–don’t look now–the one sitting in the back of the bus–I said don’t look–The scruffy one with the flies buzzing around his head–don’t look–yeah, that guy, I saw him hitch-hiking about an hour ago…” 

“No, no.  That’s Carolyn.  Gracie’s mom.  She’s in a Yurt with all 6th graders.” 

“Oh, right.  That explains it.” 

 ON ORGANIZATION: 

 Kid: “Has anyone seen my flashlight/pillow/towel/sleeping bag/makeup/backpack/sleeping mat/text book?” 

 Me:  “What did you do with the last six flashlights/pillows/towels/sleeping bags/makeup/backpacks/sleeping bags/text books I gave you?” 

 Kid:   “I dunno.” 

 ON BEING SEXY: 

“I know everyone thinks the boy I like is a total Spaz–”

“Because he IS!”

“But that’s only because you don’t KNOW him!”

“I know he eats his boogers.”

“He’s still sexy.”  

Going on a field study is a great way to get to really know not only your own child, but the kids he/she pals around with all day at school.  It’s comforting to know that when you get home, you can lock your darling up and home school them until they are 35 and have completed basic training for nunnery boot camp. 

Carolyn

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That Pioneering Spirit

"Oh goody. It's raining."

 If you enjoy wearing a pioneer woman costume and sleeping in a damp tent that you set up in the pouring rain while wearing your soggy pioneer bonnet and a soaked pioneer skirt that gets tangled around your legs as you try to pound a tent spike into solid rock while 3 third graders (also in pioneer garb) complain about the inclement weather under your feet…then you’d LOVE the field study I just returned from (see Wagon’s Ho blog entry) with my kid’s Living History charter school.

 We had a fabulous time.

Learned a lot.

Stood at the bottom of the famous Laurel Hill (shoulda been named Laurel Jagged Cliff) on the famous Oregon Trail (shoulda been named Let’s Commit Suicide by Wagon Train) and I thought, “Wow, I wonder if I ‘d have let my husband talk me into hurling our wagon/worldly supplies/children/oxen over the edge like the pioneers did back in the olden days?”  and “What the hell were they thinking?”  and “I wonder how far I am from Starbucks, right now.”

Apparently, one pioneer woman (her name escapes me at the moment), pregnant with her eighth child gave birth three days AFTER getting her family down the hill.  I’m such a loser weenie.  I rode to the historic site in a heated touring bus, ate the 6 thousand calorie meal we’d packed that morning for lunch, and felt sorry for myself because I was probably gaining back all the weight I’d recently lost (see the Gym post).

This trip shattered every illusion I had about being a pioneer in any sense of the word.  I am a wimp-o-neer.  A pio-weenie.

Luckily, the next field study (leaving this Monday with daughter number 2) is being held at the coast.  In a Yurt.  Gonna feel like the Hilton, compared to the tent. 

Carolyn

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Wagons Ho

I’m going on an Oregon Trail Living History field study with my two fifth graders. 

I hear naughtly little children taste just like chicken...

We are going to ‘experience’ the ‘joy’ of roughing it on the real Oregon Trail in real wagons and wear real costumes and stuff.   Gonna do it the way they used to.  No new fangled stuff like dental floss or deoderant.  We’re going to sleep in a tent.  Supposed to rain, maybe even snow.  Just like in the olden days.  I hear tell a ‘master camper’ (whatever that is) will be accompanying us.  His last name is–no-I-am-not-kidding–Donner.  Just like in the olden days.  If the kids in my tent give me any flack, (you know, middle school ‘tude), I think after lights-out, I’m gonna tell ’em the whole saga of the real Donner party.  Then, I might allude to the idea that our master camper might be…I don’t know…related some how.  

That oughta keep ’em in line.

I’ll report back on my adventures upon my return.

Carolyn

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Victoria’s REAL Secret

Hey, baby. What's your sign?

Sleep Apnea, part 2: Medical Fashion! YAY!
Probably the best part of Sleep Apnea is the really cool machine you get to take home and use every single night for the rest of your life! But before you can be trusted with the Nimbus 2000, you have to take a class with members of your non-breathing peer group. At first, it’s much like an AA meeting in that you don’t want anyone to know you’re there. Everyone takes a seat, looking as if they are facing their sentencing for crimes committed while asleep. If you’re lucky, you get the Good-Humor Man as your instructor to loosen things up. And, I gotta tell you, once everyone puts on ‘the mask’ it’s a veritable festival of fun. One guy in my class (a four-year veteran of Sleep Apnea) said it takes all the ‘mystery’ out of love-making. Apparently, when the wife sees him sans mask, she knows what time it is. Yeah, it takes the old mystery out of a lot of stuff. Another guy in my class was gonna order a mask for his wife so they could play Darth Vader. Everyone’s a comedian. I think my big beef is the lack of bling. A lady who sat across from me was wondering if we could maybe bedazzle the straps or get a model in leopard print or dayglo pink. I’d like to see the thing double as a blow dryer for those of us who like to double task. Anyway, if you have read this blog for any length of time, you know I’m big into get rich quick schemes, and I think I’m onto something with the Sexy Cpap machine (continuous positive airway pressure). Gonna get on the horn with Victoria. I think there’s a market here.
Carolyn

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Bad Hair

Wendy and Carolyn Do Hawaii

 

Carolyn and Wendy Do Hawaii
 
The 35 Symptoms of Menopause: A continuing education.  Today, we explore Symptom #26:

Hair loss or thinning head or pubic hair.  Increase in facial or whole body hair.

So many of our friends complain about this symptom.  The hair falls off the head and seems to just explode out of everywhere else. 
 
So, girls.  How do we get rid of unwanted hair without the hideous pain of waxing / electrolysis and those horrible red bumps that come after shaving?  Well, after a LOT of debate–and experimentation–we’ve come to the conclusion that there is no solution.  Why are we fighting the inevitable, ladies? 
 
Let go of your inhibitions.  If you’ve got it, flaunt it.  Embrace your inner gorilla!  Oh, we’re not saying it will be easy.  The first time we hit the beach sporting our new hirsute look, we were a little bashful.  But as you can see by the video our husband’s shot, (above) after a couple Mai Tai’s we got into the rhythm. 
 
Carolyn and Wendy

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Lions and Tigers and Bears: Oh. Menopause.

 Symptom 11:  Feelings of Dread, Apprehension, and Doom…

 Apparently, I went into menopause when I was 8-years-old.  I remember distinctly going through that entire summer feeling dread, apprehension and doom.  It seemed to revolve around this reoccurring dream I had about pyramids.  Huge, looming, Egyptian pyramids.  Scared the stew out of me.  Until now, I had no idea why I never wanted to travel to Egypt.  Duh.  Menopause.

I refer to this as my year of Egyptian pyramid menopause.  Then, there was the year of clown menopause.  Later on, it was Y2K menopause.

 My youngest daughter is most certainly in menopause and she hasn’t even entered puberty yet, poor thing.  Outer space gives her the heebie-jeebies .  She hates anything outer space.  Star Wars, constellations, Buzz Lightyear…   “Dear Mrs. Bigglesworth:  Please excuse my youngest daughter from the field trip to the planetarium as she is suffering from the eleventh symptom of menopause.

 At tax time, I think my husband entered menopause.  

 I must say.  It’s nice to know I’m not alone.

 Carolyn

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Tying Scarves

I have never worn scarves.  I’ve admired the way people tie them, but it’s always seemed like too much trouble.

Carolyn, on the other hand, is a master of accessories–scarves, hats, bracelets, toe rings.  Very, very creative.  Me?   Not so much.  Until…

“Mommy?  Can I play with that?”

“What, sweetie?”

“That under your chin.”

“What under my–”

Well.  I seem to have developed turkey waddle, which makes me the best toy in the house.  When I was my daughter’s age (almost seven), I played with my great-uncle’s elbow.  He was in his sixties at the time.  His elbow was like warm silly putty; I could stretch it, pinch it, tuck it into cool shapes.  It made him laugh.  I felt very happy playing with my uncle’s elbow.   I am not feeling the same joy with my waddle.

Menopause makes you melt.  Really, every day I have a new face.  Is that on the list of 35 symptoms, Carolyn?  It should be.  It could scare our ovaries into continuing to produce estrogen.

When Libbi was four, she told me, “Mommy, I’ll take care of you when you’re old and crumbly.”  I was only a year into menopause then, so I laughed.  Now I have the daily reminder that “old and crumbly” isn’t so far off.  Time’s marchin’ on.

When I was forty-two with a baby, I felt young.  I thought menopause was years away (turns out it was only two years away).  Now I need to do crunches for my neck, and I wonder if my daughter is going to be disappointed that she has an older mommy who looks like an older mommy.

On the other hand, I have perspective.  I’m beginning to understand the value of looking at other people a whole lot more than I look in the mirror.  And, I’m beginning to understand that when I do look in the mirror, I owe myself a smile no matter what.

After Libbi mentioned the state of my neck, she touched it very gently, stretched it out a little and smiled real big.  She giggled.  I giggled.  It makes her happy, at least for now.  We cuddled a long time.

There are advantages to being the best toy in the house.  But I am also going to learn to tie scarves.  Or maybe I can learn to think of my waddle as an accessory.

Wendy

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Happy Havztim Tab! L’chayim! (to life!)

Just for fun, I thought I’d look up some of the strange symptoms I’ve begun having and found this preamble to The 35 Symptoms of Menopause

(For some reason, in my head, I hear Mary Poppins reading this, but you listen to whoever you’d like to hear deliver this special news).

 Perimenopause or Premenopause …
is the time before actual menopause. This phase lasts 5 to 13 years and is when you experience most of the symptoms. Menopause is actually a one day event, the last day of your last ever period. Of course, you will not know when that day occurred until you no longer have periods. The average age for menopause is 51. Post-menopause begins 1 year after your LAST period.

O.M.G.  Some of us get to experience these delights for thirteen years?  How…encouraging.  Of course, if I’m one of the lucky ones, this means I’ll have a teenager living with me the entire time.  I can only imagine the driving lessons… their hormones surging, mine waning, both of us screaming.

 And then—this is the part that thrills me—“Menopause is actually a one day event!”

 How exciting!  But, how will I know exactly which ‘day’ that is?  How will I dress?  What should I do?  I’d love to plan a little ‘rite-of-passage’ shindig, like a Mexican Quinceañera or a Jewish Bat Mitzvah only in reverse.  I’m not Jewish (I leave that portion of the blog to Wendy) but I could call it a Havztim Tab and throw a dance.  A dinner.  With gifts.  For moi!  She’s passing from womanhood to cronehood.  Let’s party!

“Of course, you will not know when that day occurred until you no longer have periods.”

Not to criticize the origianal author of this informative piece, but  I might rephrase this aspect of the above preamble to read:   “Of course, you will not know when that day occurred because you are suffering from symptoms 3-6-7-13-14-16-20-22-25-29-31. 

 Unfortunately for me, I think I have imbibed too many preservatives over the years, for my womb keeps sputtering back to life just as I think I’ve achieved Havztim Tab, and the whole thing starts over again.  So, I guess I shall languish in the 35 symptoms awhile longer.  Get to know each of them really, really, really, really, really well.  And then share my findings.  With you.                     

Carolyn

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I Forgot What I Just Remembered

I’ve battled my weight all my life.  Not that I was obese exactly, but nobody would ever mistake me for Kate Moss.  The only way I was able to keep it under control was by working out 3 hours a day and counting every calorie.  That worked until I got pregnant with my first baby.  I gained 40 pounds with each of my five kids.  And, since three of them were adopted, this was… well, a bummer.  I managed to lose most of it, but now, as the years pass, it gets tougher and what with menopause, gee whiz, it just seems hopeless. The Kate Moss thing, I mean.

I’m big into self-help tomes and have tried all the diet books with varied but temporary success.  And then, a friend told me about Suzanne Sommer’s books on menopause and how they revolutionized her life.  So, I bought two.  They have done nothing for me.  But then, I haven’t read them yet.

However, I have high hopes.  From what I understand, bio-identical hormones will give me so much energy that I’ll no longer need sleep.  This will come in handy as I also hear—when I’m not training for a marathon—I’ll be busily ripping my husband’s clothes off in a dither of connubial bliss.  No more personal summers.  No more brain fog.  And skin?  Dewy as a rose petal at dawn.

 I think my family might be happier if I don’t replace the est-road-rage-en, but hey, anything has got to be better than the…the…uh…oh…the…uh, you know…the…               what was I talking about?

Carolyn

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Kids Don’t Multi-task; Why should I?

Children don’t multi-task.  Unless food is being served, in which case they can throw, jump, dance, spin, talk incessantly and deliver an oral report on worm bins while they are chewing.

Ask a child to clean her room, carry a plate into the kitchen, take shoes to the closet or brush teeth before bedtime, however, and you will find God’s greatest example of living in the moment.

At the start of cleaning the room, there will surely be a rock that needs to be examined with the attention of a geologist.  Should a stray puzzle piece be found, an entire 100-pieces of Cinderella and her prince will be assembled on the spot.

Shepherding shoes from living room floor to closet (our house is tiny; it’s not that far) requires the addition of a dance recital delivered with the single-minded focus of a prima ballerina.

Women are supposed to be great multi-taskers; apparently it doesn’t kick in until adulthood.  It’s helpful for a while.  I can cook a meal, clean the house and pay bills while simultaneously brainstorming plots with a fellow author or getting (or receiving) phone therapy from a womanfriend.  I can pick up shoes AND do a dance recital.  Somebody’s got to.

It’s tiring, though–all that simultaneous activity.  I find I do it in my sleep now.  I think I’m resting, but I’m still plotting the next book, figuring out bills, wondering how to wedge violin lessons in between gymnastics and ice skating, planning a birthday party.  If you’re a woman, you know the drill.

You know how Shakespeare wrote that in old age we turn back into babies?  Well, now that I’m menopausal, I think I’ll sleep while I’m sleeping.  Perchance to dream…of sleeping.

Yes, I like this idea.  I may even try eating while I’m eating.  Talking to a friend while I’m talking to a friend.  Turning off the news while I do yoga.  I may even drop the five pairs of shoes I am lugging to the closet in between typing this, turn on Barbie Swan Lake and dance.

Wendy

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Filed under Children, Menopause, Motherhood, parenthood