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ON BALANCE by Kathy Buckworth
Restraining Myself (New Year, New Attitude)
2009/12/18
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I’m so over making “resolutions”. I’ve found that my “resolve” to doing much of anything more than keeping things moving forward without losing any children along the way generally ends in me feeling as though I’ve failed at something. It’s making me cranky.
The most common of New Year’s Resolutions involve personal growth or self-improvement. Many are focused around weight, health, and general demeanour. “I’m going to lose 20 pounds, exercise four times a week AND not yell at my kids.” You may as well throw in discovering a solution to world peace, fail-proof sleep techniques for children and a formula for diet wine while you’re at it. So this year I’ve decided to focus on changing one major thing which might make me at least appear to be nicer: my restraint.
I need to ramp up my internal filter just a tad so that I can get through situations which I don’t find particularly enjoyable. Like:
• When my children want to do arts and crafts instead of watching mindless television, I should support it. I shouldn’t stand in front of the cupboard which contains the construction paper, glue, feathers and pompoms I once bought in a Dollar Store frenzy and tell them that I heard there’s a new SpongeBob episode unveiling today. Okay, maybe not every time.
• I need to control the involuntary flinch and immediate leg crossing which comes when my kids start pleading to go swimming at a public pool. In the middle of a glorious razor-free winter cold stretch.
• When I’m “invited” to a school concert, graduation or awards ceremony, I need to get my proud Mom face on, instead of thinking about all of the other fun and or productive things I could be doing. Like shaving my legs.
• When the kids are watching un-educational television I shouldn’t say to them “Why don’t we do some arts and crafts or do something active together?” just to immediately change my mind when my BlackBerry buzzes or I spy a long-forgotten gossip magazine on the coffee table. (“Worst Beach Bodies”…come on!)
• When first-time Moms are excited about going to school events, I should try really hard to remember how thrilling it was the first few times I went as well...instead of focusing on the 26th torturous time. I should remember to just hand them my camera as they’ll have the best seats anyway.
I guess most of all I’ll resolve to do what my mother always told me to do as a kid: If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all. It’s going to be a quiet year.
12 Days of Giftmas
2009/11/30
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Honestly, if you’re leaving all of your gift shopping to just the 12 days before Christmas, you’re likely either male (in which case you have 11 ½ days left to shop – go get a beer and watch a game), or you’re like most women I know – busy, busy Moms. Moms so busy, in fact, chances are they have to organize their time down to five minute increments, and in doing so, likely started their Christmas shopping in November. This, my friends, is the fatal error.
The minute you “start” your shopping early, you start to live with a false sense of security. “How can I not have all of this done? I started shopping before the Halloween clear-out candies were out of the stores.” I’ve done this. I’ve had the early start, knocked off about a third of the gifts, and then…come to a complete standstill. I then inevitably find myself searching for websites that ABSOLUTELY promise to deliver within 48 hours, trolling through my office for things I can re-gift, and once in a while even come across early-purchased gifts that I forgot to distribute last Christmas, that I can now give to the lucky recipients. What, you don’t need an inflatable pool toy in December? In Canada? Wow, some people are sooo picky.
I do believe that the universe has a way of evening things out – call it karma, a cosmic balance, or even the rule of “Even Steven” that Seinfeld talked about. The theory on gift shopping being that if you start doing it early, the world will find a way to conspire against you to make you late in finishing it. This same rule applies to:
• Getting that extra good workout in, and then finding out the fat free yogurt you’ve been eating all month…isn’t.
• Having one child bring home an excellent report card, and having another one get sent to the office for buttoning another kid’s head up in his shirt.
• Finding a favourite sweater that still looks great on you at the same moment your new boots snap a heel. And your favourite jeans all of sudden give you muffin top. Costco sized muffin top, to be specific.
• You make a fabulous new work connection, just when you inadvertently send a video joke about stealing a baby’s soul to a new parenting magazine editor.
• The new chicken recipe turned out to be delicious, but due to unfortunate hockey scheduling, the entire family eats in one person shifts.
So perhaps the biggest Christmas gift you can buy this year is for yourself. Do the last minute search NOW (if you’re reading this more than 24 hours before the 24th), find the re-gifting items, the early bought items, get online and order everything you need (I like to use websites that show a picture of the item, so I can always print that out and give it to the recipient if shipping is delayed), and then pretend December 20th is Christmas. You have five days to relax. At least from this particular job…did you think about the food yet?
Teacher Teacher
2009/10/30
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I just did the math. I have attended 38 School Open Houses. They have gone from the first Junior Kindergarten “Mommy look at this look at this look at this!” type of night right through to the Grade 12 “You’re not seriously going to go, are you Mother?” ones. Now, as much as I’d rather not go to some of these, they are in fact a great little warm-up to that most dreaded of appointments: The Parent/Teacher interview.
Let me explain.
When I started going to the parent teacher interviews approximately 14 years ago, they were still pretty informal. Review the folder, say things like “is his printing as good as everyone else’s?” and the teacher would respond with “He’s a boy! It’s all we expect!” and we’d laugh without me thinking about suing the school for gender discrimination. (Of course this was my son Alexander who, upon being told he’d have to know how to spell his name to “graduate” from kindergarten, immediately insisted he was known as “Al”. And these were the days before they instituted the Kindergarten Graduation where everyone graduates…I mean really, where’s the drama?)
Flash forward more than a decade, and I’m in a world where there are entire magazine articles written about “How to have the perfect parent teacher interview”, to “Things you NEED to ask your school principal about”, and I’m feeling the pressure with my two younger children, now in Grades 2 and 5. The older kids somehow survived my laid-back approach to these apparently extremely important meetings and have gone on succeed in high school and higher learning. Somehow.
As we walked through the Open House hallways last night, my seven year old turned to me and said “Did Grandma go to talk to your teachers too Mommy?” “Of course she did.” I answered…without really thinking about it. Then I did stop to think about it for a minute…did she? I’m certain my Dad didn’t…but in those days finding a Dad at a teacher interview was like finding a Dad in a delivery room, or a Gymboree class. Or a Gymboree class at all.
I honestly don’t remember my Mom having these face-to-face with my teachers. What I do remember is my grade school was a 1970’s failed concept “open area” school. No, not a Pioneer Schoolhouse like my 10 year old likes to say, but a big open building with nothing but blackboard stands separating us. I don’t recall my Mom coming to visit me in these divided areas, but if she did, I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t have been asking about “on level spelling” or “extra work for the fine-motor skills challenged child”. She would have more likely been standing in the hallway signing that petition to have the Grade 5 teacher reprimanded for wearing hotpants.
But she was a ‘70s teacher – that’s all we expected; it was “on level.”
Puck Bunny to Hockey Mom
2009/09/30
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As I sit in the freezing cold hockey arena, trying desperately to work my frigid fingers across my BlackBerry® while attempting to block out the loud barks of the annoying mom next to me and simultaneously manage to peek up just at the moment when my daughter does something interesting on the ice, I find myself asking “How did I get here?”
It seems to me that it was just about five minutes ago that I was a skippy young teenager, watching my boyfriend play hockey (in between visits to the girls washroom to re-apply my Bonne Belle lip gloss and make sure my powder blue eye shadow hadn’t smeared. I always wished I’d brought along extra hairspray to keep that bang flip looking better too.). How did I go from being “Puck Bunny” to “Hockey Mom”? Was I really a Capital H, Capital M Hockey Mom simply because I went to the arena to (ostensibly) watch my children play hockey? I was desperate to think it wasn’t so.
Don’t get me wrong – I love the fact that my children play team sports; they’re getting good, hard, exercise as well as tough life lessons in the dynamics of team play (“Hey you suck!” from your own team-mate is harsh, but it’s great preparation for high school… and the office.). Somehow, however, the stereotypical Hockey Mom image just doesn’t sit right with me.
It would be easy to blame the press for creating this monster, but the truth is that the Hockey Mom is NOT a media phenomenon. But while it totally exists, the Moms who most personify this North American suburban character normally have only their children’s best interests at heart. They cheer, they fund-raise, they groan in agony at the missed goals and blown opportunities, and they sacrifice many hours which I personally would spend reading, writing, or even getting a pedicure. Perhaps they do this too and they can just juggle everything better than I can. My problem is, I read and write while at the arena where it is quite obvious. (Haven’t had any luck in getting an aesthetician to come to the arena with her tub of hot water and emery boards yet, but I’m ever hopeful.)
Perhaps it stems from the fact that when I was a kid, whatever activities we did participate in were either not quite as organized (Kick the Can ‘til the streetlights went on!) or if they did verge on having professional instruction, my Mom simply dropped me off, did her grocery shopping, got her hair done, did some banking...I don’t know actually what she did (I was a kid so I was self-involved, forgive me). What I do know is that she did not sit in front of the glass, cheering me on. If she found herself sitting there, she was crocheting a bathing suit, working on a macramé plant hanger or reading the latest Danielle Steele. I’m still THAT Mom! Except instead of the crochet hook I have a BlackBerry® in my hand and instead of Danielle Steele I’m Twittering about an upcoming media event. The fact that the children are playing sports is secondary.
I’ve come so far. Now if you’ll excuse me I need to go check my Mac lip gloss and ensure my natural blush is still looking natural.
I Feel Sick
2009/08/31
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I sometimes feel guilty when I read about all of the things I should have done while I was pregnant with any or all of my four children. No, I’m not talking about the basics of good nutrition, rest, reasonable exercise and following the doctor’s advice – I did all of that, even by the time I got to the last one when the zealousness of achieving the perfect pregnancy had worn off and “What to Expect” was but a distant memory and a handy doorstop. No, my guilt stems from the fact that I didn’t invest in a single copy of “Mozart: Songs Every Foetus Will Love”; I didn’t have poetry recited directly through my stomach wall; I didn’t even take the time to ensure that siblings had face-to-tummy time prior to the new arrival’s entrance.
So while some by-the-earnest-parenting-book folks may believe I have already given them a disadvantaged start in life, optimistically I had been thinking that all of these transgressions could simply be overcome by overexposing them to PBS; testing their math by trying to rip them off during allowance payout; and forcing them to get some history lessons by listening to their Dad talk about war during dinner. It worked for me growing up.
My youngest is now seven years old and at this point has surely shown me all and any of the faults I may have perpetuated within. He can dress himself, speak in coherent sentences and beat me at Guitar Hero. I figure he’s doing pretty well. Until I heard the news this morning. A new study suggests that Moms who experienced morning sickness while pregnant are more likely to produce smarter children.
Super. Something else to feel guilty about. Here I was erroneously thinking I was lucky not to have experienced any nausea at all. As my teenage son said to me upon hearing the report “So we’re all idiots eh Mom?” Well, maybe not. Consider the evidence:
• I did throw up during all of my labour and deliveries (I always did have a tendency to cram at the last minute)
• My children often make me feel sick now, so that must count for something.
• My “iron-stomach” has served me well in the cleanup of the superfluous bodily fluids which all children expel, allowing me to protect them from the apocalyptic sight of a parent in a gas mask (which I witnessed during a taping of my television show “Birth Days”).
Call me crazy, but a world which involves less vomiting than more just has to be a good thing, all around, SAT scores be damned. Is there a “Beethoven for the Adolescent” available?
Family Tripping
2009/07/29
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When a stay-at-home Mom goes on vacation with her kids, isn’t she guilty of taking her work with her? Let’s think about that for a minute. Can you really “get away from it all”, when “it” comes with you? Personally, I’m a Mom who attempts to work from a Home Office (the biggest oxymoron I’ve ever come across besides Democratic Parenting), so being “on vacation” simply means that I find myself parenting my children in less than ideal circumstances. For example, six people sharing one bedroom, for starters.
That’s me, trying to maintain control, follow all socially accepted discipline methods, and above all remembering to “chill”. We’re paying for this, remember? Yes, I remember, honey.
When we’re at home, our routine is fairly rigid. From school schedules to hockey games, orthodontist appointments to emergency trouser purchases, we fit it all in with precision timing and are mostly in complete control of how the day will end up.
As soon as we hit the airport or the highway, however, any semblance of control I had in my outside environment deteriorates as quickly as the control I have on my inside environment.
“She’s looking at me!”
“Am not. You’re so ugly it would burn my retinas”
“Mom Alex said a bad word”
“And stupid too, apparently”
“Mom!!!”
At least in the family vehicle I can curse, swear, threaten and intimidate my children while enjoying the privacy of our own mobile cocoon. Because once we spill out of it, into a restaurant, hotel lobby, or airport waiting area, we have to Parent In Public. Even for the most seasoned of parent, there is really nothing more frightening…except seeing the school phone number pop up on your call display just when you’re on your way to that once a week yoga class you only get to once a month. Ohmmmm.
Ah yes Parenting In Public. Where I have to yell with my whispering voice, disguise obscene hand signals as affectionate sign language and love pats, and quietly threaten complete disintegration of their entire gaming system platform in order to get them to stop being such idiots. Oh crap. Did I just call my children idiots in public? Was I still whispering?
I have to admit that being “on vacation” with my children feels like real work to me, versus typing away in a quiet office, which at times takes on the feel of a deserted island of tranquility in a sea of embattlement. I suppose, though, on holidays, at least I have my trusty sidekick and Parenting Co-Pilot to help me through some of the turbulence. In theory. Because frankly sometimes he’s the recipient of some of those
r-rated hand gestures as well.
Thanks! I think...
2009/06/24
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One of the most popular gifts men give to their wives is a spa gift certificate.
In my house, this is met with a squeal of delight (unless the certificate contains the words “upper lip wax” and “cellulite treatment”) and this is for a good reason. It’s normally because I’ve specifically asked for this present. My poor old face needs some nourishment, and my tired aching muscles need some TLC (my six year old’s massages are just not quite up to scratch…yet).
And let’s face it – for me, the anticipation of visiting a spa is fabulous. Starting in the waiting room: The soft lighting, the quiet voices, the warm towels, the lemon infused water, the quiet voices, the smell of jasmine, the soothing sounds of waves, dolphins, or classical music, the soft hands, the quiet voices and inner-peace inducing ambiance. Besides the occasional yelp from the Brazilian waxing room, the spa provides for me the QUIETEST place I’ve been in, with the QUIETEST voices.
I have very little capacity for speaking quietly, which is in reality quite advantageous as most of the time I find myself in situations where in fact having a quiet voice would be quite a detriment. Trying to organize children being a prime example. Simply not possible without rising above the din, at least at my house where I’m outnumbered four to one. It’s usually awfully noisy at my house – my own voice often loudest of them all. Outside voice? Outside my head at any rate.
But back to the spa. The nice quiet spa. The spa visit normally starts with being seated in the reception or waiting area, where, if I’m the lucky recipient of a massage or facial, I might be ensconced in a white fluffy robe, soft slippers, with a cup of the aforementioned lemon water or herbal tea at my side. But as I sit there in the blissful quiet, my rarely unoccupied and quieted brain has time to start getting louder, and as I sit there, the tension starts to mount, and the Inside Voice starts to speak…louder and louder. Did I shave my legs? All the way up? What if they give me the male masseuse? What underwear am I wearing? Am I wearing underwear? Should I be? When he/she rubs my legs how much will they shake? The leg, not the masseuse. Should I say yes to the glute massage? What’s the upside on that? What if the waxing leaves me disfigured? Is that my BlackBerry vibrating? Should I read it that email from that woman? Should I turn my BlackBerry off? What if something happens with one of the kids? What if the facial mask they use turns my skin bright red? Will the women at the school council meeting be able to tell I had a facial today? Do I want them to? Will I seem privileged or pampered if they do? What time is it? Are they running late? Will I be able to get the kids in time? What if that moron purchased the wrong gift certificate and it ends up costing me money that I have to take from my “Mom’s New Boots Bank Account”? What if they force me to buy $300 worth of creams I’ll never use on the way out? I don’t have access to the “Power Tools Savings Account”. Damn. I need something stronger than this cloudy water to get me through this, people! Boy is he going to get it when I get home…whose idea was this anyway? Yes, I’m ready for my treatment…can I just send a quick email first?
Psych 'Em Right Out of the House
2009/05/30
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“Well I just refuse to buy my kids toy guns of any kind. The woman who lives next door to me gives her kids water guns to play with and now they want to kill each other.” Yep – that’ll do it. Many first time Moms truly believe that they can guide their young children’s minds down the only path they want them to take. The truth is, kids (mostly boys) who want to play with guns will simply make them out of something else if they can’t get the factory manufactured type. Like toast, for example.
I have a swimming pool in my backyard, and every time one of my two sons has a birthday party, someone buys them a rocket launcher/water gun. My two daughters are more likely to receive some sort of quiet diving game or a floral floaty device. At first I was a little annoyed by the water guns – I mean, their main purpose is to totally annoy or destroy someone else – but I just decided to lay down some ground rules about who the kids were allowed to shoot at (i.e. anyone but me and my friends) and it’s all worked out.
Little boys have long played “Cops and Robbers” and before it became politically incorrect, “Cowboys and Indians”. I would also bet that “Cromagnums and Neanderthals” was a hot shooting game before that. (Yes, I know they didn’t exist at the same time – don’t send that letter Mr. History Professor.) My point is simply that there are some behaviours and desires which are hard, if not impossible, to curb simply by making a purchasing decision.
I have found the best way to stop having items in my house I don’t want (for you it might be guns, for me it might be let’s say, fleece) by appearing to support them, and then silently removing them from the house when no one is looking. In a crowded and messy house of six people, this is easier than you think – and as a bonus I have started some spectacular fights among siblings who believe they have been robbed. So far I’ve managed to throw out many pairs of baggy and torn sweat pants, an Incredible Hulk dress shirt, three corporate logoed fleece vests (shudder), and even a gun or two, if truth be told. I’ve embraced purging power over purchasing power. Works for me. Now eat your toast gun, Junior.
A Man’s Point of View
2009/04/30
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I have a challenge for you: Go into any bookstore and as quickly as you can, try to find the section called “Self Improvement”. It really shouldn’t be hard to spot. First of all, it will be huge, and secondly, it will be filled with prospective book buyers who mostly share one quality: the lack of a Y chromosome. For those of you (like me) who fell asleep in biology class, that’s us girls. Women are obsessed with improving themselves – from their hair colour to their waist size, their child discipline methods, and their level of spiritual contentment. Everybody say ohhhmmmmmm.
Some days I think about how nice it would be to be a man; most are totally comfortable in their bodies, their hair (or lack thereof), their opinions, and their parenting skills. How many women can honestly attest to this? All of it…at the same time? For me, I find the different parts of my life to be like that game where you try to get all the little silver balls in the holes at the same time, but as soon as you get a couple in, one pops out. For example: A good hair day will automatically be counterbalanced by an overnight five pound weight gain. A loving hug from a child will immediately be offset by a close friend telling me they felt the need to talk to their priest about my unfortunate sense of humour regarding their religion (oops). Or, conversely, I’ll have a rare, wonderful afternoon out with a friend at a movie and then discover upon leaving the theatre that the school has called me 18 times about my son throwing up all over the principal’s office, where he was being reprimanded for nose picking…not his.
So I’ve decided that instead of buying books on how to improve myself, I’m going to start shopping for books on how to make HIM feel a little less confident about what he has going on. Now that’s what I call an improvement.
Just Curious
2009/04/03
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I call my six-year-old son Nicholas “Question Boy”. He always wants to know how something works, or why certain things happen, or why people would say such a thing. Most of the time I can answer him adequately – or at least distract him with something shiny to get him off a potentially awkward topic, or away from something that I frankly don’t know how to answer. (I really don’t know what makes the sky blue, I have to confess. Or why that lady in line behind us at the grocery store looks like a man.)
But I have to admit – sometimes I myself have questions I’d like answered by some great know-it-all. Yes, while I know many women (and one particular guy) who might fit that description, I mean someone who actually does know it all. I don’t think they exist, because if they did, they would be able to tell me…
• Why the people whose children have allergies to almost everything are exactly the parents you’d expect to have such challenges?
• Why is it actually true that once your children become teenagers you really do start to physically cringe about the way you treated your own parents? (All those annoying parents with older kids than you are always right about it getting worse, not better– deal with it.)
• Why can’t men open a dishwasher and put dishes in it? It’s right there.
• Why can your 15 year old son eat an entire extra large pizza, 27 chicken wings, and half a chocolate cake, practically every day, and still have bones sticking out all over his scrawny body? I eat one Oreo and I have to let my pants out.
• Why you can miss one week at the gym and immediately lose the tiny bit of toning you had in your calves, but sit down and eat one cheese plate by yourself and it’ll live on the top of your waistband for months.
• Why the lighting in the hair salon has to be so brutal? Don’t they want us to look good?
Mostly I’d just like to know when Nicholas will develop his built-in filter which will allow him to ask appropriate questions at the appropriate time. I’m getting a little tired of having to switch grocery stores.
Just One More Wafer
2009/03/14
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Who put the “die” in “diet”? Does it really have to feel that way? It does seem as if everyone I know is suffering through some sort of diet. From those participating in the nationally advertised and celebrity endorsed plans, right down to the “I’ll just have one glass of wine a day” half-hearted efforts. My dear old Grandma used to announce she was going on a diet and then only have beer and doughnuts. That was her diet. You see, a “diet” doesn’t have to be a calorie reduced program that just about kills you, it just has to have a Planned Food Component to it. Or at least that’s the way it should be. But truthfully, aren’t you starving right now? I am.
A friend of mine who is on a severe diet right now was whining, “It’s hard!” to which I replied “Of course it is – otherwise everyone would be skinny.” Women who are skinny often wear their frames like a badge of honour, and frankly some of them should. They’ve been militant about the food they eat, and they maintain punishing workout schedules. Frustratingly though, most women will tell you it’s just because they “run around after their children all day”, or they “don’t have time to eat”. They are full of it. In fact, the only person who has admitted to suffering to look the way she does, is model/actress Elizabeth Hurley, who admits that she always goes to bed hungry, and has discovered that as she ages, she needs to eat far less and exercise far more just to stay the way she is. At her own ideal. This is where she’s comfortable. And maybe that’s what we all need to discover.
I think the best solution might be to be locked away in a room, or better yet, on a desert island (that’s desert, not dessert – that would be counterproductive) where you were only allowed to eat healthy and nutritional foods, you exercised a moderate amount every day, and hence you were miraculously allowed to discover what your real ideal, or natural body weight is. That should be your comfort zone. Of course, we still won’t be happy with that. We’ll want to lose just a couple more before we go on that particular beach holiday. Well maybe I’ll just run after the kids for a bit longer this afternoon. And stock up on some beer and pizza as a tribute to Granny.
Housecleaning
2009/03/04
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“Arrgh!” This is the sound of my husband arriving home at the end of a long workday. Is it the stresses of work he is releasing when he comes in the house, ready to be comforted and welcomed into the bosom of his family? Nope. It’s the frustration of tripping over the four bloated and exploding knapsacks which routinely line the front hallway in our house.
“Why can’t you get the kids to put these somewhere else?” he asks me as he makes his way into the kitchen where I’m dealing with dinner, a phone call with a perplexed teacher, while shaking an angry pre-schooler off my leg and trying to ignore the strange smell emanating from the garbage. “You know what?” I respond. “I’m already inside the house, so those knapsacks don’t bug me very much. YOU figure out why they put them there.”
Once you have children, the notion of a clean house is just that…a notion. Look at every room in my house and you’ll be able to see evidence of the four children who inhabit (apparently) every square inch of space.
My home office décor wouldn’t be complete without the piece of Hot Wheels track, Grade 12 history textbook, and a lump of petrified play dough which always seem to boomerang back to the five inches of work space I have at my desk. Hey, is that a swimming badge? Who got that?
The kitchen table is less about being a space for family dining as it is a receptacle for arts and crafts projects gone awry, a worrisome homemade hockey skate sharpening device, and three half-open packages of fruit chews (with the red Scooby Doo’s all precision-extracted).
Most men think a bathroom is a lovely retreat/reading room. Not so much in our house. It’s riddled with zit cream, a collection of half-empty bubble-gum-flavoured toothpaste bottles, a plastic rake and evidence of a badly executed cover-up during a bodily function misfire.
So if my husband is looking for a way to eliminate the overwhelming evidence that we in fact have “children on board” in this house, he’s going to have to start building that knapsack rack right now. If he can find the hammer in his tool room/wooden train depot.
Watch for Kathy’s new book “The BlackBerry Diaries: Adventures in Modern Motherhood” available to pre-order soon at healthharmony.ca – to be released March, 2009.
www.kathybuckworth.com
Boys Will Be Girls
2009/02/18
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The other day my husband was putting in a load of laundry and my 17-year-old daughter looked at him, back at me and said, “Why is Dad doing all these girl jobs all of a sudden?” While she was absolutely correct that we had come to a new “agreement” regarding who does what around the house (which at one point had me drawing him a map to the closest grocery store and explaining what Tide Plus Febreeze was all about), I was nonetheless shocked to hear her say this. GIRL jobs?
While my mother’s generation certainly owned most of the domestic responsibilities (with some relish, if you’ve ever seen “Leave It To Beaver”), today, with most Moms working outside the home, the balance of power (or powder, in the case of the laundry) has certainly shifted.
My daughter’s comment, she explained, was based on a unit she had just finished at school on “traditional roles” and clearly she hadn’t yet made the distinction between “traditional” and “Hey buddy get off the couch and chop some vegetables!”
It started me thinking about what the “boys’” jobs might be around here, and so far I have this:
- Moving things from one side of the garage to the other, in an imitation of someone doing a clear out, when in actual fact the only item to be removed is a permanently deflated inflatable toy which the children will drag back out of the garbage on their way to the bus stop the following morning.
- Barbecuing meat, strutting into the kitchen and saying “Dinner’s ready” while I race around the kitchen setting the table, making the salad, cooking the potatoes and simultaneously breaking up seven different fights which have occurred on the inside of the house.
- Tapping his foot and his keys as he waits by the front door and saying “Okay, let’s go! We’re going to be late!” while I stuff children into coats, wine bottles into bags, and scream at teenagers to get off Facebook.
I think I might enjoy a role reversal in the future. That clean garage could use a woman’s touch.
Pre-order Kathy’s new book “The BlackBerry Diaries: Adventures in Modern Motherhood”.
kathybuckworth.com
Alone Time
2009/02/06
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Right now, through strategic planning, luck and circumstance, I find myself alone in my own house…for at least an hour. With a husband and four children, this is as unlikely as discovering that a cheese plate can actually make your thighs shrink. I’m so excited – what to do, what to do...
First two minutes: I’m alone! I’m alone! I’m alone! (Accompanied by a spastic dance I only wish my teenage son were here to appreciate.)
Minutes three – five: I’m going to read this magazine, start that book, watch this TV show, that old movie…all curled up on the couch.
Minutes five – 10: Who left all this crap on the couch? And this dirty glass on the coffee table? And cut out all the pictures from my latest People magazine – wait a minute – I saw a collage in the front hall. I need to clean all of this up before I can even begin to relax.
Minutes 10-30: Since I’m in the kitchen putting these things in the dishwasher, I may as well just stop and close all the cupboard doors, throw out the rotting food in the refrigerator and wipe down the sticky counter top. And maybe decide what to make for dinner tonight. Enough. Back to the couch.
Minutes 31-40: I’m officially giving up on ever finding that remote. Oh wait, here it is, inside the Hot Wheels car wash. I’ll just put that away because I’ve tripped over it four times.
Minutes 41-42: No batteries in the remote. There’s nothing on anyway. Maybe I’ll read this magazine.
Minute 43: There is no way Angelina had twins and looks like that already. I need to go on a diet. This is just depressing. Where’s that book?
Minutes 44-50: I don’t care if Oprah loved this book, I just can’t get into it. Wish I’d bought that new chick lit book about the insatiable shopper, volume 27. Maybe I’ll just have a tiny snack.
Minutes 50-51: Can’t believe I ate that whole piece of leftover brie. Now I’m going to have to get to the gym for sure tomorrow. Sometime after the school field trip and before the hockey practice across town. I have to remember to make the dentist appointments as well – I’ll just quickly do that and then get back to ME time.
Minutes 51-65: Who knew finding four appointments in the next six months would be so tricky? That receptionist was getting a little testy. Maybe now for a quick coffee and I’ll just put my feet up.
Minute 66: Was that the front door? They’re back already? Can’t he keep them out for longer than that?
Me: “Kids! Stop fighting! I can hear you from the family room!”
Him: “Hey, must be nice – you been sitting there the whole time?
Hope you enjoyed your alone time.”
Maybe next time...
Watch for Kathy’s new book “The BlackBerry Diaries: Adventures in Modern Motherhood” available to pre-order soon at healthharmony.ca – to be released March, 2009.
www.kathybuckworth.com
Work It Mom!
2009/01/20
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Everyone knows what the term “Working Mom” means. Likewise the passive-aggressive label “Stay-At-Home Mom”. (I say passive-aggressive because it gives a directive to “stay”, just like a dog.) The truth of the matter is that both titles could be applied to any Mom, depending on the day and the mood. Moms who stay at home with their kids certainly don’t NOT work – although it’s admittedly not usually overly mentally stimulating stuff, still there’s a lot of physical drudgery that takes place.
Likewise, the “working Mom” is most likely to want to stay at home once she’s fought her way past her fellow evening commuters, done the last minute grocery store shop and hockey arena drop off and pick up, before collapsing on the couch for a good 2 ½ minutes before being summoned to “make my brother stop being such a freak”, or some other worthwhile endeavour.
Yet there continue to be battle lines drawn between those who “work” and those who “don’t”. Maybe I can help illuminate you as to whether you’re really a working Mom – if you have done any of the following in the past week, you certainly qualify in my books:
• You start writing your grocery list…pausing to do so while unloading the groceries.
• Find yourself digging through the dirty laundry to find the “right” hoody for your nine-year-old to wear, having bought into the fact that the other five neatly folded in her dresser drawer will just not do. (Okay, they’re not neatly folded.)
• Spend more than three minutes scraping ketchup off a variety of household surfaces, young children, pets, etc.
• Have packed a school lunch which contains at least one suspicious leftover, something wrapped in a shiny hermetically sealed package, while (rightly so) congratulating yourself on the one piece of (mostly) fresh fruit.
• Use your call-display function judiciously, answering only calls from those who are more likely to suggest inviting your children over to their house, rather than sucking you in with the leading “Does Nicholas want someone to play with?” (Don’t fall for it sister!)
Is being a Mom, working or otherwise, stimulating and fulfilling? Does it really matter? What I’m doing is spending my time coming up with a definition for the “Working Dad”. I’m thinking it has to deliberately eliminate any reference to couches, Home Depots and professional sports. Now THAT would involve some “work”.
Watch for Kathy’s new book “The BlackBerry Diaries: Adventures in Modern Motherhood” available to pre-order soon at healthharmony.ca – to be released March, 2009.
www.kathybuckworth.com
Forget Barbie: Here’s My Dream House
2009/01/07
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My six-year-old son just finished “furnishing” his pet Webkinz’ house on-line. I noted that the fridge was empty, as was his bank account. His little puppy was hungry. The reason? He had just spent all of his money on a widescreen TV for his virtual pet, Chester. Just like my husband did on the 52" plasma monster recently installed in our basement. (Luckily I had stocked the fridge beforehand.)
Men and women are different. The perfect house for every woman is not one that contains a screen big enough to showcase Angelina’s assets or Kobe’s biggest slam, but one which contains the following to-die-for accoutrements:
Kitchen: No cupboards, two dishwashers. One for dirty, one for clean. Never unload again.
Bedrooms: Any décor which does not include dirty socks, discarded running shorts or room for a toddler to take up residence in. Self-cleaning closets and an ensuite bathroom that ejects anyone who loiters (i.e. reads) for longer than five minutes. (Okay maybe a bedroom separate from the entire rest of the house would work too.)
Closets: A rotating belt system (a la old school dry cleaners) would be awesome, with clothes arranged in sizes and sex appeal. “Hmm, funeral on a Fat Day. Perfect choice! Lunch with competitive girlfriends. Love it!”
Front hall: Big open pits for kids to throw in their knapsacks, field hockey sticks, soccer balls, interesting pieces of bark from the park, and big dirty rocks from the schoolyard. Also a tracking mechanism for matching gloves, mittens, boots, “indoor shoes”, and keys.
Mostly, the ideal house is more about what it isn’t, than what it is. If it isn’t messy, stinky, dirty, mouldy, or covered in sporting equipment, it’s a dream.
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