Drawing the Line

When I was in Elementary School I recall doing a lot of art projects. I remember being slightly excited and more than slightly anxious when they were assigned.

You see, I loved tag board. I loved the idea of art, though my execution was terrible.

I did not love my lack of creativity and the inevitable "help" my mother would offer.

Each trip to Target meant we would buy two pieces of tag board, the first being a practice piece, you see.

Each time I thought for sure I wouldn't need the second piece. I would get it right the first time.

I should have bought stock in the stuff.

I've never been one to focus on anything artistic. Even now, I use Shutterfly as my only means of Scrapbooking and PowerPoint as any illustration I ever need. If it takes more than an hour to do any project, I'm just not that interested.

You could say I have artistic ADD.

Anyway, my mother is a perfectionist. She would immediately begin "helping" by drawing lines with a ruler and getting out stencils. While other children were out there (GASP) free-forming their text on tag board, I sat with ruled lines and small dots to indicate the spot where the stencil should butt up, thus allowing for even and clear spaces between letters for maximum legibility.

Making the lines took about an hour, so you can imagine how thrilled I was to do anything beyond that. While most kids were willy-nilly gluing on objects from magazines and catalogues, I was story-boarding my ideas by carefully placing items down on the tag board in the form I wished them to be later.

If those were deemed appropriately spaced, I would then draw a line at the top and bottom of the item so I would know where to glue when I was finally allowed the glue stick.

Back then I saw my mother as a demanding perfectionist. Now I think she just wanted us to take pride in our projects. I think she was encouraging us to think and plan before doing. Just as I would always write an outline to a paper, having a plan before execution was crucial to tag board art in her mind.

Wee 'Burb is too young for any kind of art, really. Though I do of course hang her "sticker art" from daycare (which is exactly as it sounds, she places stickers on a piece of paper). When she's old enough for art, I doubt it will involve tag board. Instead, it will involve whatever future form of illustration software is out there.

I wonder, though, if I will be standing over her, encouraging her to count cursor spaces between illustrations and double check her fonts are all sans serif.

How did your parents "help" with your homework growing up? Were you grateful for their involvement or resentful? What do you think now as you're older? How do you plan to help your children or students?

Lousy with Louses or Balding Gracefully

On Wee 'Burb's first day of her new daycare, I saw the dreaded note on the door. Parents of the center daycare will know what notice I am speaking of.

It's the infectious disease report, usually a one-page note letting you know one of the rhesus monkeys your toddler has been sharing spit-laden toys with has come down with some sort of plague.

Given it was her first day there, I didn't pay much attention until I caught another look at it.

LICE!

When I was growing up, lice was like herpes. Every girl dreaded getting it, and we all avoided talking about it as long as possible if we got it.

For half of my life, I had hair down to my butt. Thick, beautiful hair. Thick beautiful hair that I didn't want to lose.

For you see, my first experience with lice was when it made its way through my elementary class, somewhere around third or fourth grade. The dreaded note came out and my mother did her usual check, and all was clear.

The next day I went to school. There were two girls, sisters, who I was sort of mildly friends with. Inasmuch as I was friends with anyone at that age. I was painfully shy and withdrawn.

Anyway, we'll call them the M Sisters.

The M Sisters were on the playground, being actively avoided by the other kids. I approached and then took a step back.

The M Sisters were BALD! Their newly shorn pates shining brightly in the sun. The M Sisters were possibly the whitest kids in our school. They were borderline grey. Their naked scalps were nearly transparent.

You guys? They did NOT have lice!! Their mom just freaked out so much given this was the third or fourth outbreak of lice, she took preventive action. By shaving their heads.

From that day on, any time a letter came home about lice I would sob hysterically while my mom checked me, positive that my luscious locks would be shaved as soon as one of those egg sacks was found.

Thank God it never happened (and my mom assured me years later, she NEVER would have shaved my head).

But to this day, when I see the word "lice" I immediately grab my hair protectively, positive someone will show up with a razor and leave my scalp exposed.

Do you think shaving a head is kind of crazy? Have you had to deal with these infectious outbreaks? Has your child ever been Patient Zero on any of these? Do you admit it? Are you itchy now just thinking about it?

Pay or Play?

Thanks to those of you who voted for Dress Me for Date Night. It's between 2 and 3 for me right now, we'll have to see how I feel. It was fun for me to see the comments, though! Thanks for playing!

Growing up, we had varying rules about allowance and chores. During the summer when we stayed at a guest house in Cape Cod, we got a quarter to make our beds every day. This quarter was then happily spent on getting a total (sugar) high at the local penny candy store.

Sometimes we got $5 a week to do our assigned chores, and then later in life we basically had to do what the parents told us in return for money to go out and access to the car. So there was no set allowance. As I was a total loser in high school and didn't do more than go to a movie on occasion, I feel I was a pretty cheap date as far as allowances went.

But I made up for it by going to a rather expensive college.
Scott and I have loosely talked about what we're going to do for allowances when Wee 'Burb is big enough for these things. My thought was about $10 a week or so with the understanding that $1 of it goes to the church each week, sort of an early lesson in saving and giving to good causes.

Then I read this on the Wall Street Journal:

A rising proportion of parents are adopting the pay-for-work view, based on a new survey. A surprising 71% of parents will pay their kids for doing chores this summer, according to a June 2011 survey of 2,004 consumers. And they’re going beyond pocket change, paying an average $25 a month just for doing laundry, says the American Express Spending & Saving Tracker. No comparable data from previous Tracker surveys is available.


I don't think $25 a month is astronomical on its face, although I do think it is for doing one chore. Growing up I standardly unloaded the dishwasher, cleaned the bathroom, and vacuumed upstairs. I also, as I mentioned, was at the whim of my parents to do additional chores as needed.

Other friends growing up had chore wheels, chore jars, or other ways in which the chores were rotated.

And yet others were never paid for chores. But some were paid for grades, which I found odd. Why, I wonder, do I think paying for chores teaches responsibility and time management, but paying for grades is somehow grandiose? Aren't we paid for performance often at work?

Still others never had to do chores. Their parents felt they were children and should enjoy childhood. Incidentally, these were the kids at college who looked at the washing machine like it was the sphynx.

I feel like it's about expectations, and also about money management and I am just not sure the best way to instill those values. Also, given that Wee 'Burb is only 20 months, who's to say the rules won't change? On $5 a week I could at least go to a movie. Nowadays $5 won't get you in the door!

I'm curious, how did you handle this in your house growing up? How do you do it now, or plan to do it in the future? Do you and your significant other have different views on this issue?

Can Babies Baby-Sit???

A few weeks ago, our neighbor's 11-year-old came over to sell me some cookies. Long-time readers will recall I am a SUCKER for solicitors, so of COURSE I bought some.

This was also around the time we were faced with a big change: our daycare provider announced she would need surgery and would be out for 6 weeks. We were debating whether we wanted to try to find a nanny or whether we wanted to start really looking at other daycares.

We had been seeing a lot of fliers around the area for summer helpers, and it was a consideration. Then this girl came to my door. She didn't even bring up baby-sitting!

So I don't know why my reaction was the way it was.

I just looked at Scott and said "no way."

Now, this girl is awesome. She's smart and sweet, she gets great grades, she's responsible enough to be left at home for a few hours each evening.

She's me at 11 years old.

When I was 11 we moved into a new neighborhood and I papered the area with fliers. Using my mother's very new Print Shop program, I created adorable little diapered-baby covered business cards with my name and address and phone number.

Would you ever allow your kid to do this now?? Of course not! It's like an invitation for a pedophile, right?

It was a simpler time.

Within weeks, I had three different gigs. One was for a 6-month-old infant down the street.

At 11 years old.

You guys? I looked at this neighbor girl and thought "absolutely not." This little person hasn't even gone through puberty, she's going nowhere near my daughter.

And it's not just me.

When Wee 'Burb was in center daycare and I took my dad, he got a little flustered. When we got in the car, he whispered "she's kind of...young, right?"

She was probably 19. At 17 I was working in a daycare center, running an entire kindergarten-age room by myself.

But he was right. She was kind of young.

I can't figure out why this reaction was so visceral. I feel awful about it. I was a great baby-sitter. I took the Red Cross Baby-Sitting Course. My mother was down the street. I was great with kids. They loved me. I wanted to form my own Baby-Sitters Club right then and there.

What are your thoughts? Do you let your older kids baby-sit? What age is your baby-sitter? Am I just being insane?

Here in My Car, I'm Safest of All?

I learned to drive in Arizona, a few months before I was set to leave it for Minnesota. As part of the driver's ed course, you had to learn highway driving. This was a bit of a challenge where I lived. There were no real highways.

The one there was led directly to Mexico.

So, picture if you will, a 15-year-old Stephanie, slightly rageful at the injustice of having to move away my junior year, even more rageful about moving back to the town where I grew up. A town I did not have fond memories of. Rage Stephanie is yawning and rolling her eyes and waiting for her turn at driving.

The turn finally comes and I try not to get distracted by the demonstration of the instructor on how he can make me brake any ole time he felt like it. The car jerks as he shows me and I sigh heavily. Finally, he lets me go on my own.

I do okay, I'm gripping the wheel tight at 10 and 2 and following directions. And then all of a sudden I see THE SIGN.

Border Crossing Ahead.

I start trying to swerve wildly, only my instructor has caught on to my terror and is controlling the wheel.

As I am hyperventilating, he is repeating over and over "we are not going to cross the border, we are not going to cross the border" and he's giving me instructions on where the turn-off is to not cross the border, only all I am hearing is white noise as I imagine my little 15-year-old self trying to slow through the checkpoint.

I will hit a guard. I will be put in Mexican prison. I will surely die in Mexican prison, and the worst part is, since I know Spanish, I'll hear all about their death plot long before it's carried out.

I don't know how we got to the turnoff, but I insisted on getting out of the car and wouldn't drive the rest of the lesson.

This experience and parallel parking were all I could think of when I went to take my driver's test.

I had practiced this more, of course. I had been allowed to drive my mother's van approximately three times: each time she apparently thought she had the driver's ed car and frantically stomped her feet on the floor to make me brake. When she wasn't doing this, she was gripping the door handle as if planning a quick roll-out escape should I try to take her across the border.

I was wired, remembering everything I had to check off to satisfy the license people. I took the written test first. You had to pass the written before they even allowed you behind the wheel. I just about bit through my lip in anticipation.

And then the man handed me my test back, I had passed!! I tried not to jump up and down, fearing points off for excessive celebration.

And then it got better.

He handed me my license paperwork! I had been approved! For a license! Without taking the behind the wheel test!!! I must have looked a little surprised because he said the name of my driving school and I nodded and he said "happy birthday" and went on to his next person.

I kept it together until I got outside and then squealed like a schoolgirl. My mom smirked in confusion, and handed me a gift. It was my first set of keys, my very own. Complete with pepper spray (I suspect this was my dad's doing).

Awhile later I found out that the driver's ed school I took was certified about a week before my birthday to give the behind the wheel as part of the class. While the class I took was not qualified, they just saw the qualification stamp on the name of the school and asked no further questions.

To this day I have never had to take a behind the wheel exam. But I am a kick-ass parallel parker. I dare you to let me prove it!

What was your first driving experience? Did you pass your first time? What was on your first keychain?

Getting My Way

I was what you would call a rather precocious child. I was anxious around other kids and tended to be more comfortable around adults. I found out early the best way to explain myself to anyone was through writing. I focused this primarily on my parents and primarily as a way to get what I wanted.

The first essay I recall writing was "Why I Deserve to be a Latchkey Kid." I think it focused on me being a whole 11 years old and way too old for daycare, and being really, really responsible and such. I believe I promised to call as soon as I walked in the door, open said door for nobody else, and stay put until a parent came through said door.

I presented the essay to my parents, they conferred, and I was allowed to be a latchkey kid. Let me make one small point of clarification: It was for approximately 30 minutes. But I got a taste of freedom and I went with it.

Essays ensued from there on to include Why I Deserve a Cat (I ended up with a bunny, after being extra manipulative and ending with "I just want something of my own to love"), Why I Deserve a Later Bedtime (I got that one, too) and Why I Deserve my Own Phone (a beautiful dark dusty rose that actually came a few years after the essay, so I guess I was losing my touch).

I've decided this is how I am going to handle things with Wee 'Burb. If she wants something, she has to present a logical argument for it. And accept she may not always get it.

How were your requests handled when you were growing up?

Post-Posting Thoughts and I'm Blogworthy!

After thinking more on my post Is Optimism Good and reading Amanda at It's Blogworthy's advice to interns on how to approach internships without a sense of entitlement, I have just a few more observations.

1. Thanks so much to Amanda for giving me this awesome award! Seriously, she has inspired me so much with my blog, it's a total honor to get something like this.

2. I think my post seemed more wistful than I intended. There is no day where I am sad that I am not running a magazine. There are some days, maybe, where I wish I could be published. But a lot of you pointed out that this blog is some form of that, and for now other than freelance work, it's what I have the time and patience for.

3. If my post interested you at all, you really should go read the comments. I really loved each and every one I got, and did my best to respond to those I could. But some of my favorites included:

• Erica and Pine Lakes Redhead who explained: I feel that my parents gave me the confidence that I could take on any challenge I wanted. But at the same time, I was raised to be practical. I know where my strengths and weakness lie. It must work because I don't feel limited in what I do.
• Sam from Life as a Wife says:  I was raised being told I could do anything I wanted but also was taught that dreams require hard work and time.
• Serena at the Bewildered Bug quotes:  A friend of mine from high school aptly put it - reach up for the moon because if you miss, you'll be among the stars.
• Ixy over at Illusion tells it like it is:  I feel really strongly about this - you're not doing your child (or the world) a favour by pretending they can do anything they want. That said, the world is so cruel and parents should be the support kids can always count on. I think our job is to guide our kids about the consequences of their decisions, and encourage them to ask questions that will get them thinking realistically. For example, "what else would you like to do if becoming a rock star is taking longer than expected"?
• Mama Spaghetti spells it out: I am a Gen-Y-er, but I am constantly frustrated by my peers and how entitled they feel about, well, pretty much everything. Somewhere along the way it was like building self-esteem steam-rolled right over realism, and it's left a lot of people I know floundering.

The more I think about it, I think it comes down to confidence and then the real-world application. Bottom line: it's about rolling with the punches. Maybe a big dream can be broken down into smaller dreams, right? So while I am certainly not going to be starting my own magazine, I did start this blog, and I did go for freelance jobs outside of my day-to-day work that allow me to write what I like.

Maybe I will never publish a book, but my name is out there in bylines. I've published work before.

The thing is, I'm so happy with my life. I CHOSE this life, and chose which items of my list were no longer important. At some point, my priorities shifted and I realized that I wanted to focus on my family. I woke up one day and said "my job is not going to keep me warm at night" and that was that.

Because my parents taught me to trust my gut and make my own decisions, I was able to decide to go in a direction that makes me happiest. I had the confidence to reset my goals. I used to see this as settling. I settled for this blog instead of a magazine, or settled for small freelance assignments rather than a published book.

But now I realize it's not settling. It's simply rolling with life's punches. Truly, we all need to evaluate our lists every few years, and focus on what's important now. And have the confidence to say "it's okay, I didn't complete that. I have something better."

As something better goes, how can you beat this?

Wilma, Get Me Off of This Thing Called...CARTOONS

I am entering the world of cartoon obsession slowly with Wee 'Burb. At 19 months, she doesn't have much of an attention span, though she will come crawling as fast as she can when any of the following theme songs come on: Elmo's World, Bubble Guppies, and The Simpsons (what? She doesn't know the difference). And since my roommate introduced her to Elmo on YouTube, she just shouts "ELMO" at every computer she sees. So I can see the obsession building.

Recently, Shine waxed nostalgic about the best and worst cartoon heroines for our daughters.

Thankfully, one of my FAVORITES made the good girl list. Jem! Jem! She's truly outrageous, truly truly outrageous!

Source: Wikipedia

Here's what Shine says about our girl Jem:

If your daughters have never seen Jem, she may be worth an introduction. For a cartoon, she's one heck of a woman. Not only does Jem front an arena rock band, she's a big-time music producer—a rarity in the real-life male dominated industry. Jem also runs a non-profit foundation that supports foster kids, 12 of whom live with her and the Holograms at their sweet pad.

So who made the worst list? Wilma from The Flinstones was billed as an abuse survivor. Tinkerbell was written off as the nymph she is. And did you guys know this about Smurfette??!!

Totally true cartoon backstory of how the only lady Smurf (until 2008) came into being: evil Gargamel created her from clay to sabotage the pleasant, woman-free (they probably call it 'smurfy') way of life in Smurf Village. When she was found out as nothing but a two-bit seductress, she was shamed in Smurf court. Papa Smurf, kind-hearted leader or lecherous, racist tyrant depending on your outlook, took pity on her and broke the spell Gargamel used to create her. Here's where she gets even worse: once Papa removed her dark powers, her brown, frizzy her turned to blond, wavy locks. Also her flats became heels. And her white dress got embellishments.


I thought she was just slightly slutty in her smurfy way! I had no idea she came with a back story.

So let's talk cartoons, people. What should I allow my kiddo to watch? What do you remember about your childhood cartoons? I recently introduced Wee 'Burb to Fraggle Rock and she loves it. I'm scared to find out the back stories of some of those! Especially since I am convinced Trash Heap is Edna Garrett in trash form. Do you even care about role models, or is it just a good way to keep them quiet for a few mintues so you can pee?

Is Optimism Good?

I was going to do the following by the time I was 25 years old, according to my 18-year-old self:

1. Be an editor of a magazine
2. Look into starting my own magazine
3. Married (of course)
4. Starting a family (because, you know, that is totally conducive to #s 1 and 2)
5. Publish a book

I did exactly none of those. Instead, between the age of 21 and 25 I had 4 jobs in as many years, and finally gave up on Boston and moved back with my tail between my legs to Minnesota.

I still haven't done 1, 2, and 5. I've accepted I probably never will, largely because of 2 and 3.

The Huffington Post featured a piece by a self-proclaimed Gen-Y Expert saying that Generation Y has what she calls Expectation Hangovers. I should probably absolve myself now because I'm totally Gen X.  But I was also raised with the expectation that I could do anything, because I was great, we all get trophies for showing up, and gosh darnit, people like me.

The author illuminates the crisis I faced around age 25, and that I think a lot of my younger friends are facing now:

Some 20-somethings are less willing to take or stay at a job that they don't like since they believe they are supposed to -- dare I say... entitled to -- love their job because that is what was "promised." Moreover, many prefer not to make a lot of lifestyle sacrifices, and now that moving back to the Hotel of Mom and Dad has become more of a trend than an embarrassment, they don't have to.

So the question is, as a parent, what do we do here? How do we manage expectations without raining on our precious child's parade? Are successful people coddled like this, or did folks like Obama and Oprah grow up seeing the harsh realities, and just overcome them?

Is telling our kids "you can be anything, yes anything" realistic? What do we do, then, when they return to us, empty wallets open, saying "you said I can be anything, but NASA isn't hiring, can I stay on the couch?"

I have always been a big believer in the fact that my main job is to prepare my child for the REAL world. I just don't want to do so while crushing their hopeful spirit.

The fact that my parents raised me to think I could run the world if I wanted to gave me the confidence to reach for the university I wanted to (and did) attend, and the courage to leave home and go out on my own. I would never want to deny my child that, but I also don't want them going in to things with rose-colored glasses and then giving up when they realize their big dreams may need to be minimized some to fit in with real life.

The author does go on to give a few tips to the younger set still bent on ruling the world...or at least working on it (and frankly, this is good advice for anyone not in a job or on a career path now):

• Get fiscally fit
• Stop using the economy as a scapegoat
• Get a job. Any job. Don't wait for a career
• Get off your parents' payroll
• Increase your financial IQ

 So, tell me your thoughts, readers. Did your parents raise you to think you can do anything? Are you raising your kids like that? When do you start talking about the reality of what they CAN do versus what they WANT to do? Or is figuring it out on your own part of the battle?

It Amounted to a Hill of Beans

In reading the Baconista's post on Memorial Day Baked Beans, I wrote a rather snarky comment back about my husband.

My husband, since I have known him, has created much ado about his mother’s baked beans recipe. They called them “funeral beans” because apparently everyone in their family (and all around Minnesota, actually) brought this type of bean casserole type thing to funerals. Other events, too, but they were just known as “funeral beans.”

There’s really nothing less appetizing to me than sugary beans right up until you put “funeral” in front of them. I’m about as interested in sampling those as I am attending an open-casket wake, which is to say not at all.

But my husband has had something of a rough year and so this year when he once again brought up the funeral beans, I agreed we should get the recipe.

Then I came down with what is known around these parts as “The Baby Plague,” which any mother with a child in daycare or school will know all too well.

For those not familiar, The Baby Plague is when your child brings home some sort of Rhesius Monkey Transplant bubonic nonsense every other kid has at school.

One of us ALWAYS fall victim to The Baby Plague…typically whoever it would be most inopportune for. My roommate’s experience with The Baby Plague came when she was about to take the bar exam. My husband’s came right before a week-long trip for work. And mine came right before our week-long baby-less vacation. And apparently the universe thought it would be my turn again.

This has little to do with anything other than that I was in no condition to make funeral beans for Memorial Day. Or anything.

So he gets the recipe and sets to work, and his mother calls repeatedly to second-guess the recipe, until she goes to Target and assures him the measurements are right. And I am delirious and trying to keep the toddler entertained while simultaneously coughing so hard I throw up, and so I’m just not overly interested in the whole endeavor.

So the beans are made and he seems happy and Wee ‘Burb ingests, oh, approximately 100 pounds of beans.

And this is when I sort of become alert because I’m thinking “oh the hell that will be this diaper” and already touching my nose for the universal sign of “not it” when I kind of giggle.

Because my husband was distracted by my threats of divorce if he thought for ONE SECOND I was changing the diaper when HE was the one who made this child eat BEANS for Pete’s sake, he did not notice my chuckle. .

The super secret mystery Funeral Beans recipe? Was basically a couple cans of Bush’s baked beans, some hamburger, and a buttload of sugar.

Now some of you who enjoy the kind of comical banter I enjoy with my husband are waiting now for the punchline of what I said and how I got him to confess that this mystery was kind of a letdown.

I said nothing.

And here’s why.

Growing up, my mom baked twice a year: Thanksgiving and Christmas. We savored EVERY treat that woman made because we knew once the holidays were over, so were the cookies and bars and peanut butter balls. And most important to me growing up: The Jello Pudding Pie.

You guys, I still salivate like a Pavlovian dog at a dinner bell when I see the box of Jello.

I thought my mother did something magic with that box, you see, because we’d had the jiggly fruit Jello and ain’t no pie coming from THAT! And because she made it but twice a year, I was sure there was some magic in that old black box she found.

So cut to YEEEEARS later when I am going over to Scott’s sister’s house for one of the first times, possibly the first. You need to know before I tell the rest of this that his sister is like super insane gourmet girl. We should just call them The Foodie Family and we should just all bow to their superior food knowledge and culinary skills.

I thought: I will wow them, I will make my mom’s super famous delicious Jello Pudding Pie.

But it was last minute and I was racing through the aisles trying to figure out what I would need so I could call my mom and get the recipe on the fly. And Scott, he was so good, he was so quiet. And finally he could take no more and he showed me the back of the box, where the recipe for Jello Pudding Pie was.

But…surely that couldn’t be my Mom’s Jello Pudding Pie. Because…well, no, because this had approximately 3 steps and required ingredients everyone has at home.

I think you guys can guess how this ended. I went to his sister’s house with a Jello Pudding Pie of SHAME and they were nice enough not to mock me incessantly, and Scott married me anyway, and his sister is the sister I never had…

And this is why I could not put the fun in “funeral beans.”

Where were you when you first demystified a super secret family recipe? It reminds me of the episode of Friends where Phoebe discovers the cookies she grew up were not from Nestlay Toolhauz, but rather Nestle Tollhouse.

Why do Moms Matter? One Word: Mascara

When I was going into middle school, we moved from Minnesota to Tucson, Arizona. I wasn't all that broken up about the move. I wasn't overly popular, I was constantly teased, or sometimes worse, ignored. While I had a core group of friends I would miss, I was a little more focused on how I could be DIFFERENT. Plus this was around the time of 90210 (Lord, I'm dating myself here) and they moved from Minnesota to Beverly Hills, so it was almost the same (actually it kind of was because the area we moved to was quite well to do).

Like one of those 80s transformation movies, I cut my hair and got contacts. I had my braces off a few years before, but the picture was...well, an improvement.

I was fortunate to be taken under the wing of a sweet girl named Tracy who then introduced me to her friends and within a few months I had a GROUP of friends. A real group of girls who went to boy/girl parties and had sleepovers and went to the mall to hang out.

One such boy/girl party had me the subject of much scrutiny with this group of friends. See, they almost all wore makeup and were slightly distressed that I didn't. I honestly hadn't really brought this subject up with my mother, so I didn't know where she stood on makeup. I had a general idea it wasn't going to be a hit. Sure, I'd stolen a few red or coral lipsticks discarded from her freebies at the mall makeup counter (sorry, Mom), but I'd never actually SEEN her put on makeup, nor did I have a clue what it involved.

That night I acquiesced to my group of friends and found out it involved A LOT! Like three people and a lot of blotting and closing my eyes and fearing for my contacts and the inevitable mascara wand stabbing that would occur.

But the result when all the fuss was over? I felt beautiful. I felt AMAZING. I felt a part of things, finally in these girls' league. Like Cinderella watching the clock on the wall dreading midnight, I dreaded the next day when I had to go back to ME. The me without the glass slipper of foundation and eyeshadow.

So I was in the car the next morning with my mom and I casually broached the subject. These girls had allowed me into their group, had experimented on me, and the boys that came over were quite responsive (I'm sure I downplayed that part).

My mom shocked me and said "if you want to wear makeup, you have to do it right."

WHAT? If I want to wear makeup? As if...had I had that choice the whole time?

My mom made an executive decision and got us an appointment at Merle Norman. I don't know if those even exist anymore. It certainly wasn't your average MAC or Sephora counter. It was definitely geared toward a...more mature crowd. But to me it was like the Disney World of hotness. This.Would.Change.My.LIFE! Of this I was sure.

And you know what? It kind of did. The woman showed me how to blend makeup to make sure there were no makeup lines (something I thank her for to this day when I see chicks with a huge orange ring around their face), how to apply mascara properly, and how to care for my brushes and skin.

You guys? Going home with that little bag of makeup was one of the happiest days of my life. I still look back on it as part of that overall transformation to a place where my ethnicity wasn't scrutinized, where people could actually pronounce my Puerto Rican last name, and where I felt beautiful.

And I still think this may have been one of the most beautiful gifts my mother has ever given me. So on this her birthday, I want to thank her for the gift of confidence and belonging that had long been missing in my life. There were so many other ways that day could have gone, but she looked into my eyes and realized what this meant to me and did what only the best mothers do: whatever it took to make her daughter happy.

I will carry this with me when my daughter comes to me with a similar plea...you know, in 20 years.

Memories in the Corner of the Page

Before I was even pregnant, I knew I would keep a journal for my baby. I didn’t want a baby book with lines that specified firsts, I wanted a blank canvass to write whatever I was feeling. When we got our first ultrasound at 10 weeks, I went ahead and bought a journal for what was going to become Wee ‘Burb.

I have been trying to write in the journal every month and during milestones. Some months have been easier than others.

When I write in it, I often think about Wee ‘Burb reading it. I imagine and hope she will pick it up after some terrible fight we have when she’s a teenager, and it will humanize me somehow — remind her that there were phases in her life when she wanted nothing more than to hug her mommy and daddy and be with us. I hope that it will show that she was created in love, nurtured in a peaceful and happy home. And then, after I wrote the post on 5 Things To Do Before Getting Married , I started thinking about what I wanted this journal to be.

I started to think about the kind of advice I wish I could have gotten. I wanted to go beyond just what she’s doing now. I started to think, not in a macabre way, about what I would want her to know if for any reason I couldn’t be there. Maybe not even be away, but just disconnected somehow. What would I want to tell her, that teenager who would never listen to her Mom, because, really how could Mom EVER understand HER plight?

So I wrote my first entry dedicated to future Wee ‘Burb. I titled it “Boys”, but now I wish I had just put “Love.” Because, you know, who knows who she will love down the road? But in the end the message I wanted to share was the same, and while I wrote a lot, here’s the summary I left her with: You do not need a man, or anyone, to complete you. When you find the right person, they will enhance you enough to realize you are already complete. And that’s how you know it’s real love.

What advice would you give your future son or daughter? Do you keep a journal for your child, or plan to? Do you focus on their life chronologically, or do you offer tidbits of advice, too?

The Everything But Girl

Do you remember that girl in high school who would put out enough to develop a reputation and corresponding popularity with guys, but who never actually went all the way?

In my day, she was fondly known as “The Everything But Girl.” Alias: The Tease.

My daughter is the developmental equivalent of the Everything But Girl.

It started early with rolling over. In the sense that, well, she rarely ever did. She would lean slightly one way or the other, rest on her arm, then flop back to her original position. All the while smiling and gurgling and taunting me. She would do everything but actually roll over.

This is the only picture I have as proof she rolled over. At month 5. I don’t think Scott ever saw it in real life.

At the time I was dumbfounded. This child held her neck up at three weeks old, learned how to scoop food weeks before her cohorts at daycare…we hadn’t had any concerns over her developmentally at all.

I was told this wasn’t a concern, and sure enough, eventually she rolled over a few times. Then figured out how to sit up and that was basically that.

At 9 months, she showed zero interest in crawling. At first, I wasn’t worried. Then the doctor suggested I should worry.

I put it off a bit. This was about the time we were switching daycares and getting ready for our first plane trip, I had other things to worry about.

Wee ‘Burb was doing the Everything But again. She would get on all fours, she would move her butt…and then move it right back to the floor and sit. If she wanted to get somewhere, she’d scoot. Or leeeean. Or bat her eyelashes at her daddy. Everything but crawl.

I figured it was cool, she’d figure it out.

But the doctor gave me an ultimatum: she either crawls by 11 months, or she goes to physical therapy.

Then I wasn’t so cool with her Everything But Girl reputation.

I was especially alarmed because we affectionately call Wee ‘Burb’s pediatrician “Mother Goose.” She is like the calmest, most serene woman I have ever met. Kid fell and hit her head? Put some ice on it. A temperature of 101? Only bring her in if it lasts more than a day. She’s soothed me in many a panicked mom situation…but the one time I wasn’t panicked, she was telling me I should be.

I don’t recall there being any sort of transition, any indication that she would. I had tried everything: I got copies of what they do in physical therapy to figure out how to manipulate her at home, I put a trail of her favorite food just out of her reach (she cried until I gave it to her)…everything.

I had just finished telling everyone: “look, some babies don’t crawl, she’s just going to be one of those.” One of those Everything But Girls.

About a week short of 11 months, Wee ‘Burb started crawling like she was born doing it.

And now we’re at 15 months and it’s the same tease with the walking. Having just learned to crawl, I didn’t expect her to jump (no pun intended) into walking right at 12 months. And after the trauma of trying to force her crawling, I decided to lay off the walking. I encouraged her to stand and move, but I didn’t force.

I get a call from the county program we participate in. They send us questionnaires and they work as early interventionists if there’s anything wrong. Well, something was wrong, they said.

We kind of joked about it at home. Oh, Social Services will come take her away because we’re not nurturing her walking enough. She’ll go to college crawling. I planned her Intervention script. “Your disinterest in walking has affected your life negatively in the following ways…”

Only, it kind of didn’t. Affect her, that is. Or us.

I mean, she pulled up on furniture. She stood up and pushed her car around the house. I know that she can do it! I also know that if I try to make her stand up, she buckles her knees and crawls as far away from me as possible.

But people were eyeing her oddly, commenting on how she was so late to walk. Others reassured me. My mother told me early to talk, late to walk. As Wee' Burb already has a vocabulary of about 10 words, I was trying to take that to heart.

Nevertheless, I dreaded our 15-month appointment with Mother Goose. The interventionists had agreed to let the doctor lead the charge. Actually what she said to me was “perhaps this is more of an…emotional or behavioral problem? Something for your doctor to determine”

Diagnosis: your baby is a bit of a jerk. What have I been telling you people??!!

Mother Goose more or less agreed, although she thought perhaps it was a confidence issue. A fear of falling and getting hurt.

She sent me and the Everything But Girl home with a prescription to wait it out for another month or two.

Wee 'Burb continues to tease, occasionally letting her hands off the table for a moment, before collapsing on her butt in a fit of giggles. She will pull herself up on everything, but do not ask her to let go.

Everything But.

I’m just not ready to be the one to push her to go all the way on this one.

Where I Test to See How Fast You Can Hit the Unfollow Button

On Saturday afternoon it was like a gabillion degrees below zero. Deciding to stay in for the day (or well, not so much deciding as capitulating to a universe that allows weather to exist that prompts frostbite within, oh, say, 12 seconds after leaving your home), we let Wee 'Burb hang with us on the couch and watch some TV.

Yup, we’re bad parents, what of it?

One of our her favorite shows is Sid the Science Kid. What? She’s 14 months, she tooootally gets it.

The following is snippets of our conversation while watching with her:

Scott: Hey! I think they changed her dance!
Stephanie: Which one, the lesbian one? [Yes, we outed a PBS character, what of it?]
Scott: No, no. Wait, they changed the lesbian one’s dance, too!
Stephanie: Huh, hers is still pretty gay.

Suzie the Teacher: Data or dahta if you prefer.
Scott: Isn’t it just data?
Stephanie: I think it is. Dahta is annoying. It’s data.
Scott: I know it is because of Star Trek.
Stephanie: Huh?
Scott: There was a whole episode. The mean [language cleaned up] doctor kept calling him Dahta and he was like “that’s not my name” and she was like “what’s the difference?” and he’s like “well, one’s my name and one’s not.”
Stephanie: Ah. Interesting. [This is called choosing your battles, people. Were I to argue the merits of whether accepted vernacular should be determined by Star Trek episodes, I’d be entering a can of wormholes I am just not willing to deal with on a Saturday.]

Stephanie: Oooh is this the one with the chart song?
Scott: Yes, it is. I know you love it.
Stephanie: I do! That song turns me on.
Scott: Sing it, then.
Stephanie: I don’t remember the words! I just remember the message was that charts are good.

Stephanie: Did they just call Gerald a Mexican? Cuz that kid could not be whiter.
Scott: I think they said “here he comes again.”
Stephanie: Ah, that makes more sense.

What was Wee 'Burb doing this whole time you ask?

Where I Work Out My Childhood Issues, One Sandwich at a Time

So I am at a restaurant ordering food to go, when a weird exchange happens. The server at the counter is being exceptionally pushy the whole time, with everyone. But in particular these two guys ahead of me. I had seen them pull up in a work truck, but I can see how someone could mistake them for father and son. The older guy goes first, orders and Mr. Exuberant rings him up. The older guy goes to pay and the Mr. Exuberant says “shhh, wait, I’m going to get the other guy to pay.”

So the older guy is like “what?” just as Mr. Exuberant shouts to the younger guy, who is mid-order, “you’re paying for this, right?”

And the younger guy looks totally uncomfortable and I can see him put away some cash he had in his hands and reach in his wallet for a debit card. He mutters “sure.”

It brought me back to this super awkward moment about 10 years ago when I was at Fenway Park. A little league team was sitting behind me, and I noticed one kid right away. He was gawky and wore glasses, and just looking at him you knew he was the unpopular one. If he played at all, he played right field. Badly.

But he wanted so much to belong that he was willing to play badly, willing to be part of a team that obviously didn’t want him.

He had tried to strategically place himself between the cool kids, the ones whose parents coach the team and who are star pitchers and hitters, who probably attended the clinics with past baseball stars that the nerdier kid couldn’t afford. The cool kids are all jockeying to avoid him, and when they can’t, they speak around him, as if he is not there.

But the nerdy kid doesn’t care, he just basks in the attention that floats by him.

Until the peanut guy comes around and one of the cool kids whistles at him, to get him to throw the bags of peanuts. He throws a few down to the adults at the end of the aisle, who are so clearly wishing they could throw back beer instead of peanuts on this gorgeous summer evening. And the cool kids keep signaling for more and finally the nerdy kid catches one. He clearly doesn’t know why one was thrown to him, he can’t see the kids giggling and whispering around him.

His face goes white, then red as he stammers “I…I didn’t order this.”

The kids mess with him, telling him he has to pay. There were threats that he would get in trouble. And all the while this kid looks like he might pass out. He tries to pull out a crumpled dollar bill and count some change and the peanut guy is starting to get a little miffed and snaps his fingers.

Near tears myself, I reach down in my purse to pay for the peanuts. But when I turn around, bills in hand, the kid no longer has the bag and the cool kids have moved on.

But the nerdy kid hasn’t moved on, not really, though he’s trying to smile along with the cooler kids.

It’s hard for me to pay attention to the game now, I am constantly aware of this kid moving further and further down the social pecking order.

It’s because I was this kid.

Constantly starving for attention, not always understanding that the attention I was getting was at my expense, or not caring. I took everything so seriously, I never got the jokes.

It’s possible, of course, the cool kids were just screwing around, meant no malice. Just having fun at a kid they knew would rise to the occasion.

And of course, the man at the restaurant was an adult. He could have said no, he wasn’t paying. He could have laughed it off. And probably did later, sitting at the table with the older guy.

I know he’s not going home, hat in hand, telling his wife about his day, leaving this one part out the way I did with my parents. “Yes, Girl Scouts was great. We made bread.” Not discussing the fact that the girls were planning a sleepover right in front of me, with no intention of inviting me. Strategic omissions of things that at the time were so filled with shame and confusion. He probably just went home and told his wife about the jerk server who made him cough up another $10.

But for a moment that look on his face was the same as that little leaguers, the same as mine was a thousand times growing up.

Not knowing if you were part of the joke, or the butt of it.