The Wisdom of 7 Year Olds

Vivian sat at the table, practicing line after line of cursive writing because apparently she will learn handwriting in Grade 3, otherwise known as “next year.”

Out of nowhere, she said, “Some parents just want their kids to be like them.”

I paused whatever I was doing in the kitchen, which probably involved burning myself. “That’s interesting,” I said. “Where did you hear that?”

“I didn’t really hear it anywhere.”

“Is it just something you thought?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

A shadow of guilt flashed over me. “Do you feel that’s how I am as a parent?”

Vivian at age 4, a few years before those fingers knew cursive

“No,” Vivian said.

I breathed a sigh of relief. Cross that off the four-page cheat sheet I’m preparing for her future therapist.

“But I want to be a teacher anyway,” she continued, “even though you are one.”

I thought of the ten hours of grading I have ahead of me this week. “Teaching’s a good job,” I said.

I wasn’t lying.

“But I don’t want to have kids,” Vivian said. “Children are a lot of work.”

She wasn’t lying.

Viv kept talking. “But teaching is a lot like having kids, only you have 22 of them.”

I nodded and smiled at this wise young soul, the same girl who – at age 4 – called the stretch marks on my stomach “silver rainbows.”

What makes someone sexy?

My face was red, sunburned red. I was breathing hard, a sign that my forty-year-old body was a couple of decades past being a competitive athlete, past being fit, past having a beautiful belly button on a stomach without stretch marks.

I continued my workout on our driveway, passing the basketball to one of my seven-year-old twins. We played hard in the sun-filled afternoon, taking advantage of a hot spring day.

With the encouragement of my kids, I started dunking on the Lilliputian net, pretending I had a vertical jump, pretending I was young enough to believe I could.

Vivian and William giggled.

I took a breather and let the real stars play.

Soon, they invited me back to their game. We played shoot-til-you-miss, where the rebounders keep passing the shooter the ball until she misses.

Before long, my husband drove up and parked on the street. The three of us kept playing amidst smiles, waves, and “Hi Daddy” greetings.

Vivian’s shot bounced off the rim, and William passed me the ball. I sunk one from the imaginary free throw line. Two. Three. And kept going. My form was on. For a moment, I was twenty again, I was fit, and my stomach was desirable.

I missed.

I walked over to my husband who had that grin on his face. I knew the one. I first saw it fourteen years ago when he picked me up for our second date.

He put his hand on my sweaty back. “Now that is sexy.”

I looked at him, my red face illuminating his. “Yeah, right,” I replied.

“Seriously,” he said. “This is when I find you sexiest.”

“When I’m sweaty, out of breath, and without make up?”

“Yes,” he said. “And unguarded. In your own world. Focused.”

I forgot about his comments for a while. For weeks, actually. Ever since I had two babies and two placentas yanked from my uterus, I’ve become rather good at forgetting.

Then last week I started to think about what makes moms sexy. I thought back to this conversation with my husband and to a few other fleeting moments when I felt sexy, and I realized this: being sexy, being desirable has nothing to do with being a mother, being twenty, or being a woman. What makes any adult sexy – at least to me – is the following:

  • Confidence: Confidence comes from the brain. The body merely follows the orders that come from within. And if someone owns that message – regardless of how many scars crisscross her stomach or how red her face is – she oozes sexuality.
  • Expertise and Passion: Expertise and passion are why people fawn over “ugly” musicians and why I’m continually in awe when I watch the Olympics. If a woman (or man) is highly skilled at something, pursues her gift regardless of obstacles, and is willing to demonstrate and share that passion, she is irresistible.
  • Humor: There is something disarming and sexy-as-hell about a sense of humor, about wit, about daring to be funny.
  • Clothes That Fit Whatever Shape or Size You Are Right Now: For me, it’s an expensive bra that defies gravity, and pants with a 36” inseam. Both of these would have helped me to stand taller as a teen…and perhaps even to dunk the basketball, at least metaphorically.
Your turn:
What makes someone sexy?
When have you felt sexy?

Humour Column: Trying Not To Glue Gun Kids Together

When I was on my Spring Break, I volunteered two mornings in both Vivian and William’s Grade 2 classroom. I had to do a craft. I happen to despise crafts. I can mess them up easily.

Those two mornings in a primary classroom were the subject of my latest humor column in The Calgary Herald.

Here’s the opening to Mom Has a Glue Gun and No Idea How To Use It:

There are two types of mothers in this world: those who are good at crafts . . . and me.

It’s not exactly a secret that I have the finger dexterity of Fozzie the Bear, minus the aid of strings that move my arms.

So when Vivian came home from school and told me what I’d be doing in William’s Grade 2 classroom when I volunteered, both she and I knew it was trouble.

“Mom?” she said. “I talked to William’s teacher.”

William heard his name, looked up from his latest Lego creation and proceeded to ignore his sister.

“When you volunteer,” Viv said, “you’re going to be doing crafts with the class.”

“What?” I said.

“Crafts.” Vivian paused, looking even more worried than me. She knew my phobia of the cut-and-paste realm. She knew I’d rather hold a boa constrictor than cut my way to cuteness. “You’re still going to come, right? Mom? Are you?”

To read the rest of it, please click on Mom Has a Glue Gun and No Idea How To Use It.

~~~

What parenting or household task do you dislike? 

How Many Parents Does It Take To…

Sometimes I get what I deserve.

Like on Monday. I’d returned home from a full day of teaching teenagers on five lousy hours of sleep. I had my snark on.

So when Vivian and William started telling freestyle jokes, I joined in.

I glanced at my husband who was breathing, reason enough to make him a target.

“How many daddies does it take to change a lightbulb?” I asked. I didn’t say screw because I knew better. For once.

Vivian answered. “None,” she said. “They weren’t invented yet.”

I laughed. My little cleverbot had a better punchline than I had. Granted, I didn’t have a punchline planned. And even if I had, there’s video evidence of how badly it goes when I tell a joke.

“Okay,” my husband said, interrupting Vivian and me as we laughed at our own joke. “How many mommies does it take to screw in a lightbulb?”

Vivi and I both shrugged.

“No one knows” he said. “Because they’re too busy on their computers.”

“Not funny,” I said.

“Is so,” he answered.

“Is not.”

“So.”

But it was. Kind of.

Except that I wasn’t on my computer. Yet.

***

What’s your favourite lightbulb joke? 
If you don’t have one, feel free to make one up. 

The Day I Met David Hasselhoff (and had a cameo on Baywatch): a guest post

I’m more pleased than a dog with a T-bone  to have Kevin Haggerty guest posting here today. I met Kevin a few months ago. I connected with him immediately because he’s a middle school teacher, a writer, and a basketball coach who “loves” the NCAA women’s game.* Although Kevin writes mostly humor at his blog (The Isle of Man), his post here takes a more reflective tone.  If you wish to read his humor, go check out An Idiot’s Guide to the GalaxyKevin’s new e-book is available for FREE as of today. You can also follow him on Twitter or at his Facebook page.

~~~

As kids, we all had heroes. We’d fantasize about meeting them and what it would be like to talk to them and hang out with them. But, usually, those were just dreams that largely went unfulfilled.

Not mine.

The year was 1990. The setting: Malibu, California. I was born in Santa Monica and grew up in Los Angeles. Going to the beach was part of our routine. We started going as soon as they allowed us on the sand and into the water. We’d keep coming until they locked the gates.

It just so happened that the beach we frequented, Paradise Cove, was one of the places used to film the then-popular TV drama, Baywatch.

As fate would have it, on that warm, sunny day, we noticed that there was a film crew off in the distance. There were attractive people running around in red bathing suits. There was a huge buzz about the beach.

They were filming Baywatch.

So, we did what any group of kids would do. We tried to get in the shot. Our game of two-hand touch football conveniently began to inch closer and closer to the area of the beach where they were filming. It got so bad that, eventually, a member of the crew had to ask us to please back away.

On somewhat of a sidenote, we taped every episode of Baywatch for the remainder of that season until we finally found the one that featured us playing football in the background. The VHS tape has since eroded, but the fact remains: I totally did a cameo on Baywatch.

After the shoot was done, we aggressively spied to try and see where the big stars would be going next. We were able to find out where David Hasselhoff’s trailer was, and the plans for the day became clear:

Stalk David Hasselhoff until we get to talk to him.

We waited outside “The Hoff’s” trailer for about an hour. When he finally came out, he couldn’t have been nicer. He signed 5×8 photos for each of us, gave us high fives and was genuinely very cool.

In retrospect, that probably doesn’t seem like a big deal; now, we know him as the bloated, sad, drunk who got fired from America’s Got Talent and is famous for eating a cheeseburger in a viral YouTube video.

But that wasn’t how we knew him in 1990. We knew him as the star of the hit TV series, Knight Rider. He might as well have been a god to us. I was ten years old. He was larger than life.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t long after that day that things started to spiral out of control for Hasselhoff. His career took a nosedive and he’s never been the same since.

What if I could be Marty McFly and go back to that infamous day? What if I could alter the course of Hasselhoff’s history and give him a few words of wisdom?

If I could, this is what I’d probably tell him:

  • Your career is everything to you now, but you’re putting it above your family and you’ll regret that one day. Cherish your loved ones. Be a father. Be a husband. Fame is fleeting.
  • Don’t get caught up in your own legend. All that goes away. In a few years, you’ll be old news and they will be replacing you with guys like David Chokachi.
  • Alcohol will ruin you. Some people can handle drinking responsibly. You can’t. It’s the thorn in your side. Find another way to vent and let off steam.

It’s easy to judge someone like Hasselhoff, especially in retrospect. But his story is not that dissimilar to many people we know. It may not even be that dissimilar to our own story.

Sometimes, we lose focus of the things and people that are really important to us. You can work a lifetime to gain riches, and those spoils of war can be gone in the blink of an eye.

If you could have a conversation with “You from 5-10 years ago,”
what would you say?
Have you ever met (or been obsessed with) a celebrity?

*I may have taken some liberties here.

A Parenting Dictionary: 5 British Words We Need To Adopt

This is a post based on one I  published in March 2010, when not even my mom read my blog. Enjoy.

~

a.k.a. Dictionary for Dummies

The Parenting Dictionary

Sometimes I think North American English is limited, especially when it comes to parenting. So, since I can’t borrow Colin Firth, I’m suggesting we adopt more British words. Let’s face it, English, the language we speak, already shares a root word with England. Why not just take a few more?

Here then are some of my favourite British-isms.

Imported Word #1: Knackered

Meaning: Exhausted, beyond tired

Application: Listening to William spout Fact #48 on sharks (while Vivian uses me as her personal jungle gym) makes me knackered.

Imported Word #2: Cheeky

Meaning: Rude, insolent, smart-alec

Application: My cheeky son told me my hair looked like a fluffy puppy. No dessert for him. Ever.

Imported Word #3: Whinge

Meaning: To protest or complain, usually in a persistent manner

Application: Me: “Hey, stop whinging about picking up your 8000-piece Lego set. I don’t care if half the pieces are down the vent. Pick them up or the Vacuum Zombie is going to eat them.”

Imported Word #4: Dishy

Meaning: Attractive, beautiful, good-looking

Application: I was once dishy, but then I had kids, which meant I started spending an average of five minutes per week on my appearance. Even my twins have noticed this. “You used to be so pretty,” they croon, looking at my twelve-year-old wedding photo.

Imported Word #5: Faff About/Around

Meaning: To waste time doing unimportant things

Application: Husband: “Are you still faffing about on Facebook and Twitter?” Me: “Absolutely not. I am doing something useful, like, like, like…”

And I haven’t even mentioned snogging or knickers, but those don’t relate to parenting, only to how we became parents.

*  *  *

What have I missed? What other words we should add to the Parenting Dictionary?

When You Take Your Twins To Church…

Tamara with my Thing 1 and Thing 2 at Killer Tribes Conference in Nashville. (Invent your own caption)

I’m guest posting for my fab and sassy blog-sistah, Tamara Lunardo. Tamara is an amazing woman who writes beautifully about edgy issues, including sex, faith, and abuse. She’ll make you think. She’ll make you laugh. She also has twins and loves a juicy double entendre; I don’t think it’s cause and effect.

Today, I’m honoured to be featured at her blog, Tamara Outloud. If you think Vivian and William get up to some outrageous antics at home, you should see what they pull when they’re in church. Good thing forgiveness is a tenet of all major world religions…

Please go read my humourous post entitled, When You Take Your Twins To Church.

I’ll see you in the comments there!