Well I did it. I broke down and gave in. I can officially say that I am the last suburban mom in America to try Zumba. Last week my neighbor invited me to join her in trying the exercise class based on Latin rhythms. If you're not already laughing that's because you don't know I am an almost six foot tall Irish girl with hips and feet that are not exactly on speaking terms.
For those who are not avid Zumba fans I'll tell you the class is a series of aerobic Latin dance moves set to music that should be pouring out the back kitchen window of the local Taco Bell. The music is saturate with trumpets and horns. I swear every time I closed my eyes I pictured the singer to be a 4 foot tall Mexican guy with black hair as greasy as my car engine, a shirt mostly unbuttoned revealing a chest full of thick hair with gold chains, and hands adorned with gold rings. If I was being fully honest, this picture of "Rico Suave" included him doing a little Samba action-purely for the humorous effect mind you.
To top it all off, we took the class in the white trashiest town the good Lord every put on this green earth. So, have you got the picture? Zumba class with Latin dance moves being done by mostly white trash woman. This was enough to keep me giggling. I haven't even gotten to the part where my hips don't lie.
So, the class started and I did my best to keep up with women who obviously attend this class on a regular basis. They were even doing shout outs for music requests like we were at a Hot97 rap party. The standard issue Hispanic teacher gyrated her body in perfect rhythm while I was lucky to be facing the correct direction most of the time. At some point it occurred to me that as rhythm challenged as I was, I had somehow been able to conceive and give birth to two children-oh if they could only see me now! Pumping my arms back and forth as if I was auditioning for an MC Hammer video. I'm pretty sure that even though my kids are only 2 and 1 they would have fallen to the ground laughing. Hell, I spent most of the class laughing because of course we were facing an entire wall of mirrors.
As the class continued, I resembled a person being stung by a thousand bees with arms and legs flailing about. I squatted and thrusted with all the zeal I could muster, but still managed to project an aurora of an epileptic seizure. Tightly pursed lips and a stern expression of concentration completed my look. In truth, I looked constipated most of the time. If I knew how ridiculous I would look, I would have brought my video camera and posted the disaster on YouTube - at least I could have made money.
After 60 minutes with music by Ricky Riccardo's descendants it was time for the cool down. Oh the joy. They managed to take something as simple as stretching muscles and make it Latin complicated. By now my cheek muscles were raw from all the laughing. I just might have pulled a jaw muscle. Obediently I stretched and breathed and tried to keep from laughing. The room suddenly turned into a Zen like state. Who knows, maybe everyone's endorphins kicked in at once. I think mine took a left turn down the hall.
I did feel accomplished though. I managed to get through a class made for people the exact opposite of my cultural backgrounds. Who knows, maybe we'll be back next week. Beats doing laundry on a Wednesday night!
Monday, April 25, 2011
Friday, April 22, 2011
Blood and Brothers
The Five Fighting Sullivans - it's a movie my brothers and I know very well. For those unfamiliar with with it, it's a story based on the lives of the five Sullivan brothers. They were five boys who grew up together, got in fights as kids together, became men together, and eventually went off to war and died together. They were men who believed blood was thicker than water and family meant everything. It's a Hollywood production based on a true family and true events. I'm quite sure 60 years after World War II most people never heard of the movie.
But, my brothers and I are very familiar with the story because my parents used it as a teaching device during our childhood.
From time to time when we fought as kids, my mother forced us in front of our living room television. She would pop in the VHS cassette carefully labeled The Five Fighting Sullivans. I think it was her way of cooling us down while we learned a very valuable lesson. The lesson was to put family first no matter what. It is a lesson we all took to heart and keep with us to this day. A lesson I like to think my family bases their values upon. I can say this with absolute certainty because I've seen it many times in my life.
I was a gawky child - overweight and certainly not popular amongst my peers. In fact I made a habit of sticking up for others being picked on - a habit that would determine the course of my school years and eventually my life. I got by in elementary school with some other unpopular kids and was happy to call them my friends. Oh sure, it would have been nice to be popular, but I guess I knew deep down it was better to be nice.
At home my brothers tolerated me. Don't get me wrong, I knew they loved me, but I wasn't their ideal playmate. I could be whiny, bossy and tattle if I didn't get my way. They just simply preferred to be on their own. Looking back I understand it much better. For as much as the groaned at having to put up with me - they fiercely protected me. (I was the baby and the only girl.)
I remember a time when I saw them put their love for me ahead of themselves. I can still clearly remember coming home on a hot spring day after a fellow classmate spit on me as I rode my bike after school. I was devastated and humiliated not to mention completely disgusted. Some rotten boy had actually spit on me. I peddled as fast as I could home so I could wash the spit out of my hair. I didn't make it two steps into the house when I ran into my eldest brother. He was a senior in high school - 6 years older than me. At the time he was probably 140 pounds of angry muscle. He wasn't the biggest guy around but his attitude and presence was enough to make him larger than life. Even then, there was little doubt in my mind that he wasn't to be messed with without consequence. I sobbed in his arms as I recalled the events that just happened. I told him about the dumb boys that teased and taunted my friend and me. I was so humiliated as I confessed that one boy even spit on me. I'm not sure I ever completed the story. A fire grew in his eyes as he waited just long enough to hear where he could find these boys before he left.
I'm pretty sure he had a hockey stick in his hand as he rallied my two other brothers. They didn't ask any questions - they were summoned to duty by the eldest and would take care of the job at hand. Although my brothers could squabble amongst themselves like cats and dogs, they didn't hesitate to unite against a common enemy. They went off shoulder to shoulder to restore their little sister's honor. No one had to ask them to go. By now it was instinct to protect one another.
To this day I don't know what happened for sure. When my brothers came home they turned their attention back to me. Their actions were not for bragging rights or for a story to tell. They did what they had to do to stick up for one of their own. My brothers were not wild boys looking for a fight. They were young men who knew what it meant to be from a family. The next day at school, I received an apology. The boy didn't look mangled but he never messed with me again.
I knew from then on what our parents meant every time they put on that old VHS tape of The Five Fighting Sullivans. I knew the lesson they wanted us to learn. Friends come and go, but family is forever. No matter where you go in life, you'll always have your family. It's a lesson I'm desperate for my kids to learn. A lesson far too few understand. It breaks my heart every time I see people sell out their siblings. I'll never understand it and I pray every night that my kids get it. They have been given a wonderful gift in each other and I hope they always hold on tight no matter what life may bring.
My brothers are my oldest friends, closest confidants, and the people I will always be grateful to know. I'm very blessed to have them in my life.
But, my brothers and I are very familiar with the story because my parents used it as a teaching device during our childhood.
From time to time when we fought as kids, my mother forced us in front of our living room television. She would pop in the VHS cassette carefully labeled The Five Fighting Sullivans. I think it was her way of cooling us down while we learned a very valuable lesson. The lesson was to put family first no matter what. It is a lesson we all took to heart and keep with us to this day. A lesson I like to think my family bases their values upon. I can say this with absolute certainty because I've seen it many times in my life.
I was a gawky child - overweight and certainly not popular amongst my peers. In fact I made a habit of sticking up for others being picked on - a habit that would determine the course of my school years and eventually my life. I got by in elementary school with some other unpopular kids and was happy to call them my friends. Oh sure, it would have been nice to be popular, but I guess I knew deep down it was better to be nice.
At home my brothers tolerated me. Don't get me wrong, I knew they loved me, but I wasn't their ideal playmate. I could be whiny, bossy and tattle if I didn't get my way. They just simply preferred to be on their own. Looking back I understand it much better. For as much as the groaned at having to put up with me - they fiercely protected me. (I was the baby and the only girl.)
I remember a time when I saw them put their love for me ahead of themselves. I can still clearly remember coming home on a hot spring day after a fellow classmate spit on me as I rode my bike after school. I was devastated and humiliated not to mention completely disgusted. Some rotten boy had actually spit on me. I peddled as fast as I could home so I could wash the spit out of my hair. I didn't make it two steps into the house when I ran into my eldest brother. He was a senior in high school - 6 years older than me. At the time he was probably 140 pounds of angry muscle. He wasn't the biggest guy around but his attitude and presence was enough to make him larger than life. Even then, there was little doubt in my mind that he wasn't to be messed with without consequence. I sobbed in his arms as I recalled the events that just happened. I told him about the dumb boys that teased and taunted my friend and me. I was so humiliated as I confessed that one boy even spit on me. I'm not sure I ever completed the story. A fire grew in his eyes as he waited just long enough to hear where he could find these boys before he left.
I'm pretty sure he had a hockey stick in his hand as he rallied my two other brothers. They didn't ask any questions - they were summoned to duty by the eldest and would take care of the job at hand. Although my brothers could squabble amongst themselves like cats and dogs, they didn't hesitate to unite against a common enemy. They went off shoulder to shoulder to restore their little sister's honor. No one had to ask them to go. By now it was instinct to protect one another.
To this day I don't know what happened for sure. When my brothers came home they turned their attention back to me. Their actions were not for bragging rights or for a story to tell. They did what they had to do to stick up for one of their own. My brothers were not wild boys looking for a fight. They were young men who knew what it meant to be from a family. The next day at school, I received an apology. The boy didn't look mangled but he never messed with me again.
I knew from then on what our parents meant every time they put on that old VHS tape of The Five Fighting Sullivans. I knew the lesson they wanted us to learn. Friends come and go, but family is forever. No matter where you go in life, you'll always have your family. It's a lesson I'm desperate for my kids to learn. A lesson far too few understand. It breaks my heart every time I see people sell out their siblings. I'll never understand it and I pray every night that my kids get it. They have been given a wonderful gift in each other and I hope they always hold on tight no matter what life may bring.
My brothers are my oldest friends, closest confidants, and the people I will always be grateful to know. I'm very blessed to have them in my life.
Monday, April 18, 2011
A Hare Raising Experience
Spring is here. The flowers are beginning to bloom. The trees are growing buds. And there is a six foot tall bunny sitting in a pretend garden at the mall. Great. It's that time of year again-time for the annual picture with the Easter Bunny. Oh the joy. I say this with all the sarcasm I can muster after the excruciating experience we just endured. The day started out with my two year old practically singing the bunny's praise...it ended with her screaming like a banshee in the center court of our somewhat upscale mall while all three levels of shopper looked on. This is not our first run in with the nightmare causing bunny...we've been here before. This year, however, was supposed to be different. This year we had a plan. But I am slowly beginning to realize every time I think my husband and I have devised a fool proof plan, life pulls the rug out from under us and renders us cripple.
The first year we took our oldest daughter to see the bunny she was all of two and a half months old. Barely old enough to know what was going on, but smart enough to realize this giant thing that was holding her was not normal. The photo shows her looking up at the bunny with the most lethal stink eye I've ever seen her give anyone or anything. She never cried once and I remember feeling proud. Boastful even. My little trooper made it through her first bunny picture without tears. It was as if she beat out all the other wussy kids who were crying and clinging to their mommys. Oh just another time I can say if I only knew then what I know now. It is the only mall picture we have Christmas or Easter that she is not screaming for her life and trying to break free. Oh the irony.
Later that year it was time for the picture with Santa Claus. Again we put on her special dress, placed a bow on her head and pulled out the patent leather shoes. We confidently strode up to the man of the hour's North Pole setting and waited with the many other parents and kids. We had no fear. We thought for sure if we made it through the bunny picture with no problem when she was a tiny baby we would sail through this experience. Not only were we wrong, we were dead wrong. I could barely get her out of my arms to give to Santa. She had a death grip on me that I never knew a child could have. The screams were heart wrenching and the experience was morbidly embarrassing. Every parent and child on line looked at us as if we were torturing our baby. I suspected a few were even using their Blackberry's to look up the phone number for DYFS. The picture we have to memorialize that moment is of our daughter screaming, crying and trying to jump out of Santa's arms with her entire body. Ahhh another Hallmark moment.
Four months later we debated the bunny picture. I was due with my second daughter any day and did not want to jip her out of a bunny picture. We hemmed and hawed and finally decided that newborn baby would be too small for a man in a giant bunny suit to hold if Rhu performed her banshee routine. We went ahead with the picture and hoped for the best. We assured ourselves that she was older now. She would do better since she had done this before. We had faith. What we should have had was cotton for our ears. The screams were sharp and the pleas from our 14 month old were tear-jerking. I thought the stress of that picture was enough to induce labor. Thinking back I don't blame my unborn baby for clinging to the inside of my uterus. I would have been scared to come out too if all I heard was screaming. Another crash and burn picture.
The first Christmas picture that included both girls came with a modicum of planning. We thought it would be best to put the girls in their Christmas dresses right after breakfast when they were both well rested and fed. We picked a weekday for a chance at no line. We even started by letting the baby take a few test shots with Mr. Claus to show her older sister that everything was all right. The baby looked at the jolly fat man with an air of "I don't know about you, but I'll go with it." Everything was going swimmingly until we added her older sister. The screaming began and like dominoes they all fell into a frenzy. Once the older started the wailing the baby followed suit as if they rehearsed it in the car. Oh the humanity. My almost two year old was old enough now to cry, "Mommy!! Mommy!! Please Mommy!!" How could I do anything but crumble. I swept her from Santa and tried to calm her. It was over for now and the shame set in.
This Easter would be different. My husband ands I looked at this with all the intensity of a military operation. We strategized well in advance. We took into account that perhaps all Rhu needed was some warming up to the colossal bunny. So we put our plan into action. We set out on several recognisance missions. We drove to the mall several times to scout the bunny. We waved to him with all the zeal we could muster. We had the girls talk to the bunny. We hyped the bunny for several weeks before the appointed day-P Day.
After several visits and what appeared to be a very excited two year old we decided it was time. We planned our attack for after nap. A good time of day - well rested children and a short line at the bunny. I spent the day talking about seeing the bunny and my daughter reacted with enthusiasm. This was it. All our hard work and preparation came down to this. We even had my parents join us for what we were sure would be our moment of triumph. With big bows and colorful dresses we arrived at the mall still hyping the bunny. No line and we were in. Then old demons from the past came back to haunt us. The death grip was back and Rhu flat out refused to go near the bunny. She cried and pleaded to anyone who would listen. Patron from all three floors looked at us in horror. She even got her sister to cry. We tried to put them with the bunny but both girls held on so tightly we could even get in a bad picture. Rhu ran to grandpa and found the soft heart that allowed her to get away from the bunny. What could we do? I just couldn't believe all our hard work was for nothing.
The bunny patiently played with RaRa and after several minutes we decided a picture with one child was better than nothing at all. So, we relented and let RaRa go with the bunny. But, like clockwork she began to cry. So after 3 shots and $21.30 we left with the same feeling of defeat setting back in.
I thought all was lost, but once again grandpa stepped in and somehow managed to get Rhu to see the bunny as being not too bad. We made another attempt at a picture by promising them we would sit with them. It's not exactly the photo I wanted, but what can I expect from a two year old, a one year old and a big scary looking bunny?
The first year we took our oldest daughter to see the bunny she was all of two and a half months old. Barely old enough to know what was going on, but smart enough to realize this giant thing that was holding her was not normal. The photo shows her looking up at the bunny with the most lethal stink eye I've ever seen her give anyone or anything. She never cried once and I remember feeling proud. Boastful even. My little trooper made it through her first bunny picture without tears. It was as if she beat out all the other wussy kids who were crying and clinging to their mommys. Oh just another time I can say if I only knew then what I know now. It is the only mall picture we have Christmas or Easter that she is not screaming for her life and trying to break free. Oh the irony.
Later that year it was time for the picture with Santa Claus. Again we put on her special dress, placed a bow on her head and pulled out the patent leather shoes. We confidently strode up to the man of the hour's North Pole setting and waited with the many other parents and kids. We had no fear. We thought for sure if we made it through the bunny picture with no problem when she was a tiny baby we would sail through this experience. Not only were we wrong, we were dead wrong. I could barely get her out of my arms to give to Santa. She had a death grip on me that I never knew a child could have. The screams were heart wrenching and the experience was morbidly embarrassing. Every parent and child on line looked at us as if we were torturing our baby. I suspected a few were even using their Blackberry's to look up the phone number for DYFS. The picture we have to memorialize that moment is of our daughter screaming, crying and trying to jump out of Santa's arms with her entire body. Ahhh another Hallmark moment.
Four months later we debated the bunny picture. I was due with my second daughter any day and did not want to jip her out of a bunny picture. We hemmed and hawed and finally decided that newborn baby would be too small for a man in a giant bunny suit to hold if Rhu performed her banshee routine. We went ahead with the picture and hoped for the best. We assured ourselves that she was older now. She would do better since she had done this before. We had faith. What we should have had was cotton for our ears. The screams were sharp and the pleas from our 14 month old were tear-jerking. I thought the stress of that picture was enough to induce labor. Thinking back I don't blame my unborn baby for clinging to the inside of my uterus. I would have been scared to come out too if all I heard was screaming. Another crash and burn picture.
The first Christmas picture that included both girls came with a modicum of planning. We thought it would be best to put the girls in their Christmas dresses right after breakfast when they were both well rested and fed. We picked a weekday for a chance at no line. We even started by letting the baby take a few test shots with Mr. Claus to show her older sister that everything was all right. The baby looked at the jolly fat man with an air of "I don't know about you, but I'll go with it." Everything was going swimmingly until we added her older sister. The screaming began and like dominoes they all fell into a frenzy. Once the older started the wailing the baby followed suit as if they rehearsed it in the car. Oh the humanity. My almost two year old was old enough now to cry, "Mommy!! Mommy!! Please Mommy!!" How could I do anything but crumble. I swept her from Santa and tried to calm her. It was over for now and the shame set in.
This Easter would be different. My husband ands I looked at this with all the intensity of a military operation. We strategized well in advance. We took into account that perhaps all Rhu needed was some warming up to the colossal bunny. So we put our plan into action. We set out on several recognisance missions. We drove to the mall several times to scout the bunny. We waved to him with all the zeal we could muster. We had the girls talk to the bunny. We hyped the bunny for several weeks before the appointed day-P Day.
After several visits and what appeared to be a very excited two year old we decided it was time. We planned our attack for after nap. A good time of day - well rested children and a short line at the bunny. I spent the day talking about seeing the bunny and my daughter reacted with enthusiasm. This was it. All our hard work and preparation came down to this. We even had my parents join us for what we were sure would be our moment of triumph. With big bows and colorful dresses we arrived at the mall still hyping the bunny. No line and we were in. Then old demons from the past came back to haunt us. The death grip was back and Rhu flat out refused to go near the bunny. She cried and pleaded to anyone who would listen. Patron from all three floors looked at us in horror. She even got her sister to cry. We tried to put them with the bunny but both girls held on so tightly we could even get in a bad picture. Rhu ran to grandpa and found the soft heart that allowed her to get away from the bunny. What could we do? I just couldn't believe all our hard work was for nothing.
The bunny patiently played with RaRa and after several minutes we decided a picture with one child was better than nothing at all. So, we relented and let RaRa go with the bunny. But, like clockwork she began to cry. So after 3 shots and $21.30 we left with the same feeling of defeat setting back in.
I thought all was lost, but once again grandpa stepped in and somehow managed to get Rhu to see the bunny as being not too bad. We made another attempt at a picture by promising them we would sit with them. It's not exactly the photo I wanted, but what can I expect from a two year old, a one year old and a big scary looking bunny?
Monday, April 11, 2011
27 Receiving Blankets
Recently I participated in a time old ritual many women have shared for generations. Some ladies look forward to it while others dread it...the illustrious baby shower. I have attended my fair share of baby showers since I was small. My mother always brought me along because I loved to get dressed up and ooh and ahh at the pretty gifts. As a child I enjoyed sitting next to my mother as she chatted away with old friends and relatives.
So now it's my turn to be the invited guest. Before I had my children I simply enjoyed the excitement of it all. Now that I have had children and been through the masses of gifts, I can't help but sit back and wish every mother-to-be knows what I had to learn the hard way. You really don't need most of what every magazine pressures you into owning.
Sitting at the shower surrounded by woman giddy with baby excitement I fondly thought back to my first pregnancy. The memories of expecting a child but not being responsible for one yet flooded my mind. As I looked at the sea of brightly wrapped gifts, I remembered going to register for all the wonderful baby items every parenting magazine said we couldn't possibly bring a child into this world without.
It wasn't all that long ago I stood at the entrance of Babies-R-Us with a meticiously prepared list of baby essentials in one hand and a scanner gun in the other. My husband was an involved participant who insisted on control of the scanner gun and perhaps the right to veto anything too corny. Months of reading and planning yielded an inventory of vital infant equipment organized into categories with sub-categories. We were prepared. We knew what a Boppy was and why it was crucial we get it.
So our quest began. We mapped out our plan of attack and let the scanning commence. Our list of critical gear was organized by importance and we criss-crossed the store comparing strollers, walkers and baby-carriers to see which ones were worthy to use for our precious bundle of joy. In a few short hours we amassed a list of over 100 items that leading books assured us we could not survive without. We made crucial decisions on what kind of playyard the baby would need and what type of infant tub would we had to have in order to bath our angel.
Babies-R-Us was a willing accomplice on this neurotic journey. Their displays happily pointed out all the safety features of each item and reason why you absolutely need a bouncer seat and swing. Their signs always illustrate a happy baby surrounded by a house full of gear. Who were we to argue? We were just the parents.
So, after our frenzy of scanning and checking our registry list against the ones we made prior to our journey, we left feeling proud. We registered for every conceivable item that our 7 pound baby needed for survival.
A few months later, I was surprised with a wonderful baby shower with tons of perfectly wrapped presents. I received baby toys, crib mobiles and diaper bags. A changing pad, a baby bath tub and wash cloths galore. I opened presents with zeal for an eternity probably boring most guests and heartfully thanked everyone for helping us bring home our baby to a nursery Kate Gosselin would envy.
We brought our booty home and put it in the nursery. We were given so many wonderful items I could hardly get into my little darling's room. Then reality set it. Where the hell were we going to put all these things? Am I really going to need 27 receiving blankets? And what child needs 102 outfits in 0-3 month size?
The hyperventilation and twitching began and my heart raced as I thought of all the waste. I was ill at the thought of the amount of money spent on things that my mother and mother-in-law told me were not necessary. A baby bath tub-really? What evil money grubbing genius thought of this. It's a glorified bucket that cost $40.00. I had been convinced I needed it between the pregnancy hormones and every baby magazine out there insisting. But as I looked around our home it dawned on me...where would we store one of the most expensive buckets in the world? In the bathtub? Great. So everytime I wanted to shower I had to find a place for this contraption? Uh hello?!?!?! I don't think so. I didn't even have the baby and I knew alone time would become a precious commodity that I would not want to spend on moving a baby bath in and out of my bathroom like I worked for moving company.
I made a command decision and looked through all my treasures to see what we really needed. I took the baby bath and thought about what my mother told me months ago. I would probably bath the baby in the kitchen sink and would have no need for such an item. It would possibly be used a few times, but more likely would spend it's existence decorating our basement. Into the return pile it went.
The next thing I went through was all the clothing. The newborn size is just another money making idea of probably the same baby bath evil genius. Odds were our baby would be born an average size and would have no need for 42 outfits that would fit for a millisecond before she outgrew them. To the exchange pile they went. While I was at it I sorted through all the other clothes and tried to even things out a bit. I took a fair number of 0-3 month clothes and put them away for the baby. The rest I put in the exchange pile so we would have something to put on our child should she want to grow out of 0-3 month clothes...a novel idea, but luckily it worked out. I still wonder to this day why woman insist on only buying 0-3 month size clothes. Do they think the child won't need anything else in life? That somehow they will be able to go off to college in the same onesies they got taken home from the hospital in? I think not.
The next thing I managed to part with was a baby bath robe. What?? A baby bath robe?? What sadist really thinks I was going to get my winter baby to hang out in a bath robe? I thought I'd be doing pretty well if I got her out of the bath, into her towel and onto the dressing table in one piece. Now throw in a bath robe and you are just really asking for a poop accident!
This frugality continued after the baby was born. I learned in Baby Preparation class how to swaddle a baby with a receiving blanket and realized I didn't need a special $22.00 swaddling blanket. Back to the store it went. It stayed there along with the diaper genie-a contraption every mother-to-be thinks is necessary but I think is just a plain waste. What if I have just a piece of garbage to throw away? Can't just throw it in there, so what's the point. We decided to use a regular garbage can and it worked out just great.
I also brought back the JJ Cole Bundle Me. This is a great idea for a product, but I just couldn't justify using it when literally 14 different woman made my baby a handmade blanket. In the old days a blanket was good enough for me, so it would be good enough for my angel.
The streamlining continued and still does to this day. My children have all the essentials that are really essentials. Most of the fluff tends to make its way back to the store. My thrifty side always wants to scream out and take mothers-to-be to the side and let them know what they really need and what they don't. That it's really not necessary to have a baby bath tub. But my rational side knows it's their right and prerogative to register and buy what they want! Good luck new moms and save your receipts!!
So now it's my turn to be the invited guest. Before I had my children I simply enjoyed the excitement of it all. Now that I have had children and been through the masses of gifts, I can't help but sit back and wish every mother-to-be knows what I had to learn the hard way. You really don't need most of what every magazine pressures you into owning.
Sitting at the shower surrounded by woman giddy with baby excitement I fondly thought back to my first pregnancy. The memories of expecting a child but not being responsible for one yet flooded my mind. As I looked at the sea of brightly wrapped gifts, I remembered going to register for all the wonderful baby items every parenting magazine said we couldn't possibly bring a child into this world without.
It wasn't all that long ago I stood at the entrance of Babies-R-Us with a meticiously prepared list of baby essentials in one hand and a scanner gun in the other. My husband was an involved participant who insisted on control of the scanner gun and perhaps the right to veto anything too corny. Months of reading and planning yielded an inventory of vital infant equipment organized into categories with sub-categories. We were prepared. We knew what a Boppy was and why it was crucial we get it.
So our quest began. We mapped out our plan of attack and let the scanning commence. Our list of critical gear was organized by importance and we criss-crossed the store comparing strollers, walkers and baby-carriers to see which ones were worthy to use for our precious bundle of joy. In a few short hours we amassed a list of over 100 items that leading books assured us we could not survive without. We made crucial decisions on what kind of playyard the baby would need and what type of infant tub would we had to have in order to bath our angel.
Babies-R-Us was a willing accomplice on this neurotic journey. Their displays happily pointed out all the safety features of each item and reason why you absolutely need a bouncer seat and swing. Their signs always illustrate a happy baby surrounded by a house full of gear. Who were we to argue? We were just the parents.
So, after our frenzy of scanning and checking our registry list against the ones we made prior to our journey, we left feeling proud. We registered for every conceivable item that our 7 pound baby needed for survival.
A few months later, I was surprised with a wonderful baby shower with tons of perfectly wrapped presents. I received baby toys, crib mobiles and diaper bags. A changing pad, a baby bath tub and wash cloths galore. I opened presents with zeal for an eternity probably boring most guests and heartfully thanked everyone for helping us bring home our baby to a nursery Kate Gosselin would envy.
We brought our booty home and put it in the nursery. We were given so many wonderful items I could hardly get into my little darling's room. Then reality set it. Where the hell were we going to put all these things? Am I really going to need 27 receiving blankets? And what child needs 102 outfits in 0-3 month size?
The hyperventilation and twitching began and my heart raced as I thought of all the waste. I was ill at the thought of the amount of money spent on things that my mother and mother-in-law told me were not necessary. A baby bath tub-really? What evil money grubbing genius thought of this. It's a glorified bucket that cost $40.00. I had been convinced I needed it between the pregnancy hormones and every baby magazine out there insisting. But as I looked around our home it dawned on me...where would we store one of the most expensive buckets in the world? In the bathtub? Great. So everytime I wanted to shower I had to find a place for this contraption? Uh hello?!?!?! I don't think so. I didn't even have the baby and I knew alone time would become a precious commodity that I would not want to spend on moving a baby bath in and out of my bathroom like I worked for moving company.
I made a command decision and looked through all my treasures to see what we really needed. I took the baby bath and thought about what my mother told me months ago. I would probably bath the baby in the kitchen sink and would have no need for such an item. It would possibly be used a few times, but more likely would spend it's existence decorating our basement. Into the return pile it went.
The next thing I went through was all the clothing. The newborn size is just another money making idea of probably the same baby bath evil genius. Odds were our baby would be born an average size and would have no need for 42 outfits that would fit for a millisecond before she outgrew them. To the exchange pile they went. While I was at it I sorted through all the other clothes and tried to even things out a bit. I took a fair number of 0-3 month clothes and put them away for the baby. The rest I put in the exchange pile so we would have something to put on our child should she want to grow out of 0-3 month clothes...a novel idea, but luckily it worked out. I still wonder to this day why woman insist on only buying 0-3 month size clothes. Do they think the child won't need anything else in life? That somehow they will be able to go off to college in the same onesies they got taken home from the hospital in? I think not.
The next thing I managed to part with was a baby bath robe. What?? A baby bath robe?? What sadist really thinks I was going to get my winter baby to hang out in a bath robe? I thought I'd be doing pretty well if I got her out of the bath, into her towel and onto the dressing table in one piece. Now throw in a bath robe and you are just really asking for a poop accident!
This frugality continued after the baby was born. I learned in Baby Preparation class how to swaddle a baby with a receiving blanket and realized I didn't need a special $22.00 swaddling blanket. Back to the store it went. It stayed there along with the diaper genie-a contraption every mother-to-be thinks is necessary but I think is just a plain waste. What if I have just a piece of garbage to throw away? Can't just throw it in there, so what's the point. We decided to use a regular garbage can and it worked out just great.
I also brought back the JJ Cole Bundle Me. This is a great idea for a product, but I just couldn't justify using it when literally 14 different woman made my baby a handmade blanket. In the old days a blanket was good enough for me, so it would be good enough for my angel.
The streamlining continued and still does to this day. My children have all the essentials that are really essentials. Most of the fluff tends to make its way back to the store. My thrifty side always wants to scream out and take mothers-to-be to the side and let them know what they really need and what they don't. That it's really not necessary to have a baby bath tub. But my rational side knows it's their right and prerogative to register and buy what they want! Good luck new moms and save your receipts!!
Friday, April 1, 2011
Bath time
Bath times are a nightly ritual in our house. We've given baths at the same time every night since my first child was exactly seven weeks old. I'm old school so I still use the kitchen sink as the baby tub. We have tub toys, cups and soap like all proper baby baths. Once in a while I'll even throw in a squirt toy to mix it up.
We don't spend a lot of time traveling and I'm not a big fan of putting my naked kids in other people's sinks, so my kids have had a bath only a hand full of times outside our home. Last Sunday was one of those times.
It started out innocently enough. My parents graciously offered to have us over for dinner. Being exhausted and worn out in general, my husband and I jumped at the chance to have a home cooked meal with little effort on our part. Being the polite daughter I am, I asked my mom if we could bath the girls at their house. I knew RaRa would fall asleep in the car on the way home if we didn't. Waking her up and trying to bath her would be a beast and really who wants to slay that dragon if it can be avoided?? I also knew it would allow us more time to visit and play...otherwise known as more time for other people to entertain my kids. Win win all around right?
Well, that is until we get to the part where Rhu is smearing her poop on my parents living room TV like she was Picasso working on a latest masterpiece. How's that you ask? Well, I'll explain.
We managed to get through dinner with very little food on the floor and almost none flying across the table. No mere fete outside our home setting. The girls even finished their scrumptious dinner and politely set off to play. I remember feeling proud that they were so well behaved. Rhu asked several times to, "Get down?" and listened each time I said no. Wow, this firm parenting stuff is really working. My two-year-old daughter is listening to me!! Ahhh...I sigh of relief and an inflated ego loomed as I happily cleared the dishes and helped my mom clean up dinner. The men were in charge of the two babies and things were going swimmingly.
The rest of the evening progressed nicely and the girls played well with each other. It started to get late and was time to get baths done so we could be on our way home. Visions of a happy, smiling family in our standard issue SUV traveling home with freshly scrubbed children danced in my head. I was so cocky that I was even sure the little angels would go right to bed without a peep. Oh soooo wrong.
I think I can pinpoint the downturn of events at the spot when we undressed both children. This is probably when we lost control. The kitchen sink at my parent's house is a single, so RaRa was scheduled to go first. She splashed well and my ego grew even more inflated. This was going great!! Then I heard it...the words no parent wants to hear from their spouse. It came out of the living room with a looming tone. "Uh Hun...we've got a problem." I transferred my first freshly scrubbed baby to her grandmother and went to inspect this so called problem. I figured it was something simple like spilled milk. When I rounded the corner I saw it. Brown tipped fingers on my little angel. She had poop in her diapers and now with her clothes off she was able to access this new tool of destruction.
She was quick too. Her little hands managed to gain access to the poop and smear it on the innocent television in a split second. I gasped in horror at what she had done. My visions of freshly scrubbed well-behaved children shattered as I grabbed her hands so she could not do any more destruction. All I could think was where did my perfectly behaved little angel get such an idea and how could my poor parents be laughing at this disgusting mess? But they were laughing nonetheless. My father more than my mother. He enjoys getting a chuckle out of every parenting moment in my life. Not in a vicious way, but in an "Ahhh isn't parenting fun?" kind of way. No Dad, wiping poop off your television isn't fun, but thanks for asking!
With the quickness of Santa on Christmas Eve I whisked Rhu off to the sink. I didn't even bother to prep the bath by wiping her hinnie beforehand. I plunked her down in the sink and began to pull out the hose. I poured soap all over everything and scrubbed like she had just opened an envelope laced with Anthrax. My hands were like greased lightening as I washed the little stinker. I followed up her first set of scrubbing by another and still a third. Once I felt like all the poop was gone I gave her a normal bath and issued her a towel to dry off.
Meanwhile, my husband was assigned the illustrious task of cleaning the poop and he went to work without a word. After all, the source of the poop was in my hands, so he figured he got the better deal.
Once all the poop was washed, both girls were scrubbed and dressed and the laughter subsided, it was time to leave. We gathered all of our bags, our children and what was left of our pride and began saying our good-byes. We loaded our children in the car and started off for home. I couldn't help but think what happened? We started off so well. We were prepared. But, I guess you can never prepare for everything...can you?
We don't spend a lot of time traveling and I'm not a big fan of putting my naked kids in other people's sinks, so my kids have had a bath only a hand full of times outside our home. Last Sunday was one of those times.
It started out innocently enough. My parents graciously offered to have us over for dinner. Being exhausted and worn out in general, my husband and I jumped at the chance to have a home cooked meal with little effort on our part. Being the polite daughter I am, I asked my mom if we could bath the girls at their house. I knew RaRa would fall asleep in the car on the way home if we didn't. Waking her up and trying to bath her would be a beast and really who wants to slay that dragon if it can be avoided?? I also knew it would allow us more time to visit and play...otherwise known as more time for other people to entertain my kids. Win win all around right?
Well, that is until we get to the part where Rhu is smearing her poop on my parents living room TV like she was Picasso working on a latest masterpiece. How's that you ask? Well, I'll explain.
We managed to get through dinner with very little food on the floor and almost none flying across the table. No mere fete outside our home setting. The girls even finished their scrumptious dinner and politely set off to play. I remember feeling proud that they were so well behaved. Rhu asked several times to, "Get down?" and listened each time I said no. Wow, this firm parenting stuff is really working. My two-year-old daughter is listening to me!! Ahhh...I sigh of relief and an inflated ego loomed as I happily cleared the dishes and helped my mom clean up dinner. The men were in charge of the two babies and things were going swimmingly.
The rest of the evening progressed nicely and the girls played well with each other. It started to get late and was time to get baths done so we could be on our way home. Visions of a happy, smiling family in our standard issue SUV traveling home with freshly scrubbed children danced in my head. I was so cocky that I was even sure the little angels would go right to bed without a peep. Oh soooo wrong.
I think I can pinpoint the downturn of events at the spot when we undressed both children. This is probably when we lost control. The kitchen sink at my parent's house is a single, so RaRa was scheduled to go first. She splashed well and my ego grew even more inflated. This was going great!! Then I heard it...the words no parent wants to hear from their spouse. It came out of the living room with a looming tone. "Uh Hun...we've got a problem." I transferred my first freshly scrubbed baby to her grandmother and went to inspect this so called problem. I figured it was something simple like spilled milk. When I rounded the corner I saw it. Brown tipped fingers on my little angel. She had poop in her diapers and now with her clothes off she was able to access this new tool of destruction.
She was quick too. Her little hands managed to gain access to the poop and smear it on the innocent television in a split second. I gasped in horror at what she had done. My visions of freshly scrubbed well-behaved children shattered as I grabbed her hands so she could not do any more destruction. All I could think was where did my perfectly behaved little angel get such an idea and how could my poor parents be laughing at this disgusting mess? But they were laughing nonetheless. My father more than my mother. He enjoys getting a chuckle out of every parenting moment in my life. Not in a vicious way, but in an "Ahhh isn't parenting fun?" kind of way. No Dad, wiping poop off your television isn't fun, but thanks for asking!
With the quickness of Santa on Christmas Eve I whisked Rhu off to the sink. I didn't even bother to prep the bath by wiping her hinnie beforehand. I plunked her down in the sink and began to pull out the hose. I poured soap all over everything and scrubbed like she had just opened an envelope laced with Anthrax. My hands were like greased lightening as I washed the little stinker. I followed up her first set of scrubbing by another and still a third. Once I felt like all the poop was gone I gave her a normal bath and issued her a towel to dry off.
Meanwhile, my husband was assigned the illustrious task of cleaning the poop and he went to work without a word. After all, the source of the poop was in my hands, so he figured he got the better deal.
Once all the poop was washed, both girls were scrubbed and dressed and the laughter subsided, it was time to leave. We gathered all of our bags, our children and what was left of our pride and began saying our good-byes. We loaded our children in the car and started off for home. I couldn't help but think what happened? We started off so well. We were prepared. But, I guess you can never prepare for everything...can you?
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