Was I unreasonable?

I have a sister who is sixteen years old. Her mom left when she was four, leaving her with four very rowdy brothers, and a father, who is bi-polar. Loving, and dedicated, but bi-polar. I have been as much of a mother figure to her as I can be, as I have tried to be with all six of my siblings. Yesterday, she, my oldest brother (25) and my dad came over for a few hours after dinner. As they were leaving, my sib, we'll call her SibXX16, stretched her jacket went up a little and I saw something on the lower right part of her stomach, right above her jeans. At first I thought it might be frayed threads from her jeans, so reached over to pull her jacket up to see. She pulled away from me, so I knew my suspicion was correct.
"Come on upstairs," I said, "I need to show you something in my room." She followed me obediently, and sheepishly.
"Okay," I said, "Let's see it."
She reluctantly lifted her jacket to show me a small graceful treble clef inked on to her lower abdomen.
"When?"
"A couple of months ago."
"With who?"
I already knew the answer, but I needed her to say it. I knew it was her boyfriend of about a year and a half. By all evidence he is a perfectly nice boy from a good, close knit family, but I don't like her being in a serious relationship at such a young age.
"Are you mad?" She asked in a very small voice. This is a tough girl who for all intents and purposes raised herself, so it meant something that she cared if I was mad.
I sighed.
"No, mad is not the right word."
"Disappointed?"
"Yeah, disappointed. I wish you had talked to me first. I would have tried to talk you out of it. I wish that this tattoo was not a link to your boyfriend, but it could be a lot worse."
"Really?"
"Yes, at least it is small and well done, and you know, not your boyfriends name."
She hugged me and thanked me for not freaking out and left my room. As we left my room I made another comment about it not realizing that XX13 was coming out of her room.
"Oh, my mom found out?" She said to SibXX16
"What?! How long have you known?" I spun around and asked. She immediatly realized her mistake.
"Not long," she said evasively and scurried down the stairs. I was on her heels repeating the question. We got down stairs and stopped talking about it because my dad was there. As soon as they all left I started grilling XX13 again.
XY17 was in the kitchen and said,
"Oh mom found, oh... never mind." He went back to the food he was preparing five seconds too late.
"You knew too?!"
"Crap, the second the words were out of my mouth," he muttered looking down at the cheese.
All of the reason and calm that I had shown with my sister was gone. I was practically yelling at them. I was so upset that they didn't tell me.
"We found out the same way you did," they both told me.
"It's not like it was something dangerous," XX13 said, "And besides, she's my aunt, it would be disloyal."
I was irate. I left the room for a minute. Almost instantly I felt like I was being unreasonable. Did I really expect them to come running to me to tattle on SibXX16 for getting a tattoo? They are both very close to her. They all grew up together. I have always encouraged the loyalty and closeness XY17 and XX13 share. I know they know things about each other that Roser and I don't know about them, so wouldn't it make sense that they would extend this loyalty to their aunt, who is really more like a close cousin?
The reason I was upset was because I felt that if they could keep this, pretty big, thing they could keep other things from me. The other reason is because we have recently had a problem with XX13 keeping important information about one of her friends from me, so I saw this as part of a pattern. She tried to assure me this was not the case.
"If it was a friend, I would have told you. Haven't I been honest, even about the bad stuff lately?" I had to admit she had.
The clincher is, I did not, and have no intention of, telling my dad. I am not sure exactly why. There are many reasons, and maybe none of them on their own are a good enough reason not to tell him, but all together, they make me feel justified in not telling him.
Now I am asking you. Was I wrong to get upset? There is a poll on the upper right corner of my blog. Please tell me what you think.

"What do I need to do to gain Weight?"

I made the huge mistake of getting on the scale yesterday. It goes with out saying that I will not be sharing that ginormous number with you, but I will say that when I was pregnant with XY17 I put on sixty pounds and at the end of that pregnancy I weighed less than I do right now. In case you had any delusions about just how shallow I am, I feel like crying right now. Seriously, I am not saying that for comedic effect.

Apparently, this was not cruel enough on its own. As I walked up the stairs XY10 asked me what foods he can eat to gain weight. His nickname is Skinnybone Jones. He plays football and needs to put on quite a bit of weight in order to play at the level he wants to next year. Did I mention he doesn't have much of an appetite, and has to be reminded to eat? Did I mention that I have to be reminded not to eat?

Anyway, he asks me what foods will put weight on him. I could answer that question so fast, I practically talked gibberish. I was like Alvin and the Chipmunks.

"Peanut Butter, bread, whole milk, pasta, cheese, bananas, beans, ice cream, fried chicken, fried food, canned ravioli, cream soups, macaroni and cheese, chips, cheez-its...." It was easy, I just rattled of all the off all the foods that I either avoid, or feel guilty eating. I have for years had to buy food that would put weight on my kids, and not on me. I refrained from mentioning all the sugary food that would put weight on him, 'cause, I want to be a good mom. Besides, if I included the sweets that I avoid/feel guilty about, he would have been standing there for an hour. Sigh. I will work on getting him bulked up, and since I can't afford new clothes, so I will spend more time avoiding certain foods, and less time feeling guilty.

Fight Hangover

Yesterday was a complete waste of a day. Roser and I had a fight the night before, and even though we made up yesterday morning, I had a "fight hangover" all day. I didn't get anything productive done, although I did beat my best score on Test Twist. That will happen if you spend four or possibly more, hours playing a game. The down side of spending a day doing nothing is that I keep thinking of Bette Midler's character in the horrible remake of "Stepford Wives". If you were lucky enough to not see it, she plays a writer with horrible homemaking skills. Her house was a wreck, and her kids were independent, not because she raised them that way, but because they had to be to survive. Because of yesterday, I have been thinking about how cliches become cliches because they are true. The breakfast dishes from yesterday morning are still in the sink. I don't have to worry about dinner dishes, because last night was 'fend for yourself night'. It should go without saying that I didn't touch my niece's quilt. Proud me. Today I will clean enough to keep CPS from taking my kids, work on the quilt, possibly do a phone interview for work, and, blessedly, go to book club tonight.

We read "Like Water for Chocolate". I have read it at least twice, maybe three times before. I love the magical aspect of it, and of course the passionate, sensuous food descriptions. Very little of the discussion tonight will center on the book. We will talk about Thanksgiving, and our relatives, our kids and our husbands. We will get bawdy and personal. We will eat delicious food, and I will walk away feeling like I got an IV of some wonderful combination of Prozac and Ecstasy. Honestly, I don't know what I did before Book Club. It is such a consistent calm port in the hurricane that is my life. Even though I only see the Book Club girls once a month, I love them and I'm grateful for them. I have to go and try to cross as many things off my list as I can today. Wish me luck.

For my own curiosity, what is on your to-do list today? And...does anyone else get fight hangovers?

Busy Day, Peaceful Night

I am taking a break from sewing. I got too hungry to go on. I would have loved a turkey sandwich, but, well you know.... Anyway, XX5 was coughing soo much this morning, and I didn't want to leave her here to go to church, so we all stayed home. XX5 is doing a lot better now, and she has a friend over. XX13 has a friend over, my dad is here, and my 16 year old sister. You Know, just a typical peaceful Sunday afternoon at home with the family.

Last night, after working my poor fingers to the bone, I was looking forward to some TV time with Roser. I just had to wait until the game was over. By the time the game was over, Roser was asleep, at the late hour of 8:30. XY17 was at a bonfire at a friends house, and XX13 was at the mall, (her mothership). XY10 is sort of a loner, and likes to watch TV up in the bonus room. He had been outside playing and skateboarding for hours. I assumed that was what he would do, and I looked forward to a night with a cheesy or horror or foreign film. XY10 surprised me by not leaving the family room. I hinted a little, but he wasn't going anywhere. He knew I wanted to watch a movie so he offered to play a computer game with his back to the TV. I wound up watching re-runs of Twilight Zone and House so he could watch TV with me. He didn't exactly snuggle up to me, but he did share blankets with me. It was nice, because he has always been Such! a Daddy's Boy, that any affection he shows me, I am grateful for.It was not the night I looked forward to in any way, but it was a very nice evening.

The Wrong Kinds of Leftovers

Saturday, after Thanksgiving. We are finally getting back to what passes for normal here. I was right to be worried about the turkey. We have no, none, nada, zippo leftovers of turkey. I have enough rolls and cranberry to make lots and lots of the turkey sandwiches I love so much. Rolls, cranberry sauce, mayo, and no turkey. I was right about the turkey, but I was wrong about something else. Pies. I told everyone to bring a pie, and I bought two. Most families brought two or more desserts, including one very impressive looking toffee spice cake, and a huge tray of some amazing thing called 'Pumpkin Brownies'. There was no chocolate in them. It was a layer of spiced pumpkin custard over a layer of butter cake. Oh Man! So good. Well the end result of this was that even with some people bring some of their desserts home, we are loaded with leftover desserts. No turkey, and six pies. I love apple pie and coffee for breakfast more than anything, but this morning I looked at the beautiful bounty of pies and I said,

"I think I will have eggs and toast for breakfast." I pretty much never say that, but I had so much sugar yesterday, I couldn't even think about pie for breakfast.

Now that Thanksgiving is over, I will be doing the minimum amount of writing I have to do to keep my job, and all of my time and attention will be on the quilt I will be making for my niece for Christmas. I should have had it done a really long time ago. I will try to keep up on my blog, but I will be sewing, and not doing much else. Lot's of pizzas for my family for dinner.

What will be taking up your time over the next few weeks?

Thanksgiving Eve

It is 10:24 on the night before Thanksgiving. I have made the stuffing, (no chicken livers or sausage,) and I have the red sauce made for the stuffed shells. I got worried about the size of turkey Roser picked out, so I am making a tray of Ricotta stuffed shells to go with the Thanksgiving dinner. We will be having a total of twenty people including my nuclear family. This is the smallest Thanksgiving, I think, we have ever hosted. My sister-in-law will be bringing many dishes.

With me, in the kitchen, is the spirit of my Nana. She is always there for the big occasions. She was the most amazing bombshell of a grandma ever. She always wore false eyelashes, and low-cut blouses. She was the kindest, least cynical person I have ever known. In spite of a shockingly difficult childhood and marriage, she always saw the best in everyone. Many of the recipes I make are from her. Oh, did I mention? She was a phenomenal cook. I strive to be like her. The vacuum she left when she died, about eight years ago, can never be filled, but I am always motivated to try.

Tomorrow my home will be filled with family members and close family friends. There will be laughter, and dramatic shows of emotion. We are Italian after all. There will be stress and I will get pissy. That's my own personal tradition. I will be exhausted at the end of it, but more than anything else, I will be grateful.
Grateful that my extended family thinks enough of me to come to my house for Thanksgiving;
Grateful that my family and my husband’s family get along, not only get along, but love each other and enjoy spending time together.
I am grateful for the abundance in my life, abundance of love, abundance of food, abundance of stubborn, over-bearing, often controlling people, who love me and my family enough to give me their not often asked for opinions, their seldom asked for support, and their always needed belief in me.
I am also grateful, ultimately grateful to God, from whom all blessings flow. I am humbled at the path my life has taken. I deserve no more than anyone else, and yet my life is filled with comfort and love and support. I cannot express my thanks to my Father in Heaven, and I do not try often enough.

The Me and Mine Meme 100

I was checking out another "Mom" blog, and I found this information. This blogger is trying to find and promote other "mommy bloggers" Click on the title of this blog to be linked there.




1.) State the name of your blog, your real name or your online name, and link to your "about me" page:
I am Becaro
My Blog is 'Thrinving in Chaos' at http://owningchaos.blogspot.com/
My about me link is: http://www.blogger.com/profile/01191877004978673498

2.) Say you want to be profiled on BlogHer as a family blogger and link back to this Me and Mine 100 original post, http://www.blogher.org/mommy-and-family-bloggers-promote-yourselves-me-and-mine-meme-100. I do, profile me, Pleease!

3.) Tell how long you've been blogging. About 6 months.

4.) Pass this meme on to three other bloggers that you think should be profiled/interviewed, and ask them to do the meme. (Kindly link to the bloggers you select.)

Thanksgiving Advice

I have hosted many Thanksgiving dinners, in my over twenty years of being a grown-up. I enjoy Thanksgiving, and I enjoy wine. This has resulted in the occasional misstep, when it comes to cooking with wine on Thanksgiving. I would like you to avoid any missteps, and so, I present to you: My list of dos and don’ts when cooking Thanksgiving Dinner.

· The night before Thanksgiving, as you are doing the last minute preparation for the coming celebration, is not the time to open and sample all the wines you have chosen. After the second or third glass, it seems like a great idea. After the fifth or sixth glass, seeing if the turkey will fit in your son’s cabbage patch doll’s clothes also seems like a good idea. By the seventh glass, the reddish pink juice leaking out of your turkey will seem hilarious to you and your equally drunk co-horts. It’s not the turkey’s period, it’s disgusting and unsanitary.

· Mimosas are wonderful, a great excuse to drink wine with breakfast. If you are responsible for cooking Thanksgiving Dinner, you may want to stick to coffee on Thanksgiving morning. If your Step-mother makes egg-nog like mine does, slightly creamy rum, definitely stick to coffee. If you sampled the wine the night before, make it coffee and Motrin.


· Martha Stewart is an inspiration to us all, but I suspect she does not personally try every single recipe she puts in her magazine. When I was a new bride, and trying very hard to impress my in-laws, I took Martha’s advice and marinated my turkey in a brine that included a lot red wine. This sounds good, in theory. That is why I did it without doing a dry run. Frankly, turkeys are too big to do dry runs anyway. Well I should have. If I had, the very first turkey I ever cooked for my in-laws would not have been puce. So, don’t marinate your turkey in red wine, unless you think puce is an appetizing color. My in-laws didn’t. They hosted Thanksgiving the following year.

· I have a beautiful cousin who has always had a beautiful if somewhat busty figure. She is young, and dresses like she is going to a dance club all the time. She is sweet, and a little naïve, but very eye-catching. She recently got a boob job. I did not warn my brother-in-law. He saw her at a summer family event and choked on an olive. Roser had to do the Heimlich, and he ruined the artichoke dip with the expelled olive. I’ll be warning the rest of the family before Thanksgiving.


· The five inch high stilettos that perfectly match your outfit are going to make you grumpy if you are cooking dinner. Drinking more wine will not make you less grumpy. Oddly enough, more wine will make you more grumpy. Just take off the shoes.

· Let people drink the wine they want to drink. Let brother drink White Zinfandel and call it Rosé. Let your dad bring a case of Two-Buck Chuck. Smile and accept it graciously. And whatever you do, do not march over and snatch a glass of French Chardonnay out of your mother-in-laws hand when she attempts to add ice. She won’t understand. She won’t think it’s cute. Believe me.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Line Dancing?

I am very close to my 39th birthday. It is November 19th, which is tomorrow. I am not one of those, "Oh, I'd rather just skip my birthday this year," or "I don't like the attention". I love the attention, and I would hate it if people skipped my birthday. The annoyance of getting older (fatter, wrinklier, worse taste in music) is offset by having a day or three entirely about me.

Last night we went out with long-time friends, two couples, to dinner and drinks. The couples we went out with have been friends for many many years. One couple lives out on the coast, the other lives here in the same town I do. One of the women, on of my closest friends, has a birthday four days earlier than mine, and the six of us celebrate together every year. I look forward to it every year. We always have fun.

We live in a small, not very cosmopolitan town, so our restaurant choices are a little limited. We went to a local steak house that Roser and I have been to, but none of our friends have. Seeing it through my friend's eyes, this steakhouse that I had thought was just fine before looked small and a little cheesy. Their dinners were fine, I picked a not great bottle of wine, and I had horrible lamb. Roser picked Halibut. In a steakhouse. Halibut. Guess how that was. Right. Horrible. The six of us usually go to a wine bar that I used to work at, but we wanted to try something different. Someone mentioned a cowboy bar, down the street from where we were eating dinner. Dancing sounded great to me. I could tell Roser wasn't that excited about it, but he went along with what everyone wanted.

I had never been in a cowboy bar before last night. I knew that there was a mechanical bull, and whenever I drove home past it, on my way from the wine bar, there were always about a million marines waiting in line to enter. I figured the crowd would be a little young, but that wouldn't be a problem, there would be dancing, and to country music. I couldn't wait to get out there and shake it, feel the freedom that only came from being out in the middle of a pulsating dance floor, dancing with, but not really with, hundreds of other people. I love being in a crowd of people moving and swaying, just getting lost in my own world.

We paid the eight dollar cover charge, and walked in. The first sign of trouble was, I couldn't see the dance floor. There was a huge mechanical bull, right at the entrance, and a long bar, but no dance floor. I asked Roser to get me a Diet Coke, (I would need energy for all that dancing) and went to find the dance floor. It was allllll the way in the back. That was not the surprising though. What was surprising was the way people were dancing. There was a group of people doing some sort of choreographed dance in the middle of the dance floor. The outer edge of the dance floor was separated from the middle by a metal rail, placed about hip or waist high with breaks so you could get to the middle. Around the outer edge, couples were going around, in a sort of rhythmic, gliding, with twirls and turns, but never breaking the rhythm of the circle as a whole. I was mesmerized. I had not seen anything like it since the days of the roller-rink. I was suddenly dying to make out with a seventh-grade boy. I watched until the end of the song, figuring it was like the Macerena, and the real dancing would begin with the next song. Nope, more choreographed dancing. I went back to Roser.

"Why didn't you warn me?" I hissed at him.

"You wouldn't have believed me, and you would have said it was your birthday, and you want to dance."

He was right.

I did not care about the eight dollars we paid to get in, I wanted to get out. I tried to find out how the other two girls felt about where we were. They not only didn't mind very much, they didn't understand my surprise at what was found there.

"It's a Cowboy Bar," they said with exaggerated patience, "You know, a Country Bar. This is what people do in a Country Bar." How in the hell! was I supposed to know that? I've never seen Urban Cowboy.

"You've seen line dancing, haven't you?"

"I saw Coyote Ugly, they danced in a line on the bar."

When I couldn't get any one else to budge, I finally conceded to having a Jolly Rancher Watermelon Shooter. That was really what it was called. And really what it tasted like. And it really did not help make the cowboy bar experience more fun. What it did was make me laugh louder at the sight of these very straight looking men sashaying around the dance floor. There were all types, of men them straight looking, all of them performing these strangely graceful synchronized dances. I am used to seeing women give it their all when dancing, but my own sweet Roser exemplifies what I expect to see when men dance. The white man's overbite, feet cemented to their spot on the dance floor, not moving for any reason, and shoulders, arms and hips moving with no sense that they are all moving to the same song, or for that matter, even belonging to the same person. This is the type of male dancing I have become comfortable with. I suppose if I had not been so peevish about wanting to dance myself, I may have admired what I was seeing.

I heard the beat change, and a hip-hop song came on. I immediately stood up and started heading for the dance floor. By the time I got there, I realized it was another choreographed dance song, "The Cupid Shuffle"I was so disappointed I almost cried.

I kept thinking about people who are stuck out in a life boat in the middle of the ocean. They are parched, and surrounded by water that they cannot drink. I was surrounded by dancing that I could not, and would not, participate in.

In the midst of all this, I was texting my brother who was going to meet us at the wine bar we usually go to. I was letting him know where we were and he was not responding. I couldn't figure out why. I was being a big whiny baby, but we were also celebrating another birthday, so I couldn't stamp my feet and play the"It's my birthday, get me the fuck out of here" card. I just pouted long enough to make everyone else miserable enough to finally want to leave. By this time my brother was calling me. It turns out he doesn't have text-messaging!?! and they had no idea where we were. They had been waiting for us at the wine bar for over an hour.

We lost the couple who had to drive back to the coast. The remaining couple went with us to the wine bar. By the time we got there, it was closing. My old boss allowed us to buy a bottle, which the four of us drank in record time, as my old boss and her helper were obviously eager to close up and go home. I gulped down the last couple of swallows in my glass, and suddenly the wine got into a fight with the watermelon shooter, and I was green. My brother and sister-in -law seemed irritated, the other couple seemed irritated, and I was seasick. And so the celebration was ending.

Roser and I headed home. As we turned around the corner toward our house, through our glass front door I could see the outline of our larger dog waiting to greet us. We walked in to our house, where both of my boys were awake. Thank goodness there was a pizza box on the stove. Roser and I each grabbed a piece. We flopped down on the couch and turned on MadTV. Thanks to the damn writer's strike, the already re-run plagued SNL is permanent re-runs. XY10 grabbed a blanket out of the closet for the two of us to share, and I slipped of my heels. I ate my pizza with XY10's head on my shoulder, and we roared with laughter at the comic that was performing. It was a pretty good way to end the evening.

Emancipation Proclamation

Last Night, (Monday) is one of the less busy nights of the week. Between XX10's football and XX13's horseback riding and my school schedule, and the job that XY17 will be getting any day now, we have few opportunities for decent family dinners at normal dinner time. We can have canned soup and biscuits at either 4:30 or 8:15. Last night we had an actual cooked from scratch dinner at 6:00! (Chicken and dumplings if you're curious) About halfway through the dinner XY17 calmly announced that a kid that we have known for fourteen years is becoming an emancipated minor.

We have known, and in the past been very close to this family. I was so shocked I could barely finish eating. I have a rule to under-react when my kids tell me things that are happening with their friends. The reasoning is that if I don't over-react (my natural reaction) my kids will feel safe telling me things. Well this bit of news challenged that rule. The kid getting emancipated is 17, only a couple of months older than XY17. I knew that he was not getting along with his mom. Ironically, his mom, a dear friend of mine, and I, had a severe falling-out over an incident in which I told her I thought he was disrespectful and had terrible manners. I was judgemental and pissy about the falling out until last night when XY17 gave me the news.
I went outside and had a cig, (my normal reaction to any news) and thought about it. Like I said, I know this family well. I spent most of my friendship with this woman being fiercely jealous of her... wait for it... parenting skills. She is the type of mom who decorates her kids rooms so they look like advertisements for pottery barn. She gets up and makes them breakfast, as opposed to my normal morning routine, of coffee, paper, and "Don't forget to rinse your cereal bowl." She bakes, and has the whole family's schedule, including chores posted in her adorable vintage kitchen. Her boys got haircuts at regular intervals, something mine never got. I think XX10 is growing his hair out because it is easier than trying tho get me to take him to the barber. He has just decided to just own it. Lets call my friend Polly, I always compared myself very unfavorably to Polly. I always thought if I were more like her I would be a better mother. I really have self-recrimination down to an art. I suck at organization like you would not believe! I am about as consistent as, I don't even know, think of the least consistent thing that exists. It is more consistent than me. I have tried to be and do the things that I think a good mother should be and do, but I fall short more often than not. Her creativity and organizational skills blow mine out of the water. XY17 loved being at her house. It was always clean and smelled good. XY17 may walk into his own house at the end of a school day and have it clean and beautiful, in which case he will immediately ask who is coming over. He make walk in to the smell of something baking or cooking, there may be sewing supplies everywhere, or the house may be exactly as it was when he left that morning, with the blinds closed and the breakfast dishes in the sink because I decided to read all day. XY17 likes consistency. He chose badly when he chose me for a mother.
Here we are though. Polly and her husband are done with their son, and he is done with them. I am horrified, almost to the point of tears. I truly don't understand. My kids have been accusing me of not understanding for years. Well, this time they are right. I don't understand. I have always felt that my kids got the fuzzy side of the lollipop when it came to mothers. I know what my strengths are, but oh Lawdy, Lawdy, I know my weaknesses. Now, I find out, maybe I am not so bad. after all, I am still talking to my kids. Loudly sometimes, but talking. We forgive each other, and try to protect our relationships no matter what. I realize that something in my two older kids personality makes them easier to raise. They are both what would be classified "good kids" but I also know that Roser and I had a hand in it. As inconsistent as I am about housekeeping, I am adamant about what kind of home we have. I have never allowed name calling, there is no hitting, but even further than that, I have tried to create a home where the members feel safe. I always wanted a home where, upon entering, the members could breathe a sigh of relief, and set down what they have been carrying. I have been at least somewhat successful. Not perfect, but, my kids are not dying for excuse to leave the house. We try most nights to watch a TV show together. Yeah, I know, it's not family game night, but it's Our thing. I act happy to see my kids, whenever I see them, after school, in the morning when we wake up, whenever we have been apart from each other. I sign my text messages with 'love you' or xoxoxox. I guess these things have made up for the spotty housekeeping, or the extent of a chore chart being me yelling, "I can't do everything, I need some help here!" Just to be safe though, I got up and fixed the kids breakfast this morning.

Fall Morning Confessions

I am most aware of how bad a mom I am during school programs and children's sporting events. I hate them. My kids used to go to a small private school, and they had two programs a year, a holiday program and a spring program. The programs ran about two and a half hours. I am pretty sure if for some reason, my theology is wrong and I go to hell when I die, it will be an eternal school program, complete with uncomfortable metal folding chairs, and a squirmy baby that I am responsible for.

I have wonderful kids. Witty, interesting creative kids. I do not have kids that get the solos in the school programs. This does not affect my view of my children at all, but it does make the school programs unbearable. If I am lucky, my kid might be the one to mutter some unintelligible thing about when, or where or why Thomas Jefferson was born, or married, or died, or something. I am sitting through these things for no pay off whatsoever! All around me are proud fathers with video cameras, and mothers with shining eyes beaming up at the stage, hand clasped over chest as their offspring begins to mutter. I am looking at the program they handed out at the door, desperately trying to figure out where exactly we are, and how much more time is left until I can burst out of those heavy gymnasium doors and breathe in sweet freedom.

Second to school programs for parenting induced misery are sports. XY10 is a passionate, apparently talented football player. In spite of careful, nay, maniacal planning on my part, I have not been able occupy every single Saturday from September to ummm....like...January I think, so I have to go to Pop Warner football games every now and again. Today was one of those days.

The game was about fifteen miles north of where we live.

It is not a nicer area.

I was very concerned about the weather. November tends to be warm in Southern California, especially when you are sitting in barren high school football bleachers at 10:00am. I was concerned about the heat because I was wearing one of XY17's old jerseys from when he played football. Spectacularly flattering, especially the tight band around my upper arm, squeezing the fat all around. Mmmm, nice. I needn't have worried, the weather was beautiful. The sun wasn't too strong and there was a breeze. There was a down side to the breeze. The unidentifiable, unpleasant smell it brought. I complained to my husband, Roser. As you all know by now, I am not the type to suffer in silence.

"It smells a lot worse about 1o miles north of here, where the cattle farms are."

"Yeah, but at least up there you know what you're smelling. That's a huge improvement over not knowing what you're smelling." By now he was ignoring me, looking down at the field, so I was left to ponder on my own, how nice it was to have a cool breeze, and how disconcerting it was to have no idea what I am sucking into my lungs via my nose.

Sitting with me, enjoying the experience nearly as much as I am is XX5. She sat still for....let me see....zero minutes. I for some reason let her bring two small teddy bears. It was a terrible idea, because she wanted me to play with her, because, like I said, there were two. When I finally convinced her that, no, I wouldn't play with her, she wanted to bounce them up and down all over the bleachers. I was getting dizzy thinking about all the germs and what people brought on their shoes and deposited right where she was playing. She wasn't excited about waving her teddy bears around in the air. So she didn't.

XX5 has a little bit of a bug phobia. By little bit, what I mean is, when she sees butterflies, XX5 says, "Ewwww...."

Today, at the football game she had that exact reaction to a butterfly going by. We started talking about different bugs and which ones are harmless. She asked me about dragonflies. She just happened to be wearing a t-shirt with dragonflies on it, so I said,

"There are two on you right now." I didn't even get a chance to point to her shirt. Her eye got huge and she started screaming, jumping and frantically brushing herself off. She spent very little time on the ear-splitting scream, and then went to wailing as though she had seen the specter of her own death.

"That wasn't very funny," XX13 said, dragging her eyes away from the field for a moment to look at me with contempt. She made no attempt to help me breath, as XX5 was now wrapped completely around me sobbing into my neck.

"I wasn't trying to be funny," I protested weakly, "Just a little clever." It didn't matter, I was being ignored again.

After I disentangled myself from XX5, I began wishing I had brought the November issue of "Food and Wine" with me. I know it's rude to read in the stands, but football game are just a little longer than I find bearable. I was honestly trying to follow the game, but football is not a very straight-forward sport. Plus, I don't care. All I know is if my son's team wins, he will be happy and chatty in the car on on the way home, if they lose he will be sullen and quiet. So I hope they win. I haven't had much coffee, and I don't trust the snack bar coffee, so maybe losing wouldn't be so bad. No, No! I don't mean it. I hope they win.

XX5 says,

"I don't like this, this is no fun at all." Then, in case I didn't get it, she repeats it.

"Mommy! This is no fun for me!"

Really? Cause it's a hoot for me.

As we were leaving, I asked XX13,

"Did you have fun? Do you understand football?"

"Yeah, it was fun. I pretty much understand football."

Traitor.

Post Halloween Blues

And so, here we are, the day after Halloween. I am exhausted. This only has a little to do with Halloween. I am usually the queen of Halloween. I make homemade costumes for my kids and do elaborate face painting. I once dressed XX13 as a little clown in a bathtub. We have had mummies, Martians, pirates, and one very fancy fairy princess. I have tried twice to have Halloween parties, but both were failures. My stinkin' friends (No offense if you are one of them) don't get into Halloween like I do. The truth is, Roser doesn't get into it like I do. That is why the second party was a failure. Roser felt a little out of his element dressed as a natty pirate. This was years before Johnny Depp made pirates the go-to sexual fantasy for Gen X women.

Anyway....I spent most of the month of October being horrified and pissed off that the Halloween costume industry has been taken over by "Toddler Fetishes R Us". A French Maid costume? Really? For little girls? Ummmmm......Okay, that's not creepy at all. Above are just a few of the lovely examples I found. The pirate girl is really great, although, I think when Amy Winehouse saw her she said,

"It's pretty, but dontcha think you went a little heavy on the eye makeup?" Well, at least they classed the outfit by adding PVC knee-hi boots and a sassy choker. How about that devil? I bet her daddy is sooo...proud! I also bet he wonders why his drinkin' buddies want to drink at his house now instead of the bar down the street. My favorite though is the baby bat. I mean, it takes commitment to your way of life to resist the urge to dress your seven year old like a pedophile's dream. Kudos to you for not taking the easy way, and listening when your daughter tells you she wants to be a princess, or a witch, or a fairy. Forget about weather appropriate while you are throwing age appropriate out the window. It's not Halloween unless your second-grader is in fishnets and boots. These girls are lucky, really! I didn't understand the power of fishnets and boots 'til I met the strippers that worked near the marine base.

XX13 and I went to Party City and she grabbed a costume, and said,

"How a bout a 'Punkish Witch?" i thought that was okay, so I looked at the costume. It was actually a costume for a witch who isn't making quite enough money through potions, and needs to sell a little 'sumpin sumpin' on the side, including, fishnets, a choker, a corset, and a slutty asymmetrical skirt.

As much as I want my daughter to be ambitious, I prefer her career aspirations to not include carrying KY Jelly in her purse.

I know everyone noticed the slutty costumes for little girls, even Tom friggin' Leykis, the world's foremost misogynist, or woman's advocate, I'm not sure which. I've read several essays on it, but I'm still pissed. When I discussed it with my friend, she said,

"They market what sells. At some point someone realized after Halloween, the sexy costumes were sold, the scary or cute or ugly costumes weren't. And you have to remember, it's the parents who buy them, not the kids." I paused to see if I could remember why enforced sterilization was bad.

My second battle was with my XY10. He wanted to be something bloody and menacing, preferably with body parts falling off. Well, XX5 is an easily spooked child. So is XY10, but I guess having a scary mask would empower him. He had to settle for a light-up hockey mask a-la Jason of Friday the 13th. Some Halloweens are better than others. This was not one of the great ones. Thank goodness we get candy. That's right, We! Long live mini-Snickers bar.