A Christmas Revelation
I tend not to like shows like "Who Wants to be a Millionaire?," that crazy show that used to be on where girls would like up and wear dresses and people would try to win money, and the latest craze, "Minute to Win It." The contestants are always way too happy. They display too much PDA (public display of affection), and they usually seem like robots. . . happy, weird little robots.
On Sunday night, the NFL decided to cancel the Eagles game and when football coverage ended a little after 8 p.m., "Minute to Win It" came on. Although I can't stand these shows, it is very easy to get sucked in to them. Sometimes it's almost impossible to look away.
The first contestants were just disgusting. They were an entirely too perfect couple. They wore semi-matching sweaters and used entirely too much hair gel. They also jumped up and down a lot. Way too much. Sometimes, when they were really happy after one of those silly challenges, they would jump, embrace and then the guy would take the girls hands, pull them up over his head, and then run his hands down her back. It was entirely over the top and I had to refrain from gagging. Then, when you didn't think it could get any worse, the perfect hair guy got down on his knee, started crying and proposed. From then on out, they should have just named the show "Minute to Make Out" because it was just ridiculous.
They ended up losing a bunch of money and only went home with like $50K, of which the government will probably take all but $2K. The jumping sort of stopped then. I was glad because I was starting to worry the girl would knock herself out with her chest.
The show ended and we were all relieved until another episode came on. The contestants this time were two sisters, wearing coordinated flannel shirts and matching cami tanks underneath. The oldest sister (definitely in her 30's), wore low pigtails. Two of them. If you had been drinking enough eggnog that night, you would have thought you time warped back to the days of Benny Hill. They also jumped a lot. And, instead of PDA, they displayed uncanny crying abilities. Anytime Guy would ask them why they wanted the money, they would turn on the waterworks and point at their mother, make horrible contortions of their faces and just cry and wax poetic about how much their Mom has done for them.
Maybe I spent too much time with my family in the last week, but gag me with a spoon already. They were sickening sweet and clearly not human because no two women, mothers of about six kids combined could have facial skin like that. It looks like someone transplanted the skin of a baby's butt directly onto their faces (Yeah, I'm a little jealous if we're being perfectly honest here).
It was after one of their sob sessions and ponytail bouncing that I realized something. One of the challenges had been called "Deck the Balls" and had the contestants using two wrapping paper tubes. One person had to use the tube to suck a ball ornament to the end of it, transfer it to the other partner who was also creating suction in order to keep the ball stuck to the end of it, before transferring it to a hanging position.
Another challenge had the girls stacking mulitple balls in a martini glass. Another challenge had them fanning balls across the stage. Yet another challenge had them acting as a human conveyor belt as they hung balls and then rotated them around before finally hanging them up. This one was called "Hung with Care." We won't even discuss the games called "Jingle in the Trunk," "The Nutstacker," or "Lollipop." A revelation popped out of my mouth, without me even realizing it:
"This show is sick. Everything revolves around blowing, sucking and balls! This is practically pornographic!" My entire family lost it, and then we realized something else. Whenever people were doing the "ball" challenges, they would keep the audience "hanging" by going to commercial. The innuendo was just too much. Family friendly programming, my butt.
I just couldn't imagine myself on that show, being asked to do those challenges, and being able to take it seriously. I think I would die laughing on the stage. There is no way I could put my game face on and pretend that sucking ornament balls and passing them around the stage is serious business the way those crazy robot contestants do. Where do they dig these people up? How and why are they so insanely happy? Do they not have an ounce of cynicism in them? Do I have too much? (Don't answer that!) And what kind of skin cream are they using anyway?
No, for real. Where are they getting that skin cream?
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Age Appropriate Clothing: Do I ALREADY Have to Worry About This?
On Saturday, I took Big I (who hates her blog name and wants to be renamed asap!) shopping for a dress for her Christmas concert that was on Monday night. I think I probably speak for every mother of a 9-year-old when I say that this is a tough age, fashion wise. She doesn't want to shop in any of the stores that have "baby clothes" and she just doesn't have enough (or anything really) "upstairs" to warrant a visit to the clothing stores teenagers like. The t-shirts and sweaters and jeans from those stores may be fine for a 9-year-old tall and long beyond her years, but this is one Mom not comfortable with making my child look any older than she has to look.
We first went to the Gap where every girl her age must have already shopped because they had next to nothing in her size. The only thing that fit her was a beautiful blue dress that had a stain on the front of it. I was willing to ask for a discount and take it home and introduce it to OxyClean but Big I felt that the neckline was way too high, to which I probably responded with something like, "suck it up sister." I'm not digging low necklines on 9-year-olds. It's bad enough that there are many girls her age walking around with words like "juicy" and "pink" on their butts. Um no.
We had some lunch and decided to hit the department stores to see what they had that might be holiday appropriate.
I don't know who is responsible for deciding that girls of this age need to have as much glitter, sequins, bling and other sparkly nonsense as possible on their dresses, but all of the ones that we saw were just plain gaudy. When Big I tried on this blue monstrosity that had glitter, puffy sleeves, dip-dyed color bands and a waist tie and fell in love with it, I was the voice of reason that said firmly, "No, absolutely not. You may hate me today, but one day you will thank me for saving you from yourself." My Mom, who was also with us, nodded at me in agreement. It was a horrendous dress. You know it was bad if it was blue and I still hated it.
We contemplated what we were going to do over lunch and then tried some of the more grown up stores. None of those dresses offered anything in the way of butt coverage and unless you're packing a "C" upstairs, no one can hold those dresses up.
We gave up for a bit and I decided I would get some Christmas shopping done for my niece and nephew. We walked into Gymboree and there was the most beautiful dress. It was a deep blue, sleeveless and trimmed with velvet. At the waistband, a beautiful and classy jeweled faux-buckle. The back dipped down into a flattering "V" on the back and the dress flared out at the bottom, several inches past the knee. It was the most beautiful thing we had seen all day.
I held it up to Big I and she literally stamped her foot and said, "If I get a dress from Gymboree, I will be the laughing stock of the whole school." I don't know what I hated more: her attitude and the way she was stamping her foot, or the fact that my 9-year-old daughter already has to worry about where her clothes comes from in order to survive a school day. I quietly told her that if this dress was hanging in any other store in the mall, she would have been all over it. We argued quietly, and then she finally acquiesced when I told her I would cut the tag out and joked that she could lie and say I bought it for her while on a shopping trip in NYC.
We brought it home and she tried it on and complained once again. She was terrified the other girls would know where we bought it. I told her we would "big girl" it up with "panty hose" instead of tights and pretty earrings from the grown-up jewelry area.
Last night, she got in her dress and looked amazing. She wore simple black flats, panty hose for the first time ever, and I even put some curls in her hair. She put her pearl necklace on and wore the sparkly earrings my Mom bought for her. Then, I placed a beautiful jeweled headband on her head, with gentle curls weaving around the band. She looked amazing. . . and like a 9-year old should look.
She arrived at school for her concert and it was easy to pick her out on stage. She was the one with the pretty, yet subtle, sparkles coming from her headband and earrings. She looked classy and age appropriate and I was super proud of how she looked and of how she played her violin.
On the way home from the concert, she told me about the reaction to her dress. One little girl had approached her as she entered the warm-up room and said, "Your dress is too puffy." And then, the strangest thing happened. Her arch nemesis, the girl who always picks on her and bothers her, walked over and said, "I think your dress is beautiful. I wish I had one just like it" as she stared at Big I's dress with a dreamy look on her face. Her favorite boy in her class and a great buddy of hers also smiled at her and told her how pretty she looked. Another girl approached her then too and said, "You look so pretty. Where did you get that dress?"
And without missing a beat, my daughter said, "Thank you. I'm not sure where my Mom got it. I just know she got it somewhere in New York City."
I don't condone my children lying. However, I also acknowledge that she is not quite at the level where she could say, "My Mom got it at Gymboree. Uh-huh, that's right. Jealous?" and own it quite the same way.
And I'm pretty sure there are Gymboree stores all over New York City, so technically, she's not really lying after all.
On Grillz and Growing Up
Yesterday, I took Big I to an orthodontist consultation. After dealing with "shark teeth" issues for years and finally having our conservative dentist hand us the referral card, we knew it was time. This post will not discuss how I feel that my nursing boobs failed me and how I was told that if I nursed for a year her teeth would go into perfect military formation and the chances of her needing braces would drop tremendously. Nope, we're not going to discuss that. We're also not going to discuss how robbed I feel about having the life literally sucked out of them and still having an orthodontic bill. Nope, not that either. That is for another post that will involve discussion about Victoria's Secret and plastic surgeons. Today, for once, it's not all about me. Now, back to our regularly scheduled program. . .
I don't know about you, but I went to the orthodontist when I was in the throes of junior high, which meant that my new braces were accompanied by bad perms, stirrup pants and neon colored clothes. It wasn't a pretty time in my life. It kind of felt like a Kid N Play video except I wasn't nearly that cool.
Today, they're starting orthodontic care earlier. Thanks to a slight cross-bite because some of her top teeth came in behind where they should (courtesy of those shark teeth that wouldn't let go), Big I has two options. Either we pull four baby teeth and then probably four permanent teeth (This is what happened to me when I was a kid) or we put braces on now for about a year, on both baby and permanent teeth to straighten things out and spread things out with the hopes that she'll be able to keep all her teeth, unlike me. (I had 13 teeth pulled when I was a kid!!!)
The braces option definitely seemed like the better choice. There's no guarantee but it's possible that putting them on now might prevent her from needing them when she's 12 or 13, AND even if she does need them then, she'll only have them on for about a year each time. That compares nicely to my brace face that lasted 2.5 years.
The braces of my day were simply metal and nothing else. At one point, they stuck some crazy piece of silver on my front two teeth that looked sort of like a McDonald's arch. That was all kinds of fun for my fragile junior high ego. Now, things are different. Big I will be able to choose from 32 different colors every 8-10 weeks to have placed on her front top four braces. She was absolutely miserable, listening to the plan, until she heard that part.
"Wow! How cool!" I told her. "You can do your swim team's colors for the winter and then switch for the summer."
"I just want blue," she said. I have apparently made another little blue monster. I would have done the same. Just look at my house shutters, furniture, countertops, closet, car and jewelry. I'm sort of obsessed with blue and now she is too. It was inevitable.
On the drive back to school, Big I was questioning me. "Will the other kids make fun of me? What should I say if they do?"
I told her it's all in how you approach it. "If you walk in there today and say 'I'm getting braces people! Woot! Woot! I'm the first of all y'all to get them and it's going to be awesome. I get to pick colors and coordinate my outfits with my braces. AND, I'll be the first one of us to have straight teeth. Holla!' then no one is going to make fun of you."
…Yes, I acknowledge, that sometimes when I am doing my best parenting I turn into Tyra Banks, attitude head nod and all.
I caught her smiling in the rearview mirror.
When she came home from school, she told me she walked into class and she owned it. Now all the kids are excited to see what she'll look like when she gets them in just a few weeks. If only my forever-29-year-old self could have told my junior high self the same thing, things would have been easier for me. Unlike what Big I will do, I spent my 2.5 years with my lips closed, concealing the brace face underneath. I swear the inside of my mouth took years to heal after all the little metal cuts from forcing my lips over top of those atrocities. I swear I moved into the big hair phase, just to take the focus off my mouth.
I have a feeling though, that she'll need a reminder about "owning" her new smile when she leaves the orthodontist in mid-January. I might just have to put on my best rapper outfit and sing her the Grillz song. (Here's the link in case you can't see it embedded. It's totally worth a watch. Oh yeah.)
I will totally do that for her, because good moms rap for their kids. They just do.
One Thirsty Girl
It's that time of the year where I go into lock-down mode. I don't talk to anyone. I live in my pajamas and I pray that the next portfolio will be better than the previous five, because for the love of God, have I not taught them anything this semester?
I shudder with disappointment when I see that certain students have neglected to turn in their final reflection essay. I cringe when I see their grades at 69, 79 or 89 as I stress over what to do and whether or not I should give them the bump up (before deciding that if they truly deserved that bump up, they would have turned in all of their journal assignments and homework).
My entire life goes on hold when I'm buried under a pile of final papers, portfolios and journals and this semester has been the worst one yet because I have so many students, so many more than ever before. I created a deadline for myself to be finished by Wednesday at noon and I will do it. I might have to stay up all night. I may have to bribe myself with chocolate, a shower or a glass of wine. But one thing is for certain. . . I can't wait to be finished with grading this particular group of portfolios. There is a bottle of beaujolais with my name on it, just waiting for me to finish up.
Man I'm thirsty.
T-Rex Arms and Sipping Wine Through Straws
Yesterday was a fantastic day for me. First, I reunited with my awesome personal trainer. I have never met anyone who is able to motivate me the way that he does. He's also really good at catching weights as my spaghetti arms drift them slowly and awkwardly towards my face while on that incline bench. Yesterday, he saved me thousands in dental bills.
My legs can kick any of your butts; but I admit I have neglected my arms severely. Severely.
Jamie took me through a work out yesterday that was ridiculous. I knew 10 minutes into it that I was going to be hurting today. Hurting doesn't even really begin to describe it. I woke up this morning and thought I was going to need assistance in getting my pajama top off to get in the shower. Then, when I had successfully completed that hurdle, I realized that washing my hair was going to be no small feat. I lathered up my hands and bent my head down as far as I could to eliminate the need to raise my arms above waist height. That was difficult. So, I attempted to wash my hair with the insides of my elbows because it just isn't possible for me to lift my arms and bend them today. Not gonna happen.
When I got out of the shower, I realized that holding the hair dryer was going to seriously suck. I just accepted that it was going to be a bad hair day and got on with it.
When I arrived on campus for my very last classes of the semester this morning, I had lots to write on the white board. Usually I use my go-go-gadget arms to write at the top of the board, but today I wrote at the very bottom. I could tell my students knew something was up so I explained to them that my arms, when bent, feel like they have opposing magnets in them. "Do you hear that?" I asked them. "Every time I bend my arms, my triceps scream "no!"
They laughed, and then got quiet when they heard my triceps actually scream, just like I said they were doing.
They cracked up even harder when I told them I was feeling kind of like a T-Rex as I swung my arms around while keeping my elbows low and tight into my body. When class was over, getting my coat on took a while and really hurt too. It was then that I realized I had collected about 45 full and huge portfolios and there was no way I was going to be able to make it to my car without pain. Thank you to that wonderful young man who just so happened to be coming into my classroom for the next class, who grabbed a stack of them and helped me to my car. Bless you, young man. There is a special place in heaven for people like you.
In addition to getting back on the training wagon again, I received a delightful email from BlogHer's syndication editor last night. Today, my post is live on BlogHer's front page. I have pitched my writing many times to various people and I have never been successful from a query. However, I am more than happy to allow posts I write to be "discovered" as this one and some others were a while back. It is really nice to actually get paid for writing something; and despite what many of you may think, it is really nice to have arms that are too sore to lift once again. I'm motivated and happy and it's a super nice feeling, even if I'm going to have to sip my celebratory wine through a straw because my arms are just too darn sore to lift anything, even wine.
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