A Time to Give Thanks--Pilgrim Style

Thanksgiving is a time-honored day of celebration that we Americans hold near and dear. It is a holiday rife with tradition and steeped in historical importance. It is a special time to give thanks for the bounty we now enjoy--the many freedoms, the plentiful food and perhaps for the wealth of opportunity that exists in this land that is like no other. For many of us, it is also a time for personal reflection. We often pause this fourth Thursday in November (or at least we should) to remember for whom and for what we are to give thanks.

Now I may not resemble a Pilgrim in the least, but I am grateful for plenty--for four-wheel drive SUVs, heated leather seats and window defrosters in the dead of winter and for effective deodorant, insect repellent and central air in mid-summer. I'm also especially thankful for wrinkle-resistant clothing, static cling sprays and industrial-strength stain removers that really work. Likewise, I appreciate heavy-duty trash bags that can handle the voluminous amounts of crap my family can generate in a week's time and for the mind-numbing quality of Sponge Bob, which keeps my heathens at bay while I'm on the phone.

What, I ask, would the Pilgrims have given to possess such wonderfulness?! Probably a shitload of Indian corn.

That being said, I also give thanks daily for cats that are litter box-trained, fish that are quiet and for children who eat neither the fish nor the litter. I am equally grateful for economy-sized Cheerios, Goldfish snacks and microwavable mac and cheese--staples my family couldn't possibly live without. Moreover, I'm quite fond of Night-time Pull-Ups, no-leak lunch boxes and the magnificent shelves in my refrigerator that prevent spills from becoming major catastrophic events. I am also thankful for unlimited texting plans and for grade schoolers who have yet to demand cell phones.

Sunny days are nice, too.

Furthermore, I have a wonderful family who accepts the fact that housework is not my forte; nor is cooking. And for that, I am eternally grateful. I have friends who understand that that my social calendar has undergone an extreme transformation since the days before small children. They don't take it personally when I opt to spend an afternoon watching my charges run around a soccer field like a bunch of deranged squirrels in lieu of quaffing beer with them.

We have very kind and accepting neighbors who haven't banished us even after they discovered that our cars are only washed an average of once annually--whether they need it or not. Nor do they think twice about the minefield of toys we inadvertently leave in the yard for days on end. For these things, I am highly appreciative.

What's more, I am married to an amazing man who tolerates my incessant questioning throughout movies (because I suck at following a plot line), accepts my foibles regarding domestic duties and refrains from nagging me about my deplorable lack of initiative on yard sale projects and my less-than-consistent sex drive. He also insists that I fit some "me time" into my schedule each day, since he knows he'll pay dearly if I don't. His mama didn't raise no fool. And he never questions my credit card balances, especially when they include foot massages and dues to the gym I have yet to visit. Smart man.

Moreover, I am thankful for a 20-something-ish daughter who, at times, forgets to make me insane with worry, reminding me of what life was like when she was 11--heavenly. She willingly rescues me from cell phone glitches, understands that I cannot cook a five-course meal for her boyfriend every time he visits and occasionally thinks of me as someone other than the Merriment Wrecker or the Nag Queen. Priceless treasures by anyone's standards.

Furthermore, I am indescribably grateful that my 8-year-old twins refrain from inspecting dog dung, they have yet to light anything valuable on fire, and that they stopped bringing colonies of caterpillars into the house months ago. For these things, even a Pilgrim would rejoice.

Okay. I admit this was an exercise in absurdity. But arguably there is inherent value in discovering for whom and for what we can each offer thanks this season and throughout the year.

Be sure to remember and acknowledge the special people and things that make you thankful, pilgrim.

Planet Mom: It's where I live. Visit me there at www.notesfromplanetmom.com and now at www.planetmom.typepad.com, too.

Copyright 2009 Melinda L. Wentzel

Wag the Dog

Hear ye! Hear ye! By some unforeseen stroke of good fortune, the wonderful folks at Mamapedia.com have selected me as the winner of their most recent drawing! As a result, they will be donating $100 in cold, hard cash to my favorite charity, the SPCA.

In honor of that, I've posted "Wag the Dog" (Copyright 2008) because, of course, I love my dang dog.

Okay. We didn't name the newest addition to our family Wag although it did cross our inane minds. As did Jell-O, Jingles, Moxie, Max, Fluffy, Scruffy, Snowball, Sam and Sid. The moniker of Nipper was also tossed around a good bit--given consideration primarily for the surprisingly accurate descriptive quality it possesses.

My husband, of course, lobbied hard for simply calling him Dog--borne of a ludicrous (and thankfully, thwarted) desire to name his cat, Cat. (How completely juvenile!) But I digress. After great deliberation, carefully weighing the appropriateness and popularity of each possibility, we finally settled on a name for the puppy that Santa (in his infinite wisdom and boundless generosity) bestowed upon us Christmas morning. In the end, Jack Snowflake garnered the most votes.

Jack "...because he popped out of a box like a Jack-in-the-Box, Mommy!" and Snowflake "...because he's fluffy and white!"

But it was a compromise of sorts--in more ways than one. Not many of us in this household (myself included) actually wanted a pooch. But now that we have officially joined the ranks of "dog people," we're slowly warming to the notion, completely in love with his smallish bark and his I'm-a-big-ferocious-dog growl which surfaces whenever he wrestles a sock into submission.

Chief among the reasons for this unlikely development: Jack is so stinking adorable that it is beyond comprehension--almost to the point of edibleness. In a word, he's a quart-sized ball of cottony fluff that I am physically incapable of leaving alone. Nor can I resist the urge to coo to him like a new mother, convinced that her wriggling infant can actually understand the deluge of gibberish that spills from her unremittingly.

Yes, I talk to the damn dog. As if he were a sweet, sweet baby. We discuss happenings in this house, the goings and comings of its inhabitants, the gnaw-worthiness of his toys, the fleeciness of his blankie, the futility of nursing cats, assorted political hokum and, of course, poop.

"My, what a BIG BOY you're getting to be, Jack! And what BIG TEETH you have!" Without question, I have uttered this prideful phrase no less than 46 times a week and have cheered his piddlings (when properly placed) at least that many times in the last three days alone--as have all who have witnessed said joyous achievements. Well, it certainly seems as if we've hooted and hollered over wee-wee success that often.

Further, the kiddos have invested a goodly chunk of time "teaching" our fuzzy friend a thing or two, cleverly demonstrating each in turn--like how to wave bye-bye, how to prance around on two paws, how to lie down so that a belly rub will result--and yes, they've even credited themselves with showing their beloved Snowflake how to bark, growl and pant. Where, I ask, would he be without them? I shudder to think--considering that my husband and I would have likely halted instruction after he nailed the pooping-and-peeing-in-the-right-spot gig.

And like any overly exuberant, newish parents, we've journeyed far and wide to purchase the latest and greatest gear to outfit him, dropping an inordinately large sum of cash for stuff we apparently think we'll need in the next decade--to include a glorified pen and expandable baby gates, roughly 16 million chew toys, a cushy bed (that's reversible!), a jazzy harness thingy and a fancy-schmancy leash (that I have absolutely no trouble at all picturing entwined around my legs).

We even splurged on a natty little sweater and a doggie-wearing device, so that I can take him with me on jaunts around the neighborhood--calling his attention to all the lovely places he will find to poop once he graduates from those wretched puppy pads. Thus far however, we've only made it to the bus stop, where Helen, our driver, was more than a little amused to see him perched there, papoose-style. Good Lord, what's happening to me?!

I'm embarrassed to admit that the tail may, in fact, be wagging the dog here. In retrospect, maybe Wag would have been a befitting name for our newest family member.

Planet Mom: It's where I live. Visit me there at www.notesfromplanetmom.com and now at www.planetmom.typepad.com, too.

Copyright 2008 Melinda L. Wentzel

Mommie Dearest

Always and forever, I am blown away by the seemingly trivial things my kids remember about their lives. The stuff that apparently pools and coagulates in the corners of their minds, having made some sort of lasting impression upon them for whatever reason--good or bad.

"...like the time I was sick and stayed home from school and you hurt your knee chasing Jack (aka: the damn dog) around and around the living room. Remember, Mom!? He had a piece of CAT POOP in his mouth and he wouldn't let you take it! We laughed and laughed so hard!"

"...like the time I ran really fast down our front hill, tripped over the curb and got pebbles stuck in my hand. They stayed in there for FIVE WHOLE DAYS! Remember, Mom?!" (Read: the time I wanted to hurl because of the sickening thud your body made when it hit the pavement, never mind the torrent of queasiness that washed over me when I realized THOSE WERE ROCKS EMBEDDED IN YOUR FRICKING HAND!)

What's more, I am completely fogged by the way my charges can recite verbatim the vat of horribleness I've delivered on more than one occasion (most of which have involved orange juice spillages, bath tub deluges and missed school buses). More specifically, the shameful string of words that pour unremittingly from my stupid mouth despite KNOWING how infinitely wrong and hurtful they are (i.e. the parenting tirades from hell during which the wheels fly off and Mommie Dearest rears her ugly head).

I'm also floored by my kids' uncanny ability to remember virtually everything about the legions of stuffed animals they possess. The cushiness of this one, the plumpness of that one. How completely cuddlesome and decidedly irreplaceable the lot of them are (despite any number of deformities that may exist--to include missing eyes, gaping "wounds" and mysterious aromas).

Good God.

Further, they can readily recall specific times and circumstances under which said gotta-have-it-or-I'll-die items were originally acquired. "Yeah, Mom. I got Mister Big Head Dog at the Dollar Store as a prize when I was seven. Doncha' remember taking me there and I took like 15 minutes (translation: fucking forever) to decide?"

"And I won this fuzzy-eared rabbit (read: dilapidated piece of schlock) at the Fair one time when I threw some darts at balloons. Except I wasn't very good at it, so I didn't pop any. But the nice man (likely, the one sporting a mullet and the suggestion of teeth) gave me a bunny anyway."

Me: (Fair? What Fair? Did I actually take you someplace where cows and pigs WERE the main attraction?!)

"And how 'bout the time Daddy tried to drown me in the shower at the Adirondacks?" (i.e. a date which will live in infamy during which he slathered said child's filthy face with soap, mistakenly assuming she'd have enough SENSE to rinse it off, as opposed to inhaling voluminous quantities of water).

Likewise, I am baffled by the intimacy my brood shares with their beloved rocks--OH, MY HELL, THE ROCKS! The ones that adorn their dressers and windowsills. The ones that spill from my Jeep's nooks and crannies. The ones now housed in my garage (forever and ever, amen). The ones for which a special affinity has grown to a frightening degree. That said, my heathens know from whence each stone came and, perhaps, more disturbingly, why each particular nugget of earthy wonderfulness was harvested and hauled home in the first place, "...because my friend gave it to me and said I should keep it forever," "...because it spoke to me and I just had to add it to my collection. Each rock is a memory, you know. Why do you always want to take my memories away, Mommy?"

As if that blurbage wasn't enough to ensure that I will, in fact, die a slow, horrible, guilt-induced death, I recently learned of another cardinal sin for which I will pay dearly.

Child: "I ate a napkin once, Mommy."

Me: "You ate a what?! A NAPKIN?!"

Child: "Yep. A napkin. I sort of nibbled and nibbled it till it was gone." (touches fingertips to lips, pretending to gently gnaw imaginary napkin so that I might then know what a "nibble" looks like)

Me: "You ATE AN ENTIRE NAPKIN?! When, where and why on earth would you do such a crazy thing?! People don't eat napkins (for Crissakes)!" (hands on hips, appalled by the notion)

Child: "Well I did. Back in kindergarten. At snack time. Besides, my friend ate a tag right off her shirt one time 'cause it was bothering her. I saw her do it. People DO eat paper-ish stuff sometimes, Mom."

Me: DEAD SILENCE coupled with a look that likely suggested I had gone off the deep end (shock does this to people I'm told)

Child: CONTINUES WATCHING SPONGE BOB, ENTIRELY ENGROSSED IN SAID OCEAN-INSPIRED IDIOCY, UNAFFECTED BY MY HORRIFIED EXPRESSION

Me: "But WHY?! What possessed you to do such a thing?!" thinking, of course, this HAD to have been the result of some kind of twisted dare that five-year-olds routinely engage in.

Child: "I was hungry," she said plainly.

Me: "You were hungry?!" (clutches heart, gasps)

Child: "Yep. You didn't pack enough in my snack and I was still hungry; so I ate my napkin," she stated simply, as if telling me I had forgotten to fill her squirt gun, so she commissioned some other schmuck to do it.

At this, of course, I cringed--deeply ashamed of the atrocity I had unknowingly committed, wanting ever so desperately to crawl beneath a rock and die.

...a slow, horrible guilt-induced sort of death. One entirely befitting of Mommie Dearest (i.e. she- who-would-deny-her-child-adequate-Goldfishy-sustenance).

Planet Mom: It's where I live (with an abundance of tasty napkins and an unbearable burden of guilt). Visit me there at www.notesfromplanetmom.com and at www.planetmom.typepad.com, too.

Copyright 2009 Melinda L. Wentzel

Speak Softly and Carry a Big Dictionary

Twitter Moms and Parents Connect have paired up for a funtastic contest: Mom-finitions. The object: Come up with five of the funniest made-up terms in the language of parenting you can possibly think of, define them hilariously, use them in a sentence and then post them on your blog. It's that simple--and that fun.

Of course, everyone who enters gets a pony. Seriously, there are great prizes to be had!

Here are my anything-but-endorsed-by-Merriam-Webster Mom-finitions:

1) kidskrieg [KIDZ-kreeg] noun: The swift and sudden onslaught of frenzied children (i.e. a veritable deluge of smallish bodies) eager to view and critique digital snapshots Mom may have just taken of them. Perish the thought of getting anyone to reassemble and pose cooperatively for another pretty picture anytime soon. The kids are too busy mauling Mom and pawing at her damned camera with the fancy-schmancy preview thingy.

"Oh my hell, here comes the kidskrieg!"

2) sunscream [SON-skreem] noun: What children perceive as the pure and unadulterated embodiment of wickedness (i.e. schmutzy lotion or spray designed to protect one's skin from harmful UVA/UVB rays), suggestive of something entirely evil in nature that might cause one to scream like a little girl.

"Mom, I HATE that sunscream and I HATE how it tastes! Do you want me to eat it and DIE?!"

3) Crocophobia [krok-o-FO-bee-ya] noun: An abnormal fear of allowing one's offspring to wear Crocs anywhere on the planet. Of course, all-that-is-completely-horrible (specifically pertaining to the health and well being of the urchins who beg to wear them) can and will happen as a direct result of donning said footwear.

"I may suffer from Crocophobia, but mark my words: You'll fall down on the playground and knock your teeth right through your lip if you wear those stupid things!"

Note: Not to be confused with Crocomania: a disturbingly euphoric state of mind associated with the sheer joy of wearing Crocs.

4) conflatulation [con-FLA-chu-LAY-shun] noun: An expression of sincere praise for having performed the best (read: loudest, longest, smelliest) stinker in the land. Almost entirely employed by children in their everday speech patterns.

"Conflatulations! Your fart was AMAZING!"

5) Brusterized [BREW-stir-ized] adjective: The result of yielding to the irresistible allure of Bruster's ice cream for the benefit of oneself or for one's brood while en route to the next 57 scheduled events in a day's time. Often stems from having little or no meal-planning ability, considerable confusion regarding the food pyramid and/or the desperate need to quell any and all child-related disturbances in the back seat.

"Hey Dad, we got Brusterized on the way home from the pool and that counts as a real meal--Mommy even said so!"

Hope these Mom-finitions brightened your day. Now go write five more to share with other parents in the trenches. We all speak the same language after all.

Planet Mom: It's where I live (making it up as I go). Visit me there at www.notesfromplanetmom.com and at www.planetmom.typepad.com, too.

Copyright 2009 Melinda L. Wentzel

Just Twirl It...

Spaghetti is meant to be twirled, not butchered. Besides, wrapping those succulent little strings of goodness around the tines of my fork is half the fun. No more than three complete rotations, I'm told. It's challenging. It's romantic. It's sensual. It's the epitome of refinement for Crissakes!

Heathens. You probably eat spaghetti from a can.

There, I said it. And I know at least one individual who won't be happy with me as a result of said utterance. He who routinely hacks and slashes away at those poor, defenseless noodles will likely be enraged--or at the very least, he'll more vigorously engage in the senseless act of hacking and slashing said noodle-ish entities, shamelessly savoring the look of horror sure to be upon my face. To even the score, of course.

Much like switching the toilet paper roll so that it feeds from the bottom instead of the top.

That's just plain wrong.

So is carving spaghetti noodles.

Just twirl it, Mister.

Planet Mom: It's where I live. Visit me there at www.notesfromplanetmom.com and at www.planetmom.typepad.com, too.

Copyright 2009 Melinda L. Wentzel

Pottery Barn Lust

Stop it Pottery Barn. Stop making my kids drool over that which I cannot afford and would never buy anyway. Have you no shame?! My children now hate me. Yes, HATE me--not for demanding that they close your blasted four-color rag at seven-fucking-fifteen in the morning and get ready for school already, or for failing to "ooh" and "aah" appropriately as they flip through its pages delirious with wanton desire, but for not dropping everything to order this and that foolish bit of tripe splashed across the landscape of your wondrously opulent magazine. Grok!

Just so you know, I'm on to you. I'm not even remotely beguiled by your clever little ruse: that of seducing domestically challenged moms everywhere with your pristine layouts, color-coordinated ensembles, outrageously organized living spaces and exquisitely charming patterns that make me weak with desire. Sheez, the uncluttered environment alone makes me shudder with unadulterated pleasure.

Further, you've seized upon every mom's woeful lament: Oh-how-I-long-for-everything-to-be-in-its-place, which is utterly disgraceful. Your abundant use of muted hues, colorful explosions and the artsy flair you exude is likewise, contemptible, luring us deeper and deeper into your lair of deception. Indeed, your deliberate (yet smartly subtle) arrangement of children (i.e. the self-indulgent little twerps you commission to frolic hither and yon, dripping with good cheer, an obscene degree of decorum and perfectly coifed hair) is absolutely sinful. Sinful, I say!

Yea, page after page of gloriously bedecked bedrooms and bathrooms and play rooms, awash with extravagance to-die-for, makes me ill. Yes, physically ill--because I can't quell the beast within that shouts, "You're a horrible mother! If you really loved your kids, you'd buy that monstrosity of a bunk bed with its adorable little study carrel tucked beneath it and those delicious-looking Adirondack chairs! OMG! Don't DEPRIVE your dear children a minute more, you miserly hag! Order this instant, lest the world should stop revolving!"

That said, the ruinous voices inside my head are making me crazy. "Where, oh where will the madness end?" I beg of you. "Begone now, exorbitantly priced beach towels, backpacks and bedding! And take your foolish monograms with you! And don't forget those pricey jungle-inspired, flower-power-ish, skateboard-esque, pretty-in-pink, ocean-and-surfboard-riddled bedroom themes. I've seen enough already! My kids HATE me, remember?! They loathe the Wal-Mart budget to which I am a slave and will soon be talking trash about me to their nose-mining cronies! Oh, the horror!"

"But before you go, dear Pottery Barn folk, please answer me this: what's with the legions of baskets, buckets and boxes with which you festoon seemingly every page? Do you actually KNOW children who would willingly place items in a receptacle so designated simply because it is labeled as such?! Are you completely delusional--or do you just revel in your ability to make parents feel pitifully inadequate--as if they couldn't train a dog to put away its toys, let alone a child?"

"Never mind. I already know," said the pitifully inadequate mother.

Planet Mom: It's where I live (amidst an abundance of clutter, chaos and cheapass decor). Visit me there at www.notesfromplanetmom.com and at www.planetmom.typepad.com, too.

Copyright 2009 Melinda L. Wentzel

Grumblings of Cinco de Mayo

Eternally, it seems, I have been called upon as the Official Thinker-Upper of fantastical stuff which will make Thing Two spring out of bed with glee and ready herself for school willingly and cheerily. Something. ANYTHING that will inspire my less-than-enamored-with-morning creature to move faster--or at least give the impression that she is making measurable progress toward that end. Pitifully minuscule as that progress might be.

It could be the happy news that "Today is Crazy Hat Day! (or Fox in Sox Day!) Get up! Get up! You'll have a blast at school!" Or "They're serving your favorite thing in the whole wide world for lunch today: STUFFED CRUST PIZZA! Isn't that entirely fantabulous?!" Or "Remember I promised you could wear your Crocs today?! You'd better hurry up and get out of bed (so you can put those silly-ass, slippity-dippity, horrendously hazardous things on)!"

Not surprisingly, I often fall short with regard to my quest to motivate said bear-of-a-child to crawl out of bed in a timely fashion. And much of the time, I fail miserably even to elicit so much as a response--aside from a few unintelligible grunts and what could only be described as a hint of movement beneath the cave-like mound of covers she piles upon herself as a matter of course.

Ugh.

Perhaps I ought to consider making shit up that would be more effective. Like: "The effing house is on fire! Get your lazy arse out of bed this instant!" Or maybe idle threats or empty promises would work to my benefit: "If you don't get up RIGHT NOW I'm going to go get the dog so he can pee in your ear!" "Hey, your Dad and I are just so completely thrilled about this making-us-late-for-the-bus-every-damn-day thing that we think you deserve a big, fat reward! There's a real, live pony--yes, a P-O-N-Y in the yard for you! So get up and we'll go see it!"

Yes, I recognize that I have serious issues with anger and that I need to spend more time thinking happy thoughts about Thing Two, who dawdles not to make me crazy, but just because. It also might help matters if I were to finally come to grips with the fact that I, too, am a dawdler.

Thing One on the other hand routinely bounds out of bed, dresses in no time and appears just inches from my face each morning, eager to start the day and roust ME out of bed. "Good morning, Mom! Time to get up! C'mon! Let's go walk the dog!"

And the doctors tell me the two aforementioned children are twins. Yeah right.














Oddly enough, She-Who-Adores-Mornings was the resident grump this morning at 6:30 am. A bit surly even--which I found extraordinarily shocking. Was she ill? Had something happened in her classroom that caused her to morph into Gloomy Gus? Had I forgotten to scribble a heartfelt note yesterday and tuck it tenderly into her snack bag? Oh the horror!

"I don't want to go to school today," she groused uncharacteristically.

"Oh. Why?" I had to ask over Lucky Charms and juice.

"Because."

"Because? That's it?!"

"Yep. That's it."

Of course, I racked my brain for all those wonderful blurbages I had tried using with her sister so many times before at the crack of dawn, thinking "This one's an optimist; surely SOMETHING will work here!"

"Hey, isn't today Cinco de Mayo!" I tossed into the mix. "That'll be loads of FUN at school, I'm sure! Won't you guys do something special (like beat a pinata into submission or something)?"

"Yeah. And that's the problem."

"What problem (for crissakes)?"

"At lunch they'll have tacos."

"So. What's so bad about tacos? (Of course, I know my dear child that you won't eat a taco to save yourself because, molecularly speaking, it's not a fish stick or a chicken nugget. But why-oh-why are tacos the bane of your existence this day?)"

"They're noisy."

"Noisy?"

"Yep. Millions of kids will be crunching and crunching tacos at lunchtime...and it's so entirely loud in there anyway I just KNOW I'll get a humungous headache that won't go away until I get off the bus."

"Oh," I said, stifling my amusement. "Maybe you can plug your ears and it won't be so bad. And when you get home, you can tell me all about it, okay?" I offered.

"Okay," she reluctantly agreed.

Huh. Tacos putting a damper on Cinco de Mayo. Who'd have thunk it?

Planet Mom: It's where I live. Visit me there at www.notesfromplanetmom.com.

Copyright 2009 Melinda L. Wentzel

Kudos for Katherine Center's Everyone is Beautiful!

As I type these very words, I am hopelessly mired in a grievous state of mourning. My head is hung, my drapes are drawn and the sad reality that comes with turning the last page of an engaging and truly palpable read has settled deep within my soul. I may as well drag my sorry self into a corner and sulk while I wait for Katherine Center's third novel to be released.

That said, Everyone is Beautiful is utterly fabulous in a can't-put-it-down-to-save-my-life sort of way. And as was the case with The Bright Side of Disaster, Center's first novel, I devoured its pages multiple times, hoping to sink again and again into the tangible existence she so vividly painted.

Not surprisingly, Beautiful's cast of characters and the remarkable web of relationships Center crafted are as colorful as they are complex. And the crux of the narrative she serves up provides a meaty and satisfying meal for those fortunate enough to partake. Her depictions of parenthood, involving poop and Play-Doh and the glorious sacrifices we make for our children each and every day, are spot-on, making the tale that much more believable. Further, she skillfully employs a series of heartwarming flashbacks, giving readers a glimpse into the past and helping us piece together the whys and wherefores of everyone's actions--especially relevant to the "logic" of love.

But what I found utterly delicious about this gem was the fact that I could identify with much of what Lanie (the main character) felt about motherhood. About marriage. About choices. About body image. About longing to reclaim and reconnect with the self I once knew. Before the onslaught of life and love and the wonderful mess said "fork-in-the-road" journey so inevitably engendered. Now and forever.

As a mother of young children, like Lanie, I, too, felt almost driven to throw myself into something--anything--that I alone could own and tap into as a source of sustenance and salvation. To consume that which promised to define me (in some sense) as something other than a mother, gulp after glorious gulp.

First, it was pencil sketching, then pastels and finally, photography (oddly enough). Naturally, the irresistible urge to write struck at that time as well--a compulsion that is perhaps as fervent today as it was on Day One of Motherhood.

Most importantly (and throughout), Center reminds us of the inherent worth and meaning we possess as parents, the deluge of precious gifts we receive as a result and of the beauty contained within each and every human being.

In the end, she is right--everyone is beautiful.

Planet Mom: It's where I live (anxious to lock myself in a closet with Center's third and destined-for-fame novel, Get Lucky). Visit me there at www.notesfromplanetmom.com.

Copyright 2009 Melinda L. Wentzel
Photos by Melinda L. Wentzel. All rights reserved.

Three Things Thursday: That Make Me Chortle

1) Confession: I am shamelessly amused by the verbal warfare in which my brood engages daily (i.e. I love eavesdropping on my charges as they hurl words at one another over nothing and over everything--words thought to be malicious and cruel--words intended to harass and offend--words launched with impeccable precision and barbarous rage). Yes, I am a twisted creature with a penchant for drama.

But in truth (and at best) the namby-pambyish insults do little more than make a certain couple of sombodies hugely annoyed with one another for roughly 6 minutes on average. Unless fists are employed. Or Barbies are hurtled. Then it's a bit longer. But usually their frenzied outbursts are all but forgotten in no time--but long enough for me to make note of the outrageous names they call each other. Here are a handful that have made me chortle:

Tongue-sticker-outer, seat-stealer, tent-wrecker, meanie-weanie, Dorito-breath, bragger, snotter (don't ask), flicker (inspired, of course, by the infamous demand, "Stop flicking me, flicker!"), chewer (similarly inspired: "Stop chewing with your mouth open, chewer!"), starer (likewise: "Stop staring at me, starer!"), stupid-stinky-skunk, snaggletooth, evil child (seriously!), "Sadie-wadie, you're a baby!", "Taylor-wailer, you're a failure!" and the mother-of-all insults, "You, you, you...NAME-CALLER!"

2) I've also been entertained on occasion by the idle threats they've made toward one another: "I'm gonna stick my stinky socks right in your face if you don't quit it!" "Oh yeah! I'm gonna punch you right in the nose if you do!" "Well then I'm gonna take your (insert virtually any toy, stuffed animal, book or scrap of garmentage that engenders profound joy) and HIDE it so you'll never find it! Ever! Again!" "Then I'll just burp on you!" "I'll fart on you!" "Then I'll bite your Barbie's head off!" "And I'll bite your Bratz doll's head off!" And so it goes, ad nauseam.

3) This completely ridiculous (read pee-worthy) skit from YouTube (which I first discovered on my friend's fabulous blog www.youthinkitseasybeingthetoothfairy.blogspot.com): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m72GNRrvc88. Good Lord, it's funny.

Terrible Horrible No Good Very Bad Tuesday: Disappointment Abounds

Forever it seems my youngest charges have had interesting career goals. Worm doctors. Rock collectors. Appreciators of mud. Bug Enthusiasts. Playground Aficionados. Dirty Jobs Apprentices (i.e. Mike Rowe Worshipers). Crime-fighting, cape-wearing Super Heroes with a penchant for leaping off the backs of couches in order to save the world from tyranny and to bring order to chaos.

In all honesty I had made peace with their unique take on the whole when-I-grow-up-I'm-gonna-get-a-really-cool-job thing, most recently coming to grips with the fact that Thing One wants to be an artist, "...like Eric Carle because his pencil scratching stuff is so beee-U-tiful, Mom" while Thing Two wants to be a professional Wiffle Ball player.

Seriously.

And I could deal with that. Sort of. I suppose over the past seven years of their lives I've come to accept that what truly matters with kids as it relates to choosing a potential profession is finding something they can be passionate about, something that enables them to make a difference in this world and something that engenders feelings of pride and a sense of accomplishment (like nose mining).

Of course, ethical standards must also be met. And therein lies the rub.

My heathens have since thrown to the wind all-that-is-righteous-and-good, embracing instead the dark side of life. So much for aspiring to become upstanding citizens (read: Eric Carle proteges and Big League Wiffle Ballers). To my utter dismay, they've engaged in horrendously unscrupulous behavior of late, which (I am certain) will set the stage for future egregiousness--both personally and professionally. Thus, disappointment abounds in this household.

That said, they have taken to that which is entirely reprehensible, something that reeks of wickedness, something for which I cannot offer forgiveness--flipping ahead to the last page of a chapter book in order to learn the ending before the ending is actually reached (Gasp!). It's disgraceful and unconscionable. In fact, it's wrong on so many levels that I can't begin to wrap my mind around such heinousness.

I'd almost rather they wantonly fling caterpillars across the living room and stuff them inside their backpacks (oh wait, they've done that!), saturate thirsty bath rugs at will (done that, too!), fill countless drawers with water enough to make hair brushes and blow dryers float (and that!), or plaster the dog with lipstick "...'cause we wanted to give him purple-ish lips, Mom" than to sneak a peek at the grand finale of a piece of prized literature.

That, my dear friends, is an unspeakable crime. A deplorable deed. A wrong that cannot be righted. Ever.

Planet Mom: It's where I live (amidst the unruly and the lawless). Visit me there at www.notesfromplanetmom.com and www.planetmom.typepad.com.

Copyright 2009 Melinda L. Wentzel