Stress Awareness Day

When it comes to being organized, I'm like one of those sad contestants on a reality show who can't sing/dance/live in reality. No one needs to tell me I can't carry a tune in a bucket, but I sometimes have delusions of grandeur when it comes to organizational skills.

I can happily spend hours in The Container Store...and not buy a thing. Pinterest has sucked hours of my life providing ideas to better manage my time.  Some of the first magazine articles I ever read were how to be organized and maximize efficiency, and I still buy magazines if one article tempts me with a clever way to get my life in order.

But life isn't easier. 

Because no matter how many lists I make, or calendars I color code, or bags I pack carefully, someone (Garrett) will forget to drop off soccer shoes and clean socks with the child.  And someone will demand to be lugged around the house (Alexandra).  And someone will suddenly become incapable of going into a room by himself and grabbing his stuff (Max). And I add plenty to my own misery as well. "The best laid plans of mice and men...."

Chaos causes me stress.

I once had a ceremony on my piano.  I used this method of relaxation from the time I was in sixth grade until my piano had too many hands on it.

Since then, I've experimented. Exercise is calming, but that's one more thing to schedule.  I've fed the stress with an old favorite: brownies and milk. Then I evolved to red wine and Hershey's kisses. I sometimes enjoy tea and a scone (or four). Nothing works well.

Recently, I discovered the best method to de-stress doesn't involve fancy highlighters or  exercise equipment or even a musical instrument.

I breathe.

In. Out. In. Out.

Simple.

Sometimes I forget, but the body has a way of reminding me.

In. Out. In. Out.

Don't you feel better already?

If breathing doesn't relax you, bloggers are sharing ideas on how to take away the stress over at Oklahoma Women Bloggers.

Bedlam, Baby!

If you are a college football fan, you may have heard of a little game we Okies call Bedlam.

Garrett and I rarely get a date, so the fact that we had an entire day together was an exciting prospect. Spending it on the campus where we met almost nineteen years ago was rather romantic.  The stadium was packed, the game was tremendous, and the University of Oklahoma won in overtime. Bonus fun!

Don't let me mislead you. I am not what you'd call a football fan. People stopped inviting us to Superbowl parties years ago. This weekend I had a revelation. I realized when the love was lost.

In high school I was a cheerleader. The news stations came to our games and recorded our pep assemblies.  Red and black was everywhere because school spirit was contagious.  It was easy to be a fan then. Our teams won. All the time.  My little high school had impressive athletes. Games were a blast. I grew up thinking that sports were always like Switzer's Sooners and my hometown Bulldogs. If my school didn't win the championship each year in basketball, football, track or whatever, we held our own in the finals.

As a little girl, I thought that being a Dallas Cowboy Cheerleader was a reasonable and attainable career choice.

After attending OU, of course.  I'd heard you could learn things besides football there.

Then I went to OU...during the early nineties.  Football fans, you may recall this as the dark ages.  Coach Schnellenberger. Coach Blake. Just thinking about it makes me frown.

After one of the first home games, I remember refusing to leave the student section when everyone else had gone home.  Hot sun reflected off the empty bleachers surrounding me. I was going to be a real fan and stand by my team. Sweat poured down my face and back, but no one was around to see it.  I stuck it out until the fourth quarter, then I left, too. It's not like anyone was there to see me leave.  It was like our team had never shown up in the first place. The score was demoralizing.

It was that moment when I defected.

College can be confusing for many reasons. It's a time people reinvent themselves, lose themselves, renew themselves, etc.  But if this small town Oklahoma girl didn't even have a football team that was good, what was I to hold onto? How could I have school spirit?

After that, the madness that hit campus every game day surprised me.  What was the big deal? Didn't these people realize it was just football? College campuses were supposed to house smart people. Didn't they realize in a few hours they were going to be upset at their "victory" parties because our team was awful? What was with all the pomp and circumstance? How long could a team--no, an entire school--live on their laurels?

For some reason, yesterday gave me perspective and made me get it.

My son has attended several games with his dad and papa.

at his first OU game holding his first football

 He wanted to go yesterday, too, but nobly told me I would have a good time in his place. He filled me in on details an experienced OU fan could impart to his mother.

"The guns are loud. I don't like that," he said.

Then he told me what he did enjoy. "I like it when the whores run on the field."

I'm pretty sure he meant the horses and the Sooner Schooner.

He also told me "tailgating is the best part."

Tailgating. When friends--old and new--gather together over food and drinks and share a common bond. Everyone is drenched in crimson and creme. The air is electric with excitement. Generations of people fill the campus.

As The Pride's baton twirler artfully tossed flaming sticks into the air, I thought about my Max and his wise words.
Maybe game day isn't about football after all. Maybe it's about being a part of a community. Sharing fun. Reliving memories and creating new ones.

This must be what the Grinch felt like when his heart grew three sizes in one day. With the help of his dog Max, the Grinch took their Christmas presents, but the Whos celebrated anyway.

Even in the dark ages of football, OU fans gathered together for a common purpose.

Wow. I get it.

Of course, it didn't hurt that we won the game.  Boomer Sooner!  

Mommy Monday: Hooked on Ph-on-ics

Me: You know what I love about these blocks? They have pictures. What letter is this, Maximus?

Max: F!
Me: Which stands for...?

 

Max: F-rog. Frog!
Me: And what else?

Max: F-ish. Fish!
Me: (beams in delight thinking my kid is really catching on to this whole phonics thing)
Max: F-**k. F**k! (he nods and raises his eyebrows knowingly) That word, too.
Me: (sighs) Yes. That word, too.

In case you wondered, I have not seen the block with that picture on it.

Channeling Andy Rooney on Technology

Warning: I'm going to get all Andy Rooney grumpy pants here.

What is the deal with these codes I have to type in on the internet to prove I'm not a self-actualized robot?

They used to be a jumbled word.  Then they became upper and lower case. Next, it became two words. NOW, it's numbers and words.

Confession: I have been unable to comment on blogs simply because I can not type in the proper code. After four times--yes, FOUR--I give up.

My failure makes me feel...old. And I'm NOT old.

Read in the appropriately curmudgeon voice:

• "Back in my day, we didn't have email. We wrote letters."
• "When I was a kid, we didn't have smart phones. We had to look things up in encyclopedias."
• "We didn't have Pinterest to plan our childhood parties. We had McDonald's Playland and a birthday cake."
•  "When I was in the third grade we moved to a small town where you didn't even have to dial a prefix. Just four numbers.  Most times I dial now, it requires more numbers than I have fingers and toes."

How on this green earth am I going to manage by the time I qualify for senior citizen discounts? It will probably be an eye scan. Of course,  I'll probably develop cataracts and it will misread.

Maybe, by then, I can buy a computer program to figure out those darned codes for me.


Follow up: My husband told me this makes me sound much older than I really am--especially because of the phone number thing. It was a very small town. 

And I'm not old.  Not yet.

Alexandra's World vs. Christina's World

Alexandra experience grass for the first time recently. After luxuriating in the texture, she looked longingly at her brother, scampering about the lawn.

 

 Andrew Wyeth's Christina's World immediately came to mind.

Christina's World is in the style of magic realism. Something about my kids that day made me feel they were, too.

Friday Favorite: Miss(ed) Oklahoma

Although she is queen of her domain, my friend Jennifer lives in a neighborhood of princesses and a home of four princes.  When a queen summons, I do her bidding.

She invited me to attend the Miss Oklahoma pageant in Tulsa to support her lovely neighbors. One was contestant Emily Ousley and the other was her "Oklahoma Star," a program in which little girls are mentored by contestants. They were both lovely.

Plus, I saw two OU Tri-Deltas were in the running, so I got all collegiate nostalgic. 

Although we almost missed the pageant.

On the way there, Jen said, "If anyone were with us, they'd kill us."

Yep.  But it was hilarious.

After spending an afternoon with me driving us to pedicures and tea at Dragonmoon Tea Company, Jennifer insisted on driving. She activated her On Star and said, "You have to get this."

Clearly, she didn't yet comprehend the magnitude of my geographical challenges. Like the Bermuda Triangle, my curse soon reached out and grabbed her.  We barreled down the interstate, following the instructions, and encountered a giant "CLOSED" sign plastered across our route.  I laughed at her surprise. This sort of thing always happened to me. She called and gathered new directions. We were to turn on 11th street. Guess what? We were at an intersection where both signs said 11th street. I kid you not. These things happen to me all the time. It's a gift.

The pageant began at 7:30. The rain began at 8:04.  We arrived in the parking lot at 8:08. As we raced toward the Mabee Center, a woman eyeballed us.   I called, "Did we miss the good part?" (Since I've never attended a pageant, I didn't know what that would be, but certainly there is one.)  She encouraged us to hurry because we'd missed the opening number and they were about to announce the top 15.

We never found our seats, but we caught a lot of the show.

In fact, I fear we were part of the show. A pregnant lady in heels.  A tired mom of three under three lugging a good-natured four-month-old. We found seats near her friends at one point, but because Baby J wasn't fond of classical music in the talent competition, we courteously sped out. Let me restate that...Jennifer was courteous. I'm pretty sure I bonked some poor guy on the head with both my purse and her diaper bag.

While watching the swimsuit competition from the aisle, an older gentleman must have been impressed with the soon-to-be crowned Betty Thompson.  He looked me up and down. "Those girls don't understand women don't look like that after thirty."  Hackles raised, I threw my shoulders back and pregnant belly forward.  "Speak for yourself.  After I had my first baby, I looked just like that." I patted my tummy. "You ought to see me next summer when I'm through with this one." 

He had the nerve to grimace like he didn't believe me.

To his credit, I checked myself out in the mirror before I left for the evening and thought remember when someone told you you looked hot, and you knew they weren't thinking you needed an air conditioner and glass of iced tea?

Still... Even queen mothers should be treated with respect or they can be be a royal pain.

Toddler Tuesday: It's Potty Time!

 

Big Boy Pee Pee Chart

Mommy: Let's go to the potty.
Max: (tilts head in consideration) Naw.  My did that last night.  My do that when I'm bigger.

Stellar mother that I am reasoned, he can just wear his soggy diaper until he can't stand it anymore, and then he'll want to be potty trained.

Wrong.

Pull-ups sagging past his knees, he's still disinterested in an alternative method. "No, tank-oo! My alright.  My okay."

This from the kid who refused to eat as a teeny-tiny infant unless his shirt was clean and dry.

People have shared their tricks.
Put Cheerios in the toilet and let him take aim. Little boys love that. 
Maybe. My kid is fickle.  He mastered sinking Cheerios with his first try and has shown no interest since. In fact, I fear he'd prefer to pluck one out and eat it.

Reward him with stickers. 
Yeah, we've done that for months.  Guess what? Now, he's not a big fan of stickers. In fact, if you take the kid to a toy store, he'd rather take home bandaids.

Ask him what it will take.
One couple asked their son this question, and the darling boy said, "I want a dump truck like Max's."  Three days later, their son had a new toy and big boy underwear.

Although bribery never seemed like a good idea before I was a parent, I'm all aboard the bribery train now. But it's not working.

I've stockpiled treasures so Max can select rewards--dinosaurs, boats, a fireman's hat. At a fundraiser, I won a little bike and a flask. His eyes lit up like Santa made it right in front of him. We thought the bike would be the big prize once he'd mastered the cause.

If you have any suggestions, please share.

I have a feeling the flask will get use before the bike.

TV Tuesday: Pregnant in Heels

Oh my goodness. 

That's what you'll say when you watch it, too.


Pregnant in Heels is a show about "maternity concierge" Rosie Pope who caters to the "millionaire mamas" of the upper East side in Manhattan.

My pal Jennifer who is a party planner and super-mom introduced me to this show.

I confess it makes me chipper when I'm having a stressful day and feel less-than-prepared for my wee one on its way. 

One eye-popping moment is when Rosie tries to help a completely unprepared mom by introducing a real-life infant.  The millionaire mama holds the teeny-tiny at arms' length before thrusting him at her husband.  She says something like...."Oooh, it's too heavy. I need to go to the gym." The birth is about a week away.  Yeah. Good luck on those biceps, lady. Not to worry. She's planning to have a nanny. And within three days of baby's due date, some other hired hand is expected to set up the crib.

Oh my goodness.

Another couple calls their unborn a parasite.  They don't want a baby messing up their clean-lined, modern apartment. The mom-to-be's solution regarding toys?  She compromises by saying two blocks will be allowed so the space invader can click them together.

Oh my goodness.

Another couple, who is more impressed with themselves than probably anyone else, hires Rosie to help them "brand" their baby.  They need a name. They want his name to suggest to others just how important they think they are. After a panel of people--ranging from a linguist to a poet--suggest names, they have a focus group offer opinions. As if that isn't enough, Rosie throws a dinner party for the couple's closest friends so they can be discredited by the couple, too.  Guess what?  The couple chooses the name that NO ONE likes, except them.

Some people have more money than sense.

Needless to say, Rosie's services prevail. When she visits each couple after the baby is born, I don't feel the need to call child services.

How Rosie Pope manages to keep her cool is beyond my comprehension.  Not only are most of the mama moments over-the-top, but Rosie is enduring in-vitro fertilization. Wowzuh.  I'm hoping to see a major meltdown when her hormones strike back at some pregnant diva.

The show is highly entertaining and offers anyone the opportunity to feel smug.

Grab a martini--or mocktini--and check out the first episode on Hulu.

Cheers!

Friday Favorite: laugh or cry

Our son: My had time out.
Me: Why? What did you do?
Our son: My hit someone.
Dad: Did you learn anything?
Our son: (nodding) Next time I'll spit on him.

Uh oh. Should we be worried?

TV Tuesday: The Bachelor

My friend Sonia Gensler and I decided to write about TV Tuesday.  We rarely watch the same shows, but we talk about them when we're together.  Our friend Lisa Marotta is obsessed with The Bachelor.  (I think she views it more as a comedy than a reality tv show.) Although Sonia and I don't watch it, Lisa caught us up on the details, so I was rather excited to learn about the finale.

See, there's a reason I don't watch The Bachelor.  Okay, there are many reasons, but one in particular is that I was marred by a show called Married by America. I watched every single episode and was distraught that no one married in the end. Seriously, with a name like that, you'd think you'd see a wedding, right?

Since I was teaching Romeo and Juliet at the time, I thought the show was a modern take combining American Idol type voting with the ancient tradition of matchmaking. I pretended to watch the show purely to discuss Americanized matchmaking versus the way Daddy Capulet paired Juliet with Paris instead of Romeo. The kids saw through me and knew I just liked the trainwreck.  They understood what I didn't: Romeo and Juliet as well as the contestants on Married by America were doomed.


And a lot hasn't changed in reality television.  I read an article that Brad proposed to Emily on The Bachelor but that after the show, things haven't worked out. Gasp! No! He considers them still engaged, but she's just not ready to move to Texas. Really? What did she think was going to happen if she was selected?

And what do we think is going to happen when we watch these shows? Are we hopeful romantics or bloodthirsty voyeurs?