Growing Up Girls

Ella is my first-born. I loved her before she was born and cannot imagine my life without this amazing young lady. At the first ultrasound during my pregnancy with Ella, I fully expected to see boy parts on the screen. When the ultrasound tech told Darrick and me that we were having a girl, I cried. Not happy tears, but tears of complete and utter despair.

I never wanted a girl, they scare me. I was never into frilly lace and pink things as a child and really didn’t think I would do “mother of a girl” very well. I don’t understand women, I hate to cry, I hate sentimental and I would rather gouge my eyes out with a fork than watch Lifetime Movie Network. Boys I get. Never have my sons asked me if I think they are pretty or have thrown a fit over toe nail polish. I am quite sure I was a boy in another life. Needless to say, I was very unprepared for Ella’s femaleness when she arrived.

From the moment she breathed her first breath I have struggled with my role as mother of a girl. I feel it is my job, and mine alone,  to instill all of the womanly virtues, knowledge,  intuition, and tricks of what it means to be a woman. That is a huge responsiblity.

I panicked this week as I was talking with a friend about the lost art of written correspondence. Writing thank you notes, get well cards, just writing a letter to a relative is something that I never do. I will text, email, or call a thank you all day, but I am not thoughtful enough to actually write it I guess. I have never made Ella write thank you notes, write letters to relatives or any of that.  My mind began to wonder about all the other things I am not teaching Ell about being a woman.

What kind of role model am I to my daughter? Does she only see the harried, stressed out, bitchy mom? Does she think that my life is what she has to look forward to in her adulthood? I am happy running around with kids and laundry in my wake. I thrive in chaos and confrontation. Does she see a mom who loves her children and her husband (most of the time)?

Ella and I had some alone time one evening and I asked her all of these questions. I spouted off all the things I think are important to being a young lady and eventually a woman. The rant lasted about 10 minutes with nary a breath or interjection from my beloved Ella. When I finally stopped pacing and orating, I looked over at my beautiful brown-eyed Ella watching me in awe.

She rolled her eyes, shook her head and said “Uh, thanks mom? But, I am more like daddy anyway. I plan to be the exact opposite of you.”

In the end, she is a lot like me. I will never tell her that, but it is true. Ella has any number of amazing women in her life that can pick up the slack. Her Nonny can teach her to sew, her Kiki can teach her to be a pretty girl and that sports and winning aren’t everything (even though they are). She has aunts specializing in creative endeavors and climbing the corporate ladder. These women will also be responsible for her becoming a woman, andI will be the one she blames.

Don’t Stop Believing-A Parenting Journey

A few posts ago I wrote about what my dreams were for my children in adulthood. I have since thought about what I want for my children and asked them about their hopes and dreams. Frankly, I am just trying to keep them alive right now.

I was beside myself with glee when I found out I was expecting with Ella. The Big D and I would talk about what we thought she would look like, act like and become. I thought she might be a US President, Darrick was certain she would be a collegiate athlete, and she still may be one or both of those.

After keeping the little Rains children alive for almost a decade now, I have come to terms with my expectations and lowered them some. Well, lowered them a lot. I have three children. There is a 33% chance one of them will be on the news with a mug shot and his or her full name scrolling under the screen. I thought about and said aloud all of their names before they were born; imagining that an ESPN announcer’s or Brian Williams’, or even Jon Stewart’s voices announcing their names and introducing them. Now, all I can hear is the local tv reporter saying “In another failure in parenting story, Nicholas Scott Rains was arrested for defacing the Chesapeake skyscraper and parachuting off the top of the building today at noon. Eye witnesses report Nicholas Scott Rains said ‘It’s all my mother’s fault that I am a delinquent!’ as he dove from the observation deck.”

I pray over my children every night. I pray for safety, wisdom, protection, and I honestly pray to God that none of my three children will become sociopaths. I know they are not perfect children and will not be perfect teenagers. We are already saving for therapy and counseling.

I was talking to my boss, Jane, who is an expert in Child Development and in raising teenage boys. She told me she hoped that her son was the one who would say “Run up the building and jump off the top? Let’s go!” But, as they neared the top her son would be the one to say “Hey wait up guys, let’s think about this now. What might be the consequences?”

So that  is where I am today. Hoping that at least one or all three of my children will have some inner voice of reason keeping them off of drugs, buildings, and out of jail.

At least they are pretty.

Hoop Dreams

The end of Ella’s basketball season is drawing to a close. Nick just started his, but his games don’t affect me quite like Ella’s games. I think it is because she is a girl and I take it way too seriously. I have never claimed to be sportsmanlike, been able to lose gracefully, or not want to scratch your eyes out if you are winning. You would think that 11 long years of marriage would have prepared Darrick to deal with my competitive parts that showed this basketball season.

Darrick thinks I am insane and refuses to sit by me anymore. Rarely do I yell profanity at anyone; most is said to Darrick or under my breath. I am not the only mom yelling either. I always yell positive things at Ella, such as “Keep shooting Ella, they will start to fall!” or “Get that outta here!” or “Atta girl Bells!” on one occasion I did yell “You better get your ass moving little girl!” She was pissed off and gave up and started walking up and down the court. I can suffer many things; fools and laziness are none of those.

I have never met a referee or official that I liked. It doesn’t matter what sport it is, they suck. Oh, I get how it is a difficult, thankless, and tiring job. And I could never do it, but I hate you anyway. I would like to apologize to anyone who might one day officiate one of my children’s sports contest and please do not throw me out of the game.

Thankfully, I have Nate to distract me from my insanity during Ella’s ball games. Nick sticks pretty close to me and plays on his iPod. Nate spent the last ball game pretending that he was a tiger and attacking unsuspecting spectators, claws and all. When Nate gets into “tiger mode” there is no reasoning with him. He does not respond to his name, he only responds to Tiger. He will crawl along the ground snarling and growling all the way. Some would be embarrassed by this abnormal behavior, I’m just glad he is not licking the side-walk or chewing gum off the bleachers.

At the end of this weekend, it will be safe to say that I made it through an entire basketball season without getting ejected or becoming major embarrassment to myself and my family. There is always Xanax next year.

 

Infomercially Yours

The week before Christmas I came down with a nasty upper respiratory infection. I lost my voice, coughed until I puked, and basically felt like crap. I went to see Hot Doctor and he prescribed a wonderful cough syrup called Tussionex. Instead of lying in bed coughing and wishing for a swift death, I was able to lay in bed and drift between reality and cough syrup induced fantasy land.

Fast forward to the week after Christmas. I found a package awaiting me outside our door one morning. I had no idea what it was I had ordered. Sometimes I pre-order books and then they are delivered when they are released. I often pre-order months in advance so I usually am pleasantly surprised due to my forgetfulness.

I read the return label on the package and did not recognize the name. Chad Dean in California had sent something to me. I opened the package to find a bottle of cleansing conditioner called Wen. It was at that moment that I vaguely recollected watching an infomercial in my cough syrup stupor.

Apparently, late one night, I thought it would be a great idea to order Wen cleansing conditioner. I was sold by the products claim to shiny hair, organic ingredients, and expensive hair treatment. As I was reading the label and the shipping label, I choked on my Aspen coffee. The little bottle of cleansing conditioner was 35.00 plus shipping and handling. What was a fantastic purchase to “High Kari” turned out to be a 50 dollar bottle of shampoo.

I debated about whether to ship it back or not. I am really lazy when it comes to shipping and mailing so I decided to put the infomercial claims to the test. I used Wen last night; followed the directions on the label for luxurious hair. 22 pumps of noxious lavender and honey creaminess did not convince me that High Kari had made a brilliant decision.

My hair was easy to brush out last night and is very soft and shiny this morning. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad purchase after all. I will endeavor to keep credit cards and internet access to a minimum during my next encounter with cough syrup.

Art with a 9-Year-Old Girl

Picasso is my all time favorite artist. I have been fortunate enough to see a few of his original works. My lifelong dream is to one day own an original Picasso. It could be just one of his sketches, I’m not choosy…

Ella has been giving me hell lately, as noted in previous blog entries. Her mood and the amount of my lameness depend on the minute of the day and are as changeable as poopy diapers. I have been trying hard to have some one on one time with her to help with her behavior, to no avail. So, imagine my surprise when my full-of-pretween-angst daughter waltzed into my bedroom last night with one of my art history books under her arm. She said “Hey Mom, let’s talk about Picasso’s Blue Period.” Seriously. My nine-year-old daughter perched atop my bed and opened an art history book about Picasso and began to discuss Cubism and her favorite Picasso work The Blue Room.

I won’t lie. My eyes were full of unshed tears as I gladly started discussing the varying mediums that Pablo used during his lifetime. At one point, Ella talked about the difference between Cezanne and Picasso by stating “Picasso uses so many round things in his work when the subject is  woman. I think that represents boobs.”

I emailed Ella’s teacher this morning telling her how thrilled I was to be discussing art history with my 3rd grader. They have been studying various classical artists and Ella has apparently been moved by this subject.

As Ella and I were spending quality time together discussing art, I remembered how she had vehemently told me how much she hated me not just 50 minutes prior to our art history lesson. At that point, I would have talked about Picasso’s Blue Period until I was blue in the face.

Our fine art discussion was coming to a close when Nate barreled into my bedroom. Completely without clothes, except a  red cowboy hat and a towel cape, Nate jumped across the floor on one foot and leapt upon my bed. With a devious glint in his eye and his furry caterpillar eyebrows drawn together, he told me he had a present for me. He turned around, spread his butt cheeks and farted.
Two out of three ain’t all that bad.

 

Pre-Tween Angst

It has begun my friends. Ella has reached the all important age of the pre-teen angst. I will not lie to you and tell you I was ready for this stage. I was and still am prepared. Depending on the hour of the day, I am either the greatest mother in the world or the sorriest excuse for a human being.

Luckily for Ella, I think her outbursts are hilarious. Instead of slapping her face, I laugh in it. I do believe this is much more effective. Now, I don’t laugh all the time. There are times when Ella yells at me and tells me I am stupid. That is unacceptable and Ella spends time in her room away from people and her ipod.

Mornings are the worst. As I flutter around the house snagging socks and homework, Ella hates the world. She does her best to find something wrong with each and everything I try to do for her. Socks are too tight, shirts are wrinkled, and I have been accused on more than one occasion of ratting her hair in the middle of the night just so I can torture her by brushing it the next morning. How can I not laugh at that? She’s right, I wait up planning my hair tangle attack, then creep into her room and rat her hair. Who needs sleep?

The funniest Ella outburst was one morning when we were fighting about clothes. After being accused of shrinking her jeans (which happens to my jeans ALL the time) and yelling in my face about my lameness in choice of clothing, I had it. I looked Ella in the eyes and quietly said “Ella, I am sorry you hate mornings, I am sorry you hate your clothes, but it is not ok to talk to your mother this way. You can wear the clothes we picked out last night or go to school naked. It matters not to me my dear.” To which Ella replied in her haughtiest pre-tween voice ”Your new boobs are too small and they are ugly!” Then slammed her bedroom door in my face. I laughed so hard that I peed my pants and had to change my outfit before work.

Thank heavens I have only the one girl. One Ella equals three regular girls. At least with the boys I just have to snake the toilet for matchbox cars and dig leggos from noses.

Can You Hear Me?

Every year I try to keep an account of absurdities that have spewed from my mouth and out to my children. I like to write them down when I remember to, so I can look back and laugh in the years to come. Many times I can be found amid screaming children with a dumbstruck look on my face saying “Did I really just say that?” Why yes, yes you did. Here are a couple of my favorites that I would like to share with you.

If you stab your brother with a fork, no ice cream for you.

Just because I changed my mind, that does not make me a liar.

Oh! That’s going to leave a mark.

Nope! If you keep jumping out of your window I will not take you to the ER to get stitches. I will do them myself, happily.

I don’t think I can untie that knot. You are going to have to drag the chair around with you until your father gets home.

Be quiet! I cannot hear Jim at OK Poison Control!

Nate, panties go on your butt, not on your head.

Anyone bleeding? Good, go back about your business.

Yes, I know he pooped in the yard. At least it was in the tall grass where no one will step in it.

No, your fist cannot fit into my mouth, ask your father.

Please refrain from throwing Hot Pockets at your sister.

Scissors are for cutting paper, not people.

Who is going to pick up all this foam?

Boogers go on tissues, not people.

Please do not kill each other until your father gets home.

That is my list for 2011. I always give out great advice around the holiday season, so I will make note of the good ones. I am off to dig a 3 year old out of the fireplace-no fire going of course…I hope….

Brand New Boobs

About 5 weeks ago, I had a breast reduction. I have always been well endowed, but the size of my girls reached a pinnacle the year after Natey was born. I breastfed for 3 out of 5 years in the mid 2000s. When my children were through chomping through my womanly assets, what was left was less than impressive. Well, really it was more-like double F more…

Having a breast reduction has been the best thing that I have ever done. It was not easy and very painful, but I feel like a new woman! I can actually wear shirts that button up, cling to my body, and I do actually have a waist! Gone are the shirts that look like maternity shirts or even resemble a tent. I may even wear a tank top next summer. Maybe not.

While prepping for the surgery, my plastic surgeon used an entire sharpie marker to mark up my chest. Embarrassingly, Darrick sat behind the doctor tilting his head this way and that. It was very odd to have another man fondle me while my husband just stood there and watched. I laughed the whole time, of course.

My children had to be very cautious not to bump into me, kick me or hit me. This was no small feat. Nick had his friend Harry spend the night with him the weekend after my surgery. I was sitting in a chair in our living room when Harry ran up to me and attempted to jump on my lap. Nick swooped in to stop him just in time to tell him “Harry, No! My mom just had her boobies shrinked and they hurt real bad.” Harry apologized and said “Oh yeah, my mom told me that, I forgot.” Nick said “That’s ok, they are just new and sore. Hey, you wanna see them?”

Sure Nick, let me pop out my new boobs and show your 7-year-old friend. Just have your dad bail me out of jail. Of course I didn’t show him, but I did have to tell his mother. I cannot imagine Nick coming home from a sleepover telling about his friend wanting to show Nick his mom’s new boobs.

I am still happily recovering. You can find me most days staring in a mirror and saying “WOW.”

For Better or Worse

The Big D and I have been married for 11 years. Eleven very long years, that is. There are many things I love about The Big D; his laugh, his strait white teeth, his parenting skills, and of course the fact that he loves me helps. There are about as many things I do not like about him as well. And then there is the largest category of endearing qualities that I love to hate.

Darrick is always late to church. I really don’t care if he is on time or not, but he sneaks in and pushes me down the pew while everyone is standing. As soon as we are told to sit, he throws his hand, palm up, on my side of the pew so he can cop a feel right there in front of God and everyone. He once was caught with his hand down my shirt as I was reaching for my purse to get our tithe. Classy much?

My 35th birthday approacheth. I have hinted heavily that I would love a trip to Vegas. I don’t think that will happen. I tried to get him to confirm plans to go to the HardRock in Tulsa or the WinStar at the Texas/OK line. For months I have discussed this with him. Last night as I was folding clothes, he decided to talk about my birthday. I know 35 isn’t a big deal, but my birthday is 11/11/11 this year. I feel the need to be in a casino.

He exclaimed that he figured out a brilliant plan to celebrate my birthday. His idea? Jump in one of his new Kenworth Semi trucks and haul a load. He really wasn’t kidding. Why not make a little money and take a road trip? Um, I don’t think celebrating my lucky birthday bathing in a public shower where I have to wear flip-flops and sharing a full-sized bed with The Big D is quite what I had in mind. Thank you for playing, next contestant please.

I hope that I will do something other than truck down the highway or fold clothes at home. We used to be exciting and adventurous. His spontaneity used to be endearing, now I just want to kick him in the neck. What changed our relationship you ask? Three little children, that’s what.

Just Like Me

As summer draws to a close, I am taking time to reflect about all that was good about this record-breaking-heat-filled summer. It was a good one. All the little Rains children had fun and got the opportunity to try new things.

The Big D and I had a lovely trip to Vegas-sans above mentioned little Rains children. He placed in a big poker tournament, I read 5 books while he read poker player’s tells. Then we all went on the first annual Rains Family Vacation. Not just my family, but Big D’s entire family. Seven adults and six children were hauled off to spend a few days in the same condo in Branson, Missouri.

We had many activities planned and did most of them. I even got on Uncle Devin’s big boat. I hate boats. Nick developed new courage by jumping off the boat into the lake, Nate discovered he can fit his little body into a plastic tote and close the lid, and Ella learned that she is even more like her dear mother.

Silver Dollar City is a popular stop while vacationing in Branson. The kids rode many rides and I along with them. I love amusement park rides. One of my life’s goals is to ride all the major roller coasters in the nation. During our trip to Branson, I discovered I was not the only Rains in the family with a love for rollercoasters.

Ella and I rode the big coaster at Silver Dollar City. I remember my first time riding a roller coaster, it was the Silver Bullet at Frontier City and it was with my mom. My eyes misted with tears when we were locked into the seat, I was carrying on the tradition.

When the ride jerked to a stop, Ella-eyes wide with adrenalin fueled excitement-looked over at me and said “Mom, I really am just like you!” I told her that I knew that she was, she too loved the thrill of the rollercoaster. “No, she replied, I peed my pants a little.” Along with the snarky attitude and big brown eyes, I passed along the bladder control gene to Ella as well.

I look forward to many more roller coaster rides with my oldest child. But next time, we will be properly attired.