Hear Her Roar

“Woman.

“Wo-man.

“Whoooaaa-Man!”

-Mike Meyers, So I Married an Axe Murderer

This past Valentine’s Day my adorable eight year daughter came home from school all flummoxed and flustered and let out an audible, “Hmph!!!”

“What’s the matter?” I inquired. “What happened?”

“Well, if I tell you about it, you’ll probably be happy because you don’t want any boys to like me until I’m sixteen.”

(Or older, but we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it…)

“Now I’m intrigued. What happened today at school? Something happen at the Valentine’s Day party?”

“It’s what didn’t happen. Nobody asked me to be their Valentine! Oh sure, I got little cards and Smarties from everyone in the class because they have to give everyone a Valentine, but no special Valentines! Nobody asked me to be their special Valentine!”

“Oh. I see. Did other girls get asked to be special Valentines?”

“Yes!!!”

“But not you.”

“No!!!!”

(She was right. That did make me happy. I confess, I nurse a fantasy called “Operation: Keep Her as Unattractive as Possible Until She’s 21.” It involves slipping the orthodontist a little extra to keep the braces on until graduation and an artichoke style haircut she mysteriously can never seem to grow out.)

“Well, you’re right. I’m glad boys aren’t giving you special gushy valentines right now. You know you can’t have any boyfriends until you’re sixteen. (At least!) What were you going to do if a boy did ask you to be their Valentine?”

“Well, I just wanted to be able to say ‘No!’”

Ah, there it is. A woman. She’s turning into a woman.

I don’t know why men think we’re so hard to figure out. I don’t know why they find our ways so mind boggling. Our needs are simple. We want to have our cake and retain the option whether or not to eat it too. But make no mistake, we still want the cake. Preferably chocolate.

We want the luxury of deflecting compliments with phrases like, “What, this old thing?” and “I’m flattered really, but…” But we still want the compliments. We even fish for them and then turn around and insist you’re “just saying that.” But we still want you to say them. We want to be able to ask you which outfit you like best, ignore your advice completely and still have you think we made the right choice in the end and look amazing and say so. Go on, speak up.

Honestly. Is that really so hard to understand?

And no, Professor Higgins, we can not, nor will ever be “more like a man” so you might as well make your peace with it.

So how did we resolve the second grade No Gushy Valentine debacle of 2012? With loads of compliments and praise, of course. And a bit of chocolate.

Victory

I did it. I beat Paul at Words With Friends. 8th game’s a charm.

I nearly cried.

Victory is sweet.

Burying Weapons of War for Peace

There’s a story in the scriptures about a group of people so penitent and contrite that they buried their weapons of war deep in the earth as a symbol of their promise never to fight again.

It’s a touching gesture. But after today, I’m not so sure those weapons weren’t buried by frustrated mothers who were sick and tired of all the arguing over whose sword was who’s.

Let’s just say there is a plastic toy sword being buried deep in our city’s landfill as we speak…

It all starts so innocent, doesn’t it? A gift. Yesterday somebody gave us a toy sword as a present. Just because! So nice. So thoughtful. One caveat: I have two small boys who are very much into toy swords. That’s right. Two small boys, one sword. One sword, two small boys. Houston, we have a problem.

Oh sure, we set timers and tried to take turns. We calmly lectured (ok, so maybe not “calmly”) about the virtue of sharing, and attempted again and again to broker “deals” (that sword for my special Lego ninja…) but it was all in vain. There was crying, wailing and gnashing of teeth at every turn from the moment they opened the package till the sun went down.

“It’s my sword!!”
“No, it’s my turn to play with it!!”
“My turn was too short!!”
“You said I could have it after breakfast!!”
“But I just waaaaant it!!!”

After hours and hours of this, I’d had it. As only a fed up mother can do, I snatched the sword out of their gimme-gimme clutches and dramatically marched out into the cold night air with it. All the children waddled behind me like incredulous little ducklings in their cold, stockinged feet, wondering what in the world I was up to with that crazed look in my eye. Down the driveway, through the snow, and around to the side of the house where the big black trash bin lives, I thrust the three dollar piece of plastic down into it’s dark depths with flare.

“There! It’s gone! It’s nobody’s sword now! Problem solved.”

Tell me someone else has moments like these.

My mother-in-law was notorious for cutting the electric cables to the TV as her no-nonsense attempt to snap her children out of it’s captivating spell. Cut them! Just like that. With real scissors! She did this several times. (I’m not sure whether they kept buying new TVs or if they got to know the TV repair man pretty well.) I used to not be able to wrap my head around such drastic measures. Talk about brazen.

Now I totally get it.

As a result, my husband and his brothers grew up learning how to splice wires together and fix things. Who knows? Maybe my boys will grow up to be archeologists.

I can only imagine what other mothers have buried deep in the earth, during their more colorful moments, over the ages. I can’t be the only one.

Words with Friends (and husbands…)

Right now the score is 190 to 193. I’m in the lead with 23 tiles remaining. I’m hopeful, but I have to be realistic. Out of the seven heated Words With Friends games my husband and I have played together, he’s won…well, seven. That’s right, I’m 0-7. Pathetic, isn’t it? And I keep coming back for more.

I knew he was smart when I met him and he beat me playing a friendly game of chess while watching a basketball game on TV and composing a letter on his laptop in Chinese characters. I learned he was really, really smart when we were engaged and he beat my father at Boggle on his own turf. Then I knew he was super duper smart when he schooled our daughter at Memory. (And she’s really good. I mean it. Scary good.)

So I don’t know why I’m so surprised that I can’t manage to beat him at this blasted Words With Friends game!

In my defense, I come close. We’re often neck and neck until the final letters are played, and then he comes up with a word like “Taj” with his last three tiles for a whopping 50 points and wins the whole game! Ya. Taj. I know, my computer is underlining the word in red right now as I type because it does not consider “taj” a real word, but apparently the Words With Friends people have spent some time in India and have added “taj” to their database of acceptable plays. Who knew?

No, he does not use a “Cheat Words With Friends” app. He thinks things like that are a disgrace to the game. He’s a purist. (And I checked his phone.) And because he doesn’t, I don’t. But I confess, I have Googled, “words that start with Q with no U.” I had to look that one up when he blew me out of the water with “qi.” (Then twisted the knife with “qis.” Plural. Oooh, he’s good.)

He says I’m a nice sparring partner. (I’m playing to win and he’s sparring. Nice.) Believe it or not, he likes the practice. You know, keep the senses sharp, because when his clients learn he’s a “Words With Friends-er” they all beg to challenge him. And what better way to build rapport and earn the respect of your business clients than smoking them at a smartphone game of Scrabble?

Plus, all of this sparring, so-called, has been a nifty way to stay in touch as he travels abroad on business. It’s hard to chat on the phone during such trips when our time zones are incompatible, so I love waking up in the morning and checking my phone to see what word he’s played next. It’s fun.

Which is why I’ll be a touch sad if and when I finally beat him. You see, that will have to be the last time I play. Leave on a high note. Declare that round the high-stakes tourney and myself the grand champion and walk away. Never to look back!

Or will the taste of victory only whet my appetite and make me hungry for more?

I’m getting ahead of myself here. I’m only winning by three points and I’ve still got to figure out what in the world to do with this 10 point Q and I haven’t got a U!! (Or even an I for that matter. Now that’s just bad qi.)

 

 

Heart Throbs

 

Obsessed. Their mother has become obsessed. Give her a camera for Christmas and before you know it, she’s converted the nursery into a portrait studio! (That big picture window in there lets in lots of great light.)

I know, I know…I need help. Yesterday I found a cheap heart table cloth, hung it up with clothespins in the “studio” and begged my grade schoolers to sit in front of it. An hour later I was at Costco picking up their new homemade Valentine’s Day cards.

I, of course, think they are adorable. Andy, on the other hand, needs a little convincing. Okay, so it’s not exactly a “macho” looking card. But then Valentine’s Day isn’t exactly a macho holiday now is it? So what if his card looks like the cover of “Teen Bop?”

I’m sure I’m not the only girl who thinks he’s dreamy.

Soap on the Box

 

Someone’s got amnesia. Now it’s official. Downton Abbey is a bonafide soap opera, and I’m hooked!

I’ve never liked soaps. It’s always “later the same day” and the plot painfully trudges along with no resolution, ever. (I had a roommate in college who pledged allegiance to Days of Our Lives…15 years later, I’m confident the same love triangle angst that existed on the show then has yet to be resolved.) And then the plots are just plain whacky, what with all the mistaken identities, evil twins, amnesia. Please…

But when portrayed with British accents and set 100 years in the past, I can’t seem to get enough! And don’t we just love Maggie Smith? I find myself giddy with anticipation each Sunday night, waiting for Monday morning to come so I can watch the replay on PBS.org. I thought I was watching something dignified. After all, it has the word “classic” in the title: Masterpiece Classic. Alastair Cooke in a velvet arm chair? It has to be worth watching!

But when that soldier, maimed with burns from the war, hobbled up the steps of the stately manor and claimed amnesia, it hit me: it’s a stinking soap. I’m hooked on a soap! I half expected “Stephano” to come lurking around the corner twisting his mustache, pondering his nefarious scheme.

These characters aren’t real. The show is of no consequence to me and my life. So why can’t I rest until I know once and for all if Mary and Matthew will ever get married?!

And for the record, I think this Patrick with amnesia character is a fraud. I’m calling it. Who’s with me?

Shutter Bug

I’m loving the online photography 101 course I’m taking right now. Click here for more info. Sure, I’m annoying my kids by constantly brandishing a telephoto lens in their faces all day long in the name of “homework” and sure, they ‘re sick of my forcing them to recreate spontaneous moments, hit marks, hold still while I adjust the white balance, wait, hold still just a minute longer while I adjust the f-stop…wait, now the shutter speed…Hey! I said, HOLD STILL!! And well, generally just my sucking all the fun out of things like playing in the snow….

But I’m getting some great shots.

I imagine the fun sucking will lessen as I practice more and more and get better at it. I’m hoping soon I’ll be able to make all these adjustments quickly and painlessly so I can capture their moments with perfect exposure and composition, thus giving them the ultimate gift of a well preserved childhood.

But in the meantime, maybe I should practice with still lifes. After all, bowls of fruit don’t stomp inside the house complaining that they’re cold right when the lighting gets perfect.

But bowls of fruit don’t make me melt like they do either…

 

 

Face Time

I’m not one for jumping out in front of a video camera. Not if I know it’s on. I’d much rather be the one holding it. Something about that playback button…Does my voice really sound like that? Is that what my hair really looks like from the back? Yikes! How do my friends even stand me? I’d simply rather go on living not thinking about the answers to those questions.

This is why I’m so hesitant to bust out the video cam on the computer or chat via “Face Time” instead of over a normal phone, voices only, how nature intended.

What if someone Face Time calls me and I’ve yet to shower? Worse, what if I’m just out of the shower? Or even worse, just woke up and still have zit cream on my chin?! I knew this whole video phone thing was a bad idea when I saw it on “The Jetson’s” thirty years ago. Who looks perfectly coiffed and manicured at every possible moment with a very clean house as her backdrop besides Jane Jetson? And she had Rosie!

But today we found our old Flip video camera. It was buried in a drawer, stashed in frustration when I couldn’t figure out how to recharge it. But today it reemerged and it’s treasure trove of clips finally made it’s debut onto my screen. (Have I mentioned how much I love my new computer?)

The kids and I gathered around the monitor after dinner tonight, absolutely transfixed by the utter cuteness of their yesteryears. One by one, each of us sighed,

“Were we ever that young?”

The footage was only three years old and I know three years doesn’t sound like a long time, but childhood years are like dog years. Infant to three year old is a lifetime. Seven to ten year old– eons.

There is something almost tangible about watching children on film. Their voices, their movements, mannerisms, looks and glances…I felt as though I could reach through the screen, reach back through time and touch them! Pinch those cheeks just one more time!

How had I forgotten my preschooler used to be was a baby? How had I forgotten my big boy used to not be able to pronounce his R’s correctly in that adorable way? I do remember thinking that those days would last forever, but apparently, they didn’t. The scary thing is, I still often think, “These days will last forever,” and now I know they won’t.

My husband’s mother never liked having her picture taken, let alone allow a camcorder to pan in her direction either. There is not a single photograph of her in her wedding dress because she felt too self conscious about it. She was beautiful. She sang in choirs, starred in plays, but to my knowledge there is not a single video or a Super 8 of any of it.

She passed away this week, and oh, what we would give to be able to gather around a screen and see her moving, laughing, singing and acting, just one more time. Reach through the screen, reach through time, and touch her again.

Then be able to hit Rewind.

My goal is overcome my pride and make more cameos in our home videos for posterity’s sake. Because as much fun as it was to watch my little ones from just three years ago, I think they will get a hoot out of seeing my husband and I when it’s not three, but thirty years ago. Fifty? More? And I’m sure they’ll each sigh,

“Where they ever that young?”