Not Feeling the Love, People

What we have here is a failure to communicate. Actually, I am communicating just fine. You, on the other hand, apparently have nothing to say. So what is it? Have my posts lately been too serious? Depressing? Boring? The only reader I've heard from recently is my pastor. That's a bad sign. Maybe I've been too religious or conflicted in my faith? I just don't know how to please you people.  And you know how sensitive I am. You know everything I do I do it for you for recognition.

Lately my bruxism (teeth grinding and clenching) has been so bad that I've had terrible aching in both sides of my neck and shooting pains in my right ear. Bruxim is caused by stress. I don't want to make you feel bad, but that stress is directly related to you never leaving a comment on my blog. It has nothing to do with being the mother of a teenager, or any of the other issues that have made me so angry of late. Nope, it's all your fault.

I'm afraid I'm going to have to take some time off from this blogging thing and let you decide if you miss me and want me back. And if you think I'm being harsh and that you don't deserve this, just imagine what it was like to date me. Rob was heavily into drugs when he proposed.

Before I sign off, I'm going to leave you with a new volume of HARO (Help a Reporter Out) "Weird Requests." Then, I'm outta here. Unless I hear from at least 50 25 10 5 of you, begging me to stay, I'm never coming back. Farewell, cruel blogosphere!

Top 10 Weird Requests from HARO (Help a Reporter Out )

1. What should women eat to shed pounds?  I'm going to go out on a limb here and say "Less."
2. Stressed relationships & arguing during Halloween  Seriously? Your relationship is in real trouble if you argue over costumes and what kind of candy to give the trick-or-treaters.
3. Men willing to talk about menopausal partners  Better make those men sign a waiver because you know there is a strong possibility of bodily harm should their menopausal partner find out about this little "talk."
4. How do dogs celebrate outside the USA? I confess, I didn't realize that American dogs have their own way of celebrating. But then, I've never been invited to one of their parties.
5. Need diapering expert for major parenting website  Just goes to show you that everyone can be  an expert in something.
6. Have ghosts damaged something in your home? So the kids were telling the truth when they both said "I didn't do it!"?
7. Knife expert needed for Playboy Magazine This may represent a whole new level of kinky I just don't want to know about.
8. Embarrassing parents/mates/family Really, they needed to put out a search for this? Just ask the guy in the next cubicle over. There's an embarrassment in every family.
9. Is this a bad time to be a clown?  There's nothing funny about that.
10. How has your life changed since you had a baby? Not at all, really. Though there is this little alien creature who occasionally cries and seems to want my attention. Not sure what that's all about...

You know what you need to do now, right?

Kicking and Screaming and Nearer My God to Thee

We didn't have many traditions in our family when I was a kid. There was nothing particularly unique about our holiday celebrations. We didn't have a special way of celebrating birthdays. No stories were told around the campfire (probably because we didn't go camping). My parents didn't sweat it when I chose to skip college and grad school graduation ceremonies, or when I decided to write my own wedding vows, or when I opted to keep my family name instead of taking Rob's. I guess I'm just not a traditional kind of girl.

There is, however, one Shimer tradition that has carried over to my family:

The Sunday pre-church meltdown. 

When I was a kid, there was something about trying to get all four of us to church that resulted in rather unChristian-like behavior. Our church was about a half-hour away and my parents were big into punctuality. This meant we were always rushing around at the last minute, becoming stressed out and irritable in the process. By the time we got in the car no one was speaking. If we were lucky, our iciness toward each other slowly thawed during Sunday school and the church service. It was an experience you knew would repeat itself each and every Sunday. The result was that going to church was preferable only to going to the dentist.

The church that Rob, the kids, and I attend is about eight minutes away and I'm the only one who cares about punctuality. The three of them are always taking their good old time and I become stressed out and irritable waiting for them. We've I've been known to spiral downward into yelling, threatening, demanding, and bribing, while Rob prefers quietly seething or being the funny guy to break the tension. As for the kids, they react with whining, pleading, pouting, and sulking. By the time we get in the car, no one is speaking and you know the experience will repeat itself next Sunday. You see the similarities here?

Well, in an effort to break with the Sunday pre-church meltdown tradition, I have made the unquestionably most likely wrong decision to no longer beg bribe cajole require my children to go to Sunday school or church. Despite being an elder and a former Sunday school teacher, and although I know it looks bad to others, I just can't handle the fight that's involved. It's not so much a case of "picking my battles," as it is about the state of mind I find myself in after the battle. As you know or can probably guess, I'm an open book with my emotions and I don't need to bring that scary face to church.

This past Sunday was a case-in-point. Abby decided at the very last minute (I literally was already in the car) that she would come to church with us. She was wearing the clothes she slept in and I've seen rat's nests that looked better than her hair. My anger (which we already know is at maximum capacity these days) did not subside through the entire service. I was so frustrated with her I told her she shouldn't go up for communion looking the way she did. I know, I know. God would not approve of my behavior. He was perfectly happy seeing Abby in church regardless of how she looked.

I am really at a loss as to how to get my children to church, a place I love dearly, without going through the Sunday morning ordeal. I'm already preparing myself for next year when Ian has confirmation class. I've told him he's going whether he likes it or not, but that will in no way keep him from giving me grief about it each and every Sunday. I realize I can deny my children the things they most enjoy unless they accompany me, but that seems like a great way to ensure that they despise the mere thought of church.

I can't be the first church-going mom to deal with this, so I'm open to eager for desperately seeking your advice. What's worked for you?

I'm Mad as Hell

I do not count anger management issues among my many character flaws. But maybe I should make that past tense, because lately I've been angry a lot. In fact my chi is so outta whack I haven't even felt like writing for my stupid blog. See what I mean?

My anger may have been awakened by the spectacular collapse of the Phillies in the post-season. If they hadn't choked, I would've been in Texas last week, enjoying a nice juicy steak before rooting on the team at the World Series. Instead, I'm in Wallingford with a pain in my neck. Literally. The left side of my neck has been bugging me. I'm sure it would have felt fine if I was in Texas.

While we're on the subject of the Phillies, it ticked me off today to see Jimmy Rollins post on Facebook that he's psyched that the Series is going to game 7. Excuse me? I don't think the Phillies players should be allowed to even watch the Series, much less get excited about it.

And it's not just the Phillies I'm angry with. Parenting my kids is also making me crazy. Sometimes it feels so damn difficult that I just want to throw up my hands and say "You're on your own, kid. I have no idea what I'm doing here." And because I feel so overwhelmed and under-qualified, their mere presence can make me want to scratch somebody's eyes out. The other night, a dead laptop battery (the fault of a certain child) resulted in my throwing things and slamming doors. The only positive in that scenario was that I only threw clothing, nothing that could break. My anger apparently has financial limits.

Next on my list of anger targets? Book buyers. Specifically Christian book buyers. Where are they? Why aren't they buying really solid Judson Press titles? I'm doing everything in my marketing power to promote them and still the needle's not budging. What do I have to resort to, a naked clergy calendar? That might work, actually. If any of my pastoral readers are interested, let me know (but don't send naked pictures unless requested).

And what's with the freakin' government? Why, based on false assumptions, did we fight an unwinnable war that killed nearly 5,000 of our soldiers? Why do we take care of the world before we take care of our own citizens? Why am I paying into Social Security and Medicare when all signs point to it not being there for me when I retire? Why does it seem the whole system is going to hell in a hand basket and I don't think anyone has a clue what to do about it?

But Phillies, kids, book buyers, and the government aside, I think I'm mostly angry at God these days. It's new territory for me and it's not a good place to be. I'm angry at God because He continues to make life most difficult for those who least deserve it. Yesterday a colleague died after battling brain cancer for several years. He was in his early 50s and leaves behind three children. And my dear friend Ann, also a victim of brain cancer, continues to fight for her life while her husband and nine-year-old son can only pray. Truth be told, I'd like God to wipe out some of the bad guys with this cancer shit, and leave the good ones alone. He can tell the difference, can't He?

I guess I owe you an apology. I shouldn't have dumped all that on you, but I suppose it may help to get it off my chest. Just to be safe, it's probably best to keep dishes and glassware out of my reach for a while.

I'll try to be cheerier next time. Promise.

Freaky Tuesday

Last Tuesday was Freaky Friday. You know, the movie where the mom and the daughter switch bodies and roles (back when Lindsay Lohan had a career)? That happened with Abby and me. I have to admit I've seen it coming. Along with all her impressive qualities, Abby also is a control freak bossy enjoys being in charge. Just ask her brother. She routinely hounds bitches at instructs suggests ways for him to get his shit together improve the way he does things, even something as trivial as refilling water bottles.

Signs that Abby's need to run the household control things was getting a bit out of hand occurred a couple weeks ago when she informed me, after my directive, that she would not bring in the garbage cans from the street because, "That's Ian's job. He's the boy." There are two problems with that statement:

1. Assigning gender roles is not appropriate for the girl who wants to be the first female president of the United States.
2. I'm the mom and I'm pretty sure that I'm supposed to be in control around here, not her.

When I explained this, she pointed out that Ian should do it because, "It's the only exercise he gets." Clearly I need to watch what I say around her.

But let me set the stage for Freaky Tuesday. Here's a brief summary of events leading up to our official role reversal: 

1. Sunday night, our usual routine. Abby goes to bed. I tuck her in and kiss her goodnight.
2. Monday morning, I decide on the spur of the moment that I'm going to visit my parents that evening. I pack an overnight bag so I can leave directly from work. 
3. Abby is still asleep when I leave for work.
4. I spend Monday night at my parent's house. Talk to Abby briefly on the phone.
5. I spend most of Tuesday with my parents. When I arrive home around 5:00 p.m., Abby is at soccer practice. 
6. I leave home at 6:20 p.m. for a meeting at church.
7. Abby arrives home from soccer around 6:45 p.m. that evening.
8. I call Abby from church around 8:00 p.m. to tell her my meeting is over but that I need to get together briefly with a couple of people. I will be home in about an hour. 

And that's when the switch occurs:

Abby:  [Heavy sigh] You're never home anymore. I haven't seen you in forever.  

Mom: [Guilt ridden; realizing it's been almost 48 hours] You're right. I'm sorry. I'll come home now.

Abby: Nooo, it's okay. Go ahead.

Mom:  No, really. I'm coming home.

Abby: (Laying on thick layers of guilt) Noooo. Just do what you have to do.

Mom: Are you sure?

Abby: Yes. I'll see you when you get home.

I have a confession to make. The part I left out of my conversation with Abby was that I was going to "meet with a couple people" at Iron Hill Brewery. For a beer. Now granted, they were from my church committee, and we were possibly probably going to discuss church stuff, but still... It hit me that I had become the teenager, out with my friends, while Abby had become the mom, complaining about never seeing her daughter anymore and laying on the guilt big time.

While a large part of me enjoys the mere thought of being the kid again and thus having no grown-up responsibilities, I'm pretty sure that some day very soon, Abby and I will swap roles again. And I'll be waiting in vain to spend time with my daughter because she's too busy with her friends.

You Can Go Home Again

You know how selfless moms are? They spend more money on their children than they do on themselves. They save the last piece of cake for the kids. They devote every waking minute to make sure the needs of their offspring are being met. Based on that description, I'm not actually a mom. I'm more of a mother (don't say it).

My mom, however, was, and is, that kind of mom.

Yesterday was mom's 70th birthday. You know what that means? It means I'm getting old. (Notice how I bring everything back to me?). Monday night I drove to my parent's house (about an hour away) to surprise my mom. She was certainly surprised given that I haven't been there in months. She was probably shocked that I remembered how to get there (but she was smart enough not to say it).

I love my parents dearly. I enjoy their company. I don't, however, feel the need to go home to their house. After all, I am a busy woman with a full-time professional career, a stupid number of volunteer responsibilities, and two children who can't drive. This means my free time is limited and, when I have any, I want to be home with my family and friends. This is another example of how not selfless (I suppose you could say "selfish") I am.

I also frequently point out (or would point out if I didn't think I would get in trouble for my "back talk") that they are retired and therefore have all the time in the world to come visit me at my house. In between soccer games, church stuff, school events, and social obligations, that is.

And that leads me to my "a ha" moment. I think my parents want me to visit them at their house because they get to have me all to themselves (and who wouldn't want that?). They don't compete with all the stuff going on in my life when I'm there. They don't have to listen to me yell at the kids (there's less to yell about at Nana's house). Of course they don't have to drive and spend the money on gas, either. (Where do you think I get my thriftiness?) And I think being together in my childhood home reminds them of when I was a little girl and they were the center of my world. As my children get older and I imagine them moving out and moving on, I have a sense for what that will feel like (though these days my children moving out sounds like nirvana).

Naturally my surprise visit for mom became a treat for me. Dad shared stories from when he was a young Navy sailor hitchhiking his way home from South Carolina. Mom passed along a small photo album from their wedding which had belonged to my grandmother. We ate out for every meal (I spent the night and much of Tuesday). I slept really well. And we laughed. A lot. I always forget what a respite going home can be.

Mom, Happy Birthday. I love you. And thanks for guilting me into coming home.

My party girl. Mom and I on St. Patty's Day 2011.

When There's No Need to Lie; A Celebration of Friendship

Last week in "You Annoy Me, or, I'm Busy this Month," I explained how I encouraged accepted understood my children's need tendency to lie when it comes to the difficult experience of breaking up with a friend. Despite a good scolding from a coworker (thank you, Patricia), I must stand by my comments, simply because I know if the shoe were on my foot, I'd also lie to save someone's feelings. Actually been there, done that.

Lest you think I'm just a mean, bitter woman, raising children to deceive others and squelch perfectly good friendships, today I want to share with you the inspiring story of a relationship involving no malice and requiring no subterfuge (my 25¢ word for the day). My daughter Abby has a best friend, Maddie, whom I wish she could some day marry. Okay, that came out wrong. I meant to say that I hope some day Abby can marry someone like Maddie. Well, you know what I mean. The friendship of these two ten-year-olds is really something special:

• They are equals in practically every way (though Maddie is a good bit taller)
• They bring out the best in one another
• They make each other laugh, think, and grow
• They avoid petty jealousies and typical tween girl issues
• When at each other's houses, the parents forget that the other child is not actually part of the biological family
• The in-laws parents are great friends who thoroughly enjoy each other's company (well, I suppose I should only speak for myself on this one)

These girls are truly one-of-a-kind, or I should say two-of-a-kind. They both possess determination, focus, skills, creativity, and intelligence beyond their years, impressing and inspiring both sets of parents. This type of friendship is so rare at their age, at any age really, and when I reflect upon it, I realize that these are the same qualities that define a solid marriage. Hence my marriage comment earlier.

Our children will almost certainly have friendships that as parents we find toxic unacceptable disappointing, but when these good ones come along, they are cause for celebration and encouragement. So today, Maddie and Abby, I celebrate your wonderful friendship. And Ian and Noah, you've got something really cool, too. And Angels, well, I can't imagine life without you. Isn't friendship a beautiful thing!

 "Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art... It has no survival value; rather it is one of those things that give value to survival." --C.S. Lewis

My Abby, Maddie, and friend Abby L.

Hair and shoes and face, oh my!

Life is mostly a series of little everyday moments, but once in awhile we hit a turning point (which can be as painful as it sounds). Those times in our lives when everything changes. When the decisions we make alter our destiny. In reflecting on my own 42 years (and it's not even my birthday), I've noted some high and low points that made me the woman I am today:

1976:  Remedial gym class. Explains why I am unable to accurately high-five at sporting events.

1980:  My Connie Chung destiny. I impressively narrated the school concert.

1986:  Discovered whipped cream and lobster tail, though not at the same time.

1988:  First seriously toxic relationship ("I'll never love again!").

1991:  My friend Rob told me we were "compatible, so..."

1992:  Decided my first NYC boss and rollerblades were the devil's spawn.

1993:  Fell victim to the joy of dessert at Mirabella's in Stone Harbor. It was almond amaretto cake. I've wanted dessert ever since.

1995:  Married my friend Rob. We are compatible. 

1998 (May): Gave birth, without an epidural, to my split personality teenage son. Decided to stay home with child.

1998 (September): Added the Phillies to our phamily.

2001: Gave birth, with an epidural, to the first female president of the United States of America.

2001: Decided I could no longer stay home with teen and president and keep sanity. Returned to work

2006: Met angels.

2009: Broke concrete with elbow. Thankfully did not break elbow.

2011:  Began mid-life crisis.

I think it started with the professional hair coloring. I would be at least 50% gray if I wasn't coloring. It became too cumbersome to keep up with at home. I bought a Groupon and took my chances with a salon I'd never been to before. The rest is history.

Along with the hair coloring came the eyebrow tweezing. It didn't occur to me to do anything with my brows until a couple years ago. Now suddenly they need as much regular attention as my hair. And don't get me started on the upper lip stuff.

While at my Groupon salon I mentioned those annoying not-so-fine lines above my upper lip. The owner gave me a sample of some doctor-approved face cream that was sure to solve the problem. She told me to try it out before buying a tub of the stuff for about $532 (only a slight exaggeration). I have seen no improvement, but then I don't remember to use it everyday. So the crevices remain. Is it time for Botox? I can always ask my dentist.

And speaking of facial issues, what's with the pimples? A mid-life crisis should not include teenage zits. I'm applying cover-up like spackle. What's next? Laser resurfacing?

Then there was the Great Shoe Awakening of 2011 (not to be confused with Hurricane Irene or the east coast earthquake which were mere inconveniences). I woke up one day and realized all my shoes were crap. I threw out half of them and replaced them. At Nordstrom. Most of them look like the shoes I tossed, but at least they're from Nordstrom instead of Target. A move in the right (albeit expensive) direction.

And the most recent indication of my mid-life crisis is my second hair cut in about a month's time. I used to go for six months without a cut, now I'm unsatisfied a week later. In my latest reinvention (yesterday), I went with  bangs. To cover the zits. Of course now the haircut doesn't match any of my clothes. And you can guess what that means...