The Mother Load

Published December 16, 2007
St. George Spectrum & Daily News

There is a story attributed to Victor Hugo about a mother who, having a piece of bread to share between her two children and herself, broke it in half and gave it to her children. Soldiers observing this were divided as to why the mother took no bread for herself. The first assumed she was not hungry. The second made the more astute observation when he said, "It is because she is a mother."

You're hearing me here, sisters, aren't you?

Now, I've never been in a situation quite as dire as that, unless you count the time some well intentioned but misguided individual planned a Muffins for Moms event at my children's elementary school and then refused to allow any of the children to share in the muffins. Breaking my oversized muffin in half and giving it to my kids was done because I'm a mother. Storming into the principal's office and complaining and having the muffin nazi thrown out was done because I'm a hothead. (PTA, this is why I am still not a member.)

So, it's Christmas/Birthday time for me, and in seasons past, this time of year would lead me into my traditional Christmas Conundrum. Do I spend my gift money on myself or do I spend it on the kids? Do I choose a so-called high road and sacrifice to my own detriment, or do I accept my own worth and treat myself at the risk of feeling selfish? 11 years of motherhood mixed with a couple of years of pretty intense therapy have lead me out of conundrum and into compromise.

When it comes to shopping for myself, I get creative. There's some kind of pre-purchase penance I do in order to feel like an adequate nurturer before committing the "sin" of self indulgence. For me, that means justifying any purchase by conforming it to a set of rules. 1) The purchase must be naturally cheap or so reduced in price that it cannot NOT be purchased. 2) The purchase must serve the family in some way.

Why the need for compromise? After all, it's gift money intended for me. There really isn't a reason I should feel the need to justify spending gift money on myself. The only answer I can give you is, "Because I am a mother." Even if I'm taking this whole concept to an unhealthy level, if you're a mom, you know what I'm talking about. You give them your body for nine months (longer if you're nursing), and something inside of you changes until you want to give them everything. And how.

Last year, I spent my birthday money on a new wok to replace the broken one that had been sorely missed. The kids love my noodles with the homemade sauce. I spent my Christmas money on a stereo for the kitchen, the better to entertain my children with Weird Al and They Might Be Giants every day before dinner. This year, I've pooled my money and bought an outrageously low priced, used laptop computer from my neighbors. The kids now have free rein of the "big computer" for games and homework, and I can do my own schoolwork at the table with them during homework time.

Someday, I may get to the point at which I can spend a little something on myself without thinking of how it will benefit my kids...maybe after another two years of therapy. Maybe all I'll ever do is realize that taking good care of myself means taking better care of my kids, so any purchase for me benefits them too, and in the end, they'll thank me for my balanced example.

Well, that's just crazy talk. Here kids, have a muffin.

Published December 9, 2007
St. George Spectrum & Daily News

You better watch out. You better not cry. You better not pout. I'm telling you why...Santa Claus is coming to town, all right, and according to the song, he's got a twice-checked list in that sleigh. Which column did you make this year?

It's a shame we don't find these things out until the big day. Sure, most people SHOULD know if they've been naughty or nice throughout the year, but I'm willing to bet there will be a large portion of the population on Christmas morning standing, jaws slack in absolute shock, beholding stockings filled not with chocolate and perfume but ugly lumps of coal.

The good news is that I've joined forces with Santa Claus this year to give certain citizens the heads up. Don't mistake this information as a chance at absolution. It's too late for that. There is no such thing as deathbed confession when it comes to the big guy in red. You've had all year to do right by society. We just thought perhaps the advanced notice would give you a head start on making a change for 2008.

Man in large truck who nearly rammed my car as he was driving out of a parking lot last night, then honked at ME like it was my fault: NAUGHTY. Sure, people make careless errors on the road all the time. A wave and a sheepish smile might have gotten you on the nice list, buddy. May Karma flatten your tires.

Person who stole the cash in my wallet: NAUGHTY. You're not even getting the coal treatment. Santa's bringing you every smelly diaper I've changed since becoming a mother. That's five smelly bottoms in quick succession. Have fun with that. The man who found my wallet and took great pains to find me and return it is, of course, on the top of the nice list. He gets every hug and kiss I've been given since becoming a mother.

Richard Simmons: NAUGHTY. Your song "It's the Most Fattening Time of the Year," is in no way amusing or motivational. If I want to chow down on pie and egg nog until I have to be rolled from a room, I'll do so without your commentary, thank you. The management of the radio station which played this song at the precise moment I was taking a bite of my lovely chocolate chip muffin have also made the naughty list. To the makers of the muffin: You are nice...so very, very nice.

Britney Spears: NAUGHTY. Not that I've ever considered you an upstanding citizen, but woman, what happened to you? Are you out of your mind? A) You're a mother. Act like it. B) White trash is not the new urban chic, no matter what your stylist tells you. C) The charcoal would be very useful in ridding the narcotics from your system, so make use of it. Just a thought.

The United States Congress: NAUGHTY. If I wanted nothing but whining, arguing, and stonewalling to happen, I'd have sent my children to Washington and told them it was time to clean their rooms. Santa and I are taking the next pay raise you vote yourselves and sending you all to obedience school.

I know. It's never nice to find out you're on the naughty list, but take heart. The new year is less than a month away. You have a chance, a real chance, to make something of yourselves. All is not lost. There is hope. Unless, of course, you're the inventors the of Wii.

Santa has a whole other list for you, and it involves fire ants and Barry Manilow music.

Published December 2, 2007
St. George Spectrum & Daily News

November 14 was a momentous day in my household. I know, I know. I have momentous days all the time. It's one of the cool things about having five kids. One child would give me several occasions per year that I could call momentous. Multiplied by five, the momentous day potential leaves me giddy to the point of collapse.

Michael was the child in question on that Wednesday two weeks ago. He made the day momentous by being kind enough to have a birthday...and not just any birthday. Michael's cake was topped by candles numbering three. Say it with me now...MO-MENT-OUS!

If you're a mom, it won't be difficult to understand where I'm coming from here. The third birthday is a big event. It's HUGE! At this point, I'm not sure there is any birthday more exciting or welcome than a child's third birthday. Yes, the first is fun with its lone candle and cake-covered face. 16 is exciting (terrifying?) with the promise of adulthood around the corner the prospect of driving right there on the doorstep. But three...three is THE year, my friends.

Three is the year mothers all over the U.S. get to tone down the worrying (just a notch, of course). You see, three is a magic age in which a child suddenly stops looking for windpipe trouble around every corner. I'm talking about choking, people. My youngest Wilson has officially passed the choking hazard age limit and has been promoted to raisins...peanuts...hot dogs. That's right! Michael has the go ahead to eat hard candy!

Let me tell you, this is a relief! It's been a long, lonely 11 years, raising children who could at any moment decide to choke on anything that happened to be lying on the carpet. It's been a long three years, getting Michael to this point. And with four older children who crossed the three year threshold many moons ago and therefore have no small-toy part restrictions, it hasn't been easy keeping things off the carpet.

Mothering a child under three is kind of like walking through a minefield...a minefield of legos and board game parts. The hazards are everywhere. And by the time a child gets to be about two, he's smart enough to realize you're not letting him have what everyone else has, but not quite developed enough to understand why.

Fortunately for us, Michael has crossed over into the world of the "3 and ups." If Miriam dumps her craft beads all over the floor in her room, we're good. If Ray spills his rock collection or Cate empties Monopoly, it's going to be all right. That long awaited day has come at last! I feel like making a t-shirt for Michael that says, "It's okay! I won't try to eat it!" (I wonder if I could get him to wear it every day.)

Now that my youngest has made this giant leap for all toddlerkind, I'm left to wonder how I'll fill my time. Perhaps now, I can finally take up tennis. Maybe I'll learn to water ski. I don't know. What I do know is that I don't have to worry about that bag of butterscotch candies my friend gave me or the container of marbles just waiting to be tipped over. Michael is three now, and this mother's butterscotch filled dreams just came true. For the time being, he is safe.

Until Evelyn introduces him to matches, of course.

Published November 25, 2007
St. George Spectrum & Daily News

As I prepared my Thanksgiving feast this week, I did something I thought I would never do. On the advice of my friend, Kris, who shared our meal with us, I opted for adventure and did something different with my sweet potatoes. Some of you may remember a rather strongly worded column from a few years ago about my feelings on sweet potatoes and my absolute refusal to further sweeten them in any way. Thursday, I threw all of that out the window, grabbed my batch of mashed, orange goodness and covered it with brown sugar and melted butter. It was divine.

So what about that fabled column? Confession: I wrote the column from the perspective of one who had never even tried the fabled "candied yams." Disingenuous and unfair of me? Perhaps. I still contend that a) yams are a food not found in North America, therefore, not present at ANY Thanksgiving feast, and b) candied yams are icky. But my former point, ie: that adding anything sweet to an already sweet potato is to transform a perfectly tasty dish into something as sickeningly sweet as Shirley Temple covered in melted chocolate and drinking an energy drink...well, I was...I was...wr....wr...

So, I'm having a little trouble with "wr" word. It's nothing new. I've always had trouble with it. I mean, it's not as if I've never been "wr." I'm "wr" all the time. I just don't like to say it. And when I say I don't like to say it, I'm not saying I don't like to admit I'm "wr." I admit I'm "wr" all the time. I just don't like to say the word. It's a stupid word, and I'm very much NOT "wr" about that.

Okay, the issue at hand is sweet potatoes and my ignorant and very public assertion that sweetened sweet potatoes are of the devil. In the interest of fairness and to protect the good name of The Spectrum, a retraction is necessary, so I'm going to have to admit to being "wr" about the sweet potatoes. I'm just going to have to find a way to do it without actually saying the "wr" word.

-The political angle. Mistakes may have been made. I may have been misinformed about this particular issue. However, it depends on what the definition of sweet potato is. I don't really recall whether I knew that.

-The Freudian angle. I never had sweet potatoes of any kind at any Thanksgiving during my childhood. It's all my mother's fault.

-The Amazing Grace angle. I was blind...lost in a wretched, sweet potato-less existence. I've been saved! I see the light! I'm freeeeeeeeeeeeee!

-The unwitting accomplice angle. I was duped! I've been had! He told me sweet potatoes were bad, and I believed him. I feel like such a fool.

-The George Gershwin angle. You say sweet potato. I say sweet potahto. Potato! Potahto! Marshmallows! Disgusting! Let's call the whole thing off.

Perhaps in another few years I'll actually consent to eating a bite of candied yams and will have to print a further retraction. It doesn't seem likely, but if I was "wr" about this... You're probably all wondering why I don't just buck up and say I was "wr" without the use of word shortening and quotation marks. After all, it's just a harmless little word. If I can manage being a single mom of five with a full time job and school I can do that, right? If I can hike the Half Dome, I can do that, right? You're right. Here goes nothing.

Ladies and gentlemen, I was...I was...wr...wr...wrapped in a blanket of ignorance, but the alarm clock has sounded. (That was the metaphorical angle.)