Datebook: Monday, May 12th ~ 2008
Mother’s Day is the annual calendar mark of our lives when we take stock of our progresses and processes.
This year was a bit melancholy for me; my son is away at college studying for finals and my daughter is out of the country having a much deserved vacation. My husband tried to fill the void by making raspberry and white chocolate pancakes for breakfast and offering me cards from the dogs and the cats—this would have had a better outcome if one of the cats had allowed me sleep past 5:30 and if Izzy would have left me to linger over coffee without the constant eardrum-shattering bark reminder to throw her Wubba.
This was a year that, as a mother, I realize I have not had an opportunity to do much “mothering”. Both of my children are making their own decisions, plodding their own courses, and hitching their wagons to their selected distant stars. The only thing they get from me is the daily reminder to “stay safe”, “be aware of your surroundings”, and “do you have to buy the whole album from I-Tunes, couldn’t you just select a few songs” because, yes, all of this independence is still paid for by me.
Because of my mothering-once- removed status, I have asked my daughter at least to come to my aid if she sees me doing something odd or out of character.
She is to intercede if she discovers, for example, that I am on a first name basis with the Fed-Ex man because I am doing 3 am shopping with either QVC or the Home Shopping Network.
She is to raid my closet and take me to the nearest Chico’s if she notices I am wearing one of those smock-type aprons that snap in the front, or, if I start carrying a Kate Spade knock-off with a glued on label.
She is to open a can of Betty Crocker’s Milk Chocolate Frosting and hold it under my nose if she ever sees me lingering over an ad for any footwear made by Croc’s—regardless of color, style or on sale status.
So, with her in Mexico, and me feeling a bit Willie Nelsonish (Mama Don’t Let Your Children Grow Up to be Outlaws) it is probably understandable that I had a break down on Friday night at my monthly Bunko game. On the second Friday of each month, sixteen of us meet and hurl pink dice while drinking wine and snacking on Kailua dip and theme cake. We shout “Bunko” and “Babies” and ring bells, and by the end of the night we are all in our happy zones. This month doubled as a baby-shower for one of our younger members who is pregnant with her second child.
The best thing I gave her was actually the message I placed in her card—“Good Luck—don’t forget to only look at Rec League Sports!!” I had eaten my 10th Kailua dipped strawberry and I felt a wave of sadness ebb up about how quickly the time goes when I dropped my napkin. While retrieving it, I noticed that three of my fellow Bunkoettes had on the aforementioned Croc footwear.
I was stunned.
I mean, what could I say? It’s not as if they are stylish or attractive. They look like miniature clown shoes.
So, as a diplomatic displaced mother, I asked, “Why do you wear those?”
They pounced on me like the only attendee to an Amway party.
I was given the testimonials: They are so comfortable; they massage the feet; there is never an offensive odor.
I accepted an offer to wear a pair around the room. I liked the feel. I liked the clunky oddness and the rubber “gellin” padding. I liked the ‘in your face” color attacks of the bring pink and purples.
I capitulated. I conceded. I converted.
I wanted to go to Dick’s Sporting Goods at 10:30 and buy a pair but was forced to wait and make an on-line purchase at midnight (please—this is very different than QVC shopping).
And now I wait.
For my son to come home from his first year of college. For my daughter to get off the plane, looking tanned and rested.
For my Croc’s to arrive Fed-Ex Express.
I will need to distract my daughter from my new footwear selection and I think I have found that vehicle. I have to call Ann Greenthal and a few other ladies who I will need to organize some regional branches of MSST-or what I am tentatively calling Mothers of Skaters Syncho Team. The concept is simple. We skater moms (and dads) will choreograph and skate to six minute programs where we use artistic concepts and skill to present a group medley of our children’s free dance from the previous year. With the focus on adult skating I think this is truly the bridge program.
If we can pull this off by Lake Placid there won’t be a dry eye in the house. This will be great since Croc’s are supposed to be good in wet weather.
Mombo
This year was a bit melancholy for me; my son is away at college studying for finals and my daughter is out of the country having a much deserved vacation. My husband tried to fill the void by making raspberry and white chocolate pancakes for breakfast and offering me cards from the dogs and the cats—this would have had a better outcome if one of the cats had allowed me sleep past 5:30 and if Izzy would have left me to linger over coffee without the constant eardrum-shattering bark reminder to throw her Wubba.
This was a year that, as a mother, I realize I have not had an opportunity to do much “mothering”. Both of my children are making their own decisions, plodding their own courses, and hitching their wagons to their selected distant stars. The only thing they get from me is the daily reminder to “stay safe”, “be aware of your surroundings”, and “do you have to buy the whole album from I-Tunes, couldn’t you just select a few songs” because, yes, all of this independence is still paid for by me.
Because of my mothering-once- removed status, I have asked my daughter at least to come to my aid if she sees me doing something odd or out of character.
She is to intercede if she discovers, for example, that I am on a first name basis with the Fed-Ex man because I am doing 3 am shopping with either QVC or the Home Shopping Network.
She is to raid my closet and take me to the nearest Chico’s if she notices I am wearing one of those smock-type aprons that snap in the front, or, if I start carrying a Kate Spade knock-off with a glued on label.
She is to open a can of Betty Crocker’s Milk Chocolate Frosting and hold it under my nose if she ever sees me lingering over an ad for any footwear made by Croc’s—regardless of color, style or on sale status.
So, with her in Mexico, and me feeling a bit Willie Nelsonish (Mama Don’t Let Your Children Grow Up to be Outlaws) it is probably understandable that I had a break down on Friday night at my monthly Bunko game. On the second Friday of each month, sixteen of us meet and hurl pink dice while drinking wine and snacking on Kailua dip and theme cake. We shout “Bunko” and “Babies” and ring bells, and by the end of the night we are all in our happy zones. This month doubled as a baby-shower for one of our younger members who is pregnant with her second child.
The best thing I gave her was actually the message I placed in her card—“Good Luck—don’t forget to only look at Rec League Sports!!” I had eaten my 10th Kailua dipped strawberry and I felt a wave of sadness ebb up about how quickly the time goes when I dropped my napkin. While retrieving it, I noticed that three of my fellow Bunkoettes had on the aforementioned Croc footwear.
I was stunned.
I mean, what could I say? It’s not as if they are stylish or attractive. They look like miniature clown shoes.
So, as a diplomatic displaced mother, I asked, “Why do you wear those?”
They pounced on me like the only attendee to an Amway party.
I was given the testimonials: They are so comfortable; they massage the feet; there is never an offensive odor.
I accepted an offer to wear a pair around the room. I liked the feel. I liked the clunky oddness and the rubber “gellin” padding. I liked the ‘in your face” color attacks of the bring pink and purples.
I capitulated. I conceded. I converted.
I wanted to go to Dick’s Sporting Goods at 10:30 and buy a pair but was forced to wait and make an on-line purchase at midnight (please—this is very different than QVC shopping).
And now I wait.
For my son to come home from his first year of college. For my daughter to get off the plane, looking tanned and rested.
For my Croc’s to arrive Fed-Ex Express.
I will need to distract my daughter from my new footwear selection and I think I have found that vehicle. I have to call Ann Greenthal and a few other ladies who I will need to organize some regional branches of MSST-or what I am tentatively calling Mothers of Skaters Syncho Team. The concept is simple. We skater moms (and dads) will choreograph and skate to six minute programs where we use artistic concepts and skill to present a group medley of our children’s free dance from the previous year. With the focus on adult skating I think this is truly the bridge program.
If we can pull this off by Lake Placid there won’t be a dry eye in the house. This will be great since Croc’s are supposed to be good in wet weather.
Mombo
posted by ice-dance.com @ 5:14 PM
2 Comments:
Hi, I LOVE your column, but don't you think it is ridiculous to say that your daughter "deserves" a vacation?? Especially one in Cabo, or anyplace that is cosint you money?
What kind of example are you setting? She is blessed to be able to compete at the level she is at.
I might say she "deserved" a vacation at her age if she spent year helping refugees in a foreign jungle or something, but otherwise, please, come to your senses.
Doesn't sound like I am a fan of yours, but I am.
HAHAHA! So funny about your Crocs! I always hated Crocs, laughed at them and swore I would NEVER wear them. In October, my husband was given two pairs of Crocs by business partners. I was mortified!!!! I told him to NEVER wear them out of the house, and I tried to give my pair away and had no takers! (My daughter wouldn't even touch them!) Well. . . to get to the point, in December I was spending long hours on my feet and one of my arches fell. I was facing a 2-day drive across the country for the holidays. I couldn't imagine being in shoes that long when I remembered that pair of Crocs. I figured no one would see my feet while I was driving for two days! So, I put them on. I became a convert! They were so comfortable and easy. My family just laughs and laughs when I wear them now. (I've even worn them to work a time or two!)
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