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December 2011
Many (recycled) birthday wishes to my son!
I’m not a good birthday-person/wife/mom.
My problem isn’t remembering birthdays; it is the pulling-everything-together-and-making-that-person-feel-special that is my problem.
My husband is a high-maintenance-birthday-guy and I fail miserably every year.
I seem to relay my “blah” for my own birthday on everyone else. I don’t want to be surprised and I don’t want a party or anything else (really). Therefore, no one else should expect a big ordeal on their birthday … except for my kids.
I do my best to make them feel special on their birthday because the other 364 days of each year they are competing with their two siblings for our attention.
But my oldest son was cursed with a December birthday. Talk about extra pressure!
Just like every year, this week he asked me, “Mom, what day are you bringing treats to school for my birthday?”
I stood and stared, completely baffled by this question. “Huh? Oh. Oh!” My eyes popped wide. “Uh, I will have to email your teacher. I don’t know yet.”
I forgot. The most integral detail in children’s birthday party celebrations and I completely overlooked it (thank you, Christmas).
While I sent a message to my son’s teacher - thankfully I wasn’t too late - I decided I should also find a creative person who can bake a Lego cake so it will actually look like a Lego and not a lumpy, lopsided box.
In the midst of planning my son’s birthday party, we attended a birthday dinner for a family friend (I didn’t plan this one either…)
It wasn’t until her cake was brought out - a 3-shape and 8-shape candle gleaming - that I realized I would be needing candles for my son’s cake, too.
“Hey! If you aren’t going to need those candles again, we can use the 8 next week …”
My friend, her sister and her mother all gasped. I had confirmed their suspicion: “She really is no good at this birthday thing!”
They, apparently, are “good-birthday-people;” re-using candles means recycling a birthday wish.
“No! You can’t do that! He needs new candles!” they said in unison. The candles were quickly swept away and put out of my reach.
I don’t think my 6-year-old or 2-year-old has ever had a new birthday candle. What is wrong with reusing candles? I have a drawer full of used candles and even managed to put a recycled 6 and a 1 on my mom’s cake this year (sorry, Mom).
After some finagling around (and maybe a little bribing of my friend’s sneaky daughter), I managed to get my hands on the once-used candles that were doomed for the trash can.
I happen to believe they have many more birthday wishes in them and my son will be happy to blow-out the 8-candle this week.
After all, he’s lucky I remembered to plan his party; having a candle is icing on the cake!
Contact this contributing writer at Motherhoodcolumn@yahoo.com or facebook.com/motherhoodCTC.
TweetA Mom’s Letter to Santa
My cousin Amanda is like my evil twin sister. OK, maybe not evil - though she has her moments - but she’s definitely my total opposite.
Well, she was, until she became a mom.
She was the City Mouse; I was the Country Mouse.
I’d visit her in Chicago where she would scoff at my wardrobe and promptly take me shopping at stores I’d never heard of, nor could I pronounce the name. I once came home wearing a green “pleather” jacket.
She would come to Ohio and I would drag her to the Clark County Fair and make her wear rubber boots and help me wash my pigs and horse. She was thrilled (not really), and yes, I took joy in watching her gag reflex kick in while mucking stalls.
Then we grew-up - so to speak - began our careers, and even married. Shockingly, both of us married international men: our first thing in common. Ever.
But, I jumped on the Mom-Wagon first … and second … and third.
When Amanda joined me on the Motherhood journey, she was a career-driven Marketing Queen living in South Florida.
By the time my daughter came along in 2009 I had gone from full-time, to part-time to “working from home.”
Amanda, like me, continued working after her son was born. Admittedly, although I wouldn’t change a thing now, I envied her and her daily work routine; the “adult time” and getting to “use your brain” for something more than deciding between PB&J or a hotdog for lunch. I mean, I did go to college hoping to have a career afterwards.
When her husband’s job required them to move, Amanda decided to stay home with their son. I worried, remembering my own transition to stay-at-home-mom; major adjustment.
But, then she humbled me with these words in a Mom’s Letter to Santa she wrote herself.
“Dear Santa, Now that I’m a mommy at home, please stuff my stocking with the items below:
I no longer need nail polish remover, I’m not painting my nails, I’m cleaning up boogers. So instead of Red OPI, please stuff my stocking with toys that stop tantrum cries.
I traded my high heels for Pumas and flip-flops, now I need lots of Tide pens for cleaning my tops. Anything created by Procter and Gamble that I can shove in my purse; too bad you can’t stuff my stocking with a nurse.
I remember small boxes with diamonds or pearls, this year Santa it’s a whole different world— instead of studs, I’d really love some killer earplugs.
Forget Mac lipstick, please replace with eye-concealer and a new diaper-wipe case.
I hope you don’t take my new list the wrong way; I really do love staying home every day.
My nails aren’t filed and my hair’s a mess, but of all my jobs this is really the best.
After the boogers are gone, I get kisses from my baby and he sings me love songs.
Never after a rough meeting was I ever consoled with the loving hugs I get from my 2-year old.
So this year Santa I’ve already got the best gift —- to spend my days watching my little boy grow, and seeing him play in his first Christmas snow.”
Though Amanda’s sweatpants are much more stylish than mine, I’d say we officially (finally) have a few more things in common. Next week: My personal letter to Santa
Contact this contributing writer at Motherhoodcolumn@yahoo.com or facebook.com/MotherhoodCTC.
TweetMom has many titles, but “weather-forecaster” not one of them
‘Tis the season again and so soon it seems.
I don’t mean the season of giving (and let’s be honest, receiving) or the season of jingle bells and shopping sprees, but the season of the white, wet, flaky stuff that falls from the sky and coats everything with pristine slippery-ness.
Yeah, winter.
I know, it’s not “officially” winter yet, but for my 6-year-old son, if it’s not snowing then it’s not Christmas-time.
“Mom, when will it snow?” he asks me several times a day now that our Christmas tree is up.
I see the hint of worry in his eyes that says, “If there is no snow, there will be no Santa.”
I do my best to make him understand that: 1) Mommy cannot predict the weather, 2) A lot of times the people on TV can’t predict the weather either and 3) winter is still cold and well, wintery even if there is no snow.
When the first flakes fell last week my kids were ecstatic; running from window to window, throwing open the front door, flipping on the outdoor lights and asking, “Will we have school tomorrow?!”
Remember when the first snow fall was that much fun?
Our 6-year-old son, flanked by his 2-year-old sister who has no recollection of snow from last year, plopped their chairs in front of the sliding glass doors and sat. And sat. And sat. They watched the snow fall with awe. It was the quietest the two of them have ever been for any length of time.
The snowfall was pretty to watch, as it always is, but it quickly melted the following day leaving me to explain why, if it is Christmas-time, the snow melts.
“Uhm, because the sun was warm enough to melt the snow on the ground which isn’t very cold yet …blahblahblah.”
Blank stare.
“Because we live in Ohio and the weather changes every 10 minutes.”
Blank stare.
“Don’t worry. Santa probably prefers no snow anyways. What if he wipes out and can’t make it down the chimney?”
Wide eyes. And something new to worry about. Oops.
Contact this contributing writer at Motherhoodcolumn@yahoo.com or facebook.com/MotherhoodCTC.
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