For The Record

Every job has its share of quirks. And every profession out there is going to get its share of grief in the public media. And I get it, back to school season is kind of like shark week. It's here for a limited time and the media has to capitalize on a short window of interest.

But NBC News....$600-$1000 in back to school supplies? Where is this reality? Does it include school clothing? Is this inclusive of college textbooks? I have been sending a child, and then two, to public school for six years. I have never spent, or been asked to spend, this amount of money.

Have teachers asked for donations of supplies for their classroom? Sure. Have I donated every year? Typically. Because you know what? One box of Kleenex in my grocery cart doesn't change my household budget enough to be noticeable. But if I had to buy all of the tissues for a classroom of 20+ all year long? And the sanitizer? And the surface wipes? And the paper plates for every snack. And the snack for the child(ren) who showed up without one once (or every day)....THAT would make it impossible to feed my family. And yet teachers do fill the gaps in funding.  If everyone donates one thing to the common good of their child and his/her peers, we're all okay.  If you can't or don't wish to, that's your business, but please stop degrading schools and teachers.

Here's my bottom line. We complain about how much the pencils and tissues and binders cost. We don't complain about the cost of the fast food we order mindlessly, or the iced pumpkin latte, or the lottery ticket, the latest video game.     Where are we placing our value?  What do our children see as being important to us as parents?  What is the message?  "Go to school and learn.  Your job is important?"  Not when we are publicly quibbling over whether parents should have to buy their children pencils.  Or paper.  Or binders.

I agree.  Times have changed.  It used to be that a child went to school and everything they needed for the job was there.  Kids came with pencil boxes and pencils for the sheer excitement of new school supplies.  Unfortunately, like the Cabbage Patch Dolls of the same era, those days are gone.  And they are hard for everyone.  Including the teachers.  

What Is The Sound of One Mama Snapping?

When I get home from a long week at work, nothing makes me feel more at home than squabbling with three able-bodied children about whom will let the dogs out.  Mind you, these dogs did not sneak in during the day to surprise us.  They were here all along and typically want to go out soon after our arrival. 

Each day there is a contest to determine who can get through the door first and run off on some errand that would preclude dog detail.  One tactic is to stall outside looking at patterns in the dust and debris on the panel of the car exterior.  Some might find this mind-numbing, but to my children, the secrets of the cosmos are written there and must be studied with intense scrutiny. 

Another popular tactic is to declare that they are on an urgent bathroom mission.  Nothing and no one will get in between a child and a toilet.  However I am suspicious of the school meal plan as my children seem to both be extremely regular and need a prolonged period of time to get the business done.  Every.  Day. 

And finally, another tactic one might choose is to walk into the house, leaving car doors agape and a trail of outerwear along the way, and then look askance at any adult who might suggest that the dogs need to go out again today.  "What?" one might ask.  "What could be the matter mother dear?"  "Dogs?  Out? Didn't we do this just yesterday?  Surely there is someone else who could do this.  Maybe yourself?  I see that you have one eyelash still uninvolved in this process."

For you see, my children get into the car in the morning with the requisite coat, hat, mittens, boots and backpacks, yet return each night unaware that they must return these items to the house.  Daily, they flee the car, leaving all but their epidermis in the driveway. 
"Coat? 
"Not cold. 
"Shoes? 
"Don't need 'em...already in the house.
"Door? 
"I'm busy with the one on the fridge right now."

Which is how I came to enter the house this evening face first, and with most of my integrity on the front porch; with the contents of my work bag covering something akin to eight feet of real estate, and tripped over a beagle with uncanny timing.  It is why you might notice a boot shaped bruise on my cheek.  Because I don't always enter a room with an unnerving amount of grace, but when I do, I will definitely land on the least yielding object around. 

And, it is why, if you happen to be in a three block area of my home on any given work evening, you will hear the sound of one Mama slowly coming unhinged.

The Shape Of Things

I am one eye blink away from fighting with my daughter (again) about clothes.   With no prior notice, she went from loving cute and fluffy kitty shirts to the notion that she is a “tween” in a few short weeks and needs to have a personal style.  And she’s right-ish, but does it have to be during this particular fashion era?  I am a moment away from losing my cool over one more pair of skinny jeans with glitter and “awesome” emblazoned tee-shirt. 

 I know this is the time developmentally to fit in and camouflage oneself as just one of the gang, wearing what everyone else does, speaking their words, spouting their ideas, and watching their shows.  I just so desperately want to skip over this and get to the place where she knows who she is and marches to her drum.   And I also want to firmly place both feet on the brakes and resist with everything I have.

I know this is just the beginning.  There will love interests that irk and frighten me.  There will be social adventures and misadventures that will make me feel a wide range of emotion.  I know I will not always like her friends.  There will be life decisions that I will wish she hadn’t made.  And those of which  I am so proud it could slay me.  And it is such a mismatch between her anticipation and excitement, and my sense of loss and awe.

I want to both shelter her and prepare her.  I want to hold her and let her fly.  I want…a path.  And what I have is some hazy, water-stained, fragmented document that simply says, “This is the way it is from here.”  Splotched with the growing pain tears of mothers past who whisper “Do you understand now?”

I want her to be herself; this amazing girl that has stretched my body and my heart and my brain.  I want her to love who she is and stop trying to hide her imaginary flaws and to stop trying to create curves where biologically they are not yet meant to be.  I want to slow things down.  I want to go back to that moment when she last asked me to tuck her in.  If I had only known it was the last time, I might have stayed a minute longer, rolled my eyes a little less, and ignored the chores.  Because now it’s a thing.  If I ask to tuck her in, she’s “all good”.   She no longer needs that hug or kiss goodnight.  

But I do.

There's NOOO business, like Snooooww business....

It all began with a return to sledding.  I mean, doesn’t it always?  How many times have major life decisions been influenced by the desire to throw yourself onto a thin piece of plastic, race at a breakneck pace down a hill while adjusting your vertebrae without benefit of chiropractic school, and the desire to do so while not getting wet.  Just me?  Huh…I thought there’d be more of you.

Regardless, this year my children are all old enough to sled with little-to-no assistance.  What that doesn’t mean is that they WILL do it alone.  Just that they could.  Hence the need for bum-covering, warmth-providing, water-repelling pants.

As always, I go to Amazon.  If you cannot get it in two days from Amazon while not having to leave your house with three terrorists under the age of ten, I don’t need it.  What continues to amaze me, in no small part due to my total ignorance of how the internet “really” works, is that I can go online looking for one thing and somehow the search function will read my subconscious mind and retrieve the thing I didn’t know I needed. 

For example, in the search box I typed in “snow pants” and to my surprise what I got was certainly bum-covering, but not what I was anticipating, nor something I would have guessed existed.  Apple-bottomed derriere enhancing undergarments.  Falsies for your tush.    While this might make the downward hurtling over ice and snow less hurtful, it will not, I guarantee not, keep you warm or dry.  (Unless you simply stay inside as pants are no longer your friend.)  perhaps “snow pants” was interpreted as “no pants”?

Then comes the fun part.  Finding what you were actually looking for in the first place.  I tried board pants, which led me to something like late 80’s Jams.  And then snow bibs, which brought me to a festive array of infant covering.  And then finally snowpants.  Which brought me leggings with snowflakes. 

So here is the final search trajectory that brought me to pants worn outdoors in the snow.  Apparel ->women’s -> outerwear->snow-> athletic -> pants.  Well, that’s efficient isn’t it?  And thorough.  There was absolutely no way I was gonna stumble onto those pants unawares now was there.  If only the same could be said for the apple-tush harness of death.

Finally, there are, believe it or not, women out there that are over 5’9 and have an inseam of longer than 29”.  I know.  I know.  We should all stay inside unless we have the grace to be born at a perfect size 2 and able to wear sample sizes, however I didn’t get that memo until way too late.  I am tall in a lot of directions.

So here I am, about to don my snow pants for the first time.  They are genderless.  They are basic black.  They are ugly as sin.  But they are warm, tall, and dry.  My arse is covered and as protected as one can be just short of watching the fun from the sidelines.

And Amazon.  I’m onto you now.  The next time I need something basic, like printer cartridges, I’ll know to steer clear of anything too direct.  I’ll amble and mosey my way through all of the related search terms I can think of in the hopes of landing where I want to be on the first try.