I knew this column might create a little controversy…because being a role model for your kids pisses some people off. Sigh.
In the much more fun than working out category, I’m helping run a beer naming contest for Asheville Brewing Company on my other blog. Other WNC Brews News here.
Kids running through Splashville in front of Asheville’s City Hall. Slippery fun.
Makes this mom nervous. Just saying.
What’s happening in your worlds? Other than heat.
This week’s column for Mountain Xpress is all about paranoia and emergency preparedness. Two of my favorite subjects.
Short excerpt:
If I personally were to tip toward a specific personality disorder, it’d most certainly be paranoia.
I’m convinced that there’s lots going on out there in the world that’s being kept from me and you because…who knows why? Recent events such as the Gulf oil spill and Russian spies in our midst only bolster my conviction that there are many hidden conspiracies.
And while I’m not yet making myself an aluminum foil deflector beanie (though I have checked out the online instructions just), I’ve decided that some basic emergency preparedness for my family might calm my nerves.
Happy Monday, y’all.
Puppy in a basket. Because nothing’s cuter.
Forgot to link to this column because I had a week off somewhere, and I got confused.
Anywho, here it is. Here’s the lede:
Are you a “helicopter” or “lawnmower” parent? Or do you identify as a “free-range” or “slow” parent?
I’d prefer not to be labeled either as a machine or “slow” (my intellect is at least average, thank you very much). Nor do I want to have the same label that’s slapped on the organic chicken breasts at Ingles, though given the above options, I suppose that one best describes my parenting style.
Y’all chime in.
Yep. Sometimes the solution to a problem causes another problem. Read this, then go check your sunscreen labels.
Writing about how fricking pissed off I am about the emotional trauma this huge enviromental disaster is inflicting on our kids and their future. Feeling ill. Chime in, y’all.
Yeah, I’m a hypocrite. As are most parents. Here’s my column this week about the subject.
And just because I’m guessing you might need a cute young guy offering you a beer…
This week, my column for Mountain Xpress is about some cool female elected officials in Western North Carolina who are following Michelle Obama’s lead in the effort to conquer childhood obesity. You go, women!
Read all about it here.
And then, for a lighter moment, go to my Brewgasm blog and tell me what you’re drinking tomorrow.
Happy Memorial Day, y’all.
Or trying to, at least. So, here’s my column for Mountain Xpress this week.
Here’s the first paragraph:
Manners and proper etiquette were huge topics of conversation in my house growing up — often rising above politics, religion and even football as important discussion fodder.
I admit that I occasionally exaggerate in order to drive home a point in my writing. This time, I didn’t. The proof is that I just received an e-mail from my Dad with a link to a completely different story about teaching manners to kids. When I replied and asked him if he’d read my column this week yet, he said, “No.”
See?
Hey y’all. It’s time for stuff I wrote elsewhere, but that I like to link here.
Asheville Brewing Company has brewed an ale honoring synthesizer pioneer Bob Moog, who lived in Asheville. Read all about Moog Filtered Ale here.
I also wrote a story about a woman who has taught generations of Western North Carolina kids to swim here.
If you’re in the area and don’t have anything to do tonight come to The Grove Park Inn at 5 p.m. for a free class on blogging. I’ll be on the panel. So I’ll be giving blogging tips and talking about voice and content (or lack thereof). I’ll also have a big announcement that I’ll share with y’all afterwards. And no, it has nothing to do with my ovaries.
A few friends of mine are writing posts about how the book “Eat, Pray, Love” has influenced and affected them. This reminded me that I had written a similar column for Mountain Xpress a couple of years back. In honor of Mother’s Day, here it is:
My book club, along with every other book club in America, recently read Elizabeth Gilbert’s memoir, Eat, Pray, Love. When we discussed the story, one of my book-club buddies noted Gilbert’s courage in venturing off on a yearlong spiritual search for self. But, she added, for those of us with kids, that amount of time and space for self is fricking impossible (OK, she didn’t say “fricking.” I did).
Not that Gilbert suggests that we all take a year off and travel to exotic locales to find ourselves. Most of us couldn’t afford it anyway. But the idea of doing so is sparking some deeply held desires in the book’s readers, especially for those of us stuck in the widening gyre of child rearing.
Sure, we parents might make it to a therapist every once in a while, or disappear for a weekend yoga retreat every few years. But most of us give up a huge percentage of “self” time once we reproduce. The extent of my self-reflection lately is catching sight of my face in the bottom of a saucepan and thinking, “Girl, you need to put on some makeup.”
In other words, I had no idea before I became a parent what a long-term selfless act I was committing to. Some days I want to get right up in God’s face and say, “Why did you make sex so great and then make having kids so hard? Are we still being punished for those Garden of Eden errors? Is this our karmic destiny? And why are you laughing so hard?”
Some days I know I’m nuts to have taken on kids and all that comes with them. Other days, I can’t imagine how flat and dull my life would be without my personal knee-biters.
Then I realize that maybe, just maybe, raising kids constitutes part of my spiritual journey. Choosing to offer my kids much of my time, focus, devotion, money, truckloads of worry and patience (my personal bugaboo) seems to be making me a better, if more scattered, person.
When I pause to take deep cleansing breaths so I don’t knock my kids over the head with that saucepan when they’re fighting—that’s yogic, right? Kind of like when Liz Gilbert was meditating in an ashram in India and working to accept and soothe her inner demons. My job, as mom, is to accept and soothe my outer demons, otherwise known as my offspring.
Many of the gifts my kids give me contribute to my spiritual growth and happiness. For example, the other morning, my son climbed into bed with me, much earlier than I’d like to wake up, and whispered in my ear, “Mommy, I think I heard a footprint.” I woke up smiling, even though it was 5:45. I know the memory of his words will make me smile for days, possibly years, to come.
Or when my daughter, proud of her report card, graced me with that bashful smile that means she wants acknowledgment, but doesn’t want me to smother her with praise. Somehow, I managed to compliment her while holding back my natural inclination to over-enthuse. I know we’re learning how to interact healthily. Then I hid in the bathroom and high-fived myself in the mirror.
And yet, if you are considering breeding, but aren’t sure if you’re ready to dive in the deep end, you’ve probably heard ad nauseum about the joys kids giveth. And you’ve probably heard as many stories about what kids taketh away. Yes, the possibility of quitting your job and traveling the world for a year will disappear. Your new reality will include working your heinie off for the next 20 to pay for diapers, day care, braces, summer camp, shoes and college. Believe me, once you commit to kids, it’s a long time before you come up for air.
Here’s the stone-cold truth of the matter. You must agree to give up sleep, sex and the society of sane adults for most of the first year of each child’s life. You must provide a safe environment for your offspring, even though everything in your house is now a potential WMD. You will forgo movie theaters in favor of Netflix, which you’ll never have the time or energy to watch. You’ll give up fine restaurants in favor of those that don’t mind having 17 crumbled crackers flung in a 3-foot radius. You’ll deal with projectile vomit, diarrhea, snot, and other disgusting bodily fluids on a weekly, sometimes daily, basis. You’ll break up sibling fights, work to uphold self-esteem, and try not to react when your teenager comes home with an earring in his lip. Basically, you’ll agree to love, support and nurture your kids until the day you die.
Even though I’m feeling envious, and yes, a little bitter, about Liz Gilbert’s big adventure, I’ve made my choice. And that choice includes messes, worry, sticky hands, bashful smiles, and big, big love.
