Parents Archives - Desperately Seeking SuperwomanDesperately Seeking Superwoman

Try that with Matt & Co. The Showdown.

March 5, 2017

My family gathers around food. It’s just our thing. Father’s Day is about Dad’s famous grilled chicken. Christmas is for ham balls, chicken wings and queso dip. The girls, Hank and I have dinner every Friday night with my parents before playing three rounds of euchre (Team Granny Panties vs. Boys). And the granddaddy of them all, Big Breakfast, is a feast of Dad’s dippy eggs, pounds of maple sausage and bacon, mugs and mugs of coffee (with the naughty creamer, of course), pancakes, fried potatoes and cinnamon rolls that takes place around my parent’s dining room table every-other Sunday. In a way, this is our church, and the sermon is always written in shameless digs and sarcasm. The congregation is questionable at best.

I could talk about Big Breakfast for hours. Seriously. It’s all about how much time you have. You’ll have your constants, like Dad dripping in sweat over four pans of food, yelling out in desperation through a potato-smelling smoke, “How many more eggs do we need? Marilyn! I asked how many more eggs do we need?” Poor guy. He’s always just slaving away as the rest of us get our coffee in hand and watch CBS Sunday Morning, which is always, always on. You’re guaranteed a story about somebody, usually my mother, falling down. It seems someone in our family falls down at least once a week. Which is probably some form of karmic justice because we all laugh like idiots at the storyteller’s misfortune. I mean, I’m sorry, but if you don’t think folks eating pavement is a side-splitting good time, we just can’t communicate. I always get the middle cinnamon roll, because, it’s the best. Duh. And there are always babies fighting and biting each other over plastic princesses.

Then we sprinkle in some excitement occasionally for extra flavor. There was the time the girls called 9-1-1 five times, unbeknownst to us, and a sheriff showed up. There was the time the entire family spent an hour trying to wrangle a 200-pound pig named Kevin Bacon into a horse trailer. There was the morning Matt belched so loud (also not uncommon) that Mom startled and instinctively turned so quickly she popped something in her neck. Or the beautiful Sunday morning Mom and I were sitting on the deck while the kids played and I leaned too far back in my plastic chair and flipped over backward. Or – and this is one of my favorites – the time my nephew took us on a Polaris ride and my brother, really, really had to go to the bathroom, so he jumped off the moving four wheeler when we got close to the house, his butt cheeks clenched so tightly he only came down on his toes and then waddle/ran all the way to the door.

And then there’s my tiny white nemesis. My parents have this rescue dog, Josie. She’s one of those tiny things, a mix of two different breeds that both have names that sound like poop, Caca-something or Doodle-other. All I know is she loves my dad’s soft bosom and licks her butt and then licks his face and I’m the only one who finds the entire relationship completely appalling. Plus, just the juxtaposition of this giant man holding a frail little dog never seems normal to me. Big Rog, knowing how I feel about the tiny mutt, refers to her as “my little sister”. “Aw, aren’t you going to say hi to your little sister?” “Your little sister had to be sedated to get her teeth cleaned, poor thing.” And so on. Well, at the last Big Breakfast, my ten-tons-of-fun brother pulled a skin tag clean of her neck with his bare hands because he thought it was a tick. She let out of tiny yelp and the whole thing was over as fast it it began. “What is that?” he asked, holding it up between his thumb and his index finger. “Oh my gosh!” Mom replied. “You pulled off her mole!” As Spike would say, “I was laughing to tears.”

See, what I mean … how much time do you have? It’s a sunny-side-up sideshow at a low-budget three-ring circus, this family.

So, why am I talking about all this? Well, partly because I got sidetracked, but I started because Big Breakfast is now part of a winner-takes-all contest several years in the making. It’s sort of a Try that with Matt … and Hank, and Kirsten, and Rog, and Marilyn. That’s right, we invited the whole kookie clan to join us for an extra-special, family-wide weight loss challenge. The Hupe Heifer Showdown began on Sunday, February 19. Six weeks, person who loses the highest percentage of body weight, wins.

Let’s meet the competitors.

The husband.
Honestly, we’re more allies than anything so it’s really hard for me to be an asshole about this one. I make his food, so sabotage wouldn’t even be a game at this point. (“They’re these weird Swedish nutrition bars. My mom used to give them to the kids in Africa to help them gain weight.”) Plus, I’m pretty sure his heart isn’t in it and he’s only participating to humor the acorns at the nuthouse.

Why he could win: This guy can drop some weight when he wants to. But he also has an addiction to authentic Mexican fare and miscellaneous goodies. Dark horse here for sure.

The parents.
Considering the parameters of the challenge, either one of these clowns could just demolish us if they wanted to. Their plan is to adjust their macronutrients (proteins, carbs) and workout more. Now, this brings up a topic that must be addressed. This is not a joke, you guys. My parents wear denim to workout. We’re talking full-on, chafe-your-nether-regions, unforgiving, tough as Clint Eastwood, 5-0-1 jeans here. I once walked a 4-mile race with my dad while he was wearing jorts, aviators and a ball cap. They just go out there like, “Hey, no big deal. I was just doing some light grocery shopping and decided to pop in for a little workout. What’s this spandex you speak of?” And it just baffles me entirely.

These people also grew up in a time when the shelves weren’t crowded with food and to waste wasn’t an option. When my dad was little, he once ate his entire meal after, af-ter, someone at the dinner table sneezed and skyrocketed a boog right onto the side of my dad’s plate. He just pushed right past it. If he put that type of dedication toward cleaning up his diet and moving a little more, or my mama did the same, this could be theirs for the taking. Although, I did have a tense 20-minute argument with my dad over the benefits of white bread (him for, me against) on Friday, so … I’ve got that goin’ for me.

Why they could win: A lifetime of refined flour and 9 p.m. snacking set these two up for some serious success if they can change their habits.

The brother.
On the morning of our initial weigh-in, Matt was running a few minutes late. As we all started going through the breakfast buffet a la Roger, my big brother walked in the back door, peeled off his shirt, then his pants and then pulled his boxer briefs up his crack before stepping onto the scale. The Chris Farley-esque stunt had Mom bent over clenching all of the pee-releasing muscles. It was bold. It made a statement. It lessened my appetite. I’m pretty sure this dude would sit in a sweat suit hovering over coals in a sauna for 48 hours straight to win this thing. I’ve been seeing him at the gym at 5 a.m. and I know he wants it. Problem is, he also wants deep dish pizza and all of the chocolate cakes. The struggle is so, so real.

Why he could win: I’ve often thought that Matt was missing the chip inside most people’s bodies that says, “No! Stop! This is the most I can take!” He’s lifted a riding lawnmower into the back of a truck by himself. The guy is Thor dressed up as an insurance agent. When he turns it on, he can hammer some workouts. Plus, he sweats like a whore in a Texas church in August.

The sister.
Dear, sweet, chocolate-covered Kirsten. My sister has six, count ‘em, six little girls. She runs ragged on all the days that end in “y” and the past few months in particular have been heavy with stress. To cope, she focused on what she needed to do for her chick-a-dees and less on taking care of herself. (Raise your hand if the lyrics to this tune sound familiar to you?) When you grow up with the nickname “Skelator,” the concept of having to work for a good weight can be a bit foreign. Kirsten has always been long and lean and now she finds herself in unfamiliar, and uncomfortable, territory. She’s rich in knowledge about healthy eating and so, so short on time, so she has her sights set on regaining balance for sure.

Why she could win: In her own words: “Because I’m too stubborn to let Matt win.” One of my fondest memories from childhood was watching Kirsten chase Matt around the island in the kitchen with a butcher knife after he’d pushed her buttons one too many times. What I’m saying is, there’s a history here. If it’s between cutting off an arm and losing to Matt, she’s severing the limb.

The me.
I have spent so many words in this space talking about my love of sweets and lack of control, it would be silly to steal more real estate expanding upon it now. Other than, just for the sake of transparency, i should mention that Hank brought home five boxes of Girl Scout cookies last week, so the cards are somewhat stacked against me. I hope somebody gets a damn patch on their sash for the internal shit I’m going through right now.

Why I could win: If Kirsten and Matt somehow destroy each other before or at the final weigh-in, my odds are pretty fair. Here’s hoping.

Those are the ponies. Ladies and gents, place your bets!

Kids

Losing Lisa Frank (and other elephant problems)

August 18, 2016

Snap my suspenders and label me a yodeler, cuz I just have to climb up into the Desperately Seeking Superwoman Swiss Alps and echo the statement I’ve said from this platform a thousand different ways, using a thousand different words … time is freaking flying, man! I disappeared from DSS for a hot second to collect the final sunny seconds of the girls’ summer vacation and get our shit together so this household could slide back into the dreaded grind, but I don’t really know how we got here. It was like we went to get frozen yogurt on the last day of class and, before it even had a chance to melt, we’re back to CrockPot dinners and homework folders.

When I said, “get our shit together,” I was mainly referring to one thorn that is still lodged in my bitter, soft side. Can we just talk for a second about the transformation of the school supply list? What the Boy George happened there? I can remember, as a greedy grade school gal, sorting through stacks of Lisa Frank Trapper Keepers and folders with puppies in various states of play and trippy holograms and Disney characters, agonizing over the decision, for what felt like an eternity. I needed Troll pencil toppers to tickle my chin during boring Spanish lessons and gel pens and, of course, a killer crayon box. I despised the required items … Paste? Why? So Betty has an afternoon snack? No. 2 yellow pencils, my ass. Maybe for amateurs and basic Bs. I’m gonna mix this up right here with some mechanical action that’s gonna blow their minds.

So, let me fill you in on a little something; it’s not like that anymore. The school supply list has been twisted and bastardized into the most exhausting, infuriating scavenger hunt known to man. I waited too long, I did, I’ll admit it. Like a fool I downloaded the list and shuffled into the local supercenter the Sunday before classes resumed. JoJo came along for what she optimistically categorized as, “special Mom and JoJo time.” She trailed behind me as I snaked, dumbfounded and squinty eyed, up and down the same 3 aisles over and over again searching for stupidly specific items like, “vinyl 2 pocket folders in yellow, green and blue,” and “pack of 3 plain pink erasers with the word ‘eraser’ printed in Comic Sans.”

But the best part was the camaraderie. Hell hath no fury like a group of parents driven by the mob mentality of collective failure. You know when you talk to your child about something, but you’re really just sending out a Bat signal for an adult to commiserate with you? There was a lot of that. “Honey, I don’t know why you can’t just use the generic colored pencils. The list says they have to be Crayola.” “Stay with me, honey, we have to find this last folder. I know you’re tired. I’m really trying, babe …” And then, the connection … “I know, I couldn’t find that folder either. This list is insane,” a fellow frazzled grownup says. “I know, right?” I responded in an aggressive, clingy tone. Success. You’re both pissed. You’re not alone. You have delivered a synchronized verbal middle finger to the supply list and all it represents.

Confession: 20 minutes in, I called it and told JoJo we’d shop at mommy’s favorite store, Amazon. We got frozen yogurt and laughed through the window at all the suckers walking in with their lists. Now that’s special mommy and JoJo time, if ya ask me.

In spite of my lackluster preparedness, the first day came and went without incident. One brutal update to the routine is the bus, which conveniently arrives 10 minutes earlier this year. Before I share this next part, it must be said that the driver she had last year was religiously tardy, OK? We’re talking up to 20 minutes late some days. It conditioned me to be lax with our roll out time. It all came to an unpleasant climax this morning when, pulling out of the driveway, I saw the taillights of the big golden bird disappearing down the neighboring street. JoJo, always a bit high strung, began sobbing at the thought of being left behind. It never occurred to either of us that I could have just braved the drop-off line and taken her to the actual school. Oh no, we were going to catch that bus.

I sped down our street, knowing the driver had at least 3 more stops. Holding a mug brimming with steamy coffee in one hand, I leaned over the steering wheel, anxious and recklessly accelerating while calmly assuring my oldest daughter that we would get her on board one way or another. After a second miss, we approached the bus at its final stop. The next 30 seconds were a flurry of action. “Run! Go! Go! Go!” I coached. Of course she couldn’t get the door open. I was still in drive. I hit the unlock button and, with tears in her eyes, JoJo took off down the sidewalk. Two SAHMs, standing at the corner having a leisurely chat with their chai tea and boat shoes saw my girl sprinting with every bit of energy her Cinnamon Toast Crunch would give her, and they gestured for the driver to wait. We had done it.

As the bus pulled away, I allowed my car to crawl toward them. I rolled down the window and raised my mug in genuine gratitude. “Thanks guys!” I said. “Of course!” they responded. “Hey, aren’t you Matt’s sister?” one of the moms said, squinting in my direction. Great … juuuuust great. I always prefer my early morning servings of humble pie with a side of anonymity. No such luck. [awkward laugh] “Oh, yeah, I’m his little sister who apparently needs to change the batteries in her watch!” [more awkward laughing] “OK, see ya!” I can be a real turd sometimes.

An extra-special treat this year, our Spikey started preschool. I know her teacher. JoJo had her a few years back, so I know she’s sweet, but let’s all pray she has a good sense of humor. Spike picked out her prettiest floral dress for her first day. She couldn’t have looked more precious if her entire face was made exclusively of dimples and cuddling sloth babies. On JoJo’s first day, I remember she was tentative and sheepish. She stood at my side and looked up at me with questioning eyes. Not Spike. She barreled in there, found her cubby and all but kicked me out. I think her confidence worked like a dam for my mommy tears. They never actually came until I was away from her, in my car, pulling out of the parking lot.

The subsequent days got a little more interesting. Hank was out of town, so I was sure to organize what I could the night before to ensure a smooth morning. I put out their clothes, packed snacks, boiled eggs for breakfast, and set out shoes and bookbags. I had it dialed in. On our second day of the chaos, just as me and my car full of chicks started to pull out of the garage, my little preschooler innocently asked, “Mama, do I have to wear underwear to school?” “Yes,” I answered. “Do you not have underwear on, honey?” “No, I’ll go get some.” I backed down far enough to watch JoJo run to her bus stop and waited, patiently, as my streaker sauntered back into the garage, skimpies in hand and proceeded to pull her boy shorts on over her sandals while standing in the streaming bright yellow glare of my headlights. A jogger came upon the scene and I causally waved.

That night, Spike described to me the difference between a mouse problem and an elephant problem. “See, Mama, a mouse problem is when someone says they don’t like you … or your body smells … or they don’t want to sit with you at snack. You should just talk that out. If you tell about a mouse problem, that’s called tattling. An elephant problem is when you throw up or get cut or get hit. You should always tell someone if you have an elephant problem.” I can tell you that, to me, sending your child to their second day of preschool bare-butted in a dress is what I would categorize as an elephant problem, but to Spike, we’re talking about merely a mouse situation.

That night at dinner, she took it up a notch.

“Spikey, how was your day?”
“There was this girl and the other girls were so mean to her and I told her to sit with me.”
“That’s so nice, Spike!”
“Yeah and she can’t see very well, so I hug her and kiss her forehead.”
“Awwwww!”
“And today, she went to the hospital.”
“Whoa, what?”
“I’m lying. I don’t know why I said that. I just made that up.”

Have a great school year, everyone!

Thoughts

The parent trap

February 22, 2016

I felt the rage bubbling up from my toes, like fiery, spitting lava poised to take over the unsuspecting, sleepy towns below. No one in the meeting saw my point; and my point was more than just valid, it was the resolution. I parted my lips and a harsh bite of passive-aggressive participation lurched out before I could retrieve it. I had to neutralize the situation quickly. “I mean, I guess I don’t know what I’m talking about, really,” I continued without thinking, “They treat me like a mushroom; keep me in the dark and feed me shit all day.” That was the first time I realized I’d grown into, not just my father’s daughter, but my father.

When I discuss my folks with people who’ve never met them, I really try to offer a description that does them justice. They are the revenue-generating leads in a daily reality show on a station that not enough people get, in my opinion.

Dad is the love child of Frank Barone and David Letterman. He’s that guy who remembers jokes that take 30 minutes to tell and has an analogy for absolutely everything in his back pocket at all times. Some of my favorites include, but are not limited to:

We’re off, like a herd of turtles.
That went over like a pregnant pole vaulter.
I’m finer than frog’s hair.
[When someone toots] Your voice sounds different, but your breath smells the same.
Even a blind hog finds an acorn every once in awhile.
Like a fart in a skillet.
And that’s the name of that tune.

The funny thing is, even though he’s said each of these (and so many more) one-liners at least a trillion times, my mom still giggles like a smitten girlfriend every single time he says them. It’s one of the reasons they’re so magical together.

While the guy can be endearing and light-hearted, he also has a short little fuse that’s always on the brink of imploding. Don’t get me wrong, my father is a gem. He would give you the shirt off his back, but take our Friday night euchre games, for example. He is always one trumped ace and one ask of who led what away from a controlled cursing fit. His hair gets a little wispy and his eyes get loose and agitated and he lets out an exasperated sigh and JC-bomb in one impressive, labored exhalation. On occasion he throws a little chuckle in with the exasperation to let you know he’s annoyed, truly, but it’s all in good fun. When I would come home from college for holiday break, I would inevitably call Rog at 2 o’clock in the morning to retrieve me from the neighborhood watering hole. The drive home would be a delicate dance of him harnessing his annoyance and me quieting my drunken verbal diarrhea. But always by the next morning he was retelling the early morning events with a forgiving twinkle in his eye. He’s like a giant Sour Patch Kid and I find it best to just bite in and enjoy the sweet rather than dwell on the pesky sour pellets.

He’s a beast of habit and brutally defensive, which is pretty tough when you’re dealing with our immediate family; a cast of unforgiving sarcastic smart asses. He despises being critiqued and that’s pretty much all we do when we get together, laughing hysterically at the expense of each other, one sibling or parent at a time. But above everything and anything else, Dad is a protector. He didn’t get involved often when I did ridiculously stupid things growing up, but when he did it was because I scared him. He loves big. He was a writer. He makes me laugh. He drives me crazy. He doesn’t settle for “good enough”. He is the example I measured every man against in my younger days.

*****

On a 70-something degree day, with the windows down halfway, an unapologetic force much greater than myself entered with the sunshine and filled the car. It overtook my limbs – gaining control first of my left foot, then neck and finally my right hand, which began patting in a rhythmic cadence against my thigh to the 90s pop beat. I was humming and tapping and abandoning any regard for street cred or general stoplight decency. That was the first time I realized I had grown into, not just my mother’s daughter, but my mother.

If you take everything I wrote above and flip it from black to white, you have my mother. Of all the people in this world, I think she gets me the most. To help paint the picture, I’d say she’s a hybrid of Lucille Ball and Nora Griswold (Clark’s mom). She trips over blades of grass and has fits of laughter that literally paralyze her. She likes to snap her fingers, tuck her lips in tight and shake her ass to Cher and Dolly. She’s patient and curious and unbelievably supportive. I often call her the Olivia Pope of mothers because the lady is a fixer. Give her a land line, internet connection and a pair of magnifying glasses and she will doctor up your dilemma in 30 minutes flat.

My mom was never the mom who french braided my hair and threw incredible theme parties. That’s just not her. She’s a buyer, not a crafter. She would never come clean my house but she’d sure as shoot find someone to come do it at a great price. She showed me that it isn’t necessarily selfish or cutting corners to outsource the tasks you don’t enjoy. Sometimes it’s just a prescription for sanity and more quality time with your friends and family, and that’s more important. She makes a mean ass potato salad, never sweats the small stuff and starts at least 2 of her hypochondriac-ridden sentences every time I talk to her with, “I was reading this article, and …”. I can’t imagine my life without her if for no other reason than she laughs at all my ridiculously dramatic stories. The biggest joy is watching her with my kids. I can’t imagine anyone better suited to be a Grammy and the girls simply worship her.

The stories I could tell you about this gal … like the time she wrote a heated letter to “President Busy” (a type-o meant to be “Bush”) … or when she ran through a field screaming in horror over the snake relentlessly pursuing her (her shoelace) … or the time she attempted to clear a horse jump on foot, hooked her toes and face-planted on the other side … would all make you wet yourself, but it’s all just part of the charming package. No one laughs at her quirks harder than she does and it’s taught me that spending time feeling embarrassed is a tired waste of feelings.

I have her hands. JoJo has her hands. I love that I see part of her with me every day and as I type this post.

******

So, why the sap-soaked love letter to my folks? Well, it all started the other day when my brother sent a picture of Mom. She was helping him demo some walls at a building they own and, though he told her not to use the crowbar, she did, got it stuck in the wall and lost her grip as she struggled to remove it, falling to the ground. Typical Marilyn. Instead of helping her up, my brother took a picture of her first to document yet another graceful display from our beloved matriarch. Typical Matt. The image tickled my memory and reminded me of how I misjudged the location of my desk chair just the day before and fell to my knee before rebounding. “You guys,” I’d said, “I’m turning into my mother.” And it occurred to me that we’re all just slowly, day-by-day, trait-by-trait, habit-by-habit, fall-by-fall, becoming our parents. Maybe we always were our folks, but we hadn’t really settled into ourselves enough to see it until now.

Somewhere between my first exasperated rant to my own children about the simple act of turning off a light when they leave a room and the sixteenth time I torched dinner on a busy weeknight, I learned to stop grimacing about the progression, and start giggling. I mean really, there are worse things. Actually the things my mom used to do that mortified me as a cocky teenager are now the most endearing to me as a mother myself. And it’s not like I can deny it. I’m blinder than a bat (Mom), I curse like an old pirate barmaid (Dad) and I have no grace at all (Mom). There has to be some advantage in knowing what all those traits look like 30 years from now thanks to them. I have a crystal-clear view of what’s coming – every stumble, every rant, every handicap.

When I warned my folks this post was coming, their responses were as predictable as a crotch clip on America’s Funniest Home Videos. Mom just laughed and made some comment about falling down all the time and Dad sighed in anticipation of the impending character attack. When I offered more of an explanation of the premise in an effort to calm his concerns, his eyes stabilized. “You’re talking about the parent tape,” he said. “Sure.” I responded. “It’s the idea that you’re exposed to these mannerisms and words in such a constant frequency that eventually they infiltrate your own mannerisms and words.” (He knows a little bit about everything and his mind is a steel trap = another reason I love my dad.) Exactly. So science has beat to the punch here. Those intelligent bastards.

Evidence from the past few years would suggest that my particular parent tape has officially infiltrated my camp. The changing has commenced. From telling the same story 3 times to the same person, always with the same gusto as if the events just transpired, to demanding to see Jeopardy so I can make fun of the dweeby college kids, I am embracing the transformation to a full-fledged version of the people who raised me.

And it doesn’t stop there. I see winks of my parents in my JoJo. I can actually picture the torch of traits being modified ever so slightly and then passed on to the next klutz in line. Poor girl. Never stood a chance.