January 4, 2008

Britney…The Girl Can’t Help It

As a teenager, one of my favorite television shows was the All New Mickey Mouse Club. From the age of 10, I loved the singing, dancing and entertaining skits the MMC kids performed. I began watching the show after school, and the musical group, The Party, was one of my favorites. I’m not even embarrassed to admit that I still have a cassette tape and a CD of their music.

But as I grew older, so did the kids on TV and new blood was brought in. I vividly remember the first episode in which Justin Timberlake, JC Chasez, Britney Spears and Christina Aguilera were introduced. They were young, adorable, fresh off of Star Search and trying to climb the tower of fame.

Of the four “kids” three are rather successful and still manage to be somewhat grounded in their personal and professional lives. And then there’s Britney Spears. Sweet as sugar, American as apple pie, Britney. When I think about the young star, my heart hurts.

Britney Spears has made some wrong turns in her life. She married the bad boy, Kevin Federline, gave birth to two babies in two years and after less than three years of marriage the couple divorced. That’s a lot of emotional trauma for one 26-year-old to handle. The highs and lows of pregnancy, raising a toddler and a new baby, trying to work things out with a loser husband before ditching him altogether — I’d lose my flipping mind, too.

As much as society loves to laugh and poke fun of Britney, and I’ve done my fair share, because I know how easy it is to make light of the painful situation, I can’t stand to see the girl in so much pain. I hate that she partied all night with the likes of Paris Hilton and Lindsay Lohan. It makes me mad that she’s abusing alcohol, drugs and other controlled substances. I can’t stand to see her struggle through the stormy waters of her life.

And then, last night, while I was covering the Iowa Caucus results, Britney was having a meltdown because she didn’t want to return her children — her babies — to their father, who has primary custody during the pending court battle.

I don’t blame Britney for her actions. If someone tried to keep my children from me, I’d be just as furious, and just as crazy. I don’t think she can control herself. I don’t think she can help herself.

I can’t help but wonder why no one has been able to step in earlier to give Britney the help she needs. I know that you can lead a horse to water, they won’t always drink. But I’ll be damned if there isn’t a close friend that Britney trusts that could put a mirror in front of her face and show her what she’s becoming?

Easier said than done. I know. But each time I see a photo of Ms. Spears, I look into her eyes. Two empty, dark wells of anxiety and panic. She needs help. She needs help before it’s too late. Before something terrible happens to her. Before she leaves her young sons before her time.

I know it’s ridiculous to cry for Britney. I don’t know her personally. But I feel a slight bond with her. Mothers are drawn to other mothers. We want to help our own. We want to make sure that our fellow moms are not struggling with alcohol abuse, or post-partum depression, or emotional distress.

Please, Britney. Please, know that America is rooting for you. Even if some us are uncomfortable with seeing you do irrational things, even though we joke, we still want you to get the help you need and return to being a stable woman and mother. We want you to get well. We do.

December 28, 2007

A Christmas Memory

Christmas with my side of the family can be a bit overwhelming. Every year, my mom and her two youngest sisters take turns hosting the celebration. This tradition began in 1981, as a way for my grandmother, Alice, to spend time with all seven of her children, their spouses and her grandchildren.

It’s hard to believe that we’ve been gathering every Christmas for the last twenty-six years. That first celebration was the smallest, because not all of my aunts and uncles were married, but as our families expanded, year after year, it became a challenge to cram almost forty people in one location.

My mother is the oldest, followed by her sisters, Judy, Donna and Mary, and her brothers, Michael, Carl and Paul. Out of seven kids, only two are unmarried. In order to understand the insanity in my family, I’ll give you a little back-story.

My mom and her sister Judy are very close, and my aunts, Donna and Mary are inseparable. Besides being sisters, they are best friends and very often exclude my mom and Aunt Judy from conversations and events. I could even say that there’s a small rivalry between families.

Both aunts were stay-at-home parents, married to husbands with high-paying mill jobs. Both Donna and Mary each have five children that are very close in age to the other’s kids, and the two families have been known to spend a lot of time together.

It should be said that I’m the firstborn grandchild, followed by my cousin, Hedy, who is two years younger than me. Hedy and I were “best friends” until our high school years when we drifted apart. We really didn’t have much in common as the years went by.

Hedy and her sisters have gone to prestigious universities, they work for prominent companies, and they travel across the country, as well as internationally, and they usually date very good-looking boyfriends. It can be rather intimidating to listen to them speak of their latest accomplishment or amazing trip to Amsterdam (or was it Paris?).

I’ve never felt the need to compete with my cousins, but my aunts seem to measure a person’s “worth” by their social status, how much money they make, or the clothes they wear. They’ll never admit it, but sometimes I feel as though I’m being compared to their very gorgeous, thin, single, childless daughters.

This Christmas was held at my parents’ house. When my cousins arrived I felt the dread of having to make conversation with these very accomplished girls. I know it sounds like I’m jealous, but that isn’t the case. I’m very proud of my cousins’ successes – they’ve worked very hard to get where they are – but I find it difficult to listen to them brag about how “wonderful” they are and the “amazing” lives they lead. Are they trying to impress me? Are they insecure about one part of their lives so they embellish the details of another part? Who knows?

I tried to be polite and courteous, and I did my best to keep a smile on my face and be interested in their lives, but part of me thought, “Who cares?” Not one of my cousins asked me about my life, or about Dawson or about my job. It wasn’t until my sister brought up my blogging that they took an interest.

If I had a dollar for every time I was asked what a blog was, or what BlogHer was all about, I could afford my own trip to Amsterdam (or perhaps Paris?). My very liberal cousins were shocked to discover that I write about conservative politics. And my awesome sister did some bragging on my behalf.

“She writes for BlogHer.com,” Rachel said. “And, she’s really good at it. And she’s going to New York and San Francisco, too, for the blogging conferences.”

I laughed inside, because of the raised eyebrows and strange looks I was getting. Thankfully, my brother, Frankie, put on the videotape from Christmas 1989 (saved by the TV!), to break up the tension in the room. My uncle, Mike, had brought his VHS recorder and documented our holiday celebration that year. Frank thought it would be fun to watch that old video.

I smiled when I saw Grandma Alice on the screen. It’s been two years since her death (she died December 6, 2005) and I miss her terribly. It was amazing that everyone gathered around the television to reminisce the early Christmas parties we had. How fast time goes by.

The best part of watching this old tape was that it took place in the house I live in now. We bought my childhood home from my parents five years ago when they built their dream house. My husband had never seen our home prior to the addition my dad built to the back of the house in 1991.

It was so foreign to look at that old floor plan. I had forgotten about that ugly brown linoleum in the old kitchen, which is currently underneath the current flooring. I laughed when I saw the old deck door (which is now an open entry-way to our current dining room). I remember that the lock was broken, so my mother put a dowelling rod behind it, “just in case burglars try to get it.” It never occurred to her that they would probably just break the glass.

And then, I heard Grandma’s voice coming through the speakers and I started crying. As I write this, the tears are rolling down my cheeks. Eighteen years ago, on December 25, Grandma Alice was sitting in my living room, watching her grandchildren open their Christmas presents.

My Christmas tree is in the same spot my mother place our tree in 1989. If I close my eyes, I can see it all again – no VHS required. I can smell the real tree my father cut from the local Christmas tree farm. I can see the mountains of presents underneath it, the flashing multi-colored string of lights, the handmade ornaments my siblings and I made.

My youngest brother, Frank wasn’t even born yet, so my sister was the baby of the family. I remember painting her finger and toenails and crimping her hair for the Christmas party.

I laughed when Grandma Alice said, “Honest to God, Mikey!” to my uncle as he videotaped her. She didn’t want to be on camera, but thank the Lord she was! I’m so grateful we could look back on that Christmas, eighteen years ago. I still can’t get over how fast time goes by…

I remember that Grandma made Polish sausage (kielbasa), and how the awful smell of sauerkraut wafted through the air when someone lifted the lid on the crock-pot.

I remember Aunt Judy getting a little tipsy from eggnog – or maybe she was just sugared up on Diet Pepsi (it wasn’t caffeine-free at that time) — and telling us she once ran naked through the woods on the farm.

I remember saying my prayers with Grandma — the “Our Father” and the “Hail Mary” — and how proud she was that I prayed with her. I remember the nativity, and how we celebrated the birth of our Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ.

As we watched that videotape, I began to realize that it doesn’t matter what clothes we wear, or how much money we make, that proves whether we are a worthy person.

We must cherish the reason we gathered together in the first place. We gathered to celebrate the birth of Christ. We celebrated with our loved ones, our families. We gathered to cherish the many blessings we’ve been given. We gathered together to treat each other with kindness, respect and love. That’s what it’s all about. That is what really matters.

October 27, 2007

Memories of the Moon

On Thursday my family attended a Halloween party at our church.  Dawson wore a spider costume I forgot I had.  I bought it several years ago before I had children.  I liked it because it was made of black, purple and green felt material and it was versatile in that a boy or a girl could wear it.  I knew that someday I’d have a child and he or she would make and adorable spider.

I dressed Dawson in a black turtleneck and black sweatpants and put the costume over the top.  Adorable indeed.

The “spider legs” of the costume were attached to each other with a long string that tied around Dawson’s wrists.  He loved to raise his arms so that the “spider legs” would raise up, too.

My parents came along and it was so nice to watch my father help Dawson decorate a brown paper sandwich bag to carry his treats in.  My mother was having a fantastic time admiring all the children in their costumes.  And Doug was just happy to have someone else to talk to while I ran around, insanely taking pictures.

Dawson loved decorating a pumpkin with stickers and yarn.  He made the cutest little punkin’.  We all had some Halloween treats and decorated pumpkin cookies, too.

The five of us went to the party in my dad’s truck and when we were driving home, Dawson pointed to the full moon in the dark sky.

“Look, Poppa!  Ders da moon!” he said.

My mother was sitting next to me in the back seat and she asked, “Do you remember when the Doodlebug was only 18 months old, and he could say just the one word, ‘moon’?”

I closed my eyes and remembered the days when Dawson would sit in his car seat and look out the window as we drove to our destination.

“Moooooon.” he would say, as he watched the pie in the sky.  He repeated the word several times until he was certain he had it right.   He was our little moon pie.

“I remember,” I told my mother.  “He loved to say the word over and over again.”

At that moment I realized that I’ve become so unaware of time. My memory from 19 months ago, felt like it happened decades before.

Where does all the time go?  Why haven’t I been paying closer attention?  Why haven’t I been writing these memories down like I once did?  When did I get so busy and stressed out?

I’m so thankful that my mother was able to help me stop and reflect.  Before I know it, my little boy will be grown up and I will be grasping to hold on to these memories.  But what if I forget?

The thought scares me.  I want to hold on to every moment until the end of time.  I want to write down even the most boring details, because they won’t seem so boring in twenty years.  I’ll want to remember the good and the dull.

I made a promise to use blogging as a tool to remember the times of our lives that are important.  But sometimes I’m too busy to take the time to blog it all.  And then I feel bad about it.  I used to write in a journal, but even that became tiresome.  What’s worse is that I love scrap booking, but somehow I got behind with my archiving.  (By nine months!  Good grief!)

How do you record your memorable moments?  Are you organized?  Do you blog exclusively or do you do other things to preserve your precious memories?  I’d love to read about what works for you.

October 26, 2007

Kids Just Don’t Like Vegetables

When I was a little girl I hated vegetables; well most green ones, anyway. My favorites were carrots, corn, cucumbers, lettuce and tomatoes. Put some broccoli, cauliflower, asparagus, green beans, peas (I would eat those fresh from the pod, but never cooked) or zucchini in front of me and I would declare war.

My mother was easy on me. If I didn’t like the vegetable du jour, I’d start to whine. Mom would say, “You don’t have to eat the beans as long as you eat everything else.”

But my father was tough. He was strict. There was no foolin’ Daddy. If we didn’t eat the thing we didn’t like, we weren’t allowed to leave the table.

He would lecture about the importance of eating vegetables, (you know, because HE SAID SO), or say that I was setting a bad example for my younger brother and sister (they hated vegetables, too), or tell us a story about the starving children in Ethiopia (and we should BE THANKFUL he didn’t trade us in for Ethiopian kids who appreciate food).

One of my most vivid memories is of my father telling me that I had to eat the vegetable on my plate or he’d double the helping and I’d still have to eat it. I sat at the dining room table, arms folded at my chest and yelled, “I’M NEVER GOING TO FORCE MY KIDS TO EAT VEGETABLES! YOU ARE SO MEAN! KIDS DON’T LIKE VEGETABLES, DADDY!”

I thought for sure this would get me off the hook. I was most definitely wrong. My father told me if I didn’t like vegetables as a kid, I wasn’t going to like them when I was older, and he made me eat two servings of green beans. He didn’t force feed me, but the fear of punishment was strong enough to make me try to eat the freakin’ things. I got up to vomit when I was finished. To this day, I can’t eat green beans from a can.

What’s more ironic is that the very same vegetables I hated as a child are the ones I can’t get enough of today. I have to wonder if there’s a method behind that madness.

My parents never hid vegetables in other foods. I asked my mother if she had ever thought of it, and she said, “What for? You kids would have figured it out and never ate my cooking again!” She makes a good point.

Several weeks ago we had dinner at my parents house and Dawson refused to eat anything. Not steak, not baked potato, and certainly not mixed veggies. I tried to get him to take a bite of something, ANYTHING, to no avail. Finally I put my foot down.

“Dawson, if you don’t eat some veggies, I’m not going to take you to see Go, Diego, Go!” I said.

“No, Mumma. Dawson not eat those. Those are yucky.” he replied.

“Okay, then. We’re staying home and Daddy and Murphy can go to the show.” I told him.

My father and mother started snickering. I was getting desperate.

“Boy…I remember someone saying they would never make their kids eat vegetables.” my father said. “Do you remember that, Monica?”

“Oh, yes. Dana was so sure she’d never use the same tactics we tried,” Mom replied. “Look who finally realized how tough it is to get kids to eat!”

They were thoroughly enjoying this. I suppose they earned the right to laugh about it. I did say it. Even I remember that.

Dawson wasn’t always a picky eater. Even his daycare person tells me he eats so good at lunch. But get him home and he wants nothing but crackers, spaghetti noodles and chocolate milk.

I heard that Jessica Seinfeld wrote a book called Deceptively Delicious, in which she cleverly sneaks puréed veggies into other food recipes to get her kids to eat! I don’t see anything wrong with that!

I’ve been known to hide finely chopped zucchini and carrot in my spaghetti sauce, and surprisingly, Dawson loves it. I tried to feed him zucchini slices before and he turned his nose at them. (Actually he took a bite of one, thinking it was a cucumber, and the sour look on his face was priceless.)

Last week I made mashed potatoes that were really half taters and half smashed cauliflower. (Ooh! Smashed Cauliflower sounds like a drunken dish, doesn’t it? Or a really cool rock band!) Dawson seemed to enjoy it.

I think I might have to pick up a copy of Deceptively Delicious, just see what other mouthwatering recipes I can try!

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This post is part of a Blog Blast sponsored by the Parent Bloggers Network. If you’d like to participate, click here for details. One winner will be chosen at random to win a $250 gift card for Williams Sonoma. I could definitely use that!