Mid-CenturyModernMoms

Not Quite Malibu Barbie, but Darn Close!

written by Judy Merrill Larsen

For the past twenty-one years, I've driven mom cars.  You know the type--they can haul car seats, little league teams, coolers and ice for lacrosse practice, 7th grade social studies projects, and all sorts of car pool arrangements.  Not to mention juice boxes, happy meals, and pizzas.  Once the juice stains have faded (for the most part), you can load the car up for that first drive to the dorm.  And then back home that summer.  Then, load it up for that first apartment.  Oh, and trips to the vet for the dogs so they can cover the windows that aren't open with nose prints and the ones that are open with drool.  It's a car that screams MOM.  MIDDLE-AGE.  SUBURBS.

 

 

I went from a Taurus wagon for the first 7 years, to mini-vans (two!) for the next 6 years, to a Saturn wagon for the past 8 years.  It's what my kids affectionately refer to as "The Silver Bullet."  It's what my sons drove to learn to drive.  They less affectionately asked if I paid extra for all the squeaks and pings it makes as I motor along.  It shouts "practical" and "paid for."

 

 

 

What it doesn't shout (or even whisper or sing) is "fun" or "sexy" or "carefree."

But, this does.

 

And, for the past two weeks, I've been behind the wheel of my first ever convertible.  Now, I'm not a car person (exhibits A through C above!).  But, there's something about a convertible that fills me with glee.  It's impractical, I know.  I'm 48 for cryin' out loud.  Some of you might be wondering if maybe I'm having  little mid-life-menopausal-type crisis.  Nope.  I'm just finally at a point in my life where what I drive doesn't have to take into consideration my kids.  It can be, dare I say, for me.  For fun.  And when a friend mentioned a few weeks after we'd had lunch that the lease on her 2005 convertible was up and it had fewer than 9000 miles on it (Yes.  You read that correctly) and that she had a good deal to buy it but she wanted something else, I casually mentioned it to my husband that night at dinner (because, we'd been talking that perhaps it was time to hand down the Silver Bullet to one of our more-or-less deserving children) and the next day we took it for a test-drive on one of the first sunny, warm days we'd had since last October.  And I felt like Malibu Barbie--only with brains and not in a bikini.

And no, the kids cannot borrow it.  There's a perfectly good 2000 Saturn wagon they can use.

I'm a Natural Woman

by Judy Merrill Larsen

Don't worry, this isn't a post about not shaving my legs or letting my hair turn gray. Uh uh.  It's about the power of natural consequences.

As adults, we get this.  If I eat less and move more I'll lose weight.  Doesn't always make me do so, but that's a natural consequence I understand.  Same with, oh, say, paying bills so the electricity stays on.  In my fifteen years of teaching, I often found myself preaching this to my students.  Especially when they'd ask about extra-credit.  I'd launch into my song and dance about "Well, if you'd done the assigned work you wouldn't need extra-credit. now, would you, so why should I give you a chance to make more work for me?"  That always brought them around, yes indeedy.

But as a mom, it was often much harder for me to hold to this.  For a few years, when my sons were in elementary school, I was on a first-name basis with the night janitor at their school because we seemed to need to ask him to unlock a classroom door at least once a week to fetch something we needed to complete a homework assignment.  Part of me knew I should let them deal with the consequences of not remembering.  But it seemed so cold.  Harsh. 

No more.  One thing teenagers teach you (and the sooner, the better) is that they often only respond to natural consequences.  For example:

(and I need to make a disclaimer here.  Not all of these examples come from the children living under my roof.  Some come from their friends.  I swear.  But they're all instructive.)

~If, when you are "assigned" community service by a judge because of some hi-jinks you were caught participating in, "forgetting" to perform said hours will cause those hours to be doubled.  Plus you'll be fined.  So maybe next time you shouldn't ignore your mom's nagging.

~If you keep calling in sick to a job you no longer like, you'll get fired.  And the company who sends you your cell phone bill doesn't care the reason, they'll stop your service.  And, no, they don't have to warn you in advance.

~If you blow through all your lunch money/allowance by noon on Tuesday, you're going to be hungry (or brown-bagging it) for the rest of the week.  Not to mention that you can forget about any extra-curricular fun.

~If you buy clothes that scream "Skanky crack ho" to your parents, but "sneak-wear" them under your t-shirt, the school will likely call your parents to explain they don't mesh with the dress code and you'll be assigned a detention.  Also, said clothes will likely disappear the next time your mom does the laundry.

~Speaking of which, if your mom tells you to put all your dirty clothes in the laundry basket outside your door so she can get the laundry done and you don't, there will be no clean clothes for you.  Deal with it. Ha.

~And, if you decide your mom isn't all that bright and why can't you just put all your dirty clothes in the wash together (because she is no longer willing to do your laundry (see above)), don't expect that same stupid mom to replace your now pink underwear.  But you can expect her to laugh at you when you make your request.  And, if you've blown through your lunch money/allowance this week, you'll be wearing the pink underwear to school.

~If your economics professor has told you that your homework is all to be done on-line, and you sign up for the wrong on-line program, and then notice that your classmates have homework, but miraculously you don't, that doesn't mean you're off the hook; it means you'll be retaking the class in summer school.  At 8 a.m. if your mom has anything to say about it.

~If the bank explains that if you bounce a check there will be fees assessed--which will deplete your checking account even more, they really mean it.  It's not like when your mom used to tell you she'd fine you for having to go up to the elementary school at night to pick up your geography book.  She remembers how cute you were at age 4.  The bank doesn't, and even if they did, they wouldn't care.

Natural consequences.  They rock.  In part because your kids can't be mad at you or blame you.  Not that they won't try, but even they have to realize that they brought it on themselves.  And that's where the real power comes in--they have to take responsibility. 

That's a pretty powerful lesson.  And it leads to independence.  Possibly even adult behaviors.  And all you've had to do is sit back, watch it unfold and bite your tongue.

Am I Blue?

by Judy Merrill Larsen

Being a mom means you're gonna make mistakes with your kids.  We all know that, right?  I freely admit lots of screw-ups and I am also very free with my apologies (saying "I'm sorry" also makes it harder for them to stay mad at me.).  Here are just a few mistakes:

~lack of vegetables.  Yes, I serve plenty of salad.  And fruit.  But I have never served peas (other than peapods) in my kitchen and I never will.  I hated them as a kid.  Yuck.  I also don't like many other cooked vegetables.  Too mushy. If I don't like 'em, I'm not cooking 'em.  Mushrooms are also on the list.

~lack of baby books/scrapbooks.  I took tons of pictures.  I saved report cards and "special" papers.  The pictures are in photo albums up until about age 8, the rest are in boxes up in my office.  But at least the boxes are labeled.  The scrapbooks are pristinely new and empty.

~um, I sometimes yelled.  Lost my temper when it wasn't really their fault.  Cursed in their presence.  Didn't always set a good example.  Might have been inconsistent.

~My #1 Son (dubbed "Earthworm" by his brother; "Greenboy" by me) complains that I still don't have a compost heap in my backyard.  Sorry, mea culpa, I'm just not a person who wants to trot out back with my egg shells and banana peels.  I do recycle though. 

But, you know what?  I can totally relax now because all these things (well, except for the compost heap.  And peas.) are reversible.  Correctible.  Unlike my cousin (distant cousin, I want to add) who turned his family blue.  Yes.  He really did.  And it's permanent.  Seriously.  It can't be undone. 

Now, it's not smurf blue.

It's not even as bad as that guy who was on the Today show a few weeks back who was really blue. 

But, there is a distinct blue undertone to their skin nonetheless.  And it won't fade or go away.  It's there.  Apparently, the rest of his family (but not him.  That's telling.) were advocates of some dietary supplement.  He felt it was too expensive.  So, rather than buy it from their handy dandy local drugstore, he figured he'd make his own version.  I mean, heck, why not?  He'd had a chemistry set as a kid. 

How complicated could it be?  So he sent away to some mail order place and ordered all the ingredients and mixed them up.  Look at all the money he was saving, he probably bragged to them.  But, oops, there was a glitch of sorts.  Rumor has it that he ordered a slightly different version of aluminum than people are supposed to ingest.  And a few weeks after they'd started taking his formula, somebody commented that they were all (except for him who didn't believe in the supplement) looking a tad blue.  Just a tinge, but noticeable.  Oh, and did I mention it's PERMANENT?!

So, when I'm reviewing my litany of parental offenses, I take great pride in knowing I've never changed the color of my children's skin.  Perhaps I'll still get that Mother-of-the-year award after all.

Kids and who they leave behind

By Judy Merrill Larsen

It's not like I didn't see it coming. 

First, they toddled off to kindergarten, maybe glancing over their shoulders, running back for one last hug, but then entering a new sphere where they'd make friends I hadn't hand-picked.

Then, the big steps.  High school.  A driver's license (man, that's when I really became obsolete.  Except as a human ATM).  Finally off to college. 

And each time, I'd call them back for one more kiss, then I'd wave, and stand with the dog.  His wagging tail beating against the open door like a metronome.  We'd watch them leaving and he'd look up at me as if to say, "Now what?"  His tail always drooped just a little and his step was a bit slower until they returned

Now, if I'd really been able to orchestrate things, that first dog would have lasted until #2 Son shuffled off to college.  That was the yellow lab pup we brought home three weeks after their dad (who hadn't been crazy about having me for a wife or getting a dog) had moved on to greener pastures.  The boys had been 4 and 6.  I'd done the math, figuring dog years and all, and my plan had been for Tank, the wonderdog, to make it until the kids were away at college. 

But, not quite.  Dogs and kids rarely worked on my schedule.  So, one hot summer day before #2 Son's junior year in high school, we helped our old, sweet, dying dog into the car and took him to the vet, where we sobbed and petted his silky ears as he fell into that long final sleep.  We brought his collar home with us and divvied up his dog tags for our various key chains.  And when that same son came to me and asked, "Is it your intention to get another dog?," well, how could I say anything but "of course." 

So, Ernie, a golden retriever joined our household.  And it's now Ernie and me, standing at the door, just like we did this week, waiting first for their arrival, where Ernie's joy is palpable when they come in the house, hauling dirty clothes and ravenous appetites.  He follows them around, happily hopping on their beds (the only ones he's allowed on), sleeping until noon with them, and imagining they are home for good.

And he can keep believing that, but I know that it is likely they'll never live here full-time again.  #1 Son spent 5 days of his spring break interviewing for jobs in Seattle (two time zones away).  #2 Son will be here this summer, but after next school year, who knows. 

And I know that I've done--am doing--my job.  I know I'm supposed to raise them to leave me.  And that we're entering a whole new phase of our mother-son relationship.  They have girlfriends I adore.  They not only ask for my opinions and advice, they occasionally follow it. 

But, the first few days after they've left, I'll notice Ernie, wonderdog #2, wandering around whimpering and looking for them.  He'll go all the way up to their third floor bedroom and eagerly sniff around.  Sometimes I even catch him on one of their beds as if he's waiting for them to return, pet his head, sneak him a chicken nugget or pizza crust.  And then he'll come downstairs, slowly, looking just a little bit lost.  And I'll call him over and ruffle his hair and scratch behind his ears because I know, in his little (very little) dog brain what he's thinking. 

When will they be back and how could they just grow up and leave me?