Did My Child Really Say/Do That?

Spaghetti dinners are messy enough without children at the table; however, I’ve joined the ranks of crazy parents giving their equally crazy children spaghetti.  What could possibly go wrong with giving a 22-month-old boy spaghetti?  I believe long, squiggly noodles, red stainable sauce, and enough Parmesan cheese to whiten the world equals disaster.  Add in a helpful almost four-year-old brother and the apocalypse is around the corner. 

In order to truly understand my spaghetti story I should give you a little background on my children.  My 22-month-old, Gabriel, is a sneaky little guy who reminds me slightly of Stewie from Family Guy.  His older brother, Caiden, is constantly on the lookout for sneak attacks and takes much pleasure seeing his little brother in timeout.  He also, at times, takes on the disciplinarian role.  This usually ends up with screaming from both boys.  At times, things can get a little messy.  Ergo, the spaghetti!  Gabriel decided last night that he was done eating spaghetti and proceeded to lift his plate over his head.  Caiden, our self-proclaimed sergeant-at-arms of the table, reached over to grab the plate.  The little one decided he didn’t want his brother’s help and turned the plate of spaghetti over.  All that was left was for my husband and me to look on in amused horror at the sight before us:  Gabriel was wearing a look of shock and a spaghetti toupee.  Cries of “not it” echoed through the dining room, but my husband, being the strapping man he is, volunteered graciously to clean up HIS boy.

 

While Gabriel is the boy in constant motion, Caiden is our thinker.  A couple of months ago we were at my husband’s parents’ house.  We were getting ready to go shopping (another blog topic all together!) and Caiden wanted to take a billion toys.  Included in his assortment of toys was an animal-printed pair of earmuffs.  To keep him from bringing that along I told him he could not bring any toys because they might get lost at the store.  I went back to getting ready pretty pleased with myself and my sneaky ways!  Two seconds later Caiden was at my side with an innocent expression and those darned earmuffs.  “Caiden,” I say, “I said you couldn’t bring any toys.”  Caiden, my lawyer-in-the-making-son, smiles up at me.  “I know, Mommy, but earmuffs aren’t toys.”  Busted!  Knowing I had been bested by my three-year-old son, I relented and let him take the earmuffs.  My husband and I, however, did not relish the idea of taking a 3-year-old boy with 40-year-old woman earmuffs into the mall.  So, we hatched a plan.  It went a little something like this:  when Caiden had his earmuffs on in the van, Chad turned the volume down on his Veggie Tales video.  Caiden exclaimed that he couldn’t hear his video.  Chad replied by saying that he couldn’t hear because of the earmuffs.  When Caiden took the earmuffs off, Chad, via the stealthy steering wheel volume control, quickly turned the volume back up.  This went on for several minutes, until Caiden was convinced that his precious leopard print earmuffs were making him deaf.  Chalk one up for the “work smarter, not harder” parenting approach. 

These are only a few of the millions of crazy things that happen in our household.  If you have your own stories of dinner disasters or times where your own children, little siblings, nieces or nephews, have bested you, please tell! 

**On a quick note:  My last blog posting generated a lot of traffic.  I encourage comments even if they are of differing opinions.  However, I respectfully ask that if you do comment, please keep them respectful.  We don’t always have to agree and I never stated that my opinions were the correct ones, so please, keep your comments clean, respectful, and mature.  Also, any and all comments that contain swearing or other derogatory comments will be deleted. 

When Did a Broomstick Become Sexy?

Gentlemen, this scenario is for you.  There are two doors in front of you.  Behind one door stands a voluptuous woman with all the right curves in all the right places.  Behind the other door stands a size zero actress whose really only claim to fame is the fact that people stop her in the streets to count her ribs.  As you wait in anticipation for your chosen door to open, which woman are you rooting for? 

                Billboards, magazine articles, internet, and various forms of visual entertainment assail us with broomstick size women and claim that this is now the “sexy” shape.  We are led to believe that a woman who is larger or, gasp, might have cellulite is unattractive to the male sex.  I happen to know different because I am married to the most wonderful man who loves me and finds me sexy even after my body has gone through two pregnancies.  Sadly, my reaction to his constant compliments and “come-hither” looks, often sounds like this:  “You are delusional!  Besides, you are married to me so you have to say that.”  His response is often flicking me in the arm and walking away.  Why can’t I take my husband’s words for truth?  Partly because all my life I’ve been led to believe that in order for anybody to find me attractive, I must fit the cookie-cutter mold created by Hollywood. 

                This morning my sister showed me a picture of four current Hollywood actresses in bikinis.  From the looks of things, I could maybe fit the bottoms on my wrist!  These four actresses’ pictures were compared to four iconic actresses from the past in swimsuits.  Marilyn Monroe and Elizabeth Taylor ring a bell?  At what point have we as a society allowed sex symbols to become nothing more than emaciated wet-dogs?

                Writing this brings me back to a shopping moment I had a couple of months ago.  There I was searching through the size 10 jeans, happy as a clam that I was finally down to a size 10!!!  A size I hadn’t seen since high school.  As I said, I was excitedly searching for those “make-my-butt-delicious” jeans when from the far end of the rack I heard this:  “Oooooo, these size zeros are just TOO big!”  This wasn’t said in a repentant nor humble manner.  This woman’s tone of voice was more akin to some bimbo off of Jersey Shore.  Even though I didn’t know this woman’s name nor particularly care about her name, I allowed her snooty comment to pee on my parade.  As she waltzed out of the store with her equally stick-figured friend, I looked at the jeans in my hand I had just seconds before couldn’t wait to put on and scowled at them.  Dejectedly I slammed then back on the rack and stared longingly at the size 8 pair.  If only I could fit into those size 8s…THEN I would be hot and sexy.  

                This is just one of a million moments that attack our senses and make us doubt our inner sexiness.  We must embrace our curves and dents and lumps, because if we don’t, no one will embrace us either.  Men, there is also an assignment for you:  you must tell your wife, fiancée, or girlfriend (whether she’s a size zero or a size 24…doesn’t matter) that they are beautiful, and whenever you pass her in the kitchen or when she’s bending over to take laundry out of the dryer, give her hinder a little squeeze.  She might slap at you and tell you to knock it off, but don’t.  Ever.