Blog It Out, Bitch Trailer

And because I just had to use this music…

Poopy Fingerpainting

It’s not uncommon for Jack to completely trash his room soon after we’ve cleaned it. And by we’ve I mean, Donny, ’cause y’all know I don’t clean that much. And by that much I mean, hardly ever. So, it was understandable that when Donny came into our bedroom, sighed, and said, “That boy’s room is covered in shit,” just an hour or so after he’d cleaned it, I thought he meant it was covered in a bunch of toys, books, and clothes.

Then I saw this look in Donny’s eyes that I can only describe as a desperation to flee, run away from home, and I knew he meant shit shit.

“Ooooh! That’s what he was doing!” I said, proud of my deduction skills. Ten minutes before, Jack had come into our room and headed straight for the master bathroom where he stood on his tippy-toes and turned on the water, informing us he needed to “keen my hands.” Apparently, he’d pooped, then dug in his diaper and smeared it all over his room.

This was three weeks ago. Since then, we’ve had one other poop finger-painting incident and a few close calls. The other day he pooped and then proceeded to smear a small amount on the wall behind Kali’s bedroom door. What we think is happening is, he sticks his hand in his diaper for confirmation – “Yup. I shit alright.” – and then wipes his hand on the nearest surface with all the sophistication you’d expect from a 3-year-old.

Later in the day, after the poop had been cleaned from behind Kali’s door, I was in my bedroom, listening to music on my laptop while the TV was muted, and writing. Jack came into the room, saw that awful Yogi Bear movie on the TV, and asked me to turn up the volume so he could watch it. I called for Kali and asked that she bring me my headphones, the ones I’d let Jack use when she wouldn’t share hers. He wasn’t really using them, but he likes to copy whatever his big sis does.

 

Except when she brought them into my room, the white ear cushions were missing.

“What did he do with them, Kali?”

“I don’t know.”

Jack and Donny enter the room and I ask Jack, “Where are the cushions?” I point at the earbuds so he’ll know what I’m talking about.

“I eat them.”

Silence.

“No, really, Jack. Where are the cushions?”

“I eat them. In my tummy!” And he pats his baby belly.

What follows is about a solid minute of sputtering from me, Kali, and Donny.

“Did he… is he serious?” “How could he possibly…” “Holy fuck!”

That last one might have been Kali. I don’t know, there was a lot of panic and it’s all very confusing.

“Well,” Donny sighed. “We’ll have to wait to see if he shits them out.”

“He just shit! This could be a while.”

More silence.

Kali goes to her room and returns with my earbud cushions. “Where did you find them?”

“In my room… on the floor… behind the door.”

They were covered in shit.

“That’s probably why he was digging in his diaper. He was trying to get the cushions out!” Donny smiles, proud of his deduction skills. “You want me to wash them?”

“No. No. Just… throw them away.”

 

Blog it Out, Bitch the Book

Coming September 2011

 

Growing Pains

My daughter is 12 today. A pre-teen. A young lady.

Mama needs margaritas.

Long-time readers may remember me mentioning this before, but right before each birthday I notice a change in my children. I don’t know if it’s natural or if, as parents, we automatically start looking for signs of change. Whatever it is, I notice.

I’ve spent the past month or so preparing for the release of my book. I could go whole weekends without seeing Kali except for the few times she’d poke her head into my bedroom and ask what we were having for breakfast, lunch or dinner. My response? “Go ask your Dad.” Any guilt I felt was assuaged with, I’m doing this for them. What kind of mother can I be if I’m miserable, waiting for others to see fit to make my dreams come true? Why not take my fate in my own hands and make them happen? And what better way to start than with a book that my daughter inspired?

And this did the trick up until this past weekend when Kali admitted that she kept forgetting her birthday was Tuesday. She was not excited about it. Anytime we asked what she wanted or what she wanted to do, she would shrug and say, “I can’t think of anything I want or need.” I joked that this was a good thing. When I was her age, if someone asked me what I wanted, I’d respond with a list as long as a New York City block. “When I was your age, I didn’t have shit!” We both laughed.

But I felt horrible. She may be turning 12, I thought, but that’s still a child. Children should be excited about their birthdays whether they have a wish list a mile long or not. Everyone wants to feel like their birthday matters and I’d done a piss-poor job of doing that for Kali. If she can’t think of something she needs or wants, then it’s my job to come up with something. To surprise her with things she didn’t know she wanted or needed. It’s my job to create magic because this day matters. This day, twelve years ago, changed my life and it should be celebrated every day, but especially today.

Yesterday, when she got home from school, we went to my nail salon and got our nails done. I did not cringe (outwardly anyway) when she chose black polish.

 

We went to Claire’s next and I bravely endured the constant nose tickling as it seemed everywhere I turned, a feather-adorned accessory was invading my nostrils. I did not pass judgment on the fingerless gloves or the belt with skull and crossbones on it – I simply thanked God the skulls were surrounded by rainbows.

Next we went to Aeropostale for new shirts and then Charming Charlies where she picked out the cutest zebra print slip-on shoes and purple hat.

As I watched her beautiful fingers with their black nails brush over fabrics and patterns, and her face react in either pleasure or distaste, I realized she was well on her way to being her own person with her own tastes and style. And sure, I could say no and only agree to buy the things that we both liked, or worse, the things that I liked whether she agreed or not, but doesn’t that defeat the point? Hadn’t I raised her these past twelve years with the desire and knowledge that she’d eventually become her own person? How can that happen if I insist on lots of pink and frills in a vain attempt to keep her “my little girl?”

Her mood had lightened considerably. She even tried convincing me to buy something for myself, but I declined. As much as I wanted the bag, this shopping trip wasn’t about me.

 

This was about Kali and (I didn’t tell her this) the plan was to not say no to anything she wanted. When she spotted a t-shirt she wanted in Aeropostale and asked, “If I put back one of the other shirts, can I get that one?,” I replied, “Why not get them all?”

“I can do that?” “Yes, you can.”

I did it because I could afford to. I did it because everyone should have a shopping spree once in awhile. We went to Best Buy last and I bought the two things that I had planned to buy her anyway: an iHome system for her bedroom so she could dock her iPod at night and listen to music while it charges (it’s really cool – it changes colors) and an iTunes gift card so she can download all the Japanese music she’s into now that she’s also into Anime.

When we got home, she excitedly pulled her new clothes, shoes and accessories from their bags and showed them to her Dad. She couldn’t wait to go to school today and wear her new shoes, belt, and fingerless gloves. And here’s the cool thing about my kid: she won’t expect this from now on. This wasn’t about buying her love, acceptance, or happiness. I’d been in her shoes, thinking no one cared enough about your birthday to make a big deal. Some years the big deal may be a home-cooked meal of your choosing with cupcakes made with love for dessert. And some years the big deal may be a shopping spree with Mom as you both giggle over how pretty your nails are and drive with the windows down, singing “The Dog Days are Over” at the top of your lungs.

I watched her walk into the school this morning with a knot in my stomach. The kid has a funky style, for sure. But it’s hers and I worried if I’d done enough to teach her to own it. Then a boy in front of her stopped to hold the door as she adjusted her new white tote bag with the black butterflies and she flashed him a braces-lined smile of gratitude. And he blushed.

She owns it alright.

We’re going out to dinner tonight to celebrate. And she gets to pick the restaurant. And I just pray they serve margaritas.

Big ones.

When I Grew Up

When I was about eight or nine, my uncle asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I promptly, and confidently, replied, “A doctor and a pom-pom girl.” For years after, whenever he saw me, he’d say, “Paging Dr. Nina the Pom-Pom Girl.”

At eight or nine, it doesn’t occur to us that we do not have options. And it seems downright normal to think we can combine any of the options we choose. We can be a doctor cheerleader or a clown astronaut. If we’re really ambitious, a cheerleading doctor astronaut clown. For a time, I wanted to be a lawyer and a Prince video girl. Don’t judge.

The one thing I always, always, went back to was writer. There are two instances that stand out in my mind as defining moments when I knew for sure. In my 7^th grade English class we read To Kill a Mockingbird. My teacher, Mr. Maresca, would assign chapters for reading and we’d discuss them in class the next day. It is still one of my favorite childhood memories. I wanted to be able to tell stories like that.

But before that, when I was about eleven, I saw a movie called, “Romancing the Stone.” Kathleen Turner’s character was the type of writer I wanted to be. No, I didn’t want to write swashbuckling romances, rather, I wanted to live in a New York City apartment with hardwood floors that clicked under my high heels. I wanted to write on a typewriter while I smoked cigarettes and drank wine, avoiding phone calls from my agent asking where the next chapter was. I wanted to have a cat I could feed cans of tuna. (This was before I realized I hate cats.)

I thought being a writer was as glamorous and easy as that. Surely, it was easier than being a doctor cheerleader, right? Then a funny thing happened. Life happened. I found myself doing a lot less writing in notebooks and a lot more living. Looking back on it now, I was always writing. I was just writing without moving my fingers.

When I lived in Portland, Maine and my first husband was deployed to Italy, and I’d look out the living room window, across the alley, into the apartment of the dark-haired guy that played the guitar every night and give him a name, and a past, and a future, that was writing.

When I was living in a Georgia suburb with my second (and last) husband, in my first house, and running barefoot across the wet lawn of my neighbor after a night of copious margarita consumption, and glanced up at my second-story window to catch a glimpse of a moving shadow and concocted this horror movie plot in my head by the time I’d made my way through the garage and up to my bedroom, that was writing.

I was always writing, sometimes in my head, sometimes in a notebook, and sometimes on a laptop. And then it hit me, as it has hit most of us who are lucky to realize it and then do it, that I was never going to be happy until I made the complete, balls-out, commitment to do what I love for a living.

That was when I realized that writing isn’t like the movies. Writing IS work and Michael Douglas in his alligator boots isn’t going to come sweeping down Madison Avenue on a pirate ship and whisk me away on bestselling adventures.

I am a writer and I am friends with writers and we know the truth. Writing is not just finding the time to write, it’s making the time to write. Because remember that living of life thing I mentioned before? Well, with that came children, and bills, and other responsibilities that demand their own attention. And while it may be easier to quiet the voices in your head, begging to have their stories told, than to quiet a cranky toddler in need of attention, it is not always healthy to deny the former. When I do, I become cranky and then no one is happy.

I stopped making excuses for my unfinished projects. I started to make the time. If the kids get up at 8:30am, why not get up before them and get some writing done? I started getting up at 6:00am to write for a solid two hours and found that it put me in a better mood throughout the rest of the day. I found I was more productive with my other responsibilities because the voices had been satisfied… for a time. Also, you’ll be surprised how much writing you get done in two hours.

I began to take my writing seriously so others would, too. I do not answer the phone when I am writing and I learned to not care if people had a problem with that. I do not expect them to answer the phone while they’re in a meeting or teaching a class. And if it was unavoidable, and I had to stop to answer a call, it would always take me a few moments to invest in the conversation because my mind was still with my fictional folk, wondering how their conversation would end.

Just as I began to take it seriously, I got annoyed when I felt other people were treating it lightly. Someone who has never given any thought to being a writer suddenly says, “I’ve been thinking about writing a book,” and my eye starts to twitch and I want to reply, “Really? Funny you should mention it because I’ve been thinking about performing back surgery.” Elitist? Snobby? Maybe. But honest.

I stopped being afraid of saying, “I’m a writer.” (Ask me what pays the bills, and that’s a different answer.) I have been published in a literary magazine and an anthology. I have written dozens of short stories – a few have even won contests, and some may never find a home. I have written thousands of blogs that received thousands of views. I have agonized over query letters and felt the sting of rejection. I have completed a book of which I am extremely proud – although, now it needs lots of shine. For the first time in over twenty years, I have a found a balance. I have found a method. I have found peace. I have become a writer.

The Shake Debate

Yesterday, when Donny got in from picking up Kali from school, Jack was having a fit.

“What’s wrong with him?”

I thought he was refusing to get out of the car because he was watching a movie in the backseat. That happens sometimes. We fix it by taking the disc he was watching into the house.

“He wants to go back out.”

“Why don’t you take him to McDonald’s and get him something small? He didn’t eat lunch and dinner still needs a little time.”

I was referring to the roast, potatoes, and carrots that had been cooking in the slow cooker all day.

“He wants pee-za.” Donny pronounces the word the way Jack does.

Once or twice Donny has picked up a pizza pie after getting Kali and now Jack thinks that’s the norm.

“Well, get a $6 pie and the kids can eat that. We’ll have roast.”

So, off they go and I’m just happy to be able to get some work done in quiet.

They return a few minutes later with McDonald’s.

Donny says, “I wasn’t going to get pizza when we have a roast!”

But he’ll get McDonald’s? Sometimes, my husband’s logic makes me question whether he is, in fact, a woman.

I shake my head and go back to work. A few moments pass and I find a McDonald’s cup shoved into my face, a pale orange liquid dripping from the straw.

“Try this. It’s awesome.”

What it is, actually, is a sweet potato or pumpkin or cinnamon or something else seasonal, milkshake.

“No thanks.”

“Oh, come on!”

“Kali, I don’t want it.”

“Fine.”

I go back to work. I hear the sound of something hitting the floor and look up to find Kali pouting outside the powder room door.

“I dropped my shake! Jack made me drop my shake!”

“Clean it up,” Donny and I say.

“I really wanted that shake.”

“I’m sure you did,” I say, “but you still have to clean it up.”

She goes into the laundry room for a towel from the hamper. The whole time she’s in the bathroom wiping, she’s grumbling about Jack and how good the shake was. When she’s done, she joins me at the dining room table. I don’t look away from my laptop, but I know her sad eyes are upon me. I can feel them.

“I really wanted that shake. I can’t believe Jack did that.”

“What did he do exactly?”

“I was in the bathroom and he banged on the door and it made me jump and I dropped my shake.”

“I’m not really sure that’s his fault.”

Silence.

“Why did you have the shake in the bathroom anyway?”

“Because I wanted to drink it and pee at the same time.”

That’s it. I lose it. I’m laughing and she’s laughing.

“What?! It was that good!”

“Apparently.”

I minimize my work and click on the Facebook tab. Kali slaps her hands down on top of mine.  We’re both still laughing.

“Don’t tell your friends!”

“Why not? It’s funny!”

“Because I’m mad.”

And she is. In a fraction of a second she went from giggling at her misfortune to stern-faced.

But I can’t stop laughing.

“Wait. You’re serious. You’re mad now?”

“Yes!”

“No. No. You can’t do that. That’s not fair. You can’t be all funny about it and peeing and drinking is funny, and get me all riled up laughing, then decide you want to be pissed so we all have to be pissed. That’s not right.”

I’m laughing the whole time I say this and even though she tries to remain pissed, she laughs, too.

“OK. But you still can’t tell anyone.”

“Oh, come on!”

“No. I’m still mad. Even though it’s funny, I don’t want to talk about it.”

“But you won’t be. We will!”

“No!”

I go back to work, defeated, but laughing. She goes back to pouting. Donny is on the sofa, channel surfing.

I hear the beep-beep-beep of the alarm system signaling someone has opened a door or window on the first floor. I look up to see Jack opening the garage door… and leaving the house.

“Donny, where is your son going?”

“Jack!” Donny hops off the couch to get our toddler.

Kali says, “He’s going to get me another shake.”

I lose it again.

“Oh, come on! I can’t keep this to myself!”

“No!”

Grrrr.

“Mommy, can you take me to get another one? I really want that shake.”

“Maybe. Not now though. I have to work. Maybe after dinner, but before Glee.”

“Pinky promise.”

We hook pinkies, but before we can twist and break away I blurt out very quickly, “But you have to let me write about it!”

We sit there, pinkies and eyes locked. I can tell she really wants that shake.

“FINE!”

“YES!”

We twist and break away.

We never did figure out where Jack was going.

Be Good To Him

When I was pregnant with Jack I would often ask Donny, Kali, and sometimes the universe, “What are we going to do with this little boy?” The thought of having another person in our lives was frightening. The thought of being a mother to a boy after being, I thought, such a girl Mommy – all about mani/pedis, Girl’s Day Out, and teenage vampire flicks – was bizarre.

I wondered how he would fit into our family of three and if we really knew what we were getting ourselves into.

One day, I tossed the question into the air, rubbing my belly and eyeing my swollen feet, and Kali volleyed back the most simplest of answers.

“We’re going to love him, and take care of him, and be good to him.”

That latter stuck with me.

Be good to him.

Loving him would come naturally.

Taking care of him was my responsibility and I’d be held to it by the law if necessary.

But being good to him? It was such an odd thing for a 9-year-old to say. Such a simple answer and simple concept.

When Jack was about a week old I was suffering from excess water retention, in my legs and feet, on my lungs, and apparently on the brain as I was purposely ignoring the medication that would help because it would potentially dry up my breast milk. It was a tough time of very little sleep and patience. Whenever I felt like I was at the end of my rope I would simply hug him, rock him, kiss him and remember, “Be good to him.”

That instruction has remained with me for the past two years as I was reminded how energetic and difficult toddlers can be. It has remained with me as I am introduced to how rambunctious and fearless little boys can be. And it was my mantra last night as I struggled to get Jack to go to sleep when all he wanted to do was jump around and toss toys into the air.

We do not spank. A sharp rap to the hand to stop a bobby pin from finding its way into a light socket is one thing, but we do not hit the bottom, face, or legs with our hands, belts, wooden spoons or other foreign objects. It’s a personal parenting choice that has served us well. That is not to say that I’ve not found myself at the end of my rope. I have. Sometimes I want to tie that rope around my neck and jump! But it’s an effort I choose to make, to discipline from a different place and in a different way.

And it’s easy to do when I just remember those four words. Be good to him.

I said them last night as Jack finally settled down, nursing from one breast with his hand on the other. His eyes were closed and I kissed his brow. He sighed and hummed and gave my breast a quick squeeze. I pulled him closer, still amazed after 11 years of motherhood how perfectly their bodies seem to mold into mine. Like puzzle pieces finding their correct spot, they belong to me and I belong to them.

Jack’s breathing, through his nose, slows and I know that he’s finally asleep. Not enough that I risk removing the breast. I decide to give him a few more minutes, but really they’re for me. I enjoy that internal smell every time he exhales. It has such a boy aroma to it. It’s hard to explain to people what that means. Just like it’s hard to explain that I still stick my face close to his when he yawns to soak up that baby breath. Yes, thankfully, he still has baby breath. I placed my hand on his back and pushed him closer still.

I feel bad that I’d lost my patience a few minutes before. I think about a mother in New Zealand whose baby fights for his life because someone wasn’t good to him. Someone lost their patience or swung too wildly or… God only knows. I think that I am lucky and blessed.

I woke up this morning to an email from my friend Alegra. Her nephew is that baby, and last night he stopped fighting. He is in death as he was in life, a perfect little angel. Donny called me a short while ago asking if I’d seen Alegra’s Facebook status about it and I told him about the email. We spoke for five minutes about how senseless it was. How sad. How painful. When Alegra had first told us what had happened to baby Cezar, Donny and I tried to remember what Jack was like at five months. All we could come up with was beautiful, sweet, and small. So small.

It doesn’t make sense and I’ve had to stop writing this several times – sometimes to cry, sometimes to hug my baby, sometimes to do work and not think about it. But then, of course, I will think about it and I have to write again because it helps get the feelings out. Otherwise, I feel like I’ll choke on them.

Please say a prayer for baby Cezar and his family. And if you have little ones, be good to them. Even if you’re tired and stressed over bills and life in general. Just take a moment. Take a breath. And be good to them.

BIOBaby: Breastfeeding at 48 Months

My cousin had a baby in July of 2008. I gave birth to Jack in August of 2008. A few months ago we were both invited to a hookah bar and my response was, “I can’t go! I’m still breastfeeding!” Her response was, “So am I. Now, what’s your excuse?”

The big difference here is that she she was referring to her second child born since July 2008! That’s right. In the time it took her to nurse one child, wean him, get pregnant and have another baby, I’m still breastfeeding the same baby. And you know what? I think it downright offends some people. I’ve received eye rolls and head shakes and that’s from family!

When I was pregnant I said that I would breastfeed for the first two years.  It seemed like a good length of time, and I suppose part of that decision was based on the guilt I felt for weaning Kali earlier than I’d planned. I left myself open to the possibility that I’d change my mind once I actually began.

Last February, when Jack was about six months old, my mother moved in with us. She is from the old school of feeding a baby pretty much anything that won’t choke ‘em and chewing up and feeding them the things that might. I was making Jack’s baby food myself (pureeing and freezing ice cube trays of carrots, squash, and apples) and as she made sure he was eating three squares (literally) a day, he seemed to become disinterested in nursing.

Oh, hell no. I increased my efforts, offering him the boob whenever I could, and it worked. He was back, firmly nestled in my breast where he belonged. A few more months passed and I thought 18-months-old might be a good place to stop. Then one day while on the phone with Sophie she asked when I was going to stop. I told her when Jack was 18 months. And she said, “Well, he’s 17-months-old now, you might wanna start weaning.”

Well, that was two months ago and I’m still “weaning.”

We tried the “don’t offer, don’t refuse” method. I wouldn’t offer up the booby during the day, but if he went for it, I wouldn’t refuse it either. I tried nursing only first thing in the morning, before nap time, and before bed at night. The problem was, he asked all the time!

And most times, he won’t even ask! I can be on the laptop, reading a book, watching T.V., or playing Halo and he’ll come and pull one out for a little pick-me-up. The boy has even pulled one out as I carried him on my hip, walking down the stairs. He literally lifted one out of my tank top, craned his neck, and started sucking.

“OK. You may need to start getting dressed everyday. No more wearing your P.J.s all day. No more tank tops. Start wearing turtlenecks tucked into your jeans… and wear a belt,” Sophie advised.

“Um, I think I need an armored vest!”

The majority of the time, I don’t mind that he’s still nursing. Sometimes it’s caused some pretty funny moments. Like, the other night when Jack and Donny were headed up to bed, and I decided to stay downstairs and watch Idol. Jack climbed out of my lap to follow Donny up the stairs. Just as he was about to climb up the first step he stopped, ran back to me, stood between my legs as I sat on the couch, pulled my nightshirt down and sucked, sucked, sucked, then ran back to Donny throwing a, “Bye!” over his shoulder. Donny said he just wanted “one for the road.”

Other times, it can be pretty inconvenient when he falls asleep and I have to carefully detach and then pray he doesn’t wake up as I transition him. And I’m pretty sure all these hormones are the reason behind my constant need to wax my face – but that’s for a whole ‘nother blog. I think what is worrying me is that I have no idea how to stop. A lot of people have said I should just let him decide. What if he decides he wants to be doing it till he’s 3? He’s already graduated from sippy cups to child cups with lids and straws, and recently he’s been pushing those aside and drinking from a lidless cup like a big boy, but he ain’t tryna give up the “bee bees.”

A lot of Moms who really advocate nursing will say, “You know, in other countries this isn’t such a big deal.”

Yeah, well, I live in America and I ain’t tryna be the mom squirting breastmilk in his thermos as he heads off to preschool!

Donny and I went to see 2012 and this trailer was shown before the movie. At the end of it, Donny turned to me and said, “That’s gonna be you and Jack.” No, it’s not! Right? RIGHT!?

Brand New

In the span of about six months my child has gone from this:

to this:

And it’s all my fault!

Last November I had a mystery shop at Aeropostale. Prior to that, I hadn’t stepped foot in that store and couldn’t tell you what they sold. It was one of those jobs where they don’t pay you a shop fee, but reimburses for the required purchase – in this case, a shirt. Kali wanted to tag along because the store was very popular with the kids in her class.

First, we had to deal with the little matter of how to pronounce the damn name. My father called it AIR-O-PO-STAL-LAY – all fancy, like he’s Madonna or something. Kali insisted that wasn’t right. I called it AIR-O-POS-TELL (rhymes with Aristotle.) Kali insisted THAT wasn’t right either.

So, I’m doing the shop and realize that I enjoy food way too much to fit anything in that store. Also, the clothing seemed to be catered towards people that actually left the house once in awhile. After holding up a few XS tees to Kali, I decided I’d make the required purchase for her and picked out a super cute orange T-shirt with AEROPOSTALE obnoxiously plastered down the side.

As we’re checking out, Kali nudges me. “Ask him!” she stage whispers.

I look at the young man ringing up the shirt. He’s wearing a tight plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up and jeans made to look like they’re dirty when they’re really not.

“My daughter wants to ask you something.”

If looks could kill they’d have been cleaning up a Nina-sized stain off the Aeropostale floor.

“How do you pronounce the name of this store?”

“AIR-O-PO-STAL” (Stal like Stalin.)

So, Kali was right.

He then flips his head, tossing back hair cut in one of those uber-trendy styles that only white boys can pull off, and says, “But we just call it Aero.”

Oh, well, excuse the fuck outta me.

And that was all it took. It’s been Aero this and Aero that ever since. I feel like pulling out one of my mother’s old standards and asking, “You got Aero money?”

For her birthday we took her to pick out some shirts. I was very happy to see the “ALL TOPS 50% OFF” sign in the window. I didn’t want to spend more than $50. We got two t-shirts, a plaid button down, and a white hoodie for just under $50 (everything was either 50% or 70% off.)

It’ a little weird watching her style change and some of it frightens me. I mean, come on! Look at that ad again. Those kids are an eating disorder and one roofy experience away from being an Abercrombie and Fitch ad!

But as long as I am in charge of picking out and paying for the clothes, this shouldn’t be a problem. The style may be older, but we’ll always remain appropriate.

And I’m already putting the brakes on this idea that only one name brand is suitable. She wanted Aeropostale flip-flops, but they were $10.

“Girl, we can go to Old Navy and get you some flip-flops.”

“But these are better.”

“Why?”

“Because they say Aeropostale!”

“Yeah, across the bottom where no one will see it. Let’s go.”

On the bright side, when she’s old enough for a part-time job, I know where to send her.

McDonald’s Money

The other day I was at the kitchen table, paying bills and balancing the bank account when Kali looked over my shoulder, pointed at a circled dollar amount on a sheet of paper and asked, “Is that how much money we have?”

Any parent will tell you that you always pause to figure out the best way to answer your child’s question no matter how innocent the question may be. My first instinct – sometimes to a fault – is to always tell the truth. But then you have to worry about the ramifications of telling the truth. Take Kali’s question as an example – I had to ask myself, “Did we have the talk about privacy and money? Do I have to worry that I’ll see this post on Facebook:

My Mom has $1,600 in the bank!

I realized that a simple yes or no answer might not be so simple after all, so I gave the standard Mommy reply when we need time to stall.

“Girl, go play.”

As I prepared to write this, I tried to remember what my perception of the family finances were when I was a child (without being biased by what I know now.) Did I think we were poor? I’m not sure if I felt like we were poor, but I knew we didn’t have money. At least not a lot of it. My mother always attached money to our wants.

“Ma, can we have McDonald’s?”

“You got McDonald’s money?”

“Ma, can we go to the movies?”

“You got movies money?”

I was always left with the feeling that we didn’t have any money. Of course, now I realize when my mother said, “I don’t have McDonald’s money,” she meant exactly that. She had money, just not for McDonald’s. There was never a time when we didn’t eat, we just didn’t have McDonald’s.

Even though my mother and stepfather never fought about money openly (or even stressed over it in front of us) it wasn’t hard to figure out our financial station in life. Hell, just spending any time with family and friends who had more money or turning on The Cosby Show told me that we weren’t exactly the Rockefellers.

As a parent, I worry about what kind of financial message (even silently) I’m sending to my kids. There’s very little that Kali wants that she doesn’t get. But she also knows that these things don’t come magically. We’ve had the discussion about pay, taxes, and bills. She understands that going to work means getting paid. She saw me doing side merchandising and mystery shop jobs before the holidays in order to buy the laptop she wanted for Christmas.

I’m hoping this has given her an appreciation for the things we have. But there’s a fine line. We want our kids to take care of the things they have because they know they cost money and they know that money isn’t plucked out of thin air, but we don’t want our kids worrying about money. I don’t think they should have to.

I found myself choosing my words carefully when explaining our recent move to Kali. It’s an uncomfortable sentence, but I thought, “Mommy and Daddy can no longer afford that bigger house,” was appropriate. It was the perfect segue way into how much it costs to, well, live. Bigger houses are more expensive to heat in the winter and keep cool in the summer, this means bigger monthly bills and less money left over for extras or savings, etc.

Spending habits are just that – habits. If you have poor ones, your kids are in danger of picking them up. Of course, there’s also the chance that your kid may grow up to do the exact opposite. So affected by growing up in a household where utilities were also at risk of being shut up off, a child may grow up to be super responsible with their finances to simply not repeat their parents’ mistakes. But why risk it? Even if you’re faking the funk, is it better to always put on a happy face in front of your kids when it comes to money?

No matter how tight money becomes, there’s one area in which I refuse to have my kids affected. Food. Growing up, there was four of us kids and not a lot of extras. We pretty much ate breakfast and lunch in school, and things like cereal were saved for the weekends to be devoured in front of Saturday morning cartoons. And though we weren’t denied food, there was definitely the unspoken understanding that food couldn’t be consumed just for the sake of doing it. It seemed everything had to last. There wasn’t a lot of extra snacks laying around the house.

Soda was a treat. Kool-Aid was a (cheap) staple. It always seemed to me that other people had it so much better than we did. I’d go to my cousins’ houses and marvel at the amount of Sunnydale juices in the fridge or bags of chips in the cabinet. I was fascinated when school friends could go into the kitchen and prepare a sandwich without having to ask first. To me, these folks were living large! As a result, I make sure my house is filled with the things my kids like to eat. There are very few things (snacks purchased strictly for school) that Kali has to ask for before eating. I wonder if she thinks she’s living large.

Then again, she is only 11 and 11-year-olds aren’t exactly known for being rational thinkers. The other day she asked if we were poor. I told her no and then wanted to know why she asked.

“Well, I keep asking to be a premium member of that website I like, and you keep saying no.”

So, let me this straight: you live in a nice house with nice televisions, every game system on the market, tons of video games and DVDs, you have nice clothes and your own laptop and you think we’re poor because I won’t pay for unlimited access to a site where Chester Chester, Child Molesters could be lurking? *facepalm*

But maybe this means I’m doing something right. Maybe this means that she has all the understanding of money one needs to have at 11: things cost money and sometimes Mommy and Daddy will buy you the things you need/want because they can and it’s appropriate and sometimes they won’t because they can’t or won’t. Then again, maybe she was just being a smartass.

So, how much info is too much info? Should your children know what’s in your bank account? Should they be aware of exactly how much money it takes to keep the roof over their heads, the lights on, and food on the table?

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