Motherhood

Gender Roles

And, these pictures are here for one purpose.

I want to prove that I am teaching my girls the fine art of being a girl.

Here are all of my girls picking out their desired hair do for the school year.

And, Bella demonstrates how a girl just loves getting her hair shampooed.

While in college, LG and I took a class together called Sociology for the Family. We learned that we shouldn’t gender role our kids. For instance, give your daughters toy cars and your sons a baby doll.

I agree to a certain extent, but have been a little relieved that my girls have femininity as well as an ability to hang with the boys. I mean, for example, Abigail can tell you any character in Star Wars, and you know that’s not a normal girl thing. Sophia can kill any of your boys at Mario Kart and Bella…well, I can’t think of anything for her except for the fact that like her mother, she just doesn’t have the energy to deal with the girl drama.

Do you know what my secret wish is? I know it sounds weird, but I would love to have a daughter grow up to be a darling and cute football quarterback. About ten years ago there was one of these girls at a high school in Utah. She was the star quarterback and the Homecoming queen….I just think that is the coolest thing ever. I mean I don’t want a daughter to be a quarterback because she wants to look or act like a guy. I want her to be ALL girl and play ball with the best of the boys. And, if you think that is so crazy, please make your comment really really mean. The mean ones seem to rally even more comments.

Well, the purpose of this post. It’s my first mom’s advice post. And the advice is: don’t gender role your kids. But, please remember that you also have to teach them proper femininity/masculinity. And, if you don’t believe me, go over and read the latest post by my sister Renee.

This oldie but goodie from The Muppet Show supports my point masterfully.

Oh, and just for a bit of fun.

Here are the lyrics so you can teach your girls

(or boys – I guess)

I enjoy being a girl.

I’m a girl, and by me that’s only great!

I am proud that my silhouette is curvy,

That I walk with a sweet and girlish gait

With my hips kind of swivelly and swervy.

I adore being dressed in something frilly

When my date comes to get me at my place.

Out I go with my Joe or John or Billy,

Like a filly who is ready for the race!

When I have a brand new hairdo

With my eyelashes all in curl,

I float as the clouds on air do,

I enjoy being a girl!

When men say I’m cute and funny

And my teeth aren’t teeth, but pearl,

I just lap it up like honey

I enjoy being a girl!

I flip when a fellow sends me flowers,

I drool over dresses made of lace,

I talk on the telephone for hours

With a pound and a half of cream upon my face!

I’m strictly a female female

And my future I hope will be

In the home of a brave and free male

Who’ll enjoy being a guy having a girl… like… me.

When men say I’m sweet as candy

As around in a dance we whirl,

It goes to my head like brandy,

I enjoy being a girl!

When someone with eyes that smoulder

Says he loves ev’ry silken curl

That falls on my iv’ry shoulder,

I enjoy being a girl!

When I hear the compliment’ry whistle

That greets my bikini by the sea,

I turn and I glower and I bristle,

But I happy to know the whistle’s meant for me!

I’m strictly a female female

And my future I hope will be

In the home of a brave and free male

Who’ll enjoy being a guy having a girl… like… me.

Seeing things?

After watching this:

For some crazy reason my husband thinks that this mother of three can go from being a Soccer Mom/PTSO secretary to the Vice President of the country in about ten years?

I do have vision, but c’mon….politics?

If it were up to me, I think we would have no government at all.

I am very happy with two things.

1- The respect that mothers finally seem to be getting in this country is amazing!
And, 2- the fact that my husband thinks that I should be a part of it.

And the 2nd reason makes me happy for an additional two reasons:

1- He thinks I am smart enough (or dumb enough)

And 2- he wants me to have MORE POWER!!

Yahoo to that.

I am so glad to be a part of this new stay home mom turns power politician revolution.

Even if it’s only in my hubby’s dream world.

Besides, I don’t think I would make it as a politician.

I am sure I would overspend,

and it would mostly be on school supplies that were 75% off.

No school could ever have enough crayons or pencil sharpeners, could they?

If you want to really see something: go here,
and make sure you tell me what you think.

Ten Virgins with Children

No, it wasn’t immaculate. It was a church play. It was fun.

Guess who was the one with the real Pashmina?

Yeah, that would be me.

A few years back, my sister, Shannon, brought it back for me from Italy.

I told her how beautiful it was and kindly thanked her.
I thought to myself, “When is simple old me ever going to wear something so elegant?”

“It’s a darn scarf. I am never going to wear a scarf!

Why couldn’t she bring me some wine?”

(not really, because you all know I can’t drink that)

So, I tucked the soft and pretty scarf away for a completely improbable day in the future when I would magically transform into a woman with some taste.

Shannon’s husband has schooled her in the ways of refinement.

I was not so lucky.

I had to teach my husband to match the color of his shoes to his belt.

And that there are some occasions besides church that it is appropriate to wear something other than jeans or basketball shorts, and a T-shirt.

I grew up in a beach town and LG grew up in a County school in Tennessee.

So, you can imagine that when it comes to the subject of fashion,

we are both somewhat challenged.

But, wow, last week,

I got to pretend that this mother of 3 was not only a virgin,

but that I was also the coolest woman in the play.

You see, I had a real Pashmina.

I felt like a million bucks as the other virgins salivated in envy.

On the way home, I promptly called my sister to give her the much delayed appropriate thanks. You know the kind where there is almost groveling involved.

I somehow had to make up for my lack of excitement from my first little thanks.
I told her, “There’s nothing like the jealousy of another woman to make you want to have a little more culture in your life.”

I have to tell you that, for me, the sense of belonging to the high life was fleeting.

As soon as I got home, the scarf went right back in the bottom of my drawer.

We wouldn’t want my kids to find it, would we?

It may somehow end up in their dress up box

with the fluffy elf costume and Styrofoam knight’s armor.

Now, all I can do is hope that our church Christmas party

will be the kind that we all dress up and go back to Jerusalem.

I would love to have a chance to NOT gloat.

Now that I know what a Pashmina is,

I may be able to sensor my pride and play it off,

instead of rubbing it in the face of commoners.

Off to school

Last week marked the beginning of another school year for the Gold Family.

It is a little historic for us, as Bella, our baby, finally gets to go along with her sisters.

So, now I am left filling my days without children in tow.

I think that this Wild Thing will be o.k.

When I started getting a bit sad, I decided I needed to embrace the change.

I gave myself a treat on the first day of my new found freedom.

I went to Panera Bread and got whatever I wanted.

I sat and ate and read my book just to make sure I could still enjoy some quiet.

I sure hope the girls enjoy school as much as I enjoyed my date with myself.

I also hope that they will find and be the kind of friend that is illustrated in the following story by Susie. And, they will always remember that prayers are answered.

Bella can attest to prayers being answered herself. All summer, Bella repeatedly told us she wanted Mrs. Nitz, and we told her that any teacher would be just fine and that she wasn’t going to get to choose. It ended up that she had been assigned a teacher other than Mrs. Nitz, the one Sophia had last year. Bella was bummed out during the first week of assessments, but didn’t complain. She just kept on saying, “I really really really want Mrs. Nitz.” To our pleasant surprise, when Bella reported to her second day of school, Mrs. Nitz was waiting. Bella had been changed to her class. You should have seen that smile of an answered prayer.

WET PANTS

Come with me to a third grade classroom…..

There is a nine-year-old kid sitting at his desk and all of a sudden, there is a puddle between his feet and the front of his pants are wet. He thinks his heart is going to stop because he cannot possibly imagine how this has happened. It’s never happened before, and he knows that when the boys find out he will never hear the end of it. When the girls find out, they’ll never speak to him again as long as he lives. The boy believes his heart is going to stop; he puts his head down and prays this prayer, ‘Dear God, this is an emergency! I need help now! Five minutes from now I’m dead meat.’

He looks up from his prayer and here comes the teacher with a look in her eyes that says he has been discovered. As the teacher is walking toward him, a classmate named Susie is carrying a goldfish bowl that is filled with water. Susie trips in front of the teacher and inexplicably dumps the bowl of water in the boy’s lap. The boy pretends to be angry, but all the while is saying to himself, ‘Thank you, Lord! Thank you, Lord!’

Now all of a sudden, instead of being the object of ridicule, the boy is the object of sympathy.. The teacher rushes him downstairs and gives him gym shorts to put on while his pants dry out. All the other children are on their hands and knees cleaning up around his desk. The sympathy is wonderful. But as life would have it, the ridicule that should have been his has been transferred to someone else – Susie.

She tries to help, but they tell her to get out. You’ve done enough, you klutz!’
Finally, at the end of the day, as they are waiting for the bus, the boy walks over to Susie and whispers, ‘You did that on purpose, didn’t you?’ Susie whispers back, ‘I wet my pants once too.’

Hypocrites

Mom, what is that word that means you tell people to do one thing, but then you don’t do what you say to do?

Hypocrite.

Oh yeah, hypocrite.

So, if you tell us to wear our seat belts and you don’t, then you’re a hypocrite?

I guess you could say that.

Fast forward a week to this morning. (and I apologize to those of you who may not get the referenced Harry Potter magical creature)

Kids, please put your seat belts on.

Mom, you are such a hippogriff, put your seat belt on!

Oh, it was time for a little lesson while I shrugishly pulled on my seat belt.

It’s not nice to call people hypocrites, Abigail, and I am not a hypocrite, I just forget to put my seat belt on sometimes.

And it’s not nice to call people hippogriffs either.

Love Pairs

Look mom, we put all of the Little Pet Shops in Love Pairs.

Oh yeah, what does it mean if you are in a love pair?

It means you are the same kind and you love each other.

What do you do if you love each other?

I don’t know. Mom, why do always have to talk about sex?

They are just pet shops.

They just stand by each other and love each other.

And we put the spider and the pig together because we only have one spider and one pig.

They just love each other like friends.

They can be Charlotte and Wilber.

So, we aren’t going to have any half pig/half spiders running around.

No.

What would we call that creation?

Piggers or spigs?

Mom, you think you are so funny.

You’re not.

I know I’m not funny. To you. Ha ha.

Dad thinks I’m funny.

That’s only because he’s your love pair.

(And I totally just took literary liberty here with this last sentence)

So, what kind of love pair is this?

Oh the butterfly and caterpillar aren’t a love pair.

The caterpillar is too little.

And, they aren’t married yet, right?

Right.

And, I would like to bare my testimony,

You can teach morals to your children at any given time.

The End.

Wooden Spoons

Here is a funny little story that I read the other day.

Wooden Spoons

One day during cooking class, the teacher, Mrs. Jones, was extolling her secrets for preparing perfect sauces.

When she ordered us to the stoves to prepare our assignments, she said, “Don’t forget to use wooden spoons.”

As I stirred my sauce, I contemplated the physics behind the mystery of the wooden spoon, and decided it must have something to do with heat conduction. I approached Mrs. Jones to test my theory.

“Why wooden spoons?” I asked.

“Because,” she replied, “if I have to sit here listening to twenty-three metal spoons banging against metal pots, I’ll go nuts.”

And if this was my mom, she would NOT want you to use the wooden spoons because she may need them later to give you a good swift smack on the backside.

Eat, Drink, and Get a Refill

“The length of a film should be directly related to the endurance of the human bladder.”

~Alfred Hitchcock

This summer we have splurged and taken the kids to the real movies twice.

They were the matinee shows, but still a whole lot more expensive than our usual outing to the dollar show.

About a month ago we went and saw KungFu Panda.

And a couple of weeks ago we enjoyed every minute of Wall E.

They were both good, but Wall-E was our favorite.

If you’ve seen Wall-E, you will know what I am talking about when I say:

“It is plainly coincidental that I took the previous photo of
our HUGE drink two seconds before the show started.”

Here is the garbage can on the way out.

The theatre teenage workers were very amused that I was taking a picture of their pain.

It looks like I am not the only one who believes that if you splurge on $40 worth of movie tickets, you may as well round it off with an extra $20 for a large popcorn and drink that can be shared and refilled.

I know you will all think I am horrible when I tell you that I smuggle in the candy.

The real question is, ” Who is going to get up during the middle of the movie and fetch the refill?

That would usually be me. Isn’t that’s what mom’s are for?

Moms are also really good at making sure that their kids notice the cool new Dyson hand dryer in the bathroom.

After all that soda, we barely made it through the movie.

Alfred Hitchcock was from a different era of movie watching.

He and his little bladder were WAY before Supersize.

I really think that we should start a mother revolution and request that all family friendly movies implement a mid-movie potty/refill intermission.

And, with all those super sizes,

it’s no wonder that all Americans can relate to movies like Wall-E and KungFu Panda.

It’s a good thing we had the opportunity to work off the calories in the movie lobby on the way out.

What is that?

Yesterday morning I was reading this crazy news story about a woman that had a bat hanging out under her bra.

She thought the weird vibrating sensation was being caused by a cell phone at first. Seriously. You have to be kidding me. Somebody makes these stories up. How could a woman put a bra on without knowing there was a bat in there?

I was then reminded of something that happened to me just about a month ago.

I had cleaned out my minivan so that I could haul some yard stuff in the back. This included removing the big and ancient middle bench all by myself. (My beloved Quest was engineered before the modern collapsing seats were invented) Removing the middle bench is quite the process and requires a lot of muscle and agility. Not to mention the ability to avoid the showering crumbs of long forgotten food particles and toys.

On my way to our local garden center, I started feeling something in my bra. More precisely in the cleavage. I thought that I may have another stray hair from my thick head of hair. (We’ve already established that I don’t have hair on my chest.) I started to try and feel for it. (I know you women know what I am talking about) As I was driving, I grabbed at my shirt so that I could get a good look down there. Can you even imagine my mixture of surprise and disgust as I caught a vision of the big nasty red and black bug positioned just perfectly to be staring me right back in the face. And, I am not even going to mention the 4 inch long tentacles that almost caught me square in the eye, no joke. I almost swerved off the road.

I stopped the car to get a closer look. I roared in laughter as I realized that the bug (in the same family as the one shown above) was a party favor received by the girls. How relieved I was to retrieve something from my bra that was plastic and dead and completely still compared to what I was preparing myself to have to pry outta there.

Oh the life of a mother. You just can’t make up stories as good as mine. Not unless, of course, you are the idiot that put your bra on before checking for a baby bat. Every woman knows to do that.
P.S. I just read this post about the same story from Say No To Crack. You have to read her reference to second base…funny.

Earning My Underoos

This was written for the Scribbit July Write Away Contest.

I don’t expect to win, but it was so much fun to write,

so thanks to Michelle Mitchell for a beyond awesome topic.

When I was a about eight years old, I remember being so jealous that my sister had Wonder Woman Underoos. I wanted some BAD! I wanted to rule the world.

Before I knew it, I was a young woman, reading the quote, “The hand that rocks the cradle is the hand that rules the world.” I thought, “Yeah right. My mom rocked seven cradles and she doesn’t rule the world.”

As a young married, I was still trying to figure out how to get me some of those Underoos (that being said with my best fake Southern accent ever). I thought that I would have to accomplish so much more before I could reach that Wonder Woman Underoo realm. I just knew that if I could write and photograph and work as a prized photojournalist, (you know, just after I spent my stint in The Peace Corp) that I would rule the world. The world needed me and if anyone was capable of being Wonder Woman it was me. But I had a dilemma. How could I gain my title when I now had a husband and future family to worry about?

I was struggling with my role in the world. I didn’t want to rush into having kids. I had wanted to be a Wonder Woman since my earliest memory, not a wife and mother. I wanted to rule the world, not rock the cradle. I knew that if I were to achieve all of my goals, my husband’s may have to take second place, and he deserved his Underoos too. (albeit he would probably choose Spiderman or Batman – “that’s a tough choice” he just informed me) I felt there was no winning.

It took months of serious reflection and prayer before I started to understand how I could rule the world. Little did I know that it had everything to do with rocking the cradle. I think I was unknowingly on the cusp of earning my Underoos when I wrote this in my journal:

“I think that I will have serious decisions to make in the near future, and they are going to be hard. I will have to be selfless. I think that the only way I will find true joy in this life is if I can help my husband and my children obtain all of their dreams. I need to make their dreams and goals my dreams and goals. If I get to a ripe old age and find that through my own pride I have deprived them of their potential, then I will be ashamed and sad. I know the way to true joy is in the realm of my own little family. I want to look back and know that I was the greatest cheerleader of the greatest people in the world.”

So, the decision was made. At the time I felt like I was giving up my Underoos dream for a while. I felt I may even have to wear Depends first, but darn it, those would be some joyful Depends with stylin’ Underoos over the top. I didn’t realize that in those early months of marriage, I had found the ONLY way a woman becomes a true superhero. The real Wonder Woman Underoos can only be earned by a woman’s willingness to give of herself.

I got pregnant shortly thereafter. I gave up my job. I gave up my full time pursuit of a higher education. Some women may feel like by doing this I have shamed Women’s Lib. But, I feel like I joined a higher cause. I gave up the Underoos because I suddenly knew and understood that “the hand that rocks the cradle IS the hand that rules that world”.

My family needed me to be their stabilizing force. God guided me into rocking the cradle of my husband and my children. And, who was I to argue with God? Even if I was Wonder Woman waiting to be discovered. Besides, if I was going to rock a cradle, I wouldn’t need those Underoos anyway. (Oh, how little did I know)

Soon after the birth of our first daughter, my husband and I made the decision that his education would get top priority. I had no way of knowing that his education would monopolize the following TEN years. Count that! One, two, three, four….yeah, you all get the picture.

So, now you all can understand that earlier this year, when LG FINALLY got his legal license, I couldn’t help but shed tears of utter joy. It wasn’t until I processed the good news that I realized that somewhere along the path I had earned my Underoos. I was all of the sudden astonished that those Underoos didn’t come while I was a photojournalist. I had been wearing those Underoos for years without even realizing it. If it wasn’t for my Wonder Woman Underoos I would have never been able to survive.

I had the greatest joy of all time. My husband had his dream in hand. And so did I. My dream had become his dream, and making his dream mine was precisely how I had earned those Underoos. I was Wonder Woman all along.

The Hand That Rocks The Cradle Is The Hand That Rules The World
~ William Ross Wallace

Blessings on the hand of women!
Angels guard its strength and grace,
In the palace, cottage, hovel,
Oh, no matter where the place;
Would that never storms assailed it,
Rainbows ever gently curled;
For the hand that rocks the cradle
Is the hand that rules the world.

Infancy’s the tender fountain,
Power may with beauty flow,
Mother’s first to guide the streamlets,
From them souls unresting grow–
Grow on for the good or evil,
Sunshine streamed or evil hurled;
For the hand that rocks the cradle
Is the hand that rules the world.

Woman, how divine your mission
Here upon our natal sod!
Keep, oh, keep the young heart open
Always to the breath of God!
All true trophies of the ages
Are from mother-love impearled;
For the hand that rocks the cradle
Is the hand that rules the world.

Blessings on the hand of women!
Fathers, sons, and daughters cry,
And the sacred song is mingled
With the worship in the sky–
Mingles where no tempest darkens,
Rainbows evermore are hurled;
For the hand that rocks the cradle
Is the hand that rules the world.