This Is The Engine That Mom Built

 
   Hi!  You should know that as I write this, I am having a romantic evening with myself.  It's not as kinky as it sounds.  Mr. C went camping and decided to take PG at the last minute, and 9 has been in Sacramento learning the wily ways of our state legislature.  This has left me with 2 littles, which I thought would be a breeze.  Turns out it was not the cake walk I had anticipated.  No sir.  That 5 year old of mine?  He's a chatty dude.  Like, he never stops talking.  It's mentally exhausting.  Plus, he was sick for the first day and a half.  And here's something I thought I'd never complain about- the 3 year old is overly affectionate.  After explaining for the 15th time that "it's not hugging if it hurts", and "my body is not a jungle gym for you to climb on",  I feel as if I may lash out viciously at anyone who dares approach me from behind.
     That is why tonight, after I put the kids to bed, I lit candles, dimmed lights, poured a glass of wine, and now, here I sit: me, the laptop, and peaceful quiet.
      By the way, it just occurred to me that 10 years ago, I would've labeled exactly what I just described as "another depressing Friday night at home". The irony.  It's not lost on me.
     Anyway, this is the season when Mr. C is gone a lot, and in my years of being home with the kids, I have learned that on weekends such as these, it is best to plan, plan, plan.  Fill those days up with activities and friends and party, party, party because otherwise you run the risk of letting the children turn you into a Candyland playing, Nick Jr. watching  zombie.  That is why I decided to take them on Saturday to the Children's Discovery Museum.
     We have a great Discovery Museum out here.  The kids love it, and I was excited to see a new wing that had opened up a few months ago.  I had heard that it was geared towards older kids, but as we walked into it, I could see that there was plenty of interesting stuff for us to do.  We spent a full hour in the first room, which contained a lie detector and a safe-cracking activity. Here I learned that my kids are smooth liars and have potential in the criminal arts (and also made me wonder if the exhibit itself wasn't designed by a criminal).

Then we walked into the second room and there it was.  A sizable race track and a station for building your own motorized race car.

Uh oh.

I need to tell you something about myself.  I am a right brained person.  I am also pretty much a girly girl.  This means that I don't usually possess a natural and logical understanding of how things work.  In fact, I don't care how things work, as long as they do work.  If they happen to be pretty too, then that's all the better.   Building cars= not pretty, therefore it's not something in my realm of interest OR understanding.  Sure, yes, there were a few years in the mid-90's when I tried to be interested in cars, but that was only because I was dating a .....gear head?  Grease monkey?  I don't even know the right lingo.  What I do know however, is that from that relationship I acquired the lifetime knowledge of being able to tell the difference between a big block and small block engine.  I have no idea what these engines are capable of, or what their differences are beyond their looks, but by God, lift the hood of any hot rod, and I can tell you if it's a big or small block engine.  And that knowledge my friends, I will hang on to for the rest of my life, because it is the extent of any and all knowledge that I possess about car engines, period.

Unfortunately, on this day in the museum, the teeny tiny motors that were sitting in the bin of the assembling station didn't resemble either a big block nor a small block engine, so any hope of my being saved by my pathetic pool of background knowledge was lost.   Also my excited 5 year old informed me that he didn't only want to build a race car, he wanted to build the fastest race car there.  The pressure was on.

So I sat down with the kids at the building station.  I looked at the little bins of materials that were available.  They were labeled with parts like "wheel locks", "clamps", "rods", "gears", "pistons", and various other vocabulary that made my brain shut down in protest.

 Then I looked at the laminated mat of instructions- only 24 little steps.  I gave myself a little pep talk about how I've built LEGO sets with more steps.  I got this, I thought to myself.

And so I started.

Then I messed up, so I restarted.

Then I messed up again, and I restarted once more, this time with little beads of sweat forming on my brow.

While I was struggling with building that one car, a happy, loud, boisterous family came in and the dad swiftly built two cars for his kids while his wife sat back and watched with what I personally thought was just a bit too much of a smug expression.

(It's possible I was just projecting my insecurities at that point.)

The whole time, my children sat there patiently watching me while I tried very hard not to curse.

You know that feeling when you're trying to do something, and it's taking too long, and the longer it takes, the more you start to panic and the worse you get at whatever it is you're doing?

That was happening to me.  And by the way, there was a museum docent sitting not even 5 yards from me.  I know for a fact that they are placed around the museum to be of help when they see people who need it, yet I'm pretty sure that she made a conscious decision to not see me.  She just sat there picking at her cuticles the whole time.

See?  There she is.

I hate her.

Anyway, I finally FINALLY completed all the steps.  We took the race car over to the track and set it down where, much to J's disappointment and no surprise to me, it didn't work.  So I heaved a great sigh, hoping that the kids would say something like "That's okay mom.  Let's just do something else.", but of course, they didn't.  J said, "What's wrong with it?"  And I said, "I don't know."   So I pretended to tinker around with it some more, like I had any kind of idea of what I was doing.  And they waited and waited.  I couldn't believe how patient they were being.  (These were not the same kids who wake me up at 6:30 and ask at 6:35 when they're going to have breakfast.)

Finally, we walked it over to the track again.

And this is the part of the story where you'd think I could end with a statement about never giving up, and how patience will always see you through.  Maybe you're thinking that the car will finally work and I'll be a hero in my children's eyes.  Or, perhaps it's in your mind that the art docent would have finally gotten off her butt to lend a helping hand.

You'd be wrong on all accounts.

The car still didn't work.  So I turned to the kids and I said "Guys.  Here's the thing.  We can either stay here and wait for mommy to fix this, which may take a really, really long time.  OR we can get out of here and go to Red Robin for lunch."  To which Roo replied, "Red Robin!"

J said "Well, mom."  (By the way, he really talks like this- like a lawyer presenting his case) "You're giving me a hard choice, because I really want to see our car work.  But you're taking a long time and I'm getting really, REALLY hungry."
   
I said nothing and continued to look at him until he heaved his own sigh and said, "Red Robin."

Ladies and Gentlemen, what I present to you tonight is not a lesson about patience, perseverance, gender roles, or even hope.  No.  This is a lesson about accepting the limits of your loved ones.  My children gracefully accepted that their mother is useless when it comes to mechanical things, much in the same way that I accepted that the teenage art docent was determined to be a completely useless lump of living furniture.  Tough lesson, but one that is handy in life.

And it turns out that it was nothing a burger and milkshake couldn't make better.

Logging Off

Sometimes the internet makes me cranky.

Like, when a friend of mine posts something and I see a rude comment underneath by one of their friends.     Here's an example that I've been carrying around for a few months: a friend of mine posted "This is the only bad part about having a live Christmas tree.", and then she posted a picture of the mess of pine needles left on her carpet.  Funny, right?  Because it's relatable to people- especially house fraus like me- who understand the annoyance of finding pokey little pine needles embedded in the carpet months after the holidays are over.  But then a friend of hers posted underneath "That never happens to us!  Did you water it????"

Just like that- with 3 question marks- "Did you water it???".   I wanted to take those three question marks and beat that obnoxious person over the head with them.

Instead I just logged off.  Big girl points for me.

Then yesterday another friend of mine posted a picture of some really cute homemade valentines that she and her daughter made.  Someone commented "Wow.  Who has the time?" And I wanted to comment underneath, "Well, she does.  Obviously.  She made the time.  And there's nothing wrong with that, you rude RUDE insecure person!"

So, again, I log off.  More big girl points.

Then I click on over to Pinterest, and I try so hard to just look at the pretty pictures but sometimes, sometimes  I'll let some of the comments catch my eye and then I get sucked in.  It's amazing what people will find to argue about on Pinterest.  If someone puts up a pin of Tebow, you'll find a slew of mocking and derogatory comments from the Atheists.  When someone puts up a pin of a tattoo, there's likely some preachy and judgmental comments from the Christians.  Put up a pin of a fit girl, and you'll be lectured by the feminists about body image.  Put up a humorous pin of a baby, and someone'll find something in it that is disturbing or offensive to them.

It's ridiculous.  So I log off.

Then there's the blogs.  If you ever want to weep for humanity, read through the comments on some of the most popular ones.  You'll first be astonished at the variance of opinions a random sampling of society can have over the most mundane things, and then you'll be sad because you'll realize as you read through everyone arguing over why their point of view is right, that we'll never all get along.  Our individuality may be the core of our existence, but it's also the bane of our existence.

I think we've all had that point in our lives when we realize that the public, in general, is just stupid. For me, it was when I was waitressing. (Nothing like pouring endless cups of Sanka for cranky old people in Palm Springs to teach a girl that lesson. Someday I'll write a post about it.) The thing is, we used to have to leave our houses and go out into the world to experience that stupidity. Nowadays, it's at our fingertips.

Anyway, I'm sure some of you as you've been reading this are thinking "Girl just needs to get off the internet.  Sounds like she's on there too much."  And you're right.  Sometimes I am on too much.  I know that when I start to feel like an irritated, snappish, ball of nerves that I've been in front of the computer too much.  And you know how I get that way?  Because I've been reading comments written by people who were also irritated, snappish, balls of nerves.  I absorbed all their crappy energy.  So I look over at my kids who are happily building some legos or running off to play at the park next door, and I know that that's the kind of energy I need.

And so then I log off.  

Happy Pants

Hey there.

 I'm in the midst of reorganizing/cleaning the kids' rooms. I'm also in the midst of wondering if my kids perhaps might be future hoarders. In going through their drawers, I'm finding Happy Meal Toys made of characters from movies that came out years and years ago. These toys do nothing. They do not sing, dance, move, bend, teach, or entertain in any way. However, toss it into the garbage pile, and my children will immediately begin howling and insisting that this rodent figurine from Ratatouille is indeed, one of their favorite toys, and yes they do play with him! and do we have to throw it out? Then I say "Guys, you have to acknowledge when it is that the addiction is talking. And when it is talking to you, you can talk back to it." (I learned that from watching Hoarders. Thank you, TLC for the psuedo psych degree.)
Then they say, "Huh?"
And I say, "Never mind. It goes in the garbage."
And they say, "Wah, wah, whine, whine, whine, meanest mom ever, blah blah blah."
And I say, "FINE! You can keep it."
Then I wait for them to go to school and I throw it out anyway. And as I slam the lid on the garbage can, I yell "SUCKAs!"
And then I am smugly satisfied.

Anyway. (Would you believe that I actually sat down to write a kind of thoughtful, reflective post? Never woulda guessed from that intro, right?)

The reason we're cleaning and organizing is because Roo is getting her big girl bed. The crib that has occupied our home and slept our 3 littles for the last 8 years in getting moved to the garage and put on Craigslist. Don't worry. I'm not going to get sentimental to you guys about that. I am though, going to get a little weepy though about these pants:

These are Roo's Happy Pants. That's what she calls them.  I'd say that you def have to be of the 5 and under set to pull this look off.  What do you think?  To be honest, if I was speaking purely through the mommy goggles, I could in fact go on and on about how well she pulled off this look- how cute her little legs and butt were all wrapped up tight in the stretchy smiley faces- but I'll spare you that.  I do however, want to tell you why even though she doesn't fit into these leggings anymore, I'm planning on keeping them forever and ever.

You know how your kids go through different phases- some you remember fondly and some you'd rather forget?  Like, maybe you'll cherish how your child used to ask "Mama, can I hold you?" when they wanted to be picked up, but you'd rather forget the phase when they wanted to experiment with the idea that maybe poo and chocolate carried other similarities besides color?

(I'm not speaking personally.  Just throwing random ideas out there.)

Anyway, this "happy pants" phase with Roo is one that I want to remember.  First of all, she named them the Happy Pants all by herself.  No one thought of that for her.  The first time I heard her call them that this bubble of delighted laughter just rose up in me right from my gut.  I love that she came up with that.  And when she put them on, she became.....well, happy!  She just loved the way she felt and looked in those pants and so she ran with it.  It was pretty inspiring to see.

While watching her strut around in her happy pants, it occurred to me that this was one of those idyllic moments where your kids teach you something, rather then the other way around.  When was the last time just putting on a certain item of clothing made me feel like I could conquer the world?  I mean yes, us adults tend to rely our inner sense of self for confidence rather than a piece of clothing BUT..... sometimes a good pair of happy pants can point you in the right direction.  And really, it doesn't even really have to be a pair of pants per say.  It could be anything.  Like this, for example (this clip makes me laugh everytime I see it):



                                                                                                                                                      See?  If you're Amy Farah Fowler, a tiara=happy pants.   If you're me, then I don't know.... now I'm rethinking this whole post because I'm realizing that I don't necessarily want a piece of clothing to make me happy.  For me, I think true happiness would come if I could only do karate kicks anywhere in public at anytime I want.  Not on people- just into the air and stuff.  Like, if I could hi-ya around while in line at Target and the bank?  I think that'd bring me a lot of joy.

Allright, I know that I'm just getting silly.  But my point is that we should all spend a little bit of time thinking about what made us happy when we were kids and ask ourselves why we don't do it anymore.  If the answer is "because society would think us crazy", then I think we should take a lesson from Jimmy Buffet, who himself seems like a pretty relaxed and happy guy. He says- "If we weren't all crazy, then we would go insane."

By the way, out of curiousity, what would your happy pants be?