Spare me, Liar. (Alternate title: I Whistle A Happy Tune.)

When one of my daughters was 9, as I was tucking her into bed she asked me, “How come you’re not afraid of anything?

I said, “What do you mean?”

She said, “Like, how come you’re not afraid of spiders?”

I told her that I’m not entirely sure, but I think it has something to do with the fact that as a child my best friend (and step-aunt – yes we have a weird family tree -) Marisa was really afraid of spiders and she was littler than me so I pretended not to be afraid, just to make her feel better when she had bad dreams. So I concluded that maybe I just tricked myself into not being afraid? Whether the fact that I’m not afraid of spiders is a result of that or just a coincidence, I guess I’ll never really be sure.

Coming full circle, this technique totally backfired when I tried not to pass along my lifelong phobia of snakes to my young daughters by going out of my way to say how “cute” and “fascinating” reptiles are when they were toddlers. This led to them shoving library books in my face and innocently exclaiming things like, “Look, Mommy! A picture of a snake! Your favorite!” Cut to me breaking out in the full meat sweats covered in hives. Just a simple picture in a children’s book would send me reeling, literally feeling the saliva drain from my mouth and the blood drain from my face as my entire back wet through my shirt and I started doing some weird panic version of heavy lamaze breathing. (Is lamaze breathing redundant? Would you still get the point if I had just said lamaze? Also remind me to someday publish my 600 page book of essays entitled, “Why I Can’t Go Back To That Library.” Spoiler alert: there’s more than one library.)

When the girls were older, we once got invited to a friend’s uncle’s farm in the country and it was like that horror scene from the National Lampoon’s Vacation movie where I looked over and saw my children playing with a F*CKING BUCKET of baby black snakes. You know…black snakes…the “harmless ones.” Harmless, that is, if you don’t have an automatic vomit trigger from fear and anxiety. I was too paralyzed to scream before I felt my knees start to waiver and my innards upheave, but I’m here to tell you ladies and gentleman, that I did not yell, puke, or faint, BECAUSE I’d been training for so long in case such a moment should arise. Poise-wise, it was my Jackie Kennedy at the funeral procession moment. Methinks I shall never summon a more courageous portrayal of “normal person doing fine” again; it was truly the performance (and bowel retention) of a lifetime.

That whole “fake it til you make it” thing is really misleading because it implies that if you fake it long enough you’ll eventually make it. In my experience this hasn’t always been the case. Marisa is still afraid of spiders, and yet I’m not, but I’m still afraid of snakes. (If you’re wondering how much appreciation she has for my sacrifices on her behalf, a couple of years ago she bought my kids souvenir cups at the Sedgwick Zoo in the shape of Boa Constrictors. She “swears” she thought they were “elephants.” OKAY, MARISA.)

Honest question: how many of you have intentionally lied to your kids about something you intensely fear/dislike to spare them the bad feelings you had to overcome?

Maybe the “making it” part of the old adage is that even if we couldn’t truly overcome our inner fears, at least we tried and hopefully didn’t pass our burdens onto our children unnecessarily. Then again, what if I’m just teaching my kids to be liars and telling myself it’s a means to an end of not having them absorb my fears? Also, how bad will I feel if one of them gets bitten by a snake?

 

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I’ve Been Poisoned.

 

Hello you,

Thanks for being so patient with me as I upended my entire life. Quick recap: I got remarried last year and am the proud bonus mommy to two extra daughters, bringing my total to 4. My husband and I refer to them as The Blondetourage. They are so close in age that they will all someday be in high school at the same time. Please start praying for us now.

I’m honored that you’re checking back in with me after all this time. I have journals filled with topics I’ve wanted to talk about with you. Whenever I’ve thought about sitting down to write to you, my brain swirls with words that evoke very deep emotions within me and I get caught in a rip tide of memories that can never fully reach the surface; words like divorce, one-bedroom apartment, going back to work, making ends meet, child support, coparenting, betrayal, lawyers, courtrooms, humility, disappointment, and abandonment by friends I thought would stand by me through anything. I pride myself on the fact that what I share with you is real, so trying to sugarcoat anything just for the sake of explaining it seems like a boring waste of time for all of us.

But today I feel inspired because I have something important to declare…

Happily, I’ve been poisoned.

With Botox.

These past few months trudging through the trenches of blending a family of 6 during the unprecedented restrictions of life in quarantine, I’ve often lamented, ‘when, oh when will this deadly virus be over so I can safely leave my home to go pay someone an exorbitant amount of money to inject poison directly into my face?’

And today was finally that day. Vain and frivolous? Obviously. A sign of return to normalcy? Also yes.

I’m telling you this because writing makes me really happy. Your feedback makes me feel seen and understood. Your comments make me laugh out loud. I’ve missed you so much. Let’s get back to sharing and laughing. And in the words of one Mr. James Buffett, “If we weren’t all crazy, we’d all go insane.” (Source: Changes in Latitudes, Changes in Attitudes)

Expressive and expressionless,

Emily

Of Pie and Bravery

I remember my first crush in Kindergarten. I also remember the first and last names of each boy I had crush on in subsequent grades up until middle school when I had THE BIG crush on one boy for like four years. He was the Winnie Cooper of my Wonder Years. I’ve had countless crushes in my life, most of whom never even knew. I suppose that is the gift of the combination of a big imagination and intermittent shots of anxiety to keep you practical.

I know some parents balk at the idea of little grade schoolers having crushes, raising eyebrows and saying how they are way too young for that, etc. But to these parents I ask, do you show your kids Disney movies?

Cape-Able #Moms

Capable. I don’t know the etymology of this word, but I have to think it means someone with super powers who is deserving of a cape? Wonder Woman comes to mind. Yet, it’s a loaded word. It’s almost smug, like the phrase “that’s how we roll.” It’s meant to be positive, but there are intimidating implications.

When Will There Be Cupcakes Again?

When I was in grade school I read Number The Stars by Lois Lowry about little girls living in Denmark during the Holocaust. Since the Nazi occupation, resources are scarce but the little sister, Kirsti, longs for a “big yellow cupcake, with pink frosting.” For some reason, I have never forgotten this detail.

My daughters both have summer birthdays so they miss out on the fanfare of having a school day birthday. Instead, we celebrate their half-birthdays. Today we celebrated my sweet Savannah sunshine’s four and a half birthday. I sat in a tiny purple chair and read a few of her favorite books to a bunch of wide-eyed, pink frosting-covered, grinning little faces.

Milestones always make me sentimental, even arbitrary ones, like a fifteen-minute preschool half-birthday party, but I genuinely believe in celebrating as much as we can, while we can.

When I was in first grade, I remember the exact moment I heard my teacher say the word “war” as it related to the Gulf War. As a Senior in high school, I remember silently watching Mrs. Goldberg scrawl the name “Osama Bin Laden” across the chalk board on September 11th. My own first grade daughter overhears words in the media like “protest” and “gender inequality” and “racism.” Though I grew up hearing about military conflicts, my own children are growing up amidst wars between all kinds of people, and it’s nearly impossible to tell if anyone is winning.

But my little four and a half year old is still blissfully unaware of such topics. She thinks the President’s name is Donald Trumpet and once asked me to help her fill out a postcard to send to the White House because she overheard concerns of people losing their rights, but she heard “writes” and surmised he was stealing crayons and various other items. For real, we actually sent a postcard we tore out of a Highlights magazine to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue asking the President to please stop taking things from people and also give Savannah her fictitious stuff back. She doesn’t worry that someday someone could come into her school with intention to hurt people for no reason. She thinks skin tones come in colors called “brown” and “blonde.” She doesn’t live in fear of friends or family being deported. She doesn’t worry that she’ll be denied an education because she’s female.

And she loves cupcakes.

So as silly as it may sound, I made these symbolic cupcakes to mark an arbitrary milestone with a bunch of preschoolers today. Because I can.

And that’s something to celebrate.

“Mama, is there anything to eat?”  Annemarie asked, hoping to take her mother’s mind away from the soldiers.

“Take some bread.  And give a piece to your sister.”

“With butter?” Kirsti asked hopefully.

“No butter,” her mother replied.  “You know that.”

Kirsti sighed as Annemarie went to the breadbox in the kitchen.  “I wish I could have a cupcake,” she said.  “A big yellow cupcake, with pink frosting.”

Her mother laughed.  “For a little girl, you have a long memory,” she told Kirsti.  “There hasn’t been any butter, or sugar for cupcakes, for a long time.  A year, at least.”

“When will there be cupcakes again?”

“When the war ends,” Mrs. Johansen said. 

She glanced through the window, down to the street corner where the soldiers stood, their faces impassive beneath the metal helmets.  “When the soldiers leave.”

-Lois Lowry, Number The Stars

 

Fox Mornings: 5 Cool Games You Haven’t Heard Of Yet (a must-read if you’re shopping for older kids)

This morning I ventured over to Fox Mornings to show off holiday games/gift ideas, perfect for big family gatherings. If you’ve ever read any of my behind-the-scenes posts, it will not come as a surprise to you that I woke up at with searing pain in my throat and virtually non-existent air access in my sinuses.

KC Live: Sick Beats, Hot Jamz, and Cool Holiday Toys (Must-Have List!)

So because something always seems to happen right before I’m booked for a segment, I was suspicious of how smoothly my morning was going. Then my four year old got out of bed to come say good morning and I realized she had cut her own hair into a mullet last night while the babysitter was over. Some people may view this as no big deal or a rite of passage, but I felt like I’d been kicked in the gut and I wanted to scream. Rightfully, Savvy was very ashamed and upset, but as I comforted and reassured her, my husband quietly and correctly saw that inside I was getting very close to having a stroke. As she shuffled off to find her doll, I could see the terror in his eyes as he braced himself for the white hot rage that was clearly steaming out of my pores. Luckily, there was no time for me to throw a fit, so I bottled it up to let it ferment like a fine wine and headed to the TV station.

KC Live: Blinded By The Light (And Cool Products for Parents made by Parents.)

Actual things that happened before this segment: at 9pm on Sunday I realized I needed a drill to put together the Tot Tower. My husband was on a plane to Chicago and our drill is MIA and probably dead, but luckily my neighbors are an incredibly nice Canadian couple with grown children and the husband was able to come over and help me put it together. He really had the best joke when I said, “thanks! I’ll give you a shoutout tomorrow!” and he said in his endearing Canadian accent, “Oh, hey, don’t do that. I don’t want people saying I was over screwin’ at the neighbors house.”

Cut to Monday morning: after making breakfast for two dogs and two kids, packing lunches, dressing Avery in spirit wear, packing not one, but two halloween costumes for Savannah’s preschool party, showering, doing my full hair and makeup, going over my talking points and loading my car with all of the things for my segment, I was trying to get us out the door to school with my hands full and my plastic cup of crystal light hanging from my teeth (moms know this move) when I stepped down the garage stairs and splashed crystal light DIRECTLY IN MY EYEBALL and all over my face. I was completely blind for 45 seconds as my eye burned with the fire of a thousand suns. My brain went into damage control denial, like, “This is fine. I’ll just wear sunglasses for the segment and go to the ER afterwards. I can totally drive with one eye.” Luckily I regained vision in time to see the tributaries of black eye makeup streaming down the left side of my previously contoured face. But there was NO TIME, so I grabbed an old paper towel off the floor of my car to wipe off the black makeup before it dried, made it to school drop off, then went to the TV station where I had approximately two minutes to fix my face before I was on live TV, 8 minutes into the show.

10 Things I Want To Tell My Teenage Goddaughter

Yesterday my friend came over so I could glam her up for an event, as is tradition. She comes over before one of her fancy galas and we pop a bottle of bubbly and gab while I toddler-in-tiara her like the tyrannical stage mother I repress deep down inside me. Her teenage daughter was in tow yesterday and I was thrilled to find out I’ve been appointed her new Godmother. I even baptized her with a little Prosecco to make it official. Last night I sat down and wrote this to her and I’m sharing it here with permission.

 

Dear Brooklyn,

KC Live: Shark Chic

 

If you didn’t catch me on KCL Tuesday morning you can watch the clip. This segment went much smoother than the whole bathing suit/baby pool incident. One of the other people booked for the show that day was an Air Guitar Champion who goes by the name “Rockward Silence.” I mean, I thought I had blind confidence but this dude performed air guitar on live TV at ten a.m and he went.for.it. I was like, I bow to you, Sir, and your total lack of Fs to give.