Why I Love Legos.

This may come of great surprise to those of you who know me, but I love Legos. Adore them. Quite possibly rate them as one of the top ten twentieth century inventions. In theory, I should hate Legos. I am a grinch; I hate Polly Pockets. All of the teeny tiny litte shoes and shirts and hats for the dolls get cheerfully vacumned up on a weekly basis. Birthday party goody bags rarely make it into my house; I shamelessly bribe my children with lollipops to surrender their bags of plastic whistles, and kazoos, and mini-pinball machines from birthday parties. Do you get the idea? Okay, I confess; I am not really that mean. I do not confiscate birthday goody bags the day of a party. But you can be pretty darn sure it won't last the week in my house once the kids are out the door for school. I despise clutter. It makes my brain crazy. I literally cannot think with too many things in my house, or too many patterns for that matter. New friends who enter my house for the first time say "Oh. It's so..." And here my new friend will pause, searching for the right word. Empty is not the right word; I have plenty of furniture and things to fill space. And while my house is roomy, that t isn't the right word either, my house is not small, but it certainly is not of mansion proportions. My taste leans towards contemporary, but I am not of the modern ilk; I value coziness and texture far too much to cross the line to modernism. And so the word they usually settle on is "uncluttered." I like the finished look vases, and candles, and numerous prints on the walls give other houses; but not in mine. I am never 100% sure if people find my lack of knick-knacks unsettling, or if the simplicity of my shelves and furniture is as soothing as them as it is to me.

So now you may begin to see, how peculiar it is, that someone who shudders at the thought of knick-knacks in my house could love legos. But there's just something about Legos that makes me happy. It starts with the batteries. Are you thinking "huh? what batteries?" Exactly my point. Next, we move to commercials. When was the last time you were cooking dinner and your kids screamed "Mommmm, come quick, I HAVE to have Legos!!!" It doesn't happen. At least not in my household. That's because you see very few (if any) Lego commercials. Brilliance does not need to advertise on T.V. As a general rule, the more captivating a commercial for a toy on T.V., the less your child will play with the actual toy after receiving the toy. Another reason to love Legos; they are a multi-dimensional toy. Now, if you throw out all the developmental gobbledy-gook about why multi-dimensional toys are highly desirable (namely that they encourage creativity and fine motor skills), it is still a good thing for parents. Why? Because in the real world, multi-dimensional means you get actual value for your money. The more time your children spend creating a Lego world means more time to cook dinner without playing twenty questions, and parents experience the pleasure of their children using a toy more than once. In fact, not just once, but for hours at a time. Who else has a carful of toys they've donated to Goodwill because your child only played with it once or twice until becoming "bored"? Encouraging creativity, plus enhancing fine motor skills, plus value for your dollar makes Legos a big winner in my book. And trust me, for me to cheerfully feel the stab of yet another small Lego piece in my foot at 6:30 in the morning as I stumble towards the coffee-maker, I must really feel good about Legos. Will you be surprised if I start waxing poetic about Lego teamwork building? Any toy that can get a 3 1/2 year old and 6 year old to work together is pretty darn good. People (young and old) just can't resist joining in once someone starts building a monster Lego house. It doesn't matter if your child is a princess type or sports type or bookworm, Legos are the great unifier. I'm definitely sending a box to Barack Obama as an inauguration present. Perhaps I should send a couple boxes to U.N. headquarters before their next meeting. We might finally have a real shot at world peace.

Where the heck IS that Parenting Handbook??

I felt like a jerk. A complete and total jerk. As I sat in the pediatric opthamologist's office, four years ago with my two year old daughter I should have been quietly grateful. And I wasn't. Clearly around me were children with bigger problems than ours. Although we hadn't had the exam yet, I was fairly certain of the diagnosis for Darling Daughter (D.D.), good ol' fashioned myopia, nearsightedness, whatever you wanted to call it, she was going to need glasses. Sure enough, after the eye exam, it was clear glasses were in our future. Not today, D.D.'s eyesight was not that bad, and as the opthamologist remarked "it's not like she needs to see to drive a car.", but glasses were in our future. I wasn't surprised. I have deplorable eyesight. Truly deplorable, when I say I am blind without contacts it is no exaggeration. I impress opthamologists with my -10.00 prescription, they don't see it very often; and while impressing Matt Damon is good, impressing an ophthamologist is bad. I am treated as a novelty. In the genetic lottery, D.D. had lost and instead of getting her father's impressively good eyesight, she got mine. As a single tear crept down the side of my cheek, I felt like such a failure as a parent. And worse, I felt like a jerk for being so upset. Outside in the waiting room were children whose eyesight was limited at best and usually coupled with other developmental speech and hearing problems. Should anyone feel sympathy for me for crying over glasses? Puh-lease!

And this morning it all came back to me; the reasons why glasses seemed like a horrible thing. Fortunately D.D. just began wearing glasses last year at age 5. Despite my anxiety about being the only kid in pre-K wearing glasses, it was no big deal. Quite the opposite; many of her friends begged for glasses of their own & wanted to borrow D.D.'s. Kindergarten however, was a whole new world. This morning it was meltdown city. She didn't want to wear glasses; kids were teasing her; she didn't want to hear how cute her sparkly pink glasses were (huh? was she nuts? didn't she know how fantastically lucky not to be saddled with the horrible oversized tortoiseshell frames of my youth???); and most of all, she did not want to be different. I felt her pain, I had lived it myself in elementary school. I didn't really know what to say, all I could do was hold her as she cried. My thoughts bounced back and forth between "I'm going to strangle the little monster in her class who has been teasing her" to "where IS that parenting handbook?? what chapter is this??" and "why does this happen when my husband is out of town??" We were getting into big issues here: self-esteem and societal pressure to conform were just a few things lurking beneath this conversation. I was totally unprepared, it was a lot to handle at 6:23 in the morning! Maybe it WAS time to start those karate lessons I'd seen; the promise of self-confidence and inner strength was awfully appealing at the moment!

As a pregnant person I walked around with clear notions of parenting: "First you get the baby to sleep through the night, then you deal with the terrible twos, and then you work through the teenage years. Everything in-between is the easy part like practicing spelling tests and driving to soccer practice." Does anyone else remember driving home from the hospital with your first baby and thinking "Are they crazy? Do they REALLY think we are qualified to take care of this baby?? " So if any of you find that Parenting Handbook, you know the one I mean, that answers all the hard questions let me know. I sure would like a copy. Until then, I'll guess we'll just have to make it up as we go and hope we don't screw it up too badly.

Some Things are Just Wrong.

I am not here to whine. I am not here to complain. I am just stating the facts. There are things that happen in this world that are just wrong; someone grabs your parking space at the grocery store, an umpire makes a bad call during your kid's baseball game, or Britney Spears makes yet ANOTHER comeback attempt. Those things are just wrong. Today was my turn to be "wronged." As I was struggling in the grocery store parking lot with two small children and ten cases of water that I had just successfully sweet-talked the store manager out of for the neighborhood park Fall Festival, my cell phone rang. It was D.H., also known as Darling Husband. I knew from his voice that he was not calling to tell me we had one the lottery. So as I simultaneously cranked my shoulder upwards in an awkward angle to hold the cell phone, hoisted water case number eight into the back of my SUV, prompted the 5 year old to help her 3 year old brother into the car, I was able to give a quick "hey, what's up?" What was up, was a last minute customer work event. A concert to be precise. My husband was "needed" to fill in at the last minute. As I thought of the afternoon scramble I had just gone through to assemble a roast citrus chicken, make it to the grocery store to pick up the water bottles for the Fall Festival, and the next mad dash to a local toy store to pick out goodies for our daughter's birthday party this weekend, I began to feel something was wrong. And then the details began to emerge from my husband. It was not just a concert. It was Coldplay to be exact. One of my favorite bands of all time. This was becoming very wrong. After throwing out last minute attempts- "I have LOTs of babysitters I can call, you know." "I'm great at getting ready on short notice.", it was clear my husband was tempted to bring me along, but it was not going to happen. I was resolved to the state of mind known as "bummer"; as in "bummer, I can't go, I hope you have fun." Suddenly everything changed and we were back to some things are just wrong. It began going downhill when I told D.H. "tell Chris Martin I miss him. " D.H.'s response? "OK, I will...who is Chris Martin?" AGHGHHGGHG! Did a man who didn't know who was the lead singer of Coldplay deserve to go to the concert??? So just for fun, I said "Let's put it to a vote. You let your teammates decide who should go. You, who doesn't know who the lead singer is, or me, a semi- obsessed fan who not only knows who Chris Martin is, but also knows he is married to Gwyneth Paltrow, that the song "Yellow" was written for her, and that their two children are named Apple and Moses." (hey, don't make fun of the kids names to me, I didn't name them I just report the facts) There was dead silence on the other end of the phone as my husband too, began to realize, this was just wrong.

But do you know what the really great thing is out of all of this? It IS wrong that D.H. is out tripping the light fantastic tonite & I'm dealing with the bedtime scramble with the kids affectionately known as Thing One and Thing Two. But if that is the worst thing that has gone wrong today (or even this week for that matter) I think I am in pretty darn good shape. If the worst thing I can tout as my injustice of the world gave you a smile today, then let's toast to that. And if you need something to be right this week, check out this super yummy, super easy roast chicken from Giada on Food Network. The girl can cook! http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/giada-de-laurentiis/garlic-and-citrus-chicken-recipe/index.html

P.S. Do you think I'll get a souvenir concert t-shirt out of this??

Why Every Woman Should Run a Marathon (or Half)

A happy accident has happened in my house. On Thanksgiving I will run in my first half marathon (and no, that is not the accident, it is a conscious decision). I'm not really sure what motivated me to take the plunge. I've never been a distance runner; before I've always been pleased with a sedate four mile loop around the neighborhood. The idea first started tickling around my mind as I kept bumping into a marathon runner buddy of mine. There was no pressure to run a half marathon with her, just a "it would be fun; you can do it." From there the thought began to bounce around my head as I chugged along the neighborhood. Maybe I should do it. It sure would be motivating to run with a purpose. As I waffled along in my mind, I got a phone call from a neighbor that clinched my decision. "Hey, I heard you're thinking about doing the half marathon on Thanksgiving. My dad picks me up every year and drives me to the race. Would you like a ride?" Well...if it was going to be that easy - then, yes! And, most importantly a dear friend of mine was hostessing Thanksgiving dinner, my only responsibility that day would be to show up and eat well deserved calories after a 13.1 mile run.

So I began to increase my running distances and six miles became the norm, not just something a did a few times year for 10K races. Every Sunday became the day for my husband to watch the kids for a few hours while I logged an 8-10 mile run. And this is where my training really began to pay off. It started as I walked out the door for my first Sunday run. As the door began to shut my husband wished me luck and said "Hey, I was thinking about making chili for dinner. Is that okay with you?" Was he nuts??? Of course it was okay! I love to cook, but in my mind any meal that doesn't involve me making a trip to the grocery store or digging through recipes sounded fabulous to me. For all of you women whose husbands cook on a regular basis, I envy you. It is not something that happens in my house very often. This, was a special treat indeed. But the happy accident did not stop there. The following Sunday I was planning an eleven mile run. On the way to church my husband suggested cooking out hamburgers that evening. Feel free to think of us as old-fashioned, but it was a given in our house than any grilling would be done by him. So once again, dinner was "on him." After the long run as I stumbled back up our driveway and plopped onto the couch, I noticed something was different. Not only was the lovely aroma of a charcoal fire with hamburgers sizzling filling my backyard, but the deck had been swept, the kids toys had been corralled and the firepit cleaned out. Clearly, I was on to something. It was an epiphany of sorts. I am too capable. Toilets overflowing and sick children throwing up while my husband is out of town get me little sympathy from him; he knows I can cope without a nervous breakdown. A half marathon, however, has him in awe. For years I have been struggling to maintain a balance. I have been looking for ways for my husband to feel needed without being "needy." At last, I had found it. This may be the most fantastic accident to ever happen to me! So don't be surprised if in Spring I announce training for another half-marathon. It's good for my husband to feel needed. And occasionally being taken care of is even better for me.