GNO: The White Girl’s Overbite, Part I

Remember that scene in When Harry Met Sally where Billy Crystal refers to guys’ dancing as the White Man’s Overbite?  I think the female version is so much more awesome. 

After a Girls’ Night Out dancing with the ladies last night, here are the four main varieties of White Girl's Overbite, aka WGO, that I observed:

The Chicken.  This is referring to me, which is why I dare list it.  My husband affectionately once told me I resembled a chicken when I dance.  And he’s totally right.  I kind of flap my wings, er arms, in time to the music, much like a hen.  I even had a boyfriend once tell me I needed to move my feet more.  OK, John Travolta, whatever.  Quite frankly, I don’t care what I look like when I dance.  But rest assured, you will not see me on DWTS.  Mainly because I’m not a star. 

The Bearcat Strut.  This can only be pulled off by someone who is extremely confident and looks great in a short, tight dress without the aid of full-body Spanx.  And blond hair and high heels definitely add to the effect.  The general movement consists of a head-held-high, pick-up-the-knees strut, combined with a rotation of the arms that slightly resembles a giant pawing motion.  And remember to keep a serious face. The Strut announces one’s arrival on the dance floor, and can also serve as a motivational action in recruiting others to join you.  Again, this one is not for the faint of heart, so you might want to practice in the mirror before trying it out in public.

The Mini-Watusier.  I sometimes fall into this category, as well.  It’s probably the most comfortable and least likely to attract attention.  Just keep those chicken arms in check, foot movements lightly restrained and booty shaking to a pleasant, non-vulgar minimum.  This technique is also beneficial, in that it’s the easiest to employ with cocktail in hand.

The Old-School Solid Gold Wanna-Be.  She is the most fun to dance with because she’ll constantly keep you guessing.  At one point, she may be doing a modified version of the “Hustle,” and the next minute she’ll be rockin’ the “Roger Rabbit."  She is adept at old school moves like the “Running Man” and the “Sprinkler” as well as the modern day “Toot It and Boot It.”  And whatever you do, always be en guarde for an impromptu slap on the booty from her when you least expect it.

So, the next time you’re in the vicinity of a dance floor, see if you can spot these four styles of WGO.  They’re awfully entertaining.

Which one are you?

And stay tuned…GNO: The White Girl’s Overbite, Part II coming soon:  tips and tricks to make the most of your dance floor experience, such as deflecting snide glances from twenty-somethings with firm bodies and attitudes.

Someone Please Drop a Bomb on Justice

I looked out at the mailbox and saw it peeking out from between a political flyer and a bill.  I could spot that catalog anywhere, with its loud, obnoxious colors and enough underage bare skin to qualify for kiddie-porn.

I bolted to the mailbox, in order to retrieve it and escort it to the trash bin, where it belongs, before Big Sister comes around the corner and devours it like the little-girl crack that it is.  On the way to the trash, I can’t help but take a peek inside, just to see what outrageous junk they’re peddling under the guise of “fashion” for young girls.

And to my horror, I see pages full of flouncy one-shoulder or off-the-shoulder blouses which mimic the ones you’d see an adult woman wearing for a night out on the town.  

For 7 year old girls. 

Who thinks this is a good idea??

I know I am probably stepping on some toes here, but it has to be said.  If you are dressing your little girl in a one-shoulder blouse with short cutoffs, chances are, she looks like a “Prosti-tot,” which is my new favorite term I’ve seen to describe this sweet, young girl dressed to look like a teenager or twenty-something.

The catalog is also full of tie-dye, peace signs, and flowy-looking sundresses.  So, basically, they want my precious girl to look like a hippie protestor from 1969 or a streetwalker, or both simultaneously. 

AAK!!!  Makes me long for the days of smocked bishop’s dresses and mary jane’s.

The most disturbing thing to me is how they’ve drawn my daughter in, brainwashed her that this is what “cool” looks like and gotten her completely hooked.  When I ask her why she wants to look like this, she says, “because it’s cool.” 

In what universe?

In the Prosti-tot universe we are unfortunate to find ourselves living in at the moment.

I’m currently reading a book called Girls on the Edge: The Four FactorsDriving the New Crisis for Girls-Sexual Identity, the Cyberbubble, Obsessions,Environmental Toxins.  Can I just say that it is giving me nightmares?

The biggest nightmare of all is how society is pushing the sexualization of our girls at a younger and younger age.  The shocking thing is that, well, society is us.  You and me.  And if I’m not doing it, then it must be you, right?

No, really, if we all just agreed never to buy anything from Justice again, the store would close down.  But we know that won’t happen.  For my part, the main items I have purchased from that store are accessories, like a pillow, water bottle or one of those mini-locker things.

But I can truly say that she begs me for clothing from that store on a weekly, if not daily basis.  This Justice obsession all started with hand-me-downs we received from a well-meaning, yet misguided person, who has an older girl that my girl happens to idolize. 

The clothes are given right in front of my daughter, so she’s knows they’re in our possession.  The best I’ve been able to do is go through the bag & throw out 95% and keep the least offensive 5%. 

Don’t get me wrong, I love hand-me-downs.  I just don’t have the heart to tell this person that I don’t approve of these clothes.  They are trashy.  They are cheaply made.  And they are ugly, to boot.

For now, I’ll just keep throwing out the catalogues, avoiding the store in the mall and censoring the hand-me-down bags.

But at some point, these avoidance tactics will no longer work, and I’ll be forced to draw the line in the sand.  “I’m sorry, honey, you are not allowed to wear these kinds of clothes.  They are not in line with our family modesty standards.”

It will not be the first, and surely not the last time that she will tell me I’ve ruined her life.

And I will say, “You’re welcome.”

Oh, treacherous Bun

In honor of Big Sister’s ballet recital this week, a little ditty about The Bun, my personal nemesis.

Oh, treacherous Bun, how do I hate thee.

You’ve reduced me & my girl to tears, you see.

The brushing and pulling and flyaway hairs,

Why am I doing this?  Who even cares??

Hair gel and spray and lots of pins.

You still fall apart, and no one wins.

The hours I’ve spent on YouTube galore

Watching perky moms explain…what a bore!

Socks, pantyhose & other apparatus,

I’d have better luck with a duck-billed platypus.

The problem is, I’m just so damn tired.

Little brother just ran up covered in muck and mire.

I’m afraid I missed out on The Bun DNA.

Yikes!  Calgon, take me away!

A Mother's Hands

Happy Mother's Day to all my Mamarific friends.  You know I've got to get a little sappy for M-Day.  This is for us...

As I finished washing the after-dinner dishes, I set down the sponge and unwittingly glanced at my non-manicured, slightly raggedy-looking hands.  They felt rough and in need of some TLC.  When was the last time I had been to the nail salon?  Too long ago to remember.

And then I realized…I don’t get manicures.  Because they last about 4 hours before I’ve chipped a nail and the polish starts to peel.  So, what’s the point?  Someday, when my children are grown, or at least grown enough to not need so many of the services these hands provide, I will get manicures again.

For now, I will ponder all the wondrous things these non-manicured hands do on a daily basis.

Hands that Hold.  As mothers, we literally and figuratively hold our households together.  We are the CEOs, Janitors, Chauffeurs, Chefs and Physician’s Assistants of the helms our hands direct.  We are the strong, yet tender, hands for which our children reach up when they’ve fallen.  We are the hands that wash away the household grime, as well as the hands that stroke our childrens’ foreheads when they have nightmares or fever.

Hands that Wring.  We are the hands that worry and fret, while our husbands rest in perfect slumber next to us at night.  We are the hands that hold the parenting books that we eagerly consult to address the latest problem.  We are the hands that twist with anxiety over our children’s futures, failures, hopes and dreams.

Hands that Prepare.  Meals are put on the table by our hands.  Backpacks are stuffed, lunches are packed and homework is checked by our hands.  We are the hands that usually fold the laundry, empty the dishes and tidy up the chaotic mess that constantly threatens to overtake us.  We are the hands steering the ship.

Hands that Protect.  We are the hands that attempt to catch our children before they fall or block a little head from hitting the corner of the coffee table.  Our hands are the boundaries and barriers between our children and all that threatens to harm them, as much as we can interject them.  A wisely placed hand can reach out at the perfect moment and prevent a scrape, spill or scuffle.

Hands that Heal.  A Mother’s hands have magical healing powers.  Especially coupled with a Hello Kitty or Spiderman Band-Aid.  We are the hands that tend the wounds, apply the balm and massage the ache.  We are the hands that provide comfort and healing to the little people who desperately seek it.  Our hands are instruments of peace in their uncertain worlds.

Hands that Release.  When the Hands of Time apprise us of the perfect moment to let go, our hands release.  We are the hands that gently nudge our children out of our homes and into the world.  Our hands give flight to fledgling little birds learning to fly, and our hands are always there to catch them if they are not ready.  A Mother’s hands are the last point of contact before our little ones fly away.

And this Mother’s Day, I am so thankful to be using my hands in all these different ways.  Someday, they will be back at the nail salon, returning to needlepoint and cooking Chicken Cordon Bleu.  For now, they will be chipped, rough and quite familiar with Chicken Nuggets.

And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Happily linking up with another fantastic Jennifer for her Mother's Day blogCard extravanganza.

Held Hostage By a Gremlin

I woke up this morning with a sense of dread.

“Wow,” you might say, “what’ve you got going on today?  Difficult client meeting?  Jury duty?  Mammogram?  Root canal?”  No, people, it’s worse than any of that. 

It is another long, hard, back-breaking, brain-draining day with the 19-month old.  “What, that sweet baby?” you ask?  Sweet baby nothing.  We should have named him Osama or Saddam.  Because that’s what he is.  A terrorist.  A super-cute one, but a terrorist, nonetheless.

And I am the hostage.

Here’s how it goes:

The days start off nicely enough, with Baby Boy usually waking looking something like this:

He is happy eating his breakfast, watching Bubble Guppies and riding in the car to take Big Sister to school.  After returning home, it all starts to go downhill.  And the day has just begun.

Tired of the scenery around here,  I decide to pack up and head to the park.  We have a fine time at the park, until it’s time to leave.  I’ve given him a few warnings, like “ok, sweetie, in 5 minutes, it’ll be time for us to go home and eat lunch, ok?”  “ok, it’s almost time to get out of the swing, just a few more minutes.”  “allrighty, here we go, time to get out of the swing.”

And then…you know what happens next…well, you do if you were at the park that day.  In true Exorcist Baby form, he rears back, kicking and screaming bloody murder, with me trying to haul all 30 pounds of him out of the park to the car.

The drama continues in the car with the back-arching and flailing about, until I finally get him strapped into the carseat, both of us panting and sweating like two boxers called to their corners by the bell.

After his nap (during which I lie with a cold compress on my head), the rest of the afternoon is spent sitting in the carpool line waiting for Big Sister and shuttling back and forth to afterschool activities.  All while trying to soothe him with Elmo DVDs and Goldfish crackers.

The crescendo of the day usually occurs around 4:30pm, when for no particular reason, other than he has not been allowed to color on the walls or face-dive in the toilet, he completely loses it.

And now we have this:

Dear Lord, God in Heaven, please save me.  Where is the phone?  Calling husband. “WHEN ARE YOU COMING HOME?!?!?!?”  Don’t even wait for answer before hanging up and lurching toward the refrigerator for the bottle of wine.

Baby Boy-Gremlin is screaming, pushing on me, trying to knock me down.  And he can knock me down.  “Don’t spill my wine, don’t spill my wine!!!”  I cry.

He moves on to opening the cabinets and attempting to fling glass bowls and small appliances across the room, while I move behind him trying to do damage control.

Gremlin continues his path of destruction into the pantry and begins scouring the shelves of canned goods and snacks, pilfering whatever strikes his fancy.  Slurping down pouches of applesauce like Conan the Barbarian.  Throwing cans of cat food at the poor cat.

The chucking and the throwing and the tipping of the wine bottle continues until the most glorious event of the day occurs. 

The sound that is more precious than bells being rung by the angels in heaven. 

The sound of the garage door opening.

Hubby is home. 

I can retreat to the bathroom with my glass of wine like a survivor of a violent hostage takeover, trembling and glassy-eyed.  After a few minutes alone to calm down, I can finally feel my blood pressure returning to normal.

And then I figure, I better get back out there quick!  They need me!  And I go rushing out for more.

And the whole thing starts over again tomorrow.

Pure motherly devotion? 

More like Stockholm Syndrome.

Gotta love the Terrible Twos.

Featured today on The Sunday Sip!

I am super excited to be featured today on The Sunday Sip over at More Than Mommies.  If you've not been to their site, go check them out. I feel like Christine and Janene are my soul sisters in the blogosphere.  Their goal for More Than Mommies is to blog about all the things that make us who we are outside the box of motherhood, which I love.

So head over there to read my answers to vital questions, such as how I came up with the name of my blog and the 411 on one of my favorite posts.  Inquiring minds want to know!

Did I mention that if you head over there and leave a comment, I'll be your best friend forever?  Suggested comments may include, but are not limited to the following: " Jennifer rocks!" "Jennifer is so thoughful and inspiring, I just can't live without her blog!" "Gimme more Mamarific!"

And if you have found your way here from More Than Mommies...welcome!  I hope you'll fill up your cup and stay awhile.  Would love to hear from you here or on the Mamarific Facebook page.

Thanks y'all.  Have a Mamarific Sunday and enjoy the ride.

Labels are for Sippy Cups, Not People

I am “Quiet,” or so they say.

We all have “labels” that others put on us, or that we impose upon ourselves.   Some are good, and some are downright nasty.  Sometimes, I feel like I’m covered in a neon sticky note mess of labels, desperately trying to dig out and discover what I look like without them.

And tearing them off ain’t easy.  It hurts.  Especially if they’ve been there a long time.  And it sometimes leaves behind a gummy residue, not to mention a bright white spot, since it was covering up a part of us that we didn’t want exposed to the elements.

Where did these labels come from and how did they get here?  Some come from our family & friends, some from society and some from ourselves, the last being the worst, in my opinion.  It’s true that we are our own worst critics.

What havoc do these labels wreak?  They stereotype us, paralyze us and hold us hostage to their demands.  You’re a people-pleaser?  Go please more people!  You’re shy?  Then avoid that group of women talking over there.  The labels all come together to form an internal dialogue that plays like a broken record over and over in our minds and hearts.

And what do we do, but turn around and place labels on others.  She is this, and he is that.  Making judgments about people based upon what they are showing to the outside world, which is probably just a reflection of their own self-imposed labels. 

I know I am as guilty as the next mama of making assumptions about people based upon surface labels.

It’s sticky, messy, ugly stuff.  Can’t we all just stop it? Sadly, the answer is probably not.  Because our tired, little human brains need labels to make sense of the world around us.  To categorize and prioritize.  So we know which way to turn next. 

But we can at least try to stop and be mindful of labels and if they are unjustifiably influencing our opinions.

How do we shed our labels?  Maybe that’s why I write this blog.  To have a voice that I usually don’t claim in a group of friends or around a conference table.  To fight back against that label of “Quiet” that has defined me for decades.  Whether or not anyone is listening is beside the point.  What’s important is that I’m talking, and no one is interrupting me.

Do you have a label you wish you could ditch?  Spill it.

Linking up with Just.Be.Enough. and the “Change the Conversation” writing prompt for Be Enough Me.