S.O.T. (Save Our Turkey)

When I was kid, I loved holiday traditions. And I was miffed if things changed. As an adult, I know that traditions must evolve, things change, we change, and the unexpected happens.

This year, the unexpected was my husband and I, and all four of our kids had the flu. Not only was going to someone else's house, or having relatives over, out of the question, we weren't even going to be strong enough to sit around the dinner table together.

After breaking the news to the kids, they made it crystal clear what tradition must be honored. There must be a turkey, and he must have a name. You see, my Dad unintentionally started a tradition over a decade ago that my immediate family will likely keep alive for decades to come. It is the "Name The Turkey Contest."

We weren't going to have thanksgiving at my house this year, so I had no turkey, no potatoes, no stuffing. With a fever of 100 and a headache that just wouldn't let up, I took my Tylenol and made my way to the grocery store. I would have rather been in bed, but my kids needed a Turkey.

I remember one birthday of mine a few years ago. My husband told the kids to say happy birthday to me, but, there were no gifts and no cake. My youngest said, "It's not your birthday, there is no cake!" So this time I understood, it would not be Thanksgiving without a turkey.

With the turkey in the oven, the contest began. (I was still wishing I could be in bed!) Modern technology allowed us a contest that included participants from 3 cities in WI, plus, relatives celebrating in Florida, California and Arizona. Entries were coming in via text message, cell phones and email.

My little family sat down in the living room, in our jammies, under blankets with our minimal turkey dinner and we cast the final votes. The winning name and contestant were announced in the fashion that the entries came in. The kids were content and satisfied.

I wouldn't realize until 2 days later, after the flu-fog cleared, how apropos the winning name was; S.O.T. (Save Our Turkey), entered by Tommy, 6 years old. Indeed, Thanksgiving was an unexpected day of fever and coughing and napping, but our turkey and naming tradition were saved. It was Thanksgiving.

Let's Get Naked

I was at a pop-culture marvel this weekend, an indoor water park. We took the kids, and they all had a blast. The water activities are certainly fun.

You know what else is fun? People watching. It was fun for a little while at least, until I couldn't stop myself from noticing everyone was nearly naked. They had swimming suits on, yes, but really that is almost naked. Then I felt weird about it. People watching wasn't fun anymore, it was disturbing. I saw tattoos, hair in odd places, too much hair, skin rolls, skin indentations, etc.

Then I wondered what everyone would look like with dry, combed hair and some real clothes on. They would look much nicer, I thought, and I'd feel less awkward looking at them. Yes, I'd be more comfortable for sure. I didn't like seeing every one's faults. I like the facade that clothes and make-up give.

Is this how we like are relationships too? I pondered. Do we really want to see every one's blemishes and scars, or the effects of life trials? Or would we rather put on a happy face and present ourselves in the easy-to-look-at category.

In the land of Facebook and Twitter and texting, we present the superficial layers of ourselves. Who goes deep anymore? Who wants to? It's awkward and uncomfortable and we want to look away. But we will suffer from this deficit eventually. We need each other. We need honesty and vulnerability. So, let's not be judgemental or uncomfortable, let's get real, let's take off our clothes. And when we do, I'll try not to keep my eyes closed.

Finally... We Have Our Girl.

I remember when I was pregnant with our third son. I was asked more frequently than I realized people had the guts to ask, "How many children are you going to have?" or "Trying for that girl, hey?" My husband and I had a pact to casually inform inquisitors that our magic number was eight. We never had a good retort for the girl comments though.

I thought I was done dealing with stranger opinions and intrusions. You see, we were DONE... DONE... having kids. We thought three boys was perfect for us. We knew what we were doing and we were on our way to the blissful post-children years, with plenty of healthy, young years of our own left.

Then a strange thing happened. One lovely spring morning last year, I took a home pregnancy test. Really, just to ease my mind about being slightly late. There was no stunned pause, or mouth agape when I saw the result, just a loud, confused, "What the hell?" And I really don't ever swear, not even mildly like that, so that was a very peculiar moment indeed.

Yes, peculiar. I am revisited even now by the confusion. Pregnant? What? So now what was I supposed to say when the comments and questions started rolling in? "Trying for that girl?" I wanted to shout, "Come on lady! I'm 7 months pregnant and I'm still trying to cope with the shock!!! I wasn't trying for anything!"

And now our beautiful baby girl is here. And the assumptions and inquisitions still abound. It seems everyone really needs to believe that we were just waiting and trying for our girl and only now we can be satisfied and fulfilled.

I believe we would be satisfied and fulfilled with or without our amazing little girl, but I really don't care what people think about it anymore. I am just smitten with my wonderful little, kind of big, family. Our girl is finally here.

What's My Line?

Is a blog the forum to be brutally honest? Is this the place to gripe and complain? I almost did that today. Then I was struck with a feeling of responsibility to be positive and uplifting; or at least not so cynical.

Isn't there enough complaining? Aren't there enough people in this country with a sense of entitlement? Who am I to be annoyed by other people? Don't I annoy others just as much? So what's the point of us all talking about it?

So what if I don't like kids. (It's true. I'm a mother of 4 and don't like kids. In general that is. I do like mine, and at least a few others.) If I blog in more detail about that, what is the benefit?

I was a kid once, and I'm certain there must have been a plethora of people in my path filled with irritation over my presence. C'est la vie.

So all you kids out there... I'm giving you a second chance, and a third, and a forth, and so on. It's not your fault you annoy me, it's mine, and I'm going to try to be a better, more accepting person. Carry on... be jovial... have fun... and look me up when you're an adult.

Buy That Baby Some Shoes

I’ve wanted to start a blog for months now. The recent moments in my life that have spurred me on to finally do it are; reading my little sister’s clever blog, the need for a creative outlet, and the unsolicited parenting feedback from strangers at large.

Perhaps my future entries will be more important, perhaps not, but today I am thinking about how my baby is too hot, and too cold, she’s tired, I need to buy her some shoes, and where the heck is her hat?

These are all things I apparently wasn’t too concerned about, but loose-tongued strangers were all too willing to be concerned for me. Now that I think about it, I don’t think any of these people were moms. And if they were, it was a long time ago. Maybe they wish they had a baby to take care of and so they fill their need by caring for strange babies. Maybe they never had kids of their own and they resent all the unworthy, clueless parents in the world. Maybe it’s innate? Does everyone have the urge to do this?

I really can’t figure out what the origins of the unsolicited, impulsive comments spewing at me are. If someone else knows, please enlighten me. In the mean time, expect to hear me saying things like; “She has lots of shoes. I chose to NOT put them on.” “Actually, she recently awoke from the most magnificent nap ever, filled with dreams of fairies and princesses, I suppose.” “Hat?! Look at the insane amount of hair my baby has!” Or, when I’m too tired, I’ll just smile and say, “Oh. Thank you.” and imagine myself crossing and rolling my eyes.

And on a good day, I’ll remember that they all mean well, and it’s a good thing that human beings do care about each others' well being. (Anyway, most people just tell me how beautiful she is.) Then I’ll remind myself that I am a good mom, regardless of what anyone says. "We’re doing just fine, thank you."