Leading Mama

10 Unexpected Upsides of Hurricane Preparation

If you've been to my house, you know I care more about people, play and projects than I do about cleaning and organizing. And so, as I prepared for Hurricane Irene, I've experienced several unexpected benefits.

 

1. Learned about all the prepackaged convenience foods available in the grocery store. Now I know why experts recommend stocking 2-3 gallons of water per person per day in your emergency kit. The sodium content of prepackaged food is truly alarming. It will dehydrate us dramatically.

2. Found the AC/DC adapter for Little Man's portable DVD player. Not sure when I saw it last.

3. Cleaned the refrigerator, to make room for not-yet-spoiled food. I usually wait 'til we move to clean the whole thing top to bottom. (Yes, we move that often.)

4. Organized materials for ongoing writing projects and put them in bins so I can work from my laundry room if I want to. If there's any port in a storm, for me it is work. I love what I do!

5. Moved the rug in the screened-in porch, which gave me the opportunity to *really* wash away the dust underneath.

6. Organized the storage area in the garage to make room for everything that normally "lives" outside. Six deck chairs, two ottomans, a patio table, a cocktail table, toy box, kiddie pool, hoses and sprinkler.

7. Made enough pumpkin muffins to keep two kids full and happy for weeks.What we don't use now will be perfect for back-to-school snacks. Little Man is excited to put them in his monogrammed lunch sack.

8. Finished all the laundry. Yes, all of it. If I am trapped in my house with two small children and two puppies for two weeks, I may go crazy. If we're all trapped together and naked, I *know* I will.

9. Reaquainted myself with indoor activities to keep the kids busy during the storm. They'll be fresh(er) in my mind for the season's first snow day. Bring on art time and dress up.

10. Remembered how little I care about most of our personal belongings. We could lose everything but each other and it would all be okay. I'd miss Little Man's artwork and family photos. The rest: eh, not so much.

Now, we'll sit back and wait for the wind and water. We're not on the coast, so I don't expect serious damage. If you're in Irene's way, stay safe. And remember: people matter more than possessions.

Image credit: Some rights reserved by DUCKofD3ATH  

 

Sunday Soapbox: The World is Flat

If you're a military spouse friend of mine, you might be aware that I'm rankled by rank. In fact, I recently wrote an article about rank for Military Spouse magazine. 

 

There are community responsibilities senior spouses take on. We run fundraisers, organize events, bring the main dish to the unit picnic, visit families in need, and support our spouses' careers in myriad ways.  Without the efforts of senior spouses, the military family would be in sad shape indeed: Imagine a large rowdy family tended only by an absentee workaholic parent whose idea of nurturing is to say "Suck it up!" loudly and often.

 

Rank = Responsibility. I get that. I embrace it.

 

What rankles me is the relation of rank to privilege.

 

Recently, I was flabbergasted when a spouse of one of my husband's unit members asked if she was allowed to receive emails about base information directly, or whether I would be forwarding that information to her.

 

I am happy to forward what I have, I explained, but I'd be just as happy if she'd email the original senders and ask to be put on their mailing lists. Last I checked, there's no rank insignia on MY shoulder!

 

"I can do that?" she asked. "It's okay to do that?!" She was excited but mystified.

 

"Absolutely," I said. "Where information is concerned my world is flat."

 

I see no reason to keep other spouses in the dark about events or issues in our community. The more involved others are in the community, the happier they (and I) will be. I encouraged her to seek information directly from the source.

 

After some initial shock, she said, "That's not how it was at my last base." She looked like a kid who'd just learned that she finally graduated up from the kiddie table at Thanksgiving dinner.

 

She's excited to be treated like a fully participating member of the team, instead of a link in some military spouse's chain of command. And I'm happy to have a little help nurturing this large rowdy family. Inclusion feels better than privilege.

 

Whether or not you're a military spouse, I'm on the Sunday Soapbox to say this: if you're wearing rank, get over it. You aren't better than anyone else. We're all at the grown-up table now. The world is flat.

Image Credit: © Lhfgraphics | Dreamstime.com

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What's got you on your soapbox this week? Link up an opinion piece below.

 

 

Sunday Soapbox: Show Me the Rainbow

We don't eat out a lot. There aren't many restaurants near our house and driving 45 minutes to have an hour-long meal with two impatient kids isn't relaxing.  Plus, kids' menus make me a little bit crazy.

 

Choices include:

Macaroni and cheese (usually Kraft)

Chicken fingers

Hot dog or corn dog

Hamburger or cheeseburger

Grilled cheese sandwich

and

Pasta with marinara (if you're lucky!)

 

What's my beef, you ask?

 

Three issues for the soapbox: variety (none), portions (huge) and sidedishes (starchy).

 

No matter where you go, the kids' menu has the same options. If your child is a picky eater, this is probably a good thing. When you have the same options every time, choosing is simplified. If your 3-year-old will eat nothing but hotdogs, a kids' menu without hotdogs would be disastrous.

 

But Little Man is an adventurous eater. His tastes -- thanks to inspiration from the Food Network and my culinary experimentation -- are pretty sophisticated. If he has his way, Little Man orders clams in red sauce, grilled salmon, and chicken enchiladas. He dives right in to a plate of calamari, tentacles and all. I encourage it, even if it makes me cringe inside.

 

Sometimes we order an appetizer as his meal ($9.95 instead of $4.95) to give him access to better options. Sometimes I order what he wants and we share it: last night I ordered the sea bass to accompany his "pasta with butter sauce". Without the fish, his dinner would have consisted of the following:

 

Rolls with butter from the bread basket 

2 1/2 cups of ziti swimming in butter

A 16-ounce "kid's cup" of chocolate milk

 

It doesn't take a dietician to see that this is unhealthy. The portions are too large, even for an adult. There's no protein, no vegetables, and no fruit.

 

Why is it that restaurants serve adult entrees with appropriate side dishes but can't put a few broccoli bites and some melon onto a kid's plate?

 

Some kids may not eat the broccoli. I get that. But mine -- and many others -- will. And most would eat some fruit.

 

Restauranteurs hear this: when parents buy dinner out for our kids, we're feeding their brains, not just their bellies. Oversized greasy-starchy kids' meals skew kids' expectations about what makes a meal.

 

I shouldn't have to supplement a kid's "meal" with protein and veggies from my own meal to anchor the pyramid, round out the rainbow, or balance the plate. There is no nutritional model known to man that endorses macaroni and cheese with a side of french fries.

 

It may appear that my kids are making their own food choices in your restaurant, but I decide if and when we come back. If I can't score a reasonably balanced plate for under $8, chances aren't so good.

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That's what has me on my soapbox this week. If you've got an opinion to share, link up your post below and share your thoughts in the comments. Links are live all week. Please be respectful and don't link up posts that don't fit the Sunday Soapbox theme. They will be removed.

 

NOODLES PREPARED FOR BOILING
© Tomo Jesenicnik | Dreamstime.com

Sunday Soapbox: Zip It, Weiner

Anthony Weiner got a lot of press this week and I’m sure he will get lots of advice. Political consultants will tell him what to say and when to say it. Armchair psychologists will suggest he suffers from sexual addiction. He’s already taking a “brief leave of absence to seek treatment.” That must mean he’s sick, right?

 

This fine Sunday I am up on the soapbox to offer a woman’s point of view. Listen up, Weiner:

 

You are not sick. You are stupid. You are arrogant. Your moral compass is broken. A brief leave of absence won’t cure that.

Let me explain.

 

1. Women are not impressed by pictures of body parts. And if we were, your scrawny chest wouldn’t win us over. We like romance. We like men who are powerful and devoted. We like to talk, we want you to listen. That is what turns us on. If you can talk intelligently and listen thoughtfully even when we’re dressed up sexy (or completely naked), you get bonus points.  

 

Bottom line: Zip your pants. Put on your shirt. Talk to your wife. Listen. Listen some more. If she’s still into you, kiss her feet. You don’t deserve her.

 

2. Social media is social. That means it is public.  Meeting someone on Twitter is like meeting them in a crowd of 40,000 fans at a sporting event. When you flirt with a woman online, in public, we know you’re putting on a show, like those guys with the painted faces who draft dorky signs incorporating the letters E, S, P, and N. Our interest is superficial. We want to see how far you’ll go. We’re laughing. At. You.

 

Bottom line: You messed up. Big. In front of everyone. You owe heartfelt apologies to the women you courted, your family, and your constituents. Your credibility is gone. You should apologize. Big. In front of everyone. Resign. Start over. Give the people of New York a do-over. They deserve it.

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What's got you on your soapbox this week? Link up an opinionated post and share some comment love. Remember: Opinions are good. Disrespect is not. Links are live all week.

Big Trouble Behind the Wheel

I never got in really big trouble as a kid, but that doesn't mean I didn't deserve it. 

 

When I was 16, my dad bought me a 1969 VW Beetle with a baja kit. Basically, it was a VW bug that looked like a dune buggy, with an exposed engine in back and cut out fiberglass fenders over the wheels.

Mine was similar to this picture, but without the lights on top or the stripes. It was beige and white: the fiberglass was never painted, so the body was beige and the hood and fenders were white.

 

I loved that little car. I lived in that little car. It was a whole lot of fun.

 

It had a heater to-die-for, and a gas gauge that didn't work. I kept track of the miles travelled to know when it was time to fill 'er up.

 

Because the car LOOKED like a dune buggy, my not-s0-stuck-in-the-mud friends wanted me to drive it off-road. I wasn't that daring. But I wanted their social approval badly enough that I let one of them (a 16-year-old guy who is now a fine, upstanding member of society) drive it off-road in a field not far from our house. He bumped it hard and fast over the curb and into the dirt and weeds. Round the field a couple of times, then back on the road.

 

Some days later, my dad confronted me about the car.

 

"Did you hit a curb with it?" he asked.

 

"No," I lied. Forthright I was not. 

 

"I know you did," he said. "Stand here in front of the car. What do you notice?"

 

I looked at the car. I looked at my dad.  I didn't notice anything, really. But I knew the game was up. My dad notices every little detail on a car. And he knows how they work. Or why they don't. He's a mechanical guru.

 

"The front wheels are completely out of alignment," he explained. "They don't go straight anymore. You hit something big and hard and knocked the wheels sideways," he said.

 

I can't recall now how long it took me to come clean.

 

What I do know is that I eventually fessed up. But I wasn't forthright about parking tickets, either.

 

At some point dad found a cache of parking tickets in the glove compartment of my car. He asked if I thought they'd just go away if I didn't mention them.

 

I don't know what I thought. Probably I didn't think much of anything. I certainly didn't imagine that they'd send copies through the mail to my dad, who was the registered owner of my car!

 

I should have been in big Trouble (with a capital T). But my dad went easy on me. 

 

What did *you* do to deserve Big Trouble?

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This post inspired by a prompt from Mama Kat 1.) Write about a time you got in BIG trouble as a kid and by Jenny Matlock's Alphabe-Thursday meme (write about the letter F -- forthrightness and fessing up).   

 

10 Things about My Grandpa

Grandparents get a short shrift in our society. Maybe it's because they move slowly.  Maybe it's because we're too future-focused. Maybe it's because they aren't on Twitter (unless your grandma is Betty White).

 

I am fortunate that my maternal grandparents are still in my life. I live far away and I don't call or write as often as I'd like, but my grandparents are near and dear to my heart. And so, in response to Mama Kat's prompt, "10 Things about One of My Favorite People," I give you 10 Things about My Grandpa.

 

1. Grandpa McKinney is one of 13 children. His parents and siblings called him "Little Boy." He grew up in Smith County, Tennessee.

 

2. My Grandpa McKinney never had a hobby besides work. Even now, his favorite way to spend a day is puttering around the ranch, caring for the cattle. When he doesn't get to go, his eyes don't sparkle like they should.

3. My Grandpa McKinney goes to town in his beat-up bib overalls to shop for cars. He looks every bit a country bumpkin. The car salesmen don't see him coming. When he's negotiated a good price, he pays cash and drives home.

 

4. Grandpa McKinney has a killer sweet tooth. I've never seen him pass up dessert. When we were kids, we made him homemade, hand-dipped chocolates for Christmas each year. Making "Grandpa's candy" is one of my favorite traditions. I'm sharing it with my own kids.

 

5. Grandpa McKinney shells walnuts to keep busy. This year, he had thirteen 5-gallon buckets of walnuts to crack. My son spent an entire afternoon cracking walnuts with Great Grandpa McKinney. He smashed his finger with the hammer, just like Grandpa warned, but he kept cracking. I bake up lots of love with Grandpa's walnuts.

 

6.  In April, Grandpa McKinney turned 97 years old. This Tuesday, he passed the State of California's behind-the-wheel driver's test. Again.

 

7.  Grandpa McKinney can speak volumes without saying a word. And he can talk a blue streak, too. I could listen to him all afternoon.

 

8. My Grandpa and Grandma eloped to Carson City, Nevada. They raised three children. They have been married for 77 years. Their lifelong partnership inspired Little Man's first name.

 

9.  He never went to college, but my Grandpa can engineer a bridge or a building with skill. When he advised the county work crew that the culvert they were building wouldn't hold water, they ignored him. Probably thought he was some foolish old man. Later that year, it washed out.

 

10.  The best gift I've ever given Grandpa is time with my children. He smiles from ear to ear as he watches my kids play on the living room floor, chasing battery-operated trains under the coffee table. He shows them old-time tractors in his big picture book, and lets them down when their attention wanders.  He grins when they eat with their chubby hands and stuff their mouths way too full. Grandpa McKinney finds joy in the little things.

 

I'm fortunate to have many good role models in life, and Grandpa McKinney is one of them. He taught me it's okay to love my work. He taught me to be loyal and to remember where I came from.

 

He taught me book learning isn't everything. He taught me to be independent and keep myself busy.

 

He taught me that people listen better when I say less.

 

And, he taught me to eat dessert. Take a nap after lunch, and watch my kids play.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hello, ego. Goodbye, stereotype.

Today I'm taking a minute to Pour my Heart Out about a lesson I learned last week at the grocery store. I'll warn you up front, it wasn't pretty.

 

I was just back from a two-week vacation. By 8 a.m., I'd colored my hair, taken a shower, and done my makeup. The baby was happy (so far) and Little Man was dropped off at preschool.   A grocery run seemed do-able.

 

I swept through the commissary, hoping to get all the items on my list before Little Mama had a meltdown.

 

I expected her to get tired. She hadn't slept much the day before because we were traveling. She didn't nap on the plane or in the line for immigration and customs. She didn't nap on the car ride home. As my mom would say, she was pooped. At least for the moment, she was happy to be steering the kid-friendly cart, one hand on each little steering wheel. We flew through produce, meats and dairy. 

 

And then, she was pooped. Yes, the other kind. Stinky, goopy, no-diaper-in-the-world-could-contain-this-mess pooped.  Right there in the frozen food section.

 

So I shopped faster. I jettisoned items from the list that could wait until later. I flew toward the check out, eager to escape with my poopy baby and a shred of mommy dignity in tact.

 

As I approached the check out, the pimply faced teenage checker asked me loudly, "Will you be paying with WIC today?"

 

And the world stopped spinning.

 

I thought, "Do I look like I'll be paying with WIC today?"

 

I'm sure I looked like a bridesmaid who just discovered her dress was tucked into her panty hose as she walked down the aisle. I was caught completely off guard. I was self-conscious and embarrassed. I didn't know what to say.

 

And then my brain caught up with my ego and I thought, "There is no 'look' that describes recipients of WIC." Poverty isn't so obvious.

 

I asked the checker why he thought I might pay with WIC. He responded, "Sometimes moms with babies who come in early in the morning pay with WIC." 

 

Hmm. I nodded. "I see," I said. And then I paid cash for my groceries.

 

As I left the store and pulled Little Mama out of the shopping cart, poop oozed up her back and slathered my forearm. I was mortified.

 

And I felt a wave of compassion for moms who depend on assistance to feed their families.

 

I don't know who they are. Appearances are deceiving.

 

What I do know is those moms are gutting it out day-by-day doing the best they can for their kids. They're wiping noses and changing diapers and trying to get through the grocery store before the baby has a meltdown, just like I am. And the last thing they need is to be called out for paying with WIC. 

 

I regret that I didn't stop and share my thoughts with the checker. I'm sure he hadn't considered how his customer would feel when he asks way too loudly whether she'll be paying with WIC today.

 

Empathy isn't automatic. Apparently mine needed a tune-up. 

Parenting by Death Threats

My first association to this picture isn't pleasant. It's a death threat. Made by my dad.

 

 

 His statement?

 

"If you smoke, I'll kill you long before the cigarettes do."

 

Now that's good parenting.

 

Really.

 

I'm grateful to have parents who shared their opinions with me. While I never truly believed my dad would hurt me -- he wouldn't -- I knew exactly where he stood on the issue of smoking. And I internalized his beliefs about it.  When I see the advertisements urging parents to "talk with their kids about smoking," I remember my dad's approach. It was succinct and effective. You can't argue with that.

 

If you know Leading Mama, you know I have strong opinions. And that I'm not afraid to express them. Not to my Leading Man, not to my kids, and not to other moms. I say what I think. Unapologetically.

 

I want my kids to think for themselves and to come to their own conclusions about important, complicated issues. I don't believe in parenting my force or by fear, and I'd never try to bully them into believing what I believe. But I don't keep my opinions under wraps, either. I don't believe kids learn to think for themselves and express their opinions  if they grow up in a vanilla world where no one takes a stand or a side.

 

It's important to me that my kids know what I value, and I try to show them through my actions. I tell them, too, because I don't want critical lessons to slip by unnoticed.

 

I haven't resorted to death threats. Yet. But I'm not opposed to them either.

 

What is the most memorable thing a parent said to you?

 

Letter to my Love

My dear,

 

I fear I cannot love thee as I did.

 

In days past, I spent late nights in dark places. With strangers. And loud, pounding music.

 

We shared stories. We made memories. Our time was rich with experience.

 

I chased the unknown.

 

Unpredictable moments whispered sweet nothings in my ear. I delighted in delicious opportunities.

 

Spontaneity was the bad boy down the street, begging me to sneak out my window and meet him in the park. He offered excitement. I accepted it greedily, always wanting more.

 

Not so now.

 

I found another, truer love.

 

Routine is my boy next door. I’ve known him forever. He makes me feel safe.

 

I am comforted by his embrace.

 

I am energized by his steadfast presence.

 

He makes me feel alive. Creative. Ready for anything.

 

I love who I am when I’m with him.

 

My just-washed hair and casual clothes aren’t night-club material. They’re perfect for play.

 

It’s just me and my family and our routine. We move together in a familiar dance. My body knows every move by heart.

 

6 a.m. coffee

 

7 a.m. breakfast

 

8 a.m. blog post

 

9 a.m. preschool drop off

 

Time to write. The baby naps. I read. And write some more.

 

2 p.m. preschool pick up

 

Playing outside. Sorting the mail. Dinner on the stove. Baths and pajamas. Tooth-brushing, book reading, the final episode of Last Cake Standing. And then it is bedtime.

 

The baby rustles in her crib as the four-year-old burrows in next to me for the night. His dad is away on business. I promised he’d sleep in my mom bed. My head rests peacefully on the Pillow Pet he shared so generously. Her name, he says, is Fluffy.

 

I am in love with mundane, everyday details now. Spontaneity messes with my mojo. The confines of my usual routine are not confining. They’re thrilling.

 

And so for now, I bid you leave, my love. Find a young, fickle friend to entice.

 

I’ve got all the excitement I need right here.

 

At home.

 

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This post inspired by a prompt from Mama Kat's World Famous Writer's Workshop, by two long weeks of vacation and too much rum punch.

LOVE LETTER CLOSE-UP
© Gianna Stadelmyer | Dreamstime.com

Sunday Soapbox: Slow Down, Rite Aid

This morning, Leading Mama and the fam are sitting on a tropical island, where time passes so slowly it’s easy to lose track. At home, I’m not nearly this laid back. I value productivity; I’m happiest when I’m right on time or even early; In my professional life, deadlines are sacrosanct.

 

But today I’m up on my soapbox to say "slow down, people."

 

I’m not advocating you all take a long, leisurely tropical vacation (though I’m sure you could use one).

 

I’m asking you to think about the relative value of time and quality.

 

In the past few weeks, Rite Aid’s new “15 minutes or less” campaign caught my attention and kept it. The promise is simple: they fill your new prescription in 15 minutes or less. If not, you get a $5 gift card.

 

Don’t get me wrong, I value my time. This fall, while waiting for Rite Aid to fill a prescription for the kids, my 4-year-old vomited all over his car seat, his clothes, and my almost-new car. The cleanup cost me several hours. If a drug fairy dropped off prescriptions at the house and sweet-talked my kids into taking them without screaming, fighting, or a headlock, I’d be thrilled.

 

But the 15 minute guarantee makes me nervous. Dominoes Pizza eliminated its 30-minutes-or-less guarantee when it discovered the policy caused delivery drivers to have more traffic accidents (duh).

 

One of the best replicated findings in psychology is what we call the speed-accuracy tradeoff. The faster we work, the less precise the results.  When it comes to prescription medications, there’s no room for error. Speed simply isn’t as important as accuracy.

 

A report from the Institute of Medicine (IOM) found that errors involving prescription medications kill up to 7,000 Americans a year, and that the financial costs of drug-related morbidity and mortality may be as much as $77 billion a year.

 

So, Rite Aid, Leading Mama says slow down. I’ll gladly wait more than 15 minutes if it means my prescriptions will be accurate. Your $5 gift card won’t wash the vomit out of my back seat anyway. 

 

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If you've been up on your soapbox this week, link up an opinionated post below and share some comment love. I can't wait to hear what's got you fired up. But take your time, the linky is live all week.