Tippy Toes and Tantrums

Planning a Retreat for Lost Marbles

The other day I decided that I need to go on a personal retreat. It feels like there's a ton of exterior noise preventing me from becoming my best self, which is a phrase that must be trademarked by Oprah. There's so much to do, so much noise, and so much measuring up that everything feels chaotic, complicated, and pretty defeating. This list doesn't include pop up ads or Twitter parties, both of which are pushing me over the edge. It's times like these when I want to give almost everyone the bird.

Today is the first day in forever that I've been able to stay home, without appointments, errands or kids' activities calling me away, so I optimistically thought this was my day, but I forgot to clear that with the dog, who went crazy. She barked at the wind all morning, she wanted out, she wanted in, again and again, she was caught off guard by the gardener, so then she overcompensated by barking at everything, for hours, despite my reassurance, yelling, and use of a Nerf gun. Much like when my kids were babies, just when I thought I'd snap, the dog finally took a nap and let me have a little bit of the day/sanity back.

There are frequent mountain lion sightings in our area, but none of them ever come into our yard hungry.

But back to the retreat...I told this idea to a friend last week and she responded that she has a friend who does this quarterly. Four times a year, she heads to the Ritz or other nice destinations by herself. This week, I told another friend, and she too knows someone who does the same thing. Clearly these people are onto something. I quickly started looking at Groupon for nearby vacation deals that I could use toward a retreat, but everything either looked like it would be fun for the kids, or was a place I'd rather go with Kevin. Not to mention, the next two months are totally slammed, which is why I need a retreat, but the stress of trying to get away alone would only make things worse. I should have come up with idea a month ago. I need to write myself a note so that I don't forget it.

The barking is back. Serenity now!

Rock 'n Roll Tweendom

There was a lot of screaming and yelling at our house last night, probably (hopefully!) due to some serious nervous energy before the school Rock Concert today. Our performer wasn't happy with anything, including how I tried to ruin her life by washing the jeans she intended to wear for the school show today (families and community concert is tomorrow). I washed her pants because they were balled up on her bedroom floor, which I was told does not indicate they are dirty. Lesson learned! All those pairs of underwear tossed about her room must be clean too. The jeans were in the dryer, so our diva was able to wear them today, but possibly missing the grunge feel she was going for. Gymboree jeans with embroidered flowers are the new punk.

After observing the girl tornado, Rocket said to me, "Mom, I know when the teenage years begin."

Me: When?

Him: 10.

This is when our nine year screamed at him that it begins at 13, "duh!" I think he was being polite and meant to say nine because, oh my god, sometimes I cannot imagine how it can get worse. 

The Ethics of Being a Good Airplane Traveler

A few months ago, while chatting with a dad at school, he brought up the article So Who Gets the Armrest in the Wall Street Journal. I found this fascinating because airline travel sometimes feels like it's going the way of Lord of the Flies. Flying feels more like riding Greyhound. The article covers things like who gets the armrests (the middle seat), how are bathroom breaks handled if neighbors are sleeping (wake them up), and whether it is okay or not to recline your seat (I effing hate when people recline the seat. For the record, I don't fly red eye. There is nothing worse than learning over to type or read only to have my forehead smacked by the seat of the person in front of me. Once, I had a guy try over and over to recline, confused because his seat was getting stopped by a barrier, which happened to be my head.)

I thought about air traveler ethics during our recent flight because Kevin sat next to a situation that would have made me crazy. Two girls got on the flight with back to back middle seats, and the problem was they wanted to sit next to each other. I should clarify: by girls I mean women in their early 30s. These weren't kids. One of the women asked Kevin to change seats with her friend in the middle seat behind them. Kevin said no because he needed to be near his family across the aisle. The women put the pressure on the three other women around them, sitting in the aisle and window seats of their two rows. Everyone said no, they would not trade for a middle. The middle seat women seemed surprised and bothered by the response, to which I say, "what the hell did you expect?" But, don't worry, they managed to be together on the full flight.

First, back row woman stood up and hung over her friend in the middle row.

Then, front row woman turned around in her seat to interact with back row.

This went on for the full flight. The only twist was when the row behind the back row friend cleared out to use the bathroom, which then the woman next to Kevin moved to that row, to stand behind her friend and give her a back rub. 

Again, this was the entire six hour flight. 

I cannot imagine what it would have been like if they were seated next to each other. 

The middle seat sucks, we all know it, but your fellow passengers didn't force you into that seat, so don't take it out on them. 

I wish all airlines showed the little cartoon preview that Virgin airlines shows to explain the rules (actually, I wish all airlines were Virgin America). We are all in this together, so don't act like an ass. 

The upside of witnessing bad traveler behavior is that my kids made note. On the way back East, two kids sat directly behind my kids, in a row with their dad, who read the entire flight. The mom slept through the flight in another row. The two kids were pretty loud and often badly behaved. The woman in front of us kept shooting me nasty looks, to the point that I almost shouted out that those were not my kids. Clover was bothered by the noise and the seat kicking, making her aware that a few bad apples spoil it for all kids. On the flight home, toward the every end when Rocket got restless and squirrely, Clover reminded him, "DO NOT be like those kids behind us on the last flight. Remember them? We don't want to be like them!" This message, coming from his sister, was more powerful than anything I could have said. 

Daily Workout Setback Due to Foot Pain

I haven't been on the treadmill and it shows. It's so bad that I can't feel below my knees, probably because I've been sitting in the same position, with a laptop on my...lap (painfully redundant), and I should really move.

I last used the treadmill the morning before we left for Tahoe. I'd been having pain in my right foot, but I decided to stretch more and ignore it, mostly because I had no other plan. It hurt like I stepped on a Lego, but while I was on the treadmill, it was fine, as long as I didn't slow down. If I ran, then walked, I hobbled. It hasn't been pretty, and it sounded just as ugly because I didn't hold the pain in. I whined.

But I wasn't ready to give up. I walked in Tahoe, we played in the snow, and when we returned home, I worked out with the resistance band, and I cleaned out the garage, but I didn't get on the treadmill and I miss it.

The bad news is that I have (self diagnosed!) planter fasciitis. The good news is that it's improved so much following the advice of Dr. Internet. Since, I've wearing supportive shoes all the time, except for bed, and even in the shower at home. If you've never tried shaving your legs while wearing Crocs, don't. I wore tennis shoes out to dinner twice this weekend, which felt like I gave up and announced it to the world in the form of Nike running shoes worn with jeans and a cashmere sweater. Just wait until the orthopedic band and shoe inserts arrive this week.

Better stretching and supportive shoes have lessened the Lego feeling. It's still there, but it's improved enough that I'm getting back on the treadmill. Which is great because I feel like crap.

Update: I did it! The first nine minutes weren't great, but I went really slowly and by minute 10, I was feeling awesome.

Hating on the Internets

I don't avoid the internet on vacation, only when we camp and that's because there is zero reception. Even then, I still check a few times, just to be sure the clouds haven't shifted, allowing brief online access.

Something happened on Sunday that made me think differently, which is that the internet is full of idiots who piss me off. Not you. Definitely not you. I woke up, snuggled with the kids, then checked Facebook, which is when the day went south. Two things annoyed me so much I couldn't let go, so I walked away. Well, first I walked over to Kevin so I could rant about the whole thing, but then I really did physically move on almost entirely. I had to send an email, do some banking, then check the football scores while out at a party, but other than that, I didn't go online for the rest of the day. No surprise, I got all self righteous at night as I crowed about going nearly internet free for the day. Look at me, I'm almost Amish!

I didn't even check my beloved Pinterest. When I finally checked it for the first time last night, it was a downer. Has Pinterest reached the saturation point where all the unique stuff has been posted, now it's just Bible quotes and stuff people already know? There was a recipe for a Shirley Temple that consisted of mixing 7Up with bottled grenadine. That is basic shit, people. Someone actually wrote a post about their highly researched find (no joke, the author said she did a lot of research and testing before finding the miraculous mixture), a ton of people commented with kudos, and then some people pinned it. Not one person of sound mind said, 'No duh!" It's a recipe bartenders can make in three seconds flat with their eyes closed. This is a drink that five year old girls can make when they want to look fancy at a cocktail party. I know from experience as the five year old girl.

Maybe it's the false portrayals many people hide behind on Facebook that bother me more. People boasting about this or that, yet never explaining the change in their relationship status or the sudden drop of an employer, even though he or she hyped the shit out of that job a few months ago. Please stop hiding behind the fact that your kid only eats organic fruit so rare and unique that name is unpronounceable. No one is perfect, not you, not me, so stop trying to pretend. Go ahead and tell the world that your child scored the winning goal. That's awesome. But if the goal was during a pick up game at juvenile hall, you may want to clarify things.

Also annoying are the people thinking it's cute to be vague. Don't say something, then ignore the questions that follow. If you put something out there, of course people want to know what is going on, you brought it up.

Then there is the overuse of epic or the return of not, as in "I loved getting a parking ticket. Not!" Let it go.

Let it epically go.

Trying to Be the Quiet Soccer Mom

We host an annual Super Bowl party because I love football and throwing parties, but the unmentioned reason is because I yell at the TV. It's awful, I don't know what to say other than my dad does it too, but when you get used to yelling while watching games, it's hard to turn that feature off. It's especially hard when you're watching your young child play a sport, which I would have thought would be the easier time to just enjoy the game, but really, when they are older and are actually playing and have serious refs, it's much easier to sit back and watch. Rocket's soccer games look more like a rugby match, and they are only overseen by the coaches. Which means when a player on the other team starts straight-arming opponents, knocking them down while looking for approval from his family on the sidelines, it's a little hard not to yell.

Clover's game was easy to stay quiet, even as the other team dominated them. It was easy to sit back and watch the girls play. The girls are at an age where they know what they're doing, they're trying to be fair, refs were on plays that weren't, Clover's team looked like they were playing the sport for the first time. Before the game began, Clover volunteered to be goalie. I held my breath. They'd done zero goalie training this season and Clover had just moved up an age division from a younger group where the rules were much looser. Now goalies need to respect the lines, do proper kicks, and most harrowing, defend penalty kicks. Just minutes into the game, under some confusion, a teammate picked up the ball (she was going to do the goal kick and didn't realize it was live), prompting a penalty kick. All of the girls had to move back behind the lines, while one opponent moved forward about 10 feet to take the kick. Clover, confused, was directed to the goal line. Everyone was quiet, with only the two girls on stage. The whistle blew, the girl kicked the ball cleanly into the corner. Or so it seemed. She'd moved before the whistle, forcing a rekick. Once again: boom, boom, boom. Another goal, practically in exactly the same spot. It was only one goal, but it felt like two. Clover hunched her shoulders and started to cry. Her teammates tried to console her, the opponents' parents cheered her, but I still couldn't breathe because if I did, the real tears would begin for me too. This is the hard part of being a spectator.

My friend said last season that she wished she could be seven again, just for that soccer game, so she could go in to dominate the hell out of it.

I know exactly how Clover felt because the same thing happened to me in fifth grade. I was on a good soccer team, so good that there were rarely goals kicked against me as goalie. One day, Jody, our best player, a girl so tough that she could have easily beaten the boys, shoved an opponent, forcing a penalty kick. I remember thinking that Jody should have had to defend the shot since it was her fault that I was in this mess. But there I was, with everyone watching as the opponent charged the ball. I moved to my right, but not enough because the ball smacked the ends of my fingers and deflected into the goal. My hand stung and I cried, embarrassed that I'd let my team down. My friend Julie came over to tell me that it wasn't my fault. I don't remember crying during a game ever again.

After the game, we talked about it with Clover and commended her for being brave enough to be the first goalie. At practice, her coach told her he tried to be a goalie when he was young, only to have seven goals scored against him in his first game. She recovered soon enough, but the question is whether or not she'll ask to be goalie again. I want her to overcome any fears and try it again, but at the same time, it's hell to watch from the sidelines. For now, I'm staying quiet. 

Rip it Off Like a Band-Aid and Eat it Off the Floor

This is the craziest time of the year. Every start of August, it's BlogHer, followed immediately by our annual camping trip. I don't control the dates for either event, so this is how it has to be. A friend talked to me recently about trying to get the camping trip moved a little to ease my stress, but because some of the families with whom we camp begin school next week, the dates are locked in. And even if we could move the camping trip back a day, sometimes it's better to do it all quickly, at once, like ripping off a Band-Aid. That analogy must make the people I travel with feel great.

I love both trips, but both are exhausting. This year BlogHer was even more of an energy drain as I thought it would be wise to turn it into a family vacation. I have no idea why I thought this would be a good idea. Seriously, what is wrong with me? There was no break, no quiet, no downtime. There was jumping, fighting, hitting, and squealing, instead, both inside and out of my hotel room. Plus, a flash mob. And enough Twizzlers to build a bridge (or at least a replica). I am tired and dirty, yet the camping trip has not begun.

Soon after the camping trip, the kids are going to nonnie's house, to give me a break from questions about "accidentally" eating something off the floor and how it crunched, so did I think it was pizza crust? Nor do I need to make sure no one is sneaking a book into the shower. (Both incidents involved the same person and happened within the last five minutes.)

Jesus.

Needle-Felting, Tie-Dye-Induced Riot

So, I wasn't the only one who was charmed by Craft's bean bags at the Maker Faire. I spent the morning mentally framing the photo I planned on taking of my kids, sweetly cuddled up in the brightly colored tie-dye bean bags. Maybe it would be good enough to make this year's Christmas card.

Toward the end of the day, while watching Moxie's needle felting demonstration, a bean bag opened up. Rocket made it there first, so I motioned for Clover to join him for a picture. That's when the fight broke out. In the front row. During Moxie's demonstration. In front of a full crowd.

This is not the picture I wanted:

This doesn't even show the tears. There was a lot of crying, and a lot of me silently threatening with my eyes, which they ignored. My apologies to the crafters. This is not going to be mentioned in the Christmas card.

Stress and How it Deformed My Face

I was not stung by a swarm of bees, even though it looks that way. I have a cold sore - maybe the second or third I've had in my life - but this one is special because it is called a Super Cold Sore. While exciting to be called special and super, the lower right quadrant of my lips is puffed out enough to provide shade for Angelina Jolie and her lips. When I have a stress-induced freak out, I don't just breakout or get a cold sore, I go for the knockout punch and develop a Super Cold Sore. Go me.

This whole thing makes sense after spending an unhealthy amount of time Googling my problem. A few years ago after Rocket was born, I got the worst canker sore of my life. I've gotten occasional canker sores for as long as I can remember, but the one a few years ago was massive. I patiently waited for it to go away, but one day while at a sewing class, my mouth started to feel additionally weird, then on the way home my right eye started to water, which I blamed on seasonal allergies. That night at dinner, I took a sip of milk and the milk shot out the right side of my mouth as if I'd intended to spray it all over the table. When I ran to the bathroom to assess my face, I realized my whole right side wasn't functioning normally. It was starting to feel numb and was moving slowly. By the next morning, the right side of my face was essentially dead.

I had Bell's palsy.

My friends asked why I didn't freak out or worry that I'd had a stroke and my only answer was that my grandfather had Bell's palsy when I was in high school, so I was fully aware of it. Also, other than my face and mouth, everything else was normal, including my blood pressure. When I went to the doctor that morning, I was a little nervous that it was something worse, but my suspicion of Bell's palsy was confirmed.

For those who have never heard of it, Bell's palsy is a nerve disorder where the seventh cranial nerve becomes aggravated, causing paralysis or weakness to facial muscles, generally only on one side. After seeing my general practitioner, a neurologist, and the all mighty Google, it was assumed that my giant stress-induced canker sore aggravated the seventh nerve, which likely swelled, but due to lack of space in it's little canal to accommodate the swelling, the nerve was damaged. My neurologist said he'd long suspected that there is a genetic component to Bell's palsy because genes likely define the size of the tubes or canals protecting our nerves. To him, having a small or large canal would likely run in a family, affecting the susceptibility to Bell's palsy. It's not life threatening, although some sites will say it can be, and then there was a report during an NFL game where Fox Sports featured Tony Gonzalez, a player who they said cheated death during the off season by surviving Bell's palsy. I had to reverse the DVR because I couldn't believe my ears. I know Fox Sports isn't the best source for health news, but it seemed irresponsible reporting. Or maybe now I should start calling myself a survivor who has also cheated death, even though that's not true.

Typically the nerve damage is only temporary and in a few weeks, it's back to normal. That was kind of my case. I went to acupuncture and physical therapy and while most of the function on the right side of my face returned after about a month, it's never been 100 percent again. My right eyelid is weak, my eye will water under minor fatigue, my smile is no longer symmetrical, and weird things happen on my right side when I sneeze. That doesn't even include the embarrassment or esteem issues.

Going out of the house during the worst three weeks of Bell's palsy was awful. My friends at Clover's preschool were so kind, and one of them who I've always thought was incredibly pretty, really reached out to me, which was exactly the kindness I needed. What was hardest for me was the reaction of baby Rocket. He was probably about nine months old and like a typical baby, he'd look to my face for cues. He'd look at me wondering if what we were watching funny or scary, or if what he was doing okay or dangerous, but my face couldn't help. As he'd stare at me, I'd cry.

I'd like to say the Bell's palsy is in my past, but I think about it almost every time I look in the mirror for more than a second or two. When I started to look into the cold sore thing a little more this weekend, I found that you can get a cold sore inside your mouth and that isn't the same as a canker sore. That giant thing I thought was a canker sore a few years ago was likely an internal cold sore.

My face blows up in response to stress and that sucks. It's a bad cycle because I've spent the last few days fearing that this cold sore and the accompanying swollen lip and numbness will produce Bell's palsy, which only adds to my stress. In the meantime, I'm doing everything I'm supposed to do to lessen the cold sore lifespan, but that doesn't make it any easier when I have a week full of important things ahead. Kevin suggested I tell people that Rocket's head collided with my face, I think it looks more like I fell off my skateboard while dropping in on a massive vert half pipe. Hopefully the lingo will make it sound convincing because I don't own a skateboard.

Regardless, this week I have to once again face the world with my face noticeably askew while I try to pretend everything is normal.

Third Graders with Sephora Rewards

Clover is oblivious - or she just doesn't care - about many pop culture things. She's in love with Jon Stewart, but doesn't give a thought to Justin Bieber. When it was announced that Radio Disney will be at the softball opening ceremonies, the other girls jumped and cheered, while Clover stood there wondering if that meant Mickey Mouse would be there too. I love this about her, and I always credit the hippie school because the kids seem to have their own trends and things to follow, centering mostly on crafts or imaginative play. It's a nice protective bubble, I thought, until this week's homemade makeup invention.

As I went into her classroom on Monday to see an ocean life model they'd built, Clover and the other girls had blue and green powder on their eyelids and in streaks around their faces, which I figured was an improvised costume. When I motioned to their faces and said that I like how they went along with the kelp theme, I was corrected immediately. "This is makeup!" I rolled my eyes and moved on. Kids these days, you know? Using chalk dust as makeup.

At school pick up the next day, clearly Clover had refined her makeup application skills. This time it was only on her eyelids, but it was shocking blue all the way to her eyebrows and she looked like a junior prostitute. She took offense at the look on my face, which was in response to the look on her face, and I tried to explain in child-appropriate terms why this was so startling, but nothing seemed right.

You look like a hooker! I didn't say that because that would beg too many questions.

You look like a contestant on Toddlers & Tiaras! She wouldn't get the reference. Or understand how inappropriate that is, anyway.*

You're prettier without the makeup. No girl EVER believes her mother when she says that.

You are too young! This would only drive her to it even more.

You look like someone who doesn't respect herself. Too harsh.

Before I could find the right words, a carpool kid spoke up. "Why are you wearing that? Why do you want to wear makeup? It looks scary. Are you trying to look scary?" He peppered her with all the questions I wanted to ask, but would have been quickly dismissed by Clover. Carpool kid, Clover's closest friend, was the perfect person to ask her. It ends up she was trying to look scary, she said. It was more like warrior paint. All of this was a great relief until I saw this makeup kit that she made in art class.

Spots for more chalk dust makeup, "fluff" batting as cotton balls, old art sponges, and Q-Tips. Somehow this warrior put together a pretty elaborate makeup kit. It's hard to read, but it says 'makeup" on the purple duct tape. Not scary warrior kit, but makeup. Although, I have no idea what purpose the paperclip serves. Maybe this doubles as an office supplies organizer.

Today, I am ready for her. I'm packing my makeup remover wipes in the car. I always thought that when she was ready to wear makeup (and older), I'd take her to the mall, so that the MAC people could show her how to properly apply a reasonable amount of makeup, ensuring she didn't make the mistakes I did in the seventh grade with purple eyeshadow, making my self look like a junior prostitute or an overgrown Toddlers & Tiaras contestant. I expected this day, just not in third grade.

I would link to the Toddlers & Tiaras show site, but it allows viewers to rate the contestants. Really sick, TLC.