My Giving Challenge: PDA, A Pedicure and The Universe (Again!!)

Day 19: Public Display of Affection

I am sure I have covered this issue inside and out, but here is a refresher....I hate big, public activities. While most people are wetting their pants to get to the outdoor free concert series, I am grateful to be living in the suburbs with an elderly dog that needs me to let him outside every hour. I couldn't possibly make it. Between the the traffic, the lack of parking, waiting in lines, and standing shoulder to shoulder with drunk assholes I just can't get excited about any of it. I avoid concerts, fireworks shows, festivals and farmer's markets. It's not that I hate people, I just hate being around them.

This year there is a ban on outdoor fireworks where we live, so short of driving past the rule breakers on our way home from the grocery store, we haven't seen any lights in the sky. I could survive the entire summer without a fireworks show, but our kids have only one childhood and they deserve every experience we can pack into the 18 years we have them around. I know the day is not too far off when no one will be asking to go to the park or wanting to see a drive in movie with their old, gross parents.

My husband thought it would be "fun" to take the kids to the largest July 24th fireworks display. He offered to take them alone because he is well aware that I would rather eat my weight in pickled beets than go to a park to see fireworks. Initially I took him up on the offer. I could sit at home reading a book or visit my sister and have a few beers with her on the patio. Both options sounded like heaven. The closer we got the more I realized that I didn't want to stay home, I didn't want to miss seeing my son's face when the sky lit up or miss my daughter laughing at her dad's jokes. I also wanted to give them the gift of my time and get out of my comfort zone to do it.

We packed the car with blankets and I committed to having a positive attitude the entire night, no traffic irritation, no swearing at strangers under my breath, no losing my patience over parking or flipping off pedestrians. It was quite a commitment and we had a wonderful time. We walked five blocks from our parking spot, initially sat in an area where we couldn't see the fireworks and sat in traffic for an hour to get back home, all for 25 minutes of lights in the sky.
"Thanks Mom and Dad for taking us to see the fireworks. That was so much fun."
That's all it took. My gift was my time and getting out of my comfort zone in order to give my kids an experience and I received so much more in return. It's becoming the theme of this giving month.

Day 20: Pedicure for Mom

We had this great little pedicure place where Mom and I would get pampered, it was inexpensive and they were fantastic. It's gotten complicated over there and the last time Mom went in, she spent a very long time getting her toes painted and most of the time being someone's shoulder to cry on. Needless to say, we both have really ugly feet right now, my toenails are so long that I can't wear half the shoes in my closet and Mom has been needing to borrow some polish from us to fix up her own toe issues.

Yesterday, while contemplating my gift for the day, I thought about Mom's feet. That sounds weird, but I wanted to share a talent with someone I love. What talent do I have? I am great at massaging people's feet, scrubbing callouses and painting toes. And I actually like it. It's a weird talent, but we all have the make the best with what we are given. While a lot of people are grossed out by feet and toes, I don't mind scrubbing, rubbing and smelling people's feet. Chalk it up to being an oddball.

Our bathroom cabinet is chocked full of nail polish, a pedicure set and a massaging foot bath. I threw them all in my trunk, dropped the kids off at the movies theater and headed over to tackle mom's feet. Mom and I laughed and chatted as I massaged her tootsies and painted her toes. A gift for the person who has loved me from the minute I was born. It's the very least I could do.

Interesting Turn of Events

I am not going to preach to anyone about what to believe or what not to believe, that's not my business. I believe that there is a higher power guiding my life and that when I ask the Universe for something, it is provided. That works for me. Here is how it worked for me 5 minutes ago: I wanted to do an outdoor service project tomorrow, it has been on my mind since Monday. I had every intention of calling my neighbor to see if she knew of anyone who needed yard work, clean up or moving done. I was tempted to ask on FB as well, but I hadn't gotten around to it yet. While I was writing this blog, I got an invitation from a FB group, Love Does Stuff (lovedoesstuff.org)  for a service project tomorrow morning doing clean up and landscaping. Coincidence? Not in my mind. The Universe gave me exactly what I wanted. Thanks for that, Universe.

Getting A Real Job

When I was younger, I would dream about being an actress, a marine biologist and a vet, but never a mom. That wasn't a real job. My mom was the pinnacle of stay at home parents, but I couldn't appreciate all that she did because she made it look so easy. It never looked like work. She was happy to hang our clothes out on the line and help us with homework. We had homemade meals every evening and clean clothes waiting in our drawers every morning. I knew it wasn't a fairy who cleaned the house but I didn't think that could be considered work. My friends' moms went to the nursing home and the county courthouse for 8 hours a day. Their mom's weren't home after school which seemed pretty cool to a 12 year old who wanted to raid the fridge and watch MTV all afternoon. My mom was waiting for us after school with fresh cookies and a smile. It seems great but sometimes irritated my preteen senses. I couldn't  make bad choices with her hanging around the house all day. I had yet to understand that she had signed up for the toughest gig around by not having a 'real' job.

 The vet and marine biologist gigs didn't pan out for me and I gained a new found interest in having babies. I was home with my kids for the first years of their lives and worked part time jobs off and on to mingle with people who spoke in whole sentences and consumed more than breast milk. When I was at work, I felt validated by a paycheck and other adults who appreciated my efforts. At home, I worked harder to bathe, diaper, feed and entertain my kids without the perks or the paycheck. The benefits were happy kids and an enjoyable home life, but the hours were long and there were moments when I felt insignificant. I was just a mom. My friends had careers, college educations and retirement funds. They were living up their 20's at bars, wine tastings and indie movie premiers. I couldn't stay awake for an entire movie and I drank boxed wine. Bars were either soap or what I wanted to be behind so I could sleep for 8 hours straight. This mom thing was starting to feel like a 'real' job and I owed my own mom a big apology and an even bigger thank you.

My son asked me the other night at dinner when I was going to get a real job. I have recently left a company and can now make my own hours. I work while my kids are at school and write while they are asleep. I've become a pro at making it look easy. So easy that my kids don't think I have a job. I guess it takes becoming a parent to understand that the job your parents did raising you far surpasses what they did for an occupation. And sometimes it is one in the same.

Mommy Fail

This was my parent failure moment of the weekend. My youngest turned seven on Mother's Day and he had one big request for mom...a Lego cake. We sat together on the couch and researched cakes on Pinterest, I became more and more insecure about my abilities. Most of these monstrosities were the size of a smart car and covered in a mortgage payment worth of fondant. I kept scrolling. "I love that one," he grinned as he lay his head on my shoulder. Try saying no to that, you heartless bastard. "Okay, buddy, I'll make that one." It was the least intimidating cake we had seen, two large square Lego blocks with real frosting and marshmallows for the nobs. I could do this. I found a YouTube video that showed me step by step how not to fuck up this cake. I watched and laughed and imagined what a hero I would be when we served up a cake in the shape of plastic blocks. Mom Of The Year.

Growing up, my mom designed cakes for us every year and in every possible shape. She was ahead of her time with Cake Boss style chainsaw cakes, mouse cakes and my one true love, the Cabbage Patch doll cake. Every beauty was made with a cheap box cake, basic pans and creativity that would put 21st century blogger moms to shame. Our birthday snapshots are filled with cheesy grins and professional looking desserts whipped up by a woman who made me believe it was nothing special. Didn't every mom bake professional style cakes every quarter of every year for two decades? It's what makes my failure feel even more like a kick to the baby maker.

The day of my son's party, I woke up early with excitement and anticipation. I eagerly searched online for how to make box cake taste like homemade and got to work. The cake came out of the oven looking beautiful, that would be the first and last time it would. As I wielded my butcher knife it became clear that I was in over my head. The more I cut, the more it fell apart. "I'll fix it with frosting" I thought. I started mixing the red and after draining the mini bottle of dye, I realized I had enough coloring for hot pink, not red. I was out of frosting except for the container that someone had opened, eaten out of and placed back in the pantry. It smell like belly button lint. Frosting the squares brought me to tears and I was hoping it would get better when my mom walked in to witness my sham of a life.
"You okay, hon?"
"I've ruined his birthday. I can't make red frosting, it's all falling apart and I can't fix it." I cried.
"It happens, just go buy a cake and let it go."
Easy for her to say, she hadn't ruined my 7th birthday and I still turned out to be a fucking mess of an adult. How much therapy would my little man need?

My husband took him to the store to pick out a cake and they returned while I was showering off my disappointment. I only saw the cake as we were leaving for the sweaty foot pizza parlor. This $20 cake was covered in bright colored daisies and butterflies with Happy Birthday!!! chicken scrawled in red frosting. My jaw ached as I held back tears and the thought of hiding under the dining table crossed my mind, as did pulling out the boxed wine and suckling straight from the nozzle. My hubby saw the look of horror on my face and said "Let it go. He liked it and the options were slim. No one is going to care."

He was right, no one cared except me. I wanted to be my mom, I wanted to be a Pinterest mom, I wanted to be a perfect mom but instead I was a me mom.  Maybe one day my son can blog about how his mommy ruined his 7th birthday cake and he loves her anyway.

I'm Short So F*&% Off

I bought myself a bike for Mother's Day. My husband had attempted a shopping trip on my behalf and it gave me diarrhea just imagining what horrors he would purchase without my detailed list. I have in recent history, received Tweety Bird pajama pants, earrings that double as fishing lures and blue suede ankle boots. He's sweet and not a shopper.  Luckily, he came home empty handed and finally inquired about what I would want. Initially, my thoughts were geared toward relaxation and vanity...a spa day, new clothes, diamond earrings or yoga pants. The latter may seem to be a workout request but it is not, since I wear yoga pants daily regardless of how much yoga really happens. Just thinking about yoga pants makes me comfortable. The bike idea blossomed from a conversation with my kids who were making all sorts of plans for summer riding adventures. They wanted to ride to the pool, to the grocery store for snacks and while they are getting to the age of self-reliance, I couldn't shake the feeling that letting them ride solo all summer would make me eligible for "Worst Summer Parent" award. Our bike options were few, a couple thrift store mountain bikes and metal scooters. As I checked out the adult selection, the Bitch Angel on my shoulder was reminding me of all the times I rode a bike that was too big for me.
"Sore pussy for a week if you try that."
"You can't even get on it without a step stool. Really?"
"That Buzz Lightyear training bike is closer to a yes than any adult bike in here. Try that one, short stack"
I needed a bike.

My sister took me shopping for bicycles because she is bike enthusiast. She drives a Subaru, lives in Sugarhouse and has a chicken coop. Enough said. I, on the other hand, buy bikes at big box stores when they go on sale and realize way too late in the game that I will never ride them. The first stop was a classified ad from an old hippie who had built a business on picking up bikes from the dump and turning a hefty profit on each one. He was asking a whopping $150 for a cruiser that looked as if it had been collecting dust since 1972. My sister saw it and immediately had hesitations about it's size.
"That's too big for you." she chided. "I don't think you'll be comfortable riding it."
I had to prove her wrong by taking it for a spin up and down the residential road. It felt pretty well and I didn't want to admit that the handle bars were a stretch for my T-Rex arms. I could make it work. My sister told him we were looking elsewhere.

After a chat with The Bike Man (his sign said it all) who gave us plenty of info but had no bikes on hand, we were off again to a bicycle store that had a cruiser listed for around $200. When we passed by the front, sister saw aforementioned bike and commented on it's cuteness. Should I have been concerned? Probably. We had an employee unlock that little beauty and I took it for a spin. It fit me perfectly. No arm stretches, no crotch bruising, just a comfy little ride with easy breaking and no extra gears. We asked for a basket and I pulled out my credit card. At this point, my sister is researching the bike for me online. She gets a grin on her face and says "This is a girl's bike, but that's good for you because you're small." Yep, I bought a kid's bike.

My first trip around the block elicited a giggle from one neighbor and an uncomfortable stare from another. I'm not sure if it was my over sized basket, daisy detailing or the sight of a grown woman on a itty bitty cruiser that really got them. I imagine it would be the way I feel seeing a grown man get out of a Volkswagen Bug or the humor I find in clown cars that house fifteen humans. It's unusual and demands attention. While my first instinct was to flip them the bird, I instead kept right on pedalling with a smile on my face.I found comfort in the knowledge that while I may look like an idiot, I'm an idiot who is burning calories and getting nominated to "Funnest Summer Mom Of Life".  So suck on that, ladies.

It's Friday And So What!

Happy Mother's Day!!! I am guessing most of you will be able to relate to today's post. We seem to have an illness as women these days, it could be labeled Super Mom or Super Fucking Exhausted Mom. If that sounds familiar, join me this weekend in finding a couple hours to do nothing, except maybe breathe, read, watch your favorite show or see a movie you actually want to sit through. You deserve it!!!

I do too many things. I am not bragging, I am admitting a weakness, like they do in AA. My name is Mandy and I can't relax. Last weekend, my husband asked me what 'normal' people do on Sundays and I spouted off a list of chores I felt would suit him well, to which he nodded and told me he was going golfing. I didn't remember listing that as one of the options. While he doesn't seem to have a problem chilling out for awhile, I haven't perfected that part of my life. Even on the weekends, I rarely sit through a movie at home without throwing in load of laundry or running the dishwasher. TGIF? It may as well be TGIM, it's all the same to me.

We have all heard the old adage about how many hats you wear. It symbolizes the different roles you fill in your life, from mother to PTA president to employee. I have a closet full of hats. I attended a women's retreat last year where we made a list of our roles and described how they made us feel. It took me awhile to get my list accumulated but when I did it was pretty telling. There wasn't one hat I wore that was for me. My hats included responsibilities at home, at work, at my kid's school, and in relationship to others. There wasn't one that said writer, reader, traveler, comedian, or photographer. I am so busy wearing my "for you" hats that I had bypassed the "for me" section. While most of them made me feel accomplished, there weren't any that filled the part of my soul that I freely drained for everyone else. I learned a lot about being a martyr that weekend and realized that I needed to make some changes.

Most days consisted of wearing my Work At Our Business hat immediately followed up by throwing on my Mommy hat so the house wouldn't burn down. I jumped in my car sporting my Other Job I Hate hat, all the time wondering if there was an end to the madness. On the weekends, I could be found doubling up with the Cook hat and then  racing around my house doing chores in my Housekeeper cap. I guzzled a glass of wine, got spotted by my kids and immediately felt the need to shop for an Alcoholic hat. By the end of the day I have worn all the hats I'm "supposed" to and completely bypassed the others. It's all been lovely, but I need to scream.

I made a few changes. They included being honest with my husband about my desire to quit a job I hated and my intention to be a writer. For real. I still wear a lot of hats, but I have since purchased ones that say Writer, Napper, Bath Taker and Hiker.  As a 30-something woman living in this century, I can choose thousands of hats, but now I get to learn how to wear one at a time and give up wearing the ones that drain me.  Now, if I could just figure out this whole 'relaxing on the weekend' thing.

Fuck That Shit...It's Friday!!!

It's Fuck That Shit Friday!!!! I wish everyday was fuck that shit day because I am constantly coming into contact with people and situations that deserve that label. Homeless dudes bumming smokes from me on my break. Fuck that shit. People yelling at their kids in a grocery store. Fuck that shit. Putting away laundry. Fuck that shit. Waking up in the morning. Yeah, that's a given.
I'm really interested in this recent craze of bloggers who are trying to convince us that they have their shit together and need to do a daily brag about how much they get done in a single day. A day that, just like yours and mine, is made up of only 24 hours. That's if you don't sleep which I have decided, they don't. How is it possible to bake ten loaves of bread, clean your whole house, cut all of your twelve children's hair, make three meals from scratch and workout for three hours? Are these women on crack? Possible. I think  the more likely conclusion is that they are meth heads, Lortab addicts or take anti-anxiety pills for fun. It's hard for me to believe that like the rest of us, these women need naps or ever have dinners that include sugar cereal and toast. They must be cut from some special cloth that enables them to never have a mental breakdown or feel the overwhelming desire to take a potty break that lasts for the entire showing of Monsters, Inc. I have taken that poop break before and it was completely necessary in order for me not to strangle the people I love.
I can't be entirely pissed about seeing their life play out like a Friday night sitcom because I for one am guilty of stealing their recipes, appreciating their decorating ideas a little too much and feeling more motivated to take my kids on an outing. Mostly out of guilt. I convince myself that their must be something seriously wrong with me if I can't live up to these unreachable standards. In turn, I attempt to do it all and then get so overwhelmed that I can be found rocking myself to sleep in the corner of my bedroom with a bottle of red wine in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other. Smoking isn't allowed in my house, so then I get in trouble.
If there had been Internet when my grandma was raising kids, she would have been that blogger. She was smart, funny and good at everything. When I say everything, I mean everything. She baked everyday, had a garden before it was hip and at one point had five kids who were preschool age or younger. She was Superwoman. There was one way to wash clothes when she was raising a family and it wasn't in an energy efficient washer that did all the work. It was by hand. She ground her own wheat and for awhile, had a goat that she milked daily to feed one of her babies who was lactose intolerant. Beat that, raw milk bitches!!!The fact that she never sat down and possibly never slept has been well accepted by her children and the many people whom she took dinners to, visited with on their death beds and ran marathons with. Yeah, she was an athlete too. If these blogger bitches want some real competition, they need to go back about 50 years and meet up with a real homesteader. I love all the hipster terms for going back to the basics of growing food and eating healthy. You fucking hipsters.
As I have noted in previous posts, I am not doing it all nor do I want to. I am doing only what I can mentally handle today and sometimes not even that. If you follow me on Instagram (which you should) you will see pics of my kids without their hair combed and backgrounds of my house with dog hair growing out of my sofa. Our Christmas card photo was an impromptu pic of my kids in our dining room and I had clearly not decluttered my house for many months. I am sure people who received the card wondered what  I was thinking sending out a photo from an episode of Hoarders to celebrate Baby Jesus's birthday. What I was thinking is "I don't have time to do a proper photo op today and if I don't get these fucking things in the mail now, it's not going to happen until Easter." That's my reality. Usually I remember to feed the dog and sometimes my toilets get cleaned but I will never be organized or efficient enough to have a mommy blog about my perfect life. And if I ever try, please slap me while simultaneously handing me some liquor. And by some, I mean a bottle.
Find me on Instagram: mandybrasher
Twitter: @BrasherMandy
Facebook: Mandy Smith Brasher

Cool Parents And Other Myths

When I gave birth to my kids I dreamed of being the cool mom. I had a cool mom growing up so I felt like she had given me the invisible bible on playing it smooth for eighteen years. I quickly realized how long it took to raise an actual human being and that I wasn't the laid back, sweet person my mother was. Raising kids was going to be a bit more lively and lot less patient at my house.
I also ended giving birth to my twin aka MINI-ME which makes parenting a challenge, its like marrying yourself. No one thinks that's a good idea. My daughter is the smartest, most artistic human being on the planet. She is also like her mama and has a sass mouth, wants to fit in with the crowd, and gets upset directly after proclaiming this to be the best day ever created. I don't know how that shit is passed on but Miss Girly Pants has been rockin' her bad self for 10 years and there is no possible way I could claim she wasn't mine.
I haven't quizzed my kids about who the coolest mom is, but we have our good days and our bad days. It could really go either way. The good days include me getting up in time to pack lunches, wash underwear and make a great joke in front of their friends. Bad days include me screaming in the car to "put your freakin' seat belt on before I lose it", having to hold my son's door shut during a massive meltdown, and being the mom who says no about the sleepover in front of the friend. Being the good guy is a full time job and not always possible. I had no fucking clue what I was getting into when my belly grew the size of a watermelon.
As I get older, I feel less inclined to care if I am cool or not. I am sure any woman who has made it through her 20's can attest to feeling a little less like the crowd and a little more like herself. Well, myself is loud and obnoxious. She is also proud of her kids and would rather get them to school happy then wear proper attire to drive there. It's also a great excuse to drive around town in pj's. I have come to feel more comfortable saying no and happier when I get to say yes. I have also realized the joy in being an embarrassment.
While I did have the cool  mom, I also had the embarrassing dad. Anyone who knew me as a kid can attest to this. He used to get out of the tub in the middle of the afternoon and scream "Superman!!!". This would be followed up by a naked man, my dad,  with a towel wrapped around his neck running through the front room, floor to ceiling windows open to the world. He was a maniac. His favorite thing was to pull his trucker hat down really far on his head and make a weird fucking face, like a wrinkled Elmer Fudd. He would pull this stunt while picking us up from school or at a family dinner out. As a kid, I couldn't stand the thought of being embarrassed in front of anyone. I wanted perfect strangers to be clear that I was not a part of this nonsense. Now, I am this nonsense.
I took a page out of my pops playbook last month. My brilliant baby girl was being awarded a medal for one of her projects. It was a big deal. By the time she was up, most of the room had emptied from the families who had taken their awards and bailed. I didn't want any person left in that lunchroom to miss out on my favorite girl getting her well deserved prize. So when her name was called I screamed and hooted and hollered at the top of my lungs. I had never felt so free, so happy, so much like a parent in my life. She rolled her eyes and begged me to stop and that's when I knew....I was the cool mom.