Please Teach Me How to Sit

I’m giving up sitting.

It’s pointless, you see,

every time that I do,

they want something from me.

Someone needs something to eat,

or something to drink.

“Please wash your hands?”

“Mom, lift me up to the sink!”

Or something’s wrong with their food.

“Soup’s too hot, can you put in some ice?”

Gosh darnit! She dumped over

her whole bowl of rice.

Or maybe their waffle’s

a little too toasted.

Or “The broccoli’s too soft!

We like it roasted.”

“Here’s some mozzarella!”

“Well, we’d prefer cheddar.”

No matter what I do,

they want something better!

You could say it’s my fault --

My kids – total brats.

But I just want them quiet,

before I become a hellcat.

So that’s just the food part

I’m bitching about.

There are several more examples

for me to lay out.

Like Hubby who yells,

“Hey’d you get more toothpaste.

Um, yeah? Sooo hard to see what’s

in front of your face.

The only time I sit’s

when I work on this blog

I do so miss sitting, watching TV

like a bump on a log.

At World Market with a friend,

we fell in love with a chair

The thing screamed "Sit here!"

I could do nothing but stare.

Source: Uploaded by user via Nicole on Pinterest

She said, “Couldn’t you see yourself

sitting there reading, sipping tea?”

“Yeah, ‘bout as much as Jon Hamm

sending a text beggin’ to (bleep) me.”

I stand while I eat,

As I talk on the phone,

Actually then I walk or run,

Then they’ll leave me alone.

I sit to do a few stretches,

I sit when I drive.

You’d think all this standing’d

give me leaner thighs.

Anyhoo, sitting’s no good

for your back or your ass.

Makes for shorter hip flexors.

Also gives you gas.*

But the thought of a couch

sounds so amazing, I’m crying.

I am so freaking tired.

I just might be dying.

It doesn’t help that

I don’t get enough sleep.

My daily water intake’s

about 4 inches deep.

Soooooo.....

This holiday, PLEASE teach me to sit.

And take care of myself.

All the other crap.

Please leave on the shelf.**

*This is a boldfaced lie, grounded in no science whatsoever.  I just needed a rhyme. 

** While this is not a boldfaced lie, it is a big-time exaggeration. I like things --nice things--    quite a lot!

Mom in the Spotlight: Artist Stacee Kalmanovsky

Stacee Kalmanovsky was born in Belarus in 1981, and immigrated to Chicago with her family as a child.  After graduating with her BFA from UIC, she moved to Florence, Italy, where she started a family.  She returned stateside in 2009 to attend the Masters of Fine Art program at the University of Chicago.  She currently lives and works in Hyde Park, Chicago.  For more information on Stacee's teaching studio visit www.artlessonswithstacee.com.  An online gallery of Stacee's work can be viewed at www.staceekalmanovsky.com .

How many children do you have?  Boys? Girls?  How old are they?

I am the proud mother of two boys, 15 months apart!  Manuel is seven, and Oliver just turned six.

What was your plan for managing work and motherhood?  How did the plan square with reality? 

I was seven months pregnant on a step-ladder in Florence, Italy, working on my Rain installation at Ometti, an artist run design studio that has since shut down.  It was 2005, and I was 24. 

My plan was always to be an artist, and to be successful during my lifetime.  That kind of plan is always long term.  Becoming a mother has made me a more organized maker and planner.  That being said it could not be done with out a strong support system, family, friends, and neighbors.

"Stick with me, I'll show you how the world works."

What is your favorite thing about what you do? 

I wholly believe that art, all forms of it, brings deeper meaning into the world around us.  It is a practice of intention.  Our days whisk by us one after another speedily, but whether one is making art, or looking at art, there is a slowing down and widening that occurs on an intellectual level.  

Even if something affects us only visually, it is in contrast with everything else that is in our passive visual field, and that variation makes all the difference in the world.  I love that I am part of that conversation.

I am a dancer, but I consider myself fine art challenged.  What are some simple yet fun art projects I can do with a 2.5 and 4 year old at home?

Art is a safe zone to make a mess.  I would argue that free play is where it begins.  To allow our children the personal time to set their own worlds’ boundaries is essential.  I am often surprised by my children’s inventiveness, what fascinates and inspires them is often the simplest of things.  They can build a world of make belief from a ball of foil.  

That being said, from the age that my children could hold a spoon I put markers in their hands and paper in front of them.  Markers, washable and non-toxic, are far more saturated than crayons, and kept my toddlers busy on their highchairs while I cooked.  I showed them how to make lines and circles at first, and talked to them about colors, trying not to make any judgments about whether anything was good or right.  

Those preliminary drawing sessions made way for tuning their fine motor-skills and granted them independence to make creative decisions and choices.  (For the kids that have out-grown their highchairs, a large piece of paper, even cardboard, on the floor makes for a surface they can dive into).

As a teacher and a mom you know the arguments pro and con concerning free time and exposing children to a multitude of activities.  How do you navigate this issue with your own children?

I think free time is indispensable and necessary for a child’s psyche.  That is their time to take ownership of their universe and make meaning of the world around them individually.  I believe parents, myself included, rush their children into a flurry of activities.  What is important to keep in mind is not whether or not your child should be enjoying and gaining insight from what they are involved in, but whether they really are. 

Oliver and Manuel creating.

Do you have a favorite this-should-be-in-a-sitcom mommy story?

Well the sweet sappy moment in the sitcom would be me swinging on a playground swing very pregnant with Oliver, while Manuel is on my lap facing me, holding on and hugging us both.

But the funny sitcom moment would probably be the house growing quiet with mischief, and the mother, myself, finding two toddlers covered from head to toe in diaper cream.  Then trying to get it out with everything from baby oil to Pantene conditioner, but the only thing that worked the oil and zinc out of their massive hair was dish soap.

Diaper cream coiffure!  I'm just experimenting, Mom!

I love asking this question of artistic/academic parents. To TV or not TV?

For the little ones very little TV, and for school age kids TV as reward for a chore well done, or homework.  But I love cinema: popcorn and movies, and that can be wonderful cuddle and bonding time.  We love learning about animals in documentary style programs as well.

There are parents out there, well meaning ones, who are impressed when a three year old can identify an Impressionist work.  What does art appreciation mean for a preschooler?  For an elementary school student?

Our children absorb a lot from just being around us.  So if we do yoga in front of them, our little ones will stumble flawlessly into downward dog.  If we are in conversation with our children, than we are always pointing out the things we encounter in the world.  If I like a song on the radio, I will tell the children the musician’s name, and so it is with art.  Van Gogh’s Starry Night is one of the first paintings children encounter these days, whether it’s in “Baby Einstein” or on a birthday card.

All children are different, the important part is exposure at all ages, and that means taking them to the museums, and if at all possible even getting out of the kids play zone into the galleries for a brief look around.

While after school dance schools are everywhere, extra-curricular art studios for kids are rare.   Why is this?  What needs to happen for art to become more accessible? 

I wonder why that is.  I myself always went to art classes as a child. But that was all I wanted to do.  I do firmly believe that if you build it they will come, speaking of course of myself offering art lessons here in Hyde Park. Children are all natural artists, and express a lot fearlessly, and often in the most refreshing visual way.  Looking at and making art makes us more careful thinkers and observers of the world around us.  I believe it enhances our overall intelligence.  Art is a little like politics, it’s public and personal all in one.

Advice for artist moms?

Our happiness matters to our children as much as theirs matters to us.

Stacee and her sons enjoying Washington, D.C.

Improve Your Pirouettes With a Confrontational Letter!

Photo: Will Brenner via Flickr

Dear Pirouettes-

Let's get right to the pointe.  

What the sh*#-ball-change is going on?

We used to be sympatico, you and I.  A team.  In jazz class, we were unstoppable fierceness --  three, even four times a pop! In attitude, second and arabesque, we sailed around sublimely, like angels.  And no one could whip around those pencils like we could, baby.  

It was sheer magic.

The crazy thing is, that was when I didn't work so hard to understand you.  Back then I knew a hell of a lot less about all your subtleties, your intricacies, and your deep dark secrets.  To be honest, I'm not sure I gave a pas de crap.  I might have taken you for granted, but I knew you were there for me.

Then you had to go get all nasty and spiteful, like some dancer who finally snaps after she realizes the choreographer she's been dying to work with would only notice her if she had fire spraying from her nipples.  The more I began to study you, to analyze you -- to care about not merely throwing caution to the winds, but having a nuanced and sensitive relationship, the more you began to humiliate me.  On several occasions you went out of your way to make me look like some drunk discus thrower.  

On ice.

I've got to tell you, Pirouettes, I really don't appreciate your becoming inconsistent and even disappearing altogether on me. This even after I've prepared so diligently for your arrival.  In one class, I worked in approximately 960 extra counts of balances so that I'd be ready for you, and you didn't even bother to show up.  Not once. Did I really deserve that?  After working my ass off to know you so very deeply, you go and piqué very my soul.  

Why can't you be more like MyJump, who is always there for me?  Who'd never hurt me.  MyJump evidently cares about my feelings and consistently makes me feel good about myself.  He's such an uplifting guy -- a regular high -- that's what MyJump is.   And, I'll confess, Myjump loves me even more when I beat him.

You're probably going to say it's all my fault, but you intimidate me to the point of nausea.  As soon as I sense you coming I need a Valium. I'm all relaxed and in the music, and then I get into that fourth position and bam! It's like I've just wandered in off the street and and decided to do an interpretative dance to nails on a chalkboard.  Maybe I've given you too much power, but if you'd be a little less assy I could calm the flic-flac down.  

Okay, I'm done now.  I've said what I have to say.  Thanks for listening.  We've had some amazing times, you and I, and I'm not ready to give up on us.  Sniff, sniff!  I'll keep fighting to get you back.  I'll stop feigning debilitating cramps next time you waltz in your slick fouetté suit. Can we make like Stella and get our groove back?  Take it slow, maybe just cool one at a time?  I'll promise to work much, much harder to give you grounded, centered and calm preparations.  I'll use my head better, and I won't let my shoulders get all crazy.

You could also cut me some slack - you know,  my abs are split apart.  You could reach right in there and pull out a tub of Twizzlers and a large milkshake.

Anyway, if there's anything else you need, please, please let me know.  

Because when you want to come back, I'm ready.

Yours Truly,

Devoted Dancer

A Reminder for the Holidays: Live in the Moment*

I’d like to learn how to live in the moment.  In modern urban life, this is an impossible feat to accomplish all the time, but surely I could do it MORE.  I spend too much of my time thinking about the supposed-tos and the what-ifs. About what I could, would and should do after, or do instead. Right now as I write I’m editing what I just typed, and trying to remember for future paragraphs the clever turns of phrase that pop in and out of my head like bubbles.

It doesn’t help that I’m super aware of what’s going on around me, and therefore very easily distracted. I do try to find beauty and calm. But then usually, my sensibilities are ambushed by something like a loud, tricked-out car, a ludicrously low sag or (white) leggings on ham thighs, and I want to crawl into a hole and mourn the state of the world. 

It's no way to live.  

Since motherhood is all about multi-tasking, consistently planning, being hyper-observant and always trying to be one step ahead, it's making my little problem worse.  I spend my day rushing two little people - who want nothing more than to live in the moment - around so we can stick to a schedule.  If a schedule exists for their good and mine, why does it make us all so crazy?  Life has become about getting to the next need.  It's getting kids who are playing inside, outside, so they'll have enough time to enjoy being out-of-doors. Then once they're happy being out, it's about rushing them back in, to eat and/or nap.  It's how to end a playdate so there’s enough time to get to the grocery store and make dinner. And of course, some of the most zealous not living in the moment occurs during the bedtime ritual  - when desperately craved me-time is now within reach.

Part of this always thinking ahead issue stems from my all consuming fear of The Meltdown.  Add to that the immediate consequences of haphazard meals, overspending on take-out, and my anxiety that leaving the dishes dirty for too long will push our family down the slippery slope to squalor.  My overdramatic imagination goes into a full drama of slacker parenting – pre-packaged meals, too much screen time, no reading, a family schedule like that of an unemployed trust-fund pothead -  and I see my children in the year 2040, their greatest achievement having been working a 7-11 cash register.  Shudder. So, I keep us all rushing through the day, in order to get things done, get myself some time off and to make sure my children are, if not wunderkinds, then well-rested, well-nourished, physically coordinated and intellectually stimulated little people.

During all this hustle-bustle, I sometimes remember that I'm not really interacting with my kids - I'm not really enjoying them and vice-versa.  I wrestle to change Lady A's diaper and get her dressed without talking to her.  So involved am I in getting sippy cups filled and Cheerios into snack cups, that I'm not singing songs, or making  conversation with my children.  It’s as though I’m taking orders like a short order cook, trying to get everything right, so as not to offend my customers.  And sometimes I spend the better part of the day yearning for their nap.  Am I so involved in what I need to do to keep the house running and to meet everyone's needs that I'm hurtling through a very sweet time with my little ones?

But the craziness does make the pure moments stand out.  A hug where Mr. R or Lady A nestles in to the crook of my neck and I can nuzzle his/her hair.  Driving around listening to music while everyone chats, sings or coos.  A family dinner where everyone is actually eating happily.  Watching the kids do “tumblebacon” (somersaults off the twin mattress in A’s room).   Sitting on our deck blowing bubbles and eating popsicles.  These moments do happen, the moments when all is right with my family and with the world.  When I can breathe.

Dancers live for muscle memory – when technical concepts and movement ideas cease to be merely cerebral and become a true extension of ourselves.  These moments are ecstatic, like how I imagine it would be to take flight.  These moments take work, and are hard won.  It appears to be the same with the pure, present episodes of parenting.  Maybe half the battle is accepting and valuing the fact that I've attained these blissful and rare moments, at all.  

*This post originally appeared as "Living in the Moment" on Mom's New Stage on August 15, 2011, and on Mamapedia on September 17, 2011.  

Mother to Son on his 4th Birthday!

Jump for joy!  I'm finally 4!

It's those sparkling eyes.
The great smile.
That confident voice
Your big laugh.
Just because you're ours.

You want to be friends with everyone.
To tell them things.
To run and play and build and wrestle.
To imagine new worlds.
To be in the center of everything.

My budding artist.
Architect, mover, creator.
So much drama!
Tear it into shreds if it's not right!
What an artistic temperament!

So much you want to accomplish and to master.
Hit home runs.
Ride a bike.
Do pirouettes and leaps like Mommy.
Right now!  Forget this growing up stuff!

Please don't rush.
Enjoy being a kid.
Enjoy being our little guy.

You are growing up,
away from the baby you were.
Away from that unsteady toddler.
You are a boy --
loving Spiderman, firemen, Pirates and now, enter Batman!
What next?

When we walk down the street
having conversations like old friends
it's sunshine in my heart.

I can't wait for more.

I love you always,
my sweet Thanksgiving boy.

Happy Birthday 4th birthday, my little man.
Happy Birthday.

Bedtime: Only Curing Cancer is More Impossible

In the last month, bedtime had become a shitsicle of epic proportions. 

 

Screaming, running, crying.  And that's just me. 

 

We hadn’t changed a thing.  We had always been lax.  Although our pushover bedtime routine was a model of what NOT to do, everyone wound up asleep. 

Our kids took long naps beginning at about 2 pm.  Sometimes they woke up at 5, 6 pm even. We’d eat, then give them a bath at around 7.45ish, followed by getting into pjs, nighttime hygienic rituals and a few stories.  They were generally out by 9.

 

Hubby and I could have some combination of watching a show, spending time together and getting some work done. 

 

But in the last weeks of October, things began to unravel.  Bathed and in their jammies, instead of calming the #$%@ down, my kids began tearing through the house like a medieval mob chasing the village leper.  If their dad offered to help them do anything they refused him almost violently (not half as satisfying as one might think).  With mischievous grins, my darlings unleashed a litany of ludicrous complaints and requests.  They needed more water.  The water wasn’t  cold enough.  They were plagued by painful legs, throats and bellies.  They needed different loveys, more hugs, kisses, songs, rocking and more time from the parent who charged with tucking them in.  

The sweet, loving and efficient bedtime I had envisioned as treasured part of parenting, had not only run past me, but had hocked a fat loogie in my face. I felt both persecuted and like a craptacular parent as impatient to the point of desperation, I muttered f-bombs in rapid fire.  Brush your $#%&ing teeth.  Pick a $#%&ing book.  Lie the $#%& down.   Nurturing mom, I was not.  

I was a maniac prison warden.

 

It had to end.

 

I consulted a sleep guru book – the one written by someone whose name plus “ize” had come to be (mistakenly and unfortunately) synonymous with undergoing the excruciating, yet in the end, can-I-get-an-Amen rewarding process of letting your kid drown in his own tears so you could at long last get some decent sleep. 

 

He drove his point home that as benevolent as we fancied ourselves, we were not in control.  Far from it.  In fact, we were being played like a Casio at a low-end cocktail party.

 

We needed to refuse to let them choose which parent did what, to stop being their personal snack and beverage carts, and at all costs, without locking her in, prevent Child A from leaving her room.

 

We needed to stop being our kids' bitch. 

 

Our new plan was to: 

 

• Get pajamas on, teeth brushed, hair braided and stories read in less than 30 minutes.

 

• Provide a small amount of water.

• Refuse to provide snacks of any kind.

 

• Treat children in their rooms like intruders trying to gain entry to our home.  Hold the door closed if necessary.  Then move to gates,    as many as necessary, perhaps fastened to the doorframe.  Stop at nothing including installing invisible fencing or building a scaled      down model of the former Berlin Wall.   

 

• If any child did escape the confines of his bedroom, he or she would calmly and rationally, be placed back in bed as many times as necessary.

 

• If none of this should work, drink more wine, eat more fat-ass-comfort food and pray to the God of Difficult Stages that this hell would soon end.

None of it did work. At all.  After refusing to give snacks to Child A because of this child's failure to eat dinner, one night I played tug-of-war with Child A's bedroom doorknob.  After giving that up, Child A left the bedroom 10 times.  Yet another Bedtime Fail.

Then finally we went to the star chart thing.  If they stayed in their beds at bedtime they'd get a star.  Five stars equalled a treat.  And just to help things along, we took away their fave stuffed animals.  They would have to stay in bed quietly for 10 minutes to earn them back.

  

And just like that, Bedtime Hell became weaker and weaker and then a memory.  It was over.  The star chart rocked!  And just when we thought things couldn't get any better, it happened.  

The end of Daylight Savings Time.  The kids were out cold by 9 p.m., which was early for us.  

This fabulosity lasted for one week, before the bedtime shitsicle returned.  In full force.

There is not enough wine in the world for this. HELP!

A Holiday Giveaway! Win a book! Win a Kindle!

Yes, you have come to the right place. One lucky reader will win a book that belongs with David Sedaris's Holidays on Ice.  Another might win a Kindle Fire. But first a little holiday tale... 


When is it going to be my turn? What am I going to get?

She was like a five year old instead of a thirty-something dance teacher at the annual holiday party thrown by the studio owner.

The grab-bag thing made her a little nervous.  Especially with the $5 limit.  As a group of dancer/dance teachers, however, their average individual income was about $87/year, and cheap gifts were the only option.

She had put in a Starbucks gift card. Lazy perhaps, but who didn't love going into Bucky's knowing they could get a day's calories worth of coffee for free?  She hoped for a Starbucks card or some lovely product from Bath and Body Works.  

Finally it was her turn.  She picked up a rectangular box. What was it?  All eyes were on her.  

Her face fell.

Frango Mints.  Frango effing mints.  She tried to smile sweetly insteady of like an ungrateful bitch  child.

Anyone who knew her knew she'd rather eat chocolate covered hair (yes, that kind) than chocolate and mint.  She threw up in her mouth a little.  

And she had made the gift giver feel bad.  She tried to smooth things over with an "Oh they're lovely, I just don't care for mint and chocolate."

Can we say awkward?

Holiday gifts should not produce years of bad memories and uncomfortable meetings, nor should they EVER make one's hors d'oeuvres go in retrograde.

And in that spirit, nineteen of your favorite mom humor bloggers (Including me!) had a meeting and all agreed. 

There's a brand new book you NEED to read this holiday season. 

The title says it all.

Spending The Holidays With People I Want To Punch In The Throat is a heartwarming (yes, really!) collection of hilarious holiday-themed personal stories and observations written by none other than Jen of the well-known blog People I Want To Punch In The Throat. If the holidays have you stressing about gift giving, cookie decorating, or where in the world to put your Elf on the Shelf, then you need to take a mommy time out and read a chapter or two. And now you can have a chance to peruse the pages for free. Consider it our holiday gift to you. We are teaming up to give away 19 copies of the book. All you have to do is enter the giveaway using the Rafflecopter form below for your chance to win an AUTOGRAPHED copy! We promise that it is both endearing and hilarious, but you don't have to take our word for it. You can see for yourself. Several of us recorded videos of our favorite parts. Here is mine. (Warning: Strong Language)


 


 See? Told you. Now you want your own copy right? Well, Jen generously donated an autographed copy to every blogger participating in this giveaway so that we could increase your chances to win. You can enter using the Rafflecopter below. This giveaway is open to US residents only. "But wait, that's not all!" we say in our best Price is Right announcer voice. We couldn't get a bunch of tech-savvy moms together for a book giveaway and not bring you an eReader, right? So we are also giving away a Kindle Fire!


 

a Rafflecopter giveaway