More Than a Trophy

Maybe I’m getting too sentimental in my “old” age, but this year’s Super Bowl turned into a bit of a “Cry Bowl” for me.

The announcer begins with an introduction of Sandy Hook’s elementary chorus. The camera pans the group as they sing a few bars, and naturally, the tears well up in my eyes. That wound is still so fresh. The sight of those children – excited and smiling – well it was a poignant example of our country’s resilience.

It was enough to make this Super Bowl partier cry.

As the game moved ahead, the media did their part to accentuate the competitive dual between brothers. 

The fact that the head coach of each team grew up together with Mom probably frequently scolding, “Don’t throw that ball in the house!” made it a little tough to root against either one of them. When a videographer zooms into Mom and Dad seated in the arena a rush of emotions overwhelms me.

These are their boys!

I’ve got boys. I know the competitiveness that can rip them apart and the unshakeable love that brings them back together.

Both teams can’t win. One of their boys will be undeniably crushed after that game. As I stared at Mom Harbaugh, I couldn’t help but think of all the times I’ve had to console a child who, despite all their hard work, didn’t achieve their goal.

In a Huffington Post article about the parents’ role in their sons’ pinnacle game, Dad Harbaugh admitted they got a taste after a Niners loss at Baltimore on Thanksgiving.

Here’s an excerpt from that article describing the parents’ post-game experience:

After leaving an office in the stadium where they watched the game — in private and emotionless — the first locker room they walked past was that of the Ravens.

"We've all experienced that excitement of victory-guys jumping up and down, the smile on John's face. They were just ecstatic. ... Then you realize that you're not needed here," Jack said. "You walk across the hall, and you went into the 49ers locker room and you walked and you saw the players walking about — that look in their eyes, that look of not being successful and coming up short. We opened up a couple doors and finally saw Jim all by himself in this room, just a table and a chair. He was still in his coaching outfit. His head down in his hands and you looked into his eyes and you realized that this where you're needed as a parent.”

"Where you're needed." Ugh.

It was enough to make this Mom cry.

If the game itself wasn’t turning me into a blubbering pool of tears, a few well-placed commercials certainly would.

Enter a two-minute Jeep ad honoring returning servicemen and women. 

Come on, now. Pass me the tissues...AGAIN.

Family meals… a dog waiting to be walked… a lonely wife. And suddenly a framed portrait of a soldier comes into focus. 

“You’ve been missed,” Oprah says.   

Throw in some heart-wrenching music and you know what you get.

It was enough to make this American cry.

Surely this would be the end of all my gushing. I was running low on tissues, for heaven’s sake.

But nope. The big daddy of them all was still on the horizon, unbeknownst to me.

The late Paul Harvey’s hypnotic voice grabs me. “And on the 8^th day…”

Gulp.

God said, "I need somebody strong enough to clear trees, heave bails and yet gentle enough to yean lambs and wean pigs and tend the pink combed pullets...and who will stop his mower for an hour to mend the broken leg of a meadow lark. So, God made a farmer!

It had to be somebody who'd plow deep and straight...and not cut corners. Somebody to seed and weed, feed and breed...and rake and disc and plow and plant and tie the fleece and strain the milk. Somebody to replenish the self-feeder and then finish a hard days’ work with a five mile drive to church. Somebody who'd bale a family together with the soft strong bonds of sharing, who'd laugh and then sigh...and then respond with smiling eyes, when his son says he wants to spend his life "doing what dad does". So, God made a farmer!

It was enough to make this Farm Girl cry.

So I’d just like to offer my congratulations to the people who made this year’s Super Bowl a memorable one. Honestly, not even a week later and I don’t recall the score of the game. I don’t remember which call was unjustified and which player took the hardest hit.

What I vividly remember is how the world saw those few hours as an opportunity to grab my heartstrings and tug.

Hard.

But when you’re simultaneously reminded of what it means to be a caring citizen, a comforting Mom, a proud American, and the humble daughter of a farmer – that’s worth far more celebration than a tall, shiny trophy any day.

Tape your ID to your head. Please. Just do it.

Seriously, America. Grow up and be responsible.

Tomorrow is Election Day. But apparently that is just a suggestion.

Because a bunch of us are getting a free pass to take our sweet time to get our vote counted.

Here's what I read in a recent article about waiting for election results:
"Virginia typically has been fairly fast at counting ballots. But there's a new voter ID law in the state that could complicate things this year. Voters who don't bring identification to the polls still can have their ballots counted if they produce ID by Friday. If the race in Virginia is super tight, it could come down to those provisional ballots. On Election Night, no one will even know how many of them are out there."

To that I say, "WHAT?!?!"

Let me get this straight. So Virginia-ites can go trotting to the polls, vote, and then slap their heads as they say, "Oh! I forgot my ID! I'm sure I can get it to you by Friday. That's good, right?"

Last time I checked, when a person wants to leave the country they have to have a passport. The DAY they leave.

There is no, "Oh, you forgot your passport? Just be a dear and get it to us sometime when you get back, 'kay?"

Nope. Guess what? No passport? No leave-y the country.

But for an event that people have anticipated for FOUR YEARS and been reminded of CONSTANTLY for months through television ads, direct mail and yard signs galore...nope, that could possibly still not ring a bell that it is election day and they need to remember their ID.

You gotta be kidding me.

Now maybe the race in Virginia will be a landslide and those amnesia-stricken voters won't matter anyway, but I still don't think they should be allowed to have three extra days to show ID.

You have to be an adult to vote.

So if you're not adult enough to remember the most basic thing possible when you head to the polls, then someone should pull your "adult" status. Go back to Kindergarten and learn that "Everything I needed to know I learned in Kindergarten" list. I'm pretty sure, "Know your name and be able to prove it" is on that list somewhere.

I already suspect this election will come down to a handful of votes and there will probably be recount after recount to slow down the actual declaration of a winner, but it really shouldn't be because the American people are forgetful.

So, do me a favor, Virginia-onians. Go pick out your clothes for tomorrow and put your ID in the pocket. Right now. Go do it. Because I don't want to be waiting for results on Friday evening because you just didn't get around to showing that ID on time.

It's nearly as ridiculous as hanging chads. And nobody wants to go there.

The Alien at My Gym

One thing I love about the time of day I go to my gym is that it is primarily full of other stay-at-home moms or dads, and a few sprinklings of the senior citizen sort. You don't generally see the women scantily clad with flawless make up and hair due to emptying a can of hair spray prior to stepping onto a stairmaster, or the guys who survey the room for said hair-sprayed woman.

Honestly, when someone actually walks in that doesn't look like they had to peel their preschooler off their leg or is following doctor's orders to build some bone mass to ward off osteoporosis, they stick out like a sore thumb.

That's why I have a real issue with a certain someone now invading my work out time.

I don't know where she came from. I don't know if she ever eats (pretty sure she doesn't). And if I'm being brutally honest, I wouldn't mind knowing the name of her surgeon.

Frankly, her body is flawless. Abs of steel. Cut arms. Firm derriere. Thin, toned legs. And of course, the, um, well, you know.

Now I don't have any real issue with her looking that good other than the fact that I'm just incredibly jealous, but naturally I'm telling myself she likely has not given birth so we're not on even playing ground anyway.

My real issue is that she shows up out of no where.

Now had she been coming to the gym for years and started out as a pudgy gal and worked her tail off to get in the kind of shape she's in, I would be cheering her on and obviously inspired.

But no.

She just shows up one day this summer and looks amazing.

I NEED some before and after pictures, sweetie.

No one should just appear out of thin air looking like that. We want to see the blood, sweat and tears it took to get that way.

Otherwise it just appears completely unattainable. Like she was plopped down to earth just to taunt the rest of us with our jiggly tummies and cellulite-dotted thighs.

I meet women at the gym all the time that are working really hard to stay in shape, have more energy to keep up with their kids, and hopefully look at least "pretty good" in that new top they just bought.

If you're going to crash our workout party looking like a spandex model, have the common courtesy to give a little back story. Tell us you used to weigh more than your car, but then you hit the gym and watched the fat disappear.

Something to give us hope.

Something to make us believe that maybe, just maybe, we could at least get close to what you have attained because you're really not that different from us.

Right now I have no reason to believe you are anything more than an alien - sent here to torment us.

Have some mercy and call the mother ship. But do leave the name of that surgeon before you go...

McDonald's Day Spa

I've been suckered.

Suckered into empty calories, weight gain and not even any fun doing it.

Yesterday my children had their regular dental checkup. Since I have to tell them at least six times to brush their teeth before they actually do it every morning and night, I am always dumbfounded elated when they actually slide off the dentist chair with a "no cavities" report.

This appointment was no exception. Only thing is I forgot that in the past when they got a clean bill of health, I rewarded them (truly it is to celebrate my own ability to escape a brush with financial death via outlandish dental rates for fillings).

I was at a loss as to what the reward should be - but my daughter rattled off things I'd done for them in the past and I had little to no recollection of these fine rewards. But they probably happened. There's only so much available space in my brain for memory nowadays, so some information doesn't make the cut.

Since it was Wednesday, the obvious choice was "Waffle Cone Wednesday" at TCBY. Okay, so we waffle cone it.

Then upon returning home I discover there is a YMCA Family Picnic in the evening - complete with hotdogs, drinks, bouncy playsets, games and prizes.

I tell my kids about it and my son says, "Oh! That could have been our reward!"

Rats.

Really wish I had reviewed my calendar earlier.

Then after seeing the forecast for today, I was trying to rack my brain for activities we could do that would not involve having to be outdoors in 105 degree heat, but also avoid the fighting and screaming that naturally occurs between my children when they must stay home and (heaven-forbid) share space.

When a friend made mention of going to McDonald's playland this afternoon, I thought that was genius. An indoor playground seemed perfect.

Of course you don't get in without buying something first, so I caved to ice cream cones.

Only to open the door of the play area and gasp.

Guess what? McDonald's play area is NOT climate-controlled.

That's right. McDonald's now offers a sauna experience.

Seriously thought I may pass out.

All I could think of was how I'd been SUCKERED again.

There I am: ice cream running down my hands, shoes sticking to the floor, and aghast at the temperature in that room.

So we wolfed down our ice cream milk and the kids started to play.

Within five minutes my oldest son looked like he just came from running 40 minutes on the treadmill. Sweat drenched his shirt and hair.

Disgusting.

We didn't stay long for two reasons:

1) I left an air conditioned home for this? Foolishness.
2) My children were more interested in watching the large television screen than playing.

Guess what? We have a TV at home, too. And it's not in a sauna.

We pile back into the van and head home.

So while my kids watch television, I mope at the annoyance of ingesting high-calorie treats TWO DAYS IN A ROW all in the name of summer.

I know, I know - you're thinking, "Geez, Max. No one was holding a gun to your head to order yourself those treats."

I understand that. I take full responsibility - well, almost - for my gluttony.

I really need to work on that.

Meanwhile, I'll go back to my policy of avoiding McDonald's at all costs, and scheduling dentist appointments on days when we're doing something fun anyway.

And maybe my waistline will find its way back to where it belongs.

Job Satisfaction

I just returned from a week-long trip to Orlando, Florida. While the trip was a welcomed retreat from the daily grind, it also made me appreciate the roles I play as mother and writer.

Because there are a lot of rotten jobs out there.

It could be argued that I am simply not wired to be employed by the service industry, but here is a list of a few jobs I witnessed this week that I am incredibly grateful never made it on my resume:

1. The security guard on the airport tram. While the work is probably incredibly easy and was probably even kind of fun the first 30 times the tram scooted along the track, by the end of the day I would be so sick and tired of going back and forth on a little train car that I would very likely come home and burn my copy of "The Little Engine That Could."

2. The golf-cart driver at the hotel. In the same vein as #1, this job would be excruciatingly monotonous. He or she drives a golf car back and forth between the hotel and the parking garage. Tips are probably minimal and the urge to for once take a new route - maybe barreling through the picturesque bushes in front of the hotel - would probably overcome me. I'd be fired so fast.

3. A concierge. I think the boredom alone would kill me. As I walked by and saw the woman behind the counter leaning against the wall, twirling her hair with her head cocked to the side, her nonverbals screamed, "I am so bored I may crawl onto this counter and fall asleep." Any job that leaves me staring at the clock waiting for my shift to end does not appeal to me in the least.

4. Vendor at a major league baseball game. I commend the ones who at least try to make it fun and develop a little whistle or chant to sell their goods, but at the same time they have to haul this heavy tub packed with ice and glass bottles up and down, up and down, up and down, collecting crumpled, dirty bills from a variety of - shall we say 'colorful' - customers while annoying everyone else with their loud shouts of "BEER HERE!" My back ached just watching them traipse all over those stadium stairs. If I had that job, I'd pray for a line drive to strike me in the head and knock me out of my misery.

5. Security guy at a major league baseball game. If that isn't the dopiest-looking job I've ever witnessed. Sure, I suppose it gets interesting if anyone starts a scuffle or attempts to run onto the field. But there was nothing of the sort happening and so the extent of their job was to sit on the edges during game play and at the change of innings, walk out onto the field to stand boldly as if they were just waiting to take someone out. Personally, I thought they looked silly walking out the field. I didn't get the point of that. It almost appeared as if they wanted recognition for being there at all. Just stay by the wall, dudes. We know you're there.

6. The guy who picks up garbage off the beach. To be honest, I am a little envious of his handy-dandy pick-up tool. I wouldn't mind one of those myself. And there's something to be said for having a job on the beach, but since beach go-ers are apparently synonymous with litterbugs, the job is intense. The beach is a mess. That's right, beach bums: you ARE bums for trashing the place. Find a trash can for crying out loud. I felt particularly sorry for the guy since the night before there must have been a fireworks party so he had a considerable amount of additional debris to pick up. That would make for a long, hot day.

7. Virtually any restaurant server in a tourist trap like Orlando, Florida. That's customers from around the world - speaking every language known to man - plopping down in your section and you're hoping against hope that you don't interpret something wrong and mess up the order beyond repair. And contrary to what one would think, vacationers are not always relaxed and easy-going. Nope. Not the job for me.

8. The cabana staff. In theory, this sounds great. Poolside. Probably good tips. Relatively simple - just deliver foods, drinks and towels, right? But when the heat index is 102 and you're wearing a thick polo shirt and khakis, it loses its appeal quickly. How they resist the urge to go dive in the sparkling pool waters is beyond me. I don't know how I would handle that temptation when sweat is dripping steadily off my body. Not well, I suspect.

Now there were a couple jobs I observed that I would deem quite a privilege. For instance, the elevator voice lady. I want that job. I might mix it up a bit, though. Instead of the general, "Going up" -  I might put it in the form of a question: "Going up?" Maybe make them think a little - that maybe, just maybe, they'll feel they need to respond or they may end up going down.

Also, I wish I could say I designed an airport. Not that I want to put in those kinds of endless hours, but to have a brain that could actually make sense of that kind of complex information would be pretty awesome.

But hey. It's good to be home. Because my "work" gave me three huge hugs when I walked through the door.

Now that's job satisfaction.

You just don't know.

It's Mother's Day. But you knew that. Hallmark, Dairy Queen and every department store in the mall told you.

Repeatedly.

Moms have a tough job. It comes with no job description and yet you're responsible for at least one other human life.

And while many of us would not be where we are, or who we are, without the influence of our mothers, I caution those who jump to the conclusion that children are the way they are because of those mothers.

Not every child who is successful in life had an encouraging mother who taught a strong work ethic.

Nor did every child who is a mess have a mother who refused to discipline or didn't try to raise her child well.

I was bothered by some comments made by a mother about a fellow mother this morning. A young child - not more than three or four, probably - acted defiantly. The woman asked him to pick up some crayons that dropped on the floor to which he replied with an emphatic "No! I don't have to!"

The woman was appalled, and immediately determined this child was not disciplined by his parents and was likely the result of a parent who puts her child in daycare and then feels too much guilt at the end of the day to properly discipline and correct the child's behavior.

Uh. Say what?!

Important to note is that this woman is the mother of three very mild-mannered children. Are they that way because she disciplines so well herself, or is it merely their personality and she's never had to deal with a strong-willed child in her home? I suspect it's a bit of both. This woman's children are respectful and show tremendous character. I commend the parents for raising them toward that goal.

But I don't commend her for passing judgment on one of our own...we're moms, and ladies, we've GOT to stick together.

I mean, don't we all try our best to raise our children to be helpful, kind, honest and respectful?

But can't we all agree that this work is a lot easier with some children than others?

I don't know the circumstances of that little boy who refused to pick up his crayons, but I would guess virtually everyone has watched a child of that age test authority in a manner such as this.

Frankly, she could have been talking about my child. Typically, he is pretty good about following instructions like that, but he also likes to throw a 'tude on occasion, and I'd be pretty heartbroken to think someone automatically labeled him as "undisciplined" because of it.

All this to say, I struggle tremendously when people pass judgment on moms. Early on in motherhood, I had a dear friend who taught me a fantastic mantra when witnessing what we may deem as an unfit mother.

You just don't know.

You just don't know what other moms are dealing with in the midst of trying to raise those kids.

Yes, I mean the 4-year-old who still has a baby bottle in her mouth.

Because what you don't know is the little girl battles sensory issues something terrible and that bottle is the one thing that mom can use to calm her sweet soul.

Or the child who is climbing the walls and refuses to sit still.

Did you know his Dad was laid off and had to take a job where he's on the road 6 days a week? His mom is doing all she can to keep the home together, and her child has his own way of coping the loss of Daddy.

Certainly there are cases where a little more effective parenting could make a difference, but I refuse to be the one to be judge and jury in it.

Because you just don't know.

We moms have the hardest job on the planet. Some days we deserve a pat on the back and others a slap in the face, for sure.

We're not perfect.

Our children are not perfect.

So the second you think yours are superior to mine, or I think mine are superior to yours, that's when we've failed our children most of all.

So today, I join in the chorus of "Happy Mother's Day, Mom." Here's to the next year - a year I hope is full of encouragement and love from other moms. Because while we just don't know all of your circumstances, we do know the sacrifice, joy, heartaches, frustrations and total satisfaction that comes from turning a tiny baby into a functioning adult, with hopefully enough sense to clean up what they dropped.

I'm no Generic brand.

I need to update my resume.

In the last 24 hours, I discovered skills I didn't know I had.

First of all, I laced up my rollerblades. Yes, you read that correctly. Me. On rollerblades. It was bold, I know. But that's how I roll.

Okay, sorry. I couldn't avoid that perfect pun.

My kids are perfecting their own blading skills, and pleaded for me to join them. Since the last time I recall zipping around in my rollerblades was prior to motherhood, let's just say it isn't like riding a bike.

There's a reason moms don't typically do this activity. Mainly, because we don't want to die. We know our kids need us, so we avoid these high-risk endeavors. That and we prefer boo-boos to be remedied with a simple Sponge Bob band-aid. Rolling into oncoming traffic because the single, worthless brake will only catapult me backwards as I skid to my doom...that's beyond Sponge Bob's capability.

But after a couple "refresher courses," I'm making significant improvement. I'm even venturing a little closer to the end of the driveway. But not much. It slopes down there, ya' know. I prefer not to flirt with danger.

Since I'm resembling more Tonya Harding than Nancy Kerrigan (And yes, I realize I dated myself with that reference), I set the wheels aside to take on my next assignment.

Fashion designer.

Hey, quit laughing. I realize my typical jeans and fleece pull-over attire don't exactly scream "fashion model" but that just shows how little you know. I'm pretty sure if I was filthy rich I'd be dressed to impress. See, the only thing between me and a perfect closet is a whole lotta green. At least that's what I'm telling myself.

But when someone invites me to forget the price tags and put something together, apparently I do okay. I've volunteered to model outfits from a local clothing store for an event next week. Today I stopped at the store to select my wardrobe.

Of course in my head, this looks a lot like the scene in Pretty Woman when the manager and all the salespeople and are doting on me, having me try on hundreds of clothes as they feed me chocolate.

In reality, I walked in and the woman that was supposed to help me disappeared to the back room for an uncomfortably long time. When she reappeared, she said, "How about black and white?"

Now, if you know me, you know I like color. Reds, oranges, pinks and blues - I'll wear it all, sometimes at the same time. I don't particularly enjoy dressing like a generic cereal box, but I didn't think I had a lot of say in the matter.

Little did I know how little they'd know. Yep. They showed me some racks, and I was on my own. I started putting things together, adding punches of color with a scarf or a belt. And they LOVED it. I got rave reviews.

Who knew I missed my calling? I'll be auditioning for "Fashion Star" tomorrow.

But that's not all. Not only am I a budding fashionista, I am a dancing marvel.

Well, kind of. At least dances good enough for a 3rd grader.

My daughter is performing in her class talent show in a couple of weeks. She and a friend want to cut a rug to a little Bella Thorne-Zendaya mix. But they need choreography.

Her friend came over after school today to practice their moves. They've been practicing at recess all week. But once they run through it once in my house, they determine their moves are hideous. They want to start from scratch.

"Mom! You have to help us!"

My "You've got to be kidding me" facial expression was promptly ignored.

Before I knew it, I was choreographing three minutes of the hippest, hoppiest (I lost all credibility with that lame dance terminology, didn't I?) of my life.

Who knew watching my friends practice for dance team tryouts in high school would come in handy 20 years later?

And yes, my daughter is going to sport some moves direct from that 20-year-old routine. Don't judge me! I was forced into this job against my will and had to shoot from the hip.

Ooh, wait a second. That might make a good dance move. Let me write that down.

Considering most days are classifed a success if the dishes get done and the computer doesn't crash, this was a pretty productive day!