When my sister and I were kids, my mother always made our Halloween costumes. With some fabric and thread, she would transform us into matching mermaids with tinsel wigs and scaled tails; or a princess riding a batting-stuffed, polka-dotted horse; or a baby caterpillar with six dangling, pillow-stuffed legs; or even an alien with an outfit made out of industrial metallic bubble wrap.
By the time I had my son, I was old enough (ahem-mid-30s-coughcough) to know my own style. I am not someone who spends a lot of money on my wardrobe, but I do spend a good deal of time and effort coordinating my outfits. So as soon as I found out I was pregnant, I started imagining how I would dress him or her.
It’s remarkable how less exciting the concept of money becomes as you age; for adults, it’s a burden that plagues us daily with its hair-pulling, insomnia-inducing wrath. But for most children, a few dollars is a precious commodity used almost exclusively for purchases involving sugary red dye No. 40 or toys padlocked with zip-ties.
There is a certain large purple dinosaur, who shall remain nameless, that really gets on my nerves. His cheesy co-stars sing and dance about life lessons in a setting that is straight out of the movie Stepford Wives. I know you know who or what I am referring to. His unflappable happiness is like a bad dream that reoccurs nightly.
I’m more than a little worried about raising a little girl in these times. News of pedophiles teaching in public schools and the increased pressure to be sexual at an early age makes me want to pack my family up and move to a remote island.
Before midnight feedings, many conversations using poop patois and revisiting the magic of Elmo, I was a bonafide judge of all women. Gavel in hand, I seldom gave anyone the benefit of the doubt and continued handing out judgments just because I thought I could. Motherhood changed everything.
What do you do with your brood during unexpected snow days, in-service days off from school or on the weekends to help conquer cabin fever and save your sanity?
When it comes to the health and happiness of their children, most mothers agree that only the very best will do. We work hard to find the best schools, shop for all the right clothes and spend time cooking the healthiest meals. In a perfect world, we gather as a family and enjoy a delicious and nutritious meal.
Most likely, your kid’s not growing up to be a sculptor, ballerina, opera singer or Broadway star. So why should you work to involve them in the arts?
“Remember the story grandpa told about the giant rabbit that could make gold and silver come out of his nose by tugging on his ears?” my youngest son asked recently. As if anyone could forget my dad’s original fairytale that he’d revived for a second generation — a mix of Grimm and gross that would’ve made Mother Goose squawk.