MOXIE MOM on Life & Kids
Nighttime Visitor
We have a new cat door coming today via UPS, whose arrival we're anxiously awaiting because we're leaving town for ten days on Friday, and we have an an unwelcome visitor most nights who tries to get into the house through the cat door (now that we've taken to locking it, the catfood is no longer disappearing, but the cats are still peeved they have to stay inside when we lock up).
About a month ago, we noticed when we got up in the morning that the catfood was gone, the water bowl was a mess, and the food bag was tipped over. On the second morning, we found Ty's lunchbox by the backdoor with a peanut butter sandwich expertly pulled out through a 3-inch opening and peeled apart. Hmm, awfully sophisticated for cats. And when I saw kibbles in the water bowl, my first thought was, that is the action of a raccoon.
Raccoon? Surely not. Not with a magnetized cat door.
On the third day, when Curt was out of town, I stayed up late with the cats to watch a movie. After it was over, the three of us ambled into the kitchen, where I felt a presence in the air that put me on double alert. Or, rather, I sensed a presence had just left the kitchen. Not a thief, though. Or at least not a human thief. The cats felt it too, and I looked at them, and they looked at me, and we all looked at the cat door and then back at each other. And I was thinking, well, that's just great, I'm in charge here. There's nothing quite so unnerving as feeling in charge -- with cats -- when something creepy just happened. How is it my husband manages to miss all the big moments (the two times I barfed during pregnancy, the day I found a dead possum in the garage, the weekend our cat died, and now the night we're feeling on edge and no solid, male presence)?
But we're tough. Thank goodness we don't live in Alaska, though, where the predators are so much bigger. I opened the backdoor in time to see a ringed tail waltzing off in the dark toward our fence. The cats flew out the door and huffed around the patio with their tails puffed and their backs arched, ready to take on the wildlife world. Um, yeah, kitties, hate to break to you, but you will not win this one if you engage in a fight.
Well, what to do except bring the cats in and lock the cat door, much to their chagrin. At least we determined who our visitor is.
And so because we don't like the idea of a raccoon going through our cupboards, we've been locking the cat door ever since (we figured out it is ever so easy to open the cat door outward from the outside with something like a little nail, or a raccoon fingernail, as must be the case -- unless the bugger is buying magnets on the black market.)
But we're investing in a raccoon-proof door so we don't have to remember to lock the cat door every night because whenever we forget, that rascal is in the kitchen in a flash. The other night I heard the door banging around, and I went down the stairs to stare through the [locked] cat door window at the little raccoon face on the other side. She/he stared back for 30 seconds and then took off.
Anyway, If you need to solve your own cat door problems, feel free to give me a shout. I've done the research. Don't ask me to help with dead possums, though. I learned that's my limit.
leave a comment!Ski to Sea Mania
On Saturday morning, Ty and I headed to Lake Padden, along with the rest of the town (judging by the parking situation), for a little Junior Ski to Sea action.
Despite the rain and cool temperatures, the atmosphere was as lively and celebratory as last year’s sunshiny event, and our boys nabbed a third place finish, thrilling them all. One of the team’s dads coached Ty, the team’s runner and first leg, on how fast to go out and why it would be good to place in the top 15, but Ty powered his way to fourth place by the hand-off, surprising even himself. (Last year, I coached him on why it was important not to go out fast, and he listened all too well, finishing about two-thirds back. Clearly, I need to stay out of it.)
Now the adult version of the race is just days away, and instead of participating along with half the Northwest, we will be leaving town to take advantage of the three-day weekend.
It seems I much prefer cheering to competing. Well, and this: none of the events speak to me, and consequently, I just don’t care. Horrors. I usually keep these thoughts to myself because it’s like saying, well, it’s like saying you don’t like the Pickford (to be clear, I love the Pickford). It goes against all things Bellingham.
I did try the race a couple times. Years ago, I did the run, and though I was in good shape at the time, and I thought it would be okay (my knees were fine), I couldn’t get out of bed the next morning. I have never felt so damaged. It took me a week to feel normal, threatening the following weekend’s ultimate Frisbee tournament. Never again did I risk ruining the ultimate tournament that falls the weekend after Ski to Sea.
Another year, I did the mountain bike leg, which was fun and involved no recovery, but now it’s more technical and I don’t even count as a fair weather mountain biker. I can’t downhill ski, the x-country ski mass start intimidates me, I have no business being in a canoe (plus I still remember the year someone drowned on the river during training), and I certainly have no business being on the bay. That leaves the road bike. But then I would have to train. Wow, when did I get so lazy?
There you have it. I’m a Bellingham wimp who doesn’t care. I think I must be the only ‘Hamster in this category. Oh, and perhaps my husband. He’s a great x-country ski racer who can do any team justice, and he had a blast in the canoe one year (while I envisioned log jams and rushing water), but he’d rather go climbing if he had a choice. I guess you could say we have different priorities.
But you can catch me at the Junior Ski to Sea race as I cheer on my boy (who will be listening to other parents’ advice). We live the Ski to Sea spirit through him. Thankfully someone in our family cares.
1 commentPost Mother’s Day Thoughts
Thank you so much to those who commented on my Mother’s Day post for validating my thoughts (I finally approved all the comments so you can see them on the previous post). I no longer feel like a curmudgeon, and, in fact, I wonder if we’re in need of some sort of “Take Back Mother’s Day.”
Who knew we feel stressed out by celebrating ourselves and wondering whether we’re setting bad precedents by putting too much into thoughtful cards or worrying about whether our husbands are doing a good job of teaching our children how to celebrate their mother? The teaching-our-kids aspect is also a concern of mine that I didn’t give voice to in my post. And this: why does Father’s Day feel so much easier? In our house, we send Dad out climbing for the day and cook him a good meal and call it done. He’s happy, we’re happy. But I digress…
My weekend ended up feeling oddly my own, funnily enough, because I had to shop for a dress for an upcoming wedding, and there was no other time to do it than Saturday and Sunday. Suffice to say, I will never shop for a dress — or any other clothing — on the Saturday before Mother’s Day ever again. Did you know all the stores have Mother’s Day sales? I didn’t. Did you know the mall is full of women shopping for themselves the day before Mother’s Day? Me neither.
I hate clothes shopping at the best of times, but shopping for unfamiliar fashion is a major stress point for me (I never wear dresses, and those in my closet are leftover from about 1995), especially when the dress styles are bad (they are!) and you’re supposed to look good at a semi-formal wedding without easy access to Nordstrom. I think I shopped every store in the mall that has dresses, as well as several consignment shops and dress shops downtown. My daughter declared me picky when I returned home on Saturday, wiped out, worried, and dressless. I say the fashion is tacky — great for 14-year-old girls, perhaps, but weird for 40-something-year-old women.
On Sunday, Mother’s Day, after Saturday’s bust, Leah went back to the mall with me (and to more consignment shops) and helped me find the one proverbial Little Black Dress that I actually liked and that fit, hidden among a sea of bad flower prints. Suddenly I felt less panicked, knowing my fashion-conscious daughter was helping me wade through the masses — “ugly” she would say, “really bad,” “who would wear that!?” — until we found several dresses for me to try on.
She has stamina, that girl, and there is something to be said for having a fashion savvy daughter if you lean toward fleece and Chacos as I do. You’ll thank her even as she’s asking to drain your bank account for herself (Leah didn’t, but she loves nothing better than to shop it up). And she waited in the dressing room area to approve or disapprove each dress. And she was always right. We glanced at shoes on the way out of Macy’s, decided which ones might work, and I went back and got them on Monday.
All in all, despite the ebb and flow of my own hysteria throughout the weekend (truly, this cannot be overstated), it was a sweet and unexpected way to spend time with my daughter.
You can bet I will be consulting her for makeup advice this Saturday, yet another area of fashion in which I do not excel.
1 commentMother’s Day Thoughts
Mother’s Day is looming. Did I say looming? That sounds ominous. But at the risk of sounding like a curmudgeon, I have to admit, I kinda do feel that way. It feels like yet another responsibility in my already harried life of running my kids to sports and music lessons and other random activities (I did not think this would be my life but oh, it is!).
It doesn’t help that Mother’s Day falls during the busiest month of the school year. March would be so much better. Or September, when the kids have gone back to school, and the house rings with silence.
Here’s the thing: my mom, who lives nearby, is out of town for Mother’s Day, which brings a measure of simplicity to the day. Slap myself with a wet noodle! How did I get to this place where doing something nice for my mother has become a burden? (It hasn’t, really, it’s just the prescription that feels burdensome.) My mother would not want me to feel this way. I know that. But I can’t help it. Maybe that’s the curse of being a mom — always feeling in charge and responsible. Or maybe that’s just me and my ultra organized calendar-brain that lives in fear in of forgetting someone somewhere or unwittingly missing a practice of some kind or, worse, getting a call from someone saying, “Where are you?” “Where am I supposed to be?” was something I said to a caller somewhat recently, my brain a complete blank.
The idea, of course, is that I am also to be the honored one, and that’s supposed to be nice, relaxing — to be honored and thanked by my loving children (feel the Hallmark coming through?) — and we’re supposed to spend some happy family time together (and we do), and yes, most years, somewhere in there, I’d like to spend time with my own mother, but honestly the whole affair just feels like one more thing on my to-do list. A calendar holiday. I can’t believe I just said that.
It’s a beautiful idea, and it was when it first started centuries ago. But now it feels like another over-marketed holiday and a way to spend money, although the marketing isn’t new. Apparently, the American version of it went commercial almost immediately (leave it to us Yanks).
Don’t get me wrong. I love the sentiment behind the day and I love the hanging basket that seems to be a tradition in our household (the basket I will buy for myself the following weekend if it falls through for Mother’s Day). Not that I expect it or anything, but when my family asks if I’d like something, well, yeah, sure. They can save me the drive to Joe’s Gardens. One less thing on my to-do list.
If we think we’re busy now, the first English Settlers discontinued Mother’s Day when they first arrived in the new land because they flat out didn’t have time to celebrate. Personally I think that’s less about time and more about their attitude. Uh. Note to self.
But I can sort of relate. Right now, I’m all for celebrating Mother’s Day Off — from everything, including being a mom, as well as from that looping list in my overstuffed female brain.
Anyone with me?
5 commentsIt Only Gets Better
I feel like every time I post, I’m referring to some parent article or study, but often it’s when I’m reading someone else’s point of view that I get to thinking about the broader brush strokes of parent life. Anyway, the New York Times’ Motherlode is one of my favorite blogs, and the original blogger, Anna Quindlen, is posted there now with a post called “Getting to the Point” (scroll down a bit to find it). In it, she details all the stages of parenting, and reminds us why it’s never over, and mostly, according to her, why it only gets better (her kids are now grown).
I will second that. I hear parents talk about how much they’ll miss their child’s babyhood, or the preschool years, or elementary school, but it’s true that life with kids just gets more interesting. My daughter is turning 14 this week, and I continue to marvel at who she is becoming: smart, independent, responsible, creative, thoughtful, sporty, geographically astute (I rely on her all the time), and the best travel agent you’ll ever meet — you just have to have the bucks for the trips she’ll send you on.
(Of course, I am not so blind that I don’t believe we may still go through hard times. High school is still to come for us, as is a second round middle school. I am always ready to eat humble pie.)
I admitted to my kids recently — I can’t even remember how it came up — that I was most interested in being a mom to older kids and that I wasn’t that thrilled about babies or being pregnant.
“I love babies now,” I told them, “because of you, but I’m still not thrilled with three-year-olds.” Since neither of them is no longer three, they laughed out loud. I think they know what I’m talking about.
But Anna Quindlen reminds me why three-year-olds are loveable (it’s always easier from a distance). If you’re in need of a reminder that this too shall pass, or if you just feel like reading some good writing, check out her post.
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