parenthood

It Was Time For a Puppy

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IMG_5224Dear Darling Children,

In honor of National Dog Day I’m going to share the story of how Gaston Alexander Frazier came to be part of our family.

It was a warm, drizzly Sunday.  The night before I had far too much wine because both of you had been screaming, hitting and spilling your juice all over the house.  After your father put you to bed and I was sufficiently intoxicated I started sobbing about how much I missed my sweet dog, Alexander, who had passed away just a month or so before.

“I miss him. I also miss the unconditional LOVE he gave me.  These kids hate me today, they hate me because I won’t let them have 20 bags of fruit chews or watch Caillou.”

I whispered this, my voice cracking, huge teardrops running down my face.

Your father stared at me, at his absolutely stunning and wonderful wife who could do no wrong and was HIS REASON FOR LIVING and he made a decision.

If his perfect wife wanted a dog, she would get a dog.

Cue the warm & drizzly Sunday.

After we undid the hog ties we had to use to get you both into appropriate non-pajama clothing, we all climbed into the car to “visit” the pet shop.  You yelled at each other the entire ride, angry because you had wanted to go to McDonalds but I had said no since neither of you would quit picking your noses or making gagging sounds.

I ignored you both, anxious to see what kind of puppies the shop had.

Your father picked up a mini dachshund immediately.  I wasn’t sold and kept pushing a slightly older light brown puppy in your father’s face, making it speak in a British accent about tea and whatnot.

You both lasted about 10 minutes before imploding, bored, making robot noises and dancing around like a college student on crack.  I put the dog back in his cage and walked out, tears already forming in my eyes.

“They don’t even want a dog. I’m the only one who cares.  How can they not care?  It’s a PUPPY!  A FREAKING PUPPY!!!!  WHO DOESN’T WANT A PUPPY?”

I sobbed this to your father, hysterical once we got to the car.

“You’re right.”

Your father said this calmly, taking my delicate bird hands in his strong ones and gazing at me with his piercing blue eyes that see right into my soul.

“They don’t care.  I don’t care, either.  You’re the one who cares, and that’s all that matters.  So go inside and find yourself a dog.  Find YOUR dog and we will all love it because YOU love it.  This isn’t for the family.  This is for you, my perfect, beautiful wife who I love more than the moon and the stars even though you don’t cook and typically leave the laundry on the couch until I finally fold it while you’re taking a 2 hour bath.”

I’m paraphrasing, but some of that is what he said.  So I listened to him and while he took you little monsters to get some food I went back into the pet shop.

Upon my re-entry I caught sight of something bouncing wildly to my left.  Turning, I spotted a black ball of fur, peppered with tiny spots.  Was it a dalmatian/dachshund/chihuahua hybrid, a brand new designer dog?

No.  It was a mini dachshund.  THE SAME MINI DACHSHUND YOUR FATHER HAD BEEN PLAYING WITH JUST MINUTES BEFORE!

He recognized me when I came back in.  He KNEW we were meant to be!

I picked him up and carried him to the puppy play area, sure that he would do something to make or break the huge decision that was upon me.

I sat down.

He immediately crawled onto my lap and fell asleep, snoring like a drunk, overweight old man.

I realized that I was exhausted, too.

We were perfect for one another

$105,985 later I walked out of that puppy shop, rounded the corner and saw your father leaning up against the car.  He looked at me.  I looked at him and immediately started sobbing.

“I love him.  I love him.”

Your father smiled knowingly.  He had been eyeing a $400 Lego set.  No way would I try to block that purchase NOW!

Just kidding.

He smiled LOVINGLY and said, “Anything to make you happy.”

Anything.

I love him.

…and my new puppy.

Happy National Dog Day, Darling Children.

The End.

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Dear Darling Children: The Current Existing Privilege

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Dear Darling Children,

When I was 25 years old I made a cross country drive from Arizona to Florida. Alexander Marco, my darling little chihuahua maltese, was riding shotgun. While traveling through Texas I was chatting with my friend Leslie.  Even though it was (and still is) illegal I was talking to her with headphones on, thus drowning out everything else around me.  I have a hard time obeying speed limits, so I wasn’t terribly surprised when I glanced in my rear view mirror and saw police lights flashing. Feeling nothing but annoyance for getting caught I told Leslie I would call her back in a few minutes. I pulled over, grabbed my license and insurance, lowered my window and impatiently waited for the officer to get out of his car so I could start trying to flirt my way out of the ticket.

Then I heard the yelling.

“Get out of the car!  Get out of the fucking car!” (Don’t curse, it’s tacky.)

I was confused.

Not scared (that’s important).

Confused and slightly annoyed.  I started to open my door.

“Put your hands up!  Hands up where I can see them!  Now!”

Still annoyed, I opened the door the rest of the way with my foot and got out slowly with my hands up (and with an angry, put out expression on my face because who did this cop think he was to yell at me like that?).

The moment I stood up and was completely out of my car was the moment Alexander Marco chose to leap out of the car as well, straight into oncoming traffic.

All hell broke loose.  My hands went down as I ran after Alex, another police car flew up with the officer jumping out and pointing his gun at me, I’m still running around trying to grab Alex and when I finally catch him I scream at the officers.

“WHAT is WRONG with YOU!? I have to GET MY DOG, PUT YOUR STUPID GUNS DOWN!”

And they did.  They lowered their guns.  The one who had stopped me in the first place ran a hand through his thinning hair and stared at me.

Me.  A lovely white girl, shoeless because I had a blister on my ankle, with long red hair and a short blue dress that the wind was lightly kicking up.

They relaxed.

He told me I had been driving 75 in a 55 zone, and had been doing so for almost 10 minutes.  My car was packed up high with all of my belongings so the officer couldn’t see in the back window.  He had been following me with his lights and sirens blaring for at least 10 minutes (but I hadn’t heard because of the illegal headphones I was sporting).  He said he was about to shoot out my tires when I finally pulled over, that he thought I was running from him.

He said it like a joke.

“Girl, you were 5 seconds from getting your tires shot out!”

Laughs.  Everyone was safe, crisis averted.

I wasn’t able to talk my way out of the ticket.  I also never paid it.  My husband paid it for me after we were married because he had gotten a job in Texas and I mentioned that there was probably a warrant for my arrest there due to this delinquent ticket.  I never worried about getting arrested, though.

Because I’m a white, educated, upper middle class woman and I don’t have to worry about those things.

I used to tell this story as an amusing anecdote at social gatherings.  Me!? Sweet SARAH, almost gunned down by the police, how PREPOSTEROUS and SILLY. In the last year, though, it has taken on a sinister tone and I instead tell it to those who mention how they don’t understand what white privilege is.

Looking back, if the officer had shot me dead, I can see how HIS story would have played out and I would have 100% been at fault. It would eventually come out that the entire thing was a horrible misunderstanding but the result would be the same.  He was scared.  He had reason to be.  I was arrogant. I shouldn’t have been.

Had I been a large black man, under the exact same circumstances, would the result have been the same?  My head and heart tell me that it wouldn’t have been, but I still stand by my statement than any force used would have been justified.  So the story now leaves me conflicted, because I believe the only reason I’m alive (or, at best, don’t have a jail record) is because I’m a white female (sexism can on rare occasions can be extremely favorable).

I think it’s important to note that this entry is in no way meaning to comment on any specific event that has happened in the last few years.  It is only meant to share my own personal experience. I don’t always succeed at not expressing my opinion on hot topic events that I’ll personally never have enough information on to make an educated assumption about, but this entry is definitely not a comment on…any of that.

Though obviously all of those events combined is what made me start thinking about my own story again after so many years.

It’s a lottery, where you’re born, who you’re born to.  My children both struck gold being born into our family.  There isn’t a reason for them to feel guilty about it, to apologize for it.  This is just life.

But they should be taught to respect the life they have.  To be grateful.  To be aware.

In the moments that I clearly see so much hate, fear, injustice and sadness in the world the helplessness I feel is paralyzing to the point where I want to crawl into the pantry, close the door and cry.  But that doesn’t help anything or anyone.

The world is changing fast, both for the better and for the worse.  People are passionate, they see injustice and loudly fight for change.  Others who have far more power spew hatred, fear and lies.  This is life and the only way for it to change is for us to raise our children better, braver, smarter and wiser.

So…let’s do that.

Try to make the world a better & happier place today, Darling Children, one good deed at a time.

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I promise to raise you to be smart, adventurous, brave and wise.  I will raise you to be a fearless leader who will help march the world into a better, less scary place.

 

“Small steps are better than no steps at all so drop the iPad and do something productive .” – Me

“Everyone thinks of changing the world, but no one thinks of changing himself.”   – Leo Tolstoy

 

“That Dog”: First Baby -vs- Human Baby

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It was the end of my Junior year in College. I couldn’t pass Spanish because my instructor was a woman who refused to fall prey to my impeccable flirting. I was sad. So, as per the norm when sadness arrived, I took a trip to the pet store at the local mall.

Since I was young and in excellent health I wore pointy toe 4″ stilettos to walk the mall.  I carefully maneuvered past the clothing shops, the cookie cart, the handsome men catcalling me who always tried in vain to get me to purchase a steam iron…until I arrived at the front of the pet shop window.

…and there you were.

Tiny. Blonde. Sitting so still while all the other wild animals barked madly around you.  We locked eyes and it was…love.  An instant, unselfish, pure & unbreakable love.

I thrust the young sales boy my soon to be maxed out credit card that the bank had foolishly given me even though I didn’t have a job and charged the $94.99 that you cost because in 2002 a chihuahua/maltese mix was a mutt, not a designer dog.  In just a few years your breed would sell for upwards of $750.

Marketing.

Life is strange.

Together we took on the world.  The “No Pets Allowed” law didn’t apply to us because I just didn’t care and you were very quiet.  We ate together in the nicest of restaurants, people stared in jealousy at your various designer rhinestone encrusted ensembles, you traveled across America and stayed at numerous hotels illegally. You made television appearances, were almost shot by the police, cheated death at a haunted house, ate 99 cent Jack in the Box tacos for 6 months straight without complaining, fought off alligators & fell in love with Scooby Doo.

You were there for my greatest triumphs.

You were there for my greatest heartbreaks.

You never asked for anything except love and table scraps.

You are 13 and your health is failing.  I can see this.  I know you don’t hear as well.  I see you miss the couch when you jump.   I hear you coughing.

…and I’m awful.  I don’t deserve you. Because instead of showing you love, for the past few months I have shown you what can only be described as hate.

I call you “that dog” and I feel anger when I trip over you.  I resent having to walk you outside 5 times a day because our fence isn’t put in yet.  When you bark I cringe because it means you’ll wake the children.

The human children.

Because once I had those human children I forgot about my first baby.

And I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.

Everyone said it would happen. I didn’t believe them.

I don’t know how it happened.

I don’t remember when it happened.

I just know it happened.

I have been mean to you.  I have not given you the respect and love that you deserve, that you’ve earned.

Juliette yelled at me again today.  Her terrible two attitude is at an all time high and while I know it’ll pass (please, GOD, let it pass) it doesn’t make the bad moments with her any easier. When I finally got her to go down for a nap I sat on the kitchen floor and cried because…I’m a crier. I am who I am. I should buy stock in waterproof mascara.

You sauntered up to me, sniffing the whole time, probably looking for dropped chex mix.  You looked at me with your cataract eyes, listened to me sniffle with your floppy ears, laid your graying head in my lap and sighed in solidarity.

The stench from the breath you exhumed was borderline unbearable.  I just don’t know what to do about your teeth.  But the action set off a flood of memories of all the times I’ve been at the end, feeling unable to go on and you were there to make things better.

I love you, Alexander Marco Bray-Frazier.

You are a good dog, and I promise to be better, to be the owner you deserve.

I’m going to go take you on a walk.  Please don’t poop in front of our new neighbors.

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There Are Those Days

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IMG_0921There are days that I cringe when I hear you running toward my room.  I curl up under the covers, pretend to be sleeping and pray that you decide to make TODAY the day that you learn to play by yourself.

On these days I am sulky and mean.  I yell at you for not moving your little legs to the table fast enough. I yell at you: Eat your waffles, I’m not a maid, you must drink milk/water/juice, stop asking so many questions, I can’t stand the dog, you’ll wake your sister, you can’t watch the iPad, you have to wear pants, you peed on the toilet, stop asking so many questions, I told you the answer already, we’re going to be late, I just need coffee, I don’t have chocolate, you can’t have chocolate for breakfast anyway, stop asking so many questions, don’t ask why…

I yell and yell and yell and yell because…

Because sometimes, my darling little child, sometimes when you’re a stay at home parent you feel like nobody ever hears you.  Nobody is listening or understanding. You can manage this feeling for a bit, for days or for weeks but then one day…one dark day when the child who you love more than life itself asks you for the 1000th time if he has to brush his teeth…

…on that day you’ll completely lose your mind.  You’ll wonder if you’ve gone insane, if anyone can actually hear you.  DOES your voice work? You’ll feel useless because if you can’t even teach your child that he has to brush his teeth every morning you MUST BE FAILING and soon his teeth will fall out and the dentist will judge you.  You’ll start looking for a desk job because at least at a desk job you’ll have more control over the results.

You’ll cry.

I cry.

Because parenting is the most rewarding but stressful thing I have ever done in my entire life and the guilt at not being constantly & overwhelmingly grateful is crushing.

Then you, my slow walking, darling little child…you slowly walk up and sit next to me, knowing that I’m overwhelmed.  I feel guilt that my almost 5 year old knows what the word overwhelmed means.  You hold my hand.

You tell me you’re sorry for asking about brushing your teeth again.

I tell you I’m sorry for yelling.

The clock tells us both it has been 10 minutes since all of this began and now it has already ended.

We acknowledge that it was a rough start to the day and vow to get McDonald’s for lunch.

High five.

…and I vow to be a better, kinder, more patient mother tomorrow…

 

 

 

To My Darling Early Riser

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Dear Darling Early Riser,

This morning when I felt your tiny baby fingers pawing at my face I felt a rush of anger. Opening one eye just enough to see that it was still pitch black outside I grumbled that it wasn’t time to wake up and to go back to your room. I pulled the covers over my head as I heard you scurry out, back through the dark hallway and into your bedroom where you would probably hurt your feet stepping on the millions of toys that litter your floor.

Chastised. Sad. Frustrated. Confused.

Because you didn’t understand why, when YOU were so awake and felt like playing, I was being such a grump.

I didn’t hear you crying because you do it silently, which makes it even sadder. But I just KNEW. Because I’m your mother and totally psychic about these things.

As I always do when something like this happens (when I start feeling overwhelmed/tired/frustrated with you), I start to imagine all the horrifying things that could happen to you. My imagination takes me from a normal scary thing (car accident/bike fall/stairs slip up) to things that I know are insane (a random plate of glass falling off a skyscraper and crushing you/ants getting into your bedroom and eating you alive/poltergeists). I do this and then feel immediately grateful that you are alive, healthy, sweet, loving and kind. It is such a morbid thing to do but it really does help me gain perspective.

I lasted maybe 10 seconds before hauling myself out of bed and coming into your room, where you were (I called it) crying silently in your bed.

So at 6:17 am I started my day with you. We made coffee and chocolate milk. I repeatedly hissed “SHHHHHH! YOU’LL WAKE YOUR SISTER!” because you have absolutely no volume control on your sonic boom of a voice. You watched Iron Man while I paid bills online and when you turned to me at 6:47 am, smiled your sweet smile and said, “This is the BEST DAY EVER” in your crazy loud voice I was filled with such joy.

I know that one day in the not so distant future I’ll be DRAGGING you out of bed at 10 am. You’ll be grumbling about my kisses while I remember how you used to always say “One more hug” at bedtime to slow the process down. I’ll offer you chocolate milk and you’ll smirk because chocolate milk is for babies. Instead of waking me up in the morning you’ll be super quiet because you’ll be sneaking in from a late night party where you’ll have tasted vodka mixed with kool-aid and made out with a girl named Oliva who’s number you didn’t even bother to write down because you were too drunk off the vodka/kool-aid concoction and now she’s going to go and tell all her friends that you’re a jerk because you kissed her and then just left her in the closet.

I know this.

So I will appreciate my short time with you as a sweet child who thinks I’m the most awesome person in the world because soon I’ll just be your old mom who embarrasses you by not dressing age appropriately.

I promise to be more patient. I promise to be more kind. I promise to not yell.

Much.

You kind of inherited your sonic boom voice from me. Nobody is perfect.

Kisses,

Mommy

 

Throw Away the Chips & Put on Some Mascara

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While socializing with Anna & Elsa, my daughter makes sure that even Grumpy Cat makes an effort to not look like a total mess.

One cold, drafty Sunday many years ago I was an enchanting 12 year old wearing a lovely deep blue lace dress and waiting for bible study to start when an awful girl named LeeAnn sauntered up and snarkily asked why I was “SOOOOOO” dressed up.

“For Jesus, LeeAnn. Your ripped jeans and NKOTB t-shirt make him cry. Jerk.”

…is what I wanted to say.

But I didn’t, because even at 12 years old I had class.  I also didn’t have much of a quick wit, so I was stunned into silence, appalled that someone could ask something so rude.  My boyfriend at the time (yes, even at 12 I had admirers) came to my defense and told LeeAnn he thought I was beautiful and gave her a look insinuating that she was not.  He then turned back to me and said something that I have parroted to many people throughout my life:

“I think it’s nice that you always look good.  She’s stupid.”

I suppose I don’t quote EXACTLY what he said since I’m no longer 12. My quote is more like:

“Don’t ever be ashamed to be the best dressed person in the room.  It is far better to be overdressed than underdressed.  Nobody ever throws an overdressed person out of a dining establishment and  you can get away with far more minor crimes if you’re wearing a lovely pair of heels.”

I have been off my A-Game with pulling myself together lately.  Sweatpants have made frequent appearances even though I don’t work out. My hair lives in a ponytail. I’ve worn sneakers with mismatched socks.

I consistently blame this on having 2 children but, honestly…

No, I won’t lie, it really is because of the children.  It is ALL their fault.  They are two of the greatest loves of my life, but they exhaust me to the point of wearing tacky clothing on a fairly consistent basis because I’m too tired to put a decent outfit together.

Today I will begin practicing what I preach to my children.

Darling Children,

*Dress for the life you want, not the life you have.

*Dress for great success, not for mediocrity.  

*Dress like you’re going to randomly see your own LeeAnn in Target and she’ll be wearing knock off Juicy Couture terry clothe pants and a coffee stained white turtleneck and when she sees you wearing a black shift dress with your hair in a trendy bun she’ll think back to the day she tried to fashion shame you and feel immediate regret.

*A single strand of pearls or a tie can make an incredible difference in any ensemble, and you can use both items to choke any muggers who think you’re rich and carrying cash simply because you look lovely. 

I promise, you’ll be shocked at how much better you’ll feel about yourself when you throw the chips away, peel off your sweatpants and put on some mascara.

“The thirst for revenge and fear of random social embarrassment is the greatest motivator in the world of fashion.” -Me

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Even at the always enjoyable young age of 2, my darling daughter has a unique and classy style she likes to call, “Anything But What Mommy Picks Out For Me”.

 

Quote

Spider-Man

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IMG_0305“I sure hope there aren’t any spiders. There probably are. I sure hope they don’t bite me…but they probably will. When they bite me I hope it’s the Spider-Man spider and it turns me into Spider-Man.”

-my son, dreaming big on a nature walk

Dear Darling Children: Learn to Cook

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Dear Darling Children,

Hello.

Today you woke me up at 5:45 am and asked me to make you cinnamon toast.  I said no and you started sobbing uncontrollably, not so much because of the toast situation but because YOU REFUSE TO SLEEP UNTIL A NORMAL HOUR AND ARE EXHAUSTED SO YOU CRY ABOUT EVERYTHING!

Stop it.

Stop waking me up and immediately asking me to make you GOURMET MEALS!

You ran back to your room, slamming your door in righteous anger and waking up your sister in the process.  Thus, my day started off badly and I was unable to get myself out of the darkest of places and into a mood appropriate for the promised park excursion.

So we didn’t go to the park.  Partly because of my mood, partly because it started storming and I didn’t want to ruin my shoes or risk either of you getting pneumonia. Instead we went to Target to get cleaning products.

I let you con me into getting the humongous cart you deem “super fun” so you and your sister could sit next to one another.

Mistake.

While your sister hit you in your left eye repeatedly for no reason other than the fact that she is an angry little toddler, I stared longingly at the Starbucks conveniently located at the front entrance of Target, wishing that it was instead a wine bar with an attached daycare.

Everyone left Target frustrated and a little twitchy.

All of this could have been avoided if you only knew how to cook for yourself.  Unfortunately, at 4 years old you are a little bit on the short side and your common sense skills haven’t quite kicked in yet, which would make figuring out the proper sugar to cinnamon ratio a bit difficult.

One day you’ll learn.  Hopefully soon.  Or perhaps you’ll learn to like cereal.

My advice to you today, Darling Children, that will help you in your future life, is…

 ***LEARN TO COOK ***

*Have at least one meal you do well.  This is all you need and is more than enough to fool a potential life partner into thinking you’re far more talented in the kitchen than you really are.  I speak from experience.

…also…

*Always keep fresh fruit in the house.  This not only gives visitors the assumption that you live a healthy lifestyle, it also helps you actually live a healthy lifestyle. If you don’t keep frosting filled chips a’hoy cookies in the house, you can’t eat them.  I tell myself this on a daily basis and have so far been mildly successful at not purchasing those delicious cookies.  There is absolutely no proof that people who live a healthy lifestyle always outlive those that live a grossly unhealthy lifestyle, so still err on the side of caution when dared to sky dive or swim in the ocean. Eating fruit doesn’t make you a superhero, no matter what numerous random marketing ploys may suggest.

…and lastly…

*Don’t eat fruit chews or gummy candies.  These will kill you.

I did eventually make you cinnamon toast.  I’m not a total monster.  At first there was instantaneous regret when the sugar seeped into your brain and turned you into a psychotic hyped up crazy person.  Then you ran up to me with wild hair and socks on your hands in the middle of your sugar & cinnamon induced puppet show and sweetly said…

“Thumbs up for stinky socks, Mother.  Thanks for the cinnamon toast, and MAYBE you should buy me some gloves or puppets so I don’t have to wear old stinky socks on my hands anymore…”

…why does my heart just melt with you?

At what age will cuteness no longer be a factor in how long I remain irritated?

I hope the age is 97, but common sense tells me it’s probably going to be 12 or 13.

Such is life.

Learn to cook. It will make you a more accomplished person and of great use to me when I’m old & feeble and can no longer drive myself to McDonalds.

I love you, my little darlings.

Mother