"So..," my husband smiles at me. "Any New Years Resolutions this year?"
"A few," I smirk back. "Want to hear them?"
"Shoot."
"Well," I begin, turning to face him while pulling my legs underneath me as my excitement flows, I've been thinking about these resolutions since the Christmas season began. "I want to learn new things this year. I want to make 2010 a year of discovery, openness, excitement, knowledge. I want to de-clutter the house and finally get organized. I want to take all my half finished projects and make them complete. I want to go through all the recipes I cut out from my magazines and start making them. Only one a week," I say as my husbands face begins to frown, I've tried to many Martha Stewart gone dry recipes on him. "And I want to learn more about where we live. We've been in Long Beach for 5 years this February and I still don't know where Hempstead is. I'm going to go to the library and start checking out books about Long Island. I want to learn it's history and begin teaching it to our children. You moved here for the beach and I moved here for the city, but how often are we even doing that since we've had kids? Why not explore the island. I've never even seen the light houses, the Roosevelt Estates, Grey Gardens. I want to check out the Long Beach Museum. I want to know where the first house in Long Beach was built, is it still standing, what parts of the beach really existed and what parts are man-made, you know. And I want to watch more movies. I want to start going to the library and working my way through the movie section, starting with the A's and working my way down. I wonder how far I can get in the year?"
I look over my husband's head and stare at a plane flying overhead (one of my son's favorite afternoon activities on an indoor day)and think about the rows of movies I could discover.
"So, what about yours," I say as the plane creeps past our window.
"Well,....I just planned on calling my grandmother and your mother more this year."
"Oh..." I say with a smile.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Our Age......
She's our age.
"How old is that," I inquire.
"26/27."
I smile. "I'm 33."
And yet again the same response, "You're 33! How hold is your husband?"
"37."
It's not that I have some amazing beauty secret that keeps my husband and I looking youthful and fresh, it's simple that we're immature. Not immature in a bad way, though I did have to walk out of the room when me 1 1/2 year old took off his friends Barbie's shirt and said "boobies" (I swear I never taught him "boobies" and to this day we're still trying to uncover the mystery "boobie" introducer, but immature in a "we still think we're 26/27" way.
Though we'd like a house we live in an apartment in a ridiculously overpriced area (obviously we're not from Long Island)with no plans or even thoughts about owning a home. Though we work hard we've yet to huncher down and make our careers "happen." We play with our children probably more than we should, and we like it. Our bills and savings aren't in the best order, though we do have a recession to put some of that blame on, we know nothing about that average savings/cds that most 30 year olds would. And the list goes on. It's not that we don't know our age or our responsibilities, I think it's just that we keep waiting on everything. You know, next month, next year, next week, etc.
But suddenly my priorities have started changing. The Christmas tree that I would have fought with my husband to keep up after the New Year, has been calling to me. It wants to be thrown out. And truthfully, I can't wait to do it. I'm itching to take off it's bulbs, unwind our lights and drag the things to the curb. I want space, cleanliness. Strange. I've found myself cleaning the kitchen and the floors before I go to bed. "I want to wake up to a clean house," is what my grandmother says. Could I be following the same path? But the thing that caught me off guard, the thing that I find myself thinking about this morning in the mist of Imagination Movers, is my strangest behavior off all. I'm watching Jeopardy at 7, followed by Wheel of Fortune. Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune. Seinfeld and The Office have suddenly lost their appeal for "smart" television shows? Huh? But, just when your saying "that isn't so bad" I'm going to throw in more. I watch these shows while reading the paper! The paper! Mainly The New York Times! And at 8 o'clock I make myself a hot cup of tea, crawl under my cozy sheets and curls up with my book for an hour or so.
So, has it happened? Am I starting to get old? To 'act my age?' I've always seen 33 year olds on TV and thought, "They look so mature, so put together." Am I becoming one of them? Am I finally growing up? Will I start thinking about CD's, and know what they mean and what to do with them, saving for my children's college education and go after my "career" with gusto? Hum, 2010 could turn out to be an interesting age of the adventures or age of the maturity of a 33 year old mommy.
"How old is that," I inquire.
"26/27."
I smile. "I'm 33."
And yet again the same response, "You're 33! How hold is your husband?"
"37."
It's not that I have some amazing beauty secret that keeps my husband and I looking youthful and fresh, it's simple that we're immature. Not immature in a bad way, though I did have to walk out of the room when me 1 1/2 year old took off his friends Barbie's shirt and said "boobies" (I swear I never taught him "boobies" and to this day we're still trying to uncover the mystery "boobie" introducer, but immature in a "we still think we're 26/27" way.
Though we'd like a house we live in an apartment in a ridiculously overpriced area (obviously we're not from Long Island)with no plans or even thoughts about owning a home. Though we work hard we've yet to huncher down and make our careers "happen." We play with our children probably more than we should, and we like it. Our bills and savings aren't in the best order, though we do have a recession to put some of that blame on, we know nothing about that average savings/cds that most 30 year olds would. And the list goes on. It's not that we don't know our age or our responsibilities, I think it's just that we keep waiting on everything. You know, next month, next year, next week, etc.
But suddenly my priorities have started changing. The Christmas tree that I would have fought with my husband to keep up after the New Year, has been calling to me. It wants to be thrown out. And truthfully, I can't wait to do it. I'm itching to take off it's bulbs, unwind our lights and drag the things to the curb. I want space, cleanliness. Strange. I've found myself cleaning the kitchen and the floors before I go to bed. "I want to wake up to a clean house," is what my grandmother says. Could I be following the same path? But the thing that caught me off guard, the thing that I find myself thinking about this morning in the mist of Imagination Movers, is my strangest behavior off all. I'm watching Jeopardy at 7, followed by Wheel of Fortune. Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune. Seinfeld and The Office have suddenly lost their appeal for "smart" television shows? Huh? But, just when your saying "that isn't so bad" I'm going to throw in more. I watch these shows while reading the paper! The paper! Mainly The New York Times! And at 8 o'clock I make myself a hot cup of tea, crawl under my cozy sheets and curls up with my book for an hour or so.
So, has it happened? Am I starting to get old? To 'act my age?' I've always seen 33 year olds on TV and thought, "They look so mature, so put together." Am I becoming one of them? Am I finally growing up? Will I start thinking about CD's, and know what they mean and what to do with them, saving for my children's college education and go after my "career" with gusto? Hum, 2010 could turn out to be an interesting age of the adventures or age of the maturity of a 33 year old mommy.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Mom's Can't Wear Red
After the Sex, Watermelon and my signature summer color Mango Madness (it's prettier than it sounds)were my forte. My nails and toes were adorn in bold and bright, until I had children. The fifteen dollar mani/pedi deal at Best Nails that I frequented every Monday has now turned into an occasional mani/pedi at Angel Tips for an upcoming occasion. Two months ago (flip-flop season) one of my girlfriends came over and was horrified to see my toes chipped and barely polished. "That's disgusting," she teased. Though I joked with her about it, sarcastically telling her to come see me when has two babies, 17 months apart, hanging from her arms and the latest still up through the night, I did agree. My toes were pretty disgusting. My nails, now short and sometimes filled with poop underneath, were for scratching dried up yogurt off my white kitchen walls, pulling out toy batteries (why are they always so hard to get out?) and pulling out splinters or a random grey hair that ends up in my eyebrows from time to time. Gone are the days of beauty and luxury. Now I am a function. And red nails is not one of them. Not that I don't still look down and appreciate my new manicured look and the rare occasion that I get one, more appreciative for the simple beauty and pampering now than ever (sometimes I want to cry out, "I'm a mom of two wild children, one who has just been labeled as 'colic,' and the other who climbs my body like a jungle gym and just received 16 stitches when he tripped head first into a front lawn of bricks. Please take your time and 5 more minutes on my hand massage."). It's just that days later, hands plunged wrist deep in bath water, dish water, toilet water, faucet water and knuckle deep in mud to fish out that last worm for my son, the polish isn't as nice and neat as it was post-children. Little red specks of paint begin to adorn the side of my sons head, another gets mistaken for blood in my four month old diaper in a moment of panic and the remained, now blotched and holier than a lace tablecloth, become a reminder of a pampered day that was once well deserved and will now spent its remaining days on my fingers until the last bit falls off. Note to self: next time I get clear.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Frogger-fied
Quarters upon quarters were lost in the several arcades of my youth. Centipede and Frogger were my favorite, next to Ms. Pacman that is. I still can recall the buttons, motions and colors of these games, the way the circle spun under my hand in Centipede and the quick movement of the stick in Frogger. No matter if I was dodging spiders, that is what those things in Centipede were right, or cars the purpose of the game was clear-dodge to stay alive. Keep your eyes on your surroundings, have quick reflexes and be ready for what was coming next. So who knew that these games were actual trainings for motherhood?
Pushing a single stroller was hard. Pushing a double stroller is harder and pushing a triple is almost impossible, but you do what you have to to survive. You weave in and out of traffic, you run for your life as the "Walk" light on Long Beach Road tells you exactly how many seconds you have before you can no longer cross (talk about being 8 months pregnant and pushing a single stroller across this road in 11 seconds! STRESS!), inch your way over to the far end of the sidewalk to let bicyclists and other stroller moms by, start and stop up grocery (forget about even attempting Associated Market) isles, hating the displays that stop your flow and cause you to back out of the isle, back your way in and out of store doors (who knew your butt could be put to such a good use)and pushing, heaving and pulling your baby, or babies, over tree lifted sidewalk bumps and in and out of your personal cargo.
Playing Frogger could not only be seen as a tool to enhance these skills, but a mom forte that should be played and studied by all during those nine long months of pregnancy. Driving in Long Island might be dangerous, but strolling your child should be covered under special insurance. That's right, here comes the cheese, it should be called 'Froggerfied.' Haha.
I remember the first time my friend came over to go for a walk. She helped me
Pushing a single stroller was hard. Pushing a double stroller is harder and pushing a triple is almost impossible, but you do what you have to to survive. You weave in and out of traffic, you run for your life as the "Walk" light on Long Beach Road tells you exactly how many seconds you have before you can no longer cross (talk about being 8 months pregnant and pushing a single stroller across this road in 11 seconds! STRESS!), inch your way over to the far end of the sidewalk to let bicyclists and other stroller moms by, start and stop up grocery (forget about even attempting Associated Market) isles, hating the displays that stop your flow and cause you to back out of the isle, back your way in and out of store doors (who knew your butt could be put to such a good use)and pushing, heaving and pulling your baby, or babies, over tree lifted sidewalk bumps and in and out of your personal cargo.
Playing Frogger could not only be seen as a tool to enhance these skills, but a mom forte that should be played and studied by all during those nine long months of pregnancy. Driving in Long Island might be dangerous, but strolling your child should be covered under special insurance. That's right, here comes the cheese, it should be called 'Froggerfied.' Haha.
I remember the first time my friend came over to go for a walk. She helped me
Sunday, October 4, 2009
The Reality of Manny
I recently realized, as I type that is, that my perspective on fiction and reality has become warped. Or should I say my perspective on cartoons and reality has become warped. Hmm.
It's a lazy Sunday, though it should be an active one since the sun is shining and Irish Day is no longer happening. However, as I hand Nugget his cup of milk and nuzzle up with my latest,I call him Meatball, he's so big already and he just turned 4 months, on the couch I notice that Manny has yet again walked into Kelly's shop and she had just what he needed. The tools love her. She's semi-cute, if you don't count the slight matronly look to her, and she has her own successful business just like Manny. I quickly wonder when they're going to make these two fall in love and realize they're made for each other. I mean I think it's obvious enough that Kelly and Manny secretly love each other already. Look at how they laugh with each other, speak their own mechanical language and always run to each other when a tragedy happens, like last week when there was a blackout and they were trapped in her shop together searching for flashlights for the town. If that doesn't say love I don't know what does.
Meatball finishes his bottle and Nugget helps me tap him on the back for his burp (Nugget loves to make the 'burp' sounds while doing this), meanwhile Manny is back at Kelly's shop to thank her for helping him today. "Kiss her," I find myself saying. "Take her in your arms tightly and tell her what she means to you already."
"Mommy," Nugget excitedly exclaims. "Mickey Mommy. Mickey!"
That's right. Mickey is about to come on. Mickey. Mickey Mouse. The cartoon. Like Manny and Kelly. A cartoon.
Oh Mommy, you really do need to get out. Or put the morning news on for a while.
It's a lazy Sunday, though it should be an active one since the sun is shining and Irish Day is no longer happening. However, as I hand Nugget his cup of milk and nuzzle up with my latest,I call him Meatball, he's so big already and he just turned 4 months, on the couch I notice that Manny has yet again walked into Kelly's shop and she had just what he needed. The tools love her. She's semi-cute, if you don't count the slight matronly look to her, and she has her own successful business just like Manny. I quickly wonder when they're going to make these two fall in love and realize they're made for each other. I mean I think it's obvious enough that Kelly and Manny secretly love each other already. Look at how they laugh with each other, speak their own mechanical language and always run to each other when a tragedy happens, like last week when there was a blackout and they were trapped in her shop together searching for flashlights for the town. If that doesn't say love I don't know what does.
Meatball finishes his bottle and Nugget helps me tap him on the back for his burp (Nugget loves to make the 'burp' sounds while doing this), meanwhile Manny is back at Kelly's shop to thank her for helping him today. "Kiss her," I find myself saying. "Take her in your arms tightly and tell her what she means to you already."
"Mommy," Nugget excitedly exclaims. "Mickey Mommy. Mickey!"
That's right. Mickey is about to come on. Mickey. Mickey Mouse. The cartoon. Like Manny and Kelly. A cartoon.
Oh Mommy, you really do need to get out. Or put the morning news on for a while.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Park Play date
Well mom's the gods have heard our cries and decided that we've suffered enough. The winter and rainy weather that seemed as if it would never end is slowly making it's departure and making room for the warmer weather. Ah, the joys of outside, no more jacket battles, inside play dates, treks to the mall just for an outing or brainstorming forms of child entertainment to keep your wee one from destroying your home in a single hour.
Lets throw on our flip flops or jogging sneakers, stroll out the door without multiple layers, hats, gloves and extra blankets covering our children and spend the day walking the boardwalk, playing on the beach, meeting other moms and babies at the park and breathing in the fresh air together.
Boardwalk Babies would like to invite you to join us for a park play date at Pacific Playground on Saturday, May 2nd at 10 o'clock.
It's been a long one moms, let's get out there and see if April showers really do bring May flowers. If it does we should see a plethora out there.
Hope to see you there!
Sincerely,
Tennille
&
Megan
Lets throw on our flip flops or jogging sneakers, stroll out the door without multiple layers, hats, gloves and extra blankets covering our children and spend the day walking the boardwalk, playing on the beach, meeting other moms and babies at the park and breathing in the fresh air together.
Boardwalk Babies would like to invite you to join us for a park play date at Pacific Playground on Saturday, May 2nd at 10 o'clock.
It's been a long one moms, let's get out there and see if April showers really do bring May flowers. If it does we should see a plethora out there.
Hope to see you there!
Sincerely,
Tennille
&
Megan
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Cute new calendar necklace trend
Calendar Girl
Dalla Nonna Calendar Necklaces
Her fever put a kibosh on Saturday dinner plans. His stomachache spoiled your girls’ lunch. The neighbor’s kid has sniffles, so there goes the playdate. Yes, you’ve learned to fill your calendar in pencil.
But some dates deserve to be etched in something more permanent.
Dalla Nonna jewelry has just the fix: a calendar necklace. Inspired by vintage tie pins, the tiny charms (about half the size of a key) acknowledge big dates.
The pendants come in silver or gold (rose, yellow, and white). You designate month and day, choose matte or shiny finish, and select a colored sapphire. If your daughter was born in June and your son in April, order one for each month and request the chains at different lengths.
That way, you can wear one lower down.
In case something else comes up.
Available online at dallanonnajewelry.com.
Dalla Nonna Calendar Necklaces
Her fever put a kibosh on Saturday dinner plans. His stomachache spoiled your girls’ lunch. The neighbor’s kid has sniffles, so there goes the playdate. Yes, you’ve learned to fill your calendar in pencil.
But some dates deserve to be etched in something more permanent.
Dalla Nonna jewelry has just the fix: a calendar necklace. Inspired by vintage tie pins, the tiny charms (about half the size of a key) acknowledge big dates.
The pendants come in silver or gold (rose, yellow, and white). You designate month and day, choose matte or shiny finish, and select a colored sapphire. If your daughter was born in June and your son in April, order one for each month and request the chains at different lengths.
That way, you can wear one lower down.
In case something else comes up.
Available online at dallanonnajewelry.com.
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