Chicago Moms Blog

Multi-Tasking Madness

Men may be the yang to our yin, the Homer to our Marge, but most are "uno" or one event guys.  They can't multi-task like women.  This multi-ism is evident right down to our genetic code.  Men have one X and one Y chromosome.  Women have "multi" X chromosomes.

Maybe I'm imagining things, but my husband never seems as frantic as me.  I feel like a circus seal, reading forms from school, preparing chicken stir-fry with my hands, while sorting laundry into whites versus colors... with my big toes.

It goes back to the hunter-gatherers.  "Hunt" implies a one-time event.  "Gather" implies group.  Guess who was who? 

After slaying a mammoth or saber tooth, the hunter retreated back to the cave and mumbled about an aching "spear muscle." 

Meanwhile, the gatherer grunted under her breath, rolled her eyes and "gathered" the carcass. 

"Skank" Is Hurting All of Us

One stuffy afternoon in a gymnasium, I toiled as a parent volunteer, struggling to compute change as children swarmed the concession stand.  Dorito and Skittle bags crumpled into small hands, Snicker bars flew.

The onslaught subsided.  Next to me was another mom, with heavy make-up.  Her daughter complained a boy wouldn't listen.  The woman leaned over the counter in her low-cut top, waggling a finger.  "Flirrrrt with him, honey!  Just wiggle and bat your eyelashes, and he'll eat out of your hand."

The girl was twelve.

The men around us chortled.  Other moms snickered.

I sputtered.

When did our female brains vacate our skulls?  Feminism was supposed to free us from the tyranny of beauty, liberate us from coquettish behavior.  Instead, it's almost as though mainstream pornography usurped fashion advertising as reigning despot.  In addition to feeling pressured to be supermodel-y, we're supposed to be 'hot' nymphets.  Some women are undergoing multiple plastic surgeries and they're not even thirty yet.  "Skanks" dominate MTV, VH1 and E!, flaunting bipolar diva antics.

But no little girl ever started her childhood wanting to become a "skank."

It's a Wonderful Kitchen, Jimmy Stewart

Dinner parties.

Some women worry about their menus.  Others fuss over table linens or vacuum the same patch of rug eleven times.

Me, I worried about my humble 1963 kitchen.

The lasagna simmered.  The salad was tossed.  The wine was chilling.

I was sweating.

Glancing around the kitchen, I noticed how the parquet floor was a tad uneven near the doorway.  I wrung my hands.  What would my esteemed guests think?  Would they point to the wood cabinets and whisper, "Good Lord, were those things installed when Kennedy held office?"  (The answer is -- yes).  We replaced the stove and oven, our faucet was new, but the cabinetry with its loose hinges and torn-off baby-proofing plastic -- old as the house itself.

I wiped my hands on the dish towel.  My husband put the leaf in our dining table.  The kids were tidying their room.  I glanced around.  Kid stains on the beige carpeting.  There were new scratches on the dining table.  Even the dog's Spongebob collar looked ratty. 

Hello Internet, Goodbye Attention Span

A dark-haired man saunters onto the TV screen.  Wearing a 1960's suit and Rat-Pack tie, his intense eyes convey a warning.

"Picture, if you will, a society that is so enthralled with its gadgets, speed, convenience and celebrity gossip, that it can no longer sit, concentrate or invent.  Instead, it feeds on infomercials and Internet flaming, and becomes more jittery and less literate."

"This is Rod Serling, and you've just entered the Twilight Zone."

[cue eerie TV show theme]

I used to think I was alone.  After a few hours hopping around the Internet, I grew alarmed.  My attention span was kaput.  No longer could I read anything of length, such as a meaty book or 2,000 word magazine article.  Small type, 10-point pica or less, and anything beyond 700 words... fuggedaboutit.

A former voracious reader, I skipped over novels, abandoning them half-way.  I could manage a 50-word blip in "Us" magazine about Taylor Swift, but not a multiple-page profile on Henry Paulson, former President Bush's Treasury Secretary.

The (Shudder!) Alpha Mom

At the PTA meeting, she’s center-stage, at the podium, her fingers pulling away the microphone from the principal.  Her teeth are frozen into a wide, confident smile.  Look closer.  Those teeth are actually bared. 

The (gasp) Alpha Mom.

She volunteers for all things leadership, and sniffs out for the designer cologne of Alpha Moms exactly like her.  She was an ex-cheerleader who led the squad, the sorority sister in charge of the pledges, who beamed at you and trashed your clothes after you left.

My misery began, I suppose, the moment the doctor slapped my baby derrière, proclaiming, “This one looks sensitive and artsy.”  Later, after I was fitted with nerdy glasses and was endowed little fashion sense, dread swept over me.  Prepubescent alphas began circling.  Their Malibu Barbies taunted my Stacey doll for having cellulite.  That turncoat, Ken, was totally bamboozled.  In tears, Stacey fled, searching for chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream in her tiny plastic refrigerator.

Eluding the Alpha Mom isn’t easy.  She’s infiltrated schools, churches, park districts, and health clubs.  She’s even got her eye on the Weight Watchers meeting.  Any place there is a need to organize and achieve world domination, she’s there.

The Special Needs Mom Versus "The Future"

Something a special needs mom reacts differently to, is the word "future."

We're used to running interference for our kids.  I imagine myself as a NFL center or tackle, trying to protect my quarterback son.  He's more vulnerable, not wearing a helmet, blinking behind his smudgy glasses, and he's trying to hurl that football past the goal.  Watching the field like a lioness, I anticipate where the game is headed, trying to minimize any potential blow.

On a chalkboard, John Madden like, I sketch out plays.

If we can teach him how to better organize and focus, he can do this... If he can learn to type fast, the handwriting won't matter...

My teenage son has Asperger's syndrome and has sensory integration issues.  Many of his teachers adore him.  He has a quirky sense of humor.  His many friends, other Aspies, often hang out at our home, howling at Jib Jab parodies and "Mystery Science Theater 3000" reruns.

Do Generations No Longer Mix?

In the back row of my aerobics class, I'm trying to hide how uncoordinated I am.  Surrounding me are pleasant women in their 40's, 50's, 60's and even 70's. 

Despite my clumsiness, I'd follow the instructors across marshes, lunar surfaces, rock cliffs or strapped to white water raft... that's how much they inspire me.

One morning, we dance with partners.  Dance?  Stagger is my version of 'dance.'  One twenty-something deliberately snubs me for another twenty-something.  Okay.  That's natural.  We humans gravitate toward others our own age.

No matter how friendly I am, she remains aloof, her expression almost stony.

I try not to take her rebuff personally, (but do).  Maybe I look like Quasimodo in sweats.  I pop a Tic Tac.  I'm upbeat.  The other women and I laugh about how silly we must look.

Then I notice something about the twenty-something.  She isn't that friendly to anyone who's o-l-d-e-r.

Hmm.

UPlifting!

How can an animated movie featuring an old man and a sweet, naive kid be so delightful?

Even the talking dog isn't a cynical know-it-all -- no, he acts like a real slobbering, adoring pooch. ("Squirrel!")  Kevin the bird almost sacrifices herself to help her new friends.

No flatulence-as-hilarity or slapstick stunts.

No sexuality.

No snark.

The adult takes charge.  "Stay here," Carl tells Russell in one perilous sequence. "You'll be safe.  I'll take care of it!"  Just like a good, responsible parent.

The child doesn't call the elderly man "geezer" or dismiss him as stupid.

A film with soul, love, heartbreak, humor and suspense.  A story about dreams deferred, realized and reevaluated. 

I'm still shaking my head.

We Need a Recess From Recession

My husband is an IT gunslinger, a technical guru with a holster full of expertise, spanning hardware, software, connectivity, accounting and business systems -- you name it.  He has developed computer software applications for the Fortune 500, made presentations to CEO's, CFO's and CIO's and gave management the reality check when others wouldn't.  Coworkers nicknamed him "Google" because he'd land on the right page, provide the right answer.

Tall, brash, smart, he's got a little more of John Wayne in him than "Entourage," and is several thousand light years from a metrosexual. 

And he is out of work.

He's between contracts, assignment-less for the past three months.  We've discussed, ad nauseam, the outsourcing of IT jobs and help desks to India, China and the Philippines.  My husband's debated world trade versus globalization at many dinner parties.  He and his IT colleagues have watched hundreds of jobs be funneled overseas.  Workers on Visa 401B's have been brought over to the U.S. to work.  American software engineers either re-train or lose their homes.

Teaching Kids That Life Isn't Easy

Most of today's children's entertainment is predictable.  The cool character tells the geek how to be trendy and/or popular.  The thin plot consists of slapstick, burps and flatulence, celebrating immature behavior and played for cheap laughs.

As the kids dip into the remainder of their snacks, I dip into an Extra Strength bottle of Tylenol.

In an effort to keep our children entertained with harmless, frothy fun, do animated films (and other shows) miss a chance to teach them something deeper?

In search of more meaningful fare, my youngest son and I have been reading "Black Beauty," a classic by Anne Sewell.  It's probably best appreciated by an older child.  The animals face many perils which may be too intense for younger kids.

Compelling and heartbreaking, "Black Beauty" is a horse with a gentle, observant nature, who starts life under idyllic conditions.