Disclaimer: I am NOT, under any circumstances, a fan of Kim Kardashian.
Okay, now that I have made that absolutely clear… I decided I am on Team Kim. Wait, whaaaaaaaa?
Let me explain.
I accidentally watched an episode of “Keeping Up With the Kardashians” yesterday. And by accidentally I mean I was shamelessly Continue reading “Kim Kardashian: The Patron Saint of Puffy Preggos Everywhere”
A really fun idea was recently hatched by two of my favorite bloggers, Emily of The Waiting and Ashley of Zebra Garden. They are kind of like the Laverne and Shirley of my blog world, making me kind of like the Squiggy who always comes late to the blogging party. Or maybe I’m Lenny. Anyway…Emily and Ashley have started their own version of “Throwback Thursday” called “Remember the Time: A Blog Hop.” Each week they designate a topic about which bloggers can Continue reading “Hell Hath No Fury Like a Punked Nine-Year-Old at a Slumber Party”
I have been thinking about my VBI lately. You know, my Visual Business Identity. Okay, so technically, I’m not a business. But this little blogging thing I do has become a job of sorts, and I find myself at the point of wondering if this whole thing is going anywhere. And if it is, where? And why? And how? And am I a “mommy blog“? A humor blog? A write-whatever-random-thoughts-come-into-my-head-blog? An anti-Chuck E. Cheese blog? A blog where every post would be about The Monkees if I didn’t think it would drive away 98.4% of Continue reading “What Would My Blog Self Do?”
It’s really true. Everyone does. It’s not even like it was this whole mind game where it just seemed like each and every driver was putzing along at a snail’s pace. I literally did not breach the speed limit once on my way to the emergency room. And I couldn’t even vent my frustration by calling them all jacklegs because I was too busy singing “Beautiful Boy” to try to calm down my screaming son. Knowing your child is in pain and not being able to do anything about it, or not being able to get Continue reading “Fact: Everyone On the Road Goes Under the Speed Limit When You’re Driving Your Kid to the ER”
Today is a special day. Today my little boy turns five years old. And today it is time I told the truth about whom exactly my son is named after.
Anyone who has asked me how Michael James got his name has likely heard this response: James came from both of his grandfathers, who very conveniently have the same first name, giving my husband and I a no-brainer way of making our child a namesake without offending the other side of the family. And Michael was agreed upon because we liked it, we liked the nickname attached to it, and frankly, we thought that Mike Suellentrop sounded like “a hell of a guy.” Mike Suellentrop? He’d give you the shirt off his back. Hell of a guy…Have you seen Mike Suellentrop? Yeah, he’s been working the beer tent all afternoon. Hell of a guy…Oh, Mike Suellentrop’s going to be there? Then it WILL be a party. Count me in. He’s sure a hell of a guy.
But Michael James is actually named after an anesthesiologist. Let me take you back to the year 2005.
When I was pregnant with my first child, I ended up needing a scheduled cesarean section two weeks before her due date because she was breech, and my rising blood pressure meant my doc didn’t want to wait for her to take her sweet time to flip. To be completely honest, I was very okay with that decision. In fact, the only thing I was really worried about was the epidural. I mean, a giant needle piercing my spinal cord sounded worse than being stuck at the DMV wearing a pair of Spanx that are one size too small after just having eaten a Big Mac, sitting next to a guy who hasn’t showered in a week and being forced to listen to “The Electric Slide” song on a continuous loop. Getting an epidural doesn’t sound like something any woman would enjoy, but at least those in labor are already in searing and ripping pain and willing to endure anything that will make them more comfortable again. But me, I wasn’t in labor. I was feeling just hunky-dory, thank you very much. And I didn’t have the distraction of contractions to keep my mind busy, so all I did for the days leading up the surgery was worry about it.
And it didn’t help the morning of the c-section when the nurse who put in my IV was obviously trained in the art of medieval torture. According to her, I had dainty veins. So when my anesthesiologist was ready to put in the epidural, I was deep in prayer that I didn’t also have a dainty spinal cord. And I let him know how nervous I was. He had many words aimed at assuaging my fears, but the thing that put me at ease was when he told me his name. Mike. Mike the Anesthesiologist. My husband and I smiled. We were part of the rebellious few who don’t find out the sex of the baby, so we had our girl and our boy names ready to go. Well, we actually had two boy names. It was down to Brian or Michael, and we figured if baby came out a boy, we would just decide which he looked more like. My husband jokingly said to Mike the Anesthesiologist, “Well, if you do a good job and we have a boy, we’ll name him after you.” But we didn’t have a boy. We had Grace. Still, I was so thankful that our lighthearted conversation about names helped take my mind off of getting the epidural (which really wasn’t that bad, meaning Mike the Anesthesiologist was also a man of his word), and his calming presence in the operating room kept me at peace so that I could fully enjoy the birth of my daughter. Not only that, but he also took the very first pictures of her emerging into the world so that my husband didn’t have to see my innards (ew, awkward). I would remember Mike the Anesthesiologist as an integral part of that special day.
Fast forward to three years later, when I again found myself carrying a breech baby. (What is with my kids and their directional problems?…OH, geez. Now it all makes sense why they never listen to me! They began life disobeying Mother Nature.) When I was scheduling the c-section date with my OB, I sheepishly asked if I could make one strange request. I wondered if I could have Mike the Anesthesiologist there again. My OB laughed, and said he unfortunately couldn’t make that request. I would just have to hope that Mike the Anesthesiologist was scheduled that day, at which time I could ask him to do my epidural if he wasn’t already otherwise engaged. So I hoped.
It was one of the first questions I asked when I got to the hospital. “Is Mike the Anesthesiologist working today?” …holding my breath…No. No he was not. Bummer. So I set off to my hospital room to get prepped for my surgery. And despite rationally knowing that Mike the Anesthesiologist was just one of many, many qualified people who could give me an epidural, I began getting nervous about it all over again.
Until, that is, this sweet little nurse came into my room and said, “You’re not going to believe this…” It turns out that the anesthesiologist who was scheduled for that morning broke her arm, and guess who was filling in for her? Mike the Anesthesiologist! Suddenly I knew everything was going to be just fine. It had to be. And it was.
Of course Mike the Anesthesiologist didn’t remember me, but he was curious as to why he was “requested.” Apparently that doesn’t happen that often in their field of work. So we told him the story, and told him once again that the name Michael had made the cut if baby turned out to be a boy. As I was being wheeled to the operating room, Mike the Anesthesiologist said to me, “Here we go. By the way, what’s the middle name if you have a boy.”
“James, after our fathers.”
“You’re kidding?”
“No. Why?”
“Because that’s my middle name.”
Fifteen minutes later, Michael James came into the world, five years ago today. My Michael may have been accidentally named after Mike the Anesthesiologist, but the fact that he is seems like part of some divine plan, just like the way Mike the Anesthesiologist accidentally became my guardian on that second special day in my life. Who would have known that when we decided Mike Suellentrop sounded like “a hell of a guy” that he would be sharing his name with another “hell of a guy” for whom I will be forever grateful.
I have not seen Mike the Anesthesiologist since that day, but I wonder what he would think of his namesake. Me, I think he is indeed turning into one hell of a little guy.
The suffocating heat of the afternoon is losing its grip as early evening sashays in a few cool, cottony clouds to block the slicing rays of sun. The landscape is relatively quiet; the day has been without incident so far. The other lookouts and I settle into a false sense of security, letting our attentions wander to other places we would rather be.
A methodical pinging sound slowly begins. I am coaxed out of my complacency by a sense of impending doom. I know that sound, like flesh on metal. I need to warn my troops. My eyes feverishly scan the terrain, but I don’t see them. They have already heard the signal and have taken it upon themselves to act. And not just my troops. They all have. In the blink of an eye, they are all thrusting themselves into the middle of it. I’m too late.
And then the screaming begins. I see hands and feet whiz by me at a breakneck speed. Some appear to be actually enjoying the primal emotions being brought to the surface. They become emboldened, even ruthless, in this dangerous dance of sorts. But others weren’t meant for this, and they cave from the fear. For brief seconds I glimpse the desperation that flays their eyes wide open, and I hear the terrified pleadings for their mothers.
I blurt to one of the other lookouts, “We have to stop it!” But we are helpless. The wheel is in motion and has gained too much momentum, and the ones who have been hardened by years of this torture are maniacally eager to keep it going. Our pleas for them to stop fall on deaf ears. All that is left to do is futilely stare at what we should have prevented had we been doing our jobs, had we been properly looking after our troops, and pray for minimal casualties.
It’s every man for himself as the centrifugal force starts picking them off, one by one. They fall to the ground, pieces of bark and shredded tire impressed into bare knees and tangled into hair. Their comrades don’t even try to help as running feet trample them, caught up in the rush. Oh, the horror! They’re only children, for God’s sake! Every mother stands on edge, not wanting it to be her son or daughter. Just let my child make it off alive.
I hate that %#@*&% merry-go-round.
There was an article that caught my attention yesterday, mostly because it was shared multiple times on Facebook by not just friends, but also by local businesses, attractions, and radio stations. It was a piece that ran in The New York Times called “Loving the Midwest” by Curtis Sittenfeld. In it, Sittenfeld explains how she and her husband, who came to live in St. Louis in 2007 by way of a job, evolved from being critical transplants to residents who have grown to accept the city as home. A home they could stay in forever. A home that is indeed a really great place to raise a family.
As many of you might know, I am a born and bred St. Louisan who loves the city that has raised me. And everyone sharing the article on Facebook were also proud St. Louis residents, both natives and transplants. As I scrolled through my news feed, I caught glimpses of words like “vindication” and “finally.” It was like this virtual communal sigh of relief. See? We haven’t been lying. St. Louis really IS a nice place to live. I mean, if The New York Times is willing to run the article, then it must be true. New York is the ultimate authority on everything after all.
But unlike so many others, the article didn’t inspire such a warm and fuzzy feeling in me as to make me share it on my timeline as well. Don’t get me wrong. I think Sittenfeld did a wonderful job highlighting many of the reasons St. Louis is a fantastically livable city, especially for those raising families: friendly communities, a unifying love for our sports teams, a city that is pretty easy to access from one corner to the other, and the insanely numerous attractions that are both incredible AND free, or at least affordable (which also makes St.Louis a great place to visit. There are cities my family has visited which could change their mottos to City X: Where nothing is cheap or easy. And if its easy, its really not cheap. And if its cheap, its wrong.)
But as I counted how many times this article was shared in my news feed, all I could think was, Why do we need The New York Times to tell us what we already know? It’s like in every teen dramedy when the cool kid finally sees the nerd for the pretty rockin’ person he or she truly is. But isn’t the real lesson of those movies the realization that the nerd never really needed the cool kid’s approval at all?
Maybe I am bringing a little bitterness to the table. I can own that. But I would bet that just about every proud St. Louisan has heard our great city lambasted by an outsider at least once. A few months ago while in New Jersey, I was having a conversation about music, and I made the comment that St. Louis sometimes gets bypassed for various concert tours, despite the fact that we have a lot of stellar venues for live music. This man, who did not know me, responded, “Because St. Louis sucks. That’s why.” He made this incredibly informed statement having never visited, but because “that was the word on the street.” Maybe he had heard about that bogus list that put St. Louis as the third most violent city in the world. Oh, and he also provided the very solid reason that “St. Louis is in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of the country.” Well, you got me there, bud. I guess we can blame it all on Lewis and Clark then. The whole time he was talking, I couldn’t help but think that my city was getting dissed by a guy from New Jersey. Hmmm…people in glass houses? You would think someone from New Jersey would be more sympathetic towards a native from another place with a bum wrap. Or maybe making fun of someplace else just helps ease the pain of years and years of getting bullied by New York.
Some non-natives may not outright criticize St. Louis as Mr. Jersey did, but on more than one occasion I have experience attitudes of superiority from transplants from the coasts. Like Sittenfeld described of her and her husband’s attitudes on first arriving in the city after living in Washington D.C. and Philadelphia, coastal transplants seems to find a lack of sophistication in our city because we might not have the raging nightlife or fast-paced energy or as many hybrid cars or…whatever. And that subtle, veiled feeling of being a tad superior for having lived elsewhere before comes across in comments like, “It’s funny how hardly anyone uses your mass transit system,” or “People sure have an interesting way of saying forty-four around here,” or “Why does everyone care what high school you went to?” or “With a crust that thin, can you really call it pizza?” We sense it. And it makes us feel bad about our own city, while in our own city, even though we shouldn’t feel that way. We listen too much to people who don’t know St. Louis like we do, and that is what leads so many of us to become the “self-hating Midwesterners” that Sittenfeld mentions. We are right to love our city the way it is, and we really don’t need anyone else’s approval for doing so.
It is nice that Sittenfeld wrote the piece out of love for the Midwest. And it makes me happy that she and her family have found their place here; though it doesn’t surprise me at all that they did. St. Louis really is an easy city to love. Which is why my Facebook friends and all those local businesses, attractions, and radio stations shouldn’t have been surprised that praises for our home made it to The New York Times, so surprised that they felt the need to make sure everyone knew the cool kid had noticed us. After all, if the St. Louis Post-Dispatch ran a piece about what a great city New York is, I doubt anyone in New York would even notice. Because they know they are fabulous. And we should know we are as well.
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Okay…in my last post I promised that if I got to 320 followers by next week, I would make a sequel video to “My Van Is Stacked.”
Well….I am just TWO FOLLOWERS SHORT!!!!!!
My husband is hoping I don’t make it, as he isn’t looking forward to the pretty ridiculous amount of time I spent making the last video. But come on, people…just two more!!!
I have been floating around some ideas, some songs, some dance moves. It might just end up being spectacular. At the very least, you can witness a YouTube catastrophe and add one more notation in the ways your are likely cooler than me.
It can happen via Facebook. It can happen via Twitter. It can happen via the “Send Me to Your Inbox” button on the home page. It can happen via WordPress. It just needs to happen. Twice. By Tuesday.
I’ll be on the edge of my seat until then.
P.S. Thanks for sharing my blog. Even if the only reason you do is because of bribery.
I am not a big fan of my nose, which is probably why I am a closeted nosy person.
By nature, I am nosy. I like knowing what is going on with people. I love getting some good scoop. I am happy to quickly agree to keep information “just between you and me” in exchange for some highly classified gossip. The problem is, I just really suck at being nosy to get this information in the first place.
You could call it a struggle between the angel and devil on my shoulders. You could applaud me for resisting the temptation to pry in favor of taking the high road. But the honest truth is that I am hardly ever “in the know” because I am usually either plain old forgetful or just plain chicken. In most situations, I will decline snooping into someone’s business because I am deathly afraid of offending people, or I worry that I don’t have the correct social graces to properly react to whatever salacious answer I might get. In other cases, I simply forget to ask how someone’s mom is doing or how the job hunt is going…not because I don’t care, but because those questions are not written down in my planner, which is the only way I remember anything.
But my lack of snooping skills doesn’t keep me from wondering. So now that I am thinking of it, I would like to take this opportunity to be nosy.
Who are YOU??
I am often curious about my readers, especially as I have been slowly gaining new followers. Some of you I know personally (hi, mom!); some of you I have gotten to know through interactions in the comments section or by reading your blogs. But most of you are simply known to me as “the number of views” on my stats page or the “number of Facebook shares” at the bottom of each post. I would like to know a little about you.
Where are you from? Do you have kids? What do you do for a living? Do you also blog? What is an interesting fact about you? Do you share my affinity for random references to the 80’s or early 90’s? Do you have any parenting tips that work really well for you? Do you know of any cool books I might like to read? Are you interested in forming a support group for women who were unsuspecting victims of a Chuck E. Cheese pick up line?
So let’s dish. I promise to keep it between you and me…and anyone else who happens to read this blog. I’m really hoping I come to have at least 298 comments on this post, as that is the exact number of followers I have to date. And now that we know each other a little, I would love you even more than I already do for even reading my blog if you would take a minute or so to share my blog. 298 followers is really just begging to be 300. I will even sweeten the deal: if I can get at least 22 new followers (bringing the total to a nice round 320) in the next week between email subscriptions, Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest and WordPress, I will begin working on a new original music video as a follow-up to “My Van Is Stacked” for your viewing pleasure. I have no idea what will result from it, but I can promise my kids will again bring their smooth moves to the project.
I have been hogging the conversation for way too long. Please, tell me more about you. And remember…the bigger this party becomes, the more of this you have to look forward to:
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When I was a teacher, one of my favorite pieces of literature I had my students read was The Misanthrope by Moliere. For those of you who may not be familiar, it is a 17th century comedic play, written entirely in rhyming verse, that pokes fun at the hypocrisies of the French aristocracy. Moliere accomplishes this primarily through his main character, Alceste, the misanthrope, who very simply hates humankind. Alceste easily sees through insincere words and is quick to point out the despicable behavior so prevalent in aristocratic society. The piece is quite witty, and the rhyming verse makes it as fun to read as a good children’s book. Only it makes you feel all smart and sophisticated since it’s French…and old.
I bring up The Misanthrope not because it would be a smashing addition to your summer reading list (though it would), but because God must have mistaken my admiration and love for the play as a prayer for a misanthrope of my own. Because he gave me Michael, the littlest misanthrope.
Not only does Michael hate humankind, Michael hates just about everything. I know this because regardless of what I bring up to him, his response is often that he hates whatever it is. Michael, it’s time to go to school. I hate school. Michael, we’re having chicken for dinner. I hate chicken. Michael, why don’t you go see if those kids by the sandbox want to play. I hate those kids. Michael, did you see that huge possum just cross the street? I hate possums. I think I might head to Target this afternoon. I hate Target. SCREEEECH! Okay, I won’t let that one slide. Saying “I hate Target” is pretty much the supreme profanity in my house…the house that Target built…well, that Target decorated, and made cleaner, and populated with candles, and filled closets with cute, affordable clothes and shoes. WE don’t hate Target. That is not how I raise my children.
So my kid hates everything. Well, almost everything. The only things he seems pretty adamant about liking are sugar and, for some unknown reason that makes me laugh and weep all at the same time, Justin Bieber. On more than one occasion he has named the Biebs his #1 favorite musician, despite never having heard an actual Justin Bieber song. Well, I actually like Justin Bieber. I just do. Fact: I am more worried about my child being a Belieber than a misanthrope.
For a time I thought maybe Michael might be outgrowing his misanthropic phase (and hopefully his Belieber phase along with it). Instead of hating everything, he started wanting everything to be a joke. Usually that just means he adds the word pee/poop/butt/eyeball/diaper (or some compound combination) somewhere into his statement. Why did the chicken cross the road? To get to the dirty diaper eyeball station! If I ask him what he wants for lunch, I might get an answer along the lines of a poop sandwich…with celery. Sometimes his humor comes in the form of bodily noises or other sounds that only other kids think are funny. Once, after I told him that his preschool teacher commented that he was doing really well in school, he was not surprised. He knew exactly why he received that compliment:
“Well, I’m funny. I’m so funny. I’m the funniest one in the class. When I took my tortilla to the trash, I was an elephant with my arm and everyone laughed. I also know how to snort now. *SNORT*!!” (Side note: He was likely taking his tortilla to the trash because, you guessed it, he hates tortillas. )
While so far, his brand of humor hasn’t tickled my funny bone, I do prefer this demeanor over that of the littlest misanthrope. Fingers crossed that I could end up with the littlest Will Ferrell. I could get behind that.
Only it looks as though Michael may be adding yet another facet to his personality. Recently he almost seems to have found a certain meaninglessness in things. Michael, “Team Umizoomi” is on television. So? Michael, you get to go to Mimi and Papa’s house today. So? Michael, it’s time to pick up your sister from school. So? Michael, world peace has broken out and the Hershey’s company has decided to now make their chocolate bars in our backyard. So? I’m just playing with my Transformers right now.
Great. Now I have the littlest Existentialist on my hands. I hear they are beasts to discipline with that whole I’m-an-individual-who-creates-my-own-values-and-true-essence-so-stop-trying-to-thrust-the-absurd-and-meaningless-outside-world-onto-me-lest-I-cast-myself-into-the-pit-of-despair-or-at-the-very-least-become-anxious-that-I-even-have-the-possibility-of-casting-myself-into-the-pit-of-despair. I need to nip this thing in the bud right now because the last thing I need is a teenage Existentialist.
Did Dr. Spock have any suggestions for parenting through this? Because I’m pretty sure neither Kierkegaard nor Camus ever wrote any parenting books. And the only parenting advice I could find from Will Ferrell was this quote from Parade Magazine: “Don’t let them play in old abandoned refrigerators. Let’s see, what else? If you’re flying with your children, it’s better to book them on the same flight as you and not on a separate one just so they can have more leg room or something. Travel as a family.” I mean, it’s good advice. It just doesn’t help me with my particular situation.
Man, maybe Alceste was right. Human nature can be a real pain in the eyeball-poop-butt sometimes.
*Nerd Notes: If you are interested in reading The Misanthrope by Moliere, I recommend the version translated by Pulitzer Prize-winning poet Richard Wilbur, which is superior to all others. If you are thinking that what your summer beach experience needs is an Existentialist page-turner, you can’t go wrong with The Stranger by Albert Camus. Cool pop culture fact: The song “Killing an Arab” by The Cure was inspired by and based on The Stranger, and not a song with racist overtones as the title suggests.
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