Are You Finished Yet?

Eye of the Tiger, Juice of the Freckle

Published on October 23, 2012September 3, 2013 by Kelly Suellentrop4 Comments

Are you ready to read this blog post?…I can’t hear you! ARE YOU READY TO READ THIS BLOG POST???? Well, this should pump you up:

So I have admittedly never watched this music video before now, and somehow the bad-assitude of that song diminished the moment I saw a gaggle of mullets led by Captain Beret struttin’ down what clearly looks like a perfectly safe, well-lit city street.

Bad 80’s music video aside, “Eye of the Tiger” is arguably one of the top go-to songs when it comes to getting oneself psyched up, especially in the arena of athletics. And it conveniently came on the radio as we were driving to my daughter’s soccer game. I could feel its magic working on me; I was definitely pumped to go spectate the hell out of that game! But Grace was just sitting in the backseat, reading Freckle Juice by Judy Blume.

t-ball — Looking eager in the field during a T-ball game

Throughout her young sports career, Grace has not exactly been the picture of the enthusiastic athlete. There was the time in pre-K soccer when the other team scored and she marched off the field, declared she was done, and walked straight to the parking lot. (My husband and I were of course laughing at her and videotaping the whole thing.) And then there was the time in first grade during her school’s annual kickball tournament when she was so clearly not enthralled with the game that she let three kicks go right past her without missing a beat in her conversation with a friend. We don’t force her to play sports, mind you; she is always willing to sign up. It is only after we have paid the slightly ridiculous fee that she suddenly informs us that the answer of “yes, I would like to play soccer again this year,” actually means, “no, I did not really want to play soccer even though I said I did, so I will now just whine every time you tell me I have to go to practice or a game.”

Thanks to my psychology minor (I totally just impressed you, didn’t I?), I know that part of her apathy stems from her belief that she just isn’t a good athlete…which stems from her fear of not being perfect at something the very first time she does it…which stems from the unfortunate strain of DNA I passed along to her. So when “Eye of the Tiger” began rockin’ our four-door sedan, I took this as a teachable moment of sorts. All Grace really needed was a little confidence to help her see all the fun that can be had playing a sport. Maybe what she needed was the eye of the tiger. It helped Rocky beat Mr. T, after all. And Grace only needed to beat a bunch of other second grade girls…fool.

Me: “Hey, G. You hear this song?”

Grace: “Uh huh.”

Me: “Well, this is probably the best song you could hear right before your soccer game. Lots of athletes listen to this song to get themselves pumped up to play. It’s got a good beat that gets you excited.”

Grace: (not even looking up from her book) That’s nice.

So much for the thrill of the fight. Apparently freckles are more thrilling.

But I bet you would never guess what happened next. Grace played the game of her life! The girl who normally does everything she can to avoid the ball was alert, aggressive, energetic…dare I say good? Maybe the “Eye of the Tiger” worked after all.

Or was it Freckle Juice? Was my daughter’s inner athlete awakened by a rousing piece of literature? I joked about the coach reciting excerpts from Blume’s books as his pre-game pep talk.

Then again, Freckle Juice is about a second grade boy named Andrew who desperately wishes he had freckles like Nicky. Unhappy with the way he is, Andrew allows himself to get taken advantage of trying to get freckles only to find out in the end that Nicky actually hates his own freckles. And both boys are reassured by their teacher that they are each just the way they need to be: Andrew is perfect without freckles; Nicky is perfect with them.

Well, look at that. A story about confidence. Just what she needed. I have always believed that literature is amazing stuff.

So tell me. What story gets you pumped up?

“Caring for Your Enginerd”: A Guest Post by Maggie Singleton

Published on October 15, 2012September 3, 2013 by Kelly Suellentrop10 Comments

I have decided it is time to diversify. Mix it up. Share the limelight. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the very first “Are You Finished Yet?’ Guest Blog Post, written by author Maggie Singleton. She is a very good friend of mine, so please don’t embarrass me. Mouths closed, “reading eyes” open, and give her your full attention.

Caring for Your Enginerd by Maggie Singleton

Kelly and I have been friends for nearly four years now. Sure, we have bonded through watching our mini-me firstborns move on from preschool to elementary school; and we have also bonded through slowly but surely finding our way as writers and bloggers; but there is something ever more central that bonds us like epoxy: our beloved enginerds.

“Enginerd” is a term Kelly coined a few years back to describe her husband—a combination of intelligent person possessing nerd-like qualities who can still uphold a relatively decent conversation. That pretty much describes my enginerd, too. I’m sure you know the type…the guys who can be found reading Popular Science or working a Rubik’s cube challenge for fun at any given moment. You see, it’s more than a career for the enginerd; it’s a mindset.

Now some of the traits I’m about to describe may sound general to half the population; but forgive me for not knowing the difference. My dad was an enginerd; his dad was an enginerd; most of Andy’s close friends are enginerds; heck, even some of my friends are married to enginerds or are enginerds themselves. I’m surrounded!

In case you find yourself in my shoes, I thought I would provide you with some tips on how to properly care for the enginerd in your life:

Enginerds do not like surprises. You know that surprise birthday party you would love for your husband to throw for you and thought you’d give him the “hint” by throwing one for him? You may want to rethink that. Enginerds like to know what’s going to happen, when it’s going to happen, where they should be, how they are going to get there, and who they should know when they arrive. Simply put: they like plans. So don’t mess with them. Care for your enginerd by providing as much information about an event as possible, and then hope to God nothing changes.

Enginerds cannot take a hint. An enginerd’s mind is capable of understanding the most complex of systems and could create a machine bigger than the room you’re sitting in; but if you want that cute necklace on page 24, you’re going to have to get out a pen and paper and write it down. Take good care of your enginerd by letting your needs be known. On paper. No guesswork = far less drama in the long run.

You may get more than you asked for from an enginerd. If you ask an enginerd what time it is, you may or may not get the answer you’re looking for. Instead of simply telling you the time, he very well could launch into a dissertation about how a watch works instead. Sometimes enginerds have difficulty finding the forest in the trees. Help redirect your enginerd with gentle yet firm statements like, “I said WHAT TIME IS IT?!?”

Enginerds are efficiency experts. Why spend ten minutes talking about something that could be settled in two? Case in point: our texts to each other. More often than not, my texts would go over the 160 character limit every time I sent a message under our old plan (thankfully for me, the new one doesn’t have a limit). His reply would usually be under five words. Simple, direct, and to the point. That’s my enginerd! Perhaps you can care for your enginerd by making all of your communication in Haiku.

Enginerds are “pretty good.” I have come to realize that “pretty good” is my enginerd’s highest form of adulation. If I just knocked his socks off with a new recipe, he’ll be sure to tell me it was “pretty good.” And that flirty dress he likes is “pretty nice” looking, too. If he were to go on and on about my cooking, it would expend far too much emotion and communication for his taste (and his logic might add that I would expect that same amount of praise the next time. Smart fella.) If he keeps his cool in every situation and only ups the ante with the occasional “that’s really good,” then it takes longer to reach his drama threshold. Care for your enginerd by keeping drama to a minimum.

enginerd measuring height — Most.accurate.height.measurement.ever.

Enginerds accept no substitutes. Enginerds work ceaselessly to achieve (near) perfect designs. Be it a remodeling project, a great rib recipe, or a work assignment, they want it done right—every time. And once an acceptable state of precision has been met, they do not mess with it. Ever. (Well, unless they know exactly how and why a change is necessary and statistically how much better something will be as a result, of course.) An enginerd would argue that this same consistency and standardization *should* apply to the entire household. For example, you should not substitute Kahlua for vanilla in a batch of tried and true chocolate chip cookies because your enginerd will probably sniff out the imposter ingredient like a Bloodhound. In the future, if you are unable to make something according to “exact design specifications,” do your enginerd a loving favor and make brownies instead.

I do hope that this list of tips helps you deal with your enginerd. It certainly helps me appreciate mine more just writing about him (blog therapy?). I want to thank Kelly for this fun opportunity to share about something near and dear to both of our hearts. If you enjoyed this blog, you might also enjoy an article called “Caring for Your Introvert” by Jonathan Rauch from which this blog was inspired. If you have one of those on your hands, take a look!

Maggie Singleton is an author, blogger, editor, and an advocate for women married to enginerds. And she’s always good for picking up your kid from preschool when you find yourself in a pinch because you are of course stuck in the only checkout lane open at Walmart, manned by their most inefficient employee, but I’ll be damned if you’re going to abandon ship only to come back to that hell hole later with your kid in tow to purchase the same stuff that is sitting in your basket at this very moment.

You can find her brilliant book Milk Diaries: a compilation of practical, encouraging advice from the “real” breastfeeding experts on Amazon. Go read more of Maggie on her own blog at Perspective Writing and Editing.

And you (or the enginerd in your life) can check out what her enginerd husband is up to at Top-Down Engineering.

There You Go, Mom…Making Me Learn Stuff Again

Published on October 9, 2012October 9, 2015 by Kelly Suellentrop7 Comments

My parents did a very convenient thing: they were born four days apart from each other. Needless to say, when they hit those important milestone birthdays, it makes things easier on me and my siblings. One giant bang of a celebration, and we are good. That is exactly what we did this past weekend. I am still exhausted.

P1000351 — Do I really have parents this old?

My dad welcomed his sixth decade on earth last week, and today it is my mom’s turn. But today is a little more than just a birthday; it is a celebration of second chances. As my dad tearfully admitted at their party, there were two times in his life when he didn’t think he would live to see 60: when he almost fell from a jerry-rigged rope bridge between two fly ash electrostatic precipitators (…um, no clue. That is total enginerd territory), and when he was being wheeled down a hospital corridor on his way to a quadruple bypass surgery. And there was one time, much more recently, when he was afraid my mom wouldn’t make it to 60, either (cue the tears from the entire room, the resulting red eyes ruining all good photo ops during the “Happy Birthday” song…thanks, Dad).

I have only mentioned my mom’s accident once in this blog, for a few reasons. I try to keep this space fairly light-hearted, mostly because I don’t like reading stuff from negative nancies, so why would I expect other people to be interested in reading about my woes? Second, facing things like the mortality of your parents is pretty heavy and emotional stuff and, well, I have a good dose of German blood running through my veins. We don’t always deal with that stuff very well. We like to bottle it up; and when we do let it out, it usually results in a rather uncontrollable “ugly cry” and virtually indecipherable words between sobs.

But let me give you the Cliff’s Notes version of everything that has happened the last five or so months: My mom had been having these spells where she would pass out, and the doctors were not sure what was causing them. Before they could figure it out, she unfortunately fainted and fell one morning, landing on her head. She fractured her neck and bruised her spinal cord, an injury that could have very well left her completely paralyzed or dead. There was quite a long time of uncertainty about how my mom’s body would heal. The doctors said she would regain feeling and mobility in her hands and feet, but they could not say how much or how quickly. And they still couldn’t figure out what was making her pass out, which put her in danger of the same thing happening again. After weeks in the hospital, dealings with blood clots, months at a rehab facility, and even more months in outpatient therapy, my mom has persevered and is able to walk on her own again. The cause of the fainting spells has been found to be seizures, and she is now on the appropriate medication to (hopefully) keep this from happening again. She is still not back to where she was pre-accident, and probably never will be. But considering the alternatives, I don’t think I would have it any other way.

So today, my mom has made 60 even more fabulous than it would have been. And to celebrate, I would like to share six things I have learned from my mom’s accident.

Sexy. (*not my mom's legs) via Wikipedia licensed under CC BY 2.0 — Sexy. (*not my mom’s legs) via Wikipedia licensed under CC BY 2.0

1. My mom can rock a pair of TED hose compression stockings like nobody’s business. She even pulled them off with formal wear at two weddings this summer. Who needs fish nets?

2. I am apparently of the age where doctors seem to feel I am the keeper of and the person whom should be consulted about my parents’ health history and concerns as well as the medications they are on. And I am absolutely not comfortable with that. When my mom was in the hospital, her neurosurgeon (who was quickly dubbed as being “my buddy”) would direct all conversation about my mom’s condition to ME…despite the fact that my father, the patient’s HUSBAND, who is of sound mind and body, was also in the room. Dude, my parents are just turning 60. They aren’t that old. I’m not committing them to the nursing home quite yet. I still refuse to believe I am old enough to be the mother of a seven-year-old, let alone keep track of the bazillion and one medications you are about to put my mother on. Give me a few more years to defer all important decisions to my parents. I’m not the matriarch yet. Geez.

3. No matter how young you are, everyone who uses a walker ends up looking like my Great Aunt Ginny, God rest her soul. Sorry, Mom. You were totally doing the Aunt Ginny shuffle.

4. The best motivation for not having to be confined to a wheelchair for the rest of your life is to order your wheelchair from a company who never actually delivers said wheelchair. It’s a long and ridiculous story (as are most things health insurance related), but basically, my mom never got the wheelchair they ordered. So it’s a good thing she’s walking now.

5. When the going gets tough, you realize how amazing your friends and family are. My mom is lucky to have so many people who care about her. The outpouring of prayers and support was vast. Even better was the number of friends and family who were literally at my mom’s side; bringing dinners, driving her to therapy, keeping her company at home before she got the green light to be by herself, and taking her to the store or just out to lunch. That did wonders for my mom’s spirit. But it also put my dad at ease as he went back to work, enabled my sister and I to keep our own households running, and helped my brother deal with being in another city, knowing that mom was cared for. We are all so grateful for this band of generous souls.

6. My mom is pretty bad ass. If you would have asked me that day in the emergency room if I thought my mom would be where she is today, doing what she is doing less than six months from the accident, I probably would have said no. Not because I didn’t have any faith in my mom, but simply because everything was so unknown and, frankly, scary. But my mom did not let that get the better of her. And I know that she is doing as well as she is today not only because of the miraculous way the body can heal itself, but mostly because my mom decided on how she wanted things to be. And she made it so.

So Happy 60th Birthday, Mom! Welcome to the decade of second chances, you compression stocking fashionista, you. Love you.

A Re-Gift to My Dad

Published on October 5, 2012February 17, 2014 by Kelly Suellentrop2 Comments

Today my dad turns sixty years old. Over the years, I have drawn comparisons of him to many different people. A slave driver. A jail warden. The big, giant, scary, fire and brimstone floating wizard head in The Wizard of Oz. Okay, okay…I kid. But he does do a spot-on impersonation of my Great Aunt Ginny eating. And he was calling the majority of the world’s Continue reading “A Re-Gift to My Dad” →

Parkour, Anyone?

Published on October 1, 2012 by Kelly Suellentrop6 Comments

Have you ever heard of parkour?

A few weeks ago, my husband and I took our kids to Elephant Rocks State Park, which is pretty much one of the coolest places on earth. The park consists of 1500 million-year-old granite that has been worn away to create giant boulders. Aside from being absolutely breathtaking, the park is a wonderland of rocky mazes to run and climb about. Naturally, it was also the perfect place to teach our children about the art of parkour.

I may be a few years behind on the phenomenon (which is my typical time frame for picking up on fads), but the only reason I came to know about parkour was because of a television show (which is my typical source for picking up on just about anything). Some of you may remember an episode of The Office that involved Michael, Dwight, and Andy displaying their smooth parkour moves around Dunder Mifflin. Well, I just don’t think I could have lived with myself if, while at Elephant Rocks, I didn’t have my kids do their impression of The Office doing their impression of parkour.

So without further ado, I will let these videos…in a particular order, from real parkour to, um, least real parkour… do the talking.

Actual Parkour

The Office Parkour

Grace’s and Michael’s Parkour

Me and Debbie Gibson: Separated At Birth?

Published on September 19, 2012September 19, 2012 by Kelly Suellentrop8 Comments

At our house, we like to have music playing during dinner. Seeing as how we are not the kind of family who “dresses for dinner” (in fact, Michael is usually in some state of undress by dinnertime), we don’t listen to anything refined like Beethoven. One is more likely apt to hear Dave Matthews Band, O.A.R., the bluesy incarnation of John Mayer, maybe Foo Fighters every now and again; and if I’m lucky, my husband will throw me a bone and play one of The Monkees albums. But only if I’m lucky.

Last night the ipod landed on my Debbie Gibson playlist. (Laugh at my musical preferences if you will, but don’t pretend you didn’t just let out a barely audible “awww yeeaahh” and mindlessly sing, “Shake your love. I just can’t shake your love.”) Grace was particularly happy about this dinner music, having discovered quite the adoration for her mom’s favorite old tunes…which makes me particularly happy that she is jammin’ to Gibson and her squeaky clean pop instead of to some maturing Disney starlet who feels some pressing need to prove she is growing up by also proving she is ~~a hoochi mama~~ sexually empowered.

So there we were, chewing on our pork tenderloin to the bubble gum beats. A little “Only in My Dreams.” Spicing things up with “Red Hot.” Then Debbie slowed things down with “Lost in Your Eyes.” My husband felt the need to add his own commentary that “mommy likes to sing this song to me.” (Which is not true…because singing that song to him would kind of be like cheating. I used to sing that song to my poster of Micky Dolenz in my room. It’s “our song.” Mine and poster Micky Dolenz’s.) So when I failed to flex my not-so-golden pipes in response, Kurt protested, “Aren’t you going to sing to me?”

“You want me to paint a smiley face on my knee, too?” I asked.

He stared at me with a blank expression. Preteen Kurt obviously did NOT have the Out of the Blue cassette tape in his boombox rotation, otherwise he would have understood my clearly witty reference. So I explained what Miss Gibson was wearing on that album cover, ingrained in my memory as being the height of fashion: the ripped, tight-rolled jeans exposing her happy knee, the white Keds, the giant earrings, the striped shirt…

At that very moment, I glanced down at myself and realized I was wearing this:

And of course, that meant that THIS had to be done:

It took me twenty-five years to finally be as cool as Debbie Gibson was in 1987. I think a little Electric Youth perfume would really be the piece de resistance to complete the outfit.

Now let’s get back to the dance party with a little more “Shake Your Love”…while I go tease my bangs.

Hey Smarty Pants…You’re Not So Smart

Published on September 16, 2012July 22, 2014 by Kelly Suellentrop4 Comments

Isn’t it annoying when someone tries to unsuccessfully retell an extremely funny joke they heard? Well, get ready to be annoyed, because I’m about to do just that.

So there was this comedian whose name I can’t remember who told this joke I can’t exactly recall that went something like this: A boy and his dad are at the zoo, and the boy asks the name of an animal he sees. The dad says it’s a jaguar. Then the boy says no, it’s a tiger. No, it’s a jaguar. No, it’s a tiger. This argument goes on until the dad questions whom to believe: the one with the college degree or the one who can’t wipe his own butt. I know. I totally butchered it. But I swear it was funny. I even wasted an insane amount of time searching the internet trying to find it. Then I remembered these little things called priorities and decided my Cliff’s Notes version will have to do.

ANYWAY…My husband and I obviously found this to be a hysterical joke, and it was made all the more poignant when we took our own trip to the zoo, pointed out a jaguar to Michael, and he said the words, “No, that’s a tiger.” Ah, life imitating art. I believe this also falls into one of my subcategories of stupid questions asked by my children.

My kids continue to have completely unwarranted confidence in their knowledge about, well, everything. Take our recent trip to the World Bird Sanctuary. The following are exact quotes that were spoken from the lips of Michael:

python - world bird sanctuary — “Oh my gosh! I found a giant snake! Snakes eat candy.”

american eagle - world bird sanctuary — “There’s the American Eagle. Bawk! Bawk! Bawk!”

Other notable quotes:

Me: “Those are Madagascar Hissing Cockroaches.” Michael: “No they’re beetles.”

“Pigeons are skinny.”

It is also worth mentioning that while Michael insisted on wearing a shirt that says “Happy Birthday to Me,” it was most definitely NOT his birthday.

I used to think it was my duty as a mother to correct these misguided thoughts. But I have finally learned it is just easier not to argue…and instead wait for them to repeat one of these “facts” at school and get laughed at by the other kids. That will teach them the truth AND toughen them up at the same time. See what I did there? I just killed two birds with one stone.

No, it’s a rock.

Customers who like this blog also follow me on Facebook, Twitter (@RYouFinishedYet), Instagram (ryoufinishedyet), and Pinterest.

An Instagram Diary of Anxiety

Published on September 11, 2012September 3, 2013 by Kelly Suellentrop35 Comments

We all know there are things about becoming a parent that no one ever tells you about beforehand. Like even if you are successful at losing all your baby weight, and even a few extra pounds for good measure, your stomach will absolutely refuse to get the memo and continue to look at least three to four months pregnant.

But the thing I most wish I had known was that upon giving birth to my first child, I would also be delivering something else into my life: completely irrational anxiety. If you are a mother, you know what I am talking about. If you are a father, you’ve likely just rolled your eyes at me and silently (or not) called me crazy, because you also know what I’m talking about since your wife is probably the same way. This is how I have explained the phenomenon to my husband: “Let’s say we take the kids to a carnival. You see a hundred different ways you can have fun with the kids and evaluate which money-sucking games to avoid so you don’t spend a small fortune. I see hundreds of opportunities for child kidnappers and evaluate which rides my children would be most likely to die on.” It’s very simple really.

At first I thought maybe I was alone in my certifiable anxiety. Maybe at the very moment my motherly protective instincts kicked in, I was inadvertently drinking a Red Bull, resulting in an overprotective nature on steroids. But then I read Tina Fey’s brilliantly hysterical and absolutely truthful “A Mother’s Prayer for Her Daughter,” which made me feel normal when I came to this particular part:

“Guide her, protect her when crossing the street, stepping onto boats, swimming in the ocean, swimming in pools, walking near pools, standing on the nearby subway platform, crossing 86th Street, stepping off of boats, using mall restrooms, getting on and off escalators, driving on country roads while arguing, leaning on large windows, walking in parking lots, riding Ferris wheels, roller-coasters, log flumes, or anything called ‘Hell Drop,’ ‘Tower of Torture,’ or ‘The Death Spiral Rock N’ Zero G Roll featuring Aerosmith,’ and standing on any kind of balcony ever, anywhere, at any age.”

Black River Lodge - You're Gonna Like it Here — The BRL Entrance Sign: “You’re Gonna Like It Here.” Am I? My anxiety doesn’t think so.

I guess the only bad thing about finally feeling normal was that I also then gave myself permission to continue to feel anxious about things I logically know I shouldn’t. Let’s take this past weekend for example. We took a little trip to a place called Black River Lodge with my husband’s family. In reality, it is a no-frills vacation spot along the Black River where families can spend time together and enjoy many activities and a summer camp-like experience. But seen with “Anxiety Vision,” it is a virtual cornucopia of catastrophe.

With that, I give you my Instagram Diary of Anxiety from Black River Lodge:

Reality: The Black River. The perfect place to fish, go tubing or canoeing, catch tadpoles, and make “hotels” out of the beach rocks for said tadpoles. Anxiety Vision: A quick-moving current just waiting to grab hold of my kids and take them away forever. Just looking at this picture, I am chastising myself for not having life-jackets on them even though we did not actually get IN the river this time.

Reality: A cabin overlooking the scenic river. Anxiety Vision: How sturdy are those concrete stilts? Have you ever heard of mudslides, people? They happen in California all the time. If I’m not mistaken, the New Madrid fault is about due for a pretty sizable earthquake, and I’m not liking my odds if it happens while I’m sleeping in one of these things. Do you feel a slight tilt in this floor? We are going to wake up in the river. I just know it.

Reality: A centrally located playground where the kids can play while you can keep an eye on them from your cabin. Anxiety Vision: I’m pretty sure those are the same see-saws that were there when I was a kid. Have they repainted those things? Have they been tested for lead?

Reality: A free-standing dart board. Darts are fun. Anxiety Vision: Who the hell puts a free-standing dart board right next to the tether ball pole and right outside the rec hall where my kids spend a good chunk of their time, roaming around? Don’t they realize how easy it would be for my kids to walk right in front of this board and end up with a dart in their brains? And if they do safely make it past the dart board, there is an archery target about ten steps away. An ARCHERY TARGET! At any point of the day, some middle schooler could be shooting arrows or throwing darts. Just think about that for a minute.

Reality: The “train” that takes kids on a little ride every night after dinner. Anxiety Vision: Do the sides of those cars meet any safety regulations? Because I’m pretty sure my son could and would jump right out of those while the thing is in motion. Or at the very least, fall out because of his inability to sit still. And what about that guy driving? Does he have a license to operate a tractor? How fast is he going to drive that thing? Isn’t that the same guy I just saw drive a golf cart into a tree? Because I think it is. Can I trade out that train whistle he’s blowing on for a breathalyzer?

Reality: A well-intentioned sign warning motorists to slow down because children cross this road in order to get to the “train” and the mini-golf course. Anxiety Vision: I don’t think that sign was visible to the guy with the mullet who just drove his four-wheeler past us at max speed. Maybe we could paint a cross walk on the gravel road? Perhaps install a small stoplight? Crossing guard? Call me crazy, but I just don’t want to risk my kids’ lives to hit a ball into a hippo’s mouth.

Reality: Family style country cooking Anxiety Vision: A potential health crisis on a plate. Isn’t there a saying that you should eat the rainbow? Last I checked, brown and beige aren’t colors in the rainbow, and that’s about all that is here. So one of two things will happen. Either my husband or I will suffer a heart attack from eating this OR my kids will refuse to eat this and instead fill up only on the sugary dessert and candy from the rec hall resulting in diabetic coma. And we are in the middle of nowhere. Can someone tell me where the closest hospital is? Has anyone clocked exactly how long it takes an ambulance to respond to a medical emergency out here? Do you maybe just have a carrot in the kitchen I could munch on?

Reality: A harmless (and dead) garter snake. Anxiety Vision: THE PLACE IS INFESTED! WE ARE ALL GONNA DIE! (By the way, I am truly amazed that this picture even exists, based on how extremely horrified I am of snakes. This photo came about only because of camera zoom capabilities, cropping magic, and the fact that I was pretty sure it was already dead. Still, there was intense and prolific heebie-jeebie-ing as soon as the image was snapped.)

So there. I have just given you a glimpse into my truly disturbed mothering mind. I would like to think maybe my anxiety will mellow as the kids get older, but then I would just be fooling myself. I am anticipating the need for tranquilizers when they hit driving age.

To further quell my fears that Tina Fey and I are the only neurotic mothers out there, please feel free to share what your biggest anxieties are concerning your kids. Then we can bask in the crazy together.

Dangerous Names

Published on August 31, 2012September 3, 2013 by Kelly Suellentrop6 Comments

So I kind of have baby on the brain lately. I think I probably made my husband stop breathing with that statement, but mostly it is just because I have quite a few friends who are pregnant right now. Bringing new life into the world is filled with all kinds of land mines of excitement and frustration. And picking a name for your new bundle is just one of them.

You know how some names seem to have certain connotations to them? Come on, don’t act all I don’t judge a book by its cover on me. Whether name profiling is right or wrong (okay, it’s most definitely wrong), you know that if you hear of a kid named Bear Blu that his mother is most likely a celebrity, and also likely to chew up her child’s food for him and then spit it into his mouth.

That is why naming a child can be such a stressful thing. I was reminded of this during a conversation with a friend of mine who is expecting her third child. She and her husband seem to be at a standstill in the naming process, mostly because they have trouble agreeing on names that they both like. I can empathize. My husband and I had very few names we agreed upon. In fact, it’s a good thing we have one girl and one boy, because those two names were pretty much the only ones we both liked. If a baby #3 ever comes along, in short…we’re screwed.

In talking with my friend, I also realized that maybe part of the reason choosing a name is so hard is because men and women seem to have different tastes in names. Especially girl names. Let’s just say that both of our husbands had female name choices that hold those certain connotations I was talking about earlier.

When I became pregnant the first time, Kurt and I each made a list of names we liked, then compared. One of the names that he really liked was Brandy, and when I showed my immediate distaste for it, he just couldn’t understand why. Really? Seriously? What’s the

first thing that comes to mind when you hear that name? My answer: dancer (and not the kind you pay a lot of money to go see…well, maybe you do. It’s just all in singles). Considering that Kurt has made it definitively clear that his ultimate goal for his daughter is that she enter the convent in her teens, I was flabbergasted that he would want to name her Brandy…and that he didn’t like my suggestion of Mary because it was “too plain.” Helloooooo…Mary practically begs to have a Sister placed before it and something like Frances put after it. Mary is a surefire nun name! But Kurt still defended Brandy, saying he liked the name because of the totally rockin’ song by Looking Glass:

I’ll give it to him. I love the song. However, even the song is about a girl who hangs around sailors all the time and thinks it is okay to stay with a guy who would rather get his jollies out at sea than give her the time of day. Needless to say, we found the very acceptable compromise of Grace. And it’s a good thing, because at the age of five, she once said something on the playground that could have been worrisome otherwise. She was sliding down the fireman’s pole and yelled, “Dad, I have really good pole moves! You should see them sometime. Really. I’m really good on the pole.” Knowing that her name means “blessing and virtue” helped me laugh off this comment. Had her name been Brandy, it could have been very ominous.

So, to all my round-bellied friends and anyone else with a bun in the oven, good luck dodging the land mines of dangerous names.

Oh, and while you’re in the market for all things baby-related, check out a brand new book by my good friend and fantastic writer, Maggie Singleton. It’s called Milk Diaries: A Compilation of Practical, Encouraging Advice from the “Real” Breastfeeding Experts. She has gathered stories from many moms about their experiences breastfeeding, and it is better than any breastfeeding book I ever read as a new mom. And you can also check my own contribution in there, “The Lactation Consultant from the Black Lagoon.” Happy reading…and feeding!

A Re-Post for the King of Pop’s Birthday: Four Score and Seven Lies Ago

Published on August 29, 2012August 29, 2012 by Kelly Suellentrop2 Comments

I just realized today is Michael Jackson’s birthday, so I figured it would be a good time to repost this piece from last year. It somehow seems appropriate on many levels considering the season we are in. Happy Birthday, MJ! I’m sure my daughter and I will play a little “Michael Jackson: The Experience” dancing game on the Xbox today in your honor.

When I was in the first grade, I told everyone that Michael Jackson was my cousin. Before you get too excited, that statement is unequivocally false. I have no idea why I said it. Could I have already felt the push to be cool even as a fledgling student? Anyway, an immediate divide occurred among my classmates: my supporters versus my non-supporters. Heated debates on the playground raged as to whether a black person and a white person could be related. At this point, I am sure I felt pretty caught in the lie, and I fessed up to the truth. Surprisingly, I was not shunned as a crooked liar for those next eight years that I coexisted with these children. Some, even in the face of defeat, continued to argue in my favor that I could be Michael Jackson’s cousin if we traced my family tree back far enough.

Does the story sound familiar? I think it does. We hear it all the time. Nixon, Clinton, Blagojevich, Spitzer, Craig, Edwards, and most recently Weiner. A politician lies (which means he’s breathing – hehe), the country goes at each other’s throats trying to prove their side is right, the politician admits to the lie, some people argue that the lie is irrelevant anyway, and eventually we all move on. All the while, real problems go unsolved.

It will be a rare occurrence that I blog about politics…unless it is a rant against the politics keeping The Monkees out of The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame (I told you they would pop up now and again – see my page “Why I Like Bananas“). I do not care much for politics. In my opinion, politics are what is wrong with government. Too much “my side is right,” not enough, “let’s see if we can compromise.” Too much abuse of power, not enough empowering the country. Too much feeling I am above the law, not enough making laws that will help our people. It’s enough to cause disillusion. And that’s about where I am at with the whole thing; I have a feeling a good portion of the country is behind me.

I am aware there are people who will chide me for my apathy. I know I should care more. I know I should read more newspapers and less Sandra Boynton. I know I should watch more CNN and watch less Real Housewives. I know I should, but I don’t. I am glad there are people out there still passionate about politics, because we obviously need someone to run this country. I just wish more of the sincere, level-headed citizens of that passionate crop were the ones elevated to office: more Atticus Finches and less Svengalis. Perhaps there will come a time when I find the desire to change a crooked system. After all, my mom, who I pretty much never heard utter even the word “politics” growing up, has now become seriously active in a political campaign. Her kids all moved out, and she decided it was time to put her mark on the larger world. Maybe that will happen to me…maybe.

In the meantime, I will likely tune out when the news anchor reports on the latest politician caught in a scandal. I will get a queasy feeling when I hear a Democrat and Republican calling each other idiots for having a difference of opinion. And I will head to the polls only to stare at the ballot and sigh, because I don’t like any of my choices.

Now I think I might go listen to “Christ for President” by Wilco and ponder what life would be like with Atticus Finch as president…and Michael Jackson as my cousin.