Do I Smell Salmon?

Could I have ordered steak? I will never know.

It happens every time we eat out.

“How many?’ We answer three and yes we would like a kids menu. We are then shuttled to the obvious kid area of the restaurant where a mix of crayons and Cheerios litter the floor and where other parents are sequestered from the “real” patrons. There is usually a toddler nearby in a high chair banging a spoon or a stroller with way too much baby gear parked near the table near the restroom.

We’ve adapted to this reality even though our son is now older and has table manners. But what comes next annoys my husband and now myself as I have noticed it too. The waiter comes over, drops off water glasses and NEVER shares the specials. Never.

Is this trite? Absolutely. It was a game at first. Will they or won’t they? And now, after taking an informal count, only once in the last 6 months have we ever heard the specials. We hear other patrons nearby being told of delicate salmon prepared with rosemary potatoes, braised ribs, and all other sorts of fun things that we only dare to dream of. They are offered wine lists while we wait endlessly for bread.

My husband at first thought it was racial since we are in a mixed marriage. We live in the SF Bay Area where tolerance for everything is quite high so I shot that down. Then he thought maybe it was that we weren’t “fancy” looking preferring jeans and sneakers. But the reality is that when you are seated in the kid zone of the restaurant you may as well be in the Antarctic.

On behalf of parents every where, waiters, please don’t assume we parental folks are not interested in real food. We do eat more than macaroni cheese and chicken tenders. And yes, we do tip. So bring on the bread basket, wine list, specials and dessert menus. Chances are we need a drink after sitting in kid land.

 

Ho Ho No?

I remember the day that the gig was up. I was about six or seven years old and had asked my mom for some gum. She was in the shower and replied that I should go find her purse and help myself. I toddled off to her bedroom and found the mother lode: all my Christmas presents from Santa wrapped and ready to go under her bed.

Fast forward many years later and now my seven-year old is asking questions. Last week alone he asked three times if I was Santa. I asked where he heard such things. School mates of course. And then I asked why did he care? His response tickled my funny bone: “Because I need to know if I need to do this thing for my kids…”

I think he knows. But his eyes still glow with the magic of one who wants to believe in tooth fairies and Santa. I think I may dance around this one until January. I would love to get one more magical year of putting out cookies and leaving carrots for the reindeer.

The Competitive Mom

I think I may have had this conversation.

The Reluctant Neighbor

Suburbia: the final frontier

When I was about six we lived on a cul-de-sac ripe with kids. We all rode bikes, had sleepovers, ruled the local park, had scavenger hunts and played kickball until sunset and relished being a kid. Then Debbie moved in.

She was one of seven kids. They lived two doors down and their house was chaos. It was a three bedroom house and there was so much activity over there I couldn’t see straight. As a then only child, so many people in such closed quarters exhausted me.

Debbie must have sensed the calm (and hefty amount of junk food) at my abode. She would practically stalk our driveway waiting for us to come home and would arrive at 7am on Saturday morning ready to play. My mom was polite but hated the constant doorbell ringing. And Debbie and I weren’t even that close of friends. It was awkward.

Flash forward many years. One of my 6-year-old son’s classmates has moved in next door. His mom seems nice enough but I can tell wants us and the boys to buddy up. After 10 minutes of casual conversation, her boy wanted to carpool, come over for dinner and have a sleepover. She then suggested babysitting, promised to call or come over this Saturday and has inquired already about our plans for next weekend.

Maybe I am a curmudgeon. I instantly had flashbacks of Debbie and was wondering if this new kid in our neighborhood would be my son’s Debbie. I threw some trash away tonight under the cover of darkness and  felt myself looking over my shoulder to see if they were running out their door.

I know I need to play nice with others and welcome this new friend but I also need to set up some ground rules. I think I will start with “mommy doesn’t do playdates before 10am on weekends.” Heck, we are still just waking up at 9am on the weekend. Ah, the joys of navigating the murky waters of classroom friendships. But I must be open to a new friend and also learn how to say no — just like back in the day with Debbie.

Finding My Inner Scout

You can find me in the tent.

I am at one of those parental crossroads. My soon-to-be 7-year-old son wants to join Boy Scouts.

At first, I was smitten with the idea of him in a cute hat and neckerchief fashioning derby cars from chunks of pine wood. Who can resist such cuteness?

So we went to two informational meetings and I was surprised at what I saw. The mom side of me was not keen on the boys I saw running amok (hello 4th graders —  you are old enough to sit down and hush it for five minutes). But what I wasn’t expecting was my apparent instinct to bolt when things became too contrived.

As I was watching the Webelos (a name that brings rampant chuckling in our house) get some badges for mysterious things like Marble Math and Aquanuts, the whole thing struck me as curious: you pay to join, pay to do activities, all in the quest of a badge. And when kids see other kids with more badges, they too want to do the expensive thing to get their “flair.” There were some kids there with so much badge bling that they had a separate vest to sport their looks.

I dunno. And then I recall that when I was a kid that well, er, the Boy Scout kids were the super-nerds. Not the smart guys that went on to own mega corporations, but the slightly funky guys who had social issues. I am hoping that the social cool/lame distinction is still a few years off for my son.

We walked away from the meeting and my son was torn. He thought the kids were “too rowdy” but the thought of camping, fishing and other wee guy things was too strong. He wants to be a Wolf.

So, now I am heading to REI to look at tents for a camping trip late in October that I am sure will be an adventure in my ineptitude as a scout mommy. Maybe that is the hardest part of all of this: when he joins Boy Scouts, so do I. When I was a Brownie back in the early 80’s our troop disbanded due to an alcoholic troop leader. I am pretty much a cynic.  And as such I just don’t know if I am cut out for sewing on patches and singing kumbaya around the campfire with other folks. Time will only tell.

Fashion Flashback

I was at Target today and was surprised at the return of the mid ’80’s. Back in the day, acid wash,  pegging your jeans and oversized sweaters ruled. It appears they are back.

Suddenly I Hear Hair Bands...

I snapped this pic and then cruised the new food aisles and lo and behold a woman with a perm and these very pants dyed purple (remember that gem?) complete with slouch boots stood before me buying Cinnamon Toast Crunch. It was scary on many, many, levels.

The Power Moms

You can spy them from a mile away. Every school has them, but they take on different persona’s and outfits. At our elementary school the uniform of choice is work out wear to reinforce that they have the luxury of working out midday, hair coiffed in a way that suggests that no effort was made when we all know it was, minimal make-up, fancy purse and a minivan. These are the Power Moms.

And so it begins.

Every year our school hosts a “Welcome Back Day” where parents walk through a seemingly endless line of enrollment form queue’s only to be greeted with a request for “suggested” financial donations to the school. This is testing ground for the Power Moms. Here, they run the queue’s and seek out their potential brethren. The outfits here are always perfect, down to the manicured toes and matching lipstick.

These are more than just PTA and soccer moms. They are high-powered female executives who left mighty careers to raise their kids. And they bring that same energy and efficiency to the school yard.

A few days later on the first day of school, after the kids are settled and the tears are wiped away, all the parents gather in the cafeteria for coffee, sweets and judging folks from afar. Okay, I made that last part up.

I dread and look forward to this event. I instantly revert to my high school nerd self, watching in awe as the pretty cheerleader-type laughs and tosses her hair over her shoulder with such ease. Instead, I guard the cookie plate and pretend to look relaxed. I wonder how these women find the time to get so dolled up at 6am and I wonder if they were indeed high school cheerleaders. I was in the marching band. And I apparently am still marching to a different beat.

This year, one of the Power Moms waved to me. Then she realized I wasn’t who she thought I was. Awkward. It is weird how I want to hang out with these women. Wait, that is not entirely true. Part of it is pure amazement that such people exist and pull it off so easily. I am sure they are nice and lovely folks too. And there is some jealousy. I would love to work out at 10am and then “do lunch.”  Heck, I would settle for just the “do lunch.”

If this year is anything like last year, I can expect some uncomfortable planning meetings for school events, re-introducing myself three or four times, guarding more cookie plates, and being assigned the less than desired volunteer jobs. At least there are cookies.

Life in the Burbs

This is not from the Welcoming Committee

My husband is a nice guy.  He smiles when he greets you. He doesn’t smell funky. He (in general) says “please” and “thank you” when he is supposed to.  That makes it all the more annoying when he found this note on his car today. 

 In case you can’t read this lovely note it says:

Why do you park here? We are watching “you.” Park some where else!

I have mentioned it before, but man oh man am I glad we are only renting.

Oh Christmas Tree…

Today is February 1st. Generally at this time of year, one’s thoughts turn to the possibilities of Spring, Valentine’s Day and crisp winter days doused in sunshine. Ah, life. 

Well, here at the condo complex where we are renting, the topic of discussion is not whether Puxatawney Phil will see his shadow, but rather the infamous flocked tree. 

A few background points: flocked trees are not recycled where we live. Don’t know why, it is what it is. And the last day for “regular” holiday tree recycling was January 5th. 

All Bagged and No Place to Go

So, imagine my amusement when I found this tree blocking the walk to the trash. I am impressed that a) someone had such a tall tree (8 footer at least) when the ceilings here barely allow a short douglas fir, b) that the tree was placed at the recycling bin during the cover of midnight, magically appearing at day break (such a stealth tree bagging operation!), and c) that another neighbor decided to engage the tree-leaver via a note. 

“Whoever did this is lazy,uncaring and does not respect the fact that others live here!  

P.S. Merry Christmas. Sort of late to be taking your flocked tree down.” 

But not to be outdone, the tree-leaver had a response later in the day: 

“I think you would be better served spending your time on something more worthy than being the dumpster police.” 

Dear John for Old Tannenbaum

I am so glad we are just renters.