I think I may be going about this whole thing wrong but lately, I’ve been so put off by people. Over the last few days, it seems that everyone I meet is out to impress me. They talk about the square footage of their house, how much their new car cost, what type of granite they are putting in their kitchen, how much money their spouse makes, etc, etc, etc. I have to tell you, nothing turns me off faster than someone trying to impress.

Ok, I get it. You are fabulously rich and have a ginormous car and/or kitchen. But what on earth gave you the impression that I would want to know this all within the first 15 minutes of meeting me? Did you think I would like you for your things? For whatever reason, the people I’ve bumped into the last few days have gone on and on and on about their stuff and how much it cost without so much as pausing for breath. I doubt they even remember my name during the diatribe.

Now, please understand, I’m not complaining about mommy bragging. I totally understand waxing poetic about your kids and how cute/smart/sweet they are. This is every parent’s (and grandparent’s) god-given right. As a mom, I will ohhh and ahh for the required 20 minutes with the best of them before launching into my own song and dance regarding my kids. Totally acceptable.

But the stuff? It is a major turn off. It seems these people have confused the verb befriend with impress. If you want to befriend me, listen. Ask. Console. Comisserate. If you want to befriend me, do not launch into a rambling laundry list of all the expensive things you own or how large your house is. I beg of you, please do not begin gripping and complaining about your mother-in-law or siblings. It may sound shocking but I do not jump at the chance to be BFF’s with someone who only sees the glass half full. And, “hi, I’m _____ let me tell you about everything I suffer through” is not exactly the best ice breaker.

Ok, rant over. But the next stranger who decides to complain that their 3500 sq ft house is too small, I’m going to drop the pleasant act, turn heel and walk away. Befriend people! Not impress!

I am in so much trouble. I don’t think I will ever be able to go back to work during the summer again. I can’t imagine being locked indoors, chained to a desk when the sky is this blue. Right now, my life is an idyllic blur of iced coffees, sprinklers, and dinners on the deck. I’m thinking I’m going to have to check out a career as a teacher because I don’t want to give up my summers.

Our 4th of July consisted of a pyrotechnical display courtesy of Josh and neighbor Steve. Leina was a fireworks fiend and wanted bigger, louder and brighter. Baby was a bit more reserved and prefered the safety of dad’s lap. Both girls adored Kat’s house and Leina declared it “cool” after running in and out and in and out and in and out and in and out over and over again. (Kat & Josh, sorry about you air conditioning bill.) We topped off our adventure by heading out to see the Beaver’s ball game and once again, Leina was esctatic while Kulia, not so sure. We had Leina hollering “swing batter batter batter” and “go Beaves” with all her might. Of course, the three tons of cotton candy she injested may have had something to do with her hyper mood. I think her favorite part was the 7th inning streach. We are most definately going to catch another game soon.

So aside from lounging about outside in the shade sipping cold drinks, I’ve been, well, actually, that about sums up my life. Shade, cold drink, oh yes, and sprinklers.

Now, run off to your office building like good little worker bees. I’ve got a grande iced americano calling my name that I have to get to ASAP!

It was bound to happen. Only a matter of time really. Last week, Leina uttered the “f” word at someone and I have no one to blame but myself. I mean, honestly? I can hardly get through a sentence when babies are around with dropping an “f” bomb.

“Look at those fat cheeks!”
“I love all that baby fat!”
“Give me a big fat kiss!”

Fat, fat, fat, fat. It’s everywhere in my house. It’s a heavily used word that Leina never gave another thought to until last week. And then….

We were in the toy store and a grandma and grandson came in. “Look mom, it’s a grandma!” Leina exclamed as she walked by. “She’s fat.”

I practically died. Out loud, to her face no less. Now, grandma wasn’t svelte but she wasn’t ginormous either. I’d call her lightly padded. Of course she heard and of course I apologized but the damage was done. I whisked Leina outside and tried to explain to her the error of her way.

“Leina, honey, we don’t call people fat,” I began.

“Why not mommy?” she asked, all blue eyed innocence.

“Because it’s not a nice thing to say,” I replied.

“Why not?” Leina persisted.

“Well, honey, some people don’t like to be called fat,” and by now I’m getting a bit desperate.

“Why not?” Leina repeated, confused. “What’s wrong with being fat?”

And there it was. What is wrong with being fat? Up until now, fat was merely a descriptive term. Tall, short, thin, fat. Fat was used to describe cute baby cheeks or a large slice of cake. Up until now, there were no rules on using the word fat and I found myself conflicted. Do I teach my daughter that to be fat is bad? That thin is good? Do I teach her there is a right and a wrong as far as her body goes? Does the battle of, I hate my thighs and my butt is too big really start at age 3? Do I want her to judge someone based on size?

I’m afraid I ducked the issue and hustled her into the car. The next day, Kevin came back and reported she called another large person fat at the store so I know I need to have a talk with her but I just don’t know how. I don’t want to teach her that fat is bad but I don’t want her walking around unintentionally hurting people’s feelings. Because there isn’t anything more devastating than having a small child tell you you are fat. (I speak from personal experience here.) Because at age 3, kids call it like they see it. And there in lies the problem. Leina sees a tall person and says, “wow they are tall” and I smile. She sees someone who is fat and gets repremanded when she says, quite truthfully, “wow, that mommy is fat”. Why? Not because she’s being mean or untruthful but because we adults have decided to take something normal and make it abnormal. I mean all of us carry around some fat. We do our best to hide and god forbid anyone mention it but it’s there nonetheless.

I guess Leina will have to learn that’s it’s ok to point out the skinny mom but to hold her tongue when a fat one walks by. I guess I have to start introducing her to the wonderful world of body image. Is suppose I have to teach her that “fat” is a word she can’t use even if it’s true. Because in our society, there is something wrong with being fat. Just stand outside the dressing rooms during bathsuit season. It’s amazing how many times you’ll hear the “fat” word spat out of the mouths of very normal sized women. But I guess that’s just how the game is played and it’s time Leina learned the rules. Sigh.

Dear Tracy-

I know it’s been a long dry spell for blogging and for that I apologize. You see, we’ve had quite the month of June here in the McLaughlin house. First, Papa & Tutu came to visit, then Suzy and the boys, followed closely by our old friends Dave, Shanda and their sweet son Max. So you’ll have to forgive my lack of postings. I’ll admit that things have kind of slipped on the blog front. Sorry.

But, I’m back! For reals! No joke! But before I go any farther, I have a bone to pick with you missy. It has come to my attention that you and Liza snuck off and saw Ocean’s 13… without me! Um, hello? I enjoy a bit of Clooney too you know. If I hear that you have been breakfasting at Mother’s behind my back, then it’s war baby. However, I am prepared to overlook this one transgression Ms. Tracy. I am nothing if not gracious. (ha)

Well, you probably need to get back to work so I’ll close now. But check back soon, ok? I promise I’ll get back on the old blog horse this week. But remeber, I have contacts at Mother’s so don’t even think about it…..

Ok, ready for a glimpse into my strange mind? I have a real hang up about how my kids look. Ask Kevin, he’ll attest to my strange paranoia. Since he has the fashion sense of, well, a man, I never let him dress the girls. He’ll pick some awful mismatch, rumpled, worn outfit and my heart will cringe. One glance at my poor little fashion victims and I’ll rush to their closet and pick out an entirely new outfit. I can’t help myself. I just can’t let my kids out of the house looking ungroomed. I see other kids happily frolicing about in the PJ’s they slept in with tangled hair and flip flops and I just want to grab them and change their clothes. There are far too many cute kid clothes out there to waste a day in stained long johns people!

So, here’s the problem. The other day, Kevin let Leina pick out her own outfit. Admittedly, I was sick in bed and unable to avert this disaster in the making because Leina, at three, has about as much fashion sense as Kevin. The resulting outfit was horrendous. And now? Now, Leina insists on picking her own clothes. And it is awful. Every day I watch her approach her closet and a little part of my soul dies. I love picking her clothes. I love shopping for her outfits. I love how fresh and sweet she looks after I get her dressed. I love hugging her warm little body while she helps me get herself dresssed. Now, my soul withers when she pushed me away and announces she will be dressing herself this morning.

Now, part of me knows that I should let her choose her own daily wear. This is a sign of independence and they are just clothes. Right? But when I see Leina struggling into a pair of pajama shorts and a turtleneck t-shirt, something inside me snaps.

My new plan is to teach Leina about fashion. The idea of dressing for the weather, dressing for the activity, and dressing in style. She’s more than willing to listen and nod at the appropriate moments but I don’t know if anything is sinking in or not. She still insists that a green and white stripped turtleneck, a pink heart skirt and a pair of red knee-high Dora socks are just “perfect” for a day at the water park. I try every so gently to sway her toward, say, the tank top and shorts but no. She’s quite sure that her Dora socks are the way to go. I’m beginning to suspect she has not only inherited her father’s blue eyes but also his fashion sense as well. In which case, I have a long road ahead of me.

I always knew that eventually I’d lost control of Leina closet. But honestly, I never thought I’d be so soon. So if you see my kid hopping down the street with moppet hair and clothes that look like I grabbed them blindfolded from the Goodwill reject pile, give me a pat on the back for managing to let go ’cause I’ll need it!

Before kids, my goals were so simple. Meet my billable hours. Throw out food when it started to mold. Remember to lock the door when I left.

Simple. Easy. Non-life threatening.

Now, my goals seem so much harder. Keep two year old from running into traffic. Fend off diaper rash. Grow three year old’s mind. Remember not to swear around little ears that hear everything.

But there is one goal I have developed that I take very seriously. About once a week my goal is to corner Leina and tickle her until she pees. Yes, that’s right, my goal is to make my kid laugh so hard she pees her pants. (Am I a great mom or what?) And not to brag or anything, but I am good at the tickling. The secret is in the anticipation. You tickle, and then stop. Then you move in very very slowly. Let them sweat out the incoming tickle. Usually I have Leina so excited she’s laughing before I even touch her. Then I pounce and tickle, taking care to frequently change my area of attack. If you tickle one place for a while, it will de-sensatize. If you roam and tickle, it’s much more effective. So I tickle her belly, her neck, behind her knees, her inner elbow, the base of her back and her sides. I tickle and tickle until Leina yells, “Mom! You made me pee my pants!”

Yes! Goal attained! And let me tell you, there’s no joy like the sense of accomplishment that comes with tickling you child to the point to bladder loss. Don’t believe me? Grab a kid and give it a try. Pretty soon, you’ll be adding it to your weekly goals as well.