Oh come on, we all know that it was only a matter of time before she added a food blog to her team of allies.
Clark Kent and Lois Lane. Mr. Fantastic and the Invisible Woman. Jean Gray and Cyclops. Batman and....well, let's be honest, Batman hasn't had the best luck with partners. Maybe he does better with wards? Nope, not really. Guess Batman is destined to be alone; that is OK, he rocks the brooding loner look like a champ. Batman aside, there are many a married superhero duo out there in comic land, saving the day together and then enjoying dinner together. Crafty Mom and the Wandering Glutton are such a duo.
Mild mannered librarians by day, these two slip into nearby phone booths and become mastermind marvels who secretly save the world from boredom, one craft and plate at a time! I really have no idea if they actually change their clothes while they do these things, but I would like to think that quick changes are involved. Makes me happy.
I know that I have introduced you to Crafty Mom before and her artistic awesomeness can not be denied. Like often seeks like and the Wandering Glutton is just as awesome. His food blog is a combination of food he cooks himself and meals he has out, but don't look for any instagramed snapshots of towering burgers here. While he certainly includes photos of his own cooking process on occasion, the Wandering Glutton believes in the power of words to truly convey the delighting deliciousness of food. I could not agree more; his words are truly powerful and food is delicious. Duh. Why are you still here? Go check him out. You will sleep better at night knowing that this amazing duo is on the scene!
And yes, it did not escape our notice that this is a truly ironic ally to acquire on Ash Wednesday....
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
Tuesday, February 12, 2013
Awkward Mom vs. Writing Class
Who are writers? How does one enter this exclusive club? Are dues involved? Duties? Awkward Mom is pretty broke and nearly always lazy.
The first time I take a writing class is the summer before 8th grade. It is amazing. I am amazing. For some odd reason and for several glorious weeks, I am not awkward. Well, I probably still am, but location is everything. Me and a bunch of nerd boys read sci-fi and then write an adventure novel about a boy and a girl finding a map and heading off to glory. Basically, we shamelessly steal the plot from Goonies. We also bind our book together, and no, I don't know where it is. Which sucks; that thing was epic. For just finding and enrolling me in such a class, my parents should win a prize; chocolate for life or something good, not just a lame plaque. I still remember the looks of approval and respect when I write the girl character as a slob, rebel, and total tomboy. And we all know that nerd boys don't just hand out approval like oh so many Mardi Gras beads. That summer is a good summer, a life-changing summer. That summer is the first time that I think I might like to be a writer.
A thought that gets completely beaten out of me the next time I take a writing class. This writing class is taking place when I am 19 and in college. Writing is no longer about cute adventure tales. No, writing is serious business that belongs to the likes of Steinbeck and Kerouac. Sylvia Plath and Gertrude Stein. Upon reflection, I may be in some undiagnosed hipster/goth phase. But what I am certainly not in is a writing phase. The problem (other than my placing "writer" on an unattainable pedestal up there with President of the US, astronaut, and Wonder Woman) is that I am currently dating a self-described "writer," and everyone knows that in a relationship between two 19-year-olds there can only be one creative one. It is like Highlander or calling shotgun on the front seat. So, I resign myself to providing support and encouragement and calling vomit-inducing metaphors "really deep," because that is what you do when you are sitting in the back. And not even window-seat back, Readers; I am on the hump.
One might ask why I am even taking a writing class if I am on the hump. Well, we are in the stupid young love time when you think you have to do everything together, so I join him for his writing class. That is what I am there for; support, cheerleading, non-writer stuff. However, my official status is as one enrolled in the class, so I have no choice. I write like the rest of them. And I secretly love it. The creative flow, the wordplay. Entering into a magical place where anything is possible and your imagination is experiencing a combo snow day/field trip/that day in class when you watched a movie. What is not to love? And there is no pressure to be Kerouac or Plath because I am not a writer. I'm just hanging out here in the backseat. Suddenly, I am 11 again and soaring on the power of my own words, it is fabulous. But like Icarus, I fly a little too close to the sun and come crashing down pretty fast.
Now, I am sure that some of the verbal beatings that I endure are related to bad poetry about the "naked winter branches of longing" or other ridiculous 19-year-old nonsense, but most of it is not. Most of it is because I failed to yell shotgun fast enough. The teacher is totally kind, it isn't him, but have you ever tried to teach college writers? There is little he can do. Adolescents (which is what college kids are, ability to vote or not) are completely self-involved and desperate for attention. Snark reigns supreme; the fastest way to distract from one's own fragile ego is to hurl a couple rocks through the exposed ego over there. Hey, everybody, what's that noise? Oh, some dreams dying; let's go stare! And like sharks, the other students smell my bloody backseatness. I am ripped apart in our workshop time, and yes, I still remember it. "Nothing happens in your writing, Erin. It doesn't pop." "It is boring, like something my mom would write." "Women don't talk like that." "You are nice, but you can't write." My boyfriend is no help. He is sorry for my hurt feelings, but this is merely proof to his point. He is the writer, not me. I retreat to sporadic journaling and literary self-loathing for most of my 20s; good times.
I turn 30 in the safety of a solid marriage and the joyful confusion of a new baby. This keeps me busy until we move for residency, and suddenly I am all alone in a new city with 2 children and no friends. So, I do what any other not-so-sensible person does; I attempt mom dating at the local park and children's museum. Despite one total score with Excellent Mom, I am thwarted in my search for friends. Like majorly thwarted, in immensely awkward ways. I write about this on Facebook and to my friends back home. They offer limited support as they laugh their heads off. "Erin, write this stuff down, it is hilarious!" I hesitate. Blogging is a form of writing, isn't it? And since I am not a writer, I can't possibly blog. I give in. Oh what the heck, it isn't like anyone is going to read it anyway!
This all leads to yesterday, as I walk into the Liberal Arts building at the local community college for the third writing class of my life. Knowing that it probably won't be like the first one and praying that it won't be like the second one, I trepidatiously enter a room that is clearly used as a science lab during the day. I sit myself in the circle of tables and fix my carefully crafted blase gaze at the periodic table near the clock, as I work my mom-peripheral-vision like a maniac. I am trying to get a read on my fellow wannabe writers. Only four are present; all silver foxes and robust renaissance women in funky cat glasses. Hmmm...okay. Well, I am sure the goth Emily Dickinsons and the hipster Kurt Vonneguts will be fashionably late, I better brace myself. I brace myself, but those relics from college never darken the door (although, it appears my dramatic 19-year-old prose is making a come-back). Senior after senior pops through the door with more energy than a dozen toddlers, and in outfits just as eclectic. Nothing is the property of youth here, and I start to get a little worried. I am having trouble believing that I am going to be welcomed in this cocoon of wisdom and wealth. (Yes, that cocoon reference was totally on purpose.) We start going around the room, introducing ourselves and the richness of experience is intimidating to say the least. We are supposed to say why are are here tonight, what we write, what we want to write, our favorite books, and so on. I am starting to freak out, but I decide to go big or go home.
"Hi, my name is Erin, and I have a husband in medical residency, a 5-year-old, a 3-year-old, and a 1-year-old. I came here tonight to get out of the house."
The laugh I get is huge, loving, and incredibly satisfying. Like nerd-boy-approval satisfying. They do say that the third time is the charm; Readers, I think I might actually be on my way to becoming a writer.
As we sit here and watch Super Preschooler make valentines, we are reminded that anyone who uses language in a written form is technically a writer. People who are published, with their books on shelves at Barnes and Noble or for sale on Amazon. People who are not, with their novels and poems stacked hopefully next to their computers. Journalists, bloggers. Folks who compile recipes and family histories. Those who write the descriptions in catalogs. The good people at Hallmark. Screenwriters, playwrights, and whoever made the program. Those who journal, daily or not. Letter writers. Postcard users. Tweeters or Facebookers. Lovers who leave pithy post-its sticking to the bathroom mirror. And Super Toddler, who wrote his name for the first time this past weekend. It might be easier to make a list of who isn't a writer. 1. Super Baby. 2. Other babies. End of list.
The first time I take a writing class is the summer before 8th grade. It is amazing. I am amazing. For some odd reason and for several glorious weeks, I am not awkward. Well, I probably still am, but location is everything. Me and a bunch of nerd boys read sci-fi and then write an adventure novel about a boy and a girl finding a map and heading off to glory. Basically, we shamelessly steal the plot from Goonies. We also bind our book together, and no, I don't know where it is. Which sucks; that thing was epic. For just finding and enrolling me in such a class, my parents should win a prize; chocolate for life or something good, not just a lame plaque. I still remember the looks of approval and respect when I write the girl character as a slob, rebel, and total tomboy. And we all know that nerd boys don't just hand out approval like oh so many Mardi Gras beads. That summer is a good summer, a life-changing summer. That summer is the first time that I think I might like to be a writer.
A thought that gets completely beaten out of me the next time I take a writing class. This writing class is taking place when I am 19 and in college. Writing is no longer about cute adventure tales. No, writing is serious business that belongs to the likes of Steinbeck and Kerouac. Sylvia Plath and Gertrude Stein. Upon reflection, I may be in some undiagnosed hipster/goth phase. But what I am certainly not in is a writing phase. The problem (other than my placing "writer" on an unattainable pedestal up there with President of the US, astronaut, and Wonder Woman) is that I am currently dating a self-described "writer," and everyone knows that in a relationship between two 19-year-olds there can only be one creative one. It is like Highlander or calling shotgun on the front seat. So, I resign myself to providing support and encouragement and calling vomit-inducing metaphors "really deep," because that is what you do when you are sitting in the back. And not even window-seat back, Readers; I am on the hump.
One might ask why I am even taking a writing class if I am on the hump. Well, we are in the stupid young love time when you think you have to do everything together, so I join him for his writing class. That is what I am there for; support, cheerleading, non-writer stuff. However, my official status is as one enrolled in the class, so I have no choice. I write like the rest of them. And I secretly love it. The creative flow, the wordplay. Entering into a magical place where anything is possible and your imagination is experiencing a combo snow day/field trip/that day in class when you watched a movie. What is not to love? And there is no pressure to be Kerouac or Plath because I am not a writer. I'm just hanging out here in the backseat. Suddenly, I am 11 again and soaring on the power of my own words, it is fabulous. But like Icarus, I fly a little too close to the sun and come crashing down pretty fast.
Now, I am sure that some of the verbal beatings that I endure are related to bad poetry about the "naked winter branches of longing" or other ridiculous 19-year-old nonsense, but most of it is not. Most of it is because I failed to yell shotgun fast enough. The teacher is totally kind, it isn't him, but have you ever tried to teach college writers? There is little he can do. Adolescents (which is what college kids are, ability to vote or not) are completely self-involved and desperate for attention. Snark reigns supreme; the fastest way to distract from one's own fragile ego is to hurl a couple rocks through the exposed ego over there. Hey, everybody, what's that noise? Oh, some dreams dying; let's go stare! And like sharks, the other students smell my bloody backseatness. I am ripped apart in our workshop time, and yes, I still remember it. "Nothing happens in your writing, Erin. It doesn't pop." "It is boring, like something my mom would write." "Women don't talk like that." "You are nice, but you can't write." My boyfriend is no help. He is sorry for my hurt feelings, but this is merely proof to his point. He is the writer, not me. I retreat to sporadic journaling and literary self-loathing for most of my 20s; good times.
I turn 30 in the safety of a solid marriage and the joyful confusion of a new baby. This keeps me busy until we move for residency, and suddenly I am all alone in a new city with 2 children and no friends. So, I do what any other not-so-sensible person does; I attempt mom dating at the local park and children's museum. Despite one total score with Excellent Mom, I am thwarted in my search for friends. Like majorly thwarted, in immensely awkward ways. I write about this on Facebook and to my friends back home. They offer limited support as they laugh their heads off. "Erin, write this stuff down, it is hilarious!" I hesitate. Blogging is a form of writing, isn't it? And since I am not a writer, I can't possibly blog. I give in. Oh what the heck, it isn't like anyone is going to read it anyway!
This all leads to yesterday, as I walk into the Liberal Arts building at the local community college for the third writing class of my life. Knowing that it probably won't be like the first one and praying that it won't be like the second one, I trepidatiously enter a room that is clearly used as a science lab during the day. I sit myself in the circle of tables and fix my carefully crafted blase gaze at the periodic table near the clock, as I work my mom-peripheral-vision like a maniac. I am trying to get a read on my fellow wannabe writers. Only four are present; all silver foxes and robust renaissance women in funky cat glasses. Hmmm...okay. Well, I am sure the goth Emily Dickinsons and the hipster Kurt Vonneguts will be fashionably late, I better brace myself. I brace myself, but those relics from college never darken the door (although, it appears my dramatic 19-year-old prose is making a come-back). Senior after senior pops through the door with more energy than a dozen toddlers, and in outfits just as eclectic. Nothing is the property of youth here, and I start to get a little worried. I am having trouble believing that I am going to be welcomed in this cocoon of wisdom and wealth. (Yes, that cocoon reference was totally on purpose.) We start going around the room, introducing ourselves and the richness of experience is intimidating to say the least. We are supposed to say why are are here tonight, what we write, what we want to write, our favorite books, and so on. I am starting to freak out, but I decide to go big or go home.
"Hi, my name is Erin, and I have a husband in medical residency, a 5-year-old, a 3-year-old, and a 1-year-old. I came here tonight to get out of the house."
The laugh I get is huge, loving, and incredibly satisfying. Like nerd-boy-approval satisfying. They do say that the third time is the charm; Readers, I think I might actually be on my way to becoming a writer.
As we sit here and watch Super Preschooler make valentines, we are reminded that anyone who uses language in a written form is technically a writer. People who are published, with their books on shelves at Barnes and Noble or for sale on Amazon. People who are not, with their novels and poems stacked hopefully next to their computers. Journalists, bloggers. Folks who compile recipes and family histories. Those who write the descriptions in catalogs. The good people at Hallmark. Screenwriters, playwrights, and whoever made the program. Those who journal, daily or not. Letter writers. Postcard users. Tweeters or Facebookers. Lovers who leave pithy post-its sticking to the bathroom mirror. And Super Toddler, who wrote his name for the first time this past weekend. It might be easier to make a list of who isn't a writer. 1. Super Baby. 2. Other babies. End of list.
Show me these college ego breakers, Mommy.
I've got enough confidence for the both of us.
Sunday, February 10, 2013
Awkward Mom vs. Philosophy
What is it about Sundays that bring out the serious in her? At
least it is short….
When a person talks to you, like really talks to you, like
opens herself up and hands you a piece of her heart and mind, there is no real
question about what to do. She doesn’t have to share this thought with you. He
could have flung something mean at you out a car window. She could have recited
some bland and polite talking point near you at a party. He could have talked
about the rain last night; she could have bemoaned the snow. But instead, this
person has taken the time to trust you with an opinion, a thought, a wisp of
soul from deep within a social protection bubble. When this happens, you do not
ignore it. You do not merely wait for a pause in the conversation long enough
for you to pontificate. You carefully catch this gift, this treasure. Don’t throw it
away. Look at it. Study it. See more than what you don’t like about it. Look up and see the person who entrusted this to you. Then, respond. Say “thank
you for this thought.” And then, only then, open yourself up and hand her one of your own.
It is only fair. Don’t hurl it at her, don’t drop it his feet. Don’t shout it
over her head to some people you know. Share
it with him. He shared with you. Share. That is the sole purpose of words, their only purpose. For us to share them with each other.
If you do this enough, you make a conversation. Not noise.
Not simultaneous monologues. A conversation. Conversations which turns into communities.
Which turn into friendships. Which turn into families.
Wanna be family with these people?
Friday, February 8, 2013
Awkward Mom vs. Mini Battle 4
"Children are the hands by which we take hold of heaven." Yeah, you just let Henry Ward Beecher keep telling you that, Awkward Mom.
Wednesday was not a good day. After a rough outing to my church small group, I made it home to collapse on the couch and watch helplessly as madness descended. Winter does this to children, makes them all a tad stir-crazy. But this took off in a whole other direction. Yes, you guessed it, a Lord of the Flies direction. Not feeling like playing Piggy today, I momentarily left them to their, oh let's be generous, play, and called Awesome Mom. Since she is awesome, she said she would be right over with a pot pie, so at least I won't have to make dinner in my current helpless state.
Awesome Mom shows up and says, "What? This isn't that bad." Super Preschooler and Super Toddler pop out of the bedroom like a pair of wraiths bent on proving her wrong.
Super Toddler: Ms Awesome, Ms Awesome, come, come!
Super Preschooler: Yes, come take a tour of our factory!
They drag her bodily into the bedroom, where they have thrown all the pillows to the floor. A box of strawberries is placed dead center in the middle of the bed, on the quilt that I adore. They grin like 2 mad scientist and then proceed to jump on the bed, bouncing and smashing the strawberries with a wild abandon that I have only ever seen before in the wine making scene in Fantasia.
Super Toddler: Chocolate! I need chocolate!
Super Preschooler: We are pretending to make chocolate covered strawberries, want one?
He digs one out from under his foot and proudly hands it to her. She smiles broadly and gently says, "Oh no, you will need plenty for later. They look delicious though. Save them for your Daddy." No novice mom here. They are delighted and go back to stomping the strawberries in their factory of fear.
We back away slowly and Awesome Mom guides me out of the bedroom. At the front door, she leans in and whispers, "Try to hang in there. I'll be back just as soon as I buy you some rum."
“When my kids become wild and unruly, I use a nice, safe playpen. When they’re finished, I climb out.” Oh Erma, you totally get us. When the supers finished with their bedroom factory, they decided to color. On the couch. With the strawberries. We are off to Ikea for a new couch cover. We are leaning toward red. Catch ya later!
Wednesday was not a good day. After a rough outing to my church small group, I made it home to collapse on the couch and watch helplessly as madness descended. Winter does this to children, makes them all a tad stir-crazy. But this took off in a whole other direction. Yes, you guessed it, a Lord of the Flies direction. Not feeling like playing Piggy today, I momentarily left them to their, oh let's be generous, play, and called Awesome Mom. Since she is awesome, she said she would be right over with a pot pie, so at least I won't have to make dinner in my current helpless state.
Awesome Mom shows up and says, "What? This isn't that bad." Super Preschooler and Super Toddler pop out of the bedroom like a pair of wraiths bent on proving her wrong.
Super Toddler: Ms Awesome, Ms Awesome, come, come!
Super Preschooler: Yes, come take a tour of our factory!
They drag her bodily into the bedroom, where they have thrown all the pillows to the floor. A box of strawberries is placed dead center in the middle of the bed, on the quilt that I adore. They grin like 2 mad scientist and then proceed to jump on the bed, bouncing and smashing the strawberries with a wild abandon that I have only ever seen before in the wine making scene in Fantasia.
Super Toddler: Chocolate! I need chocolate!
Super Preschooler: We are pretending to make chocolate covered strawberries, want one?
He digs one out from under his foot and proudly hands it to her. She smiles broadly and gently says, "Oh no, you will need plenty for later. They look delicious though. Save them for your Daddy." No novice mom here. They are delighted and go back to stomping the strawberries in their factory of fear.
We back away slowly and Awesome Mom guides me out of the bedroom. At the front door, she leans in and whispers, "Try to hang in there. I'll be back just as soon as I buy you some rum."
“When my kids become wild and unruly, I use a nice, safe playpen. When they’re finished, I climb out.” Oh Erma, you totally get us. When the supers finished with their bedroom factory, they decided to color. On the couch. With the strawberries. We are off to Ikea for a new couch cover. We are leaning toward red. Catch ya later!
To answer the obvious question, yes, Super Toddler pulled a Pete Townshend immediately after taking this photo.
Wednesday, February 6, 2013
Awkward Mom vs. Positive Radar
"You must not lose faith in humanity. Humanity is an ocean; if a few drops of the ocean are dirty, the ocean does not become dirty." I agree, Readers; Mahatma Gandhi is a little highbrow for this blog, but let's see where she is going, shall we? I am sure it will still be mostly awkward.
When one becomes a mom, one is automatically gifted 2 superpowers. Everyone has their own unique and amazing superpowers on top of this, but we all share the same basic 2. Don't ask me why, I don't make the parenting rules and, despite their assumptions, neither does Baby Center. These superpowers are James-Bond-peripheral-vision and mom radar. For ages, these 2 mighty powers have allowed mothers the world over to know what their children are up to and still go to the bathroom, sleep, and manage to sneak the occasion chocolate. They created "the eyes in the back of the head" lore. Attributing eyes in the back of the head to a regular (i.e. not mutant mom) is akin to saying that Cyclops has lasers that fire out of his eyes. He actually produces optic blasts. Or assuming that Wolverine is immortal, when he actually has a healing factor that slows down his aging process. Neither is offensive, just slightly inaccurate.
The first time I held Super Preschooler, I could actually see the room in a whole new way. Everything became sorta heightened and brighter. I may have still been feeling my epidural, but I like to think that my eyes were turning into James Bond's eyes. 3 children later, I can almost see the entire park/museum/playgroup at once, and it slows down ever so slightly when we first walk in (a la hot Sherlock Holmes); so I can assess potential dangers and look for lurking lead paint. It's a pretty awesome superpower and one that new moms have a hard time recognizing in themselves. This leads to the whole helicopter mom phenomenon, which in turn leads to the "Whose Child is this? Lost child! Lost Child!" when they see my child more than 2 feet away from a parent. But I must be patient, they will learn. They just haven't grown into their new eyes yet.
Mom Radar is a little harder to explain, but it is essentially an invisible rope that ties you to your child. Vibrations are constantly riding up and down this rope because, let's be honest, children are never still. If the vibrations get too crazy or, even worse, slow down for any reason, you immediately find your child and see what is wrong. Quiet vibrations are the worst kind. Mom Radar is not fool-proof, or we would have completely avoided Super Toddler's wall-art phase, but it is a solid weapon in the parent arsenal. Mom Radar is also a multi-faceted superpower; it actually functions outward into the world. Your radar functions on most objects or people. Try it. That rusty pick-up truck at the highway rest stop? Just ugly or housing a potential kidnapper; your radar will give you a clue. That overly friendly mom at the playgroup? Trying to trick you onto the school board or just being her awkward self? Trust your radar, it knows. It always knows.
However, this post isn't about the basic mom superpowers, although, I have to admit, they are pretty cool to talk about. This post is about the downside to them. As a mom, you are used to scanning the room for asbestos and potential babysnatchers and you can forget that the world is a lovely and beautiful place. (Yikes, Pollyanna alert!) It's true that that's pretty cheesy, but it is also actually true. The world is magical and wonderful, which is something I very often forget. You see, I am an awkward mom and getting through the day can often feel like a battle; there is a reason that most of my blog posts titles include a vs. Life can be hard and lonely, but it can also be easy and full. There are just as many fairy godpeople out there in the world as there are villains. Want a list? I love lists! Here we go...
List of the fairy Godpeople that I have encountered just this month:
1. The man at the recycling center who was recycling glass and had one aluminum can, so he gave it to us so Super Toddler could put it in the machine.
2. The grandma at the bank who wasn't remotely phased by Super Baby's melt-down and even commented that she has "seen much worse."
3. The 14 people, this week alone, who have held the door open for us.
4. The Target checker who took every one of my coupons with a smile, even though it was the end of her shift and she had a line. And much love to the woman behind me who didn't sigh once and even applauded for me when she found out my savings.
5. The mailman who cheerfully waves at us every day, despite my semi-shovelled walk and half-naked children pushing in the window to get a better look at him.
6. Most of the loving volunteers at the Humane Society, who let Excellent Mom and myself drag a troop of noisy children through there to pet kitties and feed dogs on a snowy afternoon. The glaring volunteer knows who she is and I wish her some happiness and peace because she looks like she needs some, badly.
7. The 4 moms that haven't shot me the stink eye when I can't help but make faces at their babies. Special love to the one who said, "Oh, that's a good one, you must be a mom."
8. The UPS man. We might be a little addicted to AmazonPrime, and he never mentions it.
9. Everyone who tells me that my children are adorable and well-behaved, which is reaching the upper hundreds this week and completely undeserved. But welcome.
10. The random Target lady with the paper towels in her cart who told me and Awesome Mom how to get to the paper goods because the store is being remodeled and we were pretty lost, despite both shopping there several times a week. Her directions were spot-on and there was no judgment.
11. The comic-lover on ebay who gave me nice feed-back.
12. The 4 bankers who helped me roll my coins and were endlessly kind about it, even though it was only $36.43.
13. The man from Illinois who answered every tax question I had and even told me that the entire state missed us. He also heard Super Baby cooing through the phone and then proceeded to tell me about his twins and how much fun 12-year-old boys are.
14. The man at Meijer who told me that I was "doing God's work." I have no idea what that means but I am gonna assume it is the more forgiving/loving aspect and less of the smiting/raining down locusts part. He smiled, patted Super Preschooler's head, and seemed to mean it in a good way.
15. The salesman at the shoe store, who told Super Toddler that he has "wonderful taste," even though the taste that Super Toddler was sporting was in the form of 4-inch silver-sequin-covered slingbacks.
16. Every single one of you, dear Readers. Thanks for being awesome and tolerant of my rambling ways.
What powerful and relevant quote is she going to end with? "Never lend your car to anyone to whom you have given birth." And with Erma Bomback, we're back to normal around here.
Here are some pictures of the Supers with shoes. Just because.
When one becomes a mom, one is automatically gifted 2 superpowers. Everyone has their own unique and amazing superpowers on top of this, but we all share the same basic 2. Don't ask me why, I don't make the parenting rules and, despite their assumptions, neither does Baby Center. These superpowers are James-Bond-peripheral-vision and mom radar. For ages, these 2 mighty powers have allowed mothers the world over to know what their children are up to and still go to the bathroom, sleep, and manage to sneak the occasion chocolate. They created "the eyes in the back of the head" lore. Attributing eyes in the back of the head to a regular (i.e. not mutant mom) is akin to saying that Cyclops has lasers that fire out of his eyes. He actually produces optic blasts. Or assuming that Wolverine is immortal, when he actually has a healing factor that slows down his aging process. Neither is offensive, just slightly inaccurate.
The first time I held Super Preschooler, I could actually see the room in a whole new way. Everything became sorta heightened and brighter. I may have still been feeling my epidural, but I like to think that my eyes were turning into James Bond's eyes. 3 children later, I can almost see the entire park/museum/playgroup at once, and it slows down ever so slightly when we first walk in (a la hot Sherlock Holmes); so I can assess potential dangers and look for lurking lead paint. It's a pretty awesome superpower and one that new moms have a hard time recognizing in themselves. This leads to the whole helicopter mom phenomenon, which in turn leads to the "Whose Child is this? Lost child! Lost Child!" when they see my child more than 2 feet away from a parent. But I must be patient, they will learn. They just haven't grown into their new eyes yet.
Mom Radar is a little harder to explain, but it is essentially an invisible rope that ties you to your child. Vibrations are constantly riding up and down this rope because, let's be honest, children are never still. If the vibrations get too crazy or, even worse, slow down for any reason, you immediately find your child and see what is wrong. Quiet vibrations are the worst kind. Mom Radar is not fool-proof, or we would have completely avoided Super Toddler's wall-art phase, but it is a solid weapon in the parent arsenal. Mom Radar is also a multi-faceted superpower; it actually functions outward into the world. Your radar functions on most objects or people. Try it. That rusty pick-up truck at the highway rest stop? Just ugly or housing a potential kidnapper; your radar will give you a clue. That overly friendly mom at the playgroup? Trying to trick you onto the school board or just being her awkward self? Trust your radar, it knows. It always knows.
However, this post isn't about the basic mom superpowers, although, I have to admit, they are pretty cool to talk about. This post is about the downside to them. As a mom, you are used to scanning the room for asbestos and potential babysnatchers and you can forget that the world is a lovely and beautiful place. (Yikes, Pollyanna alert!) It's true that that's pretty cheesy, but it is also actually true. The world is magical and wonderful, which is something I very often forget. You see, I am an awkward mom and getting through the day can often feel like a battle; there is a reason that most of my blog posts titles include a vs. Life can be hard and lonely, but it can also be easy and full. There are just as many fairy godpeople out there in the world as there are villains. Want a list? I love lists! Here we go...
List of the fairy Godpeople that I have encountered just this month:
1. The man at the recycling center who was recycling glass and had one aluminum can, so he gave it to us so Super Toddler could put it in the machine.
2. The grandma at the bank who wasn't remotely phased by Super Baby's melt-down and even commented that she has "seen much worse."
3. The 14 people, this week alone, who have held the door open for us.
4. The Target checker who took every one of my coupons with a smile, even though it was the end of her shift and she had a line. And much love to the woman behind me who didn't sigh once and even applauded for me when she found out my savings.
5. The mailman who cheerfully waves at us every day, despite my semi-shovelled walk and half-naked children pushing in the window to get a better look at him.
6. Most of the loving volunteers at the Humane Society, who let Excellent Mom and myself drag a troop of noisy children through there to pet kitties and feed dogs on a snowy afternoon. The glaring volunteer knows who she is and I wish her some happiness and peace because she looks like she needs some, badly.
7. The 4 moms that haven't shot me the stink eye when I can't help but make faces at their babies. Special love to the one who said, "Oh, that's a good one, you must be a mom."
8. The UPS man. We might be a little addicted to AmazonPrime, and he never mentions it.
9. Everyone who tells me that my children are adorable and well-behaved, which is reaching the upper hundreds this week and completely undeserved. But welcome.
10. The random Target lady with the paper towels in her cart who told me and Awesome Mom how to get to the paper goods because the store is being remodeled and we were pretty lost, despite both shopping there several times a week. Her directions were spot-on and there was no judgment.
11. The comic-lover on ebay who gave me nice feed-back.
12. The 4 bankers who helped me roll my coins and were endlessly kind about it, even though it was only $36.43.
13. The man from Illinois who answered every tax question I had and even told me that the entire state missed us. He also heard Super Baby cooing through the phone and then proceeded to tell me about his twins and how much fun 12-year-old boys are.
14. The man at Meijer who told me that I was "doing God's work." I have no idea what that means but I am gonna assume it is the more forgiving/loving aspect and less of the smiting/raining down locusts part. He smiled, patted Super Preschooler's head, and seemed to mean it in a good way.
15. The salesman at the shoe store, who told Super Toddler that he has "wonderful taste," even though the taste that Super Toddler was sporting was in the form of 4-inch silver-sequin-covered slingbacks.
16. Every single one of you, dear Readers. Thanks for being awesome and tolerant of my rambling ways.
What powerful and relevant quote is she going to end with? "Never lend your car to anyone to whom you have given birth." And with Erma Bomback, we're back to normal around here.
Here are some pictures of the Supers with shoes. Just because.
Rock on, little fashionistas. Rock on.
Tuesday, February 5, 2013
Awkward Mom vs. Language
"-Uck words! I just love -uck words!" We are still waiting for Red to say this on PBS.
What happened to Super Toddler? Not 6 months ago, his entire vocabulary seemed to consist of cake, more, and now. These days, this little Hemingway has morphed into a veritable James Joyce! (What? I have to use that liberal arts education somewhere.) However, quantity is not always quality, and some words are still kinda hard to make out. Especially the -uck words. I don't know if it is that charming combination of consonants or if I just have a dirty mind, but every -uck word Super Toddler says sounds like the bad -uck word that he isn't supposed to say. The one that no one, with the exception of those currently acting in a Quentin Tarantino movie, is supposed to say. You know the one, and no, I am not going to spell it out for you. If you are reading something on the internet, then I am sure you have encountered this particular word. Today.
Well, the other day, I am sitting here dorking around on Facebook. Wait, I mean, I am cruising Baby Center for potty training tips and Valentine's Day crafting ideas, when I hear Super Baby's someone-is-kidnapping-me scream. I go tearing into the living room to be confronted with this:
Super Baby: AHHHHHHH!!!
Super Preschooler: Rule 3, Super Toddler! Rule 3!
Super Toddler: I don't give F@$%!
Super Preschooler: Mom!
Super Baby: AHHHHHHHH!!!
Super Toddler: No F@$%! No F@#$!
Me: Ummm...what's going on?
Super Toddler: She know that I no give F$@#s. Why she mad when I no give F@%$s?
Super Baby: AHHHHHHHH!!!
Super Preschooler: That is totally against Rule 3, Super Toddler. Mommy, he should be in a time out.
Me: Yes, thank you, Super P. I'll handle this. Super Toddler, what is wrong?
Super Toddler: I no give Super Baby F@$%s. She too young to have F@#$s. My F@$#s.
Super Preschooler: That is so wrong, Super Toddler. We are loving in this family. We are sharers in this family. We are....
Me: Yes, thank you, Super P. I have got this.
Super Baby: AHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!
Super Toddler: Mommy, I just don't give a F@#$.
Readers, I am dead serious. He said that. I will never forget it because:
1. He totally slowed it down and dramatically paused between each word.
2. Super Toddler absolutely never uses articles in his speech. I suppose that is how important this was to him; that F@#$ warranted an "a" in front of it.
3. Yes, I know that he is really talking about not wanting to share a truck with his sister, but it totally sounds like he is saying that he just doesn't give a "bad -uck word." And it kinda fits, considering that Super Toddler normally looks like this:
He is pretty much the type not to give a -uck.
Cake. More. Now.
Rule 3? Oh, there are 10 rules in Awkward Manor. Super Preschooler was instrumental in developing them. They are:
1. Always listen to Mommy and Daddy. Be respectful to others.
2. No kicking, throwing things, or hitting.
3. Share.
4. No lions are allowed in the bed.
5. There is no rule 5.
6. Ducks quack.
7. They also fly.
8. Don't let monkeys drive your van.
9. Always help clean up.
10. Dragons are not to be trusted.
Sunday, February 3, 2013
Awkward Mom vs. Church readings
Awkward Mom has been asked to read something at church. Not a chance in H-E-Double-Hockey-Sticks this goes down without some awkwardness. Pigs will fly first. That's right, not a snowball's chance in....you get the point.
I belong to a small group at my church. We meet weekly in the church nursery with our children and attempt to be prayerful and insightful while being beaned in the head with legos. It's a good time. The coordinator of all the small groups called me about a week ago and asked me to give a tiny (1-2 minute) talk at the end of mass about what being in a small group means to me, how great they are, and why everyone should join one for Lent. I was all set to beg off, but this wily woman called me on my birthday. The day that I make my goals for my new year. The day that I decided goal 6 was going to be "reach outside my comfort zone and try new things." Sigh. Never underestimate a Catholic woman's ability to guilt people into doing things, especially if the person she is trying to guilt is herself. Needless to say, I agreed to give the talk.
Like most sane people, I have a healthy fear of speaking in front of other people. I happily hang out here in the back of the class/internet, joking around, assisted by my spell check, my editing ability, and Wikipedia open in another window. That is how I like to pontificate and nosily share my opinions with the world. Or at least the part of the world that decides to pit-stop here on their way to Pinterest or Facebook. A captive audience at the end of an already long mass, because there is a baptism in the middle of it, is not my idea of folks I want to win over. In fact, I don't want to have to win over anyone. I like my audiences already loving and rooting for me from the get-go. Doesn't everyone?
A little back story: In college, I was quite involved in our campus church. I was kinda like Figaro; you know, here, there, up, down. (Oh holy cats, if she is gonna make opera references, she is gonna have to start winning people over.) OK. OK. Sorry. I was very involved. I was taking up the collection. I was passing out communion. I was helping the priest out on the altar. But mostly, I was reading. I was 19-years-old and a theater major, I didn't know yet to be afraid of reading in public. And like most 19-year-olds, I thought that I was good at everything. That is until I meet someone who really was.
You know Perfect Mom, right? Well, Perfect Moms don't pop into the world fully formed with their 2.5 children combed and posed next to them. Well, most don't; I do have this theory about Perfect Mom clones that I will share with you one day. Conspiracy theories aside, most Perfect Moms were once Perfect Babies, who grow to Perfect Toddlers, Preschoolers, and Kids, before they turn into Perfect Coeds and make Awkward Coeds' lives miserable. My college nemesis was a Perfect Coed and she was also Figaro-esque. She was pre-med (duh), an actress, tall, pretty, sweet, friendly, president of her sorority, and also very involved at church. We were often reading together; I would do one and then she would do one. Then we would let the priest read for awhile; wouldn't want him to feel left out, you know? It was fine. I didn't like it, but it was fine. And then, there was the day that it wasn't fine at all.
It is a winter day somewhere in the late 90s and I am assigned the first reading and Perfect Coed has the second reading. My reading is not an easy reading. First readings rarely are, being Old Testament and full of begets, whale antics, and all those Leviticus laws. But I have been practicing and I am ready to make the best of a tough situation. (Please remember that I am 19.) I make it up to the lectern in my Doc Martens and floral skirt combo, confidently beam at the congregation, lock eyes with my current crush, and then proceed to completely stumble through a reading stuffed with references to war, fortified cities, and gearing up for some mega battle. There is a lot of the Lord crushing things, and the line "but do you gird your loins." I remember this quite specifically. It is pretty hard to forget having to say anything about loins and girding them in the presence of tons of people, a priest, Perfect Coed, and one's crush. Especially when one is 19-years-old and awkward. Girding one's loins happens in the second line of the reading. I flush, fumble, and fall apart for the rest of it. I totally forget "This is the Word of the Lord" and just book it back to my place next to Perfect Coed, where I pretend to sing the Responsorial Psalm and actively pray for the floor to open up and swallow me. This would all be bad enough, but then Perfect Coed gets up there, in her adorable suit and matching heels. She brushes her Marcia Brady hair out of her face, calmly gazes across the church, and launches into "Love is Patient, Love is Kind." That's right, she has the Saint Paul reading that everyone adores and uses for their wedding. She reads it like she is making it up as she goes along and everyone in the church (including my crush) stares at her in amazement and wonder. It is like an angel has come down from on high to share her wisdom with us. I am pretty sure the sun comes out from behind a cloud, just to hear the pearls dripping from Perfect Coed's lips, which illuminates the stained glass behind her and bathes her in beautiful blue and red light. It is a nightmare.
Is it just me or does she glance at me and then enunciate the bejesus out of "The Word of the Lord?" Must just be me. She then floats back to our seats and I spend the rest of mass glaring at her and then feeling guilty for glaring at her. So, we are walking back up the aisle after mass, when she leans over and says "that was a really good try, Awkward Coed. It was a hard reading." Her pity makes me want to punch her. She walks ahead of me, and then my crush makes his way toward me. Oh my God, is he actually going to talk to me? Maybe this day isn't the worst day of my life after all.
"Hey, Awkward Coed."
"Hey." I am shooting for nonchalance. Pretty sure that doesn't happen.
"I was wondering....Well, that is, if you wouldn't mind....Well, this is kinda hard to ask, but..."
I am totally freaking out but trying to remain calm. He is asking me out. He is actually asking me out!
"Yes? What is it that you want to ask me?"
"Well, do you think you could introduce me to Perfect Coed?"
I would like to say that the floor did open up and swallow me, but it didn't. I introduce them and then slink away to cry in my dorm room. They don't end up together or anything that romantic-comedy, and I go on to have many other crushes in college. And I mean every definition of crush there. This isn't even the last time that I read at mass with Perfect Coed. We actually read together at the Baccalaureate Mass on the day we graduate from college, where she shows me up yet again. Although not quite as spectacularly as that cold winter Sunday that is etched in my mind forever.
I am now 35-years-old with a healthy fear of reading in front of people. However, I am reaching outside my comfort zone and trying new things, so I dutifully type up a 1-2 minutes speech and make plans to attend the 12:15pm mass to read it. Awkward Dad takes all the kids home after our regular mass and I am all alone in the pew. You would think this would help matters, but it makes it so much worse. I can't be the only mother in the world who now feels totally naked when I don't have a child next to me, you know, to blame my distractability on. I take a few deep breaths and try to get into some sort of prayerful place. The first reader climbs up to the lectern and starts to read;
"The word of the LORD came to me, saying:
Before I formed you in the womb I knew you,
before you were born I dedicated you,
a prophet to the nations I appointed you.
But do you gird your loins;
stand up and tell them
all that I command you...."
Oh, there's more, but I stop listening and this starts going on in my head:
"Ha ha. Very funny, God."
"Oh, Awkward Mom. I just couldn't help it. You were so nervous and looking so silly, it was just the perfect set-up."
"Are you serious? I was nervous before. Now I am terrified. No one is here with me. No one is going to smile reassuringly at me. It is like Perfect Coed all over again. Literally now, so thanks."
"I am smiling at you."
"OK, yes, but..."
"No buts. You are fine. You got through it with Perfect Coed and you are gonna get through it today. Do you like being in a small group?"
"Yes, but..."
"No buts! Do you want to share that with these people so maybe they can find that kind of community and warmth?"
"Yes, but..."
"No buts! hee-hee butts..."
"Umm, God? You are starting to sound a little like Super Preschooler here."
"Well, Super Preschooler is not a bad one to sound like, I gave him an excellent sense of humor. The same one that I gave you, I might add. Just get up there and wow 'em. You are gonna do great, and P.S. you look great. No offense, Sweetie, but I am really glad you decided against the Doc Martens."
"Wow 'em? But... Sorry, no buts. I mean, I am not Perfect Coed."
"I know you aren't. I am so glad you aren't. You are you. You are competent, smart, funny, eloquent, passionate, and full of grace. Just like I made you. Now, go wow them. Well, at least try. Most of them are already thinking about the Super Bowl and totally tuned out."
Not sure if she wowed them, but she did try: "Hi, I’mErin , and I am here
to talk about small groups. Very briefly, I promise. My family joined St.
Francis about 2 and a half years ago. That fall was when I first joined a small
group. It was a truly positive and faith enriching experience, and I have been
involved in small groups since then. The small group that I attend is the one
for parents of small children, that meets right here in the church nursery. It
is a clear example of praising God in the here and now, in the chaos of daily
life. As we pray and discuss together, we often have rousing games of tag or
hide and seek circling the table. It is quite fun, as well as welcoming and
spiritually nourishing. I would encourage you to consider joining a small group
this Lent. The groups are listed in the bulletin and you can sign up on the
church web-site. If you happen to be a parent of a small child, please consider
joining our group. There is always room for more in a good game of hide and
seek. Thank you."
She only got 1 laugh, but as Awkward Dad says, "Awkward Mom is usually firing at a 10, but Church Awkward Mom needs to be dialed down to about a 3. Faith is fun, not frivolous."
I belong to a small group at my church. We meet weekly in the church nursery with our children and attempt to be prayerful and insightful while being beaned in the head with legos. It's a good time. The coordinator of all the small groups called me about a week ago and asked me to give a tiny (1-2 minute) talk at the end of mass about what being in a small group means to me, how great they are, and why everyone should join one for Lent. I was all set to beg off, but this wily woman called me on my birthday. The day that I make my goals for my new year. The day that I decided goal 6 was going to be "reach outside my comfort zone and try new things." Sigh. Never underestimate a Catholic woman's ability to guilt people into doing things, especially if the person she is trying to guilt is herself. Needless to say, I agreed to give the talk.
Like most sane people, I have a healthy fear of speaking in front of other people. I happily hang out here in the back of the class/internet, joking around, assisted by my spell check, my editing ability, and Wikipedia open in another window. That is how I like to pontificate and nosily share my opinions with the world. Or at least the part of the world that decides to pit-stop here on their way to Pinterest or Facebook. A captive audience at the end of an already long mass, because there is a baptism in the middle of it, is not my idea of folks I want to win over. In fact, I don't want to have to win over anyone. I like my audiences already loving and rooting for me from the get-go. Doesn't everyone?
A little back story: In college, I was quite involved in our campus church. I was kinda like Figaro; you know, here, there, up, down. (Oh holy cats, if she is gonna make opera references, she is gonna have to start winning people over.) OK. OK. Sorry. I was very involved. I was taking up the collection. I was passing out communion. I was helping the priest out on the altar. But mostly, I was reading. I was 19-years-old and a theater major, I didn't know yet to be afraid of reading in public. And like most 19-year-olds, I thought that I was good at everything. That is until I meet someone who really was.
You know Perfect Mom, right? Well, Perfect Moms don't pop into the world fully formed with their 2.5 children combed and posed next to them. Well, most don't; I do have this theory about Perfect Mom clones that I will share with you one day. Conspiracy theories aside, most Perfect Moms were once Perfect Babies, who grow to Perfect Toddlers, Preschoolers, and Kids, before they turn into Perfect Coeds and make Awkward Coeds' lives miserable. My college nemesis was a Perfect Coed and she was also Figaro-esque. She was pre-med (duh), an actress, tall, pretty, sweet, friendly, president of her sorority, and also very involved at church. We were often reading together; I would do one and then she would do one. Then we would let the priest read for awhile; wouldn't want him to feel left out, you know? It was fine. I didn't like it, but it was fine. And then, there was the day that it wasn't fine at all.
It is a winter day somewhere in the late 90s and I am assigned the first reading and Perfect Coed has the second reading. My reading is not an easy reading. First readings rarely are, being Old Testament and full of begets, whale antics, and all those Leviticus laws. But I have been practicing and I am ready to make the best of a tough situation. (Please remember that I am 19.) I make it up to the lectern in my Doc Martens and floral skirt combo, confidently beam at the congregation, lock eyes with my current crush, and then proceed to completely stumble through a reading stuffed with references to war, fortified cities, and gearing up for some mega battle. There is a lot of the Lord crushing things, and the line "but do you gird your loins." I remember this quite specifically. It is pretty hard to forget having to say anything about loins and girding them in the presence of tons of people, a priest, Perfect Coed, and one's crush. Especially when one is 19-years-old and awkward. Girding one's loins happens in the second line of the reading. I flush, fumble, and fall apart for the rest of it. I totally forget "This is the Word of the Lord" and just book it back to my place next to Perfect Coed, where I pretend to sing the Responsorial Psalm and actively pray for the floor to open up and swallow me. This would all be bad enough, but then Perfect Coed gets up there, in her adorable suit and matching heels. She brushes her Marcia Brady hair out of her face, calmly gazes across the church, and launches into "Love is Patient, Love is Kind." That's right, she has the Saint Paul reading that everyone adores and uses for their wedding. She reads it like she is making it up as she goes along and everyone in the church (including my crush) stares at her in amazement and wonder. It is like an angel has come down from on high to share her wisdom with us. I am pretty sure the sun comes out from behind a cloud, just to hear the pearls dripping from Perfect Coed's lips, which illuminates the stained glass behind her and bathes her in beautiful blue and red light. It is a nightmare.
Is it just me or does she glance at me and then enunciate the bejesus out of "The Word of the Lord?" Must just be me. She then floats back to our seats and I spend the rest of mass glaring at her and then feeling guilty for glaring at her. So, we are walking back up the aisle after mass, when she leans over and says "that was a really good try, Awkward Coed. It was a hard reading." Her pity makes me want to punch her. She walks ahead of me, and then my crush makes his way toward me. Oh my God, is he actually going to talk to me? Maybe this day isn't the worst day of my life after all.
"Hey, Awkward Coed."
"Hey." I am shooting for nonchalance. Pretty sure that doesn't happen.
"I was wondering....Well, that is, if you wouldn't mind....Well, this is kinda hard to ask, but..."
I am totally freaking out but trying to remain calm. He is asking me out. He is actually asking me out!
"Yes? What is it that you want to ask me?"
"Well, do you think you could introduce me to Perfect Coed?"
I would like to say that the floor did open up and swallow me, but it didn't. I introduce them and then slink away to cry in my dorm room. They don't end up together or anything that romantic-comedy, and I go on to have many other crushes in college. And I mean every definition of crush there. This isn't even the last time that I read at mass with Perfect Coed. We actually read together at the Baccalaureate Mass on the day we graduate from college, where she shows me up yet again. Although not quite as spectacularly as that cold winter Sunday that is etched in my mind forever.
I am now 35-years-old with a healthy fear of reading in front of people. However, I am reaching outside my comfort zone and trying new things, so I dutifully type up a 1-2 minutes speech and make plans to attend the 12:15pm mass to read it. Awkward Dad takes all the kids home after our regular mass and I am all alone in the pew. You would think this would help matters, but it makes it so much worse. I can't be the only mother in the world who now feels totally naked when I don't have a child next to me, you know, to blame my distractability on. I take a few deep breaths and try to get into some sort of prayerful place. The first reader climbs up to the lectern and starts to read;
"The word of the LORD came to me, saying:
Before I formed you in the womb I knew you,
before you were born I dedicated you,
a prophet to the nations I appointed you.
But do you gird your loins;
stand up and tell them
all that I command you...."
Oh, there's more, but I stop listening and this starts going on in my head:
"Ha ha. Very funny, God."
"Oh, Awkward Mom. I just couldn't help it. You were so nervous and looking so silly, it was just the perfect set-up."
"Are you serious? I was nervous before. Now I am terrified. No one is here with me. No one is going to smile reassuringly at me. It is like Perfect Coed all over again. Literally now, so thanks."
"I am smiling at you."
"OK, yes, but..."
"No buts. You are fine. You got through it with Perfect Coed and you are gonna get through it today. Do you like being in a small group?"
"Yes, but..."
"No buts! Do you want to share that with these people so maybe they can find that kind of community and warmth?"
"Yes, but..."
"No buts! hee-hee butts..."
"Umm, God? You are starting to sound a little like Super Preschooler here."
"Well, Super Preschooler is not a bad one to sound like, I gave him an excellent sense of humor. The same one that I gave you, I might add. Just get up there and wow 'em. You are gonna do great, and P.S. you look great. No offense, Sweetie, but I am really glad you decided against the Doc Martens."
"Wow 'em? But... Sorry, no buts. I mean, I am not Perfect Coed."
"I know you aren't. I am so glad you aren't. You are you. You are competent, smart, funny, eloquent, passionate, and full of grace. Just like I made you. Now, go wow them. Well, at least try. Most of them are already thinking about the Super Bowl and totally tuned out."
Not sure if she wowed them, but she did try: "Hi, I’m
She only got 1 laugh, but as Awkward Dad says, "Awkward Mom is usually firing at a 10, but Church Awkward Mom needs to be dialed down to about a 3. Faith is fun, not frivolous."
What? I'm just over here wowing 'em.
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