Attack of the Pretty Police

 

Caution: Mixed metaphors ahead.

Addison is changing. And I don’t like it one bit.

My once supremely confident, creative, take-no-trash little Alpha dog – the one who seemed to eat life up she loved it so – has become doubtful and disillusioned. Among her first grade peers, her big bark and wildly wagging tail have all but disappeared, replaced by a disconcerting deference to the ‘popular’ girls.

The seeds of insecurity were sewn in kindergarten, when it became clear over the course of the year that the girls – five year olds – were beginning to classify each other as pretty and…not. Popularity was subsequently determined by where you fell on that excruciatingly superficial and subjective scale.

As usual, the Pretty Police prevailed:

I can’t wear that…everyone will think I look stupid.

 Madison says my eyes are squinty when I smile.

 So-and-so says my ears stick out too far.

 Really?!  First of all, there is nothing wrong with Alpha’s ears except her propensity for using them selectively when I am speaking to her. And secondly, as a species our ears tend to protrude from our heads in order to gather sound, so that we can hear.

Honestly, it took every ounce of restraint I had not to summon up Kristen and Demi, just to make a particular point:

See? Beautiful AND sticky-outy ears.

But that would’ve been immature. And I am a model of maturity. Ask anyone (who has known me less than a year).

"Bite it, Princess Perfect Ears. -- Love, Demi"

Anyway, four months into the new school year and the seeds have taken seemingly firm root, sprouting insidious weeds that I’m afraid will smother too many of the things that make Addison a fairly magnificent specimen to behold.

Hopefully sometime before the hormones strike their hefty blow, my Alpha dog will rediscover her inner nonconformist…the one who was once so often heard to say, “That’s stupid. I’m not doing it.”

In the meantime, those of us who love her will pull on our gardening gloves, drag the hoes out of the shed, and settle in for some serious weeding.

Hardcore Christmas in the South

 

This both thrills and exhausts me. I am currently resisting the urge to lay prostrate on the front walk wrapped in a shroud bearing the words: "You Win."

About Last Night…

It hit me out of nowhere. I was going about my usual weeknight routine when I realized that for the first time in months, I was…in the mood.

As a 40 year old working mother, the ‘mood’ does not strike with the frequency or ferocity that it once did, so when it finally deigns to make an appearance I try to react with the lightening speed of an agitated cobra. In this case that meant wrangling two wild things, getting them jammied up and tucked into bed in 11 minutes. Flat. A shocking personal best. (Please, hold your applause.)

Ten minutes and a clean face later, I was ready. To be honest, I wasn’t expecting much. But the mood is a use-it-or-lose sort of thing, so I decided to just go with it. Glass of wine in hand, I finally committed…to what turned out to be an unexpectedly fulfilling little chick flick, “Friends with Benefits.” 

This cute movie stars Mila Kunis of “That 70s Show” fame and Justin ‘Bringing-Sexy-Back-Every-Damn-Day’ Timberlake.

Adorable in action. (Image: Zimbio.com)

[Note to Hollywood:  J.T. might be among the most under-rated talents in town. This guy is living proof that a white boy with questionable hair can get the girl every time if only he can reach deep down into his personality profile, find his funny, and learn a couple of really good dance moves.]

“Friends” tells the story of Jamie, a driven but romantically damaged executive recruiter (Kunis) and Dylan, a brilliant but emotionally unavailable creative type (Timberlake). The two become friends when Jamie recruits Dylan for a high-profile art director position at GQ. Both on a break from dating, they decide that no-commitment sex can surely be had here without complicating the relationship. (Oh yeah, that works every time.)

It’s no frontrunner for a gold statue, but it fulfills all the basic requirements for a plot-driven and not stupid two-hour cruise on the Love Boat. Add in Woody Harrelson as a gay sportswriter and…ding, ding, ding…you’ve got yourself a chick flick winner, folks.

Anyway, this whole scene – me in my favorite PJs with a flute of The Loon, sprawled out on my overpriced but much loved Restoration Hardware linen slip-covered couch getting my rom-com on? It would have been perfect if not for the nagging voice in my head of Someone who is oft heard reminding me that, “Life, cannot be a romance movie, Laura.”

Now, I’m not being critical. Someone is obliged by strict league rules to manage expectations of the fairer gender and head off at the pass potential insurgencies that could lead to global, domino-effect demands for “grand gestures.” You know, like train station flash mobs that effectively set the stage for a heartfelt outpouring of true love. I get it. Really.

Some smart directors toss in a call girl or two to throw the unenlightened off the love scent. It’s a small price to pay, really. (Image: EW.com)

But in the interest helping advance world peace, allow me to try and explain why I think romantic comedies and dramas never lose their long-run allure. For rational adult fans, these movies aren’t really about soul mates or longing for a relationship that seems cosmically ‘meant to be.’ Neither are they about wishing  to met someone with whom one can overcome superficial conflict to achieve an effortless happily-ever-after.

No…anyone who’s ever been in a relationship of any length knows better than to expect conflict-free perfection. (After all, unless you’re the only one loading the dishwasher, there’s no possible way it’s going to be done correctly every time.)

But when done well, romance movies promise something infinitely more attractive: the notion that it is possible to be with someone that gets you on a fundamental level. Someone who makes you laugh. And someone who ‘‘fits’ you in just the right enough way to make you want keep experiencing life – from the amazing to the unbearable – with them, even after 20, 30, 40 or more years.

Hey, Hope Floats, babe…and it sells a lot of tickets.

The question is, does any of that really exist? IS it possible to wake up next to a person you’ve known for a decade or more and still be genuinely glad you chose each other? What does a happy, established marriage really look like?

So here’s the part where you veterans of Domestic Blissdom get to play. For the good of Cullen-obsessed teenage girls and millions of other romantically misguided everywhere, break out your secret guide book to ‘Love in the Real World,’ and start talking. Because blogging may be no substitute for group therapy led by a qualified and licensed professional, but I’m thinking it might be one hell of a good way to crowd-source answers to some of life’s pressing questions.

Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes

Once upon a time, I started a blog. This blog. It was supposed to be a creative space for detailing my misadventures in motherhood and chronicling all the funny things my kids say and do. And for awhile, it was just that. Then I turned 39 and a thousand little waves of internal conflict that had for many years, been softly lapping against the recesses of my mind, converged into a serious, kick-ass tsunami of a midlife crisis.

I hate that term – midlife crisis. It infers a kind of temporary insanity that compels rational adults to engage in wildly irresponsible or out-of-character behavior in an attempt to reconnect with their youth. You know, like acquiring racy sports cars, wearing polyester or having hot pink feathers professionally installed in one’s hair.

I did none of those things. (Although I did seriously consider the feather, because let’s be honest, on the lithe, under-20 set, they scream edgy chic.) I didn’t do any of those things because my midlife crisis wasn’t (isn’t) about reconnecting with my youth, but connecting with my life on a deeper level; finding out what really matters to me; discovering a passion; and defining for the first time in my life, what fun looks like to me. In short, it is about creating balance and a life that feels chosen versus one that I feel obligated to maintain.

So I didn’t get the feather. I did, however, quit blogging.

At that point, blogging felt like work. I had so many other things going on in my life that I could no longer see the day-to-day funny inherent in parenting. And I certainly couldn’t muster the energy to conjure up a voice that had hitched a ride to the calmer side of town.

I wanted to write. But what I needed to write about didn’t seem to jive with what I thought people expected to see when they visited my blog. There were also issues of responsibility, shame and fear.

None of what’s happened in my life over past year is particularly unusual or earth shattering – except to the people bearing the weight of it. Sharing my thoughts and feelings about it – however therapeutic it might be for me personally – felt like a breach of trust, an invasion of the privacy of the people I love most.

So I didn’t write.

I was also ashamed that while the rest of the world was out tweeting and posting pictures of happy, fulfilled lives, I was awash in discontent. My fear of being different…separate…judged…kept me quiet.

But I have thought about my blog everyday, mentally constructing no less than a hundred posts. I have obsessed over how to bring back the voice that helped me start this blog, and get back to doing the one thing I ever really made time to do just for fun.

Then, in the wee small hours of this morning, I realized something: ‘Time to Make the Brownies’ started out as a way to tell stories about creating the space to do what matters most with my kids. But really, it can be about so much more. In then end, for me, this blog is a metaphor for making time to find and create the kind of life that I’ve always wanted. It’s about closing the gap between who I’ve become and the vague, but persistent vision of the person I know I can be.

So I’m coming back to blogging. But there’s going to be some changes around here. If you were a fan in the beginning, it might feel a bit heavy some days. If that’s not your thing, drop me a note and I’ll put you on the ‘bringing the funny’ post list.

But if your life isn’t yet picture perfect and you find yourself even occasionally wondering whether there’s something more to be had, then stop by now and then to punch your ticket on my crazy train. On this ride, you might just see some things that will give you insight into your own little pursuit of happiness.

True Confessions Friday

Last month I wrote about Guilt. And how I have a lot of it. I was all freaked out about posting the piece because I have this infuriating need to be liked and approved of, which I am pretty sure drives He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named INSANE. But I did it anyway. Because, well, why the hell not? At some point a person has to LIVE, for God-freakin-sake. Throw caution to the wind and care in the can, because what is life if all you do is obsess over whether people LIKE you?  (For the record, this bravado flies directly in the face of the way I live my life on a daily basis. I’m thinking I must have missed a pill or two that week.) 

In any case, I posted it. And the damn thing got picked up on ‘Freshly Pressed.’  So.  So, what? you say.  Well, SO… even though I’ve been wanting to further unburden my oft-troubled soul of all the things I feel bad about from week to week — because it is, in some freakish way, cathartic for me – I’ve developed an irksome case of performance anxiety. 

Seriously, I don’t have that many more good stories about Catholic school. It was a generally positive experience, which makes me more than a little bitter when I consider how much material I really should have gotten out of those four years. I never even got my hands smacked with a ruler. Not once. Sister Marianne did staple my shirt shut on one occasion, but that is a digression for another day. 

Guilt. Performance anxiety. Confessions. Yes…that’s why I logged in. So rather than never again have the opportunity to virtually offload my many domestic transgressions, I am instituting the first-ever “Time to Make the Brownies” weekly tradition:

As a rule, I’m not a fan of bloggy games. They seem like a lot of work to me. But we’re going to pretend this one is really fun. Mostly because I said so. 

This Week’s Seven Deadly Sins (aka, Stuff I feel bad about):

1. My complete inability to cook even ONE healthy meal for the offsprings’ consumption while their creator was out-of-town on business.  Yes, we ate out. Every. Single. Night.  If you listen closely, you can hear their cholesterol rising from the depths of my bedroom.
2. Allowing aforementioned offspring to be the last two remaining souls at summer camp for reasons I cannot even remember but am positive did not warrant the undue stress of feeling forgotten by the only parent within a 500 mile radius.
3. Failure to complete the lone-requested Father’s Day gift — a mammoth, three-year picture project that was initiated exclusively out of a deep-seated desire for shiny new photo albums – DESPITE being awarded four full days of complete solitude last week and another four husband-free days this week. I am so screwed. Bad wife. Bad, BAD wife!
4. Continuing to sort dirty clothes into elaborately-classified piles in the downstairs guest room, but not actually do a single load of laundry.  Just to give myself the satisfaction of seeing empty hampers in all the other bedrooms.
5. Neglecting to write checks, draft inspiring notes and mail cards for second cousins’ high school graduations in two different states, despite telling the spouse this task has already been crossed off his exceptionally comprehensive ‘To Do’ list.
6. Unjustly administering the ‘I don’t care if you don’t want to eat it or don’t want to do it or you think it’s not fair. There are starving children in Africa and scared children in L.A. who go to bed listening to gunshots ring outside their windows, so be grateful for what you have and when I tell you to do something, just do it” lecture, out of nothing more than garden-variety frustration over screeching siblings who chose to ignore repeated requests to help pick up the avalanche of possessions sprinkled about my family room.
7. For responding to the oldest child’s cry for help with, “If this is a joke, I am so going to spank your butt.“ (In my defense, he was crying wolf from underneath the porch in an attempt to get my attention during the one phone call I’ve made to my mother in their presence in the last three weeks.  Still, I’m pretty sure threats of physical violence result in immediate disqualification for the ‘Mother of the Year’ award.)

There. I feel better already.  Thank you for your support.  Hopefully soon, I’ll figure out if WordPress enables the function that will allow you to link to my post with a cute little icon that provides a direct path back to your own ‘True Confessions Friday.’ 

In the meantime, feel free to unburden yourself in the Comments section. And if you know a good priest who can provide Friday afternoon absolution, send me his contact information. I seriously doubt my Craig’s List ad is going to attract the right candidate for this activity.

She’s a Superstar…

Mothers are notorious for telling their children they can be — or do – anything they want in life.  This is not, as I suspect some teenagers may believe, an attempt to blow sunshine up the dark orifices of an entire generation.  Rather, it is a mother’s keen understanding of the true possibility and potential of her offspring.  It’s our little way of saying, “Hey kid, make good choices and stay out of your own way, and you’ll go far in life.”  We’re trying to inspire confidence, for God’s sake.  You’re WELCOME. 

(Also, we happen to truly believe that you are fantastic. Gratitude can be expressed in your choice of especially thoughtful Mother’s Day gifts or by successfully completing adolescence without the need to be bailed out of anywhere.  Take your pick.)

While most of us fall into the category of “could have climbed a little higher on the life ladder if we’d only had a tad more nerve and the discipline to forego 10-20 fewer Saturday night keggers,” there are some people who come into this world as a force of nature.  There’s no doubt these little suckers are going somewhere…it’s just a semi-frightening matter of whether they choose to use their powers for good or evil. 

Case in point:

Independent third-party predictions for the manner in which Addison will bring the global masses to their collective knees have included President of the United States and cult leader.  These assessments were levied by people I consider to be fairly informed and reliable sources:  her preschool teacher and one of the Hub’s coworkers who is a confirmed hater of small people who are clearly immature and germ-infested. 

Suffice it to say, it was the former who predicted Addison will someday bust up on Barack in Chicago and snip, “Yeah, you were first. In your own little way. But the girls are in the house now, baby, and I am so gonna kick your legacy’s candy ass.”  As the only rooster on his own little chick farm, it’s my bet that he’ll find this at least mildly amusing.

Addison herself, is still in deliberation.  She announced this morning that she would like to be taken to Hollywood…the sooner the better.  I’d like to say that she added something especially funny like, “because I’m a superstar,” but the manner in which this request was delivered clearly denoted that part was implied.  While I”m sure I’d make a smokin’ hot stage mom, my response was to suggest that she wait a few years.  Like until she’s 18 and waited enough tables to come up with her first month’s rent.  Because I’m not footing the bill for super-stardom until she demonstrates a little initiative. Or at least a willingness to perform “Henry Pickle” on cue for family and friends in a manner that truly befits her level of talent and stage presence.  I think it’s important to be practical about these sort of things.

Anyway, given my general lack of cooperativeness, she has currently decided to settle for an as-yet-unplanned trip to Disney World, where she can get her princess on.  Royalty, I suppose, will have to suffice until she can round up the cash for bus fare to the Big Time. 

For my part, I’m glad to have a few more years to see how my tiny tornado takes on the world while still having the safety of our little family to retreat to after a tough day of directing teachers and classmates presumably less qualified for greatness.  I hope she finds a way to keep all her confidence and moxy intact to adulthood.  If she does, the world had better watch out.  The Force is strong with this one…

Funky Town

Gratutious beefcake and spitting image of what my fantasy Funk would look like if these sort of things could be special ordered. Sadly, this fine specimen bears no resemblance whatsoever to the actual cowboy that showed up on my doorstep oh-so-many weeks ago.

I didn’t recognize The Funk when he first showed up almost a month ago. Whether from some misguided midlife crisis or an intense desire to fit in around the Christmas tree farm capital of the south, he’d put on 30 pounds, grown out his hair, and scored himself a sweet gold chain and gun rack. So when he rolled up the dirt road and into our driveway, I was confused but generally unconcerned.  Maybe he needed directions. Or a good excuse to kill some time before the dude in the F-150 came cruising for day workers.  Summer is slow around these parts, people.  

So I open the door fully prepared to map out the quickest way back into town and he’s all, “Hey, ponytail.  I hear you’ve got a big birthday coming up.  Pack up the funny and break out your best PJs, girl. We’re hitching the big black horse down to Funky Town.  I brought the doughnuts, ’cause you know, this is gonna be one long trail ride.”  

Honestly, I should have seen it coming. My 39th birthday was looming on the horizon, and I’ve never been good at letting go. ‘Things’ are tagged for trash without a second thought. But I have an unnatural tendency to cling to time, significant eras and the select group of people who’ve managed, over the years, to get under my skin.  Ask my sister. She’s so used to rehashing the same three topics, it’s a wonder she hasn’t sawed off her ears with the ragged-cut lid of a Campbell’s soup can.  Bless her…she endures a lot in the name of friendship.   

Anyway, net net: ”letting go?’ Not my forte.  However, denial? Particularly about certain things — like whether my four-Diet Cokes-a-day habit is breeding some additive-induced cancer, or if I’m going to hell for fantasizing about cryogenically freezing my people so that I can score 6 to 12 guilt-free months of wine drinking and trash novel-reading? Well, that’s my specialty.  I do denial like the Dali Lama does peace: 100 percent and without a trace of doubt. Seriously, all I need is a new haircut and a pretty, sunset-hued toga.  I know it’s not healthy. But don’t kick a cowgirl when she’s down. It’s not polite.  

Initially, I tried to battle The Funk with a deluge of chick flicks and a couple extra glasses of Smoking Loon. But the man is the master of crushing flimsy, ill-conceived defenses and before you know it, I was neck-deep in a swamp of  excessive sleeping, banana-pepper pizza slices, premium ice cream with homemade chocolate syrup, and perfectly stale cheesy puffs.  And that was just the first week.  

By the time The Funk had set up camp downstairs and called in his posse — Crabby, Impatient and Unmotivated — I was in full-on Negative Nancy mode, rocking unwashed peach capri pajama pants, an eight-year-old blue t-shirt and my best black cardigan for the better part of four days. The visual just gets better and better, doesn’t it?  

Finally, after weeks of walking around fully covered in funky slime, the day came…the dreaded birthday. And shockingly, I survived. Relatively unscathed, save 50-100 Facebook birthday wishes and one virtually bestowed pack of Depends from an old friend with a penchant for the macabre.   

I was — am — 39.  I’m no different than I was last week or last year.  It seems silly now to have let myself get so worked up about it. 40 is coming…someday.  But I personally know a plethora of smokin’ women busting up their fourth decade with class and panache.  With their example to guide me, I’m sure the actual transition into my 40s will be handled with exponentially more grace than I approached 39.  Getting there has always been the hardest part for me. Still, it wouldn’t hurt for you to mark your calendar for the first week of June next year.  I may have to call in reinforcements to keep me off the fast track to elastic waistbands.  

I’d be lying if I said The Funk has totally left the building.  But my game plan for climbing out of the swamp and rinsing off the slime is a little more crafty and a lot less pizza dependent.  Wish me luck.

The case for hoarding

As a general rule, I feel compelled to have actual content before bothering anyone with my random thoughts.  But it’s Wednesday.  And here in la-la-land, that’s You Can Do It! day, so indulge me.  Or wait for Thursday, when I get back to real writing.  Because right now, we’re boarding the bus for ”Things Laura Gets Excited About And Then Realizes She Doesn’t Have The Right Curtains For.” 

So, I was reading another blog this morning and I came across this:

And I thought, Oh my God, that is so kind of…HOT…and it’s just like those curtains my mother-in-law made me for the office, like, 10 years ago.  Except those are not hot, but MAN, what a great post this would make!  And then I saw this:

And THIS:

And I thought, OK, now seriously, I totally HAVE to do the tie post.  So I go running downstairs with my camera and the cutest belt I can find because at this point, I am completely committed to modeling the latest in tie-curtain-dress fashion, and it turns out that at some point during the last move, I THREW THEM AWAY.

This is something I do often.  Throw things away. I hate clutter and having arbitrary things l don’t really need.  So every couple of months, I’ll pick a closet or drawer and just start chucking stuff.  My husband – the one who still has his ceramic baby booties (don’t get me started), a moderately inappropriate scrapbook made for him by his high school girlfriend, and shreds of a once-thought-to-be-cool University of Colorado t-shirt with a middle finger on it — hates this behavior.  But I have kids with a crap-ton of stuff and therefore I absolutely loathe having other at-the-time seemingly useless stuff shoved in random places around my house.  

I will admit that my predisposition towards roomy drawers does sometimes come back to bite me in butt.  Like when I can’t find a single white button-up shirt to wear with jeans because I’ve thrown them all away due to possibly-imaginary-but-really-probably-there yellow stains under the arms.  Or when I want to craft a tie-curtain-dress masterpiece. 

So maybe the hoarder is right.  Maybe I should save more.  That way, when maxi-pad minis and coupon-covered lamp shades come into vogue, I’ll be totally ready.

Finding my religion

Some women claim they do not pray.  These women are childless.  Because I’m here to tell you, buy a couple shots for 90% of the mothers in this world, and they will cop to clawing open the little red box under the bed that bears the words, “In case of emergency, break glass, grab rosary, apologize for being an idiot and pray like hell.”

When you are a carefree and rebellious youth unfettered by the responsibilities of family life, it’s fine and dandy to go around questioning your religious convictions and popping off about how you may or may not believe in a Higher Being.  But kids have a knack for bringing you to your knees early and often, y’all. 

I’m not sure if fathers pray.  My experience is that the just-fix-it gender prefers to take the ‘keep your own counsel, go with your gut and cuss a lot‘ approach to parenting.  But I think mothers are different.  Yes, we trust our guts.  We also trust medical professionals, writers impersonating child-rearing experts and really old deli ladies who claim to have successful offspring.  We’re hard-wired to look beyond ourselves in search of answers.  Call it an innate desire to get this whole Mommy thing exactly right.  Or a natural affinity for being attuned to the metaphysical workings of the universe.  Take your pick.  I’m good either way.

As I so subtly suggested in an earlier post this week, I was raised Catholic.  Not the real kind.  My mother favored the ‘Damn, I’m so busy I can barely keep my head on straight, but this is important, and you people need some kind of solid foundation to make a decision about religion, and I need back up on the whole no-lying-stealing-premarital sex thing, so for Christ’s sake we’re at least going to church on Christmas and Easter‘ version of Catholicism.  I can relate. 

My point is, I prayed before becoming a mother.  God and I chatted on a semi-regular basis.  About tests I didn’t study for, acne I didn’t like and boys I did.  And because I clocked enough time in Catholic school to know that God quits tuning into your channel if all you do is gripe, I tried hard to be grateful.  “God, Vanilla Ice is a hot mess. I am so glad I’m not a rapper. Thank you.“

But since I set sail on the Good Ship MomNPop, God and I have been getting together a lot more frequently.  Like daily.  In the early years, my prayers took on the appearance of frantic pleading.  “Please God, just give me four straight hours of sleep.  I can do anything on four hours.  I swear.” 

If I was particularly desperate but concerned that the Big Guy might be too busy with other things – like you know, war in the Middle East or hostile pockets of frustrated Hari Krishnas assaulting travelers with wilted flowers – I’d try to back-door my request, just to get it on the list for later. 

“Sweet Mother of God, the kid is biting.  PEOPLE.  He’s on the verge of being expelled from daycare, and if that happens, I’m going to have to quit my job and stay at home.  I don’t think I can do it.  I’m not like those mothers.  They’re strong.  They have better gag reflexes for the whole ‘rinsing out the crappy underwear in the toilet’ thing.  I’m sure Jesus wasn’t a biter, but could you just help me out here? I NEED to work.”

Over the years, my relationship with all beings holy has evolved.  I still pray frequently.  Out of gratitude, relief, frustration, and blind rage that I fear may lead me to lease the little people out to young, unmarried couples who are blasé about birth control.  But today, there are a lot more every day invocations.

“Good God in Heaven, is there even a possibility that you could flush this poop down the toilet after you use it?  This is unsanitary.  And it’s grossing me out!” (Yes, we’re still in the ‘poopy’ portion of the program.)

“So help me God if you touch your brother one more time, we will strap you to the roof until we get to Grandma’s house. I am not even kidding.“

“I swear to the Sweet Virgin Mary, if I come in this room one more time and find a mix of clean and dirty clothes scattered about the floor like a modern art display, I will stop doing laundry.  Forever.  You can go to school in your underwear.”

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph help me.  PLEASE just…[insert one] brush your teeth/go to bed/get up/get dressed/eat your breakfast/stop getting those red lights and letters on your weekly conduct report…”  Yeah, that list kind of goes on and on.

Overall, the Powers that Be have been good to me.  But I am starting to think I’ve got to be a bit more judicious with the invocations.  Or they’ll shift their focus back to Britney and Lindsay.  Because you know, those girls are a hot mess too.

And the Oscar for Best Actress in a Drama goes to…

I lost Addison at the soccer game on Monday night.  For 20 minutes.  And try as I might to find the funny in that, I’m really just not there yet.

You know what parents always say, “I just looked away for a minute.”  Well, it was definitely a minute.  Or less.  One second she was standing at the fence behind me with a little friend, and the next she was gone.  After calmly scanning the field and checking all the standard hiding places (e.g., the bathroom), there was absolutely no sign of her.  I started trolling the school’s campus, calling for her and wondering where that little girl had gotten to.  But as the minutes ticked by and every new spot turned up empty. I started to get hysterical.  This could not be happening.  Not. On. My. Watch.

Two fabulous fathers posing as baseball coaches saw me near the playground.  I suppose the look of abject terror clued them in.  “You lose somebody? We’re on it.” Cell phones clicked open and pickup trucks moved out to canvas the grounds.  God love a small town where everyone knows everyone.

Ultimately, we did find her.  And I got to have my Lifetime movie moment.  You know the one where I finally see her and drop to my knees sobbing to gather her in my arms?  Truly, I expect a call from the Academy within 72 hours.

It turns out, she had gone to the far side of the soccer field into the trees with her friend.  According to Addison, she was being held under duress by the 6-year-old.  When the other girl’s mother finally located them, she couldn’t see me.  So she (correctly) found her father on the soccer field and copped a post-game bag of Goldfish and a juice box.

I guess I’m still a little embarrassed about calling in the Calvary and letting Crazy Mommy come out to play.  But really, there’s nothing more horrifying than the realization that your baby could be gone.  For good. 

Quote of the night from the big brother:

“Addison, if somebody is trying to make you go away from Mommy or Daddy, you’ve got to fight, yell, kick and scream.  It’s better to be safe than nice every time.”

That child…I swear to God, he takes it all into his 8-year-old brain and turns it into his own personal life vest.  Here’s hoping he’s always just around the corner to keep his risk-taker of a sister from diving off the side of the ship.