Mom’s Moment of Jen

Who knew those smiling Goldfish crackers weren’t so healthy, that sweet graham crackers are a better option to keep in the pantry for kid snacks (and late-night munching when they’re in bed)?

Check out this TIME feature, “9 Kid Foods to Avoid.”  It describes “healthy” kid food that isn’t so nutritious. What I like is that it offers alternative suggestions to the ones they trash. It’s not a long article, just one where you click on each “bad food” page and go “huh.”

Speaking of unhealthy food, have you seen these recipes for “frosting shots“? I think we need to have a frosting shot party soon. Yet another way I can laugh in the face of hereditary diabetes.

Today, I am pondering how to take my writing to the next level. Penelope Trunk blogged about how she learned to write for the ear: If it reads out loud well, you’re writing well. It’s so true.  Husband and I are reading books that pass that test. I just finished “Naked Pictures of Famous People” by Jon Stewart, a collection of bizarre, funny essays. Not a dull, laborious sentence could be found in the 163-page paperback. Husband’s reading “Hell’s Angels: A Strange and Terrible Saga” by Hunter S. Thompson. It lives up to its subtitle and although some of the descriptions gave me nightmares, one could easily read it out loud.

Maybe I need to join a writing club. But I don’t want to, honestly. One more club and I think my family will club me.

Husband and I are hooked on the Washinton Post series about the Chandra Levy case that had most of the nation’s attention in 2001 until 9/11.

The big takeaway up to this point has been: If either one of us disappears in Washington, DC, hire a private detective immediately because the police will not be much help.

But yesterday’s installment had such a mysterious statement by former Congressman Gary Condit, the man who had an affair with the young victim and misled investigators in an effort to preserve his career rather than help find his lost lover.

Condit said in an interview with an FBI agent that she was frugal, that she appeared to dress in clothes purchased from Macy’s as opposed to Nordstrom’s.

What?

Frugal shoppers buy clothes at Kohl’s, Target and Old Navy, in my book. And the big question that haunts me now:

How can one tell the difference between clothes bought at Macy’s versus Nordstrom’s?

I read the book review of I Read It Somewhere by Justin last night and was so embarrassed I couldn’t find the words to blather on the blog.  Justin, thank you–your kind words meant more to me than you’ll ever know! Why? Because it wasn’t paid for and not written by a relative … not that I’ve paid for endorsements, I’m just sayin’.

In fact, I went to bed so blissful last night that when I woke up this morning at too-dark-early to run with the Pink Ladies, a training group for the Charlottesville Women’s Four-Miler, I did my best time for a mile since high school, I think: 7:40.

Would have been even faster had I not stopped to chat at the half mile mark because I thought we were just doing a half mile. I’m not doing too well at listening to directions at that hour. Guess I know who my son takes after in that department.

For weeks, I’ve been doubting my ability to run 8-minute miles for this race, but today showed me that it’s possible. Should I have rewarded myself with stale, homemade chocolate chip cookies? Probably not.  

Should I tackle this self-doubt thing about my abilities now and really strive to run 8-minute miles? Probably.

Growing up, I was always good, but not quite good enough when it came to athletics: I was MVP of my JV soccer team yet didn’t make the varsity team. I was the best softball player on my team one year (and, admittedly, it was a pretty bad team) and was named to the all-star team, only to be cut.  A lot had to do with this sense that I was there to make funny comments from the bench.

So, I rarely played to win, but really focused on the “do it for fun!” message that is drilled into children’s heads. Whenever I engage in sports, I do have fun. Yet I struggle when it comes to competing and get easily psyched out: It’s not nice to be competitive, I won’t/can’t win, etc. goes through my head. And that is not fun but rather frustrating.

I am now concerned that my children will grow up with the same nagging thoughts when it comes to sports. Yes, I know, there are a lot more things to be concerned about, but understand that I am highly adept at multi-worrying. If that was a competitive sport, I’d so rule.

I have no clue how to hit the right balance: I want my kids to understand sooner than later that not everyone is a winner, that you should try your best and have fun. I want them to also know that they do have what it takes to win. Yes, I want to do all that without being a parent who pushes their kid too hard and either burns them out or plants the seed of self-doubt in their offspring that haunts them the rest of their lives.

There must be plenty of cool parents out there that have managed to pull that off, yet you don’t hear much about such folks, do you? It’s not a very sexy story, “Mr. and Mrs. Rodriquez: We Just Gave Little A-Rod a Bat and Ball.”*

If you see any stories like this or have any tips, send them my way. My email account has been de-spaminated so you can contact me that way, too, at: jennifer(at)jenniferzajac.com. **

* How cool would that be if A-Rod emailed me with some advice on how to help my children’s athletic pursuits?

** I’ve seen other sites write out the @ symbol so, lemming that I am, I am doing it too in hopes that it prevents further spamation.

Maybe I should switch to Twittering,  since my mind seems to only come up with one-liners lately. Like:

* Have already consumed four homemade chocolate chip cookies today. Dang, I am so good at baking and so bad for eating the fruits of my labor … because they’re not, um, fruits.

* Got an email in which the mother referred to her “34-month-old” child and it irked me. No more month counting after 18, I say. There’s a grace period between 18-24 months, especially because clothes are labeled that way, but after that, it’s time to join the rest of the world with 2, 3, 4 years old, and so on.

*  Son noticed the pimple on my face, squinted at it for a few seconds and said, “What’s that thing on your face, Mom? You look good buuuuuut, not as good as you normally do with that there.” It was bittersweet, just like the chocolate chips I scarfed down that probably caused the blemish.

* Is it Thursday already? It’s been one of those weeks where I have no sense of time. Here’s the latest weekly column: A goofy update on our move back into the house.

* I just discovered Glenn Beck, a funny conservative. I didn’t think there was one. Well, one that intentionally cracked jokes. How come I discovered him on a library bookshelf and not through his radio or cable TV show? (Don’t answer that, I know: Because lately I seem to spend most of my free time watching MythBusters with my son.) Beck may be the long lost brother of my friend, Scott Mactavish.

* Off to write in our daughter’s journal. I’m not scrapbooking like every red-blooded American woman appears driven to do, so I better start scribbling at least. 

When the house flooded, my house of blocks came tumbling down.  Right now, I’m restacking. Slowly.

The new foundation so far consists of:

Block #1: Appreciating what I’ve got. And I really do have much to be thankful for, as do most American families in the big scheme of things.

Block #2: Getting back into shape. Last week,  I joined a training group for the Women’s 4-Miler  in hopes of improving my time. Looks like I’ll get the chance to see old friends and make new friends, too.

Block #3: Spending time with people who matter. I have been physically and mentally cut off from people for a while and it’s time to be more social. It’s all too easy to lose track of relationships as a working mom these days and it’s probably one of the worst things you can do.

Block #4: Tackling how to make the most out of my current career position. Right now, I’m working on a way to meld my passions and strengths: Writing and radio, tackling interesting topics and adding some humor whenever appropriate.

Block #5: Waiting for Husband to come around. After we arrived back from what was essentially our second honeymoon in Hawaii, I turned into Mrs. Blockhead. Or maybe you’d say Mrs. Blocano, a huge Bloctch … you get the picture.

Haven’t gotten to the second tier yet, which includes (second row):

Block #6: Promoting the book. Keep meaning to contact groups, revamp the site, send out press releases, etc. but I’m just not there yet.

Block #7: Finishing the house. As in, sorting through stuff in the garage and attic, hanging up select photos and put others in albums, etc. But that can wait. And right now, the house seems more manageable and spacious without all those extra toys and knick-knacks. I’m in no rush. Even the lack of curtains in rooms seems nice; we’re surrounded by woods, which makes it shady and scenic outside our windows.

 Block #8: This is like a Lego block in that it’s a piece consisting of a bunch of little parts, which are all those things that make up my regular to-do lists. Amanda, I will eventually buy a bunch of your soaps for myself and to give others as gifts. Will, I am so sorry that I didn’t do more for your site–let me know how I can help your other sites be more profitable and I’ll click there. Other parts include: the photos to take and upload and print of our beautiful children; the notes I should be scribbling in our daughter’s journal; finishing that short story I began last month; buying and sending birthday cards, anniversary cards. The list does and always will go on and therefore figuring out how to pace the manner in which you pursue it is critical.

There’s another row that includes contributing more to the community and taking on some battles worth fighting, and then the top Block. But I’m too entrenched with my work in the basement to see those clearly at the moment. I’m not worried about that, though because I know they’ll eventually materialize.

Bear with me while I work on rebuilding and becoming more … rounded.

The scene: Dinner table. I am asking our son about his day.

Me: Don’t roll your eyes like that, it’s rude.

Son: I’m sorry, Mom. I can’t help it.

Me: Yes, you can control your eyes and your attitude.

Son: No, really, I can’t help it! It must be that my eyes are a little out of shape. I better do some exercises. [Son begins rolling eyes in different directions, as seen on “Thomas the Tank Engine.”]

Husband volunteers on the local water rescue squad, so that means he has all sorts of nifty levers and bright-colored ropes that our son loves to use any chance he can get. A pulley contraption was jerry-rigged in our foyer yesterday. Somehow, during a recovery procedure, a pair of Scooby-Doo underpants landed on the high shelf above our doorway. Today, the ropes are gone but the briefs remain. This doesn’t fit with the decorating scheme I have in mind for our recently renovated house but I can live with it for another day or so, because lately, that’s how we roll.

Daughter, who is a cuter version of Baby Suri, let the pigtails I put in her hair this morning remain for nearly 20 minutes. Styling her hair will be like potty-training her: It will be slow and gradual, not forced.

And in other news: Our son won a sand sculpture competition for his age group over the holiday weekend. He executed his vision of a rattlesnake, drew the outline, fussed over the forked tongue, and demanded that he do the design work on the crucial rattle at the end. I merely served as the sous-snake constructor, fetching water, filling in sand and making the occasional suggestion, such as adding stripes. We worked together beautifully. When we finished, we dipped our feet in the water, then laid down by the snake, basking in the sun and the compliments others gave us on our fine rattler.

Me (eyeing the glitter and food-coloring being spritzed on other elaborate designs around us): Now that it’s done, do you want to add anything else? Maybe write your name, or hey, how about “Don’t Tread on Me?”

Son: What? No, it’s good as it is.

And it was. And I am so proud of him. He’s driving us nuts lately because he is testing our authority and not listening as well as should/could, but I am glad that we listened to each other.

Like a movie, I can’t get Predictably Irrational out of my head. Written by a MIT professor who writes like a smart, fun friend you’d enjoy swigging beers with at a cookout, it’s all about how people make predictable yet irrational decisions over and over again.

For example, I went to the store to buy underwear. Instead of getting a few good pairs, I ended up buying a six-pack of scratchy ones because it was like getting two free. But the reality is, I now have six pairs of crummy underwear buried in the back of the dresser.

Everywhere I look I make irrational decisions: Why did I buy that can of shaving cream for my legs when I know it’s going to leave rust stains in our shower that will take tons of scrubbing and drive me nuts? How come I keep running to Food Lion for stuff when I know it saves time and money doing one big shopping trip once a week? Why do I keep letting our son get away with not making his bed (well, I know why–because I don’t want to argue about it in the morning when we’re trying to get out the door).  

We all make dumb choices, even MIT folks, the books shows. And it does give some tips on how to make wiser decisions. For example, I recently went out to lunch with my boss. I made sure that I ordered first because I knew that I would choose what I really wanted and not be influenced by my dining companion’s decision. Dan Ariely explains in his book that those who don’t order first tend to be less satisfied with their meals because oftentimes they feel compelled to differentiate their choice from others (”Oh, he ordered the salmon now I can’t get it”).

So, I may be making my kid’s bed until he’s 21, but at least I’ll enjoy eating in restaurants a little more now.

Just finished folding some laundry in the family room and I realized that lately I will do everything I can to be in that part of our home. Is it the beautiful paintings by local artists that we’ve hung on the walls,  the comfortable furniture, the fresh coat of paint, perhaps?

Those help, but I think what I really like about the space is that there are no toys scattered on the floor or tucked into corners, unlike every other room in the house. It feels welcoming, yet grown-up. Ahhh, so this is what it is like to be an adult.

Like our abode’s features before the flood, much of my wardrobe dates back to the ’90s, so I recently purchased a few items. Some pieces that I now, I must admit, regret. Like the low-cut pink-striped t-shirt from Old Navy that I keep pulling up because it exposes too much. And the two-piece bathing suits that didn’t scream Mommywear but give me suit-loss scare when I dive or splash around too much.

Since I stopped buying brain-candy magazines long ago, I’m out of it when it comes to fashion. When it came to selecting color and flooring for the house, I consulted friends with beautiful homes. And now our house looks terrific. When I visited the library, a book leaped out of me like a bubbly girlfriend I hadn’t seen in ages: How Not To Look Old by Charla Krupp. She’s an over-40 babe who offers fashion advice for those like me who have taken a low-maintenance approach to beauty a little too long as well as those who are high-maintenance.

She advises those who grew up in the ’80s not to show too much cleavage, so out the bathing wear and t-shirt they go. Boy, did I screw up this whole aging thing: Now that I’m truly comfortable in my own skin, I’m too old to show it off. Harumpf.

It felt good to see that I’ve already taken some steps in the right direction before I picked up the book: Krupp says pennyloafers, overalls and acid-washed jeans must be purged.

I’ll give up the long white denim skirt, I just got bangs, whiter teeth, and I’m taking better care of my nails, thanks to Krupp’s advice. And I do look/feel a little younger. 

But I don’t care what she says, I am not giving up my seriously sturdy $40 flip-flops from Hawaii.

This is just oogie: High heels for the 0-6 month baby girl in your life. For just $35, you can purchase these, um, doo-me shoes, which feature large rhinestone accessories, come packaged in a purse. Choose from hot pink, zebra-striped or leopard prints. 

The name of the company: Heelarious.

Can’t wait for their full line of infant cosmetics. NOTE: I am joking. For the love of all that’s holy, please refrain from going out and marketing such crud.

P.S. Check out this week’s new column about New Guy.