Chakra Mom

Why My 5 Year Old Says Gay Marriage Won't Work

2007-12-07T12:38:00.000-08:00

I've chosen to live a pretty traditionally conservative life (my Republicn husband goes to the office each day while I stay home to raise our son -- and complete my freelance writing gigs in between). Yet I'm a true-blue liberal and respect the choices and lifestyles that are different my own (as long as no true harm is done).

Nevertheless, I didn't expect that I'd have to broach the subject of homosexuality with my son at such a young age. Here's how our conversation went:

Him: Mommy, can two boys get married?
Me: Well, sometimes two men do want to get married but it's against the law because many people believe it's wrong for two men to marry.
Him: Well, I think those people are right.
Me: Well, I don't think those people are right. I think as long as you have love in your heart, you should marry who you want.
Him: But mom it couldn't work if two men were married!!
Me (a little nervous about where this was going): Why not?

Him: Because if two men married, there would be no one to take care of the kids!

I give thanks ...

2007-11-23T12:58:00.000-08:00

For my roles of mother, wife, daughter, sister, friend, teacher, and seeker
For the rich taste of life; of love; of spirit

For the smell of playground bark; soccer sweat; and wild watermelon shampoo
For the sound of the school bell; the whistle of the safety patrol; and loud belly laughs
For peaceful nights; playful days; and world championships of thumb wrestling and Uno

For date nights; for tender kisses; and for early-morning spooning
For love letters; long talks; and my name in his mouth
For solid friendship; fluttering romance; and the winding path ahead

For gentle breath that cools my body; heats my heart; and feeds my mind
For challenging assignments; impending deadlines; and constructive criticism
For supportive friends; challenging kin; and the mysteries that guide me

Feeling Fake

2007-11-14T16:01:00.000-08:00

For my scant readers out there (okay my two readers), you probably notice the long gap between postings here. Instead of slapping you with excuses, I did some self-reflection and realized it’s because I was feeling phony.

My Chakra Mom blog sprang from the hilarious and wildly successful blog,“This Fish Needs a Bicycle.” I wanted to take that same lighthearted, comic approach to life that single woman seem to have monopolized and prove that we moms also live funny, interesting, and entertaining lives. Yet since my first couple of posts, I haven’t felt very witty or funny and couldn’t sustain the voice I had expressed. It would have felt fake. So instead of writing from heart, I stopped writing.

Have you ever felt fake?

Whether you’re a soccer mom, single mom, yoga mama, hip mama, geek mom, hot mom, career moms etc..., you have a unique voice and unique way you express yourself and your life.

But do you ever wonder who your authentic self is?

Moms have many roles, but only one true self. In the myriad of roles we play, we have to dress the part, speak the right dialogue, and act accordingly. And we often have to shift in and out of those roles daily. Imagine yourself in the following situations. What are you wearing? How do you speak?

You’re volunteering at the elementary school’s annual holiday gift store
It’s Mom’s Night Out – Margarita Night – with your closest girlfriends
You’re at the head of a conference table, giving a one-hour Power Point presentation to a group of business exec. – potential clients
A church/spiritual group gathering
Parent/Teacher conference
Finally! A romantic weekend getaway to Napa Valley with your spouse / significant other

If you have even a shred of social skills, you can easily see how you would present yourself differently in each of these situations. Yet which “you” is the real “you?” All of them. Does that mean you’re a schizo? a phony? a hypocrite?

No. It means you’re a complex creature with multiple facets of your personality. You appropriately decide which component of yourself to highlight as the situation calls.

They are all true – all authentic.

So my goal with this blog is to stay true to my authentic voice -- sometimes witty, sometimes reflective, sometimes sappy, sometimes silly -- but always genuine.

K-Day

2007-07-17T12:38:00.000-07:00

What is it about the first day of Kindergarten that sends us moms over the edge? I don’t care how involved or uninvolved you are in your child’s life, whether it’s the first-born or the family baby stepping into walls of institutionalized education, all moms go nuts on K-Day. It takes every shred of strength to keep from tossing ourselves on the ground, wailing, and pounding our chests in grief.

Yet, there’s also the sense of relief that we’ve kept our kids alive this long and now we can actually live out the fantasy and watch soap operas all day while eating bon-bons (yeah, right!)

Today, the Boy Wonder started his first day of school. To my surprise, I didn’t shed a single tear. Mind you, it wasn’t because I wasn’t moved by the enormity of the day, but because my eyes were too flippin’ tired from reading the reams of school paperwork the night before. Not to mention, the lack of sleep from fretting about what the heck to pack in his lunch. Cookie or no cookie?

His new school has a no junk-food policy (sweets are even forbidden for b-day celebrations). I totally promote healthy eating habits, but c’mon, throw the kid a cookie every now and again.

First, I carefully placed a double-chocolate Pepperidge Farm cookie in a zip-lock baggie. Then I wrung my hands in fear that he would be expelled if caught. So I took it out. Then I worried that the other kids’ moms would rebel and include a nice sweet, and my kid would be the one crying alone on the sidelines stuffing a dry granola bar in his mouth. So I put it back in. This went on for quite awhile. In fact, I spent more time deliberating over the weighty cookie issue than I did reading the propositions in our last national election.

Finally, I decided the hell with it. Ate the damn cookie and packed him some fruit.

"It’s the Sopranos – but with twice the drama and half the violence...”

2007-07-12T22:11:00.001-07:00

That’s the best way to describe our recent visit to the East Coast. For me, a white-bread Texas turncoat girl, visiting my husband’s Sicilian family – his grandmother, mother, father, Zias (aunts), uncles and a gaggle of cousins - is like smothering a chicken fried steak with a vat of pasta and tomato sauce. No matter how tough the steak might be, the acid in the sauce will eventually turn it into mush. (Yes, I'm ashamed to admit that I'm a meat-eating yogini. One of many of my paradoxes).

First a brief ethnic background on Sicily: An island off the coast of Italy, Sicilians considers themselves distinct from Italians. Sicilians view their island as a country of its own – similar to the proud way Texans view their own flat, dry state.

Now back to the drama. We went Back East to attend Cousin Christopher’s wedding, which is the source of all the current turmoil. His dad, let’s call him Uncle Paulie, is one of the most outspoken racists you’ll ever meet. So imagine everyone’s surprise – especially Uncle Puaulie’s – when his son Christopher announced he was marrying a Black woman. Yes, God does have a sense of humor.

Uncle Paulie boycotted the wedding, but the rest of the Family stepped behind Christopher to show their love and support. Despite all the drama (and Uncle Paulie’s obvious absence from the nuptials) the wedding rocked, butI was probably the only white person dancin’ the Cha-Cha Slide (I’m a sucker for a line dance).

My own Sicilian and I got to spend some good quality time together. And honestly, I really adore the Family (from a distance). And although Uncle Paulie never came around, the evening ended up heads and shoulders better than the disastrous Sopranos finale.

Toot Cannons and Butter Cups

2007-06-27T15:12:00.000-07:00

We don't fart in my family. Don't know why, but I cannot stand the word. We toot. Discreetly. Quietly. Or so I thought.

It didn't take long before that mysterious male bathroom-humor gene kicked in with my son. He was barely three years old and I was pulling a 'Britney Spears' (him riding in the front seat with me. C'mon Safe-T Moms, cut me a little slack -- we were only driving from neighbor's house about a block away). Anyway, he rolled up the window and began laughing hysterically.

"What are you doing??

"Giggle... giggle... giggle."

"What?!"

"Giggle... I just tooted and rolled up the window so the stink would stay in and you'd have to smell it!"

I have no idea where he learned such a trick. My husband is pretty anal retentive. He's tooted in front of me a handful of times -- all on accident and pretends nothing has happened. This toot-and-rub-your-face-in-the-smell ploy was news to me?

Now he's taken it to the most literal level -- toot cannons. My husband and I will be sitting on the sofa, watching the news and out of nowhere, my 5-year-old angel runs in, aims his butt in our faces and lets 'em rip.

"Watch out for the toot cannon!"

But the toot cannon is harmless compared to the recently discovered butter cup. We were driving my angel's best pal to preschool one day. As usual, I ordered, "Buckle up, Buttercup!" a saying to remind him to strap himself in (See, Safe-T Moms, I'm not all bad).

His best pal began laughing hysterically and when pushed on what he found so amusing explained that a butter cup is the act of "farting in your hand and then cupping your hand over someone's face so they smell the fart."

I gagged just thinking of it. How in the world will I make it through the grade-school years? I only wish Costco sold incense in bulk.

The Curse of the Kirby

2007-06-19T15:04:00.000-07:00

Although it's been more than five years, since I've worked (in the official capacity of getting a regular paycheck) I simply can't stand the thought of myself as a housewife. And you'd have to have an IQ below 30 to call me a housekeeper -- there are stacks of laundry, towers of toys and crumpled artwork strewn around most every room.

There's just nothing in the nomenclature that's palatable to describe my role in this season of my life. Even the well-intended domestic goddess curdles on my lips. It's true that my life right now revolves around playdates, preschool and pudding snacks, but through my part-time writing/marketing career for home, I've managed to cling to the essence of me -- sans family. Right?

Well, standing at attention in my downstairs hall closet is a machine that almost claimed victory over my struggle to remain a post-modern woman and my resistance to falling into the 1950s housewife trap. My nemesis? A Kirby vacuum cleaner.

It was the end of a long day and I was rinsing dishes when someone was frantically rapping on our door. My husband, answered and before I knew it there was a charming Jamaican woman standing in the family room and offering to clean our carpets -- for free.

Just look how much dirt I pulled from your carpet, she beamed. Between her thumb and index finger, she dangled a test filter that revealed a layer of caked dust -- proof of the filth we'd been wallowing in.

Next she juggled hoses and attachments while rattling off how easily and quickly the all-powerful Kirby would clean baseboards, upholstery, draperies, ceiling corners and more.

I panicked. I'm supposed to actually clean the baseboards? A wave of shame stuck to me as I stared glassy-eyed at the titanium beast, standing upright with a promise to make me an A+ housekeeper. I fell face first for the ploy.

After painful negotiations, phone calls to managers and a for-you-only-tonight special, we became the proud owners of a Kirby vacuum cleaner. The price? $800 -- and my last shred of dignity.

The next morning,I stuck the beast in the closet and cried. Is this really who I've become? A stretch-pant-wearing woman who spends more money on a vacuum cleaner than on her wardrobe?

Since then, I've hired a maid. She cleans our house once a month, and no matter how far down on the job I've fallen between her visits, never once has she pulled out a soiled vacuum filter or shoved a dusty Swiffer under my nose to prove what a piss-poor job I've done at cleaning my house. I adore her.