Easier to go shopping for the kids

I love to shop, but I hate shopping. I know that is a contradictory statement. Still, when it comes to clothes and shoes, nothing is more hurtful to one’s self esteem than realizing you aren’t the size you want to be or don’t fit in the size you’re supposed to be.

My big problem can be found on the front of my chest. Though most people would look at me and think, “Well, she could stand to lay off some fried chicken for a while, but other than that, she’s sort of proportionate,” try telling that to the people who make bras and shirts and dresses and anything else that may cover this area.

Button-down shirts have been my enemy for a long time and I can forget about ever getting a garment that has a stitched-in designated area where my chest is expected to “behave” and stay in place for any length of time. Most shirts in my size, which ranges from large to 2X depending on the design, are too wide on the bottom because the top has to make room or too short over all because they are being pulled up.

Efforts to buy a new bathing suit are soul crushing adventures to see how much underarm fat I can squish out of the straps. I usually buy the first or second one I try on if they can contain the important body parts and then loathe the purchase the remainder of the year.

I miss the simple days when I was a kid and my clothes were bought for me. I remember my mom complaining about how hard it was to buy pants for me because I was so tall AND skinny.

I took my son to the store a couple of weeks ago for new basketball shoes. He walked up to the name brand he knew was the coolest and picked the color that matched his mood, black. They were the most expensive, but I’m sure they’d help his game.

It was so easy and I saw that the store had no adorable size 11 women’s sandals for me, so all I had to do was help him choose the right size he needed.

What he doesn’t know is that he’s going to be a big man when he grows up. In the future, he may not be able to buy his shoes in these stores. He’s already wearing size 12s and he is 12! I look at him and his nose is at my eyeball.

My daughter tried on Easter dresses last month. She picked 10 to take to the dressing room. It was a simple task for her. She walked through the section calling out, “Size 7, size 7, size 7,” as she flung the gowns out to me, her personal shopping aide.

She modeled each dress and posed in the mirror talking to herself and chattering to me the entire time. “I want them all!”

“We aren’t getting them all,” I told her.

“Okay, mommy. Then I’ll take these two.” She held up her favorites and pleaded with her eyes. Grandma had sent money for one dress, not two, I explained. “Plus, you need shoes.”

She sighed and settled for one and the shoe shopping was horrible because all the cutest shoes in her size happened to be sold out or in the wrong color.

Get used to that, kiddo. If your feet are anything like mine, it is only going to get worse.

 

Too soon for a trip to the beach

Our weather in Florida so far this spring has been less than desirable for people like me. I’ve jokingly called it the “extenda-winter.”

When the weatherman told me that last weekend would be sunny with temperatures in the low 80s, I was beyond excited. I called my sister, Meredith, and suggested we head to the beach because that was the only rational thing to do. I’m beginning to look almost anemic; at least, for my normal skin tone.

In the back of my mind, the logical aspect of my brain was piecing together all the memories of every time I’d visited the beach in the early spring: the frigid water, the cool breeze, the desire to leave soon after arriving. As if he’d read my thoughts, my husband asked, “Why do you want to go to the beach this weekend? Yeah, it’s going to be sunny, but you know the water will be too cold to swim in and the wind will be blowing.”

I denied that this would be the case at all because the weatherman said nothing about a breeze and I didn’t care about the water and it was too late because the kids knew.

He let me take his vehicle which has more kick than mine. I felt powerful being able to pass people easily until we hit the traffic of Bradenton. It was like driving through a thick coat of honey and anytime it seemed like the cars would get a nice bit of speed, everyone slammed on their brakes.

By the time we made it to the beach, we could feel the cold wind whipping around us. I figured we’d be fine if we could just lie down. Meredith and I did that, but the kids decided to brave the water.

I would say my daughter doesn’t have the ability to feel cold, but I know for a fact she acts like she’s in the Arctic Circle every morning because the air conditioner is running. Somehow, this same kid ran into that freezing water like it was nothing. I stuck my big toe in it and chickened out.

My son found some female friends to entertain. They needed help playing catch and talking about their home state, Michigan. He was covered in goose bumps from the frigid water, but he couldn’t bring himself to let down those 9^th grade girls.

My daughter collected shells and ran all over the place before she started kicking up sand onto Meredith and me. That’s when we decided we were finished with the sunny coldness of the day.

Our phones confirmed that the forecast was a lie and the day’s temperatures only made it into the 70s, but the wind made it feel like the 60s. Our bodies already knew the truth.

Heading home, we drove through Longboat Key so my daughter could comment on all the luxury homes. Meredith and I picked out apartments that we could rent on the waterway and little islands we’d come sunbathe on if we had a boat. It was nice to daydream.

What wasn’t nice was my husband’s truck telling on me. I didn’t know his GPS had a trip tracker that informed him what my maximum speed was! He thought it was funny to have that information, but I said his truck would make a poor mob member.

As for the beach, I think I’ll wait a couple of months before I return. Maybe the water does need to warm up just a bit more for my taste.

Knowing where to draw the line

In case I haven’t made it clear before now, I’m not close to being a perfect parent. Some days I don’t even feel like I’m in the ranks of an average parent.

Kids learn from us when we aren’t paying attention and these are usually not our best moments. I know my children are skilled in sarcasm and anger projection at other cars on the road. They even know when other drivers have failed to use their blinkers or changed lanes illegally. I’m so simultaneously proud and ashamed.

Even though they pick up my bad habits, they retain basic kindness toward humans. I try not to judge other parents because it is so hard and there are influences on kids now that we often don’t comprehend.

Then something happens that blows my world apart.

My son was at the YMCA practicing basketball and my daughter was getting antsy so I took her over to the park nearby. She immediately made the little train area her personal realm.

Things were fine until the middle school girls showed up. There was a set of 2 and a group of 4. The pair went to the train and kept to themselves. They talked to my daughter and appeared to be acting friendly. I kept a watchful eye to be sure it stayed that way.

The four pack sat on the swings and I heard foul language spewing from their mouths. No young children were around them so I rolled my eyes and tried to gauge whether or not I should say anything.

I realized that one of the 4 girls was shouting at one of the 2 girls when, suddenly, she stands up and announces that she is going to call her mom and ask if she can fight the other girl because she hates her so much and didn’t like what the girl was saying about her. She did exactly that.

Yes, I was surprised too.

Apparently the mom gave her blessing to go fight, as was joyously relayed by the girl, and she marched over to the train to start her business.

I was upset. I took off my flip flops and followed her. She was already talking nastiness by the time I got there.

I said, “Hey girls, I could care less what either of you is saying about the other, but I will tell you there is not going to be any fight today. There are young children around, one of which happens to be my daughter. If you do try to fight, I will call the police.”

Then I recognized one of the pair as a friend of my son’s. I asked the two girls if they wanted to sit by me. They did.

The other girl who wanted to fight so badly got on the phone with her mom. “Hey, mom, I just wanted to let you know I didn’t fight that girl. An adult got involved.” She said adult like someone would say “booger.”

It amazed me that, not only the child, but a parent would be so eager to come to blows over a perceived injustice that was probably a rumor. I’m glad I had a hand in stopping this one.

Hopefully, my kids know, as I have told them numerous times, fighting rarely solves anything and if someone is talking about you behind your back, at least they are taking time out of their day to think about you. It isn’t worth worrying about it beyond that.

 

Downgraded living conditions

My house used to be immaculate. Okay, maybe not immaculate, but I wouldn’t be embarrassed to have my mother-in-law and maybe a distant relative of Martha Stewart come over for dinner unexpectedly.

Ever since nursing school, let’s just say there has been a steady deterioration in what I have come to feel is acceptable living conditions. While in school, I declared this state of disorganization and lack of adherence to a rigid cleaning schedule would end as soon as I earned my license and started working regularly.

I’m not sure exactly what happened or when I began to, not only throw in the towel, but shred it and dump it in the garbage. Hey, at least it went into the garbage and not on the floor.

Maybe it started when we bought the house. Every new home owner is so excited about buying a house that they can’t see the forest for the trees. We wanted to stop renting and have something to call our own.

I’ll tell you right now, there are a few benefits to renting that can’t be overlooked, the first of which is that you don’t have to pay for every little thing that goes wrong. That is a job for the owner, poor sap. Don’t get me wrong, they are making money off you, but there can be some major problems with a place, believe me.

Also, you most likely will not just keep jamming your closets with junk and memorabilia that you can’t bear to part with because you certainly don’t want to move all that stuff next time you pack your whole life and go to the next better place which has a pool instead of a neighbor with 6 pit bulls in his backyard.

Finally, and most important, that dream home which needed a little TLC that some sucker paid “X” amount of dollars for in 2005 is only worth about half that amount now. This means you aren’t daydreaming of running away to Bora Bora and hiding from your mortgage company at this very moment.

Being a non-renter, I come home from my shifts beat from a day that probably stretched about twelve 1/2 hours. I fall asleep on the couch and my husband tells me to go to bed. When I get to my days off, I don’t feel like cleaning that deep-down clean like I used to do.

My house doesn’t smell. Okay, maybe it does smell if apathy has an aroma and there is an odor tied into desperately hoping for a dishwasher in a home where running the dryer and oven at the same time trips the breaker. They don’t test that in a home inspection. Electrical work is on our wish list if Bora Bora doesn’t pan out.

We also have ants now. Yes, ants have moved in and we are battling a problem bigger than us. I’d like to claim 150,000 dependents on our taxes and fix all our problems including those bothersome pests. We’ll tent the house and bomb everything inside with insecticide and then rip out the kitchen.

If the IRS is reading this, disregard the above paragraph. Also, don’t show up unannounced for dinner because that annoys me these days.

For now, we clean the surfaces and fold the laundry and keep cramming our belongings into closets we’ve outgrown. If you want to see us, kindly invite us over or invite us out because our house is currently off limits. Thanks for your cooperation.

Appreciation of the porcelain throne

Let’s talk about toilets. I know what you’re thinking because if I were you, I’d be thinking the same thing: “Please, Damara, it is a pleasant Saturday morning and I’m having breakfast. Why do you have to go and ruin it by discussing this subject?”

If it makes you feel any better, I’ve already eaten and I’m at work right now most likely dealing with something more disgusting than a toilet. If that doesn’t help, I suppose I’ll go ahead and apologize in advance for the rest of this article.

I want to begin by thanking the people who continually improve and advance indoor plumbing. I love the fact that I can use my own private facilities daily in my home and I don’t have to go outside and maintain some type of disgusting, ill-maintained hole. I remember how much I slacked on a cat’s litter box so I shudder to think what I’d do with a backyard waste maintenance program.

I also enjoy that I can go pretty much anywhere in the United States and find a restroom. It may not be a fine specimen of a restroom, but it is often serviceable to a minimal degree.

When I was a kid, I had a friend who used scare tactics to divert me from my dreams of taking a trip to France. “Do you know how they go to the bathroom in France? In a hole in the ground! The men and women do it! They stand there and just go in the hole!”

This terrified me because I was that kid who never went number 2 away from home. In fact, I didn’t go number 2 in a public restroom until I was 23 years old. The day I was told that information about France is the day I crossed Europe off my travel list. If they couldn’t retro-fit their public facilities to accommodate shy American colons, then I didn’t feel comfortable traveling there.

I’m happy to say that Europe is back on my bucket list so don’t worry France, I promise I’m going to try ordering coffee and asking how much a pair of sunglasses cost in the worst, broken French one of these days.

Last week was the 12 hours of Sebring which I try to attend each year. My husband, Chris, and I decided to stay in our tent on Friday night because it wasn’t going to be as cold as Thursday night. Boy was it still cold!

Chris escorted me to the nearest bathroom and I chose the one stall without toilet paper. Wonderful.

After getting in the tent and bundling up, my nose was the only part of my body I couldn’t keep under the covers. It was like having the tip of a popsicle stuck on my face.

Around 5 in the morning, Chris was snuggling closer to me for warmth, but my bladder was a bit too full and there was no way I was venturing out into the tundra. My mind told me it couldn’t be less than 50 degrees, but my body said it felt like 20 and my backside was convinced the toilet seat would feel like a block of ice chiseled from the edge of a glacier.

Because of that adventure, we will not be staying in a tent next year. There’s just something special about your own bed and even more so about being in the proximity of your own toilet. I know I’ve been appreciating mine a little extra.

No more pancakes, thank you

Last Saturday, Southside Baptist Church hosted its second annual pancake breakfast. My husband, Chris, had signed up to be one of the 12 pancake chefs before he knew whether or not I’d be able to help. As it turned out, I had that Saturday off so I reluctantly volunteered.

I don’t want to sound like I don’t like to flip some flapjacks on a Saturday morning, but I went to last year’s breakfast and was perfectly content with sampling all the offerings without having to do much beyond monitor my total syrup intake and supervise what my children were doing.

When Chris asked for my assistance and I inquired about what he thought we needed, like any control freak worth their salt, I pretty much took over the entire project. I bought us a mighty awesome griddle that we’ll use forever and brand new spatulas because the ones we owned looked like they were older than us. We also needed matching aprons which was his idea so I used easy iron-on letters to get our nicknames on the front.

I looked at our poor measuring cup and realized it too had seen better days. It was replaced along with some mixing bowls and our measuring spoons. Now that our kitchen paraphernalia had been updated, we needed ingredients.

Chris had decided to make pancakes with miniature chocolate chips and peanut butter chips. The only problem was that there are no miniature peanut butter chips. When you make small pancakes, those larger chips make a huge difference. I suggested we change the recipe and use the mini chocolate chips with a peanut butter batter.

Little did I know how much time would be consumed in that preceding week perfecting that simple recipe. The first mix was delicious. We should’ve known it was good because my daughter ate one and immediately wanted more. When I asked if she wanted syrup this time, she said, “I forgot to want it on the other one.” We should’ve stopped, but we thought the batter was too thick.

We tried thinning and mixing with different ingredients. We made at least 7 batches, but I may have blocked out one or two because I ended up dumping a few directly into the garbage. In the end, we went back to the original recipe we started out with.

When Saturday rolled around, I felt like I would be sick if I had to eat another pancake. The competition was fierce and the other tables were decorated way better than ours. My mother-in-law was two tables away with her special recipe and she had my sister-in-law, Ali, for support. They had chef hats. Why didn’t I get chef hats?

Chris and I were a great team, Hutch House Hotcakes, and people liked our pancakes, but the apple cinnamon stole the show. Personally, I liked Stephanie’s and Matt’s cinnamon roll pancakes slightly better, but it was a majority vote and not just my own opinion that mattered. The best part is that lots of people showed up and everyone had fun.

As for Chris and me, I think we are taking a break from pancakes and peanut butter for at least a month or so. I know that some people say you can’t have too much of a good thing, but when you shove it all into one week and force your family to eat it, it might not be a bad idea to take a break for a while.

Mom still knows how to spoil us

Last week’s train ride to my mom’s was fun, but having time together with her and my sister (and my stepdad, Bill) is always a blast.

It was raining when Meredith and I arrived in Delray which meant the pavement was slick. We have a thing for dangerous footwear which means we were both wearing our favorite flip flops. Hers had a small amount of tread, but mine were good for nothing more than killing spiders and slipping on the most perilous areas of flat ground: painted pavement, ceramic tile, and grocery store linoleum.

The first stop was Publix to pick up snacks for our two and a half hour ride home the next day as well as any personalized breakfast that may include a non-soy milk beverage and the option of cheese. Mom has some unfortunate allergies.

I carefully waddled into the store so I wouldn’t fall on my face and have the video posted on a public forum where my Facebook friends could tag me with hurtful comments. Lucky for me, I made it with no adverse events and wiped my poor shoe choice on the thin mat until they almost felt dry.
Looking around the store, this appeared to be the most people packed into the smallest Publix I had ever seen. I was instantly reminded why I didn’t want to live in a metropolitan area as if the car ride didn’t already seal that certainty in my mind.

Meredith and I followed my mom through the store just like we did as children. We each picked our favorite item and begged mom to get it or we’d all three unanimously agree on something as a necessity like the salted caramel chocolate squares.

I raised a concerned in one of the aisles when I found an issue with product placement. I took a picture with my phone of the soda next to bags of charcoal with a bin of canned cat food placed in front. I asked aloud what these items had in common, but no one seemed to care, especially my sister, so we finished our shopping and left.

Dinner that evening was at Bonefish Grill which has become one of my favorite places to eat. Our reservation was at 7:40 pm and the place was busting at the seams. It was a Wednesday night so Bang Bang shrimp was five dollars a serving. If you’ve never had it and you like spicy food, I highly recommend it. I washed it down with some sashimi smothered in wasabi and soy sauce then slept until 9 the next morning; pure Heaven.

Because I liked my sister’s jeweled flip flops so much, my mom decided we needed to hit the shoe store and Kohl’s before we left town on Thursday. I ended up with two more pair of unsafe shoes and a necklace to match. Mom did buy one pair so I didn’t go too nuts.

The ride home was great company, but not so great for someone who is about six foot tall and not the right size for a Mustang. I bruised my arm loading the back seat and, even when Meredith relinquished the front seat to me, I felt smooshed into the dash board. The chocolate squares did ease my pain a bit.

It was such a nice treat to steal away with Mom and Meredith for a little while and be spoiled a bit without the rest of the family around. I guess some things never get old.

Finally riding the rails

I am going to be forty years old this year and somehow I’ve made it this far in life without ever having had the pleasure of being a passenger on a train until this past week. My sister, Meredith, and Mom were both shocked as we tried to comb through my memory banks to challenge the validity of this fact, but aside from amusement park trains and city monorails like the ones I’ve ridden in Pittsburgh and Seattle, I can’t recall riding any distance on an actual train.

Meredith and I were hitting the rails to meet Mom in Delray and be spoiled with a bit of good food and a night of sleep with no morning alarm needing to be set. This was our lure and all Mom wanted from us was a little company on the drive back the next day. I felt that Meredith and I were coming out way ahead in this bargain.

I was excited about the Amtrak journey, but I was keenly aware that my imagination had been tainted by a romanticized version of what I thought train travel should include. My mind conjured something between the open carts of a kid’s petting zoo transport and the Orient Express.

Meredith and I arrived at the Sebring station about twenty minutes early which turned out to be almost an hour early because our departure time was delayed. This was a disappointing, but it gave me extra time to take pictures of the station and all the small details no one else seemed to care about like the pay phone which is something you don’t see everywhere these days.

An attendant buzzed up on a golf cart and advised us that the train would pick us up by the chained fence area and not the covered bench area. When I asked if he were part of a conspiracy to send passengers to certain doom, he denied the accusation. I asked if I could take his picture which he also denied, but then I asked in a nicer, less crazy voice and he finally said I could. Meredith did a lot of eye rolling.

The actual train was similar to an airplane only much roomier, especially around the legs. Meredith was incredibly generous and allowed me the window seat which also happened to be the emergency exit. I was confused by the instructions which included three parts. The first was easy enough: remove the red handle at the top of the window. A baby could do that.

The second instruction involved using that red handle as a sort of scraper to wedge under the black rubber molding and strip it away. If you can manage that in a timely manner, carry on to part three by pulling a second handle which would release the window and allow escape.

I looked at Meredith and told her there would be no escaping this particular window with me in that seat and we’d just have to hope for the best, though I would be a better option than the guy sleeping across from us who had a ring tone on his phone that suggested illegal drug use. He never answered the phone which went off at least a dozen times.

We slowed down over sketchy-looking bridges and construction areas, but the countryside was lovely, the trip was fast, and mom was waiting at the end.

This satisfying first train trip means I’m already looking forward to my second. I can’t wait.

Holding down the home front

It is almost the end of February and my new year’s resolution to be a better mom is still going strong. There were a few moments in January when I thought there might be some serious issues when I began researching how much a boarding school would cost for my son, but I knew deep down he’d have to keep living with us even if I really wanted to see how sharp he’d look in a military-style uniform.

Both kids came back from winter break determined to basically do nothing in class except distract the other students. My son accomplished this with jokes and talking out of turn, but perhaps a bit more odd is that my daughter would hide under her desk and, one day, decided to hiss at her teacher.

My daughter’s actions were obvious, but my son’s grades were becoming as bad as his attitude. For the first two weeks of the new semester, the grades didn’t populate into the online grade book, but luckily, he was already grounded for a different transgression.

When the grades filled in, they were not pretty. In fact, those grades were the base, bottom-of-the-barrel fungus that other grades stack on top of to rise above and get noticed. When I approached him in an almost calm manner to inquire about his laziness, he had the nerve to try and use my own childhood excuse against me: “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? Oh, I bet you do know what you’re not doing because you’re me, mister. I did exactly what you’re doing only I did it better!” I was mad.

A look at his abysmal band grade made every nerve in my body light up with rage. How could he be failing band? His explanation was that he wanted out of band and we didn’t let him get out.

Pure hellfire rained down on the Hutchins house that night.

Before the boy began band he was informed many times that he would be making at least a year’s commitment and there would be no giving up if things got difficult. When he chose the trombone we stated that, though the instrument may appear to look easy on the outside, there was no truly easy instrument to pick and he’d have to take the time to practice and learn how to read music. He said he wanted to do this.

Quitting was not an option then and it wouldn’t be an option now. I told him that I wasn’t going to sit by and allow him to destroy himself because the choices he makes now will affect his future. His dad told him many of the same things. We find a double frontal attack works well.

He’s spent the last two months being grounded and under severe homework surveillance. As things currently stand, he’s set to finish the semester with 2 B’s and the rest A’s. The best part is that he came to us the other day and thanked us for being so involved. He said if it hadn’t been for us, he would probably be coming home with F’s on his report card.

I was blown away.

In addition to his accomplishments, my daughter has recently told me that I’m the best mommy in the world and when she has a daughter, she wants to copy me. You can say I’m feeling pretty good about this mom business. Let’s just hope it holds steady for a while.

Mr. Owl's Wild Ride

When it comes to woman v. nature, nothing makes me feel more like a jerk than when I hit an unsuspecting creature with my vehicle. For some reason, animals haven’t learned to use sidewalks and steer clear of anything resembling asphalt. Go figure!

While on one hand I claim to be saddened when I strike beasts on the road, on the other hand, I’ll gladly inhale a hamburger and crunch on some delicious bacon with nary a thought given to what got the meat product from the farm to my plate.

Also, though I am not a hunter myself, I am more than happy to partake in venison, rabbit, quail or whatever else someone hauled in from the forest. If you fish, I’ll sit at your table and enjoy the catch of the day with you. Critters are cute, but dinner is dinner.

Those animals on the road are exempt from my emotional indifference. I have been personally responsible for the untimely demise of a rabbit, a deer and a handful of squirrels who didn’t know what direction they wanted to go once they got in the middle of the road.

Here is some advice for the squirrels out there: Commit to a direction! Most people don’t want squirrel debris on their vehicle so just cross the road! Don’t double back 10 times and then act surprised when you get hit. This is why “squirrel-brained” is negative description of a person instead of positive.

Animals I’ve never hit, but always stop to help, are turtles and tortoises. Gopher tortoises are threatened and not mean at all. I’ve never seen a snapping turtle in the road so I’m not sure I’d stop to help one of them.

Birds are a whole other bread of creature. They dart out of the sky or from the edge of the road and you can be left truly unprepared for their sudden appearance.

This brings me to the great horned owl that a certain woman hit while driving on Florida’s Turnpike. The story got my attention not because the owl actually survived the 150 mile trip in the Ford truck’s grill, but for two other reasons.

First, she was aware that she hit a bird and thought it was an owl, but then knew it couldn’t be an owl because she believes that owls always hide in trees and we never see them.

I take issue with that statement because I see owls all the time and I don’t mean the plastic ones on buildings and telephone poles. I see real, live owls. I guess it has been ingrained in our heads that owls sleep in the day and can hunt and fly solely at night.

Second, even though she knew she hit something, she didn’t check her truck. The first thing I’d do is pull into the next rest area and check out my vehicle to make sure everything was okay. I don’t need bird bits digging into my radiator.

This poor owl had to wait a whole day to be noticed by another person. They think he’ll be fine, but I believe the owl doesn’t feel fondly about humans anymore.

I hope they try to get him back home. The worst thing we could do now is deny him the opportunity of telling all his owl buddies about the time he rode all the way to Pompano Beach in a grill without getting grilled.

If they are anything like us, they’ll never believe him.