Wanda Says…Let’s talk about something fun, like zombies!

September 11, 2014September 23, 2014 / Wanda / 9 Comments

It’s been a rough week for me. I’ve been battling a bout of the stay-home-mommy-blues and I’m depressed about my upcoming birthday. I’ve started and deleted about four different posts this week that were a bit ranty, but I don’t want to get in the habit of that because it really doesn’t make me feel better. So, just for shits and giggles, let’s talk about something fun, like zombies!

Like many people, I am obsessed with zombie fiction. I read and watch entirely too much science-fiction and post-apocalyptic literature. It stresses me out and entertains me at the same time. I love stories about humanity’s ability to rise above chaos and disaster when the world goes dark and monsters are lurking around every corner. However, my love of these genres does have an unfortunate tendency to make me a little paranoid, and that spills over into my real life where I imagine all sorts of crazy scenarios that require me to protect my family at all costs.

For example, a few months ago we had to take my son to the emergency room on a Saturday night. If you’ve ever spent a weekend evening in the emergency room at any major urban hospital, you will totally understand where I’m going with this.

In the waiting room, there’s an air of desperation that surrounds you and permeates your pores in a way that makes your skin crawl. While we were there, one guy sat for several hours waiting with a broken arm. Several people sick with the stomach flu were given emesis buckets and sat amongst everyone else while they waited to see a doctor. More than a few people traded seats for the other side of the room when the pukers sat down. The man sitting across from me had a partially severed finger and was bleeding steadily, yet still he waited with everyone else. Everyone had these terrible expressions of pain and suffering on their faces.

At one point, I looked around the room, and could clearly imagine that if a zombie apocalypse was going to happen, an emergency room in the middle of the night was the perfect origination point for such a disaster. Although it sounds very dramatic, I would be lying if I said I didn’t scope out the exits in case I needed to make a break for it with my family. I could clearly picture the woman sitting across the room, staring blankly into space while clutching her throw-up bucket, morphing into some half-dead creature of the night who wanted to eat my brains. At 2am, anything seemed possible.

And don’t even get me started on the crazy thoughts running through my head after watching the movie World War Z. Afterwards, I told my husband two things. Number one, we needed to go on diets, because we were too chubby and out of shape to outrun any zombies if they really attacked. And two, I needed to go to a shooting range and learn how to accurately fire a gun so that one of us would be able to wield a weapon and protect us during the invasion. Without those two major lifestyle changes, our ass was grass if the worst should happen.

I know it’s silly, but to preserve my image as a mostly sane and reasonable person, let’s pretend that I’m not paranoid about zombie invasions, and I’m really just referring to emergency preparedness for your typical Southern California earthquake disaster. That’s more palatable to the average person (and to my neighbors). People tend to think you’re a freak when you admit your Costco shopping run was due to the fact that you were up all night having nightmares after watching an episode of the Walking Dead.

I go through these little stages of feeling like I need to have supplies on hand in case there’s a natural disaster, like an earthquake (or a chemical spill that causes all life forms to mutate into horrible creatures), and our utilities or local services are shut down. Since I live in Southern California, this only makes good sense. And plus, I live in Los Angeles, and everyone knows that all the alien and zombie invasions will happen in either LA or New York first, because all the film makers say so. So my husband and I have prepared a stash of water and food supplies for emergency purposes. He calls it my zombie stash, because he totally gets me and sees it for what it truly is, no matter what I tell our neighbors.

I try not to let myself get too carried away though. I have to draw the line when I start thinking about the potential benefits of going to survival wilderness camps, or going to Home Depot to buy large sheets of plywood boards that could be used to board up the windows of my home to prevent looters (or the soul-sucking undead) from raiding my house.

But if the worst should happen, you can bet your ass I won’t be going anywhere near a hospital emergency room.

Wanda Says…Kids are awesome, until they aren’t.

September 5, 2014September 23, 2014 / Wanda / 4 Comments

I had a doctor appointment today, and I had to take my two kids with me. Taking kids to adult doctor appointments and expecting them to behave is like taking a new puppy to a carpet store and asking it not to pee on the rug. Impossible.

I gave them ‘the lecture’ before we got there. There would be no arguing. No fighting. No climbing all over the furniture. No interrupting while I was talking to the doctor. They were to sit quietly and play together nicely with the ipad while I had my appointment. (It’s okay if you’re laughing at me, I deserve it).

This is what really went down…

Bryce almost knocked the serene landscape picture off the wall, onto the doctor’s head. (Thank God she had good reflexes).

Bryce almost broke the doctor’s stool by spinning on it. (To his credit, those stools are irresistible to kids)!

Bryn and Bryce repeatedly grappled for space in the only other chair in the office, which they had to share. There was continuous shoving and furious whispering going on.

Bryn kept interrupting by trying to surreptitiously show the doctor pictures of our cat on the ipad, while whispering in a creepy voice, “Lucy wants to say hello.”

While the doctor was examining my skin (I was there for a rash on my arms), Bryce kept interjecting comments like “That really doesn’t look good.” Or, “That’s not normal.”

Bryce interrupted the doctor’s examination to walk in front her and loudly stage whisper, “Mommy, I have to go potty.” After being told to wait a few minutes for us to finish, he dramatically switches to manual control by grabbing himself, moaning loudly and crossing his legs.

I should mention this appointment took less than 20 minutes. At one point the doctor asked me if I was stressed about anything. We both looked at my kids and started laughing. She was a good sport about it, but I think we both would have enjoyed bar service after the experience. 🙂

Your turn…what crazy, silly, and annoying things do your kids do at doctor appointments?

Wanda Says…Jumping Jacks are hard.

September 2, 2014 / Wanda / 9 Comments

When did a jumping jack become the hardest exercise in the world? I was trying to do jumping jacks today as part of my workout, thanks to Jillian Michaels and her torturous 30 Day Shred, and instead of my body obeying my commands to jump in a coordinated fashion with my arms, I just sort of flopped around like I was having a vertical seizure.

I seriously could not get my arms and legs to coordinate in this movement that has been ingrained in me since I was a child. It was uncomfortable and it felt like someone had tied bricks to my feet for all the effort it took to get them off the ground. It’s a jumping jack. How could it be this hard? I also had trouble doing the butt-kickers. You know… that exercise where you jog in place and literally try to kick your own bum. I couldn’t seem to get my legs up high enough. This makes no sense! I can jog on the treadmill and get my legs moving just fine, but I struggle with jumping jacks and butt-kickers?

My body is responding to this criticism by saying, “Don’t blame me! You’re the one who hasn’t exercised us properly in the past five years! If you want to bring sexy back, learn to do a jumping jack!”

Well, I guess that’s fair.

Wanda Says…Happy Birthday, Bryce!

August 27, 2014 / Wanda / Leave a comment

My son, Bryce, is turning four tomorrow. My baby boy is four! I can hardly believe it. We’re celebrating by taking him to Dave & Buster’s for dinner and games. He wanted to go to Chuck-E- Cheese, but I was able to talk my way out of that one. (Fist pumps the air)! My husband and I tolerate Chuck-E-Cheese about as well as most people tolerate having a root canal, without Novocain.

Bryce is funny, smart, witty and adorable. He is charming, sensitive and has the sweetest personality. He is also a typical 3-4 year old boy, and often channels both my husband and I by adopting our less than favorable traits. (If one of us accidentally uses a curse word in front of him, he will unerringly pick up that word and start chanting it). He adores his big sister and goes out of his way to annoy her in every way possible. (Like right now, he snatched his sister’s new headband, put it on his head, and is taunting her by running through the house and refusing to give it back). He gives all of us his love equally and our family wouldn’t be complete without him. I’m incredibly honored that God chose me to be his mother and that I get to spend my life with him.

I post a lot about my family on Facebook, and my feed is usually filled with funny comments or snippets of conversations that take place around my house. So in celebration of Bryce’s fourth birthday, I decided to post some of my favorite ‘Bryce moments’ from this past year.

July 25, 2014—A conversation with my son at 4:30am this morning:

Bryce: Mommy, wake up. I need you to help me put my socks back on.

Me: Why?

Bryce: They came off while I was sleeping. (He climbs into my bed)

Me: Just sleep with them off.

Bryce: Ok. Hey….wait a minute! When you put me to bed, I told you I wanted you to sleep on my bedroom floor all night. You left! I can’t believe you left! I trusted you!

Me: Just sleep in my bed with me then.

Bryce: It’s not the same!

(Yeah, cause as the mom, it’s better to sleep on a hard wood floor all night than in my own bed. Whatever).

July 11, 2014—Today Bryce filled the toilet with toilet paper, wrote on the walls with red marker, had multiple breakdowns over various foods I didn’t have for snacks, and then later told me he invented fun. I think I need a time out before I start losing my shit.

June 29, 2014—A conversation Bryce (age 3) had with Siri on the computer this morning:

Bryce: Bi-doo, Bi-doo, Bi-doo

Siri: I’m sorry, I did not understand that

Bryce: What did the Fox say?

Siri: That was not very nice.

Bryce: I said, what did the fox say? (with a snarky tone of voice)

Siri: You will never know. The secret of the fox is an ancient mystery.

May 3, 2014—A conversation with my 3 year old son at dinner:

Bryce: I’m done eating. I need to take a break from dinner.

Me: You can’t leave the table until you’ve eaten a few bites of your meat.

Bryce: I have to eat the meat?

Me: Yes

Bryce: (sighs) You’re killing me Smalls!

March 26, 2014—It’s official. I will not be winning any ‘Mother of the Year’ Awards. When your 3 year old drops an F-Bomb, that’s pretty much an automatic disqualification. I will try and find a way to carry on. Good luck to the rest of you who are still in the running!

(What I didn’t say in this initial FB post was the context of how Bryce used an F-Bomb. His exact quote was, “Mommy, do you want to play some fucking Jenga?” So, yeah, no mother of the year awards for me).

March 22, 2014—A conversation with my 3 year old son tonight:

Bryce: Mommy, what is this? (He is pinching something small in his fingers and I can’t tell what it is)

Me: I don’t know, put it in my hand so I can look at it.

Me: It looks like part of a booger. Did this come out of your nose?

Bryce: Yes…and it felt crusty.

Then he walks away, like it’s no big deal he just put a booger in my hand. No one taught him this. Boys are gross.

January 18, 2014—We took the kids to see the Endeavour space shuttle today and it was a wonderful experience. The exhibit is really well done and after that you move into the hanger where the shuttle is on display. When you walk in, you experience a true ‘moment’ in time. You stop in your tracks, your skin gets goose bumps, there is beautiful music playing in the background, and you realize you’re looking at something amazing and historic, and you’re trying to soak it all in. This moment is special. And then your 3 year old decides he’s had enough of crowds and he doesn’t give a shit about this special moment and has a screaming break-down in the awe-inspiring quiet of the hanger’s entry way. This is my open apology to anyone who had their moment ruined by my son’s crying fit. Sorry about that.

December 9, 2013—A conversation my husband had with Bryce:

Bryce: Daddy, will you play blocks with me?

Daddy: I wish I could buddy, but I’ve got to work. You will get to enjoy my glorious presence, though.

Bryce: Ok, where did you hide the glorious presents?

September 28, 2013—A conversation between Bryce and his older sister’s friend, Erin:

Bryce to Erin: Erin! Erin! Erin! Erin!

Erin: Yes, Bryce?

Bryce: (awkward pause) What’s up? (said like a teenage boy trying to flirt with a cute girl)

September 23, 2013—–Bryce now refers to his 7pm cut-off for liquids before bed as “last call.”

Yeah, that’s my wild man, and I couldn’t love him more.

Move your ass, sister!

August 24, 2014February 22, 2019 / Wanda / 4 Comments

These days it seems like everyone is embracing some sort of fitness craze. I’ve seen the phrase, “fitness is the new mid-life crisis” floating around the internet quite a bit and it really seems to be true. I think I’m ready for a mid-life crisis.

For me, there’s something about my 40^th birthday, which is looming around the corner that creates a sense of urgency when I think about my health and overall fitness. It feels like if I don’t have my shit together by then, it may never happen. My window might be closed, forever.

I’ve always wanted to be more active and fit. What I’ve lacked was the drive. I’m not athletic, and I don’t enjoy physical activities that cause pain. I try to avoid pain whenever possible, and a workout including lunges and squats will have me limping for days afterward. And I’ve always found the atmosphere at gyms to be very intimidating. It feels like I’m surrounded by health freaks who are judging me with their tight fitting workout clothes and bulging muscles. There’s nothing like working out next to a woman wearing tight panty shorts and a sports bra to make you feel like Martha Dump Truck in my baggy sweats and t-shirt. No thank you.

I’ve had a life-long, love-hate relationship with dieting and exercise. You name a diet or exercise gimmick, and I’ve probably tried it. I used to love watching infomercials on the weekends because I was convinced that the next great thing would really work for me this time. The Thigh-Master? Been there. The Great North American Slimdown? Done that! The Cabbage Soup Diet? I don’t recommend it. Tae-Bo? I can still demonstrate an impressive high kick with a side-punch! Weight Watchers, Jenny Craig, Nutrisystem…and the list goes on.

One of the most important things I’ve learned in my life is that you have to love yourself and be happy with who you are. And I do. I would just like to be a physically stronger version of myself. A less tired version. A mom who can play tennis with her daughter, chase my son on his scooter at the park, and still have enough energy to come home and make dinner without passing out in the salad. Part of ‘embracing my Wanda’ is about pushing through my barriers, and my weight gain, and fitness abilities (or lack thereof) has been a significant physical and emotional obstacle for me for many years.

So a couple months ago, I began “Operation Hot by 40.” I realize that only giving myself a couple months to get hot before my 40^th birthday was a bit optimistic, but a girl’s gotta start somewhere. And when I say ‘get hot,’ I’m really just talking about losing the extra baby weight I’ve been carting around for the past four years, and toning everything up a bit, because we all know gravity turns into an asshole after 40.

So a few months ago I started working out regularly, about three times a week. This is a big deal for me. I hate working out and my usual routine involves working out once, and then feeling like I did my due diligence for the whole month. I also purchased one of the fitness trackers that are so popular now.

My first day wearing the tracker was enlightening. That is to say, I was enlightened to what a lazy ass I really am. I was shocked to see the level of activity it really takes to lose a pound a week. The first day I was constantly checking the display device on the tracker to see where I was with my steps and calorie burn. I did a 40 minute moderately intense workout, my usual 30 trips up and down the stairs, and running around the house doing stuff for the kids. Then while making dinner, I found myself doing squats while standing in front of the stove. My daughter walked up behind me and was like, “Ummmm, what are you doing? You better not be sweating in my dinner!” While talking on the phone to my brother, I was going up and down my steps in the hallway. Up and down, up and down, just trying to boost my numbers so I could meet my goal for the day. It was exhausting!

Is this what it really takes to lose weight and be healthy? This continuous squeezing and flexing of my muscles, all day long? And the crazy truth seems to be, yes, this is what it takes. And that just blows, because I was never good at this!

But…I’m not sure what’s changed…but…wait for it…wait…for…it…

I’ve now progressed to working out every day. Did you hear that? I’ve been working out every day! And I am super-fucking proud of myself!!!! It’s only been a few months since I started working out, and just a few weeks since I increased the frequency of my workouts, but I already feel myself getting stronger.

I’m finding my attitude is slowly changing about my workouts, as well. I’m starting to look forward to them. I’m not trying to avoid them anymore, but actually plan my day around when I can do it. I never, in a million years, thought I would become that person. The person who likes to workout. I’ve always envied those people, because isn’t having the desire to workout half the battle?

Today, while I was jogging on the treadmill, I realized two things. One, I liked the sound of my feet hitting the belt, because that’s the sound of my ass getting smaller, and two, every step feels like a journey I’ve been trying to take for 20 years. And for me, that’s pretty amazing.

If you ask me what I do all day, I will punch you in the throat.

August 18, 2014February 22, 2019 / Wanda / 9 Comments

I became a stay home mom almost four years ago after the birth of my second child. Prior to that I was a working mom, and at one time in my life I was a single working mom. So having experienced the parenting challenges inherent in those situations, you can imagine how thrilled I was to have the opportunity to be able to stay home with my kids. I thought it would be fun and I imagined all sorts of scenarios involving playdates, an immaculately clean house and home-cooked, healthy meals I would make for my family every night. I mean, how difficult could that be? I would be home…with my own kids…ALL…DAY…LONG.

Cue the hysterical laughter.

The reality for many of us, or at least for me, is that being a stay home parent is a lot like being stuck in Groundhog Day hell. You tend to repeat the same activities over, and over, and over. My life often feels like an endless loop of housework, laundry, toddler drama, managing school drama, homework, cooking and hygiene. And the hygiene management isn’t even for me. It’s amazing how difficult it is to get a school age child to care about showering or brushing their teeth, or teaching a potty training toddler how to wipe without creating a disaster area that requires a hazmat team to clean up.

Sometimes, when I’m doing housework, I imagine that old Dunkin’ Donuts commercial where the old man goes through his morning routine, saying in a dreary voice, “It’s time to make the donuts.” Here’s my rant about housework, so bear with me…If I spend an hour cleaning my hardwood floors, in another hour they look like shit again. I do the dishes so that we continue to have more clean dishes to dirty. Laundry is an endless cycle of wash, dry, fold and repeat. Nobody likes a dirty bathroom, and with young, potty-training children in the house, I could clean the toilets daily and they may still look and smell like gas station toilets, which is just gross. And the toys…oh, dear God, the toys. I can pick them up, but the second I put one away, three more magically appear out of thin air. Is it me, or do crayons and Legos have the ability to multiply on their own?

Now let’s talk about caring for young children and running household errands. For the sake of providing a brief, yet complete picture, let’s just say that taking care of young kids is a lot like what I imagine it would be like working for a bi-polar, incontinent dictator(s), except without the threat of death or having your fingers cut off. “I want milk! No, I want orange juice. Give me some orange juice! No, I want milk! I have to have milk! Now I have to poop! Mommy, wipe my butt!” So demanding! And grocery shopping with toddlers is like willingly entering the seventh circle of hell.

In my first year as a stay home mom, I was a raving lunatic about the house. It was my job to take care of the house, and how could I do that if everyone keeps wrecking it?! One day I said to my husband, “Imagine you went to work and finished a big project. And then someone comes into your office and destroys your project and tells you to start over. I bet you’d be pretty pissed about that, huh? That’s what every day is like for me.” My husband suggested we hire a housekeeper to help me out. I got upset (over-reacted), and said absolutely not because if I’m home there’s no reason to pay someone money for something I can do myself. (Again, cue the hysterical laughter.)

I did actually have several emotional breakdowns. A couple of times I just started crying in the middle of folding laundry. I began to resent the dust on the floors and the animals for constantly shedding their hair. I was short-tempered and impatient every time someone got out a toy or dripped something on the floor that I just cleaned. I wanted to scream over spilled milk. I felt isolated, spending up to ten hours a day alone with my kids and the only person I had to talk to was more interested in playing with his toe jam than in having a conversation with his Mommy. In short, I was a hot mess.

I was depressed. I thought what the hell? Is this my life? When did I become this person? I used to have a career! I used to feel respected and like I was a valuable member of a team. Now I feel like I’m just here to cook, clean, chase kids and make everyone else’s life easier. I worried that my value would be diminished in my husband’s eyes because I no longer had interesting and intelligent news to contribute over our dinner conversation. It’s hard to feel valuable when the extent of your daily news is how many times our son went pee-pee on the potty, how many loads of laundry I did, or how I struggled to help our daughter with her fourth grade math homework. (And fourth graders do hard math these days, so don’t judge me.)

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There are some women who seem to be able to do it all. They can keep a nice house, go to the gym every day, cook homemade meals with organic, unprocessed ingredients, grow their own vegetables in a garden, volunteer at their kid’s schools, and also volunteer at church every week. They make it look effortless. I’m convinced that these women take drugs, or they’re just really good liars, but that’s pure speculation on my part. Regardless, I’m not one of these women, and I’ve learned to be perfectly fucking okay with that.

I have now allowed myself to try and let go of most of my self-imposed expectations, and I accept having a not-so-perfect house. I understand and accept that my sanity and my family’s overall happiness is more important than clean floors and picked up toys. I understand that playing games with my son and reading books with my daughter is more important than trying to live up to an impossible standard of perfection. I’m learning that sometimes doing less really does equate to more.

What changed? First of all, my Wanda reminded me that depression is an asshole, and we don’t choose to be friends with assholes. Second, I reminded myself that attitude is everything. The outcome of any given situation is largely dependent on the attitude you adopt while dealing with it. And up until that point my attitude sucked. I also realized that I have to take advantage of this gift of time I’ve been given with my kids and my family and stop stressing about unimportant things. Now, when my son walks up to me at 10am on a Wednesday and says, “Mommy, can we just snuggle?” instead of thinking about the dishes in the sink or the laundry in the dryer, I just embrace that time with him. In those moments, I feel like I have the best job ever.

Sure, I look around my house and see stuff that needs to get done. Some days I tackle those things and some days I don’t. Some days I get a small amount of time to myself, but most days I don’t. Some days, I want to walk outside and beg a stranger to have an adult conversation with me, but I never follow-through on that impulse because that’s just weird and I don’t want to be the neighborhood weirdo.

I’ve learned to embrace yoga pants and pony tails. I’ve accepted that I will not wear make-up every day, and some days I just feel fortunate to get a shower alone and my teeth brushed before noon. I still battle with the stay-home-mommy-blues, but I take what good things I can get, where I can get them. I’m trying to find a balance between making myself happy and doing what I need to do for my family. This is difficult, but I keep trying.

And the most incredible validation comes when my husband walks over to me, usually after spending a weekend taking care of the kids, kisses me and says, “I don’t know how you do this every day, but I’m so thankful that you do, and I appreciate you so much.” That makes me feel respected and like an important member of our family’s team. And I thank God every day that I have a supportive and understanding partner, because if he walked in after work, looked around the house and asked me what the hell I did all day, I swear to God, I would punch him in the throat.

Wanda Says…WTH!

August 11, 2014September 23, 2014 / Wanda / Leave a comment

That moment when you think you’re alone in the bathroom. Showering, washing your hair with your eyes closed. And then you open them and see a dark figure pressed against the fogged glass. A scream builds in your throat and you start to jump away…only to realize it’s your kid, and you can’t scream because you will scare the shit out of him, and he’s only 3, and you care more about his feelings than the fact that he almost gave you a heart attack. So you choke back your scream and refrain from losing your shit.

Good mommy.

Slow your roll, sister.

August 9, 2014February 22, 2019 / Wanda / 5 Comments

When my daughter was eight years old, I walked in on her while she was playing alone in my bedroom. She didn’t see me standing there, and what I saw upon entering the room made me stop in my tracks, and I think my heart may have stopped for a second as well.

She was dancing around the room. She was carefree and caught up in her moment of uninhibited, enthusiastic dance. At least that’s what it looked like to me. What stopped me so abruptly was the way she was dancing. She was swaying her upper and lower body in a leisurely, exaggerated way, almost like she was maneuvering her way down a walkway…on her way to a pole. She was moving her eight year old body in a way no eight year old should move. It was provocative and sensual, and there’s nothing okay about associating those two descriptors with an eight year old, ever.

A hundred thoughts ran through my head at once as I observed what she was doing, and all of them made me very uncomfortable. How do you tell an eight year old that she shouldn’t dance like that because it’s not appropriate? Where did she learn to dance like that? Did she see it on TV? What the hell has she been watching? We blocked all the channels on her TV we didn’t think she should watch! I am taking the TV out of her room! How am I going to talk to her about this in a way she’ll understand? I can’t tell her to stop dancing like a stripper because she’s not supposed to know what a stripper is. Does she know what a stripper is? Holy Shit! What if she does? Oh my God, Oh my God, Oh my God! I’m not ready to have this conversation!

I took a few deep breaths and forced myself to calm down. I would just talk to her. I would not make her feel bad, and I would encourage her to be herself, and maybe suggest we sign her up for dance classes. Ballet would be good. Yeah, ballet isn’t anything like stripping. There’s no movement in ballet that resembles pole dancing, at all. Good plan, deep breath…

The conversation went like this…

”Hey honey, what are you doing?”

“Hi, Mommy! I’m pretending to be a cat! I have a tail like a cat, and if I move like this, I can move like a cat! Don’t I move like a cat, Mommy? Wouldn’t it be cool to have a tail like a cat?!”

“Yeah, honey. That would be awesome.”

Then I left the room, went downstairs, poured myself a glass of wine and admitted to myself that I take this parenting shit way too seriously.

I just want to read, all day long.

August 3, 2014February 22, 2019 / Wanda / Leave a comment

I need to read like I need to breathe. I obsess over books like a tweener obsesses over her favorite boy band. For me, books have always been powerful and transformative. They have the ability to educate you, move you, change and enthrall you. There are many books I’ve read over the years that made a distinct impact on my life, in one way or another. I just felt different after I read them, and I love the feelings that stay with you for days after finishing a book like that. I also love how just the title of a book can make me recall a specific age or experience I had at the time when I read it.

Most of the women in my family loved to read, and around the age of nine I discovered that my grandmother had a not so secret addiction to Harlequin romance novels. I remember the covers being so glamorous with beautiful men and women embracing on pirate ships or in front of old manor houses. What nine year old bookworm wouldn’t be curious? So of course, I read them. I would sit quietly and read adult romance novels and wonder to myself what all these strange words meant. Words like manhood and maidenhead. I think my mother would be very surprised to learn that I received my first lessons in sex education by reading about forbidden love on the high seas. I remember asking my brother once what a throbbing manhood was, and if my memory is correct, he said, “I don’t know. A car part, maybe?” Thankfully, due to my lack of understanding common romance language, it was a long time before I realized what was happening in those books. Of course now, so many years later, when reading a romance novel I’m quite eager to discover what some enflamed hero did with his throbbing manhood. Yeah, don’t judge me. You know you do it too.

Anyway, as a stay home mom of young children, reading is now my primary form of escape. I spend most of the day accommodating the needs of my family, so reading feels like a luxury to me. I have to negotiate time in my day to read. I make deals with myself. Like, if I do housework for an hour then I can sit down and read a chapter of my book. During that precious time, I do not like to be interrupted. This is important, because if you know people who are voracious readers, then you know how much we hate being interrupted while reading. Hate, as in I could rip your damn face off if you don’t let me finish this chapter.

What really makes me crazy is when my kids constantly interrupt those few sacred moments I get to read so that I can watch them do something they do all the time. It’s not like I read all day long, or even every day. My children wait until they see me pick up my book and then decide that the fate of the world rests on whatever attention they need from me right at that moment. It goes like this…“Mom, did you see that? Did you see me run that race on Mario Cart? Did you see me win again for the ten thousandth time? Mom, do you think I should breed pigs or sheep on Minecraft?” Or, in the case of my three year old, he says, “Mommy? Mommy? Mommy? I love you. Mommy? Mommy? Can you come with me to the bathroom? It’s lonely in there.” (I’m only slightly exaggerating here).

And what I want to say, but never do, because despite my inner monologue I am a loving and supportive mother, is “No, I didn’t fucking watch you play Mario Cart…again…because you play it every day…and I don’t give a damn about swine breeding on Minecraft…and no, I don’t want to keep you company while you poop in the bathroom…and I’ve been waiting for a year to read this damn book, so please, for the love of God, stop calling my name!” This is when I take ten deep breaths (and maybe leave the room) so that I don’t crush their tender feelings. I realize these things are important to them, and that’s why I give myself a time out.

I used to hide in the bathroom. I pretended to be having “stomach problems” so that no one would bother me. That’s how desperate I would get for ten minutes alone with my book. That strategy worked until my then two year old was potty trained, and he got curious and wanted to know if my poops were like his poops, and could he come in to check. He’s a poop expert now and no one goes to the bathroom alone, ever. He would stand outside the bathroom door, banging loudly, yelling, “Mommy? Mommy, do you have the dia-neah? Do you need help, Mommy?” So that means no more covert bathroom reading for me.

The upside to all this is that my children, like their mother, are growing up with a passion for books. And I love that they love books. Some of the best nights in my house are spent reading with my kids. My daughter frequently lies in bed with me to read. We each read our own book, but we lie side by side and spend time together lost in our stories. It has not escaped my attention that my daughter is the same age now that I was when I discovered Fabio making out with a pirate wench on the deck of a ship. But unlike my grandmother’s house, my novels are password protected on my Kindle, and there will be no stories about lovin’ on the high seas for her.

What’s in a Name?

July 26, 2014February 22, 2019 / Wanda / 17 Comments

My name is Wanda. Well, my real name isn’t Wanda. Let me explain. When I was ten years old I decided that my real name was not so great and I wanted to change it. My real name was popular in the 70’s thanks to a well-known band and their one hit wonder about a sea captain and his favorite portside wench. My real name was also very popular with dogs, as in I shared the same name with many dogs. It was particularly popular with Irish Setters and Golden Retrievers. Can you imagine what it’s like to go over to your friend’s house for the first time to meet their family, and then while scratching their dog on the head hear them say, “Oh, our dog’s name is ______too!” It happened to me all the time, and at the tender age of ten this bothered me. (Due to this childhood trauma, I have a strict policy of only naming my animals after literary characters or historical figures).

Why couldn’t I have a more interesting name? Like Kelly, Heather or Wanda. Wanda sounded very exotic and exciting to me at the age of ten. It was exciting in an earthy, trailer-court-living sort of way. I’m not kidding, and I’m not making fun of trailer courts. At the age of ten, trailer courts fascinated me, and in the Midwest trailer courts were plentiful. The houses were on wheels for God’s sake! Some were on cement blocks or permanent foundations, but still, can you imagine being able to move your house? To a ten year old that shit was fantastic! And I wanted to be fantastic too.

So one night I asked my mother if I could legally change my name to Wanda. My Mom just smiled at my request and said, “Sure honey, whatever you want. But why don’t you take some time and really think about it before we do anything permanent, okay?” If you knew my mother, this incredibly adult and rational response would shock you, and I guess it shocked me into putting some thought into it as well. Obviously, my mother did not let me change my name and I eventually forgot about it and moved on.

But here I am many years later, and I will never forget that feeling of wanting to be better than I was. I will never forget wanting to be different. Not in a stand-out-in-the- crowd way, but just to be different than how I perceived myself to be. I wanted to be brave enough to try new and challenging things without the fear of rejection or failure. I wanted to be as good, special or talented as I perceived other people to be. I did not want to be compared to dogs. (I should say that I do really love animals, but to a ten year old, continuous dog comparisons were not good for my self-esteem).

I realize now as an adult that we rarely see ourselves as others see us, despite our talents, intellect, how we’re raised or what we’re told about ourselves. And I believe that if we knew how others saw us, we would probably be well and truly shocked, in both good ways and bad. But regardless, we all have that deep down desire to be better or different in some way. We have that desire to challenge ourselves to be more than we thought we could be. It doesn’t have to be epic. It just has to move you in a way that propels you forward toward something that helps you to learn, or evolve, or be happy and find peace within yourself. That deep seeded desire is my Wanda.

Three years ago I left my previous career after the birth of my second child and moved to a new city for my husband’s job. Somehow, I failed to find my balance in this life change, and for the past three years I have felt adrift and at a complete loss as to how to anchor myself again. It sort of feels like leaving my career and devoting my life to my family somehow negated that part of me that is uniquely me. I lost my Wanda.

I adore my family and I believe that my contribution as a stay home mother is important and has value. But any stay home parent will tell you that choosing this path, while very rewarding, also has its own challenges. It’s hard to feel accomplished and like you have contributed something important to the world when you spend your day cooking, chasing children, doing housework, homework and folding endless loads of laundry. My family might be better for it, but some days I feel like I’m drowning.

Recently, my husband presented me with the idea of writing a blog. He recognized that I needed a creative outlet and my own small way to reclaim my sense of self. Immediately, the under-achiever in me (who I do not reward by giving a special name) felt unsafe and insecure. I am not a writer. Why would anyone want to read what I have to say? How could I write anything that hasn’t already been written about by many other people, who probably said it so much better than I can? Then my Wanda reared up her head and pointed out that I needed to get over it already and just write the damn thing because it would be a fun thing to do and I would enjoy it. But what if nobody reads it? And then my Wanda said, “Who the fuck cares?”

So here I am, writing a blog. It’s time to try something different and to challenge myself to be more. This year I resolve to embrace my Wanda! I pledge to follow that saucy bitch wherever she leads me. I have spent three years thinking about the direction of my life and making no choices because all my choices seemed so intimidating or unreachable. But those choices don’t have to be epic, right? They just have to propel me forward.

My name is Brandi, but this is about the discovery of a girl named Wanda.