Every morning I get a notification from Facebook telling me that I have memories to look back on. Just yesterday I came across this status update from 2009: 8 years later, I finally have my pool.… More
Twenty-four hours ago, I had really only known Amazing Phil and DanIsNotOnFire as the background noise with a British accent coming from my daughter’s bedroom. I knew that they had co-authored a book, and that were YouTube stars who had become friends and collaborated (this was information I learned after asking, “What could possibly be so funny?” when the peals of laughter echoed down the hall).
A few months ago, Dan and Phil had announced that they were going on tour, and my daughter anxiously awaited their tour schedule. She was thrilled to learn that they would be coming to our area and, when just a few days later, I received my daily text from my favorite performing arts theater with a presale code for The Amazing Tour Is Not On Fire, I knew I had to get tickets.#bestmomever
Fast forward to last night.
After work, my daughter and I headed down to show. I really hadn’t known what to expect. My daughter was a fan, but not one other person that I knew had any clue who these guys were. I half-expected to show up to a partially empty theater, where I would commiserate with a few other confused parents as we watched a couple of guys play video games, or talk about cats or something.
My daughter’s enormous smile would be worth it.
The cat assumption was due to the whiskers my daughter drew on her face before leaving to the show. I actually asked her if she’d rather wait until we got there to decide if she wanted to paint on the whiskers. But, no. This was their thing, I guess. She had also picked out the “perfect outfit” several days before: skinny jeans, her white chucks, a tee shirt we had made at a local custom tee shop, and a red flannel tied around the waist.
When I pulled into the theater parking lot I was shocked to see, not a handful, but hundreds of teenage girls. They were almost all wearing skinny jeans, various licensed and handmade Dan and Phil tee shirts, red flannels, and painted-on whiskers. My girl had found her tribe.
After realizing that the line for Dan and Phil merchandise went around the entire theater, we went inside and took our seats. The theater was blasting Panic! At the Disco, My Chemical Romance, Britney Spears, 5 Seconds of Summer, and even some High School Musical. All the girls sang and danced along. Apparently, these were Dan and Phil’s favorite songs.
When the lights went out and these two skinny, tall, adorable young men stepped on stage, the crowd erupted and my daughter burst into tears–the kind of tears that reminded me of being 13 and seeing New Kids On The Block. I knew exactly how she felt. As I comforted her, I remembered that feeling of seeing, in person, someone you idolize, whose bio you know by heart. You almost feel like it’s a real relationship, and that feeling is emotional and overwhelming.
I understand how celebrities can get overwhelmed by fame. Imagine millions of people knowing almost everything about you, when you could never possibly even meet all of them. It’s overwhelming enough to have an acquaintance who has never “liked” nor commented on any of my writing tell me that a particular piece resonated with them, or that they have been following my work. How many more people “know” me?
Anyway…Dan and Phil put on such an entertaining show! They were funny, they were silly and they are talented. I was so pleasantly surprised at what a great time I had. I definitely don’t want to give anything away. I suspect the ban on phones and cameras while the show was going on is to maintain the surprises for future shows. It was also nice to see a thousand teenage girls enjoying themselves and interacting without a screen in front of their faces.
I had such a great time hanging with my daughter! I loved being part of such a formative teenage experience in her life. She will never forget last night, and neither will I.
P.S. I’ll be milking that “Best Mom Ever” title for awhile.
I was compensated by Evite for my time in developing this post. All opinions are my own.
Much of our family travels during Spring Break, so it is difficult to get together for Easter. One of the ways we are able to spend time together, and take advantage of traveling while the kids have time off of school is to celebrate the holidays early.
The first thing I do when planning my early holiday parties is to visit Evite and choose the perfect invitation.They have such an extensive selection of free and premium cards that I never again have to run to the store to pick up invitations. I love that you can even personalize your cards with photos!
Isn’t this invitation super adorable?? It makes me sad that my kids have outgrown Easter egg hunts!
Next, I decide on the perfect decorations.
Hubby usually decides on the main course, but I get to choose the appetizers and the desserts!
I made this dessert tower several years ago using thrift store plates and tea cups. It was such a fun DIY, and has seen me through many Easter Sundays!
Finally, our family arrives and we all get to eat, drink and be merry while the little ones hunt for eggs.
Spending time with our loved ones during the holidays is so important to us! I’m so happy that we are able to have early celebrations so that everyone can be included. Life is always better together!
Thank you to Evite for kindly sponsoring this post. All opinions are 100% honest & completely my own.
I am of Cuban descent. Because it is very unlikely that the Cuban government has any of my family’s records, and my grandparents have long since passed, I have always been curious to learn more about my roots. I knew that my dad’s paternal side was from Spain, and there had been rumors that one of my mom’s grandparents was of Lebanese descent, but other than that, I had no clue who my ancestors are…
…that is, until this week! Yesterday morning I finally received my DNA results:
Here’s the complete breakdown:
–53% Iberian Peninsula
–4% European Jewish
–2% Scandinavia/NW Russia
–1% Europe West
–<1% Great Britain
15% Middle East
–4% North Africa
–<1% Ivory Coast/Ghana
2% Native American
<1% Asia South
I love knowing that I am a mix of so many ethnicities!
My biggest shock was finding out that I am 10% Irish. After so many years of singing along at the pub, and feeling such a connection to characters such as Ellis Lacey from the film Brooklyn, I finally understand why I love the Irish so much, we are kin! Now I want to adopt a little redhead and name her Saoirse (pronounced Sersha, except my Cubanos would most likely call her Soraisa.)
I was also stoked to learn that I am 2% Native American! Now I need to learn if I am Ciboney, the Guanahatabey or Taíno.
My biggest DNA makeup comes from the Iberian Peninsula (my Spaniard roots), the Middle East and Africa. I even learned that I am 4% European Jewish. I love every single part of my DNA!
Have you had your DNA tested? If so, I would love to know who your ancestors are. If you haven’t yet taken the leap, Ancestry DNA sent me this link to share with my friends, and it will save you $10 off the regular price of a DNA testing kit. That’s even less than what hubby paid!
Most of my friends are turning 40 this year. This was supposed to be a comment to a friend’s status update, but it turned into a novel, and I didn’t want to hijack her post, so instead you guys get a new blog post…enjoy!
Turning 40 was hard for me. Really hard. I spent several months before and the whole month after really coming to grips with it. I’m just now, 33 days later, beginning to peek out of my “40 Fog”. Don’t get me wrong, I do feel like every day on this earth is a blessing, I just pictured myself having accomplished certain things and gone certain places by now.
I am facing my mortality a bit more. I’m afraid that I am going to die and never have seen or done the things that I keep putting off for financial or logistical reasons. The 10 years between 30 and 40 FLEW by for me. I blinked and they were gone. I don’t want my 40s to go that fast.
I also think that turning 40 made me aware of just how much I do (and have done for the last 18 years) for others, and how little I’ve done that was just for me. For years, while my husband traveled for work, I held down the fort, while longingly wishing that I could be with him in San Francisco, Spain, Portugal, Montreal or whatever other place I still haven’t had the chance to visit instead of spending my evenings at “meet the teacher nights” or “curriculum fairs.”
I am constantly back and forth with the kids at school and their activities. I work, take care of the house, take care of the pets. And, while I love it all, sometimes I want to do something that’s just for Yvette.
It’s hard as a mom to focus on yourself without seeming selfish. Moms are constantly having to justify their career or lack thereof. But, if you don’t make yourself a priority, you may wake up one morning and realize that you are turning 40 and you’re still waiting to take that trip, or buy that purse, or get those highlights, or join that gym or whatever else you’ve been putting off because it’s something that only benefits you.
For the last 12 years I have been subjected to the bi-daily ritual known as the School Drop-Off/Pick-Up Line, aka: The Car Loop. As someone who has spent an estimated 2100 hours of her life—the equivalent of three whole months—sitting in a car waiting for the PE coach to frantically direct cars to “pull up all the way to the front,” I have had more than enough time to study the fashion habits of my fellow Car Loop Mamas.
While preschool and elementary mamas generally shared a similar underslept/over-volunteered style, middle school mamas have upped their morning fashion game. Granted, I only observe them from the shoulder up, but this is what I imagine they are wearing.
Power Suit Mama. This mama always has her hair tied back in a slick professional ponytail, not one baby hair to be found. At 6:45 a.m., her mascara and lipliner are on point, she already has a Starbucks in hand and is 20 minutes into a conference call through her car’s Bluetooth speakers. Through her darkly tinted windows I can just make out her amazing business wardrobe and know she is in 4 inch designer heels, perfect for a swanky business lunch.
Activewear Mama. This mama looks like she’s headed to the gym in her yoga pants, stretchy tank with built-in sports bra and messy top knot, but I know better. Her expertly winged eyeliner and carefully filled-in brows tell me that she’s meeting her friends for breakfast and pedicures where they will talk about maybe taking a yoga class one of these days. Afterward, she will pop into Target with the intention of pricing out yoga mats, but will instead wander around the store for the next two hours. She will buy a throw pillow, a lip balm and a 12-pack of diet soda before grabbing an iced caramel macchiato and pulling back into the car loop.
Marathon Runner Mama. This mama is definitely going to work out today. Her hair is in that kind of pony/bun hybrid, which looks as though you never quite finished pulling the ponytail through the last loop of your hair tie. She’s wearing an old 5K tee shirt, running shorts, and not a stitch of makeup. If the oval “26.2” sticker on the back of her SUV doesn’t prove her commitment, seeing her jog passed your front door 8 times a day surely does.
I Woke Up Like This Mama. This mama is tricky. Is she going to work? Shopping? On a date? She’s always wearing a nice blouse, cute skinny jeans, tall boots, natural-looking make-up and an adorable coif. She looks as though she has been getting ready for hours, even though the sun is just beginning to rise. From where do you come, oh Magical Parking Lot Beyonce?
And, then, there’s me.
Pajama Mama. This mama prays every morning that she is not put into a situation which will require her to exit the vehicle. She is definitely wearing pajama pants, but may have thrown on a bra or sweatshirt just in case. She doesn’t see the point in putting on street clothes when she is simply going to turn around and drive straight home. Whether she has a later work shift, telecommutes to the office, or spends her days cooking, cleaning, and doing laundry (in some cases, all of the above) there is no way this mama is going through the whole primping process at 6 a.m.
Maybe, if school started later, I could get my act together. If I had an extra hour or two, I could look as put together as the CEO Mom or as hot as Queen Bey Mom. Maybe….
….Just kidding, I would totally use that time to sleep. Pajama Mama 4-Life!
30: When you turn 30, you realize that age is just a number. Thirty pretty much feels like 29, which felt like 28, which felt like 27…. The truth is that 30 feels like 22 with a mortgage payment.
31: When you are 31, you worry that you didn’t take as many risks or have as much fun as you should have in your 20s. You talk about taking a month off and backpacking Europe, or diving off of a cliff in Santorini. Then you finish changing that diaper, hand the baby to your husband, and go wash your hair for the first time in a week.
32: When you are 32, you decide that you can totally still pass for 25. You take your 1-year-old out in the jogging stroller and do sit-ups while he naps. Your body begins to look better than it did in high school. Your 30s are AWESOME! Holy crap? When was my last period?
33: When you are 33, your baby is four days overdue, and you haven’t seen your feet or bikini area in 15 weeks. You wonder if you can trust your husband to do some mom-scaping, or if you should just go to the hospital in all your 1970s glory. Your mom keeps dusting the nursery and your 2-year-old is strewing train tracks around your living room. You really couldn’t care less about your natural birth plan because Pitocin, followed by an epidural and a third-degree episiotomy sound freaking delicious right now. Get. This. Baby. Out. Of. Me.
34: When you are 34, you accomplish the biggest feat of your life. You take your 1-year-old and your 3-year-old to Disney World. Mission accomplished.
35: When you are 35, you realize that you haven’t really talked to your husband in months. You both have been working hard and raising a family. Feeling tired and disconnected, you work up the courage to leave the kids with your in-laws for a week and head to Cancun. In Cancun, you hang out at the swim-up bar, laugh and get drunk on Patrón margaritas. You dress up and dance under the stars to a live band. Your husband surprises you with a boat tour through the mangroves and a snorkeling excursion. You dance on the tables at Carlos’n Charlie’s and have a romantic dinner at Lorenzillo’s. You come home tan, happy and in love.
36: When you are 36, your oldest starts kindergarten and your baby is in preschool. There are no more bottles in the sink, or rotten diaper sausages to drag out to the trash can. The crib is nicely stored in the attic and your nieces and nephews are making use of all of those outgrown baby clothes. For the first time in years, you are 100 percent sure that you are done having kids. Your biological clock has apparently turned off and it’s smooth sailing, my friend! In your head, you start mapping out that family road trip to Graceland. You are calculating how long your 3-year-old can hold her bladder when suddenly you find a rogue pacifier stuck behind a couch cushion—and then you hear it, from way down deep inside…tick, tick, tick.
37: When you are 37, you get an invitation to your 20-year high school reunion. You consider going for about a minute. But then you weigh the pros and cons of leaving the kids with your in-laws for the weekend, boarding your 1-year-old dachshund—the cure to last year’s bout of baby fever—and buying the ridiculously overpriced dinner tickets, just to be in the same room with half the people you hide from your Facebook feed. You call your best friend who agrees that you should forgo your choice of prime rib or salmon and book a weekend girl’s trip instead.
38: When you are 38, you start to freak out about 40. It’s not here yet, but it’s on its way (like a freaking freight train!). You start to notice the lines on your forehead and your old-lady hands. When did I get old-lady hands?! You keep thinking that the ’90s was ten years ago, and can’t believe it’s been 20 years since you started college. At 38 you realize that life is short, and you start to finally let go of those things you’ve been holding on to—those feelings, those worries, those fears, those people—which make you unhappy and no longer serve you.
39: When you turn 39, you realize that age is just a number. Yes, that number is only 12 months away from starting with a 4, but you aren’t freaking out about it. The truth is that 39 still feels like 22, but with experience. You look in the mirror and decide you can totally still pass for 35. You unwrap the high-waist bikini you ordered online and place it in the suitcase next to your husband’s swim trunks. You make sure your kids are still packed, and you all pile into the cab that’s headed to the airport. Next stop: Santorini.
© 2015 Yvette Manes, as first published on Scary Mommy.
The essay you are about to read is about me. It is about my own personal experiences and my own observations. Maybe you know me in real life. But likely, I am a stranger to you, a name on a screen attached to an article—an article to which you may relate, or may take offense.
If you know me, you know that I typically write humorous essays filled with hyperbole, exaggerated for effect and a laugh. I like to laugh; I suspect some of you do, too. If you don’t know me, maybe you take my sarcasm literally.
I promise you, I would never actually pluck my eyes out with a spoon and stab myself in the ears with a pencil to avoid sitting through another episode of Caillou. I am very much aware that it would make me a “selfish mother” never to be able to see my children’s faces or hear their voices again by purposely impaling myself in an attempt to avoid a whiny little cartoon character. It is truly not necessary for you to waste my time, and yours (but mostly mine) by chiding me for my literary embellishments.
I am sure that not knowing me and having a sense of anonymity makes it easier for you to dissect my every word, to criticize me or call me names from behind your computer screen. Maybe knowing me isn’t any easier. Perhaps you think that I am somehow making a personal gibe about you. I assure you that I am not.
I am a writer, and my professional work goes through an editor who has the authority to make changes for length or grammar. The deletion of quotation marks or italics can greatly alter the way you perceive my tone and inflection. The replacement of one word has the power to give my piece a completely different feel. Unfortunately, many personal essayists have little to no control over the editing process. I ask you to take for granted that what I write is not meant to offend, but to express my own feelings, thoughts, doubts, and worries. Writing, like all art, is at the mercy of interpretation.
Dear reader, consider being less cynical. Embrace the wisdom, humor, sarcasm, strength and courage of the writers before you. Be encouraging and supportive, or be still and be quiet. Be inspired to write and share your own story! I, for one, would love to hear it—and I promise to only leave positivity in the comments.