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The Worst Birthday

May 16, 2011 By Amy 4 Comments
I was deleting computer files recently. I stumbled upon a document that was immediately memorable because I remember that I had to download, print, sign, then fax the document  to our real estate agent. Looking at it brought about old feelings of anger and disgust. My signature on the document gave permission for a popular television program to film our condo and use the footage in a future featured home buyers choice episode. So, you ask: Why did negative feelings surface over this little piece of paper? Well, here’s the story of what did and did not happen.
We had tried to sell our condo for ten years (okay, it was only one and a half, but it seemed longer) and the market just kept creeping closer to the outhouse every day. It stunk that bad. Our realtor called us with what we thought was FABULOUS news. The program was having a contest for a lucky couple in Chicago to win the home of their choice.  Now it was time to film them and their reactions at their three favorite homes. There was only one problem. Sunday was filming day AND my birthday.

Let me tell you, I felt torn. I wanted to sell our condo so bad.  I was beyond the point of desperation (or so I thought.) I dropped our home sale into every conversation, brushed up on market stats, selling trends and tips for staging and showing. I worked as hard as our realtor. When I agreed to a showing, I agreed to a perfect presentation.  I also agreed to a cleaning regimen that would put Mr. Clean to shame. My house was so clean for each showing that potential buyers seemed amazed  that children lived here.

The dueling voices sat on my shoulder trying to decide what to do.

Voice 1 :“It’s your birthday.”
Voice 2: “You could sell your condo today.”
Voice 1: “The housing market is dead.”
Voice 2: “You’ll still have time to enjoy your birthday.”

In the end, I chose to spend my birthday cleaning. I didn’t tell anyone because I didn’t want to jinx the results, or have people think I was crazy.  I became paranoid that my cleaning wasn’t good enough.  A film crew would be in my home. I contemplated vacuuming the cat to keep her from shedding that day.

I finished just minutes before our realtor arrived. I was  sweaty and irritated with myself for saying yes to this slim chance that this would be our ticket out of condo hell.

Then came the waiting part. We had to stay out of the house for who knew how long. All four of us were hungry. We had plied the children with snacks until we left; afraid that lunch would a) take too long  b) leave another mess to clean up and c) leave lingering cooking odors that might  dissuade the couple from being interested. We hung out at the Metra train station food court, ate, and waited for the safe to return call.

I collapsed on the sofa in my clean house.  I knew there would be no fancy dinner or cake to look forward to. The only signs that a film crew had been there were a few items out-of-place and some footprints in our bathtub. The worst part was that we never heard back from the program at all. Not even an air date. It all seemed like a cruel joke or a bad dream.

We did sell our condo eventually. I learned my lesson though. Birthday’s are sacred.

Filed Under: Misc, Uncategorized Tagged With: , , , ,

Hey, Baby

April 29, 2011 By Amy 4 Comments

“Hey, Baby,” he called out to me as I walked past. I knew who he was. How could I not? He went by one name only and had a reputation. A reputation of his clients begging for mercy, pleading for the pain to stop. He was a personal trainer.

I first heard of him about five years ago. Another mom mentioned his butt kickin classes. I hadn’t worked out in almost 4 years due to those little people that invaded my house. Maybe it was time to get back into it.  A month later, I gave it a try.

What. A. Mistake.

The arm strengthening class was non-stop, with no rest in between bicep, tricep and shoulder reps. My muscles throbbed. I down-sized to lighter weights, thinking this would get me through the remainder of the 30 minute class (of which I was only 10 minutes into.) He noticed the switch and immediately placed heavier weights into my struggling hands. I tried to protest, but my words fell on unsympathetic ears. I had no choice but to leave the class. I had a baby to lift, a preschooler to play with, a house to clean and food to be prepared. Rubber arms would not be able to muster the strength. I was singing Duffy’s tune just like the others.

Fast forward several years and YES, I had become a regular at the gym. I exercised almost daily. I had to, unless I wanted to spend the very short time the children were in preschool  wandering around Costco, spending too much money at Target or hanging out at Starbucks. At least there are reported benefits from exercise. One benefit not mentioned in scientific journals is that a kick butt personal trainer  would start greeting you with “Hey, Baby,” every time he saw you. And that non-existent article would not mention that somehow those two words would do more for you than they would  if your husband had uttered them.

You have to understand that we were not on a first name basis. He was not trying to jockey for a new client or pick me up. (HA!)  I noticed that he used this greeting with other women I knew who exercised. I applied mathematical reasoning and deduced that “Hey, Baby,” was a compliment that I had earned from putting my fitness needs first. It was a two word motivator that could only be spoken by him that made a difference in my time at the gym.

That all came to a screeching halt when I returned to work briefly last year. My daily visits to the gym ceased.  So did the “Hey, Baby” comments. The months following were filled with packing, moving, unpacking and getting settled. I was about as fit as a contestant on day one of The Biggest Loser. But I had to prioritize. Finding the dishes, towels and shampoo trumped the elliptical trainer. Besides, I now had stairs. I was partaking in the original StairMaster workout by default.

Soon enough, I found myself back at the gym. I ran into Mr. Tall, Dark and Muscular trainer, but he only greeted me with,  “I haven’t seen you in a while.” I told him I had moved. “Welcome back,” he said before turning to his client and ordering her to jump up onto the weight bench sixteen times, convincing her that she could do it. (She couldn’t. ) I wasn’t  part of the “Hey, Baby” crowd anymore and I felt left out. That was almost seven months ago. Guess it’s time to get started. Again. I wanted to hear “Hey, Baby”.

Filed Under: Humor, Motivate Tagged With: , , ,

Noddin’ my head like yea.

March 30, 2011 By Amy 4 Comments
A mix CD came home with my six year old. It was from the birthday girl of a party my daughter had attended a week before. Before I could finish scanning the titles (only a few I recognized), the CD was popped into the player and I was ushered out of the room without so much as a parting gift. The former Hannah Montana slinked out from underneath the door. Noddin’ her head like yea. Mainstream bubblegum pop had just arrived in our house.What was going on?
I had prided myself in exposing my children to an immense variety of music since day one. Mind you, I wasn’t the anal parent who planned specific musical encounters each day with the hope of raising a prodigy. I just dug into our collection and figured that if something sounded good to me, then why not let the baby hear it too. So in addition to ’60s, ’70s and ’80s rock, pop and new wave classics, our kids also heard various Spanish and Celtic artists, plus all of the  traditional nursery rhymes.

I have vivid memories of not only going to sleep to the tune of  “Piojos” (a song about head lice sung by these characters called Los Lunnis, which are like the Muppets, but from Spain) but waking up with the same song in my head. That was  how my days cycled for a few weeks while my children listened to that song and the Vaccaciones con Los Lunnis CD over and over and over. It mysteriously disappeared from the CD collection when I began to dream of singing, head bobbing lice with the faces of Los Lunnis because I didn’t want my children to have to explain that their Mama was taking her own Vacation with the Looney’s, and not by choice.

I could tell the same sleep-wake nightmare again and again with countless other children’s songs and even a few that the kids glommed onto by Bruce Springsteen. But in the end, I had no one to blame but myself (or my husband, who is the Bruce fanatic and has fond childhood memories of Los Lunnis ). If the CD came from me, I could steal it away during the daytime hours without anyone noticing. But a CD from someone else?

When I became a parent, I had to make decisions about everything in their lives from bedtimes and food, to vacations and television. And of course music. I knew that one day my children would prefer “their” music over “mine”, much like I preferred Duran Duran to my mom’s Rod Stewart. I just did not think it would start this early.  She’s only six and we still  listen to the Beatles every Sunday morning together. We talk about the lyrics and instruments and our favorite songs. I love that she has a favorite Beatles song (Currently Octopus’s Garden).  I’m not ready to give up my decisions about things in their lives yet.

The other day I was folding clothes in her room when the six year old put on the mix CD. She began dancing around to the beat, enjoying the rhythm of the music. I began to sing along to the lyrics that I had heard a lot of lately. She smiled at me, the gaps of her freshly lost teeth still present and asked, “Do you know this song, Mama?” I told her, “I’ve heard it a few times.”  We were noddin’ our heads like yea, movin’ our hips like yea. I wasn’t being asked to leave, but rather silently invited to stay.

Read more from Amy on her personal site.

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Filed Under: Humor, Parenting