Diary of a Not-So-Fat Kid

When I say I’m fat, I mean for me.  I don’t ever compare myself with other people.  I have friends and loved ones of all shapes, sizes, colors, and girths.  I don’t typically use other people to compare myself with or to…as far as body size is concerned.  I tend to use self-deprecating humor when I talk about myself, because you know what “they” say, “It’s better to be laughed with than laughed at.”

I can’t remember a time when I was not aware of my weight.  Thank God for the 80’s when we all wore our shirts eleven sizes too big with that plastic clip holding it in a tail off to the side.  I wore a shirt over my bathing suit at all times, and over leotards for all dance classes.

 As a young adult, who struggled with a bout of bulimia in college, and who yes, went to a campus therapist, I of course blamed my mother for my body issues.  I spent years telling myself that when I had kids, I would never make my children self-conscience about their size, weight, height, shoe size, blah, blah, blah.  Now, as a parent, I understand that my mother was not the horrible weight Nazi that I thought she was….she was terrified.

My daughter is my daughter.  Even though she has inherited my husband’s high cholesterol, she is me through and through (except for her messiness; that’s dads too—see below).  That means that she will be spending her entire life worrying about her weight and trying to keep it under control. And this terrifies me.  I don’t want her to be me.  I want her to be her.

I was always aware of my weight (which by the way was probably about 20 pounds more than I needed to have), but didn’t realize that other people were aware of my weight (except for my mother) until mom bribed me.  She signed me up for Weight Watchers as a ten-year-old and told me that she would pay me a dollar for every pound I lost.  I lost ten pounds, and got my ten bucks.  An old friend of my mother’s stopped my mom in the mall and told me to my face that I looked good, and another ten pounds would be perfect.  I promptly buried my head in the orange plastic pumpkin of Halloween candy that was on top of the refrigerator.  The ten pounds eventually came back.

Fast forward to tenth grade.  I had moved to Singapore, and having found a dislike for the local food, firmly established myself at the local Burger King.  After my tenth grade dance concert, on a HUGE high from the show that I had performed in and was incredibly proud of, this stupid bitch named Rebecca (cannot remember her last name but will never forget her face) came up to me after the show to “let me know” that there were boys in the audience rudely discussing my size during the show.  I went home in tears.  My mom helped me work on my “issue” over the summer.  I ate tuna for two months and worked out every day in the American Club gym, and the scale never budged.  I went back to Burger King.

Fast forward again to college.  By the end of my freshman fifteen, and the start of my sophomore year, I had decided that enough was enough.  Food journaling, dance classes, and a heavy course load combined with my theatre major rehearsals, I finally got to a great point, for the first time in my life.  The next auditions for the department musical came up and I FINALLY got a callback.  When I wasn’t cast, I went to the head of the musical theatre department and asked her what I could do to improve.  She said, straightforward, “You may have lost all of that weight, but you still dance like you’re fat.”  That next summer I had corrective jaw surgery and got to my lowest weight.  And I was TERRIFIED.  I was terrified that I was not going to be able to keep it off.  I finally felt like people looked at me, not through me, I was getting cast regularly, and for the first time in my life, I was dating….real, live, cute boys.  That’s when my spiral began, a spiral that landed me in a counseling office with a grad student who never spoke.  I never really knew that people could be so quiet for an extended period of time. (Remember, I was a theatre major)

I was in a pretty good place, until I had kids.  With my daughter, I had pregnancy-induced hypertension, and looking at food caused me to gain five pounds.  I was NOT a cute pregnant person.  My boobs grew as much as my belly did, so instead of looking pregnant, I looked like a massive barrel.  NO ONE ever asked me when I was due!  Afterwards, I lost twenty pounds on the South Beach Diet.  That lasted until my son was born.

Me in Sydney's nursery

Right after Dylan was born

I started grad school a few years later, and come home to find myself at my heaviest weight EVER.  Completely disgusted, I turned to Alli and food journaling, and within 8 months had lost 45 pounds.  Then the real grad school happened, and now I stare at myself-twenty pounds up.  Oh yes, I’m in denial.  I still stuff myself into my clothes, and try not to look too hard.

I’m tired of fighting this.  I’m tired of worrying.  I’m tired of being worried for my daughter and wondering what she sees when she looks at me.  I’m going to fix it…again.  I have a plan.  I bought a Nutribullet (I swear, I need to be paid for endorsements, I’m raving about this thing), and am FORCING myself to get off my ass and walk around the block.  I have to continue this journey to me.  I think I’ve grown up enough to realize that it might not work forever, but I’m too young to be hiding in my 80’s shirt with the clip.

I may have never met a cheese I didn’t like, and I REALLY love my wine, and ok, anything that’s made into a sandwich or pizza (again with the cheese). I may dance like I’m fat (seriously?), and I may need to take out stock in Spanx (that lady needs the Nobel Prize), but I’m going to remember all of the shitty things that people have said to me, and do my freakin’ best to make sure that my daughter grows up knowing that she’s gorgeous (and she is, if I do say so myself), confident, talented, creative, and incredible so that in twenty years, she doesn’t have to sit down and write her own Diary of a Not-So-Fat Kid.

Pass the fondue, please. Tomorrow morning, we use the Nutribullet, and all will be right with the world...again. ;)

Why I Teach

After the wake of the the most horrific tragedy in Connecticut, and being on vacation while the rest of my family has one week left of school, I've had more time than normal to do nothing but think. For those of you who know me, you know this can be dangerous.  I've been known to come up with my best ideas and creative visions in the bathroom, the one room where I can get more than 30 seconds of quiet.

I've been pensive this week, somewhat stuck in my own brain.  This of course has my husband Thomas a bit concerned.  Where is his road-raged, over-worked, constantly kinetic wife?  "Who is this girl I see, staring straight back at me?"  Yup, I seriously just quoted a Disney princess.  Maybe the Mayans really do have something! (totally kidding)

This week, I have looked at my world differently.  I am trying to be more patient; with the world, with my family, and with my life.  Now, I'm not going to tell you any crazy new epiphanies about how to live your life, hug your kids, leave random gift cards for strangers, and mow your neighbors yard.  Instead, I want to tell you why I do what I do.

Why do I teach?

Somedays, I lie in bed, begging the alarm clock to shut the fuck up, and know that I'm already looking forward to 10pm that night so that I can get back in bed with my extra winter blankets.  Some days are worse than others.  Driving into school, my day can start on a sour note if someone is parked in "my" spot. (we don't have assigned spots, but seriously, I've been there for seven years....figure it out!)  I can see a bratty kid in my line of fire, and the first word out of his mouth to his friends, loudly is, "Yeah I fuckin' hate that bitch." And then I want to kick him in the shins.

Those are the times that I wonder why I do what I do.  Why do I spend more time at school than my own house?  Why do I direct shows that are not in my contract?  Why do I sit up late grading papers, creating presentations, designing shows, emailing parents, fielding texts and emails from students?  It has been made abundantly clear that there are actually people that think that someone like me is overpaid and lazy.

Yup, that's me.  I'm so overpaid that I can afford to live in a neighborhood where I found a shopping cart from the grocery store in my front yard (just yesterday!).  I'm so overpaid that we had to take our kids out of their sport for the next quarter because it had to be paid up-front and in full.  I'm so lazy that I'm at school or working on school-related things over weekends and holidays.

Here's what I've been going over in my head this week.  This is why I teach.

1. I teach because of a teenage girl, let's call her B. She has been in my program for three years now. She was adopted by her aunt as a baby because her young mother couldn't take care of her.  She was just cast for the first time in three years in our up-coming musical.  She came in to tell me that her birth mother, whom she hasn't seen in five years, is flying to CA from NJ to see the show.

2. I teach because of another girl.  She has an absolutely tragic background, one that no child should ever have to endure. I see her smile with her classmates, and see her bust out a 3.8 GPA and being able to write her a college recommendation for her to "get out."

3. I teach because I have faith in the future.  We have the autism program at our school for my district. At our winter sports assembly on Friday, those students were recognized for having competed in a basketball tournament for the Special Olympics.  When they were brought out in front of the entire school, a spontaneous standing ovation occurred, complete with whistles and thunderous applause.  Faculty and staff dissolve into tears.

4. I teach because of two of the above-mentioned autistic students are in my drama class.  I watch the other students show patience, understanding and compassion every single day.  I have watched those two students thrive by learning how to speak to a classroom, how to introduce themselves, and how to interact with others.

5. I teach because some of my students tell me that they are afraid of letting me down.  I honestly don't mind when they slip and call me "mom." I wear it as a badge of honor.

6. I teach because down the line, the emails and Facebook posts from past students show me what remarkable people they are turning out to be.

7. I teach because deep down, regardless of what a politician says, or a helicopter parent who is pissed off about a "C" on a test and yells at me, or my lack of liquid funds, or my long hours in rehearsal, I believe that I can make a difference in just one kid's life.

All of my fellow teachers are on the front-line.  They love their students. They are passionate about their subject matter, or the age-group that they teach.  They believe in the future. They believe that these kids are going to help make the world a better place.

I just have to keep reminding myself of all of this.  Especially when the alarm goes off....or maybe I need to change the radio station on the clock radio.

Call Out the Holly

I freakin' love Christmas. I am one of those people who plans what the house will look like, the cookies, the Elf on the Shelf, you name it. I will absolutely NOT apologize for my unabashed adoration of the time between Thanksgiving and Boxing Day (yes, Boxing Day!)

Yesterday, the day before Thanksgiving, we started to craft, something that I love to do as much as Christmas.  I decided that we were going to make ornaments, in preparation of sending them to grandparents, and cousins and stuff....

So, I loaded up my trusty Christmas Pinterest board, and off we went.  The kids were surprisingly on board (more surprised about Dylan) as they began their masterpieces.

The popsicle sticks were painted by care, while the handprint Santas were baking in there. (sorry, couldn't resist the rhyme).  But they turned out pretty cute!

The Santa handprint things came out of the oven.  

                                                   

At this point, Dylan was starting to lose interest, but in true Holiday Spirit, I threatened his life and his finished painting his Santa faces (well...mostly.  I may or may not have helped a little).  These too, came out pretty cute.  Crafting was a success!

Now it was time to clean up the mess.  The kids trotted off, finally free of the chains of Mommy's hair brained ideas.  

Then what to my wondering ears should I hear but the crunching and cracking of......HOLLY!!!!!

I look over the landing to see Holly indulging in one of Santa's fully-painted faces.  

It also happened to be Dylan's, which sent a Streetcar Named Desire-like howl to echo throughout the house, "HO-LLY!!!!!!!!!" (the ironic part...he had his shirt off in preparation for swim practice...a very Brando moment.)

I promised Dylan that we would fix it, and in true six-year-old fashion, he forgot about it in 3.2 seconds and scampered on his way.  

I however, congratulated myself with a little rest and relaxation.

Let the holiday season commence! YIPPEE!!!!

Do You Hear the People Sing? Sing a Song about Hate.

The other day, on my way to work, I was at a traffic light behind a work truck.  By work truck, I mean a truck that was wrapped to advertise the business that it dealt in.  I honestly can't remember what the business was, but I was busy contemplating the multiple bumper stickers that adorned its back end.  Most of them resembled something like this:

Regardless of my own political affiliation, this was my thought on this:

1) Why would you want to spend SO much energy hating something SO very much that you are willing to deface your own care about how much you hate a certain _______________? (fill in the blank with your own politician, sports team, etc.)  I don't understand this.  

Believe me, I know it's free speech, and by all means, if you want to put stuff all over your car, go for it.  I just wonder why people would want to choose to dwell on hate so much.  Wouldn't you rather spend your energy supporting the candidate of your choice? Just a question.

2) Why would you want to affix your political/religious/sports/favorite grocery chain/etc. labels on something that has to do with your business, your bread-and-butter, your livelihood?  I would only assume that based on the fact that people put hate stickers on their cars, that if they saw an opposing sticker on a service vehicle, they're not going to be doing a quick jot-down of that phone number for the next time they need a roto-rooter (it wasn't a root-rooter truck, I just like saying roto-rooter).  Are people willing to alienate potential business by showing these potential clients just how much they abhor the other people's beliefs?

I think that Depeche Mode said it correctly:

"People are people, so why should it be, you and I should get along so awfully?"

I think it's incredibly sad that we as a society are so freaking angry right now.  I have taught my students to "never discuss religion or politics at a party," because I've watched it explode in my classroom and get ugly.  I understand that people are passionate about what they believe in, but when does passion turn ugly and perpetuate hate?

And then, the light turned green.

Tap Your Troubles Away

Sydney and Dylan have been grounded for a week.  Last Saturday, we went to the Oktoberfest at a local church.  These things are EXPENSIVE, and each ride cost the kids 3-6 tickets. After three rides, and some good times with our friends, The Anderson Family, the faces looked like this:

 Mia and Dylan on a ride

The problem came when it was time to leave.  Apparently, dropping $80 on the two little Castigs wasn't enough for them, and the temper tantrum from both that ensued was first-world ridiculous. So off to bed they went.

The next day brought our weekly cleaning and chores.  As Thomas washed dogs in the front yard, and I was vacuuming downstairs, I hear the screams from above. I dash upstairs to find true fisticuffs, and I proceeded to fisticuff both of them on the rear end and chuck them in their rooms.

The first Castiglione grounding commenced.

One week.  No iPods. No TV. No computer. No fun.  Except for practices (that I already paid for), school, and dinner, there was NO leaving their rooms. 

Two things came from this:

This was Dylan letting us know that he was a tad on the angry/frustrated side. (It says: No one allowed but me.  In first grade language)

The other things that came from this experience was this:

Don't worry, it was for Thomas and me.  Although don't think that drugging them so they won't beat up on each other didn't pass through my mind.

Being grounded during the week really isn't a big deal.  We're such a busy family that by the time we're home, dinnered, and homeworked, it's time for bed anyway.  It's the weekends that are harder, although everyone in the house, except for me (husband, two kids, three dogs, and a cat) is sleeping and I am actually enjoying the peace and quiet.

Here's where the kids know how to play Mom.  Both kids auditioned for the school musical this week, and so they had to practice the song and dance they were taught to use in their callbacks.  So, naturally, a three hour coaching session occurred in the living room, thereby preventing them from having to be bored in their rooms. But come on, everyone needs to practice, right?

I guess I'm just a sucker. 

I now understand when my parents would say, "This hurts me more than it hurts you!" I'm ready for the grounding to be over!

"You Are Famous"

I had the pleasure of attending the Educational Theatre Association National Conference this past weekend in San Diego, CA. After asking for SIX years, I was finally able to go.  I heard an incredible speaker, Richard Robichaux, speak about his fourth grade teacher, and how her interest in him changed his life. The result of that was this, "Mrs. Fleck, YOU are famous." He stressed how the fame had to do with the fact that she changed the path of his life forever by doing what she had to do...her job.

This got me thinking about the people who unknowingly, unwittingly, or partially because I was just so damn annoying, changed the course of my life forever, making me the person that I am today. (good, bad, or smelly)

The first one is Mari McAdoo. She was the COOLEST music teacher ever.  Woodland Hills Elementary School in Kingwood, TX. She taught me everything: instruments, guitar, recorder, voice, etc; AND she gave me my very first true stage experience: Robin in The Runaway Snowman. Miss McAdoo is the most amazing woman that I have ever met. I may not have seen her in *cough cough snort sneeze* years, but to me...SHE is famous.

Lois Yvonne, Karen Romano, and Barry Dean are next. They run a kick ass theatre school in my little town in Texas.  They're the one's that took my theatre experience to a whole new level. While I didn't get to work with them a lot, those three incredible people have left an indelible mark on the person that I am today, so to me...THEY are famous.

Diana Searcy. My first classroom drama teacher. From her, I learned the techniques of being on stage, she introduced me to dramatic literature, trusted me to be a leader, became a friend, was an incredible mentor, a patient director, and so much more. To me...SHE is famous.

And last but not least is John Marshall.  He was my middle school choir teacher. He was larger-than-life, passionate (threw his keys one memorable day), loved his students, and was an INCREDIBLE music teacher. Everything that I know about reading music I learned from him.  To me...HE is famous.

These people may not have been in my life for a long period of time, but the time that they were showed me who I could be, introduced me to my potential, gave me training and showed me compassion. When I decided to go into education, it was these people who I emulated to create the "teacher character" that I play every day.  It is THESE people who have allowed me to interact with my students everyday; by teaching me, believing in me, and being there for me.

I can only hope that one day, I might be even 1/12 as famous to someone as these people are to me.

Who is famous to you?

Everybody's Got the Rights....but Me

In the ongoing struggle that I am having with Canyon High School's stupidity and lack of cultural sensitivity, they have managed to eff up my life...again.

In the previous post, I discussed their white bread version of cultural diversity...a choice that made me change my own fall play in order not to ruffle the already molting feathers of my school district. I'm pretty sure that they don't need me stirring the pot.  So, Romeo and Juliet set in Mexico is shelved.

I chose to do Our Town. Filled in the application, got a confirmation email, and in my excitement, took that as the green light.

Two hours after I announced Plan B, I get an email from the publisher. The rights are on hold, it could take up to 4 weeks, yada, yada, yada.  I call the publishing house and grovel...to no avail.  They tell me to call back on the 28th.

I'm nice...for once.  I wait until the 30th.  Give 'em time to get their ducks in a row.

No answer.

I email...twice...for good measure.

No answer.

Now, I'm panicking. I have auditions in a few weeks, and no script.

I spend a few hours applying for anything, seeing what will stick, and keep getting the same response:

"Thank you for your application.  We'll get back to you in 4-6 weeks by regular mail."

AAAUUUGGGHHHH!!!!

Plan E. Finally get the rights, scripts, and spend a fortune on expedited shipping for a piece called Vintage Hitchcock, a 1940's radio play.  Haven't even read the whole thing, but it's better than not having a fall show at all.

Then, in a moment of true Stacy pissiness, I email the publisher for Our Town and give them the what-for about not getting back to me, cancel my application, I'll show you!  (who am I showing, let's be honest)

Six hours later, I receive an email from said publisher stating something along these lines:

"We're sorry about the delay in your application.  You have been granted the rights for Our Town.  Would you like to proceed with your order?"

ARE YOU F&%*ING KIDDING ME???????

I JUST spent $500 mere hours earlier on a different show.  No going back now.  Besides the fact, I'm pretty sure that I blew up any bridge with this publisher by my pissy rant.

Dammit.

I'm pretty sure that you can't make this stuff up.  It only happens on TV.

Everyone's a Little Bit Racist

Now that I've titled this, the song from Avenue Q will inevitably be stuck in my head for the rest of the evening.

School starts tomorrow.  I am a very organized person when it comes to planning.  Ok, fine, OCD, whatever you want to call it.  I calendar things a year in advance, plan things minutely.  I have learned that I manage my huge work load and stress better when there are limited number of surprises.

Like the surprise I got when I went to school to gear up for this new year.

Every May, at our annual Drama Banquet, with great fanfare, I announce the season for the next school year, and it has become quite a to-do.  I decided, since I have a HUGE amount of senior boys this year, and will probably never have this many males again, I needed guy heavy shows.  Well, wouldn't you know it....my Master's Thesis was Romeo and Juliet! Perfect!

I graduated last summer from Southern Oregon University with a Master's in Theatre Production and Design, and my thesis was my own take on the ol' R&J.  I set my production in Mexico, with the Montagues and Capulets as warring drug families.  I did all of my research, pitched it to my kids, checked for responses, etc.  I really honed in on my Hispanic population, because I wanted their input on the idea, since this wasn't about stereotype, mocking....you get the picture.

The kids were SUPER excited about the show!  Here's a picture of the model of the set design:

So, imagine my surprise when I hear about an incident from a neighboring school that happened in June.  ALLEGEDLY, during senior spirit week, the school had a "Senor/Senorita" day.

Oh, wait, it gets better.  Some of the students ALLEGEDLY came to schools dressed as gardeners, restaurant bus boys, stereotypical cholos, you get the idea.  Two students ALLEGEDLY came wearing "Border Patrol" t-shirts and put handcuffs on their friends who were dressed "gangster."

This clown even put this picture on his public Twitter and Facebook page.

Is anyone surprised that there are rumors of a lawsuit?

Now, fast forward to Monday.  I hear of this and think of my own up-coming production (see set above) and think, "Holy Shit Balls!  Talk about bad timing.  The last thing I need is to be thrown on that bandwagon of possible legal action!"

I spoke with my principal at length, and while we both agree that we can't cower to other instances, I wasn't ready to start a fight.  So, the decision was made to change the play. Hmmmm.....lots of guys, no set (since now there's not adequate time to design it), and something that I actually WANT to do?

AHA!!

So, now I'm excited...again...until I get an email from the company holding the rights for the play. Part of the JOY of living an hour away from Los Angeles is that every time a professional theatre even thinks of doing a play, NO ONE else in the vicinity (and by vicinity, I mean the state) can do the same play.

So, what you're saying is that my lil' ol' high production might pull an audience away from a professional theatre in a different county?  Right, got it.

I was told that it could be four week process to solidify the rights, and I still may not get it.  "Where is the professional production taking place?" I asked.  "I don't know, and they might not even produce it.  I could just be an option," said the representative.  Right, got it.

So, while we wait, and try not to get frustrated, I wonder about the state of our schools and the politics that seem to run it rather than what's in the best interest of kids.

How do I teach a lesson that makes something classic relevant to my students, only to be told that it could be perceived as "racist"?  How can I be told that I have no budget, and that I have to raise my own money, but due to an ACLU lawsuit, I'm not allowed to ask students for any kind of fee? How can I create the creative thinkers and higher-level achievers that our politicians want (No Child Left Behind) when the government isn't willing to fund kid's educations?  How can I properly do my job, one that gets WAY more hours put into it than I am paid for, when at every corner, teachers are depicted as evil, money-grubbing pedophiles?

Maybe I'll just move to Our Town.

Do they have "cholos" there?  We wouldn't want to offend anyone.

Swims With the....I Mean, LIKE the Fishes

This summer has brought a ton of new experiences for the Castiglione clan.  One of the biggest ones has been swim team.

Since May, both kids have been swimming with STOP (Swim Team of Placentia).  Practices are right across the street at Valencia High School, so we walk to practice, which makes me think that I'm getting exercise.  Come on, don't burst my bubble.

I am LOVING being a swim mom.  It's much cooler in the shade than a soccer field, it smells better (I LOVE the smell of chlorine), and I have friends there whose kids are also swimming, so I'm getting a plethora of adult time.

After the start-up costs (which never seemed to stop this summer) the kids are outfitted with swim bags, reflective goggles, buoys, flippers, sunscreen, swim caps, team suits ($$$), and of course, I had to get the team sweatshirt, and my good friend Amy (another swim mom) bought me the most AMAZING bleacher chair with "Team Castiglione" embroidered on the back.

Then, they actually have to swim...now that they have all of the cute stuff.  Sydney has been a champ.  Our first day there, I heard her coach say, "OK!  Warm-ups! 14 laps!" Then, I suffered a small heart attack.  HOLY CRAP!  For warmup???  I'm NEVER going to get her back in the pool after this!!!

We finished the first day, and Sydney proclaims, "Mom!  This is great!  You don't sweat when you swim!  I love this!"

I gleefully rubbed my hands together maniacally...in my head. "Great!"

Dylan of course, being my athletic one, didn't want to get out of the pool.  My plan of wearing him out so he'll stop chucking things off the landing in the house might be working.

The first meet came along, and Sydney was nervous.  Dylan didn't to compete right away, so we got Sydney marked up with her races in Sharpie on her arm.  She had a hard time believing that I, the opponent of ink on arms, would be writing on her with SHARPIE, but hey...gotta be a true swim mom, right?

On her first race, she dove in for the breast stroke, her goggles slipped off, and she teetered on, bumping into lane lines, and coming in dead last.  The best part?  The coaches screaming her name from the sidelines, encouraging her to go, etc.  I was in tears to watch people who knew my kid for two weeks have her back like that!  She was SO proud of herself!  Sydney and her friend Bella were on their way to being addicted to swim!

Finally, Dylan was also ready to start swimming at meets.  He is in LOVE with his team swimsuit, but was a little upset with me because I ordered the longer "jammers" instead of the short Speedos.  Hmmm.

After three swim meets, the kids were going to be swimming in a Championship Meet against the three teams they had already gone up against.  Early morning, huge pool, tons of kids, and two races each.  Sydney has cut off time each time she swims (and luckily doesn't give a toot about winning the race) and Dylan ended up placing 1st in the 25M Backstroke!

After that, we were having a discussion about the Olympics, to which Dylan said:
D: I'm going to be in the Olympics.
Me: You are?  For what sport?
D: Swimming, obviously.  I mean, I already got first place.
Me: Obviously.
D: When can I go?
Me: In three Olympics, but that means you have to work really hard.
D: I already am.



















Can't argue there, I suppose.  The conversation with Syd went little differently:
S: Do they have Olympics for theatre?
Me: Yup, it's called the Tony Awards.
S: Oh, right, duh.  Yeah, I want one of those.
Me: Obviously.
S: When can I go?
Me: Once you've had enough training in college, but that means you have to work really hard.
S: I already am.

Hmmmm...I feel like I've had that conversation before.

Theme Parks are Torture

I have held a long-time belief that if aliens were to land on our planet, and inadvertently find themselves at a theme park, they would think it was some sort of torture compound.  Here's the breakdown:

Parking Lot Fee: $15
One-day Sea World passes for a party of four: $273
Making your tired, sweaty, over-sugared, under-watered, whiny cause "I-want-an-overpriced-souvenir-that-I'll-never-look-at-once-we're-home"kids traipse around in the sun while threatening them to have a good time- Priceless????

Thomas had to attend a conference for his school in San Diego this past week, and since the school was paying for the hotel, we thought, "Rad!  Free Vacation!"

I learned VERY quickly that I am NOT a good vacation-taker.  Thomas was in his conference the entire time we were there, so it was up to me to entertain the "overtired-because-I'm-sharing-a-room-with-the-whole-family-let-me-kick-my-sibling-in-bed-rather-than-sleep" cherubs that I have sired.

DAY 1

We arrive at Sea World and see a guy in a penguin suit that you can take pictures with.  Now, you know he's cursing inside the furry suit, since at 10:30, it was already getting a bit toasty.  I excitedly tell the kids to pose with him.

Well, after standing in line, it was our turn, and Dylan wouldn't go.  I finally made him get in there, so the smile is more of a pained grimace.  Once we left the sweating Antarctic creature, I asked him what the problem was, to which he replied, "I don't like taking pictures." To which I responded, "We're on vacation, dammit, so you WILL take pictures.  I need to look back on this week in the future and see how much freakin' fun we had.  GOT IT???"

He got it. Sydney tried not to laugh.

Then, we went to Shipwreck Rapids.  Now the name should have clued us in, but I was excited to be having fun, by God, so we climbed aboard.  4 minutes and a waterfall later, we exited, and I realize that I am wearing tan shorts and hot pink underwear (TMI, right?) and since I'm soaked all the way through, I gave people quite a show. There are no pictures of this.  You're welcome.

The kids, however, reveled in their dampness...

...Until we realized that Sydney's hand-painted (well, Sharpied) sneakers (thanks Pinterest) were not so water-resistant.

Suddenly cooled off, Dylan's bi-polar attitude changed as he now wanted pictures of him EVERYWHERE:

Along with his attitude came his raise in volume as he told me, and everyone else in line for Wild Arctic:

"Hey, Mom, my butt crack is REALLY wet."

-Thanks, dude.

We stopped for lunch and watched a brazen seagull take off with an entire bag of chips (it was pretty funny since they weren't mine) and watched a young child have a doozy of a temper tantrum, to which Sydney remarked:

"Jeez kid, can't you see we're trying eat.  How about a little peace and quiet?"

I have NO idea where she gets that attitude.

Thomas met us after his conference at the park, and we stayed for the Shamu Rocks show.  After we talked Dylan out of Shipwreck Rapids again, we managed to get soaked by Shamu, and watched Dylan pitch a fit and cry because he was wet.  WTH????

DAY 2

The next day, we went back.  I know, right?  I think I'm just destined for martyr-hood.  We were walking past the Sea Lion show when we were approached by a trainer and asked if we wanted to meet an otter!  How cool was that?

The kids decided that they would give Manta, the new roller coaster another try.  Yesterday, Sydney cried for 20 minutes after the ride was over, so I was surprised that she wanted to give it another go.  Who's the martyr now?

Well, she lived, and they dragged me back to Shipwreck Rapids, where I spent time in the shade, and they went on the ride FOUR TIMES.

Hot, tired, smelly, and sweaty, we ended Day 2 early, thank God.  I dragged Dylan out of that park kicking and screaming back to the hotel for lunch and swimming, something I am better at doing.

By the end of the torturous few days, we ended up with:
-discolored feet
-soaked clothes than now smelled like the hotel laundry bag
-four new stuffed animals
-a slingshot
-a purse (for Sydney)
-424 of those smooshed pennies that cost 50 cents a pop and will probably spend the next month in my purse jingling around like a gypsy skirt.

-***a cranky, tired Mommy who hasn't had a glass of wine in four days.***

***See my problem?

The Double-Digits Birthday Extravaganza!

Wait!  It's been TEN years since Sydney came screaming into this world?  It can't have been that long.  I am NOT old enough for this to be happening (stepping back to reality).

Well, it's here.  I threatened Sydney that if we cancelled her birthday, then she would never turn ten.  She didn't buy it.  I guess she's growing up after all.

We started her Birthday Week Extravaganza with a trip to Rainbow Kids, our trusty kids salon, for a little ear-piercing action.  Although there were tears when the guns went off, the end result (and a lollipop) were well worth the pain.

Next was the gift from Thomas and me.  Because of the pandemonium that would ensue on her actual birthday weekend, we decided to give her our gift early.  So, one night, when she got home from Bye Bye, Birdie rehearsal, hair still wet from swim team, she walked into her room to her armoire with a big ribbon on it.  Once she opened it, she only said, "Thank you so much!  Thank you so much! Thank you so much! Thank you so much!," in an awe-struck voice.  Now, the secret is this...it's our old TV.  We got a new one for downstairs, did a little rearranging, and voila!!! NO more fighting over VicTORIous vs. Ningago.  Ulterior motives.

Then came the birthday party.  We seem to be at a cross-roads in ages.  At ten, you're still friends with people because you've known them since kindergarten, but new friends are being made based on activities.  Well, Syd is turning into all sorts of a theatre kid, and was dying to have a theatre party.  I knew that some of her friends would balk at an evening of singing/dancing/ogling over Bernadette Peters, and keep within a budget.  So, here was the deal.  5 friends. Big dinner. An evening at the theatre. Spending the night.  Done!

The cake, of course, had to be Broadway themed, so we bought the cake plain from Vons, and Syd gave me her top logo choices to use for the decoration:

Then, Aunt Farrah arrived.  Farrah is my college roommate, and has come out every year for Sydney's birthday.  Well, since Farrah lives in NYC, she smartly took a stop by the theatre where Newsies is playing on Broadway (Sydney's current obsession) and brought her a T-shirt.  NICE JOB, Farrah!

The day of the party arrived.  Five little girls (oh...excuse me...pre-teens) showed up all dressed for a night on the town.  We started at Buca di Beppo, a family style Italian restaurant.  We ate, opened presents, and had cake (after being serenaded by the waitstaff---VERY entertaining).

After dinner, we took in a performance of Oliver! at the Curtis Theatre in Brea.  The girls had front row seats, and the adults had seats in the last row.  The girls were tickled to see kids on stage that they recognized, and they loved EVERY minute of the show!

Back home, and settled in pajamas in Sydney's room, the girls watched Once Upon a Mattress and thankfully fell asleep by midnight.  The next morning, as they left, each girl got a mixed CD of some of Sydney's favorite Broadway tunes complete with personalized labels.

The morning they woke up was Sydney's actual birthday.  We spent the day at a friends house, swimming, and enjoying ANOTHER birthday cake.

Sydney rounded out her birthday week extravaganza with an Apple iMovie camp at the local Apple Store in the mall, where the staff taught the kids Garage Band and iMovie. 

And, no birthday would be complete without getting the spend the gift cards that she received as gifts.  

It's been a wild and crazy ride with this amazing little girl (oh, sorry....pre-teen).  I can't wait to see what the next ten years bring.  Eye-rolling, I'm sure.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, SYDNEY!!

What do the Olympics mean?

When people hear that I love the Olympics, they start cleaning out their ears, looking at me like I'm drunk, or concerned that their understanding of sarcasm has left them completely.

I get it, I get it.  Yes, I am the one that told my father that Dylan make two "goals" during his basketball team.  I am the one that cheered when Sydney ran the wrong way with the ball during her first season playing soccer.  I am the one who DVR's the Super Bowl, and fast forwards through the game to get to the commercials and the half-time show.  My principal even had this conversation with me at the beginning of June:

Ed: So, Stacy, those Tony Awards are on soon, right? (he's a big football guy, but really tries to    decipher my own strange world)

Stacy: Yeah, they are, and I'm so excited.  Neil Patrick Harris is hosting again, and it's been an interesting season for-

Ed: So, this is like the Super Bowl for YOUR people, right?

Stacy: Super Bowl....football, right?

Ed: (rolls eyes and walks away)

Yup, my people. So, you can understand why people do a double take when I talk about how much I love the Olympics.  But here's my take.

The Olympics IS NOT about sports.  Ok, there are some games that are played, but for me, it's always been more than that.  To me, the Olympics stand for two weeks of a feeling of world harmony as we watch the parade of nations, and everyone cheering for everyone else.  It's watching people from around the world who have spent their lives pursuing their passions, working harder than anyone else in the world, and getting the chance to show the entire world what it means to be an achiever, to be a teammate and a team member, to be a part of something bigger than bi-partisan politics, and hot-button issues, or suicide bombers, or war, or local news filled with rape and murder.  It is a chance to see little girls fly through the air with the greatest of ease, for swimmers to cut through the water like it's nothing, for runners who defy speed laws, and for people to cheer on their countries. For once, it seems like people stop fighting and remember that they're a team.  THAT is what the Olympics are about to me.

The commercials aren't that bad, either.

La Cage aux Dylan

So, I'm sure that many parents do everything they can to let their kids "find" themselves.  Thomas and I have been against guns as toys since Dylan was born, but inevitably, he'll find a stick, a rock, or his finger to use in a faux gunfight.

I'm sure that Sydney, being the Queen Bee that she is (more on that after the big birthday weekend), has something to do with some of Dylan's choices.

Sydney is often hard to find in her bed amongst the dolls and stuffed animals, and Dylan has had to endure trips to the American Girl store in his brief life.  So, years ago, he inherited a baby doll from Sydney.  Oddly enough, when you press her hand, she says, "Da Da!" which Dylan took to meaning that the doll was meant for a boy.  So he named her Caroline.

Caroline has spurts of activity.  She'll sit on a shelf for months, and then find herself dragged around all over the place, including school during "Friday Share."

So, even though I am all for gender equality, there are times when I ask him is he's REALLY sure that Caroline needs to go to K1 go-cart racing with Dylan.

This morning, the fact that Dylan is all boy was reiterated.  From my perch in the kitchen, I hear Dylan yell, "Mom!  Caroline is going skydiving for the first time!"

I peek my head into the living room and look up at the landing just in time to see Caroline plummet from the second story to the living room floor, waking Niko up from her aged stupor, both of which causing Thomas to spit coffee out, and a triumphant yell from above as Dylan congratulates Caroline on her first solo jump.

So, again, as a little brother to an older sister, Dylan is often as the mercy of Sydney's antics.  The other day it was "The Dylanette Show."  This consisted of a heavily made up 6 year boy parading around the house wearing a myriad of dresses from his sister's/director's closet.  Actually, other than the buzz cut for summer swim team, he's not a bad looking girl!

So, I text this picture to Thomas, and it was met with a very different reaction from my lip biting amusement.  So, I again took the time to remind Thomas of the bad-assness that Dylan is usually displaying for us:

He felt a little better.

It's Getting Hot in Here

I have always said that Californians are complete weather weanies.  Since both of my children were born in California, they have also joined the ranks of those "unable to cope with anything."  This is what I mean:

1. When it rains in California, and I mean the mere sprinkle of precipitation, Californians run for cover as if the Zombie Apocalypse is banging on their doors.  I have often asked Sydney and Dylan if they think they're going to melt (as they put on rain boots, raincoats, grab umbrellas, and make a mad dash for the car), to which they often answer, "Yes!"  Even the weathermen are in on this, making every slight rainfall a "Stormwatch (insert month or year here)!!!!" as they report next to a puddle.

2. Heat. I say "heat" as a person who lived most of her life in a humid oasis of mosquitos and multiple showers: Houston, Singapore, Orlando, you get the picture.  As a high school student in Singapore, I was even known to sport a turtleneck during "monsoon season" when the regular temperature of 95% dipped to 90%.  In Florida, I wore dress pants and shirts, as well as black socks and shoes to tour unsuspecting British tourists through Universal Studios, forgetting to tell them to reapply sunscreen (sorry 'bout that).

Now, Californians pay A LOT of money to not have to deal with weather (how American, right?) but I sure got a kick out of listening to the news, and the people around me, complaining the other day about how they just couldn't take the heat anymore.

I don't know how they managed.