I Love My Housecoat

I'm sure my husband wonders what happened to his "trophy wife".  Her nails were always manicured, french actually.  Her highlights were well kept.  Her hair was neat and make up done.  Though she was no trend setter, she was neatly dressed and always wore heels.  And she always carried the latest Coach bag.

Nearly 5 years of marriage and 2 kids later (which kind of makes it 10 years of marriage) , I still carry a Coach bag.  It's just a diaper bag...that's 4 years old...and beat to hell.  But really, a trendy new pocketbook would hardly go with my Danskin yoga pants or my Marika running shorts.  And I've found that, outside of the diaper bag, Coach really doesn't make anything that compliments New Balance 850's or $1 Old Navy flip flops.

I do still wear mascara (that's a post for another day) and I do my hair.  Well, I do my hair on Fridays, because I work at a salon and it wouldn't look good if the first person the customers saw had their unbrushed hair in a sloppy ponytail.  But at some point I decided that a house coat was acceptable attire for a thirty-something woman.  I bought it to wear in the hospital when I had my babies, but it was so comfortable, and all purpose.  I can put it on after I shower but I'm not ready to get dressed in clothes that I'd wear outside of the house, between work clothes and pajamas, when it's hot, when I'm cooking, and best of all I can sleep in it.  I don't wear the housecoat all the time.  I also like my extra-large drawstring Notre Dame sweats paired with my maternity tank top.  But like I said, these are things that are not worn out of the house...except to take out the trash or get the mail.  When I go out I do try to dress better, like in an unstained tee-shirt and jeans that are only 1 size too big.

What, No Chocolate Shavings?

This is an old one but a good one.  "In laws: The Christening"

Being Irish Catholic, there are only 3 parties that matter in life, Christening, Wedding Reception, Wake.  Being that my husband is Italian Catholic, well, same rules apply.  The Christening of my first son was a very big deal.  Paddy (oh and yes, my off the boat Italian in-laws just loooove my kids' names), was the heir to the the throne, so to speak.  My husband was the last to carry on the family name, and boy was he relieved when he did not fail to produce a male offspring.  We went all out.  Tony made the restaurant reservations and even got a deal since he made them in his native language, Italian.  My father in law bottled up a couple of cases of the home made wine, special labels and all.  My mother in law even offered to get the cake, well, sort of...

Tony's mother was all about the cake.  It had to come from a specific bakery.  And it was a $50 cross cake.  That was all the information given to us.  she'd give us the money and we had to order it and pick it up ourselves.  Tony called the bakery.  They did not have a $50 cross cake.  They had a $35 cross cake that people usually ordered for Christenings.  Fine, we'll take it.  Do we want chocolate shavings?  No, just "God Bless Patrick Joseph", please and thank you.  The afternoon before the Christening, I drove out of my way to the special bakery to pick up this cake.

Everything was beautiful.  My family came from out of town.  The sun was shining.  Paddy didn't make a peep when Monsignor poured the Holy Water over his head (of course I had been pouring water over the poor kid's giant noggin since day one in anticipation of this moment), or during the rest of the Mass.  My dad's prayer before dinner brought most of us to tears.  The food and service at the restaurant were excellent (even my in laws didn't have a complaint...about the restaurant).  All of our family was enjoying themselves.  My sister's boyfriend was fitting in and feeling comfortable, that brave man even ended up marrying in to the family.  It really was a perfect and blessed day.

Then out came the cake.  It was a marble cake, in the shape of a cross, decorated with white buttercream frosting, roses, and in blue "God Bless Patrick Joseph".  It was really a beautiful cake, or so we thought.

Well, we were wrong, so very very wrong.

I was chatting with my future brother in law while he enjoyed a piece of what we were soon to find out was a horrible horrible cake, when my mother in law stepped in between us with her plate of that very cake.

mother in law to my sister's boyfriend, "Do you like the cake?" (by the way, make sure you do a heavy Italian accent when you read the part of mother in law)

sb, "Yes.  It's delicious."

mil, "NO.  It isawful!"

sb's eyes nearly pop out of his head and his mouth drops open.

mil turns to me, "This cake is all wrong.  You did not get the right cake.  Where are the chocolate shavings?  Why did you order this cake?  This is not a $50 cake."

me, "They didn't have a $50 cake.  This was what they said people ordered for Christenings.  We didn't know we were supposed to get chocolate shavings."

mil, "YES, you were supposed to get a $50 cake with chocolate shavings!"

I was mortified at the time.  I didn't feel so bad when I found out that she also gave Tony an earful in front of the rest of our guests.  The bottle of home made red that my sister snagged to drink later at home also helped.  The wine was delicious, but to this day I can't pass a bakery without thinking about chocolate shavings.

The moral of this story: When offered, always take the chocolate shavings.  Because even God himself cannot save a blessed day from the wrath of an Italian mother in law expecting a $50 cake.

Kid on a Leash

Always a controversial topic: the kid leash.  I remember that my sister had a little Elmo harness for my nephew.  We were walking on the Wildwood boardwalk when he was about 18 months (a place that, really, no one should be judging any one else).  Some one walked by and freely shared their opinion by shouting, "Real nice!  You put your kid on a leash."

My now nearly 4 year old, did not like the stroller and was far too independent to hold hands.  When he was toddling around, I was ridiculously pregnant and could barely walk let alone chase after him.  Later, I was carrying around or pushing an infant.  Sorry, but a kid that won't sit in a stroller or hold my hand, just isn't a reason to not go to the park, zoo, out for a walk, to the museum, etc.  He still had to get out and, though there were days he irritated the crap out of me, I still wanted to keep him close.  Solution: the monkey backpack

That right, A LEASH!

I've heard the "leash" called inhumane, degrading, treating your child like a dog, and so on.  Here's the thing, 1) it's not your kid, and 2) go ahead and call CYS, they wouldn't care because there is no mistreatment of the child.  Paddy loved his monkey backpack.  He didn't have to be confined to the stroller.  We didn't have to fight with him and struggle to hold onto his grubby little paw.  No one was freaking out and having to run after him if he tried to take off for the swings, or worse, the parking lot.  We didn't have to worry about losing him amidst seas of people.  He couldn't wonder off.  It's not like he was on a choke chain, or we were telling him to "heal".  He had his independence and we had peace of mind.  Now that Paddy's older, he understands the dangers of not staying close.  Mick, not so much, so the leash has been passed down.   

Now, if only I could get away with the cages I'd like to lock them in.