Driving Miss Cranky : Self-Doubt

Thanks, but no thanks, Countess

Karen Waldkirch — Sun, 19 Apr 2009 14:09:57 GMT

A couple of weeks ago on The Real Housewives of New York City, LuAnn de Lesseps, a.k.a. The Countess, visited a Boys & Girls Club to meet with and mentor a group of “Smart Girls.” After watching this segment of the show, I immediately wanted to quote Bethenny and shout: “Oh no you di-in’t!”

I give The Countess credit for “giving back” to the community, although when giving back requires that you reach your destination in a chauffeured town car, perhaps your perspective is a bit askew.

The session started with the girls and LuAnn writing down what they like best about themselves. Rather than LuAnn further reinforcing the girls’ self-esteem, she merely reinforced her own by telling the girls that she’s likeable, funny and organized. Nothing terrible there.

Where it quickly went downhill was when LuAnn quizzed the girls on the importance of being a Countess, which was met with blank stares and such disinterest, I almost heard crickets chirping.

And then, the “piece de resistance,” as The Countess would say, was when the girls talked about what they wanted to do when they grew up. One girl, who was tall and somewhat heavyset (as my mother would say), said she wanted to be a model. Thankfully, LuAnn agreed that she had a pretty face. But then, as a throw-away aside to the co-mentor, she said “Losing weight is the easy part.” Wow, Countess, thanks for crushing that girl’s dreams. The girl never mentioned her weight but LuAnn just had to point out her flaws in a session aimed at building up. Funny, how it ended with her tearing someone down.

The scene ended with her playing basketball with the girls and feeling like the girls just couldn’t get enough of her time with them. I think that if these are truly the “smart girls,” they had more than enough Countess for one day.

Watch yourself and tell me if I'm wrong:

My Own March Madness

Karen Waldkirch — Mon, 16 Mar 2009 11:22:00 GMT

This morning, I opened my eyes at 4:45 am. Yes, of course I went back to sleep. But finally, I gave in and crawled out of bed at 5:00 am. Why, you ask? Because I am smack dab in the middle of my own personal "March Madness."

You see, 2009 was humming along nicely. Sure, I had the typical "Mom" things to deal with - laundry, cooking, driving, attending meetings - a volunteer gig here or there. But it was well-spaced out. I had time in-between most of these things. Enough time to breathe, that is.

Suddenly, it's mid-March and those great and powerful forces have collided. I have too much to do in too little time. I won't list everything because I guarantee that there are many of you whose list would dwarf mine. I get that.

My point is that my to-do list is waking me up, pre-dawn. Instead of dreaming of warm beaches, I'm trying to figure out what to cook tomorrow night that can be eaten (neatly) in a car on the way from play practice to the college night meeting. And can I get the key to the school refrigerator before or after I drop off the smelly dog for grooming? And top it off with wishing the economy would boom so that my college senior could quickly find a job after graduation. Sigh.

The thing is, I know I'll get it all done...somehow, and probably not well, but it'll be finished. I should sleep when I can't do anything about my list. But that's not how I operate. Sleep deprivation seems to be the way I roll. Yawn....Note to self: Fill out NCAA brackets before Thursday!

Poopy Conversations

Karen Waldkirch — Wed, 18 Feb 2009 16:51:17 GMT

Yesterday, I had a poopy conversation with a friend. No, it wasn’t a bad conversation. In fact, I found it entertaining. It was a conversation that will only occur between two moms. We talked about potty training and how gross it all can be.

Of course, it’s been MANY years since I’ve potty trained, but honestly, it’s just as hard today as it was back then. Sure, you SAY your child has been potty trained, but really, that’s when the hard work begins, right?

After my kids were potty trained, this is what I remember saying to them CONSTANTLY for months: “Do you have to go? Need to go potty? Let’s go potty. How about if we try to go potty before we leave? Are you SURE you don’t have to go?” Ad nauseum. Honestly, I annoyed myself, but I couldn’t stop it.

Worse yet, no matter how good you are at potty training, unless you live in a house that is fully tiled – floor to ceiling with a drain in every room and plastic on all of the furniture, there will be accidents. It’s part of the deal. And it kinda sucks, don’t you agree?

And yet, to me, there’s nothing more reassuring than knowing that some things in motherhood have never changed. We still struggle with the same basic challenges – day to day, year to year. What breaks us down is when the challenges rise up and overwhelm us – like poopy pants at the most inconvenient time.

What builds us up is that we, as moms, always rally together, share our experiences and become stronger for that. God bless moms. God bless poopy conversations.

Sweat Socks and Attitude

Karen Waldkirch — Sun, 18 Jan 2009 14:34:00 GMT

This morning, I stepped outside in the cold, pre-dawn hours. I picked up the newspaper while Millie the wonder dog was doing her business. Suddenly, I looked down at my feet and I laughed. Look what I’ve become.

When I was a little girl, like many little girls, I was often mortified by my mother. If she wasn’t embarrassing me by something she said, she was embarrassing me by something she wore. Very rarely, she’d dress up and I’d give a silent approval. (Emphasis on silent - I couldn’t be bothered to actually say something nice to my mom.)

Back then, when I was young and full of blue sky ambitions and empty promises, I vowed that I’d never dress like my mother. I’d never be caught dead in sweatpants or sweat socks or old worn-out shirts. I’d wear makeup and style my hair and always look terrific.

Fast forward to today, when life has done its best to wear me in, like a comfortable pair of shoes, and my body is in the throes of middle-age spread. I no longer feel the need to prove myself to anyone. After 25 years of marriage, I’m feeling that detached sense of devil-may-care about my appearance. I’m pretty sure my hubby is sticking around, so do I really need to blow dry and curl when I’m just sitting on the couch tonight? You wouldn't believe some of the things I've worn to the grocery store.

So, this morning, when I looked down, here’s what I saw: my two feet in slippers and sweat socks. I have to say, it looked bad, really bad. Oh, how far I have fallen.

Through the years, SO many things about motherhood have surprised me. I can’t believe how exhausting it is. I can’t believe how few answers I have for the constant parade of daily challenges. I can’t believe how the smallest things – a hand-drawn illustration, a hug, or a sweet comment – can bring me to tears. And I can’t believe that I’ve stopped caring how I look.

I guess I’m at a crossroads. On the one hand, I no longer bear the weight of low self-esteem or lack of confidence based on my appearance. I’m comfortable in my own skin and am accepting of the fact that I’m not going to wake up and look like Demi Moore or Jennifer Aniston.

On the other hand, my sweat socks and slippers on this cold winter morning were a bit of a wake-up call. I do have the ability to at least try to look like I care and take a little bit of pride in my appearance. And, on these frigid days, it might actually improve my outlook on life.

Who knows, maybe it’s one less thing about me to mortify my own daughter.

Dear Oprah

Karen Waldkirch — Sun, 14 Dec 2008 20:11:32 GMT

Dear Oprah,

I read the news today, oh girl! You’ve come out of the pantry and admitted to hitting the big 2-0-0. I’m sure that must have been a tough thing to do. You’ve always prided yourself on your healthy lifestyle, thanks, in part, to a stable of personal trainers and chefs. Despite the number of ads I see on the internet, those Acai Berries aren’t working all that well.

Here’s what I want to say to you: Girlfriend, welcome to the club.

No, I haven’t hit the big 2-0-0, but I’m definitely not going public with my digits! And when I talk about the club, it’s definitely not the Fight Club or the Country Club. It’s that sorority of WBWs, a.k.a. Women Battling Weight. Honey, I’ve been a member of this club forever. Even way back in my grade school years, I’d wake up before my family just for the opportunity to munch on chocolate chips while I watched morning cartoons.

High school is when I started my first official diet. That was the first 15 pounds that I lost. I’m certain they returned during my freshman year of college. Since then I’ve been on multiple diets, all of them successful, unless you’re counting whether or not I kept the weight off.

Through the years, I’ve been buddies with Jenny Craig (twice) and Weight Watchers. Between those three diet sessions, I’ve lost over 100 pounds. I haven’t gained it all back, but I’m nowhere near my dream goal weight. The only thing I’ve got working in my favor is a newfound addiction to tennis.

Here’s the thing, Oprah: People don’t love you because you’re skinny. They love you because you speak your mind and because some of your favorite things are food. I’d go so far as to say that they love you because you’re not skinny. We’ve got plenty of skinny celebrities. We need more real women with double-digit dress sizes.

I realize that our country has an obesity problem and we need to move more and watch less. But since you’re a role model to so many women, I wish you’d change the goal. Stop with the “big reveal” of the bikini body and put the emphasis on health, activity and muscle. If the focus is always on how you look and not how you feel, then no progress has been made.

Look, it’s gotta be tough to have the eyes of America on you every day. When I break up with my latest diet plan, it doesn’t end up in the tabloids. But remember when Jamie Lee Curtis went “unretouched” in that magazine feature? Brilliant. That hot new British singer Adele? Love that she’s not a twig. Queen Latifah? The girl’s got curves and beauty with no apologies.

We need more honesty and less airbrushing. We’re living in a High Definition world. Let’s change the perception of what we want to see and what is beautiful. Let’s finally accept the fact that along with different colors, we come in different sizes and that’s not always bad. You are one of the few people in the world with the power to make that happen.

Sincerely,

Karen

Thank God You're Home!

Karen Waldkirch — Tue, 25 Nov 2008 15:14:00 GMT

I have to confess that I’ve wasted a great deal of time, as a mother, worrying. When my kids were little (which, I have to admit, was before the internet), I constantly had my head buried in a copy of Doctor Mom. Every cry, sneeze, stomach ache or earache made me flip through the dog-eared pages in fear of evidence of a dreaded disease. (It’s a blessing that WebMD didn’t exist back then.)

When my kids reached school-age, I concerned about them hitting developmental milestones. I obsessed over words mispronounced or misspelled, math problems misunderstood or their inability to write a cohesive sentence. (Their parents are both journalism majors! Shouldn’t writing be part of their genetic code?!)

As middle-school approached, I worried about social issues. Who were they hanging around with? Why aren’t they going out more? Why do they want to go out so much? Why are they obsessed with how they look? Why aren’t they obsessed with how they look?

Then came high school. Because I was not the head cheerleader, prom queen or valedictorian, I had my share of high school issues. And, because I’m not a Stepford mom, I worry about my kids encountering those same issues. My philosophy is I’m here and I’ll help them make better choices, right? Wrong. The issues are totally different and so I worry even more. In fact, I worry because I don’t even know what to worry about.

College is a whole other ball of worry wax! Will my kids get into a good college? Will they like college? Will they excel in college or fade into the woodwork and barely graduate? What if they get a freaky roommate who stays up all night or brings “overnight guests?”

Can you see why this is exhausting?

So here’s what I do. Sometimes, because there seems to be no end to the worry, I focus on one thing: my kids, at home, safe and sound. Now that they drive, this is a bigger deal than you think.

And so, this Thanksgiving week, I’m thankful to have my kids at home with me.

What, me worry?

Carol Brady and The Right Stuff

Karen Waldkirch — Tue, 30 Sep 2008 13:02:00 GMT

There are moments in motherhood that they don’t tell you about when you’re all glowy and postpartemy. If they did, you might just hand the baby back and say: “You know what, thanks, but I guess I’ll pass.”

Those moments are the ones when you do a gut check and say to yourself: “I don’t think I can do this. I have no clue what to do next.”

Motherhood has no instruction manual. In fact, I’d liken the moment that they hand that beautiful, stunning child to you, to the moment you pass your driver’s test. (Something for which there is an instruction manual. Hmm…that’s ironic, isn’t it?) In the blink of an eye, you go from something you wished for, hoped for, worked for, to a moment where you look at people and say: “Wait, what? Seriously? I’m not sure I’m ready for this.”

Of course you’re all madly in love and wanting to show off the world’s most beautiful child. But deep inside, there’s that nagging hint of doubt that makes you wonder just a teeny bit whether that potential to screw this thing up will ever present itself.

And as the child grows, and little things happen, you wonder again: “Do I have the right stuff?” Or, you think the way I do: “WWCBD (What would Carol Brady do?)”

Growing up, glued to the TV set, I thought the Brady Bunch’s Carol Brady was my maternal idol. When she wasn’t rockin’ her shag hairdo or cutting flowers while gazing at her artificial lawn, she was dispensing incredible nuggets of wisdom to her beautiful, blended family. While Alice did all the real work, Carol stirred something in a pot (making us think she actually cooked) and then had time to sit with the kids while they ate their wholesome after-school snack.

As a naïve and impressionable child, I just assumed that I would parent the way that Carol Brady parented – with style and grace and a kick-ass housekeeper.

Big surprise, Carol and Alice were pure fiction. The only way to really be a parent is to roll up your sleeves and get dirty. Sometimes horribly dirty. To be there when the kids come home and fall apart. To NOT have all the answers and to question virtually everything that you and your kids do. To discipline and be hated for it…but to still be there the next morning. To lose sleep because you let your mind wander to the worst-case scenario.

Truth be told, I tend to be kind of a negative person. If I’ve made a decision, I’m often guessing it’s the wrong one. I just assume that every other mom has cooked and cleaned and parented better than I have. But once in a while, my kids will do something that gives me a glimmer of hope. They make me feel, in that moment, that even if I don’t have the right stuff, at least they do. And to me, that’s good enough.