Nicole Oppenheim writes
On Saturday mornings and afternoons, my beloved husband takes over the child-rearing duties which enables me to run necessary errands (groceries, dry cleaning, pharmacy runs, etc.) and also to have some time to myself. Because I’m the biggest dork in the universe, I tend to frequent stores selling fabric, art/craft supplies, coffee, and records. (Hey, Entrepreneurs! I would LIVE in a store that sold all of these things under one roof. I’m just sayin’.) But really, any location that offers relative peace and quiet and a chance for me to geek out about some of my favorite things is where I’ll be on any given Saturday.
This past Saturday found me indulging the bibliophile side of my personality at the library. After browsing through some new releases and picking up a variety of interesting-looking novels, I headed straight for the art section looking for something to inspire me to complete the piece I’m currently working on. Because I’m a total bookwhore, I couldn’t help glancing at the shelved tomes on the way there. In the parenting section, which I usually avoid like the plague, I spied a book called Bringing Up Happy Children. I hurried past, thinking, “My kids are happy, right?” I paused. Hmmm. Are they? Really? “Crap,” I thought to myself while pivoting on the spot, “I’d better read this book just to make sure.”
Such is the seductive power of so-called self help books. Damn you, Random Author with no extra letters after your name to denote a graduate degree! You have no special training in child psychology or a similar field, and are, therefore, no better qualified to write such a book than I am. You may not even have children! But I am compelled to pick up your book nonetheless. The title is written in a decent font, so you were at least smart enough to hire a qualified graphic designer. Dare I judge a book by its cover? Might you have some insights after all? I doubt it. And I intend to call your bluff.
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Nicole Oppenheim writes
“Try Jell-O Pudding Pops, Frozen Pudding on a Stick!”
What’s up with quoting this seemingly random and delightfully kitsch-y commercial from the 1980s? Because I’m about to get all Bill Cosby on your asses. No, not Bill Cosby like THAT. I was thinking more along the line of his “Kids Say the Darndest Things” schtick. Bear with me. It’ll be good. I promise.
Because everyone and their sister is putting out a year-end Top Ten list, I decided I’d do the same. Except instead of ranking best albums of the year, best television events of the year, (Come on! They’re television events, for Chrissake! They deserve a Top Ten list!), or best crazy rants overheard on the Western bus, I’m going to rank my Top Five Shining Moments in Parenting for 2009. (This is a short column, so I’m only listing five). Many of them have to do with funny things my kids have said over the past year—this is where the Bill Cosby part comes in—and unlike the boring stories your boss and/or coworkers tell you about their annoying kids, you will actually get a chuckle out of these.
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Nicole Oppenheim writes
Is anyone else sick to death of the holidays already? I was all set to write a column about how my husband and I celebrate this time of year as an interfaith couple with toddlers, but I had to stop in the middle of the second paragraph. Gag! Who wants to read any more articles about how to make sure each tradition is respected and that the kids are exposed to the best of both religions? Besides, neither my husband nor I are what you’d call observant. We bow down to consumerism—patriotic and otherwise—at the end of the day like everyone else, whether you admit it or not. I want a framed print I saw at a gallery and a dress form for Xmas. As long as they’re under the tree, this is a successful holiday in my estimation. Jesus? I like him very much, but he no help with curveball. And candles are pretty, so we light up the menorah, my husband says some Hebrew words that my kids will one day understand (I’m all about phonetics) and we all have a cup of cheer. Then it’s back to watching TV, reading kids’ books, and building forts in the living room. Yay, interfaith holidays.
In my family, I’m famous for saying that I’d rather be put into a medically-induced coma than have to endure the holidays. Put me under right about now and wake me up on December 31st in time for a kick-ass, child-free NYE bash with all my good friends, bottomless champagne flutes, Nirvana as the house band, and Elvis, The King himself, serving up fried banana and peanut butter sandwiches sprinkled with powdered sugar all night long. (What? This is my fantasy. You don’t like it? Dream up your own!)
The holidays are all about indulging in fantasy and I don’t want to be responsible for making sure others’ wishes are fulfilled. Does that make me lazy? Maybe. I like to think it makes me realistic. Making sure everyone in the family gets to live their more-realistic-than-mine holiday fantasy takes work. Hard work. And the thing about holiday fantasies is that they’re damn near impossible to pull off sans flaws. The planets have to be aligned with your family’s collective chakras and there can be no disturbances in the Force. It’s a LOT of pressure and responsibility, which, frankly, I don’t want to take on. As an at-home mom with volunteer duties, a small business in the works, and parent-teacher conferences to attend, I have enough on my plate already.
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Nicole Oppenheim writes
Holidays are anniversaries of a sort. We’re celebrating Thanksgiving and Christmas/Hanukkah/Kwanzaa/Winter Solstice/Saturnalia/Festivus like we do every year, by getting together with our families, eating huge meals, watching TV, and giving gifts. These holiday get-togethers are usually hectic and always chock full o’ nostalgia—we miss those family members and friends who are no longer with us and we reminisce about the events of past holiday seasons. We can’t help it. It’s either something in the air or those tasty gingerbread lattes that everyone mainlines this time of year.
At the risk of sounding like a bad Hallmark commercial, as I stood in a favorite coffee shop debating the merits of hot spiced cider versus said gingerbread latte, I came to the conclusion that life is short. This silly decision shouldn’t have required the amount of time and brainpower I was giving it. So, I’ve decided to make my new year’s resolution early this year—or late, depending on how you feel about Rosh Hashanah. It goes something like this: Don’t waste time sweating things like mortgages, waist circumference, and whether anyone at future class reunions will notice my ever-deepening crow’s feet. (Of course they will. And they’ll all have their own sets, too. Oh, the joys of aging.) Enjoy the time here because it is a precious thing that should be spent it in the company of loved ones and friends. Engage in enjoyable tasks, not tedious ones.
Why the platitudes, you may ask? You can chalk it up to holiday-related nostalgia, but, as with many things, you can also blame Facebook. Thanks to a status update by one of my cousins, I was recently thinking about the last words of famous people. It got me curious, so I googled some of them. You’d be surprised how many pages are devoted to the subject. By and large, there were three themes: One, I’ve been a bad, bad person and am going straight to hell, so don’t bother praying for me (aka Repent Sinners! The end is near!). Two, I’m going to say something funny because I fancy myself a renegade and humor at this point seems inappropriate enough to cement my irreverent persona (see: Humphrey Bogart, Oscar Wilde, Dylan Thomas). Three, most applicable here, life is so short that I would give anything I possess to have just a few more minutes with the people I love. My dad falls into this latter category, so I find it especially poignant. (Sidenote: cancer sucks.)
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Nicole Oppenheim writes
One of the most fun parts of parenting is becoming proficient in all the stuff each of my kids thinks is cool. Winchie is very clear about his likes and dislikes. He likes trains, trucks, cars, baseballs, basketballs, and soccer balls. He also likes to dig holes in the back yard. That’s pretty much it. He loves to jump and run around, but will sit and read a book, too, provided the subject matter is something from his list of likes. Oh, and he also likes to build huge Lego towers only so he can stomp on them or crash one of his many wheeled toys into them. He loves his sister and his parents and we love him back. That’s all he needs to know. Give him a Thomas toy, toast with peanut butter on it and a lap to sit on when he wants it, and he’s the happiest camper in the universe.
I’m totally comfortable letting him engage in typically-boy activities like playing sports and crashing toy trucks into things because these activities bring him obvious joy and satisfaction. And I’m always more than happy to indulge him when he wants to engage in typically-girl things like playing with dolls or putting on lipstick. He’s open-minded and willing to try anything that looks like fun to him. He’s curious, but uncomplicated. What a great kid!
When it comes to my daughter, though, things are a little different. Of course, she is also a fantastic kid in my humble opinion, but she’s much more complex than her brother—or maybe it‘s just my relationship with her that‘s more complex. I’ll admit that I have the usual parental dreams of her turning out to be a little version of me (minus my insecurities and hang-ups, of course). So while I’m more than happy to let Winchie play with his trains and dig up the garden, I find it much harder to hold my tongue when Squeaky wants to do something that falls under the umbrella of “girl stuff.”
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