A Mother's Hood

Rooster Reality

by Lanita Moss on January 6, 2012 · 10 comments

Late last summer, I wrote a blog, Rooster Envy, in which I described my general love for all things chicken and about a beautiful eight foot rooster I had found in Amarillo, TX. With four months to go until my birthday and Christmas, I dreamt about that large bird on a daily basis. He would look so cool suspended from the ceiling…he would look so amazing standing guard over our kitchen. Although I felt he wasn’t significant enough in size to make a statement as yard art, standing sentinel over our driveway would be as equally noteworthy.

But as the Holidays approached, I gave up any expectations that I would receive the mammoth rooster as a gift. There were other things on my list, like a copper still, a golf cart, and a 1953 Ford F100 pickup truck. Plus, Colby hadn’t made any trips to Amarillo where he could have purchased the rooster.

I convinced myself that was OK…jewelry would be nice.

When Christmas morning dawned clear and bright, our living room was a chaotic frenzy of packages, ribbons and excitement. As always, I was more attuned to others reactions to the gifts I had given them rather than what was in my own gift pile.

Finally, I was encouraged…no, demanded to open my gift from Colby. On the top of my pile was a red card with my name written in Colby’s handwriting. I open the card, wondering at a gift that would fit in a greeting card. Jewelry, plane tickets, a week at a spa?

Being polite, I read the card before opening the paper I found inside. I could feel the expectation from my husband and children. A sort of breath holding as I unfolded the paper.

And then, I squealed.

Centered on the piece of paper was a picture of a rooster. The eight-foot rooster I had first fallen in love with during the summer. Through the black and white photo, I could see the majestic lines of his 50-gallon drum torso, the empirical tilt of his metal cockscomb, the slim lines of his rebar legs.

I was in love…and he was mine. Mine! Colby had actually bought me an eight-foot rooster. And this from the man that told me any chickens found outside the kitchen area would require a visa.

The day after Christmas, we made a stop in Texas on our way to a New Mexico ski vacation. As soon as we pulled in the driveway of our feedyard, I could see my rooster standing on the patio.

Oh my God…he was beautiful…and HUGE.

I stumbled out of the truck laughing and exclaiming over his size. Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit! He is so BIG! I knew what eight feet looked like, but until you are standing beside an eight foot rooster, feeling dwarfed in his presence, you can never truly understand how big eight feet can be.

I shall call him Rodney.

Now the dilemma is how to get him home, and then what to do with him once he is safely back in Kansas. He really is too big for the back of a pickup truck. Our business partner at the feedyard had a hard enough time getting him from Amarillo to Muleshoe, and that’s 90 miles.

I think Colby is going to have to bring him home on our trailer. The trailer that moves our tractor, hauls hay, and carries a skid loader and multiple four-wheelers around. Because, it won’t fit in the back of his pickup truck, although it will definitely provide humor for his fellow motorists.

I see that as a win-win-win situation.

And if you aren’t entirely sure what eight foot looks like, here is a picture of Rodney. And remember…I am a tall woman.

{ 10 comments }

Knit One, Pearl Two

by Lanita Moss on November 4, 2011 · 14 comments

I like to think of myself as a crafty person. I can cross-stitch, needlepoint, make stained-glass, sew on a button, and hot-glue anything as well as Martha Stewart, but there has always been one craft project that I miserably fail at…

Knitting.

I cannot knit to save my life. I want to learn how, and I have tried a few times in my life, but I just can’t get it.

Once a year, about this time, I start to dream of blowing snow, fireplaces with crackly fires, hot toddies, and skeins of colorful yarn strewn all around. So, with my dreams of clicking needles, I head off to the craft store to buy lots of colorful yarn to make scarves.

All I want to make is scarves…is that too much to ask for?

The yarn aisle is truly my downfall. I viscerally react to color. Color makes me happy, and the brighter the better. Invariably, I am drawn to the softest, cuddliest, most colorful yarn in the store. This usually isn’t the best choice when trying to learn how to knit, but if my yarn choice doesn’t inspire me, why bother?

With my yarn picked out and in my basket, with three skeins more than I actually need, I head for the knitting needle section. “Oh, look how many different colors of needles there are! The purple needles are so pretty I must own them.”

There is no one around to tell me that the pretty purple needles I chose are the tiniest needles you can buy and are only used by people who have been knitting for a quarter of a century. All I know is that they are pretty.

Now that I have yarn and needles, the only thing left on my list is a “How To” book. I need instructions accompanied by big, easy to follow pictures…a book a seven-year old could follow. Usually, I end up with a book that has instructions on making stocking caps and sweaters, because I like the pictures. I would love to be able to knit a sweater, but did I mention the book I chose is an advanced pattern book that assumes I already know how to knit?

So, I get my colorful purchases home. I build a fire in the fireplace, mix myself a hot toddy, and set out to learn how to knit. It doesn’t look too hard, so I should be able to knock out a scarf by dinnertime.

Twenty minutes later, with knotted up yarn, a knotted up neck, and visions of my colorful scarf disappearing as fast as my hot toddy…I quit.

But, my dreams of making my own scarves still linger, so I grab my car keys and head back to the craft store. To keep myself motivated, I have to buy more yarn, even though I still have unused skeins at home. I need motivation.

This time, a beautiful purple loom draws my eyes. “How cool! I don’t need knitting needles. I just need a loom. Silly me!”

The loom comes home, the instruction book comes out, another log goes on the fire, and another hot toddy is mixed.

Thirty minutes later…

The yarn is knotted up, my neck is knotted up, the loom is in the garbage, and my toddy glass is empty.

Crap! I can’t do this. I can decorate a room that could grace the cover of House Beautiful. I can prepare a gourmet meal fit for the Queen. I can make my own jewelry. I can decorate a pumpkin, a turkey, and a Halloween costume. Why can’t I knit?

But wait. I haven’t tried crocheting yet. My great-aunt crocheted baby blankets, and my friend crotches hats, scarves, and gloves. They tell me it is easy. Surely I can learn to crochet.

So, back in the car I go. I slink into the craft store with my hair standing straight up where I have pulled it in frustration. After two toddies, I may not be so sure of foot anymore, but I make it to the yarn aisle without incident. I must have new yarn to keep myself motivated, and then I find the crochet section.

Pretty yarn…check. Pretty needle…check. Pretty instructions…check.

Back at home, I throw another log on the fire, unpack my third shopping bag of the day, set out the instructions, and with grim determination, start learning to crochet.

They make it look so easy, but it takes me 30 minutes to figure out how to make a slipknot. It takes another 30 minutes to learn to make a single chain. And, it takes an additional 30 minutes to wrap my head around the idea of crocheting off the back ridge.

After two hours and three different yarns, three different needle sizes, and 10 unsuccessful attempts at making a second and a third row, I think I have the basic concept of crocheting.

Until the next day…

The 7×5 inch square of yarn is oddly starting to look like a triangle instead of a rectangle. There is no discernable pattern and it certainly doesn’t look like the pictures in my book. And, the yarn is so tortured it looks like a third-grade Girl Scout project.

I have failed.

But wait! I haven’t tried searching the internet. Surely there are easy instructions somewhere out in cyberspace.

Thirty minutes later, and a hot cup of coffee by my side, somehow I have learned to crochet. It is not pretty, and I still don’t know exactly how to end a row, because my project is starting to look triangular again, but it is a start.

I figure by the beginning of spring I will have a colorful scarf to wear around my neck. It may not be the prettiest scarf, but when I am finished, it will be the most cherished.

{ 14 comments }

The First Time…

by Lanita Moss on November 2, 2011 · 8 comments

Yesterday was the start of National Adoption Month. Around our house I have been busy writing articles for Adoption.Com on different ways to celebrate the month, and we have all been sporting purple ribbons for adoption awareness.

Adoption is a big thing in our family. I am an adopter. I adopted my daughters, I’ve adopted all seven of my cats, and I adopted my dog, Huey. I never approached adoption as a way to save the world, it was just how I wanted to form my family. My family comes in different shapes and sizes and colors, but the mismatched nature of us is what I love the best.

So, in honor of National Adoption Month, here is another piece I wrote for my writing class. I hope you enjoy!

The FIrst Time…

My daughter turns 13 tomorrow. I am excited, I am happy, and yet I am sad. I am sad because she isn’t a little baby anymore.

I remember the first time I ever saw her. I was in an orphanage in Russia, standing with my mother in a decaying, Soviet-era building. It was June and it was unusually hot.

My mother and I waited impatiently for a Russian woman to carry her down the long corridor. I knew this was a moment in time that would change my life forever. I remember my heart beating out of my chest and my stomach filled with butterflies. And then, when I didn’t think I could stand it any longer, here she came.

She was so little, and the woman carrying her was so large. Although she was nine months old at the time, she resembled a three-month-old American child. A little striped hat covered her bald head and an infected mosquito bite threatened to swallow up the end of her nose.

I remember covering my mouth with my hands and leaning over to look in her eyes. She had large, brown, solemn eyes. An old soul looking back at the stranger in front of her.

That was the very moment I became a mother. It had been a long journey to this Russian orphanage and not just in physical miles. Ten months earlier, my first husband had been killed in a plane crash. He was supposed to be standing beside me on this first day of parenthood. But instead, I stood alone with just my mother at my side.

I remember that first time as my daughter celebrates her 13^th birthday. She isn’t so tiny anymore. She is tall and beautiful and everything a mother could want in a teenager. And as I stand before her today, looking in her solemn brown eyes, she is still an old soul.

The little baby may be gone, but the memory can still bring tears to my eyes, forcing me to grab for the Kleenex box.

{ 8 comments }

Birth

by Lanita Moss on October 31, 2011 · 12 comments

Recently, I have been taking a writing class through She Writes, called The Momoir Project, with Cori Howard. Through a 12-week course, I am learning to find my voice and write essays that eventually could end up in a memoir. It has been a lot of fun so far, although I must admit that having homework and deadlines is something I am not used to.

So, in honor of the last day of Breast Cancer Awareness Month (Yay…it’s over!!!), and one of my first homework assignments, I am posting my class essay, Birth. I hope you enjoy.

“ I don’t normally like to do this over the phone…but, your biopsy came back. I’m sorry, you have breast cancer.”

And with one phone call, a new life began.

Gone were the days when I worried about the little things. What brand of hairspray should I buy? Am I going to be late for work? What outfit am I going to wear to dinner? And born were the days where the little things became inconsequential. Had the cancer spread? Was I going to lose my breasts? Was I going to die?

Before that phone call I was a shy, introverted woman with no plan or purpose in life. I went to work. I came home. I existed. I had no goals and nothing I wanted to be when I grew up.

I was afraid, afraid of succeeding, afraid of failing, and afraid of what others thought of me. I wore a blanket of insecurity around like an old ratty sweater.

My life was beige.

And then the phone rang. With each word spoken, my body stopped, my mind froze. Nothing moved forward, not backward. I was paralyzed in the moment.

Somehow I managed to thank the doctor, because I was taught to always be respectful. I managed to call my husband, my family, my boss. I managed to get myself on a redeye flight home, flying in the dark of night towards a future that was unknown.

But something happened in the inky black night between dusk and dawn. Something shifted at my core, like an earthquake that permanently scars the earth.

A new woman was born that night, a woman still afraid, but now the fears were things to be conquered, not reasons for hiding. My shy introverted self metamorphosed into a confident, outgoing woman with enough self-esteem to be inferior to no one.

I went from a purposeless life to a life with almost too much purpose. Now, I make a plan and see it through. If I set my mind to something, I will move a mountain to make it happen…or die trying. My life became the color of the tropics, with bright oranges, greens, and yellows replacing the invisibility of its former self.

I was born into a new life with one phone call. A life filled with gratitude, empathy, passion, humor, a new sense of self, and the knowledge that my life had purpose and meaning.

My life was no longer beige.

{ 12 comments }

A Matter of Convenience

by Lanita Moss on October 28, 2011 · 2 comments

Growing up in small town America through the 60’s and 70’s, we never had a convenience store in our town until I was a teenager. Before the Country Market opened their doors on the edge of town, groceries were purchased at a small IGA store on Main Street, gas was pumped by an attendant at a co-op oil company, and if you wanted a beer, you could belly up at the Dead Horse Inn.

When a convenience store finally graced our small village, it changed things. Now, I could pump my own gas, run in and buy a Snickers when the mood struck, and if the lights were still on when I took the corner on two wheels, I knew I would make my midnight curfew.

The Country Market was the only convenience store in our town for years, so I never really gave the name a lot of thought. It was sort of in the country and it was a market, therefore, aptly named. But, as a frequent driver across the by-ways of the US, the naming of such establishments has always intrigued me. We used to call the Country Market the Country Chicken because of the red rooster logo, but that isn’t half as creative as others I’ve seen.

7-Eleven is always the first convenience store that comes to mind, but it happens to be the largest convenience store chain in the world. The Dallas based company was originally operated out of an ice company from the unprecedented hours of 7:00 am to 11:00 pm, hence the name.

But, I’ve also visited stores such as the Stop ‘N’ Go and the Circle K, which I assume stands for Konvenience. I’ve bought Gatorade at the Toot N Totem.

And gas at the Loaf “n Jug, although I thought it meant loafing around with a jug of beer, rather than a loaf of bread and a jug of milk.

There are Road Rangers and Road Runners, which make me wonder if there should be a Road Warrior along every interstate in honor of long haul carriers. And then there is the tiny convenience store in Batesville, TX, which is affectionately referred to by the locals as the Stop ‘N Stab. This always makes me stop and rethink my craving for a Big Red and a Moon Pie.

But, my all time favorite convenience store name is the Kum & Go.

Well, it’s not really my favorite. I actually hate the name. Why did they name a company Kum & Go? Who thought this was a good name? I could understand if they would call it Come & Go, but every time I see the name I think of the ejaculatory emissions of the male species. Not a good mental picture when pumping a gallon of gas or picking up some M&Ms.

A friend of my parents once told me she exchanged her kids with the ex at the Kum & Go. I always wondered if it wouldn’t have been better to make the exchange across the street at McDonalds.

However, on further research, I found that Kum & Go is a play on Come & Go using the initials of the founders Kraus and Gentle. OK, I’ll give them that, but I still think they could have come up with a better name.

Well, I’m off to get gas. Where should I go? The Git n Go? The Stop “n” Go? Or the QuikTrip…where they are so fast they forgot the “C”?

{ 2 comments }

Forgotten Lunch

by Lanita Moss on October 24, 2011 · 10 comments

As a parent, I have three jobs. My jobs are to love my children, keep them safe, and to teach them about life. I take my jobs very seriously. So when Hunter walks away from me in a parking lot, I grab her arm and jerk her back to my side. If my yelling makes her cry, maybe she can understand my fear.

If I hug my children when all they want to do is run away from home, maybe they will feel my love through their anger. And, if I get an opportunity to teach them a lesson in life, I will jump at the chance to ensure the lesson is memorable.

I don’t consider myself a mean parent. I am more pragmatic than mean, although that is a debatable point with my daughters.

Take for example Elliott forgetting something at home that she needs at school. She does this often enough that most of the time she doesn’t even call to ask if I will bring it to her. This falls under my “life lesson” job and learning about consequences. If you forget your volleyball practice clothes, I guess you will have to miss practice or work out an alternative. Every time she has managed to work out an alternative.

But last week, when she texted me that she forgot her lunch for a field trip, I couldn’t let her starve, so I drove her lunch to school…with strings attached.

The following is the actual text conversation, with commentary.

Elliott: Forgot my lunch

Me: How do you want to handle that?

(See, I am starting the life lessons right away.)

Elliott: My lunch? If u cld bring it 2 school very very soon tht wld b great. If not i can live

(Notice that she is already perfecting the guilt card? This will serve her well in later life.)

Me: I can bring it, but at what time?

(Notice my correct spelling and punctuation?)

Me: I get a 30 minute head massage for this.

(Life Lesson #2 – Consequences. If you mess up my morning, I get paid back.)

Elliott: Bi 8:00. Thank u so much. I owe u a 30 minute foot massage tonight

(See, she has already learned the consequences part. Good job, Elliott!)

Elliott: O ok well u can have a foot massage 2.

(Little delay in our conversation. This always happens with texting.)

Me: Great idea.

(This is teaching life lesson #3 – Sarcasm)

Elliott:

(Elliott understands sarcasm. Good job, Elliott!)

Me: I’ll be in front of the school at 7:50. Will that work? I still have my pajamas on

(This is another example of consequence. If you are going to make me drive to school and miss my second cup of coffee, I am not going to miss the chance to embarrass you.)

Elliott: Ooo greeaaaat. Ya but u actually hve 2 come in the school

(At first I thought she was kidding about coming in the school. Why couldn’t I just pitch her lunch on the lawn?)

Me: Nope. You can come out, or there is no lunch. Is there a better time for me to be there?

Elliott: Uhh bus lets us out at 7:35…r u gonna b waiting bi the buses

(I can kind of sense her nervousness for her mommy to be seen by her friends.)

Me: Ok. I’ll come in, but I’m coming in my pajamas and Uggs. 45 minute head and foot massage.

(At this is the point I’m all in. If I can embarrass my child and get a 45 minute massage, then it is a win-win for me.)

Elliott: (sigh) Ok dnt embarrass me 2 badly

(Yay! Total acceptance of my plan. She knows I would not be embarrasses at all by walking in her school in pajamas and Uggs…and with my hair sticking straight out.)

Me: That’s my job. I’ll leave in a couple of minutes.

(I love being a parent to a teenager. Too bad I don’t have any curlers to put in my hair.)

Elliott: But we just passed the highway

(I think her nervousness is turning to panic.)

Me: So? The office is open by 7:30. Check there when you get in.

Elliott: Ooook or u cld give it to brandon

(She is panicking if she is trying to send her boyfriend out to get her lunch. I’ll give her points for creativity.)

Me: If he meets me in front. I’m leaving now. Still 45 minutes.

Elliott: Ok

(I think she has accepted her fate.)

Me: I’m out front.

(At this point I’m not sure I will see her or her boyfriend.)

Me: Am I coming in?

As I hit the send button on this last text, I see Elliott walk out the doors of the school. She either failed to convince Brandon to come out or she really didn’t want me walking in the school when it was prime social hour inside.

I rolled down the window and handed her the Mario Bros. lunch box. Like a cartoon character lunch box is any more embarrassing than a mother in plaid flannel pajama pants, Uggs, no make-up, and nerdy eyeglasses.

After she thanked me, she told me I looked beautiful.

She definitely has learned Life Lesson #3 very well.

{ 10 comments }

Driving the Facebook Minivan

by Lanita Moss on October 21, 2011 · 8 comments

With Elliott’s birthday and her attaining the magical age of 13, we finally let her have a Facebook account.

According to her, we were mean parents and made her wait until she “legally” could have an account. This made for some mad feelings on her part because all of her friends had accounts and she felt left out. I guess they didn’t care about the age requirement, and lying about your age is always a good decision…

Besides a basketball goal, Elliott really only wanted a Facebook account. Oh…and a pair of those really ugly Converse shoe/boots that laces up to the knee. She got a basketball goal and a Facebook account. Regarding the Converses, a parent has to draw the fashion line somewhere.

The morning of Elliott’s birthday I let her read my blog post about her turning 13. When she reached the end of the post and read about getting a Facebook account, she was so excited I thought she was going to fall out of her chair.

As soon as she got home from Volleyball practice, ate dinner, and finished her homework and chores, she sat down with a computer and set up her account. An hour later, she already had 60 friends. By the next night she had over 100, and by this publication date, she has 184 friends. It took me over two years to get that many friends.

A long time ago before I had children, I was told the best way to know what your children are up to is to be quiet and listen, especially when you have a car full of kids and you are driving them around town. Apparently, they forget you are in the front seat so they talk about anything and everything. Oddly, I haven’t really had a lot of opportunity to see this in action, but the few times I have had a carload of kids, they were pretty free with their discussions.

When the Facebook conversation first came up, we were adamant that Elliott could not have an account because she was having a difficult enough time handling in-person social interactions. We felt virtual social interactions were just a recipe for disaster until she became more socially mature.

On the advice of another friend, when we finally gave Elliott the green light on the Facebook account, we made it a requirement that she be friends with family, some of my friends, and most importantly…me. She agreed. Now she is being “watched” by a number of my closest friends.

I love that Elliott can’t make a move without someone listening in. If she makes new friends, my friends know about it. If she posts pictures, we all see them. If she posts some of her writings, she has an army of editors. And, if it looks like she is losing control, she has a personal support system to catch her.

As scary as it is to let your baby lose onto the World Wide Web, it is nice to know that either you, your family and friends are in the front seat driving the Facebook minivan.

{ 8 comments }

Something Unexpected

by Lanita Moss on October 19, 2011 · 11 comments

The courtship with my husband, Colby, wasn’t typical. It wasn’t boy in bar + girl in bar = boy meets girl. As everything else in my life, meeting Colby wasn’t that simple. Our meeting was the stuff movies are made of.

In Two Funerals, A Christening, And A Wedding, I tell the story of how circumstances brought us together.

Colby and I met at a wedding in Venezuela. I can’t speak for him, but for me it was love at first sight. There was something so special, comforting, and exciting about him. By the time our planes departed Caracas, our relationship was in its infancy stage.

Unfortunately, we didn’t live in the same city. I lived in Kansas City and Colby lived in New York. As we said our goodbyes, contact information safely tucked away, I wondered if this was all real or just a romance story in my head.

It took an entire week before I heard from Colby, and only after I called him. That was the start of our long distance romance. We talked daily on the phone, and every other week we would see each other, alternating between New York and Kansas City. On the off weekends, we would have “date night.” Being the planner that I am, I would come up with theme dates. Five weeks after meeting and before he came to visit me the first time, we had a Latin themed date. Well, sort of Latin…we both had the Gypsy Kings playing in the background, and we both drank dirty martinis.

Three hours later, with cauliflower ear forming from talking on the phone so long, and one too many dirty martinis, Colby told me he loved me for the first time. Then he hung up the phone and passed out. It was another week before I got up the nerve to confirm that he said what I thought he said…and then only after he told me again in person.

After four months of dating, we decided to take our first vacation together. I figured if we could travel together, he was a keeper. If I had to drag him through an airport, well, that was a deal breaker. So, after much discussion, we booked a trip to Costa Rica. The excitement we had for spending an entire week together was almost unbearable.

We were scheduled to meet each other on a Saturday in Dallas, and then fly together to San Jose. But when Thursday rolled around, we couldn’t stand it any longer and we both caught flights to Dallas a day earlier. Normally, a 24-hour layover would be a problem, but we were lucky enough Colby’s mother lived in Dallas, which meant it was “meet the mother” time. He made arrangements with his mom to pick us up at the airport and cleared the way for us to spend the night.

In the process of our long distance relationship, Colby often spoke about his mother, so I had a certain picture formed in my mind of what she would be like. I assumed she had a certain idea of what I would be like. Except, she didn’t because Colby told her nothing about me. He told her he had met a woman at the wedding in Venezuela, and he told her my name.

That was it.

So, when she picked us up at the airport, she was a little confused and a bit surprised.

Colby’s flight came in 20 minutes before mine, which gave him plenty of time to meet his mother and walk to my gate. Do you remember the days when people could pick you up at the gate? When my plane landed, I gathered my things, waited my turn to deplane, checked Colby’s flight information, and started making my way to his gate.

I kept my eyes open for him as I walked along, so afraid I would miss him. But there he was in the crowd. I know my smile was a mile wide as I approached. I threw myself at him in excitement, not wanting to let him go.

Finally realizing I was being rude, I turned to meet his mother. She had an odd look on her face, as she looked me over. I wondered if I had something on my shirt or if my lipstick was smeared on my teeth. However, she seemed to shake herself off, and then warmly greeted me.

Her reaction was repeated with every member of Colby’s family I met. Was there something wrong with me? Did they think I was too old for him? Did it bother them I had a child? With every reaction, I started to get a complex.

Later, I found out that Colby had told his family nothing about me, except my name. They heard the name “Lanita,” and with the circumstances of our meeting, they had assumed I was Venezuelan. They had formed a picture of me as a Spanish speaking, petite, dark skinned, brown-eyed, brunette. What they met was a tall, blue-eyed blonde, whose British heritage was more than evident, and whose limited Spanish vocabulary only consisted of words like “burrito,” “enchilada,” and “sangria.”

After meeting his family, I asked Colby why he didn’t tell his family more about me. I had told my family everything about him. Did I embarrass him?

He told me he wasn’t embarrassed, but he did say they needed to meet me before they read my resume. Otherwise, once they read it, they wouldn’t be able to see past the breast cancer survivor, widow, and mother to a Russian child…they wouldn’t get to know the “real” me because, “Darlin’, you are nothing but a walking Lifetime movie for women.”

Although it was nice to be introduced to his family this way, 10 years later it is still a family joke that they expected a “Latina”, but they got a “Lanita” instead.

{ 11 comments }

The Pink Invasion

by Lanita Moss on October 17, 2011 · 6 comments

It’s that time of year again. The leaves are turning, the temperature is falling, and the over commercialization of the pink ribbon has started.

Yes…it is Breast Cancer Awareness Month, that time of year when every product in Walmart, Target, and the grocery stores decorate their packaging with a pink ribbon. I don’t mean to sound cynical, but Breast Cancer Awareness Month should go the way of shoulder pads, fanny packs, and pet rocks.

Celebrating it’s 26^th anniversary, National Breast Cancer Awareness Month has its purpose, which is to raise awareness of breast cancer and reduce the disease’s stigma by educating people about its symptoms and treatment options. But unfortunately, corporate America has turned the disease into an opportunity to add to their bottom line.

Most companies do give a percentage of sales to organizations that either support research or support those who’ve been diagnosed. But, just as many do not. I’ve seen products such as hair care lines, envelopes, and chocolate fountains that “honor” breast cancer awareness, but don’t actually support any breast cancer organizations.

I think we’ve reached the point of pink ribbon market saturation. The pink ribbon doesn’t mean much anymore, unless you are newly diagnosed. When I was diagnosed 15 years ago, I had pink ribbons everywhere, but with time, I’ve slowly thrown them all away. The only things I have left are two fleece sweatshirts. I still wear them, but not because they have a pink ribbon on them, I just like them.

Now, if I find an item in the grocery store with a pink ribbon, I will purposely buy another brand. When I can’t buy another brand, I’ve been known to peel the label off when I get home. That’s why I have a label-less jar of yeast in my refrigerator. It’s my own personal protest.

So, if you are of the age to get mammograms, go ahead and get one. If you can’t live without pink M&Ms, go ahead and buy a bag, but buy the bag because you like the color pink…and then go write a check to a worthy breast cancer organization. That way 100% of your donation will go to those who need it.

{ 6 comments }

The Taxi Driver

by Lanita Moss on October 14, 2011 · 2 comments

When did I become just a mother? Just a person who juggles the family calendar and makes certain everyone is where they are supposed to be, when they are supposed to be there?

Lately, I feel like all I do is manage a schedule of volleyball, basketball, marching band, soccer, gymnastics, and birthday parties. Oh, and therapy sessions.

I don’t do this all alone, Colby is great at carpooling with me, but it’s all becoming too much. Or, I’m just having a bad week.

And it is just the beginning.

Elliott’s RAD made it difficult for her when she was younger to participate in activities like most of her peers, so I am kind of new to a child controlled calendar.

She is playing volleyball, with basketball tryouts just around the corner. She is playing in the marching band, and she is busy with her social life. I love that she is doing all of these things, but I’m beginning to tire of it.

With the start of first grade, we have seen an uptick in Hunter’s activities. Soccer is about ready to take a backseat to gymnastics and cheerleading, because hair ribbons and pom poms are much cooler than soccer cleats.

I really am glad that the girls are busy. I once had a boss who told me the key to good parenting was to keep your kids so busy they wouldn’t have time to get in trouble. He may be right, but we are still a few years away from driver’s license and road parties.

It used to make me shudder to think about a child of mine behind the wheel of a car. I thought Colby was crazy when he started teaching Elliott to drive. But after driving to and fro across the county, I can see the advantages of having another licensed driver in the family.

But, this really isn’t about basketballs and birthday parties. It’s about feeling like their lives are taking priority over mine. I plan meals, and practice schedules interfere. I schedule family outings, and they are preempted by basketball tryouts. And, a date night with Colby is cut short because of a party.

I know that motherhood is about sacrificing for your children. But, I thought I would have more control. I didn’t expect my wants and needs, as a woman and an individual, would mean less than my children’s.

I used to watch other mothers as they carpooled their children around town taking Suzy to ballet, Bobby to football, picking Sally up from cheer practice, and transferring Billy from chess club to the science club. Then rolling through McDonalds Drive Thru on two wheels and grabbing dinner for everyone. I always wondered when the kids had time to do their homework and when did they go to bed? And did the mother and father ever spend five minutes alone in their day?

I watched families like this for years and always promised myself we wouldn’t be a family like this. My children’s activities were important, but not more important than any one else’s activities.

I think this is where the balance is supposed to come in. To let the kids have their activities and to enjoy and celebrate them, but to set aside time for me and not feel guilty about it. You know, the guilt that comes when you say no to a party or an activity and your child stands in front of you with tears in their eyes, trying to make you feel bad because they really, really wanted to go? That’s the guilt I need to become immune to. Otherwise, I’m not sure I will survive the next 11 years.

I used to think “mother” was an ancient word for pack mule. Now, I think it really meant taxi driver.