Bragging Rights — and Wrongs

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My extraordinarily talented daughters.

My kids are the most beautiful, brilliant, charming, witty, well-mannered and accomplished beings ever to grace the screens of Facebook, WordPress, Twitter and Instagram.

Well, at least I think so. And I’m not shy about sharing news and photos of their achievements – though I do try to limit my posts to 25 or 30 per day.

Apparently other moms and dads out there aren’t as restrained in their online boasting about awe-inspiring offspring. In fact, many are not only more prolific in their sharing, they’re also much less discriminating about what they choose to share. So what’s a civilized person to do about it? Well, start a blog, of course! Namely, Shut The F*** Up, Parents, which has now become a book.

But even with such public shaming of the most egregious offenders, it doesn’t seem to be getting better. In fact, as new and improved types of social media arrive, it’s just getting worse. So now, a proud mom isn’t limited to Tweeting or posting Facebook albums of her daughter’s star turn as “Second Sailor on Boat” in the middle school play. She could also treat the world to countless Instagrams and six-second video Vines of said daughter’s performance!

Not that I would, but I could.

You know, if I were that kind of parent…

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Bragging Rights — and Wrongs

Do it, parents, as you please –
You celebrate those victories:
The first word when he learns to talk!
That first step when he starts to walk!

When junior learns his ABCs
Or ties his tiny shoes with ease,
Of course a brag or two’s allowed
From parents who are mighty proud.

And when he brings home mostly A’s,
It’s your full right to lavish praise;
Or when his team has won some game,
His skill at sport you must proclaim.

We’ll listen and we’ll chime in, too,
Congratulating him – and YOU!
We’ll even look at pics you shot –
But some things you do, we cannot.

For instance, don’t expect us to
Exclaim in joy to hear from you
About the time HE BURPED! a bit,
Got HIS FIRST RASH! or HIS FIRST ZIT!

And when your kiddo’s feeling sick,
I’m sorry, but don’t post a pic.
That slimy, greenish nose he’s got?
You say it’s cute — but no. It’s snot.

And when you talk about his poop?
(The body functions, as a group,
We’d much prefer that you avoid)
That kind of crap gets us annoyed.

As for awards that he receives,
We’ll look at them — though we believe
Rewarding “School Attendance Skill”
Might qualify as overkill.

I guess the lesson here would be
That moderation’s really key.
Lest you commit it, please BEWARE –
Don’t risk Parental Overshare.

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©2013 Carlotta Eike Stankiewicz

Happy Mother’s Day!

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Happy Mother’s Day to all the moms, grandmas and moms-to-be out there…

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Mother’s Day

There’ll be days when nothing works
to get your little one to sleep,
and days when dirty dishes
grow with diapers in a heap.

There’ll be days when you wake late
and miss your turn at the car pool,
and days when you’re the last one
claiming your kids after school.

There’ll be days when you forget
to sign the school permission slip,
or to pack a tube of sunscreen
for their day-long field trip.

And one day those hugs and kisses
will come few and far between –
when your charming little child
has transformed to sullen teen.

And the day will come when you’ve done all
to give them all your best,
when they’re off to school and off to work
and you’ve an empty nest.

On those days, though, please remember
all the times you got it right:
when you made that awesome costume
or your babe slept through the night.

When you were the homeroom hero
bringing cupcakes oh-so-sweet;
or you cheered them up with pizza
when their soccer team got beat.

When you cradled them and cuddled them
and wiped away their tears,
when you nurtured and encouraged them
and helped them face their fears.

Yes, remember this tomorrow
and a week or month from now,
or just any time the job seems
so impossible somehow.

‘Cause although it’s just official
for a few short hours in May,
when you think about it, really,
every day is Mother’s Day.

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© 2010 Carlotta Eike Stankiewicz

Giving Credit (a re-post)

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(Note: This post is reblogged from the past. Yeah, well, I’m kinda busy. Tax season and all that…)

It’s almost Tax Day.

And as usual, in spite of my oh-so honest intentions to get my butt in gear and get my forms in on time, I will confess that I’m filing an extension.
Again.

I do have a perfectly good excuse, however — actually, make that two perfectly good excuses: my daughters.

See, I’ve been busy cooking and cleaning and shuttling them to school and shopping and sleepovers and afterschool stuff… Oh yeah, and then there’s that job I’ve been working to pay for many of the aforementioned activities.

I’m not complaining, though. It’s what parents do. And my girls are the light of my life, and so very, very worth everything I do for them.

But on Tax Day, I get a bit more appreciative of how much they mean to me.

This year, it’s around $2,000.

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Giving Credit

They truly are annoying when they whine or when they fight,
when complaining about homework or a shoe that won’t tie right;
plus, they’re noisy and they’re stinky and they cost a lot to feed,
and it seems there’s always some new toy they really, REALLY need.

They keep us from our sleep and leave us stretched from all the stress;
they muddy up the floors and leave their rooms a massive mess;
they dismiss and disobey us and then question all our knowledge;
they rebel and they revolt and then they leave or flee to college.

Yet though they test and tax us, we’re still glad for our kids’ births,
And today I have to say that I do realize their worth;
So even if they misbehave, for once I just won’t sweat it,
‘Cause I’m thankful for and so adore my beautiful tax credits.

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©2012 Carlotta Eike Stankiewicz

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A Limerick A Day – Day 30 – Peep Show

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©2013 CEStankiewicz all rights reserved

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I’m kinda like this kid when it comes to Peeps. I’ve loved ‘em since waaaaaayyyy back when they only came in yellow and only in the chick shape. And I love them to this day, when you can get them in the bunny shape and Halloween shapes and Christmas shapes and every color of the rainbow and even in chocolate-dipped and chocolate mousse-flavored versions.

I’m not alone in my Peep passion. The mini marshmallow marvels are more popular than ever in their 60th year of existence, and the company that hatches them, Just Born, is enjoying record profits.  I know that there are some people whose enthusiasm for Peeps rests solely on their scientific value. I am also acutely aware that there exist certain weirdos who (shudder) DON’T LIKE PEEPS.

But I’m okay with that. Not everyone can share my undying affection for this über-sweet confection. As long as you refrain from denigrating them in my presence and from shooting them with a rifle, we’ll get along just fine. Even better, if you join me in professing an eternal love for them, I’ll consider you one of my dearest peeps.

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I’ve a more sweet than bitter confession
To reveal (there’s no point in suppression):
I’ve a love that runs deep
For most everything Peep -
I guess you could call it obsession.

Indulgence I’ve often forsworn of them,
Pledging not to partake in Peep porn and then
Around will come Easter
And this fevered feaster
Finds that with sweet desire I’m Just Born again.

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©2013 Carlotta Eike Stankiewicz
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Breakfast with my peeps.

Breakfast with my peeps.


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Find The Well-Versed Mom on FACEBOOK.
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A Limerick A Day – Day 13 – Triskaidekaphobia

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©2013 CEStankiewicz all rights reserved.

Here’s today’s entry for my self-imposed Limerick-A-Day Challenge. Happy Wednesday the 13th.

Triskaidekaphobia

Because triskaidekaphobes fear
The number 13, they steer clear
Of building floors numbered
Or Fridays encumbered
With digits like these when they’re near.

For me, though, thirteen isn’t scary;
It’s of people who are that I’m wary.
If you’ve met just one teen
Then you get what I mean:
So much drama, it’s scary — very.

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©2013 Carlotta Eike Stankiewicz
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Trashy Dresser

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I’m a single mom, which means that all of the typical “guy chores” around the house get done by yours truly. That includes taking out the trash, which in our city consists of not one but three containers: the garbage, the recycling and the yard waste. (I’m in charge of the mowing, weed-whacking and landscaping, too.)

I’d add it to my daughters’ list of Chores They Never Do Anyway, except I always forget about it, and for some reason they’re not stepping up to remind me.

So it’s up to me to do it myself — if and when I remember. Which is usually at the last minute. Or last second, really.  And it ain’t pretty.

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Trashy Dresser

Friday morning
without warning
I hear rumbling from afar.

I wake and wonder,
“Is it thunder?”
Or…a plane? A train? A car?

As it grows nearer,
it gets clearer
that the trash truck’s on my street.

That’s when I doubt
that my can’s out;
my response is oh-so fleet.

Downstairs I go,
small cans in tow,
to dump ‘em all in one big bag.

Outside I hear
noises grow near –
time’s of essence, must not lag!

Quickly I’ve
run down the drive,
dragging my big can behind.

Gravel scrunching,
loudly crunching -
Oh, the neighbors? They won’t mind.

One last swerve
and can is curbed
as trash truck screeches to a halt.

Down hop trash guys,
squinting their eyes
at some visual assault.

Seems they’re staring
‘cause I’m wearing
my old nightgown, gray and frayed –

topped by bathrobe
that has mellowed
to a semi-lilac shade –

plus my sweatpants
pulled out by chance
from the dirty laundry pile –

And on my feet?
the look’s complete
with my fluffy slipper style.

It’s not the first time
that I’ve found I’m
rushing my stuff to the street.

Somehow with this
I’m quite remiss;
remembering seems too hard a feat.

It’s no disgrace,
I now embrace
this trait, and thus my neighbors know

that in my ‘hood,
I’m always good
for a Friday morning fashion show.

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©2012 Carlotta Eike Stankiewicz

Lousy Advice

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My girls are in the 7th and 9th grades now, and we haven’t had a case of pediculosis for years now, but back in the early elementary school years, we got lice a lot.

That’s right. A lot.

Suffice it to say I became surprisingly skilled at seeking out and destroying the little buggers and their hard-to-spot nits. Once I got past the ick factor and realized that (contrary to popular belief) lice aren’t a sign of uncleanliness, it became kind of fun. Like a game. (Yeah, I know. That’s weird.)

A while back, I read a New York Times article about professional de-lousers charging squeamish parents $300 a head for their services. Here in Austin, an entrepreneurial nurse practitioner even recently opened her own (less pricey) lice removal salon.

As talented as I became at de-lousing my daughters, I’m not looking to offer up my services anytime soon. I’ll leave it to the pros. Because while it’s true that I’ve always been detail-oriented, this would be taking “professional nitpicker” to a whole other level.

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Lousy Advice

Lice aren’t nice,
but if you want my advice,
don’t sweat ‘em
‘cause you’ll get ‘em — if you’ve got kids — maybe twice.

How does a critterful collection
sprout without a mom’s detection?
Well, it happens to the best of us
and even to the rest of us:
that sighting on the head
as you tuck the kids in bed…
or the letter they bring home
suggesting chemicals and combs.

Sure, you’ll start to feel lousy
once you know they’re in your housey
as you scratch throughout your hair
though there may be nothing there.

You know what you gotta do:
get a lotta that shampoo,
and although it’s rather icky,
take that comb and get nit-picky.
It’s not as bad as you might think;
you just wash ‘em down the sink,
then you scour clothes and sheets
till the creatures meet defeat.

Lest you start to feel ashamed
make sure other kids are blamed
long before it is suggested
that your home was first infested.

Lice aren’t nice,
but if you want my advice,
don’t sweat ‘em
’cause you’ll get ‘em — if you’ve got kids — maybe thrice.

©2010 Carlotta Eike Stankiewicz

Piñata Good Idea? [a re-post]

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[note: I'm reposting this as a public service to all the people who may partake of piñata pummeling on Cinco de Mayo.]

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I didn’t have piñatas at my birthday parties as a child growing up in Michigan.

It wasn’t until I gave birth to two native Texans that I caught wind of this potentitally treacherous trend. I actually purchased a few of these perilous paper-mâché repositories for my daughters’ birthdays over the years, unwitting parent that I was – back then.

But now I know better.

According to this web site, “every 47 minutes there is another incident of piñata-related violence.” Even respected writer Dave Barry has spoken out against the pitfalls of piñatas. It’s only a matter of time before they make it onto the ever-vigilant Stephen Colbert’s Threatdown list.

Consider yourself warned.

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Piñata Good Idea?

Party planners say ya gotta
have a big and bright piñata

stuffed with sweets and treats and toys
for the giddy girls and boys

who are eager to get swinging,
sending gobs of goodies flinging!

But letting kids go whacking wildly
seems unwise (to put it mildly).

Could there even be a faster
way to guarantee disaster

than to make a weapon handy
to kids clamoring for candy?

©2010 Carlotta Stankiewicz

The Meltdown

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If you’ve got kids, there will be meltdowns.

You can do your darnedest to distract or bribe or redirect your way out of or around them, but if you’re a parent, eventually you’ll experience one. And if your kid is anything like my older daughter, it’ll be abso-frickin-lutely spectacular. Linda Blair in The Exorcist? A veritable peach compared to my daughter in the midst of one of her toddler tantrums.

The good news is, they outgrow them.

For the most part.

It turns out that even the grown ups among us suffer the occasional loss of control while enduring the trials and tribulations of parenting. Dad Tommy Jordan, for example, lost it and posted a very viral YouTube response to his teen daughter’s Facebook rant about her parents. While Jordan seems calm in his video, I get the sense he’s teetering dangerously near the edge, what with breaking out the firearms and all…

And thanks to reality shows, we can get our daily dose of tv tantrums from such paragons of parenting as Kate Gosselin, “Dance Moms” coach Abby Lee Miller, and pretty much every mom in “Toddlers and Tiaras.”

Now, I’m not saying it’s a good thing — just acknowledging that it happens. Nor am I casting stones here. Heck, I’m no saint. When pushed to the limit, I’ve been known to let fly a few choice words in something other than my “inside voice.” I probably could’ve put Linda Blair to shame, too.

After all, as they say: “Like daughter, like mother.”

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The Meltdown

Bystanders, beware –
when you see that seething glare
that starts growing to a grimace
while you’re simply standing there.

‘Cause it could be time to scurry
if her cheeks are flushed with fury
and her eyes are welled with tears -
Best evacuate – and hurry!

When things haven’t gone her way
there’s not much that you can say
and instead of trying to soothe her
I suggest that you don’t stay.

Just get going, just get out
if she’s got a full-blown pout
for the next thing that you know
she’ll begin to cry and shout.

And soon yell turns into roar
and she’s throwing toys galore
and her face is raging red
and she’s stomping on the floor.

You had best be safety-bound
for the reasons I expound;
it’s not wise to be around
when a mom is melting down.

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©2012 Carlotta Eike Stankiewicz

Sales Force

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I work in advertising, but I admit that I’m not a particularly good salesperson.

Growing up, I hated hawking Girl Scout cookies door-to-door.

And I wasn’t wild about peddling cowbells for my junior high booster club, or running my senior class Krispy Kreme sale.

So it’s not surprising that I abhor the first few weeks of each new school year, when my kids inevitably bring home the dreaded Fundraiser Packet.

Their dad is self-employed, so it falls upon my shoulders to schlep the order forms to my office and stalk my colleagues in their cubicles, trying to convince them to subscribe to magazines they won’t read and/or buy cookie dough that’ll contract freezer burn when it’s long forgotten in their fridges.

But each year, I suck it up, find my inner Ricky Roma, and get out there and SELL. After all, such things just come with the territory.

And I just happen to be Sales Director.

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Sales Force

Who wants to buy some magazines?
Who needs some cookie dough?
If you’ve run low on frozen cakes
or chocolate bars, just let me know.

I’ll bring the glossy catalog
and order form right by;
I’ll bring a pen and recommend
which products you should try.

It’s for a worthy cause, you know –
it’s for my kid – for school;
because
their club
their band
their team
lacks funding, as a rule.

You probably don’t need pizza dough
or popcorn in a tin,
but don’t you care about my child
and prizes she could win?

So what if you’ve been dieting
and don’t need wrapping paper?
This is what we parents do
to coworkers and neighbors.

It just comes with the job, you see –
it’s like a type of hazing;
a particularly painful one
that’s known as school fundraising.

And rest assured, when your kid
comes around to sell his candy,
I’ll try to buy a bar or two –
Well…if my checkbook’s handy.

©2011 Carlotta Eike Stankiewicz

It’s Instrumental

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My younger daughter enters middle school next year. She’s a small girl with a big personality. She’s been feeling a little sensitive about her size compared to her classmates’, who are all undergoing major growth spurts – especially the girls. But I feel confident she’ll fit right in. She’s a pistol.

When she went for an orientation at her new school last week, she spent part of the evening choosing an instrument to learn in band class.  Her older sister plays the flute, and there was an assumption that she’d do the same. It was the first instrument the middle school music teacher handed her. She positioned her lips over the mouthpiece and blew a pretty good first note. The teacher looked pleased.

Next came the clarinet. She did okay, but her arms looked awkward grasping the long body. She wasn’t a fan, and neither was I.

The teacher bypassed the trombone (far too big for her to handle) and picked up a trumpet. I’d almost told the teacher not to bother, we’ll go for flute, thanks, see you in the fall.

But when she picked it up and put her lips to the mouthpiece, something remarkable happened. She blew a big, strong, long and brassy note that sounded to the heavens. Her dad, the teacher and I were still for a moment. Then the teacher asked her to try again. She blew another clear note, even longer and stronger.

And so, come fall, my little girl will be making some big noise as she heralds the arrival of the school year with her new instrument.

Heaven help us.

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It’s Instrumental

I thought that a flute
With its trills and toots
Might fill her room
With its silvery tunes.

Or a clarinet
Half a jazz duet
With its licorice voice
Might be her choice.

Or she’d try a sax
Mellow to the max
The bend in its bell
Letting sweet notes swell.

Maybe she’d come home
With a xylophone
Sounding soft and clear
And so nice to hear.

But with typical sass
She chose the brass:
A trumpet to blare
bravely through the air.

Now she’s eager to play
Practicing night and day
I give praise and cheers
And then — plug my ears.

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©2011 Carlotta Eike Stankiewicz

Full Advantage

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Early in my first pregnancy, I had to travel to San Francisco for business, and I hated it.

Having been advised to abstain from eating raw fish, I had to avoid sushi -  while I was in San Francisco on an expense account, no less. Alas!

That first time around, I made a whole-hearted effort to follow expert advice (from doctors, books and experienced mom friends) on healthy maternity eating. But I’ll admit that I didn’t always follow the rules. Though my baby and my health were never in danger, I overindulged in my cravings – sweets and carbs – and paid the price with some stubborn post-partum poundage.

The second time around, I got even more lax with my eating habits. I justified extra helpings with ye olde “eating for two” excuse. I couldn’t resist the creamy concoctions of our favorite local sweet shop. And I remember with a certain fondness an all-you-can-eat Mother’s Day brunch buffet. Pre-pregnancy, I could never seem to make it to a second helping at such places.

This time, suffice it to say I got my money’s worth.

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Full Advantage

The best thing for me
about my pregnancy
(aside from the child
that eventually would be)

was the way I could behave
with the food that I would crave:
no more calories would menace,
no more diets would enslave.

Full advantage did I take,
eating “for the baby’s sake,”
though my doctor hadn’t quite
recommended chocolate cake.

Nor was ice cream on her list
and somehow she also missed
plates of pasta, fries and pie
in every flavor that exists.

Anchovies, butter brickle –
no, my tastebuds weren’t too fickle,
though I have to say I never
ever ever craved a pickle.

(Now of course I had my share
of the good and healthy fare,
but rhyming “broccoli” and “orange”
is a challenge I don’t dare.)

Bagels, lox and creamy cheese;
crackers, bread and spreads of brie;
had me munching day and night—
“Pass the queso, could you please?”

Mashed potatoes heaped in mounds,
meatloaf sliced in saucy rounds,
made their way into my tummy
made me gain a few more pounds.

And while the weight I gained so fleetly
didn’t go away completely,
I still hunger for those days
and remember them — quite sweetly.

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©2011 Carlotta Eike Stankiewicz

Two-Car Family

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You can call me on the (juice-stained) carpet for sweeping generalizations, but it’s been my experience that in your typical suburban household where each parent has a car, Mom’s car will be the messier of the two. Throw a pet like my Daisy (right, riding shotgun) into the mix, and disorder and debris are your destiny.

I don’t think I’m off base here. Just a cursory scan of cyberspace found plenty of mothers lamenting the woeful state of their wagons.  One even had a contest that sought out the most unkempt car.

If only I had known. If I’d submitted a pic of my own slovenly sedan, I guarantee I coulda been a contender. That is, if I could find my camera…

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Two-Car Family

His:
Sleek
Spotless
Toy-less
Tot-less
Leather
Shiny
Never whiny
Quiet
Yell-less
Calm
Smell-less

Hers:
Hatch-backed
Crayon-attacked
Vinyl cracked
Baby-yakked
Not compact
Toy-stacked
Ransacked
Mud-tracked
Never intact
Brat-packed

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©2009 Carlotta Eike Stankiewicz

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(note: this post has been updated and re-blogged from its initial appearance more than a year ago.)

Perfect Solution

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You know the type.

That one mom who always has it together.

Who always looks fabulous, and effortlessly so.

Who never has a bad hair day.

Who has bright, charming, well-mannered children.

Who got her figure back within two weeks of giving birth to her fourth kid.

Who’s busy with home and career and charities yet still attends every PTA meeting…and brings homemade muffins.

I’d like to think that SuperMom doesn’t exist. But it seems every neighborhood has one.

She’s the Mom We Love to Hate.

In the face of such effortless, envy-inducing perfection, what’s a regular ol’ mom to do?

Funny you should ask…

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Perfect Solution

She’s pretty, she’s witty, she dresses with style.
She’s polite and quite poised, with a perfect white smile.

She never looks tired. She never feels fat.
She’s a perfect size 2, so why would she, at that?

Each time she was pregnant, she never got queasy.
Each time she was pregnant, she made it look easy.

Her butt didn’t bulge, her legs didn’t swell,
Her face wasn’t peppered with pustules from hell.

Her labors were short, her deliveries fast;
She didn’t swear like a sailor as doctors went past.

Sleepless nights never once left her dreary and dragging;
And her nurturing breasts are still perky, not sagging.

Her children hit milestones before they were due –
Potty trained just like pros long before they turned two.

Her patience is endless, she takes tantrums in stride;
And she never — not ever — resorts to a bribe.

For bake sales, she makes whole wheat cupcakes from scratch.
For breakfast, it’s fresh juice — in glasses that match.

Each evening she serves gourmet cookbook cuisine
In a kitchen she keeps antiseptically clean.

She runs a home business that’s wildly successful,
Yet makes time for hubby when his day’s been stressful.

An entrepreneur, and a caring dad, too,
He looks like he stepped from a spread in GQ.

He’s smart and he’s funny, with muscles to flex,
And if rumors are true, they have great, frequent sex.

So you see, she’s not perfect — she’s far, far beyond.
(Oh, and lest I forget: she’s a NATURAL blonde.)

So it’s tempting to wish for her all kinds of strife,
Or just rip her to shreds for her fairytale life…

To spread gossip and rumors and out-and-out lies,
Tales of Botox and implants and lipo-thinned thighs…

Tales of stretch marks and cellulite, looming divorce…
And you knew ‘bout the Prozac with vodka, of course!

Yet – why advocate malice? Why foster such spite?
There’s a much better method to make it all right…

A much better way that would free us from loathing
This woman, her home, her hair and her clothing.

With a small bit of effort, and a bit more of cash,
Ms. Perfect McPerfect can soon meet her match.

Yes, a donation here, an offering there;
And soon there’s enough if each pays her fair share.

And then: just a call to a “friend of a friend”
Who does “favors” for those with the means to an end.

For you see, I’m NOT suggesting we hate her
when it’s easier by far just to….eliminate her.

©2011 Carlotta Eike Stankiewicz

Laundry List

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The saying goes, “One man’s junk is another man’s treasure.” As a lifelong flea market frequenter and second-hand store shopper, those words ring ever so true for me.

When I was a girl, my eyes were often toward the ground as I traversed our neighborhood, searching for the Bazooka Joe Bubble Gum comics that I collected to redeem for prizes. If anything else remotely interesting caught my eye, I’d scoop that up, too. There were buttons that doubled as plates for my Malibu Barbie and crayon nubs that I made into candles for her romantic dinners with Live Action Ken. Pennies were always picked up, because back then you could still buy something for a single cent. Sparkly rocks, bits of hardware and plastic rings all made it into my collection. To the childhood me, everything was a treasure.

As it turns out, my youngest daughter shares that philosophy.

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Laundry List

The washer stopped
with a buzzing sound;
I pulled out the clothes,
looked down, and found

  • a melted crayon
  • a whistle
  • a string
  • a barrette
  • a shoelace
  • a fake ruby ring
  • a marble
  • a button
  • a ball of lint
  • a foil wrapper from a restaurant mint
  • a hair tie
  • a pencil
  • a bottle cap
  • a shell
  • more string
  • a fabric scrap
  • a bit of ribbon
  • a couple beads
  • a piece of chain
  • sunflower seeds
  • a screw
  • a wire
  • a twisty tie
  • a penny
  • a pebble
  • a plastic fly
  • a bobby pin
  • an earring back
  • a safety pin
  • a rusty tack

all collected in
my washing machine,
scattered about
and sparkling clean.

I guess next time
laundry’s on the docket,
I first should check
my daughter’s pockets.

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©2011 Carlotta Eike Stankiewicz

Driver’s Education

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This morning, I experienced a scene out of one of my favorite movies.

Consequently, today’s poem is dedicated to the lady whose Toyota nearly swiped the side mirror off my Volvo.

SOUTH TO DROP OFF, MORON.

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Driver’s Education

 
They’re not honking to say “Hello!”
They’re not waving to say “Hi!”
See, they’re staring and they’re glaring
as you drive so blithely by.

All the shouting and the swearing
that you just don’t seem to hear?
Well, it won’t relent because it’s meant
for only your ears, dear.

There’s a reason for the hub-bub,
for the anger and the noise,
for the words that parents really shouldn’t
say ‘round girls and boys.

Yet it’s clear to me you’re clueless,
so allow me to explain:
YOU’RE DRIVING THE WRONG WAY
DOWN THE STUDENT DROP-OFF LANE.
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©2010 Carlotta Eike Stankiewicz

First Date

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The anxiety.

The awkwardness.

The hope.

The humanity.

Ahhh, the joys of dating. For many of us, they’re but a distant memory. For others among us, they’re still very much a reality. Because we’re talking playdates here, that ingenious invention of late-20th-Century suburban parents.

Like their social predecessor, playdates come with their own worries and a whole new set of rules. So if you’re happily hitched with some growing brood to your credit, and thinking you’re out of the dating woods….well, think again, my friend.

Think again.

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First Date

The call just came – you’re going to meet!
Now:  What to do? Where to eat?
A morning stroll? A picnic lunch?
A dinner chat? A weekend brunch?

What to wear? What to say?
Meet at night? Or by day?
All these choices you must make
are stressful with so much at stake.

You hope you’ll click. You hope it’s fun.
You’re thinking this could be the one.
While on your way, you say a prayer
that all goes well when you get there.

You want this first date to succeed,
so best behavior’s what you need.
That means good manners, smiles and caring;
taking turns and nicely sharing.

You hope there’ll be no tears while dining.
And no tantrums. And no whining.
No fussiness, no arguments,
and please, oh please, no accidents!

It’s tougher than when you were single,
cruising bars to mix and mingle;
it’s hard, it’s brutal – even mean -
this merciless new dating scene.

For nothing sets your nerves aflutter
than meeting with another mother
and her child to know just whether
the four of you play well together.

And afterward it’s just as bad,
for if you liked the time you had,
you’re just more anxious, after all,
because, you know, she said she’d call…

©2010 Carlotta Eike Stankiewicz

Lousy Advice

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My girls are in 4th and 6th grades now, and we haven’t had a case of pediculosis for a year or two now, but back in the early elementary school years, we got them a lot. I became surprisingly skilled at seeking out and destroying the little buggers and their hard-to-spot nits. Once I got past the ick factor and realized that (contrary to popular belief) lice aren’t a sign of uncleanliness, it became kind of fun. Like a game. (Yeah, I know. That’s weird.)

When I read a recent New York Times article about professional de-lousers charging squeamish parents $300 a head for their services, I began to wonder if I’d missed my calling. After all, I’ve always been detail-oriented. But this would be taking “professional nitpicker” to a whole other level…

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Lousy Advice

Lice aren’t nice,
but if you want my advice,
don’t sweat ‘em
‘cause you’ll get ‘em — if you’ve got kids — maybe twice.

How does a critterful collection
sprout without a mom’s detection?
Well, it happens to the best of us
and even to the rest of us:
that sighting on the head
as you tuck the kids in bed…
or the letter they bring home
suggesting chemicals and combs.

Sure, you’ll start to feel lousy
once you know they’re in your housey
as you scratch throughout your hair
though there may be nothing there.

You know what you gotta do:
get a lotta that shampoo,
and although it’s rather icky,
take that comb and get nit-picky.
It’s not as bad as you might think;
you just wash ‘em down the sink,
then you scour clothes and sheets
till the creatures meet defeat.

Lest you start to feel ashamed
make sure other kids are blamed
long before it is suggested
that your home was first infested.

Lice aren’t nice,
but if you want my advice,
don’t sweat ‘em
’cause you’ll get ‘em — if you’ve got kids — maybe thrice.

©2010 Carlotta Eike Stankiewicz

Portrait of the Artist’s Mom

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There’s nothing like a little art project to keep the kids out of your hair encourage children to express their creativity.

Trouble is, the resulting masterpieces can really pile up. And heaven forbid your kid finds one of her fingerpainted originals in the trash!

The way I see it, you have three options.

  1. You can try to develop a system for determining what’s a keeper and what’s not.
  2. You can just chuck it all and risk the wrath of your pint-sized Picasso.
  3. Or, you can stash it all away, thus enhancing your eligibility for this reality tv show.

Three guesses which option I chose.

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Portrait of the Artist’s Mom

When daVinci sketched as a little lad,
did his mama save every vellum pad?

What did Picasso’s mother do
with his boyhood paintings and the things he drew?

Did the mothers of Van Gogh and Renoir and Monet
ever dare to throw their sons’ works away?

Or those moms of Cassatt and O’Keeffe and Wood –
did they keep their kids’ projects, as good moms should?

How we mothers of artistes so petite and prolific
dearly cherish each piece, in its own way terrific.

But collages and paintings collect in a heap…
and then: which do we toss, and which do we keep?

Oh! How I feel the ache tug at my heart
when forced to decide which is junk, which is art.

And what if our children grow up to be famous?
Museums all over might exclaim and blame us…

The ones who shortsightedly tossed in the trash
those crayoned creations worth millions in cash.

©2010 Carlotta Eike Stankiewicz

The Naked Truth

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When it comes to clothing our kididdles, there’s an abundance of cute  out there, from the uber-stylish and expensive to the equally adorable yet more affordable.

At 10 and 12, my girls have developed their own fashion tastes, so my babywear buying sprees are now limited to my opportunities to play “Auntie” to my younger friends’ little ones.

The other day, though, I came across this book on my shelf, and it reminded me of my favoritest baby outfit ever…

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The Naked Truth

Dress ‘em up in Gymboree,
Little jeans from Little Me;
Bedecked with teddy bears and bows,
So precious in those baby clothes!

Moms and grandmas share a passion
For such tiny toddler fashions,
Even itsy-bitsy Nikes
Don the footsies of our tykies.

Mini-dresses, mini-suits,
Mini-shirts so very cute;
Mini-skirts and mini-T’s,
A calvacade of mini-me’s.

Overall they look quite posh,
Overall OshKosh B’Gosh.
Dare we doubt that they are happy
Dressed up oh-so Baby Gap-py?

Yet—-
what parent hasn’t viewed
Children longing to be nude,
Tugging off their socks and shoes,
Hoping other clothes come loose?

As if charmed by some mad piper,
Off they tear their dresses, diapers–
Grateful for this stolen chance
To do the Naked Baby Dance.

Even those who hate to bathe
Face the tub looking brave,
Shedding clothes with wary glee,
‘Cause naked’s what they get to be.

And truth be told, what store-bought wear
Could you find that could compare
To the soft and dimpled skin
They’re all in when they begin?

For much as we all love to dress
Our darlings in such preciousness,
We’ll never see clothes quite as cute
As a babe’s own birthday suit.

©2010 Carlotta Eike Stankiewicz

Ode: McDonald’s

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I’ve seen “Super Size Me,” “Fast Food Nation,” and “Food, Inc.”

I’ve read “My Year of Meats” and “Animal, Vegetable, Miracle,” and I just finished “The Omnivore’s Dilemma” last week.

I know there’s a childhood obesity epidemic in our country.

I certainly get why it’s bad for us and our kids and our world to eat certain things.

But I will confess that there was a time in my life when a trip to McDonald’s with my little girls was a fairly regular event — and a blessed one at that.

I know, I know.

Still…

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Ode: McDonald’s

O, thou gold and gleaming arches
That promise meat and salt and starches,
And ‘scapes on which our babes doth play,
We sing thy praises sweet today!

Where else might mothers bring their brood
For warm and cheap and ready food?
Where else find treat and toy combined
For but two dollars fifty-nine?

Ah, happy, happy, happy meal!
Our sanity lauds thy appeal;
For naught can quiet whines and cries
Like burger, drink and ketchupped fries.

And such repast is quickly downed
By children wishing soon to bound
About on wondrous molded plastic,
Slides and towers and tubes fantastic.

O Friend of All Maternal Folk!
You give us peace and Diet Coke.
If we could bottle up thy essence
Why need there be antidepressants?

© 2009 Carlotta Eike Stankiewicz

Poetry Out Loud and In Motion: Trees

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Have you ever memorized a poem?
Have you ever read a poem aloud?

It seems old-fashioned, perhaps, and maybe a bit daunting, to do either of these things — not to mention both. But it can be wonderful if you give it a try.

A dear friend of mine introduced me to the practice of memorizing and reciting poems while walking. I regularly hike in the city and state parks around Austin, so the idea of “Poetry in Motion” greatly appealed to me.

I chose a short rhyming piece for my first poem, one that celebrates the natural world. As I began to learn it on a Saturday hike at Pedernales Falls, I concentrated on remembering the stanzas one by one, and found myself thinking more and more about the word choices and the sentence structure — and really appreciating how the poet put it all together.

Because it’s an oft-quoted poem, I had been familiar wtih the first two lines (as some of you might be as well) but didn’t know the rest of it. Now I know it quite well and love every line, though my favorite is “who intimately lives with rain.”

So perfect and provocative. As poetry should be.

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TREES

by Joyce Kilmer (1886-1918)

I THINK that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in Summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.

“Trees” was originally published in Trees and Other Poems. Joyce Kilmer. New York: George H. Doran Company, 1914.

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