My daughter loves to sing. She is always singing something.  Most of the time, it is the usual fare like “Itsy Bitsy Spider” or “Wheels on the Bus”, etc.  But now and again she will sing her own tune, one that she makes up as she goes along.  She tends to sing about her immediate surroundings or what she is doing right then and there.  And truth be told, they aren’t exactly compelling ditties.

For example, she will sway in place and sing, “I see the kitty on the couch.  Daddy is downstairs.  Mommy has to dye her haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaair!”

Not exactly moving, or catchy for that matter.  But as Simon would say, “She makes it her own.”  And Randy without a doubt would call her “authentic”.  And lovely Paula would have tears in her eyes when she says Piper “sings from the heart.”

She is very inspired by American Idol, so it was no surprise when she grabbed her microphone last night while we were watching the show. Only this time she started singing, “Keep on moving, keep on moving, you gotta keep on moving…”  My stepdaughter and I just looked at each other.  This was quite an improvement over “I got cheerios, I got cheerios in a bowl.”   The entire time she’s singing, she rocking back and forth with one leg stretched in front of the other, sort of… well, sort of like she was dancing. 

So there we were, actually enjoying this new song as we watched her groove along for a few minutes.  And then she hit us with the grand finale.

“You gotta keep on moving, keep on moving. Go down the stairs. It’s a fire drill.”

I am now a full fledged member of the “Parents of a kid” club.  We went to Chuck E Cheese yesterday.  For some reason, even with nieces and friends with kids, I have managed to avoid this place completely until yesterday.  But with a sick husband and scattered rain showers, I finally broke down.  I really had few alternatives, believe me.  I had to get the child out of the house and into a self-engaging environment before I went completely nuts.

Now people have warned me about this place.  They told me to take Advil before going (I forgot).  They told me to eat before I go (I forgot).  They basically had me scared shit of ever going there.  And really, in truth, I have to say it wasn’t that bad.  Perhaps I am not a good judge, considering it was my salvation and last hope for sanity yesterday.  Or, maybe it was just seeing my little girl’s smile stretched from ear to ear.

Typical Piper, she had me back and forth, back and forth.  First she wanted to go on the mini carousel.  So I waited for it to stop and all the kids to get off (there are only three horses to sit on).  I put her on, put in the token… it starts up - “I want to get off!”

Two minutes later, she is running back over to the carousel, begging to go on.  We wait for it to stop, the kids to get off, I put her on, plop the token in, it starts going around, she wants to get off.

We went through this whole routine three times before I finally realized what was going on.  She was being typical Piper all right, but the sweet and lovely typical Piper.  All she wanted was to ride around in circles with the other kids.  Once she realized she was the only one going around, she was no longer interested.  So after I figured this out, I quickly plopped her on a horse when no one was looking (while still spinning) and then quickly slapped in a token the minute it ended, thus trapping the other poor souls for another spin.  She grinned and grinned and giggled her head off. 

The other two were ready to leave, but I convinced them to go another round again just so I could watch that smile a little while longer.  I could have stayed there all day, shoving in the remaining thirty-five tokens one after another. But alas, the other kids got bored and left.  Rotten spoiled kids, ruining my baby’s fun.

Anyway, I have to say that Chuck E Cheese isn’t as cheesy as I thought it would be. We’ll be back again.  Mostly because no one warned that the games were only one token each and now I have a shitload of them left. Of all the things I was warned about, no one told me that it was way cheaper than Dave & Busters. Just like no one told me how quick they are to clear you table and throw away your half eaten pizza!  Or that hand sanitizer is an absolute must!

But now that I am a Chuck E Cheese veteran, I will be more prepared next time.  Most of all, I won’t forget my camera and miss capturing that incredible smile!

During one of my psychology classes in college, we studied the cycle of abuse.  It was very distressing and depressing. However, I the one thing I remember the most was reading one paragraph that went on and on about how children are especially vulnerable to verbal abuse.  They stressed how unkind words, degrading speech or threats of any kind caused severe scars and emotional trauma for life.

I just remember being in a total state of shock.  Obviously, the person who wrote this text was not Italian.  According to the author’s assessment, I should either be a complete basket case or a homicidal maniac, because I grew up with threats of great bodily harm on a daily basis.

“Get in this house right now or I will break both your legs!”

“Touch it again and I will chop that finger right off!”

“If you so much as utter another word, I will rip that tongue right out of your mouth!”

Worse yet, as far as any of us kids knew, this was all according to God’s will.

“Dear Lord, give me the strength to beat some sense into this child!”

“As God is my witness, I will never cook another meal in my lifetime and you will all starve to death!”

“So help me God if I have to get off of this couch, you will never see another sun rise again!”

I mean, c’mon. Even though I was threatened with such atrocities, I knew my mother loved me and there were no lasting scars or traumatic consequences as a result.  No matter how loud my mother’s voice got, I knew she would never really crack my head open with that wooden spoon.

Still, now that I am a mother and have a child of my own, I must admit that the author was right about one thing.  Children tend to adopt the same behaviors and continue the cycles with which they grew up.  In other words, I am just as much an Italian drama queen as my mother was, and as her mother was, and so on.

Mind you, my daughter is barely three years old.  Needless to say, I wouldn’t dream of threatening her with physical punishment.  No, those threats are saved for the middle years when they really have some effect.  Likewise, the teenage years are saved for threats of disinheritance or being thrown out on the streets in the dead of winter without a penny to your name.  As for the wee young years, us drama queens stick to the more benign stuff, like begging all the heavenly saints for more guidance or questioning the Lord above what we did in a past life to deserve such torture. 

Considering my age and how much practice I have had being an adult drama queen, it should come as no surprise that I had mastered this trait by the time Piper was even born.  Let me tell, I know how utterly shocking this must seem to anyone that did not grow up in such an environment.  It was years before my husband could shrug his shoulders and walk away, without really worrying about whether or not I was going to have a nervous breakdown over dropping the dish towel.  But I must say, my daughter has adapted quite well, probably because she knows no other type of life.  The other night when I was just about at my wits end, she seemed to be barely phased. 

After an agonizing trip to the potty which took thirty minutes longer than humanly possible, we were heading back downstairs.  We were almost there, about halfway down the steps, when she decided she had to go back upstairs to turn the light out.  Well, I basically lost it.  I stood on the steps, clasping my hands together in prayer and asked the sweet baby Jesus for the patience to get me through this ordeal.  I shook my fists up to the high heavens and ask why my dear God insists on putting me through such anguish.  I made the sign of the cross and swore before all the saints and angels that I would never ever again complain about being bored if they could just make this child get to the bottom of these steps before I die.

The entire time Piper watched me with mild curiosity.  When I finally paused for a breath, she cocked her head the side and asked me with sincere concern in her voice, “What’s the matter mommy?  Am I killing you again?”

Philadelphia, PA - We are all aware of the pressures teenagers and young women face daily, as they struggle to live up to the images of perfections they are bombarded with in fashion magazines. But those impossible goals are not limited to the young.  Older women are increasingly being subjected to ideals that defy the natural course of aging.  This seems especially true of older moms, thanks in part by the slangy term MILF, which in recent years has become the staple benchmark that determines whether a mom is “hot or not”.  But luckily, just when you think it can’t get any worse, we are seeing a new fashion trend emerge that represents a more realistic and healthy attitude towards aging and beauty.  Borrowing from the interior design term “shabby chic”, (where furniture is intentionally distressed for a look that is used and worn out, yet tasteful and distinguished) more and more women today are hailing themselves as the… 

FLABBY CHIC

Striving to be a MILF is becoming passe, according some local moms who are embracing their over 40 bodies without looking back in dismay. Take Momish, for example.  A few years ago, she was a slim size 4 and looked fabulous in clothes that reflected the latest fashion trends. Sporting form fitting outfits, Momish often shopped in the same stores as her teenage step daughters.  At that time, she would have done anything to keep her those nasty extra pounds and wrinkles at bay, from starvation to dangerous diet fads, to expensive anti-aging products. 

But these days, Momish is no longer oppressed by the mass media and public opinion, an opinion that all too often pigeon-holes teenagers, working women and older moms into maintaining impossible body proportions.  No, Momish and the other women over 40 like her, are breaking free!  Instead of looking towards all those waif-thin icons, they have found a new and bolder image to grab onto, one that they can realistically identify with, one which allows them to eat what they want without sacrificing self image or their fashion sense. 

“I just love the Flabby Chic look,” says Momish as she rips open a bag of cheese curls (having given up potato chips for lent, cheese curls are her latest comfort food).  Momish herself has managed to beef up over the last three years, thanks to being overworked and run ragged at home.  With increasing less hours in the day to herself, the idea of working out instead of vegging in front of the TV was starting to really take its toll.  “Now-a-days, I don’t worry about getting to the gym anymore.  After I finally get out of the office, I barely have enough time to get through dinner, bath time and finish my daily chores before I am ready to drop.  Adopting the Flabby Chic look has really helped me to enjoy those precious few minutes I have to myself without the torturous guilt and self loathing.  I also find I am more relaxed, thanks to being able to binge snack my way through especially stressful moments.”

But the best part about the Flabby Chic lifestyle is the chic part.  You don’t have to sacrifice style and grace just because you aren’t anorexic or the same weight you were at twenty-four.  Momish herself is on the fast track to becoming a solid size 8, having long ago handed down her size 4 clothes to her two step daughters.  Like Momish, many women today are constantly sacrificing their own wardrobes for the sake of their children’s needs or the household bills.  “It’s great,” Momish slyly grins as she ‘pinches more than an inch’ on her waist, “Going up another size gives me the perfect excuse to go shopping and spend money on myself for a change. Just wanting to keep in step with the latest trends wasn’t reason enough for me to treat myself to new things. But it’s a whole other story when I can’t fit in my clothes from last year. I mean, I can’t very well go to work naked, now can I?” 

So don’t fret ladies if that MILF status is beyond your reach thanks to your much deserved laugh lines, your naturally slowering metabolisms and your impressive busy schedules. As Momish tells us, “While only time can make you 40 and fabulous, anyone can be Flabby Chic. All it takes is a little flair for fashion. Well, that and a shitload of sugar and carbs!”