Nostalgia and Weighted Blankets

We have reached the point where the stressors of modern life are all too apparent and triggering, and as a result, my generation craves nostalgia. I believe this is why shows like Stranger Things have gained so much popularity. I, for one, absolutely love Stranger Things. The music, the clothes, and the fantastical plot lines, like appeal of the retail dinosaur of our near past – an actual functioning mall –begs for older millennials and gen x-ers to curl up under their weighted blankets and through the foggy glass of time (or wine) recall their childhoods. I also adore the Lethal Weapon movies, and I looove every John Hughes movie ever made.

But there is another set of fabled tales that will always remain dear to me and most of my female peers. These stories shaped my childhood. Gather round, my children. For our story begins in a distant land called Stoneybrook, Connecticut.

Yep, I’m talking about the Babysitter’s Club. The Babysitter’s Club books, written by Ann M. Martin, followed a group of preteen best friends and their adventures babysitting around their hometown, of, yes, Stoneybrook, Connecticut. I. Was. Obsessed. Looking back, the books were ever so much more fictional that little preteen me could fathom. I mean, can you imagine leaving your infant child in your house alone, overnight with just a 12-year-old girl? My God. I’m already dialing CPS with shaking hands.

But I must mute my 32-year-old thinking from my 1998 thinking, when I, myself, was 12. My best friend Shannon, and I would ride our bikes with a tote bag full of BSC books clunking and bouncing on the back fender, to each other’s houses. Shannon’s house is one of the only houses I have never had to knock on the door to be let in. I always busted through the back door of the old farm house, grabbed a pop, and belly flopped onto her living room floor. I still do this. Just switch out the pop with beer.

Life has changed immensely since those days. Parents would never even consider letting their unattended 12- year-olds ride their bikes six miles to a friend’s house. Past an overgrown junkyard and a quarry. Yes, a quarry, like in Stranger Things. Now I won’t let Teddy leave unattended for three minutes in our backyard while I run into the house to pee. So, the entire premise of the Baby Sitter’s Club books has aged as well as Lil’ Kim. *I’m pausing while you google what Lil’ Kim looks like now . . . I mean, right??

To emphasis my point, let me share with you the plot of one of my favorite BSC books, Kristy and the Haunted Mansion. Kristy, BSC president and our favorite closeted lesbian, gets caught in a horrible storm with her youth softball team and her 17-year-old brother, Charlie. Their van breaks down, forcing them to take shelter overnight in a huge creepy mansion, run by an old caretaker. A bridge gets washed out, and they are stranded. Let’s break this down. Parents of the softball players, ages ranging four to ten, were completely ok with a 17 and 12-year-old taking their children home in a terrible storm, in a big ol’ stoner van with a faulty transmission. They can’t call home because its 1993, so parents are left with thinking the worst. Then these two pubescent idiots think that their only choice is put their lives in the hands of a 60-year-old hermit who lives in a shed? I’ve watched enough Dateline to know how this turns out.

I thought about doing a complete 2019 reboot of our favorite babysitters. Kristy would have met a girl, Ray, in college who would have shown her the ins and outs of her sexuality. They would have gotten married, adopted a couple dogs, and moved into a bungalow close to Kristy’s parents. Kristy teaches PE now and coaches the high school softball team. Ray sells soaps and organic cucumbers at the local farmer’s market.

I wanted to continue with other members of the BSC. Stacey, our favorite glamour girl and diabetic, would have moved back to New York City and gotten in with the Bravo crowd. She parties with Bethanny Frankel and takes the jitney to the Hamptons every weekend in the summer. She thinks Luanne Delesseps is trash. And so on and so forth. But after getting in deep about Dawn’s veganism and Green Party membership, I had to stop.

Why does everything need a 2019 reboot? I’m sick of reboots. Everything seems to have the life squeezed out of it anymore. Can’t we leave well enough alone? Just this weekend, I see that three more Disney movies are getting a reboot. I mean, the Lady and the Tramp?! Let’s just all watch an ASPCA commercial without changing the channel. Admit it. Not once have you heard Sarah McLaughlin’s entire spiel.

But, it all comes back to nostalgia and the lives we are leading now. What are we missing from the days of John Hughes movies and parachute pants? I think we all know. It’s innocence. It’s the innocent fun that came with watching The Goonies and Pretty in Pink. It’s the innocence of not being over exposed to stories of violence and cruelty. I’m completely aware that, just as now, terrible things happened back then. But there was distance. I could go into how we’re all being sucked into a dystopian worm hole through social media. But I won’t. On the opposite side of that spectrum, a natural act of kindness is now broadcast for all to see. I appreciate watching these bits of happiness, but why do they have to be filmed? Is it that without visual proof, we can’t believe it happened and that we so badly need to know we are still capable of kindness?

A millennium’s worth of moments of kindness have happened before us. There are no videos or photographic evidence of a woman sharing her bread ration with a child in a concentration camp. But, we know it happened.  I’m depressing you. And I didn’t even force you to watch an ASPCA commercial.

Instead of rereading some BSC books, and trying to recreate a lost part of my youth, I’ve decided to enjoy something that 2019 has to offer – start a new movement of original thought. I could read a new book, or watch an independent film, instead of re-watching Uncle Buck for the tenth time.

The past is in the past. Time moves on, no matter how much we lament years gone by. Here’s my challenge to you, friends. Create something new and original. Enjoy the creative work of someone you admire. Enjoy what today has to offer. As hard as it is to believe today, good things are happening. We have Lizzo as proof of this.

Training Day

We have three fish; the last survivors of a fleet that now swims in the great toilet bowl in the sky. We got the fish as a prize for our son, Teddy, for finally being potty trained. While I love not having to deal with changing wee sheets in the wee hours and lugging around a diaper bag the size of steamer trunk, I hate the aquarium. I hate the hum of the filter. I hate the smell of fish food. I hate that sometimes one of the residents hides for two days, which means I turn into CSI Aquarium. That means grabbing a net and digging for a body. Then that little orange sliver flits out from under a Tiki hut and flips its tail at me, the fish version of the middle finger.

But the aquarium still stands. Why? A. Because it was my idea in the first place. B. I’m a glutton for punishment. And C. Teddy was obsessed with the dead fish episode of “Daniel Tiger.” We figured a three-year-old should probably be introduced to the idea of living fish rather than the latter. I proudly ranked myself as CAO: Chief Aquarium Operator. I held the position for like a day. But the intense amount of dry heaving and exclamations of, “OH MY GOD! I CAN’T! THE SMELL! I’M DYING!” led to my quick retirement. In between bouts of nausea, I dragged my green-tinged carcass into Jared’s office, and handed him the net. “You’re the captain, now.”

Honestly, in terms of unwanted chores, I would take dirty diapers over cleaning out a fish tank. Have you ever tried to potty train a kid? If you have, God bless you. I will pop open a can of wine in your honor. Teddy never really showed interest in the idea of the potty. But diapers only go up to certain size before it’s necessary to switch over to the geriatric section. When dropping a potty-training child off at a friend’s house, the child is as welcome as bear in a camper.

We decided it was time to start our foray into self-regulatory control during a family night at my parents’ house. Teddy toddled around the corner of the sectional, and cuddled up to my mom. He proudly stuck up a finger, covered in a biological substance. It was poop. He had poop on his finger. They say a child always shows signs of being ready to toilet train. If this wasn’t a sign, then we’ve got bigger problems.

I immediately opened my Bible, also known as Pinterest, and started pinning wildly. Cute potties! Baby urinals! Sticker charts! Prizes! Rewards! Look at all the urological cuteness! I found a potty in the shape of a skunk at our local Marshall’s. Get it, skunk? Stinky? Stinky kid butt? It’s adorable.

Guess what’s not adorable? Let’s say it all together! POTTY TRAINING. It’s irritating. It’s gross. It’s inconvenient. There are the two approaches we took. Militaristic and Woodstock. So, the 60s, pretty much. For the militaristic method, we set timers and placed the kid on the pot every ten minutes. We put him in big kid undies to get the feel of freedom from the diaper. We made a big deal when Jared went to the bathroom. This was a short-lived approach, as it resulted in Teddy yelling in the middle of the grocery store, “DADDY! Show me your penis!” If you have not experienced your child yelling ‘penis’ and ‘vagina’ in a public place, just wait. It will happen.

The Woodstock approach is just letting your little flower child run around pants-less with a potty in a centralized location. Much like hippies at Woodstock. Come on, ask your weird Aunt Sharon. She was there.

We also added a little frog-shaped urinal to our bathroom. It was a frog head, mouth agape, with a little spinning tongue at which the kid was supposed to “aim.” It was rather gross, if you think about it too much. We named the urinal, Piddly. I have a thing for naming inanimate objects. Piddly was a hit. Except when Teddy insisted on dumping it out into the toilet, himself. Oh my Gawd. We practically had to install a bleach dispenser. So much spilled urine. The carpet was another story. It was old carpet. But we still had to function like civilized people. When we pulled up that old beige carpet this past winter, the back resembled the flooring they pull out of those houses on Hoarders.

It was a cathartic experience, watching that old carpet rise into the air, as “I’m Proud to be an American” blasted from the Bose. My father-in-law was over and as always, insists on his own playlist as he works. He’s free labor, so we say play that funky music. His playlist has become part of our family lore. An eclectic mix of Bon Jovi, TSO, the soundtrack from “Pitch Perfect,” some doo-wop, and the Christian version of Nickelback’s “Kryptonite.”

Teddy is finally potty trained.  It involved a lot of thrown away Spiderman undies. We had his preschool open house a couple days ago. His new teacher’s eyes lit up with joy when Teddy proclaimed he needed to go, and directed his dad to the bathroom. Apparently, we didn’t wait too long to train him. So fear not, my friends. It’s not too late. Jared’s mom still regales us with her worries that back in the early 90s her own son would not be potty trained in time for kindergarten. I do her son’s laundry now. I confess I’m still concerned about his toilet habits sometimes.

But that’s parenthood. It’s filled with messy occurrences, unwanted chores, and sometimes a dead fish. But there’s good stuff, too. There’s a kid who announces loudly, “I GOTTA GO POTTY!”, and takes himself to the bathroom. There’s new flooring that we put in ourselves. Now the cats just puke on the remaining rugs. Teddy is no longer to blame for mystery stains. Well, unless slime or Play Doh is involved. Then all fingers point to the four-year-old. There’s still the aquarium, but I choose to ignore it. But isn’t that what life is about? It takes the mundane and unwanted chores and work to make you appreciate what you love. And potty training really makes you appreciate clean underwear and wine.

Crack That Can, My Friends

I'm 32. I don't know what I expected to be at this point in my life. When I was twelve, and I thought of being 32; I don't remember what I pictured. Of course, I would have a beautiful home filled with purple and green inflatable furniture. I would been married to my crush at the time, Benji. And we would have lived in the far rolling hills of Hogwarts. Simple times, my friends.

Little twelve year old me didn't know shit honestly. She didn't know the true feeling of grief. She didn't know the feeling of heartbreak. She didn't know true disappointment. But she did know a few things. She knew how to belly laugh. She knew how to gross out her sisters. She knew pure joy. 

I wonder if twelve year old me would be shocked to find out this is who she turned into. But here's a quick sum-up. 

I'm a wife. 

Marriage is not a Hallmark movie, friends. Well at least not for me. It's more like a foreign film. It has subtitles that you have to read if you want to understand what is happening, but you're distracted by the beautiful scene in front of you. And then things get crazy in the film and you haven't been paying attention and you try to read the subtitles again but they make no sense. Sometimes you've been reading the subtitles the entire time, but you're still confused. So you focus on the beauty of the film again. Sometimes that in itself gets you through. Sometimes, you're just as confused as ever. Sorry, I'm big on metaphors. Anyway, my point is, marriage is tough. Connecting to a person for a lifetime is tough. It takes work. Not to say, I'm dredging through the trenches here. Its just a weird thing. To have your life so entwined with someone else. I never had boyfriends in junior high or high school. Its weird to say that I married my first real boyfriend. But I did. One day I served a coffee to a guy in an Office Max polo. The next day I'm texting the same guy to grab me my preferred type of menstrual pad at Walmart. Marriage is weird.  

I'm a mother. 

There is a little person running around that I literally created. It's a strange thought. This little being that hates Band-Aids; and knows every type of train and dinosaur, literally shot out of my body. He's funny, and he's sweet, and he's super gross. He loves the word "butt." He thinks that Old Town Road is the epitome of good music. He can say something so seemingly off hand that it can either have me rolling on the floor laughing, or sobbing hysterically. I love him. I remember the day that I found out I was having a boy. I knew nothing about boys. I had sisters. My mom had sisters. My dad had sisters. My aunts had girls. I called my older sister, who lives in Chicago, the news. She responded by a sharp intake of breath and, "What are we going to do??"

Luckily, we figured it out. We all learned the different type of trains and dinosaurs. We have gotten dirty and dug up worms in the garden. We have answered questions like: "Have you ever seen a dead horse?" or "You wanna smell my feet?" Both answers are no, by the way. I love being a mother. I'm not a perfect mom, by any means. I have screamed. I have thrown a pop tart across the room and climbed back into bed. But, I have also stayed up gluing on green pompoms to cups of green jello. I have spent hours painting a huge tree on the wall of a nursery while eight months pregnant. I have caught puke in my hands. I have earned some stripes. I don't know if we will ever have another kid. Right now, I'm enjoying getting to know the one I've got. 

I'm a sister.

I have two sisters; a younger and an older. We are nothing alike and we are exactly alike. We all love a good fart joke. We all can quote the Ghost and Mr. Chicken and Jaws.  We know how our mom works. We can all do a good impression of our dad. We can make each other laugh until one of us pees. (Spoiler: it's usually me.) But we're different too. One of us is more serious. One of us is more cultured. One of us is more social. It's awesome to have such deep connection to two people, that in another lifetime or dimension, I wouldn't know at all. I wouldn't be rushing around on Monday nights to text two of my favorite people stupid jokes about the Bachelor. I wouldn't be able to send a pic of my outfit and get an actual, truthful opinion sent back to me. I wouldn't be able to able to call two people; not say a word, who stay on the line as I sob, trying to catch my breath. My sisters are like my right arm and my left arm. They keep me balanced and informed. They let me know what I can handle, and what I can't. They let me know when I'm being ridiculous or when I'm not reacting enough. They are more important to me than they know. Well, they'll know now if they read this.

I'm a daughter.

I am lucky enough to have two parents. A mother and a father. Some of my friends' parents are divorced. Some of my friends' dads have died. The older I get, the more I am faced with my own parents' mortality. And its terrifying. I can't fathom not being able to call my mom to ask if I've put too much brown sugar on a pork loin. I can't imagine not being able to call my dad and yell, "My Jeep is making a weird noise, HELP!"

Some of my closest friends aren't able to do this. Two of my closest friends have lost their dads. I don't know what to say to them sometimes. How are they able to function? I know it's possible but I don't want to know. I count on my dad being there. Even as a silent figure, wearing cargo shorts and phone clip. I have even come to depend on my father in law being there. Dads have always been there for me. So have mothers. I'm a lot like my mom. Once, while working at a coffee shop, I was doing dishes in the back.  My coworker made me laugh. I walked to the front to help a customer and she looked at me, and said, "You're Georgia's daughter, aren't you?"

I replied, "Yeah, I look a lot like her."

The woman shook her head, "No, I heard you laugh."

I'm a homemaker.

I love to cook. I love to look up recipes, and make grocery lists. I love to make dinner out of the crap I have left in the fridge and the cupboard. I like to clean. I like to make my bed. I like to wood burn and make things I saw on Pinterest. I like being the mom with the best treats in the class. I love busy work. There's a beauty in busy work. There is beauty in lists, and notes, and crafts. There is beauty in silence. I find that the deepest thoughts come to me when I'm just standing outside, watering my tomatoes. 

And here's where I will make my introduction. Hi, I'm Ellen. I'm a wife, mother, sister, daughter, and homemaker. Sometimes I'm a humorist. I also enjoy a true crime or ghost story. Actually, I always enjoy a true crime or ghost story. I try to be funny, or at least find humor in the every day. The world is scary, folks. We need to find joy in the everyday. And that's what I'm trying to do; find joy in the every day. So crack a can of wine, and take a deep breath. We're all here, experiencing the world as it explodes in front of us. Let's enjoy ourselves while we can. Cheers.