Four on the (day after) the Fourth: Sucky Movies

As part of an occasional series, aimed at being posted on the fourth of the month, we offer you: Four Movies That Suck.

We know there are other more obvious choices. These are suck-tastic choices specific to the tastes of Lucy and Jane. Please share yours so we can all share the pain.

Lucy:

Being John Malkovich: Proof positive that I am not a cool kid: I did not get this movie. I wanted to like it, because John Malkovich is a badass. I'll gladly watch him in Dangerous Liaisons, or even In the Line of Fire. BJM just felt weird for the sake of being weird.

American Beauty This was supposed to be a searing look at an American family, but everyone in this movie was a total cliche: the high-strung housewife who just needed a good lay, the pouty teenage daughter, the closeted Army dude. Did this movie win awards? Hissss

P.S. I Love You A friend chose this out of the Red Box while on vacation last year. I love this girl, but we're not the kind of friends that I could have yelled out, "Oh my God, this movie BLOWS!" like 25 minutes in, which is what I wanted to do.

Legends of the Fall Too long. Boring. Brad Pitt's hair was stringy. Too long.

Jane:
Sex in the City: I hated this movie so much that I had completely wiped ever having seen it from my memory until Lucy reminded me. By the time I realized that I should just walk away, the damn thing was nearly over so I held on until the predictable, sappy, vapid ending.

Charlie and the Chocolate Factory (Johnny Depp version): Just because nobody can touch Gene Wilder's softer, gentler Willy Wonka. The modern version was trying too hard to be avant garde. And that one Ooompa Loompa freaked me out, too.

Juno: Nahh... I'm just kidding. I love this movie. It made me wish I was sharp-tongued high school girl with a pregnant friend. Or a kooky step-mother. Witty teen-angst banter is right up my alley.

My Little Pony & Friends (circa 1986): Here's the scene: I'm newly pregnant with my second child and working full-time. After every nausea-filled day, I leave the office with the buttons popping off my blouse and my gut squeezing over the pants that are about a size too small at this point. I pick up my 2-year-old from day care and to "spend time with her" when we get home, I play this movie, which is actually a taped TV show, on the VCR in my bedroom. I sit the child on the bed with me while I doze until my husband gets home. The movie has the voices of Sandy Duncan and Tony Randall and a slightly scary plot line full of trolls, troglodytes and ponies put in dungeons. Dungeons! Trolls! Oversized mushroom village! Sandy Duncan!

Every day, my husband would come home, follow the trail of discarded clothing to find me in an underwear-wearing coma, with his baby girl watching this cinematographic marvel.

A couple of years later, I found this movie shoved in the recesses of my closet. When my daughter began to watch it, I was overcome with nausea all over again. It seems that I had developed a psychosomatic disorder that renders me completely ill at the sight and sound of My Little Pony.

I put the tape in the trash after that final viewing.

Sleepytime Redux

I have a little confession to make about this post, and my last post: they are made from recycled materials.

Now I'm going to get defensive and say, what's the big deal? I visit other blogs and when they re-post an oldie it's always with some sort of sheepish dancing or justification. With some shameful tone, like you might use when saying, "Well, normally I don't shoplift, but the kids are getting pretty hungry."

Honestly, I'd be amazed if someone called me out on a re-run. I figure my posts are like the dressy dresses I wear to work events: Who the hell is honestly going to remember? Unless you are by chance Lady Gaga. Maybe one person out of twenty? We didn't even have twenty readers the first time I posted these. And, let's face it- it's all been done to death. Warning: sleep training post ahead!

So think of these not as shameful, shabby left-overs, but useful recycled materials re-tooled for today's audience. Update included at no extra charge.

Original post 6-28-09

As I mentioned in an earlier post, I have been sleep deprived for six months now. It's not as much fun as it sounds. The hallucinations were interesting at first, but being so tired that it actually hurts is misery.

When I took Bam-Bam for his six-month check-up this week, Dr. Y started the talk about sleep training. This conversation with the pediatrician is one where I normally nod politely and try not to laugh as they speak.

Six's oddessy of sleep began at birth. I co-slept with him throughout his infancy and right on into his toddler-hood. And by co-sleeping I mean he slept in our bed. And by "in our bed" I mean in the crook of my arm, with his leg thrown over me. I read all of Dr. Sear's books and firmly believed I was strengthening the mother-child bond by letting him use me as a pillow, pacifier, and night-light. Six and Jane's Daughter were born just five weeks apart, and Jane and I supported one another whole-heartedly in spoiling our firstborn children. "Why did we have babies, if not to hold them?" said Jane, her voice full of conviction and authority.

Although the cuddling was lovely, the sleep was lousy. When we finally insisted that he sleep in his crib shortly before his second birthday, five brutal nights ensued. But we prevailed, and the kid actually slept though the night in his crib. For about a year. Until he learned to get out of his crib. Thus began the phase of his nightly pilgrimages to our room, and a whole new set of sleep issues arose.

Have you ever watched Nanny 911 or Supernanny where the parents are instructed to lead their sleep-fighters and night-wakers back to their own bed, gently and firmly, and let the child get it through their head that their bed is the place to sleep? On those shows, the kid has it down pat by the third night. One hundred percent horseshit. I would be willing to bet that is extremely edited, or the kid took a bribe. Mister and I spent months dutifully escorting Six back to his room. Want to know how we finally broke him of the habit? We didn't.

I'm going to admit with no small amount of embarrassment that it's still not uncommon for us to wake up and discover that Six came to lay with us sometime shortly before dawn. That's where we are in his sleep training- at age six, he can make it until 4 AM in his own bed. I should write a book, right? I suppose I can relate to him, because I am not the best sleeper myself. Like his mother, Six is a light sleeper who often wakes in the middle of the night with the brain spins. Being a light sleeper is difficult- our poor brains will seize upon anything from the grocery list to nuclear holocaust to the life cycle of a fruit fly. Many times, when he's come wandering in, I'm already awake. In my book, this chapter will be titled "Leading by Example."

So back to Dr. Y's office. He's talking sleep training, I'm trying to keep a straight face. I inform him that Baby is in a crib in my room, which is already a huge step for me, since my first baby slept with his face buried in my neck. But, Bam-Bam is waking up two or three times a night for his favorite beverage. I brace myself for the condescension, the lecturing, the shaming, that so often sets the tone with other doctors we've seen or people who've heard us talk about co-sleeping. But Dr. Y is smarter than that. In his gentle voice, he tells me that I need sleep, Bam-Bam needs sleep, and we're both going to be much happier with him sleeping through the night. Something about the way he's selling this to me suddenly makes me want to cry. I do need sleep. I am half crazy. What felt so right with Six feels masochistic at this point.

I decided to take Dr. Y's advice and commit to putting Bam-Bam in his own crib, in his own room, every nap and every night. I won't give you the gory details. I can give you one helpful piece of advice: Never sleep train your baby the night Michael Jackson dies. Maybe this is only true if you were the magnitude of Michael freak I was for most of my grade school years. I sat on my couch, listening to my baby cry, reading the news online, listening to Billie Jean, and blubbering. A truly pitiful tableau. The next day was no better. I texted my friend who works at our pediatric clinic: Dr. Y is a dirty liar.

This story does have a happy ending. My Bam-Bam slept in his own crib, all night long, last night. Twelve lovely hours without a peep. Because I am not used to the new routine of sleeping more than two or three hours in a row, I got up early this morning to peek at Bam-Bam. I watched him for a few minutes, racked out in his crib, looking as happy and well-rested as I've ever seen him look. I realized a simple truth once again: I'm not repeating the experience I began Six years ago. I have two completely different children. What works for one may be utterly useless for the other. One is a string bean, the other is a Sherman tank. One sleeps in his crib all night, the other, well, by the time I got back to my bed, the other was there waiting on me.

Update 2-1-10

If you want to drive yourself crazy about sleep training vs. family bed vs. a cradle in a bough that breaks when the wind blows, there are plenty of experts out there who can offer you all sorts of instruction. As detailed in that post, I co-slept with one, sleep trained another. And, now that Bam-Bam's one and Six is in Kindergarten, I can tell you with conviction: I have no regret whatsoever about doing it either way.

Bam-Bam sleeps like a champ in his crib. Oh, he likes to mess with us at naptime. The games is to throw all stuffed animals and suckies (our word for pacifiers) on the floor and then squeal "daaahhh-DEE!" repeatedly. But he sleeps through the night, still, every night. And I love his video monitor. I thought it was over the top at first, but we love watching him flop around and wiggle in his sleep. It's sort of like seeing him on ultrasound again. "Hey in there! Lookin' good! Hang tough and see you when it's time..."

And Six is slowly, but surely, making it all night in his own bed more and more often. He still loves to waller, but now when he climbs in bed with us at 0530 hours, he's wearing a very proud smile.

And as I said at the end of that post, I do realize constantly that what works for one is not right for the other. Starting with their very births, nothing with Bam-Bam has been a re-run the second time around (see how this all ties together?!) Very little has really been what I expected, or read about. Not that Dr. Sears and the books can't be helpful, but I always learn more more when I put them down and observe my kids. One of my favorite writers, Anna Quindlen said it so beautifully: "What those books taught me, finally, and what the women on the playground taught me, and the well-meaning relations -- what they taught me was that they couldn't really teach me very much at all............That's what the books never told me. I was bound and determined to learn from the experts. It just took me a while to figure out who the experts were."

There he is, all snuggled in the right side of his uterus, er, crib.

An Open Letter to Six's Future Serious Girlfriend

Or Wife, or Partner, or Concubine.....

Dear Sweet Patient Person:

Here are some insights and tips:

Bring lots of jammies. I hope you like sleeping in a stranglehold! You can't be with Six and have that outdated "my side of the bed" mentality. No, you are in for Snugglepalooza. Six takes wallowing around in bed to a whole new level. I have actually had to say to him, on a Sunday morning, "Sweetie, I have got to get out of this bed. I can't lie here any longer." If this happens to be your first semester of college together, flunking any classes you have that start before 11:00 AM is a distinct possibility. I offer no refunds on your tuition- you've been warned.

Good News! Cooking skills not required. You'll need a can opener, a toaster oven, and the ability to unwrap cheese slices. That's about it. Filleting, poaching, blanching- these exotic cooking skills will be a waste of time with our Six.

He'll notice everything about you. He loves long hair, but he's not really into ponytails. He likes painted toenails, but he prefers pinks over reds. He'll notice the flecks of green in your eyes, your freckles and moles, and any new items you might add to your wardrobe. He doesn't mean to come off like a pimp, but he does have his preferences. And his scrutiny is a little unnerving at times. Bring your tweezers.

Six has a language all his own. He's full of non-sequiturs- you'll notice that right off the bat. He also has his own new language underway. You'll hear these novel words sprinkled in your conversations, and it may confuse you at first. But over time, you'll learn what it means when he says he's going to "ploo" over to the kitchen, or he's going to "dooba" you if you don't leave him alone. Oh, and "velney" is just a generic, all purpose word- sort of like the blank tile in the Scrabble game.

Six likes to be naked. No need to be puritanical about this- I'm just going to shoot you straight. The boy is into nudity. Like Clark Kent in his phone booth, Six often disappears into the laundry room and re-emerges seconds later in the nude. His Uncle B thinks this is hysterical, and Six has gotten some big reactions for his naked antics, which only adds to the appeal. Nudity in front of company- it always gets the laugh.

I've worked hard to make him considerate of your body. We're all about respect at the Cooper house. He's beginning to understand about privacy. He's also endlessly fascinated with the female form. But I'm not going to promise you that he'll never palm your breasts and yell, "BEEP!"

I'm working on it, okay? Check back in 12 years or so- we'll see how we go.

Speech! Speech!

Something happened to me between college and the present.

In college, I could get up and talk in front of anyone. I could give a speech about anything from political action committees to Rice-A-Roni, without scarcely giving it a second thought. I'd write out my notes on note cards (those are 3 x5 pieces of paper, in case you haven't seen any in awhile) and deliver my words without so much as a drop of armpit moisture. I'm not saying my speeches were great oratory feats, but they passed muster and earned me at least a B in my classes.

But then something happened. I can't really pinpoint it.

Maybe it was the advent of PowerPoint that set the bar pretty high. Not only are people required to give a competent speech, but to also illustrate it with a visually appealing background projected onto a screen.

Maybe it was the long hiatus of public speaking opportunities between my college courses and my professional career. I have to do it, but not very often.

Or maybe, I just lost my mojo and my youthful ignorance. I was full of it in my late teens and early 20s. Self-confidence, that is.

SO... I decided to join a group to help me get over the public speaking hump, as it were.

I was at a meeting and asked to give an impromptu speech. You draw a card from the stack, read a question and then talk for 1-2 minutes on the topic. Cool! A cocktail-party game. This should be fun.

Oh wait, nobody was serving cocktails at noon on a weekday. (How rude!) Let the fun commence.

Me: "If you could bring one person back from the dead, who would it be and why?"

In my head: Ahhh, interesting. Hmmm... who would I choose? Holy crap... I can't think of a single dead person.

Out loud: If I could bring one person back from the dead ... [Timer Begins] ... it would be... well, I don't think I would bring anyone back from the dead, because that's just not right. There are many famous people ... and authors ... whom I admire. Maybe I'd bring back a famous author.

In my head: Shit, I can't even think of an author, alive or dead. (Did I say that out loud?)

Me, out loud: I can't think of anyone dead to bring back. But, I don't think it's a good idea to bring people back from the dead because it messes with the space-time-continuum and can cause many problems for the present -- and the future. Like in Back to the Future.

In my head: Seriously, did I just say "space-time-continuum"? I sound like a total geek. Or a Trekkie.

[10 seconds has elapsed.]

The next 50 seconds consisted of me rambling about death and not knowing anybody dead -- or at least not anybody I could remember while standing there, in front of 15 strangers. At least they were friendly and mostly smiling except for the one lady whose eyebrows were furrowed as if to say, "poor, poor thing."

Why didn't I just say Ghandi, Elvis, Amelia Earhart, my Grandma? Jeeze anybody to save me from talking about quantum physics and Michael J. Fox movies. I demand a do-over.

At least I made good eye contact.

What would you have said?

A place for everything, and everything in its place

Well, it's Twenty-Ten.

Today's date is a numeric palindrome. Just so you know, the number equivalent of: "Madam I'm Adam." o1-11-10. Did I just blow your mind?

I didn't think so.

Santa came and left. The menorah is safely tucked back in its cupboard. My husband unceremoniously carted the tree to the curb as soon as I packed up the ornaments. (Thanks, Honey!) The new year was rung in with as much revelry as we could muster from our room in the Comfort Inn, Columbus, the halfway point of our return from a holiday trip visiting family. (Of course 9 p.m. is the new midnight, as Lucy reminds me, so we were a good three hours into slumber once the actual new year arrived.)

So, on this trip, we stayed with family who live in a cute house with two energetic school-aged boys. The house was roomy, but a bit ... how shall I put this? ... cluttered.

Every available inch of surface area was covered with something. The dining room table housed stacks of papers, books, magazines and a couple of laptop computers. Obviously the homework/learning station. Atop the cabinets in the kitchen were boxes of cereal, bundles of mail, canisters, trinkets and other items of sentiment. The TV was topped with what seemed like 26 framed pictures. Leaning on the back of the bench in the breakfast nook were framed objects, decorative tins and other decorative ephemera. The cabinets were bulging with foodstuffs, canned items, boxed dinners. Hanging from wall pegs were bags of bags, bags of plastic dishes and other generalized stuff. Stuff.Was.Everywhere. It was as cluttered as this paragraph.

My internal organizer immediately wanted to file, trash and/or put away everything that was put-away-able. I was afraid to put my purse down for fear that it would be engulfed by a larger pile of stuff.

But my host was unfazed. When asked where a letter was, she turned to a pile, rummaged to a certain spot and revealed the exact item she was after. One of the kids needed a piece to a Lego activity. Poof, there it was at her fingertips. Not matter how small -- or large -- the object, it had its rightful place among the stuff. To her, this was organized.

As the days went on, it became more apparent that my host's organizational style was very organic. She was relaxed, non-fretful and non-apologetic. Where I would have had an anxiety attack and over-explicated the reasons why a pile of Pottery Barn catalogs had overflowed their designated basket, she would simply laugh it off saying, "At least I know where the catalogs are."

I began to wonder if I might actually be uptight, a perfectionist, a prima donna. While the copious clutter would have made me crazy at my house, I realized that in someone else's home I wasn't uncomfortable. In fact, I felt just the opposite. The house was warm, real and very cozy, once you got used to the stuff coming out of drawers and cabinets.

One morning, as if on cue, the cabinet beneath the kitchen sink sprang open as packages of paper towels and bottles of cleaning solutions freed themselves from their cramped confines. Everyone just had a laugh as the hosts shoved the items back into their places -- apologetically.

Instead of wasting time with frivolous organization, our host spent time with her kids, played on the Wii and watched TV shows that she wanted to see. I spend time yelling at my kids to get out of the kitchen so that I can mop when I should be romping in the playroom and building towers.

On our way home, I was inspired to become just a little more laid back in my approach to housework and the pursuit of domestic perfection. Don't sweat the small stuff and all that.

And that lasted until we pulled into the driveway and the woman I splurge on to clean my house maybe three times a year was there. A friend had arranged for her to clean my house for me while I was gone.

Words cannot describe how lovely it is to come home from a week-long trip and a three-day car drive to your clean home.

Happy New Year to me!