It was bound to happen.

Somehow, I expected to have more time before the inevitable came crashing down—bringing with it the inevitable begging, pleading, negotiating, and bargaining.

Well, my naiveté was cut down to size with a plastic Visa card last week.

At the end of a long workday, I found myself schlepping to three different stores—and then, haplessly, bending to the evil ways of the marketing geniuses who have commandeered my adorable six-year-old’s fashion sensibilities.

Or more specifically, her footwear sensibilities.

Now, one could argue that a girl’s love of shoes is clear assertion of her feminism. I mean, did we learn nothing after watching Carrie Bradshaw prance around in her Manolos for six seasons? Somehow, though, I suspected something more diabolical at play.  Something like an evil Don Draper with and old timely villain mustache, holding my paycheck in one hand and a match in the other.

According to industry reports, the “youth market” is the fastest growing consumer market today. Internationally, tweens control nearly $1 trillion in household income spending. Consumerism is rampant, target marketing is blatant, and this is happening at time when my household income is holding steady despite state furloughs. Paul and I have tried to launch a counterinsurgency attack against this evil force—we successfully prevented the girls from watching anything with commercials for years—Ava could skip through the DVR’d commercials before she even know how to turn the TV on. Paul bought a book called Trees Make the Best Mobiles. We both read it. But, despite our best efforts, it’s happened. Don and the boys have infiltrated my kid’s psyche and have begun to move the invisible hand of capitalism right into my wallet. Bastards.

Want proof?

The entire car ride and throughout the walk through Nordstrom Rack and the mall, I had to listen to Ava belt this out in her don’t-forget-I-want-to-be-a-Broadway-star singing voice:

Twinkle, twinkle, twinkle toes

Everything sparkles…and glows!

Give me fashion, give me cool!

Twinkle toes are rock n roll!

I want diamonds on my toes

Twinkle, twinkle, twinkle toes!

(Want the real thing? Watch this http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v7wcCq9E4oM)

I’m not sure it was the incessant singing, the fact that her crocs, literally, fell apart as she was getting out of the car at Nordstrom Rack (seriously, its was crazy), exhaustion from working all day and THEN having to shoe shop with a six-year-old, or the pressure of trying to meet her expectations…but there I was at the counter paying $42.78 for a pair of offensively sparkly, obnoxiously ugly, laceless Sketchers sneakers.

And, keep in mind, my kid hasn’t even achieved tween status…she’s just a lowly six-year-old. Think of the damage she’ll do in three years when she turns nine.

As the mother of two young girls, I feel it is my responsibility to impart upon them fundamental aspects of womanhood that are critical to the navigation of the complicated road of the female psyche. You know, things like

• your cutest boyfriend is never as important as your best girlfriend

• wine, Patsy Cline, and brie are an ample substitute for nothing better to do on a Friday night

• a man staring at your chest while talking to you is actually NOT a compliment

• pedicures and flowers actually do make you feel better—even if you pay for it all yourself

• paying for it yourself always feels better than letting him pay, anyway

Women are complicated, for sure. While raising young girls who are practicing to be women, moms have a special obligation to try to walk the line between protecting their self-esteem and letting their daughters figure it out on their own. Self-esteem for girls is tricky, tricky business and it doesn’t get any easier as girls get older…like, say, at age 37.

Case in point: last week was insane. Our family vacation week to Monterey snuck up on me like tax day. Work and other distractions kept falling on top of me—never mind the fact that Ava starts first grade in mere days—another transition this usually-on-her-game mother is woefully unprepared for. And in the middle of it all…I was struck by my overwhelming sense of vanity.

Vacation Vanity.

Women understand the true nature of Vacation Vanity. It is the kind of vanity that at the last minute has one running around trying to get toes pedicured up, vacation outfits purchased, and hair cut. I find this female vacation ritual hilarious…especially since this Monterey trip only included the three other people who live in my house who see me all the time and my in-laws who could give a shit about the condition of my brows. Nonetheless, Vacation Vanity is something I begrudgingly accept in the name of “doing something for myself” right before throwing myself at the mercy of the Gods of Vacationing with Your Children.

So after the cut hairs, polished nails, and new sweaters there was only one hurdle left to overcome in my attempt to combat my vanity affliction…my bikini wax.

The bikini wax.

Ugh.

The bikini wax is quite possibly the very, very worst ritual of Vacation Vanity. And not only because of it’s excruciatingly painful and humiliating sensory experience.  More importantly, it represents—especially for those who fall squarely in the over-30 mother set—the difference between Us and the hairless-obsessed generation behind Us. Generally, this difference makes it impossible for me to feel anything but old without a proper wax job. All of this despite the fact that exactly two days after the wax job, I spied most recent issue of Cosmo, touting the return of the “untamed va-jay-jays.” And you know…if Cosmo says it, it must be true. Even though, I’m sure that Jessica Alba who graced the cover has nothing if not a well-tamed va-jay-jay (for the record I don’t read Cosmo, I saw the cover at the grocery store).

Adding insult to serious injury, my bikini wax last week felt more violating than my first sexual experience. To make matters worse, it was pretty much my fault. I was way overdue so, as an after thought, the bikini wax was tagged onto my existing brow wax appointment. Yes, Vacation Vanity’s siren song was strong that morning and—without thinking about the implications of having my bikini line waxed at the chop shop where my toes and brows are done—I asked the girl if she could squeeze it in.

Big mistake.

Big mistake because I spent 45 minutes contending with misplaced hot wax and digits. The limited-English proficiency of my aesthetician also had me constantly concerned that she misunderstood my intentions. I kept sitting up and checking to make sure it wasn’t all coming off. Because, frankly, as hard as she was working and as much tugging and pulling that was going on I was terrified I would be planning a trip to Rio just to accommodate my hairless status. Nonetheless, I survived the experience with a modicum of dignity and hair left over. I paid for my services and hobbled out of the shop.

So, on my first official day of vacation I slipped on my bathing suit determined to not let the humiliation and emotional scaring of my most recent bikini wax hold back my newly waxed sense of self-esteem. And, at that exact moment I was struck by a memory from nearly two years ago…I was getting out of the shower when a then-two-year-old Carmen looked up at me and said:

“Mommy, why do you have a mustache on your vagina?”

And without a moment’s hesitation I replied:

“Well, honey, because Mommy isn’t single anymore”.

I may not be single but I am overflowing with self-esteem.

Take THAT, Cosmo.

The more things change…the more they…well…change. To stick with the adage that the more they change yet remain the same, frankly, doesn’t make any sense.

Especially as we say goodbye to the revival tent for Sacramento moms that has been SacMomsClub.com. I found this site shortly after it cropped up and was drawn in through user-driven content otherwise known as the witty and poignant observations of Creatress and Kelli Wheeler—women who I now consider friends outside of the virtual world and confines of blog comments and message board postings. Because of them, and through the of kindred spirit connection of “what the fuzz happened to my twenties, my body, and former life” my experience with SMC helped crystallize for me not only what type of mom I was shaping up to be but what kind of woman I had officially grown up to become. The authentic friendships and voice as a writer I found through the site have fundamentally changed me—probably even more than the stream of advice and support for things like potty training, sleeping through the night, marriage power struggles, budget shaving, and losing the baby weight. BTW…the baby weight still hasn’t come off (Carmen, my baby, is four). I officially choose to blame SMC and not the fact that I refuse to modify my intake of wine and cheese.

Its been about six months since my last post but I did want—like many other long-time users of SMC—to pause and type a thank you note to the Bee for bringing this site up at a time in my life when I really, really freaking needed it. Mostly, though…I want to thank Antoinette, Hillary, Janet, and Eowyn—you girls are amazing. You have no idea the impact meeting you has had on me. And with the exception of Janet—who just won’t budge—its been great transitioning to Facebook with you. Also, to so many others who encouraged and commented on Full Moons and Safety Glass—thank you, thank you, thank you. Like many of the other “old regular” bloggers, my blog has already moved to another site and I am about to dive back into regular multi-week posts. If you want to follow the next round posts you can find me at www.livelyparent.com. The great thing about posting on my own site is I can officially drop the F bomb without recrimination. If you know me in real life…you can attest to the importance of this in my daily life. It’s true…I have a true love for a good F bomb. So—to some degree—LivelyParent is the slightly less-filtered version of AmandaS. I like the unfiltered version more but…that’s just my opinion.

It seems best to contextualize my retrospective look back at SMC through the experiences of my daughters, Ava and Carmen. With your help, we have transitioned off the boob, into underwear, over to kindergarten, and out onto the ski slopes. Thanks for the ride, SMC community. It’s been fab. And so…in honor of Hillary’s undying devotion to the Great Androgynous One, who’s alter she prays at daily…

http://www.youtube.com/watch#!v=75R3TkXorC4&feature=related

Greeting card moments are when something so sappy and sentimental takes place that the only way to describe it is with overly dramatic, cursive writing. If it’s a really over-the-top greeting card moment, there will be a flower border with butterflies embossed on the edges. Oh, and maybe a rabbit. Rabbits on greeting cards connote an overflowing sense of schmaltziness. A puppy or kitten work, too. Actually, maybe a puppy or kitten would be better…a rabbit on a greeting card screams Easter. This is fine if you are sending an Easter card. The fact is, I actually prefer blank greeting cards. I like to write my own message because I’m not usually satisfied with the pre-packaged messages that made Hallmark a multi-billion dollar empire.

Greeting card moments are probably lost on people who float through life on a rainbow or people who continuously sing Disney Princess songs. These folks miss the greeting card moments because they live within a perpetual greeting card context. I, however, do not live within a greeting card context. The only times I come close are when I am having a cynical, snarky day. Those days, my life might approach one those sarcastic square-shaped cards…you know…the ones that require extra postage with a vintage photo. What’s with the extra postage, anyway? There are enough of those square cards around these days that the post office should get with the program and update its letter-sorting equipment to accommodate these square-shaped cares. So annoying.

In any case, I had a greeting card moment today. The events and circumstances too personal for public consumption via blog, but suffice it to say, the moment was dripping sentimentality. Sentimentality underpinned with the truest and most authentic sense of gratitude, affection, and—well—sadness I have possibly ever felt.

Should the object of this sentimentality ever happen to read this post, to you I say “thanks”. Words have eluded me both today and the month leading up to today. So, thanks…for helping me become the person I never knew I wanted to be.

There’s an adage that people can’t wait to throw at you as soon as you bring home your baby:

“Kids don’t come with instructions.”

Well, to this I say…bullshit.

Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit.

I first became aware of what a load of bullshit this was while my oldest daughter was still in utero.  Don’t believe me? Spend some time perusing the pregnancy/parenting aisle at any bookstore (in person or online). Google “pregnant” or “baby” or “infant care” or “breastfeeding” or “get your freaking baby to sleep through the goddamn night” and you’ll find plenty of—ahem—instructions.

In fact, there are so many instructions, you can quickly feel totally inundated with information that you are sure you’ll never absorb with any meaningful consequence. If you factor the blogosphere into this equation, you’ll be clicking your way into a black hole that you aren’t likely to ever emerge from (my blog being no exception, mind you).

Some of these instructions are actually opinions disguised as instructions. For new parents, these lines are blurry and confusing. I found myself gravitating to “instructions” that aligned with my personal philosophy on life (and what turned out to be my parenting philosophy).  To be upfront, I am planted firmly outside the Alarmist Parenting Camp.  My kids are permitted to fall down, play in mud, stir hot pots of spaghetti while supervised, and occasionally ride their razor scooter without a helmet. Sometimes they don’t even wash their hands before the eat snacks.  Oooooh…and my five-year-old is even allowed to carefully take steak knives out of the drawer to set the table.

I have plenty of friends who dip their toes into the Alarmist Parenting Camp and even a couple who live there permanently. I have friends whose philosophies differ from mine on vaccinations, television, discipline, and Koolaid. I like this diversity. It keeps me on my toes and makes things interesting. One thing I have taken for granted for the first five years of motherhood, however, is my relative control over these instructions.  Until recently, I was able to pick and choose the instructions I followed diligently and which I approached more lackadaisically.

Actually, now that I think of it, my general approach to instructions is lackadaisical. This probably explains why my husband intervenes when anything needs to be assembled. Especially things from Ikea. Ikea’s instructions are ridiculous. I am a quarter Swedish, I can state this without reproach.

The turning point on instructions came this past August, when Ava started kindergarten.  Actually, it started about five days before kindergarten, when the “new student” packet came home.  Included in this packet was page upon page of instructions—I was very overwhelmed. The momentum continued for the next three weeks when back-to-school-night came around and has hit a full-orchestra crescendo as we have approached the first progress report and parent/teacher conference. These instructions usually get sent home on astrobright paper that has been run through the school’s mammoth-sized copy machine and include such enlightening gems as: what they should eat, wear, do in their spare time, how they should write their lower case “k”s, what time they should arrive at school, which elements should be included in their drawing of their best friend, where they should hang their back packs, how they should wash their hands, what color pants they should wear if they are going to be a pilgrim, what color shirt they should wear if they are going to be a Native American.

To me, all of this instruction and wasted paper seems like total overkill. I spend a lot of time feeling as if I am stuck in a video loop of The Wall watching the kids neatly lined up walking like comatose droids from one room to the other. Never mind the fact that I’m not organized enough to keep all of these stupid details straight in my head—a problem that is exacerbated by my natural aversion to list-making.

Luckily for me, Ava seems to be soaking it all up—even assimilating easily into the world of “living according to instructions”.  I have even suffered the indignity of being corrected by her when I have sidestepped the instructions.

I’m sure this will all change once fifth grade arrives and the door slamming, eye rolling, and “you don’t know anythings” begin. But for now, I will continue to sift through the mountain of bright orange paper and continue relying on Ava to remind me which day is library day.

Fast forward (gulp) twenty years. My oldest has started her public school career with her Scooby Doo lunchbox in one hand and her Tinkerbell backpack in the other. Kindergarten. So cute, so full of wonder, so full of…of…

Joining.

Ugh.

This joining primarily takes the form of the school’s PTO. As a “kinder parent” (this is apparently my new status classification), I had three pages of volunteer opportunities to choose from as a way of solidifying my standing as an “involved mother”. I say “mother” because at my first PTO meeting there was exactly one father present. He was the chair of the audit committee.

My husband thought I was a nutjob for showing up for the first PTO (parent teacher organization) meeting. I wasn’t feeling well. I was tired. And, he and I had nearly killed a bottle of wine during dinner before the 7 PM meeting. Nonetheless, I dragged myself there. To be fair, I knew what I was getting myself into. I had experienced a hearty warm up the previous year at Ava’s preschool. Her preschool offered a very active Parent Committee available for all my volunteering pleasure.

As a joining-adverse teenager and young adult (I never rushed a sorority, either), I developed a healthy skepticism for joiners. As an adult, this manifested itself as a mistrust of overly energetic, eager-to-please, unnervingly nice, accommodating women. Don’t get me wrong, they are all perfectly nice. Too nice. I mean, I get it. But, it makes me crazy and more than just a little uncomfortable. The meetings seem to take just a little too long…too much conversation about things that (during my workday) would take about a third as much time to resolve. I get the feeling that everyone is working really hard not to offend anyone. Let’s face it, I don’t fit in. I don’t get them. I don’t know why they feel the need to one-up each other about who can pick up the most corn stalks for the Harvest Festival decoration. Where do you even buy corn stalks? The country?

Despite all of this I joined.

Here’s why…

First, I think it is important to establish early on who make up the “Queen Bees” of the parent volunteer corps. These Bees have excellent information and lots of opinions. They don’t usually have a sense of humor and would be hard pressed to use the word “fuck”. Nonetheless, they are a force to be reckoned with—and can be really helpful to new parents trying to find their way. Truthfully, they can be a bit scary. I am still undecided as to whether or not this intimidation factor is intentional. Usually, they have been around for a while, so they won’t likely join the “kinder parent” social circles. But, who knows…a new friendship might develop. Not likely. But possible.

The second reason I joined was because I think it’s important to figure out early in the year my personal pain threshold for volunteering. Boundaries are important, even when it comes to your kid’s school. So, getting involved early gives you more choice (i.e. “I will help with the Harvest Festival in the fall because the spring auction conflicts with an important work meeting”). This is a necessity for a busy working mom who has to squeeze this volunteering in around conference calls, business trips, and staff meetings (i.e. me). Waiting too long, limits your choices, and may lead to latent guilt about not helping out sooner.

Finally, I joined for my daughter. I wanted her to see that joining can help make the experience of school more fun. You are more invested. You feel more connected. You probably care a little more.

I don’t want her to be the only kid on the kindergarten playground reading Jack Kerouac by herself in a corner.

So, as you stop to gaze up at Scorpio rising, or check out Venus in the early morning sky, or watch for a large Harvest Moon…think of me, not Neil Armstrong. I am the real hero. I’m the one with bags under my eyes wondering how a kid who falls asleep at 11:49 pm has the nerve to awaken bright-eyed at 5:21 am the next morning.

I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to stop by to visit my 25 year-old daughter and catch her shoving Twinkies in her face while watching a marathon of re-runs of Saved By the Bell.

I was a history major in college. History is a very useful major if you like history. As a history major, you can count on a couple of truths. The first truth is that you will be constantly barraged with the same question over and over: “Oh, are you planning to teach high school history?” As if to imply that there was something bizarre about teaching high school history. I am not a high school history teacher, by the way. The second truth is that, while in college, history majors read about 300 pages each week. Three hundred is a lot of pages. While the science majors groan and complain about hours in the lab, scoffing at the “social science workload”, history majors toil throughout the night, developing intense caffeine addictions, all the while attempting to emblaze ancient royalty lineage in their memories. Or, creating intricate outlines of political and social timelines and historical triggers—all in a pitiful attempt to keep straight historical details, sure to be forgotten by the time the next semester rolled around. The best history professors always included fiction or other period-specific writing. Although this little exercise in social context is great teaching method, these novels just add more pages to the 300-pages-and-counting weekly requirement.

And, as Charlie Brown would say…RATS!