The Best Kept Secret Blog - I'm A Bad Mom

My problem is that I peaked way too soon.

When my children were between the ages of newborn and five, I can say with some pride that I was an exceptional mom.

I can't quite remember all of the details now but I'm pretty sure I read War and Peace to my eldest when she was still in her crib, was such a frequent visitor at the museum that the staff knew me by name and without a word of a lie I was the "go-to-mom" at Mommy and Me group for advice on all things baby.

I loved my kids and they loved me and in their eyes I could do no wrong.

But as my children grow and get older, the things I'm good at (fort making) are valued less and less and the things I don't do particularly well (cooking) are becoming more and more important important to them.

With each passing day I worry that my children will view me as a failure as a mom and my status will diminish to that of "nuisance relative who lives with us and must be tolerated".

Now I know that you're scoffing and probably thinking to yourself, "Oh come on. You can't be that bad." But when I think of my own mother, a certain shoo-in if they ever establish a "Mother's Hall of Fame", I know I don't compare.

My mom had sayings, pearls of wisdom that we could live by.

When something went wrong, she would shake her head wearily and ask my brother and I, "Doesn't that jar your tomatoes?"

There was not a single day I left for school without her calling after me, "Don't take any wooden nickles."

To this day I haven't a clue what she was talking about but at least it was something to hang my hat on.

My children on, the other hand, frequently set off for school with something along the lines of "I may be a few minutes late picking you up. I'm getting together with the other moms for a glass of wine this afternoon."

My mother was a fabulous cook who kept a perfect house. I use a much different approach to housework that involves making the house look good without actually cleaning it. It would take too long to go into the details but if I had to pass on one tip I'd say keep the vacuum out at all times. No, of course don't use it. Just have it laying around so if friends pop by you can feign industry and tell them you were just about to go over the floors. Soon you'll get a reputation as "The clean one - the one who's always doing her floors."

And as I've already alluded to, I'm cooking challenged. How bad am I? My husband phoned earlier this week to let me know he'd be home late and to go ahead with dinner without him. As we were clearing the dinner things I told my children to make up a plate of leftovers for Dad because he enjoyed my home cooking so. I was certain the kids were going to pee their pants from laughing so hard.

Can you see now how I'm plagued by feelings of inadequacy as a mom? Occasionally I try to remedy things by reading a parenting book or two. But too often my good intentions just seem to backfire.

When I recently suggested we establish a "Sharing Hour" every Friday night (well intentioned suggestion from latest parenting book du jour), my eldest daughter just rolled her eyes in the way that only a pre-teen can do and asked, "Mom, have you been reading one of those parenting books again? For goodness sakes, stop this nonsense and hand it over."

I don't know. Maybe the standards are different these days and I shouldn't judge myself by what went on way back in yesteryear. And there are a few things I do around here that are particularly valued.

I'm the "go-to-girl" when an Internet connection problem rears it's ugly head. And if I think about it, there is one good piece of advice that I repeat now and then. "Don't be like the skinny white chicks." Translation: Don't try to fit some mould. Be yourself. It's much more interesting." And when it comes right down to it, no where in the scientific literature does it say Kraft Dinner three times a week is carcinogenic.

Maybe I'm not so bad after all. Like most of my peers, we may not be perfect but we're probably doing better than we think.

The Best Kept Secret Blog - If This Van's A Rockin'

I hate the van.

My husband made me buy it. "It's so practical," he enthused. "We can haul the kids, the dog, the groceries. Think how great it will be to have all that space."

Funny thing is, apart from weekend trips to Home Depot (Why is it that every Saturday morning he discovers we don't have the right size 2x4 for the project du jour? And while we're on it, what does "the right" 2x4" mean? He's trekked off to the hardware store to buy 2x4's for the past 38 weeks running? Do 2x4's come in different sizes?) he's not the one who drives the van.

So there I am, left driving "big Bertha", like half the other middle-aged moms in my neighbourhood. (The younger moms drive SUV's - same size, way more cachet.)

Now you may be wondering why I hate the van so very much. Ahhh, let me count the ways.

Number one, I can't park it if my life depends on it. Case in point.

Last Thursday afternoon, I had to run to the plaza to do our banking and buy some milk. Apparently so did everyone else in the neighbourhood. By the time I got there, the only parking spot left was, no lie, between two Mini's.

I considered my options. Either let the bank foreclose on our mortgage and allow the children's bones to atrophy before my very eyes or put on a spectacle like nothing that's ever been seen before as I attempt to park the van in such a tight spot. Tough choice.

After some consideration (okay, and much honking by the cars behind me), I decided to park. With more thought than goes into the landing of the space shuttle, I sized up the space and planned my approach: swing it far out then tight turn to the left.

Now for some reason, I find it easier if I get my entire body involved in the parking of the van. Not only do I use my arms to turn the wheel, I find myself rocking and swaying in the direction I want the van to go. Before long, I looked like I was suffering from a severe neurological disorder as I tried to manoeuvre the van into place.

I broke into a sweat. And when I looked up for a moment, I noticed a small crowd had gathered, eager to see if I could actually pull this off. Certain I would ding one of the adjacent cars, I prayed the Mini owners weren't among the onlookers.

By some miracle bestowed upon me by the automobile gods, I was actually able to wedge the van between the two smaller cars. I glanced at it in triumph as I strode to the bank, only to be dismayed by what I saw. Which leads me to number two on my list of things I hate about the van.

The van is ugly.

If cars were people, the Mini's would be Audrey Hepburn and the van would be Roseanne Barr.

Number three, the van isn't cool.

How well I remember attending a function at the Toronto Board of Trade this past summer. It was a hot and steamy night with rain dripping down the meeting room windows. As things wrapped up, a new acquaintance, whom I was hoping to do business with, remarked that she wasn't looking forward to waiting for a bus in the torrential rain that was coming down outside. (Hint, hint, she wanted a ride.)

I offered to drive her, hoping against hope that she'd turn me down. She accepted. What could I do but usher her to the van, shift assorted gum wrappers, parking receipts and overdue library books from the passenger side to the back seat and invite her to come in. I got her home safe and sound but funnily enough, I've never heard from her since.

Number four, the van doesn't fit the image I have of myself at this stage in life.

Now I'm not meaning to be pretentious but at 46 and counting, I feel like I've moved past the family van stage. I want to be like my friend L. who drives a Porsche.

While the van screams, "soccer mom", her Porsche whispers "Cougar". While the van flatly says "everyday practical", her Porsche seductively teases "fun and adventure". And where the van practically shouts "middle aged", the Porsche boldly announces "vibrant and young".

Practical one that I am, I know the van isn't going anywhere soon. It works. It does let us haul around a lot of stuff. And I particularly like it when I've loaded it up with my children and a gaggle of their friends. There are advantages to being the silent driver and listening in on their tween conversations.

I would just ask that you keep an eye out for me. If you see a silver van cruising the parking lot, looking for somewhere to stop, save yourself and steer clear.

And if you see my van parked by the side of the road, rocking from side to side, please don't pass by with a wink and a nudge. It's unlikely that hubby and I are enjoying a tryst in the back. Some of the 2x4's have probably shifted and we can use a hand.

The Best Kept Secret Blog - Pick Up In Aisle 5 - Handling Unwanted Advanced From Strange Men At The Grocery Store

A funny thing happened to me on my way to buy chicken.

As I cut through the mall en route to the grocery store, a zillion things raced through my mind. When could I get the dog to the vet? What should I make for dinner? Who would be the next person kicked off of American Idol? You know, the usual stuff.

Suddenly a handsome middle-aged man stopped me.

"It's a beautiful day, you should be smiling," he said.

My first thought was that I was being robbed. I clutched my purse tightly.

"A beautiful woman like you should be smiling, " he persisted.

Beautiful? Oooh, I like the sound of that. I don't care if he is a thief - he thinks I'm beautiful. I smiled.

"There, you see? That's much better." And he continued to chat on about the weather and smiling and where he was off to in the mall.

It was around this point that I really started getting confused. Why was this man talking to me? By now I'd decided that this well-dressed stranger probably wasn't interested in grabbing my purse in broad-daylight in a crowded mall. My mind began searching for other possibilities.

A sales promotion perhaps? He keeps mentioning my smile - maybe he wants me to participate in one of those mall research studies. I bet it's about toothpaste brands. But isn't it usually women in white lab coats holding clipboard who try to draw you in? Not good looking guys in polo shirts holding expensive sunglasses.

His next sentence snapped me out of my reverie. "So if I wanted to see you and your smile again, how would I do that?"

What?! Is he asking me to go out with him?

I struggled to digest this. I've been married for 20 years. The closest I've come to flirting with another man was when I showed a little leg to the plumber in hopes of getting a discount on the showerhead. Finally, I spoke.

"What?"

I noticed a look flicker across my suitor's face that seemed to say, "She may look okay but she's obviously daft. Maybe I should drop this." He tried again, speaking more slowly this time.

"So if I wanted to see you and your smile again, how would I do that?"

It's true - this guy really is trying to pick me up. Hoping to come across as chic and sophisticated, I replied. "I'm married. I have two kids. No!"

My wooer shrugged, wished me a good day and was off.

As the shock began to subside, a new emotion emerged. Glee. I'll be honest. Getting noticed like that was a real boost to the ego. I carried on to get groceries with a definite spring in my step.

I had to tell someone. I phoned my hot, single friend H. Surely this must happen to her all the time. She'd have some insight.

"A really good looking guy just tried to pick me up at the mall," I blurted into the phone.

"What did you do?" she wanted to know.

"I told him no thanks. That I was married."

"Why didn't you get his number for me?" she demanded.

"Do you think it's because I've been cutting back on carbs this week?" I speculated.

"Maybe," she mused. "Or maybe he was trying to get you to go to an Amway meeting. It could have been that."

I considered the possibility. Was I simply a mark in a pyramid sales scheme? No, I wouldn't believe it. I was staying with the theory that sister was lookin' good.

I was, in fact, so up on myself that I wasn't surprised when I noticed another man seeming to smile at me as I went through the checkout.

Yes, yes, I thought. I am hot today.

But when I smiled back, he didn't seem to notice. In fact, on closer inspection, he wasn't even looking at me. He was smiling at the customer in line behind me. His wife. He was waiting to help carry her grocery bags.

No matter. I had my little moment in the sun. And buying chicken will never be just buying chicken again.

The Best Kept Secret Blog - The Hair

I'm obsessing about the hair.

No, not the shoulder-length, long-layered, subtly high- and low-lighted coif that I currently sport.

I'm talking about "the" hair. I'm embarrassed to share this but I've grown one on the inside corner of my eye, right next to my nose.

It's not supposed to be there.

I just woke up one morning and bang, there it was. At first I thought it was some errant mascara or a little something left over from a sound night of sleep. But when rubbing and washing couldn't make the thing budge, I had a closer look.

And there it was. A hair.

It's been with me for more than a month now but every morning I check the mirror, hoping that somehow, miraculously, the thing's disappeared.

Some of you might wonder why it bothers me so. Well of course it bugs me and I'll tell you why.

Apart from the fact that all and sundry might question my personal grooming habits, it's just one more example of the strange things that happen each year as we age.

It starts with grey hair. At first there's shock upon finding the first silver strand mixed in among the brown.

"Is that a grey hair?" we wonder, partly surprised but more often amused. As if there's been some sort of mistake and, despite this strange freak of nature, once we pluck it, there will never be more.

But of course there are more and one day we realize that, if we were to pluck all the grey hairs from our head, we'd be more bald than Kojak. We acquiesce and root touch-ups become the new norm.

Perhaps what I resent most is the random and unpredictable nature of the whole thing. You never know when and where something is going to give or show up.

I've mentioned before my good friend MJ who spent 10 minutes washing a brown spot on her temple after arriving home from the hair dresser. "I thought it was hair dye but after ten minutes of scrubbing realized it was an age spot."

Is this what they mean by growing old gracefully? Surrendering to the little oddities that life throws our way? Or are we better served by fighting it tooth and nail?

I, for example, often ponder what to do about the hair. I've thought about plucking but frankly I'm scared it will hurt. And at the end of the day, I know it'll grow back.

No, I've decided that acceptance is key. And I'm trying to be strong and brace myself for whatever comes next - chin hairs, bat-wing arms or maybe elastic waste pants. At the end of the day I'm still me inside and there's much more to life than worrying about these things.

But just for the record, should we meet over lunch or a coffee one day, my left eye is my good one.

The Best Kept Secret Blog - Stuff Middle-Aged Women Like

Stuff White People Like is a quirky little blog that's causing a swirl in cyberspace these days. The blog's author, Christian Landers, is an ex-pat Canadian whose tongue-in-cheek insights give the white folk among us a good laugh at ourselves.

Enjoying his entries earlier this week, I found myself asking, "What kind of stuff do middle-aged women like?" Off the top of my head . . .

Menopause Stories
Possibly a continuation of the female bonding practice of swapping labour and delivery stories at Mommy and Me classes, ("My Brandon's head was the size of TWO watermelons!"), midlife women enjoy sharing the private details of the bodily changes associated with midlife.

In a winner-take-all classic game of one-upmanship, we strive to have the most horrendous tale to tell.

Consider this exchange:

Brenda: "So I was right in the middle of the meeting when I felt the hot flash coming on. I thought my face was going to burn off!"

Sue: "That's not as bad as what happened to me. I was doing a presentation to the people from the Vancouver office when I suddenly had a hot flash. I tried to nonchalantly peel off a few layers but by the end of the meeting, everyone was staring and there I was, down to my bra."

Brenda, in a quiet, yet vengeful aside to Roberta: "She thinks she's so hot! I know someone who was in that meeting and he told me she stopped at her camisole. "

Drinking Red Wine With Friends
Perhaps one of the midlife woman's greatest joys is sharing a glass or two of wine with her very best friends. Despite protestations to the contrary, ("I've got to get up early tomorrow") midlife women really do want that second glass of wine when offered by their hostess.

Not only does the midlife woman extol the numerous heart-health benefits afforded by a simple glass of Merlot, she knows that it's the quickest route to romping good fun with her friends.

7:00 pm - Midlife women arrive at the restaurant for a long awaited evening out with "the girls".
7:10 pm - First glass of wine is poured.
7:15 pm - Dinner order is placed and women chat about children, husbands and jobs. Secretly check-out each others outfits and hair.
7:40 - Meal arrives and second round is poured. Decibel level rises as more and more sentences start with the phrase, "Do you know what I can't stand?" Additional bottle of wine is ordered.
8:10 - One dessert/four forks are ordered along with more wine.
8:30 - Women are loudly trading "too much information" stories about their husbands when one member of the group trips on her way to the bathroom. Women find this uproariously funny.
9:00 - Recently divorced S. is egged on by others to see if she can catch the eye of 22-year-old male hottie seated at the bar.
9:15 - Women climb into cabs with hugs and declarations that this was the best time they've ever had.

Oprah Winfrey
Fed up with the impossibly high standards Martha Stewart and her ilk set for us and our homes during our 30's, midlife women are now embracing the equally high standards Oprah Winfrey is setting for the rest of our lives.

From Orman to Oz, book clubs to Big Gives, Oprah's the guiding light we look to as we navigate our mid-years.

If you're one of the few who a)doesn't like Oprah or b)is too busy with, say, life, to catch her show, we recommend you at least learn the basics of "Oprah speak" so you can seamlessly blend in at any gathering of midlife women (book club, gym, scrap-booking night and the like).

Here are a few examples:

If you're feeling left out when you're having coffee with your friends and everyone seems to be complaining about their midlife aches and pains, roll your eyes heavenward and declare to all who are listening, "Oh, my aching va-jay-jay."

Feeling a little catty after too many rum and eggnogs at the holiday office party? Point out any female colleague who's sporting dreaded 1970s era holiday sweater and announce to equally catty co-workers, "Look at Phyllis in that sweater. What a Schlumpadinka!"


Stay tuned. . .