I Will Not Allow My Kids to Drown Me in Paper

I feel kinda bad throwing out my kids' artwork, I really do. But it's not as if I can keep EVERYTHING. Especially with this bout of cold of weather we've been having (yeah, it's called winter). All that indoor recess at my son's school equals dozens of flip books, paper monsters, and paper airplanes being brought home. Mountains of paper! And it's not even the good kind of paper, it's that thin, highly-rippable manilla crap public schools can afford love.

And then there's the junk masterpieces my little princess brings home from preschool. All I can say is, thank goodness she only goes three days per week.

I try to be sneaky about throwing their stuff out. I shove it way in the back of the recycling bag we've always got going. But inevitably, my son, who's an epic trash collector (he's about one bad-parenting episode away from growing up to be "Hoarders" material), will notice the corner of bright red paper peeking out from behind the truck-load of newspaper.

"HEY! WHY ARE YOU THROWING AWAY THE PAPER AIRPLANE/MONSTER/GIANT SQUID/GERM I MADE?"

Sigh.

So out it comes to live another day, adding to the general squalor of our family room, and getting increasingly wrinkled and ripped until it's sufficiently forgotten about (or, as is more likely the case, replaced by 10,000 newer pieces of junk) that I can shove it back into the recycling bag. But this time I make sure to push it way, way down to the bottom so no telltale red is visible to my son's eagle eyes.

Seriously, how is it that he can't find his socks lying in the middle of the family room when I'm screaming at him to get dressed in the morning so he doesn't miss the bus, but he can detect a millimeter of red paper poking out over the newspapers in a bag all the way across the room?

I've heard of selective hearing, but now apparently there's selective seeing, too.

Hey, I'm not a monster. I keep some stuff. But unlike some moms who are all, "OH, THIS IS THE MOST PRECIOUS THING EVER BECAUSE MY GIFTED, PERFECT CHILD CREATED IT!" I'm able to see things as they really are.

And fruit of my loins or not, my kids can make some crap.

So while this gorgeous piece of art my son created (which I love so much I went so far as to frame it--see? I'm not horrible) that helps me recall the beauty of spring when it's 10 degrees outside is a keeper:

This one is not:

Sure, it's purty, but if your kid cranked out masterpieces the way mine does, you'd be choosy, too. So, goodbye, colorful leaf!

And this drawing by my daughter that might just look like a bunch of scribbles to you, but which is actually an adorable rendition of the My Little Pony pegasi Rainbow Dash and Fluttershy (notice the wings?) is a keeper:

(I especially love the way she runs out of room for her name and is just like "screw it" and puts the "TTE" at the beginning. Note to any pregnant ladies out there: think long and hard before you give your child a name that's longer than five letters, because it's just cruel.)

This one, however, is destined for the circular file:

Yeah, it's cute and all. But what does it tell about my daughter, really? That she can use a glue stick and make a couple of scribbles, that's what. Adios, Elmer Elephant!

I just hope I'm not scarring them for life.

Cold-Hearted B!#ch

For the past few years, I've volunteered to set up the annual art show display for my daughter's preschool. The first time I did it, I had no idea what I was doing. It took me hours and hours to get the artwork up on the library walls, but I still ended up affixing them so lamely that all the little snowmen the toddlers had created began popping off the walls during a magic show at the library the next day. As a blizzard of snowmen fell on the poor magician's head, I broke down in tears. I was mortified and exhausted. It took me yet more hours to put the artwork back up. I cried more.

Well, it's art show time again. I joked to my husband, "I hope I'm not reduced to tears again this year!" His response was something like, "Really? You actually cried? Something got through to that cold heart of yours?" Did I really just hear my husband of almost nine years call me a cold-hearted bitch?

cold-hearted (KOHLD-HAR-tid) adj. lacking sympathy or warmth; indifferent; unkind

Paula Abdul sang about a cold-hearted snake in 1989.



My husband is one of the nicest people you'll ever meet. He wasn't trying to be mean, he meant it as joke. But you know how they say all jokes have an element of truth to them?

I was shocked. And a little offended. Did I show it? Of course not, because us cold-hearted bitches don't show emotion. I just laughed, said "Ha. Yeah," and changed the subject.

But just because we CHBs don't wear our hearts on our sleeves doesn't mean we don't feel stuff. So, yes, I was a little hurt. But just a little, because, eh, it's not as if I don't know I can be cold. My dear hubby isn't the first person to point this out to me. But am I actually cold inside? Sappy commercials make me cry, so I'd say no. However, I'm definitely less emotional than the majority of women I know (and a big chunk of the men, too).

But whether I'm really cold inside or that's just the way I come across is irrelevant. Because if others perceive me that way, then for all intents and purposes I'm a CHB.

And you know what? I'm fine with it. Instead of feeling hurt when someone snubs me, I get angry (sometimes I also get even). If my husband were to forget our anniversary (hasn't happened yet), I'd be all, "Whatever." Do I pout if I don't get romantically wined and dined on Valentine's Day? Ugh, no, I'll pass, thanks.

It's true I'm not the warmest person on Earth. Yes, I've been known to offend people with my lack of sensitivity. But it's not like I do it on purpose. I'm not a mean person. I'm friendly (okay, friendly-ish) and caring. I love my family and am loyal. I try really hard to be a good friend, and I think I succeed more often than not. I'm an affectionate mother and tell my kids I love them at least five times a day.

But sometimes, my reactions and responses can, I guess, leave something to be desired in the warmth and sympathy departments.

Do I wish I was a warmer and fuzzier person? I guess. But I don't think I can change it. I have tried...but often I just don't see what other people see. Instead of seeing a person aching for a little sympathy, I see a whiner. Instead of seeing someone who is overwhelmed, I see someone who isn't trying hard enough. Instead of viewing "The Notebook" as romantic, heart-warming entertainment, I consider it torturous drivel.

Have I offended anyone? I certainly hope not. But if I have?

Eh, I'll survive.