I Don't Get It: Men's Figure Skating Wardrobes

I can appreciate athleticism, strength, grace, speed and some wicked loops and lutz's. I can sort of appreciate that there are men who want to skate/dance around on the ice in a non-hockey sort of way. I in no way begin to understand what some of those men wear.

I am assuming male figure skaters have a say in what is worn while performing on the ice, that their costumes are not being strapped or zipped onto them against their will. I don't think their coaches use the skaters' potential outfits as punishment for a few bad practices... but then the questions remains, wha-a-a?

You'd think skaters would be concerned with aerodynamics, and practicalities like not having fluffy bits blowing into their faces while they fly down the ice sideways. And you'd think at least half of these guys' mothers would just throw down a mommish "You are not leaving the house in that.". Instead, I'm seeing vinyl, spandex, tulle, lace, sequins, and polyester, in odd configurations, with ties, puffy sleeves, high layered collars, and other parts for which there are no names, but for which I'm demanding an explanation.

Hot pink bungee cords. Wide bands of black feathers. Patches of leather in the strangest of places. Shirts open to the navel over chests that are winter-in-London-white or at best, pale pink... this stuff is not winning anyone any medals. An actual costume, that goes with a theme or story that allows skate-ability without being distracting, okay. An ensemble that looks like it was decoupaged on by a pack of hyper three year-old girls, not so much.

Double axel and salchow your hearts out, boys. Maybe just grab something to wear from Target.

Having a Moment

Being the mom of a special needs child means ups and downs enough to give you whiplash. Here's an up and a down all mixed in one:

I was putting a video on for Noah, and he was looking at me, super present, smiling. You have to grab these moments with a kid like Noah because a lot of the time he keeps to himself or does his own thing.

Me: "Guess what?"

Noah: "Guess what?" back to me, looking me right in the eye, which doesn't always happen. A sweet, rare Mother-Son moment with my boy, I was thinking.

Me: "I love you so much, Noey."

Noah: "WOMBAT???"

Yup. That was our moment.

Mr. DeMille, I'm Ready For My Tantrum

This morning I wondered if I had somehow accidentally wandered into the same hole Alice fell down where she met all those crazy people. But then I thought no, no, this is much much worse.

My sweet Duncan, who was a perfect 2 year old that did nothing but make me laugh, has morphed into a 3 year old Godzilla of the scaleless variety. He is still hilarious and sweet, he's just taken that up part-time of late.

Without getting into all the gory, sweaty, tear-filled details, there was a tantrum in Costco this morning, the likes of which will rarely ever be seen again. Duncan took off behind something where I could not see him, for the second time in as many stores. The first time, he was met with an immediate consequence, scooped up, put back into the cart and a firm but calm reminder was given about why that's not ok. He understood. The child is beyond bright. Genius verging on diabolical. But then he did it again.

He was scooped up, placed in the much roomier Costco cart, and again I started to explain why and what was going to happen (an extended stay in his room once we were home). But that was when he cracked.

See, when we go to any store, he knows there's the possibility of some kind of snack being a part of the trip (a blessing and a curse at Target where little kids can get a free cookie from the bakery on every visit, and he knows it), and at Costco, often we luck out and he gets a few free samples. On occasion, on particularly storybook errand days, there's the possibility of a churro or some pizza. Well today, as it turns out, he had been silently gunning for a churro, something I was let in on once he was screaming bloody murder and wildly shaking the cart like it had something to do with his misfortune. The rest of the shoppers were also duly informed. That is if they could understand Tantrum Kidese, where everything's loud, but none of the words are quite finished: "AAAAAAAAH WAAAAAAAAAAH A CHUUUU-RRO!" (you'll have to imagine the volume, brain-piercing.).

I kept shopping, ignoring him. Marley sat in petrified silence. He went for nearly 25 minutes, from start to finish. I might have been impressed if I wasn't so embarrassed and mad.

It was in the car that he finally realized it was over. Churro-less and with his mommy no longer speaking to him, he dissolved. He asked me to help him buckle his car seat, in a little voice, lip quivering, remorseful tears welling up over the angry ones. We used the drive home to recover. He still had to go to his room (but not for the original 3 days I had been planning on), and now is happily playing with trains in the kitchen.

I guess I should have known this day was coming. Tantrums are sort of a right of passage. It was just never supposed to happen with my kids. And guessing by the looks from some people while going through the checkout line, it never did happen with their kids. Uh-huh.