Why I Deserve My Mommy Wine…And So Do You

First came The Wine Sisterhood, Girl’s Night Out, Working Girl Wines, and Little Black Dress: sassy wines with snazzy labels targeting the growing women’s wine market. Then came Mad Housewife, Mommy’s Time Out, and Mommy Juice: wines marketed towards not just women but {gasp} Mothers.

Why are Mommy Wines such a hot button issue?

The big brouhaha is over Mom wines has me in a sober stupor. I was overjoyed the first time I ever spotted a bottle of Mad Housewife as I pushed my shopping cart full of toilet paper and a testy toddler through my local grocery store. It might as well have been illuminated by a ray from heaven. How did they know I was a mad housewife? They must have made it just for me. I immediately popped a bottle of chardonnay in between the applesauce and fruit snacks even though it blew my grocery budget. I didn’t care. I deserved a treat too.

Now, don’t worry. I didn’t rush home, leave the groceries in the trunk and plop Kiddo in a playpen in front of Baby Einstein while I cracked open the bottle and downed it in one goldfish bowl-sized glass. Relax. I am a responsible parent. I am an adult. And I am not an alcoholic. But I did enjoy a glass later while I cooked dinner.

And yes, my child was still awake.

And yes, he sees my husband and I enjoy a glass of wine on a regular basis.

And I think that is just fine.

I do not understand the whole viewpoint stating children should never see a mother enjoy a glass of wine. Beer is marked directly to dads. It is perfectly acceptable for fathers to sit and watch the game or hang by the bbq grill with a frosty beer in hand.

This Father’s Day cake from our local grocery store is a perfect example of the double standard.

Dad + beer = good

but

Mom + wine = unacceptable?

I do agree that kids should not see their parents acting like drunken fools. I’m not talking about downing a bottle while watching Sponge Bob with the neighborhood kids. Wine should not be the beverage of choice for an afternoon playdate. But there is nothing wrong with savoring a glass of wine with dinner, even in front of the children.

So many average Americans just don’t understand the culture of wine. It’s in no way a beverage to chug just to get drunk. It is a delicacy to savor, to swirl in a glass to release the aroma, to sip while enjoying each variety’s layered and distinctive flavor. Wine has a unique relationship with food; when properly paired with a dish (be it calamari or cheesecake) it enhances the complex flavors of both the food and the wine.

It’s no wonder Europeans think Americans are so uptight. Wine is not taboo across the pond; instead it is a common beverage to drink with meals. Many children are given watered down wine from a young age in order to develop their palate and an appreciation for the taste. Growing up in Germany, my mother’s primary school took field trips (including tastings) to the local wineries. Wine and the art/science of winemaking is a vital part or their culture, industry, and life. {Calm down, I’m not advocating doing that here, just loosen up a bit, please.}

We have all heard about how numerous studies have shown moderate consumption of red wine is good for your heart but it also has some other benefits.

Red wine can rev up a woman’s sex life: An Italian Research study found that women who were moderate red wine drinkers had a higher libido than those who drank other alcoholic beverages or who abstained. (Women who drank more than two glasses were no included in the study so drunkenness would not influence results.)

Wine is good for your waistline: Reuters reported trim middle-aged women who drink moderately (red wine especially) are more likely to maintain their weight as they age opposed to non-drinkers.

And in our home wine is also beneficial to our sanity. Many nights when Hubby finishes working at his stressful job he joins me in the kitchen while I cook dinner. We listen to music and sip on a glass of wine as we discuss our hectic days. It is a ritual: we bid adieu to our accumulated stress and relax as we enjoy each others company. Hubby’s doctor actually told him that a daily glass of wine keeps his blood pressure down and keeps him off Prozac.

Before children we relished going to wine tastings and preparing gourmet wine paring dinners with friends. At one time we had a moderate collection of decent wines, but my choice to stay at home with Kiddo limited our wine budget significantly. We still crack open a good bottle to celebrate birthdays, holidays, good news and to share with great friends. But if we ever win the lottery we will have a fully stocked and rocking wine cellar. No more cheap wine for us.

We have always been label whores. Wine purchases are often made not by the WA Points but by unique and funny names and labels. And as a woman and a Mom I am drawn to the labels that reflect my lifestyle: Mommy Wines. They are unpretentious, engaging, and a bit tongue-in-cheek, just like me.

Yes, I understand that some people out there are alcoholics or just do not know when to say when. But the rest of us should not be judged by their behavior. I am an adult. I am a responsible parent. And I enjoy wine.

Yes, I deserve a bottle of Mommy wine. Not because my life is so damn hard I need to get drunk, but because I deserve to be recognized as a responsible and respectable wine consumer.

Keep bringing those beautiful bottles on.

Syndicated on BlogHer Today

The "C" Word

Baby Girl’s Third Leg

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I sat on the table, the paper crinkling under my slowly expanding bottom, my hands clenched at my sides. The lights were dimmed as the tech squeezed a cold blob of goo onto my abdomen. It was time for my 16-week ultrasound.

It was time for me to see who was growing inside me.

I was nervous as hell, as was to be expected. Pregnancy #1 hadn’t gone to well and had ended after only 11 weeks. This little girl was sticking around though, I knew it, I could feel her strength, I could see my belly slightly expanding, I could imagine her tiny hair follicles growing into downy strawberry blonde curls.

I just needed to see her and she would be real.

The tech smiled as she angled the ultrasound wand around. “Looking good,” she said. My little princess measured at the perfect size for her e.d.d., her little heart was pumping away, her profile looked a bit like an alien, but so what. She was doing okay.

“Do you want to know the sex?” the tech asked.

Hell yes. I was not going to buy all green and yellow clothes for her. I needed to break out all my old Barbies, stuffed animals, and Cabbage Patch Kids to decorate her room. I needed to make a final decision on the nursery set. I needed to have those little knit Mary Jane booties sitting in her drawers waiting for her delicate feet.

I squeezed Hubby’s hand as shivers ran down my spine. “Yes, tell us,” I gushed.

“Congratulations. It looks like you are having a boy.”

My smile dropped faster than boobs after breastfeeding. Did I hear hear right? No freakin way. IT CAN’T BE A BOY! Hubby reached down and gave me a hug, looking so proud of himself for possessing masculine sperm.

“Are you sure?” It was early. How could she be so sure?

She pointed out the painfully obvious fifth appendage on the image.

What’s worse: a girl with three legs or a boy?

I wasn’t sure.

I pasted on my dazed country club smile {no teeth and glazed over eyes} and held it together long enough to reach the parking lot. Then I proceeded to collapse as I broke into hysterical tears.

I can’t have a boy. I was always supposed to have a girl. I don’t have any brothers. I have no clue what to do with a boy. He won’t play dolls, or wear cute dresses and pig-tails while playing with My Little Ponies. He’ll pee standing up and stick bugs up his nose and fight and like sports and comic books and want me to buy him playboys when he’s a teen. I can’t do this. I’M SUPPOSED TO HAVE A GIRL.

Somehow I made it to work. I sat in the lunchroom like a zombie clutching the ultrasound in my lap, just staring at the alien creature growing inside me. A co-worker asked me who’s picture it was. Her eyes grew wide when I said it was mine–I had yet to even announce I was pregnant. She whooped and attracted everyone’s attention when I said it was a boy. Congratulations and well wishes flew around the room like a swarm of mosquitoes. In the end, I was emotionally drained.

Don’t worry. By the time my son was born I was completely sold on the whole boy thing. I wouldn’t have it any other way. But I needed a little time to get used to the idea. Much better to break down in an empty parking lot than the delivery room, right?

This post was in response to one of Mama Kat’s writing prompts:
Barefoot and hormonal…describe an incident that upset you when you were pregnant, but now looking back makes you laugh.

A Year of 1st Grade Edumicaton…

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School is OUT for summer. And no one is happier than my Kiddo. He is smart, sharp, and houses an entire ant colony in his size seven shorts. I can now stop threatening to duct tape him to a chair so he can finish his homework and mute the constant lectures about practicing verbal self control.

Kiddo brought home backpacks full of his leftover school supplies, massive amounts of foamy crafts, and his End-of-Year Journal. Yes, after cupcakes, Skittles, and party games he had to sit down and fill in 20 pages of school year memories.

Yeah, right. His a hyper-child on a sugar rush. He filled in those blanks as fast and frantically as his frosting-caked fingers would allow.

The unedited (and yes, it looks uneducated, but he can spell and write normally, I swear!) results:

Let’s hope he doesn’t major in education–lazy teachers of the world unite!

What kid’s favorite subject ISN’T recess? Really. (We know it’s not handwriting or spelling.)

Yes, that’s a boy. Math, science, listening, self control, subtract and add. A girl’s would have said pretty handwriting, reading, gossip, & Bieber.

Forget about learning to READ this year. It’s a good day when he doesn’t get checks for those not listening and practicing verbal self control. He’s going to make a fabulous husband someday.

Well, if he WAS rich then he COULD buy all the Legos in the world. Or maybe just Legoland.

And he’s in love with his teacher. But he still doesn’t listen to her.

At least he’s consistent, considering he still doesn’t listen to me.

He doesn’t need to LEARN anything next year, it just needs to go by faster.

Thank you to my dear friend who introduced my boys to country music. Kiddo has been walking around singing Zac Brown’s Chicken Fried for a year now.

And the Toes song as well. He thinks if he’s singing a song he can say “ass.” Thanks.

He also presented us with his award for “Funniest Boy” in his class. Yeah, I’m in trouble…

Where to Find Me Today

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Today I’m making a quick appearance over at the fabulously funny Kelley’s Break Room. Come on over and see how well you can do on another enlightening round of Name That Job.

See you there!

Cheers.
VB

Road Trip: Costa Rica and the Oh My God Bridge

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Costa Rican road trip day 4: a supposedly “relaxing” journey from the Arenal Volcano to the Pacific paradise of Manual Antonio. Hubby and I were crazy enough to drag a 5-year-old through a Third World Country for an adventure of a lifetime. Our ride was a manual 4 x 4 Diahtsu Bego, which is a Central American version of a Kia Sportage or basically a tin can on wheels. But it was a gutsy little tin can; it had already climbed rain drenched mountain roads and forded two rivers and a washed out bridge without a cough or a sputter. The same could not be said for me. Costa Rican Imperial beer was our reward for surviving each day…

A little background on the roads: there are no street signs or addresses in Costa Rica, no “highway” exits are marked, and the traffic lanes have this particular way of ending with absolutely no warning. Mountain roads consist of two of the narrowest lanes known to man smashed between a rock wall and a cliff. No guard rails. There can be two lanes then suddenly there is a one lane bridge with a several hundred foot drop on either side. Roads go from pavement to dirt without any rhyme or reason and the potholes are big enough to eat a small car. It took me a while to learn how not to wet my pants or scream as we traversed the treacherous “roads.”

We said goodbye to our beloved Volcano Lodge perched just below the constantly erupting Arenal Volcano and made a quick stop to collect some pumice stones and sand along the banks of the rainforest river. We spent a couple of hours cruising along the far side of Lake Arenal before settling down onto the flatter roads of the Central Valley. Troops of monkeys chattered in the trees above us, herds of cattle moseyed across the broken pavement, and powerful mountains puffed away in the distance.

Not long after lunch we were pulled over in a speed trap. We played the roles of stupid Americans as Hubby learned how to correctly bribe the Policia in a Third World Country. Perhaps a nearly sobbing wife and a cute 5-year-old smiling in the backseat helped us get off with only a $15 “fine” and a promise to slow down.

We broke for a pit stop at a little cafe by a large river. As I held my wiggling child with a vice grip we crept across a narrow concrete bridge as semis overflowing with logs and watermelons barreled past us only a foot away. Below us lay dozens of crocodiles: wild, fearsome, and really fricking big. As the massive trucks rumbled by I wondered if I would rather let us get plowed over by a semi or jump and take our chances with the crocs if I had to pick. I chose getting the hell off the bridge instead.

We dipped our toes in the Pacific for the first time on the beach of the famous surf town of Jaco. Tanned boys tamed massive waves against a breathtaking backdrop of cliffs and rainforest as we wandered between the cigarette butts and used condoms. Time to move on.

A little further South we pulled alongside a beach side bamboo shack shaded by coconut palms. We dangled our feet in the black sand as we sipped papaya smoothies and watched the waves roll in along the deserted Hermosa shore.

Kiddo sang Dave Matthews at the top of his lungs and hand surfed as we drove through lush palm oil plantations. There was no dvd player, no cartoons for amusement, just a new world passing by through the open windows. It was enough.

Traffic came to a sudden standstill. The road instantly narrowed to one lane. A lumbering metal structure caked with rust and age rose ahead of us. The bumpy asphalt ended, replace by jagged ancient wooden planks. We waited as cars and motorcycles bounced across the so called bridge, their shocks squealing in dire protest of the rugged conditions.

Oh my God.

An old pickup across the river flashed its headlights. It was our turn. Hubby revved it up to a whopping 10 km per hour. The old metal railroad trestle didn’t start for at least 25 feet. There was not even flimsy wooden rail separating us for our impending death in the river. The planks were spaced unevenly and there was not much clearance on either side of our narrow car, which I knew would crunch like a soda can if we fell off the bridge.

Oh my God, oh my God…

Strips of metal were laid across the boards in a few places where ruts wore the wood down to splinters. The car hit one with a resounding crash, jerking us up and down. In a few spots the wood was completely absent. I could see the river directly below.

Oh my freaking God…

My head hit to roof on the last violent buck. As we neared the end, patches of pavement were plopped around like blobs of play-dough over the worn wood. River grasses crowded the edge as we hit the solid pavement of the actual road with one final thwack. We had survived.

That was fun! Can we do it again? Kiddo cheered from the backseat.

Oh. My. God.

This post was in response to one of Mama Kat’s fabulous writing prompts. Check her out.

The Day I Decided TO BE

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To be, or not to be…

That was the question I asked myself as I decided who I would become as I made the transition from the hellacious world of middle school into high school. I was painfully shy, with only a handful of friends (other freaks and geeks), but smart. If you had seen me back then…actually, you wouldn’t have seen me. I was invisible, silent, never raising a hand even when I knew the answer, my nose hidden in a book as I waited for the late bell to ring. It was safer to be invisible, ignored by the poisonous vipers who roamed my school hallways looking for their next victim.

I decided a new school could equal a new life. I desperately wanted to shed my shyness like a husk of dried up scales and break out into high school flashing my new skin, shiny, beautiful, and effervescent. I talked myself into signing up for drama. I decided TO BE.

Of course, I doubted my rash act of bravery once I had my first significant drama piece in hand waiting to be memorized: Hamlet’s tormented To Be or Not To Be soliloquy. No need to start with the easy stuff, right?

Shakespeare and I had met just a few months before and he was rocking my 14-year-old world. It was challenging yet it was more beautiful than any written words I could ever have imagined. Even saying the name Shakespeare sounded like a lovely breeze sighing through my lips. I had a bit of a crush on Old Will.

I can picture myself lying on my childhood bed, the ceiling fan spinning lazily above me, the blue flowered curtains gently blowing in the humid afternoon breeze as I drilled those 276 words of Elizabethan English into my poor brain. With Webster’s Dictionary at my side I struggled to not only know the words, but to understand them, to feel them flow through my veins as if I was the tormented soul struggling to comprehend why we keep going through this often wretched life. It was rather apropos. It took several nights of fierce concentration, the phone ringer off, my current novel left untouched on the nightstand, to embed the piece into my soul.

The day of the performance I was a wreck. My palms sweat, my legs barely held me up in the hallways between classes, my knees bounced and knocked against my desk. I thought I would throw up for sure as the drama teacher called my name. It took the deepest breath I had gasped since the day I was born and slinked up to the make-shift stage. And I opened my mouth…

The classroom was filled with words, beautiful, powerful, and passionate flowing through the air. I didn’t just speak them, I lived them. They came out without thought or force but with a practiced cadence, clear and pure.

The piece was over before I knew it. The class erupted in applause. A scarlet blush flooded my cheeks as the adrenalin coursed through my veins. I had done it. And I had done it exceptionally well.

Two days later the drama teacher pulled me aside after class. One of the leads in the school play had dropped out–would I like the part? I said yes: to the play, to the part, and to a new chapter in my life. I was an actress.

To this day I can recite every word of Hamlet’s famous soliloquy by heart, although now it is just a cool party trick. Thanks Will, for everything…

Be all my sins remember’d.

This post was written in response to a writing prompt from The Red Dress Club: By Heart.

Rich, Dark, and Hunky—Chocolate Caramel Brownies

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Rich.

Decadent.

Dark. Hunky.

Sweet.

Easy.

Luscious.

Sounds like the perfect man, right? But it is far better than a man. It’s silent, scrumptious, doesn’t care what you look like and satisfies you anytime, anywhere. It’s one of my favorite comfort foods from childhood: my Mom’s Magic Camping Brownies.

Okay, so that title doesn’t quite give them the justice they deserve, so I shall explain. Growing up we didn’t have much junk food in our house–Oreos were not an after school snack nor did Fruit Loops ever grace our breakfast table (except on my birthday). But we always had dessert. Never a Ho Ho or a Twinkie, but a freshly baked portion of utter deliciousness.

Mom usually reserved these treats for special occasions and baked upon request for parties, school events, and the regular group camping trips. Forgetting the beer or even breakfast would have been forgivable, but we would have been fed to the alligators if we showed up without the famous brownies.

When I went away to college Mom sent them in care packages. What else could a college freshman possibly want when she woke up Saturday “morning” at 3 p.m. than to nibble on a little piece of gooey chocolate and caramel heaven. They were also popular at late night parties, and once, perhaps while a little intoxicated, I called them “Magic” brownies. The accidental misnomer excited the party-goers to a near frenzy to grab at the delectable morsels. They were only slightly disappointed when I insisted they were not, ah em, spiked with special herbs. But by then everyone was too busy reveling in chocolate ecstasy to really care and the name stuck.

Mom’s “Magic” Carmel Brownies

24 kraft caramels (7 oz) unwrapped
1 5 1/3 oz can (2/3 cup) evaporated milk
1 package devil’s food cake mix
1 cup chopped walnuts
6 tbsp. melted margarine
1 small bag (1 cup) chocolate chips

Combine all but 2 tbs. evaporated milk, cake mix, walnuts, and margarine; mix well (it will be thick).
Spread half the cake mixture in a well greased 13x 9x 2 inch pan.
Bake at 350 for 10 minutes.
Meanwhile, melt caramels and 2 tbs. evaporated milk in a small saucepan over low heat until smooth.
Sprinkle half the chocolate chips over the hot baked crust. Drizzle the melted caramel on top.
Drop the remaining cake mixture by spoonfuls all over the caramel and carefully try to cover as evenly as possible (it will still be lumpy).
Sprinkle the remaining chocolate chips on top.
Continue baking at 350 for 20 minutes more.
Cut into bars while still warm (but not hot).
Cool in pan.
Enjoy. If you don’t there is something wrong with you.

Hanging Mickey Mouse

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A long time ago in a fantasy land not too far away, there once was a college freshman who longed to escape from both the rigors of college coursework and the protective eyes of her parents for the summer. Some perky and persuasive recruiters combed her campus for the most fresh-faced, malleable, and all-American ~~slave labor~~ students to join their summer internship program. The competition was fierce, so this young and naive freshman pulled out her rows of earrings, wiped off her heavy eyeliner, swore her hair color was natural, and sweet talked the recruiters into paying her minimum wage to spend the summer at
THE HAPPIEST PLACE ON EARTH.

After spending eight weeks sweltering in the Sunshine State’s repressive heat and humidity, this soon-to-be-sophomore had finally ~~been released from indentured servitude and~~ graduated from the world-renown program. As her eyes glazed over from exhaustion, she reflected upon what knowledge she had gained through this highly coveted internship.

She gained an in depth knowledge of International Relations and how to peacefully cohabit with six people from five countries in one ~~cramped~~ charming, smoke-filled apartment. She discovered the French were the heaviest smokers and best cooks by far (and usually at the same time); Norwegians often paid for their extensive clubbing wardrobes and blonde highlights by supplying the International Village with any and every drug imaginable; the Germans and the English battled it out nightly for the fiercely contested title of world beer drinking champions; and much to the chagrin to all the roommates, some Internationals could not be taught to flush soiled toilet paper instead of depositing it in the trash can next to the loo.

She learned to ~~tune-out~~ tolerate the stupid tourists of the world. She was taught not to point but to gesture like a beauty queen waving on a float so she would not offend any foreign guests. As mobs of randy Brazilian youths exited from the Pirates of the Caribbean ride chanting “We wants the Redhead, We wants the Redhead” in her face, she learned how control her temper and not knee them in the groin. Eventually her conscience was numbed to the guilt of bilking a family of four out of a hundred bucks for cheap ponchos, a roll of film, and two plastic swords. She specialized in repressing snarky comments when at least fifty-nine overheated and under-deodorized guests per day asked, “What time is the Three O’clock Parade?” Vodka helped.

She discovered the magic was merely a carefully crafted facade, and nearly everyone in life was assigned a role to play. While sweating in her polyester pirate costume, she smiled and posed for photos with Japanese businessmen and hoped the images wouldn’t end up on bedside tables or the internet. She learned not to be shocked when she caught Tweedle Dum groping Alice or Tigger wandering wasted through the garbage-filled underground tunnels. She never looked at fairy tales the same after she caught Cinderella in her underwear, smoking a cigarette, and swearing like a drunken sailor. Childhood dreams are fragile and easily shattered.

After she carelessly shoved her hard-earned Mouster’s Degree into her luggage, she changed back into her own clothes and personality for the journey into the park to say her good-byes. She rode the shuttle bus to the park’s employee entrance for the last time and knowingly strolled to her former outpost. With the help of a few like-minded cohorts, she placed the tiny noose around the stuffed Mickey Mouse’s neck and let him dangle lifelessly in the air.

The dream was officially dead. She had graduated back into the real world.