When the wind blows every leaf from the neighborhood onto my lawn and my wool sweaters beg to be dry cleaned, I know it’s time. Time for winter. Time for the holiday season. The season for hats and hot chocolates. The season for skates and skis. And, God bless, the season for stress eating. This year, as soon as the hint of burning chimneys reach my nose, I find myself in the pantry looking for leftover Halloween candy. Rifling through the freezer for frozen pizza. And piling whipped cream over every freaking hot beverage known to man. I know I’m not an animal. I’m a human being. But something in me tells me it’s time to hibernate for the winter. Meaning it’s time to stress eat.

Stress eating does something miraculous for my sanity. Please don’t spoil it for me. Because, as long as I exercise here and there, I feel I can justify the expansion of my thighs a little longer.

Here’s a fun link to my favorite winter beverage on a stick.

The other day, some girlfriends and I started trading “Motherhood was toughest for me when” stories. One friend, who I will call Kelli, admitted that when her kids were infants, she felt like she was going stir crazy. “They weren’t even talking to me yet. Being home full-time just wasn’t right for me.” That’s when Kelli decided she was a better mother when she worked. (Later on, she was able to work part-time, which made everything balance out.) Another friend who I will call Lila admitted that she adored those hibernating infant years, but when she eventually went back to work full-time, something didn’t feel right. “Seeing the sitter take my daughter everywhere killed me.” Lila eventually started working from home part-time, giving her the best of both worlds.

Another mom who I will call Dara worked as an attorney for years. Had Dara not quit for good when she decided to be a mom, there would have been no way she could balance it all with her two kids. I could go on and on (and I will eventually, believe me) about my experience as a working mother. The bottom line is I’m at my best when I’m working from home part-time. That’s where I feel like Jackie. That’s where I feel the most balanced. If my kids are sick, I can stay home with them without feeling guilty that I’m missing work. I can walk them to the bus stop, pick them up from school, and never miss a practice. When I was working full time, the pressure of missing work for a practice or coming in early so I could leave early for a pediatrician appointment was emotionally and physically draining. I have to hand it to those moms who work full-time, I don’t know how you do it. I don’t know how I did it! I can’t tell you how much stress I carried on my daily commute. But I’m happy to say that although I still have my days, I’m much happier today as a work-from-home-mom. (And I think my boss is a pretty cool lady.)

At what point did I let Granny panties pass as everyday panties? Granny panties, period panties, Nana panties. Call them what you want, but I know you know what I’m talking about. I realize many of you wear adorable matching panties and bras every day of the week and probably can’t believe I’m writing about this. Eff-it, I’m 40. Deal with it. For the moms who have given up on looking cute underneath it all, I know I’m not alone. You reach a point as a mother where you just say, it is what it is. “I’ve taken a shower, I’ve sprayed my outfit with Fabreze. This pair of panties from the clean clothes pile will have to do.” Now, I believe in working out and staying in shape (aside from good health, I work out so I can eat more and make room for my kids’ leftovers). I also promise myself to take a shower every day. But when it comes to unattractive and mismatched undergarments, I take the cake more than I care to admit. I do try. I have bought some expensive matching under-outfits through the years. I wash them and wear them here and there. But some of the prettiest bras stay tucked neatly inside my drawer for months on end, never to be paired with panties that at least fall in the same color family. I loathe going to that bra store in the mall where there are skinny 20-somethings donning Triple D matching bras and tanks searching the display drawers for the perfect thong. For some reason, they are almost always with their boyfriends and five girlfriends. They are all searching for thongs. Honey, let me tell you and your five girlfriends something. I haven’t worn a thong in 11 years. I’ve tried. But if you dare make me laugh or ask me to jump up and down while I have one on, don’t think I won’t drive home and slap on a pair of mismatched granny panties just so I can feel more comfortable. You reach a certain point when you become a mother where something has to give. Every Monday, my bra and panties match. Sometimes on Tuesdays too. But by Thursday afternoon, I’m sporting a look underneath it all that makes Tootsie look sexy.

This is an old article about what your panty style says about you, and yes, Granny panties are in here.

Sometimes movie critics are a little too critical. A couple years ago, a film came out about a New York City stay-at-home mom. Did I mention that Uma Thurman plays the main multi-tasking mom character? The movie, Motherhood, may have bombed in both England and America, but there were several scenes that hit pretty close to home for this mom. (Except for the fact that Uma has no body fat and can make unwashed hair look fabulous.)

Check out this clip (from Motherhood starring Uma Thurman (who I once saw walking in the Meatpacking District of Manhattan. And yes, I tried to keep my cool by not staring at her, but I did giggle and point behind her back like a star-struck school girl turned dorky mother.)

If you’re curious about Elimination Communication or want to test your infant with this trend, (God help you) here’s some more background for you.

I was at the local library with my kids recently, checking out the periodicals in the children’s reading room when I came across a magazine headline, “To Catch a Pee: A Diaper Free Infancy”. You read that correctly. A Diaper Free Infancy. A toilet training practice known as Elimination Communication. Have you ever heard of this? Let me break it down into Wikipedia terms for you. Elimination communication is a toilet training practice in which a caregiver uses timing, signals, cues, and intuition to address an infant’s need to eliminate waste. Caregivers try to recognize and respond to babies’ bodily needs and enable them to urinate and defecate in an appropriate place (e.g. a toilet). (As if the toilet is not an appropriate place.) I mean, really? A life without diapers sounds great, until you get down to the part where you need to hold your newborn over the toilet every time he makes a face. Have these people not heard of diapers – in the convenient disposable and cloth varieties? Can you imagine trying this with your newborn, when you’ve had 2 hours of sleep in a 48-hour span and still feel like your vagina has been hit by a lawn mower? Sorry, friends. This woman tried cloth diapers at the beginning and then went on to use disposable ones due to a variety of reasons. I understand that EC may be a common practice in other countries where diapers are not a part of their culture. Even if I had won the Lottery the year my son was born, didn’t need to work every day and could pay someone to sleep for me, Elimination Communication would not be my cup of tea. Potty training my first born was a stressful enough time in my life (that I try to block out). Had I tried this, my husband and my dearest friends would have sent me away for their own sanity.

In case I haven’t shared, my new mantra in life is “Eff-it, I’m 40.” A woman once shared that this single phrase can justify any and all things, and any and all people (especially those who have a tendency to make you feel like crap about yourself). I turned 40 this year, and have applied this mantra to many situations, decisions and people. As a mother, I believe having this attitude is a good thing because their mom finally has some semblance of self-confidence with an ounce or two of self-deprecation mixed in. Many of you were born with a level of self-confidence that could make Gwyneth Paltrow appear insecure. Unfortunately, I’m not among your kind. I’m a confident mom and wife today, but a confident child and teen I was not. I am going to back up a minute about my lack of self-confidence. (This means I’ll be demonstrating what I like to refer to as a Jackie Tangent. Take a seat and hold on because you, my friend, are along for a choppy ride.) I don’t know if it was because I grew up in Texas where women are born looking like Barbie’s life-size twin sister or because I looked like a gawky boy with hair that had no possible way of growing into a Marsha Brady-like ‘do no matter how hard I tried. I also had a big brother who was good-looking, athletic and popular. I was so-and-so’s little sister for years. Now, I love my parents, and they always loved me and supported me in everything. (Think Ben Stiller in Meet the Fockers. I think I may have some 13^th place ribbons lying around somewhere.) In Texas in the 1980’s, designer jeans were a big thing. And the fact that we only shopped the sale rack at the discount stores didn’t help me. I wore no-name-brand jeans for longer than I care to admit. And when I finally scored a pair of Gloria Vanderbilt’s, I think they were two seasons behind from the sale rack at Marshall’s. (By the way, one of my friends from college has a 20-something sister who has never stepped foot in a Marshall’s. When she told me this, it rendered me speechless. Yes, me, speechless. Have you met me? She has no idea what she’s missing. I went shopping at a huge Marshall’s in Austin, Texas with a group of girlfriends this summer. It was like shopping in New York during the holidays minus the crowds.) I went to that store so often as a child, I didn’t know you could buy clothes anywhere else. As I got a little older and got a semblance of a grip about what other teens were wearing, my mother would let me shop at The Limited, Contempo or Express if and only if there was a blow-out sale. It wasn’t until I was around 27 that I bought clothes even if, dare I say it, they were not on sale. When I finally started buying brand name stuff, I would wear a new garment so many times in a row, you would want to hit me over the head with your designer hand bag (that you probably didn’t buy at Marshall’s). Eff it, I’m 40! I can buy what I want where I want (and bask in the glory if I found it on sale).

When and how did the 1980’s movies I watched as a kid suddenly turn into re-makes? Am I really this old? And why weren’t our parents aware that the PG movies we watched had the F-bomb or SH-word in every other scene? When I was 11, we rode our bikes to the movie theater or took the Metro Van (the suburban answer to public transportation) to the mall. It was all about sliding on jelly shoes, scarfing down buttered popcorn and watching the “foxes” from Tiger Beat magazine in action. If you haven’t already caught on, I was that dork that was not fully aware that she was a dork until her older brother hinted this at an impressionable age. I went to see the movie Footloose four times in a row with my best friend. We were 13. I had pictures of Kevin Bacon (oh yes, mini-poster size photos torn from Teen Beat magazine) taped to my bedroom wall. (Along with that poster of Rob Lowe that I think every girl had.) Please tell me I’m not this old. The inappropriate stuff in movies went over my head back then. If you’ve ever seen pictures of me as a pre-teen(and to my childhood friends from Seabrook, Texas, don’t get any big ideas), you’d understand. Let’s just say many of my friends developed early on, and I was not one of them. My bi-level hair style and size 0 Forenza jeans didn’t help much. We tried watching Back to the Future with our 10-year-old recently and had to turn it off after three minutes because of the bad language. There are so many reasons I want my son to love this movie and other movies from the 80’s, but I just can’t do it. One – I’m slowly turning into my mother. I adore her, but I can’t force him to understand. Number two – I don’t need my son to have a potty mouth at this young age just because his mom had a major crush on Michael J. Fox. I won’t have it. Michael J. Fox or no Michael J. Fox, he won’t be able to watch this movie until he’s 15. Holy Schnikes. How did I get this old? When I look in the mirror, I may see another woman’s chins, but inside, I’m still 14.  And I still see Kevin Bacon playing Ren in Footloose, period.

Clip from Footloose, circa 1984.

As a mom, I look forward to taking my kids out to dinner. Wait, did I just say that? Please know it has taken me and my husband YEARS to do this without leaving a restaurant early, apologizing profusely for the pile of crumbs left on the floor, and/or paying for the check while one of us deals with two restless kids in the parking lot. (We’ve been doing a lot of take-out and home dinners through the years to avoid these awkward moments.) So, fast forward to 2011. My daughter Sarah is 7 (going on 17). I treated Sarah and a few of her friends for an impromptu dinner the other night at a low-key diner. Let me repeat that this was impromptu, meaning my brain didn’t have enough time to register exactly what it was that I had agreed to do. (Something that happens every time I go shopping with my kids, which is another story.) The dinner started our innocent enough. Four little girls were drawing quietly and politely swapping stories about their teachers, recess and pop songs, etc. Let’s jump to the part where we ordered beverages. We don’t allow soda in our house. (Only mommy’s and daddy’s emergency supply of Diet Coke for those extra sleepless nights.) This was a special back-to school treat, so I allowed it. They have this thing called Blue Blast at this particular chain, which is a syrupy mixture of cotton candy flavoring and lime soda. Blue Blast is the equivalent of liquid speed for beings under 4 feet tall. They each had a plastic cup filled with the stuff. Big blue mistake. It hit their brain 30 seconds after it reached their lips. They were overstimulated on the stuff, not listening, talking loudly, jumping in their seats, giggling, not finishing their meals and causing us to get dirty looks. I hinted to the waitress that we were ready for the check before their blue mustaches even had a chance to dry. I had them buckled in their car seats and in their driveways within one and a half KidzBop songs. As soon as we got home, my daughter was running around the house with our Golden Retriever chasing him as he chased his tail. My husband looked at me and says, “What in the heck did you do with our daughter?” I had never seen her so hyped up. I had to give her two cups of water and a shower and it was another 45 minutes before she finally crashed. She passed out as soon as her head hit the pillow. For the love of blue food coloring and coca cola, I will never let my kid have this stuff again!