The Snyder 5

Hidden Treasures

2012-05-13T20:57:00.002-05:00

Several years ago, I made a mistake.

And I have paid for it ever since.

We were on a family walk. Past the stage at which it's okay to put a kid in a stroller, but before the stage where your kids can move remotely efficiently by themselves. (By the way, I am now assuming that age is about 23.)

On a walk to breakfast down in the village, our kids were beyond pokey. As in,I was tempted to pick them up and carry the, forget the fact they were nearing 50 pounds. So in a moment of ~~brilliance~~ stupidity, I encouraged our kids to run ahead and look for treasures. I pointed to soda tabs and twist ties and unknown pieces of plastic.

It might have been one of the biggest parenting mistakes I ever made.

Don't. Ever. Do. That.

Think of all of the things people might throw out a car window that you don't ever want your kids to touch. And then some.

Gives new meaning to one person's trash is another person's treasure.

But, no. Really, no. There is a whole lot that should never be another person's treasure.

So this week, when I took Eli to the playground I remembered this story when he found a treasure.

It was a broken plastic ring to something and I was, appropriately, instantly grossed out.

We set it aside and continued playing until it was time to walk home.

Along the way, Eli insisted we run through a field of dandelion puff balls. I fought against my inner "we are only growing more wretched dandelions" and went with it.

And then our walk home took about an hour.

It's a two block walk.

But we filled it with treasures. Whirybirds (maple seeds, for you non-Minnesotans), soda can tabs, broken pieces of plastic, corners, caps and who knows what else.

And I just stopped. Something I am not very good at doing.

And I celebrated the junk. The whirlybirds.

The bottle caps. The moment.

It was good. Not that the whole "treasure"approach is a good one. But still...

When cubicles and working moms collide

2012-04-13T12:43:00.000-05:00

When you work out of cubicle, it can make life interesting.

It means we all know more about one another than, sometimes, perhaps we should. It means that you book a conference room to call your doctor but you turn on your "talking to my husband" voice and stay put.

But when you are a working mom and you see the daycare number pop up on caller ID, you answer it. Afterall, they don't call to tell you your kid's being cute, they call to say his head is spinning around and come now and bring a priest.

So in life in the land of cubicles, when you answer the daycare phone call, that means sometimes your coworkers get to hear half of a conversation that goes like this:

Hi Nils, what's up?

[insert Charlie Brown grown up talk that you can't hear]

Oh good! You have Snyder family drama for us, I was hoping for some of that today.

[pause]

He did what?

[pause]

He stuck a seed up his nose? What kind of seed?

[pause]

Yeah, I guess it really doesn't matter. It's big? And black? Um, so can you get it out?

[pause]

Oh, okay, I get it. Yeah, I could see that. You're not legally allowed to use tweezers to stick them up his nose. Um, well, is he uncomfortable?

[pause]

But breathing fine? I mean like do you think he can make it through lunch (not like he's not going to make it-make it, but like deal with it...)? I suppose asking him to blow his nose adds the whole "he might suck it into his brain" thing...

[pause]

Hmmm, no, I don't think I have anyone in the neighborhood who can come tweezer a seed out of my kid's nose.

[pause]

Ok. I'll be right there.

And with that I hung up and the entire row of people burst out laughing. I changed my shoes with one hand while calling people to cancel meetings noting I had a "daycare issue" with the other. And I dashed off to my car.

After a valiant battle, me in my suit brandishing my tweezers, the seed putting up a fierce fight, I was the victor.

The daycare teachers cheered. I wrapped the offending seed up in a tissue and headed back to cubicle land.

Where I am now the coworker who had to run out of work to dig a seed out of her kid's nose.

Ten reasons to never get a pet crayfish

2012-04-08T21:26:00.000-05:00

I couldn't resist. He came home from school and told me there would be a lottery to take home the remaining classroom crayfish. And could he? Could he please-please-please put his name on it?

He'd be happy. I had to imagine it wouldn't live long. And I'd be a hero, for a bit, at least. And so I let him put his name in the crayfish drawing.

And so there we were a week later, on a cold Minnesota fall night, lugging our new friend home.

And here I sit now, six months later, to tell you why you should just say no. Never get a "pet" crayfish.

Here's ten reasons why:

1. You will be a hero for a week. Or maybe just really a day. Or perhaps just until bedtime. And after that, it's over. The kids lose interest and you're in it for the long haul. The crayfish is yours. Strangely, you will develop a love-hate relationship with the thing. Oh yes, I have been caught talking to her. Sometimes bitterly, but talking all the same.

2. Crayfish hate people. We walk into the dining room where she sits (yes, I know, perhaps she's scared it being the dining room and all, but we're in Minnesota, not Louisiana, and wouldn't know how to cook her if we tried) and she stands on her back legs and hisses at us. Well, I imagine it's the sound of hissing, but she's under water. Regardless, it's mean and aggressive and all crayfish-crazy.

3. They stink. As in dying-depths-of-the-worst-lake-you-have-ever-been-in stink.

4. They're bottom feeders who, yet, strangely, love clean water. But see point three. Cleaning the tank three times a week is not fun. Get your gag reflex ready.

5. Have you noticed how I have been calling her a "she?" Yes, we didn't know she was a she. In fact Noah had named her Darth Maul until she randomly sprouted some eggs. That's when you and your friend, who was also the "best mom ever!" for five minutes when she brought home a crayfish, are texting and googling about crayfish ownership and eggs, and you find out they can store sperm for up to 18 months!

6. Did I mention that while your kid may take no ownership of her (or him) he will still claim them as his only family member when writing a book at school?

7. You actually start to hope that she might have babies until you get a text from your friend that hers did. There might be profanity in her text. Because they look like hundreds of baby mosquitoes. But even more so when the mom begins to eat them all. (Photo courtesy a horrified text message from my friend...) I should clarify, the crayfish mom ate them, not my friend. [Shudders.]

8. Etouffe is dead to you from here on. Literally. See point seven.

9. Shrimp might be close to being out of the picture, too.

10. You might leave town for Easter and come back on Easter Sunday night. You gasp slightly when you realize that the crayfish died over the weekend.

As you walk closer, you realize that not only is it not dead, it just molted over the weekend. Alternately horrified and bummed that you missed it, you might find yourself pondering that fact that you are standing there on Easter Sunday having watched an animal shed its skin, walk away and surprise its visitors who rejoiced. You wonder if you should point out the similarities between Jesus and your crayfish to your kids.

Then you slap yourself hard across the cheek. Admit you have lost it. Clean the tank and remind yourself that when Eli asks if he can bring a crayfish home in four years?

Just go get a puppy.

Poor Noah, All Alone

2012-04-04T19:11:00.000-05:00

Tonight, while typing up Noah's "About the Author" page for his animal project, I got to the last line and immediately know that caring for our inherited crayfish for the past six months had been worth it.

She has snipped at me. Hissed at me (I swear, even in the water). Tried to pinch me. Run away from me. And yet I have continued, the nurturing woman that I am. Diligently cleaning the tank. Trying not to gag. Talking to her, reminding her that her tank is nasty and that this is really for the good of all of us. Trying not to get pinched.

And above all, resisting the urge to forget to feed her for a week.

But tonight it was all worth it.

After all, without her, Noah would be an orphan.

On airplanes, bathrooms and getting social media right

2012-04-03T21:26:00.000-05:00

I spent last weekend working out of town. And after a long, but good, weekend, I was ready to get home.

We took off and five minutes into the flight our flight attendant announced that they went to make coffee, only to realize there was no water on the plane. None. As in you can't wash your hands in the bathroom and, yes, you also can't flush the toilet.

Like the brilliant woman I am, I immediately knew where I needed to be. The back of the bus. Because no one wants to be number 207 out of 220 in line for the bathroom where the toilets don't flush.

[Shudders.]

And yes, I checked on the water situation. And no. Not a drop. But part of me did wonder for a moment if I was being secretly taped checking it and would be duly sprayed with massive amounts of water. But, no, and I digress...

An hour later, when there were easily 40 people in line for the toilet, I was feeling like a genius. How often, really, can you say you feel like a genius for going to the bathroom? But I did.

And also very glad I had the requisite mom hand wipes in my purse.

When I landed, I was still annoyed and immediately went to find the the Honorary Larry Craig bathroom (Google it, or maybe don't, but yes, it exists, and no, I didn't really use it, I used the one on the women's side) to really wash my hands and reminded myself that I'd call later to voice my frustration. But in the meantime, I tweeted. I held off on naming the company. Because, personally, I try to avoid calling out a company out on something publicly before I try to deal with it myself.

Because we are all human. Companies are made up of humans that make mistakes. And sometimes talking to a human can get you where you need to be...before thousands of your closest ~~distant~~ friends ~~acquaintances~~ need to know the details.

So I said...

Molly Snyder ‏ @MollyinMinn
Clearly there are far worse mechanical problems. But sending 220 people in the air for 3.5 hours without water in the bathrooms isn't cool.

Within a few minutes, one of my friends guessed/assumed which airline I may have been flying and added their Twitter handle to the mix.

Not five minutes went by before the company, who I will now call out as Delta Airlines, responded. The apologized. They asked for details. They acknowledged they couldn't change what happened. But they wanted to do something to make it a little bit better. And before they even got to that last step, I was impressed.

You see behind all of these big companies? There are people. And we are all human. Should the people behind the companies be held accountable? Absolutely.

But sometimes I miss what we had before social media. The time where you had an issue and called someone and tried to figure it out. That might have been a person or a group of people or a giant company. And yes, you might have had a great experience with that person or a horrible one, but it was between you and them. At least to start.

I get what social media gives us. And appreciate it.

But sometimes I wish we could all just stop it with the knee jerks. With the accusations. With the assumptions.

I know. I am being an idealist.

But for one little moment? This one small person really appreciated that one person behind that one big company. A big company who makes mistakes sometimes. And has things happen that may be out of their control.

So, thank you, Delta.

Now please, next time? Check the toilets before we take off.

Letting out the Leash

2012-03-23T12:53:00.000-05:00

I am a helicopter parent.

I admit it. I own it. It's what I can control. Especially as a parent that works outside the home. So when I am with them, I hover. I stay close. We wear seatbelts. And bubble wrap. Okay not really.

But sort of.

Even when swinging.

And helmets. Even when on a pogo stick. Or playing tag. Not really. But I have thought about it.

I don't let my kids bike around the block. Not yet.

But I am realizing I can't do that forever. Sometimes. Sometime soon. Sometime now. I need to let go.

Bit by bit.

Let them make more choices. Have their own wins. And make their own mistakes.

Because they will learn, right? They will fall, and get back up and learn?

And hopefully I will have picked the right moments to helicopter and the right moments to let them direct their own flight.

Which sometimes means saying, "Yes, you totally can ride your bike to the park."

"But follow me. And use your arm signals. Okay?"

Boys Will Be Boys

2012-03-05T08:39:00.001-06:00

Each of the boys has this laugh. This distinct, unique-to-them laugh. And it always signals that either they, or one of their brothers, is up to no good.

We heard Eli's coming from the basement yesterday and called them up.

This was why.

Afterwards we challenged Noah to do a Mad Libs that didn't involved bodily functions, undergarments or the words "stupid" of "psycho/psychotic."

Shockingly, he could not.

Happiness is a New Friend

2012-03-04T16:12:00.000-06:00

Sometimes all it takes to shake off the winter doldrums is to get outside and make a new friend.

As in actually making one.

Well, counting down a trip to Mexico helps, too.

He's Not Heavy, He's My Brother

2012-03-02T07:00:00.000-06:00

A friend at work said to me yesterday, "Sometimes I think if you put a camera on your kids and your family and just taped it, it would make for hilarious YouTube stuff."

And right then I flashed back to earlier this week. There I was, getting ready for work. Rocking a good hair day. It's rare, so you note the moments that they happen. And good hair meant I had followed it with a cute outfit. I was in a dry clean only dress and was halfway through pulling up my tights. As in one-leg-in, one-leg-not. Eli, who had shockingly (italics=sarcasm) snuck into our bed, started to roll around complaining of a sore back. And before I knew it, he was throwing up in our bed.

I grabbed him and ran to the bathroom. Have you seen me run? It's not good. Especially at 6:00 a.m. And as I ran, he continued to get sick. Remember that one leg in the tights? Yeah, not good on a floor that a kid is getting sick on and you are running on and you haven't had coffee on, not on the floor, but on your wherewithal, and by wherewithal I mean your brain, as in your reflexes are not awake yet...not good.

Before I knew it I had slipped and was falling. Hard. Slamming my head into the wall and my hip into the scale. (Which, side note, yes, I did wonder when I hit the scale with great force what weight it registered. But then I really didn't want to know.)

But I digress.

Cue: Unrelated story. Moving on. Yes, sometimes our life just couldn't be more ridiculous. Like last night when the kids were waiting for dinner and turned on a movie and I looked over to see this:

We have larger TVs in our home. We actually have furniture, too. But no matter. Eli thought Caleb was the perfect cushion for his viewing pleasure.

And Caleb didn't mind.

Oh. This is so blackmail material someday.

Cheeseburger that wasn't from paradise

2012-02-22T18:36:00.000-06:00

Well, hi. Knock, knock, knock. This thing still on?

February has been busy. And that's putting it mildly. Many planes. Many trips. Many hours. Many balls to juggle. And when you juggle balls, inevitably, you drop some.

And so in the midst of it, a few days ago, I found myself racing with three minutes to spare, and yet 12 minutes to drive, with three hungry kids in the car.

So I spun it as only a PR girl can do. Hey kids, let's get a treat and get McDonald's for dinner!

And so began the dance of me trying to navigate three boys who all simultaneously order food like Meg Ryan from When Harry Met Sally and the audio ordering system that makes you feel like you must be getting Punk'd (do people still get Punk'd anymore? Don't answer that, I will feel old) and me stressing out about being late.

Cue the foreshadowing.

We get through the drive through and I begin happily handing Happy Meals to the back of the car. We drive away.

Cue the foreshadowing, part 2.

Suddenly Caleb has announced that his chicken nuggets are actually a cheeseburger. And if you know anything about Caleb it's that anything with cheese is like coating something with devil spit. I have no idea what that means, but maybe you do. And if so, you know it's not good.

"Caleb, we are late, it's been a long day, there is a Star Wars toy in the box. Can you please deal with the cheese?"

Dramatic antics increase. And while I am increasingly annoyed, I do remind myself that I might just be glad, given this emotional pre-teen outburst, that I don't have girls.

I grab a napkin, pass it back and ask him to scrape the cheese off. You can guess how well than went over. And if you can't, I can tell you that it ended in me taking the cheeseburger back and trying to drive one handed and scrape cheese off onto the skirt of my suit with my other hand, while rapidly losing my temper.

I handed the ~~cheese~~burger back and, with blocks to go, requested, strongly, that he eat it. Turns out the residual cheese was too much. Not to mention by this point he was complaining that it was now a double cheeseburger. I didn't have the wherewithal or rational thoughts left to share that our passing it back and forth had crushed it to the point it now appeared to be a double cheeseburger.

He lost it and so did I. Not a proud moment. I mean I lost it. The ~~cheese~~burger proceeded to be handed back and forth between he and I two more times. Until I was done. Four months of stress, a month of travel. Ten minutes of intense ridiculous stress. Life just caught up with me.

And then I did it. I cracked. With mustard all over my hand, I hit the power switch on the window on a cold Minnesota night and found myself chucking the smashed ~~cheese~~burger out the window. A formerly ~~perfectly~~ good ~~cheese~~burger flung out onto the freeway.

An angry, stubborn mom. A stubborn, sad boy. A rough moment.

Followed by some deep breaths, a hug, an apology.

Followed by Eli opening up his Happy Meal to announce that he wanted chicken nuggets and had a hamburger.

And I had to laugh. And by laugh, I do mean a wry, sad, amazed, yet incredibly cathartic laugh.

Parenting is hard. Especially when you have one Happy Meal go wrong. And freak out. Only to realize that it was all just a mess up and while there was one wrong meal, it got mixed up and became one wrong meal turned into two. Multiplied by Pi.

Ah well, at least the city rats were fed for one night.

And someday, my kids will laugh at me. I hope.

Yes, that's my kid

2012-01-30T07:00:00.002-06:00

Each day, Noah brings home his daily notebook.

Usually it contains things like "Do Wednesday homework" or "Finish Tuesday worksheet" or "Sign permission slip."

But on Sunday night as I prepared to head out of town for the week, I pulled it out to find this.

Oh. How. I. Am. Dying. To. Know. That. Story.

But, regardless, I am pretty sure he would win.

Oh yeah, and the fattie mentioned above his wrestling endeavors? Totally separate. I don't get it, but those are random stuffed rats from IKEA. No clue. I just go with it.

Crappy. I mean...Crafty.

2012-01-22T21:39:00.001-06:00

Really, nothing stirs my heart... And by stirs my heart, I mean, makes me want to puke, like projects that come home from school that require me to ~~show off~~ do stuff that really doesn't need to be done for the greater good of the kids' education.

And with kids who are a year apart, I can see them coming. Because, after all, I did them a year before. (See Keeping Up With the Joneses AKA "The Planet.")

This year, just like last, it's the puppet unit. And it's public school, after all, so nude puppets would be a travesty. So we parents must make costumes. Oh yes, we must.

The assignment comes home, complete with the sewing pattern.

For those of you who can sew? No biggie. For those of us who can't? Another story.

Noah asks if I can sew his for him. Because, after all, he shrugs, there is like this helper group who can sew for the people who can't. You know, Mom, so you can check this box on my sheet if you can't do it.

Hell to the no-es. I took seventh grade Home Economics, back when it was called Home Economics, I hand sewed a pillow. I can do this!

Caleb pipes up, "Yeah, there was this mom last year?! She handsewed this costume that looked like it was made by a machine, like it could have come from a store, but it wasn't! Amazing!"

Now how he knows the difference? I don't know. But I sensed a throw down. And then Noah did it for me.

"But Mom, I understand, you know, you have stuff to do. Like you have to go to work..." he said, with a shrug...his voice trailing off.

Oh no. I will sew a wizard costume and it will be the ~~best damn~~ most adequate wizard costume there is.

And so off to Michael's we went. Well whattya know? They don't sell fabric. If I wanted to make a costume out of silk flowers and picture frames and yarn, that would have been my place. Crap.

Nor does Home Depot. Okay, I kind of knew that, but they were across the parking lot.

In desperation, I looked further across the parking lot and saw Goodwill. Something in there has to work, right? I mean, clearly, the kid doesn't have high expectations.

Thankfully, he bagged on the hairy arms, that might have put me over the edge.

He told me he wanted blue fabric with stars. Oh, if only I had kept our shower curtain back when that whole sun, moon, stars theme was a big deal.

Never mind, that's gross.

But I found this. Almost the same right?

Those are stars! Not snowflakes!

Now really, you can't start a major sewing project if you don't have the right tools. And by tools, I mean the bag full of sewing notions (oh, it's good to use that word) that you have lifted from hotel emergency kits for years and are still around from your grandmother gifting them to you in 1985.

And don't forget the importance of the proper scissors.

And finally, this will take awhile. Stay hydrated.

As I began to sew, I thought that perhaps I needed some inspiration. I wondered what the craftiest of crafty women I know would watch. And I assumed this was it.

Then again. Maybe that's my problem. No probably not. But still.

Long story short? Well, probably too late for that. But after far too much time stitching, restitching and poking my fingers, I ended up with this.

Followed by a little boy that cheered and pumped his fist in the air. My kid knew I tried. I figured it out. I jumped outside my comfort zone. I did something for him -- because it was for him -- and I didn't care about the rest.

That is what mattered.

And they are stars, not snowflakes. And if you say otherwise, I'll meet you out back behind the Goodwill.

This Stuff is Awesome

2012-01-16T22:13:00.001-06:00

As you move into to the stage of parenting preteens or teens, everything changes.

Well I haven't parented teens yet, but so far preteens seem to allude the future...

The rules are gone. The expectations changed. It's all just different.

You find yourself fine with a genuine "thank you." Thrilled with a shrug and a reality based "that's cool, Mom."

A hug is amazing.

It's just different. You know they are still there. They might still quietly ask you to tuck them into bed or cuddle a bit before they fall asleep. But it's different. The affection changes. And you tell yourself, all the time, that it should. That this is the right, next step.

And then your kid brings home the idea of Shakespeare.

They are studying Shakespeare in performing arts and, suddenly, well, it's cool. And because there is a commonality, we're cool.

Cool as in, pull out the 3M stickies and mark interesting sections, cool.

As in... races to the basement to finds your oh-so-old-from-college (is-it-really-that-old-when it's-500-years-ago-and-college-was-only-15-years-ago-but-I-digress) consolidated works.

Digging into it like it's a loaf of Hawaiian bread and spinach dip (wait, that was me talking, but still...)

With "Wait, Mom, this is interesting, can dinner wait?" requests...

And "oh, I have to show my teacher this part," breaks.

And you just see the future. Not skip it. Not avoid it.

It's good.

The hugs have changed. It's different. But you see the minds. The personalities. The lives developing. And you can't help but smile.

Thanks, Shakespeare. Thanks, life.

You just see it.

And it's good.

Thankful

2012-01-05T06:11:00.001-06:00

Occasionally you have those pangs. Where you wonder what you are missing during the day. What are the moments. The quotes. The things.

But then you get there at 5:45. To a child giddy to show you this.

His super hero goggles.

And you are reminded, yet again, what an amazing place you have landed.

Where he shows you how much he loves his life.

Both at home and away from home.

He is a super hero. And so are you.

Gas Station Restrooms

2012-01-03T06:21:00.000-06:00

You don't use them often. And really, with good reason, right?

They are poorly heated. Even more poorly maintained. And, calling the proverbial spade a spade? They are creepy as all get out.

Ah yes, the joys of gas station restrooms.

And I refuse to call them bathrooms. Because you would only take a bath in them if you were a fugitive.

Yesterday Brian and I ran some errands and, along the way, stopped for sushi. Screech. Stop there. I beg you, separate the idea of us eating sushi from gas station restrooms, because really, they were very, very distinct things.

Okay, now that we are clear there...

Given the diet we've both been on, lunch also included tons and tons of water. Okay, tons is an exaggeration. But it was a lot.

And after a failed attempt at stopping at several antique shops (to shop, not for restrooms...) (and, who knew that Monday was the standard day for antique shops to close? Don't answer that, I am sure a lot of you knew that...) we realized we were almost out of gas (again, not a restroom reference...geez, I should let Noah read this, he'd be convulsing in giggles now. He loves scatological humor.)

We stopped at the Super Day. Because any time you have to fill your gas tank it really is a super day, isn't it? Our local urban rest stop. Local urban rest stop? Did I just type that? Cue James Dean and The Outsiders. And separately, is it really a rest stop if it's just your local gas station? And finally, this is the post full of asides, isn't it? But I digress.)

Regardless, I say urban in the sense that, well, one, we live in an urban area and, two, the "Welcome" blinking lights in the window had a line under it saying "Welcome" in Arabic. At least, that's what I assumed. I neither speak Arabic nor knew if the lights were burnt out and really said something in Arabic or English or any other language.

After graciously offering to put the gas in the car, Brian tapped on the window and mouthed that he was running in to use the restroom.

From that moment on, the pump seemed to tick through the cents and gallons at a painfully slow pace. $3.45 $3.47 $3.49 And with each dollar, I started to wonder where Brian had gone. $6.29. $6.31. $6.33. I locked the doors.

After $47.62 I realized I had to do the same. (Note: This is the first time I have blogged about needing to go to the bathroom...at least I think it is. Either way? Proud moment.)

So I locked up the car. As I walked into the station, I noticed it was eerily silent. Like sanitary, scary silent. And again, how often does someone say that about a gas station? Sanitary, I mean.

I looked for the telltale circle-headed man and woman to guide me away from the temptation of the Pringles, Butterfingers and Gardetto's.

And headed in that direction only to find Brian exiting the bathroom pale and with cell phone in hand ready to text me.

He looked at me and said, "Dude (yes, sometimes he calls me Dude, it's a term of endearment, you kind of have to hear it), there is no one in here."

I looked around and he was right. The entire station was empty. No shoppers. No clerk. No anyone.

The 8-year-old in me thought, "Perhaps we should grab all the Pringles and run!" Cause while the 8-year-old in me may have wanted to lift stuff, I still would have said "perhaps." But I resisted.

Taking nodded and taking Brian's lead, I pulled out my phone. I cautiously pushed open the women's room door, hoping I wouldn't find a massacre scene inside. Because, really? Isn't that what we all hope for when we enter the restroom?

I pushed the door open tentatively. And was pleased. Pleased, I tell you, to find just a mildly not-so-clean urban bathroom. Completely devoid of dead bodies. And now my biggest challenge was just not dropping my iPhone in the toilet.

Now that is not to say that I hasn't already typed a pre-text to Brian saying, "Call 911! Come now, it's bad!"

But thankfully, I didn't send have to send it.

It was just cold and kind of yucky and, I guess, exactly what I expected.

As we drove away, we laughed in a sick, macabre way about what it could have been. And secretly sighed with relief about the day we didn't die in a gas station ~~bath~~restroom.

But from now on? We'll save our ~~bath~~restroom runs for real car trips. And always have an emergency text ready to go.

Daylight Hours

2011-12-29T06:53:00.000-06:00

I love my job. I love the life we have. With all of its complexities and schedules and logistics. I love it. It is just who... and what... and where we are.

I really do. Even at the moments when I don't.

I know. It is right. For us.

But sometimes there are just those moments. The "what if" times.

Sometimes it happens when I see other people and the pictures of their kids.

I find myself sitting there. Okay, sitting there? Who am I kidding? Walking through Target or idling at the bank drive-thru flipping through Facebook on my phone, whatever. I am seeing their photos. And I try to figure out what is different.

And then I see it. It's that moment.

The moment I sometimes have on sunny Saturday mornings.
When I realize that we aren't very often home in our house in the daylight. That I don't often get to see 10 a.m. light hit my carpet.

Or my kids' hair.

And putting aside photography skills. That's what I see. Daylight, we're just missing daylight.

But instead? There is no instead.

There is a whole lot of living going on.

Good living. And we just have to remind ourselves...We have a lot of fun, a lot of life, but it's just when you have to use a flash.

Yes. Yes we do.

Like finding money in your pocket

2011-12-22T08:36:00.000-06:00

You know when you put on your winter coat for the first time in a season? You put your hands in the pockets wondering what you might find.

Usually it's mismatched gloves, an old napkin from takeout, an expired coupon and a Target receipt. At least if you are wearing my coats. Which might be kind of strange.

But if you get lucky, you might reach in and find a $10 or a $20. You do a happy dance and feel like you have won the mini-seasonal lottery. At least I do.

I had a moment kind of like that this morning. If we're connected on Twitter, you might have picked up on the fact that Brian and I have been working to lose some weight. We kicked off our efforts the week before Thanksgiving. Gluttons for punishment? Not really. I just figured if we could jumpstart this process during the holidays, surely we could win at it in January and beyond.

So this morning in the closet, I reached up high. To that shelf. The one where long-gone, no-longer-wearable-cause-I-swear-the-dryer-really-shrunk-them clothes go. And I pulled down a pair of jeans.

With a deep breath, I put them on. Without profanity. As I turned around to look in the mirror and make sure the image wasn't horrifying, I noticed something was in the back pocket. I reached in to grab it our and found this.

The first thing I noticed was that it was expired. Bummer. And I walked to throw it away. But then I noticed something else. The Better if Used by date for the product was Augst 8, 2010.

Meaning that the last time I wore these jeans was likely more than a year and a half ago.

And that? Right there? Was better than any $10 bill I could have found.

Budgers

2011-12-20T06:05:00.000-06:00

I am not a particularly aggressive driver.

I stand my own, sure. But all it took was just one time of being cut off by a person and me-turning-into-an-overly-ticked-off-fiend-only-to-find-out-it-was-someone-I-knew to I let it go.

For me, it's one of those moments. Those life is too short moments.

Sure, sometimes I am known to, um, boldly, use my voice to encourage the driver in front of me to move faster or merge or just not drive like an idiot.

But that's it. Life is too short to get shot over someone cutting me off while driving. Geez, I sound like I am 92.

But in general, I am just not overly concerned about people budging in front of me. If the entire state of Rhode Island tried to get in front of my family at Disney World? Don't get me wrong, I will take them on. But the random commuter on the way into work? Have at it buddy. We're all on our way to do the same thing. Three seconds won't kill me.

However, Caleb has yet to learn this lesson.

So when another kid budged in front of him in line he wasn't having any of it. And when he told said kid that, the kid continued to budge. Just this time more physically. So Caleb dug back in with his elbow. Determined to hold his all-too-important-spot. Those extra three seconds of snow-pant-pulling-on-ing were critical.

The pushing and elbowing continued. And continued. And, evidently, escalated.

Leading to me getting called out of a meeting by the school nurse calling my cell.

One final, swift push from the other boy caused Caleb to lose his footing and fall sideways. Face first into the drinking fountain.

Side note? I don't recommend falling into a drinking fountain. The drinking fountain wins.

The nurse reported that his face was swollen to about twice its size but that she was pretty sure he didn't have a concussion or a broken face. Ah yes, the reassuring words every parent hopes to hear.

Your kid didn't break his face.

But he will look like Frankenstein for the next three weeks. And yes, this was taken at week two. It was worse. (Side note: See "Why the Snyders don't have a Christmas card photo this year..."

Lessons learned? Probably none really. But maybe he'll be a safer driver someday.

Or maybe he'll just avoid tussling with drinking fountains in the future.

All I Want for Christmas

2011-12-09T06:03:00.000-06:00

Each year I promise myself I won't do it.

I won't buy stuff just to buy it.

I won't pick up junky toys that I know will end up thrown away or given away in six months.

I resist noisemakers and fight causers.

I won't give out of obligation but out of genuine sentiment.

I won't stuff stockings just to stuff them.

I won't pursue stuff just to pursue stuff.

As I wrapped presents and took stock of what I had done and what I still needed to do, Eli walked into the kitchen, showed me his new "jet pack" his brother made him and sat down with a book.

What fine timing you have, little man.

To quote our friend the Grinch (or the French, whichever):

It came without ribbons. It came without tags. It came without packages, boxes or bags.

And he puzzled and puzzled 'till his puzzler was sore. Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn't before.

What if Christmas, he thought, doesn't come from a store? What if Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more?"

Hmmm. It's tempting. But I think my kids might notice if all of their Christmas gifts came out of the recycling bin.

Ah well, back to the pursuit of sanity and balance.

It's Christmastime and He's Got the Spirit

2011-12-05T20:37:00.002-06:00

Sometimes a classic is just a classic.

Donations that make a difference

2011-11-30T15:19:00.000-06:00

The Child Hunger Ends Here food drive at the kids’ school ended the day before Thanksgiving.

Day by day, little kids would walk in lugging bags as tall as they are. And in the end, the school had gathered 233 pounds of food along with ConAgra food labels, each representing a meal the company would provide for a child in America.

Driving into work the day before Thanksgiving, our public radio station was running a variety of stories on hunger in America. One of them was about the rush to donate or volunteer or give back on the days leading up to Thanksgiving. The story went on to say that they often see donations drop off after that. Even getting volunteers, not to mention food, in on the day after can prove challenging.

And while this is something I think most of us, intuitively, know, it was a good reminder that the need doesn’t end.

The issue continues. And while I’m grateful that so many of us take time during this holiday season to reach out, to give back, to do more, I am also thankful that companies like ConAgra are going to continue to fight and give back going forward.

During the public radio story, they shared a list of some of the most needed items. I’ll leave you with them:

Recommended donations:

• low-sugar cereals;
• peanut butter;
• cans or plastic containers of juice (make sure it's 100 percent juice);
• canned vegetables, any variety, marked lite or low-sodium;
• bags of pinto or black beans;
• rice;
• canned tuna fish;
• powdered milk fortified with vitamin D.

Donations to avoid:

• foods high in sodium, fat, oils or sugar;
• chips, candy, cookies and crackers;
• sugary beverages;
• items in glass bottles;
• items that are expired or in damaged packaging.

Of course, as the story goes on to say, “The simplest -- and most appreciated -- donation is cash. Pantry officials can use the money -- cash or grocery gift cards -- to buy whatever healthy staples are in low supply. Also, because they purchase in bulk, they get more for the money than the average grocery shopper does.”

So I encourage you to join ConAgra. Join me. The issue isn’t going away. And so neither am I.

*I was honored to work with the Child Hunger Ends Here campaign as a blogger correspondent. While I was compensated for my time, the opinions, stories and thoughts are my own.

Thanks...

2011-11-23T20:43:00.001-06:00

I had a conversation with a colleague this week. About thick skin. She's seeking it and, along my way, I have found it.

It didn't come easily. Oh yes. I've been in the office and pretended like I was going to sneeze while I suppressed a tear or 12. I've gone to the bathroom and lifted my feet to pretend I wasn't in a stall to pull it together when the other option was sitting in a cube and crying. And I have cried in front of more bosses than I'd like to admit.

But then? I suddenly didn't. Somehow with age and experience and maturity, that thick skin grew. I bucked up and pulled it together and realized that emotion didn't have to flow out every time I did or didn't want it to.

I don't cry a lot anymore. But this has been an emotional fall. Nothing that needs to be shared or discussed here, but life is full of change and we are in the midst of one. No need to worry. Truly. Brian and I are great. The kids are great.

But it has caused me to reflect. To toughen up even more. And reflect even more than that. And let the other moments happen when they need to happen.

Like driving home last night. I was just escaping in my commute. The mindlessness of too many red taillights in front of me. Listening to some pop singer, whose name couldn't possibly be their name, sing about things that, frankly, I am probably too old to enjoy listening to. Escapism at it's best. It's been a busy few weeks. (Go ahead, google my name and "Black Friday"...)

And then I saw it. Or heard it really. An old beater of a station wagon. Light blue and wood paneling and all. Low to the ground. The tires needed to be inflated. Exhaust spilled out the back. Traffic was moving at about eight miles an hour when it caught up to me. Mom and Dad in the front, kids in the back, not enough seat belts, it was like 1982 pulled up next to me.

But what really caught my eye was the top of the car. It had what we referred to as the Big Mac container on the top. If you are old enough to remember before Styrofoam was discovered to be evil, you know what I mean. Back when Big Macs came in small space age carriers of their own, they made cartop carriers that looked just like them.

As a kid, we would pile the station wagon full of kids and luggage and TVs that plugged into cigarette lighters (back when they were still supposed to be cigarette lighters) and we'd go on car trips. But on the top of the car was always Big Mac.

Whether it was full of clothes or toys or Christmas presents. It was there. The giant, 1980's symbol of tremendous family-ness.

To me, it was the sign we were about to create memories.

It passed me and my thick skin was suddenly very, very thin. And I sat there in rush hour and cried.

And I was thankful. For the Big Mac. For the station wagon. For the family in it. For the memories.

Thankful for the moments I have lived and the moments I am living and the moments I have yet to live.

Thankful.

Peace to you all this holiday season.

Blame it on the French

2011-11-21T06:11:00.000-06:00

Eli: Mom, I hope the French don't take my Christmas presents.

Me: Eli, why would the French take your presents.

Eli: Because they are mean. And they don't like happy kids.

Me: Eli, the French aren't mean. Where did you hear that?

Eli: You hear it all the time! The French take your presents.

Me: I don't think you have to worry about it, Eli.

Eli: Do you think if I wear my French jammies on Christmas, they won't take my presents?

Me: Eli, I am pretty sure most of your jammies are from Target, Gymboree or Carters. I would highly doubt any are French.

Eli: Well I am going to wear my French jammies tonight and again at Christmas and we'll see if it works.

He went over to his drawer and got dressed. And suddenly it all made a lot more sense.

But I don't know. The French who Stole Christmas takes on kind of a Dickensonian ring. It might stick around here.

The Dead Fish

2011-11-14T06:11:00.000-06:00

If I have learned anything in my life, well I have learned a lot, but let's go with the cliche...ok?...

It's that Mick Jagger was right. Or whoever wrote the song. I'm not about semantics or details tonight.

And no, I don't have the moves like Mick Jagger. At all. Side bar over.

I'm tired. Overwhelmed. There is a lot going on. My house is a mess. And my six-hour-old fish is dying.

And no. I am not tired or overwhelmed because of a fish. We'll all be okay, but there is a lot going on right now.

The fish? That's really just a complicating factor. Think like a Muppet Movie cold fish smacked in the face of the Swedish Chef moment complicating factor. Ridiculous.

To back up. Noah was the lucky lottery winner of one of his classroom's crayfish. And who doesn't want a free pet crayfish? (Don't answer that.)

So in anticipation of the arrival of said crayfish, I took the kids to the pet store today. No, I would not buy the expensive lizard that required me to keep my house at 84 degrees. No, I do not think rats are cute. No, I will not buy a $200 aquarium set and beautiful tropical fish that cost $30 each. I have enough issues with feeling like I am sometimes flushing money down the toilet without actually doing it.

But yes, while I spent $25 readying for Noah's "free" crayfish, I took a moment to celebrate the giddiness over the other two wanting to share a pet Beta fish.

They were giddy. And plan-ful. They named him Yoda and spent a half an hour agonizing over the interior design for his bowl. They were victorious.

Then we got home and the fish tipped over. And that was that. He was gone.

I had to laugh. Not at the loss of life. But at the insane, dark, comic timing of it all.

Because really? Right now? In the midst of all of the...well all of the all? Let's add in a dead brand new pet.

Because we can.

You can't always get what you want, can you? You try sometimes, but you just might find, you get what you need.

No, I didn't need a dead fish. A toilet funeral was not what I had in mind. But it was a good reminder that sometimes life gives you ~~dead fish~~ lemons and you make ~~I have no idea what, but it's not sushi~~ lemonade.

And then I smiled. And thought back to when I grabbed this video of Eli several months ago in the back of the car.

Yuu're right, little man. Thank you.

And RIP Beta Yoda. I promise we were a good family. We just have city water.

Now I lay me down to sleep

2011-11-04T22:02:00.001-05:00

Generally, I love Fridays. I wear jeans to work. Brian picks the kids up early. We get takeout or make sushi. There are martinis. And Wii games. All around goodness.

Until the kids hit the wall of fatigue and it's time for bed. Now.

I should back up.

I left the house early on Friday, far before the family was up for work. But I knew the routine. An hour after I left, three boys would roll out of bed. Bed hair, sleepy eyes and all. They'd roll their way to the bathroom and "use the facilities."

Back to present time.

We got home on Friday and spent the evening on the first floor and the basement. Eating, playing, laughing, being. So when we all hauled upstairs, it was the first time anyone had been upstairs since the morning.

And we spotted this.

(Side note: Oh yes, I did. That is a picture of my kids' toilet online. I know, start funding the therapy now.)

Noah went into the bathroom and called out that there was hair in the toilet. "Like a lot!"

Eli yelled about it, too. Followed by Caleb.

Suddenly the entire family was standing around the toilet in various stages of horror.

Yes, picture it now. All five of us standing around the toilet with our mouths hanging open.

Creeped out. Oh! My! No! horror.

Being the rational people we are, we immediately asked them who cut their hair. Clearly it wasn't Eli as the hair was dark. Noah and Caleb adamantly denied it, too. Over and over and over again.

Again and again.

Brian combed through each of their hair to see if anything was missing.

Nothing. We shot each other a look of insane horror.

It was the horror that someone was either in, or had been in, our house.

In the creepiest of creepy fashion. Nothing missing. Just a horrifying pile of hair in our toilet.

I wouldn't let anyone flush it. I wanted it gone, but kept it, just in case. And, after bed, we were totally going to dust for fingerprints.

We tried to go about the normal business of putting the kids to bed. While semi-casually checking beds, closets, nooks, crannies, and any other irrational hiding spaces over and over again.

Eli was, thankfully, clueless. Noah was silent, but clearly freaked out. I mean your parents can only look in your dresser drawers and your laundry hamper so many times.

Caleb was the same. Until Brian and I opened his closet (which we never do) three times. And then he lost it.

He admitted, he had a bad hair moment and chopped a chunk off. And thought it would be fine. Until we nearly called the cops on him.

We hugged. And said it was okay. But please don't, on so many levels, do it again.

And tucked him in and locked the windows.

And flushed the evidence.

And yes, tomorrow I will be taking him to Sport Clips to fix it.