Mom’s Moment of Jen

Like a movie, I can’t get Predictably Irrational out of my head. Written by a MIT professor who writes like a smart, fun friend you’d enjoy swigging beers with at a cookout, it’s all about how people make predictable yet irrational decisions over and over again.

For example, I went to the store to buy underwear. Instead of getting a few good pairs, I ended up buying a six-pack of scratchy ones because it was like getting two free. But the reality is, I now have six pairs of crummy underwear buried in the back of the dresser.

Everywhere I look I make irrational decisions: Why did I buy that can of shaving cream for my legs when I know it’s going to leave rust stains in our shower that will take tons of scrubbing and drive me nuts? How come I keep running to Food Lion for stuff when I know it saves time and money doing one big shopping trip once a week? Why do I keep letting our son get away with not making his bed (well, I know why–because I don’t want to argue about it in the morning when we’re trying to get out the door).  

We all make dumb choices, even MIT folks, the books shows. And it does give some tips on how to make wiser decisions. For example, I recently went out to lunch with my boss. I made sure that I ordered first because I knew that I would choose what I really wanted and not be influenced by my dining companion’s decision. Dan Ariely explains in his book that those who don’t order first tend to be less satisfied with their meals because oftentimes they feel compelled to differentiate their choice from others (”Oh, he ordered the salmon now I can’t get it”).

So, I may be making my kid’s bed until he’s 21, but at least I’ll enjoy eating in restaurants a little more now.

Just finished folding some laundry in the family room and I realized that lately I will do everything I can to be in that part of our home. Is it the beautiful paintings by local artists that we’ve hung on the walls,  the comfortable furniture, the fresh coat of paint, perhaps?

Those help, but I think what I really like about the space is that there are no toys scattered on the floor or tucked into corners, unlike every other room in the house. It feels welcoming, yet grown-up. Ahhh, so this is what it is like to be an adult.

Like our abode’s features before the flood, much of my wardrobe dates back to the ’90s, so I recently purchased a few items. Some pieces that I now, I must admit, regret. Like the low-cut pink-striped t-shirt from Old Navy that I keep pulling up because it exposes too much. And the two-piece bathing suits that didn’t scream Mommywear but give me suit-loss scare when I dive or splash around too much.

Since I stopped buying brain-candy magazines long ago, I’m out of it when it comes to fashion. When it came to selecting color and flooring for the house, I consulted friends with beautiful homes. And now our house looks terrific. When I visited the library, a book leaped out of me like a bubbly girlfriend I hadn’t seen in ages: How Not To Look Old by Charla Krupp. She’s an over-40 babe who offers fashion advice for those like me who have taken a low-maintenance approach to beauty a little too long as well as those who are high-maintenance.

She advises those who grew up in the ’80s not to show too much cleavage, so out the bathing wear and t-shirt they go. Boy, did I screw up this whole aging thing: Now that I’m truly comfortable in my own skin, I’m too old to show it off. Harumpf.

It felt good to see that I’ve already taken some steps in the right direction before I picked up the book: Krupp says pennyloafers, overalls and acid-washed jeans must be purged.

I’ll give up the long white denim skirt, I just got bangs, whiter teeth, and I’m taking better care of my nails, thanks to Krupp’s advice. And I do look/feel a little younger. 

But I don’t care what she says, I am not giving up my seriously sturdy $40 flip-flops from Hawaii.

This is just oogie: High heels for the 0-6 month baby girl in your life. For just $35, you can purchase these, um, doo-me shoes, which feature large rhinestone accessories, come packaged in a purse. Choose from hot pink, zebra-striped or leopard prints. 

The name of the company: Heelarious.

Can’t wait for their full line of infant cosmetics. NOTE: I am joking. For the love of all that’s holy, please refrain from going out and marketing such crud.

P.S. Check out this week’s new column about New Guy. 

No one calls them sitters anymore. Those who are hired for any amount of time during the day to watch young children are now called nannies.

Blame it on Supernanny, I suppose. Or maybe The Nanny Diaries. 

For me, “nanny” sounds like someone who lives with the family and should get full benefits ranging from paid holidays and a decent Christmas gift from the parents.

And here’s the big thing: The image I conjure up of parents who hire nannies as opposed to sitters are, well, idiots. Mrs. X in The Nanny Diaries was self-absorbed and obnoxious. Wendy, Michael and John’s parents used a dog named Nanny to watch the kids, for gosh sakes, so no wonder their eldest daughter thought it was OK to fly around with some strange boy in tights at night. Then there are the brain-dead parents we see on ABC who require Supernanny to tell them that they need to establish routines and/or learn to say “no” to their children and mean it.  

Let’s stick to sitters, people.

My cousin, Janette, came up with an idea: Moms at the supermarket should wear sashes displaying their badges of honor. I was never into that whole Girl Scout thing when I was young  (I quit right before the big camping trip–”eww” was my thought on that at the time). However, I’m starting to think these mommy merit badges have some, um, merit.

Last night, for example, I earned the “Major Assembly Required” badge for putting together a Homestyle Kitchen for our toddler.  Sure, it took me nearly twice as long as most of the reviewers of this toy product, but I did it without cussing, breaking any parts or finishing with any leftover pieces. It even looked like the picture when I was done.

Sure, watching our beaming daughter play with it is rewarding, but a little recognition for using the screwdriver, scissors and my head to decipher the pictorial directions would be nice, too.

All his life, he has considered me a beautiful woman. So when our son recently started commenting on my teeth, it unsettled me.  At bedtime, as we snuggled after reading and telling stories, he would gaze up with me with those big, chocolate eyes and flash a smile showing off his dazzling white Chicklett teeth and say, “Mom, your teeth look a little green.”

They’re getting a little yellow with old age, I’d say, but they’re not green.

“OK, if you feel that they’re yellow, then you can go ahead and say that,” he said diplomatically.

So now I’m on Day 4 of the Crest Whitestrips Premium Plus kit, which has gotten good reviews online. I’m a bit addicted to it and daily ask our son if he can see any difference. Last night, he inspected them and agreed that they are indeed looking better. I think they look better, too. But hey, I was in denial that they were tinging verde, so what does this mother know?

On one hand, I feel vain and a bit pathetic listening to a grammar school kid about appearances. Yet if my father had only listened to me about getting rid of those holey, paint-covered jeans that drooped and dirty white t-shirt he wore on the weekends, I think he might have gotten better service when doing errands. And I never had the courage to discuss his nose hair situation. So perhaps this is indeed progress in the evolution of the parent-child relationship.

And since I feel that way, I can go ahead and say that.

Whew, maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea to bring innocent children into this world after all: On Top Chef, the friendly, sincere, hardworking Stephanie Izard won…the first woman to take the honors since the competitive reality show launched four seasons ago.

So good to know that nice gals can finish first and let’s hear it for another crack in that glass ceiling! Now if only I can keep as calm and cool as she does when the heat’s on and teach my kids to do the same.

Husband, who is very good in the kitchen, faces another type of challenge: Assembling an elaborate swing set. Or mini playground or whatever these cedar monstrosities are called. The horror stories I’ve heard about such tasks–mostly from men–make me fear that only sections of ours will ever come together … and put on cinderblocks just for effect.

In other news: One of my favorite bloggers, Penelope Trunk, writes about Mommy Porn. This is what she calls elaborate photo spreads in the gossip rags showing celebrities with young children having it all.  It’s a good name for it, because after looking at the People’s over-the-top J-Lo spread about her hubby and twins, I felt dirty and ashamed and yet I couldn’t stop myself from staring at the chandeliers over the cribs, the prams that were the size of my car, and the glamourous get-up Lopez was in (hubby looked, um, effeminate, and I’m not saying that to be catty, I swear).

Under the threat of never working for the insurance company ever again, the flooring crew showed up Friday and made our house safe for our toddler and a home for all of us once again. The painters should finish up in the next few days, so we should be all moved back in by the end of the week.

Separately: Saw this article about cool jobs, which lists “doll fashion designer,” and that got me thinking: Will I keep my daughter Bratz-free? I will do my best to prevent the little tarts from getting into her toy box.

And no, none of the cool jobs looked like they were for me. Think Husband would make a fantastic brewmaster, though.

Yet another day where the floor company has stood us up. Understand that our 19-month-old is wondering around the house on filty carpeting that is edged with rows of small, protruding nails. We step over splotches of ceiling splatter that resembles mega-guano. For more on the flood that trashed our house about three months ago, click here.

This does not cheer me. Nor does the fact that sourpuss Lisa remains on Top Chef. It’s Richard Hatch all over again.

You’ve probably seen the story by now, too: The annual Salary.com pr-stunt about how mothers could earn a six-figure salary for their skills and accomplishments.

Aside from giving some folks at Salary.com their 15 minutes of fame as they appear on various media outlets discussing how they came up with these numbers, I don’t see much coming out of this. Where does it end? What if we were all compensated like Eliot Spitzer’s escort woman for the services we provide? College tuition and motorboats for everyone!

Focusing on the money we’re not making or could be making in some marketing fantasy land is just counter-productive.  And a bit creepy.

Yes, we’re all priceless. Now get back to work, mothering, flaking baloney stories, whatever.