I'm not cheap, I'm frugal. (Or maybe I'm cheap...but I'm okay with it.)

All of my grandparents lived through the blessing and the curse that was The Great Depression.  I call it a curse for obvious reasons, but I call it a blessing because I think it taught that generation so very much about finances and material possessions.  And how to be resourceful.  And how to appreciate what you have rather than coveting what you don't.  And how not to overextend yourself financially, because, well, Hello Great Depression.

I will admit to being excessively frugal.  It pains me to spend money.  To the point that even when I need something, I try to figure out a way not to have to buy it.  I am 99.9% sure that this is a result of the way my parents were raised, and in turn raised me.  But when I say "my parents", I primarily mean my mom.

My mom's frugality was her contribution to our single-income family.  She did her darnedest to make sure that every dollar my dad earned went as far as it possibly could.  We did our back-to-school shopping at the Village Thrift Store and Ames.  Needless to say, we didn't wear name brand clothes.  We ate every meal at home, excepting Sunday after church when we'd splurge on Taco Bell, McDonalds, or maybe Subway.  She didn't make impulse buys.  She couponed.  She went to seven different grocery stores in a week to buy the cheapest things that were on sale at each one.  We drank Little Hugs in our lunch every day (which I'm pretty sure is the least expensive beverage to ever be manufactured and sold). If I wanted a treat while we were out grocery shopping, she would lend me the money for it, and she would leave a post-it note on my dresser at home as a reminder to pay her back (i.e. - "Owe Mom $0.33 for Snickers Bar").

And none of that seemed at all weird to me.  

That was life.  

Then I entered middle school.  Apparently middle school is the era in a person's life in which one can only be considered cool if wearing Doc Martens and a Greenday t-shirt.  (Oh dear, I think I'm dating myself here.)  At any rate, it was the first time I became aware of the "need" for name brands.  So I did what I thought any tween would do.  I cleaned houses and saved my dollars to buy my very own pair of Reebok Classics, the first name-brand anything I ever owned.  I bargain hunted for the entire summer and finally bought them at Marshalls because they had the best deal.  And I loved those shoes.  

Times have changed.  Maybe that's not what the typical tween would have done then, but it's certainly not what the typical tween would do now.  I defer to my post about entitlement.  Most tweens would just ask their parents.  And a lot of these parents would simply say "Okay, sure."  But I've already said plenty about that.

Today, I just want to express my appreciation for my mother's frugality.  It all came flooding back to me this weekend as I prepped to send Ben back to school today.  He was toting his washed and good-as-new bookbag from Pre-K two years ago, wearing his Target shoes, and sporting some shorts out of which we were lucky enough to get two summers worth of wear (and I swear they still look great).  His shirt is new.  (We got it on sale at the Gap outlet...with a coupon.)  And boy did he look handsome, if I might say so myself - my big first grader and his two silly sisters.

I don't claim to be perfect.  I enjoy Dunkin' Donuts coffee more regularly than I care to admit.  And while a $2 coffee is hardly a Coach purse, I still feel guilty for indulging.

The point is - I appreciate my mom for her penny-pinching.  Strange as it may sound, I don't feel that I missed out on anything because I didn't have Nikes when I was 6 years old or Abercrombie jeans when I was 16.  Because when I type it out like that, it sounds kind of like a no-brainer.  I didn't miss out on anything.  I had everything I needed.  I appreciate, in retrospect, the fact that she put zero emphasis on having the most expensive clothing, the fanciest toys, or the nicest vehicles.

Oh, the vehicles...I could write another entire post about those.

Let's just say, when my sister passed up this free '79 Corolla on her 16th birthday, I was elated because it meant I could have it...five years down the line.  And that is how I ended up with my Green Machine.

I hope I pass a small portion of this frugal-mindedness on to my own kids; though maybe not to the extreme that my mom did.  I can probably spring for a candy bar now and then without fear of ruining them or breaking myself.  And I hope some day I can buy a pair if jeans when I need them without sweating about it.

In the meantime, I'll spring for that DD coffee every once in a while, and smile as I think about my mom and her crazy, imparted ways - because that guilty feeling I get at the drive thru comes from her.  And, for some inexplicable reason, I'm grateful for it.

Flashback Friday - The end of "summer"

Today marks the last weekday of summer vacation for the local kids. School starts back on Monday for my big first grader and all of his fellow schoolmates. Yesterday we walked down the familiar hallway, with the undeniable scents of elementary school infiltrating our nostrils every step of the way. Instead of turning left to go down the pre-k and kindergarten hall, my big man turned right to go down the first and second grade hallway. It's strange to me how comfortable and seasoned a first grader can be. For the kids who've been there since pre-k, 1st grade is kind of like the "junior" year of primary school. There's only one year left before they graduate onto bigger and better things - which is the elementary school next door, home to grades three through five.

At open house, we went through the motions like we were old pros. We found the classroom, met the teacher, signed my life away, and volunteered for a snack day.  We took a few pictures, collected the goodies at Ben's desk, said hey to teachers from the past two years, and went home.  I had a great feeling about his teacher, so that was a big relief.  I think it's going to be an excellent year.

My flashback today could be about the past summer and all of the things we did to keep us busy (and to keep Ben out of daycare).

Like our trip to the Nick Hotel

Complete with fun in a cabinet...

And the simple joys like playing out back with random pieces of wood

And catching frogs...

And slip-sliding away

I could flashback to our 4th of July trip to MD

Or the extended stay at Grandmom & Grandpop's house and the trips to Grammie & Grandaddy's house where they made one of Ben's childhood dreams come true...

All of which filled in the gaps to lead us here...Ben's Adventures in First Grade ~ Starting Monday, August 9th.

But what I really want to flashback to is this day...

This is the day Ben started Pre-K at the public primary school.  It's the very same day I realized how much of my heart actually belongs to this little boy.

I imagine it hit me so hard because he's my first.  Maybe that first child is always a little babied.  I just wasn't ready to let go of my baby boy.  Despite the fact that Ben would be the oldest in his class and the fact that he was born with the demeanor of a seasoned old man and clearly maturity would not be a problem, I worried about him.  I didn't sleep the night before thinking about my little four year old entering the big, bad realm of elementary school.  I feared what he would learn from all of the other unruly and delinquent little boys and girls.  I worried that he wouldn't know anyone and that he'd be too shy to make friends.  I stressed about him going through the lunch line, making the purchase, carrying his tray, opening his own milk.  I was afraid of bullies, of teachers who wouldn't be warm and loving, of how he'd hold up in a classroom of that size all day.

The first week of school, I parked my car and accompanied him inside.  I was so distraught I didn't even think to bring a camera.  My focus was my boy, and that was it.  I went with him to the lunchroom where he ate breakfast for a few days so I could watch him do it, and prove to myself that he was going to be okay come lunchtime.  I sat next to him and hid tears behind my sunglasses when he asked me to open his milk for him.  (I learned the sunglasses trick from my own mom who "masked" her tears behind them so many times I couldn't possibly count.)  I told him he needed to try or he needed to raise his hand and ask for help from the lunchlady because that's what he'd need to do when I wasn't sitting next to him.  I watched him balance his gigantic bookbag on his back and his awkwardly large tray out front as he carried the trash to the trashcan.

Then I had him prove to me that he could make it to his classroom.  He could, of course.  When we walked in, his (absolutely wonderful) teacher ran through the morning routine.  (Hey, that was good!  We like routines.)  He put his agenda in the slot labeled with his name and symbol.  He hung his bookbag on the hook labeled with his name and symbol.  Then he gave me a hug and the teacher looked at me and my ridiculously large sunglasses with a sympathetic smile and said, "He's going to be just fine, Mom."  I smiled and I don't even think I spoke.   I turned on my heel and high-tailed it out of there because the waterworks were coming and I knew I wasn't going to be able to stop them.

The truth is, I knew he was going to be just fine.  I was the one that wasn't.  I made it to the car before I lost it.  I felt like I'd made him a meat necklace and threw him into a cage full of rabid wolves.

When I picked him up that afternoon, there was a glimmer in his eye.  Just as I should have suspected, Ben loved school.  Knowing that helped.  

A little.

I still wore those sunglasses for a week.

And I'm still not sure why it was so hard for me.

What I am elated to report is that all of my worst fears were completely irrational.  I underestimated my own son, the other children, and the amazing teachers who spend their days educating our innocent boys and girls.  None of them were (or are) perfect, but they're all doing their best.  And what more can a crazy mom ask for?  After all, that's what I'm trying to do too.  With two years under his belt, Ben's got this school thing down.  He already told me he doesn't need me to walk him to class on the first day.  (Too bad, kid.)

I'll report back to you when Abby starts Pre-K next year.  My fears will be slightly different then, I imagine - along the lines of:  

How do I handle being the parent of the class clown?

See what I mean?

Have a Fabulous Friday!!!  (And if you read all of that, I'll make you some brownies.  But you have to come to my house to get them!)

Blog hopping today at Follow Me, Chickadee...

Thursday 13 - World Breastfeeding Week

Header courtesy of samulli

In honor of World Breastfeeding Week this week, I am dedicating my thirteen to the motherly art that is breastfeeding.

Thirteen Reasons Breastfeeding Is Right for Me

1. It's free.  Seriously.  And I'm as cheap as cheap gets, so naturally this is numero uno.
2. I don't have to worry about running out of breastmilk.  Sure, there can be supply issues.  I know about these first-hand, but if you put a baby to your breast, they can get something out.  You can't make an ounce of formula with an empty can.  It's simply impossible.
3. When I nursed in the night, the baby and I both slept through the feedings.  That thing about not being able to take turns on the night feedings is irrelevant.  When you nurse, no one has to get up with the baby.  ZZZzzzZZZzzz
4. It gives me an excuse to continue eating like a pregnant woman well after the baby was born.  Thanks to my nursing metabolism, I could eat and eat and not gain weight.  (But I also didn't lose it.  This trade-off was okay by me...I love food way more than being skinny.)
5. There was never a need to carry a bulky diaper bag.  Without having to tote around bottles, formula, and water I could put a couple of diapers, a small pack of wipes, and an extra outfit in my (big) purse and proceed with life.
6. I get to hold, feed, and bond one-on-one with my baby countless times a day.  And that's a memory that no one else can ever claim from me.
7. The antipyretic powers of breastmilk can't be beat.  I have witnessed it countless times.  The stuff is as good as Tylenol or Ibuprofen when a fever is involved, only it works much faster.
8. It makes me feel like Super(wo)man.  Faster than a bottle warmer.  More powerful than formula.  I could calm a screaming baby with a single moment of nursing.  I could survive nursing strikes, mastitis, and pumping at work for a year and still come out feeling great about it.
9. The longer I nursed, the healthier my children were.  When I quit at 4 months with my first, he endured ear infection after countless ear infection.  I stopped at 7 months with my second and the same thing happened.  With my third, we're still going at 14+ months and she is, by far, my healthiest child.
10. It decreases my risk of breast and ovarian cancers.  Given my family history, I'll take all the help I can get.
11. Breastfeeding is about as green as it gets.  There is no disposable packaging!
12. Sorry if it's taboo, but nursing delayed my period for nearly a year.  That's nothing short of sweet.
13. I know we all think our babies are the cutest, but my breastfed babies' poop really doesn't stink (as badly as formula poop).  

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Tell-tale Mom Things (Please tell me I'm not alone)

You have had to start patting your child down before you drop her off at Sunday School after she somehow managed to smuggle a pushpin and a pink highlighter in on consecutive Sundays.  And you have to wonder, where is she hiding that stuff?  In her underwear?

You immediately regret purchasing those plastic, light-up princess shoes because you know full well your three year old will never want to wear another pair of shoes again.

Sometimes you feel a little guilty for those white lies you tell your kids.  For instance, for four years running you have been able to convince your son that they didn't have a Power Rangers costume in his size.  (But really, he'll thank you later.  At least this is what you tell yourself so you can sleep at night.)

You've watched your son invent a musical instrument using nothing but a rubber band and his little sister's tricycle.  Then you took a picture of it.

It doesn't surprise you at all to see this in the playroom:

Leave it to your creative three year old to make a bed out of a flip flop and a blanket out of a torn piece of notebook paper.  Who says kids need fancy, expensive toys?

You absolutely love when your fourteen month old wraps her arms around your neck and gives you the biggest, strongest squeeze you ever imagined possible from a tiny, little girl.  What you don't love quite as much is when, a few seconds into that oh-so-sweet hug, she bites you with those razor sharp teeth right on the shoulder. 

When you decide to go on a beach vacation five hours from home with a one month old and you fail to pack a bouncer or swing, you have to get creative.  Believe it or not - this worked (kudos, Sam - I knew I married you for a reason):

You know they were just the ringbearer and flower girl, but seeing them dressed up (and gorgeous) gave you anxiety because as fast as their first few years flew by, you know you'll practically be marrying them off for real like...tomorrow.  *sniffle*

Standing in the school supply aisle excites you - way more than it excites your child.  And despite the explicit directions on the school supply list, you desperately want to splurge and get the 64-box of Crayolas that you never had but always wanted back when you were going into first grade.

Despite the fact that you don't really do birthday parties and you aren't exactly craftsy, you begin researching birthday party themes and possible favors/decorations/games months in advance.  You call it a [Pinkalicious] daydream.
 

Linking up today at...

Flashback Monday? Just go with it.

Now that I got my little "I'm rubber and you're glue" hissy-fit out of my system, I can get on with more important (and more importantly) fun things.  Like my 3-days late Flashback Friday.  But hey, that's who I am.  I'm late.  At life.  I was late to work this morning even.  (Though that one really wasn't my fault.  Have you ever been boxed in at the daycare drop-off line for 15 minutes?   As inconsiderate and rude as it was of those slow-moving front parkers, I think handled it quite well.  There was no horn blowing and my blood pressure didn't even rise...outside of the already elevated norm anyway.  Thank you very much.)

I've always been a creature of habit.  Always.  This hasn't gotten better with age, and I don't anticipate that it will.  So when I got up Saturday morning and did the dishes that I had left in the sink on Friday night (because I always do that), it was all part of the routine.  I got the coffee started, unloaded and reloaded the dishwasher, and started thinking about what we'd have for breakfast (that would use up the 2 extra loaves of bread I'd gotten to make ham sandwiches for the daycare kids end-of-summer party - how many kids did I think I was feeding?!).  That's when I remembered Saturday morning breakfasts at my house growing up.

During the week, we had quick breakfasts, if we had them at all.  My sister and I were never really breakfast-eaters growing up.  And to call my mom an early-riser would be, well, a blatant lie.  By the time we were old enough to get ourselves ready in the morning, we did.  Before that, our breakfast consisted of a Little Debbie that my mom would hand to us, which we would hide behind the couch in it's unopened glory.  Then we'd lie straight through our teeth and say that we'd eaten it.  (True story.  I'm sorry, Mom.  The jig is up.  Though I'm sure you figured out where those forty Star Crunches came from whenever you moved the couch.)

Saturdays, however, were an entirely different story.  On Saturday, my dad cooked breakfast.  And he did it right.  There's just something about waking up to the smell of bacon frying and coffee brewing to lure you right out of bed when you'd otherwise want to be sleeping.  It didn't matter what was on the menu for breakfast, he cooked it all in the electric skillet.  Swapping flavors and grease between all of the elements.  The list of menu items seemed endless and varied from week to week.  There were fried eggs over-easy (which we lovingly referred to as dip-it-in-it eggs), scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage patties, sausage links, pan-fried ham, and scrapple, that beloved mid-atlantic mystery meat that still makes me salivate when I think of it.  There were the various baked goods made with love by my grandmother who would bring them over when she and my grandfather came over to visit every Thursday night, like peach cake, zucchini bread, and stollen.  And then there were the countless pieces of toast my dad would make in the toaster oven, because for some reason, we never owned a toaster in our house growing up.

I would sit at the bar watching him cook it, no doubt jabbering my little brains out.  When it was finished, he'd set us out two plates (because I was the only one who ever got up with him to enjoy the feast).  Then he would sit down, open the paper up, and work on the Jumble and crossword puzzles in the paper while I read over his shoulder.  Every 60th clue or so, I'd actually know the answer and I'd chime in (though I'm sure he was just letting me have it, like I do with Ben now).

And between the two of us, we consumed an incredible amount of breakfast meats.

I guess this is why, flash forward to now, I cherish my Saturday morning routine so much.  We do breakfasts big on Saturday.  Though the choices are (ever so slightly) healthier and less saturated in crossed-over grease, my kids do love some extra butter.  Among our favorites: waffles, hashbrowns,  pancakes & sausage, bacon (of course), cinnamon rolls, crescent rolls with jelly (or sausage or both), blueberry muffins, jelly/cheese toast, and cheese eggs.  I've even gotten to be a little brave.  There's something about cooking breakfast that isn't at all like cooking dinner.  Could it be because I enjoy it?  (I think so.)  At any rate, I'm willing to experiment and it pays off sometimes.  My favorite new breakfast item is chocolate chip, walnut waffles.  I wish I had one right now.

I guess this is also why I make a concerted effort to serve my kids a good, hearty breakfast every single morning of the week.  And I watch them while they eat it (because I would hate to find jelly toast behind my couch).  Do we have poptart mornings?  Of course.  Do we eat cereal from time to time?  Yes, especially because if given the choice, Abby would subsist on cereal alone.  But breakfast is a meal that I have grown to absolutely love.  Crave even.  It's the most important meal of the day, right?  I don't know about the health and metabolism aspects of that.  But for me, it's important because of the memories.  And I hope I'm creating those for my kids...not just on Saturday.