Sometimes, parental supervision is not enough

You know, for as much training as Craig and I have received in parenting over the years, we have not always used sound judgment in choosing movies appropriate for children.

Now, I’m not talking about overly violent or sexual movies, which are clearly inappropriate for children. Instead, I’m talking about those movies that we adults would categorize as “classics,” but turn out to be the stuff of nightmares for our poor kids.

Exhibit A: “E.T.”

Now “E.T.” is a great movie and should be viewed by everyone OF A CERTAIN AGE. Five is not that age. Craig and I once showed this movie to a friend’s five-year-old son while we were babysitting (we were, of course, obliviously childless at the time). The boy sat there rapturous for the first half. But once things turned south and E.T. was dying in a glass tomb, poked and prodded by scientists, the little boy started to cry and shouted “My heart hurts!” I think that roughly translated to, “I’m five, this is way too adult for me, and why did my parents leave me with the two of you?”

Great question.

Exhibit B: “The Wizard of Oz”

Now this one was all Craig’s fault, simply because I flat-out refused to watch it after my first viewing 35 years ago. Seriously, those flying monkeys nearly did me in. Truth is, I can barely stand to look at the monkeys at the zoo, half expecting them to turn into maniacal winged instruments of death. I know, Curious George is cute, but inside he’s on the Wicked Witch of the West’s side. You can see it in his eyes.

After Craig had him watch “The Wizard of Oz” at age six, our son had nightmares about tornados for months AND he’s never once asked for a monkey as a pet.

See what I mean?

Exhibit C: “Signs”

I’ll take credit for this total lack in parental judgment. Craig was out of town, and I thought it would be fun for Nathaniel and me to watch something once I put his baby sister down for bed.

I had read about M. Night Shyamalan’s movie and was intrigued, especially by this blurb: “In Bucks County, Pennsylvania, a five-hundred-foot crop circle is found on the farm of Graham Hess, the town's reverend. The circles cause a media frenzy and test Hess's faith as he journeys to find out the truth behind the crop circles.”

I checked the rating and it was PG-13 for some frightening elements. Our son, age nine at the time, had already seen “Star Wars,” so I figured we were good to go.

But by the time the aliens started creeping around the reverend’s house, forcing the young son to walk around with a baseball bat in order to protect his siblings, Nathaniel stared in horror and yelled, “WHY ARE YOU LETTING ME WATCH THIS?”

Recently, as we laughed about this horrible display of judgment, Nathaniel said, “You’re just lucky I didn’t wear a tin foil helmet to school after that to protect myself from aliens.”

Yeah, not my best parenting move.

Which brings us to present day, with “The Hunger Games.” Nathaniel had read all the books in middle school, and insisted I read them as well. I finally sat down to read them a year ago and blew through the entire trilogy in a week’s time.

So of course I couldn’t wait to see the movies, and I was not disappointed.

But as I sat there in the dark theater and watched the story unfold, I caught myself thinking, “Yeah, this isn’t appropriate for our 10-year-old to see.”

Could it be that I’m finally growing up as a parent?

Fingers crossed, by the time our kids leave for college, I’ll have this parenting this down.

Eileen Burmeister lives, works and attempts to parent well in Roseburg. She can be reached at burmeistereileen@gmail.com or you can follow her on twitter @EBurmeister.

March Madness, indeed

I don’t get men and sports.

Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that I’m the youngest of four girls, and spent most of my formative years ENJOYING sports, but not memorizing players’ stats, buying playing cards in search of that one coveted Nolan Ryan card, or sitting through an entire boxing match without asking, “Why are they hitting each other?”

Over the years various men would try to explain how boxing is a sport, and they’re not really “hitting” each other, but there’s an art to it yadayadayada. See? I don’t get it.

So last weekend, when Craig asked if I wanted to go with him to meet some guys to watch the Ohio State Buckeyes play the Syracuse Orange in the Big Dance, I said, “No, but you have fun.”

Sure I wanted to watch the game, seeing that we’re both Ohio natives, and by default, life-long Buckeyes fans (I’m pretty sure it’s in our DNA). But did I want to go sit for three hours and watch grown men become rabid over a slam dunk?

Notsomuch.

And yet Craig persisted, and being a dutiful and loving wife (quiet!) I agreed to tag along.

We met up with two of his friends and my plan was to sit by quietly, allowing Craig to watch his alma mater play. But I don’t do anything “quietly” for very long.

That’s because it started: The stats came out.

“Check me on this,” said Sports Fan #1, pointing to Craig, “…didn’t Wyoming win the NCAA championship in 1943?”

Craig, taking out his iPhone, furiously tapped in the information and pulled up the stats, declaring that Sports Fan #1 was indeed correct.

“And didn’t Oregon win the very first NCAA championship title in 1939?” asked Sports Fan #2, not to be outdone by Sports Fan #1.

Once again, Craig punched that factoid into his iPhone and discovered that, low and behold, Sports Fan #2 was right as well.

I was trying to sit by quietly and listen to their conversation, but the irony was killing me. We’re talking about men who can’t find their keys from one day to the next, and yet they remember who played in the NCAA championship in 1943? So I asked Sports Fan #2, “Quick, how much did your daughter weigh when she was born?”

He took a few seconds before he asked, “Which one? I have three. But I’m pretty sure they were all between 7 pounds 5 ounces, and 7 pounds 11 ounces.”

I had to admit, this guy was impressive if even baby stats made the cut.

I went back keeping my thoughts to myself. The conversation then turned to their picks for the Sweet 16. Sports Guy #2 began, “Well, when it comes to bracketology, I like to choose my teams based on …”

I couldn’t stand it: “Excuse me? Bracketology? I’m pretty sure that’s not even a word,” I said smugly.

Craig, immediately punching into his portable brain device (see: iPhone), said triumphantly, “Yes it is!” as he showed me the Wikipedia entry.

Show of hands, ladies … when is the last time you used the word “bracketology” in a sentence, in context?”

Exactly.

This is why I don’t get men and sports. They have their own language, not unlike Klingon, which we can all agree is very unsettling.

There is, however, a very definite upside to last weekend’s experience. I don’t think Craig will be asking me to tag along to these sporting events again anytime soon.

Score one for me.

Eileen Burmeister lives, works and writes in Roseburg. She can be reached at burmeistereileen@gmail.com or you can follow her on Twitter at EBurmeister.

Charm school grad does an about face on inner, outer "beauty"

What comes to your mind when you hear the words Montgomery Ward? Charm, grace, poise, manners and respectability?

Yeah, me neither.

This is why I’m still scratching my head at the fact that my mother paid good, hard-earned money for me and my sister Kate to attend the Wendy Ward Charm School in 1979 at the Montgomery Ward in Cuyahoga Falls, Ohio.

My childhood friend Carol reminded me that she, too, took the class with Kate and me. She recalled the pink book that became our guide to beauty. Here is one excerpt: “Being beautiful means many things … It’s not just something you do with your appearance. It’s you! The total you! The way you look and talk … the way you move …the way you treat others … the way you feel about people and things … and yes … even the way you think.”

Seriously?

There is so much to criticize it’s hard to know where to begin, but perhaps I’ll start with the use of exclamation marks, which are really just punctuation marks that are simply trying too hard. Not unlike the attendees of the Wendy Ward Charm School, I might add.

The classes themselves were equally awful, expounding on the little “truths” found in the pink book. We had lessons in makeup application, how to set a table properly and how to walk gracefully.

One exercise that sticks out in my memory is the one where we had to walk in front of the entire group, stopping on a mark and pivoting to walk back. We were then critiqued on our style, our pivot, and even the way we held our arms. Carol remembers, “They even taught us how to hold our hands so the veins wouldn’t show.”

Because you know how offensive veins can be.

I vividly remember my sister Kate and I practicing our pivots at home, displaying our graceful stylings on the living room carpet for our mom.

Now, in my 30+ years on this earth (wink), I have been known to turn on my heel and run, but never – ever – have I used that pivot move. But just knowing I have that in my arsenal makes me feel special! (Note exclamation point, which communicates my sarcasm!)

Another page in the pink book advises us to “Give up moods, tempers and tears.” Um, you’re telling this to pre-teen and teenage girls? And how is that working out for everyone?

The Wendy Ward Charm School culminated in a fashion show, complete with borrowed clothes from Montgomery Ward (jealous yet?) which we had the option to buy for 20% off! (Sarcastic exclamation strikes again!) Mine was a gray and white jacket that zipped up into a cowl neck. That jacket, along with some fancy parachute pants and my Farrah Fawcett tube curls down the side of my head completed the look. Yes, it is as charming as it sounds. Overall, I was underwhelming, and underwhelmed.

Maybe it was just me. Maybe I just had a bad experience at my particular Wendy Ward Charm School and others learned life skills which served them well in their adult lives. I Googled “Wendy Ward Charm School” and an article from the Chicago Tribune popped up. “See?” I thought. “Someone reputable graduated and ended up in an article in the Trib.”

Instead this is what I read. "I'm not stupid. I went to Wendy Ward Charm School at Ward's when I was 13, excuse me. I know how to walk, how to get in and out of a car without showing the world everything." The person quoted? Terry Ventura, wife of Gov. Jesse (the Body) Ventura.

And we’re back.

After 20 years of marriage to Craig, tonight was the first time he had ever heard that I attended a charm school. “How long did you attend?” He asked, incredulous, suggesting that maybe I was “half-baked,” so to speak.

I gave him a dirty look and pivoted before exiting the room.

Eileen Burmeister lives, writes and can pivot with the best of them in Roseburg, Ore. She can be reached at burmeistereileen@gmail.com or you can follow her on Twitter at EBurmeister.

If it doesn't include red Solo cups and paper plates, it's not dinner at the Burmeisters

After 13 years in our existing house, we’re feeling the itch to move on to greener pastures, quite literally. That is, if by “greener pastures” you mean property that abuts someone else’s land, where THEY take care of the horses, cows and pigs. Yeah, that’s what we’re looking for.

We’re realizing that in order to continue to live the way we want to (i.e.: eating our cereal on the deck in our pajamas) we should really move somewhere with more privacy. That sound you hear? That’s our neighbors collectively cheering.

The day we moved into the neighborhood in 1999 our then 2-year-old son was newly potty trained. One of the less traditional methods I used to accomplish potty training was letting him go outside if he was outdoors at the time. Call me a horrible parent, but it got us out of Pull-Ups, and you can’t argue with that kind of cash savings.

So as Craig and I were busy unpacking our belongings into the house, our son was standing on the corner of our property waving to cars as they drove by. I was careful to make sure that he realized he wasn’t to go INTO the street, but stay safely in the grass. He nodded solemnly and went back to greeting our new neighbors.

However, on one of the many loads I noticed that he was standing waving to cars WHILE relieving himself in the rhododendron bush. Apparently I hadn’t verbalized that rule: No urinating in the front yard. Lesson learned.

I can only imagine what our neighbors were thinking as they drove by in that moment: “Well, there goes my property value now that the Beverly Hillbillies have arrived.” And with that, the Burmeisters moved into the ‘hood.

It’s bittersweet now to consider moving, especially since this is the only home our kids have known. But we’ve been feeling the draw to the country for some time and we’re ready.

First off, we have to sell the house. And that’s where things have gotten interesting. You see, we have to make sure the house is clean, the yard is pristine, and the rooms are all “show ready” on any given day.

For those of you who know my family, you know there’s nothing “show ready” about us. This has presented us with quite a dilemma: Do we continue to be true to ourselves and live the way we always have? Or do we pull ourselves together and fake it until it sells?

So, yeah, we’re faking it. And not very well.

Our realtor (bless her heart for she knows not what she’s gotten herself into) has encouraged us to see the house not as our own, but as a box of cereal on a grocery shelf that is being sold. So now, Craig will randomly yell out “cereal box” whenever we start to settle into our home at all. It’s his friendly reminder that we cannot be ourselves, for we are messy by default.

The realtor also suggested that we make up the dining room table “as if we were ready to sit down to a formal dinner.” My husband and I chuckled, looking at each other in a way that conveyed the same message: “That’ll be a first.” Later that day, Craig said, “If it doesn’t include red Solo cups and paper plates, it’s not dinner at the Burmeisters.” Sad, but true.

The good news? We did it. We purchased a table cloth, a centerpiece, a candle and even found matching flatware in our own drawers. I’m CAPABLE of keeping a house as fancy as a museum or a Pottery Barn showroom; it’s just that I’d rather take a nap instead. There’s really no competition.

Another recommendation was to eliminate any clutter. Bahahahahahaha. The only way the Burmeisters will eliminate clutter is to move to another home entirely.

So we’ll see what happens. We’ve come a long way in 13 years. Every room has been redecorated, a new roof was put on last summer, and (fingers crossed) we’ve all mastered using the indoor plumbing, so we just might pull this off.

Eileen Burmeister works and lives (for now) in Roseburg. She can be reached at burmeistereileen@gmail.com or you can follow her on Twitter at EBurmeister.

Meltdown on Aisle 3

Dear parent at Fred Meyer:

If you want to keep up the façade of being the perfect parent, DO NOT take your young child to Fred Meyer.

Trust me … I know that of which I speak. I’ve been the mom with the little girl arching her back, making it nearly impossible for me to pick her up off the floor where she’s throwing a first-class hissy fit. I’ve been the mom with the sobbing toddler in the check-out line who is lunging for the candy within his little grubby grasp.

Forget the fact that it’s impossible to go to Fred Meyer without seeing someone you know … I once had pneumonia, looked like the Bride of Frankenstein’s evil step-sister, and could only find clean pajama bottoms to wear out in public (sorry mom). But really, all I had to do was pick up one little, tiny prescription. Easy peasy, right? Wrong. Instead I saw three people, three people who didn’t observe my total lack of “holding-it-togetherness” and let me slip by. No, they wanted to chat and ask me how I was. I nearly screeched mid-sneeze, “Is that a rhetorical question?”

But even that personal shame can’t hold a candle to the parenting shame brought on by a terrible two year old who decides to go all primal in the cereal aisle.

About five years ago, my 4-year-old daughter Lily was already in trouble for lying earlier that morning, so she was not going to be getting her free cookie at Fred Meyer. Let’s just say she was less than happy about that fact.

I tried to explain my decision by offering an example from my own youth: “When I was little and I lied, it wouldn’t have made sense for Grandma to give me a treat, would it Lily?”

“No,” she admitted.

“Okay,” I said, “So get your shoes on and let’s get into the car.”

“Why?” she wanted to know. Mind you, this is about the 346th “why” of the morning and it was only 9:30.

Tempted to holler, “Because I said so!” I instead took a deep breath and said, “Put your shoes on and meet me in the car. If, when you get in the car with your shoes on, you’re still curious as to ‘why’ getting your shoes on was necessary, you can ask me then.”

Brilliant parenting, I thought smugly. I took a deep breath, put my seat belt on and headed to the store.

When we got to Fred Meyer she wanted to walk instead of sit in the cart. I’d personally rather have her corralled at all times, but I gave in begrudgingly. I headed to pick up some computer paper, but by the time I turned around she had paints, markers and Barbie stickers in her hands.

“What are you doing?” I asked patiently.

“I need these,” she whined.

“No, you have all of those things at home,” I said, prying her fingers from the Barbie stickers and putting them back. Crisis No. 1 averted.

Then we headed to pick up juice, but along the way she pilfered some Strawberry Shortcake fruit roll-ups.

“No,” I hissed, “Lily, you can’t take things as you go. Do you need to get in the cart?”

She just shook her head no.

Then we headed to the deli for turkey and ham. As I was ordering, she disappeared, only to be found on the rack under the cart giggling and singing, “You can’t see me.”

At this point, my blood pressure was rising, my deep breathing was turning into little quick breaths and my patience level was entirely depleted. So I steered toward the checkout.

Before I could unload my three items, Lily had gum and a candy bar in her little, dimpled hands. I grabbed them from her and bent down to return them. While I was bent down I took a deep breath and whispered, “No, Lily.”

She then bent down too, met my eye, and whispered, “Why are we whispering? Are we playing a game?”

I said, “Because if Mommy doesn’t whisper right now she’s going to start screaming.”

She held my gaze for a few seconds and seemed to understand. Then I looked up and saw everyone behind me in line listening to our conversation and smiling.

Today, dear friend, I’m the mom behind you smiling. Just so we’re clear, I’m not laughing at you. Oh, no. I just recognize myself in you. I “get” you. And I hope you have a nice long nap planned when you get home, because, honey, you deserve it.

Eileen Burmeister lives, writes and works in Roseburg. She can be reached at burmeistereileen@gmail.com or you can follow her on Twitter @EBurmeister.

It's hell getting old

Because I’m (ahem) getting up there in age, my physical ailments seem to be taking longer than they did in the good old days, and my right shoulder is no exception. A few months ago I wrote about some physical therapy I was doing due to some tendonitis and an impingement in my rotator cuff.

The good news? I finished my physical therapy, and right around Christmas I was released and sent home with a plan to continue therapy on my own.

The bad news? Apparently my rotator cuff’s idea of “continued therapy” did not include parking myself on the couch to watch “A Christmas Story” for the third time in front of a roaring fire. Who knew?

So I had two options: I could either (1) go back to physical therapy, or (2) sign up for a gym membership, continuing with the strengthening exercises I had so happily given up over the holidays. I opted for No. 2 and joined the same gym that my friend Julie belongs to because I like Julie.

Or I did like Julie, until she asked me join her for her Piyo class.

Here’s how it went down:

Text from me to Julie: “Hey! I just joined your gym!”

Julie’s text: “Cool. What days are you going?”

Me: “I’m headed there today.”

Julie: “Want to join me for Piyo at 12:15?”

Me: “Whodawa? Piyo? Please advise.”

Julie: “It’s a combination of Pilates and Yoga.”

Me: “What the heck? I’ll be there.”

Because, really, my philosophy has become, “That which does not kills me, makes for a great column.”

So I showed up, and placed my yoga mat right next to Julie. I figured, “If I go down, I can reach out and take her down with me.” We’re good friends like that.

The instructor bounced into the room ready for action, and I was out of breath just from unrolling the yoga mat. This discrepancy was unnerving, to say the least.

The next 30 minutes were a blur of leg kicks, downward dogs and windmill stretches. Although difficult, I completed the whole session without injuring myself or anyone else (see: Julie), which is growth for me.

Yes, my rotator cuff and I were feeling pretty good about ourselves.

A few days later I headed back to the gym to do some weight therapy on my shoulder and heard about a Pilates class that was starting in 10 minutes. Pilates is one half of Piyo, I reasoned, so it must only take half as much energy. Without the “yo” it’s only half a workout, right?

This, I could do.

Until it started. And it was hard. And it was 45 minutes, and I’m a big proponent of the 30-minute-limit to all workouts.

We did 10 reps of each exercise, which is a bit much if you ask me. At one point the instructor yelled, “You guys are doing great.” (At that exact moment, however, I was collapsed flat on the yoga mat from exhaustion after doing three out of the 10 reps of in-the-air scissor kicks. I’m pretty sure she and I have differing definitions of the word “great.”)

There are countless clichés about getting old, but for each one I hear I can punch holes in the wisdom:

• “You’re only as old as you feel.” Well, I feel like crap, so now what?
• “Old age isn’t bad if you consider the alternative.” Not if the alternative is ice cream.
• “Youth has no age.” Ah, but my rotator cuff does.

But then I hear my plainly-spoken mom, 80, wisely state: “It’s hell getting old,” and my only rebuttal is “Amen, sister.”

Eileen Burmeister lives, works and writes in Roseburg. She can be reached at burmeistereileen@gmail.com or you can follow her on Twitter @EBurmeister.

Missing factor in homeschool equation

For all the ranting and raving I do over the lack of correct spelling and grammar, there is a much darker reality at play: I stink at all the other disciplines traditional to the education process.

True story: While acing my honors English classes in high school, I was sweating through Geometry and barely eking out Cs and Ds. My sister, Kate, who went on to earn a master’s degree in polymer chemistry, didn’t understand me at all. “Why is this so hard?” she’d ask, looking at an equation that I had brought to her. I wanted to say, “Oh yeah, Miss Concrete Thinker, let’s see who can write a sonnet quicker, shall we?” But of course I kept that thought unspoken because, let’s face it, I needed her help.

And now, I am the butt of jokes with my own family. My teenager will ask if I need a calculator when I’m doubling a recipe. My husband will hear me talking to myself “Let’s see … $35 plus $25 is $50” and say, “Tell me you’re joking.” Sadly, I’m not.

But our nine-year-old angel, Lily, has always been my buddy, seeing as I was still smarter than her in this arena.

Until now, that is.

Last week, I was working a puzzle at the dinner table while she worked on her fourth grade math homework. “Mom?” she asked as I searched for a border piece, “is six times nine 54?”

Maybe it was the exertion of working the puzzle, or the exhaustion from the lovely dinner I had just prepared, or maybe the creative side of my brain was overpowering the … other side (what IS that side called again?) but I COULD NOT remember my multiplication tables to know what the correct answer was.

So it happened. Just as before with our firstborn, I swallowed my pride and whispered, “It’s time to go find your dad.”

Another chapter closed.

Fast-forward to tonight. We were in the car running errands with Lily, and she was asking what would happen if the economy got so bad that we had to close schools. Craig and I assured her that we aren’t anywhere near that yet, and then I added, “Besides, would it be so bad being home with me all day as your teacher?”

Silence.

It was dark out. Perhaps she had fallen asleep?

“Well….” She said, “at least I would learn English, since that’s the only thing Mom really knows.”

Excuse me? Yes, I used to be a high school English teacher and I have been writing for a living for 15 years now, but I know a thing or two about other stuff too.

Craig tossed me a bone by adding, “Well, she’s good at grammar and spelling too.”

Whodawa? That’s still English-related, mister. Tell her about all the other things I’m good at, I wanted to yell. Like … puzzles.

“Yeah,” Lily agreed, albeit reluctantly. “And I guess she could help me with math if she had a calculator right next to her.”

Seriously, go ahead and talk about me AS IF I’M NOT RIGHT HERE IN THE CAR, people!

I’m not taking it personally, however, because I know when honors English rolls around I will once again be the go-to parent.

But until then, I am grateful that my husband and Lily’s teacher are around, teaching my child what I am, allegedly, unable to do myself.

Eileen Burmeister lives, works and struggles with basic math principles in Roseburg. She can be reached at burmeistereileen@gmail.com or you can follow her on Twitter at EBurmeister.