Mothering Heights

Shot Glass Souvenirs

Christine Fugate — Sat, 28 Aug 2010 03:27:16 +0000

“You are a unique traveling family,” my girlfriend said. I could tell she was trying to be polite.

“Most people buy shot glasses and t-shirts when they go on a trip. Your family buys equipment,” my girlfriend in the backseat added. We were on our way to Los Angeles for a New Orleans style bra party celebrating the end of the summer. Every one had to wear a bra outside their clothing in some decorative New York. Does that count as a t-shirt?” A Russian saleswoman named Angela had been very concerned about my bra wardrobe, working herself into a sweat as she ran between the dressing room and racks.

“Well that certainly wasn’t cause for the extra suitcase,” they razzed me. “What else did you buy?”

Dare I tell them about the heating pad I bought in Boston because my hip went out? While sitting on an old bench seat on the Ducks Tour Boat, my hip popped out. Limping through the Freedom Trail with my kids was an interesting way to experience the blood, sweat and tears of the American Revolutionaries. I nally broke down and headed to the pharmacy to buy a heating pad and Advil.

My husband called, “Can you get me two screwdrivers? I need to put some equipment together.”

Probably freaked out by his truly lame wife, my husband went to a sporting goods store and bought a pull up bar, an exercise band and in. atable exercise ball. With the screwdrivers, he assembled a torturelike contraption and did pull ups o. the doorframe. Me on my heating pad, him on his bar was possibly our best Mars and Venus moment.

Loading up our car for Maine was an adventure. By then the family had also acquired a can of tennis balls (to roll on my hip), several copies of the Declaration of Independence, and a stack of books from the Harvard Bookstore. We tipped the valet so generously he brought us a six-pack of water.

Hanging out in Maine, my husband immediately forgot his exercise plan as we ate lobsters, clams and garlic bread. My youngest daughter did acquire a fan for her room, which got fairly warm. My heating pad was still used nightly and once during the day a. er I accidentally drank hydrogen peroxide that was in a glass to clean my retainer. (I obviously couldn’t retain the memory that it was not water.) ere’s nothing like throwing up foam to make you question your ability as a mother.

In New York City, our nal stop, I stopped using the heating pad and bought a fan. I don’t know if it was the New York heat or some kind of lobster withdrawal, but I needed a breeze and my youngest was not sharing. By then our pile of stu. had grown substantially but that didn’t stop me. I bought a gorgeous blue glass cake plate and an adorable shell art turtle in an antique store in Soho.

Fortunately, a cousin had borrowed a large suitcase from us in July and taken it to New York. Breaking into a sweat, I packed up our acquisitions. And it all t, except for the pull up bar which was fortunately le. at my mother-in-law’s house.

“Oh and there were two boxes of glutenfree cake mixes I bought in Maine,” I added, nishing o. my list to the girlfriends.

“What?” they screamed. Luckily, we had just arrived at the party and my souvenir interrogation session was over.

As we entered the party, an attendant with a rack of bras greeted us, “Ladies, may I get you a bra to wear?”

“No, thank you,” I replied. “This time, I actually brought my own.” I put an old bra on as a belt and headed inside. It was time to nd a shot glass lled with something refreshing and unforgettable.

A Tale of Two Suitcases

Christine Fugate — Mon, 02 Aug 2010 03:58:51 +0000

Our family vacation is next week and I am afraid. Very afraid. Sure, the lighting and whining over who gets the airplane window, rollaway bed and chocolate on the pillow incites a subtle dread, but that’s not it. A steady diet of French fries, chocolate chip cookies and multiple sightseeing caramel lattes doesn’t even worry me anymore. Go on vacation, gain five pounds is the norm.

It’s not even a fear of flying, although there’s nothing like bouncing through a thunderstorm to make me wish I were at home folding laundry. No, I am deeply afraid of luggage. ere’s always some movie moment drama and frankly I’m just not up to it.

Eleven years ago, before I was married, my parents took me on a trip to Costa Rica via Miami. When I arrived in the Miami Airport, I met up with my family, grabbed my purple du. e bag and headed to our hotel in South Beach. Later that night, I discovered that my luggage lock wouldn’t open because, lo and behold, it wasn’t my bag! A" er spending an hour on the phone with the airlines, I discovered that a man had mistakenly taken my bag, too. I wasn’t the only dufus at the luggage carousel.

Another hour on hold and it was revealed that Mr. Purple Du. e Bag was staying in our hotel, one - oor directly above me. My head swirled. - is was obviously fate, a “Sleepless in Seattle” in Miami. I rushed down to the front desk with his bag. My bag was there but no cute guy was next to it. A" er interrogating the desk clerk, I found out that Mr. Purple was headed to Chile with his girlfriend. - at was a whole lot of anxiety over nothing.

Since then, I’ve had a few lost bags but nothing too dramatic until last summer when we traveled to Brooklyn to visit my husband’s family. My daughter and I packed up my computer, her stu. ed bear and sassy out. ts and spent the night at my girlfriend’s apartment in Greenwich Village. - e next day, we met up with my husband who took our bags and put them in the navy mini-van in the public garage.

What a beautiful day in Manhattan, until we got home and there was no luggage in the van. Obviously stolen, I had a meltdown of the . rst degree.

To make a long and painful story short, my husband put our luggage in the wrong blue mini-van. - e person discovered it when they got home to Ramsey, N.J., and found their van . lled with a stu. ed bear and silver suitcase. My husband and I drove to this honest man’s house to get my stu. . - is movie moment was more like “Shutter Island” where my husband escaped a near-death experience.

Everyone knows that things happen in threes which is why I’m slightly nervous packing my bags. What will I lose this time? More importantly, what is the lesson? Don’t check luggage? Like that’s going to happen with two kids and a husband who wears three shirts a day.

I’m going to stick with my grandmother’s adage. “Pack a clean pair of underwear and tooth brush in your purse, and you’ll always be fresh.” I need this vacation to be drama free. Less “National Lampoon’s Vacation,” more “Princess Diaries.” A little “Eat Pray Love,” wouldn’t hurt either.

Thanks for the therapy session. I feel ready to face the carousel with glasses in hand and a fully stocked purse, just in case this devil needs to wear Prada.

Daddy Nicholas Cage Rocks It!

Christine Fugate — Wed, 14 Jul 2010 18:39:44 +0000

My girls and I saw The Sorcerer's Apprentice in a nice, cool movie theater and loved it!

The movie is based loosely on the Fantasia animated movie, The Sorcerer's Apprentice, that stars none other than Mickey Mouse. In this version, Nicholas Cage plays the sorcerer and one of Merlin's apprentices. Let me just say that I couldn't quite see Nicholas Cage in this role, but he turned out to be perfect. Read more and Kitty Kat and Sara Cinema's reviews...

The Undergarment Anniversary

Christine Fugate — Fri, 02 Jul 2010 18:06:33 +0000

Today is my tenth wedding anniversary. Yes, I have been married for 3,652 days. My husband says it feels 365,000 days. Not sure what that means but I’ll err on the positive side and chalk it up to the fact that we have been very busy these past ten years with two kids, three moves and an array of exploding toilets.

Today also marks my tenth anniversary of being a mom since I was pregnant when we got married. Aware of my family’s history with fertility problems, we began the baby dance as soon as we got engaged. Pregnant by April, the October wedding was moved to July and my dress exchanged for a larger size. There’s nothing more fun that being too fat to fit into your over planned, expensive wedding dress.

Several weeks ago, my girlfriend and I were talking wedding anniversaries. “I’m going lingerie shopping for our twelfth anniversary. Why don’t you come with me?” she offered.

“You couldn’t pay me to go shopping for lingerie right now,” I said, rolling my eyes with great effect.

No, you couldn’t pay me but you can share a picture of me at a recent film screening in which my bra looks like a tiny ace bandage wrapped around my torso creating a top and bottom bulge. Attractive. And I’m so happy that there are lots of photos of me like that. (If this is too much information for you, stop reading now. I am beyond self-restraint.)

Ten years ago, my underwear drawer was filled with beautiful lingerie from Victoria’s Secret and quaint boutiques of French lace. Now days, it’s pure Costco with a little Target thrown in for variety. I decided it was time for a change. Start the next decade with some new lingerie.

The sales girl at Nordstrom’s was so enthusiastic about the twenty bras she brought to the dressing room, I can only think she pitied me.

“Oh, that looks beautiful,” she exclaimed. “That fits you perfectly.” I looked around for hidden cameras. Was this some kind of Punk’d Candid Camera situation?

The shopping trip was a success, or at least for the sales girl. For that price, I could have bought twenty Costco bras and a large bag of chocolate chips. But these were ‘quality bras,’ she told me, ‘the kind that Oprah likes to wear.’

The next day, I put on my fancy one and headed out the door. I was feeling pretty sassy, if you know what I mean, until I got to my lunch meeting. Sitting at the table, I couldn’t catch my breath. Am I having a panic attack? An asthma attack? My whole rib cage started to ache. I excused myself to the bathroom.

Yes, I was having a heart attack, smack dab in the middle of the bathroom stall. I hurried home, changed into my pajamas and crawled into bed before my kids got home.

Strangely enough, I suddenly felt better. I could breathe. That’s when I realized my fancy pants bra was way too tight. I marched myself back to Nordstrom’s, looking for Miss Lingerie USA. Lucky for her, she wasn’t there to hear my tirade about how perfect is not always comfortable.

That’s a life lesson I keep relearning. Perfect is not comfortable. Thank goodness, I no longer feel the need to be perfect in my marriage. It’s becoming like a set of sheets that keep me warm and cozy. The older they get, the softer they become. Of course, there are those days that the toilet explodes. And that’s when I try and remember ‘for better or for worse,’ a vow to count every day even when it barely fits.

How to Hunt for the Bucket List Bikini

Christine Fugate — Mon, 28 Jun 2010 03:32:20 +0000

Featured in Coast Magazine Summer 2010

Only a few weeks before summer begins and I am already behind on my preparations for this dangerous yet scintillating activity filled with blood, sweat and tears. Copious planning and attention to detail are necessary if I am to capture and kill the prey that will feed me all summer long. Yes, my fellow hunters, the swimsuit season is upon us.

Every year, the season kicks off with the arrival of the Land’s End bathing suit catalogue. I study my guide to swimwear shopping – the legend of body shapes: inverted triangle (hide the boobs), rectangle (get a waist), triangle (hide the big butt), circle (hide the tummy) and the star (when everything needs help). Last year, I was a circle, but things might have changed. My boobs seem to be on steroids these days.

Lately, I have been following the path of Oprah and her favorite book, Women, Food and God. Stop dieting and weighing, accept food as drug and eat as much as I want without obsessing. That last part is my own interpretation, but it’s working. My pants are looser; my head is clearer and See’s chocolate chips never tasted so delicious. To not count points and obsess over every little crumb has created a new item on my midlife crisis bucket list: wearing a bikini.

I wore my first itsy-bitsy polka dot bikini when I was six. After that, my bikini career ebbed and flowed with a star performance on the beaches of Thailand. After contracting dengue fever and dropping twenty pounds, I realized that a girl’s got to take advantage of her tropical disease. After I had my babies, I pulled out that black bikini for a trial run, but she was having none of it. She screamed “Red Rum,” leapt off my body and ran away – never to be seen again.

My Jimmy Buffet Margarita Maker helps me prepare for my session with the full-length mirror. After an icy cold Cabo Wabo, I take off my clothes and give a 360-degree spin. Suddenly, my full-length mirror cries, “While you are the fairest of them all, you must use the star.” The star? Help for all areas? Obviously, my new habit of self-love and walking around the house naked isn’t giving the results I desire. I scan the Land’s End catalogue for star suits. Everything is ugly. Butt ugly.

I cry to my girlfriends. One consoles me with color therapy. “Just wear a black bikini. Everyone thinks it’s lingerie and they don’t even notice your stomach.”

My other friend advises me to get a deep spray tan. “It hides the bumps and lumps.” Using chemicals to cover my stretch marks never sounded so fun.

And finally, my husband says, “I don’t want our girls wearing bikinis so why should you?” A whole other issue, for sure. I take it as a sign from the fashion gods to postpone my bikini bucket list dream for now.

Instead, I hunt down a black one-piece from Speedo that makes my boobs look smaller, hips thinner and waist slightly curved. As for the butt pop, my new white terry cloth cover-up takes care of that problem.

So fellow hunters, I’ve caught my prey; the hunt is over. Not quite as delicious as I had hoped, but there’s always next season and the chance to be more than a star.

The Agony and Ecstasy of Summer

Christine Fugate — Thu, 10 Jun 2010 03:34:35 +0000

Let me count the days until summer begins and we can sleep late, go to the beach in the afternoon, and play games in the evenings. No more homework and frantic rushes to make sure the spelling words are alphabetized correctly and circled with a colored crayon. No more projects like a model of a California mission that send me to Michael’s Arts and Crafts Store where I drop $45 on church bells, plastic cows and a patch of fake grass. And finally, no more packing and unpacking lunches as I decide whether I have been a bad junk-food mom or a good healthy carrot mom. The days will soon be ours with all the time in the world to be the mom I always wanted to be. The mom that teaches her kids how to ride a bike and hand signal a turn; takes cake decorating and acoustic guitar classes together and travels to the cities of the American Revolution to learn about our history.

What am I saying? I must be high on that box of Trader Joe’s peanut butter cups I just ate. I am completely dreading summer with a capitol D. How I am going to survive those ten weeks of unplanned time is beyond me. The whining, the fighting and the pre-battle cry of those three nasty words: “I am bored.” Obviously summer camps are the answer yet how many $200 weeks of fun can one afford? It would cost me around $4000 to entertain my kids with surf lessons, tennis camps and ocean exploration all summer long. Add in the camp pick-ups and drop-offs and I am back to a school schedule with no time to sleep, a make-your-own lunch plan or afternoons with Oprah.

Yesterday, I sat staring at my summer planning folder, waiting for enlightenment to strike. Sitting under a tree worked for Buddha, why wouldn’t sitting under my Monogram frig work for me? Right when I was about to have a meditative snack, an illuminating moment occurred.

“Mommy, it feels like you don’t want to spend time with us anymore,” my nine year old said.

“Why, honey?”

“Because you want us to go to camps all summer long.”

“That’s not true. I haven’t enrolled you in one camp. What do you want to do this summer?”

“I just want to stay home and relax.”

“Yeah, relax,” chimed in her little sister. They had taken my mantra, “Mommy needs to relax” and made it their own.

“Everyone relax,” I said. “You are not going to camp every week.” My girls calmed down and headed back to the family room to watch Miley Cyrus or whatever Disney droid was currently filling their mind with poison against parents.

That’s when it hit me. Every other week of camp with a few family excursions would give me time to work, watch a few Oprah shows and maybe even relax. Meeting in the middle with alternating activities was my new plan.

With that summer issue finally settled, I turned to one that is much more painful: the bathing suit. Only twenty days left to buff, tone and melt away that muffin top hanging over my tankini skirt. Now that’s pure agony, no ecstasy involved.

My favorite baby films

Christine Fugate — Wed, 12 May 2010 05:20:37 +0000

Somehow I was chosen as a 'cultural trendsetter.' If they only knew the truth of my messy, chaotic life they would worry about any trend headed my way.

For the "Babies" movie website, I was asked to name my favorite baby movies on the FOCUS FEATURES site. Check it out and let me know yours.

On Your Knees for Motherhood

Christine Fugate — Sun, 09 May 2010 19:00:22 +0000

For the past five years, I have written in this column about losing my driver’s license, my ineptness with a glue gun and my kids’ desire to own a cell phone and get braces. I often whine about my weight and addiction to chocolate, my kids’ various school projects and if I will ever have good hair again. These are important aspects of motherhood, the ties that bind in the mommy world and give us wrinkle lines and need for hair color.

In this mommy world, news travels fast whether it is a recall on Tylenol, a food to avoid or a sleepover lice report. In late 2008, a mommy news flash spread within hours about a good friend of mine who suspected that her daughter’s occasional back pain was something more than the doctors diagnosis of ‘temporary soreness from swimming or gymnastics.’ This mother trusted her instincts and insisted on an x-ray of her daughter’s spine. Two days later, the call came: the x-ray revealed a mass in her daughter’s back.

And so began an odyssey that brought us to our knees -- mother, father, family and friends. When we all learned that this lively, beautiful little girl had cancer we did what moms do: we rallied, we planned, and we prayed. One mom organized a website that communicated the little girl’s condition. Another organized a meal tree with hot dinners delivered to their door. Other moms took care of the household, making sure everything stayed ‘normal’ for the siblings and dog.

Besides making meals for the family, I began to feel powerless. What could I do to help? The usual things were happening to me, like my shopping cart rolling away and hitting someone’s car in the Albertson’s parking lot. I decided to share these moments with my friend via email while she sat at her daughter’s bedside for weeks on end. If there were any chance could make her smile or laugh, my inability to mail a letter with a stamp on it would be worthwhile.

Last May, I started thinking about my girlfriend and other moms sitting on the oncology floor of CHOC. On their knees in a suspension of hope and fear, what would they do to celebrate Mother’s Day? How would they even allow themselves the day to sit back and relax? So, some friends and I decided to put together bags for the moms filled with books, blankets and, of course, chocolate. My girlfriend called me in tears. The women had been so touched and overjoyed to receive a bag filled with goodies just for them. It was one of the first times they had thought about themselves.

So this Mother’s Day, my girlfriend, no longer living at CHOC, called me and said she wanted to pay it forward and make bags for the moms who were on the oncology floor. Some women are friends; others are new moms to this journey of healing cancer. We gathered our contacts, put out the word and received an incredible response of donations. This year, the bag is fabulous, filled with all kinds of goodies such as flip-flops, books, toiletries, CDs and warm socks. Not only a symbol of the strength of the mommy world, the bag also represents the amazing community we have in Laguna Beach.

This year, be sure to celebrate yourself on Mother’s Day with a warm bubble bath, a walk on the beach, or a meal at your favorite restaurant. And know in your heart that the people below, our Mother’s Day CHOC bag donors, also celebrate motherhood and our dedication to raising the next generation.

Thank you CHOC Bag Donors

Arbonne & Leigh Leveen

Billabong & Jeff Booth

The Binky Patrol & Anne Herzog

The Bubble Lady, Rebecca Nile Cahootie, LLC

Daisy Troup 1892

Island Dentistry & Ken Garcia, DDS

Jane Porter

Joovy & Sara Gardner

Laguna Beach Books

MacGillivray Films & Patty Collins

Smart Girls Who Surf

Twistband

Whimsicle.net & Laurel Meister

The Barnett Family The Blossey Family The Brice Family The Casey Family The Compton Family The Cook Family The Dawes Family The Enslen Family The Gambrell Family The Gillelan-Veski Family The Henry Family The Lineback Family The Meekma Family The Michael Family The Motherway Family The Schaller Family The Schreiber-Butler Family The Short Family The Sviland Family The Phelan Family The Watson Family The Wilson Family The Winefordner Family, The Woodburn Family

If you would like to be a part of next year’s Mother’s Day CHOC bags, email me at cfugate@ verizon.net.

Invitation to 'Mother Love'

Christine Fugate — Tue, 13 Apr 2010 04:58:22 +0000

A Night at the Movies: Cupcakes & Coffee with Cafe Sisters Productions

Thursday, May 6, 7:00PM

The Woman's Club
286 St. Ann's Drive
Laguna Beach, CA 92651 US

You and your loved ones are invited to a screening of the award-winning film "Mother Love." Cafe Sisters Producers, Christine Fugate and Eren McGinnis, are reuniting in honor of Mother's Day to screen their film that explores the complex relationship between four mothers and daughters. The film screened across the country at festivals, winning a Chris Award at the Columbus Film Festival.

A discussion with Eren and Christine will follow the film. As well as delicious treats, coffee and wine.

A suggested donation of $10 will benefit Human Options, an Orange County organization that helps battered women and their families. The screening of 'grief becomes me' raised enough money to establish a scholarship fund for a single mother to LCAD, so thank you! The scholarship will be presented to LCAD at this event.

There will also some fabulous raffles. Bring in a picture of you and your mom and receive a FREE raffle ticket. Here are some of our prizes:

1. A Mother's Day Gift Bag by FROCs (Friends of Cathryn Supporting Kids with Cancer)

2. Cahooties: The Future is in your Hands!

3. A MOPS Mommy Gift Basket

Delcious cupcakes & cookies by Lisa Pitz of Dizz's As Is will be served along with coffee, tea, champagne and wine.

I look forward to seeing you, your family and friends at the screening.

The Temptation to Text

Christine Fugate — Tue, 16 Mar 2010 17:17:03 +0000

“My overbite is 100%,” my nine year old tells me. “I definitely need braces.” Her face glows with excitement. Am I crazy or does my daughter actually want braces on her teeth?

“When are you going to make an appointment for me?” she bugs me.

I’m not crazy. At least, not this time. The hip trend in elementary school seems to be braces and an expander. My kids know the names of every orthodontist in town and who goes to whom. Over afternoon snack, I get a report of who got their braces put on, expander tightened or rubber bands changed.

When I was kid, braces were cause for ridicule with names like ‘metal mouth’ and ‘tinsel teeth.’ Headgear was a complete embarrassment that was only rivaled in humiliation by the scoliosis back brace. Times, they are a changing.

The other hot item is a cell phone. No sooner had I allowed my girls to start chewing gum, did they start to bug me for a phone. “Lisa has her own Iphone.” “Charlie’s mom gave him her Razor.” “When can I get a phone?”

After several family meetings, my husband and I caved, getting a family phone for the girls to carry if they stay in an after school program or extended play date. The rules were clear that the phone was to be used only for emergencies.

But I am so stupid. Phones aren’t for making phone calls. No, they are for texting your friends, even if they are sitting right next to you.

When I picked up my daughter recently at a talent show practice, girls were standing around holding their phone in the palm of their hand, hanging down by their side. It reminded me of how we used to hold a pack of cigarettes back when I was in college and smoking was cool. Just like we would pull out a cigarette and light it, each girl checks her phone and opens it up to text. As I scanned the room, there was my daughter using the ‘emergency cell phone’ to text.

Why a cell phone obviously isn’t a cigarette, I do worry they are potentially harmful for kids. First of all, there’s the whole cell phone radiation aspect, while yet to be proven, makes scientific sense. Secondly, texting properly requires a certain level of maturity.

I checked with Dr. Kay Ostenson, a family psychologist, who shared her thoughts. “Text messaging often complicates situations and adds an intensity that’s unfortunate for the kids. Kids will say things over a message that they wouldn’t say in person that could be hurtful.” A ha! My suspicions confirmed.

After taking a good look at the content of my daughter’s texts, I saw that they were innocent and sweet. ‘what r u doing now?’ ‘miss you’ ‘what r u wearing?’ gave me little cause for concern. At least not yet.

My kids and I had a talk regarding the cell phone. And another talk after the phone bill arrived. 170 texts. That’s almost six texts a day. I quickly changed our plan to allow 250 texts a month. While I expect my kids to listen, I know that the temptation to text might strike yet again.

I never would have guessed that the necessities of my childhood would become the cool tools of today -- a phone and braces. My girlfriend told me there is a resurgence of the hulahoop and pogo stick. I can only hope that the once radical hip swirl will add some simple fun to our kids’ busy lives.