Posts Tagged ‘mom’

A Goodbye For Grandma

Thursday, March 29th, 2012

My 91 year old Grandma passed away recently, and I just wanted to share with you what I read at her memorial service last weekend.  She was an amazing woman and I miss her every day.

A Goodbye For Grandma

One of my first memories of memories of my grandma was when I was about 8 years old.  I was at her house spending the night because we had to get up early the next morning for a super special trip – our trip to Florida.  She took my brother, Devon, to visit my Aunt Dorothy and Uncle Ray the previous summer but this year, she said, was my turn.

I waited all year for this trip.  And Grandma had been filling my head for months with all the adventures the two of us would have together.  She said we were going to do magical things I had never done before, like go to Disney World and meet Micky Mouse, go swimming at the beach where we would dig in the sand and find seashells, and she promised to take me to a place called Sea World, where someone named Shamoo would fly high in the air and do tricks.  I didn’t know who Shamoo was, but I knew if my grandma said it was going to be cool – it was going to be cool.

“But before the adventure begins,” she whispered to me the day before we were to leave, “I have something for you.”

And with that, she revealed a small, red suitcase.  It was exactly my size!

“Grandma,” I said while jumping up and down, “this is so awesome!  I’m going to pack all my stuff in here and take it on our trip together! Thank you!”

You see, I was raised with a lot of love, but not a lot of money, so any present – even a suitcase – was exciting.

“The suitcase,” Grandma giggled, “is only part of your present.  Unzip it and look inside.”

I did as I was told and I couldn’t believe my eyes.  Inside the red suitcase that was exactly my size, were treasures – lots of them.  I discovered a baby doll that wet when you fed her, and a blanket with little flowers that I could wrap her in when she got cold, but the best part – the clothes.

Grandma reached in a pulled out two pairs of shorts and two tops that matched – not to mention the cutest dress I’d ever seen.

“Look,” she said smiling, “can you read what the label says?”

“Made especially for you.  From, Grandma,” I whispered.

My grandma had sewn those clothes just for me – just for our trip – together.  And I felt special.

And she made me feel like that my whole life – special.

She would invite me over to spend the night at her house when I was a kid and she would let me eat Cheetos, drink 7up, and play UNO way past my bed time.

I went with her to K-Mart one time when she somehow found out about a secret shipment of Cabbage Patch dolls that were about to be delivered, and I literally witnessed my grandma body slam another woman so she could buy me one.  It was the 80s people – a Cabbage Patch doll was better than gold in those days.

She would sew me and my mom matching dresses.  And when I was a little girl, there was no one in the world I wanted to dress like more than my mom.  And my grandma made it happen.

And for family holiday dinners, she would make a banana desert topped with pudding and peanuts.  And every time, she would save some of the pudding in a dish just for me because she knew I loved it.

Since both my parents worked full time, I looked for her every day to pick  me and my younger brother up from school, and it never failed – her car was always the first one in the parking lot.

For Halloween, she aways gave me and my brothers lots of candy, and not the small sized candy most kids get when they trick or treat – the regular sized candy adults eat.  And we loved her for that.

When I was in college, she would invite me over once a week for a home cooked meal and we would sit at the kitchen table and talk for hours about the times when she was a little girl on the farm with her 11 brothers and sisters.  She said her sister, Lucille, was the brains behind all the wild schemes the pair pulled on their parents.  But even to this day, I think my grandma was more a part of that dynamic duo than she ever admitted.

And later, when I moved away and started my own career and my own family – I loved that Grandma and I kept our relationship strong with handwritten letters.  I have years of correspondence with my grandma that I treasure.  And every letter ends with, “Keep sweet and I love you.”

And I just want you all to know – I plan on keeping sweet.  And I love her too, so much.

My grandma and her family in 1969. My grandma is in the green dress and my mom is the teenager on the left in red.  Don’t you love her cat eye glasses?

My Mom is a Golden Granny!

Monday, October 10th, 2011

“I have something to tell you,” she said to me, my mom.  I gripped the phone a little tighter, squeezed my eyes shut, and braced for the bad news.  I mean, nothing good ever follows that sentence.

“I tried out to be a Golden Granny,” she giggled.

“You tried out to be a what,” I gasped.  I didn’t even realize I was holding my breath.

The Golden Grannies, she went on to explain, is a dance troupe for the Phoenix Suns.  And the only requirement to try out for the NBA organization:  you have to be a grandma.

“It was so fun,” my mom laughed.  “But you know what,” she whispered as if someone might hear her even though she was in her car miles away from the other grovin’ grannies, “there wasn’t a lot of competion.”

There was no doubt in my mind my mom would make the squad.  She was born to boogie.  I have a million memories of her grabing my hands and swinging me around the livingroom when I was a little girl.  And to this very day, she still tries to tackle me to dance with her when ever she hears a beat.

“When will you know if you made it,” I ask.

She didn’t know, but as it turns out, it didn’t take long.  The next day she got an e-mail from the Golden Grannies inviting her to be a member of their team.

“I made it,” my mom squealed when she called to tell me the good news.

I knew she would.  I knew it.  And I’m so happy for her.  My mom gave her everything to raise me and my two brothers, which is what you do, of course, when your a mother.  But I’m so thrilled she is now searching out something special for herself. 

I can’t wait to see my mom out there on the court shaking it in front of thousands and thousands of Phoenix Suns fans.  But until then, I can see her on the internet.  A student for Arizona State University covered the auditions for a local cable channel. 

Check it out.  You can catch my mom around the :38 and :58 mark of the video.

Happy Mother’s Day

Sunday, May 8th, 2011

There Once Was a Girl Named Tasha

Wednesday, September 15th, 2010

There once was a girl named Tasha.

Who flew to DC with her momma.


It was her 60th birthday;

They ate cupcakes that were gourmet.


And toured the amazing home of Obama. 

‘It’s Not My Problem’ Is The Problem.

Sunday, February 21st, 2010

What,”  she asked my husband as she shuffled out of her car.

“What do you mean ‘what?’  You just hit my car,” David growled through gritted teeth, while pointing to the spot on his passenger side door where the woman just smashed. 

Even David admits it was an accident.  He said the wind whipped the door from her hand as she was scurrying out of her car to get a sandwich.  And the thing that stopped it:  my husband’s door.  But that’s no excuse for what she said next.

“I didn’t hit it hard enough to leave a dent,” she shrugged.  And then,  she walked away. 

No, I’m sorry.  No, I can’t believe I just did that.  No, I didn’t mean to hit you.  Nothing.

Irritated, David repeated the story to me when he delivered my 6 inch tuna Saturday afternoon.  I asked him to drive to the subway shop across the street to get us grub since I didn’t feel like making lunch.

“How would she know she didn’t leave a dent,” he grumbled.  “She didn’t even look at it.”

I agreed.  I was stunned at the stranger’s reaction to the situation.  If it had happened to me, I would have been stumbling all over myself to say I’m sorry.

I would also hold the door for a struggling mother trying to maneuver in the mall with two toddlers in a stroller while holding the hand of her third child.  I was in the parking lot several yards behind her and knew the guy two steps in front of her would hold the door. 

He didn’t.  The door slammed a second before she could reach it. 

Waiting in line at the store this evening to buy groceries, I watched as the man in front of me hefted 6 or 7 frozen pizzas from the bottom of his cart onto the conveyor belt.  Those pizzas were the last of a lot of food.  He bought so much, he filled an entire 2 carts.  I don’t even want to know how much this man paid for all those groceries. 

It was probably 10 minutes later when I was paying for my food that I realized the man’s pizzas were still in the store and he wasn’t.

“Are those that guy’s pizzas,” I asked the teenager who bagged them.

“Yeah,” he casually replied.  “I saw him leave them.  He’ll be back.”

“That guy bought 2 carts of groceries,” I said,  “He won’t even know he’s missing them until he gets home.”

“Oh.  I guess that’s his problem,” he said.

That statement just about sums it up, doesn’t it?  There’s an ‘it’s not my problem’ mentality that’s infecting our society. 

It’s not my problem you forgot your food.  It’s not my problem the door slammed in your face.  It’s not my problem the wind dinged your door.

It’s. Not. My. Problem.

Here’s the thing:  it is a problem.

It’s a problem empathy for others is fading.  It’s a problem consideration for others is waning.  It’s a problem compassion for others is dissolving.

‘It’s not my problem,’ is a problem.  A serious one.

You Think Working Makes You a Better Mommy Than Me?

Monday, November 2nd, 2009

Just because you work doesn’t make you a better mommy than me.  And just because I stay at home doesn’t make me a better mommy than you.  I wish that was all I had to say on this terrible topic, but I’m afraid I must say more.  Much more.

The war between working moms and stay at home moms is raging and I’m ashamed to admit I had no idea a battle was even brewing until the other day after watching an episode of Dr. Phil.  It’s not the show I wanted to watch that day.  I wanted to watch an episode of Grey’s Anatomy on DVR and eat my lunch in the peace and quite I crave after a marathon morning with 2 toddlers. 

What derailed my TV watching in its tracks was the verbal diarrhea being spewed between two groups on the talk show:  working moms and stay at home moms.  I was so embarrassed after hearing the view of mothers who stay at  home.  The ladies were so condescending, rude and mean to the women who work.  One stay at home mom in particular was standing so high on her soap box I thought her nose might bleed, but that didn’t seem stop her from saying women who work cause permanent damage to their children.  She went on to say when a mother is away from her child for more than a few hours a week, it will negatively effect her child’s personality forever.  FOREVER.

Another stay at home mom said if a woman can’t stay at home with her kids, then maybe she just shouldn’t have them. She also said: “I wouldn’t outsource loving my husband, why would I outsource loving my kids?” 


I am the child of a single, working mother and so are my brothers.  My mother wanted us to have a home, so she worked.  My mother wanted to feed us, so she worked.  My mother wanted us to have clothes, so she worked.  Growing up, I was inspired by my mother because she worked.  I knew she worked to take care of us, not hurt us.

When the working mothers had their chance, their words were just as ridiculous.  One working mom said she is a capable, creative woman who knows about more than just baby formula or after-school programs.  Another woman accused her stay at home counterparts of being lazy and uninspired lumps who refuse to send their toddlers to school to learn from qualified teachers.  She went on to say children of working mothers grow up to be more well rounded and more educated than those whose mothers stay home.

 I am a stay at home mom.  After working in the television news industry for years, I decided my job and the hours it needed was not family friendly.  Since my husband could carry the financial load, the decision for me to stay at home was an easy one and I have never looked back.  My boys and I spend our days reading, playing, going to parks, going to play dates, talking about colors, letters and numbers.  I know they’re smart and extremely well rounded little dudes.  When the boys take a nap, I cook meals, clean, and fold laundry so I don’t have to when they’re awake.  Some days though, I do take a break and watch a little TV which is what sucked me into this battle in the first place.

So, if could add one weapon to the arsenal of the stay at home moms and working moms war it would be understanding.  You’re not better than me because you work and I’m not better than you because I don’t.  Who am I to judge what’s right for you and your family?   Who are you to judge what’s right for me and my family?  We’re all moms just doing the best we can with the information we have.  If we don’t look out for each other, no one will.

Happy Birthday, Mom!

Friday, September 11th, 2009

Your life when you were little was so hard and unkind

But you broke the cycle, you did it; you’re sublime.


After the divorce, you struggled making ends meet

Juggling work, school, and 3 kids was a really big leap.


I don’t know how you did it, your life was so crazy

But you fit it all in, you’ve impressed your girl baby.


When I look at you now, I realize so much

You guided, you loved, and you pushed me a touch.


You always said I could do what I wanted

A cheerleader, a journalist, a writer, if I thought it.


During the time that I’ve known you, you’ve taught me a bunch

You’re my mom.  You’re my friend.  I love you so much.

That’s What I Woulda said If I Coulda said…

Monday, August 31st, 2009

I could not believe who left me a voice message Saturday morning;  it was my flute instructor.   She somehow managed through all the phlem, sniffing and coughing,  to croak out that she was sick.  Really sick – not the I drank too much with all my freaky flute friends Friday night so I’ll just call in sick kind of sick.  She’s just not that kind of girl – at least I don’t think she is.  I mean, she’s in her early 20s and already wears glasses, no make-up and sensible shoes – the comfy kind hospital nurses wear and my 90 year old grandma. 

More reasons to support my she really was sick hypothesis:  she not only practices the flute all day every day (She really does;  She told me so herself.), she knows way too much about the woodwind instrument.  Every week, she ticks off point after point after point about why my $3,000 flute (She’s the one who knew the exact value of the instrument by the way, not me.  My mom bought me a new flute to replace my junky one when I was a junior in high school;  I had no idea.) is not good enough and why I should invest in a $10,000 24kt gold plated one instead.  I all but choked on the gum I should have have swallowed before the lesson began when she suggested it. 

After hearing the message, I wanted to give my flute friend some advice.  If I would have answered the phone Saturday morning instead of snoozing, I would have told her to sit down, prop up her sensible shoe wearing feet, and sip some soup – that’s what I woulda said if I coulda said.  I also would have said good-bye and it wasn’t her fault I would never step in the music store where she teaches again. 

Last weekend, my mom made me get into a scuffle with the music store manager over the phone.  If you didn’t read that most awesome post, click here for the full fledged version.  In a nutshell, I had to cancel my lesson last week.  Music Mike – as I’ll now and forever refer to him – told me if I didn’t use it, I’d lose it.  I was furious and I let him have it, so much so that he eventually hung up on me.  It wasn’t the $16 that upset me, it was the principle.  Music Mike never informed me of the store’s ridiculous use it or lose it in sickness and in vacation policy when I paid in advance for my month of lessons.  Never.

On the last Saturday of my pre-paid lessons, I wanted to confront Music Mike in person.  Before my lesson, I would tell him unless he refunded my money, I would take my business elsewhere.  I would tell him I plan to expose my two boys to music at some point in the future and unless he refunded my money, I would buy their instruments and lessons somewhere else.  I would tell him that I would spout off to anyone and everyone I know not to buy instruments or lessons from his locally owned and operated store.  And I would tell him his no cancellation ever policy bites, especially when you don’t inform your customers of it – that’s what I woulda said if I coulda said. 

When my instructor called to cancel, I added one more question to my list for Music Mike:   why is it all right for my instructor to cancel and not me – that’s what I woulda said, if I coulda said.

I wanted to make Music Mike squirm and I wanted to do it in person;  lesson or not,  I drove to the music store.  I would make a stink so loud and so long he would either:

(a.)    give me my money back for both lessons, or

(b.)    he was going to have to call one of his band geeks employees from the back to kick me out.  (Honestly, I was hoping to get kicked out.  That would have been a better blog story, don’t you agree?)

Either way I would feel satisfied.  I would get to give Music Mike a piece of mind and I figure no one is complete without it, so really I’m doing him a favor.  As it turns out, I never got the chance. 

The store was packed with people Saturday morning.  All the dorks elementary school students and their parents were there buying instruments and lessons and every one of us had to talk to Music Mike.  Apparently, no one else in the store can do anything but him.  It’s a great system they have going on over there, let me tell you.  I waited 30 minutes before I finally got my turn.  The whole time I’m thinking this is the best situation possible.  He will do whatever I want to get me to not make a fuss in front of all these people, and unfortunately I was right.

He took one look at me and said, ‘What’s your name?’

‘Tasha Young’, I replied.

Music Mike mumbled, ‘You need a refund for your flute lessons?’

‘Yup,’ I said with a smile.   ‘Two of them.’

‘Ok,’ he replied.

That’s it.  He asked for the card I paid for the lessons with and refunded me my $36 before I could blink.  I didn’t get to say or do anything I wanted to say or do.  I didn’t even get to see him squirm at all – not one teeny, tiny, itsy-bitsy squirm. 

But I just wanted you to know that’s  what I woulda said if I coulda said and it would have felt good great orgasmic.

No, That Doesn’t Make Me Feel Better

Monday, August 24th, 2009

I got into a scuffle Saturday morning:  a verbal one.

I blame my mother:  she’s the one making me take flute lessons again after 18 years.   I mean, she knows how I am;  if I have to make a teen-aged twit at the front desk cry before handing the phone over to her superior, I have to make a teen-aged twit cry.  If it weren’t for my mom, I never would have  had to rip the music store manager a new one, either.

You see?  It’s not my fault;  it’s my mom’s.

It all started last Monday when my husband and I decided to take our boys out of town this past weekend.  I obviously knew Monday I wasn’t going to make my Saturday at noon flute lesson, but did I call the music store Monday and cancel?

No.  I hosted a lunch play date at my home, had a carpet picnic, and had the most fun time.

Did I call the music store Tuesday and cancel?

No.  Latham fell down and bit his bottom lip.  There was blood everywhere and I freaked out a little bit – okay, a lot of bit.

Did I call the music store Wednesday and cancel?

No.  I went grocery shopping with a one year old and a two year old stuffed in the cart before doing laundry, cleaning and working out.

Did I call the music store Thursday and cancel?

No.  I got Latham up early from his nap to go to another play date where we had a great time, but then had to deal with him crying for the rest of the day.

Did I call the music store Friday and cancel?

No.  I had to get the boys, my husband and myself packed before leaving for our trip that afternoon.

Did I call the music store Saturday and cancel? 

YES, I did!  I called as soon as the store opened that morning.  Just after the hormonal teen who answered the phone told me there was ABSOLUTELY no way the store would refund my money for the missed session or reschedule it, I accidentally made her cry (she’s just sensitive, I swear – I wasn’t trying to make her cry) and asked to speak to her manager.

The manager informed me the store never reschedules or refunds money for lessons, unless you give them 24 hours notice.  I quickly told him no one had ever informed me of the policy and since this was my first offense, why doesn’t he just reschedule my lesson and in the future I know to call 24 hours in advance.

‘No.’ He said.  ‘The policy is clearly posted on a wall in the store and if it makes you feel any better, it’s not just you.  We don’t make exceptions for anyone.’

‘No, that doesn’t make me feel better.’  I spouted.  ‘What does make me feel better is knowing I have two little boys at home that I will be exposing to music in the future.  What makes me feel better is you will lose hundreds if not thousands of dollars when I buy those instruments and lessons at another music store since you refuse to reschedule a $16 flute lesson – that is what makes me feel better.’ 

I thought I got him.  He’s going to reschedule my lesson.  He’s the manager of a small music store.  He needs the business.

‘Okay.’ He said.

‘Hello?  Hello?  Hello?’  After I realized he hung up, I was furious – furious in a my husband better take me out for a glass of wine right this second kind of way. 

I have to take one last lesson since I’ve already paid for it and you know all about the irritating ‘use it or lose it’ policy.  I just hope I don’t say anything else Saturday that makes someone at the store cry.  I certainly could, you know.  But it really wouldn’t be my fault:  it would be my mom’s.

I Want My Mom!!!

Sunday, May 10th, 2009

When a horse named Zip bucked me off his back, I lost total respect for the four legged animal and gained it for a two legged animal instead – my mom. 

After my parents divorced, my mom continued to pack my brothers and me in the car for one week every summer for our family vacation in the mountains.  We loved it.  For seven glorious days, we did whatever we wanted whenever we wanted – as long as we would check in every now and then.  I would wander the woods, go swimming, play volleyball, and even ride horses.

Being a big city girl of eight years old, I just wanted to go horseback riding.  The two measly hour long sessions scheduled for my family during the seven day stay didn’t cut it.  I wanted to ride every chance I got and to get those chances you had to beg. 

Every morning and every afternoon, I would walk the half mile to the stalls and sit on a tree stump.  I waited as patiently as possible while the families who were actually supposed to ride that day were assigned horses.  If a family didn’t show, I would plead for the cowboy who held my fate in his hands to pick me for one of the left over horses standing , saddled and ready to ride. 

I was chosen nearly every time.  I mean how can you resist a cute, ponytail wearing, freckled faced girl?  This time, I wish the cowboy would have given someone else the go ahead.  I knew I was in trouble when he said I would ride a horse named Zip.  That’s just not a name you should give a horse if you want a kid to ride him.  I should have listed to that little nagging voice in my head.

Zip started acting zippy right away.  With me strapped to his saddle, he bolted to a tree and started rubbing violently against it.  I started getting nervous.  Zip realized that wasn’t working, so he started galloping and stopping, galloping, and stopping, galloping and stopping.  I could now hear my heart beating in my ears.  I knew what was coming next.  Zip reared up on his hind legs and decided to get rid of me the old fashioned way.  In one fluid motion, Zip threw me in the air and I landed several feet later on my fanny.

The only thing bruised was my ego.  I was mortified.  I stood up, made sure I didn’t break anything and brushed myself off.  The cowboy yelled at me to get up and hop back on my horse.  He then roared that I was holding up the group.  Tears of embarassment burned my eyes, but there was no way I was going to let him see them.  I ran out of there as fast as my little kid legs would carry me.

It felt like I ran forever.  I searched and searched and searched for one person – my mom.  I ran to the dining hall.  She wasn’t there.  I ran to the arts and crafts cabin.  She wasn’t there.  I ran to our cabin.  There she was reading a book on the bottom bunk, listening to music and twisting her long hair in her fingers.  Relief filled my body.

I startled her when I burst into the cabin door.  (Startling her is actually really easy to do.  If you ever meet this woman, let me just give you one piece of advice:  never, never, never stand near her if you ever need to wake her up from a nap.  Before the word ‘mom’ leaves your lips, this lady is up and swinging.  She’ll knock you silly if you’re anywhere near her no matter who you are.)  She asked me what was wrong and before I could even tell her, I started crying.  There wasn’t anything physically wrong with me.  I just wanted her to comfort me.  I just wanted her to wrap her arms around me.  I just wanted her to tell me that she loved me.  I just wanted my mom.

We don’t live in the same state anymore.  She visits me and my family about twice a year now.  She was here during Mother’s Day weekend.  It was wonderful.  We went to a concert, went shopping, went to a movie, talked, played with the kids and celebrated my son’s one year old birthday.  My mom even spent about four hours making  and decorating the most beautiful 3D train cake for his party.

I love and hate these visits.  I love that she’s here and I hate that she has to go.  Even though I’m nearly 35 years old, the visits remind me of how much I still want my mom.   I want her to comfort me.  I want her to wrap her arms around me.  I want her to tell me she loves me. 

I’m a happy girl.  My mom did all of that for me this weekend and I didn’t even have to be bucked off a hulking horse to hear it.

I’m so Annoyed, I’m Annoying Myself

Monday, May 4th, 2009

Have you ever just been annoyed for no good reason?  That’s me today.  All day.  I am super, duper annoyed and I can not snap out of it.  Everything anyone is doing or saying is really irritating me.  I’m even making snappy comments that even I can’t believe I’m saying and right after it spews out of my mouth, I wonder why I just said it.  I am so annoyed, I’m even annoying myself. 

My poor husband takes the brunt of it.  Snapping at him is like kicking a puppy.  You just don’t do it.  He’s the most helpful, loving, fun husband a girl could ever have and here I am coming down his street for absolutely no reason.  I think I’ve driven him out of the house with my attitude tonight.  He’s outside right now in the dark with the aid of one measly porch light placing wood chips in our landscaping.  Or at least I think he is.  I wouldn’t blame him if he were drowning his sorrows at our neighbor’s house while wondering why his wife is acting so odd.

I even called my mom at work this afternoon to chit chat hoping it would help.  She talked to me for about two minutes before putting me on hold.  Guess what?  I hung up.  Yup, I was annoyed that I had to wait all of 30 seconds while she actually did her job.  Ridiculous, right?  When I admitted my bad behavior to my husband during dinner, he rolled his eyes and said the same thing.

I thought working out would help.  It didn’t.  I thought checking e-mail would help.  It didn’t.  I thought taking a hot bath would help.  It didn’t.  I’m guess I’m just in a sour mood and that’s the way it is. 

I do hope my husband comes in from outside soon.  He’s probably getting chewed up by big and yucky bugs.  I bet that’s annoying, too.


Stuggling Moms Unite!

Monday, April 20th, 2009

You know that mom who struggles?  The mom you see with white acne medication on her face because she forgot to wash it off before she left home?  The one wearing sweat pants she slept in the night before and baby barf on her shoulder?  The one whose hair is stuffed in a ball cap while her kids try to rip it off?  Yep, that struggling mom.  Alright, my name is Tasha and I am a struggling mom.  Uhhh….  exactly that  mom as a matter of fact.  It was me this morning wearing that very stunning make-up and outfit combination while running a couple of errands including mailing a birthday present to my soon to be 4 year old niece.  They – whoever that is – say the first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem.  Well, I admit it.  Now, I realize it’s not all about me and the needs of my children, but if you’re someone going to the post office with one letter in your hand and have no little people hanging off you, could you help a struggling mom out?   The one word answer to that question is apparently no.  The guy just stood there behind me rolling his eyes, sighing, and waiting with his arms at his side for me to struggle my way into the government facility.  You struggling moms know the move.  It’s the one where you heave open the door with one arm and hold it open with your foot while nudging in your two year old while swinging in the car seat holding the baby and trying to jump in yourself before the door hits you in the head.  It’s the mom approved method handed down from generation to generation, but we really only use it when it’s absolutely positively necessary and when no one else is around.  You never ever pull it out when someone is standing literally inches behind you.  I don’t get it.  I really don’t.  Well, I refuse to be a victim.  I just looked this guy straight in the eye and said ‘I’m struggling here.’  ‘Can you hold the door for me, please?’  He looked at me like it was the most crazy request he had ever heard.  And get this – this is the best part of the story – he made that noise you make when you just do not want to do what’s being asked of you.  It’s kind of like a tongue click, sigh, grunt combo.  You become an expert at it when you’re a teenager.  THAT’S THE NOISE HE MADE!  He opened the door though.  Guess what?  He opened the next door too.  I didn’t even need to ask.   What a guy.