Maija Threlkeld
About this author:
Maija Threlkeld and her husband are being raised by their three young children. Days of playdough are balanced by her work as a brand consultant, where she’s helped develop familiar brands and names for corporate clients. Writing provides an outlet for those humorous moments of life that should never, never be missed.
My Articles:
Disneyland as an Endurance Test
On our return to our hotel we pass a mother who’s lecturing loudly to her two young boys about how each of their toys are identical. What is implied by her speech is that they should each be grateful and perhaps — not test Mama anymore.
The Pink Dress
It transforms her.
In it she is an enchantress, yet fearless. There’s the confidence to twirl at will and serenade with exuberance. Life is richer, fuller, more enthralling. Or so it seems to my two-year old whenever she slips on her favorite pink cotton dress with its short puffed sleeves and full skirt.
Coco Chanel had her knit jacket. Jackie O her sleeveless Oleg Cassini. Grace has her spring 2004 (a wild guess given it’s a hand-me-down from her older sister) cotton candy pink dress decorated with streams of multi-colored ruffles down its skirt and an embroidered butterfly on its bodice.
Black Friday
I just had a vision: my three children home on a school day with n-o-t-h-i-n-g to do except complain and bother one another. . .
Here and also Present
“Mom, you’re doing it again!”< ?xml:namespace prefix = o />
“Huh? What honey?”
Longest Days and Shortest Years
“They grow up so fast,” a voice shares from behind me in line at the grocery store. I turn toward the older woman who’s gazing down at my three young children with a familiar, wistful look about her face.
Never mind that my children are a mass of flapping hands and bobbing heads while I’m silently willing the shopper ahead of me to stop chatting with the checkout clerk and actually write her (expletive) check so I can get the (expletive) out of the grocery store. (I must return to yoga.)
I’ve heard this comment before. I suspect it’s familiar with moms of young children. Usually it’s dolled out by an older woman apparently lucky enough to have survived these fledgling years herding jousting offspring out of polite society and back into the confines of the cracker-strewn car before their mother seriously loses it again.
Surf Therapy
When life gets rocky in our household on weekends we head to the beach. Before the snapping, fussing or whining escalates, we wisely load up the car with beach towels, the old flowery sheet that we use as a picnic blanket, requisite sand toys, snacks, and our huge long-haired pup.
And off we go.
The drive to one of the local beaches we’re lucky to reach within the hour is long and windy, but just short enough for books and the sights to distract from too many “are we there yet?” inquiries.
Linger
It’s Christmas morning aftermath at our home. Scraps of wrapping paper thrown about. Dry nettles. Bits of ribbon and white tissue paper crunching under our socked feet. It’s a general mess, as it’s supposed to be.
Bing Crosby’s crooning a holiday hit on the stereo and the kids are milling about enjoying new toys. Brett’s off hunting for more batteries.
I pour my third cup of well-deserved strong coffee having stayed up till the wee hours helping Santa interspersed with my quarterly check-ins reminding our eight-year old to go to sleep.
Play Date
He almost knocks me over as he hurtles out of the car, headed to the green field to meet his friends.
“Wait, wait” I call out, relieved no cars are exiting the parking lot into our path. When will he learn? At the metal fence he waits impatiently as I attempt to quickly lift the gate handle.
With the dry creak of the turning hinge, I instinctively pivot aside as he swooshes past, racing ahead to join a familiar group already at play. I watch from afar, making sure they are all getting along while patrolling for both additional playmates and sizing up newcomers on the crowded field.
Doctor, Lawyer, Indian Chief
Rich Man, Poor Man
Author: Unknown
Rich Man, Poor Man,
Beggar Man, Thief,
Doctor, Lawyer,
Indian Chief.
When my oldest brother was born in 1961 within his trousseau of baby garments was a little white linen shirt with red piping that has “doctor, lawyer, Indian chief” embroidered on the bodice. What was assumed, of course, was that his future opportunities were abundant. This golden haired, bright, blue-eyed babe had the world as his oyster.
Grandparents fawned over him, their first grandchild. A grandson! A faded photo captures a frail, but over the moon, silver-bunned great-grandmother giving his sweet-smelling head a tender stroke while his beaming mother stands in the background.
Life was full of promise.
Preservatives
There comes a time in every woman’s life when you realize that you’re considered older by the general populace.
Perhaps it’s being referred to as “ma’am” more often than the youthful “miss.” Or having your children wonder what those “stripes” are on your forehead. You may realize that your dentist isn’t discussing clean gums and plaque build-up so much as preserving your teeth and anticipated root canals. Yet, I still kind of hope that I’ll be carded at BevMo, as unrealistic as that might seem to other shoppers with good vision. And I kind of believe it, too, crazy as that might seem.
I don’t feel old. I assume it is earned experience in dressing that prevents me from prancing out like a mini-clad socialite and not matronly modesty. I can still run a hair faster than my oldest child and hoist two wiggly kids about in a ruckus game of monster. No knee-hi stockings or Geritol tablets for me! I eat an organic diet and avoid preservatives. Age is an attitude, right?
Follow us on
