On a recent rainy Sunday, Husband was working and the rest of us decided to have a Movie Morning. A Movie Morning is when Mommy can’t think of anything Mother-of-the-Yearish to do, so she decides to bond with the children via the Disney Channel, which requires more effort than you might think.
The movie playing that morning, as described in the on-screen blurb, was about a boy who starts turning into a fish on his 13th birthday. That seemed a bit quirky, but innocuous enough, and it does seem that children transform themselves as they enter the teen years.
Okay, but listen. It turns out the boy was adopted, and his birth mother is a mermaid who abandoned him on a shrimp boat when he was a baby. The shrimp boat captain and his wife found him and raised him. His only remarkable feature was his tremendous propensity for swimming.
Now that he’s 13, his true heritage is beginning to, um, swim to the surface. Every time he touches water, he grows scales and fins. Seriously. This causes him to lose some popularity points at school.
Then he begins to see his “real mom” whenever he happens by the harbor. She is swimming around waiting for him, gracefully flopping her silvery tail. You see, it’s time for him to join her and fully transform into a “merman.”
Eventually his adoptive parents understand that a merman’s got to do what a merman’s got to do, and they let him go. The plan is for him to spend a year with his “real mom” swimming around the ocean. Then, somehow, he’ll be prepared to come back ashore and be part-human again.
The Diva and I were riveted: me out of horror and the Diva, I think, out of sheer perplexity and perhaps some slight concern regarding her love of the water. But I couldn’t turn it off because I was afraid it would be like saying to my adopted daughter WE ARE ABSOLUTELY NOT GOING TO WATCH A MOVIE ABOUT SOME ADOPTED KID.
Now, I’m all for openness and candor when discussing with my children the fact that they were adopted. And thank you, Disney, for helping all of your viewers understand that children who were adopted are so weird and unnatural that they very likely will morph into different species as they age. My children, for example, were hatched underneath the fluorescent lights of an incubator. Our goal is to teach them to fly the coop before they’re 18 so we can avoid paying for college.
Of course my children have birth mothers, and I’m eternally grateful to those women for entrusting me with these gifts of life.
But am I not their real mother? Who feeds them Cheez-Its for breakfast? Who lets them skip brushing their teeth at night? Who taught them the words to “McDonald’s is your kind of place/hamburgers in your face”?
And who will be there when they turn 13? It will be me. I don’t think they’ll grow fins and scales, but if they do, they won’t be swimming out to sea without me. We’ll just move to the Caribbean, I guess, and live on a houseboat and I’ll learn how to SCUBA dive, and together we’ll brave whatever the tide brings in.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
What planet are men from?
Do you think men are really from Mars? Because sometimes it seems like they’re from that other planet. You know. Uranus.
What I mean is that.....well, they're a mixed bag.
Take Hot Firefighter Husband, for example. Once, just after we had started.....um....dating.......yeah, that’s it, we were dating......he let himself into my apartment when he knew I was working late and baked me an apple pie. That same year, he went on a trip to San Francisco and brought me home a 2-inch plastic Buddha statue.
It’s been like this ever since, though I write this with some trepidation, knowing that Husband is quite possibly the best thing that ever happened to me other than finally having my uterus removed.
When I left the house this morning, for example, Husband had just gotten off his shift. He was wearing his favorite beat-up shorts, a t-shirt and a backwards baseball cap, and he needed a shave.
And he was preparing to vacuum.
Uh-huh. It was like suburban mom porn, I tell you. I might have been interested in delaying my exit had I not been afraid it would make him lose cleaning momentum.
Husband does not buy me flowers “just because.” His gift-giving abilities -- well, they suck a little bit, as you might have guessed from the Buddha, which I still have. He once gave me a wooden flying pig with removable wings for Christmas.
But my man cleans, and I find that incredibly gratifying, and pretty sexy, too. He can do some pretty amazing things with those Scrubbing Bubbles.
Yet for every totally rockin’ task he completes, there seems to be some sort of payback.
This morning, as I left the house whistling in anticipation of a clean house, he called for me to take the Jeep. So I walked to the Goddamn Yellow Jeep and opened the door, and stuck my shoe into the 3-inch puddle accumulated atop the floorboard. Somebody forgot to put the top up last night.
The Goddamn Yellow Jeep has long been a source of contention. I was very proud that he sold his little Mazda on Craigslist, and looked forward to lowering our car payment. But he came home with the GYJ, which is the color of an irradiated banana and can certainly be seen from space. Though it’s supposedly “almost new,” it has a huge dent in the side and the gear shift is on upside down. Initially, it only had two seat belts in the back. “We have three kids,” I screeched. Really, I can be an irascible shrew at times. In his defense, he did order an extra seat belt online and has since installed it. It’s purple.
The point is, he didn’t think anything of sending me off in a burgeoning thunderstorm driving a flooded Jeep with half a top and the back windows resting unhelpfully in the garage.
The whole porn image dissipated quickly, I can assure you.
He laughed at me for not wanting to take the Jeep, which made me mad, which made him laugh even harder, which....well, you know where this is going. It ended with me taking the Motorized Landfill instead, screaming at him unconvincingly to have a good day and then calling from the road to apologize 10 minutes later. But still, he shouldn’t have left the top down last night.
None of this would be an issue if I hadn’t last week accepted an actual job that requires me to be someplace on time. It’s just one class that I’m teaching at the University of North Florida, but I do have to show up a couple of times a week. I tried to not take this job by explaining that I would have to come straight from my boxing class on Mondays and so would be late as well as sweaty for those classes, but the department head seemed amenable to that.
On the first day of my back-to-back classes, I taught boxing, changed into my street clothes, flew out of the gym parking lot and promptly got stopped for speeding.
I normally consider it a little embarrassing that the Motorized Landfill is plastered with firefighter union paraphernalia. At least there’s no snarky bumper sticker involving firefighters and poles or anything like that.
On this day, however, the deputy appreciated Husband’s service to humanity and gave me a written warning. Husband later asked me to please stop doing things that required him to write thank-you notes to police officers, and I said I would try.
Are men and women different? I never wanted to think so. But now that I’ve been living with a man for going on 20 years, I feel certain our brains are wired differently. What woman would put a dish towel and a bra in the same load of wash? Or forget her mother’s birthday? Or suggest tying her son’s hand behind his back to practice being a lefty pitcher?
The bright side is that I’ve learned to forgive Husband for these deficiencies, and I’ll learn to forgive him for buying the Goddamn Yellow Jeep which he swears will be with us forever.
But I tell you, that house better be pretty fucking clean.
Update: Okay, the house was pretty fucking clean. But listen: guess how many times I had to hear about it?
What I mean is that.....well, they're a mixed bag.
Take Hot Firefighter Husband, for example. Once, just after we had started.....um....dating.......yeah, that’s it, we were dating......he let himself into my apartment when he knew I was working late and baked me an apple pie. That same year, he went on a trip to San Francisco and brought me home a 2-inch plastic Buddha statue.
It’s been like this ever since, though I write this with some trepidation, knowing that Husband is quite possibly the best thing that ever happened to me other than finally having my uterus removed.
When I left the house this morning, for example, Husband had just gotten off his shift. He was wearing his favorite beat-up shorts, a t-shirt and a backwards baseball cap, and he needed a shave.
And he was preparing to vacuum.
Uh-huh. It was like suburban mom porn, I tell you. I might have been interested in delaying my exit had I not been afraid it would make him lose cleaning momentum.
Husband does not buy me flowers “just because.” His gift-giving abilities -- well, they suck a little bit, as you might have guessed from the Buddha, which I still have. He once gave me a wooden flying pig with removable wings for Christmas.
But my man cleans, and I find that incredibly gratifying, and pretty sexy, too. He can do some pretty amazing things with those Scrubbing Bubbles.
Yet for every totally rockin’ task he completes, there seems to be some sort of payback.
This morning, as I left the house whistling in anticipation of a clean house, he called for me to take the Jeep. So I walked to the Goddamn Yellow Jeep and opened the door, and stuck my shoe into the 3-inch puddle accumulated atop the floorboard. Somebody forgot to put the top up last night.
The Goddamn Yellow Jeep has long been a source of contention. I was very proud that he sold his little Mazda on Craigslist, and looked forward to lowering our car payment. But he came home with the GYJ, which is the color of an irradiated banana and can certainly be seen from space. Though it’s supposedly “almost new,” it has a huge dent in the side and the gear shift is on upside down. Initially, it only had two seat belts in the back. “We have three kids,” I screeched. Really, I can be an irascible shrew at times. In his defense, he did order an extra seat belt online and has since installed it. It’s purple.
The point is, he didn’t think anything of sending me off in a burgeoning thunderstorm driving a flooded Jeep with half a top and the back windows resting unhelpfully in the garage.
The whole porn image dissipated quickly, I can assure you.
He laughed at me for not wanting to take the Jeep, which made me mad, which made him laugh even harder, which....well, you know where this is going. It ended with me taking the Motorized Landfill instead, screaming at him unconvincingly to have a good day and then calling from the road to apologize 10 minutes later. But still, he shouldn’t have left the top down last night.
None of this would be an issue if I hadn’t last week accepted an actual job that requires me to be someplace on time. It’s just one class that I’m teaching at the University of North Florida, but I do have to show up a couple of times a week. I tried to not take this job by explaining that I would have to come straight from my boxing class on Mondays and so would be late as well as sweaty for those classes, but the department head seemed amenable to that.
On the first day of my back-to-back classes, I taught boxing, changed into my street clothes, flew out of the gym parking lot and promptly got stopped for speeding.
I normally consider it a little embarrassing that the Motorized Landfill is plastered with firefighter union paraphernalia. At least there’s no snarky bumper sticker involving firefighters and poles or anything like that.
On this day, however, the deputy appreciated Husband’s service to humanity and gave me a written warning. Husband later asked me to please stop doing things that required him to write thank-you notes to police officers, and I said I would try.
Are men and women different? I never wanted to think so. But now that I’ve been living with a man for going on 20 years, I feel certain our brains are wired differently. What woman would put a dish towel and a bra in the same load of wash? Or forget her mother’s birthday? Or suggest tying her son’s hand behind his back to practice being a lefty pitcher?
The bright side is that I’ve learned to forgive Husband for these deficiencies, and I’ll learn to forgive him for buying the Goddamn Yellow Jeep which he swears will be with us forever.
But I tell you, that house better be pretty fucking clean.
Update: Okay, the house was pretty fucking clean. But listen: guess how many times I had to hear about it?
Saturday, August 29, 2009
The boy of my dreams
My little Pterodactyl is an enigmatic soul. At night, snuggled in his bed, he pulls my face to his and locks lips with me. “I love you, Mom,” he says.
That happens often, I should say. Other times, he screeches, “GET ME A BOPPY!” and kicks me in the ribs while I’m trying to say good night.
He loves to stroke his big sister’s hair and tell her how beautiful she looks. He also likes to throw his little sister’s beloved Teddy against the wall. The other day while in Time Out, he leaned over and repeatedly deposited globs of saliva on the floor until there was a puddle. Then he rubbed his fuzzy blanket on his upper lip and fell asleep in the fetal position.
He once, in the middle of the night, flushed his nightlight down the toilet where it lodged so perfectly that I had to replace the whole flipping toilet. Then he proudly woke me up so he could show me what he’d done.
This boy, he is kicking my ass. There are times when I think I might die of love for him, when tears sting my eyes just thinking about his toothy grin and sticky-uppy hair and the way he loves to have his ears cleaned. I also often would feel perfectly justified hanging him on a hook by his shirt collar, if I had a hook strong enough to hold him there.
I’d give anything to rid him of his middle-child syndrome (short of having another child, that is), to restore in him the confidence of his baby years, when he knew our world revolved around him. “I wish (the Tyrant) wasn’t in our family!” he tells me all the time. “I told you we shouldn’t have buyed another baby!”
The Tyrant was already 13 months old when she came home, old enough to act adorable and steal toys and generally steal the spotlight from her 2-year-old brother. He tortured her mercilessly until she grew up enough to fight back. Now she’s almost 3 and he’s 4, and they are like two little magnets spiked with explosives. They can’t stay away from each other, but nearly every contact ends badly.
He tries so hard to love her, he really does. When she wakes up, he’ll gently approach her and touch her hair and say, “Good morning!” in his sweetest voice. But the Tyrant, wary after two years of abuse, usually responds with a quick right hook and a growl, and so hurts my poor little boy’s feelings that he dissolves into big fat tears.
So last night, after the Tyrant had called him WEENER BUTT! WEENER BUTT! WEENER BUTT! for no reason, I pulled him into my lap and whispered, “Let’s go for a bike ride. I want to take you someplace special, just you and me.” Normally he argues about alone time with parents because he’s afraid it means he’s being left out of something. But last night, beleaguered, he agreed.
He rode in the bike carrier behind me and I pedaled through the neighborhood. Within 10 minutes, I pulled over in front of a lake surrounded by tree canopy. Hanging in front of us was an old-fashioned swing, fastened by ropes to a high oak branch.
We had to descend the bank slightly to get on the swing. I pulled him into my lap. I walked backwards as far as I could, then let go, and in a magical swoosh, we soared through the air and peaked over the water. I believed in that moment I felt my boy’s heart flying upward with mine, like together we were lifting ourselves above a world filled with pesky little sisters and cranky mothers and weener butts, and at least for a moment, we became part of the very air beneath us.
We kept swinging. We watched little turtle heads pop up in the lake and waterbugs making circles, and listened to the crickets chirp. I nuzzled his neck with kisses and nibbled his ear, which is one of his most favorite things in the world besides airplanes.
“Mom. It’s peace out here,” he said.
We swung and swung. I got vertigo and felt nauseated. I threw up a little in my mouth, and felt a headache looming. But I could not break this fairy spell, this rare moment when my boy felt, more than learned, the meaning of peace.
“Could you take a picture of us so we can remember this?” he asked.
I didn’t have my camera. Of course I would remember it, I told him. But I knew what he meant. Memories morph into blurry versions of reality, particularly for little children who struggle so hard to understand the complexities of a grown-up world. He’s the one who needed the photo, or some other tangible proof of my love that he could turn to the next time he found himself on the wrong side of trouble.
Finally, the sun started setting and tiny no-see-ums buzzed into our noses and mouths, and he said he was ready to go.
We rode home without talking, but I could feel his contentment. When we walked back into the house, the usual chaos reigned. The Diva had taken a shower with the Tyrant, who was screaming that she had soap in her eyes. The bathroom floor was flooded. It was nearing 9 p.m. and no one seemed interested in going to bed. Husband sat on the couch watching preseason football as though armed robbers had told him he’d be killed if he moved.
The Pterodactyl joined the fray, and within minutes, the three were involved in a fracas worthy of being televised.
But later that night, after the household had settled for the evening and I lay in bed mentally steeling myself for the next day, I thought about the secret swing, my beautiful boy, and the way he looked at me when he crawled into my lap to swing. And I thought about his favorite moment of the excursion, when, as he soared over the grassy slope over the calm clear water, I heard a little noise followed by inexorable giggles and his delighted announcement: “I gassed-ed!”
That happens often, I should say. Other times, he screeches, “GET ME A BOPPY!” and kicks me in the ribs while I’m trying to say good night.
He loves to stroke his big sister’s hair and tell her how beautiful she looks. He also likes to throw his little sister’s beloved Teddy against the wall. The other day while in Time Out, he leaned over and repeatedly deposited globs of saliva on the floor until there was a puddle. Then he rubbed his fuzzy blanket on his upper lip and fell asleep in the fetal position.
He once, in the middle of the night, flushed his nightlight down the toilet where it lodged so perfectly that I had to replace the whole flipping toilet. Then he proudly woke me up so he could show me what he’d done.
This boy, he is kicking my ass. There are times when I think I might die of love for him, when tears sting my eyes just thinking about his toothy grin and sticky-uppy hair and the way he loves to have his ears cleaned. I also often would feel perfectly justified hanging him on a hook by his shirt collar, if I had a hook strong enough to hold him there.
I’d give anything to rid him of his middle-child syndrome (short of having another child, that is), to restore in him the confidence of his baby years, when he knew our world revolved around him. “I wish (the Tyrant) wasn’t in our family!” he tells me all the time. “I told you we shouldn’t have buyed another baby!”
The Tyrant was already 13 months old when she came home, old enough to act adorable and steal toys and generally steal the spotlight from her 2-year-old brother. He tortured her mercilessly until she grew up enough to fight back. Now she’s almost 3 and he’s 4, and they are like two little magnets spiked with explosives. They can’t stay away from each other, but nearly every contact ends badly.
He tries so hard to love her, he really does. When she wakes up, he’ll gently approach her and touch her hair and say, “Good morning!” in his sweetest voice. But the Tyrant, wary after two years of abuse, usually responds with a quick right hook and a growl, and so hurts my poor little boy’s feelings that he dissolves into big fat tears.
So last night, after the Tyrant had called him WEENER BUTT! WEENER BUTT! WEENER BUTT! for no reason, I pulled him into my lap and whispered, “Let’s go for a bike ride. I want to take you someplace special, just you and me.” Normally he argues about alone time with parents because he’s afraid it means he’s being left out of something. But last night, beleaguered, he agreed.
He rode in the bike carrier behind me and I pedaled through the neighborhood. Within 10 minutes, I pulled over in front of a lake surrounded by tree canopy. Hanging in front of us was an old-fashioned swing, fastened by ropes to a high oak branch.
We had to descend the bank slightly to get on the swing. I pulled him into my lap. I walked backwards as far as I could, then let go, and in a magical swoosh, we soared through the air and peaked over the water. I believed in that moment I felt my boy’s heart flying upward with mine, like together we were lifting ourselves above a world filled with pesky little sisters and cranky mothers and weener butts, and at least for a moment, we became part of the very air beneath us.
We kept swinging. We watched little turtle heads pop up in the lake and waterbugs making circles, and listened to the crickets chirp. I nuzzled his neck with kisses and nibbled his ear, which is one of his most favorite things in the world besides airplanes.
“Mom. It’s peace out here,” he said.
We swung and swung. I got vertigo and felt nauseated. I threw up a little in my mouth, and felt a headache looming. But I could not break this fairy spell, this rare moment when my boy felt, more than learned, the meaning of peace.
“Could you take a picture of us so we can remember this?” he asked.
I didn’t have my camera. Of course I would remember it, I told him. But I knew what he meant. Memories morph into blurry versions of reality, particularly for little children who struggle so hard to understand the complexities of a grown-up world. He’s the one who needed the photo, or some other tangible proof of my love that he could turn to the next time he found himself on the wrong side of trouble.
Finally, the sun started setting and tiny no-see-ums buzzed into our noses and mouths, and he said he was ready to go.
We rode home without talking, but I could feel his contentment. When we walked back into the house, the usual chaos reigned. The Diva had taken a shower with the Tyrant, who was screaming that she had soap in her eyes. The bathroom floor was flooded. It was nearing 9 p.m. and no one seemed interested in going to bed. Husband sat on the couch watching preseason football as though armed robbers had told him he’d be killed if he moved.
The Pterodactyl joined the fray, and within minutes, the three were involved in a fracas worthy of being televised.
But later that night, after the household had settled for the evening and I lay in bed mentally steeling myself for the next day, I thought about the secret swing, my beautiful boy, and the way he looked at me when he crawled into my lap to swing. And I thought about his favorite moment of the excursion, when, as he soared over the grassy slope over the calm clear water, I heard a little noise followed by inexorable giggles and his delighted announcement: “I gassed-ed!”
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Me and school supplies and finally, the end of summer
Well, I managed to get the kids back to school. Even the Tyrant is enrolled this year, although it’s only three days a week. Still, for 12 hours each week, I am kid-free, at least until I begin to use the extended day program at the pre-school, which could be as early as next week.
The Back-To-School preparations did not go well, probably because I didn’t begin them until two days before school started. I think I totaled five supply trips, and I’m still missing a red folder and a blue folder with pockets AND hole punch thingies, sheet protectors and a container of sanitizing wipes. I could have bought a small used car for what I’ve spent.
Husband worked the day before, naturally, and sauntered into the school on the first day like Mr. Hands-On New Age Father of the Year. I trailed behind him schlepping the backpacks, unable to stop obsessing about whether I had put a juice box in everyone’s lunch box and if I had accidentally included a peanut-product that would send my daughter’s classmate into anaphelactic shock.
Fortunately everyone was happy to be at school, there were no tears, and as we left the final classroom, Husband and I gave each other high fives and issued joint little whoops of joy. A Father of the Year in front of us turned around and gave us a pointed look. “My wife hates this day,” he said. “She loves spending time with our kids.”
Now, I try not to let these sorts of incidents bother me - you know, these brief moments when other people make you feel like your children should be compensated for merely standing next to you. Coincidentally, something similar had happened the day before when I took my kids to Panera for dinner. As I ordered three chicken noodle soups, feeling actually quite proud that my little children adore eating chicken noodle soup, the Tyrant grabbed a bottle of water and threw it on the floor and the Pterodactyl pulled off my loose-waisted gauchos which I had worn because I felt bloated and the Diva was yelling, “I’ll get all the drinks, Mom!” So I was standing like a middle-aged washed-up hip hop artist with my underwear showing, trying to stash my credit card with one hand while using the other to keep the Tyrant from scratching my eyes out and barking at my kids to stay where I could see them, and the cashier gave me a superior saccharine smile and said, “Have a great evening!” She might as well have screamed at the top of her lungs, “I’M SO FUCKING GLAD I’M NOT YOU!” and started tossing muffin crumbs to my kids.
She was younger and shorter than me, so I threw back my shoulders, looked at her in feigned disbelief, and said, “Seriously?” Then I shook my head, laughed and walked away. And didn’t feel the least bit guilty when my three kids had a combined seven potty emergencies during the 35 minutes we were there.
One of the potty emergencies occurred en masse, as my children have developed some kind of weird simultaneous pooping osmosis. It shouldn’t be an issue at home since we have three toilets, but one of the toilets has a disconnected seat which has led to some awkward instability during business meetings. Consequently, some drama has occurred.
Anyway. Of course I love my kids, and I love spending time with them, particularly when they’re not calling each other “poopy pee-pee weiners” in public but, man, it’s nice to catch my breath every once in a while. And when the father at pre-school made that comment about his wife hating to send her kids back to school, the spirit of Miss Manners hovered over my shoulder and told me to smile and ignore him. But I had a lot of hot air that day, so I blew Miss Manners away, and I said to that man, “I guess she’s just a better mom than me.”
The Back-To-School preparations did not go well, probably because I didn’t begin them until two days before school started. I think I totaled five supply trips, and I’m still missing a red folder and a blue folder with pockets AND hole punch thingies, sheet protectors and a container of sanitizing wipes. I could have bought a small used car for what I’ve spent.
Husband worked the day before, naturally, and sauntered into the school on the first day like Mr. Hands-On New Age Father of the Year. I trailed behind him schlepping the backpacks, unable to stop obsessing about whether I had put a juice box in everyone’s lunch box and if I had accidentally included a peanut-product that would send my daughter’s classmate into anaphelactic shock.
Fortunately everyone was happy to be at school, there were no tears, and as we left the final classroom, Husband and I gave each other high fives and issued joint little whoops of joy. A Father of the Year in front of us turned around and gave us a pointed look. “My wife hates this day,” he said. “She loves spending time with our kids.”
Now, I try not to let these sorts of incidents bother me - you know, these brief moments when other people make you feel like your children should be compensated for merely standing next to you. Coincidentally, something similar had happened the day before when I took my kids to Panera for dinner. As I ordered three chicken noodle soups, feeling actually quite proud that my little children adore eating chicken noodle soup, the Tyrant grabbed a bottle of water and threw it on the floor and the Pterodactyl pulled off my loose-waisted gauchos which I had worn because I felt bloated and the Diva was yelling, “I’ll get all the drinks, Mom!” So I was standing like a middle-aged washed-up hip hop artist with my underwear showing, trying to stash my credit card with one hand while using the other to keep the Tyrant from scratching my eyes out and barking at my kids to stay where I could see them, and the cashier gave me a superior saccharine smile and said, “Have a great evening!” She might as well have screamed at the top of her lungs, “I’M SO FUCKING GLAD I’M NOT YOU!” and started tossing muffin crumbs to my kids.
She was younger and shorter than me, so I threw back my shoulders, looked at her in feigned disbelief, and said, “Seriously?” Then I shook my head, laughed and walked away. And didn’t feel the least bit guilty when my three kids had a combined seven potty emergencies during the 35 minutes we were there.
One of the potty emergencies occurred en masse, as my children have developed some kind of weird simultaneous pooping osmosis. It shouldn’t be an issue at home since we have three toilets, but one of the toilets has a disconnected seat which has led to some awkward instability during business meetings. Consequently, some drama has occurred.
Anyway. Of course I love my kids, and I love spending time with them, particularly when they’re not calling each other “poopy pee-pee weiners” in public but, man, it’s nice to catch my breath every once in a while. And when the father at pre-school made that comment about his wife hating to send her kids back to school, the spirit of Miss Manners hovered over my shoulder and told me to smile and ignore him. But I had a lot of hot air that day, so I blew Miss Manners away, and I said to that man, “I guess she’s just a better mom than me.”
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Should she go to Princeton? Or just get her G.E.D....
Husband and I don’t argue much in front of the kids, mainly because it seems silly to add to whatever neurotic tendencies they’ll develop simply by living with me, but also because I’m nearly always right and I don’t want to constantly correct him in front of his children.
But the other night I was so right about something that I had to give him the dagger eyes while speaking to the Diva in a soothing tone through a clenched jaw. It wasn’t pretty.
It started because the Diva was counting up how many years she has until high school. She figured it out - she has 7 years until high school - then added, “and then after high school, I’ll go to college.”
And Husband said, “Right! If you want to go to college.”
At this point I might have blacked out for a minute, but I’m pretty sure my eyes bulged and my hand flew up to my chin to keep my jaw from falling to the kitchen floor.
I used my sweetest, most enthusiastic voice and said, “Of course she’ll go to college!” I turned to the Diva. “Daddy’s just teasing. Right, Daddy?”
Husband looked at me not at all sheepishly. “If she wants to,” he said.
Then the conversation devolved into a ridiculous “uh-huh” vs. “nuh-uh” type back and forth with the children watching intently like it was Pinky Dinky Doo and SpongeBob Squarepants involved in an angry game of badminton.
Husband got specific. What if she wanted to go into the military, he asked. Again, I had the whole eye-bulging, jaw-catching thing, but I controlled myself. “ROTC,” I responded. Suppose she wants to be a rock star, he countered. Conservatory of music, I replied.
Finally the Tyrant started screaming about something and the debate morphed into whether I should open a bottle of Cabernet or just have a beer.
Now, the truth is that I’m not terribly concerned about the Diva going to college. In my humble maternal opinion, she is the most beautiful child on the face of the planet and will obviously be a supermodel by age 17 and, it’s true, a rock star soon thereafter. But doesn’t it seem premature to already be giving her permission to ditch college? It seems a little like confirming that ketchup is indeed a vegetable before she’s old enough to appreciate tomatoes. Also, I don’t want her to get a big head.
I do find that I’m less worked up than I thought I’d be about my children’s futures, perhaps because I find other parents far too worked up about it. I don’t need my kids to make a ton of money to take care of me in my old age. I’m hoping my parents don’t expect that of me, though I’d be happy to check with our homeowners association about getting a trailer out back.
I’m much more focused on the happiness and well-being of my children, and on manners. I’ve always said that my kids might end up in juvenile court but, dammit, they’re going to say “yes, sir” and “no, ma’am” to the judge when the time comes to speak. Really, I think manners can take you far in this world.
Plus there’s the whole college fund issue, which we haven’t really addressed because we’re finding pre-school costs way too taxing. We keep hoping that, by the college years, our kids will be good at something so they’ll have a chance at scholarships. Maybe the Pterodactyl’s creative trash-talking indicates a propensity for basketball, or the Tyrant’s ability to accurately throw things at her brother’s head shows a talent for softball.
I’m afraid the Diva might be really good at dating, which presents a complicated set of problems and is another reason I’d like to set her sights on college ASAP.
A friend who has two little girls recently confided in me that he didn’t understand why people got so worked up over teenage pregnancy. He just wants his girls to be happy, he said, and if they have babies younger than expected, then he’s just fine with that.
I had to disagree, mainly because teenagers having babies, to me, means mothers of teenagers having to deal with babies ... again. And by that time I can promise I’ll be too tired to do it all again.
All of this means that I think it would be very nice if my kids went to college, and if they don’t, it better be because they found something better to do, which will be fine with me as long as they can be self-sufficient, at least for a while.
Because by then, I’ll just need a little time to myself. That, in my opinion, is what sending your kids to college is all about.
But the other night I was so right about something that I had to give him the dagger eyes while speaking to the Diva in a soothing tone through a clenched jaw. It wasn’t pretty.
It started because the Diva was counting up how many years she has until high school. She figured it out - she has 7 years until high school - then added, “and then after high school, I’ll go to college.”
And Husband said, “Right! If you want to go to college.”
At this point I might have blacked out for a minute, but I’m pretty sure my eyes bulged and my hand flew up to my chin to keep my jaw from falling to the kitchen floor.
I used my sweetest, most enthusiastic voice and said, “Of course she’ll go to college!” I turned to the Diva. “Daddy’s just teasing. Right, Daddy?”
Husband looked at me not at all sheepishly. “If she wants to,” he said.
Then the conversation devolved into a ridiculous “uh-huh” vs. “nuh-uh” type back and forth with the children watching intently like it was Pinky Dinky Doo and SpongeBob Squarepants involved in an angry game of badminton.
Husband got specific. What if she wanted to go into the military, he asked. Again, I had the whole eye-bulging, jaw-catching thing, but I controlled myself. “ROTC,” I responded. Suppose she wants to be a rock star, he countered. Conservatory of music, I replied.
Finally the Tyrant started screaming about something and the debate morphed into whether I should open a bottle of Cabernet or just have a beer.
Now, the truth is that I’m not terribly concerned about the Diva going to college. In my humble maternal opinion, she is the most beautiful child on the face of the planet and will obviously be a supermodel by age 17 and, it’s true, a rock star soon thereafter. But doesn’t it seem premature to already be giving her permission to ditch college? It seems a little like confirming that ketchup is indeed a vegetable before she’s old enough to appreciate tomatoes. Also, I don’t want her to get a big head.
I do find that I’m less worked up than I thought I’d be about my children’s futures, perhaps because I find other parents far too worked up about it. I don’t need my kids to make a ton of money to take care of me in my old age. I’m hoping my parents don’t expect that of me, though I’d be happy to check with our homeowners association about getting a trailer out back.
I’m much more focused on the happiness and well-being of my children, and on manners. I’ve always said that my kids might end up in juvenile court but, dammit, they’re going to say “yes, sir” and “no, ma’am” to the judge when the time comes to speak. Really, I think manners can take you far in this world.
Plus there’s the whole college fund issue, which we haven’t really addressed because we’re finding pre-school costs way too taxing. We keep hoping that, by the college years, our kids will be good at something so they’ll have a chance at scholarships. Maybe the Pterodactyl’s creative trash-talking indicates a propensity for basketball, or the Tyrant’s ability to accurately throw things at her brother’s head shows a talent for softball.
I’m afraid the Diva might be really good at dating, which presents a complicated set of problems and is another reason I’d like to set her sights on college ASAP.
A friend who has two little girls recently confided in me that he didn’t understand why people got so worked up over teenage pregnancy. He just wants his girls to be happy, he said, and if they have babies younger than expected, then he’s just fine with that.
I had to disagree, mainly because teenagers having babies, to me, means mothers of teenagers having to deal with babies ... again. And by that time I can promise I’ll be too tired to do it all again.
All of this means that I think it would be very nice if my kids went to college, and if they don’t, it better be because they found something better to do, which will be fine with me as long as they can be self-sufficient, at least for a while.
Because by then, I’ll just need a little time to myself. That, in my opinion, is what sending your kids to college is all about.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Should I get one? I'm taking a poll.
Should I get a tattoo?
Husband and I have an ongoing debate about this, and I have promised him that I won’t do it. I’m not sure why he is so offended by the idea, but he doesn’t make many demands of me other than insisting I stay on my happy pills, so I feel like I should comply. Also, he’s worried a tattoo will get droopy when my skin gets old.
Even BFF has weighed in on the issue, sending me articles about how tattoos are “so ‘90s.” Of course, she already has a tattoo, so it’s possible she’s trying to thwart my efforts to be as trendy and hip as her.
But you know, the option just sits there, like the last Oreo left in the pantry. And I want it.
Normally this idea resides benignly in the back of my consciousness, but every so often something happens to propel it forward. Today, the propellor is Michelle Obama’s legs.
If you have better things to do than read about stuff that really doesn’t matter, let me clue you in. The media is in an uproar because Michelle Obama wore shorts when traveling on Air Force One on her way to the family’s Wyoming vacation. They weren’t short shorts, but nor were they long shorts. I’d call them medium. The hem hit her legs about mid-thigh. She appeared to be wearing a twinset with them, which I found a little strange, but whatever.
Now Michelle Obama does have some nice legs, though I don’t think they are as nice as, say, mine, for example, and she looked just fine in her shorts, as though she might be going to a neighbor’s backyard barbecue. Her bottom half was dressed for burgers and Bud Lite, and her top half was dressed for salmon and Chardonnay.
But some media types did not like the fact that she was traveling on Air Force One in casual shorts. They find it “inappropriate.” And I think the implication is that it was inappropriate for her age, which is 28 days younger than me. I am 45.
All summer long I have been tempted to buy myself some of those trendy short shorts to wear, but have been worried that it’s “inappropriate” for my age. But now I’m a little miffed that anybody thinks I can’t wear anything because of my age, so I’m going to go find some today that will hopefully be on sale since I will probably wear them once then give them away.
Same thing with tank tops, which I have been hesitant to wear for years because I was worried I’m too old to have my bra straps showing. But you know what? I now understand that the public at large knows that I wear a bra regardless of whether the evidence can be seen. I’ve talked myself into believing that it’s nearly sexist for me not to be able to show my bra straps. I have boobs! I have to wear a bra so I don’t get sweat marks on my shirt from my breasts bouncing on my stomach! So deal with it, people! And now I wear tank tops and dresses with skinny little straps and I don’t care who sees my bra, as long as the bra is clean.
I don’t think Michelle Obama’s shorts were particularly flattering on her, and they were a little wrinkled in the crotch area from sitting on the plane. I probably would have worn something else. But we’ll never know, as I could never be First Lady or probably even work as an air conditioning repairperson in the Oval Office due to that awkward little incident from my senior year in college.
The point is this: why does anybody care what she wore on the plane to Wyoming? And, by the way, maybe she had been wearing a skirt but little Malia got airsick and threw up all over her and all she had in her carryon was a pair of shorts?
And why can’t I get a small, tasteful tattoo?
Husband and I have an ongoing debate about this, and I have promised him that I won’t do it. I’m not sure why he is so offended by the idea, but he doesn’t make many demands of me other than insisting I stay on my happy pills, so I feel like I should comply. Also, he’s worried a tattoo will get droopy when my skin gets old.
Even BFF has weighed in on the issue, sending me articles about how tattoos are “so ‘90s.” Of course, she already has a tattoo, so it’s possible she’s trying to thwart my efforts to be as trendy and hip as her.
But you know, the option just sits there, like the last Oreo left in the pantry. And I want it.
Normally this idea resides benignly in the back of my consciousness, but every so often something happens to propel it forward. Today, the propellor is Michelle Obama’s legs.
If you have better things to do than read about stuff that really doesn’t matter, let me clue you in. The media is in an uproar because Michelle Obama wore shorts when traveling on Air Force One on her way to the family’s Wyoming vacation. They weren’t short shorts, but nor were they long shorts. I’d call them medium. The hem hit her legs about mid-thigh. She appeared to be wearing a twinset with them, which I found a little strange, but whatever.
Now Michelle Obama does have some nice legs, though I don’t think they are as nice as, say, mine, for example, and she looked just fine in her shorts, as though she might be going to a neighbor’s backyard barbecue. Her bottom half was dressed for burgers and Bud Lite, and her top half was dressed for salmon and Chardonnay.
But some media types did not like the fact that she was traveling on Air Force One in casual shorts. They find it “inappropriate.” And I think the implication is that it was inappropriate for her age, which is 28 days younger than me. I am 45.
All summer long I have been tempted to buy myself some of those trendy short shorts to wear, but have been worried that it’s “inappropriate” for my age. But now I’m a little miffed that anybody thinks I can’t wear anything because of my age, so I’m going to go find some today that will hopefully be on sale since I will probably wear them once then give them away.
Same thing with tank tops, which I have been hesitant to wear for years because I was worried I’m too old to have my bra straps showing. But you know what? I now understand that the public at large knows that I wear a bra regardless of whether the evidence can be seen. I’ve talked myself into believing that it’s nearly sexist for me not to be able to show my bra straps. I have boobs! I have to wear a bra so I don’t get sweat marks on my shirt from my breasts bouncing on my stomach! So deal with it, people! And now I wear tank tops and dresses with skinny little straps and I don’t care who sees my bra, as long as the bra is clean.
I don’t think Michelle Obama’s shorts were particularly flattering on her, and they were a little wrinkled in the crotch area from sitting on the plane. I probably would have worn something else. But we’ll never know, as I could never be First Lady or probably even work as an air conditioning repairperson in the Oval Office due to that awkward little incident from my senior year in college.
The point is this: why does anybody care what she wore on the plane to Wyoming? And, by the way, maybe she had been wearing a skirt but little Malia got airsick and threw up all over her and all she had in her carryon was a pair of shorts?
And why can’t I get a small, tasteful tattoo?
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Vacation Odyssey: The Final Installment
MONDAY
It is the final day of the Vacation Odyssey. I will be sleeping in my own bed tonight after 16 days on the road.
The worst has occurred. At the moment I hate the words Mama, potty, hungry, thirsty, and the phrase “The DVD Player Broke Again.”
I’m currently drinking gas station coffee and feeding my pain with chocolate chip cookies and peanut brittle, which is not good for my cavity.
For the past two nights the Tyrant has slept with Husband and me, which is a bit like trying to sleep with a greased piglet. Every part of my body hurts, even the top of my foot, inexplicably.
We’re listening to Lady GaGa’s “Poker Face” for the 148th time this trip, since the Tyrant requests it every 30 minutes. It’s disconcerting to hear a 2-year-old sing, “Baby, when it’s love, if it’s not rough it isn’t fun.”
“Do you think you’re the only one suffering?” Husband just asked me.
“Woe. Is. Me,” I said. In other words, yes.
We left the Cape Saturday morning.
Here I must insert the caveat that I love my in-laws dearly, and that I treasured my time with them. My kids spent quality time with their cousins, and I’m grateful they’ll have these memories of summer bonding with extended family.
However. I have never been so glad to say goodbye to a purported vacation mecca. So long, weathered gray shingles. Sayonara, federally protected conservation land. Good riddance, fried clam bellies. No more renting wet suits so my kids can swim in August just down the beach from seals. Seals! The water was cold enough for SEALS!
Get me back to Florida, where the gas stations sell beer and wine and the beaches are free and nobody wears shirts when being interviewed on television about hurricane preparation.
After leaving, we spent the first night with friends in New Jersey. We arrived to discover they were having a big party, a social custom which Husband and I vaguely recalled from our youth. Our friends are fabulous hosts, and the food ranged from seared tuna and roasted veggie sandwiches to hot dogs and wings. We tried to be polite guests, although the Tyrant pooped on the party deck 10 minutes before guests were scheduled to arrive and the Pterodactyl threw such a tantrum later in the evening that Husband took him into a closet to mute the sound.
The hostess had worked her ass off preparing for her fabulous party, and get this: when it was over, she went upstairs to bed. Her husband stayed up until 3 a.m. restoring the house to its pre-party state of organized perfection. Then he got up at 7:30 a.m. to make us homemade chocolate chip waffles for breakfast, and the hostess sent us off with a huge box of homemade chocolate chip cookies for the kids. I’ve eaten 11 of them so far.
Perhaps the best thing they did was convince us to take the Cape May ferry connecting New Jersey to Delaware and drive down the east coast of Delaware and through Ocean City, Md. It was a great day for a ferry ride, and the kids ate a hearty ferry lunch of nachos and Lucky Charms marshmallows.
Husband was excited to drive along the beach in Delaware because as a boy he spent several summers there with his grandparents. And we got to spend a lot of time there because the children staggered their potty needs so that we had to stop four times in 45 minutes. I am not making this up. But luckily one of the stops was at a McDonald’s next to a street sign marked Evergreen Road, and Husband by chance looked up and recognized it and so found the little beach shack his grandparents called The Monsoon. That little bout of nostalgia nearly mitigated the toxic conditions we endured in the above mentioned McDonald’s so that the Diva could eliminate four drops of pee from her bladder.
We stopped last night in Emporia, Va., a town which, if judged by its I-95 interchange, should be evacuated and burned to the ground. We stayed at a very pleasant highway hotel franchise. I suspect it was so pleasant because it was about five minutes old. Certainly the paper walls will fall down soon and the building will implode sometime next spring.
But the rest of it? Shit. Even the water tasted funny.
According to our current schedule, we should be home HOME HoMe HOME by dinnertime. First we have to stop at the kennel to pick up the dog. She has been there for 16 days. I’ll have to sign off soon to work on securing a second mortgage to pay for her stay. It will be hands down the costliest single expenditure of the so-called vacation.
TUESDAY
I am writing this from my very own living room. I have survived. I need the proverbial vacation to recover from my vacation. But that’s okay. Not only do I have renewed appreciation for my neurotic little life, I also have renewed appreciation for my chaotic little family. If I ever again have to be locked up in a motorized landfill for 55 hours with salt water taffy, Lady Gaga and four people, there are no four people I’d rather be with for the journey.
Truthfully, though, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.
It is the final day of the Vacation Odyssey. I will be sleeping in my own bed tonight after 16 days on the road.
The worst has occurred. At the moment I hate the words Mama, potty, hungry, thirsty, and the phrase “The DVD Player Broke Again.”
I’m currently drinking gas station coffee and feeding my pain with chocolate chip cookies and peanut brittle, which is not good for my cavity.
For the past two nights the Tyrant has slept with Husband and me, which is a bit like trying to sleep with a greased piglet. Every part of my body hurts, even the top of my foot, inexplicably.
We’re listening to Lady GaGa’s “Poker Face” for the 148th time this trip, since the Tyrant requests it every 30 minutes. It’s disconcerting to hear a 2-year-old sing, “Baby, when it’s love, if it’s not rough it isn’t fun.”
“Do you think you’re the only one suffering?” Husband just asked me.
“Woe. Is. Me,” I said. In other words, yes.
We left the Cape Saturday morning.
Here I must insert the caveat that I love my in-laws dearly, and that I treasured my time with them. My kids spent quality time with their cousins, and I’m grateful they’ll have these memories of summer bonding with extended family.
However. I have never been so glad to say goodbye to a purported vacation mecca. So long, weathered gray shingles. Sayonara, federally protected conservation land. Good riddance, fried clam bellies. No more renting wet suits so my kids can swim in August just down the beach from seals. Seals! The water was cold enough for SEALS!
Get me back to Florida, where the gas stations sell beer and wine and the beaches are free and nobody wears shirts when being interviewed on television about hurricane preparation.
After leaving, we spent the first night with friends in New Jersey. We arrived to discover they were having a big party, a social custom which Husband and I vaguely recalled from our youth. Our friends are fabulous hosts, and the food ranged from seared tuna and roasted veggie sandwiches to hot dogs and wings. We tried to be polite guests, although the Tyrant pooped on the party deck 10 minutes before guests were scheduled to arrive and the Pterodactyl threw such a tantrum later in the evening that Husband took him into a closet to mute the sound.
The hostess had worked her ass off preparing for her fabulous party, and get this: when it was over, she went upstairs to bed. Her husband stayed up until 3 a.m. restoring the house to its pre-party state of organized perfection. Then he got up at 7:30 a.m. to make us homemade chocolate chip waffles for breakfast, and the hostess sent us off with a huge box of homemade chocolate chip cookies for the kids. I’ve eaten 11 of them so far.
Perhaps the best thing they did was convince us to take the Cape May ferry connecting New Jersey to Delaware and drive down the east coast of Delaware and through Ocean City, Md. It was a great day for a ferry ride, and the kids ate a hearty ferry lunch of nachos and Lucky Charms marshmallows.
Husband was excited to drive along the beach in Delaware because as a boy he spent several summers there with his grandparents. And we got to spend a lot of time there because the children staggered their potty needs so that we had to stop four times in 45 minutes. I am not making this up. But luckily one of the stops was at a McDonald’s next to a street sign marked Evergreen Road, and Husband by chance looked up and recognized it and so found the little beach shack his grandparents called The Monsoon. That little bout of nostalgia nearly mitigated the toxic conditions we endured in the above mentioned McDonald’s so that the Diva could eliminate four drops of pee from her bladder.
We stopped last night in Emporia, Va., a town which, if judged by its I-95 interchange, should be evacuated and burned to the ground. We stayed at a very pleasant highway hotel franchise. I suspect it was so pleasant because it was about five minutes old. Certainly the paper walls will fall down soon and the building will implode sometime next spring.
But the rest of it? Shit. Even the water tasted funny.
According to our current schedule, we should be home HOME HoMe HOME by dinnertime. First we have to stop at the kennel to pick up the dog. She has been there for 16 days. I’ll have to sign off soon to work on securing a second mortgage to pay for her stay. It will be hands down the costliest single expenditure of the so-called vacation.
TUESDAY
I am writing this from my very own living room. I have survived. I need the proverbial vacation to recover from my vacation. But that’s okay. Not only do I have renewed appreciation for my neurotic little life, I also have renewed appreciation for my chaotic little family. If I ever again have to be locked up in a motorized landfill for 55 hours with salt water taffy, Lady Gaga and four people, there are no four people I’d rather be with for the journey.
Truthfully, though, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.
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