You know those days when you just can’t wait for it to end so you can enjoy the relaxing bliss that is that first glass of wine? Tuesday was one of those days.
Okay, fine -- so practically every day is one of those days. Don’t judge me.
It started when JAO announced that he really needed to catch up on some work and, therefore, would not be home until late. Uggh.
Whenever I know not to expect JAO home until late, the afternoon seems to stretch on endlessly. It’s not that I mind being around my children that long by myself, it’s just that -- okay, it is that I mind being around my children that long by myself. They seem to fight more and get on my nerves more when I am flying solo.
When both parents are present, the burden of parenting can be equally shared. One parent breaks up the first fight while the second parent gets the next dirty diaper. Parent One prepares the food while Parent Two wipes off the faces and hands -- and table, chairs and walls. Single parents have my utmost respect. How they do it without going all rifle-in-a-clock-tower is beyond me.
So, I began to formulate a plan: We would swim in the pool until they were ready to drop, then we’d enjoy a nutritious dinner of hot dogs and carrot sticks before retiring to the den for popcorn and Movie Night.
All seemed to be going according to plan; L and Z frolicked in the pool and I chatted with my friend on the phone while attempting to soak up some sun. Let’s face it, cellulite looks so much better when it is tan. I was just beginning to think I would survive my solo flight unharmed when the stench of pool poo filled my nostrils. That little (insert expletive here) pooped in the pool once again. It was mostly contained by the swim diaper and rubber pants that he was wearing, but I was still too grossed-out to allow L and Z to continue playing in the water. My plans for an afternoon in the pool were shot and so I was faced with the dubious task of entertaining these little people until bedtime.
After an hour of bickering and whining from all of us, I decided to bump up Movie Night. We watched “Charolette’s Web” and I was instantly reminded of why I had avoided seeing the film when it first came out. I cried like a freakin’ baby! Stupid spider.
When the movie ended, we still had time to kill before the nutritious hot dogs and carrot stick dinner. So I decided it was time to reattempt the removal of the splinter Z had in his foot. After all, it had been there since Sunday. JAO and I had tried to get it out the afternoon it happened, but to no avail. If you have never had the occasion to remove -- or attempt to remove -- a splinter from any part of a child’s body, let me help you understand the situation. It’s like an Olympic event. It involves strength, endurance and determination. Picture the Crocodile Hunter (God rest his soul) laying on top of a giant crock and wrestling it to the ground all the while trying to keep his limbs and extremities out of the flailing creature’s mouth. It’s kinda like that.
Our first attempt at the splinter removal involved JAO pinning Z down, L holding a flashlight and me wielding the tweezers. I couldn’t even get to the splinter because Z was wriggling and kicking and screaming. I looked at JAO and said, “What kind of a man are you? This kid weighs 35 pounds -- can’t you keep him still?” My husband replied, “Fine! You hold him then!”
People, that kid is strong. Especially when he doesn’t want to do something. We gave up after about 15 minutes when we were all too exhausted to continue.
This was no ordinary splinter, however. It was really a thin sliver of metal that had come off the rotary drill bit thingy JAO had used when he was repairing the grout on the pool. So, I knew it couldn’t stay in his foot for long. What if it became embedded and then infected and what if he then had to walk around with a piece of metal in his foot and constantly be stopped walking through metal detectors and having to explain that he wasn’t carrying a weapon but rather his foot contained a splinter that his weakling parents were unable to remove?
No, it had to come out.
As soon as he saw me coming with the tweezers, he freaked. I tried calm cajoling, I tried bribery, I tried threatening -- nothing would convince him to simply sit still and allow me to do what needed to be done. Finally I said, “screw it” and I laid my entire body over his and pinned him to the floor. He was on his stomach facing one way, and I was laying on his back facing his feet. Even in this position, he was still able to squirm and kick and flop around enough to hinder my efforts. He was screaming and shrieking and trying to bite my leg. Then he twisted his upper body enough so that he could start pounding his fist on my back. All the while, poor L is holding the flashlight and saying, “I don’t like this Mommy! This is scary!”
Another therapy session added to her list. And his.
At last the tweezers hit their target and the metal sliver came out. I released Z and sat up. He was so far beyond upset that he continued to furiously scream and cry. If he knew any curse words, I’m sure I would have heard a litany of expletives. He grabbed a shirt off the back of the couch, thrust it into his mouth and bit down on it in a rage.
I still had the metal shard in my hand and didn’t want to drop it on the floor lest anyone else step on it and we’d have to go through this all over again. So, as I was rising to properly dispose of the offending piece of metal, L reached out to her hysterical brother in an attempt to give him a calming hug. The next thing I saw was his foot flying through the air to land a kick squarely on his sister’s mouth.
Instantly, she let out a screech and blood started flowing from her mouth. She had bit down on her tongue -- hard. So, now I have two screaming kids, one bleeding and the other one crying to near convulsions and I’m still holding the metal splinter in my hand.
I quickly ushered L into the kitchen when I dropped the splinter on the counter and grabbed some paper towels to hold over her mouth. Z followed right behind us. His cries had progressed to the sniffling and whimpering and rapid intake of breaths that usually follows a major kid crying jag. Once I was sure I didn’t need to take L to the emergency room for tongue stitches, I sat down on the kitchen floor and held both my upset babies in my arms and rocked and shushed and tried to restore peace.
I even shed a tear or two.
In the end, everyone went to bed splinter and stiches free. Being a single parent sucks. And some days so does being a kid.
But at least the parent has the wine.
Friday, May 21, 2010
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
The Talk
When I was young and thought my mother was crazy and out-of-touch, I promised myself and my future daughter that I would be a cool, laid-back, understanding mom. I’d be the kind of mom that my daughter’s friends would look at and say, “Wow, it is so stellar that your mom is, like, so totally awesome.” I was a child of the 80s. Back then, that was the hip way to talk.
But then I grew up. Well, kinda. And I have discovered that I don’t need to be L’s best friend and be a part of all the gossip and late-night talks about which boy is the cutest in class. I just want her to see me as someone she can come to with any problem or question and trust that I will give her an honest and direct answer.
I have struggled with this idea of truthfulness and how it extends (or doesn’t extend) to Santa, the Tooth Fairy and all those other harmless lies we tell our children. I play along, but will always fear that these untruths will taint my image as someone who can be trusted. But this past weekend, when my baby girl curled up on my lap, looked at me with those beautiful, blue, trusting eyes and very sincerely asked, “How does a baby come out of your stomach?” the last thing I wanted to do, was to give her an honest and direct answer.
I paused only slightly and then said, “Well, when it is time for the baby to be born, you go to the hospital and the doctor gets the baby out.” Ha! I did it! That was an honest and direct response that only answered the question asked. No need to elaborate, right?
Wrong.
“Yes, Mom, but how does the doctor get the baby out?”
Damn. Now what? Do I really want to get into this right now with a five-and-a-half-year-old? Is she old enough to know where babies come from? Of course, she’s not asking how the baby got there -- at least not yet. But, if I open up this discussion won’t it lead to The Talk?
Crap, she’s noticed how long I’ve been silent. Now any answer I give her will take on a magnified sense of importance simply because of the time it took to answer it. What if I tell her and then she goes and blabs it to all the other kids in preschool and I get angry phone calls from parents who weren’t even thinking about The Talk, but now must have it because obviously our household is one of sin and promiscuity and our daughter is a fountain of sexual knowledge?!
Okay, say something -- anything!
Speak, woman!
I know! Maybe she’ll accept the c-section explanation better and will be easier to comprehend. Okay, fine...go with that...
“Well, um, sometimes the doctor will have to get the baby out by opening up the mommy’s tummy. See, he makes a cut from here to here and -- ”
At this point, L burst into tears. Clearly, that was not the right direction to take.
I was hit with a litany of “I don’t want the doctor to cut open my tummy! I don’t want to have a baby! Don’t make me, okay Mommy! Promise I don’t ever have to have a baby!”
I was trying to calm her down and assure her that wasn’t a decision she had to make right now. The only way I could get out of that situation was to promise her that I was not going to make her have a baby now or any time in the future. That stopped the tears, but we both walked away from that encounter emotionally drained. And I felt like a huge failure. One of the first big moments in our relationship as trusting daughter/truthful mother was blown all to heck.
I spent the rest of the day worrying about it and trying to figure out how to rectify the situation. I simply couldn’t let her go on thinking that child birth was the horror show she was envisioning.
That night, before I tucked her in, I sat down on her bed beside her and said, “L, can we chat for just a minute about something?”
“Sure, Mom.”
“Well, you know how we talked this morning about how babies are born and you got so upset?”
“Yes. I cried and cried." She began to look concerned again and asked, "I don’t have to have a baby, do I?”
“No, honey," I replied. Then in a lighthearted manner I continued, "Look, L, there’s something else I need to tell you. See, there are two ways a baby can be born. One of them is for the doctor to open up the mommy’s tummy, but the other way is for it to come out from somewhere else.”
“Oh. Where?”
“Well, you know how our body has a lot of different holes, right? And each one is for something different; our nose is how we smell, and our mouth is how we eat, and our ears are how we hear. Well, you know that you have a hole in your hiney where the poo comes out -- ”
People, the disbelieving look on her face said, “Cheese and crackers! Lady, do not tell me that babies come out of your butt!”
Quickly I said, “And then there is your hoo-hoo. Babies come out of your hoo-hoo.”
Her response was to pause for a moment and then crack up laughing and say, “They come out of your hoo-hoo?! Ooooh, that is so gross!”
To which I replied, “Well, yes, it sorta is.”
(On a side note: I know that it is considered the progressive way of parenting to use the correct anatomical words for body parts. And we do use the correct words for everything but the hoo-hoo. I hate the V-word. It just sounds icky to me and I never use it. Perhaps it was all the years of being taunted with the horrible nickname Vagina-Regina. Whatever -- hoo-hoo it is.)
“Does it hurt?”
Yes, it hurts worse than anything you could ever imagine and you will wish someone would club you over the head with a metal hospital stool just so your could focus your attention on some pain other than the excruciating sensation of Mac truck trying to drive its way out of your hoo-hoo.
“No, it’s not that bad. The doctor can give you some medicine that makes it not hurt at all.”
“Do you drink the medicine?”
“No. Brace yourself...it’s a shot. But, the shot doesn’t even hurt.”
“You don’t feel the shot?”
No, because you are already writhing in so much pain to the point where a gigantic needle being shoved into your spine is hardly even noticeable.
“Nope. Don’t feel it at all.”
Then, my little girl let out a huge sigh of relief and a big grin spread across her face. She said, “Okay, Mom. Maybe I will think about having a baby after all.”
“That’s great, L. Just don’t think about it for another 20 years or so, okay?”
She threw her arms around my neck and said, “Thank you for making me feel better, Mommy.”
I hugged my baby girl and said, “You’re welcome, Monkey. Now you get some sleep, okay?”
For the love of all that is ovulating, please fall asleep before you remember to ask me how the baby gets in your tummy in the first place...
“Good night, L. I love you.”
“I love you, too, Mommy. Good night.”
Whew!
Being truthful is hard work. Where’s the stork when you need him?
But then I grew up. Well, kinda. And I have discovered that I don’t need to be L’s best friend and be a part of all the gossip and late-night talks about which boy is the cutest in class. I just want her to see me as someone she can come to with any problem or question and trust that I will give her an honest and direct answer.
I have struggled with this idea of truthfulness and how it extends (or doesn’t extend) to Santa, the Tooth Fairy and all those other harmless lies we tell our children. I play along, but will always fear that these untruths will taint my image as someone who can be trusted. But this past weekend, when my baby girl curled up on my lap, looked at me with those beautiful, blue, trusting eyes and very sincerely asked, “How does a baby come out of your stomach?” the last thing I wanted to do, was to give her an honest and direct answer.
I paused only slightly and then said, “Well, when it is time for the baby to be born, you go to the hospital and the doctor gets the baby out.” Ha! I did it! That was an honest and direct response that only answered the question asked. No need to elaborate, right?
Wrong.
“Yes, Mom, but how does the doctor get the baby out?”
Damn. Now what? Do I really want to get into this right now with a five-and-a-half-year-old? Is she old enough to know where babies come from? Of course, she’s not asking how the baby got there -- at least not yet. But, if I open up this discussion won’t it lead to The Talk?
Crap, she’s noticed how long I’ve been silent. Now any answer I give her will take on a magnified sense of importance simply because of the time it took to answer it. What if I tell her and then she goes and blabs it to all the other kids in preschool and I get angry phone calls from parents who weren’t even thinking about The Talk, but now must have it because obviously our household is one of sin and promiscuity and our daughter is a fountain of sexual knowledge?!
Okay, say something -- anything!
Speak, woman!
I know! Maybe she’ll accept the c-section explanation better and will be easier to comprehend. Okay, fine...go with that...
“Well, um, sometimes the doctor will have to get the baby out by opening up the mommy’s tummy. See, he makes a cut from here to here and -- ”
At this point, L burst into tears. Clearly, that was not the right direction to take.
I was hit with a litany of “I don’t want the doctor to cut open my tummy! I don’t want to have a baby! Don’t make me, okay Mommy! Promise I don’t ever have to have a baby!”
I was trying to calm her down and assure her that wasn’t a decision she had to make right now. The only way I could get out of that situation was to promise her that I was not going to make her have a baby now or any time in the future. That stopped the tears, but we both walked away from that encounter emotionally drained. And I felt like a huge failure. One of the first big moments in our relationship as trusting daughter/truthful mother was blown all to heck.
I spent the rest of the day worrying about it and trying to figure out how to rectify the situation. I simply couldn’t let her go on thinking that child birth was the horror show she was envisioning.
That night, before I tucked her in, I sat down on her bed beside her and said, “L, can we chat for just a minute about something?”
“Sure, Mom.”
“Well, you know how we talked this morning about how babies are born and you got so upset?”
“Yes. I cried and cried." She began to look concerned again and asked, "I don’t have to have a baby, do I?”
“No, honey," I replied. Then in a lighthearted manner I continued, "Look, L, there’s something else I need to tell you. See, there are two ways a baby can be born. One of them is for the doctor to open up the mommy’s tummy, but the other way is for it to come out from somewhere else.”
“Oh. Where?”
“Well, you know how our body has a lot of different holes, right? And each one is for something different; our nose is how we smell, and our mouth is how we eat, and our ears are how we hear. Well, you know that you have a hole in your hiney where the poo comes out -- ”
People, the disbelieving look on her face said, “Cheese and crackers! Lady, do not tell me that babies come out of your butt!”
Quickly I said, “And then there is your hoo-hoo. Babies come out of your hoo-hoo.”
Her response was to pause for a moment and then crack up laughing and say, “They come out of your hoo-hoo?! Ooooh, that is so gross!”
To which I replied, “Well, yes, it sorta is.”
(On a side note: I know that it is considered the progressive way of parenting to use the correct anatomical words for body parts. And we do use the correct words for everything but the hoo-hoo. I hate the V-word. It just sounds icky to me and I never use it. Perhaps it was all the years of being taunted with the horrible nickname Vagina-Regina. Whatever -- hoo-hoo it is.)
“Does it hurt?”
Yes, it hurts worse than anything you could ever imagine and you will wish someone would club you over the head with a metal hospital stool just so your could focus your attention on some pain other than the excruciating sensation of Mac truck trying to drive its way out of your hoo-hoo.
“No, it’s not that bad. The doctor can give you some medicine that makes it not hurt at all.”
“Do you drink the medicine?”
“No. Brace yourself...it’s a shot. But, the shot doesn’t even hurt.”
“You don’t feel the shot?”
No, because you are already writhing in so much pain to the point where a gigantic needle being shoved into your spine is hardly even noticeable.
“Nope. Don’t feel it at all.”
Then, my little girl let out a huge sigh of relief and a big grin spread across her face. She said, “Okay, Mom. Maybe I will think about having a baby after all.”
“That’s great, L. Just don’t think about it for another 20 years or so, okay?”
She threw her arms around my neck and said, “Thank you for making me feel better, Mommy.”
I hugged my baby girl and said, “You’re welcome, Monkey. Now you get some sleep, okay?”
For the love of all that is ovulating, please fall asleep before you remember to ask me how the baby gets in your tummy in the first place...
“Good night, L. I love you.”
“I love you, too, Mommy. Good night.”
Whew!
Being truthful is hard work. Where’s the stork when you need him?
Monday, May 10, 2010
Things Z Taught Me
Z turned three-years-old yesterday. I think I am now supposed to pause and reflect sentimentally on the past 1095 days this boy has been in my life. I should pull out all the standard clichés about the rapid progression of time and the “it seems like only yesterday” phrases. But tearing up at my kids’ baby pictures and lamenting the official end of my role as a mother of and infant/toddler is not my style.
I’m not made of stone, people -- I love that boy more than I ever thought it was possible to love someone who was so destructive. JAO accuses me of being soft on Z and falling for his little boy, cute manipulative ways. And I freely admit to my guilt. When he was first born, I had this overwhelming desire to retreat to my bedroom with my sweet, swaddled baby son and lock out the rest of the world. Now, of course, it is my overwhelming desire to flee to my room and lock Z out.
Nah, I’m kidding. No matter what, that kid is my favorite baby son and nothing will ever change that. I used to tease JAO about how much his mother still dotes on him and looks at him as though he could do no wrong; when I, in fact, know better. But now I understand her looks of adoration cast on her now-grown son. I used to tell my mother that she liked my brother best and she would always deny it. Now, however, I have a sneaking suspicion that I might have been right all along. You don’t mess with mothers and sons. There is a bubble around them that seals their special bond and protects it from the rest of the world.
Inside the bubble, however, a war of frustration and determination -- and sometimes poo -- rages.
Begrudgingly I will admit that I have come to, somewhat, enjoy the new form our relationship has taken. It’s a “him vs. me” game that both of us are determined to win. Z is trying to come up with new and creative ways to destroy my home or display some type of crazy-in-the-head shocking behavior and I, of course, try to thwart his efforts. Who is winning? I like to think that arguments could be made for either side; however, my guess is that you would all put your money on Z.
At the very least, life with Z has not been boring. In fact, it has been quite educational. The following is my list of Top Ten Things I Have Learned Being the Mommy of Z:
I know there are more lessons to be learned from my favorite little man and I look forward to whatever the next 1095 days have to bring. I am a better mom and perhaps even a better person because of Z. And yes, I teared-up a little bit during that last sentence. Like I said, I'm not made of stone. I love my son -- poo and all.
I’m not made of stone, people -- I love that boy more than I ever thought it was possible to love someone who was so destructive. JAO accuses me of being soft on Z and falling for his little boy, cute manipulative ways. And I freely admit to my guilt. When he was first born, I had this overwhelming desire to retreat to my bedroom with my sweet, swaddled baby son and lock out the rest of the world. Now, of course, it is my overwhelming desire to flee to my room and lock Z out.
Nah, I’m kidding. No matter what, that kid is my favorite baby son and nothing will ever change that. I used to tease JAO about how much his mother still dotes on him and looks at him as though he could do no wrong; when I, in fact, know better. But now I understand her looks of adoration cast on her now-grown son. I used to tell my mother that she liked my brother best and she would always deny it. Now, however, I have a sneaking suspicion that I might have been right all along. You don’t mess with mothers and sons. There is a bubble around them that seals their special bond and protects it from the rest of the world.
Inside the bubble, however, a war of frustration and determination -- and sometimes poo -- rages.
Begrudgingly I will admit that I have come to, somewhat, enjoy the new form our relationship has taken. It’s a “him vs. me” game that both of us are determined to win. Z is trying to come up with new and creative ways to destroy my home or display some type of crazy-in-the-head shocking behavior and I, of course, try to thwart his efforts. Who is winning? I like to think that arguments could be made for either side; however, my guess is that you would all put your money on Z.
At the very least, life with Z has not been boring. In fact, it has been quite educational. The following is my list of Top Ten Things I Have Learned Being the Mommy of Z:
1.) Nothing cracks me up more (or disturbs me as much) as watching Z roll his eyes back in his head to the point where his pupils almost entirely disappear from sight.
2.) Washable markers are not, in fact, washable when applied to carpet.
3.) If you’re bored, throwing toys down the heating and air vents in the floor is a fun distraction.
4.) If you try hard enough, you can wedge a wooden train into almost any crevice to the point where it is impossible to retrieve.
5.) A running child can cross the entire length of a Super Target in 12 seconds. A running mom pushing a buggy needs at least 20.
6.) Spill-proof cups are not, in fact, spill-proof when hurled at the wall with the intent of a major-league pitcher.
7.) The command “faster!” screamed by an excited Z being pushed on a swing can make passers-by think he is commenting on the marital status of their parents at the time of their birth.
8.) An open container of anything -- water, Coke, a can of Spaghettioes -- should never be left out unless you wish to see the contents of the container dumped out onto whatever surface is available.
9.) Even after he has had a complete, nutritious meal, if you walk into the room carrying anything remotely food-like, he will rush over to you and hold his mouth open like a baby bird. “Bite? Me, bite?” “Z, this is a plate of fish head and cabbage.” “Me have some?” Sigh.
10.) A little boy dressed in a pink tu-tu and sporting a head full of pink hair bows still looks like a boy.
I know there are more lessons to be learned from my favorite little man and I look forward to whatever the next 1095 days have to bring. I am a better mom and perhaps even a better person because of Z. And yes, I teared-up a little bit during that last sentence. Like I said, I'm not made of stone. I love my son -- poo and all.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Let's Start a Revolution
So, apparently, The Revolution is coming. Are you prepared?
Anyone who knows my husband is aware of his fiscally conservative values. He is not one to make judgments on social issues, but for the love of all that is capitalistic don’t mess with his money. JAO is a financial advisor and is, therefore, quite knowledgeable in the ways of, well, finance. I, on the other hand, haven’t balanced a checkbook in nearly a decade. I don’t know who holds our mortgage, where our investments are or how much money is in his 401K. If pressed, I probably couldn’t even tell you what a 401K is. And I am fine with that.
JAO tells me I need to learn all this stuff just in case something ever happens to him. I tell him I choose to be optimistic about his longevity. Plus, what if I die before he does? Then I will have learned all that money stuff for nothing.
Lately, however, JAO is showing signs of increased unrest and frustration with our government. Don’t be too concerned; he hasn’t slipped into the realm of radical extremism. You don’t need to call the FBI and tell them he’s buying property at Ruby Ridge. But, I think he has looked at land up in the mountains of North Georgia.
It all started with Glenn Beck. Say what you will about the man, he is charismatic and very passionate about his beliefs. I don’t care to listen to him rant, but he seems to be saying a lot of the things JAO has been feeling only didn’t have the chalkboard on which to illustrate it. I prefer to unwind at the end of the day with a glass of wine and a good episode of 48 Hours Hard Evidence. JAO likes to kick back with Glenn.
The next step came with the purchase of the book The Backyard Homestead, a manual that promises to help you “produce all the food you need on just a quarter acre!” When asked why this was a necessary purchase, JAO replied, “We may need to know how to live off the land in order to survive The Revolution.”
My response was, “Unless there are instructions in there for growing your own Chex Mix trees or Pringles bushes, then I would rather not survive.” He then pointed out that there is a section in the book dedicated the growing, harvesting and fermenting of grapes for the purpose of making wine. So, I may be able to stick around for a least a few weeks after The Revolution.
Then came the delivery from FedEx. Inside the package were boxes of ammunition and a heavy-duty, Army type backpack. Being a hunter and an avid gun enthusiast, I wasn’t too surprised by the ammo. The third item, however, I found puzzling -- if not a bit disturbing. (I know, I know, some of you may find the ammo disturbing. I’m not going to get all NRA on you, but I have no problem with guns when in the hands of someone responsible and well-trained. We have a gun safe and every weapon in this house is securely locked up and out of the reach of children. So get off my 2nd Amendment back, okay?)
So, back to what I found disturbing: Also in the box, was $75 worth of MREs. That’s Meal, Ready to Eat for those militarily-challenged. Or my sister-in-law who called them MR3s.
I just cocked my head to the side, looked at him in wonder and asked, “What in the name of all that is frivolous and crazy made you buy those?”
“I don’t know. I wanted to see what they tasted like. I thought I could take them down to the hunting camp.”
“So, you want to sit in the woods in the middle of nowhere and eat your freeze-dried meatloaf and pretend you are the only one left on the planet?”
“Something like that.” Then he said, “You’ll thank me for all this preparation when The Revolution happens and we need this stuff to survive.”
I felt like I finally needed to get to the bottom of this revolutionary fear. “What, exactly, do you think is going to happen that will require us to live in mud huts and fashion clothing out of bacon?”
His response was to say that if the people who were opposed to the government finally got fed up enough and rose up against the tyranny then the government would respond by trying to crush the opposition. It’s not like history isn’t littered with that type of scenario. A Revolution is what this country was founded on. Is it really so far-fetched to think it could never happen again?
“It is never a bad idea," he concluded, "to be prepared.”
“I guess," I replied, "but think about this: If The Revolution occurs, there is bound to be a large wave of casualties at the onset, followed by those who have to dig in and live off the land to survive. I plan to die in the first wave. I am not a survivor. Gloria Gainer was not singing to me. I hope in the wilderness you can find a like-minded, Bear Grylls, Man vs. Wild, uber-woman to help you tend your gardens and repopulate the country with hearty, freedom-loving patriots like yourselves.”
He thought for a second and then said, “Okay. I’m going to go put this stuff down in the hunting closet. See ya.”
A few days later I saw a t-shirt that said, “Party like it’s 1773!” It made me laugh. Though it was a bit of a disturbing laugh.
And then I thought, “Hmmm...I wonder if that shirt comes in bacon...?”
Anyone who knows my husband is aware of his fiscally conservative values. He is not one to make judgments on social issues, but for the love of all that is capitalistic don’t mess with his money. JAO is a financial advisor and is, therefore, quite knowledgeable in the ways of, well, finance. I, on the other hand, haven’t balanced a checkbook in nearly a decade. I don’t know who holds our mortgage, where our investments are or how much money is in his 401K. If pressed, I probably couldn’t even tell you what a 401K is. And I am fine with that.
JAO tells me I need to learn all this stuff just in case something ever happens to him. I tell him I choose to be optimistic about his longevity. Plus, what if I die before he does? Then I will have learned all that money stuff for nothing.
Lately, however, JAO is showing signs of increased unrest and frustration with our government. Don’t be too concerned; he hasn’t slipped into the realm of radical extremism. You don’t need to call the FBI and tell them he’s buying property at Ruby Ridge. But, I think he has looked at land up in the mountains of North Georgia.
It all started with Glenn Beck. Say what you will about the man, he is charismatic and very passionate about his beliefs. I don’t care to listen to him rant, but he seems to be saying a lot of the things JAO has been feeling only didn’t have the chalkboard on which to illustrate it. I prefer to unwind at the end of the day with a glass of wine and a good episode of 48 Hours Hard Evidence. JAO likes to kick back with Glenn.
The next step came with the purchase of the book The Backyard Homestead, a manual that promises to help you “produce all the food you need on just a quarter acre!” When asked why this was a necessary purchase, JAO replied, “We may need to know how to live off the land in order to survive The Revolution.”
My response was, “Unless there are instructions in there for growing your own Chex Mix trees or Pringles bushes, then I would rather not survive.” He then pointed out that there is a section in the book dedicated the growing, harvesting and fermenting of grapes for the purpose of making wine. So, I may be able to stick around for a least a few weeks after The Revolution.
Then came the delivery from FedEx. Inside the package were boxes of ammunition and a heavy-duty, Army type backpack. Being a hunter and an avid gun enthusiast, I wasn’t too surprised by the ammo. The third item, however, I found puzzling -- if not a bit disturbing. (I know, I know, some of you may find the ammo disturbing. I’m not going to get all NRA on you, but I have no problem with guns when in the hands of someone responsible and well-trained. We have a gun safe and every weapon in this house is securely locked up and out of the reach of children. So get off my 2nd Amendment back, okay?)
So, back to what I found disturbing: Also in the box, was $75 worth of MREs. That’s Meal, Ready to Eat for those militarily-challenged. Or my sister-in-law who called them MR3s.
I just cocked my head to the side, looked at him in wonder and asked, “What in the name of all that is frivolous and crazy made you buy those?”
“I don’t know. I wanted to see what they tasted like. I thought I could take them down to the hunting camp.”
“So, you want to sit in the woods in the middle of nowhere and eat your freeze-dried meatloaf and pretend you are the only one left on the planet?”
“Something like that.” Then he said, “You’ll thank me for all this preparation when The Revolution happens and we need this stuff to survive.”
I felt like I finally needed to get to the bottom of this revolutionary fear. “What, exactly, do you think is going to happen that will require us to live in mud huts and fashion clothing out of bacon?”
His response was to say that if the people who were opposed to the government finally got fed up enough and rose up against the tyranny then the government would respond by trying to crush the opposition. It’s not like history isn’t littered with that type of scenario. A Revolution is what this country was founded on. Is it really so far-fetched to think it could never happen again?
“It is never a bad idea," he concluded, "to be prepared.”
“I guess," I replied, "but think about this: If The Revolution occurs, there is bound to be a large wave of casualties at the onset, followed by those who have to dig in and live off the land to survive. I plan to die in the first wave. I am not a survivor. Gloria Gainer was not singing to me. I hope in the wilderness you can find a like-minded, Bear Grylls, Man vs. Wild, uber-woman to help you tend your gardens and repopulate the country with hearty, freedom-loving patriots like yourselves.”
He thought for a second and then said, “Okay. I’m going to go put this stuff down in the hunting closet. See ya.”
A few days later I saw a t-shirt that said, “Party like it’s 1773!” It made me laugh. Though it was a bit of a disturbing laugh.
And then I thought, “Hmmm...I wonder if that shirt comes in bacon...?”
Monday, April 26, 2010
WTH?
What, in the holy hell is wrong with me? Wait...don’t answer that.
Monday mornings are usually quite lazy for us. Not that we are overly-active and productive the rest of the week. However, on Mondays, no one goes to school and we typically don’t have anywhere special to be until L’s ballet class at 4:30 in afternoon. So, this morning, I lounged around upstairs (okay, fine, I was still in the bed) until about 10:30. Yes, my life is hard. Don’t be a hater. JAO was making some important, financial-business phone calls and Z and L were fiddling around in the playroom. All was right with the world.
From my bed, I took a couple of phone calls then wandered downstairs to pour my first cup of coffee. I decided to check L’s ballet schedule to see if there was anything I needed to know about her class today. Sure enough, April 26 is listed as Fun Dancewear Day, which means the students can abandon their required light blue leotard and skirt in favor of something more, um, fun. Usually, it just means the class is full of Disney princess wannabes.
Because I am so thorough, or maybe because there is some part of my brain that fell out during pregnancy, I double-checked my own calendar to make sure that today was, indeed, the 26th of April. In case you were wondering, it is.
Also, in case you were wondering today is Ella’s Princess birthday party.
What??! Quickly, I grabbed the party invitation and, in a panic, scanned the details. My heart sank as I read the arrival time: 11:00 a.m. People, I looked at the clock and it said 10:58. Yes, I had this party written on my calendar, but I wrote that it was at 1:00! Every time I have glanced up at the calendar that hangs just above my computer -- the computer I am constantly on and, therefore, am constantly looking at said calendar -- I have read that the party was at 1:00.
Regardless, I knew that if I allowed L to miss this party, she would be crushed. It would be just another sad tale to add to her growing list of maternal failures to be discussed with her future therapist. I was not going to let that happen. Operation Get L to the Princess Party was a go!
Trying to keep the panic out of my voice, I yelled for L that we needed to get ready for Ella's party now! Why don’t you step inside my head and I’ll take you on the ride that followed...
Blue princess dress! Go get it! Wait, it’s not upstairs. Where is it? Where is it? Oh, yeah! She’d spilled a bit of fingernail polish on it last week and I was supposed to be trying to get it out. It’s in the laundry room! Uh oh, it’s underneath a pile of sheets and towels. Is it too wrinkled? No. It’s good. How does it smell? Fine. Wait? How about the polish? Nope, barely visible. Thank the Lord.
Quick! Put it on! Where are your fancy, silver sparkle shoes? Crap! We left them at Gran’s house last week! Don’t panic, don’t panic...here, wear the old ones from Target. They still have some sparkle in them. No, they look fine! Hurry!
Okay, princess hair...pile it all up on top of your head and spray it. Perfect! Jewelry, jewelry...here! Put on this necklace. Quick, run to your room and get a bracelet! I don’t care which one, just run!
Thank you, Jesus, it is a drop-off party so I don’t have to look too cute. I should probably put on a bra, though. Where’s the sundress I had on yesterday? Here it is. Yes, L, I am going to wear underwear. Geez! Okay, now I’m at least presentable.
A crown, a crown...where’s a freakin’ crown? For the love of all that is royal, any other morning, I would have stepped on about four tiaras just getting from my bed to the bathroom. Now there isn’t one to be found. Throw everything out of the dress-up basket -- of course it’s at the very bottom -- got it! The princess transformation is now complete!
Where’s the gift? On the kitchen counter. Thank heavens I thought to buy it last week instead of my usual just pick something up on the way to the party MO. Crap, I don’t have a bag -- good here’s one that isn’t too beat-up. Throw the gift in there along with some tissue paper. Card, card, we didn’t get a card! Oh, good, there’s a tag on the bag that hasn’t been written on. Quick, write "Love, L" on it! Done! To the van!!
Okay, you can get out of my head, now.
Faithful readers, I want you to know I got L to that party at 11:10. Touch that! That must be some kind of record! Fortunately, the party was only 1.2 miles away from the house and JAO was still home so I didn’t have to worry about getting Z dressed to go with us. Another potential childhood trauma avoided. Phew.
Now here’s the last laugh of this pathetic story: When I got back home, I took a closer look at my calendar and discovered that I had, indeed, listed the correct time for the party. But the two ones in my number 11 were written too close together.
Seriously. WTH?
Monday mornings are usually quite lazy for us. Not that we are overly-active and productive the rest of the week. However, on Mondays, no one goes to school and we typically don’t have anywhere special to be until L’s ballet class at 4:30 in afternoon. So, this morning, I lounged around upstairs (okay, fine, I was still in the bed) until about 10:30. Yes, my life is hard. Don’t be a hater. JAO was making some important, financial-business phone calls and Z and L were fiddling around in the playroom. All was right with the world.
From my bed, I took a couple of phone calls then wandered downstairs to pour my first cup of coffee. I decided to check L’s ballet schedule to see if there was anything I needed to know about her class today. Sure enough, April 26 is listed as Fun Dancewear Day, which means the students can abandon their required light blue leotard and skirt in favor of something more, um, fun. Usually, it just means the class is full of Disney princess wannabes.
Because I am so thorough, or maybe because there is some part of my brain that fell out during pregnancy, I double-checked my own calendar to make sure that today was, indeed, the 26th of April. In case you were wondering, it is.
Also, in case you were wondering today is Ella’s Princess birthday party.
What??! Quickly, I grabbed the party invitation and, in a panic, scanned the details. My heart sank as I read the arrival time: 11:00 a.m. People, I looked at the clock and it said 10:58. Yes, I had this party written on my calendar, but I wrote that it was at 1:00! Every time I have glanced up at the calendar that hangs just above my computer -- the computer I am constantly on and, therefore, am constantly looking at said calendar -- I have read that the party was at 1:00.
Regardless, I knew that if I allowed L to miss this party, she would be crushed. It would be just another sad tale to add to her growing list of maternal failures to be discussed with her future therapist. I was not going to let that happen. Operation Get L to the Princess Party was a go!
Trying to keep the panic out of my voice, I yelled for L that we needed to get ready for Ella's party now! Why don’t you step inside my head and I’ll take you on the ride that followed...
Blue princess dress! Go get it! Wait, it’s not upstairs. Where is it? Where is it? Oh, yeah! She’d spilled a bit of fingernail polish on it last week and I was supposed to be trying to get it out. It’s in the laundry room! Uh oh, it’s underneath a pile of sheets and towels. Is it too wrinkled? No. It’s good. How does it smell? Fine. Wait? How about the polish? Nope, barely visible. Thank the Lord.
Quick! Put it on! Where are your fancy, silver sparkle shoes? Crap! We left them at Gran’s house last week! Don’t panic, don’t panic...here, wear the old ones from Target. They still have some sparkle in them. No, they look fine! Hurry!
Okay, princess hair...pile it all up on top of your head and spray it. Perfect! Jewelry, jewelry...here! Put on this necklace. Quick, run to your room and get a bracelet! I don’t care which one, just run!
Thank you, Jesus, it is a drop-off party so I don’t have to look too cute. I should probably put on a bra, though. Where’s the sundress I had on yesterday? Here it is. Yes, L, I am going to wear underwear. Geez! Okay, now I’m at least presentable.
A crown, a crown...where’s a freakin’ crown? For the love of all that is royal, any other morning, I would have stepped on about four tiaras just getting from my bed to the bathroom. Now there isn’t one to be found. Throw everything out of the dress-up basket -- of course it’s at the very bottom -- got it! The princess transformation is now complete!
Where’s the gift? On the kitchen counter. Thank heavens I thought to buy it last week instead of my usual just pick something up on the way to the party MO. Crap, I don’t have a bag -- good here’s one that isn’t too beat-up. Throw the gift in there along with some tissue paper. Card, card, we didn’t get a card! Oh, good, there’s a tag on the bag that hasn’t been written on. Quick, write "Love, L" on it! Done! To the van!!
Okay, you can get out of my head, now.
Faithful readers, I want you to know I got L to that party at 11:10. Touch that! That must be some kind of record! Fortunately, the party was only 1.2 miles away from the house and JAO was still home so I didn’t have to worry about getting Z dressed to go with us. Another potential childhood trauma avoided. Phew.
Now here’s the last laugh of this pathetic story: When I got back home, I took a closer look at my calendar and discovered that I had, indeed, listed the correct time for the party. But the two ones in my number 11 were written too close together.
Seriously. WTH?
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Z is Trying to Kill Me
I am sure there will come a time when you all tire of my seemingly endless tirade against my son. I will also be extremely relieved to reach the point where that little -- deep, calming breath -- boy is no longer giving me topics on which to write.
Sadly, that time has not yet come. Please enjoy tonight’s edition of “Z is Trying to Kill Me Slowly but Surely.”
My mother-in-law baby-sat the kids today and JAO didn’t arrive home until around 7:45. So Z and L were allowed to stay up just a bit past their bedtime to see their father and spend some more time with their Nana. As it was nearing 9:00, a very sleepy Z was curled up next to me on the sofa, sucking his thumb and exuding all kinds of sweet, little boy cuteness.
I believe I have mentioned before that I have grown leery of his innocent angel tactics and very rarely fall for his attempts at manipulating me into thinking he is anything but the Spawn of Satan. Even though I allowed myself to indulge in a few cuddles, I remained on-guard and alert for any signs of a sudden uprising. He can turn on a dime. You always have to be ready.
I was carrying the deceptively adorable child up the stairs and he cupped my face in his hands and put kisses on both of my eyelids. Don’t go saying, “Awwww...how cute” to that! I think he was trying to get me to trip while going up the stairs.
After a brief battle over whether or not the stripped p.j. pants went with the shirt with the baseball glove and ball on it (apparently he’s never seen the old fashioned baseball uniforms), I managed to brush a few of his teeth and tuck him into bed. I pulled his ducky blanket up to his chin and kissed him, Toothless and Rocket (a plastic tree ornament of the rocket from Little Einsteins), and bid them all a good night.
I retired to the home office for some emailing, Facebooking, FoxNews.com-ing (don’t judge me) and generally chilling out at the end of the day. I was just in the middle of an article on Iran sanctions when I heard the tell-tale sound of a young person “sneaking” down the stairs. I use the term sneaking loosely because the kid seems to have no idea that sound travels.
I turned around as he got to the bottom of the steps and I said, “Z...what do you think you are doing?”
His response was to half walk/half shuffle into the office, all the while making a strange tapping noise on the hardwood floor as he moved along. He reached the office chair where I was sitting and it was then that I realized the tapping noise was being made by the small plastic top of a Chapstick tube that he was gripping in between his toes. The air around me was suddenly awash with the unmistakable scent of the lip balm.
“Z, did you put Chapstick on your lips?”
“No.”
“On your face?”
“No.”
“Well, where did you put it?”
He responded by holding his hands up, palms out, in front of my face.
“You put it on your hands?”
“Yes.” Grin. Beat. “And the carpet.”
“WHAT?”
I leapt up from my chair and grabbed him by the shirt collar and ordered him upstairs to show me what he had done. This kid had the nerve to hold his evil, little hands up to me indicating I was to carry him upstairs to witness his destruction!
“No way, Jose, you march your little butt up those stairs right now and show me what you’ve done.”
So, we got to his room and, with some trepidation, I turned on the overhead light. There was no Chapstick damage to be found. I was relieved -- but only briefly.
“Z? Where is the Chapstick?”
Big smile. “Downstairs. Me show you. Come on, Mommy!”
I allowed myself to be lead down the stairs, bracing myself for what I was about to encounter. People, it is just as bad as you might imagine. This kid -- who only last week received not one, but two spankings with The Spoon for writing on the carpet with blue marker, took a tube of Chapstick and smeared and smushed it all into the carpet. And he had the nerve to look all proud about it!
This was not your plain tube of Chapstick, my friend. It was cherry -- bright red cherry. And he did it right next to one of the horrid blue crop circles still evident from last week. Now my carpet resembles a bowl of that freakin’ rainbow sherbet that comes at the end of your meal at a Japanese restaurant!
I called my mother to vent before I went all Medieval on the boy. She reminded me that I once took a tracing wheel and punctured her dining room table with tiny, little holes. And I wrote on my bedroom wall in permanent ink (we didn’t have washable markers back then, you know). And I may have spilled an entire bottle of nail polish remover on her cedar chest, which ate off all the finish.
Dear Karma, you suck.
She sympathized, warned me against beating Z and told me to go write about the incident in an effort to release my frustration. And, under no circumstance, was I allowed to refer to her grandson as “The Spawn of Satan.”
Silly, silly woman. If it looks like a duck, walks like a duck, and sounds like a duck, then Z is evil. Now, where the hell is that carpet cleaner...
Sadly, that time has not yet come. Please enjoy tonight’s edition of “Z is Trying to Kill Me Slowly but Surely.”
My mother-in-law baby-sat the kids today and JAO didn’t arrive home until around 7:45. So Z and L were allowed to stay up just a bit past their bedtime to see their father and spend some more time with their Nana. As it was nearing 9:00, a very sleepy Z was curled up next to me on the sofa, sucking his thumb and exuding all kinds of sweet, little boy cuteness.
I believe I have mentioned before that I have grown leery of his innocent angel tactics and very rarely fall for his attempts at manipulating me into thinking he is anything but the Spawn of Satan. Even though I allowed myself to indulge in a few cuddles, I remained on-guard and alert for any signs of a sudden uprising. He can turn on a dime. You always have to be ready.
I was carrying the deceptively adorable child up the stairs and he cupped my face in his hands and put kisses on both of my eyelids. Don’t go saying, “Awwww...how cute” to that! I think he was trying to get me to trip while going up the stairs.
After a brief battle over whether or not the stripped p.j. pants went with the shirt with the baseball glove and ball on it (apparently he’s never seen the old fashioned baseball uniforms), I managed to brush a few of his teeth and tuck him into bed. I pulled his ducky blanket up to his chin and kissed him, Toothless and Rocket (a plastic tree ornament of the rocket from Little Einsteins), and bid them all a good night.
I retired to the home office for some emailing, Facebooking, FoxNews.com-ing (don’t judge me) and generally chilling out at the end of the day. I was just in the middle of an article on Iran sanctions when I heard the tell-tale sound of a young person “sneaking” down the stairs. I use the term sneaking loosely because the kid seems to have no idea that sound travels.
I turned around as he got to the bottom of the steps and I said, “Z...what do you think you are doing?”
His response was to half walk/half shuffle into the office, all the while making a strange tapping noise on the hardwood floor as he moved along. He reached the office chair where I was sitting and it was then that I realized the tapping noise was being made by the small plastic top of a Chapstick tube that he was gripping in between his toes. The air around me was suddenly awash with the unmistakable scent of the lip balm.
“Z, did you put Chapstick on your lips?”
“No.”
“On your face?”
“No.”
“Well, where did you put it?”
He responded by holding his hands up, palms out, in front of my face.
“You put it on your hands?”
“Yes.” Grin. Beat. “And the carpet.”
“WHAT?”
I leapt up from my chair and grabbed him by the shirt collar and ordered him upstairs to show me what he had done. This kid had the nerve to hold his evil, little hands up to me indicating I was to carry him upstairs to witness his destruction!
“No way, Jose, you march your little butt up those stairs right now and show me what you’ve done.”
So, we got to his room and, with some trepidation, I turned on the overhead light. There was no Chapstick damage to be found. I was relieved -- but only briefly.
“Z? Where is the Chapstick?”
Big smile. “Downstairs. Me show you. Come on, Mommy!”
I allowed myself to be lead down the stairs, bracing myself for what I was about to encounter. People, it is just as bad as you might imagine. This kid -- who only last week received not one, but two spankings with The Spoon for writing on the carpet with blue marker, took a tube of Chapstick and smeared and smushed it all into the carpet. And he had the nerve to look all proud about it!
This was not your plain tube of Chapstick, my friend. It was cherry -- bright red cherry. And he did it right next to one of the horrid blue crop circles still evident from last week. Now my carpet resembles a bowl of that freakin’ rainbow sherbet that comes at the end of your meal at a Japanese restaurant!
I called my mother to vent before I went all Medieval on the boy. She reminded me that I once took a tracing wheel and punctured her dining room table with tiny, little holes. And I wrote on my bedroom wall in permanent ink (we didn’t have washable markers back then, you know). And I may have spilled an entire bottle of nail polish remover on her cedar chest, which ate off all the finish.
Dear Karma, you suck.
She sympathized, warned me against beating Z and told me to go write about the incident in an effort to release my frustration. And, under no circumstance, was I allowed to refer to her grandson as “The Spawn of Satan.”
Silly, silly woman. If it looks like a duck, walks like a duck, and sounds like a duck, then Z is evil. Now, where the hell is that carpet cleaner...
Friday, April 23, 2010
Mother of the Year
I have taken one more giant step away from the trophy awarded to the Mother of the Year.
Allow me to share my shame...
A bit of background for those not in the know: I am notoriously late everywhere I go. It doesn’t help that I married someone who also suffers from the same affliction. Even when we have the best intentions, we always seem to be running behind. Well into adulthood, our kids will probably still have nightmares where they wake up screaming, “I don’t have time to deal with you this morning! Eat your frozen pancake or we’re going to be late!”
A great example: We chose our church based on its proximity to our house. It is only 2.81 miles from our driveway to the church parking lot -- and we are still the last ones to arrive at Sunday School (well, if we arrive at all).
In high school I once flunked my Economics class because it was first period and I was late nearly 50 percent of the time. I know, I know, what a shocker that I did not do well in a class involving math and money management. But, seriously, if I had actually been on time to school and had attended the class like I was supposed to I’m sure that I -- oh, screw it. I would have failed either way.
Anyway, there are times when I have striven to overcome this stigma and actually attempted to arrive somewhere on time. Yesterday morning was one of those times.
It was Mom’s Tea day at L’s preschool. She had been talking about it for weeks and was so excited that I was going to be coming to her class. She said there was a special song she was going to sing for me and a special gift that she’d made -- but I wasn’t supposed to ask her about any of it because it was all a big surprise. I was filled with the special Mother-Daughter glow that only comes with being the mother of a daughter.
For the record, there is a Mother-Son glow, too, but it is much dimmer. And it smells like pee.
I didn’t have to be there until 11:00 am, which, to some people, is already pretty late in the day. To me, however, anything before noon is “the morning,” and I hate “the morning.” But, I got the kids up, dropped them off at carpool and returned home with an entire hour-and-a-half to get ready for the party. L and Z’s preschool is at our church which, I believe I have mentioned, is only 2.81 miles away. Factoring in traffic lights and the occasional bike rider -- I don’t give a crap what your bumper sticker says, I don’t like to share so get your flippin’ bike-riding butt off my road -- then I knew I could get from my driveway to the church in about eight minutes.
I ate a quick breakfast, checked my email, Facebooked a bit and then headed upstairs to get ready. I didn’t dawdle in the shower -- I only washed and shaved what was necessary and appropriate for a preschool function. I applied my makeup and fancied-up my hair in record time. I even had time to touch-up the polish on my toes.
That minor act, however, would prove to be my downfall.
My sister-in-law called just as I was about to head downstairs and walk out the door. No biggie, I can talk and walk at the same time. While chatting, I ran the brush through my hair one more time, fastened my silver hoop earrings to my ears, gave myself the critical once-over in the full-length mirror and trotted off downstairs. I purposefully did not put my shoes on because I had just polished my toes and I knew that my cute BCBG black flip-flops with the black jeweled flowers where in the van on the floor in front of Z’s seat. They had been for nearly two weeks since I just kept failing to get them out and bring them back into the house. There are a lot of things that just “hang out” in the van for weeks at a time. Minivans are like that.
So, I continue to chat with my SIL while driving to the church and I pulled into the parking lot at 10:54. For those not good at math -- or perhaps those that flunked classes involving math -- that left me with six whole minutes to spare. I knew I could walk in calmly, take my time on the stairs and mingle in the hall outside the classroom with the other moms while we waited for the door to open and see the beautiful, smiling faces of our preschoolers so excited by our presence in their school.
The feeling of pride at my early arrival was just starting to waft over me when it was replaced by a sudden and horrible sense of dread. I slowly twisted my body around to look behind my seat -- and was greeted by an empty floorboard completely devoid of any type of footwear.
Just the afternoon before, I had cleaned out the car and had finally taken the BCBG flip-flops back inside and put them in my closet.
With a panicked, “OhmygodIhavetogo” salutation to my SIL, I snapped my cell phone closed and quickly raced through all my options. Can I get home and back in time? I am a pretty fast driver. Do I go in barefoot? That seems unsanitary. Isn’t there another pair of shoes in the way back of the van? Yes, but they are winter pumps and will not go with this blue sundress at all.
My final decision was to throw the car back in gear and peel out of the parking lot at a speed not recommended in the preschool handbook. I was thinking, “Be calm, but drive fast.” I knew I had six minutes to make the round trip. But even if God granted my fervently uttered Sam-Beckett-Quantum-Leap prayer to bend time, I still couldn’t make it to my house and back in that amount of time.
Still, I had to try. The thought of L standing there all by herself while all the other on-time moms embraced their children and sat down to their chicken salad puff pastry and fruit kabobs made my desire to run the hell over the bike rider who was in my way all the more intense. I swung into my driveway, slammed the car in park, raced into the house and up the stairs, grabbed the BCBG flip flops and was back in the driver’s seat in less than sixty seconds.
Now, my perfectly made-up face was flushed and my flawlessly arranged hair was sticking to my lip gloss, I was out of breath and no longer feeling the Mother-Daughter glow.
Each minute raced by on the digital dashboard clock and I arrived back in the parking lot at 11:03. Ordinarily being a few minutes (or even a half-hour) late would not have been that big of a deal. Well, to me anyway. But, I knew that I was dealing with an overly-emotional five-year-old who would not take too kindly to my tardiness. I jumped out of the van, grabbed the trouble-causing shoes and ran barefoot across the parking lot. I paused inside just long enough to slip on the flip flops and hurried down the stairs and toward L’s classroom. As I approached the room, I could see my precious baby girl, hunched over on the floor just inside the doorway, sobbing, while her teacher tried to console her.
People, I am not a sentimental person. I don’t do guilt and have the fabulously convenient gift of being able to talk myself out of feeling blame or remorse. But, the image of my daughter so heart-broken by the thought that her mother was not going to attend her special day really, really got to me. Even my powers of deflection could not overcome my feeling of total poo at that moment.
Her teacher looked up just as I rushed into the room and I heard her say, “See? I told you Mommy wouldn’t miss it!” Of course, we had the entire room’s attention at that point. I threw my arms around L and said, “You are not going to believe what your silly Mommy did. I came all the way over here and didn’t have any shoes! So, I had to race back to the house and get some. I probably should have just come in here barefoot!”
I earned the laughs of the other moms and L eventually dried her tears enough to help me decorate my foam teapot picture frame. One of the moms told me that L had only been crying for just a few seconds before I arrived. So, that made me feel a little bit better. We ended up having a lovely morning. I enjoyed hearing “I Love You a Bushel and a Peck,” picking out the portrait L drew of me (I knew it was me because of the blue eyes and eye lashes) and reading what she wrote about me in her All About Mom book. Apparently, she thinks I am 60-years-old, weigh 42 pounds and my favorite food is white Jenny Craig bars and skinny food. (Well, how else do you think I maintain my 42 pounds?)
My favorite line was “I am glad that I have my mom because...I really like her.”
And I suppose if this is the worst I do to L throughout her childhood, she should consider herself lucky.
At least she didn’t have parents who came to pick her up at middle school driving a mud-encrusted Blazer pulling a fishing boat while she shrank back in abject teenager horror and embarrassment at being seen in such a vehicle.
Yes, Dad, I still remember that...
Allow me to share my shame...
A bit of background for those not in the know: I am notoriously late everywhere I go. It doesn’t help that I married someone who also suffers from the same affliction. Even when we have the best intentions, we always seem to be running behind. Well into adulthood, our kids will probably still have nightmares where they wake up screaming, “I don’t have time to deal with you this morning! Eat your frozen pancake or we’re going to be late!”
A great example: We chose our church based on its proximity to our house. It is only 2.81 miles from our driveway to the church parking lot -- and we are still the last ones to arrive at Sunday School (well, if we arrive at all).
In high school I once flunked my Economics class because it was first period and I was late nearly 50 percent of the time. I know, I know, what a shocker that I did not do well in a class involving math and money management. But, seriously, if I had actually been on time to school and had attended the class like I was supposed to I’m sure that I -- oh, screw it. I would have failed either way.
Anyway, there are times when I have striven to overcome this stigma and actually attempted to arrive somewhere on time. Yesterday morning was one of those times.
It was Mom’s Tea day at L’s preschool. She had been talking about it for weeks and was so excited that I was going to be coming to her class. She said there was a special song she was going to sing for me and a special gift that she’d made -- but I wasn’t supposed to ask her about any of it because it was all a big surprise. I was filled with the special Mother-Daughter glow that only comes with being the mother of a daughter.
For the record, there is a Mother-Son glow, too, but it is much dimmer. And it smells like pee.
I didn’t have to be there until 11:00 am, which, to some people, is already pretty late in the day. To me, however, anything before noon is “the morning,” and I hate “the morning.” But, I got the kids up, dropped them off at carpool and returned home with an entire hour-and-a-half to get ready for the party. L and Z’s preschool is at our church which, I believe I have mentioned, is only 2.81 miles away. Factoring in traffic lights and the occasional bike rider -- I don’t give a crap what your bumper sticker says, I don’t like to share so get your flippin’ bike-riding butt off my road -- then I knew I could get from my driveway to the church in about eight minutes.
I ate a quick breakfast, checked my email, Facebooked a bit and then headed upstairs to get ready. I didn’t dawdle in the shower -- I only washed and shaved what was necessary and appropriate for a preschool function. I applied my makeup and fancied-up my hair in record time. I even had time to touch-up the polish on my toes.
That minor act, however, would prove to be my downfall.
My sister-in-law called just as I was about to head downstairs and walk out the door. No biggie, I can talk and walk at the same time. While chatting, I ran the brush through my hair one more time, fastened my silver hoop earrings to my ears, gave myself the critical once-over in the full-length mirror and trotted off downstairs. I purposefully did not put my shoes on because I had just polished my toes and I knew that my cute BCBG black flip-flops with the black jeweled flowers where in the van on the floor in front of Z’s seat. They had been for nearly two weeks since I just kept failing to get them out and bring them back into the house. There are a lot of things that just “hang out” in the van for weeks at a time. Minivans are like that.
So, I continue to chat with my SIL while driving to the church and I pulled into the parking lot at 10:54. For those not good at math -- or perhaps those that flunked classes involving math -- that left me with six whole minutes to spare. I knew I could walk in calmly, take my time on the stairs and mingle in the hall outside the classroom with the other moms while we waited for the door to open and see the beautiful, smiling faces of our preschoolers so excited by our presence in their school.
The feeling of pride at my early arrival was just starting to waft over me when it was replaced by a sudden and horrible sense of dread. I slowly twisted my body around to look behind my seat -- and was greeted by an empty floorboard completely devoid of any type of footwear.
Just the afternoon before, I had cleaned out the car and had finally taken the BCBG flip-flops back inside and put them in my closet.
With a panicked, “OhmygodIhavetogo” salutation to my SIL, I snapped my cell phone closed and quickly raced through all my options. Can I get home and back in time? I am a pretty fast driver. Do I go in barefoot? That seems unsanitary. Isn’t there another pair of shoes in the way back of the van? Yes, but they are winter pumps and will not go with this blue sundress at all.
My final decision was to throw the car back in gear and peel out of the parking lot at a speed not recommended in the preschool handbook. I was thinking, “Be calm, but drive fast.” I knew I had six minutes to make the round trip. But even if God granted my fervently uttered Sam-Beckett-Quantum-Leap prayer to bend time, I still couldn’t make it to my house and back in that amount of time.
Still, I had to try. The thought of L standing there all by herself while all the other on-time moms embraced their children and sat down to their chicken salad puff pastry and fruit kabobs made my desire to run the hell over the bike rider who was in my way all the more intense. I swung into my driveway, slammed the car in park, raced into the house and up the stairs, grabbed the BCBG flip flops and was back in the driver’s seat in less than sixty seconds.
Now, my perfectly made-up face was flushed and my flawlessly arranged hair was sticking to my lip gloss, I was out of breath and no longer feeling the Mother-Daughter glow.
Each minute raced by on the digital dashboard clock and I arrived back in the parking lot at 11:03. Ordinarily being a few minutes (or even a half-hour) late would not have been that big of a deal. Well, to me anyway. But, I knew that I was dealing with an overly-emotional five-year-old who would not take too kindly to my tardiness. I jumped out of the van, grabbed the trouble-causing shoes and ran barefoot across the parking lot. I paused inside just long enough to slip on the flip flops and hurried down the stairs and toward L’s classroom. As I approached the room, I could see my precious baby girl, hunched over on the floor just inside the doorway, sobbing, while her teacher tried to console her.
People, I am not a sentimental person. I don’t do guilt and have the fabulously convenient gift of being able to talk myself out of feeling blame or remorse. But, the image of my daughter so heart-broken by the thought that her mother was not going to attend her special day really, really got to me. Even my powers of deflection could not overcome my feeling of total poo at that moment.
Her teacher looked up just as I rushed into the room and I heard her say, “See? I told you Mommy wouldn’t miss it!” Of course, we had the entire room’s attention at that point. I threw my arms around L and said, “You are not going to believe what your silly Mommy did. I came all the way over here and didn’t have any shoes! So, I had to race back to the house and get some. I probably should have just come in here barefoot!”
I earned the laughs of the other moms and L eventually dried her tears enough to help me decorate my foam teapot picture frame. One of the moms told me that L had only been crying for just a few seconds before I arrived. So, that made me feel a little bit better. We ended up having a lovely morning. I enjoyed hearing “I Love You a Bushel and a Peck,” picking out the portrait L drew of me (I knew it was me because of the blue eyes and eye lashes) and reading what she wrote about me in her All About Mom book. Apparently, she thinks I am 60-years-old, weigh 42 pounds and my favorite food is white Jenny Craig bars and skinny food. (Well, how else do you think I maintain my 42 pounds?)
My favorite line was “I am glad that I have my mom because...I really like her.”
And I suppose if this is the worst I do to L throughout her childhood, she should consider herself lucky.
At least she didn’t have parents who came to pick her up at middle school driving a mud-encrusted Blazer pulling a fishing boat while she shrank back in abject teenager horror and embarrassment at being seen in such a vehicle.
Yes, Dad, I still remember that...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
