Tuesdays and Fridays are always insane for me. They are the busiest days of the week and seemingly the longest. I don't have time to sit down the whole day, as indicated by my 7:30 PM post time.
Let's see. This AM, had E out the door by 7:30 for carpool. We've added another family to our carpool, and our new passenger is a Tween from next door. E got into the car today, saw Tween and blushed. According to my friend, the driver, he continued to babble inane nonsense all the way to school.
Aww, he was flustered and awkward in front of a girl. As opposed to awkward and indifferent in front of the rest of us. Then, I took Clooney to the groomer, got a car wash, took S to school, came back (brushed my teeth!) and walked 2 miles with driver-friend. THEN, I came home, organized the next month of carpool schedules, picked up, washed breakfast dishes, took a shower, did some laundry, went to the bank, picked up S, grabbed a Subway, went to the pet store, picked up Clooney*, and sat in carpool line. Then, we picked up E, dropped off carpool passenger (unfortunately, Tween does not ride with us in the afternoon. How disappointing for me.), changed E's clothes, took him to music class, came home, scrubbed hardwoods and tile, picked up E, took boys to Steak n Shake for dinner** (Daddy teaches a grad class on TU, so the boys and I "dine" out), came home, took out recycling, brought in trash can, bathed kids, put them to bed, checked email***, and am now here.
So, that was my Tuesday in a nutshell. There are certainly moms who did more today--worked, cooked dinner, baked their children cookies 'just because,' but I feel I did my share. Here are some footnotes:
*Poor Clooney, they put a stupid bow in his hair. Usually it doesn't matter, because I bring him straight home, but today he had to go to the pet store and the carpool line with us. Which means EVERYONE mocked his bow. It's going to affect his self esteem. The groomer says we need to keep the hair out of his eyes. I'm thinking mini bandanna. My dad told Clooney he had bug eyes and an under bite and it would take a lot to win him over. The poor fur ball. Doesn't have a prayer.
**S spent 23 minutes chewing his last bite of burger tonight. This beats E's previous record of 21 minutes on a piece of chicken. It was a stand-off, like at the OK Corral. Tumbleweeds blew by. No milkshake until you swallow, kid. I lowered my 10 gallon hat. He lowered his, and refused to chew. It wasn't pretty, but he caved. And didn't get to come home and play because it was too late. So sad. Too bad. Maybe next time, lad.
***News flashes indicate that one of the local petri-dish play places closed due to failure to pay taxes. I think this is sound policy. ALL of their taxes should go directly to NIH and the CDC to work on a cure for the Hanta virus and everything else that they cultivate on their play equipment. Gross. Maybe now our kids can play in the great outdoors. And get West Nile Virus from the mosquitoes as God intended.
It's 7:48. I'm making tomorrow's coffee and going to bed. Nitey nite.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Monday, September 22, 2008
When Smart Kids Do Dumb Things
We are house training Clooney. He's done pretty well, although he has accidents occasionally. Mostly because we take him outside to potty and he's an instant hyper puppy: "Flowers, flowers flowers, ooooh a bee, bee bee bee bee. Smells good smells good smells good...smells bad. Hey, cat! Cat cat cat cat...Ow. Cat whacked me. Gotta pee gotta pee gotta pee. Ahh, pee. Gotta poop gotta poop. Oh, cool--cat."
And thus, he forgets to poop until he's totally bored in the house. The two failures we've had, though, he managed to poop on tile floor in a bathroom. Which, considering the intellect of a dog, is pretty good. Also, regarding clean up, pretty convenient. So long as we have a dog crapping in the house, we might as well make it convenient.
S stumbled onto the first accident and came running. He even punished the dog by locking him in the crate. Perfect. M cleaned up poop and all was done.
The second accident went from failed poop to poop felony. E, who, shall we say, is a space cadet at best, absentminded nomad at worst, wandered into the bathroom. He apparently peed, and while doing so, stepped in Clooney's accident. This could have been the worst of it. But, no. First, he had to wipe his foot ON THE RUG in the bathroom. Then, instead of staying there and calling for me or M as he does when any other mini catastrophe strikes him, he decides to seek us out. With poop on his foot. Through the kitchen, office, dining room...oh, hey. There you guys are. With poop on his foot. So M goes into the bathroom to find poop paste and a foot wipe on the rug. Did I mention the POOP ON HIS FOOT?
I cleaned feet and floors along the search trail. M cleared up poop prints and put the rug in the washing machine.
There was a LOT of yelling. I mean A LOT.
S said it was both "stupid and embarrassing." Which I find hilarious. He also said E's name was "Mud." Also true.
What the hell? When did E's attention span leave Earth's gravitational pull? It used to be in the stratosphere, but now it's gone. Poof. Fly him to the moon...
He DIDN'T notice a GIANT dog turd on the floor of a room that is 3 feet by 3 feet. Would he have noticed a cow pie? How could a child who can be so engaging and so clever with language (he asked us how to use the phone--with a croc-o-dial... Cute, no?) But did I mention he had POOP ON HIS FOOT? Oh my God. It was out of the playbook of Stupid Guy #2 in the worst American Pie movie you ever saw. There are invertebrates who would have managed to slither away from the poop. Hell, the dumb dog who pooped in the house in the first place wouldn't step in his own poop.
I am at my end with Space Traveler E. He walks into walls, he forgets things he has IN HIS HANDS. He has been known to bite his own finger while eating and watching the TV at the same time (on the rare occasions that we permit this. We don't want him to choke.) He's a wreck, and I have no ideas on how to ask him to rejoin planet Us.
But sometimes, I think he gets it. His babysitter Saturday told him he seemed pretty smart. "No, " he replied, "I stepped in dog poop." Right on, Rover.
But when he does rejoin the stratosphere, I'd rather he not have dog poop on his foot.
And thus, he forgets to poop until he's totally bored in the house. The two failures we've had, though, he managed to poop on tile floor in a bathroom. Which, considering the intellect of a dog, is pretty good. Also, regarding clean up, pretty convenient. So long as we have a dog crapping in the house, we might as well make it convenient.
S stumbled onto the first accident and came running. He even punished the dog by locking him in the crate. Perfect. M cleaned up poop and all was done.
The second accident went from failed poop to poop felony. E, who, shall we say, is a space cadet at best, absentminded nomad at worst, wandered into the bathroom. He apparently peed, and while doing so, stepped in Clooney's accident. This could have been the worst of it. But, no. First, he had to wipe his foot ON THE RUG in the bathroom. Then, instead of staying there and calling for me or M as he does when any other mini catastrophe strikes him, he decides to seek us out. With poop on his foot. Through the kitchen, office, dining room...oh, hey. There you guys are. With poop on his foot. So M goes into the bathroom to find poop paste and a foot wipe on the rug. Did I mention the POOP ON HIS FOOT?
I cleaned feet and floors along the search trail. M cleared up poop prints and put the rug in the washing machine.
There was a LOT of yelling. I mean A LOT.
S said it was both "stupid and embarrassing." Which I find hilarious. He also said E's name was "Mud." Also true.
What the hell? When did E's attention span leave Earth's gravitational pull? It used to be in the stratosphere, but now it's gone. Poof. Fly him to the moon...
He DIDN'T notice a GIANT dog turd on the floor of a room that is 3 feet by 3 feet. Would he have noticed a cow pie? How could a child who can be so engaging and so clever with language (he asked us how to use the phone--with a croc-o-dial... Cute, no?) But did I mention he had POOP ON HIS FOOT? Oh my God. It was out of the playbook of Stupid Guy #2 in the worst American Pie movie you ever saw. There are invertebrates who would have managed to slither away from the poop. Hell, the dumb dog who pooped in the house in the first place wouldn't step in his own poop.
I am at my end with Space Traveler E. He walks into walls, he forgets things he has IN HIS HANDS. He has been known to bite his own finger while eating and watching the TV at the same time (on the rare occasions that we permit this. We don't want him to choke.) He's a wreck, and I have no ideas on how to ask him to rejoin planet Us.
But sometimes, I think he gets it. His babysitter Saturday told him he seemed pretty smart. "No, " he replied, "I stepped in dog poop." Right on, Rover.
But when he does rejoin the stratosphere, I'd rather he not have dog poop on his foot.
Friday, September 19, 2008
The Weakened
Yes. The weakened is nearly here. By Saturday, I am worn down. Anything goes. Bath? Or not. Vegetable? Or not. 23 1/2 hours of TV. Well, 5. On Saturday, I am your woman. I have nothing left in me to shepherd, organize, argue with, or in any other way manage my children.
On Saturday, they are feral.
Saturday is every man for himself. College football? Ok. Laundry? Meh. Dishes? What dishes? I am worn down. Defeated. Exhausted.
Thankfully, my Saturday is free. Of birthdays at the indoor playplace petri dishes, free of classes, errands, butt numbing carpool lines. Free! I declare Saturday to be MINE all MINE. I will not share it. I will not.
I will lounge in my pajamas until I am good and ready to get out of them. I will sip coffee over a crossword puzzle until it is solved. I will bribe, pander, and sell out for quiet. I will be restored. My shower will be long and hot, not frantic and whatever temperature happens to be running when I flip it on. Breakfast will be leisurely. We will not rush. We will not herd the children into the car. We will not.
I will watch Northwestern football, and envy the student crowd its fall rituals. I will envy their youth, their carefree college days, their walk in the crunchy fallen leaves of autumn. I will snuggle Clooney, and play Candyland with S and read with E and savor a lazy day in the present. I will use the pronoun I all day. I want to eat this. I want to watch this. I do not want to go there. I might employ the services of a babysitter. I will be an adult with children instead of a chauffeur, maid, chef, movie turner-onner, and personal slave.
I will have a weekend. Dammit.
On Saturday, they are feral.
Saturday is every man for himself. College football? Ok. Laundry? Meh. Dishes? What dishes? I am worn down. Defeated. Exhausted.
Thankfully, my Saturday is free. Of birthdays at the indoor playplace petri dishes, free of classes, errands, butt numbing carpool lines. Free! I declare Saturday to be MINE all MINE. I will not share it. I will not.
I will lounge in my pajamas until I am good and ready to get out of them. I will sip coffee over a crossword puzzle until it is solved. I will bribe, pander, and sell out for quiet. I will be restored. My shower will be long and hot, not frantic and whatever temperature happens to be running when I flip it on. Breakfast will be leisurely. We will not rush. We will not herd the children into the car. We will not.
I will watch Northwestern football, and envy the student crowd its fall rituals. I will envy their youth, their carefree college days, their walk in the crunchy fallen leaves of autumn. I will snuggle Clooney, and play Candyland with S and read with E and savor a lazy day in the present. I will use the pronoun I all day. I want to eat this. I want to watch this. I do not want to go there. I might employ the services of a babysitter. I will be an adult with children instead of a chauffeur, maid, chef, movie turner-onner, and personal slave.
I will have a weekend. Dammit.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Lest Me Be Judged
OK. I admit it. I am a teensy weensy bit judgemental. But, before I expand on this, it is important for you to know that I am ALWAYS equally hard on myself as I am on anyone else.
First, clothing. I am no clothes horse. My favorite outfit is Levis and a men's Hanes tee. With flops. When I actually wear clothes out, I try very hard to dress to accommodate my figure (um, such as there is one.) Things that accent legs, not waists. Things that are not busy or foofey. I have a couple of regular outfits I trot out for most every occasion. That being said, I am a constant verbal critic of people's outfits. Too short, too young for her age, too slutty, too skimpy, too frumpy, too red, too low cut, too, too too. My sister and I flayed a guy at an outlet store in California once because he had a sweat spot in the middle of his back. Really. (Also some REALLY gross mole hair on his face.) I can sit back in a bar/restaurant/grocery store and commentate like Musberger on crack. I once saw a girl wearing a tee shirt that said, "because I have the pussy, that's why"--these garb disasters cry out for analysis. And I just like to offer my skills. While we're on the subject, purchase clothes that fit. Denial is not flattering.
Second, manners. I am psychotic about thank you notes. And proper punctuation (even in email). And the appropriate use of capital letters. And spell check. I sent a (in my opinion) generous wedding gift to a family friend. I got a mass-printed photo card in return. No added note, no enclosure. That's not nice. I don't like emails sent to me in all lower case. Go ahead, hit shift--I'm worth it. I really don't like emails sent to me in all upper case. Quit your screaming. I don't like cell phones in restaurants or check out lines. Driving with your signal on for blocks makes me nuts. Not signaling doesn't do much for me either. And if you didn't signal when you turned because you were on your cell phone, you should have some hideous punishment inflicted upon you.
Third, general protocol. I think you should go ahead and shave your legs/armpits. It's hot down here in the South--you don't need to make a statement. Also, if you're a man, go ahead and wear a shirt with sleeves. Even if it doesn't have something vulgar and a Confederate flag. Also, regarding bumper stickers and advertising your ignorance: DON'T. "I may be a bitch, but I'm the pick of the litter" is not a metaphor you really want to play out to its unfortunate end. Be nice to service people. They roll their eyes at you when you leave. Also, stick to what you know. Nobody likes a poser. Do not make your child's name a novelty. Your child must live with this name for the rest of his/her life--I'm talking to you Sarah Palin, mother of Track and Trig. Also, to those brothers in my high school: Brock Cole Lee. And, and and.....
Also, the word is ITS, let's use it correctly, folks.
Finally, M asked me this morning if it is nice being perfect. It is not. It is a heavy, heavy mantle of responsibility that I bear reluctantly, but proudly.
First, clothing. I am no clothes horse. My favorite outfit is Levis and a men's Hanes tee. With flops. When I actually wear clothes out, I try very hard to dress to accommodate my figure (um, such as there is one.) Things that accent legs, not waists. Things that are not busy or foofey. I have a couple of regular outfits I trot out for most every occasion. That being said, I am a constant verbal critic of people's outfits. Too short, too young for her age, too slutty, too skimpy, too frumpy, too red, too low cut, too, too too. My sister and I flayed a guy at an outlet store in California once because he had a sweat spot in the middle of his back. Really. (Also some REALLY gross mole hair on his face.) I can sit back in a bar/restaurant/grocery store and commentate like Musberger on crack. I once saw a girl wearing a tee shirt that said, "because I have the pussy, that's why"--these garb disasters cry out for analysis. And I just like to offer my skills. While we're on the subject, purchase clothes that fit. Denial is not flattering.
Second, manners. I am psychotic about thank you notes. And proper punctuation (even in email). And the appropriate use of capital letters. And spell check. I sent a (in my opinion) generous wedding gift to a family friend. I got a mass-printed photo card in return. No added note, no enclosure. That's not nice. I don't like emails sent to me in all lower case. Go ahead, hit shift--I'm worth it. I really don't like emails sent to me in all upper case. Quit your screaming. I don't like cell phones in restaurants or check out lines. Driving with your signal on for blocks makes me nuts. Not signaling doesn't do much for me either. And if you didn't signal when you turned because you were on your cell phone, you should have some hideous punishment inflicted upon you.
Third, general protocol. I think you should go ahead and shave your legs/armpits. It's hot down here in the South--you don't need to make a statement. Also, if you're a man, go ahead and wear a shirt with sleeves. Even if it doesn't have something vulgar and a Confederate flag. Also, regarding bumper stickers and advertising your ignorance: DON'T. "I may be a bitch, but I'm the pick of the litter" is not a metaphor you really want to play out to its unfortunate end. Be nice to service people. They roll their eyes at you when you leave. Also, stick to what you know. Nobody likes a poser. Do not make your child's name a novelty. Your child must live with this name for the rest of his/her life--I'm talking to you Sarah Palin, mother of Track and Trig. Also, to those brothers in my high school: Brock Cole Lee. And, and and.....
Also, the word is ITS, let's use it correctly, folks.
Finally, M asked me this morning if it is nice being perfect. It is not. It is a heavy, heavy mantle of responsibility that I bear reluctantly, but proudly.
20,000 Questions
Are those rain clouds? Is that red light for us? Is this song sad? Is today Wednesday? Can we listen to music? Can you change the music? Can I have a drink? Is today school? Is it cold out or hot? Is Pokemon scary? Can I watch it? Can I watch TV?
It's like 8 AM and I've already answered a million questions. I feel like a Jeopardy contestant. "I'd like inane shit a 3 year old asks for a hundred, Alex."
It's like the Army, only of questions "We answer more by 9 AM than most people do all day."
As I write this...
Is that a picture of me? Was I sad? Was I happy? Why is it black and white? Was I at school for that picture? Can I feed Clooney? Is it TV time?
Oh, help me God. How can life be a constant stream of questions? Wait, that was a question. It was a rhetorical device! Give me a break!
Now? Are you done yet? Is Backyardigans on?
I can't take it. It's more than I can bear. Nobody, and I mean NOBODY has this many questions.
I know. Somewhere, my mother is taking me exactly literally, and saying, that is how children learn. I KNOW. But do they have to learn from me?
I mean, apparently, my children are obedient little dream children at their schools. They don't prattle on there with a million questions all day long. Aren't they learning there?
Was that supposed to happen? Are you ready? Can I have more chocolate milk? Is the sky blue or rainy? Is Clooney allowed to chew this? Is E at school? Can I wear my pajamas?
I'm not going to make it. The room is growing darker and darker. I'm losing consciousness.
"I'll take brain numbing parenthood for a thousand, Alex."
Ready for TV? Do you like it when I blow on you? Do you like it when I hit you with this blankie?
I DO NOT KNOW.
Help, I'm in Double Jeopardy.
It's like 8 AM and I've already answered a million questions. I feel like a Jeopardy contestant. "I'd like inane shit a 3 year old asks for a hundred, Alex."
It's like the Army, only of questions "We answer more by 9 AM than most people do all day."
As I write this...
Is that a picture of me? Was I sad? Was I happy? Why is it black and white? Was I at school for that picture? Can I feed Clooney? Is it TV time?
Oh, help me God. How can life be a constant stream of questions? Wait, that was a question. It was a rhetorical device! Give me a break!
Now? Are you done yet? Is Backyardigans on?
I can't take it. It's more than I can bear. Nobody, and I mean NOBODY has this many questions.
I know. Somewhere, my mother is taking me exactly literally, and saying, that is how children learn. I KNOW. But do they have to learn from me?
I mean, apparently, my children are obedient little dream children at their schools. They don't prattle on there with a million questions all day long. Aren't they learning there?
Was that supposed to happen? Are you ready? Can I have more chocolate milk? Is the sky blue or rainy? Is Clooney allowed to chew this? Is E at school? Can I wear my pajamas?
I'm not going to make it. The room is growing darker and darker. I'm losing consciousness.
"I'll take brain numbing parenthood for a thousand, Alex."
Ready for TV? Do you like it when I blow on you? Do you like it when I hit you with this blankie?
I DO NOT KNOW.
Help, I'm in Double Jeopardy.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Fifty
Here's celebrating fifty posts! Wow.
Currently, I am dressed in my running clothes, procrastinating again. The treadmill beckons, and I cannot answer just yet. Significantly, I notice that my weight and my movtivation level are inversely related. Suffice to say, one is on the rise.
Clooney is going to town on a sippy that was abandoned on the floor.
And, in some test of my humanity, there was a frog stranded in the pool this morning. I hate amphibians. They are gross. My sister has reptile issues, but scales are okay with me, more or less. Amphibians send me over the edge.
This has roots most recently when we lived in Columbia, and after a rainstorm, I reopened the big patio table umbrella only to have several tree frogs rain down on me. Which must have evoked plague references in my mind, because that was it. Done. Frogs are out. But this morning, this particular frog was very tired looking. And clinging to the robot cleaner. SO I rescued it. He better not come back to gross me out.
The boys are off this morning. Phew. It is silent except for the little tiny licking sounds coming from Clooney. The kids FINALLY got a good night's sleep last night. Their behavior had deteriorated so significantly lately because they choose to play alone in their rooms after we put them to bed.
Which leads me to wonder, how many of the minor behavioral and learning issues of kids today are related to fatigue? I'm not trying to diagnose actual confirmed disorders, or to accuse parents struggling with actual diagnoses of just not putting their kids to bed early enough, but I'm talking minor disruptions in learning and behavior.
My kids are barely human when they don't rest. E last night (SIX years OLD, people) is crying in the restaurant because he would not face the server, look her in the eye and order a drink. We have been eating out three nights a week since the kid was born. He can't order for himself??? So, when his father ordered water for him, there was a meltdown. A snivelly, whiney meltdown. Because he was exhausted. Why do children defy sleep? Yesterday, I spoke with my friends about this. Their kids fight off sleep as though they were fighting for their lives also.
Moms. Dads. Adults, in fact, of all varieties. Begging for sleep. Study after study shows how deprived we are of this essential rest. And kids are fighting it off.
I SLEEP IN CARPOOL LINE! If left alone for 5 minutes, I can sleep anywhere at any time. Are you sleeping now? You should be. This post sucks.
Well. Fifty was celebrated ingloriously. Better luck next time.
I'm off to the hamster wheel.
Currently, I am dressed in my running clothes, procrastinating again. The treadmill beckons, and I cannot answer just yet. Significantly, I notice that my weight and my movtivation level are inversely related. Suffice to say, one is on the rise.
Clooney is going to town on a sippy that was abandoned on the floor.
And, in some test of my humanity, there was a frog stranded in the pool this morning. I hate amphibians. They are gross. My sister has reptile issues, but scales are okay with me, more or less. Amphibians send me over the edge.
This has roots most recently when we lived in Columbia, and after a rainstorm, I reopened the big patio table umbrella only to have several tree frogs rain down on me. Which must have evoked plague references in my mind, because that was it. Done. Frogs are out. But this morning, this particular frog was very tired looking. And clinging to the robot cleaner. SO I rescued it. He better not come back to gross me out.
The boys are off this morning. Phew. It is silent except for the little tiny licking sounds coming from Clooney. The kids FINALLY got a good night's sleep last night. Their behavior had deteriorated so significantly lately because they choose to play alone in their rooms after we put them to bed.
Which leads me to wonder, how many of the minor behavioral and learning issues of kids today are related to fatigue? I'm not trying to diagnose actual confirmed disorders, or to accuse parents struggling with actual diagnoses of just not putting their kids to bed early enough, but I'm talking minor disruptions in learning and behavior.
My kids are barely human when they don't rest. E last night (SIX years OLD, people) is crying in the restaurant because he would not face the server, look her in the eye and order a drink. We have been eating out three nights a week since the kid was born. He can't order for himself??? So, when his father ordered water for him, there was a meltdown. A snivelly, whiney meltdown. Because he was exhausted. Why do children defy sleep? Yesterday, I spoke with my friends about this. Their kids fight off sleep as though they were fighting for their lives also.
Moms. Dads. Adults, in fact, of all varieties. Begging for sleep. Study after study shows how deprived we are of this essential rest. And kids are fighting it off.
I SLEEP IN CARPOOL LINE! If left alone for 5 minutes, I can sleep anywhere at any time. Are you sleeping now? You should be. This post sucks.
Well. Fifty was celebrated ingloriously. Better luck next time.
I'm off to the hamster wheel.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Getting Older
Remember childhood birthday parties? The thrill of the invitation? The excitement of choosing a theme?
I know that when I was invited to a birthday, it was triumphant. I nagged my mother daily for the countdown. What to wear. Who would be there. Where it would be. What present I could pick out.
When my birthday came around, it was at least a week-long celebration. There was the family party, the friends party, the extended family party. There were even occasionally drop-ins from my parents' friends who brought gifts. It was as though I were royalty.
Then, it wasn't. Then it was teen parties, accompanied with boy angst and girl rivalry. Then it was waiting to turn 21. Then, it was denying turning 30. Now, of course, 40 is out there like a planet-ending comet in a disaster movie.
But, for my boys, birthdays are still a sugar-consuming wild man gift free for all. We have one today to attend, and baby, that party is bribery gold. We are NOT going to the party until your room is clean. We are NOT going to that party unless you stop whining. We are NOT going to that party unless it at the benevolence and gracious whim of your mother.
E has a birthday on the horizon. We sent out invitations today. I fiddled with the computer to align all of the text on the preprinted invitation lines. Then, I chucked it. While the outside of the invite will probably be cherished for its high art value (all the Pokemon on one little mini-poster!!!), moms will jot down time and date and inevitably fail to RSVP (as I always do). E, meanwhile, will be at home, studying the loot bags as though they were archaeological treasure. He will be poring over plates, napkins, and all other (expensive) paper goods related to his fest. We had to (at his insistence) bypass the FREE partyware offered by the NOTFREE partyplace in order to have the coolest (by whose definition? Pokemon partyware was discontinued, according to the partyware store...my son is already as unhip as I) theme partyware. I hate that there even is partyware....isn't partyware the same ware that we use to eat with on nonparty occasions? And yet, there is that moment. The moment when we open the box from the online partyware store (you would think that since it was discontinued, Pokemon partyware would be cheap where you could get it. But no.) and my baby, my turning six baby says in a hushed voice. Wow. This is going to be the coolest birthday ever.
I hope so. I hope so, because I am lucky enough to pay for branded partyware and rent out the party place, and personalize loot bags, and just be all about party. There aren't many days when I can still be the coolest mom ever. If this is all it takes, well then, let them eat cake.
I know that when I was invited to a birthday, it was triumphant. I nagged my mother daily for the countdown. What to wear. Who would be there. Where it would be. What present I could pick out.
When my birthday came around, it was at least a week-long celebration. There was the family party, the friends party, the extended family party. There were even occasionally drop-ins from my parents' friends who brought gifts. It was as though I were royalty.
Then, it wasn't. Then it was teen parties, accompanied with boy angst and girl rivalry. Then it was waiting to turn 21. Then, it was denying turning 30. Now, of course, 40 is out there like a planet-ending comet in a disaster movie.
But, for my boys, birthdays are still a sugar-consuming wild man gift free for all. We have one today to attend, and baby, that party is bribery gold. We are NOT going to the party until your room is clean. We are NOT going to that party unless you stop whining. We are NOT going to that party unless it at the benevolence and gracious whim of your mother.
E has a birthday on the horizon. We sent out invitations today. I fiddled with the computer to align all of the text on the preprinted invitation lines. Then, I chucked it. While the outside of the invite will probably be cherished for its high art value (all the Pokemon on one little mini-poster!!!), moms will jot down time and date and inevitably fail to RSVP (as I always do). E, meanwhile, will be at home, studying the loot bags as though they were archaeological treasure. He will be poring over plates, napkins, and all other (expensive) paper goods related to his fest. We had to (at his insistence) bypass the FREE partyware offered by the NOTFREE partyplace in order to have the coolest (by whose definition? Pokemon partyware was discontinued, according to the partyware store...my son is already as unhip as I) theme partyware. I hate that there even is partyware....isn't partyware the same ware that we use to eat with on nonparty occasions? And yet, there is that moment. The moment when we open the box from the online partyware store (you would think that since it was discontinued, Pokemon partyware would be cheap where you could get it. But no.) and my baby, my turning six baby says in a hushed voice. Wow. This is going to be the coolest birthday ever.
I hope so. I hope so, because I am lucky enough to pay for branded partyware and rent out the party place, and personalize loot bags, and just be all about party. There aren't many days when I can still be the coolest mom ever. If this is all it takes, well then, let them eat cake.
Friday, September 12, 2008
Things I'll do Later...
Procrastination never works out well for me. In most respects, I never procrastinate. Always better to just accomplish the task and then nap. A nap will make whatever unsavory task one had to do go away, and then one will feel refreshed and content.
There are a few things, however, I will NEVER EVER do on time because, well, I'm nuts. These are things either M has undertaken to do on his own now, or things that he no longer expects to see in any time frame of promptness.
1. Return phone calls. I absolutely suck at returning phone calls. I have a very small circle of people with whom I like to speak and others, especially strangers, make me wary. I will leave messages languishing on the machine for days, weeks, all summer, in the case of one very nice acquaintance who wanted to get together in June. All I can say is, if you have a phone call in to me, I suggest you send an email, leave a comment on this site, or send me a telegram. Really, anything will prod me into action more than a phone call.
2. Take in dry cleaning. Picking it up is no problem, even though that is the depressing part because I have to pay. The pile grows and grows in the corner of my bedroom until we have to go somewhere and I realize ALL of my potential outfits are in the heap.
3. Washing a load of reds. I try to run pretty large loads in efforts to conserve resources. Not that, by any means, is my house green. But, I always feel guilty throwing 2 of S's shirts in the tub and running the load. On the other hand, I currently have a GIANT basket full of reds that I don't run because they don't matter. Which is, of course, ridiculous, because they do matter or the wouldn't have been worn in the first place. Also, on a cosmic level, does laundry EVER matter? We live in a privileged country, and I am sure there is some woman living on a spot in Africa, Asia, South America, or hell even in the good ol' US of A that God forgot who is desperate to keep her babies from starving or freezing or roasting or whatever, and she doesn't give a crap about laundry. So, on that level, surely, laundry doesn't matter. This includes reds, darks or stain treated.
4. Going to the post office. I grant you that I probably go to the post office more than other people. I send out a lot of mail, although the constant .01 increases are killing me. Even if for no other reason, than I have to keep going to the post office to buy .01 cent stamps. But also, because I hate the post office. Never any place to park, always behind the lady with the screaming kid, somebody in front of me is always desperate to get some sort of pink card attached with her mail that connotes insurance, proof of mailing, proof of receipt, proof of existence, guarantees of prompt delivery, and a million other things. Even the postman behind the counter is like, "listen lady. The stupid pink card only increases its chances of getting there by like 2% and in fact we have a lot of passive aggressive employees who see the pink card and decide to step on the package. Just the pink card ones. You should see what they do to the packages with the triplicate forms attached." So, I wait, and then swallow all rational value of money and spend $4 to send something to my mother. But of course, I've procrastinated so long to send it to her, I might as well not, because she will be in town visiting by the time the package will arrive in California.
5. Putting away the laundry. I will sort it. I will wash it (unless it is red). I will fold it, iron it, put it in the basket. I will not, under even great duress, put it back in the drawers. I HATE putting it away. I often get dressed out of the basket. I often find things at the bottom of the basket and think, "hmph. I forgot I even had this!" I somehow find it less annoying to put the kids' laundry away, but mine and M's? Forget it. Love the basket.
6. Cutting up UPC codes for rebates. This is really stupid of me, because of course, I DON'T GET MY MONEY BACK! But the box is so intimidating. I never have good scissors for it. Should I use a box cutter? I always think about how embarrassing it would be to explain to the ER doctor that my finger is severed because I wanted $3.50 back on the purchase of my printer cartridge. Also, the accompanying paper work. Why do the rebate people NEED all this info? I bought it, they took my money, and now I want it back. But I have a giant box in my guest bedroom from a fan I bought over the 4th of July. Box intact. Receipts safe and sound. Dread fills my stomach when I think of finishing that project. And by project, I mean, cutting out the UPC, of course.
Today, I am facing an unusual procrastination: running. I have been enjoying (relatively speaking) my alone time on the treadmill. But I showered early today, and I don't want to take 2 showers today, so I am reluctant to get all disgusting.
OK. So, yah. Totally nuts.
There are a few things, however, I will NEVER EVER do on time because, well, I'm nuts. These are things either M has undertaken to do on his own now, or things that he no longer expects to see in any time frame of promptness.
1. Return phone calls. I absolutely suck at returning phone calls. I have a very small circle of people with whom I like to speak and others, especially strangers, make me wary. I will leave messages languishing on the machine for days, weeks, all summer, in the case of one very nice acquaintance who wanted to get together in June. All I can say is, if you have a phone call in to me, I suggest you send an email, leave a comment on this site, or send me a telegram. Really, anything will prod me into action more than a phone call.
2. Take in dry cleaning. Picking it up is no problem, even though that is the depressing part because I have to pay. The pile grows and grows in the corner of my bedroom until we have to go somewhere and I realize ALL of my potential outfits are in the heap.
3. Washing a load of reds. I try to run pretty large loads in efforts to conserve resources. Not that, by any means, is my house green. But, I always feel guilty throwing 2 of S's shirts in the tub and running the load. On the other hand, I currently have a GIANT basket full of reds that I don't run because they don't matter. Which is, of course, ridiculous, because they do matter or the wouldn't have been worn in the first place. Also, on a cosmic level, does laundry EVER matter? We live in a privileged country, and I am sure there is some woman living on a spot in Africa, Asia, South America, or hell even in the good ol' US of A that God forgot who is desperate to keep her babies from starving or freezing or roasting or whatever, and she doesn't give a crap about laundry. So, on that level, surely, laundry doesn't matter. This includes reds, darks or stain treated.
4. Going to the post office. I grant you that I probably go to the post office more than other people. I send out a lot of mail, although the constant .01 increases are killing me. Even if for no other reason, than I have to keep going to the post office to buy .01 cent stamps. But also, because I hate the post office. Never any place to park, always behind the lady with the screaming kid, somebody in front of me is always desperate to get some sort of pink card attached with her mail that connotes insurance, proof of mailing, proof of receipt, proof of existence, guarantees of prompt delivery, and a million other things. Even the postman behind the counter is like, "listen lady. The stupid pink card only increases its chances of getting there by like 2% and in fact we have a lot of passive aggressive employees who see the pink card and decide to step on the package. Just the pink card ones. You should see what they do to the packages with the triplicate forms attached." So, I wait, and then swallow all rational value of money and spend $4 to send something to my mother. But of course, I've procrastinated so long to send it to her, I might as well not, because she will be in town visiting by the time the package will arrive in California.
5. Putting away the laundry. I will sort it. I will wash it (unless it is red). I will fold it, iron it, put it in the basket. I will not, under even great duress, put it back in the drawers. I HATE putting it away. I often get dressed out of the basket. I often find things at the bottom of the basket and think, "hmph. I forgot I even had this!" I somehow find it less annoying to put the kids' laundry away, but mine and M's? Forget it. Love the basket.
6. Cutting up UPC codes for rebates. This is really stupid of me, because of course, I DON'T GET MY MONEY BACK! But the box is so intimidating. I never have good scissors for it. Should I use a box cutter? I always think about how embarrassing it would be to explain to the ER doctor that my finger is severed because I wanted $3.50 back on the purchase of my printer cartridge. Also, the accompanying paper work. Why do the rebate people NEED all this info? I bought it, they took my money, and now I want it back. But I have a giant box in my guest bedroom from a fan I bought over the 4th of July. Box intact. Receipts safe and sound. Dread fills my stomach when I think of finishing that project. And by project, I mean, cutting out the UPC, of course.
Today, I am facing an unusual procrastination: running. I have been enjoying (relatively speaking) my alone time on the treadmill. But I showered early today, and I don't want to take 2 showers today, so I am reluctant to get all disgusting.
OK. So, yah. Totally nuts.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Moms' Nights Out
First of all, woohoo! Is there any mom out there who doesn't crave a mom's night out? To talk about anything in multi syllabic words? But I have questions.
Second, why is it called Moms' Night Out? Do guys get together at the bar after work or over a sporting event and call it Dads' Night Out? No. Why do we carry our secondary identity with us everywhere? I move for a change in name. Just Girls' Night. It's our night NOT to be moms--let's not remind ourselves of what we are trying to escape.
Third, why is it such a rare event? Children go to sleep, I honestly believe husbands might not even notice if we were gone, and yet we feel tied to our domestic responsibilities. Somehow, we are obligated to run the dishwasher, feed the pets, fold the last load of laundry, pack the lunches and go to bed at night. WHY? Is it guilt? Anxiety over leaving children with husbands? Fatigue?
Fourth, why doesn't Girls' Night involve greasy wings and pitchers of beer? I am all about cheeseburgers, onion rings and ice cold beer. In jeans and a sweatshirt. With college-age male eye candy around. (It's nice to ogle younger men when you are a mom, since we are INVISIBLE to younger men. They don't even notice we are looking.) Is there no bar in town that would feed me some delicious trans fats while having 34 televisions tuned to Grey's Anatomy or Sex In The City, or a slide show of George Clooney while intravenously administering alcohol? In a recliner? While some one gives me a pedicure? That's it! I'll call it Spar (spa + bar). The perfect place for ladies to spend an evening. Comfy clothes and pony tails required. Investors?
Sadly, though, after last night's adventures, I don't feel like running this morning. I don't feel like grocery shopping, I don't feel like doing anything except eating potato chips and watching old Oprah episodes. (I only like the ones where she's fat. Less guilt that way).
I'm going to get a big crossword puzzle and sit on my butt for a while. Extend my Moms' Night Out to a Moms' Morning In. Woohoo!
Second, why is it called Moms' Night Out? Do guys get together at the bar after work or over a sporting event and call it Dads' Night Out? No. Why do we carry our secondary identity with us everywhere? I move for a change in name. Just Girls' Night. It's our night NOT to be moms--let's not remind ourselves of what we are trying to escape.
Third, why is it such a rare event? Children go to sleep, I honestly believe husbands might not even notice if we were gone, and yet we feel tied to our domestic responsibilities. Somehow, we are obligated to run the dishwasher, feed the pets, fold the last load of laundry, pack the lunches and go to bed at night. WHY? Is it guilt? Anxiety over leaving children with husbands? Fatigue?
Fourth, why doesn't Girls' Night involve greasy wings and pitchers of beer? I am all about cheeseburgers, onion rings and ice cold beer. In jeans and a sweatshirt. With college-age male eye candy around. (It's nice to ogle younger men when you are a mom, since we are INVISIBLE to younger men. They don't even notice we are looking.) Is there no bar in town that would feed me some delicious trans fats while having 34 televisions tuned to Grey's Anatomy or Sex In The City, or a slide show of George Clooney while intravenously administering alcohol? In a recliner? While some one gives me a pedicure? That's it! I'll call it Spar (spa + bar). The perfect place for ladies to spend an evening. Comfy clothes and pony tails required. Investors?
Sadly, though, after last night's adventures, I don't feel like running this morning. I don't feel like grocery shopping, I don't feel like doing anything except eating potato chips and watching old Oprah episodes. (I only like the ones where she's fat. Less guilt that way).
I'm going to get a big crossword puzzle and sit on my butt for a while. Extend my Moms' Night Out to a Moms' Morning In. Woohoo!
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Where do I get an Alias?
I want to change my name. Mommeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee just makes me want to hit the ceiling. I hear it all the time. Constantly. In my sleep...not while dreaming, mind you, just while I'm sleeping.
Mommmeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! I can't find my shoes. I can't find my stuffie/Hot Wheels/backpack/favorite shirt. The kids NEVER actually look for these things, they just claim to and have me come get it. What's worse is that if the articles were ever, just once, put back in the proper place, then they wouldn't be lost at all! Call me Poirot.
Mommmmmmmmmmeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! I can't open this. I can't reach/fix/use/run/get/play with this toy/food/thing I shouldn't have anyway. Half the time, I respond to the Mommy alarm only to find one of my kids trying to get the dog into a tutu, or open a giant glass jar of pickles. Often, S is perched on top of stool + chair + box + pillows to try to reach some toxic cleaner to clean up a mess he made. Call me Bob Vila.
Mommmmmmmmmmeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! He won't play with me. He hit/pushed/shoved/bothered me. Most of the time, if I separate them, they are sad and rush to tell me it's okay. Often, though, I am called out and one has the other in a Full Nelson. The violation is often territorial, (he's in my room) but often, S wants to play and E will have none of it. Call me Nelson Mandela.
Mommmmmmmmmeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! I'm hungry. Never mind that you didn't eat the meal we just finished. Never mind that you won't eat the healthy parts of the snack I am about to give you. How do children survive on processed carbs? I can sometimes get fresh fruit in there, but never protein at snack time. Protein makes you feel full, I say. Protein makes you strong, I say. Protein will keep you from feeling so hungry so soon. Call me Julia Child.
Mommmmmmmmmeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! Read this to me. Play with me. Turn on the TV for me. Get the dog for me. Set up this game for me. Come here. Go away. Do something. Dance. Joke. Entertain me. Call me Bill Cosby.
Mommmmmmmmeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! Get off the computer. I want it. Call me Bill Gates.
Mommmmmmmmeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! The dog pooped. Call me Roto Rooter.
Mommmmmmmmeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! The dog is eating my stuffed panda. Call me Crocodile Hunter.
Mommmmmmmeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! Turn on the TV.
Silence.
Honnnnnnnneeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee? Have you seen my briefcase?
Where's my frickin' coffee?
Mommmeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! I can't find my shoes. I can't find my stuffie/Hot Wheels/backpack/favorite shirt. The kids NEVER actually look for these things, they just claim to and have me come get it. What's worse is that if the articles were ever, just once, put back in the proper place, then they wouldn't be lost at all! Call me Poirot.
Mommmmmmmmmmeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! I can't open this. I can't reach/fix/use/run/get/play with this toy/food/thing I shouldn't have anyway. Half the time, I respond to the Mommy alarm only to find one of my kids trying to get the dog into a tutu, or open a giant glass jar of pickles. Often, S is perched on top of stool + chair + box + pillows to try to reach some toxic cleaner to clean up a mess he made. Call me Bob Vila.
Mommmmmmmmmmeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! He won't play with me. He hit/pushed/shoved/bothered me. Most of the time, if I separate them, they are sad and rush to tell me it's okay. Often, though, I am called out and one has the other in a Full Nelson. The violation is often territorial, (he's in my room) but often, S wants to play and E will have none of it. Call me Nelson Mandela.
Mommmmmmmmmeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! I'm hungry. Never mind that you didn't eat the meal we just finished. Never mind that you won't eat the healthy parts of the snack I am about to give you. How do children survive on processed carbs? I can sometimes get fresh fruit in there, but never protein at snack time. Protein makes you feel full, I say. Protein makes you strong, I say. Protein will keep you from feeling so hungry so soon. Call me Julia Child.
Mommmmmmmmmeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! Read this to me. Play with me. Turn on the TV for me. Get the dog for me. Set up this game for me. Come here. Go away. Do something. Dance. Joke. Entertain me. Call me Bill Cosby.
Mommmmmmmmeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! Get off the computer. I want it. Call me Bill Gates.
Mommmmmmmmeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! The dog pooped. Call me Roto Rooter.
Mommmmmmmmeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! The dog is eating my stuffed panda. Call me Crocodile Hunter.
Mommmmmmmeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! Turn on the TV.
Silence.
Honnnnnnnneeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee? Have you seen my briefcase?
Where's my frickin' coffee?
Monday, September 8, 2008
Fuzzy Broadway
The lights go down. The smattering of spectators applauds and oohs and ahhs. The curtain rises and out runs the cast of the latest off-off-off-off Broadway spectacular, When Elmo Grows Up! I am in the fourth row, S is on my lap. E is between M and me and both children are wide eyed and silent. Big Bird's voice is of a particular pitch and volume that reminds me of fingernails down the chalkboard. E is happily munching his $3 cotton candy that he has been dreaming of since the last Sesame Show we went to. There is dancing, introductions, plot outline.
I am clapping enthusiastically for two reasons. First, I want S and E to really enjoy themselves. E was on the brink of feeling "too cool" for Sesame, and I want to remind him that childhood is a state of mind. Also, I feel bad for these performers, some of whom were shuttled to jazz and ballet from infancy. They majored in this and are now trapped in sweaty, fuzzy fake cactus suits wondering where exactly their lives took this turn. In the same way no one (I suspect) says they want to be a stripper when they grow up, I doubt anyone spent hours of his life daydreaming of becoming Fire Hydrant #2 in the Firefighter number. Although, I don't want to be too cynical. Here they are, entertaining my children for the outrageous price of $24 plus Ticketmaster fees.
My children are transfixed, as are most of those around us. This, at the very least, makes me happy. There is something magical about childhood wonder. Here are their favorite characters brought to them, bigger than life size. That's rare.
Cynicism's back on. The family in front of us is morbidly obese. All four of them. The kids have lost interest in the show after the opening number, and are restless in their seats. They have munched through their $6 cotton candy (large size) and are rummaging through a diaper bag, presumably for more snacks.
S is LOVING the firetruck number. The sirens, the outfits. He's bought in to the whole experience. E is obediently stomping his feet as Big Bird counts.
Intermission.
Here comes the merchandising gauntlet. I run S off to the bathroom to avoid the ridiculously priced sno-cones, cotton candy, plastic licensed crap, and mylar balloons. The vendors are swamped. The children emerging from the scrum seem no more content with their purchases than before they had them. Consumer culture begins early.
S and I return to our seats in time to see the Snuffleupagus-sized family return from concessions. Jumbo Popcorn, Jumbo Cokes, Enormous Pretzel. They are supersized. In about 14 seconds, half the popcorn is on the floor. The children have become unruly. Mom-upagus is trying to control them, but only half-heartedly. She has not stopped eating and uses one hand to shovel popcorn in while trying to wrangle her brat-upaguses with the other. It's revolting.
Elmo welcomes us back with the interstitial Elmo's World, which makes me feel cheated. It feels like a commercial for every one's favorite fuzzy red monster (coincidentally for sale in the lobby) and I want to get back to the plot. For God's sake, what does poor Big Bird want to be when he grows up? All the boy monsters want to be firefighters and police officers and train engineers. And all the girl monsters want to be Spanish teachers and Fairy Godmothers. What is the giant gay canary going to be? What is the gender-stereotyped profession for him?
Actually, the second act wraps up quickly, and without full resolution: Big Bird is assured that he doesn't have to choose what he's going to be until he's grown up and that he should just follow his heart. The trademark Sesame segue for parental discussion. We follow the prompt and engage our boys: E wants to be a paleontologist. S wants to be a truck. Not a truck driver, mind you. A truck. M wants to get the hell out of the parking lot. We boogie out there and pass through the first green light out of the parking lot.
I am left feeling ambivalent (see earlier posts). On the one hand, my kids are exhilarated and excited at having seen the live show with the bright lights, dancing and music. They are momentarily enthralled and young and wide eyed. They have failed to see the gross product merchandising and consumerism of the people around them. They had an hour and a half of magic. On the other hand, I am feeling disappointed. People are becoming increasingly gross to me. Bratty little kids stream out of the Center, arms full of cheap toys that will be broken and forgotten tomorrow. Young faces already distorted by fat glisten with sugar and soda, not as a one-time special treat, but as another opportunity to make demands to have more more more.
Last, I feel a tiny bit nostalgic. So many moms there had two Sesame Street aged kids, and were visibly expecting another. Abby Kadabby, a new monster on Sesame Street was introduced. I realized I haven't even seen an episode with her in it. My children, enamored as they were with the show, no longer watch The Street. We have moved on to Ben 10, Power Rangers; shows with no charm, no ability to evoke that sparkle in my kids' eyes. They are growing up, that is for certain. I hope they keep just a little of that fuzzy Broadway with them.
I am clapping enthusiastically for two reasons. First, I want S and E to really enjoy themselves. E was on the brink of feeling "too cool" for Sesame, and I want to remind him that childhood is a state of mind. Also, I feel bad for these performers, some of whom were shuttled to jazz and ballet from infancy. They majored in this and are now trapped in sweaty, fuzzy fake cactus suits wondering where exactly their lives took this turn. In the same way no one (I suspect) says they want to be a stripper when they grow up, I doubt anyone spent hours of his life daydreaming of becoming Fire Hydrant #2 in the Firefighter number. Although, I don't want to be too cynical. Here they are, entertaining my children for the outrageous price of $24 plus Ticketmaster fees.
My children are transfixed, as are most of those around us. This, at the very least, makes me happy. There is something magical about childhood wonder. Here are their favorite characters brought to them, bigger than life size. That's rare.
Cynicism's back on. The family in front of us is morbidly obese. All four of them. The kids have lost interest in the show after the opening number, and are restless in their seats. They have munched through their $6 cotton candy (large size) and are rummaging through a diaper bag, presumably for more snacks.
S is LOVING the firetruck number. The sirens, the outfits. He's bought in to the whole experience. E is obediently stomping his feet as Big Bird counts.
Intermission.
Here comes the merchandising gauntlet. I run S off to the bathroom to avoid the ridiculously priced sno-cones, cotton candy, plastic licensed crap, and mylar balloons. The vendors are swamped. The children emerging from the scrum seem no more content with their purchases than before they had them. Consumer culture begins early.
S and I return to our seats in time to see the Snuffleupagus-sized family return from concessions. Jumbo Popcorn, Jumbo Cokes, Enormous Pretzel. They are supersized. In about 14 seconds, half the popcorn is on the floor. The children have become unruly. Mom-upagus is trying to control them, but only half-heartedly. She has not stopped eating and uses one hand to shovel popcorn in while trying to wrangle her brat-upaguses with the other. It's revolting.
Elmo welcomes us back with the interstitial Elmo's World, which makes me feel cheated. It feels like a commercial for every one's favorite fuzzy red monster (coincidentally for sale in the lobby) and I want to get back to the plot. For God's sake, what does poor Big Bird want to be when he grows up? All the boy monsters want to be firefighters and police officers and train engineers. And all the girl monsters want to be Spanish teachers and Fairy Godmothers. What is the giant gay canary going to be? What is the gender-stereotyped profession for him?
Actually, the second act wraps up quickly, and without full resolution: Big Bird is assured that he doesn't have to choose what he's going to be until he's grown up and that he should just follow his heart. The trademark Sesame segue for parental discussion. We follow the prompt and engage our boys: E wants to be a paleontologist. S wants to be a truck. Not a truck driver, mind you. A truck. M wants to get the hell out of the parking lot. We boogie out there and pass through the first green light out of the parking lot.
I am left feeling ambivalent (see earlier posts). On the one hand, my kids are exhilarated and excited at having seen the live show with the bright lights, dancing and music. They are momentarily enthralled and young and wide eyed. They have failed to see the gross product merchandising and consumerism of the people around them. They had an hour and a half of magic. On the other hand, I am feeling disappointed. People are becoming increasingly gross to me. Bratty little kids stream out of the Center, arms full of cheap toys that will be broken and forgotten tomorrow. Young faces already distorted by fat glisten with sugar and soda, not as a one-time special treat, but as another opportunity to make demands to have more more more.
Last, I feel a tiny bit nostalgic. So many moms there had two Sesame Street aged kids, and were visibly expecting another. Abby Kadabby, a new monster on Sesame Street was introduced. I realized I haven't even seen an episode with her in it. My children, enamored as they were with the show, no longer watch The Street. We have moved on to Ben 10, Power Rangers; shows with no charm, no ability to evoke that sparkle in my kids' eyes. They are growing up, that is for certain. I hope they keep just a little of that fuzzy Broadway with them.
Sunday, September 7, 2008
Saturday, and Other Lovely Surprises
Who knew? Yesterday was a great day, from start to finish. I didn't even know this was possible on a weekend. Could it be that my children are starting to develop and mature into actual human beings? Could it be that if I keep them on the go all day long, they have no opportunity to whine? (No, I have spent hours in the whinemobile on errands.) Could it be that the moon, Venus and Earth aligned in some sort of once-in-a-millennium coordination of cosmic bliss and harmony? Yup. That has to be it.
First, despite S's pre-6AM wake up call, I was in a relatively serene mood. A carry over from Friday night's martinis? Usually any carry over from martinis does not result in a happy me. For whatever reason, I didn't feel the need to lock him back into his bedroom until 9. We had breakfast, we dressed and we all went to Lowe's, of all places. Lowe's is not usually the Jewish home owner's hangout of choice on a Saturday. But, I was feeling do it myself-y and also needed light bulbs.
At Lowe's we found 2 really funky light fixtures and had to separate the children only once. We paid, we cruised, and we munched sandwiches as Jimmy John's in relative peace. Then, and gentle reader I assure you, you will be mystified by the next two facts, so brace yourself: S took a NAP and M and I installed two light fixtures without cursing, electrocution, or burning down the house. Venus, Saturn AND Earth must be in alignment.
Next, I gave three very nice haircuts, and dressed the kids for a photo session at the neighborhood photo studio. No tears. But, oh....Nightmare, people. First, I take all responsibility for thinking the appointment was at 4 rather than 4:30, the actual time of the appointment. After that, the ensuing fiasco is on the shoulders of the studio. Photos did not get taken until 5:30. Screaming kids. Stewing moms. Everyone looking all pissed and matchy-matchy at the same time. We took our photos and boogied over to the Hibachi restaurant for dinner. We ate sushi and had a pyrotechnic steak and chicken dinner before moseying back to the studio to view our pictures in their digital glory. THEN, we had time to head over for some delicious cookies before picking up the final printouts. We didn't get home until 8 PM. Sports Illustrated cover shoots take less time than this.
Remarkably, the kids were amazing. It could have been hideous, but instead it was kind of a fun walking around afternoon and evening. Who knew?
We're going to follow up that performance with Sunday. Maybe we can get total universal peace. Nah.
First, despite S's pre-6AM wake up call, I was in a relatively serene mood. A carry over from Friday night's martinis? Usually any carry over from martinis does not result in a happy me. For whatever reason, I didn't feel the need to lock him back into his bedroom until 9. We had breakfast, we dressed and we all went to Lowe's, of all places. Lowe's is not usually the Jewish home owner's hangout of choice on a Saturday. But, I was feeling do it myself-y and also needed light bulbs.
At Lowe's we found 2 really funky light fixtures and had to separate the children only once. We paid, we cruised, and we munched sandwiches as Jimmy John's in relative peace. Then, and gentle reader I assure you, you will be mystified by the next two facts, so brace yourself: S took a NAP and M and I installed two light fixtures without cursing, electrocution, or burning down the house. Venus, Saturn AND Earth must be in alignment.
Next, I gave three very nice haircuts, and dressed the kids for a photo session at the neighborhood photo studio. No tears. But, oh....Nightmare, people. First, I take all responsibility for thinking the appointment was at 4 rather than 4:30, the actual time of the appointment. After that, the ensuing fiasco is on the shoulders of the studio. Photos did not get taken until 5:30. Screaming kids. Stewing moms. Everyone looking all pissed and matchy-matchy at the same time. We took our photos and boogied over to the Hibachi restaurant for dinner. We ate sushi and had a pyrotechnic steak and chicken dinner before moseying back to the studio to view our pictures in their digital glory. THEN, we had time to head over for some delicious cookies before picking up the final printouts. We didn't get home until 8 PM. Sports Illustrated cover shoots take less time than this.
Remarkably, the kids were amazing. It could have been hideous, but instead it was kind of a fun walking around afternoon and evening. Who knew?
We're going to follow up that performance with Sunday. Maybe we can get total universal peace. Nah.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
It's Wednesday, David
Oh shit. The twilight zone is worse than I thought. It's only Wednesday. What the hell happened to Wednesday? Did I ask that already? What?
Chumming and Other Spectator Sports
What the hell happened to Thursday? I was home, running, cleaning, showering. Then I was eating lunch. Then, I picked up S at school, and got sucked into the Twilight Zone. I mean it was 1 PM when I walked out the door with him. It is now 4:05. What the hell happened to Thursday? Did I ask that already? Was that a minute ago?
I wish the Internet were my time suck. It seems there are many interesting things I could be learning about...destruction from Gustav, VP candidate in a bikini, destruction from Hanna, VP candidate in the nude, destruction from Ike, VP candidate's pregnant daughter, destruction from Josephine, VP candidate calling play-by-play at her last job (she was a sportscaster before politics.) The world is filled with such endless variety of information. Ms. Palin seems to be chum in the ocean. I'm filming for Shark Week. Watching people skewer her is not nearly as eye popping, though, as watching people defend her so vehemently. I can't look away.
M's cousin's wife has been in labor for 36 hours (don't worry, there's a common thread, here people. Stick with me). Eventually, when the baby gets here, that poor thing is going to hear about how her mom struggled to bring her into the world for the rest of her life. Amusingly, though, M's cousin and his wife are rookie parents. Much like the political chumming of Ms. Palin, I feel like new parents are also lay bare as bait to the newborn infant. Instead of sharks, though, I prefer the zebra/lion analogy. Poor parents-zebras, weary from pregnancy and delivery, tired of grazing the Serengeti of maternity wear, fatigued from heartburn and being kicked in the ribs are just walking steaks to a newborn-lion. The newborn lion, gestating, healthy, full of lung and empty of food are just waiting to pop out and attack. Food, poop, midnight madness, all the ways of the lion to wear down the exhausted zebra until finally, poor parent-zebra winds up as a rug in the foyer....with baby spit up on it.
And we veteran parents, we have seen the weak in the herd fall. And now, we can sit back in wisdom and wry smiles as these eager rookies break into parenthood armed with boob maxi pads and pumps, million-pocketed diaper bags, and all the newfangled gadgets that every parent doesn't need. Experience has made me wiser, yes. But mostly it's made me kind of a bitch. So, sit back, turn on the TV, and savor all the tortures you are not now enduring.
Tally-ho!
I wish the Internet were my time suck. It seems there are many interesting things I could be learning about...destruction from Gustav, VP candidate in a bikini, destruction from Hanna, VP candidate in the nude, destruction from Ike, VP candidate's pregnant daughter, destruction from Josephine, VP candidate calling play-by-play at her last job (she was a sportscaster before politics.) The world is filled with such endless variety of information. Ms. Palin seems to be chum in the ocean. I'm filming for Shark Week. Watching people skewer her is not nearly as eye popping, though, as watching people defend her so vehemently. I can't look away.
M's cousin's wife has been in labor for 36 hours (don't worry, there's a common thread, here people. Stick with me). Eventually, when the baby gets here, that poor thing is going to hear about how her mom struggled to bring her into the world for the rest of her life. Amusingly, though, M's cousin and his wife are rookie parents. Much like the political chumming of Ms. Palin, I feel like new parents are also lay bare as bait to the newborn infant. Instead of sharks, though, I prefer the zebra/lion analogy. Poor parents-zebras, weary from pregnancy and delivery, tired of grazing the Serengeti of maternity wear, fatigued from heartburn and being kicked in the ribs are just walking steaks to a newborn-lion. The newborn lion, gestating, healthy, full of lung and empty of food are just waiting to pop out and attack. Food, poop, midnight madness, all the ways of the lion to wear down the exhausted zebra until finally, poor parent-zebra winds up as a rug in the foyer....with baby spit up on it.
And we veteran parents, we have seen the weak in the herd fall. And now, we can sit back in wisdom and wry smiles as these eager rookies break into parenthood armed with boob maxi pads and pumps, million-pocketed diaper bags, and all the newfangled gadgets that every parent doesn't need. Experience has made me wiser, yes. But mostly it's made me kind of a bitch. So, sit back, turn on the TV, and savor all the tortures you are not now enduring.
Tally-ho!
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Dogs With Bows and Other Weird Stuff
OK. It occurs to me that I had an entire diatribe on SHMs and their hideousness and then posted a photo of my dog with a bow in his hair.
Let me just say that after generations of being short and fuzzy and not taken seriously, Shih-Tzus have a highly developed sense of irony.
Let me just say that after generations of being short and fuzzy and not taken seriously, Shih-Tzus have a highly developed sense of irony.
What shall we do, dahling?
Today, I dropped him off, and he so bravely went, all by himself. Clooney is getting his first grooming. Here is his "after" picture:
Trivial, yes. Beyond your caring, yes. But, it has been a very long weekend, and the preschool has decided rain is far too dangerous a weather phenomenon for S to endure away from the safety of his own home, so tedium reigns.
My friends have decided to go to the Petri dish indoor playplaces. There is something about the tangible humidity outdoors and the artificial cooling indoors that gives me the heebeejeebies about playplaces. Irrational, probably. But I am convinced some one (and it is usually me, not my children) will come home with Ebola from one of those places.
Meanwhile, S is FREAKING OUT because his giant Megablock tower won't stay together. Don't try to explain the basic tenets of engineering to this kid: big blocks on the bottom, little ones on the top. Forget it. If 27 giant blocks will not stack on top of a 1 knobbie little square, then damn the world. He's very stubborn. Although I give major props to him for playing nicely at the coffee shop this morning for an hour.
M worked and I did a puzzle, and S played ever so well with his little Wall-e set. It was civilized. Almost. Except for the SHM's*. Apparently, the club was closed today, dahling and so the coffee shop was over run with the SHMs in uniform. Uniform being issued, I suppose, at the club? They were there in matching Nike shorts and work out tops. Nike microfiber mock turtlenecks Nike sports bras. Nike socks. Nike visors (it's not sunny). Nike hair bands. Nike sunglasses. There are Thai children chained to sewing machines in sweatshops whose sole job is to outfit the SHMs. Then, of course, the SHMs have their cellies. Because, a good workout still leaves enough air in your lungs to maintain a SHOUTING conversation on your cellie. Now, when I work out, I am literally sucking wind. I can hardly get air, forget expelling it in coherent, loud conversation. About where to have lunch because the club is closed.
I only wish I were joking.
I could barely navigate my way out of the parking lot because of all the GIANT suburban assault vehicles in the parking lot. These women have enough space in their vehicles to carry no fewer than 8 passengers, and they can't be bothered to save the fuel or time to carpool more than their 1.8 children to school. That's another whole diatribe right there. So, I gingerly back out of the parking lot, and head home. Some of the SHMs are out exercising with their SHMs in-training. Little blond ponytailed teenagers in matching exercise outfits bedecked with ipods and visors. Good to know the next generation is on track.
I should have had decaf. Makes me less angry.
*Spring Hill Moms
Trivial, yes. Beyond your caring, yes. But, it has been a very long weekend, and the preschool has decided rain is far too dangerous a weather phenomenon for S to endure away from the safety of his own home, so tedium reigns.
My friends have decided to go to the Petri dish indoor playplaces. There is something about the tangible humidity outdoors and the artificial cooling indoors that gives me the heebeejeebies about playplaces. Irrational, probably. But I am convinced some one (and it is usually me, not my children) will come home with Ebola from one of those places.
Meanwhile, S is FREAKING OUT because his giant Megablock tower won't stay together. Don't try to explain the basic tenets of engineering to this kid: big blocks on the bottom, little ones on the top. Forget it. If 27 giant blocks will not stack on top of a 1 knobbie little square, then damn the world. He's very stubborn. Although I give major props to him for playing nicely at the coffee shop this morning for an hour.
M worked and I did a puzzle, and S played ever so well with his little Wall-e set. It was civilized. Almost. Except for the SHM's*. Apparently, the club was closed today, dahling and so the coffee shop was over run with the SHMs in uniform. Uniform being issued, I suppose, at the club? They were there in matching Nike shorts and work out tops. Nike microfiber mock turtlenecks Nike sports bras. Nike socks. Nike visors (it's not sunny). Nike hair bands. Nike sunglasses. There are Thai children chained to sewing machines in sweatshops whose sole job is to outfit the SHMs. Then, of course, the SHMs have their cellies. Because, a good workout still leaves enough air in your lungs to maintain a SHOUTING conversation on your cellie. Now, when I work out, I am literally sucking wind. I can hardly get air, forget expelling it in coherent, loud conversation. About where to have lunch because the club is closed.
I only wish I were joking.
I could barely navigate my way out of the parking lot because of all the GIANT suburban assault vehicles in the parking lot. These women have enough space in their vehicles to carry no fewer than 8 passengers, and they can't be bothered to save the fuel or time to carpool more than their 1.8 children to school. That's another whole diatribe right there. So, I gingerly back out of the parking lot, and head home. Some of the SHMs are out exercising with their SHMs in-training. Little blond ponytailed teenagers in matching exercise outfits bedecked with ipods and visors. Good to know the next generation is on track.
I should have had decaf. Makes me less angry.
*Spring Hill Moms
Monday, September 1, 2008
Important Phone Call
My new best friend just called...E's class room mom said school is definitely ON tomorrow!
Three Day Weekends...When did I stop liking them?
In my naive, pre-child bearing days, I always thought that Labor Day was a holiday named in the great Democratic tradition of protective unions, worker reform, and the common man. I thought it was a day in honor of labor--a day designated to let laborers rest.
As with all my pre-child ideas--including Mother's Day being a day of rest for moms, family vacations being, you know, vacations, and bathrooms being a haven of privacy--this, too has been dispelled.
Labor Day is thus named, because it is another freaking day of labor! More laundry, more meals at home, and this particular Labor Day, another day of being rained in. My best efforts at having an indoor fun day were sapped yesterday. I have fantasies of turning on the TV for 8 hours and then putting the kids to bed. But of course, we have satellite TV. Gustav is blocking my reception. Damn you, Gustav! We have rented some movies, and I planned on doling those out for meritorious behavior. Still waiting for the good behavior. But may dole out the movies anyway.
I am cranky and crampy, and hoping the storm continues to be an inconvenience in our area rather than the menace it represents for New Orleans. If things continue on the path they are on, school should resume tomorrow for the kids, work has already been canceled for M and he and I can enjoy a leisurely, coffee-filled morning together.
I look to the week ahead and see normal school days and reasonable after school-activities. Relief in the familiarity of routine. Relief in the steady pattern of silence and noise, contented playtime and arguing, chaos and quiet. These are the days of fall school years.
I am ready for those days to resume.
Rain, rain, go away....
As with all my pre-child ideas--including Mother's Day being a day of rest for moms, family vacations being, you know, vacations, and bathrooms being a haven of privacy--this, too has been dispelled.
Labor Day is thus named, because it is another freaking day of labor! More laundry, more meals at home, and this particular Labor Day, another day of being rained in. My best efforts at having an indoor fun day were sapped yesterday. I have fantasies of turning on the TV for 8 hours and then putting the kids to bed. But of course, we have satellite TV. Gustav is blocking my reception. Damn you, Gustav! We have rented some movies, and I planned on doling those out for meritorious behavior. Still waiting for the good behavior. But may dole out the movies anyway.
I am cranky and crampy, and hoping the storm continues to be an inconvenience in our area rather than the menace it represents for New Orleans. If things continue on the path they are on, school should resume tomorrow for the kids, work has already been canceled for M and he and I can enjoy a leisurely, coffee-filled morning together.
I look to the week ahead and see normal school days and reasonable after school-activities. Relief in the familiarity of routine. Relief in the steady pattern of silence and noise, contented playtime and arguing, chaos and quiet. These are the days of fall school years.
I am ready for those days to resume.
Rain, rain, go away....
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