I'm dusting off an essay I wrote for Musing Mama for this week's Blog Blast, sponsored by Parent Bloggers and Light Iris. Winner gets a free ticket to this year's Blogher, where you can stalk your favorite bloggers in person!
Trick or task
Essays
Written by Cathy
Monday, 15 November 2004
Help! The ability to multitask like the pros eludes me.
Until Halloween, I really thought I was doing OK. But one holiday — and the Friday from hell — proved I have yet to join the ranks of the Perfect Mommy set.
Friday, Oct. 29, 7 a.m.: Leave the house with 20-month-old Tootie. Am en route to doctor's office for Tootie's flu shot. Apply makeup at each red light and point air conditioning vents at hair in effort to dry still-damp ends. Offspring occupies herself by hurling pulverized Honeycombs to the floor. (Must vacuum this evening.)
8:30 a.m.: Leave doctor's office with sniffling Tootie who refers repeatedly to her boo-boo. Still 15 minutes away from the day care when tot develops a sudden thirst for milk. Sippy cup filled with water will not suffice. Search frantically for mee-mee (pacifier) while hurtling down highway. Arrive at day care with water stains on shirt and Honeycomb crumbs plastered to butt.
8:45: a.m.: On way to Tootie's class when we pass pumpkins from pumpkin-decorating contest. Am horrified by stark contrast between entries. Our pumpkin is a simple affair. Accessories include construction paper, gift-wrap ribbon and stickers. Other pumpkins, however, are wearing outfits! Wonder fleetingly which mommies actually have time to sew costumes for a large round vegetable...? Or is pumpkin a fruit? Pray that Tootie will not be traumatized by memories of her deficient pumpkin.
8:50 a.m.: Day care teacher asks whether I will be returning to help out with Halloween festivities. Assure her I will come back for afternoon party before rushing out the door.
9:15 a.m.: Have just sat down at desk with cup of tea when day care teacher calls in search of parent volunteers for Halloween carnival. Carnival begins at 9:40. Cannot possibly do this. Apologize profusely to teacher.
9:35 a.m.: Am overcome with guilt. Leave for day care, resolving to stay only 15 minutes. Call spouse to tell him he will have to find a Halloween costume for Tootie as I will no longer have time to look during lunch hour. Remind him that ballerinas need pink tights. Remind him costume must be purchased today as Tootie has been invited to a day care classmate's Halloween/birthday party on Saturday.
9:45 a.m.: Second call to Hubs reveals he, too, lacks time to costume-shop. Am consumed with guilt and panic. Daughter will be only toddler at party without costume. And other toddlers likely are spawn of mommies who have time to sew glittering ensembles for pumpkins.
9:50 a.m.: Am assigned to help run the "bakery" booth. Spend next 1 1/2 hours showing tiny folk how to make pretend cookies out of neon-yellow Play-Doh.
11:15 a.m.: Leave carnival. Attempt to dig play-dough out from under fingernails during drive back to work. Notice that water-stained shirt also boasts dried specks of play-dough. Resolve to begin carrying spare outfit in car.
1 p.m.: Suddenly remember I have not RSVP'd for Halloween/birthday party. Cannot possibly attend as last-minute notice would be rude. Feel guilt for depriving young daughter of socialization opportunity. Feel relieved that I will not have to mingle with mommies who turn out pumpkins resembling works of Michelangelo.
5:30 p.m.: Pick up Tootie from day care. Sugar-fueled daughter is laden with gift bags containing baked goods and carefully chosen toddler toys. Hasty count reveals that I am only mommy who did not make gift bags for daughter's classmates. Did not realize that Halloween now ranks up there with Christmas and Valentine's. Is simple night of trick-o-treating no longer adequate? Am overwhelmed by fears that gift bags are norm for every holiday and - yikes! - Veterans' Day approacheth... Resolve to make turkey gift bags to avoid similar embarrassment at Thanksgiving.
6 p.m.: Am struck during evening news by this thought: Had George W. Bush hired Perfect Mommies to oversee operations in Iraq, 380 tons of explosives wouldn't be missing. Instead, explosives would be carefully packaged in oversized gift bags, topped with jaunty, homemade bows and handed out to members of White House administration.
Two weeks later: Pulverized Honeycombs still decorate floor of car. Really, really must vacuum.
Friday, June 08, 2007
Thursday, June 07, 2007
The Widow Woman -- and others of her ilk
In the two years we've lived here, our next-door neighbor has never once waved, said hello or talked to me.
She has, on the other hand, had numerous conversations with Hubs.
When he goes outside, she waves merrily and shouts a greeting. She leans over the fence and chats.
She's told him all about how she shot out a street light that shone into her bedroom window. How the former owners of our house used to have sex in the backyard. How her husband died and she has a daughter who is now grown and gone from home.
When I go outside, she ignores me.
I've tried to wave. I've tried to make eye contact. She's having none of it.
Because I'm a woman.
And because she's one of those who has long shunned the sisterhood because she sees us as competition.
I find this both annoying and sad.
I don't get these women. Why would you isolate yourself from potential friends because -- ohmigod, they might swipe the next guy who plops down on the barstool next to you right out from under your nose.
Puh-leeze.
The people who have always been there for me -- willing to listen to my post-breakup weeping, my stupid drunken ramblings or my euphoric "I've-got-a-new-boyfriend-and-he's-fabulous declarations -- well, they've been my girlfriends.
And they'll be there, always, no matter what happens in my life. And I will be there for them, because that's what women -- normal women -- do. They form fast friendships with one another, realizing that the sisterhood is the one thing you can always fall back on. The sisterhood supports you, even when you do something totally stupid. The sisterhood keeps you afloat when all other life-saving devices fail.
My husband has dubbed our neighbor "The Widow Woman." Now, my version of a widow woman is a sweet, bun-wearing granny type who drops by with brownies and gushes over my kids.
This chick is NOT a "Widow Woman." She's 40ish. Blonde hair. Tan.
She's also weathered. Weary. Hard.
And clearly disdainful of anyone sporting a pair of boobs.
So be it. I've tried. But after two years, I've given up on ever having any sort of friendship with this neighbor.
She can flirt with Hubs as much as she wants. She can walk into a bar with the assurance that she's alone, with no competition to thwart her plans for the evening.
But she'll never know the comfort, the camaraderie of being part of the sisterhood. Of knowing that your support system is only a few phone calls or emails away. Of sitting out on the deck, drinking margaritas and laughing uproariously over shared memories with your most intimate circle.
Of course, much as I love and depend on my girlfriends, even those closest to me will never be asked -- by me, anyway -- to participate in this.
Because I'm a good friend. And I would never make anyone I know watch me wrap my accident-prone self around a fucking pole.
She has, on the other hand, had numerous conversations with Hubs.
When he goes outside, she waves merrily and shouts a greeting. She leans over the fence and chats.
She's told him all about how she shot out a street light that shone into her bedroom window. How the former owners of our house used to have sex in the backyard. How her husband died and she has a daughter who is now grown and gone from home.
When I go outside, she ignores me.
I've tried to wave. I've tried to make eye contact. She's having none of it.
Because I'm a woman.
And because she's one of those who has long shunned the sisterhood because she sees us as competition.
I find this both annoying and sad.
I don't get these women. Why would you isolate yourself from potential friends because -- ohmigod, they might swipe the next guy who plops down on the barstool next to you right out from under your nose.
Puh-leeze.
The people who have always been there for me -- willing to listen to my post-breakup weeping, my stupid drunken ramblings or my euphoric "I've-got-a-new-boyfriend-and-he's-fabulous declarations -- well, they've been my girlfriends.
And they'll be there, always, no matter what happens in my life. And I will be there for them, because that's what women -- normal women -- do. They form fast friendships with one another, realizing that the sisterhood is the one thing you can always fall back on. The sisterhood supports you, even when you do something totally stupid. The sisterhood keeps you afloat when all other life-saving devices fail.
My husband has dubbed our neighbor "The Widow Woman." Now, my version of a widow woman is a sweet, bun-wearing granny type who drops by with brownies and gushes over my kids.
This chick is NOT a "Widow Woman." She's 40ish. Blonde hair. Tan.
She's also weathered. Weary. Hard.
And clearly disdainful of anyone sporting a pair of boobs.
So be it. I've tried. But after two years, I've given up on ever having any sort of friendship with this neighbor.
She can flirt with Hubs as much as she wants. She can walk into a bar with the assurance that she's alone, with no competition to thwart her plans for the evening.
But she'll never know the comfort, the camaraderie of being part of the sisterhood. Of knowing that your support system is only a few phone calls or emails away. Of sitting out on the deck, drinking margaritas and laughing uproariously over shared memories with your most intimate circle.
Of course, much as I love and depend on my girlfriends, even those closest to me will never be asked -- by me, anyway -- to participate in this.
Because I'm a good friend. And I would never make anyone I know watch me wrap my accident-prone self around a fucking pole.
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
Yes, I, too, am a thieving, lazy, disreputable and soon-to-be stubbly mom
This is really a way-behind, near-forgotten meme masked as an original post because I'm just too ... busy, swamped, lazy? ... to come up with anything creative on my own.
So, Damselfly tagged me, oh, weeks ago, for the eight-things-about-me meme that's been drifting through the blogosphere, and because I am a procrastinating sort of person (hence, the reason my job revolves around, you know, deadlines) I'm just now getting around to it.
OK, and also OTJ's Mother of all Memes kind of scared me. Like maybe one day, I, too, will understand the intricacies of the last meme of her Monster Meme. And I can't decide whether I should be allowed to possess that kind of knowledge and special power.
But I'm stalling.
So — Eight Things About Me
1.) Despite my incompetence in certain areas of personal hygiene, I have to shave my legs EVERY DAY because I can't stand to feel my own stubble. (Which is why the stubble that will result from Sunday's disaster is going to send me spinning into a vicious new cycle of personal maintenance, and, no doubt, I will find myself begging some frightening, lecturing Helga creature for a very personal wax. ("Vhat happened here?" she will ask after assessing the damage. And I will cringe in shame and terror, more so than when I had to face the stylist after cutting my own bangs up to my hairline.)
2.) Despite my obsession with leg-hair removal, I've never tweezed or waxed my eyebrows.
3.) I once climbed into an itty-bitty plane with a Texas crop duster, minutes after he showed me pictures of his numerous flying accidents, one of them involving a power line, and admitted that his nickname around town was "Crash."
4.) I can peel and eat these —
and these—
and maybe even these —
by the dozen.
5.) In 1996, I was some poor sap's Worst Blind Date Ever. I won't get into the specifics, but the night involved too many tequila shots and ... deleted due to lingering embarrassment.
6.) When doctors say you can't have an epidural at 9 cm, they LIE.
7.) It takes every bit of self-restraint I can muster to avoid using the word "Google" during a doctor's visit, and the only reason I try is because my former ob/gyn started describing me as "the lady who likes to research things" and the pediatrician once felt compelled to read aloud every single ingredient of my child's flu shot, just to make me shut up and leave his office.
8.) I, too, have been guilty of overlooking what I consider accidental transgressions, simply because once I've managed to cram two cranky children into their respective car seats, driven home and unloaded said children and groceries, I'm not about to return to the scene of the crime so that a bored store clerk can wrest away a cheap rubber toy from my shrieking offspring, who really should be napping. Which is why I say:
(Oh, and I'm not tagging anyone because I'm pretty sure I'm the last person to get around to this one.)
So, Damselfly tagged me, oh, weeks ago, for the eight-things-about-me meme that's been drifting through the blogosphere, and because I am a procrastinating sort of person (hence, the reason my job revolves around, you know, deadlines) I'm just now getting around to it.
OK, and also OTJ's Mother of all Memes kind of scared me. Like maybe one day, I, too, will understand the intricacies of the last meme of her Monster Meme. And I can't decide whether I should be allowed to possess that kind of knowledge and special power.
But I'm stalling.
So — Eight Things About Me
1.) Despite my incompetence in certain areas of personal hygiene, I have to shave my legs EVERY DAY because I can't stand to feel my own stubble. (Which is why the stubble that will result from Sunday's disaster is going to send me spinning into a vicious new cycle of personal maintenance, and, no doubt, I will find myself begging some frightening, lecturing Helga creature for a very personal wax. ("Vhat happened here?" she will ask after assessing the damage. And I will cringe in shame and terror, more so than when I had to face the stylist after cutting my own bangs up to my hairline.)
2.) Despite my obsession with leg-hair removal, I've never tweezed or waxed my eyebrows.
3.) I once climbed into an itty-bitty plane with a Texas crop duster, minutes after he showed me pictures of his numerous flying accidents, one of them involving a power line, and admitted that his nickname around town was "Crash."
4.) I can peel and eat these —
and these—
and maybe even these —
by the dozen.
5.) In 1996, I was some poor sap's Worst Blind Date Ever. I won't get into the specifics, but the night involved too many tequila shots and ... deleted due to lingering embarrassment.
6.) When doctors say you can't have an epidural at 9 cm, they LIE.
7.) It takes every bit of self-restraint I can muster to avoid using the word "Google" during a doctor's visit, and the only reason I try is because my former ob/gyn started describing me as "the lady who likes to research things" and the pediatrician once felt compelled to read aloud every single ingredient of my child's flu shot, just to make me shut up and leave his office.
8.) I, too, have been guilty of overlooking what I consider accidental transgressions, simply because once I've managed to cram two cranky children into their respective car seats, driven home and unloaded said children and groceries, I'm not about to return to the scene of the crime so that a bored store clerk can wrest away a cheap rubber toy from my shrieking offspring, who really should be napping. Which is why I say:
(Oh, and I'm not tagging anyone because I'm pretty sure I'm the last person to get around to this one.)
Monday, June 04, 2007
Sunday-afternoon trauma — though it's questionable who suffered more, me or the kids
Yesterday, as Hubs and I perused the newspaper, I was stricken with what — at the time — seemed a brilliant idea.
"Hey, let's take the kids swimming today."
Hubs raised an eyebrow.
"Seriously, we should," I continued, now foolishly overcome with excitement at my caffeine-inspired genius. "It's a beautiful day."
Hubs still looked skeptical. "You don't even have a swimsuit," he noted.
"Oh, we can buy one on the way," I replied, now firmly convinced we must take the children to the pool. Visions of myself sprawled on a chaise lounge and basking in the sun now danced through my (clearly) delusional mind.
And so I dashed out to the drugstore to buy swim diapers for the E-man and hair-removal lotion for myself — bikini-line maintenance having been ignored during the winter months.
An hour later, as I stood, nekkid in the bathroom, with my bikini "line" (more on that in a minute) coated with the magic hair-removal potion, the door suddenly flew open.
It was the E-man.
"Hee-hee," he chortled. And then, inexplicably — "MAAAAAAAA!!!!" he squawked, fleeing down the hallway.
"Hubs!" I called. "Comfort your son — he's been traumatized!"
Hubs: ?????????????
... and so have I ... because either A.) The ladybits are funny-looking or B.) They are terrifying to small children, which means, clearly, it's been too long since I tended to that area.
Today, looking back, I blame the haste in which I completed this procedure for the end result: A landing strip just the right size for a tiny toy F-16.
But wait, there's more. You must hear details of The Swimsut Shopping Expedition.
(NOTE: I bought my last swimsuit while pregnant with Tootie, when I decided to join a water aerobics class. (I went one time.) Actually, come to think of it, a friend gave that one to me. It was a black, tankini maternity suit. And I continued to wear it long after the births of both children. Need I say more?)
So off we went to the big department store where swimsuits had been marked down 50 percent.
Hubs was charged with entertaining the Little People while I browsed and tried on suits. However — as I stood, once again nude, in a changing room, I heard this:
"No, E-man, this way."
"Mama!"
"No, wait, Mama will be out in a minute."
And then from the Tootie — "Is Mommy in there?"
I froze, as Hubs called out a warning: "They're headed your way."
For the second time that day, the door was flung open, only this time, not only was I nekkid, but my new, ridiculous landing strip also was exposed to the women and children waiting for the next available changing room.
And again — "MAAAAAAAAA!" from the startled E-man.
And this, from the Tootie: "Mommy, is your tummy big because you're going to have another baby? Did Daddy put one there?"
Nope, no baby on board. And there's no danger of one being "put" there because Hubs is most definitely not getting anywhere near the landing strip — because once there, he would absolutely die laughing, which would rather ruin the moment.
So it was off to the pool — with a traumatized E-man, a daughter who thinks I look pregnant, and the secret knowledge of overly ... tended? clipped? manicured? ... ladybits.
... which is why any future such outings will require either copious amounts of vodka or a prescription for Xanax.
"Hey, let's take the kids swimming today."
Hubs raised an eyebrow.
"Seriously, we should," I continued, now foolishly overcome with excitement at my caffeine-inspired genius. "It's a beautiful day."
Hubs still looked skeptical. "You don't even have a swimsuit," he noted.
"Oh, we can buy one on the way," I replied, now firmly convinced we must take the children to the pool. Visions of myself sprawled on a chaise lounge and basking in the sun now danced through my (clearly) delusional mind.
And so I dashed out to the drugstore to buy swim diapers for the E-man and hair-removal lotion for myself — bikini-line maintenance having been ignored during the winter months.
An hour later, as I stood, nekkid in the bathroom, with my bikini "line" (more on that in a minute) coated with the magic hair-removal potion, the door suddenly flew open.
It was the E-man.
"Hee-hee," he chortled. And then, inexplicably — "MAAAAAAAA!!!!" he squawked, fleeing down the hallway.
"Hubs!" I called. "Comfort your son — he's been traumatized!"
Hubs: ?????????????
... and so have I ... because either A.) The ladybits are funny-looking or B.) They are terrifying to small children, which means, clearly, it's been too long since I tended to that area.
Today, looking back, I blame the haste in which I completed this procedure for the end result: A landing strip just the right size for a tiny toy F-16.
But wait, there's more. You must hear details of The Swimsut Shopping Expedition.
(NOTE: I bought my last swimsuit while pregnant with Tootie, when I decided to join a water aerobics class. (I went one time.) Actually, come to think of it, a friend gave that one to me. It was a black, tankini maternity suit. And I continued to wear it long after the births of both children. Need I say more?)
So off we went to the big department store where swimsuits had been marked down 50 percent.
Hubs was charged with entertaining the Little People while I browsed and tried on suits. However — as I stood, once again nude, in a changing room, I heard this:
"No, E-man, this way."
"Mama!"
"No, wait, Mama will be out in a minute."
And then from the Tootie — "Is Mommy in there?"
I froze, as Hubs called out a warning: "They're headed your way."
For the second time that day, the door was flung open, only this time, not only was I nekkid, but my new, ridiculous landing strip also was exposed to the women and children waiting for the next available changing room.
And again — "MAAAAAAAAA!" from the startled E-man.
And this, from the Tootie: "Mommy, is your tummy big because you're going to have another baby? Did Daddy put one there?"
Nope, no baby on board. And there's no danger of one being "put" there because Hubs is most definitely not getting anywhere near the landing strip — because once there, he would absolutely die laughing, which would rather ruin the moment.
So it was off to the pool — with a traumatized E-man, a daughter who thinks I look pregnant, and the secret knowledge of overly ... tended? clipped? manicured? ... ladybits.
... which is why any future such outings will require either copious amounts of vodka or a prescription for Xanax.
Friday, June 01, 2007
Nightly negotiations
This is my contribution to the latest Blog Blast, sponsored by Parent Bloggers and E-Harmony Marriage. The winner receives — gasp! — a date with one's spouse. Remember those? Nights of adult conversation and S-E-X? Good. Glad you do. Because I don't.
The topic:
“You know you need a date with your husband/partner when…
1.) ... you don't worry about the fact that you were unable to refill your prescription for birth control pills because any romping in the marital bed requires much scheduling and re-scheduling, as well as cooperative children who actually fall asleep after they have been tucked in for the night.
(HUBS: "Well, what about tomorrow night?"
CATHY, after flipping through unwieldy mental calendar: "Um ... no, not a good night for me. I'll be at the height of PMS and therefore soooo not in the mood. In fact, you'll be lucky if you're still alive by that point.")
2.) ... you rarely eat out because it's just too exhausting.
("No, no, no! Do NOT pour the salt on the table. No, you broke all the crayons, you don't get anymore. Quick, quick! He's choking on a lemon rind!!)
3.) ... Your lingerie was abandoned long ago for Hubs' old, oversized softball shirts, which, when paired with pink, plaid flannel pajamas, make a rather stunning bedtime statement.
(Like, "No, sweetie. You're not getting any tonight." or "I'm about to finish the book I started three months ago. How about tomorrow? After Tootie falls asleep. If we're still awake...")
The topic:
“You know you need a date with your husband/partner when…
1.) ... you don't worry about the fact that you were unable to refill your prescription for birth control pills because any romping in the marital bed requires much scheduling and re-scheduling, as well as cooperative children who actually fall asleep after they have been tucked in for the night.
(HUBS: "Well, what about tomorrow night?"
CATHY, after flipping through unwieldy mental calendar: "Um ... no, not a good night for me. I'll be at the height of PMS and therefore soooo not in the mood. In fact, you'll be lucky if you're still alive by that point.")
2.) ... you rarely eat out because it's just too exhausting.
("No, no, no! Do NOT pour the salt on the table. No, you broke all the crayons, you don't get anymore. Quick, quick! He's choking on a lemon rind!!)
3.) ... Your lingerie was abandoned long ago for Hubs' old, oversized softball shirts, which, when paired with pink, plaid flannel pajamas, make a rather stunning bedtime statement.
(Like, "No, sweetie. You're not getting any tonight." or "I'm about to finish the book I started three months ago. How about tomorrow? After Tootie falls asleep. If we're still awake...")
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Helicopter mom must land — now.
Until a few weeks ago, the E-man traipsed down the concrete stairs from our front porch to the walkway with no hesitation.
Now, he either holds up a hand for one us to hold, or he grabs the railing.
Gone is the confidence. Enter a new hesitation. And it's all my fault.
I am a hoverer. I admit it and I'm trying to change it. Given my own clumsiness, it's difficult for me to NOT anticipate the next disaster. It's time, however, to let go and allow the kids to play and tumble without imagining a trip to the ER.
Only in the last year did I quit issuing dire warnings to those left in charge of my offspring. The Hubs, my parents, my in-laws — all were subjected to my lists of endless instructions.
Funny thing is, the worst thing that ever happened to one of the kids was my doing.
Picture the mama in her cute, strappy sandals, out house-hunting one Sunday afternoon with Hubs, her then-2-year-old daughter and newborn son.
Can you see her, entering a charming old home that features a bannisterless wooden staircase up to a charming attic bedroom? See how, on her way day, she picks up her toddler for fear the child will topple down the stairs?
Oops. Now watch the mama trip. See how she frantically tries to catch herself, ping-ponging between the walls, before her daughter is catapulted from her arms.
Can you see this poor mother, who is watching her toddler somersault down the stairs even as she herself is rolling after the child?
They land in a heap at the bottom, at the feet of the horrified homeowners and several other people visiting this open house.
Hubs, meanwhile, has just rounded the corner, just in time to find his child and wife crumpled at the bottom of a staircase.
Tootie, thankfully, was fine. But later, each time I imagined her tumbling, how her pink sunglasses, now bent and twisted, still perched on her tiny nose when she hit the bottom and looked up at me, questioningly ... well, I cried and cried. Because it was my fault. Because if I hadn't been so damn overprotective, she probably would have tottered down those stairs without incident. All by herself.
And now, in recent weeks, I've managed to make my son fearful of stairs.
So my promise to myself is this: I will let go of his hand and urge him to make his own way — not just down the stairs, but in all the other situations in which I am tempted to intervene.
And I will comfort myself with the knowledge that at least our stairs do have a railing.
Sigh...
Now, he either holds up a hand for one us to hold, or he grabs the railing.
Gone is the confidence. Enter a new hesitation. And it's all my fault.
I am a hoverer. I admit it and I'm trying to change it. Given my own clumsiness, it's difficult for me to NOT anticipate the next disaster. It's time, however, to let go and allow the kids to play and tumble without imagining a trip to the ER.
Only in the last year did I quit issuing dire warnings to those left in charge of my offspring. The Hubs, my parents, my in-laws — all were subjected to my lists of endless instructions.
Funny thing is, the worst thing that ever happened to one of the kids was my doing.
Picture the mama in her cute, strappy sandals, out house-hunting one Sunday afternoon with Hubs, her then-2-year-old daughter and newborn son.
Can you see her, entering a charming old home that features a bannisterless wooden staircase up to a charming attic bedroom? See how, on her way day, she picks up her toddler for fear the child will topple down the stairs?
Oops. Now watch the mama trip. See how she frantically tries to catch herself, ping-ponging between the walls, before her daughter is catapulted from her arms.
Can you see this poor mother, who is watching her toddler somersault down the stairs even as she herself is rolling after the child?
They land in a heap at the bottom, at the feet of the horrified homeowners and several other people visiting this open house.
Hubs, meanwhile, has just rounded the corner, just in time to find his child and wife crumpled at the bottom of a staircase.
Tootie, thankfully, was fine. But later, each time I imagined her tumbling, how her pink sunglasses, now bent and twisted, still perched on her tiny nose when she hit the bottom and looked up at me, questioningly ... well, I cried and cried. Because it was my fault. Because if I hadn't been so damn overprotective, she probably would have tottered down those stairs without incident. All by herself.
And now, in recent weeks, I've managed to make my son fearful of stairs.
So my promise to myself is this: I will let go of his hand and urge him to make his own way — not just down the stairs, but in all the other situations in which I am tempted to intervene.
And I will comfort myself with the knowledge that at least our stairs do have a railing.
Sigh...
Friday, May 25, 2007
Holly Homemaker Ho — yo!
It fluttered, temptingly, when my friend, Amy, and I opened the door to our favorite gift shop.
Not this particular one, but similar — vintage, colorful and cheery:
And then I realized: Ohmigod, I am caressing an apron.
So not my image. So not my thing.
So likely to encourage Hubs in his nightly amorous endeavors.
For some reason, there's something about my presence in a kitchen that brings out the wild man in my spouse. Maybe it's the way I wield the tongs, or the smell of singed eyebrows when I lean in a little too close to a burner's gas flame.
Whatever.
When I cook, he lingers. As I pour, he gropes. As I bend over to remove casseroles from the oven, he grabs.
This behavior, of course, makes me certain that Hubs nurtures certain fantasies involving a 1950s cupcake-baking domestic diva.
I am neither domestic nor a diva. Especially in a kitchen.
Still, he persists.
Which is why, even though I will never don it in a kitchen setting, I may purchase the apron anyway.
For Hubs' birthday.
ahem
Not this particular one, but similar — vintage, colorful and cheery:
And then I realized: Ohmigod, I am caressing an apron.
So not my image. So not my thing.
So likely to encourage Hubs in his nightly amorous endeavors.
For some reason, there's something about my presence in a kitchen that brings out the wild man in my spouse. Maybe it's the way I wield the tongs, or the smell of singed eyebrows when I lean in a little too close to a burner's gas flame.
Whatever.
When I cook, he lingers. As I pour, he gropes. As I bend over to remove casseroles from the oven, he grabs.
This behavior, of course, makes me certain that Hubs nurtures certain fantasies involving a 1950s cupcake-baking domestic diva.
I am neither domestic nor a diva. Especially in a kitchen.
Still, he persists.
Which is why, even though I will never don it in a kitchen setting, I may purchase the apron anyway.
For Hubs' birthday.
ahem
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Quit touching me, dammit!
I am -- how to put this? -- a delicate sleeper.
That means there are rules in our marital bed, rules that the Hubs has been ignoring lately, at much peril to his continued well-being.
The primary offense?
Touching. He keeps touching me.
A toe on the calf. A hand resting on my thigh. Or a big, hairy leg draped over both of my own legs.
It's most annoying when I'm on the brink of dozing off. Because once I'm disturbed, I have to start all over with the tried-and-true sleep rituals, one of which is a half-hour of reading.
So you can understand my chagrin? No? You think spooning is sweet?
I used to as well. Until I had two kids who shunned slumber and I started to value my own sleep about as much as those precious drops of milk I pumped umpteen times a day from my breasts, just in case Hubs volunteered to give the little darlings a bottle during the night so that I could ... you know ... maybe ... sleep?
You're pitying him, aren't you? Poor man, married to such a cold, unresponsive wife.
Did I mention the snoring? Or that he's also guilty of facing me -- another no-no -- which means he's not only directing noise in my direction but also breathing on me?
We delicate sleepers contend that breathing counts as touching.
And it must stop. Now.
All right, all right. The touching. The touching must stop. He can breathe. As long as he's turned the other way. And doing it so quietly that one might wonder if he's still alive.
Really, I'm quite reasonable. And it's not just me. He's bothering the dog too. She's very sensitive to snoring.
Note the evident weariness here, the effort to remain patient:
OK, well, the children's determination to make her part of the Pretty Pony herd might have something to do with her fatigue, but really, I mostly blame Hubs' noisiness.
All right then, I'm off to bed, where I will -- if I am allowed to fall and stay asleep -- commence dreaming of this freaking fabulous concept.
That means there are rules in our marital bed, rules that the Hubs has been ignoring lately, at much peril to his continued well-being.
The primary offense?
Touching. He keeps touching me.
A toe on the calf. A hand resting on my thigh. Or a big, hairy leg draped over both of my own legs.
It's most annoying when I'm on the brink of dozing off. Because once I'm disturbed, I have to start all over with the tried-and-true sleep rituals, one of which is a half-hour of reading.
So you can understand my chagrin? No? You think spooning is sweet?
I used to as well. Until I had two kids who shunned slumber and I started to value my own sleep about as much as those precious drops of milk I pumped umpteen times a day from my breasts, just in case Hubs volunteered to give the little darlings a bottle during the night so that I could ... you know ... maybe ... sleep?
You're pitying him, aren't you? Poor man, married to such a cold, unresponsive wife.
Did I mention the snoring? Or that he's also guilty of facing me -- another no-no -- which means he's not only directing noise in my direction but also breathing on me?
We delicate sleepers contend that breathing counts as touching.
And it must stop. Now.
All right, all right. The touching. The touching must stop. He can breathe. As long as he's turned the other way. And doing it so quietly that one might wonder if he's still alive.
Really, I'm quite reasonable. And it's not just me. He's bothering the dog too. She's very sensitive to snoring.
Note the evident weariness here, the effort to remain patient:
OK, well, the children's determination to make her part of the Pretty Pony herd might have something to do with her fatigue, but really, I mostly blame Hubs' noisiness.
All right then, I'm off to bed, where I will -- if I am allowed to fall and stay asleep -- commence dreaming of this freaking fabulous concept.
Saturday, May 19, 2007
Tale of the Little Mullet Boy
It started on Easter weekend. (Yes, my son is hunting for eggs in camo. It pains me too. But focus on the hair.)
Over and over, one in-law after the other, remarked — in that tone — "That boy needs a haircut."
It was longish, yes, but when it wasn't windy, the E-man's hair curled itself into adorable little ringlets. (Insert shudder from Hubs and his ringlet-disapproving family here.)
But look — adorable, yes?
Eventually, however, even I, admirer of the blonde ringlets, had to admit the boy was developing .. well ... a mullet.
Still, outside opinions were needed. So at a Saturday night newsroom gathering, I polled those congregating around the grill. Much beer had been consumed, but a few party-goers seemed sober enough to cast judgment.
And thus I learned my sweet, little Lord Fauntleroy angel, possessor of golden lovelocks, was indeed sporting a mullet.
Not that there's anything wrong with mullets. It's just not the look I wanted to cultivate for my boy. Living in Arkansas and all ... I mean, it's bad enough that his father dresses him in hunting garb.
To hunt for fucking pastel Easter eggs. But I digress.
Sunday we headed in for the first shearing. Hubs had a camera. I had a little baggie for ringlet-capturing. I figured it would be a quick process. The Tootie, at her first haircut, sat somberly while the trim took place.
The Little Mullet Boy, however, was most displeased, as evidenced here:
And here:
By the time we got to this stage —
— the E-man was nearly mulletless.
I have no final photo, however, of his newly trimmed self, as Hubs was required to put down the camera and wrestle with a seriously pissed-off E-man.
And I, once the proud mother of the Happy-Hippy-Boy-of-Golden-Curls-turned-Mini-Mullet-Man, was scrabbling around on the floor, throwing damp clumps of hair into a wrinkled baggie.
(But you know, now that it's been trimmed, there's even more wave ...)
Heh.
Over and over, one in-law after the other, remarked — in that tone — "That boy needs a haircut."
It was longish, yes, but when it wasn't windy, the E-man's hair curled itself into adorable little ringlets. (Insert shudder from Hubs and his ringlet-disapproving family here.)
But look — adorable, yes?
Eventually, however, even I, admirer of the blonde ringlets, had to admit the boy was developing .. well ... a mullet.
Still, outside opinions were needed. So at a Saturday night newsroom gathering, I polled those congregating around the grill. Much beer had been consumed, but a few party-goers seemed sober enough to cast judgment.
And thus I learned my sweet, little Lord Fauntleroy angel, possessor of golden lovelocks, was indeed sporting a mullet.
Not that there's anything wrong with mullets. It's just not the look I wanted to cultivate for my boy. Living in Arkansas and all ... I mean, it's bad enough that his father dresses him in hunting garb.
To hunt for fucking pastel Easter eggs. But I digress.
Sunday we headed in for the first shearing. Hubs had a camera. I had a little baggie for ringlet-capturing. I figured it would be a quick process. The Tootie, at her first haircut, sat somberly while the trim took place.
The Little Mullet Boy, however, was most displeased, as evidenced here:
And here:
By the time we got to this stage —
— the E-man was nearly mulletless.
I have no final photo, however, of his newly trimmed self, as Hubs was required to put down the camera and wrestle with a seriously pissed-off E-man.
And I, once the proud mother of the Happy-Hippy-Boy-of-Golden-Curls-turned-Mini-Mullet-Man, was scrabbling around on the floor, throwing damp clumps of hair into a wrinkled baggie.
(But you know, now that it's been trimmed, there's even more wave ...)
Heh.
Monday, May 14, 2007
I am an Uninvolved Parent
The first year my daughter was in day care, I joined the parents' group, which mainly organizes and runs various fund-raising projects for the center.
I sucked at it.
Which is why I dread the day I will have to either become or alienate that most fearsome of creatures: The Involved Parent.
Or, rather, mothers who join groups. School-related, sports-related, doesn't matter.
I hate groups. Even groups with causes. Remember group projects back in grade school? I was the nerd-girl who took it upon herself to do the whole project, myself, at home just so we wouldn't have to work as — you know — a group.
I'm bitchy that way.
(Unless, of course, we're talking about college physics labs and how my survival depended on the knowledge and capabilities of those who actually understood what a vertex (vortex?) was. Then, due to selfish and desperate tendencies, I was all about the group concept. Still, I got a D, which proved once again that groups are not always for the greater good — i.e. my need to pass a physics course in order to get a B.A. in journalism.)
And now, as a mama, I must regularly face — or worse, join — groups of parents? They scare me. Even the most well-intentioned ones.
PTA. Booster clubs. Various niche parent groups that show up en masse at school board meetings.
I'm sooooo not a joiner. That's probably why I like my professional role of paid observer thankyouverymuch.
Even if I weren't a journalist and allowed to take sides and urge change, I'd be more inclined to fire off letters to the editor than to join forces with other like-minded parents.
Because too often, there seems to be this weird lemming effect.
And of course, I don't like groups. Did I mention that? The fact that I hate groups?
It's why the mere suggestion of a group playdate makes me stammer inane excuses. Why I loathe children's birthday parties where all the parents linger.
Part of it, I'm sure, is that I can't seem to find common ground with the parents at these gatherings. They're talking about their kids' favorite Sunday School teacher or T-ball practice, whereas I've arrived fresh from covering a court proceeding involving a drunk, off-duty postal worker who hit a kid just stepping off a school bus. Or interviewing a Katrina evacuee who thinks she's having a nervous breakdown but isn't sure what to do about it or how to deal with her troubled teenage son. Or walking a grieving mother through the details of the night her teenage daughter was killed in a streetracing accident.
Yeah, there's a natural conversation starter.
I'm also used to the "openness" of a newsroom, where we all know who takes which anti-depressant and who's down to their last $13 and may need a ride over the weekend because he/she can't afford to buy gas.
We talk about everything.
Husbands who piss us off and why.
Sex.
Whether we drink too much.
Whether our friends drink too much.
Sex.
Whether the defendant featured in the trial of the day will end up pleading, as well as all the minute details about the defendant that we've each gleaned from our respective sources.
Our periods.
How broke we are.
Surgical procedures we would/wouldn't have done — if we ever had the money, that is.
Sex.
Or lack thereof.
We speak freely of all of this. At work. And I love it.
Oh, yeah. And we cuss. Profusely.
Hence the difficulty in taking kid to a birthday party and trying to maintain a "normal" mama persona. I dread the small talk because I'm not much good at it. Often, I'm inclined to blurt out tidbits that most people would consider waaaay TMI. (What constitutes normal, everyday conversation in my world doesn't translate well in MamaLand.)
So I'm pretty much a dud at such events. The girl in the corner with her Dixie cup of fruit punch who hides in the bathroom every 10 minutes or who's paying so much attention to her offspring, that said children are looking at her in puzzlement. (You know the technique, I know you do. It's a common tactic — pretending your kids need your immediate and constant attention so that you don't have to talk to the other people around you? Yeah, that technique. I employ it often, much to my tots' chagrin.)
What's with Mom? Why won't she shut up and just let us romp in the ball pit?
I can be extremely entertaining when I'm sharing tales of my parenting foibles or describing my various neuroses. I can't seem inject the same vivaciousness and sense of humor, however, into a discussion about whether toddlers are old enough to have speech impediments. Or which funder raiser is likely to be most effective. Or which team is doing how well -- or poorly.
Where are the newsroom mommies who offer candid, hilarious parenting confessions so freely? Or all those cool blogger moms who wouldn't flee if I forgot myself and cussed in the midst of our conversation?
Where are the mommies who make themselves vulnerable to other mommies in the name of solidarity?
Until I find them — and I know they're out there, if not in my community then surely somewhere in this state — I'll keep putting off the day I have to join anything.
Or maybe I'll just linger by the punch bowl, spiking all the other parents' drinks.
The drunker they are, the more normal I'll appear to them.
Or at least, maybe they won't remember what I said.
Maybe.
In keeping with the self-reflection so evident in this post (ha!), I'll devote the next one to describing the eight random things about myself that might surprise you — having been tagged by damselfly, who was tagged by Julie.
I promise, the revelations won't be the kind suitable for casual playdate or birthday-party conversation.
I sucked at it.
Which is why I dread the day I will have to either become or alienate that most fearsome of creatures: The Involved Parent.
Or, rather, mothers who join groups. School-related, sports-related, doesn't matter.
I hate groups. Even groups with causes. Remember group projects back in grade school? I was the nerd-girl who took it upon herself to do the whole project, myself, at home just so we wouldn't have to work as — you know — a group.
I'm bitchy that way.
(Unless, of course, we're talking about college physics labs and how my survival depended on the knowledge and capabilities of those who actually understood what a vertex (vortex?) was. Then, due to selfish and desperate tendencies, I was all about the group concept. Still, I got a D, which proved once again that groups are not always for the greater good — i.e. my need to pass a physics course in order to get a B.A. in journalism.)
And now, as a mama, I must regularly face — or worse, join — groups of parents? They scare me. Even the most well-intentioned ones.
PTA. Booster clubs. Various niche parent groups that show up en masse at school board meetings.
I'm sooooo not a joiner. That's probably why I like my professional role of paid observer thankyouverymuch.
Even if I weren't a journalist and allowed to take sides and urge change, I'd be more inclined to fire off letters to the editor than to join forces with other like-minded parents.
Because too often, there seems to be this weird lemming effect.
And of course, I don't like groups. Did I mention that? The fact that I hate groups?
It's why the mere suggestion of a group playdate makes me stammer inane excuses. Why I loathe children's birthday parties where all the parents linger.
Part of it, I'm sure, is that I can't seem to find common ground with the parents at these gatherings. They're talking about their kids' favorite Sunday School teacher or T-ball practice, whereas I've arrived fresh from covering a court proceeding involving a drunk, off-duty postal worker who hit a kid just stepping off a school bus. Or interviewing a Katrina evacuee who thinks she's having a nervous breakdown but isn't sure what to do about it or how to deal with her troubled teenage son. Or walking a grieving mother through the details of the night her teenage daughter was killed in a streetracing accident.
Yeah, there's a natural conversation starter.
I'm also used to the "openness" of a newsroom, where we all know who takes which anti-depressant and who's down to their last $13 and may need a ride over the weekend because he/she can't afford to buy gas.
We talk about everything.
Husbands who piss us off and why.
Sex.
Whether we drink too much.
Whether our friends drink too much.
Sex.
Whether the defendant featured in the trial of the day will end up pleading, as well as all the minute details about the defendant that we've each gleaned from our respective sources.
Our periods.
How broke we are.
Surgical procedures we would/wouldn't have done — if we ever had the money, that is.
Sex.
Or lack thereof.
We speak freely of all of this. At work. And I love it.
Oh, yeah. And we cuss. Profusely.
Hence the difficulty in taking kid to a birthday party and trying to maintain a "normal" mama persona. I dread the small talk because I'm not much good at it. Often, I'm inclined to blurt out tidbits that most people would consider waaaay TMI. (What constitutes normal, everyday conversation in my world doesn't translate well in MamaLand.)
So I'm pretty much a dud at such events. The girl in the corner with her Dixie cup of fruit punch who hides in the bathroom every 10 minutes or who's paying so much attention to her offspring, that said children are looking at her in puzzlement. (You know the technique, I know you do. It's a common tactic — pretending your kids need your immediate and constant attention so that you don't have to talk to the other people around you? Yeah, that technique. I employ it often, much to my tots' chagrin.)
What's with Mom? Why won't she shut up and just let us romp in the ball pit?
I can be extremely entertaining when I'm sharing tales of my parenting foibles or describing my various neuroses. I can't seem inject the same vivaciousness and sense of humor, however, into a discussion about whether toddlers are old enough to have speech impediments. Or which funder raiser is likely to be most effective. Or which team is doing how well -- or poorly.
Where are the newsroom mommies who offer candid, hilarious parenting confessions so freely? Or all those cool blogger moms who wouldn't flee if I forgot myself and cussed in the midst of our conversation?
Where are the mommies who make themselves vulnerable to other mommies in the name of solidarity?
Until I find them — and I know they're out there, if not in my community then surely somewhere in this state — I'll keep putting off the day I have to join anything.
Or maybe I'll just linger by the punch bowl, spiking all the other parents' drinks.
The drunker they are, the more normal I'll appear to them.
Or at least, maybe they won't remember what I said.
Maybe.
In keeping with the self-reflection so evident in this post (ha!), I'll devote the next one to describing the eight random things about myself that might surprise you — having been tagged by damselfly, who was tagged by Julie.
I promise, the revelations won't be the kind suitable for casual playdate or birthday-party conversation.
Sunday, May 13, 2007
Warning: Shameless pimping...
...about to occur.
The following essay (yes, it's mine) was published several months ago on Musing Mama, a site run by a group of creative, talented and seriously multi-tasking women. We're all moms — some working, some stay-at-home — and we offer candid (sometimes humorous, sometimes poignant) descriptions of our adventures in motherhood.
So come visit! Our essays update every Tuesday, as do our reviews and art/photo gallery. (Colleen, of The Delaney Diaries, also writes there.)
Tomorrow's topic -- Friendship among moms: Most mamas will tell you they couldn't get by without their girlfriends, but as in every good relationship, these friendships take time. From the wooing and dating of new friends to keeping up with old ones, it's a commitment some moms have trouble making.
Here's my sample. It ran in November, but still applies, especially the closer we get to deer-hunting season. Sigh...
Mama drama: A tale of Merlot
Written by Cathy
Tuesday, 14 November 2006
An Evening at The Asylum — or, more aptly — Why I Drink on Monday Nights or — Why I LOATHE Deer-Hunting Season
Cast:
CATHY: full-time reporter, part-time wife (on a particularly successful day) and yearly hunting widow — and thereby deserving of top billing.
HUBS: Cathy’s spouse and contributor of the genes that frequently prompt small son to drink from the dog bowl. Hubs is a photographer. He’s also an avid hunter.
TOOTIE: 3 1/2-year-old with a flair for drama.
E-MAN: 20-month-old who is often the cause of sister’s drama.
[Evening opens with the drive home from day care. Cathy is behind the wheel. Hubs, who spends each weekend shooting football, is now off on Mondays. He uses his extra free time to go hunting. He sees nothing wrong with setting the alarm at 4 a.m. This is NOT a good start to Cathy’s day. On this particular Monday evening, Tootie demands the classic country radio station.]
TOOTIE: Mama! I want to hear “Kick off your shoes and frow them on the floor!” (Reference to Don Williams’ “Louisiana Saturday Night,” Tootie's current favorite song. Yes, her parents are hicks.)
CATHY: Mama can’t make the song come on, sweetie. We have to wait and see if they’ll play it.
[Cathy, who has just filed a story on a pregnant gorilla, is trying to remember whether she spelled the gorilla’s name correctly. Was it “Sekani” or “Sakani?” Hmm...]
TOOTIE: Mama! Play “Kick off your shoes!”
CATHY: [Now wondering whether her editor will cut out the amusing description of the pregnant gorilla’s fascination with her enlarged breasts.] We just have to wait, doodlebug. I can’t make it play.
[In an effort to distract offspring, Cathy begins singing with the song that IS playing.]
CATHY: [Loudly and with forced cheer.] We’ll all be drinking that free bubble-ubb and eatin’ that rainbow stew...
TOOTIE: No! Don’t sing! You’re not a radio girl. Only radio girls sing! YOU CAN’T SING!!!
[Cathy offers fruit snacks, thereby breaking a promise to herself to cut back on the children’s sugar intake. Blissful silence, however, is brief.]
TOOTIE: [Wailing.] Mommeeee! Etan broke my pink sunglasses! They’re brooooooooken!
E-MAN: [Clutching dismantled sparkly pink shades and looking mildly amused.] Glassissss? Glassissss? No-no-no-no-no!
[Cathy makes an impulsive decision to run through the liquor store drive-through.]
TOOTIE: Why are we turning here? Is this McDonald’s? I want a Happy Meal. A Happy Meal with a ballerina.
CATHY: [Addressing young male clerk.] Yes, please, I’d like a small bottle of the Yellowtail Merlot.
TOOTIE: [Pointing to St. Pauli Girl poster plastered to the drive-through window.] Is that a mommy? Do we get a sucker? Do they have suckers?
YOUNG MALE CLERK: They’re cute. [He points to the children, who now appear positively rapt and angelic.] How far apart are they?
CATHY: Just two years. We’ve been busy! [She is referring to the family’s hectic lifestyle, but it’s clear from the clerk’s expression that he has interpreted this declaration differently — and perhaps a bit more literally — than intended.]
CATHY: [Now flustered and blushing.] Um, yeah, well, can I make that a large bottle?
TOOTIE: Do they have suckers? Where are the suckers?!! Mama, does that mommy in the picture wear a bra too? Where is her bra?
[Drive home is made unbearable due to the fact that no lollipops were handed out by the young male clerk, who clearly didn’t realize the importance of adding to Cathy’s children’s sugar intake.
[Door to The Asylum is flung open by Tootie, who wants to watch the Angelina Ballerina DVD. Her life, she implies, has been ruined by her mother’s decision to buy wine rather than cheeseburgers.
TOOTIE: Where are my tights? I need my tights so I can dance with Angelina. I NEED my TIGHTS!
E-MAN: [Standing hopefully at the pantry door.] Nack? Nack?
CATHY: No, no more snacks. Mommy’s making dinner.
[Phone rings. It’s Hubs, who’s calling to say he’s on the way home. It’s a 2-hour drive.]
HUBS: So, how are things going?
E-MAN: Nack! Nack!
TOOTIE: Mommy! I can’t find my tights!
E-MAN: Nack! Nack!
CATHY: E-man, no. No more nack. I mean snacks. No more snacks. Tootie — your tights are in your top dresser drawer, just where they always are. [Gets back on the phone.] We’re fine. Can I call you after they’re in bed?
[Phone rings again, but Cathy ignores it. Later, when she checks her voicemail, she’ll learn that her editor called with questions about her gorilla story: “Who’s the father?” and “Are you sure you spelled Sekani correctly?”
CATHY: [To herself.] Like I can remember my own name, let alone that of the gorilla who impregnated a member of his troop. Do male gorillas hunt? And if they do, does Sekani (Sakani?) know what she’s in for?
TOOTIE: Mama! Etan’s froing his ravioli!
E-MAN: NIGH MAN! NIGH MAN! (Translation: “Wild Man!” His daddy taught him to call himself that. Damn sense of humor.)
TOOTIE: STOP IT, ETAN!
E-MAN: NIGH MAN!
[More Chef Boyardee sails across the table and gloms onto the recently painted pale yellow walls.]
TOOTIE: I need a frink!
CATHY: [To herself.] So do I. [She pours the first glass of wine.]
E-MAN: NIGH MAN! NIGH MAN!
TOOTIE: Mama, what’s Molly doing?
[The dog, who appears to be throwing up, is hastily ushered outside.]
TOOTIE: Why is Molly outside? When can she come back in? I want her to sleep in MY room.
E-MAN: Woof woof! Woof woof! [More ravioli now decorates the walls.]
[Phone rings. Someone is calling to tell Cathy she has won a cruise. FOR THE WHOLE FAMILY!}
NOTE TO AUDIENCE: Cathy’s dream vacation involves a spa that ensures weight loss and peaceful retrospection. Alone.
[Two hours later, the children and walls have been scrubbed, as have the dishes. Tootie, who insists on wearing tights and ballet slippers instead of pajamas, is reading in bed. E-man is asleep — for the time being. The dog is dozing next to the couch. This is when Hubs strolls in.]
HUBS: Hey! I saw three bucks today. Lots of doe too. [Notices the half-empty wine bottle.] Save any for me? That was a long drive back.
[His wife graciously decides not to throw the bottle at his head. But only because she’s consumed two very full glasses.]
The following essay (yes, it's mine) was published several months ago on Musing Mama, a site run by a group of creative, talented and seriously multi-tasking women. We're all moms — some working, some stay-at-home — and we offer candid (sometimes humorous, sometimes poignant) descriptions of our adventures in motherhood.
So come visit! Our essays update every Tuesday, as do our reviews and art/photo gallery. (Colleen, of The Delaney Diaries, also writes there.)
Tomorrow's topic -- Friendship among moms: Most mamas will tell you they couldn't get by without their girlfriends, but as in every good relationship, these friendships take time. From the wooing and dating of new friends to keeping up with old ones, it's a commitment some moms have trouble making.
Here's my sample. It ran in November, but still applies, especially the closer we get to deer-hunting season. Sigh...
Mama drama: A tale of Merlot
Written by Cathy
Tuesday, 14 November 2006
An Evening at The Asylum — or, more aptly — Why I Drink on Monday Nights or — Why I LOATHE Deer-Hunting Season
Cast:
CATHY: full-time reporter, part-time wife (on a particularly successful day) and yearly hunting widow — and thereby deserving of top billing.
HUBS: Cathy’s spouse and contributor of the genes that frequently prompt small son to drink from the dog bowl. Hubs is a photographer. He’s also an avid hunter.
TOOTIE: 3 1/2-year-old with a flair for drama.
E-MAN: 20-month-old who is often the cause of sister’s drama.
[Evening opens with the drive home from day care. Cathy is behind the wheel. Hubs, who spends each weekend shooting football, is now off on Mondays. He uses his extra free time to go hunting. He sees nothing wrong with setting the alarm at 4 a.m. This is NOT a good start to Cathy’s day. On this particular Monday evening, Tootie demands the classic country radio station.]
TOOTIE: Mama! I want to hear “Kick off your shoes and frow them on the floor!” (Reference to Don Williams’ “Louisiana Saturday Night,” Tootie's current favorite song. Yes, her parents are hicks.)
CATHY: Mama can’t make the song come on, sweetie. We have to wait and see if they’ll play it.
[Cathy, who has just filed a story on a pregnant gorilla, is trying to remember whether she spelled the gorilla’s name correctly. Was it “Sekani” or “Sakani?” Hmm...]
TOOTIE: Mama! Play “Kick off your shoes!”
CATHY: [Now wondering whether her editor will cut out the amusing description of the pregnant gorilla’s fascination with her enlarged breasts.] We just have to wait, doodlebug. I can’t make it play.
[In an effort to distract offspring, Cathy begins singing with the song that IS playing.]
CATHY: [Loudly and with forced cheer.] We’ll all be drinking that free bubble-ubb and eatin’ that rainbow stew...
TOOTIE: No! Don’t sing! You’re not a radio girl. Only radio girls sing! YOU CAN’T SING!!!
[Cathy offers fruit snacks, thereby breaking a promise to herself to cut back on the children’s sugar intake. Blissful silence, however, is brief.]
TOOTIE: [Wailing.] Mommeeee! Etan broke my pink sunglasses! They’re brooooooooken!
E-MAN: [Clutching dismantled sparkly pink shades and looking mildly amused.] Glassissss? Glassissss? No-no-no-no-no!
[Cathy makes an impulsive decision to run through the liquor store drive-through.]
TOOTIE: Why are we turning here? Is this McDonald’s? I want a Happy Meal. A Happy Meal with a ballerina.
CATHY: [Addressing young male clerk.] Yes, please, I’d like a small bottle of the Yellowtail Merlot.
TOOTIE: [Pointing to St. Pauli Girl poster plastered to the drive-through window.] Is that a mommy? Do we get a sucker? Do they have suckers?
YOUNG MALE CLERK: They’re cute. [He points to the children, who now appear positively rapt and angelic.] How far apart are they?
CATHY: Just two years. We’ve been busy! [She is referring to the family’s hectic lifestyle, but it’s clear from the clerk’s expression that he has interpreted this declaration differently — and perhaps a bit more literally — than intended.]
CATHY: [Now flustered and blushing.] Um, yeah, well, can I make that a large bottle?
TOOTIE: Do they have suckers? Where are the suckers?!! Mama, does that mommy in the picture wear a bra too? Where is her bra?
[Drive home is made unbearable due to the fact that no lollipops were handed out by the young male clerk, who clearly didn’t realize the importance of adding to Cathy’s children’s sugar intake.
[Door to The Asylum is flung open by Tootie, who wants to watch the Angelina Ballerina DVD. Her life, she implies, has been ruined by her mother’s decision to buy wine rather than cheeseburgers.
TOOTIE: Where are my tights? I need my tights so I can dance with Angelina. I NEED my TIGHTS!
E-MAN: [Standing hopefully at the pantry door.] Nack? Nack?
CATHY: No, no more snacks. Mommy’s making dinner.
[Phone rings. It’s Hubs, who’s calling to say he’s on the way home. It’s a 2-hour drive.]
HUBS: So, how are things going?
E-MAN: Nack! Nack!
TOOTIE: Mommy! I can’t find my tights!
E-MAN: Nack! Nack!
CATHY: E-man, no. No more nack. I mean snacks. No more snacks. Tootie — your tights are in your top dresser drawer, just where they always are. [Gets back on the phone.] We’re fine. Can I call you after they’re in bed?
[Phone rings again, but Cathy ignores it. Later, when she checks her voicemail, she’ll learn that her editor called with questions about her gorilla story: “Who’s the father?” and “Are you sure you spelled Sekani correctly?”
CATHY: [To herself.] Like I can remember my own name, let alone that of the gorilla who impregnated a member of his troop. Do male gorillas hunt? And if they do, does Sekani (Sakani?) know what she’s in for?
TOOTIE: Mama! Etan’s froing his ravioli!
E-MAN: NIGH MAN! NIGH MAN! (Translation: “Wild Man!” His daddy taught him to call himself that. Damn sense of humor.)
TOOTIE: STOP IT, ETAN!
E-MAN: NIGH MAN!
[More Chef Boyardee sails across the table and gloms onto the recently painted pale yellow walls.]
TOOTIE: I need a frink!
CATHY: [To herself.] So do I. [She pours the first glass of wine.]
E-MAN: NIGH MAN! NIGH MAN!
TOOTIE: Mama, what’s Molly doing?
[The dog, who appears to be throwing up, is hastily ushered outside.]
TOOTIE: Why is Molly outside? When can she come back in? I want her to sleep in MY room.
E-MAN: Woof woof! Woof woof! [More ravioli now decorates the walls.]
[Phone rings. Someone is calling to tell Cathy she has won a cruise. FOR THE WHOLE FAMILY!}
NOTE TO AUDIENCE: Cathy’s dream vacation involves a spa that ensures weight loss and peaceful retrospection. Alone.
[Two hours later, the children and walls have been scrubbed, as have the dishes. Tootie, who insists on wearing tights and ballet slippers instead of pajamas, is reading in bed. E-man is asleep — for the time being. The dog is dozing next to the couch. This is when Hubs strolls in.]
HUBS: Hey! I saw three bucks today. Lots of doe too. [Notices the half-empty wine bottle.] Save any for me? That was a long drive back.
[His wife graciously decides not to throw the bottle at his head. But only because she’s consumed two very full glasses.]
When did I finally realize I was a Mom...
... as opposed to the misty-eyed imposter romping through Baby Depot, flinging onsies into my cart?
ANSWER: On the day I ran to the living room, responding to the screams of my bloody-nosed preschooler, and, rather than shrieking in horror, calmly lectured her in my perfect Mommy voice as I plucked her from the floor, "I told you this would happen if you kept jumping on the couch. I TOLD YOU!"
And now -- What makes the perfect mother's day, now that I know I'm the real deal:
1. A framed 8 1/2-by-10 of the kids. (photo taken by Hubs)
And ... drum roll ...
2. A toddler who slept this ONE morning until (gasp!) 9:30 a.m.
ANSWER: On the day I ran to the living room, responding to the screams of my bloody-nosed preschooler, and, rather than shrieking in horror, calmly lectured her in my perfect Mommy voice as I plucked her from the floor, "I told you this would happen if you kept jumping on the couch. I TOLD YOU!"
And now -- What makes the perfect mother's day, now that I know I'm the real deal:
1. A framed 8 1/2-by-10 of the kids. (photo taken by Hubs)
And ... drum roll ...
2. A toddler who slept this ONE morning until (gasp!) 9:30 a.m.
Friday, May 11, 2007
What makes me a mother?
This little girl, who brings me her caterpillars and asks when they will become butterflies.
And this little boy, who runs to me each evening, arms open wide, and calling me by the name I treasure more than any other -- "Mama."
I carried them in my womb, and then in my arms. I nourished them, cuddled them, helped shape them.
And yet -- they define me.
This is my offering for the Parent Bloggers Network's Mother's Day Blog Blast, also sponsored by Light Iris, a new site which debuts on Mother's Day. There's still time to post your own entry. You have until midnight. So go for it. Winner gets a $100 gift card for Spa Finder, and -- hello?! -- who among us would turn that down? So check it out. Post. And Happy Mother's Day!
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
Why my job sometimes doesn't rock
I suffer from bird phobia.
Birds creep me out — those pointy beaks, beady little eyes and the lethal-looking talons (shudder) ...
Plus, I'm one of those dry-goods-hoarding, bird-flu-fearing freaks who's convinced the little squawkers are out to do us in with a raging epidemic, just so they can take over the planet.
(Alfred H., you were a wise, wise man. You saw their potential for evil.)
So the day before yesterday, a photographer and I headed over to the zoo to check out a new, interactive lorikeet exhibit. First, however, we visited the birds — all 25 of them — in their current teeny-tiny quarters.
Inside. A. Locked. Cage. With 25 birds.
I sidled in behind the photographer — who raises pigeons and happens to think all birds are fascinating — and stood, motionless and terrified, while he took pictures and played with a lorikeet named "Bitey."
Ahem.
At one point, four lorikeets lined up on the branch directly in front of me, cocking their little heads and squawking at me — clearly an attempt to intimidate.
Leave immediately, intruder, or we will peck your eyes out.
So I did, clutching my poop-stained notebook, tugging at my poop-streaked shirt and ID badge and wiping poop from my hair.
Still, moments later, I mustered enough courage to wear this little lorikeet on my shoulder and smile (albeit painfully, with clenched teeth) for the camera.
And of course, the bird managed to look cute and cuddly and totally harmless.
But I know she wanted a piece of my ear.
Birds creep me out — those pointy beaks, beady little eyes and the lethal-looking talons (shudder) ...
Plus, I'm one of those dry-goods-hoarding, bird-flu-fearing freaks who's convinced the little squawkers are out to do us in with a raging epidemic, just so they can take over the planet.
(Alfred H., you were a wise, wise man. You saw their potential for evil.)
So the day before yesterday, a photographer and I headed over to the zoo to check out a new, interactive lorikeet exhibit. First, however, we visited the birds — all 25 of them — in their current teeny-tiny quarters.
Inside. A. Locked. Cage. With 25 birds.
I sidled in behind the photographer — who raises pigeons and happens to think all birds are fascinating — and stood, motionless and terrified, while he took pictures and played with a lorikeet named "Bitey."
Ahem.
At one point, four lorikeets lined up on the branch directly in front of me, cocking their little heads and squawking at me — clearly an attempt to intimidate.
Leave immediately, intruder, or we will peck your eyes out.
So I did, clutching my poop-stained notebook, tugging at my poop-streaked shirt and ID badge and wiping poop from my hair.
Still, moments later, I mustered enough courage to wear this little lorikeet on my shoulder and smile (albeit painfully, with clenched teeth) for the camera.
And of course, the bird managed to look cute and cuddly and totally harmless.
But I know she wanted a piece of my ear.
Monday, May 07, 2007
Memo to National Mammoth Drug Store:
As of today, May 7, 2007, we are through.
Why?
Because when I called to refill my birth control pills, you told me you were out. And so were the FIVE surrounding stores.
Oh, c'mon. I live in Arkansas. We breed, chug beer, do a little birthin' -- and you're telling me that, suddenly, an unprecedented number of us decided to break rank and -- gasp! -- seek contraceptives?!
And that as a result your vast pharmaceutical coffers are empty?
I think not.
I mean, the only reason I'm on the pill is because I've gotta lose the extra 30 pounds before I brave another nine months of peanut M&M cravings.
Oh, yeah, and the anti-crazy pills -- not ready to give those up quite yet, you know.
And of course, there's the small matter of being able to afford a third child. Ha. Ha-ha. HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA!!
But my fellow Arkansans -- ye of the birthing hips designed for lugging small children while grasping a ciggie in one hand and a Bud Lite in the other -- you, YOU too have decided to become anti-ovulatory?
I'll be gol-darned. And here I thought I had a corner on the contraceptives market.
So. Well. Looks like a particuarly frustrating month awaits the Hubs.
I, on the other hand, might actually make it through the five library books I optimistically checked out a week ago.
Why?
Because when I called to refill my birth control pills, you told me you were out. And so were the FIVE surrounding stores.
Oh, c'mon. I live in Arkansas. We breed, chug beer, do a little birthin' -- and you're telling me that, suddenly, an unprecedented number of us decided to break rank and -- gasp! -- seek contraceptives?!
And that as a result your vast pharmaceutical coffers are empty?
I think not.
I mean, the only reason I'm on the pill is because I've gotta lose the extra 30 pounds before I brave another nine months of peanut M&M cravings.
Oh, yeah, and the anti-crazy pills -- not ready to give those up quite yet, you know.
And of course, there's the small matter of being able to afford a third child. Ha. Ha-ha. HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA!!
But my fellow Arkansans -- ye of the birthing hips designed for lugging small children while grasping a ciggie in one hand and a Bud Lite in the other -- you, YOU too have decided to become anti-ovulatory?
I'll be gol-darned. And here I thought I had a corner on the contraceptives market.
So. Well. Looks like a particuarly frustrating month awaits the Hubs.
I, on the other hand, might actually make it through the five library books I optimistically checked out a week ago.
Friday, May 04, 2007
Two pink roses
It's been a rough year for us in many ways. Nothing huge, just the usual woes that plague your average family boasting two tots, two teenagers, one elderly and especially hairy dog and an ex-wife who seems to think that Hubs won a lottery sometime in the past year.
But then, just when I'm in the midst of a good fret over finances, or freaking out over my husband's too-apparent (albeit still very ambivalent) interest in participating in a job-related stint in Iraq, the Tiny Terrors go and ruin my Moment of Self-Pity by pointing out the things I used to notice and appreciate.
Before I grew up and decided such things no longer mattered. Because, you know, I'd rather engage in imaginary rants at Hubs' ex.
As I unloaded Tootie from the car a few days ago, her face lit up and off she went, trotting over to a large plant-like bush thingy in front of our house. Do I garden? Um. No. Would I recognize a rosebush if it pulled itself out of the ground and pricked me squarely in the ass. Negative. Still, how did I not notice the bright-pink rosebud that immediately captured my daughter's attention?
"Look, Mama! A flower!" the Toot gushed, leaning over to pluck it.
I stopped her.
"If you wait, honey, that tiny bud will open up into a flower. So let's not pick it just yet, OK?"
And this morning, as I left for work, brooding over the usual blah-blah-blah, a splash of pink caught my eye.
Two perfectly shaped roses.
Photo courtesy of Hubs
And it occurred to me that even as I advise my daughter to be patient, to wait for something to grow into its full and beautiful potential, I don't apply these words of maternal wisdom to my own approach to life.
So, for today at least, I've put aside the bills and the worries, and am simply anticipating this evening, when I'll walk my daughter over to the rose bush and show her two pink blooms —
— which I never would have noticed if she hadn't pointed out a single tiny, hopeful bud.
Update: On pulling into the driveway -- "Mama! Look, look! The flower growed!"
But then, just when I'm in the midst of a good fret over finances, or freaking out over my husband's too-apparent (albeit still very ambivalent) interest in participating in a job-related stint in Iraq, the Tiny Terrors go and ruin my Moment of Self-Pity by pointing out the things I used to notice and appreciate.
Before I grew up and decided such things no longer mattered. Because, you know, I'd rather engage in imaginary rants at Hubs' ex.
As I unloaded Tootie from the car a few days ago, her face lit up and off she went, trotting over to a large plant-like bush thingy in front of our house. Do I garden? Um. No. Would I recognize a rosebush if it pulled itself out of the ground and pricked me squarely in the ass. Negative. Still, how did I not notice the bright-pink rosebud that immediately captured my daughter's attention?
"Look, Mama! A flower!" the Toot gushed, leaning over to pluck it.
I stopped her.
"If you wait, honey, that tiny bud will open up into a flower. So let's not pick it just yet, OK?"
And this morning, as I left for work, brooding over the usual blah-blah-blah, a splash of pink caught my eye.
Two perfectly shaped roses.
Photo courtesy of Hubs
And it occurred to me that even as I advise my daughter to be patient, to wait for something to grow into its full and beautiful potential, I don't apply these words of maternal wisdom to my own approach to life.
So, for today at least, I've put aside the bills and the worries, and am simply anticipating this evening, when I'll walk my daughter over to the rose bush and show her two pink blooms —
— which I never would have noticed if she hadn't pointed out a single tiny, hopeful bud.
Update: On pulling into the driveway -- "Mama! Look, look! The flower growed!"
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
The bullies and the bullied
Several months ago, on the way home one evening, a car pulled out in front of me and — being the eloquent former Texan that I am — I let a few well-chosen words fly.
And then Tootie piped up:
"Mama, was that a bad car?"
"Yes, sweetie. That person didn't wait for her turn. We have to take turns when we're driving or else we might hit each other."
"Hitting's bad," the Toot replied.
And then she added: "Except when a boy pushes you down. Then it's OK."
Pause.
Loooooooong pause.
Oh, hell, what's the appropriate response here?
We don't hit in our house. I know some parents spank, and I'm not casting judgment. I think one parents by instinct and lingers in a chosen comfort zone. For me, spanking — or any type of hitting — just doesn't feel right. And so we don't.
But what if — what if? — someone did push her down? Or hit her? Especially a boy. My history with men -- well, one man in particular -- makes me wary of assuring her to sit there and do nothing.
Do I teach her to take it? Do I cloud the issue by telling her, "Yes, it's OK to hit sometimes, but only if someone does something to you first?"
I don't want her to bully. I also don't want her to be bullied.
It's a topic that makes me leery, uncomfortable — fearful, even — due to my own difficulties in junior high and today's school issues.
I give you Terrible Tina, the red-headed, shrilly-voiced and bossy girl who moved to town when I was in sixth grade. In short order, Tina upended our social pecking order and guess who ended up on the bottom?
Tina was, simply put, a bully. She used not only the usual girl-tactics: Divide, form alliances, divide... She also relied on brute force. I remember a trip home from camp when things got so bad — do the "chaperones" on these excursions pay any attention to what's going on? I mean, we were in a van, a rather confined space, and no one ever said a thing — that I pressed my face against a window and refused to look at, or talk to, my tormentor. Soon, the other girls joined in. Frustrated by my lack of reaction, Tina finally reached over and pulled out a huge chunk of my hair. By the roots.
People tell their children to "ignore" the bullies. Bullshit. It doesn't work. It didn't work for me, and it hasn't worked for countless other children either. "Telling" is acceptable only during the early grade-school years. After that, it only adds to the helpless victim image. And you're a snitch.
Looking back, I wish I'd given Tina and my (former) friends a long, cool stare -- one that implied they were pathetic, boring, useless people -- and then told them to fuck off.
I didn't. I crouched, weeping, by the window.
Turn to the adults? The ones at the front of the van? Not much more effective than telling our kids to seek help from the teachers -- the men and women we expect to monitor the halls, intervening in fights that involve students that even they -- the teachers -- fear.
Thankfully, after a summer during which puberty arrived, my braces came off and I got my first pair of contact lenses, high school wasn't a problem.
But still, I'm 37, and even now, all these years later, when I think of Tina, I feel a surge of anger. And I find myself hoping that at one point in her life, she suffered like I did.
Imagine being the kid who's subjected to such misery from kindergarten on? Imagine the kid who doesn't see an improvement in high school?
I worry all the time that one — or both — of my children could be that kid. How would I handle it?
Since I'm a neurotic freak who often imagines dire scenarios just so I can carry on entire conversations in my head with the imaginary people who have wronged me or my offspring, I mull the what-ifs, over and over.
Because quite frankly, if Tootie or the E-man came home, day after day, year after year, bullied and beaten down, the Mama Mean-Ass Shrew in me would want to huff over to the high school cafeteria and — abandoning my no-hitting beliefs — smack the holy crap out of the offenders.
I'm not a violent person. I don't watch violent movies. And I no longer read many books in which it's an element. Maybe because of what I do for a living. Maybe because now I have children. For whatever reason, I just can't stomach it.
But the thought of continued bullying or abuse — not a single instance, but day after day after day ... — god, it makes me want to strike out at the imaginary bullies who are tormenting my very real child.
A few years ago, I wrote an in-depth story on a family who was grappling with this issue. Their teenage son was developmentally delayed, and, sadly, an easy target. They already had switched schools once in an effort to stop the abuse. It didn't work.
He was punched. The kids broke his glasses. Twice. Called him a faggot and made fun of his mannerisms. They followed him through the halls, making threats and laughing when he cowered.
His teachers said he should ignore the kids. Didn't work. The principal, whom I interviewed, was openly frustrated. "We don't know what to do," he told me. "We're at a loss."
How comforting.
I went to the boy's house one morning, before school, and I remember the cajoling required to get him into the car so that his dad could drive him to the campus. I rode with them, and it was awful. This boy's misery radiated from every pore. He was nearly in tears by the time we arrived. I watched him pull on his backpack, square his thin shoulders and trudge to the front doors.
I wasn't a mother then. But it hurt, physically, watching that boy, and feeling his dread.
Right now, I'm just finishing Jodi Picoult's Nineteen Minutes, a novel that dissects a school shooting — and bullying — from all perspectives. It's been a tough read. Because even as I'm appalled by the shooter's coldness, I read his mother's thoughts and the descriptions of her anguish, and I wonder, yet again, what do we as parents do?
We live in an Alpha Society. Always have, really, but now, new precedents have been set. We see more, hear more, want more, have more.
We strive to be Alpha Moms, Alpha Career Women, Alpha SAHMs. Our partners do the same. Because, really, who wants to remain at the bottom of the heap, especially as "more" and "better" become increasingly available?
But we are adults with maturity (allegedly) and experience to draw from.
Our children, while they see and feel the pull of Alpha, don't have the capacity to manage it.
And so they bully. Or they cower.
And I wonder, as a parent, which is worse for my child? Life as one of those snotty girls I hated in junior high? Or life as the kid who agonizes each day over where to sit in the cafeteria?
How do I help them find the happy medium in the social shark pool that is school?
As I said, we don't hit in our home. And neither do my children. But will I ever feel compelled to excuse hitting -- or any physical means of defending oneself -- outside of it?
We tell them, "Use your words."
Yes. Well. The only words that work with bullies are strong ones, delivered with a certain attitude. Must I chip away at the sensitivity I love in both my kids, harden them up and teach them my arsenal of cuss words?
What troubles me is that children who are chronic victims in school often remain victims even after they enter the adult world. I've seen what's out there. I write about it, on a regular basis. I don't want them to be quite as cynical as I am, but I hope they will develop a don't-fuck-with-me sort of armor.
But how to balance this? How to develop it, without cultivating a bully in the process?
I treasure my children's innate empathy and kindness. I also worry these traits will make them vulnerable.
Ethan is small. Pale. He has large, beautiful blue eyes that will likely require glasses at an early age. My boy is a sweet, cuddly and loving little soul. The thought of these characteristics one day making him a walking bull's eye breaks my heart.
Still, he's a tough kid. Scrappy. Perhaps I worry for nothing.
But still... what if?
It's a question that nags at me, a question with no clear answer that feels completely right. Thus far, my parenting decisions have been based on instinct and intuition. But when it comes to bullying, I fear my instincts would lead me — and my kids — in the wrong direction.
Because that day a few months ago, when Tootie asked if it's OK to hit a boy who pushed her down, my instinct — as a mother, as a woman once abused by a man — was to say, "Hell, yeah. Hit him back."
And then Tootie piped up:
"Mama, was that a bad car?"
"Yes, sweetie. That person didn't wait for her turn. We have to take turns when we're driving or else we might hit each other."
"Hitting's bad," the Toot replied.
And then she added: "Except when a boy pushes you down. Then it's OK."
Pause.
Loooooooong pause.
Oh, hell, what's the appropriate response here?
We don't hit in our house. I know some parents spank, and I'm not casting judgment. I think one parents by instinct and lingers in a chosen comfort zone. For me, spanking — or any type of hitting — just doesn't feel right. And so we don't.
But what if — what if? — someone did push her down? Or hit her? Especially a boy. My history with men -- well, one man in particular -- makes me wary of assuring her to sit there and do nothing.
Do I teach her to take it? Do I cloud the issue by telling her, "Yes, it's OK to hit sometimes, but only if someone does something to you first?"
I don't want her to bully. I also don't want her to be bullied.
It's a topic that makes me leery, uncomfortable — fearful, even — due to my own difficulties in junior high and today's school issues.
I give you Terrible Tina, the red-headed, shrilly-voiced and bossy girl who moved to town when I was in sixth grade. In short order, Tina upended our social pecking order and guess who ended up on the bottom?
Tina was, simply put, a bully. She used not only the usual girl-tactics: Divide, form alliances, divide... She also relied on brute force. I remember a trip home from camp when things got so bad — do the "chaperones" on these excursions pay any attention to what's going on? I mean, we were in a van, a rather confined space, and no one ever said a thing — that I pressed my face against a window and refused to look at, or talk to, my tormentor. Soon, the other girls joined in. Frustrated by my lack of reaction, Tina finally reached over and pulled out a huge chunk of my hair. By the roots.
People tell their children to "ignore" the bullies. Bullshit. It doesn't work. It didn't work for me, and it hasn't worked for countless other children either. "Telling" is acceptable only during the early grade-school years. After that, it only adds to the helpless victim image. And you're a snitch.
Looking back, I wish I'd given Tina and my (former) friends a long, cool stare -- one that implied they were pathetic, boring, useless people -- and then told them to fuck off.
I didn't. I crouched, weeping, by the window.
Turn to the adults? The ones at the front of the van? Not much more effective than telling our kids to seek help from the teachers -- the men and women we expect to monitor the halls, intervening in fights that involve students that even they -- the teachers -- fear.
Thankfully, after a summer during which puberty arrived, my braces came off and I got my first pair of contact lenses, high school wasn't a problem.
But still, I'm 37, and even now, all these years later, when I think of Tina, I feel a surge of anger. And I find myself hoping that at one point in her life, she suffered like I did.
Imagine being the kid who's subjected to such misery from kindergarten on? Imagine the kid who doesn't see an improvement in high school?
I worry all the time that one — or both — of my children could be that kid. How would I handle it?
Since I'm a neurotic freak who often imagines dire scenarios just so I can carry on entire conversations in my head with the imaginary people who have wronged me or my offspring, I mull the what-ifs, over and over.
Because quite frankly, if Tootie or the E-man came home, day after day, year after year, bullied and beaten down, the Mama Mean-Ass Shrew in me would want to huff over to the high school cafeteria and — abandoning my no-hitting beliefs — smack the holy crap out of the offenders.
I'm not a violent person. I don't watch violent movies. And I no longer read many books in which it's an element. Maybe because of what I do for a living. Maybe because now I have children. For whatever reason, I just can't stomach it.
But the thought of continued bullying or abuse — not a single instance, but day after day after day ... — god, it makes me want to strike out at the imaginary bullies who are tormenting my very real child.
A few years ago, I wrote an in-depth story on a family who was grappling with this issue. Their teenage son was developmentally delayed, and, sadly, an easy target. They already had switched schools once in an effort to stop the abuse. It didn't work.
He was punched. The kids broke his glasses. Twice. Called him a faggot and made fun of his mannerisms. They followed him through the halls, making threats and laughing when he cowered.
His teachers said he should ignore the kids. Didn't work. The principal, whom I interviewed, was openly frustrated. "We don't know what to do," he told me. "We're at a loss."
How comforting.
I went to the boy's house one morning, before school, and I remember the cajoling required to get him into the car so that his dad could drive him to the campus. I rode with them, and it was awful. This boy's misery radiated from every pore. He was nearly in tears by the time we arrived. I watched him pull on his backpack, square his thin shoulders and trudge to the front doors.
I wasn't a mother then. But it hurt, physically, watching that boy, and feeling his dread.
Right now, I'm just finishing Jodi Picoult's Nineteen Minutes, a novel that dissects a school shooting — and bullying — from all perspectives. It's been a tough read. Because even as I'm appalled by the shooter's coldness, I read his mother's thoughts and the descriptions of her anguish, and I wonder, yet again, what do we as parents do?
We live in an Alpha Society. Always have, really, but now, new precedents have been set. We see more, hear more, want more, have more.
We strive to be Alpha Moms, Alpha Career Women, Alpha SAHMs. Our partners do the same. Because, really, who wants to remain at the bottom of the heap, especially as "more" and "better" become increasingly available?
But we are adults with maturity (allegedly) and experience to draw from.
Our children, while they see and feel the pull of Alpha, don't have the capacity to manage it.
And so they bully. Or they cower.
And I wonder, as a parent, which is worse for my child? Life as one of those snotty girls I hated in junior high? Or life as the kid who agonizes each day over where to sit in the cafeteria?
How do I help them find the happy medium in the social shark pool that is school?
As I said, we don't hit in our home. And neither do my children. But will I ever feel compelled to excuse hitting -- or any physical means of defending oneself -- outside of it?
We tell them, "Use your words."
Yes. Well. The only words that work with bullies are strong ones, delivered with a certain attitude. Must I chip away at the sensitivity I love in both my kids, harden them up and teach them my arsenal of cuss words?
What troubles me is that children who are chronic victims in school often remain victims even after they enter the adult world. I've seen what's out there. I write about it, on a regular basis. I don't want them to be quite as cynical as I am, but I hope they will develop a don't-fuck-with-me sort of armor.
But how to balance this? How to develop it, without cultivating a bully in the process?
I treasure my children's innate empathy and kindness. I also worry these traits will make them vulnerable.
Ethan is small. Pale. He has large, beautiful blue eyes that will likely require glasses at an early age. My boy is a sweet, cuddly and loving little soul. The thought of these characteristics one day making him a walking bull's eye breaks my heart.
Still, he's a tough kid. Scrappy. Perhaps I worry for nothing.
But still... what if?
It's a question that nags at me, a question with no clear answer that feels completely right. Thus far, my parenting decisions have been based on instinct and intuition. But when it comes to bullying, I fear my instincts would lead me — and my kids — in the wrong direction.
Because that day a few months ago, when Tootie asked if it's OK to hit a boy who pushed her down, my instinct — as a mother, as a woman once abused by a man — was to say, "Hell, yeah. Hit him back."
Sunday, April 29, 2007
Dear Speech Goddess:
Oops. "Therapist." Sorry. My bad.
Got your note the other day, stuffed in the E-man's cubby. It was startlingly similar to the one you left two years ago regarding my daughter, Tootie.
You don't remember?
Alrighty then -- a refresher:
"We recommend your child receive both an evaluation and early-intervention therapy that will better prepare him/her for kindergarten."
Or something like that.
You cited some examples of how Tootie -- and now the E-man -- mispronounced words and "spoke softly."
And then there was a leeeennnnngthy paragraph about how most insurances companies will fully cover said intervention. And then another paragraph about how your company, "Thera***" will come to my child's day care once a week to "help" my JUST-TURNED-TWO-YEAR-OlD learn how to say "snack," rather than "nack."
(Actually, speech goddess, I've been trying to eliminate that word entirely from his apparently too-miniscule vocabulary, but whatever...
How to put this delicately?
Stay the hell away from my child. (That's "hae-ull." With the required drawl.) Just in case you didn't understand me the first time. I realize we here talk funny.
I'll have you know, the E-man talks like every other toddler his age. And just because four (yep, FOUR) other mothers of children in my kid's class have fallen prey to your scam doesn't mean I'm about to offer up my little lamb.
Dearie, I'm a bitchy reporter. You know, skeptical. Jaded. Sarcastic.
Did I ask you to test my son? Or my daughter, for that matter?
Nope, you just showed up at the day care, as you do every six months, and attempted to freak out me and a bunch of other easily guilted working parents.
Forget it, lady. I'm onto you. My son substitues a 'P' for 'F.' (Which means if he were as cantankerous as I am, he would have told you to "Puck off," but he hasn't yet, thankfully, picked up his mommy's bad words.)
Yeah, he talks "softly" when in the presence of strangers, particularly suspect "therapists" but we can understand him just fine.
And hey, I didn't master my "THs" until ... ummm ... age 5. Today, there's no sign of any (speech) impediment.
Please, leave the toddler set alone. They have no need of your ... services.
Sincerely,
Caffy
Oh, P.S. I showed Hubs your note. You know, just to ensure my cynicism hasn't shot into hyperdrive.
He read until reaching the paragraph about insurance, then tossed it on the table.
"What a scam," he said. "Throw it away."
Readers: Make sure you wander over to Musing Mama. Still the same, fabulous content, but we've got a new look.
Got your note the other day, stuffed in the E-man's cubby. It was startlingly similar to the one you left two years ago regarding my daughter, Tootie.
You don't remember?
Alrighty then -- a refresher:
"We recommend your child receive both an evaluation and early-intervention therapy that will better prepare him/her for kindergarten."
Or something like that.
You cited some examples of how Tootie -- and now the E-man -- mispronounced words and "spoke softly."
And then there was a leeeennnnngthy paragraph about how most insurances companies will fully cover said intervention. And then another paragraph about how your company, "Thera***" will come to my child's day care once a week to "help" my JUST-TURNED-TWO-YEAR-OlD learn how to say "snack," rather than "nack."
(Actually, speech goddess, I've been trying to eliminate that word entirely from his apparently too-miniscule vocabulary, but whatever...
How to put this delicately?
Stay the hell away from my child. (That's "hae-ull." With the required drawl.) Just in case you didn't understand me the first time. I realize we here talk funny.
I'll have you know, the E-man talks like every other toddler his age. And just because four (yep, FOUR) other mothers of children in my kid's class have fallen prey to your scam doesn't mean I'm about to offer up my little lamb.
Dearie, I'm a bitchy reporter. You know, skeptical. Jaded. Sarcastic.
Did I ask you to test my son? Or my daughter, for that matter?
Nope, you just showed up at the day care, as you do every six months, and attempted to freak out me and a bunch of other easily guilted working parents.
Forget it, lady. I'm onto you. My son substitues a 'P' for 'F.' (Which means if he were as cantankerous as I am, he would have told you to "Puck off," but he hasn't yet, thankfully, picked up his mommy's bad words.)
Yeah, he talks "softly" when in the presence of strangers, particularly suspect "therapists" but we can understand him just fine.
And hey, I didn't master my "THs" until ... ummm ... age 5. Today, there's no sign of any (speech) impediment.
Please, leave the toddler set alone. They have no need of your ... services.
Sincerely,
Caffy
Oh, P.S. I showed Hubs your note. You know, just to ensure my cynicism hasn't shot into hyperdrive.
He read until reaching the paragraph about insurance, then tossed it on the table.
"What a scam," he said. "Throw it away."
Readers: Make sure you wander over to Musing Mama. Still the same, fabulous content, but we've got a new look.
Friday, April 27, 2007
Sometimes my job rocks
In 1953, a woman in England was engaged to a man she adored. And then, one afternoon, she was attacked and raped. Three months later, she found out she was pregnant. Her mother was horrified, and demanded that this woman give up her baby. When she was seven months along, the woman's parents sent her a home for pregnant girls in London, so none of their friends or neighbors would know. She had the baby, then returned to the home as arrangements for the adoption were made. In the photo below, the woman is holding her 6-week-old girl. A week or so later, she gave the baby up for adoption. The transfer took place in an English tea room. Can you imagine, being forced to give up your child six weeks after coming home from the hospital? I can't.
Before you judge, remember this was 1950s England, when "disgraceful" pregnanices were hidden. And bear in mind, this woman still lived with her parents. She was very much under their influence.
This week, mother and daughter were reunited. I'd already spent a couple of weeks talking to the woman about what happened all those years ago. And then I was there, when the two saw each other for the first time.
And it was one of those moments when I was so glad to be doing what I do.
Before you judge, remember this was 1950s England, when "disgraceful" pregnanices were hidden. And bear in mind, this woman still lived with her parents. She was very much under their influence.
This week, mother and daughter were reunited. I'd already spent a couple of weeks talking to the woman about what happened all those years ago. And then I was there, when the two saw each other for the first time.
And it was one of those moments when I was so glad to be doing what I do.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Why I hate child support...
...and the calculations behind it. (Here, it's based solely on the father's income and applies only to the children of the divorce. Children from any future marriages are not factored in.)
... Because on the very night I'm trying to figure out how (and when) we can afford to buy some spring/summer clothes for Tootie, Hubs comes back from his ex-wife's house talking — no, let's make that "gushing" — about Stepson's new Wii system.
... Because for the first two years of our marriage, when the ex arrived every other weekend, she always had a list for Hubs of all the "extra" expenses, which usually totaled, on average, about $150 to $200. That's $300 to $400 a month ON TOP OF child support.
... Because she always left with a check.
... Because when I got pregnant, even though Hubs always paid several hundred dollars a month MORE than required by state law in child support — not just the "extras" but also one-half of day care and, later, after-school care — the ex sued him for additional money.
... Because while I worry each month about how we will afford new shoes or clothes or day care-related expenses or birthdays, holidays, etc... etc... for the kids, his ex is putting in an in-ground pool, ordering custom-made furniture or re-doing their house (for the millionth time) or installing a tikki bar out back.
... Because I never knew what debt was — or how scary it is — until I married a divorced father.
... Because a divorced mom knows for sure she'll get xxx number of dollars each month whereas a woman married to a divorced dad shuffles and repriortizes and puts off purchases because she has to work with what is left.
... Because most states don't recognize fathers as parents with the same rights as mothers.
... Because even though we can't afford to buy a new washing machine, even after the repairman told us our current one was an ancient piece of shit that can't be fixed and it frequently attacks the dryer like some rabid beast, the ex-wife and her hubs are tooling around in their travel trailer or on his fully loaded Honda motorcycle.
... Because my glasses are 6 years old, but I can't yet justify new ones, because Hubs needs new glasses and contacts, because I still owe the dentist a hunk of money, because Tootie still needs to go to the dentist, because there are so many things, big and little, and plumbing issues and on and on and on that we've put off buying for months, but to HER it's no big deal to just zip out and buy a fucking Wii. Or a shiny red, fully loaded Camaro convertible.
... Because I remember the look on Hubs face when she pulled up in that car. Shortly after suing him for more money.
... Because I've skipped birthday parties and other social functions when we didn't have the money for presents or food contributions. But god forbid that stepson doesn't get a car by the day he turns 16 (in June). Oh, and by the way, can we chip in for half of his insurance?
(Um... excuse me ex, but when you and Hubs sold your house, is it not correct that you walked away with $30,000 and he received $1,500 per your divorce decree? I know it is because I've read it. I also read the document Hubs' attorney made him sign saying she had advised him against such an unfair split. As always, however, he gave in to you. For the kids. So hey, why not consider your profit on that little number Hubs' insurance contribution? Sounds like a good idea to me.
...Because it's fucking unfair. Because child support laws make it near impossible for a man to remarry or have additional children. A woman, however, gets the child support, a new spouse and his salary, and whatever income she earns.
...Because in order for things to be truly equitable, I would have to divorce my husband. Because then Hubs' paycheck would be divided among ALL FOUR KIDS.
... Because my brother-in-law raised four kids without a dime of child support from his ex-wife. Because the only thing we ever hear about are "deadbeat dads" when really, the mothers are equal offenders. C'mon, are we still employing 1950s thinking here? Geez. If you're going to pursue the fathers, then -- HELLO?! -- go after the mothers too. Because a lot of them don't pay either.
... Because Hubs is a great dad who has given and given and given. And because of the guilt he feels when he can't provide the same things for the second set of kids.
Yeah, I'm in a bad mood. Yeah, I'm pissed. And yeah, the fucking Wii was the fucking last straw.
I hate the greediness, unfairness and resentment that the current system breeds. I hate the stupid, gender-specific child support laws. I hate that my kids will always get the leftovers. If there are any leftovers. And yeah, it makes me resentful and yeah, I'm probably a horrible stepmother for feeling so resentful. I hate feeling like such a bitch because my stepkids are great, and I don't want to see them deprived of anything, but goddammit it pains me to see my own kids go without necessities while the other household gets a Wii the minute they hit the market.
But tra-la-fucking-la, life goes fucking on, and I'll just have to re-budget — again — this month, and try not to turn into a raging maniac as stepson's birthday approaches and the ex starts calling about a car.
I posted this last night, after drinking much wine at a girlfriend's house and having yet another freakout session over finances. Then I reconsidered and took it down. But hey, what the hell. I'm re-posting and people can think I'm horrible. Cuz this is life as a stepmom, folks, and it isn't always easy. And there's a helluva a lot of room for resentment.
... Because on the very night I'm trying to figure out how (and when) we can afford to buy some spring/summer clothes for Tootie, Hubs comes back from his ex-wife's house talking — no, let's make that "gushing" — about Stepson's new Wii system.
... Because for the first two years of our marriage, when the ex arrived every other weekend, she always had a list for Hubs of all the "extra" expenses, which usually totaled, on average, about $150 to $200. That's $300 to $400 a month ON TOP OF child support.
... Because she always left with a check.
... Because when I got pregnant, even though Hubs always paid several hundred dollars a month MORE than required by state law in child support — not just the "extras" but also one-half of day care and, later, after-school care — the ex sued him for additional money.
... Because while I worry each month about how we will afford new shoes or clothes or day care-related expenses or birthdays, holidays, etc... etc... for the kids, his ex is putting in an in-ground pool, ordering custom-made furniture or re-doing their house (for the millionth time) or installing a tikki bar out back.
... Because I never knew what debt was — or how scary it is — until I married a divorced father.
... Because a divorced mom knows for sure she'll get xxx number of dollars each month whereas a woman married to a divorced dad shuffles and repriortizes and puts off purchases because she has to work with what is left.
... Because most states don't recognize fathers as parents with the same rights as mothers.
... Because even though we can't afford to buy a new washing machine, even after the repairman told us our current one was an ancient piece of shit that can't be fixed and it frequently attacks the dryer like some rabid beast, the ex-wife and her hubs are tooling around in their travel trailer or on his fully loaded Honda motorcycle.
... Because my glasses are 6 years old, but I can't yet justify new ones, because Hubs needs new glasses and contacts, because I still owe the dentist a hunk of money, because Tootie still needs to go to the dentist, because there are so many things, big and little, and plumbing issues and on and on and on that we've put off buying for months, but to HER it's no big deal to just zip out and buy a fucking Wii. Or a shiny red, fully loaded Camaro convertible.
... Because I remember the look on Hubs face when she pulled up in that car. Shortly after suing him for more money.
... Because I've skipped birthday parties and other social functions when we didn't have the money for presents or food contributions. But god forbid that stepson doesn't get a car by the day he turns 16 (in June). Oh, and by the way, can we chip in for half of his insurance?
(Um... excuse me ex, but when you and Hubs sold your house, is it not correct that you walked away with $30,000 and he received $1,500 per your divorce decree? I know it is because I've read it. I also read the document Hubs' attorney made him sign saying she had advised him against such an unfair split. As always, however, he gave in to you. For the kids. So hey, why not consider your profit on that little number Hubs' insurance contribution? Sounds like a good idea to me.
...Because it's fucking unfair. Because child support laws make it near impossible for a man to remarry or have additional children. A woman, however, gets the child support, a new spouse and his salary, and whatever income she earns.
...Because in order for things to be truly equitable, I would have to divorce my husband. Because then Hubs' paycheck would be divided among ALL FOUR KIDS.
... Because my brother-in-law raised four kids without a dime of child support from his ex-wife. Because the only thing we ever hear about are "deadbeat dads" when really, the mothers are equal offenders. C'mon, are we still employing 1950s thinking here? Geez. If you're going to pursue the fathers, then -- HELLO?! -- go after the mothers too. Because a lot of them don't pay either.
... Because Hubs is a great dad who has given and given and given. And because of the guilt he feels when he can't provide the same things for the second set of kids.
Yeah, I'm in a bad mood. Yeah, I'm pissed. And yeah, the fucking Wii was the fucking last straw.
I hate the greediness, unfairness and resentment that the current system breeds. I hate the stupid, gender-specific child support laws. I hate that my kids will always get the leftovers. If there are any leftovers. And yeah, it makes me resentful and yeah, I'm probably a horrible stepmother for feeling so resentful. I hate feeling like such a bitch because my stepkids are great, and I don't want to see them deprived of anything, but goddammit it pains me to see my own kids go without necessities while the other household gets a Wii the minute they hit the market.
But tra-la-fucking-la, life goes fucking on, and I'll just have to re-budget — again — this month, and try not to turn into a raging maniac as stepson's birthday approaches and the ex starts calling about a car.
I posted this last night, after drinking much wine at a girlfriend's house and having yet another freakout session over finances. Then I reconsidered and took it down. But hey, what the hell. I'm re-posting and people can think I'm horrible. Cuz this is life as a stepmom, folks, and it isn't always easy. And there's a helluva a lot of room for resentment.
Monday, April 23, 2007
Camping — with my mini-me
Given my own predisposition for inflicting stupid, embarrassing injuries upon myself, I don't know why I'm so surprised.
But really, after this weekend's string of E-man-related disasters, I'm wondering how I will get through the boy's toddlerhood without
A.) Breaking out into chronic, stress-induced hives
B.) Collapsing from a stress-related coronary
C.) Calling 911 on a regular basis, just to make sure I get a prompt answer from a competent operator
We camped here for 2 1/2 days.
In that time, the E-man:
Fell down the steps of my parents' travel trailer onto a concrete pad
Fell down the rock stairs leading to our tent
Fell, backward, into the fire pit — thankfully at a time when no flames were present
Bonked his wee head on a piece of playground equipment
Choked on a piece of lemon rind at the lodge's restaurant, prompting his mother to leap from her chair, shrieking, "He's choking! Do something!" while turning small son upside-down and administering the requisite shoulder-blade whacks as the other diners looked on in horror/disdain/bewilderment.
Clearly, he's following my path, one that has led (repeatedly) to numerous, ridiculous trips to the ER or doctor's office.
I can only hope he encounters no stepping stones along the way. (The offending stones have, BTW, been removed.)
But really, after this weekend's string of E-man-related disasters, I'm wondering how I will get through the boy's toddlerhood without
A.) Breaking out into chronic, stress-induced hives
B.) Collapsing from a stress-related coronary
C.) Calling 911 on a regular basis, just to make sure I get a prompt answer from a competent operator
We camped here for 2 1/2 days.
In that time, the E-man:
Fell down the steps of my parents' travel trailer onto a concrete pad
Fell down the rock stairs leading to our tent
Fell, backward, into the fire pit — thankfully at a time when no flames were present
Bonked his wee head on a piece of playground equipment
Choked on a piece of lemon rind at the lodge's restaurant, prompting his mother to leap from her chair, shrieking, "He's choking! Do something!" while turning small son upside-down and administering the requisite shoulder-blade whacks as the other diners looked on in horror/disdain/bewilderment.
Clearly, he's following my path, one that has led (repeatedly) to numerous, ridiculous trips to the ER or doctor's office.
I can only hope he encounters no stepping stones along the way. (The offending stones have, BTW, been removed.)
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Hubs' influence...
...is evident in this photo.
Look closely, and you'll understand my dismay.
Observe the exposed belly, the blank stare directed toward the television, the way in which, even though he is eating a sandwich, the E-man is reluctant to put down his beer -- I mean, binky.
It's only a matter of time before Hubs hauls him out to the woods to kill his first deer.
Most of the McHubs hunt. And so do their offspring.
How big a deal is it? Well, I seem to recall one deer season spent in strife because Hubs engaged in a battle with my stepson's stepfather (got that?) over who would be present when my stepson made his first kill. Weekend after weekend, they argued over who would drive Stepson down to the southern part of the state, each man determined to be The One.
In case you were curious -- Hubs won.
Camo is the height of fashion for Hubs and his clan. Except for his youngest brother, who was so traumatized by his first kill that he never ventured into the woods again.
Oh, what happened? Well -- let's call him B. -- when B. was just a young sprout, he caved into pressure from his brothers, went into the woods, shot a deer and when he discovered it wasn't yet dead, he pulled a box cutter from his pocket (always handy because of his job at a Piggly Wiggly grocery) straddled the deer and tried to finish the job manually.
Apparently, the end result was so gruesome, B. vowed to never hunt again.
So how do I counter the Hubs effect? A daily recounting of Uncle B.'s Day of Great Shame? (narrated by Uncle B for optimal effect)
Or maybe nightly readings from the works of David Sedaris?
Look closely, and you'll understand my dismay.
Observe the exposed belly, the blank stare directed toward the television, the way in which, even though he is eating a sandwich, the E-man is reluctant to put down his beer -- I mean, binky.
It's only a matter of time before Hubs hauls him out to the woods to kill his first deer.
Most of the McHubs hunt. And so do their offspring.
How big a deal is it? Well, I seem to recall one deer season spent in strife because Hubs engaged in a battle with my stepson's stepfather (got that?) over who would be present when my stepson made his first kill. Weekend after weekend, they argued over who would drive Stepson down to the southern part of the state, each man determined to be The One.
In case you were curious -- Hubs won.
Camo is the height of fashion for Hubs and his clan. Except for his youngest brother, who was so traumatized by his first kill that he never ventured into the woods again.
Oh, what happened? Well -- let's call him B. -- when B. was just a young sprout, he caved into pressure from his brothers, went into the woods, shot a deer and when he discovered it wasn't yet dead, he pulled a box cutter from his pocket (always handy because of his job at a Piggly Wiggly grocery) straddled the deer and tried to finish the job manually.
Apparently, the end result was so gruesome, B. vowed to never hunt again.
So how do I counter the Hubs effect? A daily recounting of Uncle B.'s Day of Great Shame? (narrated by Uncle B for optimal effect)
Or maybe nightly readings from the works of David Sedaris?
Or I suppose I could add Bambi to the children's list of approved movies. That did it for me.
Monday, April 16, 2007
Better than garlic
So aside from the dog, the other long-standing point of contention in our home is:
The Onion.
Hubs has been known to study packages of food (what, you thought I morphed into a homemaking dervish each night in the kitchen? that my hands prepare only food still in its natural shape or form? ha.) just to ensure that a fiendish Paul Newman didn't slip a bit of onion powder into the spaghetti sauce.
Our biggest argument ever -- and I mean I was ready to pack the man off to a hotel after holding him down and blowing my onion breath into each of his nostrils -- was over chicken spaghetti and whether "his side" of the casserole dish contained onions.
It's frustrating enough to listen to your preschooler whine about how one food item is touching another. When your husband chimes in, well, that's when you start fantasizing about spiking casseroles on a regular basis.
I have discovered one advantage in his loathing, however.
If I'm not in the mood, I just gnaw on some scallions and when we retire for the night, he rolls over with nary a hand on my thigh. (I'd say the effect is comparable to what happens when you start assembling your breast pump just as a pesky editor approaches your desk. Wanna see a man run like hell? Just haul out the plastic cones, baby.)
So with Hubs, I don't plead a headache. I just whip out the cutting board, brandish a knife and let the onion fumes do the repelling.
It's a beautiful arrangement, really. I'm not rejecting him. No, he's rejecting me.
Brilliant!
Still, the man loves me. How do I know?
When we went to Washington, D.C. a few years back, he agreed to try a restaurant recommended by our editor.
Its name?
Vidalia.
The Onion.
Hubs has been known to study packages of food (what, you thought I morphed into a homemaking dervish each night in the kitchen? that my hands prepare only food still in its natural shape or form? ha.) just to ensure that a fiendish Paul Newman didn't slip a bit of onion powder into the spaghetti sauce.
Our biggest argument ever -- and I mean I was ready to pack the man off to a hotel after holding him down and blowing my onion breath into each of his nostrils -- was over chicken spaghetti and whether "his side" of the casserole dish contained onions.
It's frustrating enough to listen to your preschooler whine about how one food item is touching another. When your husband chimes in, well, that's when you start fantasizing about spiking casseroles on a regular basis.
I have discovered one advantage in his loathing, however.
If I'm not in the mood, I just gnaw on some scallions and when we retire for the night, he rolls over with nary a hand on my thigh. (I'd say the effect is comparable to what happens when you start assembling your breast pump just as a pesky editor approaches your desk. Wanna see a man run like hell? Just haul out the plastic cones, baby.)
So with Hubs, I don't plead a headache. I just whip out the cutting board, brandish a knife and let the onion fumes do the repelling.
It's a beautiful arrangement, really. I'm not rejecting him. No, he's rejecting me.
Brilliant!
Still, the man loves me. How do I know?
When we went to Washington, D.C. a few years back, he agreed to try a restaurant recommended by our editor.
Its name?
Vidalia.
Saturday, April 14, 2007
Yeah, I know.
It's pink.
Really effing pink.
I was bored...
... and enveloped in a warm, fuzzy Benedryl (equally pink) haze...
... and it was either this or a change in hair color.
Really effing pink.
I was bored...
... and enveloped in a warm, fuzzy Benedryl (equally pink) haze...
... and it was either this or a change in hair color.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
In keeping with my shallow tendencies...
... even as my fellow mama bloggers out there are posting nicely written tributes to Kurt Vonnegut, I'm prepared to blather on about Mika — the reincarnation of at least one (or two, or hell, maybe three -- well, shit, OK, four) college boyfriends.
He exhibits all the traits I found so desirable at that time:
1. Musical talent
2. Sexual ambiguity (unavailability is such a turn-on)
3. A mop of to-die-for curls
4. Creativity (Examples: His website, the whole cartoon approach and oh, yeah — his video (see below), which I made Hubs watch while I carried on in an appropriately smitten manner.
5. The drown-in-me eyes, the mouth ... oh the mouth .. and the dancing, the vocal range, the faux grimace, made possible by those flexible lips ...
Ahem. Sorry. Hubs is removing the computer (with its bookmarked Mika video) from the room while I compose myself.
He exhibits all the traits I found so desirable at that time:
1. Musical talent
2. Sexual ambiguity (unavailability is such a turn-on)
3. A mop of to-die-for curls
4. Creativity (Examples: His website, the whole cartoon approach and oh, yeah — his video (see below), which I made Hubs watch while I carried on in an appropriately smitten manner.
5. The drown-in-me eyes, the mouth ... oh the mouth .. and the dancing, the vocal range, the faux grimace, made possible by those flexible lips ...
Ahem. Sorry. Hubs is removing the computer (with its bookmarked Mika video) from the room while I compose myself.
Enjoy.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Hubs. vs The Dog
Perhaps it was their first encounter that set the tone.
We had just started dating, and Hubs was intent on getting some action. Unfortunately, so was Molly, who, at some point, leaped onto the bed. Being a bit preoccupied at the time, I didn't notice.
Only weeks later -- at a PARTY, in front of all our friends -- did Hubs finally mention that my dog had tried to molest him.
Still, he was a good sport. (OK, he wasn't THAT accomodating, people. Poor phrasing on my part.) I'm just saying -- he was willing to overlook the incident, labeling it a lone instance of aberrant behavior.
Until I moved in with him and Molly started humping his bed pillows.
Hubs freaked. The dog's private parts, after all, had touched the place on which he laid his head.
Once he stopped hyperventilating, however, Hubs experienced a flash of man-genius. He would build a bed! One too high for Molly to leap upon! Yes!
So he used his Mighty Man Powers to construct a VERY BIG BED -- a bed that I spent the next month toppling out of every time I got up to pee in the middle of the night.
Hubs was so proud, so pleased, I just didn't have the heart to tell him that Molly had learned how to scramble up onto the bed. Or that she was still doing the wild thing with his bedding.
One morning, however, he caught her in mid-hump. From then on, he stashed his pillows on a closet shelf before leaving for work each morning.
Over the years, similar battles ensued, one involving a chair favored by both Hubs and the dog; another involving Hubs' prized deer antlers, which, apparently, the dog rather fancied. As a snack.
Alpha Hubs vs the Alpha Dog.
And hmmm... who to root for?
We have, here, the Hubs, a rather attractive guy, I must admit.
(And just look at what cute children his genes have helped produce! Sorry. Bragging rights. I'm done.)
But now look below, at the adorable, furry creature with whom I've had the longest relationship. E-V-E-R. Such a patient loyal dog, especially given some of the boyfriends she had to tolerate before Hubs and his irresistible manhood came along.
In recent years, we've learned to compromise, the Hubs and I. There are now limits as to which furniture may be occupied by the dog, although arthritis in one hip has left her unable to climb the bed these days.
I think.
A few weeks ago, I found a suspiciously scrunched-up pillow on Hubs' side of the bed.
But I'm not telling.
We had just started dating, and Hubs was intent on getting some action. Unfortunately, so was Molly, who, at some point, leaped onto the bed. Being a bit preoccupied at the time, I didn't notice.
Only weeks later -- at a PARTY, in front of all our friends -- did Hubs finally mention that my dog had tried to molest him.
Still, he was a good sport. (OK, he wasn't THAT accomodating, people. Poor phrasing on my part.) I'm just saying -- he was willing to overlook the incident, labeling it a lone instance of aberrant behavior.
Until I moved in with him and Molly started humping his bed pillows.
Hubs freaked. The dog's private parts, after all, had touched the place on which he laid his head.
Once he stopped hyperventilating, however, Hubs experienced a flash of man-genius. He would build a bed! One too high for Molly to leap upon! Yes!
So he used his Mighty Man Powers to construct a VERY BIG BED -- a bed that I spent the next month toppling out of every time I got up to pee in the middle of the night.
Hubs was so proud, so pleased, I just didn't have the heart to tell him that Molly had learned how to scramble up onto the bed. Or that she was still doing the wild thing with his bedding.
One morning, however, he caught her in mid-hump. From then on, he stashed his pillows on a closet shelf before leaving for work each morning.
Over the years, similar battles ensued, one involving a chair favored by both Hubs and the dog; another involving Hubs' prized deer antlers, which, apparently, the dog rather fancied. As a snack.
Alpha Hubs vs the Alpha Dog.
And hmmm... who to root for?
We have, here, the Hubs, a rather attractive guy, I must admit.
(And just look at what cute children his genes have helped produce! Sorry. Bragging rights. I'm done.)
But now look below, at the adorable, furry creature with whom I've had the longest relationship. E-V-E-R. Such a patient loyal dog, especially given some of the boyfriends she had to tolerate before Hubs and his irresistible manhood came along.
In recent years, we've learned to compromise, the Hubs and I. There are now limits as to which furniture may be occupied by the dog, although arthritis in one hip has left her unable to climb the bed these days.
I think.
A few weeks ago, I found a suspiciously scrunched-up pillow on Hubs' side of the bed.
But I'm not telling.
Sunday, April 08, 2007
I call her Perfect Linda.
She's my brother-in-law's wife.
Tall. Thin. Tan. Perfectly blonde, shiny, highlighted hair. Perfectly pedicured feet, right down to the last, glossy toenail, even in the dead of winter. Perfectly dressed. Impeccably accessorized.
If I didn't want to be her, I would hate her.
But let me continue --
She is perfection in the kitchen. On Easter weekend, she hosted a gathering at her home. The homemade macaroni alone was enough to make me weep many tears of both gratitude and envy, but let's add to that the cheesy scalloped potatoes and THREE desserts, including some sort of mocha fluffy thing that made me want to lay on the kitchen floor, drooling and completely helpless, at her shimmering, red-toe-nailed feet.
Did I mention that she works full-time as a nurse in the L&D ward? Did I mention that in the three years since she married my brother-in-law, she has transformed his former bachelor digs into a comfy, inviting home? Did I mention that she has three kids and he has four?
No?
Well, then let's move on to the Easter baskets, which were designed and put together specially for each child at this weekend's gathering. The eggs, which she dyed -- "just for fun," according to my besotted brother-in-law. The sparkling bubbles she blew from perfectly glossed lips as three small children cavorted at her feet -- (did I tell you how perfectly polished her toes are, how there's nary a callous or corn on her feet?) -- during a slavering display of adoration.
Really, I should hate her, am obligated to do so, on behalf of all of us who paint only the smidgeon of toenail exposed by our sandals, even during the peak of sandel season.
But then I think back to the family gathering at which I caught her secretively adding a splash of bourbon to her Sonic cup. I remember how, at the climatic moment of the reprent-or-be-damned sermon at my mother-in-law's church, Linda was spotted doodling silly little cartoon-man figures (the preacher, maybe?) on her church bulletin.
And I think maybe I could wrestle my brother-in-law for her hand and get myself what my fellow Musing Mama Liz says all worn-out mamas need: A WIFE.
Tall. Thin. Tan. Perfectly blonde, shiny, highlighted hair. Perfectly pedicured feet, right down to the last, glossy toenail, even in the dead of winter. Perfectly dressed. Impeccably accessorized.
If I didn't want to be her, I would hate her.
But let me continue --
She is perfection in the kitchen. On Easter weekend, she hosted a gathering at her home. The homemade macaroni alone was enough to make me weep many tears of both gratitude and envy, but let's add to that the cheesy scalloped potatoes and THREE desserts, including some sort of mocha fluffy thing that made me want to lay on the kitchen floor, drooling and completely helpless, at her shimmering, red-toe-nailed feet.
Did I mention that she works full-time as a nurse in the L&D ward? Did I mention that in the three years since she married my brother-in-law, she has transformed his former bachelor digs into a comfy, inviting home? Did I mention that she has three kids and he has four?
No?
Well, then let's move on to the Easter baskets, which were designed and put together specially for each child at this weekend's gathering. The eggs, which she dyed -- "just for fun," according to my besotted brother-in-law. The sparkling bubbles she blew from perfectly glossed lips as three small children cavorted at her feet -- (did I tell you how perfectly polished her toes are, how there's nary a callous or corn on her feet?) -- during a slavering display of adoration.
Really, I should hate her, am obligated to do so, on behalf of all of us who paint only the smidgeon of toenail exposed by our sandals, even during the peak of sandel season.
But then I think back to the family gathering at which I caught her secretively adding a splash of bourbon to her Sonic cup. I remember how, at the climatic moment of the reprent-or-be-damned sermon at my mother-in-law's church, Linda was spotted doodling silly little cartoon-man figures (the preacher, maybe?) on her church bulletin.
And I think maybe I could wrestle my brother-in-law for her hand and get myself what my fellow Musing Mama Liz says all worn-out mamas need: A WIFE.
Friday, April 06, 2007
If only they could bottle it
A few weeks ago, my friend C. walked into the newsroom and told me she'd just been at the day care, visiting her daughter, and had spotted the E-man running across the playground — arms spread, face aglow, laughing.
"He just looked so ... joyful," she said.
Pause.
"I looked at him and wondered, 'Have I EVER felt that happy?'"
Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou
I think the same thing every day.
Not that I begrudge my little boy his ever-present euphoria. But God, I want me some of that.
Where the hell did he get the happy gene? It didn't come from me (on meds) or his dad (should be) (kidding, kidding, Hubs is the ((relatively)) normal one in our marriage, aside from his sponge and old-things obssessions.
But just look at the E-man in this pic from his first Halloween. Have you ever seen a kid this damn happy when he's got a freaking pumpkin stem sprouting from his head?
"He just looked so ... joyful," she said.
Pause.
"I looked at him and wondered, 'Have I EVER felt that happy?'"
Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou
I think the same thing every day.
Not that I begrudge my little boy his ever-present euphoria. But God, I want me some of that.
Where the hell did he get the happy gene? It didn't come from me (on meds) or his dad (should be) (kidding, kidding, Hubs is the ((relatively)) normal one in our marriage, aside from his sponge and old-things obssessions.
But just look at the E-man in this pic from his first Halloween. Have you ever seen a kid this damn happy when he's got a freaking pumpkin stem sprouting from his head?
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
The Sponge
No, not that one.
I refer to the kitchen variety -- that which I contend harbors a billion bits of bacteria, just waiting for my sponge-happy husband to spread them all over our dishes and counters.
Hubs loves sponges. He buys them, three at a time, and then hoards the ones not in use more lovingly (read: rabidly) than Elaine.
Problem is, when deciding what is truly sponge-worthy, Hubs is somewhat less ... discerning ... ?
Everything, he believes, warrants a sponge. I beg to differ.
I hate the sponge, so much so that I can't bear to watch him do the dishes.
Oh my God, he just swiped the bowl in which the raw chicken was marinating and now he's using THE SAME SPONGE to clean our table. The table on which we eat. Salmonella will ravage our household.
Which is why I throw away any sponge I encounter.
"Hey, where's my sponge?" Hubs will inquire indignantly.
I point to the trash can.
"Why?" he asks plaintively. "Why?"
Because I can't stand the texture -- slimey, squishy. Because I can't stand the way they collect food particles and then turn green. Because EVERBODY knows that sponges harbor more bacteria and icky, horrible plague-worthy particles than anything else in the kitchen. Why don't you just grab that piece of raw chicken and rub it all over our utensils while you're at it?
But I just stick with, "It was gross. So I pitched it."
And then I buy cannister after cannister of those glorious anti-bacterial wipes, hoping that one day, he will be wooed away from the sponge. I love the wipes. You scrub the counter and then you throw the grimy things away.
But he continues to stock up on sponges.
And I continue to wonder, how can he not see the disgustingness of the sponge? Because in my mind, you might as well just start re-using toilet paper. Same damn, icky thing.
I refer to the kitchen variety -- that which I contend harbors a billion bits of bacteria, just waiting for my sponge-happy husband to spread them all over our dishes and counters.
Hubs loves sponges. He buys them, three at a time, and then hoards the ones not in use more lovingly (read: rabidly) than Elaine.
Problem is, when deciding what is truly sponge-worthy, Hubs is somewhat less ... discerning ... ?
Everything, he believes, warrants a sponge. I beg to differ.
I hate the sponge, so much so that I can't bear to watch him do the dishes.
Oh my God, he just swiped the bowl in which the raw chicken was marinating and now he's using THE SAME SPONGE to clean our table. The table on which we eat. Salmonella will ravage our household.
Which is why I throw away any sponge I encounter.
"Hey, where's my sponge?" Hubs will inquire indignantly.
I point to the trash can.
"Why?" he asks plaintively. "Why?"
Because I can't stand the texture -- slimey, squishy. Because I can't stand the way they collect food particles and then turn green. Because EVERBODY knows that sponges harbor more bacteria and icky, horrible plague-worthy particles than anything else in the kitchen. Why don't you just grab that piece of raw chicken and rub it all over our utensils while you're at it?
But I just stick with, "It was gross. So I pitched it."
And then I buy cannister after cannister of those glorious anti-bacterial wipes, hoping that one day, he will be wooed away from the sponge. I love the wipes. You scrub the counter and then you throw the grimy things away.
But he continues to stock up on sponges.
And I continue to wonder, how can he not see the disgustingness of the sponge? Because in my mind, you might as well just start re-using toilet paper. Same damn, icky thing.
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
Why I'm certain...
...my stepson will not be getting any action at our house, even when he and his girlfriend are cuddled up on a mattress in the E-man's darkened room.
Exhibit A: The stepmother, who trots in and out with several stacks of folded clothes, unaware until the third trip -- due to the dimness -- that two teenagers are not only present, but in the midst of gazing adoringly into one another's hormone-misted eyes.
Exhibt B: E-man, who is leaping up and down on the mattress, mere inches from the entwined teenage feet, yelling delightedly, "Zhump! Zhump!"
Exhibit C: Tootie, who runs in and out of the room with a half-slip and a plastic tiara on her head, announcing, "I'm a princess ghost. Look, T. Boo!"
Nope, no worries about S-E-X in our house.
Well, except for Hubs, who's always worrying that he -- Hubs, that is -- won't get any.
Like, ever.
(Insert evil cackle of weary mama/failure-of-a-sexpot wife here.)
Exhibit A: The stepmother, who trots in and out with several stacks of folded clothes, unaware until the third trip -- due to the dimness -- that two teenagers are not only present, but in the midst of gazing adoringly into one another's hormone-misted eyes.
Exhibt B: E-man, who is leaping up and down on the mattress, mere inches from the entwined teenage feet, yelling delightedly, "Zhump! Zhump!"
Exhibit C: Tootie, who runs in and out of the room with a half-slip and a plastic tiara on her head, announcing, "I'm a princess ghost. Look, T. Boo!"
Nope, no worries about S-E-X in our house.
Well, except for Hubs, who's always worrying that he -- Hubs, that is -- won't get any.
Like, ever.
(Insert evil cackle of weary mama/failure-of-a-sexpot wife here.)
Monday, April 02, 2007
Tagged...
... by Colleen via Musing Mama to describe a "Real Mom."
Kristin started this, and I highly recommend not only a visit to her site, but also Mominatrix, which I started reading after Angela emailed this column to me.
So here goes —
Real Moms:
Have been reading the same damn book — 30 minutes at a time — for the past two months.
Subscribe to parenting magazines but either never find the time to read them, or, if they do, prefer to make fun of the stupid Pollyanna people featured in all the stories and ads rather than follow any of the insipid advice offered by these podlings.
Wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat because they can't remember whether they remembered to buy a card and present for Teacher Appreciation Day.
Never run out of creative excuses to avoid sex, not because they find their husbands unattractive, but because they're simply too tired. (And still trying to finish that book.)
Never finish the laundry.
Kristin started this, and I highly recommend not only a visit to her site, but also Mominatrix, which I started reading after Angela emailed this column to me.
So here goes —
Real Moms:
Have been reading the same damn book — 30 minutes at a time — for the past two months.
Subscribe to parenting magazines but either never find the time to read them, or, if they do, prefer to make fun of the stupid Pollyanna people featured in all the stories and ads rather than follow any of the insipid advice offered by these podlings.
Wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat because they can't remember whether they remembered to buy a card and present for Teacher Appreciation Day.
Never run out of creative excuses to avoid sex, not because they find their husbands unattractive, but because they're simply too tired. (And still trying to finish that book.)
Never finish the laundry.
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