The Best Day Ever

Today was the most perfect of perfect days. It was, in fact, my thirty-fifth birthday and since you all know my feelings on birthdays, I took it upon myself to put together a fantastic itinerary for the occassion.

After a morning Dunkin' Donuts run, and helping Hubby get the kids ready for a morning at the local play-space (read: petri dish) I packed my bags and headed to the fancy-pants New York Sports Club in the neighboring town. I decided to treat myself to a day pass for a couple of classes and a workout not in my basement clad in my old man shorts and Aunt Jemima bandana. Never fear, I did manage to cobble together a reasonably fashionable, reasonably ass-covering ensemble.

It was incredible. "Strength with Danny" at ten o'clock turned out to be a kick-ass workout led by the queeniest of queens who, in between bouts of singing along to Erasure's Gimme Gimme Gimme, would shout out questions like, "What are we drinking on New Year's and who's driving us home?" A-fucking-mazing. I also got to enjoy my forgotten favorite gym past time - listening to other people's conversations and judging them. With thinly veiled horror, I listened to a young squid in the weight room discuss how he bought his current fling an industrial sized tub of animal crackers because she loves them and it was cheap and too bad she was so bad in bed. I was also reminded of the territoriality of fifty-something year-old, male, suburban, gym nuts. I get it, Gramps, you're in shape, now get your towel and water bottle off the two other weight benches you're not sweating all over and, while you're at it, cut-off shirts stopped being appropriate for you twenty years ago.

Once I was done showering at the gym (newsflash - cover that up Granny, not one wants to see the goods), I headed to Dunkin Donuts again (yes, I am a junkie) and then over to the bookstore. Thank you to the genius who decided to put coffee shops in bookstores, making it perfectly acceptable to wander the aisles with a beverage. The only way it could get better is if said beverage was wine, which I did see once in Washington DC and it almost made me move there.

Speaking of wine, I then stopped at the local wine and cheese emporium to pick up some pink bubbly and stinky cheese. I also almost had to stop and buy my own cake after Hubby admitted last night he forgot to order my favorite confection in the world which, sadly, comes from the A&P (shut up, it has CANNOLI filling*). Apparently, he has learned on the flower front, but not on the birthday front. If this happens again, he'd better learn to run.

But the nicest thing I did for myself today was to cut myself some slack. I fought the impulse to whirl around the house like a dervish screaming about the toys littering every surface or the mountain of unfolded, clean laundry which is the result of the holidays. Instead, I decided to enjoy the fact that I am thirty-five and celebrate all that entails. I was running on the treadmill to Janet Jackson's Black Cat and I realized I am stronger now than when I used to run to it at nineteen. This thirty-five year-old body has been to the pyramids as well as carried three babies. I enjoy being at a point in my life where I don't really care what anyone else thinks and heels are almost always appropriate, being a woman of a certain age - except, of course, when alone my children since it prevents the sprint up the monkey bars to prevent a spine-crushing fall. Maybe having the perspective of my mother's short life, I want to appreciate it all while I can. I feel like I have finally tried on the garment, Woman, and it fits without the restrictive Girl undergarments.

I want everyone who reads this blog to plan a day for themselves , birthday or not, filled entirely with things you love. Everyone owes it to themselves to have one day that celebrates their existence - whether their husband supports said efforts or rolls his eyes and mutters something about "fabulous" under his breath (That's right, I am. And You. Love. It.). And to tell yourself, "You know what? I rock."**

*Pictured, left, is the cake he frantically ordered last night after our fight, begging the bakery to hook him up. I forbade Hubby to take a picture of what the cake looked later. This shot taken after we cut the kids a few pieces. Mean Mommy + alcohol + cake = Jaws-type feeding frenzy

**And did I end the day drunk, watching the Sex and the City movie for the tenth time and crying my eyes out? You bet your ass I did. And, GODDAMN, if cable wasn't hooking me up as Woman of the Year AND Two Weeks Notice were both on! And if you don't know Woman of the Year is a Katherine Hepburn movie (and that her first name is spelled with a K) you must attend Mean Mommy's Film School immediately. If Con Air had been on I might have had a seizure.

Merry Christmas to all...

Finally! The shopping and wrapping are done - although I still need to run out and buy a truckload of batteries. I demand, heretofore that all toys be powered by AA's. Who the hell keeps C batteries around? And a 9 volt? Oh wait! I think I have some next to the uranium. And while still modest by most standards, when gathered in the living room to be wrapped, the kids' haul is sure to give me panic attacks on the 26th as I try to squeeze it all in the playroom. I actually thought while wrapping a toy, "Oh, plastic dolphin game, I think you're a good idea now, but I know I will be cursing your existence in February."

Hubby has prepared the majority of his Feast of Seven Fishes. Did I mention he's Italian? The fact that I have smelts marinating in my fridge is evidence of my love for him. The excitement in our house has reached a fever pitch as Santa comes tonight. This guarantees #1 will wake #2 at 5:30 which sets us up for a day of teary-eyed melt-downs from my eldest and bearish, "get the fuck away from me" behavior from #2 (yes, a four year-old can give off that vibe) and exhaustion-related drunkenness after one glass of wine from Mommy.

But all of this madness is what makes Christmas with kids the magical time it is. While I do miss long nights of watching our favorite Christmas movie, Goodfellas (Wha? There are several Christmas scenes despite all the murder, etc.) and drinking wine under the tree, Christmas morning is far more exciting than it used to be. My children are still young enough to still believe and I will enjoy this time no matter how exhausting it is to be woken up before the sun, since I think's it's going to be kind of depressing one day to have to wake my kids up, sometime around noon, to open the gifts they have been begging me for all month.

So Merry Christmas to you all. I hope you have a wonderful day. Hubby is home all week so I will be MIA hanging with him and the offspring. I will return in the New Year, I'm sure with plenty of stories involving the baby eating wrapping paper or the dog knocking over the tree.

Hook-up in Aisle 7?

Not to beat a dead Fogelberg, but I was listening to holiday music on the radio today and after suffering through "The Christmas Shoes" - Songwriter: "What about a Christmas song about a kid buying his terminally ill mother a pair of shoes?" Record label: "FanTAStic!" Mean Mommy: "Meh." - I was repaid for my tenacity (read: radio station surfing-related laziness) with The Waitresses' hit "Christmas Wrapping". I thought to myself as the song ended, "What the hell is it with song writers and people meeting up in grocery stores on Christmas Eve?"

I have read in the women's mags that the grocery store, no matter the date, is a great place to meet other single people, I think it's got to be overrated. My local A&P is not the best example as it is patronized by harried, stay at home mothers and old ladies. I guess if you want to meet someone looking for child and/or eldercare, though, it's like shooting fish in barrell. Hot thirty-somethings* (because if you've downgraded to looking for love among the oft-mentioned frozen foods you're obviously no rookie) - not so much.

On the male front, in the nano-second I was "single" after college (a term which was technically true, since we weren't married yet, which Hubby disputes. To see it his way, I haven't been single since I was seventeen then.), I didn't notice too many guys lingering over the produce at my local grocery. Most guys I knew subsisted primarily on a diet of pizza and Kraft Mac 'n Cheese pilfered from their parents' pantries on weekend trips home to do laundry. Sadly, this continued into their thirties for most of them.

To my single readers, please feel free to fill me in on this alleged hot-bed of dating action, perhaps I'm wrong about all of this and StopnShop should be running commercials along the lines of those nauseating eHarmony ones showing happy couples with captions that read "Met in Dairy September 2002". Until I am told otherwise though, I will view this as the songwriter's tool and urban myth I belive it is.

*Myself with my Yankee hat, yoga pants and graham cracker/saliva-paste covered fleece, obviously, not included.

Dear Fan of F-berg

I love hate mail, but I love it especially when the author, as is usually the case, doesn't have the balls to identify him or herself, but I allow these comments to be published without my approval as it makes for some good comedy (and why is it always about the most random celebrities?). Attached below, in its entirety, is the comment received on yesterday's post concerning the song "Same Auld Lang Syne"

This blog entry can only have been written by someone with no depth or soul. If you had ever taken the time to listen to Dan Fogelberg's music, you would find that there is serious genius there. Some of his songs are complete poetic and musical masterpieces. I have been a fan for most of my life, and it infuriates me when someone judges him on the basis of a few songs that the radio played. The song you are ripping to shreds is not a happy song, that's true, but despite your inability to appreciate his use of words to paint pieces of truth, the song still expresses a piece of the human journey. We are defined by our choices, and people with depth sometimes reflect and reconsider what might have been if they had chosen differently.
Buy yourself a copy of "Captured Angel" or "Netherlands" or "The Innocent Age". Give them a fair listen and maybe you won't be such a mean mommy.

I don't know what your name is, obviously, so I will call you Fan of F-berg.

Dear Fan of F-berg,

Let me send you a heartfelt apology for insulting someone you feel is a musical god - so much so that your fervor has blinded you to the fact that I am not debasing your All Mighty's entire career, but rather one song I find to be a bad choice on the part of the dj, when included in the holiday playlist, so calm the hell down.

And while I appreciate your suggestion that I purchase some of Folgelberg's music to broaden my musical horizons, I have, as already admitted, "the musical sensibilities of a strip club dj", so your efforts are lost on me. I do not judge you for your love of F-berg, so do not judge me for my love of DJ Jazzy Jeff and The Fresh Prince.

FOF, you obviously were born without a snark nerve or had yours severed in some tragic consciousness-raising accident, so either have it repaired or get the hell off my blog. We don't take ourselves, or the things we love, too seriously here and have no room for those who do. The soulless, however, are welcome.

And as for your pithy closing remark, should we ever cross paths in real life, FOF, I will personally show you how mean a mommy I can be.

Merry Christmas! Oh shit. You'd probably find that offensive too. Happy Holidays!

Mean Mommy

Dan Fogelberg - Slayer of Buzzes

You may not realize it, but you know who Dan Fogelberg* is.  He's the balladeer responsible for the Ambien of Christmas songs "Same Auld Lang Syne" and not the good one you make out with your husband to on New Year's Eve after too much Veuve (OK, maybe that's just me), but the craptastic 1980's ode to lost love and uncomfortable ex run-ins.

Just when you're getting your groove on to the The Ronettes "Sleigh Ride", like a record scratch the opening bars of this atrocity begin and any yuletide cheer you may have been feeling is sucked right out of you as you hear the tinny piano and the opening line "Met my old lover at the grocery store..."  Eeew.  Please, don't ever use that word again.  You are neither old nor European so find another term.

The scenario described in the song only gets worse, and more depressing, from there.  "I stole behind her in frozen foods.."  One, do you really think any hit song includes the term "frozen foods" and, two, stalker much?  How 'bout walking right up to her and saying hello?  Or are you afraid the statute of limitations hasn't expired on that restraining order?

Apparently, Fogelberg is not a felon and the two of them decide they need to catch up on old times and have a drink.  Not that her frozen foods are going to spoil or anything.  Finding no open watering holes (are they in Utah?) they opt for some brews in her car.  Here's where it gets ugly.  The old flame basically admits she's in a loveless gold-digger situation.  And apparently said meal-ticket doesn't mind when she says she's going out for some frozen peas and doesn't come back for three hours.  Curious, why F-berg picked "architect" as the husband's profession.  There are plenty three-syllable professions that earn big cash and have a bit more glamour, but I suppose that's the point.  To make Dan the better man, the ball and chain has to be boring and not too impressive, and therefore, deserving of our disdain.  "Said she married her a stockbroker...a brain surgeon...a rap singer", too competitive with the Danny's ego.

So after some lame attempts to seduce the love-starved booty of his youth, Fogelberg resorts to some false modesty concerning his rock star status, as he croons with smug superiority "The audience is heavenly, but the traveling is hell".   Shut up, Dan, I don't see any paparazzi so you musn't be that famous.

"The beers were empty and our tongues grew tired."  Again, eeew.  No, Dan, she's quiet because she is now vividly recalling all the reasons she broke up with your sorry ass and trying to make up a reasonable-sounding  excuse to tell her sweet lovable Mike Brady-type guy when she gets home with a melted pint of Chunky Monkey and some ruined Hot Pockets.  So she kicks his ass out of the car and she screeches away back to her now much appreciated life.

And then the closing line "The snow turned into raaaaiiiin."  Does someone have a gun so I can kill myself?  Pills?  A noose?  And now I'm supposed to listen to Burl Ives sing "Holly Jolly Christmas"?  Thanks a lot, jackass.

So, seriously, dj's everywhere.  Retire this piece of crap.  It rivals George Michael's "Last Christmas" in it's inappropriate-subject-matter-for-a-holiday-song theme.  Happiness, not tracking down ex's on Facebook, as this song would have us all do, is what the season's all about.  

*In my research I found that Mr. Fogelberg has passed away, so yes, I am the devil, but yes, the song still sucks.

You've got to be shitting me! - literally

Oh yes, dear readers, pictured left is a poo. I don't care if it's TMI, I can't be the only one to suffer tonight. As if my days are not long and hellish enough, after dragging my oldest to Girl Scouts, dropping #2 (no pun intended) at a playdate and taking Little Man to the doctor for his immunizations, I finally get all the offspring fed and almost ready for bed when my son decides to drop a Baby Ruth in the pool. Thank GOD the girls were watching Santa Claus is Comin' to Town for the four hundredth time or the ensuing shrieks and peals of laughter would have been audible from space. Never mind the colorful retelling I'm sure would happen during car pool tomotorrow morning.

So I have to pull the baby immediately out of the tub, strap a fresh diaper on him lest he follow his dump with a leak in a corner somewhere, while I drain the water, scrape out the poo and disinfect the tub so I can refill it, and wash the coating of his own filth from the baby's body all while keeping him locked in the bathroom with me as he screams for his now soiled tub toys which are soaking in bleach in the sink. I then return him to the tub with toys he finds far inferior, and he lets me know it, bathe him and finally get him in pajamas and off to bed.

Of course, OF FRIGGIN' COURSE, Hubby is delayed tonight by some important project at work.

This is my life? Seriously?

My kind of town (shut, up Chicago)

No wonder after I started this blog in November of last year I didn't really get down to writing until January. The holidays are killing me! I had visitors last week so get off my back about the lack of posts (you know who you are).

Last week my sister and her lovely girlfriend were in town and we spent the vast majority of our time in New York City. C, K's girlfriend, is from California, and having only been out east once, we made it our job to show her a good time to ensure many visits to come and in doing so I realized how very, very much I love New York City.

We took the easiest way possible to endear the big apple to anyone's heart and started with the food. Pizza, dirty water street hot dogs (they are amazing and I don't care how many studies they do about E. coli in that water, it only makes them more delicious), sandwiches (apparently everything in California comes with sprouts on it so the Italian combo we seduced her with was an entirely new experience), street cart kebabs, soft pretzels - no place has such diverse and amazing gustatory options in such a small land mass. Ellis Island was the best thing to ever happen to the stomachs of New Yorkers because I don't think Dutch food is all that tasty.

This melting pot of cuisine is the result of all the different people who call New York and its boroughs home. And all of this difference, packed onto one small island with few exit points has created the "Eh. Whatyougonnado?" attitude that radiates from its inhabitants. Nothing phases them - traffic, slow subways, the bum on the corner pissing on his own shoes - New Yorkers have made acceptance, and even generalized ennui, when faced with the bizarre, an art form.

This acceptance is what I think makes NYC one of the friendliest places on earth. Not that that's the general reputation. Most people think New Yorkers are mean, until you meet one. I have met several people who, after having visited, were pleasantly surprised at how affable Big Applites were. I suppose it's like the Parisians, except in their case the assholic rumors are true. But nothing makes me happier than chatting with the Pakistani kebab guy while he takes my order or being asked "Yo! Where you goin', honey?" by the construction worker I'm walking past. The latter gets the "fuck you"stare, but I'm smiling on the inside.

And speaking of "fuck you", this accepting attitude also comes with a side of brutal honesty. If you truly piss a New Yorker off, they will tell you. When it's bad, it's really bad, but at least you know here you stand.* Which should be a few feet back when voices are being raised by people near you on a subway car.

It's the general energy of the city that I love. We were in midtown with all the holiday goodness that entails - the tree at Rock Center, the windows at Saks, the crowds of tourists. It was hectic and crazy and wonderful. I actually enjoy the tourists, they are just so damn impressed with the city and excited to be there. It gives you perspective on what a wonder you have right in your back yard. Some folks dislike the commercial, mainstream, hub-bub and prefer areas downtown with a hipper vibe. I, personally, am an Upper East Side gal. Shocking, I know, but having worked there my entire professional life I feel comfortable with its pace and aesthetic. My affinity for a neighborhood is inversely proportional to the number of vintage shops. Vintage, translates for me to "other people's used shit" and no, thank you.

Regardless of which neighborhood you love, New York has something for everyone. I may not have been lucky enough to have lived in Manhattan proper, but having worked there and been born in the Bronx, my love of NYC runs deep in my veins. It is a part of me and I am even more convinced than I ever was that I can never be too far away. New York City is like the beating heart of the tri-state area and I feel lucky to be so close to such an amazing place.

I Heart New York.

*My apologies to Hubby for almost causing that fight on the 4 train, but that guy was blatantly taking up two seats balancing his check book on a crowded train to Yankee Stadium, for Christ's sake, and he needed to be told.

"You look like beef carpaccio! Veil down, I think!"

I just got back from what I feared was going to be a traumatic appointment at the dermatologist. While, thankfully, my days of visiting the doctor for terrible acne to get a refill of that weird cream I had to keep in the refrigerator (convenient as freshman in college, let me tell you!) I have entered a new house of horrors visiting said doctor to discuss how my face is aging. With my thirty-fifth birthday a mere nineteen days away (there'd better be plans, H) I decided it was time to stop using the hog-pog of creams I have been rooked into buying by various celebrity spokespersons and overly made-up saleswomen and get some professional help.

I arrived at the office and was shown to the exam room where I nervously awaited the doctor, distracting myself with feeding Little Man his twentieth graham cracker of the morning. A knock at the door and there she was, the woman who was sure to be able to see every teenaged trip to the shore when I was too embarrassed, and convinced if I just tried hard enough I'd tan, to bring sunscreen. She'd see my love of refined sugars and wine in each enlarged pore and those tiny, but disturbingly WC Fields-esque, veins under my nostrils. I was convinced she would shriek in horror as I told of my regular Oil of Olay usage and fickleness when it comes to facial cleansers, buying whatever is on sale at Target. But worst of all? I was afraid she would say I looked old.

Surprisingly enough, she said my skin "looked good" which I guess beats the, "There are purses out there with better skin texture" I was fearing. We discussed various creams and unguents and then she brought out the big guns. Was I interested in any procedures? I asked her what was available and she asked me, "Well, it depends what results you want."

What did I want? Well, I want to age. Not in the I-want-to-get-old sense, but I am a woman of a certain age and I think I'd like an appropriate amount of that age to show. At thirty-five I don't expect to look twenty-five, I just don't want to look forty-five. I would like people to think when they meet me for the first time "she looks good for her age". In today's youth obsessed culture I feel I have a responsibility to my daughters to age. What example am I setting for them if my actions tell them the best years of your life are when your face is still unlined and you can go bra-less without kicking yourself in the ta-tas? We have very few examples today of women who are aging gracefully and the resultant narrow definition of beauty is doing making women feel like their sexual selves end once those crows start leaving their tracks.

Sure a hit of Botox here and there would smooth out some of the lines on my forehead. And, really? Who would know? But I think it's a slippery slope. And I feel once you cheat time you have to pay the piper at some point. One shot of Botox turns into three or four and before you know it you've painted yourself into corner where your only choice is to keep going or have your face collapse and age thirty years over night.

One of the benefits of our youth-obsessed culture is there are no limits to what we can do as we age if we take care of our bodies and minds. But the drawback of the beauty culture that has developed is we have no appreciation for the beauty that comes with age. The marks on our bodies left by a life well-lived. Trite, but true. Sure, my frown lines are not the best example, but you won't see me getting implants anytime soon to correct the damage done nursing three babies. And my crow's feet are from smiling at my kids, laughing with my husband or squinting on a sunny day at the beach.

So, in the end, I bought some creams, got a retinol prescription and am contemplating a chemical peel. A gentle one, not the Sex and the City "beef carpaccio" variety. I'll see what happens and how my skin looks in a few weeks. Because not matter what happens, in a few weeks? I'll still be thirty-five and no cream is going to change that.

Jose Feliciano aka Marquis de Sade

I apologize for the long absence, dear readers, Hubby was out of town on business again and I had to use all of my energy to not hang myself in the basement.  He has since returned from his trek across the Himalayas with only a canteen of water to sustain him.  Or at least that's how he bills these trips before his departure, returning only to regale me with stories of the four hour train trip during which he spent not a single moment in his seat, but rather in the bar car.  Boo-fucking-hoo.  So now he's back and while it is nice to have adult interaction once again, I did notice the marked lack of eight pairs of work shoes by the front door and open saline bottles left on the bathroom counter for the baby to play fire hose with while he was away.  Perhaps he needs a sticker chart like the girls.  But instead of calling it his Big Boy Chart, as I do for the kids, I'll label it "Shit I Should Do Unless I Want to Be On the Business End of an Ass-kicking".  But I digress...

Speaking of apologies, let me formally apologize to the inhabitants of apartment #2 at 925 Park Avenue in Hoboken, NJ during the month of December, 1996.  Let me 'splain.

It was during that month I decided to host my first party in my first solo apartment.  It was a tree-trimming party and I invited the fifteen or so guys and gals I was working with at the time to join me in my shoe box of an apartment (seriously, you could prop your feet on the opposite wall when sitting on the couch watching TV).  We were all fresh out of college, barely making ends meet in these first apartments and constantly trying to prove how grown-up we were - and failing miserably.  In this vein, I decided my soiree would not have the usual cases of cheap beer and various snacks from Frito-Lay.  Instead, I was serving only cheap champagne and various finger foods I had read about in Bon Appetit.  Nary a plastic cup was in sight, I was, instead, insisting on only using stemware - a trait I still possess to this day and I keep a set of cheap "hotel" champagne flutes bubble-wrapped in a box that I pack in my suitcase whenever I am going on a hotel vacation.  Drinking bubbly out of a plastic bathroom cup is just depressing.

So the time of the party draws near and having set up the tree (or having paid the guy who helped me drag it home twenty bucks to erect my Clark Griswald-esque selection in its stand -  it almost poked me in the eye in the bedroom when I woke up the next morning) and after having spent the day making finger foods and cleaning glasses, my guests all arrive and we begin decorating the tree with a variety of ghetto ornaments crafted by the impoverished guests.  I still have the star made from a Sam Adams carton and tin foil.  It's in with our current Xmas stuff and it makes me laugh ever year.

Fast forward three hours and many bottles of Freixenet later, and things are getting a little out of hand.  My friend's boyfriend, who was the Fun Bobby of our group had already smashed three glasses, claimed control over the stereo, and thus began a two hour long constant replay of Jose Feliciano's Feliz Navidad with sixteen drunken idiots singing along at the top of their lungs.  Nice.

Thank you, former neighbor, for not coming down the stairs with a baseball bat after the tenth replay.  I did not, at the time, possess the manners or knowledge of apartment etiquette that dictates you invite all neighbors who might call the cops to your soirees to prevent such phone calls.  You were very understanding.  And please know, I am now getting my comeuppance.  My children are obsessed with this song and I swear, if I have to hear this blind guy sing "prospero año y felicidad" one more time at eight in the morning on the way to school, I will fling myself out of the van while it is still in motion.  Goddamn Dora.  I have them, mercifully, listening to the original, but it was that little bitch who turned them onto it.  If it was her version we were listening to I'd be dead already.  

I think I have been paid back in spades, no?

Yes, Virginia...

...there is a Santa Claus.

I know, I know, we've all heard this line a thousand times and know the story of a little girl a long, long time ago who wrote a letter to a newspaper asking if the big man did, indeed, exist. But how many of us have read that letter? Macy's recently made a commercial using excerpts from this letter to promote a charity drive and, after I finished weeping on the couch*, I turned to the internet to read, in full, the answer that had inspired such emotion.

While I only occasionally dabble in the corny here at MM, I have included the whole letter here in today's post so that we can all take a moment and appreciate the beauty, not only of the writing (it really is poetry), but of the message. Why, as adults, do we only believe what we can see? A dose of childlike faith, faith that the world is inherently a good place and we all just want safety and happiness for our families, as mentioned in this letter would do us all a lot of good when we interact with the people around us.

And if that makes me corny, screw you.

"VIRGINIA, your little friends are wrong. They have been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age. They do not believe except [what] they see. They think that nothing can be which is not comprehensible by their little minds. All minds, Virginia, whether they be men's or children's, are little. In this great universe of ours man is a mere insect, an ant, in his intellect, as compared with the boundless world about him, as measured by the intelligence capable of grasping the whole of truth and knowledge.

Yes, VIRGINIA, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas, how dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus. It would be as dreary as if there were no VIRGINIAS. There would be no childlike faith then, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this existence. We should have no enjoyment, except in sense and sight. The eternal light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished.

Not believe in Santa Claus! You might as well not believe in fairies! You might get your papa to hire men to watch in all the chimneys on Christmas Eve to catch Santa Claus, but even if they did not see Santa Claus coming down, what would that prove? Nobody sees Santa Claus, but that is no sign that there is no Santa Claus. The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see. Did you ever see fairies dancing on the lawn? Of course not, but that's no proof that they are not there. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen and unseeable in the world.

You may tear apart the baby's rattle and see what makes the noise inside, but there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest man, nor even the united strength of all the strongest men that ever lived, could tear apart. Only faith, fancy, poetry, love, romance, can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, VIRGINIA, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding.

No Santa Claus! Thank God! He lives, and he lives forever. A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay, ten times ten thousand years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood."

*I have highlighted, in blue, the line that actually made my snort as I cried. Hubby's nickname for me? The Open Wound. He, with all of his non-crying, has a heart made of stone.

Here's your baby. Where's my drink?

This weekend, I visited some friends who recently had a baby. I arrived with gifts and the usual eighty-five pounds of cold cuts I bring when dropping in on the newly multiplied (new parents need food that does not require heating and can be eaten with one hand) dressed in one of my "I'm not with my kids" outfits, which included The Shoes, ready for a fun afternoon of reminiscing about my days as a teacher with this former colleague of mine.

After lunch, the baby woke up and my travel companion, another former colleague of mine who, as of yet, does not have children, asked if he could hold the baby. After a decent interval, he said he didn't want to hog all the baby-holding time and asked me would I like a turn. "Of course!", was my answer. What did I really want to say? "No thanks, I've had a turn for the past six years." But I took the baby, smelled that wonderful, new baby smell and the little guy rewarded me by starting to whimper, presumably to be fed. "I think he's hungry", I told his mother and handed him off straight away lest he spit up on my adorable, green, corduroy blazer or, God forbid, my shoes. My friend, ever-observant and witty said, "Wow. It's like he was spring-loaded." Well.

OK, I'll say it. I do not like to hold babies that are not my own.* Yes, I am the devil. This was not always the case. Before I had kids, I jockeyed for baby-rocking rights with the best of them, swooping in before an elderly aunt could get her claws on a newborn relative so I could rock him to sleep. It was fun imagining myself as a mother and seeing the look in Hubby's eyes as he pictured me, I'm sure, with our own offspring, made my ovaries ache.

But now, dear readers, the bloom is off the rose. I've held my own babies for what must amount to years' worth of time. Was and is it wonderful? Yes, and at times, no. I liken my new-found distaste for cradling the recently born to asking a grave digger if he'd like to come help you turn over your garden on Sunday. It's what I do for a living, I do not enjoy doing it during my off hours. Again, evil? Sure, but I like to use my down time to recharge my holding-feeding-butt-wiping batteries for my own children's benefit so let me give these guns a rest.

These awkward hot-potato-baby moments also happen most often on weekends and holidays when Hubby is on duty with my own progeny and I am either away from them or he is around to do the messy stuff. I am also usually dressed up and/or having a glass of wine as well and, as I have mentioned in previous posts, nothing is more alluring to a baby than long, carefully blown-out hair or dry clean only clothing. I just want to enjoy my moment of child-free-not-wearing-yoga-pants-and-a-sweatshirt bliss. In fact, holidays are the perfect time for the beleaguered mother to get a break with all the grandparents, aunts and uncles around who are just dying to get a hold of your little bundle of joy - and any mother who denies loving this perk is a big, fat, fucking liar.

My apologies to anyone whose baby I have held recently. I love you and your child, really, I do. It's just that when I am out of "Mommy mode" I'd kind of like to stay that way for a while. If you visit me on a workday when I am battle-ready and wearing my machine washable armor having tied my hair back then I'll while the day away holding your kid so you can get some peace. Just remember that feeling if we meet on a holiday or festive occassion becuase odds are, Hubby is chasing Little Man around while simultaneously trying to get #2 to pee and #1 asks him to braid her hair, and know I am trying to enjoy some peace of my own.

*Jean - I was obviously dressed in Mommy clothes (as evidenced by the ever-present ponytail) when I saw you and wild horses could not have stopped me from getting my mitts on that little guy.

Happy Thanksgiving

Happy Thanksgiving! I'm taking five minutes before the inevitable, crazy run-around of packing my family, including a semi-incontinent dog, for a day at someone else's house to tell all of you how grateful I am for this blog. Although I had already started it at this time last year, I was still to engulfed in the up-all-night-nursing-haven't-quite-figured-out-how-to-manage-three-kids fog to really write with any regularity, and thus, it really hadn't made an impact on my life yet. This year, one of the things I am most grateful for is having this place to sound off and to test the waters writing-wise knowing I have a supportive group of followers who don't think I'm crazy, or crazy enough to call Child Protective Services...yet.

So Happy Turkey Day to all (a phrase I semi-hate, but find myself using anyway). One of the traditions Mean Mommy and her brood will be partaking in is the annual writing in the "Thanksgiving Book". This is a plain, hardcover sketch book I bought the year my first was born and each Thanksgiving we all get a page to write what we are grateful for that year - specifically that year. We know each year we are thankful for family and our health, etc., but keeping it specific to the year that is coming to close has made this book a chronical of our lives.

The first year we had just had #1, so we both obviously went on and on about her, but also about the bout of unemplyment we were going through and how thankful we were to have each other and how strong we felt as a team. As soon as they could hold a crayon my kids joined in and it's so sweet now to read their contributions. #1's entry last year, despite her brother's arrival, stated she was most thankful for her sister because she always has someone to play with. This year, #2 returned the favor by listing her sister as her biggest blessing. This is the part of the day I most look forward to and it made my day when my oldest asked me, "When do we get to write in the book?", with excitement in her voice.

I remember the days when Thanksgiving was a day to endure my annoying uncles and trying not to gag while eating my Irish aunt's terrible cooking, or, years later, a day to drink mass amounts of wine with my husband and assorted siblings watching the "real" grown-ups do all the work. And while the workload has increased with time, so has my love for this day.

I hope you all have a wonderful day and get to partake in traditions that bring you and your family joy.

Re: Complaints filed

Dear Sir,
We are writing in response to several complaints received by the government of this household by a "Hubby" during the morning hours of Wednesday, November 26th, 2008.

The first complaint was filed with the Department of Sanitation - "You've lost all my good socks." This statement is baldly untrue. The Department makes collections several times a week at specific drop points and while we carefully clean and return all items left in the proper containers, we can not be held responsible for items dropped near or about said vessels or items that are left in the middle of the floor and wind up under the dresser. Leaving said items scrunched up in little balls in the very manner they were removed from your feet does not help either. The FBI has looked into this claim and no missing socks could be found despite interrogating both the washing machine and dryer during the baby's nap.

The second complaint, fielded by The Department of Health and Human Services, after discussing tonight's pre-Thanksgiving dinner menu composed of leftovers was, I believe, worded as "Now you want to feed me old soup". While we agree that this is not the most desirable of situations, food stores are low prior to the holiday and the Department is trying to ensure some vegetables that are not creamed enter the systems of this family in the next forty-eight hours. DHHS is also supported by the Department of the Treasury in its cost-cutting efforts trying to avoid the thirty-five dollar Mexican takeout bill.

The third complaint was recieved by The Fish and Wildlife Service concerned the medical care of one canine. A veternary appointment had been made in the evening hours to accomodate The Department of Finance's work schedule, but this was apparently unacceptable and "There must be a way you can take him with the kids" was the response to our efforts. What the DOF fails to realize is the sheer physical strength required to drag three children, one in a stroller with a bum wheel, and a skittish dog through the cavernous vet's waiting room then the creativity and mental agility to keep all FOUR beings semi-quiet, happy and occupied while sitting in a room that smells vaguely of cat pee and that weird stuff that shoots out of dog's butts when terrified.

Sir, we regret to inform you that, while your complaints have been heard, we feel other departments within the government must pick up the slack if the situation is to improve. We are stretched thin as it is with very little man-power to make any serious changes and frankly, we don't want to. The President has informed us she "could not give less of a shit" and despite numerous apologies offered, "he can wash his own damn socks from now on".

Sincerely,
Mary Barchetto
Secretary of State

Mean Mommy Published (sort of)

Check out the December issue of Self magazine's Letters to the Editor to find yet another public forum I think needs my opinion. Hopefully this is the toe in the door toward getting an article published.
Oh, and they totally added (as they make you agree to editing) that exclamation point at the end since I would never end in such a cheeseball tone. Exclamation point overuse makes my skin crawl! Really!!!! Meh.

If I Were a Boy

Yes, this is the topic of Beyonce's new song, and yes, I like her music and, yes, you can stop laughing and shut up.

Seriously, my love of R&B aside (which apparently is my favorite genre of music according to the new sort function on iTunes), listening to this song got me thinking. In the song Beyonce lists all of the things she would do within the confines of a relationship were she male - not calling, not sharing - blah, blah, find a new boyfriend then. However, the refrain, "If I were a boy" made me think about all the differences between men and women outside of the cliched romantic ones and the line, "I'd put myself first", particularly highlighted, to me, the innate selfishness men never seem to lose as they mature from boys to men.

Now don't get your boxers in a bunch, male readers. I am not saying all men are selfish bastards who don't think of others or live their lives in service to their families - this is meant as a compliment. What I'm talking about are the day to day differences in the way we live our lives as adults. Men continue to seek pleasure as they did as children while women develop a mindset of self-deprivation-as-virtue. We feel we have to earn our rewards and pleasures instead of it being a right as a living being to enjoy what life has to offer.

So, I came up with four major things I would like to start doing to break this habit - all inspired by Hubby. These are differences between he and I that I think add to his quality of life and seriously detract from mine.

1. I will indulge regularly in things I love to eat and actively seek them out. My husband will no longer be able to say, "But I never know if you're going to eat it if I bring it home!" Since my former self, having a fat day, might not eat the chocolate donuts he just brought me. He, on the other hand, if faced with bacon, regardless of dietary status, will consume with vigor.

2. I will not look at the state of the house as a reflection of my self worth or die a little inside when the baby fishes a toy from under the couch and brings with it a fistful of dog hair. Ditto for unfolded laundry and that brown substance in the bottom of the crisper in the fridge.

3. I will declare pooping as alone time. I can count on one hand the number of times I have gone to the bathroom with the door closed in the last six years. From now on I'm bringing a book.

4. I am currently doing this right now, but I will take the baby's nap time as my lunch hour and do what I want to do instead of the eight thousand things I have to do. I may take a nap myself.

Look for additions to this in the future as I'm sure after having my eyes opened I will see more and more of these differences. I can pat myself on the back for two things I already do that are typically "male" and I love them. I drive both the remote and the cars in this family and do both better than Hubby. (Shut up, H, you know you love John & Kate Plus 8!)

You got chocolate on my peanut butter!

After the rain passed this weekend we were blessed with one of those perfect fall Sundays -sunny, a little windy and cold enough to make me track down several pairs of mismatched mittens and congratulate myself on buying Little Man a pair last week so I wouldn't have to put socks on his little paws again like I had to earlier in the fall during an unexpected cold snap.  Hubby graciously took the kids up the street to the park while I frantically tried to change my summer clothes out of the closet.  I'm sure I'll finish this task only to need them again weeks later.

When my brood returned Hubby was talking to them about hot chocolate and while #2 has been jabbering about this libation since she saw it on Blues Clues, she had yet to actually try it.  This had my oldest feeling left out because she really doesn't like chocolate or chocolate flavored things.  I know!  The insanity of this is staggering.  If she doesn't like wine when she gets older I will know she was switched at birth.  

They say necessity is the mother of invention, but I say motherhood is the mother of invention.  How many great inventions out there were invented by mothers who saw a need and filled it?  The automatic dishwasher, for one, and for that we are all eternally grateful.  So I came up with a beverage to satisfy my oldest's weird disturbingly lacking palette.  My invention was no where near as life altering and you can actually order what I created at Starbucks, but I thought, "Why not make hot vanilla?"  So I warmed up some milk with a bit of sugar and poured in a little vanilla extract.  It was amazing!  And a curse.  If I hear #2 ask me for "hot banilla" one more time today I will scream.

This new beverage did make me think about the way we assume certain flavors go together and wonder why.  Like, why all hot drinks are coffee or chocolate flavored.  Hubby wonders about these food assumptions all the time whenever he tries, unsuccessfully, to buy a banana muffin.  "Why do they always have to have nuts???", he screams spitting the bits of what looked like a nut-free baked good out of his craw.  I tell him disliking that combo is like hating apples and cinnamon.  I, personally, can not understand sweet and savory in a main dish.  "And the special tonight comes with a mango salsa" - and an air sickness bag?  Bleh.  And anything with raspberry sauce makes me want to die.

Of course there are some combos that are classic and we can not imagine life without them. Chocolate and peanut butter?  What took so damn long for someone to invent the peanut butter cup?  Sour cream and onion?  Who is the snack food genius I have to thank for that as well as salt and vinegar?  My blood pressure rises just thinking of that delicious combo.  

I definitely do not put myself in the same league as these food pioneers.  In fact, Hubby is dying right now since he is an actual cook and the only examples of flavor innovation I gave all come in a bag and have a shelf life of approximately one hundred years, but this is the woman who thinks Ragu is a big treat (and no I don't consider it Italian food, it's a food group unto itself).  But I am proud that I have created a something my daughter will probably pass down to her kids.  Although maybe they'll be asking her someday, "Who the heck thought hot vanilla milk was good?  Gah!"

They have no idea...

...how good they have it.

I have just returned from an unexpected errand.  While trotting along happily on the treadmill, rocking it out to Christina Aguilera's "Keeps Gettin' Better" (Yuck it up.  Her music is so fun to run to and I knew there was a reason, back in the day, that I liked her better than the other two blond, teen sensations, Britney and Jessica.  Look at her now, happily married with a child while the other two lock themselves in bathrooms with their kids and troll the bar at Chateau Marmont looking for someone to tell her "it's tuna") when the phone rings.  It's the nurse at my oldest's school telling me my kid is in the office for the second time today complain of stomach pain, although with no fever or puking.

Now, #1 isn't really a comlpainer, nor does she challenge authority willy-nilly, so I'm pretty sure she's sick, and offer to come get her when the nurse asks me what I want to do.  Now I have to pull #2 out of her rest, ask the neighbor to listen for Little Man on the monitor since he's out like a light, change my sweaty-ass clothes and run down to the school.  

I get all of this accomplished in ten minutes and pull up in front as #1 is returning from gathering her things.  The smile on her face was evidence enough that I had been had.  We walk into the office together and as I'm signing her out I notice a name above hers in the log - that of a friend from class.  It seems she went home with a tummy ache as well.  Then I get her in the van and see the huge grim she gives her sister.  Now I'm pissed.  We get home, I put everyone in bedrooms for more rset time and after twenty minutes am greeted with a sheepish  #1 at my door telling me, "I feel better.  Can I play on the computer?"  Hells no.

Now we're gonna talk.  I explain that when you come home early from school there is no TV, no computer, no Wii, no fun with Mommy until 2:45, the hour school would normally let out.  Now while this is bullshit if my child were actually sick, and I would let them watch TV and provide much cuddling, I want to make this experience so boring that it is never repeated unless major illness strikes.  Because, seriously, these kids have no idea how good they have it.

As a latchkey child of the eighties, my mother worked in a small city thirty minutes away for a major financial company, and I had to be on death's door if I was coming home.  I remember clearly, getting on the phone with my mother while the nurse listened and she asked me, did I really need to come home?  There was no quick run down the street to be rescued.  The same was true of forgotten lunches and book reports.  I tell my kids this and  they look like I'm telling them my mother fed me ground rats for dinner.  "She wasn't home?"  Incredible!

So while I am pissed and amazed at what my children take for granted and I do have to keep reminding my daughter to leave me the hell alone because "Mommy still needs to get the work done she would normally do when you are at school", I also feel pretty good.  I feel good providing a sense of safety that I did not experience as a child (no hate, Dad).  I feel lucky that I am able to.  Today I reinforced to my kid that she can count on me whenever she needs me.  As a kid, I also remember clearly, thinking, "There's my beautiful mother, come to save me" when she finally arrived at school an hour later (my kids even take the lightening speed of said rescue for granted) and knowing I created that kind of joy for her today is really sort of awesome.

Ex-squeeze Me

Sorry about the short, cheap posts these past two days, but a weekday without Hubby around is extra hectic as I also have to squeeze in taking out garbage (and bringing in the cans even though you all know my tendency to let them roll around the neighborhood hoping they'll find their way home eventually), emptying the recycling and walking my humiliatingly still be-coned dog, into my already packed day.

A quick rant today. Why the hell can people not say "Excuse me" directly to children? I was at the grocery store today with #2 and Little Man and while on the best of days #2 meanders about like she has a bearing loose causing her internal balance to be slightly off, humming the theme song to Little Einsteins to herself, oblivious, she does respond to direct interaction. So why then, did this friggin' byotch in her velor track suit and Uggs have to stop her cart, stare at #2 impatiently, then give me the stink eye since I was taking two damn seconds to select an item from the shelf and wasn't monitoring the traffic pattern of my four year old? Well stink eye right back at ya', Carmela Soprano! Since my kid is not deaf and I'll asume you are not dumb (although dumb in the non-verbal sense does apparently apply) why don't you open your overly collagened, overly lip-glassed latte hole and simply say, "Excuse me."? I won't even ask you for a "honey" or "sweetie" since your ice-cold, Botox frozen heart probably couldn't manage that.

This happens all the time. With three kids it is impossible, lest I have an experimental surgery, to hold the hands of all my children at once. And not to toot my own horn, but, TOOT!, my kids are really well behaved in public and know Mommy's bringing the hammer if things get out of hand. And, no, they have not mastered the Western world's traffic pattern of passing on the right, they don't even know which way right is! So a little, less than straight walking is not a crime. Talk to the idiot with the screaming kid over there feeding him another Twinkie. I'm tired of people looking at me when my children wander in to their path, like my children are remote control toys and I'm driving. They have ears, they have brains! Mine also happen to have manners. Which, incidentally, are getting harder and harder to teach when they see grown-ass people not doing the right thing and speaking politely. This situation forces me to give the fake, "Honey, move over so the nice man can pass." which translates roughly to "Honey, please move over so this mannerless troglodyte can get out of out our sight."

So trashy suburban housewife (a term I reserve for the overly pampered, under educated, ridiculously entitled women I run into on a daily basis - I am not a housewife, I'm a working mother), don't think I didn't throw hate your way the entire time you walked out to your ridiculous Hummer, you stupid tart. When your little dog gets in my way the next time I'm at the park and we're on my turf I'll explain how it's payback when I kick it in the head.

Credit where credit is due...

Hubby rocked it this morning by sending these. It made the fact that the baby is still sick and needed to go to the doctor much easier to take. All of his jackassery aside, he is a really, really good egg. Good job, H!

Happy Birthday, Blog!

I can't believe it's been one whole year since I began this blog. A whole year since Hubby went to the Napa Valley for a work trip full of hot air balloon rides, wine tastings and dinners at five star restaurants leaving me with my then five and three year old daughters, an eleven week old baby recovering from a cold, and, developing the very morning he left, a horrible cold myself. A whole year since I was a sleep-deprived, raving lunatic spilling her guts into cyberspace in an effort to regain her sanity.

One year later, at least the sleep-deprived portion has improved and Hubby left yesterday for the yearly junket, this time in South Beach, Miami*. I marveled the night before he left how much had changed in just one year. How confident I felt having the kids all to myself for four days, day and night, compared to last year when I broke out in a cold panic-induced sweat when Hubby sheepishly told me what a good sign it was he had been chosen to go on this trip.

Fast forward to the pre-dawn hours of Saturday morning and Little Man awakes crying. He has a fever and a cough. Hubby tried to sleep through it, but I kick his ass out of bed telling him he's high if he thinks I'm getting up and to think of me as he naps on the plane. There go my plans for a fun-filled weekend at the aquarium and various child-centered fun spots. So I spend the morning tending to a sick, cranky baby and as my brother and sister in-law come over to mercifully take the girls to the movies for me (I had to get them out of the house at some point or it was going to get ugly fast) and my sister in-law is petting the dog, she notices his ear is bleeding profusely. Christ on a bike! Now I get on the horn to my fabu mother and father in-law who, of course, rush over to help, since I have already spent forty-five bucks on movie tickets for the kids and I'd sooner inflict my cranky-ass baby on my young brother and sister in-law than I would a case of small pox, and I can not haul said baby with me in the rain (of course it rained this weekend, did you doubt fate has it out for me?) while trying to drag my hundred pound, terrified yellow lab through the doors of the emergency vet (since, of course, our stupid vet is already closed).

The kids get off to the movies, my in-laws stay with Little Man, and I take Reilly (aforementioned, vet-phobic, obese dog) to the vet. Two hours later, I return home covered in dog hair from an examining room wrestling match, three hundred dollars poorer with a dog wearing a cone on his head and a yeast infection in his ear (see above). With the help of the gods (my in-laws) I get all three kids in bed and collapse on the couch.

So really, not all that much has changed after one year of cyber-emotional vomiting. Sure, I'm getting more sleep, my kids are older and more independent, but the big things remain the same. I'm still crazy, life is still unpredictable, and when I write about it it makes me feel a thousand times better.

Thank you, dear readers, for your hilarious responses (except for my sis, K - seriously, dial back on the funny, you make me look bad), and most of all for reading. If I didn't know there are some people in the same boat as I am or at least getting a good laugh from my Titanic of a life I wouldn't find the energy to do this one little thing for myself each day. Here's to another yer of Mean Mommy. Now let's have a drink! I think I deserve one, don't you?**

* Not much of a dancer, despises hair products, Hubby in South Beach=Fish out of water.
**Sadly, I can't as I am the only responsible adult in the house and I have visions of a paramedic having to show up to the house because I can't drive my kids to the ER since I've had half a glass of wine - past my three-babies-in-five-years limit.

The Fourteen Month Itch

The time has come again. It seems every time I reproduce, approximately fourteen months later, I have an existential crisis. It took me a while to categorize it as such rather than calling it "losing my shit" which was my general terminology previously. When I looked it up and found the definition "the psychologic panic and discomfort experienced when a human confronts the question of existence" - that pretty much hit the nail on the head. Let me 'splain.

When you first have a baby, all of your energy is focused on keeping this little being alive. The meaning of your existence is tied up in feeding, cleaning up excrement and sleep - or lack thereof. Then gradually, your offspring become more and more self sufficient. Time between feedings increases so you can actually get out of the house without a small human literally attached to you. He can play in his Exersaucer for fifteen minutes so you can shower regularly. He sleeps through the night and you finally stop feeling like a crazy, unwashed, lunatic who should be shuffling along the street muttering to herself wearing cardboard for shoes. Then the nursing ends and, before you know it, your little guy is eating sausage and broccoli rabe. He's napping for three predictable hours during the day and you realize he really doesn't need you, only you, to survive a day and the revelation is shocking.

Meanwhile, now that your brain is no longer atrophied by sleep deprivation, you start to have coherent thoughts again. Your every waking thought is not consumed with, "How long did he nurse?" or "When will he nap?". You start reading the newspaper again. You take a Mommy and Me class to meet other moms and set up some playdates to watch your kids stuff toys in their mouths while you compare notes on your lives as stay at home moms and maybe discuss your lives "before", but no one dares utter the truth. The truth that drove me to hysterics Tuesday morning as poor Hubby was trying to leave for work. STAYING AT HOME WITH YOUR KIDS CAN BE REALLY BORING. Yeah, I said it.

OK, let me qualify that. As I have said on countless occasions, being at home with my kids is a privilege as I get to experience all those great little things like The Underpants Game, but the day-to-day, non-crisis stuff really requires very little brain power. Sure, it takes some hard thinking when my daughter asks me what happens to a mouse when it dies (stupid thing drowned in the kiddie pool I forgot to drain), but sitting on the floor playing blocks with someone who has no powers of conversation yet can get old after about fifteen minutes no matter how damn cute he is.

As your baby is quickly becoming a toddler, you find you have more time and energy to think and now all that energy you used up stressing about infant-related issues is not being used up by your other SAHM duties. While it is physically and emotionally exhausting to care for three kids, I still have intellectual energy to spare. And while some women redirect that energy to have immaculately clean homes or becoming super-organized, sorting and labeling every item in their homes, I want to use it for other, selfish purposes.

Maybe it's just me, but I don't think so. I think our generation is in an interesting position. I think being educated with men and, therefore, developing the same dreams and ambitions we were given a gift and a burden. Is all of that supposed to evaporate once you reproduce? We have a clear picture of the path not taken, see many of our friends taking it, and think on some days, "I am too fucking smart to be doing this!"

One of my favorite authors Elizabeth Berg, writes about in The Pull of the Moon so beautifully I have to quote it:

"Remember the time Ruthie was napping on a Saturday afternoon and I sat in the living room literally tearing my hair out saying I was too smart to do this, that a chimpanzee could do what I was doing - better!, that I had to have more challenge and stimulation in my life or I was going to die? I remember you trying to help, suggesting I get a job, and how I screamed at you that I could never do that, I couldn't leave her with someone else. It is such a violent love, that of a mother for a young child. And I had to be there no matter what the cost. I knew I was missing some things, I could feel some brightness of the mind dulling; but on balance I loved what I did."

I sobbed when I read this for the first time because it so clearly stated what I couldn't. That even though I desperately wanted to many times, I could never leave my kids. And it is my own choice that is causing me to have this crisis.

So this brings us to Tuesday morning as I stand in the kitchen crying, cutting crusts off peanut butter sandwiches and tucking love notes to my kids in their lunch boxes, telling Hubby I need to accomplish something that has nothing to do with this family or will fling myself into traffic. The poor guy. He really does try, but when he suggested I get a babysitter one day a week to work on this rambling I call writing I snapped back, "Oh, sure! How can I justify a sitter and time to write when I can't even get the laundry folded and get dinner on the table?" I felt I barely had things under control as it was, never mind adding another ball to juggle. And the idea of taking money from our family so I could "find myself" seemed laughable.

This is exactly where I was three years ago when #2 was fourteen months*. Except this time Hubby and I were on the side of the New Jersey Turnpike as I sobbed. At that particular crossroads I decided to do some volunteer work and that developed into a stint as a medical aide at Planned Parenthood. It was amazing, leaving my kids for one and a half days a week and feeling like I was good at something other than wiping bottoms. I will forever be indebted to my mother in-law for making that possible. She saved my sanity, and that of her son and grandchildren.

So why the martyr act this time? Well, when I first thought about it , three kids seem like a lot to leave with someone and I felt even more selfish than doing it with two. But perhaps the strength and energy, physical and emotional, I need to care for my children is exactly what I will find when I take this next step. Because I have decided to take Hubby up on his offer and find a sitter. While it might seem more chaotic at first, I know from past experience, I will be a more balanced and better mother for it. Not matter how much time I have I will always be a somewhat disorganized mother. There will always be laundry to fold, dog hair needing to be vacuumed and, seriously, I really don't want to spend quality time with a label maker.

So wish me luck dear readers. Sittercity.com here I come.

*I did not experience this dilemma with daughter #1 as, by this point in her life, I had already managed to get myself accidentally knocked up and was obviously focused on my own terror at the idea of having two children less than two years apart.

The Very Hungry Mommy...

An adaptation from the book by Eric Carle. Dedicated to all the parents out there who subsist solely on the rejects from their children's plates and that which can be grabbed by the handful and who, like that caterpillar, make up for it with a vengeance on the weekends.

In the light of the moon a Mommy was awakened by her children.

Before the sun came up, POP!, out of bed came a tired and very hungry Mommy.

She started to look for some food.

On Monday she ate through one cold grilled cheese, but she was still hungry.
On Tuesday she ate through half of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, but she was still hungry.
On Wednesday she ate through one freezer-burned Lean Cuisine, but she was still hungry.
On Thursday she ate through three leftover soy nuggets, but she was still hungry.
On Friday she ate through one yogurt, slightly past its expiration date, but she was still hungry.

On Saturday, she ate through one bagel with cream cheese, half a chocolate donut, one Panera Chicken Frontega sandwich, one Strabuck's M&M cookie, one pumpkin spice latte, one order of fried calamari, one order of steak frites, one slice of carrot cake and five glasses of wine.

That night she had a stomachache.

On Sunday she at through one nice, green salad and after that she felt much better.

Now she was still tired, but she wasn't hungry anymore. She was a hungover and bloated Mommy. So she built a cocoon for herself out of her down comforter and sent her kids to the park with their Daddy.
A few hours later the family came back to check on their Mommy, pulled back the edge of the comforter and she was...

Asleep.

The Black Chuckle...

I'm having trouble typing this morning as my hands are trembling from Halloween candy-withdrawal DT's. I have spent the weekend fully exploiting one of the perks associated with parenting very small children - the right to steal their Halloween candy without any consequences. Hubby and I, in the course of two days, depleted by nearly half our progeny's hard-earned high-fructose booty and they are none the wiser. I know my time to enjoy this sugary treat oblivion is limited and in just a few short years my kids will know the number of Reeses's peanut butter cups and mini Snickers bars in their sacks the way Henry Paulson knows the national debt down to the penny, trying to make them last until Christmas.

This plastic pumpkin pilfering brought back a flood of memories from my own childhood and to eleviate the guilt I felt stuffing Kit Kat after Almond Joy into my mouth I thought about all the terrible candy my sister and I gave up willingly to our parents to keep their greedy mitts at bay. While we all have our own lists, which I am hoping you will share with me, I have a Monday Top 5 for you.

Top 5 Worst Halloween Candy (aka, Candy for Mom & Dad)

5. Chunky - I know some of you will be horrified I have included a chocolate item on my list because not much that is associated with chocolate can be bad (except for novelty shaped chocolate - weird). It is not the chocolate that I find offensive in this confection, rather the incredibly dense, brick-like quality of it. Embedded in said, density you will find raisins and peanuts. The peanuts I have no issue with, but the raisins, you kind of have to pull out with your teeth and they leave this weird raisin-shaped impression behind that always reminded me of Han Solo in carbon freeze and creeped me out. My father? Huge fan.

4. Mary Janes - Or really any candy that your parents had "penny candy"stories about (boring, now back away from my Hershey's, old man). The Mary Jane wrapper has a picture of a weird girl on it and is a putrid yellow. While I have grown to love them since I can not dislike anything peanut flavored, the weird textural combination of something taffy-like with peanut bits stuck in it reminded me of chewing gum after eating and getting food stuck in your gum. Bleh.

3. Old people candy - You know what I'm talking about. Anything from Brach's qualifies, but specifically, butterscotch candies. Also in this category, those strawberry flavored candies with the wrapper that tries to look like a real strawberry. If you can find it in your grandma's purse, it's a sucky Halloween treat.

2. Good and Plenty - My mother's favorite, Good and Plenty's with their intense licorice flavor, could blow the taste buds off a five year old's tongue. I was desperate to enjoy them as a child with their adorable pink and white color scheme, but once you cracked off that cheerful coating a jaw-breaking, tongue-burning experience made you regret trying.

1. Chuckles - Specifically the evil, black one. Getting a pack of Chuckles was a score on Halloween because you got five giant gum drops. While not really that tasty, the sheer magnitude of sugar was enough to make you appreciate them as a kid. Ignoring the alarming contrast in consistency between the chewy gum drop and the crunchy sugar they were coated in (which felt like eating something that had been dropped in a sandbox), the flavors were the usual pleasant artificial cherry, lemon, lime and orange. And then there was the black one. How can candy be black? How did this creation pass testing phase? The black Chuckle was so bad my sister and I would dare each other to eat it. Again, a fave with my moms, and she could have 'em.

So Happy belated Halloween to you all. I hope you all have more honest sources of candy to enjoy. My middle one melted my heart yesterday when she handed me a peanut butter cup saying, "Is this your favorite Mommy?" not knowing I had eaten the other fifteen she had culled from the neighbors.

Dear Martha Stewart,

Hi. I know you are very, very busy, but I just have a quick question. Aren't you tired, Martha? I occasionally catch a few minutes of your show after the end of the Today show with the abhorrent Kathy Lee Gifford (I reserve judgment of Hoda as I'm sure she, just beginning her prime-time career, would co-host with Hitler if he could read the teleprompter) and frankly, girl, you exhaust me.

It is not just your vast media empire (Hubby and I use a James Earl Jones-esque voice when you come up in conversation to say the name of your leviathan company "Martha Stewart OMNIMEDIA") or all of the projects you claim to have a hand in on your Connecticut estate - beekeeping, animal husbandry from chickens to sheep, gardening, etc., (which frankly, I do not buy for a single minute - there is a cast of minions doing your bidding while you tape your show), but Marty, isn't it fatiguing being so damn prim and proper all the time?

To begin, the wardrobe. Come on. I know those button down shirts probably cost more than my mortgage payment, but when you're gutting a pumkpin or decoupaging a dresser wouldn't a nice, long-sleeved T-shirt and pair of jeans be comfy? Trust me, they are.  Then you wouldn't have to move around in such a stately manner worrying about wrinkling your duds.  An old college sweatshirt also comes in handy.

And the speech. I don't need every word carefully enunciated. The way you says "herb", by the way? Like the man's name? It's not winning you any fans other than men named Herb. And your producers must want to pull their hair out at the snail's pace of your oration. That slow and deliberate way you speak makes me roll my eyes and wag my hand in the "out with it" gesture. I myself can speak so quickly and with such a Bronx accent when aggitated people can not understand me. Don't you ever want to scream, or shriek with laughter? Don't you ever want to use phrases like, "Screw this" or "What the hell?" I know you can't curse on national television, but the FCC approved equivalents would be fine. You know I don't trust people who don't swear and added to that list - people who are too reserved. You've made it, lady, now's the time to let your carefully frosted hair down and let us see the real you. And if this is the real you, I pity your daughter.  No wonder she seemed like such a cold fish on The Apprentice.

So I am extending an open invitation to you, Martha.  Come on over to my place for Halloween and we'll eat micro-waved chicken nuggets on paper plates while my children run around in their store-bought Halloween costumes in the glow of the jack-o-lanterns I made using an old gravy spoon and a dull kitchen knife.   You'll see how liberating imperfection can be.   Because after a few glasses of wine, everything looks perfect.

Sincerely,

Mary

Shut up, kid

It is shameful how long it has been since I posted, dear readers, but after last week, the wringer and I? We're good pals. Last week was a tough one not only for me, but for my eldest as well. And my father was not kidding, you are only as happy as your unhappiest child.

What I have been fearing for years finally came to pass with my girl. Background first. My oldest is a chip off the old block. As a child, I was hypersensitive and was only truly happy when everyone else was happy. We both share an intense, "can't we all just get along?" philosophy and while, somewhere around middle school, I decided to grow a thicker skin and develop the "fuck you" attitude most of you are alarmingly familiar with, Mean Mommy was, once upon a time, a wimp. I took shit left, right and center from a series of queen bees and went back for more. I am not ashamed to say it because it made me the person I am today, as my sister puts it, "the champion of the meek", but watching my poor, sweet girl go through this is exponentially worse and like a thousands knives through my heart.

So when #1 came home from school last week telling me some kid in her class was being mean to her I immediately began to plot this child's death while trying to repair the damage done. While after hearing the details of the story, it was obvious that my sensy little one was taking things way too seriously and this kid had a serious case of the I-Think-My-Opinion-Counts, it made me think not only of the bullies I encountered back in the day, but of most kids I am running into now that we are seriously entrenched in the social world of elementary school.

The epidemic of which I speak is running rampant through our youth and unless we do something about it America will become known, even more so, as a country of loud-mouthed assholes. The child my daughter was having trouble with was coming up to her to tell things like, "You're late" or "That joke's not funny". Petty, mean things that really don't need to be said. This child, like so many others, has been taught that his opinion actually matters. That every thought he has, mean or otherwise, is valid and needs to be shared regardless of the feelings of others or, god forbid, social graces.

Even with adults these kids can't keep their traps shut. When we have playdates, they are forever haunting me:
Step 1 - Annoying kid: "Can we watch TV?"
Step 2 - Mean Mommy: "No, we don't watch TV on playdates at our house. We play."
Step 3 - AK: "But why?"
Repeat Steps 2 and 3 until Mean Mommy makes a face that scares the kid and she shuts up.

Can you fucking imagine the nerve????? It's all I can do not to smack the kid in the face and say, "Becasue I freakin' said so and who the hell asked you?" We had one kid over for dinner last week before a Halloween party and after being told we'd put on our costumes after dinner, she continued to haunt me for the next hour and forty-five minutes, "Can we now?" Then as I'm feeding the baby, "Is dinner over yet?" Not to toot my kid's horn, but she would sooner stick hot pokers in her eyes than challenge a grown-up once given a reasonable answer.

Kids today, in my opinion, think they are important and while we all love our kids and think the sun rises and sets with them, it is our job to instill a sense of humility in them that lets them know, really, everyone is not hanging on your every word and not everything you think needs to come shooting out of that little graham cracker-hole. Did you ever wonder why our parents' generation had about fifty kids in each public school class and no one got out of hand and our generation is calling the newspapers if Johnny's first grade has more than fifteen? That's because each child also brings their ego, doubling class size. Remember the adage "Children should be seen and not heard"? A little of that goes a long way if you ask me.

Now I am not saying we should teach children to never express their opinions or challenge authority when warranted, but an appropriate amount of restraint would be nice. So while we all work on that I know I have a responsibilitiy to toughen my eldest up, as well as myself. It's going to be a long road ahead with losts of stings and barbs and we both need to be prepared for that. I will comfort myself at night, however, with visions of these kids, years down the road, when they are managing a Friendly's or selling used cars. Maybe someone will care what they have to say then and ask them what flavor to order their Fribble.

I don't get...

This is a topic I think I am going to start exploring regularly here at MM. There are just too many things in the world that perplex me and I wonder if I am the only one. So to begin. I don't get...

...people who back into parking spaces. Obviously, I don't mean parallel parking spaces, what I am talking about are people who screw up the entire traffic pattern at the mall, grocery store or other any other center of commerce to drive by the spot they want, stop, and back into it, rather than doing what the rest of us normal people do which is put on our directional (unless you are my father, in which case you think the whole world knows where you are going and turn at will) and pull in. Apparently, it is such a problem at my local grocery store they have erected signs that read "Head In Parking Only". Are all of these people EMT's, firefighters, or undercover police officers? Because I really can't see any other reason to need to pull out of a parking space in such a hurry you don't have a few seconds to look in the rear view mirror.

Another group or parkers who must have descended from the first, and annoy me equally, are the "pull through leavers". These are the people who, when leaving a parking space where the adjacent space in front has been vacated, pull through that empty spot to exit their space rather than reverse out. Again, is your neck in brace? Then maybe you shouldn't be driving. Because what inevitably happens is, said driver pulls out just as another car is trying to take the space that appears to be empty and both drivers slam on their brakes. Or, even better, the schmuck pulling through does so as if every other driver in the lane should be looking two rows over for traffic or at least be expecting a car to come barreling out of an empty parking spot, and another accident is barely averted with much brake squealing.

This entry has jogged many bad car related memories so be prepared for more down the line. Other drivers I do not get to be outed in the near future? The guy who gets in the car next to mine as I am in the middle of strapping my kids in and glares at me for taking so long so he can pull out (I was here first, asshole, and you can wait a damn minute) and people with expensive cars who purposely park straddling two spaces so no one dents their baby (you are a loser and I have to use every bit of decency I have not to key your stupid yellow Viper).

Monday's meeting cancelled

Since I am usually complaining in this blog about things that stink or are difficult about being a stay at home mom, I thought I'd change things up today and highlight one aspect that rocks that I am currently enjoying today. I am my own boss. While it could be argued that I am not entirely in control as my job is to meet every need of three occasionally irrational individuals, for the most part I set the schedule and decide how each day is going to run.

Today, for example, I am enjoying Day 2 of a post-wedding hangover (a wonderful side effect of having three babies in five years and turning into an old lady is the wicked hangover that results when I imbibe more than three glasses of wine which I definitely did Saturday night). So instead of my usual Monday morning run-around of laundry and the grocery store, I have decided we can dig clean underwear out of the pile for yet another day and survive on randomness in the fridge and just fart around. In addition, I'm feeling more than a little bloated and squidgy after all the drinking, subsequent late-night pizza and next day Chinese food binging associated with a night out so it is with great joy that I can pull on a pair of yoga pants and sweatshirt and call myself "dressed".

I remember my days before kids, as a teacher, feeling this way on a Monday morning and cursing the gods that I had to squeeze myself into an outfit with some semblance of professionalism and spend the day in a room with thirty kids teaching them something other than "Don't mix red wine and martinis". While, at that time I envisioned stay at home motherhood as a fantasy complete with an immaculately clean home and lots of daytime TV, I was accurate in my prediction that once I was at home with my kids I would no longer have "The Mondays" (that's two Office Space references in one week!).

So to all of you at home I hope you enjoy what I call the "professional flexibility" that comes with the job. Because even though I can't hide out in my cube answering e-mail and guzzling lattes (I NEED a drive through DD!) and still must provide peanut butter sandwiches at a moment's notice ("no crusts please!"), I revel in the fact that, at The Barchetto Corporation, I am the boss and today my only meeting is with a one year old concerning some blocks.

Mean Mommy - almost a cautionary tale

POP AND DAD READ AT YOUR OWN RISK. SERIOUSLY. I MEAN IT. REALLY.

Gather round children and listen to the tale of a woman so dumb, she deserves every bit of blood pressure-raising, stomach-churning stress caused by her idiocy.

Um, yeah. That's me.

I'll cut right to the chase and tell you Mean Mommy thought she was pregnant, again. As you all know, I have vacillated between wanting a fourth child and being done with reproducing several times over the last year. And finally, after much soul searching, Hubby and I concluded three is enough and decided to shut down the factory. Permanently. His factory. That's right, I am lucky enough to be married to a man comfortable enough with his own masculinity to give his wife the gift of a vasectomy. So much so he had no problem telling the fellas at work why he would be out for a few days. Now this is a man so private I am not allowed to use his real name in this blog, so I, of course, questioned him abut his new found openness. His response, "Telling guys I'm having a vasectomy is practically telling them, after three kids, I'm still getting enough sex to have to worry about birth control." Well, then.

So appointments were made and Hubby went in for his neutering on the ominous date of September 11th. After a disturbingly short amount of time, he was home on the couch with a bag of frozen peas in his crotch and CNBC on the tube. I won't bore you with the details of the week following and the ensuing complaints of pain. While I sympathize, and thank Hubby for his choice, puh-lease. All I have to say is, nine pound baby, no epidural, third-degree vaginal tear. Oh, and shut up.

A week later Hubby trotted off for his follow-up exam with his sterile sample container and scratching his, now hopefully vestigial, testicles as the shaving began to grow back (Am I sick to be glad there was some form of humiliation involved even if it was only with an electric shaver? I pooped on a delivery table with people watching for Christ's sake!). And speaking of samples, he did that one on his own. I had fantasized about his having to do it alone in a doctor's office with a ratty old titty mag as away to equate above mentioned poop-related embarrassment, but alas, he was allowed to do it in the privacy of the bathroom. I still wonder how the aiming aspect of that worked out, but not enough to ask.

H returned home with the good news. H e was now shooting blanks and, following a second sample, in a week we would be officially "done". So since I was at the very end of my cycle and couldn't get pregnant under the best of circumstances, we celebrated in the laundry room while the girls watched Beauty and the Beast.

OK, fast forward ten days and my period is no where to be seen. I am officially late and, also, officially going insane. I couldn't do it again. The sleepless nights, the breast feeding, losing the baby weight. I enlisted the tried and true method of bringing on your period - spending $17.00 on a pregnancy test. Still nothing. I told H of the situation. His response? "If you are this kid better perfect cold fusion or bring about world peace." Translation? If we were going through the wringer a fourth time, it'd better count.

Two more days pass and just as I was about to call my doctor to get a blood-draw pregnancy test, it came. I have never been so happy to see my period in all my life. Sure I had a few "scares" in high school when I wasn't actually having sex, and thought the fumbling my boyfriend and engaged in could produce an Oprah worthy immaculate conception(R, is that test still buried in your back yard?), but this was the first time I was ever truly worried. And, yes, #2 was an accident (a happy one), but at that point I was already ready for another baby so I guess she just came to the party early.

Closing the proverbial barn door after the proverbial horse, I took Hubby's second sample in yesterday and, yes, he is shooting blanks. And while I did not enjoy the acute stress of the past few days, it did show me how absolutely, completely done I am having babies and I thank the fates, along with Hubby's and my inability to keep our hands off each other, for that clarity. And while this does not exclude the possibility of posts further down the line reminiscing about the feeling of carrying a child inside me, it does exclude any real emotional trauma associated with those feelings. Mean Mommy is done and happy to be. Everyone's on board our ship and it's time to move forward. At least now we can push the crate of condoms overboard.

This Old (and Small as Hell) House

Let me scrape one last bit of paint off my hands and rub the sawdust out of my eyes before I begin typing. I am returning to you, dear readers, after a week in a hell of my own making known as kitchen renovation. I have spent the last week with no kitchen access, running around the outside of the house going through the garage to grab cold items from the extra fridge in our basement (inevitably, forgetting the very thing I went down for and returning with random food stuffs), making sandwiches on a card table in the living room and heating the baby's milk up in the microwave on our bedroom dresser (nothing says classy like being able to make microwave popcorn and change your underwear in the same room!).

While we only had the cabinets refaced, new counter tops (which have yet to arrive so I have fifty year old Formica counters balanced precariously on new cabinets - safety first!) and a new dishwasher installed, the ensuing chaos and disorder was enough to drive me insane and I fear for the day we do actually move out of this shoebox of a house - I will definitely need Xanax or a homemade IV cobbled together from medical tubing and wine in a box.

Said renovation was in preparation for putting our cozy bungalow (Sounds good, right? Gotta practice for the ads.) on the market since the kitchen was a total shithole complete with NO DISHWASHER. My in-laws took pity on me after #2's birth and bought us a portable one. And while I am eternally grateful for the hours it saved me, it had become a 200 lb albatross around our necks having to drag its heaving bulk in front of the sink each night to hook it up and then listening to its deafening roar as it ran. Or, alternately, waiting for Hubby to forget to run it every night because he didn't want to listen to it while watching TV, waking up to a load of dirty dishes and then running it while feeding the kids breakfast screaming, "WHAAAAT? YOU NEED MORE SYRUP?" So it was with great joy that we finally had a nice, new dishwasher installed when the cabinets were done and were able to drag the beast to the curb this morning. Hubby and I had fantasies of going all Office Space fax machine on it (and then having a drunken dance party in our living room, of course), but we restrained ourselves, especially since I think I'd pull a hammy with the leg-chop move.

After spending the weekend painting (I am the painter in our family as Hubby's version of painting involves no tape and results in the "camouflaging" of all our outlets and switch plates), and moving our stuff back in we have a lovely new kitchen. I will now have more time to write as I will not being doing laps around my house muttering under my breath, "Forgot the fucking syrup - again!"
Happy Monday.