Did you ever think back to vacations you took as a child and wondered why when you got in the car to leave your mother looked like she had been working on a chain gang? Because she had been more or less. Only in the past five years have I begun to understand how the word "vacation" can be synonymous with "work my ass off for the week before making sure everyone else has what they need and then scramble in the last twelve hours to get my own act together". For the past few summers my husband, children and I have gone to the beach for two weeks and it could not have been harder to plan the attack at Normandy. I started planning, shopping and packing weeks in advance. My kitchen was wallpapered with lists for each member of my family except, of course, for me. It was only in the final hours before leaving I realized I didn't have a bathing suit that didn't have holes in the crotch.
God forbid the trip I'm planning involves leaving the kids (and dog) behind, then I really work myself into frenzied exhaustion. Not only do I need to pack myself, but all of their stuff for a totally different location - usually my in-laws. I also need to write out a list of instructions with such detail the person watching my kids will know how many times they'll breath in one day (but not if it's my mother in-law, she raised four kids she's the expert). And if the kids are staying in the house with the sitter for a few days, forget it. The place needs to be scrubbed top to bottom, food needs to be bought and every piece of laundry we own needs to be washed an put away (we know how that goes). By the time I'm done I look and feel like crap and it's all I can do to not punch my husband in the face when he asks, as he did on the plane to our babymoon in the Bahamas, "Why do you look so stressed?" Do you know why??? Because unlike you, I didn't just pack my own underwear, that someone else washed and folded for me, and travel-sized shaving cream, that someone else bought for me, an hour before we left and then breezed out the door. I barely had time to shower before leaving for the airport.
As you can tell, I am preparing to leave my kids for my brother in-law's rehearsal dinner and wedding on Friday and I am in full-on crazy mode. Every moment between now and then is accounted for, between the shopping and cleaning and instruction writing. The real problem this time is I actually have to look nice for both of these events so working like mad until the last minute, throwing on my Yankee hat and hopping in the car as I usually do when we leave for a trip won't cut it. Somewhere in all of this I have to find time to get my nails done - which means having time to let them dry so I don't have toilet paper from wiping my kid's butt stuck in them - and have my hair done - which means finding time when I won't have little claws covered in sweet potatoes grabbing at it. Why don't you just ask my to align the planets?
So dear reader, thank your mom for all she did to get you to the shore, the Catskills or Martha's Vineyard. I'm sure, even years later, she'd love to hear it. If you too are a mother planning a trip sometime in the future, let me be the one to say, you're awesome, you rock and don't forget to pack your own underpants.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
The Baby Crystal Ball
My son has officially being crying for an hour. Don't look so appalled. He's actually been crying on and off during that period of time, not wailing non-stop, but it still stinks. This crying began after he awoke from a too short, forty minute nap and I am determined to get him to go back to sleep. I think. This is where my fantasy invention, The Baby Crystal Ball would come in handy.
The Baby Crystal Ball is actually just the brand name, it really isn't a crystal ball at all, much like the Diaper Genie isn't a mythical figure come to grant wishes ("I wish this poo didn't stink so bad"). The BCB is actually a small screen that comes with a remote. When you are faced with a difficult parenting situation you turn it on and it will show you the resultant outcome of the action you are contemplating. Take my current situation, the BCB would show me what would happen if I went to get my son and, magically, I would know whether or not it is the right decision. I would see on the monitor that after I get him up, he becomes overcome by fatigue at five-thirty, which is too close to bedtime to let him nap again and he refuses to eat his dinner of strained carrots. He nurses badly before nodding off at the breast and wakes up every two hours all night to eat and I, subsequently, contemplate suicide. The BCB would also tell me when my son really needs to eat in the middle of the night and when it's really bullshit by showing me, in advance, each time I would have gone in there, put the nipple in his mouth and he would promptly fall asleep. Basically, the BCB would eliminate all those times mothers say, "Damn it! I knew I should have (insert action here)!" because they didn't listen to their instincts. The BCB would give them hard evidence to rely on.
The BCB can be used for all sorts of parenting decisions and continues to be handy as your children grow. Want to take the next step in potty training but aren't sure if your three year-old can handle wearing underpants to the mall? Use the BCB and see her telling you she needs to use the potty and keeping herself dry. Torn about signing your shy, non-athlete up for the very expensive soccer camp? BCB will show him, after you've paid the exorbitant fees, bought the uniform and "cool" cleats, going for two days, coming home and telling you he hates it and you spending the rest of the summer dragging him there bodily. Debating if your thirteen year-old daughter can buy that mini-skirt? BCB shows her in said skirt flirting with a senior who's dumb as a brick who eventually becomes her boyfriend who she spends endless hours texting and when you tell her to get off the phone screaming at you, "BUT I LOVE HIM!!!!"
If only parenting were this easy. I know these small questions like, "Is he tired?" will pale in comparison, years down the road when I'm dealing with ,"Where should he go to college?". Maybe by then my fantasy, a la Minority Report, will have become a reality.
The Baby Crystal Ball is actually just the brand name, it really isn't a crystal ball at all, much like the Diaper Genie isn't a mythical figure come to grant wishes ("I wish this poo didn't stink so bad"). The BCB is actually a small screen that comes with a remote. When you are faced with a difficult parenting situation you turn it on and it will show you the resultant outcome of the action you are contemplating. Take my current situation, the BCB would show me what would happen if I went to get my son and, magically, I would know whether or not it is the right decision. I would see on the monitor that after I get him up, he becomes overcome by fatigue at five-thirty, which is too close to bedtime to let him nap again and he refuses to eat his dinner of strained carrots. He nurses badly before nodding off at the breast and wakes up every two hours all night to eat and I, subsequently, contemplate suicide. The BCB would also tell me when my son really needs to eat in the middle of the night and when it's really bullshit by showing me, in advance, each time I would have gone in there, put the nipple in his mouth and he would promptly fall asleep. Basically, the BCB would eliminate all those times mothers say, "Damn it! I knew I should have (insert action here)!" because they didn't listen to their instincts. The BCB would give them hard evidence to rely on.
The BCB can be used for all sorts of parenting decisions and continues to be handy as your children grow. Want to take the next step in potty training but aren't sure if your three year-old can handle wearing underpants to the mall? Use the BCB and see her telling you she needs to use the potty and keeping herself dry. Torn about signing your shy, non-athlete up for the very expensive soccer camp? BCB will show him, after you've paid the exorbitant fees, bought the uniform and "cool" cleats, going for two days, coming home and telling you he hates it and you spending the rest of the summer dragging him there bodily. Debating if your thirteen year-old daughter can buy that mini-skirt? BCB shows her in said skirt flirting with a senior who's dumb as a brick who eventually becomes her boyfriend who she spends endless hours texting and when you tell her to get off the phone screaming at you, "BUT I LOVE HIM!!!!"
If only parenting were this easy. I know these small questions like, "Is he tired?" will pale in comparison, years down the road when I'm dealing with ,"Where should he go to college?". Maybe by then my fantasy, a la Minority Report, will have become a reality.
Monday, February 25, 2008
I love ya' tomorrow
One of the great things about being a mom of two girls is getting to experience, again, some of the things I enjoyed during my own childhood. Watching movies that I loved as a kid with my girls is definitely at the top of my list. This weekend's feature, the 1982 classic, Annie. Manys the afternoon my sister and I spent in front of our cabinet TV watching Annie on HBO singing along to all those great songs - "It's a Hardknock Life" and "Tomorrow". We didn't really understanding the lyrics to "Sign" - something about dancing in "scanties", "bathtub gin" and "making hay"? - and we always took a bathroom or snack break during the boring and annoying "Let's Go to the Movies" with all the women wrapped in tin foil, dancing.
Seeing this movie again as an adult was just as enjoyable as the ten thousand other times I have watched it, but now I not only have a deeper level of appreciation, but I view the characters differently. First and foremost, Miss Hannigan is now my favorite character and I have to say I she is greatly misunderstood. Dealing with small children all day all by yourself? That song "Little Girls"? I feel ya' sister. Makes me feel a little better about my nightly glass of wine and I only have three kids. Multiply that by thirty and I'd become a booze hound too. Miss Hannigan is also a little fabulous. Despite being a raging drunk she still gets herself together in the morning with a full face of makeup and amazing jewelry. Even in the scenes where she is undressed she's wearing some fancy silk undies and fantastic robe. The guys in the neighborhood clearly dig her as evidenced by her torrid affair with the laundry man Mr. Bundles.
The movie is actually full of independent women all employed and fending for themselves. Miss Hannigan, obviously, but even if she's not a great role model we have the smart and sassy Grace Farrell. Do you remember that hat and suit she wears when she shows up at the orphanage? Fabulous! She's intelligent and has it together and gives Daddy Warbucks a run for his money. Bit of a May-December romance, but I can see the appeal.
Sadly, Disney tried to be a bunch of smart-asses and put out a cleaned-up remake a few years back. Please. They took everything that was funny or exciting out of the movie. First of all, Kathy Bates plays Miss Hannigan. Kathy Bates!!! I don't see the neighborhood stiffs trying to get up her skirt anytime soon. And - I could not believe this - SHE DOESN'T DRINK! What is the good of a sober Miss Hannigan? In addition, there's no Punjab or The Asp, apparently the PC police found them offensive (didn't you just love the Seven-Up guy in that role?) even though in the original movie they basically run Warbucks' life and are bad-ass bodyguards. The final straw though is the omission of the kidnapping. You no longer get to see a scene involving a full-grown man in an Annie wig and dress scaling the heights of the Brooklyn bridge. No "new-fangled" helicopter. No Punjab unrolling his turban to save her. No, no the kids of today are spared all the apparently, brain-warping, drama and the plot is foiled before it happens in the new version. Meh.
If you have the opportunity, watch this one (the original!) with your kids. There's nothing like seeing it through their eyes for the first time. I do have to confess I have dodged the whole "orphan" discussion and my oldest doesn't really grasp what the song "Maybe" is about - she will be a quivering puddle when she does so sensitive is my first-born - but other than the unwanted kids thing it's a pretty good time. I still can't hit the high notes in "Tomorrow", but that doesn't stop me from trying.
Seeing this movie again as an adult was just as enjoyable as the ten thousand other times I have watched it, but now I not only have a deeper level of appreciation, but I view the characters differently. First and foremost, Miss Hannigan is now my favorite character and I have to say I she is greatly misunderstood. Dealing with small children all day all by yourself? That song "Little Girls"? I feel ya' sister. Makes me feel a little better about my nightly glass of wine and I only have three kids. Multiply that by thirty and I'd become a booze hound too. Miss Hannigan is also a little fabulous. Despite being a raging drunk she still gets herself together in the morning with a full face of makeup and amazing jewelry. Even in the scenes where she is undressed she's wearing some fancy silk undies and fantastic robe. The guys in the neighborhood clearly dig her as evidenced by her torrid affair with the laundry man Mr. Bundles.
The movie is actually full of independent women all employed and fending for themselves. Miss Hannigan, obviously, but even if she's not a great role model we have the smart and sassy Grace Farrell. Do you remember that hat and suit she wears when she shows up at the orphanage? Fabulous! She's intelligent and has it together and gives Daddy Warbucks a run for his money. Bit of a May-December romance, but I can see the appeal.
Sadly, Disney tried to be a bunch of smart-asses and put out a cleaned-up remake a few years back. Please. They took everything that was funny or exciting out of the movie. First of all, Kathy Bates plays Miss Hannigan. Kathy Bates!!! I don't see the neighborhood stiffs trying to get up her skirt anytime soon. And - I could not believe this - SHE DOESN'T DRINK! What is the good of a sober Miss Hannigan? In addition, there's no Punjab or The Asp, apparently the PC police found them offensive (didn't you just love the Seven-Up guy in that role?) even though in the original movie they basically run Warbucks' life and are bad-ass bodyguards. The final straw though is the omission of the kidnapping. You no longer get to see a scene involving a full-grown man in an Annie wig and dress scaling the heights of the Brooklyn bridge. No "new-fangled" helicopter. No Punjab unrolling his turban to save her. No, no the kids of today are spared all the apparently, brain-warping, drama and the plot is foiled before it happens in the new version. Meh.
If you have the opportunity, watch this one (the original!) with your kids. There's nothing like seeing it through their eyes for the first time. I do have to confess I have dodged the whole "orphan" discussion and my oldest doesn't really grasp what the song "Maybe" is about - she will be a quivering puddle when she does so sensitive is my first-born - but other than the unwanted kids thing it's a pretty good time. I still can't hit the high notes in "Tomorrow", but that doesn't stop me from trying.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Shall we make Friday "List Day"?
I enjoyed writing my list of good time music so much last Friday that I have decided to make Friday "List Day" here at Mean Mommy. I'm sure I'll regret this decision down the road when I run out of things to write about, but while I have grist for the mill let's go for it.
This Friday - DONUTS! For those of you who know me you know I consider donuts one of man's greatest inventions along with pie and wine. Throw in some good cheese and bread and that's actually a perfect menu. Donuts have that perfect combination of sugar and hot fat that make them irresistible in any form - funnel cakes, zeppolle, beignets - if it's fried dough with sugar on it I will eat it in quantities that inspire shock and awe. I am so in love with donuts that when I was going through false labor with daughter #2 I ate my way through a dozen from Dunkin' Donuts.
The mention of this fine establishment brings me to the point that while there are several donut shops in the northeast, my main access point is DD. The majority of my list will come from there with a few notable exceptions and I have noted the origin of each masterpiece to be clear. Sadly, the super-friendly Pakistani family that runs our local franchise actually know me by name (shout out to Mobin!). Mary runs on Dunkin'.
Top five donut varieties and why I love them
5. Coconut (DD) - I put this controversial donut way down at number five although, personally, I think it ranks much higher on the list. Some people might think the addition of an artificial toasted coconut coating is overkill when eating something already so sweet, but go big or go home. And as if we can't get enough fat into a piece of fried dough let's coat it in hydrogenated fat loaded bits! I love having them to pick out of my teeth after I'm done. Souvenirs!
4. Glazed (DD, but any source but boxed) - I know, many of you will be irate that this donut classic is so low on the list, but while I enjoy a good glazed, I do have a problem with them. They are so insubstantial! I like a donut I can sink my teeth into, not one that collapses with the slightest pressure and can be wolfed down in three bites (not that I've counted). This creates the embarrassing situation for me of having to eat six and no one wants to witness that. I will concede that adding frosting and sprinkles ups the heft and enjoyment of this variety, but I think these are the donut equivalent of having sex in a bathtub. Still enjoyable, but way overrated.
3. Powdered (again, anything but boxed) - I am removing boxed powdered donuts from this category because they can vary so widely in their sugar usage. Some varieties have that weird almost mentholated sugar that has a flavor. The powder on a powdered donut should be like salt, it adds to the flavor, but really isn't a flavor itself. These donuts are a favorite in my house, or van, I should say, and the backseat looks like a Columbian drug cartel has taken up residence most Sunday mornings after Daddy makes a coffee run. The telltale sugar trail is their only drawback.
2. Chocolate cake - These donuts are, for me, as close to perfection as you can get. You get the enjoyment of the glaze from a glazed donut, but these are hefty enough in weight you don't need to eat six (not that it stops me). They have the perfect amount of heavenly chocolate flavor that doesn't try too hard to compete with a brownie. Again, they do come with frosting and sprinkles - which I adore - but this is for the truly hardcore. It's a donut boiler-maker.
1. Chocolate frosted (Entemann's) - This is the only boxed entry on my list, but how could I not include such an icon? That is why they are my number one. These donut have the dubious distinction of being both the best and worst donut. They're the best because they are damn good and easily available at your local grocery store where they wave their chocolaty mitts at from you from behind their little plastic window screaming, "Take me home with you!". The interior resembles yellow cake, but it's the chocolate coating that is the star of the show. About a quarter of an inch thick layer of chocolate shell has been poured over these beauties. I used to eat my way around the outer edge to leave the almost-solid chocolate ring of the donut hole to pop in my mouth for a burst of partially-hydrogenated goodness.
There's the bad part. These donuts are horrible for you, as are all donuts, but this company actually puts the nutritional information on the box!! I want to black it out with a Sharpie when I buy them. Can't we adopt the "don't ask, don't tell" policy? (Horrible, horrible policy that I am truly appalled by, but I love mixing politics with donuts!) I did sneak a peek one time and it was not a good idea. It was like finding out there's no Santa. Two hundred and ninety calories and nineteen grams of fat! In a baked good that takes three minutes to eat. But how can we be expected not love a "frosting" that is made of hydrogenated oils and lard that can be rock hard at room temperature? What's even better is the fatty coating you get to scrape off your hard palate after you eat one.
So there it is. My top 5. While making this list I also thought about some donuts that truly suck. And while they are few in number, they do exist. For example, ANY donut with filling. Jelly-filled, frosting-filled or the nauseating Boston cream donut are just the work of the devil - taking a heavenly confection and making it truly inedible. The way the cold filling spurts out, well, ladies, we have something to compare it to and it's just as gross. The other donut that I do not understand falls under the "why bother?" category - the plain donut. They taste like big fat wads of dough with nothing to disguise the flavor of the oil they have been so lovingly fried in. It's like a drag queen with no make-up - just weird.
All of this writing has given me a craving like junkie. It's snowing like mad though so I'm trapped with no fix. Now who's the genius who's going to come up with a donut delivery service?
This Friday - DONUTS! For those of you who know me you know I consider donuts one of man's greatest inventions along with pie and wine. Throw in some good cheese and bread and that's actually a perfect menu. Donuts have that perfect combination of sugar and hot fat that make them irresistible in any form - funnel cakes, zeppolle, beignets - if it's fried dough with sugar on it I will eat it in quantities that inspire shock and awe. I am so in love with donuts that when I was going through false labor with daughter #2 I ate my way through a dozen from Dunkin' Donuts.
The mention of this fine establishment brings me to the point that while there are several donut shops in the northeast, my main access point is DD. The majority of my list will come from there with a few notable exceptions and I have noted the origin of each masterpiece to be clear. Sadly, the super-friendly Pakistani family that runs our local franchise actually know me by name (shout out to Mobin!). Mary runs on Dunkin'.
Top five donut varieties and why I love them
5. Coconut (DD) - I put this controversial donut way down at number five although, personally, I think it ranks much higher on the list. Some people might think the addition of an artificial toasted coconut coating is overkill when eating something already so sweet, but go big or go home. And as if we can't get enough fat into a piece of fried dough let's coat it in hydrogenated fat loaded bits! I love having them to pick out of my teeth after I'm done. Souvenirs!
4. Glazed (DD, but any source but boxed) - I know, many of you will be irate that this donut classic is so low on the list, but while I enjoy a good glazed, I do have a problem with them. They are so insubstantial! I like a donut I can sink my teeth into, not one that collapses with the slightest pressure and can be wolfed down in three bites (not that I've counted). This creates the embarrassing situation for me of having to eat six and no one wants to witness that. I will concede that adding frosting and sprinkles ups the heft and enjoyment of this variety, but I think these are the donut equivalent of having sex in a bathtub. Still enjoyable, but way overrated.
3. Powdered (again, anything but boxed) - I am removing boxed powdered donuts from this category because they can vary so widely in their sugar usage. Some varieties have that weird almost mentholated sugar that has a flavor. The powder on a powdered donut should be like salt, it adds to the flavor, but really isn't a flavor itself. These donuts are a favorite in my house, or van, I should say, and the backseat looks like a Columbian drug cartel has taken up residence most Sunday mornings after Daddy makes a coffee run. The telltale sugar trail is their only drawback.
2. Chocolate cake - These donuts are, for me, as close to perfection as you can get. You get the enjoyment of the glaze from a glazed donut, but these are hefty enough in weight you don't need to eat six (not that it stops me). They have the perfect amount of heavenly chocolate flavor that doesn't try too hard to compete with a brownie. Again, they do come with frosting and sprinkles - which I adore - but this is for the truly hardcore. It's a donut boiler-maker.
1. Chocolate frosted (Entemann's) - This is the only boxed entry on my list, but how could I not include such an icon? That is why they are my number one. These donut have the dubious distinction of being both the best and worst donut. They're the best because they are damn good and easily available at your local grocery store where they wave their chocolaty mitts at from you from behind their little plastic window screaming, "Take me home with you!". The interior resembles yellow cake, but it's the chocolate coating that is the star of the show. About a quarter of an inch thick layer of chocolate shell has been poured over these beauties. I used to eat my way around the outer edge to leave the almost-solid chocolate ring of the donut hole to pop in my mouth for a burst of partially-hydrogenated goodness.
There's the bad part. These donuts are horrible for you, as are all donuts, but this company actually puts the nutritional information on the box!! I want to black it out with a Sharpie when I buy them. Can't we adopt the "don't ask, don't tell" policy? (Horrible, horrible policy that I am truly appalled by, but I love mixing politics with donuts!) I did sneak a peek one time and it was not a good idea. It was like finding out there's no Santa. Two hundred and ninety calories and nineteen grams of fat! In a baked good that takes three minutes to eat. But how can we be expected not love a "frosting" that is made of hydrogenated oils and lard that can be rock hard at room temperature? What's even better is the fatty coating you get to scrape off your hard palate after you eat one.
So there it is. My top 5. While making this list I also thought about some donuts that truly suck. And while they are few in number, they do exist. For example, ANY donut with filling. Jelly-filled, frosting-filled or the nauseating Boston cream donut are just the work of the devil - taking a heavenly confection and making it truly inedible. The way the cold filling spurts out, well, ladies, we have something to compare it to and it's just as gross. The other donut that I do not understand falls under the "why bother?" category - the plain donut. They taste like big fat wads of dough with nothing to disguise the flavor of the oil they have been so lovingly fried in. It's like a drag queen with no make-up - just weird.
All of this writing has given me a craving like junkie. It's snowing like mad though so I'm trapped with no fix. Now who's the genius who's going to come up with a donut delivery service?
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
The Wind Beneath My Wings
I had the opportunity to revisit my old self today. No, I didn't have regression therapy, I spent the day with a girl I have been friends with since I was fifteen. I suppose I should say woman now since she is also married and has two children, but somehow I still picture her wearing boxer shorts and a face mask as we eat cookie dough straight out of the container on a Saturday night wondering what exactly the cool kids did at all of those parties we heard about on Monday mornings.
It is really special to still be friends with someone who knew me as I was becoming me. A person who stills sees in me the field hockey player and science geek who shared her passion for boys with skateboards. A friend who was there for key moments from breaking up with my high school boyfriend (good) to helping me do my prom hair, pictured above (BAD). Someone who grew up with my family, being tortured by my little sister as she held her down to let the dog lick her and being dragged along to terrible family functions to roll eyes with in the back seat as my dad asks, "Who is this Milli Vanilli?". Someone who knew my mother and can recognize pieces of her in me as I mother my own children and remind me of all her great qualities.
Everyone should be so lucky to have a friend like this. To get to travel back in time each time I see her and catch a glimpse of the girl I was is a gift. To talk to someone who can remind you of what your dreams were in high school, before the needs of other people got in the way can get you back in touch with a part of your self you thought long gone. I love being able to look at someone and say, "Holy crap! Are we really somebody's mother?? Weren't we just looking at earrings in Claire's?"
If you have a chance, call or e-mail that girl you cried ridiculously with when you saw Beaches (were you Barbara Hershey or Bette Midler?), who's jean shorts you borrowed for the whole summer, who you were blood sisters with (guess HIV killed that tradition), who you swore you'd be BFF's with. True, it might be awkward at first as you get to know your new selves, but it really is worth it. Besides, Facebook has to be good for something other than stalking old high school crushes.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
The Basket of Laundry
This is the story of folding one basket of laundry. Almost.
It's four o'clock on a typical weekday. Homework is done, naps have been taken and snacks have been eaten. I have forty-five minutes before I need to start dinner. A time frame within which I am determined to fold some laundry since every morning this week I have had to make a mad dash to the laundry room to find, socks, underwear, a favorite shirt, you name it. Whatever article of clothing my husband or children need it is in the pile of clean laundry that looks like it's being vomited up by the dryer and I am tired of having to paw my way through fully half of our wardrobe to find matching socks cursing like a longshoreman as I do so. In order to buy myself the peace I need to accomplish such a small task I need to plan like Eisenhower on D-Day. I have pulled out all of our Polly Pocket gear - the cars, the cruise ship, the jet (Polly is quite the nomad) - and set up a wonderland of imaginative play for my girls in their room so that I can fold and put away a single basket of laundry. A simple task, no? No. Read on.
After I cram as much laundry as I can into the basket, creating a festival of wrinkledness, I carry it up from the basement. I drag the Exersaucer into the living room, plop the baby in it, strategically placing his favorite chew toys around him, sit next to him on the floor and get to work. I have not folded two T-shirts when my youngest comes into the room, "Can you put on Ariel's dress?" Again, these damn rubber clothes! I put on the dress, she toddles off, and I'm back to work. Now my oldest comes out? "Can I have a drink of water?" Sure. I get up, get a cup out of the cabinet and am immediately met with a request for a different cup which is, of course, dirty and in the dishwasher. After negotiating for five minutes my daughter is hydrated and I am back on the floor folding.
Then I hear the dog whining. Try as I might to ignore it, it becomes louder and more insistent in its tone. This means he has to pee. I get up to let him out and in the process kick over his water bowl. I clean that up and return to the living room floor. Two pairs of boxers later I hear shrieks emanating from the girls' room. "It's MINE!" "I had it first!" Aaah. Sweet, sweet music. I walk into the room and immediately confiscate the offending toy, as is our policy when the girls can not resolve a dispute on their own. Bill Cosby put it best, "I am not interested in justice, I just want quiet." I redirect them to one of the other ten billion Polly's they have and leave.
At this point, I have used up all of my good karma with the baby and he begins to fuss. He has ejected all of his toys on to the floor and is no longer loving sucking on his hand. I realize, guiltily, that he has not spent much time on his stomach today and fearing that he will never roll over and, therefore, not go to college, I put him on his tummy under his play gym to gaze at his gummy little mug in the attached mirror. At this point the dog is barking to be let back in so I return to the kitchen to oblige. Upon my return, the baby is no longer happy being beached on his giant belly, limbs akimbo, and begins to scream. Despite my best efforts at redirecting his attention to the mirror and various other toys, I flip him onto his back further contributing to the odds that he'll wind up with a flat head and need a corrective helmet. Recommence with the folding.
The girls are now no longer playing Polly Pockets. I can tell by the bossy calls of my oldest, "It's YOUR turn! SPIN!", to her less-than-focused younger sister, that she has conned my middle one into playing a board game of some sort - not her strongest suit*. She tends to forget she is playing and leaves my oldest to play both sides herself. "Moooom! She won't PLAY!" requires me to go in to the room, and try to reengage my younger daughter at least long enough to finish one game of the never-ending morality play Chutes and Ladders. Who created this game with its sick set of ethics? Personally, I don't think the girl who eats all the cookies should go down a chute (let's create food issues as soon as we can!) and the kid who helps the cat in the tree? It got itself up there it can get itself down. Let's learn early that cats are the devil, shall we? Anyway, the game ends and I return to the laundry as they decide to play Legos.
As I hear the giant bin of Legos being dumped on to the bedroom floor, the baby begins to fuss because he is hungry and the dog is in the kitchen whining for water in his now-empty bowl. I glance at the clock. 4:43. What has all of this gotten me? Exactly two under-shirts, three pairs of boxers and five towels folded on the living room floor and a bedroom floor covered in minute toy pieces. As I go down the hall to tell the girls to clean up their toys in preparation for dinner they run past me into the living room and trying to "help" knock over my small pile of victory. I can only sigh and gather up my wasted efforts and vow to try again tomorrow, for after all, tomorrow is another day.
* Post- publish note: After reading my sister's comment below I was reminded of my own childhood experiences playing board games with a younger sister. The incident she obliquely refers to is a game of Scrabble where I was blatantly kicking her ass and her means of retaliating was to literally eat the score card. I then hit her with the board leaving what is, I'm sure, the world's first Scrabble related battle scar.
It's four o'clock on a typical weekday. Homework is done, naps have been taken and snacks have been eaten. I have forty-five minutes before I need to start dinner. A time frame within which I am determined to fold some laundry since every morning this week I have had to make a mad dash to the laundry room to find, socks, underwear, a favorite shirt, you name it. Whatever article of clothing my husband or children need it is in the pile of clean laundry that looks like it's being vomited up by the dryer and I am tired of having to paw my way through fully half of our wardrobe to find matching socks cursing like a longshoreman as I do so. In order to buy myself the peace I need to accomplish such a small task I need to plan like Eisenhower on D-Day. I have pulled out all of our Polly Pocket gear - the cars, the cruise ship, the jet (Polly is quite the nomad) - and set up a wonderland of imaginative play for my girls in their room so that I can fold and put away a single basket of laundry. A simple task, no? No. Read on.
After I cram as much laundry as I can into the basket, creating a festival of wrinkledness, I carry it up from the basement. I drag the Exersaucer into the living room, plop the baby in it, strategically placing his favorite chew toys around him, sit next to him on the floor and get to work. I have not folded two T-shirts when my youngest comes into the room, "Can you put on Ariel's dress?" Again, these damn rubber clothes! I put on the dress, she toddles off, and I'm back to work. Now my oldest comes out? "Can I have a drink of water?" Sure. I get up, get a cup out of the cabinet and am immediately met with a request for a different cup which is, of course, dirty and in the dishwasher. After negotiating for five minutes my daughter is hydrated and I am back on the floor folding.
Then I hear the dog whining. Try as I might to ignore it, it becomes louder and more insistent in its tone. This means he has to pee. I get up to let him out and in the process kick over his water bowl. I clean that up and return to the living room floor. Two pairs of boxers later I hear shrieks emanating from the girls' room. "It's MINE!" "I had it first!" Aaah. Sweet, sweet music. I walk into the room and immediately confiscate the offending toy, as is our policy when the girls can not resolve a dispute on their own. Bill Cosby put it best, "I am not interested in justice, I just want quiet." I redirect them to one of the other ten billion Polly's they have and leave.
At this point, I have used up all of my good karma with the baby and he begins to fuss. He has ejected all of his toys on to the floor and is no longer loving sucking on his hand. I realize, guiltily, that he has not spent much time on his stomach today and fearing that he will never roll over and, therefore, not go to college, I put him on his tummy under his play gym to gaze at his gummy little mug in the attached mirror. At this point the dog is barking to be let back in so I return to the kitchen to oblige. Upon my return, the baby is no longer happy being beached on his giant belly, limbs akimbo, and begins to scream. Despite my best efforts at redirecting his attention to the mirror and various other toys, I flip him onto his back further contributing to the odds that he'll wind up with a flat head and need a corrective helmet. Recommence with the folding.
The girls are now no longer playing Polly Pockets. I can tell by the bossy calls of my oldest, "It's YOUR turn! SPIN!", to her less-than-focused younger sister, that she has conned my middle one into playing a board game of some sort - not her strongest suit*. She tends to forget she is playing and leaves my oldest to play both sides herself. "Moooom! She won't PLAY!" requires me to go in to the room, and try to reengage my younger daughter at least long enough to finish one game of the never-ending morality play Chutes and Ladders. Who created this game with its sick set of ethics? Personally, I don't think the girl who eats all the cookies should go down a chute (let's create food issues as soon as we can!) and the kid who helps the cat in the tree? It got itself up there it can get itself down. Let's learn early that cats are the devil, shall we? Anyway, the game ends and I return to the laundry as they decide to play Legos.
As I hear the giant bin of Legos being dumped on to the bedroom floor, the baby begins to fuss because he is hungry and the dog is in the kitchen whining for water in his now-empty bowl. I glance at the clock. 4:43. What has all of this gotten me? Exactly two under-shirts, three pairs of boxers and five towels folded on the living room floor and a bedroom floor covered in minute toy pieces. As I go down the hall to tell the girls to clean up their toys in preparation for dinner they run past me into the living room and trying to "help" knock over my small pile of victory. I can only sigh and gather up my wasted efforts and vow to try again tomorrow, for after all, tomorrow is another day.
* Post- publish note: After reading my sister's comment below I was reminded of my own childhood experiences playing board games with a younger sister. The incident she obliquely refers to is a game of Scrabble where I was blatantly kicking her ass and her means of retaliating was to literally eat the score card. I then hit her with the board leaving what is, I'm sure, the world's first Scrabble related battle scar.
Friday, February 15, 2008
Good time music
It's Friday! The week is almost over, my husband will be home to help me for, count 'em, three days thanks to President's weekend and I'm going to get my hair cut tomorrow morning. My kids are watching their Friday movie, happily munching some graham crackers (also known as covering the carpet in a fine dust of graham flour), and I am having my Friday indulgence, a Dunkin' Donuts latte (I know, CRAZY!), and listening to some tunes while I write. Everybody say PAAARTY! Everybody say WEEKEND!
Putting together a mix to write to got me thinking about music in general and in the Friday spirit I have decided to share with you a list of "good time" music. Some of this is music I run to, some is music I listen to when alone in my car - notice I didn't say "van" - this is music I listen to in our old, red Jetta when I'm trying to pretend I don't have three kids. Some are old favorites, some are new finds, all rock the party, and I hope you find something to spend a buck on at iTunes to brighten your Friday.
Party Up in Here by DMX - An odd choice for a white, mother of three living in the suburbs? Maybe. Appropriate lyrics (at least the chorus)? Definitely. "Ya'll goin' make me lose ma' mind...Ya'll goin' make me go all out...Ya'll goin' make me act a fool...Ya'll goin' make me lose ma' cool...Up in here, Up in here." I imagine a fast-action montage of me trying to get the kids dressed and ready in the morning and this is the perfect soundtrack - minus the lyrics about prison rape and baby-mamas.
Blackcat by Janet Jackson - This song takes me back to an ill-advised audition for the Colgate women's dance troupe my freshman year. While I can shake it on the dance floor, I was way out of my league and should have known it when I didn't show up in Capezio's and leg warmers. We were given this song to practice to and then perform a group routine for the judges. Let's just say my audition consisted of me squeezing my freshman fifteen into a leotard from my eighth grade jazz class, dancing the first five steps, losing my place and standing in the middle of the floor mouth agape as ten other girls danced around me. It's amazing I can listen to this song without dying of shame.
Livin' on a Prayer by Bon Jovi - My husband I consider this the anthem of our "dark days" - our name for the unemployment spell - except we change the lyrics. "Mary works at Starbucks all day..." Get us drunk and in the right environment we will be shrieking the climatic lyrics, "YOU LIVE FOR THE FIGHT WHEN THAT'S ALL THAT YOU'VE GOT!" Dorks in love...
1985 by Bowling for Soup - My hubby hates that I love this song because it makes it seem I'm unhappy with my life which, of course, I'm not, but who doesn't contemplate what could have been, once in a while, when you're driving three screaming kids to another playdate operating on five hours of sleep? And are there any better lyrics than "She was gonna shake her ass on the hood of Whitesnake's car"?
Rock the Casbah by The Clash - I love this song simply because I have a great memory of dancing with my sister to it in Egypt. We were on a cruise ship going down the Nile staffed entirely by Egyptians who thought American women were easy whores. I spent the whole trip body-blocking my little sister who was attracting a lot of attention because she's so little and cute. She even got hit on at the damn Sphinx.
Weird Egyptian guy jumping in front of my sis: "You very beautiful American girl."
My sister: Shocked silence.
Me: "And you're a pig. Now move!"
We didn't do much to improve their opinion of American woman getting down to The Clash, but I'll never forget it.
Supermodel by RuPaul - Proving you can never be too fabulous, RuPaul rocks the party. If you are a woman and you don't love this song you need to turn in your estrogen pronto. "You betta' work!"
Welcome to the Jungle by GNR - Oh Axl, what happened to you? This song is the epitome of your teased hair, anorexic-looking, crazy-ass glory. Before you had more plastic surgery than Janice Dickenson, before you went out on your own, you gave high school football players something to scream when drunk, "You know where you are? You in the jungle baby!" and me a song to jog to twenty years later trying to lose my baby weight.
Here Comes the Hammer by MC Hammer - OK, shut up. You know you love him, you just won't admit it. This song is not for the fair-weather Hammerite. It is for those of us who actually bought his album and are hiding it in a box with our high school stuff in our mother's attic. "Uh-oh! Uh-oh! Here come the hamma'!"
We're Not Gonna Take It by Twisted Sister - This song is just a timeless classic. While Dee Snyder has moved on and ditched the make-up and shoulder pads, his anthem still rings true for enraged thirteen year-old boys everywhere. "We're right! We're Free! We'll fight! You'll see!" I'm sure Dee is laughing all the way to the bank, and forty year-old men are feeling betrayed, as I recently heard this song being used to hawk birth control pills.
So there you have it - my Friday mix. Cool? Probably not, but I know we all have a list of songs that we secretly love and would never admit to (anything by Celine Dion or Micheal Bolton). I just have the balls to share mine.
Putting together a mix to write to got me thinking about music in general and in the Friday spirit I have decided to share with you a list of "good time" music. Some of this is music I run to, some is music I listen to when alone in my car - notice I didn't say "van" - this is music I listen to in our old, red Jetta when I'm trying to pretend I don't have three kids. Some are old favorites, some are new finds, all rock the party, and I hope you find something to spend a buck on at iTunes to brighten your Friday.
Party Up in Here by DMX - An odd choice for a white, mother of three living in the suburbs? Maybe. Appropriate lyrics (at least the chorus)? Definitely. "Ya'll goin' make me lose ma' mind...Ya'll goin' make me go all out...Ya'll goin' make me act a fool...Ya'll goin' make me lose ma' cool...Up in here, Up in here." I imagine a fast-action montage of me trying to get the kids dressed and ready in the morning and this is the perfect soundtrack - minus the lyrics about prison rape and baby-mamas.
Blackcat by Janet Jackson - This song takes me back to an ill-advised audition for the Colgate women's dance troupe my freshman year. While I can shake it on the dance floor, I was way out of my league and should have known it when I didn't show up in Capezio's and leg warmers. We were given this song to practice to and then perform a group routine for the judges. Let's just say my audition consisted of me squeezing my freshman fifteen into a leotard from my eighth grade jazz class, dancing the first five steps, losing my place and standing in the middle of the floor mouth agape as ten other girls danced around me. It's amazing I can listen to this song without dying of shame.
Livin' on a Prayer by Bon Jovi - My husband I consider this the anthem of our "dark days" - our name for the unemployment spell - except we change the lyrics. "Mary works at Starbucks all day..." Get us drunk and in the right environment we will be shrieking the climatic lyrics, "YOU LIVE FOR THE FIGHT WHEN THAT'S ALL THAT YOU'VE GOT!" Dorks in love...
1985 by Bowling for Soup - My hubby hates that I love this song because it makes it seem I'm unhappy with my life which, of course, I'm not, but who doesn't contemplate what could have been, once in a while, when you're driving three screaming kids to another playdate operating on five hours of sleep? And are there any better lyrics than "She was gonna shake her ass on the hood of Whitesnake's car"?
Rock the Casbah by The Clash - I love this song simply because I have a great memory of dancing with my sister to it in Egypt. We were on a cruise ship going down the Nile staffed entirely by Egyptians who thought American women were easy whores. I spent the whole trip body-blocking my little sister who was attracting a lot of attention because she's so little and cute. She even got hit on at the damn Sphinx.
Weird Egyptian guy jumping in front of my sis: "You very beautiful American girl."
My sister: Shocked silence.
Me: "And you're a pig. Now move!"
We didn't do much to improve their opinion of American woman getting down to The Clash, but I'll never forget it.
Supermodel by RuPaul - Proving you can never be too fabulous, RuPaul rocks the party. If you are a woman and you don't love this song you need to turn in your estrogen pronto. "You betta' work!"
Welcome to the Jungle by GNR - Oh Axl, what happened to you? This song is the epitome of your teased hair, anorexic-looking, crazy-ass glory. Before you had more plastic surgery than Janice Dickenson, before you went out on your own, you gave high school football players something to scream when drunk, "You know where you are? You in the jungle baby!" and me a song to jog to twenty years later trying to lose my baby weight.
Here Comes the Hammer by MC Hammer - OK, shut up. You know you love him, you just won't admit it. This song is not for the fair-weather Hammerite. It is for those of us who actually bought his album and are hiding it in a box with our high school stuff in our mother's attic. "Uh-oh! Uh-oh! Here come the hamma'!"
We're Not Gonna Take It by Twisted Sister - This song is just a timeless classic. While Dee Snyder has moved on and ditched the make-up and shoulder pads, his anthem still rings true for enraged thirteen year-old boys everywhere. "We're right! We're Free! We'll fight! You'll see!" I'm sure Dee is laughing all the way to the bank, and forty year-old men are feeling betrayed, as I recently heard this song being used to hawk birth control pills.
So there you have it - my Friday mix. Cool? Probably not, but I know we all have a list of songs that we secretly love and would never admit to (anything by Celine Dion or Micheal Bolton). I just have the balls to share mine.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Happy Valentine's Day
On this day of romance, I thought I would use my blog to give props to the man in my life who I have expressed repeatedly is, to borrow a phrase, "the cheese to my macaroni". While I occasionally give him crap about the lack of romance in our lives, I do realize that it is a function of the situation we are in, namely, being blind with child-rearing induced exhaustion, that has decreased the number of "come hither" looks and romantic candle-lit dinners we enjoy. Luckily for him, my definition of romance has evolved over the years - I no longer require a mix tape (which opens with Peter Gabriel's In You Eyes preferably) and a dozen over-priced red roses on Valentine's Day to know he loves me. Tidying up after the kids and a Russell Stover sampler are the equivalent of champagne and flowers to me these days. Today, while he is scrambling to get said sampler on his lunch hour, I would like to give credit where credit is due and highlight my husband's romantic skills by listing his all-time romantic Top 5.
5. Once upon a time, my husband could not cook. This is amazing because now he is an amazing home chef. People beg to come over when he is cooking. Back in the day though, he couldn't reheat a Hot Pocket. So it was the height of romance when he cooked me a four course meal at his parents house one summer evening. He spent all day getting ready and burned his hand pretty severely in a tongs-related hot-oil incident. He set up the backyard like a restaurant, borrowing a piece of trellis from his mother's craft show days to make a little patio garden for us. He even paid his eleven year-old brother to be our bus boy so once the meal was served we could just enjoy it. I was, and still am, impressed at the lengths he went to when he had no idea what he was doing.
4. The night we got engaged my beloved knew what he was doing. We were going to dinner at the Rainbow Room to celebrate our anniversary and I had a very good feeling he was going to propose. It was December and as we gazed up at the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree I was expecting him to pop the question any minute. When the proposal didn't come I was annoyed, but felt better about it after I saw a tourist being proposed to on bended knee then be immediately, and loudly, ridiculed by a passing drunk. After dinner, at one in the morning, with no one but us at the tree, he asked me to marry him in his usual powerfully quiet way. And, thank God, he didn't kneel.
3. During a particularly tough summer, my hubby wisked me away to Bermuda completely by surprise. We had been trying to get pregnant and it wasn't going so hot so I was pretty down in the dumps. I had just been away with my family on a short trip (I was a teacher off for the summer) while he stayed home to work. My only instructions being, "Keep the house clean and plan something fun for us to do when I get back". He made me check my e-mail as soon as I got home. He had sent me a picture of the beach in Bermuda telling me to pack my bags to leave the next morning at eight. And, no, there's no movie-ending where we wound up conceiving on that trip, but we did that autumn and having the memory of running away on a moment's notice has gotten us through many a night with a sleepless infant and made us feel like we sowed some wild oats.
2. The delivery of my second child is a long story, but it culminates with my being seven centimeters dilated, entering transition (the most painful part of labor) and basically being told I can't have an epidural. The anesthesiologist was called into an emergency C-section and while I was next, he probably wasn't going to make it. Thus began the screaming, crying and cursing , as I begged my husband and good friend, Sasha, who had come to help to," PLEASE DO SOMETHING! I CAN'T DO THIS!" I still remember how he stood there, helpless tears rolling down his stricken face and I knew he would have traded places with me if he could. The epidural never came and I delivered my daughter naturally and immediately after she was born my husband leaned in and whispered the most romantic words he has ever said to me. "I am so proud of you."
1. Finally, the most romantic thing my husband has ever done is stick by me through thick and thin. He still tells me I look pretty when I've been up all night and am covered in baby puke. He still laughs at my jokes. He still thinks I'm smart when I think my brains are turning to oatmeal from too much Goodnight Moon and not enough New York Times. He still sees me as me.
I'm sure my hubby is cringing right now because he is an intensely private person. It is yet another romantic gesture that he supports me writing this blog that reveals many of his secrets. But I just wanted him to know, I remember it all and appreciate these and all of the other, countless romantic gestures he has made over the years. No matter how small, I know he tries. Even though we have so little time to focus on each other now, I know we'll return to the days of wine and roses - then I expect him to whisk me away to Paris.
5. Once upon a time, my husband could not cook. This is amazing because now he is an amazing home chef. People beg to come over when he is cooking. Back in the day though, he couldn't reheat a Hot Pocket. So it was the height of romance when he cooked me a four course meal at his parents house one summer evening. He spent all day getting ready and burned his hand pretty severely in a tongs-related hot-oil incident. He set up the backyard like a restaurant, borrowing a piece of trellis from his mother's craft show days to make a little patio garden for us. He even paid his eleven year-old brother to be our bus boy so once the meal was served we could just enjoy it. I was, and still am, impressed at the lengths he went to when he had no idea what he was doing.
4. The night we got engaged my beloved knew what he was doing. We were going to dinner at the Rainbow Room to celebrate our anniversary and I had a very good feeling he was going to propose. It was December and as we gazed up at the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree I was expecting him to pop the question any minute. When the proposal didn't come I was annoyed, but felt better about it after I saw a tourist being proposed to on bended knee then be immediately, and loudly, ridiculed by a passing drunk. After dinner, at one in the morning, with no one but us at the tree, he asked me to marry him in his usual powerfully quiet way. And, thank God, he didn't kneel.
3. During a particularly tough summer, my hubby wisked me away to Bermuda completely by surprise. We had been trying to get pregnant and it wasn't going so hot so I was pretty down in the dumps. I had just been away with my family on a short trip (I was a teacher off for the summer) while he stayed home to work. My only instructions being, "Keep the house clean and plan something fun for us to do when I get back". He made me check my e-mail as soon as I got home. He had sent me a picture of the beach in Bermuda telling me to pack my bags to leave the next morning at eight. And, no, there's no movie-ending where we wound up conceiving on that trip, but we did that autumn and having the memory of running away on a moment's notice has gotten us through many a night with a sleepless infant and made us feel like we sowed some wild oats.
2. The delivery of my second child is a long story, but it culminates with my being seven centimeters dilated, entering transition (the most painful part of labor) and basically being told I can't have an epidural. The anesthesiologist was called into an emergency C-section and while I was next, he probably wasn't going to make it. Thus began the screaming, crying and cursing , as I begged my husband and good friend, Sasha, who had come to help to," PLEASE DO SOMETHING! I CAN'T DO THIS!" I still remember how he stood there, helpless tears rolling down his stricken face and I knew he would have traded places with me if he could. The epidural never came and I delivered my daughter naturally and immediately after she was born my husband leaned in and whispered the most romantic words he has ever said to me. "I am so proud of you."
1. Finally, the most romantic thing my husband has ever done is stick by me through thick and thin. He still tells me I look pretty when I've been up all night and am covered in baby puke. He still laughs at my jokes. He still thinks I'm smart when I think my brains are turning to oatmeal from too much Goodnight Moon and not enough New York Times. He still sees me as me.
I'm sure my hubby is cringing right now because he is an intensely private person. It is yet another romantic gesture that he supports me writing this blog that reveals many of his secrets. But I just wanted him to know, I remember it all and appreciate these and all of the other, countless romantic gestures he has made over the years. No matter how small, I know he tries. Even though we have so little time to focus on each other now, I know we'll return to the days of wine and roses - then I expect him to whisk me away to Paris.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Shouldn't they just know this?
"What does 'since' mean?" This question was posed by my five year-old the other day and I have to say I was stumped. I had to really stop and think how to describe the meaning (I resorted to the dictionary which described it as "between then and now"). This was not the first time I have been confounded when trying to answer one of my children's questions. That's what no one prepares you for when you become a parent, how to teach and explain what is basically common knowledge, but difficult to express.
The obvious examples of difficult questions that people think of are sex and death and while I have had to handle both topics with my kids to varying degrees, between the birth of my son and my mother's absence, I was expecting these questions and had long thought about what my answers would be when the time came. My husband is spared, unfairly in my opinion, since I'm the one around most, hence, he has no right to complain about our daughters throwing around the words penis and vagina. Him: "Do they really need to know that?" Me: "What do I tell them when a stork doesn't actually show up with their brother, idiot?" He has been involved in some of the other, less intense, questions and lessons and, thank God, because these kids can really stump me.
Our most recent teaching/learning experience was how to tie shoes. While, at first glance, this might seem simple, until you try to explain it. It's like trying to describe how to breathe - you just know how to do it. The first part of the lesson is deciding which kind of house you're going to be. Are you a balloon and string house (single loop with other lace wrapping around it) or a bunny ears house (double loops being crossed and tied). If each parent has a different method you're screwed. We also have the added challenge in that I am left-handed. After you have decided upon a method you have to describe, step-by-step the process. Sit for a minute and try - it sucks.
Tying your shoes is just one example of the everyday things you know how to do that are nearly impossible to describe in detail. The list also includes snapping your fingers. Nothing is sadder than watching my five year-old flick her fingers soundlessly and tell me, "Look Mom! I'm doing it!" Do I correct her? The fraternal twin of snapping, whistling, is equally challenging. Mr. Rogers makes it look so easy, meanwhile my poor kid is hyperventilating trying to keep up.
There's a whole other set of skills that let's say fall under the heading of "Personal Care" - more intimate skills that your kid really needs to know once they spend more time alone at school. Blowing their nose is the least disgusting. "Blow out your nose" might seem the best way to describe it, but the word "blow" to a three year-old usually involves bubbles so each time I said it my middle one would pucker up puff away. Not very helpful for a stuffy nose. My other favorite from the list is mind-boggling to people without kids - you have to teach them to wipe their butts. Again, it might seem self-explanatory how one knows when the job is done down there, but after repeated discussions about this particular aspect of hygiene some of my laundry occasionally looks like it spent time on a turkey farm if you get my drift. I have a family member, who shall remain nameless, who actually would, as a small child, call out from the bathroom, pants around the ankles, "CHECK ME!", to make sure the job was done. Maybe I'm a bad mother, but I'll wait for the evidence later on rather than look at my kid's corn-hole twice a day.
If we want to continue in this vein (and who doesn't!), you also have to teach kids farting etiquette - when it's OK and not OK to fart and what to do about it. This became a concern for me recently when my oldest, who has a penchant for broccoli, was beginning kindergarten. Random tooting might be acceptable behavior in preschool, but I wasn't going to have her be The Girl Who Farts in elementary school. Having already covered saying "excuse me" when passing gas, I had to have an in-depth conversation with her about excusing herself from the room or at the very least moving to an unpopulated corner if she felt a gaseous since it's just not cool to do it next to people. I'm keeping my fingers crossed.
The list goes on and on - the social taboos of nose picking, not pulling your dress up over your head - but it is through these lessons that you realize how much your kids depend on you. You are helping create a person who has to function in society and it can be quite a daunting task. It can be frustrating, but at the same time, very fulfilling - especially with all that butt checking.
The obvious examples of difficult questions that people think of are sex and death and while I have had to handle both topics with my kids to varying degrees, between the birth of my son and my mother's absence, I was expecting these questions and had long thought about what my answers would be when the time came. My husband is spared, unfairly in my opinion, since I'm the one around most, hence, he has no right to complain about our daughters throwing around the words penis and vagina. Him: "Do they really need to know that?" Me: "What do I tell them when a stork doesn't actually show up with their brother, idiot?" He has been involved in some of the other, less intense, questions and lessons and, thank God, because these kids can really stump me.
Our most recent teaching/learning experience was how to tie shoes. While, at first glance, this might seem simple, until you try to explain it. It's like trying to describe how to breathe - you just know how to do it. The first part of the lesson is deciding which kind of house you're going to be. Are you a balloon and string house (single loop with other lace wrapping around it) or a bunny ears house (double loops being crossed and tied). If each parent has a different method you're screwed. We also have the added challenge in that I am left-handed. After you have decided upon a method you have to describe, step-by-step the process. Sit for a minute and try - it sucks.
Tying your shoes is just one example of the everyday things you know how to do that are nearly impossible to describe in detail. The list also includes snapping your fingers. Nothing is sadder than watching my five year-old flick her fingers soundlessly and tell me, "Look Mom! I'm doing it!" Do I correct her? The fraternal twin of snapping, whistling, is equally challenging. Mr. Rogers makes it look so easy, meanwhile my poor kid is hyperventilating trying to keep up.
There's a whole other set of skills that let's say fall under the heading of "Personal Care" - more intimate skills that your kid really needs to know once they spend more time alone at school. Blowing their nose is the least disgusting. "Blow out your nose" might seem the best way to describe it, but the word "blow" to a three year-old usually involves bubbles so each time I said it my middle one would pucker up puff away. Not very helpful for a stuffy nose. My other favorite from the list is mind-boggling to people without kids - you have to teach them to wipe their butts. Again, it might seem self-explanatory how one knows when the job is done down there, but after repeated discussions about this particular aspect of hygiene some of my laundry occasionally looks like it spent time on a turkey farm if you get my drift. I have a family member, who shall remain nameless, who actually would, as a small child, call out from the bathroom, pants around the ankles, "CHECK ME!", to make sure the job was done. Maybe I'm a bad mother, but I'll wait for the evidence later on rather than look at my kid's corn-hole twice a day.
If we want to continue in this vein (and who doesn't!), you also have to teach kids farting etiquette - when it's OK and not OK to fart and what to do about it. This became a concern for me recently when my oldest, who has a penchant for broccoli, was beginning kindergarten. Random tooting might be acceptable behavior in preschool, but I wasn't going to have her be The Girl Who Farts in elementary school. Having already covered saying "excuse me" when passing gas, I had to have an in-depth conversation with her about excusing herself from the room or at the very least moving to an unpopulated corner if she felt a gaseous since it's just not cool to do it next to people. I'm keeping my fingers crossed.
The list goes on and on - the social taboos of nose picking, not pulling your dress up over your head - but it is through these lessons that you realize how much your kids depend on you. You are helping create a person who has to function in society and it can be quite a daunting task. It can be frustrating, but at the same time, very fulfilling - especially with all that butt checking.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
I have a new look...
Well, not really. I'm still sitting here in my Yankee hat and yoga pants as usual. My blog, however, has gotten a makeover. Blogspot is no longer supporting the page template I selected so here is my new layout. Enjoy!
Also of note, please feel free to subscribe using your e-mail address in the window below left. You no longer have to sign up with a Google account to make comments. As always, I love hearing from my readers. Shout out to Lindsay whose comments rock the party.
Also of note, please feel free to subscribe using your e-mail address in the window below left. You no longer have to sign up with a Google account to make comments. As always, I love hearing from my readers. Shout out to Lindsay whose comments rock the party.
Monday, February 11, 2008
I am not my hair
I came across the ad pictured here this weekend and I was so incensed I had to write about it. This is part of Suave's campaign aimed at mothers that, up until now, I have quite enjoyed. The ads have witty tags involving surveys they have done concerning mothers and their beauty regimens - "70% of mothers say they spend more time on laundry each week than on their hair"- and usually include a cute photo of a mom with a pile of laundry on her head. These ads made me feel less alone in my struggle not to look like a complete schlub - until now.
Let's dissect this ad, shall we? This, according to the ad, is a real woman. She is about my age and she is playing with her real daughter who is eighteen months old. In her "before" picture, she is dressed very fashionably - at least to me. Most days yoga pants and a long sleeve T-shirt are all I can pull out of the clean, unfolded clothes that carpet the floor of my laundry room. In my book, this gal is already several steps ahead of the curve.
Let's talk about the hair since it is the main focus of this ad after all. Her hair is pulled back in a ridiculous bun that looks like she did it without the benefit of a mirror all in an effort to contrast sharply with her "after "hair". That hair, while lovely, is not the hair of a fully functioning mom. Do you see the grin on the kid's face in the smaller photo? She's smiling because she is plotting her assault on this new hair style to see how much apple juice and pureed banana she can get into it before the day is done. She's thinking about how those artfully styled waves will look drenched with sweat and further tousled after a round of Try to Wrestle Me into my Carseat. She is envisioning the limp tangled mess her mother's hair will be after a good dousing at bath time.
I fully support Suave in their efforts to tap into this market of over-worked, under-showered consumers, but the ad pictured here goes too far. Let's be reasonable here. The people who shot this ad have obviously never felt the pain of trying to remove long hair, strand by strand, from the vice-like grip of a five month old whose chubby fingers, coated in saliva, have become hopelessly entangled in your coif. What do I expect from my hair on a weekday? I expect it to look clean and somewhat attractive and not to get in the way of doing my job, not like I just came out of the salon. This is exactly what this ad pictures and that's why it pissed me off. It is just another way the modern world makes women feel like crap. It's not enough that you get yourself and your kids through the day in one piece and maybe even teach them something, but now you are required to look photo ready while doing it. I remember reading Gone with the Wind and wondering why the girls "put their hair up" when they became women. Know why? Because there was work to do.
So Suave, thank you for your support of mothers and suggesting we take more time for ourselves. On the weekends when I do have time to do my hair and a husband to hand the baby to when he's covered in strained peaches I will consider using your moderately priced hair products. But weekdays, my hair will be clean, tightly pulled back and out of my way in my trusty Goody elastic. I'll slap on some lipstick, a lot of under-eye concealer and head into the fray thinking I look OK.
Friday, February 8, 2008
Don't hide your light under a bushel
Since it's Monday I thought I'd start the week with a nice up-beat post. I happened upon an article in Glamour this weekend that asked readers the question - "What are you most proud of?" The responses varied from getting a first roommate-free apartment to leaving abusive relationships. So I got to thinking, "What am I most proud of?" It was surprisingly hard to come up with a list. Women, as a gender tend to spend a lot of time focusing on our shortcomings rather than celebrating what we do well. Men, on the other hand, can give themselves credit for successfully trimming their nose hair. So on this Monday, dear readers, I took some time to make my own list of things I am proudest of. If you have time this week to comment, don't tell me how awesome I am (you can do that any day), but tell me what you are proudest of in your own life. Yeah, yeah, I know. I'm starting to sound like someone who sits in a TV studio in Chi-town with enough soft lighting and make-up to make sure she doesn't look like the hag that she is (hint: her name begins with O), but let's give it a try.
So without further ado, the list of things I am proudest of. I kept it short, and proceeded chronologically.
1. I am proud that I lived through the year before my wedding. Not because I was planning a wedding, but because in addition to that I was going to school full-time for my master's degree in Elementary Ed, student teaching and waiting tables. I think I slept about four hours a night, but it showed me how strong I am when I have to be. Oh yeah, and the master's thing is pretty cool too.
2. I'm proud of the work I did as a teacher. I think I was firm, but I was also pretty fun. Hey, I took 120 nine year-olds to see the first Harry Potter movie on opening day while I had morning sickness (perhaps that was more to get out of, say, teaching, for a day and sit in a dark movie theater eating saltines). I like to think I touched some lives though and maybe some kid will remember me twenty years from now, "Man, I had this bitch of a teacher in fourth grade..."
3. I am proud that I delivered my middle child without an epidural. Sure, it wasn't by choice, that damn anesthesiologist got called into an emergency C-section (please lady, mine's coming out my vagina can't you wait ten minutes?). It was damn hard and damn painful, but I'm glad I did it - an experience I DID NOT repeat with my third delivery.
4. I am proud that my kids are really kind. Both my girls would rather walk on glass than make someone cry and I have to say that makes the day-in day-out stuff worth it.
5. Finally, I am proud of my relationship with my husband. This marriage stuff is not all it's cracked up to be. Throw some kids in the mix and I see why people can want to head for the door. I am proud that we weathered, the death of my mother, a spell of unemployment after our oldest was born and a miscarriage and are stronger because of it. And while I'm at it, I'm proud of the fact that I wasn't too proud to sling joe at Starbucks to help us get by when we were broke (I still hate freakin' Frappucino's though). These rough times are what give us our history together and make us who we are. The fact that I still want to make out with him after seventeen years
is an added bonus.
So there you have it. It might seem self-aggrandizing, but I think it's high time we started tooting our own horns. I look forward to hearing some serious toots from my readership. Seriously, no one else is going to do it.
* I am not proud of the fact that my kids watched two episodes of Wow Wow Wubbzy so I could write this.
So without further ado, the list of things I am proudest of. I kept it short, and proceeded chronologically.
1. I am proud that I lived through the year before my wedding. Not because I was planning a wedding, but because in addition to that I was going to school full-time for my master's degree in Elementary Ed, student teaching and waiting tables. I think I slept about four hours a night, but it showed me how strong I am when I have to be. Oh yeah, and the master's thing is pretty cool too.
2. I'm proud of the work I did as a teacher. I think I was firm, but I was also pretty fun. Hey, I took 120 nine year-olds to see the first Harry Potter movie on opening day while I had morning sickness (perhaps that was more to get out of, say, teaching, for a day and sit in a dark movie theater eating saltines). I like to think I touched some lives though and maybe some kid will remember me twenty years from now, "Man, I had this bitch of a teacher in fourth grade..."
3. I am proud that I delivered my middle child without an epidural. Sure, it wasn't by choice, that damn anesthesiologist got called into an emergency C-section (please lady, mine's coming out my vagina can't you wait ten minutes?). It was damn hard and damn painful, but I'm glad I did it - an experience I DID NOT repeat with my third delivery.
4. I am proud that my kids are really kind. Both my girls would rather walk on glass than make someone cry and I have to say that makes the day-in day-out stuff worth it.
5. Finally, I am proud of my relationship with my husband. This marriage stuff is not all it's cracked up to be. Throw some kids in the mix and I see why people can want to head for the door. I am proud that we weathered, the death of my mother, a spell of unemployment after our oldest was born and a miscarriage and are stronger because of it. And while I'm at it, I'm proud of the fact that I wasn't too proud to sling joe at Starbucks to help us get by when we were broke (I still hate freakin' Frappucino's though). These rough times are what give us our history together and make us who we are. The fact that I still want to make out with him after seventeen years
is an added bonus.
So there you have it. It might seem self-aggrandizing, but I think it's high time we started tooting our own horns. I look forward to hearing some serious toots from my readership. Seriously, no one else is going to do it.
* I am not proud of the fact that my kids watched two episodes of Wow Wow Wubbzy so I could write this.
Thursday, February 7, 2008
"Please deposit twenty-five cents" - or my unwired adolesence
"Beep...beep...beep." What's that noise? Oh, it's my cell phone that has been on "low battery" for the last two days and I keep forgetting to charge it. My cell phone is basically my portable answering machine. I keep it in my bag, which I keep in the car (one less thing to carry in addition to my big, fat son while dragging the other two kids into the house). I have it in case I get into an accident, but really, I am not the most wired person in the world. It's kind of ironic really since I was one of the first people I know to get a cell phone when my father, scrambling to find something to give me for Christmas, purchased a Nokia for me in 1998. Now, with cell phones basically having become an appendage for some I look back on various stages of my life and wonder how we ever lived without them.
Apparently the parents of teenagers today can not carry on a conversation with their progeny without having to pry phones or Sidekicks out of their spoiled little mitts. I can not even imagine how my life would have been if I had the ability to constantly communicate with my friends at my finger tips. I thought my world was rocked when we got call waiting. I spent the majority of my sophomore year screaming, "I GOT IT!" into the phone after my mother and I simultaneously answered when my boyfriend would call. A problem that, again, does not exist today due to the wonders of caller ID, but that's a story for another post. With this unlimited access to my friends I suppose my grades would have suffered and I would have had my phone taken away - which happened with my Service Merchandise princess phone (pictured above) after I got a C in Algebra. I think a cell phone would have set me on course for a GED.
Let's not forget what fun it was as an adolescent in the late 80's having to call your parents to come pick you up. I became an expert at squeezing "I'm-at-the-mall-come-pick-me-up." into that three second pause the collect call recording gives you to state your name so my parents wouldn't have to pay the charges. I suppose the flip side of being able to easily contact your parents is that they expect to always be able to get in touch with you. Gone are the days you could lie to your folks telling them, "I'm sleeping at Jen's house" and give them the number which they would only call if someone died because they wouldn't want to bother her parents. The only one they're bothering to see if you're actually at Jen's or out at some party you aren't cool enough to be at anyway but went to because your friend has a crush on some guy from the wrestling team is you. And try hiding the background noise of sixteen year-olds doing keg stands.
College must also be a different experience. How many headaches could I have avoided if I didn't have to turn the phone on and off in my room each year? The days of roommates sharing a phone ("It's for you and tell him not to call so late, I have an 8:00!") and splitting the bill ("But I don't know anyone in Rochester!") are over. A few clicks of my keypad would have prevented me from slogging knee-high through snow in my ankle-high shoe-boots trying to meet up with friends at bars and fraternity parties ("Where R U?"). It also would have made my life easier trying to "accidentally" meet up with my future husband before he knew I liked him - you know, like, more than friends - by having friends text me if there was sighting, "He's here at TX" - instead of hearing it drunkenly by word of mouth and again risk ruining my Sam & Libby* footwear running in that direction. Yes, pathetic, but he married me anyway.
I can go on and on looking at my past through the lens of today's technology - how easy it makes dating in your twenties, telling your husband you're in labor in your thirties, but I do wonder if it's gone too far. Some people actually feel uncomfortable when they are "unwired' and I know I get pissed when I can't get my dearest on his phone or Blackberry. And the technology, please, this whole iPhone thing was ridiculous. I don't get it. My husband has to get me a new phone every so often because I'd keep them so long I'd be carrying the equivalent of a WWII field phone with a crank handle and not know it. And phones for kids? As I mentioned above, collect calls can be quite efficient or whatever happened to carrying a quarter? I take that back, actually, try finding a working pay phone and you're in for a long search. Perhaps I'll feel differently when my kids are old enough to know how to dial.
What I do think is this technology takes some of the spontenaity out of life. It was fun begin out somewhere I shouldn't have been in high school or running into my husband "accidentally" after hours of searching. And there is something to be said for a bit of mystery. When he and I were dating I'd not answer my home phone occasionally - let him wonder where I was. If your girlfriend doesn't answer at least one of her three phone numbers today you'd think she's dead in a ditch somewhere instead of out having fun without you and therefore, making her more desirable (I was a "Rules" girl, obviously). Constantly being available to everyone you know
is a lot of pressure and takes away from your time being present. Maybe we all need to unplug every once in a while. So if you call me at home and get no answer, sure, try my cell, but don't expect me to answer.
* Brand name credit to Mrs. Jean Roy
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
I'm a white wino
I am sitting downstairs, obviously on the computer. The day is almost over and I am listening to the dulcet tones of my children shrieking as their father brushes their teeth. How, pray tell, am I sitting here so calmly? Because I have a glass of wine. Oh wine, how I love you. I know, that sounds bad, but I don't care. For those of you who have not discovered it, a glass of wine at the end of the day can be just as effective as several anxiety drugs on the market today. It also has the added benefits of not needing to use it every day or those pesky doctor's appointments.
My love affair with wine had its shaky beginnings in the late 80's with wine and beer's bastard lovechild - the wine cooler. A pair of pioneers named Bartels and James were my portly, southern-accented chaperones into the world of oenophilia introducing me to such vintages as Kiwi Strawberry and Exotic Berry - exotic indeed to my sixteen year-old palette especially when drunk lukewarm freshly liberated from my boyfriend's parents' garage. These sickeningly sweet beverages made it possible for an amateur like me to indulge in a wee bit of alcohol without having to stoop to the lows of drinking beer.
In college, I continued my boycott of all hop-related beverages. Although the first words I ever uttered to my future husband were, "Wanna do a funnel?" it was under the twin pressures of no fake ID to buy wine coolers and wanting him to think I was cool (the jig is now up on that one). Once I surmounted both of these problems I discovered the slutty, big haired, acrylic nail-wearing third cousin of the wine world - white zinfandel. White zin had the dual benefit of higher alcohol content and the sophistication that comes with drinking a beverage whose bottle you can't open with your teeth. I still hear Salt 'N Pepa's "Let's Talk About Sex" when I pass this section of my local wine shop.
Finally, I graduated from college and entered the adult world where, according to my husband, any alcoholic beverages that are not clear, brown or yellow are only to be consumed in surroundings that require Hawaiian shirts and SPF. I was forced to give up my gateway drink and enter the real world of wine. I fell in love. Reds, whites, champagnes, I loved them all and still do. My husband and I even went on a tour of the Napa Valley as our honeymoon. Clever people out there. A single road with a blaringly fluorescent yellow line down the middle is all you need to get you from one end to the other sampling some of the country's best wine along the way. It was like a religious pilgrimage - one we hope to repeat in this lifetime if only we can get someone to take our kids.
Perhaps some of you will walk away from this thinking I have a problem, but look at the French, they are so relaxed (OK maybe relaxed enough to almost become Germans, but let's forget about that) and most of them drink every day. If my only issue is that one glass of wine at night is all it takes to de-stress from my day then I'm not in bad shape. You can start to worry about me when I start carrying a corkscrew in my diaper bag.
My love affair with wine had its shaky beginnings in the late 80's with wine and beer's bastard lovechild - the wine cooler. A pair of pioneers named Bartels and James were my portly, southern-accented chaperones into the world of oenophilia introducing me to such vintages as Kiwi Strawberry and Exotic Berry - exotic indeed to my sixteen year-old palette especially when drunk lukewarm freshly liberated from my boyfriend's parents' garage. These sickeningly sweet beverages made it possible for an amateur like me to indulge in a wee bit of alcohol without having to stoop to the lows of drinking beer.
In college, I continued my boycott of all hop-related beverages. Although the first words I ever uttered to my future husband were, "Wanna do a funnel?" it was under the twin pressures of no fake ID to buy wine coolers and wanting him to think I was cool (the jig is now up on that one). Once I surmounted both of these problems I discovered the slutty, big haired, acrylic nail-wearing third cousin of the wine world - white zinfandel. White zin had the dual benefit of higher alcohol content and the sophistication that comes with drinking a beverage whose bottle you can't open with your teeth. I still hear Salt 'N Pepa's "Let's Talk About Sex" when I pass this section of my local wine shop.
Finally, I graduated from college and entered the adult world where, according to my husband, any alcoholic beverages that are not clear, brown or yellow are only to be consumed in surroundings that require Hawaiian shirts and SPF. I was forced to give up my gateway drink and enter the real world of wine. I fell in love. Reds, whites, champagnes, I loved them all and still do. My husband and I even went on a tour of the Napa Valley as our honeymoon. Clever people out there. A single road with a blaringly fluorescent yellow line down the middle is all you need to get you from one end to the other sampling some of the country's best wine along the way. It was like a religious pilgrimage - one we hope to repeat in this lifetime if only we can get someone to take our kids.
Perhaps some of you will walk away from this thinking I have a problem, but look at the French, they are so relaxed (OK maybe relaxed enough to almost become Germans, but let's forget about that) and most of them drink every day. If my only issue is that one glass of wine at night is all it takes to de-stress from my day then I'm not in bad shape. You can start to worry about me when I start carrying a corkscrew in my diaper bag.
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
Why I hate the Pottery Barn catalogue
It's the end of my day and while the dishes have been done, the toys picked up and the children are in bed there is still a nagging sense of dissatisfaction. Something is not right, I still feel as though my work is not done. Do you know why? Because my house does not, at the end or any other time of the day, look like the pages of the Pottery Barn catalogue. I have decided that this catalogue was invented solely to make yuppie homeowners feel bad enough about their homes to make them spend ludicrous amounts of money in the pursuit of unattainable, domestic perfection. It isn't really the hideously expensive furniture, but rather the ridiculously ordered life reflected in it pages that makes me want to scream.
Let's start in the foyer shall we? In the PB catalogue there are neat storage bins clearly labeled with each family member's name to hold shoes and boots. Coats are carefully hung on similarly labeled hooks and there's even a bed for the dog built into a set of shelves which hold umbrellas and school bags. The family that uses this storage system would scream in horror at the haphazardly scattered collection of shoes that almost make it onto the rattan mat I bought at Target. They would try not to kill themselves tripping over the tangle of schoolbags at the foot of my coat track which trembles under the weight of three seasons worth of outer wear for five people. The dog, not content to lie by the drafty front door sprawls across the living room rug, leaving a full-body print of hair behind. When it rains we each of us take turns lamenting, "Where the hell are all the umbrellas?"
We will continue further into the living room. In the PB catalogue there are no ratty, old newspapers or magazines stuffed onto the shelf under the coffee table because there's a really good recipe for babaganoush in there that you swear you are going to make - one day. No, in this world, there are hand-crafted baskets for such material, although the people who live in the PB catalogue would have already made the recipe because they are so damn perfect. The television is artfully hidden in an expensive armoire instead of balancing shakily on the entertainment center we bought at IKEA when we first got married and is being held together currently by chicken wire and some good faith. In said armoire is a neat stack of CDs and DVDs, usually arty titles like The English Patient. In this world there are no towering piles of CDs that have permanently escaped from the prison of their cases to live a scratched and dust-covered existence on top of the TV. There are no violently pink Disney Princess DVDs to mar the calm cerebrality of their film collection. In fact, there is not evidence that children enter this room at all.
The children have obviously been banished to their hyper-organized rooms. Complete with more labeled racks, shelves and bins, these rooms only contain wooden, educational toys. There are no Polly Pockets with their eight million minute pieces or stacks of naked Barbies with their wild, unkempt hair. A place for everything and everything in it's place. Where exactly would these people put my rapidly growing collection of crap-tastic Burger King toys and how would they be labeled? Don't get me started on the size of these kids' rooms either. My whole house would fit inside one.
The bathrooms - please. These bathrooms attain a level of cleanliness reserved for operating rooms. There are never smears of shaving cream on the vanity or bits of stuff that comes out of your teeth when you floss stuck to the bathroom mirror. No loofahs hang soggily over the bathtub faucet to grow mold. There are no stray pubic hairs behind the toilet seat - for God's sake there aren't even brand named bath products allowed in their original packaging. Everything has been decanted into fragile jars and pumps made of environmentally friendly materials in soothing earth or water tones. Why do they even have toilet paper? Is anyone allowed to defecate in here?
This whole pristine, organized world is the bar against which I subconsciously measure myself and I'm sure I am not the only one. This world has no spilled milk or dog hair. There are no wet towels hung over the shower curtain rod (where do they go?) or unmade beds. There is no half-dumped basket of clean laundry that has been pilfered for the day's clean underwear sitting on the bedroom floor. This is not reality, or at least the reality I live in and I have to remember that. I live my life, not photograph it and all the mess that goes with it can not be put into tidy little bins at the end of the day since this life is constantly happening. Of course I will continue to look through the Pottery Barn catalogue despite my best efforts. I'm like a diabetic reading the Mrs. Field's catalogue - wanting what I can't have. They could make my life a whole lot easier though and show me a pile of junk mail on the kitchen counter once in a while.
Let's start in the foyer shall we? In the PB catalogue there are neat storage bins clearly labeled with each family member's name to hold shoes and boots. Coats are carefully hung on similarly labeled hooks and there's even a bed for the dog built into a set of shelves which hold umbrellas and school bags. The family that uses this storage system would scream in horror at the haphazardly scattered collection of shoes that almost make it onto the rattan mat I bought at Target. They would try not to kill themselves tripping over the tangle of schoolbags at the foot of my coat track which trembles under the weight of three seasons worth of outer wear for five people. The dog, not content to lie by the drafty front door sprawls across the living room rug, leaving a full-body print of hair behind. When it rains we each of us take turns lamenting, "Where the hell are all the umbrellas?"
We will continue further into the living room. In the PB catalogue there are no ratty, old newspapers or magazines stuffed onto the shelf under the coffee table because there's a really good recipe for babaganoush in there that you swear you are going to make - one day. No, in this world, there are hand-crafted baskets for such material, although the people who live in the PB catalogue would have already made the recipe because they are so damn perfect. The television is artfully hidden in an expensive armoire instead of balancing shakily on the entertainment center we bought at IKEA when we first got married and is being held together currently by chicken wire and some good faith. In said armoire is a neat stack of CDs and DVDs, usually arty titles like The English Patient. In this world there are no towering piles of CDs that have permanently escaped from the prison of their cases to live a scratched and dust-covered existence on top of the TV. There are no violently pink Disney Princess DVDs to mar the calm cerebrality of their film collection. In fact, there is not evidence that children enter this room at all.
The children have obviously been banished to their hyper-organized rooms. Complete with more labeled racks, shelves and bins, these rooms only contain wooden, educational toys. There are no Polly Pockets with their eight million minute pieces or stacks of naked Barbies with their wild, unkempt hair. A place for everything and everything in it's place. Where exactly would these people put my rapidly growing collection of crap-tastic Burger King toys and how would they be labeled? Don't get me started on the size of these kids' rooms either. My whole house would fit inside one.
The bathrooms - please. These bathrooms attain a level of cleanliness reserved for operating rooms. There are never smears of shaving cream on the vanity or bits of stuff that comes out of your teeth when you floss stuck to the bathroom mirror. No loofahs hang soggily over the bathtub faucet to grow mold. There are no stray pubic hairs behind the toilet seat - for God's sake there aren't even brand named bath products allowed in their original packaging. Everything has been decanted into fragile jars and pumps made of environmentally friendly materials in soothing earth or water tones. Why do they even have toilet paper? Is anyone allowed to defecate in here?
This whole pristine, organized world is the bar against which I subconsciously measure myself and I'm sure I am not the only one. This world has no spilled milk or dog hair. There are no wet towels hung over the shower curtain rod (where do they go?) or unmade beds. There is no half-dumped basket of clean laundry that has been pilfered for the day's clean underwear sitting on the bedroom floor. This is not reality, or at least the reality I live in and I have to remember that. I live my life, not photograph it and all the mess that goes with it can not be put into tidy little bins at the end of the day since this life is constantly happening. Of course I will continue to look through the Pottery Barn catalogue despite my best efforts. I'm like a diabetic reading the Mrs. Field's catalogue - wanting what I can't have. They could make my life a whole lot easier though and show me a pile of junk mail on the kitchen counter once in a while.
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