The Fabric of My Life

After finally recovering from our battle with strep, and subsequently bleaching every surface in our house, I was ready for our family to get off the couch, and back to business, when I found myself sitting on said couch with #2 Saturday as she promptly proceeded to vomit all over me*.

Sigh.

So instead of spending Saturday night having dinner with friends, H and I spent it coaxing our daughter to drink small sips of water then, coaxing her to puke that water into the Tupperware container, so as not to further soil the couch that was now covered with the blanket pictured here.

Every family has a blanket like this. It's the family blanket. Usually an old bedspread. It's tattered and torn, and impossibly soft from years of family movie nights and being used to make pillow forts. It's the the only blanket that can make a fever go away or be used after an afternoon in the snow. It's usually kept in the family room closet and has been around so long, no one really remembers where it came from.

But I do.

While I wish I could say I sewed this quilt with my own hands for my hope chest, my name isn't Laura Ingalls Wilder, and our blanket was bought at Macy's for twenty-five dollars on Columbus Day, 1998. I was busy decorating the apartment H and I had moved into five months prior and thought I was really getting a steal. For the next three years it covered the tiny full-sized bed H and I had squeezed into our less-than-full-sized bedroom. When I got pregnant with #1 and we moved out of that apartment, purchasing a bed fit for two adults, instead of one college student, it was relegated to the linen closet and became our TV blanket.

Our blanket has not only spent evenings with us, early in our marriage, watching Party of Five reruns, but it also came to the hospital for #1's birth, a comforting reminder of home during those first bizarre, twilight nights on the maternity ward, when I was just beginning to realize what I had gotten myself into. And twice more, it came along to see me safely through to the other side of childbirth, covering me and my sleeping child as we got to know one another, before heading into the real world.

Our blanket has not always escaped unscathed. Bright purple ink stains cover its back from an early morning, purple-gel-pen-eating session that almost caused Reilly's ejection from the family, as what did not land on the blanket, covered the dog and the oatmeal-colored carpet. And of course, our blanket is now routinely covered in spilled juice, Goldfish crumbs and, as mentioned above, vomit.

When I look at this blanket, I see the story of myself as a wife and mother. The blanket started out so pristine and perfect, its only function to keep two people warm. As the years have passed, and the edges have frayed and the fabric become worn, each tear and stain tells a story of a growing family, just like every wrinkle and stretch mark on my person. It is an extension of my body when it covers my kids as they lay convalescing on the couch or just watching TV. And while the blanket's original job was to keep the two of us warm, what once barely covered a full-sized bed, seems to have expanded to warm and embrace a whole family.

*You are officially a parent when instead of running way screaming in disgust, you clutch a vomiting child to your body so they won't be scared while they puke.

How to Recover from Strep Throat - A mother's guide

Step 1: Wake up with a throat full of razor blades Sunday morning. Decide this is not just a regular sore throat and go to local urgent care, since as H puts it “This place just doesn’t run without you.” Read: “You can not get sick.”

Step 2: Get to clinic fifteen minutes before it opens and see two people already lined up by the front door. Join them in suffering miserably in the cold until the nurse opens the door, then masterfully control yourself as a woman taps you on the shoulder and asks, “Excuse me. Are you in a hurry? Because I was actually here before you, but I was in my car.” Do not punch her in the face, but croak, “Yeah, I am. Sorry.” Instead of, “You should’ve gotten your lazy ass out here in the cold like the rest of us, lady.” After all of this, be told you have strep.

Step 3: Go home and after recalling the sore throats the kids had last week, and speaking to the pediatrician, determine the kids already had strep and let them go to their cousin’s house for the day with H so you can get some damn rest.

Step 4: Wake up Monday morning feeling worse, if that’s possible.

Step 5: Send girls to school, despite the fact that Little Man has a weird rash on his face. Send Little Man to saintly mother in-law’s house after school so you can rest. Sleep for four hours.

Step 6: Upon the girl’s return from school, palpate #1’s markedly enlarged lymph nodes as she tells you her neck hurts.

Step 7: Ignoring throat of fire, throw jacket over clothes you have been sleeping in for two days and a hat. Put girls in car and drag to urgent care as goddamn pediatrician is already closed.

Step 8: In your beauteous state, run into friend’s husband. Surreptitiously scrape toothpaste off the corners of your mouth and notice your shirt is on inside out. Get immediate positive strep tests for both girls for your efforts.

Step 9: Run home, grab Little Man, who mother in-law has driven home and return to urgent care to receive his positive strep results.

Step 10: Call H, tell him to go immediately to urgent care from train station. and while he's at it he can call his brother and let him know the pox brought upon his house during Sunday's visit.

Step 11: Get text with H's positive results.

Step 12: Return to couch, as H puts kids to bed, thanking God your husband is symptom-free, but required to stay home, until he is on antibiotics for 24 hours, and can tend to your similarly symptom-free-going-to-tear-the-house-apart children, so you can rest.

Step 13: Be woken up by shivering H in the middle of the night, as he has started running a high fever. Start asking God what you did to offend him.

Step 14: Upon waking Tuesday, notice the weird rash on Little Man’s face has gotten worse. Do the worst thing possible and Google “strep and rash” and get results for scarlet fever. Remember somebody from Little House on the Prairie going blind from this (Mary?) and have panic attack.

Step 15: Drive immediately to pediatrician, leaving husband semi-conscious with instructions to keep older children alive until your return.

Step 16: Be told the rash is not scarlet fever and be given ointment. Again, thank God. Who is seriously starting to question your sincerity.

Step 17: Realize during all of this madness your throat has finally stopped hurting.

Step 18: Return to active duty as you watch H sleep on the couch for the next 12 hours straight.

Boys will be boys. I guess...

It was conference day at Little Man’s preschool the other day, and all the other moms, whose first-borns are in class with my third child, waited with the mixture of excited anticipation and trepidation, I myself experienced before my first parent-teacher conference, hoping the teacher would tell me my kid was wonderful and fearful she would tell me the opposite. Now, three kids later, I realize my preschooler isn’t learning the secrets to cold fusion, and anything they might tell me that could ruin my day in the short term, will soon right itself, as children change as quickly as the weather. In fact, my thought that morning was, “I have shit to do. Do I really need to go?”

But go, I did and I received the assessment I was expecting. “LM is a sweet, lively little boy who can get a little silly when he’s with certain boys.” True, Little Man, is pretty much a ray-of-sunshine third child, just happy to be here. And he loves to be silly. But what she really nailed was that, as of late, the silliness has been taken up a notch and, while thankfully it has not at school, it has evolved into a little good-natured aggression at home. Now, instead of just hugging his sisters, the hug turns into a grappling match, ending with a pig pile on the floor. He also now loves to playfully hit his sisters. Not hard at all, but just out of the blue he throws out an arm and gives a little love tap – about three times an hour.

Now I realize, none of this is real aggression, but while this is cute at two and a half, nobody’s laughing at the kid who hits in kindergarten. Yes, I am looking very far ahead, but since he is my third child, I realize you reap what you sow starting at a young age and I need to get a game plan together sooner rather than later.

Perhaps you think I am overreacting. And some of this reaction might be a side effect of being raised with a sister and only having raised daughters thus far. But even Hubby, who was raised in a house of four boys agrees with me on our main goal. To not raise a JAB. A JackAss Boy. A JAB is the kid who hits, and pushes and grabs toys. He is the loudest kid at the playground who knocks the smaller kids over as he plays a too aggressive game of tag that ends with is pushing a playmate to the ground screaming “I GOT YOOOOU!!!!!” How do we prevent this from happening?

My first response has been to put an end to horseplay for now. LM is too young to understand the word “appropriate”, so removing the behavior from his surroundings seems to be the solution. H put the kibosh on that plan telling me, “What? And turn him into a pussy?” Which is true. I don’t want LM to lose that essential boy physicality. I want him to be comfortable being physical. I want him to know how to throw a punch to defend himself. But I also want him to be able to express his feelings verbally, and empathize with others. There is a frustratingly finer line when you are trying to raise a man.

The world of small children seems rigged against boys. We all want everyone to get along and never fight, we want everyone to win. Boys want to say it like it is and there sure as hell better be a winner if a game is being played. Traditional classrooms are the seventh ring of hell for many young boys, all that sitting still and, with the decline of Phys Ed time and recess, lack of opportunity to burn off copious physical energy. It’s like trying to fit a boy into a girl-shaped hole. Yes, I know I sound extremely sexist and, yes, there are plenty of girls who are just as physical and suffer as mightily in the same situation, my sister being one of them, but having seen both genders, within the same family dynamic, boys are just different. And one of the ways we have tried to deal with that difference is with diagnoses and medication. Many children do legitimately suffer from these disorders, but how many cases are boys who are just being boys? Even, myself, as a teacher before I had my kids, I thought several of my male students needed some Ritalin in their chocolate milk, when I see now maybe they just needed to run themselves into a stupor on order to be able to focus on fractions.

I have still not come up with a definitive plan for dealing with this silliness I feel will turn into jackassery. I put Little Man in time-out when I see him hit and on the advice of the sage Sasha have started using the phrase “Arms are for hugging, not pushing”. In our discussions about raising boys, she told me she was afraid of “breaking” her son. And that is exactly what I don’t want to do. I just want to channel his energy appropriately. I will let you know if I have an epiphany, but I think I have a long, tortuous road ahead of me.

Because there is no way I can let the grandson of a woman who was never afraid to throw a punch, turn out to be a pussy.

2/14 or The One Day It Sucks to be a Man

While the vast majority of my readership is female, I have, as of late, I surprisingly discovered I have a growing, and dedicated, male readership. This post is a shout out to them.

I often describe, ad nauseum, the struggles and difficulties associated with being a woman, but to be fair, there are drawbacks to being a member of the male gender as well. Valentine's Day is one of them. Yes, Valentine’s Day, along with being kicked in the nuts, and baldness, is one of the hardships suffered by men.

There are some men, I’m sure, for whom V-day is no stress at all, and perhaps they even look forward to it. These men also wax and write poetry, and as I have mentioned before, no one really wants to go out with that guy for more than a few dates after a breakup. But for the average American guy, Valentine’s Day is a contrived, Hallmark holiday, where men every where are forced to declare their love for their significant others.  (Yes, there also some vague religious significance card companies use to protest "It's REAL holiday!", but the St. Valentine story is actually rather depressing and not related to chocolate or over-priced roses in any way.) The poor members of the male sex search for the non-cheesy, romantic greeting card, which if you have roamed the aisles of a card store this month, is a rare thing, indeed, as cards heralding “My Wife, My Love” abound. They will order dozens of over-priced, red roses, which I am convinced, no women over twenty really wants (but every woman should get at least once in her life to prove to herself she actually hates them) and make dinner reservations at expensive, romantic restaurants where they will be packed in like sardines with other suckers, ordering from a prix-fixe, also-know-as-made-ahead-to-deal-with-the-crowds menu, sweating with the pressure of making this the Most Romantic Night Ever.

To my poor, single, male readers, you have it especially hard. What if you have just begun dating a woman? What kind of card do they have for you? I haven’t seen any “I like you a lot, but am waiting until we have sex to decide about you” cards lately. Who wants to invest a hundred bucks on flowers for someone you may not even be speaking to in a month? And, if you’re in a serious relationship, where marriage may be on the horizon, but far in the distance for you, having just successfully run the gauntlet of the holidays without breaking up because you didn’t propose, you now have the high holy day of romance to get through unscathed. Good luck with that.

I think married men have it easiest. Most of us wives have lowered our expectations because if you’ve stuck around this long, we know you love us. And when kids are in the equation, emptying the dishwasher is as romantic as a Shakespeare sonnet. As I have mentioned before, a card (usually a funny one) and the Russell Stover, heart-shaped sampler are all I expect, and H delivers without fail. The poor guy even responded to one of my joke-y, hint emails to maybe add flowers to the list last year. I forwarded him this cheesy ad 1-800-flowers sent me and he ordered the actual item featured instead of taking the hint in a broader sense. Let’s just say it involved a teddy bear. Which I would love if I were sixteen. “A” for effort though.

While I thoroughly enjoy this holiday – I can eat chocolate and drink champagne, and wear pink and red from head to toe, or a t-shirt with a heart motif, and not look like a fifth grader – I can see the blatant unfairness of it for men. We have all heard that joke about National Steak and Blow Job day, and I honestly do not think it’s a bad idea (even though to be honest, women work their asses of for every other holiday and where's our payback? How many Christmas presents did you buy or wrap, H?). However interesting an idea, I can’t see Hallmark taking it up, but perhaps Outback would - it absolutely has to come after V-day to be fair though. Since, if all you got was some lame card from your boyfriend or husband, the most he’s getting on S&BJ Day is Burger King and some over-the-bra action.

Dear Presidents of A&P, Stop N Shop, Shoprite, etc.-

I am writing with some suggestions that would drastically improve the experience of the key demographic at your stores. Apparently, you all have not done your research, so let me explain who your key demographic is – mothers and, specifically, mothers with children. No, it’s not the single guys who buy extra large bags of chips and Chunky soup. It’s not the old ladies who come to buy a third of a pound of low sodium ham at the deli and cat food. It’s women with households to feed, who are usually dragging several minor inhabitants of said household with them, who butter your bread, so listen up.

1. Carts. I loudly applaud your efforts to employ the mentally handicapped, and I do not think it is they who are deciding the ways the carts should be arranged. However, it is your store managers who must be semi-retarded if they think it’s a good idea for Billy the cart guy to put the plastic-car-cart-combo, that already weighs about three hundred pounds, all the way at the end of the entrance, where there is no way to get the cart around all the other carts without pushing the whole thing off the curb, sending it crashing over the edge.

Also, when the carts with the infant seats (which I know only mothers of really fat babies use these petri dishes since our kids outgrow the infant carrier so early, but lack the strength to hold up all that girth and can't sit in the regular cart seat) are stacked ten deep behind regular carts, and I’m holding my baby while trying to free one and simultaneously stop my three year old from running into traffic? I want to hunt you down and kill you.

2. The produce department. Large pyramids of colorful spheres + my two year old son who refuses to ride in the cart any longer = disaster. Might I recommend some clear plastic shields?

3. The deli counter. I know you need a place to put the old people you have to hire due to anit-agism policies, but really? In the busiest part of the store? I know Gramps can’t be unloading gallons of milk, but can’t he go make some of those fruit pyramids we talked about? I can slice meat faster with a dull pair of baby nail clippers.

4. The aisle organization in general – Why is macaroni and cheese in the “prepared foods section” and why is tuna fish in the pasta aisle? I know everything has to go somewhere, but damn, can we use the most obvious category please? Because having to turn that damn car-cart around is going to cause a jack-knife situation in aisle seven.

5. Checkout. First of all, I demand all candy, mints and gum be placed at a height no lower then four feet. It’s not that my children beg to have these things, but if you want your merchandise covered with the cumulative germs of over one hundred school children while they run their fingers over every package, then so be it. And why aren’t I stopping them? Well, you’re the dumb-asses who put it in front of their little low-impulse-control faces so why should I suffer?

Second, I demand there be a “No Old People or Check Writers Lane”. I understand some people have not recognized the beauty of the debit card transaction, and still want to spend a perfectly good Sunday balancing their checkbooks, but for those of us who have entered the twenty-first century, we should not be made to wait. I also understand that a trip to the grocery store is this nice old lady’s only action for the day, so she wants to make it last. I appreciated her cooing at my kids and telling me how well behaved they are, but what I do not appreciate is her chatting with the cashier about the weather for five minutes after her order has been rung up, as she picks change out of her purse, while the well-behaved children behind her turn into tired, M&M touching hellions, having been patient for what really is a reasonable amount of time.

In summary, grocery execs, I find your lack of thought concerning who is really frequenting your store and spending the big bucks on five gallons of milk a week and the ridiculously expensive yoBaby, offensive. Please consider making the above changes. And while we’re at it, you can get rid of those damn toy and candy machines near the exit. Did you read what I said about debit cards? Where the hell am I getting three quarters?

Sincerely,
Mean Mommy

Am I really going to do this?

So I just got off the phone with the woman who teaches the writing class at the local library. I was all excited to finally make the leap and do something more structured with my writing. So I finally got the baby down for his nap, grabbed the phone and dialed....eh.

First of all, her name is Hertha, second, she sounds about a thousand years old. Yes, yes, ageism, blah, blah, J.D. Salinger was ninety-one, blah, blah. But I'm not looking to be J. D. Salinger. An amazing an author though he was, I'm not cut out to be a serious literary type. I just write funny stories about my kids and curse.

Anyway, Methusela, I mean Hertha, goes on to describe the class. There are ten students right now and each week students share their writing aloud, either from an assignment or from a piece of personal interest. One student, for example is working on an autobiography, another, a short story. An autobiography? Really? Who are you, Ted Kennedy? See? I'm already judging and this does not bode well.

My fear is this class is full of old people. Again, ageist, but I can picture this old coot in his suspenders and belt offering up his critique, "She swears too much. It's filth!", while angrily wiping spittle from his mouth with a handkerchief. I'm not sure a suburban library class is going to get me, or more to the point, my snark, unless, by some miracle, there are some women my age in attendance.

So, do I go? Don't I? Adding to the burden of this decision, is the fact the class starts at six o'clock. - way before H even gets on a train back to Jersey, and prime crazy-time at Chez Mean Mommy. So not only would it mean getting a sitter, but throwing said sitter right into the fire, never mind a stop in the frying pan.

And then this quote from You've Got Mail (which I am quoting most often lately- weird), popped into my head,
"Sometimes I wonder about my life. I lead a small life - well, valuable, but small - and sometimes I wonder, do I do it because I like it, or because I haven't been brave? So much of what I see reminds me of something I read in a book, when shouldn't it be the other way around? I don't really want an answer. I just want to send this cosmic question out into the void."

I will keep you posted.

Indulge me in a stab at poetry...

Untitled

Last night I dreamt I ran away from my life.
Instead of being woken up by requests for pancakes,
I started my day with Starbucks and a meeting with my trainer.
I returned to my modern apartment with the cream-colored couches,
that no one would touch with chocolatey fingers,
and took a shower that included shaving my legs.
On a Thursday.
I toweled off and did not notice I no longer had a body that had been ravaged by
creating and sustaining life.
I applied moisturizer over my smooth, frown-line-less brow,
and needed barely any under-eye concealer.
I blew-dry my hair.
Twice.
Because it didn't turn out right the first time.
I left for the office carrying, not a camouflage diaper bag,
redolent with the odor of a long-forgotten banana and baby wipes,
but a trim leather satchel, with the scarcest of necessities.
Wallet, keys, phone, lipstick, manuscript.
I tightened the belt of my winter-white coat, as I ran for a cab in my impractical heels.
I wore very big sunglasses.
A man looked at me, instead of through me, brood mare with her colts.
Waiting in my corner office, of the red drapes and antique desk, was my assistant.
He had my coffee and a compliment for my hair.
I had very important meetings with very important people.
I wrote for hours on end.
Somebody else brought me my lunch.
There was no peanut butter involved.
I went to Starbucks to clear my head and didn't have to hold the door open with my ass,
as strangers look through the mother made of glass and her huge stroller.
I chatted with the barista instead of wishing he would hurry the fuck up.
Fixed my lipstick.
I met my other single friends for drinks after they left their corner offices.
There were interested parties,
but we were too busy and important to get involved.
But thanks for the drink.
At midnight, I went home.
Alone.
To no one.
Then I woke up.
I kissed my husband, and grabbed my sneakers.
Tripped on a Barbie on the way down the creaky stairs.
Morning run with Beyonce.
I returned.
Happy.
To start making pancakes.

It's not her damn wedding!

So it has been one year since our return to the fold, and the Super Bowl of Catholicism is rapidly approaching. First Communion. Dun, dun, dunnnnn.

I remember my own First Communion (FC) being a pretty big deal in my seven-year-old life. CCD classes ramped up in frequency, there was a party to plan, and there were endless Saturdays spent shopping for the dress, the veil and the shoes. Now that #1 is preparing for FC as well, I plan on continuing the low-key way we have approached religion so far, and taking this whole thing with a grain of salt, and not believing the hype. Fighting the rising tide of Eucharist-induced hysteria is proving difficult, however, as I attend mandatory parent meetings where parents anxiously wait to be informed of the date of their child’s FC like their SAT scores, so they can book the country club for their 200 person reception.

So this past Saturday, I thought I was reasonably ahead of the game, it being January, and decided, after stopping at the local wine shop, to pop across the street into a little children's boutique that carries FC-wear, for a little look-see. Boy, was I in for a shock.

First of all, the place was packed. Two girls were already being fitted in the back “Communion Area”, that looked like a miniature Kleinfeld’s. While #1 and I waited (yes, I brought her with me to buy wine, but, to be fair, we were coming straight from gymnastics), the owner asked what church we were with and what date was our mass. I thought this was polite conversation, until she whipped out a color-coded binder and said, “Good, I have no one for that date.” Asking what she meant, she explained, “I generally don’t sell two of the same dress for the same mass. If you are dead set on a dress that has already been purchased, I can call the other mother and see if she’ll agree to the sale. If she doesn't, I can’t sell it to you.”

And this is where I question this whole religion thing yet again.

To be fair, there are plenty of parents who are not bat-shit crazy and would not care if another girl was in the same dress as their daughter. I guess if you pay $500 for a dress you want to get your money’s worth of attention. But even my seven year-old saw the ridiculousness of this practice, telling me as we left, “I don’t want to shop at a mean store.”

Saturday’s interaction makes me dread this whole experience. I am looking for a simple, low-key dress, to go with the simple, low-key party we will have. I am not looking for a miniature version of bridal couture (#1 however, is hell bent on rhinestone trim and I had to explain the phrase “over my dead body”). I am also struggling with the whole veil thing. To me, it has child-bride connotations that I'm not quite comfortable with, but then I remember how in love I was with mine and didn’t want to take it off. So do I push my own aesthetics on my child and force her to wear a crown of flowers or give in?

So not much has changed in the past year since returning to the church. I am still crippled with indecision, at least this time it’s just about fashion. And adding insult to injury, when I told #1 she gets a special gift for FC, thinking she would request something akin to the pink, Huffy, Sweet Thunder I bike I got for the same occasion, she hits me with, “I want to get my ears pierced. And can I get hoops?”

Oh, sweet Jesus…

My mother, my self

Today would have been my mother’s sixty-first birthday. It seems odd to me that I remembered this year when I it has slipped my mind for the majority of the past years.

As I have written before, my mother died when I was in college, and, while people still give me that pained sympathetic expression when I tell them for the first time, it no longer bothers me to talk about it and it has become part of who I am like my height or eye color.

Remembering her birthday this year, brought to light the fact that I really think of my mother less and less often now, which may be a symptom of my busy life, but is a state of being that would have been unbelievable to me sixteen years ago, as I was a zombie wandering around my college campus, bursting into tears at the drop of a hat. Now that I am a mother myself, shouldn’t my own mother be more present in my thoughts instead of less? After thinking it over for a while, and really being honest with myself, I came up with the answer that I knew I didn’t want to face. I don’t think about my mother that much because I am pissed at her and would rather not think about that.

Crazy, right? To be angry with someone who has been gone for so long, someone who, when she was alive, was the center of my universe. We never, ever went through that Oh-my-God-you-are-so-embarrassing-and-I-hate-you teenage phase, so why, now that I am a grown woman in my thirties with three children, am I acting like a child? Because I think she brought some of this on herself.

My mother was the quintessential, hard-working, Irish mother. Up before everyone in the house at the crack of dawn, she never stopped. When she was working full-time, she still made sure we got to all of our activities and sports and, in the evening, did all the laundry and housework. Cleaning was a religion to my mother and she worshiped the Holy Trinity of bleach, Murphy’s oil soap and Lysol. She worked from sun up to sundown and we found her, every night, asleep at nine o’clock with a book on her chest after reading two pages.

Like all of us mothers, she was tired, all the time, I’m sure. But then other issues began to crop up, and what gets me angry is how she ignored symptoms of a disease that would eventually kill her. By the time her lupus was diagnosed, it was advanced enough to be life-threatening, an unusual circumstance with this particular disease. What if she had gone to the doctor sooner, as I’m sure my father urged her to do? What if she had taken better care of herself?

I suppose I look at the end of my mother’s life through the prism of my own, which is not fair, since how she lived, and eventually died, drastically affected the way I live. I am no hypochondriac, but when I have an unusual symptom, or find a weird spot, I get it checked out - as soon as possible. My mother, of the genetically amazing cholesterol levels, was a strict adherent to the United Kingdom diet – the exact opposite of the Mediterranean – heavy on meat, refined carbs and saturated fat, while strictly limiting fresh produce. While I do enjoy my sweets and love the occasional burger, the way I cook has been described half-jokingly by my father as “having too many colors”. As for exercise, my sister and I would call my mom “The Phantom Jogger”. She would emerge, every few minutes out of the blackness of our patio in the summer time, into the light from the French doors, doing this little half-in-place-half-moving jog, in her mom jeans, polo shirt and loafers. This lasted about ten minutes and was followed by leg lifts on the family room floor. You all know my morning appointments with the treadmill and while I will not claim fitting into my jeans is not the main motivation, I will say staying healthy is a close second. And at least I sweat enough to not be able to wear said jeans while working out.

As a mother, I can fully understand how working through the pain becomes part of the job, with its lack of sick days and all. Feeling like crap becomes the rule, rather than the exception. It took me two weeks of having a hacking cough to finally cry uncle, demand H take a day off, and drag my ass to the doctor. But it was only two weeks. My mother must have been sick for years.

This post I am seeing, is really just a big pile of emotional vomit, but since I’ve given up on journaling, you people get to see all my uglies. I’m sure this is not going to be my dad's favorite post, since I’m kind of harshing on my mother a bit, and for that I’m sorry . At the end of this stream of consciousness I have just unleashed upon you, I suppose there is a point. Take care of yourselves. Eat right, exercise, take your vitamins, go to the damn doctor. You owe it to your kids to eat a salad and break a sweat every once in a while.

Nobody loves a martyr. Not because they’re no fun at cocktail parties (they do make good designated drivers if you can ignore all the beleaguered sighing), but because you know what makes a martyr a martyr? They die.

I only throw foodstuffs, not plates...

As it is Wednesday, I am sitting in the enforced prison that is gymnastics. I have no idea why this is the one extra-curricular where all the moms stay for the duration of the lesson, perched in the elevated observation area, intently watching their budding Nadia Comenices. I have been given the hairy eyeball, on more than one occasion, for tapping away on the laptop, having fully accepted the fact that, at five years old, #2 is taller than most professional gymnasts and if I had any serious hope for her, I’d have been at this gym three years ago, so I'm not missing any Olympic moments here. So at least if I have to sit here, and try to ignore the three year old who is currently peering over my shoulder, breathing swine flu down my neck, as her mother debates the benefits of Pilates versus Zumba on her cell phone, you guys will benefit.

On the way to tumbling jail today, some morning show was discussing an elderly couple in Pennsylvania who have been married for eighty years. The dj’s were astounded at the longevity of this pairing and asked the couple to give tips for staying together, happily, for so long. After the usual, “respect each other”, “laugh a lot” stuff we’ve all heard before, the wife chimes in with, “Fight. Fight every day.” I snarfed my coffee and immediately this woman became my hero.

She went on to explain that couples should not let little things back up, causing big, explosive, laundry-list-of-things-that-pissed-me-off-since-I-married-you fights. Instead, she advised, have it out right away and clear the air. I have to say I heartily agree. I find that if I send H a quick email - after he has left shaving cream all over the sink again, or piles of his work clothes around the bedroom for the past four days, making it look like he has melted, several times, like the Wicked Witch of the West - along the lines of, “Listen jerkoff, I’m not the maid. Pick up your shit”, I feel my blood pressure drop ten points right after I click send.

On the opposite side of the spectrum, I recently read an interview with Elizabeth Gilbert, the author of Eat, Pray, Love, who has a new book out about her unexpected second marriage. She describes how peaceful this union is compared to her first, as she and her hubs are both confrontation-averse. She goes on to say, “The Buddha taught that most problems – if only you give them enough time and space – will eventually wear themselves out.” I guess this theory has some validity, but frankly, I’d rather hit you in the head with a frying pan verbally and be done with it. Plus, I have tested how long it would take H to notice all his empty shampoo bottles in the shower, and only got up to three before I was too embarrassed to leave them there, again, when the cleaning lady came, and threw them out.

This “tackle it now” philosophy pretty much guarantees my children see H and I bicker about minor things on a regular basis. If we had to run into another room every time we called each other out on something, we’d have to hire a nanny. Of course, if we ever have a serious issue to discuss, we shelve it and take it up after bedtime, but I think it’s healthy for my kids to see one of us be unhappy with the behavior of the other, express our displeasure, and have the other party respond in a constructive way. I generally leave the “jerkoff” and “shit” out of those discussions. I think having them experience mature conflict resolution will benefit them in the future. And, no, none of them were in the room for the Great Forgotten Dry Cleaning/Syrup Bottle Throwing Incident of ’07.

I’m sure there are plenty of people in our lives who witness how H and I interact and think I’m a stark-raving bitch at times (I’m looking at you, Pop), but it works for us. In the end I think it comes down to your comfort level with conflict and fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on your perspective), I’m really comfortable with it. If I didn’t feel like I could tell H how annoyed leaving yesterday’s fermenting lunch container moldering in the kitchen sink instead of putting it in the dishwasher makes me, then I wouldn’t feel like I could also tell him on a regular basis that he is the best thing that ever happened to me. To quote my sister, “Irish women. They love hard and they hate hard. Gotta love ‘em.”

Mr. Doubtfire

In the anthropological study that is being a stay at home mom, I have encountered an entirely new species. Among the usual mix of regular moms, stay at home dads, inattentive, over-dressed moms, distracted, Juicy-wearing moms, texting away on their cell phones, and nannies congregating around the suburban watering hole that is the playground, is The Grandpa.

More and more, as of late, I have been seeing men in their mid-sixties at my usual daily stops – library class, gymnastics and school drop off/pickup - with small children in tow. Over the course of time it became apparent to me, that these guys were not just there filling in for a sick parent, this was their regular gig. They are the childcare provider.

First I thought, “Way to go, Grandpa!”, thinking it very enlightened of these men, most of whom may have had very little hands-on experience caring for their own children, to take an active part in the raising of their grandchildren. I fell into the usual trap I complain about - heaping accolades on men when they do something women have been doing for years with little to no recognition - and thought it was going above the call of duty for these men to provide free, reliable childcare so their children could work. And then I found myself in close quarters with The Grandpa on a regular basis and I began to wonder if they really knew what they were getting into.

Now I am not saying these men can not care for their grandchildren well. I personally know grandfathers (my own and H’s dad included) who do a very fine job when they are on duty, but in my cultural study, it appears, at times, The Grandpa may have bitten off more than he can chew. While his former dad-unpreparedness - back in the 70’s, he would take the kids to the park with nothing but one clean diaper in his back pocket - has been replaced by his daughter or daughter in-law’s diaper bag prepped with snacks and water, Purrell and Band-aids, he lacks the physicality parenting small children requires. I can practically hear his vertebrae scraping together as he bends himself into a pretzel to retrieve Little Olivia from inside the tube slide. Trying to wrestle a two year old, who does not want to leave the library, into his coat, while the four year old incessantly asks for pretzels, and you can practically see it pass through his mind that spending the next ten years on the couch watching golf might not be as boring at is once seemed.

Having not been immersed in modern parenting culture of speak in a sing-song voice while disciplining, he is often the lone, yelling voice on the playground (other than yours truly, of course). He is not entirely sure how to interact with other parents when their grandchild is the one to hit or bite, not placating the offended mother with obsequious apologies. Everyone kind of averts their eyes. It is truly refreshing though to be around someone who hasn't had a big gulp of the "everybody wins" Kool Aid and has the adult children he raised to prove the validity of old school parenting.

God bless The Grandpa for trying. I have one in my life currently, that I interact with on a daily basis at Little Man’s preschool. The poor man is caring for twins. It seems every day he has some question about potty training or napping and I love him for being so proactive. If I thought that stay at home dads have it hard, at least they have the common denominator of their youth when hanging with the moms. The poor Grandpas have nothing. Knowing how lonely and boring the playground can be, I make an effort to engage any adult in at least some mundane banter. With Gramps, conversation can be quite difficult, as they usually interact with you as if you were their daughter. It makes it kind of awkward when you’re complaining about your contractor, thinking home improvement would be common ground, and he tells you you’re going about it all wrong.

So mad props to The Grandpas out there. While grandmas have been doing this practically since the dawn of time with no parade thrown in their honor, I am glad my son will grow up seeing even more men tying shoes and changing diapers. And while I joke about some of the quirks of this situation, don’t think for a hot minute I won’t be packing up the diaper bag for H’s dad once in a while after he retires next year.

You in, Pop?