And before you wonder where the woman went who couldn't watch Precious, since she now "mocks fat people", as per the last post, let me clarify.
I am speaking of a specific breed of pusillanimous whiners on The Biggest Loser who claim all they want is to be on this show to change their lives, but then stuff their face full of M&Ms to win a thousand bucks during a temptation challenge. I'm looking at you, Melissa.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Roses and Thorns
Aaaahhh....that's the sound of me plopping my ass in the office chair, with a Lean Cuisine and a Diet Coke. Little Man is sleeping, or if not, at least playing quietly enough to allow me to imprison him in his crib without the neighbors calling Family Services, the girls are at school, the detritus of the morning has been raked into various piles, the dishwasher has been emptied and laundry has been put in the washer. I have a whole half an hour* I allow myself to do whatever I want in the peace and blessed, blessed quiet of an empty house before I begin prepping dinner and gathering supplies for the onslaught that is afterschool activities. This is one of my favorite times of day. Yesterday's post about the high and low points of communion day, got me thinking, about a typical day in anyone's life really, and how each one is a comedy or drama depending on the moment. So I thought I'd look at the peaks and valleys of my typical day (aside from the aforementioned naptime nirvana) and see where the balance fell.
Low point - Waking up. Boy does that sound bad, but hauling my cookies out of bed at 5:00 each morning is like ripping off a Bandaid every goddamn time. No matter the season, I am up before the the sun in all four, so sunlight does not influence my waking mood, and the word "fuck" is thrown around quite a lot in my head as I shuffle around in the dark looking for my sneakers.
High point - I remembered to set the coffee maker and/or put in the water and/or put in the coffee and my caffeine is ready (happens 60% of the time). I happily lurk on Facebook and check my blog stats (I am watching you...). H comes down to join me and makes a comment about something on the news that makes me laugh.
Low point - Clad in my schemata and ratty workout gear, I hit start on the treadmill. Even if I have the best workout mix awaiting me, the promise of Ke$ha's Your Love is my Drug** can't get me past those first few minutes of running when I seriously question why the hell I am doing this.
High point - Having hit the proverbial "runner's high", I kick it up to an 8 minute mile and to make H laugh as he descends the basement stairs for his turn on the treadmill/torture device, I huff out the lyrics to Queen Latifah's U.N.I.T.Y., "Who you callin' a bitch?"
Low point - Stepping out of the shower. I will spend the next forty-five minutes only uttering sentences that begin with "Would you please hurry up and..." or "Did you do what I asked you to and...", before I devolve into a screeching lunatic at the front door yelling, "JUST GET IN THE CAAAAAR!" I will realize I am still scowling in the van when Little Man, the family emotional barometer, asks, "Mommy, you happy?" , then tread water against a wave of guilt as I realize the last impression of me #1 gets before heading out for the day is of a screaming, scowling, nut bag.
High point - Get Little Man off to school and read in the park with #2 while enjoying bagels and iced coffee. Explain why we have belly buttons.
Low point - Again become screeching harpy, as I try to get Little Man and #2 home from preschool pick up, fed, and back in the van inside forty minutes, which inevitably includes Little Man taking the World's Biggest Shit seconds before we absolutely have to leave that, should I poorly choose not to change it and throw him into the van, will get squished all the way up his back and come out the top of his pants. #2 will start to cry because her sneakers are too loose, despite her obsessive adjusting of the Velcro closures and their being actually a half a size too small.
Naptime nirvana....
High point - Little Man wakes from his nap, and as usual, has soiled himself and is in need of a change of clothes. As I stand him up, and remove his shirt, he flings his arms around my neck and wriggles his bare chest against me, burrowing his face into my neck.
High point - My girls run to hug me at school pickup. #1 has slowed to a trot, so I know I have very, very few days left when I will, physically, be knocked over by the sheer force of her love for me.
Low point - 4:30-5:30. This is the dreaded hour when we have returned from the afternoon's playdate/ballet lesson/robotics class, and everyone is hungry and tired. #1 still has homework to do, but we debate nightly over whether she can begin after dinner, which she can't. Little Man forages in every cabinet looking for edibles (cue dog food raiding), as I frantically cut up some raw veggies for him to devour as I cook. #2 sits on the couch, falling asleep as I scream, "NO NAPPING NOW!!!", knowing it will destroy the early bedtime I have planned. All of this while I am trying to cook couscous, asparagus and chicken breast they will not even touch (but I'm trying Jaime Oliver!!!).
Low point - H emails to say he will be home late, even though I was told otherwise this morning. Commence solo bath and bedtime routine, fighting urge to hose them all down in the yard and throw them into bed, hair unbrushed, teeth covered in plaque, without a bedtime story.
High point - Properly bath children and am rewarded with their sweet, Johnson's scent as I tuck them into bed. Tear up as I read from Song of Night, "The Moon is big and round and low, one more kiss, I love you so".
High point - H arrives home, we have dinner together, then I laugh while he mocks fat people on the Biggest Loser. I scratch his head as payment for not making me say the things we're both thinking out loud.
High point - Read three pages of my book, put on my Frownie and turn of the light.
So the highs win 8:6. Pretty good, I think. I was a bit worried it would come out the other way. It felt good to take stock of things like this, since the low points of your day can feel like the depths of hell at times. I know plenty of people who play that whole "Roses and Thorns" game every night at dinner with their families to do just that, where they list the best and worst part of their days. And while I think it is a great exercise for the kids, since you get to find out more about their day-to-day lives, I think it's tricky for the parents. Because how do you honestly share with your kids, "When it was 8:19 and you still hadn't brushed your teeth or put on your shoes, I seriously questioned my sanity and whether or not to sell you into white slavery"?
*I read in one of my women's mags today that 30 minutes is the optimal time to take to eat a meal. I nearly laughed myself off the treadmill. I think I top out at three minutes so I can get on with important stuff like ruining the environment by putting Goldfish into baggies and finding #2's ballet slippers.
**Best song to run too. Don't you judge me!
Low point - Waking up. Boy does that sound bad, but hauling my cookies out of bed at 5:00 each morning is like ripping off a Bandaid every goddamn time. No matter the season, I am up before the the sun in all four, so sunlight does not influence my waking mood, and the word "fuck" is thrown around quite a lot in my head as I shuffle around in the dark looking for my sneakers.
High point - I remembered to set the coffee maker and/or put in the water and/or put in the coffee and my caffeine is ready (happens 60% of the time). I happily lurk on Facebook and check my blog stats (I am watching you...). H comes down to join me and makes a comment about something on the news that makes me laugh.
Low point - Clad in my schemata and ratty workout gear, I hit start on the treadmill. Even if I have the best workout mix awaiting me, the promise of Ke$ha's Your Love is my Drug** can't get me past those first few minutes of running when I seriously question why the hell I am doing this.
High point - Having hit the proverbial "runner's high", I kick it up to an 8 minute mile and to make H laugh as he descends the basement stairs for his turn on the treadmill/torture device, I huff out the lyrics to Queen Latifah's U.N.I.T.Y., "Who you callin' a bitch?"
Low point - Stepping out of the shower. I will spend the next forty-five minutes only uttering sentences that begin with "Would you please hurry up and..." or "Did you do what I asked you to and...", before I devolve into a screeching lunatic at the front door yelling, "JUST GET IN THE CAAAAAR!" I will realize I am still scowling in the van when Little Man, the family emotional barometer, asks, "Mommy, you happy?" , then tread water against a wave of guilt as I realize the last impression of me #1 gets before heading out for the day is of a screaming, scowling, nut bag.
High point - Get Little Man off to school and read in the park with #2 while enjoying bagels and iced coffee. Explain why we have belly buttons.
Low point - Again become screeching harpy, as I try to get Little Man and #2 home from preschool pick up, fed, and back in the van inside forty minutes, which inevitably includes Little Man taking the World's Biggest Shit seconds before we absolutely have to leave that, should I poorly choose not to change it and throw him into the van, will get squished all the way up his back and come out the top of his pants. #2 will start to cry because her sneakers are too loose, despite her obsessive adjusting of the Velcro closures and their being actually a half a size too small.
Naptime nirvana....
High point - Little Man wakes from his nap, and as usual, has soiled himself and is in need of a change of clothes. As I stand him up, and remove his shirt, he flings his arms around my neck and wriggles his bare chest against me, burrowing his face into my neck.
High point - My girls run to hug me at school pickup. #1 has slowed to a trot, so I know I have very, very few days left when I will, physically, be knocked over by the sheer force of her love for me.
Low point - 4:30-5:30. This is the dreaded hour when we have returned from the afternoon's playdate/ballet lesson/robotics class, and everyone is hungry and tired. #1 still has homework to do, but we debate nightly over whether she can begin after dinner, which she can't. Little Man forages in every cabinet looking for edibles (cue dog food raiding), as I frantically cut up some raw veggies for him to devour as I cook. #2 sits on the couch, falling asleep as I scream, "NO NAPPING NOW!!!", knowing it will destroy the early bedtime I have planned. All of this while I am trying to cook couscous, asparagus and chicken breast they will not even touch (but I'm trying Jaime Oliver!!!).
Low point - H emails to say he will be home late, even though I was told otherwise this morning. Commence solo bath and bedtime routine, fighting urge to hose them all down in the yard and throw them into bed, hair unbrushed, teeth covered in plaque, without a bedtime story.
High point - Properly bath children and am rewarded with their sweet, Johnson's scent as I tuck them into bed. Tear up as I read from Song of Night, "The Moon is big and round and low, one more kiss, I love you so".
High point - H arrives home, we have dinner together, then I laugh while he mocks fat people on the Biggest Loser. I scratch his head as payment for not making me say the things we're both thinking out loud.
High point - Read three pages of my book, put on my Frownie and turn of the light.
So the highs win 8:6. Pretty good, I think. I was a bit worried it would come out the other way. It felt good to take stock of things like this, since the low points of your day can feel like the depths of hell at times. I know plenty of people who play that whole "Roses and Thorns" game every night at dinner with their families to do just that, where they list the best and worst part of their days. And while I think it is a great exercise for the kids, since you get to find out more about their day-to-day lives, I think it's tricky for the parents. Because how do you honestly share with your kids, "When it was 8:19 and you still hadn't brushed your teeth or put on your shoes, I seriously questioned my sanity and whether or not to sell you into white slavery"?
*I read in one of my women's mags today that 30 minutes is the optimal time to take to eat a meal. I nearly laughed myself off the treadmill. I think I top out at three minutes so I can get on with important stuff like ruining the environment by putting Goldfish into baggies and finding #2's ballet slippers.
**Best song to run too. Don't you judge me!
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
It's DONE! With minimal fainting....
Huzzah! My eldest's first communion is over with and I have lived to tell the tale! I am still taking down streamers, chasing half-dead helium balloons around the yard and the house is still a wreck, but it was an amazing day - the weather was warm and sunny, the (catered) food was delicious, and the company spectacular. So as I return to my life before this big event and realize I have not made the deposit for Little Man's preschool next year, and other major things are dangerously close to falling through the cracks, let me give you the high and low points of the day, at least from my perspective.
Being the heathen I am at heart, the high point of the day for me had to be the car ride to the hair salon. Having been up since five in the morning, blowing up balloons and hanging streamers, I was already exhausted and over-caffeinated. At quarter to eight, I threw #1's dress and associated head gear, my dress, shoes and makeup into the car, having made the decision to dress at the beauty parlor then go straight to the church (I am there so often touching up my roots, it might as well be my second home. They greet me like Norm from Cheers when I walk in, and, no , I'm not kidding). Pulling out of the driveway, I took my first deep breath of the day, realizing my manic list-making could cease, whatever work I could do had been done and I was filled with happiness over the crystal clear, blue sky morning, Party in the U.S.A. blasting* and #1 smiling in the backseat.
If I really want to be completely vain, I'd have to be honest and confess the other highpoint of the day for me was my hair (Pictured above. Sorry, H, I couldn't be that narcissistic and cut the communion girl out of the picture, and any other crop including her face, included yours as well) Sam, my kick-ass stylist and colorist, did an amazing, red-carpet-worthy, side-swept bun that, yes, was probably too much for the occasion, as were my shoes (gold-toned python, my friends), but if you know me at all, you know everything about me is a little too much, and I would wear this hair every weekend for the rest of my life if I could. Especially since it made my husband's jaw drop, he of the, "You look nice" school of underwhelming compliments.
The low point happened, of course, in church. #1 had not really been herself all morning, quiet and complaining of stomach pains, and I feared she had picked up a stomach bug and prayed she wouldn't wind up vomiting the body of Christ all over the priest's shoes. After many bathroom stops all morning, we finally made it to mass. Five minutes to chow time, we're kneeling, and my eldest turns to me with tears in her eyes saying, " I can't see so well." I turn to her, about to explain, of course she can't, since we left her tacky-but-had-to-have-them Hannah Montana prescription glasses at home, when I notice her pupils are the size of dinner plates, I see all the color drain from her face, and she starts to sway, telling me, "I need to lie down." JESUS CHRIST THIS KID IS GOING TO FAINT!!!! Mercifully, we were in the last row and while I had been grateful for this since it allowed maximum Little Man escape routes, I never envisioned myself half-dragging my daughter down the aisle to stop her from passing out, or still laboring under the delusion this might be a stomach bug, puking on or crapping herself.
Long story short, we made into the bathroom, not before I had to give some old lady the stink eye when she tried to protest my cutting in front of her in line, even after I asked nicely, explained the situation and, you know, had one of the communion kids with me. Some cold water on the wrists and cheeks revived her and needless to say, she did not join the class in the group song, complete with odd religious hand gestures, on the altar. It was not, as I had feared, a stomach bug, since she rallied quite strongly after mass, inhaling three pieces of pizza and two cookies.
So it is done, dear readers. I speak not only of first communion, but all the stuff I hate about church - at least for #1. I haven't told her this, but she is done with CCD, although we will still be attending mass regularly. I got her this far, if she marries a die-hard Catholic, she can get confirmed as an adult with minimal effort. Then her fiance can deal with any church-induced panic attacks.
*Perpetual loop, I tell you.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
When I'm sixty-four
I'm going to be upfront about it, dear readers, this will be the one and only post of the week, as I am way behind in my manic preparations for #1's fist communion on Saturday*. The two visions keeping me going? My little girl, having an awesome time at her party, wearing her beautiful dress, and myself, drunk on the couch after said party, wearing my beautiful dress.
*Something else I didn't need today? Communion rehearsal from 4-5:30. Guess who missed the memo that parents were supposed to stay and showed to drop her eldest off with #2 and Little Man in tow, and no carefully packed diaper bag of distracting toys? Hint: She spent ninety minutes chasing a toddler around the baptismal font while #1 complained, "All the other moms are sitting with their kids!!!"
So I was at the local YMCA today for #2's first swim lesson of the season, when I really needed to be at the party store and calling the caterer, and decided to distract myself from my obsessive list making, and appear like I was actually watching my offspring like a good mother, by observing the clientele. I suppose a water aerobics class was using the pool next, as toward the end of the lesson, the deck began to fill with numerous people over the age of seventy. I love seeing old people at the pool. Something about their matter-of-fact attitude about their bodies, how they seem to no longer care about sagging skin and rotund bellies, that inspires me. Their bodies are machines they are trying to keep well-oiled to carry them into another decade or two of life. Flowered bathing caps put me on a good mood, fully intending to buy one myself in my golden years, and I like to imagine the young men who used live inside these old bodies when I see faded tattoos.
Being at home during the work week, I am surrounded by old people a lot. Some of the time, this can be Oh-my-God-they-are-going-to-see-me-on-the-news-if-this-guy-drives-any-slower kind of irritating, as there is not a worse pairing on the road then the perpetually pressed for time mother with a van full of kids and her seventy-five year old neighbor who has all day, not just the fifteen minutes between preschool pickup and kindergarten drop-off, to get to the post office. Being behind the elderly at the grocery store can bring me to tears, especially when they whip out the coupon folder and either their checkbook or change purse. Then there are the old people who want to offer you unsolicited advice, like the woman who told me on a ninety-five degree day that my August-born infant needed both a hat and socks.
More often that not though, my interactions with the geriatric population give me pause in my, otherwise, decidedly fast-forward life. Walking thorough town on a beautiful day with Little Man, taking him to see the trains come into the station, seeing the smiles old men give him as he loses his damn mind after the arrival of yet another locomotive, makes think to myself, "Yeah, my son is pretty damn cute when he's not driving me berserk." Out to lunch with all three kids at a restaurant lately, a lovely, old woman stopped to tell me how beautiful and well behaved my children were, and for the rest of that meal my eyes were opened, once again, to how great my kids really are, despite feeling, most days, they only see me as a recorded voice repeating, "Don't do that!" and "Stop it!"
I was at the above-mentioned grocery store Monday, racing through the aisles, with Little Man trying to dive out of the massively heavy car/cart with the broken seat belt and being smashed in the back of the ankles by #2 who had joyfully snagged one of the child-sized carts, as I tried to gather groceries for five people, when I almost ran over a sweet old lady. Grateful not to have killed someone with the sheer force generated by a cart loaded with four gallons of milk and a heavy toddler, I noticed the contents of her cart - dog food, yogurt and Pepperidge Farm white bread. The smallness of her load made me stop, amid all the wriggling and smashing and begging for cookies, and appreciate the load of crazy I drag around with me. In fact, our grocery carts are the perfect representation of the difference in our lives. While I cannot, with any certainty, say this woman's life is empty, she could be a wicked online gambler for all I know and running back home to make a club sandwich, but by comparison, my life seemed, suddenly, very full. Full of chaos and laundry and peanut butter for sure, but also full of love and happiness and laughter. The noise in my house may drive me to madness on certain days, but it is a joyful noise the absence of which would be deafening.
On good days, I carry this perspective with me through the day, knowing that some point in the far-off future, I will look at the haggard mother in the grocery line, absent-mindedly answering her five year-old's questions about balloons, while her baby clings to her, chimp-like, impeding her efficient loading of the groceries, and I will miss burning as the sun at the center of a small universe.
On other days, I just want some damn silence and to head to the pool in my flowered bathing cap then come home and have a yogurt and some Pepperidge Farm toast.
On other days, I just want some damn silence and to head to the pool in my flowered bathing cap then come home and have a yogurt and some Pepperidge Farm toast.
*Something else I didn't need today? Communion rehearsal from 4-5:30. Guess who missed the memo that parents were supposed to stay and showed to drop her eldest off with #2 and Little Man in tow, and no carefully packed diaper bag of distracting toys? Hint: She spent ninety minutes chasing a toddler around the baptismal font while #1 complained, "All the other moms are sitting with their kids!!!"
Friday, April 16, 2010
The divison of labor...
This week has been a long one, dear readers. Between the mania of preparing for #1's first communion, and Little Man's school being closed for vacation, I was already behind the eight ball. Then my sitter, S, canceled for Thursday, which she has never done before, so I will forgive her for ditching me on one of the last child-free days I have before the big day next Saturday, since her sister is visiting from Mexico. Besides being unable to shop for the plethora of paper goods I need, and ordering a cake markedly lacking in a frosting cross or that reads "God Bless #1", I was left with an entire week's worth of laundry to fold. Two days later and I am still not done. This made me wonder, why the hell is this my job anyway?
Being a stay at home mom, almost everything that needs to be cooked, cleaned, folded or organized falls squarely under my jurisdiction*. But why should this be the case? My "job" is to take care of the kids and deal with everything related to that care. That list includes:
*Bathing and dressing the kids - sometimes more than once a day in Little Man's case
*Preparing their healthy, balanced meals and snacks - which occurs about every ninety minutes as my children have the eating habits of Hobbits.
*Reading to them at least 20 min a day (according to PBS)
*Shuttling them to and from school
*Planning playdates and registering them for sports, then driving them to said recreation (never mind being the leader of the activity as in the case of Girl Scouts)
*Doing developmentally appropriate crafts that then require me to clean the entire kitchen
*Homework
*Dental and doctor appointments, as well as tending to sick children
*Attending birthday parties - after schlepping to the educational toy store to buy the gift, then the stationery store to buy the wrapping, and wrapping gift using painter's tape and child scissors
*Trying to fight the tide of toys, books and craft supplies that threaten to escape the confines of the basement and family room closet an take over the entire house
*Taking care of the endless minutiae that eats up my day such as making sure they learn their manners, drink their milk and make their beds so they grow up to be healthy, responsible citizens.
I read this list, trying to avoid the mountain of laundry in my peripheral vision, and, at least to me, it looks like me plate is pretty full. So if this is my job and H's is in the office, why am I still the one doing the grocery shopping, laundry and house cleaning? Well, let's be honest, S is doing all the laundry, and that is a big load off my back, but back when she wasn't you all remember my endless bitching about folding tiny clothes and socks.
I think like many couples, H and I fell into this arrangement. It was quite easy in the early days of being a SAHM. When I only had #1, what was I doing all day? I hadn't made many mom friends yet, and she was too little for playdates, so it was comforting to fill my days with cleaning and grocery shopping, and I have said before, in retrospect, hauling one, non-mobile kid around is like having an extra-heavy purse. But as the number of offspring increased, and the real-world work associated with raising them has increased as they have grown, and do real, important things like take spelling tests, the chore balance has not really shifted.
Adding to this slippery slope of housework, is the generations-old expectation that the mother manage all the household tasks. But times, and what is considered "good parenting" have changed, requiring more time, effort and energy from the primary caregiver. Sure, it was easy to iron your husband's shirts and make a cake from scratch when the pinnacle of good mothering was not blowing smoke directly in your kid's face, as you stuck him in the play pen for hours in front of the nightmare-inducing Howdy Doody. And if I had the milk man saving me the effort of lugging the three gallons of milk a week my family needs in and out of a grocery cart, my shopping trips would be considerably shorter. (Don't even get me started on errands. My aunts tell me how mothers used to leave their babies in prams with the doorman outside of Bamberger's so they could shop in peace.)
To be fair, H works his ass off at work, and I do have help, but for those who don't this division of labor doesn't really seem fair. And while there are exceptions, the majority of my friends all have the same arrangement. I don't know what the answer is. Yes, a lot of this is of our own making, as we, myself included, have allowed parenting to become an all-encompassing, stress-inducing, activity, instead of letting kids fend a little more for themselves and it eats up the majority of our time. If we were able to let them wander our neighborhoods without fear and could tell them to "go outside and play" without feeling guilty, perhaps we'd have time to cook and fold the laundry without losing our minds. And, damn, it sure would be awesome to have, and not feel guilty about using, that playpen.
*And spare me your bitching about yard work, dear, male readers. If laundry and groceries guaranteed me two hours of alone time outside, I'd GLADLY do it. And H would know nothing about this with the landscaper and all...
Being a stay at home mom, almost everything that needs to be cooked, cleaned, folded or organized falls squarely under my jurisdiction*. But why should this be the case? My "job" is to take care of the kids and deal with everything related to that care. That list includes:
*Bathing and dressing the kids - sometimes more than once a day in Little Man's case
*Preparing their healthy, balanced meals and snacks - which occurs about every ninety minutes as my children have the eating habits of Hobbits.
*Reading to them at least 20 min a day (according to PBS)
*Shuttling them to and from school
*Planning playdates and registering them for sports, then driving them to said recreation (never mind being the leader of the activity as in the case of Girl Scouts)
*Doing developmentally appropriate crafts that then require me to clean the entire kitchen
*Homework
*Dental and doctor appointments, as well as tending to sick children
*Attending birthday parties - after schlepping to the educational toy store to buy the gift, then the stationery store to buy the wrapping, and wrapping gift using painter's tape and child scissors
*Trying to fight the tide of toys, books and craft supplies that threaten to escape the confines of the basement and family room closet an take over the entire house
*Taking care of the endless minutiae that eats up my day such as making sure they learn their manners, drink their milk and make their beds so they grow up to be healthy, responsible citizens.
I read this list, trying to avoid the mountain of laundry in my peripheral vision, and, at least to me, it looks like me plate is pretty full. So if this is my job and H's is in the office, why am I still the one doing the grocery shopping, laundry and house cleaning? Well, let's be honest, S is doing all the laundry, and that is a big load off my back, but back when she wasn't you all remember my endless bitching about folding tiny clothes and socks.
I think like many couples, H and I fell into this arrangement. It was quite easy in the early days of being a SAHM. When I only had #1, what was I doing all day? I hadn't made many mom friends yet, and she was too little for playdates, so it was comforting to fill my days with cleaning and grocery shopping, and I have said before, in retrospect, hauling one, non-mobile kid around is like having an extra-heavy purse. But as the number of offspring increased, and the real-world work associated with raising them has increased as they have grown, and do real, important things like take spelling tests, the chore balance has not really shifted.
Adding to this slippery slope of housework, is the generations-old expectation that the mother manage all the household tasks. But times, and what is considered "good parenting" have changed, requiring more time, effort and energy from the primary caregiver. Sure, it was easy to iron your husband's shirts and make a cake from scratch when the pinnacle of good mothering was not blowing smoke directly in your kid's face, as you stuck him in the play pen for hours in front of the nightmare-inducing Howdy Doody. And if I had the milk man saving me the effort of lugging the three gallons of milk a week my family needs in and out of a grocery cart, my shopping trips would be considerably shorter. (Don't even get me started on errands. My aunts tell me how mothers used to leave their babies in prams with the doorman outside of Bamberger's so they could shop in peace.)
To be fair, H works his ass off at work, and I do have help, but for those who don't this division of labor doesn't really seem fair. And while there are exceptions, the majority of my friends all have the same arrangement. I don't know what the answer is. Yes, a lot of this is of our own making, as we, myself included, have allowed parenting to become an all-encompassing, stress-inducing, activity, instead of letting kids fend a little more for themselves and it eats up the majority of our time. If we were able to let them wander our neighborhoods without fear and could tell them to "go outside and play" without feeling guilty, perhaps we'd have time to cook and fold the laundry without losing our minds. And, damn, it sure would be awesome to have, and not feel guilty about using, that playpen.
*And spare me your bitching about yard work, dear, male readers. If laundry and groceries guaranteed me two hours of alone time outside, I'd GLADLY do it. And H would know nothing about this with the landscaper and all...
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
It's not Feminism, it's common sense...
"Expectant mother Nora Hsu never expected to be ticketed while simply looking for a place to sit down. 'I got on, wherever the doors were open. There was no seats and the train wasn't moving. We were in the middle of the station waiting for the express train,' she said. Hsu stood there hoping someone would give up their seat for her, but they didn't. So she did what a lot of people do when a car gets too hot or crowded or even just smells bad: she opened the door and went to the car next door. She said she didn't know going through that doorway was illegal, and that's when the police called her over, issuing her a $75 ticket."
And that's when Mean Mommy blew a gasket. I was immediately taken back to my own days on the public transit system, heavily pregnant with #1, trudging my fat ass into the city to teach in fourth floor classroom, of a one hundred year old building, with no accessible elevator. Sure, the morning commute, was not that bad, I hadn't just spent seven hours on my feet, herding my class up and down all those stairs, to and from the basement lunchroom, and leaving the house at 6:30 each morning pretty much guaranteed me a seat on the bus and two trains I took to get to work, but the way home was a different story.
Contrary to popular belief, most teachers do not zip out of the building the minute the last bell rings. The ones who are doing their jobs properly are still at school, making wall charts and grading papers well past 3:00 and despite the early hour at which their workday commences, are usually leaving the "office" with the rest of the work force - and many times, later. I have developed a pat response that prevents me from going on a socially awkward rant, when people tell me upon hearing I was a a teacher, pre-kids, that teaching is the perfect job because of the hours - "Not if you're doing it right." But I digress. My point is, my ride home differed from my ride in not only due to the hours I had spent bent over tiny desks checking fraction worksheets, but in the dearth of seats to be found on mass transit.
More often than not, the first leg of my trip home involved pushing my way onto a packed 6 train, which,to be honest, was pretty easy considering the fifty extra pounds I was carrying. But once I got on the train, managing to stay upright, carrying my loaded school bag, and holding onto the overhead rail without bumping the latest John Grisham out of some seated passengers hand with my belly was almost an impossibility. The bus ride between New York and New Jersey proved to be even more precarious as the seatless are required to stand in a narrow pathway down the center of the bus and there was decidedly nothing narrow about my body in its fecund state. The safest way to survive the swaying trip through the Lincoln Tunnel is to stand sideways, as if surfing - not an option when you are the human equivalent of a double-wide trailer.
Now I can not lie and say that there were not people who saw me and all my dangerously chaotic swaying and offered me their seat, and there is a special place in heaven for them, but nine times out of ten those people fell into one of two categories - women and minority men. That's right, whitey-white boy, I was given more seats on the six train headed toward the Bronx, than I ever was on the bus to Hoboken. I can't believe my belly isn't imprinted with Alan Greenspan's stipple portrait with the number of Wall Street Journals it has knocked out of the hands of Brooks-Brothers-wearing, finance assholes. You think I'm kidding? I almost got into a fistfight, nine months pregnant, when a guy gave me the stink eye for rumpling his paper as I tried to prevent myself from being thrown to the coffee-covered floor (thanks to the latte he was holding, unsuccessfully, between his feet) and going into labor. At which point I'm sure he would have worried about my getting placental matter on his shoes and scrabbled over seats to get away.
The problem is men's warped sense of feminism. Notice, the guys who were least likely to stand up are the guys who had the most exposure to some sort of feminist education during their college years. These are the men who walked by women's centers on their campuses and saw fliers for Take Back the Night marches. Has the belief that women can do anything men can do made them afraid to perform any chivalrous act, lest they offend women? This is the charitable point of view. It is more likely they are lazy assholes.
Now don't get your boxers in a bunch, my white, male readers, those of you I know would leap out of your seats to let an obviously pregnant woman sit down (I say obviously because no one wants to make that mistake), but I want to put the message out there. Evenly the most staunchly feminist of us could use a little consideration when we are, you know, carrying a tiny human being inside of us. Women are incredibly strong, and yes, as Helen Reddy said, we can do anything, but defying the laws of physics is not possible. So the next time you see an expectant mother, offer her your seat, or hold the door open, because she is doing something so incredibly important - the least she deserves is a plastic seat, sticky with spilled soda, next to the homeless guy who smells like a urinal.
And that cop? May he have to pass a kidney stone with no pain medication sometime in the near future.
And that's when Mean Mommy blew a gasket. I was immediately taken back to my own days on the public transit system, heavily pregnant with #1, trudging my fat ass into the city to teach in fourth floor classroom, of a one hundred year old building, with no accessible elevator. Sure, the morning commute, was not that bad, I hadn't just spent seven hours on my feet, herding my class up and down all those stairs, to and from the basement lunchroom, and leaving the house at 6:30 each morning pretty much guaranteed me a seat on the bus and two trains I took to get to work, but the way home was a different story.
Contrary to popular belief, most teachers do not zip out of the building the minute the last bell rings. The ones who are doing their jobs properly are still at school, making wall charts and grading papers well past 3:00 and despite the early hour at which their workday commences, are usually leaving the "office" with the rest of the work force - and many times, later. I have developed a pat response that prevents me from going on a socially awkward rant, when people tell me upon hearing I was a a teacher, pre-kids, that teaching is the perfect job because of the hours - "Not if you're doing it right." But I digress. My point is, my ride home differed from my ride in not only due to the hours I had spent bent over tiny desks checking fraction worksheets, but in the dearth of seats to be found on mass transit.
More often than not, the first leg of my trip home involved pushing my way onto a packed 6 train, which,to be honest, was pretty easy considering the fifty extra pounds I was carrying. But once I got on the train, managing to stay upright, carrying my loaded school bag, and holding onto the overhead rail without bumping the latest John Grisham out of some seated passengers hand with my belly was almost an impossibility. The bus ride between New York and New Jersey proved to be even more precarious as the seatless are required to stand in a narrow pathway down the center of the bus and there was decidedly nothing narrow about my body in its fecund state. The safest way to survive the swaying trip through the Lincoln Tunnel is to stand sideways, as if surfing - not an option when you are the human equivalent of a double-wide trailer.
Now I can not lie and say that there were not people who saw me and all my dangerously chaotic swaying and offered me their seat, and there is a special place in heaven for them, but nine times out of ten those people fell into one of two categories - women and minority men. That's right, whitey-white boy, I was given more seats on the six train headed toward the Bronx, than I ever was on the bus to Hoboken. I can't believe my belly isn't imprinted with Alan Greenspan's stipple portrait with the number of Wall Street Journals it has knocked out of the hands of Brooks-Brothers-wearing, finance assholes. You think I'm kidding? I almost got into a fistfight, nine months pregnant, when a guy gave me the stink eye for rumpling his paper as I tried to prevent myself from being thrown to the coffee-covered floor (thanks to the latte he was holding, unsuccessfully, between his feet) and going into labor. At which point I'm sure he would have worried about my getting placental matter on his shoes and scrabbled over seats to get away.
The problem is men's warped sense of feminism. Notice, the guys who were least likely to stand up are the guys who had the most exposure to some sort of feminist education during their college years. These are the men who walked by women's centers on their campuses and saw fliers for Take Back the Night marches. Has the belief that women can do anything men can do made them afraid to perform any chivalrous act, lest they offend women? This is the charitable point of view. It is more likely they are lazy assholes.
Now don't get your boxers in a bunch, my white, male readers, those of you I know would leap out of your seats to let an obviously pregnant woman sit down (I say obviously because no one wants to make that mistake), but I want to put the message out there. Evenly the most staunchly feminist of us could use a little consideration when we are, you know, carrying a tiny human being inside of us. Women are incredibly strong, and yes, as Helen Reddy said, we can do anything, but defying the laws of physics is not possible. So the next time you see an expectant mother, offer her your seat, or hold the door open, because she is doing something so incredibly important - the least she deserves is a plastic seat, sticky with spilled soda, next to the homeless guy who smells like a urinal.
And that cop? May he have to pass a kidney stone with no pain medication sometime in the near future.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
The Day I Ate Whatever I Wanted: Chain Restaurant Edition
NOTE: I actually wrote this yesterday, but apparently still think it is 2009 as I entered this in the publish date, sending it to the archives. Did I mention wine was involved?
I picked up a book yesterday by the amazing Elizabeth Berg, whom I quoted in a post many months ago, titled The Day I Ate Whatever I Wanted: and Other Small Acts of Liberation. I checked it out of the library not only because I love this amazing author, but because the title touched on an idea I've had for a while in the back of my mind for a post. What would your ideal day of food indulgence consist of? Notice I did not use the adjective "culinary" since, as I was mentally laying out my own day, very few of the things I want to eat can be described with that adjective without a sarcastic tone of voice. Before I begin exposing my deepest, most shameful food preferences to the harsh light of day I challenge you, dear readers to join in. Don't you dare sit there laughing at my love of that cheese you spray out of a can. Since this blog has the annoying "Anonymous" setting for comments, I expect to hear about your love of leftover spaghetti with Ragu reheated in a pan with melted butter as well (that means you, K).
So for breakfast I think I'd have to start out strong and hit Dunkin' Donuts with a vengeance. Of course, I'd be getting a whole dozen so I could include all of my top picks, as I have discussed ad nauseum (sidebar, my oldest has introduced my to a new deep-fried favorite - the glazed stick. It's a glazed cake donut log, that to be honest, does looks like a turd, but damn, is it good). There is something so liberating about buying such mass quantities of baked goods you actually run out of selections and stare blankly at Mobin when he asks you "What else?", to fill out your order. I'd like to say this scenario is only a fantasy, and I have never eaten that many donuts myself, but my thirty-fifth birthday hangover made this vision a reality and I felt oddly fine after consuming roughly three pounds of fried dough. And no, I did not eat the entire dozen. I begrudgingly let H have one - the lame glazed one.
Lunch would, without a shadow of a doubt, be a Super Melt combo at Friendly's - also known as the seventh circle of hell for H. It is truly an act of charity when he allows us to go there as a family. Yes, I will admit, the service is ridiculously bad, even when you arrive at the I've-been-up-since-six-with-my-kids-so-this-IS-lunchtime-to-me hour of eleven thirty. But the food? Out-friggin-standing. Where else can you get a Three Cheese Turkey Super Melt that has turkey, bacon, Swiss cheese and cheez sauce, grilled between two slices of butter-soaked cheese bread and then, under the same roof, be able to order a Reese's Pieces sundae served in a goblet big enough that they stupidly bring two spoons as if you are going to share it with your judgmental husband? Thank God our local franchise has one of those play-til-you-win stuffed animal claw games so H can occupy himself winning toys for the offspring as I stuff my face and spare me the beleaguered eye rolling. This from the man who eats Taylor Pork roll, which they call Taylor "ham". Unless pig rectum counts, there's no ham in there, my friend.
If I could possibly eat after all of this, I'd have to finish my day off with hot dogs. You all know I love, love, love hot dogs (the more I write, the more I realize how much I have already written about food and am a little embarrassed). I don't want any fancy, schmancy ones either. There is a local hot dog joint here in New Town that makes those monstrosities called "splitters", or deep fried hot dogs. While there are many things I enjoy fried, even I think frying a tube of nitrates in hot grease is overkill. Even in my worst hungover state, even post housewarming party, I react to H's suggestion we have these things for dinner as if he asked me to sup on dog shit. I am frankfurter purist. I want them straight from the murky depths of a New York City pushcart, covered in the-brine-kills-the-bacteria sauerkraut, and two packets of Gulden's mustard. I want to eat them at Rockefeller Center, with H, overlooking the empty ice rink on a spring evening, with a beer in a brown paper bag.
This concludes the tour of my gustatory Hall of Shame. If I had extended the time frame, and was not totally embarassed by my ridiculous love of cheap food, I could have included several entrees at The Cheesecake Factory and Taco Bell. The Bell, incidentally, was where they knew me by name, during my first pregnancy, when I topped out close to two-hundy. H was unaware of my frequent Stuffed Burrito consumption as I would go on my way to and from doctor's appointments, and laughed his ass off when they greted me at the drive thru during my ninth month. Only fear of my crushing him with my enormous girth shut him up.
So let me have it, dear readers - especially you young guys who think you can eat the crap you eat for the rest of your lives. One, in particular, introduced H to tuna salad sandwiches with bacon on them. I throw up in my mouth even writing about it.
I picked up a book yesterday by the amazing Elizabeth Berg, whom I quoted in a post many months ago, titled The Day I Ate Whatever I Wanted: and Other Small Acts of Liberation. I checked it out of the library not only because I love this amazing author, but because the title touched on an idea I've had for a while in the back of my mind for a post. What would your ideal day of food indulgence consist of? Notice I did not use the adjective "culinary" since, as I was mentally laying out my own day, very few of the things I want to eat can be described with that adjective without a sarcastic tone of voice. Before I begin exposing my deepest, most shameful food preferences to the harsh light of day I challenge you, dear readers to join in. Don't you dare sit there laughing at my love of that cheese you spray out of a can. Since this blog has the annoying "Anonymous" setting for comments, I expect to hear about your love of leftover spaghetti with Ragu reheated in a pan with melted butter as well (that means you, K).
So for breakfast I think I'd have to start out strong and hit Dunkin' Donuts with a vengeance. Of course, I'd be getting a whole dozen so I could include all of my top picks, as I have discussed ad nauseum (sidebar, my oldest has introduced my to a new deep-fried favorite - the glazed stick. It's a glazed cake donut log, that to be honest, does looks like a turd, but damn, is it good). There is something so liberating about buying such mass quantities of baked goods you actually run out of selections and stare blankly at Mobin when he asks you "What else?", to fill out your order. I'd like to say this scenario is only a fantasy, and I have never eaten that many donuts myself, but my thirty-fifth birthday hangover made this vision a reality and I felt oddly fine after consuming roughly three pounds of fried dough. And no, I did not eat the entire dozen. I begrudgingly let H have one - the lame glazed one.
Lunch would, without a shadow of a doubt, be a Super Melt combo at Friendly's - also known as the seventh circle of hell for H. It is truly an act of charity when he allows us to go there as a family. Yes, I will admit, the service is ridiculously bad, even when you arrive at the I've-been-up-since-six-with-my-kids-so-this-IS-lunchtime-to-me hour of eleven thirty. But the food? Out-friggin-standing. Where else can you get a Three Cheese Turkey Super Melt that has turkey, bacon, Swiss cheese and cheez sauce, grilled between two slices of butter-soaked cheese bread and then, under the same roof, be able to order a Reese's Pieces sundae served in a goblet big enough that they stupidly bring two spoons as if you are going to share it with your judgmental husband? Thank God our local franchise has one of those play-til-you-win stuffed animal claw games so H can occupy himself winning toys for the offspring as I stuff my face and spare me the beleaguered eye rolling. This from the man who eats Taylor Pork roll, which they call Taylor "ham". Unless pig rectum counts, there's no ham in there, my friend.
If I could possibly eat after all of this, I'd have to finish my day off with hot dogs. You all know I love, love, love hot dogs (the more I write, the more I realize how much I have already written about food and am a little embarrassed). I don't want any fancy, schmancy ones either. There is a local hot dog joint here in New Town that makes those monstrosities called "splitters", or deep fried hot dogs. While there are many things I enjoy fried, even I think frying a tube of nitrates in hot grease is overkill. Even in my worst hungover state, even post housewarming party, I react to H's suggestion we have these things for dinner as if he asked me to sup on dog shit. I am frankfurter purist. I want them straight from the murky depths of a New York City pushcart, covered in the-brine-kills-the-bacteria sauerkraut, and two packets of Gulden's mustard. I want to eat them at Rockefeller Center, with H, overlooking the empty ice rink on a spring evening, with a beer in a brown paper bag.
This concludes the tour of my gustatory Hall of Shame. If I had extended the time frame, and was not totally embarassed by my ridiculous love of cheap food, I could have included several entrees at The Cheesecake Factory and Taco Bell. The Bell, incidentally, was where they knew me by name, during my first pregnancy, when I topped out close to two-hundy. H was unaware of my frequent Stuffed Burrito consumption as I would go on my way to and from doctor's appointments, and laughed his ass off when they greted me at the drive thru during my ninth month. Only fear of my crushing him with my enormous girth shut him up.
So let me have it, dear readers - especially you young guys who think you can eat the crap you eat for the rest of your lives. One, in particular, introduced H to tuna salad sandwiches with bacon on them. I throw up in my mouth even writing about it.
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