Monday, August 29, 2011

Dear God,

What exactly did I do to offend you so greatly that you have tried to prevent every vacation I have planned in the last year with some kind of natural disaster? Did I not suffer enough through the purgatory of my journey to Disney, narrowly escaping a brutal Nor'easter? Apparently not, since you had to send a hurricane to try and keep me off Long Beach Island. You were, however, kind enough to hold off long enough to allow H to land safely on the way home from a week long business trip*, for which I am grateful.

Never ones to be deterred by small things like downed trees and flooded roads, H and I successfully (if you can call turning a two hour car ride into a four hour sojourn) made the trip south despite the closed sections of major highways, and detours that lead us through the sketchiest sections of New Jersey. FYI - Howell Township is the oddest mix of underprivileged Hispanic and middle class Hasidic Jews. One block provides you with a check cashing place, laundromat and Delilah's Den advertising "Live Girls SEVEN days a week!", and the next, a Halal deli and Kosher cupcake bakery. Odd.

So we made it anyway, Lord. Maybe you were just testing us so we would really enjoy our trip, like you did with Disney. You even began the trip the same way with a dead car in the driveway (which you also threw at me last year on the way to the shore, but maybe that's more our own stupidity in allowing our children to touch random buttons in the automobiles). So if that is indeed the case, let me tell you how awesome it is already. The skies are blue, the air is clear and we are having the best time.

All I ask is that you hold off on the locusts and plague until I get back home.

XOXO,
MM

Thursday, August 25, 2011

Mom's Driver's Ed

Had a baby? Ready to head out in the auto with your little bundle? Not so fast. There is an entire set of lesson you need to learn before you can hit the road.

This is Mom’s Driver’s Ed.

Lesson 1 – Develop the ability to drive without actually looking in the direction you are going. Once, you drove with your eyes focused squarely ahead. Forget that. Now you will occasionally flick your peepers to the road ahead, while trying to maintain a constant visual on your newborn using a complicated system of mirrors placed strategically around your vehicle. This skill will come in handy in the childhood years and you have to mediate fights, via rearview mirror, over Burger King toys and who is touching whom. You will also develop a “look” you can throw at that same rearview mirror that allows you to stop any illegal activity dead in its tracks.

Lesson 2 – Develop extreme flexibility. As your child grows and becomes able to eject the essential pacifier, resulting in crying that causes you to swerve, practically into ongoing traffic, you will find yourself blessed with the same super power as the mother in The Incredibles – elastic arms. Did you ever think you would be able to reach a two inch piece of plastic, lodged under the passenger-side backseat while making a left turn? Apparently, along with stretch marks and sagging breasts, delivering a child also leaves you with the upper body flexibility of a Chinese contortionist.

Lesson 3 – Develop the aim of LeBron James. After the pacifier phase mentioned above ends, your child will still have items he or she can not reach, but needs with the desperation of a junkie looking for a fix. And as the number of children you are carting around every day increases, so will their distance from you in the cabin of your vehicle, and the number of requests for food and liquids. If my ability to land a Ziploc baggie of Goldfish, or a Thomas train, in my kid’s lap, in the back row of the van, is any indication, there’s a half-court three point contest somewhere I am going to win.

Lesson 4 - Develop the driving skills of Mario Andretti. Everyone assumes it’s teenagers who are the most dangerous drivers on the road, when really it’s mothers of young children. While we are not drag racing in the Stop N Shop parking lot on a Saturday night, we are doing fifty in a thirty-five mile per hour zone, trying to make the ten o’clock pediatrician appointment because our kid spit up all over our clothes, requiring a full outfit change (not wanting to go out looking like contestants in a breastmilk wet t-shirt contest), or to get to preschool pick up before having to turn back around and race to the elementary school for library duty. In the car the other day, I was explaining to LM yellow lights mean slow down in preparation for the red light, when #2 quips, “Then why do you always go faster, Mommy?” Guess I didn’t have those flames on the old van for nothing.

Final exam - Once you have mastered all these skills, you will be tested. You will have to feed, soothe, and yell at your children, explain the concept of hell*, drink a hot cup of coffee, and try to eat a yogurt at stop lights, compose a list for your Target run in your head, all while twitching desperately to pick up your Blackberry and return that email from the soccer coach, since driving in the car is the only time you are still enough to actually have a coherent thought.

And don’t kill any other drivers.

Mothers, start your engines.

*No joke. An innocent question from #2 about why we say “God bless you” when someone sneezes followed a meandering path, ending in my explaining the concept of hell. After which she paused and said< “How did we get here from sneezes, again?”

Thursday, August 11, 2011

C is for Carrots...


"Andrea says there's no more Cookie Monster on Sesame Street. Now he's Veggie Monster."

Wha-wha-whaaaat?

#1 brought this info home from camp yesterday and sent me into a state of panic. I know Little Man watches way more Phineas and Ferb than I would have let his sisters at his age (which, admittedly, would have been NONE), but I have been DVR'ing Sesame Street to prepare for our upcoming trip to Sesame Place next week. How depressing would that have been to roll up to The Second Most Magical Place on Earth, only to have LM say, "Who's that scary, giant, yellow bird, Mommmy? So I thought I was pretty up to date on all things Sesame (way too little Grover, way too much Telly and Abby Cadabby). Maybe I was wrong.

I immediately ran to the computer to consult the all-knowing Google and became terrified after reading posts on Yahoo!answers, from people who pretend to know things they don't. Finally, I found a post on the PBS website stating that there were absolutely no plans to alter Cookie Monster's appearance or personality, only that " childhood obesity is a serious health concern the producers have decided to make part of their curriculum" and that "Cookie Monster will continue to obsess over his favorite food: the cookie, but he now also eats fruits and vegetables."


Whew! What a relief. I thought the over-sanitizing of America had made its way to this beloved childhood world. In this day and age, we parents are forced to deal with numerous rules and regulations, put in place because some individuals refuse to parent, and had my favorite obsessive-compulsive monster been scapegoated as a cause for childhood obesity, rather than the folks who think a Whopper Combo to be a perfectly balanced meal, I would have had to lead a protest or hold a rally or some sort involving numerous baked goods.

This over-regulation extends far beyond TV. At my local library, my well-behaved almost-four-year-old can not sit with his sisters in the hard-fought-for front row seats at the library's magic show, and must, instead, sit on my lap in the back, because some assholes use these shows as free babysitting, leaving their children unattended, while they wander the stacks looking for the newest Nicholas Sparks rag, instead of preventing Junior from strangling Mike the Magic Guy's rabbit. At the town pool, Little Man was not allowed in the big pool, forcing me to frantically pace between that area and the baby pool in order to keep half an eye on every child, because some people bring un-potty-trained children in with no swim diaper, resulting in a few Baby Ruth situations and the town enforcing an age limit. I am tired of myself and my children suffering from other's idiocy. While I know these rules have solved some problems, it creates problems for those of us who actually, you know, parent.

Anyway, the long and the short of it is, the world is full of dopes and that's not going to change, but at least the smart, smart people at The Children's Television Workshop know that none of us should be robbed of Cookie Monster's hysterical, frantic energy. I'll even give them a pass that they have Cookie constantly spouting that "Cookies are a sometimes food", sort of sucking the joy out of his binges, since I imagine them sending him into a shame spiral of self-loathing afterwards like a drunk after a bender. Cookie Monster represents a certain loss of control in what children can often feel is a very controlling world. How many of us imagined going to town on a box of Chips Ahoy! in that very same manner? Anyone? Anyone? I know it wasn't just me. I think today's kids have so few outlets to be wild and crazy, as they are constantly within eye and earshot of adults. They need to see a character who can lose it every once in a while*, and having him scarf down a bowl of beets just isn't going to cut it. That's like a mom who goes "a little wild" and gives the kids SALTED pretzels for snack. You go, girl.

I am happy to know Little Man will see the original Cookie Monster and not some castrated version of my childhood friend born out an epidemic of parental apathy. He is a kindred spirit and I would have missed his, according to PBS, "wonderful, compulsive personality which our viewers have grown to love".

Does that sound like anybody we know?

*I tip my hat to you as well, Animal.

Tuesday, August 9, 2011

Here to catch you when you fall...sometimes

Remind me why I sent the girls to Girl Scout camp this week, dear readers? Not only do we miss out on a week of field trips and the beach, but I get a lovely preview of the beginning of the school year, with all the shaking out of bed, forcing of breakfasts down throats and burst blood vessels while screaming for children to get in the van that entails. I know, I know, enriching experiences (archery!), and gaining independence, blah, blah, blah.

This morning was a test of that last one - for both myself and #1.

The morning routine for camp requires us all to be in the van by eight in the morning, in order for us to pick up the other two girls we car pool with, and make the twenty-five minute drive into the wilds of New Jersey. "Wilds" being far enough for the camp not to be in the parking lot of a mall. This is even earlier than we leave for school, so needless to say we're pretty rushed - especially after six weeks of no schedule at all. We've barely been making it by the skin of our hastily brushed teeth. This morning was no different, and for some reason, as we approached the entrance to the camp, I began to worry I had swapped the girls' sandwiches by mistake. This has happened before at school, and since #2 eats anything, she happily munches away, and by the time #1 has found her in the lunch room half her peanut butter sandwich is gone and she is left with #2's completely inedible (in her opinion) turkey sandwich. So I ask my eldest to check and hear the words that send every mother's heart plummeting to the depths of her chest after a frantic morning of preparing for school/camp, "I forgot my lunch."

"FUUUUUUUCCCKKK!"

That is what I wanted to scream, but didn't. I had planned a morning of grocery shopping and a playdate for Little Man, I really didn't have time to drive an extra hour to retrieve and deliver a forgotten lunch. What does #1 say about this? Does she offer an apology or ask what should she do? Nope. She continues to play the license plate game with her friend and my rage slowly starts to build. "This little shit expects me to make this right. She isn't giving this a thought." This, I'm afraid, is a situation of my own creation, dear readers. A little background...

Beginning in second grade, my mother returned to work. My sister and I were shuttled, during the pre-school and after-school hours, to various relatives and day care centers, until we were old enough to stay home alone, approximately around the time I was in fourth grade, the same age #1 is now. If, in the normal course of events, I forgot my book report, or my lunch, I got points taken off my grade and ate the awful school hot lunch of franks and beans. Nobody was running over to the school to bring me the overdue library book I had forgotten on the kitchen table. I was going to have to face the consequences of my actions, and the pissed off librarian, again. While I appreciate my parents were in a situation they themselves were not big fans of, and I understand the choices they had to make, it's not much consolation when you're the only kid who doesn't have the paper bag for puppet making. Basically, once I left the doors of my house, I felt I was completely on my own.

One could say this early exposure to self-sufficiency is what helped shape me into the responsible child I became - or turned me into a detail-obsessed, control freak. Either way, having to be responsible for my own actions, or lack of action, thereof, taught me quickly that checklists and a quick mental run through before one leaves for the day is pretty helpful. This experience really affected my decision about whether to stay at home and many decisions I make about how I raise my kids. I help them make lists and try to foster as much independence as I can, but I have to confess, when they drop the ball, I'm the one to pick it up - and deliver it to the school's main office before lunch. So often, in fact*, passing #1's open classroom door on the way to the office one day, after having run home to fetch her forgotten gym sneakers, her teacher shouted out, "Go get a cup of coffee and get out of here! She'll live!!!"

Today, dear readers, I had had enough. Arriving at camp, I pulled #1 aside and told her how upset I was that she all but ignored the fact she had no lunch, leading me to believe she assumed I would take care of it in a snap. I informed her of my grocery and play date plans and asked her how she thought having to drop her lunch fit in. I ended by telling her, "When you mess up, and it creates more work for me, you need to apologize. I'm not your slave, I'm your mother." At which point, my sensitive child burst into tears and apologized, making me want to rip the skin off my own body with the guilt. But, even though it was hard, I'm glad I said it. I will not become one of the disturbingly increasing number of parents who do things such as type their kid's hand-written paper because he didn't leave enough time, or blames the boss for firing their constantly tardy child from their summer job at Dairy Queen. And if and when I choose to catch her when she falls, she'd better realize it and at what cost. I can not produce daughters who expect to serve their families completely with no thought for themselves, or a son who expects to be waited on hand and foot! (Such manic projections, tend to be made before nine in the morning fueled by too much caffeine, but are still valid.)

Informing #1's counselor of the forgotten edibles, I was told the camp could easily provide a lunch for her. Huzzah! Here was my O. Henry moment! My child would learn her lesson in minding her P's and Q's** the same way her mother did, with an overly salty tray of artificial meat! Then of course, she came home and told me lunch was a make-your-own peanut butter and jelly on a white roll (we only eat wheat bread), and apple (which she likes and normally gets in her lunch) and four Oreos (aforementioned apple is the dessert). "Can I get camp lunch every day?"

Sure, if you remember to bring in the form.

*I'd like to defend my eldest child by admitting that roughly 40% of the time, it is my own forgetfulness that requires I run the t-shirt for tie-dying over before Art. Nothing sucks worse than not being prepared and it's your mother's fault.
** Or her six P's according to my father in-law, "Proper preparation prevents piss-poor performance".

Monday, August 8, 2011

Sister Wives

I was a little light with the posting last week as one of my best friends, of annual Boston trip fame, B, braved the six hour drive from the wilds of New Hampshire, with her two children under the age of eight in tow, and came to spend a few days in suburban New Jersey.

It was bit of a Country Mouse/City Mousse scenario. I started B out slowly, taking her and the kids to the park and town pool the first day, before dragging them along on a Mean Mommy summer field trip to The Land of Make Believe, a local amusement park. B is a powerhouse of a woman, she works from home, is raising two well-behaved children, as well as maintaining a huge vegetable garden, canning her own produce and making her own maple syrup, both of which she brought as gifts. She has kindly ignored the fact that I give my children Aunt Jemima, but now after this visit, I have discovered the grade of syrup she makes and has gotten my children hooked on is the most expensive. And did I mention she keeps chickens? CHICKENS! I knew this trip would be a bit of a culture shock to her and the kids, and I had already tested the limits, giving B's children ice cream twice in one day and keeping her little one up past seven o'clock the night before, but I hoped our trip to LOMB wouldn't be pushing it too far. B handled it like a trooper though, even when the tidal pool became epically overcrowded on such a beautiful August Friday. I even discovered, on a trip to the bathroom, that the ramp to the lazy river had become dappled with shit-covered footprints after some toddler let a nugget slip out of his/her diaper. I neglected to tell her fearing she would immediately run for the exit.

Despite the fact that my friend wanted to kill me, or rather because I know she stifled the impulse, I love her even more. We had a great time managing the tasks of motherhood together, and during her visit it became even clearer to me how much we all should really be living with female relatives or friends. I have written about it before, but I had never been in a long-term situation, where another mother and myself were caring for our children together alone (or practically, so late does H work). I not only had the benefit of female companionship, but an extra set of hands to lighten the load. Scratch that, not just lighten the load, but see when the load was getting too heavy and know what part to take. I was cooking dinner and B was setting the table, I was loading the dishwasher and she was putting away the leftovers. Packing for LOMB in the morning, I was not struck with one of my tension headaches, trying to pack lunches and the bag of towels and assorted crap. B did the food while I packed the bags. Its' even better when you feed your children similarly, or one of you feeds her kids even healthier than you do - that being B, whose kids don't even drink juice - so you don't have to worry about anyone packing Ho-Ho's as morning snack like a certain husband would do. And don't even get me started on running errands. Realizing I was out of the lemons I needed for dinner, I ran to the corner market after feeding the kids lunch, and, in addition to not having to turn a ten minute job into a thirty minute one, I returned to a clean kitchen and happily playing children. We started calling each other "Sister Wives" ala the TLC show - minus the Sammy Hagar knock-off husband.

There were tears upon B's departure, my kids crying already missing their friends, and her kids crying from lack of sleep, too much artificial coloring, and too many Disney movies. I cried not only because it wouldn't be until November that I would see my bestie again, but because of all the work I now would have to do alone, and with no funny conversation to make it more enjoyable. I know the extended family scenario is tough, and we all enjoy our privacy - I think T is enjoying his ability to fart freely once again -but I still wonder if I would be a better mother if I always had back-up. Motherhood is like a war and no one should be in the trenches alone.

Tuesday, August 2, 2011

Whining or no whining?

Did you see on the news recently that some restaurants and airlines are considering becoming child-free, not allowing families with children to use their services? Weren't you just waiting for me to lash out, express my rage, and belittle those close-minded individuals who can not accept that children are part of the world at large? Well, keep waiting. I think it's a fan-friggin'-tastic idea.

"What?", you say. "Is this the same woman who railed against the insensitive cretins she had to deal with on her sojourn to Florida?" Yes, yes, it is. Know why? Because if these child-free options become reality, for every glare, and beleaguered sigh I receive at restaurants for my well-behaved children having needs, or for merely existing, I would be able to snark back, "Don't like it? Go eat at Pas d'Enfants!!!" The jerks who roll their eyes when on a flight with a crying baby, while also deserving to spend the afterlife listening to that same sound for not having an ounce of compassion for someone trapped in a desperate situation, can easily escape this fate and spare the rest of us breeders their angst, by flying No Rugrats Airlines.

Even I , mother of three and all, would benefit from these options. Remember my big anniversary trip with H, where I was almost forced to watch NIckelodeon's morning line-up with my eight dollar coffee in the hotel's private lounge? Nothing sucks more than having gotten away from your own children, and then being subjected to the same noise and chaos you wanted to escape from - usually at an inappropriate hour and location, with minimal parental control. I can guarantee myself some child-free time when I have gotten rid of my progeny? Where do I sign up?

Some parents are in an uproar about this. As parents, we are so in love with our own children, we expect the rest o the world to be. Well, most people do. I firmly believe nobody cares about my kids except for me and a few others they share large portions of genetic material with. Can we all just give up this need for validation and accept that no one thinks Junior's rendition of "The Wheels on the Bus" is as cute as you do - especially the hundredth time trapped in an enclosed space hurtling through the air? It's not an insult to your kid specifically, nor does it invalidate your choice to be a parent, when other people actively dislike being around children. I even try to bear this thought in mind when forced into contact with the child-intolerant (although running my kid over with a garbage can, or on the way to the toilet, kind of impairs my ability to play devil's advocate).

Let's get behind this movement, people! Think of your next date night. You race around, trying to get dressed while feeding the kids pizza and setting up the movie and snack for the sitter to bribe them with. Prying sticky fingers from your hastily blown-out hair, you bolt for the door, speed like your driving a getaway car to make your reservation, collapse into your seat with a glass of wine and...you hear "Who lives in a pineapple under the sea? SPONGEBOB SQUARE PANTS!!!!", blaring from an iPad propped up in front of a three year-old at the next table.

Check please.