the pieces of my life

*Too Much Information. In other words, this post is not for the faint of heart. If this is you, move along.

(Still here? Okay.)
Yesterday morning, the boy picked up a piece of mail from my gynecologist that was sitting on the counter. “What’s this?” he asked.

“It says my lady parts are good,” I told him.

He opened the paper. “What’s a pap smear?”

“It’s a test women get to make sure everything is doing okay down there,” I said.

“How do they do it?” he asked.

“Well,” I said, thinking about how one explains a pap smear. “The doctor takes this thing called a ‘speculum’ and she puts it inside the woman’s vaginal canal and she cranks it open.” I make eh-eh-eh cranking noises here. “And then she sticks a long Q-tip inside of me to reach my cervix so she can take a tissue sample to make sure there’s no cervical cancer.”

“A speculum?” he asked.

“I bet we can find a picture online,” I said, and in a few minutes, the boy and I were engrossed in an article from The Atlantic called “Why No One Can Design a Better Speculum.” We only got through the first page because we had to leave for school but the first page really gave all the info we needed.

Also yesterday morning. The girl is, um, backed up. I fed her an Ex Lax and sent her to school. When I picked her up today, there wasn’t much movement. So of course I told Adam. Because wouldn’t a father want to know about that stuff?

Me: Pie still hasn’t pooped.
Me: Oh, wait! She might be pooping. Not sure.
Adam: We have the best IM conversations.
Me: Listen. I can have IM conversations with someone else, if you don’t like it. I’m sure the Duchess would be fascinated to know about your daughter’s bowel movements.
Adam: \o/
Me: If the boy can handle speculums, you can handle poop!

Oddly, I didn’t hear from him again. Whatever.

And if anyone wants to I.M. about poop–or speculums–just give me a buzz.

The kids come home this Sunday. Which means time is running out for my husband. Every night we have this conversation:

Him: What do you want for dinner? I can pick something up.
Me: Mega Stuf Oreos.
Him: Indian?
Me: Mega Stuf Oreos.
Him: We could do Thai.
Me: I want Mega Stuf Oreos. I will settle for Double Stuf if you can’t find Mega Stuf [and yes, “Stuf” has just one “f”].
Him: Maybe I’ll just make us pasta.

Why does he even ask me?

And of course, as those of you know me on Facebook, know that Adam and I had a weekend in New York. And while I can assure you that all of Adam’s posts about how inebriated I was were definitely exaggerated (almost), we had a lovely time. We had a fabulous lunch at Eleven Madison Park, spent time with the Tweedle Twins, rode bikes on Governors Island, saw the Degenerate Art show at Neue Gallerie, drank with friends, drank more with friends, drank a smidgen more with friends, and then I was forbidden from having a 2 a.m. “free conversation” in the middle of Cooper Square*, was appeased with pierogies from Veselka, and then felt a wee bit ill the next day.

As a result of my maybe overdoing it on Saturday, I declared this a week of “clean living.” Which Adam has been throwing back in my face. From yesterday:

Him: I can pick you up dinner or make you something.
Me: Mega Stuf Oreos?
Him: Clean living.
Me: Mega Stuf Oreos and a bar of soap?

I cannot believe I haven’t yet gotten my Oreos. I’ve gone since Saturday night (well, technically Sunday morning) with no booze, no sugar, and no coffee (I haven’t given up caffeine; I’ve just switched to tea because I have less of a tendency to overdo tea like I do coffee). And you know what? I don’t feel one iota better.

Bring on the damn Oreos.

*And just so you don’t think that this was some oppressive move by my husband, forbidding me to speak my mind, it was actually the work of my (free speech-teaching, political science professor, baby) sister.

We passed by and I said, “Oh, look, a conversation on comfy sofas in the street!” and the Tweedle Twirp said, “Oh no!” and I said, “Oh yes!” and the Free Convo person said to my sister, “She can join us!” and the Tweedle Twirp said, “No, she cannot!” and she led me away by the arm.

The next day, I texted her to ask if I had hallucinated the whole thing (as well as the “booby room” in the bar–I asked, “Did we sit in a pink booby room?” and she said, “Actually the boobies were white, the walls were pink.”), but she assured me the conversation on couches in Cooper Square at 2 a.m. were most definitely real. I said, “I cannot believe I missed out on a free convo! Do you have any idea how much I have to say?”

She replied, “Yes, actually I do have some idea.”

As if! Tip of the iceberg, people, tip of the iceberg.

With the children safely ensconced at camp, you’d think there’d be nothing left to annoy me. Ah, but alas, my husband is home.

Cleaning up, he opens our compost trash (the one waiting to be taken outside). Peering, in throws something in, closes it, and then says to me: “Wow, that’s a lot of mold growing in there.”

And then he walks away.

Seriously? Is he new here? You don’t announce mold and then walk away. And saying, “It’s only growing on the avocado” does not excuse you from going out right this instant, I don’t care if it’s raining, and putting the thing in the outdoor compost bin.

The children are at camp. Happily so, it appears. How would I know that it’s happily so? Because both my parents and my brother-in-law received letters from my younger child letting them know how much she enjoys camp. Did I get a letter? I, the one who was ordered to write her every day, even if I had nothing to say? I, the one she cried to all morning before I drove the hour and a half, unpacked her, made her bed, and took all the pictures she demanded? I, the one who scours the camp web site, blog, and Facebook page, searching for a glimpse of her, I.M.ing Adam messages such as, “I’m pretty sure that’s the back of her shoulder near that tree in photo #485.” No, I have not yet heard from that child. Nor the other child, although that’s a bit more expected.

Drop off was not the traumatic experience I was anticipating. Pie and I prepped. “Maybe you won’t cry this year,” I said.

“Oh, no. I’m going to cry!” she responded. We talked about how it’s okay to be homesick but to still have a great time. We agreed it was okay for her to cry, but she should try not to cling on to me. She asked me to contact her “camp mom” and let the counselors know she would have a hard time. I had e-mails and phone calls with the camp mom to give her ideas on how to distract Pie (“Ask her about her cousins. Ask her about dance. Ask her about her crafts.”) She decided we should unpack her brother first (I went solo this year, so there was no divide and conquer) and then take care of her.

And what happened? She couldn’t wait to get to her bunk (P: “Actually, let’s unpack me first.” Me: “We have a plan.” P: “Well, let’s change the plan.” Me: “We are going to stick with the plan.”) She immediately started chatting up the counselors. And then she decided to head over to the camp carnival. She turned to me, said, “I love you, Mom. Bye!” And ran off. The counselor looked at me with wide eyes and said, “I had been prepared for something difficult!” Stunned, I said, “Me, too,” and I ran out of there before Pie could change her mind. So far every photo has a smiling girl (or at least the back of her shoulder looks quite happy). And I’ve seen a not-unsmiling boy (he doesn’t truly smile, but he’s clearly happy in the photos).

So now, I only have one child to deal with (the 41-year-old child). I’m in the midst of catching up on paperwork (grant wrap-ups that were due), planning for the upcoming year (newsletters, Girl Scouts), writing (crazy, I know), photo sorting (oh, but there is a backlog), and all the other wild things that one does when children are out of the house. If you hear crazy noises coming from over here, don’t worry: It’s just me cleaning out the attic.

*Yes, I know, that should read “With What I Have to Deal,” but I’m taking poetic license here because it just sounds too snooty the proper way and I’m going to be writing a snooty post as it is.

First, though, I’d like to ask why, given my love of baking and my fondness for my religion, no one has bought me one of these tzizit baking pans (it’s even nonstick!):

C’mon, people! Get your game on!

Now, to the heart of the matter. As amazingly hard as it is for me to believe, in about two months, my Doodlebug is done with elementary school. Not really sure how that happened, but apparently it is so and there is nothing I can do about it.

We are considering–just considering, mind you–the idea of private school for middle school. Our town’s middle school is a fine school, and if it were Pie who were finishing elementary school, I’d have no qualms sending her there. But Doodles is a quirkier kid who needs different things than what our middle school may be able to provide. He’s asked a number of times over the years to be homeschooled, and while I’m not willing to go that route, I’m open to seeing what our other options are. He’s the driving force behind this and will have a large say in whatever is decided.

The process, however, is all me. Researching the schools, making the boy study for the tests, getting him to those tests, touring the schools, arranging for his visits, getting him to those visits, filling out applications, sending in fees, giving teacher recommendation forms to fill out, having transcripts sent. It’s not a quick process, but to be honest, it’s a lot more time consuming than I had originally thought it would be. So in the morning, when the boy has trouble getting up, and his father says, “You know you’re going to have to be up and out the door about an hour earlier if you’re in a private school,” and the boy responds, “That’s not going to be my problem,” I can be excused from smacking him in the head a couple of times.

His father, though, is not much better. This morning the two of us went to look at a school that is a significant commute away. However the classes are small; the math is differentiated so the boy could be exactly where he should be; they study Latin, which is something high on the boy’s list; they have a 40 book challenge to read 40 books a year in eight different genres; they have a campus on a gorgeous setting in the woods; terrific technology; and class sizes of no more than 15.

Adam and I got into the car to drive back home. “So,” he said. “What did you think?”

“I think there’s a lot to like there, but we’d have to weigh the commute against the advantages of other schools.”

Adam nodded.

“What did you think?” I asked him.

He hesitated a moment, and then he said, “Yeah, it looks good. But…”

“But what?” I asked.

“Did you notice,” he said, “that they were all drinking Dunkin Donuts coffee? I mean all of them! I can’t help but judge that.”

Getting to what’s really important. That man should be the poster child for Starbucks. Meanwhile, I’m not letting coffee selection dictate my child’s educational future. Coffee is a value that should be taught at home, anyway, and not in the schools. And I’m pretty sure I’m not inviting Adam along for the next school tour.

Me: I slept oddly. And I had a dream that we got a divorce.
Husband: Huh. Well, good thing you didn’t dream about your teeth falling out. That would be really bad.
Me: What?!
Husband: Isn’t it supposed to be bad to dream about teeth falling out?
Me: As opposed to our divorce?
Pie: Are you getting a divorce?
Me: No. We are not getting divorced.
Husband: I think teeth falling out in a dream means you’re going to die.
Me: If you dream about teeth falling out, you’ll die? How does that work?
Husband: Dunno.
Me: Speaking of death, look Pete Seeger died. Wow, he was 94!
Husband: Pete Seeger? How could he be 94?
Me: He was.
Husband [doing a quick Google]: Oh, I was thinking of Bob Seger. Who was Pete Seeger?
Me: Really? “If I had a hammer, I’d hammer in the mooorrrrnnning. I’d hammer in the evening, all over this land!!” Is the boy up? I bet he’d love this song.
Husband: Oh boy. Everything is a song.
Pie: You don’t like her singing?
Husband: She just does so much of it!
Pie: You married her.
Husband: She didn’t sing this much when we met.
Me: Yes, I did. You just weren’t listening.

Note: The boy didn’t like the song any better. Especially when I started to hammer him to wake him up. “Where Did All the Flowers Gone” didn’t go over any better, either. Grumpy family. My singing rocks.

I took Adam’s phone because he has Spotfiy on it, and I had a sudden craving to dance to George Michael with my children. But then my children were sent to bed because they were being annoying. This annoying thing runs in the family.

Adam: Can you hand me my phone?

Me: What if I want to listen to music?

Adam: You’ll have to wait because I need to upgrade my iPhone to IOS 7.

Me: What’s that?

Adam: Didn’t you hear? Apple announced it’s new operating system today. I’m going to upgrade to it.

Me: I want to upgrade.

Adam: You can’t. I’m registered as a developer so I can upgrade. You can’t. You’ll just have to wait for the masses to get it. Besides, you’re not a beta kind of person.

Me: Yes, I am!

Adam: Nah, you say, “Oh, this isn’t working!” and I say, “Because it’s beta,” and you say, “Make it work!”

Me: That’s not true! And besides, why do you get it? You’re not a developer? You’re product.

Adam: I am everything. Understand?

Oh, I understand. I understand better than he thinks. This “I am everything” crap is going to be pulled out… well, daily. He is welcome to be “everything.” And when you’re phone crashes, I’m going to have a glass of wine and enjoy my IOS 6.

Adam: Now, I’m just warning you. This new decade? I’m thinking about trying some new things.

Me, thinking Skydiving? Polyamory? Quitting his job to “find himself”? : Um, like what?

Adam: Like sushi. I think I might want to try sushi again. Just letting you know so you won’t be shocked when I do it.

Baby steps, Adam. Baby steps in your 40s. Don’t take it so fast!

Adam leaves the light on in our closet all the time. All. The. Time. It annoys me. Adam is a very green person when he feels like it, but that doesn’t include turning off the lights or simply putting on a jacket instead of cranking up the fireplace. But today, we were both getting dressed at the same time, and I pointed out how easy it is to turn out the closet light after I got dressed.

Me: Did you see how I did that? I walked out of the closet AND I turned out the light.

Adam: No, I missed it.

Me: It was simple. I turned out the light as I walked out.

Adam: I didn’t see it. Could you do it again? In fact, could you make me a YouTube video of it so I can watch it over and over at my leisure?

Me [yelling out the bedroom door]: Hey, kids! Do you want a new daddy?

Pie: Why? Is he voting for Mitt Romney?

My husband’s all-time favorite restaurant is Yardbird in Miami. It’s got bacon. It’s got fried chicken. It’s got bourbon. We were waiting for our three-month window so we could make our holiday reservation. Done!

When we were last there, Adam bemoaned the fact that they didn’t have T-shirts for sale. He’s been hounding the site looking for them and was thrilled when he found them.

The box came today. Adam was at work. Pie saw it. “What’s in there?”

“It’s Daddy’s T-shirt, I’m guessing, from Yardbird,” I told her.

“Are you sure?” she asked.

“Pretty sure. What else would he be getting from Yardbird?”

Pie shrugged and said matter-of-factly, “Bourbon.”

Oops.

Tonight there is a $75,000 a person dinner with Mitt Romney at the home of the president of the New England Patriots, Jonathan Kraft. How do I know this? Because my still registered-as-a-Republican husband got an e-mail invite from a former coworker.

Just $75,000? Let check the change in the couch and see what we can come up with. Oh! Only $74,999.99 short! Maybe we should raid the kids’ piggy banks.

I suggested we send my sister, the uber feminist, bleeding heart liberal poli sci professor (she may dispute that description, but I’m letting it stand as poetic license).

Adam one-upped me. He suggested sending the Tweedle Twirp. In a Miami Dolphins jersey.

Brilliant. I called the Tweedle Twirp to let her in on our plan. If I could find $74,999.99 more dollars, would she go? Yes! But the catch is she had a meeting at her school–in New York–until 3:30, so we’d have to hire her a private plane.

Sigh. It was such a good idea.

Of course, Adam pointed out, “I can’t imagine, ever, in life, spending $75k for a dinner.”

I asked, “But 50k would be okay?”

He said, “50k only if it’s a unicorn BBQ. Because those are pretty rare.”

Yet, when I pointed out that the Tweedle Twirp, in a Dolphins jersey, at a Mitt Romney fundraiser was also pretty rare, he hemmed and hawed.

Hey! I just found a quarter! Just $74,999.74 to go!