One of the traits I inherited from my mother is the ability to relate any familial situation to a song from a musical. You’d be amazed how easily the world can be reduced to a Rodgers & Hammerstein number.
We’re having a problem with Pie. Picture the women from Music Man, standing around gabbing nonstop. “Pick a little, talk a little, pick a little, talk a little, cheep cheep cheep, talk a lot, pick a little more.” The girl talks. Nonstop. Seriously. But Music Man isn’t really the best fit, as “Pick a little” implies a malicious gossip. Pie isn’t malicious. She’s just unstoppable. More South Pacific, I would think:
Happy talk, keep talking happy talk,
Talk about things you’d like to do,
You gotta have a dream, if you don’t have a dream,
How you gonna have a dream come true?
Talk about a moon floating in de sky, looking like a lily on a lake,
Talk about a bird learning how to fly, making all the music he can make
Happy talk, keep talking’ happy talk, talk about things you’d like to do,
You gotta have a dream, if you don’t have a dream, how you gonna have a dream come true?
The. Girl. Can’t. Stop. Talking. Ever.
Now, I can talk. A lot. But I do occasionally come up for air. I don’t want to stifle her. I don’t want her to ever think that women and girls shouldn’t give their opinions. But it’s gotten to the point where I just don’t even hear her anymore. Not a single person who encounters here isn’t treated to a half hour monologue… if they’re lucky enough to get away in time
Last week I took Pie to Adam’s office to sell Girl Scout cookies. The boy was off skiing, so it was just the two of us. On the car ride, it went something like this:
Pie: So you’re favorite colors are green and blue, right?
Me: Yeah, I guess.
Pie: Well, what’s your absolute favorite?
Me: Green.
Pie: And your second favorite?
Me: Blue.
Pie: And your third favorite?
Me: I don’t know. I suppose orange?
Pie: And your–
Me: I don’t have any more favorites.
Pie: Okay. Well, suppose you’re at the store. And there’s a shirt that’s green, blue, and orange. But there’s another shirt that’s pink and purple. But the pink and purple one is actually a prettier shirt! Which shirt do you buy?
Me: The pink and purple one.
Pie: Okay, now suppose those there’s another shirt–
Me: You know, I really don’t like shopping anyway!
This past weekend we drove up to New Hampshire to spend an afternoon with Dutchie and her parents. The questions in the hour-long car ride were nonstop. There were the general variety, “Are we there yet?” and “How much longer?” and “Who sings this song?” to “Would you ever wear a jumper?” and “What are the words they say different in England than they say here” and “Can we get my Fuggs [fake Uggs]? ‘Cause the Fuggs are just $30 and the real Uggs are like $90, so the Fuggs are quite reasonable, so when can we go?” to “When is the next Heidi Hecklebook coming out? Where did you hear of those books? How did you know I’d like them so much” to… Well, frankly, I don’t know to where. Because I stopped listening.
One the way home we instituted a five-quesiton rule. No more than five questions.
Pie: When does it start?
Me: That’s your first question.
Pie: That’s not fair!
Life’s not fair. But please. Let’s not talk about it.
I’m ashamed. I’ve done something that’s just so… wrong. I feel so dirty. Which will sound a little ironic when I tell you the horrific thing I’ve done.
I’ve– I’ve–
God, it’s hard to spit this out. But I must. Deep breath. Okay. Here it is. I’ve done the laundry. And not just once. I did it three times. I know! It’s horrible! Please don’t tell Adam about this. I don’t want him to know that I’ve located the machines and figured out what the “Oxi-timed” cycle is. (I’m sure he’ll never see this, here on my very public blog; I’m guessing his eyes will just skate right over this, in shocked disbelief.)
I can explain. Seriously. I had good reason. Not that there is ever a good reason to do laundry. But we had a Hanukkah party on Sunday.* A rousing party with bourbon and latkes and sufganiyot** and a lively time was had by all.
The next morning I was not in the mood for much. Except to try and count exactly how many whiskey sours I had consumed while flipping latkes. And how many glasses of champagne I had at the post-party party (yes, people, I am cool enough to have a post-party party. Deal.) The last thing I wanted to do was household chores of any kind, which included making food for my children:
Me to Doodles: Do you want to buy lunch today?
Doodles: Nah. Nothing looks good on the school menu.
Me: I’ll pay you a dollar to buy lunch today.
Doodles: Five dollars.
Me: Forget it. I’ll make you lunch.
Doodles: Two dollars.
Me: You’re on. Go tell your father to pay you two dollars.
Yet, soon the house was clear and all that was left was an oil-laden stack of linens and my clothes from the night before. The stank of oil was harshing my hangover, so I reluctantly made my way down and surreptitiously stuck the items in the wash. I had them out and put away before Adam ever knew about it.
But then that morning crises struck. It was pajama day in Pie’s class. She wanted to wear her Hanukkah pajamas. But I wouldn’t let her sleep in her pajamas if she was playing in them outside all day. But Hanukkah was starting Tuesday night. So? Adam can wash the pajamas. But Adam had the NERVE to decide to go to New York to be part of the team that rings the opening bell of NASDAQ the day his company spun off into it’s own company.
Which left me alone. With dirty clothes. And a girl with a sad face who wanted to wear Hanukkah pajamas.
And so the descent into the laundry room occurred again.
A side note that is really not a side note: I have two pairs of jeans. Really I have four pairs of jeans, but two are ones that a friend pressured me to buy because they actually look good on me, but frankly, they’re too expensive for me to wear on a daily basis so they sit in my drawer unless I’m going to New York, at which time they come out and say, “Hi!” And of the two I have left, one is my favorite pair of Gap Boyfriend jeans that they’ve discontinued and which also have a lovely hole in them. The other pair is a pair of Target jeans, which suit my meeds. But with just two pairs of jeans in play, I’m constantly begging the laundry guy to do laundry so I can have clean jeans. Adam has yet to understand that jeans on the floor means, “I will wear these again if I have to, but if there’s a load of laundry being done, these jeans would be much happier going for a spin.” And so my jeans can go weeks without ever experiencing the soothing relaxation of a shower of water and soap.
This week I broke down and bought new jeans. Four pairs. From Target. Actually online Target, because even I am not crazy enough to weather Target the week before Christmas, no matter how much of my thigh is exposed in my hole-y jeans. They didn’t have my “short” length, but the regular length is serviceable. But new jeans require a washing. Because I hate that indigo-dye look I get when I don’t wash new jeans. So the new jeans went into the wash. By my hand. Although in all fairness to me, they never made it to the dryer and are sitting there, sad in the washer, shivering in cold, waiting for an unsuspecting Adam to find them and eventually move the near-dry pants to the dryer. Because, although I bought four pairs of jeans in order to ensure that laundry is near never needed, I can’t bring myself to complete the process for a third time. Because the third time’s the charm. And I’m so not charmed.
You’re pretty sorry you stopped by my blog today, aren’t you? Well, they can’t all be days of wine and roses. Or even bourbon and sufganiyot. Sometimes there’s laundry involved. It’s an ugly world out there, people.
*Yes, I know that Hanukkah hadn’t started on Sunday. But we always hold our party on the Sunday of Hanukkah only this time there was some conflict. Something else happened on the Sunday of Hanukkah this year. A big guy in a red suit? The birth of the Christian Messiah? Not sure, but something took precedence over our party.
**Traditional Israeli fried donut served on Hanukkah. This is not your Dunkin Donuts donut but a completely different animal. Kosher animal, of course. Minus the animal part.
Am I the only one who gets teary eyed at Schoolhouse Rock? Seriously! Every time that Bill becomes a Law, I just want to weep in happiness for him.
The pressure in not blogging very often is that when I finally do blog, I know you all think I’m going to have something interesting to say. But very often—okay, always—I don’t. So then you just have to hear about what’s on my mind. And, oh, there are many things on my mind! For instance:
Adam and I play this little game. The recycling bin fills up to the point where we can’t close the garbage drawer. So someone pulls it out of the drawer. And we leave it in the middle of the kitchen. And continue to fill it. It’s like Jenga, in reverse. Who can add on the most without the pile toppling over? And who’s going to be chicken, finally taking the recycling out? Last time, it was me. Next time, I won’t give in so easily.
My son, who has Hebrew school three days a week, (soon) hockey twice a week, drums once a week, Cub Scouts every other week, has now decided he’s going to take up the viola. The viola. I had to look it up. I mean, who the hell knows what a viola is? Why not the violin? “The viola makes a better sound.” Let’s try him in a blind listening test. I don’t think he’d be able to tell the viola from, oh, I don’t know, a garbage truck.
My daughter is coming up with yet more creative ways to get out of going to sleep. “My arm hurts! My eye hurts! Mommy, let’s make out!” [Making out being our snuggle time with lots of kisses] Pie is currently working on being “brave and independent.” Uh, yeah.
Speaking of my daughter, she said to me, “I’m reading level M books! I can read Junie B. Jones!” I asked her, “Were you tested on level M books?” quite surprised. Level M is the beginning of 3rd grade reading. My little first grader is a great reader, but an age-appropriate reader. Last anyone checked, Pie was solidly on the end of kindergarten/beginning of 1st grade level. So I asked again, “Someone tested you on Level M books?” She happily replied, “Yes!” Very surprised, I said, “Who tested you on Level M books?” She rolled her eyes. “Me, Mommy! I tested myself! I can read Level M books!” Sigh. And now comes the process of “managing expectations.”
My son is not immune to problems. Last Wednesday he said to me, “School is boring. I’m not going today.” I tried to ascertain if something had happened, but no, it was simply boring and he wasn’t going. “Okay,” I said logically. “Everyone needs a mental health day every now and then. And if you need one, you can take one. However, in March, when you truly need a mental health day and want to take one, I’m going to say, ‘No, because you took a mental health day ON THE FIFTH DAY OF SCHOOL, YOU TOTAL DOLT!'” Shockingly, the boy decided to go to school. Boredom and all.
John Irving signs a copy of "Hotel New Hampshire"
A friend and I went to see John Irving speak the other night. He read from his next book, which will be out next year, and it definitely intrigued me. But I enjoyed when he talked about writing, how he plots out every part of his book before he starts so he knows exactly what will happen and just needs to worry about language. An interesting way of looking at it. I want to try that on my next book, for which I have some pretty strong ideas but no formally written plot yet. But then he said things like, “I think writing in the present tense is lazy” and “I don’t like most modern writing” and it made me happy that literary curmudgeons still exist today.
After school this afternoon, my son said, “I’m so happy! We have homework and it’s due tomorrow!” I said, “Really? That’s great!” He looked at me with third-grade eyes, and said, “Duh, Mom! That was sarcasm!” Gee, how did I miss that?
I e-mailed an author I like to see if she’d blurb my novel, and she e-mailed me back to have my agent send it to her agent. How exciting is that! She basically told me, “Have your people call my people,” and, I HAVE PEOPLE! Life throws you a bone every now and then.
Ah, the first day of school. The little ones left. The not-so-little one bounded out the door, “By mom!” and I had to run to keep up with him. “Third grade is going to be cool!” he declared. The little-little one clung to my leg, sobbing, and had to be pried off by the principal and her teacher from last year. “I don’t want to go to first grade!” she cried.
And so it begins. The stress. The anxiety. The carpools. Tuesdays will be a real whammy with my delivering two children to Hebrew school and then another three to dance class. Yea, mini-van!
In the meantime, I’m a deer in the headlights, with so many things piled up—both literally (ack! Don’t even look at my desk) and figuratively—that I don’t know which way to turn. I have to write some comps for my agent, start the school newsletter, revive my committee at the synagogue, plan for Sunday’s eight-year-old animal birthday party, and generally do all the things that didn’t get done because I’ve had a child with me for the past, oh seven weeks solidly and a whole bunch of half days before that when the two had camp. Today is my first day alone in months and… well, to tell the truth, it’s a little lonely. But before I know it I’ll be back in the swing of things.
So, clearly, the first thing on my to-do list is procrastinate. Let me tell you what we’ve been up to!
We had a whirlwind weekend in NYC with the grandparents. We went to the Intrepid, MOMA, the Strand (three times for me!), and ate a whole bunch.
We are finally having our basement floor redone (remember those floods a year and a half ago? Well a year and a half of wet floors can cause a whole bunch of mold. Ew, I don’t even want to think what was under there!) so there are tile guys making lots of noise and coming in and out.
And the most insane thing? Let me ask you, what kind of freakin’ idiot has a birthday party in the middle of a Tropical Storm? Oh, right. Us. Yes, Pie had her Little House on the Prairie party in the middle—the absolute middle!—of Tropical Storm Irene. But those brave parents didn’t mind. Out of 13 guests, only two decided not to brave the weather. We lost power for about fifteen minutes, but hey! No problem! There IS no power on the prairie! But it turned out well with indoor potato sack races, making butter and rag dolls, playing pin the wheel on the wagon.
Now I leave behind my summer of relaxation and get back to the grindstone. That outline for the next novel isn’t going to write itself. Where’s the Novel Fairy when you need her?
The girl: I went raspberry picking. I played on a playground. I went out for lunch. I came home and chilled out with Jasmine. I had Mr. Sushi for dinner. And then I had cake. And then I opened presents. And now I’m going to go to bed.
Me: What do you like to do these days?
The girl: Wellll….there’s nothing I really like to do. I just do anything I can do.
Me: Like what?
The girl: Like any days I’ll just play with something in my room and there’s lots of different stuff.
Me: What kind of stuff?
The girl: Like my American Girl doll. That’s pretty much what I like.
Me: What are your favorite books?
The girl: That’s a hard one. I like Critter. I like a bunch. I don’t have a particular.
Me: What are your favorite things to watch?
The girl: I like A.N.T. Farm. I like Shake It Up. I like Word World. Phineas and Ferb. That’s pretty much.
Me: What do you want to be when you grow up?
The girl: I don’t really… I think I’m going to be a writer.
Me: What kind of writer?
The girl: Somebody who writes stories.
Me: What are you looking forward to in first grade?
The girl: I don’t really know much stuff so I can’t really say what I’m looking forward to.
Me: What are your goals as a six year old?
The girl: Try more stuff. Make friends. Have a better friendship with Daisies. Those are pretty much it right now.
Me: Any grand pronouncements?
The girl: What do you mean?
Me: Anything big you want to say?
The girl: Nope.
Me: Is that it? Anything else to say to your public?
The girl: Nope. What, you put “nope” on there? Why?
July 15th, 2011 § Comments Off on Footsies § permalink
It’s happened. My little, precious, smart, beautiful, wonderful girl. She’s changed. She’s grown. She’s… She’s… Arg!! I need to just spit it out. She’s… got stinky feet! Oh dear lord, that cute little thang is now a smelly force to be reckoned with. Seriously, you can detect her a room away.
“Sorry!” she says, when I complain about the stench of her feet.
“You can prevent this!” I tell her. “Just freakin’ wear socks!”
“I hate socks!”
“Well, the rest of us hate that smell!”
She’s no longer my little baby. She’s well on her way to being a totally gross tween. Between my gym clothes, the boy’s room, and her feet, we are going to be the house to avoid. Oh, the stinkiness of it all!
July 14th, 2011 § Comments Off on Need a Maternity Test § permalink
Last night at dinner:
Pie: What’s for dinner?
Me: Do you just want your cupcake?
Pie: Huh?
Me: I’ll let you eat your cupcake for dinner.
Pie: Um, well, I should probably have some protein first. It’s healthier that way.
Me, shocked: Uh…
Pie: And you should too. Make sure you have some protein—and calcium—before you eat your cupcake!
Thank goodness she went to bed long before I ate my, um, dinner. Yep, that’s what we’ll call it. Dinner.
Go down, Pie Pie, way down to camp land,
tell old, teacher, “I’m going to let my mommy go…”
[Can you hear the tune? Because I can’t get it out of my head.]
It’s that Pie. She’s back to her old tricks again. The kids are doing the Summer Fun program at the local middle school. We walked in this morning, and the woman who runs it also ran the Club Invention both my kids were in. Doodles did wonderfully at Club Invention. Pie did wonderfully… when she wasn’t crying because she missed me.
The director took a look at us, and panic entered her eyes. She said, “Oh, Doodles is joining us for Summer Fun!”
“Pie, too!” I responded. I can only describe the director’s look as horrified.
We dropped Doodles off at his class (where the teacher asked, “Uh, how old is he?” and I assured her that despite his size and reluctance to state his name, he is indeed going into third grade and is age appropriate for Wacky Science for third to fifth graders. “Just checking,” she said).
Then Pie and I made our way through the school to the kitchen, where Way Cool Cooking for first and second graders was starting. Pie was so excited for Summer Fun. Way Cool Cooking in the morning and American Girl Doll fun in the afternoon (not as scary as it sounds, I swear: “Read books, play games, act of scenes, make fun crafts and projects as we learn how American girls lived and played long ago”). These were the camps she most wanted to attend.
But, of course, that didn’t stop the tears. “Mommy! Don’t go!” What kills me is this is camp. As I keep telling Pie, “Camp is optional!” She can stay. She can go. She just can’t make me stand there in the hallway for 20 minutes while she sobs, confused. The thing is, she really wants to go.
My trusty Interwebs research is starting to make me think that she has a (more on the mild side) case of separation anxiety disorder. Not that that makes it any easier to have my daughter in tears. Taking the selfish route here, having her a mess every morning ruins my day. I’m tense and stressed out, and inevitably, when I pick her up, she’s had a fantastic day. Every night she comes home from her camps (Club Invention, Girl Scout camp) saying how marvelous it is. Every morning she’s in tears when it’s time to go.
Nothing witty or uplifting to say here. Just a chance to vent about my daughter and her inability to separate. Two kids. Same parents. Same upbringing. One can’t get rid of me fast enough. The other already talks about how she’s going to live with me when she’s an adult.
Boston is famous for its drivers. We even have a special term for them. They’re called Massholes. For me, personally, though, the word uttered most frequently while driving is “a$$wipe.” I don’t know where the word came from. I don’t know why I say it. I never use the term outside of my car. But inside the car, the a$$wipes fly freely.
Today for example. Driving home from Cambridge. At rush hour. One car cuts me off, another stops at a yellow, and another hangs out in the box.
Me: Because they are. Every freakin’ last one of those drivers out there is an a$$wipe. All drivers are a$$wipes.
The boy: You’re a driver. So you’re an a$$wipe.
Me: Not me. I’m not an a$$wipe. Every other driver is an a$$wipe. And you shouldn’t be saying “a$$wipe.”
The girl: Daddy drives.
Me: Yeah, and he’s an a$$wipe when he drives.
The girl: Are you saying Beetle is an a$$wipe?
Me: No. Well, unless she’s driving. Then, yeah, I guess she’s one too. I don’t think you’re understanding. Everyone who is not me behind a wheel is an a$$wipe.
The girl: Beetle says that her husband is a crazy driver!
Me: Probably is.
The girl: So is he an a$$wipe?
Me: I really don’t think you should be saying that word.
The boy: Yeah. You should say “jacka$$” instead.
Me: No, not that either.
The boy: Why not?
Me: People tend not to like it when you say “a$$” anything.
The boy: What about a$$ idiot?
Me: Yeah, not that either. “A$$” is pretty much out.
The boy: Oh.
Guy freakin’ cuts me off again.
Me: A$$wipe!!
The girl: Mom!
Me: I’m a grown-up! Leave me alone. I’ll give you sugar when we get home.
I’m practicing my parenting speech as I type…. (And how many readers did I lose with this post?)
June 24th, 2011 § Comments Off on No More Pencils § permalink
Every morning, I yell at the boy, “Can you please move it? Why are you so slow? Can you please walk with us?”
Today he skipped to school. A full block ahead of us. Skipped. Literally. Looked the crossing guard in the eye. Said, “Hi!” Ran to his side of the building before I could even give him a smooch good-bye.
Ah. The last day of school.
On Wednesday we had the end-of-year performances and the class slide shows. When Doodles class sang, “Take me out of the second grade/ It has been a good year… For it’s one, two, three months and/ Then we’ll be in third grade!” I just melted into a mess.
And the girl. Oh that girl:
Our after-school plans involved swimming and sand play. Our after-school reality included cold and rain. So instead we invited a handful of friends over for an after-school make-your-own-sundae and mojito party (the idea, of course, was to make sure the kids got drunk enough to let us moms have our ice cream in peace).
