Revenge?  Really?  I was foolishly unaware of your grudge-holding capabilites.  Perhaps if I had stayed awake in church while my father was delivering his sermons from the Lay pulpit, I would have learned of your sneaky ways. Perhaps if I had continued going to church at all, instead of staying home to watch Abbott and Costello reruns, I would be more prepared for what lies ahead.  Seriously, is this your doing?  How else could I possibly have agreed to teach Sunday school this fall?
Would it help if I said I was sorry, and that Abbott and Costello were so not even funny?
Me.  Teaching sunday school.  Bahaaahhaaaa.  Blasphemous indeed.

The other day I read a Dear Abbey type column in the paper. A woman was writing in to say that she’s fed up with the behavior of her son. I immediately tuned in because, I too, am fed up with my son and his head-butting ways.

Then I lost interest because her son is an adult and I only like stories having to do with children and how to force teach them to obey listen carefully so they will do exactly as I say until I am dead and gone grow up to make safe, appropriate choices in life.

But, I was on the toilet and didn’t want to get off. It’s not my fault I’m efficient – my husband takes 45 minutes in there – I figure 20 minutes is believable for me and my digestive system. So, I kept reading.

This woman is peeved because her son and daughter-in-law only talk about themselves. Incessantly. They talk about the kids, the dog, the house, their jobs, blah blah blobbity blah. Again, I was intrigued. This couple sounds suspicously familiar – like I know them ve-ry intimately. I skipped ahead to try and decode the identity of the sender because, damn. I think it’s my mother-in-law. If it isn’t, it should be, because – oh my god are we guilty of this.

K. watches the kids two days a week at our house and this woman is a saint. She has 5 kids, 12 grandkids, 1 great-grandkid and a husband with a golf obsession problem habit hobby. She is the friendliest, kindest, sweetest lady EVER. We’ve lived in this neighborhood 8 years and I’m still meeting neighbors who ask me – “Who are you and what are you doing with those kids? They belong to K. Where is K? How are the bunions on her right foot? Please tell her that my husband’s stones passed without surgery, she’ll be so pleased to know.” And she WILL actually be pleased – and relieved.

Occasionally, I’ll ask my husband, “How could we not KNOW she has bunions?” Or, like this past Friday when I discovered we’d missed her birthday, I asked – “What kind of son ARE you?” And then he’s forced to reply – “Didn’t you just forget to call your mother on the day of her SURGERY?” Oh. Well. I guess if you’re gonna count that – WE BOTH SUCK ASS.

I hearby pledge to get over myself.

Incidentally, this blog is not helping.

I was thinking last night about this annoying habit I have of talking like an idiot.  For instance.  If wixie walks into the room, I will say something like – hey, buddyboo, what’s up cutiepatootie?  In fact his nickname, wixie, is not short for his real name.  It’s short for a much longer nickname we bestowed upon him only days after he was born.  Wixie is short for Alawixaldixaldooberry.  Or, Alawixaldixaldude, as his sister likes to call him.  Yes, we all do it now.  It takes three hours to have a simple conversation with anyone in our house.  Sometimes if we’re in a hurry, it’s just – “get your shoes, wixiedoo.”  If we’re beyond late it’s – “wixi! shoes!”  Even grandma, who thought it a shame to ruin a perfectly good four letter (real) name – now calls him wixi.  Sissy goes by mimaloo or mimaloobydoobydoo.  Even the dog is not immune – Parker is parkerpaloma or parkerpants.  Or – and this is shameful, but might get me a few hits from people searching for information on a certain actress who has a knack for quirky, and a penchant for indi films – parkerposeypoopypants.  Please god, don’t let anyone be searching for that phrase in its entirety.

I got my very first piece of hate mail. It totally freaked me out.
Do you know what this means?

Someone completely unrelated to me actually read something I wrote. Hell yeah!

It was in reference to an OpEd I wrote for Literary Mama a few months ago when the Bush administration was once again targeting PBS funding. The gist of my rant was that communities – especially small, rural communities – really benefit from the programming, outreach efforts and local connection to a trusted media outlet. Those smaller stations will not make it if the government cuts funding. Also, my children like Big Bird.

Apparently, I have my head up my ass and couldn’t possibly know who my real enemies are unless I go live in Israel or something. To him I say: Miss the point much?
Dear Sir,

How astute of you to notice that my head is indeed stuck up my ass. And as a consequence: nanananaboobooIcanthearyou – bleh.

Sometimes, when mimi is freaking out about about how the seam of her sock is ravaging her toes, I wonder where she gets this anal, sweating the small stuff kind of attitude. And then her father and I steal away for a secret lunch – just the two of us, alone – and have a conversation like this:

Me: So, we’re going to have to make a lunch for mimi every day.

T.: Can’t she get a hot lunch?

Me: Well, I guess, but then she has to handle money or something. She can’t be handling money – she’s only in kindergarten.

T.: Yeah, that doesn’t seem right. But, what about milk money? Isn’t she going to want to have a milk or something?

Me: Crap. Probably chocolate. So she’s still going to have to handle money. How does that work? She can’t be getting change from a dollar – she won’t know if she’s getting screwed by the lunch lady.

T.: She will have to wear something with pockets everday to hold the exact change.

Me: Yeah, ok. Will she know how to stand in line for it and everything? What if she can’t get the carton open?

T.: Those effers* are a pain in the butt – I remember them to be very frustrating.

Me: Hey! What if I just pack her a juice box so we avoid the whole mess?

T.: Cool.

*Of course he didn’t say effing, but I can’t be writing the other word – I just don’t have it in me.

Dear Ballsy Neighborhood-lum,

I am aware of the fact that we are an easy target for you and your poor work ethic. Occasionally, when I am trying to get both kids out of the car along with a creaky popsicle-stick castle, 2 weeks worth of daycare mailbox clogging death watch announcements of physician confirmed cases of snuffleococousrashpukebutt disease to which my kids are now susceptible, my computer, purse and car keys and oh yeah, the not-quite-dry gluey glitter painting – sometimes, when I’m pulling all this crap out of our garbage-can-on-wheels? I forget to lock the car when I’m done. But you already knew that, didn’t you?

You find joy in our pain. You laugh heartily knowing that upon finding all of the silver coins missing from the ashtray the next morning, my huband will turn to me and ask – is it really so HARD to push the little button on the remote key chain IN YOUR HAND? And then I will have to respond accordingly by asking, – is it really so HARD to put one of the piles of already color-coded dirty laundry laying on the floor right NEXT to the machine, INTO the machine that will so handily clean it?

I know you are not a hardened criminal, but a little snot bag teenager. You wanna know how I know? Because you think you’re invincible. We have a motion detector spotlight shining down on our rolling bottomless pit, and still you calmly open the door, have a seat and take your sweet ass time rustling through the change. You do this because not ALL the coins are acceptable to your standards. You can’t be bothered with pennies. Why the hell don’t you take the pennies? Wouldn’t it be so much faster to just scoop everything up at once and be done with it? You could even throw the pennies away later if you wanted to – or use them to make a wish in a fountain. I don’t understand today’s youth. Do you know what you can get for those golf clubs? One day, you will wise up and it will be too late. My husband WILL bring them inside to store them properly and you will have lost your chance. Also, we are a little offended that you continue to shun the CD collection. You gotta problem with Tenacious D? Did you even know that Jack Black is THAT talented? I have but one final question:
What are you purchasing with the $2.25 in quarters for which you risk your future and my marriage?

I used to be the type to revel in the hot weather and lazy days, willing them to last forever.  Now I only feel that way in February and March, when my teeth are chattering so loud I can’t hear the tv.  I still love the hot weather – even the humidity – it’s the lazy days that kill me.  Since mimi was born, I’ve discovered that the only way I can properly function is when I’m in the all-hands-on-deck, pot-on-every-burner, must-brush-my-teeth-in-the-shower-to-save-time, mode.  Don’t give me any extra minutes in the day – I’ll waste 99% of them and spend the last 1% hating myself for it.  At least the hate makes me feel like I’m accomplishing something.  I don’t even waste my time well.  It’s not like I relax, put my feet up and dream of owning cashmere sweaters in every color (ok, sometimes I do).  No.  Instead, I sit paralyzed – frantically thinking of all the things I could should be doing with excess time, space and energy.  Oh my god what I could DO if I wasn’t so retarded.
My closet needs cleaning, the living room needs painting, the lawn needs watering, my books need reading…blah blah blah.  There are even really fun things that I could be doing (like the reading of the books).  What’s so effed up is that I didn’t actually do any of these things this summer.  This summer – when there wasn’t much happening at work.  This SUM-MER – when I wasn’t frantically trying to do 10 million things at once and still get home in time to make dinner, play with the kids, tuck them in, write till 2am and get up and do it all over again.  Life won’t be like that for another 3 weeks, when mimi starts kindergarten, wixie transitions to the blue room at school and T. and I both begin another round of major projects at the start of the semester.  For the love of Pete, I can’t wait.

The Graduate

Originally uploaded by yamama.

Yesterday you donned your construction paper mortarboard with the tassel of yarn, and graduated from preschool with all your friends. Dad, Wixie and I sat in the children’s garden with all the other families and waited for you to make your Grand Entrance. As we waited, a powerful flash pulled me back to the day we dropped you off at your new “school” just a few weeks after your first birthday. I cried and hugged you until your teacher gently suggested I leave, and watch from behind the two way mirror in the observation room. They assurred me you would be fine. And you were – it was me that was in trouble. I went back to my office and frantically calculated all of our bills, debts and mortgages (yes, we had two already) to see if there was any possible way I could drive right back, pluck you out of the hands of strangers and never let you go again. I must have calculated our finances a thousand times in the first few weeks, but deep down I knew that money wasn’t the issue. Well, it wasn’t the only issue. I was so conflicted, up and down, back and forth about what to do. It was too hard to admit to myself that I actually wanted to work. I liked coming to work even though it was torture to leave you. I knew you were safe, the teachers were stellar and that you really liked having the other kids to play with – but what kind of mom chooses to work? Nevermind that your dad says we didn’t choose it – I had to work to keep our house – this is true, but really beside the point for me. I always thought that if I really WANTED to stay home, we could move to a small apartment or something. No, I’m just selfish. That’s what I thought.
I came back at lunchtime that first day and watched as they tried to put you in a CHAIR at the TABLE and have you eat off a PLATE and drink from a CUP WITH NO LID on it. Each time Krystina put the plate in front of you, you’d grab it and fling it on the floor. And each time, a teacher would fill up a new plate and set it right back down in front of you again. I watched in horror, yelling from behind the mirror – But I haven’t taught her that yet!!! Are you people insane?
At home we were slopping your spaghetti on the high-chair tray and letting you have at it with whatever appendage felt comfortable to you at the time. After, we’d just hose you down.
After the third day in those capable hands, you were eating and drinking at the little table like Peggy Post. I sometimes think that if we hadn’t happened across this little school you might still be eating applesauce from a straw and flinging cheerios from here to grandma’s house. Instead, you grew up in a place full of adults and children who love you and sing your name when we walk through the door in the morning. They’ve helped you learn to count to a hundred and write your name and all the letters of the alphabet. They painted with you and helped you grow plants in the garden. They wrote down your stories so that you could illustrate them with beautiful pictures. They gave you songs you can sing and games you can play and friendships that have meant a lot to you and to me. They’ve helped you grow and become ready for a new transition. You’ll start kindergarten in a couple of weeks. I know your ready, but am I? One more thing to add to my list: call your kindergarten teacher to see if they have a two way mirror in the room. Love you baby.

Take that!, WordPress.  I posted those photos even though you didn’t want me to.