What did those kids do to that nice lady?

Thursday, September 29, 2011

Nekkid Time!!

It’s getting to be kind of weird to be naked around my kids.  Especially the 4 year old.  I remember the first time he was intrigued by my...lady parts.  He pointed at it and said What’s that, Mama?  And I, being a totally mature adult about it, threw a towel around myself and told him it was mine.  (I put a few extra bucks in his ‘therapy’ piggy bank that day.)  Taking a shower with no interruptions is a luxury around these parts.  Imagine that you are taking a hot, steamy shower, standing quietly by yourself for 58 seconds and then BAM!  The door is thrown open and a short person walks in with a flashlight and starts questioning your stretch marks and demands a play by play of your shower activity.  Need to go to the bathroom?  Just keep the door open; that way you won’t have to wobble over to open it when you reluctantly give in to the pounding and screaming outside the door. Children have no boundaries when it comes to nudity; your body is their body.  They poke, pinch, pull, touch anything they want at any time.  If you do not have children, next time you see a mother out and about with her little ones, watch closely.  I guarantee you Mama will be pushing hands away, pulling her shirt up, and asking her kids to please stop pulling her pants down.  
They also, of course, are curious about each other’s bodies.  Which is awesome and totally not uncomfortable at all.  Why is it so funny to try and touch your brother’s penis?  No, your sister does not have two butts, that one is called a vagina.  THESE ARE WORDS THAT COME OUT OF YOUR MOUTH.  REGULARLY.  Vagina.  Penis.  Vagina.  Penis.  No, please, keep reading.  I’ll stop.  (I mean, you don’t want your kids to grow up saying whoo-ha and wee wee, right?  At some point, they need to know what it’s called.)
Lately I have been attempting to create some boundaries with my son.  If the door is closed, that means please knock.  If it is locked, that means Mama is crying and would prefer to be alone.  But it’s just so inconvenient to try and NOT be naked around your kids; multitasking will involve walking around with only undies on.  Which I know really turns some people on.  They will PAY MONEY for this kind of activity in their own homes.  Turns out, all they need to do is get married and have babies and there will be all kinds of nekkid time!  But note to self: discuss salary with Husband ASAP.  

Tuesday, September 27, 2011

I know you can HEAR ME!

I am pretty sure that a 15 year old asshole has taken over the body of my four year old.  You know how they say, oh the terrible two’s?  Yeah, it turns out that the terrible two’s are just a training exercise for THE REST OF THEIR LIVES.  Infants are hard.  One is hard.  Two is hard.  Three is hard.  Four is hard.  I’m guessing five and six and seven and 12 and 17 and 21 all come with their own special challenges.  I summed this up in a conversation (therapy session) with my sister yesterday when I said Maybe kids just suck.  Of course, I don’t mean that.  I meant it at THAT moment, but we all know the wonderful gift blah blah blah so funny and blah blah blah love those little crazy people more than anything.  But a mother can only take so much before she excuses herself from the dinner table, grabs her wine and locks herself in her own bedroom.   
I would say that 4 has been my most challenging year so far with my son.  While I am amazed at his growth and intelligence and independence,  I am taken aback by his sudden sass and attitude and confused by his apparent deafness.  Oh yeah-4 year olds go temporarily deaf.  This is not in the books but it is Very.True.  They will only hear you if your mouth is very close to their heads and you are YELLING.  A conversation goes something like this:
Son, could you please put your books away?  (Silence.)   Hey-could you please go ahead and put your books away?  (Nothing.)  Honey?  I need you to put your books away please before we can go to the park.  (Nada.)  I’m starting to get frustrated.  Please put your books AWAY or we will have to stay home.  Please. Do. It. NOW.  (Eye roll.  Silence.)  PUT YOUR BOOKS AWAY RIGHT NOW.  GET UP AND PUT THEM AWAY.  NOW.  DO IT!  (Crying.  Followed by WHY ARE YOU BEING SO MEAN TO ME? and a collapse on the floor.)  I have a variation of this conversation 37 times a day.  It puts me in a super mood.  
So tell me, what is five going to bring?  And six?  And seven?  What surprises lurk in the corner?  Oh wait, I know.  SCHOOL ALL DAY.   School is not just for education and socialization; it’s also for Sanity of Mother’s Everywhere.  But, I gotta tell ya.  That moment when the classroom door opens and you see that cute little face, so happy to see you, and you get that great hug, you totally forget that in about three minutes, happy 4 year old will turn into asshole 15 year old.  It’s a good three minutes.  Totally worth the other 23 hours and 57 minutes of the day.

Friday, September 23, 2011

Bad Wife

Husband is away this weekend in Oregon to cheer on his beloved (terrible) Bruins which means that I am home alone with the Small Children for three days.  (Side note-I’m pretty sure that I broke up with the Bruins.  We’ll see how Saturday goes.  I told Husband that Stanford was my new team.  Husband not amused.)   This certainly is not the first time I have been left alone with them, considering I am left alone with them each and every single day.  But overnighters are different...the early mornings, the afternoons that drag on....I lose my patience, I lose my mind.  It is because of this that I have a Really.Hard.Time being happy for Husband away having fun.  I KNOW that makes me a BAD WIFE.  I am selfish and petty.  I mean, right now, to think about him wine tasting while I get to wipe butts and negotiate who gets to eat what after they eat this but you have to have some of that to get this...I can hardly be blamed for my bad attitude.  There are a few perks to being home alone, I suppose.  I can watch terrible television; I don’t have to make dinner; I get the whole pot of coffee to myself.  But these things do not in any way make up for the fact the He is Gone and gets to sleep in a HOTEL for two nights and drink lots of beer and hahaha laugh laugh laugh all the live long day.  
So, Honey, if you’re reading this, know that I WANT you to have fun-I’m just going to kind of hate you for it.  Just a little.  And I do want the Bruins to win...I really want to get back together but they have to prove it to me.  And come Sunday, we’ll be here waiting for you.  I have my massage booked, so no wasting time at the airport.  And don’t come home without a gift for your lovely wife.  She likes wine.  And shoes.  Either or both will be fine.  And oh yeah...have fun.  I guess.

Thursday, September 22, 2011

Bottoms up!

This morning as I was sucking coffee, making a gourmet breakfast and scrumptious, healthy lunches for the wee ones, I happened to glance down at the paper.  The Food section was face up and it said something like this: An aperitif is a civilized way to begin your night. Wait. This headline just confirmed what I have believed for years...drinking is CIVILIZED.   Like rugby matches and polo shirts, afternoon tea with scones, or eating your salad with the right fork- drinking is what one does when one is a polite, civilized LADY.  Granted, although champagne is the obvious drink of choice at any time of day, I have been known to consume un-lady like drinks.  For example-BEER.  And TEQUILA.  (Together these two beverages form a powerful coalition to encourage stupidity, embarrassment and an all around good time which in no way should resemble anything civilized.)  Now, I’m sure the article wasn’t meaning to imply any kind of drinking is civilized, (I didn’t actually read it, just took the liberty of interpreting it as I wished) but I’m going to go ahead and take it that way.   Because there is something about caring for small, charming children all day that makes you want to have a drink.  Or two.  Every night.  And now when I reach for that bottle of wine at 5:01, I don’t have to feel guilty about it.  After all, I’m just being a proper, civilized human.  
So, thanks, LA Times.  Usually reading the paper is a depressing reminder that this world sucks, but today...today you gave me a lift.  And a hankering for some bubbly.  

Tuesday, September 20, 2011

The Dirty Truth

Very exciting things were happening in the Household last night.  We got BUNK BEDS (for the children, not for Husband and I....although...hmmmm......).  And we also got a NEW VACUUM CLEANER!  It was only after I put it together and vacuumed the carpet for the first time in a couple weeks (I know...gross...but the other one was broken!  Hence the new one!  STOP JUDGING ME!) that I got perhaps a bit too excited about it.  I rushed over to Husband to show him the bag-less filter and all the DIRT!  The HAIR!  Look at everything it picked up!  That’s amazing!  And then a small piece of my soul died.  Being a stay at home slave, I do most (all) of the cleaning.  I mean, what else am I doing?  I can’t sit around and eat bon bons and watch back to back episodes of Intervention all day.  And yesterday I realized the ugly truth: new, shiny, convenient cleaning products make me...happy?  No.  Yes!  They do!  Sometimes I roam the cleaning aisles at Target just looking at all the products that promise to make my life easier.  Sometimes I buy them.  Some things I just dream about.  Like the Swifter Vac.  A device that not only uses the swifter sweeper cloths, but also sucks the dirt like a vacuum?  Think of all the crumbs I could get!  Think of how easy it would be to whip that thing out after dinner!  Think of the possibilities!  Maybe one day I’ll buy it; one day when I’m not feeling guilty about all the money we spend on diapers and food.  Slaves don’t need fancy things...we just need elbow grease.  
This also leads me to believe that all those sexist commercials showing women so HAPPY to have a dish soap that not only cuts through tough grease, but will also give you soft hands, are true.  We like soft hands.  And we hate dishes.  We just want to get it over with and if this soap is going to make it go a tiny bit faster, well then, dammit, I’ll buy it.  I WILL BUY IT! 
Now if you’ll excuse me, the Mr. Clean Magic Eraser Variety Pack I bought yesterday is calling my name.  Which one to use first?  The kitchen scrubber?  The powerful multi-purpose?  Or the bath scrubber?  Oh, the possibilities...the possibilities...

Wednesday, September 14, 2011


Dinnertime.  The very word sends chills down my spine.  Dinnertime may as well be called “time to be an asshole” because that is what my 4 year old turns into when it comes to food.  I’m not sure what I did to deserve the wrath he puts upon me when it comes to eating, but it must have been bad.  Real real bad. I know I was a bit stubborn about food when I was a kid and one day when I called my mom begging for her forgiveness for most likely being an asshole at dinnertime, she said-oh, you weren’t THAT picky.  Jesus, Kid, not even GRANDMA is taking your side here.  YOU HAVE ENTERED UNKNOWN TERRITORY.  Instead of his habits getting better, they are getting worse.  Oh, you don’t like corn-dogs anymore?  No more mac-n-cheese?  (Seriously...won’t eat mac-n-cheese?  I would give my left arm to eat that every day and not gain an ounce.)   Not to mention that he will put disgusting, germ ridden objects into his mouth at any moment, but a hamburger is a no-can-do. 
Here, a list of things He will eat: 
Pizza (cheese only, and please-no blood on my pizza, Mom)
Grilled Cheese
(Yes, these are all the same foods in different form.)
Spaghetti (Don’t ever tell him there is olive oil on it...and cheese.)
Peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
Things He will not eat:
Anything else.
I sit and stare in amazement at Children Who Eat.  Did he just eat...a vegetable?  Did she just have a bite of chicken that is not breaded and shaped like a dinosaur?  I was at a birthday party the other day and a three year old was EATING SALAD.  HOLY FUCK WHERE DID I GO WRONG?  
I am trying to get Him to eat more things...I am more willing to make something new and tell him to eat or starve.  He usually chooses starvation.  I have mentioned before that I would like to hook him up to a feeding tube two times a day and be done with it and people laugh at me...like I’m making a joke?  I am dead serious.  Why should I be bothered to make Real Food if you are just going to collapse in a boneless heap on the floor when it comes time to sit and eat?  
My only solace that I am not a Total and Complete Failure at Feeding my Kids is that my daughter will eat without negotiating a verbal contract about what she will get if she just so happens to choose to take a bite.   I can’t help but favor her juuussst a tad while she is eating asparagus or stealing the quinoa off my plate.  But some days, I can’t help but think that maybe my son has it all figured out...after all, the kid lives off of pizza.  Who’s fooling who here?

Monday, September 12, 2011

Nap Nazi

The first time out, you are Perfect Parent.  You read books, cry a lot, wonder what happened to your life, cry some more, read more books because someone HAS TO HAVE AN ANSWER...right?  Sleep Schedules and Poop dominate conversation.  In fact, sometimes you get pooped on while discussing sleep schedules and for some reason...it doesn’t really seem that gross.  There is poop on my hand and I am okay with it?  While I fumbled through the first few months of being a new mom, there was one thing I did do PERFECTLY: The Sleep Schedule.  No matter the pain it caused me, no matter if my son cried and wanted love and affection, that kid was going to SLEEP.  Nobody, and I mean NOBODY was allowed to fuck with my sleep schedule.  What happens if they mess it up and He.Doesn’t.Sleep?  I would surely jump from kindofalmostcrazy to OMGIAmNowCrazy.  My mom called me the Nap Nazi; Husband rolled his eyes and took long, deep breaths.  But by the time he was four months old, my son was on two perfect naps a day and slept 12 hours a night and I didn’t hear anyone complaining about THAT.   The fan must be on.  The room must be dark.  The music must be on low.  We speak in hushed whispers and walk on tip toes by his room.  
Flash forward to second time out; you are Making it Work Parent.  You now realize infants are incredibly easy compared to two year olds. You want to sleep?  Great.  Not so much?  Okay, we’ll try again later.  Nurse a baby while making a grill cheese sandwich?  No problem.  You just puked up on my shirt?  I’ll change it later. (Maybe.)  And while my daughter did eventually get her two naps and twelve hours, I did not force it upon her; I just let her lead me-a lesson I wished I had learned the first time out, but that would not be Perfect and I could not deal with that. 
My son has planned his bowel movement to correspond perfectly with my daughter’s nap-time.  Instead of a quiet, dark room filled with lullaby’s, her nap-time routine often sounds like this:
In the great green room-DON’T GET PEE ALL OVER!  POINT IT DOWN, PLEASE!-there was a telephone and a red balloon and a picture of-WHAT?  JUST WAIT.  NO I’LL WIPE IT UP WHEN I’M DONE!-the cow jumping over the moon.  And there were three little bears sitting on chairs-I’M READING TO YOUR SISTER!  I CAN’T CHECK RIGHT NOW!  JUST COME HERE!  And two little kittens and a pair of mittens.  And a little toy-house and a young mouse-YOU MISSED SOME!  BRING ME THE TOILET PAPER!  And a comb and a brush and a bowl full of mush and a quiet old lady who was whispering hush.  OKAY, LOOKS GOOD.  GO FLUSH AND WASH YOUR HANDS PLEASE.  Goodnight room.  Goodnight moon.  Goodnight cow jumping over the moon. I DIDN’T HEAR YOU FLUSH!  Goodnight light and the red balloon.  Goodnight bears-FLUSH PLEASE!-Goodnight chairs.  Goodnight kittens and goodnight mittens.  Goodnight clocks and goodnight-WASH YOUR HANDS!  DON’T FORGET SOAP-socks.  Goodnight little house and goodnight mouse.  Goodnight comb and goodnight brush-I DID NOT HEAR THE WATER GO ON!  WASH YOUR HANDS!-Goodnight nobody.  Goodnight mush and goodnight to the old lady whispering hush.  PUT YOUR UNDERWEAR ON, PLEASE!  And goodnight to the old lady whispering hush.  Good night stars, goodnight air-UNDERWEAR PLEASE!  WHY DO I HAVE TO ASK YOU FIVE TIMES TO PUT YOUR UNDERWEAR BACK ON?  Goodnight noises everywhere.  
Kisses, hugs, sweet dreams... PLEASE GET OUT OF HERE!  I’M PUTTING YOUR SISTER DOWN!  Nighty night, angel.  Now don’t wake up for 2.5 hours.  

Sunday, September 11, 2011

I Remember

I remember.  I was fresh from New York to Los Angeles, a couple months gone only.  I was awoken very early by my yellow phone in that first apartment in Hollywood.  The voice on the other end was my sister April saying only-I’m so happy you don’t live in New York today; turn on your TV.  And there it was.  Smoldering twin towers.  My jaw hung open, the phone dropping from my ear.  We exchanged I love you’s and hung up.  
I remember I had to go to work that day in Beverly Hills, ignoring customers as I called friends in New York, what’s happening, are you okay?  Have you heard from her?  Have you heard from him?  Please call me back.  Please call me back.  Why is this place open?  Why am I here?
I remember I wanted to be there.  I wanted to go back to my city.  The thing about living in New York, however short or long a time it is, you feel as if it always belongs to you.  A New Yorker once, a New Yorker forever.  I earned that badge and I ain’t ever gonna give it up.
Ten years later, I remember the victims.  I take my children to the local fire station, where I gently explain why we are leaving flowers.   Of course, they can’t understand and look at me strangely while tears fall from under my sunglasses.  We head to the park, where I watch in wonder as dozens of young children play...these children who ten years ago were years still from existing.  They’re laughing, playing, fighting, eating, running...they are free.  I honor the victims today; today I remember the pain and the overwhelming grief; and today, I run with my children...for we are free and we will live today, and each day I hope, with gratitude and grace for those who have been taken from us to soon.  

Thursday, September 8, 2011


 I wish I had more inspiring words today, but I spent the morning being held hostage in a beige room with a 2010 issue of Real Simple magazine.  Some prisoner before me had already ripped out the recipes so I was left to learn about how to wear chunky bangles.  USELESS.  When do I get to wear chunky bangles?  (And if I do wear them why would I need instructions?  Don’t you just...put them on?)  Three hours at the eye doctor is not how I envisioned my 4 hours of freedom, I mean, time without Beloved Children.  To top it off, the doctor seemed confused that I didn’t know exactly what my prescription was; left eye, right eye, potato, patoto, aren’t you the EYE DOCTOR? WORK IT OUT.  By the time they took off the handcuffs and freed me from my cell, I had only a few spare minutes to pick up Beloved Children.  Of course, the lure of coffee in the middle of the day forced me to pull over to Starbucks where I was suddenly tortured prisoner of Person in Front of me who ordered five, YES FIVE, pumpkin spice frappacinos with special requirements on each one.  Hey, here’s an idea, Starbucks.  Start a Frappacino Store.  Let the rest of us order and drink our very normal coffee in peace without having to wait in line behind a 7 year old who is getting a smoothie.   The good news is I made it to pre-school pick up, with my coffee, to be greeted by 2 year old who was overly relieved to see me and 4 year old who could care less about me.  And next week, I get to return to eye doctor for “20 minute” follow up.”  Yeah...I’m going to need that in writing....

Wednesday, September 7, 2011


Last night, as I was drifting off to a lovely sleep, my phone made the tiniest little sound and jolted me awake from dreams that were sure to include me and Ben Affleck.    Although only moments before I was practically asleep, my body decided that I was now to be Awake.  For a Long Time.  Eventually Husband came rolling around to bed as he likes to stay up later than me and watch The Real Housewives and eat bon bons.  As I listened to him drift off to sleep, I couldn’t help but hate him for just a minute.  After all, why should he get to sleep when I just get to lie here and listen to him sleep?  And good Lord, why is he breathing so loudly?  He wasn’t snoring; not yet.  First is the heavy, open mouth breathing.  Then comes the quiet, rolling snore, as if to say: I’m about to snore louder, but I want to give you a gentle reminder of HOW MUCH YOU HATE IT first.  To be fair, last night he never broke out in the Great Snore.  Great Snore’s are reserved for Great Nights of Drinking.  But this got me to thinking-why is it I can breath so quietly while he seems only to breath so loudly?  Why is it that I can do so many things quietly that Other People in my house seem to do only at an unnecessary volume?   Although I tried to count sheep, I instead began composing this list in my head:
Things Only I Seem to Do Quietly:

Open doors at 1 am when coming home from “a couple beers at the club.” 
Make midnight snack after “couple beers at the club.”
Crunch ice.
Wake up.
Announce intentions to poop.  (Actually, I do this silently, not even quietly.)
Fart.  (Also something I try to do silently, or at least not in front of Others.)
Close doors. (Unless, for dramatic effect, it needs to be slammed.  I’m only human.)
Now, I’m not claiming to be perfect; I see Husband writing in his diary about some of the unfortunate habits I may have.  Fear of the telephone.  Inability to retain knowledge regarding technology.  Lack of desire to make decision about which restaurant to eat at.  But while all these things may annoy Husband, even he would have to admit that I do them quietly.  Very very quietly.  

Tuesday, September 6, 2011


When I started dating Husband all those years ago, his first order of business was to brainwash me into becoming a UCLA Bruin fan.  Now, me being somewhat of a sports fan, this wasn’t too difficult to do; also, the fact that I have a hard time losing to my four year old son at Go Fish might suggest I have a bit of a...competitive...streak.   First and foremost, I am a Nice Girl From the Midwest.  My heart will always remain to the Hawks and the Cubbies, but it is big enough to allow for the love of other’s beloved teams.  I was HAPPY to put on a blue shirt, bust out a couple eight claps, hate the Trojans, (not hard to do) and take long walks on the UCLA campus as Husband recited soliquies about Days Past as Stupid Frat Boy.  (Side note; when I was 13 my family vacationed in SoCal and took a drive around UCLA campus.  Husband would have been college freshman. The joke goes, I saw a young man barfing in the bushes and thought to myself...THAT’S the man I’m going to marry one day!) (Side side note-yes, he’s that old.    And I’m that young.)  Point is, I took my role as Bruin Fan very seriously.  The first year of my fandom, we went 10-2.  I like to think of this as my courtship with the Bruins.  They held the door open, nobody scratched their balls in front of me, we held hands.  It was all very sweet and full of victory.  Eight seasons later, the Bruins seem to think they can take a huge shit right in front of me with the door open and STILL expect me to go to bed with them.  You know what, Bruins?  I am Seriously. Over. Losing.  I deserve better than this.  I didn’t even GO to UCLA and I had a mad affair with you and now I think you should get your ass to the gym and WORK OUT because otherwise, Gelato Mama may be on the market for a new team.  I can’t cheer for my alma mater because I went to New York and studied ACTING FOR CHRIST’S SAKE!  We didn’t play football!  We ACTED like we were playing football. And we could maybe kick your ass.  Now, I am more than happy to continue taking my kids to the Rose Bowl, buying them frozen lemonades and football jerseys, but only if you get it together so they know what it feels like to cheer for a winning football team.  I will not set them up to live a life of frustration and close calls.  You may not miss field goals.  You may not blow a turnover.  You may not get injured in the first quarter of the first game of the season.  
So, to summarize, I’m going to need you to get your shit together.  Other teams are...flirting. I’m thinking the Hawks could have my full devotion.  I’m thinking Boise State was looking pretty good.  I’m thinking I could cheer for Oklahoma just to piss off my sister-in-law.  I’m thinking I have LOTS of OPTIONS.  Now, I will be at the Rose Bowl this Saturday tailgating, drinking beer, playing catch with the kiddos.  I will stand and cheer for you.  I will eight clap the hell out that place.  But you better bring it.  Cuz Mama’s hands are getting tired.

Friday, September 2, 2011

Birth Order

It’s so true what they say about birth order.  I say that like I’ve done actual research about birth order, but please know that I haven’t.  I speak only from birth order experience.  I am the youngest of three and I pretty much did what I wanted because no one had the time or energy to care.  I mean...to watch me.  I mean...you know what I mean.  My mom has told me  that I was really easy to potty train.  She just woke me up one morning and said, Okay!  This is it!  No more diapers!  And I then said Okay!, put on my undies and never had an accident or an issue.  Although I prefer to think this was because I was a potty-training genius, I’m pretty sure that it means I was perhaps a bit...older...than the normal potty training child and my mom was just...busy...looking after her other two kids who had REAL problems like homework and potty training was a serious pain-in-the-ass issue that could be dealt with later.  To which I say AMEN SISTA!  I only have two children, one who is potty trained OF COURSE because he was the FIRST and I did everything TOTALLY RIGHT and the other who, one could argue, might need to be potty trained but...I’ll do it later.  
I’m sure my son will grow up to be just as clever and smart and curious as I believe him to be.  He better be because he had the proper amount of tummy time.  I expect him to be a “good example for your sister!”  (Yes...I actually say that.  And then cringe.)  His shit needs to be IN ORDER.  After all, we did flash cards.  As for my daughter...well, she will probably have her own reality show one day.  Not that she won’t be capable of great things, but when she takes her shirt off in Target and runs down the aisle laughing and shrieking with joy, I can only assume she is...crying out for attention? No, her every move was not captured on film.  She does not have a baby book.  She did not do tummy time, and miraculously she can hold her head up despite that fact.  She is not potty trained, but I’m sure she will be before kindergarten.  She is hilarious and a little bit raunchy, which I know is a weird way to describe your two year old daughter...but if you know her you are nodding your head right now going...OMG-she IS kind of raunchy.  I can just keep my fingers crossed that she uses these powers for good instead of for the pole.  Or a terrible show on Bravo that I would surely TIVO if it was on now starring someone else’s daughter who clearly was not potty trained until she was 7.  
I’m not really sure the point of all this except to say that I do believe we are shaped by the order of which we were birthed.  It’s impossible not to be.  I just hope that my kids grow up knowing that Mom always tried the best she could...sometimes failed...but always always ALWAYS loved and cherished them equally.  And, oh my God, I just know if we have another baby, that one will be BLOGGING about it one day.

Thursday, September 1, 2011

8 Hours

My 2 year old joined her big bro at school today, as she will every Tuesday and Thursday, which means that for eight hours a week I. Am. Alone. And suddenly...confused.  I can just get out of the car and shut the door and walk away?  I can go to the bathroom with nobody fighting over who gets to hand me the toilet paper?  I can go to a coffee shop and sit...with a computer...and write?  Oh...the things I have missed!   (But, seriously, what in the hell are all these people doing in this Coffee Bean?  Don’t they have to go to work?  How much free time do these people have?  Lucky bitches.)   I remember back in the day....way back in the day...when I was a single gal living off of cheap wine and veggie burgers, I used to come to coffee shops and write.  (With an actual notebook and pen, not this fancy computer that I can’t really figure out.)  Even then, it always felt like an indulgence to be sitting somewhere in the middle of the day drinking coffee and putting pen to paper.  As I sit here, laughing a quiet, evil laugh at the man trying to wrestle a chocolate milk from his daughter’s death grip, it’s hard to believe that all these years later I am able to do this again.   I’m sure Husband would prefer me to be doing something that makes actual dollars appear in our bank account, but damn it, I’ve earned this day.  This four hours of uninterrupted time.  You give so much of yourself to everyone else as a mom and today I am taking it back! Do you hear me?  RISE UP MY MOTHERS!  Okay, I’m getting excited.  The truth is, today I AM going to indulge in this four hours.  After I finish this delicious coffee, I plan on a pedicure.  And a trashy magazine.  But very soon, these 8 hours a week I have to myself will turn into time to get shit done without any helpers.  Closets need to be cleaned, houses need to be kept after, diapers need to be bought, dinner needs to be made...and God forbid I make a doctor’s appointment without clearing it through Husband’s schedule...but one thing I have told myself as this school year gets under way is that it’s time for Gelato Mama to find herself again.    (Cue Rocky-like inspired music.)  I love my kids more than anything, but the last thing I want to be in ten more years is a woman who has lost herself completely to play-dates and soccer schedules and wholesome, nutritious meals that nobody will FUCKING EAT.  Gelato Mama is getting her grove back, damn it.  She will also clean the closets and potty train the little one, but Not.Today.  Now if you’ll excuse me, I need a refill.