How to feel Good again

I’m going through one of those spells right now where every minute of the day feels a bit like torture.  Okay...maybe not every minute...but the point is...everyone is kind of an asshole right now.  And by everyone I mean The Offspring.  We all know young children are challenging, but sometimes they just seem Worse and More Annoying than Usual.  Some will say it’s a “growth spurt.”  Others will say it’s “just a phase.”  I prefer to call it an Unfortunate Length Of Time Where I Have To Be A Bitch All Day Because No One Listens Or Does Anything I Ask And I’m Tired Of Picking Up All This Crap. 

What really sucks about these periods of asshole-ness is that I feel like such a terrible failure as a mother.  I don’t want to be mad and angry all day; it’s exhausting and pointless.  Then I start to feel bad about myself and wonder if I’m a good mom and why can’t I have more patience and where did I go wrong and will they ever listen to me and what if they start to hang out with the wrong crowd will it be because of that time I screamed at them and slammed the door?  This spiral of self deprecation in itself is exhausting and can put me in an even worse mood.  But fear not; this mood can be almost instantly altered by none other than good, old fashioned, Reality Television.  A glass of wine and a dose of stupidity will make me feel like a Better Person and a Better Mom in no time.    

Here, a few shows I like to watch to remind myself that I am actually doing okay:

Toddlers and Tiaras: You are in for a treat if you have never seen this show as these parents are horrifying.  Pros: you only need to watch it for approximately 17 seconds before saying to yourself, holy shit...I really AM a good mother.  Cons: the standard is low as these mothers are, you know, spray tanning their 3 year olds and putting them in Spanx because it’s FUN YA’LL! 

Real Housewives of Anywhere: Um, yes.  A bunch of rich drag queens with terrible taste bitching about...um...what are they bitching about again?  Oh yeah...nothing.  At least when I bitch about my children it’s because I’m ACTUALLY RAISING THEM.  

I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant: Yes.  This is a real show.  I usually watch it when I want to feel skinny and smart.

Extreme Couponing:  Clearly, these people are insane.  Are you really saving money when you buy yet another year’s supply of laundry detergent when you have 11 years in storage?  And I’m sorry, but you WANT your kids to have an unlimited supply of candy bars and chocolate milk simply because they were... free?  You’ll be paying for fat camp (and therapy) later.  I’ll go ahead and pay for apples now instead.

Wife Swap:  When they say it could be worse...yes...yes it could.  Just watch this show.

Actually, Husband should watch this so he knows how awesome I am and he should just go ahead and rub my feet every night to thank me for being so awesome.  

Supernanny:  Oh.My.Lord.  My kids are...good.  Like, really good.  Like I should wake them up and apologize for thinking they were not so good today.  These kids...these kids are bad.  Bad Kids.  Bad, bad, bad kids.

Hoarders:  So...I haven’t cleaned the bathrooms in two weeks...so what?  These people haven’t cleaned their bathrooms in 36 years.  Winning.

Sadly, I could go on but I won’t because I’m sure your opinion of me is lowering by the second.  Remember-you only need to watch no more than five minutes of any of these shows to remind yourself that you are doing a fabulous job of being human.  

Tomorrow I will have more patience; tomorrow I will take more deep breaths before reacting to marker on the walls because tonight I will take pleasure in the stupidity of others and thank my stars for my Offspring who, even when they are being assholes, still remain my favorite people.

Santa Baby

The other day I was outside playing with the kids when my son, out of nowhere, asked me if we celebrate Hanukkah.  I paused and said, no...we celebrate Christmas.  He then asked, Are we Christians?  Now, my brain was saying Who the fuck are you talking too?  But my mouth came out with, yes...yes...I suppose we are Christians.  He then asked What are Christians?

JESUS CHRIST.  

Now, as I’ve mentioned before, we do not attend church regularly.  (Or at all.)  This is mostly out of laziness and a desire to enjoy Sunday morning.  And while I want to give my kids a foundation on which to form their own beliefs...I kind of want to just take a walk to get breakfast on the weekends.  But, Son was persisting in this line of questioning so I attempted to answer his question.  THINK, WOMAN, THINK!  What did all those years of CCD teach you?  (I can’t remember because I was...bored.)

It went something like this...pretty sure I nailed it:

Christmas is Jesus Christ's birthday.  

Who’s Jesus?

He was a great man who wanted to teach people to live with respect and love for others.  He wanted people to be good.

Like Santa?

Well...yes...I guess?  Except Jesus was the Son of God.  Remember how I told you God lived inside and all around us and wants us to be nice and kind?  Well, Jesus was His son.

WHAT?  How could he be inside of us and have a son?

(HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME.)

How old is Jesus going to be on Christmas?

Well...he’s dead.

He’s DEAD?

Yes...that’s why we celebrate Christmas.  To remember Jesus on his birthday.

He must have been really old, huh?

Something like that.

So...Santa wants us to be good so he can bring us presents for Jesus’ birthday?

Exactly.  

These kids...they ask so many questions.  Questions I am not always prepared to answer and I’m scared for all the questions to come.  (Thank God for Google.)  My five year old son made me feel like a total stumbling idiot and now he’s convinced that Santa and Jesus are pretty much the same person.  I DID THAT TO HIM.  

So....maybe I screwed up the Jesus/Santa/Christmas thing, but I forte in other areas. My kids have excellent taste in music and like to bust a move.  They both have a fantastic sense of humor, especially my Daughter who is the funniest person I know.  My Son could most likely get terrorists to confess to any crimes committed by his relentless thirst for interrogation.   And they are both good and kind people.  

After all, God/Jesus/Santa is watching...you do want that scooter, right?

Goodbye My Love

It’s hard for me to say this.  It’s painful, actually.  But yesterday, as Daughter came out of her room for the third time, sucking on a lollipop and shrugging off the enormous disaster she created INSTEAD of sleeping, I realized that precious, wonderful, amazing nap-time may be Coming.To.An.End.  

In honor of nap-time and all that it has given to me, I have written a song.  It is to the tune of Candle in the Wind.  I’m pretty sure my lyrics rival those of the great Elton John.  (It’s more fun to turn on the song and sing along with the new words.  Trust.)  

May I present: Goodbye Nap-time by Gelato Mama

Goodbye, nap-time.  You know, I really enjoyed you so much.  

You had the grace to keep me sane

To make it through the day.

You really were fantastic 

Sometimes better than sex

I think if you were a man

I’d make out with you every day

And it seems to me, I lived my life from 1-4 pm

Always knowing I could pee in peace 

Cuz no one would barge in

And I would really like to keep you

Around for my whole life

But your candle burned out yesterday

And now I’m kind of fucked

Goodbye, nap-time.  I think I loved you more than you’ll ever know

Now my kids think they don’t need to sleep

And turn into assholes.

Now that you are gone,

I wish I could talk to you

And let you know how I loved you

You never made me blue

And it seems to me, I lived my life from 1-4 pm

Always knowing I could pee in peace 

Cuz no one would barge in

And I would really like to keep you

Around for my whole life

But your candle burned out yesterday

And now I’m kind of fucked

Goodbye nap-time.  But seriously, where did you go?

After everything we’ve been through

I thought you loved me back

Goodbye nap-time. How could you do this to me?

Now I have to play Yahtzee endlessly

And stab out my eyeballs

And it seems to me, I lived my life from 1-4 pm

Always knowing I could pee in peace 

Cuz no one would barge in

And I would really like to keep you

Around for my whole life

But your candle burned out yesterday

And now I’m kind of fucked

But your candle burned out yesterday

And now I’m kind of fucked

Oh, goody

Can I tell you what I was doing at 7:14 am this morning?  Chasing Daughter, barefoot and in my pajamas, after she fled outside to go to the car to get HER BAG!  HER GOODY BAG!  WHERE IS MY BAG?   I’m pretty sure my neighbors thought maybe there was a fire in our house and we were fleeing from danger.  We arrived to the car and there it was, in it’s shredded glory.  Oh, how torn up plastic can bring a wee one such pleasure.

Can we talk about goody bags for a second?  I hate them.  I despise them.  They must be a disguise for the devil because they only bring BAD BAD THINGS.  Now, I get it.  It’s not for me.  It’s for the kids and kids love that stupid little shit.  An eraser shaped like a candy cane?  MUST HAVE IT.  A tiny bottle of bubbles that will only spill the INSTANT it is open?  CAN’T LIVE WITHOUT IT.   Oh yes, everyone CAN use more stickers in their life.  (And on their coffee table.)  My personal favorite?  Pencils.  A pencil is AMAZING.  Where’s my special pencil?  Where’s my Batman pencil?  Where’s my Hello Kitty pencil?  (Although, a pencil is a useful tool to stab my eyes out when I can't...take...it...anymore...)  Honestly, I’d rather have candy because at least when they eat it...it is gone...forever.  I will no longer have to move furniture around to search for that tiny compact of lip gloss because, yes, I would rather move my sofa than listen to the WHINING.

My daughter is not only obsessed with the dreaded contents of the goody bag, but the actual bag itself.  The girl loves a bag.  (I can’t fault her that.)  Never mind that it’s a cheap plastic bag that I’ve had to tie back together after the handle broke and it’s pretty much disintegrated, She Must.Have.It.  If I cannot produce it in 2.4 seconds, I will suffer the consequence of the Whine That Lasts Forever and the Snot That Flows Freely.  Now, why don’t I just throw that crap away when we get home?  I’m scared of my own children, okay?  Who knows what they would do to me if they saw the discarded crap buried in the garbage.  

My son is turning five on Saturday and I am sure his buddies will show up fully expecting a goody bag.  They will not get one.  They can instead decorate an ornament with all the wonderful things I just spent $45 on at Michael’s.  If they are too lazy to decorate an ornament, they go home empty handed.  (And, it just occurred to me...if they don’t celebrate Christmas, then I am going to look like a real asshole.) $45 seems like a lot, you say, for goody bags?  Yes.  Yes it does.  But think of the joy I am going to bring to all those parents who will leave without a Bag of Crap.  In this season of giving, I think that’s the best gift yet.

Thankful

Some days I can’t believe that I have lived in Los Angeles for ten years.  What inspired my move here in the first place has always been a mystery as I was living oh so happily in my favorite place in the world, New York.  I always thought I would be there...forever.  But one winter afternoon, I decided I was going to move to LA.  My family was confused.  My friends were confused.  I was confused.  But I did it anyway. 

Ten years ago I was a young girl in a new city and didn’t know a soul. I lived in a tiny studio apartment in Hollywood and worked at an awful restaurant who’s greatest gift to me was a friendship that is still strong today.   Ten years ago I’m sure I spent Thanksgiving with a group of people brought together by chance of being orphaned for the holiday.  

Ten years sounds like a long time and I suppose it can feel like a long time.  Yet, I only have to close my eyes and I can see that young girl, that Gelato Girl, with a paper map in her hand, figuring out where she took that wrong turn and how she was going to get home.  I see that Gelato Girl in so many corners I turn; so many coffee shops of past.  I see her writing in a notebook and counting the dollars in her wallet.  I see her laughing with long gone friends and wondering how life would play out for her.  I see her happy, I see her sad...I still feel her Gelato spirit in me.

Ten years later that Girl has grown into Mama.  There aren’t too many days that pass where I don’t wonder to myself...how did this life happen?  Where did these amazing children come from?  How is it possible that they are mine?  How to express gratefulness for this family?  I cannot find the words.

Two days ago, I sat down to Thanksgiving dinner at a beautiful table, lit by candles and twinkling lights.  My children ran around the yard with their best friends.  Seventeen friends, who prefer to think of each other as family, sat down to enjoy food, drink and company.  I was quiet for a moment and smiled as I thought of that Gelato Girl. Did she imagine this life?  Could she have dreamed this family? I can't help but wonder what the next ten years hold for me  ...I can only hope they will be as blessed as the last ten.

But, I’m pretty sure it will be world domination.

Happy Thanksgiving.  I'm so thankful for all the eyes that read this page...

Dr. Gelato

The other day I got a phone call from Husband in the middle of the afternoon.  He rarely calls during work hours (can you blame him?) so I answered.  Good news did not await me.

I hurt my knee, He said.  My good one.  (No, he’s not 78.)  Ohhh...I said.  Are you...okay?  I don’t know, He said.  It hurts pretty bad.  I said, I’m so sorry. Hopefully it’s just a little twist or something and will feel better in a few hours?  He said, I hope so.  I really hope I don’t have to have knee surgery.  I said, why do you jump to knee surgery?  Can we start with a sprain?  He said, you know I have fucked up knees.  (He curses, too.  I’m not the only dirty mouth in the house.)  I said, I know.  I’m sorry.  Your knee can get fucked up when you fall off a wall drunk in college.  He said, it was a baseball injury when I was 12!  I said, yeah, the first time.  So...what time do you think you’ll be home?

I have to say...I think I handled that conversation pretty well.  Yeah, I kind of sound like an asshole...but, if you could hear my internal dialogue, you would understand how kind and patient I was being.  Let’s be truthful here, ladies; having a sick husband is no picnic.  I mean, what’s worse? Sick kids or sick Husband?  I know exactly what you are thinking when your Husband may come home with a “cough” or a “fever” or an “upset stomach.”  It goes something like this:

WOMAN’S INTERNAL DIALOGUE WHEN HUSBAND IS SICK OR HURT:

Oh, you don’t feel good?  Great.  Fucking super. That’s too bad.  That’s really too bad.  For me.  Can’t wait for you to lie around on the sofa asking me for shit.  Like I need another kid to take care of right now.  You haven’t even thrown up.  You don’t really get to be sick unless you’re barfing.  Last time I got sick, I did barf.  A lot.  Was anyone home to help me?  No.  Did I get to take a nap?  No.  Oh, you did get home early...that’s right.  So at 5 p.m. I finally got to lay the fuck down and barf in peace.  Nobody watches you when you barf.  Two Short People don’t stand over you and laugh because Mommy’s making funny sounds.  Nope.  You come home and close the bedroom door and nobody even bothers you.  Must.Be.Nice.  

Now, because I love Husband and want Him to buy me drinks tonight, I have to say...I do feel His concern when I am sick.  He does try to be flexible and make it home early to help me with the kids.  But I have a dream.  I have a dream one day that if I am sick, I will get to stay in bed all day and watch episode after episode of the Real Housewives.  Now, I’m not asking to be sick...I’m just saying...if I do get sick...I want to lay in my bed.  By myself.  Luckily for Husband, I have superior genes and do not get sick often.  And if I am sick, I will probably deny it because everyone knows if you ignore it, it will just go away.  

Which brings me to my medical advice for Husband: Honey, I’m sorry you hurt your knee again.  It does look uncomfortable to not be able to bend it.  I’m pretty sure if you stop looking and touching your knee, it will magically heal itself.  But if you do need knee surgery, I will nurse you back to health, just like a Good Wife.  It won’t be fun; it won’t be pretty...but then again...neither are your fucked up knees.  

Cocktail, anyone?

There can be several points throughout the day of taking care of Small Children that I think I might lose it.  It can be a small moment where a deep breath does the trick; it can be a large moment where hiding in the closet works better, but we all have days when there is a Moment that you wistfully remember Those Days when, you know, you just like went to the movies and stuff and didn’t say words like Pick Up and Play-Date and a short person wasn’t losing their shit over an absurdly tiny piece of insignificant crap and the thought of pulling your hair out didn’t cross your mind 27 times a day.  Most of these special moments for me occur between the hours of 5 and 7 p.m.  The two hours of the day that can feel like 8; the two hours of Let’s Fight About Everything!; the two hours of WHERE THE HELL IS YOUR FATHER?  Some folks refer to this time as the witching hour, but I, being a glass is half full kind of person, refer to it as Cocktail Hour. 

I was in the middle of Cocktail Hour the other night, enjoying the many special benefits that come along with it, when I had a startling revelation: the Don Drapers of the world did not create Cocktail Hour.  No...no they didn’t.  Mothers did.  Years ago, when Husbands across this land would come home from a long day of Not Taking Care of Wee Ones, Good Wife was there to greet him with a nice Scotch or Bourbon, but it’s only because her other hand had a firm grip on her own strong beverage and she didn’t want to share.  At the risk of sounding like I may need my own Intervention one day, there really isn’t an evening that passes which does not involve my drinking a glass of wine. Or two.  (Because you know, when you start at 5:30, one glass doesn’t always cut it.)  Does it make me feel better?  Yes.  Is it delicious?  Yes.  Will I pour a glass for Husband when he strolls through the door?  Yes.  Unless I am mad at him for not being home while the World Was Ending and then he can pour his own damn glass.  

You can now go ahead and add Inventing Cocktail Hour to your list of Why Women Are Awesome.  Raise a glass for us...and then pass it over.  (But first, put the kids to bed.  I might do something really awesome then.)