Dear Kate:
I confess. Well, it won’t take long for you to figure this out on your own anyway.
My genes are totally responsible for how your hair looks when you wake up in the morning.
All I can say is I’m so very sorry.
xoxo,
Mama
My morning glory:
A couple weeks ago I was reading an old high school friend’s blog and found out it’s National Breast Cancer Awareness Month. Thankfully, breast cancer hadn’t been on my mind at all.
But last year–Breast Cancer Awareness Month of 2007–that wasn’t at all the case. I mean, I didn’t even know it was a special month then, but I was all too aware of the Big C because one of Mark’s aunts, and one of our favorite humans ever–the woman who performed our wedding ceremony, in fact–had just been diagnosed.
If it’s a sickening stressful scary feeling being the friend of someone who’s going through what she did, I can’t even imagine what it’s like to be the protagonist. I mean, as fans of Mark’s aunt, we are just a small part of a large large group. So when she was sorting out and sifting though all the early information and emotions, she luckily had a big community to tap into for support, resources, good doctors’ names. And of course the insights of other women who had gone through it too.
Again, I have no idea what it’s like, but I can only imagine that it’s like walking into a room of all these women–maybe some close friends, some social friends, former co-workers or clients, and even a big klatch of your mother’s friends from Florida. All these woman who you’ve probably known have had breast cancer, but of course now that it’s struck you, you can’t help but see them in a different light. Maybe you’re greedy to get information from them, or desperate for their empathy or compassion, and you definitely want to hear all the really positive success stories. (Woot to all those Floridians still waking up every morning, greeting the day, and hitting the golf course!)
Or maybe you don’t even want to go there and reach out to them at all, even though they’re smiling up at you and offering their support in that amazing way that women seem to be able to even if you don’t know them at all but really just need someone to help you because you’re grocery bag is slipping and you’re holding onto your crying baby and your toddler has decided to run into the busy parking lot.
You know. That amazing way that women who don’t even know each other can be.
But anyway, back to this room. This room that I imagine is filled with all these women who have some life connection, and now another link through breast cancer. As much as their smiling faces and encouragement may bring you comfort, at least in those early days I can imagine that there’s that moment as you walk to the center of the room that you see a chair and it’s got your name on it. That must be the big sucker punch.
Everyone knows someone who’s had breast cancer, but then what do you do when it’s suddenly you? I don’t care how friendly or welcoming the members are. Who wants to be part of that club?
Well, once you get through all the surgeries and treatments and whatever other interventions might take place, God willing you graduate to the elite gold club. The survivors’ club. And blessedly so far everyone I know who has wrangled with breast cancer has managed to do that.
Because of course there are many other women who I know who I haven’t mentioned yet. Women who would be in my imaginary support room, as it were. Once Mark’s Aunt started to move into the “looks like it’ll be okay” realm towards the end of last year, my womb-to-tomb friend Amelia’s kid sister was diagnosed. I mean, in my mind she’s still 11 years old and poking around the outskirts of where Amelia and I are hanging out, wanting to get in on the older girl action. But really she’s in her mid-30s now. Older than my mind can grock, but still way too young to have an oncologist.
And one of the first people to spring to my mind whenever I see a pink ribbon is my beloved sister-cousin, Nancy. I’m not exactly sure when it was that she passed the special five year mark to being free and clear of cancer. And thinking of that now it makes me regret that I wasn’t more aware of it. That I didn’t send her a massive bouquet of flowers that day, or write a fat check to a research charity in her honor, or have a freakin’ parade for her. Truly. I can think of no better day to jump into a fountain in public and dance and dance and dance.
Of course, there are so many other women who I’ve known–and even not personally known–who I’d love to recognize. The mothers of friends that I made in adulthood, who died when my friends were young girls. Women I never knew but whose daughters dazzle me daily with their friendship and intelligence and creativity, not to mention their own amazing mothering. To all those long-gone mothers, I pay tribute to you and promise to take special care of your girls. (They’re all doing great! You’d be incredibly proud!)
So today I shout out to you from my front porch. Sitting here in the sunshine of a warm October California day. Happy to be alive. Happy to be the mother of a sweet dumpling baby who is sleeping inside and a spunky brilliant spitfire of a preschooler. Two daughters with whom I hope to share a long and illness-free lifetime.
And of course, I hope the same for you and your daughters, mothers, cousins, sisters, and favorite aunts.
So here’s how I envision we get there. Let’s go out and get mammograms despite how unpleasant we may have heard that they are. Let’s really do regular self exams. And get tested for the BRCA gene if you have a family history. Let’s laugh in the face of the crumbling economy by writing out generous checks today to Susan G. Komen For the Cure, or Breast Cancer Research Foundation, or National Breast Cancer Foundation or whatever charity or hospital or research center is meaningful to you.
If everyone does their part today, maybe a few years from now when someone brings it to your attention that it’s National Breast Cancer Awareness Month, you’ll think to yourself, “Oh, right. Breast cancer! I’d almost forgotten that disease even existed.”
Last night Mike, Myra, and the kids came over for dinner and I gave them a general warning about the current state of our bathrooms. It seemed easier for me to set expectations than to run around and check on them every so often like some OCD McDonald’s washroom janitor. While Kate masters the art of diaper-free life, you never really know what you could encounter behind the bathroom door.
Some scenarios include: Half the roll of toilet paper unraveled and strewn about the room like some poorly-executed small-scale Christo installation, or wadded into a ball in an equally fraught-with-failure attempt to put it back. Then there are the wipes–those flushable ones for kids that I refused to buy the Princess or froggy version of in hopes they wouldn’t be seen as a toy. Joke’s on me since the plain white container apparently holds some less-is-more allure for Kate. At any given time, anywhere from one to 30 of those wipes could be tossed about the room. Once they were even spread across the wall tiles like some sort of moist wallpaper treatment. (And to think she’s never watched so much as a minute of HGTV!)
Oh and if stickers are your thing, you may be lucky to find the toilet seat decked out in a fresco of the one-for-pee two-for-poop stickers reserved for the special potty chart. (One of these days I’ll actually move those out of reach.) You may think it sounds charming to find your toilet bejeweled this way, but when you’re standing in line at a store and feel a small something clinging to your butt cheek, only to discover later it’s a sparkly unicorn sticker, you may change your mind. As a stay-at-home mother I’ve found such experiences slowly chip away at my dignity, even if they are kinda funny sometimes.
The other thing that’s disconcerting is unwittingly sitting on the padded training potty seat when you lower yourself down half-asleep in the middle of the night.
You may be thinking that my staying with the girl when she “goes potty” would prevent any or all of these scenarios from taking place. The thing is, 80% of the time I am with her. It’s just those infrequent (but blessed) times she wanders in on her own, or that I need to do something mid-way through a seeminlgy endless poop sesh, that I return to see Kate’s bathroom decor handiwork. Bodily functions aside, when it comes to leaving her personal mark on the bathroom, the girl is fast.
I was going to mention that when I enter to see a maelstrom of wipes and toilet paper it’s all blessedly un-used. But I won‘t mention that, seeing as I’m a huge parental believer in The Power of Jinx. The moment I say anything, luck’s tide will no doubt turn on me.
It’s like this weekend at Ella K’s birthday party. I foolishly gloated to a friend that Kate was at long last potty-trained. Not even an hour later–at which point of course the backyard party had moved indoors–Kate announced at top vox “I’m peeing!” and I (along with everyone else at the party) looked over to see her in fact doing so all over our host’s lovely living room carpet. Last time I brag.
The other manifestation of the potty training thing that spares our bathrooms but is still disquieting is the pantie obsession. Mark and I are getting a taste of how the parents of those boob-flashing spring break co-eds must feel. When Kate’s feeling shy she balls up the hem of her dress, pulls it up revealing her little bod, and sticks it in her mouth to gnaw on. The alternative to that shy mode is the “Wanna see my princess panties?” mode. I can’t count the number of times people like our mail man have had Kate reveal her panties to them. It’s troubling.
Well, no more troubling than my having to continue to change diapers, I guess.
One of Mark’s friends from his New York days wrote a great book about misheard song lyrics called ‘Scuse Me While I Kiss This Guy. Who can’t love a book like that? It should be required reading in bathrooms across America. And I truly mean that as a compliment.
One of my personal misheard song faves was from my friend Cynthia. She confessed to me in college that she’d long been singing, “I jog in the city! Running wild and looking pretty!”
You’d have to know Cynth to really appreciate how perfectly hilarious that was. Even now it’s a total side-splitter to me.
Not that I’m much better, mind you. No doubt there are myriad song lyrics I belt out daily that are utterly incorrect. One Mark caught me in the act of was from that Billy Joel song “Piano Man.” I thought the guy in the song was “making love to his tiny can gin” instead of his “tonic and gin.”
Not sure what led me to believe gin ever came in cans. Or weirder: tiny cans. It’s one of those things that as you’re singing it doesn’t seem quite right but oh well you’re not the songwriter you’re just driving in your car singing along happily and maybe even thumping the steering wheel when the spirit moves you, so who are you to question what vessel gin traditionally comes in and how big it is. Know what I mean?
Of course when Mark discovered I’d been making this mistake he pounced on it delightedly as only a loving spouse can. In a futile attempt at self defense I think I tried to cover my tracks by explaining I thought he was “making love to his tiny Can Jin.” You know, some diminutive Asian woman. (Yeah, he didn’t buy it either.)
Anyway, yesterday I asked Kate what she wanted to bring into school today since she was the Star of the Day, the school’s one-at-a-time version of Show and Tell. She took the question to heart and started surveying her toy empire intently. At one point she ran up to me with some wooden play dishes and said, “Mama, I want to take these in for Start of the Day.” To which I corrected, “It’s not start, honey, it’s star. Like you’re a shining star!”
Here I am trying to help her out, teach her something, and what I get back is an insistent, “No, Mommy“–the name she reserves for me when she’s being stern–”It’s start.”
There’s just no telling that girl she’s wrong. I wonder where she gets that from.
Turns out Kate’s gotten some other school-related things wrong too. The circle time song she insists goes, “Make a circle. Make a circle. Make it ground! Make it ground!” She sings this song nearly incessantly causing me to mutter between clenched teeth “Round, Kate. Round.”
And they say some non-denominational hippie-type grace before eating at school. I’m not sure exactly what the words to it are, but I’m pretty sure they aren’t, “Thank you, thank you, my hard things! Thank you, thank you for everything.” My guess is it’s a “heart” that “sings.” Though, knowing that school it might also be a harp.
Anyway, one song I’m certain I know the words to–since this Star of the Day thing has had it stuck in my head all day–is the theme song from this low-budg New England talent show called Community Auditions that was on TV when I was a kid. It had a small studio audience comprised of mostly pushy pageant-type
parents, and was on something equivalent to local cable access. (UHF on the dial, yo.)
I was likely one of about seven people bored enough to watch it, but TV producers must be desperate these days because a Google search led me to discover it’s actually been brought back like some bad 70s TV show zombie stalking the airwaves. My God, modern science can resuscitate anything these days, but what are the ethics behind these frightening decisions?
Anyway, back in the old school Community Auditions day their most popular act by far was young girls wearing bad red wigs and warbling out “Tomorrow” from the musical Annie. They also had a preponderance of young dance and gymnastics troupes who’d perform in bright matching costumes covered in those old big round sequins. Lots of kids “Puttin’ on the Ritz” with canes and top hats too. Oy.
I can nearly assure you that none of the acts that appeared on Community Auditions made it big.
So, the show’s theme song (in hopes that typing it will drive it out of my head) went:
Star of the day, who will it be?
Your vote could hold the key!
Is it you? Tell us who
Will be star of the day!
When I picked up Kate from school this afternoon one of her teachers came up to me to report that Kate took her Star of the Day title very seriously. At one point during her my-crap-from-home presentation some kids were talking. The teacher said Kate stopped, glared at them and said, “Please be quiet. It’s my turn to talk.”
Again, where does she get this from?
Ah, little Miss Kate. You are my start to every day and my star of every day. And your Mama loves you so very very much.
While our kids were strangling each other on the sidewalk the other day, a neighbor casually mentioned to me that his cat brought a rat into their house the night before.
“A mouse?” I asked weakly, venturing hopefully to correct him.
“No, no. It was a rat alright,” he replied. “It was actually pretty big too.”
It was one of those things someone tells you nonchalantly, and it’s all you can do to repress a full body shudder and exclamation of GAAAHHHH!
Several minutes later, he’d moved onto some other topic or was chatting with the kids or something, as I stood frozen, frantically wondering, “Was it dead? How big was it? Was it half-dead? Eeeeeeeeew!!! What room did it drag it into? Oh God, was it on a carpet? Was there a trail of blood? Did their kid see it? How the hell–and where–did they dispose of the thing?!”
I could barely stand to even think those thoughts, but I also couldn’t stop myself. For the remainder of the evening, back inside having dinner and such, any quiet moment would lead my mind back to thoughts of THE RAT, which as the night progressed grew larger, bloodier, and more diseased in my imagination.
Well, hey. What do they expect having cats. One of the first things I told Kate when we brought her home from the hospital as a newborn was, “We’re dog people.” I mean, it’s important for kids to know what their family stands for right out of the gate.
My disdain for cats started out with allergies as a child, then progressed to more of a fear of them (don’t laugh) after a couple episodes where I’ve been clawed at. (Turns out they don’t like having their stomachs scratched vigorously or being thumped on the back. Who knew?)
But after this rat story I have a whole new reason to hate.
The thing is, I’m starting to see some cat-like qualities in my own offspring. In Kate. No, I’m not allergic to her, and sure she’s scratched me a few times but in minor unintentional scenarios. Thankfully we’re not at the rat stages, but Kate is doing her fair share of taking the outdoors inside.
Today I was reaching blindly for a rattle for Paige in the great toy abyss between her and Kate’s car seats. Instead I withdrew a plum-sized chunk of concrete. Not exactly the German wooden toy that’ll get Paige into Princeton that I was groping for. And clearly Kate’s work. God knows how she manages to reach down and pry off a piece of the sidewalk before we snap her into her car seat.
And that’s just the car. Inside the house, her play kitchen is a shaman’s workbench. The girl has collected acorns, leaves, sticks, fistfuls of grass, dandelions, and other small organic matter. It’s wedged into little containers, mixed in small enamel pots with tiny wooden eggplants. I even found a Tupperware in her bureau alongside her basket of barrettes, filled with a cache some sort of random sidewalk nut.
Needless to say, outside is another story altogether. The bucket in the back of her trike is full to overflowing with pebbles, leaves, dessicated kumquats, pieces of straw, prickly chestnut husks, and a thoughtfully curated collection of twigs. Seed pods are especially prized booty, as she employs the multiplicity of innards for a variety of projects, most often as the key ingredient to her specialité, homemade ‘soups.’
And I should really just write the hipster architects who live on the corner a check for all the polished gray stones Kate’s purloined from their modern front yard-scape. By year’s end she’ll have denuded the place. And from the small crazy-person piles around our yard and spilling forth from her various front porch bowls and baskets, it’s quite clear that she’s the perpetrator.
Of course, aside from being creepily cat-like behavior, this all can’t help but remind me of my mother. Which is to say, what Kate’s got is in the genes. Driving down the road with my mom you’d think she was swerving to avoid an oncoming car, but really she’d careen to the side of the road with break-neck velocity then hop out giddy like a school girl to haul in a branch laden with pine cones. Some women swoon over designer labels, but a piece of driftwood or a fallen bird nest was what’d weaken my mother’s knees.
Her pine cone habit was at times out of control. Look for a clear place to sit in her car and you’d re-enact a scene from The Sound of Music. For as much as she gathered, emptying the car of her earthly treasures was a less immediate compulsion. The back seat was typically off limits it was so overburdened with her finds, along with her stash of old bread, crackers, and cereal she fed to wild ducks. (The woman single-handedly changed the dietary needs of the North American Mallard by causing them to grow dependent on stale Ritz Crackers.)
At least the pine cones, chestnuts, shells, and other natural detritus my mother gathered were the raw materials for some backwoods-type Martha Stewart projects. (Though it should be known she found Martha to be “a puke.”) She’d gild a bale of nut husks and pair them with some holly sprigs, quahog shells, and maybe a pineapple or two. Slap on some peat moss and rig in a few candles and next thing you know we had a centerpiece worthy of a White House state dinner. As wacky as she was, the end products were always impressive.
As far as I know, none of Mom’s roadside finds made their way into her repertoire of soups, though it’s hard to really know for sure. Come winter, she did did make a hearty stew.
Invariably when you’re traveling and you tell someone you live in Northern California, you get that tired old oh-sure-it’s-pretty-and-all-but-what-about-earthquakes?! reaction. Some folks will verbalize it, and with others you can just tell by looking at them that they’re thinking it and are silently pitying your poor sense of judgment.
As a longtime NoCal resident–16 years now!–I find the whole earthquake thing an absurd reason to avoid living here. (God please spare us tonight if The Big One should hit.) I mean, there are far better reasons to not live here. Exorbitant real estate prices, atrocious bagels, crappy public schools, the almost spooky lack of corn muffins, the unswimmably cold Pacific Ocean….
Don’t get me wrong. There are many many reasons why this is one of the most amazing places in the U.S. to live, but I’m also aware of the place’s pitfalls. I mean, the bagels. Are. Truly. Dreadful.
Though one thing I will say we’re blessedly exempt from is the maddening small talk about the weather that seems to comprise about 45% of all conversational airtime in New England. Frankly, I’d happily plunk my house astride a fault line to live free of that natter.
It’s not that we’re such brilliant conversationalists here on the West Coast. More likely that our weather tends to be so damn predictable it becomes a conversational neutral. Instead we drone on incessantly about sky-high real estate prices. (I guess we’re still boring, just on different topics.)
But every once and a while you get a day like yesterday, and all those repressed or misplaced weather
hounds come out of hiding. And sometimes they’re the least likely
suspects.
So when the Friday Mama Posse convened, the mothers and babes in
arms sat at Sacha’s kitchen table, and the three-year-olds occasionally tore past in a howling squealing stream. A couple times in the blur I noticed little Ella B. clutching a child-sized rainbow striped umbrella.
Running in from the backyard at one point she called out triumphantly, “I think the rain is coming, Mama!” Causing Megan to laugh and turn to us, “She’s been talking about this all morning. The girl is so excited that it’s going to rain today.” Mary chimed in that she totally was too. I think we actually all agreed. After the typical six-month or so rain-free stretch, an impending downpour was fraught with novelty. Sure, even excitement.
Throughout the day, I couldn’t help but notice other people looking up at the gray sky, marveling. No dramatic leaf colors. No city-stopping snowstorms. We don’t even have many of those sunny-but-chilly days everyone back East gleefully calls crisp. Sure, you can haul out some heavier sweaters and even boots if you like, though during the days you may still opt for flip flops. Our seasonal changes are more subtle than the showy Midwest and East Coast drama. But to some sensitive California souls they don’t go unnoticed.
As the day wound down I chatted with a neighbor out in front of the house. The sun was setting so early it seemed, and the air was cooling off. The much-anticipated rain hadn’t started yet, but likely would in a few hours. Even though in our mellow family mode we’d be staying in anyway, I remarked it was the perfect Friday night to be home, snugged in warm and cozy, watching a movie.
Back inside, Mark had dinner underway and called out from the kitchen if I wanted a drink. After a moment’s thought, I jumped into the new season with both feet and said I’d take a bourbon and Coke.
Ah, yes. Fall indeed.
I’m exhausted just thinking about how much cramming Sarah Palin is doing to get ready for the debate tomorrow.
I wonder what approach they’re taking with her. Flash cards? Crib sheets? Miking her updo? For her sake I hope they’re coming at it from all angles.
Oh Sarah. It’s sure to be a long night for you. But all the coffee along with the stress–I mean ‘energy’–coming off the pack of Republican handlers frantically working with you should help get you through.
Besides, remember all those long nights you’ve had conferring with the Russians on complex foreign policy issues? You’re used to burning the midnight oil!
And really, we’ve all had our share of all-nighters in college, right? So it’s in that spirit that we in the McClusky household will be watching the debate tomorrow night. We’ll do a shot every time Palin says something utterly asinine.
Now that I’m thinking of it, maybe Mark should plan to take Friday off of work.
At 6:40 on Sunday morning when Paige babbled her wake-up call, Mark and I cracked our eyes open, smacked opened and closed our bone-dry mouths, and softly groaned as we remembered the day that stretched ahead of us. We were having a huge yard sale.
For all we knew, early birds were already prowling around our front porch with the hopes of finding some ignorantly-priced Noritake china. Having to lug everything out of the garage and around to the front yard seemed torture enough, then then Kate’s tiny voice joined the chorus with Paige. “Mama! I woke up!”
My God, we also had children to tend to. And in the wake of a supremely fun party the night before–where Mike and Myra renewed their vows on their 15th anniversary and treated their friends to an exceptionally fabulous throw down–here we were, heads throbbing, lying tangled in our sheets like some suburban American version of Sid and Nancy.
Not pretty.
It’s just more validation that my on-the-fly early morning nanny service would catch on like wildfire. If I could have picked up the phone for urgent back-up, I would’ve paid $100 an hour for childcare. Easily.
Anyway, at least I’d consumed a vat of Don’s superb pinot the night before and had good reason for my state of disarray. Whereas this past Friday, I had no alcohol-related excuse for my behavior.
So Friday. When I arrive at Megan’s house for mother’s group, she’s in her garage bent over two ride-on cars she’s assembling for the twins and she mutters between clenched teeth that she’s been in a fantastically crappy mood. It’s such a gift that Megan A) admits to her foul mood but still throws a yard party worthy of the Smith & Hawken catalog, B) is the kind of friend who doesn’t sugarcoat life when she’s bedraggled, and C) manages to do her hair in cute braids despite it all. Megan is rarely off her game, and with three kids under three, no nanny, and a hubbie with a time-sucking job, I’d be enjoying the creature comforts of a sanatorium if I were her.
Anyway, aside from her admission of it, you’d never know the woman was crabby. But then in some weird transference that we tried to make sense of later, the bad mood somehow leeched over to me. There was either some fierce ‘power of suggestion’ energy out there, or maybe some as-yet-undead part of my childhood Catholicism urged me to take it on like some priest in an exorcism. More likely it was the exhaustion that’d caught up to me from waking-in-the-night children and not sleeping well with Mark out of town.
After lunch, with some help from Mary, who impressively coaxed naked Kate (long story) back into her clothes and even her car seat while I wrangled Paige, I drove home, nearly slumping over the steering wheel, hoping the day’s excitement would warrant Little Miss Never Nap into even the smallest kip. I never sleep when the kids do, but since I caught Megan’s mood like a bad cold and was generally haggard from the night before, I’d have gladly done a swan dive into bed.
No luck. Kate invoked reserve stores of energy and refused to even play quietly in her room. So when I staggered in to feign some active parenting, I was all over her suggestion that “you be the baby and I be the mommy.” This involved her even tucking me into her bed (bliss!). And the next thing I remember, Officer, I was fluttering my eyes open after having totally conked out. D’oh!
Thankfully the curtains were not on fire, Kate wasn’t out on the sidewalk chatting with strangers, and Paige was still safely snoozing in her crib.
The rush of maternal negligence that surged through me went unnoticed by Kate who was tootling around in her room and came over to me saying, “You woke up now, Baby! You want some milk and a snack, Baby?”
And just as I was settling in to thinking “Okay, I dozed off for a bit here but everything’s okay…” I remembered that I’d taken a sleeping Paige out the car earlier with the thought that I’d come back, grab my bag, and lock up. Which of course, I never did.
“Mommy?” I said to Kate, because God knows when she is Mommy and I am Baby I can never mistakenly call her Kate. (The house could be burning down and if I called her Kate she’d sit on the floor and scream, “My name is not Kate! I’m Snooooow Whiiiiiite!” And refuse to budge.) So I’m all, “Baby forgot something in the car. I’ll be right back, Mommy.”
I’d parked on the street, since our garage might as well be in the next town over. And from the second I set foot on the porch I notice I somehow managed to park with the two right wheels on the sidewalk. My God. Had I been sleep-driving? Then I walk around to the street-side door where Paigey’s car seat is, and of course, it’s open. Not wide open, mind you, but still. And on the front passenger seat? My bag with my wallet, iPhone, yadda yadda yadda. This may be okay in say, Bristol, Rhode Island. But this is Oakland, people. Thankfully–mercifully–it was all still there.
I mean, imagine if I had been drunk how ugly that scene would have been.
Not one to stew silently in my own shame, but to share it (see: this blog) I immediately call my friend Jennifer who lives next door. And she says brightly, “Hey I saw your great parking job!” Oy! Nothing like being beaten to the punch on my own self-flagellation.
But it really was an odd day. Thankfully, no hangover was associated with this not-drunk-but-acting-like it afternoon. I also didn’t don a lampshade, call any old boyfriends, or snarf down a whole sleeve of Chips Ahoy cookies. (Not that I call old boyfriends these days, Mark…) Worst of all, Mary reported late yesterday that the Bad Mood Virus had somehow been passed on to her. I can only hope that its course of destruction ended there.
And thankfully, yesterday when I truly was hungover, my two sisters arrived to valiantly pitch in with the yard sale–merchandising items, setting prices on the fly, convincing people they needed our old crap, and collecting cash with the efficiency and security of a Swiss bank.
At the end of a long and exhausting day I looked at Kate and Paige across the dinner table and smiled thinking that they’ll be there for each other for all the good times, and for all the hung-over yard sales.
I realized recently that my blog lacks an About Me section.
The problem is, my personal IT support technician/spouse is away on a business trip, so I’m unable to alter the site’s, uh, complex architecture singlehandedly. (Besides, it makes Mark feel so needed when I let him do these things for me.)
While I await his return, here’s my first take on how I might describe myself:
I’m a mother of two from Oakland, CA who hates mushrooms. My ears aren’t pierced. Well, they were once, but those holes closed up decades ago. My mother died of pancreatic cancer. Women who’ve had natural childbirth are my heroes. I’ve never seen Star Wars. I’ve been a VP, toy reviewer, CNN producer, and state park employee. My favorite holiday is July 4th. I love surprises, resist change, and can’t tolerate wimpyness. I adore old women. I’ve had migraines that have put my right eye out of commission for weeks at a time. I once ate a 24-course meal. I’ve never competed in the Olympics. I went to cooking school to become a pastry chef, then decided against it. I’ve chatted with Mick Jagger. I loved high school and was unimpressed with college. My father’s name is Ferdinand. Altogether I’ve taken 13 years of French. I’ve never had a perm. I’ve lived in Rhode Island, Ohio, Massachusetts, D.C., New York, Georgia, California, France, and England. In a life riddled with happiness, motherhood has brought me supreme contentment. Some people think I have nice hands. I once spent a raucous night out with the White House Secret Service. Sometimes I want to eat my children. I don’t know how to follow a football game. My husband spent the better part of his career at Sports Illustrated. If I were President, liking coconut-flavored rum wouldn’t be uncool. I pronounce ‘aunt’ AHHHnt and ‘apricot’ with a short ‘a.’ Cats scare me. I have a terrible memory. The greatest compliment I’ve ever gotten is that my daughter Kate looks like me. I can dish it out but I can’t take it. Math Game Day in fourth grade always gave me a stomachache. My father is afraid of heights and peach fuzz. A psychic once told me I was a famous ballerina in a past life. I skipped having a first marriage and got a brilliant trophy husband at age 37. I’ve never had braces. For a made-for-TV movie I once played a woman who choked while eating in a restaurant. Parades often make me cry with joy. If I had a hammer, I’d hammer in the morning. The love I have for my husband and daughters can best be described as rabid. I’m an obsessive yard saler and recovering packrat. My super powers are the ability to sleep anywhere and parallel parking. I’m the youngest of four girls. I disagree with the way the word ‘segue’ is spelled. I didn’t make a million dollars before turning 30. I look dead in both yellow and light gray. I once stuck a pussy willow up my nose. Seeing a person carrying a box of hot pizza always delights me. I think people who put lines through their sevens are pretentious. If it’s not too much to ask, I’d like a high school marching band to play at my funeral. I know how to say the following things in Polish: ‘underwear,’ ‘Grandma,’ ‘ass,’ and ‘I’m going to throw up.’ I’m a wannabe Jew. If it weren’t for house cleaners, I’d get around to changing my sheets about as often as frat boys do. My best piece of financial advice is to pay for babysitting now instead of marriage counseling later. I’m an avid recycler. My greatest life’s work has been ridding myself of any trace of a Rhode Island accent. It wasn’t until my mother was gone and I had children of my own that I realized I’d inherited her brilliance for tackling tough laundry challenges. I can’t be inside on sunny days. I felt betrayed my senior year of college when the hippies cut their hair short to get jobs at investment banks. I’m not even a little bit country. My last meal would include a Del’s Lemonade.
How much room do they give you in those blog templates for the About Me section anyway?
Well, this will have to do for starters.
Am I the only one who wishes real life was like Tivo?
I mean, sometimes I feel like if I could just hit Pause for a few minutes (or hours)–freezing the rest of the world, not me–it’d give me a chance to run around like a madwoman and get my shit together, even slap on some lip gloss and smooth down my clothes before taking a deep cleansing breath through the nostrils, smiling serenely, then hitting Resume.
Wouldn’t that just rock?
Yesterday I totally needed Tivo Life functionality. We were at our local kiddie digs, Frog Park, and I was chatting with an extremely super duper pregnant woman. Kate ran up to us and asked her, “Do you have a baby in your belly?” to which she laughed and said “Yes! I do!” (I think she was in that nearly almost overdue get-this-thing-out-of-me phase. The Fourth Trimester, as it were.)
Anyway, then Kate looked up at me with a quizzical head tilt and asked, “How do they put babies in the belly, Mama?”
At which point I nearly swooned and needed to hold onto Huge Preg-o for support. Nearly.
Instead, several possible and seemingly inappropriate answers raced through my head, along with the thought “Why don’t I have a canned response ready? Why the hell am I so unprepared for this?” And also the thought, “She’s not even three, for God’s sake! Isn’t it a bit early for this question?!”
Thankfully, Large Pregster had waddled off to help her ecto-child who was experiencing some sort of monkey bar issue. So at least my stuttering, blathering answer would take place in relative privacy. But still. I needed that Tivo Pause button.
But then, in the next split second–since this dense stream of neurotic thoughts managed to whirl through my noggin at a furious pace–Kate squealed and pointed across the playground. “Look at that little dog!!” And like a blur she ran off to inspect a wee decrepit Chihuahua who was tied up to the fence, her question to me nearly instantly forgotten.
Uh, phew!
Having had some time to reflect upon this, I’m still utterly at a loss for how I’d answer her in an age-appropriate way. I’m hoping that the Friday Mama Posse will have some brilliance and insight to send my way. So cross your fingers that the question doesn’t resurface before then.
In the meantime, I think the obvious solution is to get a dog.
