The Final Straw

Several months ago I bought a wooden toy chest as one of my volunteer duties for Kate’s preschool auction. A guy from the furniture store took it out to the car for me while I was signing the credit card receipt.

A few minutes later he came back in and said, “I’m sorry. I can’t put that in your car.” Odd, since he’d measured it and my car minutes ago and assured me there was plenty of room.

After waiting a couple seconds and (I assume) delightfully registering my confusion, the guy leans into my face and leers, “I can’t put it in a car with a Carleton College sticker! I went to St. Olaf!”

Sadly for him, I had no awareness of the apparent collegiate rivalry to which he was referring, since it’s Mark who’s the Carleton alum.

Sadly for me, I didn’t think fast enough to make the “We always said you St. Olaf people would be moving furniture for us one day” comment.

Oh well. It’s just another little weird-since-it-ain’t-my-college scenario that’s cropped up ever since we had Kate and I started driving Mark’s car, which along with its superior kid-transporting space, comes emblazoned with his alma mater’s sticker across the back window.

Actually, I barely notice it myself now, but every once and a while I’ll get something like a realtor’s business card left on the windshield that says, “Hey, fellow Carl! Please call me if you’re ever looking for a house in the Bay Area!” (Cute or annoying? You decide!)

And just a few weeks ago a friend’s husband offered to ran out to my car for something and not knowing whether he knew which one was mine I started to say, “It’s the silver Subaru–” and he jumped in “–with the Carleton College sticker. Yeah, yeah, I know it.”

It’s not like I have anything against Carleton. I mean, aside from the fact they swiped my small liberal arts college’s former president. News of which came through to Mark and I via our respective alumni newsletters. Kenyon’s two-bit pamphlet-like paper arrived one day with a pathetic entreaty that “the search was on” for a new president. The cover story seemed nearly as desperate as, “Hey, know anyone who’s kinda smart and willing to live in a fancy house in hell-and-gone rural Ohio for not much money but a noble job? We’re looking for a new president. (See reverse side for application.)”

Or at least in my mind it seemed that way.

The Carleton alumni rag is all schmancy, printed on stock only a former magazine hack could love, with stunning close-up cover photos of former students who are off excelling in some dazzling job you never even knew existed but is utterly world-bettering, death-defying, and/or hip. Let’s just say that the issue of The Voice that came to us a couple weeks after Kenyon’s sorry ass we-don’t-got-no-president newsletter was a gloating tribute to their new glorious leader.

It was all so tragic I don’t think Mark even had much fun chiding me for it.

And to think that on a daily basis I drive around the Carleton-mobile that has a sticker on it that everyone I know has seemed to notice and comment on at one time or other as if the whole car is wrapped in that plastic sheeting advertisement stuff they did a lot of before all those kooky dot coms with animal names folded a few years back.

So this morning I’d just parked outside my new chiropractor’s office when a guy pulled up alongside me in a way that set off my paranoid mind to wondering if I’d taken his spot, leveled a parking meter, or had the end of my scarf dragging out the door on the street for the past seven miles. Instead the guy is kinda smirking, motions for me to roll down my window, and calls out as if I’m on the other end of a wind tunnel and he needs me to grab a safety harness, “CARLETON! I see the Carleton sticker on your car!”

“Yes,” I say wearily, preparing for his let-down when I have to eventually tell him I don’t know the double-secret Carl handshake. And feigning interest: “Did you go there?”

“YES! I DID!” he shouts enthusiastically and unnecessarily. “Do you have a child that goes there?!”

[Sudden sound of needle scratching across record] A child? A child?

Okay, so I think Mark and I need to talk about that sticker finally coming off. Or maybe me just getting a new car altogether. The Sube is clearly not doing anything to uphold my youthful image.

The Remote Control of Life

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.

And Now for Something I Should’ve Done Ages Ago

My sister Ellen rented a house in San Francisco for about six years before she went downstairs one day to find her house guest cutting into a huge avocado from the tree in her yard. Ellen was about to tell her they weren’t edible, when her friend gushed, “You are so lucky to have these right here for the taking! I’ve been eating them all week. I think they’re the best avocados I’ve ever had!”

Upon learning this Ellen was confused, delighted, and understandably annoyed with herself. Back when she’d first moved in, a neighbor, or the landlord–it was hard to remember exactly who–mentioned something about the avocados not being good. At least she thought they had.

And of course, in all her years living there, she never thought to try one.  

As mean as it is to admit, I’ve always found that story hilarious. Just so funny that she was overlooking something so good that was right there under her nose.

Well, karma’s a bitch. It seems like lately I’ve had my own slew of small missed opportunities. So I guess Ellen can have the last laugh.

The other day in a fit of must-feed-the-family-but-cannot-summon-energy-to-cook, I decided to try out a somewhat dumpy looking Thai restaurant that’s just two blocks away for take-out. Mark picked it up and said the place was packed. And when we started eating we saw why. Great chicken satay. Delicious pad thai. And cheap!

How maddening. The place could not be closer to our house. So we’ve missed out on three years of cheap-easy-yummy Thai food. Argh.

Then when my frienda Brenda arrived dirty and tired from a long road trip on Thursday, I ushered her into the Pink Bathroom, explaining that for our first couple years in the house we disparaged its shower. The stall seemed small. Mark found the shower head low. But then for some reason I used it one day, and realized that the water pressure and even the heat was far better than the shower we exclusively used.

I guess the only other time I’d used the now-favorite shower was when I was in labor with Kate. Probably not the best time to make a judgment call on something. Now, of course, I won’t set foot in the White Bathroom. I guess I’m somewhat of an extremist. For me things are either pink or white.

Back when I first moved to San Francisco I wrote a story for the free weekly paper about dream analysis, and interviewed a bunch of herbal-tea quaffing, poncho-wearing Marin hippie dream experts. One woman asked me about any recurring dreams I’ve had. There was the UFO abduction in the driveway of my childhood home dream. (Hey, don’t laugh.) But I haven’t had that one since I was a kid. The one I was having at the time of the interview was that after a long time living in a particular house I’d realize that there was another room, or a whole wing even, that I’d never been to.

And of course, it was decked out and fabulous or packed with young hot studs and fifty-dollar bills. Well, not really the money and men part so much. But it was distressing nonetheless since these unknown-about parts of my dreamworld houses sent me into repetitive head-thumping V8 moments. Why oh why hadn’t I ever just opened that door?

The hippie dream lady told me it meant that I was looking for new unrealized things in my life; paths not yet explored. And that I was lazy about not opening doors that were right there in front of me.

I’ve got to think that there’s some of that being played out in my world right now. I mean, the shower, the Thai place, and then the other day I go downstairs to dig up some of Kate’s old clothes for Paige and find a trove of forgotten but adorable outfits–many of them Oilily or French designer baby duds that my sister Judy manages to send our way as often as the Sunday paper. Of course, half of them were either already too small for chubby Paige, would fit her for about a week more, or would have been perfect for this past summer. Drat.

Of course I can’t bear to have her not wear them, so the next time we go anywhere I’ll have to do several costume changes for Paige, like she’s a mini Cher in concert. (I’ll likely skip the wigs and make-up.)  It’ll be exhausting, but oh so worth it to get one more wearing out of these crazy cute little numbers.

And frankly, the Paige clothing is one thing. But we’re getting ready for a yard sale. (Yes, Mr. and Mrs. Packrat are actually planning for a public purge. I mean, Bravo should be sending Dr. Phil and a camera crew over here because the pain, anguish, and eventual victory of the whole endeavor will no doubt make for brilliant reality TV.) So, here I am last week spelunking though toys, baby gear, clothing–you name it–and dumping it into the yard sale pile.

Maternity clothes are difficult to let go of only due to my lingering desire to have another baby. I made it doable by thinking I’ll just buy all new stuff if I ever need to. Besides, how sad can you get about letting go of immense mumu-like shirts and elastic waistband pants? Even if you did pay a king’s ransom for them.

And in the midst of digging with both arms like a dog through one of those huge plastic tubs, I unearth a pocket of non-maternity duds. And I see my jeans. My cute pre-preg Lucky jeans, some dark DKNY jeans I think I bought mere moments before the pregnancy pee stick turned positive, and even my faithful faded old Levi’s. In a fit of sentimental fashion fervor I step out of the skirt I’m wearing and right there in the basement start trying on my pre-Paige clothes.

And the heartbreaking mind-blowing thing is, they all fit. No wrenching the zipper up or stretching them over my thighs. No thinking I can wear a long shirt cape-like over my ass to conceal it. These clothes all legitimately fit like, well, like they were mine.

Joy!

But then I also find some nice linen shorts, a bunch of little skirts, and a navy silk shirt with white polka dots (which sounds horrendous but believe me is darling) that I bought last summer in, of all places, a little boutique in Bristol. Who knows when all these cute clothes started to fit again! For all I know, I could’ve been wearing these things all summer instead of my restricted post-partum wardrobe which included, ashamed as I am to admit it, a couple pairs of Mark’s Patagonia shorts that I’d borrow when I was desperate.

So all these missed opportunities can’t help but make me wonder how I avoid things like these from happening again in the future. Frantically sample the food in each and every local restaurant to ensure we’re not missing out on some easy-to-acquire gastronomic treat? Obsessively taste the fruits in my and my neighbor’s yards? And conduct tests on the efficacy of household appliances–pitting one burner against another–so as to know I’m using the best ones and won’t suffer any future regrets?

Perhaps I should just give into what I’ll call the Parents’ VCR Approach to Life (TM). I mean, back in the day, whose parents ever performed any other function on their VCRs other than Play and Rewind? Sure there was other stuff it could do, and they were even aware of that, but it didn’t ever seem to bother them. They never seemed to lose any sleep over the thought that they were missing out.

Maybe as parents get older so many of these little things they could be doing but are somehow missing out on keep piling up until they get to the point that they just have to throw in the towel and become at ease with it all.

And so, tomorrow perhaps, I shall work on embracing this new philosophy. While strutting around in my brown wedge sandals and my cute little pre-pregnancy jeans.

I am not my mother… I am not my mother…

For a while now Kate’s been all hopped up on hearing me tell stories about when I was a little girl. I’ve told her about vacations we took, playing in snowstorms, my sailing lessons, and the day we went to see the dog, Tramp, we ended up adopting. But by far of all the stories I’ve conjured from my past, the one Kate requests the most is the one about when my mother forgot to pick me up from school.

You see, my elementary school was across the street from my house. But my mother would still take me there–help me cross the street in the morning and fetch me at the end of the day because, of course, YOU NEVER CROSS THE STREET WITHOUT HOLDING MOMMY’S HAND. Right?

So, one day my mommy didn’t come to get me. All the other mommy’s and daddy’s came to pick up their kids. (I always include daddies when I tell Kate this story, but really, hell if a single dad performed this duty back then.) So, bereft that my mother had potentially left me and taken off on the Green Tortoise bus to California, or some such, I stood in the corner of the school yard and cried and cried and cried.

(She was likely on the order of four minutes late. But you know, kids and time and all that.)

So here I am crying.

“Then who came, Mommy? Then who came and saw you?”

Then, as I was standing there, a police man pulled up.

“In a police car, Mom?”

Yes, in a police car. And he said, “What’s wrong little girl.” And I told him about how my mother always picks me up from school but today she didn’t come get me. So, the nice police man asked me if I knew where I lived, and if I wanted him to give me a ride home.

“In the POLICE CAR, Mama?”

Yes, in the police car. Of course I felt super cool. So I get into the police car and I’m checking it all out and the police man asked me where I lived. And I pointed to the yellow house right across the street.

“Hahaha [fake laughter], that’s funny, Mama, right?” Kate says, not entirely understanding why it’s funny but knowing it’s supposed to be.

Yes, that is funny, Kate. But the police man didn’t laugh. He just asked me if I thought we should just drive around the block a couple times before he took me home. (No, he didn’t offer to put on the siren. But I took what I could get.)

Anyway, when we get to my house the police man rings the bell and through the window I saw my mother at the kitchen sink. She sees me and the police man, opens her mouth, looks at the clock over the stove, and runs to open the door while she’s drying her hands. She explains with immense embarrassment (as I stand smugly holding the policeman’s hand) that she had totally lost track of time and thank you SO MUCH officer, and of course that will never happen again.

Needless to say, my mother would have to endure several lifetimes before I’d ever let her live that one down. 

Anyway, I’ve managed to pass that old yarn down through a generation. And, like any kid, I could come up with a few other stories of minor maternal slip-ups. None of them truly damaging, neglectful, or malicious, but certainly things that collectively informed some of my “I’ll never do that” attitudes about my own mothering.

Like when my friend Steve told me he and his wife were expecting their first child. Nearly immediately after announcing the news he vowed he’d never do that spit on your thumb and clean your kid’s face move. So, you know, we all have our issues.

For me the “I won’t do thats” are more along the lines of forgotten field trip permission slips. My mother seemed to lack the gene for ever remember getting those in on time, leaving me to hold up more than a few field trips when a teacher flipping through a pile of papers at the front of the bus would mutter in dismay, “Oh wait… We don’t have one for Kristen Bruno. Again.”

Mom also thought nothing of leaving a sink full of dishes when we’d go see my grandmother for a few days. As for me, I can’t go to the bathroom with a dirty dish in the sink.

The other big thing I vowed to never fall prey to was lateness. Four girls, one mother, and one shower–and our collective estrogen level–made it understandably difficult getting out of the house en masse. Late, loud and clumsy arrivals tended to be a Bruno family hallmark. They gave grumpy Father Coffey a legitimate reason to leer over his pulpit, and me a legitimate reason to swear that my own family would assuredly be different some day.

Today, with Grandma Peggy here providing two extra hands, Googled driving directions, and a departure time mapped out that’d give Kate plenty of time to suss out the scene and fluff up her tutu before her first dance class–we set out. Well, I didn’t actually print out the directions, just skimmed them. I did write down the address. But before long it was apparent that I had no idea where I was going.

An exit off the highway dumped me into an unfamiliar neighborhood (stress spike), though I managed to quickly get back on in the other direction (manic upswing), to quickly realize it was the totally wrong highway altogether (flop sweat). I fumbled around in the backseat with one hand trying to wrench my phone out of the diaper bag. I considered calling the dance studio for directions, then Mark (for directions and sympathy), then just trying to figure it out on my own.

The clock ticked away minutes closer and closer to the class’ 9AM start time. I did a lot of muttering under my breath and a couple seemingly safe u-turns, though my mother-in-law  was gripping the side of the car door white-knuckled. She politely kept offering to “do whatever she could to help”–no doubt ending that sentence in her mind with “just get me there alive.”

All the while I lambasted myself over how Kate would miss getting a good start to her new class. Meeting the teacher, hearing the rules, getting oriented with the other kids. Was I remembering all the first classes I got to late? You bet your ass I was.

Did I think about the first bat mitzvah I was invited to? Where my mother drove me to the one synagogue she ever remembered seeing in Providence, where I threw open the doors to an empty temple, then returned to the car–which was of course devoid of the invitation–where we continued to drive around the city asking pedestrians if they knew of any synagogues nearby, until finally, after a teeth-grinding grand tour of no less than five synagogues we found Cheryl’s family and friends pouring out onto the sidewalk at the end of her ceremony? (Don’t worry, I didn’t miss the Blue Jeans Disco Dance at the Marriott after.)

Anyway, as I was driving around hell and gone Oakland with my mother-in-law, and baby, and three-year-old who was asking “Where’s my dance class, Mama?” yes, yes, yes, I was thinking about all that.

Eventually my own Guardian Angel Direction-Dispensing Pedestrian pointed us in the direction of MacArthur Boulevard. And despite a long series of palm-sweating steering wheel squeezing red lights, we slowly made progress in the right direction.

Blah blah blah. We eventually got there ten minutes late. Surprisingly, I hadn’t blown a neck artery, and Peggy hadn’t peed her pants from fear of my driving or my rabid must-get-there-on-time wild-eyed determination.

Peggy pumped money into the meter, holding Paige on one hip, and I grabbed Kate and ran down the sidewalk into the dance studio. When we regrouped after Kate joined the class Peggy kindly made a “we’re a little late but no harm done” remark.

Indeed, it didn’t appear that Kate’s lateness affected her
in any long term psyche-scarring way. Though I guess it’s too soon to
tell. It’ll take a few more times of us skidding in after the bell before she makes her own resolve to never do all the things that I do when she has her own family some day.

Hopefully-Not-Evil Twin

I fear I’ve somehow found myself at the beginning of a Stephen King short story. At least I hope it’s a short story. I really don’t have the patience to see what’ll unfold in the time it takes to get through a novel.

It all seemed so innocuous. A few weekends ago, Kate, Paige, and I ventured out to some yard sales on our street while Mark was on a bike ride. We hit what appeared to be the kid-crap jackpot–a family with some older children was purging some great books, puzzles, and Kate’s favorite thing–dolls. We actually scored three dolls, doll clothes, and even a mini Bjorn-type carrier which caused Kate to nearly weep with joy when she first laid eyes on it. Kate staggered away from that sale with the greedy satisfaction that rich kids in Manhattan have after an FAO Schwartz spree.

We got home and I tossed what was washable into the hamper, then grabbed some Lysol disinfectant wipes to kill whatever Ebola or Junta type viruses might be lingering on the dolls’ hard plastic faces and extremities.

That’s when, standing over the sink, I stared into the face of one of the dolls and recoiled to see none other than my own baby, Paige, looking back at me. I mean, it’s UNCANNY how much this doll looks like Paige. I nearly did one of those Looney Tunes head shakes followed by a close-up peer and squint to make sure I wasn’t seeing things.

I brought the thing over to Paige and held it up next to her. Aside from the doll’s Buddha-like man breasts, the thing is essentially Paige in inanimate plastic form.

Even Kate saw the freaky resemblance, but was nonplussed. As if coming to acquire your baby sister’s doll doppleganger is a perrrrrfectly normal thing to happen on a Saturday morning. Ah the sweet innocence of childhood.

So then. What next? Exactly my question. I mean, something like this doesn’t happen and then the family lives happily ever after, right?

Thus far I’m thrilled to report that it’s been life as usual at Casa McClusky. Though if something would happen I’d at least be relieved of this brutal state of suspense. But I guess that’s why Stephen King is so good at what he does, right?

At any rate, if anything weird goes down around here I can tell you right now, the doll did it.

Truer Words Never Spoken

It was only a few years ago when hearing my nasally voice on my answering machine was the most cringe-worthy reflection I had of myself.

These days I have it much worse. A couple weeks ago we were hanging out barbequing with another family. Kate took their son’s play phone, cradled it between her shoulder and ear and walked around the yard saying, “Hi. Yeah, this isn’t a great time for me right now. Can I call you back?” And just to make sure everyone heard her, she repeated the exact same ‘conversation’ several times.

Needless to say my faux-innocent “Where does she come up with these things?” remark wasn’t terribly convincing.

Mark got a taste of this about a year ago when Kate wasn’t nearly as verbal as she is today. We were in the car and he slammed on the breaks and leaned on his horn, prompting Kate to lament from her carseat, “Come on, dude!”

Of course, Mark experiences the cute and funny version of what Little Big Ears can shoot back atcha. And it’s testament to the fact that as a parent he’s at least succeeded in cleaning up his language, even under driving duress.

I’m the one who endures the shame of overhearing Kate say to a doll she’s loading her in a stroller, “We have got to get out of here. We have got to get out the door!”‘

At least I’m not alone. At dinner last night another Mama friend told me her 3-year-old goes up to her one-year-old, leans into her face and asks, “Do you understand me? Do you understand me?!”

God it’s brutal having to hear yourself like that.

Why is it so many people are afraid of sounding like their mothers? Take it from me, it’s far worse sounding like yourself.

Believe It Or Not, I Have a Closet Full of High Heels

Yesterday I had an appointment to get my hair colored. I’d decided it was getting too blonde in the front. But then–in a mode typical of how I’ve been operating lately–by the time I was sitting in the seat at the salon, I decided the color looked fabulous.

So I asked her if she could just give me a trim.

As she’s cutting she’s asking me about whether I need any more shampoo or anything and I say something about Tigi products. But instead of saying Tee-Gee, as I guess the company is pronounced, I said Tig-Ee.

This causes her to laugh and say, “It’s Tee-Gee.You’re reading kid’s books all the time so you’re all Tig-EE, like Tigger and Pooh. That’s so funny.”

Uh, excuse me? She might as well have asked me if I have “Congrats Class of 2008! Go Badgers!” written in window paint all over my mini van.

And for your information, we don’t have a mini van. (Yet.)

Mark keeps pictures of the girls on his phone so he can show them off to people at work. Since I’m always with Kate and Paige, I clearly need to put some pictures on my phone from when I was a business woman.

“Now in this shot I was signing a multi-million dollar contract with a client I brought in.”

“Here’s me at the Monday morning management meeting.”

“Oh and in this one I’m running through a spreadsheet, telling my team about our finance goals for the quarter.”

The Mama Posse Rides Again

It’s good to have a group of Mama friends who you can say nearly anything in front of and they’ll not only not be horrified, they’ll suggest a great solution, rush to console you, or tell you they’ve been through the same thing–only nine times more gruesome and harrowing. You walk away either armed with answers, relieved that it’s not as bad as it could be, or both.

I mean, how can you go wrong with that kind of support? If high school friendships were like that we’d all be so secure and functional most therapists would be out of business.

A couple weeks ago I was out for dinner and a movie with my Mama posse. After downing our pre-theater beers like frat boys on a bender (even sans kids we’re efficient), we settled into chatting and got to the topic of babies. Specifically if any of us would be having more.

One friend’s a strong ‘maybe.’ She’s definitely getting that twinkle in her uterus, but she’s not sure whether it’s just her body telling her it’s that time again, or if it really makes sense for her family. Another woman was more clear-cut. “Uh, no. We are done.” And the third has already taken physiological steps to close down the factory, as it were. Though that’s not stopping her from sometimes daydreaming about adding yet another to their party of five.

As for me? Well, I can understand everyone’s position. I nod in hearty agreement with whatever reasons each of them share for wanting what they want–or what they don’t want, as it were. Which is to say, I enjoy indulging myself on all angles of the issue, even though I know it’s nearly certain that our ball-bouncing days are gone around here.

Anyway, at one point in this chatting-while-speed-eating-and-drinking meal, in some non-explicit way one friend made a comment alluding to something that I didn’t catch at all. And it sparked the ‘We Are Done’ Mama to say, “Oh, totally! I mean even I think of having another one for that reason.” Then the mother of three chimes in that even with three already, she’s had that thought too.

And I’m sitting there, having totally lost the train of conversation within a matter of seconds, and lamenting why I always miss the good parts. I’m the one cleaning condensation off my snorkel mask when all the sea turtles swim by, or up getting popcorn during the scene when the two women kiss. So I guess I should be used to it.

What’s weird is they’re all fervently–but also kind of abashedly–agreeing to something. And when I ask what it is, they all turn to me, but still can’t seem to make themselves articulate what it is. And this is a group of women with whom I’ve discussed constipation, condoms, and other issues of a fecal, sexual, and personal nature, without batting an eye. Oh, and we talk about reality TV, too.

So finally, one friend skirts the issue in an attempt to explain it to me. “You know,” she says, “If you have three,” emphasizing the three, “then if something were to…” She still can’t bear to spit it out, but as it clicks in my brain I,of course, call out loudly, “Oh! What you’re saying is if one dies, you’ll still have two other ones?,” causing the older Latino server behind the counter to snap his head in my direction and catch eyes with me. And likely causing my friends to want to take me out too. (Since, there would still be three of them left…)

More than anything I was surprised that I’d never had this thought myself. Generally I think my Mama brain has explored every possible potential horror story, wacky scenario, and what-if situation related to family, children, and marriage. That’s what you do in the many collective hours of nursing a baby in the middle of the night. In case you were wondering.

And I would like to make it perfectly clear that these mothers are adoring, devoted, and utterly first-rate at this motherhood thing. It’s not that they’re doing Britneys, driving recklessly with un-carseated kids and thinking to themselves, “Who cares if I crash? I have back-up children!” No, no, no. That’s not it at all.

This idea that they admit is, um, offbeat–though their very unwillingness to so much as say it out loud–is actually the kind of thinking that comes out of mad mad Mama love. That comes from the desperate place that you don’t want to go to but you force yourself to, which is to think of what your life would be like if suddenly you were without one of your beloved babies. And since you’ve made yourself go there, then like all practical problem-solving mothers, you need to figure out what happens next in that most unthinkable scenario. And as much as you fear that even having these thoughts might make any of them more likely (God forbid) to come to pass, the only consolation you can provide yourself is that at least you would still have another child–or children–to love.
 
See? It’s all rather bleak, but I totally get it. And I’m truly shocked that I hadn’t ever had the thought myself.

From there our conversation veered off to other morbid and mundane topics. And we shoveled down more barbeque, swilled beer, intermittently reminded each other the movie was about to start, and felt grateful that we were Mamas of sweet healthy children who were home safely with their fathers as we enjoyed a rare and blissful night out.

Something I Vowed I’d Never Do

So here I am yesterday explaining all the end of the year school stuff that’s coming up to Kate. Her preschool closes for a few weeks in August, probably so the teachers can get electric shock therapy and be refreshed for a new school year in September. And really, who can blame them.

Anyway, there are all these little events happening like a pot luck (blech) and one of those useless-for-any-reason-other-than-parental-nostalgia “graduations”—she’s not even off to Kindergarten next year, just more preschool. And as I’m in the process of telling her about all these items on her social agenda, I realize that after her three-week break she’ll be going back to a different classroom, a different set of teachers—the same school but a whole new scene. She’ll no longer be a Duckling, but a Wood Duck. Or is it a Gosling? The classrooms there are as confusing as their non-parallel naming structure.

This was a dramatic realization for me, since Kate is blindly devoted to and some would argue co-dependent with one of her teachers. Had I realized sooner that this change was upcoming I’d have started an elaborate debriefing process to ready her for A) not being in that teacher’s classroom and, B) having to deal with some other woman who will no doubt be nurturing and kind, but whom Kate will likely reject like some disfunctional kidney.

I mean, I for one am not a fan of change. Or maybe I just don’t even get why anyone would ever want to change anything, never mind actually welcome it. Call me the gal who grew up in the same house, went to the same school for nine years with the same 35 other kids, and has worn her hair the same way since it grew out from my newborn crew cut. Be it nature or nurture, in all things other than, say, fresh underwear, my default switch is set to No Change, Thank You.

So, not only did I need to wrangle with my sudden realization about Kate’s imminent new classroom, and the fact that I’d been remiss in bracing her for the change, I also had to come to terms with the fact that I was doing exactly what I’d vow I’d never do as a parent. Since, it was what my mother did to me. Or rather, didn’t.

It all goes back to my own elementary school experience, at the hallowed halls of The Rockwell School in fair Bristol, Rhode Island. On the playground the different classes lined up in military-like rows after recess to file into our classrooms. For some reason on our first day back at school the fall after Kindergarten, we all had to line up this way when we first arrived in the morning. But when I went to stand in the line my Kindergarten teacher was heading up, she laughed and told to go stand in another line with the First Grade teacher. To which I thought, “Wait, what?”

Although this Childhood Traumatic Incident (TM) seems fairly ‘lite’ it somehow threw me for a loop. I guess I was just more confused than anything. The thing was, my mother hadn’t thought to tell me I’d be going into a different classroom, a different grade. And, when you’re a kid, if no one tells you stuff, then you often don’t know it.

I know that sounds like a basic premise, but I have other Mama friends who clearly weren’t neglected this way by their parents when they were kids, and are just realizing this now. My friend Becca recently posted in her blog about reading a library book about bees to her son. As she read it–stuff about hives, honey, yadda yadda–she was shocked by how fascinated and blown away her son was. It dawned on her that he didn’t know anything about bees. And she thought, “Well, why should he? We haven’t told him any of this stuff.”

And here’s the thing: The kid is 16! Well, not really, but my point being, I feel like I’ve been pretty good about trying to put myself in Kate’s shoes and explain to her things she has no background on. I’m not saying I’m a better parent than Becca–okay so maybe I am a little–but really, since I realized at a tender age that parents need to tell kids about the obvious-to-us-adults things or else they may find themselves trying to convince the teachers at school that, really, they are supposed to still be in Kindergarten, and could they just let them come back into the same classroom again, and please let’s not make a scene here.

I mean, I’m grateful those teachers found a way to get through to me back then or God knows how many classes I would have held myself back in over the course of my academic career.

So here I am. Tragically I’ve somehow managed to almost stumble into the same parental snake pit that is perhaps my legacy. Though Kate will likely outshine all her Mama’s childhood foibles and sashay into the Gosling?/Wood Duck?/Mallard? room in September all cool and easy and down with the different teachers and the whole new scene.

For her sake, and mine, I hope that’s the case.

Farewell to Beauty

I used to have a housemate whose name was Beth. As an adult, prior to going off to work at some hippie commune/primal screaming retreat on the Monterey coast, she decided to start calling herself Joey.

Somehow one of the nights I was hosting Bad Movie Monday this came up. Mind you, the now defunct BMM posse was comprised of some of my most ruthless and hilarious friends. When Rick learned of this Beth/Joey thing it was like throwing his sarcasm an immense piece of bloody chum. I think every time he called me thereafter–in the time that I was still living with that cah-raaazy woman–he’d say, “Hi. Is Beth–I mean Joey–there?”

Ah, the fun we had mocking her.

The closest I ever got to some kind of name change was around the issue of my non-existent middle name. I blame laziness on my parents’ part for why my three sisters and I feel bereft every time we fill out a form requiring a middle initial or name. Or, I could say something like what my friend Scot who only has one ‘t’ in his name says: My parents couldn’t afford to give us middle names. In his case it’s a second ‘t.’

Anyway, my father once made up some line about how he and my mother wanted to let us pick our own middle names. Riiiiight. To sweeten the deal he said when we came up with middle names we wanted we could go down to Town Hall and make it legal–have it be like a little field trip. As a lawyer I think my father over-valued the thrill factor of a trip to Town Hall, especially for an eight-year-old.

Determined to be like all the other kids I went to my room to ruminate on my new name.

And let it be known that for a great stretch of my life I was hellbent on finding a way to Wasp-ify or feminize my last name, Bruno. I even went through a short stage of spelling it Bruneau on my homework until some teacher put an end to that. I was happy with the name Kristen. But I saw this middle name thing as an opening–an opportunity to inject more femininity into my name as a whole.

After some musing I came down and told my Dad I’d decided on a name. Told him to grab the car keys, we were heading to Town Hall. Of course, he asked me what I’d decided on, and I announced with great pride: “Cherry.”

That’s right. Kristen Cherry Bruno. I thought it was brilliant.

At any rate, my father did the ole look at his watch and say, “Oh no! Town Hall just closed.” It was probably something like 2:20PM. Undeterred I pointed out that there was always tomorrow. At which point he likely fabricated some kind of week-long government holiday.

Whatever his stall tactics were–and I’m sure they teach you some great ones in law school–they worked. Thank God. To this day I am middle name-less.

Actually, now that I think of it, that’s not exactly true. In some cruel twist of fate I decided to take Bruno as my middle name when I got married and took McClusky as my last. (McClusky not exactly being the Smith or Jones I’d always longed for, but what can you do when you’re in love?) So, ironically, the frilly and pretty middle name I eventually got was, uh, Bruno. Ah well.

So a couple weeks ago when I took Kate to preschool she marched me over to meet her classroom’s resident caterpillar, Larry. But by week’s end on the notes outlining what the kids did during the day I learned that the children had named the caterpillar Beauty.

I never found out what brought about the need for a name change. Did Larry just come to a place in his life where he wanted to reinvent himself a la Beth/Joey? Do caterpillars have penises? If so, did what the teachers suspected was Larry’s turn out to be something else altogether? Had there been a terrible gender mix-up when Larry was originally named?

Maybe Larry was just looking for something a bit softer and more feminine in a name. I feel you, brother.

Soon after Larry became Beauty I was picking Kate up from school and one of the teachers scurried out of the nap room to talk to me. It was Monica, a kind of wacky older Chinese woman who has been working at the school for a few hundred years.

“Big day today! Big day!” she yelped.

I’d never seen her so keyed up.

“Today the caterpillar made a cocoon! While we watch! It take one hour. One hour! It so incredible! We watch! The children watch! In many many years of teaching this the most special day for me!”

When we were walking to the car I asked Kate about it. But I think she changed the subject to something like, “Emily picked her nose today.” I could appreciate that. With someone else so hopped up on something it can be hard to find room for your own excitement.

Needless to say there was a lot of anticipation awaiting
Larry/Beauty’s debut as a butterfly. They moved the cocoon into a small
netted enclosure so they could contain it once it was born. (Is born an appropriate word to use here? I’ll have to ask Kate.)

The daily activity notes and Kate kept us updated. Mark would ask how school was and Kate would say something about “Beauty and chrysalis,” causing Mark to ask, “Who is Beauty and what happened to Larry?” And me to ask, “What’s chrysalis?”

Along the way Kate learned a caterpillar-to-butterfly song complete with little hand gestures, and how to say ‘metamorphosis.’ Despite the call I put into MIT as a result, they still seem to think we should hold off a bit until she at least takes the SATs.

On Tuesday’s preschool pick-up, before I had a chance to read about the days happenings, Lilia, Kate’s most favorite and adored teacher, walked out of the nap room to meet me. She closed the door behind her and leaned her back against it with a dreamy look in her eyes.

“Oh Kristen. When I saw you I just had to come out and tell you. Beauty turned into a butterfly last night, and today we had such an incredible ceremony at the meadow. I mean, it really really was magical.”

During this Kate sticks her head into the carseat carrier and screams, “Hello, little Paigey!!!” at volume 11, causing Paige to shriek and start bawling. Then Kate comforts her by leaning all her weight into her for a hug. I try to pull them apart while still looking up to listen to Lilia.

“In my 14 years of teaching, today was no doubt–it was–it was really the best day. Ever! And Thalia took her harp and we had the most magical ceremony in the meadow, and the children danced and sang. Then we set Beauty free. It was just beautiful.”

I thought of my most magical work days and none of them sounded even close to this. Was I ever misty-eyed with joy over delivering that perfect e-commerce platform to a client? Uh, no. Then again, the thought of changing diapers all day–other people’s kids diapers, that is–pales in comparison to developing Excel pivot tables, in my mind at least.

But truly, I was happy they had a good day. It’s such a great little school and Kate really loves it there. And it’s nice that all her teachers are having peak experiences.

On our walk to the car I asked Kate what her favorite part of the day was. She looked up at me and said, “The hawp! The hawp!” Leading me to realize that no matter how far I raise my children from Rhode Island the accent may still find its way to them.

So, aside from the leaf-chomping, cocoon-makin’, chrysalis and metamorphosis, Kate has also came to understand that you sometimes have to set the ones you love free–while a hippie preschool teacher serenades you on harp.

Fly away, little Larry/Beauty! We have learned much from you, and hope you are happy in your new home in the meadow.