The idea of sharing your life with someone sounds so romantic, doesn’t it? The truth is, nothing could be less romantic than everyday life. Taking out the trash. Doing the dishes. Laundry. Skid Marks. Pimples. Toe Nails. Blobs of toothpaste in the sink. Leftovers for dinner. Romance requires a little less reality. That’s why there’s usually candlelight involved.
I could be a Jeff Foxworthy-ish comedian with my one-liner being, “…you might be as broke as me.”
scrounging up my change
putting the pennies in rolls
to pay for my gas
After school, I send Julia directly to her room to change out of her school clothes and into play clothes. Yesterday, she came downstairs in nothing but underwear and her Snuggie.
Me: “Julia, why are you just wearing underwear?”
Julia: “Well, I was hot.”
Me: “But you’re in a Snuggie.”
Julia: “Yeah, ’cause then I got cold.”
Mother’s Day List
I do not want breakfast in bed.
I want to sleep in.
I do not want another pair of slippers.
I would like a foot massage.
Cats are cute and furry and loving and frequently entertaining. But the stuff that comes out of them and goes, hopefully, in the litter box? It is the foulest, most horrific substance in the known universe. It damages everything it touches. Nothing smells worse and it never, ever EVER goes away, no matter how much you clean it. If a cat pees on your carpet? The only way to get rid of the odor is to get rid of your carpet. Or burn down your house and start fresh somewhere else.
I cannot sit down,
take a bath, or even pee
without someone there.
They are in my lap,
or at my feet; in my face,
or trailing behind.
“Mommy, look at me!”
“Hey Mommy, listen to this.”
“Mom, watch what I do.”
Remember that movie Defending Your Life with Albert Brooks and Meryl Streep (whose character’s name was Julia, by the way [and when you see “Julia,” you should imagine it scribbled on a notebook with hearts and squiggly doodles all around it])? Yes? Well, if that’s how the afterlife begins, I certainly hope no one chooses an excerpt from today to show on a great big screen for the powers that be to judge me by, because I’d be headed straight to hell. Or back to earth as a bug to try it over again. Or whatever you believe happens if you’re very, very bad. Unless of course you think we’re all just a big worm feast when we die in which case this is a terrible introduction to the story of what just may be my worst parenting
moment moments about twenty moments, ever.
If I were ever to write a horror story in which there is a killer, the most suspenseful scene would take place in an automatic car wash. The doors would close, the driver would glance in the rear view mirror as the nozzles begin to spray and see the killer through the mist. Cue the screechy scary violin music! Because maybe it’s a movie! Heavy breathing. Frantic scrambling and door locking, then scrunching down and hiding and more breathing. Maybe the driver will secure a weapon like…ah, a t-ball bat as she waits. Quiet. Heart pumping. Breathing. CRASH! The killer starts busting windows with a tire iron or some other weapon I have yet to think of! The driver struggles out of the car, gets off one good whack to the killer’s head with the bat, then heads for the door which she cannot open! She bangs on it and screams, “Let me out! I want out!” for dramatic effect. Meanwhile, the car wash runs. The killer gets on his feet. The driver gets back in the car. The killer gets in front of it. It’s a stand off! The driver revs the engine, then shoots forward pinning the killer between the car and the door which still won’t open, by the way. Silence. It seems like it’s all over and the killer is dead, but we know he’s not. The killer has to kill the driver. That’s what makes him the killer! I don’t know how he’d do it, yet. And there has to be more details incorporating the car wash that’s happening all around them, but that’s the gist.
Also, I think a storage unit would be a great place to hole up in the event of a zombie surge.
The Day I Landed My Helicopter and Put My Feet on the Ground
I fell for the whole song and dance. I went to the concert and bought the t-shirt. Then, I went home and formed a cover band.
When my daughter was born, I slipped right into hover mode. It felt natural. It was all about her. I didn’t have much experience with babies, so I was learning. And I had fallen absolutely head over heels for this child. I wanted to be there and experience everything with her. I loved the view of the world through her eyes. I wanted her close. I wanted to be involved. I didn’t want to miss a thing.
As she grew older and we started venturing out into the world, I quickly understood the judgment surrounding me. I knew if my child made a mistake and I wasn’t swift and firm with my correction, people would think I hadn’t taught her better, that I didn’t know any better. Or worse, that I didn’t care. So I hovered, ready to swoop in and make things right. To protect her from being the bad kid. To protect myself from being the bad mom.
But by filtering and mitigating everything that came her way, I was robbing her of real experiences.
It crystallized one sunny day in a sandbox. The kids were playing when the announcement came, “Leslie, Lucy isn’t sharing and she’s throwing stuff.” True to form, I sprang to action.
“Oh, now we don’t throw things. You hurt your friend. Please say you’re sorry.”
“Now tell her that’s okay,” the other mother told her child who ignored her in favor of building a moat.
The kids were already on to the next thing.
As Lucy struggled to move from my grip and delve her hands back in the sand, I realized how ridiculous the whole scene was. We weren’t letting the kids play. It was us, the parents, who were playing. The kids had simply become puppets in our show, demonstrating our “good parenting.”
I do not like to be wrong and I can’t stand it when someone thinks I’m dumb. And if that’s not a recipe for likeability, I don’t know what is!