A small independent study has shown that approximately 75% of drivers are unfit to operate a vehicle due to poor judgment, inferior reflex time and overall stupidity.
Never heard of it? Well, it was a small study. A really, really small, extremely independent study. Ok, it was conducted by me over the years as I have been forced to endure the idiocy of fellow drivers.
It's hard being the best driver on the road, because, obviously, everyone else falls miserably short when it comes to driving ability. Just the other day I was en route to DSW to search for the elusive pair of comfortable dressy flats that will match a taupe bridesmaid's dress. (I thought I found them but since have realized that they're not so comfortable after all... anyway...)
I guess the fact that I was driving south on Route 9 on a Saturday should have been enough for me to realize that I was going to be sitting in UNBELIEVABLE traffic for at least a little while. But, really, the stupid drivers surrounding me just made the situation even worse. Like the guy who pulled out onto the highway right in front me, too close, and way too slow. And the best part? Yep, you guessed it. There was no one behind me for like a mile. (This was before the aforementioned traffic jam hit.)
So I leaned on the horn. I'm not shy about using it when someone is so clearly in the wrong. When you use the horn though, of course, you run a risk. You don't know how the Beepee is going to react when you beep at them with such anger. (Beep doesn't sound like an angry word, but I feel that when you do it with enough feeling, that emotion somehow will be conveyed through the beep. And now that I've said beep so many times, it just looks weird. Should there be an a in there? A silent e at the end?)
Like I said, you run the risk of the offending driver's reaction when you let them know that you are, to say the least, not pleased with their driving performance. I've found that the reactions tend to fall in one of four categories:
1. The Ignorer
This person will stare straight ahead as you inevitably give them the Death Glare as your car passes theirs. Some will even go so far as to lean on their hand which is propped oh-so-naturally against their head, elbow resting on the car window. This is an effort to prove that, you know what, I'm so bored by your beeping that you didn't anger me at all. In FACT, you relaxed me so much I'm ready to go to sleep, right here behind the wheel. Usually, however, the Beeper knows that what they're really trying to do is avoid making eye contact because, let's face it, they know they're in the wrong. (This particular driver fell into this category... except for his female passenger, who stared at me bewilderingly as I passed them.)
2. The Accidental Flipper
This person also employs the head-resting-on-hand technique, but with a passive-aggressive twist: the middle finger is primarily responsible for the head-resting. This accomplishes getting back at you for DARING to beep your horn while at the same time avoiding eye contact. "What? The finger? No, I'm just resting my head like this. I didn't do that on purpose! What finger? I thought I lost that in a vegetable-chopping accident many years ago, in fact! When the heck did THAT grow back?"
3. The Shifty Eyed
This is the driver who takes his or her cue from you. Head bobbing from side to side to keep looking at you and eyes shifting, the offending driver is quickly trying to figure out just HOW mad you are at their behavior. Depending on your reaction to their transgression, they may simply stare you down or flip the hell out. They could go either way.
4. The Psychopath
... and for some people, it just doesn't matter what your reaction is. As soon as you're within view, they're going to lose it.
Road rage is not pretty. I've had people get out of the car to yell at me (it was an old guy, and ALL I was doing was giving him a little beep to let him know that he had the right of way), follow me in their car (that was scary - and ALL I did was not let him pass me - he was in the merge lane and was supposed to yield!) and others flip out at me for no apparent reason. I wonder if my confused face served to amuse or piss those people off.
Now, with two little kids who are usually in the car with me, I try to make sure this kind of thing doesn't happen anymore. If someone cuts me off, I grit my teeth and mumble unintelligibly to myself. If someone just HAS to be first and guns it in the merge lane, I (usually) let them. Again, more teeth gritting and mumbling usually accompany it. I haven't even gotten a speeding ticket in many years, in spite of the fact that my former police captain uncle continues to hand me a new PBA card every year, saying, "You like to speed. Here you go." Thanks Uncle Eddie.
Still, while I've relaxed considerably behind the wheel, other idiots have cropped up to take my place. Some are new idiots; some are seasoned idiots who just never learn. Unfortunately, my blood pressure still rises a bit when I encounter them, but it doesn't bother me as much anymore. I'm secure in my status as the best driver in the world. Trust me, you don't want to challenge me on that.
Saturday, October 8, 2011
Monday, July 25, 2011
Face value
A couple of days ago, I went with a friend for my second-ever facial. The first one was about five years ago, and while it was nice, it wasn't something I came home raving about and eagerly anticipating my next one. I didn't go actively seeking this one either - one morning my local Groupon delivered to my inbox a deal for an anti-aging and "photo rejunvenation" facial. A really good deal, and still stinging from my recent birthday which is already 9 months past, I decided to go for it. My friend was thrilled to take part and we were happy to spend the day together.
It ended up that she spent most of the day in the car battling Saturday morning traffic to NJ from Long Island, but once there, we were whisked into separate tiny rooms at the salon. The room was dimly lit, soft music playing, and a small bed in the middle of the room with a purple velvet comforter on top of it. The woman indicated a small terry wrap lying on a side table, suggested I put it on and left the room. As I undressed I felt a bit like I was expecting a doctor to come in, but quickly dismissed that thought as NOTHING in the room even remotely resembled my doctor's office. (Thankfully. That would have been disturbing.)
I liked my facialist (is that a word? Face master?) from the start because she was small and seemed very mild-mannered. While a heavy accent prevented me from understanding everything she was saying, I felt pretty comfortable with her.
The session started with a blast of hot steam on my face. I tried to quell my inner wishes for that part to end quickly because, well, it was HOT. It's kind of difficult to breathe properly when hot steam is shooting up your nose. Unfortunately, it continued for a while, and I tried to relax as she slapped one cool gloppy cream after another on my face while I breathed in steam.
Then the massage started. I guess there are only so many creams and high-tech gadgets they can use on your face to fill up the time before they resort to just, you know, rubbing it. I've never been a fan of massages, and while I knew this was coming, I didn't know she would be massaging my EYEBALLS. Eyes closed, I suddenly felt her fingertips on top of my eyes as she started to knead. I tried to just go with it until I remembered... I have contacts! She started to rub harder and I quietly interrupted and told her that she would need to be a little gentler on my eyes since I had contacts in. All I needed was to lose one somewhere on the back of my eyeball, which would be annoying in and of itself, but couple that with the fact that I wouldn't be able to make the hour drive home and it would just be downright irritating. Actually, I probably could have done it, as I can still see, albeit blurrily, large objects such as lanes and cars. It's the smaller stuff like signs that elude me... and maybe even dotted lines on the road too... and police lights... (Anyway, two contact lens rinses after the facial was over and I was good to go.)
As she quietly moved from step to step, I wondered what exactly she was doing. I suppose you're expected to just trust them, but she could have been bleaching my skin for all I knew and I wouldn't have been the wiser. (Not that anyone would have noticed.) So when I heard one particularly ominous-sounding whirring sound begin, I decided to ask what that was for. Again, the language barrier was a bit of a problem, but I got the gist of it and she began haltingly to explain what she was doing as she started something new. I figured as long as I wasn't hearing words like "searing," "bleeding," or "melting flesh," then I was pretty safe. I began to relax.
Wait. I don't have to pee, do I? No, of course not. I just went less than an hour ago before the facial began! I pushed that ridiculous thought out of my mind as soon as it surfaced.
As I lie there, relaxing of course, I started to feel a warm, gooey sensation on my eyebrow. Um, what? Oh... um...
"I do your eyebrows? Yes?"
"Um..." I was undecided. I wanted to do the wax but I was afraid. What if it was really painful and I passed out on the bed? Sure, that would cure my wriggling around on the table trying to prevent my back from getting stiff, and it would also solve the having-to-pee feeling, but I'd rather not leave myself so vulnerable like that. As I was mulling my fate, the facial master took my indecision as an answer.
"Ok, yes I do it. Yes yes," she nodded. (I assume she was nodding. I couldn't see her.) I tried to protest, weakly, but her mind was made up and I was just along for the ride. I was surprised and pleased at how little it hurt. Displeased, however, when she slapped some of it in between my brows. EXCUSE me? Are you insinuating that I have a unibrow?! A few stray hairs here and there do not a unibrow make, my Asian friend. However, I kept my mouth shut for the sake of vanity and the peaceful zen vibe of the salon.
A short while later, while I continued to fight off ever-growing sensations of having to empty my bladder, she began the last part of the facial, which was the photojuvenation part. This involved more gloppy creams on my face followed by a smooth wand shooting light beams into my skin. From what I could gather, the light would help the send all of the wonderful vitamins or whatever kind of crap is in a mask down to the base of the skin instead of just lying around on top where it wouldn't do anything. So I obediently laid as still as I could for the next 10 or so minutes while she used this light saber on my face. When the light saber portion was over, she laid small hot cloths on my eyes, wrapped my entire face in plastic wrap except for my nostrils and mouth, and whispered, "Now I give you nice massage."
Great. Massage again? Why did these people have to keep rubbing me? This time, it was the neck, shoulders and upper arms. Her gentle voice and timid giggle did nothing to prepare me for what was to come next. Apparently, at some point while I laid there with my eyes closed, she secretly switched places with a 400-pound sumo wrestler who proceeded to beat the crap out of me for the next 5 or so minutes. She started SMACKING ME on the upper arms for no apparent reason. Had I done something wrong? Verbalized some of my thoughts? Was she trying to smack the pee out of me once and for all? Whatever the reason, she seemed to take great delight in slapping, punching, and overzealously kneading my muscles as I tried my best to be tough and not protest. After all, people pay good money to be beaten up by a masseuse like this. I'm supposed to enjoy it!
By this point, I was just looking for a good window of opportunity to excuse myself to use the bathroom. But how could I? My face was wrapped up like a mummy. I didn't want to look like an idiot and risk it all sliding off my face so that I could pee. Surely this had to be almost over - I wouldn't know, because I hadn't seen the clock in at least 45 minutes, but it just felt like the end had to be near. She would probably take the mask off when she was finished beating me up.
Suddenly, the dim light that I could make out from behind my eyelids and underneath the cloths was switched off and I heard the door close. Silence. I was alone. Alone, my face immobilized in plastic wrap and eyes shut, in the dark, lying on a bed, with my legs wrapped around each other like a pretzel from having to pee so bad. Great. Now what? I would have laughed except that I couldn't move my mouth. I did chuckle on the inside at the absurdity of the situation, all the while a nagging thought at the back of my mind: You know, if I were the claustrophobic type, I might start panicking at this particular moment. But thankfully, I'm not. Or am I? I can't remember. I don't think so, but if I'm left here too much longer, I might turn into one. They would find me hunched over and crying, plastic wrap hanging in shreds off of my face, having slipped and fallen in a puddle of the facial mask that dripped off my cheeks, lying face down in a pool of my own urine. The main problem was not knowing how long I would be lying there. Five minutes? Ten? What the hell time is it, anyway? Is there an alarm button somewhere I can press?
Thankfully, she returned not two minutes later. (Which also begs the question, what was I supposed to do during that time? Nap? For two minutes? I can't fall asleep at will that way. And even if I started to doze off during that time, she would have just awakened me as I was getting nice and sleepy and dozy. Which then would have left me groggy and extremely cranky.) Fortunately it was time to de-mummify my face and wipe off all of the glop. I thanked her profusely for a job well done. Well, she did do a great job. A+ for enthusiasm! I waited what I felt was an appropriate (short) period of time to smile and thank her for the experience before darting to the bathroom.
When it was all over, I didn't feel I looked any younger, although my skin was nice and soft. According to the salon's Web site, you're supposed to have 5 or 6 of these treatments to get the "full effect." If I spent that much money on these facials I probably could just get a facelift instead. Instead of looking younger, I looked like I'd been put through the wringer - shiny, greasy skin, greasy hairline, red spots around my eyebrows and especially in between (damn nonexistent unibrow) and, of course, no makeup. I still expect the bruises to show up on my upper arms any day now. Thankfully beauty is only skin deep, because otherwise, I'd have to come into some serious money.
This morning I received another Groupon: a detoxifying seaweed body wrap, claiming to reduce cellulite, saggy skin, and stretch marks. That sounds awesome! I don't really NEED that, but who can resist such a deal? A 50-minute body wrap, where I assume you can't move a muscle... that's ok, I can do it. I'll just make sure to use the bathroom beforehand.
It ended up that she spent most of the day in the car battling Saturday morning traffic to NJ from Long Island, but once there, we were whisked into separate tiny rooms at the salon. The room was dimly lit, soft music playing, and a small bed in the middle of the room with a purple velvet comforter on top of it. The woman indicated a small terry wrap lying on a side table, suggested I put it on and left the room. As I undressed I felt a bit like I was expecting a doctor to come in, but quickly dismissed that thought as NOTHING in the room even remotely resembled my doctor's office. (Thankfully. That would have been disturbing.)
I liked my facialist (is that a word? Face master?) from the start because she was small and seemed very mild-mannered. While a heavy accent prevented me from understanding everything she was saying, I felt pretty comfortable with her.
The session started with a blast of hot steam on my face. I tried to quell my inner wishes for that part to end quickly because, well, it was HOT. It's kind of difficult to breathe properly when hot steam is shooting up your nose. Unfortunately, it continued for a while, and I tried to relax as she slapped one cool gloppy cream after another on my face while I breathed in steam.
Then the massage started. I guess there are only so many creams and high-tech gadgets they can use on your face to fill up the time before they resort to just, you know, rubbing it. I've never been a fan of massages, and while I knew this was coming, I didn't know she would be massaging my EYEBALLS. Eyes closed, I suddenly felt her fingertips on top of my eyes as she started to knead. I tried to just go with it until I remembered... I have contacts! She started to rub harder and I quietly interrupted and told her that she would need to be a little gentler on my eyes since I had contacts in. All I needed was to lose one somewhere on the back of my eyeball, which would be annoying in and of itself, but couple that with the fact that I wouldn't be able to make the hour drive home and it would just be downright irritating. Actually, I probably could have done it, as I can still see, albeit blurrily, large objects such as lanes and cars. It's the smaller stuff like signs that elude me... and maybe even dotted lines on the road too... and police lights... (Anyway, two contact lens rinses after the facial was over and I was good to go.)
As she quietly moved from step to step, I wondered what exactly she was doing. I suppose you're expected to just trust them, but she could have been bleaching my skin for all I knew and I wouldn't have been the wiser. (Not that anyone would have noticed.) So when I heard one particularly ominous-sounding whirring sound begin, I decided to ask what that was for. Again, the language barrier was a bit of a problem, but I got the gist of it and she began haltingly to explain what she was doing as she started something new. I figured as long as I wasn't hearing words like "searing," "bleeding," or "melting flesh," then I was pretty safe. I began to relax.
Wait. I don't have to pee, do I? No, of course not. I just went less than an hour ago before the facial began! I pushed that ridiculous thought out of my mind as soon as it surfaced.
As I lie there, relaxing of course, I started to feel a warm, gooey sensation on my eyebrow. Um, what? Oh... um...
"I do your eyebrows? Yes?"
"Um..." I was undecided. I wanted to do the wax but I was afraid. What if it was really painful and I passed out on the bed? Sure, that would cure my wriggling around on the table trying to prevent my back from getting stiff, and it would also solve the having-to-pee feeling, but I'd rather not leave myself so vulnerable like that. As I was mulling my fate, the facial master took my indecision as an answer.
"Ok, yes I do it. Yes yes," she nodded. (I assume she was nodding. I couldn't see her.) I tried to protest, weakly, but her mind was made up and I was just along for the ride. I was surprised and pleased at how little it hurt. Displeased, however, when she slapped some of it in between my brows. EXCUSE me? Are you insinuating that I have a unibrow?! A few stray hairs here and there do not a unibrow make, my Asian friend. However, I kept my mouth shut for the sake of vanity and the peaceful zen vibe of the salon.
A short while later, while I continued to fight off ever-growing sensations of having to empty my bladder, she began the last part of the facial, which was the photojuvenation part. This involved more gloppy creams on my face followed by a smooth wand shooting light beams into my skin. From what I could gather, the light would help the send all of the wonderful vitamins or whatever kind of crap is in a mask down to the base of the skin instead of just lying around on top where it wouldn't do anything. So I obediently laid as still as I could for the next 10 or so minutes while she used this light saber on my face. When the light saber portion was over, she laid small hot cloths on my eyes, wrapped my entire face in plastic wrap except for my nostrils and mouth, and whispered, "Now I give you nice massage."
Great. Massage again? Why did these people have to keep rubbing me? This time, it was the neck, shoulders and upper arms. Her gentle voice and timid giggle did nothing to prepare me for what was to come next. Apparently, at some point while I laid there with my eyes closed, she secretly switched places with a 400-pound sumo wrestler who proceeded to beat the crap out of me for the next 5 or so minutes. She started SMACKING ME on the upper arms for no apparent reason. Had I done something wrong? Verbalized some of my thoughts? Was she trying to smack the pee out of me once and for all? Whatever the reason, she seemed to take great delight in slapping, punching, and overzealously kneading my muscles as I tried my best to be tough and not protest. After all, people pay good money to be beaten up by a masseuse like this. I'm supposed to enjoy it!
By this point, I was just looking for a good window of opportunity to excuse myself to use the bathroom. But how could I? My face was wrapped up like a mummy. I didn't want to look like an idiot and risk it all sliding off my face so that I could pee. Surely this had to be almost over - I wouldn't know, because I hadn't seen the clock in at least 45 minutes, but it just felt like the end had to be near. She would probably take the mask off when she was finished beating me up.
Suddenly, the dim light that I could make out from behind my eyelids and underneath the cloths was switched off and I heard the door close. Silence. I was alone. Alone, my face immobilized in plastic wrap and eyes shut, in the dark, lying on a bed, with my legs wrapped around each other like a pretzel from having to pee so bad. Great. Now what? I would have laughed except that I couldn't move my mouth. I did chuckle on the inside at the absurdity of the situation, all the while a nagging thought at the back of my mind: You know, if I were the claustrophobic type, I might start panicking at this particular moment. But thankfully, I'm not. Or am I? I can't remember. I don't think so, but if I'm left here too much longer, I might turn into one. They would find me hunched over and crying, plastic wrap hanging in shreds off of my face, having slipped and fallen in a puddle of the facial mask that dripped off my cheeks, lying face down in a pool of my own urine. The main problem was not knowing how long I would be lying there. Five minutes? Ten? What the hell time is it, anyway? Is there an alarm button somewhere I can press?
Thankfully, she returned not two minutes later. (Which also begs the question, what was I supposed to do during that time? Nap? For two minutes? I can't fall asleep at will that way. And even if I started to doze off during that time, she would have just awakened me as I was getting nice and sleepy and dozy. Which then would have left me groggy and extremely cranky.) Fortunately it was time to de-mummify my face and wipe off all of the glop. I thanked her profusely for a job well done. Well, she did do a great job. A+ for enthusiasm! I waited what I felt was an appropriate (short) period of time to smile and thank her for the experience before darting to the bathroom.
When it was all over, I didn't feel I looked any younger, although my skin was nice and soft. According to the salon's Web site, you're supposed to have 5 or 6 of these treatments to get the "full effect." If I spent that much money on these facials I probably could just get a facelift instead. Instead of looking younger, I looked like I'd been put through the wringer - shiny, greasy skin, greasy hairline, red spots around my eyebrows and especially in between (damn nonexistent unibrow) and, of course, no makeup. I still expect the bruises to show up on my upper arms any day now. Thankfully beauty is only skin deep, because otherwise, I'd have to come into some serious money.
This morning I received another Groupon: a detoxifying seaweed body wrap, claiming to reduce cellulite, saggy skin, and stretch marks. That sounds awesome! I don't really NEED that, but who can resist such a deal? A 50-minute body wrap, where I assume you can't move a muscle... that's ok, I can do it. I'll just make sure to use the bathroom beforehand.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Big Time
I think I know why people have mid-life crises.
I don't think I'm having one just yet - I prefer to believe that I'll live past 80, which just isn't that old anymore, and besides, I have yet to buy a little red convertible. (You can't fit two booster seats in one of those.) I do, however, think the precursor to a mid-life crisis has begun.
Anyway, I think I know why it happens. The mid-life crisis typically occurs when most people have married and had kids, and when everything slows down, you enter the "What now?" phase. There are still things going on, but not of the magnitude that they were, say, 10 years before. Marriage is a Big Thing. Kids? Those are Big Things. When all of the excitement of planning and executing the Big Things end, you're left wondering what to do now. Therefore, I can't help but think... what is my next Big Thing?
That's not to say that I don't love the life that I have and the people in it, nor does it mean that I don't have anything left to look forward to. Both could not be further from the truth. But, once you hit this point in your life, you wonder what you could do next that makes a difference. I had a couple of cool jobs in my 20s, especially, and did some interesting things professionally that not many people can claim. I have some colorful stories stemming from these fun career experiences. All of that went by the wayside after having Alexander, as I opted to stay at home to care for him and then, soon after, Colette. And, as the kids are still very young, most of my colorful stories these days are heavily quoted by them. :) Sometimes it's hard to see the forest for the trees, so the fact that I'm doing The Most Important Job in the World (I haven't forgotten that I am, don't worry) seems to lose some of its clout when you're in the trenches every day.
So it seems pretty natural that I look toward doing something professionally that will also satisfy me personally. The big benefit of not having to work outside the home means that I can be picky in terms of pursuing a career. And the downside of that is that when you're an indecisive person to begin with, the narrowing down process could take an eternity. :) As a creative person, I gravitate toward creative pursuits - namely, writing and some type of crafts (also an endless list. What kind of craft? For a while I thought it would be soap making... then a basket business. I also love paper crafts, wood painting, and have considered trying my hand at jewelry/bead work). But I'm constantly changing my mind or stalling in my creative efforts.
In the end, I always come back to writing. I am writing my book, from time to time, but all the while I'm wondering if what I'm writing has already been done (chances are, it has) or if it would be better off as just a reallllly long blog post (or several smaller ones) rather than a book. We'll see how it pans out if I ever get to the stage of acquiring an agent.
So, who knows what my next Big Thing will be. I sure don't. I'm still figuring out what it is I'm working towards now that the standard milestones have been reached. But whatever it is, I have to do it soon, and of course, do it Big. Otherwise I won't have enough money for my little red convertible for when I really need it.
I don't think I'm having one just yet - I prefer to believe that I'll live past 80, which just isn't that old anymore, and besides, I have yet to buy a little red convertible. (You can't fit two booster seats in one of those.) I do, however, think the precursor to a mid-life crisis has begun.
Anyway, I think I know why it happens. The mid-life crisis typically occurs when most people have married and had kids, and when everything slows down, you enter the "What now?" phase. There are still things going on, but not of the magnitude that they were, say, 10 years before. Marriage is a Big Thing. Kids? Those are Big Things. When all of the excitement of planning and executing the Big Things end, you're left wondering what to do now. Therefore, I can't help but think... what is my next Big Thing?
That's not to say that I don't love the life that I have and the people in it, nor does it mean that I don't have anything left to look forward to. Both could not be further from the truth. But, once you hit this point in your life, you wonder what you could do next that makes a difference. I had a couple of cool jobs in my 20s, especially, and did some interesting things professionally that not many people can claim. I have some colorful stories stemming from these fun career experiences. All of that went by the wayside after having Alexander, as I opted to stay at home to care for him and then, soon after, Colette. And, as the kids are still very young, most of my colorful stories these days are heavily quoted by them. :) Sometimes it's hard to see the forest for the trees, so the fact that I'm doing The Most Important Job in the World (I haven't forgotten that I am, don't worry) seems to lose some of its clout when you're in the trenches every day.
So it seems pretty natural that I look toward doing something professionally that will also satisfy me personally. The big benefit of not having to work outside the home means that I can be picky in terms of pursuing a career. And the downside of that is that when you're an indecisive person to begin with, the narrowing down process could take an eternity. :) As a creative person, I gravitate toward creative pursuits - namely, writing and some type of crafts (also an endless list. What kind of craft? For a while I thought it would be soap making... then a basket business. I also love paper crafts, wood painting, and have considered trying my hand at jewelry/bead work). But I'm constantly changing my mind or stalling in my creative efforts.
In the end, I always come back to writing. I am writing my book, from time to time, but all the while I'm wondering if what I'm writing has already been done (chances are, it has) or if it would be better off as just a reallllly long blog post (or several smaller ones) rather than a book. We'll see how it pans out if I ever get to the stage of acquiring an agent.
So, who knows what my next Big Thing will be. I sure don't. I'm still figuring out what it is I'm working towards now that the standard milestones have been reached. But whatever it is, I have to do it soon, and of course, do it Big. Otherwise I won't have enough money for my little red convertible for when I really need it.
Monday, May 23, 2011
Just do your duty and hope it doesn't stink.
You know, I don't ask much. Every day, day in and day out, I'm a stay-at-home mom to two little kids. My days are filled with driving to and from school, dance class, the park, and the occasional torturous baseball game. Cooking dinner, doing laundry, and wiping butts pretty much sums it up.
Come to find out, some duties stink worse than others.
A couple of weeks ago, I was going about my business like usual and I took in the mail. Then I spotted it among the stack of bills and catalogs: JUROR. I was being summoned for jury duty. Aptly named, that crap creates a feeling of dread in people few other things can match. I've been summoned for jury duty a few times in my life. Twice I was excused the night before without having to go in. Once, I did actually have to show up, but was excused in the courtroom. (I was a newspaper reporter at the time, and supposedly that wasn't the reason for my excuse, but no matter. I got out of it.)
So, jury duty is a pain in the ass; most people know this. (The ones who don't are the same ones who have never been called but claim that they WISH they would be because they would be just PERFECT for it.) I knew this already, but now I know that it becomes exponentially more ass-paining once you have children who need to be cared for while you're sitting at the courthouse with 100 other people waiting for your name to be called.
I was stressed about reporting for jury duty, partly because I hadn't in so long and had to find the courthouse and all that crap. (Crap. See?) I also hoped I wouldn't be called to be on a jury, because those two little kids at home need to be, like, cared for and stuff. I had called in special forces (my mom) to be there since Zach couldn't take the day off work. And so, I was stressed about that... I knew she wasn't feeling well, that she was worried about getting there early and in rush hour, as well as picking up Alexander from school.
Stupid jury duty and its stressful ripple effect.
Anyway, I was in good company at 8 am, sitting among a sea of bleary-eyed zombies, texting on their phones and sighing big sighs, pissed that they were starting off their week forced to perform civic duty. Although my sighs were probably the loudest. We were subjected to watch a video on jury duty and told that while it is "sometimes an inconvenience," it's an honor that we should embrace and be thankful that we live in a country that gives us such privileges. Suddenly I felt like I was back in high school driver's ed class, watching instructional videos on what to do in the event of a driving-related emergency like the hood of your car suddenly popping up and obscuring your view, but with more patriotism.
After that, it was just wait. Sit and wait.
Of course, I could do some people watching. The woman two seats down from me was the returns lady at Target. I tend to be a serial returner, so she probably recognized me too, although if she did, she never said so even though we did chat a bit. In between us sat a woman who delighted in telling me the big story regarding the mix-up with her name... she had been summoned before, but her name was incomplete on the form, and she got into it with the clerk. To put it nicely, she described her as a particularly unpleasant female dog. On and on about it... I tried to be sympathetic, but I was quickly running out of agreeable comments and faces that said "I care." After a bit of this delightful banter, she patted my arm and said excitedly, "I hope we get on a jury together!" I nodded politely and hoped that my face was in agreement.
Alas, Luz-Maria got called pretty early on. Turns out she knew one of the attorneys on the case so she was dismissed, though, so I saw her again later as she waited to be called to another jury.
As group after group was called, I became more and more anxious that my name would be among the lot. In between announcements, I read my book that Zach bought me for Mother's Day, Tina Fey's "Bossypants." It was hilarious. Normally, I will jump on any chance to get some time away to myself to read a book, even if it involves going to the dentist (which is usually when it happens). And I was mighty glad I had that book with me. However, after the first 150 or so pages, my interest started to wane and I found myself wishing that their uncomfortable plastic chairs would magically transform into my couch at home. It never did, though, and soon I found myself making trips to the bathroom just to have something to do. Everyone else in the room had similar looks on their faces, at least those who weren't actually working on their laptops and are probably quite accustomed to sitting in an uncomfortable chair under fluorescent lighting for 8 hours anyway.
I did have one celebrity sighting, though. I saw Gen. Colin Powell, even though I didn't even realize he lived in New Jersey. At least I think it was him...
In the end, I was never called. This partially elated me and partially annoyed me. I was so glad that I wasn't chosen for a jury, just in case my "I have two little kids at home and no daycare for them" excuse didn't pan out and I got roped into serving for a long term. So annoyed, however, that I sat there for an entire workday FOR NO REASON. I read a nearly 300-page book, which was good, but those chairs were a high price to pay.
Of course, I earned a day's wage. That's something I can't claim anymore. Then again, I spent that $5 already on Subway for lunch.
One nice thing was that when I got home, after my mom left, it was dinnertime already. That's a short day with the kids. Not bad! In fact, walking the streets of New Brunswick on my lunch hour in search of a decent sandwich was kind of fun - in my nice clothes, chatting on the phone with my husband, I actually felt kind of professional. This is what it would feel like if I worked and the kids were in school and daycare, I thought. Kind of cool! When I got home, I was even kind of jazzed to sit with the kids at the table at dinnertime since I hadn't seen them all day.
After an hour or so, the kids started to bicker. And annoy me. And as I resumed my normal duties of picking up toys and wiping butts, I thought of the civic one I left behind. Reading an entire book in peace and quiet, no one tugging on my leg. Conversations with adults. No laundry to do.
Ah, civic duty. You're not so stinky after all. God bless America!
Come to find out, some duties stink worse than others.
A couple of weeks ago, I was going about my business like usual and I took in the mail. Then I spotted it among the stack of bills and catalogs: JUROR. I was being summoned for jury duty. Aptly named, that crap creates a feeling of dread in people few other things can match. I've been summoned for jury duty a few times in my life. Twice I was excused the night before without having to go in. Once, I did actually have to show up, but was excused in the courtroom. (I was a newspaper reporter at the time, and supposedly that wasn't the reason for my excuse, but no matter. I got out of it.)
So, jury duty is a pain in the ass; most people know this. (The ones who don't are the same ones who have never been called but claim that they WISH they would be because they would be just PERFECT for it.) I knew this already, but now I know that it becomes exponentially more ass-paining once you have children who need to be cared for while you're sitting at the courthouse with 100 other people waiting for your name to be called.
I was stressed about reporting for jury duty, partly because I hadn't in so long and had to find the courthouse and all that crap. (Crap. See?) I also hoped I wouldn't be called to be on a jury, because those two little kids at home need to be, like, cared for and stuff. I had called in special forces (my mom) to be there since Zach couldn't take the day off work. And so, I was stressed about that... I knew she wasn't feeling well, that she was worried about getting there early and in rush hour, as well as picking up Alexander from school.
Stupid jury duty and its stressful ripple effect.
Anyway, I was in good company at 8 am, sitting among a sea of bleary-eyed zombies, texting on their phones and sighing big sighs, pissed that they were starting off their week forced to perform civic duty. Although my sighs were probably the loudest. We were subjected to watch a video on jury duty and told that while it is "sometimes an inconvenience," it's an honor that we should embrace and be thankful that we live in a country that gives us such privileges. Suddenly I felt like I was back in high school driver's ed class, watching instructional videos on what to do in the event of a driving-related emergency like the hood of your car suddenly popping up and obscuring your view, but with more patriotism.
After that, it was just wait. Sit and wait.
Of course, I could do some people watching. The woman two seats down from me was the returns lady at Target. I tend to be a serial returner, so she probably recognized me too, although if she did, she never said so even though we did chat a bit. In between us sat a woman who delighted in telling me the big story regarding the mix-up with her name... she had been summoned before, but her name was incomplete on the form, and she got into it with the clerk. To put it nicely, she described her as a particularly unpleasant female dog. On and on about it... I tried to be sympathetic, but I was quickly running out of agreeable comments and faces that said "I care." After a bit of this delightful banter, she patted my arm and said excitedly, "I hope we get on a jury together!" I nodded politely and hoped that my face was in agreement.
Alas, Luz-Maria got called pretty early on. Turns out she knew one of the attorneys on the case so she was dismissed, though, so I saw her again later as she waited to be called to another jury.
As group after group was called, I became more and more anxious that my name would be among the lot. In between announcements, I read my book that Zach bought me for Mother's Day, Tina Fey's "Bossypants." It was hilarious. Normally, I will jump on any chance to get some time away to myself to read a book, even if it involves going to the dentist (which is usually when it happens). And I was mighty glad I had that book with me. However, after the first 150 or so pages, my interest started to wane and I found myself wishing that their uncomfortable plastic chairs would magically transform into my couch at home. It never did, though, and soon I found myself making trips to the bathroom just to have something to do. Everyone else in the room had similar looks on their faces, at least those who weren't actually working on their laptops and are probably quite accustomed to sitting in an uncomfortable chair under fluorescent lighting for 8 hours anyway.
I did have one celebrity sighting, though. I saw Gen. Colin Powell, even though I didn't even realize he lived in New Jersey. At least I think it was him...
In the end, I was never called. This partially elated me and partially annoyed me. I was so glad that I wasn't chosen for a jury, just in case my "I have two little kids at home and no daycare for them" excuse didn't pan out and I got roped into serving for a long term. So annoyed, however, that I sat there for an entire workday FOR NO REASON. I read a nearly 300-page book, which was good, but those chairs were a high price to pay.
Of course, I earned a day's wage. That's something I can't claim anymore. Then again, I spent that $5 already on Subway for lunch.
One nice thing was that when I got home, after my mom left, it was dinnertime already. That's a short day with the kids. Not bad! In fact, walking the streets of New Brunswick on my lunch hour in search of a decent sandwich was kind of fun - in my nice clothes, chatting on the phone with my husband, I actually felt kind of professional. This is what it would feel like if I worked and the kids were in school and daycare, I thought. Kind of cool! When I got home, I was even kind of jazzed to sit with the kids at the table at dinnertime since I hadn't seen them all day.
After an hour or so, the kids started to bicker. And annoy me. And as I resumed my normal duties of picking up toys and wiping butts, I thought of the civic one I left behind. Reading an entire book in peace and quiet, no one tugging on my leg. Conversations with adults. No laundry to do.
Ah, civic duty. You're not so stinky after all. God bless America!
Friday, April 8, 2011
In My Life
When I was a kid, I had a record player. (Get all the age jokes out of your system now.) It was a little light blue plastic one that sat on the floor of my room. I still remember feeling its bumpy cover that I would snap shut when it wasn't in use. It played both 33s and 45s (again, insert age joke here). I had a Mickey Mouse 45s holder with a little carrying handle on top, and several 33 albums stood leaning against the inside wall of my walk-in closet.
After a while, my own album collection became boring and so I ventured into the cabinet downstairs in the living room to pick something new out of my parents' collection. It seemed that Sunday morning was the perfect time to listen to some new music, as I got myself ready to go to church. One day, I was flipping through their album collection and picked out... a Beatles album. It was The Early Beatles, and I was 9 years old.
I don't remember what day it was (other than a Sunday), but I do remember listening to that album for the first time. I listened to it once, and as the days went by, I listened to it over, and over, and over, until I had learned most of the words. Then I moved on to another Beatles album. The order of albums that I listened to is lost on me now, but I do know that I went through EVERY single Beatles album in my parents' collection (which was pretty extensive). And when I was done with those, I started buying my own.
And so the Beatles era was born. I didn't set out to become a Beatles fan... it's just something that happened. It was almost meant to be.
As the years passed, my affection for the fab four never faded. It went in waves, however; for a while I listened to their songs every day, and other times, weeks or even months would go by without them. But that was ok. I knew it wasn't that I didn't love them anymore. I didn't NEED to listen to the Beatles every day to know that I was a fan. It's like having a true friend... you can go your separate ways for a while, and then when you meet up again, you pick up right where you left off.
The Beatles even invaded my professional life in bits and pieces. When I was 24 and working as a stringer for a daily newspaper, I had the opportunity to interview Cynthia Lennon. I had about 20 minutes with her on the phone in a small private room next to the newsroom (at my request so that I didn't have to interview a real live connection to my ultimate fantasy in front of a bunch of seasoned journalists who might chuckle at my nervousness). I tried to quell the shaking in my voice; she was pleasant and polite. I asked her about how she felt upon hearing of John's death, knowing full well she'd been asked that question a million times before, and yet, I was unable to resist asking it and hearing the answer with my own ears.
I have a photo from when I met her at the Beatles show. My smile couldn't possibly be any wider. In fact, looking at that picture now, I'm pretty sure that I had some extra teeth inserted in my mouth just for the occasion.
I had other moments as well. Over the phone, I interviewed Shea Stadium promoter Sid Bernstein, the Beatles' first manager Allan Williams, and Pete Best, the original drummer... and later met them all in person (at different times). I found them all to be gracious, pleasant and even a little quirky (particularly in the case of Allan Williams, who toted around with him an old pair of jeans he claimed were Paul McCartney's from approximately 1961. I asked to touch them and he refused. It was bizarre and cute at the same time).
Me and Sid Bernstein
With Pete Best
I've seen Paul McCartney numerous times in concert. Once, I went to a men's suit store and, with my then boyfriend, proceeded to stand there and fill out every single entry form stacked up on that table to try and win tickets to see him. (It worked.) Another time I won tickets on the radio and managed to record it on cassette tape. The poor deejay was trying to get my attention and ask me a question, and I was half talking to my mom and otherwise so excited that I wasn't even listening to him. I've gone to Beatles conventions, seen Beatles cover bands like 1964, attended the sound-a-like Beatles experience The Fab Faux, and most recently, Rain on Broadway. In fact, just a couple of weeks ago I won tickets to see Rain because of a photo of myself visiting Strawberry Fields that I posted on their facebook page. My platinum blonde hair (complete with black roots) was glowing like a halo around my head on that sunny but cold day in December 1991.
Now, as I watch my two children get older and become more interested in the music that they hear, I realize I have a golden opportunity to turn them on, so to speak, to the Beatles. In fact, I could have been playing Beatles love songs for them as they laid in the crib and every time we went somewhere in the car. But... I'd rather they develop an interest in the music on their own. And, lo and behold, that has begun to happen. After a few times of us listening to one of the Past Masters CDs in the car, my son began requesting the song Day Tripper. He was interested in the bass guitar. We talked about the different kinds of guitar, identified the sound of the bass guitar and how it's like the backbone of many songs, and, of course, how Paul McCartney is the bass guitar master. At first, it was "that song with the bass guitar," and then, soon enough, it was called by its proper name. And after a couple of times of hearing Revolution, Colette's eyes would light up and say "I wike dat!" when that distinct opening electric guitar would blast through the speakers. It took Alexander a little longer to like it too, but soon enough it became one of his most requested songs. Today, Colette will voice her approval when she hears the Ballad of John and Yoko, ask me to turn it off when Don't Let Me Down comes on, and smile broadly when I ask what song it is when she hears those first gentle notes of the piano that begins, in her words, "Wet it be."
I hope their love of the music continues. I hope they've started their Beatles journeys earlier than I did and that it isn't just a passing fancy, making way for a myriad of other obviously inferior artists that will take the place of the Beatles. I hope that their music connects with them the way it has with me, the kind of connection that may ebb and flow over time but never disappears. But for now, the music to MY ears is when they say to me, "Mom, turn it up!"
After a while, my own album collection became boring and so I ventured into the cabinet downstairs in the living room to pick something new out of my parents' collection. It seemed that Sunday morning was the perfect time to listen to some new music, as I got myself ready to go to church. One day, I was flipping through their album collection and picked out... a Beatles album. It was The Early Beatles, and I was 9 years old.
I don't remember what day it was (other than a Sunday), but I do remember listening to that album for the first time. I listened to it once, and as the days went by, I listened to it over, and over, and over, until I had learned most of the words. Then I moved on to another Beatles album. The order of albums that I listened to is lost on me now, but I do know that I went through EVERY single Beatles album in my parents' collection (which was pretty extensive). And when I was done with those, I started buying my own.
And so the Beatles era was born. I didn't set out to become a Beatles fan... it's just something that happened. It was almost meant to be.
As the years passed, my affection for the fab four never faded. It went in waves, however; for a while I listened to their songs every day, and other times, weeks or even months would go by without them. But that was ok. I knew it wasn't that I didn't love them anymore. I didn't NEED to listen to the Beatles every day to know that I was a fan. It's like having a true friend... you can go your separate ways for a while, and then when you meet up again, you pick up right where you left off.
The Beatles even invaded my professional life in bits and pieces. When I was 24 and working as a stringer for a daily newspaper, I had the opportunity to interview Cynthia Lennon. I had about 20 minutes with her on the phone in a small private room next to the newsroom (at my request so that I didn't have to interview a real live connection to my ultimate fantasy in front of a bunch of seasoned journalists who might chuckle at my nervousness). I tried to quell the shaking in my voice; she was pleasant and polite. I asked her about how she felt upon hearing of John's death, knowing full well she'd been asked that question a million times before, and yet, I was unable to resist asking it and hearing the answer with my own ears.
I have a photo from when I met her at the Beatles show. My smile couldn't possibly be any wider. In fact, looking at that picture now, I'm pretty sure that I had some extra teeth inserted in my mouth just for the occasion.
I had other moments as well. Over the phone, I interviewed Shea Stadium promoter Sid Bernstein, the Beatles' first manager Allan Williams, and Pete Best, the original drummer... and later met them all in person (at different times). I found them all to be gracious, pleasant and even a little quirky (particularly in the case of Allan Williams, who toted around with him an old pair of jeans he claimed were Paul McCartney's from approximately 1961. I asked to touch them and he refused. It was bizarre and cute at the same time).
Me and Sid Bernstein
With Pete Best
I've seen Paul McCartney numerous times in concert. Once, I went to a men's suit store and, with my then boyfriend, proceeded to stand there and fill out every single entry form stacked up on that table to try and win tickets to see him. (It worked.) Another time I won tickets on the radio and managed to record it on cassette tape. The poor deejay was trying to get my attention and ask me a question, and I was half talking to my mom and otherwise so excited that I wasn't even listening to him. I've gone to Beatles conventions, seen Beatles cover bands like 1964, attended the sound-a-like Beatles experience The Fab Faux, and most recently, Rain on Broadway. In fact, just a couple of weeks ago I won tickets to see Rain because of a photo of myself visiting Strawberry Fields that I posted on their facebook page. My platinum blonde hair (complete with black roots) was glowing like a halo around my head on that sunny but cold day in December 1991.
Now, as I watch my two children get older and become more interested in the music that they hear, I realize I have a golden opportunity to turn them on, so to speak, to the Beatles. In fact, I could have been playing Beatles love songs for them as they laid in the crib and every time we went somewhere in the car. But... I'd rather they develop an interest in the music on their own. And, lo and behold, that has begun to happen. After a few times of us listening to one of the Past Masters CDs in the car, my son began requesting the song Day Tripper. He was interested in the bass guitar. We talked about the different kinds of guitar, identified the sound of the bass guitar and how it's like the backbone of many songs, and, of course, how Paul McCartney is the bass guitar master. At first, it was "that song with the bass guitar," and then, soon enough, it was called by its proper name. And after a couple of times of hearing Revolution, Colette's eyes would light up and say "I wike dat!" when that distinct opening electric guitar would blast through the speakers. It took Alexander a little longer to like it too, but soon enough it became one of his most requested songs. Today, Colette will voice her approval when she hears the Ballad of John and Yoko, ask me to turn it off when Don't Let Me Down comes on, and smile broadly when I ask what song it is when she hears those first gentle notes of the piano that begins, in her words, "Wet it be."
I hope their love of the music continues. I hope they've started their Beatles journeys earlier than I did and that it isn't just a passing fancy, making way for a myriad of other obviously inferior artists that will take the place of the Beatles. I hope that their music connects with them the way it has with me, the kind of connection that may ebb and flow over time but never disappears. But for now, the music to MY ears is when they say to me, "Mom, turn it up!"
Saturday, March 26, 2011
It's not a job, it's a career
New parents are so funny.
I was one once, and I didn’t know at the time that I was funny. I think back to ALL of the time spent planning the nursery, scouring for the perfect crib set, stocking up on size 1 diapers and carefully piling them up into a narrow skyscraper of diapers in the diaper stacker. The little booties, baby socks and massive collection of bibs with clever sayings on them.
Now, of course, I realize that 90% of that stuff is completely unnecessary. At 4 am, when the baby wants to eat and needs to be changed for the fourth time that night, you don’t give a crap whether the crib sheet matches the quilt. Booties? They never get used. Socks? Same thing, unless you’re taking them OUT to a party or something and you feel that, somehow, that little stretchy sleeper is inappropriate attire for a baby. (I never understood those people, either. Taking a baby to a party? I became a recluse for the first few months of my son’s life. I think he was 4 months old before I became brave enough to venture out to Target with him in tow.)
The bibs? Well, I used those. My son was a massive drooler.
Anyway, you plan so furtively for the baby’s arrival with all of these organically soft, personally embroidered THINGS, that you don’t realize what you’re going to need the most aren’t things at all. Hell, if I knew how isolated and overwhelmed I was going to feel, I would have returned all of the things that I received and cashed them in for sessions with a therapist (and a reliable babysitter).
So, I know. I know what it’s like. I know what new parents are in for, in spite of all of their careful planning and registering, and for that, I offer up prayers (or chuckle evilly to myself, depending on my mood).
But one thing that has always mystified me: after a couple has their first child and you read their first e-mail or newsletter announcing the big event, 9 times out of 10 they’ll say, “We can’t remember what our lives were like before little Pooky came along!”
When I used to see this years ago, before marrying and becoming a parent myself, I thought, really? You can’t remember what your life was like pre-child?? I would think of my own life, in my own apartment, where I could come and go as I pleased and sleep as late as I wanted, and think to myself you know, I think I would remember this. I would remember my blissfully sleep-full nights when I’m up pacing the floor at 3 am with a crying baby. But what do I know… I’m not a parent yet.
And now, as a parent, having experienced the incredible joys of having children and the meaning that they give your life, I think to myself…
REALLY? You can’t remember what your life was like before you had kids?? Because I sure can. And it was wonderful.
So then that makes me wonder if I’m doing something wrong. Am I supposed to forget my life before I had children? Why can’t I?
I’ve always thought I was missing some kind of fundamental mommy chip. Shortly after I became a mother, I remember meeting a friend of my mom’s and she asked me, a big smile on her face and in a knowing voice as if she already knew the answer, “Do you love it?” I remember it taking some effort for me to swallow, smile politely, croak out a “Yes,” and wondering if I actually was ever really going to believe that.
As the years passed, I became better at the mothering thing, more comfortable and less concerned that I was going to drop someone, but those fond memories of my life ALONE seemed to become more and more bathed in this ethereal golden light every time I recalled them. Every so often I would briefly think about returning to work, but that terrible mommy guilt would besiege me before I could truly consider it. And so it went. Too many days, when I felt I should be attending mommy & me classes, going to storytime at the library or conducting Martha Stewart-esque craft classes in my family room, I found myself instead watching the clock and willing the time to go by until my husband came home.
Like I have so many other things, I imagined being a stay-at-home mom so different than it turned out to be. I mean, my feelings for my children have far surpassed what I thought they could be. On the other hand, our daily lives together are a far cry from what I’d envisioned so long ago – me puttering around a sun-bathed kitchen while my child ate breakfast in a high chair and watching Sesame Street. On a weekday morning. Imagine that! When you work, you just long to be home. And when you’re sick, or taking a mental health day, and you actually ARE home, you have this exhilarating sense of freedom and luxury. I’m home! On a WEEKDAY! What do I do with myself? Watch Regis and Kelly… or take a nap? Go out for breakfast? The possibilities are endless… decadent, even.
And yet, when you have a small person to care for, that decadent feeling is gone. You’re not working at a regular job, yet you have new responsibilities, bigger ones than you had before. It sounds like such a cliché, but it truly is the hardest job I’ve ever had. (Or maybe I’ve just had ridiculously easy jobs.) But when a job swallows you up so completely, it’s easy to lose sight of everything else, including yourself. Suddenly my peripheral vision disappeared and tunnel vision took its place, framing the face of my little angel. (But not any cooking, laundry or cleaning of any kind – they weren’t in the picture. Just my son.) Not living near any family and being thrust into this new job where you can’t ever clock out, my old tendency to withdraw suddenly reared its head again. Every day, all day, it was just me and him, as we both seemed inmates of this little prison I’d created for us, our cell dotted with stuffed animals and musical toys that flashed lights and played the alphabet song.
Looking back, more objectively, I wonder why I didn’t just scoop him up, throw him in the car and get out to visit a friend or family member even just once a week. I did, eventually, but not soon enough and not often enough. I do remember at the time being obsessed with his naps, which I steadfastly adhered to. I can appreciate keeping that routine, even now, but I do realize that I could have bent the rules a little more often than I did for the sake of my sanity.
Now, I haven’t exactly morphed into the mom I always imagined I’d be. A chilly day will often still give me permission to hole up in our warm family room instead of venturing out to the aquarium or going on a playdate. I begin watching the clock around dinnertime with frequent time checks until my husband calls to let me know he’s on his way home, and I still find it difficult to get down on the floor and enjoy another riveting game of that damn never-ending Chutes and Ladders. And, often, I recall with great fondness what my life was like before my two little angels came along. Still, I have come to accept these things about myself and I realize they have no effect on the all-encompassing, almost shocking love I’ve come to experience. I know that I’m doing the best that I can, that it’s ok not to be supermom, and that a bad day will eventually end. And as long as my bosses give me the feedback that they always do, I’ll know that I am, in fact, doing a good job.
I was one once, and I didn’t know at the time that I was funny. I think back to ALL of the time spent planning the nursery, scouring for the perfect crib set, stocking up on size 1 diapers and carefully piling them up into a narrow skyscraper of diapers in the diaper stacker. The little booties, baby socks and massive collection of bibs with clever sayings on them.
Now, of course, I realize that 90% of that stuff is completely unnecessary. At 4 am, when the baby wants to eat and needs to be changed for the fourth time that night, you don’t give a crap whether the crib sheet matches the quilt. Booties? They never get used. Socks? Same thing, unless you’re taking them OUT to a party or something and you feel that, somehow, that little stretchy sleeper is inappropriate attire for a baby. (I never understood those people, either. Taking a baby to a party? I became a recluse for the first few months of my son’s life. I think he was 4 months old before I became brave enough to venture out to Target with him in tow.)
The bibs? Well, I used those. My son was a massive drooler.
Anyway, you plan so furtively for the baby’s arrival with all of these organically soft, personally embroidered THINGS, that you don’t realize what you’re going to need the most aren’t things at all. Hell, if I knew how isolated and overwhelmed I was going to feel, I would have returned all of the things that I received and cashed them in for sessions with a therapist (and a reliable babysitter).
So, I know. I know what it’s like. I know what new parents are in for, in spite of all of their careful planning and registering, and for that, I offer up prayers (or chuckle evilly to myself, depending on my mood).
But one thing that has always mystified me: after a couple has their first child and you read their first e-mail or newsletter announcing the big event, 9 times out of 10 they’ll say, “We can’t remember what our lives were like before little Pooky came along!”
When I used to see this years ago, before marrying and becoming a parent myself, I thought, really? You can’t remember what your life was like pre-child?? I would think of my own life, in my own apartment, where I could come and go as I pleased and sleep as late as I wanted, and think to myself you know, I think I would remember this. I would remember my blissfully sleep-full nights when I’m up pacing the floor at 3 am with a crying baby. But what do I know… I’m not a parent yet.
And now, as a parent, having experienced the incredible joys of having children and the meaning that they give your life, I think to myself…
REALLY? You can’t remember what your life was like before you had kids?? Because I sure can. And it was wonderful.
So then that makes me wonder if I’m doing something wrong. Am I supposed to forget my life before I had children? Why can’t I?
I’ve always thought I was missing some kind of fundamental mommy chip. Shortly after I became a mother, I remember meeting a friend of my mom’s and she asked me, a big smile on her face and in a knowing voice as if she already knew the answer, “Do you love it?” I remember it taking some effort for me to swallow, smile politely, croak out a “Yes,” and wondering if I actually was ever really going to believe that.
As the years passed, I became better at the mothering thing, more comfortable and less concerned that I was going to drop someone, but those fond memories of my life ALONE seemed to become more and more bathed in this ethereal golden light every time I recalled them. Every so often I would briefly think about returning to work, but that terrible mommy guilt would besiege me before I could truly consider it. And so it went. Too many days, when I felt I should be attending mommy & me classes, going to storytime at the library or conducting Martha Stewart-esque craft classes in my family room, I found myself instead watching the clock and willing the time to go by until my husband came home.
Like I have so many other things, I imagined being a stay-at-home mom so different than it turned out to be. I mean, my feelings for my children have far surpassed what I thought they could be. On the other hand, our daily lives together are a far cry from what I’d envisioned so long ago – me puttering around a sun-bathed kitchen while my child ate breakfast in a high chair and watching Sesame Street. On a weekday morning. Imagine that! When you work, you just long to be home. And when you’re sick, or taking a mental health day, and you actually ARE home, you have this exhilarating sense of freedom and luxury. I’m home! On a WEEKDAY! What do I do with myself? Watch Regis and Kelly… or take a nap? Go out for breakfast? The possibilities are endless… decadent, even.
And yet, when you have a small person to care for, that decadent feeling is gone. You’re not working at a regular job, yet you have new responsibilities, bigger ones than you had before. It sounds like such a cliché, but it truly is the hardest job I’ve ever had. (Or maybe I’ve just had ridiculously easy jobs.) But when a job swallows you up so completely, it’s easy to lose sight of everything else, including yourself. Suddenly my peripheral vision disappeared and tunnel vision took its place, framing the face of my little angel. (But not any cooking, laundry or cleaning of any kind – they weren’t in the picture. Just my son.) Not living near any family and being thrust into this new job where you can’t ever clock out, my old tendency to withdraw suddenly reared its head again. Every day, all day, it was just me and him, as we both seemed inmates of this little prison I’d created for us, our cell dotted with stuffed animals and musical toys that flashed lights and played the alphabet song.
Looking back, more objectively, I wonder why I didn’t just scoop him up, throw him in the car and get out to visit a friend or family member even just once a week. I did, eventually, but not soon enough and not often enough. I do remember at the time being obsessed with his naps, which I steadfastly adhered to. I can appreciate keeping that routine, even now, but I do realize that I could have bent the rules a little more often than I did for the sake of my sanity.
Now, I haven’t exactly morphed into the mom I always imagined I’d be. A chilly day will often still give me permission to hole up in our warm family room instead of venturing out to the aquarium or going on a playdate. I begin watching the clock around dinnertime with frequent time checks until my husband calls to let me know he’s on his way home, and I still find it difficult to get down on the floor and enjoy another riveting game of that damn never-ending Chutes and Ladders. And, often, I recall with great fondness what my life was like before my two little angels came along. Still, I have come to accept these things about myself and I realize they have no effect on the all-encompassing, almost shocking love I’ve come to experience. I know that I’m doing the best that I can, that it’s ok not to be supermom, and that a bad day will eventually end. And as long as my bosses give me the feedback that they always do, I’ll know that I am, in fact, doing a good job.
Monday, March 21, 2011
Pick your battles, pick your eaters
I originally wrote about 90% of this over a year ago. Better late than never. ;)
“Mommy, I’m hungry.”
“Dinner isn’t ready yet. It will be soon.”
“I can’t wait. I think when dinner is ready, I’ll just… eat the whole thing and there will be no more food.”
So whined my 5-year-old son. Over and over for the better part of an hour. The kid eats and eats and eats, and when he’s not eating, he’s talking about food. He (and I) were waiting not-so-patiently for dinner to be done. As I am so innately creative on rainy Mondays in January, I had whipped up the “cheesy chicken casserole” printed on the back of a creamed soup can. I was pretty pleased with that, too. After a whole day of child rearing and shuttling my pre-kindergartner to and from school in a downpour, it’s lucky that I actually cooked anything at all. Many of our dinners lately are comprised of a can of chicken and stars soup or scrambled eggs. I find that by 6 pm, any creativity I may have had in the morning has long since disappeared and it certainly does not manifest itself in the form of a fabulous dinner.
So, dinner was finally done. This meant not just cooked, but spent sufficient time in the refrigerator cooling off so that I wouldn’t get complaints of it being too hot. My son sat down to his Thomas plate and started drinking his watered-down apple juice… for far too long.
“Honey, eat some of your food now, don’t drink all of your juice at once,” I told him between bites. This is something he’s guilty of quite often.
“I’m not eating this,” Alexander announced.
I stared at him. “Why NOT? It’s chicken, it’s cheese, it’s rice, carrots… all good stuff!” I said.
“I’m not hungry.”
This coming from the child who just 15 minutes earlier was nearly writhing in pain from his growling stomach. “Are you kidding me? You went on for an hour about how hungry you are!”
“Not for this,” he sniffed.
And I present to you my GOOD EATER.
My picky eater, on the other hand, started screaming the instant she caught sight of her plate as I was strapping her in to her booster seat. I knew she wouldn’t eat any of it, but with every dinner comes fresh hope that she might nibble something and surprise me... and herself. I thought, well… the chicken is really tender! And it has CHEESE on it, which is her main food group. And rice! I’ve seen her eat rice before. What month was that again? In any event, I know I’ve seen her eat it.
This is why, most nights, I choose not to cook. Why bother? My husband doesn’t get home until 8 pm, my daughter won’t eat 98% of what I put in front of her, and my son would be just as happy with a sandwich and soup as a home-cooked meal. But usually, he at least eats it, and will very generously makes lots of yum-yum noises, at my request, in an effort to get his sister to at least take one bite.
Still, I feel I must make the effort. I’m a stay-at-home mom, and isn’t this part of the job description? Wait, IS there a job description?! Because I never got my employee handbook, actually. And of course it goes without saying that there is no pay (and therefore no raise), and my bosses treat me like the lowly underling that I am. I’m at the bottom of the ladder and they are perched precariously on top (usually trying to reach cookies or something else they’re not supposed to have).
I do get bonuses, though. The random “I love you,” the bear hug that hits me (literally) out of the blue and nearly knocks me over, and even the odd compliment that I never would have guessed I’d hear. (A few days ago my son told me that I’m the best cook in the world. Granted, he doesn’t eat at many five-star restaurants, but he DID compare my culinary skills to my husband’s and I still won, which is saying something. He may be six, but I trust his judgment. If you knew him you’d understand what I mean.)
So, for now, it appears that my cooking adventures have been halted until a later date, until my picky young children turn into… picky teenagers? I’m not deluding myself here. Well, at least by then maybe I won’t care so much. ;)
“Mommy, I’m hungry.”
“Dinner isn’t ready yet. It will be soon.”
“I can’t wait. I think when dinner is ready, I’ll just… eat the whole thing and there will be no more food.”
So whined my 5-year-old son. Over and over for the better part of an hour. The kid eats and eats and eats, and when he’s not eating, he’s talking about food. He (and I) were waiting not-so-patiently for dinner to be done. As I am so innately creative on rainy Mondays in January, I had whipped up the “cheesy chicken casserole” printed on the back of a creamed soup can. I was pretty pleased with that, too. After a whole day of child rearing and shuttling my pre-kindergartner to and from school in a downpour, it’s lucky that I actually cooked anything at all. Many of our dinners lately are comprised of a can of chicken and stars soup or scrambled eggs. I find that by 6 pm, any creativity I may have had in the morning has long since disappeared and it certainly does not manifest itself in the form of a fabulous dinner.
So, dinner was finally done. This meant not just cooked, but spent sufficient time in the refrigerator cooling off so that I wouldn’t get complaints of it being too hot. My son sat down to his Thomas plate and started drinking his watered-down apple juice… for far too long.
“Honey, eat some of your food now, don’t drink all of your juice at once,” I told him between bites. This is something he’s guilty of quite often.
“I’m not eating this,” Alexander announced.
I stared at him. “Why NOT? It’s chicken, it’s cheese, it’s rice, carrots… all good stuff!” I said.
“I’m not hungry.”
This coming from the child who just 15 minutes earlier was nearly writhing in pain from his growling stomach. “Are you kidding me? You went on for an hour about how hungry you are!”
“Not for this,” he sniffed.
And I present to you my GOOD EATER.
My picky eater, on the other hand, started screaming the instant she caught sight of her plate as I was strapping her in to her booster seat. I knew she wouldn’t eat any of it, but with every dinner comes fresh hope that she might nibble something and surprise me... and herself. I thought, well… the chicken is really tender! And it has CHEESE on it, which is her main food group. And rice! I’ve seen her eat rice before. What month was that again? In any event, I know I’ve seen her eat it.
This is why, most nights, I choose not to cook. Why bother? My husband doesn’t get home until 8 pm, my daughter won’t eat 98% of what I put in front of her, and my son would be just as happy with a sandwich and soup as a home-cooked meal. But usually, he at least eats it, and will very generously makes lots of yum-yum noises, at my request, in an effort to get his sister to at least take one bite.
Still, I feel I must make the effort. I’m a stay-at-home mom, and isn’t this part of the job description? Wait, IS there a job description?! Because I never got my employee handbook, actually. And of course it goes without saying that there is no pay (and therefore no raise), and my bosses treat me like the lowly underling that I am. I’m at the bottom of the ladder and they are perched precariously on top (usually trying to reach cookies or something else they’re not supposed to have).
I do get bonuses, though. The random “I love you,” the bear hug that hits me (literally) out of the blue and nearly knocks me over, and even the odd compliment that I never would have guessed I’d hear. (A few days ago my son told me that I’m the best cook in the world. Granted, he doesn’t eat at many five-star restaurants, but he DID compare my culinary skills to my husband’s and I still won, which is saying something. He may be six, but I trust his judgment. If you knew him you’d understand what I mean.)
So, for now, it appears that my cooking adventures have been halted until a later date, until my picky young children turn into… picky teenagers? I’m not deluding myself here. Well, at least by then maybe I won’t care so much. ;)
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