Her, rushing breathlessly into the room for no apparent reason whatsoever: Stand up!
Me: Uhh why?
Her: Just stand up!
Me: M, you know that's not how we ask for things. What's the magic word?
Her: [Thinks for a minute] Abracadabra!
Me: [hysterical laughing]
Her, genuinely confused: Abra-stand-up-cadabra?
For my next trick, I'll make this cookie DISAPPEAR!
I don't like bees.
What? No no no, bees are good! They pollinate all the fruits and vegetables and grains we grow that get made into the food we eat. Without bees we'd be in big trouble!
Bees scare me.
Honey, you're scared of yellowjackets. Those aren't like bumblebees.
Yellowjackets aren't bees?
Well, no, they aren't bumblebees. They're different. Like how different breeds of dogs aren't all the same.
Some dogs say "woof!" and some say "yip!"
Exactly. And things like that depend on their biological makeup, and that makeup determines lots of things about how they look and act. Yellowjackets are more aggressive than bumblebees, for example.
Mom?
Hmm?
Can I tell you something?
Sure. What?
Dogs don't wear makeup.
. . . . .
5-year-olds: 1, Biological Determinism: 0
What is it with men and money?
To be more specific, is there something imprinted on their DNA that loosely translates to: Money is the salve for all ills, and the favored medium of communication with all other humans? Allow me explain why I ask.
After I picked M up from preschool yesterday we headed over to our local market to grab a few items for dinner that evening. In a fit of uncharacteristic optimism I allowed M to fully commandeer our grocery cart for the first time, which thrilled her to no end. You'd think I'd just solemnly bequeathed upon her the keys to the Space Shuttle, asking only that she not burn up on re-entry, such was her earth-transcending joy. Trailing slightly behind me as we weaved our way through the aisles, she swerved drunkenly left and right and back and forth, bellowing merrily "look at how good I am with the cart, Mommy! I'm so good!!!", and then, inevitably,"OOPS! IT WAS AN ACCIDENT, MOMMY!" when she plowed headlong into mid-aisle pyramid displays or the shins of unlucky fellow shoppers. Whenever I paused to inspect a grocery item I had to stretch my arm out rigidly behind me, palm flat, to stop her from ramming me with her, ahem, abundant enthusiasm.
This went on for a while. Then, about mid-way into winding our way through the rodent maze of products, an eldery gentleman approached us. "WELL, AREN'T YOU A GOOD LITTLE GIRL!" he screamed in that oblivious way people who are hard of hearing do. "YOU'RE SUCH A GOOD HELPER!"
M's entire face morphed into a question mark, and she glanced furtively from side to side, checking to make sure she was the only good little girl within a reasonable radius. Assured that he was, in fact, addressing her, she shouted back merrily "I'M DRIVING THE CART!!!!"
"WELL THEN, HERE --" he pulled a dollar bill from his pocket and thrust it toward her. "FOR BEING SUCH A GREAT HELP TO YOUR MOM!" he nodded toward me and winked.
"Ohhh, no no..." I protested weakly, but of course it was too late. M had snatched the bill, and was oggling it lustily. For a moment I thought she might actually lick it.
"Thank you" I sighed, not really knowing what else to do. The man smiled, patted M on the head, and disappeared down the far end of the aisle.
"Can I get something with A DOLLAR? Something I would like to play with for A DOLLAR? Or some candy with A DOLLAR?" Each time she said "A DOLLAR" the words sounded like the definition of disbelief. How was it that she, a mere girl of five, had been given the fabulous gift of A DOLLAR, OMG?!?!
Meanwhile, I was of course reeling from the uncomfortable mash-up of feelings that experience produced. Why did he have to give her money? Why was it necessary to turn that into a transaction, to make praise and appreciation seem like insufficient tender? I tried to shake it off.
As we were checking out, M chatted enthusiastically with our cashier -- a middle-aged African American gentleman who I often imagined must've been something of a cassanova back in his day, what with his smooth "Hey baby!" greetings and easy, charming banter. Using my debit card to pay, I'd selected to get $20.00 back, and as Mister Smooooth extended his hand toward us with the money I heard M GASP. LOUDLY. I looked at her, and could see in her eyes the astonishment: YET ANOTHER MAN WAS GIVING HER MONEY! WTF?!?
The cashier chuckled, "No, baby, that's for your Mommy!", and the man in line behind me laughed, interjected something along the lines of "Oh man, I wish people were just handing out money too!" I turned to M to explain to her the circumstances and why this money was being given to me, but her face stopped me. It was red. Beet red. She was blushing, and I'd never seen her blush before, ever. "I want to get out of here now, Mommy" she whispered in a voice audibly strained against near-erupting sobs. "Okay, let's go" I whispered back, turning to thank our cashier, and then turning back again to see M vanishing into the store's enclosed entry space.
When I caught up with her she was already in tears. "I want to go home, Mommy!" she cried, and I knelt down on the floor in front of her to wrap myself around her body as fully as possible. I saw in her at that moment my own sensitivity, my own tendency to jump to hurtful conclusions and take things the worst possible way, even when they weren't intended as such. It broke my heart to see this part of myself in her. I'd hoped she'd be spared it somehow, that her skin would be thicker than mine and that she'd breeze through life with a tougher shell enveloping her, one that would repel those tiny invisible arrows I always feel striking at me. No such luck.
Just then, Mr. Smooth burst through the store's interior door, having seen M's tears from his register, I suppose. "Oh baby, come here, I'm sorry!" he said, and reached one arm out toward her. In his fist was a one dollar bill. My heart sank.
Yes, I understand that the intention behind these monetary exchanges was good natured. I get that these men meant well. But where does this come from exactly, this sense that money is an appropriate conduit for emotion, a fitting and proper means by which to express feeling? Because that? That I just don't get.
Candy and chocolate on the other hand? Now THAT'S what I call a salve for all ills and a favored medium of communication. Silly menfolk, will they never learn?
I have some things to say. And I beg your pardon if my words gush out ungracefully and artlessly, because all of this has provoked some strong emotions for me, and stirred up what I see as a long-festering crock of rancid bullshit that finally and permanently needs to be chucked into the dustbin of cultural history. So here goes.
Please note that after I say what I need to say here, I will never, EVER again entertain this subject. And not because it makes me angry, and indignant, and astounded at people's stupidity -- though all of that is true. But no, I will never speak of this again mostly because I find the topic ABSURDLY BORING. I mean, I thought we'd collectively addressed the whole ultra-hysterical "Are Women Who Write About Their Lives And Have Kids Evil Narcissistic Child-Exploiters?" thing a looong while back. Apparently some people need a refresher course. Or need to have complex concepts regarding writing and identity applied with a sledgehammer, because their brains no worky gudd.
Fine. So to begin at the beginning: I started blogging in the early 2000s, before I was a mother. I started blogging because I love to write, because my dream since I was in sixth grade was to be a writer, and yes, ultimately to make a living from words. When I began writing this particular blog incarnation back in 2004, however, I did not make money from blogging. Let me stress this: I BLOGGED FOR YEARS AND I MADE NO MONEY. I did it for the love of writing, and then later also to connect with other women who, like me, were somewhat shell-shocked at the trials of new motherhood and the unexpected changes and challenges it brings to one's life. I never had any intention of turning my blog into a money-making endeavor, and I did not know of a single personal blogger who had ads or made money off their blog. As far as I knew at the time, that wasn't even something that was possible, and therefore it was not an issue.
I stress all of that because there seems to be a pervasive misconception that we all pumped out babies and then immediately took up blogging to take advantage of the fresh, delicate-yet-meaty marketable content that motherhood offers. That in our hearts -- our black, crusty, egocentric hearts -- our blogs were and are about nothing more than making a quick buck at all costs. It's a sick notion, and honestly something I have to believe was generated by someone who has never had a child of their own, and therefore can't possibly comprehend how strong the impulse to protect -- above and beyond anything and everything else -- one's offspring is, and how all of us consider our children, not our blogs, to be the center of our individual universes. It's a notion that would, in truth, be hilarious, were it not for the fact that it apparently makes for good copy in the media and gives anonymous douchebags an excuse to extend the reach of their stupidity and hate.
But those people? I really don't give a shit what they think. I'm not here to defend parents who blog against child-free assholes who don't know what the hell they're talking about and can't possibly defend their baseless, misdirected animosity. YOUR HATERADE? I WILL NOT DRINK IT.
So, putting all of that aside, let's focus on the real issue at hand. And near as I can tell, that issue is, phrased in the form of a question: Do I, as a woman who also happens to be a mother, have the right to compose a memoir of my life?
I'll let you ponder that for a moment. Take your time. (whistles)
Okay, so I'm guessing if you're at all reasonable and sane, you decided that YES, I have the right to compose a memoir of my life. Even if I'm a (gasp!) mother. So glad we got that out of the way and can all move forward.
Tea, anyone?
...Alright, I realize there are some sticky points that question didn't cover. I realize that some of you are jumping up and down, straining to hold back a torrent of "BUT WHAT ABOUT"s and "BUT WHAT IF"s and "OH MY GOD WHAT ABOUT THE CHILDREN?"s. I get that. And I'm so flattered by your concern. But. BUT.
But the truth is? It's none of your fucking business. I'm sorry to have to tell you this, and I don't mean to be coarse or rude, but it needs to be said. Internet, I love you, I do. But how I live my life, how I choose to raise my child, and what I choose to write about or not write about relative to anything and everything in my life and the life of my child is not up for discussion or in need of your input. PERIOD. Rest assured I will always have my daughter's best interests at heart and not yours. Sleep easy tonight knowing that periodically we do, in fact, feed her, and most nights allow her to sleep on a clean straw mat by the back door. But even that's not really your concern, is it? No, it's not.
I'm glad we had this little chat though. And now, let's all move on, and enjoy those parts of our lives we DO share together, shall we? After all, there are fantastically useless yet entertaining YouTube videos to be watched, and the internet's not getting any smaller, am I right?
This week is M's Spring Break from preschool, which means she's here at home with me -- bound tightly to my right leg like an enormous, fleshy barnacle coated in Disney Princess patterned cloth -- every day until April freakin' 1st. HELLO, THAT'S NEXT MONTH, PEOPLE.
Okay, so it's really only one week away... but boy oh boy does that whole flipping-of-the-calendar thing somehow make the time seem all the more daunting and epic. A DIFFERENT MONTH! APRIL, NOT MARCH! WOE!
Yes, I'm a total pussy. What of it?
So we're basically riding a slow-ass train to nowheresville this week, as I try (ineptly, as is my way) to balance all my various interweb work-type duties, my home/life duties, and the unrelenting spastic and needy insanity that is preschoolerdom.
Needless to say, there will be a whole lot of drinking.
But in the name of curbing my burgeoning alcoholism, let me also ask you, the all-knowing internets, for advice: what would you do to keep a 5-year-old entertained for one full week?
Any and all suggestions welcome, with bonus points and shiny gold stars for ideas that might also allow me to continue doing things like my work (dollah dollah bills, y'all!), household chores, and urinating and defecating alone.
I await futher directives from you, o mighty internet overlords.
Confronted with an unexpected, last-minute playdate cancellation yesterday, I decided it was time for me to bring out the big guns. Yes, that's right: I decided it was time to go rent "School Of Rock" and force M to sit down and watch it with me. Teh awesum rock funneh: let me show you it.
Simply and directly put, I demand that any child of mine like this movie. I mean, if she didn't enjoy Jack Black in that film, and laugh voluminously at his amped-up rock-geek antics, I'd pretty much have to assume that something went awry at the hospital, and our real daughter was switched at birth with a bland and humorless imposter-child. OMG, she'd probably hate on Spinal Tap, too. WOE!
(Meanwhile, I'd imagine our biological kid off somewhere in rural Virginia, tormented by her faux parents love of Contemporary Country-Western, openly poo-pooing "Coal Miner's Daughter" and instinctively condemning Loretta Lynn as "a second-rate hack wannabe Patsy Cline." Atta girl!)
ANYWAY, of course she loved it. So much so that now she's asking to go visit Jack Black, wondering aloud if he'd teach her to play electric guitar, if she could be in his rock band. Yeah, the line between fiction and reality is still a little blurry for our girl. I'm not clear on whether this ongoing fantasy-reality mash-up is normal for a kid her age, but we mostly try to roll with it. The other day she asked, quite earnestly, if we could hang out in our backyard that night and wait for Totoro and his ghost bunny friends to come play with her. Involuntarily, I chuckled slightly at this, and her error dawned on her. "Mommy, is Totoro a real thing, or not?" It pained me a little to have to answer honestly, to fulfill my duty to reveal the truth to her, and in doing so drain just a little more magic from her world.
PS: Have you seen how awesome and gorgeous the Self-Portrait Truthiness pool is getting? I am in AWE of you ladies, your beauty and bravery. AWE, FO REALS.
Her: Hey! Don't fast forward through commercials! I LIKE the commercials!
Me: They're just trying to sell you stuff, M. Stuff we don't need.
Her: HUSSSSSSH! HUSH, LITTLE BABY!
Capitalism: 1, Parenting: 0.
(Speaking of capitalism: Awesome Radiohead kids shirt and others yonder.) (We also got the Beastie Boys tee.)
As much as I love my daughter, and lawd knows I do in great big gobs, I may soon need to move to a residence separate from the one she lives in. Just for a little while. Just until she becomes, you know, SANE AGAIN.
I'm not sure when all of this began. Maybe two weeks ago? That's when I started noticing it at least, and coming to conscious full-stops in the face of her behavior, thinking to myself: Gee, what got into her? And WOAH, I guess someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning! And Hmm, I wonder if cocktails before lunchtime would be viewed by others as foreshadowing a drinking *problem*?
For example, last night I was struggling to get M into the bathtub, accompanied by the drone of her whining that she didn't want the water they way *I* like it (skin-sizzling hot), but how *she* likes it (tepid at best). So I ran the bath, erring on the side of lukewarm-ish, and directed her to please get in (PLEASE! I asked nicely and everything!). She dipped one toe in and jerked backward, recoiling as though I'd just pressed a red-hot poker to the tender sole of her tiny foot. "HOT! HOT! HOT!" she yelped, hopping up and down for hotness-emphasis. I dipped my entire arm up to the elbow in. It was barely warm, nowhere near hot.
Already exasperated, I slumped against the tub, arm still dangling in the water. "M, this is not hot. It's just how you like it. Now please, stop this and get in."
Her whole body stiffened. Her lips curled inward, turning white as she pressed them together. One leg lifted, then stomped down, BOOM. "NO!" she spat.
Let me say now that I would never hit my child. NEVER. I never have, I never will. I don't believe in corporal punishment, I don't believe in using fear and pain as tools to control anyone's behavior, least of all someone who isn't even old enough to wipe their own butt. But so help me god, there's something about the look in her eyes at these moments -- the audacious, open defiance -- that makes my blood boil and my fists involuntarily clench. It's almost like some kind of switch flips inside my brain when she shouts "NO!", turning me from mostly calm and stable Mommy into I BROUGHT YOU INTO THIS WORLD AND I WILL TAKE YOU OUT Mommy. At least twice in the past couple of weeks I've caught myself yelling at her. "NOW!" -- it's the blunt instrument approach communication-wise, raising the decibel level to compel action. And if that fails? I have no idea.
Think it's too late to return her, or exchange her for a different, more compliant kid? Something in a beige, perhaps?
This near-daily, ongoing power struggle is exhausting, and for the past two weeks I've found myself fearing these outbursts, hoping they won't come, dreading the thought that they might. I've been putting a lot of energy into imaginative pre-dreading -- you know, reliving past conflicts and extrapolating from them scenarios for possible future conflict which I then role play in my mind. Where dread is concerned, I find it pays to be prepared. Plus I'm skilled in psychological self-torment. It's a gift.
For the time being, we're trying to offer concrete consequences for her defiance. Not listening, "NO!"-ing, general belligerence, and tantruming all lead to privileges being removed, such as TV viewing, computer time, and play dates. Of course, removal of those things is also punishment for ME, because without them she begins whining incessantly, claiming to "have nothing to do" and to be "bored." It seems the grand and glorious imagination of children we've all heard tell of was GREATLY exaggerated, as mine appears to be lost without Nick Jr. (or Nick Jr. dot com, for that matter). Which probably just underscores what a bad parent I am, but whatever. She eats. Several times a day. It's all good, right?
Anyway, the taking-away-of-things-she-enjoys seems to be good incentive to not behave like an asshole monkeybutt doo-doo head. So far, so good. At times like these, I feel as if I'm getting a whiff of the future: a foretaste of a decade down the road, when I'll be taking away car keys and confiscating cell phones. I'm sure when that time comes I'll look back on all of this and laugh at myself, chuckle at my comparative greenness. And then I'll go to M's bedroom door and whisper a loving goodnight to her, secure the intricate series of iron chains and deadbolts I put in place there when she turned Thirteen, and set the hair-trigger ESCAPED TEENAGER ALERT alarm to "STAY."
(Part Un, because you're a completist.)
sweetney: dude, m's getting into Hannah Montana. i'm going to die.
kdiddy: hahahaha
sweetney: so wrong
sweetney: isn't that a pre-teen thing?
kdiddy: i don't know. i think that's what it's geared to but i know a lot of kids around that age are into it
kdiddy: a lot of kids in k's class are into her
sweetney: m loves music. it makes sense. and yet i still want to die.
kdiddy: i was getting ready to take k up a little bit ago, and i stretched
kdiddy: and my shirt went up a bit and he saw my stretch marks
kdiddy: of which i have about 8 billion
kdiddy: and he said, “ew, when did you get all those scratches?”
kdiddy: i was like, “they're stretch marks and YOU DID THAT”
sweetney: that's some good parenting right there
sweetney: kudos
kdiddy: thanks!
kdiddy: i pointed out my favorites
kdiddy: like, “look at this one. it's huge!”
sweetney: dude, even if i got in shape, i could never, EVER wear a bikini
sweetney: my life is, essentially, over
kdiddy: yeah. my shit got so fucked up
sweetney: i can't really decide who is more at fault: jamie or m?
kdiddy: i blame the kids
kdiddy: they didn't have to be all restless and shit
sweetney: i guess i can just spend the rest of my life tormenting and guilting them both. you know, to be on the safe side
sweetney: yes, why do the children have to MOVE and DEVELOP in-utero? JEEZUS.
Oh come now, you know you so want to be our friend.
Or umm, you know, not. cough.
(Last evening:)
Me: “Make sure you get a good night's sleep, because we have to go vote tomorrow morning.”
Her: “Vote for what?”
Me: “Tomorrow we vote for who we want to run for President.”
Her: “Oh. Can I vote?”
Me: “No. You aren't old enough to vote yet, sweetie.”
Her: “Mommy. That is SO not cool.”
Me: “Well, when our nation has a referendum on Cuddliest Cartoon Character, or on which Disney Princess is awesomest, I'm sure you'll be one of the first called to serve.”
Her: “Yeah. Called to serve MY BUTT!”
Why does everything have to culminate in something butt-related? Why, sweet baby Jesus, WHY?
But anyway, since we're talking politics, have you seen any of the “Yes We Can” parodies yet?
Well now you have. And aren't you glad?
In other news related to my spectacularly good citizenship, on Wednesday I have Jury Duty. I have never Jury Dutied before, in all my 37 years. I am a bit afraid of the duty, to be honest. (DOODY!! snort!) Any duty advice from those of you who've previously done the duty? Duty tips? Nuggets of (snicker) duty advice, as it were?
Oh god, I'm just as bad as my daughter, aren't I? (And I'm guessing the fact that I find something like this uproariously funny is just self-incrimination.)
PS: Humble thanks to Catherine for listing me as one of her favorite blogs in Wondertime Magazine. I'm all blushy and stuff.
Around noon today I received a call from M's preschool teacher, a bright and sunny, naturally blonde and almost impossibly buoyant woman, whose disposition resembles a cross between Doris Day and every character Julie Andrews has ever played.
(Well, except her roles during that unfortunate late Blake Edwards period. Sad, really.)
Basically, think a less grumpy and taskmaster-y Mary Poppins... Or a less Nazi Germany-bound Maria from The Sound of Music (Nazi Germany-based tales do tend to be just a bit of a bummer, you must admit).
Her voice tends toward the melodic and sing-songy, and bluebirds and small woodland creatures are drawn to light upon her shoulders... Let's just leave it at that, m'kay?
Anyway, Ms. Sweetness and Light rang to inform me, in the nicest and gentlest of terms, that my daughter was running a 105° fever, and so perhaps I wanted to come retrieve her before she became so hot that she just spontaneously burst into flames, hmm?
One hundred and five degrees... Doesn't the human brain just boil in its own skullcase aroundabout that temperature, making its own gravy? (mmm... braaaaaains.....)
So naturally I leapt into my car and motored over to the school at top speed to retrieve my freshly sauteed child. When I entered the classroom and made eye contact with M, she's was almost suspiciously matter-of-fact and casual about the whole thing from the get-go.
“Oh yeah, I have a fever... Say, Mommy, can you make me some Mac & Cheese, and can I lay down and watch TV? AND I DON'T NEED TO GO TO THE DOCTOR, OK MOM? OKAY??”
Hmm.... Odd.
I felt her forehead, and indeed, she was a bit warm-ish. So I bundled her off to the car, and then home, and once there filled her with pasta and cheese, and queued up “My Neighbor Totoro” for the gazillionth time.
And now? She seems FINE. Like, RIDICULOUSLY FINE. As in not even the mildest trace of illness, near as I can tell. So what was this parental panic-attack-inducing 105° fever crap all about? I DEMAND ANSWERS, SIR AND/OR MADAM!
My only explanation? The only thing I can come up with that rings true and makes absolute, perfect sense?
She's a Firestarter.
Oh come now, you can't tell me you don't see it:
Don't make me angry. You won't like me when I'm angry.
On the bright side, at least she doesn't see dead people. What can I say, I'm just a glass-half-full kinda gal. snort.
She's home from school today. Freezing rain, the roads shining with sinister black ice.
Stretched out on the floor with a crayon and paper halo encircling her, she carefully draws a carrot, then a strawberry, then a silly green monster with gigantic elephant ears.
I look down at her, a ripple of surprise rushing through me as I note the absurd length of her body, how she's becoming less and less my baby. Bittersweet.
A wave of rain drums the window. More juice please, Mommy! More Spongebob, Mommy! A pink slipper shaped like Hello Kitty's head dangling on one foot.
She's still a little kid. At least for one more day.
Subtitle: This Little Miss Sunshine goes to ELEVEN.
Yeah, I'm probably going to hell for this... but I couldn't resist sharing M's first musical composition. No longer content to simply cover “Umbrella” and other songs, she's breaking out with a little original guitar-based rock. And the lyrics? PRICELESS INCOHERENCE.
Optimus Prime says:
“No sacrifice is too great in the service of freedom.... Well, except for listening to that song. That might in fact be too great a sacrifice. Come to think of it, you know what? FUCK FREEDOM, I'm outta here.”
[waves] Hi! Welcome to my I'm Done With BS moment! Please make yourself comfortable. An aperitif, perhaps?
Okay. So. There's a bit that comedian Louis CK does about his four-year-old daughter wherein he calls her “a fucking asshole.”
“Seriously,” he says, “if you're with a group of people who are trying to go somewhere, and you all can't go because a member of your party just refuses to put their shoes on? That person is a fucking asshole, okay?”
Ahem.
So M has declared, by way of a preschooler's version of an Official Press Release (MORE incoherence! FEWER bullet points!), that she does not want to go to school anymore. She's just kind of, well, over it. Besides, Cheerleader-Artist-Ballerinas don't need no book learnin', right?
And of course I'm all: dubbaya tee eff, dude? You're FIVE. You play all day AND HAVE SNACKS. What are you finding objectionable, exactly?
Then today at Bath & Body Works (shush!) she heaved herself to the floor and began flailing around beside a gigantic, precarious-and-fragiley-expensiveish looking home fragrance pyramid display, simply because I wouldn't buy her sparkly pink lip gloss AND some kind of ludicrous Build Your Own Lolita cosmetics palette she wanted. (NOTE: A small sketch of this exact scenario accompanies the definition of “Mortified” in the dictionary.)
She can't be serious with this shit. SHE'S NOT EVEN IN GRADE SCHOOL YET. This can't be right... [whisper:] Can it?
FUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!
(Oh, and to anyone preparing a response along the lines of “Oh mah gawd, what will her daughter think when she reads this in 10 years?! GASP AND FOR SHAME! WHERE IS MY GAVEL THAT I MIGHT JUDGE AND ALSO MAKE LOUD BANGY NOISES SO THAT PEOPLE PAY ATTENTION TO ME?” To you I say: let me skool you somethin'.
What will M think? She'll think: “Oh my god Mom, you crack me the hell up.” Because she's MY DAUGHTER and she will KNOW I love her, and -- perhaps most importantly -- SHE WILL HAVE A FREAKING SENSE OF HUMOR**. Which is something you should consider acquiring, incidentally. It comes in handy. And tends to make a person less of an asshole. BONUS!)
. . . . . . . . . .
*It being the day before the Communists arrive at the summer house doesn't help matters, surely.
**Because if she doesn't? Well, then we'd have to start with the beatings.
I mean, isn't that one of life's greatest joys -- the humiliation of one's own children? They are, after all, simply human-shaped repositories of comedy gold. For example:
For better or worse, she's just picked up on Hanna Montana being, like, THE BEST FREAKIN' THING ON PLANET EARTH, so I'm guessing this might be the first in a series of fabulous musical numbers. Try to contain your enthusiasm.
Her understanding of the internet: I want to play on the computer! Can you go to kidplay.com?
Her understanding of a career path: When I grow up I'm going to be a cheerleader/artist.
Her understanding of Britney Spears, via a magazine cover photo in the supermarket: Mommy, that girl looks sad.
Despite appearances, life has continued on pretty much unchanged here in the Sweetney household since Dog Photo Kerfuffle 2007 began its reign of terror. Well, except that Truman now has an agent, and is working on his memoirs and shopping a couple screenplays around. Confidentially, I must admit that I'm growing tired of his ceaseless shrieking to “GET HOLLYWOOD ON THE PHONE!” and bi-hourly calls for Red Bull and curly tail massages. But beyond that, it's all pretty much business as usual. Oh, but did I mention Truman's going to be on the next season of The Surreal Life? I think he'll make a fine Vern Troyer replacement. snorfle.
In other Sweetney family news, M is currently grappling with the knowledge that Meat = Animals, something that seems to have just fully struck her, sadly. As many of you know, we're vegetarians. Well, sort of. We eat fish and Jamie eats other seafood (primarily crustaceans, or “Disgusting Sea Bugs”, as I like to call them, loudly, to whoever will listen). I believe there's some fancy-pants term for this ridiculous sham type of vegetarianism, though I can't recall the precise terminology. Fauxgetarianism? Mylifeisahollowliegetarianism? ANYWAY, the point is that when we made the decision to cut out meat it was primarily for sustainability slash land-use issues, not because we couldn't bear to kill Babe and eat his delicious smoke-tinged bacony goodness. When M was born we decided that because we're lazy sods who apparently can't be bothered to volunteer or otherwise contribute positively to the society we'd just plopped our beloved first-born into, we should deprive ourselves of meat as a kind of environmental penance. But because fish don't really fall under the umbrella (ella ella aye aye aye) of earth-unfriendly corn-guzzling mammals, to them I say: I MUNNA EAT CHOOOOOO!
The problem is that this sorta-vegetarian program -- despite making perfect sense to us -- kind of complicates M's comprehension of the whole To Eat Animals Or Not To Eat Animals question. Because as far as she's concerned, if it's got eyes (or eye-like stalks) and can be enhanced through the magic of Disney animation into something squishy and huggable -- suitable for transformation into a cuddly stuffed toy friend -- then eating it is wrong. From her perspective, we might as well haul the lifeless carcass of Bambi home strapped to the hood of our car if we're going to go ahead and eat The Little Mermaid's fishy friend, Flounder.
Stupid anthropomorphizing Disney.
So lately M's taken to actively shaming us whenever the issue arises, which is A FUCKING TREAT, let me tell you. She's particularly aghast at Jamie's broad consumption of the ocean's potentially adorable creatures, while I seem to be getting off easier since I stick with fish and don't eat a lot of it. On our way to eat sushi the other day, she leaned forward from her position in the backseat of our car just to whisper to me, in hushed, conspiratorial tones: “Mommy! Daddy eats animals!” I'm not exactly sure what she expected as a response. “REALLY? Well let's tie him down and beat the murderous bloodlust out of him! Where did I put my ball gag and wooden ritualized humiliation butt-paddle?” Durr?
I hate to think of what's going to happen when she comes to the realization that eggs are the embryonic version of fluffy little chicks, or that milk is wrung from cows in a manner so industrial and mechanically efficient that most bovines hardly ever see the light of day, let alone frolic in green pastures with chatty bluebirds and friendly squirrels. Sometimes it's an ugly business, this whole being human thing. But the hard truth is that life requires eating life in some form or other, and coming to terms with that is a hard necessity. Has Disney animated any fruits or vegetables lately? God, I hope not.
No comment.
(Has eaten cicadas, wood chips, and his own feces, and so is in no position to speak on this matter.)
Well, it's getting pretty The Shining-esque over here today, that's for sure:
Everyone say it with me now: Poor, poor Truman.
And the shrieking? I don't get it. And DO NOT WANT.
Under the circumstances, what would you reckon is a reasonable hour to begin drinking, hmm?
Me, after hearing M crying upstairs as Jamie was helping her to get ready for bed: What was all that crying and stuff about?
Him: She was saying she was going to miss me when I died.
Me: WHAT? Oh no!
Him: And she asked if I'd still be alive when she was 6.
Me: What brought that on?
Him: I don't know.... maybe something to do with that book about dinosaurs you two were reading. Extinction, all that jazz...
Me: Oh yeah. Aww, poor sweetie!
. . .60 seconds later:
Me: Saaaaay... why wasn't she worried about when *I* was going to die, huh?
Him: Oh she asked about that too.
Me: And you told her I was going to be alive a long, long time?
Him: No, I told her that you were already dead inside. I said: “Mommy's been dead since the day you were born.”
Me: Great. That level of honesty is going to cost us at least two more years worth of therapy down the road, you know.
Last Thursday, as you may have heard, the Sweetney household was overrun by hostile foreign invaders a plague of locusts a sinister killer fog authored by Stephen King the Amalah family. I would've mentioned this sooner, but I spent most of Friday retching into a variety of household receptacles, while moaning piteously to no one in particular that my head might indeed explode at any moment, so BRACE YOURSELVES.
Such are the joys that friendship brings. Oh, yes.
Well, joys and three bottles of red wine. And some related head-poundy nausea. But no matter. FRIENDSHIP, PEOPLE! Let's remember what's important here.
My view of our shriektastic point-and-click Battle Royale, during which Amy took actual hostages. That's low, dawg.
Continue reading "Sung to the tune of “That's What Friends Are For”" »
M: Mommy, what eats birds?
Me: Umm... well, people do. Cats do, if they can catch them.
M: Cats eat mice.
Me: Yes. And our cats have even caught bats. Which are sort of like mice-birds!
M: I don't remember that!!! (!!!!)
Me: This was before you were born. Wallace caught bats two different times.
M: And then you had me. And I peeked out of your pouch: “Hi!”
Me: (?!?!) Wait, am I a marsupial now or something? When did I get a pouch?
M: MOMMY-SUPIAL! MOMMY-SUPIAL!
Yeah, you should really read the fine print on the packaging.
Since the internet invariably does my best thinking for me, I once again turn to y'all for suggestions and advice. Please to provide, oh great and powerful internet hive mind.
The upshot is that I'm going to begin writing a column in cooperation with the site True Mom Confessions, probably in the next week or so, and I'm in charge of coming up with some sort of title for said column. It'll be part advice column, part me reflecting on my own experience(s) as they relate to select confessions posted on the TMC site. Or something. Anyway, the point is to do something not unlike my recent post “Retrospectively”: to say to other mothers out there that I dig their rap, that I am hip to their jive, and that they aren't alone.
All of this is great, except Tracey's brain no worky when presented the whole coming-up-with-a-title part of the deal. So this is where your input comes in. All ideas wanted! I'll be your BFF? Oh pretty, pretty please?
Here's what I came up with on my own:
Sweetney Says
Sweetney Talk
Retrospectively
Now you see how much I suck. HALP?
Hit me, people. America is counting on you.
EDIT: In addition to providing new, fresh ideas in comments (please??), you can also vote for one the titles that I came up with in the poll below, if you prefer. Lamers.
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PS: She's gonna punch me in the head for this, but I just nominated mah dear Amy for the Best Parenting Blog Weblog Award. Go vote (by clicking the little “+” button on her nomination (I think?))!
PPS: Amy, please remember: I bruise easily. Oh and stay away from the face, k?
Five is such a nice, round number. It's easy to divide things by five. It's prime. It's quittin' time. It's when happy hour begins, and when darkness begins to fall during half of the year. It fits neatly in one hand and often it's just about dinner time. It is odd, but untouchable. And so I thought it a good place to stop and review what I've learned so far, having run through a quintet's worth of parenting years. Here are just a few of the highlights:
Cheerios are magical, as are little yellow goldfish. Have them with you at all times. Forever and ever, amen.
If you can, have two children as close together as possible. You'll have to suffer through a couple of years of an increased workload, but then magically your kids will begin to be more independent than an only child, having had to share your divided energy and attention up until that point. Most importantly: they will begin entertaining each other, and you will never want for a playmate for your child. This is parental GOLD.
Baby Einstein is bullshit. Don't drink the kool-aid.
Bribery is not only acceptable, it is expected. Sometimes it's just plain impossible to get a toddler or preschooler to do something without a trade of some kind. Cut your losses and give in when it's most expedient to do so. It doesn't make you a bad parent, it makes you a sane parent. SANITY GOOD.
Your mother knows more than you'd probably like to admit.
Don't invest in expensive baby or toddler clothes. Even those from The Gap are too pricey. They'll grow out of them faster than you can say Ludicrous Waste Of Resources. Buy a few packs of onesies, some socks, and a few cardigans and pairs of leggings at Target and be done with it.
Relatedly: babies don't need shoes. Cut that shit out.
Bedtime must-reads include: Goodnight, Gorilla; Runaway Bunny; Goodnight Moon; Polar Bear Night; Kitten's First Full Moon. There are of course more, but if you have those you're golden for at least the first two years.
If Cheerios are magical, baby wipes are the fruit of the Gods. Always carry a small pack of these. Even at age five, you will need them daily.
We all think Dora is dumb. It's okay.
Do not entertain your child every moment of every day, as you will live to regret it when at age five they expect you to keep them constantly occupied (not that I would know or anything, ahem-cough). Begin, when they are toddlers, instilling a sense of ownership in your child with regard to their own amusement.
When you have kids, some if not most of your single and/or childless friends will slowly but surely begin their disappearing act. It's not your fault or their fault. You just chose different, and not terribly complimentary, paths.
Play your music for them, not some saccharine dippy-happy kid-centric crap. They'll love a lot of the music you love -- you'll be surprised -- and the rest they'll just have to learn to ignore or tolerate. Don't give in to the lame, friend.
Resist the temptation to get a puppy when you have a young child. While undoubtedly cute, puppies -- at least for several long, arduous months -- require about the same energy expenditure as a toddler. You might as well have another kid -- at least somewhere down the line you can get them to do chores.
TV is your friend. Used in moderation and tuned to channels chock full of pseudo-edumacational programming, there's no harm in it, and don't let anyone convince you otherwise.
The cliches about every child being different and there being no right way to do any of this -- just the right way for your own particular child -- are true, just like the cliches about it being the hardest yet most rewarding job in the world are true.
Guilt comes with the territory. Every damn day. You're not alone.
Oh and PS: none of us know what we're doing either. We're all just flailing blindly, figuring things out as we go along, and making a lot of mistakes in the process.
What would you add or omit? What would be on your own Things I've Learned Thus Far list?
This morning as I was dropping M off at school, I ran into a haggard-looking mother I hadn't seen before, toting an infant in a carseat with one hand while dragging a sobbing two-year-old boy into the building with the other. As we were checking our respective kids in for the day, I asked off-handedly if her little boy wasn't feeling well. Shoulders slumping, she sighed: “No, I don't think he's liking school very much. He does this every morning.”
I could see in this woman's eyes a kind of crushing defeat I remember feeling back when I first brought M to preschool as a toddler, when every morning brought a fresh hell of heartwrenching, spirit-crushing guilt as she wailed for me NOT TO LEAVE HER! IN THIS PLACE OF DESOLATION AND EVIL! ALONE, FRIENDLESS, AND MOMMYLESS! OH WHY GOD, WHY?!
What kind of mother -- nay, HUMAN BEING -- was I, anyway?
I looked at this mother and thought about all the things I wish someone had told me as I waded through those early years of parenting. All the reassurances I never got (or, I suppose, never fully believed if I did get them), all those moments when I felt completely adrift and alone, and nowhere near up to the task of caring for a young child. The emotional toll more than anything else left me feeling flailing and frantic on a daily basis. It often felt to me as if someone important had handed me a piece of paper with the beginnings of an unfathomably complex mathematical equation written on it, one that when completed would solve all the problems of the earth and humanity, saying to me only: “Here. Figure this out.”
And though obviously the reality of the situation was far from that weighty or dire, the intense and pressurized feeling of responsibility, and the overwhelming sense of my impending inescapable failure, filled me with deep, black dread. During M's infancy and toddlerhood, dread was my elevator music: a low, droning hum playing in the background of my every waking moment. Who thought I could do this? What kind of drugs were they on when they entrusted this tiny, needy human to me? And can I please have some of those drugs, because to be perfectly honest I could really use them right now. LOTS OF THEM. Do you by chance have something sedating in a Value Bucket-size?
I'm not sure how and when this changed, exactly. To be sure, I still have my moments -- many documented with regularity here -- when being a parent confounds and frustrates me, when I feel inept and impatient in the face of the relentless and ever-evolving challenge of caring for a human child. It's like trying to hit a moving target: once you think you have an issue or problem in your sights and fully sized-up, it moves and shape-shifts into something altogether different, and does so endlessly, exhaustingly.
But I don't often feel that level of ultra high anxiety I used to these days. Maybe I've gotten used to the trials and tumult of parenthood and adjusted my internal Threat Level emotional responses accordingly. Maybe it's just that she's older now, and isn't so completely dependent on me for everything. Or maybe it's the drinking... Yeah who am I kidding, it's probably the drinking.
So this morning, in my best confidential and on-the-downlow voice, I confided to this wilting fellow mother: “Oh I KNOW. She [pointing to M] was practically hysterical every morning when I brought her to school for, like, an entire month. It was HORRIBLE. But then one day, suddenly, POOF! -- she was fine. It was like I wasn't even there when I went to leave. She couldn't have cared less.” All true.
Immediately her face brightened, relief almost visibly washing over her. “Really? Oh god, I can't wait for that day...” she exhaled, smiling weakly. “It'll happen. Hang in there” I called as I scooted M off to her classroom.
I knew it wasn't much consolation, but at least it was something. Because I also know from experience that sometimes just a few simple words from a total stranger can be enough to at least temporarily cut through that thick fog of maternal loneliness and guilt: I've been there, I know where you are, and it gets better. No really. It does.
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PS: Psst! Hey kid, want some awesome art on the cheap? Then check out my latest Fall Shopping Guide Post. (And you can thank me later.)
For the past two weeks Jamie has been working ridiculous hours, often not getting home until I'm nearly in bed. It's crunch time for a web project they've been working on at his company, a project which I have vowed to not disclose details about to the internet under pain of death and/or dismemberment. But suffice it to say it's big and involved and high-profile, and that it has become a gigantic, soul-sucking black hole at the center of our family life. When I do catch the odd, fleeting glimpse of Jamie at home I now say “Oh, do you still live here?” -- and it's not much of a joke, really.
This weekend he worked the whole of both Saturday and Sunday, leaving me -- already exhausted and run ragged -- in the role of Head Stooge to one very unsympathetic five-year-old. More than once over the course of that 48 hour period I found myself reaching what I call Maximum Density: the point at which my skillfully constructed facade of sanity, patience, and calm begins to crack under the brute, head-poundy force of unrelenting preschooler irrationality. I begin hissing words through my teeth. My body tenses. My hair becomes rigid (okay not really, but you get what I'm saying). Words sputter and crash Tourettes-like from my mouth: IF I HAVE TO SAY THAT ONE MORE TIME... I'M NOT TELLING YOU AGAIN... NOT ANOTHER WORD... NO NO NO... ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING TO ME... ARE YOU DEAF? (Answers: Yes, you will; ORLY?; But I have to tell you something!; Yes yes yes; No; Huh?)
All of which begs the question: how do some of you people do this all day every day by yourself and maintain some modicum of mental health and stability? I'm dead serious here. Because at times like these I honestly start to feel as though I may have a chip missing or something -- that my version of humanity came with a woefully inadequate supply of some essential Mothering nutrient that would allow for the much-extended dance version mix serenity and patience I see in many of my Momrades (comrades+Mom=). I just don't have that, whatever that is. Am defective, I guess. (shrugs)
While I'm thinking about this though, I should perhaps mention that I believe I'm also missing whatever it is that makes some parents actually appear to enjoy getting down on the floor and acting out elaborate action-figure-fueled scenes of their child's devising. Sorry, but I just don't get it. I mean, I'm all for imaginative play and such, but is it really absolutely necessary for ME to get directly involved? When did being your child's playmate become a parental requirement, exactly? And is there a loophole somewhere I can wiggle through? After all, I DO have a whole stack of New Yorkers sitting in front of me that desperately need to be read, and almost the whole season of “Tell Me You Love Me” TiVoed and patiently awaiting my eyeballs. PRIORITIES, PEOPLE!
(You may now pat yourself on the back for being better at this whole parenting gig than me. GO YOU! YOU SO WIN! If I had a medal or something, I'd award it. Or beat you over the head with it until your screams slowly subsided. I can't decide.)
And now that I've managed to drain away all your sympathy toward me and my harrowing solo parenting predicament, let me distract you from my inadequacies by pointing you to this here Great Mofo Delurk Blogroll as well as my impending participation in this year's NaBloPoMo (Kool-Aid? DRUNK).
Did that work? No? Okay, well then howabout this adorable whistling puppy?
SUCKA!
EDITED TO VERY RANDOMLY ADD:
I haven't laughed that hard in a while. Those hand claps sure do bring the rock. (Thanks, Bill!)
M is home today, as her entire school is closed for, and I quote, “Professional Development.” Nonsense, I say! Howsabout “developing professionally” by oh, I don't know -- actually working with children? As per your profession? I mean, what's on the agenda for today's skillset-building seminar over at the preschool, instruction on building more structurally sound block towers? The most expeditious way to hose down five-year-olds who've gotten just a little too enthusiastic with the acrylic paints? WHAT?
Perhaps a better (and infinitely more pressing) question would be: how many hours of The Wiggles do you think my daughter can watch today before her head explodes? Five? Six? Not that I'd allow that or anything. cough.
Anyway, this weekend was a whirlygig of a blur of Birthday Party Madness that must be shared. I got on that beastly carnival ride early Saturday morning and rode it hard, straight on til Sunday night.
The puking, as you might imagine, was INCREDIBLE.
Saturday the wee Noah was up to bat for birthday glory. He's the son of my friend Amy. She has a blog. Perhaps you've heard of it. snort.
Not-at-all-half-assed monkey party theme in full effect, hombre.
I love how my daughter weasels her way into shots. Like “Hey, this is *my* family too, right?”
Amy goes in for a desperately needed candle adjustment. THANK GOD YOU'RE ON IT, AMY.
I also got to spend some time during these festivities with the lovely Heather, who did an excellent job saving my comfy chair for me when I needed to temporarily abandon my during-party seating so as to obtain various food and beverage refills. Being a personal seat-saver is high on my list of Qualities Most Desired In A Friend, as I think of it as indicative of one's loyalty, fidelity, and willingness to piss off others while rabidly guarding a comrade's territory. = TRUE FRIENDSHIP.
Sunday was my own dear daughter's party, and OH THE SHAME, I HAVE NO PITCHERS. But wait -- before you write me off as a completely incompetent and unfit parent, let me explain.
It was at Chuck E. Cheese's.
And okay, so maybe that just confirms (nay, EMBIGGENS) my parental incompetence and unfitness in your mind, but in my own defense, that place is death to the photo op. If you've never been, imagine the animatronic horrors of The Country Bears Jamboree from Disneyland, with some Max Headroom, Studio 54, and child psych ward flava mixed in. I couldn't get my eyes to focus long enough to even think about snapping a photo. AND IT WAS SO GODDAMN LOUD, HOW IS A PERSON SUPPOSED TO THINK CLEARLY IN THAT PLACE ANYWAY? YES, I'M SHOUTING.
(sorry about the shouting.)
Anyway, the point (I guess?) is that SHE had fun. I mean, it wasn't MY birthday, fer crissakes. (Thank you god.) She wanted it, she asked for it, she got it. But oh lawd, that Upchucky Cheese place is mass-marketed wholesome family fun meets inner-city crack house, essentially. I swear to gawd, M and her friends spent a good two hours just twirling around in circles giggling maniacally, all hopped up on the reconstituted from 100% pure Pixie Stix sugar-dust “fruit punch” they were swilling. WHEE!!! CRACKATTACK!!1!!!
On the upside, she also made out like a bandit in the gifts department, meaning I shouldn't have to purchase a single got-damn toy for her again until christmas. So I call it win-win, man. A little crack never hurt nobody, right?
BUT to make up for my inability to provide you, teh intarwebs, with your recommended yearly allowance of birthday party photo goodness, here's a picture I took of M a mere 19 hours before her drug binge crackfest party, at our neighborhood's annual fair:
Do you feel lucky? Well do ya, punk?
Done! Now you nearly feel like you were AT the party, right? It's as if you can almost actually hear the strained retooling of Huey Lewis & The News songs to make them palatable to five-year-olds when sung by a 6 foot tall robotic mouse. And this without the singed corneas and aftershock-like post-strobe seizures you'd be enduring had you been physically present. Oh and the total loss of self-respect, of course. You lucky, lucky bastards.
Her, calling down to me from upstairs: “MOM!”
Me, sipping martinis & eating bon-bons downstairs: “Yes?”
Her: “What does credit card debt mean?”
Me: ?!?!?!!!
Me, using my words: “Umm... it's when someone buys things with money they don't have.”
Me, parenthetically: (???)
Her, incredulous: “How do they do that?!?”
Me, sighing: “I don't know, honey. I just don't know.”
They grow up so fast, don't they?
Good readers of Sweetney, my daughter is five years old today. FIVE. I can't fucking believe it. Can you believe it? All the fingers on one hand, people, ALL THE FINGERS ON ONE HAND!!!
(faints)
(struggles back to consciousness)
I want to say something here worthy of her, something that won't come out sounding saccharine or cornball or sentimental. But let's face it: not.gudda.happen. Because the truth is, in trying to talk about my daughter, all I have are words that are heavy and drenched with feeling.
Last night, as I was putting her to bed, I blew her mind: “This is the last time I'm ever going to read you a story when you're four!” She was suitably impressed with that mildly mindfucking factoid, and though I'd intended to make her smile and giggle, inside I felt the beginnings of a sob creeping up and across my chest as I said it. My baby, my baby.
Because whatever jokes I make (and clearly I make a lot of them), my daughter is the single greatest thing that has ever happened to me in my small irrelevant life, bar none. She is the sweetness, light, and endless joy of my existence. Her smile is the reason I get up in the morning, and having her here to wake up to each day is a gift, her life is a gift to me. And the love I feel for her is so ridiculous and enormous and absorbing it makes my heart ache and my eyes well-up with tears of happiness (seriously, does anyone have a tissue?), and yes, it makes me sappy as all hell. My baby, my baby.
These days when I call her “baby,” she protests. “But I'm not a baby!” she says, with the preschooler version of haughty disdain.
And I say: “You will always be my baby, no matter how old you get. When you're as old as Mommy is now, you'll still be my baby.” True, dat.
My baby five years ago:
My baby today:
I love you, my sweet birthday baby.
And now I must go wrap a Mt. Everest-sized pile of gifts.
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Please to be noting: A mighty mofo delurk is a-comin'. Be not afraid, my friends.
Last night I was watching TV, and realized we have absolutely nothing on TiVo suitable for both kids and adults. On the one end there's Kim Possible and Sagwa the Chinese Siamese Cat With A Long-Ass Stupid Title That Never Seems To End Oh My Stinkin' Hell Show, and on the other there's Californication and Weeds and Curb Your Enthusiasm. Oh and some World Series of Poker thrown in for good measure. We try to cover all the Seven Deadly Sins in our television viewing, you know. We're completists.
Watching the absurd follies of Larry David and his cohorts, it struck me that many, many people I'm close to have been having a horribly suck-ass time lately. Much more than usual. And not the comically well-timed sort either, sadly. Everywhere I turn it seems there's an excess of grim news, misfortune, and accident. Death darkening doors. Estrangement and desertion. I'm not sure what to make of all of it. Should I be plotting moon phases? Consulting old Farmer's Almanacs for insight regarding possible influences written in the changing seasons? Or should I just sit quietly, and wait for the fog to roll back out?
Its easy, at times like these, to feel that the world is coming apart. To let hopelessness take root. And so despairing, to lose sight of things.
But then, as often happens, I found myself at the end of the day perched on my daughter's bed with her, reading The Runaway Bunny and choking back sobs with the turn of every page.
The story is, of course, about constancy, devotion, and a selfless love that seems almost supernatural. It's a meditation on what is most important in our humanity, and how that is unbreakable.
It's about being a Mother.
As I read, all of this flooded into my mind: everything I needed to reminded of. Everything that truly matters floated back to the surface -- wood from a shipwreck that would buoy me to safety.
Well that and to put baby carrots on our shopping list. M loves those fucking things.
Having a kid is totally cramping my style, that much is clear.
You may recall some recent mention here of my husband's well-deserved victory in our CityPaper's annual “Best of Baltimore” issue, a win that bestowed on us the distinct honor and privilege of gaining entry to their exclusive BoB party last week. And since I am sort of moldering in middle-age with a child strapped to one leg (they should make holsters) and therefore rarely (okay NEVER) cavorting about town with the cool kids, I was beside myself with excitement about attending. A party! With adult-type peoples! The cream of Baltimore's hip, insider crop, in fact! Oh, and did I yet mention OPEN BAR?
Huzzah! A drunken octopus on yon invite!
Yep, roger that. I'm all over that shit like a monkey on a cupcake.
Knowing that this party was coming up, I had to -- like most parental units -- jump through several flaming hoops ahead of time just to be able to go. First, I had to secure childcare at a friend's house. Second, I had to synchronize my watch by atomic clock to make absolutely certain I'd be on-point to retrieve our child at a reasonable time, or at least before she turned into a whining, flailing pumpkin and our friend was driven to unceremoniously toss her ass out on their back porch, like sack of potatoes FILLED WITH PURE EVIL (worse yet: PURE STARCHY EVIL!). Third, I had to dig through my wardrobe and find clothing that 1) was befitting a hipster gala in the year 2007 (umm, good luck with that! (snort!)), 2) was (relatively) clean, 3) didn't smell of some odd combination of Cheerios and Gogurt. YES, THE BAR HAS BEEN LOWERED. AGAIN.
Having settled those issues (well, to one degree or other), the evening of the much-anticipated party came. I was, in the words of Alan Greenspan, irrationally exuberant. I dressed with care, changing my clothing selections multiple times for good measure. I put on fucking MAKEUP, man. I applied goddamn hairspray, fer crissakes. And then I waited for Jamie to get home so we could go.
And waited. And waited. Aaaaaaand WAITED.
We'd planned to arrive at the party right when it started at 6:30pm, so I could cram in as much adult party time (see: BINGE DRINKING) as possible, figuring if I left the shindig by 8:30pm I could retrieve M and wisk her home and to bed before her personal witching hour of whining & flailing doom began. That would give me two full hours. Two full hours of blissful I'm not just a parent, I'm a hoooman beeeing! time. Oh joy.
Jamie called from the road around 6:15pm. He'd hit some bad traffic on the way home. He'd be late. He'd be very late.
I wilted.
All told, by the time we finally got to the party it was almost 7:30pm, meaning I had just enough time to slam down a single drink (weeps) and snap these pictures before I had to turn right around and get back into the stupid car. POINTLESS. FAIL!
Revelers beneath the ominous all-seeing Domino Sugars sign
Baltimore cityscape as Missile Command screenshot
The Baltimore Museum Of Industry: presently spotlighting our city's two main products -- Gang Murder & Crack!
Justin, Jamie, Lauren & delicious beers. You're winners, babies!
And sadly, that was it. I raced back to our friend's house and arrived just in time it seemed, as the tension-filled countdown to Preschooler Detonation had clearly already commenced. After putting my daughter to bed at home, I watched some TV. I had some snacks. And I tried very hard to weep quietly, so as not to wake up THE ADORABLE PIGTAILED MONSTER WHO HAS STOLEN MY LIFE FROM ME.
Oh, but I kid the life-stealing monster! Umm, I mean THE LIGHT OF MY GOT-DAMN LIFE.
So now, in an attempt to exhaust this topic fully and thereby purge the kernel of resentment that's taken up residence in my heart, here's a few other things that having a kid has unfortunately put the kibosh on for me:
I could go on and on, of course. But enough of my festering bitterness -- what's on your resentment-inducing MIA since parenthood list? And late at night when everyone else is asleep, do you lie awake thinking about these things, and do the tears come?
There there, dear.
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Aside: I've decided to relocate my Daily Photo (I prefer the generality of Daily Image, honestly) Entry over on a dedicated page, so as not to clog the delicate pipes of mah index page. Please to enjoy (like, every day! DUH!)! I'm also working on a Song Of The Week page, and I'll let y'all know when that's fully operational and ready to rock. Song Of The Week page ahoy!
And a Note to the three of you who care: No, we haven't yet replaced Nemo (or gotten a tortoise, per Mrs. Kennedy's influence), and Jamie and I are still deadlocked over the convertible issue (though I believe the resounding chorus of “BAD IDEA!” from y'all might've swayed him ever-so-slightly away from folly... fingers crossed).
Yesterday afternoon I went into M's room for episode II of my twice-daily Poking Of The Fish, and found Nemo face-planted in the colorful gravel at the bottom of his tank. OH CRAP.
Still not believing he could actually be dead at this point -- since he's faked us out more than once over the course of the past week, the little shit -- I retrieved our fish net and used the thin handled end to conduct a cursory physical examination. Poke, poke. Nothing. Not so much as a fin flutter. That was one dead fish, man. Don't think you can get much deader. This fish is no more. It has ceased to be.
As a side note, this week I couldn't help but be continually reminded of the Monty Python Dead Parrot sketch, and have been silently performing both sides of the dialogue in my mind:
Oh Monty Python, is there anything you can't make funny?
Not so funny, of course, was M's response to the news that Nemo had finally and definitely gone to the great fishbowl in the sky. Her genuine, heartfelt mourning over this loss was touching... if somewhat disturbing. Because she was, probably for the first time in her life, grappling with the matter of death, and clearly struggling to understand it. “Will Nemo come back tomorrow?” she asked, through tears. And later, perplexingly, “When I die will I still be in your belly?” It's as if she's searching for an out in this whole death thing, an escape hatch of rebirth or reincarnation -- something to temper the crushing enormity of death's permanence. But then don't we all?
I held her, dried her tears, and gave her a lollipop. I'm sure I probably could've handled things better -- made the moment into something exploratory and instructive about life and the world -- but all that seemed to matter was stopping the tears, the pain. Making things all better. Isn't that what Mommies do?
So first we had Wallace the self-de-hairing cat, who by way of self-abusive licking performed the feline equivalent of the endless handwashing stereotypically seen as a hallmark behavior of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder in humans. (On the up-side, Wallace can also be used to remove those troublesome fabric nubbins from sweaters -- get your own OCD cat today!) Then Truman the retarded wonderdog went toe-to-toe with some chain link fence and lost. LOST TO FENCING. Oh, the halfwitted humanity.
In summary, it's safe to say we've established that the Sweetney family pets are defective, masochistic rejects. But oh mah lawd, nothing in our recent experience has come close to the epic pathos, drama, and stupidity of this weekend's Aquatic Deathwatch 2007 (sounds much more festive than it actually was, BELIEVE ME).
It began a few days back when I noticed that M's beta fish Nemo was acting, well, sort of listless. “Floaty and deanimated” were the words that came to mind. Instead of his typical acrobatic swirling about in his tank, I discovered him drifting near the surface of the water, leaning lightly against the front wall as if to say: DUDE, I'M FUCKING DYING OVER HERE!1!!!. Usually frenetic and eager at his daily feeding, now the poor little guy's tiny front fins barely twitched when I opened the top of the tank and dropped a few ground-up flakes of food in.
So we all know where this is going: straight down the toilet with a single, decisive flush.
Except it didn't. It hasn't. He's the fucking Energizer Bunny of fish. The Thing That Wouldn't Die of fish. The unstoppable evil zombie fish that can't be killed because ITS ALREADY (UN)DEAD.
Saturday morning I checked in on him and went so far as to call time of death (10:40am, if you must know). You may recall that the last time our family dealt with fish death Jamie and I chose to secretly replace the Original Dead Nemo with a Living Nemo Imposter, basically because we're pussified cowards who'd rather avert our gaze and deceive our child than suck it up and have the dreaded Big Death Talk. But now, with even The Nemo Imposter exiting, we seemed to have little choice. It was time to do some serious motherfucking parenting, yo.
The Talk went something like this:
Jamie: Honey, we have something to tell you.
M: *blink*
Jamie: Nemo was sick, and he died.
M: WAAAAAAAAAAH! I MISS NEMO!!!!!!!
Me: Its okay sweetie, it happens.
M: (quietly snorfling)
Me: You know... the circle of life and shit.
Jamie: (shoots daggers at my skull)
Me: I MEAN, fish don't live a long time.
M: Can we get another fish?
Jamie: Yes.
M: (inappropriately chipper) OKAY! CAN WE GET IT TODAY?!!?
Me: What, no period of mourning? How about a little respectful time and distance before we move on to callously replacing the dead, huh?
Jamie: (shoots flaming battleaxes at my skull)
Me: Alrighty then. Anyone up for ice cream?
So I think that went well. Except that at the end of this conversation, when I went to scoop Nemo's remains from his tank so that we could do the traditional burial at sea, the sucker MOVED. Moved, as in NOT DEAD YET.
Oh jesus fucking christ.
That was Saturday, and the death vigil continues still. A few times a day now I go in and poke the seemingly dead fish, only to have him spring to life and swim furiously around the tank for a few moments, thereafter drifting back into a limp, corpse-like pose on the surface of the water, as if to give us the finger while gurgling: HA! SUCKERS!
Stupid faker fish.
And I know its wrong, but since he's quite obviously on his way out and sloughing off this mortal coil and all that, I have to admit I kind of wish he'd get on with it already. This endless death rattle mambo is excruciating. WON'T HE THINK OF THE CHILD(REN)? Go to the li