Thinking Interrupted Thoughts

I used all my fingers and one toe (the pinky toe which turns sideways, much to my chagrin) to count the number of children in my house today. And yet, I managed a creative dinner (breakfast burritos) and kept everyone alive all day long. I had some thoughts in my head at some point today–I believe I was going to complain about my utter fatigue and about the depression that sometimes lurks in the shadows until I poke it with a stick–but that all seems a foggy dream now.

Sometimes, I’m here all day, routinely switching laundry from basket to washer to dryer to basket to folded on the back of the chair back to basket, changing diapers, fetching snacks, dragging the boys through their lessons (lately, the War of 1812 and the Monroe Doctrine), answering the phone (I need to get a cordless phone–what is this, 1974? I have to run into the kitchen to catch the phone before the fourth ring, which is clearly archaic) . . . and I feel so disconnected with what is happening in my household because my brain is churning and then–STOP–interrupted. Over and over and over again until I am positively strung out from the effort of thinking a coherent thought from beginning to end.

That has to be the worst part of motherhood–the elimination of meaningful thought. I used to have thoughts, ideas, actual beginnings, middles and ends to my daydreams. Or maybe it only seems that way. The constant interruptions drive me berserk. I did not know that becoming a mother would mean I would never have an uninterrupted thought again.

Except for short thoughts, thoughts like, “GET ME OUT OF HERE!” and “HEY, WHAT HAPPENED TO ALL THE COOKIES?” and “LET’S HAVE PIZZA FOR DINNER.”

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Blogger will not let me comment on any of my favorite reads . . . which I assume (giving you the benefit of the doubt!) is what is also happening on my blog. If you have a comment, please feel free to email me at Melodeee (at) gmail (dot) com.

Wherein I Pout and Rant and Rave and Leave Home

Yesterday, my husband had to work. The funeral started at 2 p.m., so by noon, he was gone and I was still here. I admit that I was the tiniest bit pouty about the fact that I faced another Saturday at home with the children and the laundry and the dirty kitchen floor. He said, “You could at least have a good attitude,” and you know, that’s true. I could, but I didn’t. I don’t know . . . maybe six weeks of illness and too many weekends in a row at home have taken a toll. You think?

Anyway, then, of course, I felt remorse and shame at my petty pouty attitude. And so I gathered the children together (“Where are we going?” “I’m not telling.” “Why not?” “Because you’ll complain.” “Oh, Mom! That means it’s somewhere we’ll hate!”) and off we went in our 1987 Chevy Astro van.

First stop? Gas station.
Second stop? Bank.
Third stop? Wendy’s drive-through.
Fourth stop? Zoo.
Fifth stop? Dairy Queen.
Sixth stop? Side of the road so I could stop screaming and start wiping up the ice cream plastered all over my daughter’s fingers, dripping on the floor.
Seventh stop? Video game store.
Eighth stop? Parking lot of video game store where I completely blew a gasket and considered simply walking about from my family. Why? An entire spilled Cookie Dough Blizzard in the third row. Children clamped their mouths shut, quite wisely, so while I ranted and raved, it could have been worse. For instance, the Blizzard might have spilled on carpet rather than the plastic floor mat thingy.
Ninth stop? Back home.

My husband called a bit later to let me know the funeral had ended and that he’d be home and then I could leave if I wanted. I had been under the impression that I wouldn’t get a chance to get out of the house alone, so this was a delightful surprise. I practically sprinted out the front door when he arrived home.

I poked around in my favorite local discount stores and ended my evening using my lone remaining movie gift card. I saw “Failure to Launch,” the Matthew McConaughey and Sarah Jessica Parker movie. The reviews have been dismal, but I went anyway, figuring at the very least I’d just gaze at Matthew McConaughey, who is one fine looking man.

The question is . . . would he be as fine without that accent?

And about Sarah Jessica Parker . . . she is two months younger than me. She has a son the age of my daughter. Her hair, in its natural state, is the color my hair in its natural state. But that is all we have in common. She’s somehow managing to remain young and nubile, while I have two age spots on my hands. I hate her.

The Plague has passed and all that remains are random coughs and an occasional sneeze. I am thankful to be alive.

What Were You Doing 35 Years Ago?

Thirty-five years ago, I was in kindergarten. I remember almost nothing of that school year. I went half the year to one school, then we moved and I went half a year to another. I don’t even remember my teachers’ names.

Little did I know that on this very day, thirty-five years later, Gina would be born. What a great addition she is to the planet earth. Will you go and tell her happy birthday? She writes a witty and often hilarious blog.

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Plague Update:

Son slept all night.

Daughter woke at 12:30 a.m. Fever subsided, but she needed to pee. I rocked her a few minutes and put her back to bed. She slept until 5:00 a.m. and insisted on getting up to watch a video. Fine. I let her and went back to bed, where she soon joined me. She never slept again and I may have lost consciousness or maybe not. It’s hard to say. She began to cry about her legs hurting and her head hurting at about the time I had to get up at 6:30 a.m., so I convinced her to drink a little medicine. Boy, she hates that!

Here’s what I learned from the Centers for Disease Control (CDC) website:

Incubation period for the flu, 1-4 days.
Spread by droplets in coughs and sneezes and also by transference (touching something with droplets on it).
Fever can last 3-4 days.
Fatigue/exhaustion can last 2-3 weeks.
Ill person is contagious a day before symptoms show and a full five days after the first symptoms.

She’s licking a sucker now, sneezing and chatting with her buddy who just arrived, which is confusing to me after last night’s delirious fever. I’m still diagnosing this as “flu” rather than “cold,” however, because of the sudden onset and severe headache.

Oh, and it snowed last night, just a dusting.

Don’t Tell Me Things Will Get Worse

“Worst decision I ever made,” she said. She spoke of adopting nine children.

“Hardest time in my life,” she said. She spoke of giving birth to three children in three years.

“Just wait until they’re teenagers.”

“Small kids. Small problems. Big kids? Big problems.”

“I thought age two was hard. But age three was worse!”

Why, oh why, oh why do we do this to each other? At each turn in the path through motherhood, women have stepped out from behind trees to tell others of the horrors ahead. Teething and tantrums. Sassy middle-school sneers. Teenage trials and tribulations.

While I waited to adopt, an adoptive mother of nine told me adopting was her biggest regret. When my boys were terrible toddlers at two, moms warned me that age three was much worse. When they were in elementary school, trying my patience, the warnings were of adolescence. Just wait, they say. Just wait! I had a daughter, after three muddy, loud, video-game-playing boys. If I should mention how much easier she is, what a delight after the sword-fighting and hollering, I’m told that girls are much harder when they are teens. So look out! Don’t let your guard down! Beware!

And to the naysayers and the doomsday prophets, I want to say just two words. Shut. Up. Isn’t it difficult enough to trudge through the days of making dinner again and washing socks the kids wore outside without shoes and worrying that you aren’t doing anything right? When a mother complains and worries outloud, the remedy is not to say, in essence, oh, but things will get worse! Thank your lucky stars, because right now is as good as it gets, as bad as it is.

Here is what I want to hear:

Take more pictures! I know you aren’t sleeping much, but those fingers will never again be so tiny. Revel in the newborn moments. It goes by fast, but it gets better. You will sleep again. Meanwhile, look! Memorize that tiny nose.

These baby years, when you wear sweatpants, sitting on the floor and picking boogers from his nose and lint from between his toes, pause. Enjoy the boredom. Take more pictures! Because you will hardly remember this moment. And it gets better.

Because soon, that little one will talk. And when he starts to fling himself to the ground, take heart! Things get better.

See how that works? I don’t want to hear about the treachery ahead, the heartbreak waiting around the bend, the steep hills I must climb. I want encouragement. Company for the journey. Understanding, perspective, hope.

So, please. Stop saying stuff that rains on my parade, dampens my frail enthusiasm. My daughter might hate me when she’s a teenager, but right now, she delights me, even on days she doesn’t nap. My twins, on the cusp of adolescence, are still sweet at the core, innocent in a way that won’t last much longer, sorrowful when they are wrong. Only five or six more summers and they’ll be slipping out of my orbit and careening into their own lives. And my little boy, the one with Personality, the one who makes me cry on Sunday mornings when he sings with his whole heart with the children’s choir, off-tune, but earnestly . . . he’ll keep growing up and growing away.

But I have now. And I want to look forward to the future without the cautionary tales of disappoinment. My imagination has its own dark side and I don’t need any help picturing possible dismal outcomes. I’m good at that already.

I want to hope. I want to hug today close. I want to loosen my grip and trust that the future will unfold like a paper snowflake, full of holes, sure, but unique and beautiful and just as it was meant to be.

So I will plug my fingers into my ears and hum, if that’s what it takes to ignore those who tell me the worst is yet to come.

And I will shine light for those coming behind me on the path. And while it’s light, I’ll take more pictures because today is the last chance I have to be here today. Blink. It’s gone.

Forging Ahead

We’ve had mostly rainy days since December 18. Today, the sun shone brightly and the children drifted outdoors and promptly began digging in the dirt behind the deck. I think the hole may now be large enough to bury a small animal. They came back inside with dirt in the creases of their hands and mud caked on their shoes and faces glowing.

My husband sent the 12-year olds outside with orders to sweep the Douglas fir needles from the driveway. We own no Douglas fir trees, but the neighbor does and those trees shed as if it’s their job, which they take very seriously.

The boys did not take their job very seriously and my husband remarked, “Those boys have a terrible work ethic!” And I tried not to take it to heart, this criticism, so I just glanced his way and turned my attention back to the little ones. I told myself he was not talking about me and then thought, I must google “teaching children work ethic” even though I think it’s something “caught, not taught,” which is further proof that I am a horrible role model and human being and someone please stop me from this destructive train of insane thought.

Later, I stepped out the front door and the boys appeared, red-cheeked, clutching brooms. “Do you think this is good enough?” Reluctant Student asked. I said, “I don’t know. What would dad say?” And then the other boy piped up, “This is child abuse!” and I said, “No, this is good parenting.”

I am in uncharted territory as a mother. My own mother left her children when we were younger than twelve. (My dad had primary physical custody and we had no formal visiting agreement but I’d see her from time to time and during those visits, my siblings and I would struggle for her sole attention.) For the most part, I have shrugged off my family of origin and its dysfunction, but in other ways, I can feel the gaping wounds, the missing spaces where a functioning family would have simply passed on traditions by osmosis. When I was my twins’ age, I was waking myself up in the mornings, foraging for my own breakfast, riding my bike to school, dealing with peers, babysitting, studying, going to church by myself. I sequestered myself in my room after school if I were home. I had virtually no interaction with the adults in my family.

I wonder if I’m broken in some fundamental way or if the brokenness healed and left me crooked or if everyone is like me, damaged from something or another. I forge ahead–I’m good at facing the right direction and moving along–but I feel desperate for a map and assurance that I’m doing okay at this parenting thing. So much is at stake and I’m raising boys with a terrible work ethic and a daughter who thinks I’m gorgeous when I roll out of bed in the morning which can only mean that she lacks not only judgment but good taste. And perhaps she should see an ophthalmologist.

On the other hand, my husband and I have been married over eighteen years, which is nothing to sneeze at, and our children have no idea who Brad Pitt or Jessica Simpson or Kanye West are. We must be doing something right.

A Calm View From the Leaky Boat

The burden of inadequacy is a heavy one, an awkward load to carry, especially when you are trying to hurry along at a normal pace, keeping up with the flow of traffic. I feel like I might have an invisible seventy pound backpack of ineptness perched on top of my head and my neck just isn’t that strong, but I don’t want anyone to notice that I’m struggling along.

I was a fervent believer in myself in the early days. I knew I’d be one of those mothers you read about in parenting magazines who is creative and playful and has friends over for coffee while the kids politely play in the other room. I knew it! All I had to do was follow the “Ten Easy Steps . . .” or the “Three Simple Strategies . . . ” and I would get the results I wanted. Perhaps it was my ease with mathematics that made me believe logic would apply to parenting, too.

But the variables foiled me. I didn’t count on my own personal slothfulness. I didn’t know my children would be anchors rather than sails. I thought they would bob along merrily, agreeably, grateful to be along on my own personal journey to perfection. I didn’t count on runny noses and scant cupboard space and the overwhelming mountain of laundry and kids who get their hair wet but don’t use shampoo because it’s just too much trouble.

I miscalculated badly. I’m just not good at being a mom, logistically or emotionally. If I were a photograph, I’d be out of focus. If I were a car, I’d have flat tires. If I were a house, I’d be drafty.

I’m a leaky boat, but for now, I can bail faster than we’re taking on water, so I’m sure we’ll get where we’re going.

But it won’t be pretty. Which is truly disappointing to me. Don’t even try to cheer me up because tomorrow, I’ll be fine when the fog of denial and false cheer rolls back in.

And we’re on Day 22 of the rain.

Walking Through Merryland

Ever determined to Make Christmas Memories, I forced my children to leave the cozy confines of their cave and accompany me to a Zoolight display. My Reluctant Student is also a bah-humbug kind of kid. He thinks things are either 1) too much trouble and his feet will hurt or 2) boring. (This is why Disney World was perhaps not the Happiest Place on Earth with him in tow.)

No matter. He protested and said, “I’m not going!” and clutched the remote control a little tighter and gazed a little more devotedly at Cartoon Network, but I said, “Fine. Get yourself a babysitter because we’re leaving at 4:30 p.m.” Then he realized something dreadful. “What’s for dinner?” he said, looking at me with stark panic. “Oh, I don’t know. We’ll get something along the way,” I said in my most casual voice.

Ha. Got him. I told him I’d drop him off at his dad’s office and when he and dad got home, they could make themselves something. After all, I have lots of cans of Campbell’s chicken soup.

Lo and behold, he decided to come with us, but just for the food.

The sky spit rain as we left, and soon, the spit turned into steady raindrops. No matter, I told the children. “We aren’t made of brown sugar. We won’t melt.” Twenty minutes later, we arrived in the nearly empty parking lot. This was all part of my master plan. Go on a weeknight. Arrive when the display opens. Brave the rain. Avoid the crowds. See? Perfect.

As we walked into the zoo, the rain stopped. The boys were boys, making inane comments and jostling each other as we strolled along. My 3-year old daughter wanted to see animals and wanted to go inside . . . apparently she didn’t get the memo and failed to realize that we were staying outside, looking at lights, not animals. Fortunately, the aquarium was open, so we flitted from tank to tank, admiring the sealife. The boys sprawled out on the floor in front of the shark tank and made disparaging comments about the sharks who lingered on the floor. (“Those are dad sharks, laying around after watching football.”) They found this hilarious.

No one enjoyed the light display quite as much as my daughter. As the light rainbow came into view, she exclaimed, “We’re in merryland!” She’s a devoted fan of Dora the Explorer, the apparent location of Fairyland. I love it when she bestows a more fitting name upon a place: Merryland. Perfect.

Of course, on the way home, my festive mood blackened when we were exchanging compliments. I said, “Let’s say what we like best about each other.” I started by pointing out my Reluctant Student’s best qualities and the boys chimed in. They did add some snide comments, boys being boys and all, but really, they were sweet to each other. Then my blue-eyed twin said, “And now, let’s say what we like about mom the best. I’ll start. Well, when she’s not throwing temper tantrums, mom is really nice. Even though she yells a lot.”

Well. Happy holidays to you, too! The sharpness of a child’s words hurt like none other because they are without malice. I protested that we were supposed to be saying nice things . . . and he said, “Well, you do yell.”

And I did not say, “THAT’S BECAUSE I AM WITH KIDS ALL DAY!” I never did throw a temper tantrum in my whole life until I had children. Really. But there is something about the neverending noise and the constant interruptions and lack of consideration for my moods that has driven me to stomp and yell. Sometimes. Okay, more often that I should.

But since I don’t want my darkness to overshadow the light, I am making a concentrated effort to put a stop to my “temper tantrums.” (Though, of course, I would like to rush to explain that I really don’t throw temper tantrums–I only respond as ANY SANE HUMAN ADULT WOULD to the pressure and situations and annoyances that I am forced to endure–but I will just swallow my pride and say, all right. You got me. I’m a horrible mother, but at least I will be a calm horrible mother.)

At least for today.

And then we went by Dairy Queen and had milk shakes and Blizzards and for my daughter, an ice cream cone.

Another happy memory made. Let’s hope the pictures turn out so I have proof.

(Oh, and where was my husband? He was out delivering presents to children who have an incarcerated parent. We participate in The Angel Tree program affiliated with Prison Fellowship every year.)

The Requisite Mom Response to Linda R. Hirshman

So there I was, minding my own business, clicking from blog to blog in my Bloglines account when I came across this post about an article written by Linda Hirshman in “The American Prospect” (Linda R. Hirshman is a retired professor and a feminist.)

Ms. Hirshman is concerned that the number of working mothers has dropped. She is concerned that feminism may be stalling, due in large part to women–especially elite women, specifically those who graduate from hoity-toity colleges–choosing to stay at home to raise their children. She says, “Among the affluent-educated-married population, women are letting their careers slide to tend the home fires.”

My hackles immediately raised up and I wanted to have my say. And yet I’ve been busy tending to the needs of my children and decorating for Christmas and trying to prevent my boys from ending up living under the overpass because they refused to write essay answers in complete sentences.

I chose this life, but Ms. Hirshman believes that the choice to stay home is really not a reasonable choice at all . . . she suggests that, “The family — with its repetitious, socially invisible, physical tasks — is a necessary part of life, but it allows fewer opportunities for full human flourishing than public spheres like the market or the government. This less-flourishing sphere is not the natural or moral responsibility only of women. Therefore, assigning it to women is unjust. Women assigning it to themselves is equally unjust. To paraphrase, as Mark Twain said, “A man who chooses not to read is just as ignorant as a man who cannot read.”

Wait a second. What is that supposed to mean? A woman who chooses to spend her time at home raising her own progeny is the same as a woman who is at home raising her own progeny by default? Or the choice itself is ignorant no matter how you slice it? Doing repetitive, invisible, physical tasks is unjust, no matter what?

She thinks that women need to be pried out of their traditional roles. In her words, “Women who want to have sex and children with men as well as good work in interesting jobs where they may occasionally wield real social power need guidance, and they need it early. Step one is simply to begin talking about flourishing. In so doing, feminism will be returning to its early, judgmental roots. This may anger some, but it should sound the alarm before the next generation winds up in the same situation. Next, feminists will have to start offering young women not choices and not utopian dreams but solutions they can enact on their own. Prying women out of their traditional roles is not going to be easy. It will require rules — rules like those in the widely derided book The Rules, which was never about dating but about behavior modification.”

I supposed I am showing my middle-class, non-Ivy-College graduating roots when I express my indignance over Ms. Hirshman’s sneering assertion that it’s necessary to pry women from their traditional roles . . . and I think that when she’s talking about traditional roles, she means women breastfeeding their own babies and diapering their own babies and teaching their own babies to recite the alphabet and count to twenty. You know, it’s the classism and elitism and snottiness of this sort of lip-curled judgment that irritates me, the idea that women need to be rescued from caring for children.

Ms. Hirshman explains, “There are three rules: Prepare yourself to qualify for good work, treat work seriously, and don’t put yourself in a position of unequal resources when you marry.”

I have a simple rule. It’s that wild and crazy, “Do unto others as you’d have them do unto you,” rule. Oh, don’t forget the “love your neighbor as yourself,” rule. As a follower of Christ, I’m actually trying to follow Christ and even if you haven’t read the red letters (many Bibles have Jesus’ words written in red), you probably realize that Jesus was about serving people.

You’ll want to follow along here as Ms. Hirshman dictates, “If you have carefully positioned yourself either by marrying down or finding someone untainted by gender ideology, you will be in a position to resist bearing an unfair share of the family. Even then you must be vigilant. Bad deals come in two forms: economics and home economics. The economic temptation is to assign the cost of child care to the woman’s income. If a woman making $50,000 per year whose husband makes $100,000 decides to have a baby, and the cost of a full-time nanny is $30,000, the couple reason that, after paying 40 percent in taxes, she makes $30,000, just enough to pay the nanny. So she might as well stay home. This totally ignores that both adults are in the enterprise together and the demonstrable future loss of income, power, and security for the woman who quits. Instead, calculate that all parents make a total of $150,000 and take home $90,000. After paying a full-time nanny, they have $60,000 left to live on.

And here we are again, at the point where we have to ask: who is this subclass of people willing to embrace the distasteful task of tending to the children? Are we importing people from Third World countries to do this meaningless work? If daddy’s time is worth $100,000 a year and mommy’s time is worth $50,000 a year, it doesn’t take a math genius to figure out that the child’s time is worth practically nothing. Mommy and daddy (in Ms. Hirshman’s idealized version of reality) are too good for childcare and in fact, they are probably not very interested in mingling with old, feeble, incontinent people, either, or those with impaired mental abilities or lower-than-desirable IQs or those who are ugly. Hire someone else to do that work. It’s beneath the well-educated.

Oh, and don’t forget the most important thing, according to Ms. Hirshman. “If these prescriptions sound less than family-friendly, here’s the last rule: Have a baby. Just don’t have two. Mothers’ Movement Online’s Judith Statdman Tucker reports that women who opt out for child-care reasons act only after the second child arrives. A second kid pressures the mother’s organizational skills, doubles the demands for appointments, wildly raises the cost of education and housing, and drives the family to the suburbs. But cities, with their Chinese carryouts and all, are better for working mothers. It is true that if you follow this rule, your society will not reproduce itself. But if things get bad enough, who knows what social consequences will ensue? After all, the vaunted French child-care regime was actually only a response to the superior German birth rate.”

I guess if you end up pregnant with twins, you’re out of luck. And, really, who needs siblings anyways?

This hostility to children takes my breath away. If women are second-class citizens, then children are junk mail citizens in our society, easily thrown away, discarded without even a glance. Do you think the kids don’t notice that mom and dad have more important things to do than spend time with them?

Ms. Hirshman says, “Finally, these choices are bad for women individually. A good life for humans includes the classical standard of using one’s capacities for speech and reason in a prudent way, the liberal requirement of having enough autonomy to direct one’s own life, and the utilitarian test of doing more good than harm in the world. Measured against these time-tested standards, the expensively educated upper-class moms will be leading lesser lives. At feminism’s dawning, two theorists compared gender ideology to a caste system. To borrow their insight, these daughters of the upper classes will be bearing most of the burden of the work always associated with the lowest caste: sweeping and cleaning bodily waste. Not two weeks after the Yalie flap, the Times ran a story of moms who were toilet training in infancy by vigilantly watching their babies for signs of excretion 24-7. They have voluntarily become untouchables.”

Uh, hello? Sweeping and cleaning bodily waste–which pretty much describes my daily life at the moment–indicates that I am leading a lesser life? Or is that only for expensively educated upper-class moms? For the rest of us in this caste, it’s just destiny? We were born to be “untouchables”? She’s speaking about a tiny percentage of women and implies that most of us– the majority of us, the crazy among us who opted to devote our waking lives to our children–are not leading good lives.

I am insulted and you should be, too.

Ms. Hirshman concludes, “When she sounded the blast that revived the feminist movement 40 years after women received the vote, Betty Friedan spoke of lives of purpose and meaning, better lives and worse lives, and feminism went a long way toward shattering the glass ceilings that limited their prospects outside the home. Now the glass ceiling begins at home. Although it is harder to shatter a ceiling that is also the roof over your head, there is no other choice.”

I never did like Betty Friedan’s “Feminine Mystique,” but I suppose that’s no surprise. I thought she seemed bitter and hurt by the circumstances of her life, but what do I know? I’m just a nose-wiping, diaper-changing, Twinkle-twinkle-little-star-singing, dinner-cooking, “Goodnight, Moon”-reading, woman serving others and apparently, unbeknownst to me until now (thank you, Ms. Hirshman), rule-breaking untouchable.

A related story was featured on 60 Minutes reported in October 2004.

How I Am Frittering Away My Intellect

1) Reading books far beneath my intellectual level, such as “Good Night, Moon” and “Home for a Bunny”.

2) Handling the majority of the physical labor in my household, including wiping bottoms and flushing toilets.

3) Mothering more than one child, thus ensuring a life of indentured servitude.

4) Spending my days involved in mind-numbing childcare.

5) Watching late-night television, specifically David Letterman, in addition to an assortment of reality shows.

My intellect is so compromised that I can’t even think of the additional ways I’m harming it.

* * *

Today it snowed an inch and my boys had a twenty-minute snowball fight. My daughter tentatively stood on the patio and said, “I don’t want the boys to hit me with a snowball!” and I assured her they would not. After all, she is a girl and I still believe boys should defer to girls, but I’m old-fashioned like that.

The snow has fallen again tonight in the dark, so it’s a veritable Winter Wonderland outside. But there’s no more time for musings . . . Oprah will be on David Letterman momentarily.

Oh, and because you’re wondering, I’ll tell you. My kitchen table now boasts a festive candlelit Spode church. But the Advent calendar is still buried in the storage room, along with the Christmas tree.

Okay, okay, time to watch the Oprah/Dave reunion. I can feel my brain cells withering away, because as a stay-at-home parent, isn’t that inevitable?

When I Imagine Another Life

Sometimes I imagine a life different than the one I lead. This life involves an actual hairstyle and interaction with adults–or at least people who do not insist on standing on the bathroom counter and licking my chapstick while I’m prying open my eyes and pressing contact lenses to my eyeballs. In my imagined life, stuff (like shoes and magazines and clean dishes and the remote control and the cushions on the couch and the crocheted afghans) would stay put. I could sit on the toilet seat without wiping it off first.

I would get a paycheck and a W-2 form and tote a leather bag back and forth to a Very Important Job. I’d eat lunch in restaurants with silverware and work out at the gym on my way back home. Weekends would be for sleeping in, seeing movies and getting pedicures. Only the telephone would interrupt my reading and I wouldn’t have to answer it, unlike the whining voice calling from the bathtub which will not be ignored.

And in my spare time, I’d write Meaningful Prose which would magically work itself into novel form, find itself an agent, get itself published, garner itself glowing reviews, and sell fifty thousand copies. And then I’d go on Oprah and become Very Rich.

I’d spend time at a cottage at the beach with friends so witty and amusing that I’d overcome my natural inclination to hibernate and laugh my head off instead.

And while I walked barefoot along the frothy beach, shivering in the always chilly ocean wind, I’d imagine another life, the life I have right now, the one full of life and noise and unmatched socks.