Let’s Run Away Together

I saw Brooke Shields on a couple of different television shows this week, hawking her book, Down Came the Rain. And I really wanted to be sympathetic to her, I did, but I couldn’t because how can you feel sorry for an almost 40-year old woman with such long, lean calves and such well-groomed eyebrows and that dimple right by her pretty mouth?


Brooke on Oprah’s show. Posted by Hello

Did you see how good she looked when she left the hospital with her newborn? On my best day, I didn’t look that good. I never will. And after I gave birth? I was just a mushy-bellied, red-eyed, crazy-haired woman who smelled like baby spit-up and dried breastmilk.

I know–of course, I know–that post-partum depression is a real malady suffered by scores of women, but her descriptions of the dark days didn’t touch me at all. I felt a whole lot more sorry for Andrea Yates, the mom who systematically drowned her five children in a bathtub. I related more to the straggle-haired mom who snapped than to the smooth-haired beauty who didn’t want to pick up her newborn.

I know. Aren’t I a terrible person?

I suppose the truth is that I’m just jealous of Brooke’s beauty and wealth and extreme tall leanness. She is only a few months younger than me and it hardly seems fair that some people get more than their fair share of . . . well, everything. I hate myself for feeling so uncharitable.

But while I’m at it, let me also say that I bet women who are honest-to-God (but unpublished) writers who have something valid to say about post-partum depression, even though they are not gorgeous movie stars who had a traumatic experience . . . I bet they are peeved that Brooke Shields got a book deal about this topic as a result of her fame and good looks. Okay, right, so Brooke Shields went to Princeton and she’s smart, too. Like that makes me feel any better. As my dad would say, please don’t confuse me with the facts. I know I always narrow my eyes at people who get book deals even though they are not writers, per se.

As for Jennifer Wilbanks, the so-called “Runaway Bride,” I feel a great deal of sympathy. In fact, she has inspired me.

I told my husband, though, so he wouldn’t call the FBI. I challenge women everywhere: See how far from home you can get with $150 and a bad haircut.

I leave first thing tomorrow.

(Okay, okay, only in my dreams. But wouldn’t it be an interesting exercise? And then we could compile all the experiences into a book and call it “The Runaway Woman,” and it’ll be on the best-seller list and then we’ll all become rich, rich, rich and we’ll go on Oprah, but before the show, we’ll get makeovers and then we’ll look fabulous and afterwards, Oprah will take us out to lunch and we’ll all be Best Friends and go on a cruise together. And they all lived happily ever after. The End.)

A Day Like Many Others

Over at this blog, she shares her day’s events. In lieu of my planned post for today which declares how judgmental I’m feeling lately about almost everything, I offer instead, a boring recount of my day.

5:10 a.m.: Alarm rings. Paw at clock until noise stops.
5:19 a.m.: Alarm rings again. I get up, pull on clothes and glasses.
5:30 a.m.- 6:30 a.m.: Four mile walk.
6:45 a.m. – 7:15 a.m.: Shower while Babygirl stands outside the stall and asks me questions.
7:30 a.m.: DaycareKid arrives. YoungestBoy wakes. I rock Babygirl.
8:00 a.m.: Homework time for YoungestBoy. Breakfast for him and Babygirl.
8:30 a.m.: CuteBaby arrives. YoungestBoy leaves for school.
9:00 a.m.: Twins wake and start school work. CuteBaby naps. Toddlers play/fight. Fold laundry, check blogs, answer email and phone, supervise schoolwork, wash more laundry. Doze in recliner while toddlers watch Mary Poppins.
11:00 a.m.: CuteBaby awake. Twins make and eat lunch.
11:45 a.m.: CuteBaby leaves for lunch break with mom. Babygirl throws fit. Put her in crib for 30 minutes.
Noon: Feed toddlers lunch.
12:45 p.m.: CuteBaby returns. Twins do school work.
1:00 p.m.: Naptime for DaycareKid and CuteBaby. Babygirl watches show until 1:30.
1:30 p.m.: Nap. Fall asleep with Babygirl.
2:15 p.m.: My lunch break.
2:30 p.m.: Babygirl falls off bed with a thump and wakes. Sit and rock her.
3:30 p.m.: YoungestBoy returns. DaycareKid wakes. Neighbor Mom calls–take opportunity to discuss yesterday.
4:00 p.m.: CuteBaby wakes. Feed bottle. Neighbor kids arrive.
4:30 p.m.: DaycareKid mom arrives to pick up DaycareKid.
5:00 p.m.: Neighbor kids leave. Boil spaghetti noodles, warm sauce and meatballs.
5:15 p.m.: CuteBaby’s mom arrives and takes him home.
5:30 p.m.: Eat dinner.
6:00 p.m.: Send boys outside. Babygirl goes for ride with Daddy. I vacuum, fold laundry, read email.
6:30 p.m.: Babygirl gets a bath.
7:00 p.m.: Sit with Babygirl while she watches video. Read book, fall asleep.
8:00 p.m.: Babygirl goes to bed. Watch “Survivor.”
9:00 p.m.: Watch “Apprentice.”
10:00 p.m.: Write this lame blog post.
11:00 p.m.: Go to bed.

Tomorrow: Lather, rinse, repeat.

Actually, tomorrow I’m taking my mother out for dinner. My husband gave me $100 cash to spend on it, but my mother and I agreed: let’s have a reasonably priced dinner, then go shopping with the rest of the money! So, that’s what we’ll do. We plan to have dinner at a waterfront seafood restaurant that serves the best clam chowder and fish and chips.

Boring. I warned you.

I Plead the Fifth

In a moment, when the clock reads 5:00 p.m. (PST), I ask that you turn to your friend or foe and offer a “high five” in honor of the fifth day of the fifth month of the fifth year . . . and then, either eat five cookies or drink a fifth of something, because, after all, this won’t happen again for approximately one thousand years.

And then, if you are really on the ball, you can repeat this in fifty-five minutes, to commemorate 5:55 p.m. (PST) on 5/5/05. Eat five more cookies. Who’s counting?

That’s all.

An Honest-to-Goodness Rant

The only thing worse than your own kid mouthing off to you is the neighbor kid sassing you. And what’s terrible is when you raise your hand in a “STOP” gesture during a heated conversation with the neighbor kid and he flinches.

Two brothers in our neighborhood want to play over here all the time. My boys sometimes welcome them enthusiastically, but often reluctantly because these brothers, age 7 and 9, fight, argue, cry, whine, and call my boys names. Constantly. They can not play nice. And they probably also run with scissors.

I was in the kitchen at about 5:30 p.m., working on dinner. DaycareKid and CuteBaby had gone home and I was sweating over a gourmet meal of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese and fishsticks when I heard the 9 year old boy screaming, “MY MOM CAN SUE YOU!” I went to check and found TwinBoyA holding YoungestBoy’s arms behind his back while the neighbor kid stood shouting at them.

I stood between them and asked what was going on–but neighbor kid kept interrupting. “I WANT MY MEMORY CARD BACK!” (Now, this was a Nintendo dispute and the key information is that memory cards store information for games and furthermore, last week, the neighbor kids returned my boys’ game–Animal Crossing–with a lot of their progress and data messed up. YoungestBoy cried all night about being turned into a virtual piece of wood and having their town deserted and full of weeds because of what the neighbor kids did to the game.)

Every time I started to get answers, neighbor kid would interrupt and shout. HE SHOUTED AT ME. Uh, hello? I’m the grown-up here. (Would you have ever dreamed of shouting at a neighborhood mom when you were a kid?) This kid shows no respect for adults and, in fact, I’ve caught him stealing and then lying about it in my house. (He stole my husband’s lollipop and then lied to me about it.) Neighbor kid shouted, “He’s trying to wreck our game!” I said, “Well, you wrecked his game when you had his memory card last week!” He said, “We did NOT!” Which is a lie. Meanwhile, YoungestBoy is crying.

Then, neighbor kid grabbed for the memory card–but I stopped him by reaching out and holding his arm. (I couldn’t believe I reached out and touched him because everyone knows you should never touch a child who does not belong to you. Even in your own home. Even if said kid is making your own kid cry. I immediately let go.) I still didn’t know what had happened because neighbor kid wouldn’t stop talking. I turned to him, looked him right in the face, raised my hand in a “STOP” sign and said, “Stop talking! I’m trying to figure out what happened here!”

At last, I was able to ask YoungestBoy if he was finished with the memory card. He was, so I took it out and gave it to neighbor kid. YoungestBoy didn’t do anything to sabotage neighbor kid’s game–he just wanted to send a letter to someone in the neighbor kid’s town and then get back to his own town.

Such drama.

So, neighbor kid left with a red face and tears in his eyes. I’d be happy if he never came back again.

Later, I asked each of my boys separately what happened before I came into the room. TwinBoyA informed me that YoungestBoy hit the neighbor kid. I called in YoungestBoy. “Did you hit the neighbor kid?” He said, “Yes, because he called me an idiot! Twice!” I asked why and he explained that neighbor kid was mad because he thought YoungestBoy was ruining his game.

“Next time you have a problem, don’t hit, okay? Call for help, all right?” Hitting is extremely out of character for YoungestBoy. I was surprised.

So now, I’m going to have to call the neighbor kids’ mom and explain to her what happened. Neighbor kid is a liar, so who knows what tale he told? I know it’s horrible, but I am sick to death of dealing with this bratty kid!

I marked the calendar for two weeks. We are taking a two-week break from the neighbor kids. I don’t need the pain of dealing with someone else’s undisciplined kids, especially when I’m not getting paid for it!

Okay. Rant over.

When Petals Fall

The petals fell from my tulips this week which triggered the memory of that awful April so many years ago when Paul borrowed a car and rigged it up so he could breathe carbon monoxide and die. Then Diane, quoting T.S. Eliot, speaks in my head:
APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
But before the slugs finish feasting on the fallen petals, May pushes aside April and it seems too late to linger on the still surreal events of that long ago April night when Paul left us all without saying good-bye. Oh sure, he left some clues–an article he wrote called “Ten Acceptable Things to Do After Junior-Senior Banquet” (for instance, bowling: acceptable) and the video tape of “The Big Chill” playing on the hall television–but no one connected the dots until after the police found the car and poor Gerard had to identify the body because he owned the car. And then we shook our heads and sobs shook our bodies and we trembled in collective grief. A silent chill fell over that college campus as we tried to come to grips with his suicide.

Paul never imagined a life beyond that April night and so each April, I imagine for him, wonder at what might have been, ponder the seismic shock that continues to ripple the waves even twenty years after his desperate night. Twenty years came and went. And the petals still fall every spring, bringing a quiet end to their vibrant moments in the sun.

The tulips will be back, though, next year. They always return after the dark winter passes. Paul is gone forever.

What?

Did you hear that? Listen.

You don’t hear anything? Me, either! That, my friends, is the rare sound of silence.

DaycareKid = absent.
Babygirl = napping.
CuteBaby = napping.
Youngestboy = at school for another thirty minutes.
Twin Boys = with dad at meeting with mentor teacher.

Me? Diet Coke, blogs, blinders on so as to not notice the scattered debris on the floor.

Oh, that silence also means one more thing: the laundry is finished and a better housewife would jump up and go fold it.

I am not that housewife. I must enjoy this quiet while I can.

Weekend Update Featuring Reading List

I’d like to write something profound, words strung together that twinkle together like Christmas lights on a dark night.

But I can’t because I have to catch up on my school-at-home paperwork. I have a terrible case of senioritis, only I’m not a senior and this isn’t my last semester. I can barely drag myself through the motions of quizzing my boys on their spelling words and encouraging them to complete their history lessons. School here ends about mid-June, so I just have to hang on a little longer. And I promised to finish those records tomorrow for my “mentor teacher.”

The curtain falls on another weekend in which my husband worked a fifteen hour day on Saturday and then preached Sunday morning, attended a meeting and then napped the afternoon away while I busied myself cleaning and decluttering and being snippy with Babygirl who was on my heels all afternoon, slowing me down. I bought a big computer desk at a garage sale for twenty bucks, so I’m transferring all the boys’ school books and materials to the shelves built into this desk. But no one really cares that I am sequential and that interruptions drive me to the brink. Especially Babygirl.

At 7:00 p.m., I quickly exited my house. I thought I’d figure out my destination as I drove . . . but as usual, I had no place to go. I’m telling you, I need that apartment. In fact, the commenters on this blog tell me they need an apartment, too, so I think an apartment complex for moms, a “Momplex,” is an excellent, possibly copyrightable idea. Who’s in?

Meanwhile, here is a list of the books I’ve recently read:

The Kite Runner;
Pride and Prejudice;
Deception Pass; and
One for the Money.

Next up: Jayber Crow, by Wendell Berry, which comes highly recommended.

But first, I have to finish those stupid attendance records.

A Place of One’s Own

I hate to admit my shortcomings, but I have to start by saying that I never read Virginia Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own. But the title of that book appeals to me as an introvert, as a hermit, as a girl with a messy house because of the slobs kids who live with me. I crave solitude, some days more than others.

Babygirl is suffering from another cold, which means that I am also suffering from her cold. Futhermore, she’s insufferable and determined to skip her nap each afternoon. The other day, I gave up and by 5:00 p.m., she was shrieking and kicking in her crib, throwing the Mother of All Fits. Impressive, yet . . . annoying.

I had to outlast her today. I put DaycareKid to bed at 1:00 p.m. Then, at 1:30 p.m., I rocked CuteBaby to sleep. I allowed Babygirl to watch “one more show,” until 2:00 p.m., and then I used the remote control and clicked off the television and said in a cheery voice, “Time for night-night!”

“No night-night,” she said as she slid off the bed and went to push the power button on the set. I aimed the remote and clicked it off again. I picked her up and deposited her back on the bed. She began to cry.

Ever resolute, she climbed down again and pointed her finger at the power button. I scooped her up and dropped her back into bed.

The soundtrack I like to call “Toddler Mahem” (aka screaming, crying without tears, shrieking) accompanied this dramatic mother-daughter struggle. She hollered, screamed, chanted. At one point, she turned around so she could kick me as I laid with my back to her, feigning sleep. As if I could sleep through the racket. She did not enjoy my immobilizing her ankles.

In the midst of this, I telephoned my husband, just so I could say, “Hey, I wanted to share the joy of motherhood,” while holding the phone to my tantrum-throwing girl, but he was at the post office and said, “I’ll call you back.” Now, what fun is that? When he called back, I let the answering machine pick it up because I was busy ignoring the pitiful cries of my only daughter.

At one point, she begged to go to her brother’s bed. I counted on my fingers, silently, one, two, three, four, five, then said aloud, “NO!” I did this about ten times in a row. We had quite a rhythm going for awhile, but it sure added to her fury. So I shut up and drowned out her distressing cries by promising myself grand promises: The second my husband comes home, I’m going to go . . . but I couldn’t think of where I would go. Where could I go? I began to fantasize about a place where moms could go, a living room where you could get a Diet Coke with Lime and read a People magazine without anyone interrupting or getting snot on your clothes. A neighborhood Moms Only clubhouse where kids weren’t allowed and husband dared not enter. A place where nobody knows your name–“Mom!”

And then it hit me. What I really want is an apartment of my own. Not just a room, but an entire apartment . . . a place where the carpets would stay clean, where the bathroom counters would never be smeared with toothpaste and the toilet rims wouldn’t be peppered with pee. I don’t need a big apartment, either. A one-bedroom would be fine, as long as the bathroom has a gigantic tub with jacuzzi jets. (Hey, I’m dreaming–I can have a big fancy tub if I want.) I want a place where I don’t have to constantly clean up messes I didn’t make, a place where the fridge holds premium ice cream and fresh lemons, a place where the remote control doesn’t disappear every single day.

After thirty-five minutes, Babygirl stopped screaming. I gingerly stepped out of the room and heard CuteBaby’s angry screams. His short nap had ended and he was indignant to find himself alone. Luckily, he’s a sweet, easy-to-please baby, so a bottle cured all that ailed him and he happily rolled on the floor while I watched “Dr. Phil.”

Soon my three boys returned, one of their friends came over, Babygirl and DaycareKid woke up and the pace picked up. As usual.

But I kept my promise. When my husband arrived home (at 6:30 p.m.)–incidentally, while I was vacuuming–I said, “I’m leaving.” I realized I’d been the one to handle bedtimes for a solid week–he’s been gone for one reason or another every night–so I grabbed my keys without regard to my frightening hair and make-up-less face and practically sprinted out my front door.

I had premium ice cream (Cold Stone Creamery Rocky Road), wandered the bookstore, picked up sixty-four dollars worth of stuff at Target and returned home in time to watch “Survivor.” Only one more day until the weekend comes.

Unfortunately, my husband has an obligation all day Saturday and Sunday is church meeting day. But one day, I’ll have a place of my own. (I wonder if they’ll allow pets in the nursing home?)

A Rambling Tale With No Point

My alarm rang at 5:00 a.m. and I slapped it into submission and slept until 5:10 a.m. I showered, half-dried my tresses, pulled on the clothes I’d draped on the exercise bike last night, wore glasses and a Mr. Rogers sweater. I drove to CuteBaby’s house, arriving at 5:50 a.m. His mom had to go to her military job early again, just to check in. (No physical testing for her because she’s still on the maternity plan.)

I was back home by 7:00 a.m.

By 7:30 a.m., I had baked my first pan of homemade chocolate chip cookies to satisfy Babygirl’s directives: “I want cookies! I want cookies!” Frankly, I wanted cookies, too.

My very long day included:

–twin 12-year old boys who spent more time exchanging nonsense-talk than doing literature lessons;
–two and a half year old daughter who is still coughing, gagging and wiping snot on her sleeves;
–DaycareKid who is not catching on to potty-training (but, hey, at least I know now that he is not constipated);
–infinite laundry;
–really out-of-control, bad hair which I spent an inordinate amount of time contemplating today;
–and CuteBaby (but he took long naps today).

Oh. And a box came in the mail, which is generally cause for rejoicing. The box contained a giant, thick envelope from my mother-in-law. In the envelope were all the pictures I’ve sent her over the years (eighteen years, almost), including the sweet little Creative Memories scrapbook I made especially for her.

Only a few weeks ago, the same mother-in-law complained to me on the phone that I hadn’t sent her any pictures recently.

You figure that one out. I called my husband and he suggested she was preparing to die, which is a fairly morbid thing to say, but that demonstrates his sick sense of humor which is primarily why I love him so much.

We’ve recently been cracking up at the song-list we’re compiling for our imaginary twenty-fifth anniversary bash. (We hate parties. There will be no bash.) I suggested “Hard Habit to Break” and “Fifty Ways to Leave Your Lover.” He chose “If You Don’t Know Me By Now” and “If You Leave Me Now”. We think it would be hilarious to have these types of songs playing continuously in the background as partygoers clutch non-alcoholic drinks and little paper plates holding slabs of Costco cake. This joke–this pretend song-list–will go on for months, maybe years.

I also love him because he brought me salad for lunch at 2:30 p.m. when he called and I complained that I hadn’t had a chance to eat lunch yet. He brought Subway sandwiches for the boys’ dinner. When he returned home at 5:30 p.m. to find Babygirl imprisoned in her crib throwing a tantrum while I chatted with CuteBaby’s mom while she was picking him up–looking sweaty and disheveled, me, not her–he rescued Babygirl and she stopped crying long enough for him to transfer her to me.

After the switcharoo, she wrapped her sweaty arms around my neck and tried to steer me. No rocking chair. No kitchen chair. She insisted that I stand precisely in the center of the kitchen, no leaning on counters allowed. As you can imagine, this was great fun for me. Okay, it was annoying. My back began to ache.

My husband suggested he take her for a van ride, knowing she would scream, then sleep. That’s exactly what happened. While I buckled her in, she threw a fit worthy of any child seen on Nanny 9-1-1. That’s my sweetie-pie.

So the day ends. Mrs. Darling would be completely horrified if she saw the state of my carpets. She vacuums every day and once a week–ONCE A WEEK–she vacuums under all the furniture in her house (beds, dressers, everything). I am amazed, jealous and mostly, I wish I could hire her to be my Personal Vacuumer.

I want my floors to be vacuumed. I just want someone else to do it.

I am a horrible housewife. When I told my husband about Mrs. Darling’s spic-and-span carpets and lamented about my own dismal housewifery standards, he said, “That’s okay. I’m not a handyman, either, and you don’t hold that against me.”

And when I say, “I hate my hair! What shall I do with it?” He says, as if preprogrammed, “No matter what you do, I always like your hair.”

He’s a liar, but he’s my liar and he makes me laugh.