Posts Tagged ‘working moms’

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Watching the clock. Wearin’ some Lilly.

Tuesday, October 9th, 2012

I’m involved in some time management issues of late. Not unlike my builder.

“Oh, stupendous!” you are thinking. “I have so longed for some updates on the house that never would be.”

Glad you asked. When last we discussed it, my house was made of wood and wood alone. Now, it’s made of wood. With plywood stuck to it. That’s right, we’ve moved beyond the framing stage but only a micro-step. It rains nearly every day so he can’t put on the roof which would enable him to do all the other things inside (and enable us to live inside, eventually). So I drive by and very, very, very little changes. But my attitude does. Oh, it does, trust me. It gets worser and worser. Leading to time management issues.

Because what happens is that my fuse, which at the best of times is short, is now gone. I WAS, actually, doing better. I was being nice to the kids and not shouting and keeping calm and then suddenly the other day with no warning to anyone (including myself) I yelled a swear at a kid (it was not “fart” but it may have started with an f). She totally deserved it, it was her 1000′th freakout of the day, but still. I had been doing so well. And then bam–like as fast as when I was pregnant, without morning sickness at all, knock wood–and suddenly after eating chinese food I was like “I’m going to throw up RIGHT NOW”. In this case, I threw up a swear. At my kid. She’s heard it before.

The problem lately is that I have all my work to do and all my people (my children) want to manage my time and they don’t want it to be involved in work. On the RARE occasion that they attend school, I’m ok, but the Bee continues to stare at me with a new wrinkle: she yells Bobo BOBO BOBO at me. That is because she loves her stuffed monkey, Bobo, and thinks Curious George is him. And she wants to watch the same episode of Curious George that I shelled out a full $.99 for, on my iPhone, to keep her distracted on the plane one time–well, she just wants to watch that all the time.

This is like me and the Bee, if I wore a large yellow hat. Except I don't want to be attached to her ALL. THE. TIME. (just most of it. I love that last baby...)

I cannot let her. It will turn her brain to mush and be the reason she goes on drugs someday or doesn’t get to college. So I try to offer all the lame things around our house to do (HEY! play your legos. HEY! play your puzzle. HEY! Tear your sisters’ room apart). She doesn’t. She yells BOBO BOBO. So then we head to the gym (childcare) or head for a walk or head for an errand and I think to myself well, I’ll just do my work later tonight.

Here’s the problem. “Later tonight” I often want to: watch Castle, surf Pinterest, and drink wine. I do not want to do my work. I reason that I am grumpy and have had a hard day and I do not NOW want to do work. Instead, I indulge in my new hobby to try to allay my annoyance about having no house or winter clothes: I shop. I have been online shopping like…like what? I don’t even know an appropriate metaphor. Let’s just say I’ve ordered enough Lilly Pulitzer dresses to host sorority rush. Last year, I felt like I wore yoga pants every day and I knew I could do better. But this amount of Lilly may be  aggressive. They all seem too fancy for parent pickup.

What I kept thinking today was “I need more time. I need more hours”. This is AS I WAS WATCHING THE HOURS CLICK BY being yelled at “Bobo Bobo”. I need, really, hours to do my work uninterrupted. But I also need the desire to do it. I know, when I sit down and accomplish something, I feel good. And half the problem is I never get 44 seconds uninterrupted to send an e-mail, answer a call, or pee.

And if I had more hours I would likely just buy more dresses. And shoes. Because last night I went on Zappos.

What is wrong with me? I need a house. I need more babysitting. I need Publisher’s Clearing House to bring me a big check.

And I really, really need a good navy platform heel to match a dress that is just right for parent pick up line…

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Sweet wishes.

Tuesday, October 2nd, 2012

So aside from worrying about my little ones on drugs (they’re not) I’ve been wondering when the right time to have “the talk” is. The one about the birds and bees and by “wondering” I mean hoping I can put it off till they are in their freshman year. Of college.

Remember my plan? Preserve their innocence. Twitter’s not helping but luckily since she’s following God she’s hopefully ok. If I can get her to follow George W. Bush, with his stated desire to have the schools teach only abstinence, I guess I’m home free.

I know that obviously I have to talk to them at some point but here is what happened in the car today:

From the back, Coco or the Roo ask “Mommy, can you have a baby when you’re 20?”

Silence as I figure out how to answer this. Then, long drawn out answer as follows:

“Well, yes, but you’re so young. There’s so much you still will want to do with your life. You’ll want to go to Europe. You’ll want to sleep in. When you have a kid, it’s all about taking care of the kid. You don’t get to really do anything that you want to do (that was kind of a gentle reminder that I constantly am doing what THEY want me to do instead of what I want to but it was poorly timed as we were on the way home from our billionth trip back and forth from the storage unit which they decidedly did NOT want to do). You want to make sure you have enough money to take care of the baby. Babies and kids cost a lot of money (another not-subtle reminder that they owe us everything and should be appreciative and not go on drugs). 

I continued along in this vein for a bit. Then, from the back:

“Well, don’t babies just come?”

Obviously the next question if I said “No” was going to be “Well how do you get babies?” LUCKILY, the Hooter–I’m sure because she’s following God on Twitter, saved the day with her well-summed up answer.

“No, you have to wish for them”.

Discussion over.

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And we’re out

Thursday, August 23rd, 2012

It’s our last full day in North Carolina. I am PRETTY cranky but the hooter just made me laugh so hard that I figured that I’ll give you a play by play of how things are going.

I’m leaving on a jet plane tomorrow, but unfortunately not solo. My delightful Bee is coming as a lap baby and my parents have consented to drive in two cars (mine and theirs) up with the girls, summarily dumping them and our stuff in our new delightful rental (oh you didn’t know? my house isn’t finished yet. It’s barely started). I’m pretty sure they’ll slow down at least long enough to unload the stuff and the kids IF ONLY because they don’t want to be stuck with a kid any longer than they have to be, but alls I’m saying is those kids better move pretty darn quick getting out of the car, come Tuesday.

I get the Bee because of her penchant for kid music and only kid music. 2 1/2 hours on the plane is concentrated pain, we figured, better than spread-out-over-10-hours-in-the-car pain. I got her headphones for her birthday which are surely not pediatrician approved but which I hope will allow her to watch Curious George on my laptop and hold it together on the plane.

Anyway that’s the background. Here’s a few highlights of the day so far:

8am: Dad calls to say (for the 1 billionth time) he will be coming over soon to pack the car. He is super, super, super excited about this and has spent his time for a couple of weeks alternately routing different ways to take the trip on his iPad and designing schematics for packing the car. My mom has to look at and review each one (his rule not hers). He was genuinely disappointed to find that the challenge is made easier by the fact that I’ll have the baby’s carseat with me so that we can fold down the third row–one of the twins literally rode here packed in with computer gear and sand toys falling on her head.

8:15 am: I have got to PACK. STUFF. UP. First breakfast. We have random weird food so I have to have coffee with ensure shake instead of cream and it is far more disgusting than I thought it would be. The children eat the rest of the cereal which is all they like for ANY meal so again, here on out it’s water and french fries. That’s what we got.

9 am: Conference call for work. Because why not?

10 am: Pack all the random stuff in random bags with no rhyme or reason, similar to the method employed on the way here. Try to throw away a lot of junky toys that I didn’t think would last this long and get caught. Also, throwing away toys or indeed anything is a horrid experience because something went wrong in the trash cans and when you leave my front door you literally have to take a giant breath and RUN FOR THE CAR without breathing in through your nose or you think you will die. It’s like wicked old seafood that sat in the sun for 4 weeks. THAT is the smell and it bred vermin and I’m going to stop right here.

10:30: Dad comes at the appointed time and is again PRETTY disappointed that I fit things into so few bags as there’s hardly any skill needed to throw this amount in the back of a mini van (his not mine). Luckily over the next hour I find additional things (buckets of shells, random sets of markers, 45 tons of books from the eldest’s room who SWORE it was cleaned up, various Disney hoochie gear) that all has to get packed and will, in one million random small shopping bags.

12: Realize we have to return the twins’ stupid keyboard to Amazon that they got for their birthday because it doesn’t work so have to print return labels at my parents. I’ve offloaded the twins there but when I get there, they all decide to come home to a house without toys and then drop the return labels they’re supposed to be carrying so we make the same trip like 6 times back and forth. Remind myself that I have to be super nice to my dad to see if he’ll drop the boxes at UPS…

12:30: Baby takes my raspberry smoothie and dumps it on her face like a Super Bowl winning coach and turns bright pink head to toe. She’ll be spending the rest of the day in her diaper as all the clothes are packed. Oh well.

1: Kids, with nothing to do, begin to cook stuff that we have left. Carrots and spaghetti. They’re vaguely hungry having eaten frosted flakes and cake for dinner (fed by Grandpa, still smarting over lack of packing and not planning to keep them in his house for the afternoon, so willing to go along with a pure sugar lunch). Begin yelling that cooked carrots are the most delicious item they have ever had in their lives. Even though a, I’ve tried to give that to them one million times and b, their father is on record as “being allergic to cooked carrots” (simply because he dislikes them so immensely). What’s actually happened is their little bodies are so starved for any nutrition that they’re deluding them into true veggie love.

2: Baby offloaded to nap at my parents and the big girls decide to take a bath because the only thing we have left to do (now that carrots are cooked and eaten) is Mr. Clean pens that write on the bath. This is far advanced of their usual schedule of one bath per month, but they throw caution to the wind and all hop in. And then the eldest has to go to the bathroom and uses the last of the toilet paper. I said we better get more from Grandma and dead serious she thinks for a minute and says “Yes, because I’m going to have to go tomorrow morning”. That made me stop and laugh so hard. Here I am running around like a freak to pack this brood and she thinks MAYBE JUST MAYBE for four of us there’s a chance that one of us may need to use the bathroom before tomorrow.

Why is that so funny to me? Perhaps because I am now firmly this side of crazy.

See you in NJ!

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Crapbox 0, Potty Training (Tentative) 1

Monday, August 6th, 2012

Things aren’t that funny here. Our stupid new house isn’t finished in the sense of the Romans, looking at the ground that might one day be the Coliseum and thinking hmmm…one day this will be awesome! but it took a while–yes, that’s how our new house is. A vague promise of greatness without the man vs. lion fights (subbing in twins, for gladiators, and perhaps we’re actually close) but nowhere. near. a. place. to. live.

So great news! End of August, we’re leaving this crapbox of a rental to reunite with Daddy in a new crapbox of a rental.

I could complain but tell me honestly: who wants to listen? By which I mean, comment below so I can call you and complain.

Instead, I suffer in (blog-posting excepted) silence and decided to make lemons of lemonade.

To wit: turn the crapbox into an actual box that will contain crap.

To wit: Potty train the Bee.

Let’s look at history, shall we? The Hooter was trained at about 20 months. Why? Two new diaper-clad-butts arrived and everyone’s got limits so we boot-camped her into at least being potty-trained during the day and that cut us down to only 2 diaper-butts to change on a regular basis.

The twins weren’t bad; one, the Roo, is so stubborn that right before age two we explained potty training to her, showed her the kid potty, she flat out DIDN’T PEE FOR 3 DAYS, then sat on the potty, peed, and never had an accident. Ever. Even through the night. That is some good potty training.

The other one followed along fairly close, berated by the other two underpants-wearers (“Look at our fabulous Nemo panties. Aren’t you jealous of our Princess panties?” all said in baby-speak. Donezo.)

I mean, potty training stinks, I think, in the sense of for the first couple of days you’re like, as a mom, as you wipe up all manner of nastiness, “Gross-I-hate-potty-training-and-this-kid-will-never-get-it-and-what-was-I-thinking-and-diapers-rock-and-who-cares-about-potty-training” and then, like day whatever (whatever it takes your kid to get it) they get it. And you’re all “WHY DIDN’T I POTTY TRAIN THIS KID BEFORE? BECAUSE WIPING POO SUCKS.”

A little ambitious but she needs some new words. "Ferb" and "Mama" ain't gonna get her too far. ... *note--not my kid--mine are identifiable by cat-hair suits.

 

But here’s the fresh truth: things are never a big step away from suck, around here, in the crapbox–I mean, lots of little sweet things we’ll miss like watching Wheel of Fortune and yelling answers, seeing the grandparents alot–some new routines, that is. But also lots of lonely, lots of bickering…. So why not dive in to potty training?

Everyone’s been pretty on board with potty training the Bee in the sense that the Roo, the fastest ever to be potty trained EVER, has a bit of a reputation as the potty-whisperer. She’s subsequently if not trained, at least influenced two other pee-ers in training. She’s got a way about her. And she gamely said she’d be all over training the Bee.

So today, as the Bee innocently played toys and made no mischief caused no end of trouble all over our house, as usual, I saw that look on her face. That intent, I’m making a poo look. And I grabbed her and like Cheney at Defcon 5 started yelling “Get the Elmo potty seat get the wipes go go go” and the kids roused themselves from general malaise and bickering to help come point at the Bee and yell EEEEWWWWW.

So finally one got the seat, and with poo mid-air we got her on the seat, on the potty, and she sort of did a poopoo in the potty. Sort of. So we all clapped and let her flush for have I mentioned? Her favorite thing in all the world is flushing the damn toilet. She flushes everything with gleeful abandon. The Hooter had to be bribed with M&M’s which by a long and convoluted story involving her Halloween costume are now called “Bo Peeps” and the twins got some bribe or another but I’m sure we’ll be able to train this kid just by encouraging the flush.

So then I decided what the hell. We’re in a rental. If she pees and poos, I’ll wipe it up and bonus? it will probably help the cat hair all over the place form a paste-like substance and maybe we can get rid of it that much faster. So I let her run naked. Told the girls “KEEP A CLOSE EYE ON THE BEE”.

Fast forward 4 minutes. She pooed like a champ on the kitchen floor and everyone again went to pieces yelling “poo, poo”. Worst helpers ever. But did it mess up my new hardwoods? Did it sully a new couch? No it did not. Instead, I was able to take a wipe, throw it and its coating of cat hair in the trash, and we moved on.

Oh I’ll train that baby down here, mark my words, help or no help (useless big sisters). And if not here, in the upcoming Jersey crapbox. This baby can run naked for 5 months, for all I care–she’s got a cute tush.

Make lemons of lemonade. Or a training situation out of a crapbox.

Pass the vino, please.

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Does anyone else hear that background noise?

Tuesday, July 31st, 2012

Q: What are, conceivably, the loudest places possible to take a conference call?

A1: My current rental house–all hardwoods, doors that won’t close, and 14 foot echo-y ceilings
A2: A construction site with buzz saws and dropping wood planks
A3: The Wilmington Children’s Museum
A4: A rave concert

I’ve done quite a few in Answer 1, my home (Typical Participants: me. whomever I’m on the phone with. the Bee. Phineas. Ferb. the other kids, shouting–even if four seconds prior they were all quietly engaged, even if they’ve sworn to keep it quiet, please, please, so mommy doesn’t get fired, just for fifteen minutes.) My old home at least allowed me the option to hide places; the only place I can hide here is the girls’ bathroom and it’s soundproof only if you consider an echo-y small room with a non-locking door soundproof.

I don’t know if they still have rave concerts? Answer 4 was just to show the juxtaposition of the extraordinarily loud options I have at my disposal. Note that a quiet office is NEVER one of the options.

The other day, I had a call that I had to take. In the last week, 95% of my calls have been cancelled. As I prepare for those calls, I get the baby settled with water in the sink for her to catch and dump out (all over herself), or give her some yogurt (to dump out all over herself), or give her some bubbles (to…you get the picture, we’re averaging 87 outfits a day here) and I go to take the call and it’s just me. Which is great, as when I’m the participant and leader I don’t care if it’s noisy. Which it always is.

Also, the call I had is one that typically lasts 3.5 minutes. Inclusive of roll call. So I knew it would be fine to announce my presence, put the phone on mute, and I’d be set. I was required to be at the children’s museum a), because it’s the only place in this city my children get along and b), because they were having a cooking class, cooking “trifle”. I kept chuckling to myself thinking of Rachel cooking trifle on friends and putting in peas and ground beef, but the children’s museum went with the traditional pudding and cake.

What's not to like?

Last week my mom took them to their cooking class because I had a conference call and it did  NOT go well. The visit, not the call–I don’t even remember the call. Suffice to say my mom is willing to help out and do a lot with her own grandkids but is fully over other mothers and their kids (truth be told I often feel that very same way which is why as the youngest of four the Bee is signed up for precisely zero classes). She took them to make fruit salad and the class was too young and the mommies too pushy and she dropped them off home and I could tell all she wanted to do was punch me in the face.

So if they were going to trifle, I had to take ‘em. And I messed up the time, even, so I could have at least started the call from my quiet(er) house but no, start to finish was at the Children’s Museum. Everyone likes a challenge!

First sign that things were going to be rough: everyone dialed in. Second sign: there was, shockingly, no quiet place at the Children’s Museum. That is because it is 107 in the shade here so every kid in Wilmington is at the Children’s Museum or the Snake-a-torium (that’s a real thing. We’re not going.) Third sign: everyone kept asking me questions so I’d have to look around, hope it was quiet, unmute the phone, answer real fast, re-mute the phone, and then check 75 times to make sure it was really muted. I did take really good notes since my kids were engaged in things other than yelling in my face so that was a plus. However, during one particularly interactive part, I was forced to haul it outside and sit on the recycling bin where my butt almost got stuck in the aluminum recycles hole and there was a construction project going on, OF COURSE, 10 feet away. So my answers above were a bit of a trick–answer 2 and answer 3 are one and the same!

Finally I dropped kids in cooking WHILE on the phone and whispered I was moving the car (which I did actually have to do) and spent the last 15 minutes talking in the air conditioned car (and contributing a LOT). And then I walked in to find them at cooking and the construction guy said “Ma’am? Ma’am? You’ve got white stuff all over your butt.” (Recycling-bin based, no doubt).

At least someone’s paying attention to my butt. I consider it a win.

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Having it all

Thursday, July 26th, 2012

I have been seeing lots of posts and blog entries about whats-her-name, Melissa Mayer? The one that is now going to run Yahoo. And can she have it all.

Note I have been seeing them but not reading them. I prefer not to cloud my own blog posts and indeed, opinions, with the opinions of others, instead just spouting off whatever I think. But the other day I was on twitter for the second reason ever to use twitter (one: following Jeff Probst tweeting live while viewing Survivor. Two: following Howie Mandel since my kid wants to, during America’s Got Talent). All of the mommy bloggers who are associated with my twitter feed were all abuzz with can Melissa Mayer, in fact, have it all.

I’m sure no one cares about my opinion on this. However, I shall offer it nonetheless. I do remember being in Melissa’s shoes, SOMEWHAT…thinking that when I had my eldest I’d head straight back to work, and the nanny would watch her, and she’d come on trips, and it would be super duper fun. Then it all went to crap…first because I didn’t want to leave her, ever, second because the job just on its own went to crap.

So sort of in her shoes but hers are probably Christian Louboutin’s instead of NineWest, 5 years old. She doesn’t know what she can do till she has that baby, or what she’ll want to do, and she can say all she wants she’ll head back and then maybe that baby will smell super good and have cute fat thighs and she won’t want to go. Or maybe she’ll not want to go but realize she needs more dough, and have to go.

But what I started thinking is what is it really to have it all? What does that even mean? Who do I know that has it all? I have a couple of friends who by choice do not work, stay home with kids, are wonderful wives to their husbands (i.e., make dinner for them and it’s different sorts of dinners. I typically put some meat product that I don’t like to touch in a bowl of cold water to defrost and point to the grill.) I’m pretty sure these friends aren’t as shouty to their husbands as I am but I think they have less stress.

But you see I THINK THAT. I very well may be wrong. I know one’s worried a lot about how hard her husband works. So does she have it all, when part of what she has is that worry?

Other friends are more vocal about what they don’t have…time to relax. Time to go out without babysitter guilt. A better career. Any career. I think it’s all just a matter of grass is always greener. Because I think to myself, what does it mean to ME to have it all? What is the all I want?

I want to be in charge of a marketing department, for sure. I want my career to be more than marketing consulting. I want to really be IN CHARGE, driving strategy. But I also want to see my sweet Bee every day. I want to raise children who look others in the eye and answer them, who are thoughtful and think of people other than themselves. Who respond to “How are you?” with a solid answer, then ask a question back and listen to the answer.

I also want to be in really good shape and I am in ok shape, much better than I ever was, but my belly sticks out. I also want to eat cheese and drink wine so in those cases the wanting it all is directly antithetical. I want to read books all the time and sit around being lazy, AND want to be up to date on summer tv (I haven’t watched Royal Pains since I’ve been down here and I’m worried about those fellas), AND I want to feel like I accomplished something at the end of the day. I want to be inspired by my work but then also want to be able to do it while providing guidance to my kids.

Also I want to sleep.

So I want it all but it’s my all. And everyone’s definition of what their all is, is different. Yes? And I remember someone saying you CAN have it all. You just can’t have it all, at the same time. I TRIED to run a marketing department while being around my baby. It’s really, really tough to work full-time remotely with direct reports. I did it, but it’s really hard. And it all came tumbling down. Maybe I’ll get there sometime. Maybe having it all instead will mean kids who look people in the eye and get in to college as good kids and having “it all” will be a hot car, not a smelly crapmobile to drive 1000 people places.

Sometimes, my all is the feeling of satisfaction that there’s no one here for 3 hours, I got a BUNCH of work done, I don’t have blogs to post because I got them out, I’m ahead of projects…and I went to the gym. That is my having it all today and it is marked as well by NOT having my children up in my grill for those blessed 3 hours. And if I had them gone overnight to grandma’s I’d be missing them desperately.

My all will change…so will Melissa Mayer’s, I bet. I’m working on focusing on my all right now. And remembering  the sign in my kitchen: no, no, not “Cafe“.

We may not have it all together. But together, we have it all.

And that is the end of my sermon for today.

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Here we go.

Sunday, June 24th, 2012

*Note: Moving day was today. It was a disaster. Luckily, I’m now at the Hilton on vino number 2 and it’s all behind me. Funny post on that soon. Here’s what I wrote as I prepared to move. I’m not going to re-read it…I’ll cry.

We’re done. We’re leaving our house. Here’s what happened here.

  • My oldest was born. She came home to a nursery hand-painted with Pooh scenes. She didn’t sleep in it until she was 7 months, instead sleeping with mommy, cuddled like a teddy bear and crying for 4 seconds if she got put down. And I loved it, while at the same time I wanted my space.
  • I had a great job that turned horrid. I got a call that they moved my office to a mold-filled cesspool and I sat at my kitchen table and looked at my mom, who was visiting, and I was crying and wondering how I could find a new job that would let me still see this sweet baby. Because she needed to be held. All the time. By me. And I felt so trapped.
  • I started consulting and realized I wasn’t trapped at all.
  • My eldest moved out to her pink room. Because the twin girls came home. “You’re having a boy, you’re having a a boy, you’re having a boy” they screamed at me from cars, from grocery store aisles, from wherever. I hauled it around a conference in Washington, DC 37 weeks pregnant, wearing clogs because that’s all that fit. Newt Gingrich and Coach K both took pictures patting my twin-filled belly.  And I had twin girls. And they were divine. And I spent 3 months holding both of them, all the time, because they were fussy around daddy. And Daddy was fussy around them. And now he can handle 4 girls, no sweat. But that’s a fast forward.

    What's up, well cropped picture!!

Hey Coach K! Can my kids come to Duke?? They're pretty short but we'll work on their shooting!

  • I started Detours and OnRamps. From a brainstorm in my basement office. So that other people didn’t have to feel trapped in their jobs.
  • I won an award for Women Changing The World (from Avon), for Detours, on a day I’d spent crying and on a day my best friend and partner had spent crying. And we thought, maybe this is a good idea.
  • I spent two weeks away from this house. In the hospital, with a 5-year-old whose appendix was a stinker. As her 4 year old twin sisters travelled the rails like hobos, practically, searching for a place to call home as friends and relatives pitched in to help watch them. As her daddy worked in the city and called the hospital to check on his baby maybe every 4 minutes. And I missed this house and this center of our family universe.
  • I spent hours and hours on my couch, after a day “working for real”, to work some more. On Detours. On other work projects that got shoved aside from chasing kids. And spent hours and hours watching my favorite shows–my eldest and I would watch the games of Survivor, eating a snack, while the twins napped. Then they all watched Phineas and Ferb while I caught up with some news and some vino and made some dinner. Hours and hours and hours on a couch.
  • I hosted Christmases, over and over. With my whole family around me. And we bickered. And I cried when they left. And finally, many many years in, got to the point that I didn’t cry when they left because I felt like this was my family, instead of my family had just left me. That was maybe just last year. Being honest.
  • My brother called me here, in this house, to say he was getting married. And we hosted my sister in law’s shower here. Because we adore her. And then her baby shower here. Because we adore her.
  • My sister called me here, in this house, to say she was getting married. And we all cried. Because we’ve been waiting for this kind of wonderful for Aunt Erin.
  • I pulled out every dead bush and horrid weed with my mom helping? Directing? Doing? What’s the right word? She had a vision, we worked together, but she worked MUCH harder, and the gardening I hated turned into a garden that’s pretty. And that I did, all by myself. I mean, with my mom.
  • I figured out how to work a generator after the fourth time the basement flooded and I hauled all the crap out. I figured out how to work the lawnmower, pull-cord and all, till I figured out the Hedgehog folks did a kick-ass job for $32/week. I figured out how to fix the craptastic internet connections to keep the Wi-Fi alive and the in-general craptastic hot mess that is a 30 year old house.
  • I spent hours and hours at my dining room table working away, consulting, when I’d rather be running a marketing department or traveling around…but I watched my kids grow, from here, and I knew this was right. For NOW.
  • I made some great new mommy friends. I realized some of my new friends were a little crazy. I lost a few mommy friends. I felt alone a LOT of times. And then I figured who amongst my friends wasn’t crazy. I figured out who was a friend for life–someone I’d trust my kid to sleep over, for a very first time. I let my kid have a sleepover. I realized that that very kid drove me mental and yet I still loved her to distraction and that she was still the little baby that slept with me every night for 7 months and now she wasn’t only not in her own bed, she wasn’t in my own house. But I knew she was ok. Because I knew I had friends I could really count on and I finally felt secure.
  • We lived through unemployment. We lived through unemployment while being pregnant. We lived through fights and arguments and we came out ahead, at the end. We came out really strong when some people thought we might not.
  • We had one more baby that one of us wanted so badly and the other of us fell in love with, moment one. A new baby who completed a family we never felt was incomplete. A baby who we all are 100%, impossibly and completely, in love with. A baby who won’t remember her inherited Pooh nursery, or this house.

We have a sign above our sink. I’m not a sign person, but I have this sign. It says “We may not have it all together, but together we have it all.” I’ll miss this house because it’s the house I brought my babies home to and the house when I became a family. Not just me and my husband.

But I know that together, we have it all.

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The countdown to moving goes on…

Monday, June 18th, 2012

All of a sudden I’m starting to realize it’s me and these four fools this summer.

We’re headed off to North Carolina while my husband stays up here, subletting in the city. Because he has a job. In the city.

I have a job too but I can do it wherever, IF I am not: providing full-time childcare for my children, operating an activity-filled day-camp like atmosphere, keeping a house filled with food, and providing teachable and enriching moments. What I mean by this is: I work from my own house with some limited babysitting help primarily by letting the baby get into everyone’s stuff and write on the walls, working like a fiend during naps, and sending the big girls to school. Elmo’s called in, in a pinch, and what needs to get done, gets done.

But this summer it’s me. No schools. And I’m realizing that while my husband isn’t the one who buys the groceries, or packs everything, or does the billion things I do–he is the one, this weekend, who when I had a migraine, hung out with all the girls downstairs–making a giant mess with the 7 toys that are left in my house, but still, they were out of my orbit while I lay there hating migraines. He is the one who watches cartoons with them on Saturday for an hour so I can catch up on fine literature and improve my mind read Fifty Shades of Grey and see what all the fuss is about.

Yes, he throws random barbecues that entail extra work for me precisely when I don’t need it. But he also is the one who wears a spiderman shirt because it’s the baby’s favorite one (I know, KNOW she is going to say Spiderman before she says mommy).

And I will report post-bbq that he did most of the work. Not most of the clean up but still.

He is the one who tries to get them to play t-ball, even if they’re all wearing Lily Pulitzer dresses and sandals while doing it. He’s the ONLY ONE who will play board games with them because I vociferously despise board games and when left to their own devices, they play for 3 minutes and then begin yelling and the baby climbs on the game and starts crinkling the money. He’s the one, when I’m engaged in a battle of wills with the eldest, who will just walk in and turn out her light or whatever–that is, he is not engaged in the ongoing discipline and minute-by-minute rule making and deal making but he’s then able to make the final punishment and not care, one iota, when she yells and screams. He is literally unmoved. We need that around here. We made a point, in the new house, of getting hollow doors because we answered, truthfully, “We’re door slammers” when asked. Not him though.

This weekend I looked out the window, after he’d come down and announced he was going to take the baby for a walk. I looked out, and he didn’t put her in a stroller or her wagon or anything. He just held her hand and they headed down the block. They have the same shape and they walk just the same, kind of like waddling ducks, and I know that beyond the fact that it’s all on me, that I won’t have time to read soft core porn without someone shouting that they need something to eat… Beyond the fact that all my time is their time, even more than ever…Beyond all that, my baby is going to miss her daddy and won’t even understand.

I think that’s the hardest part so far.

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Now THAT is inappropriate

Thursday, June 14th, 2012

Today, because I’m crazy I’m a moron I am the best mom ever I pulled my kids out of school at noon to haul them to the Pochanos, home of the beautiful Mount Airy Lodge, the Pochonos Snake and Animal Farm, and the temporary visiting place of their second cousins who they never get to see. I did this because we had nothing really going on, I mean aside from moving, my full-time job, and oh yes, one kid’s dress rehearsal for the dance recital (remember? No tattoos, full-but-tasteful-makeup, BRING IT).

If you grew up in the northeast you remember these ads. We didn't go here. Silly, it's not kid friendly! We hit the snake farm though.

As a quick serious aside, one of the main reasons I did this is because I heard some terrible news about a little girl my eldest, who’s now 8, used to play with yesterday; she’s quite ill and fighting for her life and we’re sending so many prayers her way. I spent my day crying yesterday for her family and hugging my children. And so, knowing her mom would love to take her baby for five hours to an animal farm, instead of sitting in a hospital, off we went, playing hooky from work for 4 hours.

On the way there, there was a lengthy discussion in between shouting that always happens in the car (I’m bored I’m bored I’m bored I’m bored)…I seem to remember that if I ever said that in the car at age 6-8 someone would threaten to pull it over and dole out a smack. These people want constant stimulation and in fact today even offered a lament that there was “nothing to hold on to” in the back like we were on a roller coaster. The “utter boredom” that they were experiencing was not enough of a clue that we weren’t on a roller coaster. FYI we were in the car for 71 minutes. Including stopping at Dunkin Donuts. So my trip to North Carolina, upcoming, where we will be in the car for approximately 71 hours, is going to go swimmingly.

Anyway, the discussion was about how when we were, post snake-and-animal-farm visit, peeling out to get to the dress rehearsal on time, the kid in question needed to cooperate and put on her stuff in the backseat. “Without my underwear?” (that’s a rule by the dance school, no visible panty lines). “THAT IS INAPPROPRIATE” thundered my eldest, the bastion of what is and isn’t inappropriate. Her rules apply to clothing and behavior but not her own. To wit: she bellows in the face of any of her sisters 24-7 like a little weird demon.

The cousins we were visiting deserve a bit of a mention here because since I have four girls, these cousins, a little girl and a boy, were the first intro to we’re not quite all the same. After the little boy, on one of his earliest visits, got a diaper change observed by a twin, she was introspective for a couple days.
Then: “Mommy, J (our baby) has a fine butt.”
Me: “Yes?”
Her: “T (cousin) has a funny butt. He has a hot-dog butt”.

So we had a little talk about it all that she tuned out of 4 seconds in but got a little refresher in, today. Stay tuned, sports fans.

We went through the snake farm and then had our ice cream with cousins and then hopped in the car quasi-on-time and headed off to dance dress rehearsal–where you know that if they made rules such as “no temporary tattoos, no visible tan lines” for 6 year olds there wasn’t going to be a lot of lee-way around “Get your kid here 15 minutes before your start time of 4:42″. I pulled into the parking lot of the high school having gone pretty much the speed limit all the way home from PA at precisely 4:26, SIXTEEN minutes ahead of time, just enough time to park, scrape hair that’s bobbed and too short into a bun with 90 clips, grab all four out of the car, and make it by the deadline. It occurred to me that normal mothers don’t schedule their children’s lives so that there is a 4 second window and a multi-state commute to get to significant (or insignificant) activities but if we hadn’t gone to the animal farm, we’d have missed this:

We’re walking through. There’s pigs, and bunnies, and snakes we went by REAL fast because I. Hate. Snakes. There’s a bear, super cute, who sits and eats food you shoot down a tube (my kids were unimpressed, all “We see bear all the TIME on our playground“.) There was also a TON of monkeys engaged in various antics. Playing, asking for food, and then one forward little dude. He was about one foot tall, total. He was all jumping around by his window, and then all bent over in half. I’m down the hall, and hear, as they’re all gathered around, “Mommy, what’s this monkey doing?” I head over and the monkey has his business fully out and about and even though he is one foot tall, his business is QUITE obvious and not at all proportional. The monkey is engaged in an act that is ENTIRELY inappropriate, by anyone’s standards, on himself. This kid, my one kid, who calls a spade a spade and a hot-dog-butt, a butt, in this case called it: “It looks like he’s eating his butt”.

Indeed.

And that is the end of our learning for today.

Dude. Get a champagne glass.

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Bar-Be-QUE!

Thursday, June 7th, 2012

Certain days of marketing consulting are very rewarding. For instance, when I do a big meeting and all the people leave and I’m all by myself for 5 minutes, that’s rewarding and I love my job then (especially if I’m kicking back with a glass of vino). Many other days of marketing consulting are crap, such as today. It’s been a day of pretty much every client telling me or perhaps IMPLYING that I am a giant moron.

The pro of marketing consulting and working from home is being around for my kids while still being engaged in something besides…my kids. The con is I am not in charge of stuff like I used to be and people can, and do, make me feel like a moron by second-guessing dumb things, giving me only dumb things to do, or by saying things such as “You’re a moron”. That didn’t really happen but I felt it was implied.

What I would like to do is sit down and write about it but that’s not super professional. I am somewhat restricted in my blogging because I don’t want to actually name my kids (though, in a baby step, a nickname is included below). I’ve been told by my husband to leave him out of it. I can’t talk a ton about clients because it’s boring, one, and two, they’d find out and stop hiring me. With all those rules one has to be broken so I’m going to relay, here, the latest act of crazy around these parts because it’s funny. And better than thinking about how annoyed my work made me.

As it is June we’ve got just a couple things going on. Like year-end celebrations every. single. day. I know that many of you are in the same boat and also that the grass is always greener but one of my friends was lamenting the fact that because she works she couldn’t get to her child’s award ceremony and I was like WATCH WHAT YOU WISH FOR. Because these “end of’s” are every day. And they’re sweet, of course, but also time-consuming. The baby cut one short the other day, due to general unruliness. It was the 50-year time capsule opening at one kid’s school, and they were doing a nice job of it, flag salute and all. Now I believe I’ve mentioned that the baby isn’t talking like she’s supposed to. Except she’s turned a bit of a corner.

She still only has a few reliable words, like “Bobo” (her monkey) and “bubbles” (her favorite thing) and Coco (her favorite sister). It’s frustrating to some of us that she’ll yell Bobo all day long but won’t ever give up a “Mommy”. Well, evidently she’ll also yell Coco all day long, because she did, at top volume, as they were trying to hoist the flags with some degree of solemnity.

She’s also super, super into animal sounds now and if she was either a zookeeper or that damned Diego she’d be in tip-top shape. She can roar, she can grr (in case the bear comes back) and she can also do Moo. Ba. And La-La-La for the three singing pigs. She has a variety of dog barks and the other day I had to get up and go see why it sounded like a poodle convention in the playroom–she’d found her dog slippers and was “Woof! Woof! Woof!”ing in a very delicate little voice.

So anyway, after the round of “Coco’s” and before the barking began I left the ceremony. We came home to check the calendar. Ballet dress rehearsal, swimming lessons, brownie bridging, all this stuff. Gymnastics, which we’ve forgotten every time, since we signed up for Saturday classes, when everyone’s not thinking about classes but lying about like sloths watching cartoons and throwing cereal all over the family room floor. T-ball. Add in, the twins are taunting me with a made-up disease. Every other day the school calls and tells me they have a rash. I go get them. The rash disappears. Today I was like WE’RE GOING TO THE DOCTOR. They snuck us in the back so the rash wouldn’t get on any of the other sick kids. Guess what? Rash disappeared. The doctor thinks I’m crazy, the twins are cracking up, 2 hours and $50 down the drain. The tummy bug we had was real (not real fun, but real) and sucked up a week of our time–we certainly don’t have the manpower or resources for fake, disappearing rashes.

The aforementioned ballet dress rehearsal is for the recital which has a LOT of rules. Up to and including what my 1st grader should wear, makeup wise (perhaps they’ve seen her disguised as an oomph loompa) and stating quite clearly NO TATTOOS which coincides with my husband’s new rule (no MORE tattoos). We were at an end of year celebration the other day for one twin who looked so pretty in her special finery, and was sporting on each skinny forearm a giant tattoo like a sailor, if sailors wore Easter dresses and tattoos that say “Party Girl”.

Picture him in an Easter Dress.

Anyway, we’ve got a lot going on. And we’re moving.

So why WOULDN’T my husband have a barbecue with everyone he works with?

Over the years, he’s had precisely ZERO barbecues. He feels it’s important to keep work and everything else separate. Suddenly, he decided he needed a BBQ. He asked me when we were free, and since I was only half listening, I threw out a date that we were free for like 4 minutes. And then the recital got scheduled, a kid party, oh and also it’s a week before we move out.

Nevertheless he is proceeding with the BBQ. Last weekend, he realized we had no chairs or patio furniture. BECAUSE I SOLD IT AND PACKED IT. He decided that his guests could use the old closet doors that he’d been using for wood projects, as tables. Nothing says classy like a bbq with the guests sitting on my kids’ princess lawn chairs THAT FALL OVER when someone looks at them, eating off old closet doors. As a plus, I just looked out at the Sanford and Son junk heap on the front lawn, waiting for junk pick up and found someone dropped off some old lawn chairs. Why would anyone leave me MORE junk but, I guess if they’re going to, at least it’s junk I need.

My mom asked what I was cooking. How many were coming. What time. I said I. Don’t. Know. I have not asked these questions. Because I’m packing, and attending year-end celebrations ad nauseum, and trying to get my kid to do more than talk to the animals. The barbecue is his. Perhaps the guests can stop by the junk heap on our front yard for a lovely parting gift.

What WOULD be awesome is if we could combine it with an old-fashioned Amish barn raising and get everyone to help build the new house. However. As it stands, what will happen is that I will be running around like a crazy person. Anything good in our house is packed or given away (including liquor and spices). We have a 10 year old Weber grill that is cooking carcinogens into each and every bbq item; we have 2 kid picnic sets, and we have a hammock. So the party will be a bunch of people falling out out of Disney chairs that dump EVERYONE unceremoniously, eating off doors, and wondering if, indeed, crazy people live here.

No, but we can talk to the animals.

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