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Cut And Run

April 18, 2009 by 9 Comments

After a night of trying to keep my daughter from sleeping in her vomit…I woke up at 530am to head to the airport.

Yes, am leaving a sick kid at home with a sick brother and I believe their sick father.

Why do these things always happen when I have a trip or I am crazy busy? I mean, why can’t they happen when I am home with nothing to do?

Arg.

I’ve only emailed twice, with instructions like “make sure you watch her” (duh) and I have to say considering what I left behind this morning, twice isn’t so bad.

I don’t know why I feel the need to dictate every small detail when I am away. I’ve gone on plenty of business trips and come home to children still intact. Yet there I go again, making sure everyone knows EXACTLY what to do down to the stupidest detail. I mean, does Dad really need me to tell him to check on the 4-year old?

Probably not.

I wonder if this is insulting to fathers. When we Moms micromanage how they parent. Or if they are just used to it and take it as part of the fun.

Because it’s true, I don’t think anyone else does it right. Not like *I* would do it, anyway. And I don’t think anyone else knows the things I know. Does he know she will flail around while puking and you really need to hold her? Does he know she wants the blue Pedilyte? NOT the purple, even though normally she wants purple everything?

Of course I think I know best. And I swear it’s true that I do. Yet time and time again these children are GREAT while I am gone and GREAT when I return. So what the hell is wrong with ME?

I’m crazy. I think that pretty much sums it up.

I feel like I’m taking off when they need me most. But when I am there…they seem to not need me at all. It’s a heartbreaking thing to find our your dispensable. That yes, everyone will in fact survive if you are not around.

They don’t need you.

I’m going to go send another email. They may not need it. But I’m doing it anyway.

Filed Under: #suckit, Stepford Crazies

Lobstery is Missing

April 10, 2009 by 11 Comments

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That’s him. The orange one. Beloved by the boy for all of a week now. Tonight, after switching hotels in Orlando, we discovered Lobstery wasn’t around.

My son sobbed like he hasn’t sobbed in years.

Maybe it was 3 days of theme parks. Maybe it was all the sugar. Maybe it was true love of lobster…but my 6-year old was entirely heartbroken over the loss of his orange, plastic, squeaking lobster pal.

I called the Walt Disney World Dolphin and they kindly directed me to hotel security. The very nice man who answered the phone only giggled once when taking down a description of Lobstery. And swore that if “any lobsters matching his description came in” they would call.

Now I lay in the hotel bed next to a sleeping, yet still heaving, boy. He’s doing that thing you do after a really hard cry. That sob in your sleep thing. It’s pathetic. And gut wrenching.

Nana is in the other room swearing to drive all the way back to Tarpon Springs to get him another one. Of course, he doesn’t want another one. He wants “his” Lobstery.

I know which one he is. You can’t trick me. Because I loved him so very much.

But just think honey. When they find him, they will mail him to us. Lobstery will have an adventure!

No! Lobsters aren’t supposed to have adventures, Mom. He’s supposed to just stay with me.

So tomorrow morning I will wake up early to again re-pack our bags. I will, again, look through each and every suitcase for a hint of orange. And I will again call hotel security and check the lost and found.

Cross your fingers for us.

Come home Lobstery! We miss you!

Filed Under: Count Waffles, Stepford Crazies

Full of Grace

April 4, 2009 by 9 Comments

The flexibility and agility of my children annoys me.

I’m watching my daughter leisurely sprawl herself across an ottoman at my mother’s home – leg balancing here, another there. Flipping around like a fish. Rolling from tip-toe to heel.

It drives me crazy, because I’m pretty sure that even as a child I couldn’t do more than stand straight so as not to fall.

I was the “awkward” one in ballet class.

Doing simple things like laying on my stomach to play never seemed as comfortable as the other kids made it. Easy. Natural.

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I was never, necessarily a huge clutz. But I was never going to be described as graceful. My grandfather used to call me a “claud.”

I think that means “bigger” than a clutz.

My daughter and son are not that way. At least, not that I can tell…yet. My son will jump around and over and through the house like a gazelle while my daughter flitters around with these tiny feet you can barely hear.

And stomp tromp slosh comes Mom.

Maybe grace is overrated.

But I notice that over time my acceptance of my body’s limitations has wavered with my children’s …grace.

Was I ever like this? Is this what my mother saw as she looked at me? Could it be?…

…no, I think this Claud couldn’t have possibly been mistaken for the magical kids floating in my home. Graceful, sprite-like, and angelic.

Ok, maybe not angelic all the time…but you know what I mean.

They are running through the house looking for a missing chick. Never mind the missing chick is plastic, stay with me here…they are RIGHT NOW doing that thing they do, dancing around each other with toys and games and laughter.

Watching them is like an exercise in readying for disaster. I’m waiting for them to crash. To slam into eachother, to stub a toe, to fall and cry.

But I’m noticing more often then not…they are not me. They don’t tromp around the house or bump their tiny shins into sides of tables.

No…right now…they are dancing and giggling. Full of grace.

Filed Under: Count Waffles, Feeling YaYa, Princess Peanut, Stepford Crazies

I Have Issues

March 22, 2009 by 9 Comments

With this commercial.

Did he just say “Let it drop and do the w00t w00t? the whoo hoo?”


Huggies Pull-Ups | “Potty Dance” – More related videos from Asterpix

Filed Under: Stepford Crazies

Walking the TightRope

March 19, 2009 by 36 Comments

“How do you do it? The kids, the job, all this travel…you make it seem so effortless…”

I stared back at her and blinked.

There in a crowded conference was someone accusing me of having my shit together. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Do I tell her I forgot to pack enough underwear because the kids had thrown mine out of the suitcase in a fit before I left? Do I tell her my husband had to miss a very important day of work because one child was sick and no one could go to my girlfriend’s house? Do I tell her I had to miss having a girl’s day with my daughter at Barbie’s real Malibu Dream House in order to fly to this stupid conference?

No. I just blinked back and smiled and nodded.

Tonight I’m picking up the pieces of my life. As I do every night. Tonight those pieces include another sick child, strewn across my bed, puking on towel after towel and soiling pantie after pantie. I’m washing the towels in between attempts to entertain her still not 100% brother, and a good 10 hours worth of work.

I’m canceling dentist appointments, scheduling doctor’s visits, and wondering exactly how a new washer and dryer will get delivered between important work calls, school pick ups and drop offs, and my in-laws arriving in town.

I’m piecing together the schedule for this week and next, juggling a generous friend’s help with babysitting, a nanny I can afford a few days a week, and a double-birthday party that will be thrown somewhere in between another trip to San Francisco and a work/vacation to Florida.

I’m screaming in my head that this MUST get better. It WILL get better and it’s just what everyone does to get by.

It is…right?

I’m going to scream ONLY in my head from now on. Those that know and love me too well hear me scream out loud and then keep things from me. Well intentioned but maddening.

Hey, how’s today going? Things are good here. Busy, meeting a lot of people, networking…what? What do you mean you’re home? What? What do you mean he’s sick? What? Why didn’t you call? Did you call the school? Do you have Pedialyte? Is he upset? Did you give him a towel? …

…and on and on.

I have a friend who jokes that I’m never zen when away from my home. It’s true though. I’m worried. I’m wondering. I’m also feeling the guilt of leaving. Of NOT being there for the first, scared puke. NOT being there to comfort. Not being there to find the favorite shirt. NOT being there to paint Barbie on our toenails and sip pink lemonade.

Of course, there are speeches to be made and careers to further and sacrifices for all. A paycheck needs to come in the mail. A job needs to get done.

Up and down. Back and forth. Around and around until I’m dizzy. Where am I supposed to be today? Dentist. Then conference call. Then emails. Then school pick up. Wait, do I need to do school drop off today? No…today’s Dad’s day for drop off. Then pack. Then blog posts, then maybe follow up on that other thing. Then the other conference call. Then more emails. Then a memo. Then I need to start dinner, then get kids ready for tomorrow…what was tomorrow again? Right…make sure I’m packed and nanny comes over, and she has the instructions for school and the permission slip and that snacks are packed before I board that plane…. what day is it again? Was I supposed to pick up that prescription? Oh…and it’s sharing day at preschool…

Dizzy.

I chose this. A very wise woman reminded me of that recently. We don’t all choose to be mothers. We don’t all choose to have careers. Both are choices and there are ramifications for those choices. I can’t hold anyone else responsible for the dizzy but myself.

Of course there are days both choices make perfect sense. I am lucky to work from home the majority of the time, to be able to be waiting in the school pick-up line instead of being in an office cubicle.

I get to speak in front of hundreds of people. Meet wonderful friends in other cities. I get to host a show, I get to make my voice heard. I get to help others do the same, all for a paycheck.

I also get to stroke my daughter’s hair tonight, as she lays next to me while I type. I get to see my son build a lego space ship and fly it over to me at 2 in the afternoon. Not after hours, not before I leave for an office. But in the middle of the day.

I can finish memos and emails as I tuck kids in bed. I can write scripts as I pack tomorrow’s lunches.

Staring at the woman at the conference I smiled and nodded because I knew it was at least partly true. At that MOMENT everything was under control. I had navigated my duties at the conference, I had planned and prep’d my kids for me being gone, their Dad was ready, the nanny was ready… I HAD IT ALL BABY!

Heh.

No, I just knew how to lie in the face of such absurdity. I mean, I could have blurted out “BWHWHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA” at the very nice woman’s face. Maybe I should have.

But I didn’t.

I blinked.

And I will keep blinking as I walk this tightrope and attempt to not fall on my face.

Filed Under: Stepford Crazies

In Which I Explain Sex To A Kindergartner, Via A Stud Horse

March 12, 2009 by 33 Comments

Dirty Jobs.

I blame Dirty Jobs and it’s horse breeding episode that had me explaining things like “artificial vagina” and “ejaculation” to my soon-to-be 6-year old.

Uh huh.

Bwhaha

*Let me just state here and now I have ZERO issues discussing sex. I have ZERO issues with children learning about sex in an age appropriate manner. I have ZERO issues with taking responsibility and doing my parental duty*

However…

I wasn’t ready.

And it’s unclear if I started my son down the path of perversion or education.

There he was, innocently laying in my bed after having 3 teeth pulled at the dentist. My son will be 6 this month and we’ve always had age appropriate sex discussions. Boys have a penis, girls have a vagina…that sort of thing. I had never gotten into the “mechanics” of sex because it didn’t seem necessary yet. A man and a woman were together, they have different parts, there was love…general terms were always used.

Never the low down and dirty fun-stick in the whoo-ha talk.

I was quietly working at my desk, my son was lazily watching the Discovery Channel. I was listening but not too closely.

Type type type type goes Mom.

…and the horse will need to ejaculate into this artificial vagina…

stop typing

…wow he’s really going to town!

get up quickly walk over to bed and tv. I look at the tv. Look at my son’s WIDE AS SAUCER EYES and then watch him roll over in bed and fake that he’s not watching.

Honey, do you want to talk about what you just saw? Do you have any questions?

I’m panicking right now. Do I talk about this with him RIGHT NOW?  Is he too young? Will he understand? Of course he will understand. Will he GET IT and then, you know, try to do it? Oh sweet Mary Mother of God WHAT do I do? IF ONLY I COULD USE TEH GOOGLE TO HELP ME NOW.

So you saw that the horse used his penis to do something, right? Yes…well, that’s how people work too. Except usually the boy puts his penis in a girl’s vagina. A real one. Not like the fake one the horse used.

Son looks up at me with a “huh” on his face

And this is only when you are a grown up. And when you are really really in love.

Do I say married? Should I? I don’t really believe that. Maybe I should just say it so he thinks that’s really far away. No..moment has passed. I won’t.

Son starts playing with a scab on his arm. I can’t tell if he’s still paying attention to me.

You know that’s what Mommies and Daddies do to make babies. Then you were in my belly and your sister was in my belly.

For some reason I left out the “YOUR mommy and daddy did this” language. I have no idea why. It was like admitting the obvious outloud…yes, Your Dad put HIS penis in MY vagina. Why I couldn’t say this, exactly, is just stupid. I mean, I had already said that’s how it worked. Why couldn’t I take that extra step?

And some people do make babies other ways, in ways kind of like what you saw on tv..and they put the sperm into a woman’s body.

Son looks up at me

You mean they just shove it into her belly and a baby comes out?

Well, not exactly. They put it in her uterus or up her vagina.

Now I’m not even sure if that’s right. Crap. Why haven’t I read more infertility bloggers…do I go on? Do I really explain more about this?

Hey Mom, look at my legs…

Oh god, body part show and tell?

Aren’t they getting long? My legs are cool.

And with that he jumped up on the bed and proceeded to show me the splits.

Our bodies are COOL.

I nodded.

I went back to my desk.

I messaged my husband to let him know that I probably just permanently fucked up our kid.

He messaged back with a “OH MY, I’m SO sorry baby.” Clearly feeling my pain.

I feel like I missed a bunch of things I should have said to him. Or maybe I didn’t. I was just so caught off guard. Stupid show. Stupid Discovery Channel. Stupid stupid stupid Mommy.

Ah, cable tv. You showed my son something he probably would haven seen on a farm back in the day. Or, at least, something close to it. Should I have looked to see what exactly today’s Dirty Jobs episode would be? If I knew, would I have let him watch it anyway? Were the nuts and bolts necessary in this conversation since he’s so little?

I have no idea. I have no idea. I have no idea.

But hey…look how long my son’s legs are getting! Aren’t they cool?

Filed Under: Count Waffles, kill me now, Stepford Crazies

Kindergarten: Now With More Flirting!

March 6, 2009 by 7 Comments

I witnessed my son hit on a girl today.

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I wasn’t imagining it, either. I watched, mouth agape, as he told a brown-haired, 5-year old vixen he loved her the best of all the other girls in the class and wanted to hug her.

She then marched up to me..the mom..and said “Mrs. Vest, Jack loves me the best and I’m riding in YOUR car today.”

My jaw was still on the floor so I didn’t respond.

WTF just happened? I mean, nevermind that *I* had the other girls pin down Brian H. on the Kindergarten playground when I was 5…you know, so I could kiss him. THIS WAS DIFFERENT.

My baby boy was WORKING IT with half the girls in the class. The tall blonde, the green-eyed brunette. WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?

Let’s review my week. I arrive home to find my daughter has been flashing her underwear to the boys in town. I take my son on a field trip to find out he’s been playing the Kindergarten field.

I realized this day would come- the kids exploring and what not. But this is out of hand. I need a new plan. Perhaps they get locked in their rooms for all of eternity. Perhaps convents and military school.

Perhaps I am prescribed Valium and start making a nightly martini. Because this shit might kill me.

However I did see a ray of hope…or rather, I felt it. During today’s field trip, somewhere between learning about Bristol Farm’s deli counter and their cheese guy, MY little guy put his arms around me.

ME.

And in front of his whole class, all the girls and boys, he said, “Mom, I love you best, you know that, right?”

Damn right. And don’t think I didn’t eye each and everyone of those little miss things so they knew it, too.

Filed Under: By Order of the Charter, Count Waffles, Stepford Crazies

Zombies Make Me Pee My Pants

December 15, 2008 by 12 Comments

Like an idiot I did not question my husband’s choice of tv stations tonight.

Goofing around on my computer and not paying attention I Am Legend with Will Smith started and before I could protest, I was magically sucked in.

Of course I had no idea this was a zombie movie and at first it was nothing but a paranoid, gun-toting Will Smith and a dog roaming around deserted NYC.

Had I known there were zombies involved I would have had my husband change the channel immediately and demanded something of a more ‘no drama, happy ending, unicorns and rainbows’ nature.

Here’s the thing: I am the biggest pansy alive when it comes to scary movies. The biggest. I don’t even like really heavy dramas, either. But…that’s besides the point.

The point is scary movies, even REALLY BAD ONES, scar me emotionally and physically to the point where I will vomit. Or pee my pants.

Tonight some zombie woman jumped off some medical table to eat Will Smith and I peed my pants. I then turned off the tv. Of course I couldn’t stop thinking about the zombie woman or Will Smith’s cute dog (who apparently does not meet a good end from what I hear, FYI) and I had more than a hard time going into our garage to turn off Christmas lights and sprinklers.

I’m not kidding.

What’s worse? I’m 100% sure I passed this lovely trait onto my son. Who can’t even bring himself to watch the drama filled parts of a Spongebob espisode if Mr. Krabs is about to yell at Mr. Squarepants. My 5-year-old will leave the room when the AirBud parents get kidnapped. He will make an excuse to walk into the kitchen when the Beast growls at Belle.

He gets this from me. And I totally feel his pain.

Even my adult brain understands zombies are not real and they do not live in the dark of my garage…yet I still can’t go out there right now to shut off lights. So as much as I tell my son it’s ok, not to worry, the Beast really turns out to be a swell guy- I know he’s not buying it, I wouldn’t either.

Zombies live in my garage, why should I?

Filed Under: Stepford Crazies
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