And With That, She’s Gone

I’m once again sitting in an airport, blogging.

I do that a lot these days.

Chatting with some MOMocrats this week, I realized the Democratic National Convention starts August 25th. The Republican National Convention starts September 1st.

So what? Right?

Kindergarten starts August 13th.

That means just a few weeks after my baby boy starts the very daunting task of navigating elementary school- his Mom is skipping town for two weeks.

Sure, I’ll be home for a weekend in the middle there somewhere…but mostly I will be entrenched in politics.

This is weighing on me. Heavily.

How will it affect his adjustment to a new school and environment? Will having his grandparents stay with us help? Hurt?

Am I the worst mother EVER for going?

Then, like a choir of angels, the MOMocrat women chimed in:

“Take a deep breath. You’re a great mom, your kids are adorable, and you are doing a terrific job of keeping it all in balance (even if it doesn’t feel that way).”

“I hear you Erin. Hang in there.

It’s why I keep asking about the self interest versus greater good interest.

The first day of the DNCC is the first day of school here. And even though it’s not a first for my first grader, we might be switching preschools for my younger one (or back or not or holy crap wtf).

NOBODY has the ideal. The key is to do the best we can with the lives we have and from here it seems like you are def. doing that. hang in there.”

“Erin, I am totally serious about this– what you are doing, covering the elections for BlogHer and MOMocrats– this is making the world a better place for ALL children. You are doing this stuff for your children. And one day they will know it and thank you for it.”

I didn’t ask if I could publish these, so I’m leaving their names off. But…they know who they are.

And I’m going to print these words and tape them to my laptop.

As I get situated in San Francisco for BlogHer ’08, I’ll be very busy- calling home when I can to kids who may or may not feel like talking. As I talk with Liz Mair, Congresswoman Allyson Schwartz, and all the wonderful women I know…I’m going to remember these words.

Simply…thank you.

Home Sweet Ho…wait, maybe the airport was better

After a trip wrought with delay after delay I was very excited to see my children. As I walked in the door to pick them up after a very long day of travel, they greeted me with a million kisses and gifts.

Then they woke me up at 645am and have yet to move more than an inch from my side. Crawling on me, climbing on me, petting me, snuggling with me, whining at me, whining near me, moving only to grab a toy and then to run right back to re-glue themselves to a thigh or an arm.

I peed with a child on my lap and am typing right now one-handed, as my other hand is being held captive by a small person who can’t seem to pronounce her “L’s” very well.

My son used the back of my shirt as a leash as I walked to get the mail. My daughter won’t go get her stuffed dog from the other room unless I carry her there and back.

The house went from clean to a total disaster in the first half of the day and this afternoon we are all still in our pj’s. I’m trying to make it to the park before tonight’s debate and another “mom’s butt on couch for 3 hours” session but the phone keeps ringing.

While the airport was crowded and loud, much like my house, at least the other passengers weren’t climbing on me and I could get some work done.

I’m also totally annoyed because I have about 20 pages left in The Other Boleyn Girl as my flight landed 20 pages too soon and despite STILL being in my PJ’s today I can’t seem to find the time or arms to finish.

Maybe I can carry the girl to the bathroom with me, have her grab the book-let the boy hold my shirt on the way and sit on my feet as I pee and read out loud. Then everyone is happy.

Or I can just plan another business trip.

Just hoping the babysitter isn’t dead in a ditch

I hired a Nanny on Friday. I checked her out, ran the reports, called the references and HIRED a nanny to watch my lovely and always well behaved children 3 days a week while I work only a few rooms away.

The nanny (or babysitter for you who find the N word snobby) was to start the job today at 1030am.  It’s now nearly midnight and she’s still not here. She has yet to show. Or call. Or email. Or send a carrier pigeon.

The best I can do is really hope she’s not dead in a ditch or tending to some HORRIBLE tragedy that would preclude her from calling me, her employer. At worst, she’s a total flake and after going through a professional service she was the BEST I could come up with.

I give.

The kids and I are leaving for Tampa on Thursday where their Nana and Gramps will adore and spoil them while I work.

More to come.

Oh, and…who’s taking me out for drinks in Tampa???

Build A Bastard

Have I mentioned lately how amazing my husband is? Well, in case I haven’t…let me just say the man is a wonder.

Since my surgery he’s been SUPERwonder Dad. From doing everything around the house to taking the kids everywhere from hair cuts to birthday parties.

Which leads me to today…and the Build A Bear Birthday Blowout.

I’m normally not an evil bitch, but every time my husband comes home from an outing with the children, I get all frazzled because they have such a good time with no problems.

What do you mean Count Waffles didn’t have a melt down in the produce section?

Really, Princess Peanut didn’t throw the red ball at you because she wanted the blue ball?

It drives me insane. They always seem to be bizzaro kids for him.

Except for today. When the Build A Bear Birthday Blowout had my sweet Kaiser twitching when they walked in the door. It wasn’t so much that the kids were bad, it was just one of those parenting situations where you wish you had never left the house.

The Build A Bear store was the size of a small bathroom stall. It was the Sunday before Valentine’s Day. One of our kids could care less he was there, and the other had no clue what she was supposed to be doing. Cue Chaos.

My defeated and disheveled husband arrived home with two large bear boxes and 40 more gray hairs. He sat in front of me and talked quickly about the too small store and the throngs of people and the clothing and the kids and the holding of the bears and the holding of the kids and the picking out of the outfits for the bears and how the Princess wouldn’t allow the Bear to be dressed and the Count wouldn’t pick a name and he couldn’t carry the boxes and the bears had to be out of the boxes to carry home but the kids wouldn’t carry them, they just insisted they were not boxed.

This went on. And on. And on. He talked and talked and shook his head and put his hands in the air.

It’s not that I was happy, per say. Just relieved it finally had happened to him. Now we can really share some war stories.

The Queen is all right. And uh…so are the kids.

Hi, your friendly neighborhood Kaiser reporting on the Queen and her lack of body parts.  Not only can I hold over her head the fact that I’ve been published in GQ and she hasn’t, I can also boast that I, in fact, have more vital organs than she does.

Here’s what was learned today:

Don’t say “Put it in her butt!” when the nurse has to check your wife’s temperature for a second time because the first try didn’t work.

Don’t say “This happens every time we try heroin.” to the nurse when she’s trying to find one of your wife’s veins to take blood.Don’t say “Except for when I pass out.” to the nurse when she deadpans “It must be fun and laughs AALLLLLLLL the time at your house.” to your wife.

Saying these things will actually make your wife LESS comfortable.  Not more.  But Less.

Here is what was NOT learned:

Kaiser = Idiot.

But enough about me.

The Queen is doing as well as one could expect for a person who’s thyroid is currently residing in a jar. She was in rough shape afterwards, but there were no complications, nothing unexpected. Not sure when she’s coming home, but it’ll probably be tomorrow evening.  Nana said the kids were great all day.  I’m not sure what else I’m supposed to report, so I’ll shut up now. Twelve hours too late…

My Favorite Goat

Not only did Jay send us the coolest holiday card ever (who doesn’t want a candy cane in their martini glass?) but she wrote one of the best holiday posts I’ve ever seen.

“The day is dismal, and you know your shift will end before the line runs out. But not before a young woman walks in, whom you instantly recognize.

She was the very good friend of your younger sister. She spent days swimming in your pool, nights eating at your table. At birthday parties, she’d throw her fishing pole over the staircase banister chanting “Here, fishie, fishie” while you sneakily attached a prize and gave the line a tug to let her know that she’d caught a big one.

She recognizes you too, and you can see in her eyes that she is wrestling between her pride and her need, and you know that she can tell by your hot cheeks that you are wrestling too.

How can you keep it professional when you’ve seen her dancing around the toadstool at Brownies? What is there to say?

Well, I’ll tell you.

I said hello.

She said hello.

Then she cried.

And then I cried. Because this is how I help people, by crying with them. Because I couldn’t take away her poverty, I didn’t know how.”

Go on over to Jay’s site. Read the entire post. Make sure you spread the love this holiday season.

And a reminder to go over to for last minute shopping. They are letting you donate to military families via their site. Let’s not forget all those families with Moms or Dads in that hell on earth overseas.

Sunday Torture, that’s what memories are made of…

Car exhaust.
The stench of stale popcorn.

Dust in our eyes. The children’s eyes. Crying, dusty children.
Walking. Bumping. Walking.

Go this way. No, that way. Over here. Let’s go over there. Go this way. Hold my hand. Give me your hand. No, the other hand. Go this way. Don’t touch that. Don’t throw that. Give me your hand.


Chugga. Chugga. $36 for a dusty, hot, short train ride that was really a tractor that went in a circle. Chugga Chugga.
Crowds. Music. Crowds.

Where did all these locals come from? When did our town get this big? And why does that large woman NEED two wagons of pumpkins?

Poor, hot, sad ponies with happy, sometimes crying, bouncing children.


Climb up the hay. Climb down the hay. Climb up the hay. Climb down the hay. STOP THROWING THE HAY! Climb down the hay.

Walking. Bumping. Balancing. Two pumpkins. Two children. Zero hands. Crying. Walking. Bumping.

Babytalk Mag Cover with Boob? Been there, done that

…seriously, that is soooooooooooooo last week.

For those of you who missed it, here’s what breastfeeding a 16-month old looks like.


So apparently a bunch of tightwads have their panties in a bunch because BabyTalk Magazine used this on their cover:

I hate to burst their bubbles, but…um…it’s a boob. We ALL have them. They are for FOOD. For kids. That whole sex part? Secondary. And stupid, I might add.

So to all you beyoootches that don’t like to see boob while it’s being used as it was intended: Turn your fucking heads and shut the fuck up.

Your puritanical, unnatural, suppressed sexually, self-conscience, repulsive, and oppressed opinions on the matter are unwarranted, unsolicited, and ignorant.

Would you also like me to wear an apron while I serve my husband dinner? Maybe get him his slippers when he gets home and walk ten paces behind him in public? Should I also not be allowed to drive? Vote? Control my own reproduction? Feed my child in PUBLIC???
If your 13-year-old wants to jerk off to a BabyTalk magazine cover, maybe you need to hide the National Geographic as well. And to those of you who find it “Gross” and “shocking”-maybe you need to get out of your “don’t make eye contact in elevators, shop at major mega stores, avoid the news” world a little more. Because I’ll be out there. Feeding my kids. With my tit.

And if you don’t like it, you can suck it.

***and I’m even more pissed because I had to see this story just an hour before leaving for BlogHer…you know, where they have daycare and a quiet room for breastfeeding and are PRO WOMAN. Not like the rest of the U.S. Where it’s ok to get all upset about breastfeeding in a public way.