Frogs in my formula

Either she's the adult version of my invisible friend or I'm experiencing a psychotic split

2012-02-13T20:20:00.034-05:00

Here's the thing (and this is me and Beth Brown talking): I know I should be grateful that I have a babysitter who comes to our house to watch the two kids, and that my mother babysits, and that Chuck's mother and step-father babysit BUT fucking a, as I lie in bed on Sunday nights and imagine the week ahead I can't help but think of this—

That dude waving his hand? He's shouting, "Go on down to Frogmama's house! Make yourself at home! She won't be there!"

And I know I should be grateful that everyone who comes into my home is trustworthy (as far as I can tell, anyway) and probably isn't snooping through the bills I accidentally left out or taking inventory of the number of empty wine bottles in my recycling bin, but I can't help but feel like this as I allow the revolving set of people into my home each week*—

That dog with his head in my, er, the dog's butt? That's my mother-in-law as she rummages through my fridge and wonders why everything we have is organic. She raised Chuck on Hungry Man beef stew. Is there something wrong with that? Did he have to go and marry such a hippie?

That dog looking off to the right? That's Chuck's step-father, thinking of all the underwear that needs folding.

But hey, one down, four to go, right? Now let's see, who's coming tomorrow? Oh, right. The babysitter—

Which means that both kids will go into the tub immediately after she leaves. I know, I know, I'm such a scent-free, dye-free, hypo-allergenic hippie. (Have you seen the sodium count on those Hungry Man soups? The woman is a former nurse for frick's sake.)

P.S. In all Beth Brown alternate reality seriousness, my friend informed me that there's a woman named Beth Brown who is a writer, blogger, and artist. Just like me. Gasp! The one major difference? She is a paranormal investigator...just like Chuck. Double gasp!

Uncanny coincidence or another sign from beyond from the sea captain?

(Would it be overkill to do another mwhahahahahahaa here? Yah, I thought so.)

*Photo credit: Mother (fucking) Nature

The downside of self-introspection and pretending to be someone you’re not

2012-02-08T19:58:00.014-05:00

Something I wrote is going to run on a certain website in the next few weeks. I’m psyched, but also disappointed. I submitted the piece under my nom de plume, Beth Brown. It’s hard to watch someone else who is really yourself get all the credit for something you did.

You, of course, know me as Frogmama. Until recently, I’d been using the pen name for pretty much everything. But it conjures up all kinds of weird images: a small human, for example, with an enormous amphibian head. A head so large that the poor frogwoman can’t stand up without falling over. That bothers me. One can’t parent if one can’t hold up one’s head.

You may also know me as Mrs. Mullet. That doesn’t quite ring true either. I used to live in Mulletville, but I fought hard against assimilation. I don’t have a mullet, therefore how can I be Mrs. Mullet? I should be Mrs. Anti-mullet.

So, I thought about it and settled on Beth Brown. Beth because it is my middle name, brown because it is my favorite color (unless it’s the color of a face mask). Also, you can’t get more functional/oatmeally/sturdy shoe-ish than a two syllable name like Beth Brown (no offense to anyone who might actually have this name—I bet you’re a hell kitten).

Some days, I love Beth Brown. She is what my life needs: a no-frills fall guy. She professes her parenting failures without regard for recourse. She admits she can’t breastfeed and that she doesn’t want to be supermom, all without shame. Her mousy hair is short and poker straight. She has a little pudge but she doesn’t care. She’s solid.

Beth Brown nails it.

Other days I resent her. Even though she affords me a safe little umbrella under which to write, the bitch gets all the credit for this blog. (By “credit” I mean the $40 a year I make from BlogHer and the trickling stream of traffic. Damn that Beth Brown!) She’s the one who has the guts to be out there alongside the bloggers who have put their real names and photos on their blogs.

If I wasn’t worried about getting dooced and losing my job because of my blog, I’d come clean with my true identity in a heartbeat. I’d love to just be out there, like red lacy underwear flapping on a clothesline. I’d love to out myself to my Facebook friends. To post a status update of “I AM BETH BROWN/FROGMAMA/MRS. MULLET!”

Then, of course, I’d have to deal with my sister-in-law learning how I really feel about her dick husband. Vag would know that I thought of him while getting vagged. Would my conservative Bob Villa-esque father really want to read about my water breaking at work? And the children. What about their privacy?

And let’s not forget about Mulletville Corp. Good God, they’d probably sue the pants (and red lacy underwear) right off me for outing the staff and their incompetencies. I’d be cast out into the parking lot and egged as I drove away. My name would be scum.

And where would Beth Brown be? Hmmm? I’ll tell you where! Smugly polishing her shoes and avoiding my phone calls, that’s where. She didn’t write “How to poop at work” now did she? She didn’t make an ass of the Marketing Head. She didn’t hate her babysitter for using too many dryer sheets. Oh, no, she’s above all that. I made her do it.

I enabled her.

It’s complicated I tell you, this relationship I have with my secret identity, which is also my public identity. Com-pleee-ca-ted. And I’ll just say this once: If Beth Brown starts sleeping with my husband Chuck, I’m going to clock her with one of her shoes.

Luckily for her, those red lacy underwear are well hidden.

(Sigh. I know Chuck, I know.)

When self-indulgence makes you sick

2012-02-06T21:18:00.016-05:00

If your child complains of feeling nauseous at dinner...

And even if you put him to bed without incident...

If you yourself feel a wee twinge of not-so-goodness after doing the dishes but swear you won't succumb to the bug (I'll go down fighting!)...

And even if you want to relax and treat yourself to a little "spa" time in your bathroom because you put said child to bed without upchucking...

If you stumble upon a free sample in your cosmetic bag...

And even if you think Perfect! A mini facial...

Do not use this product:

You will gag upon application.

The minty, earthy smell will not prevent you...

...from hurling after the picture is taken.

Sick mothers of nauseous children really should be doing more product testing before this shit gets put on the shelf. Can I get an amen?

Important bedtime discussions

2012-01-31T20:35:00.016-05:00

Every time my mother comes to Connecticut to babysit the two kids, she spends the night. It's just the way it goes. She lives a few states over. The poor woman can't spend her life on the highway.

As much as I appreciate the free (and loving) childcare, having my mother hunker down with us two or three nights a week gets old really fast, especially since we don't have a guest room. When she starts rubbing her eyes at 8:45 pm and unpacking her pajamas, Chuck and I retreat up to the bedroom.

If we were a horny pair of 17-year-old virgins, the last part of that sentence would have ended with Wink, wink. (Or heavy petting followed by wahooooooo! Again!) Sadly, we are a somewhat middle-aged pair of stressed out, exhausted parents who are leaking hormones left and right.

Instead of rockin' the roost, we have conversations like this one:

Me: Why don't we like horses? Shouldn't one of us like horses?

Chuck: I don't know.

Me: Some people really like horses. What happened to us?

Chuck: Um, I don't know.

Me: Should we go to a stable and try to like a horse? You know, brush one or something?

Chuck: If you want to...

Me: People who like horses seem to like to brush them. Maybe that's what happened: We never got into grooming a horse.

Chuck: Could be.

Me: Would you go to a stable with me? If I suddenly became obsessed with horses? Even if we had to get up at eight in the morning and drag the kids? Even if it was the last thing you wanted to do?

Chuck: I guess.

Me: What do you mean, You guess?

Chuck: I mean, sure.

Me: It's that kind of ambivalence that's going to lead us straight to divorce court.

Chuck: [Sigh] Really? We're going to divorce because of a horse we don't even know if we like?

Me: Stranger things have happened.

Chuck: I think we should go to sleep.

Me: What about the horse thing? Shouldn't we make a decision? Like, are we horse people or not?

Chuck: We're not! Shut up and go to sleep.

Me: I guess you never read Black Beauty as a kid...

Chuck: Goodnight...

Me: You're not even going to try to get with me?

Chuck: All the horse talk kind of killed it.

Me: If this marriage is going to work, you're going to have to love me and my horse.

Chuck: Please stop talking.

Me: Would it help if I said, 'Ride me?' "

Chuck: No.

Me: Do you want to brush my long mane?

Chuck: NO!

Me: FINE! Sheesh.

Chuck: [Rolling over] Do you think your mom would ever sleep in the garage?

Why my driveway has the traffic of a room-by-the-hour motel parking lot

2012-01-29T20:26:00.043-05:00

My jaw hurts. No, not from that. Gawd, didn't you read my last post?

My jaw hurts from cradling the phone in the crook of my face—yah, I got crooks—while drawing big Xs on my calendar.

It's Sunday night, baby. It's time to firm up the week’s childcare playbook (aka "The bain of existence for working parents who decide to rely on somewhat senile/overly accommodating grandparents and a fickle 25-year-old for childcare."

Shorter title? "I'm going to go play in traffic now."

Tonight's pre-game upset is that the babysitter forgot she had a doctor’s appointment on Wednesday and wanted to know if she could switch days with someone.

In a moment of sheer stupidity, I said sure. (Important side note: I didn't even say sure in a deadened, annoyed way. It popped out as a sunny, chirpy sure, which still pisses me off.)

I called my mother, who babysits two days a week despite living in Assachusetts. Could she switch her babysitting days of Thursday and Friday for Wednesday and Thursday? She said no, then apologized 50 times. She volunteered for Meals on Wheels, and if she rescheduled again, the director was going to kill her. But I should call her if I got into a jam.

I called Chuck’s mother. Could she come? Yes, but not until 11:30 am. She’s a quasi-retired nurse who is still trying to get off her night shift hours. Before 11:30 am she’s a zombie. She swore she’d remember to bring the booster seat so she could pick up Junior at nursery school.

Did I still want her for Friday? Wait, I said, I thought I booked my mother for Friday.

Oh yes, she said, she was looking at the previous week on the calendar. Sorry!

(It's always reassuring when the person who is scheduled to watch your children doesn't know what day it is.)

I called my father. Could he come from 9 am to 11:30 am Wednesday morning and watch Everette while Junior was at nursery school? Chuck’s mom would meet him at the house with Junior. He said he’d love to, but he needed to call my aunt to see if she could take my grandmother to the doctor’s instead. If I didn’t hear back from him, Wednesday morning was fine.

(Also not reassuring.)

My mother called. She had just called Meals on Wheels and explained the situation. The director didn't want to kill her. Wednesday was fine.

I told her I didn’t need her. My father was coming Wednesday morning, then Chuck’s mother.

But, my mother said, she could come down Tuesday night and sleep over so my father didn’t have to drive all that way for two hours. What if it rained or snowed? What if he was tired? Could Chuck’s mother babysit Friday too? That way, if my mother slept over Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, no one would have to cover 9 am to 11:30 am until Chuck’s mom got to the house.

I relayed all this to Chuck, who frowned. That was an awful lot of pajama time with my mother. But since he’d be on the road for most of it, he left it up to me.

My father called on the other line. I clicked over. We were all set for Wednesday morning. My aunt would drive my grandmother to her appointment. I thanked him and hung up.

I clicked back to my mother. I told her we were all set for Thursday. I meant Friday. I meant Wednesday.

“I don’t know what’s going on,” I wailed. “Who am I even talking to right now?”

She snorted and told me to read back what was on my calendar. “Babysitter for Monday and Tuesday. My father for Wednesday morning. Chuck’s mom for Wednesday afternoon. You for the rest of the week.”

She laughed and said she’d see me Thursday morning. Everything would be fine. We’d manage this changing of the guards somehow.

"Hang in there, kid!" she said.

I smiled and hung up the phone. Maybe it would be all right after all.

Then I saw I had a text. It was from the babysitter.

“Tried calling u but couldnt get thru. So sorry! :( Dr. appt is Tues. Can I switch that day?”

I won't lie. I thought about texting her horrible, inappropriate things. Most of them started like this, "You little [expletive, expletive, expletive]... Do you have any idea how much I want to [expletive, expletive, expletive] you...Why don't you [expletive, expletive, expletive] yourself and your doctor."

But I am an adult. A mature, 37-year-old mother. I wear turtlenecks for fuck's sake.

I refrained. Instead I texted her "no" and turned off my phone.

I have to say, it wasn't very satisfying. Not like, say, shouting it while holding a sledgehammer would have been. But a no nonetheless.

It's a good word.

Things I want to say

2012-01-23T20:21:00.018-05:00

To the babysitter: Please stop using so many dryer sheets and/or fabric softener. You smell like a godamned vat of Bounce. When I come home from work and hug my children, I don't want to smell you.

To Chuck's mom: Thank you for buying me my very own stethoscope so I can listen to the kids' lungs when they're sick. But do we have to bust it out every time you visit? Sometimes I misplace the damn thing.

To my mother: The kids are fine. Please stop calling me a day after you've seen them and asking how they are.

To my underwear: God, you're pathetically functional lately.

To Junior: I'm running out of nice ways to ask you to please stop talking. How your tongue hasn't run away from your mouth is a mystery to me and the town of Mulletville Lite. Just zip it.

To my twitchy eye: I get it. I need to get off the computer. I get it!

To Chuck: The fact that you now go into the other room to clear your throat—like I've asked you to for years—just saved our marriage.

Screech! Wait, I actually did say that.

(He was unimpressed.)

Ehem.

Addendum to Chuck: The fact that you now go into the other room to clear your throat—like I've asked you to for years—means you're getting lucky tonight.

Chuck? Chuck? Honey?

Addendum to my underwear: False alarm girls, false alarm. The man is out cold.

The angriest people ever

2012-01-21T11:42:00.008-05:00

Connecticut should be called the Ire State. Screw the nutmeg. People can't even read an article about a snowstorm without getting pissed off.

I logged on to wtnh.com to find out how much snow we're getting and burst out laughing at the comments.

You can practically hear the handguns being loaded.

One of the commenters does have a point: Does six inches of snow really warrant live team coverage? We live in New England. White shit is supposed to fall from the sky from time to time. Then again, if the news team is out meticulously measuring snow with their Livebreaking Storm Team Tracker Gadgets, doesn't that mean it's a really slow news day?

And isn't that a good thing?

So come on, you Connecticut assholes. Go outside and make a boobalicious snowman. Pour some more Baileys into your hot chocolate. Grab your toboggan and sled down a landfill.

By the time night falls, the news team will be back covering the things to which you've grown so accustomed: Quik-E mart robberies, home fires, state employees stealing from the Food Stamp program, the piss-poor economy, the high price of gas, and cuts in our healthcare benefits.

Now who wants some nutmeg?

Dear Buzzkill: Thanks for coming so quickly

2012-01-19T20:23:00.019-05:00

Well, well, well. My children repaid me for my weekend away by getting sick. Today was the first day, in fact, I was able to make it into the office. I joked with my boss that I've missed so much work I should double check my inter-office mail for hidden explosives.

She laughed, but it was one of those "That's a great idea!" laughs. Not to be confused with the "That's so not going to happen!" laugh. (You know, the kind you give your partner at 10 pm when his/her hand crosses over into foreign territory and you've already started to drool on the pillow.)

I know you don't want to read about vomit and fevers (Lord knows I don't want to talk about them), so I'll write about something much, much sexier: my neighbor.

I can't stop watching him out the window. He's unattractive and scrawny. His nose is pinched and his forehead is too large. He wears a large fur hat. His voice is nasally and whiny at the same time, but I can't stop daydreaming about him.

Why? The man is a workhorse.

He diligently cleans his gutters. He rakes. Bags. Drags to the woods. Before Hurricane Irene he moved his patio furniture inside. Tied things down. He paints. Tidies. He erected an arbor. He sweeps. He sprays. He wipes down his grill! Every time!

And this is all before 7 am.

Now look, I love my husband but:

a) he's an absolute slob. He leaves empty wrappers and boxes in the cabinets and fridge on a daily basis.

b) he's a reactor as opposed to a planner. His Hurricane Irene emergency plan consisted of putting peanut butter and batteries on the grocery list.

c) he has been away a lot for work. A lot.

A handyman who is:

a) home and

b) compulsive about said home is very, very attractive—even if his physical appearance makes me want to puke.

Crap, sorry, I said I wouldn't talk about puke.

Not to mention, I myself am compulsive and lately I've been wondering: what happens when two compulsive people get together? Would we be the most efficient couple in the world? Would we take over small countries? What if my partner tidied alongside me, instead of in direct opposition to me?

To dream!

And what is sex between two compulsive, efficient people like? Downright tidy, I imagine. I bet, like me, he'd hop into bed having already brushed, flossed, gargled, moisturized, serumed, anti-wrinkled, peed and picked out his clothes for the next day. I bet he'd have a post-coital beverage waiting for me before I knew I even wanted one.

It'd be a mad race to the bedroom, not to disrobe but to turn down the sheets and dust the night table. We'd frolic with Pledge.

Small countries I tell you! Small, dusty countries!

I should go to Northampton again, shouldn't I?

(Say yes, say yes.)

I DID run away

2012-01-16T21:09:00.013-05:00

I really did.

I went to Northampton, Assachusetts and spent the weekend with my two best friends. Because it was my birthday—did I mention I turned 104 a few weeks ago?—I got my way for two days straight.

Marcia, Marcia, Marcia!

Ordinarily I'd worry that I sound like a brat when I say that but if you read my last post, you'll understand that before this trip I was on the verge. The mere sight of my home was enough to send me running. Literally.

And birthdays? What the hell are those? I have two children under the age of five—a good birthday for me is one for which I get to poop alone.

Having two entire days of me, me, me was decadent. I slowly walked through stores and thoughtfully examined items I might like to buy. I didn't have to carry Cheerios. I sat and chewed my food.

I even said no to a menial household task. My friend asked me to fill her ice cube trays and I said I couldn't. Actually I said, "Please don't make me do that." That might sound crazy and selfish but she had four ice cube trays and I just wanted a day where I didn't have to do anything I didn't want to.

That may have been the highlight of my trip.

No wait, sleeping until 10 am was. Or was it the no-kid-in-the-bouncy-seat-or-sitting-on-the-toilet-seat shower I took? Maybe it was when I sank into a leather chair at a bar and had a beer and caught up with my friends. Or maybe when I got fitted for a bra and found out I'm really a 32 CCC.

Fine, fine, I'm not all that, but the girls did get out and no one's in trouble for it.

Yes, my weekend was all that and then some. I'd forgotten what it feels like to relax. To be at one with yourself and your toilet. To just sit down.

If you're reading this and you have children I have one word for you: RUN. Go away for a weekend. Pack your bags and don't look back. Indulge in every wonderful mundane activity you didn't know you should appreciate before your children ate your brains.

They'll be waiting for you when you get back. Trust me.

P.S. No, I am not married to George Dubbayew.

Some might call it making a run for it

2012-01-12T19:47:00.026-05:00

I didn't mean to do it.

My mother was at our house babysitting. Chuck was away on business. I came home from work, and the heat and noise of the house hit me like a brick. I was cooked after a week of working, taking care of the kids and trying to scrape together a few minutes to [insert simple task that now seems monumental].

I crawled upstairs and put on my pajamas. It was 5:30 pm. I slithered downstairs and poured myself some wine. My mother helped me bathe the kids, dress them in their pajamas and read them stories. Somewhere in there I poured myself more wine.

At 8 pm I went back downstairs and surveyed the kitchen: dinner dishes, unwashed bottles, recycling, and on the table, a stack of thank-you notes for birthday presents for Everette that I'd been meaning to drop into the neighbors' mailboxes.

My mother sat at the kitchen table and started to write in her diary.

I decided to take a walk.

I grabbed the thank-you notes, put on my coat, gloves, hat and sneakers and stepped outside.

The night air was glorious. Cold, crisp, silent. I walked up the street, finally taking in all the neighborhood Christmas lights I'd been wanting to see for the last month. I peeked into people's houses. Noticed their curtains. The glare of their televisions.

Along the way I delivered my thank-you notes.

I had planned on turning back when I was done, but the mere thought of it lit a fire under my ass something fierce.

I started to run. Not well, mind you. I was pretty tipsy and in my pajamas but my feet wouldn't take me home. Instead they took me uphill and downhill, past the post office and the playground. Past the house where my fifth grade boyfriend used to live. Past everything. There was no one around. My heart was pounding in my ears. I probably looked like a crazy bear with vertigo but dammit, I was running.

And free.

It's good to be free.

But, as they say, all good things must come to an end. After months of sitting behind a desk, my unwilling legs turned rubbery and demanded I cut the shit.

I stopped and caught my breath. I remembered all those horrible years in gym class when you are forced to run a mile while the boys watched and how sometimes, you had to bend over and spit and wheeze just to get your breath back.

I felt like that same girl. Except for the wine and pajamas and two kids at home in bed.

I turned around and headed home.

Ma'am, put down the stuffed hippo

2012-01-09T20:27:00.018-05:00

Junior grew two feet in his sleep. Every pair of pants I put on him this morning were short. His legs look like they belong on a giraffe and his new haircut, which is way more buzzed than I'd like, makes me feel as if I should salute him.

I know babies. Drooling. Not sleeping. Teething. Bottles.

I do not know this little man-child. Everything is cars and wrestling and cool and "Fast! Faster!".

After pretending to jump over volcanoes on our way to brush his teeth he grabbed my arm and shouted, "Great job, lava protector girl!"

Suddenly I am a girl. Suddenly he and Chuck are "the mens" and they're too cool for girls and babies.

When did this happen and what do I do about it? All the old standbys are now defunct with this one. Everything I've learned—burping, rocking, singing, cooing—no longer apply.

It's a whole new ballgame and I am the rookie. The one at the plate holding a bib and pureed food when really, what the batter wants is a Beyblade.

What the fuck is a Beyblade?

Junior, of course, is taking his metamorphosis much better than I. I've been stumbling through stores, wondering how I ended up buying boys' pants that look like they could fit a teenager. Socks that look like they could belong to Chuck. And I can't stop thinking about this little hippo.

He used to be sewn to his mom, and Junior was perfectly content to keep the pair that way until one of his friends came over and ripped the thread, separating them.

When Junior told me what happened I said, "Oh no!"

Junior answered, "No, it's a good thing."

"It is?" I asked.

"Now he can go places on his own."

Damn you, Junior. Damn you for growing and being secure enough to seek your own identity and adventures. Damn you for not needing me as much and for morphing into a content giraffe-hippo man-boy.

It's everything I wanted for you and yet, some days the realization that this is just the beginning of letting you go breaks my heart.

Please stop growing up so fast? Please?

Other signs from the Heavens

2012-01-07T11:10:00.012-05:00

First Jesus went and put an offer in on our house. Then on Friday He was kind enough to have my co-workers barrage me with strange emails, providing me with yet more clues that my time at Mulletville Corp should come to an end.

2:14 p.m.: Email #1, from co-worker Andy, aka "Stache" for his strange upper lip caterpillar.

Dear Mrs. Mullet,

Can I ask a small favor? I want to join a gun club and they require two character reference letters to be included with my membership application. Would you be willing to write one for me? Nothing elaborate just attesting to the fact that I would not maliciously shoot up anything—at least not anyone in the office.

You need to include your own address and phone number in case they want to speak to you in person. I hope this doesn't happen, as I realize you have small children at home. I don't know if they'd come to your house. I've never done this before.

Thanks.

3:46 p.m.: Email #2, from co-worker Zack, who fancies himself a savant and who apparently spent a good part of the afternoon obsessing over the minutia of the English language after I casually suggested during a meeting that we make some minor edits to the agenda.

Mrs. Mullet,

Our conversation after the meeting prompted me to research the origin of "occasion." It is from the Latin, "ob," against or toward, and "cadere," to fall. The "b" becomes a "c" in the compound word. Thus the literal meaning is something falling against or toward something else.

I have had the chance (another word derived from "cadere") to use "occasion" since our conversation and was pleased to spell it correctly.

See you.

PS According to the online Merriam-Webster dictionary, "vary" does have intransitive senses, including "deviate" or "depart." But, I agree with you that the handout used the word awkwardly if not actually incorrectly.

My reply to both emails?

Dear Freaks,

I'm about to give my notice. Your emails will fit nicely in the appendix I've assembled for my letter of resignation. A final word: Please don't join forces. The world is fucked enough without adding a gun-wielding, wordsmithing dynamo to its roster of villains.

Please seek help, Mrs. Mullet

Someone famous is moving to Mulletville

2012-01-05T20:43:00.011-05:00

I won't get into a heavy religious discussion right now (it's 9:00 p.m., after all. Wine and Arrested Development on Netflix are calling my name), but something really, really amazing happened.

Our house in Mulletville has been on the market for almost a year now, and Chuck has been praying about it. Nightly. Praying that we get an offer. That the pipes don't burst. That Mulletville scumbuckets don't break in and vandalize the place.

One tends to worry about things like that when the realtor tells you she held an open house and that "Good news! Only one homeless person showed up. I don't think he was casing the place..."

Chuck has been so consumed by prayer that even as he is trying to put the moves on me he's saying his Amens.

(Hi, slight buzzkill.)

Sooooooooo, I got an email from the realtor this afternoon. The subject line was "We have an offer!" and I thought, Wahoo! Finally!

Then I opened up the attachment and saw who the buyer is:

Scroll down...

Keep scrolling...

That about says it all. Jesus not only heard Chuck's prayers, he decided to buy the house Himself.

Himself!

I really hope he likes the color I picked for the foyer.

For reasons of privacy I didn't include Jesus's last name. Obviously.

T-t-t-t-transitions

2012-01-04T20:56:00.007-05:00

Our household is in the midst of a shift right now. I can't write about it just yet. But soon. Soon I will be able to tell you that I've joined the circus.

Or started cross-dressing.

Or, better yet, decided to let Chuck take over this blog.

Yah, I know, that'd be lame.

Until I can spill the beans, take a gander at this:

Simple math is just so...complicated sometimes.

I may be a pervert

2011-12-29T20:24:00.009-05:00

But there is something about this Scooby-Doo Chia pet—a gift to Junior from a co-worker— that makes me want to:

a. reach for a razor
b. tell my child to look away
c. make inappropriate comments about male parts

The longer I look at the box, the worse it gets. And we haven't even grown the hair yet—I mean ferns. Whatever the hell it is that comes out of that paste packet.

Ch-ch-ch-EW.

We're having pizza and store-bought cake. Because Mommy loves you

2011-12-27T20:59:00.033-05:00

Everette is turning one this week. I know, I know, plenty of people have children who turn one and yes, they've probably already blogged about it, but did you hear me?

Everette is turning one!

Somewhere in the last month I stopped referring to him as Diddlydoo, the nickname I so lovingly gave him in utero so people would stop badgering me about what I was going to name my child—people are so greedy for information, aren't they?

He's started crawling and babbling; the name Diddlydoo started to feel...piddlypoo.

My own birthday hits this time of year as well. As anyone with a birthday in late-December/early January knows, it's the worst time of year to have a birthday. Presents and cards are an afterthought, if they even come.

Plus, there's something downright shitty about clocking in another year against the backdrop of naked, barren trees and stiff brown grass. Reflecting on your life as you watch signs of life die around you doesn't do much for making light of crow's feet and laugh lines.

Gray, lifeless sky = ample tears about gray, lifeless hair.

I know, boohoo. Boohoo.

I'm not the only one who is doing some end-of-year reflecting. Junior's been doing some too, although it's aloud.

Me: "Junior, Everette's going to be one. Can you believe it?"

Junior: "I wish he was back in your belly. We had more fun playing when he was in there."

Me: "But soon you can play with him! All the time!"

Junior: "He'll probably still slobber on my toys."

Nothing sucks the life out of a happy preschooler like a younger sibling. I can literally feel the malaise settling in.

To celebrate Everette's birthday, we're having pizza and cake with some of the neighbors and their kids. It'll be a much smaller affair than Junior's first, for which we commissioned a damn cake and threw a 100-person bash.

Huh? Wha? Post-Christmas, pre-New Year's birthdays what again?

Oh right. Suck.

And ok, it's not just the time of year. I'm learning that everything you do for your second (or third or fourth) child is with much less fanfare.

But! It is not for a lack of love. Oh, no. I couldn't possibly love that high maintenance, diva-like, giggly, precious, precocious, daredevil of a boy any more than I possibly do. I can't kiss him enough. I can't tickle him enough. There are days that I literally want to eat him.

And really, amazingly, I don't even know him yet.

Happy birthday, you little stinker. Next year Mommy will bake some cupcakes.

Maybe.

I'm not sure what just happened

2011-12-26T11:55:00.039-05:00

I think we celebrated Christmas, but I can't quite be sure. Everything after Friday afternoon is a bit blurry.

See on Friday, somewhere between my car and my office, I wrenched my back. Badly. In fact, the only way I could get comfortable at work was to stand. I sent some emails hunched over my keyboard, then decided I wasn't going to make it. I hobbled down the hall (while dragging my leg behind me) and out the door, straight to the doctor's.

(Side note: My co-workers are rallying to have me banned from the building. My water broke at work; I was pushed down the stairs at work; I have worn a thumb brace to work; sported a neck brace to work; hobbled around with a knee brace at work; slammed my toe in the door at work; and my ass has prevented me from working. If I showed up at work one day holding my head in the crook of my arm I doubt that anyone would be surprised.)

After driving to the doctor's my back felt even worse. The only way I could get comfortable in the waiting room was to kneel on a chair with my ass in the air. A nurse had to walk me down the hall. Then, while I waited for the doctor, the only way I could stop the pain from shooting down my legs was to assume the oh-so-attractive kneeling + ass in the air position again.

When the doctor came into the room, he took one look at me and promptly wrote me a prescription for muscle relaxers.

Bless his heart.

In my glazed over state, I spent the holiday weekend nodding demurely at whatever conversation was taking place. No one got on my nerves. No one!

I wasn't allowed to lift Junior or Everette or the 100-pound diaper bag or the Christmas presents. I didn't even lift the fruitcake.

I was so pliable that Chuck was even able to whisk me away to a holiday party. (The hosts were an engaged couple. She's Jewish; he's not. If their kids come out anything like their decorative bathroom towels, I think we know what religion they'll be:

Mazal Tov!)

So there you have it: Christmas 2011 was hazy and blurry and full of good cheer. I was physically unable to overdo it. Plus, my ass was in the air a few times.

Really, what more could you ask for from a long holiday weekend?

I have a tree

2011-12-23T15:07:00.001-05:00

My friends have been very good friends to me. Before Chuck and I had children and moved into my childhood home in Mulletville Lite, my father lived here. He did not decorate for the holidays, even though he held Christmas Eve here.

The one decoration that hung was a felt elf that covered a whole in the wall he hadn't plastered over. It hung all year long.

Every December I begged my friends to join me on a tree cutting excursion for my father, the quintessential bachelor. In my mind, I did it for him (wouldn't a decorated Christmas tree make the house feel more like a home?).

To enlist their aid, I bribed my friends with alcohol and food. Mostly alcohol. And they came.

They drove all the way to Mulletville Lite, helped us pick out a tree—often trekking through snow-covered farms as the sun went down—then came back to the house to untangle lights, locate the ornaments in the basement, de-rust the tree stand, and finally (!) to decorate tree.

The ornaments were the half my father got in my parents' divorce settlement. It always struck me as odd that they divvied up the ornaments. Then again, ornaments were always a contentious issue, particularly their placement on the tree.

As I sit here this afternoon looking at our tree, I can't help but be thankful for my friends. Year after year they helped me erect a beautiful tree, which brought me a sense of happiness and completeness.

I'm also thankful for moving back into this house, and for my own family's tree, which is now decorated with new ornaments.

For a long time, sad memories were a constant in this house. The tree went up, and as happy as that was, the tree was still tethered to the past. It was the tree of my childhood.

I am thankful for new beginnings and the chance to heal this home. I am grateful for my little family.

I don't want anything for Christmas. I have everything I need.

I hope you all have a wonderful holiday. See you next week.

Ay, Tuesday!

2011-12-20T07:31:00.000-05:00

There's one holiday commercial I'm going to miss:

Cracks me up every time.

Know what else cracks me up? This book:

If you're looking for a last-minute gift for a mother, this book will make you laugh out loud.

I'm off to work now. And you! Quit scratching your ass and get baking those cookies.

Ay! Monday

2011-12-19T09:52:00.002-05:00

I took off half a day so I could go to Junior's holiday party at nursery school. The last time I took off half a day for something at Junior's school, we visited the Mulletville Lite firehouse. The fire chief took one look at our large group and remarked, "I've never seen so many parents on a kids' field trip."

That line is a good segue into an article I read over the weekend. I think it's one of the best articles I've read on parenting in a while.

I've got more to say about it (of course), but I've got to run. Turkey rolls are expiring on the counter.

In 20 years je me still souviens why I left

2011-12-14T15:39:00.014-05:00

Tonight I'm going out for milk and I'm not coming back. I thought I should tell someone. Since I can't tell my friends, co-workers or immediate kin (sssshhhh, I don't want them to find me), you're it.

If anyone asks, I left because I have been sick for the last five days, and I have had to care for two sick children. One has clung to me nonstop, like a koala bear, and wants to sleep curled under my neck. The other begs me to sleep next to him, but really what he wants to do is play with the little hairs around my ears.

They can't make a NyQuil strong enough to help you sleep through shit like that.

My shirt is covered in mucus. It's not mine. I know that because I have only been able to sneeze onto the tops of children's heads.

I'm going to go to Canada. Every blogger I've met who lives in Canada seems really nice. I bet they'd take kindly to a homeless crazy woman covered in phlegm.

I won't be back until after Christmas. I haven't done a lick of holiday shopping, and I can't take the guilt. I started off strong when I bought that bag of Lindt truffles for the babysitter, but since we got sick and told her to stay away, her gift no longer exists.

So mum's the word, ok? I mean, eet eez ok?

An apple a day my fricken ass

2011-12-12T15:43:00.011-05:00

The grand finale of Junior’s fever and stomach complaint wasn’t a pukefest...it was a double ear infection.

For that I am eternally grateful.

Vomiting was such a routine part of my own childhood that I kept a sleeping bag in the bathroom. No parent wants to add “sleeping bag” to her child’s Christmas list because she sees him following in her footsteps. There are things to be sentimental about.

Vomit isn’t one of them.

Junior’s health has been a bit of a bumpy road this past year. The craptastic relationship we had with his pediatrician didn’t help matters. The list I made for “Top 10 signs you should switch pediatricians” was accurate, sadly. To say the doctor sucked would be an understatement.

Why didn’t I end the relationship sooner? I didn’t listen my gut, and I was blinded by the pediatrician’s reputation at Mulletville Hospital. To many folks, he walks on water. I kept believing that the next visit would be the one where I witnessed his magic.

Dumb, dumb, dumb.

This summer I finally listened to my gut. A mother I met at the library raved about a doctor in Mulletville Lite. Her children were grown, but she said Dr. Blahblahblah had treated her children like family. If your kid was really, really sick, she saw you on the weekend (everyone knows that kids get sick at 5 pm on Friday—everyone). She was also good at diagnosing illnesses other than colds.

Since Junior suffers from an as-of-yet diagnosed stomach problem, I was sold.

We joined Dr. Blahblahblah’s practice. During our first visit, I noticed a lovely picture of Dr. Blahblahblah in the waiting room. She had an ethereal look to her—healing incarnate. I couldn’t wait to meet her.

Over the next few months I took the kids in for check-ups. For colds. For shots. I met with the staff to talk about a procedure for Junior at the Hartford Children’s Center.

Still no Dr. Blahblahblah.

I peeked in the windows. I peeked in the Record’s Room. I peeked in the bathroom.

Still no Dr. Blahblahblah.

I kept believing that the next visit would be the one where I met this damn doctor. Soon! Soon it would be our turn!

Then, this past weekend Chuck and I had to take Junior to the Mulletville Hospital ER. His stomach was acting up. We wanted to get to the bottom of it.

As I was filling out the paperwork, the doctor asked who Junior’s pediatrician was.

“Dr. Blahblahblah!” I said.

I waited for him to say, “Wow! That doctor is amazing!” Instead he laughed and said, “Really? Dr. Blahblahblah’s been dead for at least a year.”

“Dead?” I said. “She’s dead?”

“Cancer. Terrible thing.”

I suddenly understood the picture in the waiting room.

It seems I "suddenly" understand a lot these days.

Please, learn from my mistakes. If you're looking for a pediatrician, it's great to ask for recommendations, but make sure to visit the office first yourself. Google him or her and read up on ratings, if there are any.

Call the pediatrician's office and ask:

1. What hospital the doctor(s) is affiliated with
2. How common it is to be seen that day
3. If they have a weekend answering service
4. If the pediatrician(s) has any particular specialty
5. How many doctors vs. nurses the practice has and if you'll be seen by an RN or LPN more often than not
6. How many years of experience the pediatrician has

And finally,
7. If the pediatrician is alive

Did I miss anything?

P.S. Lest you think I am a total idiot, Dr. Blahblahblah's practice still answers the phone "Dr. Blahblahblah." So you see...

There are a few things I have learned

2011-12-07T20:35:00.013-05:00

From my meager four years of parenting.

This is one of them: If your child has a fever and says he feels sick to his stomach right before going to bed, you grab that Tupperware container! You grab those suppositories! And you get your ass to bed.

Even if it's only 8:30 pm. Even if you're not tired.

Because what lies ahead is probably a horrific pukefest filled with tears and moaning (sometimes your own). What lies ahead is a child (or children) who wants to puke on you, despite your best attempts to usher him to the bathroom.

Despite your within-reach Tupperware container.

Never before in my life have I viewed the night time—what is supposed to be a time of repose and blissful slumber—as a vehicle for bodily battle and yet, as I type this, I can't help but think that I am arming myself and preparing to wage war.

Things will probably fly out of orifices. Simultaneously. I will probably get slimed. I will probably change pajamas and linens with the fervor of maid on crack. And, saddest of all, it will probably be 5:30 am before I am finally able to slither back into my bed, my hair matted to my face in a wet, crusty shellack of puke goo.

But godammit, I am smarter. I am faster.

And I am not tempting fate any further.

Goodnight.

When couples talk and fall down

2011-12-04T21:44:00.013-05:00

Chuck and I had a conversation tonight.

Imagine that! You can be married forever and still converse.

We discussed the details of me possibly taking a part-time job. He's been at his new job for a whopping two weeks you know. (Can you tell I want to get off the pot?)

Elements of our conversation felt oddly familiar. Like when Chuck said, "It'll be okay. We'll figure it out" then slammed 10 shots of tequila. And again when he clutched his heart, croaked, "We'll find a way to make it work" and then slumped to the floor.

Yes. That's when it hit me that we'd had this conversation before. As I stood over his trembling body I recalled how last year, almost to the day, Chuck and I were agonizing over the details of my unpaid maternity leave. Could we make it on his freelance income? What if no one wanted to buy his body parts? What's the street value of a complete Thomas the Train set?

I suddenly felt awfully grateful. If I take a part-time job and we land in the poorhouse, at least it's a conscious choice. And if it's going to happen around the holidays, at least no one will bitch when we give them hand-drawn pictures of the kids (hey, photo paper is expensive).

I jest. I don't know what the hell to do. In this economy. In this recession. In this maelstrom of foreclosures and lay offs and budget cuts.

Fuck.

I think I need to consult a fortune teller or call one of those psychic hotlines.

Maybe I'll ask her why one of us always seems to be lying on the kitchen floor. Start off simple.

Yes, simple would be good.

Anyone wanna trade grannies?

2011-12-01T20:26:00.027-05:00

I’ve been wanting to write a post-Thanksgiving post for a week now and finally, seven days later, I have the chance.

Must...act...quickly...

At Thanksgiving dinner, I sat down next to my grandmother and I said, “Grandma, this is your ninety-fourth Thanksgiving. Tell me: Out of all 94 years, what sticks out as your happiest holiday? What is your favorite Thanksgiving memory?”

I sat back and smiled thoughtfully. Her white-gray tendrils curled around her glasses. She was sharp as a whip, God bless her. Three marriages and four boyfriends later, she was still a looker.

She thought and she thought. I waited patiently. She thought some more.

I imagined she was mentally sorting through years of warm holiday memories. That could take a while, right? Sifting through 94 years of Thanksgivings?

Heck, she'd spent 36 Thanksgivings with me. Maybe one of those had been her favorite. Maybe she'd regale me with a holiday memory I didn't even remember. Maybe I'd done something endearing, like—

—“I don’t have one,” she said.

“You don't have one favorite happy holiday memory?” I asked.

“Nope. None of them were very happy.”

She shrugged and took a bite of pie.

I shouldn't have been surprised. Just a few months ago she had handed me a pile of letters and cards I’d sent her as a kid and said, “Here, I found some of the junk you sent me and since I’m not going to be around much longer you can have it back."

I swear, when she finally kicks it and is laid to rest the grass is going to curdle and spit her back out.

(Seriously, if you ship me your sweet grandmother for Christmas I'll kick in a cashmere sweater. And some sappy cards signed by yours truly. Sappy, thoughtful, homemade cards. *Sniff, sniff*)

The one thing I can't stop doing before bed

2011-11-29T20:11:00.028-05:00

I have a post-Thanksgiving post that I want to post (pippity, poppity post!) but before I do that, I need to come clean about something.

I have an addiction. It’s something I can’t say no to (duh), and it’s cost me thousands of dollars over the years. From the content of my Thanksgiving post, you might assume I’m talking about alcohol.

Well, you’re wrong. I love to drink, but I can say no to it whenever I’d like—which isn’t very often, but you get the idea.

No, my addiction is to something much more benign: face soap.

Gasp! Yes!

Washing my face before bed is a ritual I cannot live without. Truly. If we’re camping and there’s no running water, I’ll walk in the dark to find a stream so I can wash my face. If I have too much to drink at a party, come home and pass out on the bathroom floor, I will stand up to wash my face.

My mother doesn’t wash her face. Sometimes when she sleeps over I daydream about creeping downstairs in the middle of the night and...washing her face.

It started in my teens, when I began battling pimples. Since then I have tested practically every facial cleanser on the market.

I've used all the Neutrogena products. Neutrogena in the bottle (too thick!), in the bar (too slippery), Fresh Foaming (meh), the Deep Clean line (too ointment-y), Oil-Free Acne Wash (makes your skin smell like a band-aid), Oil-Free Acne Wash Pink Grapefruit products (the citrus smell gets old real fast), and Visibly Even face wash (zzzzzzz).

I’ve used Aveeno’s Foaming Cleanser Clear Complexion, Positively Radiant Cleanser, and Ultra-Calming Foaming Cleanser (collective yawn); all of Olay’s cleansers; all of Loreal’s cleansers; and all of Revlon’s cleansers. Sure I liked some of them, but I didn’t love them.

I’ve tried countless department store brands as well. Like Estee Lauder. And Clinque. And philosophy (talk about over-hype). And The Body Shop (Tea Tree Oil soap? Too medicine-y. Natrulift Softening Facial Wash? Humdrum).

Life Goes On Kellie Martin once claimed she couldn’t live without Origins mint face cleanser. I tried it, and I could. Ditto for all the non-lathering soaps. I hate Cetaphil, Clinque’s Cream Cleanser, and The Body Shop’s Vitamin E Cream Cleanser.

Hate, hate, hate cream cleansers. They’re like washing your face with Vaseline.

I’ve asked myself on more than one occasion, what am I looking for? What?

It comes down to a few things. Smell is a big one. I still have the cleanser I used a mere 15 years ago, when Chuck and I started dating because I love the way it smells. Loreal reformulated the scent in 1999, which broke my heart. I would have used that face soap for the rest of my life.

Texture is another draw. During the winter I crave a silky, creamy texture, like Shiseido’s Benefiance WrinkleResist24 Extra Creamy Cleansing Foam. During the spring and summer I’m drawn to something light and fluffy, like Lancôme Creme Mousse Confort Comforting Creamy Foaming Cleanser (hello mouthful).

Can I afford these products? No. But if have some extra money, you can bet I’m treating myself to some foam.

The reason I’ve confessed this novel is because someone really, really important asked me to review some facial products, and I thought you’d like to know about my credentials.

That person is none other than Jessica Simpson (’s beauty products editor). Yes, I know. I’m big time, baby.

Simpson’s line is called BeautyMint, and it’s all about customized skincare and using “patented technology ... to protect ingredients so that they can remain structurally sound and supremely functional.” I’m not sure what that really means or how you’d even go about proving it, but it sounds impressive, yes?

The products’ packaging is sleek and simple, in a Proactiv kind of way.

When I got the paraben-free cleanser I greedily opened it up and took a big sniff. Major blow: It was unscented. For a smell-a-holic like myself, I couldn’t get past that.

I squirted out some gel and tried to make some lather. Nada. Because it doesn’t have any harsh lathering agents—which is actually better for the environment—it doesn’t suds up. Still, it rinsed well enough and I had the sense that my face was clean.

Now for the serum, which was also unscented. The press kit claims, "Our revolutionary serum is comprised of an incredible 50% marine collagen, targeting visible and future signs of aging from every angle" and "Our patented technology delivers a power-load
of actives to skin."

I’d never used serum before so I wasn't sure how much to use. The bottle read: “Massage over face and throat.”

I did that, albeit too generously. That night my face stuck to the pillowcase.

The next night I used it just around my eyes and laugh lines. And the night after that. And so on. And so on.

After using the products for close to a month, here's what I've decided: The cleanser isn’t drying, but it also isn’t terribly refreshing. I think my fine lines have diminished, but I can’t be sure. My skin doesn’t feel taught, per se, but it also doesn’t feel weighed down.

Therein lies the appeal (or not) of the BeautyMint products: They’re something without really being anything. If you’re a minimalist, these products are made for you (and in that case, BeautyMint has an offer for you).

If you’re like me and you like a few bells and whistles (and foam) you’ll be left looking for more.

Sorry, Jess.

After a nice, long holiday weekend

2011-11-28T08:16:00.001-05:00

Re-entry is a serious bitch.

If you were in line tonight at a liquor store, I am thankful for you

2011-11-23T19:44:00.021-05:00

I had to go to the grocery store after work today to buy stuffing and diapers. Mmmm. I'd expected pandemonium. Thankfully it was just congested, not quite chaotic.

Next I hopped over to the liquor store to buy red wine (loving Sangre de Toro for $9.99 by the way. Wine plus a free plastic bull!).

Therein lay the pandemonium. Lines of people snaked through the store. They were out en masse.

As the shoppers clutched their beer/wine/vodka/nips (not unlike someone might cling to a favorite stuffed animal), I stepped back and smiled. I felt all warm and smushy with kindred spiritness.

Can we be honest? Lots of people talk about how thankful they are at this time of year but really, there are some things (like wacky relatives) we just can't be thankful for because they're too weird for words.

Alcohol helps.

Immensely.

Case in point, my father called me at 9:45 last night to tell me he was hosting Thanksgiving. Nine-freaken-forty-five. One day before the holiday. Our family plays the holidays like a hand of poker.

"Whatcha doing for Thanksgiving?"

"I don't know. What are you doing?"

"I'm not sure. Why don't you tell me what you're doing then I'll tell you what I'm doing."

We dance this little dance because deep down, we don't really get each other and would rather that everyone forgot about the other and went about their own decking of the halls. Except that a day or two before the actual holiday, someone has a case of the sentimental warm fuzzies—"Remember that Christmas we all stayed awake and watched TV together?"—and picks up the phone.

"Whatcha doing for Christmas?"

"I don't know. What are you doing?"

"I'm not sure. Why don't you tell me what you're doing then I'll tell you what I'm doing."

It's quite bizarre. I blame it all on my 40-year-old cousin who still lives at home. The same scantily clad women of 1970 (think "Help Me OB1 Kenobi, you're my only hope") are still affixed to his wall on posters. My other cousin? Her mouth is a fire cracker of swear words, Marlboro Reds and Budweiser.

So here's what I want to say on this eve before Thanksgiving: I am thankful—for all the people in line at the liquor store who need to throw back a few to make their day with the relatives more tolerable. Family members are crazy. A drink or two can be a curing salve to an open, Princess Leia obsessed wound.

One that can talk only about Nascar and the Food Channel, which you'd think would be mutually exclusive interests and yet at the end of the night, race cars, Parmesan Roasted Butternut Squash* and chicks swirl together in a beautiful display of colors.

I told you booze helps.

Happy Thanksgiving!

*No, he doesn't bring any of this shit to Thanksgiving.

Shouldn't you be making turkey hand puppets anyway?

2011-11-21T20:15:00.022-05:00

I have some sad news. Because of budgetary constraints, Mulletville Corp has decided to axe the Thanksgiving gift basket. Even more crushing, the Gift Basket Committee has been disbanded.

Indefinitely.

I know. That gift basket brightened the days of many employees.

Remember Robert, who needed a bus pass so he could get his turkey home? Carrying his bird up a fire escape was such a treat. Then there was Steve and his dead wife and cat Fang.

(Update on Steve: He recently told me that I reminded him of one of the "girls" from Scooby Doo. "Don't worry," he told me, "I don't mean the fat one with the glasses." Thank you, Steve.)

Yes, the shitty economy is hurting everyone, even cartoon characters.

If you're hurting and need a good laugh, you can read about my dear Aunt Burty, the woman who had so much holiday love to give, she couldn't keep her hands above the table. It's a hoot.

Oh, shut up. I told you this was a shameless repost! Gheesh!

The most compelling turkey story you'll ever read

2011-11-17T21:54:00.001-05:00

I am so excited. After three months of trying I, Mrs. Mullet, have finally gotten my name on the fucking snack sign-up sheet at my son’s nursery school.

Three months.

Aren't you excited for me?

I’m bringing in turkey rolls, to be exact, to be eaten by the little darlings after their Thanksgiving skit. Delicious, condiment- and cheese-free turkey rolls. Mmmmm.

You would think that the desire to contribute snacks is one that would be easily appeased, but getting on that sign-up sheet has been absurdly difficult.

You see, of all the nursery school moms, I am one of two that works.

Oh, shut up. This isn't going to be an us vs. them post. It's about turkey, for Pete's sake!

I wasn’t being stereotypical when I mentioned that my eye candy is limited to stay-at-home moms in yoga pants. Literally, there’s a yoga class held next door to the nursery school during class time; they all walk over together and work out.

(Who, me, jealous?)

During morning drop-off, I bring Junior into the school, kiss him good-bye, then look at my watch and realize I have 10 minutes in which to make a 20-minute drive. At the exact moment I make that realization, the teacher reminds everyone that the upcoming week’s snack sign-up sheet has just been posted on the bulletin board.

As the other women amble over to the board and casually discuss whether they’ll bring in cupcakes or graham crackers, I trip my way out the door, over children and over more women in yoga pants. By the time I make my way back to the sign-up sheet at the next day’s drop-off, there are no empty slots. Not even for sliced fruit!

Is it so wrong that I want a turn to slice the damn fruit?

Then, this morning, in a cosmic occurrence similar to that of Mars aligning with Saturn, the teacher announced the sign-up sheet posting as I was walking in. Heavens to Betsy!

I shoved Junior out of the way, ran over and wrote in my name. In big letters. Huge letters. Turkey rolls: MRS. FRICKEN MULLET. YES! I WILL BRING IN TURKEY ROLLS. MRS. MULLET WAS HERE. 2011.

I turned around, immensely satisfied. I’m not sure what I expected. Applause? Nods of approval that yes, working mothers can feed children too?

No one cared. And really, it’s silly of me to expect them to.

But I care. And that’s all that matters.

Now step away from the sign-up sheet.

I'm cutting short my introspective (and self-indulgent) clogfest

2011-11-15T07:05:00.000-05:00

So I can share some exciting news: My husband Chuck got a full-time job, and he's starting at the end of this week!

He's been a stay-at-home dad/freelancer/TV personality (ok, ok, it was just one episode) since being laid off in 2009.

Fricken 2009, man.

I'm happy for him. Getting laid off takes its toll, particularly in this crappy economy.

I'm also happy for myself (we can finally afford fig newtons again). But. I'm also sad. He'll be away a lot. The job entails travel and long hours. The kids are going to miss him. And I'm going to miss him in his Mr. Mom role—even if he didn't have a stuff drink waiting for me when I got home from work, nor was he wearing something sexy.

He never quite got that aspect of our role reversal.

It's going to be a big change. I'll be managing two kids and a full-time job all by myself. Taking out the garbage. Doing laundry. Cooking dinners. Bathing the kids.

Five days a week.

All by myself.

Oh, God.

See, dammit. I knew those ugly-yet-buttery-soft clogs were a good purchase. (Thank you, T.J.Maxx.) If only they came with super powers.

But enough about me: Congrats, Chuck!

For a nanosecond it was the year of the nose ring

2011-11-13T21:35:00.032-05:00

I drove to Assachusetts yesterday so I could spend Saturday night with my dear friend Sandy. Because she is so wonderful and because she understands I don't get out much these days, she met me at the door with a pitcher of diet ginger ale and Early Times whiskey.

I love her (remember how she visited at the height of the flea infestation? Now that's a friend).

After tailgating at her place, we walked around Northampton and tried in vain to find a bar where we could sit. We finally settled on a pub where one of us could sit.

As soon as my ass hit the stool, I got lost people watching. In Mulletville Lite, my people watching is limited to a) Chuck and the kids, b) my parents, c) the neighbors, and d) the moms who drop off their kids at the nursery school (i.e., a blur of yoga pants). No one has tri-colored hair. No one wears red lipstick. No one dresses up.

The room was full of eye candy. Pure eye candy.

Dressed in my black sweater, jeans and black boots I felt hopelessly generic in comparison. Not in a bad way. More in a I'm-36-and-live-in-Connecticut-so-I-have-no-pep-or-originality kind of way.

Ok, ok. I guess I can't blame it all on Connecticut. Having two children has made dressing a completely utilitarian effort. Putting on a shirt correctly is good, never mind if it's funky and/or flattering.

Then there's Chuck. He bought me a Vera Bradley handbag for Christmas last year and, in the midst of a homogeneous hiccup, I started using it.

So there I was at the bar. Drunk on whiskey and pretty lights and somewhat pretty people, I contemplated a drastic makeover for myself. Bangs. Lipstick. Textured tights. A ferret hat. Something different. Something that would set me apart from the yuppy Mulletville Lite crowd.

Sigh.

If only I hadn't stopped at that store on the way home from Assachusetts today and bought these:

Clogs. Fucking clogs. Sucked in by their comfort and functionality, I didn't have a chance.

And, honestly, I kind of knew this day was coming. I just didn't think it would follow such quick suit after "I'm gonna zip and zest my hump, my hump, my hump. My lovely lady lumps (lumps)." There are worse travesties, I understand, but for a few drunken hours I really did think I'd return home and infuse my life with unique and dazzling glamor.

(Myah, that last line just made me burst out laughing.)

What about you? Do you feel like you pay hommage to your inner diva or are you subsisting on comfy schlepwear?

Perplexing and vexing all at once: 4

2011-11-08T20:39:00.027-05:00

At four-and-a-half years old our first son, Junior, isn't quite so junior anymore.

Lately he's been throwing us for a loop. He can do it all by himself. NO, HE NEEDS HELP. No, he can handle it. NO, MOM I NEED YOU. One minute he's beating his chest and declaring, "I'm brave! Braver than Dad!" In the next breath he's whimpering up at me, pleading with me to pick him up and carry him.

At close to 50 pounds, that's no small feat.

He loves nursery school, so much so that he gets into the car before me and yells to me to hurry up. Yet he won't tell us what he does at nursery school. We're able to piece together some of his activities based on the sheer volume of crafts he brings home, but I'm convinced he took an oath of silence the day we registered.

He uses the word "like" a lot. He got that from me, which means I'm a valley girl who doesn't know it.

He's musically inclined. I prefer it when the performances take place after 8:30 a.m., but I realize that's not always an option.

Junior has my temper and I'm sorry for that. When I watch how Chuck handles him at his finest, I see how lucky we are to have such a patient man in our lives. When they cuddle on the couch, I see how lucky Junior is to be so loved.

When I asked Junior what he was doing the other day and he replied, "Not kicking Everette," it made me realize that when Everette is big enough, Junior's probably going to have a few black eyes.

Junior's been seized by the jealousy bug—to the point of counting seconds on hugs and kisses and claiming that Everette's lasted longer. He's also been seized by the "NO, EVERETTE! DON'T TOUCH THAT, EVERETTE!" bug.

He has no idea what his brother is going to do to his toys.

It's best that way.

I miss the malleable mini man Junior was at three. Some days I don't recognize the little giraffe who is racing around the house, demanding that I watch "the coolest move ever." He is quick to say no and even quicker to offer a bargain. I had no idea that four-year-olds were such used car salesmen.

But I love Junior at four. I love his "Mom, I sneezed and tooted does that mean I snooted?" I love his crazy self-portraits.

Most of all, I love the fact that even though I have known him his whole life I am still finding out who he is.

None of my friends have long fingernails

2011-11-06T21:27:00.013-05:00

When I was a kid, my parents dropped me off at my aunt's house for the day. I was four or five. Or six.

I can't recall it was so long ago.

My aunt had 10 cats, a creepy husband, and a daughter (my cousin) who had so much metal in her mouth her lips had track marks. (You whipper snappers who bitch about your clear plastic "braces" don't know how good you have it!)

The creepy husband liked to watch creepy movies. My cousin and I liked to sit behind the couch and pretend we were playing with Barbies, but really what we were doing was sneaking peeks at the horror movies he was watching.

Because listening to the blood curdling screams wasn't enough.

That fateful day I happened to catch a creature of some kind walking down a hall. A little girl was sleeping in her bedroom. The creature wrapped his fingers around the door frame and peered in on the girl.

To this day I remember those fingers and fingernails: long, bony fingers and talon-like nails. Slowly wrapping themselves around the wooden frame of the door.

Then, the creature's head. Sloooowly peering in.

My parents paid dearly for that day of freedom. As I lay in bed that night I stared at the door frame, convinced I could see the tips of the creature's fingernails. Convinced that the second I closed my eyes he would peer in on me and eat me.

I told them as much.

Night after night. Month after month.

"I can see him!" I'd scream. "He's going to get me!" Sometimes it was right at bedtime. Sometimes it was in the middle of the night.

I believe my mother entitled this phase "We hate you" in my childhood scrapbook.

I remembered all this as I stood next to Junior's bed tonight. We let him watch Cars 2. As he lay there, his stuffed animals tucked sweetly underneath his armpits, he said, "My mind keeps seeing the mean cars. I don't want to close my eyes."

My first thought was, I so feel his pain. It was in his very bedroom that I'd slept as a child and given myself all those panic attacks. I knew exactly what he was going through.

Poor kid.

My second thought was, Please don't let this fuck up our sleep. Please. I just want to sleep.

Or maybe that was my first thought. During the opening credits.

Everyone knows about the melons

2011-11-01T21:31:00.008-04:00

But what people really need to know about is the sweet potatoes. Think of it as "before" and "after."

Before kids:

After kids:

And yes, the girls are pointing straight at a bottle of tequila. Can you blame them?

The things we chant when we're overexcited

2011-10-29T15:45:00.014-04:00

It's hard to get in the mood for this:

When the outside of your home looks like this:

And your child is chanting, "Yah! Santa's coming! Santa's coming!"

I don't mind the snow, I'm just a little surprised by it. The last time it snowed before Halloween it was 1996. I was at college in upperstate New York. I remember it distinctly because I'd been walking home from a Halloween party with a group of friends and I fell into a snow-covered shrub.

My costume had been Shooting Star; my weapon had been a toy gun full of vodka—cheap vodka—that I'd refilled all night and shot into people's mouths. (If you're going to a party and don't know many people, I highly recommend this costume as a way to quickly make friends.)

As I lay in the shrub, one of my friends shouted, "Fallen star! "Fallen star!"

Drunk people are so funny.

They pulled me from the shrub. When we got to the next party and I discovered I had pieces of shrub stuck between my teeth, someone was even nice enough to floss my teeth with strands of my hair.

Hey, I didn't have to tell you I fell face-first.

What about you? Are you looking out your window as the snow falls, reminiscing about your favorite Halloween costume? Or are you lying on the beach drinking a Bahama Mama?

Appreciating the small things: When your grief harmonizes with the season

2011-10-26T19:50:00.000-04:00

I want to thank everyone for their kind emails and words on my last post (in which I sniveled all over my keyboard about the passing of my cat.)

In all seriousness, I expected a few snarly comments along the lines of "Get over it, it's a cat!" mainly because I had said that very thing to my college roommate when she described the passing of her beloved childhood cat.

(So now you know, when I was in college I read poems like "Having it Out with Melancholy" and laughed at other people's pain. Child of divorce? Who, me?)

For the last few days Chuck and I have been curled up on the couch with the cat that's, um, still alive.

It's been comforting to hold her but I won't lie, for one passing nanosecond I did ask Chuck what his thoughts on taxidermy were (I couldn't help it, Martha said everyone's doing it).

Chuck looked at me like I was crazy.

Rightfully so.

It's going to take some time to get over this loss. After curling up with this

for the last 10 years, I find myself somewhat obsessed with all things soft and knitty. I've been searching my house—in vain, of course—for substitutes. I keep wrapping myself up in sweater coats. I bought myself some chunky knit gloves at H&M:

I guess I should be grateful it's not mid-July.

Junior's been handling the loss of our cat quite well. After the dead-cat-in-the-trunk episode, I worried he might need therapy. Or at least a therapeutic session with a hand puppet. Nope, he looked at our Calico on the couch and said, "I'll watch animal shows because she likes them. But if she begins to like PBS Kids, that'd be great."

Ah yes, television. Saving the lives of cats and preschoolers one household at a time.

(Could someone knit me a cat for Christmas?)

Late Sunday night post. Sigh

2011-10-23T21:26:00.018-04:00

This weekend was a very sad weekend. We had to put down one of our cats.

It was this guy:

Aka the Butter Thief. Aka Fatass. Hairball. The Jerk.

I had terrible names for him and often (read: always) hated the amount of vacuuming I had to do because of him (despite using the Furminator), but nothing could have prepared me for the profound loss I feel.

In January, when the Mulletville Lite vet removed a cancerous tumor from his side, he said the cancer had metastasized. He gave him six months to live. I should feel grateful he lived five months longer than he was supposed to, but I don't. He was only 10.

My heart is broken.

So is his sister's. She's been staring at the yard, waiting for him to come back for dinner.

Before I had children, I would spend entire Sundays curled up on the couch with the cat. He was warm, fluffy and malleable. When you are in your mid-twenties and have a day to spend on your couch watching movies, nothing compares to having 25 pounds of purring fur stuck to your side.

Years later, after Chuck and I got married, he would spoon Chuck in bed. I'd literally wake up to find the two embraced like lovers.

In the last two months, the cat's health went downhill quickly. Once plump and lazy, he became thin and lazier. On Saturday, it was clear he was in a great deal of pain. I crouched down next to him. Pet him. Sad good-bye.

Chuck came back from the vet an hour later. With the cat in the trunk.

That was...unexpected. Especially when Junior wanted to see what the big deal was. (Ever try to say one more good-bye to your dead cat in the trunk while your four-your-old is yelling, "Can I see? Can I see?" If you have, please email me. I'd love to hear how you handled it.)

We buried the cat at the edge of the yard. We said a prayer. The stone we chose as a marker looks like a crouching gray cat; over the last few days I've looked out the window quickly and tricked myself into believing it's him.

I want to hold him again. I want to have a whole Sunday to curl up with him. I want to take back every time I shooed him out of the kitchen because he wanted to eat again (who cares if he was fat?).

I want to lay my head on his belly and hear his deep purring.

Now that you're thoroughly saddened (or laughing at me for bawling uncontrollably about a cat), I want to share a piece of a poem I have loved since college. It's by Jane Kenyon, and it's a stanza in a poem entitled "Having it Out with Melancholy." It reads:

6 IN AND OUT

The dog searches until he finds me
upstairs, lies down with a clatter
of elbows, puts his head on my foot.

Sometimes the sound of his breathing
saves my life -- in and out, in
and out; a pause, a long sigh. . . .

Things that hurt. A lot

2011-10-19T21:35:00.017-04:00

When your 9-month-old has teeth, he will probably bite you.

It will hurt.

When your 4-year-old sees that your 9-month-old bit you and did not lose bed time story privileges or endure a time out on the stairs, he may bite you as well.

That, too, will hurt.

You may look down at your naked shoulder and, seeing the teethmarks, liken it to a gnawed-on ear of corn. You may be bemused by that, as you marvel at the never ending body slam that is motherhood (my flesh? My braincells? My sleep? But of course. Please, take it all).

Or you may just be pissed.

Either or.

If you need to tell the world about your potatoes, who am I to write a blog post about it? (I'm Mrs. Mullet, that's who!)

2011-10-16T20:47:00.017-04:00

When I read back over some of my older blog posts, I'm struck by how much bitching I do. (Shut up, Chuck.)

I'm tired. I'm late to work. My husband doesn't clean up as much as I do. I hate the witch-cat I hung by the mantel.

Wah wah.

Granted, my complaints are legitimate. I work full-time and have two children under the age of five. I am tired. I don't lay out my clothes the night before, nor do I pack my lunch in advance. I am late.

And Chuck. Even though I tell him on a daily basis that I need/want him to do more around the house, his idea of doing is very different than mine. For instance, when he says he'll do the dishes, what he really means is he'll do them in a few weeks.

Know what? I don't have a few weeks. I need to make my lunch for work and I need a clean knife. One.Clean.Knife.

See? Legit.

Still, I've been thinking a lot about my outlook. Mostly because Chuck and I have a friend—let's call her Shits Rainbows—on Facebook who has made it her mission to sprinkle her 400+ friends with healthy doses of I'm-so-happy-to-be-alive-I-need-to-profess-it-on-Facebook.

She's so sugary happy that Chuck and I actually call each other during the day to snicker over her status updates. Stuff like:

"Just baked fresh muffins, my friends. The smell of apples is in the air. A bird is chirping outside my window. The sunbeams are illuminating my foyer. Savor each moment!"

GAG.

And: "My six-month-old little prince and I are off to the grocery store! Cooking dinner tonight for the love of my life. Lighting candles. Baking fresh bread and garlic mashed potatoes. Great end to the weekend. Life is good!"

BLECH.

It never seems to end.

Many times I have thought about canceling her updates. I just couldn't take her singsong enthusiasm for the most banal of activities. Grocery shopping with a baby? Shoot me. And why the hell did people need to know she was making garlic mashed potatoes? Why weren't regular spuds good enough?

(I swear, this is the shit that keeps me up at night.)

After a few months of having her sunshine in my feed, though, I noticed something happening. I noticed that her sunny outlook was making me think about small moments I'd had that I could kinda sorta maybe be more appreciative of. Not on Facebook, per se, but in my own consciousness.

Moments like tickling Diddlydoo after his bath. Like hugging Chuck—really hugging him—and feeling like he is still my best friend. Like loving my mother because she does my dishes and vacuums even while she's calling me an asshole because I tell her not to do so much.

Was I stopping to appreciate the small, happy moments enough? Was I sharing enough of the good stuff, or was sarcasm blinding me to the beauty of my sunbeam-lit foyer?

More importantly, what would happen if I started blowing my happy chunks all over my friends on Facebook?

I set to task one day and wrote this:

I won't bore you with the responses I got, except to say that they ranged from "Who are you?" to "No really, who are you?"

That's okay. It really is. People want me to grumble and kvetch. Their false assumption that my life is rusty nails and burnt toast provides their insecurities and inferiority complexes with sustenance.

Simply, I feed their broken inner child. And I'll continue to do so. I can spit snark while nuzzling my noggin. My newfound love for the daily slices of Heaven in my life can be my little secret.

As can the fact that I still have Shits Rainbows in my news feed—and that she makes me smile as much as she makes me throw up in my mouth.

Ah, Facebook.

Well, I did take my pants off...

2011-10-13T08:28:00.000-04:00

So, um, about that exciting night I was supposed to have...without the two kids or my husband or the cats or...wait, is that everyone living at my house?

Yes, Mrs. Mullet, it is. Even though I hung this witch-cat by the fireplace and give myself a heart attack every time I walk into the living room because I think it is a person

it is not.

(Mental note to self: Take down the damn witch-cat already.)

You probably want to know what I did. Or maybe—hopefully—your own life is so balls-to-the-wall exciting you could give a flying tortilla about what I did with an entire night all to myself.

I'm stalling. Can you tell?

I'm stalling because I...

I...

I...

I used my Get Out of Jail Free card to buy two Mums at a local farm stand. Then I drove home and was in bed by 9 pm.

And you know what? I'm still friggen tired. When does the fatigue pass? When?!

What I'd really like to do is sleep...

2011-10-10T20:44:00.006-04:00

By fucking gawd I made it through another Monday.

Getting through the day kind of felt like sliding down a metal pole on my teeth, but hey—hey!—tomorrow is Tuesday, and you know what that means...

It means that Chuck told me I'd better not come home right after work. He wants me to spend the evening doing something for myself. He's going to feed the kids and put them to bed and he doesn't want to see me until at least 9 pm.

I should be thrilled, but I have no idea what the hell to do. Borders went out of business, so there goes the ever-so-cliche idea of sipping a latte while browsing through stacks of books. The local watering hole is way too local. I don't like strangers touching my feet, so no pedicure. I splurged on some fall clothes last weekend, so no more shopping for me.

The movies are too expensive. Ditto for a cut and color. I'm not looking for random sex, so cruising the commuter parking lots along I-95 is out. And I don't like horses, so there'll be no horseback riding.

What.The.Hell.Do.I.Do?

What?

Woe is a hoe named me

2011-10-03T21:51:00.007-04:00

I have been struggling.

I have been sick. I have had to call out of work. Chuck has been sick. I have had to call out of work. The kids have been sick. I have had to call out of work. My grandmother was sick and my mother, our lovely free babysitter, had to leave to care for her. I have had to call out of work.

Some mornings I misplace my keys, and I am late for work. Some mornings I realize I have spit-up and boogers on my shirt, and I am late for work. Some mornings I simply lose track of time.

I am late.
I am late.
I am late.

Where is Chuck? Working. Always working. Trying to rebuild his career. His run of being a stay-at-home father will be short-lived this time. He has been out of full-time work since 2008. He wants more. He wants to be back in the saddle.

I support him in that.

But really, the madness needs to stop. After a bad run of morning tardiness I sometimes hide my purse and coat in the bathroom nearest the parking lot so I can walk the long halls to my office as if I've been in all morning. Then, after I've unlocked my office and turned on the lights and answered a few emails I go retrieve my belongings.

It's all a bit nerve-wracking. And I didn't even tell you about the day my mother was babysitting the kids and driving around Mulletville with them so they'd nap, and how she looked back and saw that Junior's face was covered in blood from a bloody nose and how she drove to my office because she was so scared.

I missed a meeting that day. I met her in the bathroom of Mulletville Corp. Cleaned Junior up. Bought him crackers from the vending machine. Held him. Kissed Diddlydoo.

Ah yes, the secret lives of corporate bathrooms.

Not as riveting as how to poop in a corporate bathroom , but hey you're lucky I showed up for this post.

Or maybe I'm the lucky one.

Case Study #2: "Still pissed about garbage night."

2011-09-25T21:28:00.018-04:00

Some of you may remember Case Study #1: Garbage night in which I suffered from ire-incited insomnia while Chuck enjoyed unperturbed slumber.

Two years of ire-incited insomnia later I'd like to present Case Study #2: "Still pissed about garbage night." Alternate title: "You call that a weekend?"

Yes, I'm referring to that sandy island I spent all week dog paddling to. I went to an island all right. An island of BVDs*.

I'd like to again quote the article "Chores Can Cause Conflict in Your Marriage" by Sheri and Bob Stritof: "...74 percent of men said the chores were shared; 51 percent of women said chores were shared. Twenty-six percent of men said one person did the housework; 49 percent of the women said the same."

Chuck, your 74 percent is giving my 51 percent dishpan hands, under-eye circles, a serious backache and a mean case of the where's-the-meat-cleaver-I-would-like-to-sledgehammer-your-slumber.

A male's perception of his share in responsibilities vs. the actual amount contributed is so skewed, I bet Sheri wrote the whole fucking article and Bob came along and signed his name and went and told everyone they wrote it together.

Nice job, Bob. Have some BVDs you need laundered?

Yah, that's what I thought.

(If this is the last time the term BVD was in fashion I'm pretty old, huh?)

Sometimes the weekend feels like an island

2011-09-22T21:20:00.003-04:00

I spend all week trying to swim to.

Yet despite all that swimming, my ass never gets smaller.

**Sigh**

(If you write a post about your patookis and Google "bikini butt" because you think a picture of a great butt would add to your post, be prepared to see a lot of pictures of Kim Kardashian's ass. Ca-ching!)

You can lie down with me if you want

2011-09-19T21:09:00.027-04:00

A package was sitting in the mailbox today. For little old me. I raced back to the house and tore it open. I didn't even let Junior help me with the wrapping paper, that's how excited I was.

Inside I found this, from my mother:

I immediately started laughing hysterically. Both Junior and Chuck looked at me like I was crazy.

"Permission to nap?" I howled. "That's the funniest thing I've ever heard. Like what's standing between me and a good nap is permission." I fell to the floor and held my stomach. I was rolling around good.

"How about two kids? How about a flea infestation and working full time? How about a sink full of dishes, a washing machine full of clothes and a table full of empty dinner plates? Nope! That's not keeping me from repose on the couch. Permission is."

Chuck and Junior stood over me.

"Oh, that's good," I hooted. "That's really friggen good. Thank God she sent me that book. Everything is so much clearer. I now know what's keeping me from restoring my spirit."

I wiped the tears from my eyes.

"Need a hand up or are you staying on the ground?" Chuck asked.

"No, no," I said. "I'm fine right here. I'm giving myself permission to take a nap right here and now. 'Mrs. Mullet, you are free to sleep for as long as you need!' "

"You've lost it."

I placed a hand over my eyes. "If you need anything from the fridge, please step over me."

"Mommy! Get up!"

"Sssshhhh, Junior. I'm napping."

I wouldn't even go for free booze

2011-09-17T14:17:00.008-04:00

Hmmm, I'm going to file this under "Things I do not—under any circumstances—want to do after spending a week without power, refrigeration and hot water":

As I wrote before, thanks to Hurricane Irene I'm all set with the colonial era.

I have a few more things to say about my kids' pediatrician but for now it'll have to wait. The picture of that woman making candles "the old fashioned way" is giving me a serious case of the twitches.

Top 10 signs you should switch pediatricians

2011-09-15T20:52:00.014-04:00

1. When feeling the lump on your kid's head that was caused by a fall off the bed, the pediatrician says, "NBD" then scoffs when you ask him to explain what the hell NBD means ("No big deal").

2. You learn more about your child's health after one visit with the on-call pediatrician across the street than you did in the eight months with your pediatrician.

3. You find yourself daydreaming about the on-call pediatrician across the street a lot—like every time you make an appointment with your own pediatrician.

4. Your pediatrician admits that he kept you waiting for 20 minutes because he was in his office watching the Tour de France.

5. Your pediatrician also admits that the only reason he stopped watching the Tour de France was because one of his staff made him feel guilty about keeping you waiting.

6. During office visits, one of your pediatrician's testicles bulges to the side because his tapered jeans are too tight.

7. One of the first things your pediatrician asks you during an appointment is whether or not you noticed his new BMW in the parking lot.

8. You find yourself trying to focus on the good times with your pediatrician instead of the shit that's pissed you off: "Well, he did laugh when I threw my underwear at him..."

9. After ranting endlessly to your husband about your pediatrician, he shrugs his shoulders and says, "Do what you have to do," which in manspeak is code for "You're right but I don't want to be the one to call the office and explain why we're leaving."

10. You write a post entitled "Top 10 signs you should switch pediatricians."

I could buy a lot of wrinkle cream

2011-09-13T21:11:00.017-04:00

I'm pooped.

Pooooooooooooooooped.

I get home from work at five. We take the kids for a walk. Make dinner. Do baths. Pajamas. Teeth brushing. Searching for lost stuffed animals. A better night light. Bed time stories.

Then there is the after dinner clean-up. Bottle washing. Sippy cup sudsing. I put laundry away. Sort bills. Make my lunch for the next day. Pick my nose. Straighten up.

Sometimes I remember to wash my face and apply wrinkle cream. Sometimes I remember to brush my own teeth. Junior told me my teeth are yellow, so I've been swishing with a teeth whitener.

Sometimes I get lost in thought and forget what I'm swishing. I find myself staring in the mirror and I think, What the hell is in my mouth?

I get into bed at 10:30 p.m. Then I lie there. My body has grown so accustomed to children robbing it of REM, it won't let me fall asleep.

They'll call for you the minute you close your eyes, it says. Don't even bother. Just lie here and obsess about things you can't control.

Ok, I answer. What shall it be tonight?

How about world hunger?

Great, I say.

At 3 a.m. the nurse next door slams her car door after working the night shift. I realize I've again had the dream where I'm dating Jack Nicholson and he gives me $1,000 cash to spend at Sephora.

What does it mean? I wonder.

I don't fucking know, my brain answers. But now you're awake and Diddlydoo will be up at 5:30. Why don't you just get up and start your day?

At 5:45 a.m. my little creep of a nine-month-old awakes. Because I am working and because I want to spend time with him, I crawl out of bed and give him a bottle. I kiss him. A lot. He falls back asleep.

I get into the shower. Shampoo my ass and soap up my hair. Chuck hands me a cup of coffee. I drink it in between shaving and yawning.

Then comes the drive into work.

My commute consists of 20 minutes on a small highway. The ride faces the sun. If I'm especially tired, the ride gets hazy and I imagine that I and my fellow commuters are moths drawn to a flame. Mindlessly heading toward that which will kill us (or at least singe our brains): Corporate America.

(You come here for the deep thoughts, admit it.)

And then. Then I arrive at work and spend a good part of the morning wiping spit up off my shirt and wondering why the hell I'm having a reoccurring dream about Jack Nicholson.

Oh shit. I just realized I'm still swishing.

Apparently memory lane is lined with dogs and crazy bosses

2011-09-08T21:32:00.013-04:00

It's Thursday night. I've been slurpin' the vino. Getting all misty about how quickly time is passing.

So I decided to play the blog game of "Where was I on September 8th of 2010, 2009 and 2008?"

Here's what I found out:

On this day in 2010, I let my male coworker cry on my shoulder and designed a college course. In 2009, I was worrying that Junior could see dead people. In 2008, I shared my lack of knowledge about foreign dogs (Earth shattering, I know).

It hit me: Without this blog I'd have no recollection of where I've been for the last three years.

No recollection.

I'm going to need a moment to ponder whether or not that's a good thing.

Slurp, slurp.

Oops, I spent that moment guzzling.

Ooopsie.

Bug-eyed, batty lovey goodness

2011-09-06T22:16:00.015-04:00

Junior drew this person. I love it because it looks exactly how I feel lately: on the verge of losing my shit. (If you're new here, I recently went back to work after an extended maternity leave, we've been dealing with a flea infestation and lack of power due to Hurricane Irene, and I'm out of wine.)

I also love the drawing because it's a little glimpse into the inner workings of my four-year-old son's mind. Everyone shits rainbows over babies and yes, they do smell nice after a bath, but to me this is one of the most beautiful times in my child's life. In my life.

Junior picks up the guitar and makes up songs. He tells knock-knock jokes. He tells me he wants smicken smocken smooken for breakfast. He draws freaky ass people with bug eyes.

He makes me laugh.

I never told my younger brother this, and I probably should have, but the only reason I survived my parents' divorce was because he made me laugh. He farted with his armpit. Incessantly. He'd play the cello from the closet while everyone was trying to sleep. He'd stealthily mock the tour guides on the horrible museum visits on which my father dragged us—to the point that my father would abandon us for another group.

They were the best of times, they were the...

Oh, right, you know how it goes.

So that's it. I'm in love with Junior and his drawings of people with bulging eyes. I want to freeze time. I want a guarantee that I'll live to be 100 so I can spend the next 64 years marveling at his accomplishments, the man he'll grow to be, and the glorious gift of creative expression we've all been given.

Can you do that for me?

Mama needs meat

2011-09-03T16:15:00.004-04:00

Power. Praise be, we have power again.

Now there's just the small matter of this:

A trite matter considering but still, a matter. Thank gawd I churned all that butter when the storm hit.

I mean really, thank gawd.

Thank you, Hurricane Irene, for making me hate the colonists

2011-08-31T10:39:00.012-04:00

I suppose I could try to be positive about Hurricane Irene, given that my home wasn't flooded or obliterated by a downed tree and the fact that I've been able to escape to my father's house during the day and enjoy the creature comforts of his electricity.

But I just don't want to.

We haven't had power in Mulletville Lite since 7 a.m. Sunday morning. I think the storm hit at what, 6:55 a.m.? To say it's been the longest week of my life would be an understatement. And it's only Wednesday.

If you read my last post, you'll see my household was battling a flea infestation. An infestation made liveable by incessant vacuuming and laundering of linens.

Guess what you can't do without power?

Yep. Vacuum and laundry.

Do you have any idea what it's like to try to monitor a flea issue by candlelight and flashlight? It's making me batty.

On top of the lack of power, the lack of hot water with which to wash Diddlydoo's bottles or to bathe, and the not-so-quaint activities of living like you're camping indoors (peanut butter and bread for dinner, anyone?), the kids have double ear infections.

Guess what kind of medicine the doctor prescribed?

One that requires refrigeration. I've got the kids' medicine in a cooler by the bed, and I've been monitoring the cooler's temperature like it's holding organs.

Ice cube by ice cube.

And how bout those candles? If we ever hear of a hurricane approaching again, unscented candles will be at the top of the list. My house smells like the fucking Yankee Candle Company.

Though it does mask the smell of rotting food in my refrigerator well.

Between the pine-scented and holly berry-scented candles and the battery-operated window lights we've been using to keep Junior from wailing "I can't seeeeeeeeee!" during the night (God I miss nightlights), it's beginning to feel a lot like Christmas.

Except for the lack of snow, of course. Keeping the windows open and enjoying the cool nights was a real blessing.

Until the neighbor bought a generator.

Do you have any idea how loud a generator is? It emits an obnoxious gutteral rumble that literally shakes your brain. You lie awake at night dreaming of blowing the thing up. Or accidentally pushing your neighbor onto a downed wire.

Sleep? What's that?

Yes, I hate Hurricane Irene. I hate living without power. I hate the pitch black darkness of nighttime and the Holiday Wreath scent of my home. Most of all, I hate that every time you start to talk about how miserable you are, someone pipes up with "It could have been worse" or "At least you're safe."

You want to know what I'm grateful for? I'm grateful I was never a goddamn Pilgrim. If this is what life was like, it must have sucked. And we don't even have livestock.

I'm so soured by this brush with rusticity I'm banning all things colonial from our lives. We're never going on a family trip to Plymouth Plantation or Colonial Williamsburg. Never. I won't even chaperone a school field trip.

Historic Jamestown can bite me.

Right after the fleas are done.

Honey, this foreplay just isn't working for me

2011-08-23T21:54:00.016-04:00

Ha! Thought this would be a post about sex, ey? Well, it's not.

It's a post about fleas.

Our damn cats got one from the windowsill again or someone came into our home with a straggler and the damn thing leaped off his leg and multiplied like crazy.

For the past two weeks life has been a hellish marathon of vacuuming, laundry and extreme paranoia: “What’s that? Oh, God, it is one? IS IT????”

I am a woman consumed. I have nightmares about fleas. I Google flea-related issues obsessively. It’s all I talk and think about. I’ve retained so much information I could teach a godamn panel about fleas.

And when I say life has been a hellish marathon, I mean life has been a hellish marathon:

• I’ve sprinkled our rugs and furniture with baking soda and salt (which dehydrates the fleas), then Fleabusters. Chuck and I have vacuumed every surface twice a day. We’ve put baking soda, salt, Fleabusters and flea collars in our vacuum bags then thrown them away.

• Our cats have been treated multiple times and banished to the outdoor porch.

• Chuck bombed the basement twice. Then he sprayed. Then I Fleabustered the rugs and vacuumed.

• I’ve washed all our linens, cushions, clothes, stuffed animals and towels in hot water. Then I washed them again.

• I’ve bathed Junior in lemon-scented Dawn (Dawn is known to kill fleas on contact), then sprayed his ankles with bug spray. I’ve put white socks on the two kids so we can see if any fleas jump onto their feet.

• I’ve put shallow pans of water and dish soap on top of sheets of white paper and under desk lamps (fleas are naturally attracted to the light and the color white and will jump into the bowl of soapy water).

Still...they have lingered.

Adding to the craptasticness of the situation is the steady stream of company we’ve had. My mother visited from Assachusetts. She slept on the couch before we realized it was a flea motel. She went back to Assachusetts—with my grandmother. Then my mother found two fleas in her bathroom. My grandmother has a bee-hive hairdo that’s shellacked to her head. Do you know how many fleas can hang out in a beehive hairdo if one penetrated the wall of hairspray?

She may very well have brought enough fleas home to infest the entire senior center.

Chuck’s mother and step-father came for dinner. They swore their scratching was psychosomatic, but pizza just wasn’t the same.

My friend Sandy came down for the weekend. Here she is spraying Off onto the bottoms of her shoes.

She kept her clothes in the car. She showered with Dawn. She held Diddlydoo and played cars with Junior while I vacuumed. We sacrificed Chuck to the couch so she could sleep flea free in our bed.

We spent a good portion of our visit—which was supposed to be luxurious girl time—staring at each other’s ankles and crying, “Was that just one? Was it? Oh, God, no!”

My mother returned for Tour de Flea part deux. I read her diary (I am not overbearing!). She called me at work all day:

“I think I saw one. Nope. Just a mole on Junior’s leg. No, wait. There’s one. Oh, nope. Just lint. Oh wait! There’s one right there. Oops, no, it’s a grain of sand. I can’t stop itching! I haven’t seen one but I keep scratching. Oh wait! What’s that by the door?”

So we vacuumed again. I bought a family-size tub of Dawn. My mother kept her clothes in the car in a plastic bag.

Finally—FINALLY—we couldn’t take it anymore. Chuck and I called an exterminator. Mike from Petrin’s Pest Control. Dear Mike. Bless his heart, he talked to me about fleas for half an hour. He empathized. He listened. He said he’d be there the next day.

Before he could come, however, Chuck and I needed to get everything up off the floor. As for the basement, where the problem was the worst, he suggested I go to Home Depot and buy Tyvek suits—

"No need for the headgear, heh, heh..."

—so Chuck and I could get to work without getting attacked.

Ladies, you want a hot steamy night with your hubby? After you put the kiddies to bed, don some Tyvek suits and move furniture for a few hours in an airless basement while watching fleas snap at your ankles.

How the sex industry hasn’t made a porno out of that is a mystery.

Now it’s been a few days since the exterminator came. Things were quiet over the weekend, but there’s been a resurgence. Apparently the adults have died but the next generation have hatched and need to die. For the next two weeks (eggs hatch out in two week intervals) we’ll still need to vacuum daily, to wash everything in hot water, to send our guests home with a party favor of Dawn and to examine our children and clothing with paranoid diligence:

“What’s that? Is it one? IS IT????”

As for the basement, where the problem is the worst, Mike the exterminator recommended that Chuck and I put on our Tyvek suits again, go down there and make some noise so the damn things hatch from their impenetrable eggs, drop onto the floor and die.

We may need to do that for as long as three months to finally be rid of the problem.

I can just see it now: “Oh Chuck...I’m not wearing anything under my Tyvek suit...yoohoo....Chuck...”

Just shoot me, ok? Wouldja?

Everything comes with a price tag

2011-08-21T20:34:00.011-04:00

If your mother frequently babysits your children, you may happen to stumble upon her diary one day, which she may have left on top of some newspapers on your kitchen table while she ran to the grocery store.

You may happen to leaf through a few pages, against your better judgment. (Alas, old habits are hard to break.)

You may happen to scan the pages for your name and, in doing so, come across a page in which she describes you as over-bearing and too serious, both with her and your children. You may also notice that she called your husband detached and depressed. "Runs errands for hours, seemingly."

When your mother returns from the store you may have to shotgun a bottle of wine to keep yourself from strangling her. After she leaves you may find yourself muttering like a madman and doing things you don't normally do, like riding your son's scooter around the neighborhood as you curse.

But hey, it's free childcare, right? And no one loves your kids like your parents do, right?

Sigh.

It doesn't get easier, does it?

I've held better titles

2011-08-15T21:01:00.019-04:00

After being home with the two boys for the winter, re-entry to Mulletville Corp has been a bit trying.

Granted there are some perks to re-entering the workforce. Like, I now know what day of the week it is. I have a reason to brush my hair and change my underwear.

I get to enjoy the wit of co-workers (e.g., after showing a colleague a letter I received in which the addresser wrote “Dear Mrs. Mullet, Director of Pubic Relations” I now get a lot of inter-office mail addressed to that title).

And (dare I say it?) the quiet calm of my office can be delicious. Some mornings I feel downright guilty leaving Chuck flailing in a sea of children’s tears. I don’t have to manage the meltdown over toast that wasn’t cut to a four-year-old’s specifications or the cranky fits of a teething eight-month-old.

Ah, peace and quiet.

But things have changed at Mulletville Corp in the seven months I’ve been out on maternity leave. There are talks of layoffs and cuts in health benefits. Company lunches have turned into no frills, pot luck get-togethers in someone’s car. No one is allowed to order copier paper or pens without senior approval.

You know times are tough when you need a secret password to get sticky notes.

Yes, people look grim—so grim that the Marketing Head has charged me, the Director of Pubic Relations, with a call-to-action to boost morale.

So I’ve been walking around the building a lot, asking people about activities we could plan that would help them feel better.

I don’t know if the economy has beaten people to such pulp that they’d confide in a tree stump or if people mistake my forced interest for introspective concern, but holy frick, people want to talk for hours—and they don’t want to talk about what they can do to boost morale, they want to talk about why morale is so damn low.

I’m starting to feel like a free shrink.

In the last week I’ve learned more about the personal tragedies of the people of Mulletville Corp than I ever dreamed possible. The weird thing is that everyone's confessional concludes the same way. They say, "Cherish every moment because it goes so quickly."

Some have even heightened the dramatic impact of their parting wisdom by clutching my hand or looking me pointedly in the eye (except for the guy with the lazy eye: he looked me in the boob).

The first few times I heard it, I walked away thinking, Yes, we should cherish each moment. The next few times I thought, Yup, I’ll try. The last few times I walked away thinking, For fuck’s sake okay, I get it.

Here’s the thing: I understand we need to treasure life because we don’t know when our number will be up, but you cannot possibly cherish each and every moment of your life. Your head would explode.

Besides, not every moment is worth cherishing.

Sometimes a drive in the car is just that. If you spend that car ride treasuring your personal freedom to drive and your financial success at owning a vehicle and your functioning ears that enable you to listen to the radio and your glasses that allow you to marvel at the beautiful scenery (sorry Connecticut-dwellers, that doesn’t apply to you), you might miss the turn.

To my co-workers who weighted down their wisdom with the “Children grow so fast, savor every second” stuff, I.Get.It. Ohmigawd do I get it.

I know in a blink of an eye my children will be teenagers. I know that too soon they’ll be grown with families of their own and I’ll be left with nothing more than an empty house full of memories but again, you cannot possibly siphon out the warm fuzzies from every second of your children’s youth.

Nor do I want to.

In fact, what I wish for my co-workers—and for myself after being accosted with all this dire seize-life-by-the-balls-right-NOW gook—is to banish the “cherish every moment” thoughts entirely. They are a direct impediment to the blissful state of just being, and it’s in that plain Jane state of just being that the aha moments come. The moments when the Universe gives you a beautiful gift that you hadn’t been trying to force. The moments when you realize that everyone surrounding you at that exact moment is the warmest, safest blessing.

The very moments you want to, you know, cherish.

In Colorado.

Go Colorado!

Rocky Mountain high

2011-08-11T20:51:00.010-04:00

I'm in the middle of a freelance project. I'm designing a book cover with the word hope in the title.

The more I research images of hope and colors of hope the more beautiful and profound the word hope becomes. I think it may just be the most exquisite word in the dictionary.

On an unrelated note, we're thinking of moving to Colorado.

(Or maybe it's a related note after all.)

Imagine if you were that excited to talk to your spouse?

2011-08-07T21:07:00.009-04:00

Tonight during dinner I gently reminded Junior for the 50 millionth time to PLEASE stop talking with food in his mouth.

Without skipping a beat he opened his mouth, pulled out the wad of food and put it into his hand. He was that eager to finish his story.

Rule may need some refining.

Unless the appliances start heckling me, this should conclude my week of pilfering from myself

2011-08-04T20:42:00.051-04:00

When Chuck and I first looked at our house in Mulletville, the backyard resembled a rain forest, minus the parrots. It's possible another family was living amongst the neck-high weeds and debris. There wasn't a speck of grass to be seen.

Like many other first-time home buyers, that didn't deter us from making an offer. Our panties were ripe with thoughts of potential. Possibility. Transformation.

(If you're thinking of buying a home and hear yourself ask your partner, "Can't you just picture x and y?" run. For the love of God, run.)

After two years of living there we finally made some updates to the yard, like adding a colorful horse and dropping $3,000 on a curtain drain— which is even unsexier than it sounds, if that's possible.

I also spent a fair amount of time learning the difference between annuals and perennials. Once I mastered that, I dumped a buttload of money on flowers and Miracle-Gro. I weeded. Plucked. Snapped. Dead-headed.

My garden grewith.

Fast-forward to this week. As I mentioned, our house is on the market for $5. I've gone back to work and have the pleasant experience of driving right by the house on the way. As a I turn my head I can see the tips of daisies and a bunch of other stuff I planted but now can't name.

Someone else will get me, the flowers heckle. You dropped hundreds of dollars on me for nothing. Nah, nah, nah nah nah.

Those flowers are assholes, I tell ya.

I decided to show the flowers a lesson.

On Tuesday, I drove to our former house on my lunch hour and—in my suit and heels—got a shovel from the garage.

I'll show you sons of bitches! I yelled.

I started digging.

It was gross. There were worms and spiders. Dirt fell into my heels. The roots snapped and shot dirt into my face. Sweat dripped down my brow as I hauled the flowers into a bucket, filled it with water and soil and dragged it to the car.

Halfway through I noticed the neighbor was outside in his underwear, smoking a cigarette and watching me sweat and swear. He seemed to be enjoying himself—almost as much as the neighbors enjoyed the futon fuck session.

His amusement spurred me on.

You like that? I wanted to shout. A woman in heels with a metal shovel get you going, big boy?

I went back Wednesday and today. Again the man came outside to smoke as I uprooted more daisies and more cone flowers.

Bizarre silent movie? Oui.

There's one last patch of pink fluffy things I need to dig up and then I am done. No more flowers heckling me. No more dirt on my hands. No more underwear voyeur. No more thoughts of a new Mulletville couple sitting on the patio enjoying the fruits of my labor. (Or flicking their cigarette butts into my garden, which is more apropo for the neighborhood.)

Yes, this experience has been highly satisfying. When I look back at my first week back at Mulletville Corp after being home with two kids all winter I will smile.

Attacking things with a metal shovel is highly satisfying.

As is my new garden. Isn't it awesome?

Special thanks to Chuck, who stopped asking, "Are you on crack?" as he saw me dragging tubs of flowers from the car and instead just shut up and helped me replant the flowers at our new home.

Pssst, can you spare me a newton?

2011-08-02T20:48:00.025-04:00

Right now, the unemployment rate in the piss ass state of Connecticut is hovering at 9 percent. A loaf of whole wheat bread at the Mulletville Lite Stop & Shop is close to $4. Fig Newmans cost more than $4. And those lovely MorningStar Farms Chik Patties I used to rely upon as a last minute dinner are now $5 for four patties.

Connecticut’s gas prices are among the highest in the nation, topping the charts at about $4 a gallon. Our illustrious Governor Dannel P. Malloy, sworn into office in January, has increased the general sales tax from 6 percent to 6.35 percent. The sales tax exemptions that used to exist for clothing and shoes priced under $50 have vanished. Malloy has also increased the state income tax, effective August 1.

The best part of the tax is that it’s retroactive.

Our house in Mulletville is still on the market. It’s valued at close to $100,000 less than what we purchased it for in 2006.

Chuck’s been laid off since 2009. Since then he’s put himself through school, started a business, taken every freelance job that’s been offered to him and applied to countless jobs, but he still hasn’t been able to find a full-time career in his field.

Chuck and I have brought two children into this world. Beyond needing our love and guidance they need to eat. They need clothing. They need to see a doctor if they become ill. They need a roof over their heads.

I told a fib in one of my last posts. I wrote that I was going back to work in a few weeks, but the truth is that I started back yesterday. I wasn’t sure how I’d feel about being back after being home with Junior and Diddlydoo for seven months; more importantly I wasn’t sure I would be ready to write about how I felt.

I knew from previous return-to-work experience that I would be assailed with nosy and insensitive questions (How does it feel to be back? Who is watching your children? How can you stand being separated from your kids?) but I wasn’t so sure I wanted to blog about it again.

If I felt sad about leaving Junior when I went back to work three years ago, wouldn’t I be twice as sad now?

The answer right now is yes and no. Yes I miss my boys but knowing that my children are safe, fed, clothed and have a bed to sleep in greatly outweighs any sadness I feel about not seeing them during the day. Knowing that they are at home with Chuck also greatly outweighs any sadness I feel about not seeing them during the day.

Chuck’s a damn good father who is going to be incredibly close to his sons. How could I possibly regret that?

I can't.

So there it is: Until something changes—until we move out of this state, until I discover I have a rich, dead uncle after all, or until Malloy decides to institute a tax for sitting and I actually have to pay my employer so I can work—I’m back at my desk. I’m not going to belabor my points about the wretched state of the economy but for good measure I’ll say it again: At this time, I’m lucky to have a fucking job.

Even if it is working alongside a bunch of wackadoos.

Summer scarf sportin', complete with tears

2011-07-31T12:13:00.041-04:00

When we first started using the Amby bed with Junior, some gawked and asked incredulously, "You let your baby sleep in that thing?" Some called it a sack and behaved as if we'd suspended our child from a rusty nail in the basement. Still others whispered that Chuck and I were hippies on acid who snubbed cribs because of a rectangular regime phobia.

Don't trust the rectangles, man.

I never cared what they said. I loved the Amby bed and credited it with getting Junior to sleep a blissful 11 hours a night (the sleep benefits of gentle rocking have even been scientifically proven).

Sure we had our hurdles to cross when trying to get Junior out of his beloved Amby bed after he reached the maximum weight capacity (my mother actually begged us to go to Home Depot so we could build a bigger version) but we were happy to use it again with Diddlydoo.

But these second kids, they have a mind of their own don't they? Fricken Diddlydoo doesn't just lie there like Junior did. At seven months he's already learned to roll and crawl. Hell, he'll probably be asking for the car keys sometime next week.

This doesn't bode well for the Amby bed. Once your tot rolls over he's outta there.

So I'm packing it up today and putting it away. Selling it, maybe, on ebay (autographed Amby bed anyone? Just $1,000!). Saying good-bye.

(Can you hear my sniffling?)

I'm also packing away the pink scarf that we, um, tied to the top of the Amby bed so we could swing the bed from the mid-slumber comfort of our bed (hey, our friends used to give theirs a gentle kick with their foot).

I'll never look at that scarf the same way again, and I love that. There were times when Diddlydoo would fight a nap and I'd want to strangle myself with the scarf. Times when my mother would catch me pulling on the scarf when trying to catch a nap and she'd snort and call me crazy. Times when Junior would race into the room and start tugging on the scarf, swinging the bed like it was a milkshake maker and then ask, "Is my brother in there?"

I love all of that. I love that motherhood has forever changed what was once a plain old pink scarf into a museum of memories.

Added bonus: the pink scarf is now sufficiently stretched to adorn the necks of two people or one giraffe, whichever the occasion calls for.

What's better than that?

You can't think of anything can you?

I didn't think so.

P.S. If you are a fellow Amby Bed lover, the company recently introduced product enhancements to its Amby Motion Bed in response to a voluntary recall.

Slunk. Where has that word been all my life?

2011-07-26T20:54:00.016-04:00

I went on a job interview this week. Even though I'm headed back to work at Mulletville Corp in the next few weeks I thought I'd dust off my suit and see how my interview skills are faring.

They're poor. Yowsers are they poor.

For one, I've lost serious brain cells with kid #2 (see previous post). The only thing I can liken it to is being near-sighted. I know there's a lot going on in the distance, but even with glasses scotch-taped to my face I can't focus on it. I can see every line and cranny immediately in front of me but 100 feet away? Forget about it.

In interview speak, this translates into "We just interviewed someone who appears to have a huffing problem."

The position was Director of New Media. I thought because I tweet (admittedly sporadically) and blog, I rock new media. Hah! The more the interviewer droned on about clouds and tech bubbles and butterscotch.com and http://mashable.com the further I slunk into my chair.

She told me she liked me but that I should spend 2-3 hours a night on new media sites honing my new media skills and then I should come back for a second interview.

Now that's funny. I don't have time to file the rice cereal out of my hair follicles never mind online research.

Never mind absorption of said research.

As I slithered out into the parking lot and collapsed into my car, I realized that I am technologied out. From all of it. Facebook. LinkedIn. Twitter. Google. Google+. Blogger. Texting. IChat. Youtube. ITunes. Twitter parties. RSS feeds. CSS.

Even Pandora. Sweet, free Pandora has given me a techie twitch.

My head feels like it's going to explode and I'm probably not even familiar with half the new media sites out there.

Needless to say, I will not be going back for a second interview. In fact, I'm contemplating buying a crickety shack in Alaska and licking some twigs just to verify that I am in fact still a human being with living, breathing cells and that I can sever my connection to technology and still be ok.

Seriously, are Generation Yers half cyborg?

Are they??

Now, admittedly, the factors contributing to the I-won't-become-assimilated nature of this post are: 1) Chuck found out his grandmother died because of his sister's post on Facebook. Facebook! As a way to see what relatives have clocked out and 2) I had Junior sing a Happy Birthday message to his 5-year-old cousin and his mother—instead of returning the call—posted a note on my Facebook page saying we should cyber chat

so I may have an anti-technology bias this week

BUT

am I alone?

Am I?

Or no stories!

2011-07-21T21:15:00.006-04:00

I don't know what day it is. The last thing I remember eating is a stale bagel at 6:15 a.m. I think I have yesterday's shirt on. I definitely have yesterday's shorts on. What's this in my hair?

Ah yes. Sweet potato and a booger.

I'm going to take a shower. With a beer. Maybe I'll lie down and chug it and catch a quick nap.

Oh wait. It's bed time. Glorious bed time.

What the hell am I doing online? It's bed time! The time I have waited for all day. And what are you doing online? Go to bed! Right now! I mean it!

Hint: It's a baby

2011-07-18T15:13:00.052-04:00

In my last post about fighting wrinkles someone (one of my favorite bloggers, actually) asked, "The light of the sun in the early morning in your bathroom mirror? Is that plaguing you too?"

My answer is no, it's not the early morning light that's plaguing me.

It's my husband, Chuck.

He's the one who stormed Beach Frogmama and dropped the wrinkle bomb. He's the one who was looking at me affectionately—or so I thought—in the kitchen as he was saying good-bye, the one who leaned in close—for a parting kiss, I thought—and blurted out, "Honey! You have wrinkles!" and threw me into a tizzy.

Truth be told, I had noticed the wrinkles a long time ago. (The exact date, if you're interested, was May 30, 2009, aka the same day I noticed I had grown chops that rivaled Ringo Starr's.) The wrinkles don't bother me so much. I'm a sleep-deprived woman in my thirties who has smiled a lot. How could I not have a few wrinkles?

Still, no woman wants to be called out on them. The surprise in Chuck's voice (and the honey part) saved him from eating a knuckle sandwich, but I groused and moaned to the point where he sent me a conciliatory email a few hours later:

I know, I know, his swooning is so embarrassing.

The email contained a photo attachment. Of what? I wondered. Chuck holding an "I'm sorry" sign? Chuck holding a bunch of roses? Diamonds? A "Husbands are senseless buttholes" t-shirt?

Nope, Chuck sent me a photo from the paranormal investigation he'd just driven to—a photo given to Chuck as pre-investigation evidence:

With shit like this in my inbox, is it any wonder I have wrinkles?

It's time to fill in the cracks

2011-07-14T10:48:00.004-04:00

I need a wrinkle cream and I need it now. Fess up: What's worked (or failed miserably) for you?

There's no stopping me

2011-07-12T21:43:00.023-04:00

Summer's here and you know what that means. Watermelon. Sunscreen. Bug spray. Corn.

How I love corn.

I'd eat it day and night if I could and yet I've never served it at home. Why?

Why?

Because I didn't know how to make it.

All this time I assumed there was some magical step or maneuver to making corn. Kind of like hard boiling eggs. Or blackening eggplant. Or buying a whisk.

It's a hurdle I could never quite master.

I'd walk by the corn display at the local supermarket and think—wistfully—if only I could make some for my family. If only you didn't have to [insert magical step like jumping counterclockwise while husking the corn upside down or humming Justin Bieber songs while sticking the ears of corn under your armpits and awaiting a harvest moon].

If only.

I lived this wistful corn existence until I googled "making corn" one day last week. And do you know what I freakin' found out?

Of course you know what I found out.

All you have to do is boil it.

Fricken boil it.

This piece of information has changed my life.

It's changed my family's life too. 'Cause you know what's for dinner every night now that I know that all you have to do is boil it?

Yes! Corn and more corn. Seriously, our dinner table sounds like this:

Junior: "Corn? No! I don't want corn."

Chuck: "Really? Corn again?"

Me: "That's right! Corn! Mwaahahaha!"

I'm getting teary just thinking about it.

Teary and um...a little stopped up actually. But hey, that's fodder for a different day.

A somewhat cleansing, albeit somewhat delirious, post about Fish and Phish

2011-07-10T12:42:00.056-04:00

Before I write this post about how exhausted I am and how my fatigue has nothing to do with the fact that I am the proud owner of a teething baby who has decided that 5:15 am is the best time to begin his day of inconsolable wretchedness, let me say this: I've had to endure a lot because of my husband's friends.

At the top of the list is Chuck's best friend, aka Dickhead. Remember his special gift to me and Chuck on our European vacation? Yah, I do too.

Then there was Chuck's friend Stiffy. (Aren't male nicknames great? I wish chicks embraced nicknames with the same off-color gusto as men. Why don't I have any friends who go by Fishy? Or Headlight?)

When Chuck and I were first dating, I went to a Phish concert with him, Stiffy and few other of the morons. The concert was held on an airline base in Maine. I was the only female on board, and I hated Phish.

If I could have sold my body for a ride home I would have. Sadly, none of the hippies wanted sex, they only wanted acid.

Because we were on an airline base there were no trees for shade. That meant lots of stinky people hanging out under tarps, which were engulfed in clouds of pot smoke. It also meant that the boys I was encamped with needed sunscreen applied to their backs and because they were such antiquated, backass fucks, they assumed I, the one with tits, would happily do it.

(Also, they were such homophobes they couldn't touch each other without accusing each other of liking it, wanting it, being gay, etc. Sigh.)

I would only do it once and I said as much. The first two morons weren't so bad but when I looked at Stiffy's back I almost vomited. It was sweaty and smattered with pimples; not just of one species but with a plethora—a diverse garden, some might say—of acne.

I took the top off the sunscreen bottle, closed my eyes and shook the contents onto Stiffy's back. Then, using my palm I smeared some of the globs in. Sunscreen ran down his back and legs. I didn't care.

I quickly shotgunned a beer, curled myself into a ball and rocked away the memory of what I had just done.

I rocked for three days; it was still better than having to listen to Phish.

How my relationship with Chuck has survived all these years of offenses is a mystery to me, especially when his dickwad friends are the gift that keeps giving.

Take last night (aka the reason for this post). Chuck's old-time buddy Eric stopped in on his way to New Jersey and decided to spend the night. He hadn't showered in a few days but despite my insistence he enjoy a shower before bed—

"No, really..."

"No, it's okay..."

"No, really..."

—he told me he was a morning shower person.

(I apologized to my clean sheets as I made up the couch. You think I'm kidding.)

Around 2 a.m. the house started to shake. Junior was suddenly in our bedroom complaining of a bear downstairs. Even Chuck, who sleeps through everything—how convenient—was suddenly awake.

Fricken Eric. Fricken snoring. Thunderous, meaty, throaty snoring.

"We need more fans!" I cried. Despite Chuck's fan phobia because of my family's fan obsession, he agreed.

"But where?" he asked.

"In the basement! Box fans! A tub of fans! Grab them all!"

He looked at me like someone might look at a recovered crackhead who has just disclosed her secret stash, but he went and fetched the tub.

And the box fans.

And you know what? Even with all that glorious whirring, that bastard's snoring still kept me up all night. I'm cranky, my living room stinks, Diddly was up at 5 am and has been a drooling mess all day...

And I'm still—still!—bitter about Stiffy.

Shit, is it July 4th already?

2011-07-02T18:25:00.035-04:00

One of the most appealing aspects of blogging is being able to chronicle my children's milestones. I'm sure that if this blog is still kicking around in 20 years or so, Junior and Diddlydoo will read it with glee and agree.

Or they'll sue me for privacy infringement. Either or.

Yesterday Junior celebrated a milestone I had smugly believed wouldn't arrive until he entered the public school system and was corrupted by other people's monsters: He learned a swear word.

I blame it on Diddlydoo.

I had placed Diddlydoo in the center of the bed and run out of the room for a millisecond when I heard Junior screaming, "He fell on his head! He fell, Mommy!"

I ran back into the room. Sure enough, Diddlydoo had rolled right off the bed. He was lying on the floor screaming.

So was I.

I didn't realize just what I had been screaming until we got to the hospital (okay, okay, so I freaked out and rushed him to the ER. Having a nurse look at me like I was a neurotic freak because Diddlydoo obviously was fine was preferable to spending the entire night holding my palm over Diddlydoo's nostrils to make sure he was still breathing. A woman needs to sleep now and then).

As we stood in the ER entrance Junior looked at me sweetly and said, "It's a bad thing Diddlydoo fell, right Mommy?"

"Yes, sweetie."

"Is that why you said 'shit'?"

We locked eyes.

"Shit," he said again, savoring the taste of the word. He looked at me and smiled, like we'd just shared a lovely secret. "Shit."

"Junior," I said, "that's a word that—"

"Shit."

"Junior, we don't—"

"Shit, shit, shit."

So here's the thing: Junior is old enough to know that there's a new word in town, and that it feels good to say it. I've explained that the curse is an adult word reserved for adults, but it doesn't take a rocket scientist (or four-year-old) to know that even with the most finely attuned emphasis, fiddlesticks and sugar just don't cut it when you're really upset—even if you sneer and spit as you say those words.

I ask you, what's the best way to temper the newfound deliciousness of swearing?

And while we're at it, what's the best way to deter your older kid from enjoying watching his younger sibling suffer, cause Junior told me that he was certain Diddlydoo's head would just fall off the bed, and that's why he didn't try to stop him from rolling.

My, oh my, they are savvy little beasts, aren't they?

Another invasive weed has taken root!

2011-06-28T14:28:00.000-04:00

Before moving to Assachusetts last summer, my mother lived on a lake in Connecticut. One evening, when she and my step-father were out, my then 15-year-old brother decided to try out a distress signal he'd learned about by flicking the dock light on and off in rapid succession.

That same night, the EPA was taking field samples of an invasive weed that had taken root in the lake. They saw my brother's signals, motored over to the dock, docked their boat and pounded on the door.

They were thrilled to find my pimply peckerhead brother alone and well; they told him as much.

The moral of the story? Signals work. Even if you aren't aware that anyone is watching.

Let this post serve as a cautionary tale for my husband, Chuck, who can't seem to keep his snake in its cage.

No matter what he's wearing.

Word on the street is that an open fly is akin to a wedding bandless finger. Or further evidence that you want to start mimicking and boinking.

Balls in your court, Chuck.

Um, er, the figurative kind of ball that is. You perves!

If you go to a picnic and see this

2011-06-24T13:07:00.020-04:00

and your child, who is three, also sees this:

Be prepared to spend the next few weeks answering (or not) the following questions:

Was that dog wearing a diaper? (Hysterical laughter) Was she? (Hysterical laughter) Why was she? Did she poop in her diaper? (Hysterical laughter) Was it a big turd? Is it a poopy diaper? Was that dog wearing a diaper? (Hysterical laughter)

No joke, it's the gift that keeps on giving.

(Special thanks to Ester for being such a sport and posing for pictures. I think we can all agree that sometimes even something as benign as a picnic can bring out the nervous pooper in you.)

Er, I don't know why there's an octopus in our bed, honey

2011-06-22T13:05:00.090-04:00

A few weeks ago something very cool happened. Tea Collection, which features a line of clothing available in Bloomingdale's, Nordstrom, Saks Fifth Avenue and selected boutiques, contacted me and asked if I'd be interested in reviewing a few items from their Summer Collection inspired by Catalonia Spain.

Of course I agreed. Their clothing looked fabulous. After poking around on their web site, I chose the Tiburon Tee from the Boy's Clothes for Junior (he liked it because of the "spooky" shark), the matching romper for Diddlydoo from the Baby Clothing and Solid Palace Tee for myself (a woman needs a long-sleeved v-neck for those chilly summer nights, right?).

When the package from Tea Collection arrived I happened to be leafing through a parenting magazine and looking at this picture:

I was struck with an idea: stage a beach scene with the shark clothing and frame it for Chuck for Father's Day.

Brilliant? Maybe. Stupidly ambitious? Hell yes.

The magazine claimed that making my photos fun was super-simple. All I had to do was wait for my children to fall asleep, then I could create the scene around them. According to Adele Enersen, author and blogger, I should use stuff that was hanging around the house because it was "fun and ecological" to discover these items all over again.

Fun and ecological? Yes, please.

I ran into the bathroom and got these

then grabbed a beach towel and a blue throw that looked textured, like waves. I waited until just before nap time, threw it all together, got the kids dressed, grabbed the camera, stood over them and, with some gentle prodding, waited for them to fall asleep.

"Go to sleep, guys, okay? Never mind the fact that you're lying on my bed on a beach towel. Just close your eyes and—"

"—But he's drooling on my arm," Junior moaned.

"Use the beach towel to dry it."

"But he's pulling on my hair. When are we going to read stories?"

"Shut it and go to sleep so I can take these damn pictures for your father."

I guess I don't need to tell you that we never achieved nap time. Before the kids unraveled too much I was, however, able to snap some pictures. I call this one "I don't want to lie down!"

This: "I want to hold the shark, Mommy."

And this: "He's pulling on my shirt!"

I wouldn't call the pictures super-simple. I'd call them better-with-Benadryl.

As for the clothing itself, I was really pleased. The cotton is wonderfully soft, as are the colors. Junior's "shark shirt" is a soft gray-green. Diddlydoo's romper is a deep inky blue. The mix and match sets are a great idea as they coordinate really nicely.

Junior loves his shark shirt, and I love my shirt. It's longer than it looks, so I belted it and wore it with a skirt. A week later I threw it on over a tank top and wore it with jeans. It's also bust-enhancing which was an unexpected bonus:

Now if you'll excuse me, I need a nap. You know, the kind where you really close your eyes.

Here kitty, kitty. Come 'ere sweet kitty

2011-06-20T13:53:00.057-04:00

It was a beautiful sunny day in Connecticut—something us locals like to call "unheard of."

Last year at this time, a day like this would have made me sick inside. I was working full-time while basting my baby bump. Chuck was home full-time with Junior, who was going on three. I was angry about it. Always angry. Why wasn't I home with our son? Why did Chuck get to have all the fun?

Now here I am. Six months into my maternity leave. Chuck had the day off from his freelance gig, so he took Junior to the park. I couldn't have been more relieved. I have grown so fucking weary of the park and the moms. Talking. They're always talking. About bus drivers and sippy cups and diapers and sunscreen.

They talk so much it surprises me that their jaws don't drop right off their faces.

As I listen to them, I find myself missing my office. I feel like an asshole and/or a bad mother for writing that. But I miss having deadlines and projects and a career.

Most of all I feel like an asshole because last year was a rotten time for me and Chuck. I gave him such a hard time about being a stay-at-home dad. If he complained about how long or monotonous his day was, I told him that I'd gladly change places. If he said Junior talked his ear off, I'd tell him how Junior's little voice made me cry when he called me at work to say hi. I'd tell him how I missed his voice.

The guilt I was serving up was so very bountiful.

From the safety of my office I'd built up Chuck's sunny days at the park to be The End All. He was living the dream: my dream.

Now, after living "the dream" for seven days a week for the last six months I have a different perspective. Namely, the park would be a lot more fun if there was a swim-up bar near the swingsets and an on-site babysitter. Shuttle service home.

Less talking. Dear Lord, much less talking.

I wonder though if, after my maternity leave ends next month, I'll be sitting back in my office wistful for these days. As the plan currently stands, Chuck will give up his freelance career and go back to being a stay-at-home dad. Will I feel relief as I settle back into the person I was before I had Diddlydoo or will I long for these sunny days that I breezily wished away?

If I do long for these days, will I vomit over my glaringly obvious case of "the grass is always greener" and my gross inability to appreciate what I have when I have it? I don't want to be that person, I really don't, but some days I worry my tombstone will look like this:

(What? I'm gonna live to be 110, okay?)

I also don't want to be the kind of person who continues to nibble (okay, gnaw) on her husband's ego. Even though I previously apologized for my past guilt-tripping behavior, I want to assure Chuck that if I go back to work and freak out about missing the kids, I won't take it out on him.

I promise.

No voodoo dolls. No posts about wishing Chuck dead. Certainly no dipping his toothbrush in the toilet bowl.

Not this time, never, ever again, honey. I promise. I love you! I really love you, pookie!

(Is it just me or do I come off like someone who is trying to woo a sweet little kitty into my house so I can decapitate it? Oh good. It's just me.)

I Just Called To Say I Whittled You Something

2011-06-17T09:00:00.005-04:00

Here's the thing: Even before I got married, marriage seemed like a sadistic endeavor. No one that's married seems particularly happy; in fact, marriage seems to suck the joy out of life and the life out of people.

Child of divorce? Who, me?

Amazingly, Chuck and I are celebrating our five year wedding anniversary this week! Can you believe it? Five freaken years of wedded bliss.

Ahem.

Two years ago, when tradition demanded I give him leather, I surprised him with chaps and a riding whip. Last year, when fruit or flowers were in order I gave him a banana negligee and a potted plant.

This year, for numero cinq, I was supposed to come up with a gift that's...

wood.

Wood? Wood? Blech.

Wood sucks, but it gave me an idea. Pencils are wooden, right? And you'd use a wooden pencil to take a quiz, right? Right! What better way to express my love and devotion to Chuck than to have him take a 10-question quiz about our marriage right here on this blog?

With a little prodding and tasing, Chuck agreed, though he wouldn't let me edit his answers before posting them so with all likelihood you and I are reading this post at the same time. Gulp. Here goes.

1. What's your favorite thing about me?
Your birthday suit

2. What's your least favorite thing about me?
Your newt on your leg YUCK

3. I obviously wear the pants in this relationship. What type of pants-wearer am I? (a) Fascist dictator (b) Brilliant matriarch (c) I'm too scared to answer
c I'm too scared to answer

4. Does this blog make me look fat?
Just when you blog about me.

5. Did you ever think you'd be so lucky as to end up with such an amazing, smart, beautiful, funny, hot wife?
Yes, I would expect nothing less for myself

6. Why don't you clean more?
That's what visiting mother inlaws are for

7. What's your favorite memory of your wife?
Spraying Solarcaine on your back in the men's room at the bar on our first date, you took your shirt off and I got a look at the goods.

8. Did you really mean "till death do us part" or is "mid-life crisis" more accurate?
Till death do us part

9. Besides sex, what's the one thing that would make our marriage stronger?
Sex

10. Write something really, really wonderful and sweet:
Thank you for loving me, our two beautiful children, and this wonderful life we have carved out for ourselves. I love you more than I ever have and am incredibly grateful, as well as lucky, to have you in my life. 5 years down only 45 more to go

Pencils down.

I love you, Chuck.

Wordful Wednesday: Lies!

2011-06-15T15:48:00.016-04:00

Easy to grow? Oh yah? Easy to grow?

I think not.

This plant had intentions of dying the minute I bought it. All I had to do was look at it funny and it would droop. I've moved it into the sun, out of the sun, in from the rain, in to the rain. I've talked to it. Left it alone. Dressed sexy for it. Cooked it dinner!

It's turned up its nose(s?) at everything.

This plant is the insolent teenager in my house.

I don't even want to see its stupid fluffy pink flowers at this point. It can take its high maintenance photosynthesizing needs and hit the road.

Or, maybe I'll bury it next to the asparagus. Mwahahaha.

Something terrible happened and I'll never be the same again

2011-06-13T15:50:00.016-04:00

I was sniffing Chuck's pants to see if they were dirty and I wasn't looking at what I was sniffing and there was a dirty sock stuck to the velcro tab of his pants and I stuck my nose right into the meat of the sock and the odor—omigod the odor—I stumbled backwards and fell into the dresser and cried out loud—dear God I cried into the air— "How could a human being produce such an odor??" and then I collapsed onto the floor into a little ball and I stayed there. Weeping. Sobbing. Shaking.

I'll never smell again.

Never!

Sometimes it's easier this way

2011-06-09T21:09:00.022-04:00

From Curious George and the Dump Truck

Junior: "Mommy, why is George climbing out of a butt?"

Me: "Sweetie, he's not. He's climbing out of dirt."

Junior: "He's climbing out of a butt!"

Me: "It's not a butt. It's two piles of dirt. Dirt Curious George naughtily dumped out of a dump truck when he didn't have permission."

Junior: "He's in a butt!"

Me: "Are we ready to turn the page?"

Junior: "Is he in a butt?"

Me: "It's dirt!"

Junior: "Wait, Mommy, wait! Whose butt is it?"

Me: "Junior, I told you—"

Junior: "I know it's a butt, Mommy. Why is he in a butt?"

Me: (Sighing heavily) "Because Geroge fell off the dump truck so hard he landed in someone's butt."

Junior: "He did?"

Me: "Yes. He landed in the gardener's butt."

Junior: (Exploding into laughter) "He did? And then he climbed out?"

Me: "Yes. It was a long climb, but he made it."

Junior: "Why?"

Me: "Why what?"

Junior: "Why was it a long climb?"

Me: "Because people's intestines are miles long."

Junior: "Oh."

Me: "Can we turn the page now?"

Junior: "Hold on." (Studying page) "Ok."

Only a man

2011-06-07T21:11:00.018-04:00

Who was able to snore through late night feedings and kids who awake at the butt crack of dawn would find these onesies funny:

Since I'm not that man, may I just say that I hate these onesies? And that I'm going to write to the companies that make these wretched things and demand they be removed from the shelves, as a show of solidarity for every woman whose husband has rolled over and snored instead of offering to help when he hears the miniature babybeast stirring again dear God not again why the hell won't he just stay asleep!?!

Party at 2 a.m.? I effin' think not. Mommy's wake up call? Bite me!

Just bite me.

Thank you.

Contents may explode upon shaking

2011-06-05T19:51:00.042-04:00

Date: Friday, June 3. Setting: Mulletville Lite playground. Two mothers were sitting on swings with toddlers on their laps. They'd been swinging for hours.

Mother #1: What a cloudy day.

Mother #2: It really does stink.

Swing, swing.

Mother #1: I thought today was supposed to be sunny.

Mother #2: Well, that's the Northeast for you.

Swing, swing.

Mother #1: What do we do when it's cloudy, Haley?

Mother #2: Yes, Jack, what do we do?

Swing, swing.

Mother #1: We kick the clouds away!

Mother #2: Come on, Jack! Kick, kick!

Swing, swing. Kick, kick.

Mother #1: Higher, Haley! Higher!

Mother #2: Come on, Jack! They're beating us! We've got to kick away those naughty clouds!

Swing, kick. Swing, kick.

Mother #1: Kick the clouds away kids!

Mother #2: Kick the clouds away kids!

SWING, KICK. KICK, SWING.

Suddenly, projectile vomit. Everywhere.

Mother #1: Omigawd, Haley! Pumpkin! Did Mommy swing you for too long?

Mother #2: Is she okay? We were swinging for a while.

Dry-heaving. Gagging.

Mother #1: Pumpkin! It's all over me.

Mother #2: Is there anything I can do? Anything?

Mother #1: I've got to get her home! Right now! I'm so sorry, honey.

Mother #2: Yes! Right away! Her equilibrium...!

Me (into my sleeve): Bwaahahahahahahahahaha. Bwahahahahahaha.

Date: Sunday, June 5. Setting: Small town carnival. Junior and I atop the ferris wheel.

Me (whispering into Junior's little ear): Kick, honey, kick! Kick those pesky clouds away.

And then: Bwaahahahahahahahahaha. Bwahahahahahaha.

I love when a good laugh carries itself all the way through the weekend.

Chuck, you have to get the damn V! Do you hear me?

2011-06-01T20:52:00.064-04:00

You know the scene in the Wizard of Oz when Dorothy first lands in Oz and she hears giggling coming from the the bushes? Then one by one the Munchkins come out and greet her? And soon she is surrounded by Munchkins? And they're everywhere and staring at her and all up in her shit?

That's what the neighborhood in Mulletville Lite is suddenly like: There are parents and children everywhere.

It happened after I stole the neighbor's umbrella. She invited us to a Memorial Day picnic hosted by the neighborhood, which we went to. I don't think holy fuck can even begin to describe the sheer number of children at the picnic. They were running and shrieking and crying about skinned knees. Babies hung from breasts. Women gave birth by the grills. Fathers flung hotdogs into the mouths of five, six, seven hungry beastlings.

It was worse than my Lord of the Flies experience at IKEA.

It made me want to take a Valium.

I wasn't just freaked out by the abundant fertility of the neighborhood (does anyone do anything other than boink and boink and boink?). It's the parents that made me twitchy. These people have taken parenthood to an extreme I have not yet before witnessed—and they're peeking out their windows and watching my house!

"I saw your plastic," one woman told me.

"My plastic?"

"Plastic kids' toys. We knew you had kids. Four years and six months, right?"

"Five months—"

"It was a little too cool for just a t-shirt on the kids, don't you think?"

Ok, I added that last line, but she may just as well have said it. Lord knows people were passing commentary on the parenting foibles of other neighbors at the picnic.

Missy and Steve? They let their kids go outside barefoot in the winter. Dale and Whitney? He bosses the kids around so the wife got him a dog to train. Alex and Julie? Such hermits! Their sheltered life will surely affect their daughter Brianna.

Oh.My.Gawd.

I can't claim this over zealous parenting is a localized phenomenon. Claire Dederer describes something similar in Poser: My Life in Twenty-three Yoga Poses, and she lives in Washington. Surely Connecticut has pockets similar to Washington. I guess I just needed a heads-up that I'd be living in a place where parenthood trumps all. Where family is your bread, butter, mistress and nightcap.

It's kind of hitting me as I write this: If we stay here, I'm almost 100% certain we will be swallowed whole by this homogeneous blob of people who are consumed by their children. We'll no longer be Chuck and Mrs. Mullet. We'll be "Those parents who let their children out of the house with peanut butter on their faces."

Even worse, I see another one or two kids in our future. Everyone knows that one of the first things people do when trying to fit into a new environment is mimic those around them.

Boink and mimic. Mimic and boink.

I'm probably pregnant already.

And the neighbors probably already know.

I'm frightened, Auntie Em! I'm frightened!

"Ewwww, ewwww, eeewww." Alternate title: There are owls in Massachusetts, right?

2011-05-29T10:12:00.002-04:00

Junior: "Mommy, I didn't get any sleep last night."

Chuck: "I knew this would happen if he spent the night at your mother's. He was probably overtired. She probably put him to bed at 11."

Me: "If he hadn't spent the night, we wouldn't have been able to sleep in this morning when kid two took his morning nap..."

Chuck: "What happened, pal? Why couldn't you sleep?"

Junior: "There were so many owls! They kept me up all night. Stupid owls!"

Chuck: "We don't say stupid, remember?"

Me: "Owls? Owls, honey? Are you sure?"

Chuck: "Yah, owls?"

Junior: "They kept going 'Ooooooh. Oooooooh. Oooooooh.' All night, Mommy!"

Chuck: "Hold on. Was it a 'Whoooooo' or an 'Ooooooooooh'?"

Junior: "Like this: 'Ooooooooooooh. Oooooooooooh'. All night. It kept me up!"

Me: "Oh, God. If he's talking about what I think he's talking about I'm going to puke."

Chuck: "Are you sure they went 'Oooooooooooooh'?"

Junior: "Yes!"

Me: "But they're in their seventies! Can you even...?"

Chuck: "Thank you Viagra."

Me: "I'm going to throw up now."

Chuck: "Me too. How stupid can you—"

Junior: "Don't say stupid, Daddy!"

The black eye went so well with my prom dress

2011-05-25T10:31:00.003-04:00

Found in the closet in the den: my high school health record.

If you can't read that it says "Student was hit in face with a ball during a Physical Education class."

A dodgeball to be exact.

Unlike my friend Karen, who looked gorgeous even after she took a hockey puck to the mouth during gym class, I was not so lucky. My eye puffed up and turned bright red. It was speckled with broken blood vessels. It turned black.

Then purple. Then yellow.

At the time, I blamed my testicular wonder of a gym teacher for letting the boys hurl their balls at the girls with little supervision (isn't that always the way?). If was, of course, my own fault. I was hopelessly uncoordinated.

I may have also been high on Pamprin.

Despite my shiner, the prom wasn't a total bust. I drank a lot of Miller Lite and cheap, warm vodka in the middle of the woods and got tree branches stuck in the lace of my dress. I had a huge crush on my date, who was an upperclassman. He was nice enough to make out with me before telling me he was taking someone else to his prom.

It wasn't the best of times; it wasn't the worst of times.

Would I do it all over again as an adult—even without the black eye and the ability to get trashed first in the comfort of my living room? Absolutely not.

I was surprised to read that some people would.

Don't we already have an occasion for getting dressed up, drinking too much and dancing? Isn't it known as a wedding reception?

What do you think? Was your prom the best night of your life or do you daydream about getting a do-over? If you do, do you want to borrow my dress?

All the weird stuff happens when you're sitting on the couch

2011-05-23T10:06:00.012-04:00

We’ve lived in Mulletville Lite for just about one month. We still haven’t fully unpacked, but the house looks like it belongs to us and not to my father (or to my mother and father for that matter, when they lived here together in the early 1980s).

Look at this before and after!

(Oooooh, aaahhhhh).

There have been some funny moments, like when Junior announced, “I like living here. It’s like we live with Grandpa, but he’s never home.” There have been some strange moments, like when I ran into my third grade teacher in the CVS pharmacy. And of course there have been some sad moments—moments that zap me back to my parents’ divorce—but shit, everyone has a closet full of childhood schmegma, right?

Last night though, wow, something really, really strange happened. My mother was spending the night (don’t even get me started on what it must be like for her to sleep on the couch in a house that used to be hers). She was in the kitchen making dinner (see “don’t even get me started” comment). Junior and I were in the living room playing dinosaur invasion.

My mother called that dinner was ready and I swear, my brain forgot what decade it was. Like something out of Freaky Friday, I jumped into Junior’s head. I saw the world for one split second through Junior’s eyes. I felt what it was like to be young. To rely on my parents for everything, to trust them, to have faith that they would take care of me.

The worry was gone. The stress. The inhibition. I just was.

It was really fucking trippy, and it was really fucking beautiful.

Trying to describe a moment like that is kind of impossible. When I told Chuck about it, I sounded like someone coming down from a mushroom trip.

“The colors, dude! The cull-oooors.”

He said he got it but we both knew he was doing the obligatory nod/smile. That he experience what I did isn’t really the issue though. What I took away from that moment is this: We’ve whittled down parenthood to such uptight minutae. Such fretting and fixation. Helicoptering. Tiger Mommying. We’ve gotten so freaky about poop apps and mud boots. But really, it’s the trust that matters.

The biggest gift Chuck and I can give Junior and Diddlydoo right now is to take care of them and foster that sense of trust. It doesn’t matter whether or not naps are on time, whether teeth are perfectly brushed, whether vegetables are organic, or whether their poop is neon green.

(Fine, that matters but I’m not emailing my pediatrician a picture of it.)

Those things are miniscule specks in the bigger picture of what we give to our children when we let them know we will take care of them.

I’ve tried to reconnect to the out-of-body feeling I had, but I can’t get it back. I wish I could. I guess I could ask my mother to come over and make dinner again, and to call to us in hopes of recreating it. But some gifts are funny like that. They only yell for you once.

Those magical childhood friendships

2011-05-17T21:12:00.046-04:00

My best friend in first grade lived on the next street over. Her name was Beth. She had a pointy nose and poker straight black hair. She sucked her index finger so badly that it bent forward.

Beth's father was skinny as a stick. Her mother was a walking pear. They had skim milk in their refrigerator. In the eighties, no one had heard of skim milk.

They might as well have been an alien family.

From what I can remember, I liked Beth because I could boss her around. I also liked to steal from her.

Case in point, she and I had the same dolls, but her doll clothes were store bought; mine were grandmother-made. One day, I packed up all of Beth's fancy doll clothes, put them in my doll carrying case and replaced hers with my yarny, baggy grandma clothes. Then I took them home.

That night during dinner, someone knocked on our door. It was Beth's father. He had walked over in the middle of a blizzard to collect his daughter's doll clothes. I'll never forget him shoving his daughter's carrying case in my mother's face and holding up an ill-stitched doll dress as evidence.

Like Beth couldn't have sucked it up for a night and dressed her dolls in doilies. For a friend.

Nonetheless, I continued our friendship.

That summer her dad busted me again. Beth and I were in her backyard. I had just learned the f-word.

"Just SAY it," I kept telling her. "SAY it!"

Her dad had been listening through the screen door. He called me over—"Miss Mullet come over here right now!"—and asked me if what he'd overheard was correct: Had I really been trying to bully his daughter into saying a swear word?

My heart was pounding. I lied and said no. Then I ran the hell home. I didn't go back to their house for more than a month.

Fast forward to today. I'm 36. I move back to my childhood home. I read in the paper that Beth's mother is a politician in town. Her father? In jail for embezzlement. That's right. Mr. "Your daughter stole my daughter's doll clothes" is a thief himself.

Guess what else? The family that lives in the house now baked us cookies and walked over in the middle of a rainstorm to introduce themselves and deliver them: the dad, the mom and their three little ducklings.

"My childhood best friend used to live in your house," I told the mom.

"Oh really?" she said.

"Yes."

Then, when she wasn't looking I stole her umbrella.

Omigawd, I'm so kidding. Come on! We shot the shit and made a playdate. Then I stole her umbrella.

Why the hell do we have a deck of cards in the bathroom anyway?

2011-05-15T15:16:00.041-04:00

The fricken universe is reading my blog. I know so. How do I know so? Because in my last post, I mentioned the fact that from time to time my children take front row when I'm using the restroom (I refuse to use the p word again—refuse!) and not three days later I was struck with a nasty bout of food poisoning.

I imagine the conversation went something like this:

Universe to E. coli and Staphylococcus: "That whiny Mrs. Mullet thinks she has it so rough with the occasional bathroom performance. Let's really give her something to bitch about."

The vehicle of destruction? A fish sandwich.

A fish sandwich brought to me by my Mulletville Corp co-workers, who invited me to meet for lunch and said they'd bring me something off the menu from Mulletville Restaurant. Why did I eat something made in Mulletville and why did I eat something brought to me by people who have been picking up my slack since December? They probably asked our fellow workers to use the bathroom and then wipe their hands on my fish sandwich.

They were probably trying to kill me.

They achieved something much more painful than death.

First came the chills. Then the fever. Then the crippling stomach cramps. And then... the trips to the bathroom.

They started in the middle of the night. They continued on to the morning, when Chuck left for a freelance gig, despite my pleas for him to not leave me alone with two children in my condition.

Bastard.

The children quickly took their seats.

And again for a repeat performance.

Matinee? Sure! Grab a seat.

Mom's hunched over in pain? Let's look on!

Dinner performance? But of course.

It was one hell of a day. The bright side (there's always a bright side after one has recovered from a near death experience with an ambiguously named "fish" sandwich) is that I realize I have grossly overestimated my children's entertainment requirements. I knew they were content doing pretty much anything with me, but this makes me rethink that whole trip to Disney bologna.

Really, I'd like to see Mickey Mouse be such a sport on the can. At one point when I caught my breath I actually stopped to practice numbers with Junior using a deck of playing cards I found in the bathroom vanity.

"What number is—gasp! moan!—that, honey? Seven? Correct!"

Mother of the year? Yes indeed.

Which side of the rope are you on?

2011-05-10T15:21:00.028-04:00

Before my maternity leave and when I was working full-time, it always bothered me to hear stay-at-home moms say, "I'm so sick of my kids." The women who bemoaned days at home and summer break because their kids were around all the time seemed, to me, to have a lucky problem.

Claiming you're sick of your children is a luxury; it denotes an abundance of time spent together. An overabundance, some might say.

As a working mother, I didn't have that luxury.

Now, after five months of being home full-time with two children under the age of five I can honestly say that I've reached the point at which I could pull out my hair and cry, "Make them disappear!" I know what it feels like to be eaten alive. There's no off switch for Junior's mouth. He questions everything. Diddly wants to practice standing and to see the world. He grabs for everything.

And for God's sake I can't count the times I've had to poop with both of them sitting in the bathroom with me—Diddly in the bouncy seat and Junior (who doesn't want to be left out) sitting on his stool, as if they're audience members at a silent and awkward show.

The thing is, they're happy sitting there. They're happy to do anything, as long as it's with me.

It's bittersweet then, this summit I've reached of I-need-a-break-they're-suffocating-me. I always wanted to be here because it's born of bountiful time together, but it won't go on forever. I only have two and a half months of maternity leave left. For a lot of women, especially those in the United States, they've had far less time than I.

So yah, the bittersweet summit. I'm not sure how to get down from here. Or if I even want to.

In this pickle party house

2011-05-08T10:34:00.008-04:00

Of boogers, farts, potty humor and stinky feet, Chuck found the perfect card:

I guess if you can't beat 'em, join 'em.

Happy Mother's Day to me, to you and to all the great mothers out there.

We've gone too far

2011-05-04T09:31:00.019-04:00

Before I had children I swore I would never, ever talk about poop.

Ever!

It's impossible, though. You're forced to witness the most intimate functions of your children's bodies; inevitably, you find yourself discussing it with your partner, your mother, the neighbors, etc. I've never liked it, but I accept that it happens.

I don't quite understand people who are interested in it just because. Like my friend's sister, who picked Diddly up, stuck her nose in his rear and gleefully announced, "Someone did a stinky!"

A stinky?

Understanding that you might succumb to this unsavory terminology as a parent might actually be good birth control.

Children, of course, like to talk about what comes out of their bottoms. I watched my friend's four-year-old for a few hours the other day. Within five minutes of being at my house, she told me what poop is ("food your body doesn't need"), what she'd eaten that morning ("pancakes"), and what her poop had looked like ("a big snail").

Co-workers, too, like to talk about poop; specifically their inability to do it in a public stall.

It's unavoidable.

But oh my gawd, do we really need an app to track it?

One that records the details of what comes out?

One that reassures you that if you find a "surprise" you can email the details to your doctor? (The app makers—Similac—don't say what they mean by surprise. I'm guessing they don't mean something fun like a leprechaun or a nip of vodka. I'm guessing they mean something really troublesome, like a receipt for lingerie that you never got or a neighbor's pet.)

Why isn't there an app for vomit? That also comes out of children's bodies and often indicates a health problem. Green poop? Maybe. Green vomit? Yes, especially if there are surprises in it too.

To finish off this poop extravaganza, I'd like to leave you with the one commercial that makes me cringe with embarrassment for the human race. Whenever this commercial comes on I picture a living room full of five-year-old boys bursting with juvenile excitement over this masterpiece of potty humor.

Or dads.

Aren't you glad you stopped by today? I sure am.

It's the easier concepts that are harder to grasp...

2011-05-02T08:08:00.001-04:00

Once upon a time, in 1996, I was single and had my own apartment.

(God, that sounds heavenly.)

During that time, my diet consisted of cereal and beer. Occasionally I baked a cake. The directions always called for the batter to be mixed, but I refused to buy a whisk. I used a fork, and I'd spin it really, really fast. The batter was always lumpy and my wrist was sore but oh no, I was not going to buy a whisk.

For some reason, I had it in my head that whisks were reserved for bridal showers or wedding registries. I knew I'd get married someday (at least I hoped I would); ergo, I'd have a whisk someday.

To dream.

Sometimes my mother helped me baked. She'd look at me quizzically as I handed her the fork, but she never said a word. She just got to work with the fork.

When I got married a decade later, I finally got that whisk. Who needs fine china? My kitchen was complete.

My mother happened to open my drawer one day and see it.

"Finally!" she said. "A fricken whisk."

"I know! I got it from Aunt Such-and-such."

"That's all you got from Aunt Such-and-such?"

"Yah, why?"

"Because whisks are $5."

"They are?" I gasped. "I thought they were expensive. I thought that's why you registered for them."

"No, stupid. Is that why you haven't had a whisk all this time?"

"Yes. Why did you think I didn't have one?"

"I thought you had a whisk hang-up."

"Why would I have a hang-up about a whisk?"

"I don't know!"

"Why didn't you tell me they were only $5? Why?"

"I don't know!"

**********************************************************************

Once upon a time, in 2011, I was married and had another baby.

(God, I miss that apartment.)

During that time, the baby wanted to be rocked to sleep. He'd fuss and cry while lying flat, so I had the brilliant idea of putting him in his car carrier and swinging it with one arm. Sometimes in the middle of the night. For a long, long time. Sometimes for so long I got blisters.

Sometimes my mother helped me swing the baby. She'd look at me quizzically as I handed her the carrier, but she never said a word. She just got to work with the carrier.

For some reason, I continued to do this. Even though the carrier weighed 100 pounds and the baby weighed 15 and I was beginning to look like a body builder.

My mother happened to find me one day, assuming the pose (that's how it's known in the house: "assuming the pose." See?)

"Listen, jackass!" she said. "They make things that'll do that for you."

"You mean swing the baby?"

"Yes. Some of them are only $50."

"They are?" I gasped. "I thought they were really expensive."

"No. Is that why you've been swinging the kid all this time?"

"I don't know. I'm so tired I can't remember. Why didn't you tell me they were only $50? Why?"

"Because I'm actually getting some definition in my arms."

"Oh. Well, here. You can swing him then."

I went and took a nap. I'm not that slow, you know.

Now I need a swing. Or some hand balm.

Woohoo. Another sandwich

2011-04-29T09:24:00.002-04:00

I finally did it. I hard boiled eggs for Easter. There were some, um, casualties, but without your egg-pertise (da dun dun) I wouldn't have had this lovely bowl of...eggs.

Or this:

Next up: Figuring out what the fuck to do with leeks. I mean really. What end do you even use?

A lesson in cats and potatoes

2011-04-27T08:05:00.000-04:00

Did I ever mention that we took Junior out of preschool before Diddly was born? My maternity leave started in December and I wanted him home with me and his new brother.

Taking Junior out was a welcome relief. He never really took to preschool; drop-offs continued to be a disaster, even after five months. And holy hell, the price tag for three days a week could have provided food for a small continent.

Besides all that, Junior was going through a phase where he wouldn't go to the bathroom without first removing his pants. When I picked Junior up at school, his pants were always on backwards. Always. When I asked the teacher about it, she said he wanted them that way, and who was she to stand in the way of his personal expression?

Personal expression my ass. The truth was she didn't want to help him put his damn pants on. I know that because Junior told me as much.

For what we were paying, his pants should have been washed and pressed and on correctly.

Since he's been home with me, Junior and I have spent a lot of time together (obviously). I've loved it. I really have. Having said that, caring for two small children has been incredibly challenging and look, I'm no saint. Sometimes I lose my patience. Sometimes I raise my voice. Sometimes I just can't say "Please stand still so I can brush your teeth" one more time in a nice, soothing voice because honestly? I'm going to lose my shit if I have to say it again.

So, there's the first part of the equation: Lots of time together (A) + Mrs. Mullet isn't a saint (B).

Now for C.

As a general rule, Chuck and I try not to bicker in front of Junior. But it happens. One minute you're slicing into your baked potato and the next you're exchanging words over whose turn it is to drag the 25-pound cat to the vet.

(It's Chuck's.)

Because I'm a weirdo, I often stop mid-spat and ask Chuck—jokingly—"Do you even like me?" It's a silly question, but it usually works. He'll soften and say of course. Then he'll forget what we were arguing about. Cue kissing and making up. Eating of baked potato. Voila.

I knew little ears were listening (I love that expression—it makes those nosy preschooler ears seem so sweet and benign, like something out of Goodnight Moon) but the other night, something happened that opened my eyes to how much they were absorbing.

Chuck was working a freelance job. It was the end of a long day full of meltdowns and tears. One of those days when everyone was off their game. Junior wouldn't stay in bed. I was trying to get Diddly to bed. Every time Diddly nodded off Junior would jump out of bed and race down the hall.

"Mommy! I need water."

"MOMMY! I have to tell you something! MOMMY! Where's my water?"

Diddly would start wailing.

Lather, rinse, repeat. I was shot. I kind of lost it.

I yelled.

Loudly.

Junior winced and skulked down the hall and as he did I heard it—a whisper:

"Do you even like me?"

I died a little. Right then and there. The arrow flew down the hall and pierced me in the heart. I put Diddly down, let him cry, and gave Junior a big hug. I told him I loved him.

It's moments like that (and that infamous winter hike) that render me completely and utterly humble. I realize how the commitment to my children is as expansive and demanding as the universe, and how just when I think I'm doing a decent job, life shows me I can do better. I can take deeper breaths, count to 10.

I can accept that some nights are going to be harder than others, but lowering the decibel of my own voice needs to be part of the equation.

Is that D? Yah, I guess so.

Was the invisible jet just a vehicle for ogling?

2011-04-25T14:41:00.002-04:00

I'm not quite sure what happened. Life is suddenly on fast forward.

Now that we have a large yard and spring is showing signs of life—real buds on the trees!—we're outside playing. Running and jumping. Chasing robins. We never sit down.

Diddly is four months old and had his first taste of rice cereal. And Junior? He's finally showing interest in something other than the Island of Sodor: superheros. He literally woke up one morning and demanded we tell him everything we know.

Chuck's been able to regale Junior with tale upon tale of superhero triumph but me? My superhero knowledge is rudimentary at best. All I know is that as a child I wanted to be Wonder Woman. More than anything. I didn't care about the other superheros. I had the Wonder Woman bathing suit and underoos and whenever I could, I spun around my room in them, happy as a pig in shit.

I told Junior as much as we Googled "Wonder Woman" so he could see what she looked like. His eyes practically popped out of his head.

Suddenly "Mommy wanted to be Wonder Woman, Junior" sounded more like "Mommy wanted to have big hooters and a little waistline so everyone would lust after her, Junior." The fact that Wonder Woman had an invisible jet and a magic lasso didn't seem quite as impressive as her cleavage; even Junior seemed to get that.

Ah, we give little girls such heights to aspire to.

I digress.

After Junior's introductory superhero tutelage was complete, Chuck and I asked him which superhero he'd like to be. He said Superman. Not 10 minutes later I got an email asking if I'd like to review a costume. Did they have Superman? Yes. They even had a Superman costume with muscles (aka the Deluxe Kids Superman Muscle Chest Costume).

Sweet serendipity, Batman! And holy six-pack:

Junior loves his built-in muscles. He zips around the house fighting evil (hence why all the pictures are blurry):

He gnarls fierce gnarls:

He's a quick study, although he can't seem to remember that Superman sometimes fought alongside the Incredible Hulk, not the Incredible Troll.

It's a great costume, really. Hand-washable. Affordable (under $30). Sturdy. Bendy. Comfortable. Comes with a cape (which can be worn by itself) and belt. The one problem? Superman has spent a lot of time itching his neck:

It's easily solved with a turtleneck underneath, but for now, it's enough to make Junior eager to hang up his cape.

And return to the Island of Sodor.

Sigh.

(If your kid's into superheros, check out these. There's even a Wonder Woman costume. Built-in cleavage not included.)

They won't shut up

2011-04-18T19:41:00.001-04:00

I can hear them from the closet.

Morning and night...

Bitching and moaning...

...

...

I guess I can't blame them. If I'd sat in a basement in Mulletville Lite for 30 years, waiting for liberation, and it came in the form of a trip to Mulletville, then a trip right back to Mulletville Lite, I'd be pissed too.

Making mountains out of mud puddles

2011-04-14T18:57:00.020-04:00

One of the biggest perks of living in Mulletville Lite (besides not being robbed by crackheads) is that the park and playground are within walking distance—assuming, of course, that you want to walk.

Today I did; Junior did not. Halfway there I had to piggyback him—uphill—while pushing the stroller.

I now have a kink in my small intestine.

But we made it.

It has rained all week and I'd assumed the playground would be dry. It was, except for a few deep puddles under the slides.

Guess where everyone wanted to play, even though there was a playground of swings, slides and monkey bars?

Ding! Ding! Why, in the mud of course.

After being at the playground for a few minutes I could see it was divided into two camps: those who were letting their children play in the mud, and those who were not. As Junior stood at the puddle's perimeter and watched to see my expression, I realized I had to choose a camp.

Everyone was watching.

I stepped back and weighed the pros and cons.

The puddle was deep. Junior would be wet up to the knee. But it was a nice day. He'd be warm. The non-mud people seemed annoyed by their children's gravitation toward the puddle, despite their threats of "We're going to leave if you step foot in that puddle." Did I want to spend the next hour yelling? No.

A girl was making mud stew. Maybe Junior would like to play with her. But his shoes. They'd be caked with thick brown mud. That non-mud mother who told her son he couldn't get dirty because he wasn't wearing his mud boots might have a point.

Wait, what the hell? You can only play in mud if you're wearing mud boots? That kid was definitely going to have issues later in life.

But yuck. Who knew how long the puddles had been there. Don't bacteria grow in stagnant water? Is that why that other mom told her kid she couldn't drink her juice box if she put her hands in that mud? Is that why she was dousing her with hand sanitizer?

Oh, Jesus. I'd never gotten sick from playing in the mud. Junior wouldn't. Mud was fun. Playing in mud was fun for children. What kind of mother did I want to be? One who worried about the consequences of mud or one who let her child explore and get dirt under his nails?

"Go ahead Junior. You can go in the—"

I looked up. Junior was ankle-deep in the muck, pretending to feed grass to a pit of alligators. I can't be sure, but I think 45 minutes had passed since I'd embarked on my inner Tour de Mud journey.

He.Was.Covered.

Some might call my soul searching freakish, but I wanted to write this post for myself. I want to remember to let go of the "nos" and "don'ts." I don't want Junior to need special boots to play. I want to remember that Junior is a young boy who needs to connect with nature in a tactile way and who needs to relish the cool splattering of mud on a spring day.

I want to remember, always, that this is the good stuff. The letting go. The freedom.

The mud streaks on my shirt as I piggybacked Junior home and his shoes and pants gripped my waist.

Ah yes.

Glorious ^%#&ing mud.