Phew! It's finally over.
Please excuse the blurry photo. It's really hard to stay in focus when you barely slow down enough to let the kid out of the car.
Welcome to this weeks episode of "As The Mom Returns." Last week, we saw Mad Mad Mom take off for NYC with her 12-year-old daughter, in an attempt to throw money at a three-week-long spring break problem in hopes it would just go away.
It did, mostly, but many an unanswered question remains:
Will Mad Mad return at 7 p.m. Sunday to a clean home?
Hell, dinner, even?
OK, she'll settle for just some groceries to kick off the week.
Will Man notice the basket of clean laundry Mad Mad left by the foot of the bed in hopes he would notice the hint and deal with it in a satisfactory manner?
Will Man actually take out the trash and recycling, as opposed to just stacking it all by the back door in the expectation that "someone" will deal with it eventually?
Will Man be able to satisfactorily explain why there are four days worth of newspapers strewn over the kitchen table, or why her Star Hydrangea is suddenly dying despite EXPLICIT instructions it needed to be watered?
Will Man remember the coffee POT needs to be in place before one turns on the coffee maker and leaves the room?
Will Man have even begun to tackle the mound of school paperwork Boy brought home at the weekend? Written the school lunch check for the upcoming month? Filed away the relevant notices of upcoming events?
Will Mad Mad accept "We had lacrosse" as a suitable excuse for ignoring all of the above AND only walking Dog ONCE in the entire four days?
Without further ado, we present this weeks episode:
No.
Be sure to tune in next week to find out the answer to just how Mad Mad deals with the news that, in her absence, Man has volunteered her to host his entire family for Easter.
So.
This school "vacation" thing is a little bit distracting to a stay-at-home mother writer blogger.
Too much "Can I have a play date?" nonsense and "Um... are you going to make lunch? It's 3 o' clock..."
Or worst of all, the "Oh, don't worry about me. I'll just go sit in my room and read. Did you know I read 245 pages yesterday?"
You are consumed with bad-mom guilt (even though it's not like you were off gallivanting around town getting your toenails done, you were at the supermarket buying her that damn lunch she needed so badly) to the point you agree to a re-enactment of this event from last year, from which you're STILL tired. Not to mention 10 pounds heavier. But you're doing it anyway. What the heck, right? It gets the job done.
I'm definitely adding in a yarn store, though. No more Ms. Nice Guy. I want some Habu for a Kusha Kusha. (OK. That sounds WAY more exciting than it actually is. Maybe I'll even leave out the hyperlink so you all can think I'm doing something more exciting than getting dragged to tourist traps by my 12-year-old.)
On second thought, I don't think I want virtual strangers - Heh heh... Get it? "Virtual"? Virtual Strangers? I crack myself right up! (See? This is what happens when the kids are home. The jokes are so much worse!) having images in their heads about me doing "exciting" things.
So forget that. Here: Kusha Kusha.
Anyway. The long story made short version (yep, that's what you did, honey, made a long story short, uh huh) is this: I'll be away from my computer till Monday.
But then I'll be back, Girl will be in school and I'll surely have some fun stories to tell.
And some news about some exciting things.
No, seriously. The real kind of exciting. Not just like Kusha Kusha Scarf exciting.
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The folks over at humor-blogs wish they could knit a Kusha Kusha, don't they?
It's Girl's Spring Break. Of course it is. Because it's been a whole week since Boy's February vacation ended, and it would simply be unreasonable for me to have too much free time, peace and quiet to get things done read and write blog posts.
I am, after all, a mom, and it's apparently my duty to busy myself entertaining the masses.
Which is OK, because the masses are always so appreciative and the experiences are always so rewarding.
Yesterday, for example, I took Girl to Boston's Museum of Fine Arts.
The ticket seller asked us if we were related - since we "look so similar."
What an idiot, I think.
Or course we're related, I wanted yell, adding a shake, and maybe even a slap upside the head. (Two school vacations in a row tends to make a mommy a little tense.) But c'mon. Hel-loo? Does your average child kidnapper yank a kid off the street and then escort them into a museum and pay $34 to look at some paintings? I don't think so. Who the heck else would I be? Of COURSE we're related!
"Yes, we're related," I tell him politely instead, throwing in a smile to try to compensate for all the mean thoughts I'd just had about him and his upbringing and probably not been able to entirely avoid filtering from my facial expressions. "She's my daughter." I add, for good measure. 'Cuz I really do try to be nice. (Shut up. I do, too.)
What an idiot, Girl says out loud, as soon as we are out of earshot.
"Mom. Even if he did think you were my grandmother, we'd still be related."
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The folks over at humor-blogs probably don't walk around art museums shaking their heads in wonder, trying to figure out which part of that story is the worst: the part where she thinks you look like a grandmother, the part where you wonder if someone dropped her on her head when she was little, or the part where you realize Boy's April vacation starts a week after Girl's Spring Break ends.
Boy heads over to the kitchen sink to wash his hands for his after-school snack.
"Wow!" he says, looking around. "You did all the dishes!"
"Yeah? So? Don't I always do the dishes?" I ask, somewhat confused and more than somewhat irritated. I mean, to borrow a phrase or two from him, "Hel-loooo?" and "Duh-h-h-h."
"Noooo," he answers, very sincerely. "I've never seen this sink empty."
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Girl has a Target gift card burning a whole in her pocket. We head on over.
I'm standing with her in the book aisle, staring at book jackets while she finds one she wants badly enough to spend her own (free!) money on.
One book catches my eye.
"Eh. I used to work with that woman," I said, pointing at it, while trying really, really hard to fend off the raging jealousy and brace myself against the waves of plummeting self-esteem it will take weeks to recover from.
"Mom!" she says. "Did you notice it said 'New York Times Bestseller'?"
No, actually, I hadn't. But thanks for pointing it out, hon.
OK, I'm sorry to drag you guys all the way across the internets just for this, but I was wondering something:
How come the very same activity you thought marked your child for greatness (The Presidency, even!) at six months - that ability to single out a lone Cheerio from a bowl of hundreds and carry it ever so carefully to her mouth - Come see, honey! What a GENIUS! - is the very same one that 12 years later is going to make you reach across the table and strangle her for eating so slowly? Come see honey, why I'm about to kill her. She eats them this way every morning. One. At. A. Freakin'. Time! Every morning I'm hoarse from yelling to hurry up!
How steep exactly is this Cheerios consumption learning curve?
I don't often mention awards (not that I'm swimming in them or anything) but sometimes it feels a little... you know. Unseemly. Wicked cool!
But I got two look at me, kicking some major bahookie last week that were worth mentioning for a couple reasons. I mean, other than showing off.
The first comes from the awesome Susan, one of my first blog buddies evah (she taught me how to load a picture - all the way from Australia. If you can do that, well, then, you can do anything.
And she does. She's got land, and goats and cats and dogs and quilts and yarn and always has guests coming over and it just sounds like fun is happening there all the time. Like the kind of mom you wish you were, but you are way too anal and uptight mean and bitchy to be.
I always leave with a smile, or inspired. And she gave me this, apparently because I have an Attitude problem.
I am to nominate five other Bloggers and will get around to that soon. But maybe not, because if there's anything more uncomfortable than receiving an award it's the Sophie's choosing of a recipient to whom to pass it along, if you know what I mean. I am not giving up any of you guys to the Nazi soldier at the train. NOOOO! Wait. OK, now I have to go lie down to get over those images. Back in a bit. Possibly tranquilized. God I HATE that movie. WHICH after all, would you choose? I just don't need all that going on in my head right now. There's already enough nasty crap in there, frankly.
OK. Where were we? Ah, yes... I was bragging.
I got this award, too, after being nominated by the very funny Even though he is a guy! And a British one! Mo "Mad Dog" Stoneskin.
The ROFL's are awarded each month by Chicky Chicky Baby and Oh, the Joys, who are both a lot of fun to read on their own, even when they're not introducing you to so many other funny bloggers, which they do every month. The rules and other recipients are posted here. Go check them out for some fun reading.
And thanks, Mad Dog and Susan!
And happy birthday, Kim!
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I'm sure the folks over at humor-blogs don't use so very many words when they win awards.
My bloggy pal Amy is a mom of three, going through that sort of overwhelming stage of parenting when you can't see the forest because the trees are still nursing.
And preschool-aged.
And in kindergarten.
Only she's homeschooling them.
So... no forest anywhere to be seen, frankly.
I try to tell her things will get easier when they get older. Which is a bald-faced lie, to be honest. The forest gets overrun with the kudzu vine of soccer, hockey, lacrosse, book reports and drama - let's not forget the drama! because OH, THE DRAMA! It's all just a different kind of bad when they get older, but most nights you at least get a little sleep. Which does help. Some.
But for some reason she doesn't believe me. Maybe, though, a picture will help. They say they're worth a thousand words, and even I, who never met a word she couldn't somehow crowbar into a sentence, can see how they come in handy at times.
And I took the perfect picture last week for you, Amy. Just to show you things DO get easier.
In no time at all (another lie) yours will be big enough for this:
And if you do it just right, he'll even say crazy ass things like, "This is SICK! What ELSE can I vacuum?!" when he's all done with the playroom.
And you'll say, "Hm. I don't know if you deserve to vacuum any more. You are not even dressed for school yet."
And he will buy this load of bahookie - I recommend you start practicing your straight face right now to be prepared - and run and get ready for school and then....
vacuum the hallway, too.
It's the best, Amy, you'll see.
Almost enough to make me have a couple more kids.
'Cuz he didn't have time to do the downstairs, too.
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The folks over at humor-blogs have the Department of Child Services on speed dial for when they read my posts.
...you've lived long enough for your hairstyle to cycle through again.
Eighteen:
Forty-two:
I suppose it didn't take three hours in a salon back when I was 18, but whaddaya gonna do? Anything to fend off the return of what I looked like at seven:
(By the way, do you think it's possible to retroactively call the Department of Social Services on your parents? Seriously. They let me out of the house like that? And on Picture Day, for cryin' out loud! I don't care if it was the seventies. It's no excuse. )
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The moms over at humor-blogs make sure they're kids have good hair on Picture Day. And maybe some teeth.
Kelcey of Mama Bird Diaries, a woman of many a great idea, led her readers here a few days ago, and I've spent quite a few hours riveted - and laughing.
Today I got up the nerve to submit a Secret Whine of my own...
(And not to whine, but I wish I'd known sending it in automatically published it. So be careful there, if you submit.)
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The folks over at humor-blogs never whine in secret.
Every so often, I hear a mom say she doesn't go to PTO meetings 'cuz it's all the fancy moms who go there.
After I'm done wiping her face of the spit I've just spluttered all over it from having burst out laughing, I explain, that no, no, she has it all wrong.
It has nothing to do with fancy (though a nice piece of jewelry does wonders for covering up those Barilla splatters from dinner so people don't discover you're such a pig you have yet to learn how to successfully navigate a forkful of sauce-coated pasta from your plate to your mouth) and everything to do with something else entirely: meetings are a great way to avoid having to put your kids to bed yourself.
And while it is admittedly unfortunate that they do not generally allow wine at these events, this is more than compensated for by the lack of a need to read Star Wars: The Clone Wars, Vol. 1, a one hundred and fourth time as a bedtime story, or to have to yell that, no, that definitely was not a long enough tooth-brushing session. Get back in there, young man!
Yes!
Because I said so!
Just do it!
NOW! YOU LITTLE...
So.
I go to every PTO meeting I can.
Sometimes, even, to ones not in my school district. This additionally serves as good practice for not volunteering for things. (Or conversely, I suppose you could volunteer away at one of those, and it would make you make you feel like you're doing something without any of the pain of actually having to do it. But then again, that would make you one of those moms - a cupcake pox on their souls! - who volunteer for things AND. DON'T. ACTUALLY. DO. THEM. Which is unspeakable. May they fall in a vat of horse cartilage.)
Anyway.
The point is, PTO meetings can be a tired mother's friend. Especially since getting her out of the house will distract her from the fact she is on a wine diet. Only on weekdays, of course. There is only so much you can ask of a mom, you know.
Still, I can see how a PTO meeting can be intimidating to a first-timer. A room full of weary, wine-deprived moms could potentially be a hazardous place. So, in my new found spirit of helpfulness, I thought I'd pass along a few tips for the successful navigation of a PTO meeting:
Fitting in
1. Suck your stomach in really, really hard as you enter the room, so you can be as skinny as all the other moms (Which is what you were really worried about all this time, weren't you? Admit it.) Don't worry. It will only be for a few seconds. Soon, you can sit at a table and let it all out. Try not to unbutton your pants. No. Really. I don't care that you had a big dinner. And speaking of dinner, what's up with all that garlic, by the way?
2. Try to make friends with the moms at your table by offering to oversee the over/under bets on how long the meeting is going to take.
3. Switch seats when the mommies give you a bunch of dirty looks. (Don't forget to suck in your stomach as you go looking for a new table to hide your gut behind.)
Paying attention, and other thoughts on managing your self esteem
1. Try to keep your focus on what the nice lady at the front of the room is talking about and avoid letting your mind wander. It is very easy, at the end of the day, to fall into a sort of hypnotic coma DTs in that overly-warm wine-free school library. Not only do you risk drooling, but also, and far more dangerous, you risk not noticing when everyone in the room is suddenly looking at their shoes - a sure sign the nice lady's asking for volunteers and your cue to quickly grab your bag and start digging through it, pretending your phone is ringing with urgent news from the sitter.
2. Do not let your eyes wander around the room. Chances are, your face is tired and droopy and possibly, oh, let's just say it, a tad grumpy-looking. Anyone who catches you looking at them is going to think the look is directed at them, and assume you don't like their outfit or have issues with their parenting style. (We're a delicate-tempered lot, us moms.) Many a friendship has been ruined by a glance deemed judgmental at a PTO meeting. So: avoid eye contact.
3. Try distracting yourself instead the way I do: holding my thighs up off the chair so they don't look so fat when they're squished down against the seat and praying that in my next life I will get long legs that won't flatten so much when I'm sitting at PTO meetings (because I figure there's no way I was good enough in this life to be reincarnated past PTO meetings, but certainly better legs isn't too much to ask) until, like one of those birds attracted to shiny objects, I suddenly notice and become obsessed by the pretty accessories on woman nearby and start wondering why I am such a loser that I forget to put on accessories, too. Then I busy myself feeling bad about being so uncool (and fat-legged) as to need reminding about dressing like a grownup with accessories, and put on an unhappy face just as the bejeweled woman catches me staring, and assumes the look is directed at her. And her brooch. Or whatever that thing is. You don't need to know now because she is never going to talk to you again, anyway.
Volunteering, or, better yet, not
The one real risk to attending PTO meetings is that your presence makes it harder to pretend you don't know they need help with assorted things, and chances are you will get roped into something. It's not always a bad thing, though, as long as you remember to avoid certain activities. Like any that involve actual children.Or their parents.
Anything else, though. You're in! Totally. Sign me right up.
Especially if there's wine. Speaking of wine, Thursday is kinda like the weekend, right? And the kids are probably already asleep by now, so you're golden. It's safe to go home. Hopefully you've sat near the back...
Oops. Did I forget to tell you to do that? Sorry!
Guess you're stuck, then.
Me, I'm grabbing my "ringing" handbag, miming a few additional gestures that have everyone thinking there is some kind of emergency but that I'm too polite to interrupt a meeting for it, and sneaking off.
Have fun, though, you. Thanks for coming!
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The folks over at humor-blogs go to all the best PTO meetings.
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