TheMommyBlog

I am convinced that when elephants scold their offspring it’s because they sound like a herd of grade-schoolers.

I sat bolt upright in bed this morning at eight o’clock thinking, “Holy CRAP, Dylan’s assembly is in half an hour!”

Dylan was to be honored at the very last assembly of the year as one of second grade’s Student in the Spotlight awards. Whee! They don’t usually tell the kids ahead of time, so they can’t exactly send home a note, which could explain why I’ve missed each of Logan’s special days.

I raced out of bed and made myself presentable just in time to pull into the parking lot ahead of my mom and stepdad. Mom’s walking with a cane now, at approximately one-half mile per hour, nine days post-op. Hip replacement: it is a bitch. But there was no stopping her seeing her grandson, Jerry Lewis, honored for something in front of the whole school.

We found seats and waved frantically to Dylan who was jumping out of his skin and showing us his laminated, gold-starred certificate. We waited breathlessly as the principal called each group by grade up to the front of the assembly and introduced each student. We were the total caricature of proud parents: grinning, clapping wildly while trying not to let go of the camera tucked under one arm, tripping over the purse strap sticking out from under the folding chair. It was over in a flash and I didn’t even get to see either of my sons in the sea of children sweeping back to classrooms.

When I picked him up after school, I finally had a chance to ask him about it. “Dylan! Way to go! What did you do to be chosen?”

“What?”

“For Student in the Spotlight, honey. That certificate in your hand. You must have done something extra special to receive that award. They don’t just hand them out to anybody, you know.”

“Hmm. I don’t know?”

“You don’t know why your teacher recommended you? Were you extra good? A good citizen? Save a life?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You have no clue.”

“I forget what Mrs. R. told me.”

It’s time for another love tribute to McSweeney’s. This one made my head hurt from laughing, which I really didn’t need because I have a cold.

Easy-Listening Songs From the ‘70s, Rewritten by the Artists After They Had Kids.

BY

“I Keep Forgettin’ to Give You Your Antibiotics” by Michael McDonald

“I’d Really Love to See You Tonight, but My Sitter Was Grounded for ‘Inappropriate’ Entries on Her MySpace Page” by England Dan and John Ford Coley

“Nobody Does It Better Than Disney” by Carly Simon

“Hey Nineteen, Your Dad and I Are Going to Stop Paying Your College Tuition If You Say ‘Simone de Beauvoir’ in a Bad French Accent One More Time” by Steely Dan

“I Go Crazy When You Talk in a Robot Voice All Day” by Paul Davis

“You’ve Got a Friend I Won’t Let You Play With Anymore Because Last Time You Were at His House They Let You Watch The Shining and You Didn’t Sleep for a Week” by James Taylor

“I Am ... I Said ... and That’s the End of the Conversation, Period” by Neil Diamond

“The Cat’s in the Cradle ... Check ... the Dog’s in the Bathtub ... Check ... Now, Where Did I Put That Baby?” by Harry Chapin

Just a quick note.. have been knocking my brains out trying to do budgets and proposals to get funding for work… otherwise there’s less than a month’s worth of operating funds left. Nothing like facing no paycheck to make you grovel!

Just finished watching Click with Adam Sandler, and I’ll be the first to admit that I turned it on because I expected a laugh, but I didn’t expect it to make me CRY. I haven’t cried in a movie in lord knows how long. Wow, it was great. Phil was blowing his nose.

Haaaaa, you should see him out on the patio now, making sure his herb and vegetable garden plantings are out of the reach of the 489734546 snails in the yard. He brought home a bunch of things to plant for a kitchen garden, and the first night the snails went to town and ate half of what was there. Tonight he was picking them off the plants (EWWWWW) and put the containers in the garage until we can get them in the ground and build a moat of snail bait. Geeerossss.

In other news, someone just reminded me that BlogHer is in my neck of the woods this year, so I really have no excuse for not going. I just can’t believe how expensive it’s gotten, and I know it’s because it’s so expansive, but jeepers. I remember stuffing the binders for the very first meeting and discovering to our horror that we couldn’t use the backpacks donated by Google because they were in that trendy, narrow-at-the-top shape and we couldn’t zip them up around the binders. That was a fun moment. And a fun afternoon–I hadn’t met Lisa, Jory or Elisa before and volunteered to help because I lived in the neighborhood. I had no idea that the conferences would get so big that I can now walk down hall after hall before seeing someone I know there. Remember when we all knew each other? Like when there were only about a thousand people on the continent aside from the Neanderthals? Back then? Gah.

Time for bed so I can get up and work a bit before going over to see the art show the kids’ school is putting on. Can’t wait to see what my kids have done, and can’t wait to see if I can’t grab ‘em for a hug before they get on the bus to after school care. They’re with their dad til Monday. I hate these long weekends. Thank goodness I had them last weekend when mom was here. That was really a special time for all of us. Aside from the horrific pain, discomfort, and plumbing issues, that is.

Just now, I was talking with my daughter about how fun it was to have Grandma and Grandpa here this weekend, and now that they’re gone, we miss them.

She said, “I wish they could stay here forever.”

“I know, baby, but at least they live close by.”

“I wish all of our family lived close by.”

“Yes, that would be nice. That’s why we have pictures of all your other grandparents and uncles and aunts and cousins all over the house.”

“Oh well. You can’t lose what you never had.”

I froze. “Where did you get that, Daphne?”

“From iCarly."

Whoa.

..She will need a walker. If you give your mom a walker, she will need a one-story house and an accessible shower stall. So, hey! I live two miles from the hospital, and have a master suite with a million pillows and a total ADA-compliant, walk-in shower! Come on over! I’ll be your Convalescence Home. The kids will love waiting on you.

In the first hour, she takes her first real shower. I’ve lived here for ten years and had at least ten showers (maybe more) and THIS is the one that finally snaps the hot water handle deep inside the wall. The next thing I know there’s a plumber walking in the door saying, “I can fix that for $312.13.” I pulled out my checkbook and both mom and step dad dogpiled me, insisting that they will pay for it.

Today? Is Saturday. He had to come back because it turns out that it can’t be fixed by removing the handles. All these tiles have to come out. And it’s now running to eight hundred dollars. And oh, the sunflower shower head I have that rains this lovely rain down on you? Is all totally crimped now. Did you want another one like that? Or do you want the one that came with the replacement handles I picked up this morning? I could run out and get you one… NO. Just use what’s there. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, we need that bed and bath back, stat.

I cannot for the life of me get that song out of my head. I’ve been explaining to the children as well as I can how the doctors were able to replace mom’s hip with a stainless steel one yesterday. They’re just staring at the little bandage, and then at the huge container holding all the stuff draining from the surgical site and going, “Huh?”

She didn’t sleep at all last night–how I don’t know, I would have been hitting that morphine drip button like Cliff Claven on Jeopardy–so I haven’t gone to see her yet today. I did wait there until she’d been sent to recovery, and then returned later on with Daphne just as she was being wheeled to her room. Mom asked to stop long enough to let Daph catch up and say hi and touch her hand.

While they were negotiating the hallway to get into the room, I told Daphne,"Just go up and tickle the back of her head. Go on, it won’t hurt, and she can’t do anything about it.” She was too shy so I did it, but Mom thought it was her anyway and said, “I feeeeel someone!” Which nearly sent me into giggles right there. Right after I gave Daphne the long lecture about how we respect the quiet and seriousness of the hospital at all times.

Dylan got the tour later on when he returned with Daph and me (Logan had a game), and Mom showed them every wire and tube and needle and bag, explaining what all of it was. And I mean EVERY wire, tube, needle and bag. Daphne deadpanned, “I was hoping that wasn’t pee.”

We told Dylan which ones he also had while he was in the NICU as an infant (don’t laugh, smart boy, you had a catheter, too), and it’s been a long time since he’s listened so intently to what someone–anyone–has said in a donkey’s age. That child runs deep.

They had a hopscotch pattern laid into the tiles in front of the elevator, which I thought was genius, the perfect way to release some of that tension while waiting to leave.

Phil wanted to know how my morning went. I love when he shoots me an IM and then logs off to teach; I always have some rant waiting for him when he checks back between classes.

“How was it? Hard - did laundry (Daphne wet the ENTIRE BED. the KING SIZED BED.), I begged the kids to get ready, my ex came over at eight to take them to school, Dylan got mad at me and said he was glad my Mother’s Day flowers were starting to die but took it back when I asked him to help me throw them away.

“Other than that, routine.

“Wait, that is routine.”

For those of you wondering how we skated through another holiday without a scrape, turn up the schaudenfreude!

I woke up to an extraordinarily tender ear yesterday–not the normal kind of ache, just a dull throb along the cartilage at the top. As I walked my fingers along the ridge, I found a DENT in my ear. Yes, A DENT. And behind my ear was the most horrific bruising. Have you ever tried to look behind your own ear? You could bruise yourself that way. I finally asked my kids to look and tell me how bad it was and Logan actually yelped and jumped back. Nice.

I got it at the park while carrying Daphne’s scooter over my shoulder. As I started to put it down, the wheeled board swung around and smacked me in the side of the head. I knew it hurt, but I didn’t know I’d wind up looking like an animal that had lost a fight. Seriously, you could ID my body by this thing now. It’s forever.

Speaking of forever, I will never, ever regret raising my children in a perpetual snuggle. Every time they write about their mother for something at school, “snuggling” gets mentioned in there somewhere. It’s my favorite thing to do, ever. And so I give you my children’s Mother’s Day gifts to me this year: Logan’s, Dylan’s, and Daphne’s, front and back.

As Phil was leaving tonight after dinner, I told him that it had been the best Mother’s Day, ever.

“I’ve been waiting three years to hear you say that.”

“Oh. Um, I guess I wasn’t all that happy for the last few (three–no–more like nine) years.”

“No you weren’t.”

“I was pretty grumpy.”

“Yes you were.”

Yikes. I do remember writing about it last year, and saying that it was the one holiday I couldn’t wait to get through, and that I always end up crying at least once, usually more.

High Cortisol Level: For Sale or Trade

So yesterday was one loooong Mother’s Day wasn’t it? You know what I’m talking about, though no one usually says it out loud. We all dream of being pampered and some of us in fact are pampered on this day and we appreciate it—really—but secretly we wish it would just be Monday already so we can go back to mothering under normal circumstances.

My children have a highly developed sense of empathy and concern alternating with a deep vein of je ne se quois and whatever, dude…

What was it about this year? Well, the kids are older, for one. They were fully capable of making toast and tea (learning first that you can stop at the OUTER wrapper on the packet; If you just dump the tea leaves in, you’ve sort of defeated the purpose.), and the cutest part was that Dylan’s teacher had them make Breakfast in Bed kits at school with tea, a cookie, and a napkin.

“Mom! Are you hungry?”

“Ye–”

“Good!” Stampede to the kitchen. Stampede back. “Do you like apple pie?”

“I love apple pie, but what–”

“Good!” Stampede to the kitchen. I heard Logan telling Daphne that she had the most important job: stay in bed with Mom and don’t let her get up. She took this assignment very seriously, laying across me and kissing me and making silly faces. After a lot of “Whoa! That’s too much!” and “I RUINED IT!” and “Wait! There’s a whole BOX of tea in here!” from the kitchen, Logan peeked around my door.

I said, “Your sister is insane. Seriously, I need help. She’s crazy. Get her off me.”

Giggling madly now. “That was my job, silly! I was supposed to keep you in here!”

“Were you also supposed to creep me out? How do you keep rolling your eyes so far up into your head?”

“Daphne! We’re ready! Come on!” Stampede to the kitchen. Then near-total silence. They navigated the hallway, shuffling carefully over my Gabbeh runner, and the turn into my room, all three of them carrying the tray together, with a huge mug of green tea and the oatmeal cinnamon cookie and fancy paper napkin that was in Dylan’s kit. They were so proud, and wanted so much to make me breakfast in bed, and they did it all by themselves. We were giddy. We were like the Teletubbies.

“Tea!”

“Cookie!”

“Yum!”

“Toast!” My God, we had fun. Maybe you had to be there.

They decided to Velcro themselves to me all morning, so I sat under the lot of them on the sofa and watched The Truman Show. I picked it, and they actually let me watch it. Usually they’re trying to get me to harken back to my childhood and remember how much I LOVED Tom and Jerry cartoons and wouldn’t it be cool to watch some RIGHT NOW? They’re ON DEMAND! And I would lose every time.

Not this morning.

Later, Phil showed up with donuts and made a picnic lunch to take to the park. We roller bladed, played catch, rode the carousel, scootered, and crashed out on the blanket. Once we got home, stinky and muddy, everyone went straight for baths. Daphne and I fell asleep on the sofa, Logan passed out in front of the hockey game in my bed, and Dylan played I Spy on the computer. For TWO HOURS. We all woke up after seven and had a late dinner. (Except for Daphne. She let me carry her to her bed and tuck her blankie in the hole she makes, curled into a ball.)

Jiminy. I’m not used to these gushy posts, least of all about Mother’s Day, so I can understand your wanting to hurl by now, but it’s after eleven and I still have this silly grin on my face.

By now you might know that I’m a fan of SafetyTat.com, and not just because I’ve lost my kids once or twice and would LOVE for someone to have called me before I lost my mind completely. (We always got them back, now we have adopted the ancient but effective Chain Gang tradition.)

Warmer weather and lots of family outings make it a perfect time to “arm” your kids with SafetyTats. Enter code: MAY02025 at checkout to receive 15% off your order. Offer good May 10 - May 31, 2008.

May Safety TatTip:

Historically we have told our children if they are lost to seek a police officer. Not so.

According to Gavin de Becker, Child Safety Expert, and author of Protecting the Gift (Excerpt) “Teaching this to a young child ignores several facts: All identifying credentials, insignias, badges and nameplates are above the waist, but a young child sees a world of legs. In fact, many children get lost in the first place because of following legs (the wrong set): Legs aren’t that distinctive when viewed from two and a half feet off the ground.”

De Becker also states as an inflexible rule: Teach children that if they are ever lost, Go to a Woman. Why? De Becker says, “First, if your child’s selects a woman, it’s highly unlikely that the woman will be a predator; A woman is likely to stop whatever she is doing, doing, commit to that child, and not rest until the child is safe.”

Logan turned 10 today and I went over to my ex’s to do the Mommy Scrum there, and my God, he’s huge. He just can’t climb all over either of us anymore. But it sure was cute seeing him with a chocolate donut mustache from his special birthday breakfast, guaranteed to make him crash in, oh, about ninety minutes. They brought some for the whole class, so all I can say to the teacher is, good luck with that.

In other news, I was just telling my mom that I had fifteen dollars in my bank account (because yesterday totaled about a hundred in bounced check charges), the IRS is holding thousands of dollars in refunds and economic stimulus payments because they haven’t yet sorted out the fact that I DID file returns in 2005, and they don’t answer the phones. After you spend ten minutes punching in numbers and getting through menus, they say that the call volume is too high, try again later. This has been going on for WEEKS.

Phil’s coming back home tonight, but my ex will be gone til Wednesday, and mom is going to Mexico for a week. Over Mother’s Day. I’m a little down.

Well, now that we’ve established that the invitations to Daphne’s birthday party were NOT distributed, I can reschedule and work directly with the moms via email.

However, today is her birthday, and I can’t find her present. I bought it in January.

I custom-ordered pre-printed birthday party invitations for Daphne’s birthday party this Sunday, and just realized that no one had RSVP’d yet.

So I sat down with my daughter.

“Daphne, did you pass out your birthday party invitations at school like I asked you? Were all the names clear?”

“Um, I gave one to Piper...”

“Yes, and we gave one to your friend at after school care. What about the others?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know if they are coming? You don’t know if you passed them out?”

“I don’t know what happened to them. They were just gone.”

Holy sweet baby Jesus in a corn crib. If no invitations were distributed, there will be no guests at the party. Rather, there will be no party. I can’t even check with her teacher; she’s away for Spring Break like everyone else in the school. We’ll see everyone on Monday, but that’s a bit too late.

I’m off to look up the class contact list in a last ditch effort to keep the date, or I’ll be calling the two who did get an invite to reschedule… damn, those invitations were so flipping cute.

I just went out to pick up my prescription, but didn’t get out of the driveway. The car won’t start.