TheMommyBlog

Monday, July 11, 2005 Me, Me, Me

I’m just going to sit and stare at this a while…

Monday, July 11, 2005 Me, Me, Me

This post may not make it thru tomorrow—it all depends on how bad I feel about it in the morning.

My day started out wonderfully, with a first meeting of fellow job-seekers in which my foundation career was totally tossed aside and my blog and writing career was put on center stage. I could not believe the support and encouragement and good advice flying around the room. Thank you, guys, it really helped me think more clearly about the possibilities.

After a quick lunch with Mr. X before he went off to teach computer camp, I stayed up the peninsula to write and strategize. I was on fire.

Cut to three-thirty. The kids don’t like to be in extended care until five when I am perfectly capable of picking them up after camp at three. We’ve compromised on three-thirty, but they almost never come away with me right when I get there. So I paid five hundred dollars for extended care I don’t use. Whatever. On the way home, I got the business about how they don’t get to see dad long enough in the mornings when I do both drop off and pickup. I explained again about his schedule, and about how I am not working, and how I am able to do more of that stuff when he is. If I get a job, it will even out more. Beyond that, they’ll have to take it up with their father.

Daphne had her first day at camp at preschool, in a new classroom with two teachers I have never met. Of all the teachers, she has the two I haven’t met. They carded me. None of this looking at the identical quadruplets that make up the Roberts clan, oh no, they wanted ID on top of Daphne shouting, “Mommy! My mommy is here!” So I trudged out to the parking lot and back.

When we arrived home I noticed the breakfast dishes still in the sink, cereal plastered to the bowls, watermelon on the floor and covered with ants, more cereal in the disposal (the disposal hasn’t worked in weeks; I come home every single night and empty it of food when my ex has been there getting the kids off to camp), the bread open and strewn across the counter, the mayo still out, and the garage door wide open. My double jogging stroller and two mountain bikes are just sitting there, and the empty G5 and other computer boxes everywhere are like an sign saying, “Come on in! There’s more where that came from!” Because, you know, I don’t lock the door between the house and the garage. Because I keep the garage door down. You know.

Add to this two solid hours of kids bickering and fighting and hanging on the blinds while I serve a dinner they requested but aren’t eating. Logan had a raging headache and was sick to his stomach because Gil put Dylan’s water bottle in his lunch bag. Six hours playing hard at camp, and he didn’t have a drop to drink all day. No wonder he felt like shit. “Here, Logan, drink this whole bottle of water, and even if you get full, keep drinking it. Your body is bruised from lack of water on a hot day. You can rest and sip when we get home.” Grrrrr.

Gil called and I launched into a recitation of the things I found and would prefer not to find again. Yes, I know what that would get me, but honestly. I have not said a thing in weeks. It ended on a bad note, and then I got this email:

I do not want to hear you complain about the food situation again.  Everyday there are dishes piled up in the sink, food everywhere, food on the floor, everywhere.  Your house is a complete mess. And it smells bad.  Plus, you don’t have a job so you could clean it once in awhile.  And you still have the NERVE to complain about a mayonnaise bottle that I missed. Unbelievable. Do you not see it???

Um, is this the same guy who left the food out and the house wide open? And who asked to borrow a LOT of money the other day? They one who got the money within five minutes of asking? Was that you, buddy? And my house smells bad because there is a fucking rat colony in the attic and crawl space and their latrine is under the sink. I just signed a contract for a FULL YEAR of pest control, on top of the hundreds I have spent already. Since I bought the house from my ex, I have had to replace the washer and dryer, the kitchen faucet, the disposal, and hire exterminators,  a cleaning service and a gardener to help things from getting totally out of control. Did I mention that I bought this place from him for TOP DOLLAR after four increasingly higher appraisals? And that I am UNEMPLOYED?

So please don’t dish any shit tonight. I’m full up.

Earlier tonight, Logan asked, “Mom, how come you start crying all of a sudden sometimes?”

“It’s not all of a sudden, honey, it’s after I have been asking for cooperation for an hour. It’s frustrating and upsetting when you don’t respond and don’t do what you say you’ll do. I am the only one cleaning, doing laundry, cooking, and breaking up fights. What’s not to cry about?”

“Well, it’s not fun for me either.”

“Who says I owe you fun? You get to go to camp, play with your toys, watch movies, do anything you like. Does this look like anything close to fun for me?”

“No.”

“Then can you please go play in the other room so I can fold laundry?”

“Can I finish my dinner first?”

“Of course you can. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you didn’t get to eat yet.”

“Don’t say you’re sorry, mom. It just makes me feel bad. I wish I could help you feel better.”

“They way you hug me helps a lot, baby. Thank you.”

*total breakdown*

And now? I just had to run two blocks to bring Dylan and Daphne home, screaming and pajama-clad, one under each arm. They escaped thru the garage door and ran like greased lightning down the block and around the corner. I tucked my eyeglasses into my boxers and bolted after them. Now they are all in bed, all of them crying and my glasses are gone. It’s practically dark and my $400 prescription fucking glasses are gone.

Am enforcing calm on myself.

Monday, July 11, 2005 Me, Me, Me

My friend finally had her baby. Let’s review. She’s nearly two weeks overdue. Spent 14 hours being induced last Wednesday, made no progress, and was sent home. Went into labor on Saturday. Delivered a ten pound, twelve ounce baby girl by eight p.m. She is five foot, three inches. No tears. There were UFOs hovering throughout.

Monday, July 11, 2005 Me, Me, Me

As promised, Julie Kenner is launching her book tour for CARPE DEMON: ADVENTURES OF A DEMON-HUNTING SOCCER MOM, a book I read, loved and reviewed here a while back. I’ll be the first to volunteer that I suck at interviews, so I instead invited Julie to take over posting for today!

Julie says: I write books.  Lots of books.  Since my first release in 2000, I’ve seen about twenty hit the shelves, and I’ve never been short of ideas. It’s the where of the ideas that’s the big question, and one I’m always afraid to examine too closely, lest I see the man behind the curtain and the fantasy comes to a screeching halt.  When people ask me (and I get asked a lot!) I usually tell them I get my ideas at Wal-Mart.  Cheaper than Nordstrom’s, anyway.  And there’s a little bit of everything to choose from. 

And I have written all over the board:  Superheroes descended from Greek and Roman gods (that whole mythology thing was just a cover story, don’t you know?), a cat determined to marry her master, a kick-butt female super-spy mixed up in a James Bondish plot, a Nick & Nora-like couple out to solve a mystery.  And my latest books, a woman sucked into a real life version of a computer game, with high stakes consequences:  play the game… or die (THE GIVENCHY CODE).  And, of course, a Demon Hunting Soccer Mom, a book that Mindy read and loved, and paved the way for this guest blog (for the record, Mindy rocks!).  (The book, in case you want to rush right out to your nearest bookstore and buy, oh, ten or twenty copies, is CARPE DEMON: ADVENTURES OF A DEMON-HUNTING SOCCER MOM.)

But ask me where I got an idea, and I really couldn’t say.  I can give you a vague answer.  In some cases, I can talk about how I was brainstorming with friends, and somehow the book finally appeared.  But I can’t really pinpoint that actual spark.  Honestly, I’m not sure I want to, again for fear that if I look too closely, the spark will fizzle.

Lately, though… Lately I’ve discovered a wealth of book ideas living right here in my house.  My daughter, C, all of age three, and brimming over with such imagination that it puts me in awe, and makes me think that coming up with story ideas for twenty some-odd books was really no big thing at all.  I mean, if the kid could type, I think she could fill the Library of Congress!  (And, yes, I realize that all kids of fabulous imaginations, but she’s my first and only, so I think I’m entitled to brag and be in awe of the great creative genius that is my child!)

Some of the ideas are so great, there’s gotta be a book in there somewhere.  Take chicklit, for example.  So many chicklit books have a component in fashion.  My daughter, has, apparently, been reading the books on my shelf, because suddenly she won’t wear anything if it’s not “fashion.”  (Now, I dress in Old Navy and old t-shirts most of the time—trust me, it looks better than it sounds.  So I assure you she’s not getting this from me!).  Every morning is a huge ordeal finding clothes to wear to school because they must be “fashion shirts” and “fashion pants.”  Unfortunately (for me, anyway), C’s concept of fashion means that it’s pink.  ALL pink.  Not pink with white flowers or tiny blue lines or a hint of green stitching.  PINK.  Needless to say, I do a lot of loads of pink laundry.

But that’s gotta be a book, right?  Can’t you just see it?  FASHION PANTS, by Julie Kenner.  A heartwarming and humorous story about a young woman who has this pair of pink pants and she shares them with her friends, and they’re sort of magic because they fit everyone.  And the friends travel around and ... oh, wait.  That’s been done.  Hmmm.

Okay, well, how about this:  Angry Superheroes.  Yes, you heard right. Why does my daughter like to be an angry superhero?  I have absolutely no idea.  But she makes the squinty face, and clenches the fists, and goes into the stance, and it’s all my husband and I can do not to totally crack up.  (My parents just left, and I think I spent half the visit trying to convince C to “do the angry superhero face for grandma and grandpa!”  She never did.  Creative, maybe, but not an actress.)

We were at Sea World last week, and during the 8 minute breaks between wave sessions, we played Angry Superheroes Rescue The Good Guys about, oh, five million times.  They may be angry, but these superheroes are definitely out to save the world.

That, folks, could be a book. And one day, it just may be…

Sunday, July 10, 2005 Me, Me, Me

While I was off shopping for tonight’s dinner, Mom lulled my children to sleep by letting them type their names on my laptop over and over. She left the document open for me to see, and I decided that it was a must-post. A few haiku from my poet and writer mother:

Dylan and Daphne
Asleep against their wishes
Dreams tinted sky blue

Grandpa and Logan
Chat about yellow pythons
Siblings deep asleep

Mommy’s blog captures
All from dawn to dusky night
Quips pouts laughs squawks splats

Quiet soft breezes
Sending whiffs of sweet Jasmine
Thrill all our senses

Stay tuned for another guest post tomorrow… Julie Kenner, author of Carpe Demon, is launching her book tour, and The Mommy Blog is one of the lucky stops!

Sunday, July 10, 2005 Family

The house is totally out of control today. My daughter and I were just out side at two p.m. in our jammies, watering the new flowers at the height of the day. And then? I was yelling at the boys for showing up in their boxers. Like that’s any better than what I had on.

My shower is running and I WILL get control of the day once I’m out. My folks and Mr. X are coming to dinner, I need to shop for food, and the house needs a flame thrower. But first, my mom’s coming over to go get Bougainvilleas to train along my trellis so we can eat outside on the patio without the sun burning holes in the retinas of anyone sitting facing West.

In the meantime, one child is standing on a table outside eating watermelon, another is walking around in a party dress, carrying a fudge pop, and the third was shouting, “Where’s the ice cream scoop? I found the cones!”

I pretended not to see the watermelon boy, tied a big, red dishtowel around Daphne like a reverse cape, and helped Logan with the cones so they wouldn’t go flying all over the kitchen like bottle rockets when the bag tore open. Daphne liked her bib. “Can I wear this? Can I get mess on it?” “Sure. I’ll just wash it.” She walked away, tap-tap-tapping her fudge pop on on the dishtowel.

There are dishes piled in the sink, a life-size leopard in the living room, three loads of laundry on the couch, and fresh bruises on everyone’s cheeks. “I fell off the car outside.” “I fell when I jumped from that chair to this one.” “I fell off the bed when we were having a pillow fight.” “I fell off the fort when we were sword fighting.” “I fell off your computer chair when I was trying to turn it on.”

“Yeah, well, you’re a great, big, poopy, diaper head.” That’s what I hear in between kissing boo boos and breaking up brawls.

OK, enough talking about it; time to get up do something. (I’m sitting here, naked, waiting for the water to heat up, and it would be just my luck for my step dad to come in and offer to play catch with the kids while I run errands.)

I’ll leave you with the quote of the day:

Logan: “Mom! I can tell the future! In a second, I’m going to say hi… Hi!”

Friday, July 08, 2005 Family

The kids and I just washed my car.

Actually, it wasn’t that simple. I suggested we wash the car to get them away from the TV and the snack drawer before dinner. I filled the oval galvanized tub with soap and water, threw a couple of oversized sponges in the driveway, and unrolled the hose.

In that time, the boys had begun fighting over sponges and Daphne was dousing the car with a metal watering bucket, banging the thing against the door to be sure every drop came out.

I started barking out orders, assigning each boy to wetting and washing a side and sent Daphne off to find a plastic watering can. In the meantime, I scrubbed like a demon to get the whole charade over with as soon as possible.

Meanwhile, my neighbor stood in his driveway across the street and just laughed and laughed.

At one point I turned to see Dylan dragging a kitchen table chair into the driveway. “I need to get my sponge. It’s on the roof.”

“Oh, no, put that back. No chairs out here.”

“But I’ll be too TIRED if I hafta carry it back!”

“Then you are too tired to help wash the car. Or climb up for your sponge.”

“You’re the worst mommy I ever seen! If you don’t let me do that, I’m gonna mumble mumble mumble…” He’s like the guy in Office Space who keeps threatening to burn down the building.

Just as I was doing the final rinse, I heard a whoop and a sploosh as Dylan cannonballed stark naked into the water tub. This is where the photographer would have come in handy. Dylan sitting in a pile of bubbles in a galvanized tub in my driveway with cars whizzing by.

He splashed and threw sponges and upended the tub just as Daphne came streaking by. I watched her naked little bottom fly down the sidewalk and around the corner.

Meanwhile, my neighbor stood in his driveway across the street and just laughed and laughed.

“ALL. NAKED. PEOPLE. IN. THE. BACK. YARD. NOW.” No response. “SHREDDER!” Nothing. “THERE GOES A THOMAS THE TANK ENGINE MOVIE!!” Two naked monkeys flew back up the sidewalk and disappeared into the house.

With that, I bowed to my neighbor as he applauded. “And that concludes this portion of the evening’s entertainment.”

Friday, July 08, 2005 Me, Me, Me

I just told my three-year-old daughter she was acting childish.

Friday, July 08, 2005 Me, Me, Me

Melanie, who is my new bestest, bestest friend—pinkie swear—because she has a book coming out about mommying and her publicist at Dutton? You know, Penguin Group? Eeeee! Likes me! And know what else? I like her back because she works a a place where they publish BOOKS! And I? Am writing a BOOK! Omigawd!

Anyway, Melanie got all drunk last night and crashed the store where she’ll have her first book signing, which is totally something I would have done, only I wouldn’t have done it forty-eight days early, I would have done it the night before and wound up at the signing table all hung over, wearing huge dark glasses and knocking over stacks of books with my forehead while signing the wrong name upside down on the flyleaf which everyone loses in the first week anyway.

Thursday, July 07, 2005 Me, Me, Me

I found myself trying to describe labor pain to a guy today and was at a loss for something to use as a comparison. An acute, unrelenting charlie horse? Really bad gas pains that last a day? The extreme shock of a blow to the jewels and the nausea that follows?

I had nothing.

So then I tried to describe the process, the criss-crossed network of muscles contracting at the top of a soccer-ball sized uterus and pushing down on the baby while the muscles at the bottom shorten and pull to open the cervix and allow the baby out. It sounded complex and weird, but not very real. There was no way I could convey the terror and soul-bracing as a woman is swept away with contractions every few minutes, for hours on end—in an easy delivery with no complications.

I was having this conversation because another friend had just pinged me on instant messaging 24 hours after checking in to the hospital to be induced at 41 weeks. What the hell?

She had been put on a drip and induced for labor early yesterday morning, that much I knew. The update was that fourteen hours later, after cranking the dose to the maximum with no change in dilation, they SENT HER HOME.

They are going to start all over again bright and early tomorrow morning. They say she is going to have another big baby, over nine pounds. She is five foot three.

Wednesday, July 06, 2005 Me, Me, Me

What? It’s by Big Bad Voodoo Daddy. It’s on the party shuffle. Shut up.

Can I just say how hot it is around here? There is NO air conditioning, NO relief from the long, sunny day, NO relief from the heat, aside from the limey-minty slushy drinks in the blender.

And? Mr. X is putting the finishing touches on the steaks, figs & prosciutto, roasted peppers and fennel and figs, the brie and bread, and, well, I’m doing the chive popovers. In a pan. Because, you know, the chef doesn’t have a muffin pan. *strangles*

So, all well. Just so’s you know. For those who are asking. It’s Date Night. Remember Wednesdays? No kids? I get to eat hot food? And basically do whatever I want without breaking up fights or waiting on anyone or shouting or threatening timeouts or… or… where’s my drink?

Tuesday, July 05, 2005 Me, Me, Me

I’m sitting in the kitchen at 12:55 a.m., bleary, hunched over, and not really wanting to move. My bed isn’t sounding so great anymore since Dylan just peed it and it takes like two whole loads to wash all the linens. “Mommy? It just doesn’t feel right when there’s no one else in my bed…” Yeah? Well now it feels WET.

Good thing it’s my day without the kids so I can jump right on it.

I decided there were a few pics I could post that preserve our friends’ privacy—after all, if I can do that AND give you all an eyeful of me attacking hay with a baling hook, making friends with and snuggling a horse, trying to get close to a two-month-old colt—my work here is pretty much done. I just wish that these two photos were big enough to enlarge and hang on one full wall. The second one looks just like the little oil painting I had hanging next to my desk at work for years. I loved that painting.

Tuesday, July 05, 2005 Family

I have so many posts backed up, I don’t know what to do first. So I think I’ll do bits of nothing.

I had all sorts of stories about partying at the winery with Otter and his lovely wife and children, but it’s really much funnier with the photos and I’ve decided against posting them. (Unless I don’t get another invitation soon, in which case everyone will know who sang Blue Bayou and who sang I’m Too Sexy for My Shirt (that one hurt) and who absolutely crooned Elvis. I’ll short-circuit any comments from Mr. X by admitting I sang “The Tide is High” and “La Bamba.” OK? You happy? WE WERE ALL DRUNK.)

Last night was fun in a sphincter-tightening sort of way: Gil and I took the kids on a long ride through the neighborhoods, catching the fireworks here and there in San Jose and the Cambrian and near the stadium. We stopped at lights and oohed and ahhed and competed for most fireworks spotted among the houses and trees.

At one point there was a tremendous finale behind the redwoods so we wove our way through streets until we had a perfect vantage point. As the children cheered and begged to be let out of the car, Gil and I started noticing where we were. “Kids, I think we’ll keep driving, and we don’t want to put the windows down or the smoke will get in the car.” We were muttering lines from ”Training Day” to ourselves as we tried to whistle and nonchalant our way out of there.

We reached a dead end almost immediately. As Gil and I giggled and muttered, he turned into a driveway, only to be blocked from behind by a white van. “That’s it for us; there’s a guy over there holding a blender box and the woman in the van is lighting a cigarette.” “Yup. Been nice knowing you.”

The kids thought the muffled, horrified laughter was all part of the show and giggled along with us. I was saying the rosary as Gil made a seventeen-point turn out of the driveway (careful not to ding the van) and we wound our way past a fire truck and four cruisers. “Either we just missed something or they heard a family of five was in the area and might need an escort.”

There were the usual post-show firecrackers going off all around us. Logan deadpanned, “I think I saw the car those shots were fired from.” Daphne replied, “Oh, my!’ and Gil and I nearly fell over laughing, ran the red turn light, and booked back to Los Gatos.

It’s time to actually finish up the housework. I finally did the last three days’ dishes in my newly-functional sink (I am so happy Mr. X has that NY “thing” that intimidates Home Depot folk into opening up a new faucet assembly and just handing us the piece missing from mine), and am running load after load of laundry. I am hoping the kids will forget that I suggested washing my car. They are all hopped up on Fudge pops and Gushers and I think at least two are naked in the yard at the moment. I’ll go look after I finish this glass of Coppola Rosso…

Sunday, July 03, 2005 Me, Me, Me

Am just on my way to dinner at Mom’s, so here’s a teaser until I can tell more and post photos…

We shot up 101 late yesterday morning to spend the night with Mr. X’s old friends at their winery up north. What started out as sipping wine by the pool before dinner wound up with us singing karaoke until two a.m. with the original Otter from Delta house. And not Tim Matheson, either, this was the legend from Dartmouth college who inspired the Animal House character.

Otter poured wine while M. X prepared dinner, and much of what happened after that is a blur of eating, drinking, laughing, arguing about foreskins, taking turns with the mike, and nearly peeing ourselves singing a duet of “Don’t Go Breaking My Heart.”

Oops! Am late! Must dash!