I say we ditch both “Miss” and “Ma’am” and for lack of a better idea, bring back the antiquated Victorian term, “M’Lady.” Isn’t that a nice word, M’Lady? Any woman could be a M’Lady without feeling insulted because it sounds like a mixture of Miss and Lady. It is like you’re addressing both the young misses and the sophisticated older ladies at the same time. M’Lady is sort of sweet and elegant sounding too, isn’t it?
I realize that using a different word might feel a little funky at first, but I’m sure over time we’ll get used to it. Really, all we need is for one rapper to use it in a song and it would instantly become the norm.
“I’ll tell you what the sitch’ is, Straight up from McGrady, You hangin’ with your bitches, But I’m hangin’ with M’lady.”
I can already imagine how much better my mornings will be: “Here’s your double espresso, M’Lady.”
“Well, thank you, kind sir. I will see you, and your repulsive earlobe, anon.”
Yep. That’s much better.
9 weeks, 3 days
Sometimes I can’t believe I have a cat because I grew up in a cat-hating family. My mom was allergic and so am I, yet somehow I have a cat. But if that stupid cat barfs in the hallway one more time, I might kick him outdoors and into the mouths of the waiting coyotes.
This cat is hellbent on destroying our foamy art projects and flip-flops. It’s as if he has some sort of foam deficiency in his diet. I looked it up and there is actually a term for when cats eat things that aren’t food: feline pica. Where else but in Southern California does one find a cat with an eating disorder?
When we first brought him home he was an adorable little black fur ball. The kids and I lobbied hard for the name Mr. Snuggles. But my husband felt it was too emasculating; likely more for him to say than for the cat to bear. So we went with the much more manly name of Mario - Mario Quimby Snuggles for legal purposes. Though now I usually refer to him as That Stupid Cat.
We’ve given voice to That Stupid Cat, much like we’ve done with our German Shepherd hound mix, Buddy. It started after we saw the movie, “Up” and now we can’t stop. We voice our dog’s every action. “I would like to come inside now. It makes me happy to be inside. I have my toy. Do you see my toy?” In fact, we do it so often that I wouldn’t be surprised if men in white coats showed up one day to cart the whole lot of us away.
Unlike the dimwitted voice that we’ve assigned Buddy, the cat’s voice is sinister and evil. Strangely he has an Eastern European accent. “Hah, you peeple! I tear up furniture, destroy your clothes and poop on floor and you do nutting! Instead you let me climb on bed wit yore leetle children and drop my feces- laden cat leetter on their sheets. And who is de stoopid vun? Bwa ha ha ha!”
Getting the stupid cat was my husband’s idea, much like having children. I just went along for the ride. Strangely, after having two kids and what seemed like a completed family, I was the one who spearheaded the campaign for a third. One day I simply had to have another child. I needed that sweet smell of baby-milk breath on my neck again.
But shortly after having her, I realized: though my heart was up for another child, my 40-year-old body was not. While my eldest daughter was treated to the boundless energy of a new parent and an endless barrage of art classes, music lessons, and family festivals, my youngest is lucky to get an occasional bath.
I’ve even started referring to Peyton as our neglected third child because between shuttling my two older daughters to their many activities and dealing with my mom, our youngest is regularly cast aside, raised on an endless loop of old “iCarly” episodes.
The other day I caught her coaching a ladybug to pose for the camera like this, “Come on lady buggy, that’s right. Work it now. Work it for the camera. Be a sexy lady bug.” A troubling development indeed.
But even though I feel bad that her childhood is so different from her sisters’, I can’t seem to break the cycle. Like, when she asked me to take her to ride her bike at the park recently, I automatically said no, I’m too tired and too busy. After hearing my lame excuse, she said matter-of-factly that I needed to make more sacrifices for my children.
I admired her clever tactic so I relented and took her to the park.
Once there, I really enjoyed spending time with her. So, why is it always so hard to do?
Teaching My Daughter to Swear
When Peyton the youngest arrived home from school last December with new intelligence on the existence of Santa, this seasoned mom was armed and ready with a counter-attack. “No! Santa is very real and Dylan’s parents are clearly insane for saying he’s not. In fact, Santa could be listening to our conversation right now. We better stop talking before he decides to skip our house next week!”
But when the ‘f’ word came home courtesy of Dylan the next week, I was caught unprepared. I hemmed and hawed. “Um, I don’t know what that word means, honey. It’s a bad word, you say? Why, I, uh . . .well, if it’s a bad word then let’s agree never to say it.” I gave her a mouthful of cookies and hoped the topic was dead.
A couple days later I learned that the ‘f’ word was not so easily forgotten. It seemed that my young daughter had begun obsessing over the word, wondering what it meant and, because it was forbidden, became overwhelmed with worry that she might accidentally let it slip out.
As we drove home from school, she broke down sobbing. “I’m sorry. I know you said to stop thinking about it, but I can’t stop thinking about the ‘f’ word. All day long at school I keep thinking the word ‘f**k’ and then I worry that I’m accidentally going to say, ‘f**k’ out loud and then . . .”
“Okay, okay, okay, that’s enough!” I screamed. “I understand what you’re feeling, but you can’t say that word out loud!”
“But I’m not trying to. That’s what I’m telling you. I keep thinking about it though. I can’t get ‘f**k’ out of my mind!” she yelled back.
I tried to think of a smart way to handle the situation, but my task was made more difficult by the fact that my middle daughter, Samantha, was howling with laughter in the passenger seat.
“Sweetie, I know you want to do the right thing and I appreciate how difficult it is, but you can’t let yourself say that word.”
“But it keeps getting in my head. I can’t help it. I keep thinking, ‘f**k’ and then I get so worried that I’m going to say, ‘f**k’ at school!”
“Stop! Stop!” I screamed. “You have to stop! Even when we’re talking about the word you are not allowed to say it. Seriously you must . . . stop . . . saying it. In fact, never say it again. Ever. Understand?”
By this time my 12-year-old daughter was in hysterics. She was doubled over in laughter, gasping for air. To be honest, a large part of me desperately wanted to join her. But I was the adult here and I needed to do some adult parenting, speedy quick.
As I drove along, considering my options, I couldn’t help but think that people passing us by would never imagine the potty-mouth filth that was coming out of the pig-tail wearing seven-year-old in the booster seat of our Volvo wagon.
But before I could make any headway with my youngest daughter, I had to reprimand my elder one, “Samantha really, get a hold of yourself. You’re not helping. This is a serious situation.” But as I spoke a few giggles of my own sneaked out, undermining my effectiveness.
“Now Peyton,” I continued, “without saying that bad word again - ever - let’s talk a bit and think about what we could do to stop this. What if, when the bad word pops into your head, you thought about something else? Something you enjoy, like Disneyland or milkshakes or, I know, frogs. You like frogs and that would be a good word cause it starts with the same letter even.”
This was indeed a proud parenting moment. Here I had
taken a situation that was clearly spiraling out of control and skillfully reined it back in again. This third child of mine was really benefiting from my years of parenting.
“Yeah, okay,” Peyton agreed, “but what if I want to ho
ld the frog at school and I ask Mrs. Hartstein, ‘Can I pick up the ‘f**k’ by accident?’”
“All right, that is it! Enough! You are now forbidden from talking. When we get home I’m going to wash your mouth out with soap like my mother used to. Now I see why she went straight to that!” I hollered.
My elder child was silently crying with laughter as my younger child began crying with regret. “But, I, didn’t, mean, it.” Sob, sob. “I can’t, help, it.”
I had my doubts about that.
Surprisingly, it turned out that just the threat of a bar of soap in her mouth did the job. It seems those old-fashioned parenting tricks actually work, and thankfully, weeks went by without any talk of the dreaded ‘f’ word again.
But then, Peyton came home with a new concern. Apparently that Dylan was at work again, hell bent on making my life miserable. This time he taught my daughter the “s” word. Great.
Peyton told me that Dylan shouted the ‘s’ word in class and he got in trouble from the teacher. She said that she didn’t really understand what the big deal was though.
I told her that it was important not to say bad words but figured that maybe I should follow her lead and say that swear words aren’t such a big deal. Hopefully that would end her fascination with swearing altogether.
“You know Peyton, most of these swear words have pretty dumb meanings. In fact, the ‘s’ word means horse poo poo. Probably some farmer stepped in it one day, got mad and said the ‘s’ word really loud and then it became a swear word. So, there’s nothing special about the word, but it’s polite not to use it.”
I said all of this in a breezy sort of tone, hoping my nonchalance would take the forbidden fruit aspect away.
Instead she appeared strangely bewildered. “But, why would Dylan say that Kenzie was horse poo poo when she didn’t
know the answer to five plus seven? That doesn’t make any sense.”
Hmm, that did seem odd.
“Wait, what exactly did Dylan say?” I asked.
“He said Kenzie was stupid. Does stupid really mean horse poo poo?”
“Oh, that ‘s’ word,” I blurted out. Oops.
“What ‘s’ word were you talking about?” My daughter asked, as she looked up at me with her big, brown, innocent eyes.
I tried to cover, but she didn’t buy it. She wanted, needed to know what the other ‘s’ word was. For hours she hounded me until I finally caved. I couldn’t take it anymore. That girl has a future as a police interrogator, I tell you.
I revealed the other ‘s’ word and, of course, uttered the instructions that she must never, ever repeat it, especially at school.
But deep down though, I knew what I was doing. I had launched a retaliatory strike.
The way I figure it, that much more naughty ‘s’ word would be arriving at Dylan’s house some time around dinnertime tomorrow – a little payback from Santa.
9 weeks, 2 days
They’re still there, lying sloth-like on the couch, demanding food and entertainment. Why did I complain about making lunches and getting up early during the school year? It was such a small price to pay for my freedom.
I have no privacy now. I’m used to the dog and cat following me into the bathroom when I shower, but now that my seven-year-old daughter is home all day, she’s doing it too. While I was shampooing my hair this morning she asked, “Are you washing your hair like that because you think it makes you look hot? Are you trying to impress Daddy?”
What? That’s how people wash their hair – with both hands! And how does she know to use the word ‘hot’ like that? Clearly she needs to be kept more busy. Maybe I’ll have her make one of those countdown chains like she makes for Christmas every year, only it would be with the number of days left in summer vacation. “Make me 68 loops honey. Don’t ask what it’s for, just start cutting. Mommy needs something to hold on to.”
In the spare moments between providing meals and rides to my captors / charges, I’ve been exchanging phone calls with my Mother’s doctors. She’s been feeling really weak lately so her primary doctor has referred her to another doctor. But the new doctor has no appointments for six weeks so I had to call Doctor A back to pressure him to lean on Doctor B to get her an appointment sooner. I’ve learned to be pushy when it comes to these doctors. I call and call. Finally they give in just to get rid of me.
All these phone calls have made me want to take a vacation. We’re hoping we can go somewhere in August. Money has been rather tight since um, forever, so we haven’t figured out where we can afford to go. My husband told the kids that he wants to spend a week in a Yurt, one of those permanent round-shaped tents, at a campground somewhere. This way we could camp without having to struggle to set up a tent. The toilets are a mere 100-yard walk away, he added, as if that was a selling point. Our kids were appalled. “What . . . all five of us sleeping together, outside? And there’s no TV or refrigerator or plumbing? Have you people lost your minds?”
I was about to reassure them that their father must be joking or had indeed lost his mind when he pulled me aside and explained his plan. He wanted to convince them that we would be staying in a Yurt so that whatever cheap-ass thing we really end up doing would seem good by comparison.
Genius! It reminded me of why I married him.
The Oregon Caves:
Two Hours of Terror, A Lifetime of Pain
As I strolled through one of the last remaining book stores on the planet recently, I spotted a display of celebrity autobiographies. A quick look at the book jackets revealed that virtually every actor, singer, or comedian had suffered a horrible childhood. The cynic might suggest that it’s simply a good way to sell books, but I think that it’s these very painful childhoods that make a performer’s acting more believable, their singing more soulful, or their comedy more insightful. After all, great art is made from great suffering.
It got me thinking that I too have suffered. I’ve suffered terribly. And as is the case with these celebrities, it was at the hands of my parents.
I was forced to grow up in a four-bedroom Ranch-style home in a middle class suburb with two brothers, two sisters, and a father who returned from work at exactly 4:45PM each day where upon he was greeted by my mother with exactly two kisses, before we dined as a family at exactly 6:00 o’ clock in the evening. After dinner my brothers and sisters and I did our homework while my mother read her murder mysteries and my father watched his TV shows on his little black and white set in the living room away from us noisy kids in the den.
Clearly the upbringing I describe is horrible enough to send anyone over the edge, but to make things worse, every summer my family embarked on a long and torturous trailer trip vacation. There were six of us (my eldest sister was lucky enough
to escape these trips by marrying young) crammed together in a poorly air-conditioned Ford Rambler station wagon, driving for hours until we reached our campsite where we spent even more hours hooking up to the facilities while my parents bickered about what went where and who should do what and what the hell would we have for dinner.
To add to the fun, my brothers and sisters and I would entertain ourselves during those long drives by arguing over one pointless topic after another. One great debate was over which of us was responsible for finding the most beautiful rock in our growing rock collection; the very collection that was weighing down the back end of the station wagon and likely interfering with my engineer father’s fuel calculations.
Finally, my father got so tired of hearing the bickering that without comment he pulled over to the side of the road and heaved the box of rocks down the hill, as we stood with our mouths agape. That shut us up for a few hours until we reached our next destination where we were punished further by being forced to stare at more nature that looked exactly like the nature we had seen at our last campsite the day before.
But this wasn’t the truly awful part. There’s more.
The truly awful incident - the one I’m still haunted by toda
y - happened on a particularly hellish trip up the West Coast, a trek from our house near Pasadena, California north to Oregon, Washington and then Vancouver, Canada. Three weeks of bickering bliss and all the sites the Pacific Northwest had to offer. Well, except cities. We bypassed those altogether because there was no nature there, nor were there any campground hookups. This deprivation would explain why my dream vacation now is a penthouse suite in a cosmopolitan metropolis.
The itinerary, as usual, involved visiting National Monuments. One such stop was the Oregon Caves, which is one of the few marble caves in the world, apparently. What young child wouldn’t want to see that? My parents told us that the caves were made from acidic rainwater in an old growth forest and teased us with news that we’d see stalagmites and stalactites and maybe even learn the difference, information that would surely help if we were to one day compete on Jeopardy.
But, when we arrived to buy our tickets, we discovered
that because of the dangerous slippery wet trail and steep drop offs, young children were not allowed to go on the cave tour. I don’t remember what the age cutoff was, but I was on the wrong side of it.
I remember, even at my young age, confidently thinking, “Oh, it’s too bad that my family won’t be able to see the caves because of me.” I stood and listened as my parents were told that if the rest of the family still wanted to do the tour, they could simply check me into the day care center nearby. But, I knew that there was no possible way my family would drop me off for a couple hours with a bunch of strangers in another state, hundreds of miles from our family home.
But I was wrong, so very wrong.
My family, apparently blinded by their mad desire to see the Oregon Caves gave leave of their senses and checked me in at the day care center, much like people do with their dogs at the Disneyland kennel. I was aghast.
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