Dawn and Gigi cannot relate on this one. Dawn has the money in her family. Their lavish lifestyle and the arsenal of help they employ come from her trust fund. Gigi’s husband makes a very nice living, and things are never tight for them. Even if they were, Gigi is too good at what she does to bring up money.
I turn to the only person I can – Nate. I remind him of our decision and how we chose for one of us to stay home. I mention how insecure the money comments make me. He apologizes and tells me he meant nothing by them – and then makes them again after he’s forgotten our discussion. I lick my wounds and tell myself they are just jokes and Nate would never actually consider me unequal. As I carry my wounded ego around in a dishtowel, I happen upon Nate on the phone. He does not know I am there. Before I return to the kitchen, I overhear him say, “I can’t relate to you there, buddy. My wife is the greatest. She runs this entire house. She has to be the best mother in the world. I don’t know what we would do without her.”
So I close the door quietly with a tear in my eye and love filling my heart and feel really bad about putting the diuretic in his steak sauce.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Let’s Talk About It
I love to talk. I would do it all the time if I could. So you can imagine what it does to a talker when you reduce the collective intellect of the audience to a litter of puppies. Instead of insightful and thought-provoking dialogues on the current administration’s economic policies, I debate the merits of eating two cookies after lunch versus the one given. I try to decipher exactly why the bath mat offends Tabby so much. I laud picture after picture of scattered pen strokes which are supposed to be a monkey/princess/stop sign. When I ask the artist what their motivation was, the response is generally “Because.” I discuss the pros and cons of dancing on the coffee table and how you could still get hurt, even if you have done it before.
I watch children programs and try to engage my children in dialogue as to why what the protagonist did that day was right or wrong. But they don’t care, and neither do I. And don’t get me started on the literature I discuss now. I have bid the damn Moon Good Night. Now leave it!
The complex and modified sentences I once uttered are reduced to “Do you need to make a potty?” My last debate closer was “Because Mom likes those shoes and the orange juice does not belong in them.”
The other day, Logan came out of his room and was desperately trying to explain something to me. I was so excited for the discourse we were about to have.
“I…I…I…the truck is has green and POW…but can’t…I build a tower for the dragon ship and…hmm….” He turned and ran back in his room.
I waited.
I called to him in his room. “What was that now?” I asked
“Nothing!” he said defensively.
“No, you are not in trouble. What were you trying to tell me?” I ask gently, albeit eagerly.
“Nothing! I’m okay, Mom.”
“No, Logan…I want to know…” but I was cut short as Tabby walked in with her head and one arm through the leg of her shorts and wearing a cereal box as a hat. “Hi Mom!” she said enthusiastically.
I try to observe the rules in the “How to Raise a Kid” books. I set them down for discussions on their behavior.
“Why did you hit Tabby, Logan?”
“Why? Because I hit her.”
“No, I know what you did. Why did you do it?”
“Why? Because I pulled her hair.”
“No, I know that…wait – what? I thought you hit her?”
“No, I pulled her.”
“You pulled her? You mean you pushed her?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because the ground.”
“I know where. Why?!?”
“Because…”
“Oh, never mind. Just don’t do it again.”
I love when people call me. A telemarketer who only wants me to protect my credit card needs to be prepared to discuss what happened to the Republican Party I registered for at 18. Clean my carpets? First, give me information on that new star they discovered. Do I know where my tax dollars are going? No. Do you know why leggings have made a comeback? Donation? Absolutely – if you can tell me if this celebrity is really sleeping with that celebrity and why that person is an actual celebrity to begin with.
I used to hold these discussions with myself, but my children are at an age that they wonder why Mom is yelling at the coffee filter. I don’t mind confusing my kids, but soon they might report my behavior to The Mothers, which could be admissible in court.
Of course, the one who gets unloaded on the most is Nate. After a long day of people throwing problems at him to solve or petty arguments he is asked to take a side on, he comes home to the children at their normal volume and a wife who is chewing on the corner of a newspaper. Nate and I are alike in many important ways, but we don’t hold all the same interests. My maudlin fascination with all things celebrity eludes him. What sports teams have a shot at some title is of no consequence to me. When Nate walks in the door, I commence talking about whatever I want to talk about. Nate tries to field my ramblings, the kids’ demands for attention and his own desperate need of a glass of wine.
At some point he puts up his hand and says, “Honey, I need a minute.”
I get my feelings hurt because I feel unimportant and think whatever I am nattering on about is really interesting. I say okay with my best hurt voice and sulk off to the kitchen to finish dinner. After dinner, Nate tries to resuscitate the conversation. But I pout, and say that I don’t feel like talking anymore, which is a lie because that is all I want to do. He tells me about his day to fill the void. I interrupt him and ask why he thinks his day is more important than mine. He says he tried to get me to tell him the rest of my story but I wouldn’t. I decide to forgive him and start in again on everything going on in my mind. Nate smiles and nods. His eyes take on an opacity that I see from time to time when I talk. As Nate starts slumping down in his chair, I think how lovely it is that we can communicate like this.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Mimosa Mondays
The First Day of School. The golden ring for every mother is the time she gets to be alone. This is my year. Logan is going to kindergarten. On the first day of school, for three solid hours, I will be alone in my beautifully clean home with no noise, no demands and only my agenda to follow.
When the day is finally upon us, I wake in a dynamite mood. I make breakfast. I assemble nutritious lunches for all (including Nate – drawing a picture on his lunch bag for fun.) I sing the kids awake (Okay. This is not so much a treat for them as my singing voice is akin to a nail being pulled across the hood of a car.) I bring Nate his coffee in bed. Everyone is happy and eager to start their day – no one more ready than me. Three hours to myself. I am delirious.
I pile the kids in the car. Nate suggests that maybe he should stick around so we could have some Alone Time. “No, no. We don’t need any of that nonsense,” I think - unfortunately out loud. Quickly covering my tracks, I add, “Get to work so you can hurry home to me tonight!” I may regret that later.
First, I drop off Logan. I have a little trouble reading the Who Goes Where charts in the front of the school. I try six classrooms before I find a teacher who would take him. Checking my watch, I am only a few minutes behind my schedule. Still plenty of alone time left.
Tabby and I sing all the way to her new classroom. Our singing is cut short when Tabby bursts into tears. She wants her former classroom. I tell her this is a BIG GIRL classroom and Mom really needs to get home to her book, cup of coffee and silence. With my precious minutes ticking away, I point Tabby to the tissues and run out as she reaches for one.
I am humming to myself when the director of the preschool s
tops me. Apparently I owe more for Tabby’s monthly tuition. She is going here five days a week now, (yay!) and the rates increased some. I ask what I owe – anything to get out of here. I write the check. I will figure a way to cover it later when I am all by myself.
I am whistling weakly when I walk in to my house. It is not as clean as I had envisioned. But it is quiet and currently all mine. I sit on the sofa with my coffee and my book. I make a quick call to Nate. I need to tell him we have no more money so he shouldn’t count on eating for a little while. There is laughter in the background when he answers. Nate is having trouble collecting himself. Turns out, my drawing on the lunch bag was not as recognizable as I had thought. Nate pinned it to the bulletin board and was holding a contest to see who could guess what the picture was. It was supposed to be Nate returning to the loving arms of his family after work. The closest anyone had gotten was a bear attacking a minimart. He offers up some other guesses. I tell him I don’t have time for this and get back to my solitude.
I open my book. I keep eyeing the pair of shoes that need to be put away. As I go to pick them up, I knock over a stack of newspapers. I decide to run them out to the recycling can. It’s when I am scrubbing my sink I remember my book and my now tepid coffee. As I put the orange juice away, I spy a half full bottle of champagne from the night before. Hmmm. I make myself a mimosa. The phone rings.
“Hi.” Dawn says in the lowest, saddest way possible.
“What’s up?” I ask.
Dawn had a bad weekend. She goes on to tell me about it. “What are you doing?”
“I am sitting here with a mimosa.”
“A mimosa? “ she asks.
“Sure. It’s the first day of school.”
“So it is. Let’s see. Champagne, check. Juice? Check. OK, where was I?”
Dawn is a few minutes into a good rant when a beep comes through on her line. “It’s the Shrimp. What’s she doing? Hang on. I’ll conference her in.” She does so. “Hey, Gigi. It’s both of us.”
“Hi, girls.” Another low voice. “My mother is coming tonight. I wasn’t expecting her.”
“Oh, honey. We’re drinking mimosas – can you join us?” Dawn asks.
“Uhm, yes, I think I can. Here we are. Oh! And mango juice. Perfect”
“Perfect,” we say.
We go a few rounds of How My Life Sucks. We pour some more drinks. Soon How My Life Sucks becomes It Could Be Worse. Another round. We start solving our problems, which makes us giggle. Another round. We start solving the world’s problems, which makes us chortle. Another round. We cease trying to solve anything and simply laugh.
Dawn gets another beep. “Hang on.” Dawn says. She clicks over.
Gigi and I talk about laundry.
Dawn clicks back. She is cackling. “My kids are already in the principal’s office.” Dawn says, barking out in laughter. “Day 1!”
We all fall on our respective couches howling. Dawn needs to go so we sign off. As soon as we do, my phone rings.
“Whatd’ya firgit?” I slur into the phone.
“Okay. We think we have it.” Nate says. “Is the picture you drew Big Foot applying for a job at Hooters?”
“Yes. Now, git yer butt home. No use wasting an empty house.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
I’ll Climb Any Mountain
I am not a crafty person. My friends tell me that making things together makes up a large part of family time, that is, until the children learn how to play board games and the craft closet is converted into a hideaway bar. As soon as I had a child, my inbox was cluttered with links to fun crafts for kids and how to make your baby’s time meaningful. I was not aware a baby’s time had to be meaningful. I thought it just had to survive. But apparently a baby needs to survive AND do crafts.
I never lost my joy of holidays; so this seemed as good a place as any to start with the crafts. Unfortunately, I started when Logan was 10 months old, and the most he got out of making his own Christmas stocking was to gnaw on some felt and somehow glue the foot of his all-in-one suit to the tablecloth.
Although clearly not cut out for this kind of thing, I diligently assembled my Santa/turkey/Menorah/Easter basket/Valentine’s Day Card/shamrock/I Have A Dream Journal alongside my children. I offered bits of history about the holiday we were celebrating for cultural enrichment. I spend a great deal of time on material acquisition, craft research, baking and craft area preparation. The children would come in, spot the glitter tube, dump its contents on a pool of glue they had poured and ask to watch TV. I would spend the next week scraping stickers off my floor.
I bought kits once, thinking maybe we would all enjoy it more if it was easier on me. But I made the mistake of calling Gigi to tell her about my craft day.
“Oh, a kit! You are so smart,” she began. “I think I just lost a year of my life stressing over finding muslin for the Three Wise Men’s cloaks.”
I knew I should not have asked, if I valued my own self-worth, but I did anyway. “Muslin?”
“Yes. It is often depicted that they wore velvet and silk and other warm, luxurious fabrics. In fact, the Bethlehem census took place in the summer. And they were traveling. They were wise men after all; they would not have been bogged down with cumbersome robes.”
“Are Sonnet and Schubert in a Christmas pageant?”
“No. Why?”
Halloween seems to bring out the crafter in most people as well. When we were young, The Mothers made our costumes from scratch and often had to change the costume when we changed our mind as to what we wanted to be. Our costumes were both historically accurate and terribly complex. I cut a picture out of a magazine and tape it to my kid’s shirt.
For once, Dawn cannot make me feel better. She is the craft queen. She bedecked our college dorm with rugs made out of our discarded tee-shirts. Craft time is the one time Selma is sent to the store and Dawn dazzles her twins with her ingenuity. What that woman can fashion from a pipe cleaner, a paper napkin and an address label is amazing.
But I do my best and I never gave up. Until…
The Wing Incident.
I found some little Ladybug wings for Tabby in a catalogue. Since ladybugs were her insect-du-jour at that time, I ordered them. When they arrived, Tabby put them on and ran around singing “Ladybug!” as Logan ran behind her flapping the wings. Soon discord occurred. Tabby did not want her wings flapped and would tersely admonish Logan for each infraction. I told Logan that they were, in fact, Tabby’s wings and he needed to abide by her wishes.
Soon the pleas came. Logan desperately needed some ladybug wings. He had to have them. Could I puh-leeeeeze make them for him. Somehow I came to the conclusion that, yes, yes, I think I can make wings.
I spent the next 40 minutes disassembling wire hangers and re-forming them into beautiful little wings. I diligently taped the exposed edges with electrical tape so no precious skin got pierced. Logan selected tissue paper for me to fold around wires. I made armbands from coordinating ribbon. I even thought to tie the ribbon in knots at the point of entry so the wings would not flap about willy-nilly. My wings were gorgeous. Insects outside gazed in with avarice at my wings. My wings were not a craft; they were art.
I excitedly turned to Logan and showed him his beautiful butterfly wings. He shot out of his chair with a chirp, grabbed his wings and put them on. We ran to the full length mirror, and his smile stretched from ear to ear. As soon as they were in place, Logan threw his elbows back to flap his wings. After one flap of his wings, he removed the arm straps and allowed them to drop carelessly to the floor. He proceeded to walk out the door.
“Wait!” I screeched as he started for the door. “Why did you throw your wings down?”
“I didn’
t fly,” Logan said in a voice that sounded like “Duh.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
No Small Sacrifice
I have loved Barbies my whole life. When I was a little girl, I had a two-by four-foot suitcase that held two Barbies, and the rest was clothes. The men in my life should have known they were never getting any part of the closet space. I put the Barbies away, reluctantly, at whatever age you were supposed to do that.
Tabitha was recently given her first Barbie. She is enamored of it. So I got it in my craw to look for those Barbies from my youth. I went into our attic in the garage and snooped around -- no pink and white trunk. But I did find my other Barbies – the designer ones I got when I was older. These beautiful dolls with exquisite clothing were once displayed as art on shelves (in my SWOC days, when nobody could argue with me). Since Nate was reticent to having crowds of Barbies adorn our bedroom, I had squirreled them away in a comfortable temperature-resistant box until the day that I had a daughter who would appreciate them. Spotting them, I decided to bring them down for Tabby. Truthfully, I wanted to see them. They are beautiful, and I wanted to remind myself just how beautiful. Giving them to Tabby would allow me to see them every day and not feel bad about my unwavering love of those little plastic goddesses.
Tabby was astounded by the bounty of princesses that befell her. We carefully took them out one by one and reassembled shoes, stands and accessories. There they were – my girls. They were just as gorgeous as I remembered them. After the awe died down, Tabby asked me to play Barbies with her. This is why I had brought them out, wasn’t it? But Dawn called; so I told Tabby to give me a minute, I would play as soon as I was off the phone. After I ended my call, I returned to the office to play Barbies.
And this is where the problem started.
The first sign of trouble was Tabby had rearranged the shoes. She had green shoes with a pink dress and navy shoes with a predominantly black dress. I laughed this off and promptly went about putting the correct shoes with the correct dress. Of course those little buggers popped off as soon as I got them on, which is why I got a little aggravated when Tabby started to switch them again. I halted all shoe-changing. This is when I noticed the stands. Some stands have the name clearly marked on them. Parisian Barbie does not go on the Beatrix Potter stand – I don’t care if they both belong to the European Union. As I carefully explained the names on the stands and the Barbie they went with them, I saw Tabby trying to shove Ralph Lauren Barbie’s arm into her camel overcoat.
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