by Karen Alpert
Ugghh, seriously? I totally wanted to go shopping.
HOLDEN: I (air suck) want (air suck) her (air suck) to (air suck) stayyy (air suck).
TEACHER: Mommy . . .
Okay, let’s just pause for a moment here because I have a question for the teacher. Here’s what I want to know. Did you come out of my vagina? ’Cause I’m pretty sure I would remember a squat redheaded lady with purple glasses coming out of my hooha, and that doesn’t ring a bell. Which means that I am not Mommy. You can call me Mrs. Alpert. You can call me Karen. You can call me Holden’s Mommy. You can call me pretty much anything you want, but unless you came out of my vagina, you may not call me Mommy. But of course I don’t say this out loud.
TEACHER: Mommy, there is a teachers’ lounge down the hall where some of the other mommies are waiting. How does that sound?
Shitty.
ME: Fine.
By this point Holden is so tired that I’m able to peel his fingers off my skin and lower him to the ground. Of course, he’s still trying to fight gravity and his legs are up, so I place him on his tush.
ME: (trying to be chipper) You’re gonna have so much fun, buddy! I’ll be back in a little while!!
Whatever you do, do NOT turn around and look at him. Seriously, don’t do it. Do not look. But of course, I can’t help it and I turn my head and our eyes meet and he breaks into hysterical cries. Awww shit. Just keep walking. I walk down the hall looking for the teachers’ lounge, and after opening like four wrong doors, I finally find it. It’s filled with all those lululemon ladies who look at me with “pity eyes” the moment I walk in.
ONE OF THEM: Did he stop crying?
ANOTHER ONE: Is he okay?
AND ANOTHER: We felt sooooo bad for you.
Because my kid is crying or because my pants have a boring old Champion logo on them?
ME: Thanks. He’ll be fine.
ONE OF THEM: Oh, I couldn’t have left. You’re so brave (translation: mean).
ANOTHER ONE OF THEM: I totally thought mine would be the one to cry today. I was so nervous, I could barely sleep last night until I popped an Ambien.
Oh yeah, I couldn’t sleep last night either. Because I was SOOOOOO F’ing excited!!!! You GET to drop your kid off at a place two times a week where trained professionals will take care of your rugrat while you GET to go off all alone and get shit done. Why on earth would you be nervous? And that’s when the lightbulb goes off over my head. Ohhh, these are FIRST-TIME moms!! That explains it. This was me three years ago. Minus the fancy yoga pants. Plus some really bad nervous poops.
ME: It’s not a big deal. He’s my second child.
IN UNISON: Ahhhhhhhh.
And that’s when some random lady from the school pops her head into the doorway.
RANDOM LADY: Just here to give a little update to you ladies. All of the kids are doing great!
They all sigh with relief.
RANDOM LADY: Except for Holden. He’s still adjusting.
ME: Okay.
RANDOM LADY: But you don’t have to worry, he’s going to do just fine.
ME: I know.
RANDOM LADY: Please don’t worry.
ME: I’m not. Really.
And all the first-time preschool moms look at me with pity to see if I’m upset and I’m like, “Seriously guys, I am fiiiiine. This is my second child!!”
(Insert lots of boring talk about exercise classes and where do people know each other from and other shit I stop listening to until Mrs. Random Update Lady pops in again.)
RANDOM LADY: They’re all doing art right now and loving it!!
Oh good!
RANDOM LADY: Except for Holden. He’s still getting used to the classroom.
Go figure. The woman next to me puts her hand on my knee.
WOMAN: It’s okay.
Uhhh, yeah, I know it’s okay because a little crying never hurt a child. Do I feel bad for him? Sure. Do I feel bad for myself? A little. But I’ve done this before. I mean not exactly this because the first time I took Zoey to school she was pretty much shooting me the bird with both hands over her head as she marched away, but it’s not like she hasn’t cried about other shit. So yeah, been there, done that.
Anyways, this went on for the rest of the two hours and then it was time to go pick them up. Actually, it was still five minutes early but one eager beaver jumped up to go be first in the pickup line so everyone followed. And guess who was the first kid to come out of the classroom with a giant, humongous smile across his face? Someone else’s kid. Mine came out second with a giant frown and was like, thank F’ing God my mom is here.
ME: Good job today, buddy!
TEACHER: I think he got a little better.
No, he didn’t.
TEACHER: And he used the potty after snack.
ME: Great.
ONE OF THE OTHER MOMS: He’s potty trained?
ME: Yes.
ANOTHER ONE: Does he wear Pull-Ups?
ME: No.
AND ANOTHER: Really?
ME: Really.
AND ANOTHER: That’s amazing.
And there you go. Win.
Oh, wait, what’s that I smell? Did one of your little buttmunches make a poopie in his diaper? I wonder which mom I should look at with pity?
A. The mom in the tennis skirt
B. The mom with the Mercedes baseball cap
C. None of them
FYI, the correct answer is “C.” Your kid still poops in his pants and my kid cries at drop-off. They’ll both get over it. One day you’ll be dropping your kid off at college and he won’t be wearing diapers and I’ll be dropping my kid off at college and he won’t be freaking out and clinging to me. Actually, quite the opposite.
ME: Wahhhhhhhh!!! Nooooooo!! Don’t leave meeeeee!!!!!
HOLDEN: Mom, please let go of me. This is so embarrassing.
ME: Zoey, what’d you do in school today?
ZOEY: We talked about Martin Loser King.
ME: Who?
ZOEY: Martin Loser King.
ME: LUTHER. Martin LUTHER King.
I’m really glad I turned off the radio so we could have this little chat.
What NOT to F’ing do when you’re taking care of your grandkids
Dear Granny, Grampy, Nana, and Pop Pop,
Thank you sooooo much for taking care of the kids next week so the hubby and I can go away for the first time in years. I know I’m just supposed to be appreciative, so lemme tell you a little something that I would appreciate. I would appreciate coming back to the same kids we left behind. ’Cause in the past when we’ve left them with you for just one evening, we come back and I literally can’t tell where their buttholes are because both kids have turned into the most gigantic assholes I’ve ever seen. I know you think that taking care of your grandpoopers is your chance to relive the glory days, but these are not YOUR kids. These are OUR kids. And if they act more a-holey than usual when we return, then going on vacation has actually made life more stressful, which means I just paid a shitload of money for my life to get worse.
So here you go, my little geriatric friends. This is a list of shit NOT to do while we are gone:
1. Please do not constantly stuff my kids with candy. For some reason whenever I walk out of the room you suddenly turn into a Mexican piñata maker and stuff my kids silly with candy like they’re hollow papier-mâché donkeys. If we get back and the kids are high on Pixy Stix and Pop Rocks, I’m putting a blindfold on, grabbing a stick, and beating the crap out of the nearest grandparent.
2. Please do not keep the TV on constantly in the background. (a) Since you have the volume turned up to 99, it is not in the background, and (b) if my kids watch TV for a week straight they will literally turn into zombies and suck your brains out. Karma.
3. Speaking of television, please do not let them watch shows other than the ones that are on the “approved” list. Because if they get hooked on Caillou or Max & Ruby or some other annoying show, I am going on Pinterest and I’m lea
rning how to make thongs out of dental floss and then I am going into your closet and secretly replacing all your granny panties.
4. Seat belts, car seats, bike helmets, pill bottles, sunscreen, plastic bags, sharp objects, EpiPens, etc., etc., etc. These things are not debatable. Yeah, I know you think you’re joking when you say it’s a miracle your own kids are alive today, but I’m dead serious when I answer, “Yes, it is.”
5. Please do not send my kids out to play at 9 a.m. and call them back in for dinner at 5 p.m. like it’s the good ol’ days. Because playing with the neighbors all day is super fun until you find out the neighbor is a sixty-year-old man with a Polaroid camera, an anonymous Instagram account, and more duct tape than Home Depot.
6. Bedtime is not two hours AFTER bedtime. And two minutes BEFORE bedtime is not a good time to start watching a movie or make chocolate sundaes or go outside to play. Just because I’m adjusting to a different time zone doesn’t mean they have to too.
7. Please do not let them skip school or their activities while we are gone. I know you think it’s okay because it’s just a special treat, but guess what? Not learning how to do math or read is not a special treat. And neither is being a homeless person who lives under a bridge because you can’t get a job because you don’t know how to do math or read.
8. Okay, here’s some shit I don’t want to find when I get back to my house: whistles, horns, xylophones, cowbells, finger paints, permanent markers, window markers, bath crayons, fake weapons, real weapons, lawn ornaments, new pets, or other annoying shit that wasn’t in my house when I left. If you desperately feel the need to buy them something, buy them underwear. Or buy them jewelry to give to me.
9. When I hand you the list of emergency phone numbers, please don’t poo-poo me and toss them aside. I’m not questioning your ability to handle an emergency. I’m questioning your ability to know the pediatrician’s phone number off the top of your head when my kid pokes his eyeball out with the scissors you gave him.
10. If one of the kids misses us, do not tell them we cannot bother Mommy and Daddy on vacation. Put the iPad in their hands and let them Skype us. Please take note that I did not say, “You should Skype us.” I said, “Let THEM Skype us.” Because you’re absolutely right, YOU don’t want to bother us on vacation.
That’s it. Have an awesome time! And just remember, one day in the not too distant future, we will be choosing where you live.
Love and kisses,
THE parents
Sometimes I feel a little guilty that my kids never learn very much at home, until I remember, wait a sec, yes they do. I teach them new vocabulary words every day!
The really serious chapter about something that sucks big-time
DOO DOO DOO DOO DOOOOOO, driving home from the library where I just dropped off eleven books that were just a few days late and one book that was due seventeen weeks ago but I didn’t know about it until the library called me to ask me where the F it was so I had to search around the house like a maniac and finally found it under Holden’s mattress. WTF, kid, it’s a book about ferrets, not a Playboy.
Hmmm, maybe I’ll take a longer route home. You know, because it’s the scenic route. Bwhahahahaha. There is no such thing as the scenic route in our town. Ohhhh, look at the beautiful sunset over DSW. Seriously, that’s as pretty as it gets. Not that I haven’t bought some seriously beautiful shoes there.
Anyways, no, there is another reason I’m deciding to take the longer route home, but I’m embarrassed to tell you. I’m a little scared you’re gonna think I’m a nutjob. Not that you don’t already think that, but even more of a nutjob. Okay, wait, before I explain why I take the longer route home and embarrass myself, here’s the backstory.
So a few years ago, I was at a playdate and my friend and I had this conversation.
BELLE: Did you hear about the boy in Springfield?
ME: No.
BELLE: At the hot dog place?
ME: Do I want to hear?
Nope, no, I do not want to hear. Because even though I’m sitting there praying she says something like, “He found a finger in his French fries” or “He got kicked out of the restaurant for pooping on the table,” I’m pretty sure from the tone of her voice that this is going to be worse. Much worse.
BELLE: He choked on a hot dog.
ME: (silence)
BELLE: And died.
A million questions go through my head. Where were his parents? Had they cut the hot dog in half? Were the kids sitting at a different table and no one noticed? Did they just find him slumped over and then realize? Did they notice while it was happening and try to do the Heimlich? Did they sweep his mouth with their finger and push the hot dog farther into his throat? Did the mother scream? Did the whole restaurant notice this was going on? Was the boy afraid? Oh my God, how awful.
And for years, I’ve been thinking about it. I mean not incessantly every single day, but pretty much every time I cut a hot dog in half for my kiddos, I think about that boy and his poor, poor family.
Before I had kids, this kind of story would spontaneously combust in my mind a few minutes after I heard it, but nowadays, there’s a little section of my brain where these stories stack up and haunt me. The boy who went to the public pool with his camp and drowned. The girl who was crushed by the bookshelf that fell on her. The two-year-old who went down for a nap and didn’t wake up. I mean this kind of shit doesn’t happen every day, but it gets talked about so much, you would think it’s not all that rare.
And then I heard the worst one of all. I flipped on my television one day (thank God the kids weren’t around) and there it was. Newtown. Oh my God. Not OMG because this is way too serious for an acronym. Oh my God, oh my God, OH MY GOD. As I watched the news unfold, my heart broke into a thousand pieces for those families. I would say I can’t imagine, but I can. I imagine it all the time. What that scene must have looked like with all those adorable little first graders. The thought of waiting for your kid to come out of the school, and waiting. And waiting.
Hold on a sec, I need to grab a tissue. Seriously, it is impossible for me to think about Newtown without getting teary-eyed.
And here’s the thing. It’s turned me into a crazy person. I mean the hot dog story made me start cutting my kids’ hot dogs down the center, and the bookshelf kid made me bolt my one and only bookshelf to the wall even though it’s in the guest room where the kids never go, and the two-year-old who never woke up made me watch the video monitor a little closer, but the Newtown story has literally made me act like a crazy person. It’s what makes me take the longer route home from the library. Not every day, but once in a while. Why?
Because the longer route means I can drive by my daughter’s school.
About a block away, I start looking for flashing lights. Are there any cop cars or fire engines? Nope, the school looks peaceful from the outside. But Newtown probably looked peaceful from the outside too. At least until everyone started running out. And then I’m closer to the school and I see a man going in. Is he a workman or a teacher or is he some messed-up kind of psychopath who has two guns under his coat that he’s going to whip out when he gets to the office? My mind starts to go to a bad place, but then I see that he’s just a sandwich delivery guy. Phew. But I hate that I even think this way. It cannot be normal.
And sometimes when Zoey’s jumping out of the car in the morning, I make her jump back in to give me a kiss or I’m careful to yell, “I love you!!” even though three minutes earlier I was going ballistic on her because she wouldn’t put her seat belt on. I make sure that last moment when I say good-bye for the day is extra loving. Because what if it’s the last time?
I can’t be totally crazy because I’m not the only one who’s thinking about the worst-case scenario. One day earlier this year, Zoey came home from school and told me they practiced a lockdown drill, you know, in case a skunk got into the building. That’s what they told the kids since they’re only kindergarteners and how can they tell a bun
ch of kindergarteners that it’s actually because a crazy man went into a school in Newtown and sprayed all the first graders with bullets and turned all those sweet little babies into angels. No, we can’t tell kindergarteners that.
I guess I’m a grown-up so I can handle it. But not really.
(Zoey and I both just farted at the same time)
ZOEY: Jinx fart.
Who the hell knew that if two people fart at the same time, it’s a jinx fart? My kindergartener might not know how to read yet, but she’s learned what a jinx fart is at school. Awesome.
Dear Zoey’s school,
I want my money back.
And for Dinner
I Gave My Kids an
EATING DISORDER
YEAH, MY KID USED TO EAT BROCCOLI. BACK when she was in my womb and got her food via umbilical cord. And then she was born and decided that anything green is poisonous and will make her die instantly. Well, I assume that’s what she thinks because if I put it on her plate she screams and cries like someone is chasing her with a hatchet. So whatta I do? I beg and plead and bribe her to try it and it’s just like that old TV show Fear Factor, where you’re supposed to eat cockroach eyeballs or lizard gizzards, only my kid doesn’t walk away with $50,000. She walks away with nine eating disorders. Anyways, I don’t know how some parents get their kids to eat all kinds of healthy shit. Like when I go out to eat sushi, there’s always a table with a family sitting next to us and the kiddos are wolfing down baby octopus with sea urchin and I totally want to go over and ask the mom how she does it. You know, after I punch her because I kinda sorta hate her a little.