It is opening day for the Red Sox.
I am trying to sneak into my room for a nap while everyone else sits in the living room. I have done three loads of laundry, bought dance recital hair stuff, and McDonald's as a treat. I have made one business call. I deserve to hide.
Before I get a chance to hide, I hear my husband's arm chair crackle. He is getting up out of it.
I hear my husband say "Let me go to the bathroom, honey."
And my daughter slides off his lap.
Quiet.
Then a resounding voice.
"Smell Daddy's chair! Smell Daddys chair!"
I fall for it.
I lean in and take a sniff.
I think I thought she meant it would smell like fries and nuggets. Or that cinnamon Yankee candle that has lasted forever. I don't know.
But it doesn't.
I lean in and take a sniff and it is horrible and noxious and I start yelling and my daughter is delighted and my daughter says "See!"
It was not that candle smell at all.
And sure, women don't always smell like roses. But we sure as hell do not smell like that unless we've locked the bathroom door. And used that Yankee Candle.
Friday, April 8, 2011
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Is Your Mother Home?
Sometimes as a teacher I get very worried for my students.
Let me be clear, my students aren't the best students. I used to think they were atypical. Before I began to teach in the crazy adjunct world of private almost community college, I believed everyone was a smart person with maybe multiple layers of stupid smothering that person and stifling that person and as a teacher it was my job to set that smart person free. Think STAND AND DELIVER or DANGEROUS MINDS. Those are the teacher movies that are the most pleasant to think about: bright students who just need one more chance. Or three more chances if they muck it up at some point in the movie.
So when I first began teaching I treated them as if their close up was just about to occur.
But close up, I soon found out, with my particular level of student, is not always very pretty. Or coherent. And it is anything but grammatically correct.
The system has not been very kind to my students. Many of them can barely read. Half of those have learning disabilities. And probably only a quarter of THOSE have been properly diagnosed as such.
But they are here. They are here for a reason. Which is what I do tell them when they get down on themselves. Which they do a lot, particularly in Public Speaking, where reality TV and Oprah and myspace and twitter and Facebook have all combined to make these kids feel they have to get all confessional all the time. I do a funny and cheesy bit where I say "this is not the Oprah show, you don't have to tell us EVERYTHING"and they laugh but we still get very personal speeches about stuff you share when you are nineteen because you don't know any better.
Several weeks ago we had one such bare-all class.
It began with one student confessing his most embarrassing moment was when he led police on an eight-cruiser high speed chase dressed only in flip flops and his girlfriend's hooters shorts. One of the arresting officers was alREADY his parole officer, so he was "in big trouble".
I was not surprised he shared that.
But I was surprised one of other students shared this: that when she drinks she pees on herself. She told a fabulous story about peeing in her friend's brand new tricked out Honda Civic. It was very funny and shocking only because she seems more Long Island princess than on-the-corner-wino-to-be.
And I was even more surprised when two other students revealed in THEIR speeches that they too, pee on themselves when having had something to drink and one reassured all of "us ladies" that this was normal. And acceptable. And when asked, tell whoever has the audacity TO ask, that the pee is part of the pattern on your pants. Your boyfriend should back you up. If he does not, kick him out.
And I wanted to ask these ladies, is your mother around? Could you maybe confide in her about this peeing thing and your pending admittance to rehab?
Because I can assure you you should not pee on yourself.
I assure you it does not look like any pattern on any pair of pants I have ever seen.
And if you can't read AND pee on yourself, there is just no hope. No hope at all. It is not alive, it has been killed by the steady stream of ammonia trickling down your leg.
Let me be clear, my students aren't the best students. I used to think they were atypical. Before I began to teach in the crazy adjunct world of private almost community college, I believed everyone was a smart person with maybe multiple layers of stupid smothering that person and stifling that person and as a teacher it was my job to set that smart person free. Think STAND AND DELIVER or DANGEROUS MINDS. Those are the teacher movies that are the most pleasant to think about: bright students who just need one more chance. Or three more chances if they muck it up at some point in the movie.
So when I first began teaching I treated them as if their close up was just about to occur.
But close up, I soon found out, with my particular level of student, is not always very pretty. Or coherent. And it is anything but grammatically correct.
The system has not been very kind to my students. Many of them can barely read. Half of those have learning disabilities. And probably only a quarter of THOSE have been properly diagnosed as such.
But they are here. They are here for a reason. Which is what I do tell them when they get down on themselves. Which they do a lot, particularly in Public Speaking, where reality TV and Oprah and myspace and twitter and Facebook have all combined to make these kids feel they have to get all confessional all the time. I do a funny and cheesy bit where I say "this is not the Oprah show, you don't have to tell us EVERYTHING"and they laugh but we still get very personal speeches about stuff you share when you are nineteen because you don't know any better.
Several weeks ago we had one such bare-all class.
It began with one student confessing his most embarrassing moment was when he led police on an eight-cruiser high speed chase dressed only in flip flops and his girlfriend's hooters shorts. One of the arresting officers was alREADY his parole officer, so he was "in big trouble".
I was not surprised he shared that.
But I was surprised one of other students shared this: that when she drinks she pees on herself. She told a fabulous story about peeing in her friend's brand new tricked out Honda Civic. It was very funny and shocking only because she seems more Long Island princess than on-the-corner-wino-to-be.
And I was even more surprised when two other students revealed in THEIR speeches that they too, pee on themselves when having had something to drink and one reassured all of "us ladies" that this was normal. And acceptable. And when asked, tell whoever has the audacity TO ask, that the pee is part of the pattern on your pants. Your boyfriend should back you up. If he does not, kick him out.
And I wanted to ask these ladies, is your mother around? Could you maybe confide in her about this peeing thing and your pending admittance to rehab?
Because I can assure you you should not pee on yourself.
I assure you it does not look like any pattern on any pair of pants I have ever seen.
And if you can't read AND pee on yourself, there is just no hope. No hope at all. It is not alive, it has been killed by the steady stream of ammonia trickling down your leg.
No, It's COLD!
What is it with Dads and inappropriate clothing?
No, it is not okay to let your preschooler out of the house with just a t shirt and parka when it is thirty degrees.
No, it is not okay to put ankle socklets on the baby when it is thirty degrees.
And while kids may not always agree to wear hats and mittens even though it is thirty degrees, it is not okay to dress them just a sweatshirt (which is two sizes too small because it was in the Goodwill pile, but okay!) to play in the backyard when it is thirty degrees.
And I won't even go in to the idea of matching. Childhood is the one time when you can match and look put together and not seem like a Stepford wife. There is a nice reason why all the kid clothes in America have the same color palate: so you can easily spit up on your pants and still look like you have a home when you get changed. And tights are not pants. And it does matter. Our kids are black. Mismatched does not look trendy and bohemian chic, it looks like they just got placed by DSS in a home that gets their clothes from, well, Goodwill.
And I won't even go in to hair.
No, it is not okay to let your preschooler out of the house with just a t shirt and parka when it is thirty degrees.
No, it is not okay to put ankle socklets on the baby when it is thirty degrees.
And while kids may not always agree to wear hats and mittens even though it is thirty degrees, it is not okay to dress them just a sweatshirt (which is two sizes too small because it was in the Goodwill pile, but okay!) to play in the backyard when it is thirty degrees.
And I won't even go in to the idea of matching. Childhood is the one time when you can match and look put together and not seem like a Stepford wife. There is a nice reason why all the kid clothes in America have the same color palate: so you can easily spit up on your pants and still look like you have a home when you get changed. And tights are not pants. And it does matter. Our kids are black. Mismatched does not look trendy and bohemian chic, it looks like they just got placed by DSS in a home that gets their clothes from, well, Goodwill.
And I won't even go in to hair.
Monday, March 28, 2011
Yeah, it's RING WORM, Lady!
I belong to an online mom's group that's been going since 2006. We're very proud of that. But we've had to kick some mamas to the curb since then, and it hasn't been pretty.
There was Impossible Life Mama, who had the following happen to her in the span of six months: husband cheated and she busted his car ala Carrie Ryan in that song, the former owner of her house installed cameras in her closets or something and could describe her clothing and her kids and so she had to move, her younger sister had "an affair" with their (third or fourth) step dad and got pregnant and came to live with her, she herself got pregnant three weeks after having her first kid, she got married to someone else but we never saw a picture of him, and she was rich because she inherited a farm or money or something? All possible. Sure. But huh? It all came to a crashing halt when one mama on our board posted pictures of random dudes and objects and said she, too, had just gotten married. Funny. But Impossible life Mama did not think so.
Then there were the usual crazy mamas who broke with us. Usual because anyone who joins these groups online knows most people in them are illiterate and crazy. You realize people have hard lives, seemingly Impossible lives, and a way to cope is to act like a nutter in a safe yet public forum.
One such lady in our group left after she'd posted she hated sex with her husband and felt sick all the time. Most of us posted what we should: "go to the doctor!" "check your thyroid!" "maybe some counseling?" But one lady, who has many children and a seemingly impossible life, posted that this woman's relationship with God was lacking and that is why she was so unhappy and losing weight. Somewhere in there there was also a debate about Dads and youtube video, but the gist was one impossible mama calling another a basic heathen and this meant she could no longer get down and was doomed to feeling like crap. (Self Righteous Mama ended up getting kicked off, but that was years later and is another story).
One characteristic of some of us, who, ahem, hang out in these groups is we like to be right. Maybe it is why we have friends online. When they disagree with you too much you log out and go troll somewhere else (although by definition a troll is someone who is not emotionally invested in the group. And many of these ladies care too too much). So when this Thyroid Compromised Mama (or whatever her issue is) posted pictures of a skin rash on her three year old, I chimed in. I love to be right.
"Ring worm!" most of us wrote. "And how!" was basically my answer. I have had ring worm. I caught it as a nanny. It's nasty to think something is chewing a circular pattern into your skin, but, there you have it, that is what it is.
But this mama was convinced she could cure it herself. She had to, she explained. Her insurance was sucky and their last trip which turned out to be unnecessary, was a couple of hundred dollars. And by all appearances she should be able to take her kid in: she's got an outwardly looking middle class life: a late model house, stainless steal, granite counter tops, and the ubiquitous red walls and wrought iron decor that goes with all this stuff. She has miniature dogs and bakes stuff from Martha Stewart and eats out a lot at places that are high end chains and that seem classy til you go to real restaurants and realize those places kinda suck and are very salty. She is very upset by Obama's healthcare bill and yet seems to not realize this is what it is trying to solve: you should take your three year old to the doctor. Period. Especially when something might be chewing its way through her skin.
Two hundred bucks is a lot, but I am pretty sure that is how much she spends on the ingredients for her Martha Stewart hobby. Or for the vet for her mini toy whatever dog that pees on everything and has just had to have "tests". And for Dave and Busters tabs. So. Yeah. There is something boring itself into your kid. Take her IN!
But she didn't.
She posted pics.
She "researched" online.
She argued with anyone who said it was ring worm and happily concurred with anyone who said it was a rash.
Weeks passed.
She revealed she was pregnant.
And somehow this prompted her to see to the kid she already has and she took her in.
Sheepishly after much prodding from those us who do, despite the snark, care for her, she posts it is ringworm.
And I shudder.
One, cause ring worm is nast. When it was on my neck I felt beyond nast.
And two, cause what kind of parent uses Web MD as a final answer?
President Obama please put a silly parent clause in any subsequent healthcare bills.
And if we could kick someone out for stupid, this might be it.
But we can't.
There was Impossible Life Mama, who had the following happen to her in the span of six months: husband cheated and she busted his car ala Carrie Ryan in that song, the former owner of her house installed cameras in her closets or something and could describe her clothing and her kids and so she had to move, her younger sister had "an affair" with their (third or fourth) step dad and got pregnant and came to live with her, she herself got pregnant three weeks after having her first kid, she got married to someone else but we never saw a picture of him, and she was rich because she inherited a farm or money or something? All possible. Sure. But huh? It all came to a crashing halt when one mama on our board posted pictures of random dudes and objects and said she, too, had just gotten married. Funny. But Impossible life Mama did not think so.
Then there were the usual crazy mamas who broke with us. Usual because anyone who joins these groups online knows most people in them are illiterate and crazy. You realize people have hard lives, seemingly Impossible lives, and a way to cope is to act like a nutter in a safe yet public forum.
One such lady in our group left after she'd posted she hated sex with her husband and felt sick all the time. Most of us posted what we should: "go to the doctor!" "check your thyroid!" "maybe some counseling?" But one lady, who has many children and a seemingly impossible life, posted that this woman's relationship with God was lacking and that is why she was so unhappy and losing weight. Somewhere in there there was also a debate about Dads and youtube video, but the gist was one impossible mama calling another a basic heathen and this meant she could no longer get down and was doomed to feeling like crap. (Self Righteous Mama ended up getting kicked off, but that was years later and is another story).
One characteristic of some of us, who, ahem, hang out in these groups is we like to be right. Maybe it is why we have friends online. When they disagree with you too much you log out and go troll somewhere else (although by definition a troll is someone who is not emotionally invested in the group. And many of these ladies care too too much). So when this Thyroid Compromised Mama (or whatever her issue is) posted pictures of a skin rash on her three year old, I chimed in. I love to be right.
"Ring worm!" most of us wrote. "And how!" was basically my answer. I have had ring worm. I caught it as a nanny. It's nasty to think something is chewing a circular pattern into your skin, but, there you have it, that is what it is.
But this mama was convinced she could cure it herself. She had to, she explained. Her insurance was sucky and their last trip which turned out to be unnecessary, was a couple of hundred dollars. And by all appearances she should be able to take her kid in: she's got an outwardly looking middle class life: a late model house, stainless steal, granite counter tops, and the ubiquitous red walls and wrought iron decor that goes with all this stuff. She has miniature dogs and bakes stuff from Martha Stewart and eats out a lot at places that are high end chains and that seem classy til you go to real restaurants and realize those places kinda suck and are very salty. She is very upset by Obama's healthcare bill and yet seems to not realize this is what it is trying to solve: you should take your three year old to the doctor. Period. Especially when something might be chewing its way through her skin.
Two hundred bucks is a lot, but I am pretty sure that is how much she spends on the ingredients for her Martha Stewart hobby. Or for the vet for her mini toy whatever dog that pees on everything and has just had to have "tests". And for Dave and Busters tabs. So. Yeah. There is something boring itself into your kid. Take her IN!
But she didn't.
She posted pics.
She "researched" online.
She argued with anyone who said it was ring worm and happily concurred with anyone who said it was a rash.
Weeks passed.
She revealed she was pregnant.
And somehow this prompted her to see to the kid she already has and she took her in.
Sheepishly after much prodding from those us who do, despite the snark, care for her, she posts it is ringworm.
And I shudder.
One, cause ring worm is nast. When it was on my neck I felt beyond nast.
And two, cause what kind of parent uses Web MD as a final answer?
President Obama please put a silly parent clause in any subsequent healthcare bills.
And if we could kick someone out for stupid, this might be it.
But we can't.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Boozy Sunday
Today is my husband's day off.
He has tomorrow, too, but this is the only day of the week where our family members also have the day off. So there is pressure.
Like many guys, my husband avoids making plans with family members in general. In specific, he waits until the last possible moment to schedule seeing people or expects me, the family's personal cruise director, to call or email everyone, arrange when to get together, plan where and what and when we will eat, dress everyone, grease up their hair, and pack the diaper bag and, if we are going places where kids usually aren't, pack the "extra toy bag". That never gets really used. That sits there as our kids get cranky and unmanageable wherever we are, no matter what great! stuff we cram in there.
I grumble but I don't mind.
Who we gather with is less laissez faire.
Here is what you get: with my family you get food, since my mom will cook or get so preoccupied with where the food is going to come from, that she gets crazy pants about ordering it or buying ingredients and cooking it herself wherever she is. This cooking at my house began when I was pregnant with Del and I am really all cool with it. She feels so bad my kids are in an "active phase" (I always look exhausted) that she even does the dishes herself. Sometimes I feel guilty. But mostly I feel well fed and dishes is one of the everyday chores I really despise. No one else but my own mommy understands this about me, and I appreciate it.
You also get zany conversations with my family.
And silliness which hides the fact my dad was bipolar and abusive and we're just so glad my parents finally got divorced.
But you don't get booze because my mom is Temperance Tammy.
She is not just anti serving, she really does not like the idea of it at all. It does have to do with the fact many of her uncles ate their cornflakes with gin instead of milk, that kind of thing. In fact, when I had my first real drink at a late eighteen, my first thought was "Uncle George? Whatever is in this red plastic frat boy cup tastes exactly like your visits!" When we go to her house, my husband, who really digs on booze, stops and gets stuff to bring. My mother has learned not to mind. And above her lives my sister and brother in law and neither of them have met a drink they haven't loved. But that is the deal. If you get sloshed, the rest of my family basically gets the impression you are a drunk, and keeps that impression for basically ever.
With my husband's family you get his mom. Mavis. Mavis has woken up without clothes on on the floor of her bedroom after having been carried there by my husband's dad. Mavis will order a Manhattan at lunch and then toss back three whiskey and gingers after you deposit her in her kitchen and then tell you stories about when she was first married and rich and traveled and had a maid. Mavis repeats herself. Sometimes in the same minute. But Mavis can be a good time as long as you ignore her love of the Republicans. If you can't ignore that, then you are miserable. And you figure out pretty quickly how easily dupped the public can be into voting for someone who would defund NPR and send "those people" back to their "country" and not want to let other "people" have food stamps or heating oil in the winter.
I love Mavis.
But some Sundays I am not in the mood for Mavis.
Our car is small. When Mavis joins us I end up sitting with half my butt off the seat crammed between two car seats and two nutters vying for my attention since I am in reach. I am not in the no man's land of the front seat, but touchable. I can't let it all hang and relax-- as much as one would squished between to Evenflos-- because every time I drift off Mavis asks me a question. And Mavis is my mother in law. And my kids' nana. I want things to be pleasant. Fun. So I don't get to sleep, even with my husband saying, "Um Mave, I think she's asleep. She doesn't get to--" which is met with "OHHHHH!!! GO TO SLEEP! OF COURSE!" But since Mavis forgets, thirty seconds later she yells back again, and so it goes.
Most pictures we have of Mavis also contain a glass. Even when she's with the kids.
Most conversations with Mavis are circuitous and frustrating and relate back to the better days.
She is old school. When she got married she quit the job she'd had for over a decade since high school graduation and started a family. While I am pretty sure she took a lot of valium like many other housewives in the seventies, she was dedicated to her family in a way that most women today just aren't. If her kid was on the soccer team, she organized the t shirt drive to pay for parts of the season. If her husband invited guests at three for dinner, she handled the entire thing: food, candles, bar, dips in the pool late night after a second round of steaks. She would complain, but she did it. Instead of giving the silent treatment because she was asked, she did it and was proud she could do it and felt bad for women who did marry was well and weren't ever asked to do it. She put her own needs on hold so often I don't know if she remembers she had other desires until those of her family overtook hers. She used to ski. She used to tend goal in an ice hockey league. She can clean and debone fish and she water skiied while very pregnant until her in laws yelled at her.
Mavis is spunky and grew up poor.
Mavis is frightening because her entire life became subsumed by the domestic.
I would drink too.
Which is probably why I guiltily hope for option three for this Sunday: the kids on a beach bundled against the cold, driven there in a car where I get to sit in the front seat. We share a bottle of wine after the kids go to sleep but we are not submerged. We don't get lost in the cups.
I am surely going to hell.
He has tomorrow, too, but this is the only day of the week where our family members also have the day off. So there is pressure.
Like many guys, my husband avoids making plans with family members in general. In specific, he waits until the last possible moment to schedule seeing people or expects me, the family's personal cruise director, to call or email everyone, arrange when to get together, plan where and what and when we will eat, dress everyone, grease up their hair, and pack the diaper bag and, if we are going places where kids usually aren't, pack the "extra toy bag". That never gets really used. That sits there as our kids get cranky and unmanageable wherever we are, no matter what great! stuff we cram in there.
I grumble but I don't mind.
Who we gather with is less laissez faire.
Here is what you get: with my family you get food, since my mom will cook or get so preoccupied with where the food is going to come from, that she gets crazy pants about ordering it or buying ingredients and cooking it herself wherever she is. This cooking at my house began when I was pregnant with Del and I am really all cool with it. She feels so bad my kids are in an "active phase" (I always look exhausted) that she even does the dishes herself. Sometimes I feel guilty. But mostly I feel well fed and dishes is one of the everyday chores I really despise. No one else but my own mommy understands this about me, and I appreciate it.
You also get zany conversations with my family.
And silliness which hides the fact my dad was bipolar and abusive and we're just so glad my parents finally got divorced.
But you don't get booze because my mom is Temperance Tammy.
She is not just anti serving, she really does not like the idea of it at all. It does have to do with the fact many of her uncles ate their cornflakes with gin instead of milk, that kind of thing. In fact, when I had my first real drink at a late eighteen, my first thought was "Uncle George? Whatever is in this red plastic frat boy cup tastes exactly like your visits!" When we go to her house, my husband, who really digs on booze, stops and gets stuff to bring. My mother has learned not to mind. And above her lives my sister and brother in law and neither of them have met a drink they haven't loved. But that is the deal. If you get sloshed, the rest of my family basically gets the impression you are a drunk, and keeps that impression for basically ever.
With my husband's family you get his mom. Mavis. Mavis has woken up without clothes on on the floor of her bedroom after having been carried there by my husband's dad. Mavis will order a Manhattan at lunch and then toss back three whiskey and gingers after you deposit her in her kitchen and then tell you stories about when she was first married and rich and traveled and had a maid. Mavis repeats herself. Sometimes in the same minute. But Mavis can be a good time as long as you ignore her love of the Republicans. If you can't ignore that, then you are miserable. And you figure out pretty quickly how easily dupped the public can be into voting for someone who would defund NPR and send "those people" back to their "country" and not want to let other "people" have food stamps or heating oil in the winter.
I love Mavis.
But some Sundays I am not in the mood for Mavis.
Our car is small. When Mavis joins us I end up sitting with half my butt off the seat crammed between two car seats and two nutters vying for my attention since I am in reach. I am not in the no man's land of the front seat, but touchable. I can't let it all hang and relax-- as much as one would squished between to Evenflos-- because every time I drift off Mavis asks me a question. And Mavis is my mother in law. And my kids' nana. I want things to be pleasant. Fun. So I don't get to sleep, even with my husband saying, "Um Mave, I think she's asleep. She doesn't get to--" which is met with "OHHHHH!!! GO TO SLEEP! OF COURSE!" But since Mavis forgets, thirty seconds later she yells back again, and so it goes.
Most pictures we have of Mavis also contain a glass. Even when she's with the kids.
Most conversations with Mavis are circuitous and frustrating and relate back to the better days.
She is old school. When she got married she quit the job she'd had for over a decade since high school graduation and started a family. While I am pretty sure she took a lot of valium like many other housewives in the seventies, she was dedicated to her family in a way that most women today just aren't. If her kid was on the soccer team, she organized the t shirt drive to pay for parts of the season. If her husband invited guests at three for dinner, she handled the entire thing: food, candles, bar, dips in the pool late night after a second round of steaks. She would complain, but she did it. Instead of giving the silent treatment because she was asked, she did it and was proud she could do it and felt bad for women who did marry was well and weren't ever asked to do it. She put her own needs on hold so often I don't know if she remembers she had other desires until those of her family overtook hers. She used to ski. She used to tend goal in an ice hockey league. She can clean and debone fish and she water skiied while very pregnant until her in laws yelled at her.
Mavis is spunky and grew up poor.
Mavis is frightening because her entire life became subsumed by the domestic.
I would drink too.
Which is probably why I guiltily hope for option three for this Sunday: the kids on a beach bundled against the cold, driven there in a car where I get to sit in the front seat. We share a bottle of wine after the kids go to sleep but we are not submerged. We don't get lost in the cups.
I am surely going to hell.
Saturday, March 26, 2011
FAKER!
I am beginning to suspect that the "bad cold" my husband had earlier in the month and that lasted for a few weeks was not that bad. I think I caught it last week. While I do not feel very well, and it is lingering, to be sure, I have managed to still wake up whenever anyone screamed me up and have kept the house clean and dinner at 5 every day. And breakfast at 7. And lunch at noon. And stories read. And kisses and hugs given freely.
Not curious. Just annoying.
Not curious. Just annoying.
I Am Not A Crap Mom and Facebook Proves It
Facebook statuses can often make other mommies-- the mommies who did not make it out their bathrobes, or were too lazy or sleepy to get to the grocery store, or don't know how to make anything from scratch-- feel a little crappy.
I think the secret is that even the most over achieving moms feel a little cowed when it pops up that Susan from way back when who wore acid wash for a year or two too long managed to make beef wellington and lavender ice cream while you wondered why your hair smells. It doesn't matter that yesterday you did five loads of laundry, cleaned spic and span from the carseat a diaper that turned into a mud slide, and gave a really good blow job, all it matters is that today you did not make beef wellington and let everyone know about it.
Sometimes, though, a friend's status makes you feel like the domestic goddess you knew you were before you got married and had children and realized you are not that entity in the least. This is my friendship pattern with Sheryl. What bonded with me Sheryl was that she went through a bad break up. Before the break up, Sheryl and I were friendly at parties where we were both "girl friends". After the break up, we would IM for hours and hours at a time, as I tried to help Sheryl navigate through her confused and angry and kinda psycho feelings for our mutual friend. It was very ugly. And extremely, addictively alluring. Everyone has a bad break up. Usually it occurs when you are so young you haven't realized that the guy is a jerk (or gay, as in my case) and everyone else has recognized this guy is a jerk (or gay) and it is okay to move on and not wallow cause well you deserve more than a jerk (or someone who actually finds you sexually attractive, as in my case).
But Sheryl did not realize this. Sheryl is very needy and not very introspective. And in all honesty, the guy was not a jerk in general, just to her, which, when you are over thirty, should help you realize it is time to move on but in Sheryl's case just protracted everything for a very long time. And while I can't say Sheryl really has moved on, I can say she did stop barking up the old boyfriend's tree and found someone who by all accounts is a really good catch (owns a three bedroom with pool and was willing to go to couples therapy from basically month one, which might indicate serious issues that would make one not want to say start a family with the guy, but that is just me).
Long story short, Sheryl had a baby.
When I first met this baby, I was alarmed. It looked hungry. While I was able to give advice when Sheryl asked if she should change her last name or what to put on the baby registry, I was not good at helping her with learning how to breast feed. The only thing I could do was tell her to go get a lactation consultant. But Sheryl is kinda flakey. She'd complain about latching and shit and I'd say call your hospital and the next day she's complain about latching and I'd say call your hospital and the next day she'd complain about latching and I'd IM I had to pee.
So Sheryl's FB statuses are completely insane.
They are similar to "My baby has a fever and is throwing up. Any suggestions?" Um YES! WTF! Give her TYLENOL. Or something. Don't ignore her while you reveal to four hundred friends your maternal instinct is limited in ways that suggest one of us should call DSS on your ass.
Sheryl also forgets a lot. She used to smoke a lot of pot. So sometimes her posts and comment threads really just reveal you should lay off the green if you want to be an effective parent.
Those statuses are similar to "We had our first public meltdown today. I have no idea why. My poor baby!" The first few comments are usually from friends who seem really burnt out themselves. Like "aww" or "poor thing" or "she's so big now!" None of these people seem to remember six months ago when she wrote "We had our first public meltdown today. I have no idea why. My poor baby!" I once passive aggressively wrote a long opus about some baby related thing so that no more silly people could pretend she had not been given suggestions about how to stave off meltdowns. (And by the time the kid is a year and a half don't most parents know that if you bring the kid out on an empty stomach, with a cold, at lunch time, with no nap, after being carted around to malls all morning, that a trip to Panera is just fucking stupid?)
So cut throat is this parenting in the techno age.
I know I am not a warm fuzzy force out there, either.
I think the secret is that even the most over achieving moms feel a little cowed when it pops up that Susan from way back when who wore acid wash for a year or two too long managed to make beef wellington and lavender ice cream while you wondered why your hair smells. It doesn't matter that yesterday you did five loads of laundry, cleaned spic and span from the carseat a diaper that turned into a mud slide, and gave a really good blow job, all it matters is that today you did not make beef wellington and let everyone know about it.
Sometimes, though, a friend's status makes you feel like the domestic goddess you knew you were before you got married and had children and realized you are not that entity in the least. This is my friendship pattern with Sheryl. What bonded with me Sheryl was that she went through a bad break up. Before the break up, Sheryl and I were friendly at parties where we were both "girl friends". After the break up, we would IM for hours and hours at a time, as I tried to help Sheryl navigate through her confused and angry and kinda psycho feelings for our mutual friend. It was very ugly. And extremely, addictively alluring. Everyone has a bad break up. Usually it occurs when you are so young you haven't realized that the guy is a jerk (or gay, as in my case) and everyone else has recognized this guy is a jerk (or gay) and it is okay to move on and not wallow cause well you deserve more than a jerk (or someone who actually finds you sexually attractive, as in my case).
But Sheryl did not realize this. Sheryl is very needy and not very introspective. And in all honesty, the guy was not a jerk in general, just to her, which, when you are over thirty, should help you realize it is time to move on but in Sheryl's case just protracted everything for a very long time. And while I can't say Sheryl really has moved on, I can say she did stop barking up the old boyfriend's tree and found someone who by all accounts is a really good catch (owns a three bedroom with pool and was willing to go to couples therapy from basically month one, which might indicate serious issues that would make one not want to say start a family with the guy, but that is just me).
Long story short, Sheryl had a baby.
When I first met this baby, I was alarmed. It looked hungry. While I was able to give advice when Sheryl asked if she should change her last name or what to put on the baby registry, I was not good at helping her with learning how to breast feed. The only thing I could do was tell her to go get a lactation consultant. But Sheryl is kinda flakey. She'd complain about latching and shit and I'd say call your hospital and the next day she's complain about latching and I'd say call your hospital and the next day she'd complain about latching and I'd IM I had to pee.
So Sheryl's FB statuses are completely insane.
They are similar to "My baby has a fever and is throwing up. Any suggestions?" Um YES! WTF! Give her TYLENOL. Or something. Don't ignore her while you reveal to four hundred friends your maternal instinct is limited in ways that suggest one of us should call DSS on your ass.
Sheryl also forgets a lot. She used to smoke a lot of pot. So sometimes her posts and comment threads really just reveal you should lay off the green if you want to be an effective parent.
Those statuses are similar to "We had our first public meltdown today. I have no idea why. My poor baby!" The first few comments are usually from friends who seem really burnt out themselves. Like "aww" or "poor thing" or "she's so big now!" None of these people seem to remember six months ago when she wrote "We had our first public meltdown today. I have no idea why. My poor baby!" I once passive aggressively wrote a long opus about some baby related thing so that no more silly people could pretend she had not been given suggestions about how to stave off meltdowns. (And by the time the kid is a year and a half don't most parents know that if you bring the kid out on an empty stomach, with a cold, at lunch time, with no nap, after being carted around to malls all morning, that a trip to Panera is just fucking stupid?)
So cut throat is this parenting in the techno age.
I know I am not a warm fuzzy force out there, either.
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