Have you ever had one of those days?
Wait. Don't answer that. I know you have.
You feel like a black cloud is following you around, and you're just sure that you are being persecuted for some past life event that you aren't even aware of.
You lock your keys in your car like a moron, as you are rushing to the most important of meetings -- job interview, private school interview, or seeing your ex-boyfriend who's in town for business and you really want to see how good he looks with an additional 20+ years, 2 kids and dyspepsia, not to mention display how awesome you are looking nowadays -- see what you missed, asshole.
Or, perhaps you've encountered the money hell day, when the noise the car's been making, which really didn't seem like a big deal because it is still getting you where you need to go, but you have it checked out "just in case", turns into a thousand dollar extravaganza. Then, simultaneously, you get a bill from the doctor much larger than you thought because your insurance didn't cover it (even though when you called, they said they would) and you know what fighting that city hall is like... Culminating in the very unpleasant realization that your property tax is due, like NOW, and since it's been sitting on the bottom of the bill pile for oh-so-long, you thought maybe elves would make it disappear.
I've had too many of those charmers.
And then there is the equipment trifecta, where the dishwasher conspires with the garage opener, who tells his pal the toilet (or insert any other necessary appliance here) to mutiny. Usually said mutiny occurs at just the most inopportune time -- you're having the boss for dinner, your kids birthday party is about to get underway (and the picture of squatting people using your backyard as nature's toilet is just too scary to think about, especially when you have trouble keeping up with the dog's leftovers) or you are facing the week from hell with not a moment of time available to wait for a service call.
Or the grand finale: no matter how long you wait for that very important phone call, it always occurs when you are on the toilet. (Which explains, I think, the ingenious phenomenon of hotels having phones in the bathroom, but that's another story.)
You get the picture. There are many models of the same sort of scenario and all of them suck.
And then it strikes you -- that ole Murphy's Law. Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong. It's true. It's like magic. Everyone knows it, believes it, acknowledges it.
Which led me to this: why, then, isn't good ole Murphy God? Why aren't we heading into houses of worship to pray to him? I mean, Murphy shows up every day. Around the world, everyone knows he's real. We don't need all those different religions getting all proprietary over their God. We have Murphy, he's our man! I declare the new worldwide religion - Murphyism.
Think about it.
How many wars would never again be fought and how many lives would be saved?
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
it's okay if you are sans small
I have friends that don't have smalls. I respect that. Really, I do.
In fact, sometimes I even envy it, say around that time when your child has climbed in and out of the booth at the restaurant 30 times, and you've told them not to climb in and out of the booth 40 times, which has now only resulted in spilled lemonade on your lap. Or, when you are on the phone discussing your latest complicated billing fiasco with "Mike," who is clearly in India, and whose real name you probably couldn't pronounce so when they told him to pick a name, Mike seemed pretty good and all-American and although your billing problem really isn't that complicated, the oceans and languages that separate you and "Mike" definitely make it seem complicated and your small is freaking out because they just can't grasp the fact that you are on the phone talking to another human being and not giving them your undivided attention.
Yeah, it's kinda in those times that I'm envying the sans small thing.
But, I do have smalls. 2 of them, in fact. And while I'm trying really hard to keep up with the days current events, read a good book or two, and actually get my ass out of the house to see a movie so that I could engage in some sort of scintillating conversation with other grown ups, you have got to cut me some slack. I'm trying to get as irritated as you are about the political state of affairs in this country; I'm trying to keep up with your latest mini-drama with your friend who did that awful thing to you so you don't want anything to do with them anymore although I've gotten the latest installments regarding the saga for the past 3 months, and I'm trying really hard to keep up with the newest and latest restaurants in town. I don't want to be a loser. I don't want to be a bore. I'm just a little tired and, frankly, saturated with Monster dreams, explaining why homeless people have no home, and wondering if my kid will be psychologically damaged if I admit that the tooth fairy is bullshit.
It would be great if I was allowed to share a little of this with you without having to endure the glazed look that comes over your face. I'm not trying to be one of those nauseating people who talks about their smalls incessantly, as if they have achieved nothing else in life or as if it is the most important thing to you too... But this is my life, and I'm interested in getting your input because I like you and I respect you.
Couldn't we meet halfway? I mean, you were a small once too. Right?
In fact, sometimes I even envy it, say around that time when your child has climbed in and out of the booth at the restaurant 30 times, and you've told them not to climb in and out of the booth 40 times, which has now only resulted in spilled lemonade on your lap. Or, when you are on the phone discussing your latest complicated billing fiasco with "Mike," who is clearly in India, and whose real name you probably couldn't pronounce so when they told him to pick a name, Mike seemed pretty good and all-American and although your billing problem really isn't that complicated, the oceans and languages that separate you and "Mike" definitely make it seem complicated and your small is freaking out because they just can't grasp the fact that you are on the phone talking to another human being and not giving them your undivided attention.
Yeah, it's kinda in those times that I'm envying the sans small thing.
But, I do have smalls. 2 of them, in fact. And while I'm trying really hard to keep up with the days current events, read a good book or two, and actually get my ass out of the house to see a movie so that I could engage in some sort of scintillating conversation with other grown ups, you have got to cut me some slack. I'm trying to get as irritated as you are about the political state of affairs in this country; I'm trying to keep up with your latest mini-drama with your friend who did that awful thing to you so you don't want anything to do with them anymore although I've gotten the latest installments regarding the saga for the past 3 months, and I'm trying really hard to keep up with the newest and latest restaurants in town. I don't want to be a loser. I don't want to be a bore. I'm just a little tired and, frankly, saturated with Monster dreams, explaining why homeless people have no home, and wondering if my kid will be psychologically damaged if I admit that the tooth fairy is bullshit.
It would be great if I was allowed to share a little of this with you without having to endure the glazed look that comes over your face. I'm not trying to be one of those nauseating people who talks about their smalls incessantly, as if they have achieved nothing else in life or as if it is the most important thing to you too... But this is my life, and I'm interested in getting your input because I like you and I respect you.
Couldn't we meet halfway? I mean, you were a small once too. Right?
Saturday, August 14, 2010
drip, drip, drip, drip...
The Chinese understood the torture of a continuous bother; the drip of water that never ended. Like an itch that can't be scratched, a question without an answer, heading down a road to nowhere...
Or, the incessant asking of questions that only smalls have perfected.
Or, the incessant asking of questions that only smalls have perfected.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
mothering is not a competitive sport
I am always amused, and sometimes irritated that some Mothers think that Motherhood should be an Olympic sport. Instead of supporting each other, some Moms sit in judgment of other Moms, and sometimes even turn on them. Charming. My guess is, if one of these women was reincarnated as a gerbil, she'd be the one who would eat the other gerbil's young.
In my experience, it's the Mom who is oh-so- Martha, you know, she makes her own dirt and all, who is the most guilty.
Look lady, I'm thrilled that you only buy organic, make your own baby food, and that your craft projects are like a cottage industry. I think it's fantastic that you don't allow your child to play with guns, transformers or any other commercial super hero. It's fabulous that your children only have wooden toys and don't watch TV. And I'm impressed that the names Dora, Uniqua, and Ming-Ming have no special meaning to your kid. Really.
But, could you just accept the fact that I can't sustain your exemplary standards? It isn't personal. I'm actually comforted by the knowledge that your life is harder than mine.
Oh, and by the way, I know what you're thinking, so let me help you out - no, these rules by which you live will NOT guarantee your child a place at Harvard, so lose the attitude.
In my experience, it's the Mom who is oh-so- Martha, you know, she makes her own dirt and all, who is the most guilty.
Look lady, I'm thrilled that you only buy organic, make your own baby food, and that your craft projects are like a cottage industry. I think it's fantastic that you don't allow your child to play with guns, transformers or any other commercial super hero. It's fabulous that your children only have wooden toys and don't watch TV. And I'm impressed that the names Dora, Uniqua, and Ming-Ming have no special meaning to your kid. Really.
But, could you just accept the fact that I can't sustain your exemplary standards? It isn't personal. I'm actually comforted by the knowledge that your life is harder than mine.
Oh, and by the way, I know what you're thinking, so let me help you out - no, these rules by which you live will NOT guarantee your child a place at Harvard, so lose the attitude.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
in the beginning
I knew that I always wanted children. It wasn't something I thought about a lot, it just was, kind of like breathing. It only became top of mind when I had trouble doing it. Numerous Doctors and lots of money later, I was lucky enough to have my own 2 kiddos.
When I was pregnant, I read every book I could get my hands on. What was going on in there? I could never seem to get enough information. So, it didn't seem too far fetched to think that I kind of knew what was going to happen, and what to expect, ya know, being a mother and all...
Not.
While the basic science of what was going on in my body was laid out pretty straightforwardly, the experience with the resulting human being was sugar coated to the extreme, in my opinion. Yeah, there was the love. The kind of love you've never felt before. Better than first love. Better than great sex. It was real love, the love, and that was kind of that. There were the other books that dealt with the physical idiosyncrasies of the small that you brought home, for example, the freaky Moro reflex that makes all infants look like Uncle Fester stepping on a banana peel. But, not one book dealt with the shocking fact that you were actually allowed to bring this strange creature home. Alone.
I mean, for me, I had no idea what to do. It didn't matter that I'd read all the damn books. I just knew that I was responsible for this tiny person. I felt like I worked in a Wildlife Rehabilitation Center and that someone had just handed me a, er, let's say a mongoose, and told me, "Keep it alive." And how, pray tell, do I do that? This mongoose is so needy and so fragile. Surely I'm going to fuck this up and break it.
It is true, the baby was kind of cute. I knew I was supposed to love it, so I felt some sort of attachment (the thing had grown inside my body). But, the truth is, I felt scared more than anything. I kept on wondering when someone was going to walk through the door and say, "Just kidding!" and take the poor pathetic babe away and really take care of it.
I spent a lot of time those first few weeks feeling awfully guilty. Clearly I was a horrible mother. No one talked about feeling like I was feeling. It was all supposed to be animated birds, yummy love. There was something very, very wrong with me.
And then, almost miraculously, one day something happened...
I was sitting, staring at my son, pondering what I needed to do next to keep him alive, and he smiled. Look, I know he was too young for it to be a real smile, but he looked at me and felt a gas bubble in his belly simultaneously, which resulted in a sort of wince which sort of looked like a smile. And, in the same way I am SURE that my dog smiles when I scratch his belly just right, I knew that my kid was smiling at me. Somehow my son knew it was ME -- the big, out of focus whale that comforted him when he cried, who changed his diaper and fed him. I was his whale. And he smiled (or had gas) at ME!
Then, ladies and gentlemen, I knew of what people spoke. I was done.
When I was pregnant, I read every book I could get my hands on. What was going on in there? I could never seem to get enough information. So, it didn't seem too far fetched to think that I kind of knew what was going to happen, and what to expect, ya know, being a mother and all...
Not.
While the basic science of what was going on in my body was laid out pretty straightforwardly, the experience with the resulting human being was sugar coated to the extreme, in my opinion. Yeah, there was the love. The kind of love you've never felt before. Better than first love. Better than great sex. It was real love, the love, and that was kind of that. There were the other books that dealt with the physical idiosyncrasies of the small that you brought home, for example, the freaky Moro reflex that makes all infants look like Uncle Fester stepping on a banana peel. But, not one book dealt with the shocking fact that you were actually allowed to bring this strange creature home. Alone.
I mean, for me, I had no idea what to do. It didn't matter that I'd read all the damn books. I just knew that I was responsible for this tiny person. I felt like I worked in a Wildlife Rehabilitation Center and that someone had just handed me a, er, let's say a mongoose, and told me, "Keep it alive." And how, pray tell, do I do that? This mongoose is so needy and so fragile. Surely I'm going to fuck this up and break it.
It is true, the baby was kind of cute. I knew I was supposed to love it, so I felt some sort of attachment (the thing had grown inside my body). But, the truth is, I felt scared more than anything. I kept on wondering when someone was going to walk through the door and say, "Just kidding!" and take the poor pathetic babe away and really take care of it.
I spent a lot of time those first few weeks feeling awfully guilty. Clearly I was a horrible mother. No one talked about feeling like I was feeling. It was all supposed to be animated birds, yummy love. There was something very, very wrong with me.
And then, almost miraculously, one day something happened...
I was sitting, staring at my son, pondering what I needed to do next to keep him alive, and he smiled. Look, I know he was too young for it to be a real smile, but he looked at me and felt a gas bubble in his belly simultaneously, which resulted in a sort of wince which sort of looked like a smile. And, in the same way I am SURE that my dog smiles when I scratch his belly just right, I knew that my kid was smiling at me. Somehow my son knew it was ME -- the big, out of focus whale that comforted him when he cried, who changed his diaper and fed him. I was his whale. And he smiled (or had gas) at ME!
Then, ladies and gentlemen, I knew of what people spoke. I was done.
getting with the progam
I never thought I'd blog. I mean, everyone else does it, but it is so uncool.
Come on, let's face it, it's the ultimate narcissistic take on the diary, the new technological right of passage for the journal. Right? At least, in the past, diaries and journals were usually kept to oneself for posterity. Unless, that is, your Mom or significant other got a hold of it. Then, well, it was deep doo-doo. But today, when the world seems to revolve around the axis of ME, ME, ME, letting the cyber world know what is on your mind is where it's happening.
That being said, I figure if I can't beat 'em, I'm gonna join 'em.
So, sit back and listen to my fateful tale (or tales) as I come up with them. Not sure how prolific I will be -- guess the cooperation of the smalls will have something to do with that.
The journey has begun...
Come on, let's face it, it's the ultimate narcissistic take on the diary, the new technological right of passage for the journal. Right? At least, in the past, diaries and journals were usually kept to oneself for posterity. Unless, that is, your Mom or significant other got a hold of it. Then, well, it was deep doo-doo. But today, when the world seems to revolve around the axis of ME, ME, ME, letting the cyber world know what is on your mind is where it's happening.
That being said, I figure if I can't beat 'em, I'm gonna join 'em.
So, sit back and listen to my fateful tale (or tales) as I come up with them. Not sure how prolific I will be -- guess the cooperation of the smalls will have something to do with that.
The journey has begun...
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