“The mouse is an animal which, killed in sufficient numbers under carefully controlled conditions, will produce a PhD thesis.” – The Journal of Irreproducible Results
“Maaaaaa-maaa,” the 10-year-old summoned. “When I was in the basement, something moved. I think it might be – a MOUSE!”
This is the same daughter who paid money for the rodent living upstairs in its own private rodent-Oz, complete with room service, rodent Nautilus equipment and gourmet rodent-chow. This daughter has even been known to hold the rodent against her face. As a practicing rodentphobe, such a sight usually makes me put my head between my knees and take slow, deep breaths. Sometimes I have to lie down.
For me, the word “rodent” evokes two images:
1. Life-enhancing scientific research seeking the cure of r cancer and the perfect makeup foundation base
2. Plague-spreading vermin. (Or three images if you don’t include Presidential candidates in #2…)
But my children love all rodents, from Anatole “The Bravest Mouse in France” to Mickey, “The richest Mouse in Pants”. When we lived in Virginia a few years ago, some local field mice decided to go on the Taub rodent-welfare system. So I bought some standard mousetraps and baited them with cheese and peanut butter. Then of course, I immediately threw them all away. (NOTE: any (obviously childless) person who actually uses this type of trap to catch Cinderella’s tiny helpers is welcome to explain to my children that it works by breaking Feivel, Miss Bianca, Bernard, and even Mighty Mouse’s little backs. While you’re at it, you can tell them who is going to take care of all of Hunca Munca’s baby mousies now.)
At that point, we still had our used cat. In her day, she had been a champion mouser. Since she had failed from kittenhood to demonstrate any signs of intelligence greater than a doorknob, our only theory was that suicidal mice jumped into her mouth. But when we got the puppy, the cat retired from mousing. Maybe she was incensed at losing her MVP (Most Valuable Pet) status. Or maybe we were attracting a more emotionally stable class of vermin.
I had mixed emotions about her retirement. On the one hand, there were all those field mice on the dole in my kitchen. On the other hand, I did save money on shoes. Even with an IQ slightly below that of sweater lint, our cat knew that Little Friskies beat out Little Rodents in taste tests, and thus scorned the option of actually consuming her conquests. Still, she knew we would want to praise her hunting prowess, so she liked to leave the ex-rodents someplace where we would be sure to notice them. Like inside my shoes. I still can’t put on my shoes in the morning without shaking them out first…
I’ll bet the people who invented the better mousetrap weren’t looking for the world to beat a path to their door. They just wanted to be able to look their kids in the eye again. That’s how we felt when we bought the “Have-A-Heart” mousetraps. I don’t have the actual instructions that came with them, but basically the way these work is the following:
1. Every night for weeks you load up the ends of the traps with a three-course gourmet rodent feast – peanut butter, cheese, and chocolate chips.
2. Every night for weeks, the rodents come into the traps, eat everything, burp at the cat, and leave.
3. Finally, the rodents get so obese that they trip the little trap-door.
4. Your husband and kids take a long walk into the fields behind your house. They open the trap and coo over the mouse when he waddles out.
5. The humanely trapped mouse tells all his little mouse pals about this great house where they feed you every night and then take you for rides.
6. The rodents make it back to your house before your husband and kids.
For some reason, the mice finally did disappear. Maybe it had something to do with that rumor I started that your neighbors across the way were baiting their Have-A-Hearts with gourmet cheeses and Godiva chocolates.
Anyway, I have three choices of what to do about our current basement rodent:
1. I can send him a little piece of rodent junk-mail. “Congratulations! You are definitely the lucky winner of one of the following three prizes – a color television, designer luggage, or a dream vacation. All you have to do to claim your prize is take a tour of our new vacation condos upstairs in Rodent-Oz!”
2. I can become a rodent talent scout, and make millions selling book and animations rights (not to mention cartoons, t-shirts and lunch boxes) to his life story.
3. I can go down into the basement and announce that all the presidential candidates were seen buying huge quantities of gourmet cheese and Godiva chocolates…
Monday, July 9, 2007
Wednesday, July 4, 2007
Life Begins When the Kids Leave Home and the Dog Dies
As proof of the continuing deterioration to be expected from advanced cases of parenthood, we decided it was time we acquired a puppy. Of course, before we got her we did careful research to determine the most intelligent and trainable breed for a family dog. Those who know how this technique has paid off for us in the past will not be surprised to learn that we became the proud owners of Natasha, a Scottish Border Collie who looks like Spuds McKenzie and boasts approximately two brain cells.
We reasoned that dog ownership would encourage the kids to spend time outdoors, become more responsible, and enjoy devoted companionship. Of course, the kids and the dog never got that memo. So I now got to spend healthful, responsible stretches of time in the great outdoors hanging around fences in my bathrobe and begging the dog to “go here”.
We consulted several books about training your border collie. These books related tales of border collies with names like Hap and Dan performing feats of genius and bravery that would make even the most hardened Lassie scriptwriter blush. “Dan,” says his master, “Go to Pennsylvania, cut my sheep, Fluffy, out of the flock of 5 million and get her home by dinner.” Dan, who barks in complete sentences, probably does the shopping and drops off the laundry along the way.
Another interesting concept of puppy training is the “pack leader”. The theory is that your dog will kick sand in your face and despise you for being a weenie if you don’t immediately and firmly establish your position as head wolf. Of course, while the real wolf pack leader would rip the throat out of any wolf who didn’t obey him, you are cautioned that any display of physical force on your part will cause your dog to grow up a terminal neurotic and, probably, an ax-murderer. In addition, Natasha developed a little condition the vet calls submissive bladder, so nobody in their right mind would try to dominate her. At least, not more than once.
I have heard that some border collies are able to guard and herd their master’s children. But I found out otherwise once last winter when I went to the bathroom. Of course, like all mothers, I do this with the door open to listen for sounds of carnage. If I have to close the door, it is a signal for every child and animal in a three-state radius to fling themselves against the door and demand to know what I’m doing in there and for how long I intend to do it. This particular time, I hadn’t been in there more than 30-seconds before I looked out the window and saw the barefoot preschooler and puppy (with the keenly honed herding instincts of generations of championship breeding) running down the street in opposite directions. I was momentarily tempted to let them keep going, but we did actually pay quite a bit for the dog.
Over the years, we have sniggered with amused superiority over stories of friends and neighbors who had to remortgage the house in the face of canine calamity, such as doggie surgical teams called in to remove a $1,200 tennis ball from the stomach of the family mutt. Thus we agreed that we would never authorize the vet’s use of extraordinary measures (those costing more than $50) to prolong our dog’s suffering or our wallet hemorrhage. But all of this was forgotten the midnight when I was awakened by the dog being spectacularly ill. To my horror, I saw that she was foaming at the mouth. Foreseeing rabies shots for the entire household, I rushed her to the vet, wondering how much cash I could raise quickly if we sold off a few extra children.
This was the point when I discovered that the dog we had chosen for her breed’s intelligence had eaten every cake of soap in the house and was retching soapsuds.
Sorry to say, Natasha doesn’t represent a fluke in my history of pet ownership, starting with my old cat, Buster, who spent his days (when he wasn’t having epileptic seizures) with his head up a lampshade. But for show-stopping density, the true champion was our cat, Cournot, who once stayed up in a tree for three days because she saw her reflection in an upstairs window and thought the other cat was after her. To our astonishment, she did prove to be an efficient mouser in our infested rental house. Our only theory was that as she was lying there with her mouth open, the mice jumped in.
Sadly, the day came when we had to choose between the cat and our son, who turned out to be allergic to her. Of course, this was a difficult choice because while our son had never coughed up a hairball, he was not a very good mouser either. Also, the cat bathed herself, we had never had to change her diaper, and we didn’t think she would expect us to pay for a college education.
I wrote out an ad – “Young lady Persian Cat from good home seeks new family because son is allergic.” The phone rang day and night with people who were apparently desperate for a used cat. I’m not making this up. I don’t know if there was something in my advertisement which was code for “free crack”, but Madison Avenue should consider using sales pitches involving secondhand Persians. “Yes, ladies and gentlemen, if you order this amazing cookware value today, we will include absolutely free this used Persian cat. Operators are standing by…”
We reasoned that dog ownership would encourage the kids to spend time outdoors, become more responsible, and enjoy devoted companionship. Of course, the kids and the dog never got that memo. So I now got to spend healthful, responsible stretches of time in the great outdoors hanging around fences in my bathrobe and begging the dog to “go here”.
We consulted several books about training your border collie. These books related tales of border collies with names like Hap and Dan performing feats of genius and bravery that would make even the most hardened Lassie scriptwriter blush. “Dan,” says his master, “Go to Pennsylvania, cut my sheep, Fluffy, out of the flock of 5 million and get her home by dinner.” Dan, who barks in complete sentences, probably does the shopping and drops off the laundry along the way.
Another interesting concept of puppy training is the “pack leader”. The theory is that your dog will kick sand in your face and despise you for being a weenie if you don’t immediately and firmly establish your position as head wolf. Of course, while the real wolf pack leader would rip the throat out of any wolf who didn’t obey him, you are cautioned that any display of physical force on your part will cause your dog to grow up a terminal neurotic and, probably, an ax-murderer. In addition, Natasha developed a little condition the vet calls submissive bladder, so nobody in their right mind would try to dominate her. At least, not more than once.
I have heard that some border collies are able to guard and herd their master’s children. But I found out otherwise once last winter when I went to the bathroom. Of course, like all mothers, I do this with the door open to listen for sounds of carnage. If I have to close the door, it is a signal for every child and animal in a three-state radius to fling themselves against the door and demand to know what I’m doing in there and for how long I intend to do it. This particular time, I hadn’t been in there more than 30-seconds before I looked out the window and saw the barefoot preschooler and puppy (with the keenly honed herding instincts of generations of championship breeding) running down the street in opposite directions. I was momentarily tempted to let them keep going, but we did actually pay quite a bit for the dog.
Over the years, we have sniggered with amused superiority over stories of friends and neighbors who had to remortgage the house in the face of canine calamity, such as doggie surgical teams called in to remove a $1,200 tennis ball from the stomach of the family mutt. Thus we agreed that we would never authorize the vet’s use of extraordinary measures (those costing more than $50) to prolong our dog’s suffering or our wallet hemorrhage. But all of this was forgotten the midnight when I was awakened by the dog being spectacularly ill. To my horror, I saw that she was foaming at the mouth. Foreseeing rabies shots for the entire household, I rushed her to the vet, wondering how much cash I could raise quickly if we sold off a few extra children.
This was the point when I discovered that the dog we had chosen for her breed’s intelligence had eaten every cake of soap in the house and was retching soapsuds.
Sorry to say, Natasha doesn’t represent a fluke in my history of pet ownership, starting with my old cat, Buster, who spent his days (when he wasn’t having epileptic seizures) with his head up a lampshade. But for show-stopping density, the true champion was our cat, Cournot, who once stayed up in a tree for three days because she saw her reflection in an upstairs window and thought the other cat was after her. To our astonishment, she did prove to be an efficient mouser in our infested rental house. Our only theory was that as she was lying there with her mouth open, the mice jumped in.
Sadly, the day came when we had to choose between the cat and our son, who turned out to be allergic to her. Of course, this was a difficult choice because while our son had never coughed up a hairball, he was not a very good mouser either. Also, the cat bathed herself, we had never had to change her diaper, and we didn’t think she would expect us to pay for a college education.
I wrote out an ad – “Young lady Persian Cat from good home seeks new family because son is allergic.” The phone rang day and night with people who were apparently desperate for a used cat. I’m not making this up. I don’t know if there was something in my advertisement which was code for “free crack”, but Madison Avenue should consider using sales pitches involving secondhand Persians. “Yes, ladies and gentlemen, if you order this amazing cookware value today, we will include absolutely free this used Persian cat. Operators are standing by…”
Tuesday, July 3, 2007
The 12 Days, Deconstructed
http://www.wsfa.org/journal/j94/1/index.htm#ttdd
This was a piece I wrote that was purchased by the Wall St. Journal. They added the illustrations and ran it in their Letters to the Editor column, 1/6/1994
Since then it's appeared on literally hundreds of websites, and has been attributed to several people including my (surprised) husband.
This was a piece I wrote that was purchased by the Wall St. Journal. They added the illustrations and ran it in their Letters to the Editor column, 1/6/1994
Since then it's appeared on literally hundreds of websites, and has been attributed to several people including my (surprised) husband.
Monday, July 2, 2007
Bat Woman
With my husband away, and the kids pursuing their life goals of ensuring several states or the odd ocean separates them from their mother, you’d think it would be pretty quiet around the old chateau. Sure, they were all gone, but – they left the pets behind. A couple of nights ago, I heard the cats get on their motorcycles in the middle of the night and start doing laps around the living room, with the dog running after them, barking that Mom was going to catch them and then they would really be in trouble. They were knocking things over, crashing into the walls, and generally having one heck of a good time.
The next morning I woke up and they were all sitting by my bed with “Cats rule and dogs drool” grins on their faces. I was about to get out of bed when I noticed their looks of total concentration on where I was about to step. Sure enough, I was inches from squishing… a bat. A cute, fuzzy, quite-recently-deceased ex-bat.
I stood on my bed for a while, yelling and generally trying to think of someone who could provide 5:30am bat-removal services. But all of my bat-removers were out of the state. Some of them were (wisely) out of the country. There was my father-in-law, but he informed me that he had just checked the fine print, and bat-removal was not in his retirement job description.
So eventually, I put on latex gloves (several on each hand), grabbed some trash bags, and managed to entomb the bat in the garbage can. My gagging scared the dog, but the cats were clearly disgusted that I failed to appreciate their mighty bat-prowess.
I was telling this story that night at the neighborhood picnic, when people asked if I had the bat tested for rabies. One person told me that a high percentage of the local bat population were carriers, and that I was a bad Kitty-Mom. My husband, who has often pointed out that neither of our cats was a candidate for mensa (although he does feel that they could play a role in scientific research), said that it was unlikely that a healthy bat would have come into the house, and inconceivable that our cats could catch it. I must admit that the picture of a sick, suicidal bat deciding to end it all by flapping into one of their mouths had a certain ring of truth about it.
So the next day I called the vet to see if I had to worry about the kittens. Next thing I knew, there was a Public Health doctor on the phone and she was really excited.
“I’m going to be your Case Manager,” she said. “You have to get the bat out of the trash right away.”
I said that it was 90° outside and the bat had been cooking in that trashcan all day.
“Okay, get it out and put it in your freezer,” she replied.
“Who is this really?” I said. “Is that you, Sarah?” (my boss)
After the doctor assured me she was a real doctor, and after I assured her that a dead, baked bat had zero chance of ending up in my freezer, we agreed that I would fish the bat out of the trash and bring it to the Public Health department in the basement of a downtown hospital.
“I’ll have a police escort waiting for you,” the doctor said.
“Okay, Sarah, I know this is you,” I said.
Anyway, I went home, got the bat out of the trash and put it into the picnic jug with lots of ice. The cats were very pleased that I had brought them back their bat, but then disappointed to discover that I was selfishly keeping the bat all to myself.
[Digression: at this point in the story, everyone I’ve told this to asks what the bat looked like. The answer is that I may be a bad Kitty-Mom, but even if I had done horrible things like murder babies or vote Republican I would not have deserved to look at the former-bat, and so I did NOT remove it from its SAFEWAY “Ingredients for Life” plastic bag-shroud. You people need to get a life.]
I arrived at the hospital and walked up to the desk. “I have a bat,” I said. They sprang into action. One receptionist pointed her finger at me and said, “Just stay right there. Don’t move.” The other one called for security and told them that their bat had arrived. Then with two guards on either side of me — talking into their walkie-talkies so that they could alert everyone along the route that Rabies-Woman was stalking the hospital corridors — we made our way down to the Public Health lab.
After further bat-chitchat and discussion of the important bat-related Public Health Department responsibilities, I was allowed to leave. They presented me with the jug — minus the bat. I assured them that it was now their jug, and was SO not coming back to my house.
Luckily, I just got a call from the Public Health doctor, who told me that my bat did NOT have rabies. She sounded quite sad about it. I told her that I had learned my lesson, and if it ever happened again, I would know just what to do.
Call my father-in-law and ask him to pitch that bat into the woods behind his house.
Sunday, July 1, 2007
Advice for Parents: Worth What You Pay For It
Since I’ve been writing this column, I have occasionally offered free advice on child-related matters. Apparently some of you don’t realize that such advice is worth what you pay for it and, being gluttons for punishment, have asked for more.
Q: Do you have any advice about taking children into restaurants?
A: Yes. Don’t.
Q: But what if you HAVE to take children into restaurants?
A: Let’s analyze what could possibly make you – theoretically an adult capable of life-appropriate decisions as complex as which shoe goes on which foot – take a child into a restaurant:
1) Insanity
2) You’re on the road, miles from home and anybody you know.
3) You’ve worked 138 hours since last Thursday PLUS the time you spent at the office and you just want a nice, civilized meal that doesn’t come on little microwave-safe dishes in packages labeled “Le Yuppie Lite”.
Out of common humanity, we must consider case #3. (In case #1, you can only hope that it isn’t hereditary and in case #2, who cares?)
For those of you who find yourselves in the position of appearing in public with offspring who make Genghis Khan look like a date for Miss Manners, I have a few tips:
- Never eat in a restaurant with ferns. They have obviously been put there to hide something, like the fact that the entrees come on little microwave-safe dishes. (This advice is part of The Meaning of Life and was given to me by Great Aunt Fanny, a cosmopolitan globe-trotter. If you cannot come up with an Aunt Fanny of your own, you will be reduced to taking advice from some total stranger in a blog.)
- The time a child is willing to spend eating in a restaurant is inversely proportional to the cost of the entrée. For example, the same child who spends 3 ½ hours on one bag of french fries at Chez Big Mac will finish eating in 28 seconds flat at Le Verais Pricie Snail.
- Don’t change the baby’s diaper on the table even if the eau d’baby is causing strong men at nearby tables to pass out. Trust me – your fellow diners WILL NOT be charmed by what your son does every time he gets that diaper off.
- Unless you don’t want the rest of your meal to be served until the next shift has arrived, it is also not a good idea to hand the offending diaper to your waitperson, especially if the baby is still in it. Remember: even though they pretended to admire your baby, the staff is probably out in the kitchen laying bets on whether the kid looks more like Alfred Hitchcock or a pit bull. The winner gets to spit in your soup.
Q: A colleague will not talk about anything except the respective merits of different brands of disposable diapers. What can we do?
A: This is yet another shocking example of the effects of massive sleep deprivation. This person, once a human being, is now a parent and thus no longer capable of normal conversation. You should help him by taking every opportunity to tell him about your vacations in the south of France, visits to three and four-star restaurants, and the latest concerts or Broadway hit shows that you’ve attended. Also, he would be very interested in your new sports car and high-tech audio equipment and will probably be sympathetic to your concerns about the best tax strategies for your wide-ranging investment portfolio.
A word of caution – among very new parents whose metabolism hasn’t adjusted to going months at a time without any sleep, the above therapy has been known to result in assault or even homicide charges.
Q: My husband wants to get a train set for our son, who is 2 ½ months old. Do you think this is a good idea?
A: Frankly, I’m amazed that your husband has waited this long. A recent scientific study by the Bureau of GSWLOTGMTUU (Government Scientists With Lots of Tax-funded Grant Money to Use Up) has indicated that in many cases news of a woman’s positive pregnancy test causes a hormonal reaction in the husband which makes him crave model trains. This condition is characterized by changes in his speech patterns, producing sounds such as “HO Gauge” and “Lionel”. Although scientists have documented cases of fathers who have been in the basement working on “the kids’” trains since the Korean War, this situation is generally not considered life-threatening unless the victim also starts talking about “environment accessories” or “landscape layout”. If this occurs, emergency intervention is necessary. With electric-shock therapy, many of these tragic cases can again become contributing members of society.
Parenting: Grace Under Pressure It’s Not…
My mother’s hair is getting pretty grey. As she has 10 children, I can’t figure out why it has taken her this long. I myself can identify the source of each of my well-deserved and rapidly multiplying silver threads. Take the events of a typical morning such as November 7:
2:37a.m: – The 3-year-old wakes up ready to party. After some discussion, he decides it would be easier to keep our attention if he joins us in our bed.
6:00a.m: – I wake up the 7-year-old who has an early school bus to catch and am joined in the kitchen by the 5-year-old who doesn’t have to be up for another hour and a half. She demands waffles. I tell her we don’t have any waffles. She sadly informs a bowl of Rice Krispies that a loving parent would stock better cereal, like those chocolate-chip mini-donuts that glow in the dark.
6:10 am (and 6:15, 6:22 and 6:25a.m.): – Even use of the shock troops (3-year-old and puppy) fails to blast the 7-year-old out of bed. I carry her into the kitchen, tape open her eyelids and put her on a chair in front of some oatmeal, no, we don’t have any waffles, eat it.
6:27a.m. – She completes her minute study of the congealing properties fo the untouched bowl of oatmeal and retires to the bathroom.
6:51a.m. – I brush her hair and make the lunch we both know she won’t eat because I keep putting wholesome things in there in case of a spot-check by the Motherhood Wholesomeness Patrol disguised as lunchroom monitors. (What? Didn’t you know they report back to the Teachers’ Lounge things like, “Barb’s kid got some good wholesome stuff to throw into the garbage while little Joey Smith was forced to eat every crumb of his six Chocolate Whammy Wallbangers”?)
7:05a.m. – She can’t find her backpack and her shoes. I find them and zip her into her coat despite her protests that nobody in the second grade zips their coat, and I complete her humiliation by forcing her to wear her hat. She goes out the door, unzips her coat, loses her hat, and somehow catches the bus.
8:20a.m. – I drive the 5-year-old to the kindergarten we are sending her to so she can learn brain surgery in two different languages.
10:20a.m. – I call my husband and remind him that we’re due at the kindergarten music recital at eleven and I’ll pick him up on my way if he’s waiting outside because I can’t stand to be late. I’m late, and don’t have time to stop for gas in my ancient station wagon which gets almost 2 ½ mpg.
11:00a.m. – Three and a half of the cutest minutes you’ve ever seen. Their rendition of “Chicken Lips and Lizard Hips” will definitely be Grammy material once the video comes out.
11:06a.m. – We get one block from the school and run out of gas. My husband sprints the five blocks to his van and comes back for the 3-year-old, the dog and me. We drop him off and go to the gas station, where I leave every cent I have in ransom for their ancient gas can.
I go back to my illegally abandoned car and attempt to put the gas into it. At this point, I discover that the gas can’s nozzle is merely a decorative accent, not attached to the actual can at any point. Necessity being the mother of stupidity, I fasten the nozzle on with strapping tape. Did you know that strapping tape dissolves in gasoline? I now know that too.
By accident, a small amount of gas actually goes into the tank. Smelling exotically of the remaining 1 ½ gallons of eau-de-petrol which I’m now wearing, we head back to return the gas can.
While I’m arguing with the attendant about the nozzle-less condition of the gas can, I look up and notice that the van is gone. Those of you who aren’t shocked to hear this know, of course, that I left the 3-year-old in the car. Testosterone poisoning has taken over, forcing him to escape from the car seat (which takes a college graduate several minutes to unfasten), release the emergency brake, and back the van out across four lanes of traffic, where it sits, broadside. Both the 3-year-old and the dog are inside, totally fascinated.
“Grace-under-pressure” being my motto, I gracefully drop the gas can and race into traffic, screaming, “OH MY GOD” at the top of my lungs. Enchanted with this performance, the attendant returns all my money, obviously realizing that I will need it during the years of intensive psychiatric treatment ahead.
2:37a.m: – The 3-year-old wakes up ready to party. After some discussion, he decides it would be easier to keep our attention if he joins us in our bed.
6:00a.m: – I wake up the 7-year-old who has an early school bus to catch and am joined in the kitchen by the 5-year-old who doesn’t have to be up for another hour and a half. She demands waffles. I tell her we don’t have any waffles. She sadly informs a bowl of Rice Krispies that a loving parent would stock better cereal, like those chocolate-chip mini-donuts that glow in the dark.
6:10 am (and 6:15, 6:22 and 6:25a.m.): – Even use of the shock troops (3-year-old and puppy) fails to blast the 7-year-old out of bed. I carry her into the kitchen, tape open her eyelids and put her on a chair in front of some oatmeal, no, we don’t have any waffles, eat it.
6:27a.m. – She completes her minute study of the congealing properties fo the untouched bowl of oatmeal and retires to the bathroom.
6:51a.m. – I brush her hair and make the lunch we both know she won’t eat because I keep putting wholesome things in there in case of a spot-check by the Motherhood Wholesomeness Patrol disguised as lunchroom monitors. (What? Didn’t you know they report back to the Teachers’ Lounge things like, “Barb’s kid got some good wholesome stuff to throw into the garbage while little Joey Smith was forced to eat every crumb of his six Chocolate Whammy Wallbangers”?)
7:05a.m. – She can’t find her backpack and her shoes. I find them and zip her into her coat despite her protests that nobody in the second grade zips their coat, and I complete her humiliation by forcing her to wear her hat. She goes out the door, unzips her coat, loses her hat, and somehow catches the bus.
8:20a.m. – I drive the 5-year-old to the kindergarten we are sending her to so she can learn brain surgery in two different languages.
10:20a.m. – I call my husband and remind him that we’re due at the kindergarten music recital at eleven and I’ll pick him up on my way if he’s waiting outside because I can’t stand to be late. I’m late, and don’t have time to stop for gas in my ancient station wagon which gets almost 2 ½ mpg.
11:00a.m. – Three and a half of the cutest minutes you’ve ever seen. Their rendition of “Chicken Lips and Lizard Hips” will definitely be Grammy material once the video comes out.
11:06a.m. – We get one block from the school and run out of gas. My husband sprints the five blocks to his van and comes back for the 3-year-old, the dog and me. We drop him off and go to the gas station, where I leave every cent I have in ransom for their ancient gas can.
I go back to my illegally abandoned car and attempt to put the gas into it. At this point, I discover that the gas can’s nozzle is merely a decorative accent, not attached to the actual can at any point. Necessity being the mother of stupidity, I fasten the nozzle on with strapping tape. Did you know that strapping tape dissolves in gasoline? I now know that too.
By accident, a small amount of gas actually goes into the tank. Smelling exotically of the remaining 1 ½ gallons of eau-de-petrol which I’m now wearing, we head back to return the gas can.
While I’m arguing with the attendant about the nozzle-less condition of the gas can, I look up and notice that the van is gone. Those of you who aren’t shocked to hear this know, of course, that I left the 3-year-old in the car. Testosterone poisoning has taken over, forcing him to escape from the car seat (which takes a college graduate several minutes to unfasten), release the emergency brake, and back the van out across four lanes of traffic, where it sits, broadside. Both the 3-year-old and the dog are inside, totally fascinated.
“Grace-under-pressure” being my motto, I gracefully drop the gas can and race into traffic, screaming, “OH MY GOD” at the top of my lungs. Enchanted with this performance, the attendant returns all my money, obviously realizing that I will need it during the years of intensive psychiatric treatment ahead.
Why Parents Don’t Get to Have Self-Esteem
I was talking to my sister about the changes in her life since she decided to commit parenthood. She said she never guessed that she and her husband could spend so much time analyzing their son’s last diaper efforts, or that climbing Everest would sound easier than taking him on a visit to his grandparents.
A while ago, I made just such a mistake when I decided to take three kids out to California. Following my usual travelling technique, we arrived at the airport considerably early so the kids would have plenty of time to lose their carry-on luggage. This put us all in a cheery traveling frenzy even before the announcement that our flight was being delayed because the restrooms were not functional.
Our fellow passengers in the standing-room-only gate area watched in horror as it sunk in that this crazed woman and her three small children were joining them aboard a jet with a coach section roughly the size of your average bathroom. They glared at me as the airline pleaded for people to give up their oversold seats and take later flights, but I pretended to concentrate on getting my son out from under a row of seats before he spilled more fruit punch down the legs of unsuspecting strangers.
At last we made it out to California. My brother picked us up in his new car so the girls would have something classy to throw up in. We went to my parents’ house, where I spent a couple of relaxing days trying to keep three non-swimming kids from drowning in their pool (required in even the meanest hovel in southern California.)
While there I committed a crime so horrible that its inevitable discovery shook my children into stunned silence – I never told them that we were near Disneyland. The sheer scope of such parental perfidy left them gasping, “A child could think you don’t love her…”
But I remained unmoved. I figure there is nothing further they can do to damage my self-esteem because I don’t have any left.
It’s funny – you graduate from school, get someone to actually hand you a paycheck, and you meet The One who is willing to sit around and discuss your wonderful qualities. Just when you start to believe in all this, there’s Mother Nature standing over you with her loaded Magnum: “Are you yuppie DINKS feeling lucky today?” Ker-blam! You’re parents.
Instead of cultural and world affairs, you now spend your time discussing what sleep used to feel like and baby bowel habits. I heard a woman say she’d been a mother too long when she noticed she was changing a dirty diaper with one hand and eating a peanut butter sandwich with the other.
Not realizing that the chief purpose of encouraging baby talk is to keep the child unintelligible for as long as possible, we were careful to teach clear enunciation and precise terminology, allowing our children to deliver publicly humiliating statements at will.
For example, I pinched my two-year-old’s neck in the top of her coat zipper once. Toward the end of church services the next day, I tried to take advantage of a lull to put her coat on her. “Mommy,” she shrieked amid the hushed congregation, “Don’t hurt me again!”
We had to find a new church.
Another time we had stopped for some toddler haute cuisine at Chez Big Mac when my other daughter inquired in ringing tones, “Mommy, why is that person so ugly?”
“That’s not a nice thing to say,” I hissed back in my best parental fury whisper.
“But, Mommy…”
“No.”
“But, Mommy, I was only…”
“NO!”
“But, Mommy,” she said, sobbing now. “I wasn’t going to ask again why that person is SO UGLY.”
“OK, what?” I relented.
“Mommy, WHY IS THAT UGLY PERSON SO FAT?”
Then there was the time the two-year-old asked me where her tail was. I explained that children don’t have tails. “Michael does,” she stated and pointed. I immediately explained about male and female plumbing differences. She was fascinated, and the next several days were spent speculating – loudly – on who had what where. This interesting period culminated in a visit to a crowded local restaurant where she was inspired to announce – at full volume to a spellbound roomful of diners – what MY daddy has and what MY mommy has.
This time, we moved to another town.
A while ago, I made just such a mistake when I decided to take three kids out to California. Following my usual travelling technique, we arrived at the airport considerably early so the kids would have plenty of time to lose their carry-on luggage. This put us all in a cheery traveling frenzy even before the announcement that our flight was being delayed because the restrooms were not functional.
Our fellow passengers in the standing-room-only gate area watched in horror as it sunk in that this crazed woman and her three small children were joining them aboard a jet with a coach section roughly the size of your average bathroom. They glared at me as the airline pleaded for people to give up their oversold seats and take later flights, but I pretended to concentrate on getting my son out from under a row of seats before he spilled more fruit punch down the legs of unsuspecting strangers.
At last we made it out to California. My brother picked us up in his new car so the girls would have something classy to throw up in. We went to my parents’ house, where I spent a couple of relaxing days trying to keep three non-swimming kids from drowning in their pool (required in even the meanest hovel in southern California.)
While there I committed a crime so horrible that its inevitable discovery shook my children into stunned silence – I never told them that we were near Disneyland. The sheer scope of such parental perfidy left them gasping, “A child could think you don’t love her…”
But I remained unmoved. I figure there is nothing further they can do to damage my self-esteem because I don’t have any left.
It’s funny – you graduate from school, get someone to actually hand you a paycheck, and you meet The One who is willing to sit around and discuss your wonderful qualities. Just when you start to believe in all this, there’s Mother Nature standing over you with her loaded Magnum: “Are you yuppie DINKS feeling lucky today?” Ker-blam! You’re parents.
Instead of cultural and world affairs, you now spend your time discussing what sleep used to feel like and baby bowel habits. I heard a woman say she’d been a mother too long when she noticed she was changing a dirty diaper with one hand and eating a peanut butter sandwich with the other.
Not realizing that the chief purpose of encouraging baby talk is to keep the child unintelligible for as long as possible, we were careful to teach clear enunciation and precise terminology, allowing our children to deliver publicly humiliating statements at will.
For example, I pinched my two-year-old’s neck in the top of her coat zipper once. Toward the end of church services the next day, I tried to take advantage of a lull to put her coat on her. “Mommy,” she shrieked amid the hushed congregation, “Don’t hurt me again!”
We had to find a new church.
Another time we had stopped for some toddler haute cuisine at Chez Big Mac when my other daughter inquired in ringing tones, “Mommy, why is that person so ugly?”
“That’s not a nice thing to say,” I hissed back in my best parental fury whisper.
“But, Mommy…”
“No.”
“But, Mommy, I was only…”
“NO!”
“But, Mommy,” she said, sobbing now. “I wasn’t going to ask again why that person is SO UGLY.”
“OK, what?” I relented.
“Mommy, WHY IS THAT UGLY PERSON SO FAT?”
Then there was the time the two-year-old asked me where her tail was. I explained that children don’t have tails. “Michael does,” she stated and pointed. I immediately explained about male and female plumbing differences. She was fascinated, and the next several days were spent speculating – loudly – on who had what where. This interesting period culminated in a visit to a crowded local restaurant where she was inspired to announce – at full volume to a spellbound roomful of diners – what MY daddy has and what MY mommy has.
This time, we moved to another town.
Flu + Dad's Cooking = Survival Training
“We are given children to test us and make us more spiritual.” – George Will
There are a number of things nobody told me before I said, “I do.”
Oh sure, we got a lot of nice advice and a lot of nicer money. But Uncle Harry didn’t say, “Here’s $50 and by the way, your children will never throw up on anything but you.”
Aunt Thelma never mentioned, “I hope you enjoy the silver-plated toast server and have they told you about suppositories?”
I reflected on the fact that parenting builds strong character and stronger stomachs as the flu made its way through the household recently. I still think teenage pregnancy rates would plummet if teens were forced to spend a week doing the cleaning and laundry for a family of flu-sufferers. But after nine years of motherhood, I noticed that I was finishing up my coffee as I mopped up the latest flu victim, and getting dinner out of the freezer as I dumped her sheets into the washing machine. As one of 10 carsick-prone children, I used to marvel at my mother’s ability to take care of such disasters without losing her own lunch. My mother never got sick. On the list of The Basic Facts of Life, “Mothers never get sick” comes right between “Budgets never contain your actual expenses” and “Don’t drink the water”.
The arrival of new siblings, however, did assure Mother of lengthy hospital stays at regular intervals. At these times, my father took charge. “Daddy boiled the peas until all the water was gone,” we told visitors. “We couldn’t eat them, but they made great play dough.”Thanks to my father’s cooking, some of my sisters are pretty fair potters today.
My husband also took charge last week when I, a card-carrying mother, woke up to discover that my stomach was doing its level best to evert my toes and spit them out.
My husband’s cooking does have one advantage over my father’s – our dog. Natasha, who doesn’t want to strain either of her brain cells by involving them in food decisions, has a policy of eating anything which might have started out as food or have once had a label with a picture of food. She is also quite happy to eat the label. This left the children free to pursue their usual frozen waffle and peanut butter diet.
Being sidelined gave me the opportunity to reflect on the differences in our parenting styles. My husband is a great believer in personal responsibility. For example, he will do the laundry, but the clothes must be personally responsible for sorting themselves. He will also do the kitchen, but the pots and counters are their own responsibility. When the kids wanted to dye eggs, he retired to the porch, leaving them responsible for coloring eggs, counters,, furniture, and floors.
The 4-year-old takes after his father in this respect. When he was hungry, he decided to fix himself potato pancakes. He cracked about a dozen eggs, shells and all, into my largest bowl and grated the skins (both his own and the potatoes’) before floating several large potatoes in the bowl. I came in as he was about to dump it into a frying pan and light the gas stove.
He also made the mistake of turning to his sisters for assistance at one point. I overheard the young rajah demand, “Butter my waffle.” They immediately set him straight. “We’re not your slaves. That’s what Mama and Daddy are here for.”
I have to get downstairs before any more laundry becomes personally responsible, so I’m going to let the 4-year-old finish this column with his butterfly story:
“When you have something bad in your heart, the butterflies come and lick up all the bad stuff out of your heart. Then they take the bad stuff to a big machine and drop it in. The bad stuff gets turned into butter, and the butterflies fly it to big trucks. The trucks take the butter to the grocery store, and you go in there and eat it. This is called the Butter Cycle.”
There are a number of things nobody told me before I said, “I do.”
Oh sure, we got a lot of nice advice and a lot of nicer money. But Uncle Harry didn’t say, “Here’s $50 and by the way, your children will never throw up on anything but you.”
Aunt Thelma never mentioned, “I hope you enjoy the silver-plated toast server and have they told you about suppositories?”
I reflected on the fact that parenting builds strong character and stronger stomachs as the flu made its way through the household recently. I still think teenage pregnancy rates would plummet if teens were forced to spend a week doing the cleaning and laundry for a family of flu-sufferers. But after nine years of motherhood, I noticed that I was finishing up my coffee as I mopped up the latest flu victim, and getting dinner out of the freezer as I dumped her sheets into the washing machine. As one of 10 carsick-prone children, I used to marvel at my mother’s ability to take care of such disasters without losing her own lunch. My mother never got sick. On the list of The Basic Facts of Life, “Mothers never get sick” comes right between “Budgets never contain your actual expenses” and “Don’t drink the water”.
The arrival of new siblings, however, did assure Mother of lengthy hospital stays at regular intervals. At these times, my father took charge. “Daddy boiled the peas until all the water was gone,” we told visitors. “We couldn’t eat them, but they made great play dough.”Thanks to my father’s cooking, some of my sisters are pretty fair potters today.
My husband also took charge last week when I, a card-carrying mother, woke up to discover that my stomach was doing its level best to evert my toes and spit them out.
My husband’s cooking does have one advantage over my father’s – our dog. Natasha, who doesn’t want to strain either of her brain cells by involving them in food decisions, has a policy of eating anything which might have started out as food or have once had a label with a picture of food. She is also quite happy to eat the label. This left the children free to pursue their usual frozen waffle and peanut butter diet.
Being sidelined gave me the opportunity to reflect on the differences in our parenting styles. My husband is a great believer in personal responsibility. For example, he will do the laundry, but the clothes must be personally responsible for sorting themselves. He will also do the kitchen, but the pots and counters are their own responsibility. When the kids wanted to dye eggs, he retired to the porch, leaving them responsible for coloring eggs, counters,, furniture, and floors.
The 4-year-old takes after his father in this respect. When he was hungry, he decided to fix himself potato pancakes. He cracked about a dozen eggs, shells and all, into my largest bowl and grated the skins (both his own and the potatoes’) before floating several large potatoes in the bowl. I came in as he was about to dump it into a frying pan and light the gas stove.
He also made the mistake of turning to his sisters for assistance at one point. I overheard the young rajah demand, “Butter my waffle.” They immediately set him straight. “We’re not your slaves. That’s what Mama and Daddy are here for.”
I have to get downstairs before any more laundry becomes personally responsible, so I’m going to let the 4-year-old finish this column with his butterfly story:
“When you have something bad in your heart, the butterflies come and lick up all the bad stuff out of your heart. Then they take the bad stuff to a big machine and drop it in. The bad stuff gets turned into butter, and the butterflies fly it to big trucks. The trucks take the butter to the grocery store, and you go in there and eat it. This is called the Butter Cycle.”
Pink Stuff: one of the basic food groups
People often ask me if the things I write about really happen. The sad truth is I don’t write fiction: this is my life. Of course, everything doesn’t happen at once. Well, actually the kids are all on antibiotics right now, but not the same ones.
They all used to take the same medicine for their ear infections. In the interests of efficiency, each child got a new infection 10 days after finishing up their last prescription of Pink Stuff. (Feeding your children pink stuff, an antibiotic made from powdered platinum, is only slightly more expensive than mounting your own space program.)
My own kids, who think antibiotics are one of the basic food groups, have consumed enough pink stuff to send the children of several Pharmaceuticals-R_Us executives through Ivy League colleges.
But I’m not complaining. I like diseases that can be cured by pink stuff. In fact, strep throat is my favorite disease – 24 hours of pink stuff, the B-52 of antibiotics, and the kids are back in school getting more germs from their friends.
A few years ago, my husband had to make a business trip to another continent, but I wasn’t worried about handling things without him. Our house was on the market, the dog had developed a mysterious compulsion to perform unnatural acts with the cow manure in the pasture behind our house and all three kids were on pink stuff – in other words, things were pretty normal.
There is a clause in my wifehood contract which states that in such circumstances, I (the wife of the first part) shall be permitted to complain to him (the husband of the last possible part) that mothers never have conventions involving beaches on foreign coasts. Such complaints are not to exceed the number of times I draw breath, up to and including the moment said husband boards his plane.
I have added a rider which states that said husband must also say to me at least once, “I wish you could go instead, and I could stay here with the kids.” If he chokes on the words, it doesn’t count.
My husband managed to look sad as he said how much he would miss us, and in a remarkable demonstration of iron-willed self-control, avoided running up the ramp to his plane.
By the next morning, my 2-year-old son had developed an all-body rash. Exhaustive allergy testing had earlier revealed that he was not allergic to anything except air, food, plants, animals, and siblings, so our pediatrician was baffled. In hours, the 2-year-old’s joints were swollen to the size of softballs, and the rash had colonized his entire skin surface. His sisters were very impressed.
The pediatrician referred us to the allergist, who asked if I could bring him immediately. Since this only meant loading three sick kids into a non-air-conditioned car for a 1 ½ hour drive on mountain roads in 95-degree weather, I replied that I’d be right in. About halfway there, I noticed two things. The first was my son gasping for breath, and the second was the smoke coming from under the hood of my ancient station wagon.
I did what anybody with my extensive knowledge of car maintenance and repair would have done – ignored the smoke and drove on.
By the time I made it into the city, I had the freeway to myself. A few drivers assumed that I just hadn’t noticed the smoke pouring from my engine. Bravely, they pulled up alongside, honking and pointing frantically at the hood. Nodding and smiling like the Queen of Valium, I waved them on – nothing to worry about, it always does this…
My son only had to spend one day in the hospital, which none of us minded because it was air-conditioned. Unfortunately, the car also survived and was repaired by the time he was ready to go home.
But the real tragedy was that the cause of all his trouble was pink stuff. Now when he gets an ear-infection, we have to use scud-antibiotics instead of sending in the carpet-bombing pink stuff.
The rest of my husband’s absence passed fairly smoothly. (No, we don’t need to go into how I gave myself a concussion when I decided to repaint the kitchen cabinets. It could have happened to anyone…) When he came home, my husband said that he’d had problems on his trip too. The castle, (on the beach, in Spain – I’m not making this up) where the conference was held had very short showers, and also sometimes it was hard to convince the castle staff to give them seconds on their coffee. I’m so proud of him for sticking it out.
They all used to take the same medicine for their ear infections. In the interests of efficiency, each child got a new infection 10 days after finishing up their last prescription of Pink Stuff. (Feeding your children pink stuff, an antibiotic made from powdered platinum, is only slightly more expensive than mounting your own space program.)
My own kids, who think antibiotics are one of the basic food groups, have consumed enough pink stuff to send the children of several Pharmaceuticals-R_Us executives through Ivy League colleges.
But I’m not complaining. I like diseases that can be cured by pink stuff. In fact, strep throat is my favorite disease – 24 hours of pink stuff, the B-52 of antibiotics, and the kids are back in school getting more germs from their friends.
A few years ago, my husband had to make a business trip to another continent, but I wasn’t worried about handling things without him. Our house was on the market, the dog had developed a mysterious compulsion to perform unnatural acts with the cow manure in the pasture behind our house and all three kids were on pink stuff – in other words, things were pretty normal.
There is a clause in my wifehood contract which states that in such circumstances, I (the wife of the first part) shall be permitted to complain to him (the husband of the last possible part) that mothers never have conventions involving beaches on foreign coasts. Such complaints are not to exceed the number of times I draw breath, up to and including the moment said husband boards his plane.
I have added a rider which states that said husband must also say to me at least once, “I wish you could go instead, and I could stay here with the kids.” If he chokes on the words, it doesn’t count.
My husband managed to look sad as he said how much he would miss us, and in a remarkable demonstration of iron-willed self-control, avoided running up the ramp to his plane.
By the next morning, my 2-year-old son had developed an all-body rash. Exhaustive allergy testing had earlier revealed that he was not allergic to anything except air, food, plants, animals, and siblings, so our pediatrician was baffled. In hours, the 2-year-old’s joints were swollen to the size of softballs, and the rash had colonized his entire skin surface. His sisters were very impressed.
The pediatrician referred us to the allergist, who asked if I could bring him immediately. Since this only meant loading three sick kids into a non-air-conditioned car for a 1 ½ hour drive on mountain roads in 95-degree weather, I replied that I’d be right in. About halfway there, I noticed two things. The first was my son gasping for breath, and the second was the smoke coming from under the hood of my ancient station wagon.
I did what anybody with my extensive knowledge of car maintenance and repair would have done – ignored the smoke and drove on.
By the time I made it into the city, I had the freeway to myself. A few drivers assumed that I just hadn’t noticed the smoke pouring from my engine. Bravely, they pulled up alongside, honking and pointing frantically at the hood. Nodding and smiling like the Queen of Valium, I waved them on – nothing to worry about, it always does this…
My son only had to spend one day in the hospital, which none of us minded because it was air-conditioned. Unfortunately, the car also survived and was repaired by the time he was ready to go home.
But the real tragedy was that the cause of all his trouble was pink stuff. Now when he gets an ear-infection, we have to use scud-antibiotics instead of sending in the carpet-bombing pink stuff.
The rest of my husband’s absence passed fairly smoothly. (No, we don’t need to go into how I gave myself a concussion when I decided to repaint the kitchen cabinets. It could have happened to anyone…) When he came home, my husband said that he’d had problems on his trip too. The castle, (on the beach, in Spain – I’m not making this up) where the conference was held had very short showers, and also sometimes it was hard to convince the castle staff to give them seconds on their coffee. I’m so proud of him for sticking it out.
Turn left at West Virginia
One spring day without any provocation (unless you count my husband asking for the two previous years when “we” were going to finish unpacking and move into our house), I unpacked all our books, and Martha-Stewartized the family room. It looked so good that we decided there was nothing else to do but sell the house. So he took a job in a distant city, and we put the house on the market.
Moving is almost as fun as having your fingernails pulled out while being slowly boiled in oil, so I won’t dwell on the lovely months that followed. A few scenes do stand out, like the time I was in the bathroom indulging in a nasty case of stomach flu when the doorbell rang. I ignored both it and the lockbox on the front door. This marvelous invention allows Realtors to inconspicuously descend at convenient hours like dinner time – “Mmmm! Don’t those fish sticks give this place a homey smell?”
Picture me, weakly worshipping at the porcelain throne, when I heard, “Cathedral ceilings in the living room and you must see the master bath!”
After we had been through some months of this kind of fun, the realtors began to hint that although our house was fabulously desirable to subhuman species such as us (“sellers”), higher lifeforms (“buyers”) could not be expected to set foot in the place unless we made one or two small improvements such as a new roof, new carpeting through the house and getting the windows professionally cleaned.
We didn’t want them to think we were pushovers, so we drew the line a hiring window cleaners. Actually, this was an easy line to draw because it was already inscribed permanently on each window at toddler-hand and dog-nose level.
Moving day finally came – and went – because the movers couldn’t seem to find their driver, who had apparently turned right instead of left a West Virginia. Of course, he had to keep going because, being a man, he knew it was only a small step from stopping to ask directions to becoming sensitive, going to Alan Alda film festivals, and only drinking white wine.
Since we enjoyed moving so much, we rented a house in the new city, which meant we got to do the same thing all over again in a few months. Like buying a car and certain other activities darkly hinted at during seventh-grade recess, buying a house sounds like it should be a lot more fun than one ever has in actual practice. Our realtor must have asked herself why she didn’t opt for an easy job like selling Republicans a tax increase.
But finally, my husband and I found the perfect house. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the same house. His was a contemporary on a lake where he pictured tranquil sunset canoe rides, and I visualized my children’s bodies floating face-down. Mine was a charming Victorian which spoke to me of bygone days but spoke to him of bygone plumbing. Spurred on by the glamour of the phrase, “a roof over our heads,” and a petty unwillingness to give up luxuries like food and shoes, we opted for the antique plumbing.
Moving is almost as fun as having your fingernails pulled out while being slowly boiled in oil, so I won’t dwell on the lovely months that followed. A few scenes do stand out, like the time I was in the bathroom indulging in a nasty case of stomach flu when the doorbell rang. I ignored both it and the lockbox on the front door. This marvelous invention allows Realtors to inconspicuously descend at convenient hours like dinner time – “Mmmm! Don’t those fish sticks give this place a homey smell?”
Picture me, weakly worshipping at the porcelain throne, when I heard, “Cathedral ceilings in the living room and you must see the master bath!”
After we had been through some months of this kind of fun, the realtors began to hint that although our house was fabulously desirable to subhuman species such as us (“sellers”), higher lifeforms (“buyers”) could not be expected to set foot in the place unless we made one or two small improvements such as a new roof, new carpeting through the house and getting the windows professionally cleaned.
We didn’t want them to think we were pushovers, so we drew the line a hiring window cleaners. Actually, this was an easy line to draw because it was already inscribed permanently on each window at toddler-hand and dog-nose level.
Moving day finally came – and went – because the movers couldn’t seem to find their driver, who had apparently turned right instead of left a West Virginia. Of course, he had to keep going because, being a man, he knew it was only a small step from stopping to ask directions to becoming sensitive, going to Alan Alda film festivals, and only drinking white wine.
Since we enjoyed moving so much, we rented a house in the new city, which meant we got to do the same thing all over again in a few months. Like buying a car and certain other activities darkly hinted at during seventh-grade recess, buying a house sounds like it should be a lot more fun than one ever has in actual practice. Our realtor must have asked herself why she didn’t opt for an easy job like selling Republicans a tax increase.
But finally, my husband and I found the perfect house. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the same house. His was a contemporary on a lake where he pictured tranquil sunset canoe rides, and I visualized my children’s bodies floating face-down. Mine was a charming Victorian which spoke to me of bygone days but spoke to him of bygone plumbing. Spurred on by the glamour of the phrase, “a roof over our heads,” and a petty unwillingness to give up luxuries like food and shoes, we opted for the antique plumbing.
Life begins when the kids leave home and the dog dies...
When we grew up in the '70's, they told us that while retaining our natural superiority in the areas of childbearing, putting new rolls of toilet paper on the spindle, and choosing wallpaper, we women were now men's equals in everything except whapping large bugs, getting the 12:00 to stop blinking on the VCR, and making emotional investments in televised sports. But I think the truth is that somewhere on that Y-chromosome is a little glass-ceiling gene that keeps men from wearing spandex mini-skirts or selling each other candles for 5% commissions.
For about seven years, I wrote a weekly humor column which appeared in several Midwest newspapers. In addition to over 200 columns under my byline, I also published articles in other newspapers; including the Chicago Tribune and the Wall St. Journal. However once Child #4 joined my research staff (already consisting of three kids, two attack-cats and a sheep-deprived Border Collie), I decided to take a sabbatical from the column. In some of those columns which follow, I take aim at my fellow Baby Boomers -- the 95+ million Americans who make up 38% of our population and represent the largest source of buying power in the USA. (Okay, the largest source not counting my teenager and her friends on a mall-crawl...)
For about seven years, I wrote a weekly humor column which appeared in several Midwest newspapers. In addition to over 200 columns under my byline, I also published articles in other newspapers; including the Chicago Tribune and the Wall St. Journal. However once Child #4 joined my research staff (already consisting of three kids, two attack-cats and a sheep-deprived Border Collie), I decided to take a sabbatical from the column. In some of those columns which follow, I take aim at my fellow Baby Boomers -- the 95+ million Americans who make up 38% of our population and represent the largest source of buying power in the USA. (Okay, the largest source not counting my teenager and her friends on a mall-crawl...)
In these columns, I will share some of my own experience and that of other parents whose hard-won wisdom includes the following insights:
- There are only six documented cases of females who look good in mini-skirts, and five of them aren't allowed into PG-13 movies yet.
- In the entire history of western civilization there is no evidence that any bridesmaid was ever able to cut off that dress and wear it to parties later.
- Buying a pleated, plaid skirt can and often does tragically lead to wearing perky blazers and voting Republican.
So sit up straight, stop biting your nails and pay attention to a Mom: this is for your own good.
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