September 16, 2004 | Retail Therapy

Last night was rough. As predicted, the “magic call” never came, and once the kids were in bed, it was just me and the apple crisp.

And, truth be told? I’m kinda all apple crisped out.

This morning I decided I needed a little TLC from someone who really loves me. So, after I got Chickadee on the bus and Monkey settled in at school, I headed to Target. You can’t be sad at Target. That’s a fact.

I was just in time to see the price team start to mark the backpacks down from 50% off to 75% off. This, my friends, is undeniable proof of God’s love for us. Do you feel it? I sure did. My pulse is still racing, a little.

My current deal with the kids is that at the beginning of each school year they get either a new backpack or a new lunchbag. This year they got new lunchbags (purchased on clearance, last year). But of course we’d gone to Target for other school supplies and each child had made their preferences for new backpacks emminently clear to me. And because I am the meanest mother in the world, I gently responded with, “Tough. You got a new lunchbag. Move on.”

But today? Brand spanking new rolling backpacks for each of them. The ones they’d already picked out. Well, that’s not entirely true. My children opt for “character” items, given complete freedom. I tend to shy away from character stuff because then when the next character comes along, the current one is thrown out of favor. Also, Monkey is into superheroes that make my eye twitch a little, and I may not be able to change the fact that he is cursed with a defective Y chromosome, but neither do I need to buy him licensed Spiderman gear. So I do “encourage” (read: insist) that they choose items with slightly more generic themes; bugs or flowers or something that won’t become uncool as soon as a new show premieres on Nickelodeon.

(I know someone is going to bring this up, so: Chickadee’s Hello Kitty backpack was puchased last year after hot debate, which Little Miss Chicky herself was able to settle by pointing out, “Mama, she’s just a kitty. Just a kitty, sitting there. How could I stop liking her?” And so far, so good. But her current obsession, Strawberry Shortcake, needs to go away very soon.)

So it was with much swooning and fluttering of my heart and trembling of my knees that I picked up the flower bag for Chickadee and the frog bag for Monkey and realized I was getting both of them for under $10 total. And should the children balk at these selections, next year? I will help them to see the light. As in, I will inform them that these are the backpacks we have and I am not buying any others and there are children starving in China so hush up, eat your pop-tart and knock it off, already.

I would have been happy with only that. But I am here to tell you that Target loves me so much, it never wants me to leave with less than a cartful of goodies. There were Dymo label makers for 75% off (how popular am I gonna be when everyone else is giving mugs and candles for teacher gifts and we’re handing out these?), and organizational folder bin thingies, and all sorts of Targety goodness. Thus my faith in the world was restored.

Because, sometimes–to quote my dearest Kira–shallow is deeper than me.

September 15, 2004 | Haven't been hit by lightning yet!

I’m supposed to be over at church, right now, watching a video presentation about “Bad Girls of the Bible.” It’s the first session of a new study group, and even women who won’t be able to attend regularly (which I will not, because I am going to be working soon you know) were encouraged to come see this “meaningful and surprising” video.

Bad girls, bad girls, whatcha gonna do?
Whatcha gonna do when they come for you?
Bad girls, bad girls….

Guess why I’m not there. Go on! Guess!

You might think it’s because every time this particular bible study has been mentioned, every woman’s head automatically turns in my direction, and I’ve decided to be a little bit less predictable. You might think that, but you’d be wrong.

You might think it’s because I’m not interested in the bad girls of the Bible. But that’s not right, either, because I am all over any story of a woman who was supposedly bad turning out to be okay. For no particular reason, of course. So that’s not it.

No, I’m not there because attending that session today would conflict with my Grand Plan For Excessive Wallowing. It’s an awesome plan, really. Who doesn’t love a full-scope wallow, once in a while?

So, here’s what happened. Yesterday, I called and left what will be my last message with my contact at Big Company. I dunno what’s happening there, but from here it looks like… nothing. I’m clearly being given the corporate cold shoulder. (Was it something I said?) So I decided: one more cheery phone message, then move on.

And then I woke up this morning–after not enough sleep–and decided that I needed to stay home today just in case Big Company calls. We all know Big Company is not going to call, right? But if I stay home all day and cancel my plans just to sit by the phone, then I’ll really have exclusive wallowing rights tonight when I have to face the fact that they are not going to hire me.

Because being unemployed and perpetually rejected with two kids and a big mortgage isn’t wallow-worthy enough, ya know. Not if you’re me. If you’re me, that’s small potatoes. But missing “Bad Girls of the Bible,” on top of that? That’s wallow gold. I can just see me now:

“Not only did those bastards never call me back, they hindered my devotion to God! Now I’m jobless and damned! And it’s all their fault!!”

I’m available for parties, by the way. Call 1-800-BAD-GIRL to make a reservation. The wallowing keeps me pretty busy, but mention this blog for a 10% discount and I’ll do my best to work you in.

Offspring: ecstasy and agony

So tired. Need more tea. And sleep. But sleep is unavailable, so I’ll make do with tea.

Went to bed too late. Fell asleep; woke to a small boy at my bedside.

“I’m poopy! Clean my butt!” I am so using that against him when he’s a teen.

Cleaned, changed, and tucked him back into bed. Went back to sleep; woke to a small boy at my bedside.

“Bad dream!” A quick rock in the chair and tucked back into bed. Eventually I fell asleep; he came back.

“Get in!” I snarled. He stole the covers. *weeping*

So very tired.

(Happy, Philip?)

September 14, 2004 | My name is Grumplestiltskin

(A drama in way too many parts.)

Part One: May-ish:
An auto insurance premium notice arrives, with a due date in July. I am horrified at the amount, but reason that surely it must be the premium for an entire year. Nope; it’s the payment for only 6 months. I pass out cold. When I come to, I call my insurance agent. He is unavailable, on account of he is never available.

Part Two: June-ish:
My agent still has not called back, so I call him again. We go over my policy. We make the startling discovery that your insurance finally figuring out that you’re divorced and taking away the multi-car discount makes things way too expensive. We play around with reducing my coverage. It sounds like this:
Me: Well can we reduce my Bodily Injury coverage from a gazillion?
Him: It’s really better to keep it at a gazillion.
Me: Okay, just for kicks, tell me what the lowest amount I can have that at is.
Him: *sounds of furious typing in the background* You can lower that to $5,000.
Me: Great, let’s do that. How much does the reduction from a gazillion to $5,000 save me?
Him: Let’s see, that will save you… *more typing* $2.14 a year.
Me: No, really, dude.
Him: Sorry. Please don’t call me dude.

Part Three: Still June-ish:
My agent promised to “look into some things” for me after the last call, and calls back a week later to cheerfully inform me that I need to continue paying his country club dues. But! He offers that I can lessen the bi-yearly shock and anxiety by paying my policy in monthly installments. In fact, they can set it up to automatically deduct the payment right from my checking account, if I like. Okay, that’s fine. Let’s do that. Losing medium sums of money each month rather than gigantic piles of cash twice a year may soften the blow. I give him all of my financial information, social security number, shoe size, and number of sexual partners. (It’s 7.) (That’s my shoe size, you pervert.) I am informed that the first payment will be deducted in July.

Part Four: July:
The payment is not deducted when it was supposed to be deducted. A week passes, then two. I figure they are running behind. Then I receive a nastygram informing me that my car insurance has been cancelled for non-payment and I smell funny. I cry. I call my insurance agent, who is–surprise–not available.

Part Five: Still July, but barely:
My agent calls back and says he’s not sure what happened. (Duhhhhhhh.) I give him all of my information a second time. He assures me that all will be fine now.

Part Six: Augustish:
One day while checking my online banking, I see that a double-payment has been deducted. That would be July and August, I’m assuming. Okey doke. All set.

Part Seven: September:
I receive a nastygram informing me that my car insurance has been cancelled for non-payment, I smell funny, and on account of my “delinquency” I will no longer be allowed to make monthly payments. I bang my head on the desk repeatedly.

Part Eight: Yesterday:
I call my insurance agent. I leave a message with his lackey. I inform him that I am shopping around for new insurance coverage, because I am a patient woman but this is just ridiculous. Lackey sucks up to me but knows absolutely nothing.

Part Nine: Today:
Lackey calls back. Where is my agent? Oh, he’s working on it. He just needs to gather a wee bit of information from me, if I don’t mind. Now, was this regarding my homeowner’s insurance or my auto insurance? I talk very quietly and very slowly, and find myself thinking about cheating on my boyfriend, even though he’s been really good to me. I was deep in a fantasy about this annoying little guy, so that shows you exactly how close to the edge this entire drama has pushed me.

Part Ten: Stay tuned!
(On account of it’s so darn fascinating. For my next trick, I’ll be waxing poetic about my gas bill.)

Offspring: ecstasy and agony

This morning started out like most other school mornings: Monkey came and had his snuggle and play time in bed with me, and once we heard Chickadee’s alarm, we went to get her up. She didn’t want to get up (shocking). She was too tired to get dressed (astonishing). She couldn’t possibly brush her teeth (how interesting).

It was when I had half-dragged her to the bathroom and she stood on the stool, listing to one side, toothbrush dangling from her mouth, and she started crying that she needed to lie down, that I began to suspect something was amiss. Fine, go lie down. While you’re at it, hold this in your mouth for a few minutes.

Then came the moment every mother dreads. No fever; go to school. High fever; commence coddling. Low fever? Crap. Barely even a fever, really. Lower than what the school considers the cut-off point, even. Maybe I could give her some cold medicine and still send her…? It was at this point that my inner Mama Bear smacked me upside the head. Hello! a shrill voice scolded me. She’s only been up for ten minutes! By this afternoon that fever will be taking charge!

Hmph. And here I’d had a big day of… ummmm… stuff… planned. Oh well.

Monkey ate his beloved poptarts and chattered on while I packed his lunch and Chickadee lay in bed with a book. I dosed her up with medicine before we left. We ran him over to school, then returned home.

For a little bit, it was lovely. Then the medicine kicked in. Then, by all accounts, Chickadee was perfectly fine! She played and read and asked for more breakfast and generally made me wonder why I’d let her stay home.

Only now, she’s parked on the couch in front of the television, and getting shorter by the minute. I think the medicine is starting to wear off, and it’s taking with it her resolve to remain upright. I’m probably a lousy mother for being delighted to see her clearly unwell. But those few hours of normalcy were making me feel like I’d been duped. If you’re home sick, be sick, dammit!

I am so going to hell.

September 13, 2004 | Offspring: ecstasy and agony

pick·y: adj. Excessively meticulous; fussy.

I thought I knew picky. I thought I knew picky eaters. And then, I met my son.

It is at the core of maternal urges to nourish one’s young. My youngest has stymied my attempts from the beginning. He had multiple nursing issues, and a delightful habit of projectile vomiting. When we finally moved on to solids, he loved to grab the spoon from my hand… so that he could play with it. Cheerios on the tray? Those were fun to stick to his head, sure. Then came the food allergies. And somehow we arrived here, at age four-and-a-half; and while I refuse to battle my child over food, I am still amazed.

Sometimes, when the job search seems particularly bleak (when would that be? oh, all the time, thanks), I consider posting a billboard outside the house. “COME SEE THE AMAZING AIR-EATING BOY! BEHOLD: 38 POUNDS OF NOTHING BUT AIR AND POP-TARTS! JUST $1 TO WITNESS THIS MIRACLE WITH YOUR OWN EYES!” I could continue staying home, then. I mean, sure… I’d probably have to mop more often, what with all the people trampling through, but I could live with that.

Monkey has consistently ridden the bottom of the growth chart. The doctors assured me that as long as he was gaining (be it ever-so-slowly or not), I shouldn’t worry. And I’ll confess that if he’d been my first I probably would’ve dropped to the floor and died long before now, what with the constant worry that he would one day simply evaporate. But I’m more easygoing now, or at least I have fewer brain cells left to assign to issues like this. He’s happy, he’s relatively healthy, yes. But he’s just so weird.

My boy just loves him some pop-tarts. Mmmm mmmm good! And he’s picky, remember. So you’d think he’d only like certain pop-tarts. But you’d be wrong, because he’s picky but he’s weird. Any fruit-flavored pop-tart is fine and dandy with him. He hearts pop-tarts. He eats one or two for breakfast every single day. (Yes, please send me hate-mail about what horrible crap pop-tarts are. Given that it’s the only meal the child can be counted upon to eat, I will get right on eliminating those from his diet.) Monkey loooooves blueberry pop-tarts! He will not eat blueberries. Monkey loooooves cherry pop-tarts! He will not eat cherries. Monkey loooooves strawberry pop-tarts! He will not eat strawberries. Are you seeing a trend, here? Anyone? Weird.

I think some of it is a textural issue. Similar to the pop-tart phenomenon, Monkey loves fruit-flavored yogurt, but only if it is so processed and smooth that there isn’t a single tiny particle of identifiable fruit matter remaining.

But I shouldn’t complain about fruit. He eats apples, now. And for a long time, he wouldn’t eat any fruit at all, so this is a major triumph. But I’ve been putting the same apple in his lunch bag for nearly a week, now. He hasn’t touched it. When I ask if he still likes apples, he says he does. “Why haven’t you eaten it, then?” I asked.

“I dunno,” he said, deep in thought. Then: “I guess I wasn’t feeling apple-y today.”

In case you’re wondering, he hasn’t been feeling sandwich-y or green bean-y or cheese puff-y or raisin-y or even tortilla chip-y this week, either. The child regularly returns home from school with a full lunch bag. If I tuck a yogurt in there, it’ll be gone. (And as that can’t be resealed, I have no guarantee that it’s even being eaten; it’s possible it just gets tossed after one bite.) Everything else is right there. And the yogurt? 4 ounces. So let’s see… if he eats the entire container… 16 ounces in a pound… that means he’s chugging along an entire day at school on the power of… 1/152nd of his body weight in nourishment. Call me crazy, but that just seems impossible.

There are foods that Monkey loves besides pop-tarts. Sure. They include: crackers, bread, yogurt, cheese, french fries, and mac-n-cheese. And there’s a secondary tier of foods he’ll sometimes eat on alternate Tuesdays when the moon is full and Mercury is in retrograde: apples, salad, hot dogs, cold cereal, grilled cheese, McDonald’s cheeseburgers, and sunflower butter. And altogether, that’s not such a horrible diet. Throw in a few glasses of milk and a multivitamin and call it good, I say. Me, I have a serious ongoing relationship with food. I have my favorites, but I’ll try anything, and I like most everything. I just cannot understand the complete lack of pattern when it comes to this kid’s consumption.

The rule in our house is that you taste everything on your plate. Once tasted, if you don’t like it, fine; you don’t have to eat it. But you must taste it. Tonight was a typical dinner in my house.

Before dinner: With apple crisp baking in the oven and meatloaf being reheated in the microwave, Monkey walks into the kitchen and announces “Ewww, what stinks?”

During dinner: I spend most of my meal explaining that french fries are made from potatoes, and mashed potatoes are like smushed-up french fries, and besides that, they’re really yummy. Furthermore, meatloaf is really just like a cheeseburger except without the cheese, with the added bonus that you can dip it in ketchup, Nature’s perfect condiment! It’s a hard sell, and Chickadee and I clear our plates while Monkey whines that he doesn’t like this, he doesn’t want this, why did I make this (”To torture you,” I answered. “Mama, did you really?” counters Chickadee)! Nothing touched his lips until the final minutes of the meal. Monkey took a deep breath, stabbed his fork into his mashed potatoes and extracted a tiny morsel, and put it in his mouth.

Shock registered on his little face. “Yum!” he said.

“See? I told you that you’d like that! Have some more!”

“No thank you,” he demurred as he set down his fork. “May I please be excused?”

Weird.

After dinner: We are in the middle of our bedtime reading when Monkey bursts into tears. “Honey!” I cry out, “What’s wrong?”

“I’m… I’m… hungry!” he snuffled.

“I see. Do you think maybe you should’ve eaten more dinner?”

“No! I think maybe I’d better go to sleep right now so I can wake up and have some pop-tarts!”

Well, then. I have to give him credit for knowing what he wants, I guess.

What do I do all day?

Well, okay. They’re not particularly murderous. Nor did they go away, say, on a short jaunt to the beach or something, and then unexpectedly return. Basically, there’s just been a huge honkin’ sack of apples sitting on my counter ever since we went apple picking on Labor Day. And like the loaves and the fishes, no matter how many apples I take out of the bag, it remains full.

I knew we’d reached code red when I was packing lunches this morning. My hand reached towards the bag and immediate, stereo harmony blared from the kitchen table:

“I don’t want an apple in my lunch!”

Okay, okay. I get the picture. Sheesh.

So this afternoon I hopped in my car, drove over to my friend Marcey’s house–she wasn’t home, of course, because as a productive member of society she has a job ya know–broke in, and stole her whatchamacallit.

Now, ignoring the fact for a moment that I broke into my friend’s house and stole something from her, aside from that, I’m sure you’re wondering what sort of whatchamacallit could be so important as to merit burglary, and what in the name of all that is lucid does this have to do with apples? But I haven’t gone ’round the bend just yet, honestly. My booty from this mission was this contraption.

In a little while I’m going to roll up my sleeves and start decimating that apple pile. Come hell or high water, I am going to use them up. I will assemble and then freeze crisps and pies and reclaim my countertop for… ummm… other stuff. And next time we go apple picking, I will exercise a modicum of restraint.

Unless the apples are really gorgeous. Or smell awesome or are super-crispy. Or if the kids are just having so much fun I can’t bear to tell them to stop. Or… oh, crap. Who’s coming over for dessert?

September 12, 2004 | It's not a regret, it's an "experience"

Today’s post is an entry in the third Blogging For Books contest being held over at The Zero Boss. I encourage you to visit Jay and check out all the entries. This month’s theme is Adaptation.

I held an instructional packet of information in one hand, and grabbed the strip of photos as they scrolled out of the booth’s slot with my other. Panic was rising in the back of my throat and I stole a look at the photos while trying to act casual. Wow, and here I’d thought my student ID was the worst picture of me I’d ever seen. These were even less flattering. I looked glazed, exhausted, and confused. All of which I was, come to think of it. I’d never had jetlag before and wanted nothing more than to stretch out on a nearby bench and go to sleep. Instead, I took a deep breath and walked back over to the ticket window.

“Hi, ummmm,” I looked down at my information sheet again, “I’d like… uhhh… a student pass…” I trailed off and pushed my photo strip and some money into the tray under the window while consulting my guide. “Zones 1-4, please.” The man behind the glass looked at me over the top of his glasses. My accent had tipped him off, of course, and now a quick visual once-over confirmed what he’d heard; I was an American student. I worked up a tired smile and he glanced away as if affronted. He passed back my identification card and transit pass without even looking at me. Welcome to London; please have correct change ready and keep to yourself.

A semester abroad sounded amazing. Despite having been raised in a small town and then going to college just an hour from home, I really did want to see more of the world. And the London program in my chosen area of study was superb. The fact that I didn’t need to know a second language was certainly a draw, too. At 19, I wanted something different and exciting, but I was also lazy. England! Perfect. Different and exciting, yet easy.

Except it wasn’t. I had previously lived a life of walking and driving, and had never once partaken of public transportation. A sturdy intellect in most other areas notwithstanding, I was somewhat legendary amongst my friends and family for my ability to misread maps, forget oft-travelled routes, and generally get lost in ways that most people wouldn’t consider possible. London, it turns out, is a gigantic city. One of the first suggested tasks–after getting out of the airport and checking in at the hotel–was procuring a transportation pass to ride the subway and the buses. I followed all of the given directions and mentally checked off each item as it was completed. But it was slowly dawning on me that for the duration of my stay I was going to have to navigate on my own, and live at the mercy of the train schedules and locations. The map of the London Underground my disgruntled ticket-seller had handed me may as well have been written in hieroglyphics.

To add to my uneasiness, I was in one of the first groups from my university to travel after Pan Am Flight 103 blew up over Lockerbie with 35 of my fellow students on board. The travel abroad division at my school was now standard-issuing “safety measures” guides in our packets, and there had been several bomb scares in London train stations before we arrived. I’m not so great in swarms of people. I’m worse in swarms of people, underground, where there might be explosives. And despite strict adherence to the suggested guidelines (”Don’t wear college sweatshirts or other paraphenalia,” “Don’t walk around with a map in your hand”), people always seemed to know I was American even if I never opened my mouth. I felt lost; exposed; constantly on edge.

In reality, the Tube is easy to navigate. For anyone smarter than me, that is. I agonized over every trip, in the beginning. I watched people feed their passes through the readers on the turnstiles as if it was second nature, yet I seemed to always put mine in upside down or otherwise get it stuck as I slammed into the unyielding turnstile bar. The larger, multi-lined stations activated my fear of crowds, and I would challenge myself to count each measured breath in and out as I scoured the walls for clues of which staircase led to which train or tried to peek a look at the map stuffed in my bag. Once in my haste I ran down multiple staircases only to discover that I was on the platform for the correct line, but the wrong direction. Running back up, across the station, and down again (just in time to watch my train pull away without me) was lesson enough to keep me from repeating that mistake.

Buskers and panhandlers made me uncomfortable until I realized that even they more or less kept to themselves. The musicians left an instrument case open for donations and made music in the corner, at moderate volume. Beggars sat against the wall, holding a cup and staring into space. They sort of blended in and became part of the decor; larger stations had them, smaller ones, usually not. It didn’t take long to sense that I was much safer at night in this network of stations, underground, than I would’ve been walking around campus after dark at home. All trash receptacles had been removed from Tube stations after the last bomb scare (so as not to have places bombs could be easily hidden). It was something of a running joke that you always wanted to be sure to spit out your gum before you went through the turnstiles. But danger was a hard concept to grasp amidst that brightly-lit and tidy labyrinth. It all seemed too polite in there to pose any sort of threat to anyone.

Assimilation happened much like osmosis, and brought with it a confidence I’d never expected. I became just another regular at my favorite bakery, market, pub; I didn’t think twice about trekking into unknown territory to see a show or visit some attraction. As I steeped myself in the city’s culture I shed many of the things that made me stand out. I drifted into commonality. I stopped wearing my sneakers in favor of my sturdy brown shoes (I never saw a Brit wearing sneakers outside of a gym). I constrained my mane of hair in sleeker styles than I used to favor (although long curly hair was very common back home, most women around me either had short hair or wore long hair up). I swapped my backpack for a messenger-style bag I found at a flea market.

One day I realized that–more often than not–I was travelling with ease. When I wanted to be, I was invisible. The regular back and forth to classes was routine, and the nightly jaunts to this or that destination required only a quick map consultation before I set out. Where I’d first been overwhelmed, I now felt unlimited possibility. Claustrophobia had given way to welcome breaks in my day to sit and think of nothing at all as my seat swayed ever-so-slightly and the tunnels rushed past the windows.

I learned and experienced all sorts of wonderful things during my time abroad. At the end of the term I boarded my flight home, ambivalent about leaving it all behind. We took off and the flight attendants served tea and scones. I savored every bit–keenly aware that this was to be my last authentic tea–then tried to read for a while. My gaze wandered from my book and stared out the window at the blanket of clouds below. Eventually, I dozed off, and dreamt I was riding the train.

Friends

Apropos of nothing, I am sitting here thinking about my favorite insults from friends.

The incidence of people referring to me as “hussy” has increased exponentially since my divorce. Not because I actually am a hussy (alas!), but because the ex’s version of taking the high road was to make some reference to my perceived impurity at every possible opportunity. And so it has become something of a joke to call me that. Want to make me giggle? Call me a hussy. Want to make me snort? Call me a wanton hussy. Oh, the shame.

One night when I was bemoaning my idiocy over something or other to my true love Kira, I kept saying “I’m such a MORON” and Kira–in her infinite wisdom–calmly replied, “You’re not a moron, you just don’t always bring your brains to the table.” Truer words never were spoken. And the mental image of my brains accidentally left behind in the bathroom drawer with my hairbrushes and mascara doesn’t hurt, either.

And let’s not forget that I am the very meanest Mama in the whole entire world. I’m rotten! Dastardly! Inhuman! How my children have survived my horrible parenting will be a mystery for the ages. And it’s all worth it just to listen to them first accuse me and then harumph, “You’re not supposed to laugh when I say that!”

Two weeks ago I helped my friend Marcey paint her kitchen, and last night we finally put up the wallpaper border and finished the job. A border isn’t a big deal; in the grand scheme of all the work we did in there, it was inconsequential. But somehow we did seem to have more than our share of instances where we were both standing on chairs, wrangling dripping border and passing various tools (the level, an exacto knife, the smoothing tool) back and forth to the colorful commentary that often accompanies trying to hang something straight in a house which is not. About the time Marcey realized she had wallpaper paste in her hair, she exclaimed, “Well this is just great. This should be the easiest job in the world and here we are, Dumbass and Dumbassier, screwing it up!” I waited until we had the border up and then requested that she call me Dumbassier as often as possible because it has a very elegant ring to it.

I wonder if I can find a job opening for a Dumbassier Wanton Hussy Mean Mama Who Didn’t Bring Her Brains To the Table…?

September 11, 2004 | Detritus

Three years ago today, I forgot to do a “first day of school” picture of Chickadee before taking her in to meet her new teacher. She bounced off to her first day of preschool with hardly a backwards glance. Monkey had to be peeled off my leg amidst snuffling and whining, and embarked upon his first day of daycare.

I returned home, heady with the possibilities of this day: my first day without children or an office job. My first day to start my new career, to really try to make a go of writing.

The phone was ringing when I walked back into the empty house. My husband told me to turn on the TV. And so I spent my first day of “freedom” glued to the set. Later, I washed my face and debated whether I really wanted such an incongruous hallmark of the day… and decided that yes, tragedy notwithstanding, it needed to be done. I arrived to pick up Chickadee and made her hold a “My first day of school! September 11, 2001″ sign while I feigned cheerfulness and snapped her picture.

Thanks to Karen for the pointer to this piece by Garrison Keillor. It seems appropriate, today.