Not really what I had in mind
Dear Mrs. Unpronounceable,
I know that you’ve only been teaching first grade for… what is it? Fifty years? So probably I am the first parent in the history of your teaching career to allow her child to come to school in her pajamas. (Well, no; that seems pretty impossible to me, but I’m trying very hard to give you the benefit of the doubt.)
Anyway.
I’m guessing that you thought you were being helpful when you told the other children not to bother Chickadee about what she was wearing today. I’m sure it had absolutely nothing to do with not wanting to deal with a disruption in your classroom, or fear of having to talk to me (you know, “that parent who refuses to stand by while her child is called by the wrong name, ignored, or bored out of her skull”) again.
Well, I just wanted to say thanks. And explain why she’ll be wearing pajamas again tomorrow. And probably for the rest of the schol year, judging by her enthusiasm.
Ironically yours,
Chickadee’s Mom
P.S. Sorry about the blood. I hit my head on the desk while I was writing this… a few hundred times.
Mother of the Year
Dear Mrs. Unpronounceable,
This morning as I dragged around my 10-ton, phlegm-filled head, Chickadee commenced her usual morning routine of refusing to get out of bed and do any of the necessary before-school tasks. Rather than lose my temper, I decided it was time to employ a technique which her therapist has suggested.
“Look, you’re almost seven years old. I’m tired of arguing with you. You can make your own choice. Get your butt out of bed and get dressed, or go to school in your pajamas. It doesn’t matter to me.”
I snuck some clothes into her backpack, but she’s awfully proud of the ballerinas on her top. I hope it’s not too disruptive, and please don’t call CPS.
Thanks very much,
Chickadee’s Mom
P.S. Please encourage the other children in the class to tease her. Please?
Hooky
I fought the cold, and the cold won.
*hack* *cough* *snort*
We’re playing hooky from church. The children are thrilled (a little too thrilled, if you ask me). But I started losing my voice yesterday, and this morning as children circled my bed like wild animals, I pushed up on one elbow to tell them to get out.
In my mind, I said, “Guys, go downstairs and give me a minute to get up!”
In reality, I said, “G… g… d… … .i.. ee.. a… *hackhack*”
That pretty much answered the question of whether I would be making it to choir.
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My life flashed before my eyes
“We have a good time, but we work really hard. And have a good time, too.”
This was what I heard, over and over, as I went through the interview process and early days at my new job. I thought to myself, Okay, this is What People Say. It’s code for “We will work you into an early grave, but don’t worry because we also provide snacks!”
I’ve been there for a month, now. My work has covered a little of this and a little of that, and this week I cut my teeth for real: a big project, not enough time, and stress like I’d had yet to see. My boss and I buckled down to make deadline, passing file revisions back and forth between our workstations. Finally, around lunch today, I’d handed back my version and was nervously awaiting the next round of edits.
I poked my head into my boss’ office when I couldn’t stand it any more, and he was still glued to the screen, making changes. I paused to rub Mountain Dog’s head and his tail flopped fast and furious (the dog, not my boss).
“Have you had him out, yet?” I asked. At the word “out,” Mountain Dog’s ears leapt four inches into the air.
“Not yet,” my boss answered as he squinted at the files in front of him. “No time.”
“I’ll take him, if you want,” I offered. “I can’t do anything else til you’re done, anyway.”
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Don’t ask why
The hardest thing for me, since returning to work, is feeling like some days I barely see the kids. I think it’s safe to say that NONE of the three of us are morning people. Sure, Monkey used to bound into my room in the mornings and exude so much raw sunshine that I would collapse into a molten heap of morning hatred, but on our new, earlier schedule even he must be dragged out of bed most mornings.
So school mornings, we spend around an hour together. I wouldn’t call it quality time. Evenings, we have about two and a half hours. Do you know how long it takes to empty backpacks and cook dinner and eat dinner and do showers and skin care and dry hair and read a story? About two hours and thirty-three minutes.
Um. Yeah.
I compensate where I can. For example, I’m really coming to appreciate my weekends with the kids. We do “movie night” or a special outing, or the ever-popular “pajama day” where we revel in our slugitude. We’re adjusting.
It comes as no surprise to anyone who knows my daughter that she is perhaps having the most trouble adjusting to recent changes. She has become (more) belligerent and quite clingy with me. Simultaneously, she’s started being quite mean to her little brother. She’s acting up in a million and one ways because that’s what she does when she doesn’t know how to express what she wants and needs. Joy.
In the meantime, I employ a babysitter one night a week so that I can attend choir practice. She comes right at bedtime so I don’t feel too guilty about going out and doing something non-essential, on my own. The kids adore her, and–most importantly–she is our neighbor, so I don’t have to figure out how to drive her home when I have sleeping children and (oh, yeah) no other adult on hand.
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Money can’t buy happiness…
… but I keep hoping.
Here’s the thing. I was unemployed for so freaking long, I can hardly believe that there is actual money being regularly deposited into my checking account, now. I mean, more money than what I need to pay the mortgage and daycare. (Digression: I walk into our daycare–a lovely and wonderful place which I adore and have patronized for nigh unto five years, now–at the beginning of each month and pull out my wallet and toss it on the counter and say “Here, take it all.” The kind lady behind the desk laughs every time.) It blows my mind that I don’t have to find the cheapest and very best deal on every purchase or pass things up if they’re not on sale.
But old habits are hard to break. And I’m not exactly the CEO at my new gig, either; so yes, there’s money (lovely, pretty money!), but I can’t just start living la vida loca or anything. I pay the mortgage and daycare; I pay the utility and phone bills; I pay the other bills; and then there’s about enough left over for the therapy fund.
Then again, if I’m gonna screw the kids up, maybe I should do it right and skip the therapy altogether. Four out of five voices in my head agree!
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Hazards
“Look out! My pants are blasting off!” Thankfully, no one was hurt. But I tell you… motherhood is much more dangerous than I’d once imagined. Blasting pants? That was not in any of the “What to Expect…” books.
***
This morning it was 50 degrees and raining. The temperature plummetted rapidly and by this afternoon we were in the midst of a sleet/ice/snowstorm. I was at work by 7:40 or so, with two problems. First, I had a package that I needed to take to the post office. Second, I needed to get to the store for some staples like bread and milk. The weather was getting worse by the minute, and work was busy, and finally I managed to break away and run out. I didn’t feel like I could take the time to do both errands. The roads were already getting bad. So what did I do? I went to the post office. I guess the kids can have beer on their cereal for breakfast. And, um, little sandwich baggies filled with sunbutter and jelly for lunch. Oops.
***
Is there such a thing as a workplace without politics? Probably not. I found out today that I’d offended one of my coworkers, sort of, by accident. (Not sort of by accident; totally by accident, but sort of offended.) The incident in question was innocuous, even according to the person who let me know that I needed to tread more lightly. It’s not a big deal, and part of me is relieved to know that my fabulous coworkers aren’t aliens or anything… the perfection of it all was actually more disconcerting than someone being a little quirky and/or controlling.
***
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Beware the machines
The television is possessed
Is it me, or is American Idol on about five nights a week, now? I mean, heck, I understand that this is important stuff, what with the critical shortage of pop stars we are currently experiencing here in America…. And golly, isn’t it just edge-of-your-seat unpredictable? I mean, WOW.
*young beautiful person sings a song*
*audience hoots and hollers and claps*
Randy: What up, dawg? You brought it tonight, dawg. Mad props.
Paula: You’re adorable, I want to eat you with a spoon. Lovely. Fabulous. I want to have your babies.
Simon: Yeah, um, you suck. Maybe you could be a lounge singer.
*audience boos*
That’s entertainment!
My phone was popular while I was away
Everyone who matters to me knew I was out of town this weekend. Not only that, but on a regular day I’m lucky to receive a single phone call, anyway. But I came home to SEVEN messages on my answering machine. True, five of them were hang-ups. But seven messages! That’s like my whole year’s allotment, right there! And according to the Caller ID, I actually had fifteen calls. Wow. If I were a less trusting person, I’d think my answering machine was running around on me.
Sadly, it turns out that the most persistent caller caught me this evening, and she wanted money and my address. I tried to pretend I didn’t speak english, but she wasn’t fooled. College alumni associations hire succubi to man their phones, you know.
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How to come back
Fly first class. Why? I have no idea. Perhaps the fine airline folks are confused. I know I was, when I realized my boarding pass put me in the very first row. My confusion quickly dissipated as I stretched out my legs and enjoyed my pre-flight beverage in an actual glass. I deserve this as much as the businessman next to me, I reasoned. Maybe moreso.
Read a schlock novel. Why? Because that’s what you do on an airplane. Work, schmerk. For being stuffed into a gigantic flying canister of circulating cold germs for several hours, you deserve a book that you wouldn’t be caught dead reading, otherwise. Besides, it’ll take your mind away for a while. While the plane is in the air, you are not yet obligated to return to reality.
Breathe deeply while waiting for the parking shuttle. Why? Because the air smells different here. Familiar. And it smells a lot better than the air on the plane or in the airport.
Devise a mental list of preparation for the coming week. Why? Because that’s returning to reality, while not focusing on the silence of your empty car or the time that stretches in front of you until the next vacation. Because turning your mind back to your kids and your job and the other things you love here might stop you from feeling that little bit of emptiness that only that which you left behind can fill.
Grab the mail and head into the dark house. Why? Because you’re home. That bundle of envelopes and catalogs and newsletters holds pieces of your life. Maybe you don’t need to open them right away. But later; later you’ll pay bills and toss junk and get back into the routine of being here.
Haul your suitcase upstairs and unpack. Why? Because if you don’t do it now, it’ll sit there for another month. It won’t take that long. Really. Realize that you can smell lingering reminders in that suitcase. Lift out the worn clothes and breathe it all in for a minute.
Close your eyes. Why?
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How not to go away (in 10 easy steps)
(Or, “How am I Stupid? Let Me Count the Ways.”)
1) Get up at 5:30 in the morning so as to be at work nice and early, and therefore able to leave a little early. Still forget a bunch of stuff.
2) Arrive at work and realize you’re about to leave town with $11 in your wallet.
3) Run out and get money before lunch (later, notice gigantic installation of your bank a block before the airport).
4) Leave work in plenty of time to get to airport. Pat self on back, mentally, as you drive past the turn for long-term parking. Ack.
5) Loop back to long-term parking, noting which lots are open. Head to an open lot. Discover they lied, and it’s closed.
6) Try another lot. Drive around in circles looking for a spot. Check watch. Start to panic.
7) Park! Write down car location because you know you’ll forget it, otherwise. Leave that piece of paper in the car.
8) Hop shuttle to terminal. Discover your airline offers little ATM-like machines for automatic check-in. Gleefully swipe card, only to be told you cannot check in yet. But… it’s less than an hour til flight time. Huh?
9) Get the attention of an attendant behind the counter. Explain your problem. Have her look up your flight info.
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