The One With a Lot of Vitriol

A lot of Stay-At-Home Mothers like to say that their husbands don't appreciate how much work they do every day. They say these men don't understand how difficult it is to keep one, two, three-plus children working as a functioning unit on a day-to-day basis. I was one of those mothers. I successfully played that card for four years. Today I was forced to show my hand.

I left the children with The Partner in the morning and headed out for a conference held by the mom's group to which I belong. I was gone for roughly seven hours. There was much professed joy among the conference-goers about having a few hours away from the children. We ate chicken Caesar salad and chocolate cake. We discussed organizational structure and playgroup etiquette. There was much discussion of the Swine Flu. We went home.

I came back to The Partner's declaration that he'd discovered my ruse.

"What ruse?" I asked.

"The one where you tell me it's impossible to clean the house with two kids running around."

"Oh," I said.

"Yeah. I cleaned the kitchen, loaded the dishwasher, hand washed the plastic, vacuumed the entire first floor, and am now working on the basement. And The Boss didn't watch any TV while I did it."

"Oh." I repeated. What else was I supposed to say? The jig is up. I'm a bad parent. I live in a cesspool of my own creation and my children watch too much TV.

It's unfortunate that not only am I worthless as a mother, but I have no quantifiable value as a professional, either. If I did, I could go out and bring home the bacon while The Partner stayed home and did his sterling job raising the kids.

"Oh, yeah, and it's a good thing I didn't have any plans to leave the house today," The Partner added. "I couldn't find any socks for Number Two. If I'm going to have to dress the kids, it would be nice if I could find their clothes in the middle of all the different piles of laundry laying around here."

I looked at him with huge, cornered, round saucer eyes. Gulp. "Yeah, well, actually he's out of clean socks. I forgot about that."

The Partner's eyes, on other hand, were slits. He shook his head disgustedly.

I shook mine too. I'm so sick of always being wrong. But I'm even sicker of him always being right.

In Jersey Number Two

I wish you could see Number Two catch a football. I never had an iota of interest in pigskin (or, in this case, Nerfskin) till I first witnessed my 18 month-old's arms come up in casual receipt of that ball. I threw it over and over--not from afar, yet further every time--toward his baby chest. He was so cool. His catch and clutch seemed natural in a way that made me believe the energy of the recipient could have more effect on an object's trajectory than that of the sender. The ball just fell into his arms. One second his hands would be at his sides, pudgy little puckers over each knuckle. He'd appear not even to be watching me. Then I'd lift the ball into the air and, after a short flight, it would land in an easy embrace I hadn't even known my son was open to.

In these moments, it's not that he's a boy to me. It isn't about the gleeful recognition of stereotypes proven true. It's about a baby gaining control of his spastic hands and his hard-heeled feet. It's about his stoic face going smiley with pride. It's about a simple game that is already making him joyful, and all the possibilities it holds for a long life of playing time.

And I Know How to Use It

Since three out of four of my readers (you can choose to read that as 75 percent, but the truth is I only have four total readers) would like to know more about the car referenced in yesterday's post, I am here today to deliver.


Without further ado...
(captions provided by The Partner)

Check out that ass!

2001 BMW M5

Nice headlights baby. Wanna take me home?

I must say I am perplexed by The Partner's captions. I mean, he cannot actually think of my car as feminine, can he? I'm sorry to burst The Partner's xenon headlights, but my car is manly. He is 4,000 lbs of testosterone-laced steel and plastic. He's aggressive. He sports black leather and a vast array of gizmos. And if that doesn't convince you, here's one simple fact to drive my point home:

My car has a stick.

When Good Things Happen to Bad Drivers

I have never been ogled like this before. Men stop in their tracks as I pass by. Mouths drop open and saliva pools in the corners. Fantasies that have been laying as dormant as the old sports car they traded in for a mini-van are fueled once again.

You see, I drive a car I have no business even getting behind the wheel of. I'd give you the make and model but, frankly, it's too embarrassing. I'm not worthy of this machine. Besides, it's mostly women that read this blog, and the name won't mean anything to most of you. It certainly didn't mean anything to me before The Partner brought it to my attention. My old car had succumbed to an incurable radiator problem at 200,000+ miles; I was in need of wheels. It meant so much to The Partner to have this car in his garage that he was willing to take the extreme measure of letting me drive it.

Perhaps these thoughts are running through your head: "He lets you drive it? What do you mean, he lets you drive it? This is the 21st century! This is the USA! You have every bit as much of a right to drive any car as he does!" Well, you're wrong. Or at least you don't know the whole story.

The story is that I kill cars. Well, body panels, anyway. I've left plastic pieces and rim residue all over the northeast since I first started driving 13 years ago. I never met a curb I wouldn't kiss; there's no median I won't sidle up against. I'm fine on the open road, but I don't do well with barriers.

I've already done things to this car that would make men weep. There are two holes in the front bumper. The back passenger side rim has road rash. I've already gone through several tires, though I don't think all of that was my fault. It could use a wash. What I really should be driving is a 1989 Honda Civic.

I met my car in Queens one spring afternoon. I drove it home, adjusting myself to the 6-speed transmission and the growl of its engine. The Partner followed behind in my old car as it made its last hurrah. We stopped at a diner in Stamford for a bite to eat. Our waiter took our order. He brought us drinks. I didn't think much of it when I saw him walk outside and stand against the railing of the concrete steps that lead to the parking lot, or when I saw him come back in.

He looked at The Partner as he delivered our meals a while later. "Is that your car?" he asked. He had that moony look I've become accustomed to. It must be the kind of gaze beautiful women receive on a daily basis, just by virtue of being alive, by deigning to grace with their gorgeousness any given venue.

I have to give my husband credit. He didn't so much as blanch, or stutter to get the words out. "It's my wife's," he informed the waiter.

I nodded sheepishly. "It's wasted on me." He needed to know I was aware of that fact.

To this day I feel like a fraud whenever compliments come the way of my car. I know I should assume a macho air, thumping the hood in a way that conveys my pride without leaving so much as a trace of sweat on the paint.

4.9 liters, baby. 394 horsepower. Those are the vital stats I imagine myself offering when prompted. But it never happens that way. I get too flustered. I don't even know what those numbers mean. Usually I just shrug. "But, hey, look at this! It fits three carseats!" I gesture to the back, where my two children and another friend from pre-school enjoy their ride in the fiercest vehicle in the carpool.

Then I shrug again. "Totally wasted on me, I know."

Day is Done

I daydreamed of bed and a book as I drove around on several afternoon errands. All I wanted was to be under the covers at home with a new bestseller in one hand and a cup of decaf hazelnut coffee (topped with whipped cream) in the other.

When I picked up The Boss from pre-school, the air in the car began to hang even heavier with our collective fatigue. "I'm miserable," The Boss said.

"Why?"

"Because you woke me up too early this morning."

I sighed. Back to the daydream: I pull the yellow flannel sheets up to my chin, forming a cocoon of aloneness from which I can't be blamed for everyone else's problems. We drove home in silence.

It's 7:20 now, and with just a few more checkboxes left to mark off on the To Do list that is every day with children, I am committed to making today's daydream an early evening reality. Goodnight, all. Here's to waking well on Wednesday.

Mister

This afternoon Number Two refused to eat his bread, letting the pieces fall to the floor all around him in gracious offering to our dog.

"No more of that," I said. "No more feeding your bread to the dog."

He froze in mid-throw. That's what he does whenever I reprimand him. All his processes came to a halt, his stare blank yet guilty. A piece of bread was suspended in his hand as he waited me out.

"What did I say, mister?"

He slowly moved the bread back to the tray of his high chair. Then The Boss's gleeful voice piped up from the living room. "Mister is his name when he's in trouble!"

No Mom is an Island

I am a hypochondriac on a good day. On a bad day, I'd sooner put the house on lockdown than venture into a world filled with bacteria, pesticides, pestilence, mold, #3 plastics, and the types of people who change their children's diapers on dining tables at Burger King.

I worry that my son has autism. I worry that my husband will die of cancer. I worry about Alzheimer's for my parents, but I can push such fears aside with the knowledge that heart disease will probably get them first.

I worry about vaccines and I worry about not getting vaccines. That, my friends, is the stuff of an internal dialogue so vertiginous that I could puke just thinking about it. Sometimes I talk to my husband about my fears and he calls me crazy. That usually makes me feel better. Sometimes he agrees with me. That's when we're screwed.

The Boss, as always, is the voice of reason. She recently picked up on my paranoia of outside places when I was hemming and hawing about going to the store because, I rationalized, The Boss had a cough. Nevermind that the cough had been her only symptom for over a week. She'd gone to school every day on schedule and had a grand old time. She was fine. We all knew it. I just wanted an excuse to stay home.

"Don't worry, mommy," she said. She brought the bend of her elbow to her mouth, her round baby blues looking out at me pointedly over her arm. She made a small hacking sound in demonstration. "I cough always in the crook, and I wash my hands a lot."

I Can't Stop Laughing At This

Here I am circa 1987. If this doesn't exemplify my childhood, I don't know what does.

Our Photo Album

I came upon this snapshot during my futile search for photographic proof of the Cookie Monster sweatshirt. It was in an album of my early years. The same book is littered with photos of my mother, who was roughly the same age I am now. She was beautiful. She was unlined. She was unfettered by even one extra pound. She seemed happy enough.

I find it so hard to see the mother I know now in that Kodaked woman with the black, black hair. I find it even harder not to fear the future. What would she have thought if she could've looked into the time-weary eyes of some fortune teller and seen herself as I do? She could only have been incredulous. No way. No fucking way.

They were my formative years, but I think they shaped her, too. Being a wife and mother can teach you more than you ever imagined you'd learn about yourself. It can be the most rewarding role of your life. But it can also guide you--with a hand so gentle you'd never think it was holding you back--into so much rationalization and cover up that you fail to see how things could be any way other than they are. You can play the martyr so well that you become one.

I don't know what happened. I was sheltered from most of the details of my parents' lives by virtue of being their daughter. I know little bits here and there, but they only serve to emphasize that I know nothing. I grew up happy, along with my siblings, and maybe my mother thinks that's the only thing that matters. In fact, I know she does.

I look at the photo album and I have to disagree. My baby book isn't just about me, the baby. It's about my parents, too. It's about the early choices that made the rest of their lives.

Cookie Monster

Today's Cookie Monster theme on Google (it's the 30th anniversary of Sesame Street), along with reminding me that I'm getting older, brings to mind a childhood sweatshirt. It was white and worn. Memory makes it brighter than it probably was, donned so often by the grimy frame of me as a four year old. It had a blue band around the neckline and the wrists. It had Cookie Monster on the front.

That was my summer sweatshirt. I'd wear it at bedtime when there was no bed in sight. Staying up late enough to necessitate layers in mid-July was always a treat. The amusement park; the cottage on Lake George; the back yard, watching puppies being born. Darkness would fall and the sun-fade would herald the first phase of night, the one that plucked goosebumps from my unprotected skin as wind blew my parents' cares into gentle eddies that I couldn't see, even if I knew where to look.

Mom pulled the sweatshirt over my head. The cotton was pilled on the inside. The fabric was strange to touch, and even stranger to taste, grating against my teeth when I pulled the collar over my mouth. But the outside was smooth, and that's the part I enjoy remembering. Bright and white and blue.

One evening daddy came home and said "Let's go to the amusement park." I wore the sweatshirt then. One ride at the park featured several brightly colored motorcycles that thunk-thunked where each wooden plank connected to the next on a circular track. There were buzzers on all the bikes that blended into a cacophony of childish zealotry. There were lights in long lines--some blinking, some glaring--wrapping around canopies and climbing poles. I felt light. Riding on a stationary motorcycle at children's speed, I carried away those cares of my parents just like the wind. I hugged myself and rubbed two tiny forearms, content in Cookie Monster, ensconced in a lit summer night.

Looks Like the Mug Shot After a Baby Bender

Is this the face of H1N1? It would be alarmist of me to presume so. All I know for sure is that it's the face of a 104 temperature, body-shakin' chills, blue hands and feet, and one surly disposition. I'd write more, but my baby beckons...and that's one face only a mother can care for.

I Must Be Doing Something Right

Motherhood can be thankless, but my four year old daughter is not. Her manners are impeccable; her perspective, astute. One day we were riding in the car when she dropped her juice box. This is a story that illustrates my premise.

I leaned back from my seat on the front passenger side and reached blindly for the carton. My arm did a lot of flailing as the center console dug into my chest, which was protected only by the merest hint of cleavage-enhancing foam. I made an "umph" sound to ensure that my effort would be noted. A few more lunges awarded me the prize, and I waved it victoriously in The Boss's direction. She reached out from her five-point perch and grabbed the juice.

As I settled back into my seat, I heard the Boss's sweet "thanks, mom." This time I only had to crane my neck slightly to smile at her. She brought the juice box to her mouth, then paused before taking a sip. "You come in handy sometimes," she said.

Line of Sight

I see Number Two through the corner of my eye. It seems, too often now, that other things hold the bulk of my attention. I was looking at the computer printer when my second born took his first steps. Suddenly he was at my side, having taken not one, not two, but a stumbling number of strides I hadn't even noticed.

I talk with other mothers at the park, or climb a ladder at The Boss's directive, while my son stands mired in wood chips next to a swing. He's not verbal like his big sister was (and is). He does not demand attention with a smile and a laugh the way she always has. The Boss insists upon sharp focus; Number Two is peripheral.

He is short and strangely solid. He's never weighed much, but you wouldn't know it from looking at him sideways. His hair is white and his eyes are freaking huge. Sometimes when I don't expect him to be looking at me, I jump back from the shock of his scrutiny.

You don't have to look close to see his beauty. I embrace that now, though I used to pride myself on a lack of maternal delusion when it came to my children's physical attributes. I think most parents believe their children to be among the most beautiful specimens on the planet. With The Boss, I made it clear that I understood my daughter's rightful place in the order of things. Yes, she is above average; no, her face is not destined to launch a thousand ships. But whose is?

Now I realize that trying so hard to be impartial is tiring. When my gaze finally settles on Number Two at the end of the day, or maybe at odd intervals somewhere in the middle, I see the most handsome boy I have ever known. He looks a lot like his father, a bit like my brother.

In his wide eyes there's even something of me.

No Promises

It is that time again, wherein I post every day for a month to make up for posting only once during each 29-31 day cycle the rest of the year. I've participated in National Blog Posting Month (NaBloPoMo) several times now. Two separate Novembers ended in the fulfillment of my daily-posting obligation; only one November met with failure sometime around Thanksgiving. I'm confident that this year will be another success story.

Sometimes, though, confidence is misplaced and a little honesty would serve me better. I realize this in theory. The other day I witnessed a more practical approach.

My friend was frazzled at the library as she chased her four year old son and his wild friend who, she was startled to realize, had never before visited any hallowed institution of reading. The two boys--led by the unconsecrated one--tore through the aisles as they screamed and shrieked and demanded cartoon DVDs. My friend looked at The Boss, standing demurely in the children's book section, and weakly suggested a trade. I laughed a little too hard. Sometimes I lack empathy.

Finally, we all exited the library together. My friend's hair was actually standing up, the curls frizzing above brows gone berserk. I would've felt bad for her, but I knew the playdate would be over in a half hour.

"Boys, next time we come back to the library, you are going to have to be better behaved," she said.

I did a double take. Come back? Some people never learn.

Her son nodded his shaggy blond head as he climbed into his car seat. Then the other boy leapt over the center console into the driver's spot, where he grabbed the steering wheel and began to rev his verbal motor in the absence of the car key. Spit flew.

She prodded him. "Next time you'll have to be a bit quieter, and you'll have to walk more slowly."

He shrugged and, with a sure self-awareness that belied his four years, laid it on the line there in the parking lot. "No promises," he said. No promises.

The Freakin' Stink

It happened on the way home from The Partner's parents' house. Apparently, they fed me something they shouldn't have. I let one loose in the midst of a car load consisting of The Partner, The Boss, Number Two, the dog, and me, the fart queen. The odor made its way back to The Boss.

"Ewww! What is that freakin' stink?" she yelled. "What is it? What's the freakin' stink?"

I tried to decide whether to laugh hysterically or to suggest that she reevaluate her word choice. Instead, I indulged the conversation. "It was me. I farted."

"Oh, so you're the freakin' stink," she said. Then, because she's nothing if not supportive: "That's okay. I still love you."

The Boss: In It to Win It

I have no idea what The Boss knows. I haven't got any context for this four year old girl and the way in which she assigns meaning to the world around her. Hints come out only in cryptic bits.

"I don't want to go to heaven. I want to live more," she told me as we watched an HBO Family show that broached the topic of death in a segment on dreamcatchers. "I want to live more than ever."

I nodded. She was nestled in the microsuede loveseat across from me. I was on the sofa, where the leather crackled beneath me as I pulled my feet in close to my seat. It was cold. I rubbed my hands together, less in heated promise than in prayer. I am always searching for the words. "You will," I said. Yeah, that's good, I thought to myself. I nodded again. "You will."

Do Re Mi on the Loudspeakers, or, Aunt Flo Has Left the Building

I was crying in front of the laptop, moved to tears by the viral video of 200 people dancing to The Sound of Music's Do Re Mi at a train station in Antwerp. From the first splash of the salt-laced liquid on my desk, I had to wonder what the hell was wrong with me. I cried and contemplated, unable to enjoy the strange wonder of the moment.

A quick assessment of the facts didn't lead to me to any conclusions: a catchy tune reverberating from loudspeakers across a huge expanse of stone and marble; people going about their business; a few of them breaking into dance; more and more joining in; and, finally, a whole lotta happiness! As it ended, I remained in front of my computer, stumped. I couldn't understand why my emotions needed out of my body so badly because of a bunch of Belgians.

That's when the first of two truths became evident. The logical idea of questioning my hormones reminded me immediately that it was, indeed, almost that time of the month. My visit to the loo a few minutes later proved that it was exactly that time of the month. I felt strangely proud of the fact that my mind was so in tune with my body that I could pinpoint just when my monthly need for Tampax would commence. I am nothing if not self-aware.

The second truth--what is left when I consider that even hormones need some basis in logic with which to operate--is that I love spectacle. I love boardwalks with neon lights flashing and amusement rides twirling in the hot night. I love propagandist montages with soaring eagles and black and white photos of immigrants. I love gospel choirs. I'd love the circus if it didn't smell so bad. I am putty in the hands of those seeking to play with people's emotion. I love a parade!

It's a nice video. It would have something for all the senses, if only one could feel the grime of the train station and smell the body odor of 600 Europeans. It filled me to the brim with happiness, forcing out these womanly tears of the temporarily insane. But so what if I'm a little nuts. Worse things have happened. Worse things will continue to happen. And when they do, spectacles like these that will remind me that it is still possible to be overcome by something good.

Put Down the Phone

It was the end of a day full of errands as The Partner, the kids and I traveled up a two lane state highway toward home. This particular stretch of semi-bucolic road is known as a death trap due, in part, to exorbitant levels of traffic that would be better routed elsewhere. Construction began in 1971 on an expressway to alleviate the congestion, but was halted because of lack of funding. The half-baked expressway ends abruptly in my town, with traffic forced to exit before the weedy approach to an overpass that leads nowhere.

It's imperative to stay in one's own lane in the best of circumstances; on this road, it's the only means of survival. There WILL be oncoming traffic. On this trip home, we were following a young driver who, apparently, didn't get that email. And it wasn't for lack of it being sent through his BlackBerry.

The car swerved slightly into the oncoming lane. It's to early to be drunk, I thought, though I know the laws of probability didn't mean it wasn't possible. The car swerved again, right next to an SUV sailing by in the other direction.

"I bet that asshole is texting," The Partner said.

We followed the car for five or so miles until the intersection that serves as the center of our town, and as a busy thoroughfare between towns much larger. Both cars stopped at the traffic light side by side as we lined up to turn right. The other car's passenger side window was open. The Partner rolled down his.

"Put down the phone!" The Partner yelled.

A tow headed teenager was caught in mid-grin as he chuckled at a message on the cell in his hand. He jolted, searching for the source of the directive. The boy clutched his phone as he focused in on us, agape.

"You were all over the road back there!" Evidently, this young man had never been spoken to like that. He could do nothing but stare. The phone hovered.

"PUT DOWN THE FUCKING PHONE!"

The boy jumped, the cell coming to a rest in the center console. The light changed. We drove off in separate directions.

If The Partner's reaction seems overblown and indicative of supreme road rage, there may be some truth to that conclusion. But more pressing in The Partner's mind were the images of a YouTube video he saw recently that graphically depicts a car accident resulting from a young driver texting while driving. I haven't seen it--won't watch it--but The Partner told me as much as I could handle. He said it showed a small child in the backseat, strapped into a a carseat behind two dead parents. Then a tiny voice: "Mommy, daddy, wake up!"

That is what gets The Partner. That is the only thing that melts his heart of ice. Every tiny voice is The Boss's, every baby girl is his. As far as the protection of his daughter is concerned, his is a primal rage, on the road or anywhere else.

Put down the fucking phone.

Me Time

Parenting young children requires a selflessness that is more apparent in its whole than its parts. On any given day, I don't necessarily recognize that my every act is dependent upon one of the subordinates running around at my feet. I might grab a cup of coffee and think it's about me, or read a chapter from a book and feel renewed. I might even get out for an evening with the Partner. But I know that, looking back on it when I am in the position to do so, I will understand that there was a span of 10+ years during which I was not myself. I was the mother of small children.

I define my personal time by small pleasures. For the road: one medium iced coffee, one sugar, skim milk. I drive scenic routes through our rural Connecticut environs for the sake of peace and quiet. I listen to the Howard Stern Show if the situation is right (e.g. the child(ren) in the car are under the age of 2 and/or not sufficiently verbal to rat me out to anyone). At home, I sneak in some HGTV. After the kids go to bed, I might drink wine from a box (it's come a long way) or bourbon and Coke. Through it all, I read at random moments.

The bigger projects are done in fits and starts, while the kids are sleeping, or at school, or the TV is on. It’s so haphazard. I make plans for myself that aren't kid-related and I wonder how I will get them done. I'm sure that, a few years from now, I'll see this period even more clearly for the personal impasse that it is and be amazed that I accomplished anything at all.

Research for my novel happens while Number Two naps or when The Partner can stay home to watch the kids. I coordinate the production of a quarterly town magazine that is about to cease publication because I cannot be the editor, business manager and layout designer all at once. For free. At morning meetings or in scattered moments after noon, I help run a club that gives other parents of younger children an outlet for themselves and their kids.

This morning Number Two threw his arms around my leg while I fried up two eggs in the kitchen. I think he said "I love you."

These days are busy and full. They aren't mine, but that's fine. One day I'll have time for me again, and that's precisely when I'll begin to look longingly at exactly what I have now: a quick coffee from the Keurig; sheets of paper strewn about my office covered in ideas for plot and characterization; one load in the washer, one in the dryer, four on the floor; and a growing baby clinging to my right calf, reminding me exactly why the best moments of my life aren't about me at all.

Undefined Value

A group of women got to talking about life insurance coverage. Who has it, who doesn't. I mentioned that my husband, at my urging, finally bucked up and purchased a policy for himself, but that I do not personally have one. The latter fact is based on The Partner's assertion that I have no monetary value, which is a supportable (and sad) assertion once one does the math. I am currently raising my kids and working on a novel; neither gig promises a big payoff anytime soon.

Some of these women were confounded by this logic, and probably more than a little offended by the idea that stay-at-home moms are construed by some as having no value. The added cost of child care alone, they said, was enough justification for purchasing a policy in my name.

I brought the issue to The Partner before I responded to the group. Not wanting to put words in his mouth, and not wanting to spew out that kind of shit in my own name, I looked for a quote. He chose his words carefully. He knew this would end up on the Internet.

"You used the words 'no value' and that's not true," he said. "It's just that your value is not high enough that it justifies the additional insurance premiums."

Oh, right. I nodded. Please go on.

"I make enough money that, if you were not around, there would be extra costs but it would be within my means."

I nodded again. He saw my skepticism and he leaned back in a shrug that said sorry, but I can't fight facts.

"Having a lot of insurance just means that people have a vested interest in your death." He smiled apologetically. "You should be happy that you're not insured. You're worth more to me alive than dead."

I laughed. A lot. Long and hard.

He kills me.