Every evening, my daughter tells me when she would like to wake up. Last Thursday, she told me to wake her at 5 a.m. so that she would be awake by 6 a.m. to study for a test. I have no idea why it takes her an hour to wake up, but it’s her beauty sleep so I go along.
Five a.m. I woke her, saying “Sweetie, it’s 5 o’clock.”
“I’m tired!” she groused.
Five fifteen. “Peanut, it’s time to get up.” Grousing was the reply.
Five thirty. “You told me you wanted to me to wake you at five. It’s five thirty.” Again, grousing.
Five forty five. “Leave me alone!” was the reply.
At six a.m., I told her it was six a.m. and went downstairs to make my tea, telling her I was going downstairs to make my tea. I left her grousing self to get dressed.
At seven a.m., I came up stairs. (Even at seven, she had plenty of time to study.) I was greeted like this:
“IT’S SEVEN O’CLOCK!! I’M GOING TO FAIL MY TEST!!! YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO WAKE ME UP!”
“Sweetie, I tried waking you up for an hour.”
‘NO, YOU DIDN’T!!! A NORMAL MOM WOULD HAVE GOTTEN ME OUT OF BED!!!!”
Confused, I said, “What was I supposed to do that I didn’t do? I tried to wake you up and you kept telling me you were too tired.”
“If you were a regular mom,” she said, “you would have said, ‘GET YOUR ASS OUT OF BED!’ ”
I recently attended an event in which my daughter flipped her body around in ways that frighten me. In other words: a gymnastics demonstration. My son had to attend as well, much to his dismay. Rather than watch his sister perform, he sulked in the hall. Performance over, we headed to the car along with daughter’s friend and her mother. My son was nowhere to be seen.
There is someone in the house. I don’t have to see or hear them. I know by the way my skin prickles and my brain reels. There is someone in the house besides me. I feel his molecules, because I know it’s a man, invading my space making it impossible for me to work. I feel seen, observed. I feel this way every time my husband takes vacation days.
The problem isn’t that he’s in my hair, though it feels like he’s in my hair. The problem is that he’s here at all. He’s actually leaving me alone. Most of the time you wouldn’t even know he’s here. Except that he’s here. When I leave my office to warm my tea or let the dog out or have a snack, there he is. And he’s doing nothing while I’m trying to do something. I go to my office and he doesn’t follow me but I still can’t work. It’s like the molecules he breathes seek me out and watch my every move.
You’d think that feeling observed like this would make me more productive, but it doesn’t. My husband likes my writing, he supports my writing, but I can’t do it in front of him or his molecules. So I check Facebook, then email, then read other bloggers’ posts. I comment and check Facebook again. I go back to email to see if the blogger has responded to my witty comment and the cycle begins again.
This morning, while I was cleaning the kitchen, he woke and came downstairs. I had spent the morning listening to my daughter wail about how she’d ruined her model of the atomic structure of the iron atom. She wailed about it for fifteen minutes then mysteriously stopped wailing. “I didn’t ruin it after all,” she said gaily. I sighed. She went to school.
I had about a half hour in silence. I like silence. Even the dog knows I like silence and only barks when absolutely necessary. Normally, I have hours and hours of silence. But not this week.
I’ve been tolerant of having another human in my silent house. And, really, my husband has been considerate, only engaging me when I’m within a ten-foot radius. He even listens to his music with noise-canceling headphones.
This morning, though, he interrupted my kitchen cleaning ritual with dialogue from 1934’s The Scarlet Pimpernel.
I like the movie; we like the movie. We quote the dialogue to each other, particularly the idiotic poem Leslie Howard pens as the foppish Sir Percy Blakeney, who is actually the infamous Pimpernel, fearless rescuer of French nobility following the Revolution. The poem begins like this:
They seek him here,
They seek him there.
Those Frenchies seek him everywhere.
It goes on, ending with “That damned elusive Pimpernel.”
Today, I rose at 7 a. m. with The Empress of the Fine Chinese Whine. My vacationing husband rose at 10 a.m. and came down for his morning coffee. He was cheerful. He was quoting the Scarlet Pimpernel poem, he thought.
“They seek him high,” he said. “They seek him low. Those Frenchies know not. . .”
“Stop yourself!” I said. “You’re doing it wrong! I think I’ve been pretty good about you being here all week, putting up with your molecules all up in my face, but you have no idea how the poem goes!”
To his credit, he stopped. To my credit, I poured a cup of tea, went to my office, closed the door, and wrote about how my husband’s molecules, supportive and understanding as they are, drive me crazy when they aren’t supposed to be here in my solitude.
Next week, he’ll be back at work and so will I. Alone. In silence. Now, though, my teacup is empty and I’m hoping the Scarlet Pimpernel isn’t waiting for me in the kitchen.
I’m torn. November used to just be the month of turkey, cranberries and raking leaves. Now, though, November seems to have developed a split personality and both of those personalities are calling me.
November is National Adoption Month. My family was built through adoption; many of you know I’ve written about the idiotic things people say about adoption and adoptees. I promise I’ll write more about adoption this month, and not everything will be snide. Really. I can do it. You’ll just have to trust me.
November is also Movember, a month devoted to raising awareness of prostate cancer and male mental health issues. I have my own mental health issues to deal with, so I’ll stick to prostate cancer for this post.
I first heard of Movember through a magnificent™ Canadian blogger, Le Clown. “Movember” combines the words moustache and November, because participants raise awareness of prostate cancer by growing moustaches.
Because I learned of Movember through a Canadian, I assumed it was started by Canadians. Turns out Movember is an Australian brainchild. Now, though, Movember is a worldwide movement. While I don’t have a prostate, I do have a few men in my life, including my husband.
Like all cancers, prostate cancer is best treated in the early stages, but prostate cancer screening is controversial. My husband’s doctor uses PSA tests; your doctor might not. I asked my husband about his adventures in prostate cancer screening solely as an example.
Me: Why did you have to have that biopsy of your prostate?
Him: Because my PSA was high.
Me: That’s all?
Him: No, my prostate was enlarged . . .
Me: He knew that from, you know, sticking his finger . . .
Him: Yes! God! Stop!
Me: Ok, so ewwwww. That’s all? He just put his finger in and knew?
Him: Will you stop!? No! I couldn’t pee.
Me: What do you mean you couldn’t pee? I hear you pee in the middle of the night all the time. Are you saying you sleep pee?
Him: No, but you might have noticed peeing takes about a week. Since drinking water is also recommended for my health, each glass of water extends my time in the bathroom by another day. (He does, indeed, take an inordinate amount of time peeing.)
Me: Ok. So you needed the biopsy. What was that like?
Him: It was like someone put a tiny AK47 in me and sprayed the inside of my ass with bullets.
Me: (hysterical laughing) Ok. Did you have to ask for the screening?
Him: No. It was just part of my yearly exam.
All with my husband’s end ended well but he and I have reached the age when humiliating exams need to be undertaken on a yearly basis. He gets a finger in his butt and I get a mammogram. I try to convince him that having your boobs squashed flat in three different positions on both sides is far more of a trial than having one itty bitty finger inserted in his down there. He’s not buying it.
There are many ways to make a statement this Movember:
• grow a mustache and let everyone know why
• donate to Movember or your favorite cancer foundation
and, if you have a prostate,
• talk to your doctor about prostate cancer screening.
Halloween in Chicago is a dicey affair. You’re as likely to have foul weather as fair, but most often, the kids are trick or treating in hat, coat and mitten weather.
My daughter has chosen a vampire costume. It’s really kind of cute, complete with cape and stand-up collar. And it is sleeveless. Mommy would have made a very nice costume with nice warm long sleeves, but Mommy is big and dumb. All of Mommy’s ideas suck.
Big Dumb Mom: You should wear a long sleeve shirt under it. I’m afraid you’ll be cold.
Daughter: That’s dumb, Big Dumb Mom. Your ideas suck. (Ok, she didn’t really say that, but I can’t remember what sass came out of her mouth.)
Big Dumb Mom: Well, what will you do about the cold?
Daughter: I’ll just have to suffer the consequences of being cute.
Note: My kids say funny stuff, too is based on the fact that many, many moms have funny kids and post the funny things they say, but I owe a debt of gratitude to crudmykidssay.wordpress.com
Hers is one of the best funny kid stuff blogs out there and I’m humbled by her hilarious offspring.
If things go as planned, I will be able to remove the last child proofing device remaining in our home this afternoon. Reason? Our cat, Oliver, will no longer be living with us. Oliver is on his way to a new home, one that can afford his veterinary care.
We have the lock on our cabinet because Oliver loves nothing more than breaking things, especially glass and china. Before the cabinet lock was installed, a favorite Oliver activity was jumping on the kitchen counter, opening the cabinet where drinking glasses are stored and, with one swipe of his paw, dumping the contents on the floor. Hence, cabinet lock.
Astounding as Oliver’s antics appear, they are mere trifles. A blogging friend wrote recently that her baby daughter likes to gnaw on mini-blinds. I had a dog that ate one. This friend and her other baby-wrangling friend are dreading what happens when the Christmas tree goes up. I have a dog that ate a string of Christmas lights.
I think these parents worrying about mini-blinds and Christmas lights are so cute. Sure, one needs to be aware of the dangers these impose, as well as glass coffee tables, staircases, unlocked liquor cabinets and other baby magnets.
But there are so many more dangers lurking in your house, people. So many more.
There’s the oven.
My son didn’t crawl much. The first time he tried, he went backwards. Rather than repeatedly practicing to get it right, he bided his time until he had the muscle strength to walk. We installed gates at the staircases to the basement and the upstairs, of course. This, in effect, restricted our son to destroying playing on the first floor. He discovered the oven and, within moments, discovered how to open it and climb in. Fun!
The first oven lock adhered to the side of the oven and required two hands to achieve oven openage. This was defeated approximately half an hour after installation. The second lock had to be ordered. It successfully defeated all opening efforts.
There’s the toilet.
Oven opening off the tour of terror, my son discovered the toilet.
All manner of things went into the potty, none of them vaguely related to pee or pooh. Cars, toothbrushes, tub toys. Again, a lock was installed. Again, it was defeated. Then our son discovered flushing. It is very expensive to have a plumber remove a flushed washcloth.
There’s the bathroom door.
His efforts at opening things thwarted, my son began closing things. Doors, in particular, were fun to shut, providing an irresistible form of peek-a-boo. Door open? There’s Mommy! Door closed? No more Mommy! Door open, door closed, door open, door closed. Fun!
Then there was the day the door closed . . .and locked. From the inside. In an old house. Built at a time when people expected privacy, not 18-month olds on overdrive.
For a while, my husband and I tried to get our son to unlock the door, reasoning that if he could flip it one way, he could flip it the other. While he couldn’t, it was clear that talking to Mommy and Daddy through the door was a blast. Fun!
Then we tried removing the door from its hinges. Daddy wrote funny pictures on a piece of paper and passed them through the bottom of the door while Mommy tried to remove the door. Daddy is a terrible artist; every thing he draws looks like a penis. Fun!
Silly Mommy discovered that hinges are not on the outside of doors. Figuring if they can get a cat out of a tree, they can get my son out of the john, I called the fire department.
Within minutes, at least four firemen, a police squad car and a hook and ladder truck arrived at our house, along with every neighbor within a quarter mile. Daddy continued to push penis pictures under the bathroom door while a fireman, boosted to the second floor (Oh, didn’t I say this was the second floor bathroom? Silly Mommy! Of course it was!), attempted to open the window. Fun!
Then it became not fun. A child can only pass so many penis pictures back and forth under the door. And having a strange man banging at the bathroom window did nothing to calm our son. He began to cry.
“What would you like to do, Ma’am?” said the police officer. “Should they break the window?”
“No,” I said, envisioning my baby covered in broken glass. “Keeping trying to open the window.” My son kept crying.
So, they tried to open the window. And they tried to open the window. My son cried harder.
“Ma’am,” the police officer said, “Your son is hysterical.”
“Break the window!” I cried.
I heard glass break and my son stop crying, then “It’s ok, little guy. It’s ok.”
I didn’t see the ladder descend and I don’t know if my husband did. The aftermath of the escapade isn’t burned into my brain, except for the sobbing release when I knew my son was all right.
So, parents, get your cabinet locks, your coffee table cushions, the door knob-defeaters, and the staircase gates. But don’t forget to take pictures when the hook and ladder truck arrives.
A little political humor. My daughter is 10. Those of you who have or had 10-year old daughters, I accept your pity.
We were all gathered in the kitchen, getting ready to eat dinner. My daughter was shrieking like a professional wailer at a funeral. We have become quite accustomed to these outbursts.
“What’s she crying about now?” I asked.
“Obamacare,” my son responded. “She has all these mixed emotions about Mitt Romney and Obamacare.”
Occasionally, I rebel against the mashed potato and un-sauced meat diet that keeps my family fed. Then, I go to the hot food and salad bars at Whole Foods and pile a mish-mash of green things into a box to eat while the heathens make their daily sacrifice to the Gods of Meat.
Recently, my son looked inquiringly at my plate. “Whatcha got there?” he asked. Because hope truly does spring eternal, I jumped at the chance to introduce him to foods without hooves.
“Well,” I said, “This is cole slaw, that’s tofu and this is broccoli.”
He didn’t turn away, so I continued on a tour of my dinner plate.
“This is quinoa salad and that, with the yogurt, is falafel.”
He looked at me and said, “Now you’re just making up words.”
We joke in our house that Dad thinks he’s funny, but he really isn’t. Every now and then, though, he’ll crack me up. Witness:
My husband loves sports, but he hates sports broadcasting. I don’t care about the sports he cares about, but we pretend to listen to each other. We were discussing the Chicago Marathon, which has been named the Bank of America Chicago Marathon. The announcers proclaimed it the 35th Annual Bank of America Chicago Marathon. We, being the nit-pickers that we are, noted that while we had witnessed the 35th Chicago Marathon, it was not the 35th Bank of America Marathon. We’re annoying that way. My husband then went on a diatribe (he has a Ph.D. He doesn’t rant; he diatribes) about the rampant use of endorsements.
“You wouldn’t believe it!” he said. “When a relief pitcher comes into a game, they call it the ‘Rolaid’s Relief’ pitcher.”
“What’s next?” he continued, “The Kotex Cotton Bowl?”
Snide Reply 