ad hoc MOM

Mar3I’m On a Highway to Where?
Paula

Well, hell apparently.  According to Angus Young of AC/DC anyway.  I’m usually not the superstitious type, but this upcoming move to New Jersey has me looking for meaning in absolutely everything.  The temperature is 42 degrees in Jersey and I really like that number. . . clearly moving is a good idea!  The train ride to our town is 29 minutes. . .  I met my husband when I was 29, we met on the 29th of January and our daughter was born on the 29th of February.  Obviously we were meant to live here!  All of our hopes and dreams will come true in New Jersey!  Our daughter will cure cancer and then become the first woman President!  This is how anxious I am about leaving my beloved borough of Brooklyn.  As of this month I’ve lived here 15 years.  During that time I’ve done some crazy things.  I had some bad haircuts, worn some terrible clothes and undeniably made some poor choices.  But Brooklyn is also where I grew up.  I eventually got a little bit wiser, started to make some better decisions, met my husband, got married, and some how ended up being someone’s mother.  Okay, you get it.  Conflict!  Moving is scary!  But today I decided I was going to face one of the scariest parts of this move.  I was going to get in our new car and drive it to the grocery store.  People in Brooklyn drive like maniacs, and it’s intimidating for a person who hasn’t been behind the wheel in five years.  I made it to the store without incident.  In fact, I actually in enjoyed it.  The ride back was even better because I was finally loosening up. . . so much that at a red light I decided to turn on the radio to the classic rock station.  What was playing?  HIGHWAY TO HELL by AC/DC.  Nice.  Am I on a highway to hell?  Maybe.  Maybe I am.  But for now I’m just going to roll down the window, turn up the volume and go for another drive.

This Subaru Forrester and I thought we were on our way to Fairway to buy groceries, but apparently we were on a “highway to hell.”

Oh, and yeah – how about you all make my day and click that fancy CIRCLE OF MOMS FAVORITE button over to the left?  It will take you to the place where you can vote for adhocMOM.  Seriously, please?  Yeah, I’m begging.

Filed Under: Fear, Insanity, My Neuroses
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6 Comments

 
Feb28Happy Birthday, But Don’t Harsh My Mellow
Carrie

A couple of things are conspiring against my post today: I’m exhausted from being at home with the kids by myself all week, my computer seems to be dying and it’s my son’s third birthday today! The presents are all wrapped, the cupcakes have been made, and we are ready for a good birthday today. That being said, I only have one bar left on my battery and I’m desperate to climb into bed.

It’s times like this, I dream of a modern, clean, sparsely furnished home–something to really take the edge of a rough spell. I need an oasis–free from clutter and an open floor plan. Kind of like….this:

It’s the doll house we got for the little guy’s birthday. OK, maybe he’ll be mad one day that I’m calling it a doll house. It’s an experiential free play canvas? Whatever you call it, it’s my new dream home. The trouble is: I find myself a little too invested in how he’s placing the furniture in his new digs. He’s harshing my mellow. Can a three year old really be experienced enough to handle all of the responsibility a home like this demands?

To wit:

The master bed has been moved precariously into the bathroom and that lego man looks like a drunken, passed out frat boy who just puked.

There’s a scared looking cat under the stairs and I feel my allergies acting up already.

That firefighter in the lower left hand corner looks like he’s panicking and is about to cause a whole lot of water damage fighting a non-existent fire.

The whole scene is stressing me out so much, I might have to commandeer the doll house and take over the decorating responsibilities. Once I come up with a set up that matches my dream home fantasy, I’m going to crazy glue everything in place.

I think, once he sees my vision, he’ll get behind it and not mind so much that mom stole his big ticket present for her own stress relieving activity. He’ll be one year older, and a heck of a lot wiser when it comes to messing with mom’s aesthetic serenity.

Happy Birthday, little man and I’m sorry you had to see me like this.

Filed Under: Cleanliness, Disorganization, Insanity
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7 Comments

 
Feb21Age Rage: How Did I Get So Old?
Carrie

OK, my title is a little hyperbolic. I’m only 38, which by most people’s standards is perfectly average. Not old, not young. But a couple of things happened over the past week that made me feel a little crazy about how fast the past ten years have gone by. I don’t quite remember the moment when I left my “youth” and started living as a middle-aged person. But suddenly, everywhere, there were clues that it had, in fact, happened.

1. I tried to join an organization that offered an enticing discounted fee for those 35 and under. I didn’t qualify. I needed to go ahead and pay the higher fee. I thought: “EXCUUUUUUUUSE me? Do you know WHO I AM?” I wanted to explain that I was young at heart, kind of like those guys and gals in the movie Cocoon. I was old-er, but in the most IRONIC way possible. Then I thought “Just keep your mouth shut and fork over the cash.”

2. I Ioaded up my iTunes with lots of songs that were either from a past era or sung by young people. I had my regular outing without husband and kids on Saturday and took along my iPod. I walked around the city of my youth, parka hood on and music blasting in my headphones for a couple of hours. I felt invincible and relevant. Then I caught a glimpse of my reflection in a store window. People must have been looking at me thinking: “Oh look–there’s a 38-year-old mom going on some errands without her kids. I bet she’s listening to the Indigo Girls**. HAHAHAHAHA.”
** for the record I was/would not.

3. Unfortunately/fortunately, I happen to live in the exact neighborhood that I grew up in. Memories of my youth are everywhere: pizza parlors, factory smells, schoolyards. I ran into an acquaintance from high school. I felt 15 again. Awkward, flummoxed. But then the feelings got worse. I felt…mortified! What was I thinking leaving the house looking all 38 and everything? So embarrassing!

4. I put on some music for my son. I started dancing. The thing is, I love to dance. I used to be kind of good at it–at least in the way that I wouldn’t look like a total dork doing it. I can remember the feeling of dancing well. What happened in my living room the other day could not ever be described as good or cool in anyway. My limbs’ movements do not correlate with my brain’s intention. I’m a total mom dancer and I only have a couple of years left before both of my sons demand, red-faced, that I stop immediately.

UGH! So here I am: a not young person. What am I going to do about it? The past is gone forever. So what if I flipped the script? Instead of wishing that I looked and felt younger, what if I envisioned a totally awesome and enticing future for myself as an old lady? What if instead of wanting to STOP time, I anxiously awaited the passing of the years? All I needed were some positive visualizations–some role models.

The next time I feel completely awash in grief for the younger person I once was, I’m going to look at my future self. I could be an unassuming English gentlewoman who just so happens to be the most kick-ass crime-solving sleuth without a badge this side of the Thames. Or a morally loose lady named Alexis living in Denver, scheming and smoking cigarillos and hating on a lady named Krystle. Or a luminous stage actress with piercing blue eyes that shine with experience and romance. Or a television and film star who can play gritty crime drama like nobody’s business, but who also happens to look amazeballs in a bikini. I guess, actually, all I really have to be is…British.

So how about you: who are you going to stop wishing you were and who are you going to start striving to be?

Filed Under: Life Lessons, Milestones, Musings
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13 Comments

 
Feb14Happy St. Dashed Hopes Day!
Carrie

I HOPE YOU GUYS ARE AS EXCITED ABOUT VALENTINE’S DAY AS I AM!!!!

Yeah, right. Anyway–I drew the short stick today by having my weekly post scheduled on Valentine’s Day. Don’t expect any incredibly cute craft ideas or optimistic messages of the hallmark variety from me.  I thought long and hard about what I wanted to write about today and I hope you are as enthused as I am about today’s topic: dashed hopes. So, if this post isn’t lovey dovey, what is it?  Nothing short of  relevant, insightful and low in cholesterol.

The object of my disappointment? That old friend I used to call “the weekend.”  The weekend  used to be a time to sleep late, take in a movie, get some fresh air, and to pole vault my professional stature into the stratosphere. These days, Saturday and Sunday feel like a regular old weekday, except with no school and no babysitter. Behold, the weekend of downward spirals: where expectations flow the way of a toilet flush.

This weekend, I hoped to go grocery shopping for nutritious ingredients for a week of healthy eating. I came home with an assortment of juice boxes, macaroni and cheese mixes and cookie dough.

My husband hoped to change all the dead light bulbs in the house. Instead, he shocked himself so badly from a faulty light fixture that he collapsed into a heap on the floor and felt the need to go take a nap right afterwards, complaining of a tingly arm and a sore chest on his way up the stairs.

I intended to go pick up my prescription refills at the pharmacy. Now, I’m making my own placebo meds out of life savers in the hopes I can carry myself over until the time the pharmacy opens on Monday.

I wanted to make a million phone calls to friends I desperately need to catch up with. Instead, I had strange dreams of acquaintances I’d rather forget forever.

I wanted to do my laundry. I gathered it up in a huge bag only to realize I had nothing left to wear. I dumped it all out and cherry picked the least dirty of the bunch. This game could go on all week.

So what about you? What didn’t you get done this weekend?

Love and kisses, your friends at AHM. If your day is filled with dashed hopes, let it also be filled with chocolate.

Filed Under: Life Lessons, Rants, Uncategorized
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15 Comments

 
Jan263 Very Good Reasons Why I’m Afraid to Drive
Paula

My family is getting ready to say good-bye to New York City’s finest borough and Hello to the garden state. It’s a crazy mixed bag of emotions.  We’ll have more space and a yard (big pluses!).  But we’re naturally sad to be leaving all of the wonderful things Brooklyn has to offer (like our friends).  And today, as my friends were emailing back and forth about an afternoon play date, it hit me that in a couple of months, to get to said play date I WILL ACTUALLY HAVE TO GET IN A CAR AND DRIVE.  Now driving may sound really basic to most of you.  “Big whoop!” your inner seventh grader might say.  But asking me to drive is kind of like asking me to perform triple bypass surgery.  It’s something I simply have no business doing.  Even though I grew up in Wisconsin and didn’t move to New York City until I was 24, I have NEVER owned a car in my entire life.  I’ve driven exactly THREE times in fifteen years:

I risked my life, and that of a small station wagon to see Nicole Kidman in this movie.  What was I thinking? ©Warner Brothers

1999

I was briefly unemployed so it was decided that I would drive then boyfriends car from Cobble Hill to the Pavilion movie theatre in Park Slope because we just had to see EYES WIDE SHUT that night and needed tickets (obviously this is pre-Fandango).  The owner of this car was a somewhat particular person, and I was well aware that there was potential for this venture to end badly.  Scratch/dent + car = FIGHT? Yet his faith in me that I could make this journey (i.e. drive one mile) without dying or destroying the car was semi-charming, and I was hell bent on getting us tickets to a 12-hour film where you get to see Nicole Kidman pee.  I drove over two curbs, spent 45 minutes parking on a completely empty street where I was laughed at by a fat 12-year-old on bike who told me “I suck.”  If you’re wondering why I didn’t take the F-train. . . I know!  It’s a totally legitimate question.

2001

One of my best friends is getting married tomorrow.  In Pittsburgh.  I’m supposed to drive out with a friend who owns a car, but at the last minute she can’t go (wtf?).  A swell guy I just started dating agrees to drive to Pittsburgh with me.  The guy is working on a deadline so I have to pick up the rental car in the East Village and drive it to his office.  Okay.  That’s like 30 + blocks right?  Totally manageable!  NOT MANAGEABLE.  During that short drive several thousand bikes fly in front of me, I nearly hit like 100 babies, and a taxi stops to let someone out directly in front of me every 3 seconds.  I’m HYSTERICAL by the time I reach 32nd street.  Worse.  I CANNOT PULL OVER. I am Clark Griswold.  Like the scene in “European Vacation?” I cannot “get left” and am completely unable to pull over to pick up cute guy.  Circle block 300 times before am able to stop.  Vow never to drive again.

2005

Am breaking vow not to drive under most desperate emergency circumstances.  Husband (married guy who drove me to Pittsburgh!) has broken his knee while ice skating (I made him do it so sorry so sorry so sorry). . . in a blizzard. . . at a romantic hotel upstate.  Because I am THE WORST driver in the world and also apparently the WORST wife ever, he has driven his broken body back to Brooklyn to be x-rayed and put in a full body cast (I exaggerate only slightly).  Since he is now immobilized and is totally on drugs, I am forced to drive through blizzard to our apartment.  I’m kind of glad it’s snowing so hard because it’s reasonable for me to be driving 2 miles per hour.  Lucky for him he is too hocked up on the narcotics to see how badly his wife sucks at driving.  Oops!  Was that someone’s dog?

I never intended to be one of those women who can’t drive.  It’s not 1932 for Christ’s sake!  I moved here and fell in love with the subway.  I mean, you can actually read while on the subway. .  who wouldn’t love that?  But now I have a small child and the Garden State Parkway to contend with.  I’m terrified, and I imagine you are too after reading this.  But please know I’ll be careful – the stakes are much higher than movie tickets this time, even if I did get to see Nicole Kidman pee.

Filed Under: Life Lessons, My Neuroses
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11 Comments

 
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