ad hoc MOM

Feb10Sometimes I Should Actually Just Listen To My Husband
Paula

June and I like to reminisce.  We’ll sit back on the sofa, open up iphoto (because I’m a terrible mother and we have exactly ONE photo album that has about 15 real photos of her) and look at her baby pictures.  Today a photo of herself at just about age two and her dad on the subway was of particular interest.  I completely agreed with her that it was cute, until I remembered when I took it.  We were on our way to her friend Eli’s second birthday party, and June was at the awkward stage where she’s getting too heavy to be carried down the subway steps in a stroller, but still too little to walk more than 30 feet.  Peter thought we should try traveling without a stroller.  OUR SPASTIC TODDLER LOOSE ON THE SUBWAY?  I immediately envisioned a NY1 headline.  NEGLECTFUL MOTHER LOSES CHILD TO SATANIC CULT BECAUSE SHE TOOK HER TODDLER ON SUBWAY WITHOUT A STROLLER AND OF COURSE SHE RAN OUT OF THE TRAIN CAR THE SECOND THE DOORS OPENED AND WAS NEVER SEEN AGAIN.  WHAT DID THESE STUPID PEOPLE EXPECT?  I was about two seconds away from calling my primary care physician and begging for an emergency klonopin prescription before getting on the 2/3 train.  Anyone who knows us knows that Peter is the rational half of the pair.  He finally convinced me that literally hundreds of thousands of New Yorkers (really, that many???) take their children on the subway every single day without incident.  I demanded proof, but he said there wasn’t time, and it’s true that June was getting restless – which was ultimately just going to add danger to the trip.  Bottom line was we made it.  And he was right – in the end, everything was okay and it really did make a cute picture.

Several cocktails were consumed after this death defying act known as “riding the subway.”

Filed Under: Life Lessons, Milestones, My Neuroses, Worries
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Feb8When Ghosts of Christmas Future Come A-Callin’ There Might Be Pie
Tonya

So in a Christmas Carol-esque nightmare, probably caused by too much cough syrup, too little sleep and a few too many glasses of I’m-sure-this-cheap-red-wine-will-cure-anything, I imagined myself as my kid(s) grew older. Where would I be and what would I be doing as they went off to big boy/girl school, playdates and afterschool gigs? I certainly will NOT be cooking wholesome meals, I can barely look in the direction of the kitchen without breaking out into hives and by the returned glare of the oven I’m pretty sure he feels the same way about me. His name is Carl…Creepy Carl the Cooking Thingy. Stop giving me the stink eye, Carl! I probably wouldn’t make a very good assistant coach either since I believe wholeheartedly in challenging authority and breaking rules. And I would definitely make a terrible Brownie/Girl Scout troop leader since even at the young age of 8 I was kicked out of Brownies for using the word “motherfucker” (true story) and, sadly, my vocabulary hasn’t changed much. So what am I to do?

I need to do something that will contribute to my child(ren)’s college fund. Sure, I contemplated stripping (in this scenario we are pretending that I’m 21 and totally have Jessica Biel’s body) but I fall in high heels and have no dancing abilities and, come on, no one wants to see a bruised half-naked woman without any rhythm, okay, Mel Gibson might, but that ain’t right…Go away, Mel! Then I thought about being a hooker but I have sensory issues, and by sensory issues I mean I can’t stand for strangers to touch me or even breathe in my direction (subways are hard for me, people) so sex is obviously out of the question as is any sort of massage.

This is when it struck me: I’ll go back to graduate school! Yay! Hello student loans! I haven’t see you in awhile! My GRE is no longer applicable since it was taken so many years ago. Alas, this means for the next month I’m going to be living and breathing that big, bad test. As a matter of fact, I’ve already started studying and now my brain sees the world like this:

1. If a mother is traveling in NYC traffic at 2 miles per hour and her toddler starts screaming 10 minutes into the car ride how many miles will she go before she has to be sedated?

  1. 1 mile
  2. She’s already sedated
  3. She left the car 5 minutes ago
  4. All of the above

2. Antonym: Toddler

  1. Precious
  2. Cute as Witty Bitty Button
  3. Happy-Go-Lucky
  4. Sooooo Easy Peasy
  5. The answer is not listed

3. 2π + 3x = 54

Pie….there’s pie? Where???? Is it chocolate?? Wait, there’s 2 pies! Mine! All mine!

Filed Under: Motherhood: The Job, Work Issues
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Feb3You Like Me! You Really Really Like Me!
Tonya

With Charlie Sheen all over the news finally fessing up to his out of control porn obsession and addiction to suitcases full of coca plant it’s difficult not to think about my own vices. Sure mine don’t come pay-by-the-hour with a possibility of herpes or out of the movie Less Than Zero but I do spend an inordinate amount of time checking the Internet, making sure it’s still there and seeing if perhaps it might be thinking about me too.

Sheen’s day probably went something like this:

wake, line, porn, shower, line, porn, get in car to go to work, line, hang out with annoying Jon Cryer and weird kid, line, line, line, break in trailer, porn, hooker, line, back to Cryer, line, line, line, get in car go home, line, porn, hooker, porn, line, avoid calls from Cryer, a fifth of Jack, passout.

Here’s a possible day for me:

wake, feed/water child so he will grow, check email/facebook/twitter/blog post, wonder about my self worth, shower (maybe…only if it’s Thursday), check email/facebook/twitter/blog post, refresh/refresh/refresh, forget to eat lunch – too busy worrying about whether or not I matter, refresh/refresh/refresh, remember I have a child and I should at least give him something for lunch, refresh/refresh/refresh, take child outside so he doesn’t get Vit. D deficiency, rush home, ccheck email/facebook/twitter/blog post, think about dinner then disregard and hit refresh 7 more times, order take out, while husband deals with delivery guy and son uses dry washcloth to ‘clean’ himself refresh/refresh/refresh, put child to bed, tell him story about crazy woman who lives in her PJs and rarely bathes so she has to have friends that are far far away, back to laptop, ccheck email/facebook/twitter/blog post, pick at food while contemplating reason for serious low self esteem, refresh/refresh/refresh, finally fingers give out and force quit, watch show that is combo reality/vampire/crime scene, vow to be online less tomorrow, go to sleep thinking about what to write for blog post.

So obviously mine doesn’t involve illegal substances from the Cartel or over-enhanced, gyrating body parts — perhaps it should? — instead I’m just consumed by the need for any connection the Internet might provide. It’s a high. A high that comes from an increase in the little number in my inbox or the ding from a new message on facebook, it’s like Sally Field’s ever-quoted Oscar speech: “you like me, you really, really like me!” But those quiet moments are a doozy, a tailspin of self-doubt, dark moments that force my mind to consider some other path…lumberjack, maybe? Frycook? Cult guru?

Filed Under: My Neuroses, Worries
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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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Nov9Reality Television is Making a Liar Out of Me
Paula

I’m painfully self-conscious about my education. Here’s the thing, I actually think my education was damn good. I took Latin! And Greek! But living in New York City, and working in book publishing where it seems like everyone went to a fancy pants school that had secret societies, dining clubs and U.S. Presidents as alumni can make one feel badly about matriculating from a state school that let you in even though you NEVER TOOK THE SAT. I’m envious of people who took classes in oak paneled rooms in century old buildings dripping with ivy. So romantic! And while a big part of me truly hopes June will want to attend a university or college that is full of history, I did make a big promise to myself that I would be pleased with her choices as long as she’s happy. I mean, she may choose to open a lucrative plumbing supply business. And I’m saying right now that I’m totally okay with that (hey, then maybe she could support her parents). But last night as Peter and I were flipping through channels I realized that there are limits. Can a parent really be happy with their children’s choices no matter what? Even if their kid is as happy as a clam? Case in point:

My daughter just wouldn't look good as a blonde.

JACKASS:
Johnny Knoxville et al are undeniably successful. Their latest movie grossed $111 million at the box office. But as I was watching Steve O and Dunn box on stilts, risking major spinal cord injuries with every fall, I couldn’t help but wonder, “what are their parents thinking?” Those boys have mothers! Sure, they can probably afford to buy their parents lovely retirement homes in Florida, but seriously, while their boys are gleefully flying down a street in San Francisco half naked on a toilet, can their parents really be happy?

THE REAL HOUSEWIVES OF ATLANTA:
Here’s a real puzzle. Kim, of “Tardy for the Party” fame – mistress of Big Pappa, she of the fake hair and fake boobs, seems to have truly lovely parents. They’ve been on the show as of late. Stopping over for a glass of wine, and this week Kim’s dad helped her have a tag sale (he managed to score $10,000 for her tacky-ass furniture). They seem as proud as can be. But could I sit back and be happy as I watched my daughter humiliate herself in a recording studio, drink wine out of a coffee thermos at 10 a.m., and act like such a spoiled shallow shell of a woman on national TV even if she didn’t have a care in the world? Um. NO.

SISTER WIVES:
I must admit that there are times when I think having a sister wife would be great. Carrie made dinner for my kid, as well as Tonya’s and Erin’s on Monday and it sure made life a lot easier. As the Wonder Pets say, TEAM WORK! And while the women of Sister Wives sincerely seem to be happy with their situation (most of the time anyway), I don’t think I could sit back and watch my daughter profess her love for a man who flies off in his Lexus to go a’courtin a fourth wife. Because as far as I’m concerned, those women deserve a hotter husband, yet multiple husbands don’t seem to be part of the deal. The unfairness!

So, yeah, we all just want our kids to be happy. And I think Tonya’s totally right when she says a goal is to keep our kids “off the pole.” I’m going to add onto that tenant and suggest that we keep them “off the TV.” But happiness isn’t that simple is it? The bottom line is that you really want your kid to be happy within your own set of values. While I’m hoping I’ll be flexible enough to understand what June needs and wants, please god may she not need to fly down a street nude on a toilet on national TV to be happy.

Filed Under: Entertainment, Motherhood: The Job, Worries
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