Let’s give this some context: today I am wearing a pink turtleneck, cropped khakis, and green suede driving loafers. WHICH I PICKED OUT MYSELF. At the grocery, I ran into a very stylish friend of my mother-in-law’s, who said, ‘Don’t you look nice!’
Charlie, on the other hand, is wearing THIS (which he picked out himself):
How is it possible that people think I dress him? HOW?
People are forever asking me if I let the boys dress themselves. The answer is god, yes–it’s all I can do to get myself dressed in the morning; the kids are on their own.
Last week someone said to me, ‘But surely you don’t let them PICK what they are going to wear!’
Why yes, yes I do. Can’t you tell? Oh, we give them weather-related guidelines (today, everyone had to have a long-sleeved shirt and pants of some sort on). And for special occasions (school pictures, Thanksgiving dinner), I chose what they will wear, which is (usually) fine with them. But the rest of the time, it’s up to them.
Henry actually does a pretty good job of putting an outfit together, mostly because he tends to wear the same things over and over and over, so once he has figured out what goes with what (he will ask, ‘Does this shirt go with these shorts? How about this shirt? This one?’) he will just repeat and repeat and repeat the same outfit (the teacher he had last year found this a little unnerving. ‘He really likes red, doesn’t he?’ she said once. Yeah, whatever, AT LEAST HE’S DRESSED). Of course, he does have trouble moving on when the seasons or his sizes change (notice that the t-shirt in the picture is a little bit small). He also has some oddball clothing quirks: for example, when he wears tube socks he has to have them pulled up to his knees because he doesn’t like the way they feel when they are scrunched down. Last spring, when the weather got warm, his shorts were so long that they actually covered the tops of his socks. I ignored this for as long as I could, but I finally bought him some ankle socks and hid the tube socks. Because frankly, it was just too wierd.
Charlie, on the other hand, is a mess.
Despite the fact that he is obssessed with what I wear, Charlie has never seen a clothing combination that doesn’t work for him. This outfit was actually one of his BETTER choices recently. He will not wear anything except sweats (pants or shorts) and absolutely NO shirts with buttons or collars. I swear to god it takes him half an hour to get dressed in the morning, which is odd when you consider that HE WILL ONLY WEAR SWEAT PANTS AND A T-SHIRT. I just don’t get it. I didn’t agonize that much about my wedding gown. But because it takes him so damn long to pick out a T-SHIRT, for god’s sake, just PUT ONE ON AND LET’S GO, we pretty much let him leave the house in any old thing, just to be out of the house. And closer to Starbucks.
What really amazes me is not so much the number of parents who confess to me that they are still dressing their school-age children but how many of them will ask about my kids, while Charlie is standing RIGHT NEXT TO ME in a fleece cow suit and Wiggles slippers. Honestly, do they think I picked that out?
I mean, really.
Today was a good day because . . .
Henry ate one bite of a fish stick at school. Over the weekend he ate salt and vinegar potato chips. My joy knows no bounds.
Charlie wore Big Boy Underpants to school for the first time ever. He had one accident, but he timed it so that I arrived just as Ms. Stephanie finished cleaning him up, which I thought was very considerate of him.
I had a lunch date with my husband at a cute little place around the corner from our house that we never go to because they have NO children’s menu (which, of course, was why Wade suggested it today). It was wonderful.
It was cold enough to wear wool pants and my favorite cashmere sweater, and since both boys went to school all day and Wade has excellent table manners, there was no threat of anyone wiping peanut butter on me.
I have homemade spaghetti sauce and crusty bread in the freezer; dinner is made!
What more could I ask for?
Last night, Henry said, ‘Mom, can I tell you a joke?’
‘Sure,’ I said.
He begins, ‘Two cats walk in to a tree,’ and I think oh, no, he’s too young for these jokes (because, of course, with a set-up like that, it was bound to end in a bar with a priest and a rabbi and . . . anyway).
He says, ‘Two cats walk in to a tree.’ He pauses dramatically. ‘OUCH! OUCH!’
I laughed so hard I nearly fell off the bed.
My whole weekend was like that, just kind of random and silly, but not really worth reporting on. Today I really wanted to write about something–anything!–besides poop and making out, but other than Henry’s joke, I’ve got nothing.
Fortunately, Kyra tagged me with this fun meme (and you should ALL go read her blog–she is funny and wicked smart). So here we go . . .
What were three of the stupidest things you have done in your life?
1. leased a car
2. dropped a really terrific literary theory class in college to take Japanese (because a boy I liked suggested it)
3. saved all of Henry’s baby pictures to the hard drive of my now virtually dead laptop
At the current moment, who has the most influence in your life?
Henry and Charlie (what, you thought I might say Bradley Whitford?)
If you were given a time machine that functioned, and you were allowed to only pick five people to dine with, who would you pick?
1. Barack Obama
2. Jane Austen
3. Michael Ondaatje
4. Coco Chanel
5. Frances Burney
If you had three wishes that were not supernatural, what would they be?
1. bigger boobs without surgery
2. Charlie would poop in the potty (hey, look, I’m still talking about poop!)
3. no more autism, of any kind, for anyone, ever
Name two things you regret your city not having…
1. actual liberal Democrats
2. Whole Foods Market
…and two things people should avoid.
1. granny panties with low-rise pants
2. talking to me, particularly if you require actual conversation, before my first cup of coffee
Name one thing that has changed your life:
this blog (how lame is that?)
Tag!
You all are so very good at tagging yourselves; have at it! Let me know when you’re finished–I want to see who you would have to dinner.
Henry and I are sitting at the kitchen table, talking about what he might take to school for Show and Share. Charlie is dancing around the kitchen in his birthday suit, waving his shirt like a flag, celebrating his latest successful trip to the potty.
Henry: I think I will take my superheros with me to school.
Charlie: And this week I will take MY superheros to school!
Me: C, you don’t have show and tell at your school.
Charlie: I don’t?
Me: No, but you will next year, when you go to preschool.
Charlie: I’m not going to preschool.
Me: Really? Why not?
Charlie (resuming his wild nekkid dancing): Because I DON’T WANT TO LEARN ANYTHING.
Well, okay then.
Charlie has been painting lately, which has been a lot of fun, at least until the clean-up part comes along. Our kitchen table is piled high with his masterpieces, which are all green as we only have blue, yellow, and green paint just now. He uses rollers and brushes and stamps and tells elaborate stories about each picture.
Henry, on the other hand, will come in, INSIST on painting (because Charlie is painting), take three swipes at the paper, and then say, ‘I’m all done. Can we play dragon hunter?’ It drives me crazy.
Anyway, I’ve spent a LOT of time this week cleaning up painting supplies, which is honestly a pain in the ass, and it has given me time to think about What Kind Of Mommy I Thought I Would Be. Certainly not the mommy who says, ‘Are you SURE you want to paint? Because I JUST washed all the rollers.’
I thought I would be the cool mommy, the one who loves to fingerpaint and who always has all the ingredients for chocolate chip cookies and who plays tag at the park and orchestrates elaborate sketches to be performed for Daddy after dinner (okay, maybe not that last one). I would take my kids to the library and the museum (and they would behave! and not run away! or yell! or try to climb on the dinosaur skeleton!); I would plant a garden with them. I would have endless fun things planned for every day, and even when we were winging it, we would always be able to find exciting things to do. Because that’s what mommies do. Most of all, though, I expected to love being the mommy.
I do love my children, you all know that, but on a lot of days, I don’t love being the mommy. And oddly, it’s not the ill-timed potty accidents or the epic meltdowns that wear me out; it’s the FUN stuff. Painting. Playdough. Freeze tag. All those things that I was so sure would be fun fun fun are just exhausting.
Oh, sure, some of it is my kids–Henry would wear anyone out, with his constant motion and talking, and Charlie spends most of his day saying either, ‘Play with me! PLAY WITH ME!’ or ‘No! Go away! I will do it MYSELF!’ which is confusing, to say the least. But for the most part, I think, it’s me. I’m not five, or three, I’m 37, and sometimes–for a while every day–I want to do what 37 year old adults do: have a conversation that does NOT involve listing anyone’s superpowers. Wear pants that I cannot sit in the sand in. Read a book without pictures. Eat a meal without being kicked, or having to get up twenty seven times for milk, ketchup, more napkins. Write without interruption.
What I did not forsee when I imagined the kind of mommy I would be was that I would not want to stop being the person I was before to become the mommy. I was never someone who had all the ingredients for cookies just lying around–I don’t know what made me think that I suddenly would be, just because I had a baby. But oddly, realizing that the hard part of this mommy thing comes not from my kids and their hoodlum ways but from my own conflict about who I am and what that means has made me feel more peaceful. I am a good mom. I am a good mom BECAUSE of who I am. And no, I’m not the cool mom who bakes, but I have other things going for me.
Yesterday, after rest time, the boys and I were sitting on the sofa together. Charlie crawled into my lap and said, in his pretend pitiful voice, ‘Hold me, Mama!’ So I snuggled him up like I did when he was a baby and started to kiss and tickle him. ‘Hello, squawky baby,’ I said. He laughed and made some pretend crying noises. Henry came and patted him and gently tickled him and said, ‘Squawky Charlie!’ Then Henry wanted to be the baby, so they changed places, and pretty soon they were both on top of me, saying ‘Waa! Waa! I’m a squawky baby!’, and we were all laughing.
Because that’s the kind of mommy I am. I am the mommy who plays Squawky Baby.
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