March 15, 2006

spring break, day three: the all-day wedgie

Charlie has his underwear on backwards today, which is not unusual; sometimes he likes to wear it that way, and sometimes it’s just a fluke, but when we point it out to him, he just laughs and says, ‘I KNOW!’ and runs away. But, as you might imagine, it causes him some, er, issues, particularly when he’s running and climbing and sliding, like, say, AT THE PARK, where we spent the majority of our afternoon, running and climbing and sliding. His play routine looked like this: scramble up climber, pull at back of underwear, slide down slide, pull at back of underwear, run ten paces, pull at back of underwear, repeat, repeat, repeat. And every time he ran past me, he would yell happily, ‘MAMA! I HAVE A WEDGIE!’

I love that boy, but he needs help.

March 14, 2006

spring break, day two: pretty much like every other Tuesday

Yesterday afternoon, Charlie and I were sitting at the kitchen table, finishing our snack. He was munching a chocolate chip cookie while I drank my tea.

Charlie: Mama?

Me: Yes, buddy?

Charlie: Actually, we’re on TV.

(No, we had not been talking about television or who is on television, nor had we been watching television. Just sitting and eating cookies.)

Me: Really?

Charlie (nods seriously): Yes. We are.

Me: So, who is WE? You and Henry?

Charlie (nods again): And you. And Daddy. ALL of us.

Me: Mmmm . . . really?

Charlie: Yes. When we are watching the Teletubbies on TV, they are REALLY watching US.

Me: . . . . Really?

Charlie: Yes. It looks like we’re watching THEM on the TV screen, but really they are watching US. Can I be ’scused?

Me: Sure, Truman, see you later.

Charlie (indignantly): We ARE on TV, you know.

Now that I know I’m on TV, I’m even more concerned about not getting a shower this week, and about getting my terrible roots covered up. But mostly I’m just wondering if the boy needs some therapy. Do you think?

So, day two! Today is my first Single Parent day; we took Wade to the airport this morning and set out for the video store, because even though Charlie seems to have an unhealthy EDTV relationship to the television, I’m still planning to let Winnie the Pooh babysit on Thursday and Friday.

Then we ran around in the mall and threw pennies in the decorative fountains, which always kills time (aside: why is it that while I am willing to give the boys ten dollars worth of pennies, I draw the line at throwing one SINGLE nickle or dime in the fountains?) and came home for lunch and then went to the park, which was terrific until Henry said, ‘I have to go POOP!’ Of course, when we got home he said, ‘I don’t need to go. Can’t we just go to the Full Circle and play?’ Ha ha ha I love it when he does that. I made him go potty. And the other one, too, as the Full Circle, despite being a wonderful family-friendly place to go, does not have an easily accessible bathroom.

And just to give you a sense of how little I notice the wackiness that is my kids: Henry was wearing one of his superhero capes, a blue and white ticking striped pillow case, over his football jersy and cargo sweatpants. We nearly always wear superhero capes; the only hard and fast rule about them is No Capes At School. Everywhere else is fair game, and I pretty much feel like getting out of the house is more important than not looking wierd. But most of the time, I literally forget that the boys have pillow cases safety pinned around their necks. So you would think that the SECOND time this afternoon that someone at the bookstore asked about the pillowcase cape, I would know what she was talking about, yes?

No. I had no idea. This poor woman asked about the cape and I just looked at her like I was waiting for her to say something else. But, really, what else is there to say about a five-year-old wearing a Martha Stewart pillowcase? Plus, it’s not like my kids are all that well-dressed to start with . . .

So far, though, the double whammy of spring break and single parenthood hasn’t knocked me on my ass. Bedtime will be the real test, as both boys need baths (yes, they do, don’t argue with me) and they are both a little baffled about where Wade is and when he’s coming home. Henry has called me ‘Dad’ at least four times today, which is unusual, and Charlie keeps saying, ‘Daddy can tell me all about his trip when he tucks me in tonight!’ It could be a long evening.

Tomorrow: the zoo and soccer practice. And hopefully, a shower! Stay tuned–this is fascinating stuff. In the meantime, entertain yourself with the BlogAds Mom blogs survey. And maybe I’ll let you pick out my new shoes!

March 13, 2006

since you’re already feeling bad for me

I’ve been thinking of ways I can reward myself for this week of togetherness with my kids (who are in another room right now, recovering from three hours at the science center this morning). I’ve got a few ideas, like shoes and a massage and locking myself in the bathroom for the ENTIRE day on Saturday. Mostly, though, I’ve been thinking of ways YOU can help me, since you’re all so nice and are feeling so bad for me (and at least one of you has actually e-mailed me to proffer a dinner invitation–how cool is that? Although I had to turn it down, as we have soccer practice TWO nights this week). Since it appears that none of you can babysit, here’s something you CAN do: BlogAds, the nice people who sponsor the ads that occasionally appear in my sidebars, have a little Mom blogs survey that they would like you to take. It’s fun! Really! Or at least more fun that an entire week with my kids.

So go, click the link, take the survey. And thanks! I’ll show you my shoes, when I get them.

March 12, 2006

let’s dance

We didn’t know that the boys were boys until they were born; with both pregnancies, we waited, relishing the surprise. Honestly, I didn’t care what we had, as long each baby was healthy and didn’t weigh ten pounds, like some other babies in this family have. But I will also admit that when Charlie arrived and we knew that we would have only boys, I was pleased because I would have TWO sons to watch college basketball with me.

Guess what my kids have NO interest in?

Yes, I know, they’re little and they may learn to love it. They had better, or life in this family is going to be tough. And they had better learn to love it by Thursday, because we’re going to be watching basketball all day long.

NCAA men’s basketball is serious business in my family. In 1983, when the Final Four was in Albquerque and Jim Valvano’s NC State team won it all, my brother (who was 13) was right there, under the basket at the final buzzer. Jimmy V could have hugged him. In 1998, Wade and I were at the Kingdome in Seattle for the two biggest upsets of the tournament (can you name them?). Last year I went to Albuquerque to see West Virginia knock off Texas Tech (and then go on to a heartbreaking loss to Louisville). We are not just Final Four people in my family; we are Big Dance people. While we love the big games at the end, it is those first two weekends that really matter to us, with game after game after game, when little schools no one has ever heard of have a chance to outplay the powerhouses. We are all about the upset, the triumph of hard work and spirit and, frankly, dumb luck. This may be as close to a religion as my sons will ever get, if they will put down their superhero action figures long enough to watch the games.

So they have until Thursday to get in the spirit. Tonight I had Henry dancing to this, which is a start. Tomorrow, I’ll hang my Ohio State flag from the front porch. And since I won’t be getting a shower this week, I’ll be sporting my 2005 Final Four hat all week–if you see me at Starbucks or the zoo, say hello!

But if you need me after Thursday morning, I’ll be in front of the television. We can talk during the commercials. And my kids will either be watching with me or entertaining themselves. Their call.

March 11, 2006

if you don’t hear from me, it’s because I’m dead

As of 11:30 yesterday, my children are both on spring break. They are very excited about an entire week without school, and really what could be better than a whole week in which my children don’t go ANYWHERE without me?

Only this: on Tuesday, Wade is leaving town. Yes, really! For four whole days! During spring break!

I accidentally sent my mother on a short but scenic guilt trip yesterday. She called late in the afternoon, just to check in; I was napping watching TV with the boys when the phone rang, and I was a little disoriented when I answered. ‘Is everything okay?’ she asked. Oh, yes, I said, except that I seem to be dying. ‘Stomach flu?’ she said, and I said no, this feels more like my brain has been replaced with wet cotton. It’s hard for me to remain upright and I’m having trouble concentrating. More so, I mean, than on a normal day.

I went on to tell her about how I took the kids to Target to pick out ONE new toy for spring break (because we will be ALL ALONE for FOUR DAYS next week, remember?) and Henry stood in the toy aisle for FORTY FIVE MINUTES trying to decide what he wanted and then when we got home and I had nearly severed a finger on the molded plastic wrap of the toy he chose, he cried for twenty minutes because he didn’t like what he had picked. (In his defense, the toy–a Batman plane–is a piece of crap. And he really does have a hard time with new experiences, of any sort. But still, the whole thing wore me out.)

My mother said, ‘Oh no!’ and I could tell that between my sickness and Henry’s crying and Wade’s trip, she was feeling a little like she should be coming to stay with me (and, before anyone gets the wrong idea, she and my dad OFFERED to come, but they are busy people and really, I’m FINE here with the kids, so I said they didn’t need to).

I didn’t mean to make her feel bad, but once the guilt started, I figured I would get some mileage out of it. She said that she and my dad were going to do something this week, I forget what, and I said, ‘Oh, sure, no time to come help ME’ and she laughed. Then she was telling me about a friend of hers who took vacation days but went to work anyway, and I said, ‘She needs to come here this week and help ME, since my own mother won’t.’ Ha ha ha. Doesn’t my family sound like fun?

The boys and I have Big Plans for this week, like the zoo and the science center and TWO nights of soccer practice and movies and of course playing with the new toys. There may also be some restaurant eating in there as well. I’m sure it will be terrific, if I don’t die. I’m just wondering how on earth I’m going to get a shower. How many days do you think I can go without actually bathing? Hmmm . . .

March 8, 2006

crazy hip blog mama

This post is part of the Crazy Hip Blog Mamas collaborative writing project. Go here to read posts from other participating blogs and here to learn more about the CHBM webring.

I’ve been hanging out at Friday Playdate for just over a year now, swilling martinis and admiring my pretty shoes while my children wreak havoc somewhere outside my line of vision. As playdates go, this has been a good one; nothing has been broken and there has been no bloodshed or hurt feelings. More importantly, though, this web site has helped me merge my hip self with my mama self, and has given me an outlet for all the crazy at my house.

Before I became The Mommy, I was an academic, which is just a pretentious term for someone who teaches in a university. More specifically, I was an adjunct, which is another pretentious term for someone who teaches part time in a university and thus has no benefits and no office and no say in departmental policy. But in spite of all that, I loved my life. I spent my days talking about Foucault’s theories of sexuality and the history of the novel and the structure of postmodern narrative. I had the New York Times delivered to my door every single day. I read the book reviews, and then I read the actual books. I taught novels like Schindler’s List and Waterland and The English Patient. I said ‘fuck’ in my lectures, in contextually appropriate ways. I used words like ‘hegemony’ and ‘pedagogy’ and ‘patriarchy’ in everyday conversation. I subscribed to InStyle magazine and had time to read the whole thing. I wore short skirts and funky shoes. I had my hair professionally colored every eight weeks.

But all that time, what I wanted was a baby. It took us a while–not as long as it takes some people, but longer than we expected–to make Henry. And then he was premature, deciding at 34 weeks that he was all done gestating, even though, as Wade told people, he was not yet golden brown on top. He spent ten days in the NICU; when he came home, he had horrible reflux and trouble sleeping and attachment issues. Twenty five months later, I had Charlie, who was full-term and healthy, although by then I had begun to worry about Henry, who seemed somehow off track. The two years after that were grueling, and while I lost the baby weight easily I seemed to have lost my old hip self with it.

So there I was, with a four-year-old who was struggling in school and a two-year-old who wanted to be carried everywhere and a closet full of clothes that were too big and too frumpy. And I still don’t know how it happened, but one day I woke up and realized that I was a Sweatsuit Mommy. I would get up every day, shower, do makeup and hair and jewelry, and then put on my sweats. Yes, sweats! All that work to put on sweats. But not just ANY sweats–the matching Track Suit, with a color-coordinated tank top and athletic shoes that weren’t sturdy enough for any athletic feats more elaborate than pushing a grocery cart. I looked like all the other mommies in the carpool line, which was what I wanted, or thought I wanted. But the more I talked to those other very very nice mommies, the more I realized that I wasn’t like them–they didn’t have to worry about their children running out into traffic or only eating three foods or confusing what was pretend with what was real. They were pleased when George Bush was reelected. They were too busy driving their kids to soccer and gymnastics and Spanish lessons to care who was on this year’s Booker Prize shortlist. And I could tell that they weren’t sure what to make of me either, with my short hair and my own name and my liberal politics.

Eventually, after one too many days sitting in the carpool line reading the New York Times, I realized that what I missed was my mind–I missed thinking and reading and writing, all the things I took for granted when I was teaching. I started reading blogs and then I started writing here and it was a good release, a way to process my days and find the funny in the chaos. Shortly after I started writing, Henry’s teacher asked if we would agree to have him evaluated by the school’s psychologist; we said yes! please! because we knew–we just KNEW–that something wasn’t right. Hearing that someone else had finally recognized what we saw in our son–that he just wasn’t doing what other kids his age were doing, that he just wasn’t fitting in–was a huge relief. I wasn’t a bad parent; there was something else going on. I gave the track suits away and stopped trying to be one of the carpool mommies. Instead, I got out my work clothes–the wool pants and cashmere sweaters I wore to teach–and mixed them up with everyday t-shirts and funky jewelry. And I wrote, more and more, particularly about Henry and his quirkynesses. I thought this merging of the past (my clothes and my reading and writing life) with the present (the testing and the worry and the fears) would make me feel more like my old self.

And I did, to a point; the more I wrote, the less scattered and overwhelmed I felt. But I wasn’t that old self any more; instead, I was the mama, and I was the mama of a child who was unlike any other child I knew. Instead of reading histories of the English novel I was reading about autism and ADHD and behavior modification. Instead of writing about colonialism in the novels of Jane Austen, I wrote about our desperate search for a new school for Henry and our struggles to potty train Charlie. And a funny thing happened: people started to write back, to say that their child was like Henry, that they had been through the same things, that they had this advice or recommended that resource or just wanted me to have their e-mail addresses, in case I needed someone to talk to. It was truly amazing, all these complete strangers reaching out to me, simply because they knew what I was going through and how hard it was.

Without those strangers–who are now my friends, even though I’ve only e-mailed and IM’d with most of them–I would still be searching for some sense of peace and wholeness. Because of them, and because of this web site, I am beginning to feel like a whole thinking person again. I am beginning to feel not like my old, hip academic self, or the crazy mama self that replaced her, but like a crazy hip mama who writes about swilling martinis and wearing pretty shoes.

I had no idea, when I started writing here, that what I would find would be my self. And that this blog would turn into the best playdate ever.