September 20, 2006

bee my baby

I spent most of yesterday working on Another Mystery Project (no, no details! ha ha!) and assembling Charlie’s damn dinosaur toys (which, yes, DID involve joining some sort of club, so Anne you may want to e-mail me that letter right now because I’m going to need it!) and by the time it was time to go get the kids, my ass was starting to look like my desk chair, so I thought, Hey! Let’s go to the park!

You’re hoping my Mystery Project is better written than that sentence, aren’t you?

When we got to the park, there were quite a few other kids, but all little, like my kids, which is fine. The boys dug in the sand for a while and then got out their Army men and started to play with those. Henry went off to climb on some stuff (did I mention that on Monday he fell off the monkey bars at this VERY SAME park and nearly broke his hand? Yes! Indeed!) and Charlie came to ask me if he could go pee pee on a tree.

I hate the peeing-on-trees thing. I just hate it. And this particular park isn’t in my neighborhood, it’s in a much NICER neighborhood, and there were a LOT of people around and really, peeing on trees is just gross. So I said no.

He thought about this for a second and said, “Okay! Because I don’t REALLY need to pee pee! I was just asking!” Then he proceeded to do the wildest and most desperate Potty Dance I have ever seen.

I started packing up the toys and told the boys that in ten minutes we would go home. That’s ten Mommy Minutes, you know, which meant that in about seventy five seconds I was going to make the boys get their shoes and get in the car, because I really didn’t want Charlie peeing in my Accord. By now, Charlie has climbed up to the very top of the Big Castle and he and Henry are sliding their Army men down the big slide. I tell them they have just enough time to slide down and climb up and slide down ONE MORE TIME and then we have to go.

They are both very cooperative.

Henry chooses the fast way up, via the ladder, while Charlie goes around to the stairs. I’m standing at the bottom of the ladder saying, “Okay! Slide down! Let’s go!” and hoping Charlie won’t pee on the climber (it’s happened before!) when Henry starts to scream.

SCREAM. The loudest, most horrible scream I have ever heard. He is holding his head and SCREAMING and saying that he’s been stung by a bee.

Well crap.

I climb the ladder (in a skirt! did I mention that I was wearing a SKIRT?) and try to see what’s going on, but he’s just screaming and screaming. I finally get a look at his ear and sure enough, it looks like . . .

a bee sting.

Here was the fun part: while all the other moms are watching (because everyone seems to be pretty sure I have this under control but MY GOD the screaming!) I pick Henry up and CARRY him down off the climber. He is kicking and thrashing around and STILL SCREAMING.

Have I mentioned that Henry has been having some anxiety issues lately? And some little panic attacks? Why yes, he has.

Charlie (god love him, I need to buy that kid a pony) puts the Army men in the bag and gets his shoes AND Henry’s shoes and walks right next to me to the car. Once he says to Henry, “Henry, that must hurt A LOT.” I wanted to kiss him.

I realize that my knowledge of What To Do For A Bee Sting is, well, minimal, and consists only of CALL THE PEDIATRICIAN, but I can’t call her from the car because Henry is STILL SCREAMING and I’m having a hard enough time driving properly. (Henry: “You need to DRIVE FASTER, MOMMY!” Charlie: “But don’t get a ticket, Mama.”) I DO know that Henry really shouldn’t be TOUCHING his ear with his dirty hands, so I remind him of this over and over the whole way home while he screams “BUT I NEED TO TOUCH IT!” He actually SAT on his hands to keep from touching the ear. Maybe I should buy him a pony, too.

The entire way home, I pacify myself with the knowledge that Wade should be leaving his office ANY MINUTE to come home for an hour or so before he goes to his dinner meeting, so I only have a little longer to be alone with the screaming kids. I can totally do this.

At home, Charlie goes off to go potty (after announcing during a small lull in the screaming, “Mama, I was just JOKING. I really DO need to go potty!”) and informs me that he needs to pee AND poop and can I wipe his bottom? Henry sits down in front of the refridgerator, which is next to the cabinet where the Benadryl lives, and resumes his regularly scheduled screaming. I call the pediatrician but can’t hear the nurse when she answers because of ALL THE SCREAMING. And the polite requests for bottom wiping.

The upshot was this: Henry was clearly not going into any kind of anaphylactic shock (because who can scream when your throat is closing up?). I gave him some Benadryl (the MAXIMUM DOSE for his age and weight) and Tylenol (because, as the nurse said, WHY NOT?) and wiped Charlie’s butt and made a paste of baking soda and water and put it on the actual sting (and on Henry’s hand and Charlie’s arm and a couple of toys that were on the table, just to distract everyone). Henry apparently knocked the stinger out of his ear at the park, because I never found it, which was good (why is that, can someone tell me?).

I ran Henry a bath and told Charlie to go play with his new dinosaurs and sat down to take a few breaths. Wade calls to say, “I have a 5:30 meeting so I’m not coming home. What’s new?” I told him and he says, “I’m so sorry. Have a glass of wine.”

“I can’t,” I say, “because it could take up to TWO HOURS for any sort of severe reaction to appear, and I will need to be able to drive to the ER if that happens. Take your cell phone to your meeting, just in case.”

“In case you have some wine?”

“Yes.”

In the end, Henry had a very typical and normal reaction to the sting–his ear swelled to Elephant Man proportions and the skin around it got red, but that was it. He had more Benadryl at bedtime and slept all night and this morning when Wade asked if anything exciting had happened yesterday he said no. When I reminded him about the bee sting, he said, “That didn’t REALLY happen, did it?”

Oh, and this: at some point during all the screaming yesterday, Charlie took the glow-in-the-dark T Rex apart. And then brought me the pieces and said, “Will you put this together so I can see it glow in the dark?”

Grrr . . . .

(Oh, and–Charlie agrees that the dinosaur mobile sucks.)

September 19, 2006

it’s educational, I guess

A couple of weeks ago, Charlie came home from school with a book order form. Remember those? I LOVED getting book order forms; I always picked out a dozen (or more!) books that I ABSOLUTELY HAD TO HAVE.

My brother, on the other hand, would stuff his form in his backpack and never look twice at it.

My mother would make deals with us: two books each. John would struggle to find two books that he wanted, and I would beg my mother to please PLEASE let ME have his two books! I’m sure this drove her batty.

Anyway, Charlie came home with his order form and we looked at it and I picked out two books that I thought he would like, since he can’t read yet and he kept picking out stupid books, like the Scooby Doo series (why are there even Scooby Doo books ON the order form? They’re terrible, TERRIBLE I tell you). He was very excited about my his choices.

And, because Charlie loves dinosaurs and he’s so damn cute and I’m always looking for ANYTHING that’s not superhero-related, I was also suckered into buying him the 3-D Dinosaur Package, which included a book! and special 3-D glasses! and a slide projector! and a poster!

But wait! You haven’t heard the BEST part! He would get a three-dimensional, glow-in-the-dark T Rex puzzle! AND a dinosaur mobile! To hang in his room!

Hooray!

The book orders came yesterday; this morning at breakfast, Charlie asked if we could get out his dinosaur stuff. “Let me look at it first,” I said, because one too many times I have opened something that clearly falls into the ASSEMBLY REQUIRED category only to find myself beseiged by children demanding, “CAN WE PLAY WITH IT YET?” and climbing all over me while I try to untangle all the teeny tiny parts and decipher directions that were clearly written by someone who speaks Ancient Egyptian as a first language. And then by the time I get whatever it was the boys wanted assembled all put together, they have lost interest and gone off to throw steak knives at each other.

Why do I buy them toys in the first place?

Anyway, today while the kids were at school, I assembled the puzzle. The one CLEARLY labled FOR AGES SIX AND UP. Okay, well, Charlie is four, so here it is!

Pretty cool, huh? And easy to put together. For me, at least, because I’m over six. Just a little.

Then I tackled the mobile. Honestly, I wasn’t expecting much, but I WAS expecting more than one dinosaur, particularly since the “cross bar” has a total of EIGHT HOLES IN IT, each clearly designed to hold ONE dinosaur. Ha ha ha was I ever wrong.

One dinosaur. ONE lousy dinosaur. That’s it.

I’m sure Charlie will be thrilled. And I’m sure I will be ordering dinosaur packages ALL YEAR LONG. If I keep getting this same dinosaur over and over, though, I will really be pissed.

September 18, 2006

finish this sentence for me, will you?

My weekend went like this: Friday morning, I had coffee with my friend Molly. We lounged around the Red Cup until nearly 11:00, when she had to leave to pick up her kindergartener. I tried not to gloat, because I had FOUR MORE HOURS until I had to pick anyone up at school. In my defense, I had a LOT of things to do, none of which were kid-friendly, so it wasn’t like I was going to spend the entire four hours shoe shopping.

Just maybe half an hour.

I left the Red Cup and headed north, possibly to a mall, where I may or may not have been looking at shoes. And my cell phone rang. It was one of Henry’s teachers, saying that he needed to come home. Which was good, because she probably stopped me from buying a pair of cork wedges that didn’t fit right but were REALLY REALLY CUTE.

Anyway.

I picked Henry up and brought him home where he proceeded to cough like a ten-pack-a-day smoker while concurrently REFUSING to even TALK about taking any cough medicine. On the way out to get him, I did a quick flip through my To Do list and decided that nope, I absolutely could NOT take the sick kid to the grocery, which seemed to mean that we would be going to Johnnie’s AGAIN for dinner. Stupid hamburgers.

(Do not ask why I CAN take my sick child to a restaurant but CANNOT take him to SuperTarget. That’s a whole other post.)

We pick Charlie up at school and maul through the afternoon and go to dinner and come home and have baths and put on our pajamas (all of us!) and then we start reading stories, even though it is nearly 7:30, which is lights-out at our house. Earlier in the week, when everyone was healthy and happy, I told Wade that OF COURSE we would come get him at the airport on Friday night! And that OF COURSE it would be fine if the boys were up until 10:00! I think I even got a little misty remembering when I was a kid and my mother would take us with her (in our pajamas!) to get my dad at the airport. It would be an adventure!

Whatever.

Wade’s flight was on time, the boys were totally excited to be IN THE CAR and IN THEIR PAJAMAS and NOT IN BED and they were very cute and nice. And then we tossed them in their beds and they went RIGHT to sleep. Of course, Wade and I stayed up talking about various Important and Slightly Stressful Stuff until very VERY late, which we figured was fine because the kids would CERTAINLY sleep in on Saturday, right?

Hoo, I’m so funny.

Henry coughed ALL NIGHT LONG, and finally got up crying and looking for Kleenex. Wade said this was about 3:00 am; all I know was that after a good two hours of listening to the boy cough, I was finally in a DEAD sleep when Henry woke me and I never really recovered. I spent the rest of the night in his bed, while he coughed and thrashed around and spilled water all over me. Finally, at 6:20, he said very politely, “Mom, can we get up and have some medicine now?” So we did.

Charlie got up about half an hour later and announced, very matter-of-factly, that he had fallen out of bed the night before. “TWICE!” he said. “But my floor is soft.”

Well. Okay.

The rest of the day is mostly a blur. I went to the grocery, Wade took the boys to the park, we met up at lunchtime . . . uh, some other stuff, blah blah blah. The park really wore Henry out; he spent the ENTIRE rest of the day moving from his bed to the sofa in the sitting room to the sofa in the family room to his bed to the floor. Every time he stood up, he would say, “I’m really SICK and I’m so EXHAUSTED.” It was freaky and also very peaceful.

He slept all night Saturday night, which was good, although Charlie came and got me up at 2:00 am because his nose was all stuffed up. “Mama!” he whispered. “I can’t SMELL. I need a KLEENEX. And will you come snuggle?”

Who could resist that? I should have; Wade had put Charlie’s bed rail up, because of the falling out thing, so I was all smashed against THAT for an hour. Good times.

Sunday everyone was feeling better but it was raining and cold (hooray for cold!) plus it was SUNDAY so everything was closed. We took the kids to the library in the afternoon and then went to Wade’s parents’ for dinner, where the boys proceeded to run around like lemmings, jumping on and off of everything they could. Henry was exhausted and was completely unable to talk in a voice designed for closed spaces, and spent all of dinner YELLING about the members of the Justice League. Then he flipped out while we were getting dessert and started announcing that he was PETRIFIED and couldn’t breathe.

We ate our cake and came home. After dumping the boys in bed, with lots of cheerful announcements of “Get to sleep! Sleeping helps you stay healthy! Night night! Have a good SLEEP!” which were designed to lull them into NOT GETTING UP AGAIN, we watched Tristram Shandy, which I highly recommend, if only because it was smart enough and funny enough to keep me awake the entire way through, which was no small feat last night.

After the movie I went to bed and had a horrific dream that Henry’s glasses were SHATTERED and it was going to take WEEKS to replace them and then Charlie really came in and poked me and said sadly, “Mama, I have a bloody nose.” And he did. So we cleaned him up and I got in bed with him, and he patted my face and sucked his thumb and I thought holy hell, if I don’t get some sleep soon, I’m going to . . . .

Uh, something. I can’t even think.

September 15, 2006

Fashion Friday

I have a complicated relationship with jeans. I went to Catholic school through eighth grade (which explains my abhorrence of all things plaid and pleated) and to a private prep school after that, so for most of my adolescence, jeans were the Holy Grail of What To Wear, strictly because they were FORBIDDEN. And yes, for the record, the jeans I wanted more than life itself were the tapered ones with the zippers at the ankles that Guess made in the 80s.

Those jeans may very well be back in style soon. Resist them.

Anyway, after twelve years of just wanting to WEAR JEANS ALREADY, I went off to college and wore jeans every damn day for FOUR YEARS. Well, not EVERY day; I wore a lot of khakis, too, but mostly jeans. And I loved them. Jeans offer limitless possibilities–dress them up! dress them down!–and they essentially defy seasons. They really are a Wardrobing Essential.

And yet, for the most part, I have come to loathe jeans.

It all boils down to this: despite my inherent belief that jeans are the cornerstone of any mostly casual (read: Mom) wardrobe, my post-babies body is really not jeans-ready. I have a little permanent roll of dough right around my belly button, which is only to be expected after my uterus has grown to FOUR HUNDRED TIMES it’s normal size. TWICE. How could my stomach NOT be a little more . . . squooshy? And yes I do sit ups (okay, not consistently, but still!) and no it doesn’t help. And most of the time, I don’t really care because that little doughy part came from growing PEOPLE, which is wonderful. But when I try to buy jeans, that roll really gets in the way.

I own four pairs of jeans right now, all from Old Navy. One pair is their boot-cut, just-below-the-waist line, and I hate them; they are incredibly uncomfortable to sit in and do serious damage to my internal organs every time I wear them. And no, they’re not too small; the waist band just hits me in a horrible place. (So now I’m reading that over and wondering why I keep them in the first place. Hmm . . . )

Let’s start over–I own THREE pairs of jeans right now (look! I just put a perfectly good pair of jeans in the Give Away pile! hooray for me!), all from Old Navy. Two are a boot-cut with a LOW waist, which means that they hit about two inches below my belly button, under the Baby Roll. I have one pair that I wear with flats and one that I wear with heels. I like these; they are a dark rinse with a little stretch and no pre-faded areas. (Aside: I hate pre-worn jeans. HATE THEM. They look cheap and sloppy and you should RUN FROM THEM.)

My third pair are ULTRA LOW WAIST, although that doesn’t really mean anything; they also hit about two inches below my belly button. They are straight leg and are meant to be worn cuffed; they were too long, so I cut them off to get both the unfinished hem and the proper length. (”Unfinished hem”, by the way, is NOT the same as “big gaping hole in the knee, or worse, the ass or crotch.” The former is chic and cool, the latter is trashy. Just so you know.) These are my absolute favorite jeans, because they make me look skinny, but they are VERY casual, which limits their versatility. Plus I bought them on clearance, so you can’t get them anymore. You’re welcome!

Actually, I buy all my jeans on clearance (because I’m saving money to buy really great SHOES, you all!), which brings me to this: to get jeans that fit right and that you love and will feel terrific wearing, you MAY need to spend some real money. Get over the idea that they’re JUST JEANS and you should spend your money on really GOOD clothes; if you’re spending most of your day (or even most of your weekend) in jeans, you deserve to have them be well-made and properly fitted. I deserve that, too, by the way, and I’m working on it. Really.

Start with a pair of jeans that will flatter what’s nice about your lower half. I really think a slighly lower waist is better for those of us who have spent nine months as Human Incubators (or who have just eaten one too many bags of M&Ms, whatever). A lower waist minimizes your backside (as do FLAT pockets in back, not the ones with a little flap that buttons) and gives your roll somewhere to rest. Be sure to COVER THE ROLL with a long enough tee or sweater, though.

Think, too, about the over-all shape. Straight legs are in this year, as are skinny pants, and while both of these looks CAN work for a hard-working Mama, be wary of jeans (or pants of any sort) that highlight your hips and ass. I can’t understand why the Gap is STILL carrying Reverse Fit jeans (wide at the hips! narrow at the ankles! just like you! and now everyone can see it!) but don’t be sucked in by these. Even if you think of your jeans as the Wardrobe Workhorse, you shouldn’t settle for a pair that gives you Mom Ass. Look for balance. I like a nice boot cut on me because my legs aren’t all that long, but the wider straight leg jeans are also flattering, particularly with a little heel.

The best jeans basic is a pair that is hemmed to the level of the shoes you wear most often. If that means flats, start with some jeans that are meant to go with flats. Think about wearing your usual flats when you go jeans shopping, so you can accurately check the length. Even if a flat is your typical shoe of choice, I would also suggest getting a pair or jeans hemmed for heels as well, because it’s an easy dressed-up look. Do NOT try to wear your ballet flat jeans with your chunky wedges, or vice versa; invest in TWO pairs of jeans instead. After all, if you wear them VIRTUALLY EVERY DAY you will absolutely get your money’s worth.

To extend the life of your jeans, wash them inside out in cold water; this will keep them from fading. For darker washes, you can wash them alone with small amount of white vinegar, although this means ONE MORE load of laundry. And of course, if you are really committed to preserving your jeans, you can HAND WASH and LINE DRY. I don’t know if I can be your friend, though, if you’re willing to do THAT MUCH WORK for jeans.

Finally, please PLEASE remember: we don’t want to see your underwear. Low-waisted jeans need low-waisted undies. That’s all I’m going to say about that.

So what kind of jeans should you buy? I’m all about Old Navy, because they offer a nice range of sizes and styles for not a lot of money, but this season they’re really pushing the pre-distressed look, which I don’t approve at all. I spent a long, long time at the Gap this week, trying on pretty much EVERY DAMN JEAN they sell, which was interesting. Gap has good selection for a reasonable price (jeans will run you between $48.00 and $58.00) and they are marketing now to various shapes (their Curvy Fit, for example, is good for the post-baby hips). Lynn is currently recommending the Gap Long and Lean jeans at ThisNext, on a list titled Non-Mom Uniform (take a look at the whole list; it’s terrific). I liked the fit of these jeans, although they were more casual than what I was looking for this week. But I will most likely end up with a pair before too long.

What I’m wanting right now is a trouser jean, something a little on the dressy side. Fortunately, Sarah Cool e-mailed to suggest these DKNY jeans; she wrote, “the back actually goes high enough to cover my rear end, and since they are stretchy, they fit my (not tiny) hips and my (smaller than my hips at least) waist.” My lower half is shaped the same way, so these sound terrific. And at $48.00, they are entirely affordable.

Of course, it’s okay to spend more money to get great jeans! Arwen reminded me that Calvin Klein is still making cool jeans, after all these years; she also pointed out that these particular jeans fit her better NOW than they did back in the day. She bought hers at TJ Maxx, but you can find CK everywhere.

Feel like splurging? Sure! Liz loves her Lucky Brand Easy Riders because “I can bend over, sit on the floor and crawl after my boys! All without showing America my underwear choices.” Good girl, Liz. At $88.00, these aren’t bad, although they are ON LINE ONLY, which may be problematic for those of us who like need to try eleventy million pairs on first. Then again, maybe this online thing is better after all . . .

Moving on! Clara suggested these Joe’s Jeans, which I LOVE the look of. Very sleek and slim. They ARE $158.00, though, so this is a big step. But still! Didn’t I just say YOU MIGHT HAVE TO SPEND SOME MONEY TO GET REALLY GREAT JEANS?

Yes, I did.

Leigh sent me the funniest recommendation of all; she loves her Seven Flip Flop jeans because “they don’t show my crack.” That truly is a virtue in a pair of jeans. Sevens will run you about $180.00, but apparently once you start wearing Sevens there’s no going back, people love them THAT MUCH.

Finally, keep in mind that you can find great jeans in unexpected places. Karyn likes her NYC jeans, for $29.00, and Heidi has a pair of a. n. a. jeans from Penney’s that she swears by. There ARE great, affordable jeans out there; be prepared to try on more than one pair (by which I mean FOUR MILLION) and to hold out until you get EXACTLY what you want. Or you can do what I do and opt for corduroys and khakis.

Next Thursday, I’m going to a fundraising event, the kind with cocktails and an art auction and a nice dinner, so I will be spending most of this week obsessing about what to wear to THAT. My goal is to Shop My Closet and put together an evening outfit from THINGS I ALREADY OWN.

I’m really living on the edge, aren’t I?

Next Friday, I will show you what I wore and tell you how I decided on that particular combination. You’re on the edge of your chair, aren’t you? So am I.

September 14, 2006

I believe I’ll have another martini

I like to ask about what the boys have done in school each day, not so much because I’m a good mother or a concerned parent but because nothing is more fun than spending all of the dinner hour (or the dinner quarter hour, really) having BOTH children stare vacantly and say, “I need to think about it.” Really, it makes all that tuition money seem well spent.

I’ve learned, in the past two years, that specific questions (”Did you have music today? Did you sing a song? What song did you sing?”) are more effective than a general “What did you do today?” (Answer: “I don’t remember.” Or my favorite: “We had recess!” Argh.) This year I know more about the boys’ days than I ever have before and can ask them REALLY specific questions, which doesn’t necessarily lead to more specific answers, but does give them a chance to say “How do you KNOW THAT?” every single night.

Last night, I took the boys out to dinner, since Wade is out of town and god forbid I COOK for just those kids. While we were waiting for our food, I decided to ask about school, because why not? Let’s get it over with before we’re eating. We determined that Charlie had music and Henry had computers, and that they sit with different friends each day at lunch and that yelling “TIC TAC TOE! I WIN AGAIN!” in a restaurant isn’t really a good idea.

And then I had to go and ask Charlie about his religion class.

Charlie has religion a couple of times a week; I’m still not sure if it’s once or twice. The most I’ve gleaned about his religion class so far is that ALL of the Pre-K kids (two classes) have religion TOGETHER, which makes me think that we should start praying for the religion teacher.

So I say, “Charlie, did you have religion today?” And he says, “Yes we did!” And I say, “What are you talking about in your religion class?” And he says “We’re talking about SHARING!” And I say, “Sharing is a nice thing to talk about.” And he says, “Yes, today we talked about what we CAN and CANNOT share.”

Interesting. And perhaps a little unnerving.

He went on: “We CAN share our toys, but we CAN’T share our lunches, because we MIGHT share some germs.”

I say, “Oooh!” because I’m just relieved that they weren’t talking about sharing their private parts. “Well, that sounds like a good thing to remember.”

Charlie says, “Yes. It is.”

Henry says, “What’s religion?”

I knew I should have ordered something stronger than iced tea.

I take a deep breath and say, “Well, buddy, religion is people’s beliefs about God. Different people believe different things about God, and religion is the study of what people believe.”

“Yeah,” Charlie says, “Like God. God is everywhere, but he’s INVISIBLE. Why is God invisible, Mama?”

“Uhhhh . . . “

“Mama!” Charlie says. “Is God dead?”

I hope not, because I’m starting to pray that a martini will appear in front of me, pronto.

“Mama! Is GOD DEAD?”

“Uh, no buddy, God isn’t dead. But the author is.”

“What?”

“Nothing. No, God isn’t dead.”

“Then how is God invisible?”

“Uhhh . . . . “

“SOMEBODY is dead,” Charlie insists.

“Yes,” I say. “Jesus. Jesus died.” Please don’t let them ask how Jesus died, please please please . . .

Henry perks up. “He did? Why?” Phew.

“Christians believe that Jesus died to make up for all the bad things that the rest of us do.”

“Bad things WE do?” Charlie asks, his eyes huge.

“Yes,” Henry says. “BAD THINGS WE DO.”

“No,” I say, “Not exactly. You all don’t really do bad things, you just don’t always make good choices.”

“Yeah,” Henry says sadly, “Like today at school, I made some bad choices.” He did, and I already knew about it, and I didn’t really think we needed to rehash it at the dinner table, so I said, “Yes, you did, but that doesn’t make you a bad person. It makes you a boy who needs to make better choices tomorrow.”

“Okay,” he says. He takes a bite of bread and chews thoughtfully and says, “So religion is what you believe, right?”

“Right.”

He chews some more. “WHAT you believe?”

Charlie is making me play tic tac toe and through the din of “I’ll be X! I drew an X! Look at my X, Mama! I’ll draw another X! TIC TAC TOE I WIN AGAIN!” I can’t really tell what Henry is getting at. “Henry, are you asking what I believe?”

“No,” he says. “I was asking if religion is WHAT people believe.” He eats some more bread and then says, “But what DO you believe?”

“Well, buddy, um . . . I believe . . . phew. I believe that . . . “

“Dinner’s here!” Charlie announces happily, and sure enough, there’s our server with pasta and pizza and chicken nuggets and more milk and ketchup and by the time everything is cut up and divided and everyone has a napkin and a fork but NO KNIFE because that’s dangerous! the boys seem to have forgotten about the whole question of belief.

Thank God.

September 13, 2006

the uniform

This morning, Henry’s school had a special donuts-and-prayer deal, and since I’m trying to reform and be a More Involved Parent, I figured I should go. Plus, DONUTS! You know, to go with all the hamburgers.

Of course, deciding to show up meant finding something to wear, which seems much harder now that I’ve started giving fashion advice. Yesterday I changed the bottom half of my outfit three times (corduroy peasant skirt that kept falling off, stretch cotton capri pants that made my calves look huge, jeans that were cutting off the circulation to all my internal organs) and spent over an hour trying on pants at the Gap (do NOT be tempted by the Audrey Hepburn Pant–trust me). By the time I picked the kids up at school, I was still hating what I was wearing but since I’m always getting on them about changing their clothes AGAIN, I had to stick with the jeans. My kidneys are really pissed today.

Anyway, prayer and donuts! What do you wear to prayer and donuts? I have no idea so I opted for the Mom Uniform. You know what I mean: a brown t-shirt and khaki capri pants. Practical! Flattering! Boring! I tried to spice it up a little by adding some embellished ballet flats and a pretty one-of-a-kind necklace and my white jean jacket (white! not blue! unexpected!), and the capris are a nice cotton stretch blend that I IRONED, so they look a little dressier. But still–Mom Uniform.

In theory, I hate the Mom Uniform–I don’t believe that just because someone calls you Mommy you can’t wear pretty clothes or sexy shoes. But in practice, I am totally won over by the well-considered wardrobe, the closet that is full of pieces that go effortlessly and beautifully together. Because half the time, I am getting dressed in the dark before I’ve had coffee, and if I have to really think about what to wear I wind up standing in front of the closet in my underwear, swearing, which throws my whole morning off.

Yesterday, after the whole Gap experience, I came home and tried on every pair of pants I own. EVERY SINGLE PAIR. And I weeded out anything that didn’t fit properly, because I’m tired of constantly grabbing pants that crush my kidneys, and I’m not willing to stop with the hamburgers and donuts (mmm, donuts). Then I hung everything by length: capris, floor length, needs a heel.

I really need to get a life, don’t I?

This morning, I looked in my newly organized closet (okay, only the bottom is organized; the top half is a disaster) and pulled out my Mom Uniform. And really, when we left the house, I was feeling pretty good! My stomach and thighs were covered, I liked my shoes, and I was pretty sure I could wear this outfit all day and not fret about it.

Of course, when I dropped Charlie off, he started to cry and climb on me (because he wanted to go have a donut, too, or because he wanted me to go to school with him, or because I was wearing light-colored pants that I had IRONED for god’s sake) and he left a perfect footprint on the left leg of my pants. Then Henry, my child who doesn’t like to be touched, hugged me REPEATEDLY with his Krispy Kreme-coated hands, leaving perfect fingerprints of sugar glaze across the backside of my pants. THEN, when I came home, I pulled the trash cans in from the curb, and because I had left them out all night, they were all wet and dripped all over the back of my pants.

It’s 9:00 am and I’m thinking I should change my pants.