June 16, 2008

damned

Over the weekend, the New York Times magazine carried an article on parents who are splitting the work of being a family precisely 50/50. They have made choices — about work and child care and laundry — that allow them to each carry exactly half the burden of being married and raising children and paying the bills.

I have to admit that I read the article with my eyes rolled back into my head because COME ON WHO ARE WE KIDDING? You can’t split life 50/50, and fair is not always the same as equal. The article talks about couples who track who does what and for how long on color-coded computer programs, to guarantee an equal division of labor.

Oh please. Give me a break.

But maybe my problem isn’t with the elaborate schedules for housework and child care (after all, who WOULDN’T want a little more help with the dishes?) but with my own current sense that I will never get a handle on things, and that I am doomed.

Or damned, if you will.

This is the first summer since Henry was born that I have ever had any kind of formalized child care; it is also the first summer since Henry was born that I have worked. And I am working, a good 35 hours a week, which is full-time in my book. Oh sure, I get to work from home, in my flip flops and ball cap, and the days that the kids aren’t at camp, I sometimes work from the pool, sending emails from a shady spot on the deck while the boys jump off the diving board. But still, working, every day. And as long as the boys go to camp, things sort of work out. Pretty much. Mostly.

Except that I don’t think camp is working out.

Last week Charlie told me that his class didn’t go outside to play; he also said that they are taking a nap in the afternoon, which is odd since they are all in kindergarten and first grade. Henry’s class appears to spend most of their day playing computer games in the classroom, or watching movies.

Neither kid hates camp, but neither of them loves it. Charlie goes reluctantly, and Henry complains every day because I won’t let him take his Nintendo with him. Good times.

Today I had a word with the director, who admitted that Henry’s class has some “classroom management issues” which seems to mean that the junior counselors who are in charge of his group don’t know what the hell they’re doing. I mentioned Charlie’s class and the nap and the not playing outside and she seemed surprised but promised to look into it.

I have become That Mom. The guilty one who complains. THAT mom.

I love my job; I love the work I do. It’s interesting and intellectually challenging and fun. But today I hate that I am settling for half-assed day care so that I can work, I hate that I am choosing my job over my kids (because yes, that’s what it feels like). I hate that I am wasting my money so my kids can sit around somewhere else and do nothing.

I’m probably making camp sound worse than it is, but that’s how it feels today.

The couples profiled in the Times talked about the choices they had made, choices to make less money and work fewer hours to have more time to be there for the family. And here’s where I really feel bad: I’m not willing to give up my job to be with my kids more. I love my kids, fiercely and joyously, but when I was the mommy full-time, I felt like I gave up some big part of me, the part that made me a whole person. Yes I hate the juggle right now and yes I wish camp were different and more challenging, but I’m not walking away from my job because of that.

I may, however, walk away from camp.

I’m thinking I will pull the kids out, after I come home from BlogHer (they have to go until then, because I have too much to do and because the week I am gone Wade will be working). But after that, why can’t they stay home with me? Why can’t I just make this work, all these pieces?

It’s not equal, but maybe it’s more fair. At least for my kids, who are wasting their summer doing nothing.

I’m feeling frustrated today, because I know what the right answer is and I know it will make life better and worse, all at once.  I am damned if I do and damned if I don’t.   I wonder if 50/50 parenting solves that dilemma?

I doubt it.

June 10, 2008

Black Hawk

I am a helicopter mom. There’s no way around it. I’m not the type who hovers for no reason; I believe in letting my kids get their feet wet and their hands dirty. But I can’t just walk away.

Henry was invited to a birthday party today, at the club pool. He swam with his friends while Charlie and I played in the shallow end. They jumped off the diving board and shot each other with squirt guns and played catch in the pool. I was keeping one eye on Henry, all the time, because that’s what I do, because I am that mom, and because I know my son.

He doesn’t always read other kids correctly, or see what they see. I don’t know how else to explain it, but that’s what happens.

Charlie and I were playing catch, and in between tosses I watched Henry and his friends. Henry was holding the ball and another kid was trying to pull it away from him and a different kid was trying to help the first kid and Henry was yelling at them to stop. And then he started to cry.

He knew I was there, watching, because I always am; he dragged himself out of the pool, head down, trying not to cry in front of his friends. And when he got to me, he wrapped himself around my waist and buried his face in my side.

The other kids apologized and called for him to come back and play and tried to draw him back into their game; he tried to play with them, but he couldn’t recover. When they all started lining up to play games, he came over to where Charlie and I were sitting on the lounge chairs and curled up in my lap and hid his head under a towel and asked to go home.

So we did.

I have moments where I feel like a really good parent — not often, really, because most of the time I feel like I am just barely getting by, but every once in a while I step back and realize that I’m not doing such a bad job. I’m hovering for all the right reasons, I think, like a Black Hawk helicopter, waiting to scoop up the wounded and triage them. I can’t stop them from getting hurt — that’s part of life — but I can pick up the pieces afterward.

Even though the triage breaks my heart a little every time.

June 9, 2008

three! hours! sleep!

I went today to get a second set of passport photos, because apparently a passport isn’t enough to get me into another country this summer; I also need a tourist visa. My passport photo makes me look like a drunk serial killer, while this photo only makes me look like a detoxing crack addict. Step up, I think!

I spent the whole afternoon wondering what Angelina Jolie’s passport photo looks like. Do you think she looks like crap, too? My friend Angie said, “She probably looks like a real person. I mean, it would be weird to go for a passport photo in full makeup.”

“Yeah,” I said, “but it might have been nice if I had actually PUT some makeup on.  Any makeup.  At all.  And maybe brushed my hair.  You know.”

“Yes,” she said, “that would have been good.”

* * * * *

Charlie and I played a game today: I laid on Henry’s bed, struggling not to fall asleep, while he snuck in and out of the room, asking me “AM I HERE NOW?” and every time I opened my eyes to see where he was, he collapsed in laughter and yelled, “YOU’RE NOT SUPPOSED TO OPEN YOUR EYES!”

I don’t know what the point was, but it was fun.

* * * * *

Henry: Mom, I have a weird red spot on my knee.

Me: Let’s see, buddy. Where is it?

Henry: Right here, in my knee pit.

Me: Oh of course.

This followed a conversation where the boys took turns smelling Charlie’s feet and trying to convince me that I should do the same. I declined.

* * * * *

Recently I’ve had several really lovely emails from people who read this blog, about books and graduate school and kids and I don’t know what all. And also recently I realized that when I read emails from my phone and delete them from the phone, they are PERMANENTLY DELETED and I cannot ever respond to them or even find them again.

Technology is not my friend.

If you have emailed me, thank you so very much — I’m not ignoring you I am just too stoopid to make my gadgets really work for me. I think I have the phone all figured out now, and I would love to hear from you again.  From now on, I am only deleting crazy ParentDish comments.  Promise.

Now who wants to smell Charlie’s feet?

June 6, 2008

my life is less Sex and the City and more Law and Order

Last Friday, a detective from the Oklahoma City Police Department called to say that she might have a suspect in our larceny, and would I be willing to look at a photo lineup? And I said HELL YES because I am still pissed that someone would do that.

She came out to the house on Wednesday with some pictures, and when we sat down at my dining room table she said, “Have you ever done this before?”

“No,” I said, “but I watch a LOT of Law and Order.”

“Yeah, not the same,” she said.

I looked at the photos and didn’t see my guy; the detective thanked me and said that she had one other suspect and could she bring another lineup out later in the week?

Again, I said HELL YES.

This morning I got up early to work; I was crabby because my child care has fallen through every day this week, which has left me really scrambling and also tired of hearing about Star Wars. On Monday, Henry was sick; on Wednesday the camp outing was ice skating, which is questionable in the first place (this is OKLAHOMA not Minnesota, our kids know how to duck and cover but not ice skate) but was clearly a bad idea for Charlie, who JUST got the cast off his arm. Today they went to Pump It Up, which is fine but again, not for the kid who is still convalescing from being broken, or really for his mother who is easily freaked out. So Monday I had Henry at home, Wednesday both kids went to camp for exactly three hours, and today I had Charlie at home.

You know what is AWESOME? Paying for child care that you DO NOT USE! And then not being able to do the work that pays for the stupid child care in the first place! THAT is AWESOME.

Yesterday, when Charlie realized that Henry was going to Pump It Up and he was not, there was some sadness, so to make up to him for missing ALL THE FUN THINGS THAT HAVE EVER HAPPENED IN THE HISTORY OF FUN THINGS EVER (which encompasses roughly the past eight weeks), I told him I would take him swimming today. Because you know, already in a bad mood, might as well put on a bathing suit! Why the hell not!

I was a peach this morning, as you might imagine.

At 9:30, just as Charlie started asking if the pool was OPEN YET and COULD WE GO ALREADY and WHERE WAS HIS SWIMSUIT AND THAT TRANSFORMER TOY HENRY FOUND AT THE POOL LAST SUMMER AND COULD HE JUMP OFF THE DIVING BOARD AND WAS I GOING TO GET IN THE WATER TODAY BECAUSE THAT WOULD BE SO MUCH MORE FUN BECAUSE THE WATER IS REALLY REALLY COLD and I was thinking that I really needed some flask flops, the detective called again, to ask if she could come out with the second lineup. And again I said HELL YES but this time I was probably more crabby than socially minded.

On the back of the photo lineup (which basically lives in a fancy manilla folder with holes for the photos) are the instructions on How to Proceed (do not talk to anyone else, take as much time as you need, remember that hair styles are easily changed, blah blah blah). The first time we did this, she read through the whole thing with me; today she asked if I remembered the details and I said yes and she flipped the folder over so I could see the photos and there was the guy.

RIGHT THERE! THE GUY! WHO STOLE OUR AMP! AND THEN WAVED TO ME AS HE DROVE AWAY!

I looked really closely to be sure, but I knew it was him. I told the detective and she had me circle the photo and initial and sign the back with the date and time. It was hard to refrain from doing a little victory dance, because TAKE THAT, SUCKER! STEAL MY UPS PACKAGE WILLYA! HA HA!

Mature, I know, but justified! You have to admit, totally justified.

I’m still behind and still scrambling and still praying that this whole camp thing doesn’t fall through again, EVER, because OMG these kids canNOT stay home with me, but I’m feeling like I accomplished something today.  You know, since I may have helped put a man behind bars.

Ahh satisfaction.

June 3, 2008

eight

Henry is eight today, which I find both completely mundane and entirely shocking. When I look at his face, especially when he is sleeping, he looks exactly like the wee not-quite-five-pound baby they put in my arms after the delivery, the serious, silent, frowning little thing, with his nose in the air and his eyes scrunched shut.

In eight years, he hasn’t changed at all, except that he sleeps less and talks more. And he’s harder to hold in my lap.

I have hugged him eleven million times today, and he has allowed it, probably because he is sick but maybe because he can see that I miss the wee baby he was, and the fat toddler and the busy preschooler. Also because eight is so big and so small, all at once.  Eight is also half way to a driver’s license, as Henry reminded me (although I may have said something like over my dead body, which is entirely possible because he is young and I am old).

Happy birthday, Henry, my baby.  I love you (but I still don’t want you driving).

June 2, 2008

doctor, doctor!

Ask me what I did today! Go ahead, ASK ME!

I took both kids to the doctor. BOTH OF THEM.

Henry has strep throat. I know! How is that possible? But he does!

This afternoon I took Charlie to get his cast off. FINALLY.

First there was the cutting. Charlie has been fascinated by the fact that the cast cutter cuts the CAST but not his SKIN. Because cool!

Hello arm! I have missed you. Also you are really dirty and disgusting. Welcome back!

Charlie immediately started peeling the skin off his arm while the rest of us made jokes about molting snakes. Gross.

While Charlie was getting ANOTHER Xray (I hope he’s serious about not wanting to have kids, because I’m sure he’s going to father mutants after all these Xrays) Henry entertained himself by spinning around on the rolling stool until he was dizzy. And so was I.

Okay that? Is just disgusting. His hand was the worst part, but I will spare you and YOU WILL THANK ME. Seriously.

When we came home, Charlie had a long soak in the tub; we worked at the peeling skin (Wade: I learned a new word today! Exfoliate. Me: Uh, yeah! Good for you, honey.) and then slathered the arm with fancy body lotion. TWENTY EIGHT DOLLAR A BOTTLE body lotion. Because apparently only the best will do for the snaky arm.

(I feel compelled to say that the Terralina lotion is the BOMB — it doesn’t have any alcohol in it, so it didn’t sting at all, and it really did make Charlie’s skin feel better.)

$65 later (not counting the day of camp that I paid for and Henry missed) we’re all on the road to being better. At least I hope so because I can’t take any more days like this.