Driving to the Bus Stop

  There's something inherently shameful about driving to the bus stop.
  I could get into the ridiculous fact that the ratio of adults to kids is basically 1:1, and it seems a weird use of our time as a society to have seven able bodied adults standing around for ten (or thirty five) minutes, depending on the bus arrival, -  
   But I digress.
   What I really wanted to talk about - the bus stop. It's only a few hundred yards up the hill and then a little down the next street. It's a pleasant five minute walk, and just the right amount of exercise to make you pause and pretend to admire the dying daffodils (this weather, right??) while attempting to hide the fact that you are out of shape and blowing like a ranch horse.
   But then there are days when it is thirty-eight degrees and raining and the bus is always late and you decide to drive to the bus stop. There, you sit IN the car, and you can wallow in the guilt that come with the cushy life of sitting in a CAR that is WARM (don't you know that there are people in the world who don't know have data plans? The horror!)

   Earlier this week, it was sunny. It was warm. It was pleasant, and I drove to the bus stop anyway. I parked, and put on my super awesome migraine shades and shuffled slowly to where the gaggle of cool working moms and babysitting grandparents were huddled. (I believe a group of such caretakers is a gaggle, yes? That is the scientific term?)

   I joined the scrum.

   One of the mommies laughed as I approached. "Wouldn't it have just been faster for you to walk?" she asked, referencing my amazing parking. "Why did you drive?"

   Now, readers, this is a cautionary tale. You know that annoying meme that keeps popping up on your Facebook wall that reads: Be Kind. Everyone Is Fighting A Battle You Know Nothing About? You know, the one with the photo of a mountain behind it, or some weird little watercolor flowers? That meme is incredibly annoying, but it isn't wrong. Case in point:
   
   "Wouldn't it have just been faster for you to walk?" she asked.
   "Yup. But it would have been disastrous." I gave her my best grin-and-bear-it smile. "I've been on a new medication for a week which causes colitis, pain, and intense diarrhea. So, yeah, I could have walked here, but I didn't think we were close enough for our relationship to survive my, you know, pooping my pants in front of you."

   There was a moment of horrified silence.
   There wasn't a mic drop. Just her wide eyes and my pathetic grin.

   Then everyone began to laugh. "OOOH, that is the worst!" one of the moms related.
    "Just give me your number," the original speaker said. "I'll text you when the stupid bus shows up. Go home until then."
    "Bless you," and I hurried back to the car.

     Look around, loveys. See the people? They are all fighting something. Maybe the people you see are total dill weeds who drive to the bus stop because they are lazy and don't care about the environment, or maybe they just didn't want to poop themselves in front of you. 
    Our assumptions are made so very easily, while our grace is hoarded for those we think 'deserve' our kindness.
    The fact is, everyone needs your kindness.
     And you need theirs.


     So, you know, BE KIND.
 (But don't share that meme on my wall anymore. It's annoying.)
   

Thoughts While Attending a 5 Year Old's Birthday Party

It was my turn.

I missed the laser tag party. My husband was stuck with that particular purgatory.

I "lost" the invitation to the Strawberry Shortcake Bake With Your Child party.

But we like this neighborhood friend.

We should go.

This is a Princessy (adjective?) sort of party. With pink tutus. A Princess ballerina party. Not so bad, right?

There's going to be a dance instructor.

Maybe I could just chuck a well wrapped present at the neighbor's door and run away?

I spent an hour and a half helping my daughter find the perfect outfit, allowing her to choose brightly striped leggings that clashed with everything, a weird headband, teal owl socks, and black sparkly shoes to go with her Hello Kitty tutu shirt.

As I look around the Maple Room of the Community Center, you can tell which kids were dressed by their parents.

 Mine sure wasn't.

She wanted curls. I spent forty minutes on a salon style creation for my daughter. She looks fabulous, especially for a kid whose specialty is her brother's old soccer jerseys and a pirate sword.

The Disney music has begun. Courage, my heart. Courage.

I should write Disney a letter. I was promised, by their aggressive marketing, that if I birthed a girl child, I would play tea party and princess with her for four years, (ages 2-6). My world would be ruffles and glitter and costume jewelry.

Disney lied to me.

Not that I mind much. She'll make a great Evil Queen Overlord.

How much is the down payment on a Dark Tower, I wonder?

There's no pinata here. No Pin the Tail on the Donkey. When I was a kid, going to birthday parties meant playing Musical Chairs and then being sent to the backyard while adults smoked on the patio.

Oh, sweet Jesus. The Frozen music has started.

I brought a book. The irony is that it is a book about emotions and learning to - *ahem* - let it go.

My overlarge house dress and sweater have already been complimented. Twice. This means I either a.) Look fabulous or b.) Look like one of those deranged homeless people that you don't want to upset.

Hey, I brushed my teeth and I'm wearing clean, matching socks. I'm winning, today.

Do kids listen to lyrics? Do they understand that Princess Anna needs serious therapy?

All these people know each other. I should make friends.

But what I really want is a nap.

Why do I even allow my kids to have friends? Hermits never get invited to parties.

The dance teacher has called the kids to the center of the floor. She is handing out bright pink tutus. "You can never have too many tutus!"

I'd like to see her cite sources in defense.

My daughter is suddenly shy. She's never shy.

"Go, have fun!"
"No."
"Okay. Stay here and watch me read this book on emotional health."
"No."
"Yeah. It's not all that great."
"No."

I get a water bottle from the table. I didn't sneak a flask into this party. Why didn't I sneak a flask? My purse is enormous. I could have slipped a fifth of vodka in here and no one the wiser.

Huh. Water bottles. Disguising vodka. That's a million dollar idea.

Nope. Gotta drive home.

Also, my kid has stolen my water bottle.

"Go. Have fun."
"No."
"Why are you crying?"
"They have fairy wings!"
"Do you want fairy wings?"
"Yes!"
"Then go get some!"
"YOU HAVE TO COME WITH ME!"

I take my kid to the pile of fairy wings. "Excuse me, we're nervous, but we'd like fairy wings, please."
The dance instructor smiles beautifully. "Of course!"
I select a set that match her green tutu.
"No, Mommy. RED."
"Nothing you are wearing remotely goes - you know what? Red, it is." I help her to put on the wings. Instantly, she brightens.

Then she gives the look.
The look that says, 'Why are you standing here? Go away! You're embarrassing me!'

I go back to my seat.

Favorite overheard conversation topic so far: Mail Order Printer Toner Cartridges.

How long, Oh Lord? How long?

Why does everyone think 'I See the Light' is the best number from 'Tangled'? It's obviously 'Mother Knows Best'.

I used to be smart. I wonder what important piece of information I lost when I was implanting memories of 'Tangled'.

Kid is smiling. Fairy wings cure everything. Relief.

"When You Wish Upon A Star" - now that's really good music. That's the stuff.

The teacher just ordered all the kids, "Run back to your green dots! Find your green dots on the floor!" and they all complied. They're all standing on the green dots.

I need to get me some of those green dots.

Pachelbel's Canon in D? REALLY?

I will not bash my head into the cement block wall. I will not.

"Yeah..." one parent chuckles to another, "he's all about Duke..."

To be clear, sir, your son is four. He seems all about jumping on one foot.

My emotional health book is not helping me achieve enlightenment. Grief, Pain, all that I can handle. It has no guiding principles on how to transcend birthday parties. I dare Buddha to achieve mindfulness during balloon time.

Balloon time! Utter, delightful chaos. I think it could be more interesting with the introduction of spikes or something, but sharp objects don't mix well with preschoolers.

Ah, the Sleeping Beauty waltz. Poor Tchaikovsky. I hope he isn't able to hear the midi files of his music from the beyond.

CAKE TIME. Oh, sweet Jesus, cake time. I'll bet the party ends after this. No one opens presents at parties anymore. It's gauche, apparently.

Maybe some parent just decided it would be socially unacceptable in the interest of time and sanity. I can get behind that idea.

One kid has ditched cake and is trying to amass a balloon fortune. You go, girl. Buy low, sell high.

An hour and forty minutes.

I manage my escape carrying a craft and a balloon and a gift bag and a pinwheel while my Pirate Princess clomps beside me in her "tippy-tap" shoes gripping a second balloon with a fabulous grin.

Fine. It was worth it.

It was worth it for the reconnaissance. After all, I'm going to be expected to host one of these things for her birthday next month. A party for a 6 year old. My baby is turning six?


I will definitely be sneaking a flask to that party.

Impressive

The Pirate Princess was in story mode. Grandma Peggy is always a patient listener (for which we are all grateful). Our chatterbox was going on and on about her choir experiences at "Grandpa Gary's and Grandma Terry's church."
"Do you know people there?" Grandma Peggy asked.
"I have some friends. My friend, Mrs. Angie, is there."
"That's good."
"And sometimes," the Pirate Princess leaned forward eagerly, "someone plays the guitar!"
"Oh?"
She lifted her hand to whisper, "it's Papa-Gary!"
"Really?"
The Pirate Princess nodded. "He is impressive."
Grandma Peggy nodded. "Okay."
The pirate grew more conspiratorial. "Gramma?"
"What?"
"What does... 'impressive' mean?"

Mic Drop (Into the Dishwater)

   I was in that awful place, the place of fire and smoke, where the gnashing of teeth goes on and on, where there is weeping in the outer darkness.

   So, there I was, in the kitchen, washing my new set of mixing bowls. I had finally managed to chip, crack, and stain my old ceramic set into a state fit only for potted plants, so I had ordered new ones. The new bowls are shiny stainless steel, the kind that will not shatter no matter how many times I accidentally fling them onto the floor. They are colorful. They have lids. And pulling them out of the Amazon box was the highlight of my week.

    "What does this say about us?" my Buddy asked as we oohed and aahed. "I'm unreasonably excited about my new pots and pans. Is this what being an adult is?"

    "They're shiny!" I cooed.

    "Is this who we are now? Is this middle age?"

    
   I digress.
   We solved the existential crisis - shiny! new! cookware! - and I was standing at the kitchen sink, lovingly washing my new bowls, when my 8 year old son stormed into the room with a furious scowl.
   "I," he declared, "DO EVERYTHING IN THIS HOUSE."
   Silence.
   With immense self control, I continued to wash the bowl. I believe in allowing kids to experience Irony. My dear buddy had to turn around so that he would not see her laughing.
    "You do everything in this house?" I asked.
     "Yes," he sighed. "Why do I have to do all the work?"
     "Well, we do appreciate the fact that you clean everything," I said, rinsing the bowl and stacking it, lovingly, with the other. "We would never have any clean dishes if you didn't wash all of them."
     His brow furrowed. He looked at the dishes. He looked at me. "Well - "
    "And where," I went on, "would we be if you didn't shop for all the groceries and make sure we had healthy food when we needed it?"
     "I didn't mean - "
     "I'll bet you vacuum all the rooms," my buddy added, helpfully.
     "Don't forget the laundry! I really am grateful that you do all the laundry in the house. I like having clean pajama pants to wear when I go to the grocery store."
      "MOM!" he cried, exasperated. "I mean that I do so much! I tided the living room and the music room! I swept the floor!"
     "I can see that. I appreciate that. And I'm glad that you are helping Daddy take all the trash to the recycling center right now."
     "I'm trying to tell you," my medium-sized man concluded, "that I FEEL like I do everything."
     "Ah. Well." I dried my hands. "I'm sorry that you are frustrated by your chores. I understand that they can feel overwhelming. We can discuss your responsibilities later, but I need you to hear what you just said. You just informed me that you feel that you do everything, yes?"
   "Yes!"
   "And do you perform all the tasks in the house?"
    He pondered. "No... but I feel - !"
   "Kid, I get how you feel. I hear you. But I need you to understand something; how you feel is not an objective reality. Reality isn't changed by your feeling. Your feelings are valid, but they aren't the same thing as true."
     Then I dropped the mic into the soapy dishwater.
     (If only. That would have been fabulous.)

     Instead, I went back to my bowls. "Do you understand what I'm saying?"
     He sighed. "Yes."
    "We can talk about your level of chores later, okay?"
    "Okay."
     "Great. Now, run along and play. I need to call the White House Press Secretary."



    

Aluminum: The 10 Year Chip

Today, I have leveled up.

   I have reached that sacred milestone, the Aluminum anniversary.

   Ten years ago, I stuffed my aunt's wedding dress into my old Buick and sang all the way to the church with my best friend/ maid of honor by my side. I almost ran down the aisle, pulling my father after me. He whispered, "This is your moment. Take your time"
   And I whispered, "I can't wait!"


   Ten years.
   Seven moves.
   Everything from a tiny one bedroom apartment to a rambling country house with broken windows.
   
   Ten years.
   Five jobs.
   Unemployment with a toddler and 6 month pregnant wife.

   Ten years.
   Two kids.
   Four surgeries.


   We survived an underwater mortgage, a landlord who didn't believe in fixing things, countless ER visits, moving a grand piano over 2 inches of ice...


   When we moved into the newly bought house in Charlotte, the previous owners had sworn to turn off the alarm service. They didn't. And as we struggled with boxes and a sobbing, tired baby boy and finding toilet paper, the alarm went off (and we're talking FOGHORN, people). And as my ears began to bleed and eight adults collapsed into balls of whimpering pain, I remembered that one of the owners had written a little code on a Post-It at closing and I knew where it was ---
  -- and I turned off that Effing Alarm.
   And my husband looked at me with tears in his eyes and said, "I have never loved you more than I do in this moment."

   The police showed up twenty minutes later. They stood in the open doorway and one of the said, "Huh. This is the weirdest burglary I've ever seen. Ya'll are bringing the stuff IN?"


  Ten years. We've survived (and in my case, that's a quite literal victory).
  We've learned how to fight. We've had battles over important issues like Cake, Immigration Policy, the Cat, a Book, and Another Cake (for serious). 
  We've learned how to love. My introvert needs time and space. I need someone to take over slicing bread for guests after I cut my finger open with the bread knife.
  We've learned how to balance, how to be Us, how to be Alone, how to be a Parent, how to Adult, how to be Ridiculous, how to be Honest and Ugly and Sorry and So Happy.
   And we're still learning.
    

   I should write something Romantic - about how he is still my Hero (he is), and how he makes me feel like a Queen (he does), and how our Love will Never Die (but we will).

    What I remember is the way my stomach stopped churning when I heard his voice on the phone after a college student hit our car. He was coming to hold me, and that would be Enough.
    I remember still shaking from shock from a bad emergency C-section, and they wheeled me into the post-op room, and I saw him holding our baby girl, safe and sound, and I saw how they looked at each other and I knew that would be Enough.
    I kissed his cheek before they took me away for yet another surgery and I told him the God's honest truth: "You have made me happier than I ever thought possible." That would be Enough.
  
    And when the post-partum anxiety was so bad that I didn't sleep for 4 days, he was there. He held me while I hallucinated. When I whispered, "I know the ceiling fan isn't a badger! I can fix this!", he stroked my hair and murmured, "Go to sleep, love. I've got you."
    That damn badger was no match for him.

   I guess what I wanted to say, for the record, is that the last ten years have been so much more wild and difficult that I could have ever guessed. And I have no doubt that the next 10 years will be just as mind boggling, because it is simply what our Life is. 

  But I know that when I roll over in the morning, my knee will accidentally collide with the sturdy back of a forgiving husband, the sort of man who will accept my mumbled apology and will roll over to kiss my forehead.
   Then, he will whisper, "Coffee?"
      And I will be Home.

   
   I can't wait.
  
   
   
  

  
   
   

NCIS: Cat Murder

  When my daughter set off to preschool at the beginning of this year, I was forced to fill out an obscene amount of paperwork. A complete biography of our family, our educational values, our disciplinary measures, and our religious background, including the question, "Who is the authority in your household?"

   I wrote, "The cat."

   (Our favorite preschool teacher later informed me that other members of staff nearly spit their coffee across the classroom upon reading it.)

   But it's really true. Bertie and Jeeves are pleased to have us around as staff, but we know exactly where we fall in the hierarchy. The cats come first, then the Daddy, the Princess, the Patient Boy, and that Person Who Does All the Other Work and is Constantly Stepping On Us.

   In fact, when the Amazing Daddy leaves for work, the cats sit upon the mat and cry for about 15 minutes. Mind you, I'm still in the house, and willing to cuddle and stroke and talk, but I am not to be spoken to unless it is 2 am and I am the Insomniac on the Couch - in which case, it is their pleasure to give me something to do (i.e., pet them). 

   This is no exaggeration. This happened TODAY :

     *blast. I am  bad at the Interwebs and Techonology and I really am trying to post a video here, but it is angry with me. I'll try again in the morning. Seriously. It's after midnight. Nothing good ever happened on a computer after midnight.*


  Bertie is the Loud One. Jeeves, our black kitty vampire, is less loquacious and more circumspect. 

  Lately, Jeeves has been unable to keep up with the absolutely enormous amount of fur he possesses. Our hardwood floors have Jeeves-puffs blowing by on a regular basis, like tumbleweeds on the open prairie. Husband tried to brush him, but the overwhelming volume was just beyond them both - and poor Jeeves was starting to suffer from constant hairballs and tangles and matting and general hygienic misery.

   Something had to be done. Something drastic.


   Tonight, we sheared him. We hauled out the hair trimmers and used that #2 guard and lopped off an entire Jeeves worth of fur. He wasn't happy, but he submitted, as though sensing the weight that was being literally lifted from his shoulders.

   Then we washed him,which was NOT okay, and then we rinsed him, which means I will spend all of tomorrow de-Jeeves-ing the bathroom. Then we rubbed him until our towels were despaired of.

  Then we brushed him again for twenty minutes.

  And we STILL brushed off this much:

  I think Jeeves may have a super power - SHEDDING.
  


 But the BEST moment, the moment that made everything worth it, was the moment that Bertie wandered into the bathroom and saw the aftermath of the shearing:

   

  And he stopped dead - like a really terrible, over-acting guest star on NCIS: Pet Edition. He jumped back and stared in horror at the fur on the floor. He might as well have fallen to his furry knees and screamed, "NOOOOOO!"
     

   Then he spent two hours hissing at his brother, as though a Clean Jeeves was a Traitor Jeeves. Clean Jeeves was an impostor, or an alien! 


   Clean Jeeves, however, doesn't mind being hissed at, because I believe he feels immensely better. And after all that, he's not even close to being bald or hairless - just look at him!
   
   

He is not close to forgiveness either. 

Girl

   There's a ghost living in my house.

   Hi, there. It's been a while, I know, but it was a long year of coming to terms with my finite self, which sounds super deep and mature, but is really just code for stayed-alive-because-I-hadn't-time-to-die. My doctors disagreed about how best to kill me. My careers imploded in a spectacularly pathetic manner. The second grader brought home enormous packets of volunteering opportunities because his elementary school is home to the most militant PTA I've ever had the misfortune to meet. The preschooler attended the local Catholic preschool, where she appalled everyone with her macabre interests and led me into accidental heresy by gifting me a handmade rosary which I mistook for a necklace, and then all the Catholic mommies stared aghast as I struggled to free my head from the rosary and I stammered, "Ha - ha - .... protestant problems...." and no one laughed (except the protestant teacher).
   And then our landlord was all, "Hey - I wanna move back into my house - can you leave?" and then we found a house, and then it fell through because HELLO, asbestos check? - and then the house we managed to find last minute was torn apart by squatters and I had to scrub out the smoker smell and patch the holes in the walls and tape the broken windows and anyway --

    I was just trying to say, blog readers, that I  have missed you. And I owe you a ton of back stories.

    But the most pressing issue at the moment is GIRL.
    I need to explain as quickly as possible, because one never knows when that creepy violin music will begin and I'll be out of time ---

   As I mentioned above, the new house is  quite a fixer-upper, and since we are renting yet again, several issues must wait upon the landlord. The guest room has two enormous holes in the wall and is painted two shades of brown, so has been dubbed the Snickers Turd Suite. The upstairs drains are confused about where water is supposed to go (down - it goes down), and the light over the shower inexplicably turns on and off; I mean, middle of the night dear HEAVENLY-FATHER-DID-ALL-THE-LIGHTS-JUST-TURN-ON-BY-THEMSELVES?! Or, when one is halfway through shaving a leg (like, super gracefully), the lights suddenly turn off, and there's a very Hitchcok-ian moment where I rip the curtain asunder (while weilding a three-bladed Gillete) and scream, "WHO GOES THERE?"

   It doesn't matter if the switch is on or off or halfway - it simply has no control over the light.

   I mentioned this to Beloved Friend. Friend said, "Oh, you have an electrical problem."
   "Have you met me?"
    She immediately amended, "You're right. I was forgetting. You have a dark demonic force living in your bathroom."
 
    Reader, she was right.



    Since moving into the Yellow Castle-Tree-House, our five year old daughter has found a new friend. Her name is Girl. Girl is three, or four, or five - she has many birthdays. Girl likes particular foods, and despises other foods - and I know what you're thinking, but Girl has completely dissimilar tastes from our Princess Annie (her contract dictates that I use her correct title).  She likes random colors, while Annie only like red. She has moods, and takes naps, and almost never comes with us on car rides.
   Annie will inform me, "Girl says I should do this," or "Don't do that, Mommy. Girl doesn't like that." And while I like to chuckle and gently remind my daughter that we shouldn't do what the Voices tell us to do, there's always a moment of horrified silence. It wouldn't be so creepy if she would only grant this mysterious friend a name, but Girl is apparently very reticent about monikers.
    She is Girl.
 
    Creepy, right?

    It gets better.

    My almost-eight-year-old son, who is Very Responsible and a Medium-Sized Man now (not to be confused with the endearment "Little Man", which is not appropriate for 7 year olds), came to me this evening for his nightly hug and kiss before bed. He overheard me explaining the mysterious Girl to our visiting Grandma.

 
 "Girl," I muttered, "is Annie's creepiest friend to date. I didn't mind the Baby Brother she carried around, or the Dragon with no mercy. But this Girl is weird."
   "Hey!" Jack cried. "You don't need to worry about Girl. We were talking about her yesterday."




   "Oh... yeah?"
 
   "Yeah! We were playing, and I told her to go away and play with Girl, and Annie said, "GIRL IS DEAD."

   *silence*

    "That doesn't make me feel better, buddy."

    "Oh. Okay. Goodnight!"

     Right. Like I'm going to be able to go to sleep now. Or ever.




*if I should die under mysterious circumstances, do not enter the Master Bathroom. It's because of Girl, not because it's a total mess. Mostly.*