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.*

   

That's True. So True.

   Scene I: A messy kitchen on a morning before school; Mommy is finishing packing her son's lunch and trying to find a container big enough for all the Halloween candy that has taken over her house. She grabs a brown chest and begins to dump out the assorted stickers. Son enters, Stage Right.)

"Mommy, why are you emptying the Treasure Box?"
   
(Please don't make me talk about this.)
"Because."

"Because you don't have any piano students?"

(Really? We're going to talk about the fact that my blasted infirmities have robbed me of my career, my vitality, even my sense of humor? And my favorite students? We're going to talk about this at 7:41 a.m.?! )
"That's right."

"So you - " he paused over the big word, " - cancelled your studio?"

(Sure, kid. Twist the knife.) "Yes."

Pause.
(... It's ridiculous how much this hurts. Please go away.)


"But you're getting better now."

(Slowly but surely -  now that I've cancelled my whole life.) "That's true. I am getting better."
   
Son dashes across the kitchen and throws his arms around Mommy with enthusiasm. "Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!"

Mommy nearly falls over, startled. "For what?"

"For getting better!" Son beams with his father's beautiful smile. "Because I want to play with you!"

"Oh. And I can play with you now?"

"Yes! Because you don't need to sleep as much anymore!"

(That's true, little man.) "That's true."

 

In Defense of Procreation: Part I

  "The Time has come," the walrus said, "to Talk of Many Things,
      We Might Want to Have Kids -
         So Convince Me This is A Good Idea - "

  "Well..." I answered slowly, "mine just spent four days at their grandmother's so that we could see if eleven prescription drugs could get my migraines under control and guess what? I'd forgotten that you can watch movies without closed captions! Did you know that characters have VOICES?! That there is such a thing as sound design?"
   "Er..." my friend (who is not a walrus) answered.
   "SOUND DESIGN!!" and then I cackled a little too maniacally because really, I  haven't blogged in two months because I've been bouncing from one neurologist to another while they all poked me and stuffed me into machines and went "OOOH!" and "Huh" and "That's rare" and "That shouldn't do that" and "You hallucinate WHAT?" and finally just pushed me on to another doctor because none of them are Dr. House and they are not interested by my rare condition. They are annoyed that I won't fit in their boxes or respond as I ought to their medications. The last doctor simply called me a "unicorn" and said we were in  waters, so "let's try some stuff and be patient".
   Where was I? Right.
   I owe my friend. I owe all my friends. I owe every reader who has ever skimmed this blog and laughed at my stories of poo and thought, 'Thank heaven I have no offspring' because frankly, I've done you a disservice. You deserve all the same misery I've had. More than that, you deserve all the same joys.
   It isn't really a good idea to have kids.
   It's the most crazy, fabulously adventurous thing two people can do.
   So you really ought to try it.

  Why?


 Reason #1: Your children will show you the Worst of Yourself. And the Best.
    Sure, the first thing you may hear in the morning is sarcasm. Your six year old may be helping his little sister get breakfast cereal, and she may be demanding 2% milk, and he may suddenly sigh and snap, "Well, we are out of that milk and I am not a magician so I can't just make it appear!" And you think to yourself, 'That is absolutely my fault. Sorry, kid'.
   And perhaps, later on, while he attempts to set the kitchen timer on the microwave, he will fall into your habit of yelling at inanimate objects: "NO, MICROWAVE, NO! NOT COOK! JUST TIMER! DO NOT COOK! AAARGH!"
  This may be the moment you despair. You may think, 'I am not fit to care for children. I have harmed society by allowing my DNA to replicate. Perhaps it isn't too late to find a good home for them - they are cute and housebroken, after all."
   But then, there is a moment when you hear your son playing a game with his sister where he is obviously cheating FOR her, so that she will win. He whispers the answers to her, and when she calls them out, he praises her to the skies as the smartest little girl he knows. Then he reads out loud to her and gets her a snack while Mommy has to lay in the dark bedroom with her Superhero mask (blackout sleep mask). And when your son comes in to check on your headache and kisses your cheek, you think, 'Well, I suppose I haven't done the worst job ever.'
   Then he clinches it by asking:
     "Can I make you a sandwich? Would that make your headache better?"
  In his defense, not one neurologist offered that as a cure for migraine, so for all we know, it could very well be the missing link.
     
  I guess what I'm trying to say is that kids are a little bit like marriage - the force you to face yourself every single day in a brutally honest way. The make you grow up in tough ways, in good ways, in hard ways, in beautiful ways.
   I highly recommend it.

   Of course, your other kid may flash half the church with her new dress during the Lord's Prayer, and you will spend the rest of the service in a silent facepalm of shame, but hey! A little humility is good for us all.

God is a Ninja

"WHERE IS GOD?!" the four year old demanded from her throne (car seat). Her tone would allow no pathetic minion to fail in producing her desire immediately. "Where is he?"
  Her wise, older brother rolled his eyes, for, being seven, he was infinitely more knowledgeable in the ways of the world. "God," he declared sagely, "is invisible."
   "What," his sister asked, "does that mean?"
   "It means you can't see him."

   Silence.

   Then, the Princess declared with a logician's confidence: "God is a ninja."
   "WHAT?!" her brother cried. "No he isn't!"
   "Yes! Yes, he is!" she argued, "because I can't see him!"
   "MOMMY! Tell her that God is not a ninja!"


 

Thins your Mother Won't Tell You Because She Wants Grandchildren, Part IV: The First Trimester

   The greatest irony of pregnancy is that when you most need the love, help, and support of strangers is during the three months when no one can tell that you're pregnant. They can tell that you're bloated, maybe a little more pudgy than they remembered, but not obviously pregnant.
   Unfortunately, that's when you find yourself bent over in the canned goods aisle while praying to every God you can think of and a few you made up (God-of-Lost-Earrings) to please, please, please deliver you from puking in the Food Lion.
   You would think, thanks to heartwarming TV dramas, that Morning Sickness would cause you to throw up a little, so that 27 minutes into the episode it can be - gasp! - revealed that you are pregnant! Then you instantly get a cute bump and six screen shots later, you're rushing to a delivery room with a vaguely Chris-Pine-looking OBGYN and ninety seconds after that, you're presented with a thoroughly cleaned, pink, non-sobbing infant.
   But none of that is true.
   In the first few weeks (or months, depending on your distraction), no one knows you're pregnant - including you. You might experience what doctors call 'fatigue', but what actually feels like carrying an 80lb. pack through a swamp. You suddenly hate the smell of food, or you love the smell of food, of you're surprised that you suddenly notice and care about the smell of food. You may experience 'hormonal changes', which means that you will break out in acne and cry over toothpaste commercials.
   My personal experience was an earth-shattering, overwhelming, incredible rage. The first time I was unwittingly growing a small person, I had to lock myself in a relative's bathroom to cry; not that cute I-need-a-hug cry, but the vicious I'd-kill-if-I-could-get-away-with-it cry. You may be thinking that is a perfectly normal response to spending Thanksgiving with in-laws, but not in this case. My in-laws are nice people. I was just insane. I sobbed and seethed all the way home, while my bewildered husband attempted soothing, "I don't think it was as bad as you're making it out to be". He said it once. Only once.
   The next time I felt that way, I knew that #2 was on her way.
   My mother, on the other hand, had no ill effects at all. She told me that she did feel dizzy, once. Once. So when she felt dizzy again, ONCE, she knew that she was pregnant with my brother. But that was it. I remember answering a phone call from her, whispering, "I think - I'm gonna - puke..."
     "Oh! That never happened to me," she answered. "You shouldn't have morning sickness. I didn't."
     "Uh-huh."
      You might be one of those people who gets glowing skin and sparkling eyes and a general feeling of bliss. I hope you are. I wouldn't hate you. Really.
     Not much, anyway.
 

   The first 13 weeks are LOOONG. And if you want to Keep It A Secret, it's even harder. You have to plan brilliant excuses for why you're not drinking (I don't drink on Days that have a 'Y' in them) or avoiding caffeine (I'm cleansing my auras) and you have to try to remember who you whispered it to (but your brain has started going). You can't even beg your colleagues to lay off the Jungle Gardenia hand lotion.
   No one opens doors for you, or offers to carry groceries, or compliments you on your glow. You're just a desperately pale woman leaning against the cool doors of the Frozen Pizza section for relief. You don't seem pregnant to the customers who avert their eyes - you just look weird and hungover.
    If you do decide to keep it a Secret, make sure you have a few friends who know. People who can be gentle with you and send you back to bed, people who will love you enough to go to the grocery store and buy pastrami because you can't go near the Deli anymore since the smell rotisserie chicken makes you gag. And be gentle with yourself!
   Your mother will tell you that she planted 14 rice paddies and walked three miles uphill both ways to work while she was pregnant. Women all over the world are pregnant and able to complete triathlons and climb Kilimanjaro and you can't handle the smell of olives?!
   In which case, you must retort that you are an educated, globally-minded individual who honors the cultural heritage of Bali. In Bali, any request made in the first 3 months by an expectant mother is believed to be an outworking of the baby's desires. So when someone rolls their eyes at you because you're suddenly ravenous for cheesecake at 4 a.m., just remind them that it isn't you talking at all. It's the baby. And they had better get you that cheesecake right away - because you have to get it swallowed down before the morning sickness kicks in again.
 

60 Seconds of Quiet

   I planned an enormous shopping trip. The kind that required two shopping carts and separate lists because we planned a reunion with friends and I needed to find six different kinds of cereal. Since the second round of antibiotics has knocked me for a loop this week, I didn't make it to Harris Teeter during the day, and finding that all the milk was gone, subsisted on the last four ounces of orange juice and called it 'lunch'.
   So when the headache lifted, briefly, around 7:30, I feebly put on shoes and asked my darling husband to please, please, please help me buy groceries. And he assented most generously, and the children consented most piteously, and we went to the store.
   It was epic and exhausting, and the little Jetta wagon could not have held another bag. I sat with a 24 pack of Dasani on my lap for the drive home. And while the children had really, really tried their best to not ask too many questions, my headache was certainly back. When we were half a mile from home, after the umpteenth question about the fate of the last two popsicles in the freezer, I lost the will to live and simply closed my eyes. Perhaps if I stopped answering, the questions would fade away.
    At last, Daddy intervened.

D: "All right, all right, guys. Let's take a break, ok? Let's all try to be really quiet for 60 seconds."

J (6-year-old son): "60 seconds? That's one minute!"

D: "Yes. Let's try to be quiet for that long."

J: "One minute?"

D: "Right. You're still talking."

A( 4-year-old daughter): "But I'm not! I'm being very quiet!"

J: "No, you were just talking!"

A: "But - no - the before - I was - and you were NOT quiet - "

J: "Why are you both laughing? Mom? Dad?"

Nice Try, Kid

  I should have known better.
  I stood, smelling like Lysol, in my cleaning tee and shorts, with my hair glistening from lack-of-shower and my face rosy with the allergic response to seasonal pollen. In another few minutes, I would discover that I was wearing the T-shirt inside out.
   I should have been on my guard.
   But when Princess wandered through the living room and stopped, mouth agape, I couldn't help but trust her beautifully innocent expression. "Mommy!" she cried. "You are SO. BEAUTIFUL!"
   I melted. "Oh, sweetheart," I said, "Thank you. I needed that! That is so kind - "
 
   "Can I have a cookie?!"



    It was a nice try. Thank heaven it will be a few years before subtlety kicks in.

Not Food

  My children are obsessed with the "Veggie Tales Christmas" CD, and while Junior Asparagus does a particularly strident 'While By My Sheep', I can't say that I'm a fan. Something about hearing it 735 times and having to sing a Jamaican "Angels We Have Heard" in March makes me want 'accidentally' destroy the CD player. I could never do that, of course - my children love this CD.
   In order to stem the tide of singing French peas, I have created a few games: The Rhyming Game, The Synonym Game, The 'What Starts With L" game, The 'Seriously, if you make one more annoying tongue noise you will never see the Kindle again" (less of a game), etc.
   Anyway, Daddy suggested that we play the Antonym Game on the way to church.
   "What's an antonym?" Spiderman asked.
   "An opposite," Daddy explained.
   "Oh! Like FAT and SKINNY!" Spiderman cried.
   "Sure," I said, hoping he wasn't referring to the front seat passengers, "or FAST and SLOW. Your turn, little girl."
   "Say 'UP & DOWN'," Spiderman whispered to his little sister.
   "UP & DOWN!" the Princess shrieked.
   "Why don't we let her come up with one on her own?" I suggested.
   "Do you know an opposite?" Daddy asked.
    She thought about it. "CHEETOS."
    Pause.
   "And FOOD," she finished.
 
    Daddy laughed so hard he nearly veered into oncoming traffic.
    "No," Spiderman sighed. "That's not an opposite."
    "Oh, yes, it is!" I said. "She is wiser than you know."

Things Your Mother Won't Tell You Because She Wants Grandchildren, Part III : There is No Such Thing as Privacy

The Right to Privacy.
   It's important.
   My daughter, currently three-going-on-fourteen, insists on shutting doors for herself and others in the name of 'piracy'. The ACLU is obsessed with it. You're used to having it.
  But when you try to inform your relatives that you are PREGNANT you may be surprised to find that your middle isn't the only thing growing. The circle of people familiar with your temperature, constipation, and hormonal rants expands as well.


   For example, if you confess to your mother that a series of hormone-based birth control has caused you to gain six pounds in two weeks while crying constantly, you think that is private information. But the public thinks that reproductive health is not only your concern, it is everyone's concern (insert national politics). So when my doctor recommended taking a break from the contraception that had turned me into a raving lunatic, my mother shared this information with a friend while standing in a hardware store. And they decided it would be a great thing to pray that God would give me a baby.
   Now which would you suspect is more effective? Three forms of birth control? Or two women praying in a Lowe's?
   You know the answer.
   I was sitting in the doctor's office for my birth control shot two weeks later when the nurse came back smiling. "I ran two tests," she said. "They are both positive. Congratulations!"
 
   Piracy - - I mean, privacy. It went right out the window.
   I stammered, "But... but... HOW?!"
   She winked at me. "You'd know better than I would, dear!"
   The. Horror.
 

   Soon, the post office employee was asking me, "Are you sure you know who the daddy is?" The random passerby would smile sweetly and say, "Awww!" Strange children would gape and say, "Do you have a BABY in there?"
    "That's what I'm told."
     Your middle becomes a public talking point. Where once people commented on your fabulous taste in shoes, they now speculated on your past sex life. And strangers in Target were happy to corner you near the yogurt to advise you on natural birth practices or the absolute need for an epidural the minute you set foot on hospital grounds. I have never discussed my nethers with so many people I didn't know.


   Which brings me to the story of my second child. Since our first was eighteen months old, some insane instinct informed me that having more children couldn't be that much harder than having one (Note: There is no evidence to support this idea). My dear husband and I decided to 'think about it'.
   A week later, my mother came to visit. She descended from the guest room for breakfast and announced, "You're pregnant."
   "I'm not," I sighed between flipping pancakes and wiping juice off the chair legs. "I don't have time."
   "You are," she informed me. "I dreamed that you are pregnant."
   "I'll inform my biological clock," I answered.
   Two weeks later, I called to inform her that she was correct. "Please, please don't dream about me having twins," I joked (NOT A JOKE.)


  The following week, my brother, on tour in Afghanistan, called from an undisclosed location.
  "Guess what?" I asked, swaying nauseously.
  "You're pregnant!" he cried.
   "Mom told you?"
   "No," he said. "I dreamed it."
   "That is NOT how people get pregnant," I told him. (Right?)
   "I dreamed it!" he insisted. "I dreamed that you were pregnant, and it's a little girl!"
   "I can't guarantee that."
   "I know it," he said sagely. "It's a girl."
   "Please, please," I begged, "You and mom have got to stop dreaming about my reproductive system. Please."
    It was a girl.


   'Uncomfortable' doesn't begin to cover the feelings that come with knowing your family is dreaming about your *ahem* 'lady parts'. More horrifying still is the moment when a friend asks, "How many weeks are you?" and you see them mentally counting backward, trying to pinpoint the moment of conception, and really hoping it wasn't while you were visiting them, and all the while you realize -

    Now everyone knows you've had sex.
   At a dear friend's wedding, sitting among the bridesmaids dishing out post-wedding advice, I added a tidbit of my own. There followed a shocked silence.
    "I keep forgetting," one said, "that you're married. You've... ya know."
    And I looked down at my enormous five-month bump. "Yes. Yes I have."
 
 
    Privacy. You will have none. You won't have any after the kid either. It's just one of those things you have to give up for, say, twenty years. Be prepared.

 
 
 

Impression of a Mommy

This scene was recently enacted in the living room.

(Daughter enters stage left in a huff. She pounds the buttons of her toy cell phone with ferocity. )  "Hello? Yes? What. What."
Pause.
"Hurry, I need to go take my twelve-bath."
Pause.
"UGH." (She wanders, harried, searching through random bags.) "Hang on, hang on!"
(Retrieves a toy.)
"I will call you back in a minute!"'
(Slams phone. Hurries to the bathroom). "No, kitty, no! Do not use the toilet!"





The accuracy is a little unnerving.

Introducing "Unca-Xander"

  My daughter, the Princess-Who-Does-Not-Like-To-Wear-Crowns-and-Insists-She-Will-Grow-Up-To-Be-A-Gentleman, received a doll for Christmas from her great-grandparents. It was hard to tell which of us was more excited. My daughter was ecstatic because the doll came with a working umbrella and a bright red rain outfit. I was thrilled because I had been dying to buy a doll for her and just couldn't justify the expense of a certain name brand.
   I asked her what she would name the doll. She looked thoughtful. "I don't know," she answered. Her face spoke of many agonizing hours to come, deep in thought.
   The next day, as she carried the doll around the house, I asked again. "What is your doll's name?"
   "Oh!" She spun about. "Unca-Xander."
   "I'm sorry, what?"
   "UNCA-" she said, "XANDER."
   "Uncle Xander?" I asked. "You mean, like your Uncle Alexander? We call him Xan?"
   "Yes," she said. "No," she went on. "Unca-Xander."
   I meant to continue the conversation and attempt to salvage the moniker, but I had already fallen into a fit of laughter, so the child and doll moved on, unperturbed.
 
   Ladies and Gentlemen, allow me to introduce our beloved Uncle Xan:

and THIS, if Unca-Xander:

The resemblance is simply uncanny.

The Princess is simply in love.

Things Your Mother Won't Tell You Because She Wants Grandchildren, Part II: Stranger Danger

"My goodness! How many you got in there?"
Blink. "Excuse me?"
"I said," the gentleman winked and continued in his authentic southern drawl, "how many you got in there?" He pointed at my mid-section with a grin.
"Uh..." I looked down at the rounded maternity shirt (which may or may not have had a small smudge of strawberry jam on it).  "Just the one, so I'm told."
He whistled. "I woulda sworn you had three or four in there!"
I briefly compared our weight classes, wondering if I could take him, but thought better of brawling in Target. A fist fight would upset my long-suffering husband. I tried my cutest smile on for size and laughed, "Well, he'll be tall and handsome, just like his daddy!"
That worked. He said, "Awww", and I wasn't forced to punch him. Thus I escaped, dignity barely intact.

   Just to be clear, I did not know this man. To this day, my memory has created him from an amalgam of several events, because I was stopped so many times by random individuals that I eventually crushed them all into a single memory in order to conserve space. Male, female, young, old, it mattered not - strangers thought themselves perfectly qualified to comment on my size and shape.
   Stranger Danger.
   This segment will offer stratagems for dealing with well-meaning strangers, but next week, I will include tips for acquaintances and family members. While this post could mislead you into thinking only the wandering sociopaths of Walmart are going to address your burgeoning middle, I cannot in good conscience allow you to proceed misinformed. Your mother won't warn you of Stranger Danger because she will consider it perfectly natural for her (and all her friends) to comment/offer advice/dictate your taste in layettes. But more on that later...

    You will, of course, be thrilled when the bump is obvious. It's much nicer for random strangers to open doors for you, because it means you no longer just look pale and bloated. The early months can be distressing, for no one offers assistance when you are bent miserably over a shopping cart in the canned goods aisle and praying for relief from morning sickness.

    Unfortunately, just because you are not sporting a bump doesn't mean that other symptoms won't fetch comment. I remember a particularly evil week of the first trimester, still reeling from the life-altering, nausea-inducing miracle that was my first pregnancy, when I crawled from the couch to our studio to teach a piano lesson. The precocious nine-year old scrambled through her first three scales, then spun about on the bench with the air of an interrogator. "Do you know," she demanded, "that your acne is all over your neck now too?"
    "Yes, thank you," I answered. It was hard not to notice the constellations.
    "Okay." She returned to the keys, satisfied.

     But she was more curious as the months went on. As my due date neared, she would look more and more appalled when I welcomed her to her lesson. "You're enormous!" she would cry. Or, "Can you still drive?!"
     That one brought out the irate-piano-teacher sigh. "Of course, I can still drive!" I said. "There's nothing wrong with my brain!" Which was a lie.
     "But how do you fit behind the wheel?" she asked. The spirit of honest curiosity was too adorable to be infuriating. Cute nine-year-olds get away with everything.
     "The truth is," I admitted, "I have to push the seat back a bit. But I can still drive. And I can still tell when you fake your left hand fingering - so let's try that scale again, shall we?"

    Response Tactic #1: Gentle Distraction
            One of the basic rules of good conversation is to ask questions about the other person. If at all possible, turn attention away from the bump and back to your questioner. A good friend once gave this gem of wisdom to me: If someone should happen to reach out and pat your belly, saying, "Oh! Aren't you adorable?!", you should feel free to respond by patting their belly, saying, "Aren't you the cutest flabby lady there ever was?"


    Moving on from the well-meaning or clueless stranger, we address the randomly impertinent and malicious. I have heard from girlfriends again and again of strangers whispering everything from, "Babies are hard!" (Seriously? Duh.) to outright, "Ugh! My life was completely over once my kids showed up."
   I also found that resentment can linger. While standing in a crafts store checkout, I was accosted from behind by two middle-aged ladies. After the obligatory comments, "You must be due yesterday!" and the response, "No... just six months in, thanks," they exchanged glances and leaned forward. "Kids are the worst," one began.
    The other nodded. "It's true. My kids are monsters."
    "Ungrateful little wretches."
    My jaw may have dropped a little. "Oh?"
    "Enjoy the little time left, honey," the first said, shaking her head. "They destroy your body."
    "Oh, yes they do," her friend agreed. Her weathered face scowled. "You're never the same."
    "As soon as that baby shows up, it's all over."
    The cashier and I were staring in horror at this point, though she was trying to help me complete my transaction as quickly as possible. "Sign here," she whispered.
    "Remember what I told you," the first crone cackled, which was when I realized she had to be a descendant of one of the Macbeth witches. "Babies are the worst!"
    "Little monsters!" the other chimed in.
    "Soon, you will look just like us!"
    "Hideous - Like us! Like US!" they howled in wicked unison.
    I fled as fast as my swollen feet would allow.

   Response Tactic #2: Grateful Inquiry
        When confronted with a doomsayer, try to appear both horrified and naive. After they declare, "Kids ruin your life!", respond with earnest sincerity, "Oh, no! I'm so glad you warned me! Is that what happened to you? Am I going to become cruel, inappropriate, and ugly too?"
        Then run, or waddle, or duck behind a book display.


    There is a line.
    There is a line that shouldn't be crossed. According to the wise philosopher Bill Cosby, one should never ask a woman if she's pregnant. One may only assume the woman was pregnant if you are standing in the delivery room and see her birth a child. Then one may exclaim, "Oh! You were pregnant!" In no other circumstances is it entirely safe to ask. Mr. Cosby is a wise man.

    But not everyone understands this. It is important to be kind and considerate to those who have not been trained. It is probably wrong to take advantage of them. But ---

     Response Tactic #3: Play Dumb
          Three weeks from my due date with my son, I was standing in a Starbucks. I want to say that I was there to get an organic green tea, but you and I both know that I was waiting for a Strawberries 'N Creme frappecino because it was July in North Carolina and I was melting. Anyway, while waiting for the barista, I moved to the end of the counter where I would block the least amount of traffic. A gentleman also awaiting his order looked up from his phone just long enough to smile and say, "Congratulations."
       On sudden impulse, I played dumb. I stared at him, blankly. "For what?" I snapped.
       His face went completely white. The jaw trembled and he gasped for air. "I-I..-I'm sorry, I didn't-"
      "It's okay! I'm kidding!" I smiled reassuringly. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, but I've wanted to do that for soooo long - you have no idea - I'm a terrible person. I'm sorry."


       I wasn't, really.
      Play Dumb has to go into the advice portion because it works. (A little too well.)
      And I may be a horrible, terrible, vengeful goddess, but there comes a limit to what one can endure from the random public. At some point, you must defend yourself. I will back you up.

     However, not all are vicious. Not every stranger is out to make you cry. I have other stories too, stories of kind gentlemen who hold the doors and insist on helping carry the groceries. Stories of kind ladies who murmur, "I remember those days. They are the best. Treasure every moment." In those cases, one should not answer, "You treasure it! I can't walk through a grocery store deli aisle without needing a Zofran tablet." One should respond --

     Response Tactic #4: "Thank you".
       "Thank you." Be gracious. Say, "Thank you", and move on.
       If they try to touch the bump during flu season, put a hand gently to your cheek and say, "Dear me, I'm not feeling very well. You don't want to come near us", which isn't a lie, because you're not going to feel 100% yourself ever, because about 30% of you is busy becoming someone else.
        But realize that some of the interference is just an attempt to reconnect to what is widely-remembered to be a glorious time of life. Most ladies don't recall the itchy skin and thinning hair. They remember the first flutters of baby feet. They remember the joy of growing hope and the tiny fuzzy baby socks.
        So let them remember with rose-colored glasses and say, "Thank you."






    Be sure to subscribe! In the next post, We'll discuss how to tell your family that you're bringing an addition to the next reunion! 



 
 
 

Things Your Mother Won't Tell You Because She Wants Grandchildren: Part I 'Pregnancy Brain'

     I am a walking GPS.
     When we first moved to Greensboro, my husband made a wrong turn. I told him it wasn't a big deal as long we were heading north. With no maps, no knowledge of any of the street names, and no new-fangled smart phones, I navigated the snarl of back roads and we arrived unscathed at our new home. I brag because Greensboro is the sort of town that plans its major roads with only one aim in mind - to confuse anyone not local into accidentally driving to Virginia.
   I also brag because the following story isn't very flattering.
   Which leads me to the title of this series: Things Your Mother Won't Tell You Because She Wants Grandchildren. There are many. I was one of the first of our friends to get pregnant, and while being a mammoth-sized guinea pig, I discovered that there are lots of things my mother didn't tell me - like, delivery doesn't happen in a 13 minutes window right after your water breaks. I don't really blame her for that one. I blame Hollywood.
   Then there's 'What To Expect When You're Expecting', the book that prepared me for detecting a cerebral hemorrhage in my unborn child and helped me to recognize that I should worry about giving my child cancer in utero, but failed to include instructions for figuring out which of the 87 types of pacifier is best for baby's teeth and will actually be accepted by the baby - that is, if you're the sort of horrible parent who allows things like pacifiers.
    And while sitcoms prepared me for the weird food cravings, and my research warned about mood swings, nobody told me that I would, overnight, become a completely incompetent moron. No kind OB/GYN patted my shoulder and said, "You know, you're usually capable of dressing yourself, but today you're going to put your shirt on inside out, spill yogurt down it, and not notice until you're standing in the checkout at Food Lion."
     This is all very unfair. And since no one bothered to tell me that I might one day have a hairdresser say, "Oh! There's your little pregnancy bald spot!", I feel it is my duty to at least prepare my beloved friends and family who are considering this venture called Pregnancy & Parenthood.
    Which brings us back to the fact that - up until my unexpected firstborn made me hate the smell of rotisserie chicken - I was ready for that Ranger test where they dump you in the desert and make you find your way home blindfolded. 'WTEWYE' (what kind of title is that for a book anyway?) warned me that some women experienced 'Pregnancy Brain'.
   I experienced panic.
   Why? Because I got lost. On an elevator. In a four story building.
   A Four. Story. Building. Not the Mall of America. Not Super Target (who hasn't gotten turned around in one of those?). I was completely lost in a simple brick office building.
   I'd had my prenatal appointment, where the midwife completely failed to mention anything about oncoming insanity, and was preparing to return to my car. When I stepped from the office, I paused. This hall looked unfamiliar. Was this the same hall I had entered by? Was that window always there?
    I glanced over my shoulder. Doctor's office was still there. I had not fallen down the rabbit hole.
   This is why they provide little signs with strangely engraved white letters in long, bland hallways. ELEVATOR. I followed the arrow. I had come in on an elevator. I was sure of it. From a parking garage. Yes. That was it.
    I got onto the empty elevator and paused, finger frozen over the buttons. There were only four. But I couldn't decide. I hadn't come in on the first floor, surely. The third? I pressed.
    Ding. 
    The doors opened. No. That couldn't be it. That wasn't familiar at all. It must have been the second floor. Silly me.
    Ding.
     Uh..., that isn't it either. Where was the doctor's office? Four. Right? Yes. Four. I think.
    That was when I realized that I couldn't even remember which floor I had originally entered the elevator from. As in, 38 seconds previously. While I wasn't so far gone as to assume I'd been born, bred, and abandoned in this elevator, it did give me pause.
     I had lost my mind.
     I decided to try floor one. What could it hurt?
     Ding.
     That was definitely not where I had parked. It was an enormous lobby with windows and people. Two of the people got onto the elevator, an adorable couple who was obviously expecting a child. I was briefly jealous that this gentleman had had the foresight to accompany his wife, lest she go suddenly mad and be lost in an office complex. He didn't look the type that would be amenable to his child being born in an elevator.
      They smiled at me and pressed the 4 button.
      Since I hadn't gotten off, I realized I had to pick a destination. Any destination. I mashed the 2 and hoped they would believe that I had simply forgotten something and was returning to --
       Ding.
       Oh dear heaven, that was not the right floor. I didn't get off. They didn't get off.
       We exchanged nervous smiles.
       Three. Three. Please be Level 3 -
       Ding. 
       I panicked and made a decision. "Oh! Here it is!" I laughed gaily and stepped off the elevator. "It's just so easy to get turned around in this place!"
       They nodded and smiled as the door slid shut. The man may have put a protective arm around his wife - I couldn't be sure. But it didn't matter, because I wouldn't have been capable of stalking them if I'd wanted to. I had just jumped off the elevator onto a completely unfamiliar floor.
        There was an exit into the parking deck, so I took it. But I was no fool - I knew that my car was lost forever and I was doomed with it. So I called my husband.
       "I want you to know that if I'm not home for dinner, you have to come looking for me," I said in a perfectly reasonable voice.
       "Uh.... where will you be?"
       "I don't know for certain. I'm lost at the doctor's office."
       "Oh! Are you at a new one?"
        "No."
       "Wait. What?"
        "Would you please quit asking questions?" I cried. "I've just ridden an elevator up and down every floor of the building and I've lost our car and now I'm hiking up these obscenely steep concrete steps because our car must be here somewhere and if I go into labor you have to find me before I give birth to our child in a parking deck! We'd have to name it something weird like Garage... but with a sort of French accent - "
       "Are you telling me," he interrupted gently, "that you got lost at that little office building where - "
       "Nope!" I shrieked. "Not lost! Found it!"
       "You found the car?"
       "Yes. Obivously. Ha. Ha." I laughed. "It was right here. Where I knew it was. All along."
       "So... you're going home now?"
        "Yeah," I said casually, "where else? Those dishes won't wash themselves!"
         "Uh-huh..."
        "So - yeah - you know - you don't need to worry about me." I unlocked the door. "By the way, we still live in the apartment, right? The one on New Garden Road?"
        "Yeeess...."
        We got lost in Greensboro twice within the next few months, so we scraped the pennies together and bough a GPS for ourselves for Christmas.  I think my husband preferred the soothing Garmin voice to the hysterical whimpering of his wife repeating, "I don't know, I don't know - is it that? Left? Wait - no - I don't know, I don't know...", and really, who can blame him?
        So that's Part I, 'Pregnancy Brain', for my beloved friends and family and ladies (and men, because you need to know what's going to happen to the perfectly rational person you married). You are warned. 'Pregnancy Brain' is no laughing matter. It will substitute salt for sugar and leave you with only one shaved leg. It will make you lose track of time so that you arrive a day before your scheduled appointment and you will argue with the receptionist for ten minutes before she blinks sweetly and says, "But the fourteenth is TOMORROW". You should probably get a tracking device in case you wander off, and an automatic turn-off switch for your oven.  Double check and triple check which burner you turn on before you cook a plastic bowl of pancake batter while wondering why the skillet is still so cold.
         And expect the unexpected. (Hey! That's what that book should have been called. 'Expect the Unexpected'. I need to trademark that.) Take heart, for some of the brain will return. It will be older, wiser, able to calculate bulk diapers per unit and compile a list of vacation supplies while making dinner, (and talking your friend through a sewing project). But a lot of those useful things, like the Battle of Hastings and what that thingamabob at the end of shoelaces is called will sort of fade away. You better write those down.         Tie a string around your finger to remind you of things.
         It will remind you to look down and say, "Blast. What is that there for?"


   
 

Some Things You Have To Figure Out For Yourself

   So I decided, last night, that I should take a 3 hour car trip with 2 children by myself. Because.

   Not just because it would be spontanteous and I miss my relatives and friends dreadfully, but because it was my son's spring break. And last night, around eight, I realized that I could either :

   a.) keep us all home and pretend I would accomplish something with two bored kids or
   b.) pack quickly.

   My dear husband was trapped by work obligations, so I sallied forth alone this morning, armed only with a cup of coffee and a Veggie Tales 'Bob & Larry Sing the 80s' CD. And we survived with only a little scarring:

   Spiderman: "Mom? Today is Palm Sunday!"
   Me: "You're right! Well done, calendar-obsessed son!"
   Spiderman: "So... I guess... Palm Sunday means we don't go to church?"
   Me: "No. That is not how the church calendar works at all. It means that you're mother is a heathen..."



   Ah, Cary. Magical land of more-doctorates-per-capita-than-anywhere-in-the-nation, happy place where weeds are banished, glorious home of Hodges. (We are the satellite clan). I'm always so glad to see its pleasant hills of brick shopping centers and palatial subdivisions.
   I spent the afternoon baking in the sun while watching a baseball game with a dear friend. We ate quinoa and discussed education policy and both my kids were off with grandparents, so it was basically the best vacation ever.
   And there was a marvelous party on the first night in town, so Spiderman opted to ride with Grandpa and Uncle Wombat (your read that correctly), and Auntie 'Becca rode with the Princess and me. While we were wrestling - I mean, helping the little girl into her car seat, the Princess cried out, "I need water!"
   "What, now?" I replied gently. "Not while we're sitting at Grandma's table, but now that we are in the car?"
   "I need water!" she said.
   "You can have water at the church," Auntie 'Becca pointed out much more gently than Mommy. "It's all right. We'll have water in a minute."
   "I need-da-water-bottle!" Princess insisted.
   "Oh, my purple bottle," I sighed, backing out of the world's most frustrating driveway (Steepest downhill grade ever allowed by a drunken civil engineer). "Honey, there's no water in there."
   "But I thirsty," my offspring insisted.
   "It's empty," patient Auntie reminded her.
   "I need it! I thirsty!"
   "Here!" I cried, (very calmly and sweetly), handing the bottle to the outstretched fingers. "You can hold it. We're almost there-"
     "I need it."
     "Here! Keep it together!"
     Silence, as the bottle was accepted in triumph. Then, "I can't open."
     Pause at stop light. "It doesn't matter, it's empty," I said.
     "But I can't open!"
     "There isn't any water in it."
     "I need it open."
     "We're almost to the church."
     "But I need it!"
     "Here," gracious Auntie 'Becca said. "I'll open it. But remember, it's empty."
     "I got it! Is open!" Princess chuckled in glee.

     Green light. So close to the church --

     "IS EMPTY!" wailed Princess.
   

    I didn't actually bury my face in my hands, but only because I was driving. I guess she will be one of those people who must test and approve everything. I sigh, knowing that she will have to figure out everything for herself.

    What fun will the teenage years hold, I wonder?