What to Do? What to Do?

I think it is funny because, over the past four years, people have asked me what it is I do all day. Um, take care of my child? Now, these same people are asking me what I am going to do now that Bird is in school all day. It is as if I was so busy before, by their standards, of course. I am puzzled. Previously, you believed I was doing nothing. Now, you are all concerned about what I’ll do with all my spare time. Huh.

I am kidding, if that last paragraph even makes sense to you. I barely understand what I just wrote there myself. It is a darn good thing I am not a perfectionist. Sometimes I go back and read posts and often find errors or wonder what the heck it was I was even talking about. I guess that is how it goes when you are your own editor. That is also how it goes when you cannot seem to focus on one thing for more than about four minutes at a time. I now believe multi-tasking is what is responsible for the demise of all things good and sane; there is such a thing as too much.

Anyway, the burning question for this happy day is: What is Jessie Domestic going to do? Well, for starters, she is going to stop referring to herself in third person. Okay, I am glad that’s over. It got weird there for a second.

The way I see it, I have several options. The most obvious answer would probably be to get a job. And, by job, I mean one that provides an actual paycheck you can take to the bank and receive dollars for. Nah. I tried that. It did not work. Besides, my former employer hires me to work from home a couple times a year. I am good with that. Before you get all judgmental on me, because I know you will, I have discussed this with my spouse. He likes our situation.  

You see, the thing is, I don’t want my kid to have to go to latchkey or something after school. I want to drop her off in the morning and pick her up in the afternoon. I want to make her a snack and learn all about her day. I want to help her with her homework, take her to her extracurricular activities and play dates, volunteer in her classroom and, perhaps, join the PTO. Maybe this makes me crazy. It might even make me old-fashioned but, both Bread and I feel, this is really, really important. And, honestly, I like to cook and clean and organize. I am good at these things. It is all 1950’s up in here and I love it. Honestly, if I had loved my career, which we all know I did not, I might be making a different choice right now. I need to be clear: I AM NOT AGAINST THE WORKING MOTHER. Thank you. Now I am going to make a damn meatloaf and fetch my man’s slippers.

So, it seems quite clear what I will be doing. Basically, I am doing most of the same things I was doing before except I am alone. Alone! Alone! I am sad. I miss her. Kindergarten is hard for mom too. They don’t tell you that. Or, maybe, they do. I probably wasn’t listening.

 But, obviously, I have more spare time than before. What will I do? I have decided to become “handy.” By this, I mean, I will fix stuff. Bread works a lot of hours. He is tired. I can finish up some of his projects! Maybe I will start some of my own! When I finish my coffee in the morning, I feel like I can take on the world. I mean, I really feel like I can take on the world! I am not kidding. I fall for this every day. I finish that last gulp of caffeinated goodness and, suddenly, my muscles are twitching and my brain is humming and I’m all, “Let’s get some shit done!” And then I realize I have a four-year-old and it’s probably not the best time to get out the blow torch or power tools especially considering I don’t actually know how to operate either a blow torch or an actual power tool. Man, an impending trip to the emergency room is such a buzz kill.

I will drink pots and pots of coffee every day. By the time I pick up Bird I will have blown out the entire side of our house in order to start the addition. I am going to rent a Bobcat so as I can finally level out our front yard. I want to power wash my patio, maybe my front porch and possibly our pets, as well.

 As you can see, I am well-intended. I have big plans for this school year. I swear it, I do. What have I actually accomplished over the past three weeks? I cleaned! I recovered from a hectic summer! I have been cooking. I blow dried my hair straight! I painted my nails. I spent a significant amount of time shopping for my fall wardrobe AND cleaned out my closet. My dogs have received ample love. Basically, I am enjoying a wee bit of freedom. I earned it. Being a mom is hard.

The Big K

Nearly two weeks ago, all of our lives changed drastically.  I am a simple-ish, stay-at-home mom, with big literary dreams, and I sent my only child off to Kindergarten.  For various assorted reasons, but mostly due to my extreme dislike of change, I knew this would be somewhat difficult.  I prepared by spending the entirety of the summer with Bird.  We went to the zoo a million times, attended as well as hosted play dates, tried a museum, took on walks, spent tons of hours swimming, hit the park a few times, visited our library to fuel her addiction to books and knowledge, saw a movie or two, had a sleepover, spent a day at the beach, took a mini-vacation, played with our pets and prepared for the arrival of the school year.  I ceased doing any sorts of projects or major cleaning because I wanted to spend as much time as possible with my girl.

I thought I was ready for her to go because by the end of summer, I was 100 percent out of things to do.  I swear to you, we spent the last week staring at the walls and loathing each other’s company.  I could feel it; she was sick of her mom.  I have known since about the middle of her preschool year, she was ready for Kindergarten.  Her end-of-the-summer angst only confirmed my suspicions. 

I am not an emotional person.  I mean, I am but I try really, really hard to bottle that shit.  I am not comfortable crying in front of others.  My eyes immediately swell and I get an ugly red ring around my lips.  I am vain and a very, very ugly crier.  I must hide this!  Not for the consumption of others!  There are many things in this world that make me cry: weddings, funerals, hearing our National Anthem, animal abuse and pretty much every kind deed featured on The Ellen Show. I have become pretty good about swallowing those lumps of emotion down.  Naysayers, you’ve been told, this bitch really does have a heart. 

So, crying…I was prepared on Bird’s first day of school to shed a couple tears.  What I was not ready for was the sobbing. Bread took the day off work.  We had big plans-get the child ready for school, take lots of photos, drop her off, take more photos at school and have a day-time date. 

Well, the events didn’t really go down like that.  We stuck to getting her ready and taking lots of photos.  I got up early to apply makeup (least I remind you again of my vanity and the fact there were going to be pictures).  Our whole morning went really smoothly (I was very worried about her getting her breakfast down in time as she is most definitely the slowest eater ever).  Thanks to her extreme excitement, breakfast was quick and painless.  This is great for me because I am mom and I know (and enforce) that first meal being the most important one of the day! 

Anyway, everything was great, we got ready, took a poop-load of photos (Bread was the family photographer since I was doing very important things like applying makeup and styling our child’s freshly shorn bob).  The minute we got into our car, the tears started (starting again now just writing this-I am officially an emotional basket case).  I was definitely leaking like a faucet.  Leak, wipe, leak, wipe, leak, wipe, blow nose, repeat process.  Bread is giving me looks.  He knows I do not like to emote, especially in public. 

We arrive at school, park the car and head towards the already crowded elementary.  Keep in mind, with the exception of discerning where she would sleep during rest time (her teacher had to search out a cot during the open house), my child has shown no sign of nerves regarding school.  That is, until the very moment she sees the throngs of people gathered in front of the school.  I am still leaking, all the while, repeating to myself, “I can do this.  Be strong.  Don’t let her see you cry.”  She asks me to hold her hand and I all out lose it.  I am officially sobbing.  This is embarrassing.  This is ridiculous.  In that instant where she requested my hand, a million thoughts flooded my brain.  I thought: I didn’t get enough time with her.  She doesn’t need me anymore.  She’s so big.  She’s so little, too small to be left alone all day with strangers.  We did not do enough.  I did not do enough with her.  I am embarrassing her already.  She is practically in high school.  I need more time!

I couldn’t look at the other moms.  I was a circus act!  What a freak show!  Yes, some other moms were crying too!  God bless Jesus!  But, seriously, I was choking.  My child was nervous but excited.  I could sense that.  I could not ask her because I no longer had a voice.  Bread is taking picture after picture.  I am staring at him, thinking about placing the camera in a place decidedly lacking of sunlight if he does not get the darn thing out of my bloated, leaking, and swelling face.  Do you know he had the audacity to take video footage of this? 

The bell rings and, for the first week, parents are allowed to walk the kids to their classroom.  We walk down the hall, reach her classroom and, because I can no longer speak, I bend, kiss her, watch her head into her classroom. 

Bread keeps putting his arm around me during this whole ordeal.  Each time he touches me, because of the instant comfort, I cry harder.  I am so embarrassed and humiliated.  I look like that crazy mom who cannot let go of her child!  That is not me!  That has never been me!  I have been training her since day one to be independent!  I so wish this was not happening.  Bread tells me later, another dad got a good look at me, and lost it his own self.  You are welcome for that buddy.  For the entirety of our children’s school careers together, I will officially be that mom who made you cry.  We may never speak but you will remember me always; I am a legend. 

Needless to say, I spent the rest of the day crying on an off and repairing my botched makeup job. We did not have a day date.  I cried all day because I was such a hot mess I couldn’t even tell her I loved her and to have a great day.  Bread spent his day reassuring me she knew both of those things. I am a mess.  Every day when I drop her off I get a lump in my throat.  I have a strong feeling that lump is going to stay around for a bit, probably years; there will be many, many bittersweet moments. 

 

 

 

Proud Moment in Parenting # 2,456

There are moments, days even, when being a parent is trying.  I suppose nobody ever said it was a piece of cake.  There have been many occasions on which I wonder how I should handle a particular situation.  I wonder why was this not covered in the often referenced What to Do Once You Actually Squeeze that Kid Out and She Acts like an Asshole.  Oh wait!  That piece of literature does not exist! How is it nobody has jumped on that bandwagon?  There is a market here, people. 

Anyway, there are trying days where I feel as though I may not make the best decisions, parentally speaking.  Sometimes I do things I am not proud of.  Admittedly, I have done some not cool shit.  Bird is bright.  Yes, I realize I am supposed to say this, as she is my offspring, but it’s really true.  Girlfriend has been working the system since before there was a system to be worked…Er, she’s got Bread on a string.  She knows that manipulative shit does not work with mom, though.  Don’t tell me I’m pretty and then ask for an ice cream cone!  Even poor, self-confidence lacking me won’t fall for that.  You did not eat your veggies.  There is no room for dessert.  Rules are rules. 

It pisses me off, looking at Facebook, seeing all these over-the-top moms posting all this happy crap said to them or done by their children. Never do they say, “I almost punched the little fucker this morning.”  Why the hell not (not punch him but perhaps admit you wanted to).  It isn’t all roses and sunshine.  People would commiserate with you.

Clearly, I love my child.  I think she’s great, most of the time.  Sometimes, just sometimes, I want to pull my hair out.  There are occasions where I’d like to poop with the door closed and not have someone screaming to me on the other side about where are Barbie’s pants.  I still don’t know.  Perhaps she should have left them on.  Stop hanging out with floozies!  I should mention that the happenings in Barbie’s house are a regular conversation around here.  Often, there will be several naked dolls sitting on the couch watching TV.  Once, there were seven naked and a whole bunch of dollar bills (I swear I am not making this up).  What kind of tomfoolery is happening up in there?  I wonder where Bird learns these things.  Huh. 

I earned a college degree (still paying for the fetching thing to boot) and there are days where I cannot figure out the inner workings of the mind of a four-year-old.  I cook.  I clean.  I assist (only assisting these days) with the wiping of a butt.  I play.  I read endless, redundant stories about CinderellaBelleJasmineAurora.  I watch (pretend really) Barbie movies.  Have you seen a Barbie movie?  Holy Shit.  These are so bad.  This, my friends, is how we could get terrorists to divulge their secrets.  Forget violence. 

Point being, sometimes I don’t feel like being mom.  That’s not an option.  A bad day at the office used to mean maybe I spent too long talking to a coworker or too much time online.  Now, a bad day means I wasn’t on my game.  It means I had a weak moment (or six), my child observed this and now I’ll never hear the end of it.  She knows I told her no more TV and then caved because she whined and I let her watch more.  She’ll remember that forever.  I’ll pay.  You have to be on your game at all times.  Impossible.

My most recent “bad day” happened a couple weeks ago (I’m lying I’ve had several since then).  My mom had the day off.  We took Bird to IKEA, Pier 1, Marshalls and, lastly, Costco.  These are all non-fun places for children.  IKEA is okay but it’s intense because there is too much shit for them to climb on and get into trouble with.  Plus, it gets old having to stop in every faux room to play.  Anyway, we had promised her ice cream and we decided to kill two birds in one stop, buying ice cream and letting her eat it in the Costco shopping cart. 

She wasn’t having it.  It has long since been her dream to dine at the Costco food court.  I shit you not.  She always tries to trick me when we go there, telling me she’s hungry because they have those super-cool tables with the red and white umbrellas.  Well, she was in luck that day!  I caved.  I felt bad when she insisted she could not eat her ice cream in the cart, once I realized her ulterior motif.  Yes, she wanted to dine at Costco.  My child has Ivy League aspirations at age four!  I shall post this on Facebook, cryptically of course, so as others will ask me of what I am speaking!

We got her ice cream and sat down.  Bird was ecstatic.  I cannot tell you the last time I saw her like this.  Thank you, child, you just saved us thousands of dollars by confirming there is no possible way for you to be more excited at Disney than you were at the damn food court.  She was bouncing in her seat looking like a freshman who got asked to prom.  I told her, “You’re really cute, you know that?  Where did you get that from?”  She got a huge grin on her face, batted her little eyelashes and me and smiled.  I thought, OMG, she loves me.  She is so happy!  She’s going to say she’s cute because of me!  She thinks I am her funny, pretty, smart mom!  False.  Do you know what she said?  She said, clear as day, with absolutely no hesitation, “From my Daddy!”  My response was, “Well, great, your dad has a uni-brow.  Maybe you’ll get that from him too.” 

Long Lost Friend

This past December, I decided to embark on a fun journey.  Literally, one day after we gave the okay with a company to replace our roof that we weren’t anticipating replacing for another 10 years (what bleeping moron buys organic shingles), my ex-coworker called asking if I’d like to do a contract job for my former employer.  I saw this as a sign from somewhere and, of course, said yes.  I guess it turns out I am not as big of an asshole as I once thought; Karma, bitches. 

I am a fool.  Specifically, in this instance because I agreed to work 20 hours a week from home doing, what sounded like a simple job.  To Bread’s credit, he warned me.  He told me it was going to be a lot.  I begged to differ.  He was right.  I figured it was cold out, I only have one child and she’s in school for nine hours every week.  I forgot about the part where I have a husband who works approximately 65 hours a week, rising and leaving long before we do, returning home exhausted and often working on Saturday until lunch as well. 

I finished up the beginning of April.  To say the least, it was an intense 90 days.  At first, it was a piece of cake.  I didn’t have 20 hours a week of work.  Then, I had a shit-ton (official term).  Needless to say, there were too many people with their hands on this project, thus making it extremely difficult to gage exactly how long it would take to accomplish.  I needed to finish by the end of March.  It was a mess.  But, I have lived to speak of it! 

Now I am finished and I have oodles of extra time to do fun things like shower and write long-overdue blog posts!   And, hopefully, figure out why this last paragraph look so squishy (another technical term, indeed).  I have also found time to do fun things like at-home Keratin treatments and stalk hair dryers on Amazon for a good deal.  Life is lovely!  Free time, oh how I missed thee!  I feel as though I am thirsty no more.  Internet!  I have so much to tell you!

Think

One of the scariest things about parenting, we always say, is the fact you can devote your entire self to raising your kid and there is no guarantee they will be okay.  I stay home with my child, read to her, teach her things, try to fill the little sponge of a brain she has with knowledge, if you will, and hope and pray that all this will mean she will be a productive member of society.  I mean, I am crazy, I have issues but overall, when I go to sleep at night, I know I am a good person; I want the same for my kid.  I want her to be successful, kind, know she is loved and find things in life that make her happy.  Nobody hopes for their kid to be a drug dealer, a stripper or a criminal.  And, while I am not perfect, I want Bird to look up some day and know we did the best we could for her, always looking out for her interests.  Realistically, she will probably have hour-long conversations with friends discussing the ways in which her mother drives her nuts and is, indeed, CRAZY. 

One of the seriously neglected traits in humanity is the ability to possess common sense.  Daily, I see examples of this.  Bread and I are constantly telling Bird to have common sense.  We tell her to think about her actions.  Usually, we are telling her this because of some nonsensical act being performed by some common-sense-lacking person (stupid moron, really).  Something that automatically comes to mind is teenagers, smoking to be cool.  Dude, there is nothing cool about this.  It is the age of health and fitness.  Take that cancer stick out of your mouth.  You look like an idiot.  And pull your pants up while you’re at it!

I frequently see people rollerblading while holding a dog’s leash.  I apologize if you are, indeed, a person who does this.  What are you thinking?  What happens when the dog sees a squirrel and takes off?  I’ll tell you what happens: you take off like a rocket and fall on your face.  You only get one face.  People won’t want to befriend you if your countenance is all fucked up because you were HOLDING YOUR DOG’S LEASH WHEN HE TOOK OFF AFTER A SQUIRREL. Try explaining that at a job interview.  Even the best-behaved dog wants some HSA (Hot Squirrel Action). Your face is your best advertisement.  Nothing says I am a dumbass more than a frontage full of road rash.  Don’t be stupid. 

This is just our “thing.”  Can you teach common sense?  I hope so.  Think child!  Think!  Think about yourself!  Think about others!  Think about what is behind you!  Use your brain!  The biggest thing regarding stupid people is their ability to foresee how their actions impact others.  Because we are all so self-important, we only think of ourselves.  Profound.  Maybe someday I’ll write about jerks who smoke at gas stations.  I could write an entire post on this subject.  Blow yourself up, Asshole.  Leave the innocents out of this. 

This brings me to the other day when we were coming home from the library, on a FIVE-lane road. I am driving approximately 40 miles per hour.  I look over and see a man riding on a Rascal.  For those of you residing in a cave, that is essentially, a motorized wheelchair.  He is crossing the first two lanes of traffic going north.  I am heading south.  I think to myself, he is going to cross the first two lanes and then stop in the turn lane because there is no way he is going to cross in front of me.  False!  I am traveling, at a decent rate of speed, in a motor vehicle.  I am bigger (my car, but hell, probably my ass too).  I will win.  If I fail to stop you will be a smattering on the road.  And do you know what he did when I slammed on the brakes as well as my horn?  He waved.  Waved!  It was a happy thank you type of gesture.  I wasn’t stopping to let you go by!  You were not even in a crosswalk!  You deserved to get hit!  Survival of the Fittest!  I stopped my car because I did not want to deal with the hullabaloo of paperwork and statements that would have been involved in me running your ignorant ass over!  I wanted to get home; it was near dinnertime!  I needed a feeding!  And, so I stopped.  Bird wanted an explanation as to what was happening.  I told her, pointing at Wheelchair Jackass, “That man rode out in front of our car on his motor scooter.”  Her response was, “That was dumb.”  Even my four-year-old gets it.  You don’t.  Humanity fails once again.  But, the important lesson, here?  I think what we are doing might be working.  Yes!