Monday:
“I’ll take factory chicken”
Kinderblogger, after I asked him if he wanted frozen nuggets or homemade chicken cutlets.

Tuesday:
“My force field has an erection!”
Explaining his superpower during horseplay.

Wednesday:
“I have a funny feeling when she’s here. It’s hard and I’m just so tired of her coming all the time and when can everything be normal again?”
On spending another day with our substitute babysitter while nannyblogger is back in Trinidad taking care of her brother who was hit by a car.

Thursday:
“It’s a hairy cockroach! It’s a hairy cockroach. A hairy cockroach!”
After a mouse ran towards me while I was in the bathroom indisposed.

Friday:

“I wish there was a machine that could always keep me company.”

Today, after spending spring break with a substitute babysitter and not as many playdates as usual.

Our mornings are minefields. One minute Kinderblogger is playing Legos and Toddlerblogger is spilling yogurt and Cherrios on the floor and the next minute Kinderblogger is hysterical and Toddlerblogger is holding a part of Kinderblogger’s Lego car, also crying, and I before I can even put down my eyelash curler Kinderblogger pushes his brother down and kicks him in the back. They both get time outs. They both are crying. I’m in my underwear and wondering if the neighbors can really see me through the sheer curtains. Read the rest of this entry »

Kinderblogger is on winter break and grandmotherblogger (husband’s mother) has been very anxious to see him. So she flew down from Boston on JetBlue to JFK. We met her at the terminal, had lunch, kissed him goodbye and watched her take him through security to spend the week with her in Rockport. We drove home and tried not to call. I felt like he had left for college. And then around 7pm the phone rang. I knew from the sound of grandmotherblogger’s voice that something was wrong. And was it. Kinderblogger had been playing space legos in the den and projectile vomited all over her wall-to-wall and then asked to go home. The next day grandmotherblogger and grandfatherblogger drove him back home five hours one way. Dropped him off. Kissed him goodbye. Got in their car and drove five hours back home plus Connecticut traffic. Grandmotherblogger needs way more than flowers to get over her disappointment. She’s devastated. I think, she thinks he  broke up with her.

Thursday was just a weird, maybe we should just have a drink and stop trying so hard it kind of day. Nannyblogger, who was leaving for Trinidad on a midnight flight that evening (and would be gone for a month) got a terrible toothache and had to rush to the emergency room so toddlerblogger had to come to the office. It was fine until I had to stop playing with Gumby and Pokey and do some interviews.

Then, I found out a woman I had never met, but was supposed to interview about helping her manage her cancer, passed away. I didn’t even know what kind of cancer she had.

Then, an editor I work told me she had to take her son to an appointment that morning on the bus and he threw such a fit that he started to vomit and all she could do was let him puke down her cashmere winter coat until she could get off the bus.
And then another friend told me that a coworker of ours, who works part-time, was at the supermarket and after loading her groceries in the trunk and getting all three kids buckled in the car, she drove over her rotisserie chicken. Which I thought was hysterical, until I spoke to her about it and she said that her son was so upset by it that he somehow made the connection that the chicken in the package was the same as the chicken he feeds at a local farm and declared himself a vegetarian, and now is suspect of all food.

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I’ll admit that real estate is my porn. And it’s not the brownstoner festishy-kind that’s titillated by the concept of buying low and flipping. My real estate fetish has to do with space, not having enough of and wanting more, a lot more. Even though we live in a duplex apartment in Brooklyn, the kind my real-estate agent mother-in-law would describe as darling, it’s a compact unit. The best way I can explain it is to say our apartment has no halls just rooms that lead into each other. You’re in the kitchen and you step from tile onto parquet and you’re in the living room. Upstairs, you open French Doors and you go from our room into toddlerblogger’s room and from toddlerbloggers room into kinderblogger’s room and from kinderblogger’s room into the bathroom. I’d like to think it keeps us a close knit family but I also dream of having my own room someday, one that’s way down the hall. A hall long enough for a child to have to really think about what they are going to say before they burst open the door.

But for now, I have a drawer. My bedside drawer is the one place where I can put my private things, tuck away a notebook with ideas, cards from fatherblogger and house my “don’t touch” face creams. The problem is that lately, toddlerblogger has become extremely curious about nooks and crannies and compartments and open and closing and all that cause and effect kind of stuff. The other day he woke up before the sun was up and was walking around our room and I just didn’t want to open my eyes yet even though I could hear him open my drawer. What could he be doing, I wondered as I tried to return to a dream I’d already forgotten. The worst he could do is write on the wall. But then he started to say something, At…at…hat…hat…hat…hat. What hat what? I opened my eyes and there was toddlerblogger wearing my diaphragm on his head and pointing to it saying Hat! Hat! Hat!

Here’s another installment from the mom on the PTA I call her crazy emailer. But feel free to decide if she lives up to the name.
Read the rest of this entry »

It’s a cliché but you just never know when you’re going to have one of those special moments with your kids that make up for the sleepless nights and the creeping feeling that I really should be investing in Crème de La Mer before I hit 40 so I’ll look less tired. You know the kind of moment I’m talking about, the kind that feels surreal because you can’t believe in a split second your dealing with an outrageous situation and you’re usually, suddenly, very wet. Or it’s the other kind: the sublime moment when your kid says something that’s so honest you want to carry it around with you like a keepsake. Well, Friday I had one of each. Read the rest of this entry »

In the spirit of community and fundraising a well-meaning mom from our school suggested we reach out to the other public school in the neighborhood and organize a joint fundraiser. Four of us met at the Zombie Hut: three moms from my school and one from the other public school. Now, there’s some rivalry between the two schools that sat down to have a a drink. The other public school is older, more established, more affluent, and suffering from rumors of overcrowding. Our school is scrappier, more flexible, smaller and experiencing a new vogue from parents wealthy enough to buy in Brooklyn, but unable to own a home and send their kids to private school. Read the rest of this entry »

The other night I was talking to a friend who is going through a terrible divorce. She sat across from me at my kitchen table and confessed that early on she knew there would be trouble but convinced herself she could fix things it somehow (hey, we’ve all been there). Then one Saturday morning, she heard an episode of This American Life about breakups that featured Howard Markmam, the psychologist at University of Denver who figured out that by studying couple’s facial expressions while arguing, he could predict the likelihood of them staying together. Markham and his colleagues looked at a variety of facial clues such as eye-rolling, sighing, and tone of voice to determine if a person’s true motive was driven by malice or by love. My friend said her soon-to-be ex husband exhibited facial cues that were more malicious than loving, (confirming her suspicions) and because of them and a variety ways he’s chosen to be unkind, now they are splitting up.

All this got me thinking about how husbandblogger and I fight. I’ll admit, I’m definitely an eye-roller. But husbandblogger does something I don’t think Dr. Markham has studied: just when I’m about to make a really important point, or I’m coming around to kissing and making up he has no qualms about farting. Sometimes it’s a small fart and other times it’s as loud as a Whoopi-cushion fart. And I know it should make me laugh but it actually makes me even angier. I think, “How can you fart on my big important point.” Or, “How can you fart if you want me to come up and kiss you?” So I want to ask Dr. Markham, can our marriage survive the use of gas?

I’ve wanted to write about my PTA involvement but some of the stuff is so silly and petty, like arguments over how late a costume party should run, that writing about it made me feel even more silly and petty. So I decided to only offer the most absurd moments. Fortunately, the day before the school-wide Costume Party that I was organizing, I got this email from the woman who was my “acting” fundraising co-chair. (She was the person my original co-chair offered to help me after she quit.) Read our email exchange. Read the rest of this entry »