NYC Moms

The Last Minute Sabotage

Last week I found a word on Urban Dictionary that defines me perfectly: chronoptomist.  Well, maybe not their specific definition, which involved getting weed, something I don't get (in the literal sense, and in that I just don't understand why people do it - I already have no memory and constant munchies).  But the implied definition, that I always think it's going to take me less time to do things than it actually does, is me all the way.  My kids are consistently five or ten minutes late for school.  The problem is, we live too close to school.  It is at the very most, if we're dawdling, a ten minute walk away.  If we lived farther, especially if we had to drive, I would build in extra time for the unforeseen: slow traffic, an accident, lack of parking, etc.  But there's really nothing between our house and school that will slow us down enough to make them late.

So how does it happen then?  It's the kids' fault (isn't it always?).  Our mornings are actually kind of mellow.  Nine days out of ten, I don't even have to be showered before dropping them off (if you've ever tried to make an appointment with me before noon and I've been reluctant, now you know why), and my daughter gets a bath the night before.  Only Jake has to shower when waking up.  He recently started making breakfast for himself and his sister, so after showering and getting dressed he rushes through breakfast so that he can spend some time with his video games before school.  He's an early riser, so there are days when he has an hour between breakfast and school in which to play, or watch TV.  I'm often asleep through all of this.

I'm a happy ex-soccer mom

For three years my son took soccer on weekends.  It started at 7 and ended at 10.  We were never there at 7, not once.  There was just no chance that that would happen.  But since the vast majority of the other parents never showed up at 7 either, we didn't care.  We aimed for 8, but 8:30 was more realistic for us.  Really, it was doomed from the start.

The first summer my son loved it, and even went willingly in the rain (while I huddled under an umbrella).  The second summer he liked it, but wasn't as enthused.  Didn't want to go on rainy days (yay!).  The third summer, it was really hard to get him to go, and since I didn't want to spend my mornings sitting on hot bleachers, I let him skip a lot.  This really went against my gut - I've always told my kids that they can take whatever classes and activities they want, as long as they see them through to the end.  But I really hated rolling out of bed on weekend mornings and rushing him out the door, cold breakfast in hand.  I hated never being able to sleep in.  I hated trying to get work done on my laptop in the blazing sun, screen completely washed out.  I liked seeing my friends, but that wasn't enough to make me like going every single weekend.

Am I worried about your safety or my reputation?

When I was a kid, my sisters and I did all sorts of crazy stuff.  We tumbled down the stairs in laundry baskets.  We rode our big wheels down the front steps into the stone wall next door.  We took our bikes everywhere, not for fun, but as a way to get around.  I don't even remember if we had helmets or not.  We went to the local public pool and jumped off of the 10 meter diving platform.  I don't think my sisters ever once used the ladder to get down from their bunk beds.  Why bother when flipping off onto your back was so much quicker?

And we got hurt.  I bloodied my head letting a friend carry me around with her eyes closed while I directed her where to walk (she tripped and fell and my head went into the side of a house).  I fell off of my bike and scraped my knees more times than I could count.  I smashed my finger in a see-saw when about ten of us piled on (I was in the middle and holding on right at the pivot point - ouch!). 

We were also home alone fairly frequently.  My parents worked opposite schedules and one of them was home most of the time, but there were plenty of days when we let ourselves in after school and made dinner.  Once I left the stove on under a pot of spaghetti sauce for several hours and almost smoked out the whole neighborhood.  Another time, my sister was making a grilled cheese sandwich in the broiler, and caught a potholder on fire.  She yelled for me, and then threw the flaming potholder to me in a panic.  I threw it right back at her.

In this economy, Subway can't afford to dis my kid

We go to Subway a lot.  My carboholic son loves Subway more than just about anything.  For years I have kept quiet while paying $5 for a piece of bread and a few triangles of cheese - that's all he wants on his "sandwich".  I've worked in enough restaurants to know what it takes to get that simple bread and cheese meal into my son's hands, so I don't complain about it.  And since my daughter and I both like eating there too, I'm just grateful there's something my ultra-picky son likes.

I estimate that in the past few years, the three of us have gone to Subway, on average, five times a month (that's a conservative estimate, it could very well be more).  Every single time, my son has gotten a bottle of chocolate milk to drink.  Every time.  So he's had almost 200 of them, maybe more.  He's never asked for anything different and never complained about the taste.  When he took a sip on Saturday at the Subway in the Atlantic Center and said that it tasted funny, I smelled it and concurred.  It smelled a little "off".  I didn't get a completely sour smell from it, but it was questionable.  I once fed my son spoiled milk in an airport on the way to a wedding, and he spent the entire weekend spewing out of both ends.  Suffice it to say I don't take chances now. 

My son, the carboholic

I was dropping my seven-year-old son off for a playdate this morning with a friend from school.  My conversation with the other boy's mother went something like this:

Mother: Does your son have any food allergies?

Me: Nope, he can eat whatever.  But I should warn you, he's really picky.

Mother: Well, I'm sure we'll find something.  What does he like?

Me: Pasta and bread. 

Mother: OK, that's easy enough.

Me: But only white pasta.

Mother: Oh, OK.  Well, we could do grilled cheese.

Oprah gets it

I love Oprah.  I've always loved Oprah.  But until today I had never heard a non-mom express so well how hard it is to BE a mom.  It's one of those things that's just really really difficult to get until you do it.  I thought I knew what it was going to be like to be a mother, but I was clueless.  It never occurred to me that the thing I would most want as a mother was half an hour alone in the bathroom.

Oprah has always said that she has a huge amount of respect for moms.  This is a woman who has a schedule that would make most people cry, who has overcome an incredibly tough childhood to be one of the most successful people in the entire world, who ran a marathon, who runs an empire, who seems to be able to accomplish pretty much whatever she puts her mind to.  And she has said that she doesn't have what it takes to be a mom.  (For the record, I think she's wrong.)

On Monday's show about the secret lives of moms, she mentioned something that really hit home for me.  She talked about how every day, mothers come to her show, to be in her audience, and she is awed by what it takes to get them there: finding someone trustworthy to watch the kids, finding something to wear, managing to arrive looking clean and pretty.  I see celebrity moms on red carpets who have kids and I wonder if they had to lock their offspring in a closet before they could start getting ready.  If I had a gown on, with my hair and make-up perfect, I wouldn't be able to let my kids within 10 feet of me (30 if there was food or magic markers within throwing distance).

So you've done something dumb

So you've done something dumb.  We've all been there.  Mistakes happen.  Maybe you breastfed your baby while driving.  Maybe you ended up with six or seven more babies than you claim you wanted.  Now the whole world is looking at you, watching your every move, waiting for you to screw up again.  Cameras are following you, snarky bloggers are judging you, and you can't leave your house without being surrounded by a herd of reporters trying to get a quote. 

Whether you're a multi-tasking mother who lacks the sense God gave a goat, or a mentally disturbed individual in search of a reality show, you now find yourself under the media microscope, and are in need of help.  Well, I'm here to guide you through to safety and obscurity.

Mommy's Little Liar

My son is a liar.  He lies about everything.  He's been this way for years, but only recently has he gotten good at it.  For a long time he telegraphed his lies with a smile.  His little sister is in that entertaining stage right now.  She starts off with a straight face, but as soon as she finishes the lie, her mouth creeps into a big grin, and as she tries to stop it, she usually collapses into giggles.

But sometime in the past six months or so, my seven-year-old improved his technique.  Perhaps he's been practicing in a mirror, perhaps he's been attending seminars at recess, or perhaps it just comes with age.  The smile is gone, and in its place is a face worthy of the World Poker Tour.  His delivery is better, but the actual lies still need work.  I've caught him lying about whether or not he put on deodorant or brushed his teeth (both of which I can usually "sniff out" pretty easily).  When he's found money on my bedside table and put it in his own bank, he's stared me in the eye and said "I found it outside.  I'm not joking.  Why don't you believe me?"

If 8 is enough, then 14 is just wrong

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When news of the octuplets first hit a couple of weeks ago, I tried to keep an open mind, I really did.  I tend to be, oh, insanely judgmental, so I really made an effort not to think the worst about this woman, who at that time was anonymous.  I thought about how it must feel to want a child so badly that you would pay to have embryos implanted in the hope that one would take, and then when you find yourself pregnant with more than one, how could you even think of getting rid of any of the little blessings?  They're precious surprises, and you can't bring yourself to "reduce" them - as if they're solid waste or reckless spending or inflation.  I mean, they were surprises, right?  Nobody would do this on purpose.  Nobody would try to have more than a couple of kids at once - there had to be some kind of extenuating physical circumstances that compelled her doctor to implant that many embryos.  Right?

At that point I didn't know that this woman was unmarried, unemployed, bankrupt, living with her parents, and already a mother of six!  No, those interesting little tidbits would trickle out over the next few days.  Followed by these: she's been obsessed with having a huge family her whole life, her other six children were all conceived using IVF, she's battled depression, she's received over $150,000 for a back injury suffered at work, and her lips look like they've had so many injections she could use them in case of a water landing.  Her mother says that she was unaware that her daughter had been receiving disability money, since she hadn't given her parents a dime to help pay for housing and feeding six kids.  I guess besides IVF treatments some cash was going straight to her lips.  To get ready for the spotlight, perhaps?

My dear, sweet, sensitive boy

My son Jake is a tough kid.  He's big for his age (seven), and very strong, and gets out of control easily on the playground.  I'm that mom who's always having to go up to other moms and say "I saw what happened, I'm so sorry, is your son OK?"  It sucks.  It sucks not only because I don't want him to go through life getting in trouble, but also because there are very few people in the world who understand just what a sensitive soul my little boy is.

I see him every day, acting tough for his friends, having to be the fastest and the toughest and the strongest.  He lets his sweetness out in small bunches, especially around teachers and younger kids - the people at school he's sure won't make fun of him for being tender.  But at home, with us, he lets it all flow out.  And occasionally, in public, he can't help it.  Like today.

We went to see "Hotel for Dogs" this afternoon.  I had read a bunch of bad reviews, and tried my hardest to convince the kids to see something else (they refused to see "Doubt", even though I told them that it was essentially about children, just like "Hotel for Dogs"; the very concept of "Benjamin Button" confused them so much that they wore me out with questions).  So I wasn't expecting a good movie.  Then I made the fateful decision to drive there, which would take fifteen minutes in a warm car, rather than take the subway, which could take anywhere from forty-five minutes to and hour and fifteen minutes on the subway on a holiday.  We left early enough to have fifteen minutes to search for street parking, and another fifteen minutes to stop by the bathroom and buy snacks.