Yesterday afternoon, J-dog and V-meister kidnapped me and the P-Dawg by gunpoint and forced us to drive them to Red Robin for lunch. As we were waiting for our food to arrive, I noticed my husband eyeing me with a look of concern.
P-Dawg: "So, I've been thinking about what you might want to do when you eventually re-enter the workforce."
Rima: "Are you calling me lazy?"
P-Dawg: "No, no, it's just that-"
Rima: "I'm very busy, you know. Very busy. It's not like I'm running around getting pedicures."
P-Dawg: "No, of course not. But I've been thinking that-"
Rima: "I have too much time on my hands? Because let me tell you something, mister . . ."
P-Dawg: "No, it's not that. It's-"
Rima: "I spend a lot of time on laundry and general home economics. And tidying up. Do you think our family's shoes line themselves up from smallest to largest in the entryway all by themselves?"
P-Dawg: "Thank you. Listen, I'm not saying right away, but hear me out for a minute-"
Rima: "Not to mention menu planning and food preparation. These things don't come easily to me, but I do them out of love."
P-Dawg: "I know you do, and I appreciate it, I really do. But I know you want to eventually get back to work and I've been thinking about some options you may want to consider."
Rima: "Plus there's violin practice, and my charities . . . "*
P-Dawg: "For example, I think you might really enjoy starting your own business. You could do something you love, make your own hours, and not be confined to a cubicle."
Rima: "ARE YOU CALLING ME FAT?"
********************************************************************************************
While I do plan to go back to some form of work eventually, I apparently don't want to talk about it yet.
(And for the record, what P-Dawg had in mind was for us to start our own day trading business. Which I think has something to do with the stock market and is the OBVIOUS CHOICE for a person with degrees in French, English, and Edumacation who has no idea what's even in her 401k plan, regardless of the fact that she is routinely quizzed about it at the dinner table.)
On the other hand, it's heartening to know that the P-Dawg was merely projecting his own career aspirations onto his wife, and not trying to prematurely foist her on corporate America in curlers and a bathrobe.
*There are no charities
Showing posts with label SAHMotherhood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label SAHMotherhood. Show all posts
Monday, February 22, 2010
Tuesday, September 08, 2009
Whistleblower
We were all in the car yesterday heading to a Labor Day picnic and the V-meister was chattering about What She Wants to Be When She Grows Up. She's enamored of the P-Dawg lately and alternates between wanting to be a doctor or a veterinarian.
She could not have been more impressed on the handful of occasions when he's taken her to the office or the hospital, where the V-meister was allowed to color in the physician's lounge and granted unlimited access to cookies and PBSkids.org at the nurses' station while her father finished up rounds. (I was home eating bonbons and watching The View, of course)
***************************************************************************
V-meister: "When I grow up, I'm going to be a veterinarian and I will take my children with me to work."
Me: "That sounds excellent!"
(pause)
V-meister: "Mama, I really want YOU to be something when you grow up, too!"
(!)
also:
(Crap!)
P-Dawg: "Mama is something. But she's taking a little break from it now to help you and your brother grow up."
V-Meister: "Well . . . what is she?"
Me: "I'm sitting right here, you guys."
P-Dawg: "She's . . . a writer!"
V-Meister, skeptical: "Does she still know how to write?"
Me: "YES! YES, I DO!" (Probably. Maybe.)
V-Meister, unconvinced: "Well. That's good."
*****************************************************************************
Ouch.
You know what? I wasn't really stung by the fact that my daughter does not yet (will she ever?) recognize mothering as valuable work, but rather because dammit! I still want to BE SOMETHING when I grow up.
"This is total bull$hit."
She could not have been more impressed on the handful of occasions when he's taken her to the office or the hospital, where the V-meister was allowed to color in the physician's lounge and granted unlimited access to cookies and PBSkids.org at the nurses' station while her father finished up rounds. (I was home eating bonbons and watching The View, of course)
***************************************************************************
V-meister: "When I grow up, I'm going to be a veterinarian and I will take my children with me to work."
Me: "That sounds excellent!"
(pause)
V-meister: "Mama, I really want YOU to be something when you grow up, too!"
(!)
also:
(Crap!)
P-Dawg: "Mama is something. But she's taking a little break from it now to help you and your brother grow up."
V-Meister: "Well . . . what is she?"
Me: "I'm sitting right here, you guys."
P-Dawg: "She's . . . a writer!"
V-Meister, skeptical: "Does she still know how to write?"
Me: "YES! YES, I DO!" (Probably. Maybe.)
V-Meister, unconvinced: "Well. That's good."
*****************************************************************************
Ouch.
You know what? I wasn't really stung by the fact that my daughter does not yet (will she ever?) recognize mothering as valuable work, but rather because dammit! I still want to BE SOMETHING when I grow up.
"This is total bull$hit."
Monday, May 11, 2009
No Cause for Alarm
My mother always qualifies bad news with a statement like, "Now, I want you to know that there is no cause for alarm, but . . . "
It is her heart's desire that, whenever possible, she not cause undue stress. Usually she'll go on to tell me that a family member is in the hospital, but regardless of whether they are awaiting an organ transplant or having their appendix removed, there is no cause for alarm. I'll bet even if she had firsthand knowledge of our imminent nuclear demise, my mom would say, "Rima, I don't want you to worry, but . . . you are going to die in fifteen seconds."
I got a call from my mom on Friday afternoon. There was no cause for alarm, but my dad was in the hospital. There was no cause for alarm, but he had gone to the doctor's after experiencing chest pain and the doctor had sent him straight to the cardio ICU. Also, he went by ambulance. They're about to do a heart catheterization - she'll call me back as soon as she knows something, there's no cause for alarm.
It turns out my dad had a heart attack, but he was very lucky - the blockage wasn't in any major arteries and he didn't need bypass surgery. In fact, my dad was insisting that he could have driven to the hospital himself. When I went to see him later that night, he was having dinner and looking very nearly like his usual spry self. By Sunday afternoon, he was pacing the halls with his IV pole in tow and wearing street clothes under his hospital gown to indicate discharge preparedness.
He's home now, feeling fine, and looking into heart healthy menu options he can live with. There was no cause for alarm. Except, of course, during those long hours on Friday afternoon when I started imagining a world without my father in it.
It is her heart's desire that, whenever possible, she not cause undue stress. Usually she'll go on to tell me that a family member is in the hospital, but regardless of whether they are awaiting an organ transplant or having their appendix removed, there is no cause for alarm. I'll bet even if she had firsthand knowledge of our imminent nuclear demise, my mom would say, "Rima, I don't want you to worry, but . . . you are going to die in fifteen seconds."
I got a call from my mom on Friday afternoon. There was no cause for alarm, but my dad was in the hospital. There was no cause for alarm, but he had gone to the doctor's after experiencing chest pain and the doctor had sent him straight to the cardio ICU. Also, he went by ambulance. They're about to do a heart catheterization - she'll call me back as soon as she knows something, there's no cause for alarm.
It turns out my dad had a heart attack, but he was very lucky - the blockage wasn't in any major arteries and he didn't need bypass surgery. In fact, my dad was insisting that he could have driven to the hospital himself. When I went to see him later that night, he was having dinner and looking very nearly like his usual spry self. By Sunday afternoon, he was pacing the halls with his IV pole in tow and wearing street clothes under his hospital gown to indicate discharge preparedness.
He's home now, feeling fine, and looking into heart healthy menu options he can live with. There was no cause for alarm. Except, of course, during those long hours on Friday afternoon when I started imagining a world without my father in it.
Monday, February 09, 2009
Good Thing I Passed on the Fruit Loops
J-dog and I ran into our family pediatrician in the supermarket checkout line today.
Dr. W is young, hip, and witty, which is why I spazzed out, turned beet red, and had nothing constructive to say when she greeted me.
Would I be forced to tell a bald-faced lie if asked how J-dog's potty training was going? What if she wanted to know whether I'd finally signed V-meister up for Safetytown? I tried to shield my purchases from view and chucked a box of Uncrustables into the gum display. How did this junk end up in my cart? Gawd.
But as I was attempting to pay for my groceries with my library card, I noticed that Dr. W was herself looking visibly frazzled. Her twins were climbing out the back of her grocery cart, and darned if that cart wasn't chock fulla Valentine's Day candy and artificially flavored grape juice.
I think Dr. W was having a bad morning. She tried to make small talk with me while her babies moved along the conveyor belt, but you could tell her heart wasn't in it. I'll bet she went home and popped in back-to-back episodes of Dora the Explorer.
Thing is, I almost followed her there. Because I've decided I would like to be her best friend forever. Would it be awkward to stalk your pediatrician in that way?
Dr. W is young, hip, and witty, which is why I spazzed out, turned beet red, and had nothing constructive to say when she greeted me.
Would I be forced to tell a bald-faced lie if asked how J-dog's potty training was going? What if she wanted to know whether I'd finally signed V-meister up for Safetytown? I tried to shield my purchases from view and chucked a box of Uncrustables into the gum display. How did this junk end up in my cart? Gawd.
But as I was attempting to pay for my groceries with my library card, I noticed that Dr. W was herself looking visibly frazzled. Her twins were climbing out the back of her grocery cart, and darned if that cart wasn't chock fulla Valentine's Day candy and artificially flavored grape juice.
I think Dr. W was having a bad morning. She tried to make small talk with me while her babies moved along the conveyor belt, but you could tell her heart wasn't in it. I'll bet she went home and popped in back-to-back episodes of Dora the Explorer.
Thing is, I almost followed her there. Because I've decided I would like to be her best friend forever. Would it be awkward to stalk your pediatrician in that way?
Friday, December 05, 2008
L'Esprit de Noel*
You know what? Today I am feeling hopeful rather than overwhelmed about the holidays. If I don't get around to baking cookies or sending the "Rama Recorder" commemorative year-end edition out to family and friends by the 25th, well then so be it.
Alejna's post earlier this week made me re-evaluate my priorities and I also decided that it would be OK for the V-meister to occasionally be a tad late for school - possibly even with pigtails askew - in exchange for a pleasant and cheerful morning mother.
Also in the spirit of Christmas, I was the most benevolent motorist on the road today. There was a lady going fifteen miles per hour in front of me and yapping away on her cell phone, but I was all "Peace Out, Sistah!" before I revved up the engine and cut her off. And I'm not even going to tell you how many people I let in front of me on the lane merge. My good cheer was totally out of control.
What I do regret is introducing the J-Dog and V-Meister to the Chipmunks Christmas Song. Never underestimate the appeal of grown men singing under the influence of helium to a pre-school audience. Now I have to listen to those freaking chipmunks on an endless loop every time I get in the car. It's either that or endure the odious whining, and that IS enough to make me rear-end the dope smokin' dude going ten miles per hour.
And speaking of rodents, when the P-Dawg read my post about man-on-mole combat, he confided that what he'd really wanted to order was a "Mole Gassing System." Whereby you connect a hose from the exhaust pipe of your car to your target mole hole and exterminate the critter by means of noxious fumes. This is in direct opposition to L'Esprit de Noel.
To recap, then:
Things That Are in the Spirit of Christmas:
Alejna's post earlier this week made me re-evaluate my priorities and I also decided that it would be OK for the V-meister to occasionally be a tad late for school - possibly even with pigtails askew - in exchange for a pleasant and cheerful morning mother.
Also in the spirit of Christmas, I was the most benevolent motorist on the road today. There was a lady going fifteen miles per hour in front of me and yapping away on her cell phone, but I was all "Peace Out, Sistah!" before I revved up the engine and cut her off. And I'm not even going to tell you how many people I let in front of me on the lane merge. My good cheer was totally out of control.
What I do regret is introducing the J-Dog and V-Meister to the Chipmunks Christmas Song. Never underestimate the appeal of grown men singing under the influence of helium to a pre-school audience. Now I have to listen to those freaking chipmunks on an endless loop every time I get in the car. It's either that or endure the odious whining, and that IS enough to make me rear-end the dope smokin' dude going ten miles per hour.
And speaking of rodents, when the P-Dawg read my post about man-on-mole combat, he confided that what he'd really wanted to order was a "Mole Gassing System." Whereby you connect a hose from the exhaust pipe of your car to your target mole hole and exterminate the critter by means of noxious fumes. This is in direct opposition to L'Esprit de Noel.
To recap, then:
Things That Are in the Spirit of Christmas:
- Taming your inner morning beeotch
- Allowing your pre-schooler's dawdling to result in her being late for a school that she's not even legally required to attend
- Allowing your pre-schooler to leave the house with misaligned pigtails
- Letting motorists who are driving with their heads up their a$$es merge in front of you like it's going out of style
- Baking cookies only if you damn well please
- Gassing the mole colony in your front yard
Friday, November 14, 2008
Party at the Pediatrician's
One of my most abhorred parental-type tasks is taking the kids to the pediatrician. (It's possible the pediatrician is not crazy about seeing me, either.)
I remember how much I hated going as a kid, how I'd all but start convulsing on the spot every time my mom would announce it was time for the yearly checkup, and I just want to spare the J-dog and V-meister the pain.
But I also want to spare them a lifetime of negative associations with doctors' offices and their own father's profession, so if you can ignore me while I wipe down the magazine table with my handy-dandy anti-bacterial cloths, I'll make a great show of being the very picture of maternal composure - like a soccer mom on a trivial errand! - even though my internal voice is screaming "ZOMG kids, let's get the H-E-double hockey stick outta here!"
I'm the mom who backs into the office without touching the doorknob. If the J-dog or V-meister so much as think about grazing a surface contaminated with critters of any kind (and aren't they all?), I'm up in there with my trial size bottle of Purell faster than you can say "Bubonic Plague."
So the V-meister had her yearly check-up today, where she was the epitome of pediatric health and decorum, answering all of Dr. W's questions clearly and succinctly, acing her hearing and vision tests, and enduring two mean booster shots (which she insisted on watching) with nary a flinch. My heart swelled inside of my chest cavity, popped right out onto the floor and bounced into the hallway.
But now that she's five and knows all, I had an internal debate on whether I should give her advanced warning about the shots that she would be getting. As a child, I remember Them springing shots on me without any advance notice, as if this would somehow lessen the blow, and I remember being positively incensed about it. Not only did it hurt like a mother, but it was the seventies, man, and they gave us those shots in the hiney. I'm not saying I wouldn't have carried on as though I were being skinned alive if they'd given me a heads up, I'm just sayin' "respect."
So just when the V-meister thought she was home free, I told her about the certain doom ahead. I said that yes, it would hurt for once second per shot and she could squeeze my arm and yell "Ouch!" as loudly as she wanted to.
And she said, "No thank you, I don't want any shots today," but acquiesced once I explained the cost-benefit involved in getting pinched in the arm a few times versus coming down with measles, mumps, or rubella. Plus, I was totally blocking the exit.
We both left today's appointment relatively unscathed. I'm glad I told the little V-meister she would be getting shots because it made it possible for her to look those bad boys in the eye and say, "Bring it, mofos."
But I'm not entirely certain that I've been forgiven, because she just came inside from raking leaves with her dad, set a bottle full of red winter berries down in front of me, and said, "Mama, I picked these poison berries for your birthday next year."
I remember how much I hated going as a kid, how I'd all but start convulsing on the spot every time my mom would announce it was time for the yearly checkup, and I just want to spare the J-dog and V-meister the pain.
But I also want to spare them a lifetime of negative associations with doctors' offices and their own father's profession, so if you can ignore me while I wipe down the magazine table with my handy-dandy anti-bacterial cloths, I'll make a great show of being the very picture of maternal composure - like a soccer mom on a trivial errand! - even though my internal voice is screaming "ZOMG kids, let's get the H-E-double hockey stick outta here!"
I'm the mom who backs into the office without touching the doorknob. If the J-dog or V-meister so much as think about grazing a surface contaminated with critters of any kind (and aren't they all?), I'm up in there with my trial size bottle of Purell faster than you can say "Bubonic Plague."
So the V-meister had her yearly check-up today, where she was the epitome of pediatric health and decorum, answering all of Dr. W's questions clearly and succinctly, acing her hearing and vision tests, and enduring two mean booster shots (which she insisted on watching) with nary a flinch. My heart swelled inside of my chest cavity, popped right out onto the floor and bounced into the hallway.
But now that she's five and knows all, I had an internal debate on whether I should give her advanced warning about the shots that she would be getting. As a child, I remember Them springing shots on me without any advance notice, as if this would somehow lessen the blow, and I remember being positively incensed about it. Not only did it hurt like a mother, but it was the seventies, man, and they gave us those shots in the hiney. I'm not saying I wouldn't have carried on as though I were being skinned alive if they'd given me a heads up, I'm just sayin' "respect."
So just when the V-meister thought she was home free, I told her about the certain doom ahead. I said that yes, it would hurt for once second per shot and she could squeeze my arm and yell "Ouch!" as loudly as she wanted to.
And she said, "No thank you, I don't want any shots today," but acquiesced once I explained the cost-benefit involved in getting pinched in the arm a few times versus coming down with measles, mumps, or rubella. Plus, I was totally blocking the exit.
We both left today's appointment relatively unscathed. I'm glad I told the little V-meister she would be getting shots because it made it possible for her to look those bad boys in the eye and say, "Bring it, mofos."
But I'm not entirely certain that I've been forgiven, because she just came inside from raking leaves with her dad, set a bottle full of red winter berries down in front of me, and said, "Mama, I picked these poison berries for your birthday next year."
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Still Kickin'
Each day, I have a few very narrow windows of opportunity to do important bidness, which generally falls into one of the following categories:
Lately I've been using up all my windows working on a project deadline and scheming ways to get the most bang for my 18 POINTS a day We1ght Watcher$ buck. That's right, I joined the POINTS counters online a week ago, and my life is now consumed - consumed, I say! by POINTS.
It's a twisted little addiction, this We1ght Watcher$ business, perfect for a hyper-vigilant, compulsive personality who derives an ascetic thrill from squeaking in under the 18 POINT wire at the end of a long, hungry, day.
Back when I was on my Tetris kick, I'd see blocks falling out of the sky when I closed my eyes to sleep at night. Now it's all about the POINTS, my friends. I can't look at an animal, vegetable or mineral without guesstimating it's POINTS value. Just the other day, I glanced out the picture window to witness one of our squirrel neighbors munching away with relish on a huge nut, and in my head I was like, "That's a five pointer, betch. I hope you're having celery for lunch."
I've been a little hungry, is what I'm saying, and hunger is not so conducive to good writing. And busy, too, what with the freelance work and all. It seems that I just can't have it all, for crying out loud. I can't be a stay-at-home mom, a paid professional, an online diarist, and a skinnybitch all at once.
Something has got to give and it's the blog, at least for just a few more weeks, while I complete a very important freelance project and lose ten pounds. I can't divulge too much information, but let's just say that the health of American industry is totally dependent upon my cranking out a robust, yet seamless and user friendly piece of technical documentation. You think the future of our great nation is to be determined by the result of the upcoming election, but I'm telling you, people, it's the tech docs.
(Remember "Tina the Tech Writer" from Dilbert that no one ever took seriously? That's me, except I'm on my couch wearing yoga pants and barking out orders in between changing diapers and switching out Dora DVDs.)
So that's that. This post has been a not very seamless or user friendly way of informing you that I'm still kickin,' and I'll be back soon . . .
Special Note to My Plagiarist: I'm onto you like a bad suit, sistah.' Here's fair warning to cease and desist.
- blogging
- paid freelance writing/editing assignments
- half-assed management of household affairs
Lately I've been using up all my windows working on a project deadline and scheming ways to get the most bang for my 18 POINTS a day We1ght Watcher$ buck. That's right, I joined the POINTS counters online a week ago, and my life is now consumed - consumed, I say! by POINTS.
It's a twisted little addiction, this We1ght Watcher$ business, perfect for a hyper-vigilant, compulsive personality who derives an ascetic thrill from squeaking in under the 18 POINT wire at the end of a long, hungry, day.
Back when I was on my Tetris kick, I'd see blocks falling out of the sky when I closed my eyes to sleep at night. Now it's all about the POINTS, my friends. I can't look at an animal, vegetable or mineral without guesstimating it's POINTS value. Just the other day, I glanced out the picture window to witness one of our squirrel neighbors munching away with relish on a huge nut, and in my head I was like, "That's a five pointer, betch. I hope you're having celery for lunch."
I've been a little hungry, is what I'm saying, and hunger is not so conducive to good writing. And busy, too, what with the freelance work and all. It seems that I just can't have it all, for crying out loud. I can't be a stay-at-home mom, a paid professional, an online diarist, and a skinnybitch all at once.
Something has got to give and it's the blog, at least for just a few more weeks, while I complete a very important freelance project and lose ten pounds. I can't divulge too much information, but let's just say that the health of American industry is totally dependent upon my cranking out a robust, yet seamless and user friendly piece of technical documentation. You think the future of our great nation is to be determined by the result of the upcoming election, but I'm telling you, people, it's the tech docs.
(Remember "Tina the Tech Writer" from Dilbert that no one ever took seriously? That's me, except I'm on my couch wearing yoga pants and barking out orders in between changing diapers and switching out Dora DVDs.)
So that's that. This post has been a not very seamless or user friendly way of informing you that I'm still kickin,' and I'll be back soon . . .
Special Note to My Plagiarist: I'm onto you like a bad suit, sistah.' Here's fair warning to cease and desist.
Friday, July 11, 2008
I'm Not Complaining
I had posted this earlier today, and it just seemed so dang whiny that I took it down. But now that the P-Dawg is home from work and I've helped myself to a few glasses of vino, I'll be darned if it's not downright amusing.
*************************************************************************************
J-dog and V-meister have been at each other's throats from the moment they woke up this morning. It's one of those days when I'm just a toddler tantrum away from reverting back to my monkey roots.
That's right, I'm about to start flinging poop.
The day began with me running out of the shower, dripping wet, to disengage J-dog from the V-meister's headlock. By the time we got out of the house, it was practically twilight and the twenty or so hours I'd spent applying SPF 50 over every nook, cranny, and crevice of our pasty white selves had gone to waste.
Nonetheless, we headed to the splash park.
But when we finally arrived there and met up with V-meister's little friend, no one actually wanted to splash. The V-meister was requesting an early lunch, and the J-dog wanted only to climb in and out of my lap over and over again, mixing it up with an occasional full body slam for good measure.
After endless rounds of this, I set him down none too gently, and when he came in for his next approach, I totally blocked him with a tae-kwon-do move. Of course I'm not proud.
Once the kids were finished not splashing, not running under any fountains, and not eating their lovingly packed nutritional and environmentally friendly lunches, we walked over to the playground. We were only there ten minutes before I found the two of them locked in a death-grip in the middle of the crawl tunnel.
I marched up inside that play structure - fuming- but instead of giving each of them a nuggie as I was wont to do, I reprimanded and separated one from the other, the J-dog with his legs still cycling in mid-air like some caricature of an angry toddler.
Then, on my pissed off and humiliating descent from the jungle gym, I totally nailed my head on a metal beam and swore out loud in front of the V-meister's wide-eyed little friend, who had been watching the spectacle from the sidelines.
In between the stars that appeared before my eyes, I was lucky enough to catch a glimpse of the J-dog putting gel beads that had fallen out of some kid's leaking diaper from the swirly slide right into his pie hole.
And then we left.
On the way home, the V-meister asked what was for lunch? but I simply cranked up the volume on our Lithuanian pop music CD and bopped along to the accordion/techno beat while taking deep breaths and counting to twenty in my head.
Now it's "nap time" and I've been sitting here on my living room couch listening to the J-dog attempting to bust out of his crib for the past forty-five minutes. It's funny, I don't remember tucking him in along with a hammer and crowbar! but by the sound of it, that is what he's employing.
There's also a dead rabbit in my backyard, and this makes me want to cry.
*************************************************************************************
J-dog and V-meister have been at each other's throats from the moment they woke up this morning. It's one of those days when I'm just a toddler tantrum away from reverting back to my monkey roots.
That's right, I'm about to start flinging poop.
The day began with me running out of the shower, dripping wet, to disengage J-dog from the V-meister's headlock. By the time we got out of the house, it was practically twilight and the twenty or so hours I'd spent applying SPF 50 over every nook, cranny, and crevice of our pasty white selves had gone to waste.
Nonetheless, we headed to the splash park.
But when we finally arrived there and met up with V-meister's little friend, no one actually wanted to splash. The V-meister was requesting an early lunch, and the J-dog wanted only to climb in and out of my lap over and over again, mixing it up with an occasional full body slam for good measure.
After endless rounds of this, I set him down none too gently, and when he came in for his next approach, I totally blocked him with a tae-kwon-do move. Of course I'm not proud.
Once the kids were finished not splashing, not running under any fountains, and not eating their lovingly packed nutritional and environmentally friendly lunches, we walked over to the playground. We were only there ten minutes before I found the two of them locked in a death-grip in the middle of the crawl tunnel.
I marched up inside that play structure - fuming- but instead of giving each of them a nuggie as I was wont to do, I reprimanded and separated one from the other, the J-dog with his legs still cycling in mid-air like some caricature of an angry toddler.
Then, on my pissed off and humiliating descent from the jungle gym, I totally nailed my head on a metal beam and swore out loud in front of the V-meister's wide-eyed little friend, who had been watching the spectacle from the sidelines.
In between the stars that appeared before my eyes, I was lucky enough to catch a glimpse of the J-dog putting gel beads that had fallen out of some kid's leaking diaper from the swirly slide right into his pie hole.
And then we left.
On the way home, the V-meister asked what was for lunch? but I simply cranked up the volume on our Lithuanian pop music CD and bopped along to the accordion/techno beat while taking deep breaths and counting to twenty in my head.
Now it's "nap time" and I've been sitting here on my living room couch listening to the J-dog attempting to bust out of his crib for the past forty-five minutes. It's funny, I don't remember tucking him in along with a hammer and crowbar! but by the sound of it, that is what he's employing.
There's also a dead rabbit in my backyard, and this makes me want to cry.
Friday, June 27, 2008
You Can't Take It With You
Last night I was lying in bed, sucking on a melatonin tablet and waxing nostalgic about the hut.
I thought, "I will only stare at these cranberry red walls before falling asleep here fifty more times."
And I got a little panicky. Because I haven't started packing, or even contracted a mover.
And because I suspect that leaving here, we'll leave some intangible part of our fledgling family behind, never to be recreated in quite the same way again.
The hut is where we brought the newborn V-meister, ensconced in her plastic Graco cocoon, set her down in the middle of the living room rug, looked at each other and said, "Ooooooooookaaaay. Now what?" (Moments later, she started meowling, I tried unsuccessfully to nurse her, she projectile vomited, I cried on and off for a year, and our question was roundly answered.)
Two years later, I elected to do it all over again, except this time it wasn't so much a question of wondering what do to with the newborn stranger as trying to figure out a way to keep him fed, clothed, and happy with a two-year-old, potty training V-meister permanently attached to my lower extremities.
Good times!
Darkish times, too. Like in the evenings of nascent motherhood when, the sun having regretfully set, I'd find my pudgy, leaking, yoga pants clad self sitting on the stinky brown couch and trying to nurse yet again, wondering why on earth I thought I could raise a human being, convinced that I had, in fact, known happiness, but it was over now.
Still, we lived a whole chapter of our lives here that we'll never be able to revisit. And while there's no going back in time regardless of one's environs, leaving here is a molting of sorts, like losing forever a piece of what we were during that bittersweet glimmer.
Strange, when I think about how wretched I felt during the PPD days and swore then that the world was closing in on me, I also recall eating bowls of Ben and Jerry's with a baby tucked safely between the P-Dawg and me on our cheap brown Sofa Express couch, watching the Colbert Report, and laughing in spite of myself.
And while I'm fairly certain that I wouldn't want to relive that time in its entirety, neither do I want to leave it here for good.
The Newborn Meister and I
V-Meister and P-Dawg
V-Meister, Hitting the Sauce
Little J's Homecoming
J-Dog, Six Weeks
I thought, "I will only stare at these cranberry red walls before falling asleep here fifty more times."
And I got a little panicky. Because I haven't started packing, or even contracted a mover.
And because I suspect that leaving here, we'll leave some intangible part of our fledgling family behind, never to be recreated in quite the same way again.
The hut is where we brought the newborn V-meister, ensconced in her plastic Graco cocoon, set her down in the middle of the living room rug, looked at each other and said, "Ooooooooookaaaay. Now what?" (Moments later, she started meowling, I tried unsuccessfully to nurse her, she projectile vomited, I cried on and off for a year, and our question was roundly answered.)
Two years later, I elected to do it all over again, except this time it wasn't so much a question of wondering what do to with the newborn stranger as trying to figure out a way to keep him fed, clothed, and happy with a two-year-old, potty training V-meister permanently attached to my lower extremities.
Good times!
Darkish times, too. Like in the evenings of nascent motherhood when, the sun having regretfully set, I'd find my pudgy, leaking, yoga pants clad self sitting on the stinky brown couch and trying to nurse yet again, wondering why on earth I thought I could raise a human being, convinced that I had, in fact, known happiness, but it was over now.
Still, we lived a whole chapter of our lives here that we'll never be able to revisit. And while there's no going back in time regardless of one's environs, leaving here is a molting of sorts, like losing forever a piece of what we were during that bittersweet glimmer.
Strange, when I think about how wretched I felt during the PPD days and swore then that the world was closing in on me, I also recall eating bowls of Ben and Jerry's with a baby tucked safely between the P-Dawg and me on our cheap brown Sofa Express couch, watching the Colbert Report, and laughing in spite of myself.
And while I'm fairly certain that I wouldn't want to relive that time in its entirety, neither do I want to leave it here for good.
The Newborn Meister and I
V-Meister and P-Dawg
V-Meister, Hitting the Sauce
Little J's Homecoming
J-Dog, Six Weeks
Wednesday, April 09, 2008
I'm a Four Year Old Trapped in a Peri-Menopausal Body
3/4 sleeve brown yoga t-shirt
linen capris
black clogs
amber earrings
Dear Internets,
I've been in a bit of a funk for the past few days, which is why I haven't posted. Strangely, I'm usually only motivated to write when I'm feeling buoyant. A blog post when I'm feeling down would look an awful lot like my high school diary, except I probably wouldn't write what I wore that day in the upper left corner.
Speaking of clothing, did you know that, when you are four years old, you are not permitted to wear an item of clothing that bears "Size 3T" on the tag? Any birdbrain (except yours truly) knows that this is folly and goes against all laws of reason.
If the item of clothing in question bearing the "3T" tag also happens to be white ("White is not my color, Mama! Pink is my color!!!"), well now, this results in a Level Four Meltdown accompanied by the Whining Cry of Maximum Irritation.
Which is worse even than the sound of nails on a chalkboard and makes me want to run around in circles with my hands over my ears screaming, "MynameisRima!Ican'thearyoumynameisRima!" And then jump out the window.
Except what I actually do is bring out ye old Drill Sergeant of Doom persona and raise my voice ever so slightly, much in the same way I imagine a banshee might. A PMSssing banshee on an empty stomach who has a vague sense of malaise about her life in general and has not yet had her morning cup of joe.
Oh, ya. I can act like a four year old any damn day of the week.
It is important to note, however that if a pink plastic Ikea spoon should happen to be proffered as a breakfast eating implement mere minutes after the white size 3T clothing debacle, it will be thrown across the breakfast table in in a fit of rage because what fool doesn't know by now that only the dark blue plastic Ikea spoon is fit to eat Cheerios with?
Again, that would be me.
P.S. I told my ob/gyn last time I saw her that my PMS is getting totally out of hand lately. She said, "Oh, yeh, well you're thirty-four. It's peri-menopause." ACK!
(MynameisRimamynameisRimaMynameisRima!)
linen capris
black clogs
amber earrings
Dear Internets,
I've been in a bit of a funk for the past few days, which is why I haven't posted. Strangely, I'm usually only motivated to write when I'm feeling buoyant. A blog post when I'm feeling down would look an awful lot like my high school diary, except I probably wouldn't write what I wore that day in the upper left corner.
Speaking of clothing, did you know that, when you are four years old, you are not permitted to wear an item of clothing that bears "Size 3T" on the tag? Any birdbrain (except yours truly) knows that this is folly and goes against all laws of reason.
If the item of clothing in question bearing the "3T" tag also happens to be white ("White is not my color, Mama! Pink is my color!!!"), well now, this results in a Level Four Meltdown accompanied by the Whining Cry of Maximum Irritation.
Which is worse even than the sound of nails on a chalkboard and makes me want to run around in circles with my hands over my ears screaming, "MynameisRima!Ican'thearyoumynameisRima!" And then jump out the window.
Except what I actually do is bring out ye old Drill Sergeant of Doom persona and raise my voice ever so slightly, much in the same way I imagine a banshee might. A PMSssing banshee on an empty stomach who has a vague sense of malaise about her life in general and has not yet had her morning cup of joe.
Oh, ya. I can act like a four year old any damn day of the week.
It is important to note, however that if a pink plastic Ikea spoon should happen to be proffered as a breakfast eating implement mere minutes after the white size 3T clothing debacle, it will be thrown across the breakfast table in in a fit of rage because what fool doesn't know by now that only the dark blue plastic Ikea spoon is fit to eat Cheerios with?
Again, that would be me.
P.S. I told my ob/gyn last time I saw her that my PMS is getting totally out of hand lately. She said, "Oh, yeh, well you're thirty-four. It's peri-menopause." ACK!
(MynameisRimamynameisRimaMynameisRima!)
Friday, February 01, 2008
Mrs. Dalloway Redux
Standing in line at the local tea shop (where the signage boasts "Tea is Now Fashionable"), I recognized behind me the voice of Dr. C., a former college professor of mine.
When I was a cloud hopping undergraduate English major, she was my number one teacher crush. I couldn't even utter a word aloud in her classroom without first rehearsing my thoughts in their earnest and hopeful entirety countless times inside my head. Any complements received for my occasional and tentative opinions would leave me blushing scarlet, and her comments in the margins of my essays were obsessed over with the same fervor I might have dedicated to a love note.
My roommates and I (black turtleneck wearing English majors all) had looked to her as a shining example of a woman who had it all, striking what seemed to us the perfect balance between sparkling academic career and enviable family life.
At the time we were her students, her children were about the same age as mine are now. She lived in a red brick house on a tree-lined street in a neighborhood that managed to be both bohemian and bourgeois. We imagined Dr. C and her handsome attorney husband drinking whiskey-laced tea and reciting T.S. Eliot to each other nightly before collapsing into passionate, intellectual embraces.
Oh, to be as smart, as witty, as lucky as Dr. C.
She was now casually conversing with a companion and completely unaware of the smitten former student standing a few inches away, prickles of nervous perspiration stinging my armpits.
I ached to turn around, to re-introduce myself, to show her, despite myself, pictures of my kids. I was curious to know if she still remembered me or my friends thirteen years and hundreds of students later.
But I paid for my overpriced tea and walked out.
I guess I'm not all cartwheels and karate chops when faced with the embodiment of my former hopes and dreams.
Striking up conversation would have begged the inevitable question, "What are you up to now?", and I knew I couldn't craft a reply that wouldn't belie a certain measure of shame at having opted out of academia and the creative life.
A certain measure of shame, let's face it, that I'm not gainfully employed in any way at all.
I would have doubtless stammered out my usual line about having done the corporate grind before quitting to raise a family, making sure to mention the part-time freelance work I haven't taken on in months, lest she make the mistaken assumption that I am only raising kids.
God help me, I might have even mentioned my blog.
And that, I think, is what's nagging me now. Knowing in my heart of hearts that mother work is worthy, I wish I didn't feel the need to be apologetic still.
My haste to explain to anyone who'll listen that this current life station is but temporary is a case in point. I'm torn between proudly owning this identity, even if it turns out to be the apex and culmination of my life's work, and dismissing it as a mere interval en route to other dreams.
Part of me believes, though many have fallen away, that some former aspirations are still within my reach. Another part feels, in the quiet moments of transcendent domesticity Dr. C. once alluded to during a discussion of Virginia Woolf's Mrs. Dalloway, that here and now I am my Self.
But I would never tell you that if we were talking face to face.
And it occurs to me now that, of all people, Dr. C. might be the last to expect a fumbled apology for the current tangent of my life, and not just because she had a lot less vested in me as her student than I did in her as my mentor.
I have vague memories of her rushing in late to our classroom, with just seconds to spare before the unspoken "fifteen minutes and we're out" rule was to take effect. Had she been held up by a sick child, an unscheduled daycare pick-up, the need to take a moment to cry behind closed office doors? Who knows what she went through for the sake of presenting that exalted image my friends and I greedily swallowed whole.
I wish I could say that I will begin answering the million dollar question without the slightest tinge of guilt. There may come a time when I don't need to - whether because I'm gainfully employed, or because I will have reached a point in life and personal evolution that it will no longer matter.
But even as I entertain thoughts of all that my future may still hold, I am slipping towards acceptance of the notion that my masterpieces need not be words on paper, but rather flesh and blood, and that my great opus won't be bound and published, but lived out day-to-day.
When I was a cloud hopping undergraduate English major, she was my number one teacher crush. I couldn't even utter a word aloud in her classroom without first rehearsing my thoughts in their earnest and hopeful entirety countless times inside my head. Any complements received for my occasional and tentative opinions would leave me blushing scarlet, and her comments in the margins of my essays were obsessed over with the same fervor I might have dedicated to a love note.
My roommates and I (black turtleneck wearing English majors all) had looked to her as a shining example of a woman who had it all, striking what seemed to us the perfect balance between sparkling academic career and enviable family life.
At the time we were her students, her children were about the same age as mine are now. She lived in a red brick house on a tree-lined street in a neighborhood that managed to be both bohemian and bourgeois. We imagined Dr. C and her handsome attorney husband drinking whiskey-laced tea and reciting T.S. Eliot to each other nightly before collapsing into passionate, intellectual embraces.
Oh, to be as smart, as witty, as lucky as Dr. C.
She was now casually conversing with a companion and completely unaware of the smitten former student standing a few inches away, prickles of nervous perspiration stinging my armpits.
I ached to turn around, to re-introduce myself, to show her, despite myself, pictures of my kids. I was curious to know if she still remembered me or my friends thirteen years and hundreds of students later.
But I paid for my overpriced tea and walked out.
I guess I'm not all cartwheels and karate chops when faced with the embodiment of my former hopes and dreams.
Striking up conversation would have begged the inevitable question, "What are you up to now?", and I knew I couldn't craft a reply that wouldn't belie a certain measure of shame at having opted out of academia and the creative life.
A certain measure of shame, let's face it, that I'm not gainfully employed in any way at all.
I would have doubtless stammered out my usual line about having done the corporate grind before quitting to raise a family, making sure to mention the part-time freelance work I haven't taken on in months, lest she make the mistaken assumption that I am only raising kids.
God help me, I might have even mentioned my blog.
And that, I think, is what's nagging me now. Knowing in my heart of hearts that mother work is worthy, I wish I didn't feel the need to be apologetic still.
My haste to explain to anyone who'll listen that this current life station is but temporary is a case in point. I'm torn between proudly owning this identity, even if it turns out to be the apex and culmination of my life's work, and dismissing it as a mere interval en route to other dreams.
Part of me believes, though many have fallen away, that some former aspirations are still within my reach. Another part feels, in the quiet moments of transcendent domesticity Dr. C. once alluded to during a discussion of Virginia Woolf's Mrs. Dalloway, that here and now I am my Self.
But I would never tell you that if we were talking face to face.
And it occurs to me now that, of all people, Dr. C. might be the last to expect a fumbled apology for the current tangent of my life, and not just because she had a lot less vested in me as her student than I did in her as my mentor.
I have vague memories of her rushing in late to our classroom, with just seconds to spare before the unspoken "fifteen minutes and we're out" rule was to take effect. Had she been held up by a sick child, an unscheduled daycare pick-up, the need to take a moment to cry behind closed office doors? Who knows what she went through for the sake of presenting that exalted image my friends and I greedily swallowed whole.
I wish I could say that I will begin answering the million dollar question without the slightest tinge of guilt. There may come a time when I don't need to - whether because I'm gainfully employed, or because I will have reached a point in life and personal evolution that it will no longer matter.
But even as I entertain thoughts of all that my future may still hold, I am slipping towards acceptance of the notion that my masterpieces need not be words on paper, but rather flesh and blood, and that my great opus won't be bound and published, but lived out day-to-day.
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