momtrolfreak

How the Mensch Stole Christmas

If you had asked me yesterday morning what my Christmas traditions were, I would have said, “Why are you asking me that in October?....oh shit”

and then “I’m a Buddhist and my husband’s agnostic, so we don’t really do much”

and then “My biggest tradition is deliberately calling it 'Xmas' to piss off my Christian friends.”  In short, I have never thought of myself as having any Christmas traditions. Sure, we fly South sometimes, but other than that? Eh. My big holiday is Halloween. 

As an illustration of how much we have NOT done Christmas in the past, allow me to submit: A Madagascar Christmas was on TV. We watched it. Santa appeared on screen, in red suit, fluffy hat, white beard, with flying reindeer, the works. Frog, age 3 and a half, said, “Who’s that?” My son, almost 4, living in the United States of America, who can name eight types of dinosaurs, six of the planets, and accurately describe both photosynthesis and how engines work, was clueless about Santa. Until this year he went to a Jewish preschool, so he can sing the Hamentaschen song and say the Motzi, but Jolly Old Saint Nick? Not so much. This, of course, is all my fault. [DCFS HOTLINE: (800)25-ABUSE]  

Which is why I was surprised yesterday to find myself in the odd position of being an unwittingly elected representative of Christian tradition. I’m quite used to being utilized by friends and acquaintances interested in checkin’ out the Dharma as a means of entry into Buddhism. If you ask me to take you with me to temple, I’m perfectly willing to escort you in (you know, so they don’t shoot you on sight). Plus, usually when I escort someone to temple it reminds me of what I like about going to temple, makes me more mindful of what the chants mean, reminds me why we sit zazen, yadda yadda om. But Christianity? No one in their right mind would expect me to represent Christianity.

Yesterday my friend MashugaMom (who lives in my building) stopped by with her baby for a few minutes and exclaimed, “What the hell, why do you have a TREE in your LIVING ROOM???”

Me: “Uh….it’s December. It's a Christmas tree.”

MM: “You didn’t do one last year.” 

Me: “We went to Atlanta for Christmas; there was nowhere to store our fake one anyway.”

MM: “But, this one is real!???”

Me: “Is this line of questioning going somewhere?”

MM: “When are you going to put the lights and popcorn and stuff on it?”

Me: “No one does popcorn. It causes bugs. I don’t know, haven’t gotten around to it, probably tonight.”

MM: “Well HELLO???? Were you going to INVITE us?”

Me: “Uh…it’s kind of an informal, small, family thing, we don’t have a big party or anything, and, uh, you’re, like, Jewish.”

MM: “You’re a BUDDHIST.”

Me: “Touché.“

MM: “Well, you know, Monkey would love to get to help decorate a tree; he’s really having a hard time with being left out of all this stuff this year.”

[A few weekends ago we had planned to walk to a bookstore event together and we were running late and Frog didn’t feel like walking and we ended up needing to take the car. Her kid, Monkey, wanted to drive too, but couldn’t because it was Saturday, the Sabbath, and they observe the restrictions on using automobiles and the like from Friday sundown to Saturday sundown. Her kid cried that HE wanted to drive LIKE FROG and IT’S NOT FAIR. “We can’t,” she told him, “but we can drive somewhere tomorrow; Sunday we can drive, will that make you happy?” He replied, “NO BECAUSE WE’LL STILL BE JEWISH!!!” So you know, that’s hard. In public preschool where they both are now, there is a LOT of emphasis on Christmas this time of year. The curriculum is surprisingly lacking in global context. I really feel for him.]

Me: [blank expression as I try to figure out whether I am too embarrassed at my lack of traditions to have people over to observe and possibly mock said VACUUM OF TRADITION.]

MM: “We used to have these friends who would invite us over to decorate their tree, and we’d have them over to light the menorah and to Shabbat and stuff.”

Me: “Well, what happened to those friends?”

MM: “Long story.”

Me:  “I’ve known you for two years, you’ve never had us over for Shabbat.”

MM: “I’m just saying, in theory.”

Me: “Well….. sure, yeah, that’s fine...in theory."

MM: “Great! Monkey will be SO excited!!!”

This was at, like, 5pm. So, I picked my kid up from school and walked home and then Aquaman walked in the door and I told them Monkey might be coming over, and they were cool with that, and it turns out they’ll be over at 6:30 and we had exactly THIRTY MINUTES to eat dinner before they come (they keep kosher so just ordering pizza together was not an option). We scarfed some fish sticks and mac and cheese (NOTE: I am sure that at MashugaMom’s house they had a delicious homecooked meal in the same amount of time, because she is magic, the Jewish Martha Stewart—like, Martha Steinberg?) and when they showed up I was:

• throwing the paper plates in the trashcan whilst simultaneously
• searching the cabinets for year-old hot cocoa packets and
• whipping together some boxed pumpkin bread mix and
• replacing the ketchup in the fridge, and
• telling my son to go put on some pants.

I’m telling you, it was a regular Normal Rockwell painting.

So…our guest Monkey comes bounding in (weeKramer style) like he’s had a couple Red Bulls and is ready to PARTAY.  It was clear from the get-go that we were not going to be ramped up enough to meet his expectations. Does Hanukkah include the use of cocaine? Because holidays clearly mean FUN FUN FUN to this kid. He was a party machine. I did have some chill carols (Nat King Cole, Bing Crosby) playing on the seasonal music channel on the TV, but that was ruined when TiVo switched over automatically to start recording So You Think You Can Dance.  No way was I skipping recording SYTYCD, so I just turned the TV off.  That’s right, folks, we chose reality TV over Christmas carols. So You Think You Can Masquerade as a Christian? Bwahahaha. Sucka.

Sometimes when one person is totally amped about something, it can ramp others up and make the whole place merry. I wish I could say that was the case, but we were all just kinda chill, and Monkey was on a higher RPM than the rest of us.

DISTRACTION #1: We decided to serve the boys some hot cocoa <-- MISTAKE and sat them down to watch Aquaman put lights on the tree while they drank their delicious warm elixir of the Gods.

At least that was the plan.

Both boys just started grabbing the GLASS ornaments out of the box and running around with them. Some of them that weren’t glass were nonetheless delicately crafted items from my childhood. If something is a relic of your past and is stamped with “Christmas 1977” on it, you don’t really want to hand it to a 4 year old. Just, you know, for future reference.

So we had a lot of rules get invented in rapid succession, which was no fun for the boys.

Rule #1: No jumping on couch.

Rule #2: No trying to trap your friend between the table and the wall until he collapses a lung.

 Rule #3: No touching ornaments without me handing them to you first.

Rule #4: Do not grab tinsel that is wrapped around the tree and attempt to run to the other room, taking the tree with you.

Rule #5: Sit and drink your cocoa while I shoot myself read you The Night Before Christmas. 

Rule #6: Please get Mommy a drink.

Then Frog, who has the ability to be really amped up himself as well,  told Monkey he was “being bad.” Monkey suffered a bout of righteous indignation that spurred him to lecture Frog to get him to “have a little chit chat” about the “mean words” he used. [Editor's Note: Mashuga reminded me of the funniest part of this: when Monkey decided to emply the coping strategies taught in Pre-K and left the argument with Frog by saying "I'm going to walk away!" and Frog, my "brilliant" boy, said, "Okay, I will WALK AWAY WITH YOU." ]

DISTRACTION #2: “Look kids! PRESENTS!” I pulled out two “extra” ornaments, little frosted snowmen with bells for a body, one brass and one silver. Monkey didn’t like his brass one. I said he could trade with Frog if Frog was okay with that. Frog was (thank God, I thought too soon) okay with that, and went to make the trade, saying genially “I like that color better anyway.” Famous last words. So of course, as would any four year old , Monkey then decided that he wanted to keep the one he had and Frog could NOT have it.

Just then, the oven timer dinged (which means we were at 45 minutes at this point. Possibly the longest 45 minutes of my life), and I started to maybe believe in God a little. HALLELUJAH!

DISTRACTION #3: “Whooooooooo wants pumpkin bread?!?! “ MEMEMEMEMMEEME!!!! Who knew I would need a distraction from the distraction from the distraction.

I took the pumpkin bread out of the oven and started cutting it and putting it on plates while they finished up the tree. And see, here is the problem with having two children around: with special things like putting the star on the tree, you have to pick which kid gets to do it. How do people with two children handle this shit? I love Monkey, but it wouldn’t have been right to not have Frog do the star on his own tree. It’s his tree. He has helped do it every year since birth (the year we did not have a tree, he put the star on the one at my mom’s house because he is the only grandchild and she actually waited until we arrived so he could do it).

I mean, come on, some things are…..huh: Sacred. Some things are sacred. The fact that I was completely unwilling to have anyone but my son put the star on our tree took me completely by surprise. The fact that I felt any of it was in any way sacred was shocking to me.

As a compromise, Frogman offered that Monkey could put the menorah [we have a menorah because for two years my son got all this curriculum about Hanukkah at Jewish preschool, and we wanted him to feel like he knew what they were talking about) on the table. Well, no, that’s not the same, Monkey reasoned, because IT’S NOTTTTTTT HIIIIIIIIIGH ENOUUUUUUUUGGGGGGH!!!!  So Aquaman decided they’d put the menorah (which also has a STAR on it, woo hoo!!!) on top of the bookshelf, and he would hold Monkey up so he could do it. But then Monkey was smelling the pumpkin bread, and he was torn. And he wasn’t sure he was willing to accept the menorah placement as a tit-for-tat replacement of the star placement job (he is already a lawyer like his dad, and he was worried that if he accepted a settlement in the form of menorah placement, then he would contractually forfeit all future rights to complaining about restitution for lack of star placement). So Aquaman started a countdown, because this is what we do with Frog.

“You have until I count down from five, Monkey, or I’m going to do it myself.”

If there is one thing my husband DOES NOT FUCK AROUND WITH, it’s a countdown. Your toy WILL get thrown away, you will NOT be going to the birthday party, etc. For reals, yo. He is a model of consistency in discipline. I am pretty hard core when it comes to following through on threats, but Aqua, he puts me to SHAME. Frog learned this the hard way long ago. Monkey, however, didn’t know what hit him.

So Aqua counted. “Five……four…..three….”

[no movement from Monkey, he’s playing hard to get—poor boy, he doesn’t KNOW that Aqua is hardcore. Run, Monkey, run!]

“….TWOOOOOO…..OOOOO….?”

[still nothing]

“One.” Aquaman put the menorah on the bookshelf.

Monkey LOST. IT. He was just about to walk over there, he said, he was ABOUT to do it! Aquaman did not relent.

I tells you whut, it is a brave man who will be this hardcore with someone else’s child. I was simultaneously horrified and impressed. He told me later it would have destroyed his credibility with his own kid if he softened on the countdown with the other kid. He has a point.

This was The Absolute Last Straw for Monkey, who in his mind had been not only mistreated (fake marshmallows, lukewarm cocoa, no carols, the wrong bell ornament, no star placement, no motherfucking POPCORN, hello?) but also sold a bill of goods regarding what a freaking Christmas Tree Trimming party was going to be overall. We did not live up to his expectations, which, MashugaMom told me later, had been partially created by her and included stringing popcorn, singing Christmas carols, and doing HOLIDAY CRAFTS that they could hang on the tree. I’m not sure what freaking crafts I could have gotten together in the 30 minutes’ warning I had that we were having a “Tree Trimming Party,” but I don’t blame MashugaMom for thinking so because

1) her expectations of Christmas are from wonderful, warm, fuzzy movies from the 1930's and

2) she herself could totally have pulled that off.  

Monkey left in tears. We packed up his pumpkin bread and said goodbye as she went down the hallway with him and his baby brother, and we listened as the elevator doors opened and then closed, and his wailing went inside the metal box and down to the lobby. I felt kind of terrible that it hadn’t gone that well, that I hadn’t been, I don’t know, more loosey-goosey, or more fun. That I hadn’t had CRAFTS. That I hadn’t lived up to their idea of what Christmas should be.

That’s right: I felt guilty because my Christmas wasn’t good enough for the Jews.

Dude, if your Christmas can’t measure up to people WHO HAVE NEVER DONE CHRISTMAS, then how lame are you?

We did successfully have the boys put a few nonbreakable ornaments on the tree.  There was a blissfully calm 15 minutes or so in there when we took ornaments out and commented on them, hung them up. We have an ornament for each year we’ve been together. Each year, we take out the ornament, read the year and talk about what we were doing and where we lived at that point. The snowman wearing sunglasses is from when we lived in St. Thomas, Virgin Islands. The Snoopy pulling a tree on a sled is from when we lived on Western Avenue and Aqua dragged not a tree but a 12-foot-long, peacock-feather-patterned, gold-and-rust-and-burgundy-and-brown-and-purple couch up three flights of stairs to put in our living room. (I refused to participate.). The Grinch holding his dog Max (wearing the fake antler) was from the first Christmas we had our dog, Elvis. Each ornament has meaning. We tell the story of that meaning every year, usually just to eachother.

The ornaments since Frog was born are even better: they are all hand-carved by Aquaman, to commemorate whatever our son’s favorite toy was that year: a tiny replica of the shape-sorter toy, stacking rings, a wooden car. Each of these has its own carved, wooden box, made by Aquaman, woodburned with the year and Frog's initials, with a photo of him that year and a little note from us. When he is grown we will give him these for his own family tree.

Maybe.  

If I can part with them.

Maybe we should make two of each.

She texted me later, after all the children were nestled in bed, to explain the situation with the hopped-up expectations and to apologize for her son “ruining” our tree trimming party. It wasn’t ruined, though, because we actually HAD no expectations. We wouldn’t even have made a “thing” out of it if not for them. I wouldn’t have thought of pumpkin bread or hot chocolate. We wouldn’t have put on Christmas music.

“Don’t worry,” I told her, “the Jews always try to ruin Jesus’ day.”

She replied that Monkey’s Hebrew name is Moses, so we should have been warned. I don’t really get that joke, which is illustrative of how disconnected I am from the religion of my birth. I did not know that Moses liked to ruin Christmas. Or that he was a partier who had to be kicked out of parties for revelling too much.  What I know about Moses: old school and Old Testament, floated down the river in a basket, parted the Red Sea, took notes for God on the whole commandment thing. None of those things refer to our evening: there was no parting of hot cocoa, for instance. [editor's note: Masuga informs me that Moses was the leader of the Jews, and destroyed non-Jews' lives in order to lead Jews to freedom. Ah-ha.]

We went back and forth for awhile about who was more at fault (each of us taking the blame for miscommunication and excusing the other’s shortcomings, as mothers are wont to do). And then she texted, “I was amazed by the whole thing. The ornaments from childhood, the new ones each year since his birth, your lives together…I was fascinated. We have a shitload of Jewish holidays but nothing like what I saw tonight: unpacking the special ornaments, reminiscing about your lives together...it was very special.”

It wasn’t until receiving this message from my friend that I realized just how much of a Christmas tradition we really do have.  We honor the past and celebrate it. We spend time together as a family. What we do is quiet and on a small scale, but our little nuclear family does indeed use this season as a way of appreciating our family and what we have been through and where we hope to go from here. Having our friends over to share in that tradition-we-didn’t-know-was-a-tradition held a mirror up to that and allowed us to really see it for the first time.

After they left, we settled into the quiet and the stillness. My little boy suggested we sit RIGHT UP UNDER the tree so we could see everything “up closed” and eat our pumpkin bread “like a Christmas picnic.” He asked me to read him one of the books I’d bought to teach him about Santa, The Christmas Magic. Frog snuggled up to me as I read, the glow of the twinkly tree lights reflected in his gorgeous green eyes.  I felt a calm and a stillness that I haven’t felt since I gazed into those eyes each time he nursed as an infant.

Those same green eyes.

That same magic.

Silent Night.

 

Nutrition for Dummies

Me: (looking at grocery list) "Honey, what's this mean: 'organic hot sauce'?"

Aquaman: "You said we should start eating healthier." 

Me: "So you thought, like, putting ORGANIC hot sauce on your nachos would accomplish that?"

Aquaman: "Does it not?"

Me: "No." 

Aquaman: "Do they make organic ice cream?"

Me: "Maybe, but that's still not the point."

Aquaman: (pause) "....I'm out." 

***

Okay, look. I AM NOT JOKING when I say I do not know how to cook. I come from a long line of women who do not know how to cook. My mother, as domestic and perfectly wonderful as she is and was, from a maternal-love perspective, nurturer extraordinaire, knows how to make exactly two dishes, and one of them is a dessert. HER mother used to watch me when I was little sometimes and would feed me either Pringles, KitKats, or a grilled cheese sandwich, in which "grilled cheese sandwich" means a kraft American Cheese slice inside two pieces of Wonder Bread, microwaved--yes, that's right, MICROWAVED for ten seconds. I am not sure how my maternal bloodline survived the years before microwaves. My dad is a great cook, but he was never home. His dad was a chef and caterer and amazing man all around, but he died of a brain tumor some time ago and I can't ask him how to make any of the stuff he used to make: angel biscuits, orange blossoms, brunswick stew, brains and eggs (scratch that last one, I don't want to know how to make that). And even if I had recipes, which I do, sometimes, acquire, I also do not ENJOY cooking. What's a girl to do? Anyone else been in this situation but somehow learned how to make healthy eating work? I buy these fresh ingredients, see--portabellos, pomegranates, fresh peppers, etc--and then they just sit there and rot on my counter, as I glance guiltily at them out of the corner of my eye and dial New Peking or Joy's Noodles. Are there personal chefs who work for cheap? We both work full time, too, and cooking takes a long time, time that I could spend playing with my kid. I RESENT spending an hour putting a meal together while my kid plays by himself in his room, after I've just spent the whole goddamn day ALSO not playing with my kid. But then, on the other hand, I feel bad feeding him boxed mac 'n' cheese and fish sticks, too. HOW DO YOU PEOPLE DO THIS?!?!?!?!????? Seriously, I need an intervention. A game plan.

Bring it.

2, 4, 6, 8, We Effing Hate to Renovate!

We hate it! Yeah, yeah, we hate it! Yeah, yeah!

So here's the progress:

BEFORE (Les Miserables)

DURING (A Tale of Two Fridges)

Old cabinets removed from premises by nice craigslist dude building a kitchen for his mom: +$200

Craigslist dude also taking and dumping 5 bags of construction debris and a bunch of old flooring for us since we live in a high rise and can't dump it here: $0

New appliances from Abt, the best appliance store on the planet (this is not a paid review, I just seriously effing love those people): -$2700

New water line and electric for new fridge location done by husband: $0

Some more construction debris carted away by Abt dudes just because they are nice: $0

Old stove taken away by building manager: +$100

Old fridge taken away by some Craigslist lady tomorrow: +$225

New floors for entire condo purchased: $4000

New floors 80% installed after one week: $0

Seven gallons of paint: $200

Entire house painted in one weekend: $0

Cabinets being delivered on the 11th: $6000

Cabinets being installed on the 11th: $0

Total price of entire kitchen makeover:  $14,000

How much it WOULD have cost if my husband didn't DIY the whole damn thing: $40,000

Sleeping with your contractor: PRICELESS

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Papa Don't Preach

Father’s Day has always been fraught with complications for me. To be more precise, fathers have always been fraught with complications for me. My father, in particular. Not a good vibe there, during ye olde childhoode. My dad and I get along now, surprisingly well, though there were years in there (eight to be exact, including my wedding) in which we did not speak at all, not once. By my choice. More on that some other time. But I think I’m so spoiled by how awesome my husband is, in so many ways, these days, that I forget how generally crappy a lot of other husbands/dads are. I mean, you know, we've had some pretty bad times, and there were times I've wanted to murder him, sure, but mostly? and recently? I feel really lucky.

So.

To the love of my life, fire of my loins:

Thank you for thinking I was a cute young thing, lo these many years ago in high school drama club, and for changing your dating paradigm (a. choose homely girl, b. kiss her, c. invite her best friend to prom like a total jerk) in order to be with me.

Thank you for marrying me even though your mother pretty much thought I was a heathen for not being born again and blamed me for your lack of relationship with Jesus (not having noticed, apparently, that you’d either slept through every church service for fourteen years or spent the entire sermon flipping through the hymnal so you could add "...in the bed" to the end of the all the titles: Jesus Loves Me In the Bed, He is My Rock In the Bed, Fill Me With Your Spirit In the Bed. Good stuff).

Thank you for wearing that god-awful tux I picked out even though it made you look like a butler with tortoiseshell glasses and a ducktail (actually, considering the ducktail and glasses, you should be thanking me for marrying you. Oh wait, you do that, all the time).

Thank you for not totally freaking out when I decided after fourteen years of marriage that wait, I did want to have kids after all.

Thank you for being there. For me, for our son. For supporting me while I go through grad school one class at a time for three effing years. For not once, not ever telling me, “You really should have gotten that Master’s out of the way BEFORE you had the kid.” For not once, not ever complaining about being on solo parenting duty pretty much every Tuesday night for three years so I can go talk about writing and literature. For telling me constantly how brilliant I supposedly am. For telling me what a good mom I am when I feel like a shitty one, and for forgiving me and stepping in to save the day when I actually AM a shitty one.  For reminding me, speaking of which, not to curse in front of the boy.

For telling me to turn off the computer and come look at the sunset.

Or to come watch So You Think You Can Dance.

For never questioning my purchases.

For putting the boy to bed every night while I go to the gym or take a shower or write.

Thank you for being super excited along with me about FrogBoy’s first tae kwon do class, as we both frosted the hallway windows with our breath, laughing about how freaking cute he was kicking and shouting "keeyah!".  And thank you for even BEING at the class to begin with, for doing things WITH us. I noticed you were the only dad there. The other moms were catty about our adoration from the sidelines (they themselves being too jaded to watch their four year olds in class) and acted like The Heathers, but I realize now that it might have been because I was the only one there who had my husband with me, at 4:30pm on a Friday. (And only one child, no baby crying to be changed or toddler begging for Cheerios, or both. Clearly I am a whore who must be punished.)  

Thank you for being involved with our son’s preschool, and for doing adorable little carpentry activities with him and his friends when it’s your turn to visit the class, and for making him feel special when you let 'Onnnnnnly FrogBoy' touch the hand saw, because he had “the training” to use it correctly.

Thank you for giving me your honest opinion always, but still knowing when you really just need to tell me I’m right. Or to say nothing and just massage my shoulders until they release from their current disguise as earmuffs.

Thank you for buying groceries this Thursday, and for any other time you’ve done that. Because even though I write this cereal down on the list:

...and you inexplicably get this cereal instead (and yes, the size difference is accurate)...

...forgetting that I fucking hate generic cereal and what's more, that they don't MAKE cabinets big enough to hold a box that big, WHAT. THAFUCK...

...but still, I didn’t have to buy the groceries my own damn self. Thank you for that.

(But Sweet Lord, I’ve never seen so much candy and chips. This is not a frat house.)

Oh, but thank you for buying my favorite ice cream.

Thank you for being handy to the point that you not only "DIY" a kitchen for me, but paint it too, and draw portraits of me when I am pregnant and/or in high school (those being the only two times I’ve been willing to sit still for it), and barely complain a bit, even when I tell you your color choices for paint look like shit and I meant candy apple green, not the color of O.R. scrubs, and good god are you colorblind?  For putting up with my attitudes.

For reminding me when I feel fat that my period is in two days, so it's just that I’m just bloated and crazy.

For reminding me when I’m a total bitch that my blood sugar is low because I skipped breakfast.

For sweeping in to handle it when FrogBoy vomits or wants to eat yogurt. Because honestly I don't know which of those is more disgusting.

Thank you , thank you for all the times you’ve been ‘in the mood’ but have taken one for the team so I could sleep.

Thank you for your sense of humor; for never calling time with our son “babysitting”; for learning to be good at gardening because I suck ass at it; for holding my hand during--and calling me a bad ass after--my un-anaesthetized c-section, even though you yourself were freaking. the fuck. OUT.; and for pretty much doing the dishes and laundry ever since.

Thank you for laughing your ass off at the blog posts I read to you, and not looking at the ones I don’t.

Thank you for always answering the question, “Does this make me look fat?” correctly.

Thank you for telling me after I finished breastfeeding for good that there was No Such Thing as an imperfect set of boobs.  And for buying four heads of cabbage for me to put in my bra when I weaned. And for saying stupid things to get my mind off the pain.

Thank you for holding me while I sobbed on the kitchen floor the night before I had to send the baby to daycare the first time. And for telling me my first morning back at work that I looked great, even though I can see from the photo we took of "FrogBoy's First Day of Daycare" that my eyes were puffy, my hair looked like ass, and my cleavage was Not Appropriate for Children Under the Age of 13, much less an office environment.

Thank you for allowing me just occasionally to tease you for not being able to say “tortilla” correctly (“torteelya” is just so fucking cute I can’t stand it).

Thank you for trying to stay in shape and healthy, even though it’s hard, and for working constantly on the cigarette thing, and even when you are smoking, thank you for never doing it inside, and for wearing a different shirt so our son doesn’t smell it on you.

Thank you for always brushing your teeth and putting on deodorant. Seriously. It's amazing how many people don't do this. 

Thank you for listening intently while I describe my friends' problems, or my own work frustrations, and then being OUTRAGED right along with me, even if you have no idea what the fuck I am talking about.

Thank you for finally learning that that's all I want: the empathy. For not trying to fix it all anymore.

Thank you for being the kind of husband I can leave at home with the kid for a four day business trip and not have to leave ANY instructions on how to do anything in the house or with our child.  And for not getting angry when I give you instructions ANYWAY.

Thank you for being the strong silent type, but still, sometimes, sending me e-mails like this one from last week:

hve a slow productive day unaffected by others

states of minds and actions-

(trying to do the same today 2).

 Luv u

…that I receive at the exact moment I need them.

Thank you for waking up early sometimes and coming home just as I am waking up, with an iced latte in your hand just for me.

Thank you for being you, and for working so hard to be the man you are,

the husband any woman would love to have,

and the father most people only dream of.

If you could just, you know…less farting, smaller cereal boxes? And we’re golden.

Just kidding.

Golden already.

Happy Father’s Day, 'AquaMan.'

(Thank you for redefining the "F" word.)

I love you.

--'Momtrolfreak'

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A Public Apology/Retraction to My Friend Eden

Oh, Eden. Remember that one time, a few months ago, when you showed us your baby registry and both Penny and I made fun of you for registering for a dog bed on your baby registry? And you said, "Well, some of my friends aren't really baby people." So we said, "You need to get new friends." Because anyone who hates babies so much that they can't bear to buy a present for a friend's baby and will instead buy an $80 dog bed is probably not going to be your friend anymore once said baby is out in the world anyway? And we teased you a couple of times after that? Remember? Well Penny is a callous bitch but I for one am sorry. I have seen the error of my ways. You see, we've been looking for something to do in the corner of FrogBoy's bedroom now that he's too big to sit with us in the rocking chair his dad built when he was in utero, and I happened upon the idea of a Book Nook, like I'd seen in some decorating magazine, and we looked all over town for floor cushions and bean bag chairs and everything is so expensive especially when you consider that it's just a big pillow filled with beans,
I MEAN JESUS CHRIST SERIOUSLY POTTERY BARN AND LAND OF NOD WHAT THE FUCK,
and you need more than one for a "nook" to work, and finally out of exasperation in not wanting to spend $300 just to outfit a tiny corner of a three-year-old's bedroom with some pillows,

we bought our son a dogbed.

For 25 bucks at Target.

And Christ on a cracker is that thing comfy, to the point where whoever puts the boy to bed each night generally has to be woken up by said three year old and told to get out of the room so he can go to sleep.

It's cozy in the nook behind the dresser. It's kind of like camping, except that I don't hate it with every fiber of my being.

So anyway, I'm not making fun of you anymore for the dog bed on your baby registry.

I'm making fun of you for letting the dog use it instead of the baby.

And for your dog for being such a prima donna that she requires a bed more than three times the price of my...son's...dog...bed.

Perhaps I should stop making fun of you altogether.

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IKEA: The Swedish Word for "Bullshit"

Dear IKEA,

You almost had me, you Swedish bastards. I hadn’t seen you in over two years, and I’d almost forgotten in that span of time how crazy you make me. Inexplicably drawn by your bright little androgenous stuffed animals, I forget that almost everything you make is so flimsy that it might as well be disposable.

You can’t blame me. You see, it was Mother’s Day. I woke up to breakfast in bed and a pretty necklace (from Kohl’s, not diamonds or anything, but picked out by my kid and what’s more, bought two weeks in advance, unheard of from my husband, and thus, better than diamonds), and it seemed that the world was my oyster. So I thought, why not press my luck. Skip my kid’s nap and head out to IKEA in one of two far-off suburbs outside the city. Suburbs are the only place you can exist, IKEA, because that’s where the square footage is, I get it, but seriously, a $4.99 table lamp becomes somewhat less affordable when civilized people must spend $20 in gas just to gain access to it.

Anyway, IKEA, you fucker, I should have known. I’m about to do my kitchen, though, see, and it was Mother’s Day and the sun was shining and everyone was in a good mood, and so I thought, let’s give it a shot. This is spite of The Incident, in which we spent $400 on two rugs when our son was a wee crawling thing and we needed rugs, SOFT rugs to crawl on and roll around on and—oh but wait, yes, apparently what we needed was a rug that would disintegrate, so that not only would little red rug hairs get attached to our precious baby, making him look like he was made of Velcro or a new species of mobile Brillo pad, but that the backing on the rug would turn to white powder, so that when we pulled it up to take it back we weren’t sure whether to quarantine the house in a plastic bubble á la E.T. or try to find a silver straw to snort the whole thing. So we rolled them up and took them back, it being only two months after purchase and having used a credit card, and you, IKEA, seeming like such a delightfully whimsical and bright company that we just naturally assumed you would greet us at the door, tsk-tsk at the trouble we’d gone through, and escort us to a table for three to eat lϋtfisk and lingonberries while waiting for you to retrieve a nice, intact rug for us to take home. Little did we know that your “generous return policy” meant within 30 day, even if you have a receipt. PERIOD. No, we cannot look you up in the system. No, if it’s 31 days it doesn’t count.

I'm Bringing Sexy Bath...

We're about to embark on a DIY remodeling project: our kitchen. It's not that bad as-is, actually, it's just not our taste. We're more espresso-finish, silestone countertop, stainless appliance, wood-floor type people (rather than yellow maple cabinet, black-and-white linoleum, white appliances, laminate countertop type people). We pay a premium for the land our condo is on (right on the lakefront) and for the preschool our son goes to, and after that, there just ain't much left over. I've been stockpiling cash for some time now (you know: year-end bonus, tax refund, prostitution) and have jusssst enough money saved up now to do this project, but even then, only if my husband and I do all the work. And even THEN, only if I ignore ALL of Suze Orman's advice and throw caution to the wind in regards to that whole extravagant "eight months living expenses in your savings account" notion. Which is a GREAT idea during a recession. I am smart.

So anyway, my financial folly is not the point. The point is....wait.....ah yes, the point isssssss, I am now OBSESSED with home renovation magazines, and as part of that obsession, I've noticed something interesting: there is a LOT of odd marketing associated with kitchen and bath renovation. Very few ads for kitchen cabinets or hardware or appliances feature families or people actually USING said kitchens. Mostly, they each feature one scantily clad (dare I say, slutty-looking) woman standing in said ktichen, with a knowing, pre-coital smirk on her lips. Perhaps it's the whole "having sex on the kitchen counter" thing thye're trying to subtlely evoke (and come to think of it, if one does plan to be doing that a lot one really SHOULD invest in Silestone with Microban antibacterial technology). But other marketing is less overt. Take, for instance, the ad I saw the other day for a discount kitchen hardware site:

Yes, that's right.

My knobs.

Dot com.

I was scared to type it into my browser.

As if that's not bad enough, check out this feature from "Ultimate Kitchens and Baths" magazine. I've never before seen such a blatant homage to meat and two veg.

Does this bathroom seem, oh, I don't know, a little penisy to you?

Or is the house just happy to see me?

p.s. In case you can't enlarge it (heh heh), the copy from the magazine says:

"Elongated Elegance: grandeur, both faded and fresh, touches this classical bath. Even though the tub is squeezed by the narrow room, its fluid lines give grace to the space." 

It's almost a Harlequin-romance-style deflowering, no?

Potty Humor

So my kid has this cool Plan Toys dollhouse now (he would have been fine with a plain one but dad insisted on the architectural aesthetics), and it has become clear that Frogboy conforms to ZERO preconceived notions or social mores about where things should go. It's really fascinating to sit and watch him rearrange things unhindered by my silly adult notions of furniture placement. it's like being on an archaeological dig and trying to figure out why the hell the body was buried in one place and the head in another. It can't be random, there must be a reason.

In the ancient society run by my three-year-old boy, people like to watch TV while they poop, sleep on their bunkbeds upside down, throw their pillows out the window, and stack the refrigerator on top of the sofa before the earthquake happens. Oh, there's alllllways an earthquake. "The house is breaking!!!!" he will cry, and dump everything out and start over.

Some of his decisions are kind of inspired: the fridge and the bed are in the same room (this sounds handy, I may try it), and the TV is in the bathroom (actually the last fancy hotel I stayed in did that, too, so I guess he's on to something).

But this is one interior design decision I really just can't get behind:

First of all, there's not a whole lotta privacy.

Second, where do you store the magazines?

Practicality aside, though, it's the archaeology question that gets me. Look at that photo. It just seems to be brimming with meaning.

WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO TELL ME, TINY POTTY?!!?!?

Is this a metaphor for climbing the corporate ladder?

Is this a warning against the dangers of public toilets?

Or is my son just confirming what we all have always known: that shit really does roll downhill?

Spring Cleaning

Ha! gotcha.

I don't DO "spring cleaning."

I don't, in fact, do "cleaning." I'm...um, allergic. To....dust.

What I do is make a few comments about how it stresses me out when the house is messy, and how a stressed-out me finds it difficult to be productive while telecommuting in a mess, and then I look at my husband to see if he's taking all this in, and then I mention the whole thing about how I had his baby via c-section with no anesthesia. The next day, my house is clean.

Watch and learn ladies.

Watch.

And.

Learn.

Oh, don't feel too bad for him. I do stuff for him. I pay all the bills and buy all the presents and send all the cards and coordinate all the school-related stuff and handle ALL middle-of-the-night Frogboy requests and take the early morning shift when there is one (there always is one) and I make him laugh when he's in a bad mood and I refrain from smothering him with a pillow when he snores. That's an enormous amount of restraint. Yay me! Plus I do, ahem, other stuff he likes.

Yoooooou know what I mean.

That's right.

Camping.