Cords and Fleece

I didn’t know that a close friend would be happily -- and steadily -- dating, or that another close friend was having sex. I didn’t know that I would see a play at The Old Globe ( Two Trains Running ). I didn’t know that my mother would find her dream condo and would spend her days happily buying dish sets and china cabinets. I didn’t know we’d go to Disneyland or how Samantha would react to scary rides. I didn't know that Scoreboard Surprises at Petco Park needs 48 hours advanced notice before posting surprises, nor did I know that they support the Padres Foundation for Children. I didn't know that wild parrots lived in the United States, much less San Francisco. I didn’t know that my cat would be diagnosed with cancer. I didn’t know that my gardener was allergic to cleaning solutions and was spending time at the hospital. I didn’t know that I would become addicted to blogging. I didn’t know I’d get published in the Reader. I didn’t know just how incredibly supportive my fri

We lost our heads and thought it would be a good idea to visit the Wild Animal Park on Memorial Day weekend. We were freshly motivated by a great documentary about the Wild Parrots of Telegraph Hill in San Francisco. I thought it would be fun to feed the Lorikeets and pretend to be a kindly Jerry Garcia-type person with an ability to talk to birds. On the other hand, the girls were excited to see the Elephant Show; elephants are always motivating. With sippy cups and sunblock in tow, we ignored all logic and headed to the country. If I was a superstitious person, I would have known better. It had been my husband’s plan to have a simple picnic that day. He has an unusually adept intuition about how to spend a Sunday afternoon. I rarely plan these outings, and when I do it rarely flows naturally. My intuitions are better attuned to family illnesses and what to fix for dinner, whereas he’s the family planner. We all have our strengths. Then we couldn’t find Elizabeth’s zoo pass; another

My husband, Michael, once said there are three Melissa's: the Fantasy Melissa, the Horror Melissa, and the Reality Melissa. At first, I didn't know whether to be insulted or make an appointment to see a therapist. His words made me feel one part ding-bat, one part hysterical, and one part boring. Like most of my husband’s words, I contemplated them long after he’d moved on to watching King of Queens. And like many of his words, I realized he was probably right. How annoying. The more I thought about it, however, the more I realized that all mothers are constructed of these primary parts. Each part has its proper place and function in family life, and without one of these elements, the family would disintegrate. I present a case-study: Melissa. Mother of two. Wife of one. (Warning: I'm about to discuss myself in third-person. Creepy.) The Fantasy Melissa is the one who thinks we should enter the talent show, DJ at a skating rink, or learn how to dance the Tango

I’m in a rotten mood today. I need 15-foot clearance. I sat in bed after a nap. I was thirsty and wanted water, but I wasn’t ready to return to Family Land. I didn’t want to be seen because I knew that as soon as someone saw me, I would be needed. I didn’t want to be needed, yet. I just wanted a bottle of water. Sometimes I wish there were secret passages in my house; ways for me to get from the bedroom to the garage, or from the office to the refrigerator, without notice. But our one-story, open-plan, ranch-style home forbids clandestine trips. Wherever you go, eyes are watching. I took a chance, hoping my family was engrossed with Sponge Bob and wouldn’t see me slip by. Unfortunately for him, Michael saw me. (He never was a big fan of Sponge Bob.) His most innocent and generous need -- to love me -- sent me over the edge. I was in a mind-set not to get caught . When he wanted to divert me back to the bedroom for a hug, I felt like a caged animal instead of a fortunate wife. So I bark

It's important to remember the basics of life. Exene spent some quality-time at the vet's getting IV fluids on Wednesday. It's done her a world of good. Armed with steroids and antibiotics, I brought her home and sent her outside immediately to enjoy the fresh air. Her prognosis is both finite and open-ended: 1 year (if she's lucky), and 2 months if she's not. For now, she's eating more and has reintegrated herself with the family; showing up at mealtimes and sleeping in the rocking chair. It still hurts to eat, so we mix soft catfood with water, followed by a pill-chaser. (Which reminds me, we need to trim her nails. Ouch!) I tell Exene she's beautiful, as if she might be self-conscious about her facial deformity. Talk about projection. We feed her privately and often, away from distractions. While I used to worry about her portly midsection, now I push food her way like an old-world Italian mother. Eat, eat. Looka you, skin and bones. You eata this a nice

The girl at the cafeteria where I work has no love for serving. I should know -- I’ve served. I waited tables for two years, and I’m currently working pro-bono in my home for two demanding little regulars. Ok, maybe I don’t have “love” for serving, either, but I certainly have respect for the position, since I myself enjoy being served very much. But this girl’s shoulders drop a notch when I walk up to her counter. We’ve met before. Granted, I’m particular. I like a certain amount of pasta and a certain amount of sauce. Sometimes I like to mix sauces which really throws her. “I can’t do that,” she says. I stare blankly. “You can’t put a little of one sauce on top and then a little of the other on top of that?” “I can’t do that.” I sigh. I take a deep breath. For now I assume there must be some cafeteria regulation that forbids the mixing of sauces. Perhaps it’s simple sauce discrimination. I’m tempted to leave the counter and then come back and ask for the second sauce on the side. But

If you haven’t met her before, this is Exene. I found out yesterday that she’s going to die. Of course, time is slowly killing all of us, but Squamous Cell Carcinoma is killing my cat. Facial cancer. Why does it have to be her face, her loveliest feature? She has such beautiful, high cheekbones and a petite black nose; very feminine. Why does it have to be her face, making it painful to eat, and denying her the only pleasure we allow her to enjoy? Why couldn’t the cancer invade her leg? Then we could cut it off and at least she could keep eating. My beautiful fat cat. My Big Girl. Why her face, making it too painful even to enjoy her favorites like Costco rotisserie chicken or tuna straight from the can? We’ve denied her everything else she ever wanted or craved. We listened to vets and other pet-owners who convinced us that prison was better than death. We were told about the numerous pet diseases she could catch “out there”. Not to mention coyotes and cars and other cats. We loved he

It was a crazy impulse. As soon as I slid my credit card across the front desk, I thought, I’ve made a mistake. It’s just too soon to register my 3 (almost 4) year-old daughter into a gymnastics meet. But it wasn’t crazy for the reasons you might think. I wasn’t worried about putting her under too much stress or whether or not she could remember a routine. I worried that she just wouldn’t care and that it would be a waste of an evening and $25. I’m just too busy and have too many financial obligations to squander either. The night before the event I was tired and over-extended. Nevertheless, Mom and I couldn’t resist reviewing forward rolls, backbends and the all-important “ta-da” with Elizabeth. “Put your arms up, put your legs together, and say ‘ta-da’. That’s it!” I had to admit -- she was pretty damned cute. At 3:30 am that morning, I finally remembered that it was my responsibility to pack her gym suit, hair bands, brushes, spare clothes, still camera and video camera. As I lumber

Neighbor: “You have two cute little girls there!” Me: “Thanks! But it sure is hard getting them up in the morning!” Neighbor: “Well, I said they were cute -- not good !” “Don’t start talking to me while I’m sleeping...it scares me.” Me, breathless and startled after a nap. “Samantha, what CD do you want to hear?” “The pink one.” “No, not that one! It doesn’t have a head!” Elizabeth rejecting a Goofy cartoon because he dances with a headless mannequin. 

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So we’re at the Jamba Juice after gymnastics class, about to enjoy a Banana Berry Smoothie, when Elizabeth and I notice a girl about 14-years old with a deformed face. For a moment I thought it was a mask and that she and her friend were having a joke. Her head was bald on one side and the face was quite deformed and enlarged. In a startling moment of realization I recognized that she was a real person -- she wasn’t wearing a mask -- and stopped staring. As we walked by, Elizabeth paused and said very naturally, “That girl has a silly face.” Suddenly I come face to face with my instincts and a lifetime of social training -- which were at severe odds. In my conflicted state, I simply smiled politely and ushered Elizabeth quickly through the door. Here’s what society has taught me: When your child says something about a person’s appearance that is too frank, scold the child harshly. Tell them it’s not nice to stare. Ask them, “How would you like if someone said you had a silly face?” S

Do I really hate party bags? Not really. It would be insane to hate a ‘bag’. Besides, how could I hate the intention of a party bag which is to make a child happy? Tonight I’m thinking about the Blue Pill Parents. My heart is breaking. No parent has ever been perfect or was ever 100% right. Putting a pill-shaped toy in a goody bag was not a smart move. But I’m sure it wasn’t their intention to harm anyone. Oftentimes, pure luck is all that saves parents from disaster. I don’t know much about Catholicism, but there must be a Patron Saint of Parents, some saint who watches over us and saves the little ones from our endless mistakes. There are a million accidental ways to kill our children everyday. It’s a miracle we don’t lose more of them. I think of the Blue Pill Parents finding out how many children are in the class and calculating how much they can spend on gadgets for the class party. I see them going to the supply store and walking down the aisles, looking for small presents; try

I wasn’t sure what to title this entry. I had a few ideas: Party Bags: A Lot of Cheap Crap Little Bags O’ Death Party Bags... Why? Ultimately, I’m happy with what I chose because it’s true and gets right to the point. I hate party bags. This (upper right) is what my 3 (almost 4) year-old received in a party bag today from a kid in her class. What is it? A little capsule of yummy blue sprinkles? Some random tube-thing? A horse pill? What? In its compressed state, it’s about the size of a large Motrin. It’s pleasantly-colored and easy to swallow. Mmmm. Turns out it’s this: Yikes! Like I don’t have ENOUGH to worry about each day! I asked three parents what they thought it was and each of them thought it was candy -- as if medicinal-shaped candies aren’t disturbing enough. But it wasn’t candy. It was an expandable sponge toy. You’re supposed to put them in water -- not your kid’s mouth. Which begs the question: What would a parent be thinking to put this, without explanation, into a toddl

I have a confession to make. I don’t like to read to my girls. I know, I know! I’ve seen the ads on TV. I know how important it is for their development and that it’s a wonderful opportunity to spend quiet, quality time with them. I’m sure that without reading to them they’ll be borderline retarded and teenage runaways. So I do read to them -- because I have to. I find most children’s books to be excruciating. I have a difficult time feigning interest in a story about a pesky little ape who causes a lot of trouble. I find his “curious” antics disturbing and think he should be sent back to Africa. All right, I’m being too harsh. Curious George is OK. The girls like him, so for that reason alone the little monkey is welcome in our house. But he tends to get into trouble that could easily be avoided, which makes me a little nervous. This is Melissa. She lives with her friend, the man with the record collection. She is a good little mommy, and always very nervous. Thank God for my husban

I drove to work today all by myself -- like a big girl! My husband took the girls to daycare so I could take a class tonight. (Did I mention he's wonderful?) I didn’t even care that I had to drive the “Granny Car” (our ‘97 Civic), or listen to music on our broken-down radio that suddenly drops to nothing and then bursts to ear-crushing volumes. I listened to music. Sweet, uninterrupted (sometimes soft... sometimes LOUD) music. Ten minutes into the drive (with the heat warming my toes, a bagel sitting next to me, and a plastic Dora cup of Pepsi), Punkrocker came on the radio. It’s a new song by the Teddybears featuring Iggy Pop. Yes! So, not only do I get to drive alone and listen to music, I get to indulge in one of my domestic survival fantasies. A DSF, for those of you who don’t know, is something domestics do to survive domesticity. I fantasize about “whatever blows my skirt up” (as my neighbor Ida May used to say.) It’s like taking a long drag on a smooth cigarette. Or taking

I don’t want to know if my cat has cancer. Does this mean I’m a bad person? Last Saturday we took our 14 year-old cat Exene to the vet. Her left cheek looked like she had a giant gum ball stuck under her fur. For a week prior, her eye had been watering. Fortunately, when I noticed, a fellow friend and mother was visiting. She suggested I take Exene to the vet that very moment. (See, this is why mothers are super heroes. She had no qualms about staying at my house unexpectedly with four children under the age of four. She played with them, changed them, fed them, and kept them from swallowing small marbles. She rocks. But I digress...) It turns out my cat had a tumor in her cheek that they excised this afternoon. She looks like Franken Kitty. A tube runs out of her cheek then around and into her mouth. Poor sweety. Total cost: $693. Now they want to know if we want the tumor biopsied to determine whether it is malignant or benign. My instant and truthful reaction is “no”. Except for her

“She just licked your head. Is it really that big of a deal?” My response after Elizabeth became upset when Samantha licked her on the back of the head. “Do you want all that stuff, Mommy?” Elizabeth heard an ad for Mother’s Day gift ideas. “I’m not tired. I don’t want to read. I’m not hungry. What can I do?” Elizabeth, 45 minutes after her bedtime. “More meat, please!” Shouts from my good, midwestern girls during dinner.

One morning, I was seething as I walked into work. Sensing my frustration, a friend and coworker asked me what was wrong. I didn’t know what to say or where to start. My girls refused to get dressed that morning, I hated my new haircut, we hadn’t packed the car the night before so we had to rush around collecting sippy cups, blankets, books, snacks, baby dolls, Elizabeth’s “sharing day” item, spare diapers for school, and spare clothes for the car. Elizabeth didn’t like my outfit (which matters to me for some bizarre reason), and Samantha threw up on the way to daycare. I was completely flustered and couldn’t say all of this at once, so I blurted out, “My domestic irritation level is WAY high today!” I have no idea where it came from. I suppose that was my way of explaining how I felt, but sparing her the gory details. This blog is about those gory details. Now, when my friend senses frustration, she just asks me, “How’s your D.I. level today?” and I know what she means. Most mornings

I hate to brag, but today Elizabeth told me I was beautiful. Which was really good to hear, since I hate this fucking hair cut and I felt like a bitch for most of the day. It was such a sweet thing to say. She often compliments me in this way. She tells me she loves me. She lavishes me with kisses and attention. She is a wonderful person, and I’m incredibly lucky to have her in my life. But, sadly, it’s not always enough. There are times (most days, really) when my insecurities are stronger than her devotion. I still look in the mirror and want more from what I see. I listen to my thoughts and I want them to change. Her sweet words don’t comfort me. And that pisses me off. Because I really like and admire Elizabeth. She’s a smart girl, fun to be with, and she likes me . Wow! I should be on cloud nine. Often I am on cloud nine. With Elizabeth and Samantha in my life, I laugh more. I sing more. I fart out loud. I dance more. Life is a joy. Their conversation cheers me. Their arguments ma

I want to be the first one to drive the bubble-dome car. Remember the bubble-dome car? It’s the car Homer Simpson invented when his half-brother owned the auto-manufacturing plant. For some strange reason, it popped into my brain the other day while driving home after work with the kids. Dubbed “The Homer”, it had lots of crazy features, but my favorite has to be the “bubble dome”. It may seem a bit extreme, but hear me out. While the dome may separate parents from kids, it brings parents closer to sanity. It also reduces the number of times a child has to hear “No!” or “Stop That!” or “Don’t ever make that noise again!” In short, it restores peace where chaos and stress normally reigns. We commute with our girls between one hour to 90 minutes each day. That’s a lot of family time, and it’s not always pleasant. In the “olden days” when Daddy went to work, he could take his time and drive home alone, shaking off the work day, listening to his own music and “bucking up” for the family. M

What could possibly make Disneyland any better? Well, let me tell you. Here’s my Top Ten List of Disneyland Suggested Improvements. 1. Knock $5 off of... well, everything. We all know Disneyland is expensive, but does a cheap Mexican dinner for two adults and two children have to cost $42? On second thought, knock $10 off. 2. Moving sidewalks with chairs. 3. Free strollers. Disneyland rents very nice jogging-style strollers. But the key word is “rent”. While they look nice, I’m not about to fork over $10 for one. 4. Fast-pass options for restaurants and cafeterias. 5. All-you-can-drink caffeinated beverages. 6. QUIET FLUSH TOILETS! My daughter was traumatized by the loud, automatic toilets. Not only did she shield her ears from the noise, but while sitting on one, she was in constant fear that it would flush. It's a miracle I got her to use the toilets at all. She’s been potty-trained for less than a year. Give her a break, please! 7. Napping “capsules” like they have in Japan.

Last week we took the family to Disneyland. Here are some quotes from the trip. (I thought it would be more fun if I didn't tell you who said what.) “I wasn’t scared at all. I was just protecting myself.” “Far, far, far, far, far, far, far, far...” This was said in a self-hypnotized state for about 10 miles on the way to Disneyland. “I don’t like the loud toilets.” “Where are my birth control pills?!” “Oh...my. There’s a shrimp in my shoe.” “You forgot to get me some cotton candy.” “I don’t want to go home. I want to stay in the hotel!” “I’m sorry. You cannot order the child’s Ice Cream Sunday.” “Slow down--this car tips over easily!” “Do you need some help?” 

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“Mommy, can I say ‘I’m sorry, poo-poo head?’” - Elizabeth, when asked to apologize to her daddy for pretending the meatloaf was poo-poo. “Do not call your mother ‘poo-poo, pee-pee head’.” - Michael, defending my honor. "If you're happy and you know it, eat your poo-poo." - Samantha "Mommy, she called me 'poo-poo'." - Either of the girls "I'm going to eat all my food and it's going to go into my mouth and down into my tummy and then it's going to come out of my butt in my poo-poo!" - Elizabeth, excited about the digestive process. "Old MacDonald had to...poop! E-I-E-I-O!" - Ok, that was me.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned from the Mafia and the Supernanny, you gotta demand respect. It’s absolutely key to effective parenting. Unfortunately, I’m neither a mobster, nor a supernanny, so acquiring the requisite respect is not always easy for me. My “icy stares” appear goofy, my “severe tone of voice” makes my throat hurt (so I use it sparingly), and my follow-through could use some work. But like I said, respect is key. So when my 3 (nearly 4) year-old spit on me, I had to take action. Here’s how it went down. Elizabeth has a lot of good ideas. Asking me to carry her on my shoulders after a long day of work was not one of them. She doesn’t take “no” very easily, and when I insisted I definitely would not be carrying her on my shoulders, she spit on my shirt. She thought it was cute. I didn’t. No doubt about it. I’d been dissed, and this needed immediate correction. I briskly took her to the car, put her in her car seat, and said in a very calm voice, “I do not like that. Yo

I hate it when I do something mean as a parent. The meanness doesn't have to be grand and horrible and of the "no-more-wire-hangers-ever" variety. It just has to be mean enough to register in my mind that I shouldn't have done it. And the worst part is that karmic relief doesn't exist for parents. Receiving bad karma doesn't eliminate the regret or self-loathing. The other night I put the girls to bed, and my oldest resisted. I told her she couldn’t keep playing this game (this is a nightly ritual) and that she had to stay in bed. Of course she started to follow me out, so I raced to the door. She was right on my heals as I got to the door. My thoughts were focused, you stay...mommy free . I weasled out the door and slammed it behind me. Right in her little face. There was no contact, but the look of pain on her face will be imprinted on my brain forever. It didn't take long for me to feel like shit, and in case I didn't feel like shit, she came out t

“Sometimes you ask ‘why’ when you already know the answer. When you do that, you make us tired.” - Daddy to Elizabeth “Keep it together!” - Me, yelling at a 2 year old. “I wanna go to Graceland, first!” - Samantha after listening to Paul Simon’s “I’m going to Graceland”

Geesh. Tough night. Tough day. I feel on edge and out of sync. Michael and I snapped at the girls for minor reasons, and at times we each thought the other was out-of-line. I snapped at Elizabeth for wanting to help me make dinner (yes, bad). Michael snapped at Elizabeth for not cleaning up when he asked her to (not so bad). Elizabeth received our grumpiness tonight while Samantha got it this morning. Dressing her in the morning is like dressing a wild lion cub. I had to walk away from her a couple of times just to compose myself. This evening it was very stressful at home from the moment I walked in the door. As usual, I walked from the front door and into the kitchen (which was a MESS) without taking off my shoes or going to the bathroom. On Sunday when we went grocery shopping, we thought it would be fun to make shrimp quesadillas. I realized this was a crappy idea when I realized I’d forgotten how to make quesadillas (don’t laugh!). I used queso freso and it liquified while melting

“25 Days Since Last Work Injury!” I was in the checkout line at Costco, keeping one eye on the girls, one eye on Michael’s roaming eyes (he has a not-so-secret crush on a couple of Costco checkers), and one eye on the register when I noticed the sign. (Yes, you must have four eyes, minimum, when you’re a wife and mother.) Two removable numbers on plastic cards preceded the words in big block letters “...Days Since Last Work Injury!” Granted, I have no clue what it takes to run a large consumer warehouse, but it struck me as odd that this motivational device was needed. What kind of injuries do these workers suffer? Do they get crushed by large wooden flats of toilet paper? Perhaps there's an accident with the butcher knife while carving one of the 12 million roast chickens they sell each year. Or maybe one of the cake decorators slips on a rogue dollop of chocolate frosting that falls to the floor. While it seemed odd, I was impressed by Costco’s openness and honesty. They had a go

There we were on the couch like two young newlyweds, fucking. Out in the open. Lights on. Asses in the air. Over, under, and on top. Clothes here and there. Mouths open, and eyes shut. We were having a good time. A really good time. And then, "Daddy? What are you doing to Mommy?" Ya know, the sound a startled man makes is kind of funny. It's even funnier when coupled with the scream of a frightened woman. Kind of like a "startled chorus". That was my husband and I two weekends ago, singing a startled chorus on a Friday night while our 3-year old stood next to us holding her sippy cup. Our minds raced, each of us focused on different tasks. Michael focused on explanations, while I scanned for cover. Shit, there wasn't a garment within 5 feet! (Like I said, we were having a really good time.) Where's a blanket, a blanket...? "Well," he ventured to explain, "It's like a...a big hug." Ah! What?! Next time we want to hug her, she'