Cords and Fleece

Where’s the hairbrush? We’re in the final stages of leaving for the day, and all I need is a hairbrush. Just a hairbrush. “Honey, where's the hairbrush?” I call from the bedroom. Michael's in the office. “I don’t know, let me look,” he calls back. “Husband, can I play on the computer?” That’s not me -- it’s Elizabeth. She married Michael earlier in the day and is carrying a wedding bouquet of plastic red tulips to prove it. In her world, a wife is always on the heals of her husband. (Note to self: must have a talk with Elizabeth... ) “Not now,” he says. “We’re leaving soon to go to the grocery store.” He shuffles through papers and peaks behind the computer in case the hairbrush is playing hide-and-seek beneath a stack of bills. He nearly trips over Elizabeth. “Elizabeth, can you help me find the brush so we can leave?” he asks. “I’m not Elizabeth -- I’m wife.” “ Wife , can you help me find it?” She agrees, but helping him looks a lot like following him around from room to roo

“That’s the mommy one, and that’s the baby one.” Samantha is two (and a half) and says this often. I suppose this is the age when children take a step back and see themselves and their place in the family. They begin to role play, put their baby dolls in time-out, and sometimes pretend to be a mommy, putting diapers on everything. This reflection of motherhood is heartwarming when I see them lovingly adhere band aids to their stuffed animals; or when they tell me I am beautiful; or when they attempt to read a book to one another. In those moments, I realize I’m doing all right. But it’s also scary. Do I really sound that impatient sometimes? Do I say “actually” and “all right” that often? And I swear, I never put anyone in time-out just for singing, so I don’t know where they got that idea. But if I take the time to look at their interpretations of mommyhood, their reflection helps me tweak my own interpretation a bit... you know, to work on my patience and say “all right” less often.

I am dreaming of a telephone booth; a big, red telephone booth with glass windows like the old fashioned booths in London. I see this big red telephone booth in my living room next to the television cabinet. The booth has excellent cell phone reception. I announce to my family that I am going to make a telephone call in the red phone booth . They gasp. My little one looks worried. My oldest cries nooo . My family knows that for the next 15 minutes, they will have to rely on each other. Mommy will be so close, yet so far away. I tell them I love them, give them a kiss, and enter the booth, closing the folding door behind me. In the booth, I make a telephone call. A friend answers and we talk. We talk . My friend tells me about her life and I listen. “You’re worried about money?” I say. “I'm sorry to hear that. Please, go on...” I listen to her. I listen . I see Elizabeth singing loudly at the kitchen table. I know it’s loud because her face is turning red and Samantha is holding her

I don’t understand. I’m sitting in my car, relaxing and bucking up for the work day ahead. I am surrounded by Eucalyptus trees. It is warm and the sun is shining. A kid parks his car next to mine. His music is so loud that it vibrates my windows. I understand loud music. Love it. Indeed, I was listening to “ Ace of Spades ” (by Motorhead) quite loudly just a few minutes earlier. The music he likes is not my music, though. It is formulaic, soulless, angst-pop which passes for rock n’ roll on safe radio today. But I also understand soulless music. Love it. Indeed, I was listening to “ Let the Music Play ” (by Shannon) just yesterday, and having a great time, too. But why, why does he leave his car, walk all the way across the parking lot (with his windows rolled down) without turning down the radio which remains at full volume? Why? No one is waiting for him in his car. He can’t even hear it. Why?! If I have to listen to loud, soulless pop music, can it please be music I like? Young man

By some crazy turn of events, Michael and I found ourselves on a date... on a Saturday night... without a curfew! The girls spent the night at their grandparents house and Michael and I were turned lose. But as it sometimes happens, we found ourselves going, “OK, now what?” Last year my parents moved to San Diego, so we’re still getting used to the luxury of having alone time. We didn’t get any during the first three years of parenting and it’s a little like we’ve been given a yacht -- it’s a great gift but we’re not sure what to do once we get the boat in the water. The few times this has happened, we salivate like dogs, yip and bark for joy, and chase our tales until, inevitably, we falter under the pressure. That’s because when we get a night out, we are compelled to make it the best night ever . This one night has to make up for years of dating neglect. We can’t just stay in the burbs, we have to go downtown. We can’t make dinner, we have to eat at a nice restaurant. We can’t play

“My goodness, Elizabeth. Where does this come from every morning?” I ask, wiping away the dry, white schmutz that surrounds her lips. “They’re the Crusties. I eat them.” Oh boy, here we go... “They flake off and I put them in my mouth and they taste sooo good,” she says and smiles the sweetest smile. “If I had a bucket of the Crusties, then my whole family could eat them. That would be good.” “Where do you think they come from?” I venture. “They’re tiny turtle eggs. They pop out of my face each night so I can eat them in the morning.” I’m tempted to tell her the truth: that “crusties” are not tiny turtle eggs -- just crusted drool. But I don’t. “Wow,” I say, instead. “Tiny tasty turtle eggs... who knew?” “I knew, Mommy. I knew.” Clearly. ----------------------- “My tummy hurts.” I'm not surprised. Redlights, greenlights, stop and go traffic... Tummy-ache is the no. 1 complaint from the girls on the way to school. But I'm ready to help in any way I can. “I’m sorry, Lizzy,” I sa

You can take the girl out of the trailer park... Or can you? After all these years I’m back in the trailer park again. I lived in one for a while when I was a kid and now, more than twenty-five years later, I’m back again. Only this time I work in one. It’s not too bad, actually. Believe it or not, I don’t mind going outside, across a parking lot, down a small hill, and past neighboring trailers just to go to the bathroom, wash my hands, or do anything involving water. Really, I don’t. This modular park (i.e. trailer park) where I work is for Extension employees at the University. It’s nicely landscaped with tall Eucalyptus trees and rose bushes. Outside our trailer is a nest of wildly-growing trees that house rabbits and hummingbirds. Occasionally our receptionist feeds a black cat who lives beneath our building. Instead of breeding wife beaters and welfare recipients, our trailer park is inhabited by intellectuals and ESL students and resembles a cluster of friendly little cabins in

I don’t watch many movies anymore (too much to do, it’s too expensive, and the kids prevent me from seeing all the satisfying R-rated flicks in the theater...) So, nerds that we are, we occasionally check movies out at the library and watch them after the girls go to bed. It usually takes us about 3 days to get through a full-length feature. Welcome to parenthood. We finally got around to watching Eyes Wide Shut , which I looked forward to seeing because Kubrick directed it and rumor had it there would be sex in the film (titter, titter). However, this movie made me realize, once and for all, just how ridiculous sex is. The main character, Dr. Bill, indulges in sexual infidelity after his wife reveals she had a one night stand with an unknown naval officer some years ago. (Although, I’m still unclear whether she actually had the affair, only wanted to, or perhaps just dreamt the whole thing. Whatever.) I should say he attempts to indulge in infidelity -- the poor guy never actually g

It's unanimous: Yesterday pretty much sucked for me and everyone I know. But today there is light! This morning, a friend of mine awoke to find that his new blog has gone from zero - 60 mph overnight, thanks to the IMDb . His site, Reel Trivia , was featured on the IMDb Hit List. Yesterday he had 100 visitors and some change. Today he has, let me check... over 8,000 ! Great job, Matt, for turning a silly, yet stubbornly addictive, game you dreamt up -- and that we used to play in our family room after eating too much BBQ -- into a fun site that everyone can enjoy! (Matt, do you think I should post my venomous review of Eyes Wide Shut -- you know, just for fun?)  

Ack! Get it off! This mood. This sticky, clammy mood with claws and venom and bad breath. Get this mood off. This mood that feels pressure from all sides and sees no exit. This mood that imprisons my patience and rejects what I love the most. Get it off. This mood that yells at bicyclists, truck drivers, parked cars and door jambs. This mood that mistakes need for entrapment; desire for exploitation. Get it off. What will it take to remove the beast? A joke? A jog? A jag? No. It snarls at love. It claws at lust. It hisses at beauty. It does not retreat. Easily. Except. Where is it going? This beastly mood? This aversion to Life? Come back. So I can see. You. Well. What do you know? I guess it doesn’t like. Attention. ------- Anyone know a good joke? Previous Comments  

Hi. Sorry for the silence in my blog, but yesterday was bend-over and take-it-up-the-ass day. (And I don’t mean in a good way, if you’re into that...) Oh, that Melissa. She exaggerates. OK, sure. But this weekend, someone hacked into one of the web sites that I maintain, overwrote the data, and then redirected all visitors to another site. And, well, that left me feeling a little... dirty. It’s been an interesting learning experience, though. (I’m “Ms. Silver Lining.") Most people’s first reaction was one of gathering the troops, lighting their torches and going after the MF’ers. That’s sweet and all, but when the victim is still bleeding, the first priority is to get her to the hospital, which is what I did yesterday. I tended her wounds and made her safe from other hackers. Of course, like all victims, she will need time to recover. While my site is safe now, it lives inside a virtual fortress and can’t really grow . Therapy will involve reprogramming the web pages to make them

Samantha likes to throw her head backward and look up at the sky (or ceiling). Often, while standing next to me, she throws her head back with such abandon that she loses her balance. She doesn’t worry, though, because she knows I’ll catch her. Most of the time I do. Yesterday, our family climbed on top of each other in our bed after work; wrestling, laughing and playing. During these moments, I’m usually on constant guard for some body part to hurl itself against my head; for a sharp elbow to lean into my ribs; for a finger to make it’s way to my eyeball. But like they say, it came out of nowhere . Samantha threw back her head, confident that someone or something would block her fall. She was right -- the bridge of my nose broke her fall. In the battle between her head and my nose-bone, her head won. There was no blood, which was disappointing. When something hurts that friggin’ much, I expect a little visual evidence in order to extract the appropriate sympathy. But nothing. It didn’

Warning: The following essay contains graphic depiction of boogers. Read at your own risk. “Mommy, I love my boogers!” Elizabeth declares this to me with such sweetness, such enthusiasm, that at first it’s hard for me not to want to love her boogers, too. But then I realize — she’s talking about boogers . “Oh, goodness, Elizabeth," I say with exasperation. "You do?” In retrospect, I realize I say this a lot to Elizabeth. “I do! I love them sooo much! I like eating them, too. They’re my most favorite food!” (deep breath, rub forehead) I didn’t realize her love affair with boogers had gone so far. “What do you like about them?” I’m always curious about motivation. “They taste good (of course), and I like picking them. But I don’t like the flat ones, only the round ones.” “You like the big juicy ones?” A part of me has surrendered. “Yea!” I proceed to tell her all the logical, scientific, and social reasons for her to "break up" with her boogers. I list the facts: • B

Thanks, Marc and Kel, for throwing me a party! No, wait... it wasn’t just a party -- it was a birthday party. And it wasn’t for me, it was for their kids. Crazy! Why did I think it was for me? Oh, yes -- because Marc and Kellie know how to throw a toddler’s birthday party with their parents in mind! And what a difference it makes. Usually I dread these little parties. Mostly, they involve parents watching their kids do stuff -- play with toys, go down mini slides, break things. But I knew this party would be different the moment I opened the cooler for a drink. Inside were cold cans of beer that said, Parents -- this party is for you, too. So said the freshly grilled hot dogs, brats, and pasta salad. Then, when I learned I was allowed inside the bounce house, well... let the good times roll! Brainstorm Alert: Why not invent a gym for grown-ups with bounce-houses, giant slides and jungle gyms? I haven’t exercised so much or so well in a very long time. Bouncing is hard work, but who

What I hoped would happen: Elizabeth: “Mommy, let’s make muffins!” Me: “Sure, that sounds great!” Samantha: “Me, too!” Together, we skip to the kitchen, giggling. The girls gather their step stools and stand next to me while I retrieve mixing bowls, utensils, and the muffin mix box from the cupboard. In an effort to include them in the making of muffins, I ask them to fetch milk and eggs from the refrigerator. I imagine Elizabeth almost drops the eggs on the floor amidst my fearful gasp. We both laugh with relief as she brings the eggs safely to the counter. Gee, that was close! Samantha brags about her big muscles as she carries the milk carton. “Only big girls can carry all this milk!” I agree heartily. We’re all so darned happy. I measure milk and oil and mix the batter in a colorful glass blue bowl. Each of the girls has a turn with the mixing spoon. Then, for a special treat, I let them place pastel-colored muffin cups into the muffin tin. They watch, wide-eyed, as I spoon the mix

It’s funny to watch people try really hard to understand what small children are saying. Their intentions are honorable, but as they listen, they lean closer and closer, their faces contort into a question mark, and they desperately try to interpret the burbles and buzzes and pops: “You want to eat Barbados ?” “No!” shouts the child. (The struggling adult understand this quite clearly.) “Barbados! Barbados!” The small person insists. I mean, Duh! Not until the small person points vigorously at a picture of potatoes she found in some obscure magazine does the adult finally understand what she means. “Yes, of course! Potatoes!” the adult thinks with relief, until... “Uh, I’m sorry, but we don’t have any potatoes.” Crying ensues. However, I’ve learned that nearly half of the verbal misunderstandings between my daughters and I are not due to poor speaking skills on their part, but to poor listening skills on mine. Quite simply, I often can’t believe what I’ve heard... in fact, I refuse to

To all the whores (with high-speed Internet)... I apologize. Here’s how my brain works: I write an essay about nostalgia and garage sales and I make an off-hand reference to feeling “like a dirty, desperate whore...” for selling my personal belongings and my daughter’s clothes so cheaply. Then, for the next two days, I worry about offending said whores (or prostitutes, or anyone who feels like they’re selling themselves cheaply for money). I feel like a dope for comparing my life to theirs -- even if I was just exaggerating. These thoughts occurred to me, probably because I watched Monster a few weeks ago. (Well, only part of it. That movie’s pretty hard core and depressed me greatly.) I imagine this deceased serial-killer and ex-prostitute reading my blog and thinking, What an F-ing lightweight. She has no idea... And, of course, she’d be right. I’m very fortunate to have my life and my experiences. I think about how difficult it must be for women all over the world who struggle s