Mommy meltdown

The Huffington Post's comedy writers just hit one out of Sarcasm Field: "Mommy Meltdowns: Has It Happened To You?"

Gee, not since about 8:45 this morning, around the same time that I last saw my child.

Things we have argued about in the last 48 hours:

• How you spell "pretty" 
• Milk: just white pee or reputedly nutritious fluid coming from quite another body part?
• Whether "LEGO" stands for "Let Everything Get Out"
• Whether it's necessary to make sure your "boy bits" are still hanging there by squeezing them every 25 seconds
• That fart song is hilarious: yes or no?
• Daddy is smarter than Mommy: yes or no?
• Nazi? Nasty? Indiana Jones says "Nasty." So Mommy is probably wrong.
• Whether there are two "r"s in "February"--or Febooary, depending on which side you take

I've been reading books on the adolescent brain as part of the homework for a writing class I'm taking through UCLA Extension, and I'm more frightened now than I've ever been in my whole life. If dealing with a 7yo is this frustrating, what on earth will I do when, 10 years from now when I am approaching 60, I have to cope with a big hairy bad-ass 17yo?

At which point, the Baroness Schraeder appears like a silk-swaddled Great Gazoo and purrs:

"Darling, haven't you ever heard of a delightful little thing called boarding school?"

Indeed I have, Baroness, my pet. Indeed I have. Sometimes, at around 9.45pm, when Kid has finally lost his long and vocal battle with sleep, I lie quietly on the couch and chant: Ashbury, Shawnigan, St Andrews College, over and over again, whilst flipping the pages of the dog-eared brochures. That, and the gin fizz, sustains me.

What colour is your menopause?

Mine? Orange.

Yep, got home from Banff, painted the office orange.

(Note crazed, saggy-eyed expression. If you see any of your friends looking like this, ladies, keep them AWAY from the PAINT STORE.)

(Also don't let them buy a pony. They won't take care of it.)

(OMG: Are those AGE SPOTS on my hand? I have age spots on my hand.)

(What colour helps you cope with age spots? Besides the colour gin?)

Close Encounters of the Parent-Teacher Kind

Off to meet the new teacher in half an hour. Going through my list of reminders to self:

--Don't mention that thing about the badger
--Don't try to make all adjectives five syllables
--Jokes about headlice aren't funny to a Grade 2 teacher
--Don't talk about underpants
--Don't call Kid a "little weirdo" or a "varmint"
--Probably shouldn't refer to him as "Smoochy" either
--Or "stupid pants"
--Avoid referring to you-know-what
--Steer clear of talk about medieval catapults
--Practice these words: normal, calm, well-adjusted, delightful
--Don't eat mints to cover the smell of gin
--Best not to chew gum either
--Not that I've been drinking
--Why am I always talking about gin? I hardly ever drink gin
--Remember: not everyone thinks the word "gin" is as funny as you do
--Best not to talk about drinking at all
--Also medications are out
--Say something nice about her lipstick but in a non-creepy way (like, not "I bet that shade looks great on vinyl")
--Never mention to anyone you know that you keep a blog
--Maybe stop blogging altogether
--Wear shoes this time

Feargal Sharkey

Back in the good old KROQ days, when I woke up in LA to the rude humor of Kevin and Bean, I once heard this:

Don’t pick at it. You’ll get a Feargal Sharkey.

It instantly became one of my favorite things to say, and for such a long time, that I knew—knew—I was developing dementia when I reached for that name in a moment of motherly desperation and could not find it. I needed something to frighten Kid with when he expressed concern about some newly festering part of his anatomy, who knows what, I hardly can bear to look at the bathwater some days. GOD. Anyhow, I finished lamely with “. . . you’ll get a . . . boo boo.”

A boo boo.

I consider this a sad commentary on my ouevre as mother.

Like Kid, I was mothered as a young child by a woman on the verge of many things, including her 50s. In an age where children were still spanked in public, we were all used to such colorful threats as “I’ll skin you alive!” or “I’ll give you to the first gypsy I see” or “I’ll warm your backside with the wooden spoon but good.” It was all in good fun, mostly—none of us imagined for much more than a moment that our mothers would actually trade us for a pack of bubblegum and a stiff drink.

One of the things I was looking forward to when I discovered I was about to become a mom was joining that jovial crew of sarcastic child observers. As a kid, I knew they were having fun, rolling their eyes at one another, taking long drags on the Craven A, wiggling their painted toes as they watched us fall off the fence, parachute from the swings, or chase each other around the yard brandishing sticks. “Honestly, Micky,” I remember my mom saying, “they’re enough to drive a strong man to drink.” The ice in her drink tinkled against the glass as she spoke, the bright green lime a flag that signified her total acceptance of our shenanigans. We drove her to drink, sure (a weak gin and tonic), we were hooligans and vulgarians and there were potatoes growing in our ears but that’s the way kid life was and she was up to it if we were.

Today, it’s a little different, as we all know. We’re encouraged to believe that children don’t “get” sarcasm until they’re 9 or 10 (although Kid wouldn’t have survived 15 minutes in this place if he hadn’t learned to be the world’s most sarcastic 3-day-old). Hooliganism is definitely out—where would it take place? On a playdate in front of educational toys, all watched over by maternal machines of loving grace? Kids don’t run wild anymore and that means that moms don’t get to run wild anymore, either. What is there left to be wry about? “Honestly, Micky, Kid just cannot distinguish between b’s and d’s.” So many of the surprises are gone. I always know where Kid is. I pretty much always know what he’s doing. I know the state of his clothing. I know if there’s dirt on his face and where that dirt came from. I never have to say “what on earth have you gotten into now, you heathen?” The world has become perhaps a little less piratey not just for kids but for the moms who, if they’re like me, long for a little adventure, want to be shocked and “horrified” by what the little buggers have gotten up to this time.

Tomorrow, I do believe I shall spring my nearly 7yo from the backyard and let him go to the park with his friends for a little while. And when he comes home, all covered in gravel and mud, I’ll welcome him back with some colorful sayings that he’ll be able to tell his kids all about, things his mom would say when he showed up at him with the unmistakable sings of adventure on him. The word “boo boo” won’t be among them.

Jellylegs

We feed the Kid. He gets a multi-vitamin just in case, but he doesn't really need it. He gets lots of milk, lots of protein, lots of fruit and vegetables. He looks like such a big strong healthy boy.

But appearances are deceiving.

Kid cannot walk without falling down. It is not right that such a boy should be unable to walk in the snow without sinking to his knees in worn-out despair after 30 seconds; to be unable to propel his young body from the kitchen table to the bathtub without dropping like a swatted deerfly; to be unable to manage the simple motion that so many of us take for granted.

Please give generously to the Oakridge Foundation for Gin-Based Parental Therapy. It's too late for Kid. Save his mother.

This just makes me tired all over

Look, I KNOW IT'S ART, and frankly, if Chinese people have the time to make art what with all the being oppressed and denied their basic human rights half the time, then that's all great with me. But these images still make me want to lock the bathroom door and hide in the bathtub with a bottle of warm gin and the latest copy of "Psychotic Today":
(via Izismile.com)

You just know that this got started in some poor woman's backyard, where it was sold as "innocent boyish fun."

Embedded

Live, from the battlefield of the work-at-home mommy. THIS IS LIVE.

I'm on a conference call. Direction: Be Enthused. Order came in 10 minutes ago. I have created Eau d'Enthused by eating a chocolate Santa, drinking two cups of coffee, and doing four deep-knee bends. Am now creating Eau d'Enthused with a Chaser of Advil as a result of popping right knee from its flimsy but comfortable point of stasis.

Elvis the flatulent coonhound is taking shelter beneath my desk. He never does this. What will I discover when checking the living room? Please don't lick my feet Elvis. It's gross plus it makes me really worry about what I'll find in the living room.

Must. Close. Office. Door. The sound of not one but two toilets flushing (women cycle sympathetically, boys pee sympathetically) (why not vacuum sympathetically?) must be disguised by sudden fit of coughing.

There is mustard on my pyjamas. How??

Distracted. Come back to conversation to hear "snide, irreverent, provocative" -- is this bad or good? What I'm to do or what I'm to avoid?

The client sounds like Commissioner Gordon. Da na na na na na na na Da na na na na na na na BATMAN, Batman, batman.

Did I just hum that into the receiver?

This all sounds good. This is a fun job. I love this client. I love my friend who is also my client who is also sort of a part-time boss and so is the other friend and they both have the same name. It's a good name. Good friends. Good client. Wait: thought leadership. Write that down.

Directive two: Ask lots of questions. Not about any of the Wiggles or Commissioner Gordon.

OH SHIT IT'S THURSDAY. The cleaners are here. Please Elvis don't howl, don't--oh Elvis. Sssshhhh. Ssshhhh.

Gagging noise from Cleaner 1 tells me that there is something in the living room that is Very Bad Indeed.

IM from neice. Her mother is, like, SO UNFAIR. I know baby, I know, I IM back to someone who works with me in Los Angeles. WTF??? I get back.

I thought you were Abby, I write back. He doesn't know Abby and thinks, not for the first or last time, that I am retarded. A bad word. I remember when it was okay to say that. Perhaps my reluctance to give it up reflects a wish to be 9 again. I don't know what his excuse is.

Thank God this call is recorded, I think, not for the first or the last time. Thank God.

I hang up the phone. TWO SECONDS LATER, in comes a very wet Kid, holding two worms. Yes, I can see that it's raining. Yes, I do know that worms come out when it's raining because they'll drown otherwise and then birds will get them. Yes, it's unfair. Yes, I feel terrible for the worms. Yes, they can live in the bathtub. You're welcome.

The doorbell rings. FedEx. A manuscript that I agreed to edit about three years ago has arrived. Dread. Fear. Dread. Do not open. Forget about til next week or possibly longer. Settle down to write thought leadership on subject matter unthought of before this morning. Before 15 minutes ago.

TWO SECONDS LATER, in comes frightened Cleaner 2. Do I know there are worms in the bathtub? WORMS? I shriek. Oh, worms. Yes. Would you mind throwing them outside, please? MOMMY! Shrieks Kid I assumed was in the basement. MOMMY, IF YOU THROW THEM OUTSIDE THEY WILL DIE.

Horns of a dilemma. This is where I am. On the horns of a dilemma. Do the worms live or die?

Note to self: Potential magazine article on whether worms live or die. Somehow work in "bathtub gin."

It all comes back to gin.