The Day of the Dread

Today kicks off a month of back-to-back, alternating travel between The Spouse and myself. Him in New York one week, me in Florida the next, him back in New York, me leaving for a 12 day trip to Asia before his return flight even takes off from JFK.

So basically I will only get to see my family during grainy Skypes and short, jet-lagged bursts until the end of February. Which will probably be worse for me than for them, because The Spawn are used to my traveling, but they absolutely hate it when HE goes anywhere.

Especially The Girl.  If past Spouse trips are indicative of future results, I can look forward to a week filled with intra-Spawn fighting, teary meltdowns, and the piece de resistance, those middle-of-the-night visits where she will wander into my room and loom over my side of the bed staring at me until I wake up in a sudden state of sweat-drenched terror.

She will announce that she can’t sleep and that she misses The Spouse. I will mumble some incoherent words which I hope are soothing, walk her back down the hall, and stagger back to my room. Unable to fall back to sleep right away, I’ll stare at my backlit clock dial for at least an hour until I finally pass out, at which time she will come back in and start the whole process over again.

I haven’t really gotten a good night’s since around 2001 so I can deal with being exhausted, sort of. But aside from the emotional carnage The Girl experiences, I miss The Spouse too.  I am lonely in our rock-hard Tempurpedic mattress (editor’s note: do NOT buy one of these if you live in a cold climate). I miss his calm presence and how he makes me laugh.

I even miss how he keeps a rotating pile of dirty clothes on the floor next to his bed, and how he always leaves the lights on in the upstairs office.

The house gets dark when he’s gone.

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Guinea Pigs And Glocks

The Boy has suddenly become a huge fan of rap music, which presents a whole host of problems, given that he's only 8 and there are precious few contemporary rappers that you can really let an 8 year old listen to, even if you play the "sanitized" radio version.

So luckily my blogger friend Adam turned us on this awesome Christian rapper named Braille who is now The Boy's favorite, but not before I put together a playlist that I didn't quite pre-screen well enough, which prompted some, um, questions, so then we had to have the "rap talk" which is basically a musical version of the sex talk but with more spelled-out swear words, with the three core themes as follows:

1) Women deserve be treated respectfully
2) The "N word" is never OK
3) Policemen really are our friends.

Anyhow, thank goodness for Braille. Three album downloads later The Boy started writing his own bravado-filled rap songs (sample title: "You Stink at Everything") and he wanted to make a rap video to post on YouTube.

As the weekend wore on, we had lessons and sports and playdates and club meetings and we totally forgot. And then this morning I woke up and read in the paper that there was a Rabbit and Guinea Pig show at the local fairgrounds, and it is basically like the Westminster Dog Show of small rodentry, and it was free to attend.

So I thought that would make some cheap & cheerful fun family entertainment.

Unfortunately, I mixed up my dates, and as we arrived at the fairgrounds came to realize that there was no Rabbit Show, but instead the second day of a two day gun show.

The Spawn were mightily disappointed, and I did have one fleeting moment where I thought, well, maybe we should go in and get a Glock as a prop for the rap video, but then I came to my senses and we went to Nana's house instead, which was good because she needed 10-year old The Girl to set up her computer.

And that's one of the things that I like about Rochester - that the same venue can host Rabbits and Guinea Pigs the day after peddling the means for their untimely demise.

From the look of some of the people that were in the parking lot today, the pet owners who are attending the Rabbit Show tomorrow should keep a VERY close eye on their pets, in case anyone from the gun show gets mixed up like I did and returns for a third day.

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Baby Steps

Tap tap tap.. is this thing still on?

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On Sportsmanship

A friend of mine was kind enough to throw some last-minute tickets to the Harlem Globetrotters my way. I'm a big fan of cheap and cheesy entertainment, so The Spouse and The Spawn and I braved the most dangerous stretch of Connecticut highway to get ourselves to graffiti-laden Bridgeport, Connecticut (motto: yes, some people actually LIVE there) to catch the show.

I first saw the Harlem Globetrotters back in the 70s when they were quite simply, THE SHIT. Times, they have a-changed, and with videogames and the NBA and the rise of the Jonas Brothers, they're not quite as much of the excrement nowadays. So the whole event had a rather quaint feel, thanks to the iconic whistle-y theme song and an unexpected smattering of vintage Three's Company-style gay jokes.

But the show was surprisingly entertaining, and I was so transported back to my childhood that when I spilled my Diet Pepsi on my lap I almost expected to see it soaking through a pair of styling kelly green polyester pants (hand-sewn from McCall's #4337 pattern).

Amidst the throwaway homophobia, there was some basketball-playing and also some sort of plot about a bet between the coaches, the outcome of which was that if the Globetrotters lost, the Head Trotter (Special K, a nickname that I hope was derived from his love of the cereal and because of any sort of lingering ketamine habit) was going to have to go and play for the hated Generals.

At one point the coach of the Generals got caught cheating, so everybody in the audience was encouraged to razz the Generals coach. In the midst of all the booing, The Boy turns to me, eyes ablaze with delight, and says, "I know what you're supposed to yell, Mommy," and jumps to his feet and screams, "YOOOUUUU SUUUUUCCCCK!" which had the immediate effect of producing a) a spit take followed by b) uncontrollable laughter, even as I knew that I should be delivering a Teaching Moment about politeness and good language and sportsmanship.

The Spouse and The Girl didn't hear a thing because of the crowd noise; they thought I'd completely lost my mind. And of course my laughter encouraged The Boy to shout it a second, third, and fourth time, with each repitition making me laugh until fat tears were washing away all of my mascara.

It was a proud, proud moment.

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The Conversation

Me: Kids, we need to talk.

The Girl: Yes, I have been meaning to tell you that I want to go to Michaels and get stuff to make foam fairy monsters.

Me: Uh, yeah. That's not exactly what I wanted to talk about. Kids, here's what I need to tell you: my company had to lay some people off, and I lost my job.

The Boy: Does this mean we're going to lose our house? Are we going to live in a tent somewhere?

The Girl: No, dummy. It just means we shouldn't be using our allowances to buy a bunch of junky stuff. We should save it for things we NEED, like food and clothes.

The Boy: I have two five buckses, Mommy. You can borrow those!

The Girl: And I have plenty enough of clothes, Mommy, so you can just worry about buying me food. But [The Boy] doesn't like most food so maybe you should buy him a new shirt instead.

Me: Thanks. Now, don't worry, kids, because things are not going to change THAT much. It means that instead of going to your afterschool program, I'll pick you up from the bus. And that we'll cut out some of the things that we do that we don't love, so that we can try to keep doing the things that are really special.

The Girl: Are you going to start cooking more? I hope that we can still get the two-for Tuesday specials at Dominos's.

(Sudden thought causes her to shout) I DON'T WANT TO EAT TONGUE, MOMMY!

Me: What are you talking about?

The Girl: When Beezus and Ramona's dad lost his job their Mom started making them eat tongue with gravy.

Me: I can promise you that I will never, ever, EVER serve you tongue.

The Boy: (horrorstruck) Does this mean we won't get to go to Disneyworld ever again?

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Come Smell The Magic!

Hey, Manager Mom! The economy’s in the crapper, your 401K is down by 20%, and companies like yours are laying people off left and right! So, what are you gonna do?

I’m going to Disneyworld!

Yep, with my usual impeccable timing, I managed to schedule this trip to happen right when the stock market is dropping faster than virgins on prom night. (Also a great time to ask people to donate to disadvantaged kids' educational projects in this 2008 Donors Choose Bloggers Challenge contest I’m participating in.)

Six months ago, I was trying to figure out kennel coverage for Spawn over the October school closings. There were three days we’d have to cover around the Columbus day holiday. Using my best George Bush math based on the going vacation day program rate of $100/per kid/per day, I somehow convinced myself that it make more financial sense for us to just go to Orlando instead.

We waited to tell Spawn until a week ago because I didn’t want the trip to become one more thing that I threaten for punishment (e.g. “if you don’t start behaving RIGHT NOW we won’t go to Disneyworld after all!”) and then never follow through on, further undermining my limited credibility. Also I didn’t think I could take hearing “WhenarewegoingtoDisneyworld?” twenty times a day for the next six months.

(Not to worry, they found many other subjects to Rain Man about instead).

But when we finally broke the news, their reaction was NOT what I was expecting. In fact, The Boy started crying.

“I don’t want to break my arm!”

Of course, I had forgotten that their friend Caitlin broke her arm on one of the rides when she went last year.

And now that we're here, the excitement level is still on the mild side, somewhere between yellow and orange. I’m slightly annoyed that Spawn has as of yet failed to acknowledge the full extent of my awesomeness for planning this trip.

But we’re heading out to Mickey’s Not So Scary Halloween party tonight. The Boy is dressing as Anakin Skywalker. The Girl is dressing up as an artist. I think once we hit the pearly gates I might finally get some props.

And trying to look on the bright side…maybe the shitty economy means we won’t have to wait in long lines.

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Catch Me If You Can

I just got home from a business trip. Focus groups in Rosemont, Illinois.

My plane was basically a flying Greyhound bus, allowing me to experience the full glory of moderate-to-severe turbulence, with the added bonus of a seatmate that spent the whole flight vigorously rearranging his man bits. To be fair, I ate a bean burrito before I got on the plane, so sitting next to me probably wasn’t any picnic either.

I hadn't traveled in a while, and before I left I was on this kick where I was trying to be a more hands-on mother, although I think I've succeeded mostly in annoying the Spawn, who made it clear that they would MUCH rather be watching the latest rerun of The Suite Life With Zack And Cody than play Chinese Checkers with me for the "twenty hundredth" time.

Because when I left for the trip, they did not appear to be devastated.

The Boy barely looked up from the Wii game he was playing, although Manager Dad said that two hours later, he put down the nunchuck and looked around, eyes glassy and bloodshot, and asked, “Where’s Mommy?”

The Girl walked me out to my car, claiming that she wanted to spend every last second with me before I left. But I’m pretty that she wanted to make sure that I was REALLY leaving, so that she could have Manager Dad all to herself.

As for me, of course, I missed the little buggers...but...

A hotel room.

With a king-sized bed and a high-speed internet connection and The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants Two on demand.

A restaurant where I got served a hunk of tuna so rare, they must have just waved it over the stove before they put it on the plate.

Mints on the pillow and little green leaf-shaped soaps.

*Sigh*

Oh yeah, I had to work and stuff, too. But I don’t really want to talk about that right now.

Not until after October 16th, anyway.

If you're tired of hearing about corporate fat cats that are living off the teat of the shareholders, why not take a moment to donate to Mrs. W's "Excited To Read" classroom project? All donations go directly to buying books for her special ed students.

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Puppies And Rainbows And Soft Billowy Clouds

It's Saturday. OJ Simpson has been convicted. The $700B bailout package has been passed.

The universe is starting to inch towards sanity.

Let's keep making the karmic gods happy. By throwing even a $5 donation to my 2008 Donors Choose giving page, you'll support worthy classroom projects like Mrs. G's effort to help her her high school students learn Spanish.

By doing that you'll help me reach two goals: one, to fully fund all of the school projects on my page, and two, to win in the Mommy Bloggers category for the challenge. Right now, I'm in fourth place, losing to Finslippy, who (deservedly) has a jabillion readers, and a couple of west coast blog consortiums, who have about two hundred contributors each.

Back Manager Mom, the maverick in this competition. Let's give those Silicon Valley and LA Moms an East Coast generosity smackdown.

So please, my friends, on a day where my local newspaper somehow deems a Britney Spears sighting worthy of front page news, help keep the world in balance by supporting something that might actually promote intelligence.

No need to click for more today, all of the begging is front and center.

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Always Blurb Before You Read - A Cautionary Tale

We're in Day 2 of the 2008 Donors Choose Bloggers competition - and one of the projects on my donation page has already been fully funded! Proof positive that the people who read this blog are the smartest and most attractive people on the planet.

And your ass looks GREAT in those pants, by the way.

Since education is the theme of the day, I thought I'd review a book that Spawn and I read together recently. It's called "Tell Me Again About The Night I Was Born."

And despite the fact that it reeks of celebrity vanity (it's written by Jamie Lee Curtis) it's actually a charming and lovely book to read aloud with your kids.

If, that is, said kids are adopted.

If they're not, and you're like me and don't bother to read the blurb to find out what the book is about, trust me, the grilling that ensues will make you long for the relative pleasure of a full body cavity search conducted by your friendly neighborhood TSA screener.

Scene: The three of us in my room at bedtime, snuggled in my bed, The Boy (5) and The Girl (7) on either side of me. I get to Page 3: "Tell me again how the phone rang in the middle of the night and they told you I was born."

Me: (gears slowly starting to grind in my head) That's not where I was expecting this story to go. Hey, Spawn, how about we read Goodnight Moon again?

The Girl: No, I like this book. Let's keep reading.

Page 8-ish. "Tell me again how you got on an airplane with my baby bag and and flew to get me and there was no movie, only peanuts."

The Boy: My friend Andrew says that peanuts could make him and lots of other people die until they're dead. Why does the airplane want to kill those people?

TG: I thought babies lived in their mommy's tummy before they were born. You said WE lived in your tummy. Were you lying?

Me: (sweating slightly) You and your brother DID live in my tummy. But some children go to live with a different family after their mommy has them. It's called "adoption."

TB: Why would anybody would give their kid away? Was she bad?

TG: How much does it cost to buy a real baby? Can I save my allowance and get one of those instead of a guinea pig?

Me: Um. You can't buy babies. But sometimes mommies or daddies aren't able to care of their children, and they want to give them to a nice family who will.

TG: Then why would they make a baby in the first place?

Me:

Me: (second try) Sometimes people make mistakes.

TG: Were WE mistakes? Is that why you told [neighbor] Mrs. X the other night that you were "fishing" because [The Boy] was born only two years after me?

Me: What? No - OF COURSE you weren't mistakes. And I said "efficient," not "fishing." What I meant was, we wanted to have you born three years apart but we were more efficient than I thought, because your brother was conceived right away.

TB: What does CON-SEEVED mean?

TG: You don't want Mommy to tell you about that.

Me: (loudly) Who wants a pony?

The Boy: Are you going to sell me to another family so that you have enough money to buy one?


Please, don't let future generations of mothers grow up to be as stupid as I am. Support public education projects with as little as $5, and help me win the 2008 Donors Choose Bloggers challenge. Click here to visit my Donor Page and fund real projects in real schools.

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Because A Mind Is A Terrible Thing To Waste And All That Stuff

The other day, I got an email from a woman at Donor's Choose about participating in their 2008 blogger's charity event to benefit school programs, which is ironic because as some of you may remember, I've had a major beef with reading lately.

But I've also been on this quest lately to try to be a nicer, better mother, which is not only exhausting, it's making Spawn think that I either have a terminal disease or am getting sent to prison. So I thought that I could channel some good-deed-doing in another area of the universe, and what better time to ask people for money for a good cause than in the middle of the worst financial crisis since the Great Depression?

So I agreed to participate in the 2008 Blogger's Choice Donationpalooza because I think that Donor's Choose is a great organization. All of the donations on my page will go to projects in the Stamford public schools, which are perpetually struggling to find resources, so much so that they almost closed Spawn's school a few months back because they couldn't afford to operate all of the schools in the district.

So if you have time for a few clicks, and maybe an extra $5 to spare, please, click here and support a project that will bring so much into the lives of schoolkids in the area. Or pick another project if you don't like mine. The projects I chose are eligible for matching funds through the Fairfield County Foundation, so right away, your donation will be doubled.

As an added incentive AND a recession insurance policy, I will randomly select twenty people from the list of donors and mail you one (1) virgin, unspoiled scratch-off Connecticut lottery ticket. Just send a email to lambira@gmail.com with your snail mail address after you donate.

Whether you donate through my blog or someone else's, please, consider this: without education, I'd be an even bigger idiot than I am now.

Thank you for your time and generosity.

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