Example 1) This morning’s alternating AOL headlines went something like this: Car Dealers are desperate, month’s best deals. ‘Dancing’ reveals star replacement, see who it is. Part-time job market picking up, there may be hope. Obama to reverse stem cell policy. Are you kidding me? There is a replacement on dancing with the stars? All of these crazy things are going on in politics the economy and world events and I’m pissed cause I have to wait for them to rotate around so I can find out who it is.
Example 2) Last week I got in a blow out fight with Mark. The kind that is so frustrating you want to throw a remote at your husbands head. I was holding a bag of oyster crackers at the time, my favorite salty low blood pressure fix, so I threw those instead. The bag whacked him in the chest and they exploded out like fireworks.
“I have to go get Jake,” I yelled as I turned back to see him angrily picking them up off the floor.
I jumped in my car, having left the conversation unfinished. I was seething. All I could think was, ‘I bet he is mixing the oyster crackers tainted by our overly puppy peed on carpet with the good ones that are still in the bag. He sucks. This is why I can’t stand him, he would never take the extra second to throw the contaminated ones in the trash, with consideration for the joy that those little salty devils give me in my time of sodium deprivation. No, why would he show such thoughtfulness?
When I got back he had picked up my daughter from our neighbors and helped her draw a picture for me. He called me in to see it. I went, but only after checking the pantry to find an almost full bag of ruined oyster crackers. “Fucker.”
Well, you be the judge. Is it just me or all we all pathetic?
My theory on the principal who attempted to “sleep” strangle his wife with her hoodie string, is that he was actually lucid and when she awoke he pretended to be asleep.This is something even a 4yr old can do. I know, my kids and husband are pros at fake sleeping, especially when avoiding a chore or when trying to get away with murder.
I told my theory to my Mother-in-law, who was very offended by my ignorance in sleep strangling. “Don’t you watch Oprah?”
“She has people on that do all kinds of stuff in their sleep. They eat, they clean, they garden, they cook. They are on video doing it.”
I had no idea how productive one could be when sleeping. And here I am wishing for more hours in the day, when they were there all along. I feel so lazy. To think, all these years I ‘ve been using my sleep to explore my unconscious desires and true feelings about people I’ve lost touch with, movie stars I will never meet, and ego shattering incidences that I never address or admit to in my waking world.
“Now, these people on Oprah that you speak of, are they complaining about these afflictions?”
“Well sure, they are in sleep therapy, and studies.They are trying to find cures.”
“Are they nuts? If we have any say in the sleep disorders we are plagued with, I call sleep cooking, then sleep cleaning, sleep aerobics, sleep showering, and sleep sex. Wait, scratch that last one, I’ve already mastered it.”
Can you imagine if sleep accomplishments could be taught?The next Hollywood craze could be Sleep Kabbalah, and Sleep Striptease workouts with Carmen Electra.I am certain a few celebs are onto it already. Ryan Seacrest, Steven Speilberg, and Martha Stewart, who up until now I was sure were androids or at the very least vampires, are clearly doing sleep stuff.
Take Martha, who has enough time to cook a meal in multiple courses, invite friends to eat it on hand written notes, calligraphied on hand dipped paper, make season appropriate place cards that are not only edible, but look like wreaths, and can be reused as lingerie drawer sachets, and still have time to make shady deals and verbally abuse the help? (That’s just breakfast.)
If I were still in college, I’d take slumber learning 101.Then I’d party all night, and sleep through all my classes.Everyone does the latter anyway.It’s a brilliant idea, learning to learn in your sleep. It would be like asking a genie for more wishes.That would be the one class that I could actually apply in real life; certainly more than English Lit.I can’t tell you the last time someone wanted to analyze the symbolic meaning of the labyrinth in “The Name of The Rose,” but I can tell you the last time I slept… last night.
I am going to try giving myself subliminal messages all day.If all goes well I will awake in a bed that is already made, refreshed, clean, with firm thighs, taught buttocks, and the smell of lobster risotto and bananas foster filling my home.If all does not go well, I may strangle my husband in his sleep.I’m gonna do a pro/con chart on this one, but I’m thinking the reward outweighs the risk.
PS- Mark if you’re reading this, don’t sleep in a hoodie.
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Sometimes Jake, my mush, has these sentimental moments that he doesn’t yet know how to process.He will say things like, “this music makes me want to cry, it’s just so beautiful.”Last night he came in as I was putting Ryan to bed.He said, “I can’t help it I just need to hug you one more time.I don’t know why.I just need to hug and kiss you.I love you.”
Ryan:(Who you can’t buy a hug from.)“What about me?Can you help hugging me?”
Jake: “No, you too Ryan,” He said, ‘cause he’s good like that. (He went over and hugged and and kissed her.)
He left and came back two more times because, in his words, “I can’t help it Mommy, my heart is addicted to you.”
“MY heart is addicted to YOU.”I replied in awe of this immensely touching statement.
My heart is addicted to you, can you even handle it?How beautiful, in a why does my 6 year old understand the concept of addiction, kinda way.Is his father’s heart “addicted” to me?I mean my G-d that’s better than “You complete me,” or “You had me at hello.”
For how many more years will his heart be addicted to me?Will he turn in the middle of his wedding vows, walk away and announce to the crowd, “I just can’t, my heart is addicted to my mommy.”Part of me pathetically hopes so.
My daughter began hosting an intervention.“Can you stop Jake?Can you do it?Can you be brave and strong and stop your addiction?”She was saying, in a breathless distressed Scarlet O’Hara kind of voice.She is just 4 and oddly, also seems to understand the word addiction.You’d think we were all in some kinda 12 stepper.
So, Jake bravely found his manliness and retreated to his big boy room.Within seconds Ryan lunged at me “I, can’t help it I must have a hug.I neeeeed a hug” her voice trailing off as she fainted into my arms.Somewhere the sentimentality was lost, but she definitely wins for most dramatic.
It’s official… I’m famous. For the last couple months people have been stopping me at random places to ask if I write the column “Suburban Jungle,” or to tell me they read and love my stuff. The first time was at a local Chinese restaurant where a woman and her friend were pointing. After checking for boogers and toilet paper hanging out of my pants, I heard one said, “that’s the girl with the blog I sent you.” They came over, introduced themselves and kindly let me know I had broccoli in my teeth. Damn, oversight.
My most recent approaching was at the grocery store yesterday when a woman stopped me to ask if I was a writer .
“Yes, I am.”
“Oh, I read your column and your blog, you are hilarious. I love you . Have you ever heard of so and so?”
“No, does she live in Weston?” I asked, as if I were some hick who knows no world outside this microcosm.
“No, she is a very famous writer and your stuff totally reminds me of her. You’re like a celebrity.”
The whole time my daughter was pulling on my pant leg saying, “Come on mommy let’s go.” You know the way the children of famous people do, because let’s face it to them you’re not Angelina Jolie, you’re just mommy. Did I just compare myself to Angie? Well, so be it.
I did need to get back to the deli counter before number 66 was called. But, my inflating ego was doing one of those, “Stop it you embarrass me, but go on if you must,” things. I walked away vowing to never go braless in public again, and arrived at the counter to find them at 68. I thought, “this is what it must be like to be famous.” You can’t just walk away when someone is praising your work. You would seem ungrateful and rude, yet you may have to explain to the guy at the deli counter you were accosted by fans and just couldn’t make 66.
The price we pay. I left the store and realized I must have thrown the paparazzi off my trail, as there were no photographers waiting to see what was in my basket. Though, I’m sure I’ll be in the “Normal or Not Normal” section of Star. “Grocery shopping with daughter, NORMAL.” I shoved my swelled head into my generic SUV and drove back to my humble estate.
Today, the world got wind of my hubris and decided to put me in my place. I got fired from my column for writing something utterly despicable in my new year’s resolutions article. Apparently, humor columns are no joking matter. I also wrote, I would pull my son out of school and send him to work for not being able to spell December, yet child services has not called about infringing on any labor laws.
This reference to crack…
“Resolution 9. Become Addicted To Something:
Smoking, alcoholism and Starbucks are so trite. I’m thinking something unique like nasal spray or hand sanitizer. Or at least something beneficial to my endurance like crack. Look, I already have a shopping addiction maybe I could offset the bills with a robust gambling problem.”
was so offensive that the owner, upon receiving his advance copy, threatened to fire the editors for not noticing the seriousness of my new year’s lampoon. Having not caught it before it went to print, they halted the distribution in order to rip the piece out of 30,000 copies on Dec 31. It not only held up the delivery date, it cost them over $10,000 in ad revenue from the flip side of the page, and hours of man power.
I was worth losing 10 grand over? I think that makes me infamous. Truth be told, I would have taken 8,000 not to write the piece in the first place. Then they could have pocketed 2g’s and saved themselves the New Year’s Eve headache. Or at least gotten their New Year’s headaches the old fashioned way: drinking to excess, doing embarrassing things that won’t be remembered at a party of your peers, and accidentally letting the wrong person tongue you when the ball drops.
So, no more play dates with Apple, or Kingston, or Shiloh, or Hazel and Finn. It’s back to the normal folk with their normal kid names. No more late nights swapping with the Pitt’s. It’ll be okay. I might just start doing crack, to take the edge off.
This time of year I amuse myself by looking back at last year’s resolutions. Ones I made with the best intentions, like learning an instrument or a foreign language. Last Chanukah I had my husband buy me a guitar. I had all the confidence in the world that by this new year, I would balk at a request to play Stairway To Heaven, saying something dismissive like… “Please, that’s so cliché, but why not?” or “Por favor, es muy cliché, pero porque no? Unfortunately, my guitar collects dust while my Spanish collects rust.
So for this year, I have made some resolutions that are a bit more achievable:
1. Nag More
For 10 years my husband has not picked up a wet towel, washed ketchup off of a dish, changed a light bulb, or remembered trash day without a friendly, “How many times do I have to tell you?” I vow to be relentless in my nagging. I will lay immediate blame using words like always and never. As in, “I always, and you never.” I will play the martyr by saying, “Forget it. I’ll do it myself.” I will amp up the guilt with, “I do everything around here.” Or something unarguable like, “It’s obvious by your refusal to change a light bulb that you don’t love me anymore.” If all goes well, I’ll be nagging him to go to couples therapy by 2010.
2. Gain weight
I will add carbs to my diet with reckless abandon. I will start each meal with a generous helping of bread and rolls onto which I will spread an obnoxious amount of butter. I will stuff food into my mouth with such fervor it will make other eaters uncomfortable to watch. I vow to eat everything a la mode including ice cream.
3. Work out less
This will actually take serious effort. The only thing harder would be to shower less. If I need the proverbial cup of sugar, I will drive to my neighbor’s garage and beep until she comes out and hands it to me. I will take elevators in two-story buildings. Lastly, I will drop my membership to the gym and use the money I save to buy more carbs.
4. Forget an old language
This year, not only am I not going to learn a new language, I will let my brain atrophy to forget the one I already know. I will watch endless episodes of Sponge Bob and Chowder. I will stop doing crosswords and speaking in complete sentences. I will break all grammatical rules; I will misplace modifiers, dangle participles, and end sentences in prepositions. I will express my thoughts through that African clicking language, modern dance, and a set of bongos that I will wear around my neck.
5. Stay out of touch
This time of year, I am reminded of the many friends I have let time and space interfere with. I intend to further that distance. I will start by rejecting any new Facebook or social network requests. I will also attach a note that reads “I never liked you in the first place.” I will cuss out and hang up on people who call in hopes of fulfilling their own resolution to rekindle old friendships.
6. Be less patient
I will be aggravated, exasperated, and ready to blow my stack at the slightest misstep. The next time my son wants help with his homework I’ll say, “That’s it! Clearly this whole Elementary Education is not for you. If you don’t know how to spell December by now, you never will…Now go get a job! Oh, and take your sister with you, she sits on the potty way too long.”
7. Hold grudges
This year I will forgive no one. I don’t care if you step on my toe, or pay me the five bucks you owe me, a day after the assigned due date. I vow to hate you forever and never forget how you wronged me.
8. Stress more
I will lose sleep thinking about planning parties, redecorating my house, trying to budget, missing appointments, teacher conferences, and health issues. I will laugh an evil cackle while erasing all the plans from my PDA, and then cry over what I have just done. I will empty our bank account on frivolous investments and watch it dwindle away. Oh, wait…that already happened. Well good, more for me to worry about.
9. Become addicted to something
Smoking, alcoholism and Starbucks are so trite. I’m thinking something unique like nasal spray or hand sanitizer. Or at least something beneficial to my endurance like crack. Look, I already have a shopping addiction, maybe I could offset the bills with a robust gambling problem.
10. Gossip More
I vow to talk about everything you do in the new year. If I see you at the pediatrician for so much as a flu shot, I will tell everyone your child has hand foot mouth, so you can be verbally assaulted when you show up at a birthday party the next day. If you look too skinny, I will assume it’s a divorce or an addiction. If you look too hot, I’ll call it a torrid affair. If you look too young, it’s an addiction to surgical procedures because you’re getting divorced due to a torrid affair. I will start a rumor phone tree and a blog called “WhatYourNeighborsAreReallyUpTo.com.” I may even have a megaphone installed on my “Gossip Mobile,” so I can drive through local parking lots amplifying the skeletons in your closet to all within earshot. Oh, wait… I’ll just write about it in my next column.
For 4 days I have been sick. Nothing crazy, just the usual sore throat in the morning, coughing, fatigue kind of thing. Yet in those four days, the world miraculously kept spinning, my children’s schedules did not disappear, nor did mine. They made it to school, and to baseball, and the Doctor. They did not suffer from starvation because I decided to forgo grocery shopping, making them breakfast, or packing their lunches, so that I could lie around and do something trivial, like recuperate.
Last night I happily turned out the lights at 11PM, hoping to make up for that 4hour “nap” I had the night before. At midnight my dog Buddy, pacing and panting like a sex caller, sent me out like a shot for his first pee break of the evening. At 1AM my son ran in soaking wet, exclaiming, “I think I sweated too much.” Unable to peel myself up, I let his little naked tush into my bed where he continued to whine for about an hour straight. “Mommy, I neeeeeeeeeed pants.” “I’ll get you pants,” and let our heavy breather out for the 2nd time. “Mommy, I neeeed my favorite pillow.” “I’ll get your favorite pillow” and give our letchy dog a bowl of water. By 3AM Jake had tried 12 different positions. Including the one where you go all the way under the covers to the end of the bed and push until you fall to the floor taking the comforter with you. He complained about 20 different things, from being upset that I had to remake the bed after he fell out of it, to having an actual dislike for color of my sheets. “They’re white.”
In the midst of this chaos, my husband was completely oblivious during those last few hours. Some could argue that this has been the case for the last 9 years.
He was sleeping with his body pillow, the one he stole from me in the 3rd trimester of my 1st pregnancy. It has been our small person sized bedmate ever since. A bedmate that he shoves in his crotch and smothers between his knees. Well, better the pillow than me. He had 2 more pillows over his head and was taking up 73% of the bed. He had built and Iron clad barricade which my son could not penetrate or budge. Jake and I were so snug I’d have to rebirth him to get him to school. Finally , I gave up and wooed him back into his room by promising to make him a fort, “just like Daddy’s.” Of course I had to remake his bed first, as the sweat had an uncanny resemblance to pee. I got back into bed around 4 AM, after reading my dog a story and letting my son out. Wait, scratch that and reverse it.
By 4:45 my son was back in the womb. “Mom, can I be your snuggle bunny?” For how many years will I get to hear that? At 5AM my daughter was squeezing in on the other side of me. We laid there like a hermetically sealed package of sausages, my arm coyoteed under Ryan’s head. Then she started complaining. “Its too hot with this blanket. Mom my PJ’s hurt. Mom I hate the color of your sheets.” Somehow, 6:30 managed to roll around.
I banged on my husbands fort with the door knocker he installed. Bang…Bang…Bang. “Please get the kids ready for school. I was up all night.” Mark is a morning person so I imagined it would be no big deal. “Grumble grumble… no.” “What do you mean you won’t help me?” “Grunt, I’m sick, my throat is killing me. Besides, I was up too.” “What kept you up? Was it the sound of your snoring? Or maybe the pillow over your head wasn’t soft enough.” “I just can’t I’m too sick.” My husband’s cold might as well be the plague, as the Earth has halted on it’s axis.
It would take a hemorrhaging artery to get him to the Doctor, excuse me the clinic, as he has never officially acquired a Doctor. But, why go? It’s easier to lay around and tease my children with his untouchable presence. He’ll spend his day creating an impressive mound of snotty tissues, large enough to pitch off of. Tissues which he is too sick to bend down and pick up, however he is not too sick to work, or to make sure to keep up with his fantasy football team.
He’ll refuse to use sanitizer, and sluggishly mosey around the house, putting his grubby, germy hands in every bag of chips, touching every door knob and remote, and talking on every phone. He may even lick the straws on the juice boxes for good measure. All in a effort to ensure that as soon as he gets better, both my children will surely contract his illness and I will have no shot at personal recovery.
Now I should Mommy him, which in my bitter and sick state, I cannot even feign an attempt. Listen, if I wanted another child I would adopt one from Indonesia. If you need to be babied, call your Mom. Better yet, go stay with her. I don’t ask that my sickness or lack of sleep take precedence over yours. I just ask that you go to a hotel until your’s passes.”
This morning while my friend Susan was driving back from carpool she decided to complain about the sun.The conversation went something like this:
Susan:The sun this morning is relentless.I can barely see. I think it’s because I have such blue eyes that I’m so sensitive to the light.
Me:(mocking in a overly dramatic proper accent, ala Stewie from Family Guy) Ohhh, the curse.Oh, me with my blue eyes and the blond hair. How do I get through the day?You may think you know the intensity of the light Jenny, but you have no idea you with your doody brown eyes.You don’t even know the true beauty that is all around us.
Susan:Seriously, I almost had to pull over last week.Light eyes are really sensitive.
Me:Really, you are going to continue?Tell this to one of your Arian friends in the club you can start on facebook.You need people to commiserate with.
Susan:Oh shit I just almost hit a car.
Me:Well, it must be the boobs. Ohhh, damn these perky boobs!Jenny, you have no idea what it’s like to be so buxom.They get in the way of everything.A three-point turn is like solving a Rubics cube.Oh, and the skinniness. I can barely turn the wheel I am so frail, with my skin and bones. It is so hard to be blond, blue-eyed, big bosomed, and skinny.Those flat-chested brown-eyed girls like you really have it made.They have no idea the obstacles I must overcome.
They say 40 is the new 30, and 30 is the new 20. The problem with everything being the new something else, is that it gives me less of a shot at looking young for my age.Most of the time I feel about 20, which I guess is the new 10.When I try to run up a flight of stairs or decode the spider vein message on my legs, however, I realize I’m not.
Remember that “hot you” that made heads turn?You know, before they were too busy sneering at one of your children flailing and screaming on the floor of Publix, Target, the movies… insert crowded public place here?That’s the you I want to be.Well, the me I want you to be.You get the picture.
It all starts with heavy drinking.I’m told I need 32 oz’s of water, a cup of pomegranate juice, a shot of Mona Vie, some cayenne pepper lemonade, and 27 glasses of green tea, all before noon.After five small meals and a sensible dinner, I must row myself into the bathroom and pee for 18 minutes, straight.Then I am required to slap on anti-aging creams with neo-mono-peptides, glycolic-amino-acids, Agent Orange, and Soylent Green.Each product is guaranteed to include the strongest ingredients known to man, and assures me that I will look 25 years younger (regardless of my current age.)This will make me look 10…so I’m right on track.
When we used to say, “We’d rather stick needles in our eyes,” who knew we meant it?I haven’t taken the plunge, but there is a crease in the middle of my brow that makes me appear constantly pensive and worried.Oh yeah, and also… old.
I have a friend who, after getting Botox on that very spot, encountered the phenomenon I call the “Evil Eyebrow.” This occurred when the crease was frozen, and whenever she tried to squint, worry, or ask a question her eyebrows arched as if she was plotting some diabolical plan.Being the good friend that I am, every time I saw her “Evil Eyebrow,” I would say “Mwaaaaa” and curl the edge of my imaginary handlebar moustache.
The fix is for her to get more Botox above her eyebrows.However, she’d then risk acquiring what I call “Frozen Forehead.” I recently had a conversation with a “Frozen Forehead.”It’s owner was telling me she was worried about her son going to a new school.However, her forehead was telling me that she was totally relaxed about it, and maybe even mildly comatose. Liar, you don’t even care about your kid, I thought.Then I kicked her in the shin and ran away.I turned back in regret, but she was expressionless.“Phew,” awkward moment avoided.
The truth is, it would be better if everything was still the old “whatever it was.” I wouldn’t have to buy purple to be wearing black this fall. My semi-youthful glow would seem rare and enviable, and teenagers would ask my major, rather than call me Ma’am.I could go on for hours, but my hands are starting to cramp and I’m running late for a Bunko game. See you in the waiting room.
I realize that 13-14 year olds, Crackheads, homeless people, cheap hookers, and teenage pop stars should not be having children.I am not, however, taking a stance on moral or political issues; I’ll leave that to Paris Hilton.As a pretty normal adult, with the means to raise a child, I admittedly had no clue what I was doing with my first.I remember leaving the hospital thinking, “He’s mine? I own him? You guys trust me to walk out that door and raise a child because I made the obligatory bowel movement, and I demonstrated my ability to put him in a car seat?”
Isn’t it baffling that everyday people like us are allowed to procreate without first passing a test or getting some kind of license?Think about it, you need a library card to take out a five dollar novel, because you can’t be trusted to return it in a period long enough to read it four times over.You’re also required to pass a test to drive a car, sell a house, or be a lifeguard.You can take a class to learn how to give birth, but once that baby’s out, you’re on your own.
There was no test at my OB’s pre-pregnancy interview.All he asked was, “Do you have insurance and are you getting folic acid?”
“Of course I’d never think about bringing life to this Earth without the recommended 30,000mgs of folic acid per day… I’m also taking heroin, but you didn’t ask me that.”
What if I don’t feed him, bathe him, or water him?I could let him swim after lunch without waiting the mandatory 30 minutes, or dress him in clothes that don’t match.I could drop him off on the first day of middle school, roll down the window and scream, “Mama loves her Snuggle Buggle!”
At the very least, there should be some kind of “Mommy Aptitude” screening.During your interview, they could call your mom.Mine would say, “Jenny always dreamed of being a mother and loved playing house.Her dolls were mostly naked, and she liked to cut their hair down to the hair transplant plug scalps.Sometimes she would detach their limbs and try to put them back in the wrong sockets, possibly to amuse herself, though I found it rather disturbing.Have I said too much?No, really, she would be wonderful.They would be so clean; I recall how much she liked bathing with them.”
Doctor’s response: “Put in a 10 year IUD, give her supervised visitation with a hermit crab, and make sure someone counts the legs.”
Not only do doctors promote the concept of “Motherhood” to anyone donning a wedding ring, with reckless abandon, they encourage us to have more.This is also known as repeat business.The second my daughter arrived my OB said, “So, when am I gonna see you back in the saddle?”
Great a stirrup joke. “Take it easy Doc, the placenta’s not even cold yet.”
Well, a month and a half later I ran into him again.Actually, I had an appointment so it wasn’t as random as I’m making it sound.He said, “At 6 weeks you are extremely fertile, so now is the time for another romp in the stable.”I immediately went home to tell my husband the doctor said, “Now is the time I am extremely unstable, so no romps for at least 6 more weeks.”
How about a probationary period to see if you’re any good at this parenting thing? When you get a new job, they evaluate you every 6 months.They certainly don’t give you more responsibility until you’ve proven you can handle your current load, unless you work at MacDonald’s.
How does my OB know how I’m gonna solve disputes?When my children are fighting over the last lollipop, who says I won’t shove them all in the playroom, lock the door, and say, “last one standing gets it?”
Well, lucky for me I am an excellent mother regardless of not being licensed and accredited. This is a concept I could contemplate for hours, but my naked daughter just walked by with a lollipop matted in her crew cut, so I’ve gotta give her a bath.
While on a play date yesterday, my three year old daughter asked me for some apple juice.“One sec, I’m making it,” I called from the kitchen. My friend looked at me oddly and asked how one “make” apple juice? No, I wasn’t using a trendy juicer, I was filling half the cup with water. Yes, it’s true, I still dilute my daughter’s drinks, and I dread the day she gets a taste of the real thing.
Tasting straight apple juice for the first time is like discovering Us Weekly, instant addiction! I imagine just one drop of the undiluted appley goodness and she’ll no doubt, stop in her tracks, while listening to angels sing “Hallelujah.” Then she’ll have a grand epiphany and say, “Mother, I feel somehow different, it is as if my taste buds have awoken from a deep slumber and shall never sleep again!”
Before long, she’ll realize it was I, who prohibited this feeling for so long. It was I, who robbed her of such delicious joy. What else have I robbed her of? Is there better gum than the sugar free crap she’s tasted? Is her powdered Mac N’ Cheese not real cheese?
Before we know it, she’ll be hanging out in cider bars drinking straight from the tap. We’ll look for her to hold an intervention, only to find that she’s take up with a big rig driver who works for Motts and we won’t see her again until HE can no longer afford to fund her drinking problem. He’ll then drop her at our doorstep, juiced-up and maybe even on the sauce (the applesauce).
So do me a favor, if you see my daughter at a party or a school function, and you’re tempted to give her just a taste of that sweet nectar, take a step back and contemplate how you will be ruining our lives, and then give it to your own kid.
I can still hear the faint murmurs of my son’s 40-minute meltdown when his pet ladybug, “Lady,” flew away. We kidnapped this 4 year old, or 4 day old bug (whatever the spot things mean), at the top of Mount Aspen.Jake loved her, cared for her, nurtured her, taught her to ride a bike, and started a 529 plan in her name.About a quarter of the way down the mountain, Lady flew to the floor and made a mad dash for freedom.
Jake jumped out of his seat and flew towards the door.This caused the gondola to start swinging.According to the warning sign that pictured a man falling backward out of the gondola to his unexpected demise, wild swinging is strictly forbidden.“Jake, you can’t jump around.Do you see what happened to the unfortunate man on the sign?”
Jake continued searching, solely focused on the whereabouts of Lady.“Hey, do you guys hear her?I can hear her.Do you hear her?” he said with desperation, like someone who could put a straight jacket to good use.
Though we tried, we could not decipher the cries of his lost ladybug through the cranking sound of our transport. “There she is!!!”Jake screamed with the delight of a boy finding his long lost puppy (or recently lost ladybug).Regardless, it was with total elation that he offered his stick, which she eagerly climbed onto.A few more minutes of bonding, and she playfully climbed up his shirt. “She’s sooo happy,” Jake cooed.
His joy quickly turned to horror as Lady made yet another stab at freedom.I caught her, only to have my daughter Ryan beg for a turn.I put her on Ryan’s hand as Jake frantically tried to woo her back to his stick.She crawled up Ryan’s arm, pulled out what appeared to be a miniscule pair of binoculars, and scoped out the opening in the window.She looked back at Jake, with a tear in her eye, and with one final heroic effort, vanished into the thin mountain air.
A guttural wail came from Jake’s mouth… “I TOLD YOU NOT TO LET RYAN HOLD HER!!! I TOLD YOU!She loved the stick!She hated that spot on Ryan’s arm, and now look what you did!Sheeeeee’s gooonnne!I want Lady back, I WANT LADY!She loved her stick, and she loved me!She wanted to live with me on her stick!”
Mark and I looked at each other, him losing it, and me wiping away a smile as not to diminish Jake’s loss.Calmly, I looked at Jake.“Honey, she’s a ladybug. I think she wanted to go free.That’s why she found the open window and flew out of it.”
“NOOOOOOO, she loved her stick!”Jake cried, tears uncontrollably streaming down his face.“I want my ladybug, I want my ladybug! I want her!”
Now both Mark and I are openly laughing. Well actually, I am laughing on the inside, which is causing me to cry. “Jake, in the short time I was lucky enough to know Lady, I knew her to be a free spirit.Yes, she liked you, and your stick, but she’s not the type of bug to waste what might be half her life on a single stick.She wanted to explore and see as many sticks as possible.”
“NO, NO!!!She hated Ryan’s arm and it made her leave!I told you not to put her there!” Jake continued, as I officially lost it. While holding up the stick like a lighter, I started singing “Lady.” A song we later recalled was ironically sung by STYX. It went something like this: “Lady, LAY-EE-DAY why’d you have to fly out the wi-i-i-in-dow?”
“Mommy STOP it!It’s not funny! I MISS LADY!” Jake wept, reverting to a grief-stricken state.Mark and I looked at each other in awe of this display of inconsolable, illogical, Oscar worthy, unceasing hysterics. “Jake…honey…baby, she lives on this mountain.She’ll find us at the bottom, I promise.”
“No-She-Won’t!” Jake screamed, stamping his foot on each syllable.“I promise she will,” I said, resolving to find another ladybug, or spend the rest of our trip trying.
He then paused, and answered with the irrefutable rationale of a six year old:“She won’t!She doesn’t even know which hotel we’re staying at!”
Every time I take one of my children to see a specialist I am reminded of my first time going to see one with Jake when he was about 4½ months old. Jake, who was 5 weeks premature, cried for the first 4months 13days 16hrs 32min of his life (straight). He would only sleep in an upright position and we found that his car seat was the best option. We would keep it in the Snap n’ Go and park him into bed every night.
When he finally cut back on the tears, it was like walking off a tarmac and into a library- I could think again. I noticed his head looked a little flat and took him to a pediatric neurologist. Dr. Gore or Dr. Bore as I prefer to call her, examined Jake for plagiocephaly, or “flathead,” to see if he should be fitted for a helmet. Yes…that’s correct, a helmet. Looking back on our visit, it seems all of her comments were excessively vague and rather benign, but somehow she managed to coax me into a state of agitation.
Dr. Bore is one of those people who is impressed with her own brilliance, and likes to speak unexcitedly as she tries to overwhelm you with her superior knowledge. Silently, Dr. Bore waited as I changed and then undressed Jake, never uttering a word until I was safely sitting in my chair. This reminded me of the way my father behaved when he had some horrific news to impart which could be something as tragic as selling the family car. “Jenny, are you sitting down?” As if I might faint upon hearing such horror.
With Dr. Bore, however, I sensed the silence was not some kind of soap-opera-esque melodrama. It was more like: I-do-not-waste-breath-on-distracted-ears kind of silence. I literally sat there with fingers crossed trying to remember the rules governing such situations. Do you cross both hands for extra luck? No, no I think one cancels the other out, right? And does that make it zero luck, or does it skip right to bad luck? Oh man, now what do I do? Of course, my toes! I uncomfortably fidget, contorting my fingers into a series of svengali half-crosses in what seems to be verging on an epileptic seizure to erase the obsessive thoughts echoing throughout my head. Speak lady so I can stop torturing myself!
After a long exaggerated sigh, Dr. Snore begins to expound on the two theories as to why his head is flat. The first being a severe complication in which the skull plates prematurely fuse causing the brain to grow out in any way possible- the side, the top, the nose…which could not only lead to deformity, but brain damage as well.
I am about to cry. Why is she speaking volumes on this subject? Just say, this is not the case with your son. JUST SAY THAT! I get frustrated with my vain attempts at telepathy, and interrupt her.
“Do you have any reason to believe that’s his diagnosis?”
“I’m just going through the possibilities, please allow me to continue.”
Oh, I’m sorry my desire to rule out a gruesome existence for my son has gotten in the way of your neurology-for-dummies lecture. Please don’t let my nervous breakdown shorten your diatribe. The sound of the paper bag I’m breathing into helps to drown out her voice until I hear, “…and the second and most likely possibility is called positional flatness. This is caused by spending too much time sleeping or being on ones back.
Hello? Is anyone home? I told you he spent the last 4 months sleeping in his car seat; doesn’t that ring a bell? Why do specialists always insist on discussing the horrible and unlikely option first? I should probably just go now, but I decide to prolong this torture…
“Well you’ve seen a lot of heads, is his severe?”
“Look his head is flat. I’m not going to tell you that something flat is round. Its flat.”
Gee thanks Magellan. Do you get the impression I have a 5th grade education? What tipped you off the finger crossing fiasco?
She goes on to check his tone and development. All that anguish and I get to stay longer for a freebie, what a perk.
“He has poor muscle tone, he doesn’t roll he doesn’t tilt, he doesn’t grab…what does he do?”
“Raspberries.”
“Hmm…tsk, tsk…just keep an eye on him for the next couple months.”
Really, I should do that? Cause us uneducated folk we like to kick our kids out of the nest at say …I don’t know…5months. “Fly free little birdie, and go earn some money it’s time to pay Momma back.” But if you think we should wait…
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