Tag Archives: issues

Do You Have a Case of Nanny Envy? -article I wrote for iVillage

I am now freelancing for iVillage, which is an amazing site for women.  They cover enough issues to give me work and let me keep the humor in my essays.  Those pieces will not be printed on my site as it is against my contract.  I will give you the links as I get them and I am so happy to share the news with you all.  The first article is

Do You Have a Case of Nanny Envy? I hope you read it, tweet it, FB it, email it, and continue to enjoy me here at Suburban Jungle!

Thanks for your unwavering support!

J from the B

PS- if you haven’t read iCan’t iStand the iApple Store, do so.  It set new records on my site!!!

A League Of My Own

Saturday was Jake’s Little League Kids vs. Dads game. I arrived late, kind of excited to see Mark at bat. There is something sexy about seeing your husband hit a bomb. Of course the other side of the coin is seeing him strike out or bumble some ball on the ground, which would drastically undermine his appeal.

On my way to the game, however, in no way did I think he would end up assessing my appeal. One of the kids was with his mom, and she was reluctantly talked into playing to represent her family. My son was in the middle of striking her out when I thought, that looks fun. Not the striking out part, but to be a kid for a few minutes, to hold a bat, to cross home plate. How often do us moms get that chance?

“I want next up.” Did I say that out loud? I did.

“Come on we need more players,” one of the dads screamed, probably imagining how amusing it would be to watch me try to hit Jake‘s wild pitches.

I rolled up my dark wash, bell-bottom Hudsons, and kicked off my heels. Yes, I wore heels to the field. Strappy thong wedges, considered perfectly acceptable “baseball mom” attire by the Weston Area Little League official handbook.

“In all my years of coaching I’ve never had a player show up in bellbottoms,” the coach said as I approached the plate.

For the dads, this was just a friendly game. The dads are the ones lobbing the ball around at all the practices, hitting to the different positions, throwing pop-ups and grounders, while me and the moms are relegated to the bleachers to tend to our other children, like pioneer wives. No one wants the moms on the field, but G-d do I always want to be out there.

It felt so nostalgic to walk to the plate. I got into my stance, which I remembered without hesitation. No expectations from any of the dads, just how I like it. First my practice swing. Can I still do it?

“Wow, nice swing,” the dad who invited me to play said in shock. “Guys, you better back it up.“

That’s right. My intimidating swing made a bunch of 7 and 8 year olds move back. Yes, I can still swing, but can I hit? I wanted so badly not to make an ass of myself. Not just not to make an ass of myself, but to be impressive. To let my son see that all his athleticism was not genetically encoded directly from his dad’s DNA, and to show a bunch of middle aged dads that the sarcastic girl who comes to the game in heels can get down and dirty.

Ah, thank G-d I made contact. A solid respectable line drive, Wahoo!. It was clearly unexpected. I got claps, and a “Wow” and when I went to back to the stands my father in law added, “I see where Jake gets his swing, but why didn’t you slide into second? Afraid to get your jeans dirty?”

Okay, I should quit now before I become a one hit wonder. But, it’s fun being a dad. I need more of this feeling.

On my second at bat, I was hoping to improve on my first – and I did. I whaled it. My teammates just started to laugh and the coach yelled, “She’s a ringer.” I took my spot next to Jake who was now playing first. I got a little hug, which was huge –he rarely hugs the other runners as they step onto his base, but he was proud. I played it off like “Yeah your mom’s the bomb,” but really I wasn’t so smug.

What happened next is almost too embarrassing to write about, but that’s what I do right? I was playing second, the atmosphere was light, but in my mind I was still auditioning for a walk on position with the Yankees. A hard grounder was about to whiz by. It was clearly out of reach, but maybe, just maybe… The truth is that ball could have been hit 2 bases away and I still would have run for it. Obviously, I have some competitive issues, which I will be sure to revisit in therapy.

As shocked as each Dad was today, they hadn‘t seen anything yet. I have to stop that ball, it’s coming hard, and if I don’t it will fly past me into the outfield and some 8 year old will get on base. I threw myself face first into the dirt, with my arm stretched long. My hip thudded against the hard ground, and there was a second where all eyes were frozen on my display. I stood up slowly, as I had injured my hip, and grabbed the ball out of my glove. Some dirt and pebbles may have trickled out of my mouth and hair, but I had the ball.

The stunned coach on first base let out a “Whoa. I didn‘t see that coming.”
You didn’t see the intense barefoot mom diving to catch a ball in a friendly game against elementary school kids? Well, I am nothing if not highly unpredictable.

I brushed myself off, as I had let my pants get dirty. I thought this would be an amusing time to stop for a lip gloss reapplication.

I looked over at Mark who, though he knows about my unrelenting spirit, was in as much shock as the other guys at my last maneuver.

Jake may be more inherently athletic, but let me tell you something, he could learn a thing or two from his mom’s unrelenting, unyielding determination. He might also take note to of her misplaced intensity and yearning to relive childhood moments. These guys must have thought I was insane, but I took comfort in the knowledge that they would pick me if we ever happened to be in gym class together.

“And the parents win! Game ball has to go Jake’s mom.”

Mark walked over pulled me close and gave me a manly pat on the rear. “Nice job babe. I knew you would hit it, but I had no idea you would start throwing yourself all over the field.”

Thanks guys. I’ll be seein’ ya… from the bleachers.

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My Cardiologist Has No Heart -Day 3

Day 3-  I feel as if I should be writing for a geriatric blog.  I’m like Seinfeld doing a gig at his parents clubhouse in Del Boca Vista , which is fitting since Mark affectionately calls me Jenny Youngman.  Seriously, take my husband… PLEASE.

It could go something like this:  “I mean hey, what’s with those stress tests anyway?  They want you to start out calm, but the first thing they do is scratch you with sand paper and stick stingy electrodes all over you.  What’s with that?  If they want you to start out calm, they should babysit your kids while you get in a shower.”

Jake was home from school, and I had to take him with me for the stress test.  They should just hook me up and let me try getting him dressed and having him eat breakfast on a time limit, that would be test enough.  I wouldn’t even need the treadmill.  We entered out of breath, and again I was the youngest by a mile.  The women who work in the office greeted me affectionately by name, like Norm walking into Cheers.

I was already winded from rushing to get us out the door, and Ryan to school, and through rush hour traffic, to be at a 9AM appointment.  I had barely enough time to stretch my eyelids, let alone my limbs.  The last thing I wanted to do was fail a walk on the treadmill.  I wanted to run circles around Morty, and Stanley, and Rita.  If I had to trip one of them, I would.

So, I found myself in the waiting room stretching.  In my own delusional competitive world. I had my leg straight in the air an inch from my ear.  I looked up out of my dazed state, to see the elderly couple sitting directly across from me.  I met the woman’s gaze.

“Are you getting a stress test?“ she asked sweetly.

“Yeah, and I didn’t have time to stretch.“  I explained, wishing I could catch the words before they hit her hearing aid.

“Oh, Larry‘s getting a stress test too,“  she said, turning to face her husband who was also stretching. He was stretching his socks to his knees, and his shorts to his man boobs.

I let go of my leg feeling ridiculous.  This might as well be a skit on SNL.  The only difference would be that I’d have prop legs that would reach way behind my ears.  Maybe I could twist them around each other and let them unravel with a helicopter effect.

“What time is yours?” she asked, knowing they’d been waiting a lot longer.

“Nine.“

“Oh?  Larry’s is at nine, too,  They must have two machines.“

“Yeah, well if we go head to head, Larry’s toast!“ I said cracking my knuckles.

“What?“

“I said, good luck.“

I remember my first day here.  I wanted to give my appointment to Every Tom, Dick and Larry in the waiting room, but now I’m a pro and I’m hoping to get the call.

Nurse:  “Jenny.”

“See you later, Suckas!”

Nurse:  “Um Jenny, your son can’t come back with you.”  The nurse warned, “Too much radiation in the room.”

The elderly lady, who clearly missed my trash talkin’ to Larry, graciously offered her sitting services.  Even though she probably wouldn’t get far with him, I still don’t leave Jake with strangers.  She could bribe him with stale sucking candies from the bottom of her purse and slowly amble out the door.  Than I would have to rely on one of the other waiting room occupants to throw out a cane to trip her and foil her evil plan.

To avoid such a kidnapping scenario, I brought him back to the nurse’s station.  There, a nurse, not used to seeing anyone under 70, reluctantly allowed my 7 year old and his DS in her seat.  The desks around him were stacked with files. Tons of them.  I put Jake’s water on a desk far away, and went in for the test.

Well, I passed, but I could barely stand by the end.  I held on to the bars heaving, and wondered why I hadn’t walked over some bodies on the way into that room.  The doctor came in to tell me that I seemed winded, but all was good, minus a couple skipped beats.  He informed me that I also passed the heart monitor and never even asked to see my elaborate log.

“But, I’m not sure if I read the echo yet,” he added.  “Wait here a minute, while I check it.”

During that minute someone came into the nurse’s station and knocked Jake’s water into about a thousand files and films.  The office went into complete mayhem.  The nurses rushed in to resuscitate the paperwork (If only they moved so fast on the patients).

“Whose water is this without a cap?” a bitchy nurse yelled.

“Mine, but I didn’t spill it,” I heard Jake sadly confess.

“Well, you have to have a CAP on YOUR WATER,“  she reprimanded, getting obvious joy from making him feel badly.

I turned to my nurse, “Is she serious?  He needs to cap his water?  When?  How regularly do you plan on seeing us?“

“Can he come in with you, NOW?“ the bitchy one asked my nurse.

I turned to Jake and said loudly, “Don’t worry, that mean woman clearly had a bad experience with a cap when she was a child.“  I took him into the checkout area and waited there.

Nurse:  “The Doctor would like to go over your echo.”
He met me in the nurses station and quickly explained that I probably have a congenital thing in my aortic valve.  He then drew me a picture, and told me to refrain from asking questions till he was done.

“No problem, I’ll ask if I’m dying after you finish your diagram.  Hey, don‘t forget to shade.”

He told me that it wasn’t a big deal, and may not be an issue for 20, 30, 40 years.  “20 years?  That only makes me 56,” I whined fearfully.

“So, 50 years then,” he said, like I had talked him into it.

“What then?“ I needed to know.

“Maybe a valve replacement, but we’re getting way ahead of ourselves.  Just don’t run a marathon or lift weights.“

“Um okay,“  I said, thinking, “this is a lot to lay on someone in the nook of the nurses station, where the nurses are still hissing and giving the cross sign.”

“Go home and look it up and then I’m sure you’ll have a bunch of questions for your next visit.”

Note to self, find new cardiologist, one with heart.

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A Trip To The Zoo, Day 2

This was the first round of tests, an echo cardiogram and a heart rate monitor to wear for 24 hrs.  I was supposed to have a stress test but, I had rolled my ankle the day before while tripping over my puppy and trying not to crash into Jake on our afternoon walk/sprint.  Being that I was too frail for the stress test I did the others and rescheduled for Thursday, at this point what’s one more visit?  I am already getting hellos from the staff.

As I left the office in my workout clothes with the wires and electrodes hanging from me, I was keenly aware of the stares.  I know they weren’t thinking this is some girl who runs marathons and needs to be monitored to remain in tip-top shape, no they were thinking, “Oh, so young, so sad.“  I really wanted to announce to the office that I was 97 when I walked in and that they took me back and ’Cocooned’ me.  “Seriously, ask the nurses to peel there faces off.”

Instead, I walked out with my little 24hr card, a log for episodes or stressors. Funnily enough, my father in law called the minute I walked in the door.  He wanted to know if I could pick up and store his bed in our garage storage because my husband told him, “no problem.”  This is the room which is now an office, which had so little space, we had to give away our own extra bed to fit in the desk.  Now, I am set up to be the unwavering, nay saying bad guy.  “Can you excuse me a second, I want to write something down.“

Father in law:  “What”

“I’m wearing this heart monitor and I’m wondering if this phone call is affecting it.“

This went on throughout the day as I kept a mini diary of my moment to moment stuff.

1PM:  Have a great idea for an article.

1:45PM:  First round of carpool, pick up 3 wound-up 1st graders and listen to them argue over which seat they get and who gets to play the Nintendo DS.

2:15PM:  Puppy drags me and Jake around neighborhood despite our best efforts to drag him.

2:45PM:  Second round of carpool to pick up Ryan.

3PM:  Have a playdate for both kids, but realize Jake has a fever, so I had to bring him home.

3:15PM:  Still listening to Jake crying and telling me I’m the…oh, what did he call me?  That’s right, “the worst Mommy ever.”

3:30PM:  Confess to being the ‘worst Mommy ever,’ just to make it stop.  Then I make a list of all the other mommies he could go live with.  This is followed by a quick “You’re not the worst mommy.  You’re the best mommy.”  To which I respond, “and don’t you forget it.”  How quickly the threat of giving him away works.

4PM:  Double shot of espresso.

4:20PM:  Poop.

5PM:  Clean puppy poop and pee out of my new carpet.

5:30PM:  Try to walk dog with Ryan on her bike, crying that her chin strap, which is barely touching her neck, is too tight.  Jake on his Ripstick, a mile ahead where I can’t see him, won’t answer my incessant screaming down the street.

6:15PM:  Ask kids 37 times what they want for dinner, while listing available menu items…  To no response.

6:30PM:  My children are melting down, hitting each other and then taking turns telling on each other in indescribably high pitched whines that are making my ears revolt and my puppy try to hang himself.

7PM:  Call them in to have the turkey and cheese sandwiches I have made for them only to hear,  “Turkey I didn’t ask for Turkey.”  “Yea, we don’t want turkey.  This turkey is yuck!”

7:10PM Mark walks in the door and goes to our room to change.

7:15PM Put out peanut butter and jelly for Jake and a grilled cheese cut in the shape of a heart for Ryan.

7:30PM:  Put out just peanut butter for Jake and a waffle cut in the shape of a heart for Ryan.  “Kitchen’s closed.”

7:31PM:  Check gage to see if I’m having a heart attack.

7:32PM:  Mark reenters and starts bugging me about calling Verizon and about insurance.

7:37PM:  Manage to escape conversation to give Ryan her bath and get Jake in the shower.

7:40-8:10PM:  Play naked Barbie’s with Ryan in the bath.  Ryan is all the pretty girls and I have the choice of being the boy, the homely faux Barbie with cut hair, or the queer fluorescent green sea horse.  Thanks Ryan.

8:11PM:  Beg pruney Ryan to get out of the bath and end up threatening to take a star from her star chart, which I actually only pretend to keep.

8:15PM:  Kids are in pj’s and have managed to sneak into my room for some late night cartoon network.

8:20-8:30PM:  The time it takes to bribe, threaten, yell, and beat them into submission.

8:31PM:  Family race into bedrooms.

8:32PM:  Ryan is crying, because someone did something she either did not like or does not allow, during the family race.

8:33PM:  Do-over of the family race, adhering to Ryan’s strict guidelines and allowing her to win.

8:34PM:  Mark walks back to our room thinking the night is done, and turns on sports.  If there is no new sports he actually rewatches some game on ESPN classic that he already knows the outcome of.  WTF?

8:35PM:  Ryan begs me to read 3 stories which I shrewdly negotiate down to 2.  Once I’m halfway into 1, Jake slinks in trying to be unnoticed and slyly gets in bed with us.

8:40PM:  I finish the first story and then tell Jake to read the next one as I slink, trying to be unnoticed, out to the laundry room.  I like this trick, it gets him to read and gives me a one book reprieve.

8:50PM:  I tell Jake he must go and he then begs me to come into his room after I leave Ryan’s.  Why not?  I require no personal time.  Nope all need it an hour to plug myself in to a wall socket and I’m recharged for the morning.

9PM:  I now find myself singing 2 songs of Ryan’s choosing, doing a tickle monster, and two kiss attacks.  What can I say, she’s really cute and she does a great quivering lip.

9:10PM:  Bring Ryan a milk in a sippy cup, as requested.

9:11PM:  Give her one more big kiss, as requested.

9:12PM:  Take the toys that are scaring her out of her room.

9:13PM:  Fix her pillow.

9:14PM:  Threaten to take more imaginary stars away.

9:20PM:  Inform Ryan that this is “the absolute last time I am coming in.”  That’s right, even if you give me the eyes and the lip, I know how to put my foot down!

9:25PM:  Go into to see Jake who is passed out.

9:30PM:  Allow puppy to drag me around the block, despite my best efforts to drag him.  Watch him relentlessly bark at a black trash bag that someone has left in the swail.  I then threaten to take away stars from his imaginary star chart.

9:45PM:  Run in to tell Mark, we should have sex just to fuck with the Doctor, but he is fast asleep.  Yea well, I’ll be fast asleep soon.  Right after I do the dishes and straighten up, and check on my kids, and wash-up, and brush my teeth, and floss, and take my vitamins, and play some kind of word game on FB with people I haven’t spoken to  in 18years to remind me I have a brain.

Day 2 in the bag, stay tuned… day 3’s a doozie.

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A Trip To The Zoo, I Mean The Cardiologist

In the ongoing saga of low blood pressure I found myself at the cardiologist 4 times last week.

Day One:  Upon arriving it does not take a carni age guesser to know that I am at least a hundred years younger than the rest of the crowd.  I am also in the minority that is not connected to an iv or oxygen tank.

The truth is, I happen to be in a rush and would selfishly love to be the first in.  Selflessly, I don’t want to go in before any one of these people who could clearly use a once over and someone to check for a pulse.  As I am unsettled by this thought, a woman drags herself in the door and up to the window, “I am having chest pains unlike anything I  have ever felt.  I don’t have an appointment, but can I see my Doctor?”  As it turns out she takes my appointment and thankfully so, as poor Estelle is sitting across from me clutching her heart and breathing erratically.   I proactively position myself directly parallel so that I can catch her if necessary.

Nurse:  “Morty”

As they come out calling for other people, I’m thinking please call in Estelle before she codes.

Nurse 2:  “Phil”

Nurse 1:  “Estelle”

Nurse 2:  “Bea”

Nurse 1:  “Saul”

The receptionist who is joking with all the patients as if it might be there last day, pokes her head out, “Mr. Dale are you gonna give me any more trouble today young man?  Oh, and Mrs. Isenman, he’s getting to you.“

“I’ve been here over an hour is that normal?“

“Nope, he’s usually right on time, but there was a problem with the patient before you and we’ve already had an ambulance here once this morning and it‘s only 10 0‘clock“

Nurse 3:  “Joan”

Mark calls to see how the appointment went.
“I’m still waiting.“

“Oh, you are?  Are you filling out all the medical forms or are you just waiting to be called?“

“No Mark, they’re ready for me, I’m just so thrown by these forms.  So many tough questions, like my name and my age.  Then there are some real zingers like my SSN.  It’s like taking the SAT’s all over again.  They’re begging me to finish up and I’m trying to convince them that I’m eligible for the untimed version.

Nurse 2:  “Sandy”

Look I know he’s trying.  I know he was hoping I would be out so he could check it off his ‘things to remember list,’ and I know he asked that ridiculous question because he wants to seem caring, but I can’t help myself sometimes.

Nurse 1:  “Jenny”

By now the hypoglycemia that they found last week during my 5 hr. glucose test is acting up and the nurse goes to get me an apple juice, that they have for “such occasions.”  “Thanks, but really there’s no need to make such a fuss.”  Did I really say fuss?  See what an hour and a half out there did to me?  “By the way how is Estelle?”

Nurse:  “Who?”

The cardiologist Dr. Seth was, thank goodness, is not what I was expecting.  He was a referral from my, ‘roll your own’ Jamaican Doctor and I was thinking Seth might just be his first name, and that he may or may not have a surf board and that he may or may not have a medical license.  Luckily, he is Arcaad Seth, an Indian gentleman.  Look, I saw “Slumdog,” so I have a birds eye view into his upbringing.  As it turns out my sympathy for his being  part of a panhandling ring of blind singers does little for our deeper connection.  He roboticly set me up for a series of tests to “rule out the possibilities” and sternly warns me not to drive much saying, “You could hit a school bus filled with children.“

“Thank you for that.  Just telling me would not have been enough.  Did the past 30 minutes with me not give you any indication that I have some excessive worrying issues?  Maybe when I was telling you that when I yawn sometimes it feels like the blood gets stuck in my neck, and you snickered under your breath, like I was insane?

Wow, and that was just day one.  Stay Tuned.

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