Tag Archives: mommy blog

Weekly Column 5: To Clean or Not to Clean?

Well, I’ve gotten a lot of emails asking me why I haven’t posted lately.

Why?

Because I’ve spent the last week cleaning my house.

Why?

Because my everyday tidier/laundry doer/Mother’s helper, Danay got a job in a physical therapist’s office.

Why?

Because she went to college and got a real degree before coming to this country and finding out that her only job options were maid, nanny, or grocery bagger.

Why?

Because in America if you don’t speak perfect English you must be unintelligent, even though most of us don’t speak nearly as much of a foreign language as any foreigner does of our’s.

Why?

Because we’re lazy, which is the same reason I hate to clean.

I remember the days before I found this woman… I cleaned a lot! In fact, I could not do anything else around my house until I felt it was clean. I would clean in the morning, watch my kids immediately undo my work, and then clean the same stuff all over again. Each time I was amazed at how long it took to clean and how quickly it became undone.

I had to make up fascinating “cleaning games” to justify not spending time playing Nerf dart tag, or doing spin art like the “good Mommies” did. Our play was much more educational… I honed Jake’s eye for detail and fine motor skills: “Jake, let’s see if you can match the socks and roll them neatly into pairs.” I knew Jake was a true genius the day he found matches for the 23 mateless socks. I taught Ryan about the nuances of tone and hue. “Ryan, which colors are dark and which are light? Ryan, that shirt may be white, but the stripes are red, that’s a major oversight on your part. I hope you weren’t hungry cause that just cost you dinner.”

I considered asking Mark for help, but the truth was to watch him try and clean could send us straight to divorce court. He would say, “Just do it once a day, why waste your time?” Which, by the way, is the same argument he has for oral hygiene, so who could listen to him? If you want the job done right i.e. your way… you have to do it yourself.

I couldn’t delegate because I was always too disappointed in the way someone would load my dishwasher. Loading a dishwasher takes serious problem solving skills and visual prowess; done correctly, it is an algorithm of perfectly fitting pieces with not a single one to spare. Okay, I’m beginning to sound pathetic, but some of you actually get what I’m saying. You know who you are, you’re the ones thinking “Please, my dish loading could kick your ass…Bitch! Well you know what I say? “Bring it!”

I was so vehemently against having help because I was sure it would reflect on some inability to be a good Mother/Housewife (a title I never thought I would covet the way that I do). I also convinced myself that having help would weaken my right to be a martyr. However, my need to have “a life” and to resent my husband less won out, and I hired someone.

After a single day I felt like screaming “FREEDOM” while swooshing down a mountain with a cool breeze on my face, or into a deep echoing canyon while blowing my Ricola horn, but alas Florida is flat. So I traipsed into the swamp, I mean lake, in our back yard and screamed at the top of my lungs. Unfortunately, it was “Alligator!” and not “Freedom!” but I feel my point was made. As soon as I zigzagged back into my house, I considered all of my options: Grocery shop, get Starbucks with a friend, shop for my kids, get a mani/pedi, shop for myself, go to the gym, shop for my husband, get Starbucks again, or return things from the last time I shopped. My days were filled with endless monotony and it was exciting. My afternoons were completely open. I could do all kinds of things while my daughter napped- shop, return things, get Starbucks… When my son got home we played Nerf dart tag and did spin art.

Each day I returned to a neat and straightened house, with clean clothes and an organized pantry. I began saying things like, “You know, I don’t care if you rearrange my drawers, whatever is easier for you.” I had to make phone calls to find out where my Love Quotes scarves and my new yellow Hogan bag were, and I reveled in it. I finally got bored with the exciting monotony and decided I would have to do something to distract me from shopping. I tried chewing gum. No luck. I tried the patch, but spent hours trying to find the perfect designer patch on the best sale. I read books by Dr. Oz, and Dr. Drew, and Dr. Phil. I even read a lovely memoir by Dr. J. to no avail.

So I decided to write again. Three weeks after, I felt reborn and my Amex felt dejected, jumping out of my bag anytime we so much as drove past a retail store. It would even put extra groceries in my cart when I walked over to the meat counter. My Amex wasn’t the only one let down. A week later Danay told me a friend called to offer her a job at a physical therapist’s office. I said, “Are you kidding me? Who do you expect to do my laundry, clean the kitty litter, the dog pee, the garage… me? I had that job once, it sucked!” Luckily, when I talk fast she doesn’t understand a word and I slowly said “You have to take it, congratulations!” and gave her a huge hug. She still comes like 5hrs a week because in her own words “I’ll keep helping you out, you need me.” Apparently, she’s never seen me load a dishwasher, but If you don’t tell I won’t. So the short answer to the question “Why haven’t you posted in a week: 5hrs just don’t cut it.”

P.S. If anyone knows anyone… I’m looking.

The First Sleepover

Whenever one of my children does something new, I’m scared something bad will happen.  Yes, I’m one of those highly obsessive, and illogical thinkers that jumps right to the ‘nth degree. For instance, when my son was 5, he had his first sleepover with this best friend (who is my bestie’s son). Though I’d known him since he was in utero, I was convinced said friend would smother him. 

Sure, he could do something more common, like draw a mustache with permanent marker.  He could put my son’s hand in a cup of warm water and pray for him to wet the bed, but no, I went straight to suffocation. Now, this child we’ll call him Leon (because I don’t know any kids named that) has no criminal record and has never smothered anyone, that I know of; but, I couldn’t sleep. No, instead of celebrating my evening of freedom with a raucous romp, or even catching up on a good book (which is code for US Weekly), I was up every hour wondering how many pillows Leon had access to.

When J came back still breathing I was thrilled. We went for a swim and when he got out, he stripped down and wrapped a towel around himself … all normal and un-suffocated!

J: Mom do you know what balls are?

Me: Sure you have tons of balls, baseballs, tennis balls…

J: Nope. (Drop towel lift penis and squeeze sac.) These are balls. See, one … two, see cause they’re like balls.”

Ry: Like the balls on my tongue?

May that be the only context in which she utters those words to me ever again.

J: No Ry, these are balls, see — ball, line, ball. (Squeezing and pointing so Ry can get a good look.) Mommy’s talking about my balls and you’re talking about tongues.

Me: Nooooo, Mommy isn’t talking about your balls, Mommy is just listening.

J: Mommy, what do you know about nuts?

How do we moms find ourselves in these conversations? And when did we all get so advanced? I think at 5 years old I would have spent a sleepover debating whether it was true that only Big Bird could see Snuffaluffagus or putting tacky blue eyeshadow on my Barbie styling head and then retired to my rainbow sheets, with the matching rainbow comforter, that said, I’ll take this over smothering every time!!!

 

Weekly Column 4: The Specialist

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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Weekly Column 3: A Dog’s Life

Buddy, my dog, my first born, is 15. I got him my sophomore year and as my dad says getting him was the best purchase this shopahollic ever made.He put up with the craziness of college, people coming and going at all hours often blowing odd substances in his face.

He endured the lean years when I boycotted toys because he ate and pooped them all out.Unfazed, he adorably brought me pieces of slobbery lint and coughed them up in front of me wagging his tail so that I would try to throw one.Then he would retrieve it (though wet lint doesn’t travel far) as if it was the best ball in the world and enthusiastically continue the cycle.

He survived eating an entire bag of blowpops which came out the other end like taffy that had to be pulled and pulled, by hand to get out.A job I handed off to my then roommate as I was late for work.I should say SHE survived that one.(Seeing as she is currently my closest friend, she barely holds a grudge.Though she hasn’t been able to look at a piece of gum since.)

He out-lived his long time love; a very attractive and preppy bean bag pillow who he constantly abused after sex, by biting her and swinging her vigorously from side to side.Then he would ignore her till their next rendezvous.Hmm… sounds like one of my exes. One fateful day he bit too hard and when he swung her, she profusely bled itty-bitty styrofoam balls.For weeks he somberly attempted to meet for trysts but she was a shell of the booty call she once was, and eventually we buried her… in the trash.He tried to date other pillows but I think for him, they could never compare.

He withstood living with my dad who for a month forced him to wear a girly Israeli flag bandana that read SHALOM.My dad would take him to dog-runs hoping to attract the right king of bitch.Unfortunately, Buddy technically male, but snipped at birth, had some tendencies and enjoyed other dogs balls a little too much.But, my dad never wavered in his love, saying only, “As long as he’s Jewish.”

He won over my husband who raised with cats, swore Buddy would never move in with us, only to find himself as in love as anyone else whose path Buddy ever crossed. And when he moved to NYC he adapted to the concept of grassless pooping and even got used to the salt lined streets that sent him into a crying limp until I could find a patch of snow to pack up under his paw for relief.

He tolerated my son Jake who quickly stole the limelight making our once Golden Child feel like a dog for the very first time. He took it in such stride that he became body guard to this little human that was pulling his tail and trying to ride him like a pony.In 2006 he had a proper Bark Mitzvah with brunch, candle-lighting and thirty in attendance.(Picture included).He barked through his haftorah so beautifully that had Randy Jackson been there he would have said “Yo, Dog, dat was the bomb.”

Now he is 106 and pees and poops so much that I spent a month cutting a gorgeous 20×16 shag rug.Everyday razoring out another chunk till it was a sorry 2×3 backdoor mat.He pants like a sex caller throughout the night, and requires being let out what feels like every 27 minutes.He trips out the door without fail and then spryly bounces back in like this perfect beautiful puppy. In moments of spunkiness he laps my pool table like a greyhound over and over and over and over.He is deaf and mostly blind though he can still read lips.He walks on a tilt because of a herniated hip and often completely loses footing as his legs uncontrollably spread eagle beneath him.And if you are carrying food he’ll take your arm off to get it.Unless you say “easy,” then his jaw quivers so gently, he could remove a tic tac without touching skin.

Every morning when I wake the first thing I do is look at him asleep so sweet, like horse that has fallen sideways.Then I look at his stomach for rise and fall.I am morbidly hoping that he has gone peacefully in his sleep so that I will never be confronted with the other option.My father asked where I will have him buried when he goes.A pet cemetery is too creepy.The truth is I’m one of those crazy people who think, maybe I could just have him stuffed.Not like eyes open greeting you at the front door kind of stuffed.You know asleep in a ball chin on paws kind of thing.But then I imagine my cleaning lady having to dust him and like Rosie from the Jetsons raising him over her head to vacuum underneath and I think maybe just an urn will do. It’s a dog’s life … I’m glad he shared it with us!

Welcome to the Suburban Jungle

Yesterday 253 people visited The Suburban Jungle, which is a personal triumph for me considering my stats the day before were 3. So I thought now would be a good time to introduce you to the blog.Blog…People, People…Blog.Now that the formalities are out of the way I’ll tell you a bit about what to expect from Blog.

I am a neurotic mother of two amazing, wonderful, brilliant, perfect children which is saying a lot ‘cause I am a really tough critic.They have to sing for their supper kinda stuff… well at least ask… well at least grunt.Actually, they just sit and I make multiple meals until one is worthy of their sophisticated taste buds and doesn’t exacerbate their fear of burnt spots, crust, pizza bubbles, or food that touches other food.I live in a sheltered little suburb which I like to compare to the Truman Show.The bikers travel in perfectly dressed packs and the runners never sweat; they’re all just on a loop.

Most likely you’ll find that you and I are a lot alike.I have a husband who’s often little more than a roommate (a great roommate that pays the rent and supports my shopping habit).However, to earn such moola he commutes an hour to North Boca leaving at 5:30AM and arriving home between 7 and 8 in the evening.We get less than an hour a day to talk, most of which I spend nagging or just plain in awe of his ineptitude and suckiness.“I love you Monkey!”But seriously wait till you read some of the stuff he does.

Like you I have crazy neighbors who do lovely things like leave anonymous letters in my mailbox and ask that my child’s carpool not beep in the morning as their older children like to sleep in.Like you I have crazy friends who are teetering on divorce, having affairs, start pourin’ the Mommy juice at noon, or act like they’re still in the 7th grade. Like you I have cellulite begging me to stop wearing short shorts, laugh lines screaming for restylane, crows feet crying for botox, and spend far too much money trying to look dewy.You and I have a Cinderella complex, penis envy, and buyers remorse.G-d we have a lot of problems don’t we?Let’s just take a quick break to call our therapists.

This blog is about all of the above plus daily observations about all those mundane little things that given a little attention seem odd and humorous; like repeating a simple word when you’re high until it loses all meaning.Please, if you haven’t taken the time to read the other posts do so and leave your email on my subscribe link to get notification of new posts. Welcome to the JUNGLE!

Love,

Jenny

P.S. If you like what you read please pass a link to every person you have ever emailed in your life. Also, I am offering a sizable reward for great contacts towards my goal of getting a column or freelance work.If I already owe you money, “The check’s in the mail.”

The Traditional Pedicure | The Suburban Jungle

So I am finally getting a long overdue pedicure.This current span has been about 2 months or 68 days, but who’s counting?I like to let the nails grow unattractively long in the true spirit of martyrdom.Then I wear sandals and constantly draw attention to how badly I need a pedicure, by saying things like “How badly do I need a pedicure?”

The trick is to go as infrequently as possible and only surrender when your nails split and a jagged edge pulls threads in your sheets, thereby making a 3 AM roll over feel like chewing on metal.Most importantly do not, under any circumstance, remove the polish.This way you have undeniable proof of your hectic schedule.It implies that your “me time”is so sparse that you don’t even have enough to simply wet a cotton ball.

Today I arrived with the red so far at the tip it looked as if I was starting a new trend in French pedicure.Sarabeth, whose real name is Choi Jae Hua, or Yi Hae-Won or something else I can’t pronounce, looks at my feet with a “Tsk.”“I know it’s been a long time,” I say with the joy of squeezing in one last sympathizer.Then she looks up at me and asks if I am aware there is a Pokemon sticker on the bottom of my foot.“Oh, my son was looking for that, if only it were so easy to find my keys.” She then asks if it’s okay to remove it.“Well if you can’t work around it.” I’m not sure if she can hear me; my chair is set on high-multifunction-10.Its “Human Hand” technology is loudly knocking me out of my seat while it heats my tush, vibrates my thighs, froths milk for my cappuccino, and sorts my mail.

I lie, well shimmy, back trying to enjoy my favorite part, the massage.I can’t seem to relax.I am so keenly aware of every left over scrub granule that is kneaded into my legs. Worse, I can sense her daydreaming of the family she has left behind and I’m sure she’s totally resenting me for not shaving, detesting America for making her touch feet, and cursing her boss for making today “$20 Tuesday.”I finally start to relax as she coincidentally realizes she has massaged long enough.She halts to do the required Korean calf knocking, which she follows with the “Ten Toe Pop” event.She’s seems let down when she can’t get a good snap out of the last two toes (not unlike that annoying handshake of the mid-nineties).

“Okay, pick you color” she says pointing to the wall.I can’t decide between “After Sex” or a hue one shade darker, “3 Bottles of Whine.” I don’t understand why all the colors are sexual innuendos.In the end I go with “Popped Cherry,” which is a medium shade of…well, you get the picture.I spend most of the polish application staring at the tranquil paintings of nude women relaxing on furniture.The woman in the painting across from me appears to be giving herself a breast exam on a plush sofa.

I decided to heighten my relaxation by purchasing a 10 minute massage.I swiftly wriggle myself into the pretzel seat after viewing a short video demonstration by Cirque De Soleil.Then she literally beats the tension out of me.“Excuse me Sarabeth, that knot you’re trying to knead out, I think that’s bone.”She ignores me as she does not recognize the sound of her own name.No matter, she manages to pummel it smooth regardless.Then she grabs my wrists, pulls my arms back and relentlessly yanks trying to crack my shoulder blades.She ends with vigorous karate chopping to the back of my neck.Sarabeth then signals someone, and an EMT rushes in with the Jaws of Life to free me from the chair.I walk away totally relaxed, one arm carelessly dangling from the socket.No worries. I’m sure it’s nothing an good orthopedist can’t fix.Why do my attempts at tension release always seem to stress me out?