Up in smoke – one mommy’s collection of unrealized dreams
Every once in a while, I hear from women who gave up something in order to have children. They lament about a postponed European trip or maybe a successful career long ago set aside in favor of playgroups, Sesame Street, and mood stabilizers.
I feel their pain. I love my husband and kids with all my heart, but let’s not pretend that a woman with a family can have it all. Most of the time, in order to preserve our sanity and strength, we “gracefully surrender the things of youth.” Unfortunately that includes low-cut dresses, back tattoos, and a few hopes and dreams.
For example…
Takin’ care of business in the form of a love letter
Dear Lovely Reader,
In the past year, I entered middle age, experienced a few medical scares, fell apart emotionally, and accidentally ate a worm. Somehow I’ve managed to recover, assess my life, and come to the conclusion that I must change a few things about myself in order to grow older with dignity and fewer grey hairs.
For example, I now *pour out* the organic raisins before I dig in and start eating.
Other changes include correcting destructive thought patterns, surrounding myself with a more positive, healing circle of loved ones and accepting that my waist will never again look good from a side-angle. I also changed my writing to reflect a new-found maturity and love of life.
What unites us? What brings us together instead of apart?
I’ll tell you what – crazy-ass kids, a spouse in love with his iPhone, and parents who can’t fix their coffee machine, but learned how to post comments on Facebook.
I got stuck in Atlanta and almost lost my mind
Trying to fly out of a southern city during a snow storm is a lot like watching a Tim Burton movie – you begin the adventure with a smile, but quickly feel nauseated and end up hoping for a quick demise so that the suffering might finally, compassionately end.
Friday, February 12, 2010
2pm
Arrive at Hartsfield-Jackson Airport with colleagues. Optimistic when attendant suggests earlier flight.
2:13pm
Get to gate. Look out windows and see two things – a New England blizzard and one rather large baggage carrier’s ass. Can’t decide which is worse.
Friday Night Lights
…a blast from the past.
Jews have been following a certain routine of rest for thousands of years and, in our house, Shabbat breaks down this way:
I light candles and cover my eyes, while everyone else covers their ears. Then I sing a prayer of thanks and try to get one note right. Afterward, the man of the house holds up wine and Challah and sings his own prayer of thanks. Talented bastard doesn’t make a single ear bleed.
Then we place hands over our children’s heads and pray they never vote Republican.
Then we sit and eat.
Every once in a while we go to Sweet Tomatoes because, while we are commanded to spend time together, that doesn’t mean I always have to heat up a meal. Friday night is one night a week when we set aside distractions and concentrate on each other.
We tend to avoid criticism and trans fats.
Instead we:
United we stand, divided we fall apart
“You’re a lucky woman.”
“You’re a lucky man.”
How many times has an older person said that to you? Women over sixty watch your husband changing diapers, making dinner, or taking the pennies out of his pockets before missing the hamper. They practically genuflect. Retired men see your wife earning a living, carting the kids all over town, and address unwanted hair in skirts and high heels, rather than a housedress. Oh, how they wish they were in their forties again.
Back in the day, my mom did everything on her own. The only support she ever got was from covering her legs in Suran Wrap before standing at the sink to do dishes. My Nana was a workhorse, too. She did it all. Her favorite saying was, “Stick a broom up my arse so I can sweep as I go along.”
Modern moms and dads do have it easier than those who came before us. Yes, women sometimes have to lower toilet seats. Men have to put down their iPhones every once in a while and make eye contact. But both parents do a bit of everything, depending on the needs and time of day, and this evolved team effort benefits the entire family.
That’s why I’m always surprised when heading out of town for any length of time. Just as I’m wondering whether my yoga mat will fit in a carry-on, Husband starts falling apart
Getting older is hot.
Do you remember where you were the first time you felt it? Most people remember. They can tell you what they were wearing. They can sing a few verses of the song that was playing at the time.
Me? I can tell you what I was reading (Eat, Pray, Love) and what I was smelling (a woman, not three feet away from me, had obviously bathed in Estee Lauder’s Beautiful) the first time I ever experienced heartburn.
That’s right. Heartburn.
First of all, let me go out on a limb and say that I am firmly against three things in life: cruelty, self-waxing, and audible digestion. I do not enjoy, and feel prone to violent outburst, when I hear someone processing their meal.
I’m not talking about people who chew with their mouths open (read: my children.) If such people are over the age of 35 and possess a penis, then open chewing is proof the man doesn’t have a wife worth a damn. But allowing me to see food in your mouth, however gross, doesn’t fall under the category of digestion. Not to me anyway.
I’m talking about burping in all its forms: loud, silent, hiccup-like, and especially when it’s followed by a sigh or groan or fist to the sternum. A laugh and “Excuse the heavyweight champ!” just makes it worse. Why do I hate it so?
File under fun: Mom and Dad, who need help working the coffee machine, might buy a computer
We had dinner with my parents the other night. The good people who produce reality-based shows like Bounty Hunters and Man v. Food don’t know what they’re missing. Sitting down at my mother’s table is an adventure the likes of which they’ve never seen, not in the jungles of South America or the streets of Detroit.
“What’s this?” I picked a celery stalk at least six inches long out of the salad bowl. It still had branches and thorns with roots coming out of the bottom. “You could put an eye out with this thing.”
“I meant to cut that and distribute it evenly,” Mom said.
“Are you sure?” I flicked some dirt off the bottom. “It looks like it should be planted in the backyard.”
Mom’s still got it, though. God bless her, she found a way to make gluten-free, baked spaghetti taste good. So I’ll ignore the plant life sprouting in her salad bowl and just make a mental note to be extra careful before biting.
Dad even enjoyed the ravioli, despite the fact she used a healthier alternative to his usual, and beloved, pork product.
“Chicken and turkey innards,” he mumbled. “Life just ain’t the same anymore.”
“The computer is dead,” Mom announced halfway through dessert.
Childhood, adult, middle age: the journey from cute to comatose
Amber, Jackie, and I have been friends since high school. (I’m using different names and identifying characteristics, so that jail time may be avoided.) Over the years, our conversations have changed along with our hairstyles and threshold for pain.
This has never been more apparent than in the last few weeks. We used to talk about men, music, and wardrobe malfunctions. We can still remember a time when we’d drop everything for a Jane’s Addiction concert or road trip to Mardi Gras. We used to be fun. We used to be hot.
Lately, at the end of our conversations, one of us will invariably wonder,
“What have we become?”
Hell if I know. You tell me where sexy went.
How to survive youth sports
These past few months have been great. I can power-walk at the local field without suffering a concussion from random fly balls. I can shop for groceries without worrying that an entire team of ten year-olds will vote me out of the league for bringing granola bars and water for Snack Day. I’ve finally found the time on a Saturday to solve age-old questions like, “Why does this house smell like burnt toast?”
After long days at work and school, the kids play outside while Husband falls asleep in front of the television. Life is good. The American Dream realized.
Then Oldest comes into the house, dragging half the yard with him, and blows my hard-earned tranquility all to hell.
“It’s time to sign up for Little League,” he announces right before I pass out.
I heard a rumor that The Tampa Tribune has a new columnist.
Before you roll your eyes or start picturing a leftist rant that resembles something Stalin might read, hold up! This has nothing to do with religion or politics or my inability to properly fold clothes.
My new column, aptly titled “View from the Hill” is about all the funny and frustrating things that start happening to us when we reach middle age. Come laugh with me in the 4You section of Saturday’s Tampa Tribune.
Remember, he who laughs, lasts!
Catherine Durkin Robinson
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she’s crafty
