Value wIT

In celebration of Memorial Day, my lifelong friend invited my children and me to spend the holiday at a Galveston beach house with her, three of her college friends, their children and one of her clients and his family. In total there were 8 adults and 12 children.  Rumor held that the house was big, but as I drove toward the beach I couldn’t help but wonder if the house could possibly be big enough to accommodate my fear of vacationing with strangers.

Preparing for the trip, I performed my typical packing routine that yields a final product the size of a large purse and truly holds everything possibly needed for a trip. My tiny trunk was loaded with precision and held breakfast and lunch food for 20 for three days.  Utilizing adorable canvas bags, all the food fit nicely and stylishly next to the one bag containing all my clothes and the clothes for my children.  Done.

When we arrive at the house, the women materialize like a team of bellmen to help unload the car. Little did they know that for the past 40 miles I had been obsessively rehearsing how I could lug everything into the house in one trip. Just five minutes before at a stoplight the children were forced to put away their one toy and police the backseat for any speck of trash that might be left.  My neurotic plan was to arrive with shoes on, hair brushed and lips glossed and when the car stopped each person would exit toting two bags and the car would be left perfectly clean. So much for indulging my OCD.

The women must have been disappointed with my dismal haul. Each of them had driven a Suburban packed to the roof with gear. One woman arrived after me, and I joined forces to help her unload: a kayak, beach tent, folding chairs, umbrellas, boogie boards, floats, life jackets, beach toys, an electric guitar and amplifier, personal blankets, pillows and numerous large stuffed animals and bags upon bags of clothes, movies and food.

Coping with the excess the best I knew how, I busied myself by unpacking three Container Store Packing Cubes (buy these today) and placing all my family’s belongings in drawers. I then arranged the toiletries in the bathroom and folded all the canvas bags into one bag that was stored in the closet. There was no evidence that my family had arrived.

Conversely, the other family’s belongings exploded. Within moments the rooms were littered with everything imaginable. Once I heard a story of a women who traveled with her Picasso and hung it everywhere she went, and I fully expected these women to whip out their wedding china and a full set of silverware. Unbeknownst to me, the next morning my superior packing position would be challenged. 

The plan was to head to the beach. Great. Bathing suit, sunscreen and towel, let’s go. “Uh, your children don’t have life jackets?” Shrugging, I say my kids are good swimmers and we don’t wear life jackets at the beach. Pack mentality ensued– the women circled. If this beach trip was to be produced into a musical, the women would sing a song with a resounding chorus chiding me to fear the beast of an ocean that was determined to drown my children. In the musical version, the choreography would have the women leaping onto the beach house-themed furniture as they lectured me in a sweet and caring way that I should not kill my children by sacrificing them to the turbulent waters.

Cranking up the car, I head into town for a pair of life jackets. Just in case I might be tempted to buy jackets not up to safety par, one of the women accompanies me. The locally owned store didn’t open until 9 am, so my chaperone insisted we patronize Walmart. You know how I feel about Walmart. I would like to claim never to have stepped foot into the big box, but since one of the women on the trip worked at Walmart headquarters in Bentonville, Arkansas, I kept my mouth shut.

At the evil store responsible for death and degradation of third-world families, I was encouraged to buy boogie boards, beach towels, more sunscreen (two bottles might not be enough), hats, floats, shovels, swim noodles and much other crap whose future would end in the landfill just three days later.

With my arms full, we proceed to set-up camp on the beach.  Like a NASCAR crew, the women erect a tent, dig a hole for an umbrella, assemble chairs, hang drapes, open food and before long it was like the house on Nim’s Island. Surely one of the women would soon run a line for electricity or at the least break out a generator for a refrigerator – beach-sized, of course.

My mind was smirking as I watched the women lined-up on the shore counting children.  Reading the newspaper I chuckled at the overkill. Of course, when I looked up to find my “good-swimmer” missing, my heart pounded through my skull as the women activated into a search team.  It was a long five minutes before we found my headstrong child aggressively walking the opposite direction of our camp. Never one to admit a mistake, she insisted she was not lost. Where does that bull-headedness come from?

Whipping out the ice, homemade bloody-mary mix and pre-cut limes, the women make me a drink. Boy, was I glad to be sitting underneath an umbrella in a recliner with cocktail. And, when I stepped on a  bee that stung the tender part of my foot, it was a literal relief when one of the women whipped out her emergency kit and gave me an alcohol swab to clean the wound and then handed me a medication specifically for taking the sting out of insect bites. Finally, when my child screamed because of ear pain, it was really nice that someone had brought ear pain relief drops in their beach kit.

I’m not sure I’ll ever change my ways and own several pairs of shoes that perform different beach and/or water functions, but I will admit that traveling with enough gear to transform an otherwise unattractive beach is a compelling idea.  Of course, when we vacated the house and I helped drag Rubbermaid containers of sandy beach toys and coolers packed with more food than is normally keep in my refrigerator to gas-guzzling SUVs it made me feel good to slip my few neatly packed bags into my car and average 48 miles per gallon on the drive home.

Summer’s hell has begun in Texas.  Week before last the temperature soared just under 100 degrees, then last week the weather busted out with a tornado –glad we weren’t in the mobile home. 

Sunday morning is always a favorite. Getting up early to drink the perfect cup of coffee and read about my friends and colleagues in New York – this week’s dish on the Park Slope Mommies was the most delicious…never enough on Park Slope (so glad Gawker doesn’t charge by the minute.) Dutifully, each Sunday I read the front page of the NYTimes and then the business section.  Finally, after paying my dues, Sunday Style presents itself like a cat in heat.  Of course, by the time I’m ready to read Sunday Style, the other inhabitants of my home have awoken and have begun quibbling over belongings, hurting one another’s feelings and demanding breakfast.

The sun rises higher in the sky, and if the front page of the NYTimes was the only thing left to the read at this time of day, I would promptly recycle the paper. However, the Sunday Style awaits me and is a goody that can hold its own against the rising sun.  The Travel section isn’t as powerful, but it does serve as chatty companion for my noon snack.

In the morning when the newspaper’s blue wrapper lies on the floor next to my comfy chair wet with sprinkler water, the promise of the day is full: a run, family bike ride, picnic at an overlooked historical site, visit to see the new installment at the local museum…so many activities that I write them on a poster board and the family uses stickers to vote for their top three favorites. 

Early afternoon approaches and 75% of my family remain in their pajamas. The heat of the day is on us like it’s August, yet it’s early May. Nobody wants to venture out and face a whipping by the sun.  The children bicker. The Professor hides. I consider drinking (too early – the neighbors will notice.) 

“Let’s go swimming!”

Doesn’t matter which fool said it. It was said.

Breaking out the miracle suit that two years ago really was a miracle, it seems like someone has raided my closet and replaced my clothes with those of much smaller person.  Cupping my left breast, I am reassured by the generous handful; however, if not pressed and pushed, the handful falls like a sack of sand.  Utilizing all the readily available tools, the snug fit of the two-year old bathing suit serves as a sling for the large mass of skin that hangs from my chest.  With careful lifting and positioning, I create the type of cleavage that Napoleonic era women would crave. 

Just like a billion dollar bank account elevates men into new stratospheres, large breasts give women an incomparable entrée into most situations. This false sense of status immediately fails me as I walk into the pool area.  My breasts are seen for what they are – fat wrapped in skin. The mommies have been exercising all winter and have recently completed a major shopping spree.

I’m fucked.

The pool scene is just like year before last (remember I skipped last summer).  Making nice, I compliment everyone’s stylie cover-ups and $500 sunglasses.  I do not remark about protruding ribs or collarbones that threathen to poke me in the eye.  Seriously, the sunglasses of this summer are t-totally grrrreat. I’m tempted to shell-out a car payment and buy some.

Little girls are decked-out in wildly precious bathing suits, and visions of my own cute girl wearing a ruffle bikini dance in my head. Instead, my girl-boy wears a Target swim shirt sized extra-large. The swim shirt should be a medium, but because of some whacko gene she inherited from The Professor’s side of the family (not you Su-Su), she insists on wearing a man-sized shirt to accompany her Boy Department swim trunks. Despite her masculine armor, my daughter’s pretty face with its piercing blue eyes and button nose belies her transgender issues – the same issues that dominate my every thought.

The Professor proudly displays his blinding white chest and for a moment the entire world stands still as he careens down the pool stairs and burns out the eyes of all the poolside, sun-soakers with his shouting sunscreen saturated skin.

Not a moment passes before I order the first margarita of the summer. Within minutes the cheap plastic cup containing tequila made in a basement by someone’s yardman (oh, it’s Texas and we don’t have basements) is in my hand. The cup of granulated sugar mixed with bargain priced tequila radios a message to the Dispatcher of Dull Headaches, and while I can’t feel it sitting in the sun, most certainly, a headache is on its way.

Did I mention the number of babies who were born this spring? It’s not even summer or top-of-the-season at the pool, but there were a staggering number of little white babies and toddlers holding dripping Popsicles and hovering on the pebble-paved deck. Who says that Hispanics will dominate Texas in the coming years? At my pool, apparently we are fighting that premise. Oh, too late. White people have lost that fight. Of course, at this pool, the membership committee holds to a different set of statistics.  I’d like to protest, but what other pool has warm water, cheap margaritas and asks for no cash? Once I find that pool, then I’ll champion the cause for equality.

Cheers for the rest of summer. May your children not poop or vomit in the pool.  When the pool is closed, the buzz is as thick as wool, “Whose kid vomited? Which mother did a horrible job and let her child shit in pool?”   Not mine.

Why would God dump a grande, nonfat, two Sweet  & Low, latte right on top of my freshly washed and carefully coiffed hair?  Does (s)he hate me, or was (s)he trying to get my attention because all the other times (s)he tried to make a point I didn’t listen? 

Earlier in the morning I had ignored God when (s)he made me bump into the kitchen counter and bruise my hip, or when (s)he jammed my finger into the chair and bent my fingernail backward.  Possibly by flooding my hair with hot sticky coffee God made me breakdown and scream,

“I can’t do this anymore!!”

It was a typical morning. The children wouldn’t wake up, despite the fact they had slept for 11 hours.  There was whining about the cold house; complaining about the bed-hair that wouldn’t lie down; and rejection of all breakfast offerings. 

Happy, perky me had gotten up early to pack the backpack with supplies that would get me through the day with no car and no trip between offices:  computer, assorted cords, phone, low-calorie lunch, shoe change, cash and credit, and the ever present notebook.  After three days of being forced to drive the car – which makes me angry – I was going to ride my bike to work.

Flat tire. Fixed! 
Lost sunglasses. Found!
Spot on shirt. Cleaned!

One by one I swatted problems like mosquito's.  Then, the problems ceased being solvable.  My offer to help with unruly hair was rejected with,

“Stop, Mom!  You’re doing it wrong!” 

Fine. Deal with it yourself. I’m off to scramble the eggs.

After a large expenditure of my positive energy, the other child was cajoled into eating and dressing.  Then, Crabby Child entered the room spouting venom about my abandonment during the hair crisis.  In a flash, a memory of Crabby’s nasty spew over last night’s dinner entered my mind. 

“Jesus Fucking Christ!” I call into the air.  Jesus answered.

Picking up my ceramic coffee cup I am motivated to heave it across the room in a fit of anger.  However, my monitor kicks in and insists I refrain from throwing breakables (that I would later have to clean-up.) Instead I attempt to replace the cup back in its spot on the counter.  Somehow my wild wielding of the cup sloshes the liquid in such a violent manner that a large wave of coffee finds its way onto my head and soakes my hair in nonfat, Sweet&Low latte.  The remaining coffee galoshes onto the counter and runs down the cabinet onto the floor.

The physics of this 6-second incident escapes me.  All I know is that my carefully planned biking-into-office outfit was moist and my styled hair was drenched in coffee.  The shock of coffee dripping from my hair found me repeatedly chanting like a psycho “I can’t do this anymore. I can't do this anymore” while I mopping 16 ounces of coffee from the floor.

Perhaps I should have listened when my son expressed,

“Mommy, I don’t want you to do that job anymore. I want you to pick me up from school, but not with the car.  Walk home from school with me and love me like you used to.”

EEEEE. It’s the old “working mother” dilemma. What more is there to say?  I would feel guilty not working. Why?  Because all the mothers for whom it is a necessity to work should not be forced to work.  But me, I can do it – I’m strong enough and organized enough to work and be a good mother. All I ask for is the occasional bike ride.  Right. Then there is that question about what God is trying to tell me and why I answered, “I can’t do this!”

Deadlines. Event time. Call-in time.  Pick-up time. Wake-up call. Due date. Ends time. Working lunch. Early Dismissal. Field trip. Black tie. Pre-breakfast meeting. After hours party. Date stamp. Kick off. Final. Get in. Pick-up the slack. Holding the elevator...

Please. Only you. Just this once. Today. Pop-in. Help. Take on. Advice. Own it. Quick draft. Volunteer. Chaperone. Host. Lead.

NO

Write. Breathe. Sleep. Smell. Eat. Smile. Walk. Play. Stare.

“You have reached the email of Bitsy Parker. I am away forever and will not be taking on any volunteer projects, contributing or raising any money or handling any tedious tasks or dealing with any irrational people for low or no pay. Thank you for your understanding.”

Typical.

Sunday absolutely refused to end. Just wouldn’t do it.  Actually, it’s Saturday – Saturday Night, specifically - who is responsible for this whole mess.

Cozy in my bed, I was awakened by Saturday Night’s need for more attention. Cleverly, Saturday Night peppered my son with asthma in an effort to gain my notice.  In and out of the warm bed I repeatedly stumbled all night administering the not-so-helpful medicine.

At 5:30 a.m., it was clear the boy was unable to sleep anymore. So, while the rest of the family finished their Easter dreams, I started the coffee and opened my bag of tricks to entertain the sick boy.

Sunday was so self-absorbed with his own depression - lack of sun and warmth  -that he rudely refused to offer me a nap after such a long night coupled with such an early morning.  The thoughtless day turned into night, and without any rhyme or reason, Sunday chose to exert his power over me and cast a grand spell of asthma on my son.

The curse was impossible to break. It was off to the emergency room where it is guaranteed not a wink of sleep is possible. Technically it was Monday when the little one was released from the hospital at 3:10 am.  When the alarm clock sounded three short hours later, it was Monday’s fault, but I still blamed Sunday.

If Saturday was a taunting devil then Sunday was a passive-aggressive old lady. Nobody was ready for Monday, the hormonal teenager…on crack.

The plan was to stay at home with the sick sweet pea until noon when help would arrive, and I would go to the plantation and check into the slavery ring. Since the sick one did not get into his bed until three o’clock in the morning, it was fairly safe to assume he would be sleeping late and I would be working from home. Imagine the surprise when the pale boy was up and needy at 8:15 a.m.

“Mommy, I need some loving.” Who can resist that?  Me, apparently.  Snuggling with the kindest child in the world, I am answering emails from the 900 people who need something from me. “Mommy, stop computering. Close it. Love me.” Maybe God could skywrite next time. I’m a little hard of hearing.

In a better story, the mother would certainly not go to work and leave her needy child with the housekeeper, but this mother is a whore, a cheap one at that, and she did slip on her really tall shoes and walk out the door. 

(Rationalizations go here:  the sick boy needed a nap; the housekeeper is not a random lady, but a wonderful person who is smart and loving and has known my son his whole life. He loves her immensely. Did you buy it? I almost convinced myself.)

As I mentioned, Monday is a hormonal teenager  -- apparently one with a sick sense of humor. Getting to the office I learn that the main person I supervise and who does the bulk of the work on the account has gotten a new job and has given his two-week notice. I WAS THE ONE WHO WAS GOING TO QUIT. Now, of course, I can’t leave and let the $2m account fall into the toilet.  I could, but I’m not that kind of a person…. just kind of person who walks away from their sick child.

The good thing about teenagers is that they don’t have much staying power.  That’s why I am sitting on the floor next to my sleeping child's bed. The breathing is still ragged, but I am confident that I can outlast Monday and win this battle.

Tuesday is a friend of mine from way back, and I’m confident he owes me a favor from when my birthday was on a Tuesday and I celebrated all day. Let's hope.

“Let’s go to the park!” chant the children on Good Friday morning.

Good enough idea if we can go to the park with the outside restaurant.  Should be fairly painless.

• Order food.
• Kids don’t eat food.
• Wind blows food away.
• Kids run away.

Grabbing backpack, wrapping chicken nuggets in napkin, toting water bottles, I race behind the children – just in time to catch the youngest child before he falls from a tree.

Dumping out their $2.50 drinks the kids leave the tree and head for the creek to catch minnows in their cups. Grabbing backpack, water bottles and cold, greasy chicken nuggets, I trail behind the motivated crew.

Settling on the rocks I begin making a third 30-second camp when I hear, “Mom, let’s go back to the restaurant for another cup.” 

Unlike the other mommies who have packed nets for their children and seem happy to talk in sweet high-pitched voices saying, “Look at the minnows swim. How many minnows do you see? What do you think minnows eat?” I say, “Listen to me. I’m not dragging this shit one more place. And, eat this chicken because I’m not feeding you again until dinner!”  Another mother whose kid is wearing Wellies and carrying appropriate plastic kid fishing gear looks at me like I’m Courtney Love or Anna Nicole Smith.

When I was a kid (just stop and laugh at that trite line) I left my house in the morning and showed up again when the sun went down.  My days were filled with activities like affixing Styrofoam to cardboard boxes and trying to float down a creek; or crawling through a culvert until the stink got to be too much to endure; or finding some cows in a field and trying to climb on their backs – that project took a full day.

My point, and it’s obviously not a new one, is that kids these days are so molly-coddled that it’s hard to think they will be anything other than a pack of pussies when they grow up.

Earlier in the morning I took the children with me to a quick business meeting at a coffee shop. My son told me he needed to go to the bathroom. Fine. Thanks for telling me.  The woman with whom I was meeting said, “You let your children go to the bathroom by themselves? I’m scared my children will get abducted.”

Sitting on the rock, lost in thought about being too lenient a parent, I see my tough girl crying on the other side of the creek.  Unusual. The kids had been rolling down a hill and she had thrown body over hand and yanked her thumb enough to produce a bit of swelling.  Good thing we were playing next to a hospital.  Three hours later and probably a thousand dollars worth of medical attention, my daughter sports a professionally wrapped hand and thumb. 

In 1976 while holding onto a rope tied to my cousin’s friend’s car, I skateboarded up, then down a steep hill ending with a nasty fall that at a minimum sprained my wrist if not broke it. Not only did I never see a doctor, I didn’t even tell my parents. Furthermore, to my recollection, nobody noticed I didn’t use my right hand for several weeks.

Ah, the good ‘ol days of reasonable insurance rates.  Wonder why I didn’t have the sense to throw some ice on my daughter’s hand, then wrap a popsicle stick to hold it straight. That’s all the emergency room did. Somehow parents have lost focus…and I might be leading the pack.

P.S. That is a really old picture of my daughter playing by a creek.  She wouldn't be caught dead with a bow in her hair.

Open up the door and let the sun shine in.

As much as rainy yesterday was like a bad virus, today was the picture of health.  The weather was warm and the sun was pounding.

The local marathoners whisked by my house and their energy was infectious.  Early morning found my family walking against the tide of runners and cheering them on toward the last miles.

Bizarrely, watching the runners made me cry.  Not blubbering, boo-hooing, but just a happy little tear. Every time I watch a parade, sing in a crowd, or watch a race, I get the little tear. Who says I’m hard-hearted?

Of course the band playing Blue Oyster Cult killed that mood, thank goodness.  Remembering the time I really and truly paid money to see BOC made me laugh as I accepted the microphone to help sing“…there goes Toykyo. Go, go, Godzilla!”  The Professor was perplexed and embarrassed by me (as usual), and the loud music was offensive to his velvet, dear like ears.  We immediately left the raucous band and the sign that said BEER, as it was only 9 am.

The day continued as we made our way to the newly opened college baseball field where the players were signing autographs. Good fun for the whole family – 'cept I ditched the whole family and had a lovely breakfast at Blue Dahlia all by myself. Just me and Mr. NYTimes.
God, I love him, especially Modern Love…even though Modern Love just sent me a rejection letter. Neveryourmind, I’ll send another submission. Someday, said the little ant.

The children ate free hot dogs for breakfast and we rendezvous-ed at the cemetery. How much fun was it to let the children “surf and seek” – a game they made up using the AT&T promos from the baseball game – while lying on the grass chatting about politics with The Professor?

I really do like this town and will be sad when my house is demolished and a condo tower selling Buzzy’s Pizza on the bottom floor sits on my, apparently, very valuable land. Perhaps my appreciation for heritage and history will be bought for a handsome sum, and I’ll move my happy family to Slovenia, which I hear is hopping.

The workweek was ridiculously stressful -- complete with psychological torment, pressing deadlines and an office devoid of sunlight.  Collapsing into bed on Friday night, I was comforted by the fact that Saturday morning wouldn’t find me dressing-for-success in dawn’s softening blackness.  In fact, Saturday morning was not going to exist at all because the plan was to sleep through it.  The cold rain promised to ward off any demands.

The rain lied about its power.  Shortly before 7 am, the clumsy bastard woke my son who felt the need to place his darling face within an inch of mine and exclaim, “Mommy, I’m going to go to bathroom.” Well, OK. Get on with it.

“Great. Play quietly and don’t wake anyone up,” I whisper. 

In rapid succession, the cat cried to be let out; The Professor tumbled out of bed to shower; the girl child began loud conversation in the hall outside my room.

“Quiet everybody! Mom’s sleeping.” Yeah, right.

Perhaps I had drunk a gallon of vodka the night before and that’s why my head was pounding. Strategy: drink quick espresso and climb back into bed.

Ring. Hello. It’s the mother-in-law whose computer won’t turn on. Push the power button. My assignment is to log into her email account and painstakingly read all her emails to her over the phone. She gets a lot of emails in two days.

“MOOOOOOm, I can’t get into Webkinz World! Come fix it?”

What am I, the fucking IT staffer?

Finally, I’m back in bed.  Opening my laptop in hopes of devouring some hate mail from my readers, I instead get the email requesting a weekly report – of course it comes from the lowest paying client who takes up the most time!  Draft report – answer more work emails – it’s not Saturday, it’s goddamn Monday!

“Mom, we’re hungry.” 

Reasonable. It is after 11:00 and the children have not eaten breakfast. Whip up some vittles and decide to address the seemingly innocuous homework assignment.  The wee boy is supposed to practice writing the number 15. How hard can that be? You can’t imagine!  The next task, however, was akin to building Rome in a day. 

The chore was to spread cards numbered 0-20 on the ground and the boy was to order them in a line. Im-fucking-possible. Clearly, home schooling is not an option.  In a fit of impatience I stalk back to bed.

Of course, I had just gotten in the bed when The Professor returned home to find the children trying to teach themselves while I lay in bed.  Trying to explain that I have had no quality time, I look pathetic. All The Professor sees is me in bed – where he last saw me four hours prior.

Later in the afternoon I come to grips with the fact that there will be no lolling in the bed. Drawing a big bath, I dump loads of smelly bath salts in hopes of stewing myself in sweet scents that will overcome my nasty disposition.

“Mom, can I take a bath with you?” NO!

Stomp. Slam. I hate you.

“Honey, I’m sorry. I just meant that I needed to take a bath by myself because it was going to be really hot and I wanted to relax. You can get in.  Please forgive me. I didn’t mean to sound like I was rejecting you.”

Opening the door, she yells, “You are not my friend. I’m not letting you read to me at night. Only Daddy can read to me.” Darn.

Well, at least I can enjoy the bath alone? Nope. The boy child kneels at the side of the tub making X’s and T’s out of the bobby pins I took out of my hair.

“Mom, look. What’s this one?  Mom, you’re not looking. Is this a T or an X? Mooooom, LOOK.”

For the love of Christ.

The girl with the hurt feelings is warming as she comes out of her room and stands in the bathroom door to goad,

“The 8-ball says ‘doubtful’ that I will ever forgive you!”

I sure wish you could forgive me.

Stripping off her clothes and holding the 8-ball, the girl imagines that I am luring her into the bath. “Well, ask the 8-ball one more time if I can forgive you.” She’s gonna be easy like me.

After a relaxing bath with a six-year old and her strawberry bath foam, I head downstairs to find that The Professor has dropped and broken a 10-gallon bottle of water on the floor.  Is there a demon in the house?  Has someone put a curse on me?

A few games of checkers and Hi-Ho Cherry-O followed by a meager dinner, I count the minutes until my 8:00 pm massage. Yes, people, I have a masseur that works odd hours. He’s great, too. I’ve gone to him for 17 years and he still charges me early 90’s prices. 

Slipping a coat over my pajamas I forge into the cold rain. In moments I’ll be laying naked on a heated table while Masseur Man climbs into my shoulder blades with his whole body.  The entire day will be negated when my lower back revels in the wicked power of pain. However, there is one problem. Mr. Masseur stands me up.

Wandering the isles of the grocery store in my pajamas, it occurs to me that, Rhett, tomorrow is another day.

P.S. My friend and I were discussing our other friend who drops her kids off at school, goes home and watches Lifetime movies. She might take a walk or lunch with a friend. Maybe a little shopping, but nothing too aggressive. Why do I choose the hard road? There is no benefit. It's not like my work is meaningful.

This is what I’m thinking – urban development discriminates against family and most blatantly, married (old) women.  Family is the new Black. Remember the days of segregation (well, honestly, are they really over?) when the black family wasn’t welcome in the white neighborhood?  In 2K8, families are in the same predicament with respect to urban living– the land of urban coolness doesn’t welcome the family and hopes that the childbearing woman will pack herself into a box that could be slipped under the bed…in a suburban house, of course.

The Value wIT world headquarters is located in a historic neighborhood a smidge to the north of downtown Austin. Back in the 1830’s when Austin was called Waterloo, Value wIT’s neighborhood was named Original City. So much for history and nostalgia, the new urban development plan has a photograph of a bulldozer on the lawn of Value wIT’s office empire.  Save the protected historic homes, the neighborhood is going with the “vertical, mixed-used” strategy. This means high-rise condos with retail on the ground floor.  Sounds somewhat glamorous, however, practically VMU means shabbily built apartments with abandoned retail slots at street level.

Personally, luxury, swank high-rise living is appealing to me.  Big houses require too much maintenance. However, the urban land, or maybe just the Austin urban world, does not welcome families with small children. Sure, the occasional cute baby sleeping in an overpriced, over-designed stroller is a novelty at the coffee shop or bistro, but honestly, does the cozy café that is used as satellite office for the career set welcome the shrill and chaos associated with investigative children?  Nope. Where’s the school for the urban children? Where is the park – the one with a playscape not a concrete slab with an off-limits shrubbery garden connected to an office building?

Here’s the deal. Once the young, sexy woman gets married and breeds a pile of offspring she is no longer valuable in the work world – she’s a liability, a wildcard, the weak link who will miss work to sit with a sick child or attend a school performance. The same woman who used to be an a happy hour asset is now a spy for the other team – in other words, she might tell your wife, her friend, if you are spotted having an affair with the young office girl. No need for that. It’s off to the suburbs for the mother.

The suburban mother’s job is that of consumer. Buy shit for the house; buy the family a buttload of clothes; buy cars; decorate and re-decorate. Busy work that keeps the woman out of the cool urban land where single people and married people with no children are having a big party. A big party where high-rise living is quiet; grocery stores carry olives and not hot dogs; restaurants don’t have high chairs or chicken nuggets; and coffee shops don’t have a toy corner.

Some mothers love their ginormous house in the ‘burbs, the weekly Bunco game and a Brighton shopping spree. Certainly, the idea is that as a mother, I should move away from the urban coolness, and if I don’t, my house will be mowed-over by a wrecking ball. However, I’m not planning on budging. Furthermore, I love dragging my children into the flashy urban restaurant and feeding them 1/2 price appetizers from 5-7. It makes no difference to me if the patrons at the local coffee shop balk at my children hogging the big leather chairs, and I care not if my child rides his training-wheeled bike down the sidewalk while he wears a costume.

It’s generous to birth a child for the good of the world.  How will the world survive if the birth rate continues to plummet? All the double-income-no-kids couples who don’t have to save for college tuition or pay a nanny should be thanking me for my contribution ….and they should offer to babysit in their immaculately clean high-rise!

Picking the crusty goop off my eyelashes,  I swallow and remember that my throat is a rusty tunnel leading to my stomach, a pool filled with rehashed mucus. It’s light outside. Not night? Where am I? Shake of the head brings my pupils to the center of my eye sockets – it’s my bedroom. Good. Safe. The alarm clock, foreign and borrowed object, sits on my nightstand. Contacts are dry and glued to my eyeballs. Blink. Blur. Blink. Wet. Blink. Stare.

MOTHER FUCKER! It’s 7:11 a.m.!!! Must get out of bed. Pee children. Clothe children. Dress self. Feed children. Pack lunches. Grab reports. Children’s homework. Where? Dirty hair. Big zit – even though there are 19 minutes before departure, this must be taken care of.

“Please get up. Mommy overslept. I beg you. Put on your clothes. Please. I beg of you. Get out of that bed.”

Dress hanging on doorknob. Fine.

“Bless your heart. Thank you for putting on your clothes. You get all the inheritance.  Could you look for Mommy’s boots?”

Sunglasses. Lipstick.

“Eat this hot dog. It’s protein. Run to the car.”

Celery. Yogurt. Applesauce.  Sleeve of Girl Scout cookies. Lunch packed.

Making it from bed to school to in 19 minutes was an accomplishment, but it was only the start of what was an over-scheduled and over-promised day. Meetings. Answers. Presentations. Strategy.  What happened to the days of facials and shopping? Why did I offer to work? It is fun, but it’s so every day.

My fleshy pink lungs must be shriveled and covered in a sweater knit out o phlegm and NyQuil.  Babies and bosses do not comprehend sickness. They need. You give. Sickness. Doctors. Time wasters that don’t lead to results. Move forward. Make a play.

Workday fulfilled – one remaining performance before bedtime collapse.  It’s drinks with the friend who invites you to happy hour but you can never go because of early children’s suppers, bathtimes, homework and books before bed. After weeks of negotiations you arrive at the late afternoon compromise that she will come over for cocktails while you prepare dinner.

Racing to the store before the babysitter leaves, you find some English Beenleigh Blue cheese, a bottle of Moet and some perfect blackberries. The children are happy and sedate as they do homework by the fire while you plump the flowers and wait for your friend.

Still waiting.
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Children eat their dinner. You finish the champagne and consume the other sleeve of Girl Scout cookies for a total intake of 77 grams of fat -the equivalent of two Big Macs or almost four days worth of fat.

Izzy Rose, where were you?

The Professor is due to arrive around midnight long after the Ambien has kicked-in and the dreams have started. Tomorrow is another day, Scarlet.

Tomorrow morning the alarm clock will be on The Professor’s nightstand. When the clock beeps, he will unfailingly get out of bed and make a large latte that will erode the crust from my throat. Tomorrow The Professor will start the shower water that will be hot enough to melt any doubt from my soul.