Bad Mamallama

DH is out of town for a few days, so here I am playing super-Mommy all by my lonesome. I love my children, more than my life, but for the love of God, how many times do you have to tell someone not to talk with food in their mouths? Recidivism is probably only encouraged by the fact that I have to talk with food in MY mouth in order to issue the correction. Mayhap it’s time for the Fist of Death. Or, as I like to call it, Going To Bed Early. Closely followed by an emergency martini injection, for strictly medicinal purposes, of course. Sweet alcohol eases the pain…

Our daughter’s kindergarten presented their end-of-school-year “program” today. It’s like a cruel joke: “Congratulations! Your child has completed all but a few hours of kindergarten. Please help us celebrate by spending a morning with us in the First Circle of Hell!” The festivities began with a rousingly patriotic set of songs performed by the entire grade (our brainwashing dollars at work, not that there’s anything wrong with that), followed by each child receiving a “certificate of kindergarten participation” and a handshake from the principal. Oooo-kay. I’m glad to see the school system is honoring the people actually responsible for my child’s “participation” (read: attending school most days, managing not to get expelled). What about the parents? If we’re going to be handing out certificates, I think the parents should get one, for managing to get our kids to school, keeping up with the homework (homework! in kindergarten!), reading through reams of paper from the school, returning permissions slips and checks and trying to parse the admin-speak in the school newsletter for some kernel of useful information… and don’t get me started on fixing lunch every day. “Mommy, for lunch today, I’d like an unlikely sandwich, and strawberry milk, and whatever fruit we just ran out of.”

So, back to the “celebration”: after the paper and handshakes had all been passed out (and the patience of the toddlers in the audience and their parents was at the breaking point), we retired to “our classroom” to listen to already-keyed-up kindergarteners sing insipid songs meant to hammer home basic concepts our child understood before the beginning of the school year. No wonder she’s been cranky — personally I would’ve started peeling my own skin off just to have something else to do. And then, the crowning glory — the class took turns reading “Love You Forever,” a modern classic children’s book which somehow manages to creep me out but still make me weepy. If you’ve never had the privilege of listening to little kids read, let me clue you in: most of them can’t. And all of them, even the ones who CAN read, are so embarrassed by the whole production that they’re quieter than their parents have ever heard them at home. Except our child. Upholding a fine family tradition, our child could be heard clearly by all assembled. Hmmm… wonder where she learned that?

And finally, after we were almost funned out, it was time for the piece de resistance: a hot dog cookout. Because what says “good job, kids!” more effectively than eating cheap, prepackaged food on a square of blisteringly hot, completely unshaded blacktop while their parents and siblings melt into fractious sweat puddles? Nothing, that’s what! (Oh, and let’s not forget the inviting, candy-like playground a few steps away that nobody was allowed to play on.) Good times.

Well, another year above-ground! Congratulations all around: my mother, for the initial work plus not killing me (and she might’ve gotten away with it, back before The Man made everybody get an SSN in utero to make sure none of us are heaven-forbid Undocumented); my father, for half the genetic material plus the above-mentioned non-killing; me, for managing to extend my early-established streak of not dying for a record thirty-seventh year! Oh, and of course, for my darling hubby and marvelous kiddies, for making this year’s celebration entirely lovely. Way to go, team!

Today is my daughter’s sixth birthday. She woke up this morning bursting at the seams, then vibrated her way through breakfast and off to school. Her three-year-old brother tried to sing “Happy Birthday” to her, but she, the Voice of Authority, told him, “we don’t do that ’til tonight.” Got it all figured out, she does — I vaguely remember being that smart once. Not recently, though. Anyway, it’s hard to believe she’s six, and harder still to believe that I am the mother of a six-year-old. She’s growing up so quickly, blah, blah, blah. Pass the martini glasses; the world is easier to take when I look through ‘em.

Today, I’d like to wish a happy birthday to my father. I’d like to, but he’s dead. Which, you have to admit, is pretty much the winner in any “Why My Father Doesn’t Speak to Me” contest. (And so much more convenient than being gay!) The most annoying thing about Daddy’s birthday (yes, I’m a Southern girl, we call our fathers “Daddy” ’til we die) is that within the past year, as in every year since his death (four and a half, but who’s counting?), I’ve come across numerous items that would make a perfect gift for him. He was extremely hard to buy for, and the fact that that is apparently no longer the case is pretty much the last grain of salt to rub in the wound on the camel’s back. Ah, well… if I’m wrong about things, and there is an afterlife (with blogs) after all: Happy Birthday, Daddy. I miss you.

So, I find myself suffering through a cleaning fit this morning (don’t worry, I’m sure it’ll wear off soon). I suspect the usual suspects (love it when I can use a word as both a noun and a verb in the same sentence): hormones, looming visitations (the friendly kind), Spring’s coming, etc. I’m thinking of writing to the folks who make the plastic shields for my PDA screen, to hip them to the untapped market for larger window screens. Say, one that would cover an entire window. Perhaps every window in my house. Yeah, that’d be sweet: dog nose prints? Just peel off the screen & replace it. Voila — clean windows! Surely I can’t be the only person who’s ever thought of this?

In a feat of computer wizardry that has shocked even the normally cynical and jaded amongst my household, I (the person with minimal time and not-so-updated computer skills) have managed to change my WordPress theme! I amaze myself sometimes. I was going to blog about last night, after The Changing actually took place, but I looked at the clock and it was past my bedtime, so off(line) I went. And if you think that didn’t make me feel old, think again.

Lately I’ve become a lot more aware of how limited my time is. Not just in a “gee, where does the time go?” kind of way, but in a more visceral, sand-giving-way-beneath-my-feet kind of way. As the song says, “every night the voice gets bolder.” The realization that my time remaining on Earth is limited isn’t new, of course, and certainly not unique. But I’m surprised at the physical immediacy of the knowledge, more like a constant sussurating whisper at the top of my spine than a daydreaming moment of insight. At the risk of seeming maudlin, hug your kids, make your mom a cake or something — time will get us all in the end, and life is literally too short to encompass all we wish for.

As I was having breakfast this morning, enjoying my off-brand Frosted Flakes in a sort of absent-minded way, I was treated to the following:

My one-and-a-half-year-old son came charging around the corner as fast as his little chubby legs could carry him, clutching something small in his hands. And screaming. Not an “I’m hurt and about to die and it’s your fault, Mommy!” screaming, but the special, highest-possible-pitch screaming he does when someone’s chasing him. At any moment, I expect all the dogs in the neighborhood to burst through my front door. Anyway, hot on his heels comes my four-year-old daughter, also running. And crying. As they rocket past me, I make out what my daughter is crying: “Bring back my hand! Bring baaaack my haaannnd!”

Now, I’m a little slow in the mornings, but I’m pretty sure I’d notice if one of my children was missing an appendage. Then my foggy brain put together the small thing in my son’s hand with my daughter’s complaint, and I realized he’d swiped her Mr. Potato Head hand and, being an immensely smart boy, made a run for it rather than stand and face the wrath. I immediately responded as any compassionate, caring and nurturing mother would: I laughed until I cried.

And then made him give back the hand.

Hey, kids — it’s time for the Thin-Skinned Rant!
Paul’s grandmother has been living here in town for about a year now. We’ve had her over for dinner frequently, watched movies (lately on our new enormo-screen TV), etc. So, now she’s moving to Florida, to live closer to her other daughter (the one that’s not Paul’s mom). Which is great — we’re very happy for her, and I’m sure she’ll be happier there than here. What’s bugging me just a bit is this: everyone keeps thanking us for “looking after her,” like it was some sort of chore to have your grandmother over for dinner once in a while. I mean, for goodness sake, it’s not like she’s even required any effort on our part (not that we wouldn’t have been happy to make an effort, were one required). I don’t mean to sound ungrateful; I know the people thanking us mean well, but frankly, it’s a bit annoying. Maybe I resent the unspoken (and undoubtedly non-existent) implication that we’re such selfish and insular bastards that we should be praised and petted for participating in anything resembling civil social interactions. I mean, anybody who knows us, knows that description only applies to me.

So… Paul and I watched The Phantom of the Opera last night (the new movie musical, not the 1925 b&w silent). Incredibly over-the-top direction (and not really in a good way), gorgeous sets, splendid costume design, and acting performances that ranged from spot-on (Minnie Driver as La Carlotta) to wooden (Emmy Rossum can sing, but that doe-eyed look only goes so far). I’m not sold on the score, although there were a few good songs; that sort of “this-would-be-small-talk-but-look-I’m-singing” style of lyric doesn’t really do anything for me. My four-year-old does that, with similar effect — that is, making me look for the “mute” button. The story of “Phantom” was carried along pretty well, with the ultra-lush romantic notes that have gotten so popular lately (Moulin Rouge, anyone?), leaving me to wonder: as a suburban housewife (it’s okay, I’m coming to grips with it), would I really want to be pursued as a love object by a deformed obsessive who’d stalked me since I was seven years old? Well, okay, maybe — but only because he looks better in eyeliner than I do. I suppose deep down, we’d all like to be the object of seduction, but I can’t help but think about the day-to-day problems with that relationship: who replaces the candles? Who dusts? (Actually, apparently, nobody dusts, so forget that one.) The big bonus for the Phantom, of course, is that Christine, having grown up in the opera house dorm, isn’t likely to be bringing along any significant personal belongings or unruly furniture that wouldn’t match his decor. And her pseudo-mom is already on board, so no disapproving mother-in-law problems!