Raw Drip

Amidst all the fluctuations, curve-balls, and general pandemonium that goes with raising kids, there’s almost some comfort to be found in the routine.  Almost…

As I see it, part of my job as a wife & mother is to be the manager of all the routines – the programmer, of sorts.  Being the family’s uber-programmer means that I run the same executables over and over again in an attempt to somehow, keep all the machines humming and maybe, along the way, install my legacy in my children’s memory.  

But being the ultimate systems programmer is an unglamorous role.  Everyone blames you when the programs fail.  They all look to you for answers when something goes awry, as if you have magical mom code up your shirt sleeves.  And despite my uber-programmer rep and a fair amount of effort on my part, there are some programs I’ve simply been unable to fix or delete.  For instance:

The “Throwing My Sib Under the Bus” Routine

Being “thrown under the bus” is an oft-used metaphor from reality TV and corporate America, but it seems sadly apropos in my household.  Since Dick and I began starving the children, they’ve been forced to take radical action to survive. Like little refugees hiding from the Nazis, my children have begun stealing food and then hiding the evidence under their beds.  In the early morning hours, they quietly sneak into the kitchen and use a precarious contraption of over-turned boxes and stacked chairs to climb up and retrieve snacks from the top shelf of the pantry.  Once they’ve retrieved the booty, they make off to their rooms and, presumably, cram the contraband into their hungry little pie holes – poorly concealing the evidence under their beds. Later, when I’m changing their sheets or looking for my missing stash of Baked Doritos, I’ll find the shredded wrappers and tell-tale crumbs.  In the ensuing confrontation, the accusations fly in an annoying sib-routine that endlessly loops as follows:

Me: What’s up with the snack wrappers under your bed, Adam?

Mini-robot Adam: What snack whappews?

Me: These… (holding up the evidence)

Mini-robot Adam: Tabitha put that undew my bed.

Mini-robot Tabitha: No I didn’t!

Me: Look, I don’t care who did what.  You guys both know better than to get snacks out of the kitchen without permission.

Mini-robot Tabitha:  But, I didn’t do that, Mama.  Adam get up on the chairs and he get the snacks.  I told him, “you’re not supposed to be in the kitchen, but he’s not a good listener.”

Mini-robot Adam: No! I didn’t do that!  Tabitha got the snacks and bwought them to my woom whiwe I was sweeping.

Me: Lemme guess what happened next – she woke you up and forced you to eat them with her, too?

Mini-robot Adam: Uh, yeah that’s what happened…

~Verdict: RESTART UNPRODUCTIVE CONVERSATION AT LINE  0~

The “Dick Can’t Find The Recycle Bin” Routine

In past posts I’ve written about my husband’s inability to observe, learn from his surroundings, and adjust accordingly to the aforementioned fluctuations of life. Like a robot who’s been programmed to perform a set of specific tasks, he’s fine as long as the routine stays roughly the same.  But the moment something’s changed in the routine, nothing short of a re-boot to the ass, is going to restart the operating system and run the new program.  Of course, there are times when it’s obvious to me that the robot is unable run the new program, regardless of how many times I “boot” the OS.

Case in point: the robot husband’s ongoing inability to find the recycle bins.  Why, oh why am I still surprised to wake up in the morning and find the following scene on my kitchen desk?  

Why in God’s name are there always recyclables piled on my workspace?  The recycle bins are located through the garage door to the left of my desk.  I moved them closer to the kitchen about 9 months ago in an effort to circumvent this type of laziness.  Nonetheless, the “new” location of the recycle bins has confused the robot husband leaving him back at the command prompt and leaving me annoyed, frustrated, and confused.

When confronted, the robot will default to one of three responses: A) claim complete ignorance of the fact that we own recycle bins, B) claim that he never intended to leave them on my desk or C) accuse me of “hiding” the recycle bins from him in an attempt to make him look bad.   I haven’t yet located the faulty decision tree that is responsible for these infuriating responses.  

Despite offering guided tours to the site of the recycle bins, providing pleasant reminders, and not so pleasant reminders – including a pathetically passive-aggressive attempt at making a point by relocating the robot’s misplaced recyclables to his desk chair – the robot husband, is unable to resolve the location of the recycle bins and I’m left schlepping the recyclables the additional 5 ft.  Damn environment…

Of course the icing on the cake is finding one of these nearby.

~Verdict:  OLD TECH. ROBOT REBOOT REQUIRED~

The “I have two full-time jobs with no time-off” Routine

About two weeks ago I woke up one morning with swollen glands in my neck and a general feeling of dread.  As the day wore on, body aches and fever confirmed all my worst suspicions – I was sick – again.  This time it was a case of strep throat that completely knocked me on my butt.  Normally, I would’ve taken the required time off to heal, but with nearly no vacation time left (I dared to use vacation days around the holidays for (gasp!) vacation), I was left to work out of my sick bed - popsicles, antibiotics, and ibuprofen my only companions as I tried to design a training program, attend meetings, and juggle deliverables with almost no time, no energy, and an infectious disease.  I know my story is not unique.

Of course, the only thing that can make this routine more fun is for my bacteria to be spread to my children, right?

Adam looked flush the other morning as I was getting him dressed for school.  I felt his forehead and then put my hand on the back of his neck – he was burning up.  After confirming he had a temperature, I quizzed him on how he felt.  He said he felt like, “Thewe’s someting stuck in my thwoat.”  Cue the phone call to my manager to explain my situation – again.

Now, I’m not a totally selfish individual (mostly selfish, maybe…), of course I’m sad for my poor kid who’s suffering  and miserable with a serious infection, but the fact remains that I’ve got to be the “special needs employee” again and ask for the papal dispensation to be a telecommuter for a few more days.  

Tabitha, naturally, hasn’t yet had strep throat but I’m sure week 3 of January 2009 will give her a chance at misery, and her mommy another chance to rack up more PITA points with the boss.  So much for keeping the machine running…

~Verdict: VIRUS DETECTED. REINSTALL NEW IMMUNE SYSTEM~

*****

For an uber-programmer/mom, I feel awfully clueless most of the time.  I wish I knew how to re-program all the variables to end up with a life that was a little less complicated; one filled with more certainty and fewer surprises. Instead chaos seems to be the only certainty in my life and I suspect it’s the programmer who needs to re-boot.  The sooner I abandon my belief that better commands are the key to controlling all the variables, the sooner I can get to work gathering requirements for the next version of  the family operating system.  Thankfully, our architectural framework is fundamentally sound and I have a plenty of fellow mom programmers who are more than ready to contribute code since being a wife and mother really does seem to be the ultimate open source community.

 

 

 

 

I think most women own at least one pair of what I now call “princess shoes”. In case an explanation of the term is necessary: princess shoes are shoes that are enchantingly lovely on their own, but when you put them on, you feel transformed into a more beautiful, regal or chic version of yourself. In many cases princess shoes are also known as “15 minute shoes”; shoes that are so gorgeous they’re worth the pain but, realistically, the longest you can wear them while vertical is about 15 minutes.

Tabitha was gifted with her first pair of princess shoes this past Xmas. Next to her stocking Santa placed the precise pair of hot pink, glitter-covered ballerina shoes that she’d been covetting for the past 6 months. The rest of her stocking’s contents were a blur to her the moment she laid eyes on all that glittering girlishness. And when she slipped them on her feet, I looked up from my seat and instantly recognized the sparkle in her eyes.

Unfortunately Tabitha’s new princess shoes are also 15 minute shoes and they soon exacted a toll upon their wearer. Within several hours, she began to complain that her heels were hurting. When Dick suggested she take them off and let her feet rest for a while, a horrified expression crossed her face. Remove princess shoes? What heresy! After she began limping and holding back tears, I stepped in and forcefully removed her beloved princess shoes. I explained to her that some shoes take a while to become comfortable. I wanted to start giving her all my secrets for surviving princess shoes – like always have a back-up pair that will work with your outfit – but Tabitha’s 3 and we have plenty of time to learn these lessons. Or so I thought.

For a week following her first encounter with the princess shoes the raw blisters on Tabitha’s fleshy pink heels caused every bath to be an excruciating experience, and don’t even get me started on the morning shoe selection process – pure agony – and that was just for the rest of us. Despite the painful injuries inflicted upon her by the princess shoes, every dalliance into the topic of footwear became a battle royal with Tabitha pitching a screaming fit, demanding that she be accessorized with her princess shoes while I tried in vain distract her as I slipped her Crocs onto her injured feet. Naturally, Dick found Tabitha’s masochistic obsession with the princess shoes utterly bizarre. To him, and most heterosexual men I’ve known, shoes are a necessity required for safety and comfort and not much else. The notion that someone would choose to purchase, let alone wear shoes that were neither safe nor comfortable just does not compute.

I’m finding it hard to explain the whole complicated relationship between females and footwear. I guess my easy answer is that shoes are like porn. The right pair of shoes can spark our imagination, allowing us the temporary illusion that we’re far more sexually desirable and thus, powerful, than we probably are. The illusion (or delusions) one can acheive with the right pair of shoes puts the high in high heels.

*****

Nearly one week after Xmas, Dick and I were planning our New Years Eve festivities and subsequent attire. Dick selected a loose-fitting black & tan print button down shirt, black trousers and sensible black loafers. I wore a diaphanous silk blouse with a sweetheart neckline trimmed in black lace, black wide leg trousers, chandelier earrings, and the perfect accessory – my insensible Betsy Johnson capiz shell encrusted stiletto heels.

Covered in a gorgeous pearlescent snakeskin and featuring dainty 4 inch heels, these shoes actually have to be positioned on my size 11 foot, rather than worn. At 6 feet tall, I don’t need the additional 4 inches the heels give me – in fact, I’m sure they make me look a bit freakish, but part of me is certain that the luxurious clicking of the capiz shells against the tops of my feet as I walk by tells everyone within earshot, “Hey, check out the sexy babe in the shoes.”

Realistically, I’m sure I teeter in my princess shoes rather than walk – like an elephant using toothpicks for stilts. I’m sure it’s ridiculous to behold me since, they’re technically a size too small so the normal balancing act one does in 4 inch heels is made all the more precarious with a bit of heel hanging over the back of the shoe – just enough to throw off my center of gravity and provide abundant opportunities for public humiliation.

(Did I mention that the restaurant we chose to dine in has notoriously over-lacquered, slick wood floors throughout?)

Within a few moments of arriving at the venue my princess shoes were beginning to take their toll on my feet. The projected 15 minute wait turned into 20 and then 40. The packed exterior bar was completely lacking in seating so we were forced to stand around a pub table, occasionally leaning in to alleviate some foot pressure. Just as I was starting to enter into panic mode planning Dick’s hasty retreat to the car to fetch my back-up shoes, the waitress called our party’s name. Entering the foyer, I clung to Dick’s arm like a blind person to the tether for their seeing-eye dog. In a hushed voice I warned him that our marriage was on the line if he allowed me to slip and fall on the highly polished floors.

A few steps from the hostess station, my princess shoes slipped across a particularly slick patch of lacquered flooring, nearly felling me into the ample cleavage of our gleaming hostess. Thankfully, Dick’s arm tensed in tune with my hydroplaning, acting as a counter-balance, and I was able to make my odd flailing look like more of a “hi, glad to see you” lean forward rather than a “can I see your tits up close, please?” borderline sexual assault.

With crisis narrowly averted I began to relax, thinking about the prospect only mere moments away of floating gracefully into my dinner chair, dining on delicious food and takin’ a load off my barking dogs – at least for an hour or so.

The busty hostess in her own princess shoes, teetered along ahead of our party, menus in hands. Just as she slowed to drop them on a nearby table, she abruptly changed course and steered our party towards the back of the restaurant. My mind reeled at the possibilities. Never did a restaurant seem more huge or more perilous. Trays of hot food, old people in walkers, drunken patrons – all significant obstacles to be navigated on their own, but only more perilous when one factors in the skating rink slick floor.

I realized that there was no way Dick could stand beside me all the way to the table; we’d have to go single file to get through the crowds. All he could do was follow closely behind me and play catcher in case I started to fall backward. But a spectacular side fall, split, or forward spill left me totally unprotected.

“Tiny steps, tiny steps, all the way there,” I repeated as I focused on wearing a “normal” expression to mask the immense focus required to stay upright.

Just as we made our final right turn towards the table, my left heel wobbled and then skidded ominously on the slick floor and I extended a hand, prepared to take a happy patron down with me if necessary. Behind me, the rest of our party followed, many of the women navigating the same dangerous curve with the utmost care.

Finally, the hostess was just ahead, placing our menus at our seats.

“Almost there…almost there.”

Splat.

It wasn’t me. Another woman at the end of the aisle, wearing her princess shoes slipped and fell spectacularly into a table of diners.

Masking my horror with a veneer of non-chalance, I took my seat at the table and breathed a sigh of relief as I took a sip of my water and watched the chaos around me from the comfort of my new most favorite chair. I started to take another sip, but paused. To be on the safe side, I never took another sip of water that night. No need to tempt fate with a full bladder. A solo trip to the restroom was SO NOT going to happen in my princess shoes…

*****

I’m glad to report that the evening was a success. I even made it back through the restaurant, and walked down to a nearby bar for drinks – all without incident. For a change, no major injuries were received and my princess shoes garnered several compliments from other ladies in the restaurant. Later, at home, I inspected the damage to my feet and learned I only had two tiny cuts from an errant capiz shell which became trapped next to my baby toe, aside from that, no spills, falls, slides, twists, dives, or blood-letting. Pretty impressive considering what I was up against as far as traffic obstacles. Like the regular guy who finally musters the courage to hit on the super hot girl – a girl who doesn’t necessarily welcome his advances, but doesn’t completely shut him down either – I feel emboldened by my latest encounter with the princess shoes. In fact, I’m already looking forward to the next time I can put on those fabulous, strappy shoes and get my princess on.

As for Tabitha, over her father’s objections I’ve been letting her wear her princess shoes to school with the understanding that she must have a pair of sensible, comfortable shoes in her backpack. Inevitably, she makes it to about mid-day in her princess shoes before she begins limping and her teachers force her to put on her back-up pair. Sometimes, I worry about the message I’m sending – that it’s okay to “suffer for beauty”. I mean, she’s 3; she’s got a few more years yet before the peer pressure sets in. Still, Dick worries that her princess shoes are really just training heels for stilettos, but I’m less pessimistic and more conflicted about the whole thing. I think all we can do as parents is try to lavish her with more praise for her sensible choices than we do for her charm and good looks, and hope for the best.

The allure of the princess shoes will be hard to combat with logic and words. Everytime she puts them on, the magical effects of self-confidence lights her delicate face, enhancing her already beautiful features. It’s clear to me that my princess and her shoes belong together and how beautiful she feels wearing them today, may play a bigger part in how she feels about herself tomorrow – bigger than my reassurances ever could. I only wish I knew which of my words, if any, are the magic words to make the pain of blisters or worse, the blistering pain of self-doubt disappear.

I’m always trying to forecast the effects of our parenting influence on our children – no doubt a futile grasp at reason amidst the insanity. All we can hope for is that, maybe, just knowing that Dick and I are her comfortable back-up pair who will keep her feet on the ground in whatever shoes she’s wearing.

I’d always assumed by this age I’d be much smarter.  But instead, I’m just me – smart enough to know what I know well, but not so smart to see right through the lies of a clever 4 year old boy, or the pitch of a door-to-door salesman selling a lovely bridge in Brooklyn.  I’m an incredibly easy mark, California friendly, always eager to chat, and even more eager to believe whatever you’re saying.  My years spent hanging out with my total opposite, the ultimate skeptic otherwise known as Dick, have made me slightly more on guard than I was in my youth, but by and large I’m a little lamb ready to show you the way to the nearest slaughterhouse if you seem nice enough.

Of course, the experience of parenting is the ideal slaughterhouse for lambs.  While I may not be getting any wiser in my old age, having a kid who’s thisclose to being smarter by age 6 than I’ll ever be, is really forcing me to stay on my toes (something I tend to avoid doing unless there are a really fetching pair of heals to support me).  But there’s no hiding my gullibility from Adam; he’s on to me and much like his father, all too keen on exploiting my weaknesses for his twisted amusement.

For instance, on the way home from daycare today Adam told me, out of the blue, that he’s changing classrooms.

“I’m moving into Miss Jessie’s cwass in Febwuawy.”

“What?  Who’s Miss Jessie?  Why are you being moved?  Is she nicer than Miss Melissa?”

“Miss Jessie’s nice.  She’s the new teachew.  I’m going to move to hew cwass in Febwuawy.”

“But, why?  Have you been being a really good boy lately, or something?”, I ask hoping against hope that he’s somehow managed to change labels with the teaching staff from “challenging, but smart” to “delightful, and hungry for learning.”

“No. I have to go to the new cwasswoom because Miss Mewissa is weaving.”

“Awww.  I’m sorry to hear that.  We’re sure going to miss her…”, I say ducking from what is surely the incoming lightning bolt sent to strike me down for telling such a whopper.

“Are your friends going to Miss Jessie’s class with you?”

“No. It’s just going to be me and Johnathan.”

Hearing this, my heart falls into my stomach.  If there’s one thing, as a parent, that I never want to hear it’s that my borderline good kid is being grouped with the school’s most notorious trouble-maker.  Johnathan’s well-documented antics are like the seductive dance of a flame to a moth; Adam can’t resist.  Whenever the two of them get together, an injury, an angry note home, or an emergency parent/teacher conference is sure to follow.

“You and Johnathan are going to some new classroom, with a brand new teacher – one with no clue what kind of explosive materials she’s playing with here?  Where are the rest of your friends going?”

“They’we going to outew space with Miss Mewissa.”

“Pardon?”

“Mommy, I said, they’we going to outew space with Miss Mewissa,” he yelled from the back seat.

I turned back and looked him in the eye.  The mischief was poorly concealed, leaping through his sparkling blue eyes. As the truth became apparent to me, his rosy lips parted into an enormous smile and the belly laugh he’d no doubt been suppressing for the last several minutes finally escaped from him in spasms of gut-busting delight.

“Outer space?  Miss Melissa is going to outer space? Uh, I think you’ve been teasing me…”

“Yeah.  Miss Mewissa isn’t going to outew space.  She doesn’t dwive a wocket ship to schoow – only a twuck,” he said as if the idea was the most ridiculous thing anyone ever said.

“So, are you going to Miss Jessie’s class in February?  Is there even a person named Miss Jessie or did you make that part up, too?”

I never did hear an answer to my questions.  As we pulled into the driveway, the spasms of laughter gave way to a multi-syllabic belch delivered with an impressive amount of gusto.  

“I buwped – ewwww – gross!  I’m totawy disgusting, Mommy.”

“Yes you are.  I think you’re totally cute, but I see right through you.  Now go inside and work on your story for Daddy.  You’re going to have to keep it going a lot longer if you want him to buy it.  He’s much smarter than I am…”