About me: I'm a 40-something mother to a pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our tween Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler Cam, and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). I'm a freelance graphic designer and writer.
Monday, May 2, 2011
It's the easier concepts that are harder to grasp...
Once upon a time, in 1996, I was single and had my own apartment.
(God, that sounds heavenly.)
During that time, my diet consisted of cereal and beer. Occasionally I baked a cake. The directions always called for the batter to be mixed, but I refused to buy a whisk. I used a fork, and I'd spin it really, really fast. The batter was always lumpy and my wrist was sore but oh no, I was not going to buy a whisk.
For some reason, I had it in my head that whisks were reserved for bridal showers or wedding registries. I knew I'd get married someday (at least I hoped I would); ergo, I'd have a whisk someday.
Sometimes my mother helped me baked. She'd look at me quizzically as I handed her the fork, but she never said a word. She just got to work with the fork.
When I got married a decade later, I finally got that whisk. Who needs fine china? My kitchen was complete.
My mother happened to open my drawer one day and see it.
"Finally!" she said. "A fricken whisk."
"I know! I got it from Aunt Such-and-such."
"That's all you got from Aunt Such-and-such?"
"Because whisks are $5."
"They are?" I gasped. "I thought they were expensive. I thought that's why you registered for them."
"No, stupid. Is that why you haven't had a whisk all this time?"
"Yes. Why did you think I didn't have one?"
"I thought you had a whisk hang-up."
"Why would I have a hang-up about a whisk?"
"I don't know!"
"Why didn't you tell me they were only $5? Why?"
"I don't know!"
Once upon a time, in 2011, I was married and had another baby.
(God, I miss that apartment.)
During that time, the baby wanted to be rocked to sleep. He'd fuss and cry while lying flat, so I had the brilliant idea of putting him in his car carrier and swinging it with one arm. Sometimes in the middle of the night. For a long, long time. Sometimes for so long I got blisters.
Sometimes my mother helped me swing the baby. She'd look at me quizzically as I handed her the carrier, but she never said a word. She just got to work with the carrier.
For some reason, I continued to do this. Even though the carrier weighed 100 pounds and the baby weighed 15 and I was beginning to look like a body builder.
My mother happened to find me one day, assuming the pose (that's how it's known in the house: "assuming the pose." See?)
"Listen, jackass!" she said. "They make things that'll do that for you."
"You mean swing the baby?"
"Yes. Some of them are only $50."
"They are?" I gasped. "I thought they were really expensive."
"No. Is that why you've been swinging the kid all this time?"
"I don't know. I'm so tired I can't remember. Why didn't you tell me they were only $50? Why?"
"Because I'm actually getting some definition in my arms."
"Oh. Well, here. You can swing him then."
I went and took a nap. I'm not that slow, you know.
Now I need a swing. Or some hand balm.