I suddenly understand my fear of discos and showgirls

I did a lot of thinking over the weekend. And lots of rocking in the fetal position. But I think I'm ready to eat Nabisco cookies again.

It all started Friday morning, when Junior woke up and said, “I want to go to school! I want to go to school!” When he saw me getting ready for work, he said it again, so Chuck and I decided to let him try the pre-preschool thing for a full day. If I found myself crying about the zombies again, that would be it.

Amazingly, a new teacher greeted me—a friendly teacher. I took a big gulp, said good-bye to Junior, walked across the parking lot and went to work.

Of the three times I stopped in, Junior was happily playing each time. He even took a nap. When I picked him up at four, he cried because he didn’t want to leave.

Now, I’m pretty sure you don’t want play-by-play accounts of my two-and-a-half-year-old’s foray into daycare/pre-preschool/whatever the hell you want to call it, but some important things hit me on Friday's drive home, and I'd feel better if I documented them for future reference:

1) People who seem like zombies might actually just be adjusting to a brand new childcare facility and learning the ropes themselves

2) If it's the wrong time of the month, the realization that your child doesn't need you to be happy 24-7 can turn you into a sniveling disaster

3) I'm not a cute crier

4) My 10-minute drive to and from work is the only time I have entirely to myself

Another thing I realized—remembered, actually—was that when I was three my mother sent me to a babysitter who listened to Copacabana by Barry Manilow nonstop on her record player. The woman sat for other children, some older than I.

Every time I went there, my mother sent me with a box of assorted Nabisco cookies. After she left, the older kids would lock me in the basement and push the cookies they didn’t want under the door. Imagine sitting on a basement step in the dark and watching Lorna Doones pile up. All to Copacabana.

(My mother pulled me from the place soon after.)

After I told Chuck this, I suddenly understood my Mount Everest-sized anxiety about leaving Junior in someone else’s care. Yes, the teachers were a bit detached, but it wasn’t the horror scene I’d made it out to be. And when I reread my last post, I was a little embarrassed by my automatic rifle reaction. I shot up most of Mulletville with my mental bullets.

Kapow, zombie!

Tomorrow is a new day. Am I ready for Barry? Never. But can I lick the creamy center with reckless abandon?



No, no I can't. But only because someone told me it's made of lard.

I guess you could call frostbite and shrub lacerations dramatic

A pre-preschool and preschool opened up right next door to my office building. For a year I’ve watched it being constructed. Every time I imagined it completed, it had a golden hue and was blanketed by sparkly clouds and rainbows.

How ideal it would be to have a place for Junior to go a few days a week when Chuck gets a job, so we’re not relying solely on my mother. Or back-up if Chuck selfishly gets sick. Junior could make friends, sing songs and experience the toddler rite of passage: learning how to share.

So last week, Chuck and I went to the open house. The Director, Karen, dropped words I had never heard before. Words like “creative curriculum” and “dramatic play.” The center even imported a local grandma. “Without a mullet!” she promised.

By the time we were done, Chuck and I were so stuffed with fluffy kinder-speak I felt the need to stick my finger down my throat. Still, the sparkly clouds. Friends for Junior. Chuck and I agreed we would try a few hours each day this week to see how Junior acclimated.

Well, I’ve been to the land of the sparkly clouds, and I have one thing to say: zombies. The 20-year-old “teachers” are the biggest collection of apathetic, bored, disengaged zombies I’ve ever met. The first day, I thought Hmmm, maybe it’s just me. The third day, I tried rousing them with loud speech, like “I’M JUNIOR’S MOTHER! IT’S NICE TO SEE YOU ALL AGAIN! HELL-THE FUCK-O?”

By today, co-worker Judy was tired of listening to my incessant questions: Were my expectations too high? Was I overreacting because I’m a Junior zealot? Why isn’t parenting easier?

Judy suggested a stealth mission, to see if the teachers were more engaged when the parents weren’t around (because that’s so typical). When no one was looking, we escaped from work, snuck across the parking lot (again), climbed a shrub and looked in the window—in a snowstorm, I might add.

The teachers were sitting in the hallway, staring at the walls. The kids were roaming aimlessly. Even the imported grandma was zombied out! Granny, no! Junior was having a great time entertaining himself, but I was livid. Having someone neglect your child shouldn’t cost you money.

I went back to my office and called Karen the Director. She listened politely then explained that I must have observed “creative play” every time, which is uninterrupted, free play. She suggested I go back at a different time to observe “dramatic play” of dress-up and pretend.

“Would you like me to let them know when you’ll stop by?” she asked.

“Hah! And let you foil my plan to unsleuth your zombie workers? Never!”

Chuck had already picked up Junior, but Judy and I went back at three anyway. This time we managed the shrub better. We peeked in. The kids were staring vacantly at a boom box. I don’t expect anyone’s head to be up a child’s butt for seven hours a day but eye contact would be nice. Or that thing people do with their lips called smiling.

A few years ago, I might have let this go. But this place is brand new and next to my office. I can walk over and have lunch with Junior. He can ride to work with me. Plus, despite the zombie teachers, he loves it.

I want this to work for me, and I don’t give a shit if that means I have to write Joyce a letter a day.



I’m going to stop in every chance I get. I’m going to keep a written log. I'm going to be “that mom”—the one who’s like a burr in their asses. I’m not going to let a couple of bubble-brains—who clearly don’t enjoy children—ruin this just because the other parents are willing to accept mediocrity.

I am going to be someone who gets the hype she was promised. Vivacious granny and all! One for the people! Hip, hip, hooray!

(Oh God, please don’t check in next week when I write about how Junior’s back at home full-time with Chuck and there’s a restraining order again the “crazy shrub lady.” Ok?)

Wordless Wednesday: Put your pants in the godamn basket

Why, Chuck, why? The laundry basket is right there. It's purpose for being is so glaringly obvious. What crucial piece of this puzzle still eludes you?



(And no, he can't blame this on being sick. He's better.)

Aaagggh!

Gloating lesson #2: One should not brag that he is impervious to the germs of his wife and child

As I stood in the bathroom doorway tonight watching Chuck puke his brains out, the poet William Carlos Williams suddenly appeared to me. He said, "Mrs. Mullet, screw the wheelbarrow. It's time for a rewrite."

I give you:

The White Toilet

so much depends
upon

a vomiting
husband

glazed with clammy
sweat

who was supposed to
take out the garbage.

Dammit! I hate taking out the garbage.

He actually had the nerve to gloat about how many comments he got

Here I was, innocently having a weekend, when I sign into my blog and see my husband’s whiney blogpost. The nerve. This is my blog. It’s not Testicular Confessions in My Formula. It’s Frogs, dammit.

Though, thinking back, Chuck’s blog hijack doesn’t surprise me. He and Junior were out of sorts all day Friday—in that late-January, clawing the walls, cabin fevered kind of way. He actually brought Junior to my office at 4 p.m. to visit, just to get out of the house.

I went out to the parking lot to meet them, but it was clear Junior was still sick. His ears and cheeks were bright red. Snot ran down his lip. The only way he was leaving the car was in a bubble.

When Junior heard me tell Chuck he should probably just take him home, Junior flipped.

He started screaming, “I WANT TO GO INSIDE! I WANT TO GO INSIDE! I WANT TO GO INSIDE!” It wasn’t the typical toddler scream. It was bloodcurdling and ear shattering. He was hysterical.

It was awful.

“He’s still sick,” I told Chuck as we stood outside the car looking in at Junior.

“He’s just tired,” Chuck said.

“I WANT TO GO INSIDE! TAKE ME OUT! I WANT TO GO INSIDE!”

“He’s in no condition to see people.”

“He’s fine,” Chuck said.

“I WANT TO GO INSIDE! TAKE ME OUT! I HATE LIVING IN CONNECTICUT! THERE'S NOTHING TO DO IN WINTER! GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER AND MOVE ALREADY!* I WANT TO GO INSIDE!”

The parking lot security guard looked over.

“He needs to go home and rest,” I said.

“He’s just having a moment,” Chuck said.

“I WANT TO GO INSIDE! I WANT TO GO INSIDE! I WANT TO GO INSIDE!”

"If you don't do something soon, I'm going to have a moment," I said.

"Oh no, you don't get to have a moment before I have a moment."

The security guard walked over. “Everything all right here?” she asked, looking at Junior.

I said yes, of course. I was just beating my toddler at my place of work. Was that all right?

I told Chuck he had to see if Junior’s pediatrician would see him again. Junior’s been sick since before Christmas. I couldn’t take any more.

Besides, it was a Friday. Everyone knows what happens with sick children on Fridays: They always get worse over the weekend. It’s an unspoken law. The universe gets off on listening to parents’ frightened calls to the on-call doctor, because the on-call doctor is always the meanest, grumpiest son of a bitch in town. The conversation always goes like this: “So his fever is only 107 and the spots on his tongue are only erupting every two minutes? Grumble, grumble. You’re an idiot for calling. Click.”

So Chuck called the pediatrician, who agreed to see him. But when Junior saw that I wasn’t coming, he started wailing again. So Chuck grabbed me by the waist and threw me in the car.

What fun! An office break at 4:15. No purse. No jacket. No explanation to my boss as to why I’m nowhere to be found.

I won’t bore you with the details of Junior’s visit, except to say that I was right to say we should bring him in. I was right, I was right, I was right.

One shot of antibiotic later, we were all on our way merrily back to my office. (Did I mention I was right?) By then it was almost five o’clock. My co-workers were walking out to leave. I didn’t want to get caught getting dropped off, so Chuck pulled behind a snow mound in the back parking lot. I jumped out of the car, furrowed a hole through the mound and slid across the lot.



I felt like Swamp Thing. I was cold. My bra kept unfastening on me. I had to dive under cars to avoid being seen. I just wanted to go home and take care of Junior.

But. No one noticed I was gone. Not one person. Do you know what this means?

It means I can escape again.

*I may have taken some creative license with Junior's comments. I can do that because this is my blog.

A stay-at-home dad's worst nightmare

No, honey, you're wrong. A parent's worst nightmare is a cabin
fevered, ear achy-ed, "I want MY MOMMY not you!", toddler who throws a fit because his ice cube is floating IN his water and not ON TOP of his water. Hurry home.

Signed,
Chuck

P.S. Next time, you might want to sign out of your account before
heading into work.

A parent's worst nightmare

Junior and I were coloring and I offered to draw Thomas.



I'm no Picasso but I thought I'd done an okay job. Junior didn't think so. Junior said Thomas's tender was too small and that he wasn't on tracks.

Looks like I'm raising a know-it-all. Is there anything worse?

(And what the heck? Thomas is clearly better than my horse!)