No one told me!

I swear, kids should come with more detailed instructions.

I got out of work early today and met my friend at a park near her house (her town's facilities are so much nicer than the old-tennis-ball-tied-to-a-pole plaything in my town). There were little swings there—the kind with the holes for the legs—and I thought, "Hooray, Junior can swing!"

Then I thought, "Shit. Is Junior too little to swing? He’s almost a year but what if someone sees me putting my baby in the swing and calls DCF because the swings are meant for toddlers and here I am sticking my helpless child in the Jaws of Death?"

My friend, also being a first-time parent (but to a five-month-old), didn't know about swinging etiquette either. We actually looked on the bottom of the swing for age guidelines but—shocking—there were none.

Finally, we agreed that it was probably fine (the whole exchange took about 15 minutes; I've never felt so sketchy standing in front of a swing in my life).

So I took a deep breath and stuck Junior in the swing. And gave him a feeble push. And yes, I waited for someone to shout, "Are you freakin crazy putting a baby in that swing? You shouldn’t be a parent!"

Then another mother came along. She casually plopped her baby in a swing and then turned her attention to her toddler, who was eating the sand next to the swing set.

“Christ, Billy. No!”

She looked at me and my friend. What a pair we were: my friend clutching her baby, who was covered from head to toe so as to avoid any exposure to the sun—and sweating his miniscule nuts off—and me, hovering over Junior as he waited for the slightest breeze to add some excitement to his swinging (hell, I didn’t know how high I should push him! What if he got a stomach ache from swinging too high?)

She smiled. I had to ask.

“Um, when can you put babies in swings?”

“Whenever you want. I mean, as long as they can hold their heads up.”

I did the math. Poor Junior could have been swinging his heart out from age six months! All that missed swinging!

My friend shrugged her shoulders.

“Your kid’s fine,” she told me. Then she looked at me like I was a nutcase.

Freakish or not, I learned a valuable lesson today. And I do think someone should put together some kind of manual. If they don’t, Junior may be 55 before he tries the monkey bars.

Leave me alone

I'm in a bad mood today and, crazily enough, it has nothing to do with the male species and everything to do with the female: the ones who are supposed to be the nurturers, the healers, the nicey-nicers.

Nope.

To be more specific, I'm pointing my finger at the women in their forties and fifties who stayed home with their kids and are now back in the workforce a mere 20 years later for the sole reason of driving me insane with their f*&^ing questions.

“How aaaaaaaare you?”

“How is the baaaaaaaaaaaby?”

“Who is watching him?” (Instead of explaining the work-from-home dad/babysitter/grandma arrangement, I am going to start saying, “I’m not sure” and shrug my shoulders).

Look, my issue is not with the questions themselves. I remind myself that they come from a place of concern. It’s the way they’re posed—it reminds me of those bottomfeeder reporters on the news who ask a murdered victim’s family how they feel:

“How does it feel to see your slain brother lying on the sidewalk, knowing that the killer is probably sitting at Friendly’s right now eating a Jubilee ice cream roll while you and your family struggle to pick up the pieces?”

The absolute worst are the women who ask you the details of your workweek under the pretense of empathizing. Cut the shit. You don’t give a shit about my workweek. You just want to hear the dirty details so you can pat me on the shoulder and say, “I could never do what you do”—like I’m some kind of vigilant out there fighting for the greater good while you sit on your ass eating S’Mores and Spam, cuddling the wee ones by the fire.

I’m so brave. So tough.

Well screw you.

Who said having a child meant surrendering your entire self? Forgive me for liking adult interaction. For deriving a sense of purpose from professional accomplishments.

What happened to “Live and let live?” Or “Give me liberty or give me death?” (that was Patrick Henry and no, I’m not a history buff, I’m trying to lighten the mood—is it a little, um, hot in here?).

Can’t we all just hold hands and sing Koombaya?

More importantly, can’t we all just stop asking each other how we are?

Code red, code red!

My mother, Linda, arrived bright and bushy-tailed today in Mulletville to watch Junior. I was running out the door when she arrived, so Charles handed Junior off to her (which makes things a lot easier for me).

Around 10 a.m. I got a phone call.

“I’m trapped in the house. I can’t get out.”

“Mom? Is that you?”

“Your husband locked me in and turned on the alarm and didn’t leave me the code. I’d like to open a window if that’s all right. Your son and I are starving for some contact with the outdoors.”

My mother leans heavily towards the melodramatic. People aren’t thin, they’re emaciated. Junior doesn’t look tired, he looks like he’s about to collapse from fatigue.

I was surprised to find that the mental image of my mother and Junior locked in the house all day gave me immense pleasure, mainly because I was jealous that she got to spend the day with him while I pissed away my time at my stupid desk in my stupid office doing work I could really give a flying butt crack about.

“What’s the code? Hurry.”

“Hold on a minute, I’m trying to remember.”

I had a thought. What if I didn’t give her the code and she had to spend the entire day in the house with Junior? No walks with the stroller, no sitting out on the front steps to count mullets. Trapped inside all day, Junior could get cranky. Intolerable even.

“Should I call Charles?”

“No, I have it written down. Somewhere.” While I shuffled papers around I heard Junior shrieking in the background. Linda cooed to him.

“Has he had his nap?” I snapped.

“We’re just about to do that,” she sang.

I sighed. Even without the code and open windows she and Junior would be fine because when it comes to entertaining my child, my mother is the embodiment of Julie Andrews, the Energizer bunny, Mr. Rogers, Barney, and a puppy dog. Junior could spend ten years inside with Linda and he’d be just fine. A little neurotic and controlling and paranoid but juuuuust fine.

(Did I just describe myself by default?)

I gave her the code.

“Oh thank you. Thank you. I was starting to feel like...like that squirrel. Remember that squirrel that climbed into the chimney when you were in high school? When we were on vacation in Florida? Remember? It clawed all the windowpanes, down to the glass? You were dating Doug and he went through the house with that stupid baseball bat trying to find that poor squirrel?”

“Mom? I really have to go now.”

Like, duh

I learned an important lesson tonight:

Don't tickle your child while you're feeding him dinner.

Tickling while eating = choking.

Oh say can you see

There were some brilliant, dazzling fireworks in our living room this weekend.

Before I get to the explosions, let me preface with this: Charles and I agreed on Thursday that we would enjoy a few days of holiday picnics and that Sunday would be the Day to Get Things Done. We also agreed that we would take turns watching Junior whilst sharing the chores.

Key words here: sharing and agreeing.

Sunday morning I hopped out of bed and fed Junior. I even let Charles sleep in an extra hour. At nine I handed him Junior so I could vacuum the shit out of the upstairs. When I popped my head into the living room an hour later and found Charles zombied out to the Law and Order marathon while Junior played in his exersaucer, I was mildly annoyed.

I play with Junior. I don’t jingle toys in front of his face while staring at the TV.

Explosion #1. Some simple Roman candles. Standard sparklers. Nothing that would scare the kiddies.

An hour and a half later, after I had dusted and folded laundry and Charles was still enjoying Law and Order, I was profoundly—and justifiably—annoyed. And instead of calmly approaching him with this information I charged at him like a bull with burrs and hot sauce in his rectum.

“Enjoying your show?”

“Mmmmm. You almost done?”

Explosion #2. A stunning display of red, blue and purple. Loud, but not loud enough that you’d cover your ears.

Through clenched teeth I said: “Just about. Would you like to finish painting the sun porch while I watch Junior?”

“I kind of have a headache.”

“But it needs to get done. We said we would work on the house today. We agreed.”

“I know. I’ll do it later.”

Explosion #3. A more vibrant display of white, gold, and green. A few thundering booms. The sky was now smoking.

“Never mind. I’ll do it myself.”

I took a deep breath, stormed onto the sun porch, and started painting, all the while cursing my lazy ass, prima donna husband. The pelting sun and lack of oxygen didn’t help. By the time Charles came out to check on my progress I was dripping in sweat and hallucinating mirages.

He walked over to the window and pointed.

“You missed a spot.”

Explosion #4. The Grand Finale. Deafening bursts of color, cursing, and tears. Thrown brushes. White paint everywhere. The cats were now under the couch.

And here I was worried that the crummy weather would mean no fireworks.

Trust me

Our new neighbor just stopped over. I had just gotten home from work, just sent Junior's babysitter, Holly, on her way.

"I'm Peggy," the neighbor said, her crackly brown hair glinting in the sun.

Of course I was hesitant.

We've had some interesting neighbors in the two-family house next to us. First there was Lee, who took the bus from Mulletville to New Haven, where he went to college. He had a car but was trying to do his environmentally friendly part, which I applaud. But when he told us he was also heating his apartment with kerosene canisters, ala the ones you use for camping, Charles and I were a little nervous.

Lee was also an insomniac who had an affinity for pleasuring himself in the wee hours of the morning on his living room floor. He didn't like curtains and he loved candles. That really sucked because our kitchen looked right into his living room.

Trust me, when it's 3:30 a.m. and you're trying to heat up a bottle for a screaming infant, the last thing you want to see is some skinny, greasy granola guy tugging on his junk by candlelight.

Luckily Lee had a disagreement with the landlord and moved out on Halloween. Unluckily he was so angry with the landlord that he told all the sweet little Trick 'o Treaters just what he thought of her as he was moving his furniture from the house to his car.

Trust me, when it's your kid's first Halloween and he's crying because you dressed him up as a penguin and it's 75 degrees out, the last thing you want to see is some skinny, greasy granola guy yelling at kids who just want candy.

Anyhoo, Peggy told me that the neighborhood seemed nice.

“It is,” I said. “But be careful. We were just robbed.”

“Oh.”

She shook her head and smiled.

“In the middle of the day. Someone broke in.”

“Mmmhmm.”

“They took our stuff. We…are…very…scared...now.”

“Mmmm.”

“I’d make sure you lock your doors.”

“Great.”

It struck me: the woman’s brain was caterpillars and marshmallow. Maybe some poppy seeds.

“Nice to meet you,” I said. Then I backed slowly away.

When Charles gets home I am going to tell him about Peggy and he’s going to say he misses Lee. At least Lee had some character. And then I am going to suggest—again—that we put the house on the market.

Hump Day

Day 2.

This is going to take some getting used to.

In addition to the terrible pangs I am getting for Junior—who seems to be handling this new arrangement a lot better than I— noxious office chatter is slowly eating my insides…

For instance, Kim informed everyone standing by the photo copier that she learned more from watching HBO’s series John Adams than she did from all her years of social studies in high school. And she was pissed about it!

“I never knew John Adams’ wife was depressed!” (Unfortunately she just got braces so her statement actually sounded more like, “I schnever schknew John schladams slwife schlwas dseplessed!”

Things I also learned from Kim today:

She’s having leftover fish for dinner. It was fine last night, it’ll be fine tonight.

If your neighbor moves and leaves behind all her farm animals, Animal Control still considers that neglect, even though domestic livestock falls under a different category than regular pets.

She likes the new packaging of the Kraft salad dressing (Kraft, if you’re reading this, Kim is your best candidate for a focus group). Call her vain but it makes eating salads more fun!

As weary as I am from listening to this drivel, it’s a nice distraction from the inquiries about my mental health. If they haven’t stopped by this afternoon I’m making a sign for my door that says, “If you ask me how I am doing/what arrangements I have made for childcare/how it feels to be back/if I miss my child I am going to punch your effin lights out.”

Ah Hump Day!