Random Tuesday Thoughts: Cockadoodle Do Me

Junior's preschool teacher never emailed me drop-off tips. Thanks, lady. But I was able to arm myself with the wise tips from the blogosphere instead. Since I'm writing this Tuesday morning before drop-off, I have no idea how it'll go, but I have the utmost faith in the "dump and run" maneuver.

That reminds me of "pump and dump." Crap. I hated the pump. Whoever organized this photo shoot and told the woman to look longingly at the pump is on crack.



This is more accurate.



Our copier repair man has a rooster named Dump. Ask me why I know that. Go on. Because he spent a good part of yesterday morning telling me how his rooster Dump had its way with all his chickens, and how he and his son watched.

Ah, barnyard porn.

If you like roosters but not in that way, you have to check out Julia's new book, Bingo's New Adventure. The book chronicles a day in the life of Bingo the cat. Junior loves it, especially the full color pictures (Julia's got some pretty awesome pictures on her blog, too). Bingo encounters another cat, some chickens and a big ole rooster. Junior has actually taken to running around the house yelling, "I'm Bingo! The Mighty Adventurer!" The book offers a great taste of the outdoors for kids.

Exactly one year ago today I was lamenting the fact that I've had an idea for a children's book for 10 years (I was also contemplating getting naked) and have yet to commit it to paper.

Now it's 11. Damn, that's depressing.

But I have a valid excuse for procrastinating, at least for the next month. There are two For Sale signs in my life. If Chuck and I play our cards right there may be three. Are the Mullets leaving Mulletville? Are they becoming Mulletville slumlords? Where will they put the roosters? Where?

Hell if I know.

See what she just did? Myah, don't do that. Or that. Or good God, THAT

If there’s one thing Mulletville has going for it, it’s a plethora of daycares and preschools. I’m not sure why there are so many, since most of the town’s residents seem to do nothing but walk around half-dressed, drinking from wine bottles. Oh wait, I just answered my own question.

After the first daycare disaster, I’ve been diligently interviewing the staffs of other providers (remember the polygamist sect?). Chuck and I figure that having Junior attend preschool two days a week will prepare Junior for when Chuck goes back to work. We also thought that Junior, a friendly and outgoing three-year-old, might like to go to school and socialize with kids his own age.

Isn't that always a parental concern? That your kid's not gluing enough macaroni to paper?

Finally, after months of searching, I found it: the preschool of all preschools. I practically cried when the nice, non-yelling teacher ran me through a typical day: Live animals to pet, teddy bear picnics, pirate parades. No bowling. It’s close to my work. It’s safe and clean. It is an establishment that has no business being in Mulletville.

I love it.

The problem is, it’s only been two weeks and, to put it mildly, Junior isn’t too juiced about going. To make matters worse, I’m making matters worse in the way I handle it. In fact, if someone could have taped yesterday’s drop off, they could have used it as an educational video for what not to do when dropping your kid off at school.

On the drive in, Junior kept saying that he didn’t want to go. I tried to be cheery about the day’s activities—“Painting, Junior! Circle time! Toys and friends and slides! Fuck yes!”

Perhaps I oversold the experience. The kid’s too smart; I’m sure he could sense my desperation a mile away. Chuck was out of town. My mom was away. I needed Junior to go to school.

When we got to the classroom, Junior clung to my leg. Then he tried to hide under my skirt. “I want to go home!” he cried. I tried to distract him. We picked a toy. He wanted me to stay and play. I tried to get another kid to play with him. Five minutes passed. Ten minutes...

“I want to go home!”

“Junior, you can’t. It’s a school day.”

“I want to go home!”

“Let’s pick a toy you can play with.”

“I want to go home!”

The teacher inched her way over. She nodded for me to leave. I started to, but when Junior ran towards me, I caved and went back. I picked him up.

“I want to go home!”

“Junior, you can’t. It’s a school day.”

We went outside and took a little walk.

“I want to go home!”

“Your friends want to play with you.”

“No, I want to go home! I’m tired. I miss the kitty cats.”

Frick.

We went back to the classroom. I asked the teacher what to do. She told me to say goodbye and leave; he’d recover. So I said goodbye and left. Then, madness. He threw himself against the glass door and screamed bloody murder. He tried the door handle. He kicked. It was very unlike Junior. Except for a few meltdowns, he’s usually pretty low-key. He’s a sweet kid. To the parents watching from the hallway, he looked like he was possessed.

I started to walk down the hallway, but I could still hear him screaming. I couldn’t do it.

I went back and got him, then I called in sick. On the drive home he said, “See, Mommy? I just wanted to go home. I’ll go next time. I'm sorry.”

I’m floundering here. At the other daycare, it was easy to blame Junior’s unhappiness on them. They were horrible. Now, there’s no reason for him not to like it.

Of course, I’m looking at it through an adult’s eyes. I have 35 years of coping skills upon which to draw. To Junior, who’s been home with me, Chuck and grandparents for the last three years, the classroom probably seems frightening and overwhelming. The state-approved ratio of student to teacher is 10-1. He has to go from being an at-home super star to one of the herd.

As my mother put it, “It’s kind of like breaking in a wild animal.”

Lovely.

To some of my friends whose kids have been in daycare since four months, all of this is old hat. Their kids are seasoned professionals with schedules and classroom etiquette. I never thought I’d feel this way, but I do: It’s like I put Junior at a disadvantage by not enrolling him in daycare sooner. He’s suddenly the odd man out. The kids in the classroom look at him like “What’s the problem?”

Isn't he adjusting to what all kids eventually need to adjust to?

I’m dreading next week. I don’t want to botch up the drop off. The teacher is emailing me suggestions on how to handle it. I keep asking myself, What if Junior’s just not ready? Or what if I’m the one who’s not ready? As we spent the day together yesterday I thought, This is where I want to be: Home.

You know, what my kid said.

Should it be a secret forever?

Hypothetically speaking, if, by some act of God, Chuck and I were able to leave Mulletville say, in the next few months, and I'd no longer be a Mulletville-ite, would you want to know the true identity of the town? Or would it be like when you read what you think is a picture-less book and you conjure up mental images of people and places, and you get to page 82 and there's a lame drawing that messes up all the cool stuff you had going on in your head? And you scream, "Noooooooooo! Betsy Bendover does not have a crooked nose and buck teeth, dammit!"

If you don't live in Connecticut or New England or the United States (hello, random reader in Finland!), I understand the information will be as intriguing as finding out that an ant chews on the left side of its mouth, not the right, but still...would you want to know? Cause some days the thought of exposing Mulletville is as delightful as the thought of mooning my boss.

P.S. Congrats to VandyJ, who won the Tommee Tippee 2-Pack Explora Truly Spill Proof Sippy Cups. Yeehaw!

Yo bitches, check out my daddy bling

I almost died laughing this morning when I heard the NBC Today Show announcer exclaim, “Up next: The rise of the stay-at-home husband. Is this the new status symbol for alpha women?”

Since I had to drag my alpha ass to work, I was unable to watch the segment. But I did read it online.

With great interest.

As many of you know, Chuck has been a stay-at-home dad for a year and a half. Like the article states, there was a serious adjustment phase. For awhile there, I worried I might grow a penis and facial hair. I wished Chuck would get hit by a truck. I dreamed Chuck was riding bitch.

But never, EVER did I feel that “having a househusband may, in a way, be the ultimate status symbol for the successful professional woman."

Ah yes, my husband. He’s right up there with my Gucci handbag.

In the article, Diane Sollee, director of the Coalition for Marriage, Family and Couples Education and smartmarriages.com says, “In a way, it’s almost like bragging for a woman to say she has a stay-at-home husband. Not only is she the breadwinner...but she’s also got this highly evolved male person—a feminist, father, and husband who doesn’t care what the gender roles are. It’s really an elevated life-form.” For the hard-driving careerist mother, a husband who’s willing to take up the lion’s share at home is a godsend.

Few things.

1. “Highly evolved male person”? “Elevated life-form”? Could someone pinch me, please?

Just because a man stays home with the kid(s) doesn’t mean he’s stopped farting, scratching, picking his nose, eating his fingernails, leaving laundry on the floor, telling you it “must be that time of the month” because you have strong opinions, or walking around in his slouchy underwear. In fact, chances are your child and husband will spend entire days in their underwear.

Let’s not cream ourselves too much over daddy’s metamorphosis, k?

2. “For the hard-driving careerist mother, a husband who’s willing to take up the lion’s share at home is a godsend.”

Notice the key word “willing”? I love Chuck, but it has been a struggle of monumental proportions to get him to help more around the house. I’m not alone: Working women spend about twice as much time as working men on household chores and the care of the children, according to a recent survey by the U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics.

When Chuck was first laid off, there were days I worked nine-to-five, cooked dinner, threw laundry in, tidied up and put Junior to bed. Chuck helped here and there, but one night I turned to him and said, “I just can’t do it all. It isn’t fair.”

I said it a few more times. Finally it sunk in. But dang, it was an uphill battle. I learned a valuable lesson. A man who sees his wife vacuuming will say, “Why don’t you take a break?” but he won’t get off the couch. A man who hears “I need help from YOU, buttfuck, yes YOU” 10 nights in a row will—finally, hopefully—get off the couch.

I guess that’s an evolutionary milestone.

Anyway, the article made some good points, but overall it annoyed me. So men are staying home with the kids. So what? Women do it all the time and no one's calling them elevated life forms.

Here's an article I'd like to read: Men and women everywhere get over themselves.

Last night I met my lover

I’m not at that big conference this weekend. You know, the one everyone and their mother is talking about. The one that rhymes with Snogfur.

Jealous? Who, me?

I did some lite reading of posts of people who are there—I’m masochistic like that—and there seemed to be a reoccurring theme. Something along the lines of The-kids-are-home-alone-with-Dad-I’m-kind-of-freaking-out-OMG-I’m-on-my-own-in-NYC-yip-fucking-yeeeeeeee.

Something like that.

And it’s funny because there was a nagging question intermingled with my jealousy which was, When was the last time you were away all by yourself, Mrs. Mullet?

Funny because I’m sitting here right now all by myself in my house. Chuck spent last night at his mom’s with Junior so they could get some QT with Grandma (and her pool). I was supposed to head down after work.

I never made it.

See, as my work day yesterday was winding down, I started picturing my empty house. The more I thought about it, the more enticing it became. By the time five o’clock rolled around, I was worried I was going to start humping the copy machine I was so excited by the prospect of having an empty house all to myself.

Me. All by myself. I could do whatever I wanted. I could do nothing or everything. I had to seize the opportunity.

Walking in my front door was like meeting a lover.

“Are we really alone?” Giggle, giggle. "Really?"

The house was deliciously silent. I yanked off my stiff work clothes and put on a pair of Chuck’s underwear. I pulled down the shades. I drank a non-alcoholic beer and watched smutty TV.

Then, as I was sitting there amidst all the debauchery, something wonderful happened. I happened to look down at my large baby bump and I said, “Hello.” I realized it’s the first time I’ve really spoken to my bump. I’m five months pregnant now and I hadn’t slowed once to actually acknowledge the child that’s growing inside of me. I hadn't once said, "Hey, I'm happy you're here. You're a gift."

Of course, that made me cry because I suddenly understood the beautiful importance of having time to yourself, not to paint your stupid nails or drink Smoothies or read frilly magazines, but to climb down off the ride and take a minute to assess and appreciate your life.

So, wow. A whole rainbow of epiphanies on my couch, and no one was there to witness it.

Thankfully.

Anyway, Chuck and Junior are on their way home now. There are a million things I still want to do, which means I’ll probably do nothing at all. Well, there are those two non-alcoholic beers in the fridge…

P.S. Chuck’s really excited about having another boy (yes, the Go-Go doctor was right after all). I am too.

It's a damn miracle, plus a giveaway

Said the harried women to the blogosphere:

Do you see what I see?

'Hanging on the ledge, blogosphere,

Do you see what I see?

Khaki shorts, khaki shorts

Almost in the bin,

With pockets as big as a chin.

(Hey, you try finding something that rhymes with bin.)

I don't come bearing celebratory silver or gold (and I am singing out of season), but I do have sippy cups. Tommee Tippee 2-Pack Explora Truly Spill Proof Sippy Cup to be exact.

Hot damn.

I like these sipppy cups because the cups are nice and big, and the side grips make the cups easy to, well, grip. They're also BPA- and phthalate-free.



You know the drill: Leave me a comment telling me how fabulous I am, and you'll be entered to win. Giveaway ends August 6, midnight EST. Open to U.S. residents only.

(I was not paid to write this post.)

Who put the cuckoo in the cookie jar? Yes, you put the cuckoo in the...

Sunday morning. Chuck, Junior and I are lying in bed.

Junior: Mommy, your butt is big.

Me: What? Chuck, is it? Is it?

Chuck: No.

I looked at him just in time to see the left side of his top lip twitch slightly. It’s Chuck’s tell. He’s a horrible liar anyway, but the lip twitch is how I know without a doubt that he’s full of shit. It’s also how I know he’d never even attempt an affair. He’d make it, like, two minutes before I busted him.

I jumped out of bed to get a better look at my backside in the mirror.

Me: Oh, God. It is bigger.

Chuck: It’s not. [Lip twitch]

Me: You’re lying.

Chuck: You’re pregnant. Everything is bigger.

Me: I don’t have a baby in my ass, Chuck. I mean, behind. I ate clam strips yesterday. I should be saying no to things like that.

Chuck: You have a right to indulge in things that make you feel good. Like food and walks.

Me: Walks? Walks? You think I need to exercise?

Chuck: [pulls pillow over head] I didn’t mean it like that.

Me: Then uncover your face!

Chuck: No!

I hate myself for what happened next: I cried. I actually shed tears over the ten (ish) extra pounds I've gained so far. I’m disgusted by myself. I’m not fat. I covered that in my damn Blubber post. I don’t even like hanging out with skinny people who think they’re fat.

People gain weight when they’re pregnant. Then, they lose it.

I don’t like all these cliched chick moments I’m experiencing. The emotional instability and hyper sensitivity are pissing me off. It’s like I walked onto the freaken set of Legally Blonde. What’s next? Tiaras and boas? Bedroom slippers with fluff balls and lilac-scented bubble bath?



It's because I’m having another boy, isn’t it? The Universe read my post about my pink leg lamps and it’s blasting me with a tsunami of sugar and spice.

Or because I’m having a girl.

Yep, my regular doctor told me on Friday that there’s no way in hell the Go-Go doctor could have known the gender at such an early stage.

I find out for sure this week. I don't know about you, but I have my money on the doctor that wasn’t dressed like someone employed to entertain crowds at a discotheque.