All I did was show up at 5th grade Field Day with sunscreen. I wasn’t dressed like a clown or a slut. I didn’t trip, burp, fart, or curse. I was discreet, even. I did a little wave at my daughter, then reached into my purse and pulled out a tube of Banana Boat kids SPF 50. I held it up for her to see and beckoned her with my finger. I didn’t scream, “Sweetie, we forgot sunscreen! You don’t want to get burned, do you? It’s so gosh darn hot today, and we want to protect your precious widdle skin fwom the sun’s mean old nasty rays, don’t we?” I let her apply it herself, so I didn’t have to touch her in front of her classmates. See, I didn’t even begin to embarrass her.
My father, when he was the age my older sister is now, died of skin cancer, of melanoma. That was back in the eighties, when melanoma was not a well known form of cancer. It was relatively unusual for someone to have deadly skin cancer, and there was no cure. He had a giant tumor, attached to a mole on his arm. It was cut out. And then the doctors waited to see if he would die, which he didn’t for a number of years, until one day he found a lump under his arm. It had metastasized to his lymph system, in essence, a death sentence. At some point, he tried some experimental treatment, which served to prolong his suffering for another year or so. It was in his liver, his blood, his brain. I was seventeen years old when he died, and I was the first person to lose a parent while I was in high school. There is still no cure for melanoma.
People didn’t use sunscreen then; they used suntan oil. You thought you were doing some good for yourself with an SPF of 4, and 8 seemed extreme. You would coat yourself up good, smelling of coconut, reapplying only when you flipped yourself like a hotcake. A dark tropical tan resembled a piece of golden fried chicken, and no wonder. Your skin was cooking, just as if you took a dip in the hot oil fryer instead of the ocean. What people can’t understand is that there is no such thing as a healthy tan. Crispy skin is good on a Thanksgiving turkey, not your back.
When I realized that my oldest daughter E went to school today, on Field Day, without sunscreen, I thought for a moment, well, it’s only a couple of hours, she won’t get too much sun. Then I thought about how abnormally hot it has been this week, and how the school yard has no shade, and how beautiful and fair her skin is. I grabbed two bottles of sunscreen, the waterproof kind for her body, the oil-free kind for her face, and tootled up to the school. She was in the back of the school yard with her class, a sea of dark red t-shirts and white bandana headbands. I made her apply sunscreen to her arms and legs.
“This is so embarrassing!” She whined. The boy with the Justin Bieber hair that is kind of sweet on E watched us, laughing a little. “What's the big deal if I get a tan?”
“Dude, just put it on, or would you rather I do it for you?” I responded. “Don’t forget your neck.”
“I can’t believe you did this to me,” she complained. Her classmates milled around us, fascinated by the spectacle we created.
I turned to one of them and asked, “Is this the most embarrassing thing that can happen to you?”
“No,” the boy said. “Getting spanked is worse.” He clearly knew of what he spoke.
“See, E? It’s not the most embarrassing thing. Now put on that sunscreen or I will spank you.”
She finished and shoved the tube back in my hand before running back to her classmates. She spent the next few minutes giving me the stink eye, so I said goodbye to her teacher and left. I would have liked to stick around to watch, but frankly, E’s behavior was, well, embarrassing. I was just like a superhero, swooping in to save the day, refusing all thanks, before flying away to the next catastrophe. Okay, maybe not like a superhero; it was only sunscreen.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Medicaid Day At the Allergist's Office
My baby daughter S is allergic to everything that grows in our town. If it is has leaves or spores or roots or buds, it sets her to wheezing and itching and coughing and dripping. Every year, she seems to get worse, and we recently sought the help of an allergist, who of course recommended allergy shots, so we added weekly injections to our extracurricular activities. It is almost as big of a time commitment as soccer practice, if you think about it. My older daughter has braces, so between them, our weekly checkups with the orthodontist or the allergist are like two extra activities. Each office carries about the same germ risk as spending time in gymnastics or softball, only the offices are air conditioned and, for the most part, the waiting rooms are quiet. If I had to make a choice between sitting in the sun watching my bored child avoid kicking a soccer ball or sitting in a waiting room, texting and reading a book, well, I am pretty sure you know which one I would pick.
Last week, S and I went for her injections on Thursday morning before school, like we normally do. We saw the usual people who arrive before us, the middle schooler with the gorgeous curly hair, the plump businessman with the ankle length pants, the older painfully thin real estate agent. S got her injections, one in each arm, and we settled into our chairs for the mandatory half hour wait that follows the shots. You never know when a reaction will occur, and I would prefer not to have to deal with anaphylactic shock on the drive to school.
While we sat, S quietly coloring, me reading and trying not to fall asleep, two women came in the office waiting room. They each carried a baby car seat with them, and one of them had two other children following her like ducklings. The oldest one was a boy, about three or four, and the other one was a little girl who could not have yet turned two. Both of the car seat babies looked too young to sit independently. I couldn’t tell why the whole gang was here, unless it was for moral support, or possibly because “The People’s Court” doesn’t start that early.
The one mom, who it turned out was not the mother of the two older kids, pulled out the waiting room toys, spread them all over the floor in front of where S and I sat in the injection waiting room, and parked the kids. All that bending over provided S and me with an excellent view of both her tramp stamp and her ample ass. Then she joined the other mom in the main waiting room. They were not close enough to supervise the children without yelling at them, which wasn’t a problem because the two kids ran back and forth from the moms to the toys. S looked at the kids and then at me, as if I had the power to make them move, or at the very least, make whichever mother claimed them as her own to be responsible for them.
I was now more interested in what was going on in the waiting room than in my book. The actual mother walked over to the kids to tell them to be quiet. She was not small, but her shirt was, and her large stomach hung out the bottom. After fussing, she settled herself in a waiting room chair, removed her baby from the car seat and laid her out on top of her lap, at which point the baby began to cry. At first, I thought she was going to start nursing, which, while something I did not care to see, was a reasonable thing to do, even in a waiting room at the allergist’s office.
Sadly, I was mistaken. She undressed her baby and proceeded to change its diaper across her lap, right in the waiting room. And no, it wasn’t just a wet nappy. She used that soiled diaper to wipe her child’s tush, then used an actual wipe to finish the job. A small corner of the wipe floated gently to the ground in front of her chair. I couldn’t look away. Of all the places to change a dirty diaper, my lap never occurred to me. It struck me as lazy efficiency at its finest.
When she finished, she got up to find a trash can. I know you are hoping she left to find the rest room and wash her hands, but no, she wasn’t gone long enough for that. I am pretty sure she tossed that crappy diaper in the nearest trash can, a surprise for the lucky office staff. She plopped back in her chair, stuffed her arm into her diaper bag, and with the hand that just wiped her baby’s bottom, she grabbed a handful of Nutter Butter Bites and shoved them in her mouth. Did I mention it was 8:15 in the morning? I found that a little early to make a meal of poo-laced cookies, but then again, I haven’t walked a mile in her shoes.
I watched her chew open mouthed and stuff more cookies in her pie hole when finally her son’s name was called for his doctor visit. She picked up the baby and the diaper bag and hollered for her son to follow her, instructing the not yet two year old girl to stay in the waiting room until they returned. That other mom could have been there to watch her, but she looked pretty busy flipping pages of a four month old People magazine to be bothered with supervising the child.
Unfortunately, S’s thirty minute wait was up. She got her arms checked by the nurse, who gave her all clear to leave. We stared at the two year old and the other mother on our way out. In the parking lot, I pulled out my hand sanitizer and S and I liberally doused our hands and arms with it. I spotted what had to be their SUV right next to my own, the one with the custom paint job, the back seat lined with boosters and car seats, the front seat lined with food wrappers and other garbage.
“Well, that was interesting,” I said to S.
“Where did she put that diaper?” S asked me.
“I have no idea. We might not ever know.”
“Can I have some more Purell?” S asked.
“As much as you want, baby. As much as you want.”
Last week, S and I went for her injections on Thursday morning before school, like we normally do. We saw the usual people who arrive before us, the middle schooler with the gorgeous curly hair, the plump businessman with the ankle length pants, the older painfully thin real estate agent. S got her injections, one in each arm, and we settled into our chairs for the mandatory half hour wait that follows the shots. You never know when a reaction will occur, and I would prefer not to have to deal with anaphylactic shock on the drive to school.
While we sat, S quietly coloring, me reading and trying not to fall asleep, two women came in the office waiting room. They each carried a baby car seat with them, and one of them had two other children following her like ducklings. The oldest one was a boy, about three or four, and the other one was a little girl who could not have yet turned two. Both of the car seat babies looked too young to sit independently. I couldn’t tell why the whole gang was here, unless it was for moral support, or possibly because “The People’s Court” doesn’t start that early.
The one mom, who it turned out was not the mother of the two older kids, pulled out the waiting room toys, spread them all over the floor in front of where S and I sat in the injection waiting room, and parked the kids. All that bending over provided S and me with an excellent view of both her tramp stamp and her ample ass. Then she joined the other mom in the main waiting room. They were not close enough to supervise the children without yelling at them, which wasn’t a problem because the two kids ran back and forth from the moms to the toys. S looked at the kids and then at me, as if I had the power to make them move, or at the very least, make whichever mother claimed them as her own to be responsible for them.
I was now more interested in what was going on in the waiting room than in my book. The actual mother walked over to the kids to tell them to be quiet. She was not small, but her shirt was, and her large stomach hung out the bottom. After fussing, she settled herself in a waiting room chair, removed her baby from the car seat and laid her out on top of her lap, at which point the baby began to cry. At first, I thought she was going to start nursing, which, while something I did not care to see, was a reasonable thing to do, even in a waiting room at the allergist’s office.
Sadly, I was mistaken. She undressed her baby and proceeded to change its diaper across her lap, right in the waiting room. And no, it wasn’t just a wet nappy. She used that soiled diaper to wipe her child’s tush, then used an actual wipe to finish the job. A small corner of the wipe floated gently to the ground in front of her chair. I couldn’t look away. Of all the places to change a dirty diaper, my lap never occurred to me. It struck me as lazy efficiency at its finest.
When she finished, she got up to find a trash can. I know you are hoping she left to find the rest room and wash her hands, but no, she wasn’t gone long enough for that. I am pretty sure she tossed that crappy diaper in the nearest trash can, a surprise for the lucky office staff. She plopped back in her chair, stuffed her arm into her diaper bag, and with the hand that just wiped her baby’s bottom, she grabbed a handful of Nutter Butter Bites and shoved them in her mouth. Did I mention it was 8:15 in the morning? I found that a little early to make a meal of poo-laced cookies, but then again, I haven’t walked a mile in her shoes.
I watched her chew open mouthed and stuff more cookies in her pie hole when finally her son’s name was called for his doctor visit. She picked up the baby and the diaper bag and hollered for her son to follow her, instructing the not yet two year old girl to stay in the waiting room until they returned. That other mom could have been there to watch her, but she looked pretty busy flipping pages of a four month old People magazine to be bothered with supervising the child.
Unfortunately, S’s thirty minute wait was up. She got her arms checked by the nurse, who gave her all clear to leave. We stared at the two year old and the other mother on our way out. In the parking lot, I pulled out my hand sanitizer and S and I liberally doused our hands and arms with it. I spotted what had to be their SUV right next to my own, the one with the custom paint job, the back seat lined with boosters and car seats, the front seat lined with food wrappers and other garbage.
“Well, that was interesting,” I said to S.
“Where did she put that diaper?” S asked me.
“I have no idea. We might not ever know.”
“Can I have some more Purell?” S asked.
“As much as you want, baby. As much as you want.”
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah
Mother’s Day is not always as predictable as it would appear to be. Sure, it usually involves sleeping late, which for mothers means past eight in the morning, woo hoo. The sleeping in is followed by a breakfast, lovingly cooked to imperfection. The day is then spent on a variety of family togetherness activities, unplanned by me and subjected to constant threats to get along. We typically wrap it up with the obligatory dinner at the in-laws, although we pick something up instead of me cooking. Most Sunday nights, I cook dinner for my in-laws, but even I get a night off from cooking for Mother’s Day. I generally enjoy my day because hey, it’s Mother’s Day, what’s not to like. I get a few homemade cards, some dark chocolate, and maybe a gift card for a massage. I don’t ask for much, and I am pretty easy to please; I just like to be remembered. While an entire day off sounds like a great idea for Mother’s Day, it isn’t necessary. I just don’t want to have to do as much as I normally would, and it would be nice to hear a please and thank you. The absence of arguing is like icing on the cake.
This past Mother’s Day, however, was odd. Really odd. It began with both of my children spending the night somewhere else, a pretty rare occurrence. My children are not known for their ability to sleep, let alone at someone else's house. E was with my friend MJ’s daughter, AJ, and S was at a sleepover party. That left my husband in charge of the sleeping late and breakfast duties. Now, I love my husband, and he has many skills, but cooking is not one of them. That’s all I am going to say about breakfast, except thank you, dear.
I did have the opportunity to enjoy the Sunday paper relaxing on the couch, instead of how I normally read it, by skimming it on Tuesday while making dinner, after driving to art and dance, and then chucking the whole stack in the recycling bin. When my husband went to pick S up from the party, she and her friend convinced him that he should leave her there to go to the movies. He came home childless, and by then it was time to go get E.
We drove to MJ’s home, a cute as hell mountain house tucked in the woods, yet right off the main drag. It has high ceilings and wooden beams and lots of windows, and when you sit on the leather couch, the big dog at your feet, the little dog by your side, you forget for a moment where you are. My husband and I had just missed brunch, but I was still full from that adequate breakfast, thanks again, dear. We, meaning MJ, MJ’s ginormous fetus, MJ’s baby daddy PS, my husband, and I, hung out on the couch while E and her friend AJ ran up and down the stairs and did things that eleven year old girls do, like change their clothes a billion times and say OMG! and squeal and stomp around and forget to close doors followed by slamming them.
Somewhere in the conversation, PS announced that he had a zip line in the back yard and that we needed to go check it out. While E and AJ continued their assault on the door hinges, the four of us, the fetus, and the two dogs slipped out and trudged through the pine straw and leaves of the back yard to where the zip line was located, between two trees on the property and over a little creek. PS, who I should mention is quite physically fit, demonstrated how easy it is to use by swinging himself over the creek, climbing up the makeshift ladder on the taller tree, and then zipping back to our side of land, stopping before he crashed headfirst into the other tree to which the rope was tied. This was by no means a ropes course with crotch harnesses; it was a one cable zip line, with little handles from which you flail.
It’s easy,” he announced. “Here, Amy, you try it.”
Easy is in the eye of the beholder. My eyes don’t see anything as easy, especially not swinging from a zip line above a creek. The first thought I had was that there was no way that thing was going to support me. I rationalized that surely I don’t weigh as much as PS and he did it perfectly safely. Then I thought about how I was going to fall, not to my death, but surely to my maiming, and how I didn’t care to spend my Mother’s Day in the emergency room explaining to some Indian doctor how I sustained that broken arm, and, no, I was not drinking. Then I thought, why all the negative thoughts? It’s just a back yard zip line for Christ’s sake. Just do it.
“Ok, I’ll try,” I said, walking over to where PS stood, near the edge of the shallow stream.
“Here, you just jump across the water and climb up that tree,” he said, standing behind me so I couldn’t chicken out.
I don’t jump across streams. I am old with a bum knee and short legs. Jumping is not one of my approved activities. I peered at the stream, trying to figure out the easiest way to get to the other side of the bank without getting my sneakers wet. I stepped down into a firm patch of mud and squatted a little, deciding where to step next. PS, still behind me, gave me a shove. I fell forward, catching myself before I face planted in the creek, but not before one shoe went under water. I am pretty sure it was a shove of encouragement, but my blood still boiled a little.
“What the hell?” I shrieked.
“You’re taking too long!” PS said. “Come on, you can do it, just jump.”
I stepped up on the bank, into what became a big smear of wet clay, and then slid back into the water. Now both my shoes were wet.
“My shoes are full of leeches,” I said.
“There aren’t any leeches in this creek. It’s freshwater. Come on," PS said again.
“I am pretty sure leeches live in fresh water,” I began to argue, taking the hand PS offered me and pulling myself up. I stomped wet footed over to the tree with the boards nailed to it like a ladder. The top rung was higher than my face.
“Good, now climb up and grab hold of the handles.”
I climbed up as I was told. Climbing is another thing on my list of things I don’t do. Right after jumping. When I got to the top, PS shoved his shoulder under my rump and got me to turn around so I could grab both handles of the trolley.
“Okay, now hold on tight, don’t let go. It’s fun!” PS said. PS would make a great drug dealer or serial killer. His enthusiasm makes you think everything is going to be okay, even if you end up with a broken arm, a wicked addiction to heroin, or ten years trapped in a basement dungeon.
I grabbed both handles, looked across the woods to where my very pregnant friend and my husband stood, laughing, and I stepped off the tree ladder. And guess what? I didn’t fall. I flew.
I whizzed past the trees and over the creek and reached the other bank, where I realized that PS was so busy trying to figure out how to get me started that he forgot to tell me how to stop. I was too scared to grind my heels into the ground, but even more terrified of flying face first into the big tree that was blocking my way. I stuck my feet down, stumbled a little bit, and stopped.
MJ was doubled over with her camera, laughing so hard she was crying. “I got pictures!” she cackled. “This is the best Mother’s Day ever!”
“I don’t know about that,” I retorted.
When she stood up, I noticed a pile of leaves under her were wet with a reddish fluid.
“Oh my God, your water broke!” I screamed.
PS jerked his head around, no longer smiling.
“No, it didn’t,” MJ said, still laughing. “I just spilled the vitamin water.” The big dog ambled over and began licking all the wet leaves.
My husband attempted the zip line next, which was even funnier because he couldn’t get across the creek either. He tried to swing across, holding onto the handles, but then dangled right over the water since he didn’t build enough speed to get across on the cable. I laughed at him. I earned that right.
I do believe I earned that massage. And a nap. Maybe next year we can go BASE jumping or BMX stunt riding or bull semen collecting or something equally out of my comfort zone. Whatever it is, it has to be better than that breakfast. Which reminds me, thank you, dear.
This past Mother’s Day, however, was odd. Really odd. It began with both of my children spending the night somewhere else, a pretty rare occurrence. My children are not known for their ability to sleep, let alone at someone else's house. E was with my friend MJ’s daughter, AJ, and S was at a sleepover party. That left my husband in charge of the sleeping late and breakfast duties. Now, I love my husband, and he has many skills, but cooking is not one of them. That’s all I am going to say about breakfast, except thank you, dear.
I did have the opportunity to enjoy the Sunday paper relaxing on the couch, instead of how I normally read it, by skimming it on Tuesday while making dinner, after driving to art and dance, and then chucking the whole stack in the recycling bin. When my husband went to pick S up from the party, she and her friend convinced him that he should leave her there to go to the movies. He came home childless, and by then it was time to go get E.
We drove to MJ’s home, a cute as hell mountain house tucked in the woods, yet right off the main drag. It has high ceilings and wooden beams and lots of windows, and when you sit on the leather couch, the big dog at your feet, the little dog by your side, you forget for a moment where you are. My husband and I had just missed brunch, but I was still full from that adequate breakfast, thanks again, dear. We, meaning MJ, MJ’s ginormous fetus, MJ’s baby daddy PS, my husband, and I, hung out on the couch while E and her friend AJ ran up and down the stairs and did things that eleven year old girls do, like change their clothes a billion times and say OMG! and squeal and stomp around and forget to close doors followed by slamming them.
Somewhere in the conversation, PS announced that he had a zip line in the back yard and that we needed to go check it out. While E and AJ continued their assault on the door hinges, the four of us, the fetus, and the two dogs slipped out and trudged through the pine straw and leaves of the back yard to where the zip line was located, between two trees on the property and over a little creek. PS, who I should mention is quite physically fit, demonstrated how easy it is to use by swinging himself over the creek, climbing up the makeshift ladder on the taller tree, and then zipping back to our side of land, stopping before he crashed headfirst into the other tree to which the rope was tied. This was by no means a ropes course with crotch harnesses; it was a one cable zip line, with little handles from which you flail.
It’s easy,” he announced. “Here, Amy, you try it.”
Easy is in the eye of the beholder. My eyes don’t see anything as easy, especially not swinging from a zip line above a creek. The first thought I had was that there was no way that thing was going to support me. I rationalized that surely I don’t weigh as much as PS and he did it perfectly safely. Then I thought about how I was going to fall, not to my death, but surely to my maiming, and how I didn’t care to spend my Mother’s Day in the emergency room explaining to some Indian doctor how I sustained that broken arm, and, no, I was not drinking. Then I thought, why all the negative thoughts? It’s just a back yard zip line for Christ’s sake. Just do it.
“Ok, I’ll try,” I said, walking over to where PS stood, near the edge of the shallow stream.
“Here, you just jump across the water and climb up that tree,” he said, standing behind me so I couldn’t chicken out.
I don’t jump across streams. I am old with a bum knee and short legs. Jumping is not one of my approved activities. I peered at the stream, trying to figure out the easiest way to get to the other side of the bank without getting my sneakers wet. I stepped down into a firm patch of mud and squatted a little, deciding where to step next. PS, still behind me, gave me a shove. I fell forward, catching myself before I face planted in the creek, but not before one shoe went under water. I am pretty sure it was a shove of encouragement, but my blood still boiled a little.
“What the hell?” I shrieked.
“You’re taking too long!” PS said. “Come on, you can do it, just jump.”
I stepped up on the bank, into what became a big smear of wet clay, and then slid back into the water. Now both my shoes were wet.
“My shoes are full of leeches,” I said.
“There aren’t any leeches in this creek. It’s freshwater. Come on," PS said again.
“I am pretty sure leeches live in fresh water,” I began to argue, taking the hand PS offered me and pulling myself up. I stomped wet footed over to the tree with the boards nailed to it like a ladder. The top rung was higher than my face.
“Good, now climb up and grab hold of the handles.”
I climbed up as I was told. Climbing is another thing on my list of things I don’t do. Right after jumping. When I got to the top, PS shoved his shoulder under my rump and got me to turn around so I could grab both handles of the trolley.
“Okay, now hold on tight, don’t let go. It’s fun!” PS said. PS would make a great drug dealer or serial killer. His enthusiasm makes you think everything is going to be okay, even if you end up with a broken arm, a wicked addiction to heroin, or ten years trapped in a basement dungeon.
I grabbed both handles, looked across the woods to where my very pregnant friend and my husband stood, laughing, and I stepped off the tree ladder. And guess what? I didn’t fall. I flew.
I whizzed past the trees and over the creek and reached the other bank, where I realized that PS was so busy trying to figure out how to get me started that he forgot to tell me how to stop. I was too scared to grind my heels into the ground, but even more terrified of flying face first into the big tree that was blocking my way. I stuck my feet down, stumbled a little bit, and stopped.
MJ was doubled over with her camera, laughing so hard she was crying. “I got pictures!” she cackled. “This is the best Mother’s Day ever!”
“I don’t know about that,” I retorted.
When she stood up, I noticed a pile of leaves under her were wet with a reddish fluid.
“Oh my God, your water broke!” I screamed.
PS jerked his head around, no longer smiling.
“No, it didn’t,” MJ said, still laughing. “I just spilled the vitamin water.” The big dog ambled over and began licking all the wet leaves.
My husband attempted the zip line next, which was even funnier because he couldn’t get across the creek either. He tried to swing across, holding onto the handles, but then dangled right over the water since he didn’t build enough speed to get across on the cable. I laughed at him. I earned that right.
I do believe I earned that massage. And a nap. Maybe next year we can go BASE jumping or BMX stunt riding or bull semen collecting or something equally out of my comfort zone. Whatever it is, it has to be better than that breakfast. Which reminds me, thank you, dear.
Friday, May 13, 2011
No Ill Will at the Goodwill
Anyone who thinks we do not have a caste system in America has not been to Walmart or Goodwill lately. Not that there is anything wrong with either of those places, just that I don’t want to buy my clothing at either one of them. I am lucky. I don’t have to. I can afford to buy my clothing at Target.
I didn’t grow up upper middle class, but my mother liked to pretend we were, so I have a lifetime of looking down my nose at other people, even while wearing hand me down underwear that had already been used by both my older sisters. I have a real hang up on hand me down underwear.
I had to go to Goodwill the other day to buy a whole bunch of crap for a special relay for my daughter’s Fifth Grade Day at school. This field trip to a local park is a day for all the fifth graders to blow off steam, because the life of an eleven year old is very demanding and high stress, what with having to remember to take your backpack to school and find your sneakers in the morning. The event I am coordinating involves each class dressing their teacher in a variety of articles of clothing, and the first class that is finished adorning the teacher wins. Allegedly, hilarity will ensue.
I was on a mission to find shirts, skirts, necklaces, bracelets, scarves, ties, belts, hats, and shoes, all on a budget of roughly one hundred smackers. It might sound easy, but finding about fifty things for one hundred bucks is, well, not. I don’t think the other moms have realized that we cannot afford to get an item for each member of the class, so some kids will be stuck with putting on one shoe or one sock or one glove, just to stretch the clothes and our budget.
I decided to go to the Goodwill clearance center, which is very different from a regular Goodwill store, to look for the roughly fifty things we need. At a regular Goodwill store, the clothing is organized in some sort of fashion. Belts, purses, ties, and hats hang from pegs on the walls. Clothing is categorized by gender and almost even by size. Shoes are in racks, and house wares and toys have their own area as well. It’s a bit like a TJ Maxx or Marshalls, except all used. Really used. They like to say gently used, but it looks like the difference between making sweet love and getting fucked hard in the dirty place.
If going to the regular Goodwill store is on the dirty side, then going to the clearance center is like sucking homeless guys’ dicks for a chance they might share their crack. Nothing is organized at all. Instead, it is all bins, rows and rows of bins of smelly, used, dirty clothes that wouldn’t sell at the regular store. Instead of a buck here or three dollars there, all the crap is sold by the pound, and it’s way less than the cold bar at Whole Foods. $7.99 might sound like a lot for marinated tofu cubes and orzo and spinach salad, but $1.29 for a scoop of shirts is a lot less appealing. I’ll take the orzo salad, please.
I walked around the bins, touching the clothing gingerly as if it were all covered in lice, which it probably was. I stopped touching when I thought about the lice thing, and just circled the bins as if the articles I needed would magically spring forth and fold themselves neatly before my very eyes. The other patrons had big tubs on wheels, lined with clear garbage bags, and were filling their bags in earnest. I looked around and thought, what am I doing here? This is not my neighborhood at all, and stepping out of my comfort zone was only serving to make me uncomfortable.
I gave up trying to pretend I was going to buy anything, even though everyone else knew I wasn’t. I went out and sat in my car, then coated all my exposed skin with an entire bottle of hand sanitizer. So, yes, I am a classist. One of those Obama elitists. A socio-economic snob. I do not relate well to the common man. I don’t want to eat a burger and fries. I don’t want to drink a Budweiser. I don’t want to drive a Chevy. I don’t want to watch a NASCAR race. I do not want to “Get ‘Er Done.” And I especially do not want to scrounge around in bins of clothing detritus looking for a bargain for the PTA.
I waited a week before I attempted again to go to Goodwill , this time a traditional store, which was less disgusting and also encouraged bilingual communication. I tore through that place, grabbing as much as I could find in fifteen minutes or less. I had my friend SF with me, which was great because we doubled our frenzied efforts and made it out in record time, which really impressed the old ladies in line behind us. We didn’t even have to hold our breath to not smell anything, although the hand sanitizer at the end was still a necessity.
I had my share of trips to Goodwill in my younger years, for Halloween costumes or what I perceived as vintage clothes, but I never had to shop there because I didn’t have a choice. I recognize that even in the lean years, I was lucky, and I am still lucky. Goodwill is there for a reason, and it isn’t just to amuse our children, in honor of them passing fifth grade and leaving elementary school.
And seriously, we don’t pay our teachers enough to dress up in used crap. If I were a teacher, I would refuse to have one of those hats on my heads, not to mention the used shoes shoved on my hoofs. Just writing this essay made me get up and wash my hands twice. I even scrubbed under my nails.
I didn’t grow up upper middle class, but my mother liked to pretend we were, so I have a lifetime of looking down my nose at other people, even while wearing hand me down underwear that had already been used by both my older sisters. I have a real hang up on hand me down underwear.
I had to go to Goodwill the other day to buy a whole bunch of crap for a special relay for my daughter’s Fifth Grade Day at school. This field trip to a local park is a day for all the fifth graders to blow off steam, because the life of an eleven year old is very demanding and high stress, what with having to remember to take your backpack to school and find your sneakers in the morning. The event I am coordinating involves each class dressing their teacher in a variety of articles of clothing, and the first class that is finished adorning the teacher wins. Allegedly, hilarity will ensue.
I was on a mission to find shirts, skirts, necklaces, bracelets, scarves, ties, belts, hats, and shoes, all on a budget of roughly one hundred smackers. It might sound easy, but finding about fifty things for one hundred bucks is, well, not. I don’t think the other moms have realized that we cannot afford to get an item for each member of the class, so some kids will be stuck with putting on one shoe or one sock or one glove, just to stretch the clothes and our budget.
I decided to go to the Goodwill clearance center, which is very different from a regular Goodwill store, to look for the roughly fifty things we need. At a regular Goodwill store, the clothing is organized in some sort of fashion. Belts, purses, ties, and hats hang from pegs on the walls. Clothing is categorized by gender and almost even by size. Shoes are in racks, and house wares and toys have their own area as well. It’s a bit like a TJ Maxx or Marshalls, except all used. Really used. They like to say gently used, but it looks like the difference between making sweet love and getting fucked hard in the dirty place.
If going to the regular Goodwill store is on the dirty side, then going to the clearance center is like sucking homeless guys’ dicks for a chance they might share their crack. Nothing is organized at all. Instead, it is all bins, rows and rows of bins of smelly, used, dirty clothes that wouldn’t sell at the regular store. Instead of a buck here or three dollars there, all the crap is sold by the pound, and it’s way less than the cold bar at Whole Foods. $7.99 might sound like a lot for marinated tofu cubes and orzo and spinach salad, but $1.29 for a scoop of shirts is a lot less appealing. I’ll take the orzo salad, please.
I walked around the bins, touching the clothing gingerly as if it were all covered in lice, which it probably was. I stopped touching when I thought about the lice thing, and just circled the bins as if the articles I needed would magically spring forth and fold themselves neatly before my very eyes. The other patrons had big tubs on wheels, lined with clear garbage bags, and were filling their bags in earnest. I looked around and thought, what am I doing here? This is not my neighborhood at all, and stepping out of my comfort zone was only serving to make me uncomfortable.
I gave up trying to pretend I was going to buy anything, even though everyone else knew I wasn’t. I went out and sat in my car, then coated all my exposed skin with an entire bottle of hand sanitizer. So, yes, I am a classist. One of those Obama elitists. A socio-economic snob. I do not relate well to the common man. I don’t want to eat a burger and fries. I don’t want to drink a Budweiser. I don’t want to drive a Chevy. I don’t want to watch a NASCAR race. I do not want to “Get ‘Er Done.” And I especially do not want to scrounge around in bins of clothing detritus looking for a bargain for the PTA.
I waited a week before I attempted again to go to Goodwill , this time a traditional store, which was less disgusting and also encouraged bilingual communication. I tore through that place, grabbing as much as I could find in fifteen minutes or less. I had my friend SF with me, which was great because we doubled our frenzied efforts and made it out in record time, which really impressed the old ladies in line behind us. We didn’t even have to hold our breath to not smell anything, although the hand sanitizer at the end was still a necessity.
I had my share of trips to Goodwill in my younger years, for Halloween costumes or what I perceived as vintage clothes, but I never had to shop there because I didn’t have a choice. I recognize that even in the lean years, I was lucky, and I am still lucky. Goodwill is there for a reason, and it isn’t just to amuse our children, in honor of them passing fifth grade and leaving elementary school.
And seriously, we don’t pay our teachers enough to dress up in used crap. If I were a teacher, I would refuse to have one of those hats on my heads, not to mention the used shoes shoved on my hoofs. Just writing this essay made me get up and wash my hands twice. I even scrubbed under my nails.
Friday, May 6, 2011
Slap Happy
Do you remember playing typewriter when you were a kid? One person would stack their arms, one atop the other, while the other person would pretend to type, the keyboard being those stacked arms. You would type away on those arms, and when you reached the end, you would slap the person’s face as if it were the paper carriage. You pretty much could only play this game once before the other person caught on to the face slapping and would not allow a repeat performance, so the two of you would have to find fresh victims until eventually everyone had been slapped across the face and thus the game was over, until summer camp or a new kid came to school.
Kids today, dagnabit, can’t play typewriter, because they don’t know what a typewriter is, except for obsolete, which it is. It has gone the way of record albums and tape recorders and VHF channels and FM radio, because video killed the radio star,and consequently, they have had to come up with new games to torture one another.
My older daughter, E, got in the car the other afternoon, a little on the giddy side. She has taken to sitting in the front passenger seat, which irritates the living crap out of me. For the past ten years, that passenger seat has been my storage bin,inbox, snack shelf, and coat rack. There is, quite frankly, no room for another human there next to me. I want to banish her to the back of the bus, but she insists on going all Rosa Park on my ass.
But back to the story.
E sat next to me and began her afternoon routine of sharing the day’s news.
“Did you have a good day?” I asked her.
“Not the best. The boys who sit next to me were driving me crazy,” she complained.
She sits next to two boys, at least one of which is a little sweet on her. They like to bug her because A. it is how they shower her with attention, and 2. it is great fun to bug her. She always responds. I am on their side.
“What were they doing?” I asked.
“They wouldn’t stop talking about their balls.”
I wasn’t expecting that answer from my fifth grade child.
“And what were they saying about their balls?” I bravely asked.
“One of them kept complaining about his balls hanging out. Balls, balls, balls. Gross. I finally had to get all teenage complainy and whiny. You know, how I do at home? I never do that at school but I did today because they needed to know how much it bothered me.”
I couldn’t believe she admitted to knowing about her annoying as crap teenage complaining and whining. I also couldn’t believe how comfortable she seemed saying the word balls.
“Did you tell your teacher? Or did they stop?”
“No, they stopped when I acted like I was going to cry. I told my friend on the school bus, though, and she said she understood about bad days because someone gave her a five star this afternoon.”
Now things were getting interesting.Well, as interesting as balls.
“What,” I asked, “is a five star?”
“A five star is when someone slaps you hard with an open palm on your bare skin. It leaves a mark like a big red star.”
I looked at her white thigh on the passenger seat next to me, her too short for school shorts riding up so maximum flesh was exposed.
“You mean like this?” I said, slapping her left thigh hard enough to make a satisfying smack noise.
“Owww!” She shrieked and doubled over her legs.
I laughed. I laughed hard. Her thigh turned bright red, and sure enough, it looked a little like a star.
“Both hands on the steering wheel, Crazytrain!” She yelled at me, rubbing her thigh.
While I don’t like having my 11 year old child in the front seat with me, the opportunity to talk about balls and give her a five star more than makes up for the inconvenience of where to put my purse. And that nice smack sound was pretty good too. And she called me Crazytrain, which was also a treat.
Plus, it makes me think of that Rick James and Charlie Murphy skit from the Dave Chappelle show. And thinking of Dave Chappelle is always a good thing.
Kids today, dagnabit, can’t play typewriter, because they don’t know what a typewriter is, except for obsolete, which it is. It has gone the way of record albums and tape recorders and VHF channels and FM radio, because video killed the radio star,and consequently, they have had to come up with new games to torture one another.
My older daughter, E, got in the car the other afternoon, a little on the giddy side. She has taken to sitting in the front passenger seat, which irritates the living crap out of me. For the past ten years, that passenger seat has been my storage bin,inbox, snack shelf, and coat rack. There is, quite frankly, no room for another human there next to me. I want to banish her to the back of the bus, but she insists on going all Rosa Park on my ass.
But back to the story.
E sat next to me and began her afternoon routine of sharing the day’s news.
“Did you have a good day?” I asked her.
“Not the best. The boys who sit next to me were driving me crazy,” she complained.
She sits next to two boys, at least one of which is a little sweet on her. They like to bug her because A. it is how they shower her with attention, and 2. it is great fun to bug her. She always responds. I am on their side.
“What were they doing?” I asked.
“They wouldn’t stop talking about their balls.”
I wasn’t expecting that answer from my fifth grade child.
“And what were they saying about their balls?” I bravely asked.
“One of them kept complaining about his balls hanging out. Balls, balls, balls. Gross. I finally had to get all teenage complainy and whiny. You know, how I do at home? I never do that at school but I did today because they needed to know how much it bothered me.”
I couldn’t believe she admitted to knowing about her annoying as crap teenage complaining and whining. I also couldn’t believe how comfortable she seemed saying the word balls.
“Did you tell your teacher? Or did they stop?”
“No, they stopped when I acted like I was going to cry. I told my friend on the school bus, though, and she said she understood about bad days because someone gave her a five star this afternoon.”
Now things were getting interesting.Well, as interesting as balls.
“What,” I asked, “is a five star?”
“A five star is when someone slaps you hard with an open palm on your bare skin. It leaves a mark like a big red star.”
I looked at her white thigh on the passenger seat next to me, her too short for school shorts riding up so maximum flesh was exposed.
“You mean like this?” I said, slapping her left thigh hard enough to make a satisfying smack noise.
“Owww!” She shrieked and doubled over her legs.
I laughed. I laughed hard. Her thigh turned bright red, and sure enough, it looked a little like a star.
“Both hands on the steering wheel, Crazytrain!” She yelled at me, rubbing her thigh.
While I don’t like having my 11 year old child in the front seat with me, the opportunity to talk about balls and give her a five star more than makes up for the inconvenience of where to put my purse. And that nice smack sound was pretty good too. And she called me Crazytrain, which was also a treat.
Plus, it makes me think of that Rick James and Charlie Murphy skit from the Dave Chappelle show. And thinking of Dave Chappelle is always a good thing.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Living the Dream
Do you have freaky ass dreams when you are overtired? I do and always have. They are Technicolor fiestas of every weird thing I have seen or heard, like my brain just vomits details into a narrative that no therapist can unravel. Sometimes, my dreams have recurring elements, like my childhood dream of a witch on a broom chasing my brother and me round and round the dome of the planetarium. And I don’t even have a brother! Or the recurring haunted house dream I had after my father passed away, the one that took place at his farm house in Pennsylvania that would morph into any house I had seen or visited in recent days. Those dreams usually involved a cellar or attic and ended before I could see what was doing the haunting. The more tired I am, the more convoluted my dreams become, and the more tired I am when I awake. Last week was exhausting on many different levels for me, and my brain decompensated by treating me to a few doozies.
The most detailed dream that I remember was an epic that lasted all night. It began with Elton John holding a concert in my driveway. He was the old bloated bad Justin Beiber Elton, not the young flamboyant feather festooned Elton.
For the record, I am not an Elton John fan. I don’t have anything against him, except maybe his late 80’s music. I don’t want to see him in concert, but I don’t mind seeing him on an old Muppet Show.
Anyway, not only was he playing music in my driveway, he was recording a video for his new song, “The Big Hair Song.” Catchy title, no? He strummed his guitar (think George Michael playing “Faith”, because I got my queens confused) in my yard while all my neighbors and friends stood around, thrilled to be part of the video. At some point, not only was I watching all this, I was actually filming it. I rode in the back of a truck holding a big movie camera, which then circled around in the street and stopped in front of my house.
I hopped out of the truck and followed Elton down the street, which was no longer my street but now the street where my friend BD lives. As I kept a safe distance from Elton, I noticed a raccoon scurry out of a bush and up to the curb, where he too watched the musician strolling down the street with his guitar. Suddenly, Elton morphed into a wolf in the middle of the road, but not like a werewolf. He was more a metallic robotic wolf, all modern and smooth lines, not a sci-fi robot wolf with nuts and bolts and sheets of metal riveted together. I rushed up BD’s walk to tell her to come outside, that Elton John was on her street and turned into a wolf and she needed to see it. Before I could knock on the door, BD rushed out of her house, only she wasn’t herself, she was an Afghan hound. She ran over to Elton, where they proceeded to sniff each other’s butts like dogs do when they say hello.
After this display of dog on metal wolf action, I walked back to my house, the crowd dissipating somewhat. BD, now in her human form, was there, along with my gym friend SF. SF is originally from Peru and a devout Catholic. I spent the rest of my dream trying to convince SF that she was really Jewish because her father was Jewish which meant that she was as good as in. She argued the point over and over that she was raised Catholic, that her mother was Catholic, and that there was no way she was Jewish. I told her it didn’t matter what she thought she was, she was a Jew anyway because her father was, and that no matter what she chose to believe, it didn’t negate the fact that she was a Semite.
And that was the first dream, which left me totally exhausted.
The next night I found myself just as worn out, and I slept the sleep of the disturbed. I had a dream that I visited a new friend’s house. I just met this dude, the father of one of my daughter's classmates, on a field trip with her class, and I had a dream I went to his house because I needed to use the bathroom. He showed me where it was, and instead of being a regular bathroom, a room with a sink, toilet, and shower, it was just a large square of grass surrounded by four glass walls.
I asked him if he intended me to squat and do my business on the indoor lawn patch like a dog, and he assured me he would hose it off when I was through. I squatted low on the grass, my feet flat, and peed, thinking to myself that I sure hope I did not have to do more than that because there was no way I was crapping on this man’s grass. I remember him giving me a little wave while turning his hose on the lawn while I showed myself out of the house, and then I woke up.
I have quite a few dreams about peeing. I don’t know about the clinical interpretation of pee dreams, but the way I see it, my brain is trying to wake me up before I wet the bed. One of my great fears in life is that one day I will be too old to wake up before that happens. I am going to have to sleep in the geriatric version of Huggies Overnites.
I would also like to point out that the above dreams did not occur because of any chemical enhancement. No Ambien, Benedryl, or melatonin was used in the making of these dreams, just my own crazy brain. I don’t know why or how dreams are the way they are, but after a few nights like that, I sure do need some rest.
The most detailed dream that I remember was an epic that lasted all night. It began with Elton John holding a concert in my driveway. He was the old bloated bad Justin Beiber Elton, not the young flamboyant feather festooned Elton.
For the record, I am not an Elton John fan. I don’t have anything against him, except maybe his late 80’s music. I don’t want to see him in concert, but I don’t mind seeing him on an old Muppet Show.
Anyway, not only was he playing music in my driveway, he was recording a video for his new song, “The Big Hair Song.” Catchy title, no? He strummed his guitar (think George Michael playing “Faith”, because I got my queens confused) in my yard while all my neighbors and friends stood around, thrilled to be part of the video. At some point, not only was I watching all this, I was actually filming it. I rode in the back of a truck holding a big movie camera, which then circled around in the street and stopped in front of my house.
I hopped out of the truck and followed Elton down the street, which was no longer my street but now the street where my friend BD lives. As I kept a safe distance from Elton, I noticed a raccoon scurry out of a bush and up to the curb, where he too watched the musician strolling down the street with his guitar. Suddenly, Elton morphed into a wolf in the middle of the road, but not like a werewolf. He was more a metallic robotic wolf, all modern and smooth lines, not a sci-fi robot wolf with nuts and bolts and sheets of metal riveted together. I rushed up BD’s walk to tell her to come outside, that Elton John was on her street and turned into a wolf and she needed to see it. Before I could knock on the door, BD rushed out of her house, only she wasn’t herself, she was an Afghan hound. She ran over to Elton, where they proceeded to sniff each other’s butts like dogs do when they say hello.
After this display of dog on metal wolf action, I walked back to my house, the crowd dissipating somewhat. BD, now in her human form, was there, along with my gym friend SF. SF is originally from Peru and a devout Catholic. I spent the rest of my dream trying to convince SF that she was really Jewish because her father was Jewish which meant that she was as good as in. She argued the point over and over that she was raised Catholic, that her mother was Catholic, and that there was no way she was Jewish. I told her it didn’t matter what she thought she was, she was a Jew anyway because her father was, and that no matter what she chose to believe, it didn’t negate the fact that she was a Semite.
And that was the first dream, which left me totally exhausted.
The next night I found myself just as worn out, and I slept the sleep of the disturbed. I had a dream that I visited a new friend’s house. I just met this dude, the father of one of my daughter's classmates, on a field trip with her class, and I had a dream I went to his house because I needed to use the bathroom. He showed me where it was, and instead of being a regular bathroom, a room with a sink, toilet, and shower, it was just a large square of grass surrounded by four glass walls.
I asked him if he intended me to squat and do my business on the indoor lawn patch like a dog, and he assured me he would hose it off when I was through. I squatted low on the grass, my feet flat, and peed, thinking to myself that I sure hope I did not have to do more than that because there was no way I was crapping on this man’s grass. I remember him giving me a little wave while turning his hose on the lawn while I showed myself out of the house, and then I woke up.
I have quite a few dreams about peeing. I don’t know about the clinical interpretation of pee dreams, but the way I see it, my brain is trying to wake me up before I wet the bed. One of my great fears in life is that one day I will be too old to wake up before that happens. I am going to have to sleep in the geriatric version of Huggies Overnites.
I would also like to point out that the above dreams did not occur because of any chemical enhancement. No Ambien, Benedryl, or melatonin was used in the making of these dreams, just my own crazy brain. I don’t know why or how dreams are the way they are, but after a few nights like that, I sure do need some rest.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
What A Load of Crap
Baby showers are sweet girly events, created to honor the new mother and her little bun in the oven by lavishing her with gifts she never thought she would need, like nipple cream and diaper stench containment systems. Usually, the mom to be is surrounded by her peers, other women who are also having babies or thinking about it, and they all ooh and aah over all the cute little outfits and nod sensibly at the stroller systems and offer up unsolicited advice and childbirth stories of their own, all in an effort to feel more connected to the pregnant guest of honor or to the whole idea of parenting. Sometimes the showers have themes, like teddy bears or baby booties or bottles. It all sounds so innocent, even though it is celebrating someone having sex, which normally doesn’t warrant a party or gifts or innocence, for that matter.
I threw a baby shower for my friend MJ recently, who is just weeks away from exploding with her second child. MJ has an eleven year old daughter, so she’s in desperate need of baby gear, since they have reinvented almost everything at least twice since she last changed a diaper. In those eleven years, she has also, well, aged eleven years. Her shower was not a party with women in the same mommy boat; in fact, the guests at her shower drank glass after glass of pink champagne, secretly thrilled that they weren’t the ones having a baby late in life, having to start over with sleepless nights, thousands of diaper changes, and yes, the terrible twos.
I picked a theme for her shower, one that really speaks to MJ. It was poo. MJ, who is a big fan of body functions in general, is never one to shy away from a poop story. I can’t tell you how many times I have heard how her daughter, as a baby, was able to shoot her poop through the doorway onto the opposite wall, in an amazing feat of baby intestinal strength. For MJ, a good baby poop story is the silver lining in the dark cloud of constant diaper changes. So who better than her to embrace the idea of simultaneously entertaining classy women while grossing them out?
In addition to the lovely hydrangeas that festooned the buffet and coffee tables, I strung tiny newborn diapers on some kitchen twine and swagged it over the mantel, a new form a shabby chic that would have brought a tear to Martha Stewart’s eye. My older daughter E even taped a diaper to the front door so that all the guests would know they had come to the right place.
I had prepared a couple of shower games as well. One of them was guessing the circumference of MJ's pregger belly, using toilet paper instead of something charming like grosgrain ribbon. A roll of toilet paper sat on the sofa console table with some pens so the guests could label their guesses. By the middle of the party, streams of toilet paper hung around the room as if we all expected a mass rush on the bathroom, only to find an empty roll.
The best game, however, was my version of a guess what’s in the diaper game. I read online about putting different kinds of baby food in diapers and having the shower guests identify the flavors. I took it a little further. I used candy bars, five different kinds, and melted them in the microwave before smearing them on those diapers. Snickers, Twix, Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, Three Musketeers, and my personal favorite, Hershey’s Milk Chocolate with Almonds, were each melted and dumped just so inside the absorbent middle of the diapers. Had I been thinking clearly, I would have gone with a Mr. Goodbar, but I did the best I could. I placed them each atop a silver serving tray, the irony of which was not lost on MJ, and encouraged the ladies to smell and even taste each one to determine what kind of candy each diaper held. I have to admit, not a single quest would taste them, but I did snap a few good pictures of MJ’s friends and business associates with their noses deep in those loaded diapers.
We all had a lovely time, and MJ got a bunch of stuff she needed and wanted, and then everyone went home with goodie bags containing cookie stuffed cookies and candies and tiny little bottles and Mohawk babies, because who doesn’t love a baby with a Mohawk? I kept that diaper garland up for days afterward because I really liked the look of it, although my husband pointed out that decorating with diapers is less of a fashion statement than it is one on mental health.
I feel for MJ, though, because she is starting over with a baby. Babies are wonderful and cute and their heads smell good, but they are a lot of work. A lot. They don't sleep like normal people and you have to feed them from your breasts, which is just like a cow, and they can't talk and they poo and pee all the time. At least she will have some new poop stories to tell.
I threw a baby shower for my friend MJ recently, who is just weeks away from exploding with her second child. MJ has an eleven year old daughter, so she’s in desperate need of baby gear, since they have reinvented almost everything at least twice since she last changed a diaper. In those eleven years, she has also, well, aged eleven years. Her shower was not a party with women in the same mommy boat; in fact, the guests at her shower drank glass after glass of pink champagne, secretly thrilled that they weren’t the ones having a baby late in life, having to start over with sleepless nights, thousands of diaper changes, and yes, the terrible twos.
I picked a theme for her shower, one that really speaks to MJ. It was poo. MJ, who is a big fan of body functions in general, is never one to shy away from a poop story. I can’t tell you how many times I have heard how her daughter, as a baby, was able to shoot her poop through the doorway onto the opposite wall, in an amazing feat of baby intestinal strength. For MJ, a good baby poop story is the silver lining in the dark cloud of constant diaper changes. So who better than her to embrace the idea of simultaneously entertaining classy women while grossing them out?
In addition to the lovely hydrangeas that festooned the buffet and coffee tables, I strung tiny newborn diapers on some kitchen twine and swagged it over the mantel, a new form a shabby chic that would have brought a tear to Martha Stewart’s eye. My older daughter E even taped a diaper to the front door so that all the guests would know they had come to the right place.
I had prepared a couple of shower games as well. One of them was guessing the circumference of MJ's pregger belly, using toilet paper instead of something charming like grosgrain ribbon. A roll of toilet paper sat on the sofa console table with some pens so the guests could label their guesses. By the middle of the party, streams of toilet paper hung around the room as if we all expected a mass rush on the bathroom, only to find an empty roll.
The best game, however, was my version of a guess what’s in the diaper game. I read online about putting different kinds of baby food in diapers and having the shower guests identify the flavors. I took it a little further. I used candy bars, five different kinds, and melted them in the microwave before smearing them on those diapers. Snickers, Twix, Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, Three Musketeers, and my personal favorite, Hershey’s Milk Chocolate with Almonds, were each melted and dumped just so inside the absorbent middle of the diapers. Had I been thinking clearly, I would have gone with a Mr. Goodbar, but I did the best I could. I placed them each atop a silver serving tray, the irony of which was not lost on MJ, and encouraged the ladies to smell and even taste each one to determine what kind of candy each diaper held. I have to admit, not a single quest would taste them, but I did snap a few good pictures of MJ’s friends and business associates with their noses deep in those loaded diapers.
We all had a lovely time, and MJ got a bunch of stuff she needed and wanted, and then everyone went home with goodie bags containing cookie stuffed cookies and candies and tiny little bottles and Mohawk babies, because who doesn’t love a baby with a Mohawk? I kept that diaper garland up for days afterward because I really liked the look of it, although my husband pointed out that decorating with diapers is less of a fashion statement than it is one on mental health.
I feel for MJ, though, because she is starting over with a baby. Babies are wonderful and cute and their heads smell good, but they are a lot of work. A lot. They don't sleep like normal people and you have to feed them from your breasts, which is just like a cow, and they can't talk and they poo and pee all the time. At least she will have some new poop stories to tell.
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