We can’t have hair there, now can we?

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Here I am, running my finger over my just-waxed upper lip (yes, we do have to address certain issues in our 30s, don’t we ladies?) feeling a little guilty that I haven’t gotten back on the blog-horse.  The more days that passed between the last time I wrote, the more I felt like I was out of ideas of what to chat about. 

The good news is that we’ll be moving back home (since Sandy) very soon.  Our house will be new from top to bottom, which isn’t something I could say pre-hurricane, when my husband’s fix-it list was unreasonably long.  So, yay!  We’re going home.  (And then maybe the very well-intentioned people I know will stop asking me about the hurricane drama.  I’m sick of talking about it, but I do appreciate people who are only trying to be thoughtful.)

On a fun note, we’re taking a brief and (hopefully) romantic trip to Cape Cod next week and I’m sooooo very excited.  I have quite the case of wanderlust and have always had a love of all things New England.  Especially the way they talk…  “They’re in the yahd, not to faah from the caah,”.  If you don’t get that reference, we have a problem.

I look forward to sharing our trip with you.  Don’t worry, I’ll exclude any nude pics if any occur.  Don’t wanna scare anybody.

Happy, happiest Mother’s Day to all of you who have children of your own or who act as Mom to the special kids in your life.  That’s right, you don’t have to go through labor to be a mother. 

Hmmm….what else, what else….I’ll probably think of a few other things once I hit “publish”.

Hope all is well with all of you. 

I only give my number to octogenarians

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Should I just post something (that I hope is) witty, or should I offer up some explanation for the 3 months or so that I’ve been an absentee blogger?  It’s just that I’m not (usually) one for whining and complaining and I’d sooner eat escargot while being tickled by clowns (3 things I don’t favor) than bore you with my life.  Oh, wait.  Isn’t this blog about moi?  Let’s just do the abridged version then, shall we…

What’s a word for wanting to get out of bed every morning, wanting to have a great day filled with the laughter of my kids and the adoring gaze of the man I love, but having such a minuscule amount of energy to utilize for that 24-hour period that each day feels like I’m just getting through it rather than relishing it?  It’s not depression. To me, that means one has lost the desire to do any of those things.  Can I call it Crapville?  That sounds better.  In Crapville, I’ve been feeling completely unlike myself.  For more on why I entered Crapville in the first place click here.  Anyway….let’s giggle a little.  You can laugh if you want.  You may also guffaw, if it suits you.  I’m always ready for a good spit-as-you-laugh moment, aren’t you?  I would take it as a compliment so please feel free.

A Little Book Browsing…

Recently, I was in Barnes & Noble with my son, Luke, when an elderly gentleman approached us in the greeting card section.

“I thought they only let beautiful women in here,” he said.

Before I could reply with a “Huh?” or a “When was the last time you looked in a mirror?  1932?”, he corrected himself.

“There are so many beautiful women here!”  he said.  He looked down at Luke, “Are you being a good boy?”

Luke scowled. I smiled tightly and took a sharp turn into the fiction section, pulling my kid behind me.

After we had browsed the cookbooks and Llama Llama books, we got on the line to pay, which was rather long.  I felt eyes on my back and turned to look over my shoulder.

“You could read every book in the store while waiting on this line,” an elderly man said.  (Not the one from the greeting card section. A different guy.)

Sounds innocent enough, I know, but his body language said it all.  There was a twinkle in his eye and I got the feeling that he had doubled up on his Viagra that day.

Clearly, the Madewell jeans that my cousin Lauren vouched were good-butt-jeans were not designed to attract men my age.  Not that I’m on the prowl (Hi, Michael.  I love you, Cutie.), but if I were it’s apparent that my dating pool is more Ryan O’Neal than Ryan Reynolds.  As if edging toward 34 isn’t slap in the face enough.

Guess I’d better hang on to the man I’ve got.

 

Until next time

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It seems this whole flooded-house-because-of-Sandy-displacement thing is not only confusing and frustrating, it’s also very tiring.  Both my hubby and I agree, we’ve never been so tired.  Even during our newborn parenting days we weren’t this tired.  So I haven’t been chatting with you all as much.

I’m planning to get it together enough to let you know what I’ve been up to, besides the tiredness.  Let’s see…been battling cave crickets in the basement of our apartment, I’m on the hunt for the perfect chemical-free mattress, and I went to see a medium last Saturday.

Talk soon.  Hope you’re all feeling more energized than me these days.

“Don’t get them wet. And whatever you do….”

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If you’ve ever seen the 1984 film, Gremlins, then you already have a partial understanding of my life.

They start out as cute, fuzzy, adorable Mogwai.  Who wouldn’t want one or two?  But then…

“Flush goes the potty,” Madeleine sang.

She’s been playing that Elmo Potty app on my phone for weeks.

“Madeleine threw my socks in the toilet,” Luke said.

“Madeleine, we do not put socks in the potty,” I said.

“Oh, they just go on our feet?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said as I put on disposable gloves and fished the socks out of the toilet.

It was morning and I had to get breakfast done so we could leave for school.  Suddenly, I was dodging projectile citrus fruits.

“Weee!” Madeleine giggled.

A lemon landed on the counter.  Next, a grapefruit.  Another lemon.

“We do not throw food.  No,” I said firmly.

“It’s funny,” she said.

After breakfast and getting dressed we were ready to face the world.

Here’s a question:  Does anyone think I’d look cute in an eye patch?

As I buckled Madeleine’s carseat she wielded her pink fairy wand.  Stick-side up.  We did manage to get to school, drop off Luke, and back home again without any injuries inflicted by a toddler.

Like I said, my life is a bit like Gremlins.  Although around here, midnight isn’t the witching hour. It’s that block of time between 3pm and whatever time my husband comes home.  Usually about 2 to 3 hours when I’m outnumbered by Mogwais foaming at the mouth.

From the girly mini Legos that my husband swore would deter Madeleine from messing with her big brother’s Transformers Legos (she now sprinkles them ABSOLUTELY EVERYWHERE throughout the apartment and I have been instructed by my darling to avoid sucking them up in the vacuum), to the two of them jumping on the sofa and then ripping off the cushions to use as weapons against each other, to Madeleine wearing Luke’s (dirty) underwear as a hat and eventually a belt…the screaming, biting, hitting, crying, whining, and Luke spitting in my face and calling me an idiot (I kid you not)…

I.  Am.  Utterly.  Drained.

I know for sure the tenant upstairs must be able to hear the shenanigans taking place below her feet.  Otherwise she is certainly deaf.  Or passed out drunk.  What must she think?

I try not to yell but there are times when having to repeat myself becomes intolerable and I can no longer use my child-therapist-whisper voice and feel compelled to shout, Be quiet!!! or Stop riding your sister!  She’s not a horse, for God’s sake!

Is it me? Am I not catching on to this parenting thing?  Is there caffeine in our tap water or am I doing penance for something bad I did a long time ago and have no recollection of?

By the end of the evening, after dinner and baths and pajamas, I managed to laugh. Genuinely.  Madeleine started calling me “roast beef” instead of Mommy, in her teeny, tiny munchkin voice and I laughed into my belly.   I don’t know what happened.  Maybe I ran out of gas and couldn’t be irritated anymore, or maybe it’s my profuse love for my kids  that always weasels its way in there and makes me mushy.

Just remember my friends, if you already have a Mogwai or you’re thinking of getting one…

Whatever you do, don’t feed them after midnight.  I’m too afraid to imagine the consequences.

You know you’re getting older when you keep old towels and your kid says “What’s a VHS tape?”

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I like nice things, but I don’t consider myself materialistic.  It’s funny, then, how things like hand towels can represent unexpected emotions.

As I sort through the pile of black garbage bags – filled with things I packed from our water-logged and now moldy house –  I’m surprised at how comforting it feels to have my hand towels in the bathroom of our new apartment.  They’re old towels that look stained and worn, but they’re mine.  Ours.  The texture feels familiar against my skin after I wash my face.

My favorite can opener, a red Kitchen Aid can opener, now lies in a drawer in the kitchen.  I’ve used other can openers in the past, but this one feels good in the hand and gets the job done.  The chemical-laiden cleaning products that were under the sink have now been replaced with my trusted arsenal of plant-based soaps and sprays.

I miss silly things like Caller I.D., since the Panasonic cordless resting on the nightstand is a Stegosaurus by today’s standards.  I miss the dimmers we had on all the lights in our house.  Here, it’s either off or on.  And I long for the over-sized stainless steel sink that I used to fill up with dishes after cooking an elaborate dinner.  In this apartment, I battle the low-slung faucet that catches the edge of a soup pot, and the shallow sink that makes washing a sheet pan laborious.

What surprises me most is how much I miss television.  I don’t ever watch it during the day and there are only a handful of shows we watch on weeknights (does anyone know what’s happening on Parenthood ?) We have yet been able to get the cable company over here to hook us up to normalcy and without the background chatter of Nick Jr. or Disney, it’s positively quiet around here.  But a small miracle occurred.  A friend of my mom’s had an old-school TV/VHS player combo in her basement and when she heard how bored my kids have been without any “normal” entertainment, she sent it over with a bunch of Disney movies.

I had to explain to my son what a VHS tape is.  Ugh.  I suddenly felt like my dad when he tried to explain what the hell an 8-track is.  I still don’t know.

Oh and here’s another weird thing.  Laundry relaxes me.  I was in the basement before folding a load and I felt unusually at ease with a task that normally pisses me off for what a huge time-suckage task it is.  The basement is raw, unfinished.  Fuzzy, yellow insulation peaks out from the walls and there is a massive and somewhat creepy-looking oil burner in one corner.  But I wasn’t bothered by it as I folded Madeleine’s ladybug pajamas.

Comfort in the familiar.

My family doubles as a life raft

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There are few experiences that would send me into a state of  hypochondria more than getting splashed in the eye with raw sewage-tainted flood water.  But that’s not the worst of it.

This is not a sob-fest or a pity party.  It is, though, one heck of a story.

Hurricane Sandy hit Long Island, as we all know.  Our home was part of the beach community called Long Beach.  It’s a town forever changed.  Die-hards who have lived there for eons, who swore they’d stay through any storm, got the shock of their lives when a tidal surge flooded most of the town with several feet of sea water.  Hundreds of homes were lost, some even to fires that began during the storm, impossible to extinguish due to unruly winds.  One of my neighbors found safety in his attic as the water rose, as he held on to his cat.

The reason that I can’t take my eyes off the silver lining of this experience is very simple.

Family.

Because of my family and my husband’s, we made it through what has been for others a horrific ordeal.  We evacuated our home the night before the storm and bunked at my in-laws’ house.  The kids thought it was great that we were having “a sleepover party”.  For a while it felt like we had overreacted and we were waiting for something to happen.

Then much of Long Island and NYC lost power.  I’m not, of course, ignoring Jersey or Connecticut but since my contact with the outside has been so limited, I’m uninformed on how those states fared.

As if realizing how coddled we are by modern conveniences that rely on electricity wasn’t frustrating enough, we also had no hot water.  But wait, there’s more.

We learned the next day that the sewage treatment plant, in the neighboring town that services about 550,000 people, had had an explosion and could not function to normal capacity.  We heard conflicting information about whether the water was safe to drink or wash with.

I can deal with the dark and cold water, but no water?  Yikes!  Now that’s scary.

We have been back to our house several times over this week to salvage what we can.  Today I was busily packing up wet things that would survive once they’d dried and splashed myself with the murky water.  Pink eye! I immediately thought, and flushed out my eye over the sink.  With bottled water.

Fortunately, my family has an apartment we can rent (which used to be my grandmother’s home) until we are able to repair our home.  My family spent their weekend helping us clean and organize everything we salvaged so that the kids would have a new cozy place to call our home.  My cousin (Aunt Lauren) took 8 loads of my sea-soaked laundry to one of the only laundromats with electricity,  so I could take my kids to the doctor – since they are sick with terrible coughs and boogers.  Lauren had already worked extra shifts in the E.R. (she’s a nurse) but summoned the energy to brave the throngs of grouchy people who also wanted to wash their clothes.  Some of them thought line cutting would go unnoticed.  Lauren had to put a little old lady in her place for her lack of manners.

My sister brought an armful of new children’s books to replace the ones that had gone for a swim.  My cousin Hillary was the nanny for the kids so I could run errands and make trips to our house (we could not risk bringing the kids along to see their mangled toys and bedroom).  When I returned, she had unpacked all the clothes and organized all the drawers.

There is so much to mention – is this my speech at the Oscars? – my father, Uncle Bruce, my mom, Aunt M.  They all did so much to assist us in putting our life back together so we can begin to feel normal again.

Here’s the good part, the happy part.

I realized that I could handle this catastrophe because I had prepared.  I had packed all the kids’ clothing and shoes and several of their toys.  Knowing I had their treasured comforts to bring along made it so much easier, seeing their relief at the sight of their blankies, Luke’s trains, Madeleine’s FurReal kitty cat.  For children it’s simple – give them familiarity.

For me, just knowing we were all safe and sound was the best outcome imaginable.  Losing belongings is but an inconvenience.  We had packed our many photos over these past 12 years of our life together, Michael and me, so I knew I could part with the other things if I had to.

Not having access to fresh vegetables is a huge bummer, but I hope in the coming week the stores will begin to restock as usual.

My husband is, as usual, my hero.  He’s been working non-stop to take trees off houses, since tree work is his profession, and hurricanes have a way of blowing down massive trees like they’re dominos. He’s been making quick trips after work to gather more things from our house and then waiting in line for gas, as I’m sure you’ve heard about the gas shortage on Long Island.

One of the highlights was when my mom insisted numerous times that I find my bedding amongst all the garbage we bagged after the flood – which is a delicate, white, cotton voile -so she could wash it.

“It’s soaked in black grit,” I explained, “and smells like dead fish.”

“I’ll bleach it,” she argued.

Yes, this has been quite the…what’s the metaphor?  Roller coaster? Log flume? Pirates of the Caribbean?

But I’m not complaining.  As I sit in the darkness of this tiny apartment I can almost hear my grandma whispering in her kind, gentle voice This too shall pass.

Me again

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I thought it only fair to bore you as much as I am bored.  Bang your head against the wall, bored.  My husband arrived this morning after spending the night securing last minute things.  We don’t buy into any of the mass hysteria going on, but we didn’t want to end up looking like jerks for being cocky.

Now that Michael is here, Luke has been hanging on him and/or whining that he wants to go home.  We live on a barrier island and the bridge is closed.  We can’t get back in even if we wanted to.

Miraculously got Madeleine down for a nap and piled blankets and pillows on and around her to recreate the womb. Maybe she’ll sleep through the howling wind outside the windows.  Wish I could crawl back in the womb sometimes and just sleep.

My addiction to coffee is telling me it’s almost time for my afternoon cup. I’m a little early, but what else to do I have going on right now?  Michael is snoozing on the chair-and-a-half in the living room and Luke is alternating between playing the Spiderman game on the iPad and whatever show is on HUB.

Enjoy the storm.

Mommy Sandwich

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I’m sandwiched between my kids in bed at my mother-in-law’s house. It’s 10:44pm.  It would otherwise be a very comfortable bed, except for these leggy kids of mine.  They also snore.

We’ve evacuated. Well, actually, 3/4 of our family has. My husband stayed at our house to do some more preparing and sandbagging ( for Sandy) while I took the kids to his mother’s. He’ll be here in the morning.

Meanwhile, I can’t sleep. So now I’m blogging to you…

I just had to share how completely oddball it is that on any given day I can find several reasons (a creepy guy walking down the street while I’m walking kids looks at me funny or I watch the Today Show and learn about a new disease that is incurable) to become stressed and/or anxious.  But in the face of a potential natural disaster-ish situation, I’m very calm. 

I figured it out, though.  All I really want is for those I love most to be safe and happy.  We packed up our kids (safe) and brought their favorite toys (happy). Everything else is replaceable. 

Except our wedding album and the negatives for the photos, the kids’ baby albums, our hard drives, my journals – there are of course a few things I hoard like troll. 

Hmmm…I’m hungry. Why am I in the mood for shrimp salad? 

Happy trails to all in Sandy’s path. I’m going to try to sleep now. 

Go away, Sandy!

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I probably won’t be posting for a few days.  Sandy is coming.  For those of you who don’t own a t.v. or maybe you only watch reality t.v. and avoid the news, you may not know that a hurricane is making its way up the east coast.  Since we live on Long Island you can see why this is a problem.  Just as we did for Hurricane Irene last August, we’ll have to raise anything valuable that sits on the floor and pack up anything cherished should we decided to evacuate.

Hope it’s much ado about nothing.  I’ll let you know after it’s all over.

I don’t like hurricanes, do you?

I smacked myself in the face with my own hand

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I was getting Madeleine into her car seat and she was, of course, being uncooperative and squirmy.  And she’s very strong.  So there I was pulling the strap that tightens the entire harness, once I had clipped it together.  My hand slipped, sending it right back at my face.  I was wearing sunglasses and they smashed into the bridge of my nose, as well.  Unpleasant.

We were heading to the pediatrician’s office for a check-up.  When we got there I needed to use the bathroom.

“Madeleine, please don’t touch the door,” I said as I teetered on one butt cheek attempting to pee.  I pressed a hand against the bathroom door to spare the entire waiting room from getting a view of me on the toilet.  In these situations I’m always glad when I’m wearing cute underwear.  You never know who might be putting you on Youtube.  Damn those easy-open door handles that even a toddler can manage.

Her appointment was mercifully quick and my plan was that she’d fall asleep on the way home.  My plan, not hers.  I so badly wanted her to sleep, but by the time we pulled into the driveway she was still looking at me.  I took her out and put her right into the stroller.

We walked and neared the bridge, “Mommy, stop!” she shouted.  There are small bridges in our neighborhood that cross over canals.  Ducks and swans love to hang around the area.

“It’s quiet time,” I said softly.

“But I want to look for the ducks!”

“I think they’re sleeping.”

I walked faster and now I was sweating.  Frustrated and hot.  There were construction trucks ahead working on the road.  Noise.  More frustration.

We turned back toward home and I got Madeleine into the car again.  I needed coffee and I thought maybe she’d finally pass out on the ride.

Thank you to whichever genius decided to put a drive-thru Starbucks nearby.  I use it weekly even though I don’t particularly like the coffee.  The only problem on this day was how the guy at the window was holding my coffee.  I had to stop myself from blurting out Excuse me, Sir, but do you mind not man-handling my coffee?  When was the last time you washed your hands?  It’s cold and flu season and he was holding his finger over the spout part of the lid where you put your mouth.  (See how much energy goes into being neurotic?)

In this case and on this day it was worth risking infection.

“Is that your coffee, Mommy?” Madeleine said, still wide awake, eyes sparkling.

“Yes, love.”

“I have some?”

“Nah, not today.”

“Are we picking up Luke?”

“Soon.”

“Ok, Mommy.”

This is the part where the story doesn’t have a tidy, perfect ending.  The part where I ask for HELP.  Madeleine has been skipping her naps lately and by around 5pm she’s a mess.  Some days it’s an all-out meltdown as I attempt to make dinner.  Other times she’ll dance around the house with socks on her hands, banging a bongo drum with the glow-in-the-dark star wand I got her at CVS, with her hair stuck to her sweaty forehead.  It’s incredibly, deliciously cute.  Then Luke will inevitably chase her around the table and she’ll shriek He’s scaring me!  Then they to battle until dinner is on the table.  Not cute.

My question to all of you is:  What do you do with your kids from after-school-time to dinner-time?  Are your kids running around during this 2-hour stretch, beating each other up and tearing through the house like they’re on Supermarket Sweep?  Input welcome :)