In the end, it was me and my 86-year-old neighbor sipping chardonnay as she told me about how she hadn’t been able to feel the left side of her tongue in 15 years. When my family returned, Nate pointed to our neighbor who had wet herself while asleep on the couch. I said she was my spirit guide to womanhood and went to bed.
Chapter Ten
Does Oxford Have After School Care?
I read volumes on preschool in my “How to Raise a Kid” books. It seemed like a great idea for a mom. I thought I would get a few hours to myself while some lovely people bettered my children through song and sand play. Getting them into preschool is another story. When I was a part of the Judgmental Mom’s Club (Logan and the other babies were six months at the time), our leader Dr. Misty asked if anyone had any news. One mom replied, “My little Dakota Skyye just got in to University of Smarts!” This was met with squeals and congratulations. I wondered, “We were supposed to have signed them up for college already?!?”
Turns out, she was referring to a coveted daycare program.
You can put a baby in daycare as early as you like. Preschool starts when the child is two or two and a half. Where you send them carries as much status as the car you drive. I started looking for a preschool for Logan when he was two. I was told that it would be tough as I started my search too late. By some terrible coincidence, an organization was running ads on TV proclaiming that, if I did not send my kid to preschool, then he would probably not do well in elementary school. This meant he would fail high school. Subsequently, he would never see the inside of a college -- and inhabit my basement until he was 45.
Most preschools require your child be potty trained prior to enrolling. If you have yet to actually potty train a child, let me tell you, stress of a deadline is not helpful to the process. If you consult the Mommyverse, they will tell you potty training is taking place later these days. Parents aren’t even starting until the child is three. So if kids start preschool at two and potty training should be expected around three and kids had to be potty trained to go to preschool -- who was filling up all the preschools and keeping my kids on wait lists?
Luckily, I discovered an alternative to preschool. The public school up the street from me offered pre-kindergarten. Thirty lucky four-year-olds would be enrolled on a first-come, first-served basis.
I asked Dawn about the first-come, first-served part. She said preschool spots were harder to come by than Rolling Stones’ tickets. I figured pre-K slots would be the same. The first day of the enrollment period, I got up at 6:45, showered and dressed. My outfit was comfortable but respectable enough to look like a responsible mom. My paperwork was filled out and in order. I grabbed my purse, thermos and book and headed out.
As I rounded the corner, the school came into view. I could make out yellow signs and pylons set up to control the chaos and direct us line sitters. I was relieved to see that there was not a huge line in front of the school. As I got closer, I saw the signs and cones were for student drop-off and not the enrollment at all. Four ladies were chatting outside the school’s office. I was thrilled – even if all four ladies were signing up, there would still be slots for me. Now I just had 70 minutes to read my book and drink my coffee.
I entered the office to see if I needed to sign in. One of the two nice ladies from behind the counter asked if she could help me. I said “I am here for the pre-K enrollment. Do we just line up outside?”
As if we were in a movie, all sound immediately ceased. Both ladies behind the desk looked at the clock and then one said, “We don’t start until 9:00 A.M.”
“Oh, I know. I just….” I looked around and noticed the ladies out front were now gone, having been just moms catching up before school. The school grounds were empty. It was 7:50, and I was there for a 9:00 A.M. enrollment.
“I was afraid there was going to be a big line,” I said.
The lady looked at me and again said, “But we don’t start until 9:00.”
“Uhm, okay. I could come back,” I said.
“I could give you a number,” she replied, looking around the desk. “But I haven’t made them up yet. We don’t start enrollment until 9:00.”
“Sure. Okay,” I said, a bit too high pitched. “Should I come back in a half hour?”
She replied, “Or an hour.”
“Great.” I said, trying to sound unfazed.
“Well, let me get your name so I know you were here… first.” The last thing she said was “You have everything; right? I can’t enroll you unless you have everything.”
Of course I was fully prepared.
An hour later, I started back up to the school. The grounds were quiet now. I walked into the office and smiled at my two new friends. Seeing absolutely nobody else around and 15 minutes left before enrollment began, I took a seat on the bench reserved for students awaiting discipline. I had forgotten my book; so I read all the fliers about programs, school calendars and “What’s Hot in the Cafeteria” menus. I chose a book from the selection offered which included such classics as “I Know My Shapes!” (which, apparently, I do). I was very much alone on my detention bench, reading my Scholastic Book. Nobody else showed up for enrollment. The principal came out at one point, glanced at me and asked if I needed help. “Nope. I am fine,” I assured her. She looked to the secretaries.
“Enrollment,” one said.
“But we don’t start until 9:00.” the principal said. I tried to hide behind my “Fuzzy Kitty” book, but they just don’t make those big enough.
At 9:00 A.M., I was called to the desk. I approached with my neat folder and paperwork all lined up according to the coversheet. She pulled out the first set, a long form that had six carbon pages to it. She reviewed the information on the sheet and then lifted the first set of pages to reveal that it was not six carbon sheets, it was 2x3 sets of carbons. After all this, I was standing there unprepared. She generously allowed me to stand off to the corner to complete them. Filling them out as quickly as I could, I neglected to read the headers and filled out all the “For Office Use Only” sections on the bottom as well -- more points for me.
She put me on next year’s attendance sheets and I flew out of the office before they could change their minds. Not looking up, I crashed into a lady standing outside of the office.
“Oh, my gosh. I am so sorry!” I said, collecting my scattered papers.
“That’s quite all right,” she said. “Hey, did you just enroll your child here?”
“Yes, I did. Pre-K.”
“Well, welcome to the school!” Her tone had taken on a cheerleader quality. “Do you have your tutors lined up?”
“Tutors? For what?”
“Your child?” she answered.
“The one starting pre-K?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Haven’t you seen the new ads on TV?” she gasped.
I called Nate and told him we needed to buy a house with a basement -- two basements, actually, at 45 Logan and Tabby shouldn’t be sharing a room.
Chapter Eleven
Wanna Go Out?
There are many kinds of dates: dinner dates, blind dates, double dates, movie dates, obligatory dates, set-up dates, repeat dates, “My mother wants us to marry” dates, group dates, “This is not a date“dates, “I can’t go see a movie alone” dates, “I have no money. Will you feed me?”dates – you name it. And I have been on many of them. Once I got married, I thought I was through with dating. But then I entered the Era of the Playdate.
When I was little, I popped over to the neighbor’s house to see if their kid was home and wanted to play with me. I was offered chips in a bowl and frozen juice boxes that I sucked on until they melted. I don’t think we had a fancy name for it. It all seemed kind of simple and fun.
Now it’s, well, a “dat
e.” One mom calls the other and requests said playdate.
“Hi! How about a playdate? Does Thursday work?”
“Oh, shoot! We have speech therapy. How about Wednesday?”
“Sorry. We have Itty Bitty Belly Dancing.”
“Oh! Our Spiritual Enlightenment for Tots is canceled this week; so we can meet for an hour on Friday morning – how’s that for you?”
“Uhm, let me check. Yes! We can come over between Petite Polo Lessons and Kiddie Kordon Bleu.”
“Great. See you then!”
I gather both my children -- everything is done in a group now -- and head over to their friends’ house at the appointed time. When I arrive, general pleasantries are exchanged, and the next 20 minutes are spent asking our children questions designed to bring them together as a unit.
“Logan? Did you say hello to your friends?”
“Dag? Pippy? Did you see that Logan and Tabby are here? Come out and see your friends. Now, come on. You have been watching TV all morning. Let’s turn off the TV and say hi to your friends. “
(To me) “They don’t usually watch that much TV, but I had to get some housework done.”
“Logan, do you want to sit by Dag? Tabby, Pippy got a new doll, isn’t that nice? Now, kids, this is somebody else’s house. Let’s not climb on the furniture. Logan! This is not your house. Get out of the refrigerator.”
(To Dag’s mom) “He never does this – I don’t know what is wrong with him today.”
After spending most of our efforts in attempting to get the children we have assembled to interact in a social manner, we break out the big guns – the Activity.
“Since it is so close to Easter, I thought we would do a season-appropriate activity,” Dag’s mom says. “Of course, we do not want to show a bias to any one denomination; so we are incorporating many elements. We will paint eggs with a scene of Jesus attending a Purim Carnival as Buddha. Won’t that be fun?”
The kids’ eyes do not leave the TV until they see paint -- paint, the Great Unifier. Suddenly four sets of hands have paintbrushes, and “washable” neon paint is flying in every direction but on the egg. Both Dag’s mom and I frantically try to save at least one surface from the paint splatters. Then a child drops an egg. It breaks.
Silence.
The children’s’ eyes grow wide. The Battle of Humpty Dumpty is launched. Eggs are smashed on the table, the floor, each other’s heads, the parakeet – you name it. I crouch down and try to pick up tiny bits of shell. I alternate between apologizing for my children and asking them to please decide not to destroy the eggs and their friends’ house in the process. Dag’s mom repeatedly asks, “Don’t you want to paint the pretty eggs? Look what Mommy’s doing…wow – isn’t that beautiful? Isn’t this fun, Logan’s Mommy? This is much more fun than breaking the poor eggs. Stop crying eggs. We are sorry we are smashing you.”
A halt is called to the activity, and the food comes out. Here we have one of two scenarios: The first is that I was counting on my children getting fed lunch so I could successfully avoid my motherly duties for one more meal. Instead Dag’s mom serves up some healthy, organic, pasty, non-exploited-worker-type fare my children won’t touch, let alone eat. Or the second, I have actually gotten some healthy food in my children, and Dag’s mom whips out a sampling of Willy Wonka’s factory on a platter. My children cram so much sugar in their mouths that they vibrate for three days.
Dag’s mom notes the clock, and so it is time to make our goodbyes. The children have finally decided to interact and are running about the house squealing and having a grand time. Thirty minutes later, I have a screaming child under each arm. I thank Dag’s mom for the lovely time. “Let’s speak next week when we can arrange for another playdate. What fun this was. Why don’t we do this more often?”
Chapter Twelve
Little Bundles of Joy?
Some moms dream of all the time they get to spend with their child. They start pacing during naps because they simply can’t wait for the baby to wake up so they can play with him/her. There are moms (and I am fairly confident Gigi is one of them) that honestly believe that every act they do is enhanced by having their children along. I admire these women, but I am not one of them. I am trying to figure out how early any military school will take my children.
I am not trying to suggest that my children are Machiavellian. Yet I must applaud their new and ingenious ways of trying to drive me out of my mind. Today the dog gave me a look that let me know he was none too pleased with me. When he turned around, I noticed he had been colored in various shades of sidewalk chalk and that stickers covered his hindquarters.
Last month the kids and I hosted their aunt and little cousin Erma at our house. I told Logan that I wanted to chat with his aunt; so why did he not play with Erma and Tabitha and let us alone. As we chatted in the living room, we heard the wonderful sound of pleasant play in the other room. There were peals of laughter, shrieks of delight, bursts of joyous noise, the sound of the whipped cream can ... wait, that’s not right. I walked -- well, ran, actually -- to the other room and saw the worst pancake recipe ever created. On the floor were the contents of my baking mix box, the entirety of the regular and chocolate milk cartons as well as the mustard and some minced garlic. Most of the ingredients had been scooped off the floor and into Nate’s shaving mug, which was then ceremoniously thrown in the closet.
The last trip we took up to see my parents, my children were angels in the airport. People took the time to tell me how lovely they were and what a treat it was to watch them interact with each other. I smiled and thanked each well-wisher while wondering to myself “Why are my children acting so well?”
Once on the plane, we took our seats. There were only three seats to a row so Nate sat across the aisle from the kids and me. When I attempted to put their seatbelts on, my children reacted as if I was trying to shove frogs into their pants. They launched into a hand war with me as I tried to work the buckle. I turned to Nate for assistance. He shrugged to indicate that he could not get out of his seat due to proper takeoff regulations. I shrugged to indicate there would be no sex for a while. So I tried reasoning with the children. We all know how reasonable young children are on planes.
“Now, now, kids. Remember we are going to see Nana and Bepop. How exciting is that?”
Logan asked where they were. I told him. His cries of subjugation about the seatbelt switched to cries of injustice of grandparent withholding.
“No,” I assured him, “we are going to see them really soon. But the pilot cannot leave until your seatbelt is buckled. That is why we are all sitting here – waiting for you.”
This is when the plane started to back up. My son looked at me with his familiar “Have you no shame?” look. The flight attendant came down the aisle, checking all of us out for proper take off form.
“He will need to have his seatbelt on for takeoff.” she said impatiently.
“Ah,” I think, “then I should probably discontinue this clever game of Smack Mom’s Hands and get on that.”
She hovered over me to make sure I completed my task. I got desperate. I held him down with one firm hold and buckled him with the other hand. The volume of his screams was making the fellow passengers’ ears bleed. “Stop it!” I said. “Your sister is not making this kind of fuss! Look at her…”
Dammit, where was Tabitha? I turn back to Nate, who was inexplicably sleeping.
“Where is Tabitha?!” I demanded, shoving him awake.
“Isn’t she with you?” he asked.
“Would I be asking you where she was if that were true?” I hissed through my teeth.
“Hey!” I heard from the seat in front of us. An angry, formerly sleeping gentleman whipped his head around, “Is this your kid?”
; As I peered over the seats, I saw a small head of tousled curls grinning up from between the man’s legs. His briefcase was open. It appeared as though my daughter had reorganized his report with a few Sharpie notes. I apologized profusely and told him I would be happy to replace anything she damaged. I reached over to extract her from her spot, growing increasingly aware that I was reaching for his crotch. As I awkwardly tried to grab her and not him, he became frustrated and tried to lift her up himself. Her shoe got caught on the tray table. He repeatedly jerked her up to no avail – shaking the seat of the lady in front of him. Finally, my daughter’s legs were freed and I took her from him – but not before she got off a solid kick to the head of the man in front of Logan.
Logan? Where was he now? I turned quickly to see Logan on Nate’s lap. Nate gave me that look -- the one that asks, “Why you don’t have this under control?” And I give him that look – the one that says, “I do not care for your opinion at this time. “
The flight attendant came by and angrily reminded me that everyone needed to be in their seats with their seatbelts buckled. I smiled tightly and put Tabitha in her seat, locking her in. I put Logan in his seat and secured him. I dumped the contents of my purse and the baby bag onto their laps and let them do whatever they wanted with whatever was there. As I fantasized about airline-sized bottles of vodka lined up before me, the children’s volume slowly started to rise. I turned to Nate who was, once again, asleep. My children commenced launching my purse items onto the heads of our fellow passengers throughout the plane.
When we arrived, the grandparents were waiting for us. Embraces happened and kisses were administered. My dad could not help noticing the other passengers yanking their luggage from the carousel and glaring at us as they passed by.
“How was the flight?” Dad asked.
“Super!” Logan said. “We got to talk to the pilot.”
Supermom Breaks a Nail Page 4
