Dear Christine...

Dear Christine L. Alaniz,

I must admit, I was surprised to find that you were the Chief Engineer for the 2008 Dodge Grand Caravan. I was certain that I would find the face of some male on your web site. I’m glad to see a female presence there at your engineering offices. For one, it sends a great message to the girls of today, that an engineering degree is within their reach. That, and seems to me that most minivans are driven by mothers. Sure dads may pitch in now and again while on a long road trip, but they aren’t typically driving to their lunch meetings, golf games and hostile corporate take-overs in the family ride. So they shouldn't be the main designers.

I’m not sure how long you’ve been at Dodge, but I have no doubt that your womanly vision is to be credited with a few of the new features of the 2008 Caravan. Those Stow-n-Go seats are perfect for fitting the new swing set in the back (those big wooden ones I can’t afford) or hiding my latest score at Marshalls extra 50% off sale. The Swivel-and-Go seats also look like great van bling, and no doubt will make it easier to buckle in squirmy little children everywhere, seeing as how the big side door openings just don’t give you enough room. I can’t say I’m sold on the removable plastic table, as if encouraging my children to eat food in the van with a bucket of friends is a good idea. It is also way too reminiscent of an RV trip, and may make the kids think that everywhere we go is going to be a jolly-good-time. Sometimes the trip to the bank and grocery store need to be boring, just to remind kids how good they really have it and that yes, errands suck.

I’m a proud owner of a 2002 Dodge Grand Caravan and while I know that my van is the Jurassic equivalent of the Atari game system, it is currently paid off. I say currently because there is a remote possibility that we may need to borrow against its $300 value in order to pay for the gasoline needed to drive to work to earn the salary that buys the gas. Until that moment though, we hold the title, which means we will be driving the sucker into the ground, until it foams at the hood, until we find it floating belly up in our driveway.

Which leads me to why I’m writing you in the first place. Since my van is such a relic, it obviously didn’t come with those fancy shmancy tilt-a-whirl seats. It did however come with two built in 5-point harness child seats. I must say that I have loved these a great deal. It has made traveling with children a tad easier, in that I don’t have to lug around an additional 40 pound car seat in order to keep my children safe. It is also a nice option in case I need to transport another child whose parent insists they be in a legal 5-point harness. I’m happy to shoulder belt my own kids in the very back and hope like heck we don’t get rear-ended. But I need to let you know of a serious design flaw, one that I have yet to see remedied in your new models.

While driving to baseball practice the other evening, in a rush and harried as usual, my 9 year-old son is mimicking my 1 year-old daughter (as brothers are wont to do), until he realizes that the gagging sounds he thinks are hysterical, are in fact the precursory vomit noises. I glance in my rearview mirror in time to find my daughter hurling the contents of (what must be) at least a weeks worth of food in water-hose fashion. Swinging the car over to the shoulder of a very narrow street (your 2002 also has very good brakes BTW), I throw open the drivers side back door (those double open van sides really are the best thing since Nutella) to make sure my daughter is okay.

At this point I’m in a bit of a quandary. Not expecting to be gone long (the ball field is 2 minutes from the house) I don’t have the diaper bag. Also, not expecting to be dealing in bodily fluids, I left my latex-free gloves in the garage. My poor daughter is saucer-eyed and freaked out and now covered in orange chunky remains from neck to knee. What’s a mom to do? I double-hand scooped out the chunks onto the street, grabbed the dirty-van drying towel, stripped her down to the diaper, moved her over to the other built-in 5-point harness seat, and continued to drop my son off at baseball practice. Thankfully, I did have one container of wet wipes, which I used to excavate her from the 5-point harness.

For brevity, I’ll skip the part where I had to leave my son unattended at the ball park while I drove my WT diaper-vomit daughter home 15 minutes before my book club was due to arrive at my house for a fun filled evening of literary chatter, or how since I was so pressed for time I left the van in the garage with the vomit, the dirty towel, the messy clothes, and all the puky wet wipes overnight.

The next morning (after a very successful book club I might add) I faced the music and headed to the van armed with a bucket, rags, cleaners, air fresheners, and the vacuum. Up until this point, like I have mentioned, I really have been a fan of those 5-point harness seats. But I apparently I didn’t get issued the tools necessary to effectively clean those seats when I purchased my vehicle. Maybe it was an oversight on the dealerships part, way back in 2002, but it took 4 hours, a screwdriver and a fair amount of swearing to get that seat apart. I would have been happy to just wipe it real good like, but vomit by nature is runny and it crept its way down the seat belt hole. Yes, down past the removable washer part, past the easy-to-wipe pleather part, way down into that deep black abyss at the bottom of the buckle. That place where the extra change lives, and the hair barrettes, Polly Pocket shoes and crumbs of a thousands colors. As I removed each layer of that seat I discovered a new layer of puke. It even had breeched the seat foam. I did the best I could with the part of the seat I could remove. Yes, I had to tear the upholstery slightly. Yes, you can see a bit of the foam. But what about the rest of the van seat? The part that isn’t removable? I did the best I could with the wipe-and-dab method, and while I may have gotten the chunks, the vomit juice is still alive and well down there.

Even after the thorough detailing, the van still smells like acrid orange juice. There are so many dryer sheets stashed and hanging in my van we could ward off lightning. I now own stock in Febreeze. My son has stopped having nightmares about the orange lava bubbling up from his sister’s stomach, but the van still smells like puke.

Which brings me to the crux of my letter: Why hasn’t someone at the top of that design ladder installed removable seat covers yet? Seats where you can zip off the covers, throw them in the wash and reinstall? If it’s a matter of finding a really long zipper, I’m sure any tent manufacturer would lend you one for a prototype. What’s a couple zippers cost anyway? I’m happy to pay an extra 20 bucks or so, if it means that I can un-zip my seats and wash them. If you think it might be too expensive to manufacture seats like that, maybe you could save money in the plastic form department, and quit making those molded loose change dispensers in my front panel. They are a pain in the ass anyway, and everyone knows no one ever uses them. If you have time to sort and shove your change into the plastic “change holder” you must not have kids, because my change is used up in bubble gum machines, drive-throughs and in the recesses of the backseats that I can’t get to, and my time is spent cleaning up puke. Just make that plastic area plain and square, easy to wipe out and unbreakable. Marketing zipper seats won't be a problem either. I can even think of a great name for your new seats….be ready for it… “Zip-and-Go.” Creative isn’t it? I also think that name will work nicely with the other seat features of the 2008.

Well, Ms. Alaniz, I’ll wrap this letter up. If you ever need any more ideas on how to make Dodge’s minivans more kid-friendly, feel free to contact me. I have some thoughts about seat dividers (that pull down from the ceiling so kids can’t see or touch each other), and a sound-proof cage for the driver that you may be interested in.

Sincerely,
Rachel Vidoni
Self-Appointed Honorary 5-Point Harness Cleaning and Installation Manager

My Great Ideas

You know the saying, “The road to Gehenna is a well-worn cobble-stoned pathway full of travelers who have great ideas.” Or something like that. My list of things I’d like to do, am going to do, and have to do are getting so long I figured I’d better start writing them down. I’m beginning to forget. Which of course is the crux of the problem, because if you have an intention to do something, and forget you need to do it, it never gets done and remains just an intention, and you end up walking down that path I mentioned a moment ago.

So here is a small sampling of things I have been intending to do, and why to this date I have yet to do them. We’ll start small.

Drink more water.
It’s a no brainer really. We all know that one needs to drink at least 6-8 glasses of water daily to remain hydrated and healthy. But honestly I find drinking water a pain in the ass. Mainly because water seems to go right through me and I end up needing to use the restroom every 20 minutes. Other liquids do not do this. My usual beverage intake in a day is: 2-3 cups coffee in the morning. I do add cream to my coffee, so that counts as my dairy requirement. For lunch, an iced tea or Coke. To be fair I add ice, which counts as part of my water requirement. For dinner I usually down a beer or glass of wine or two (especially seeing as how it’s summer and my children are home which makes me need a drink even more). I will admit I have a glass of water by the nightstand in case I wake up with cotton-mouth at 3 a.m. Coffee, tea, soda, beer, wine. Wasn’t there an article published out there awhile back that said your body is able to absorb the water in other beverages, such as iced tea? That once upon a time they thought that caffeinated drinks didn’t count, but now they do? I’m sure I remember reading that somewhere. Water is so bland. It’s just water. It’s not fizzy, doesn’t help keep me awake, doesn’t help me tolerate my fighting children and only makes me urinate. I have other things I need to get done in a day besides hang out in the bathroom.

That said, I’ve been complaining about headaches lately. I’ve had one for weeks now that never fully goes away, so either I have a brain tumor and need an MRI, or my body is dehydrated. My husband suggested I fill a big water bottle and just drink out of that all day so I know how much I’ve had. It’s a great idea. I’ll never do it because I’ll feel overwhelmed at how much water I need to drink and how often I’ll be on the pot so I’ll fill the bottle and let it sit on the counter. I’ll use it for plants at the end of the day. I know me. I get that I need to start drinking more water and I can hear my mother’s voice, my doctor’s voice, (even your voice) in my head chastising me for my beverage choices. Which is why, drink more water, is on my list. I’ll do it. Right after I finish this cup of coffee.

Go to the Dentist.
I do not have a problem with the dentist. What I have a problem with is making an appointment for the dentist. This includes making appointments for my children and husband to visit the dentist as well. It’s been probably 5 years since my husband or I have seen a dentist, and 3 years since my children have seen one. Pick your mouth off the floor. We’re all fine. Apparently I missed the chapter in the “How to be a Fabulous Parent” book that says you need to visit the dentist at least bi-annually. I figured that if there was a problem with our teeth one of two things would happen:
1) that I would notice the black/brown rotting teeth in my (or my children’s) mouth or
2) that I (or my children) would be so consumed with pain upon chewing that it would be fairly obvious we needed to see a dental specialist.

These things have not happened. I look in the kids’ mouth regularly, if not to check for fecal matter, then to look at their teeth for black spots. My children brush with occasional regularity, like when their teeth turn orange from all the crap accumulating on them. Yes I tell them to brush every night. No, they don’t do it. My husband has not complained about painful teeth either. Mine are fine. I have yet to have a cavity, not even one. I don’t say this to brag, it’s just the way it’s been. You’ll be proud to know that on this front I am making headway. I have actually called the dentist and my entire family has a scheduled cleaning and checkup. I can hear the dentist now.
“How long since your last appointment?”
“5 years.”
“How often do you floss?”
“Every night after I eat steak and corn.”
“You know these aren’t really teeth at all, don’t you? They’re really just stumps of tartar that look like teeth. And by the way, your gums are receding and you have bone loss. You’ll need a full set of top and bottom falsies. We’re running a special, only 50% of your 401K. Don’t worry. You can set up an automatic withdrawal when you leave.”

The dentist will look into my children’s mouth. He’ll make a note in his folder to call CPS when I leave. She’ll shake her head and ask how often I floss the kids’ teeth. What?

(Anecdote Alert: I remember when I first joined my book club, and all the mom’s were talking about their kids and dental care. I didn’t know them and they didn’t know me, so I was joking about how often mine don’t brush. “And can you believe that the dentist actually asked me if I floss my kids teeth?” I joked incredibly. “I mean, my kids barely brush, let alone let me floss their teeth. C’mon! Who actually flosses their kids’ teeth?” I was laughing, trying to make a good impression. Well, turns out that quite a few of those women do floss their kids’ teeth. And they said so, there in those few seconds of nervous silence. And the score officially was, Book Club Moms 1. Newcomer 0. Damn.)

Be More Organized About Summer Schedules.
This summer I swore I would try to be proactive about the amount of tv watching, video game playing and complaining that my children inevitably do the second school is over. My great idea? Type a list of things to complete before 10 a.m./or going to play with fiends, whichever comes first. This list will be laminated and hang on the door of each child’s room with a dry erase marker. They’ll use this marker to cross out the things they have completed, which will be easy for me to check and follow through with. The list of things include:

• Read for 20 minutes. Video game instructions do not count. Nor do words on the commercials on tv.
• Complete three pages in the summer workbooks I bought so their brains don’t turn to mush.
• Complete chores. This includes organizing their bedrooms, a quick wipe down of bathrooms, and each child gets to pick up a living area.
• Spend 20 minutes practicing their keyboarding skills. I bought a computer program to have them learn to type. You laugh, but do you want to spend time typing their reports as they progress in school? It’s either that or listen to them whine incessantly about how long it takes to write their name and date at the top of a document as they hunt and peck with their extended index finger. It’s brutal. My kids are going to learn how to type. (Although, it turns out the program I bought sucks, even I hated using it which is why it was probably on sale…)
• Eat breakfast. Yes I have to put this on the list or it’s 11:00 and they want popsicles and cookies. Since I can’t remember my own name most days I let them eat it because I assumed they had a healthful breakfast…
• Spend 20 minutes researching a topic of their choice on the new kid’s browser Kidzui. They’ll need to find 2-3 facts about said topic and write them down (in cursive for my older child) in a notebook which will be labeled, “Summer Research.”
  

These lists will keep them organized, my house clean, their brains fresh, and maybe they’ll get scholarships to college with all the useless factoids they’ll learn from the internet. They will know what to expect each day, which will eliminate the 7:30 a.m. complaining and yelling about the tv. My house will run like my classroom did, way back when I had a professional job and actually got paid to organize ideas like this. My house will be efficient and I’m going to do it. As soon as I have a day to type out the individualized lists, take them to Staples to laminate them, buy a new package of dry erase markers and sit down with them to explain our new family SOP’s. I’d also like to take this opportunity to remind you that I came up with this idea last year. I’ve had time to work out the kinks.

The list is much longer than this, but it’s 11:14 a.m. and I haven’t eaten breakfast yet. I’ve had 3 cups of coffee though, so I should go down a glass of water. I think the kids had a yogurt for breakfast, so it’s unlikely I’ll find any leftovers to nosh on while I do the dishes. I’ll have to actually make a meal for myself, and you know how much I love getting the kitchen more messy. Sigh. Maybe I’ll throw the kids in the car and head to Staples. But I’ll need to type the lists for the kids before I head there…Since I’m already on the computer I might as well… but I’m hungry and the baby is going to wake up soon…where are my other two kids…
“ARE YOU GUYS STILL WATCHING TV?”

Potty Mouth

10 minutes before we needed to leave for the bus this morning, my son shouts, “Mom! The baby’s mouth smells like poop!”

I deep sigh. Even given the fact that my son tends to be somewhat of an attention seeking-hog, this announcement is not good news.

I wander into my son’s room , who is still yelling “Gross! Nasty! She ate poop! Oh man that’s disgusting!” and try to figure out what is going on. Sure enough, there is a teeny tiny turd on the carpet at her feet, and after doing a quick sniff… yep her breath smells like doodie.

“Where did she get a turd?” I yell. I look at my other two children. Their saucer eyes light up with that it wasn’t me look. But since the cat kicked it last December, I have no one to blame but the five people living in this house. Apparently random turdletts fall from our shorts without us noticing. And leave it to my baby daughter to find the smallest, tiniest bit of excrement possible and then enjoy it like a tootsie roll pop.

My third child is unlike the other two in a few ways. Mainly, the amount of things she can find to stuff into her orifice knows no bounds. She can and will put anything—I mean anything—into her mouth and chew, suck and try to swallow it. In fact I am wondering if she was born without taste buds, because I have found nothing that makes her turn up her nose, nothing she shudders and spits out, nothing she licks and leaves. My other two children were never ones to put much in their mouth, preferring to play with odd objects, or squish things. Even when my son found some aspirin on the floor, he took one lick, gagged and spit it out. Such a good boy.

So the fact that my youngest can digest handfuls of soil, small rocks, pennies, nickels, lint balls, leaves and flowers off house plants, soap bars, anything within reach inside a trash can, leaf mulch, tree pollen and now feces, with the same excitement and enthusiasm that she shovels down her cheese cubes and green peas, absolutely baffles me. I have pulled all these objects out of her mouth, which she vehemently refuses to give me, as if I am trying to swab the gruel out of a third-world-child’s cheeks.

My daughter also starts every meal by throwing a handful of food onto the floor. It’s not a sign that she’s finished or full, and after the first handful or so, she happily consumes what’s on her tray. But the introduction of a new food on the tray initiates the toss-over as well, and by the time she’s completed her eating escapade, the floor has more food on it than what found its way into her belly. This confused me at first, until, after taking her down from her snack chair and proceeding to the sink for a wet rag to clean the floor, I arrive back at the table to find my daughter hoovering up the remains of lunch as fast as she can grip the slimy bananas and old toast bits that she refused to eat any more of a moment earlier. In fact, I have come to discover that my daughter actually prefers to eat off the floor and under the table. There is not a crumb infested cranny, nor a nasty nook in my kitchen that is safe from the diet desires of my daughter. The older and crunchier the remains are, the better she likes it. Apparently throwing food from her tray is her small way of self-preservation. In the event that I stop providing meals for her, at least she’s covered.

My daughter can sniff out actual consumable food like an emaciated rat and has pin-point radar for ground debris. I should know not to leave her alone in a room, unless its padded and she's in a straight jacket. Why was I surprised that poop finally made the list?

I grab my daughter and proceed to try and wipey out her mouth. I consider giving her a shot of grain alcohol, or squirting some anti-bacterial gel into her mouth to at least kill the germs and rid the brown tongue, but I'm out of both. Since she can’t swish-and-spit, Listerine and soapy water won’t work. Tilex and Lysol Foaming Bath cleaner just seem wrong (but I am dealing with poop here), and while using those would probably secure them a book deal later in life and kill the germs, I’d probably be in jail which would leave my husband to raise three kids by himself, and well, he can’t braid hair. So, I’m just left with a little innocent wipey which isn’t doing much to alleviate the brown tongue. I have to sit in the bathroom and silently gag to myself knowing that poop germs are swimming in her system. At this point I should have just let her down and encouraged her to suck on the toilet, because as gross as that is, there is less poop on my commode than my carpets apparently. Who knew.

I call a couple neighbors and friends to ask if their children have ever eaten poop and what they did about it. Nope. Nothing. No one else’s child has ever eaten poop. Only mine. Mine mine mine.

I call the pediatrician, and ask to speak with a nurse. I’m not paying a $30 co-pay if I can get this info on the phone.
“All the nurses are busy, I’ll take a message and have them call you back. What seems to be the problem?” the receptionist asks.
“Well,” I explain, “My daughter ate a little turd this morning, and I’m just wondering if there’s anything I need to do.”
“Was it animal or human?”
I suppose this makes a difference, but at the moment poop is poop.
“Human.” (Of course no one has come forward to own this piece of crap, so I am assuming it’s human, and didn’t wander in on someone shoes, or, or…hang on I’m feeling dizzy.

The nurse calls me back an hour or so later. The baby’s poop breath is gone by this time.
“Mrs. Vidoni? I talked with the doctor, and he said there is nothing to worry about, your daughter will be fine. There’s nothing you can do about it anyway.”
“She can’t get ecoli, or anything?” I ask.
“No,” she quietly chuckles. “She’ll be fine.”
And that was it. Quick, to the point, and I saved 30 bucks.

It amazes me that a person can eat a piece of relatively fresh human fecal matter and have no ramifications from that, but I can’t buy a bag of spinach or fresh tomatoes from the grocery store without getting fifty diseases. How exactly does that work?

It’s been my prayer for some time now, that God might help me deal with my OCD issues. Leave it to His big sense of humor to give an extremely germ-a-phobic-especially-gross-things-from-floors-and-bathrooms-mom a third child who has a penchant for all things disgusting, grimy and previously-left-by-others. Who not only plays with these objects, but eats them. If my daughter’s behavior was supposed to be a way to try and help curb my worrying or lessen my anxieties, it isn’t working. Right after I got off the phone with the pediatrician, I called my doctor. I need to start taking Prozac again.

Your daughter or mine?

I’m heating meatballs in the oven, going for a makeshift dinner of sorts, my husband and son are at baseball, the baby is temporarily sleeping and my 7 year-old daughter hits me with:

“Mom, do you think I’m Goth?”

Another dinner-time-universally-important question and my husband is not in the room. Dammit.

Many years of counseling and teacher-training come back to me as I quickly self-talk myself into remaining calm and showing no strong emotion that she could possibly attach to the word “Goth” as positive or negative, therefore eliminating any chance of her trying to use my emotional response to this word against me in a few years. It was difficult.

“What do you mean by ‘Goth’?” I ask noncommittally.
“It’s where a person dresses all in black and stuff,” she replies. “I like to wear all black.”
“Who told you about this?”
“My friend in school. She said I’m like so Goth because I like to wear black.”

Now I know this friend she mentions and I really like her. She came to my daughter’s birthday party this year and she is a nice girl. As far as I know she is the oldest kid (maybe an only child) and although she is extremely precocious, I’m curious where she learned about what Goth means. I’ve seen both her parents. They are Asian and don’t have a penchant for black.

I know it’s a simple harmless question. I get that she has no real understanding of what Goth means in all its stereotypic labels, mannerisms and attitudes. She might just as well have said, “Mom, do you think I’m a hooker?” or perhaps “Do you think I’m a stoner?” and she would probably know as much about these two things as she knows about being Goth. That one is a fisherwoman and the other a person who throws rocks.

But the Goth question stops my heart a bit. I spent three years teaching Junior High English and I can tell you, it scared the hell out of me. Not that the students were threatening. Not that I couldn’t control them in my class. But the thought that someday my kids would be sitting in rooms similar to these, surrounded by yahoos similar to the ones I taught, scared me to the very marrow of my existence. And that’s not even taking into account what kids will be like in 6-8 years. Hang on while I swill my wine…

The ironic thing about all this is that my husband and I have joked about this very thing.
“Why is she wearing all black today?” my husband asked at one point.
“I don’t know. She often wears all one color. Some days it just happens to be black,” I reply. Then my daughter tramps through the room exclaiming, “I just love black! I love to wear black. It’s my favorite color.”
My husband and I eye each other. We gulp. We act nonplussed. As she walks away my husband says to me, “Do you think she’s Goth?”
“Not if I can help it,” I retort.

I’m one of those people who hope to instill in my children the knowledge that you can’t judge a book by its cover. That you don’t label and discriminate based on the superficiality of looks. I know. I was one of those teens who prided herself on looking different (not Goth however) and never, never, never desired to fit the mold. (Damn the rogue genes.) But it’s a different matter when your little 7 year old daughter is using the word Goth and all you can envision is body piercings, hair dye and spiked dog collars. Suddenly your chubby handed little girl who loves to play homeless and run in the dirt barefoot, is a teen slamming doors and stealing your black eye liner.

I finally gather myself and say (again without emotion) “No, I don’t think you’re Goth. Being Goth is more than just wearing black. It’s more about how they act and the things they believe in and the negative things they do in their spare time.” Yes I know, I stacked the deck. I stereotyped. I’m sure there are probably many many Goth teens out there who volunteer at the local animal shelter, donate their time to Big Brothers Big Sisters and who attend daily Mass. (I have never seen any of them, but I’m sure they are out there.)

“Oh, you mean like ding-dong-ditch?” she asked me.

Ding-Dong-Ditch? I think. Is that as bad as it gets in her imagination? Maybe I don’t have anything to worry about after all…

“Yes, exactly,” I say.

The Morning After

I woke up this morning sad and despondent. I shuffled my feet into my worn, pink fluffy slipper socks, grabbed my winter bathrobe and headed for the coffee maker. It’s 5:45 a.m. It’s cold out. It’s windy. Worse than all that; it’s no longer Mother’s Day.

I look forward to Mother’s Day more than my birthday. It has to be the best holiday by far: no Thanksgiving food-prep stress, no Christmas money-sucking-present-buying stress, no Easter-grass-all-over-the-floor stress. Mother’s Day is all about ME. Not even my birthday is all about me.

I’ll admit that I wring every single minute out of Mother’s Day. From 12:00 a.m. Sunday morning until 12:00 p.m. Sunday night I am off the clock. I am demanding. I am selfish, greedy, impatient and do what I want. In fact, I act exactly like my children. No wonder it’s difficult to change their behavior. Being selfish and doing whatever you want feels really really good.

On Mother’s Day I do no chores. I clean nothing, put nothing away and get out what I want. I prepare no meals, feed no children, wipe no butts, and do not answer questions from my kids. Want a cupcake? Go ask your father. Need a roll of toilet paper? Better yell louder, he’s downstairs. Hungry? I have a vagina that pushed you out of it, I’m off duty—go find your other genetic half. The most important part of the day however, is the fact that I feel guilty about none of it.

My husband, bless his personality, allows this and indulges me. He does not harumf around, deep sigh at my requests or play martyr. He is helpful, accommodating, and patient. Upon going to bed Saturday night I say to him, “So if the baby gets up before midnight, I’ll get her, but if she gets up after midnight, you get her. How does that sound?” He knows it’s a rhetorical question. I’m not looking for an opinion or a renegotiation tactic. And he does get up with her. Three times between midnight and six a.m.

I sleep in. As much as you can sleep in when you know you have church at 10:00. I read my novel in bed while my children pile their homemade cards, bookmarks and yard-picked flowers on me. They watch me open their gifts with wide expectant eyes. “I love these tissue paper flowers!” I exclaim. “This poem bookmark is perfect for my novel!” I marvel. “Wow, I never knew macaroni could be so incredibly useful!” I admire. My daughter and son do my bidding from my bedroom. They follow each request up with a “Yes mom. Can I get you anything else?” Then march down the hall shouting, “Mom wants some coffee! She needs more sugar! Don’t forget the cream!” I have one of those surreal moments where the expectations in my head and the reality of my life converge for a few brief, breath-still seconds. I inhale deeply and smile.

I am served breakfast in bed. Eggs benedict, my favorite. My children eat along side me, tucked under the covers. It’s cute and I love them, but I’m especially looking forward to the part of the day when they leave me alone.

I spend the day gardening as is our usual Mother’s Day ritual. I rip the old fence out from my garden, plant my tomatoes. My husband makes me iced tea, which I sip in the weathered green Adirondack chair in the backyard. He’s got the baby on his hip, on his shoulders, under his arm. She’s fussy and moody. He’s barefoot and wearing an untucked t-shirt and as I look at him from the garden, I smile and think, “This iced tea could really use some more lemon.” The baby down for a nap, he heads to the grocery store for a few dinner items. “Hurry back,” I yell. “Before the baby wakes up and starts crying.” I’m not getting her. My day isn’t over yet.

The best gift you can give me for Mother’s Day (in addition to flowers for my yard or a new garden fence) is a day where I don’t have to be a mother. I want to remember what is was like when I was single, or at the very least childless, when I could do what I wanted, when I wanted. That person that existed before Mrs. Vidoni, or Mama, or Mom or Mother. What was her name again? That’s right…Rachel something. I know it’s ironic that a person would want to spend a holiday that celebrates the fact she has offspring, without her offspring. But as my daughter said to me once, “A dirty kid is a happy kid.” Well, similarly, an off-duty mom is a happy mom.

The day ends with my husband making steamed crab, pasta alfredo and various other delectable tidbits. There was an ice cold Sams Summer Ale in the fridge for me. He purchased a smorgasbord of desserts from a local bakery. He cleaned the kitchen and did all the dishes. We watched our Sunday evening shows together on the couch. I was happy like a tick on a fat dog and still had 2.35 hours of my Mother’s Day left. I suggested, “This day was so perfect. I think we should do Mother’s Day quarterly.” He gave a yeah-whatever chuckle. I continued. “I’m happy to do a Father’s Day quarterly as well,” thinking that this would be a good way to make the playing field level. Then I threw in the mother-ism zinger, “Didn’t you feel good about doing all those things today?” (Like when you tell your children, “Don’t you feel great that you studied for three hours? Doesn’t thoroughly cleaning the toilet give you a deep sense of accomplishment? Aren’t you proud of yourself for making the dog’s life better by cleaning up the poop in the yard?” Life is all about the spin.) My husband said, “You know, I didn’t mind any of it really. The part that’s frustrating is the baby. You only have short amounts of time to get something done. I barely could clean the kitchen before she needed something.”

I snuggled closer to him. He just gave me the best present yet: 24 hours in my shoes and affirmation.

Here’s a shout-out to my husband: Thanks for the great day! You rock!

Need a Spa Day?

I know this posting will seem a bit unorthodox...you haven't seen anything like it from me, and are unlikely to again. That is, unless I find another good cause to support.

I know. There is a cause and a group for just about everything. Diabetes. Heart Association. March of Dimes. Cystic Fibrosis. Women-who-suck-at-housecleaning.

Oh wait. That's just a group I'd like to start.

Many of you know I walked for the MS society to support my good friend Dawn. While I do occasionally benefit from her handicap placard when we shop, I would rather she not be dealing with MS, and trying to figure out what this means for her future and the future of her husband and three small children. So I walked to support this amazing cause. For those who supported me in that endeavor, THANK YOU!!

My second cause is the Relay for Life. I'm part of a team walking to support another good friend, Claire. She has battled and beat breast cancer! Yeah for Claire! She also has a husband and three small children who have had to deal with the questions that arise when confronted with a life changing event of this nature; the what if's, if only's, and what now's.

So I had an idea to raise funds for the Relay for Life walk coming up in June.

I'm going to raffle off a $50 gift certificate for Spa Finder.

It's good in just about any state, and you can go to the website to find the specific spa locations that accept it. Just imagine; you can support cancer research while getting a mani and a pedi. What an offer!

Here's how it works: For every $10 donation you make to my Relay for Life fund, you'll get entered into the drawing for the certificate. If you donate $20, you get two chances, and so on. My goal is $300, but I'd love to surpass it. And honestly, a $50 gift certificate for $20 is a pretty good deal.

The links below will take you to the Spa Finder website where you can get more info, or my personal page for Relay for Life.

I'm going to support these two causes because these two friends welcomed and helped me when I first moved to MA back in 2000. That neighborhood playgroup where I met many of my friends (my only friends at the time) saved me and provided me an opportunity to get out of my small condo with my two small children. If it weren't for these ladies, I'd probably be supporting AA, (since wine seems like a good solution when you're stressed) or Mother's-who-have-had-it.

Oh wait. That's another group I'd like to start. Sorry.

But I'm also going to support them because so far I've been blessed with good health. And so far, I haven't had to face those If Only thoughts and Why Me questions. They have. And that's reason enough for me.

My personal page:

http://main.acsevents.org/site/TR/RelayForLife/RelayForLifeNewEnglandDivision?px=6406142&pg=personal&fr_id=7195

Spa Finder:

http://www.spafinder.com/Catalog/spagiftcertificates.jsp?code=DEC07&cmpID=AFC-MV5304863502

Sending Cards and Thank You Notes

For those paying attention, you’ll notice I added “Blogging in timely fashion,” to my list of things I suck at. Just so you know I’m aware I have a problem. It’s not just blogging however. It’s doing anything on or before a timeline. This includes sending cards.

If you’ve given me a gift in the last 10 years (well...ever) and I haven’t sent a thank you, let me do that now.

Thank you so much!

If you’ve sent my children a present, card or check for their birthday or any gift-giving holiday and you have yet to receive a thank you, then for my children I say,

Thank you very much!

It’s not that we are an ungrateful bunch, on the contrary, I know (and I tell my children) how blessed we are and how we should be grateful grateful grateful everyday for simply living in our home, but for some reason I simply cannot get it together enough to send cards of thanks. In fact, my daughter has just finished her thank you’s from her birthday party in February. While they are written, they are currently sitting on the back of the hutch. I have not sent my thank you’s for the donations that were made to the MS society for the walk I completed. And I’m sure there are a few baby presents I received when the baby was born that slid under the radar and now my daughter is going on one and I can tell you, a card is not coming.

It’s not just thank-you’s I have trouble with. Sending cards of any type is truly an issue for me. My sister’s birthday was three weeks ago, her daughters birthday is Saturday and although it’s been on the calendar since January, have I sent either one a card? Of course not.

I’m not sure why I bother to write birthday’s, anniversaries, and whatnot on my calendar since those reminders only serve to remind me what I’ve missed. I look at my calendar every day at least twice. It takes that much for me to keep up with what the kids are doing. How do I continue to get myself into these situations? You ask. How the hell hard is it to slap a stamp on an envelope put it in the mail and be done? Here’s a brief example of my thought process. So you know, C=calendar and TB=thought bubble. Mine of course.

I stand in front of the calendar on Monday.
C: 10:00 home cleaning estimate; Girl Scouts
TB: crapcrapcrap. I didn’t clean the house enough for the cleaning lady she’ll probably think I’m a slob dammit I have to plan for Girl Scouts what are we going to do oh Mimes might be fun [glancing ahead in the week] it’s a busy week will I even have time for a nap I don’t think so, oh my sister’s birthday is on Thursday I have to remember to send her a card.

I stand in front of the calendar on Tuesday.
C: Teddy Bear Picnic 2:00-3:00 daughter’s class, bring snacks, blanket; Karate 4:30-5:00; Baseball practice 5:00
TB: crapcrapcrap. I didn’t get anything for the teddy bear picnic, maybe I’ll have time to make cookies who am I kidding don’t forget the blanket is the camera battery even charged I don’t think so dammit. Karate and baseball practice start at the same time how can I be two places at once I wish my husband were home well someone won’t be going to something maybe I can get the neighbor to take my daughter to Karate [glancing ahead in the week] in-laws coming tomorrow still haven’t cleaned the lower level for them, oh and I need to get a card in the mail today for my sister’s birthday.

Wednesday
C: Mom & Dad in-law arrive 3:15-Providence
TB: plan on having house all cleaned by 10:00 a.m.,will go to buy a card for my sister, get it in the mail then maybe it will only be a day (or two) late. I can apologize for that I need to find someone to get the kids off the bus so I can get mom and dad from the airport I still need to finish the laundry before they get here, what will we be eating for dinner I can’t stand making dinner maybe we’ll go out get a card get a card get a card.

Thursday
C: Sister birthday; Karate 4:30-5:00.
TB: dammit dammit dammit. Didn’t send sister a card make sure that I call her today and apologize for not sending a card, cleaned all day yesterday and still was late picking mom and dad up, I didn't pick up a card yet well screw the card because now it's late and since it's late I might as well not send it...

And then all the family arrived for the baby’s baptism and the next week the kids were off from school, and now it’s May and my neice’s birthday is tomorrow and while she is only turning two, have I sent anything yet? Right. You know the answer.

In fact I was talking to my neighbor the other day who was relating to me that a mutual acquaintance had had a tragedy in her family. While we both don’t know the woman all that well, a card or thoughtful note would have been nice, so I said to my friend, “It is my intention to send a card.” That was a few weeks ago and now it just seems weird to send one.

I was so late on my Christmas letters, but had already printed the pictures, that I sent out Merry Spring letters instead. Those went out in March.

My other niece and nephew had birthday’s in February and March. It was my intention to take them to Build-A-Bear while I back visiting so we could have some bonding time and celebrate together. Well, family tragedy trumped the birthday event plans, and now it’s May and have I sent them gift cards to Build-A-Bear? Have they received anything from sorry ol’ Aunt Rachel? Nothing. Nada. Zip. "Sucking as an Aunt" --add it to the list.

We still haven’t had my son’s birthday party. His birthday was in April and we’re planning on having it towards the end of May, but it requires me to send out invitations. They're on the hutch, but they remain blank

I need to enroll my daughter in day camp for a week this summer. The forms are filled out. The check is written. The doctor has signed her off in good health. The envelope is sitting on the back of my hutch.

I mailed the last of the Christmas presents to family at the end of February. They were family calendars with our pictures. Family was never able to use the first two months. I’m just happy the calendars aren’t on the back of the hutch anymore.

Maybe I need to get rid of my hutch.

According to the latest wedding etiquette, brides and grooms have three months to send out all their thank you notes. Now this is something I might be able to accomplish.

If I had a three month window for all cards and correspondence, I may actually be more successful in sending things off. Another option would be to just send everyone a package containing a year’s worth of greetings: Christmas, birthday, anniversary, Easter, what-have-you. Then I would only need to get one thing in the mail per family. That idea might actually work.