Trouble in Paradise

Erik, my husband, and I are having a problem.

It involves our pool. And summer. And friends. I want to invite people over at every opportunity and twice on tuesday and he - eh, not so much. I want to invite my mommy friends. The kids' friends. People from work. Neighbors. The guys I bought the lounge chairs from on craigslist. I've managed to squeeze in two soirees. The first Erik was charged with BBQ-ing oysters. A labor intensive and temperate gig. They were delicious. He was done. We also had people over on the 4th. I think he had fun. Maybe a whole summerful of fun.

I always heed his requests and dial back the invitations. Recently Erik expressed an interest in going out of town in August to attend a pre-season NFL game. (Raider Nation!) I rushed to secure his flight. Days later we realized there was a conflict with his plan. "Why were you in such a rush to buy the ticket?" he fussed. Truthfully - I'd already started planning the party I could throw and the people (and more people) I could invite if he was out of town.

Last night I stared wistfully at an epicurious menu. "Want to invite people over for a Mad Men themed dinner on Sunday?" I inquired. "Sure" he said, "if the people are just our family."

Don't quit the day job

We're struggling with childcare. Ain't that always the way? I don't know how anyone does it actually. There's always some variable to the equation that makes me scratch my head.

The people who have parents that help out with the care. Huh, what? So completely foreign I look around for a translator.

Or how about the camps or after school programs that demand that you pick up your kids by 5:30pm? I love it when I arrive all sweaty, nervous and out of breath and the program facilitators give me the side-eye as we both watch the second hand swing to meet the twelve on the wall clock. These people seriously have no idea how I OJ Simpson my way out of the office, sprint to public transportation, jump in my car and pray for green lights to make it just in the nick of time.

The only ones who seem to have it under control or the ones that I really envy are those with a great relationship with their full time nanny and more money than they know what to do with. Currently, I've stitched together a series of day camps and a few weeks of back up childcare provided by Erik's office. (That's fancy talk for day care, but since my kids haven't ever really been to day care they actually thought it was kind of cool. Look -- that room has babies! And it was in the city, so every day they got to ride the bus or the ferry in and have lunch with Dad.)

This weeks camp ends at 4pm. Luckily, we have a friend who has been gracious enough to allow her babysitter to pick up and watch our kids until we can get home. On one hand it is a total godsend. On the other, it's got me thinking about a career change. Not really.

Creating One of THOSE Kids

My consumption of Starbucks is not out of control. It's more of an occasional treat. Depending on our work schedules, there have been times when Erik and I would stop and pick up a latte regularly. But there have also been long stretches of time where we never go.

Once, I picked the girls up from school and Hazel gasped, "You had TWO lattes?" The evidence in the cup-holders. One was her father's and he had left about 1/4 in the cup. She drank what was left in his cup and was hooked. Having outgrown the gateway kid's hot chocolate, Hazel started asking if she could have a latte on the rare occasion we all went to Starbucks.

"Don't be one of THOSE kids," her father said for my ears as well as hers. I can see his point. The only thing more annoying than overhearing ahalf-calf, non-fat, carmel, mocha, Americano, extra hot, with an extra shot and whip cream order would be having it come out of the mouth of a nine-year-old.

So it turned into something she asks for only when she is with me. She's also started liking Mocha Chip ice cream. I'm pretty sure there a group of moms that could get in a twist about me allowing my kid to order a coffee derivative flavor of ice cream on the rare occasion we go to the local parlor. Let the record show, that my mother kept ONLY Rum Raisin in her freezer the entire time I was growing up. (This may or may not have been a weight loss tactic towards me, but I'm pretty sure the message she was sending was: this ice cream is mine. Gads, do they even make Rum Raisin anymore?) But I digress.

I would like to say, a few of the Starbucks employees have tried to persuade my kid back to the heated chocolate variety. They've even given me the judgy eye the first few time I was naive enough to make the recipient known on my order. Last week we went as a family, so two kid's hot chocolates it was. But with Dad, you're allowed to pick out a pastry!! Oh. The. Excitement. Guess what Hazel choose?

The coffee cake.

Her sister is a donut kind of gal, but she was drawn to the marbled cake. As we were enjoying our breakfast, I asked Hazel how she liked hers. "It's good," she said. And then she whispered to just me, "But it doesn't taste like coffee."

What's Your Excuse?

Lula brought this paper home from school earlier this year. They were studying nutrition and the food pyramid.




Look at her answer for this question:



I found this funny. Or it could be that it's particularly telling about our house. Or it could be that I am easily amused. By the way, I bought eggs this morning.

Leak

I'm upset about the ongoing oil spill. I'm uncomfortable making jokes about it. I want it to be stopped and then efforts concentrated on the clean up.

I remember when the Katrina disaster was unfolding, we happened to be driving from Kansas to Texas and encountered some of the displaced at gas station. They were obviously in shock and wanted nothing more than to be heard -- oh, and something to eat. Maybe a dry place to sleep. At the time, my mother was on one of her infamous tirades. Not because of the loss of human life or destruction caused by the natural disaster. Not because the slow response of the government and relief organizations, but because one sentence in Dear Abby article she happened to be reading, taken out of context, could be used if twisted jussssst right to support her side of some long forgotten argument. I'm sure it was all my fault.

I remember we left the gas station in a rush, she was in a huff and we didn't help the people one bit. The man wore overalls and was missing a tooth. He was also missing his home and all his worldly possessions. I didn't know it at the time. The pictures and the news hadn't reached the local news. No one knew what a terrible mess it all was. No one knew yet.

I would walk away from a brawl

I'm running my third half marathon tomorrow morning. See what I did there? I said I was going to do something and BAM! Imma doin' it. I've got one of those ridiculous runners tans (white, white, white feet) and I'm kind of proud of it.

Last night I added a few new songs to my walkman shuffle. There's usually one or two songs that really help me get through a race. James Brown, I'm looking at you. Before my last race, I downloaded this little gem. It's pretty much my theme song. Erik MADE me get the clean version (Mamma's music is not for little ears.) Funny what I thought he was saying v. what was really said. NSFW.

PS: I love how he's got so much Maine pride. Pine Tree State - who-hoo!

No Birth Photographer

Another way I've failed my children is that I did not have a professional photographer present to document their births. You should know, I didn't have any extended family members. Or a doula. In fact I barely had a doctor.

I did have a camera. That took film. Film that had to be developed. Developed at a store. A store that offered a discount on the second set of prints. Hi, year 2000.

Every once in a while, I'll stumble across those images captured in the moments after Hazel was born. I remember holding her in my arms for the first time. A nurse graciously offered to take a picture of us all. Erik, myself, newborn Hazel and poking out for prosperity my areola.

It really is a horrible picture. It seems to get worse with time. And as always, there's my boob front and center. Why didn't anyone cover me up? I think that nurse did it on purpose.