Posts by Kami:
- I’ve been cleansing for the last 10 days. It’s great! (Snore.)
- My left leg is being weighed down by this stupid 20 pound airboot to heal my stupid broken ankle.
- I haven’t exercised in about ten years.
- My kids talk a lot. Paying attention to their non-linear thinking exhausts me.
- Every Sunday for the past 3 Sundays, I’ve stayed up to catch Mad Men on AMC in real time. WHAT’S WRONG WITH ME?!
Top 10 Awesome Mom Indicators (All from this weekend…)
May 14th, 2012This is how I totally rock my mom-itude.
1. “Kids, PLEASE stop playing and laughing together so loudly. I’m trying to concentrate on Facebook.”
2. “Mommy, is that ice cream?”
“Uh huh.”
“Can we have some?”
“Ooof. I just finished off the pint. You snooze you lose, little dudes.”
3. “Hey, 6 year old, can you pour me a glass of wine?”
4. I let my 4 year old go out into the world dressed like a fucking smurf. Blue shirt, blue shorts, blue socks, blue shoes. Two days in a row.
5. “Mommy, you don’t look so pretty today.”
“Hey, Blueberry Boy. You’re in no position to be playing Fashion Police.”
6. “Mommy, I don’t wanna go to school today.”
“I know a great Shel Silverstein poem about that! Let’s read it!”
Next day…
“Mommy, I cannot go to school today, said little Liji -Ann McKay. I have the measles and the mumps, a gash, a rash, and purple bumps…”
7. “C’mon boys. Eat your broccoli. EAT IT. You LOVE broccoli.”
8. “Mommy, can we have medicine tonight after dinner? Please please please please please?”
“No. I know you’re all stuffed up, but I don’t like how excited you are about taking it. Suffer on, children.”
9. “Can I have a playdate with ____?”
“No. I’m a working mom. Working moms can’t reciprocate.”
10. “It’s Mothers Day Movie Night! Let’s watch Disney’s Prince of Egypt! A violent but animated portrayal of how we Jews got our freedom!”
“Mommy, I’m scared…”
“You’ll watch it and you’ll like it. It’s your history godammit!”
And there you have it.
Do it. Live it. Love it.
Little Girls
May 11th, 2012I went to sleep really, really late last night. Part of it was my own fault. (I got caught up in the Spring issue of Bitch Magazine. Yes, the articles are long. Yes, the font is small. Yes, the contributors are angry. But who wouldn’t want to read about a 21st century gal who chose to give up pants? How “hot topic” is that?) So yeah, I take full responsibility for my needs as a reader. But even if I had wanted to go to bed, there was no way in hell that I could’ve.
See Cuh-razzzy Lulu next door was at it again.
Lulu is about 15. She’s perfectly racially ambiguous, soft spoken and rather shy. She always says hi if I say hi first. She as neighborly as 15 year olds who aren’t babysitting for you get in Brooklyn. I suppose that being 15 she should be considered a young woman. To me, however, she’s a little girl, rocking the upper middle class, well-educated but comfortably sheltered urban teen thang. She’s totally normal.
Until she becomes Cuh-razzy Lulu.
Cuh-razzy Lulu screams at the top of her lungs for hours approximately once a week. It’s all normal teenaged girl bullshit: “I HATE YOU, MOM! WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME? I HAAAAATE YOUUUUU!” Which, whatever. I can definitely handle. I mean, I was certainly no walk in the park at 15. (So sorry, Mom & Dad!)
But what Lulu does that’s super duper special and different is that she peppers her 2-3 hour histrionic parent-bashing rants with very high-pitched (and completely unnecessary, I might add) screaming. Like horror movie screaming. No words, just, you know, bloody murder style.
As one who shares a wall with her, I can tell you, it’s a pretty awesome cacaphony of sound.
It’s enough to make me wanna Incredible Hulk it over there, yelling “FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, CHILD! SHUT THE FUCK UP!”
Seriously. If I’m gonna be prevented from getting my beauty sleep, it better be by my own damn kids.
So, Lulu, you made it impossible for me to drag my ass out of bed this morning. Which made me a grumpy, non-morning mommy and made me late for work. It’s important to me that you know that I blame you entirely for my working mom guilt today.
I’m so friggin’ glad I have boys.
The Work Life Conundrum
May 9th, 2012I am truly fortunate in that I have a job that I love. I don’t know many people who can say the same. Hell, most of the country is psyched to have a job at all. But I’ve been lucky. Though I’ve changed jobs several times since I graduated from college, I’ve always enjoyed my work.
So much so that at certain points, before I had kids, my job defined me.
I was a dancer. Until I couldn’t dance anymore. Then, I was a teacher. And not the kind who went home at 2pm and had all summer off. I was a teacher all the time. Into the wee hours of the morn. There was always something I had to plan, grade, consider, do. I poured my type A self into this identity. And it was fine. I was young. Single. Driven.
When I got married, I had to re-examine how I was spending my time. Suddenly there was another person in the mix. A person who wanted to hang out with me. Not Teacher Me, just me. I had to figure out how to turn my work off. It wasn’t easy, but we found a middle ground. He was a teacher too.
Having children is what really messed with my shit. I went from sharing my time with one person, to two and then to three. I backed off of work. Over the course of a five year period, I transitioned from working all the time, to most of the time, to not at all, to two days a week, then three, then four, then finally full time again.
That’s where I’m at now.
And like I said, I love my job.
Over the past few weeks, my “village” has rallied to help me out because my ankle is broken. It’s been pretty amazing. I have friends and family dropping off my kids and picking them up and coming to visit all because it’s a challenge for me to get around. My kids are taken care of. They’re safe. They’re happy.
What a load off.
Except…
Now that I don’t have to rush out the door to play my “mom” role, I find myself going to work earlier, staying at work later, and generally becoming consumed with work stuff, like I was way back when, as a new teacher. I feel like I haven’t seen my kids in weeks for any real amount of time.
It pisses me off that work is my default. That I see this “help” as a way to not be the gal running out of the office at 4pm because I need to get my kids. That I get to pretend I’m “normal” like everyone else at work without being pulled in seven million directions.
And then, poof! Omigod, I’m a bad mom.
I need to get it together. I need to unwrap myself from all the work stuff I’m all wrapped up in. I need to re-surface my inner mommy. I need to spend some time with my little men.
I love my job. But I love my children way more. Now, I just have to act like it. I should probably wash my hair too.
I Was Hit By An Invisible Mac Truck
May 4th, 2012You know that kind of tired where you’re like “oh Lord, how the hell am I ever gonna get my ass outta this bed because it is literally made of lead and I am too out of shape to heave ho it into a standing position?” Yeah. That’s me the past couple of days.
I. am. beat.
I should probably be better about taking my lady multi-vitamin. And my 3000 IUs of vitamin D. And my allergy pill. And my very minimal dose of anti-depressant.
But seeing all that shit lined up on the kitchen counter makes me feel like an old person. And evidently I’d rather be really fucking tired than feel like an old person for the 20 seconds it takes me to swallow all those damned pills.
Gah.
Other reasons I feel like I was hit by an invisible mac truck:
Luckily, I have a whole weekend to sleep it off. My husband and children are running off to DC, leaving me here alone with a full bottle of wine, all the cable tv I can handle, and my cat. Who insists on throwing up frequently and peeing in random but offensive places throughout my apartment.
My dad is coming to take care of me (I can’t walk, remember?). So, Dad? You are totally on cat duty. Sorry, Dude.
As soon as I can convince myself to get the fuck off the couch, I will start my day. Until then, I will lie here. In my red fleece bathrobe. With my glasses on and my hair looking nutso. Run away, people.
Happy Friday!
When to Say “When”
May 1st, 2012“Honey, I have to go to Atlanta next week to help plan this conference. But don’t worry. It’s just for one night and my parents will be here so they can take the kids to school.”
“KAMI! Your parents are coming because you have a broken ankle!”
“Oh. Right.” (Pause.) “I probably shouldn’t go to Atlanta then.”
Annnnd this is how my brain functions. All the time. About everything. A problem presents itself and my instinct is always to say, “how can I make this work?” instead of “no fucking way, Jose! I have a broken ankle!”
Its not like I’m hyper accommodating because I’m afraid of getting fired or anything.
It’s because of my vagina.
We women are supposed to be bendy, right? We are the nurturers, the mothers, the ameliorators. We are the givers.
The problem-solvers.
It’s genetic. And learned. And promoted, for chrissakes. We women should be able to “do it all!” Check out Rosie the Riveter. She did her part to help the war effort, raised 8 kids and cooked every meal herself*. She also knew how to rock a bandana.
I am as ardent a feminist as they come. I waltz through life pretending I have extra sets of arms. I am a wife, a mother, and a career-oriented educator.
But sometimes, (because it’s physically impossible to do otherwise) I have to say “when.”
Or my husband has to say “when” and then he looks at me with his woman-you-so-crazy face until I agree.
No one is gonna drop dead if I don’t go to Atlanta.
But my ankle may fall off if I do.
And that would be awful. Without an ankle, I wouldn’t be pretty anymore and my husband might leave me for a woman who has two ankles and then my children would be torn between two homes and I’d have to get a second job at McDonalds to support my she-lacks-an-ankle physical therapy. And then I’d never be able to run the New York Marathon because who could run a marathon missing an ankle? Or I’d devote my entire being to figuring out how to run the marathon sans ankle at the expense of everything else in my life thus alienating my friends and family and ultimately dying alone.
So, I’m saying “when.” And in my spare time, now that I’m not going to Atlanta, I plan to Martha Stewart my balls. In pretty, spring shades. Also, I will alter their sizes accordingly. This is the feminism of today: If I focus on my balls, maybe my vagina won’t feel so betrayed.
When do you say “when”?
*I totally and completely fabricated this information about Rosie the Riveter for the sake of making my point.
