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After I checked into the Cape Hedge Inn, I told the kids we were hitting the beach. Small, Medium and Large hastily scrambled into their suits. A measure of their excitement: no one complained when I applied sunscreen.
We were on vacation with my husband’s family—his parents, brother, sister-in-law and their two children, K and G (ages six and three), as well as his 85-year-old grandmother whom the kids call G.G. (Great-Grammie). We were missing only my husband’s sister and her family and – there is no way to write this without the words dripping with irony – my husband.
Small, Medium and Large’s first ocean experience was idyllic. We spent the afternoon under the sun, jumping waves, squealing over seaweed and selecting the smoothest pebbles to bring home. More than once I wished my husband was there with us (he was arriving the following evening) to see the kids at their carefree, fun-loving best.
Fast forward a few hours. I have lugged all the beach toys, rocks (did I call them pebbles?), blankets, towels and coolers back to our motel room, made all the kids shower and change, rinsed and wrung out four bathing suits, cleaned the cooler and found dry clothes for myself. I am exhausted and so are the kids. Unfortunately, when my kids reach exhaustion they refuse to allow themselves to feel tired. Instead, they push themselves to that level beyond exhaustion – super-hyper-drive-your-mother-crazy-energizer-bunny-stage. They are entertaining themselves by bouncing off the walls. Literally. It is 7:30 p.m. and we haven’t eaten dinner.
My sister-in-law drops by our room to invite us to go with the rest of the family and dine in town. At a restaurant. After telling her that is sheer madness, I politely decline—opting for what I hope will be a lesser form of torture: a visit to the grocery store.
Our drive to the store is blessedly quick. Once I have located the entrance (on the far side of the building from where we have parked), we troop in. I hand Liam a basket and take one for myself. At first, we navigate the aisles like a school of fish; as a group, we dart in for tasty bites and shy away from oncoming predators. But by the time we reach the bread aisle, our school has disbanded. We look less like fish and more like an ineffective cowboy with a poorly managed cattle herd. I yell at the rogues and attempt to head them off at the pass. More than once, I wish I had a cattle prod.
We reach the checkout counter where a bored teenager with heavy eye-liner scans our groceries. I have over-estimated stuff to buy and there is no bagger so I do it myself. After we make it through the exit, I breathe a sigh of relief. It’s then that I hear a noise. Nora has dropped her new flip-flops. I freeze. And it dawns on me.
“Did we pay for those flip-flops?
She is silent.
“Nora! Did those flip-flops make it onto the checkout belt?”
She shakes her head vigorously. Her eyes well with tears. “I forgot!”
The bags I am hefting suddenly feel heavier. I close my eyes. For an instant, I consider just continuing on, going back to the motel. But I can’t. I will not intentionally set my six year old on the road that could end with her crafting a shank out of a cafeteria utensil. This is one of those “teachable moments” the parenting experts are always on about. Damn them.
“C’mon everybody. We have to go back inside.” I herd the kids back toward the doors we just exited. They start an ascending chorus of “Whys” and “Do we have tos?” but they are stumbling in the right direction. A young couple stares at us wide-eyed as we pass them on their way out of the store. I think to myself that we are a walking advertisement for birth control.
The doors close behind us. I can see our cashier just beyond the next set of doors. But they remain closed. We are trapped in this glass box until someone leaves the store.
Liam notices that we are being captured on the security camera’s monitor and begins doing the “butt dance.” Nora and Henry drop their bags and begin shaking their butts at the camera too. They are hilarious. I am nigh hysterical. Suddenly, the doors hiss open and the group of German exchange students that had been testing Axe deodorant sprays in aisle seven are standing on the other side. I stop telling my kids to stop and stride purposefully through the cloud of pheromones. Small, Medium and Large follow me meekly.
The flip-flops make a smacking sound when I slap them on the conveyer belt. “We forgot to pay for these.”
The cashier shrugs, scans the tag and says, “That will be two dollars and seventeen cents.” I hand her the money silently.
She is handing me my change when Liam leans forward. “You really ought to tighten up your security. I mean, my sister walked right out of here and there weren’t any bells or anything.”
So, he learned something. Too bad it wasn’t the lesson I was trying to teach.
It’s my least favorite time of year again. Swimsuit season.
Unless you are a woman in competition for your own reality TV show, you know what I mean. I will venture to say, without scientific research, that most women are critical of how their bodies look in spandex. It doesn’t matter who you are or how much you weigh—even bikini clad women (how I envy you!) think they have trouble spots.
I am an average height and have a medium build. I like to eat. I don’t like to exercise. I have a horror of aerobic classes due to a marked lack of coordination and an aversion to perky people. I look decent enough in regular clothes but am reluctant to let myself be seen in skin-tight scraps of fabric that are supposed to simultaneously conceal my problem areas and flatter my assets. Call me a skeptic but that does not seem possible. Catalogues and internet sites are full of “miracle suits” for sale; women’s magazines have swimsuit style guides for all body types. Who do they think they are kidding? Am I really asking too much for a suit that makes me look good, is comfortable, is appropriate for chasing children and yet stylish enough to wear on a cruise? Let’s not forget that I’d prefer it to be affordably priced. My three children may aspire to higher education.
I have been wearing the same swimsuit for seven years. It does not meet any of the above criteria except one. I have tried others: the swim mini (can you say grandma?), the boy short (there’s a reason they call them “hipsters”), and, in desperation, the floral halter top (sing it with me – ‘Do your boobs hang low, Do they wobble to and fro’) but I keep coming back to my plain old one-piece. Now that I am really thinking about this, there were two summers that it stayed bunched in the bottom of my sock drawer. Those summers I was nursing babies and my bosom was a size that could not be constrained. What a shame it was that my stomach was uncontainable too.
About every six months, I swear to myself that I am going to get into shape. It usually lasts a couple of weeks and then I am too (insert any of the following adjectives: tired/busy/lazy/bored) to continue with the program. My biggest success thus far was in January. For my birthday (at my request!) my husband bought me three sessions with a personal trainer. My trainer was awesome and for a month, he really motivated me to work hard. I saw results – my jeans fit better, muscles I had forgotten I had made an appearance, my mid-section started looking less muffinish and more pancake like – and then we got the dog, deconstructed the kitchen, and I just…stopped working out.
This time, too embarrassed to contact my trainer, I joined a gym. Tomorrow is day one (for the 47th time) on my quest for less squishy abs. Stay tuned. I’ll keep you posted.
My apologies; mea culpa. I have been remiss in my oinking responsibilities. My thanks to those of you who gently prodded to get me back online. I have no excuse for my absence other than: Life got in the way.
Is there anyone out there who considers time to be a fluid, relaxed space? Time is compressed in my world. I think I must orbit a black hole that peels time from me second by second. I start most days with: Oh please, let me sleep just five more minutes! And end with: Is that the 11 o’clock news? The moments in-between are filled with quick assessments: Is it possible to retrieve Nora from school, snack her, make it through eight traffic lights, get her skates laced and her onto the ice in less than 20 minutes? Can I make it to Lowe’s, the grocery store, the post office and the bank in the hour before the kids get home? If school started 10 minutes ago and I drive 60 miles per hour, will he be more than 15 minutes late?
When I posted last, we had just adopted Paco. In the weeks that followed, we packed and then demolished our kitchen, learned that Paco likes to mark, bought a new dishwasher, met with Liam’s math teacher, ordered replacement parts for the stove after the microwave accidentally fell on it, borrowed a dog crate, primed and painted part of the upstairs of our friends’ house, attended seven other meetings at two schools, tested for a red belt, scheduled and rescheduled appointments to get our hair cut, helped organize a night of silent and live auctions, hand-washed dishes in bins in the bathtub, had two field trips, got our hair cut, connected the replacement parts for the stove, competed in one Tae Kwon Do tournament, dealt with a temporary kitchen sink, bought gifts for four birthday parties-went to three, hosted one, primed and painted the backsplash, walls and ceiling, stopped using the dog crate, oversaw the installation of new cabinets and countertop, made fruitless calls to seven home improvement stores looking for oil-rubbed bronze sink drains, bought white sink drains, dyed Easter eggs at our friends’ house and…finally…unpacked the kitchen.
Poor dog. He had no idea what he was in for when we walked into his life.
**
Before demo, our kitchen had brown ceramic floor tiles, yellow laminate counters, oak and pressboard cabinets whose shelves sometimes tipped, a tiled backsplash with brown grout and a too-large peninsula that trapped guests in one half of the room or the other when I opened the refrigerator.
Demo was pretty satisfying:
And now, I am thrilled to have cherry cabinets, seamless hi-mac countertops, drawers that glide open and close softly, an extra deep sink and a super-quiet dishwasher. Floors and backsplash to be installed later this year. A big thank you to all our friends who lent expertise, muscle and fun to this project. You know we couldn’t have done it without you!
There’s nothing quite like being scolded by a librarian. Particularly when she’s mistaken you for someone else.
It’s not often that someone confuses me with another mom. Just one of the advantages of being Korean and living in the whitest state in the Union.
Today, however, there were two of us Korean moms in the library at the same time. And not only that – we were together! The novelty of it all.
“You need to make sure Audrey* picks up her snack,” the librarian said to me sternly.
“Wh – at?” I said, confusedly, while looking around for Audrey’s mom who was sitting just out of earshot.
“She didn’t pick up her snack. We want all the kids to learn to pick up after themselves.” Sniffing, she walked away.
Now, I suppose I could have run after her and politely (or not so politely) informed her that if she wanted something cleaned up she was welcome to do it herself or I could have invited her to communicate her concerns directly with Audrey or Audrey’s mom.
But I didn’t.
Henry and I had come to the library to meet Audrey and her mom. I like them both very much. I like books. In fact, I like my local library.
And so, I asked Audrey to return with me to the children’s section. Together, we discarded the abandoned paper towel, muffin wrapper and cup and then went to find our people.
A little while later, I let my child approach the circulation desk by himself with the books he wanted to borrow.
“What’s your name?” the librarian asked him.
“Henry,” he announced proudly.
“Henry,” she repeated. “Henry, what’s your last name again?”
“It’s [OINK],” I said, coming over and putting my arm around his shoulders. “My son’s last name is [OINK].”
“Oh,” she said, blinking at me. “That’s right. You’re Mary. Should I put his books under your name?”
That’s right.
*Not her real name.
For weeks, my little girl’s bite was doubled up like a shark’s. Her baby tooth just would not budge. Rather than wait, the adult tooth emerged behind it.
Even her teeth are impatient.
When she ran over to me this morning with her face alight and bottom lip pulled out, I was relieved.
Tonight, there was no fussing about bedtime. Nora was more than happy to go upstairs, get into her pajamas and brush the rest of her teeth. After I wrestled Small out of his day clothes and into clean Dr. Denton’s, I went to find her. She was sitting on her bed, silently caressing the milky white tooth in her hand.
“Don’t put it under your pillow loose. It’ll get lost.”
Nora gave me her standard response – a headshake in lieu of words.
I persisted. “Really, sweetheart. Use the little jar you had it in. Put the tooth in the jar and the jar under your pillow.”
She stared at the floor.
This was going to be an issue.
“How about if you use this box?” Now I was pleading with her.
“No, Mommy.” Her voice was quiet, but firm.
“A plastic bag?”
“No, Mommy.”
“Honey, the tooth fairy works on a very tight schedule. If you leave it loose under your pillow, it could get lost. And if she can’t find it, she won’t leave you any money.”
“I don’t care if I get money, Mommy.”
Apparently, she’s no capitalist. This argument would have worked on her big brother. How was I going to get her to help me? I sat next to her on the bed. She peered at me through her curtain of wispy, brown hair.
“Are you sure?” I gentled my tone. “Why don’t you put it in a box? Otherwise, she might not find it.”
“No, Mommy. She will.” She nodded earnestly. Her confidence in her fairy was unshakable. “She will,” she said with certainty.
And so, the tooth was placed under her pillow—unfettered and naked—directly on the sheet. The lovely multicolored floral patterned sheet with the white background.
God help me. I may need the Rock.
There is three feet of snow on the roof and medium-sized icicles hang from the edge. The three-day forecast includes temperatures above freezing.
With a heavy sigh, I reach for the following:
Wool socks
Long underwear
Ski pants
Parka
Fleece hat
Insulated gloves
Boots
Snow shovel
Ladder
Oh, the joys of being at home during the day.
“Nora, I’m going out onto the roof. You know the drill, right?” I say, my hand on the doorknob.
“Yes!” she yells from inside the hastily constructed “fort” in our family room. “No! Wait!” She sticks her head out. “I forget. If you fall off, do I call 911 or am I supposed to check on you first?”
You’ve gotta really love Vermont to live here in the winter.
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