Come Fly With Me

September 22, 2009 in Large Moments, Origins | Tags: , , , , , , , , , | 1 comment

We spent the weekend in Boston with the kids—packing in the memories like sardines in a can. The Children’s Museum. The Barking Crab. Nantasket Beach. The Red Parrot. U2 at Gillette Stadium (this last was only for Liam and Brendan). We stopped fifty miles from home to return the borrowed stroller to my in-laws and to pick up our other car. I offered to drive the sedan in a selfish ploy for an hour of peace and quiet.

“Anyone coming with?” I called, hurling myself from the still moving vehicle. “No? See you at home!”

I was opening the car’s door when I heard the van pull in behind me. It had been too good to be true.

“Medium and Large are coming with you,” my husband announced, gripping the steering wheel with one hand and his Blackberry with the other. He continued perusing his email inbox and didn’t notice the glare I gave him.

“Are you kidding?”

“Nope. They want to be with you.”

I am almost never alone. This is one of the hard truths I have faced while morphing from Woman-With-A-Career to OINK. I am constantly accompanied by, or in the company of, others. Usually very small others. Don’t get me wrong. I’m a people person. I like people and I like to believe that they like me. But there are times when I pause to think longingly about closing the door to my office and sending the calls to voicemail; about the rental cars where I listened to whatever caught my fancy on the radio; about the airports where I sat blanketed in anonymity—just a speck in the endlessly amusing spectacle of humanity.

In those spaces, no little voices were ordering me to turn up the volume on “Crazy Frog,” whining about needing a snack ten minutes after we finished breakfast, sobbing that someone had poked them. And while I had other voices in my head—the ones reminding me to finish this proposal or that brief, nagging me to return phone calls and emails, chastising me for being the parent who was always late picking up her kids from daycare—they were all my own.

I miss my own company.

My husband interrupted my reverie. “Liam didn’t want you to be lonely.” The side of the van slid open and Liam jumped out, followed closely by his sister. In spite of myself, I was touched by my son’s thoughtfulness. He gave me an awkward, one-armed hug and ducked his head. He and Nora scurried off.

“Well, that was sweet of them.” I tried to sound positive.

My husband chuckled. “Nora is only coming with you because she wants to be with Liam. When Liam worried you’d be lonely, she told us, ‘Mommy’s not lonely–she’s fine! Liam, you stay with me!’”

Either she knows me better than I realize or she is more like me than I know.

I love my kids, but what I need is a Fortress of Solitude.

She’s Thinking Ahead

September 21, 2009 in Uncategorized | Tags: | 1 comment

Walking into a department store, I admonished the kids: “Now remember, we don’t need any more toys.”

“But what about Christmas?” Nora asked.

“Oh. Hmm. Well, I guess that’s different,” I responded. “Santa and the elves need their jobs.”

Push the Pig

September 17, 2009 in Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Dear Readers,

Although I am ultimately writing OINK Tales to preserve a record of life’s moments for my kids, I’ve been told that there is nothing more sad than an under-read blog. I am so grateful to those of you who have been oinking with me! I love to read your comments and really appreciate your words of encouragement. Being an instant gratification kind of girl, it’s been rewarding to me to know that you are listening. If any of my posts have made you chuckle, smile, or even briefly amused you, whether you are a semi-regular follower or a random reader, please: Push the Pig. It will feed my ego – I mean – warm my soul if you would send this link http://bit.ly/MalRl to your friends/family and invite them to check out OINK Tales.

Thanks and happy oinking!

Mary

Double, Double, Toil and Trouble

September 17, 2009 in Uncategorized | 2 comments

As directed, I shake out the school’s neatly folded tablecloths and spread them over the formica tabletops.  I place tea-cup sized ceramic plates in front of small wooden chairs. Alongside the plates, I arrange unmatched drinking glasses and cloth napkins made from scraps of floral fabric. I dot the tables with bowls of freshly sliced apples that Henry and I picked at a local orchard.

apples

The tuneless notes of a cow bell starts the stampede. Sixteen children busily hang their coats, wash their hands and find their seats. I help distribute the individually portioned yogurt cups that I brought for group snack despite their bad-for-the-earth rap. (Call me lazy, but I didn’t want to wash sixteen more dishes. Besides, those containers are recyclable!)

The hard seat of the tiny wooden chair I am perched on is anesthetizing my rear-end. The room fills with a chorus of: “I don’t like this kind! I want what she’s having!” I swap yogurts between kids like a carney playing a cup game —Where’d the strawberry go? Is it this one? That one? Now you see it; now you don’t. Eventually, the kids settle down and start slurping.

A small voice announces: “These apples taste like poison.”

“Really?” I ask. “Have you been eating a lot of poison, lately?” Oops. I said that out-loud. I hurry to clarify, “Nobody should eat poison. Poison is very, very bad for you.”

The eight owners of the sixteen eyes at my table consider this statement. I raise my eyebrows and nod my head vigorously. “I promise you. I did not put any poison on these apples.”

Then, gathering my tattered rags around me, I cackle and put on my pointy hat.

Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire

September 14, 2009 in Uncategorized | Tags: , , | Leave a comment

I think Nora has been sneaking extra TV-time. C-SPAN, to be exact. Or maybe just a little MSNBC. It’s either that or Congressman Wilson astrally projected onto my five year-old last week.

“You lied to me! You lied!” Nora shouted, stomping her Mary Janes. Her eyes glittered with outrage.

“Honey, honey, no. I didn’t lie!” I was practically stammering in the face of her fury.

“You did so! You lied!”

Heads swiveled in the elementary school cafeteria. Other parents were turning to watch the drama—surreptitiously, of course. No parent wants to admit it, but it can be gratifying to see someone else struggling with their child in public. It’s like watching an episode of Supernanny—your problems seem small compared to those people’s.

And Nora was staging a good show. When she has a tantrum, she pulls out all the stops. I am thankful that they do not occur frequently because when they do, my embarrassment is a 10.0 on the mortification scale.

“You said I could ride the bus home!”kids-on-school-bus-IC5022-63

“Nora, I didn’t! I told you that I was picking you up today. You only needed to take the bus home on Wednesday. Come on.” I tried to sound soothing. “We’ll talk about it in the car.”

“NO!” She maintained the vowel until it collapsed into a wordless scream.

I could feel the sweat beading on my sternum. “You can’t ride the bus home today. You can ride the bus home tomorrow.”

“NO! You’re a liar!”

“Oh God, it’s Friday. You’ll ride the bus next week. Let’s go.” Grabbing Henry and M, my carpooling kid, I fervently hoped that Liam and Nora would follow me.

As I weaved through the masses towards the exit, we suddenly became invisible. No one wanted to make eye contact (me, least of all).

By the time we reached the car, Nora was winding down. She hiccuped. I fixed her with a glare. She sniffled, hugged me, and apologized for her “fit.”

I accepted her apology. Because unlike Congressman Wilson, I think she meant it.

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