I am mommy, hear me ROOOOOAAARRRR

Last weekend, I did something I swore I’d never do. I said sharp words to another person’s child. I even harbored fantasies of grabbing her little arm and wagging my finger in her face. But I held myself to a few angry words.

On Sunday, our little family went to the mall to buy a new computer. While Dave took care of the details, I took R to the little indoor play area (Play? Me? She asked with incredulous joy). I watched from the sidelines as R struggled to climb the steps to the slide, often being run over by other, older children who didn’t have the patience for a barely two-year-old. I held my tongue, figuring she needed to learn how to fit in and climb those stairs, and God, I can’t do everything for her.

She was thrilled with the whole experience, though occasionally bewildered when the other children would cut her in line. And I was happy too. When it began to get really crowded, the line for the little slide stretched a ways out. R was a real sweetheart, waiting her turn and giggling with some other children. Suddenly, a little girl who had been particularly rough earlier on came up to R and another little girl. She placed two hands on R’s chest and pushed with all her might. And then kicked her once she fell down.

I was livid.

I don’t know what came over me, but I felt like the stereotypical lioness rushing to protect her cub. R wasn’t even crying, just sitting there on the ground kind of stunned. I looked around wildly for her parents, but no one seemed to care. So I marched over and said to that little girl with all the anger and “mad voice” I could muster (and that was a lot) “We don’t push other people down. We don’t kick people. And I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t do it to my kid.”

And I grabbed R and we were out of there. And I felt even angrier that R was basically being punished for that child’s rude and possibly dangerous behavior.In retrospect, what I did probably had no affect on that child whatsoever. And her absent parents obviously didn’t care very much about her behavior. She had been running roughshod over many of the other children the entire time we were there, even sliding over a BABY because his father was too slow in getting him up from the bottom of the slide.

But now I’m left to wonder what is the right answer in situations like that? If the misbehaving child’s parents are nowhere to be found, what are we supposed to do? I don’t want to teach R to run from her battles (or that mommy will fight them for her), but I also don’t want her to think that I won’t be there for her whenever I can.

Brave little toaster

“I’ve had three or four different careers,” Margaret Truman Daniel told an interviewer in 1989. “I consider being a wife and mother a career. I have great respect for women — both those who go out and do their thing and those who stay at home. I think those who stay at home have a lot more courage than those who go out and get a job.”

Margaret Truman Daniel died Tuesday. She was 83 and what we might call a renaissance woman. A singer, writer, actress, daughter of a president, wife of the one-time New York Times managing editor, and mother of Daniel tried everything. Her obituary caught my eye, and I’m glad I read it. Because that quote is fantastic.

And I think she’s right, and not just about considering being a wife and a mother a career. I am not a brave person. I never have been. I remember, and this pains me to actually admit, that in middle school I actually thought how glad I was I wasn’t a boy. In addition to the lack of painfully visual evidence every time I was attracted to someone, I also believed that because I was a girl, I didn’t really need a career. I could just get married and have my husband take care of me.”

I seriously thought that. And it’s because I am not brave. Never have been. At 12 years old, it seemed so much easier to just get married and have babies and that would be that.

Now I know that it would be infinitely harder for me to stay at home. Because it is the unknown. Because it would mean so much change. Because it is not what I expected out of my life since I was 15 years old and discovered I could put a few words together to make a decent sentence.

And I guess I’m not afraid to admit that.

But Daniel was right about another thing, too. I think we all deserve each other’s respect, no matter what decisions we make for our families. And while I may go to work every day, I still consider my “career” to be that little girl, her daddy and any other children that bless us.

Comparison Shopping

I’ve written before about how I like to grocery shop. It appeals to my organizational nature. I approach the shopping in a very systematic way – I start at the front of the store and work my way to the back (depending on store set-up). I skip aisles if they offer nothing that is on my list, but mostly I traverse every aisle, marking items off as I find them and deposit them in my cart, which I organize into cans and jars, boxed items, produce, cold items, pharmacy/paper and miscellaneous. My coupon organizer is laid out in similar fashion.

I will spend inordinate amounts of time comparing prices, doing math in my head (or with a calculator stashed in my purse) for coupons and other discounts. I must say that shopping with a toddler has severly reduced my enjoyment of the grocery store trip. For some reason whining about suckers and little hands pulling over displays of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee beans are not conducive to complicated (to me) math problems and cart organization.

 My husband finds my habits very irritating. He has a list, goes through the store and randomly picks things up, often moving forward or backward to retrieve items he just thought of or that he missed. I find THAT very irritating. We rarely shop together. 

One thing we do agree on: the Impulse Buy. We’ve agreed that there is no need to get angry about the other person’s impulse buys. It’s going to happen. We fall victim to a marketing scheme or the rumbly tummy or the craving. Or the toddler tantrum. We’ve agreed to try to keep the impulse buys at three items per trip (though the limit has been stretched with creative calculations, such as THREE boxes of brownie mix really only count as ONE item and Sam Adams and Blue Moon are both BEERS, so therefore count only once). 

At Super Target on Saturday morning, I realized that the Impulse Buy was our way of indulging little desires without going crazy. We deprive ourselves of a lot of things so that we can do good things for and with our daughter, that the grocery extravagances are a justifiable and relatively inexpensive way of creating a little decadence in our lives. At least that’s what I told myself as I put the full-fat Frito-Lay potato chips in the cart next to my 12-pack of Diet Coke.

why i do it

Obviously, braces are in our future.

Gratuitous child stories:

Two nights ago, when R and I were doing flashcards before bed (What? She likes them!), I found the tables were turned in our relationship. She insisted first that “Me hold.” Then she pointed at a card and said, “What’s that, Mom?” She wouldn’t let up until I told her what it was. Then she patted my arm with all the seriousness of a judge and said, “Good girl, Mom.”

Last night, she finally started saying her own name, pointing at a family picture we have hanging in our hallway and reciting who was in the photograph. I gleefully relayed the information to her father, who, a little later, asked her what her name was.  “Princess,” she replied, matter-of-factly. We don’t even call her that as a nickname.

no right answer

Sometimes I feel like I’m giving 110 percent at home at 110 percent at work, but I’m not getting the job done at either place. Warning: work talk will follow. Sue me. Any Sex and the City watchers out there who remember Miranda’s struggle with what we call “work-life balance” in my industry?

We’ve recently made a rather large adjustment in our “communications platform” at work, which has drastically changed the nature of my job. Where I used to spend five percent of my days on technical, technological things, I now find myself going over html code; cropping, sizing, lightening and otherwise adjusting pictures; writing headlines and photo captions; and entering text into boxes for hours on end. I’m lucky if I have an hour or two at the end of the day for the reason I took this job: the creative stuff, the writing, the interaction with human beings outside this office building.

I used to at least be good at my job. Now I feel like I’m drowning.It’s been three weeks like this, including the trip to Nashville, and it’s starting to take its toll. I actually figured out how many working days until I vest (517 if you’re counting, minus vacation days and sick days). The thing is, I can work as hard as I can at this job, and I still make mistakes. And it’s not like it’s difficult work – a monkey could do it. It’s just easy to get careless and not very stimulating. And it takes  a lot of time.

At home, I still struggle with the fact that I don’t see R. very much. I try to be blasé about the fact that she’s started calling her babysitter “Mommy” while she now refers to me as “Mom.” I know she doesn’t mean to hurt my feelings. I know I’m doing the best I can, providing her with a great role model, blah blah blah blah blah. But it still rips my heart out.

One of R’s friend’s mother’s called me Saturday to tell me that despite the fact that her daughter received the chicken pox vaccine, she came down with the disease anyway. And the first thought into my head was – “Oh God, I can’t miss that much work.” Not “I need to check R for spots” or “I hope R’s cold isn’t a precursor to something worse.” What’s wrong with me?Once when I mentioned that worrying about work is what keeps me up at night, a co-worker said I was nuts. If I laid awake thinking about anything, he said, it should be about my daughter and her future.

The thing is, I don’t worry about that, at least not in the way he’s talking about. To me, R is beautiful and smart and curious and normal. Why would I worry about her? But I really don’t. And I can’t figure out if that’s a bad thing or not.

I haven’t even talked about how I feel I’ve neglected my marriage. That’s a subject for another day.

Finally, something light-hearted

So a few girls at work introduced me to the concept of the “Office Boyfriend.” I have embraced this concept now that I slowly feel the life being sucked out of me while I sit at my desk and size photos and enter copy into boxes for hours a day. It makes work more fun.

When I first started working here, I had an “Office Boyfriend.” We were very close, and then we just grew apart. First I had a baby, then he (his wife) had a baby. My job changed and we didn’t talk so much, then his job changed and we talked even less. One day he snubbed me, and I called it off. It was him, not me.

So the spot of my “Office Boyfriend” is officially open and I am auditioning (“Convention Boyfriend” and “Intern Boyfriend” positions are filled).  My requirements are minimal: easy on the eyes, not a complete jackass. I must see them occasionally, which does eliminate a sizable number of staff members. I don’t care if you’re married. We’re keeping this at work.

This is not a serious thing, I do not harbor fantasies of running away with my Office Boyfriend (or Convention Boyfriend or Intern Boyfriend). In fact, I would be mortified if any of them knew of their designation. It’s something I like to giggle about with my friends.

One friend’s Office Boyfriend was an IT contractor who used to sit down the hall from her. He shared an office with another contractor who was also attractive. She weighed her options and chose the taller of the two. But now he’s changed offices and we don’t even know what floor he’s on anymore… Office Boyfriends can be so fickle.

This year, I even convinced my boss’ boss to pick a Convention Girlfriend. He chose well, considered carefully. However, I do believe his fatal mistake is that we don’t know if she will be a fixture at Convention. Unless he gets a new job, my CB will be around for awhile. I think that’s a key element in the Convention boy/girlfriend choice.

Office Boyfriends come, and Office Boyfriends go. But work is a little better when they’re around.

The universe hates me

Why is it that at the end of a particularly trying week-long business trip, when you and everyone you work with are all cranky and tired and just want to get the hell home already, everything that possibly could go wrong does?

And why do I have a tendency to exaggerate when things don’t go my way?

So we’re on the bus home (yes, our cheap-ass environmentally friendly company made 400 people take chartered buses to Nashville, not even allowing us to drive ourselves unless circumstances were dire), about 125 miles north of Nashville on I-65 when it comes to our driver’s attention that we are leaking GASOLINE all over the road. So we have to pull over at a truck stop (exit 105). The bus driver hops out with a single paper towel to inspect the situation.

I, of course, burst into tears as though I were the only person on the 60-passenger bus who really really wanted to get home. Don’t you people know I’ve been counting COTTON BALLS for God’s sake? Long story short, we ended up winding through some residential neighborhoods outside Louisville, spewing gas the entire way, to get to a repair shop and, ostensibly, another bus to get on. Eventually we make it on another bus and are back on the road.

We got home 2.5 hours late, obliterating the lovely afternoon I had planned for R and I. Not that it would have mattered because she has a runny nose, sore throat and cough.

But we got to snuggle on the couch last night. Like the Grinch, my heart grew three sizes.

Clicking my ruby slippers

There’s only one cotton ball left. And that’s just because I’ve been working in my room for about an hour and haven’t had the opportunity to take a shower yet. All my suits are folded neatly in my suitcase. All the unnecessary supplements to all the agendas of all the meetings I attended over the last week are in the trash.

I’m going home. There’s no place quite like it.

Grand ole Opry

I’m still in Nashville and I’m starting to get cranky. But at least the pile of cotton balls I use to apply my toner every morning and every night has diminished to just a quartet of white puffs on the bathroom vanity.

It’s Sunday morning. At home, we would be lazing about in our pajamas until 8 or so, eating a big breakfast of pancakes or French toast or egg sandwiches. Maybe waffles, if I were feeling ambitious. We’d start getting ready for church by 8:30, trading off showers and the toddler rodeo.

Instead I’m in Tennessee Ballroom A-B at the Gaylord Opryland and the air smells like natural gas because of the fuel keeping chafing dishes of dried-out scrambled eggs and greasy chicken apple sausage warm. And, as at all conferences, it’s freezing in here.

I haven’t ordered room service once. I’m averaging 5 hours of sleep a night. The work days are brutal. I’m so glad I brought the new philosophy eye cream that Erin got for me, because even if it doesn’t work, it makes me feel like maybe the bags are a little smaller and the circles a little lighter.

At least it’s almost over. Even cranky, I’m trying to look on the bright side. For some reason, this year is a lot tougher than last year. R is able to talk on the phone for short spurts, to tell me that she’s watching Dora or eating Cheetos or played with Maggie. Or that it’s 1 a.m. and she sleeping on my pillow in bed with Daddy.  

And I can’t decide if that’s worse or not – if it makes me miss her more. I just know that it’s starting to ache. And all the offhand “love you mommy”s prompted by her daddy can’t make up for the hugs and the kisses I’m missing. And craving. Sometimes this just sucks.

this again?

I am not one of those women who have ever felt like motherhood was something I had to “achieve” at or “win.” I am not competitive, neither with the sacrifices I have made for my daughter nor with her achievements. (I am, however, extremely competitive in most of the other areas of my life, which makes my utter lack of need to be the best a bit curious…)

So why do I feel like I am losing at this mommy thing? Or rather, R is losing?

My mother made an offhand comment the other day about all the “problems” we’ve had with R. At first, I couldn’t figure out what she meant. But I suppose she means the health problems – the hip dysplasia, the breast milk jaundice, the broken collarbone, the kidney reflux and bladder infections. To me, all that stuff is just what we expect to deal with as parents. And compared to most of my mother’s children, R’s problems are small potatoes.

But are they? Am I not paying proper attention? Right now, I’m writing this from my hotel room in Nashville. R is 250 miles away, having a week of “Daddy time.” She and I spent Monday together, an hour at the urologist’s office and the rest at home playing. What if something goes wrong while I’m here? I didn’t leave the pediatrician’s number for Dave. I left a lasagne and some pancake batter for Saturday morning breakfast, but I can’t remember to leave the doctor’s number.

I know he’s capable. I know he can work infospace.com or 411. I’m more galled at my own inattention than worried something might actually happen. But I keep saying I can have it all. Can I really?

And as I become less and less enchanted with my job, I wonder if all the trade-offs are really worth it. Because sometimes I just ache to stay at home with her. But is that ache for her? Or is it a selfish feeling? I think I know the answer to that. And that’s why I’m here in Nashville. And it’s why I’ll keep driving 20 minutes and walking across the Canal every day to work.