The Mommies' Diaries…Parenting, One Blog at a Time.

Since summer is fast approaching and for my family that means Road Trips!  My kids are seasoned car travelers and I actually love family road trips.  But my husband and I have some rules we like to stick to.  I’ve been over these before in the magazine, but it never hurts to review.

On a family road trip, there are Mommy jobs and Daddy jobs.

The Daddy job is to drive in a straight line on the Interstate for 1,000 miles. The Mommy job is to feed, entertain, cajole, referee, play, settle, soothe, navigate, translate, buckle, unbuckle, re-buckle, clean and every other mobile nurturing task possible at 70 mph.

Daddy must concentrate on the road. Mommy must concentrate on the three road-weary children who still need to eat every four minutes whilst unpacking their “surprise” bags that took her three days and $1,738 to assemble so that the children don’t disturb Daddy for seven minutes.

Daddy must stay in his lane.  Mommy must settle all other territorial disputes that erupt in the back seat resulting in no less than 13 hours of intense negotiations, treaties and bribes.

Daddy listens to sports talk AM radio in cities to which he has no association and about teams to which he has no allegiance nor apparent interest by the look on his face. Mommy must change 80 DVDs in order to find the only working one, Cars, which then is watched repeatedly for the next ten days.

Daddy says things like, “I know it’s midnight, but we just need to go a hundred more miles until we stop for the night.” Mommy says things like, “I’ll buy you a pony if you stop asking me when we’ll be there.”

Daddy points out interesting things along the way. Mommy repeats them in an audible voice because no one in the back can hear Daddy over Cars or sports talk radio volume.

Daddy is willing to travel extra miles to save two cents a gallon on gasoline.  Mommy wonders if her sanity is worth the fuel savings.

Daddy protests a questionable “s” int he 98th round of the alphabet game. Mommy lobbies for “straightjacket,” “suicide” or “for the love of all that is good and holy, could you please let this one slide?”

Daddy sometimes gets cross at Mommy when he asks her to look up something on the map and she can’t quickly figure it out. Mommy apologizes, but her eyes are bleeding from lack of sleep.

Daddy needs the air conditioning set at 62 degrees because he is the driver and must be comfortable. Mommy makes blankets out of pocket tissues and straw wrappers.

When Daddy does finally stop, he seems to always pass the restaurants Mommy chooses. Mommy eats a lot of BBQ and deep-fried items on sticks on vacation.

When the family finally arrives at their destination, all of the relatives exclaim to Daddy, “Oh! You must be exhausted from driving all that way!”  Mommy silently weeps and wishes that commuter bus they passed back in Fresno would suddenly careen out of control and put her aching, road-filthy, utterly dog-tired wretched body out of its misery. Oh, for a bottle of wine!

Curiously, Daddy does not offer to switch jobs for the return leg.

I don’t need the calendar to tell me that the school year is almost over. I merely look at the slow deterioration of my children, home and what little is left of my mind to know the end is near. The kids are down to one frayed strap and a piece of dental floss precariously holding their backpacks together. Since I refuse to by any new pants until the day before the first day of school next year, my son is getting sunburns on his calves at recess. We’ve got one sock left between us, and they are alternating days wearing it.

And we’re tired of homework. Specifically, the never-ending projects which somehow require me carrying the bulk of the workload. I’ve used so much glue this past year that all of my fingerprints have been cast in Elmer’s skeletons 10 times over. Our kitchen table looks like we’ve been paying the home version of CSI or we’re experimenting with different identities to enter the Witness Protection Program. I truly hope I’ve made my last late-night trip to Target for supplies to recreate the Eiffel Tower in popsicle sticks.

We could sue a little break from the book reports as well. While I certainly appreciate a healthy appetite for books, I could do without another story about childhood angst written with a plethora of italics and exclamation points!!! The only things I want my nine year olds reading this summer are Interstate signs and lemonade recipes.

But it’s the waking up early that’s killing me. I’ve noticed that we’ve gradually pushed our wake-up time later and later each week with the snooze button forsaking some new element in our morning routine for a few extra minutes of blessed sleep. First we gave up making beds, now were are lucky if we leave the house without shampoo in our hair and a breakfast of Tic Tacs and Chapstick.

So if you think I am dreading the end of the school year — that somehow my workload will increase with all three children at home 24/7 as opposed to 18/5 — you would be wrong. I look as summer as my 2.5 months to undo all the good habits their teachers have instilled the rest of the year. We need some mornings to sleep through the alarm. We need mid-week sleepovers.  We need lunches on plates, not scrunched up in paper bags. I need to smell sunblock and chlorine not industrial janitorial cleaner and sweaty gym socks.

Feel free to remind me of this nostalgia in August when I’m complaining of walking into the grocery store for yet another package of hot dogs in unmatched flip flops and a sheen of bug spray. But until then, the only number 2 pencils we’ll be using will be on the miniature golf course.

I think my husband is going to sue me for textual harassment. I sent him 24 text messages in less than an hour. Based on that alone you may think he has a pretty good case, but let me present my defense.

It all started with this email exchange:

To: Jay
From: Kirsten
Subject: Dinner, 4:40pm

Thinking of taking the kids to Pasta Primavera for dinner, do you want to meet us?

———————————–
To: Kirsten
From: Jay
Subject: Dinner, 4:42pm

Sure — what time?

———————————–
To: Jay
From: Kirsten
Subject: Dinner, 4:46pm

Will probably go pretty soon — Anders is teetering on the edge of losing his s#*@ and now Macy is crying because I told her to stop reading over my shoulder.
———————————–

Pretty innocent so far. I knew I was taking a gamble bringing three tired and cranky kids to a restaurant, but the place is pretty family friendly and I did not feel like cooking. I also went into this knowing that my darling husband has a pretty hard time managing his time. I always add anywhere from a half an hour to an hour to whatever time he tells me he will be home.

My texts below are in bold and Jay’s are in italics.

5:10pm  We are on our way to the restaurant.

5:11 pm Leaving now

If he was leaving his office, it should take him about 30 minutes to get the restaurant. When we got there I looked over the menu and found what I thought he might want to order.

5:20pm Do you want us to order you the salmon… artichoke hearts, capers, roma tomatoes, pasta with lemon?

5:31pm  How far are you?

5:33pm  How far are you?

5:35pm  How far are you?

5:39pm  You’re coming to Pasta Primavera in Our Town right?? Not Pasta Pomodoro in Next Town Over.

5:41pm  They are not bringing my food until you come.

5:42pm  How far are you?

5:50pm  Please answer?

During this time the waiter brought the kids food and they were just about done eating. They were already tired, so I knew I didn’t have too much longer.

5:55pm  Kids can’t last too much longer, how far are you?

6:00pm  I would like to eat soon?

6:01pm  How far are you?

6:02pm  Hello??

6:10pm  Please tell me your ETA?

6:12pm  Um, how far are you?

In normal time, about 50 minutes have passed from when we arrived at the restaurant. But remember, I was on three tired kids in a restaurant who have already eaten time. So it was actually two hours or so. They were starting to entertain themselves. This involved spoons, straws, ice cubes and tiny pieces of torn up paper napkin. I was on my second glass of wine.

6:14pm  We are in Our Town at Primavera.

6:15pm  Where are you?

6:16pm  We are going to leave soon. Please tell me where you are.

6:17pm  Not doing this again.

6:18pm  Kids food is boxed and I have not eaten yet.

I ordered each kid a gelato. They had already had two popscicles before we even left the house and I made it pretty clear before we left that we would not be ordering dessert. My credibility is now shot.

6:19pm  Where are you?

6:20pm  If you don’t answer me, we are leaving…

6:21pm  Without your food.

He finally arrives and I was not surprised to see that he walked in with his phone next to his ear. Usually he stays in the car if he’s on a phone call before he comes in the house or to meet us. But I imagine he had to weigh his option here… stay in the car and endure more text messages or come in and stop the madness. Guess what he picked.

6:22pm  Get off the phone or I will take your picture!

When I am in the car, driving around town with my kids, I like to play a game called, “Let’s be very quiet and listen to NPR.” And instead, the kids like to play a game called, “tell us a story.”

I’m very bad at making up stories. I’ll start strong with a tale about a giraffe who escapes from the zoo and falls into a vat of pink dye and becomes the first pink giraffe but then I completely lose focus and all of a sudden everything takes a dark turn and the giraffe is in foreclosure and living in a homeless shelter.

So we usually compromise and play a game where I’m thinking of an animal and the kids ask me questions until they can guess the animal. Except my six year old asks the same question over and over again. “Does the animal eat doughnuts?”

So I always give my best guess on whether the animal I’m thinking of… like a snake, a monkey, a possum or an elephant would actually eat a doughnut if given the opportunity. Usually I say yes because who turns down a doughnut? Except maybe a fish because soggy doughnuts just aren’t worth the calories.

After we decide which animals do or do not have a hankering for pastries, the kids ask for music which is come for: please find a Taylor Swift or Sean Kingston song. When I can’t immediately find a suitable song on the radio, the six year old wants to know why we don’t have the iPod in the car because that song is definitely on our iPod. And I want to know why a six year old is so well versed on iPods but can’t come up with a single question in our animal game other than, “Does the animal eat doughnuts?” It’s one of life’s mysteries.

Is today Thursday or Friday?  I have to really stop and think about that because when this is what you see when you look out the window it’s hard to concentrate on anything else.

So please forgive my day late post! We are enjoying spring break on the big island of Hawaii. It’s been lovely as I’m sure you can imagine. We don’t usually travel over spring break and the past three years we’ve been saying, “we should go to Hawaii.” But then we never actually plan the trip and then the next thing you know, it’s April and we spend the week at home. But this year, we kicked ourselves in the behind and here we are enjoying the sun, sand and lava rocks.

I think my husband and I were subconsciously terrified to bring our kids here. See, the last time we boarded a plane bound for the islands was eight years ago when my twin girls were 11 months old. Let me just repeat that for effect: we brought eleven month old twins to Hawaii with the intent of having a relaxing vacation. I had done my research and was well prepared. I had new toys for the airplane, a suitcase full of all their favorite snacks, hypoallergenic sunscreens, a portable DVD player and brand new Baby Einstein videos, etc. However, I was not prepared for the fact that my girls would be in the very beginning stages of learning to walk. I timed the flight so it would coincide with their naptime and game them the smallest possible dose of Benadryl. Sleeping was about the very last thing they were interested in doing on that plane. Once their crying stopped, my husband and I walked up and down those aisles endlessly for five hours. I was the mother that childless passengers hate and parents pity on airplanes.

Once we arrived in Hawaii, things got progressively worse. My girls never adjusted to the time change. At home, I was so regimented about their nap and sleep schedule that even the slight changes seemed to throw them off.  The were up at 3am every day and just cried and cried. What I remember most about that trip is sitting in that hotel bed with a crying baby.  I was so worried about disturbing other hotel guests, we made hurculean efforts to quell the crying madness.

They hated the beach. Every time their little toes touched the sand, the would scream. If the waves were large and we even came close to the sand they would cling to my legs in terror. They had zero interest in sitting in the stroller I had lugged all the way from SFO. They were anxious to walk, but of course, fell over after just a few steps. And the diaper rash. OMG, the diaper rash. They both developed horrible, blistering diaper rashes which would cause them to cry in pain for at least 10 minutes before and after every diaper change.

We even brought my mom along on the trip so we could possibly sneak away for dinner. She didn’t seem to adjust so well to island life either. What we didn’t know at the time was that she was about one month away from needed a triple bypass. While we thought she was just unwilling to really step in and help us out, she was actually quite ill. You can imagine this caused a little tension in our mother-daughter relationship during that trip.

I was feeling even more run down and stressed than I had since they were tiny newborns. My husband even tried to get us on an early flight home. When we were back at home I was complaining to my twin moms group about what a horrible trip it had been.  A more experienced mother whose twins happened to be her 3rd and 4th child put her hand on my shoulder and said that vacations with kids are simply the same chaos in a prettier location.

The problem with that vacation eight years ago was not my daughters, it was my expectations. I really did think that a vacation in Hawaii would be the same as it was before we became parents. We would sit by the pool or on the beach and sip drinks while our toddlers played in the sand and took naps on beach chairs. Maybe it is like that for some families.

Lucky for me, kids grow older and moms grow wiser.  This time we may have one more kid in tow, but we also have eight more years of parenting experience. My kids are now experienced airline passengers having flown to Europe and back two summers ago. They were perfectly fine on the airplane, pleasant and polite even. When they wake up at 5am Hawaii time, they sit in their bed and read for a while until the rest of the family wakes up. No one has diaper rash this time (THANK GOD) since no one wears diapers.  They are eager to play on the beach now and are no longer terrified of the sound of crashing waves.

Of couse there have been arguments over who wants to go to the beach and who prefers the pool, who gets which bed and where we eat dinner. But they are old enough now that we can have discussions about what it means to be on a family vacation. It’s the same compromises and chaos, just with a prettier view.

I can complain about my mounting pile of to-dos and in the same breath proclaim that I actually like to be busy. I like feeling useful. I like ticking things off my list. Done. Done. Done. But sometimes I’m just plain overwhelmed. I sit and stare at my computer screen without knowing where to start. I curse myself for taking on too much, for saying “yes, sure, no problem, I’ll take care of it.”

I’m overwhelmed this week. My to-do list is long. I’ve been talking about motherhood, thinking about motherhood, working on sharing motherhood, writing about motherhood, fretting over my motherhood choices. I’ve been planning school events, reading emails, writing emails, renewing car registration online, monitoring field status and cancelled practices, rescheduling rained out soccer games, frantically racing to the mall in search of white tights with no embellishments for uniform check day that somehow slipped my mind.

Last night I was forced to simply stop and sit still for 45 minutes.

My son made his debut as the blue shark in the South H Elementary production of Oceans of Fun.

I was forced to stop organizing motherhood and actually live motherhood. And it was marvelous.

1992

• 4pm-9pm: disco nap
• “Let’s go to The Red Onion first. I know the bouncer.”
• Red Solo Cup full of Amaretto Sour while getting ready
• CD player blasting Rob Base, Marky Mark or The Steve Miller Band
• Getting ready: hair in Velcro rollers, lots of fake lashes and glitter,l layer upon layer of MAC pressed powder, bright red lipstick and lip liner
• Tuxedo jacket + black push-up bra = top
• 6-8 long necklaces (the “Chanel” look)
• No purse – lipstick, money, the credit card with room on it and drive

2012

• 4:00pm slam double espresso so you can stay awake during dinner
• “No, that restaurant is too loud. Do they have valet parking?”
• Frantically charging cell phone in case babysitter needs to call
• Muppets movie on TV so kids stay out of your hair while getting ready
• Getting ready: parting hair to cover grays, no pressed powder – it settles into the wrinkles, applying lots of concealer, light pinkish-brown lipstick
• Purse large enough to hold wallet, phone and umbrella in case it rains
• Support bra
• 2 layers of Spanx

I don’t have a tolerance for small talk. I can do it. In fact, pretty well. I donce had a 22 minute conversation about throw pillows. I really don’t know anything about throw pillows. But small talk can leave me feeling empty. I want to feel a connection. I want to know more about people.

In the years since I have left San Francisco for the suburbs, I have met many new mom friends. Just using the term “mom friends” makes me feel like I’m in a TV commercial trying to sell you my spring fresh laundry detergent. But I’m truly grateful for these friends because I had some very lonely months when I first arrived in town.

But I often find myself longing for more depth in these relationships. What did these moms do professionally before they stood on the playground waiting for their first grader to come out of school? What do they dream about when they aren’t helping their fourth grader reduce fractions? Are they happy? Did they marry the right person? Do they have a moment they wish they could live over? Are they close to their parents? I want to know their story.

I blog. So for those who read it, my life is on display. Somewhat. But most moms I meet don’t have blogs so how am I supposed to know them?

I realize it’s not always possible to have deep, involved conversations. Kids interrupt, play dates are waiting and sometimes all we really want to do is complain about the weather and go home.  But it is so nice when conversations are less superficial and you feel like you are truly getting to know someone.

I was recently talking to a mom from one of my daughter’s classes and she was discussing her role as a step-mom and some of the challenges. I was facinated. The discussion had meaning. I need more of that.

I guess this is why the death of Jeffrey Zaslow effected me so much. He is a writer and father of three daughters who wasn’t even on my radar screen. But my husband sent me a link to a story about his death in a car accident and I just couldn’t stop reading about this guy.

He is a well known writer, co-authoring books with the former Congresswoman and gun shot victim Gabrielle Giffords, Chesley B. Sullenberger III, the pilot who landed an airplane on the Hudson River and professor Randy Pausch, who delivered the famous “Last Lecture” when he was dying of cancer.

Zaslow was also a columnist for the Wall Street Journal and was so talented at writing about people and the things that mattered. Like when his daughter’s date to the homecoming dance ended up not taking her at all, Zaslow wrote about it. In the Wall Street Journal. Think that kid regretted not taking her to the dance?

But the article was about the importance of raising our sons well and teaching our daughters to settle for nothing less than what they deserve. As I read through some of Zaslow’s columns, I felt like I truly knew the people he was writing about. I felt like I knew him. I was so touched by his realness.

And I guess, ultimately that’s what I want from my life and my friendships.  Less throw pillows, more realness.

Once upon a time, in the kingdom of Kansas City, lived a greedy king. King Hallmark was a mighty monarch who ruled his land with excessive taxation and inflation of goods, pushing many of his people into poverty.

One day, the king decided that he wanted more treasure. He had taxed the people to the limits he knew; so he came up with another idea to extract waht little was left from the citizens of Kansas City.

He summoned his chief scribe to his palace.

“We will be having a new feast day, peasant, and you will have specific duties to perform.”

The little man twitched with his feather quill, “Whatever you deem, sire.”

“You and your fellow scribes must write out parchments with sappy love sayings and pithy phrases. We will then sell them to the villagers at 5 gold pieces each.” the king said.

“But, but, but, sire… Yesterday my writings only cost a pence, who will play such a price for my nonsense on this day?”

“I do not pay you to think! Just do as you are ordered!” The king roared.

As the scribe hurried off, the king summoned his chief gardener.

“Gardener, for my new feast day, you will sell your flowers at market. You will fetch 80 gold pieces for a dozen of your most mediocre roses,” the king ordered.

“Sire, are you certain of this decree? My flowers only fetched 9.99 gold peices yesterday, who will pay such a mark-up?” the gardener asked, his shears shaking.

“Be gone with you, Sir FTD!”

FTD hurried away.

Next, the king called for his chief cook. She hobbled in front of him shaking at his wrath.

“Cook, you will prepare confections for peasants. I want you to then place the confections into a golden box and sell them at market for 100 gold pieces.”

Not wanting to question the orders of the king, the cook replied, “What would you like these confections to be called, Your Highness?”

The king regarded her for a moment, and replied, “You shall name them after my crazy sister-in-law, Lady Godiva. Now, be gone with you.’

The cook scrambled away to her kitchen.

“Now that I have the market prepared for this feast, I will need my chief sorcerer to come before me.” the king reflected.

Moments later, the sorcerer appeared before the king in a cloud of blue smoke. “You summoned me, sire?”

“Yes, I need you to cast a spell over the entire kingdom. For on this one day in February, I wish for the ladies to become hyper-sensitive, nagging wenches. For the gentlemen, you must blanket them in a shroud of guilt, so that they release their satchel strings freely, just to get the wailing to stop. Are you up for such a task, sorcerer?”

“Indeed, sire. It shall be done.”

The next day, the king and the sorcerer watched the activity at the marketplace. Paupers, tradesman and noblemen all rushed the merchants,t throwing gold pieces at them like rain. Sir Zale the blacksmith was overwhelmed with orders. Sir Ty the toymaker could not believe that grown men were buying his wares. Even the seamstress Victoria was inundated with requests for petitions and corsets.

The sorcerer exclaimed, “Oh, Your Majesty, what a wonder lies before us My magic is not so powerful as to create all of this spending madness. However were you able to dictate love and romance by just the sun dial?”

King Hallmark smiled sheepishly, as he regarded his over-flowing treasure chest.

“Why Magician, don’t you know anything is possible when you wear the Gold Crown?”

The End.

So here’s the thing. I hate crowds. I really, really hate crowds. I hate crowds the way I hate sites like Groupon and Living Social. I like a bargain as much as the next person, but I hate the feeling of “OMG, I have to buy this oil change for my car and $20 worth of drinks at a bar that I have never been to rightthisveryminute before the deal passes me by!!!!!!!!!!!!!! OMG!!!!!!!!” It’s why I will never, ever be caught dead at a Black Friday or even a Cyber Monday sale. Crowds and the frenzy of people searching for DEALSOMGDEALS!!!!! is not for me.