La La How The Life Goes On

Archive for September 2012

Long time no blog, chickadees. Reasons and excuses follow.

1. Back To School. For me. iInadvisedly and yet so eagerly signed up to chair a committee at Bambina’s school. And now I, the crowned queen of “ye shall honor thy commitments, my loyal subjects” with my kids will now have to suck this mess up for the entire year. I said yes in a starry-eyed fit of excitement without really finding out the exact responsibilities, and now I’m like my old intern self, where I was like, “OMG! I’m Esteemed Senator’s Staffer! OMG! My client is [unnamed Hollywood concern]!! OMG! I’m Colleague of a Famous Person!” and then you realize you are working around the clock as The Coffee Girl or The Spreadsheet Girl or The Let Me Introduce You To My More Important Boss Girl. It is excruciating in every way and I will be kicking myself until June 2013.

2. I’m trying to put together Baby Sister’s 4th birthday party. I know. I sound like a Gwyneth Paltrow-infected real housewife, stressing over how I can possibly conjure up a soirĂ©e reflective of my own personal style while honoring the joie de vivre of my precious cherub. But hear me out. Her preschool has a more or less formal policy that all kids must be invited to all parties. Her class has 19 kids. The other class contains 6 of her friends from last year. And we also have family friends we’d like to not exclude. So: 30 attendees for a kid who has walked the earth for fewer than 1,500 days.

I don’t f*#king think so.

Not to mention that she really only plays with and likes about 9 of the 19 kids. I mean, how many concurrent relationships based on play-doh and sand tables can one 3 year old sustain, right? Not to mention that 2 of the kids are “mean to me and other kids.” So I have to invite some punkass my daughter doesn’t even like? Not to mention that Baby Sister is nutty as a cuteness fruitcake, but even she is never up for being the focus of a room full of kids? Not to mention that the cost of hosting 30 child guests for a party is enough to put us firmly in the 47% of low-income moochers who shouldn’t be partying anyway?

It has been unpleasant trying to navigate this roiling ocean of policies, procedures and preschooler parental pique while trying to not plan a party that is more about adults than about a 4 year old and a cake. So to stop the madness we have decided to invite 10 kids, and the school can kiss our asses. Happy Freakin’ Birthday, Baby Sister! Timed precisely to coincide with your parents’ new status as preschool pariahs.

3. Jewish Holidays. And the people who hate them. To wit, my 8 year old atheist. Bambina has decreed that “God is obviously a made up fairy tale” and takes major exception to the notion that “some boy or man who isn’t even real gets to make rules over everyone.” And here’s the challenge: I’m not about to talk her out of it. I’m just not. And haters can suck it. She is a good kid with deep thoughts. She is a seeker and a ruminator. She wonders aloud why any of us need a God to make us do what is right when we already know exactly how we are supposed to treat each other anyway. Who am I to shut down these questions, especially since I have many of them myself? I so profoundly believe that you cannot give your child a religion by coercion. One way or another, it will collapse like the house of cards it can only be. I choose instead to give her a belief system, a code of ethics, a sense of right and wrong. She gets it, which is more than I can say for many religious folks a few times her age. So for now she gets to be Mike Stivic and I will not be Archie Bunker.

4. I’ve been busy peeing. You read that right. I’ve got early osteoporosis from my prednisone addiction, which has not been arrested by any of those drugs peddled by the likes of Sally Field, Florence Henderson or Barbara Eden. And good thing too, because they are a hassle to take (no food for 2 hours prior, 30 minutes after, no sitting, reclining or otherwise relaxing one’s esophagus for blah blah, may cause gastrointestinal distress…). Hassle with a capital Ass. So the next step is endocrine studies to determine if I’m losing calcium and bone some other way. Which involves me peeing over many many hours, saving it, then–wait for it–driving my gallon of old urine back to the lab for testing. “Sorry! Can’t make my haircut appointment! I’ve got plans with my urine!” Please do not let me get pulled over, rear-ended, or otherwise cited for an open container today. I just so very much would prefer that my new car (paid for, you will recall, with a wide swath of a half-inch thickness of my charred arm skin) not immediately smell like a bus station bathroom or an episode of Hoarders: Effluvium Edition.

5. I’ve been exhausted from watching someone else peeing. You read that right. Young couples in love, heed my warning to you on this night and at this hour: until you can say with absolute moral clarity that you are ready to awake at 3am for weeks on end to cheer on a small human in the art of bodily elimination, stay on the damn pill. Keep buying those condoms. Do whatever you must do to avoid this most certain of all fates. Because your fate it is. Baby Sister is 100% potty trained. She is also in possession of an 80 year old man’s prostate, because she awakes every night no matter what to piss like a racehorse. For which she is still young enough to require company in order to make sense of her world in a sleepy haze. And so it goes. Every night. She wakes up, needs to pee, needs some reassurance in the dark, I say “great peepees!” She goes right back to sleep, and of course I do not–no matter how many times I implore the BabyDaddy to wake up and cheer on mine.


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