24/7

Maybe Santa Drives a Caddy

2009-12-07T11:35:00.007-05:00

Santa Claus came to the town green yesterday, bringing with him red- and green-sweatered elves eerily reminiscent of local middle school students. The Boss went moony, her eyes full and shining at the sight of him. I was more discerning, raising an eyebrow at the rough outline of what seemed like foam padding underneath the worn red velveteen and the belt held in place with a paper clip.

"Where's his sleigh?" The Boss whispered to me.

I looked around. "Hmm, I don't know." I cast a long glance to the roof of the historic grange building around which we were assembled for the tree lighting. "No sleigh there. Maybe it's on the other side?"

The Boss was skeptical. She stared at the roofline, as if willing a magical Christmas menagerie to appear. She did a full body pout that started with the crease of her forehead and ended with heels stomping into the ground. "Humph," she breathed out. "Not even a single reindeer."

The Moon Sees the Somebody I Would Like to See

2009-12-02T12:47:00.007-05:00

I have two babies born under a full moon. Naysayers cite coincidence; I have more faith in the pull of that celestial mother globe.

My first birth story is lit by the moon, its natural image pervading a tale that turned mostly medical when I looked away from the light.

"The half hour ride to the hospital at 2 a.m. was black, peaceful and portentous. I was becoming more aware by the second that I was taking a one-way trip out of my old life. I was attuned to every shadow, every curve of the road, every shard of moonlight that lead the way. The Dixie Chicks sung “Landslide” on the radio and I was overwhelmed. Then the hospital was on my right, and I looked at the elongated glass façade of the state-of-the-art facility that I had driven by so many times, never knowing when I’d end up inside, but always aware that I would not come out the same.

We walked in the emergency entrance as directed by the on-call doctor and signed in. A Women and Infants nurse was dispatched as our escort. On our way to the labor and delivery wing, we wound through an emergency ward of moaners, pukers and passed-out invalids presumably drawn in by the pull of that full moon. “This is much worse than usual,” said the nurse. 'I’m glad you’re not having contractions so we can just get through here fast.'”

My research now indicates that the moon's effect is focused on the amniotic fluids. Just as she influences the earth's tides, she has reach into the wet parts of ourselves. In an article about the moon's effect on natural childbirth, author David Rose writes that, as a woman's body readies itself for birth, "the amniotic sac becomes distended to the point where it will easily burst if put under pressure. Under normal circumstances, the pressure of labor contractions bursts the sac. During a full moon, the pressure caused by the moon’s effect on the water inside the sac can cause the same things to happen, but without the accompanying contractions."

He goes on to say that "natural childbirth doesn’t always move forward and with no other signs of labor present, the obstetrician may decide to induce the birth." His own study of the personal stories of women he knows found that of 8 women with births set into motion when their water broke at the full moon, there were no contractions present in five of them.

It is no official study by any means, but it sheds so much (moon)light on my own experience. My water broke in a slow trickle in the afternoon before the full moon. Absolutely no contractions accompanied the rupture until they were brought on forcibly by Pitocin 20 hours later. I was led to believe this slow leak with no contractions was a somewhat odd occurrence, but I should've trusted my body and nature more than that. Nothing is new under the sun...or the moon.

Whoomp (There It Is)

2009-12-01T19:47:00.006-05:00

Number Two has precious few words. I might worry about it more if he didn't do things like shout out "Whoomp, there it is" at random intervals over the course of the day. He heard the song one time, a week and a half ago, and up it pops in casual conversation to this day. I will admit that it sounds more like "Whoop, deer-is," but for a 19-month-old whose entire vocabulary consists of "ball," "dog," "dad," and "thanks," there is something impressive about his grasp of the Tag Team concept.

"I'm taking it back to the old school,
'Cause I'm an old fool who's so cool"

(Seriously, though, doesn't he look about 19 years old in this picture?)

I Finished NaBloPoMo '09

2009-11-30T20:07:00.008-05:00

I saw this badge on the National Blog Posting Month (NaBloPoMo) site. It best represented my successful completion of the challenge, so I took it. It reminds me of my favorite sarcastic retro slogan:

Anyhoo.

This was the easiest go I've had at NaBloPoMo since I started participating in the thirty-day blog posting challenge three years ago. I think the secret was in the fact that, for the first time in my writing life, I gave up all regard for the opinions of others. I didn't censor myself or hold out for brilliance that I was completely delusional to think would ever come. I just wrote. Many of my posts this month were longer than those I usually commit to this blog. I'm pretty sure they were more boring. They were the essence of what Anne Lamott terms the "shitty first draft" in her archetypal book on the writing process, Bird By Bird.

I'm not sure if her words were working at my subconscious when I embarked on NaBloPoMo this month or if I somehow came to the conclusion on my own, but, either way, her message exemplifies my guiding force in posting daily throughout November. "Perfectionism is the voice of the oppressor, the enemy of the people," Lamott wrote. "It will keep you cramped and insane your whole life, and it is the main obstacle between you and a shitty first draft."

In letting go of that dictatorial inner voice, I was able to write a lot. The fact that most of it was shitty doesn't mean there weren't pieces of goodness in there: images that just might show up in the novel I am starting on; memories that can help shape my characters; and experiments in style and grammar that have, at the very least, potential to enhance my craft. While my posts this month are likely to remain "shitty first drafts," it's reasonable to think that they might spawn other shitty first drafts that will actually go on to become something more.

Now that I understand the cramping effects of perfectionism, the next most important step is making sure I don't lose the discipline of the past thirty days. Discipline has always been my biggest deficit. It's a whole other chapter in Lamott's book; one that I will, like everything else, have to learn for myself, and in my own sweet time.

The Handyman

2009-11-29T19:13:00.003-05:00

The Partner can now add "Exterminator" to his resume of life.

I thought it would take a professional to eradicate the pests that were leaving their excretions from stove-top utensil rest to the seat of Number Two's high chair. The Partner disagreed. Armed with information from the Internet and an arsenal from Home Depot, he set to plugging up every crevice in the kitchen with steel wool and foam sealant. It seems to have worked.

Every time I think of him knee-deep in poop where he pulled out the dishwasher to lay waste to the mouse colony, I am amazed at the lengths to which he will go in order to avoid paying an outside party. He's not phased by pellet-sized proof of diseased products of digestion. He is not deterred by mishaps involving foam sealant on his forearm that must be removed with paint thinner. He just does what he has to do. I will never cease to be impressed at how competently he manages the thankless tasks that keep our house in running order.

As The Boss likes to say, he really does come in handy sometimes.

Keeping the Kiss

2009-11-28T22:54:00.007-05:00

This is how Number Two kisses, with his bottom lip pushed out and his chin jutting in the direction of the recipient. I've seen cute things in my day, but not like this. I never want him to stop. More than that, I don't want to forget it.

I can't remember anything. By the time Number Two got here, it was as if I was taking care of a newborn--then an infant, then a toddler--for the first time. The Boss's babyhood was not even a memory. I know from mining my mother and mother-in-law for their own reminiscences that this is not unusual. They don't remember a thing, either, though they deny it to varying degrees. I won't deny it. I think the forgetting is one of the most woeful parts of being a parent.

But this time I have a picture and I have these words. I will make this memory stick.

I'm keeping the kiss.

Learning to Count

2009-11-27T18:26:00.006-05:00

This morning was a rare opportunity to lay in bed with nothing pressing on us but The Boss as she bounced all over our duvet-covered limbs. The Partner was on edge, ready to double over in protection of the family jewels if one of The Boss's feet landed in the wrong place. I vacillated between trying to fall back asleep and making the most of this just-the-three-of-us time. Rain beat against the roof.

"I'd hate to be any shopper waiting in line for Door Buster sales at 4 this morning," he said.

"Amen." I nodded in happy acknowledgement of our dry and uncrowded environs. Relatively speaking, anyway. The Boss did a flying squirrel and landed between us.

"Hey, The Boss's friend B. counted to 200 the other day in the car when I picked her up for a playdate," I mentioned to The Partner, apropos of nothing but the nagging need I have to compare my kids to every other child within a five year age radius.

"Let's hear how high you can count," The Partner prompted. Numbers are not The Boss's strong suit. She's like me in that regard.

The Boss obliged her father. She stumbled here and there, requiring a bit of help each time she hit a new group of tens.

"18, 19, 11, 20," she said.

"No, not 11. It's 19, 20," The Partner got her back on the right track. She chugged along until 29.

"Thirty," he prodded. Then, as something of an aside: "It should really be threety, shouldn't it?"

We giggled, me moreso than The Boss. I was embarrasingly amused. "Yeah, and twenty should be twoty! " I squealed. "Twoty-one, twoty-two..." I couldn't go on. I rolled over, incoherent, on twoty-two.

The Boss pulled energy from my laughter and threw herself in a gleeful heap near where The Partner's hip rested alongside mine. "Ah, the fun of the times," she sighed as she settled into the feathery nest of down. "The laughter of the family."

The Partner and I looked at each other over The Boss's head, shaking our heads and laughing out loud. We do this a lot. She is always saying things that bring out our mutual amazement in this thing we've created. Ah, the fun of the times, I repeated, just to hear it again. The laughter of the family. The Boss snuggled into our giggling mass.

Sometimes I think our daughter is four going on twoty-nine.

Happy Thanksgiving

2009-11-26T21:47:00.005-05:00

The Boss has a well defined and passionately protected sense of self. She doesn't take well to being told that a belief she holds true is false. It's like the time (yesterday, in fact; if it was any less recent I would've already forgotten it) that The Partner dismissed something she told him with an "in your dreams." That's what he said. In your dreams. I thought it was a bit rude when I heard it, but I didn't comment. Turns out, I didn't have to. The Boss defended herself.

"Dreams can come true, you know," she informed him. She was matter of fact and emphatic. She may have been just a teensy bit haughty, too.

Yes! I thought. Thatta girl.

The Partner shrugged his shoulders and cocked his head to the side in concession. I could tell from his smile that The Boss had hit him in that oft-wounded spot somewhere between the heart and the funny bone (where would that be, exactly--the armpit?). She is one of the only people in the world who can change his perception of things. She is the one in the best position to make him realize that, yes, dreams can come true. I was proud of her creativity and conviction. I was grateful that she knew the perfect way to deliver a message that her father wouldn't have given a second thought to if it had come from anyone but her.

This holiday, I'm thankful for fathers and daughters.

The Place To Be This Thanksgiving

2009-11-25T16:40:00.004-05:00

This period of my life--with two young children, a dog, a rodent infestation, and a husband (in no particular order)--seems to be exemplified by shit. It's everywhere I look. It's everything I smell, sometimes to the point that I can almost--I can't really, can I?--taste it.

We have mice again. As a result, my constant scrubbing and spraying and vacuuming and mopping has made the kitchen the cleanest it's ever been. Yet it's never been filthier. I've seen brown rice nuggets in places no human being should ever see them. I've heard mouse friends frolicking in the walls behind me while I watch television. They fall from wooden supports and then scamper back up again while I raise the volume on Glee to drown out their chorus.

Number Two earns his nickname roughly five times a day with big, black blueberry poops. The kid loves fruit, what can I say? Everywhere I turn there is more of it.

I made the mistake of making chili the other night and then serving it as leftovers the next. The Partner has never let loose the likes of the olfactory assault he's been waging ever since. I can't be near him. I just CANNOT be near him.

I'd like to leave the mice home for Thanksgiving; find a grandparent to change each and every one of Number Two's diapers; and situate myself in a corner far removed from General McFarter. But, wouldn't you know: we're hosting the holiday at our place this year. We will have to work together, all day, as a family.

I'd better light a lot of candles.

Don't you wish you could join us?

Radio We Can Agree On

2009-11-24T13:30:00.003-05:00

I purchased my Sirius Satellite Radio unit because of Howard Stern back in 2005. His two stations, Howard 100 and Howard 101, have been bringing me untold hours of joy ever since. Before he slipped the surly bonds of terrestrial radio, I listened to his show in syndication on WCCC, the local indie station with the claim to fame of having employed Stern as a morning DJ thirty years ago. While Stern’s detractors are legion here and anywhere, his Connecticut fan base rivals that of any other stronghold he fought to win over the past three decades.

There is an obvious discrepancy between parenthood and my subscription to the Howard Stern channels. Though I held out as long as I could—until my 2 year old daughter switched up Bob the Builder with the name of the Stern Show producer and started singing “Bababooey, yes you can!” at the supermarket—I was forced to curtail my listening habits while she was in the car. It was at that point I discovered a benefit I hadn’t anticipated when I signed on with Sirius more than six months before my daughter was born. That happy surprise was Kids Place Live. The KPL programming fell on the exact opposite end of the listener spectrum from the Howard Stern Show and would become our third most listened-to station.

Read more...

Homemade

2009-11-23T13:09:00.004-05:00

I have recently come into my own in the gift giving department. I just cannot get enough of it. I spend hours and hours brainstorming and creating personalized items to give to my nearest and dearest. I also jump on any opportunity to participate in holiday gift exchanges of the Secret Santa variety. Trying to think of the perfect idea for someone I would not ordinarily be gifting with my presents leaves me happily exhausted.

This year I am creating these offerings with the aid of Photoshop, a printer, bulk stationary, and a lot of thought as to what colors and images best represent the recipient. The process is as much for me as it is for them. In reflecting on the people I'm making these gifts for, I get to relive why it is that they're special to me. I hope that when they receive them, they'll be reminded in this small way why I'm special to them.

I'm no Martha Stewart. I'm not crafty or scrappy. I just like to mess around with design software and order a lot of envelopes. I used to roll my eyes whenever my mother would ask for something homemade for the holidays. That would always be at the top of her list, right after the completely pie-in-the-sky request for "good children." Why would she want something I made? Didn't she think she deserved something she could actually use?

Maybe I'm getting old, but homemade makes a lot of sense to me now. It's more personal. It can be economical. It can, despite the misgivings of my youthful self, actually be useful. It can fulfill something in both the gifter and giftee.

I'm surprised just how much I am looking forward to this homemade Christmas.

New England Mamas

2009-11-22T21:19:00.006-05:00

New England Mamas is back. The blog, devoted to all that is maternal in our steepled corner of the country, has returned from its hiatus with a new organizational structure and several additional voices. I'm excited to be a contributing writer to New England Mamas once again. My first post, which will appear sometime this week, will supply the missing link between Howard Stern and contemporary children's radio programming. Check in daily over at New England Mamas until the connection is revealed.

Wordless

2009-11-21T18:16:00.003-05:00

Number Two gives kisses with his bottom lip protruding. It would look like a pout if it weren't for the raised eyebrow, indicative of his sly wait for the object of his affection to offer a cheek.

Number Two can focus with angry intensity. His eyes narrow only enough to pull his nose and upper lip into a sneer. The expanse of hazel seems suddenly darker. I am looking at my husband, minus 30 years.

Number Two's eyes can be bright as light shining over his laugh. A tickle can do it, or a toss in the air, but mainly it's The Boss who elicits the most guttural glee from this tiny, stoic man. He giggles in bursts, each one louder than the last. For a short while it seems like he never wants to stop.

At nineteen months, has very few words. Number Two gets his point across with two sharp eyes and mouth that is in turn kissable and vindictive. He leaves no room for questioning. His silence is crystal clear.

Better Get Used to It

2009-11-20T20:08:00.004-05:00

Making friends has been something of a challenge since I became a mother. It's not that I lack acquaintances; I know plenty of people of the playgroup persuasion. The problem is that I haven't been able to get past the kids we have in common to find out if, maybe, we have other mutual interests as well.

Some of my closest friends are mothers. These friendships, however, were not formed under the influence of children. I've known some of these women since early childhood, others since middle school, and some since college. A few surfed in more recently through bulletin boards and blogs. I got to know them all before they spawned those little pieces of themselves that rendered them incapable of fully focusing on anything else. Now I love their children, too.

But the women I meet for the first time through my children are harder to get to know. They're moms first; what they are beyond that is beyond me. I could probably coax the information out of them if I was more socially inclined. But I guess I'm not interested in working that hard. That's as good an explanation as any. There's got to be some reason why I've been hauling my children off to group activities and playdates with the same women for two years now without one serious friendship to show for it.

Today The Boss came home from school with the latest report on a begrudging friend whom I'll call A. This child is not afraid to proclaim her need to "get used" to someone before committing to friendship. A. stands in stark contrast to The Boss, who throws her love around like the kind of sparkling confetti that gets into everything and keeps showing up even when you think you've vacuumed up the last of it. A. didn't play with me today, The Boss would intone sadly. She's still not used to me. Though I'd noticed them together more and more on the playground, it was still anyone's guess whether A. felt she had become properly accustomed to my daughter. Until today.

The Boss brought the message home from school. She bounced with the delivery of it, her cheeks little splotches of red beneath round eyes.

"Mommy, mommy! A. says she'll be used to me as long as I don't pick my nose!"

I laughed. I patted The Boss on the head. Then I nodded thoughtfully.

Friends take some getting used to.

The Tie That Binds

2009-11-19T14:29:00.006-05:00

My mother hasn't spoken to me for two months. I don't know why. There was no inciting event of which I am aware, but that doesn't mean something didn't happen that she perceives as such. What I do know is she is not a happy person right now. The reasons behind this really have very little to do with me--as far as I know--but the fallout of her misery has reach.

I'm new to this mothering thing. She is a veteran. I have babies and hope. She has grown children that remind her of her failures. It's sad to watch, and scarier to contemplate.

Today Number Two fell asleep on my chest during a nursing session. His head rested in the crook of my arm while his midsection lay heavy on mine. He was a soft, sleepy weight. I tried to relax in this moment with my loving and dependent baby, but all I could think about was the fact that I am giving up our newness with each passing minute. Soon my two children will be out of this stage where they know they need me. Reality has already begun to take over where there had heretofore only been hope. They are no longer newborns, infants or wobbling toddlers. They're the realization of my dreams. Here's why that's scary: hope is all good; reality is good and bad.

Once my mother was like me. She loved her little baby. That baby was her chief interest. Then the baby grew up and suddenly it was hard to see how closely bonded they had been.

There's always something between a mother and her child. When a child is born, the connection is not figurative. There's the cord, then the breast, then arms that hold tight and easy in the absence of resistance. But babies grow and go. Still, there's that connection--this time it is figurative--which finds its strength in shapelessness. Sometimes it's so hard to see and feel that you'd swear it was no longer there. It is, though. And it's working harder than ever to do its job.

Blogging, I Have Forsaken You

2009-11-18T20:40:00.005-05:00

It's been 18 straight days of posting, people. I need a drink.

There's Someone For Everybody

2009-11-17T17:58:00.005-05:00

It's no secret. The Partner and I don't always get along. There are times when we contemplate, longingly, life apart. But then I get back to the day-to-day realities of the outside world and I realize that I don't always get along with much of anybody, at which point it's him I drag my lonely ass home to for comfort. That must be, I have to think, why we belong together. It doesn't seem readily apparent when we're screaming at each other about the laundry or other things left undone, but this is the truth that continues to guide us:

We can tolerate nobody else the way we tolerate each other; we tolerate each other the way nobody else can.

The Effect of Hairy Armpits

2009-11-16T16:34:00.006-05:00

Roughly ten years have elapsed since the heyday that was The Partner's college years. Nowhere is this more evident than in the condition of his fraternity tee-shirts. All across his collection there are holes in the necklines, holes along the bottoms and, as will be shown here today, big gapers in the underarms. But until a breach gets so big that it causes the shirt to fall off his body of its own volition, The Partner will continue to wear the soft, cottony vehicle of the Pi Kappa Phi logo with pride.

Today I walked into our home office with one of the worst offenders and held it up for the Partner's scrutiny. "What am I supposed to do with this?" I demanded. I could've stuck my entire head through the fissure in the seam of the right sleeve.

Sensing a commotion, The Boss ran into the room behind me.

"What's going on?" she asked.

"I'm trying to figure out what your father expects me to do with this shirt."

She looked at the shirt. Then she raised her eyebrows and looked at The Partner.

"There's nothing wrong with that shirt," he said. "Do you think there's anything wrong with the shirt?"

She looked like she wasn't sure if this was a joke or not. "Well, you might show your hair. Of your armpit."

I stifled the kind of guffaw that builds up when a parent thinks her child is the funniest thing on the planet.

"But won't it act like a vent and keep my arm cool?" The Partner spoke as if in jest, yet he was completely serious.

The Boss did a headshake/eyeroll that conveyed not only her distrust of, but disappointment with, the world around her. She looked from one crazy parent to the other. She looked once more at the aerated shirt. "Ugh," she said. "This is a gross talk." Then she ran out of the room.

I'm a little surprised that this conversation, out of all the doozies The Boss has been privy to, is the one to bring out the first glimpse of the kind of childhood angst that can only be caused by hopelessly embarrassing parents. One thing I know for certain, though, is that there's a lot more arm hair where this came from. And while I mean it more literally in The Partner's case and more figuratively in my own, the fact remains that neither one of us is afraid to let it blow in the breeze.

An Early Christmas Present

2009-11-15T18:04:00.007-05:00

It was like Christmas this morning as I raced downstairs at the news, delivered by The Partner, that our friend Lauren had made us a video. As a photographer/storyteller, Lauren has a gift for seeing past the bullshit that can cloud our vision and conveying the clear and important aspects of life. I watched the video with my two children--whose adorableness has been so lovingly chronicled by Lauren these past three years--and was reminded just how good I have it.

For Binky from Lauren Malone on Vimeo.

The One With a Lot of Vitriol

2009-11-14T15:12:00.007-05:00

A lot of Stay-At-Home Mothers like to say that their husbands don't appreciate how much work they do every day. They say these men don't understand how difficult it is to keep one, two, three-plus children working as a functioning unit on a day-to-day basis. I was one of those mothers. I successfully played that card for four years. Today I was forced to show my hand.

I left the children with The Partner in the morning and headed out for a conference held by the mom's group to which I belong. I was gone for roughly seven hours. There was much professed joy among the conference-goers about having a few hours away from the children. We ate chicken Caesar salad and chocolate cake. We discussed organizational structure and playgroup etiquette. There was much discussion of the Swine Flu. We went home.

I came back to The Partner's declaration that he'd discovered my ruse.

"What ruse?" I asked.

"The one where you tell me it's impossible to clean the house with two kids running around."

"Oh," I said.

"Yeah. I cleaned the kitchen, loaded the dishwasher, hand washed the plastic, vacuumed the entire first floor, and am now working on the basement. And The Boss didn't watch any TV while I did it."

"Oh." I repeated. What else was I supposed to say? The jig is up. I'm a bad parent. I live in a cesspool of my own creation and my children watch too much TV.

It's unfortunate that not only am I worthless as a mother, but I have no quantifiable value as a professional, either. If I did, I could go out and bring home the bacon while The Partner stayed home and did his sterling job raising the kids.

"Oh, yeah, and it's a good thing I didn't have any plans to leave the house today," The Partner added. "I couldn't find any socks for Number Two. If I'm going to have to dress the kids, it would be nice if I could find their clothes in the middle of all the different piles of laundry laying around here."

I looked at him with huge, cornered, round saucer eyes. Gulp. "Yeah, well, actually he's out of clean socks. I forgot about that."

The Partner's eyes, on other hand, were slits. He shook his head disgustedly.

I shook mine too. I'm so sick of always being wrong. But I'm even sicker of him always being right.

In Jersey Number Two

2009-11-13T15:48:00.005-05:00

I wish you could see Number Two catch a football. I never had an iota of interest in pigskin (or, in this case, Nerfskin) till I first witnessed my 18 month-old's arms come up in casual receipt of that ball. I threw it over and over--not from afar, yet further every time--toward his baby chest. He was so cool. His catch and clutch seemed natural in a way that made me believe the energy of the recipient could have more effect on an object's trajectory than that of the sender. The ball just fell into his arms. One second his hands would be at his sides, pudgy little puckers over each knuckle. He'd appear not even to be watching me. Then I'd lift the ball into the air and, after a short flight, it would land in an easy embrace I hadn't even known my son was open to.

In these moments, it's not that he's a boy to me. It isn't about the gleeful recognition of stereotypes proven true. It's about a baby gaining control of his spastic hands and his hard-heeled feet. It's about his stoic face going smiley with pride. It's about a simple game that is already making him joyful, and all the possibilities it holds for a long life of playing time.

And I Know How to Use It

2009-11-12T15:19:00.008-05:00

Since three out of four of my readers (you can choose to read that as 75 percent, but the truth is I only have four total readers) would like to know more about the car referenced in yesterday's post, I am here today to deliver.

Without further ado...
(captions provided by The Partner)

Check out that ass!

2001 BMW M5

Nice headlights baby. Wanna take me home?

I must say I am perplexed by The Partner's captions. I mean, he cannot actually think of my car as feminine, can he? I'm sorry to burst The Partner's xenon headlights, but my car is manly. He is 4,000 lbs of testosterone-laced steel and plastic. He's aggressive. He sports black leather and a vast array of gizmos. And if that doesn't convince you, here's one simple fact to drive my point home:

My car has a stick.

When Good Things Happen to Bad Drivers

2009-11-11T14:01:00.008-05:00

I have never been ogled like this before. Men stop in their tracks as I pass by. Mouths drop open and saliva pools in the corners. Fantasies that have been laying as dormant as the old sports car they traded in for a mini-van are fueled once again.

You see, I drive a car I have no business even getting behind the wheel of. I'd give you the make and model but, frankly, it's too embarrassing. I'm not worthy of this machine. Besides, it's mostly women that read this blog, and the name won't mean anything to most of you. It certainly didn't mean anything to me before The Partner brought it to my attention. My old car had succumbed to an incurable radiator problem at 200,000+ miles; I was in need of wheels. It meant so much to The Partner to have this car in his garage that he was willing to take the extreme measure of letting me drive it.

Perhaps these thoughts are running through your head: "He lets you drive it? What do you mean, he lets you drive it? This is the 21st century! This is the USA! You have every bit as much of a right to drive any car as he does!" Well, you're wrong. Or at least you don't know the whole story.

The story is that I kill cars. Well, body panels, anyway. I've left plastic pieces and rim residue all over the northeast since I first started driving 13 years ago. I never met a curb I wouldn't kiss; there's no median I won't sidle up against. I'm fine on the open road, but I don't do well with barriers.

I've already done things to this car that would make men weep. There are two holes in the front bumper. The back passenger side rim has road rash. I've already gone through several tires, though I don't think all of that was my fault. It could use a wash. What I really should be driving is a 1989 Honda Civic.

I met my car in Queens one spring afternoon. I drove it home, adjusting myself to the 6-speed transmission and the growl of its engine. The Partner followed behind in my old car as it made its last hurrah. We stopped at a diner in Stamford for a bite to eat. Our waiter took our order. He brought us drinks. I didn't think much of it when I saw him walk outside and stand against the railing of the concrete steps that lead to the parking lot, or when I saw him come back in.

He looked at The Partner as he delivered our meals a while later. "Is that your car?" he asked. He had that moony look I've become accustomed to. It must be the kind of gaze beautiful women receive on a daily basis, just by virtue of being alive, by deigning to grace with their gorgeousness any given venue.

I have to give my husband credit. He didn't so much as blanch, or stutter to get the words out. "It's my wife's," he informed the waiter.

I nodded sheepishly. "It's wasted on me." He needed to know I was aware of that fact.

To this day I feel like a fraud whenever compliments come the way of my car. I know I should assume a macho air, thumping the hood in a way that conveys my pride without leaving so much as a trace of sweat on the paint.

4.9 liters, baby. 394 horsepower. Those are the vital stats I imagine myself offering when prompted. But it never happens that way. I get too flustered. I don't even know what those numbers mean. Usually I just shrug. "But, hey, look at this! It fits three carseats!" I gesture to the back, where my two children and another friend from pre-school enjoy their ride in the fiercest vehicle in the carpool.

Then I shrug again. "Totally wasted on me, I know."

Day is Done

2009-11-10T19:09:00.004-05:00

I daydreamed of bed and a book as I drove around on several afternoon errands. All I wanted was to be under the covers at home with a new bestseller in one hand and a cup of decaf hazelnut coffee (topped with whipped cream) in the other.

When I picked up The Boss from pre-school, the air in the car began to hang even heavier with our collective fatigue. "I'm miserable," The Boss said.

"Why?"

"Because you woke me up too early this morning."

I sighed. Back to the daydream: I pull the yellow flannel sheets up to my chin, forming a cocoon of aloneness from which I can't be blamed for everyone else's problems. We drove home in silence.

It's 7:20 now, and with just a few more checkboxes left to mark off on the To Do list that is every day with children, I am committed to making today's daydream an early evening reality. Goodnight, all. Here's to waking well on Wednesday.

Mister

2009-11-09T20:36:00.005-05:00

This afternoon Number Two refused to eat his bread, letting the pieces fall to the floor all around him in gracious offering to our dog.

"No more of that," I said. "No more feeding your bread to the dog."

He froze in mid-throw. That's what he does whenever I reprimand him. All his processes came to a halt, his stare blank yet guilty. A piece of bread was suspended in his hand as he waited me out.

"What did I say, mister?"

He slowly moved the bread back to the tray of his high chair. Then The Boss's gleeful voice piped up from the living room. "Mister is his name when he's in trouble!"