Dear Mildly Notorious Famous Professor:
Thank you. Now admit she’s right and agree to everything she says. Why, yes, I do ask so very little.
Love,
me
P.S. Never mess with a Sicilian Katie when your life is on the line. How many times have we been over that?
Dear Mildly Notorious Famous Professor and So-Called Committee Member:
Perhaps you are not aware, since you haven’t bothered to return any of the dozens of emails, messages, and voice mails my sister has left for you, but my sister is feverishly trying to schedule the all-important defense of her doctoral dissertation. She asked me to tell you to call her, should I happen to bump into you. In fact, she asked everyone to tell you to call her. And you know what? That kinda pissed me off.
My sister has been working her butt off to finish her dissertation. Three years of classes. A year student teaching. A handful of high-intensity, low-return research positions. A few jobs she has honestly enjoyed. Years and years of hard work and dedication. My sister is incredibly talented, well-spoken of, and much sought after.
I know you know this. After all, you were along for (almost) the entire ride. You feature in many of her stories. I’ve read your emails. Your articles. I’ve seen you argue point-counterpoint on Fox News programs on Sunday mornings. In fact, I may or may not have jumped up and down, yelling, “I almost know him! I almost know him!” while watching you on said programs. I always enjoyed those stories about you, Mildly Notorious Famous Professor. But now I might just have to kick your butt.
My sister has four out of five members of her defense committee committed to a certain date. Go on and guess who that absent committee member is. And see, here’s the thing: I would really, really like to start looking for airplane tickets so I can watch my little sister, my best friend in the whole world, argue you guys down to the ground. She is going to kick your collective behinds and I am really looking forward to seeing that.
So here’s what you’re going to do. You are going to call her – or, perhaps, shoot off a quick email to avoid hearing that certain tone in my sister’s voice – and commit to that date. In return for which, I will not send you email after email. I will not call and leave you messages and voice mails. I will not leave a trail of color-coordinated sticky notes down the stairs of your apartment building. I will not stalk you at any SEPTA stations, or call in to your Sunday morning shows with a cleverly disguised comment, only to embarrass you on television. I will no longer sit and daydream of clever, funny, and delightfully satisfying means of revenge. (My sister just wants to replace you on her committee, but I think this is much more fun, don’t you agree?) Do not mess with the big sisters of the world, buddy.
Love,
me
I haven’t had a chance to tell you about Gracie’s arm, which, as it turns out, is not falling off. But it was touch and go there for awhile.
What happened was, last Sunday night, Gracie’s scratched her wrist. I don’t know what happened and Gracie didn’t remember; she did remember at bedtime that she was injured and that it was absolutely positively crucial that she must have a band-aid on her wrist before she went to bed. The scratch was a little red and puffy, like it had just happened, and so I put some Neosporin on it and slapped a band-aid on it and sent her off to bed, ho-hum.
Somehow, because we use a regular band-aid and not the titanium, super-glue strength Tattoo band-aids, it came off during the night. As I was putting a new one on the next morning, I noticed the scratch was still red and puffy. So I put some more Neosporin on it and told Gracie to make sure her band-aid stayed on. You know, because I’m a good mom who evidently wants to kill her kid.
That night, she came home from her visit with her dad and I noticed the puffy red area around her cut had grown to the size of a quarter. I made Gracie leave the band-aid off that night because sometimes she reacts to band-aids (but not consistently), and even though the red area wasn’t where the adhesive was, maybe the band-aid was causing a reaction. On Tuesday morning and evening, I put cortisone cream on it just to be sure.
By Wednesday, I started thinking maybe her cut was infected. It wasn’t oozing pus and there weren’t any red lines marching out from the affected area, so I wasn’t overly concerned, but I did start thinking about calling the doctor’s office. When Friday rolled around without any change, I made her an appointment.
This is where things started getting tricky. See, I haven’t had to take Gracie to the doctor since she started “real” school. Before, I would just arrive at daycare, pick her up and off we’d go. With her in kindergarten, I had to drive to school, wait in line, sign her out, find her, etc. etc. etc. If she wasn’t going back to school, I had to send a note to school, call daycare and let them know she wasn’t going to be at school for pick-up, and so on and so forth. I swear there were 43 steps to this plan to get her wrist examined. All of which maybe her school should, I don’t know, maybe practice.
I showed up at school on time – a little early, even. I walked into the administration office and…no one was there. Not the clerk. Not the secretary. No one. Three or four minutes later, the assistant principal walks in. Two minutes after that, she asked me if I had been helped. I explained I needed to sign my daughter out and she waved me towards the computer and told me to sign her out. She asked whose class my daughter was in and told me there was a substitute, but couldn’t remember his name. She said to print out the slip, have it signed (by the clerk who had walked in) and then hand the slip to the teacher in the lunchroom.
Five minutes later (after a parent waiting behind me in line showed me how to sign my daughter out on the computer), I walked in to the cafeteria and found Gracie. I explained to the teacher next to her table what I was doing, but she didn’t know that Mrs. F. was out or who the substitute was. I told her the assistant principal said it was a man. “Oh…it, um, must be, um, Mr. So-and-So?” I wasn’t really confident that anyone knew what was going on at that point. But the teacher took my slip and Gracie and I left. We used the doors marked “Out” and everything.
Two minutes after that and I met the only person who did seem to know what was going on. When I say I “met” her, what I mean is that all 4’10″ of her came racing down the hallway, calling “Ma’am? Excuse me? Ma’am?” I thought she was going to tackle me. I explained to her what had just happened and she told me I was supposed to give her the dismissal slip, which she would give to the teacher, who would then fetch my child. I told her I would have done just that had either the assistant principal, the clerk, or the teacher next to Gracie’s table told me that. She was nice, but I would not recommend trying to steal a child from her because she would hunt you down and kill you.
After all of that, it took the doctor about 60 seconds to diagnose Gracie with an allergic reaction to Neosporin. Fantastic. With Gracie being 90% klutz, I’m sure that won’t be a problem at all. But at least we got her a flu shot while we were there.
Then we got to experience the joys of returning a child to school. I signed her back in, got her a return slip, brought her to her classroom…and found it empty. Her sub was there, though, and he said the kids were having gym. The very nice man even offered to walk her down there, but I actually knew where that was. I’m glad I declined, because I would have missed out on the puzzled look of the gym teacher when I brought Gracie in. Maybe it was because it was 12:30 in the afternoon, maybe it was because I was a parent and not a teacher, or maybe it was because it was pretty chaotic in the gym, but there was a little confusion. Gracie skipped to the end of her classline, though, so I was all good.
I have to say – the entire experience made me look at paying daycare millions of dollars not to care in a whole new light.
This past summer, I read an interesting article by Judith Newman at CNN Living about ten questions everyone should ask their mother while they have the chance. It moved me. I’ve always thought a lot about childhoods and family legacies, especially my own. My mom gave my siblings and I what I consider to be pretty awesome childhood, a feat even more remarkable considering my mom was flying blind having lost both her parents at a young age. Now I am parenting my children in a manner different than I would like and differently from how I was raised: my children are in school and daycare full time during the week, whereas I was home playing as a child while my mom baked cookies and acted as our activities director. And so I think a lot about the childhood I’m giving my girls, the childhood I was lucky enough to enjoy, and the childhood my mom experienced.
All of those thoughts were in the background of my mind when I saw the “10 Questions…” article and now I’ve finally had the chance to interview my own mom. She wanted me to stipulate that these are all “thinking questions” as she kept calling them. Hopefully there will be a second take on the interview with more complete answers. I have to admit: I’m terribly curious to see what else my mom has to say and what, if any, answers she changes. Here’s what she had to say:
Q: What’s the one think you would have done differently as a mom?
A: [Immediately:] Spent more time with the kids.
["You spent all your time with us."
"No, nope, no. And you’re going to make me cry with these questions."]
This answer surprised me the most. The way I remember my childhood, my mom was constantly at our disposal. True, she was always doing housework, but she never yelled at us (much) when we interrupted her to help us think of something to do, and she always ate dinner with us, took us on outings, visited family and friends with us. It seemed like my mom was constantly spending time with us. Isn’t it interesting that she would see things so differently?
Q: Why did you choose to be with my father?
A: Because he liked… I liked the way he interacted with old people and with little kids.
[I wasn't surprised by this answer. My mom was raised by her grandmother, who was a little dotty by the time my parents started dating. My mom has told us several stories about how patient my dad was with her grandmother and I can see why she would find that attractive. He is also good - to a point - with children (...who aren't his own). The whole "good with kids" thing is a little ironic since I wouldn't say that any of us are close to him. But I will admit that he can be very good with children when he wants to be.
Q: In what ways do you think I'm like you?
A: Hmmm. You like to read. I don’t know. You’re willing to try to do stuff that you have no clue what you’re doing…like fixing toilets. You sometimes, let me think about these words, umm…we’ll have to go back to that one.
[I was really interested to see how she answered this one. I hope this is one that she expands on when I send her the list of questions to think about, because I am extremely intrigued to get some insight into what she thinks of my character. Family legacies really appeal to me, and I want to see what pieces of her she thinks I've inherited. I want to know what to cling to and what to remember when I lose her.]
Q: Which one of us kids did you like the best?
That’s an unfair question for any mother. Umm…Joe’s my favorite son. You’re my favorite eldest. Rhi’s my fave baby, and poor Kim’s my favorite middle kid.
[I almost chuckled at how seriously she took such an obviously whacked question designed to field the interviewer a compliment. We talked a lot about middle children and second-borns and Bee's status as my second-born. I think my mom did a great job establishing a close bond with each of us kids. I think I was closer to her growing up, if only because I was the second parent and she relied on me so often. She was favorited Kim quite a bit because Kim was a science-nerd like my mom (who came only a few credits short of a masters in biology) and because she was a middle-child like my mom. Joey was her only boy-baby. And Rhi was her baby and her only at-home child now. We all enjoy our title as Mom's Favorite.]
Q: Is there anything you have always wanted to tell me but never have?
A; Hmm…Not that I know of. I don’t know…these are thinking questions. Usually I’m very upfront and I tell anybody…I’ve told you to let the kids break the rules, um…I told you to think hard about The Ex.
Q: There are no lingering secrets from my childhood?
A: No, we told you most of the myths you grew up with (Santa, finding “buried treasure” in the dirt pile [that my dad really planted]). Most of the stuff we told you. Told you how the technical parts of making a baby worked.
A: Yeah, Ma, I already knew that.
[I won't lie - I was hoping to expose a long hidden secret from our family history. Not that we don't have any - they're just all hanging out in the sunshine, I guess.]
Q: Do you think it’s easier or harder to be a mother now than when you were raising our family?
A: I think it’s harder.
Q: Why?
A: Kids are forced to grow up much quicker than before. They have the problem of computers, they have the problem of …I think drugs are so easy to get ahold of.
Q: Is there anything you regret not having asked your parents?
A: That I really don’t know, because I never had any relationship that I know of with either one.
Q: Didn’t your dad [who abandoned her when she was two years old] go to your wedding?
A: No. My father stopped over to Hoot’s house once when [your dad] was there and they walked down to the old-timers [hang out] there and had a beer. Daddy did meet him that once. I probably saw him five times in my life and that’s it. Do I want to ask him why? I… you know it’s one of those thing. I already decided why and I’m sure it’s what he would say.
Q: I wish I could be that decisive. That’s probably the healthiest thing you could have done.
A: What?
Q: Decide “that was that” and move on.
A: Yeah. {pause} He was 32 when my mom died and had 3 kids. 5, 2, and 1. What are you gonna do with that situation?
Q: I’m not judging.
A: Yeah, I know you’re not. Yeah, that’s just what he decided.
Q: Yeah, in that time and age…
A: Yeah, and from what I heard, his mother was a witch from the stories I’d heard. And I know [the stories] are biased. But he had no help. His sister offered to take Carol because she was 5 and would be going to school. Good reason, huh? Actually, I’m glad [things worked out the way they did].
Q: What’s the best thing I can do for you right now?
A: I don’t know.
Q: Don’t cry! I already called dibs. [Editor's note - be warned that these questions will make your mom cry and that will be extremely awkward and cause you to make really bad jokes. Because, ohmygod, is there a worse feeling that hearing your mom cry?]
A: I don’t know. I’m too independent.
Q: Ha! Luckily we can just push you around now. [Almost literally. Her Parkinson's has made her pretty gimpy. Not that's we're horrible children who take advantage of that, or anything. Ahem.]
Q: Is there anything that you wish had been different between us — or that you would still like to change?
A: Yes. I want you to call me when I call you.
Q: I do call you when I can. If I’m busy I can’t just call and have it be a five minute conversation to say I’m busy single-mommying and can’t talk.
A: No judging remember.
Q: I know I’m just explaining.
Q: When did you realize that you were no longer a child?
A: A couple of years ago.
Q: Really?
A: Really. I wasn’t ever going to grow up. How many mothers do you know get new crayons?
Q: You never felt like a grown up before?
A: You didn’t ask that. [Thinking.] I felt like a grown up as soon as we had Jonathan. [Ed. note: They took in my cousin right after their honeymoon.]
Q: It blows my mind that the cousins and I – that we’re the age now that you were when you and all the aunt and uncles were the grownups in charge. And I think, you didn’t feel like this, like you felt like grownups. You must have felt like you knew what you were doing. You must have felt…old and grownup-ish.
A: No!
After that there were more tears and more thinking and my mom decided she’d like to think about more complete answers. I’m glad I interviewed her – even with the jibe about not returning calls. (And before you send hate mail, I swear I talk to her at least every other weekend so we can catch up and she can talk to the girls.) I hope she does give me expanded answers. Maybe I will fill in the answers I thought she would give, or from my own perspective, and then I can barter them with her. That’s another way my mom and I are alike – we both recognize bribery as an excellent motivator!
I have to brag.
My goals this weekend were: to catch up on some sleep, to make some progress on the baby blanket I’m stitching for my friend, to sew Gracie’s Halloween costume, and to hang out with my chicas for a night of drunken Wii-ing. The weekend isn’t even over yet and I have finished the butterflies and worked my way into the second block on the baby blanket (yeah, that doesn’t mean much to you, does it?), finished the apron and all of the dress except the zipper for Gracie’s costume, bought jeans for the girls and many, many other clearance items from Old Navy’s clearance sale, grocery shopped, and stayed up until 3 a.m. last night partying.
Did you notice that bit about finishing most of Gracie’s costume? Yes! Yes I did! I figured I could handle the apron, but I have to admit – it was a close call. There was gathering and the pulling of loose stitches to get that done. Then there was the complicated bit where I had to attach on part of the waistband to the gather, then sew in the ties to the underside of the waistband, and then flip it over and sew it all together. I might or might not have had to unpiece it and start over. But that was okay – it was good practice for all the trouble that came with the dress. Or that I thought was going to come with the dress.
Maybe it was because I was expecting so much trouble, but the dress went smoother than I thought. Piecing together the bodice was both quick and easy. I even attached eyelet lace down the front in a pique of overconfidence. Thankfully, it wasn’t misplaced. I thought, if nothing else, I’d feel really good about myself when I messed up the sleeves. I hemmed the cuffs of the sleeves, made elbow darts (who knew darts only looked complicated on the pattern paper? Easy peasy!), and then it came time to sew the long seam. Heavens to murgatroyd, that’s when I almost took a baseball bat to my sewing machine. For whatever reason, every time I tried to sew that seam together, the thread jammed, pinning my sleeve to the plate. I must have freed that baby and unjammed the thread about a dozen times. I learned how to disassemble the drum underneath and behind the bobbin, I changed the direction the bobbin thread was going, I tried everything. Then I finally realized that the thread had looped around the guide on top of the machine and was causing the jams. When I pulled on it to lengthen the lead thread every time I tried to sew the seam, there was enough give. But when I tried to sew, the speed created problems and it busted. Really, the whole disaster almost made me relieved; everything had been going far too smoothly.
After that, it was just a matter of time. The sleeves went on and looked like they were supposed to (I was shocked! Shocked, I tell you!). The skirt pieced together, although I did have to hem it twice because I didn’t realize the thread had busted the first time through. I even gathered the skirt and attached it to the bodice without any hitches. And that’s pretty much where I am now. I didn’t buy a zipper for the dress because I had no idea I’d actually get this far. So I have to buy a zipper and either sew or stitch-witch it into place and then make the bonnet. And we’re home free.
Assuming, of course, it fits her. Did I fail to mention that, while I measured her on Thursday night, I’m without my model and just going on faith that it will actually fit? Perhaps I shall use the rest of the weekend to think of Plan B.
I think Karma must be rewarding me for going running. I didn’t run on Wednesday. I meant to. I planned to. But that was the night of the drunken debauchery work fete and I had to run to Target and be over at the place by 6:30, and there just wasn’t time to run and shower and get all pretty and stuff. So my backup plan was to run tonight and then Sunday morning, and I’d be back on schedule Monday evening. Which sounded great…until this afternoon. This was a loooong, crappy-ass week and I didn’t have the energy. But I did it. I ran my 15 minutes and I’m glad I did because when I opened my front door…
Holy packages, Batman!
I left them there until I got back, and found two more small ones in my mailbox. It was amazing! I got the free EOS (Evolution of Smooth) lip balm that I scored a while back from a link on Want Not. The free book I won online from Leandra over at The Madame Queen arrived today – which is perfect timing because I was going to go to the library tomorrow to get some more books to read! Part of my order arrived from Amazon (“The American President” on DVD, on sale for $5.49. Yes, you can hate me). And two packages from Borders, which I strongly suspected were my birthday gift from my sister. Anne Fadiman’s Ex Libris and At Large and At Small in one package and Stephen Fry’s autobiography Moab is my Washpot in the other package!!! (My sister is so smart – she picked them off my “To Read” list on Good Reads.)
I can’t wait: it’s going to creep into the 60s tonight. I am going to crack the windows, draw a bath, and read to my heart’s content. I might even bring a whole bottle of wine with me.
I stole this fun little meme from one of my favorite bloggers, Gayle over at Planet M Files. Hi, Gayle!! Anyway. I was busy last night daydreaming about sleep, and busy this morning reliving all of the luxurious sleep I got, so I decided this meme was just the ticket to start my Friday. What better way to start a weekend all about me? Feel free to play along…
I am looking forward to a fun, creative weekend! I plan to sew Gracie’s Halloween costume, work on my friend’s baby blanket whilst watching football…and party at J-Thug’s house whilst drinking and Wii-ing.
I think far, far too much about everything. EVERYTHING.
I have skimped far too much on my sleep this week.
I wish that I had bunches and bunches of extra money to splurge on something nice.
I have just enough money to get by, so I am okay.
I miss living near my family.
I fear what my mom’s Parkinson’s will do to her.
I hear copiers and chatter.
I smell dust and cold air.
I crave sleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep. I is tired, yo. Still.
I search for fun happy things to do. That is why I have so many projects and so little time.
I wonder when Gracie’s tooth will fall out!
I regret that I had to learn some things the hard way.
I love when the Patriots win.
I ache inside when I watch sad movies or read sad books.
I am not a good sleeper. I wake up at every little noise and sometimes I’m too scared to get out of bed to pee.
I believe that you make your own happiness.
I dance when I am drinking or in a goofy mood.
I sing even though I am horrible at it! But I do it for fun, so who cares?
I cry when I am angry and I hate doing it in front of people.
I fight far too easily. Then again, I stand up for my convictions. And sometimes for other peoples’ too.
I win because I said so!
I lose my mind at least once a day.
I never want to stop believing in magic.
I always write notes on Gracie’s napkins and draw pictures on her brown bags (for lunches).
I confuse my children’s names quite frequently.
I listen whenever my friends need to talk. I’d love to get a degree in counseling.
I can usually be found at my computer or reading a book if I have downtime.
I am scared of the dark.
I need to read. I lose part of myself if I don’t.
I am happy about the new season of TV being on again.
I imagine all the time. I can’t keep little scenarios from popping into my mind during the day from the silliest things to great, big, intricate storylines.
I tag my kids at night when we run in circles around the couch in the living room. (Ha! Silly wabbit. I don’t tag people with memes. Creative way around it, eh?)
They’re juicier in real life – especially on me. Ahem. Don’t you just love them?! Happy Love Thursday! Wear something special today and work it!
I am drained.
ThePlaceThatShallNotBeNamed has been insanely crazy. Last night I was up until all hours watching TV with my man…and then staying up even later because he forgot some very necessary work-related stuff at my house that he had to come all the way back to get. It stormed all night at our house and the girls were up and down. And I am still fighting these demon allergies – quite often with drowsiness-inducing medication. Oh – and tomorrow night I have to go out to a work-related fete. More drain. So. If you still see this post this morning, it’s because I went to bed early and slept in too late to write you a very nice post. (You forgive me.)
BUT. I have to say this one thing: Gracie learned to tie her shoes this week. A friend of mine told me that the best years of his looooong tenure in parenthood were from when his boys learned to tie their shoes to when they learned how to drive. Bring it on, baby!
And that is why I’m smiling in my sleep.
There is a constant battle in my house. For some reason, my children think I am deaf. And at their beck-and-call. I’m a deaf servant whose very existence depends on how many things I can do for them and how quickly I can execute their demands. Surely that is the reason I hear so often, “MOOOOOOMMMM!” bellowed across the house.
The first few times I heard my name echo so lovingly off the walls, I walked slowly to wherever said child was lounging and explained that we do not yell across the house. That she – Gracie, Bee, whoever – should come and get me and explain what is it they would like for me to do. It took a few tries to sink in. I’m still waiting for it to sink in. Then I told Gracie the story of the Boy Who Cried Wolf. I swear, not five minutes went by when I heard, “MOOOOOOMMMM!” Slowly walk into the room, counting the reasons in my head I cannot sell my children on Ebay. “Yes?” “I’m bored.” Or maybe it was “I’m hungry.” Or, one of my favorites, “She hit me. On purpose.”
Sometimes I wonder what in the world I’m doing as a parent. Really. I mean, obviously most of what I say to my darling children goes in one ear and out the other. I say don’t yell; they yell. I ask them not to whine; they whine. Markers go on the table; but they want to write on the floor – clearly I’m just being mean. Don’t touch mom’s cell phone; oh, did I mean this one here? The only lesson I think I’ve ever drilled in to them is to call and tell me right away if they’ve spilled milk on the floor. And that is only because I went apoplectic after having to steam clean spoiled milk one too many times. (Do not, do not, do not carpet your dining area even if you are paying for the rug upgrade so you might as well get your money’s worth. Trust me.) Everything else falls over them like so much rain. I stuck to my guns on the yelling across the house, though. I ignore them until they find me. Some days I even take it as my cue to hide better. (Hey, give me a break – I’m a single mom with little patience or sanity left.)
This morning we were rushing around – like we usually do – getting ready for school and work and sticking to our very tight schedule. In fact, all I had to do was to brush my teeth, pour my coffee, and shepherd them out the door. I was leaning over the sink, trying to brush my teeth as quickly as humanly possible, so we could get out the door on time, when I heard it. “MOOOOOMMMM!” La-la-la – can’t hear you! “MOOOOOMMMM!” Brush-a, brush-a-, brush-a! Then Bee came pelting into the doorway to my bathroom. “Mom! Gwacie spilled her milk and broke her glass all over the floor! And it was ON PURPOSE!”
Mom fail.
At least “Gwacie” had the sense to stand stock still in the circle of milk and teeny, tiny glass shards and instead sent her sister to get me. I didn’t even waste my breath going over the whole Boy Who Cried Wolf bit just then. It would have been so much wasted breath. But maybe, the next time when I hear my name yodeled across the house, the story of the Girl Who Spilt Milk And Broken Glass will have a little more impact on her little world.
