An Email to My Sister

Dear L,

I just wanted to let you know that I have not forgotten about inviting B over for a play date with Jason, but this week is not looking so good. Drew is sick again...two days after I tried to waylay any potential motherly guilt by finally shelling out $15 at the doctor's office so that they could tell me, up close and in person, that he has a virus. "He's perfectly fine," they said. "This is probably the tail end of that barky cough." Awesome. Thanks for the pricey info. Wait, I almost forgot the most valuable part of this visit: "You know, a teaspoon of honey might help his throat feel better." Great. Thanks, Grandma.

Sure enough, less then 12 hours after that visit, the cough had subsided. LIKE MAGIC. Works every time.

On Monday, he started hacking again and got a runny nose. At the same time, Jason started complaining of a sore throoooaaat. (Did I mention that he had gone to a b-day party at Men E. Germ's on Saturday? Coincidence?) Then he was complaining of a headaaaaaache.

Last night, he woke up in the middle of the night (after hours of ear-splitting SNORING) and became rather hysterical because "my legs hurt really bad and I can hardly waaaalk waaaahhhhhh!" So I tried to give him Motrin and he could barely sip it because "my throat is soooo HOT! I can hardly swallow waaaahhhhh!" After threatening him with bodily harm I mean reassuring him that he was fine, he went back to sleep, thank God. Woke up and announced that his legs felt better! So bright and cheery! Got all ready for school and then walked up to me for a hug, looking a little grayish with lower lip trembling. He said he felt like he had to throw up. I quickly gently shove him away from me dislodge his little arms from around my waist and run for my life slowly back away because oh my God do I lose my shit at the mere mention of the words throw and up in the same sentence.

As you know, my kids almost NEVER throw up. I think they've each had two bouts of it their entire lives. So I thought he was pulling my leg because he doesn't even know what nausea feels like. But then I asked him if he knew what throwing up was and he proceeded to describe exactly what happens in practically scientific terms. And I noticed he was beginning to take on a greenish hue.

Meanwhile, I was also noticing that Drew's right eye was swollen and a bit pink and he kept whining and rubbing it. "I got a crumb! I got a crumb!" Pinkeye? I began rummaging through the bathroom cabinet. "Now where is that Valium?"

I made an executive decision that they'd stay home from school (even though coats, hats, gloves, boots, and backpacks were all on and ready to go). Jason went to lie on the couch and started looking kind of gaggy and nervous. I got him a Texas Ware bowl (because we puke in style in this house) (want me to make pasta salad for the next gathering, by the way?), and he sat with that on his lap for a while before the fun began.

Well. Let me tell you.

This child hasn't puked in so long that he was TERRIFIED. I even tried to prepare him beforehand by encouraging him with the fact that lots of kids have this same virus, and they feel sick, too, and sometimes when you're sick you throw up...which can feel really yucky but it's over really quickly and you'll feel sooo much better after you do! But when it actually started, he did that throwing-back-the-head thing ("I refuse to give up this bile! It is MINE!"), and I tried very hard to speak reassuringly as I kept gently yet forcibly thrusting his head back down toward the bowl. The entire time, he's flailing about like a fish out of water while trying to talk to me: "B-gut, M-gummy...grrrgle...gag...g-I do-gn't g-liiiiike...grrrrgle...g-thiiissss...!!!"

Oh. My. God. I have never heard someone talk their way through a full minute of barfing. I kept saying, "Jason, STOP TALKING....it's okay....it'll be over in ONE MINUTE and you're going to feel soooo much better!" Jesus! I wish someone would coach ME when I'm barfing, but do I get any thanks? Noooooo. I get mini fists swinging at my face.

So I pack Drew and Jay-'n-his-trusty-bowl in the car, and we go to the doctor to make sure it's not strep. Well, it IS strep. Again, neither of my kids has had strep, ever. We are freaks. Strep causes headaches? Leg pain? Dramatic puking episodes? Yes, yes, and yes. Huh.

News flash: Drew does not have pinkeye. It looks like he did have a crumb after all. Who knew a foreign object could cause what looks like a shiner? Another fifteen bucks...adios!

Jason announces on the way out that he's starving and thirsty. The doctor calls out to me that it's okay for him to eat if he wants, and that he most likely won't throw up again, "at least not like you would with a stomach virus."

So we go to Panera to get Drew a bagel and Jason an egg and cheese sandwich with sausage please hold the egg and cheese. Every time, I get the same baffled look from the cashier and have the usual verbal exchange.

Them: "You mean you just want sausage?"
Me: "Yes. And the bread."
Them: "No cheese?"
Me: "No cheese."
Them: "He doesn't want egg?"
Me: "He does not want egg."
Them: "..."
Me, feeling compelled to explain: "He's allergic to eggs."
Them: "So just sausage and cheese?"
Me: "NO. Just SAUSAGE. And BREAD."
Them: "Ohh. Hmm. That's funny, huh?"
Me: "Wicked."

This time, though, I hear Jason whimper beside me and watch as he leans tragically against the danish display, gripping his forehead with one hand and his belly with the other, appearing to be in gastric distress. More theatrics ensue. "Moommmmyyyyy...my stooommaaaaaach..."

Uh-oh.

The cashier had just put my empty coffee cup on the counter, so I grab it and stick it under his chin. "No, no, no!" he says and swats at the cup with his mittens. So I'm trying to hold the cup firmly against his chin, block him from the view of food-ordering patrons with my body, and keep his flailing hands away from the cup. He proceeds, with much fanfare, to puke in the cup as I do my "you're okay it'll be fine you'll feel so much better when it's over just wait one minute" routine. The cashier brusquely hands me a bunch of napkins and a cup of water (free! I mean, could this day get any better?) and gives me a curt smile that secretly says, "Okay, you're grossing out my customers. Can you please clean up your germ-infested kid and get the hell away from this counter?" I'm good at reading people, see.

I ditch the evidence and we hightail it out of there with minimal dirty looks (I think) and go to pick up his prescription, get home, I fumble my way through 12 minutes of histrionics to get the damn stuff down his throat, and he's now lying on the couch next to his aptly colored green Texas Ware bowl, which periodically matches his skin color exactly.

I'm thinking about filling up the tub with Purell and taking a good, long soak.

Will be in touch when the germs have evacuated the premises.

And how was your day?

Love,
Me

Back to you

Finally, the much-anticipated holiday season is over. The tree is at the dump; the decorations, neatly packed in their rightful boxes in the attic. There are no more pastry-and-eggnog-laden parties that leave me with shrunken pants (how does that happen?), and no more family gatherings that conclude with our having to back up a U-Haul to the front porch in order to get all of our stuff home.

But most importantly, the kids are back at school. It was a long, long two weeks, my friends.

The school year involves an endless cycle of trade-offs between parents and teachers. From early September to late November, parents revel in the knowledge that they have nearly 10 weeks to be back to a normal routine after the long summer break. But all too soon, Thanksgiving brings many things for the teachers to be thankful for: namely, four studentless days. This is followed by four blissful weeks when parents can shop for the upcoming gift-giving season without such annoyances as dealing with little people yanking things off the shelves at Target, proclaiming that they need these toys and cannot possibly wait until December 25th, can't you see that, you horrible, horrible mother?

Before you know it, Christmas is upon us. And no one has more feelings of joy and peace than the teachers, who you can hear fa-la-la'ing from miles away as they skip to their cars at the end of the last school day before winter vacation. But parents finally get to breathe a little easier on New Year's Day — that time for us to rejoice, refresh, and resolve to make damn sure we get our kids to school on time the next morning. Maybe even a little early, so we can grab a cup of coffee at Dunkin Donuts afterwards...and curl up into the fetal position in a booth, sobbing with relief.

After what seems like three hours, it's time for February vacation. You see, school administrators seem to feel that our kids need periodic breaks — and lots of them. Apparently, five weeks after the 10-day winter break, it's presumed that my kindergartener is already overwhelmed with tracing the alphabet and playing bingo and gluing macaroni products on construction paper, which, as you can imagine, can be so exhausting.

It's interesting that April vacation always seems to begin directly after the springtime classroom party — you know, that fun-filled day when the teachers stuff our kids full of sugar until their little bodies are audibly twanging as they run amok, then pile them into buses (with treat bags...for the ride!), and send them straight home to us, ensuring that those seven days we spend alone with them get off to a fabulous start. Make no mistake about it, this is their passive-aggressive way of socking it to us parents because they're already dreading that marathon stretch between April vacation and the start of their long-awaited three-month break. But that's okay. We manage to get a certain amount of satisfaction when we come back in late April and taunt them with our smirky, knowing smiles that say, “They're all yours until mid-June, sucker. And by the way, I fed them Laffy Taffy for breakfast.”

Strangely, when that final school day in June comes, we welcome our children home for summer vacation with open arms because...well, the warmth and sunshine clearly makes us all kinds of crazy. But after a few weeks full of such fun-filled activities as visiting parks, going to the beach, and nearly manic chasing of the ice cream truck, we're done. Kaput. Finito. And this feeling of doneness occurs even sooner if you take an early family vacation to somewhere like Sesame Street Village or Storyland. Those sorts of things should only be planned for very late August so that we can mentally survive the experience by closing our eyes and conjuring up soon-to-be-real images of children with new clothes and backpacks walking into a large building with a flag.

So, in direct accordance with The Cycle, I pulled up for drop-off at my sons' school today on their first day back, giddy and euphoric (me, not them). When I spotted their teachers, I found myself shoving the boys gently toward them, impatiently muttering, “Here. Take these.” The teachers, looking refreshed and relaxed, smiled with understanding and led them away as I leaped back into my minivan Dukes-of-Hazzard-style and burned rubber out of the parking lot. I didn't want to be late for my appointment with my old friends Peace and Quiet. After all, I only have five weeks to enjoy them.

WTF??

Okay, this is just wrong: Sexy Vampire Gets Scissor Happy

Robert, Robert...you're killing me....

And not in a hot, bite-me-real-good kind of way. Thank God there's time to grow it back before New Moon comes out in November 2009.

Cold is hot

Last week, I decided to treat myself to some stress relief and did one of my favorite things: I went to the movies alone. I made a choice that would change my life, damn the laundry until it reaches the rafters, and grind my Christmas shopping to a halt by seeing Twilight, and I am now completely and utterly obsessed with vampires.

I hadn't read the book yet, so I didn't know what to expect, but my first thought when I saw the male lead was that they really should've picked someone more attractive.

But by the end of the movie, I was so transfixed with every glimpse of Robert Pattinson that I could barely breathe. (If you clicked on the above links, you can clearly see that I need to lay off the crack pipe and stick with the popcorn.)

What is it about brooding vampires that makes them so appealing? Their pale, cold, stone-like skin...their beautiful golden-brown eyes that turn to black when they're thirsting for blood...the way they can fling you over their shoulder and fly through a forest at lightning speed...the way they have no beating heart and are forever torn between wanting you in a sexual way and wanting to crush your skull to pieces, inject you with their venomous teeth, and suck the life out of you. Now that's my kind of romance. It's action...it's danger...it's SMOKING HOT.

I was so in awe of this epic love story that I saw it twice. So far. And the trailer viewings have gotten completely out of control. It's like Romeo & Juliet, but with modern dialogue, sharper bicuspids, and better hair.

I think I need professional help.

To make matters worse, I've been spending inordinate amounts of time conniving early Christmas gifts out of people (Twilight, New Moon, Eclipse, Breaking Dawn). Apparently, this is one of my many talents, because so far I've gotten exactly what I wanted.

I figure whoever doesn't like it can bite me. (Please?)

I try not to focus on the fact that RP is only 22 years old. By my calculations, I figure if I had him and Zac Efron at the same time, it would sort of be like I'm with a 43-year-old guy. Which is actually a bit old for me. So let's just say he could be my Ashton. See? It's all good. (Soooooo good...)

Foreign exchange

I have had a photocopier/scanner combo for the past year, and for the life of me, I cannot get the scanner to work. It always says that the USB is not connected, but it iiiiiiiiisss. Tired of my whining, a friend came by yesterday to try to help me figure out what’s going on. We Googled some info on the product and came to a page that offered "Online Tech Chat." Very exciting! Nothing makes me happier than not having to use the phone. Well, besides shoes.

I happily type my name and email address into the box and click “Begin Chat.”

Sergio: Hello, Karen. How may I assist you today?

I poke friend and say, “Sergio?? He sounds like a cabana boy! Dare me to ask him what he’s wearing?”

(Friend rolls eyes.)

Me: I have a [company] photocopier/scanner. When I try to scan something, I get a message that says ‘USB not connected.’

“Sergio is typing.”

…8 minutes later, as friend and I alternate between zombie-like staring at the computer screen while waiting for Sergio to STOP the TYPING and discussing what the f*ck Britney Spears is doing NAKED in that VIDEO…

Me, sick of waiting while Sergio presumably pokes keys with big toe at snail-like pace: Are you still there? Just so you know, I’ve checked all connections, and everything is plugged in properly.

“Sergio is typing.”

Me, making sure Sergio knows I don’t have all day for a response: I’m on a Mac, by the way.

Sergio: I thank you deeply for your efforts.

Me, to friend, in a huff: “Is he getting SASSY with me??”

Friend: “Hmm. Maybe he’s just of a different…um, ‘ethnicity,’ and that’s why his wording is coming across…odd.”

Me: “…”

Friend: “Sometimes companies outsource these sorts of things to other countries, like India or Pakistan or wherever.”

Me: “So do you think these big delays that say ‘Sergio is typing’ really translate as ‘Sergio is eating chicken tikka masala’ or ‘Sergio is adjusting his turban’?”

Friend: “Or maybe ‘Sergio is sleeping. It is 2 a.m. in India.’”

Sergio: To rule out other problems, can I ask you to please copy a piece of paper. Place a piece of paper on the screen and press the green button for color copy or the black button for black copy.

Me: Caaaarefully following instructions because WOW! Who knew this photocopier could copy stuff? All those quarters I’ve been wasting at the local library — POOF!

Me: The photocopy function works fine.

Sergio, quickly and with much enthusiasm: This is good to know.

183.2 seconds pass while “Sergio is typing”…not that I’m counting…

Sergio: I must inform you that [company] offers only phone support for Macintosh environment. We would have been very glad to assist you through chat but unfortunately [company] does not offer chat support for this product due to no availability of complete information. Additionally, we are not trained and expertise in resolving the issues with MAC OS. We regret for inconvenience caused and hope you understand our limitations.

Me, to friend, in disgust: “Shouldn’t I have had him at ‘I'm on a Mac’??”

18 minutes pass while Sergio presumably flips through phonebook for support number with his eyelashes…

Me, giving a nudge: Could you point me in the direction of where I could find support for this issue?

Sergio (zzzzzz…wha...?): You can avail complete support on the Macintosh environment through our phone support teams. You can call them @ 800-GO-EFFOFF or 800-696-6969. These service engineers are Macintosh OS specialists and would be able to help you over the phone. This Support is available at the following timings:

27 minutes later, Sergio finds the timings…and also: Bin Laden! But wait, first things first…

Sergio:
* Monday through Friday: 8am-midnight EST
* Saturday: 10am-6pm EST
* Sunday: No support hours.

Me: Great — thank you very much!

Sergio: We sincerely apologize for the inconvenience and look forward to assist you. We also offer e-mail support for MAC OS. You can contact our email support at: www.bollywoodmac/curryinahurry.com.

But wait! Apparently, there’s more helpful info on the way because “Sergio is typing”!

Sergio: Do you have any more queries for us?

Me, amazed that it took 6 more minutes to type that question: I think that’s all.

I sit and wait for about 11 more minutes because “Sergio is typing” and, well, you just never know what Sergio is up to...

Sergio: May health and happiness be yours in all seasons.

Me: Yes. You, too. Have good…seasons.

The four-letter word

Something happened when Jason turned five. He stopped being my baby. He somehow became my best friend, closest pal, comrade. So mature, well-informed, and grammatically correct. Capable of intellectual conversations about the weather. Taller, thinner, and more GQ with his clothing selection.

Also, he discovered that poop is funny. At least it is to him.

This is how our day begins:

Me: "Jason, what would you like for breakfast?"
Jason: "You mean, what do I want for poopfest?? HA HA HA!"
Me: "Would you like a waffle?"

...

Me: "Jason, it's time to get dressed."
Jason: "It's time to get pooped! HA HA HA!"
Me: "Here are your clothes."

...

Me: "Come on, guys. It's time to go to school."
Jason: "Come on, Poopy Drew! It's poopy time! HA HA HA!"
Me: "Put your jackets on, please."

This is how our day ends:

Me: "Jason, it's time to put your pajamas on."
Jason: "I want to wear my poop-and-pee-pee-jamas! HA HA HA!"
Me: "And then we'll go brush our teeth."

Do you see a theme here? I, being the well-informed parent, am NOT feeding into this bad behavior by responding to it in any way. I don't give the slightest flinch, I resist the eyerolling, I keep a handle on any desire to correct and/or scold. I am Supermom. (Superpoopymom!)

I wish I could say it was working for me. But one day I counted 40,261 times he said the word "poop," including all poop-like variations such as "pooper," "poopy," and his favorite: "poo-poo-head."

When these didn't get the reaction he was looking for, he started adding the "pee-pee" references out of desperation.

Still, I never gave in. I wish this was the part where I could say, "So here is the lesson behind this post: Stand your ground! Do not give in, and they will stop the behavior!"

But he is now six. Still my best friend, ever taller and possibly even thinner, extremely bright, can talk politics with the best of them. His intellect seems far beyond his age. Although, at this very minute, he's in the living room watching Madagascar, shaking his fanny, and singing, "I like to poop it, poop it!"

The bathroom humor clearly never stops being funny.

I'm going off the rails on a crazy train

I have been having the most bizarre, vivid dreams lately. Not nightmarish at all - just really...real. The one I had the night before last was so real that I actually dreamed that I had a dream, and in the dream I woke up and realized that it wasn't a dream at all. As you can imagine, when I really woke up from the actual dream, it took me a good two to three minutes to shake it off and realize that it was a dream.

Still with me? I was hoping the italics would help...?

The weirdest thing is not the usual dream oddities that make you embarrassed to even tell someone about the dream, such as how you were eating an ice cream sundae out of the toilet that was on your high school English teacher's back porch (which, by the way, looked more like the boat from Gilligan's Island). No, it was that there wasn't very much odd at all - it was believably real. And that's what made it so hard for me to shake the dream off and realize it wasn't real. (Again with the italics. I know. Not helping.)

Anyway, this was the dream.

Paul was an actor. And he had an on-screen kiss with this not-particularly-attractive girl with a hawk nose and long, brownish hair. This upset me. I didn't like it. But I was willing to let it go. Until...

I somehow found out he'd also slept with her. Like, in the biblical sense. Just a one-time thing, he said. He's all "oopsy" and casual about it.

I was hurt, humiliated, and rip-roaring mad. But he felt that I should just forgive him and let it go. I angrily told him to pack his things and get out of the house.

He smirked as if I was being ridiculous and calmly said: "I will," and proceeded to sit in my rocking chair. He covered himself with a bath towel, closed his eyes, and said, "I'm just going to take a nap first."

I, of course, wanted to kill him. I felt my hands were tied and it was very frustrating. It's not like I could push him physically out of the house! He was so obviously trying to piss me off!

In the meantime, each time I looked through this one window of the house, I could see the offending girl through a window in the house next door. She was on the second floor, making faces at me and snickering. It made me feel very belittled.

The first person I decided to tell, in my dream, was my friend, Sue. We were at a bar, on these high barstools with backs. We ordered margaritas (because that's what always helps release the hard truths), and I began to tell her what had happened. Suddenly, in the middle of what I was saying, before I could even get to the point, she falls backwards for no apparent reason, and she and the barstool end up on the floor. Instead of jumping up to help her and see what's wrong, I sat there seething because I hadn't been able to tell her what had happened, and dammit it's an important story to tell! Strangers rushed over to see if she was okay before I did. I felt a little guilty about that. But not so much, because I was really annoyed with her for FALLING in the middle of my fricking STORY.

This is the point where I dreamed that I woke up and hoped that it had all been a dream, but I realized it had actually been real. And I got this horrible feeling in my gut because I knew that I had to deal with this situation. Then, I really woke up. I sat up and tried to figure out if I was still dreaming about waking up or if I really woke up in all actuality. (See slanty words for clarification.)

I heard Paul coming upstairs to get ready for work, and I slowly start to realize that it didn't happen. It was a dream. Really. So, of course, I say to Paul in a groggy voice, "Wow, you were SUCH an asshole last night!" Paul, not particularly surprised to be greeted like this in the morning, was just like, "Hmm? Did you say something, hon?"

So anyway, usually I'm all befuddled by such dreams and I keep thinking, "But what does a snake in the refrigerator drinking Tabasco sauce mean?" This one, however, I was able to psychoanalyze immediately.

Paul as an actor: It's a bit of irony, because in all actuality he's the WORST candidate for an actor. Any time he's ever tried to pull one over on me, he has this permanent "doh!" look on his face and it totally gives him away. He really needs to give it up, and never play poker.

The girl with the brownish hair and the hawk nose: Clearly, it was a Giada DiLaurentiis look-alike. I don't find Giada to be particularly attractive, but Paul has made it clear that he thinks she's hot. (He never really told me this, but the drool trickling out of the corner of his mouth while he watches her making gnocchi has always made me wonder if it's about the dumplings or...the dumplings, if you know what I'm saying.)

My telling Paul to pack his bags and get out, and his smirky, casual attitude about it: Any time we've ever gone to bed mad, I absolutely cannot get the man to go sleep somewhere else. He insists that "it's my bed, too, and if you don't want to sleep with me, you go sleep somewhere else." (Which is the husband version of "I know you are but what am I.")

His saying "I will" and then sitting in my favorite chair to take a nap: He always says "I will" whenever I ask him to do something, but he refuses to do it right away, as if to say you're not going to tell me what to do, sister. And usually he's doing something I'd rather be doing myself, like lounging on the couch watching t.v. or using the computer, while I'm sweating over a hot stove: thus, the favorite chair metaphor. Are you following?

Covering himself with a bath towel: Okay, I'm still pondering this one. But I'm sure it's just another symbol of some other annoying thing that Paul does.

Seeing the girl in question through a window in my house: We have a window that has needed a shade for, oh, about eight years now because it provides a direct view into my house for anyone who happens to be on the second floor of my neighbor's house. Thankfully there isn't much nudity and debauchery going on in my kitchen (most days).

Sue, falling off her barstool in the middle of what I was trying to tell her: This is so obvious. Being a stay-at-home mom, I don't run into many opportunities for real, adult conversation during the day. So, when Paul comes home, or on the rare occasion that a friend comes over my house to visit, I am DYING to talk to someone about SOMETHING. And it drives me INSANE the way my kids interrupt every. single. thing. I. say. before I can finish a frigging SENTENCE. It's like mental torture to be CONSTANTLY interrupted by little people asking asinine questions and to have to keep trying to remember where the hell I was in my thought process and go back to the beginning of stories over and over until you know what? NO ONE WANTS TO HEAR THE STORY ANYMORE EVEN THOUGH I'M STILL ITCHING TO TELL IT!!! I have been known to say, as the person I'm speaking to is jumping up yet again to see what the kids are up to, "Listen, if there's no blood involved, let's ignore them and PLEASE JUST LET ME FINISH SAYING THIS ONE THING!!!"

Not that that's a big "issue" of mine or anything.

So! That's the official psychoanalysis of my dream. Don't get me wrong, Paul is a great guy regardless of the fact that my dream makes him out to be a jerk. And, truthfully, he's more than welcome to have himself a little fling, as long as it involves skinnydipping in the Amazon. Because any guy who cheats totally deserves a penis fish.

(If you're completely confused right now, you are obviously not a Grey's Anatomy fan, and, sadly, I have nothing better to offer you as a conclusion to this post. Move along now. Scoot, scoot.)