Category Archives: Parenting

Subject: MOM SPIRIT WEEK(!)

Humor, Life and Other Existential Problems, Parenting, , ,

An Email from the Universe

This week has been heavy. I wrote this to make a little space, and hope it gives you a brief moment of respite or silliness.

Graphic with the title “Subject: MOM SPIRIT WEEK(!)” above a simple drawing of a stick figure holding a long to-do list, surrounded by tangled holiday lights. Subtitle reads “An Email from the Universe.”

Hello. This is the Universe. Yes, that Universe. You know, stars, gravity, tacos, fluids, tardigrades, and whatnot.

Let’s just get this out in the open: the number of things that must happen right before the approaching Winter Break is unreasonable. This is a failure of math. It’s nice, for once in your life, for math to fail you rather than the other way around.

I kid, I kid.

Anyway, I, The Universe, am pleased to announce MOM SPIRIT WEEK (!), a morale-enhancing initiative designed to support seasonal cheer and operational continuity. This week recognizes your continued parenting, working, time management, keeping the car’s gas tank just full enough, and functioning as a human reminder app and emotional shock absorber.

Please note the daily themes below.

Participation is optional but also assumed.

MONDAY: PAJAMA DAY!

Wear your most comfortable pajamas while you pack lunches, search for shoes, sign forms, answer emails, check the calendar, re-check the calendar, and run five to seventeen other errands.

What I, the Universe, require of you today: Joy as you deal with everything. Especially the aggressively pleasant coworker who overshares about their digestive system and uses a coffee mug that says, “Wine O’clock.” This is fun. Thank you for not crying.

TUESDAY: PAJAMA DAY!

Wear pajamas that have pockets. The week is now in full swing, and so are you.

If you’re doing it right, based on yesterday’s tasks, you’ll now have meeting lists, errand lists, carpool lists, grocery lists, gift lists, revised gift lists, emergency gift lists, volunteer-commitment lists, lists of chores that must be done and another list of chores that should probably be done, lists of messages to answer, lists of texts you answered incorrectly, and lists of emails you are sure you already replied to but someone is still awaiting your response. Feel free to combine them into one list called “laundry,” but that may make you cry, and it’s not that clever anyway.

Write down the lists. All of them. They are legion. Then stuff those lists into the pockets of your pajamas.

While you’re out and about, pick up some children’s medicine. Rumor has it that Influenza A is going around the school. It’s okay, though. Your kids told you they’d wash their hands. They also told you they “don’t know” where their winter coat is, and that “yes, they’d checked” the lost and found.

What I, the Universe, require of you today: Joy, especially if someone thanks you for your “great energy,” while giving you something else to do. Write that down, too. Thank you for not crying too loudly in the bathroom.

WEDNESDAY: PAJAMA DAY!

Wear footie pajamas as you manage last-minute changes, forgotten items, schedule shifts, work responsibilities, family logistics, emotional regulation (yours and everyone else’s), final cleaning, spot cleaning, cleaning Spot your dog, re-cleaning the spot you just cleaned, menu planning, backup menu planning, confirming plans, reconfirming plans, answering messages that could have been emails, cleaning surfaces, clearing rooms, hiding piles, rediscovering piles, and arranging everything so the house appears welcoming and effortless, and wondering if today is Friday. (It’s not.)

Please remember to tend to the emotional states of people who cannot explain why they are upset, but are confident you need to be involved on one level or another.

Also, run to the school and pick up your kids’ coats from the lost and found.

Prepare for a Spatial Impossibility Situation, where at least two of these obligations will require you to be in different locations with incompatible parking situations. You may have to run. This is where the tread on the footie pajamas comes in.

What I, the Universe, require of you today: Joy, for morale purposes. Thank you for scheduling your crying in a way and a place that does not disrupt anything or anyone.

THURSDAY: PAJAMA DAY!

Wear the oversized pajamas with the oversized hood.

All you have to do today is find the tape.

Pull up the hood of your pajamas and scream into it as needed. Do this away from other people, that kind of stuff is contagious, much like the Influenza A currently sweeping through your kids’ school.

What I, the Universe, require of you today: The tape.

FRIDAY: PAJAMA DAY

Congratulations, it’s Friday. Keep it jolly, motherf***er.

Pick up whichever pair of pajamas you’ve put on “the chair.” Make sure it comes close to passing the sniff test. Have you even showered since Tuesday? Put on a hat while you’re at it.

Today, you launch into Winter Break with drop-offs, goodbyes, transitions, schedule adjustments, snack calibration, emotional recalibration, and the realization that your children are now home full-time for the next two weeks.

Now you finally have time to unwind and recharge while continuing to provide meals, structure, activities, supervision, emotional support, and holiday magic.

Keep tissues up your pajama sleeves — Santa might just be bringing Influenza A for the holidays!

What I, the Universe, require of you today: Joy. Again. This requirement expires in January.

Best,
The Universe

Strange Geese, Space Force’s Lost and Found, and Good ol’ Whatshisname

Creative non-fiction, Humor, Month in Review, Parenting, Surviving Summer Funtimes, Under 750, Writing, , , ,

…Or I Could’ve Just Taken the Week Off

A few weeks ago, I picked up my daughter from sports practice at a neighboring town’s park, which is very much like our town’s park, except with different geese. This is a public park, which means the public is allowed in. That is the problem with public parks.

I had to intervene when a pack tween twerps cheered on as one kid had another kid in a headlock. The second boy’s face was red, his eyes were streaming, and he was silent, which, if you know children, is a sure sign that something isn’t fun. Oh, hello, Trouble. There you are.

It was an easy read.

My “Hey!” stopped almost all of them.

One prepubescent Cobra Kai decided to test his standing with the gods and said to me, “Bro, this is none of your business.”

“Bro” is apparently a word that activates me like some sort of verbose sleeper agent. You can imagine how things went for all of them after that.

It was over quickly, but the kid in the headlock had enough time to walk away, which was really the main thing here.

No tween twerps were harmed in this interaction.

Joke’s on me, though (when isn’t it?) because little did I know that August was warming up in the corner, waiting to see if it could take my household two falls out of three.

All of that was once a Facebook post I left up for an hour before deleting, presumably to protect national security or because I pressed the wrong button. I tried to find it later (deleted posts, archived posts, etc.) but couldn’t. Alas, it’s gone, filed somewhere in the Cloud, or the shelf in Space Force’s Lost and Found where they store embarrassing mom anecdotes. I recreated it here, with slightly more effort than the 0.2 seconds I give most Facebook posts.

I had planned a proper post this week as I’ve been trying to post weekly, but then everyone in the house got sick. Like really sick, where after a few days you think you’re okay-ish then you lie down and wake up 5 hours later feeling groggy and not much better, if not a little worse.

Then I got sick. Which was technically covered under “everyone,” but I tend to assume “everyone” means “everyone else.” I usually avoid household contagion, possibly because I move through life in the equivalent of John Travolta’s bubble in that film. Except my bubble is made of grumpiness.

Here’s how I’m doing: for 5 minutes just now, I was trying to remember that actor’s name. Couldn’t retrieve “John Travolta” but pulled up “Vinnie Babarino” like a coin from behind your ear. I had to Google “Who played Vinnie Barbarino?” to complete a joke that, in retrospect, did not warrant the effort.

Everything’s fine.

Now we’re digging out, staggering toward the end of summer with what feels like 100% potential energy, in the physics sense, like we’re all little balls in a slingshot (Google Search: “What is that v-shaped thing made with sticks you pull back and shoot a ball out of?”)

Big Moves are on my to-do list, meaning working on building community and also giving myself ample space and big chunks of time to work on my novel.

I am mildly loath to get back to it all — the hustle and/or the bustle — because “big chunks of time to work on my writing” is an idea the universe finds particularly hilarious.

Also, can one be mildly loath? MAYBE. You know who could probably pull off being “mildly loath?” John Travolta, but only in his role in Pulp Fiction (Google Search: “What was that movie where the dude who played Vinnie Barbarino played a gangster” — which, incidentally, first pulled up Gotti, and that dude was not mildly anything.)

*EXTREME CARRIE BRADSHAW VOICEOVER* And just like that, this August was much like that tween headlock situation: too hot, too loud, the geese are unfamiliar, somebody’s turning red, and the only thing you can do is yell ‘Hey!’ and hope everyone walks away in one piece with a modicum of dignity.

Bro.

Hopefully, a new piece next week.

Anyway, please accept this in lieu of structural integrity this week:

The B and Noble Men

Creative non-fiction, Life and Other Existential Problems, Parenting, Reading,
Title card with The B and Noble Men at the top, three cartoon lemons looking unhappy, and a small dragon.

The two men stood in the one spot conspicuously free of shelves. Open, unsacred, lifeless space, as far from books as it is possible to be in a bookstore. A no-man’s land of sorts, but there they stood in this patch of space meant for rearranging thoughts or deciding where to go next. At first glance, they seemed to be there to grab something quickly and leave, or perhaps to wait. In each other’s presence, a momentary reprieve from feeling out of place.

We, my daughter and I, were there to rearrange our thoughts, to mend our worn edges. Words might carry us someplace softer where we could escape into neatly bound pages where someone else’s problems — smaller or larger, didn’t matter — offered strange, familiar solace. The bookstore smelled of coffee and, in that section we were trying to pass through, cologne.

They were aggressively unremarkable, those men. Able to demand attention without effort, to compress the air around them into a self-satisfied density. Loud. Confident. Convinced. The kind of people who view their success as an inevitability, etched into marble, affixed in permanence rather than scribbled on the side of a red Solo cup.

Perhaps that was the cologne talking.

They stood in that bookless space, wearing athleisure wear of curated ease, possibly worn for the exertion of “watching the kids” for a bit.

Forgive me, sometimes I read too much into things. It was a bookstore, after all.

They were comfortable and loud, their presence as much volume as it was space, somehow sprawling across this nearly empty bookstore so close to closing. They were careless as they dismantled a woman one of them had encountered — socially, professionally, who knows? Didn’t matter.

“She had too much plastic surgery,” First Guy said. “Her face looked tight. Fake.” He sculpted the air with exaggerated movements. “She looked like a lemon,” he added, pleased with himself. “Which is fitting.”

Other Guy laughed. “Yeah. I totally get it.”

Encouraged, First Guy fumbled for more analogies, more ways to articulate how deeply unacceptable this woman was, what with her face and everything else about her. He pulled his features into grotesque imitations of whatever displeased him about her, which seemed to be quite a bit.

My face never keeps its mouth shut and must have betrayed me. It always does. A flicker of something, too small to name but enough to catch their attention. Disapproval, maybe. Or disgust. Some merciless and mirthless conveyance of this again?

I warranted enough attention for them to shift their bodies and pause their conversation, their gaze heavy.

What did they see? Stitches, scars, gravity, broken things, healed places of a full human?

Nah. Definitely another lemon. Or maybe a yuzu or a blood orange. I haven’t had work done on my body unless you count the pieces of bone, flesh, and pain-points removed, so they were left only the sour.

We considered each other. I’d guess they were thinking I was intruding without smiling. They would probably not guess I’d had another day of fighting tiny, bothersome dragons.

Their interest faded. Their laughter resumed, quieter now. Slick. Greasy.

I walked away to catch up with my daughter.

She stood in the Young Adult section trailing her fingers over the spines of books. She held herself carefully, her shoulders drawn inward in the way she does when she’s trying not to let disappointment show. Her fingers lingered on one book, then another. She’d had a hard day, the kind with sharp teeth and scales. The kind a mom can’t fix, except by standing between her and the world long enough to let her breathe.

We searched for books — anything, really — that offered comfort, distraction, or, failing that, instructions for building a trebuchet from empty bags of Nerds Gummy Clusters.

She didn’t notice the men. She didn’t register their voices lofting over the shelves. If she did, it was part of the din of the day.

I’d said nothing to them. Me. Lady Speak Your Mind.

Of course I didn’t. Because it wasn’t my place. Because the parking lot was dark. Because I’m not their mother. Because risk analysis. Because this is the way of things.

Strategy? Failure? Quiet calculus of motherhood?

If my daughter weren’t there. If it were daylight. If I were ferocious, less aware of what happens when certain men decide you’ve embarrassed them. Maybe I would have said something.

Probably not. But maybe.

But if I did, it would’ve been presented as a possible joke. Lemon Face clearly owes you an apology. How dare she. Big smile. Plausible deniability. Pointless.

But I didn’t. Of course I didn’t.

When we left, they were one shelf away from the self-help section. The Universe, perhaps also running on empty, only offered dad jokes.

We, my daughter and I, left without books and went home, a place where tiny, bothersome dragons give us passage and say, “We’ll catch you tomorrow.”