Words Can't Describe

As a parent, one of the greatest things in the world is when your child begins to talk. Before this point they are merely really cute mutes. At first their words are unintelligible. I barely grasped four years of high school Spanish but learned "toddler" within days. It made perfect sense; "Bots" was what a giraffe should be called, and inexcusable that my lawn guy didn’t comprehend when my son pointed at the "mawnmermer." There were of course a few words that threw me. When my daughter spoke of her excitement at seeing the "Mexicans" at the mall it took a little while to realize she meant mannequins. We also had a very confusing exchange about her wanting "vagina" for dinner. I quickly realized how similar vagina and lasagna sound. As you can see, I’m in favor of teaching the proper terminology for body parts. There was, however, a short period of time when I was fearful of her leading a game of Simon Says.

Our conversations are hilarious, and make my heart explode with joy. What I didn’t realize was very soon they were going to become CONSTANT. My children talk from the moment they wake up until the second or third time they come downstairs after bedtime to throw one more statement or question my way. You know the exchange that goes something like this, "Baby, go back upstairs." "But Mama, umm, I’m afraid of...prune juice." You sit there for a moment stunned, and then realize the stall tactic worked. Honestly, who isn’t afraid of prune juice? Children are walking reminders of the truth. When my son told me he thought my tampons were cool it made me think, and yes, they are cool. When my daughter asked if I "pooped her out" when she was born, she was onto something. "Rectal pressure" is a vast understatement.

As blissful as it is to hear their words, they can also cut me to the core. It’s heartbreaking to hear you are no longer their friend for committing a crime as sinister as trying to keep them safe. My son has repeatedly informed me, when I put him on a time out, that I’m going to jail. At least I would have some quiet and wouldn’t have to cook. The other night while lying in bed with my daughter she started to talk to me. She explained her reasons for wanting her baby boy to come first, and made me promise I would teach her how to drive. She asked if she could drink wine and talk with me when she’s a bigger girl. I shudder to think there may come a time when they won’t want to share the details of their lives with me. How soon before my son no longer tells me my pedicure looks beautiful? For now I will enjoy the laughs I get from listening to them. We were at the beach the other day and my daughter handed me a pretend ice cream cone made out of sand and said, "Mama, here’s your ice cream. I put alcohol in it, because I know you like alcohol."

Confession

My true intention when grocery shopping for my family is to purchase healthy and nutritious foods. I feel so proud when I make the right choices. Then I think to myself, I have to have SOMETHING in the house for the children. I mean it's not fair. Why should they suffer because I'm still perfecting my before shot, right?

Cut to, Tuesday 9:00PM. Let me set the stage. Dinner was finished hours ago. It was probably gross. I hate cooking and I suck at it. I’ve settled in to watch some lame "reality" show. I’m tired and bored. Maybe I "checked the electrical box." It's in these moments my kid's snacks are transformed from garden-variety treats into decadent morsels. Everything tastes different when you're desperate. Fruitabu no longer tastes like a fruited leather belt. Goldfish aren't dry or sandy. Frankly, the Ritz crackers I throw in my bag to quell tantrums are down right delicious. Interestingly, Ritz includes recipes on the back of the box in case you aren't sure how to jazz up your cracker. I know they have to fill space, but recipes, seriously? As I declared before, I'm a shit cook, but "Peanut Butter, Apple, Ritz" is pretty clear. So is, "Cheddar Apple Ritz." They even guilt you in the Peanut Butter recipe by throwing in a serving size. Hey Kraft Foods, don’t fucking tell me how much peanut butter to spread on my Ritz. If I want to submerge my cracker into the peanut butter jar and eat everything that comes up including my knuckles that's between me and my oppressive mother.

I really do try to avoid eating my kid’s snacks. I rarely get ice cream when they do. I mean I have to lick around the cone so they don’t get messy but that doesn’t really count.

Music Makes The People Come Together

I wish I could sing. I'm not as bad as some of the unfortunates on American Idol but I can't really sing. Regardless, I do it often and loudly. I've found I sing best in the key of Jonas.

It all started with my clock radio. Casey Kasem’s American Top 40 was my thing. I wasn’t old enough to attend concerts or understand a lot of the music I was listening to but none of that mattered. I had strong feelings about music. With my cassette recorder in hand I would assume the starting position. My index finger would hover over the record button in anticipation of my song coming on. I placed myself within centimeters of the clock radio so as to get maximum volume and clarity (if not for my technologically advanced husband I may still be using these methods.) Once my song was playing I could barely pay attention to it as I was so concerned with missing a golden note or God forbid getting that assholes voice on my precious recording. The worst was when he would "wanh wanh" about how "Total Eclipse of the Heart" got Alice from Acron, Ohio through losing her fiance to cancer. Songs were about what could happen in the future. Some invoked day dreams and some confused me to the core. What the hell was cancer?

One of the best inventions of all time has to be the ability to listen to music in your car. Honestly, as a teenager listening to great music in the car was the best feeling in the world (I was still a virgin.) I realized I sing even better going 80 with the windows open. The future was the road ahead and it sounded amazing and loud. Music became communal. I developed my penchant for mixed tapes. I love giving as well as receiving. Music contributed to memories with my best friends. Michelle and The Grateful Dead, Lynn and REM, and Rebecca and Marc Cohn.

In college music was about drugs. I smoked a lot of pot and declared, "music is the greatest fucking thing in the world and I could sit for hours listening to music and doing bong hits and eating shitty Chinese food for ever." Rinse repeat, rinse repeat. Music was about being in the moment. I had no thoughts about the future because I never wanted my current situation to end. I listened to a lot of blissful bands and thought I was so cool. I was in on the secret. The artists were speaking to me. It was so personal and dramatic and intense.

In my 20’s music was my companion. Living alone in Manhattan in a small studio apartment music became my motivator. Music helped me clean my apartment and got me ready for many nights out. It was all very adult. Later on music was passionate and made me swoon and fall in love. Entire CD’s underscored the huge changes I was making in my life. It was magical.

I currently find myself sitting in my family room with an actual family trying to find the right music to inspire me to clean and organize the toys, make lunches for camp, and finish the dishes. Maybe I'll even start the laundry. Fuck it, I'm just gonna listen to music.

Please Keep Your Hands And Feet Inside

I have just returned from a lavish and relaxing vacation and I am depressed. This kind of depression has several levels. The first level starts while still on vacation. This is more of an annoyance over having to re-pack (if you have to re-pack children this elevates the level to an actual low grade depression.) My "going away suitcase" is vastly different from my "coming home suitcase." When I pack for my vacation everything is neatly folded. There's an order to it. I may even have a specific outfit put together right there in my bag ready for a night out. There have been times my suitcase was a fucking work of art. Packing my coming home suitcase is another story. I bear no shame in admitting I don't even un-ball my underwear. Shit is crammed in haphazardly and frankly my suitcase is a tell tale sign of my psyche. I don't want to go home.

The next level is a little sadder. I can't believe I have to leave this beautiful new home. I like this home. They clean my room and make my meals. I can use 100 towels if I want to and as long as I leave them ON the floor, new ones appear the next day. In the blink of an eye I'm home unloading dirty balls of clothing and half empty bottles of product wrapped in stolen hotel washcloths. Although thanks to Al-Qaeda I am now forced to transport my products in a gallon size zip lock. Fuckers. I still stole one washcloth for good measure. I lament over my pictures and re-tell funny stories but basically this just sinks me deeper into my depression. I start to go about my daily life and although it's nothing to complain about, it's just not the same as vacation.

This leads me to the task which has snapped me out of vacation depression and thrust me into a state of mind I am not familiar with. Tonight I ordered my daughter's uniforms for Kindergarten. In addition I had to order her "spirit wear" for gym days. Although I never had to wear a uniform and have certainly never uttered the words, "spirit wear" I have been returned to my youth. Holy shit! I am about to re-live school through my daughter's experiences. I am strapping myself in as this may be a bumpy ride.

*I didn't really use 100 towels as I was slapped in the face with a buzz kill card on the vanity telling me about Florida's water shortage.

Leavin' On A Jet Plane

My dad was a pediatric dentist. He called Nitrous oxide, "the magic nose." I got the magic nose a few times as a kid and I didn't like it. Feeling high was scary. I was scared of weird things, like witches and having a baby. I remember being adamant about not wanting to have a baby because someone told me it hurt. Actually, that fear was justified. That hurt like a motherfucker.

After years and years of fighting the inevitable I surrendered to having my wisdom teeth out. I think half the reason I held onto them so long was because people had been so brazen about telling their horror stories. One involved someone waking up to his dentist punching him in the side of the face to get his tooth out. No sedation for me. If I was going to do this I wanted to be alert. Plus, I heard people over 35 can die from getting their teeth pulled. If I'm going to die it's not gonna be wearing a blue paper bib covered in drool. I found an oral surgeon who seemed to think he wouldn't need to punch me in the face. I told him I only wanted Novocaine. To say I was anxious in the days leading up to this event is an understatement. It was then we (and by "we" I mean my loving husband who had to endure hours of neurotic rants about death)decided I should take Valium.

I had taken both pills by the time I arrived in the office. Even though I was mellower, I was still freaking out. They started prepping the room and shot me up with Novocaine. Now I was REALLY freaking out. I couldn't feel my face or myself swallow. I started cursing like a truck driver. Do truck drivers really curse more than people in other vocations? Anyway, when I freak out, I curse. I know the nurse and my husband were trying to talk me down but I couldn't hear them over the sound of my "F bombs." I finally looked up and there it was, the magic nose! I had the Foo Fighters on my ipod and laughing gas being sucked up my nose. I was good to go. That man could have pulled every tooth in my mouth and stolen my kidney and I would have given him the thumbs up. It was pure bliss. About 15 minutes later he told me he was finished. Noooooooooooooo! I was having a great time.

I am flying on Sunday. This is a new fear. I was never afraid to fly as a kid. Flying was exciting. I LOVED flying. Over the years this changed. I HATE flying. You can die in a plethora of ways while flying. Your pilot could be a crack addict. Someone could blow you up with a loafer. The economy could crash and airlines could file for bankruptcy and cut corners, like, on maintenance. I'm not an idiot. I know all the risks you take just by walking out the door in the morning but I'm still scared to fly. So, do you think even though I can't fly with a bottle of sunscreen they will let me on the plane with the magic nose affixed to my face?

P-P-P Poker Face

Turns out Lady GaGa is not appropriate for a 5 and 3 year old to listen to. I did the kid music thing and spent years adoring children’s songs sung by angsty musicians. I rocked out front and center at the "Doodlebops Live." I have loudly and proudly declared, "Laurie has a pig on her head." Frankly, why is it funny to have a pig on your head? Swine flu started because a kid was playing with a fucking pig. He may have had it on his head and now we have a full blown pandemic. More importantly, why didn't I write a song about putting a pig on my head? Or putting a cat on my mom's head? Some days I really do wish my mother had a rabid cat on her head.

In the past couple of years I’ve gotten off track. I rebelled a little. I inched my way back into listening to MY music (except for the Jonai. I will freely admit it’s not mandatory for kids to be present to listen to them.) At first it was adorable hearing my kids sing The Carpenters or the Bee Gees. It’s like when an old person says, "Cocksucker." However, crossing the line has come with a price. When my daughter sang, "Mariana and Moroccan hash have got me stoned" it felt a little wrong but I let it go. However, I recently heard her sing "ride on your disco stick." It’s only a matter of time before she asks me questions. It’ll go something like this, "Mama. Mama. Mama! What’s a disco stick? How do you ride it? Can I ride it? Why can't I ride it?" My son will whine, "I want to ride it too-oo-oooo-oooooooooo." They will start to argue about who gets to ride it first and ask me to set the timer so they can take turns riding it.

I am reminded of the time when my then 2 year olds pre-school teacher asked what kind of music we listen to in the home. I answered, Madonna. She looked at me all judgey and said, "Hmmmm. Just beware of the lyrics." I know how to raise my children. I told her to go fuck herself (in my head.) Looking back I should have headed her warning just a little. I have come to my senses. Sadly Lady GaGa and a few others have been relegated to after hours.

"I won't tell you that I love you. Kiss or hug you. ‘Cause I'm bluffin' with my muffin......"