I am Woman Hear Me Complain

Today I am happy to report that Skarloey is alive and well, no thanks to me. Skarloey of course is the name of my beloved 2006 silver Subaru Outback. Yes, I almost killed my car. Apparently cars need you to change the oil somewhat regularly. Which is why I have a husband. To take care of these things. I know that statement sounds sexist, but it's not. Because I can get my own oil changed. I just don't want to. There is a huge difference. I had my oil changed on time for 30-years. Heck when I was single I even changed my own break and head lights. I am woman I can do anything. When I married I happily pushed all of the car duties into my husbands "to do" column. Seriously, I did. I f I have to write all of the thank you notes, and buy all of the presents, he has to do something for me. Doesn't he?

My beloved husband did thankfully agree. He took great care of my cars for many years. Until about a year and a half ago...he staged a kind of protest. He wanted to revisit my feminist ideals concerning premarital car care. All of a sudden the man believes that women should have equality when it comes to car care? He is serious to. He has the nerve to move the car duties back in my "to do" column. this time in permanent black ink.

I was annoyed but my car is low maintenance so I conceded. I can grow people in my womb, I can make life. How hard can it be to take care of a car? We'll pretty easy. So easy that I never gave car care another thought. Until Friday. Friday at around 5:15PM to be exact. Alice and I are in the car parked in our driveway. I turn on the car and put the gear in reverse. But, the gear wouldn't catch. Their was this sounds and a vibration. Like Shzuh-shzuh-shzuh. I could kind of inch forward in drive. Somehow we inched up to the top of our steep driveway. I popped the hood and called my friends to tell them I would be late. One of them, Carol, the one who has three brothers came to help me out. She had a hunch and we checked the oil. We found a smidgen. That's bad. I went into the car and read the little sticker that was put on the windshield the last time I got the oil changed. Hmmm. January my next oil change was supposed to be in January and this is June. Which means that I am an idiot!

Carol and I went in her car to get oil and I Fed Skarloey four quarts. He worked fine after that. I had his oil changed today just to make sure. My Check Engine light is still on, but other than that he is driving fine. Isn't this whole episode just proof that Dave should take care of my car? You'd think so. He was away with our son Dylan camping this weekend and he just got home. I quickly confessed hoping to be done with car care for good. What does my beloved husband say.

"Hmm? Check Engine light is still on? Car runs fine? You are doing much better than I thought you would. Keep up the good work." Damn Feminists!

Berry Me

Every spring I have the same vision, me and my kids out on a local farm spending a fun day picking fruit and making memories. We will live out my childhood dream of being Laura Ingall's. I used to watch Little House in the Prairie after school, from up in my 3rd floor apartment the Prairie life seemed like heaven. Oh how I longed to pick fresh berries and help my momma bake bread from scratch. The little house where the family slept together in lofts seemed so quaint and romantic. My parents lived in different cities and we bought Wonderbread from from a busy supermarket.

Now I am a mom and I refuse to buy Wonderbread and I still have my romantic dreams of simpler times. Last Wednesday was the first Sunny day in a long time. I pack the kids in the car and head out to Jane and Paul's farm to go Strawberry picking. I can't find the cute little wicker baskets that we used for Easter. I end up grabbing the kid's sand pails. Their over sized bright plastic pails. The pails clash with my vision, but on the drive I can still imagine us in the strawberry patch, smiling in the sunshine, filling the pails with perfect red berries.



We get to the farm check in at the farm stand and then go out to pick strawberries. The sun is shining, the fields looks green and lush from all of the days of rain. I look at my kids running towards the beautiful rows of strawberries, the green fields on this perfect farm on this perfect day, and I let out a satisfied sigh. I can picture the three of us on TV running down the hill with the Ingall's family like in the opening credits of the show. Screaming shrill voices jolt me out of my day dream. My kid's are fighting over the row of strawberries. Do they each need their own row?

A few minutes into the picking the dream is gone. Alice is picking white and bug infested fruit and when I try to help her she yells. "No momma my bucket!" and runs away almost knocking over another kid and his mom. Dylan is a picking machine and yells over to me that he is going to fill his pail. I estimate that his huge pail will easily hold about twenty pounds of strawberries.

"Dylan do not fill that pail. That's too many strawberries."

"No it's just enough."

"Dylan you don't even like strawberries."


"I know, I just like to pick them." He quickly throws three more berries into his bucket and runs away. I am now chasing Dylan down the other row trying to stop him from picking more.
After yelling at and running after the kids trying to prevent them both from picking berries we are finished. We have spent about 15 minutes at the farm and I am exhausted and my hands are red from grabbing strawberries from their baskets. We walk back up to the stand and I pay $11.25 for 2 pounds of unripe-spoiled fruit and shattered dreams. There is always next year,

Bad As a Mothah

I never liked kids I never got all sappy over babies. I hated baby-sitting I just put up with the kids so I could fill my face with junk food and watch cable TV. When I was a twenty-something I would daily shoot nasty looks at moms wrangling with cranky toddler in stores. I was there to shop in peace not there to listen to their obnoxious spoiled kid wale. Why can't parents control their damn kids. I would think as I shot them daggers while squeezing the peaches. I would be dragged to baby showers by my mother. I would sit in the back by the drinks. I would smile and oh and ah as I drank Bloody Marys like a drunken sailor. Behind my serene smile I was thinking, "Can we cut the damn cake already some of have a life!"

I was in my twenties. I had passion. I was a writer, a singer, a photographer, and an artist. I hung out at coffee houses and made big plans. I was going to-experience everything. I was going devour the world and capture it's essence with my pen, paints, and film.

10 Years later I was married, had a full time job, and I pregnant with my son Dylan. I was terrified. First of all I knew that there was a chance that I would eat my young, as some mammals do. I was also frightened that being a mother would feel like a babysitting job where the parents never come home. What if I hated being a mother? Once the baby is born their is no 30 day warranty. You birth it it's yours. At the hospital they even tag the babies so you can't try and switch up. You cant trade your colicky one for a nice quiet one.

You have heard of the miracle of child birth? For me the miracle happened before Dylan was born. I felt this yearning. This uncontrollable feeling of a love greater than love, that started in my big toe and spread through my body until I was under it's spell. This feeling greater than love sealed my soul to this unborn child. This child became my whole world and I happily surrendered everything that I ever was or would be to them. I was starting on the most important adventure of my life. The miracle of birth...a mother was born.

I know! I was shocked too. I was a very self absorbed and selfish person! They must have been some super charged mommy hormones. The moment I held Dylan in my arms I felt like my life truly began. If someone would have said that to me before I was a mom I would have barfed. I would still kill a black bear with my hands to save my kids. That is if I don't kill them myself first. Here is the deal. That was six years ago and now I have two terrors trashing my house and everyday driving me one street closer to the lunatic asylum. That's why I am writing this today the 8th rainy day out of my son's summer vacation. To remember why I let these people move in here and turn my life upside down.

A Miracle on Longobardi Dr.

Yesterday my daughter walks into the computer room with glistening wet legs. She struts over to where I am using the computer and points her toe and fully displays her leg for me in the light.

"Look momma! I washa-wit-iceream" she chirps with glee. "With what?" I ask.
"Iceream. She repeats. "I wash-ana-playroom I crean."
I jump up and run down the hall into the play room where I find a half empty McDonald's Sundae cup laying on the couch. Melted ice cream is all over the couch, the rug, and the throw blanket.

I turn to see Dylan sitting quietly on the rug on the other side of the room playing with his trains.

"Dylan?" I ask calmly.
"Yeah."
"Did you notice that your sister was eating in the play room?"
"Yeah".
"Did you notice that she was eating ice cream?"
"Yeah."
"Honey, did you notice that she was slathering her sundae all over her legs?"
"Yeah."
"THEN WHY DIDN'T YOU COME GET ME!" I yell. Sending his little body into a spasm sending the train is his hand flying across the room. He looks up at me in fear, like a turtle about to be smashed under a truck.
"What?" I give him the nasty mother glare. The glare that says if you don't say something better than that your little life is in danger.
"What?....sorry, but I don't know...what am I supposed to say?"
"You are supposed to yell. 'Mommy! Come here Alice is making a mess'".
"Oh...okay. Sorry."
"That's okay this time, but seriously the next time can you please help me out?"

I believe that I have had this conversation with my son at least 4 times a day everyday since Alice started walking. Alice could have a chainsaw in her hand and the boy wouldn't come get me. She could be playing with lighter fluid and a lit torch and he wouldn't even bat an eye lash. I don't know if he is lazy, or if he loves to see his kid sister in trouble? Or is he just practicing to be a husband? I don't know.

A few hours later the kids are watching the Wizard Of Oz and I am cooking dinner. All of a sudden I hear a miracle. I hear Dylan screaming at the top of his lungs. "Mommy! Mommy! Alice has scissors! Come here Mommy!"

I drop my zucchini and dash into the living room where Alice is cutting a big chunk of her hair off with her little pink toddler scissors. I grab the scissors in one hand and loose hair in the other. Disaster averted. Well almost averted. She did manage to cut off a good sized wedge of hair, but since her hair is thick and wavy like mine you can't really tell.

My son Dylan saves the day. My son actually listened to me and did what I asked. I feel like this momentous occasion needs to be commemorated in some way? Perhaps we can get the Vatican to come validate and recognize this miracle of parenting for the history books? Perhaps it's just enough to write the story here on this blog for all to see. Let it be known that on this date in 2009, Tuesday, the 16th of June, my son Dylan, listened to his mother and with out nagging or reminding, did what she asked him to do.

Motherhood Unlpugged

I hear the familiar sound echoing down the hall and bouncing off the walls of the stairway. "MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM" He screams.

"Stop screaming!" I yell up the stairs.
"I need your help! Please come up here!"
"Only if you stop screaming!" He comes to the top of the stairs and smiles his beautiful boy smile.
"Please? Please my darling?" I am still not sure how a nerd like me gave birth to the Fonz.

I walk upstairs and he leads me by the hand into his room and to the problem. His new Lightning McQueen radio.

"See Momma." He turns a nob. "It's not working."
"Oh I see."
"I have tried everything. I have a CD in there see." He pulls up the lid and I see his favorite "Pirates That Don't Do Anything" CD. "I have the thingy on CD." I look and see the player is set to the CD function. "I have the power button on." I see yes, the power button is on. "I have the antenna up as high as it goes." He indeed does have the antenna up.

I look down and see the plug dangling off the end of his bureau. I smile and say as seriously as possible.
"Um Sweetie? Perhaps you need to plug it in."

Flaming Idiot

This afternoon at about 4:30 I am boiling water, for pasta.

You know what they say about a watched pot never boiling. I understand I can't work when people stare over my shoulder either. I do hate to micromanage so I leave the water and the pot alone to boil in private. I go into the other room to start my blog. I sit down and type a few words when I smell something burning. I run out into the kitchen to find the days mail smoldering on the stove! Earlier I had dropped the mail on the counter, but half of it is on the stove's front burner. We have one of those flat top stoves. I didn't move the mail because I was boiling water on the back burner. The mail should have been fine on the front. Too bad that I have actually turned on the front burner. This is not fine. This is in fact a smoldering fire hazard.

The kitchen is filled with smoke. The mail pile is blackening and disintegrating at a rapid pace. I swoop in and snatch the smoldering mail off of the hot burner and fling it out side on to the porch and stomp the flames out. The worst damage is to a Fortune magazine and a large manila envelope addressed to my husband from his 91-year-old grandmother. She has been sending him lots of articles on resume writing and job searching these days. I am relieved that nothing important has been ruined.

I turn over the Manila envelope on the porch to make sure that all of the burning has ceased and a note falls out. The paper is singed but legible. The note reads: "Hi Dave, Linzee and George have been helping me clean out my family memories files. Here are some things that I have been saving for you. Much Love, Granny."

My eyes bug out as I take a closer look at the contents of the envelope. These are not current newspaper articles. These articles are 20 years old they are dated 1984 and 1987. Their is a program from a dinner awards night from 1991. I start to hyperventilate. No this can't be. I am a horrible wife! I have just burned up my husband's priceless childhood memories!

I am a flaming idiot!

Who's Afraid of the Tooth Fairy?

Yesterday my son Dylan lost his first tooth. Such a milestone for a six-year-old boy and especially his parents. The boy's loose tooth pops out while he is trying to separate two pieces of Lego using his teeth. He screams for joy and runs into the kitchen to show me his treasure. We dance, sing, and jump up and down. Then we run upstairs to show Daddy the tooth and celebrate all over again. Then we call Grandma and Noni to tell them the good news and celebrate again and again. Dylan is so happy. He has been waiting to loose a tooth all school year. Now here he is jumping up and down on our bed in pure bliss shouting. "I lost a tooth! The Tooth Fairy is coming to my house!" At the word Tooth Fairy Dave and I both look at each other in horror. Tooth Fairy! Oh no.

Later in the afternoon Dave pulls me into the bathroom and closes the door. "What are we going to do about the Tooth Fairy?" He asks.
"Call the exterminator?" I reply.
"Lydia I am serious. Do we do it tonight? How much money do we leave? Should we put it in a sock?...."
"Hey! Slow down Sparky. I haven't even thought about the amount yet... Wait! Did you say a sock?" I ask.
"Yes, in my family we put the tooth in a sock."
"In a sock?"
"Yes in a sock. You know...You put the money in one sock and the tooth in the other then you swap it out." He says pantomiming the swap.
"A sock?"
"Yeah. The kid puts the tooth in one sock, then you give him the sock with the money to put under his pillow."
"What if he looks in the sock before he puts it under his pillow?"
"No, I never did that."
"Dylan will."
"Yeah, hmm, I'll let you handle the logistics of that. How much should we give?"
"A dollar?"
"That sounds good."
"Do you have dollar?"

We are both in there for about ten minutes trying to figure this Tooth Fairy thing out. Like with the introduction of all of the other fictitious characters that inhabit our kid's childhoods. We just don't want to screw this up. This one is the hardest so far. We have to sneak into the boy's room and put our hand under his head twice with out waking him up. What if he wakes up and catches us in the act. He will realize that the Tooth Fairy is a lie. Then he'll realize that Santa must be a lie too, and the Easter Bunny, and the Leprechauns, and all of the others. With one wrong move we could implode all of his magical childhood beliefs. We could damage him and ruin his chances of getting into a good college and of living a happy life.

That night, the tooth is in a box safely under the sleeping boy's pillow, Dave finds me down stairs nervously eating cheese puffs right from the bag.
"Honey, aren't you going to do the Tooth Fairy?"
"No." I crunch on a puff.
"Come on. It's time." I wipe my orange fingers on a napkin and Dave hands me the folded dollar bill. I walk up the stairs and into the hallway. I stare though the boys open bedroom door. His sister is sleeping on the floor next to his bed. I sneak in making sure not to step on her. I lean over his bed I slip my hand under the pillow and take out the little wooden box. The box slips from my fingers and falls hard onto his bed frame making a big crashing sound. I cringe and freeze. I look down at him holding my breath to see that the boy has not even moved. His sister opens her eyes then closes them and rolls to her other side and falls back asleep. I open the box make the switch and run out of there.

Dave meets me in the hallway.

"How did it go?"He asks.
"Piece of cake. I don't know why you were so worried."