Will Work For Just Long Enough to Demonstrate My Ineptness

I have had many, many jobs.

I have been a gas station attendant, a dish washer, a car washer, a book store clerk, an art store clerk, an environmental department cubicle dweller, an analytical lab tech chemist type person, a butcher, a baker, a candlestick maker. But the last three I don’t get paid for, since they’re part of my wifely duties.

The thing is, I keep convincing people they should hire me, and these people continue paying me to work for them even after I demonstrate my total lack of common sense or normalcy.

I’m pretty sure if my husband wasn’t financially too invested in me he would upgrade, but I don’t know where else he’d find someone with such diverse experience.

Not only can I pump gas and wash dishes, but I can formulate scathing tongue lashings for the customer service reps that have screwed up our accounts, all while I’m on hold and playing Memory with the kids.  I can analyze our drinking water for lead and also sew buttons back onto pants. I can write copy so hilarious and captivating that it sells a cheap, fake engagement ring on ebay.  I can create truck routing schedules for hazardous waste pick-ups, a task that may seem irrelevant for a mother but believe me…it is not.  I can count minuscule dead minnows in the bottom of a beaker. I can breed actual sea monkeys successfully, and then feed them to the minnows that did not die.  I can fix Gas Cromatograph Mass Spectrometers that cost more than $100,000 each.

But now, my jobs seem so mundane. Wash dishes. Do laundry. Make appointments. Cook supper.

Where’s the glamor?  The money, the glitz? I was destined for greatness, and now I’m…what?

Now I’m a model. A famous woman who is clamored over and stalked and hears my name shouted from everywhere, over and over and over:

“Mommy? Mommy? Mommeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!”

Advertisements

It Takes a Village But Why’s It Gotta Be My Village?

I’ve heard it said that it takes a village to raise a child. This idea was popularized by Hillary Clinton when she named her world domination plan book after the idea, ostensibly an African proverb. While there is some argument about the origin of the phrase, it is in close keeping with many cultural ideas about raising children and as such not worth quibbling over.

The idea is generally that a child’s upbringing should be the responsibility of the entire community, not just the family.  Interestingly, I’m sure most of the people calling for such child-rearing would only have a neighbor influence their child’s development if she was nineteen and came with a foreign accent and references.

I understand the thinking: communities are important to us, our sociological identities are formed within the boundaries of our “villages” and many parents at some time or another need the support of their neighbors or friends.

The problems occur when people refuse to take care of their children and somehow some magic fairy parent in the sky (that would be me) has to swoop in and supervise, referee, and otherwise manage a child not her own.

I live in a neighborhood with issues, and I don’t mean the neighborhood of my brain (this time) for those of you who might make assumptions about such things.

No, this is my legit ‘hood, the place I lay my hat and hang my laundry.  And stuff.

And now that Ethan is old enough to play outside a bit without me, I love it that we have kids around.

Except for this one; I’ll call him, uh…”The Tattler,” or “TT” for short.  He has absolutely no supervision whatsoever.  For a while, in fact, he was escorting his baby sister around.  She’s like eighteen months old, and he just turned five! They would wander the street, often in the street, all day long.

Until now.

Now, he just comes to our house.  All. Day. Long.

At least he leaves his baby sis at home, but he’s a bit of a trouble maker, as anyone who has no guidance in his life is prone to be.  And whenever anything goes wrong he immediately points fingers at the nearest kid. I’m not so naive as to think my kid is never to blame, but I’m equally sure it’s not his fault every time.  So far, we have had glue on the dog, rocks on our porch (lots and lots of rocks), toys broken, and a missing Ethan for a minute because TT convinced him it was okay to cross the street and visit his house.  Heart attack material, I tell you.

I don’t have a problem helping people out when they need it.  It’s great for Ethan to have someone to play with outside.  But a child who is this neglected is so desperately needy. He needs interaction, attention, and a massive amount of guidance on what is considered acceptable behavior.

When I was young and childless, I befriended kids like this. I invited them over, fed them, played with them, read to them.

But the truth is, with my own challenging child to deal with I’m already in over my head.

I’m sure many of you will respond with ideas and advice about how to handle it by giving more of myself.  I’m familiar with this routine. But I’m not willing to sacrifice the little energy I have to raise someone else’s child.

And aside from what I believe should happen (forced sterilization or licensing requirements for reproducing come to mind), I have no idea what to do about this.

Except maybe transport myself back to frontier days. There’s always that.

For My Adoring Fans

I’ve been doing this blog thing for a while now.  Believe it or not, I existed before I was “discovered” by Ram Ventkaartakarawhatever.  But since his comment, I find myself deluged by well-meaning but crazed visitors.

So in the interest of holding their (and your) interest – I bring you a resurrected post from the early days.  Way back in August of 2008.

Enjoy.

The Great Caffeine Crisis of 2009

I was very proud of myself for finding all the necessary pieces of my cappuccino machine this morning.  As you know, if you read this post, this is no small feat.

Of course, it’s not working properly.

And now I’ve spent so much effort putting it together, I no longer have the wherewithall to make coffee.

So due to the lack of caffeine, I will not be posting today.  Check back another time, or bring me some Starlight Cafe goodness.

That is all.

Who Let the Dogs Out

Ethan, the four year old autistic one?  He sometimes acts like he’s a dog.

He flounces around on all fours, barks, and brings stuff to me in his mouth.  He even licks me, but that could just be unresolved oral issues.

I humor him, because I think it could be a useful skill at some point.  You know – “bring me my slippers, honey” or “bite that intruder!”

But now little Beckett is doing it.  He’s only 21 months, and he is so stinkin’ cute with his little puppy noises, I can’t stand it.  He crawls over to me when I sit on the floor and nuzzles his little soft head in my lap and my heart just goes goosh.  So I let him do it, too.

What I’m wondering is, am I helping solidify some kind of maladaptive means of them getting their needs met?  Is Ethan going to bite strangers like he now bites his brother and me?  Is Beckett going to be labeled a weirdo because he wants to be scratched behind the ears by his girlfriend?

These are the things that worry me as a parent.  I don’t want to end up on some National Geographic special with kids that can’t speak but only make barking sounds while bounding around the fenced-in back yard.

But I think the problem has resolved itself.  Tonight they threw cereal around on the floor and got down on their hands and knees to eat it.

And Ethan said, “Look, mom!  We’re chickens!”

This Bra Is Not My Home

How things work.

A while back, I went to this legendary lady, Miss P, at J.C. Penney who measures and fits gals (my gals, in this case) for The Perfect Bra.

This mythical beast is one that doesn’t cause unsightly bulges, add inches to an already ridiculously large chest (why do they sell 40D’s with gel inserts???) or cause upward spillage.

It covers, it forgives, it loves you long time.  It costs a fortune, but you don’t care because it lifts and separates.

After Miss P is done telling you to strip and stand there all half-naked in the bad light and evil mirror of dressing room doom while she does something out there, you know not what, she returns with armloads of brassiers and proceeds to manipulate your flesh in ways I have never before experienced.  I wouldn’t necessarily call it good, either.

By this time, whatever you originally had in the self-esteem department is lying on the floor like so many bitten off hang tags.  There’s nowhere to go but up.

I did not previously realize there are instructions for putting on a bra.  Miss P applied the bra, for there is no other word quite as fitting, then pushed, pulled, stretched and jerked me into it.  This happened a multitude of times.  Did I mention Miss P is a spinster?  Interesting.

When she was finished all this manipulation, she made me demonstrate it. It’s her job to fit women, then make sure her little pets are in capable hands.  When she was assured that I had mastered this task, she loaded me up with said bra and I was on my way.

Now, I have to admit it was worth the humiliation.  They made me look different, better in my clothes, or something unidentifiable.

But I neglegted to tell her that the bra was going to be put through the rigors of a breastfeeding toddler.

The industrial strength monstrosities I ended up with are now tattered, threadbear, missing hooks.  They separate, but I’m not sure lift is still the appropriate word.  Perhaps suspend would be better.

I hoisted up the underwires so many times over the last few months that they are weak and poking out of their channels.  When little one says “milk”, the elastic tries to loosen itself.

Maybe if I wasn’t so cheap I could just buy a really, really good nursing bra.  But I’m so close to the end, I can’t bring myself to do it.

Besides, I have my sights set on something with a little more sex appeal, a little less functionality.  Maybe something a little less JM, a little more MM.

I wish. Except for that whole overdose thing.

Finally! Scatalogical Saturday Has Arrived

Some time ago, a strange gentleman, obviously not a native English speaker, was kind enough to offer to return to my blog for “Scatalogical Saturday.”

I understand he is indisposed at the moment, but perhaps they have wifi that reaches his cell.  I don’t know.

But in honor of his probable return at some future date, I bring you:  poop.

I have refrained from titling this post with that particular word, in hopes that the pervs who constantly found my “to pee or not to pee” entry will not find this one.

See, I deal in poop.  It’s the currency of motherhood, the end result of what moms do.  My little Beckett, who all day long says, “daddydaddydaddydaddy,” when asked, “Who feeds you?”  Replies, “Mahi.”  That’s what my name sounds like when emanating from a beautiful baby named after a morose playwright.

About the poop:  I am a princess!  I am not supposed to be wiping asses and shaking solids into the toilet!  This is not what Disney geared me up for with all those movies.  I mean, hell!  Even Cinderella didn’t have to touch excrement and she was a flouncing* slave!**

So today, daddy comes in with Beckett and tells me, “It’s a big one.”

*Sigh.*

I plunk him in the bathtub to strip him because there’s just no other way to handle these things.  Ethan, being the odd duck that he is, wants to see it, insists on seeing it.

“Oh my god!” he says, and runs off.

Seconds later, he returns with his camera.

“I’ve got to get this on film!”

I’m betting it will never make the Disney cut.

*Flouncing.  Come on, aren’t you tired of freaking?  And frigging is so last decade.

**I am so not a princess.  I’m not even like a baroness twice removed or anything.  I might be a courtier or even a eunuch!  Or maybe I’m getting my terms confused.  Anyway, just so you know, I accept the shit because…wait for it…it happens.