Boy Rhymes With Joy...Girl Rhymes with......

In case you are new to my posts…

Frank and I have two children, the older one, Scott, 13, is a dream child.

Scott was such a blessing that we couldn’t wait to have more children, we prayed and prayed (among other things…) and when praying and other things didn’t work, we went through IVF.Twice.

And got Hannah. Hannah is now almost six years old.

The fact that I prayed so much (among other things…) begged, pleaded and would’ve sold my soul to Satan (or my mother...or my trainer...or my 7th grade Science teacher...)for this child, then, at the end, empty my bank account all while getting around 300 painful shots, well…

That should’ve told me something about this child who was coming.

Ten and a half pounds of huge, demanding baby girl graced my life in March of 2004.

I have been a slave ever since.

Frank has been a slave ever since.

Scott has been a slave ever since.

Hell, the dog has been a slave ever since…

When Scott was little, I'd say “Boy rhymes with Joy!” every single morning when he woke up. This is in sharp contrast to what I say to his sister, which is something along the lines of “How may I serve you today?” I’m pretty sure that girl rhymes with…… Frank.

Blogging Hannah and Frank is a form of therapy for me. It’s blogging or heavy drinking…so here I am. I’m not sure which one is more demanding. I’ve devoted many posts to Frank, this one I dedicate to his spawn…I mean, ahem…..daughter. Our daughter:

I picked her up from school yesterday. She’s always so happy to see me in the pickup line, then once the van door slides closed it’s:

“Where’s my snack?”

“I didn’t bring it today because we’re going straight home.” A four minute drive. This makes her very, very unhappy. “How was your day?”

“AWFUL! YOU HAVEN’T TAUGHT ME ABOUT PENNIES!”

“What?”

“THE PENNIES, YOU HAVEN’T TAUGHT ME ABOUT THE PENNIES OR THE NICKLES OR THE DIMES, EITHER!”

“Okay…” Sometimes we have good Hannah days, sometimes bad, our path today is clear.

“MOM, EVERYBODY ELSE KNOWS ABOUT THE PENNIES BUT ME. AND YOU HAVEN’T EVEN TAUGHT ME TO TIE MY SHOES, EITHER!” No pennies, no shoe tying, my kid is being denied. I hope no one from Child Protective Services reads this, I might get arrested.

“Okay, Hannah, when we get home we’ll learn about pennies, nickels, dimes and quarters.” I dread it as soon as it leaves my mouth, as I know this lesson will not go well.

For me.

So we get home, get the snack, she changes clothes (twice) and we head for the living room for a lesson in money.

I grabbed a handful of change and dropped it on the floor. She immediately begins to sort it and here’s how: By beauty. She likes dimes best because she thinks they have a flower bouquet on the back, so she takes those out first then arranges them from most shiny to least shiny. Nickels are next, followed by pennies and quarters are last because they’re “just big and ugly compared to the other ones.”

I write the following on the dry erase board:



Pennies = 1 cent = 1 Penny
Nickels = 5 cents = 5 Pennies
Dimes = 10 cents = 10 Pennies
Quarters = 25 cents = 25 Pennies

I ask her to identify by name one of each coin. She does. I explain the chart to her, she sort of listens. Just sort of… Then I ask her:

“How many of these (pennies) does it take to equal one of these (nickels)?”

“One.”

I point to my handy chart on the dry erase board. “Try again.” I say.

“What?”

“How many pennies does it take to equal one nickel?”

“Two.”

At first I am thinking that this is so mind-numbingly boring that she just doesn’t care at all and therefore she must be more like me than I thought. To say that I have no concept of money as equaling money and not just plastic in my wallet would be an understatement. But (and this hurts my head…it’s really, really hard for me to think about this…) what would Frank say?

“Hey, Frank, how many pennies does it take to equal a nickel?”

“Two.”

This is hypothetical, of course….but let’s apply this example to a real-life scenario that Frank might find himself in. Frank likes to buy things from The Advertiser:

“Um, yeah, I’m calling about your lawn tractor for sale in The Advertiser.”

“Yes?”

“You still got it?” (Of course he’s still got it, Frank knows the store locations in Tallahassee that get The Advertiser first. He’s usually waiting on it and has it hours before everyone else.)

“Yes.”

“I see here that you’re asking $500 for it, but would you take $200?”

“No.”

“Well, what about $300, would you take $300 for it if I come out right now with cash?”

And at this point, the seller may or may not be willing to be told that his nickel is equal to either two or three of Frank’s pennies. It’s Flynn-math. Of course Flynn-math only works one direction. There will be an ad on Craig’s List within one hour for the same tractor, only it will be in there for $600. And if you want to buy it, you better bring at least $500. So, one way or another, three pennies is equal to a nickel using Flynn-math.

So where does this leave me?

She’s beautiful, she’s tall, she gets what she wants, she’s good with both numbers and money as completely separate entities.

And she’s actually a very sweet kid, but only when she wants to be.

I’m raising a future CEO, who could moonlight as a model.

And if she doesn’t put me in the nuthouse now, maybe she’ll put me in a penthouse later.

The Wizard of Oz

"Why are you watching this?" Frank has walked into the den. I am watching TV.

"Because it's on."

"My favorite part is when the witch flies by her window in the house." Frank says.

"Yeah, there's probably not a kid in America that wasn't scared of that."

Silence, while we watch and Hannah screams for a cup of water from her bedroom. It's 8pm and I have just tuned into The Wizard of Oz.

"Do you think they filmed the first part before color TV, then color came out while they were filming?" Frank asks.

Okay, stop here for just a second. Frank is almost 51 years old and works in TV sales. He is college educated. I find, given these prerequistes, that this question is odd.

"No, I think this was done on purpose."

"Do you think it was colorized?"

"No. I think it was filmed part black and white (actually, it's sepia...) and part color. On purpose."

"Why would they do that?" Frank cannot imagine why anyone, anyone would choose to do anything in black and white. Just like a rainy day or winter as an entire season. He wouldn't choose it. He's a sunny, happy, colorful person. I, however, can be quite dark, so I enjoy a small dose of all three.

"To make the Land of Oz look spectacular, you know, by contrast."

"Oh. Makes sense."

Silence...commercial....give Hannah some water. It comes back on.

"Do you think this was filmed in the same studio as Willie Wonka?" I ask.

"No." He has no doubt about that.

"Why not? I mean, it looks exactly the same." I am noticing the little streams that run through Munchkinland, they remind me of the Chocolate River.

"No." He's so sure that I no longer question it.

Silence while we watch, Glenda appears.

"She is so beautiful." I say.

"They both are." He's referring to Glenda and Dorothy, not Glenda and The Witch.

Silence while we watch, Glenda is talking, then she summons the Munchkins to come out of hiding and meet Dorothy. Glenda and two or three female Munchkins are in the shot.

"I wish I had a dress like that." I say, just like any female, we covet that dress.

"Why?"

"Because it's beautiful?" (Seriously?)

"It'd be too small for you." And, because I am used to his sneaky, weight-related insults, I still don't question his thinking. "Besides, where would you wear it?"

"How do you know it'd be too small?" Of course, it would be too small, of course....Glenda's probably about 5'10" and a healthy size two.

"Because she's a midget!"

I am absolutely, positively baffled here. There is Glenda, plus three girl Munchkins on the screen. Glenda has a gorgeous, sparkly, peach colored, poofy-sleeved, all-out amazing gown with a matching crown and sparkly, magic wand, and the three Munchkins are wearing these little Dutch-looking plaid jumpers, they may or may not have been wearing clogs, they did, indeed, have matching bonnets, not crowns and definitely no magic wands....and he thinks I want the jumper with the bonnet and possible clogs, no wand. HE THINKS I WANT THE JUMPER!

This doesn't say much for his interpretation of my wardrobe. Or my fashion sense, of which, of course, I have none, so no wonder he assumed I'd want the sensible jumper. Now, Christi, on the other hand....nobody would question which dress she'd want. I'm surprised she doesn't already have this item in her closet. In three colors.

"Frank, there are four women on the screen. Out of those four women, you think I want to dress like the Munchkins?"

"Well you didn't say that until the Munckins came out."

"Oh." (makes sense....me, 5'9", Munchkins, 3'1".....) "Well, I want the Glenda dress."

"Where would you wear it?" A practical question, so he's asked it twice.

"The grocery store."

Silence while we watch and I contemplate what it'd be like to wear that dress to the grocery store. I am watching Glenda on the screen, it has to be about four or five feet wide, but it's not that deep. I'm trying to imagine what that crinoline (the slip underneath that makes the dress so full) looks like. I'm pretty sure I could negotiate the Publix aisles if I turned to the side when someone passed. The parking lot could be tricky....Please take a minute to imagine me, with that getup, including wand, crown and my Louis Vuitton on my gloved arm, turning to the side to try to squeeze in my van, when a giant Escalade has parked too close. Imagine me cussing in all that glitter. All you could see over the top of the offending Escalade would be the tip of my crown and the tip of my wand.

This thought also takes me back to my first prom, back in April 1983, when I had a crinoline that looked like Gone with the Wind (the age of Gunne Sax...) and my friend Nancy had to shove both it and me (two separate entities, functioning as one) into a bathroom stall just so I could potty. When sitting, the crinoline snuck up around your head, covering your eyes, making this task slightly dangerous. You don't think about bathrooms when choosing a dress like that. (I mean, why would you?) Crinoline was leaking all under the door and into the next stall, but of course, everyone's, was. We looked like an ocean of Ready Whip, oozing out of every nook and cranny of the CCHS gym bathroom.

We watch the Munchkins sing, the Munchkin Coroner declare the witch "officially dead," the Munchkin Mayor give Dorothy some thanks, then The Lollipop Guild give her a lollipop bouquet. I sing along to The Lollipop Guild.

"Do you think those are midgets or kids?" Frank asks.

"I think they're all midgets."

"Well, today they'd just take one midget and multiply him fifty times using special effects."

"You think?" (That's original.)

"Yeah, probably so."

At this point, The Wicked Witch of the West has appeared.

"She was a perfect witch." Frank says.

"She sure was."

"She was in lots of movies."

"I don't remember her in any other movies." I'm not disputing him. Frank is a little older, so he definitely could've seen her in other movies that I didn't see.

Silence.

"She was burned really badly while filming this, I think I read that somewhere." I say.

"I didn't know that."

"Yeah. She spent a lot of time recovering during filming."

(And we spent the rest of the movie guessing which scene it could have been. There were lots of opportunities. At one point she threw a ball of fire at The Scarecrow. Could've been then.)

"She's about to look for the Ruby Slippers." I say

"I like it when the feet curl up and disappear." (I like it when I see a glimpse of Frank as a kid...this movie makes him about eight years old, instantaneously.)

"I've seen the Ruby Slippers in person. They're at The Smithsonian in Washington."

"Hmmm...."

"You can walk right up to them, but they're in a glass case." (Otherwise they'd have been on my feet.)

"Hmmm...."

"They are just that beautiful." (Cursed these adult thoughts...frickin' fires, museums, midget-casting, midget multiplying, colorization....can't we just enjoy the movie?)

Silence, then commercial.

"It was all a dream." Frank says.

"That's just a misconception. Everybody thinks the writer dreamed it, because he made it a dream."

"Yeah, you're probably right."

Lacye and I used to watch this every Easter and my grandparent's house, afterwards, we'd try to fall asleep so we could have a great dream, to make into a beautiful movie. We were convinced that that was all it was, a really great dream. A really lucky dream.

And as an adult, I know this one thing to be true, it was WAY MORE than a lucky dream. I know this from writing these blogs and how hard it is to come up with material, to try to make it creative. And in writing my blog posts, always, always, ALWAYS....the most difficult part is the ending. I have to somehow tie it in with the beginning, so here's how I'm gonna do it today:

(ummmm.........)

And since I typed that paragraph, I've given it three different endings....I've talked about the movie and how it's impacted our culture, the difference in watching it as an adult and as a child, but the only really genuine, Paige Flynn ending I can come up with is

"Does anybody know where I can get that dress?"

Kids and Commitments: Lessons and Sports

My kids and commitments are a bad combination. I had a conversation with someone from Hannah’s dance school this morning that went like this:

“Mrs. Flynn?” (When I hear those words, I aught to just hang up…no good conversation ever begins this way……)

“Yes?”

“Mrs, Flynn, this is Mrs. so and so from Hannah's dance school.”

“Yes?” (Cursed this Bluetooth, I can’t see who’s calling me and I can never locate my phone…)

“Has Hannah been attending dance class?” I’m not putting blame on her here, however,shouldn’t she know this?

“No.”

“When was she last there?”

“October.”

“I show that you’re paid through October.”

“Yes.”

“And she hasn’t been in nearly four months?”

“No.” (Again, it’s me to blame….but it hurts my feelings just a teensy bit to know that they didn’t notice. In nearly four months. It’s quite possible that Hannah knew this. I don’t think they engaged her in any way…)

Awkward silence…..she says nothing….I continue:

“I’m sorry, I should’ve called…” (but I’m taking the completely cowardly route here and thought it best to let you notice and call me….which you are, right now, at 8:30 a.m. It’s unpleasant…)

“Yes, you should have, I sent you a bill yesterday and it’s for a costume for the recital. We ordered a costume for her.”

“Well, you shouldn’t have done that, I got the letter and didn’t order it.”

“We order them for all the girls.”

Silence here while I try to recall the letter, it seems I remember it saying something like “order before the deadline….” or something like that….I threw it away…

It is now a silence standoff. One I wish I wasn’t having because (a) it is my first out of home conversation of the day, and (b) I had high hopes for dance class. I loved it.

For a minute…

I spent September and October begging her to attend, November and December bribing her to attend, and January trying to avoid the thought that I have thrust into the world….another….

commitment-phobe.

I’ve already produced one, but this kid was gonna be my dancer (or soccer player, tennis player, runner, something, something, SOMETHING…..show me some PASSION…I‘m not saying be GOOD at it)! It is also noteworthy here to know that she asked to take these lessons….she couldn’t wait…

I see kids obligating themselves to sports or music all the time. Will someone tell me how? What is the parental magic formula here?

I think back to the nightmare that is Scott, my (now) 13 year old. We started with soccer,because every kid loves soccer. Seriously, it never, ever crossed my mind that we wouldn’t make this work. So far I’d been a cookie-cutout Mom….seemed like soccer would be the next step, he didn’t have to be good, he just had to show up, learn to be part of a team, meet kids, have fun….

Ummmm…..

No.

You know the expression “out in left field?” Look it up in Webster’s and there you’ll see a picture of my kid’s soccer (baseball, football….) experience. He was “on a team” with a group of other five year olds. I was getting to know the mothers, which is tough for me because as much as I enjoy engaging people with writing, I’m not much of a conversationalist. It didn’t take long for this to turn into pure drudgery.

There was one time when he’d wandered so far away from the actual lesson (or is it practice?) that he couldn’t even hear the coach call him, then yell at him. The other mothers around me looked at me sympathetically and I said “Guess I better go get him…” So, I took the parental walk of shame to fetch my kid, while all the other mothers looked on, just happy to not be me. He had acquired both an errant soccer ball and a flower for me by the time I got to him and led him back up to the pack.

Clearly, it was hard to be angry. He was five and he picked Mommy a flower.

I sat back down on the bleachers with my treasure and counted down the minutes until we could leave.

Soccer only went south from there, then, thankfully, we quit.

If soccer was bad, football was much, much worse.

He did the same thing, only this time I had to sit in the stands (well, not actually sit…) with his new baby sister. I don’t think I ever saw a play because baby sister was quite demanding… Scott wishy-washied himself all the way through a (one season in, one season out, one season in…..) flag football situation. He missed nearly every practice and Frank ended up in countless conversations with coaches, all of whom tried to work with him.

They must’ve been shocked when he showed up for tackle football in middle school.

I know I was.

Again, the begging and pleading to “skip” practices…”I have a headache.” “I have a stomach ache,” “I have too much homework.” “I’m not sure I want to play football at all…” Really? Ya don’t say…

Baseball with the same child was a complete nightmare because by this time, baby sister was a demanding toddler and the Tallahassee temperatures, in the direct sun, were 1000 degrees. This coach put him so far out in left field that I actually took a picture of him, completely turned the wrong direction, picking up trash.

During an actual game.

Bear in mind here that my husband is a competitive athlete. In three sports, so of course the whole “non-committal fail” rests entirely with me, I mean, what am I good at?

I took dance.

I took piano.

I can’t dance.

I’m not too good on the piano…

…and I think I may have taken that for five years. (Five years of begging, pleading, faking sick….and lying to my teacher every single lesson about practicing. She drew handy little charts on each piece of music and I’d lie every single week. Had I practiced as much as I said I did, I’d be a concert pianist right now. I couldn’t even play the first few notes and week after week,year after year, I never made it past level two…)

The only way I can play now is by ear, which is okay….but I could do that back then.

So here I sit in a “tutu situation.” I’m looking forward to getting the bill in the mail.

And I’m left to ponder it….if you know the answer, please enlighten me…My mother forced me to attend lessons that I loathed. I did not force my children to go back once they decided they didn’t like it. To force or not to force? Either way, in this situation, the outcome was exactly the same.

Oh, well, it is what it is….I’m not gonna have an athlete or a musician, no biggie. I’ll embrace what is good and that is plenty….they’re sweet, smart, courteous and funny.

and they love their Mamma…even though I’m not an athlete or a musician…

and they love their Daddy, and it’s not because he is.

I think we can all live with that

Anniversary of Disaster Day, February 12th 2010

Good Lord, how far back yesterday do I go to start this? I could start with first thing in the morning…On a day that is 37 degrees and raining, with 37 and raining being the forecast for the day….I should’ve known.

It was an omen.

I should’ve gone back to bed…

Oh, for a re-do…

I went to Wal-Mart in aforementioned bad weather for Valentine supplies. I got all kinds of creative things to produce beautiful Valentines; construction paper, glue, scissors, glitter hearts, markers…

Silk rose petals which I scattered all over the floor for Hannah (my kindergartener) when she walked in from school….

Why, why, why do I do these things? Why? Don‘t I know these things never go as planned? Why don‘t I just cut my losses and throw fifty dollars out of my van window and go back home, prop up my feet and watch The Young And The Restless like a proper housewife….

Here’s why I do it. Because I am delusional…I see this as precious memory-making. I see it as setting up a scene. I see it as fun. And pretty…I like the artwork.

But…..Frank sees this as a mess.

And the possibility that all this mess actually cost him money today. To him, this defies logic. It is just plain stupid to arm kids with scissors, glue, paper, markers and paint when we seem to be continuously embroiled in battle with them in the ongoing War of Tidy. It’s like giving your enemy a hand grenade when all you’ve got is a water gun.

He comes home from work to find Hannah, Ashlyn, Ansley and Averey cutting, gluing, drawing, ….arguing….fighting…at our kitchen table.

Frank: 1, Paige: 0, (Kids: 1,000)

He looks at me and says “What the hell is that?” He has gotten out the broom, on his crutches and is sweeping up the silk hearts and putting them in the trash, which sends Hannah into a tantrum.

“That is Valentine-making. Lighten up will you?” I take the broom and dustpan from his hands and start picking rose petals out of the trash.

And he does lighten up, he walks over and inspects their masterpieces. Sometimes I find that Frank is like a TV and all I have to do is switch his channel and everything’s fine. I have to “tweak” him a little…

He compliments each one of the girls and then reminds me that our dinner reservation is at 7:30. We are going out to dinner tonight to celebrate a disaster, which is the 10th anniversary of his motorcycle accident. That accident is the reason he is on crutches today, a follow up surgery to the first one. The accident profoundly changed our marriage...for the better....however......

Never celebrate the anniversary of a disaster.

~~~~~

We arrive at the restaurant and a valet takes the car. We walk into the lobby of the Hotel Duval and I proceed to walk in the direction in Don Shula’s, which is on the right. Frank grabs my arm and says: “No, tonight we’re going this way, they’ve opened up a new section, there’s a piano over there.” So we walk to the left where we are met by a hostess who asks our name and tells us they’ve been waiting for us. Of course, to know us is to wait for us, we’re never on time for anything.

Anyway, this is nice, it’s good to be anticipated, made to feel welcome…I love this place.

She leads us to a table that is…..

Right on top of four other people.

You know the situation where there is one long seat along a wall and they place tables in front of it? Well, we were all there together, cozy… Those people didn’t want us sitting there any more than we wanted to sit there. I could hear every single word they were saying and vice versa, which meant that I couldn’t ask the hostess for another table.

Because they’d hear me.

I’m going to need a glass of wine for this…I open the wine list, order a glass and wait on it’s arrival. Frank tries to stay positive in spite of the crappy table. There is an identical wall directly across from us with the same setup and no one is seated over there. It’s empty…

but not for long...

The waiter returns with the drinks and Frank attempts small talk while the waiter pours.

“This side is nice, we’ve never been over here before.”

“Yeah, we had lots of reservations this weekend, so we opened it up for the commoners.”

What? What did he just say?

Was that a joke?

Did he just say “commoners?”

What’s a “commoner” and do we qualify as such? Do these people sitting in incredibly close proximity to me qualify as well? I look over at them, just to assess their “commonness” and note that all the “special people” are apparently sitting in the restaurant across the lobby. We were not “high fallutin” enough to be seated with those folks. I actually thought I looked good tonight, almost thin…

Guess we missed the turn into the Golden Corral and ended up at this place.

About 30 minutes after we’d gotten there, a couple walked past our table, whom we know, Matt and Elizabeth are their names…we chatted, they walked off to their table.

A few minutes after that, a man walks in with five young women, between the ages of maybe 28-32, all of them dressed to the nines, all of them beautiful. Frank didn’t even try to hide the fact that he turned his entire body around, cast and all….to get a good look, particularly at a stunning blonde, who enjoyed his attention.

I did not enjoy it.

They were seated in the vacant seats across from us, dramatically increasing the value of the real estate. For Frank...

We got the bill, that friggin’ glass of wine was fourteen dollars, Frank tried to argue, to no avail…I’m 42 and am pretty sure that was the most expensive drink I’ve ever had, the cost of the beverage obviously being positively correlated with my need for it…

We paid.

We left.

At this point, I was seriously wondering how this day could get worse…

Frank called home to check on the kids. I hear him talking with Chelsea, our sitter.

“She did what?….And they came?…..What’d they say to her?”

And of course, overhearing that exchange….

“GIVE ME THE PHONE!!! Chelsea, what happened?”

“Well, Hannah called 911. And they came…”

“WHAT?”

“Paige, I am so sorry, I saw her sitting there holding the phone, but she never talked to anybody then she just hung it up.”

“Good Lord.”

“He wasn’t very nice.”

“I don’t blame him.”

“I know, but he REALLY wasn’t very nice.”

“How?”

“He told her ‘Some cops like kids. I’m NOT one of them.”

“Did you get his name?” At this point I am boiling over with anger…Don’t get me wrong, I understand that he had MUCH better things to do than visit my home on a Friday night. Hannah was reprimanded for the 911 call from us…and for what it’s worth, I assumed that this 911 lesson had been learned in school, so I immediately started cursing the school because I should have been told about this, so that I could explain that she should NEVER call 911 unless it is a REAL emergency…I was so mad at the school. I was so mad at the police officer…

But only for a minute as ignorance is bliss….oh for a re-do…

When we got home, we heard the story from Chelsea, Scott and Hannah, who went from a villain to a victim in a matter of minutes, I am now trying to console her. She told me that the officer told her “it was her fire morning.”

“Fire morning?”

“Fire warning, Mamma.”

“Fire warning, fire warning….Hannah, do you think it might have been ‘final warning?’”

“Oh yeah, final warning.” That. Is. It…I cannot imagine her fear at this intimidating sight, a kindergartener on the wrong side of the law.

“By the way, where’d you learn about 911?” Now remember, I’m expecting her to say “at school…,” my blissful ignorance ending in three...two....one.....

“You know, Mamma, the song…”

“What song?”

And through sniffles and tears, she attempts to sing: “Somebody call 9-1-1, Shorty’s fire is burning on the dance floor, oh-whoa-ooohhhh…”

Blissful ignorance is now over…I have that song on a dance playlist on my ipod that I let Ashlyn, Ansley, Averey and Hannah dance to.

I am the source of the problem.

Of course….

And again, it’s only 11:00pm, we are home, I am wondering if this day can get any worse…I mean we do still have one hour left…

We went to bed.

Frank is reading and I am fuming, reliving the whole 10th anniversary of the disaster, disaster. I am remembering the restaurant and the“commoner” comment…so I ask Frank “I still don’t get the ‘commoner’ thing, I mean, do we look like ‘commoners?’”

And brace yourself for the perfect ending of Anniversary of Disaster Day…

“Well, I was there and Matt, and those girls were there…” I abso-freakin’lutely cannot believe he has said this. If only he were as smart as he is good-looking…

“What about Elizabeth?” I dare not mention me…yet…

“Well, Elizabeth looks like a wife.”

“A wife?”

“You know, a mother, but that’s okay.” Really? Ya reckon? I mean, should Elizabeth and I have worn something strapless or short or very, very tight like the tarts with the man? In ten years are those women still gonna be smoking hot or will they miraculously turn into wives and mothers as well?

And I thought I looked good….I guess I did, for a 42 year old wife.

Let’s tally my score sheet for today:

Get up.

Shop for Valentine crap thus uselessly spending money a.k.a. “Time and Money Wasting“ or “Not Being Thrifty.”

Provide Valentine crap for kids to fight over and make a mess.

Labeled a “Commoner” which made my poor husband a “Commoner By Default.” He and Matt had to sit on the “Commoner Side” because of their “Commoner Wives,” but at least the view was good across the room, you know, of the other people who were accidentally stuck in there, too.

Bad, bad, bad parent letting kids dance to bad song.

Cops arrive at the scene….of my home.

Get insulted by husband on a night that I thought I looked good. Have to decide whether or not this deserves a fight, forget it, I don’t have the energy and I really just don’t care.

Go to Bed.

It is now midnight and thankfully, I cannot ask the question “Can this day get any worse?” But the day has now been redefined. February 12th, 2000 was a disaster. February 12th, 2010 was also a disaster and it can completely stand on it’s own, it has it's own legs. It's own teeth.

It's own bite...

Next year, on February 12th, I might decide to stay in bed.

All day.

By the way: Matt and Elizabeth are not our friends’ real names. I’ve changed their names, not to protect the innocent, but to protect the idiot.

And Ashlyn, Ansley and Averey are not my children, they are our friend's children who live across the street, they make frequent appearances in my posts.

Studies Show That Parenthood May Be Aging

“I was screaming at them so much that I actually got chest pains.”

“I screamed at mine so much that I was foaming at the mouth.”

“I don’t scream, I just tell them that I’m gonna get in the van and start driving and never come back.”

“Well, when I got the chest pains, I told them that they were going to kill me one day.”

“Foaming at the mouth….have you ever foamed at the mouth? I was foaming at the mouth! Can you believe that?”

This is a conversation already in progress between me and two other mothers volunteering this morning at school. We are all officers in the PTO.

Driving and never coming back.

Kids are going to eventually kill me.

Foaming at the mouth.

This was less than two minutes of conversation about how demanding parenting can be. I love these kinds of conversations because I often think that I suck at parenting when everyone else seems to pull it off so effortlessly. From there, I walked outside to wait for Hannah’s kindergarten class to come out for lunch, where I see two parents, one man and one woman, both of whom I actually know, running up with lunchboxes. The woman (Sarah…my neighbor) says to the man (shall remain un-named…)

“Glad to see I’m not the only loser who forgot her kid’s lunch.”

To which the Dad, who’s hurrying with three lunchboxes says:

“Not so much that I forgot, but, we didn’t have any food.”

“Well, that’s a better excuse than I have, not having any food is better than completely forgetting.” (I don’t know….I’d have to consult the parenting handbook on that one.)

Then she turns to me and says “It’s not like the little shit’s gonna eat it anyway… I aught to just send an empty lunchbox…”

We are now out of earshot of the Dad who’s sprinting to the lunchroom to get there before the first of his three kids.

She continues: “I know I look like shit, I haven’t even brushed my teeth yet. What are you doing up here?” I take in Sarah’s appearance. She’s wearing mismatched sweats with Keds, her hair’s a mess, no makeup, but she’s wearing a stunning ruby heart necklace, which I find odd with the ensemble, but Sarah tends to be a little eccentric, which is why I like her so much. I also like people “who don’t give a shit…” as she’d say, because I care way too much…

“Volunteering all morning, now I‘m going to kindergarten lunch.”

I just saw Lisa (another neighbor) speeding home, I called her to warn her that a cop’s sitting at the top of our street.”

Lisa’s always in a hurry. I’m also always in a hurry. This childrearing business is a tough gig. Lisa’s been volunteering all morning, too, and is now rushing home to probably, oh, I don’t know….sit there, feet up, eat some bon-bons, read a magazine, watch a soap…

Not.

She’s driving home in a hurry because she has to do laundry, empty the dishwasher, go to the grocery store, feed the dog, make the beds, plus about 20 other similar things….all before 2:30, which is when she leaves to go back to the school to pick up her kids. I know this because it’s the same thing that’s on my agenda. The difference between Lisa and me, however, is that she will actually accomplish these things and I will sit down and blog about how little time I have, which is partially because I blog.

I write and put my failures out there for all of you to see, I still don’t know why, maybe because it’s free and a therapist is a hundred dollars an hour or maybe just because for a long time, people thought I had my act together, which I do, as much as anyone can without a staff…

So, since I’m in the business of life exposed and I’m discussing the intricate and slightly mundane details of my day so far….I may as well tell you about a discussion that Frank and I had this morning while we were getting ready to leave.

I’m looking in the mirror, assessing my made-up self. I don’t often wear makeup these days, so I was looking slightly more attractive than, say…yesterday. Anyway, in the last six months or so, I’ve taken to putting my hands on my cheeks and pulling them back slightly toward my ears. I find that I look about 15 years younger when I do this. It's incredibly depressing and it makes me look sort of like an alien, but I do it anyway, kind of like morbid curiosity, I can’t help myself. I am also startled that I didn’t do this just one year ago. I fear the direction I seem to be headed. I fear jowls. I fear turkey neck. I turn and show Frank my pulled back younger, yet alien-looking face.

“Look at this, Frank, just look at this.”

“What?”

“Don’t you see?”

And, if you’ve ever read more than one of my posts, you can predict what he’s going to say here. Frank has never been afraid to walk into a marital mine field. Frank usually runs toward the direction of a matrimonial mine field, then runs all around inside it, setting off explosions all while getting plenty of exercise. It’s Frank Flynn Multi Tasking.

“Just lose some weight, it’ll go away.”

“THIS ISN’T WEIGHT!”

“Then I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“This is age. This is droop. THIS IS OLD!” (This could be expensive if I start demanding a facelift. He better tread lightly. He‘s backing out of the mine field. On tiptoes. He fears a potential hit. To his wallet.)

He says nothing. You knew he wouldn’t.

“If I lose weight, it will get worse! What is happening to me?”

“Nothing. Let go of your face.”

“I hated 40. I really hate 42. This sucks.”

“Forget it, you look fine. Does navy go with black?”

“No.”

“What about navy with a yellow and navy striped shirt?” (Ummm....)

“Yes.”

I used to watch those Oil of Olay commercials, they’d be talking about “growing old gracefully” and I’d think “What’s the BIG DEAL? So what? Everybody ages, I’m not gonna care one bit!” (I actually just made myself laugh out loud by typing that...) It was easy not to care, I was probably in my late 20’s or early 30’s. Guess what ladies?

IT’S COMING AND YOU’RE GONNA CARE!

A LOT!!

And your children will do little to help with the aging process. I now know why my father is gray. It is because he had three daughters. I’m surprised my parents are not institutionalized.

They sent three daughters to college.

They put three daughters in sororities.

They threw three weddings,

Then two divorces,

Then two more weddings, (Bonus!)

All of which they’re probably still paying for.

They’ve employed all three of us (and they had to pay us more because we had a college degree…)

They’ve employed two of five husbands.

They’ve paid for one husband to go back to college. (Bonus!)

Gray.

Aging…

Parenting…

Think I’ll call my parents and apologize for everything…even the things my sisters did…which may take a while….

Then I’m go for a ride in the van…

It may be a very long ride.....