My 2 ½ year-old daughter should be one of those CIA operatives who can coerce information out of prisoners through verbal torture. She is slowly, steadfastly driving me insane. Her technique is so simple. She does it with one word: why?
All day long, for 12 straight hours, and nothing I say can make it stop. It’s the repetition that makes me want to throw myself into the
But apparently that answer is insufficient. Within a few minutes, Dylan wants to know, “why does daddy go to work?” In an effort to keep my mind energized and to not suffer agonizing boredom, I offer up these reasons throughout the day.
“Daddy goes to work to bring home the bacon.”
“Daddy goes to work to pay the mortgage so we can live in the manner we have become accustomed to.”
“Daddy goes to work to make money, so we can buy things, which helps keep the American economy strong, which means the
Dylan stumbles through the words “economic powerhouse” to inquire why that is the case.
“Dylan, no more questions today. I love your curiosity but mommy is tired. We’ll ask more questions tomorrow,” I tell her sighing deeply.
My city dog Martini is going on holiday in
This is what I tell myself. In reality, our 4-year-old lab is doing a two week trial period with a family that will hopefully adopt her. She is sitting right here at my feet and I already miss her. Martini was a handful from the very beginning. I picked her out at a
One day, we finally decided that Martini deserved more room to run around and play. She deserves to be a dog, not spend her life in 1,200 square feet. I don’t know what to tell my toddler Dylan. I don’t know what to tell myself. We are going to try to let her go so she can be happy. Sometimes it’s the crazy ones we love the most.
Yesterday, as I was pushing my daughter to preschool, I suddenly brought my stroller to a halt. A clothing rack, packed with dressing gowns and aging frocks, was blocking the entire sidewalk. Someone was moving into the Village Nursing Home on
As I picked up the hangers and house dresses, I had a thought. I may need to be more present in my life. Perhaps, it is not always necessary to do three things at the same time. My father was visiting this past weekend and I watched him focus on my children. He has this amazing ability to really be present for them, playing endlessly. That’s not my natural strength. I’m so much better at preparing snacks, cleaning out the stroller, organizing their clothes or whisking them off to school, to the park or to an activity.
Each night at bed time, Dylan and I talk about our favorite part of the day. For me, my best moments are usually dancing with Dylan and her sister, hugging them in our big arm chair, reading Dylan books or giving the girls extra goodnight kisses. Ironically, these are often the moments I’ve rushed through so I can get something done. But I’ve noticed something about these “to do” lists. They never end. There is always more laundry, more dishes and more errands. So I’m really going to try to be a little more present in my life. For today, I’ll let a few of the calls go to voicemail, play a little longer with my kids and I definitely won’t move any more clothing racks.
One of my favorite pastimes (and this is pathetic by the way) is sitting down on the couch after a long day with the kids, eating Tasti D-lite (touted as All Natural but can’t possibly be true at less than 20 calories an ounce but I choose to believe it’s all natural anyway) and watching bad TV. Yes, I have other more respectable hobbies like yoga and skiing. But my love for bad TV is probably only equal to my passion for reading the New York Post.
The problem with loving crappy TV is that inevitably, bad TV shows gets canceled. And that makes me sad. My DVR series manager (and if you don’t have DVR or Tivo or some equivalent you are nuts) is a graveyard of canceled shows. My list of shows to record is like TV’s death row. I think I was one of the last six people watching “The O.C.” I still miss my friends Ryan, Seth, Summer and Marissa. I loved “Hidden Palms” (a recently canceled teen drama that was a cross between “
So my latest obsession is the reality show “Hey Paula.” This show is terrible. Every episode, Paula Abdul cries, yells at her staff and complains non-stop about her fatigue. Hey Paula, here it is straight up. Take a nap, knock off the diva/loony behavior and quiet down because your life rocks.
My husband Rick does not make me feel better about all this. The guy actually comes home from work and will watch one of his DVR saved shows like “Meet the Press” or “60 Minutes.” But I don’t care. I learned so much from Ryan, Seth, Summer and Marissa in our four seasons together. I also enjoy Morley, Mike, Lesley and the rest of the 60 minutes gang but let’s be honest, they could never hack it in the O.C.
During the summer, I sometimes begin to feel like the last mom in
Packing has never been my thing. It’s my husband’s thing. He can pack for a trip in 10 minutes. For me, it can take hours. It can take days. I agonize over what to bring. Whatever I want to bring is lying in a crumbled ball at the bottom of the laundry basket. Within moments of beginning the process, I’m paralyzed. At that moment, I can’t remember what I’ve ever worn a day in my life. Invariably, I forget something big (like underwear or my glasses) or I pack 15 pairs of shoes for a four day holiday or I bring a top that I haven’t worn in a year. That top shouldn’t be in my closet, never mind in my suitcase.
These days I have to pack for myself, my toddler and my baby. How much pressure can a girl take? Not just the clothes but the baby food, the diapers, the monitors, the sippy cups, the bibs, the wipes, the books and toys for the car …. I’m really starting to sweat. Plus, my toddler Dylan likes to peruse the suitcase and pull out items as I’m putting them in. You know, she likes to “help out.” Thanks Dylan but I got it.
Once we finally zip up the suitcases, I feel such relief. But it only lasts until we strap the kids into their car seats. That’s when the crying usually begins.