HomeFull Moons and Safety Glass
Full Moons and Safety Glass
Balancing money, time, self, and family
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Let Me Count the Ways
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What is bath time like for you? OK…not you, you. I mean bath time for your kids. I know what bath time is like for you. A glass of wine. A locked bathroom door. A trashy magazine. Thirty minutes to yourself. Sigh… Back to reality. Bath time. With the kids. Whoo hoo. Here’s the routine at our house: 1. Whoever cooks dinner, doesn’t clean the dishes, but they do clean the kids. 2. Bath water is turned on and the aforementioned cleaning parent chases both girls around the house trying to convince them to make their way to the tepid, non-bubbled-due-to-excema-water. 3. Potty visits before the bath entry. First, Ava, who considers potty before bath as wipe-optional activity. Next, Carmen, who sits on her trainer toilet exclaiming “it’s coming” for five minutes with nothing actually happening. 4. Finally both girls in the bath. 5. Extreme fighting over every toy. 6. Demands for more potty time from Carmen. Climbing out, soaking wet, resisting assistance (“No, I do it!”), sitting for exactly 1 second and then, unsafely climbing face-first back into the tub. (Yes, please remember AmandaS when casting your ballot for Best Mother of Year) 7. Extreme splashing. 8. Hair washing, face washing, foot scrubbing. 9. Extreme fighting over every toy. 10. Demands for more potty time from Carmen. Climbing out, soaking wet, resisting assistance (“No, I do it!”), sitting for exactly 1 second and then, unsafely climbing face-first back into the tub. 11. Carmen plays and one end of the tub, talking to herself. Ava plays at the other end, talking to herself. 12. Private, parallel, conversations commence for 10 minutes. 13. Extreme fighting over every toy. 14. Extreme splashing. 15. Extreme fighting over who gets to pull the plug. 16. Extreme splashing. 17. Carmen out first. 18. Ava out second. Oh, how I long for a little more of #12. Do you think if I cranked up Lyle Lovett, it would help? Hmmmmmm...Let’s try it and see… www.last.fm/music/Lyle+Lovett/_/Private+Conversat ion
Last night, my husband finally gave me my birthday present.
My birthday is January 10th. For my birthday this year, he asked me what I wanted and I knew exactly what I wanted. I wanted something that he and I could do together. Something different. I wanted a season subscription to the B Street Theatre. I grew up acting and going to the theater. I like original, well-acted stuff that I haven’t seen a million times. I’m not a huge musical theater fan, which seems to be what Sacramento mostly supplies to the theater-going-crowd. I like the original, intimate, slightly stuffy and stale atmosphere of the B Street. Paul doesn’t love theater. He tolerates it. On rare occasions. Usually when there is singing and dancing taking place on the stage. But, he manned up and got me the tickets. Last night was our first show, Almost, Maine (it was great, I recommend it). Last night was our first show. Yes, Tuesday. Not Friday. Not Saturday. Tuesday. Here’s why…Tuesday nights are the only nights that they run an early show (6:30). This means, we can strike a deal with our daycare provider who will extend her hours (with some extended pay) and watch the girls. We both work downtown, so this is much more convenient. We can leave them at daycare without having to run around after work only to have to rush back downtown for the show. Last night, he picked me up from work, we hit Thai Basil for dinner, and then went to the theater. We got there a little early, so Paul bought us some wine and popcorn (yes, a true date night) and we took a seat in the foyer. Hardly anyone was there. As a former actor, I started to feel bad for the players. I knew the season had just started and I was hoping things would fill up. It’s a small space, and a half-empty house (especially a comedy) can make things tough on the actors. I also knew that an empty house would confirm Paul’s (non-verbalized) suspicion that a season subscription was a waste of time and money. Clearly if no one was there, the plays couldn’t be that good. And then they started to arrive. All of them, with their white hair, their champagne-colored sedans, their AARP cards. Yes..we had purchased a season subscription for a night of the week that targeted the senior citizen audience. You know, seniors...the demographic that prefers to be in bed by 8:00 PM and up by 5:00 AM every day. Now Paul and I aren’t young. I’m 35 and he’s 43. But last night…well, last night, we felt like nubiles. There were groups of 60-something women, outfitted in head-to toe-Chicos, guzzling white wine at the counter, chatting and cackling with each other. There were pairs of senior couples double-dating. Most of the men were noticeably shorter and thinner than their wives. But the one unifying characteristic among them all…comfortable shoes. All of them were wearing comfortable shoes. The men were all in loafers or those weird-1980s-nurse-sneakers. The women were all wearing comfortable looking Easy Spirit-esque sandals. Most of them open-toed with pantyhose. You know the look. There wasn’t a heel or a French-manicured toenail in sight (except for mine). Because the “comfy” couches in the foyer were very, very low, Paul and I were almost at eye level with the seniors and their shoes. We were cracking up. Here we were on our big “date night” surrounded by what could have easily been a group outing from a snazzy retirement community from Boca Raton. We enjoyed the show and even stayed at the end for “Improv with the Interns” that took place after the play ended. Again, much to Paul’s chagrin. But, he knew as a former improv actor I would want to stay. And he was right. Tuesday nights are the only nights they do the improv, because, well, the show ends so early. We finally made our way out the car at the late hour of 8:50, picked up the girls, and went home. The first thing I did was kick off my heels. I had been wearing them for 14 straight hours.
A while back I saw something that stopped me in my tracks. Well, stopped me in my heels, anyway (I was picking up a pizza for dinner after work).
Leaning against a car was a guy who looked about 20 years old. Leaning against him was a girl who looked about 15. They were, unceremoniously, sucking face in front of Round Table Pizza. I always get irritated when I see older guys with young girls, but the lovely display of affection wasn’t what stopped me. Nope. What stopped me was the fact that the erstwhile suck-a-thon took place while the girl, eyes wide open, texted on her mobile phone. Give me a break. Now I know that I am pathetically in my mid-30s and that I wouldn’t know a twitter from a twatter but…really? Really, she had so much to say to whomever was on the other end of that text that she had to fanatically text while she was, um, otherwise engaged? Yikes. I must be old. I thought it was bad enough about five years ago when I started hearing people in public restrooms talking on their mobile phones. But I think the texting thing has gotten totally out of control. For the longest time the only texts I ever got were messages from my mobile phone company telling me to check my account balance. I realize that I am a hold out. Most of the other directors (and staff, for that matter) at my work have a Blackberry or Treo. Not me. I use my phone as a…drumroll…phone. On the rare occasion that I text anyone, it is usually during a painfully long meeting with 30 or more attendants. After about hour three my sister, who lives in Denver, can usually expect a cryptic message from me that says something like “I can see your booty”. I have, proudly, resisted this current form of communication. How in communication with the world do I really need to be, anyway? I have about six email accounts, a myspace page that I never use, a mobile phone. But, truth be told, when I needed to get in touch with my 19-year-old babysitter about watching the girls next weekend…I texted her. Rats.
So, yesterday I got sick. Let me clarify…yesterday the plague that has been following me around since February reared its hydra-headed self AGAIN.
Seriously, what is the deal with this flu and cold bug this year? I am sick of being sick. And for once, it seems to be me—and not the kids—who keep getting the bug. Chills. Sore throat. Achy. Ugh. At least my family is always so understanding when I am sick. Everyone leaves me alone so that I can rest. Paul checks in on me, offering to feed me green tea and toast. The girls draw me pictures and quietly pass them under the bedroom door, as not to disturb. Paul brings me trashy magazines to read in bed and makes me homemade noodle soup. HA HA HA HA HA HA In reality, I was vainly trying to get some sleep in between trying to entertain my mom and her husband who had driven 6 hours from Oregon for a visit, picking/dropping the kids at daycare, kids fighting over toys, kids fighting during bath time, etc., etc. Today I took a sick day from work. After dropping the kids at daycare and going out to breakfast with my mom (last night I went to bed with no dinner and felt like I had deserted our out of town visitors), I came home and cranked up the AC. I’m sure it was a combination of my fever and the warm summer weather, but I was roasting hot. Then, I crawled into bed and turned on the TV with the sounds of forensic crime shows in the air. And for four blissful, uninterrupted hours, I slept. Remember when being sick meant that you got to curl up on the couch with a box of tissue, cold medicine, and tea and just take care of yourself?
Yesterday evening I FINALLY saw Sex and the City. I loved it. I bought the hype and I loved every minute of it.
Here’s the thing, I have had multiple sets of plans with multiple sets of friends and it kept getting canceled for one reason or another. Finally, my friend Shannan and I decided that since our husbands had spent all morning and a better part of the afternoon on the sailboat with the our 4 and 3-year olds respectively, we would sneak out for a little girl time. Yes, we needed a little face time with Carrie and the girls. And me, well, I needed a little face time with Big. Or John, as they kept calling him throughout the movie. To me, he’ll always be Big. Big. Big. Big. Ah…sweet digression. Since the hiatus between the show ending and the movie screening, I have become slightly reflective about my relationship to Carrie, Charlotte, Samantha, and Miranda. I have even become downright sentimental about them. Like most female watchers of the show (I can’t speak for the gay men--although I'd love to--that would be fab-u-lous) I think what was so appealing about that show was the frankness about sex from the female perspective, but more than that was the fact that I could locate a bit of each of the girls wrapped up in my own psyche and my own experience. I was in my mid-twenties when the show came out. I was single, living in LA, and carrying on (no pun intended) a little too much. I was too poor for labels but not too poor for love (to quote Carrie). As the girls progressed and their relationships grew up both with each other and with the men in their lives, so did mine. Like Carrie, I had a serious, marriage-bound relationship that ended (Aidan). Like Miranda, I focused hard on my career and developed a jaded and cynical edge. Like Charlotte, I always held out hope that my ultimate true love would find his way to me. And like Samantha…well…it was my twenties after all. As I sat through the movie and watched the delightful-if-not-predictable plot unfold I realized that the arc of their lives, as carefully crafted by Darren Star and Michael Patrick King as it was, still paralleled my own life has it is now. Stable and loving relationship (yes, with the love of my life), kids, good job, intermittent sex life, lack of waxing. As the lights came on at the end of the movie, people clapped. I just looked around. The theater was full of women…all kinds of women…old and young and clearly from all different backgrounds. Shannan and I were delighted. We had a great time. As I climbed into my car to drive home, I was musing over the details of the movie in my head. Thinking about all of my own experiences that the film had elicited in me. Drifting down that slow river of memories I was suddenly jolted out of my sweet and bittersweet remembrances. Stupid NPR. Why did I keep you on my radio before I went in to the theater? Why, why, why?? The last think I felt like listening to was violence against Africanos in South Africa. Afraid for their lives, huddled in shelters, awaiting deportation. Ugh. It was the ultimate buzz kill. So, I switched off the sound and drifted down memory lane for another 5 minutes. That person that I was drew to a close as I pulled into my driveway. Kids, husband, house, job, and yes, NPR, all waiting for me on the other side of my front door. Ah…sweet digression.
This weekend we had a divide and conquer weekend. Two kids. Two parents.
Friday night there was the going away barbeque for our friends Elyse and Josh. At the midtown park with their late twentysomething friends Paul and I overcompensated for our ages (43 and 35 respectively) by chasing after our kids. Ava in one direction, Carmen in another. And so…Amanda in one direction, Paul in another. Saturday morning, same story. I took Carmen to a play date and Paul took Ava grocery shopping. Saturday afternoon, all four of us headed to a karate birthday party. Of course, Carmen remained freaked out by the scary sensei teacher in all black and the wireless headset mic. Ava sat captivated the entire time. So, Paul comforted a terrified Carmen, clutching his neck and I sat on the mat with Ava--incredulously watching her focus and listen to every word the teacher said. (I say incredulously because I can’t get her to listen or focus to anything I say or do—oh how I wished for an all-black sensei outfit and a wireless headset mic). And so…Amanda in one direction, Paul in another. Sunday morning, same story. Paul took Ava fishing on the sailboat and I took Carmen on a five-mile walk on the bike path. When we all sat down for dinner tonight we talked about our weekend. Having only gotten the big picture overview before, I learned about the details of everything Paul and Ava had done. Then Carmen and I (heavy on the “I”) recounted our shared adventures. Paul asked if everyone had a good weekend and everyone agreed that they had. It occurred to me that on the surface it might seem like we had divided into camps for the weekend’s activities. Truth be told, at the moment the girls are easier to take one-on-one. If they aren’t together they can’t bicker, they can’t feed off of each other’s whining, and they don’t simultaneously need help with empty cups, poopy pants, or lost toys. Now, usually I would have felt something close to guilt about this arrangement. I normally would have felt like I needed to be consistently loving and enjoying each of my daughters equally. But instead, this weekend I didn’t feel guilty. In fact, this weekend I really enjoyed the girls. Here’s what happened…because the two girls spent periods of time apart they were (shockingly) delighted and delightful when spending time together. Saturday night when our friends came over with their 3-year-old son…I swear, we hardly saw the kids at all (they were off in some make-believe world of pirates for nearly 2 hours). Most importantly, though, Paul and I each got some quality time with each of the girls one-on-one. I had this weird sensory memory today at the park with Carmen what it was like when it was just Ava…I wasn’t trying to navigate through two simultaneous conversations and I wasn’t on my feet all day fetching and responding to a constant barrage of requests. I just played with my kid. Paul did the same thing, and it was really, really nice. And so now, with both kids asleep early (they totally wore themselves out), I am going to go and try and plan a little one-on-one with Paul. Ah…the life of a nonprofit executive. Full of altruistic endeavors and the constant pursuit of righting social wrongs. Right? Hmmmmmm. Not exactly. At the moment I am sitting in a lovely airport hotel the night before a three-day meeting. I drove two hours down to the bay area on a Monday afternoon following a very long weekend full of Ava’s birthday party, a 10K walk, a sailboat ride, hosting of family, and perpetual motion. I am totally exhausted and the LAST thing I wanted to do was get in my car only to sit in a stale hotel room the night before sitting and a first-freezing-cold-then-stiflingly-hot hotel meeting room with 85 other people all of whom will be talking about scintillating details related to federal rules and regulations for community clinics. Now, my husband is exhausted, too, but he’s at home breaking up fights between the girls, negotiating dinner, and juggling bath time all while trying to watch game five of his beloved Detroit Red Wings. “Enjoy your solitude”, he said. Yes, the bite of sarcasm in Paul’s voice when I called to check in was hard to miss. My solitude? What is he, crazy? Well, when I think of my solitude it definitely doesn’t include ANY of the following: · Hours of nasty bay area traffic · A totally inadequate hotel gift shop stocked with very little chocolate · A stinky, dank hotel room with a wifi system that interferes with my remote access, so I can’t effectively tackle any of my work which has been piling up since being out all day Friday at a meeting and most of today for travel · A hotel room window facing a noisy construction site · A hotel lobby full of intensely perky women attending a large seminar on something called Xtreme Lashes (seriously, here's the website, I actually looked it up xtremelashes.com) · No ability to watch anything in my TiVo queue, instead being relegated to either 1) some painful Matt LeBlanc and monkey movie on HBO or 2) perpetual news coverage of the Democratic primary · A disgusting, over priced room service dinner ordered out of desperation and exhaustion · An uncomfortable bed that will no doubt keep me tossing and turning the entire night Yeah…I’ll try not to rub it in.
© Amanda Stangis 2008 |
