Busy Bee

I've encountered a lot of writing disguised as lists lately.  Clever bloggers. 

People certainly don't have the time to read paragraphs and paragraphs of prose, but they do have time to read lists.  "Five things you shouldn't..." or "Fifteen ways to...." or "Ten types of...."   Clever bloggers.  You suck me in too because I may not have time to put on that extra swipe of deodorant in the morning (you know, that reassurance coat before you walk out the door?), but I can glance over a list (aka a numbered eight-paragraph essay) linked to a friend's Facebook status and hopefully become existentially enlightened while I'm in line at Dunkin' Donuts. 

The barrage of list-essays got me thinking about the last month of my life.  It's been busy, busy, busy, and in the precious free moments I can wrangle out of my day, I'll talk to anyone and everyone about just how busy I am....or, truth be told, sit alone in my bathroom for five minutes and examine my chin pores.

I think I've written about having a case of the "busies" before.  It's rampant in our society.  I think it serves two purposes.  First, it explains why you've been a crappy friend, or only shampooed your kid's hair two days this week, or neglected that paleo diet you were starting, or haven't been able to write your blog, or forgot to train for that 10K (oops...all me).  It definitely abates the guilt.  Second, it gives you a sense of purpose, because if you're not super busy and occupied, then what are you?  It's like our busy-ness ups our status in the world.  (note: there are probably many more reasons, but I don't have time to think about them).

The truth is, we really ARE busy and trying to do it all.  I get it.  Still, I'd like to take myself out of the busy race, or at the very least, stop trying to come in first place.  I don't think that on my death bed I'll happily brandish my to-do lists from my thirties and tell my family I done good getting crap done. 

So, here's a list for you:

Three times today I had absolutely nothing to do and did nonsense:

1) 5:30-5:40 a.m.: read my horoscope and browsed preppy chicks' outfits on Instragram.  This oddly makes me happy (should I have said perused I the Times?)

2) 6:40-6:55 a.m.: Sat EJ in my lap, tousled his semi-clean hair, and watched Thomas the train and his co-workers mess up things on Sodor yet again.

3) Right now.  Eating soup and writing this.  Also, just checked chin pores in compact mirror. 

I know we're busy.  I know we like how digestible lists are.  Maybe let's stop reading so many of them and start listing the tiny moments of calm, breaks, and nothingness in our busy days.  It's in those moments that the good stuff happens.

An Open Letter to Celebrities Who Write Children's Books

I'm jumping on the open letter bandwagon.

If I read EJ one more book written by an actor/singer/athlete turned children's author (they were all gifts!), I am going to lose it.  I mean, c'mon. What's next...move over Goodnight Moon because Kim Kardashian has written an inspirational tale about North West overcoming diarrhea?  It's all too much.  There is even a section on Amazon.com entitled, "Children's Book's Written by Celebrities." Really, Leanne Rimes and Terrell Owens?


Dear Celebrity Children's Book Author,

You are already a famous, notable/notorious, wealthy person.  Why must you add "children's author" to your IMDB resume? I'm not saying you can't write AT ALL....memoir it away...but please stay out of the children's section of Barnes and Noble. 

My plea comes on two fronts. The first is personal.  You see, at parties, when I introduce myself as a teacher and people look away or roll their eyes, I quickly add in the fact that I hope to write books for children one day.  That at least extends their interest and the conversation for a good minute, until I'm asked what I'd like to write about and I shrug my shoulders and say, "dunno yet."  The key word is YET, celebrity...a brilliant idea is buried somewhere in my brain, and if you have your ghost writer keep typing away and cranking out more kids' books, who's even going to listen to my story pitch one day...down the road...in the distant future?  I beg you, stick to your real craft and stop wading in my dream pool.  

My second plea comes on a parental front.  I've had to accept your voice infiltrating every animated film my son watches--I don't need to see your name engraved on the spine of a book about brushing teeth.  Normal people can fashion a children's tale about teeth-brushing just fine, thank you very much. Madonna, I will give you a nod for Mr. Peabody's Apples, but other than that, most books written by celebrities are the pits. I don't need to read EJ a pointless snoozer from you, Jaime Lee Curtis; I already eat your probiotic yogurt.  

In closing, please stop being greedy.  You are already everywhere...the small and big screens, magazines, billboards, clothing sections of department stores (really, Adam Levine at Kmart?), etc.  Stay off of our children's bookshelves and let some hardworking, everyday authors have the spotlight. Thank you.

Enough

Enough: to a degree that is not very high or very low; to a reasonable extent.

I'm not using this word correctly.

In moments of quiet retrospect, when I'm bombarding my mind with questions or statements, I certainly don't think of enough as reasonable.  To me, it means A LOT....the extreme even.  Am I smart enough?  I'm not reading enough. I'm not wealthy enough.  Do I have enough friends?  Is my wardrobe stylish enough?  Am I thin enough? I didn't work out enough this week. Am I doing enough?  I haven't traveled enough.  I'm not cooking enough. Am I fun enough?  Is my relationship exciting enough? And so on.  

Now that I'm a parent, I am putting my enoughs onto EJ.  Does he say enough?  Is his diet varied enough? Is he doing enough? Does he have enough friends?  Does he imagine enough?  Does he play nicely enough? He doesn't sleep enough.  He didn't eat enough.  Did he have enough fun today?  He doesn't help pick up his toys enough.

If I were to answer yes to all of my enough questions, I guess I would be an underweight, perfectly coiffed, War and Peace reading, philanthropic, decathlon participating, Hermes bag-toting woman who hosts parties every weekend.  Oh, and my son would be a verbose, articulate, early-enrollment Mensa member (is that a thing?), with a full social schedule and a steady of diet of the newest "it" vegetables and grains (hemp, swiss chard, and bulgur?), who cleans his room, sleeps twelve hours a night, and never gets upset....all at age 2.

I don't know where I got my version of enough from. My enough life sounds like the bad Bravo reality shows, which I swear I've stopped watching...mostly.  Anyways, that imagined life is cliche, ridiculous, and most importantly, unattainable.  It's keeping up with the Joneses gone mad wrong. Too much not enoughs can wreak havoc on you, and make great days only good, good days only okay, and bad days horrific.  Not worth it, my friend.

Tonight, EJ was throwing a tantrum because I wouldn't let him eat something out of the garbage.  I was tired, frustrated, and mentally running through all of the things I didn't get done today for him and for myself.  The not enough record started playing in my head.  It all felt pretty tragic.  Just then EJ ran out of the kitchen, ripped off his diaper, and started running around the living room like a maniac, literally going balls to the wall and having a blast.  I couldn't help but laugh and admire his physical metaphor.  How profound. Leaving your diaper behind and going all out is enough.  Or, just showing up and muddling through your day is enough. Enough is whatever you want it to be in any moment. I am enough. EJ is enough.You are enough.

EJ's Name Game

What would you do?

You are five months pregnant. Your husband has cheated on you and you are getting divorced.  He has moved across the country and you don't know if he'll ever be back.  You are more than a little hurt/pissed/shocked, and all of the baby names the two of you liked are now out of the question. Oh, and you've just found out you're having a boy.

Your sister calls and suggests the name Ethan.  You don't immediately hate it, and upon further review, it means "enduring" and "strong"...two words you've had to embrace.  Perfect. Done. Lovely. He'll be Ethan.

Now for the middle name.  You want to honor the afore-mentioned sister (an E herself) and match Ethan's middle initial to her's...J.  No J's pop out at you immediately.  This is tiring.  Jorge, Jim, John, Jerry...nothing fits.  Hold it.  You are Irish.  You've taken shots before.  Jameson.  Sounds a little snazzy/preppy, and even though you don't love whiskey, you can't name him Jagermeister.  So that's that. He's EJ.

Uh oh.  Last name.  You know you are ditching your married name ASAP, and it's hard for you to even say it out loud at the moment.  You have other things on your plate, so you block it from your mind for a few months. As your divorce proceedings ebb and flow, moments of calm and anger dictate solutions to the last name conundrum.  You've found out that you can actually name your son anything you want, and when you are pissed or hurt eccentric names flow freely.  Cute E. Pie. Aquaman. A symbol ala Prince circa 1993. When you are calm, you plan to stick with the status quo and use your married name. After all, you are a rule-follower and kids usually take their father's name.

Then it's time to give birth.  You haven't really heard from your husband in months, save for a last-minute email asking if you want him to be in the room for the birth.  No thanks.  You've already assembled a crack-team of birth coaches who are all piled in the room singing your praises and whispering words of encouragement. It's like Lilith Fair...not at dude in sight, except for the one you're all trying to coax out. Then he comes.  He is 7 lbs. 11 oz. and a real person.  An instantaneous  true love.  He's EJ.  You snuggle and cuddle and cry...partially from joy and partially from fear that you have no idea what you're doing and the hospital will only offer babysitting services for the next two days.

You wake up the next morning and it's crunch time.  The official people need to know his official name.  A woman walks in with an offical-looking clipboard.  "Can you please give me your son's full name?"  EJ. "And his last name?" Ummmm.  "Well, is his father in the picture?"  Not right now.  "Do you know the father?" Yes....I stopped turning tricks years ago (awkward silence).  "You know what, why don't I come back in an hour?"  Yes, please, that will be great (I don't like you, official lady!).

Just then, a nurse wheels EJ in from the babysitting room.  He is wrapped up and you swear he makes a cooing noise as you snuggle him into your chest.  For the first time in this name game, you think about him as a boy and then a man whose name and legacy are important and will far outlive you and the memory of this petty divorce.  It's not time for bitterness.  He was a planned baby, and even though your marriage is over, you have to honor it for his sake. Whoa, Whoa...hold on though...you just pushed this baby out of your body all on your own! You'll be doing everything for this little nugget, and then one day you'll have to hear him ask you why you have a different last name?  No, no, no, nu uh, no. Back to square one.  But wait, you majored in journalism.  You know a little bit about words and stuff.  Eureka! The hypen.  EJK-M. Everyone wins. 

The official lady comes back in.  You find your words again and spell out his full name.  "Boy, that's long." Yes, and it's wonderful.  

EJ's name is long and wonderful and slightly ridiculous-cool and one day, EJ can decide to keep, shorten, or change it.  At least then it will be his choice.  He deserves that.

Divorce and The Name Game

What's in a name?

Growing up, I liked my name just fine and would contentedly scribble MAK in 90s-style bubble letters on scraps of paper during boring classes (I'm talking to you, pre-calc!).  Other than that, I didn't give MAK any thought. Monogramming wasn't big then either, so I only had my initials inscribed on an L.L. Bean tote for my first year of teaching...it's like a rite of passage in the profession. Anyways, other than old scraps of loose leaf and my school bag, MAK was a non-issue.

Then I got married.  I loved my new name--it really rolled off the tongue and I adored my symmetrical initials-MAM. It was a monogrammist's dream.  Most importantly, I like all varieties of M&Ms and I took it as a sign from the universe that all that lay ahead for MAM was sweet, sweet love.

Since we know that my marriage imploded (I'm really holding back on dropping candy puns), four years after I'd become MAM, I stood in a depressing, taupe-colored court room, and asked a gruff, impatient judge permission to become MAK again.  Once I swore not to embark on a life of crime with my former name, or that I didn't have outstanding debts as MAM, he signed an official document, shoved in into his clerk's hands, and sent me on my way....divorced and in name purgatory until I could go through all the rigor-moral of changing my name (again). For months, I strolled around with two identities....just like Batman.  EJ was only a few weeks old and I couldn't find a second for myself, let alone time to haul it over to the DMV and Social Security Office.

Immediately, I started going by MAK at work, which was awkward, considering I worked with children who knew me by a completely different name.  My twenty students finally got into the MAK habit, only to look perplexed when former or younger students shouted and waved to MAM.  To add insult to injury, I had to drop "Mrs.", which parlayed into a confusing time referring to myself as "Miss" until one of my highly-intelligent (read it: smartass) students informed me that only girls under 18 can call themselves "Miss", and I was certainly "not anywhere close to 18."  I still don't know if he's right, but I was publicly shamed into believing it.  So, I was Ms. MAK by day and then Mrs. MAM on my license, at doctor's offices, the bank, etc. It always took me a good two seconds to think about what name to use or sign, depending upon where I was.

A few months later, I'd gotten into a grove with the whole mom thing, and MAK was feeling natural again.  Most importantly, I was feeling strong and decided that it was time to truly leave the past behind. Aside from all the government employees wishing me a heartfelt congratulations on my wedding and new name (before looking down at the divorce decree I'd handed them), it was a painless process....a mere couple of hours of my life.  But the outcome was momentous.  When the government gave me MAK back, something clicked for me.  I got an official do-over...and even have the piece of paper to prove it.

And until I figure out what I want to make happen with my old/new name, I'm going to monogram the shit out of stuff.

Toddler Scraps

I am a child of the 80's, so I will never forget that leaving food behind on my plate somehow affects African famine.  Growing up, uneaten heads of broccoli and stray macaroni noodles pushed to the side of my plate called for me to be reminded about the starving children in Africa.  My father would shake his head as he scraped leftover foold off of our dinner plates (my mom cooked and he cleaned up), and I just knew I was letting the children down. If my family and I were out at a restaurant (The Ground Round perhaps), and I didn't want to eat my last chicken tender, "We Are the World" or a Sally Struthers commercial would always come on in the background and I would then dutifully choke it down.  Food should not be wasted...think of the children.

These childhood experiences, coupled with my dessert-lovers' belief that baked goods are only really good on the first day, has made me a proud member of the clean-plate club.  Unless I am really REALLY full, I leave no morsel behind. It's the least I can do.

As a mom, this mindset has proved problematic.  Now I not only have to worry about offending the starving children with my uneaten food, but my son's as well.  And, since my toddler doesn't know about world hunger yet, his finicky-eater, two-year-old-self is perfectly content leaving A LOT of food behind on his plate.  And sometimes, I daresay, he doesn't even attempt to eat ANYTHING in front of him. What waste! So, I have selflessly taken on the roll of the family dog and I now eat all of the table scraps in my household.

The other day, my boy dumped half a bag of mini Lorna Doones on the floor and ran to the other side of the room to build blocks.  I quickly went over to the mess, and rather than sweep up the crumbs or make it into teachable moment about cleaning up after ourselves, I quickly picked up all the cookies and ate them. Phew, crisis averted.

In fact, my altruism has shown up a lot since my son started eating solids and I continually find myself having to right his food karma whether it be by eating the last spoonful of applesauce, half a fish stick, the bottom of a cupcake that he licked the icing off of (you don't leave cake behind at a birthday party!), cold mini blueberry pancakes, leftover oatmeal, 1/3 of a warm cheese stick, veggie straws that have fallen under the couch, and so on.  Don't even get me started on how he only eats the middle of bagels and bread and my stomach has become a pit for leftover crusts!

Now, as my clothes have become tighter, I'm faced with a dilemma.  I can't keep eating all of my food and his.  Although I could help the economy by buying a new larger-sized wardrobe, I'm trying to be fiscally responsible, so I've decided this: I will make and serve EJ's meals first and see what he doesn't finish. Then I will decide what's not totally gross (he has started picking his nose), and see what I can do.  If he miraculously cleans his plate, then I can go on to happily blend my kale smoothies and eat my ice cream (sharp contrast, I know) and not further contribute to the world hunger problem.   I'll let you know how it goes, but for good measure, I'll be increasing my contributions to our school food drives and running a 10K for hunger in the fall.  I anticipate needing to put a lot of good food juju back into the universe for this child.

Junebug

Well...it's been a while.  A week turned into two, then three and four, and then I just decided to take the whole month of June off from writing.  It WAS a busy month, but I really think I was being a brat because I entered a writing contest and didn't make it past the first round.  I mean, they were looking for people with a huge online following (people with more than 11 twitter followers like myself...who have tweeted or twatted or whatever more than 6 times), but I took it personally and subconsciously decided to pout for a bit. I'm a self-saboteur that way....if I can't do it perfectly, why even bother?

So there I was, chugging along in June, not bothering to write about any of the funny/weird/happy/sad things I was encountering.  I'll show you, contest judges, silent brooding gets you far!  I had a girls night out a (well, a girls evening out...dinner was at 6), and after some mild debauchery (that sensibly ended in time to catch the 11:37 back to the suburbs), my friend said, "you HAVE to write about this!"

"Noooo," I replied, "I'm not doing that anymore, I think.  There's noooo point to it...it's not like I'm helping anyone or anything, and my life is soooo not that interesting.  The whole thing is dumb."  And then I crossed my arms and dropped the subject.  If I could've whipped my thumb out and sucked it, I would have.  Wah wah.

Anyways, I see now that there is both no point and every point to doing this.  Life is funny, weird, happy, and sad and I have access to a keyboard.  So, mama's back.