Adventures in Real Parenting: Three Tales from the Chauffeur

On Saturday, Sophie took the SAT as part of a special program through Duke University. When I arrived to pick her up, I asked how it went.

“Fine,” she said. “The math part was hard, but the rest went okay.”

“That’s good,” I responded. “Are you okay?”

“Uh huh. I just have to poo. I’ve had to poo since the test started.”

“Why didn’t you go?”

“I don’t go like that in public restrooms. You know that.”

She’s right. I do. It’s a genetic quirk passed down from mother to child that will only be cured upon entry to university dorm living and several days of constipationally induced ickyness followed by the consumption of many beers.

We drove along in uncomfortable silence for a while until I couldn’t stand it anymore. “Hey, Sophie?”

“Yes?”

“Put a bird on it.”

“Cacao*, mother.”

************

Sophie spent the night with a friend and I as I drove to fetch her, I listened to Raw Dog Comedy on Sirisus/XM.  Patton Oswalt was doing a bit about air travel.

I arrived at the friend’s house, parked the car and climbed the steps to ring the bell. Sophie came to the door balancing a plate with what was left of her breakfast.

When we got back into the car, another comedian was telling jokes about shaving his penis area and putting Nair on his balls.

“Wow,” I said, “That’s pretty raunchy.”

“Not to mention I’m trying to eat here,” Sophie grumbled.

“Yeah, penis jokes aren’t really meal conversation, are they?” I asked as I pulled up at the stop sign and looked at her.

She considered at the sausage link poised between her two fingers and sighed as she dropped it back onto the plate.

***********

Sophie’s tail was dragging as she ate breakfast and showered. Fearing she might miss the bus, I went to move the car into the garage so the coating of frost would melt. When I tried to release the hand brake, it wouldn’t budge. MathMan was the last person to drive the car and he’s like Iron Man when it comes to setting the brake.

I struggled. I broke a thumbnail. I turned off the radio – how that might help, I had no idea, but it made me feel like I was accomplishing something. I cranked the heat. I may have cursed. Nothing. Thinking that once the car warmed up, maybe the brake would release, I left the defrosters on high heat. Either way, I figured, the windows would be frost free.

When Sophie finally succumbed to my hectoring and threats to make her (gasp!) walk the mile to school, we made it out to the car. I turned the radio on and became immediately sucked into a mystery on Radio Classics.

The drop-off line at school crept. The mystery was reaching a crescendo. The inspector was about to reveal who was behind The Voice of Doom. I inched along paying careful attention to the kids crossing over from the far lane. The car in front of us paused for a couple of kids to cross. The line moved and I followed.

“Um, Mom? Are you going to let me get out?”

“Oh! Sorry.” I stopped beyond the principal’s parking spot so she could get out. She shook her head but said nothing.

“You’re welcome!” I shouted as she closed the car door.

I drove home without mishap.

As I passed the overflowing trashcan near the door, I decided that since no one else was going to handle it (there’s my personal motto if ever I had one), I would tie up the bag and put in a new one. I started to tug the heavy bag from the can and a mouse jumped out just missing me.

I screamed and wet my pants a little. The mouse, unharmed and dry, scurried behind the furnace.

The end.
*Cacao (Not safe for work)

Things you should check out because they are way cooler than this post:

Like something out of Dr. Who.

Amanda Fucking Palmer

Adventures in Real Parenting: Three Tales from the Chauffeur

On Saturday, Sophie took the SAT as part of a special program through Duke University. When I arrived to pick her up, I asked how it went.

“Fine,” she said. “The math part was hard, but the rest went okay.”

“That’s good,” I responded. “Are you okay?”

“Uh huh. I just have to poo. I’ve had to poo since the test started.”

“Why didn’t you go?”

“I don’t go like that in public restrooms. You know that.”

She’s right. I do. It’s a genetic quirk passed down from mother to child that will only be cured upon entry to university dorm living and several days of constipationally induced ickyness followed by the consumption of many beers.

We drove along in uncomfortable silence for a while until I couldn’t stand it anymore. “Hey, Sophie?”

“Yes?”

“Put a bird on it.”

“Cacao*, mother.”

************

Sophie spent the night with a friend and I as I drove to fetch her, I listened to Raw Dog Comedy on Sirisus/XM.  Patton Oswalt was doing a bit about air travel.

I arrived at the friend’s house, parked the car and climbed the steps to ring the bell. Sophie came to the door balancing a plate with what was left of her breakfast.

When we got back into the car, another comedian was telling jokes about shaving his penis area and putting Nair on his balls.

“Wow,” I said, “That’s pretty raunchy.”

“Not to mention I’m trying to eat here,” Sophie grumbled.

“Yeah, penis jokes aren’t really meal conversation, are they?” I asked as I pulled up at the stop sign and looked at her.

She considered at the sausage link poised between her two fingers and sighed as she dropped it back onto the plate.

***********

Sophie’s tail was dragging as she ate breakfast and showered. Fearing she might miss the bus, I went to move the car into the garage so the coating of frost would melt. When I tried to release the hand brake, it wouldn’t budge. MathMan was the last person to drive the car and he’s like Iron Man when it comes to setting the brake.

I struggled. I broke a thumbnail. I turned off the radio – how that might help, I had no idea, but it made me feel like I was accomplishing something. I cranked the heat. I may have cursed. Nothing. Thinking that once the car warmed up, maybe the brake would release, I left the defrosters on high heat. Either way, I figured, the windows would be frost free.

When Sophie finally succumbed to my hectoring and threats to make her (gasp!) walk the mile to school, we made it out to the car. I turned the radio on and became immediately sucked into a mystery on Radio Classics.

The drop-off line at school crept. The mystery was reaching a crescendo. The inspector was about to reveal who was behind The Voice of Doom. I inched along paying careful attention to the kids crossing over from the far lane. The car in front of us paused for a couple of kids to cross. The line moved and I followed.

“Um, Mom? Are you going to let me get out?”

“Oh! Sorry.” I stopped beyond the principal’s parking spot so she could get out. She shook her head but said nothing.

“You’re welcome!” I shouted as she closed the car door.

I drove home without mishap.

As I passed the overflowing trashcan near the door, I decided that since no one else was going to handle it (there’s my personal motto if ever I had one), I would tie up the bag and put in a new one. I started to tug the heavy bag from the can and a mouse jumped out just missing me.

I screamed and wet my pants a little. The mouse, unharmed and dry, scurried behind the furnace.

The end.

*Cacao (Not safe for work)

Things you should check out because they are way cooler than this post:

Like something out of Dr. Who.

Amanda Fucking Palmer

My Funny Valentine

MathMan and I are not Valentines Day people. Rebels against most pop culture, we’re too busy lamenting the crumbling of our culture as evidenced by Toddlers and Tiaras and Dance Moms to concern ourselves with the hearts and flowers pushed from every angle during the lead up to that special day. We have no use for forced sentimentality. No candlelit dinners. No reenactments of gauzy images from the engagement planning Pinterest boards of single, young women who haven’t been scoured clean of romantic notions by reality.

The most romantic Valentines Day we ever shared we didn’t actually share. It was 1990. I sat in a Bennigan’s on Michigan Avenue drinking beer and sharing mozzarella cheese sticks with a co-worker while Mathman drove three hours through a raging blizzard from the Northwest Side of Chicago to downtown. It may have actually been four hours. Or six. I can’t remember because the number grows with every telling of the story. He plowed on through, creeping past abandoned cars and stranded drivers.

That’s love. Intrepid. Determined.Who knew the chains I clamped to his heart were better than snow tires? When he finally arrived in the sparkling fairyland of a snow smothered downtown Chicago, I threw my arms around him and hollered something like “Oh, Pa! You made it through the storm and you brought me some calico, too!”

He clicked his tongue at the pair of snow-caked horses and turned the wagon toward Lincoln Avenue so we could get home before daylight.

This year, however, I’m going to surprise MathMan by making a big deal out of Valentine’s Day. I don’t want to give too much away, but I’m probably even going to shower.

Little does he know, he’s doing his part, too. He’s buying me this book.  In it there’s an essay by Suzy who has this post about the book. This is one of my favorite posts by her because it gives you a sense of how she developed her sense of humor and great comedic timing.

And since I’m going to be so happy to get this book as my Valentine’s Day gift, you can be assured that MathMan’s gift is going to be one that leaves a smile on his face, too.

What’s your favorite Valentines Day memory?

My Funny Valentine

MathMan and I are not Valentines Day people. Rebels against most pop culture, we’re too busy lamenting the crumbling of our culture as evidenced by Toddlers and Tiaras and Dance Moms to concern ourselves with the hearts and flowers pushed from every angle during the lead up to that special day. We have no use for forced sentimentality. No candlelit dinners. No reenactments of gauzy images from the engagement planning Pinterest boards of single, young women who haven’t been scoured clean of romantic notions by reality.

The most romantic Valentines Day we ever shared we didn’t actually share. It was 1990. I sat in a Bennigan’s on Michigan Avenue drinking beer and sharing mozzarella cheese sticks with a co-worker while Mathman drove three hours through a raging blizzard from the Northwest Side of Chicago to downtown. It may have actually been four hours. Or six. I can’t remember because the number grows with every telling of the story. He plowed on through, creeping past abandoned cars and stranded drivers. 

That’s love. Intrepid. Determined.Who knew the chains I clamped to his heart were better than snow tires? When he finally arrived in the sparkling fairyland of a snow smothered downtown Chicago, I threw my arms around him and hollered something like “Oh, Pa! You made it through the storm and you brought me some calico, too!” 

He clicked his tongue at the pair of snow-caked horses and turned the wagon toward Lincoln Avenue so we could get home before daylight.

This year, however, I’m going to surprise MathMan by making a big deal out of Valentine’s Day. I don’t want to give too much away, but I’m probably even going to shower.

Little does he know, he’s doing his part, too. He’s buying me this book.  In it there’s an essay by Suzy who has this post about the book. This is one of my favorite posts by her because it gives you a sense of how she developed her sense of humor and great comedic timing.

And since I’m going to be so happy to get this book as my Valentine’s Day gift, you can be assured that MathMan’s gift is going to be one that leaves a smile on his face, too.

What’s your favorite Valentines Day memory?

Just don’t call him baby

When we were children, my older sister Denise, younger brother David and I like any other set of siblings. We fussed and fought and hung out watching television and snacking until our mother got home from her job at the courthouse. David went through a phase where he always wanted to watch Popeye. Of course, it’s not like there five hundred channels to choose from back in the 1970s so Denise and I suffered through Popeye to watch The Flintstones, Gilligan’s Island and The Brady Bunch.

I am ashamed of how we treated David sometimes. He was just a little boy, but to us he was the enemy. He was the Godzilla stomping through Barbieland, the pencil wielding homicidal maniac who stabbed the rag bodies of baby dolls, the kid who scribbled over my neatly colored pages in coloring books, the hair puller when I hurled the epithet Baby David his direction. Yeah, I deserved that bald spot.

But when he sunk down in his red bean bag chair in front of the TV and uttered the words “will someone make me a PBJ,” either Denise or I would make him one without even spitting on it. We loved him and his sweet dimpled cheeks. My first memory of him is when my mother rocked him as a baby swaddled in a blanket. I clung to the back of the chair my toes curled around the rocker’s runners and we sang. Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.

Despite the horror of two older sisters and having survived the torture we bestowed upon him, Dave grew up to be a man I’m proud to call my brother. He’s a great father, I hope he’s a wonderful husband, he has an important job serving his community and he’s a great son. He’s a much better son than I am a daughter. He’s also a talented graphic artist and now he’s writing, too, about his love of the outdoors.

Aside from the crazy pride I feel for him, I also enjoy reading Dave’s blog because it gives me insight into this man I grew up with, I get to see the past through his eyes. His perspective and experiences are unique.

As the only son and the youngest, Dave had a different relationship with our parents, especially with our father. They spent a lot of time together and while I don’t want to give you the impression that it was all back-slapping manly jocularity, the two of them definitely shared interests, information and a language that none of us womenfolk (what?) understood.

When I see my own son Nate and my husband together, I have a better idea of what my brother’s relationship is like with our father. Nate reminds me of David – impatient, energetic, occasionally hot-tempered, keenly observant, a deep thinker. At his core sensitive and kind with high expectations for justice. Sometimes when I’m not paying attention, I call Nathan by my brother’s name.

Today our father turns seventy-five and Dave wrote a touching and funny post about how Dad’s  influence on him. I wanted to share it with you because you all seem like part of the family, too.

I know, I’m sorry. You didn’t ask to be part of this dysfunction, did you?

Also there’s a post at that other blog.

Just don’t call him baby

When we were children, my older sister Denise, younger brother David and I were like any other set of siblings. We fussed and fought and hung out watching television and snacking until our mother got home from her job at the courthouse. David went through a phase where he always wanted to watch Popeye. Of course, it’s not like there five hundred channels to choose from back in the 1970s so Denise and I suffered through Popeye to watch The Flintstones, Gilligan’s Island and The Brady Bunch.

I am ashamed of how we treated David sometimes. He was just a little boy, but to us he was the enemy. He was the Godzilla stomping through Barbieland, the pencil wielding homicidal maniac who stabbed the rag bodies of baby dolls, the kid who scribbled over my neatly colored pages in coloring books, the hair puller when I hurled the epithet Baby David his direction. Yeah, I deserved that bald spot.

But when he sunk down in his red bean bag chair in front of the TV and uttered the words “will someone make me a PBJ,” either Denise or I would make him one without even spitting on it. We loved him and his sweet dimpled cheeks. My first memory of him is when my mother rocked him as a baby swaddled in a blanket. I clung to the back of the chair my toes curled around the rocker’s runners and we sang. Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.

Despite the horror of living with two older sisters and having survived the torture we bestowed upon him, Dave grew up to be a man I’m proud to call my brother. He’s a great father, I hope he’s a wonderful husband, he has an important job serving his community and he’s a great son. He’s a much better son than I am a daughter. He’s also a talented graphic artist and now he’s writing, too, about his love of the outdoors.

Aside from the crazy pride I feel for him, I also enjoy reading Dave’s blog because it gives me insight into this man I grew up with, I get to see the past through his eyes. His perspective and experiences are unique.

As the only son and the youngest, Dave had a different relationship with our parents, especially with our father. They spent a lot of time together and while I don’t want to give you the impression that it was all back-slapping manly jocularity, the two of them definitely shared interests, information and a language that none of us womenfolk (what?) understood.

When I see my own son Nate and my husband together, I have a better idea of what my brother’s relationship is like with our father. Nate reminds me of David – impatient, energetic, occasionally hot-tempered, keenly observant, a deep thinker. At his core sensitive and kind with high expectations for justice. Sometimes when I’m not paying attention, I call Nathan by my brother’s name.

Today our father turns seventy-five and Dave wrote a touching and funny post about Dad’s influence on him. I wanted to share it with you because you all seem like part of the family, too.

I know, I’m sorry. You didn’t ask to be part of this dysfunction, did you?

Also there’s a post at that other blog.

Language Lesson from the Math Guy

If I want to get my husband MathMan, the high school teacher, bent out of shape about something, all I have to do is talk about some big, blanket education policy. For example, the mere mention of No Child Left Behind is enough to make him apoplectic.

During the State of the Union address, President Obama proposed that all states pass a law requiring students to stay in school until they graduate or until the age of eighteen, I immediately tweeted that to @MathMan6293. I couldn’t see his face because he and Nate were driving home from work and I was at home, cozy, nibbling on a clementine the same shade as Speaker Boehner, but I bet MathMan made that face he makes when I say things like “Chloe called. She needs money.” or “When are we going to clean out the garage?” or “How about we watch another Republican debate!”

That, of course, was not the end of the conversation. This is MathMan’s take on not just that proposal (which he does not support unless we provide a wider array of options for students within the public school system), but as he puts it, is the primary problem with how we Americans process our policy information.

Oversimplification is the problem. Paraphrasing now:

When our media and elected officials speak in broad terms, they oversimplify the problems and the solutions. They reduce the issues to generalizations. All students. All poor people. All rich people. All business. All old people, all soccer moms, all veterans, all working class, all all all….

What happens is the individual is removed the conversation making it easier to think in terms of the nameless, faceless other. We talk in the abstract about education instead of understanding that we’re really talking about the education of millions of children ranging in age from preschool to college, from all sorts of backgrounds, socio-economic situations and with as many needs as there are students.

One-size-fits-all solutions are rarely the answer. They are politically expedient and, I suppose, necessary at times if only to get the conversation started, but if we don’t delve deeper, don’t put a human face on it, if we don’t bring the conversation to the level where the individual is addressed, then we get nowhere. Or worse, we get policies full of unintended consequences like No Child Left Behind.

All of which is to say that I suppose MathMan doesn’t want us to reduce our important conversations to the lowest common denominator because once we do, we find that the transitive properties multiply exponentially. Or something.

What oversimplifications work your nerves? For example, I get annoyed by the generalization that the foreclosure crisis was caused by people who wanted big fancy houses they couldn’t afford. That is only one segment of the problem and hardly the most influential factor, but when that oversimplification is repeated by the media, the pundits and politicians, it becomes accepted knowledge, facts be damned.

You make me wanna get up and scream

Source

The vixen nudges the kits to the back of the den. The three survivors yip and jostle for the best spot. From her place near the mouth of the burrow, she opens her jaws and snaps them shut quickly. The kits quiet and tuck their pointed noses into folds of downy fox fur, ears twitching. The smallest one yawns then closes his eyes.

With a last glance over her shoulder at the sleeping pups, the vixen scrambles out of the hole into the mossy damp of the late May evening. The air tastes of the fresh earth of the plowed field and the honeysuckle climbing over the fence. The vixen skims under the fence on her trek into the woods. She’s had luck catching mice there.

Beyond the great rotting body of the ancient white oak, the grass moves. The vixen freezes, her eyes keen, her ears trained forward until she picks up the telltale sounds of rustling. Faster than the human eye can process it, her muscles contract pulling her close to the ground and she launches high into the air.

Once in the air, she sees her target. A small snake. Too late to halt her landing, the vixen sees the glint of metal reflecting the glowering red of sunset. The snap is quick and fierce, the teeth grind into her hind leg.

*************************************

“Are you ready?” The young woman smiles gently. Wearing a lavender uniform, she stands next to the tray.

Sinopa nods. The tip of her tongue traces her lips and she tastes the Chanel Kensington she applied before she left the office. He crosses her mind. What was it he’d said about that shade of lip color? Oh, yes.

She blushes.

The young woman steps closer to the table as she tugs on a pair of latex gloves and Sinopa settles back onto the futon-like chaise. She notes the young woman’s name in a clean, simple font on the white name tag. Diana.

Diana moves the sheet covering Sinopa’s lower body. “This is maintenance?”

Sinopa lets her eyes rest on the smooth eggshell wall and concentrates on her breathing. “Yes. And one of those – oh, what are they called?”

Diana cranes her slender neck to look at the form the receptionist handed her in the lobby. “Ah, yes. The Foxy Bikini. Have you chosen a color?” She lifts the lid off a jar and begins stirring the contents with a wooden tongue depressor.

“I’m hoping to get something that will match my lip color.” Sinopa props herself up on her elbows.

Diana pauses mid-stir and furrows her brow. The two women regard each other in confusion until Sinopa lets out a sharp laugh.

“I mean my lipstick!”

Diana exhales. Her breath smells of the cinnamon gum she has tucked between her cheek and teeth. “Oh my god, I thought – ” she places the jar on the tray suppressing her embarrassed laughter. “I’m sure we can find something close to that.” She moves to the end of the bed. “Okay, please pull your knees to your chest.”

Sinopa concentrates once again on her breathing as Diana silently spreads the wax. She bites her lip and winces as Diana pulls the strip of fabric away from her body. She closes her eyes and breathes deeply, thinks of him. He raved about the Swarovski jewels. He’s going to love the Foxy Bikni.

“Are they really made of fur?” she asks spying a chip in her French manicure that’s wrapped around her knee.

Diana’s gloved fingers pull her open so she can get a closer look at her work. “Mmmmhmmmm. Fox fur.”

Inspiration

You make me wanna get up and scream

Source

The vixen nudges the kits to the back of the den. The three survivors yip and jostle for the best spot. From her spot near the mouth of the burrow, she opens her jaws and snaps them shut quickly. The kits quiet and tuck their pointed noses into folds of downy fox fur, ears twitching. The smallest one yawns then closes his eyes.

With a last glance over her shoulder at the sleeping pups, the vixen scrambles out of the hole into the mossy damp of the late May evening. The air tastes of the fresh earth of the plowed field and the honeysuckle climbing over the fence. The vixen skims under the fence on her trek into the woods where she’s had luck lately catching mice.

Beyond the great rotting body of the ancient white oak, the grass moves. The vixen freezes, her eyes keen, her ears trained forward until she picks up the telltale sounds of rustling. Faster than the human eye can process it, her muscles contract pulling her close to the ground and she launches high into the air.

Once in the air, she sees her target. A small snake. Too late to halt her landing, the vixen sees the glint of metal reflecting the glowering red of sunset. The snap is quick and fierce, the teeth grind into her hind leg.

*************************************

“Are you ready?” The young woman smiles. Wearing a lavender uniform, she stands next to the tray.

Sinopa nods. The tip of her tongue traces her lips and she tastes the Chanel Kensington she applied before she left the office. He crosses her mind. What was it he’d said about that shade of lip color? Oh, yes.

She blushes.

The young woman steps closer to the table as she tugs on a pair of latex gloves and Sinopa settles back onto the futon-like chaise. She notes the young woman’s name in a clean, simple font on the white name tag. Diana.

Diana moves the sheet covering Sinopa’s lower body. “This is maintenance?” She asks.

Sinopa lets her eyes rest on the smooth eggshell wall and concentrates on her breathing. “Yes. And one of those – oh, what are they called?”

Diana cranes her slender neck to look at the form the receptionist handed her in the lobby. “Ah, yes. The Foxy Bikini. Have you chosen a color?” She lifts the lid off a jar and begins stirring the contents with a wooden tongue depressor.

“I’m hoping to get something that will match my lip color.” Sinopa props herself up on her elbows.

Diana pauses mid-stir and furrows her brow. The two women regard each other in confusion until Sinopa lets out a sharp laugh.

“I mean my lipstick!”

Diana exhales. Her breath smells of the cinnamon gum she has tucked between her cheek and teeth. “Oh my god, I thought – ” she places the jar on the tray suppressing her embarrassed laughter. “I’m sure we can find something close to that.” She moves to the end of the bed. “Okay, please pull your knees to your chest.”

Sinopa concentrates once again on her breathing as Diana silently spreads the wax. She bites her lip and winces as Diana pulls the strip of fabric away from her body. She closes her eyes and breathes deeply, thinks of him. He raved about the Swarovski jewels. He’s going to love the Foxy Bikini.

“Are they really made of fur?” she asks spying a chip in her French manicure that’s wrapped around her knee.

Diana’s gloved fingers pull her open so she can a closer look at her work. “Mmmmhmmmm. Fox fur.”

Inspiration

Anything goes

Gather together the circle of trust, y’all, because I’ve got a problem. Also includes open marriage, erotic dreams, feet of clay, fecklessness, tent meetings, paste eating and cats.