The Next Suze Orman?

Money Lessons.

Zygote: Where are you going, Daddy?
YG: I'm going to Seattle.
Zygote: Why?
YG: I'm talking to some people about a job.
Zygote: Why?
JM: Mommy and Daddy both work and sometimes we like to have new jobs.
Zygote: Why?
YG: Because we want money.
Zygote: Why?
YG: We want to work hard now and make money so that we don't have to work so hard later and can have nice things now.
Zygote: Why?
YG: You like nice things. You like your lollipops, right?
Zygote: I want a lollipop.
YG: You can't have a lollipop right now, but we work to make money so that we can buy more lollipops.

[Zygote exits. One minute passes, and there is a knock on the door]

Zygote: I have money.

[YG opens the door. Z is standing there with a few coins from our coin jar.]

Zygote: I have money. Gimme a lollipop.

/End scene

MG and Zygote's Thoughts on Vasectomies

My daddy has a boo boo. And a diaper.

Daddy has a boo boo on his pee. I can't touch it.

I don't understand why you need the surgery. You can just not have sex. . . Gross.

If I can't say "balls," what do you call them? What? Testicles sounds worse than balls.

This Is What A Relationship Looks Like: True Love Edition

Scene: JM finishes telling YG the harrowing story of spending 2.5 hours on a Sunday in urgent care with two sick babies that culminated in some hipster douchebag asking, "is anyone going to do something about that screaming baby?"

JM: Well, so I lost it. I told him he could suck my dick.
YG: That's so crude.
JM: Suck my dick.
YG: You know I hate it when you say that.
JM: Can you think of a more appropriate phrase I could have said to him?
YG: Really, go fuck yourself would have been better.

Perhaps it's time to rethink my language when "go fuck yourself" is the better phrase.

150 Days Old

Meet the New Boss

I'm working on a new project, a new blog that narrows my focus down to the things I get all frothy and excited about: food, clothes, nutrition, "women's issues," etc. I wanted to keep the Like Seriously name, but then I couldn't think of a word for women that wasn't either insulting (Like Seriously Bitches) or too twee (Like Seriously Chicks). I went with Grrrls because maybe, deep down, I am still riot grrrl at my core. Check it out: http://like-seriouslygrrrls.blogspot.com

I'm still going to keep this one for updates on the spawn and my never ending job search and whatever else might be jingling around in my brain.

The new blog was born during a class I just took, Working on Purpose (I KNOW), where we had to make lists of things we enjoyed and liked to talk about. Besides my kids and YG and running and watching a LOT of tv, my list consisted of writing and kvetching about food, fashion, feminism. And then we got to the hard part -- is there anything you can do with that? I immediately thought that I could write about those things, but then quickly retreated into "what's the point? no one reads." But, I guess the point is to do it anyway.

So yeah, I'm doing it.

Wifetime: Television for White Women

Or how I spent my maternity leave.

Back To The Mines

Image from Hyperbole and a Half

Yesterday was my first day back at work. And then I went back today. And then I had to drink beer.

My placard: Will work for new job.

One and Two

Sometimes they look so alike to me. I know they are two different kids with two different personalities, but when they have the same expressions, it can take my breath away. I'm sure this is just the beginning of things that they will discuss later on in therapy. 'YOU never let me be my own person' and whatnot.

Z2, taken Sept 2011 back in Whippany in my old bedroom.


Zygote, taken Sept 2009 back in Whippany in my old bedroom.

What's The Opposite of an Iron Lung?

Z2 is lovely for most of the day. And then around 6pm, the screaming begins. Not regular screaming, but ear-piercing shrieks and howls that cannot be placated with food or snuggles or anything. I'm convinced our neighbors think we are torturing this kid. It's terrible under most circumstances, even more so when you are alone and trying to convince the other child not to poop in the tub.

Have a listen to the decibel level on this one, and imagine that, FOR AN HOUR:

Remembering

I have to stop watching all the 9/11 memorials. I feel like that is disrespectful (to whom?) in some ways, but I don't know how I can endure tomorrow unless I go into media blackout. I just sat through MSNBC's special which was basically a rebroadcast of their live show on 9/11/01. Watching all that information filter in, before we knew anything, felt like a punch to the gut. I alternate between dazed and teary. I kind of hope the breakdown will happen so that I can move past the hazy, anxious feeling.

This year seems harder than all the others, probably because of all the intense media focus.

I remember what I was wearing. I wore it for the next two days.

I remember being late for work.

I remember watching everything unfold in Ray's office and seeing coworkers cry.

I remember being in the cafeteria and watching on tv when the Pentagon news broke. I said something about hoping George Bush was up to the job and having a distraught guy physically threaten me for being so callous. He was right. I was wrong.

I remember stopping at CVS to buy a toothbrush because I didn't know where I was going to be staying and for how long. I still have it along with some cheap makeup.

I remember being alone in my parents house waiting for someone to get there. I remember talking to my brother in France and telling him that the Towers were just gone, just vanished. I talked to my friend's mom and my sister and BB and Tom.

I remember my parents finally getting home from Staten Island. It's like I can almost still feel that hug. I have hugged my parents countless times in my life but that one, I will remember.

I remember that we went to a Chinese buffet on Route 10 and could see the cloud.

I remember all the "missing" posters and the segments on tv.

I remember driving back to Brooklyn finally to pick up my cats and how eerie quiet the Turnpike is without the sounds of the airplanes.

I remember Owl's Head Park and the Pier being closed, but we could still see that cloud billowing from my street.

I remember holing up in the small bedroom in Whippany (Brian's bedroom), living out of a suitcase for longer than necessary because I was afraid of going back.

I remember shopping for wedding gowns and hearing numerous stories of cancelled weddings because of missing brides and grooms.

I remember finally moving back in and taking the subway to Manhattan. Everything was bustling and moving, but as we inched closer to Ground Zero, it was dead quiet, and people walked in single file lines down random streets.

I remember there were exceptions. I remember a fight between two men, one yelling at the other for taking pictures of his family posing in front of a particularly scary-looking backdrop. "THIS IS NOT A FUCKING TOURIST ATTRACTION. IT'S A GRAVE!" he screamed.

I remember people clapping for firemen and police officers when they drove down the West Side Highway.

I remember flying to France a few months later and there was a little bit of turbulence, enough to make me white knuckle my seat, and look over at my father who had his eyes scrunched shut and was saying prayers.

I remember that people liked us.

I remember that everyone knew somebody.

It's one of the oldest written cliches, but I remember it like it was yesterday. I can almost taste the sadness. There's no real way to end this, is there?

September 5 Through The Years

More on the 35 milestone later.

First birthday.


Sweet sixteen -- black dress, colored fishnets. I'd still dress this way every day if I thought I could get away with it.





Eighteen, right before college. My mom looks like she could be Zygote's twin.



Nineteen, before I realized that plucking means shaping the entire brow, not just the Scorcese in between.


Twenty. London. With NN and our individual bottles of "California White." Classy.


Twenty one. Mil Mulliganos show at Chucks with BB. That shirt is 100% polyester.




Twenty five. At ESPNZone. Not on a business trip. That says a lot about 25.


Thirty. Lombard Street on my first trip to San Francisco. One of my favorite YG/JM trips.


Thirty one. W Hotel, Union Square. Magnolia cupcakes. He proposed a few hours later.


Thirty three. With the new kid in town.


Thirty four. Walden Pond.


Thirty five.

This Is What A Relationship Looks Like: Role Play Edition

Scene: YG shuffles the deck of Uno cards for Uno Smackdown Night, also known as what married people with kids do on a weekend night.

JM: Did you fart?
YG: . . .
JM: Seriously, you like fart all the time now.
YG: I'm you now.
JM: . . .
YG: And now I am the Uno Master.
JM: You really are me.
YG: Role reversal.
JM: You fart all the time, you're the Uno Master and you are angrily beating up people in the street.
YG: I didn't beat that guy up. I threatened to beat him up.
JM: Still.
YG: Still.
JM: If roles were really reversed and I wanted to be you, though, I'd just have to inwardly seethe all the time. Just seethe.
YG: Oh don't worry. You're there.

After an epic Uno battle, he won. I seethed.

Summer Reading

Not as much as I would have liked, but good enough. One phrase recaps:

* When You Are Engulfed in Flames by David Sedaris. Funny enough to read in the hospital with a screaming baby.

* That Old Cape Magic by Richard Russo. Russoesque, but not as good as his other stuff.

* I Could Do Anything If I Only Knew What It Was: How to Discover What You Really Want and How to Get It by Barbara Sher and Barbara Smith. Don't judge me.

* The 19th Wife by David Ebershoff. Mormons are even more demented than I thought they were.

* A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again: Essays and Arguments by David Foster Wallace. Most were hilariously brilliant, and the others were probably brilliant but I felt seriously and ridiculously intellectually inferior reading them. Also, I was right about cruises.

* Let the Great World Spin by Colum McCann. I miss NYC.

* Bad Mother: A Chronicle of Maternal Crimes, Minor Calamities, and Occasional Moments of Grace by Ayelet Waldman. Diaper bag book that is surprisingly relatable considering the author.

Up next:
The Leftovers by Tom Perrotta. I have devoured and loved everything of his that I've read. Plus, I secretly want him to fall in love with me. And by in love, I mean in that "wait, you're from New Jersey too? And you went to Syracuse too? And you moved to Massachusetts too? And you're hilarious too? I bet you are a great writer. I should take a look at your stuff" kind of way.

Valleys, Peaks, Other Metaphors

The years fly by, but the afternoons last forever.

I've heard that expression twice this week, and holy crap, does it resonate. This has been the week of both 'Look at her. Look at her. Look at how she smiles at me' and 'Maybe I should just go away someplace. Some people really shouldn't be parents. They would be better off without me.' Every week is Bipolar Awareness Week here.

The Terrible Twos really are fucking terrible. The whining, the crying, the tantrums, and the low-grade anxiety over what minor mishap is going to cause an epic meltdown like tonight's deep and sorrowful wailing over a broken tortilla chip. Some days I handle it. Other days (after a few strung together days of 'handling' it) are like Monday. I wake up with the baby around 6 a.m. and feed her and then try to snarf down some coffee or something that can be eaten with one hand. Sometimes I take a shower. On the vast majority of days, I do not. Zygote has a habit of waking up in a crappy mood, an unfortunate genetic trait. In the kitchen, we play the "do you want a X for breakfast?" game. Lots of NOOOOOOOO. Finally, a compromise is reached and YG or I sets her up in her chair to watch Sesame Street, some brief entertainment while I nurse the baby again. But the kid is too smart. She knows that we can fast forward to the parts of the show that have Elmo in it so she starts chanting, whining, crying "Elmooooooo" until one of us complies. {Insert "kids these day" or "when I was a kid, there were only 12 channels" story of your choice.] On this particular Monday, Zygote also made me her displeasure with our juice selection known by pouring it out, making a massive puddle of mess and then crying about not wanting it to be dirty. At this point, the baby's fussy period kicks in and we get some ear-piercing shrieks added to the mix of Sesame Street songs, toddler whining and pre-teen "where's my socks? where's my bag? did you do my laundry?" Pre-teen MG also likes to "help" which is excellent when Zygote is in a great mood, but when Zygote is whiny and moody, MG tries to placate her so Zygote screams louder and MG gets all preteen weepy/mopey about nobody liking her. Vicious circle.

Later Monday morning, YG left to drop MG off at her mother's house. Zygote was still whining and Z2 was shrieking, but I told him I could handle it. Perhaps I was overconfident. Perhaps I am STILL (years of marriage later) trying to convince YG that I am nothing like his first wife and that I am nothing but reliable and calm and just a stellar, roll with it kind of partner. You see where this is going. I could not handle it, so I'll skip the rest of the escalation details and just get to the climax:

Zygote has a habit of kicking and squirming and generally trying to avoid diaper changes. The last straw of Monday's escalation came when she managed to smear a load of shit-filled diaper all over my arm. I lost my proverbial (as opposed to the literal) shit -- screaming at her which of course only caused her to cry louder which made me scream louder. I was so insanely angry and afraid of hitting her that I ran into our hallway, jumped up and down like a lunatic, screamed more, punched walls and threw a water bottle across the room knocking down and breaking a framed version of that blessing that starts with "May the road rise to meet you. May the wind be always at your back..." How apropos.

It was UGLY. I managed to get both shrieking kids in the stroller, dropped Zygote off at daycare and walked exactly 4.63 miles with Z2 to calm myself down. Daycare is two blocks from our house and by the time we got there, Z was humming and all "bye bye, Mommy. Love you." I was left with my guilt and the mistaken belief that I had hit my rock bottom in terms of Bad Mommy days this summer.

And then Tuesday sucked worse except this time it was the smaller one that sent me over the edge with an hour of straight screaming and some sort of nursing strike right in the middle of the morning rush. I did my spastic jumping up and down dance, but this time I didn't scream or yell at anyone but the walls. I just sobbed. This postpartum period has been remarkable in its relative lack of tears, but the fucking Hoover Damn broke the other morning. And it was made worse by a two-year-old saying "mommy cry" and rubbing my hair and kissing me and saying "okay mommy."

Guilt overload. I don't want to be Mean Mommy, but I sure as hell don't want to be Sad Mommy. This was the 'maybe people like me shouldn't have kids' day. The how the hell am I going to do this and work day. The how am I going to: do this, work, be a wife, be a friend, eat well, stay in shape, be thin, be better looking, keep up with personal grooming, read books, go for runs, care for my children's full emotional and educational development day. A couple of days out, let's just refer to that as Bourgeois Complaints Day.

Then yesterday was good. Nothing exciting. We went to Target. We did a Mommy&Me meeting. I picked up the dry cleaning. We hit the Farmer's Market. I ran. Today was better. We went to Walden Pond. I refilled the propane tank. We went for a walk. The baby still shrieked and Zygote still whined, but I was okay.

YG had told me, years before when there was only MG, that he never loved anyone as much as his kid, but he was also never as angry as he was around his kid. And I guess that's it -- I don't like peaks and valleys. I hate, probably more than anything else in the universe, feeling out of control. I like things to be steady, calm, in the middle. And nothing really has been since Zygote was born. I have never felt this amount of guilt or this amount of disappointment in myself (and given my general misanthropic worldview, that's saying something) before. But I also never felt this heart-bursting, kiss-giving, want-to-squeeze-you-all-the-time-and-freeze-you-in-this-particular-moment-and-protect-you-from-all-the-ugly-in-the-universe love either.

I want to be present, and I want to be good enough. I am lucky to have them. I want them to be lucky to have me.

Facebook Status Updates Too Boring For Facebook Due To The Kids Or The Boobs And Therefore Only Relevant To A Minuscule Subset of Friend Population

JM:

* had nothing bitchy to say to the woman who told her the stroller was taking up too much room on the bus. If you have nothing bitchy to say, don't say anything at all.

* is a bit like Leonard Cohen except I chafe in the places where I used to play.

* wants to drop these screaming kids off on the Sears' door. Attach yourself to this, fuckers.

* needs a mommy cause to really fit in with the sanctimommies at mommy group. Wild snow leopards and their impact on our children.

* wonders if it's ever appropriate to live blog your husband's vasectomy.

* does sit ups and planks while Z2 does 'tummy time.' So much crying.

* remembers a time when she didn't have to pick things out of other people's junk.

* is fascinated by this Versailles fountain like boob.

* wonders if she's setting Zygote up for a lifetime of failed romantic relationships with all this loud fart encouragement.

This Is What A Relationship Looks Like: Tapioca Edition

JM: It's gross.
YG: How do you not like this? It's just vanilla pudding.
JM: With balls in it.
YG: You like balls.
Together: In my/your mouth.

#married well.

Quotable Quotes From Vacation That May or May Not Be Funny

Re: News
Dad to Mom: You know, Brian listens to that National Public Radio. NPR?
JM to sister: THAT National Public Radio.

Re: Transgendered Members of the Family
Person 1: Well, of course, I accept it, but it's hard. You know in my day, a homo was a homo and a regular person was a regular person.
Person 2, in heavy NY accent: I have to say, it all gets very confusing.

Re: Genetics
Mom: The [Dad's family name] have scary eyes. The baby has warm eyes. Like me.

Re: Genetics Part 2
Mom: That little baby was cute, but not as cute as OUR babies. Our babies have excellent features.

Re: Random
Mom: Zygote's doll looks like Robinson Cano, don't you think?
JM: What? No.
Mom: No, he does.
JM: First off, the doll is white.
Mom: I know, but the features are the same.

Re: Myers Briggs Tests
JM: I alternate between being an ISTJ and INTJ.
YG: ESTJ.
JM: I and J being the strongest, obviously.
Mom: I took that once. I am obviously an E, but I was really surprised that I got a J.
Cue hysterical laughing from JM, YG and Dad.
Mom: No, really, I didn't think I was judgmental.
YG: I really hope that wasn't some sort of seminal moment for you.

This is what a relationship looks like: word play edition

Vacationing in Long Island. . .

jm: The Mosquitos are crazy out here. They keep attacking me.
jm: it must be because I taste so sweet.
YG: and not because you are a big sweaty horse.
jm: ...blink...did you just call me a fat horse?
YG: Yes.
jm: . . .blink...
YG: because of your running. You are so equine.
jm: ...blink...
YG: strong and sleek.
jm: ...blink...
YG: equine. Not...bovine.
jm: blogworthy.

This Is What A Relationship Looks Like: Cycling Edition

YG: I've been obsessed with rims lately.
JM: RIM SHOT!
YG: Let me rephrase that. I've been looking into new rims.
JM: Yeah, baby, I'm going to get new with your rims.
YG: I don't even remember who built my rims.
JM: God made your rims.
YG: You really are a twelve year old boy.

Offensive and Not Politically Correct

Examples of why I need to clean up my language:

* I was working on an essay and went to describe something as "that's so gay" and thought that I needed something better that wouldn't offend the mos. The first thought that popped into my head as an alternative was, "that's so retarded." Hmmm....

* During a particularly bad toddler tantrum, I said, "Oh.My.God. You need to stop it with this motherfucking crying." Okay if I was Samuel L. Jackson. I am not.

* Dropping something on the floor, I hear Zygote whine her usual "uh oh" followed by something that sounded remarkably like "shit."