Rox and Roll

The Horror that is Other Parents

Last weekend, the Guv and I traveled to Boston for our best man's wedding while my mom cared for our children for five blessed, sacred, blissful, holy days.  Everybody, please take a moment to praise whatever gods you believe in for grandparents who give us breaks.  God bless 'em, every one.

While on this trip, though, I became that person.  You know -- the crochety lady who scowls at many of the overly-permissive parents of overly-coddled small children.  The one that we're all sure doesn't have her own kids, for, if she did, she'd understand.  But, alas, on that point, these know-it-all-first-time parents are right -- I don't understand.  I do have children, but I don't understand how other parents can do the following things:

• in an airport, allow your obviously-sick, snotty, drooling 18-month old to come up to me while I'm sitting, proceed to beat on my legs -- surprisingly hard -- with well-slobbered hands, and then, when I choose to stand up because I can't even see who's watching this sick baby, walk across the terminal from about a hundred yards away, grab your kid by the hand, harumph, and say, "she obviously doesn't like kids."  No, lady, I just don't like your kid.  Get it straight.

• on an airplane, in the row in front of me, read to their child in tandem at the top of their lungs using every single annoying voice from Sesame Street.  I didn't even know there were so many books inspired by the show that neither of my kids ever liked.  After two painful hours, I was trying to muster the courage to ask them to quiet down (I could even hear them through full-volume earphones!) when the mother said, "Oh!  We can stop now!  He's asleep!"  They recommenced on the descent, though.  And the funny thing is that the child was an absolute angel and certainly, at approximately age 4, did not need this level of entertainment.  I'm betting that he doesn't have a quiet moment to ever figure out what to do for himself, the poor little thing.

• in a bar, bring a child.  Ever.  Anywhere near a bar.  Seriously.  Bars are where people go to escape from their lives, not to have your whining, crying, hungry preschooler annoying everyone in the bar while you sip your wine and ignore her while waiting for a table.  And when the child bumps you, forcing you to spill that red wine all over your white outfit, you have no right to lecture the child and all of the rest of us in your own high-pitched whine.  Seriously.  Go away and wait for your table elsewhere.  (*Note: I exempt family-friendly bars, like our town's sports bar, from this ... also places like Chili's and Friday's.  But a high-end restaurant?  Not so much.)

• in a bar, bring a child, after 10 pm.  That's right: the above bullet point requires this addendum.  What brand of fools bring their three kids under five to a bar late-night?  Parents who need a break, that's who!  Re-read my intro, people: that's what grandparents are for -- or babysitters, or friends, or DYFS.  'Cause if your tiny little kids are still awake at 10 pm and the only way you can deal is to take them to a bar so that you can drown out their tears, you have very serious issues.  Those issues are filled under "g" for "get a grip" and "i" for "you're an idiot" and also in the book "Go the F*ck to Sleep" under every single page. 

• in a restaurant, whip out a DVD player, sans earphones, and blare a movie for your approximately 7 y.o. while you try to hold a conversation with your spouse.  If your school-aged child needs to watch TV at meals, you've already screwed her up badly enough that she's going to have an eating disorder and also need therapy.  As well, from the forced and unpleasant state of your conversation -- at least, the parts that I could hear over the songs of Aladdin -- your marriage isn't going to last anyway, so Little Jenny is also going to have to handle a broken home.  So let's get this straight: she won't have two parents, requires loud noise to drown out unpleasantness, and probably will have public anxiety absent those things.  And people wonder what's wrong with kids these days.

• in an adult clothing store, allow your child to sneak peeks into others' dressing rooms.  At what age can peeping toms be arrested?  I'm not kidding, 'cause I'm pretty sure your third grader should not have seen my tatas.  Little pervert.

And that's just part one of my diatribe.  I'm about to travel again, and God help us all, I'm getting my crotchety on.  I guess I'm in this space to represent the parents who think it is okay to, umm, parent.  I have never been a perfect parent -- in fact, I can name a dozen things I screwed up today alone! -- but I really will not tolerate my own kids' actions adversely affecting other people.  There is a line.  They will not cross it.  They have plenty of freedom: freedom to self-entertain, freedom to be in a dressing room with me, freedom to participate in a family conversation at a dinner table that miraculously lacks TVs.  I don't know how they've lived absent the over-indulgences so many have enjoyed -- and yet, they seem pretty swell to me. 

And when they don't?  I call Grandma.  Everyone needs a break sometimes -- even the kids.

 

The Great Do-Over Begins

I'm officially giving myself a blogging time-out.  Not a time-out from blogging: rather, a time-out in which I have to blog.

Between looking for jobs, a couple of interviews (!!!), and preparing to spend a few days away with hubby, sans kids, while also preparing to decamp for much of the summer (maybe, possibly, depends on those interviews!) ... life has gotten a little crazy around here.  Throw in a couple of big, huge pizza parties, a handful of other big commitments, soccer, baseball, etc. etc. ... well, you know how they say "spring has sprung?"  Spring jumped me, Brooklyn-style.  And it beat me up, and, when I woke up from that coma, I was all like "what the heck just happened?"  And it was gone.  The?  Yeah.  That about sums it up.

So ... summer, FTW!  11 days of school left.  11 days until my "babies" are in 6th and 1st grades, respectively.  11 days left to be in school together, likely for the last time in their lives, as Petunia heads to an all-girls middle school while Dash continues his quest to be the next Derek Jeter.  ("Maybe they teach us how to be real shortstops in first grade!" he adds.)

And, of course ... 11 days to get all of the crap I've been meaning to donate all. freakin'. year. out of my house.  Wait!  Adding in weekends, it's more like 17 days -- that's found time!  17 days to find the guinea pig summer sitter ... 17 days to finish cleaning out my closet, and my office, and the basement (a trio also known as "the final frontier") ... 17 days to pack and repack ... 17 days to finish up everything and get the heck out of Dodge. 

I can do a lot in 17 days, and there's also a lot that I can't do.  I'm at the point in my reality where I have to take a deep breath, pour a glass of wine, and type out a blog post ending with the most important word in my vocabulary these days.  No matter what happens, no matter what doesn't happen, no matter the state of my closet, my basement, my office, or my guinea pig, I have 17 days.  No matter what the outcome, I'm leaving it all behind, even if only for a while: the stress, the stuff, the exciting but daunting job hunt.  In 17 days, even if only for a little while, I get to say: whatever.

On personal space

Recently, Petunia, Dash and I travelled to sunny Florida to visit their grandparents and aunt in their gorgeous home by the beach.  Flying coast-to-coast with them is increasingly easy as they age; just download a couple of new movies in their iPod Touch devices, give 'em a pack of Starburst each, and they forget they're cooped up in a 737 for six hours. It used to be that Dash would ride primarily on my lap, but, now, he sits by the window, Petunia between us, and I can veg out with my iPod or a good book.  Everybody wins!  A few rows ahead of us, a morbidly obese man had a quick but noticeable exchange with a flight attendant about the empty seat beside him; there was a long list of standby passengers, but the guy had bought two seats so that he could fly without encroaching on anyone else's personal space.  I found that thoughtful of him, 'cause some people aren't so kind.

You know the ones I'm talking about: the lady in line behind you in line at the pharmacy, literally breathing down your neck because she has absolutely no concept of personal space.  (This always happens to me at the pharmacy, for some reason.)  Recently, I asked one such lady to step back and give me some space, and do you know what she said?  "This is a line in CVS; this is how it works."  When I said, "I'm here to pick up medication for a highly contagious illness, so it's in your own interest to keep your distance," she didn't budge, though we were literally toe-to-toe.  So I used my best Simon-Says voice to ask the entire line to take several steps backward because those toward the front were getting squished.  Still ... no response.  Suckers learned that when you're a frequent flyer at CVS like I am, what this effort gets you is called to the front of the line to pick up your suddenly-ready script, even though it's been sitting there for days.  Pharmacy tech has my back, yo.

But what about when no one has your back?  Recently, we hosted several events at our house; and during those events, I close our dog in our master bathroom and post a sign on our master bedroom door reading: "Dog inside -- please do not open."   Well, once, I forgot.  I forgot during the party for which I had run out of time to tidy up the master -- which I usually do, even though no one ever opens the "dog, do not open" door.  Except I forgot the sign that time, so my bedroom, into which I threw all of the stuff I didn't have time to tidy up before the party, saw some traffic.  How much, I won't know ... but my dog even got loose from confinement, so that someone or someones even used my bathroom.

My problem with that?  I might have forgotten the sign on the door, but my bedroom door was c-l-o-s-e-d.  Do you ever enter a room at someone's house without permission?  I think not.  I felt like my personal space was violated, and I wonder if people now recognize me from that episode of Hoarders, 'cause my room was really that bad.  What can I say?  I have two kids and no household help, so I do the best I can and am steadily improving in that arena, but we still have too much stuff and not enough places to put it.  I'm working on that.  But I don't even know to whom I need to explain that because I don't even know who was in my private bedroom.

In any event, such as it is, I've realized that I have personal space "issues," as in, I don't like anyone in it -- not the pharmacy line-lady, not the stranger-in-my-bedroom, but, beyond that, not even my kids as much as before.  Our first night in Florida, my little guy wanted a Mama-snuggle, which I failed to read as code for "I don't want you to sleep a wink, oppressor."  Finally, I shoved the dude to the other side of the bed, put a pillow between us, and declared it to be the Berlin Wall of sleep.  There are some times and places where a person just needs her space.  I'm figuring in bed, in bedrooms, in bathrooms, and, yes, even in line at the pharmacy are reasonable claims.  It'd be nice to always have it on airplanes, too, but most people aren't as considerate as the guy in 11D and 11E -- like the 50-something lady in the handknit yellow sweater who, as she turned aside while waiting in the bathroom line to let someone pass, let rip a loud and pungent fart about two inches from my face, and then had the gall to lean in and tell me that The Fighter (which I was watching) is a terrific movie.  I briefly thought about giving her an example of exactly which type of blow I thought Micky Ward landed best, but, instead, I pulled my t-shirt up over my nose, turned to my son in the window seat, and asked if I could hold him for a little bit, at least until the Farting Lady could get to the bathroom and back. 

Fortunately, the kid didn't mind a bit.

Our Ultimate Family Vacation

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Finally, our kids are at an age where our Ultimate Family Vacation could be really exciting and fun-filled.  With the Guv and I in our late-30s, still young enough to try just about anything, Petunia (age 10) and Dash (age 5), if I could plan any vacation I wanted, I'd be planning a sports-related vacation soon.  Both kids can swim, so a trip to some kind of all-inclusive resort by the sea might be in order.  Right now, I have my eye on Costa Rica, specifically.  There, we could all take surfing lessons, snorkel, paddleboard, kayak -- anything on the water.  Both Petunia and I have always wanted to swim with dolphins; maybe we could do that while the guys do some deep-sea fishing!  When we're waterlogged, it's important for us to be in a place where there's some fun to be had on land.  We enjoy hiking, and I'm thinking that Costa Rica's rainforest might be the perfect spot since that country's beaches are supposedly gorgeous, too.  It'd be great to couple fun on the water with some eco-tourism, something in which our family is interested and something for which Costa Rica is known. 

For this mom, staying at an all-inclusive resort is an important distinction.  I don't want to have to think about where to eat, to have to weigh the costs of various choices, to have to plan enough time to get to a location and wonder how long the wait to be seated is... It's always fun to go out to eat, but, with a 5 year-old in tow, time often is of the essence when it comes to eating.  Knowing that everything is covered at our resort, that we can eat when we want and will have a variety of no-brainer options would give me great peace of mind.

The other benefit of these types of resorts -- or so I hear, as I've never stayed at one -- is babysitting.  It'd be nice if the Guv and I had a couple of opportunities to sneak out during a family vacation for a little alone time.  Petunia is still a couple of years away from being able to babysit, so I want to know that wherever I stay has some trusted, qualified adults on-site to look after my kids.  Better yet, it'd be great if there's a kids' "club" so that they can play with other vacationers from around the world as the Guv and I wine and dine (or play tennis, swim or explore a town).  As much as the kids love time away with us, they miss being with other children, so a place with a kids' club would be a win-win situation.

So for our ultimate family vacation, I seek a mixture of opportunities to try new, fun, challenging things (sports, in our case) coupled with some creature comforts (all-inclusive food and babysitting among them) as well as an exotic location.  Costa Rica beckons!  I'm not sure if our budget would allow such an ultimate vacation, especially to such a resort, but we can always dream!

Tell me: if you could plan your ultimate vacation, what would YOU do?

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The Guv and The Soap

Oh, how I love my husband, the Guv.  I've loved him for over twenty years, through what was left of high school, college, various jobs, two kids, two guinea pigs, a dog, four homes, two apartments, one pizza oven, a not-quite-midlife crisis convertible, you get the drift.  Our life has ebbed and flowed and changed in amazing ways, and it seems like life together just gets better and better...

... except for one thing: travel.

It's not that I don't like traveling with the Guv, because I do, especially if it's without kids and the agita that comes with driving a gazillion hours with both of them in a too-small convertible on a family road trip because the Guv refuses to drive my much-more-comfortable-for-road-tripping minivan.

But that's another post.

The thing about traveling with the Guv is how he tries to Save the Earth through using the bare minimum in hotel products.  If I unwrap a soap in Hotel One, that soap is going to travel with us to Hotel Two, Hotel Three, and Hotel Umpteen until that soap is finished.  And he removes other ones before I can unwrap them, because I have to finish Soap One from Hotel One before I am allowed to unwrap Soap Two from Hotel Two.  Soap Two is "disappeared" before I even notice it's gone.  I cannot have Soap Two, because it's cheating on Soap One, which, if I don't finish it that very trip, will Kill the Earth.

Follow?

[As an aside, you know how Jack Nicholson unwraps about 300 Neutrogena soaps in "As Good As It Gets," uses them once, and throws them away?  Yeah, I'm thinking the Guv is not a Jack Nicholson fan.]

Says the Guv, "If hotel products aren't completely used, they are thrown out.  And throwing out even a mere sliver of remaining soap is unconscionable, unthinkable, unimaginable, ad un-eco-freako" -- or something like that.  And so, if you open the cabinet below our bathroom sinks, you will find approximately 5,942 unopened hotel soaps -- because The Guv also takes the wrapped ones, because he once heard that they even throw out unopened ones between visitors.  I am no longer allowed to buy him his old favorite Lever, which I really loved to smell on his freshly-washed skin.  He uses hotel soap, soap that will outlive, outplay, and outlast us all, because no human being could ever use that much soap. He says he'll use them for the gym... you know, the gym at his office that he uses maybe weekly after a super-early morning conference call, after which he comes home to shower... home, where he uses hotel soap, which means the saving-it-for-the-gym-thing isn't really working.  He says he's saving money.  He may be saving the earth and money, but, clearly, he is not saving my sanity, because the problem is that, with rare exception, I really don't like hotel soap.  I don't like the way it smells, I don't like its waxiness -- not even the good stuff -- and I don't like its littleness.  So, we're at an impasse: I'll buy my Lush body wash and Dove sensitive skin bar soap and use them both in one shower.  (Ouch! says the Earth.)

So, anyway, this vacation, I had a plan.  He recently brought home soap I actually like: EO.  I took three cakes of it, one for each hotel switch.  We could all use it and then leave it behind at the end, right?  RIGHT? 

No.  EOS1 (that would be EO Soap One) followed us from Hotel One to Hotel Two then back to Hotel One for Stay Three.  (I didn't follow that either, but the point is that the soap followed us.) 

I can be zen about this.  At least I used the soap I like.  And the Guv dried it and rewrapped it so carefully between stays that it wasn't gooey and gnarly.  And really, if he wants to take that on, I shouldn't object. 

What I will do, though, is go through the cabinets under our sinks and donate at least half of what's stacking up down there.  I'll have to open each soap to make sure that it's one that he hasn't used and saved for later, because that happens a lot.  He says it's his way of Saving the Earth.  I think he's trying to kill me. 

P.S. I'll resuscitate with Starbucks hotel-pack coffee, because we have dozens of those, too, because we're saving the earth, and coffee farming, and my coffee budget, one foil-pack at a time. 

P.P.S. Please don't think I'm being mean to the Guv.  He vets all of my posts, and, noting my anxiety about the soap following me, he actually suggested this one.  Isn't he a keeper?!

In the Sunshine State

The kids and I are far from our California home right now, enjoying a week with my parents, my sister and their two poodles in the Sunshine State.  Florida is a very different place from California.  I would compare and contrast the two, but that might get me into trouble.  In general, though, I am glad that my parents live in Florida, because I get to visit and take the kids to cool places like the Kennedy Space Center.  I am glad that we live year round in California, because my hair?  It can't take this humidity.  I look like an ad for Zotos perms, and I don't even have one.  It's a sad hair week for me.

The highlight of our trip was ringing in my Grandma Pearl's 80th birthday with extended family.  Present for the party were: my 83 year-old Grandpa Dick, the Birthday Pearl, my mom (almost 62) and dad, mom's sister (my aunt, who's 57), mom's two brothers (my uncles, ages 47 and 59) and their wives, three cousins plus one's boyfriend, my 28 year-old sister, the kids and me.  We spent time looking through family photo albums, and it's hard to imagine how the little ones have grown so big already.  I was the first grandchild for my Grandma Pearl, and I've given her and Grandpa Dick their only great-grandchildren to date.  It was a really cool thing to have four generations in one room.  I wonder if my daughter will remember that moment when I'm turning 80.

The second highlight of our trip was visiting Kennedy Space Center.  The kids got to meet an astronaut, Sam Gemar, who flew three missions.  Petunia marched right up to him and asked, "Why aren't the shuttle wings dihedral?" having just finished a science fair project about how a dihedral affects flight.  He answered her -- something about a shuttle needing delta wings because it doesn't need the stability offered through a dihedral.  She says we have to look into that.  I'm thinking I'm going to need to take some more physics courses just to keep up with her!  Dash ate up the "rocket garden" and wanted to know if we could have one too... I don't think our Silicon Valley backyard could accommodate even one, but I agree that would be cool!

They've been to many more places: the Alligator Farm, the Castillo de San Marcos, and yes, Dunkin Donuts and Rita's Water Ice.  They've even ridden on Grandpa's motor scooter, trapped an anole and kept it as a pet for three days, walked the poodles on the beach, dug a hole almost all the way to China on the same beach, and much more... Something tells me they might be glad of the plane ride tomorrow, just so they can relax!  But I know they'll miss all of the attention, their grandparents, their aunt and most especially the dogs very much.  Thanks to all of them and to lovely Florida for a great spring break!