Week 24

When you arrive at someone’s house for brunch, just as you know nothing about what they have been doing all morning except cooking, which you really don’t even think about, they don’t know anything about what kind of morning you have just had. They don’t know, for example, that you woke up at 7:30 and then went back to bed until 9:00. Or that you let your children watch a bit of TV but then they had a fit when you told them you have to get ready for brunch and the TV has to go off. Or that you spent the morning running back and forth from the kitchen to the bathroom bailing out the kitchen sink, which is stopped up and filling with water at a steady pace because you just had to run a load of dishes in the dishwasher because the dishes were starting to smell and you were out of cups, spoons, forks and small plates. Or that the other reason you were hiking back and forth thru the house had to do with the way your stomach was reacting to having way overeaten tapas for dinner last night.

No, all your host knows is that you are 15 minutes late for a multi-course brunch that her son’s nanny has been up for hours preparing.

We have just arrived home from said brunch, where we were treated to several courses of homemade Chinese food. Noodles, shrimp, chicken, soup, rice balls, fruit. It was all delicious and the conversation was stimulating. And the little boys played nicely, though they didn’t eat much. And the Chinese nanny, who does not speak any English, insists on serving and cleaning up. She is not invited to join us at our meal and she hides her boredom only fairly well, hovering over the boys, who have all come down baring swords and wanting to watch a Pokemon video. In Japanese. And they will yell at us to be quiet even tho not one of them understands even a word of the dialogue.

Meanwhile, we, the adults, have a beautiful front view of the street below. It’s a residential street just a couple of blocks from our own home and right around the corner from Mac’s school. We watch the sun come out and make a guest appearance on this Sunday afternoon in February. My parents, who have joined us at this brunch, along with my sister, take their role as parking police very seriously and before we realize what we are doing, we are all standing in the window directing a husband and wife duo down below. “Move back move back!” “Stop!” “No a little further back!” “Don’t pull forward.” And when the male driver hits the spot we approve of, we burst into applause. The window is closed, thank goodness, and tho I don’t believe the wife was able to hear us 2 stories up, I get the feeling she senses she is being watched, as she looks up and scans the building briefly. We are pathetic.

“I would like a cup of hot chocolate and a book, my Pokemon book, and a few miutes to rest on my bed,” Mac requests on our walk home. I want to go to the zoo. “That would be fine, too,” he says. Sometimes he can be fabulously agreeable. “I don’t want to go anywhere!” That’s from Sailor, who is tired enough that he mouthed off at my father before we left brunch, “I am not listening to you, GrandDad!” He needs his nap. At home he cries and cries and fights me, but not fiercely and I manage to escort him to his room and put him down to a nap. “I don’t want to be left alone in here,” he cries. I fetch myself a cup of tea, go to the bathroom, check in on Mac: “You were supposed to find my Pokemon book!” Right, because there are two of me, one to fulfill the wishes of each of you, on demand. I remember putting the book away earlier this week but am not sure where – the book shelf in Mac’s room or the book basket in the playroom. I find it in the latter. Return to Sailor’s room where I remind him that if he is not going to go to preschool he has to take a nap. He is out in a matter of minutes.

My head throbs. I need 10 minutes with my eyes closed, too.

So Sailor finished up preschool last week. Or actually 2 weeks ago would be more accurate. He didn’t go this past week and was sick the week before. He is too tired. And I have run this by a few friends and the best mommy advice I have received matches my own thought that he is only 4 and doesn’t need to be in school right now. Not if he is this unhappy about going. It’s just not worth it and he is going to end up hating school in the long run if I push him. Mac already dislikes school and there is nothing short of pulling him out for homeschooling (which, believe me, I am seriously considering) that I can do for him right now. Sailor on the other hand is little enough for it not to matter. But our understanding is that he will be homeschooled by me and that he will nap. I am right about his needs.

We have pizza dinner plans tonight and I don’t want to bring any crabby, tired boys to dinner. So Sailor sleeps. Mac rests. And I am now considering a trip to my lovely new pink room.

Mac is awake so I lie on the couch for about 3.5 minutes before my sofa siesta is interrupted by the phone. Is there a law that dictates this? My father is primed to come up and help me fix my kitchen sink. I am not in the mood, and as I have already run the dishwasher, dumping bowls of water out into the backyard. So I am in no big hurry. I tell him we will work on it tomorrow. I go back to Sailor’s room with my laptop and Mac comes in and asks me if he can watch Empire Strikes Back. I have no really good reason to say no, other than that he has already watched an hour of PBS in my bed this morning and a Pokemon video at brunch. I ask him if I may join him. He is delighted to have me sit with him. I type away entering 165 emails into the art studio’s database, all the while listening to a hellish blow by blow of the action on our television screen. It’s driving me NUTS! I don’t care about StarWars. I really and truly do not! But I do care about being a good mom, so I feign interest, nod, say “cool” and “mmmhmmm” and “oh, really?” a lot. And try really hard not to voice my total frustration every time he drags my eyes from my laptop to “watch this!”

Monday afternoon I get in touch with Teacher S at Sailor’s preschool. I send her this email later in the evening:
Teacher S,
Thank you for calling me today. I still feel terrible and guilty on the side of school, but of course on Sailor's side I feel like I have done what he needs me to do for now. I didn't want to look back on all this years from now and wonder why I didn't just let him stay home with me; I just hope I don't look back and regret letting him out. I do think he has some issues with separation and also with going places in general, but with that in mind I don't know that forcing him is the way to go. He did say something about going back to school tonight, so who knows if he will be back in a week or a month! He does understand that he has to go to school when he is 5 (too bad he is not going to kindergarten in the fall, where I do think he would do well).
Anyway, for now, all I can say is a big thank you for being so understanding and for not judging me (at least not to my face!!). I want you to know how much I love you and your school and no matter what happens with Sailor, I have told you before that I always want to be part of your preschool in whatever way I can be of service.
Thank you! See you Friday night!
SuperMommy

She was kind enough to let me know that Sailor is welcome back at any time should he decide he wants to return to his class. This teacher is a gem! And I hope Sailor will agree to return in the fall. I really hate for this to be over and done with, without so much as a hug or a gift or something ceremonious after all these years.

Meanwhile… our kitchen sink remains clogged. I have a guy pal possibly coming over to look at it tomorrow. But my father wants to look at it tonight. So after listening to Mac whine about homework, heating up leftovers for dinner and then attempting to clean up after dinner without a sink, I call my dad to come up. It is 6:00. I think we will have out little project done shortly. I treated myself to a manicure and pedicure today so the last thing I am going to want to do is ruin my nails. I don Dad’s heavy workman gloves and set to work under the kitchen sink. I am proud of myself for my role as woman doing the work with moderate instruction from my father. Until things get difficult and he is the one crouched awkwardly under the sink because the wrench is really too heavy for me to get the right leverage. The angles are all wrong under here, too, and the wrench is too long. I get testy and I wonder why my attitude toward my father is not good for this moment: is it because I am resentful of my inability to do this task without his help, or because he is no longer capable of doing it without my help? I lower my expectation of the situation and am grateful that he is willing to come up and help me at all. The pipe drips and the powerful goo that I have poured down the drain is dripping into a bucket below the pipe. I attempt to tighten the pipe fittings but loosen them instead. They refuse to tighten again. And soon enough there is nothing happening in the drain. What is happening is that we are slowly suffocating from the smell of the powerful chemical. We decide to release the pipe and let the water fall to the bucket below rather than stand in the sink stinking up the house all night. Before I know what is happening, toxic water is splashing and spraying all over everything. I shout at the boys to go to my room, away from the water, the smell of the chemicals and the noxious gas now escaping from the pipe. My dad retreats downstairs for paper towels and returns huffing and puffing. I am pissed, simply pissed. I have more work to do tonight than I want to stay awake for, the children were finally going to be in bed on time, and now I have a kitchen covered in toxic water that I now have to clean up completely. Did I mention I am pissed? My father opens the back door, letting the snowing February night in, brings a fan up from the basement, closes doors, and does his best to make our living environment healthy again. The kids are in my bed goofing off and receive a good shout. I am tossing plastic water bottles in the trash and washing cups in the tub. My dad tells me to let him know when we are going to bed so he can come up and see how bad it smells (I think he is considering having us sleep downstairs for our safety). My upper respiratory tract hurts.

Later, when Sailor is eating cereal on my bedroom floor instead of sleeping, I hand him the phone and tell him what to say.
My dad comes up a few minutes later laughing. “I have been asked to do many things in my life, but never before have I been asked, ‘Come up and smell my house.’ ” He is amused. He says it smells better. I hope my guy pal comes over tomorrow!

We wake up freezing, despite the fact that we are huddled together like a pile of puppies.
The kids get out of bed when the alarm clock – the buzzer in Mac-speak; the timer in Sailor-speak – rings. I freeze alone. When I crawl from beneath the covers I find the boys in the playroom, wearing their robes over pajamas. This is a sure indicator that it is far colder than usual in the house. I don’t know why it’s so cold. The back door was only open for an hour last night. On my way to the bathroom I look down the stairs and to my shock and dismay I see right out to the front walk – it’s snowing like crazy and the wind is blowing wildly and our front door has been open all night!!! Apparently my father forgot to lock it on his way out last night and the wind took it and blew it open. And that is how our Tuesday begins.

Sailor has soccer. I sit and listen to a rich mom tell her nanny her plans for the day, which include a pilates class and taking her oldest daughter to the dentist after school, and what the nanny is to make the children for lunch and how really helpful it would be if she would stay til 6:30 and help with bath and dinner. I want to throw up. I want to tell her to take care of her own children herself. I want to ask the nanny how she puts up with this. I want to ask the nanny how much she gets paid to put up with this. I hate these moms. They make the rest of us, the stay-at-home moms who actually take care of our children by ourselves, look bad.

Sailor and I drive all over the place doing errands and shopping for food. By noon we are exhausted and done. We go home. Sailor swears he is not tired and does not need a nap, but when I insist he does not fight me. He sleeps fast and hard and I have to wake him to get Mac from school. He cries that he is still too tired and I feel his pain. We decide to drive to get there on time. But once we arrive Officer Dick is at his usual post and he won’t let me stop my car. He waves me along. I have already yelled out my car window to ask the Australian mom to hold Mac for me til I get around. I scream and pound my steering wheel in frustration. I just want to pick up my child! When I double park illegally two blocks away Sailor runs to school with me, without complaint. I tell the Australian mom how much I hate Officer Dick, more than anyone I know. “Oh, I love him,” she gushes. I totally lose it. “I HATE HIM!” I scream, and gather Mac in my arms. Tomorrow night I will call her after she is already asleep and explain (but not apologize for) my mini-tantrum. I want to know who else this officer is harassing and why he thinks it is ok to treat me this way.

Our next adventure for this long day involves the “check engine” light in our car, which has been on for about 24 hours. We stop by the garage to see if they know what the problem is. They agree to look under the hood. We trek off to the library. I let the boys pick some books and they choose StarWars. Which I will not want to read. I choose some others for them. Mac is starving so we walk over to Starbucks and get a sandwich and milk and coffee. Sailor spends my last $1 on cookies. We sit. The boys play in the little play area we watch a little boy color on the table and I wonder what makes his mom think it’s ok for him to do that. Mac tells the boy’s mom when he is coloring on the window. We eat. We talk. Mac plays with the other little boys, two toddlers. Mac makes friends wherever he goes. Sailor sits with me. I read to the boys from our new stack of books. Then we are told Starbucks is closing early tonight. In 15 minutes. Of all nights!

Our car is not done when we get back so we sit in the gas station. Mac wants me to buy him a candy bar. Gum. Peanuts. In a too-loud voice I tell him for the umpteenth time that I do not have any money left. He offers to put my credit card in the ATM and get money for me that way. It is so hard for them to sit here. They walk around the store. “Look Mom, a shaver and little shave cream,” Sailor finds. Mac searches the store for the peanuts I won’t buy him. I look at all the things on the shelf that end in x: Kleenex, durex, tampax, kotex, blistex, carmex, windex. Four older kids come in, whom Mac recognizes from the library. One boy spies condoms and says, “condoms,” out loud and then seeing me, mumbles, “gross,” as an afterthought.

When we finally get home I still have to prepare dinner, help Mac do his homework, get the kids to bed and read to them, clean up the kitchen… and I think about the mom at soccer this morning who asked her nanny to stay and help with this part of her day. It disgusts me that some moms use their children as an excuse to not go to work and stay home doing as they please.

Wednesday is a wild and crazy day as always. But instead of French class this morning Sailor has 4 little girls over to play at 10:00. We run Mac to school and Sailor walks home slowly because, as usual, his feet hurt, or so he says. Never mind that my hands are freezing or that we have a party of people coming over in an hour. I run around the house putting every last thing away between 9 and 10am. The house is all picked up but in desperate need of a good cleaning, which it will get at 11:45, when my friend’s cleaning company will come to use our house to train two new girls. So my friends arrive one by one to find un-vacuumed carpets, dusty surfaces, and a smelly bathroom. I offer up my apologies and no one seems to mind.

The first to arrive is a little Chinese girl with an Irish name and an Irish father. He sits and chats with me while I keep busy assembling projects for Sailor’s French class. We talk about whatever until Taylor and her mom arrive. I am not particularly used to having someone’s dad in my house in the middle of the day, but we do well and he holds his own. Soon enough there are three moms, a dad, 4 little girls and Sailor in the house. It’s not noisy nor does it get particularly messy. One of my friends instructs me on how to fix my sink and she seems to know exactly what she is talking about. I suggest she go into business. I flit around making macker cheese for 5 and spinach ravioli for the adults and serving it all on toss away dishes so I don’t have to run the dishwasher so soon again. The sink is still not fixed. I seat all the kids, pour their milk and chocolate soy milk, dish out their food, and leave them to their own devices. The adults are soon joined by the Irish mom and we are 5 and 5. It would be all wonderful if the doorbell didn’t ring again announcing the arrival of the cleaning girls and if I didn’t have to be out the door for Mac’s noon hour art project at 12:00. It’s chaos for me, cleaning up lunch, instructing the cleaners what to clean, introducing them to my clogged kitchen sink and so forth. We are 15 minutes late leaving for Mac’s school and of course there is no place to park when we get there. Have I mentioned how I am so over the whole school thing? And the parking and driving part of it?

We get to Mac’s class and run down to the cafeteria to buy Sailor a chocolate milk. I have prepared a great project: the boys will make foam airplanes and the girls get to make princess wands. The girls’ faces really lite up when I tell them what project is inside their bags. The kids are good but I only after I have had to yell to get them to settle down. It is so hard for them to stay inside for recess. They really need to be outside running around!

Just before we leave I hear one of the Evans telling Mrs. S that someone hit him for no reason. I don’t realize that the perp is my kid until I see Mrs. S crouch down to talk to my boy. I do not intervene. And I am glad she does not ask me to. I like that she has the confidence to reprimand my child in front of me.

Sailor, who has been quietly attending me this whole time, and who did not get to do a project with the other boys (no extras) falls asleep in the car on the way to the party store, where I need to get a helium tank and some party favors. Sailor wants some toys and leads me to the aisle where he remembers tiny pirates. I let him pick out one but he wants two, one for himself and one for Mac. How can I say no to this? I can’t. So I don’t.

Our day goes as usual, with Sailor at art class, today not participating but sitting near me while I fill out auction paperwork, but answering questions from across the room. He doesn’t want to get his hands messy doing the art project but I convince him to do it becuz it is cool and I want it. Which is how it usually goes.

So since Sailor and I have decided that preschool is over for him this year and we are doing home schooling, he asks me every day if we are doing home schooling today and his version of home schooling is that he gets to take a nap! It’s a really insane situation! But he seems to be happy, much happier now. And that makes him utterly delightful.

Our house is spic and span when we get home. So the children splatter chocolate cake crumbs all over the kitchen floor. I have to sweep the floor that has just been professionally cleaned.

The kids are up too late. This is my fault. I put them to bed, read. Leave the room to make a phone call. And Sailor goes into his craziness. Both boys get kicked out of my bed. Mac is beside himself, “I didn’t do anything!” he cries. It’s always this way and chances are he is telling the truth. Sailor comes out and asks if we can get Mac. They know me too well. I explain when I get Mac that they get to come back to my bed because that is where I want them. I can tell Mac is really upset and this makes me really sad.