A Message for Husbands...

While I am blessed with an exceptional husband who does not neglect me on Mother's Day, I have heard of so many women who receive no special treatment on this well-deserved day of recognition because their husbands have the attitude "well you're not my mother." I think when it comes to Mother's Day being the mother to his child(ren) is almost equal as being his actual mom. Plus, women are not looking for expensive gifts (well, most non-gold digging women). We just want to be honored and appreciated at least one day of the year.

It wouldn't cost a husband a dime to write a letter to his wife that explains how much he appreciates being his daughter's mother. Or what if he does all the night-time duties one evening (from dinner to bedtime)? Husbands could simply give wives a "day off" so that they could wander around their favorite bookstore, library, park or store without a child dangling from their legs begging for mommy to "Pick me UP!" or screaming "But I want that!" Husbands could pack a special Mother's Day picnic lunch and take the family to the park or just in the background for a nice lunch. Husbands could let wives pick a romantic movie to rent (if that's your preference) without grumbling about it. Or one night let wives watch whatever tv shows they want without him flipping through the channels OR saying how dumb it is to watch another home improvement show

And, of course, who can deny the beauty of the classic breakfast in bed? Give me the NY Times, a bagel and a cup of coffee while I lounge in my oh-so-comfy bed and I am happy. Give me an hour or so by myself to read that paper and I am even happier.

Men think we are so complicated...please.

Happy Mother's Day to everyone!

Delivery

*Blogger's Note - I wrote this essay two years ago, and I have shopped it around for publication (with no luck). So I thought I would post it here to honor my daughter's third birthday.

Delivery

Daylight slipped away for a second time. Time, measured by savage pulls in my uterus and ascending and descending line graphs, was working against us. At 4 o’clock in the afternoon I finally agreed to the epidural in hopes it would help, but now it was 8 p.m. My obstetrician checks me again; no progress. “What do you want to do?” While my doctor carefully explains my options, my husband clenches my hand. He is scared. I am devastated.

Over twenty-four hours ago we took the planned Sunday evening journey to the hospital for my induction. Due to a history of blood clots I had been injecting blood thinners into my abdomen since my 13th week of pregnancy. Now at my 39th week I had been experiencing sporadic labor pains for seven days, but the induction was necessary so the possibly troublesome bleeding could be controlled. As the nurse set up the fetal monitor that first evening she remarked “you may not even need Pitocin.” Pointing to the screen she confirmed what I suspected; the labor pains were real and measurable. “It looks like the Cervadil may be enough to get you going.”

My mind wandered to my highly anticipated final moments of labor. A soccer coach-like nurse stands next to my bedside holding one leg as I bear down per her instructions. I hear her matronly voice, “that’s it…good girl…more, more, more, more.” Dr. Joseph Wallis, stationed at the base of my bed, patiently tells me to “relax a bit…now you can do this.” I, of course, am propped on my elbows grunting, groaning, moaning this child loose from my seemingly spastic womb. My husband, his smooth cheek pressed up against my drenched face, tightly grasps my hand. Peter bites his lip as he does whenever he is concerned, but the hopeful glow radiates from his eyes. Just a few seconds more until she is on my chest. Pain. Pressure. “Push!” He looks at me and I at him – “she’s here.”

By Monday night, though, I am not dilated at all. Hours of labor had not produced even enough space for Dr. Wallis to break my water. I hear him say “it’s up to you. We can stop the Pitocin and try again tomorrow."

Peter holds on to my hand. “What do you think babe?” My fearful tears turn into heaving sobs. I desperately want those final moments, the ones that I had been dreaming about since we saw two lines on a stick. I could almost feel my new baby on my chest. I could see my husband’s adoring eyes sprinkling her with his tears. I want that for us, for him. I sputter, “I don’t know.” Dr. Wallis, perhaps assuming my fears were physical, reiterates my options. “We could stop now, let your body rest, and try again tomorrow. But I suspect that will not produce different results. Or we could do a C-section tonight.” My whimpers continue.

“I understand my choices,” I explain. “But I wanted…it’s just not what I…for us, I mean…I wanted that moment when…” Unable to say anymore, I pantomime my delivery dream, an odd game of charades to show what my vision of childbirth should be. It does not involve surgeon masks, bright lights, or a curtain blocking our view of the birth of our first child. “How can I let that go?” Grief consumes me again and the sobs return. “I will make sure she comes right over to you,” Dr. Wallis assures us. “Let me give you guys some time to make the decision.”

Peter sits on the side of the bed. “What is it hon? Talk to me.” After a deep cleansing breath I can speak again. I share my detailed dream of our daughter’s delivery. “I really wanted that for us. I really wanted to share experience with you.” He surveys my exhausted face. “It doesn’t matter how she is delivered. It only matters that she and you are healthy. We will have plenty of amazing family experiences together.” I sigh. “I know.”

“OK, you are going to feel some pressure,” Dr. Wallis explains as what feel like a truck thrusts into my rib cage. Peter, donning the traditional doctor garb, presses his slightly prickly cheek into mine. “You’re doing great babe. I am so proud of you.”

I look at him and he at me; simultaneously we turn our heads to the right. Our crimson-skinned baby girl seemingly floats centimeters from my face. The nurse places our daughter's cheek next to mine. “Oh my God,” I whisper. “She’s here.” I turn to my husband whose eyes sparkle as he drinks his daughter’s precious face for the first time.

This was our moment. It was perfect.  

Do? Do?

When I became a parent, my heart exploded and my whole world opened.  I learned about simple things.  How to make a perfect bottle.  How to swaddle a newborn baby.  How to give a squirmy child a bath.  I learned about the big things too.  How to love someone unconditionally.  How to emotionally connect with someone who cannot even speak.  How to let go of my wants for her needs.  But I also learned about something else.  Something that everyone does, but few people talk about.  Something that can make someone's day or keep someone cranky (and crampy).

That's right, people, I'm talking about poop.

Who knew another person's bowel movements could create such angst or give me such satisfaction?  Since the day she left my body, we talk about Princess's poop...a lot.  Just to clarify, though, Princess has had some "digestion" issues since birth, so there was plenty of material to work with.  

By the time my baby turned 3, though, I had hoped we would have shifted our topic focus.  Alas, we have not.  Now we just focus our conversation about where she did the doody - in a pull-up or on the potty?  Every day I have to ask her teacher the same question, "Did she have a bowel movement today?"  Every night as Princess rocks side-to-side while straining to hold the poopy inside her body, I have to explain that everybody goes poop.  She requires I recall the long list of everyone we know who goes poop.  

"Yes, Daddy goes poop.  Mommy goes poop.  Your teacher goes poop.  Amanda goes poop.  Mandie goes poop.  The postman goes poop.  Our dog goes poop.  Even grandma does."  And it goes on and on.  Anyone my daughter has ever met must be included in the list.  

Do you know how unsettling it is to think about everyone you know pooping?  Sit with that for a moment, if you will.

Not pleasant, I know.

But Princess's poops continue to be my husband and mine most-frequently discussed topics (along with people who piss us off and world peace).  And it looks as though it will be that way for many months in the future.  

Crap.

Bunny Love

Our princess showing the bunny some love!  There is no witty story to accompany the photo.  It was just too cute NOT to publish (in my completely biased opinion)!

Purge (the good kind)

A week off...a glorious collection of days when I do not have to sojourn down state to my job, one that I am still not sure if I like.  Well, I like that I get a week off every now and then, so let's keep it positive today, okay?

Yes, so one week off...what to do?  what to do?  Write my novel?  Finish the 3 articles I started (and by started I mean I've thought about writing them)?  Prepare an outline for my idea for a play - the opening scene I keep seeing over and over again in my head?  These are all things I keep saying I will get to - when I have time.  And yet here I am day four into actually having the time, and nada...  Oh procrastination, you cruel, cruel seductress.

BUT I did not loaf around on the couch all week, surfing tv channels and web sites (well, a bit, but I am on vacation).  No, I decided to purge...my clutter.  The junk around my house that just makes me nuts and blocks my ability to feel peaceful in my own home had to go.  So I tackled the dreaded "crap room."  You know, the room in the house where everything you don't know what to do with gets dumped.  Yep, I tore that baby up and threw out 4 huge bags of paper, knick knacks, unused photo albums, questionable gifts (does my mother-in-law even like me?) and pretty much anything else with a 1/4" of dust on it.  

And damn - it felt good.  

I now have a guest room where guests can actually put things in the closet.  I moved a small, formerly clutter-filled book shelf into our bedroom, where it magically transformed a lonely corner into a beloved book nook (complete with reading chair and lamp).   All that on day 1.  

Days 2 & 3 lead me to other rooms of the house.  I disassembled a basement corner where the remains of my product sales business had gathered to commiserate about yet another great idea I did not have the time or energy to keep up.  I cleared out the bottom of my closet, finally discarding all those shoe boxes that I kept because I was going to store my shoes in them (and yet I had 15 empty ones...perplexing, I know). 

And finally, I pillaged the junk-filled secretary desk, the one that when I splurged and ordered it from Pottery Barn I swore I would keep it neat.  Well, it is no longer a $1600 crap cabinet.  It is now a functional workspace - one that beckons me, no pleads with me, to put my shiny black laptop on its clean desk and write that article, book and script.  Yet, here I sit at the dining room table...

I think I'll go catch a movie before I pick up Princess from school.        

Good question...

Just a short post tonight as I am really too angry to think logically or compose eloquently.  But I have to get this one off my chest.

If you don't know the answer to an important question, please ask someone.  Conduct some meaningful research.  Seek out those who did the job before you for advice.   Do not make up information, yes me to death or say you'll look into it and then not.  That does not make you look like you know what you are doing.  In the end, it makes you look like a fool, and it can have some serious consequences for innocent people.  

I always told my students that good students don't always know the right answers; good students know how to ask good questions.

The same applies to colleagues and supervisors...Grrr.

Moving On Up....

To the big girl bed.  Yes, ladies and gentlemen, the crib came down.  My husband unscrewed every nut and bolt, slowly dismantling it piece by piece.  And I will admit - as I watched I got a little teary-eyed.  

I remember her first night in that crib.  She was 10 weeks old and quickly outgrowing the bassinet I had tucked right next to my side of the bed since the first night we brought her home. I used to fall asleep with my hand on her soft belly so I could feel her breathe.  Her legs, though, stretched to the end of the baby cocoon (the one I once called home when I was a newborn).  So we decided to move her into the cherry crib we had carefully selected a few months before she was born.  On that first night, I sobbed after we placed her in her crib and closed the nursery door.

This weekend she pounced into her Disney princess adorned toddler bed, just the way big girls do.  She delighted in her pink comforter and her Cinderella pillowcase.  She spent all day Sunday finding excuses to go upstairs so she could nestle into her new resting spot.  It was really adorable.

When her first bedtime came, she joyfully crawled into her bed.  "Mommy," she whispered.  "Sleep next to me."  After finally believing me when I said we both could not comfortably fit into her tiny bed, Princess agreed I could rest on the floor next to her.  So I settled into a body pillow on her floor while my baby girl cuddled in for her first night in her big bed.  

As we laid there in the dark, tiny fingers crept to the side of the mattress.  "Mommy, hold my hand."  When my fingers rested on her soft palm, it was as if she was that snuggly swaddled newborn tucked safely in her tiny bassinet again...only better.  There were no tears this time as I closed that nursery door...only warm smiles for my daughter's latest joy.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              

got hope?

Oh Hillary...you just don't get it.  

He's the golden boy now.  He's the guy.  He's the one that millions of U.S. citizens believe can and will inspire a nation.  He makes people feel something they haven't felt in a long time - hopeful.  You just can't do that.  

Now, you try.  We can see it at the rallies especially.  You have a fantastic smile.  You can clap to a beat.  You give the good ol' "thumbs up" sign.  You point to people in the crowd and mouth "thank you" as if you just ate dinner at their houses. You wave to the crowds like a former Miss America second place finisher who truly believes the audience knows who she is.  But something is wrong.  

As I watch you at rallies, in debates, and in diners (remember the tears?), I believe you are running this campaign based on a deep need to be vindicated.  You want those politicians who tried to bring your family down with Whitewater and blue dresses to have to answer to you.  You want to show Bill that you are a person who is respected by the American people.  You want to be remembered as a great President not the wife who stayed with an unfaithful one.   

It's selfish Hillary, and people do not respond to selfish.  Now I really don't think most people are acutely aware that this redemptive desire drives your campaign.  I am not sure you have even allowed yourself to consciously recognize it.  However, every undecided voter I talk to says something to the effect of, "I don't know.  There's just something I don't like about her." That something is your burning need to set the record straight.  You have brains.  You have guts.  And you are desperate for everyone to know it.  

But now you have entered a new domain; now you are bitter.  Who does Barack Obama think he is swooping in to steal your moment?  This was yours...go back 5 years and check the polls.  Everyone said you would win.  But you are not winning.  And you are pissed.  That anger is palpable.  In last night's debate, your poorly crafted attempts to stand-up for yourself while also disparaging Barack's positions sounded whiny and mean.    If you couldn't inspire a nation when you thought you were the "sure thing," did you think you would inspire a nation by badgering Brian Williams about which questions you are asked and in what order? 

Of course Maureen Dowd's editorial in today's New York Times does a much better job than I have in analyzing your campaign's disintegration, so I highly suggest you read it.   But if you don't have time (as I suspect you don't because you are busy getting those tax returns ready), just think about this for a moment.  

We live in a country where people are as desperate to be seen and heard as you are.  They don't want to compete with you for your attention.  They know that once you get into that big house, you will take advantage of every opportunity you have to prove yourself to all those who doubted you.  People feel like Senator Obama hears them.  They believe he wants to work hard to make their lives better.  They know he has years of experience doing just that whether it was working as a community activist, a civil rights lawyer or a politician.  

But most poignantly, he makes people believe in themselves again because he truly believes in them.  And that, dear Hillary, is what hope is all about.        

The Show Must Go On...

Yep, a beloved American tradition has finally arrived.  The first snow day of the school year!  While most children romp in pillows of snow, my Princess sobs uncontrollably.  "But Mommy, it's movie star day at school!"  Yes, my daughter is devastated because it is Red Carpet Day at her preschool, and she is stuck hanging out with her mom.  Red Carpet Day is fun.  All the little tots dress up in their fanciest attire, walk the red carpet (plastic tablecloth), wave to their adoring fans (teachers), conduct interviews with nosy reporters (teachers again) and have their pictures taken by the surging paparazzi (school directors).  But the snow has taken all that joy away from my little girl.

So at 9:30 a.m. when most children are stuffing themselves into inflatable snowsuits and moonboots, Princess is donning her black velvet dress, expertly accessorized with pink jewelry, pink sequin pocketbook and her blue Cinderella headband.  Wearing no shoes (because they would only slow her down), she struts her stuff on our makeshift runway proclaiming that she is a movie star and a princess.  The paparazzi did show....

 along with her adoring fans (aka mom and dad).  She laughs in the face of snow day traditions! Who needs sleds and snowballs when you can have photo shoots and ivory bows?

I honestly don't know where she came from.  This sports-loving, long-devoted feminist remains stunned at the girly girl way my daughter walks through her life.  But she is fabulous!  And I am so lucky she is mine.

Happy Snow Day!

Instead...

Having some bad days at work...bear with me as I muse about what I career I could have instead:

• Personal chef...for non-picky friendly families only
• Writer...probably of children's books b/c my attention span lacks stamina
• Candle shop owner...at least my office wouldn't smell like the home-ec room all the time
• Event planner...again, for nice, reasonable people only 
• Professional book club facilitator...just love talking about books
• Bookstore owner...the independent kind with charm, loyal customers, and no nearby Borders.
• Gourmet food buyer...spending my days tasting great cheese - heaven
• Consultant...maybe I'd be more effective in my career if the same people didn't piss me off everyday
• Photographer...for Sports Illustrated - I love their photography
• Teacher...oh wait - I gave up that career for this one...(sigh)

What would you do instead?

The Biter

Princess was attacked.  

The attacker's teeth missed her eye by less than a centimeter.  On her cheekbone, a magenta temporary tattoo-like imprint of each tooth.  The assailant had to be pulled off her face.  Miraculously, the skin was not broken.  No, it was not a pit bull or a doberman that pounced on my little girl.  It was a two and a half year old boy - the biter of her class.  And I have had enough.

Princess's teacher called me on Friday morning to tell me what happened.  She assured me that Princess was fine, and I have the luxury to verify that by the class webcam.  Miss P told me Princess did not provoke the attack at all.  She was simply sitting at her table coloring her picture when the biter gestured as if he was going to hug her.  He leaned in and bit her face.  My heart raced, but again Miss P said Princess was fine, but there would be a bruise.  In my mind I pictured a typical blue bruise, maybe the size of a quarter.  That is why I was completely unprepared for the reality of the redish/purple explosion on her cheekbone.  It left me speechless.  I fought back tears.  Princess, though, was her happy self so I did my best not to let my astonishment show.  I was sad, and then I was pissed.  

The Biter has attacked my daughter (and other children) before, but never like this one.  This one was bad.  Both my husband and I spoke to the director.  We think this child who has pattern of biting should be asked to leave the school.  If he doesn't, we will.  It is difficult enough sending my daughter to daycare, much less worry about the Hannibal Lecter who lingers nearby as she eats her turkey sandwich.      

And now my educator voice whispers in my ear....what kind of house must the Biter live in so that he feels the only way he can express his emotions and/or get attention is to chomp his teeth into some other kid's arm, back or face?  I do feel for the Biter.

But my mom voice yells even louder, "But he needs to stay away from my little girl."  

(Woman sheepishly reenters her blog) Anyone here?

Wow, I suck....October, huh?  I was always going to get around to posting, but I feel as though I ran out of things to say.  Of course, I didn't.  It was just an excuse not to have to post.  Now I know no one is reading this anymore as I have left my few faithful readers down.  But I promise if you venture back....well I will try to make it worth your while.  I may even add a few pictures to make the page a bit more flashy!  I did get a sparkly new laptop for Christmas (yes, I am now a Mac owner) so I am anxious to try out all its bells and whistles.  

Anyway, it is odd that today is the day I decide to post.  I have spent this last week feeling really "off," and I have not been able to put my finger on why.  Yes, princess has been extra whiny this week.  True, work has been extra stressful.  I know, money is always a concern, especially after we drop a few grand on a weekend away (had to - it was for a wedding - ok, ok, didn't have to go to the spa for two treatments before the wedding, but let's not talk about that).  But something is tugging at me, making my eye twitch, my heart tighten and my stomach lurch.  Now I watched the Oprah on intuition so I know I should listen to the tug, but I am, damnit.  I just don't know what it is saying!  Talk to me intuity - talk to me!

Nothing.  

Maybe it is just indigestion.

I Did It Myyyy Waaay...

Frankie (Sinatra that is) makes it sound so easy. Just choose to do it "my way." Yet when you try to fill someone else's shoes, those around you constantly speculate if you can do it as well as she did, wonder how much you will change their jobs and hope (well some people anyway) you'll fall flat on your face so the big bosses can see they really deserved the job. To complicate matters even further, the person you replaced didn't retire or leave the company. No, she simply got promoted and (with all good intentions on her part) checks in every few days to see how it's going. Yet, you continue to try to do things "your way" since "her way" just doesn't make any sense to you.

Welcome to my work life...

Now, let me begin by saying I love my new job. It is a great new challenge that keeps my brain hard at work at all hours (not so good for a restful night's sleep, but I am sure I'll get used to it). But my predecessor's presence lurks around me...always. She is great with people - always has a kind word and remembers everyone's husband's name, childrens' names and life stories. She writes personal thank you notes following almost every act of kindness. She treats every meeting as an opportunity to cater an event. I am just not built that way. I do not do small talk. I believe personal lives should remain personal. And I still haven't even sent my parents their anniversary card (going on 3 weeks now).

But...and this may sound pretentious however I am starting to really believe it is true...my predecessor didn't do her job as well as perhaps she should have or could have. It was a position she held for over 25 years. I am sure complacency set in at some point. There are tremendous gaps in her work, not to mention no computer files (yes, that's right folks...none. She handwrites most her memos). Glaring flaws confront me everyday, ones I know she must have seen, but instead seemingly chose not to ruffle feathers or chose not to work very hard. Because she is as nice as she is, I prefer to think the best of her.

However, here I am eight weeks into this great job trying to patch some of the gaping holes without ostracizing too many people (including my predecessor) at the same time. How do I fix some of the most pressing problems without sending the message to her employees that their much beloved former boss often dropped the ball so they are wasting their time doing some of the things she asked of them? That's tough news to break without all the home baked cookies and spinach quiche to distract them. I guess I will try to "wow" them with common sense first and try to address those areas that will help make their lives a bit easier.

If not, there's always Entenmann's chocolate chip cookies and Dunkin Donuts coffee. I guess I should go to a stationary store too (just in case of emergency).

Boy Crazy...

My sister-in-law and niece are visiting for a long weekend. My niece is 10 years old, going on 21. She wears mascara and blue eyeshadow, has a boyfriend, has a cell phone and has that "I'm on the edge of puberty" attitude. She is this fantastic girl who is in the often ungraceful process of shedding her childhood skin. All she wants to talk about is boys and who is hot and who is not. She loves the Jonas brothers (Nick is the hot one by the way). As she pages through her generation's version of Teen Beat, she floats into her fantasy world where everyone loves her and she always gets the hottest guy (that would be the aforementioned Nick Jonas). And I, trying to be the good aunt, listen intently to all her stories about what would happen if she met the Jonas brothers and why she needs to have a boyfriend even though she is only in 5th grade. But what I want to say (and do whenever an opportunity presents itself) is there is a lot more to life than boys. Yet even in this post-feminist movement world where women are equal (and probably your boss), she stares at me with exasperation and bewilderment when I ask what else she is interested in besides boys and shopping.

As she continues on, I find my eyes glancing at my own two year old Princess, and I wonder who she will be at ten years old. What world will she enter? Who will her role models be? How crazy will she get about boys? It is a little nerve wracking to contemplate.

So tonight rather than worrying about all those questions which I cannot control right now, I tiptoed into Princess's bedroom, hoping she wasn't yet asleep. Thankfully, she wasn't. I asked her if she wanted to rock in the chair with me for a little while, and she eagerly nodded her head. And so we rocked - back and forth, back and forth - while she told me stories about her day and what we will do this weekend. And I, trying to be the good mom, listened intently and snuggled her tightly. All the while, though, I was thinking that someday Princess will be ten...but tonight, thank God, she was wonderfully, fantastically two (without a hint of boy mania in sight).

You Spin Me Right 'Round

Well, I am on the working mom carousel today. As I have to do on many days, I left for work before Princess opened her eyes (it bums me out everytime). When I got to work, I dropped my stuff in my office and ran out to do two observations, back to back. Returned to my office to find 12 new e-mails (two with the high priority exclamation point) and three phone messages. Believing I only had 20 minutes until my next appointment, I quickly addressed the most pressing, and then dashed off to an elementary school. Patiently, I waited for my partner to arrive at said school only to find out we miscommunicated on our days so she thought our meeting is tomorrow. While lingering at the school, though, I thought about Princess and what she was doing now (gymnastics class, I think). That palpable "mom guilt" swirled around me as I saw other brown haired, brown eyed little girls skip through the school's hallways. Ugh...yet no time to wallow; it's back to the high school to comb through hundreds of pages of curriculum, four years' worth of department meeting agendas and school board policies as I attempt to do my part to prepare for state monitoring. Several people come and asks questions. I find out one teacher I observed is in tears because she thinks the lesson was terrible (it wasn't). I send a "don't worry, it was fine" e-mail. A few hours (and two Advil) later, it's off to my "new administrator" cohort/support group where I stare at a clock and eagerly anticipate picking up Princess.

Sprint to the car...drive too many miles to pick her up.

Big, big, delicious hugs from Princess. Breathe....

But only for a second.

Drive home. Change clothes. Make dinner. Empty dishwasher. Eat dinner. Play outside. Play inside. Feed dog. Bath. Strawberries (for Princess). Stories. Bed. Turn on the sprinkler for new sod. More kisses. Bed. "Rub my back Mommy." Bed. "Daddy's still at work baby girl." Bed again. Turn down the monitor's volume to make it easier to do the tough love approach to bedtime. Sleeping Princess.

Blog...and a glass of red wine. I think I earned it today.

Back to the Coffee Shop

Yep, I totally stink at balancing work, home and blog!! My world is just starting to get some rhythm back to it, so I hope to do a better job of posting here. Three posts a week is my new goal. Let's see who can keep me honest (thanks to Bookgirl whose friendly "where the heck are you?" message prompted this entry). But I have to warn you...baseball playoffs are only a week away, and they do take up a lot of my free time in the evening (my Yanks need me, you know). Plus, hello, new TV shows! I've got sitcom romances to catch up on. It is difficult to keep track of all my imaginary flat screen friends on How I Met Your Mother, The Office, Scrubs, 30 Rock, etc. But I promise to try to give equal attention to my real flat screen blog friends!!

Speaking of favorite TV shows, do you know they are turning Sex and the City into a movie? Now, of course, I kept up with all the talks preceding the start of filming - Sarah Jessica was in and then holding out, Kim Cattrell wanted this sex scene and not that, Kristen Davis just wanted to have a job doing something else besides bad Loreal commercials - you get the picture. The thought of a continum to the finale (which I still have saved on my Tivo, almost 3 years later!) made my heart twitter. The possibility of catching up with the girls at the coffee shop practically brought tears to my eyes.

And now they are actually filming it in NYC. Go to Bookgirl's blog for visual proof (they are shooting scenes in her building!!).

And now, I don't know. I am having second thoughts. Shouldn't a TV show end on the TV screen?

I fear they are going to screw it up. I worry they are going to twist the plot too much. Do I want to peak into the "married with children" lives of Miranda and Charlotte? Not really...I live that each day. Do I want to watch Carrie marry Mr. Big? Absolutely not (and if they do I promise there will be an entire entry devoted as to why this is a terrible choice). They picked the right ending the first time. Great books leave you wondering...great tv shows should too.

So don't kill the magic, Darren Star! If it turns out the last season was all Carrie's dream or the characters go to jail for their questionable morals, I promise you will hear from me. Please don't ruin my imaginary flat screen TV friends lives by stretching their little worlds onto a huge movie screen. Bottom line - don't f*ck it up.

Yet, if Ross and Rachel should happen to make a cameo at the coffee shop (they must have moved uptown by now), at least then I'd know how they are doing too.

Itchy, Itchy

Recently I have been involved in several conversations about relationships - what makes them work, what causes them to go wrong, etc. Most of my friends fall into two categories - single yet desiring marriage and married but wistfully recalling singledom. Most in the married category have been betrothed for 6 or more years. They have started to glance back into their early twenties, wondering what could have been if they have turned a different corner. What if they had moved to California instead of stayed in New York? What if they had gone to College A instead of College B? Yesterday one of my closest friends eloquently speculated, "What if I hadn't been such an insecure prick who felt the need to have a girlfriend since I was 13?" What if?

These questions can make your head spin, and I know my friends in the single category wrestle with them as well. However, when you are one half of a married couple these inquiries are taboo, as if by asking them you are proclaiming the imminent downfall of your marriage. Not true (well about half the time it's not true since our divorce rate is over 50%). Instead, I believe it is a very natural rhythm for a relationship; some have even called it a seven year itch. Around the six or seven year mark in a relationship you start to really realize (maybe even accept) that what drives you crazy about your spouse is just not going to change. You understand that despite the hours and hours of conversations (some heated) the person to whom you have given your life is going to possess this negative trait - forever.

For example, I am an anxious person. I try to manage it, suppress it, and contain it. Yet there are times when I just cannot do so. Before we travel, for example, I slowly unravel my cool exterior to reveal my twitching self who must pack every blanket, medicine, and tidbit for Princess or else I am uneasy. During these times I have been unreasonable, moody and unapproachable. My husband and I have had endless talks about my anxiety. He, Mr. Laid Back, hates when I am so tense. Sometimes, he finds these harried episodes of mine funny, which just ticks me off even more. So now as we move into our seventh year of marriage he confronts the very real possibility that yes, this is who I am. This anxious, control freak person is the one he said "I do" to, and now he needs to know if he can really live with it. Perhaps he peers backwards into a time in his life when he could just be carefree, when no one lingered over him asking if he packed the baby's monitor or "if we should bring the nasal aspirator?" What if he had pursued his original dream of being a personal trainer? What if he had moved with his parents to Florida? What if he had never taken that catering job and worked with me? What if?

Over the past summer I have struggled to truly accept something about my husband. He is a workaholic. He claims he isn't, that it is just the nature of his business. And it is, but it is a business in which he chose to make his livelihood, thus feeding this addiction. Our conversations about his job are like the movie Groundhog Day. The same discussion recurs over and over: I say, "You work too much." He says, "It will get better soon." I say, "You said that last year and now you are working more." He says, "You knew this when you married me." I say, "You said you were going to find a new job." He says, "Well, I didn't. I love what I do. Why can't you support me?" And then the "talk" usually comes off the hinges and moves into the unpleasant, unfamiliar realm of a "fight."

After the wistfulness of college days and innumerable options fade away, we, the itchy married ones, realize that turning different corners would have only lead to different problems. Instead, we must begin to face new "What if" questions, ones that focus on the future rather than our pasts. What if I just accept this about my husband? What if we don't eat dinner together most nights like I want us to? What if I just accept this about my wife? What if she loses it every time she forgets to pack extra diapers? What if?

I guess we just don't know. Can a anxiety ridden woman and a workaholic man have a happy, fruitful marriage? And who wants to deal with it if the answer is no? Ugh...not me. That would be too painful to face. But what if?

So Mr. Laid Back, can you hand me that back scratcher over there? I think we've got an itch.

Can Someone Hand Me a Towel?

If you didn't read my previous post, this one won't make sense until you do. I'll give you a minute....

Whew. It was a long one, but as you can probably tell I was having a bad week. I did turn down the new job. Surprisingly, they came back with a counteroffer, a guarantee in writing, and a few other tidbits. While it was not the total package I desired, it was a strong gesture of good faith. So I'll do the job for a year, and then I can decide if I want to continue in that position or return to my old one.

So, someone hand me towel. The Big Boss wants me to wash the egg off my face.

One Chicken, Two Chickens...

I am a bit beside myself this evening (a tremendous understatement). In July, I wrote a post about my "secret" promotion, which now is far, far from secret. At my school district's administration meeting yesterday, my colleagues were openly congratulating me. One person even gave me a hug. What these people did not know was I had just left a meeting where I learned that what I thought my salary was going to be is no where near what I was going to be offered. Yet during a preliminary meeting in July, I presented what I wanted as a salary, and no one made any indication that I was not even close.

Since yesterday I have consulted a lawyer and had a second negiotiation meeting, all to no avail. Th big bosses want me to take this newly created job (absorbing the full responsibilities of someone's previous job while also fulfilling my current responsibilites) when my take home pay increase will equal less than what I spent on first car, a 1986 Dodge Daytona (w/ t-tops of course). It is a huge job. It is a shitty offer. I have 24 hours to make a decision. But I will give you a preview of how the phone conversation will go...

"Hi Very Friendly Admin Assistant...is Big Boss available?"

"Sure, Working Mom. I'll put you through. Oh, by the way, congratulations on your new job! I think that's wonderful."

"Ummm...Thanks Very Friendly Admin Assistant."

"Working Mom? It's Big Boss. How are you today?"

"Good, good. Listen, I know you are busy so let me cut to the chase."

"OK, great."

"You have offered me what basically constitutes my dream job, one that will challenge me and thrill me, a job that I will somehow work even harder than I already do to make sure I am successful, therefore making our school district successful. During all of our discussions you have given me some truly fantastic compliments and assured me that I am the person you want to do this job. At each meeting, you stated that you are fully confident that I am the individual who can make this supervisory model work. It has all been so kind of you to share that with me."

"Well, Working Mom, all the school administrators feel that way. We know you are the person for this job."

"Again, Big Boss, thanks. But you see, Big Boss, I drive a Ford now, and I really have no need for a 1986 Dodge Daytona. Nor do I need a new Pottery Barn throw rug (the big one). And I certainly don't need those extra funds to splurge on a Prada bag (not retail price, of course but we all know I love Ebay). It just doesn't seem fair to my colleagues for me to accept this district position, which oversees the curriculum development and implementation for over 7,000 students, professonial development training for approximately 200 teachers, direct supervision of over 35 department members, and then flaunt the fact that I was able to use my raise to buy a pair of used skis for Princess."

"I see."

"So I am going to have to say no to my dream job. I'm sure you understand."

Okay. It probably will go more along these lines....

"I have carefully considered your offer, taking numerous factors into account while doing so. Since it is a job I want to do and one I know I would love, you can imagine how difficult it is to me to say no. I can't do it. My bottom number is still thousands away from your best offer. The position is worth more than that. I am worth more than that. And the additional time I will spend away from Princess is worth more than that. I also know that while you have promised me you will not dissolve my current position, by turning this job down I am destroying any additional possibilities for career advancement here, at a school I really love. But I stand by what I said yesterday; the salary offer is unfair and unreasonable. And as hard as I have tried to do so, I cannot justify accepting it, knowing how much it will cost me and my family."

And then I will hang up the phone and cry. Or I might wait until I get into my car (that is where I have been doing much of my sobbing these last two days). I don't know. I'll be on pins and needles waiting to see how long I can control the lump in my throat.

So a lesson, my friends. When you count your chickens, make sure everyone involved in this exercise is counting eggs in the same coop, or you might end up like me...with slimy yolk all over your face.

For Adults Only

Okay...before you get too excited, it's not a racy post. Instead, I need to vent about where I believe it is appropriate to take kids, especially those 10 and under. As you all know, I am a parent of a 2 year old who is just as sweet as sugar, but there are places I do not take her because it is not fair for other patrons to suffer through a whiny tantrum or a "I'm so sleepy" crying episode. I made her (well there were 2 of us present during her creation), so it is my job to deal with those fun moments. Yet, those people out to enjoy a nice dinner at a good restaurant, or I don't know, let's say women set to enjoy a quiet pedicure on a Sunday morning, should not be subjected to a screaming child. And yet, during my ONE hour of alone time on Sunday, that is exactly what happened.

As many of you already know, my husband works like a maniac, especially during the summer months. From May through September, I am basically on my own. So those few times when I get to go somewhere, anywhere without toting extra diapers, a sippy cup, wipes, Abby Caddabby, matchbox cars and crayons, well those are rare. special moments for me. This Sunday, though, my husband was home for a total of 24 hours, and he said I should go out and treat myself to some alone time. Before he completed the sentence, I sprinted to my car with just my debit card, iPod and book in hand. Off I drove to Jane's Nails, the only local salon open on Sundays.

It all started off very well. I walked in, and they immediately fulfill my "mani-pedi" request. Fantastic. Approximately five minutes into my manicure, a mom walks in with her 5 year old daughter to get a pedicure. At first, this sight does not trouble me at all. I understand a mother's need to get out of the house. I understand her desire to treat herself to a foot soak. I understand her want of red polish on her toes. I've been alone with a toddler for the last 3 days; I get it. But, then she says she wants her daughter to get a pedicure too, and I think "This is going to be trouble."

Now, ladies (no offense to my dear male friends who read this blog as well - please don't feel excluded), you know damn well that occasionally you'll get pinched or the water will be a little too hot or the file will burn just a bit. And you are not a five year old girl with tickly feet who squirms and wiggles because, you know, you're 5! You're a grown up who can sit still for 30 - 45 minutes, longer if someone is rubbing your feet! But a kind (perhaps naive) technician invites this sweet little girl to climb into a massage chair to give her a pedicure.

At first, it's okay. Yes, she's a chatty five year old and I would prefer a little more serenity (as I just left my chatty 2 year old), but it's manageable. The little girl is good for the first 10 - 15 minutes and I think, "I misjudged; shame on me. A preschooler can get a pedicure." However, before the daydreams of kindergarten Princess and I getting pedis begin, a scream catapaults from this girl's mouth out into the salon. This little girl's yelp reverberates off the salon's coral walls, circles each patron's head, and sends familiar maternal quesiness into my belly. Then, the tears pour from this little girl's face and true hysterics set in. Her mother frantically interrogates the girl and the tech, "What happened? What hurts?" But no one speaks, or if they do, I can't hear it over the child's gut-wrenching, "my foot has been cut off" cries.

Just the relaxing Sunday morning I was looking for.

So it turns out, as the tech clipped the little girl's big toe nail, the girl flinched, and the tech caught a tiny piece of skin. Yep, that hurts. I don't blame the child for screaming. She's five... I blame the mom for getting her a pedicure because, you know, she's five...

After several minutes of consoling her, wrapping her toe in mountains of gauze and assuring her it would be fine, the mother finally decides to remove her daughter from the salon. But as she leaves, she doesn't apologize or state (with contrition) "This probably wasn't a good idea." No, instead she makes a ridiculous proclamation: "Don't worry, baby. We will NEVER come back to this TERRIBLE place again! They OBVIOUSLY don't know how to take care of their CUSTOMERS properly."

Lady...she's five, and you got her a pedicure. And your daughter's screaming ruined 20 minutes of my 60 allotted minutes to be without my own screaming child. Let's not pass blame on the salon here.

So, call me crazy, unreasonable or plain mean. But there are some places that really are for adults only. If men can have an entire section of a non-franchised video store (b/c we all know women order their porn online), then I think ladies should be allowed to have nail salons.

There are just some places that should be for Adults Only.