The Day After

Well. They didn't want to go see Enchanted again. And while this may shock no one, it was sort of surprising, since they had requested to be taken to see it only three days before. But then, Christmas Eve was No Man's Land at our house, and nothing could be expected to go according to plan or logic.

Boy asked to be allowed to open all his presents about fifty times over the course of the day, and responded to patient reminders that tomorrow is Christmas, and that he can open them then with shouts of "It's not fair!" Guy suggested that Boy's New Year's Resolution be to remove that phrase from his vocabulary.

Girl was not exactly ill-behaved, but she did make life tough in that she was absolutely entirely unwilling to any thing--any single thing--by herself. She couldn't play by herself, she couldn't get dressed by herself, she couldn't eat a snack by herself, she couldn't pee by herself. I find this tiring.

We offered up Enchanted as something to take up a few hours in the day, and also as incentive for good behavior. Except for how suddenly they didn't want to see Enchanted. They wanted to see Alvin and the Chipmunks. (And they wanted concession stand popcorn and soda. Because, Boy's logic ran, if we could afford to buy him all these presents we should be able to buy him whatever the hell else in the world he wants. Also his mom gets him soda and popcorn every time.)

My self-sacrifice does not extend that far. I stayed home. Guy went and wished he'd brought a book and headphones. The kids adored it. (And they drank water and ate Trader Joe's popcorn. Plus a lot of candy.) It made Boy stop asking to open presents for ten whole minutes after they got home.

We ordered Japanese food and watched Olive the Other Reindeer. It was very silly. We began hustling them down to bed. Only Girl balked. She didn't want to sleep here. She wanted to sleep at her mom's house.

Now, if a six year old kid--or frankly, any year old kid--wants to sleep at his or her mom's house and that house is just down the street, then damn skippy that's what they'll do. And that's what Girl did. But I won't pretend that after a long day and a long week and some long months of building up this Christmas in my head it didn't hurt my feelings.

Boy put it very succinctly as he lay on the floor sobbing as Girl walked out the door: "I just wanted this Christmas to be about the four of us, of us together, as a family. I wanted to wake up with her on Christmas morning. How can she not care about that?"

I explained to Boy--and to myself--that she does care, but she wants her mom. And it's okay to be sad about it, and to wish things were different, but it shouldn't ruin Christmas. She'll be over at 7 am, and we'll open presents, and it's really not a big deal. It shouldn't be taken as any kind of indication that this family unit is anything less than that, just because that other family unit eight doors down has its own pull on her emotions and needs.

Boy went to sleep. Guy and I went upstairs, and set out the presents from Santa, and dutifully ate the cookies and drank the milk (didn't even pour it down the sink, though I did consider it. Milk is yucky). We talked ourselves out of feeling sad and discouraged and wished each other a Merry Christmas. And we went to bed. Only I couldn't sleep. I tossed and turned for hours, and started to wake Guy, and so went upstairs to sleep on the couch. (Which somehow felt sort of sacreligious. Santa can't come if I'm sleeping on the couch right in front of the Christmas tree.)

Only I couldn't sleep up there either. I could go into the ironies of as a kid not being able to sleep on Christmas Eve, and then as an adult not being able to sleep on Christmas Eve because of kids, but I find it too depressing. I felt very sorry for myself up there on that couch.

But then the doorbell rang promptly at seven and Boy and Girl rushed up the stairs and ooohed and ahhed over the missing cookies and the notes from Santa (which I tried to write extra messy so they wouldn't suspect it was me) and woohoo Santa got us Pictionary! And a jewelry box! And jewelry to boot! And Guy got me a giant whisk and just about every bath ball Lush makes and he liked the shoes I got him and also the Kurt Cobain action figure because it's So. Freaking. Insane. (Even though it doesn't come with a gun. Sigh.) And there was wrapping paper everywhere and Maud was playing in it and it was all happening on my living room floor in my house with the people I live with and love.

It was a nice day. I took a bath with one of my Lush balls, and we watched Dinosaurs "Not the mama!" and played Pictionary (thanks, Santa, for giving us the one game Guy and I suck at) and I somehow managed to stay awake for all of it and even shout orders at Boy as we made a very harried chilli-chocolate pudding while sending smart ass texts to my sister because nice as this Christmas was, and important as it was to me, I still felt very homesick.

But I did sleep last night. Like the proverbial rock. Only one who was cuddled.

Into The Woods

Boy and Girl are new to the world of hiking. Well, new by my definition--my sister learned to walk hiking (and she never wore those yellow socks again, let me tell you), so perhaps my perspective is somewhat skewed.

In any case, they've taken to it surprisingly well for soft, lily-footed city folk, so Guy and I decided to take them backpacking this weekend.

It was an amazing success--barely any complaints, few rest requests, and--get this--they each carried their packs the entire way. For FIVE relatively difficult miles--Guy and I have trouble finding decent hikes in the NJ area, and easy hikes there are none.

Not that Girl and Boy seemed to mind! Boy was off like a rocket--definitely making him carry more next time--and while Girl seemed unclear on the concept of watching where she was going, she got through her spills like a marine recruit and marched up steep hills and never stopped talking for a single second.

And it was quite lovely. There we are, looking over Round Valley Reservoir, eating Nerds Ropes. (Backpacking requires many bursts of sugar. We did bring their toothbrushes).

But I think Boy and Girl's favorite part was probably the setting-up of the camp. I personally love organizing the tent, nesting everything away and creating a little home made entirely out of stuff with brought with us, plus rocks and logs. Boy and Girl were more into their father's millieu--caveman-like demolishing.

They pulled down dead trees and smashed them for the fire, and lit the fire and fed the fire and damn near danced around the fire.

I sat and knit a sock for my sister. Much more seemly.

There was a sad lack of a bear wire in this campsite, however (or, I should say, an Iorek Byrnison wire, which is what referred to it as in order to avoid alarming the small folk. Ticks were Mrs. Coulters (Fuckers. Although there were none! Hooray!)) and Guy decided we should string our food up on a tree branch. A tree branch that was high.

This necessitated shimmying up said tree. Freak.

Success! Well done Guy! And damn, those are some dandy little trousers there, sir.

We didn't remember everything--we forgot a sponge, slippers for the kids, our hiking chairs--but we did remember the most important thing (especially when you consider that we needed to take two tired kids and hustle them back five miles--uphill this time--in time to get back to their mother's by noon):

Coffee. Espresso, to be exact. I gave Boy a sip. Perhaps that accounted for his speediness. Shrug.

He has a puh-NIS

In the car on Saturday, the following conversation occurred in the backseat:

Giggle
Girl: “I don’t have a VAG-ina, I have a puh-NIS!”
Giggle giggle.
Boy: “You don’t have a puh-NIS, you have a VAG-ina!”
Giggle giggle.

Guy and I attempted to feign deafness. After all, they do have penises and vaginas and why shouldn’t this fact be open for discussion, even—or perhaps especially—at age six, and anyway, at least they’re not making us listen to the Buffy Musical Soundtrack for the fortieth time.

However, when I glanced back and saw a tiny six year old finger sticking out of her unzipped pants waving around like a puh-NIS, I accepted the fact that I was just too prudish for this, and asked that they take a break from this game, and hey wouldn’t they like to listen to Hannah Montana? Or even (sigh) High School Musical?

No such luck.

Later that evening, freshly squeaky clean from his shower, Boy announced that he had something tell me—“While I was in the shower, I was playing with my penis, because it was hard, and sperm shot out!”

Um.

“Did it feel good?”

“Ohhhh yeah.”

“Okay. That’s called masturbating. It’s perfectly normal. I’m glad it felt good. Have fun.”

(Aside)

Cordelia: Your ten year old son just jerked off in the shower.
Guy: That’s my boy!

But the thing is, I’m not sure he did. A) He’s ten. Which is so early it’s just sad. B) What happened to wet dreams? Doesn’t anybody have wet dreams anymore? C) If you’d just had an orgasm for the first time, would you tell your parents about it??? Much less your stepmother? No. Like me, you’d lock your bedroom door and have at it very quietly and secretively and never never no never masturbate? Idon’tknowwhatyou’retalkingabout.

He does seem to be going through the early stages of puberty (and so was given a book—What’s Happening to My Body, and gee, I wonder if maybe masturbating was described in this book?) and gives me daily updates on the state of his pubic hair.

Boy: The hairs are growing! (Opens pants) Wanna see?
Cordelia: No, thank you.

I’m not sure why I’m the go-to person on this whole puberty thing. Maybe because I went through it more recently? He and I have had frank talks about how all of this is normal and not weird or gross and no, that’s just regular underarm Polish kid hair, not pubic underarm hair and menstruation isn’t painful (giant lie, but some girlfriend will bitch to him later in life) and no, we needn’t warn Girl about it right this minute, there’s plenty of time.

The kid’s freaking himself out. And dammit, he’s freaking me out. I don’t want to make him feel like he can’t talk to me, but I’m not the expert on all things sex! And I’m not a parent! And not to mention, if Boy has discovered masturbating, those kids are going to need separate rooms asap.

At the very least, we’ll work on the proper pronunciation of various genitalia.

Predators B-Gone

I have a policy of not posting pictures of the children on here (so as not to make their mother nervous) but I thought this one was just too lovely not to be shared, and anyway it only looks like some random boy child. And hey, I could just be messing with you and scanning some perfect postcard-type image and only pretending to be such a fabulous photographer and somebody's going to come sue me for copyright violation.

It's enough to make me cry for MY mother

The wedding was so much fun, it was like an escape from everything—Guy and I spent the morning of the Big Day walking around Newbury Street and Boston Commons, and it was so wonderful it was pathetic. (If a little window shopping (and, okay, a little real shopping) provokes repeated sayings of “This is just the best day!” “I love this day!” “God, this is nice.” “Isn’t this a great day?,” we clearly need to get out more). And then getting all dressed up and, as a friend put it (using questionable grammar), “Usually really great people and people who care about each other, might not be the most fun people. But everybody was on the same page and it was just amazing how you could have so many great people together and each one of them not only enjoying themselves, but truly enjoying each other's company. I think it's a testament to Kate and Pat. Just an amazing experience and a ton of fun.”

Yeah. What he said.

And then we came home. And thudded.

Girl’s been on this kick for the past few weeks. A kick that I do not find particularly pleasant. She’s got a case of the mommies, and she’s got it bad.

Okay, on the face of it, that sounds perfectly fine—she adores her mother, and wants to be with her, and that’s sweet but I haven’t described the symptoms yet. They include: crying constantly. That’s really the only one. There’s a lot of “Mama says…” and not really being interested in talking about anything that doesn’t involve her mother, but that’s all fine.

The crying is not.

It usually starts right around the time it occurs to Girl that she’ll be sleeping at our house. Her lip will begin to quiver, in this forced lip-quivering thing that she does, usually just to get attention. We will hug her and say it’s okay, we love her, and her mom loves her and she’ll see her tomorrow (or the next day, or whatever). This does not appease her. Not having received the response she wanted (which is what? Her mother at the door? Or just better attention-giving? It’s unclear), she begins to cry. And then to wail.

For hours.

Every night.

Granted, the kid has been on antibiotics pretty much this whole time, and if they make me feel like shit, I’m sure they do the same to her much smaller body. And I know I’m being entirely self-absorbed in wishing that I could stay in effervescent, fun-with-friends wedding land where there is no crying and no screaming and no ignored-feeling Boy child pitching fits over Every Single Little Thing that doesn’t go his way so he too can get some attention. But I wish it just the same, and I drag my feet walking home.

But more than anything, I just feel bad for her. She is making herself SO MISERABLE, it’s unhealthy, and Guy and I are at wits end as to how to fix it. Distracting her with fun and games has not been successful. Remaining calm and comforting hasn’t helped. Giving in and sending her to her mother’s hasn’t helped (in fact, in retrospect it probably just made things worse). We haven’t tried guilting her or scolding her and telling her to knock it off before we really give her something to cry about, but I’m guessing that wouldn’t help either. Every day, I think “this has to end soon. It’s just a phase. It can’t last forever.” But it just drags on and on and on, and everyone is unhappy because of it, Girl more than anyone. And it’s a self-defeating cycle, because nobody can have fun at our house when there’s constant sobbing, and there’s constant sobbing because our house isn’t as fun.

Sigh. I think I’ll go look at some wedding pictures now. Good times.

Anticipation (Carly Simon-style)

Boy and Girl didn't get me anything for Mother's Day this year.*

In the past two years, I've gotten a chocolate flower, a bouquet of paper peonies (still prominently displayed), and a sun-pixie lily. The first year, I was so surprised and delighted by my chocolate flower I almost cried. It hadn't occurred to me that I would be given anything, and the idea that it occurred to Boy made me incredibly happy. The second year, having something that they made and picked out of their own accord (to my knowledge. I certainly didn't suggest it) made me feel valued and loved. I went around telling everybody what a great relationship I have with Boy and Girl.

And so, this year, I admit I was expecting a present. Not so much.

On the morning of, I heard Guy tell Boy and Girl to go wish me a Happy Mother's Day.

Boy: But she's not our Mom.

Guy: Go on.

Boy: (shouting) HAPPY STEPMOTHER'S DAY!

Cordelia: Um. There's no such thing. THANKS!

Girl: HAPPY STEPMOTHER'S DAY!

Cordelia: THANKS!

No card, nothing. I admit, I was hurt. And I felt all embarrassed, as if I had been trying to horn in on the day of momness, and sweet jesus, I wasn't.

But given a little while to think about it, it is more than a little ridiculous to complain about kids wanting to have Mother's Day be solely for their mother. It was very sweet, but really, Mother's Day is for moms, and when I look back, my happiness at receiving the chocolate flower was tinged with panic: "A Mother's Day present? For me? That's so sweet really I love you but OHMYGODI'MNOTYOURMOM."

So. I'm over my hurt feelings there. But one concern remains--is this indicative? Why the sudden decision to not think of me on Mother's Day, when they had in the past? What's changed? Are they not quite as happy about the engagement as they appear to be? Do they feel that in some way it threatens their mother? Does this mean that the good times are over and we are now going to go down the road of "I hate you" step-relating?

I can be a chicken-littlish person.


*Guy did. And so did Maud.

I am not The Baroness

While it's true that Boy and Girl have asked whether/when Guy and I were going to get married about, oh, a thousand times in the almost-three years we've been together, I still felt nervous about telling them about the engagement.

You know, it may have been one of those things where they thought they really wanted it, but in fact it would make them howl that MOMMY AND DADDY GOT A DIVORCE AND IT'S ALL CORDELIA'S FAULT.

Or something like that.

But obviously it had to be done. We told pretty much everybody else in the world first, and then settled in at the dinner table to ask questions about how their days were and oooh, what a nice drawing of a--is that a kitty?--and oh by the way we're getting married.

That is, that was the plan. The only problem was Cordelia wouldn't sit down at the table. There were, um, dishes in the dishwasher that had to be put away right that second because yes this is very important and what about the cat doesn't she need to be fed and also the plants need to be watered.

Eventually I ran out of chores, and half-empty glass of pomegranate and vodka in hand (well, vodka and pomegranate, I suppose, ratio-speaking), I did sit down at the table. And sat quietly while Guy very matter-of-factly told them that we were getting married in August 2008.

Girl continued drawing kitties, but Boy's eyes welled up. I crooked a finger and he walked over and gave me a hug. "I'm crying tears of joy," he said, surprised at himself. And Girl looked up and was all "oh! hey, neat!" and came to get in on the hug action.

Then Boy proceeded to email everybody he knew (even though they all already knew because we'd already done that) and write some invitations (which, dude, we're totally using because a) free and b) not tacky because kids are cute and we can totally get away with it) and do some planning ("Can I come up with ideas which you can change or not use but can I just come up with them please?"). Girl started planning her own wedding, or rather the guest list, which would include The Groom, Mom, Dad, Just Her Cousin, Just Her Other Cousin, and Boy.

We finally got them to settle down by putting on The Sound of Music. Strangely enough, we were at the scene where Captain von Trapp informs his children that they're getting a new mother, and The Baroness submits to kiss after dutiful-but-haughty kiss. Boy and Girl were outraged--how dare the Captain just marry this woman without asking their permission?! Is horrible and wrong! I pointed out that their dad and I had just done exactly that.

"But we asked you guys to get married how many times!" Boy exclaimed.

True enough, from their perspective, though really not at all relevant, and so now I feel kind of sorry for the Captain. Except not really, because The Baroness? Barring that scene in the fabulous red dress, she's a real bitch.

And they say Christmas is commercial....

I got up really goddamn early this morning. I decided it was imperative that the kids wake up and go upstairs and find eggs that were hidden last night. I can no longer remember why.



However, the kids certainly seemed to appreciate it. Guy and I decided to break from tradition, and not buy Willy Wonka death-in-an-egg, but give them a Jacques Torres chocolate in each egg. Very popular move. And I borrowed Kat's pattern and made chicks for each of them. And when they found the chicks they got a matching box of Peeps. Because I am a huge dork.

And it was honestly adorable.



I was much less enamored of the whole thing on Friday though. Guy is no longer allowed to shop at Jacques Torres without me, because without proper supervision, he has been known to spend hundreds of dollars. On chocolate. That's just ridiculous. He was under strict instructions to buy a box of 25 chocolates and nothing else.

Cordelia: You spend how much at Jacques Torres?

Guy: $38. Totally reasonable.

Cordelia: On Easter candy?? Those boxes are $27--where did the other ten dollars go?

Guy: Well, there were these beautiful little robin's nests...and I got eggs, because they're not getting Cadbury Creams, and...

Cordelia: You know, I already spent, like, two and a half bucks on those Peeps. We're not made of money, you know!

Guy: Who bought shoes today?

Ahem. Yes. The real issue was that I'm a selfish shoe whore. I had just purchased Geox Kink 9's* (because I'm jealous of Girl's boots and these were the closest I could get). And I need (want) a new bag. And new earphones. And I got this 20% off card from Aerosoles....

Guy: So you're blaming me for your buyer's remorse?

Cordelia: Candy doesn't last! Shoes are forever!



*Found by Guy, who spent hours searching around Zappo's and Nordstrom for me. XOXO.

Out Of The Woods

On the day I saw Boy doing jazz hands out in the baseball field--instead of, you know, catching said baseball--I suggested he might perhaps be better suited for musical theater.

And so he has proven to be. Two months ago, he rushed home to tell me that his group was performing Into The Woods.

Cordelia: That's fantastic! I love Into The Woods! And who are you? You're Rapunzel's Prince? That's excellent--I'm so proud of you! Oooh, you get to sing Agony, that song's going to bring down the house!

A minute later.

Cordelia: Into The Woods? Are you sure? That's, um...that's Sondheim. There are complicated melodies. And complicated harmonies. And, well....[mutters to self at this point]...you're nine, and others are younger, and while these shows are delightful and the kids are cute and all I wouldn't really go so far as to say they're all able to, well, sing.

A minute later, upon hearing the rehearsal tape.

Cordelia: Ahhh. You're only doing the first half. And you've simplified it. Thank heavens.

Those of you who have been to these kinds of things--or have the self-awareness to realize what it must have been like for your parents--will realize that while cuteness is one strong selling point (I personally fell in love with Little Red Riding Hood and one of the stepsisters), it will only take you so far. And then you wonder how long There Are Giants In The Sky is, because DEAR GOD. Someone rescue that poor child.

But Boy, as the savior of Rapunzel, needed no rescuing. And Agony did bring down the house. He was unselfconscious--a rare commodity that day--but at the same time such a ham that he was practically begging for audience appreciation--which we were happy to give him.

The only trouble was that every time he came onstage my eyes got blurry. I can't even really tell you why, specifically. It was just that he looked so little and rosy-cheeked and unattractive haircuted, and there he was throwing himself into something wholeheartedly (and there hasn't been much of that lately) and having such a great time doing it.

In any case, it was highly inconvenient. Boy was being funny! Genuinely funny, not just cute little kid funny! I wanted to laugh like he wanted me to, not cry, because Agony? Not a sad song.

And I think I giggled inappropriately during Children Will Listen.

In Search of a Step 'n Bitch

So I've been trolling the internet for fellow stepmoming bloggers. There don't seem to be very many. And those that I have found, well, I've got to say I'm not really feeling the warm embrace of humor and common sense.

I guess I'm somewhat pleased to learn that I'm not alone in having a hard time--indeed, some seem to have a much harder time, in some ways--but so much of it seems to be caused by the stepmothers. And honestly, if I, who am predisposed to sympathize with them, see it that way, then crikey, what must the mothers of the children think?

Which brings me to what seems to be a touchy issue: naming. Though Guy and I aren't married, I refer to myself as a stepmom. This wasn't really my idea; any sort of "mom" word in reference to me is somewhat panic attack-inducing. However, Girl had been asking me what to call me; was I her aunt? Was I her other mom? Friend didn't seem to do it for her. She would ask, were Daddy and I going to get married so that I could be her stepmom? Would it be soon? Finally, I told her that if she wanted, she could just call me her stepmom anyway, since we lived together and since Daddy and I loved each other and loved her. It seemed to satisfy her. And eventually I got used to the idea--I doubt much of anything will change when Guy and I do decide to get married. There is a name for the role I play in Boy and Girl's lives, and I might as well accept the title if I'm going to take on the job.

However. I would never, ever, refer to myself as their mother. Nor would I ever allow them to do so (and not just because it's written in the Divorce Agreement either). A friend of mine, on announcing their engagement to her boyfriend's children, was asked if they could now call her "mom." She couldn't say GOOD GOD NO fast enough. Mrs. H, on the other hand, thinks that it is unacceptable for the mother to be angry about the kids calling Mrs. H "Mom." And she doesn't want to go to teacher conferences with the mother, because it is "allows her to play her favorite game of trying to prove she is more mommy than me." Jeez. This is the kind of stuff that got us labeled Wicked Stepmothers in the first place. She is more mommy than you, lady. She's their mom. And since she's showing up to teacher conferences, I'm guessing she isn't exactly out of the picture. Back off.

So yeah, I don't think I'm going to be reading Mrs. H anytime ever. The Wicked Stepmother seems to have her head more firmly attached to her neck, with no spinning-all-the-way-around capabilities. But she too has a naming tic: she buys into the trend of calling the mother the "BioMom." Now, the role of the stepmother is important. Boy and Girl are with us half the time--I see them as often as their mother does. But my role is undeniably secondary, and that is as it should be. Qualifying the word mom by tagging a "bio" in front of it is not only silly--sorry, were we confused? Did the word mother not automatically imply a biological connection?--but self-aggrandizing. Stepmother has a qualifier because it isn't the same thing as a mother, and that should be made clear for the benefit of the children (not to mention for the benefit of me. I cling to that "step." It means that the screamed "It's not fair!"s won't be directed at me). Mothers don't need qualifiers. Their role is clear, and muddling it will only make divorce more confusing and upsetting.

I'm going to do a bit more poking around, I think.

Stop Kemps

Do you all remember that game Kemps, where you each had a partner and you went off into the corner to work out a signal, and then you passed cards furiously around until somebody got 4 of a kind and then they did their signal and their partner better have been paying attention enough to shout Kemps! You played it at slumber parties when you were eleven.

Bored with playing War or Go Fish, Girl's entire repertoire of card games, I try to introduce Kemps to the household. I partner up with Girl, and we send Guy and Boy out of the room to go work out their signal. Girl and I decide that if we get 4 of a kind, our signal would be to sneeze. Guy and Boy come back, and I start passing cards around. Girl looks at the 4 cards in her hand, willing them to turn all the same, but can't bring herself to look in the ever-growing pile of cards by her knee. Boy gets no cards. I get 4 of a kind, and sneeze. "Bless you," Girl says absently.

We simplify things. We each get only two cards, and have to try for 2 of a kind. Our new signal is to sing Cheerio, Baby--unsubtle, but perhaps more effective.

No such luck. Again, intense concentration on the two cards in her hand--so focused, in fact, that she notices neither Boy and Guy exchanging their signals and high fives, nor me singing Cheerio, Baby as loud as I can.

We simplify further. Girl gets one card, I look at it, and then search frantically through the pile for a pair for her. Our signal is to jump up and down saying "I win!" It ends with me jumping up and down, Girl looking up at me thoughtfully while holding the pair that she has had in her possession for the past two minutes, and Boy and Guy rolling on the floor laughing at us.

The fact is, Boy isn't playing because he never, EVER gets a card handed to him by Girl, and, well, Girl really isn't playing because it's clear that the concept is totally beyond her and what was I thinking trying to torture these poor kids with dumb games from my childhood that really don't make sense to begin with and probably aren't much fun unless you're eleven and you've had lots of cake and coke and inhaled a lot of puffy paint. And yet, Boy and Girl are positively screaming with delight as if nothing in the world could be more fun than failing miserably at playing cards.

It occurs to me that right there are two people who honestly love me no matter what, and whose default position is "Cordelia is funny and great and let's see what she'll do next," and even when I disappoint them or deny them candy/room on my lap/the inexaustible supply of love that only their parents can provide for them, they never hold it against me for long. I get the sense that this isn't something most stepmothers can claim, and even when I'm exhausted or migrained or overwhelmed, I'm always grateful for it. Back atcha.

Excessive Exes

So I get that when you date a guy fifteen years older than you, they're going to have racked up the exes. And I get that people are often friends with their exes--say, when they've been married and had kids and live down the block from each other. And I was going to complain about how Guy is one of those people who is always friends with his exes, but that's really not true--he starts out that way, maybe, but really there only two that still turn up: the aforementioned Mother of the Children, who had better stick around, or I'm going to be one frizzy-haired, frazzled, and probably against-my-will-bedazzled stepmother.

The other is the College Girlfriend. She came for a visit this past weekend. The first time we met was in passing, when she was going out to lunch with my brand-new boyfriend--a lunch to which I was not invited. Hmm. And then I met her in passing again--another lunch to which I was not invited, because she was "fragile." College Girlfriend was not becoming my favorite person in the world. (To be fair, I was invited to a dinner, but developed a migraine and so did not attend.)















Those of you who have been to my house will have noted the many excellent black & white photographs of a woman--the College Girlfriend. We do not have this particular image up in our living room because I think it's scary and not exactly conducive to a relaxing evening in front of the TV, but it is representative of her work and so I display it here.

In summary, I was expecting a dark, depressing, and somewhat unfriendly presence for brunch.

That is not at all the sort of person who arrived. Take the lady in the hellraising circle there and replace it with Boy and Girl's Favorite Playmate Ever! The Favorite Playmate Ever! was the sort of person who makes her sleeve eat a waffle and spit it across the table (according to Guy this is not an act put on for the childrens' benefit--it's just something her sleeve likes to do). The Favorite Playmate Ever! displays an almost genuine interest in clubpenguin.com, can do accents,* and best of all can howl.

And I don't mean just any howl. This is a howl that sent me fleeing from the room in an uh-excuse-me-I-gotta-go-clean-out-my-closet-so-I-can-hide-in-there panic. Fire engines would get to fires faster if they had her sitting on top of them.

The phrases heard most often were: "Hey, FPE!, you're crazy!" "She's cuckoo!" "Come tickle us, please please please come tickle us!"

I think I exchanged two words with her.




*Guy does appear to have a type. All the exes I have met plus me like to do accents. The Favorite Playmate Ever! is probably the best at it, and I fall far, far behind, having been taught by my father, whose Pakistani accent sounds exactly like his Irish accent.

Heat

Last week, Maud underwent her first heat. It seemed a little early, as we still call her The Kitten, but I guess way-underage sex is not limited to the human species. In fact, given that Maud is only about seven in cat years, tweenage sex is downright responsible.

I've done a quick about.com check, just in case we had it wrong and she was just being crazy kitten or something.

1. Immediately preceeding oestrus, your female cat may become unusually affection, and rub her hind quarters against furniture, other cats, and/or her favorite human.
Well, she didn't bite us quite as much, and Guy got a lot of hindquarter rubbing, though I'd prefer to believe that's because he's male and not because he's her favorite, because hey now that's not right. But I wouldn't go so far as to say that she "became affection" because that would require some feat of postmodernist deus ex machina.

And at that point I stopped reading about.com because clearly if they can't check their own grammar I have some serious doubts about their veterinarian abilities.

Actually, it was pretty clear what was going on. It was like a combination of cramps and the worst case of female blue-balling that I have ever seen. She couldn't settle anywhere, but just kind of followed us around whimpering and dragging her crotch on the floor. Guy joked about how he would help her if he could, only really he wouldn't because punchline a) it would probably be a little more than she was looking for, and punchline b) it's icky for many many reasons. She didn't seem to think so.

I joked about buying her a kitty vibrator, which it turns out wasn't so far out there. Everything2.com, which granted is even less respectable than about.com, recommended inserting a Q-tip into the cat's vagina, and moving it back and forth until the cat orgasms, which apparently should be very easy to determine.

I think we'll just get her spayed, thanks.

We kept the vibrator jokes to a minimum when the kids were around, but obviously they noticed something amiss, since Maud was like an entirely different--and very unhappy--animal. I came home one evening to Boy saying "Dad says Maud's in heat. What does 'in heat' mean?"

Thanks a bunch there, Guy.

"It's something cats go through when they're ready to have kittens."

"We're going to have kittens?!!!?"

"No. It doesn't mean she's pregnant, it just means she's old enough to have kittens now." (Boy knows about sex, and talks about it often, and somewhat inappropriately, i.e. "That gesture Girl is making looks like semen.")

"Oh. Can we have kittens?"

"No. We already have a kitten." Just one that's old enough to have her own. Sad world.

Later, Boy asked Guy "Do all women go through heat?"

Guy said "NO. Just cats."

Hmm.

Things That Annoy Me Today

1. I had to get out of bed. Granted, this is something that annoys me every single day and has for many many years. When possible (i.e. on weekdays when we don't have the kids) I delay the getting out of bed by enticing Guy to have sex with me. And yes, not getting out of bed is my first motive for this, though it does change into having sex for sex's sake quickly enough. But eventually--and usually quite soon after, since I insist that Guy not wake me until the last possible moment, and so things are perforce kind of rushed--I do still have to get out of bed.

2. I went to a school play for Girl and that's 40 minutes of my life I will never get back. In my defense, I actually want to go to these things, at least more than I don't want to go, and I do actually enjoy them and she's supercute and it's exciting and fun to watch her doing her thing and going to school and getting older and generally being her. However, that only lasts for about ten minutes, which really is as long as kindergarten school plays should last. At Girl's school they last thirty. And the other kindergarten class went first. In true Teletubby fashion, they did the same thing over and over ("Down came the toys, and around and around they danced, and careful Spiderman Toy Boy, try not to kill Scooby Doo Toy Boy!") and then it was time for Girl's class to do the same thing. Again. That would make like fifty times I heard the phrase "down came the toys." At this point, Guy and I had reached saturation point, not to mention the point where we were really late for work, and so we had to leave before Girl's class was done with even one repetition. Which kind of sucked for her.

3. My conversation with the clever folks at PW.

Cordelia: I'm calling because we didn't get this week's issue?

Customer Service Lady: What's the name on the account, and the zipcode?

Cordelia: Park Literary Group, 10010.

CSL: What's the last name?

Cordelia: Uh, Park? Or Group, potentially.

CSL: Park Literary Group?

Cordelia: Yes.

CSL: So what can I do for you?

Cordelia: We didn't get this week's issue.

CSL: We show you as being expired.

Cordelia: We should have another year left.

CSL: Oh, Park Literary Group? You expire in September 2008.

Cordelia: Okay. Great. So can we get this week's issue, then?

CSL: You would like a replacement issue? (Incredulous).

Cordelia: Yes.

CSL: Oh. Well, okay. I'll have one sent out.


What annoys me about this exchange isn't so much the runaround and repetition, as that's sort of expected with customer service lines and I'm mentally prepared for it and have the solitaire game going on my computer to get me through it. I'm annoyed by the "oh, would you like to actually receive the magazine for which you have a subscription? How strange!"

Thankful For Thanksgiving

I recently reminded friend Ruth that being in New Zealand over the holidays has its benefits, i.e. not having to spend Thanksgiving with one's family.

Actually, Thanksgiving itself was perfectly wonderful--tasty food, happy family--and not MY family, but Guy's, so all the better (Kidding!). I am here to complain about the trip to the event, not the event itself.

Guy and I had the kids for Thanksgiving this year, so naturally we went to stay with his mother over Thanksgiving, as both his parents, his siblings, and his grandparents all live within reasonable driving distance of each other. Just not within reasonable driving distance of us. It is a mighty long drive from Jersey City to Massachusetts, especially in torrential downpour.

Within twenty minutes of being in the car with Boy and Girl in the back, I turned to Guy and said "I don't want to make this drive with them again any time soon." And at that point, the sentiment was based on very little--they were listening to music and being generally peaceful. However, I am a prophet, and I prophesized bad things, and before the hour ended, Girl vomited.

Luckily, we were somewhat prepared, and had a ziploc bag at the ready. But still. I had a ziploc bag of vomit at my feet until the next reststop.

Apart from some general crankiness toward the end of the drive, that was the big excitement on the trip up to Massachusetts.

But the next time Girl got in the car...we were unprepared. After all, it was only a short trip to go shopping.

It was a volcanic eruption--not fountaining, like the videos show in Hawaii Volcanoes National Park--but a bubbling of liquid that travelled everywhere--across Girl's shirt, jacket, pants, car seat, seat belt--even down into the seat belt buckle thing. It was impressive. And smelly.

Poor Girl was very calm about the whole thing--when I insisted she take her shirt off in the Burger King bathroom so I could rinse it out and make it somewhat wearable until we got her a new one, she struggled honorably with her modesty (the bathroom was empty, but there was no lock on the door) and surrendered the shirt.

We did discover the source of the nausea--Girl can't look at anything while in the car. By this I mean that she can't read, color, draw, or look at pictures. Which is pretty much all she likes to do while in the car.

Imagine her boredom on the drive back to New Jersey. We played My Sharona a lot, and hoped they didn't listen to the lyrics.

As promised

Guy, as Frighteningly Ugly Man, attempting to eat his daughter. Her features have been blurred for her protection; she normally does have some.

I Think I've Given The Wrong Impression

This post is for Girl, as we all might have predicted--can't post for one and not the other. But it's also to set the record straight: I am not some cynic who doesn't have any sense or appreciation of the marvelous. Okay, that's not true--I don't believe in much, but I do believe in fairies. Or shall we say, I wish I believed in fairies, which is almost as good.

And so, for Girl, a post about mermaids. On your left, the traditional mermaid, looking up dreamily at the legs of a swimmer, and wishing she could wear pretty shoes like that. But this is only one version of a humanlike undersea creature.

Stories about mermaids appeared as early as 1000 BCE, in Assyria (this isn't stuff I knew off the top of my head--I went on wikipedia), usually as sirens, who would sing sailors to their deaths. Modern mermaids kill themselves instead (but only in the sad version of the little mermaid, and Girl and I don't like that one).

There are also nereids, oceaneids (both Greek), naiads (who generally don't have tails, but are underwater fairies), and my favorite because I love Possession, melusines.

The melusina is a freshwater mermaid, and in legend she is sort of a combination of siren and Little Mermaid kind of mermaid. She does fall in love, she does marry, and like Daryl Hannah in Splash, she gets her tail back when she takes a bath. Unfortunately, she gets very crabby when her husband discovers her secret (well, she did ask for privacy--sheesh, can't a girl take a bath without being interrupted?) and turns into a dragon and flies around the castle before disappearing.

Or so A.S. Byatt tells it.


Incidentally, and again props to wikipedia, that woman in the Starbucks logo? It's a melusine. I feel much more friendly toward them now that I know that.

Also, I think it might be time for my yearly rereading of Possession. AndI think Girl and I will have to watch the rest of The Little Mermaid this evening. And possibly lie on the floor pretending to be mermaids. Or on second thoughts I think we'll actually pretend to be melusinas, so we can get up and walk around if we feel like it. And turn into dragons, which you know is always a swell time. Girl has an excellent roar.

Mermaid Post for Boy

This post is for Boy, who requested a viewing of my blog and was told it's for grownups only. When asked, I told him I'd print up a post and bring it home. But first I have to write a Boy-appropriate post.

This morning, I was asked about the Peruvian mermaid discovery.

Boy: Hey, did you know mermaids are real? There's one in Peru. My friend saw it on the news.

Me, in the midst of brushing Girl's hair and hoping to get us out the door on time and so cutting him off a little: No, that's not what happened--the story is that...you know about Siamese twins, how sometimes babies get stuck together? (Boy nods. Girl says "uhuh" because she can't nod while I'm putting in pigtails). Well, there was a little girl in Peru and she was born with her legs stuck together, but doctors operated and now she's fine and able to walk. Anyway, that's called mermaid syndrome.

Boy: Nah, that's not what my friend saw. His grandfather told him they found a mermaid fossil.

Me: I think his grandfather may have been having a little fun with him.

Boy: But I told Dad about it last night and he thought it was true.

Me: I get the feeling your Dad wasn't really listening.

Guy, walking by: Me, not listening? Never happens.

Boy: There's a mermaid fossil in Peru! Mermaids are real!

Guy, relatively skepticism-free: Really. I hadn't heard that.

Me: Tell you what, I'll look it up at work today.

I have just done so. Googling "mermaid fossil" turned up nothing, but I did find something under "mermaid mummy":

First of all, yes, a resounding eewww. But second, I did a little extra research, and I'm sorry to have to say it, but this my friends is a fake fossil, combining monkey bones with fish bones.

I know we're all very disappointed.

Did you all get how I just killed two birds with one stone here? A post Boy can see and answering the whole mermaid question.

Time management is very important, you know.

The Cereal Wars

I feel like that's the name of a movie--a Star Wars spoof of some kind. Anyway. If someone made a movie of our house on mornings we have the kids, that would be its title.

My boss isn't going to be in today (hurrah!) so I felt I could be a few minutes late (correction: fewer minutes early), and walk the kids to school today. I came upstairs, Guy was making their lunches, Girl was making crazy faces, and Boy was reading one of those giant books based on Disney movies. Girl really desperately wanted Shredded Oat Squares (or whatever the hell they're called--basically a health food version of Life). I called to Boy, would he like the same thing? I got a kind of absent-minded yes, so I went and asked again just in case he hadn't been paying attention. "I said yes," he calls.

Of course, once he sat down, it turned into "I hate this cereal." "Then why did you say you wanted it?" "I was reading! You can't expect me to answer questions when I'm reading!" (shouted).

And it escalated from there. Reminder: I had not yet had my coffee.

Girl took up the flag of Cereal Hatred (though, if you'll recall, she had been dancing with joy at the thought of having Shredded Oat Squares for breakfast), and declared that it was making her ill. Girl gets a tummyache every morning right about a third of the way through breakfast. It's uncanny.

Furthermore, I was getting a little panicked at the thought of maybe not getting to work exactly on time--shudder, even five minutes late--and was trying to hurry things along, and getting annoyed with Guy who was, ahem, not trying to hurry things along, but wanted to sit and enjoy his coffee for a moment. Please. Like there's time in the world to do that.

I hustled the kiddies downstairs, brushed their teeth if not their hair, and managed to brush my own as well. We made it out the door without Maud escaping, thank goodness (ah yes--another aging kitten flaw: she longs for freedom. Shoulda left her in the trailer park with the tormenting two year old), and into the wet walk in the rain. I'm sure both Boy and Girl are at this exact moment complaining of starvation.

First and Second Days

This morning, I was standing next to a little girl who was crying to her mom (who, by the way, had a month-old baby slung in her arms) that she didn't want to go back to River School! Over and over. But oddly, none of the passengers were getting annoyed. I suppose they all felt sympathy for the exhausted mother.

Or maybe, like me, they were remembering their own childhoods. When I was about three, my parents signed me up for daycare at Mrs. Haileli's (or however you spell it--I was three, I didn't really care that much about spelling). I had been staying with Paula and her son who drew all over my dolls but I didn't care. Mrs. Haileli's, on the other hand, was pure torture.

I don't even really remember why--there were other kids there, it was at a house much like Paula's. But the other kids all had their routine, and I didn't know it, and Mrs. Haileli would get frustrated with me for not knowing it, and the other kids would laugh. I think. Hey, all I know is I thought the kids were mean and I was scared to death of Mrs. Haileli. So I feel a certain sympathy for the little girl, whose reasons for not wanting to go back to River School may be perfectly valid.

(I have to give my parents props--after a couple days of me firmly rejecting any suggestion of going to Mrs. Haileli's, they made other arrangements. And Mrs. Haileli's legacy is that of the boogeyman, which is fitting).

On the other hand, I bet Girl would have very little sympathy for this girl. Yesterday was her first day. Walking her to school, we ran into other parents and kids in her class and such, and it became quite the parade.

(Quite the Croc Parade, tangentially. Crocs were well-represented, even by Girl, whose lovely dress and tights and crocs made an interesting combination. Sigh. She has shown excellent fashion sense, but she has obviously not yet sacrificed comfort on its altar. For which I suppose I should be grateful, given that I have a blister on my pinkie toe from yesterday's high heels).

Girl was so different from me on my first day of Kindergarten. Of course, her big brother goes to the school, and she has friends that are going to be in her class, but man, she was totally fearless. Me, I clung to my mother's legs until I made a friend, and then proceeded to cling to her for the rest of my childhood.

Hey, I was scarred. Mrs. Haileli is a scary lady.