Here are some things that I would invent if I could just find the time: a self-cleaning refrigerator; zero-calorie Chardonnay and rubber cars for my teenage drivers. The first two items would significantly improve my standard of living while the bouncy cars would help keep in check my steadily increasing car insurance premium. Since my oldest child got his driver’s license almost two years ago, and his sister this past March, there have been a total of four claims made through our auto insurance carrier (you’re welcome, Mr. USAA and all his stockholders). I’ve watched my daughter, flush with …
I became a parent in the prehistoric age when it seemed that only people who received a paycheck for their jobs had that nifty little item called a cell phone (in other words, not stay-at-home-moms like me at the time). I did have the very high-tech call waiting feature on my home phone and eventually, caller ID. But if I was out at the library or the grocery store, or even the backyard pushing someone on the swing, you weren’t going to get in touch with me. Before I finally got a phone, probably around 2000, there were a few instances that I’d return home to find messages from the school …
For most of their lives, my children have had the luxury of me acting as their Wing-mama. If they forgot their gym clothes, homework, instrument or after school snack, I generally would be available to run the errant item over to the school. If they were feeling slightly under the weather during the school day, and by that I mean either sick or perhaps just sad about one thing or another, I would fetch them and bring them home. And after school let out, I would pile them in the car—with their granola bars, juice boxes and equipment—and shuttle them around to soccer, CCD, dance or swimming, …
The wait is over. April 1 has come and gone and I have to say, it’s been a little anticlimactic. For years, I’d been anticipating what it would be like to make it through the college admissions process. Would it be like labor? Would I require deep breathing (three hees and a haw) to get me through the most painful parts of the ordeal? Would there be sedatives involved (or, at the very least, lots of chardonnay)? In the end, it really didn’t hurt so much; and I think that was, in large part, due to my decision early on to back off. Or maybe it’s when my dear son suggested I do the same. …
Fellow moms, are you feeling a tiny bit under appreciated? Do your efforts go unnoticed and unrewarded? Are you working long hours, either late at night or early in the morning, to finish up the laundry and do away with dirty dishes? This might not be the perfect time to suggest this — as organized labor could soon go the way of the ERA in this country — but moms, I propose we form a union. Frankly, I can’t believe I’m actually suggesting unionizing, but if ever there was a need for a group of underpaid and overworked workers to join together to improve their lot (I believe the original …
If I won the lottery tomorrow — I’m talking seven figures — I would immediately book my hair girl to give me a blow out twice a week, buy myself a pied-a-terre in Greenwich Village and hire a personal chef. Due to screwy priorities, college costs, retirement and donating to worthy causes show up a bit further down on my wish list. The apartment would create a little escape hatch from the monotony of suburbia (although I’m sure it can get monotonous living in the city, too). The constant hair washing and drying just annoys me and I’d like to subcontract the work if money’s no object. And the …
As the last bars of Britney Spears’ “3” faded and another pop song began during spin class last Sunday morning, my fellow spinner, Linda, said, “Ugh, that song is disgusting.” What did she mean? Wasn’t Britney, like, practicing dancing or something in the song? I had never paid close attention to the lyrics, other than the “1-2-3” refrain that loops throughout. “It’s about having a threesome,” Linda shouted over the music. “You know, a ménage a trois.” And sure enough, when I got home to Google the lyrics, the former Mouseketeer is apparently looking for some harmless fun and implores two …
Hi, my name is Amy, and I’m a compulsive volunteer. My addiction started innocently enough with a little baking. From there I moved on to a few stints as a class mother and then some of the heavier stuff—organizing a luncheon and a few book fairs. Before I knew it, I’d gotten out of control, serving as PTO co-president (while pregnant with my fourth child) and running for the local school board. I’ve been an editor of a preschool newsletter, a chaperone on overnight class trips and part of a budget awareness committee. I’ve collected backpacks and supplies for Hurricane Katrina victims, …
When I was pregnant with my first child, I resolved to be a certain type of mother: hands on, self-sacrificing and ever vigilant. Lord, I was ambitious, not to mention energetic. I threw myself into breastfeeding, enduring several rounds of thrush and a clogged milk duct, in my almost hysterical need to provide only the best nutrition for my infant. I went on to nurse the next three babies as well, withstanding moments of terrible pain and becoming the sole-source of nutrition for long stretches, so much so that the baby would look at me and open his mouth. Let’s not even go down the sleep …
