What I Did This Weekend…

I defended my stance on the dirt pile after being called a “douche” for blogging about it on Friday. Fantastic vocabulary, Dave…all that law schoolin’ really paid off, huh? Just kidding, I’m totally cool with the 10th anniversary dirt pile. So cool in fact, that when the second pile was delivered yesterday morning,  I silently watched with delight while casting the hairy eyeball upon my unsuspecting husband.

He’s so romantical and stuff. Okay, I’ll fess us…he wants to build a flagstone wall so I can plant a pretty garden on the bald, weedy hill.

As the dirt pile (also filled with refuse) was dumped from the busted dump truck, I sat in the front seat of my sexy grey minivan. That’s right. I like to spend Saturday mornings with a cup of java and some Amor All wipes, scrubbing gobs of rotting banana and dog snot from its interior. I originally walked onto the porch with my cup o’ Joe intending to soak up the morning sunshine on a wicker chair. I don’t know, maybe it was Kate’s incessant shrieking or something that caused me to enter the minivan and start scrubbing. I was still in my pajamas… No, that’s not entirely true… I was wearing pajama bottoms and a bathrobe.

20 minutes into Scrub Fest and locked inside while the exterior was hosed down, I got hot. Really hot. So I took off the bathrobe and commenced Topless Scrub Fest 2011. But no one noticed because the doors where all closed. Dave finally peeked into a window and I saw his eyes widen with surprise. Somehow I don’t think that a 40 year old woman with bed head and coffee breath really fulfilled any naked car wash fantasies. Thankfully, the dirt delivery person arrived before Topless Scrub Fest began.

Then we went to Toys R Us. Again. 

Next, we purposely dragged the kids into this huge Goodwill in South Portland because they dragged us through Toys R Us. Smart, aren’t we? Tit for tat, man.

We scored a vintage oil painting (trés shabby chic) for $1.99. I’d show you a picture, but I’m too lazy and two cocktails into my evening and stuff. (No wonder no one tunes in to No. 7 anymore, huh?)

Vintage Californian Artist Oil Painting Period Frame

Not our $1.99 Goodwill oil painting, but you get the picture.

Today, we hired a new babysitter, drove to Old Port and inhaled a pile of sushi. Then, guess where we went? We went to Toys R Us. AGAIN.

It’s Gwen’s birthday tomorrow. So yesterday’s Toys R Us mission was held to uncover what the kid wanted. You know… since we totally forgot that she was turning 5. I guess we could have told her that the second dirt pile was hers, but I didn’t have the heart. From experience, I can attest to the fact that getting dirt for a momentous occasion sucks.

Anywho… we nabbed the last pink daisy covered Razor scooter, some Hello Kitty shades and a creepy puppy dog that wags its tail. The best part of our Toys R Us date was the discovery of some stuffed guinea pigs that simply must repeat whatever you say. Hecho in China. We taught the whole shelf to say, “Wazzzzzup, douchebag?”

I Say Chatimals Talking Guinea Pig

Then we left.
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I Call Bull$hit!

I’m on tear this week. I don’t know what has come over me. I really do enjoy looking at other people’s blogs. I tend to linger over the blogs where moms do crafts with their children. Don’t they all look beautiful? In their photos taken with a DSLR sumpin sumpin, the children are smiling and laughing. They are giddily covered in glue and sparkles. I look at those posts and I beat myself up because I am most definitely not one of those mommies.

Not me

I am occasionally inspired to do something crafty, but far too often my real personality emerges from the depths of my Zoloft-induced calm. It’s all smoke and mirrors, believe me. Glue drips on the floor, Kate eats a handful of sparkles, a glass of milk spills, and someone paints the dog. I tell myself that those perfect, happy mommies would snap photos of these mishaps and make it all look so fun. I have a theory that they do these things so shitty mommies like me can log on and wallow in our shittiness. (Alternatively, maybe I’m just paranoid.) Whatever the case may be, I am not capable of being that mommy. I’ve tried. Sure, I’ve experienced a random Perfect Mommy day every now and again, but mostly those days are elusive for people like me. I don’t want craft paint on my freshly painted walls. I don’t want to have to give the dog an unscheduled bath. I don’t want to wipe Kate’s butt, see the forgotten sparkles in her poo and momentarily panic that she has contracted some kind of rare twinkling shit disease. I… don’t… want…that.

I think I’m coming unhinged. I can’t tell you the last time that David and I were really alone together, or if we were alone, that I didn’t worry that all I had to talk about was the children. I don’t want to be that wife. Lately, I fear that David and I are losing each other as we traverse the perils of parenthood. I am turning into a harpy.

courtesy Google image search

Yesterday I spent the day nursing the mother of all sinus headaches. The kind of headache that makes me press too hard on my right temple and cheek bone to relieve the pain. He came home with medicine and sent me to bed. He played with the children and tucked them in. He’s incredible. We sleep next to each other. He cooks breakfast. I cook dinner. We watch television and talk about the kids, his job and my writing. We go to bed. We are never alone.

Last night, under David’s watch, Kate took her poo-filled diaper off and slid her dirty hiney across the couch. I heard him discovering the skid mark and mentally noted that tomorrow I would need to wash the slipcover. Tomorrow I will do this mothering, housework, grocery shopping ‘thing’ all over again. And again the day after that. I will become more and more unappealing, uninteresting, old, and cynical. I will wash the slipcover, I will blog about it and make it look fun. I will hope that when the dust settles, that my husband and I are still able to make one another laugh those fantastic laughs we used to share.

CREDIT: Lange, Dorothea, photographer. “Destitute pea pickers in California. Mother of seven children. Age thirty-two. Nipomo, California,” February-March 1936. Prints and Photographs Division, Library of Congress. Reproduction Number LC-DIG-fsa-8b29516.

I drank a glass of wine and took NyQuil Sinus PM. Within a half hour, my head was deliciously floating somewhere near the ceiling and I thought, Jesus…this is great. I remembered that alcoholism is hereditary. I thought of those stories of mommies who hide their vodka in the laundry room. I remembered bad things and drunken grown-ups who seemed huge, out of control and scary. I went to sleep and dreamed of Florida.

Today I will go to the grocery store and I will do the laundry. I’ll make dinner in my new crockpot and I will accept that it’s okay to feel lost every now and then. I think some of those perfect mommies might feel that way too sometimes, they just don’t write about it.

Hey, if you like No. 7…Thanks! That’s enough. Thanks for reading.