Twenty Ways I Can Tell Husband is Out of Town

1. First son "ran out" of clean underwear.
   
2. Instead of washing dirty underwear, I decided First Son needed new underwear.
   
3. The guy at the McDonald's drive-in rolled his eyes at me today and muttered, "You again."
   
4. The bug that I keep feeling crawling on me is really just my unshaven leg hair.
   
5. Eight o'clock in the morning feels like the crack of dawn.
   
6. I only run the dishwasher once a week.
   
7. The kids are begging me to feed them a home-cooked meal.
   
8. I can't remember which bottle is shampoo and which one is conditioner.
   
9. I'm an expert trash compacter, hoping that it can wait until Husband gets home until it has to be taken all the way outside to the big trash can.
   
10. I'm an expert at fooling First and Second Son, telling them: "Oh, look at the cute little spider. He's so sweet. Okay. Now smush it for me."
    
11. I've discovered what my actual for-real-life toenails look like after all the toe nail polish has flaked off.
    
12. Where do I keep the vacuum cleaner again?
    
13. The oven is a useful storage device.
    
14. What's the point in making beds and changing out of pajamas when at the end of the day I'm just going to put on pajamas and get back in the bed?
    
15. Soap? What is this substance of which you speak?
    
16. I'm caught up on all my TV shows.
    
17. My hair straightener is getting a nice long vacation.
    
18. I've forgotten how to work zippers and buttons and snaps. If it's not drawstring, it ain't goin' on these hips.
    
19. Wow! These bound pages of paper with titles on them that are sitting on my bookshelf can actually be read and enjoyed and read again??? What a marvelous invention!
    
20. Did you know that you could use a cell phone for actually talking to another person who is far away from you? Me neither!
    

Is it September Yet?

Twenty ways I can tell my kids are out of school for the summer:

1. At any given time, two out of three of my toilets are stopped up.

2. At any given time, two out of three of my children need me to do something for them.

3. When alone, I find myself pondering the mystical questions of the universe like: Who was the first Jedi Knight and will anyone ever invent a real lightsaber?

4. Justin Beiber is starting to grow on me.

5. The house mysteriously empties of food as soon as I bring it in.

6. The words, "I'm hungry" have become background noise that don't even register with me, just as one does not hear the air conditioner running or people breathing because these are sounds that are ever present.

7. Ditto with the words, "Can I play the Wii?"

8. Nap time has lost all meaning.

9. Bed time has lost all meaning.

10. A giant tub of cheesy puffs seems like a wise purchase.

11. Going to the gym is the most relaxing part of my day.

12. A piercing scream heard on the other side of the house will only make me roll my eyes and yell, "KNOCK IT OFF!"

13. I find myself gazing at my beloved children and wondering . . . when in God's name did I last bathe you???

14. Pizza and cheesy puffs seem like a good, nutritious choice for lunch.

15. Cereal and cheesy puffs seem like a good, nutritious choice for breakfast.

16. I'm starting to think the orange, cheesy puff stains on the carpet give the living room a certain flair.

17. I'm thinking of having my name legally changed to Mommy-Watch-This.

18. I'm excited when the kids go to bed early because now I can finally . . . iron.

19. Okay, so . . . Friday morning I decided to sneak out real quick to the fenced backyard to put a final coat of paint on the table I'm refinishing and thought it would be silly to change out of my shorty pj shorts and itty tank since I was just going to be inside my privacy fence for fifteen minutes . . . to paint, you know. To make a long story short, I spent the better part of the morning locked in my backyard, too embarassed to go around front because of my lack of appropriate cul-de-sac living attire. Second son has a sick sense of humor.

20. I am getting WAY more kisses and hugs than any human being could possible deserve on a near constant basis. I'm considering home schooling.

It’s a Tybee Island Thing . . .

You know how when you drive over the Lazaretto Creek Bridge and you curse the guardrails that are there for some crazy reason like protecting your life or something because they block your view of the Cockspur Lighthouse and then when you reach the top of the bridge and you see the lighthouse, especially at sunset when it looks all pretty and romantic and stuff and you think about the waving girl who used to help her brother operate the lighthouse and then you almost hit an oncoming car that is doing something really stupid, like leaving the island? . . . yeah, I love that.

As soon as I hit the Lazaretto, my blood starts pulsating, my heart beats faster, maybe I cry (Hey, I'm an emotional chick!) because it just feels right.

I've always been a big fan of Breakfast at Tiffany's. I like what Ms. Golightly says about wanting a place where she and things go together. A place that feels right. I'm not sure, because I'm an Army brat who married a Coastie (i.e. I move around a lot), but I think that she means home.

Where is home? Apparently, there's no place like it. Apparently, some people find that their greatest desire is to get back to it. Maybe we all do.

Home can be anywhere.

When you're like me and you have never been able to choose where you live, then you're lucky because you can choose the place that you call home.

The place I choose is a piece of land set apart from the world, isolated by the cut of the Atlantic Ocean. A place that is foreign, yet familiar. A place that is insensible, yet rational. A place that is beautiful, yet disquieting. A place where anyone and no one can belong.

Just remember, when you're leaving the island and crossing the bridge—easing stepping and watch out for oncoming traffic, 'cause you never know when I'll be coming home.

Life is What Happens

A brief pause while I reflect on something serious . . .

This past week, my daughter turned four. This seems ordinary in and of itself, but it struck me out of the blue what this actually means. She's the youngest of my children and her leaving behind the three-and-under stage is so significant that I can't quite get my head around it.

I am no longer that woman.

I see that woman at the grocery store and at the gym and at the park and at the mall and I recognize her the way you recognize a picture of yourself from your old high school yearbook—you can't quite believe that it used to be you.

But it did use to be me pushing the shopping cart with the baby carrier sitting so precariously atop it (Am I the only one who feared it would topple?), and then with the next baby in the snuggie and the toddler in the shopping cart, me feeding him gummies, praying that they would last until my shopping was complete, and then, finally, with the next baby in the snuggie and the two toddlers fighting over the gummies in the gigantic shopping cart that was shaped like a fire truck and impossible to navigate through the narrow aisles.

That used to be me . . . but, suddenly and strangely, not anymore.

While it's happening, it seems like it will never end. You know somewhere in your head that one day you will not consider sleeping two hours in a row a triumph. You know that one day you won't freak out because you just used the last diaper. You know that one day you won't watch with fearful anticipation as your toddler eats one . . . now two . . . now three bites of vegetables, thank God. You know that one day you won't spend each evening draped over a bathtub, trying to keep shampoo out of sensitive eyes. You know that one day this will all be a distant memory. Good grief, everyone tells you that it goes by too quick—everyone tells you this, but you never quite believe them . . . until it actually does go by too quick.

I don't exactly miss it.

I rather like the fact that I can go to a store without having to first pack a suitcase. I like the fact that I can tell my kids jokes that they get and they can tell me jokes that make no sense whatsoever. I like the fact that they can show kindness and compassion and empathy. I like the fact that I can outright refuse to get out of bed before nine o'clock on a Sunday.

But still . . . it makes me a little uneasy. It's like my daughter turning four is a big flashing light telling me not only that my children's toddler days are over, but also that my youth is over. Of course I knew this in theory. I am thirty-three and have been married for ten years and though I can occasionally plaster on enough make-up to convince a nervous and near-sighted waiter to card me, I don't actually resemble someone who could be mistaken for twenty. The lines are invisible only if I keep my face completely neutral and I consistently grab my hip when standing after sitting for too long.

This is it, this is adulthood . . . and it scares me. As long as I had young children, I felt like adulthood was some far off land that I hoped I wouldn't have to visit . . . ever. But I'm running out of excuses. I'm running out of time. I hear myself saying things like, "Let's get this mess cleaned up," and "Don't use that tone with me, I am your mother," and "I will turn this car around if you don't calm down back there." These sound suspiciously like things an adult would say.

So this is the shape that my life has taken. I happen to be one of the most blessed people on the planet, but still it gives my restless mind pause. This is my life. This is what I have built.

Will it change? No doubt.

Will it be better? Sure it will.

Will it be worse? Sure it will.

Will it all be okay? Who knows?

I'm too old to consult the magic eight ball anymore.

It's a Beast

I gots to talk about this.

So, last week I was enjoying my typical Thursday evening which comes standard with a locked bedroom door, a dirty martini, and Vampire Diary on the TV, when I saw something disturbing. No, not the fact that Vamp Di will be playing re-runs until April 7th--though that caused me to be distraught enough to pull some hair from my head and let out a howling, "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!"

Remember, Hollie loves her some Ian Somerhalder even though lately I've been all like, what, seriously, for real, why are you so good now Damon? Be bad. Be real bad. Go kill some people, will ya? Do vampy things and do them with your shirt off. And is anyone else getting sick of Stephan crying so much? Not into the super-sensitive vampire guy. Nope. Not really digging him. But, OMG I love Caroline now that she's a vampire and kicking some serious tail and I just knew that Elena's mom was coming back, I just knew it and gee whiz, wouldn't it be cool if Matt turned into a vampire? I could totally see that happening.

Anywho, the disturbing thing that I saw was a preview for Beastly, a new movie that supposedly follows the whole A Beauty and the Beast storyline. I am absolutely one-hundred percent NOT a feminist (I'm making banana bread right now for Pete's sake!), but I cannot stand this idea!

I mean, okay, this guy is like really, really shallow and stuff and he thinks that it's all like really, really super awesome to be hot and then he like totally gets punished for his shallow thoughts and stuff by a witch or something and then he's like really, really grotesquely ugly and he has to make someone love him so that he can see that beauty is like really only skin-deep, you know, and then he gets to be like really hot again.

So, the way this story works, this shallow guy falls in love with a beautiful woman and that is enough to redeem him????? Like that makes him remarkable. If anyone is remarkable in the story, it's Belle. She falls in love with a beast even though he's not her species! Why does this guy get rewarded for falling in love with a smart, beautiful, kind, interesting girl? Is it really so hard to fall in love with someone like her? What did he learn? I fell in love with a beautiful woman, beauty means nothing?

Yeah, right.

It's the same reason I can't stand all these shows and movies where the nerdy guy gets the super awesome swimsuit model and he stays nerdy. This never happens in reverse. Sometimes the plain girl gets a makeover and then she gets the hot guy, but you never see the hot guy-plain girl combo. I wonder if it's because of the geek factor that naturally comes with being a writer (I've been to writer's conferences, trust me, I know what I'm talking about) and these script-writer-guys are trying to live out their nerdy boy gets beautiful woman fantasies on the big screen.

Give me Shallow Hal any day. Plus, it's got Gwynth Paltrow in a fat suit sans flaxseed oil. You gotta love that.

Mommy May I

Has anyone else seen this newsletter that Gwyneth Paltrow puts out that is supposed to make her look like the all normal-motherly-type? It's really useful if you need to puke. It can help you do that.

I'll admit, I'm not the best one to comment on this. I mean, there's a reason why this is NOT a Mommy Blog. And that reason is . . . I'm not that great at it. The Mommy part, that is. My house is always a wreck, my kids tuck themselves in bed a couple nights a week, I consider a dip in the public pool as an acceptable substitute for a bath, I let them fudge on homework when I don't feel like doing it, when Husband is out of town they eat nothing but fast food and stuff from the freezer, and the big secret . . . they get on my nerves sometimes.

But . . . we have a lot of fun, probably because I'm on the same level as they are maturity wise (they've already surpassed Husband) and there's lots of that gooey love stuff in my house.

Apparently Gwyneth and her friends are perfect at it just like they are in every area of their life. She has this lady friend who is a CEO at some company or another write in some tips for moms. This lady, this lady right here says that she feels so good after she exercises but she can't make herself do it, so what she does is have a personal trainer come to her house at 6:00 in the morning. Out of touch with reality much? I mean, you know, I'm like all yeah, right, exactly the answer I've been looking for! I mean, you know, I hate to exercise and this pile of money that I've been sleeping on is just not that comfortable, so now I have the perfect answer to both of my problems—a personal trainer at my doorstep every morning!

And these ladies and their flaxseed oil! Seriously! Oh, but they're just like us because one of them forgot to give it to her daughter last week. Oops, I'm such a normal mom who forgets to do important things like give my kid flaxseed oil.

Let me read some posts about Gwyneth Paltrow cleaning up those fun yellow puddles that mysteriously appear around the toilet after her kids have gone tinkle and then maybe I'll feel a little like she's a normal mom.

Read This, Not That

From time to time I like to feel smart, so I'll read some serious, intellectually-stimulating work of fiction. This, I believe, is good for me. I have discovered a complicated mathematic equation that proves that one's IQ decreases with direct proportion to the number of children one has multiplied by the number of years that one stays home to raise these children. The only way to counter this is to set aside time each day to think about something other than Strawberry Shortcake, how to get grass stains out of denim, and how much TV is too much TV.

So, I ordered Jonathan Franzen's Freedom a few months ago and the lovely people at Amazon told me that other people who read Freedom also read Franzen's Corrections and Howard Jacobson's The Finkler Question and wouldn't I like to order those too and be like all those smart people, hmmm? Wouldn't I? Why yes! Thanks for asking!

So the book I am going to discuss today is Jeff Kinney's Diary
of a Wimpy Kid: The Ugly Truth 'cause those other books weren't nearly as good.

First Son happens to be the sweetest child ever to live and gave me Diary of a Wimpy Kid as a birthday present after I so thoroughly enjoyed the movie. Most adults (including me!) can't even do this—think about what someone else may enjoy, but my seven-year-old can. Can anyone say proud Mama?

I planned on reading some of it to him every night and had visions of us curled up reading it together and how he would always remember that and maybe even read it to his kids one day. However, as soon as I cracked the cover, I couldn't put it down. It was sooooo funny and compelling.

It's everything that made The Wonder Years one of the greatest TV shows ever created. The only thing you can do when you look back on the most awkward, worst years of your life is laugh about it. And what, I ask you, what is more awkward and worser than middle school? That's right, nothing.

Kinney is a whiz at taking small details of a sixth grader's life and turning them into things of comedic genius. His wit combined with his simplistic cartoons are a deadly combo. I laughed so hard I snorted. It's a double whammy of laughter for adults because we can experience the humor from the standpoint of looking back at our youth and from the standpoint of looking at our children. However, I still don't know what the ugly truth is. Maybe that book was a little too high-brow for me after all.

So if you need a break from serious (a.k.a. boring) fiction, then look no further than your kid's backpack. They've got the goods.