Monthly Archives: June 2009

How I got a girl night out OR I walked out of the house Part III

“You are an asshole.” I yelled into the phone before I hung up. Because nothing gives me more pleasure and later more regret by having the last word, NOW!

When I got home with CHILD, husb was sitting in the comfy chair reading a comic book. Looking very relaxed. Which irks me more than anything since I can’t remember the last time I ever relax at home. I am such a bitch.

I looked over, he was giving me a finger!

“What is your problem?”

CHILD looked in his direction, he smiled and said, “Hey! Nothing.”

Then said, “Maybe you should leave now. Don’t come home. Since you don’t want to be home.”

After ignoring him and giving CHILD a banana, I thought to myself,

“Hey, he’s offering to watch CHILD!!”

So I grabbed my semi packed bag (I travel for work quite often) and a change of clothes, all the while thinking,

“Ok. I am going to do this now. What do I bring? Where do I go?”

How does one walk out of one’s house?

How do you walk out on your children?

“A hotel? I can Hotwire it maybe?”

I remembered that I have some free tickets from when I got bumped.

“New York?”

I remembered that I have NO family in this frigging country.

All these happened fast in less than 5 minutes.

While I was rummaging for the tickets, I found some discount gift cards for Aveda from Costco. Maybe I’ll go get a facial?!

In denial.

Big time. Since before I left aveda, I made an appointment for a massage next Friday for husb for Father’s Day.

God. I am completely insane and unstable…

This is how I got a GIRL night out, notice there is no S…

Tis 10:30 pm. Starbucks open past midnight because this one is where the cool people hang out… Maybe I will go catch a movie or two…

Parents behaving badly. Parenthood never guarantees maturity, does it?

How I got a girl night out, OR I walked out of the house Part I

First of all, I am typing this out on my iPhone which does not have a SIM inside a Starbucks. A hip & happening one, not like the one at my train station.

What is up with people being young and cool and happy and beautiful and hanging out and happy and talking and laughing and no children in sight and happy…

Anyway, I seem to be the only person here alone and typing on my iPhone AND Blackberry. Trying to compose a blog entry. Struggling with tiny letters and resulting typos. Wishing I had a book with me.

So it all started from La Bamba downtown which has the burritos as big as your head. It’s true: it’s their tag line. I went there for lunch today. This was a restaurant that my husband and I loved when we were still at school. There was one on campus. We didn’t know it’s a chain… Till recently. So I went to the La Bamba downtown for lunch and was very excited. They have their 20 year anniversary bobblehead “doll” for sale. Ok, it’s not a doll. It’s the Burrito Man. I thought,

“Wow. That would be cool for Father’s Day!”

My co-worker who usually thinks I am a crazy ass spaz actually agreed this time.

“I would think it’s cool shit if someone gives me that for Father’s Day!”

As Murphy’s Law would have it, because I had set up my mind to give it to husb tonight, can’t wait for another week, I forgot it as I was rushing for the train home. I made the split second decision to go back to the office to get Burrito Man and take a later train…

When I finally got off the train and got to my car, it’s already 6:15, and daycare closes at 6:30. I called husb just in case he had got the boy. I know a phone call from me that close to “deadline” is going to put him on alert and defense, so I softened my approach,

“Hi, I was just calling IN CASE you have got CHILD…”

“No.” Brusquely. “You are supposed to get him.” and then,

“B-y-e.” like he couldn’t be bothered with.

My temper flared, after my softened approach backfired. Before I hung up, “You are an asshole!” I yelled into the phone…

How do we learn Hip Lingo if we don’t watch TV, OR What you don’t know won’t hurt you

6 yo offered to make me a “pocket” with paper.

“Is it ok if I use pink paper for you?”

“Pink will be great! If you use pink it would be HUGE!” Channeling my inner Paris Hilton for a second over there.

Puzzled look. “What do you mean it will be Huge?”

“Uh. I meant it would be awesome…”

Relieved look. “Oh. Great. I thought you meant the pocket would become Really Big if I use pink…”

.

Bonus Round: My son, the Statistician…

“Mom, I think you will be the first in the family to die.”

“Why?”

“Because you are the oldest. So there will be a 100% chance you will be the first to die, and 90% chance for daddy to be the first to die, and 0% chance for me to be the first to die.”

.

Bonus Round II: Learning human anatomy…

Overheard 6 year-old to 11 year-old:

“Do you know your wiener is not your guts? Your guts are here” (pointing to his tummy)

Are we really at odds with each other?

This is an age-old debate and for sure I am opening an ancient can of worms. And for some, this is probably opening up some disappearing scabs from long-since-forgotten battle wounds as well…

But I don’t know why something this trivial bothers me. It leaves my working-mother-core shaking. It makes me question myself whether my being a working mother is truly ruining my children’s childhood.

Guilt is a bitch.

It all started when my 11 yo was invited to a friend’s house for a “playdate”.

(They are probably too old to have something called “Playdate”… For lack of a universally understandable term to describe an event when a child goes to another child’s house, usually against the latter child’s mother’s quiet wish while granting the mother of the former child, if she otherwise stays home with the child, some much needed respite, I will use this term for now).

… and the earliest train I can take does not allow me to be there in time to pick him up at the said end of playdate.

The problem with being a working mom with regarding to playdates is that: it is next to impossible for me to reciprocate. And I do feel guilty about it. I do. And I let the mothers who are kind enough to invite my non-reciprocating child to their houses know how much I appreciate it, and how guilty I feel.

You know that I work, DOWNTOWN. My kids go to a childcare facility. I am sorry. I cannot come home during lunch hour to do that. I cannot take off from work just so I can drop off my child at your house to play with your child.

I did that once already: I took a day off from work once just so I could drive my kid, in less than 5 minutes, from the daycare to your house. I know I should not expect you to offer to pick up my kids from where he is and bring him to your house. You do not owe me that. And I am totally sounding like an ungrateful bitch to some, if there is anyone out there reading this, actually.

I contemplated hiring and PAYING someone to drive that 5-minute stretch so he can have the playdate with your child. I did. Would you be terribly insulted if I asked to pay you? You would, I guess. I know the point is not the money, or how easy it is. The point is “the principle” right? That we working mothers are so used to being granted all these special treatments and considerations. We should not take it for granted. I should not even be writing about this on my blog right now.

So I guess our children will never have playdates again.

It is a shame. They apparently played quite well together and that’s why you invited him back. Thank you. And sorry that we had to cancel the playdate scheduled for today.

p.s. The irony with this whole crazy shit incident is that I am so shaken with guilt, doubt and undeserved self-righteousness that I may as well go home early. Calling in sick.

My apology to Kathleen Parker. Frank Gaffney is way crazier…

Now I feel bad for lambasting Kathleen Parker for hinting at a tenuous relationship between Obama and Osama because of the rhyming last names.

(This reminds me: is it now a good time to resurrect the old Internet sensation the Llama Song?)

I was alerted to an article by Frank Gaffney, “America’s first Muslim president?” Turns out Ms. Parker’s criticism is quite reasonable compared to Mr. Gaffney’s read of Obama’s Cairo speech.

Is he for real? It’s got to be a parody. Simply too good to be true. But it is. I. Don’t. Know. What. To. Say.

Read it for yourself.

Wow.

Highlights of “arguments” made by Gaffney:

With Mr. Obama’s unbelievably ballyhooed address in Cairo Thursday to what he calls “the Muslim world” (hereafter known as “the Speech”), there is mounting evidence that the president not only identifies with Muslims, but actually may still be one himself. Consider the following indicators:

• Mr. Obama referred four times in his speech to “the Holy Koran.” Non-Muslims — even pandering ones — generally don’t use that Islamic formulation.

• Mr. Obama established his firsthand knowledge of Islam (albeit without mentioning his reported upbringing in the faith) with the statement, “I have known Islam on three continents before coming to the region where it was first revealed.” Again, “revealed” is a depiction Muslims use to reflect their conviction that the Koran is the word of God, as dictated to Muhammad.

• Then the president made a statement no believing Christian — certainly not one versed, as he professes to be, in the ways of Islam — would ever make. In the context of what he euphemistically called the “situation between Israelis, Palestinians and Arabs,” Mr. Obama said he looked forward to the day “. . . when Jerusalem is a secure and lasting home for Jews and Christians and Muslims, and a place for all of the children of Abraham to mingle peacefully together as in the story of Isra, when Moses, Jesus and Muhammad (peace be upon them) joined in prayer.”

Now, the term “peace be upon them” is invoked by Muslims as a way of blessing deceased holy men. According to Islam, that is what all three were – dead prophets. Of course, for Christians, Jesus is the living and immortal Son of God.

In the final analysis, it may be beside the point whether Mr. Obama actually is a Muslim. In the Speech and elsewhere, he has aligned himself with adherents to what authoritative Islam calls Shariah — notably, the dangerous global movement known as the Muslim Brotherhood — to a degree that makes Mr. Clinton’s fabled affinity for blacks pale by comparison.

Gaffney would have made a huge contribution if he were part of the McCarthy Red Scare investigation team. Just sayin’

Tis a low ball to insinuate anything via someone’s family name…

Kathleen Parker of the Washington Post Writers Group commented (criticized, no need for euphemism on my own blog) on Obama’s latest speech to the Muslim world at the Cairo University on June 4.

Granted that most of Ms. Parker’s columns leave me fuming, I have learned to agree to disagree with her and her fans. There is no arguing in politics and religions. That’s why when people get together, they watch sports. (Or so I assume. We don’t watch sports in our house, and therefore we are not popular on our block… Oh, that and the fact I have an Obama sticker on my car…)

I can see her point in “Obama’s Muslim campaign“: that Obama in his speech to the Muslims quoted too many lines from the Qur’an and criticized the errors in the U.S. history just a tad too much to make audience back at home squirm uncomfortably. But here is the sentence that really got my attention, not in a positive way:

“To delegitimize the man whose name rhymes with his, Obama had only to show up and not be George W. Bush.”

1. Yes, I tend to obsess over one tree and ignore the forest. I get to do this in my personal life. So there.

2. I am not about to defend W.

What I have an issue with is this insinuation of a relation between Obama and Osama, “the man whose name rhymes with his.”

Come on! Give me a break!

We are guilty by association of family names now? Great! Remember during World War II when all the Japanese Americans were rounded up and sent to the concentration camps? (Oh, I am sorry, RELOCATION CAMPS they were called), many non-Japanese Asians in the U.S. hastily proclaimed their non-Japanese-sounding surnames for fear of guilt by association of family names. So we are going back to that now?

Here is my advice for all the non-mainstream citizens in this multicultural only in theory society, name your kid Brandon and Emily, and if you can, change your name to something less foreign sounding. For the sake of your children, in case they run for important public office one day.

Although the definition of “Foreign” is arguably faulty here. Basically anything that does not invoke a Western heritage…

My mommy cooks. My mommy cleans. My mommy loves me.

 

 

It is almost a month since Mother’s Day and therefore I figure it is safe to ruminate out loud what I thought when I saw these loving and lovable pictures drawn by my 6 year old, with lots of love, without the risk of being accused as mean-spirited, bitter, spoiled, jaded, or worse, unfit-to-be-a-mother…

Turned out that my 6 year-old was more excited about Mother’s Day than I was. The weeks leading to Mother’s Day they had made so many arts and crafts projects at school to celebrate this day, and he was instructed to keep all these projects a secret until THE day so he could surprise me. Bless his heart. I am surprised that he did not burst from all the secrecy, and the trouble of keeping a secret from your mother when you are only 6 years old.

We had gone to the store in April when he decided that he needed to get me a Mother’s Day present. He was rather upset since he couldn’t figure out a way of getting anything without my knowing it.

He burst into tears when I saw the bag of chocolate he’s holding.

“You are not supposed to see this.”

“What? I don’t know what you’re talking about…”

“This! This is your Mother’s Day present. Now Mother’s Day is ruined! And it is all YOUR fault!”

“Honey. How about this? Mommy will pay for it and then you can hide it and I promise I will forget about it.”

“No, it won’t work!”

It took me an hour to calm him down, to convince him that yes indeed, I would erase the memory of this exchange from my brain.

When he proudly presented me with the book that he made at school, a book comprised of “Things my mommy does, and therefore I love my mommy” vignettes, I was really moved. Really, I was. He was beaming with pride, and naturally, I was beaming with pride too.

But later, it did give me pause to think my role as a mother. How I see myself and how I am perceived by my children, others, the world.

1. After 20+ years of education, this is what I am boiled down to: cooking and cleaning.

2. My job sucks, at least in my child’s eyes. If I were a hod dog vendor, or a street musician, it would probably be easier for him to draw “What my mommy does at work.” Truth be told, and in all fairness, he has attempted many times to understand what I do at work.

“So you work on the computer… But what do you MAKE?”

A conversation with him about my job always results in days of self-doubt in me…

3. Perhaps in all fairness, cleaning and cooking could be what he sees me do all the time. Is it telling that he did not draw “My mommy does the laundry” since our floor is constantly covered with laundered clothes transported straight from the dryer? And bless his heart that he considers grilled cheese and mac&cheese straight from a box cooking. I guess it is true that what you don’t know will not hurt you…

4. On the other hand, what if this is his ideal of a mother? A mom that cooks and cleans, while wearing an apron with a BIG smile on her face. So happy. So content. Perhaps this is a mother that he yearns for and not the harried, reluctant one he’s stuck with? Staring at the big smile in these drawings, I somehow feel ashamed. Guilty.

5. This is the conclusion I am most reluctant to draw; it took me a whole month to admit to myself: Maybe, just maybe, I am not spending enough quality time with my children. None of the pictures showed me doing things with him.

If I had made more efforts in doing arts and crafts, if I were more willing in playing Go Fish, if I had offered to go to the zoos, the parks, the playgrounds more often, if I had said, “Let’s go fly a kite” out of nowhere.

If. Perhaps he would have something other than cooking and cleaning to draw with.

I’ve never got kicked in the head. Is it me? No. It’s you.

This morning my youngest was sent to his room for a timeout because he kicked daddy in the head.  Upon further investigation, and actually I witnessed the entire episode, I am not quite sure he deserved the punishment.  
 
What would a normal healthy human being do when they are being tickled on the feet?  
 
They kick.
 
What would happen if you are the one administer the tickling with your head bent towards the said feet?
 
Your head will be in the path of the kicking feet.  
 
It is simple physics. 
 
This incident makes me ponder why, compared to my spouse, I am seldom "hurt" by the children. 
 
It is true I do not roughhouse with the kids.  It's a daddy thing.  I tend to get the crying, hungry, wounded, tired, cranky, punished kids, whereas my husband gets the happy, tussling ones.  That's why I tend to get the crying, hungry, wounded, tired, cranky, punished kids.  Tis a vicious cycle. I am seeing a pattern now. 
 
It is also true that I realize everybody's limits and I stop as soon as I see that the kids are being whipped into a frenzy, and if you continue to sit on them, for instance, their survival instinct would kick in and they would use all the little strength they have to fight back, and you get hurt. 
 
AND, let it be known, TICKLING IS BULLYING.  If someone is laughing against their will, then they are NOT having fun. 
 
Yes. I am the FUN KILLER.  But, let it also be known, I have never been kicked in the head by my kids.