Mothers and other strangers...

I realize that I have not maintained the best track record of blogging. Hell, I'm utterly convinced that any attempts to reach out to my adoring public might be met with nothingness. I might as well jot this all down in a diary instead of divulging to the silence of the internet. I predict an audience of crickets may be responding.

I haven't had the time, constitution, head, heart or soul to emote on my failures or shortcomings in parenting. I lack pathos, ethos and whatever other kind of "os" it takes to make a good go of blogging. Forgive me blogger, for I have sinned.

I can attest that I haven't been sitting on my hands since last July. As a rundown of extreme events, I survived one and a half soccer seasons, a somewhat failed attempt at T-Ball, an adenoidectomy, an episode of head staples, a trip to Disney World, a busted well, approximately 60-someodd inches of snowfall, and my job, oh did I mention my job, which seems to have dominated all things and has made me feel like both a success and a failure at times. For all the extra time I had in 2007 that led me to start blogging, I've gone far to the other side. And not to take any air out of blogging, but facebook is easier, faster, and requires a hell of a lot less soul bearing. I appreciate it for giving me the ability to zing with a one liner and then run like a bat out of hell with little explanation or follow through. It's my cyber hit-and-run.

I am the mother of a 4 year old now and Captain Kid has grown to a larger than life version of the baby he once was. I look at some of my earlier posts and realize that I probably could have written what was to come. In so many ways it's easier. Yet if I were to write what a 12 year old Captain would look like I'm sure I'd come back to read it with little to no surprise.

There's a full realization that being a mother is like an exercise in bipolar disorder. You realize just how low the lows can be, but the highs are euphoric. And if I had one wish, it would be to feel less rushed. It would be to take more time and give more time. More time for mothering. More time for Dog. More time for the Dad. More time for me. I look at others with envy of their time and organization and wish I could make my home and garden as beautiful and as finished looking. I see well behaved children who aren't throwing their baseball gloves in the air while dancing around the outfield. I see close friends and couples taking the time and money to get babysitters and commit to date nights. How on earth did I get so tied up?

Time. I just can't hack it, can't find it, can't make it. Even as I sit here typing I'm engaged in an extremely deep conversation about which water system to put on my house to remove all the damn iron from the water, while the Captain hands me cups of imaginary hot chocolate to drink, all the while the dog starring woefully and the clock ticking away for a child's birthday party followed by a soccer match and a spreadsheet to update for my boss for a big Monday meeting. Unique problem? No. My problem? Always.

I somehow took a left turn while blogging because I had a whole pet peeve to get off my ample chest about Mommy Wars, but I guess it will have to keep for another day. I'd finish it now, but I just have no time.

Sucker Mom, Redux.

Minor update to dilemmas of yesterday. There is in fact a Saturday soccer program for the Captain's age group. It is also, in fact, a good 25 minutes from my house. All of which leads to the next big question...

Do I want to enroll him in soccer so badly that I'm willing to forego my sleep-in morning for a solid 2 months?

I'm a really shitty soccer mom.

Sucker Mom

We all know that as moms go, I have never per se fit the mold of what a good mother should be. As past posts and ramblings have proven, stepping out in a world of playdates and over-scheduled parenting have not been my strong suit. I frankly have to work pretty damn hard to keep up.

Every once in a while, even this Mediocre Mama can't push back on what is so painfully in my face. It occurs to me that the Captain can only successfully maintain friendships with people over the age of 16. And that when I watch his only interaction with other 4 year olds amounting to him stealing a ball from another child on the playground, just to run away with it and play by himself, that it might be a cry for help. The desire to fit in, or more importantly have him fit in, somehow overcomes me. I succumb to the pressures; I decide it's time to transform into what would otherwise be the Bizarro Mama - I become Soccer Mom.

Yep, that's me. Able to drive a small sized SUV and juggle my job, over-scheduled kids, and still have dinner on the table by 7. What's more, I can singlehandedly shuttle the Captain between gymnastics, tennis and swim practice, all within the course of an afternoon. You'll never see me sweat. And I've got a bladder the size of a canyon, so I never need to take care of myself. Ha cha cha.

Frankly, save for the small sized SUV, I do absolutely none of the items in the aforementioned paragraph. So when inspiration hit me yesterday I felt desperately on a mission to enroll the Captain in soccer for the fall. Truth be told, I am not a sporty girl. And unless it involves a large vessel floating on the water the Dad isn't much better. So unless one of us steps up to the plate, this kid is doomed to be as spastic as we are, and worse yet no more social than he already is.

So after 2 days of searching, I finally found a local area soccer club for 3-4 year olds. Delighted, I began to log in and fill out the registration. This thing is 25 minutes from my house, but I didn't give a shit. I'm a soccer mom so get out of my way, bitch. I'll drive anywhere I need to go. And as I pulled out my credit card, I thought to read the fine print:

September 8 - October 13, Tuesdays 11-12, 1-2 or 2-3.

TUESDAY!!! Who the fuck can take their 3 year old on a Tuesday? Does no one work in this town? Or are they all such awesome parents that they say, screw it, I'll just put in for PTO on Tuesdays from 11-12.

And so dear friends and faithful readers (all 5 of you), this Soccer Mom is going back to her Mediocre Mama post. No soccer for you, Captain Kid. Methinks I'll go back to doing what I do best...

Where did I go?

In a nutshell, I went to work. And I kept working. And I worked nights. And I worked weekends. And the Lord said, you shall work for 40 days and 40 nights, and at the end of such forty nights, Moses said, you shall suffer in the desert for 40 years, with a child in need of a tonsillectomy and a husband in need of a job. And so I went to the Seder and drank with Elijah and forgot my cares in a glass of Baron Herzog (Kosher for Pesach).

Alright, minus the desert part, it soooo all happened that way. After a massive blitz at my office with little end in sight to the work (thank goodness), and a chronically sick Captain Kid who is seemingly en route to the operating room, my family became a national statistic with a 30 days notice along with a bunch of other people from his office. Such are the times we live in. And so my family goes. And so this Mediocre Mama shifts to breadwinner, if only for a little while.

And so began my first week of brown-bagging my lunches and contemplating consignment sales and hand-me-downs. Maybe it's all for the best. In this wasteful society, I have been heartened by the trend of reusing and recycling. Let's face it, how far behind is the trend of regifting so I can get rid of some of that ugly crap I registered for when I got married a mere 8 years ago? It's all in vogue and I am embracing it, along with my new status and all the uncertainty that lies ahead.

So begins the next phase of this journey of family and motherhood. Less than 2 years ago it was I who pondered my future and the things that lie ahead. Now it's someone else's turn.

And so it goes, and so it goes...

And the least that I can do? Blog it.

Mediocre Marketing

I'm always both impressed and horrified when I find a medium to out-mediocre me. Which is why I was in bliss today when I went shopping at our new local market. Now I resisted those kiddie car shopping carts for a long long time, fearing the tantrum that would ensue should none be available. But on one fabulous trip to market, a grandparent who shall remain nameless went the easy path and so the Captain's days of cruising around in one of these bad boys began:

And so too did my laziness begin. If I am to tell the truth, these things have zero steering. And I'm not going to pretend that I've never knocked over a display or two trying to maneuver one of these puppies. But what's a mediocre mama to do? If it helps keep the hostility out of my shopping experience then I'll play ball. And so it came to pass, baby you can drive my car. No harm done, though probably a nasty cold picked up or passed in these horrible germ mobiles.

BUT...

Then some supermarket that shall remain named (Safeway) decided to take shitty parenting to a new level. So behold, now with on-demand:








Yes, for less than the price of a cup of coffee, you too can entertain your child with Thomas, Bob or Barney as you idle about, impulse shopping and viewing lovely advertisements from your video console. And boy did we ever, dropping nearly $200 in one shot. Whoever thought it up is both genius and devil, as it seems they are usually one and the same. Yep, this mediocre mama fell victim once again. Between that and the free sample stations, I'm contemplating just moving in.

Riddle of the sphinx

I was always one of these skeptics who thought Freud spent a little too much time with a bottle in his hand and had one too many trips to the opium den. Beyond a drug induced frenzy, it seemed a little implausible that the average 3 year old boy would want to kill his father and marry his mother. But after a recent growing infatuation, lets just say that we are hiding the sharp objects and locking the door at night.

To call it textbook would be...well...spot on. At bedtime the Captain says that the Deviant Dad gives a bad kiss; the Mediocre Mama gives a good kiss. Of late he's pitted us against each other more times then I care to admit to. And then there's the exhausting list of daily activities that cause fits and meltdowns if Dad does it instead of Mom. Like turning the light on in the bathroom, cutting up his food, or working a simple toy - no matter the task, it's "No, Mommy can do it."

The reality is that it puts me in a perplexing and delicate situation. Not wanting to trample over the Dad, but loving the affection. Not wanting the responsibility of handling all the daily little tasks, but not caring much for the meltdowns either. And then there are the war cries that pit us against each other, from "You're my best friend, Mommy" to "I don't wike, Daddy." And I know exactly how we got here.

My back surgery was exactly 11 months ago as of next weekend. And to date I still can't lift the little bugger and I still don't throw myself into the lion's den when offering up a physical punishment. When he's misbehaving, I have to call to the Dad to take care of it. Nothing I do can be handled with my body, and so my parenting tool is my voice. Is it any wonder that the Dad gained the reputation as the disciplinarian in my house? And I'm sure, being the Deviant that he is, he never envisioned that he'd have to play the bad-cop parent; in his head he's not only the good-cop, he's still the misbehaving child himself.

I know it's frustrating to the Dad and creates some difficult tension, but at the same time I actually think it's made me less of a Mediocre Mama, despite my usual pride in the contrary. Ever since the Kid was 2, I have had him climbing into my SUV, getting into his car seat by himself and handling any physical tasks on his own. And since I couldn't afford to have a kid thrashing about or lying in the middle of the street in protest, I had to learn to use my words more carefully. I had to make him want to do things the right way. And now, I'm his woman. As his teachers recently observed, there's a real love affair going on here. To sum it up, he's smitten.

I know this phase won't last forever. And I walk the line between head in my hands or head-over-heels myself. I just wish it hadn't set up such a twisted love triangle in the process.

To new moms.

A girlfriend poked me on facebook today and asked the burning question that all new mother's to-be ask. Daunted and perplexed as they walk into the baby shop, it's always the same - "what in the hell do I register for?"

I'll never forget my first trip into that dark place. I invited my mother and sister to town, already mother's themselves, to guide me through this dark maze. All the "must haves" and "essentials," the cart filled as my brain emptied. And $200+ later, I was clearly prepared to take on the thing that knew nothing, the little monster who'd never seen a diaper, a diaper bag, a baby swing or a bouncy chair. I was prepared because I had stuff. And stuff prepares you for any emergency. Ha cha cha, you're a mom and you have tons of shit! It's all you, girl. You're locked and loaded.

And then it comes. And you go a little crazy. And you realize the stuff isn't helping. The stuff isn't stopping the crying. The stuff doesn't protect the shit from leaking out the diaper. The stuff doesn't magically put the little bugger to bed. Even worse, you've got so much stuff that as you're sleepily stumbling your way to find the little monster in the wee hours of the morning you trip over the stuff, which you clumsily dropped on your way back to bed. The stuff is your enemy. The stuff doesn't work. You worshipped the golden calf and now, like the ten commandments thrown in your face, it hits you that you're on your own to figure it out.

When it comes to new babies, someone else's stuff is meaningless

"Buy a pump, get the expensive one, you won't regret..."

The Captain didn't make it 4 days on the breast and that very expensive pump spent the next 5 weeks attached to my very sore breast, only to be cast aside.

"Swaddling works like a charm, it will settle him right down. You must get a swaddler..."

The Captain was miserable when swaddled and the only thing that got him to sleep was when he wasn't snug as a bug.

The list goes on. And I'm not saying' it's all useless advice, it's just that none of it prepares you for anything and the investments you'll make, looking for that golden nugget, that miracle that will shut your baby the hell up...it only exists in hindsight.

And so what's MY list of musts? The Mediocre Mama's golden nugget? I could lead new mother's down my own path of comforts and enumerate the things that worked for the Captain, but if my tips work as well as some of the advice I received when expecting, then I'd sooner hold my tongue. Therefore, I guess all I can offer is the practical and not the cure:

Bibs, and lots of them.

"Looks like we made it..."

Yes, I'm here, I'm queer and I'm blogging. Alright, perhaps not the middle section, but I am for sure feeling quite gay at the moment. Why, you ask? What makes a mediocre mama so chipper at 10:00 on on Friday night? Well (a) the wine, (b) it's Friday night after a long-ass couple of weeks, and (c) the Captain Kid has completed stint with the hellacious babysitter. Yes friends, he's done, I'm done, and from hereon in it's a full day (8:25-6:00) at one school.

Let the good times roll...

But before normal life begins, a little interlude. On Tuesday the Dad drives the Kid up to Grandparent Land and I meet up with the Dad on Wednesday night, kid-free, work-free, ready to play, ready to sleep. Quite a treat for the mediocre mama. Especially seeing as how I'm still negative on personal time off, still trying to fill the hole from my little back surgery stint.

Calgon, take me away...

Ah, bugger.

There's nothing like being called out by a long time reader, first time caller on your blogging or lack thereof. My brain has not yet begun to synthesize all the reasons why I haven't been posting. I wish I could confess to one overriding reason. But I can't. The truth is it's just things, many things, that are clouding my writing, my vision and my mediocrity.

I think in great part it's that my working-mom self of now and my stay-at-home-mom self of last year are simply incompatible. Last year I spent a great deal of my time observing and absorbing. Right now I spend my time doing and taking in little. I have no fewer than 4 partially drafted posts that just never made it to the blog from the last few months. I started and then scratched them, deeming them to be un-blogworthy. It's not that they weren't subjects of interest, I just couldn't craft my way around the heart of them. No kidding, though, it was some funny shit.

It must all mean that things are going well for me professionally. Or perhaps it means that I'm screwing up this parenting thing less and less. Even, dare I say, perhaps some of my cynicism has softened since I was put in medical peril back in December.

All in all, my new found successes are making me far too competent at life and far less competent at creativity. My failed attempts at writing remind me of the old poem. I don't know who penned it originally, but it goes a little something like this:

Here I sit broken hearted, tried to shit but only farted.

Sigh. I'll try to do better.

Blogophobic.

I seem to have developed a bizarre and inexplicable fear of my blog. I have some theories going as to why this is the case, mostly I'm thinking it's similar to someone who avoids going to their shrink for fear of opening a can of worms.

We've been pretty lucky with the Captain over the last month. The potty training sorted (though still problems with the crazy nanny on this front, blog for another date), he's been invited to participate in the next level at school, despite earlier fears, and his speech is coming along smashingly (earlier today he asked if I could do him a favor and when I asked what favor he would like he responded, "Um, purple."). So all that being said, why fear the blog?

I think I'm on such overload between physical therapy and work and healing (or lack thereof) that I just don't know where to start when I get here. It's hard to detail all your mediocrity when your day is oozing over with it. Perhaps if you take time to address it you have to do something to fix it. Hmm. It hasn't stopped me before.

Maybe it's that I was a shut in for so long that I don't want to bog myself down with emoting my every hilarious move of my life. Although that hasn't stopped me from spending way too much time on facebook so I dispose of this theory as well.

I don't know why I stare blankly at it. Maybe it's that fucking muse who checked out on me again. But all things considered, I'd ask you to hang in there with me. I sort of feel like I'm getting going on a diet (which is why I'm blogging this bullshit right now). Sometimes you just need to start doing it, whether it's good or not, until it becomes routine again. So forgive this boring entry. I'm working on it.

Mediocre Blogger

Yep, busted. By all accounts I should have been blogging every day of my 6 week recovery. But really, there are so many blogs out there detailing the minutia of "Project Runway," I figured my readers didn't need another.

I also didn't think my bout with stomach flu was worth rehashing. Nor was my sinus infection and irritating cough. In short, my 6th week of recovery was as much about getting worse as it was about recovering. By the time I returned to work last week I was worse than I'd been the week before. Fortunately this week is better than last week, physical therapy is starting next week, and my most recent discovery, I once again have sensation in my toes. That's about the best that can be said for the highlights of these past 8 weeks.

The Deviant Dad and I were marveling tonight that there's very little that we aren't mediocre at right now. Here are a few highlights of our recent mediocrity:

• Last weekend, the Deviant Dad hit another car while backing out of the driveway...my car;
• Between doctor's runs for me, taking care of Captain Kid's school and daycare drop offs, 2 stomach flu's and a double ear infection, neither of us feels we're doing a particularly good job at our careers;
• The house is a mess;
• The dog is ignored;
• We've still only managed to rake up about half the autumn leaves;
• We are stuck on renovation projects all over the house because I can't be responsible for watching the Captain whilst the Dad tears apart the house; and, the really big kicker...
• Today we were called in to the principal's office to discuss the Captain Kid's "behavior issues."

About the most that can be said for our lives right now is that we're keeping our heads above water. And of course being called in to the principal's office was just a lowlight in a distinct period of lowlights. It turns out that being called to the principal's office is as demoralizing when you're 32 as when you were a kid. Then again, I was NEVER sent to the principal's office as a kid. That's the Captain's OTHER genetic legacy.

I just feel like I want to commit myself to doing something really really well but I don't know where to begin. It's obviously not parenting. It's not my dieting. It's not my health or my job. And it for sure as shit isn't this blog. I'm searching for my Muse. If you've seen that crazy bitch, please tell her where I live.

Business casual.

Tomorrow a good friend is driving me to my office to play a little catch-up and bring some work home that I can do horizontally (no, not that kind of work, I don't think I'll be doing that kind of horizontal work for some time). I'm a consultant and the work environment is fairly casual, but not so casual that I can wear the drawstring sweats I've been living in for the last month. I can wear nice jeans to work, but my doctor reprimanded me for wearing them when last I saw him; my incision is exactly at waistband level.

So until I'm all healed I'm somewhat at a loss for what to do with my wardrobe. Apparently, they do not make drawstring business casual slacks or jeans. And as for wearing a skirt...well, with the Deviant Dad as my designated leg shaver let's just say I'm not eager to show off my legs (not to mention the big orthopedic shoes I'm sporting these days). So all of this has led me to the dark place. Yes, I'm hitting the maternity clothes.

There is something vaguely demoralizing about throwing maternity clothes back on again. I remember about 4 weeks after I had the Captain I pulled out my most comfy maternity t-shirt, contemplated putting it on, and had to say enough is enough. But this back surgery has led me into fashion depths that I have not previously known. Even when I was pregnant I was wearing shoes that were somewhat uncomfortable and likely inappropriate. I have walked miles in heels (probably how I got myself in this mess to begin with) and worn wool in the spring. Yes, my fashion owns me and I love it.

At the moment, however, my options are few. I concede that I don't want to invest in a pair of pants for the sole purpose of waiting for my incision to close up. Of course I worry, too, that by just throwing on maternity clothes I'm tempting myself down the dark path once again. I have too many friends that are pregnant or trying to conceive for me to take just a nibble without desiring the entire cake. Let's just say it's a good thing I'll be laid up for so long. And in all likelihood any temptation will be quashed by a few more bad episodes with the Captain. At least for the time being.

Happy Poo Year.

I somehow turned around and the clock turned to 2008. The many weeks I've spent convalescing gave me loads of time to reflect on 2007, flip through my old blogs, and watch full seasons of "Project Runway" and "The Biggest Loser" (thank you Bravo TV and the Writer's Strike).

I started this blog back in April, when the Deviant Dad was working 30-40 days straight, during a period of boredom, loneliness and a general feeling that motherhood had gotten the best of me. Ironically I've ended 2007 during a period of boredom, loneliness and probably some of the best mediocre mothering I've ever performed. Back in April I punctuated long days of boredom with the Captain with trips to the park, walks to the market, some trolling for lousy babysitters, and an occasional trip to the chiropractor. Now I just watch, let him come to me, and try to stay awake to pay attention to him between the pain and percocet, which I've charmingly begun to refer to as my Pez (frankly, I would fill a Pez dispenser with percocet if only I could find one with Britney's head on top).

For the first few weeks of my recovery the Captain was just great. But after several weeks of having surrogate parents around, no school, and a very overextended Dad (playing the role of caretaker, chauffeur, father, mother and breadwinner), I fear at times he's had enough of me (yes, both the Captain and the Dad). I can't say as I blame him; last week was the breaking point when he entertained himself by dumping milk on my coat and jumping up and down on my bad leg as I lay on the sofa. Throw on top of that the 8 days of Hanukkah, a Christmas Day Celebration, grandparents and family in town spoiling him with toys and affection, and his Mediocre Mama spoiling him with TV and meals in the family room, he for sure hit the height of bad-ass toddler behavior. In happier news he's spending time on the potty these days and speaking in full sentences. But I can't help but worry about some of his other behavior issues that have cropped up from all this mediocre mothering and how they will play out when he goes back to school; Teacher is not going to tolerate this bullshit with hitting and pushing.

As for me, it's just all been so...isolating. I missed every holiday party this season and spent both New Years and Christmas curled up on a friend's sofa. I've been out of work for a month and with all my doping it's been kind of hard to focus on anything more substantial than a magazine. I walk with a limp, cannot bend or lift, have numbness all over my foot and terrible nerve pain in my leg, and lets just say I've got some junk in the trunk from sedentary living and comfort eating. Add to that some grim facts, such as the fact that I've burned through all my vacation time for the next year and that I just don't know when the pain will subside, going into 2008 doesn't give me that "starting anew" feeling that one hopes for come January 1. This January 1st is starting off with a lot of baggage.

As I enter 2008, the only resolution I can make is to get well because it's the only thing in my sight. As for the rest of the year ahead? My Magic 8 ball is pointing to "Outlook hazy. Ask again later."

Back in the saddle again.

Sort of.

Surgery was Monday and I'm making progress. Don't have much of a brain to post this (I'm sorry, the drug dispensing gods stole my brain) but I did want to make it clear that I came through alright and that I am walking again. It's going to be a fun road to recovery, but I am improving and, most importantly, I have taken a shower. And for that the entire State of Maryland is grateful.

Happy Holidays.

Baby got back.

Without going into the horrible details, I am playing patient at the moment and am practicing the height of mediocre mothering. My back is out. Beyond out. It started 2 weeks ago and will hopefully end tomorrow morning when I'm admitted for surgery. I can't walk. I can barely type this e-mail at the moment, what with the heavy drugs and all. I've got family in and my current "quality time" with Captain Kid involves throwing Playhouse Disney on TV and vegging out in bed with him. I'm about to have 6 weeks of recovery ahead of me and I don't even want to talk about work.

You know what they say, when life throws you lemons, make gin and tonic with a twist. But for right now the only drinking I'm doing is accompanied by a couple of little pills on the side. I'll update more after surgery, but for now...the doctor is out.

Private parts.

I've never been very squeamish when it comes to horror films. I'll admit it, I do get a certain delight to watch a Zombie munch on the living in any and all "Night of the Living Dead" films and for sure, I dig the pea soup scene in "The Exorcist."

It's real life that gores me out. Which is why it was a bit of a shocker this morning when my friend, I'll call him "Bobert," e-mailed me photos of his newborn...and the placenta...and the detached umbilical cord. Actually, to be fair, the placenta was jiggling around in a bowl like jello and the umbilical cord was laid out on a tray, vaguely reminiscent of my 7th grade worm dissection project. I shrieked, just as I did in the 7th grade, and closed the photos.

Am I such a pansy that I can't take that before drinking my coffee?

When I was giving birth I was delighted that I had a big belly blocking the view. After the first push the doctor asked me if I'd like a mirror so that I could see.

No. I'm good.

After the third push when the head was coming out she asked if I'd like to reach down and feel it.

No. I'm good.

In fact, if I had my druthers NO ONE would have seen that. I, in fact, have marveled with a girlfriend that our husband's actually want to "go there" now that they've seen that. I suppose I feel lucky that the Dad's still interested after seeing my bits and pieces in such a state. Especially after his squeamish reaction when they asked if he'd like to cut the cord:

Ummm. Cutting is for doctors.

Of course, some readers may think I'm a bit prudish and that it's all natural, animals eat their baby's placenta, in some cultures humans eat the placenta, blah blah blah. Alright. I'll give you that. But it taint my thang.

But if it's your thang, maybe this link will satisfy your appetite. For your entertainment, Tom Cruise' Placenta Eating Guide...

The Story of Vodka.

Ah, yes, kids do say the darnedest things. Which is why the Deviant Dad and I went cross eyed the other day when Captain Kid delightfully requested "Vodka Singing, pease!" It quickly dawned on us he was requesting "Hanukkah singing." So now we delightfully regale him in rousing choruses of "Oh Hanukkah" or "Oh Vodka," if you will, over and over again.

Hanukkah starts next week and we've been furiously buying small items to delight and disappoint him. But naturally, all he's really interested in is the "kismass ites" that line our street. And so I find myself in new territory. I've been living in this town for nearly 10 years and I have never had to ponder the lessons I might have to teach and the disappointment that may lay ahead. Because in truth I grew up in a very Jewish neighborhood, where Christmas lights we're generally met with indifference or some yente exclaiming, "Oy, how tacky."

But now, with the realization of the Captain being the outsider ahead of us, it brings up the larger question to me of how to infuse religion and culture into his life when the competition has really pretty lights, trees and costumes and, let's face it, much catchier songs. The reality that lies ahead is that learning through peer osmosis will simply not be an option. And then the more harsh responsibilities, like how to broach the subject of Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny, will have to be infused with a degree of diplomacy and tact. .

I'm not going to sugarcoat this thing...Christmas is a load of fun. As probably the only Jew who was at the Vatican on Christmas day last year, I'll admit, yeah, I get a little Christmas spirit. And save last year, we have a long-standing tradition of hanging with the Captain's godparents on Christmas Day and they put on a hell of a show. But I have to ask myself...what's my bottom line? As much as I'd love to say that a fun light-up menorah is just as rockin' as a string of twinkly lights....really, who am I kidding?

Sigh. If only some of these favorite television Hanukkah characters would come along and explain it all to the Kid, life would be a lot easier...

Nannycide.

Many have suspected and, yes, I declare now that it is true...I have dropped off the face of the earth. In a working mother's universe of "something's gotta give" I selected the blog, at least for now. Truly, it was this or sleep and I'd sooner be declared a Mediocre Blogger than a Mediocre Driver when I haul ass an hour back and forth every morning and every afternoon.

As much as I want to curl up under my sofa and not address the Nannycide, a good friend pointed out that I should do it for posterity, lest I decide to forget or block it out. So here goes.

As it turns out, I didn't have Mary Poppins watching my kid, it was more like Mary Shelley. After only one week of service I started to become suspicious. I walked in the door after 6 to find a stack of dishes in the sink and hardly a noticeable trace of activities she engaged in with the Captain. So I did what any suspicious mother would do and checked her internet history. Yes, I felt like the Mom from The Nanny Diaries and was mortified by my own distrust. But naturally it was all well founded. After only one week, she'd decided to use my computer to solicit new jobs, saying that she'd been nannying for a 2 year old but that was about to change. When the Dad got home he used his hacker-like abilities and discovered a string of e-mails she sent in support of her craigslist ads.

Though our first instinct was to call her out and blast her then and there, our more pressing concern was that we had absolutely no replacement for her and we were just stuck. What was worse was that we knew if we confronted her with our findings that we'd have to explain the e-mail sleuthing and then we'd really be up shits creak. We resolved to find someone quickly and quietly so that we could drop her asap.

As it turns out, Frankentrash did us a big favor. She called out sick the next two days, thus throwing up into nanny-hunt overdrive. Long story short, we found an in-home daycare person with all the inconvenience of location you could hope for, but with a long list of references and immediate availability. But it was only Wednesday and we were set, meaning that we could boot her the next day. Now the fun began.

I should back up and mention in all of this that Frankenbitch kept making fake overtures about wanting to engage Captain Kid in a "sensory learning activity plan" and that she would need supplies to start this bad boy up. For sure, there's nothing more amusing than when uneducated stupid people try to use big words to deflect from the fact that they are fucking you over. So I played along. What did she have in mind? What would she need to buy? She even told me of her plans to sit in on the Captain's Montessori class to observe so that she could be better prepared to play with him in a meaningful way.

All the while, the craigslist ads kept going up. Now it's Wednesday and she's advertising for the hours that she watches Captain Kid.

So I did what any savvy internet user would do...I created a fake hotmail account to solicit her services. Not only did I create a whole fake persona I used small words, misspelled words and let's just say that I forgot to capitalize all around.

And not only did she take the bait, she told me of her availability starting November 9th and how she'd just given notice to her current family.

And naturally this is how I discovered when she planned her last day of work. I followed up with another e-mail saying I was interested; could she please send me a list of references, including the current family she nannies for.

So now (and if I haven't lost you yet) this is where the story gets complicated. Simultaneous with sending the fake hotmail e-mails, I contact her through AIM. I ask how she and her poor baby are feeling and she tells me much better. I ask her to please bring back the little riding toy I loaned her so that I could bring it to New York the following weekend. I verified that she was feeling well enough to watch Captain Kid the next day. No mention is made of her giving notice. By all measure, she sounded positively pleased about returning to work.

Suddenly, I notice an e-mail arrives in my inbox from her. She says she's giving her notice, that she has found another position that would work much better for her at this time, and that she has truly enjoyed the time she has spent with Captain Kid (yes, if you were doing the math, 1 week). I promptly log off of AIM, sit down and write the following note:

Hi, Felicia!

Sorry the house isn't cleaner (it was a crazy couple of days without you). If you could load the dishwasher and run the laundry that would be great. Also, we'd like to know what you have in mind for these "sensory games/play" you have in mind. A budget would be great too.

I'm in meetings all afternoon tomorrow, so txt me if you need anything.

-A

PS - Sorry there's no computer today. We packed it up last night to send to Dell for keyboard replacement.

PPS - So Glad everyone is feeling better!

My reasons for the note were threefold.

1. I did not want this little witch knowing that I knew she gave notice. My desire was to make it as uncomfortable as possible when we walked in the door to fire her ass;
2. Since she had an e-mail sitting there from chicchica81@hotmail.com requesting the details of her current employer, my feeling was that I could get a good bit of housework out of her; and most importantly
3. I had to do the hardest thing imaginable the next day and leave Captain Kid in her care. I had no option - we needed to get his car seat back and, more importantly, our key. My feeling was that if she even got a whiff of discontent from me that she could take it out on him. I needed her to think that she had a lot to lose by being a bitch. And that is exactly how it went down...

On Thursday, after she picked him up from school, I called the front office to let them know that she was never to be seen setting foot near my son after this day. His teacher was in on it too. At 5:30 pm that night, Deviant Dad and I met up at a local parking lot so that we could walk in the door together. Our first order of business was to find out how the Captain did that day. Our next order of business was to get our things back and throw her ass out the door. I now offer, unedited, a transcript (or as close to it as my brain can recall):

Deviant Dad - How did he do today?

Felicia Miller - He did fine. Ate pizza, napped for 2 hours. Sorry, but I really have to be running to my next job (EDITORS NOTE - NO, SHE DIDN'T RESIGN TO US AT THIS TIME, EVEN THOUGH SHE BELIEVED WE'D NEVER SEEN HER E-MAIL AS EVIDENCED BY A NOTE SHE SCRATCHED OUT TO US SAYING AS MUCH).

Mediocre Mama - Great, well, we'd like your key back, the name tag to pick him up, the car seat and the riding toy, and we'd like you to never come back again.

FM - Ummm, okay.

MM - Felicia, we're not stupid. We've known what you've been up to since Monday. And the fact that you could even pretend to my face that you were creating some curriculum and planning to go to his school is just incredible.

FM - No wait, I was only just offered a job yesterday.

MM - That's because you've been soliciting jobs from my computer since MONDAY!!!

I ask for the things back and she confesses that she neglected to bring his riding toy. I said, fine, you bought it and deduct $30 out of her two days pay for the week.

DD - The fact that you lasted with us as short a time as you did is just unacceptable.

MM - Felicia, you've got a lot of growing up to do.

The Dad escorts her out to the car, gets our belongings and out she goes, both dazed and/or confused. Nary a craigslist ad has been posted since.

It's hard to say which is the biggest lesson we learned. Clearly, never trust a Sicilian when death is on the line, but we already knew that. Naturally we'll be more careful in the future blah blah blah. But the bottom line is you never know. And the truth is that many nannies shop around new jobs as though they're hopping from Wendy's to McDonald's. I wish I could say that Felicia learned something from us, but the truth is that all she learned is to use a blackberry to solicit jobs instead of your employers computer.

What it did show me is how decidedly non-mediocre I can be when someone tries to fuck with my kid. It also showed me that as much of a cynic as I am, I am decidedly too hopeful and trusting in my belief that others have intentions as good as my own.

I did a lot of babysitting as a teenager and was consistently told after I left that world that they didn't know how good they had it until I left. Maybe in my mind it was hard to believe that another young woman, in particular, a mother, could have intentions that were less than honorable. Or maybe I just thought, hey, she's a mom...she wouldn't fuck over another mom.

So I thank Felicia Miller for teaching me something. She taught me that under the proper circumstances, I too am capable of fucking over another mother.

Captain Kid now has reliable daycare. And though not ideal, it will do. For now, being a working mom is stable and the job is going well. So, with apologies, hopefully I can get back to doing what I do best here. Making myself look like an ass for the entertainment of others. Thanks for hanging in there with me.

When I grow up...

Remember when you were a little kid and they used to ask you what you wanted to be when you were a grown up? Think back...you're small, maybe drawing with some crayons, eating some paste...that's it, you remember. And so all my dreams came true this week. Yes, folks, it's true. I'm going to be a Land Use and Zoning Manager focusing on Wireless Telecom.

Okay okay, not quite as simple as a childhood dream, but it is actually a lawyers dream and an interesting job to boot with many many of the perks that we lawyers like (translation - no billable hours). I'm pretty excited and I start mid-October, which means the drag race to find a nanny begins. And then, of course, the next phase...how to be a Mediocre Working Mama.

This is going to be a major. Not only will this be a serious job with often serious hours, I'm going to be a good 30 miles from home, which means I will be assuming the role of Beta Parent and Deviant Dad will be the Alpha. It is more than for the best, and a much more comfortable lifestyle for sure, but I don't doubt the posts that are to come and the difficult adjustment we are certain to weather. In many ways, it will be harder for me and than it will be for him.

Though I often pick on the hard stuff, I must boast for a moment about the Captain's ability to adapt to any situation that we've thrown him. Maybe it's because we've thrown him so many curve balls (travel, living abroad, school, new homes and beds, different foods) that he's been so capable of dealing with change. Or maybe it's that he's 2 and hasn't quite the attention span or ability to focus on the past like we do. I suppose we'll find out soon.

I know, I shouldn't go sappy with this post because I really do neurotic and self-deprecating much better. But if I said I wouldn't miss him it would be a lie. And if I said I wasn't relieved it would be a lie, too. To be sure, it's all been a journey; the next journey is to find myself again. If you've seen her, please forward her to Mediocremama.blogspot.com. We offer COD but the sender assumes the responsibility for damage.

Cobwebs and dust bunnies.

If you've noticed them on my blog, you wouldn't be alone. I thought I'd be a blogaholic when the Captain went to school, but it turns out not so much. There are many reasons, most of them psychological and all of them having to do with my job search. But the time has come to clear out the tumbleweeds and getting back to what I do best...productive procrastination.

Anyhoo, let me just enlighten my faithful reader(s) as to the recent developments of my life:

1. I interviewed for a great job, was told I was going to be offered it, and still after 4 weeks am being hung out to wait (at this time I suspect I'm waiting to be told it's not going to happen) and that is what I do, like a loser, by the phone, waiting like a girl waiting to be called for a 2nd date;
2. Captain Kid is loving school and keeping his teacher busy. Montessori has given him manners and he now clears the table and throws out trash. They have not yet cured him of his habit of torturing Dog, but he can put together a lovely floral arrangement for her to say he's sorry;
3. Deviant Dad turned 32 yesterday so I can now breath easy for the next 9 months and don't have to listen to his stupid jokes about me being "old;" and
4. The Captain has been through 2 head colds, as have we, and I've been nursing a sinus infection for the last week-and-a-half.

So in the net, not all that much has happened in the last month, yet I don't even know where the time has gone. The Captain turns 2 in just a couple of weeks and we are busily planning his birthday party, to be held at the casa de grandparent in a couple of weeks. And as for me, I'm back to square one on my job hunt, which is depressing the hell out of me, expanding my waist line, and emptying my wallet. I think what kills me most is that I dropped $85 on a pair of victory shoes when I thought I had a job. I'm all dressed up with nowhere to go.

But alas, this is not all why I decided to blog again. I decided to blog because of yet another less than mediocre mama out there that's making me look bad. I refer to This Blog, which details one woman's journey of homemade gourmet lunch boxes. She (a) makes it look easy, (b) makes it look delicious, and (c) made me feel really bad as I let the Captain munch on cheerios and an ego waffle at lunch time. Take your time and look through, but don't do it on an empty stomach.

Sigh. Thank god Britney's out there to make me feel better all the time. If I don't say it enough, I heart Britney!