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.

Prison break.

It's either age, dementia or kids (maybe even erectile dysfunction) that has gotten me to the point where I can't remember one friend's wedding from another. What once seemed so important and exciting has suddenly faded into distant memories that start with a big poofy dress and end with a big poofy cake. Such is the difference between being 20something and 30something. But when a weekend wedding means your first night alone with your husband in nearly two years, suddenly a wedding starts to look like a conjugal visit. It's just that memorable.

And so my conjugal visit begins this Friday at 5:30 when my flight takes off to Connecticut. Captain Kid gets to play pirate with the grandparents for the weekend. It gives us many questions to ponder...

1. Will the Captain sleep through the night?


2. What if he gets scared while I'm gone?


3. What if he's hurt or confused and will my parents be able to comfort him?

If you answered "The Mediocre Mama doesn't give a shit," then you're right!

Oh, come now. Don't think badly of me. My parents raised me just fine and I doubt they can do very much damage over a 2 day period. Of course, there was the bad haircut they gave me as a kid. Not sure I ever recovered from that one...oh wait.

So now I go through the drama of what's going to fit my new post-mama figure and how will I survive a whole night in heels. Problems that seem rather insignificant compared with the bullshit minutia of my current everyday. And all I can do is smile and daydream about my 2 nights of freedom.

Yes, I believe this will be a wedding that I remember. Almost as much as the last wedding I attended...

Catch 22.

It would seem to in all ways defeat the purpose of being home with my child that it now seems I need full time help to watch him while I look for a job. Which, of course, is further complicated by the fact that we are sans 2 salaries and can't seem to afford hired help to watch the Captain while I look for a job. And naturally, this is the price that one pays for moving 200+ miles away from home. Sure you avoid the random Sunday morning drop-in from the in-laws and who doesn't love that? But I do find myself envying friends and family who have grandma up the road. Not that that isn't it's own catch 22.

It does seem that by moving away we have all but secured our privacy and we aren't as beholden to the grandparents as many of our friends find themselves. One such friend, I'll call her Dori, who's mother watches her wee-one whilst she and the dad are at work seems totally at the mercy of grandma. There is no question she and her husband get an invaluable service from her. But such is the way that grandzillas are born.

And then there is the position that Deviant Dad and I find ourselves in. All grandparents are safely tucked away in NY, lying in wait and enjoying those few weekends that we let them out of jail to visit with the Captain. But the conversation goes something like this...

They - We'd love to come down for a weekend.

Us - We'll have to see. Things are pretty busy.

They - You could go out for an evening and we'll watch the Captain.

Us - Well...hmm...that's mighty tempting.

And so it's baited. They throw the finest piece of sushi on the end of a fishhook and reel us in. They know our weakness. They count on it. And this is how grandparents play their game. The trouble is we love it. Free, dummy. But there are those irritating strings they attach. I know I'll do it to the Captain one day, and thus the vicious cycle continues. But given the many career appointments I need to attend to next week and the constant distractions the Captain is providing me with during my job search...it kills me. Can you taste the sushi? Mmmm. Wasabi.

And so, I leave you with the immortal words of the late great Sam Levenson, a humorist circa 1960's and actual distant relative of mine, who once wrote the following:

The reason grandparents and grandchildren get along so well is that they have a common enemy.

Sadly for me, I lost my remaining grandparents this last year. So now it's 5 against 2. The odds are stacked against us.

The Theory of Relativity

There is nothing more irritating than having your parenting choices questioned, especially when you know in your heart that you are a Mediocre Mama. Having to explain your choices or decisions and the behavior of your child can make you really defensive. And having it come from family really puts your back up against the wall. So why is it that it is family that always questions your parenting?

When I was oh but a few months pregnant, a family member, aka “Supermom,” posed the following question to me: “What kind of mother do you want to be?”

While standing there and contemplating how my body would change, where to buy my maternity wear, just how much bigger my friggin boobs were going to get, the kind of mother I planned to be was a very distant thought from my mind.

Umm, a good kind? A laid back kind? A drunk kind?

As I noted the stern look in her face it became clear to me that sarcasm and evasive maneuvers would get me nowhere. That’s because you can’t be sarcastic to Supermom, as she may run you down with her minivan and sick her Superkids on you, one performing karate (which he studied on Tuesdays and Thursdays after Hebrew School and T-Ball Practice) and the other whacking you in the head with a soccer ball (which she studied Mondays and Wednesdays between ballet classes and origami sessions). I swallowed down and pulled out the biggest bunch of crap I could muster from my already spreading ass.

Um, well, I believe you need to give kids, um, choices…I could feel my answer whimpering “clueless” from the moment I spat it out of my mouth.

She smiled gently and explained, “Well, you can’t really give them choices because (insert Charlie Brown’s teacher’s voice here) blah blah blah.”

I blanked out pretty much all of what she was saying and I thought the inquisition was over until she turned to Superkids and said, “Superkids, what kind of mother am I? Am I a nice mother or a mean one?”

Superkids dutifully and quickly answer, “A mean one. But that’s good because it means we’re safer.”

Safe from what? I felt dumbfounded. Safe from having five free minutes in their schedule to do something other than beef up their resumes at the age of eight so that they can get into Yale? Or maybe it’s something deeper, some actual physical danger that I will be creating by not being a “mean mama.” Would my mediocrity in life that would inevitably carry over into my parenting style be a certain recipe for chaos and danger?

The whole parenting world was such a mystery and here I was, only a few months pregnant, now worrying whether I would be good enough or mean enough. I had no “plan” for my mothering style, hadn’t read any parenting books and it was clear that I was simply unprepared.

I mean no disrespect to this person (well, maybe a little because this would be a very boring blog otherwise). She’s a very commanding woman, a good friend, and an incredibly competent mother. But this moment was my first bit of clarity on the battle that was to come. This is when I realized that parenting is a war, an “us versus them” situation and that because I entered this fight without a parenting plan, I was almost certain to be a “them.”

Looking back I should have known that I could never be that mean mama, which means I will constantly question my judgment and feel like an ass when the Captain falls on his ass. He climbs on stuff, he puts his hands in Dog’s mouth, he jumps off things, he rams his head into crap (see all other blog posts for more information). Does my mediocrity mean that my child isn’t safe?

Well perhaps he won’t always be safe. But at the same time I like to think he’s bound to experiencing life in a tactile sense and not just through soccer camp and sitting still when told. But maybe that means that the world (and by the world I mean my well meaning and loud relatives) will question the sanity of a woman who lugs her kid all over Europe and won't bother with play dates. So here I am, defenses up, not being mean, and occasionally watching the Captain jump off that cliff. Maybe I don’t have a plan, but at least no one will ever call me mean.

No good time goes unpunished...

Apparently the Captain had some rather strong opinions about my leaving him with the babysitter all day, because boy did I get an earful. Here's how my evening unfolded...

• Arrived home at 7:30 to poopy pail. Shove babysitter out the door and the fun begins.
• Chased the Captain (who apparently spent his entire day snacking on sugar cubes, espresso and redbull) round the apartment, let him lock me in a closet, watched the meltdown building...
• 8:15, the meltown begins (Insert crying, kicking, screaming here).
• 8:30, put the Captain down for a quickie nap in hopes for a dinner out when Deviant Dad came home. Enjoyed a quick episode of Sex and the City and the first 20 minutes of Charmed.
• 9:15, Deviant wakes up the Captain to go to dinner and the meltdown continues. I send Deviant out with his sister for dinner.
• 9:30, attempt to feed the Captain some oatmeal, which he rebuffs.
• 10:30, after pacing, begging, tv-watching and bribery, realize I'm beat. Put Captain back down for the night, no supper in his tummy and curl up on the sofa in the fetal position awaiting the return of Deviant and SIL with my sushi.

Does this mean that I'm doomed to a life of buy now, pay for it afterwards with my child? I contemplated the pattern and it would seem that every time I get a babysitter there's a wake up in the middle of the night/meltdown scenario after the fact. It made me think that, although only 18-months, maybe the Captain is already making his gripe list and plotting his revenge. I ought to know - Deviant wrote his gripe list years ago.

Flashback to an evening, oh, maybe nearly 10 years ago. Deviant and I decided to shack up after college, much to the MIL's chagrin. She made us sleep in separate rooms when we visited and Deviant started on a rant about all the ways his parents wronged him growing up; and thus, the gripe list was born. It was long and to be sure I can't recall it all, but here's the shorthand on Deviant's upbringing:

• Until he was 10, they fed him carob and told him it was chocolate;
• They took him to Disneyland and told him he didn't need to see Disneyworld because it was "the same thing;"
• They fed him Blackstrap Molasses mixed with milk and told him it was chocolate milk;
• When his sister was small and whacked him in the face with one of those old metal seat belt on purpose (she admits), breaking his tooth in the process, they figured he'd done something to provoke her and took her out for ice cream;
• They gave him wheat germ;
• His Mom had a Buckaroo Kids small soft drink coupon for Roy Rogers. She changed the expiration date and used it until he was 16;
• I want my MT-wha? No cable until he was 22;
• For his birthday one year, his parents took him and some friends to see All of Me (a PG rated Steve Martin movie) for his 9th birthday. When they got to the scene where he spanks Victoria Tennant, she removed Mat and all his friends from the theater and left before it was over; and
• She also made him watch Yentl. Twice. When he walked out of the theater the first time because he hated it, she made him go see it again.

Ah, don't worry. We love the MIL and FIL to pieces. But it just goes to show you how a few bad choices could turn into a list you'll pay for the rest of your life. Oh, and just to give my parents fair play:

• They hired Mrs. Savoy to watch me while they worked. I probably could post a whole section on this, but for now, lets just say this: Lunch Lady;
• Knee patches;
• My boy hair cut that they told me was the Dorothy Hammil look. Check out my photo on the side and you tell me...;
• The Volcano project. Alright, repeat after me. A spray painted towel stapled to a board does NOT resemble a volcano;
• Sleep away camp; and
• After years of begging for a dog they finally break down and get one...for my sister.

Alright, better get the Captain to the park before he adds another one to his list...