Domestic Goddess

How to Spring Clean: 

1) Throw in load of laundry. Ponder how one small child can get everything so dirty. Is there a pair of school pants without mud stains? 

2) Start dishes. Cat breaks three mugs by pushing them off counter. And a vase. Get dustpan/broom. Put down to Google SPCA pick-up. 

3) Dog eating broom. Google extra fee for two pet pick-up? 

4) Cut finger on vase glass. Look for band-aid. Have surgical tape, eye patch, cool burn ointment, Epi-pens -- out of band-aids. Add to shopping list. Wrap finger with clear tape. 

5) Cat in clean laundry basket. Dog pulling dirty laundry out of hamper, eating E's baseball pants. 

6) Open window. Sneeze. Close window. Take Claritin. 

7) Claritin makes me sleepy. Try to make coffee. Favorite mugs broken. Go out for coffee. 

8) While out dog throws up parts of broom and something .... else? Further investigation determines is E's baseball "cup" from sports bag. Not the drinking kind. 

9) Google "cruises to Bermuda no pets leave March." 

10) Call cleaning service. Ask if they can come yesterday. Offer $20 extra plus bonus pet of their choice for kids' Easter basket. 

 11) "MOM! I accidentally flushed a golf ball down the toilet!" 

12) Start packing for cruise. Tell no one.

Ten

Dear Ethan,

You are ten today! But I don’t need to tell you that. Since you said to me, “I’m TEN!!” no less than fifty times while getting ready for school this morning, I think you are fully aware. I get it – double-digits are exciting. Only eight more years until you can get that tattoo!

I’ve written you letters every year on your birthday since you were only a baby. I’ve put these letters in a box for you to read all at once at some date in the future (note to self: remember where I put that damn box). This letter will be the same, I won’t actually share this with you until you are older. I wrote you a more age-appropriate message in your birthday card this morning, and also included a message from the pets, because we all know that Ziggy is the Tolstoy of the family (he’s the only one fluent in Russian).

I looked at you today and tried to remember myself at ten. When I was ten, I wanted to wear a strapless dress to dinner that made it look like I had boobs. My best friend and I went to "the fanciest restaurant” (Phillips) in Baltimore to eat lobsters. I wanted a training bra. None of this applies to you – you do not want to eat lobsters, nor have you requested a training bra, yet much of me at ten shines through. I see a similar sense of humor. I see a caring about others. I see a love of reading. I see a gentleness with animals. I see an obstinate streak. I see strong emotions. I see competitiveness. I see generosity with those that you love. I see glimpses at ten of the adult you will become and I feel like I have done a good job parenting you. I know that some of this is just “you," however, and I know that you have done a good job just being you. I cannot take all the credit.

Maternal tendency as time passes is to lament the early years and wish that you were still younger, and not growing up so quickly. I feel the opposite; I want the years to pass, I want to see you grow up. I am happy that I get to know you at ten, and I hope that I get to know you at sixty.

You don’t remember this, but when you were just four, I received a life-altering diagnosis. I had life all figured out (on paper, at least). I was your mom, you were in preschool, I was married to your dad, we had a lovely home, and I worked as a litigation attorney at a private firm. All was well and good in our white-picket fence suburban life. Then one day, I couldn’t remember the names of my witnesses, or walk up the stairs, or press the button on my dictaphone. The day before Thanksgiving, I learned I had a brain tumor. Some very smart doctors projected that I would be dead in six months. My first thought was you. That you would grow up without a mom. My second thought was that I would not see you grow up. I could not decide which was more unfair.

Things have changed since then, I no longer practice law. Your father and I could not endure the stress of my illness, and we separated after a decade of marriage. You and I have moved. Being sick has knocked me down, but it has not destroyed me. Through sheer luck (and stubbornness), I am still here. I am still your mom. I still get to celebrate birthdays. I still get to frost a poorly-baked cake and surprise you by having a heart-shaped pizza delivered to your school and buy you too many presents that you don’t need.

I know each day that maybe I am living on borrowed time. At first, my instinct was to do big things – we should go to Fiji and swim with sharks!, I need to take you to Australia!, definitely the Super Bowl!, we should commission the Cirque de Soleil troupe to perform in our living room for your birthday! Of course, there are time, money, and energy constraints to living each minute like it is your last, and so eventually you just settle in to normal life. The fabric of life is not made up of firework marching band memories, but of those moments you don’t even realize are happening. Every night at dinner, I light a candle, and put the fireplace on, and set the Sirius station to Coffee House. These are things you don’t consciously recognize now, but perhaps in your review of your life, you will recall that I tried to introduce some specialness into each day, even the mundane moments.

I want to share a few things with you that I think are important. I don’t have all the answers. Some days, I am still trying to figure out the questions, so you may take the following with a grain of salt. As you grow and become older, here is what I wish for you:

Be kind. Not a pushover, there is a difference; there are times in life where it is not only important to stand up for yourself or something you believe in, but necessary. Being kind doesn’t mean being spineless, but it means being thoughtful of other people. Say hello, say please and thank you, tell people to have a nice day, hold doors, smile, buy that homeless guy a bagel. It will make others' days brighter and yours, too.

Do something that you want to do. I don’t know what that will be. Maybe you will end up being a pro football player, like you aspire to be. If that happens, I will be in the front row, cheering you on manically, with my face painted and hair dyed your team colors. I am sure that will not be embarrassing for you. Say you decide in the next decade that pro football is not for you? That may happen. You may be an investment banker, a judge, a bus driver, a hairdresser, a veterinarian, a ballet dancer, a painter, a bank teller, an engineer … you may be a ballet-dancing bus-driving judge who paints on weekends. The sky is the limit. Here is what I want you to know: I am proud of you. “Whatever” you become, I am proud of you. Because you are my son, and that is enough. Whatever your path in life, I will always brag to neighbors/relatives/random baristas at the coffee shop that I am the mom to the most awesome ballet-dancing bus-driving judge who paints on weekends in the world.

The next one is important; not at the age of ten, but later -- your resume does not matter. Let me rephrase that -- your resume does not matter, much. You come from a long line of people with impressive resumes … your collective grandparents have a lot of letters after their names, your dad was first in his class at Johns Hopkins in engineering, he and I both have graduate degrees ... you come from smart people, and you are a smart kid. Because of this, as you get older, you may feel pressure to achieve academic and professional “things.” I would be dishonest if I said that these things were not important in life, they were to me, and they may be to you as well, however, they are not everything. They are not even most of the things. Your resume is not what will bring you chicken soup when you are sick, or take your calls at 2 AM, or drive with you to a funeral three states over. Nuture your family and friends. Your life is not your accomplishments, but the people who love you.

One more: Live life the best you can. Even when it knocks you down. Get up. And get up again. Repeat as necessary. Remember you are my son, and therefore, made of titanium.

I hope your tenth year is, as you would say “totally epic”, in all the right ways. I love you.

XO,
Mommy

Number One Lovah: A Useful Gift Guide

I’ve had a couple of guy friends ask me recently about the appropriate thing to buy their significant others for Valentine’s Day.  I think that is a tough call, it depends on said significant other.  However, I can give you useful parameters on what NOT to buy to celebrate this most important Day of Love.

She does not want perfume, because if she does want perfume, she will select it for herself.  The perfume aisle is fraught with opportunities for a misstep, and you may be lured into thinking that she wants to smell like Britney Spears.  I can assure you she does not.  Even Britney Spears does not want to smell like Britney Spears.  Nor does she want to smell like Kim Kardashian, who I bet smells like money, Spanx, and soulless dead shark eyes.  A good one to avoid, as well. 

You may think traditional: Chocolates, roses, giant teddy bears.  Chocolates are good for your mom, get your mom those.  She will appreciate your thoughtfulness.  Your significant other, however, will do one of two things with chocolates.  She will eat ALL of them within four minutes, thereby inciting a next day gym-binge and self-loathing, which may or may not be passive-aggressively transferred on to you.  Or she will eat NONE of them.  She will either throw them in the trash once you leave or take them in to her office, thereby wasting your money and effort in picking them out, and also, making her assistant fat.  This is not fair to her assistant.

Roses die and if you buy the $11.99 special from Proflowers, you will be in trouble.  You just will.  If you buy the $140.00 arrangement from Calyx & Corolla, you could have bought jewelry.  As for the giant teddy bear, nobody over the age of twelve wants a giant teddy bear (if you are shopping for a twelve-year-old, please call Dateline.  Immediately.  Chris Hansen wants to speak with you).

Lingerie is a minefield.  You need to be careful.  Unless your significant other is actually a Victoria’s Secret model, she probably does not want to model lingerie for you. Case in point:  First year of law school, ex gives me a Valentine’s gift of lingerie.  Very black, very sheer, the size of an anorexic cocktail napkin, with a picture on the box of Heidi Klum demonstrating what the lingerie will look like when filled with woman (Caution: Objects on box may be larger than they appear).  I had just recovered from a bad cold and was in the throes of working on my Moot Court competition appellate brief.  I had subsisted on nothing but 3 am pizza, Mallomars, Adderall, and instant coffee packets for the past month.  While I could provide a semi-intelligent discourse on Amalgamated Food Employees Union Local 590 v. Logan Valley Plaza, Inc., 391 U.S. 308 (1968), if you had asked me how to spell the word “gym”, I would have looked at you blankly and drooled. 

Heidi sent me over the edge.  I locked myself in the bathroom with the box, stared deeply into her judgmental boobs, and started crying.  Probably not the desired reaction. (Note: This was not the sole reason this person eventually became an ex, but when I was doing the cost-benefit analysis, this would have gone on the “con” list). Consider the context.  I would have been much happier with a pair of Pajama Jeans and matching faux-denim scrunchie.

So far, I have been using the feminine gender. Perhaps you are a male shopping for a male significant other?  I live with three males – one human, two furry – and in my experience, males enjoy rearranging their … stuff.  And I don’t think they sell gift cards for that.  Forget it; you’re on your own here.

Ok – so we’ve covered the basics on what NOT to gift.  What TO gift?  Here is a simple flow chart:

Is she a woman?  YES!  Does she have children?  NO! Then get her something sparkly.  This could be a unicorn, a bedazzled t-shirt that reads “Number One Lovah”, or perhaps jewelry.  The sky is the limit.  Use your discretion.

Is he a man?  YES!  Ok then, he wants balls.  Interpret as you see fit.

Is she a woman!  YES!  Does she have children?  YES!  Then she wants thirty minutes, alone, in the bathroom, with nobody knocking on the door, barking, or asking “What are those called?” That is all.  If feeling ambitious, you may also want to throw in a meal prepared not-by-her that does not include the words “cheez”, “nugget”, or “dog.” 

So, there you go.  Thank me and Heidi Klum for our no-fail gift guide for the holiday!  Go forth and shop.  I wish you well.  

 PS She’d LOVE the unicorn!