Category Archives: Blog Posts

Preschool Day One Report: Stress

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It all started so well. Vivien picked out her outfit. Yes, not surprisingly she ditched the rubber boots fast, I had back up.

Vivien on her first day of preschool

And she was very pleased with her new lunch box. I had really been selling that as a cool thing and it seemed to be working. “Your lunchbox, for your school!”

Well, we get there and a lot of parents are trying to leave right away. Many are successful. A few need to hang back. I tried, but Vivien would start crying. So out of her three-hour day, I stayed 2 hours. I would have stayed more, but I did have to go to work.

There was one boy who was so undone, he cried almost nonstop for the entire two hours. I had a knot in my stomach from watching his big tears and sobs. It reminded me of how I was when I’d break up with someone in my 20s.

I insist on some space: “You go in the play yard, I’ll be over here.” Finally during the art project, which she really liked, I told her, “In 20 minutes, I’m leaving,” and then again at 2 minutes. She didn’t freak out. I kissed her, she didn’t freak, and I left.

My friend who works there said she sniffled a bit at lunch and wouldn’t eat. So much for the magic of the new Hello Kitty lunch pail. But when my sister and niece picked her up she was happy to see them and went and swam at my other sister’s house. I threw nap schedule out the window.

I got to work and found out that our show was being moved around this week due to accommodating a special on Brad and Angelina’s new babies.  Which was fine with me because it meant I didn’t have to work Tuesday morning and could take and pick up Vivien from school.  But, what I got my panties in a bundle about were what Brangelina named their daughter. Vivienne. Harrumph. Now every tabloid-reading pregnant lady is going to use some version of my daughter’s name. Which when she was born was not even in the top 1000 on the social security name list (my religion when I was pregnant was looking up names on that site) and Vivian (with an A) was about 250.

Now I like gazing at Brad and Angie as much as the next Star magazine (plug) reader, but I wanted Viv to have a tad offbeat name like my own… not really off, just a little.

I digress. so I am at work for about an hour, in an editing room with an editor and two producers.  The editor says, “How you doing?” A normal question. I burst into tears, “It’s–sob–my daughter’s first day–sob–at preschool.” You get the picture. They were nice. The editor says, “Of course it’s tough, and in 5 minutes she’s getting married.”

Last night I told Vivien we were going back to her school today. She said, “More school?  I don’t want to go.” Reaching for the phantom Valium again…

Children’s Chores

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It threw me when I was getting to know my then-future husband and his then-10-year-old son that very little chores were required of the lad. Frankly, I was vaguely appalled, but I certainly wasn’t going to risk being an evil future stepmother by setting up a work-flow chart on the fridge.

Clean Dishes
Creative Commons License photo credit: noricum

A good guy friend of mine told me that when he turned 15, his mom cut him off from laundry services and told him to do it himself from now on. So I suggested at least this compromise to Mark. He said Oliver would figure it out when he is on his own, as an adult. Hmm, yeah, well, not my horse, not my ranch. But I made it clear I’m not cleaning up after someone old enough to do it themselves. Mark didn’t believe me when I said I was doing my laundry at five years old.

I think chores are not only considerate to others in the house, but key to creating a child who is not spoiled and has a good work ethic. This page has guidelines about children’s chores. One of them speaks of giving a child a reward. Uh, I don’t think so. Did John Boy get a reward? Or did he just help his Mama when she asked?

What Can We Learn from Christie Brinkley’s Divorce Trial?

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1. First and foremost: Can that lady rock a crisp white shirt or what? Loved the shots of her striding into the Long Island courthouse wearing a white shirt tucked into a belted pencil skirt. It said “class,” it said, “I know, I can’t believe he cheated on me either.” Now, most days I can’t tuck in a shirt without looking like Ed Grimley, but yesterday at my daughter’s preschool, one well-dressed mom had a crisp white shirt with darts that provided shape, but did not need to be tucked in. I am obsessed and now must find it and buy it.

Christie Brinkley Divorce Trial

2. Paying off an 18-year-old to keep quiet is probably a waste of money.

3. All men love porn, but when they masturbate to strangers online, perhaps that’s a bridge too far.

4. Poor kids. I would fault Miss C for asking the media to be allowed into the trial, except it seems the strategy worked. Peter Beard didn’t want any more dirty laundry aired, so he settled.

5. If you have supermodel wealth, get a pre-nup and don’t marry in a community-property state. She did both. NY is not a community-property state. California is. If they had married in California, Beard could have bedded the teenager, a cat, and the family cow and still have been entitled to half of whatever she made/bought while they were married. Can’t believe she got rid of him for only 2.1 mil.

6. She may be blonde, but she’s not dumb. She owns 18 properties in the Hamptons! That’s a lot of tomatoes.

7. Looks ain’t everything. They looked so good together, but it goes back to one of my life philosophies: Don’t marry the Ken doll, marry a dork.

8. I can’t get “Uptown Girl” out of my head.

[Image: Celebrity-Gossip.net]

First Days at Preschool

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Yes, the first week of preschool is upon us. I was sure I would be bawling, and a friend of mine was sure she would be fine. But, it’s flipped. Partly because Vivien wouldn’t allow us to leave yet. This is the “transition week,” so I’m still daydreaming about free mornings.

Slide
Creative Commons License photo credit: vitroids

Mark took her the first two days, since I was working, so I took her today. When she was jumping in my lap during story time, I tried to at least ease her on the rug in front of me to create some space. She did leave me for a while when buckets of toys were introduced. Also, we took the bus to school, which was a big hit, and ate Mexican food for lunch nearby, which made us both smile.

But come Monday, Mark and I will hang out for a bit and then try to bail to go to work. Mark says a friend told him to make it a game when we leave her at school on Monday. That the kid should push us out the door, with us saying, “Come on, push Mommy out the door!”

That might work for a more aggressive, independent kid. Not sure. But I’m just trying to sack up for leaving while she is crying. It’s not like I’m leaving her at a Russian orphanage, right? Moms that have gone through this already, do you have any strategies?

Vacation Rehab

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I was so excited there was water on our vacation at Yosemite this year, because for many years our butts have scraped gravel while we tried to raft.

I pushed the stroller and carried Vivien up to Bridalveil Fall so she could take in the wonder of the huge, beautiful, glorious falls. See how excited she is? Yeah, that was worth the effort.

Vivien in Yosemite

When I called my sister Cecily on Sunday and she said, “I am so tired.”

“Thank God,” I said, “I thought it was just me.” I came back from my whirlwind, blended-family vacation in Yosemite and Mammoth on Friday the 4th, yet still felt pooped and hit the ground running with work Monday. Also, a National Park vacation means days of laundry upon return. I also had my assisted-living-bound dad over which takes some energy… and clean up.

What’s the vacation people come back refreshed from?

But it all went great. There were 11 of us: sisters, step-children and more. Hiking, biking… and we weren’t camping, we stayed in cottages. I CAN’T camp anymore, I’m too old. (God, then I’d really be tired.)

More favorable than the waterfall, later that day I asked Vivien, “How do you like your hot dog?” Here’s her response.

Vivien gives the hot dog a thumbs-up

I’m a Cherry Pitter

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This is evidence of being an overprotective mom – or a moron. Summertime, and Vivien loves cherries.  I painstakingly cut out the pit of every cherry she consumes.

Manual cherry pitting

She is nearly three, so maybe she could figure out not to swallow that large, hard thing in the middle.

I say to Mark, “Why don’t they invent something to take pits out of cherries?”  Since he is a chef and in the know he says, “They did, it’s called a cherry pitter.” Kind that he didn’t add “duh” at the end of that sentence, like I probably would have.

The name of this tool comes back to me like a dream. The question is, why didn’t I buy one? 1) I forgot it existed, but 2) even if I did buy it, summer would end and it would go in that drawer in the kitchen with the gadgets and matches and rubber bands. And June would roll around again, and I would have momnesia, and I wouldn’t see it in the back of the drawer.  That’s how I’m justifying it.

Out for George Michael

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I use to say that I was a gay man trapped in a straight woman’s body. Particularly when I was a single woman living in San Francisco.

Bridge at Dusk #4
Creative Commons License photo credit: Pargon

I liked having sex with men, a few different ones. I collected mid-century furniture, liked vacationing in Palm Springs and my music of choice was deep house. The kind of music that makes you feel like a guy in a gay bar at 1:59 am, doing a popper and not sure who you’re going home with. Thumpa, thumpa, thumpa.

I still workout to house music when I can. And I still have some Heywood Wakefield furniture. But my neutered mom-self has lost touch with a lot of that former FAB! self. That is, until I was a guest this season at the American Idol finale. Sixth row. When George Michael walked out on stage, I screamed like a gal in 1963 for the Beatles, I screamed like you scream for ice cream, I screamed like a college grad at an Obama rally. I was that excited.

I think I’m unmoved by Madonna, or other pop stars. But I love me some George Michael. Which is why I was so excited to see the posting on The Poop from a guy who loves GM, talking about his favorite songs. Well, a CD of Michael just goes from one delicious morsel to the next. But, come on, there can’t be any argument really, right?  Hands down, “Father Figure.”

4th of July

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I love the 4th of July even though it’s rarely the way I dream it should be. I want Mayberry. I want a little parade with dogs and flags. Lemonade and humidity. Then fireworks that are easy to see and where everyone goes, “Ooh, aah!”

Canada Fireworks 3
Creative Commons License photo credit: [Crewe]

But I live in California. In my youth we had the Culver City fireworks display at the high school, which was kind of hassle, as I recall. I liked shooting them off on our street, back when that was kosher.

In San Francisco, it’s too cold for a BBQ, it’s not cool to be patriotic, and the fog is so thick at night you have to be right down on the Embarcadero to even glimpse the fireworks.

In LA, sometime we’ve had nice BBQs at my sister’s or mom’s. But no parade or fireflies.

This 4th, we are returning from our Yosemite trip and I am already bracing myself for the lack of Aunt Bee this year. I need to get a new flag, probably break my dad out of assisted living, and fire up the Weber. My sparklers will have to be my show and my humidity.

How do other people spend their 4th?

Reaching Out, From My Bunker

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In the May issue of Parenting magazine, the “My Biggest Challenge” column featured a mom who said her biggest challenge was keeping in touch with friends. Mine would be not eating bread, but friends is up there (hence my recent vlog, My Friends Hate Me).

Daphne Brogdon in a box

The magazine had three suggestions:

1) Start a toy/book clothes swap. Getting together will feel productive. My take: I don’t need a reason to get together with friends. I just need them to magically appear within 1/2 mile of me.

2) Share a two-minute snippet of your lives once a week or so; no need to find time for a long call. My take: Yes, with some people you can do that. There are a few, however, who are jaw-boners and make it hard to jump on and off.  Did they not hear the crying child in the background?

3) Stamp postcards, then fill them in when you have a moment. My take: Could I just email? I know getting mail is fun, but I’m not going to put “Been plagued by terrible vaginal itch” on a postcard.

I found that after 30 (even without kids) one has to institutionalize events in order to see friends or we will all sit on our couches alone at night, watching “Wife Swap.” That’s why I used to do game night every other week with my friends, and I still try to keep my monthly dinner club going.

Do other people see friends? ‘Cause I have a few I haven’t seen since my wedding, and I know it’s not all me. That they are hiding out, as well. Is that why Osama bin Laden is still in his cave? Maybe he’s overwhelmed by making plans, too.

A Mom-Phobia of Driving

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If anyone is in Chicagoland, Peggy Ward looks pretty funny with her Mamaphobia. Sometimes mom humor can be a little painful, but her clips look like she is right on the money.

image: Mike Kline

I liked her bit about being the most paranoid passenger when she became a mom, as if her husband “had just gotten his learner’s permit.” Darn, wish I’d written that. My poor husband is forever telling me to chill out in the car. But I am sure my vigilance will save us all from a fiery death. Sometimes I shut my eyes, because I know he is a good driver and I have become a tad crazy.

My sister Carole says she does the same thing to her husband. Our wiring got all screwed up upon motherhood. It’s a combination of protective mom and control freak. Hmm, am I the only one with a hard time discerning between the two?