Monthly Archives: January 2014

The Bright Side of My Singlemotherhoodlife: A Top Five List

Standard

600px-Nutella-1

What bright side?

No, no, that’s too depressing. On the eve of The Scientist’s return home (also known as a brief visit), I am determined to think about all the good things that happened while he was away. Because, you know, silver lining and all that.

So here’s my top 5:

5. Nutella. I grew up believing Nutella was disgusting (thanks, Mom). But, on a whim, I decided I was going to let the kids try it this week since The Scientist, who has a fatal nut allergy, isn’t here anyway. And in the meantime, I tried it, too. Let me tell you (and Mom) something: Nutella is NOT disgusting. It’s AMAZING. Best food discovery of my adult life.

4. Fresh Direct arrived in my neighborhood precisely the day The Scientist left! Coincidence or divine intervention?? As LL said (and I couldn’t agree more),”Now THIS is the way to shop.”

3. The Boy Babysitter. He’s come twice now. Booked for 3 more visits. And there will be even more, I assure you . . .

2. My beautiful, sexy, smart iPhone. Yes, after years of whining to you about not having one, I got one. My justification? Facetime! How else to remember I actually have a husband somewhere out there in the world. (Baby MoFo is a huge fan, too. In fact, he calls his dad, and they “hang out” while he watches Batman/Phineas and Ferb/The Backyardigans in Spanish because for some reason they’re gone from both TV and Netflix in English, and Dada does work. It’s great!).

1. Baby MoFo told me he loves me! Normally, he says, “I just love Dada.” If pressed, he will admit he also loves LL because “he’s my best brother.” But today, when I absolutely wouldn’t give him a popsicle until he said he loved me (that’s legit, right?), he said, sighing, something that he would never say if Dada were around: “OK, Mama. I love you a little.” Good enough! I’ll take it!

And that’s my list! If there’s more, I have been too steeped in vomit to notice!

Advertisements

The Boy Babysitter

Standard

Last night, we were puke-free. It’s been so long since we were puke-free that I did a happy dance. It’s been even longer–remember those snow days and holidays–since I’ve had a child-free block of time. But today I was desperate to get some work done (the semester is starting all too soon!), so I did the best thing ever: I got a babysitter.

And, to my kids’ delight, he was a boy babysitter.

The minute he arrived, it was as though a playdate were starting. There was no talk, as there usually is when a babysitter arrives, of rules and regulations of the house. They handed him a wii-mote and gave him instructions (they’ve never taught me how to play Rayman Jungle Run, FYI), urging him to join them on the couch. Before I was even out the door, the boys–my own as well as the young, tattooed, pierced babysitter that was, without a doubt, the brightest spot in my kids’ week–were completely immersed in the game. Later, I’m told, Boy Babysitter made popcorn (it was his first time seeing an air popper! but he was a smartie and figured it out) and put on The Croods (which we don’t own — Boy Babysitter brought DVDs with him!). And after the movie, they ate lunch, which Boy Babysitter prepared for them. And then they played cards.

The kids declared Boy Babysitter the best babysitter ever.

And I had to agree, because thrilling and feeding my kids to pieces wasn’t all Boy Babysitter did. As I walked up to the house on my return, I knew he was a winner before I even got to the door. Why? Because Boy Babysitter had shovelled my porch and my front stairs. And salted them.

And more: not only did he clear and wash the lunch dishes, he also washed the dishes and muffin pan that had been lying in my sink for . . . some time. And wiped down the countertops. And table.

Really, I have to get out of the mindset that it has to be all me all the time just because The Scientist has moved to another planet continent. Having a babysitter gives me a break from the kids and the kids a break from me. And seriously: we all needed that break. And it’s not as though babysitting will clean out my pocketbook . . . One of the best parts of getting Boy Babysitter — and any other babysitter — is that my work pays for it.

Big Mama schlepping the burden alone

Big Mama schlepping the burden alone

It’s all fun and games here in singlemotherhoodlife

Standard

Dear Adon Alom, Master of the World and its Snow and its Viruses,

I got it. I did you wrong. You thought I should go to the UK and be with my husband, my children with their father. You thought that was what shalom bayit was all about–after all, how can there be shalom--peace– without a shared bayit–a home?

So you sent me a series of misfortunes to daily punctuate my life as a single mother. A miserable court date. A death in the family. A babysitter who cancelled at the last possible minute, making me miss work. A babysitter who showed up half an hour late, making me not miss work but just further develop an ulcer. A hunk of baby finger clipped off with a nail that led to more than 24h of bleeding (Me: “I’ve cut off a piece of my child!” Pediatrician: “I’ve never known a mother who didn’t.”). A stomach bug for Cool J. A cold and fever for Baby MoFo. Coupled with a slashed tire that couldn’t be repaired (“Hey, guys, if you can just hold off on that diarrhea for, say, a couple of hours, we’re going to take a field trip to the auto shop to get a new tire!”). Sick days followed by holidays (whenever there’s a Monday holiday at Baby MoFo’s preschool, they also cancel school on Friday–why a 3-day weekend when it could be 4??) followed by snow days. During which I’m not allowed to park on my street (and I have no garage/driveway), so I had to drive the kids to a lot on campus and walk home with them in a blizzard . . . only to get a message that all cars on campus were supposed to be in garages and not the outdoor lots (no, I did not schlep my kids back out. So who knows if I still have my car with its pretty new tire?). Snow days followed by . . . you got it. Sick days. Because why should LL be spared? And what could I be so busy doing at 2am that I can’t be elbow-deep in vomit?

The Scientist has been gone just over 2 weeks.

I am not having fun.

So I’m sorry, Adon Olam, but please, can you give this poor princess-mother a break?

Or an angel . . . but not of this variety.

Or an angel . . . but not of this variety.

The Poor Princess in the Kingdom

Standard

So the Poor Princess got poorer — $600 poorer — for one day (excluding accommodations) in Walt Disney’s genius megascam, Magic Kingdom (the magic is that they get you to agree to handing over $100s of your hard-earned dollars to wait hours to go on 3-minute rides that give you whiplash).

Poor Princess--the poorest princess in the kingdom

Poor Princess–the poorest princess in the kingdom

I’ll be honest: Parts of the day were brilliantly fun–like Splash Mountain, which we got a fastpass for and were all tall enough to go on:

The Princess-Scientist Family, renamed the Perries, on Splash Mountain

The Princess-Scientist Family, renamed the Perries for the day, on Splash Mountain

And parts revealed surprising beauty, like Cinderella’s Castle at night:

Cinderella's Castle at night

Cinderella’s Castle in shades of violet

And parts–like Cool J not being tall enough for Space Mountain (and LL raving about how amazing it was all day) and the miserably bad food we had to wait as long as Space Mountain for–were neither.

The day involved kicking, yelling, crying, too much ice cream (some of which was kicked . . . and led to yelling and crying . . . see above), a torrential downpour, rides that we could have ridden at any fair and at half the malls in America, and, of course, some magical delight. Was it worth $600?

Hell, no. Do you know what I could do with $600?

Unless–unless it was an investment.

This occurred to me the next day at breakfast, when I tried to interest the boys in the waffle iron but could not get their attention for the life of me. The boys were plotting and plotting. I listened in. Cool J, they decided, was going to built a bigger and better version of WDW–named after himself, of course. It would be in Texas–warm weather, lots of money, cheap real estate. The boys planned characters, logos, and rides. The conversation spilled from breakfast to our long, long car ride, and into the next day.

I doubt “Cool J’s World” will come to fruition, but I like the way my boys were thinking. WDW’s brilliant marketing suckered us into spending the cost of a roundtrip ticket to Europe for a day of kitschy Americana, but it also offered my boys an education.

And let’s face it: $600 is a whole lot less than I would spend on their MBAs.