My Word!

So, I'm waiting in the doctor's office, flipping through dog-eared back issues of Vogue (a magazine most definitely not written for simple moi), when I stumble across what looks like a short quip about packing for a trip. This is a story about how Jemma Kidd packs for a trip. Who? A Google search turns up that she's some fancy-pants, and I mean FANCY PANTS, countess in England that spends her free time as a make-up artist. You know, when she's not lacing up her $1,550 platforms or downing a rice-milk vegan cocktail made by the German detox expert that's glued to her side. She also has a make-up line at Target that I've completely missed. One of the photos shows her holding her six-month-old while parading on a beach in a bikini with her rock-solid abs. I hate her already, obviously. 

As I skim a little more, I figure out that this is literally a story about how this woman packs for a jaunt to her family's plantation in Barbados. She changes clothes, sorry, outfits, 5 times a day! And not because her baby spit up on her, or she got a little too sweaty. But because, "she likes to wear white to breakfast" and "a fresh bikini and caftan to lunch" and on and on. The article wraps up with a laundry list of the exotic locales she'll travel to later in the year, and how she sends all her clothes out to be cleaned and pressed and repacked, yes, repacked. Every single ensemble that lady put on cost more than my mortgage payment. (She probably doesn't know what a mortgage payment is, let alone why someone in their right mind would even think about spreading out such paltry sums of money for so long...) 

I probably sound a little bitter right about now. But I'm actually not. Well, honestly, for a fleeting five seconds I did feel a little pang of envy over such an exotic lifestyle. I'm actually quite glad that I'm not Jemma Kidd though. I'm glad that I like to dig in the dirt, get sweaty and dirty at the gym, and wear clothes that I'm not afraid of ruining. I've always felt a little like a grown-up version of Ramona Quimby, which is as far from glamorous as you can get. But I'm ok with that.

For all I know, Jemma Kidd could be a total hack with a worthless British title and so far in debt she had to create a cosmetics line for Target to hopefully bail her ass out. Either way, it's still impressive that someone has that kind of energy and patience to put so much thought into appearances. People are so fascinating.

As is often the case with parenting, I had one particularly wretched day of cleaning poopy underwear not once, but twice, bickering children, a bad dog who wouldn't stop digging out the irrigation system (really?!?), and a whole caseload of domestic and parental troubles just annoying enough that if this was a job, I would quit. All of this was followed this morning by the foolproof kid comeback of homemade mother's day presents and breakfast in bed, followed by mimosas on a quiet front porch. Waking up to big toothy grins, my 7-year-old's honest good intentions to do all of my laundry (so far, the one load is patiently awaiting its dryer time about an hour later...), a boisterous 4-year-old boy dive-bombing the bed...that's what makes it mother's day.

So, no matter how tired I get of mercurial temperaments, stomping feet, bursts of inconsolable crying over trifling matters, and the seemingly incessant "Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!" (even after I've said "What?" about a thousand times), I know that this time is fleeting and precious, an inextricable whirl of emotions too complex to fully analyze or comprehend. 

So happy mother's day to all of my friends and family. And here's to enjoying it all. Cheers!

I'm happy to say that this Christmas was fairly low stress, even though we had to have two pet sitters (our dog had to board and someone else came in to feed the fish, cats and visiting hamster...can hamsters actually live in the wild anyway?).  And it's the first time in about....well, since I was about nine or 10 that it's been that way. Our family packed up for a whirlwind tour of our extended families over a three-day pass through Atlanta. Not quite as fast as Santa, but almost. My husband and I have divorced and remarried parents on both sides. Which means that we have a lot of family to visit. And, with the exception of an aunt or uncle or two, they all live in and around the metro Atlanta area. And so do a lot of our very good friends, since we also grew up in Atlanta. If you get where I'm going with this, it makes it a very difficult thing to just pop into our hometown. Were we childless, it would be no problem. But we are toting a three and a seven-year-old with us, and therein lies the difficulty. 

At four o'clock we descended upon the beach. A bride, lovingly surrounded by ladies in island blue, kissed her new husband and walked up the rose-petal-strewn sand, on to her happily-ever-after as we set up beach chairs, shovels and buckets. We played. Rain threatened. A few lightning strikes lit up the sky. The clouds passed, and still we played. Until the moon rose. Not quite full, but bright enough for a moonlit game of soccer on the beach. Me against my three-year-old and the older kids shouting and running and diving against each other. Waves crashed. A lone pelican flew low over the beach and out of sight. Good friends clinked mini-champaigne bottles to celebrate 15 years of mine and Adam's marriage. Night descended on our sandy stretch of beach in perfect mystery.

Since I'm a writer, you could say that I should post to my blog all the time. Or, since I'm a writer, you might think I just need a break. Blogging for me is a little hard at times. When I've been working a lot, writing a lot, and reading a lot, the last thing I want to do is come up with something witty and charming and hopefully enthralling for someone to read. Maybe I'm lazy or maybe I'm just tired. 

Who are you when you get behind the wheel of your car? Are you the sporty-hot mom dashing between school and the gym? Are you the super-cool hipster trying not to care about how you look, but inside you really, really, REALLY do? Are you the wannabe race car driver? It's a quirky side of human beings, what happens to us in our cars. All of us inevitably fall into some stereotype. We have a level of anonymity in that essentially no one we're passing knows us, cares much about us, and half the time, doesn't even really notice us. We're like billboards for ourselves. And have you noticed that when people do recognize you, you're caught off guard? Busted in whatever persona you're trying to put on. It's also funny how a lot of people lose their sense of common politeness, and everything turns into a race. Because we don't have to immediately answer for our actions on the road–unless, of course, we don't see that cop a few cars back or we actually hit someone or something–some of us just get plain rude. And angry. And dumb. But luckily, there are still a few of us who remain polite and even considerate.