The Most Modern of Conveniences

Did you you know that they make dishwashers with garbage disposals now?  You don't even need to rinse the dishes.  Just pop them in the machine and it does it for you, with the detritus from dinner going into the disposal.  I thought this was insane when I first heard it.  I mean, how hard is it to rinse dishes?  I find it rather soothing myself.  But, then again, this is America, where we are so lazy we have battery powered tooth brushes.

I have not really changed my mind on the dishwasher thing, but I am hoping that, at least for mothers with small children, they will soon invent the washing machine/garbage disposal combo.  I won't burden you with the colorful details, but let's just say there are times when some of the edible bits of a little boys life make it to the laundry room, carried there in pockets I presume.  At these times, a disposal would be good.  I'm just saying.

Saturday Morning

I woke up tired and stiff. I didn’t move more than enough to peek out and see that it was still middle-of-the-night dark. Then I heard it. The reason I had awakened in the first place, I am sure.

"Mommy?"

It was Samuel at the side of my bed, so close I could feel the warmth of his breath on my face.  I didn't hear him coming, he was just there, like a little pre-school ninja.

"Yes, Sam." I whisper. It took every ounce of strength I had.

“Hugs?" he asked.

I gave him a big hug, knowing that if I did not he would only climb into the bed and take one. Plus, I like hugs. The clock said 5:36. So close to a decent hour for a three year old, yet so far from anything resembling morning.

“Go back to bed now Samuel.”

“O.K.”

He toddled away, but I knew he would be back.

As I lay there in the dark, trying to get back to sleep, the day ahead of me began to unfold in my mind. There were groceries to be put away. The non-perishables which I had been too tired to deal with last night. The living room was a jumble of toys. Portions of dinner were still residing under the dining room table. Dishes. Oh, and the laundry. Basket after basket. Family is coming on Thursday, so the press is on to get Cate’s room in some kind of order. My thoughts continued.

The more overwhelming my day became, the more tired I felt. I realized that what I craved was not more sleep, but less responsibility. This made me feel like a horrible person. Emotionally ill-equipped to deal with these feelings, I drifted back to sleep.

Sam returned about a half an hour later. I told him it was the middle of the night (it was really about six) and sent him back to his room. I felt like a horrible mother. Emotionally ill-equipped to deal with these feelings, I drifted back to sleep.

About six thirty, I heard a loud, clanking noise, like nesting glass bowls being jostled about. (I'm a mother. Even sound asleep I can identify potentially dangerous noises.) Oh, no. He is out of his bed, breaking things. He is going to wake his sister. Or, his father!

I opened my eyes in the semi-darkness to find a warm but empty space where Hubband had been. He had gotten up with the boys. They were both up now. I could hear them. He was getting them juice and such. What a great guy. But, there was no coffee made for him. Making coffee is squarely within my half of the division of labor. I began to feel like a horrible wife. Emotionally ill-equipped to deal with these feelings, I drifted back to sleep.

I finally woke up at a quarter past seven. The middle of the morning to this family. I could have slept longer. A horrible day of work beckoned. Why not hide under the duvet just a little longer?

What finally rousted me was the smell. I came into the kitchen, my guilt barely covered by my red flannel robe, to find a hot cup of coffee and a warm bowl of oatmeal waiting for me.

I still have a whole lot of work to do today, but at least I have a really great guy to keep me company.

A Teresa by Any Other Name

My mother wanted to name me Catherine.  My father wanted to name me Tracey.  They compromised.  They named me Teresa.

Women Named Teresa

Teresa?  But your name is Tracey?

Well, yes, and no.

My mother did not like the name Tracey, and also thought that it was a name I would outgrow.  Not a suitable name for a grown woman.  So, she suggested Teresa, the name of her best friend.  And, if my father insisted, they could call me Tracey.  Well, insist he did. So, the name on my birth certificate is Teresa,  but I have always been called Tracey by my family.

Women Named Tracey

I have had to explain my name several times throughout the years.  "Teresa?  I thought your name was Tracey?"  people ask, often with a tone that implies, I have somehow gotten it wrong.  "How do you get 'Tracey' from 'Teresa'?" people want to know.  Shrug, ask my dad.  Cashing birthday checks from my grandmother (written to Tracey) could be tricky.  I even had some brain-dead bouncer outside a bar accuse me of trying to use my twin sister's ID to sneak in.  Even if I were, I'd still be over 21 you dumb ass.  (Pardon my French.)  Or maybe he was just flirting with me.  You can see why maybe I didn't date much.

It would have been simpler if Tracey were a common derivative of Teresa, like Terri or Tess, but it is not.  I've been told it is common in Ireland.  Yeah, whatever.  I didn't grow up in Ireland.  But my high school trigonometry teacher did.  Mr. McGuigan.  He said Teresa in such a way--Trrayza--that the Tracey became quite obvious.  Thank you, Mr. McGuigan, for validating me and my deviant name.

As I understand it, Tracey is also a of bit a derogatory name in the UK.  A girl who is a bit vapid and stupid.  A waste of space or oxygen.  Too many of them I guess. 

It's not a great name.  I don't love it.  I don't even really like it all that much.  It's just my name.  Ho-hum.  But it is my name, so after September 11, I had it legally changed to Tracey, so as to avoid any more (serious) complications.  Only to find out, that on the birth certificates for my children, the State of California requires, not my legal name, but my birth name.  Big sigh.  So now, on paper at least, I am not even the mother to my own children.  Which is going to make it difficult to get them passports.  Maybe they are my twin sister's children.  Ugh!

Bureaucratic red tape aside, I have come full circle. When our daughter was born fourteen months ago, I wanted to name her Catherine.  Hubband didn't really like that name at first, but I talked him into it.  "My mother wanted to name me Catherine," I explained.  "But my father wouldn't let her.  They are divorced now."  So, our little girl is named Catherine.

Emotional blackmail?  Maybe.  I know you have to pick your battles in a marriage, but because of my (and my mother's) history with this issue, I wanted to win this one.  And, Catherine is a lovely name.

I Didn't See This Coming

So, I'm sitting at lunch. On a sunny Monday afternoon. With my husband. And no kids.

Greek place. There will be baklava for dessert.

I should check my phone, I think. I have a new ring tone. It is to the tune of Where is My Hairbrush, but it is Where is My Cell Phone, sung by Larry the Cucumber. The kids love it. But, I never hear it. So, I think I should check my phone. Maybe Abby (the best babysitter in the world) called for something.



Oh, good thing I checked. I have a text message. What is wrong, I wonder. Abby can usually handle anything. Yes, she is only 15, but so far there has been nothing that my kids have thrown at her that she could not handle.

The text message reads, and I quote, "Hey, where do you keep your plunger?"

Where is my plunger? Oh, where is my plunger? Oh, where oh where oh where oh where oh wheeeeerrreeee...is my plunger?

Play the video for a good smile.
C'mon. You have three minutes and six seconds.

Snap Shot

I posted everyday last week.  And they were long posts too.  Thank you all for your patient indulgence.  Today, I will be brief.  Just a quick snap shot of our weekend.  Hubband's parents came to visit from Washington State.  Here is Grandpa with our whole brood.

A Jubilee Year for Jonah

Jonah turned 5 this month.  Five is an age when a birthday party full of friends, family, and rented entertainment, or at least themed paper cups and napkins, seems appropriate, but when I broached the subject with the young prince, he replied, "Oh, Mom.  I don't want a big party.  All of those people get in my way."

Jonah likes people, and excitement, and fun.  But, he does not do well in crowds.  He gets over stimulated and starts to  loose control of his limbs and his manners.  Those of us who know and love Jonah, know this about him.  What I find amazing, is that he knows this about himself.  What a kid.

So, there was no big party this year.  It was replaced by a series of good times, the sum of which, is turning out to be better than any party.  Except there has been no bounce house.  Yet.

The night before Jonah's actual birthday, I informed Hubband, in case he did not know, that I have three small children to raise, a house to tend to, and, let's face it, a blog to write.  I don't have a lot of time.  As a result, I did not have a present for the boy.  (Well, I had a t-shirt with his new favorite character on it, but nothing fun.)  I was expecting him, Hubband, to go out and get one after dinner.  Would he mind?  He didn't mind.  In fact, he liked the idea so much that he took Jonah with him.

A late night (half past six) trip to Toys-R-Us, with Daddy and his wallet, was a dream come true for our little boy.  He came home with a Nerf six-shooter.  He promised he would be surprised when he opened it the next day.  He insisted, in fact, that we wrap it, so that he could act surprised.  The kid deserves an Oscar.  Foam bullets with little suction cup tips have been flying around the house ever since.

On his birthday proper, he had school, so I delivered the obligatory cup cakes to his classroom.  They sang and he blew out candles.  He liked it.

After school, Nana came over, which he always loves.  She came bearing gifts of course.  A Hot Wheels track.  Battery powered.  It spits cars through two spinning wheels, much like a pitching machine, and they go shooting around the figure eight track.  We are going to have to buy batteries in bulk, but it is worth it for the wonderful moments of peace this has brought.  All three children just stare at it, and the, now familiar, "whir whir clickety whir" sound lulls them.

That night Hubband and I took (just) him out to dinner at one of those Japanese places where they cook the food on a large grill right in front of you.  He loved that too.  He shrieked at the flaming onion volcano, giggled when the guy flipped the salt and pepper shakers up into the top of his hat, and used chopsticks.

That weekend, Tante (what he calls my sister) and Uncle Jim arrived at our house with Sock Monkey.  Sock Monkey is, well, a sock monkey, but the socks he is made out of could have been worn by a giant.  Sock Monkey has become, in a few short days, a part of the family.  He eats with us.  He sleeps with Jonah.   He wears clothes.  Including pajamas.  Today, Jonah took him to school.

Sock Monkey was only the beginning of what Tante and Uncle Jim had to offer.  They took him out to lunch and his food came served in a box that looks just like a 1964 Ford Mustang.  Yellow.  Like the one my dad had when I was a kid.  Next, they went to a train show.  And, it does not end there.  He came home from the train show with a wooden train tunnel that whistles whenever a train goes through it, and has a record function that allows you to holler into the tunnel and it will play it back with an echo.  Oh, the cleverness.  Oh, the noise.  This thing cost a small fortune, but I'm sure it was worth every penny to my sister, who knows I must listen to it.

So far, that has been all.  But his other grandparents are coming this weekend and Hubband's sister and her fiance are coming next weekend.  And, I still want to rent a bounce house.  This is more for us than him.  Those boys are so happy just bouncing, bouncing, bouncing, that they leave us alone and sleep really well.

Loving the Beige Off

I love my house.  My family dwells here.  We run and play and grow and love here.  We make noise and messes and memories here.  We gather in, and go out, and always return to this small house that is part of the family now.  But, I must admit.  I never thought I could love anything so boring.

My house is twelve hundred square feet of beige, in a neighborhood of beige houses, in a town of beige houses.  There are twenty identical houses in a quarter mile radius.  It is a soulless little cube of America.  Or it was, until it became ours and we loved it.  Now, it is like the Velveteen Rabbit of houses.  It is something more than the sum of its beige parts.  Now it is our home.

Not my neighborhood,  or even my town, but honestly, who can tell the difference.

I grew up in a similar house.  They weren't painting them all the same color back then, but every sixth house was identical.  I was not rebellious by nature, but I wanted out.

I remember the first time I went to the older part of town as a child.  Brick.  Color.  Every house was different.  I wanted to live there.  And, for awhile, I did.  I never had the nicest house on the block, in fact, it was usually an apartment or a flat conversion, but when I was single and childless, I made a point of living in those older neighborhoods.  I was never going back to the suburbs.  Never.

Something happens, though, when you get married and have kids.  Good schools and modern wiring have an allure.  So, here I live.  In a good school district.  With modern wiring.  An easy commute for Hubband (which was the big selling point).  And, an open floor plan.

Have you ever heard of an "open floor plan"?  This is the new thing in American tract homes.  It has its pluses and minuses.

On the plus side, the kitchen, dining room, and living room are all one big room. It is called the Great Room, which is over stating it a bit.  As a mother with three small children, this is perfect.  I am queen of all I survey from my kitchen sink.  Pretty handy.

"I am queen of all I survey from my kitchen sink"

On the minus side, the master bathroom has no door.  That's right folks.  No door.  There is a tiny "water closet" in which to tend to the very private, but that is all.  The sink and shower are, uh, open, to the bedroom.  As a mother with three small children, this is not so perfect.

I have taken to dressing in the closet.  And I must perform an elaborate "fan dance" with towel, curtain, and robe to get in and out of the shower when the children are in our room, if I want to maintain any privacy.

I could just lock them out of the bedroom, but then they would scream and cry and wake someone.  I'd rather my children see me walk naked down our beige street than wake some one.  Come to think of it, that might liven things up around here.

I know we won't live like this forever.  Though he loves our house as I do, and for the same reasons, Hubband isn't fond of beige either.  Someday we will have a house with a little more character.  Until then, I must provide it.  That is why when giving instructions to first time visitors, I always say, "You can't miss it.  It's the beige one."