Holy Soap Opera Batman

My 84 year old dad is living the life.  His 71 year old wife (not my mother) decided to walk out on him last week, staying with an "old friend" of the male variety.  Cell phone detail is a bitch. Oh my mother must be doing cartwheels in the sky. Alas, his wife came back after only a week.  It seems the older we get, it gets harder to hide our baggage.  Somehow, all the contents just spill out onto the floor. There's a memoir in here somewhere.  

Best Mother Ever

By the way, I just found out that I'm the best mother ever.  My seven year-old told me so just a few minutes ago.  No, really.  I'm sure there's plenty of reasons why, but the precipitating cause du jour is that I let her close her pierced ears for the second time. Two years ago, God knows why, I let Nora have her ears pierced at the age of 5.  It could have gone well, but it didn't mainly because she has no stomach for blood, puss or crust. Are you with me? So when her ear became infected the first time around, she freaked out and screamed when you came toward her with so much as a cotton ball. She begged me to let her close the holes. Now anyone who knows me at all, knows that I am frugal to a fault. The fact that I paid for pierced ears, and would no longer have pierced ears to show for it KILLED ME. But it was the lesser of two evils to not have to navigate Nora's tears and irrational fears that she was going to die from her ear infection. So around Christmas time (2010), Nora told me that she was ready to have her ears re-pierced. We deliberated over it for two months until I conceded. This time, she didn't get an infection. She kept them in for a long time and asked to change earrings a week ago. Let's just say, it didn't go well. Her older sister came through and changed them out for new lady bug studs. Then, yesterday morning, Nora asked me to change them for her. Based on the history, I was nervous and afraid to hurt her. When I tried to insert the new earring, I couldn't tell which hole was the right hole (the second piercing was actually a better aligned version of the imperfect first). I panicked while Nora had a nervous breakdown. She went to school with only one earring in. She had a bad day at school. Her teacher called later to tell me that she cried for me. But really, Nora admitted, she cried because she wanted to put an end to this earring fiasco, and close them once (or twice) and for all. Today, she came home and said she had decided that she just wants to close both holes. I sighed, and told her o.k. with one condition. I would never have her ears pierced again. One day, when she has her own car, money and cotton balls, she can decide to pierce them again. I'm out. She was so relieved. And of course she told me what I already know, that I'm the best mother ever. 

Everything will be better when...

During my twenties, I had the annoying habit of creating optimism through contingency. In those years I lived a fairly carefree existence in Vermont, of all places, with my boyfriend (you may know him as Brendan). I was forever eating and drinking with friends, hiking and biking, and buying whatever it was I thought that I needed. But it quickly became my habit, in times of stress, to believe that my personal happiness would come only after something else happened. I remember letting things (stupid things) weigh me down without relief simply because I had relinquished all control. I was so quick to defer to some other event, that I had no choice but to wait out the arrival of my so labeled cavalry. It could have been anything: a big project at work, six feet of snow in May, a persistent sinus infection. Can you see where I'm going with this? As a default, I would say things like "...things will be better when I get through trade show season", or "...things will be better when I don't have this nasty sinus infection anymore", or "everything will be better once I start my new job." I was unrelenting with my scape goat rhythms of life and so they took hold. In fact, I was so unhappily happy with this pattern that it took years to break. Finally, Brendan and I started to give voice to what we'd been doing. It was depressing to realize that we were so deeply married to our habit. For years, we had readily abandoned our chances for contentment in favor of deferment. It took some time, but we were eventually able to seize the day and enjoy it for what it was at that moment. By the way, the reason I thought again about my long retired past-time is that, after seven months of my 3 kids in weekly rehearsals for Willie Wonka, I was on the verge of falling in step with my old ways.

Too Cheap for a Cupcake Carrier

So a couple of times a year, I bake cupcakes for my kids' in-school birthday celebrations. Typically, I need to transport between 20 and 30 cupcakes. The other day, I saw a mother carrying her cupcakes in a carrier. I sighed because I have passed on this item again and again, thinking that I should be able to make do WITHOUT. Afterall, my kids are 7, 9 and 11, and eventually they won't want me bringing cupcakes to class anymore. So each year passes and I find a way to carry them without the cool-beyond-a-doubt contraption. I have used shirt boxes and rimmed trays lined with foil or waxed paper. Everytime I'm close to breaking down, I consider what I will do with a cupcake carrier when my kids are 12, 14 and 16. And so the martyr lives on...