739. Kids Start With "K"

Kids start with a Kiss in the backseat of a Buick, and a few months later, you find out that strange Knot in your stomach actually means you’re Knocked up.  The doctor forbids you from drinking but, oh, how you’d Kill for a beer right now, or a whole Keg:  you’re being Kicked in the Kidneys by what feels like a Kangaroo practicing Kung-fu.         

When the baby arrives, he throws your whole world off Kilter.  He brings no Keys to his behavior, no book of Knowledge for you to flip through—you must always guess.  You wonder how some other parents just Know what to do, because you don’t.  You can’t Keep up.  One thing is for sure:  there is a new King in your castle, and it’s not you. 

Those sexy abs you used to be so proud of?  Kaput.  Impromptu Kayaking trips on the weekend?  No longer.  Any hobby you were Keen on is a distant memory.      

Is this some sort of Karmic payback from terrorizing your own parents for 18 years?  Maybe you should have Kowtowed to them once in a while and treated them with Kindness.   

It seems you spend your whole life in the Kitchen now, cooking meals that will be scoffed at by people under three feet tall, people with a Knack for perpetually skinned Knees, and Ketchup on their faces.       

Finally, unbelievably, your children reach school-age.  Kudos to you for lasting this long.  You meet Kindred spirits at the Kindergarten open house, and when one of them stops to ask you about your Kooky Kids, you smile wide and reply, “Yes, we’ve decided to Keep them.”

MOV

738. Jumpseat Therapy Starts With "J"

You are a flight attendant.  On the plane, complete strangers wearing identical flight uniforms to yours confess their innermost secrets to you.  This is called:  Jumpseat Therapy. 

It is a strange phenomenon.  You go to briefing, meet five other crew members you’ve never laid eyes on before, and then, based on seniority, choose which duties you will be responsible for on the plane (which also determines where you will sit).  Next thing you know, you are buckled in next to someone who will inevitably share her entire life story with you.   

No topic is off limits.  Your new best friend tells you about her recent divorce, her five miscarriages, her mean former sister-in-law, her impending court date, and her flirty neighbor.  This is during boarding.  By take-off, she has revealed that she was abused as a child and always felt her soul mate was her second cousin. 

You want to participate in the share-fest too, but your life is pretty boring.  So you make stuff up. 

“My boyfriend just got out of jail,” you say competitively, “for tax evasion.” 

She ups the ante.  “My grown son just got his alcoholic girlfriend pregnant, and they’re moving in with me.” 

“My twin sister got fired from her last job,” you throw down the gauntlet, “for seducing her supervisor’s wife.”    

“My youngest daughter is bulimic and in the hospital.  Again.”  

“My neighbor crashed his car.  Into my living room.” 

“My former best friend set my house on fire.  While I was in it.” 

You cannot win, so you give up. 

“I think I just broke my nail?” you squeak. 

She looks at it sympathetically.  “That's a pretty serious injury.  You might have to have a paramedic meet the flight when we land.”

You nod. 

MOV

736. Home Improvement Starts With "H"

We have a one-car garage just off the patio from our kitchen.  On the one hand, we are grateful to have a place to (supposedly) put our car; on the other hand, we have never parked a car in there.  Ever.  The garage has become a giant shed full of junk. 

The kids keep all their outdoor toys in there (which is ironic, isn’t it?  if they are really “outdoor” toys, then why must they be stored inside?), so as a result, the door from the patio to the garage sees a lot of use and abuse.  The formerly pristine white door was now a lovely shade of what Benjamin Moore might dub “Playful Dirt Sunrise.”    

I took it upon myself to change this.  While The Husband and boys went camping overnight, I made my own sojourn to the paint store.  I was shocked to meet a crazy little fairy who was flying around the paint store thrusting samples at me called “Neon Tangerine” and “Pimp Purple” and “Wicked Gold.”  She had obviously been drinking before she assumed her paint fairy duties that day of recommending classic and acceptable paint colors to conservative home-owners like myself.   

I walked out with a quart of “Mexicali Turquoise.” 

Sometimes the crazy paint fairy gets it right: 



Before photo by MOV





After photo by MOV



MOV

(“Mauve Orange Violet”)

733. Walking On Eggshells Starts With "E"

You get in the car and drive an hour to the in-laws.  You subconsciously (or consciously) don’t really want to spend your Sunday this way, but what choice do you have?  Your mother-in-law hijacked this holiday years ago and now it is tradition. 

The boys, God bless them, are excited.  You are, at least, happy for that.  They have been jabbering all morning about what colors they plan to decorate their Easter eggs. 

“Maybe a red striped design,” offers the younger one, “or blue polka dots!” 

“Don’t be silly!” exclaims the older one as he shakes his head dismissively.  “Grandmom doesn’t have anything to make such a complicated pattern!  I plan to do a yellow and turquoise spider web with orange spiders and fluorescent bugs.” 

You arrive late because you kept stalling when it was time to get ready.  Your mother-in-law gives you a perfunctory hug but zooms over to your young sons, the real reason for the visit.  “Boys!  How are you!  Come in and let’s see your cousins!” 

Everyone is already at the table, decorating the eggs.  Your sons get settled in immediately.  There is no chair for you.  You stand.  You are used to it. 

You glance at your watch, trying not to be obvious about it:  12 noon.  Judging by how many eggs are already completed, they must’ve started an hour ago. 

The boys take rubber bands and stretch them around the eggs.  They dip the eggs in rainbow colors.  Your older son has green dye dripping down his thumb.  He looks like he murdered a frog. 

Your mother-in-law makes ham sandwiches for everyone and offers you a soda.  You wonder if it would be improper to ask for a glass of wine.  Your husband gives you a look, a look that says, “Do not ask for wine, I know you are thinking about it,” and you hear your voice say Coke, please. 

Time slows and bends and drips and stops and migrates backwards.  Time is a Salvador Dali painting.  You look at the kitchen clock, because you know it has been about three hours and you wonder if you can go yet.  It has been 10 minutes. 

In the yard, the older cousins hide plastic eggs filled with candies in artificial fruit flavors.  Some of the eggs have dollar bills in them.  You wonder if any of them have a one way ticket to Hawaii.  Or the moon. 

The boys run wild outside, shrieking as they find the eggs.  This isn’t so bad, you tell yourself, they are having fun. 

The younger one, the candy-obsessed one, opens his eggs.  Dollar after dollar after dollar tumble out.  He cries real tears, thinking he has been cheated out of candy. 

You go back in to check on the finished eggs sitting in the dye.  You count how many each son has done:  four each.  They both have 14 more to do.  At this rate, you might get to go home sometime next week. 

Miraculously, your husband finally says you need to get going.  You are internally congratulating yourself on marrying someone who is clearly a mind-reader.  You all walk outside and somehow get stuck talking to a neighbor.  The boys go back in and everyone forgets that you were supposed to be leaving. 

It is now 5 PM, time for dinner.  You must leave or you will go insane. 

You get in the car and sit in traffic.  The boys bicker all the way home.  You walk in your front door and notice the clock on the fireplace mantle reads 6:30.  You set the decorated eggs on the front table and forget about them.  You pick up the phone.  The pizza place confirms your address, and says they will be there in half an hour. 

The next day, you remember the decorated eggs sitting on the front table.  You are forced to throw them out. 

Your sons find them in the trash.  They pull them out and proclaim them to be “perfectly good.”  Without you knowing, your younger son hides them. 

You smell something very bad, but have no idea where it is coming from.  You tear the house apart and find the rotten eggs.  You are missing one egg.    

You are not a fan of Easter this year.

732. Divine Intervention Starts With "D"

It’s no secret that I’ve been Depressed lately.  Damn it, I Dig Deeper, trying to figure out where these Dismal emotions are coming from.  Daunted, I Drag myself from bed, make a latte, and Drink up.  Then it Dawns on me.  This Detrimental Disease, this Darkness that has Descended upon me, is Due to one thing:  my supply of girl scout cookies is Depleted. 

I am Despondent. 

The thin mint Diet is but a Distant memory now, every Diabolical morsel having been Devoured within the first three days of Delivery.  Why, oh, why, Do they have to make those Delicate cookies so Diminutive?  This is beyond Disappointment; I am Defeated and Dismayed, Deprived of the Deliciousness I Definitely Deserve.   

The Husband, of course, Doesn’t understand my Dysfunctional relationship with the GS cookies.  He laughs a Derisive laugh, rolls his eyes in a Derogatory gesture, and tells me Dismissively to “get over it.”  He is, without a Doubt, Deplorable.  I shoot Daggers out the slits of my eyes at him, but he walks away Distracted and oblivious to my Displeasure. 

“Darling, eat another Danish,” he says Diplomatically, as if I cannot Discern the Difference between one Dessert and another.  I regard him and his Disgraceful substitutions with Disdain.

I really Don’t want to Discuss it with him, but I am Determined to set him straight:  “Dear, Don’t tell me what to Do …” I begin, Dizzy from the hunger.        

A knock at the Door interrupts my Diatribe. 

I answer, and there stands a neighbor Dad and his Daughter and their Dog.  The Darling Daughter is Dressed in some sort of green uniform and clutching a Document.  “We’re sorry to Disturb you, Doctor MOV,” says Daniela to me, “but it was time to Drop off your second order of girl scout cookies!” 

This is like a Delightful Dream with Doves soaring and Dolphins Diving.  I want to hug Daniela and promote her to girl scout Dignitary.  I am no longer the Disillusioned Dame I was mere minutes ago. 

“Thank you,” Declares The Husband, walking over and handing her a check, “My wife had Developed somewhat of an addiction to these cookies, ha ha.”  How Dare he compare these innocent cookies to Drugs?!      

The girl Departs.  I Dab my Damp eyes with a tissue, my Demented Demeanor shifts, and I Dance a victory jig.    

No longer Distressed, I scoop up the cookie boxes (three Dozen!) and Disappear.     

MOV

731. Chuck E. Cheese Starts With "C"



Before you had children, you might have thought Chuck E. Cheese was a TV game show or possibly an expensive organic cheese flown in from Vermont.      

How wrong you were.    

Chuck E. Cheese is a place where kids go to have their birthday parties.  The colors are garish, the games are loud, the pizza is greasy … the perfect place for six-year-olds.  Chuck himself is a giant smiling rat (maybe he is trying to be like Mickey Mouse?) who wanders around, shaking everyone’s hand.  There are games at Chuck E. Cheese’s, pinball games and loud simulator games, and tubes to crawl through—tubes that no one since the beginning of time has bothered to clean.  Oh, yes, it is a given that if you go to Chuck E. Cheese, you will get sick.  Within 24 hours.  You have never seen so many nasty vile visible germs congregate in one place, sort of a worship hall of disease and pestilence.  (And as a side note to the Chuck E. Cheese legal department:  you cannot possibly sue me for saying that.  Because it’s true.) 

Why do children want to go there?  Why indeed?  Who knows?  They just do.  And some hapless parental type has to take them there. 

You should avoid all things Chuck.  Just never talk about him, and instead hope and pray that your children will forget who he is.  The problem is:  other kids.  Other kids who are friends with your kids and are nice enough (mean enough?) to invite your sons to a birthday party at the Rat Palace.   

When your kids receive a Chuck E. Cheese invitation in the mail, they can practically taste the high-fructose corn syrup.  They wanna go now!  This is when the intense negotiations between parents begin: 

“I took him to that Bounce House party two months ago.  That was a 45 minute drive each way.  It’s your turn.”  “No.  I chaperoned the zoo field trip for the school and had to stand in the snow for three hours with a bunch of kindergartners and make sure none of them wandered off.  Your turn.” “No.  I did that Chuck E. Cheese party last year—remember, the one where that kid threw up on my new linen jacket?  You have to go.”  “Argh!  Rock, paper, scissors?”  “Deal.”

This devolves of course into two out of three and then seven out of ten.  If you are the losing parent, you will cry (no fake tears necessary) and then proceed to bribe the winning parent (“I will wash the dishes for two months AND change the cat’s litter box every day,”).  This type of negotiating does no good, as the winner knows exactly what he is avoiding.  The winner says a little prayer of thanks to the Gods of Rock, Paper, Scissors, and gives the loser a kiss.  “Don’t bother bringing me a slice of pizza,” says the winner, grossly overstepping the boundaries of appropriate gloating.

Walking in the door of Chuck E. Cheese is like buying a one-way ticket to Migraine-ville.  The only question being:  Will this migraine wear off later today or will you be stuck with it all the way until tomorrow? 

You sit there, as the losing parent, watching your children race around like crack addicts looking for their next fix.  You desperately try to access that happy place in your brain, the place where all this melts away.  That is the precise moment when the waitress appears and you remember the only decent thing about Chuck E. Cheese when she asks you,  

“Can I get you a beer?”

MOV

728. Art Critic Starts With "A"

photo by MOV of Short's art

“Mommy,” he said, “I made this for you.”  He gave me a black paper tube, something precious confined in its spiral secrecy.  The curly ribbon tied tight around it brushed against my skin, like a delicate spider’s wispy legs. 

“Do you want me to open it now?” I asked, suspicious since it was only December 17^th, “or do you want me to wait?” 

He squealed, “Now!  Open it now!” 

“Short, is it for Christmas?” I prompted, the textbook version of my proper mommy-self appearing when called for.  “Shouldn’t we wait?” 

His eyes filled with emotion, a mixture of sadness and betrayal, a betrayal of the Instant Gratification Gene that he had (undoubtedly) inherited from me.  Then, in a fit of drama, “If you don’t open it now, Mommy, I will die.” 

His words hung in the air, a semi-deflated yesterday balloon of sorrow floating nowhere.  

I was not expecting such theatrics rolled into a tube that was my only Christmas present (that I myself had not picked out and paid for) from my youngest son.  He will die??  What’s in that tube, a secret elixir to prevent certain death caused by lack of patience? 

His mood shifted mere seconds later.  He was, after all, a mercurial kindergartner.  “Or you can wait, Mommy!  Whatever you like!”  He skipped off in search of Pokémon cards, or the cat, or a stash of unbuilt Legos.  

I set the tube, red ribbon glistening like candy magic, under the prickly tree.

Christmas day arrived, and with it the promise of a special gift, a tube of happiness.  I opened the present, and was thrilled to see a handmade calendar.  Short attends a wonderful school where the teachers are constantly dreaming up elaborate projects (with their resulting byproducts to give to the parents).  This particular idea was absolutely brilliant:  the Virgo in me loved the practicality, while the mommy in me loved the sentimentality.           

“Did you draw this?” I asked with trepidation.  Better to confirm first than to lavish praise on art that had the remote chance of belonging to someone else.  Like what happened last week.    

“Yes!  It’s our family!  You, me, Pop, and Tall!  It’s us!”  His stretchy grin wrapped around his little round face. 

“I love it!” I hugged him and simultaneously marveled at how The Husband and I had somehow produced a second artistic progeny, akin to Picasso or Renoir.  “You and Tall are the very best artists in the whole world!” I exclaimed triumphantly.      

“Yes.  I know,” Short confirmed confidently.  He took the calendar out of my grasp for closer inspection.  “Oh, oh no,” he scrunched up his elastic face with all the seriousness of an appraiser being handed a blatant counterfeit piece that he is only now seeing for the very first time, “Pop does not look so good in this picture.” 

The Husband stifled a laugh.  Truth be told, it was quite a good likeness.  He had been accused in the past of having a large lumpy head. 

Short continued his thorough and professional assessment:  “Let’s see, his arms are good, his legs are good, his hair is good … but his head?  His head is kind of big on one side.  I didn’t draw his head very well.”  A dark, gloomy cloud descended upon Short. 

“Short,” I said, shifting into full-on cheerleader mode, “The drawing is fantastic!  I love it!  I am going to hang it up on the bulletin board in the kitchen right now!” 

And just like that, he was happy again.  As was I.  I inspected the lovely female family member he had so meticulously drawn—eyes as big and blue as swimming pools, hair scribbled with a crayon labeled “Sunshine,” lips like a robust Valentine, legs that could double for an anorexic flamingo, and to top it all off, a retro-inspired color-blocked dress—and I breathed a long, satisfied, sigh of relief:  at least one of us in the drawing was realistic-looking.    

photo by MOV of Short's art

MOV
(“Matisse Or VanGogh”)