All jokes about ex-wives will be taken seriously, apparently

We have two aging cats (they’re from the same litter and I think they’re nearly 13 now) who track kitty litter everywhere, require us to cover all furniture because they’re super-sheddy, and barf multiple times a day. They can be lovely company, though, so these faults are not enough to keep us from wanting to take them to Sweden with us when we move next year. Their terror of traveling even ten minutes in their carriers to the vet’s, however, is. I just can’t see putting them through 20 hours of such trauma at their age to go live somewhere very cold. So figuring out what to do with the cats has become an issue.

As it was Husband’s ex-wife, from whom he divorced more than ten years ago, who originally adopted the cats (it’s not clear to him, he says, how he got them in the settlement), I once made a little joke suggesting that she take them back. She’d long since moved to a faraway state and since we’d already established the cats’ inability to travel, I was not being serious. I seem to have been taken seriously, though, and recently received a quick email from Husband listing a variety of little tasks he’d completed (e.g. “researched dog quarantines in Sweden”, “contacted roofing companies”) and tucked in there was this little gem, “[Ex-wife] has offered to take [cats]; they currently live out in [suburb near us].”

Excuse me? a) Since when does Husband keep in touch with his ex-wife?; b) She’s taking our cats?; and c) She lives near us all of a sudden?

I wasn’t actually alarmed, and didn’t and don’t feel threatened, but I was and am certainly curious. It turns out that Ex-wife had sent Husband a few emails since Little Girl’s birth (it’s a mystery how she found out about that) and while he hadn’t responded to any beyond the first congratulatory one, he did write back to her at last and send pictures of Little Girl and mention our plans to move abroad, and the various logistical issues involved, including the bit about the cats. And she immediately wrote back offering to take them. And updated him on all their old friends. Like their old roommate. Whom she married. Huh.

I’ve never met Ex-wife, and I’m thinking this situation might be a prime opportunity to fix this gaping hole in my knowledge of Husband. I could invite her (and her husband, Husband’s old roommate–wouldn’t that be a blast?!) to come see the cats, right? No? Why does most everybody say this is a crazy idea? What do you think?

The early bird gets to sweep up pine needles for a longer length of time

Judging from my enthusiasm levels, my favorite Thanksgiving tradition seems to be decorating for Christmas on the following day. The aged ornaments, the various little gleanings from post-Christmas sales, the pine-scented candles, the textiles and toys, the Swedish decorations of straw…and of course the tree. One of my absolutely favorite posts detailed some of the pagan origins of Christianity, Christmas, and Christmas trees in particular, if you are interested. At any rate, this year’s tree is rather more traditional in size and angle than the one featured in the above-linked post and so far a minimum of ornaments have been knocked down.

The cats certainly seem to be enjoying it (we have a tree skirt, but Little Girl removed it almost immediately for dress-up).

And Little Girl is really getting into things this year. I’ve been speaking to her quite a lot about how Santa will bring her toys if she listens to Mommy. This strategy does not look, thus, far, very promising; however, she has become quite enamored of Santa as a result.

All the fun of the season without all the faith!

Meme! Tag!

Since I’ve now been tagged for this twice, by Punch Drunk, and by Healing Arts, and since I was pretty sure nobody would be interested in a post about what we ate on Thanksgiving, and not a lot else has been going on, here we go. It’s a one-word-response kind of thing which is quite a trial but pith is a useful skill and one must practice.

Where is your cell phone? Unknown
Where is your significant other? Chair
Your hair color? Blondish
Your mother? Anxious
Your father? Depressed
Your favorite thing? Reading
Your dream last night? Cleaning
Your goal? Umeboshi
The room you’re in? Wood
Your hobby? Internet
Your fear? Injury
Where do you want to be in six years? Content
Where were you last night? Here
What you’re not? Empty
One of your wish-list items? Pistachios!
Where you grew up? Assorted
The last thing you did? Organize
What are you wearing? PJs
Your TV? Black
Your pet? Multiple
Your computer? Present
Your mood? Pleased
Missing someone? No
Your car? Practical
Something you’re not wearing? Shoes
Favorite store? Grocery
Your summer? Hot
Love someone? Plural
Your favorite color? Periwinkle
When is the last time you laughed? Bedtime
Last time you cried? Weaning

I am supposed to tag seven people and the practice seems to be to tag the most-recent commenters (not counting repeats or those who tagged you).

Mary at http://mythinkingchair.com/
coffeegrljp at http://okaasanmommy.blogspot.com/
Christy at http://www.cakerwakers.blogspot.com/
Magpie at http://magpiemusing.com/
Rachel at http://www.maxsmom06.com/
Evenshine at http://www.evenshine.wordpress.com/
Robyn at http://robynanne.wordpress.com/

Small town errands

The motto of my little town, really just a suburban satellite of a big city, is “Where everybody’s a somebody.” I guess this is more true than I’d realized, as I now seem to have formed relationships with my usual bank teller and post office clerk. I see the former because I stupidly did not sign up for direct deposit at either of my part-time jobs, and the latter because selling my old college textbooks online has been surprisingly fruitful. We’ve made over five hundred dollars so far, which would be even more impressive if that’s not about how much I spent each and every of the eight semesters I was a college student.

A few weeks ago, the bank teller complimented me for always having Little Girl with me when I come in. And when my husband goes to the bank, apparently he always has her in tow, too. Of course, the next time I wanted to go by the bank Little Girl was actually at the babysitter’s, but I couldn’t go in because I didn’t want to disappoint the teller. On our visit Monday, she again complimented me, saying that, unlike other children, Little Girl never cries. Immediately thereafter Little Girl injured herself in some mysterious way in the bank’s little playroom and started howling, but it’s true: she does like to go out and about and run errands.

At the post office, she hands over the books in their bubble mailers; she passes the payment; she collects the receipt; and then she throws it away for me. At the library she puts the books in the return window; she “helps” me with the touch screen when I check out books; she grabs the receipt when it spits out of its slot; and she puts that in the trash can, too. At the grocery store she holds the list (once I’ve gathered everything on it) and vigorously greets the cashier and bagger and, again, takes charge of the receipt. And everywhere we go we see people we know, people who have known Little Girl since she was a wee thing tucked away in my sling sleeping in the frozen foods, and marvel anew at how she’s grown, how she talks, those curls. I will miss that when we move.

Amateur status

Yesterday we went to a one-year-old’s birthday party, the daughter of a friend of mine from grad school. Little Girl was the biggest of the cohort of small children who were mostly just turning one. This left me Most Senior Mother in the Toddler/Baby Division and lead me to various proclamations about the needs and habits of one-year-olds which, even as I was asked to do it, spurred on by questions of nap schedules and utensil usage, sort of baffled me. What made me some kind of expert?

I realized that in every get-together of mothers and children there’s always this same undercurrent of seniority based on a careful, if unconscious, calculation of children’s ages, mothers’ ages, number of offspring per mother, mothers’ personalities, and children’s behavior. The mother with three school-aged kids who possess manners and have mastered the potty is more sought as a fount of knowledge than the mother of a single four-month-old, even if that mother has a doctorate in child development and stepkids in middle school (true scenario from Little Girl’s first birthday party).

This makes total sense, of course. Experience is the best teacher. But it’s the weird sense of hierarchy, the idea that one person’s experience trumps another person’s knowledge of their kid or their broad reading on the subject, and in fact advances that person’s social status, that maybe is what makes freshman mothers sometimes in this time and place so nervous, so uncertain. I know I felt that way around more “advanced” moms, and when I joined my mothers’ group when Little Girl was but twelve weeks old, I felt like a new girl not just because I was new, but because Little Girl was new, even though I’d been a nanny, even though, at home, alone, I felt like I was doing well, certainly as well as possible under our uniquely difficult circumstances.

I wonder if this minor social phenomenon is part of why mothers of only children are subtly derided sometimes as insufficiently dedicated to motherhood, why people say things like, “you’re not a real parent until you have two,” which I’ve heard in several places, making it seem like multiple children is what it takes to go professional, as if having children were a competitive sport. But in some places, in some ways, it is. I can understand and don’t mind if higher social cache is the reward for the challenges of three-under-three, or twin toddlers, or four-with-licenses. But it makes me uncomfortable when that perspective invalidates the experiences of others.

Pizza! Rest-rant! Yummy!

An unintended consequence of my bringing home pizza (twice) out of abject laziness the week Husband was abroad is that Little Girl is now obsessed with the stuff. And restaurants. When we’re driving home for lunch, she instead campaigns, “No home. Rest-rant. Yummy food! Pizza!”

In an effort to address these desires, Husband and I took her to a pizza restaurant (double win!) on Friday night, where she proceeded to eat a slice the size of her torso. She was so dedicated to finishing it, even after working for a good forty minutes, that we took her home in the car still gnawing on the crust. She ended up with a tummy ache, but we’re still calling it a successful outing.

Young people today

I’ve met with two young ladies so far this fall for their college applicant interviews for my alma mater. One applicant, without my permission, apparently gave my phone number to a local political organizer who called me to try to get me to come to some planning meeting. She evidently quite mistook my polite interest in her campaign volunteer work. The other young woman told me her decision to apply to the school stemmed from some character on “The OC” (which I am taking to be a modern-day 90210). She very animatedly shared quite a long and rather unclear plot line with me on this topic, yet (when prompted) was unable to offer any other specific reasons for her interest in the institution.

What is wrong with these people? Have they no sense? Should I be sarcastic or Deeply Troubled about these foibles in my write-ups, or ignore them as the by-products of nervous teenage minds?

Fashion for the semi-continent

In creating a wardrobe for Little Girl for this winter in size 2T I made several grave errors. The plethora of overalls and the array of long-sleeved shirts with crotch-snaps were entirely misguided. I cannot think of an outfit less well-suited to efficient potty trips. Crotch-snaps in general are a menace to those who are seeking to become continent members of society. And Little Girl’s footed PJs, which insanely require wholesale removal to go to the bathroom, are not worth the printed fleece they are made of. How did I amass so many of these? Why do they even make these things in size 2T? Isn’t everyone who wears that size striving in some small measure to become a potty user?

While it was warm and we were first working towards potty-training, Little Girl went around mostly in long T-shirts; once it got colder, I added baby leg warmers and Swedish moccasins to the ensemble, and now Little Girl mostly wears miniaturized versions of adult clothing: a shirt, a sweater, some pants, a skirt, a dress, tights. Sometimes even panties (though lately not, as we seem to be experiencing a reprise of anal-retentiveness, leading to…problems; the highpoint of Little Girls’ panty-wearing career was the entire day spent at a festival a couple of weeks ago, during which she daringly and expertly used a variety of public facilities). She is, at any rate, pretty much always using the potty for pee, so that’s something.

I’m left, then, with a multitude of correctly-sized but developmentally-inappropriate clothing taunting me whenever I rummage around in the drawers. It’s enough to put one off buying ahead entirely.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot

Today I got this email:

Hello, I dont know if you remember me. It has been such a long, long, time ago, maybe 10 or more years ago. We met, I believe it was via [online chat service]. I remember you were about to graduate from high school and feeling very proud and happy you were going to [fancy pants] University.

Anyhow, I dont know why today, when I woke up I had the name ” [my first name] “, in my head, and it took me a while to remember your last name, suddenly at lunch I remembered, ” [my extremely hard-to-remember-and-spell maiden name]“, and made a google search on your name and it took me to [website of my dad's "company" on which I am listed as "administrative assistant"]. I decided to write a small email to say hi, and to wish you all the best. I am happy you are doing great. See Ya……

[Hispanic name I do not recognize]
Guatemala

This is totally possible. I had a lot of internet acquaintances, occasionally more-than-acquaintances, back then, with a variety of foreigners. One of whom is now my husband. In fact, in my high school year book, I was voted “most likely to marry someone whose first language is not English.” I don’t remember this guy in particular (the Israeli with all the weirdly erotic fantasies of having to avoid sex with me during my period sticks best in my memory). Should I write him back? And say what? I guess this is innocuous but I am hesitant to let him know my new name, what with his apparent penchant for googling acquaintances from past decades and alarming them by signing off with “see ya.”

Overmuch

A while back I had the carpets steam-cleaned, so I had to get all the toys in the playroom off the floor. This is most of them, but there were actually more, stashed elsewhere. And this doesn’t count the downstairs toys. Or the outside toys. Or the books. Or the puzzles and blocks I keep in the attic for rainy days.

The irony of having all these toys is that I discovered, by not putting them back on the floor in the following days, that Little Girl was just as well-entertained by a doll or a ball. She was probably even more excited than usual to be in the playroom, what with all the free space.

Eventually, though, wanting tub access back, and in the interests of having the toys at least available for play, having gone to the trouble to acquire them (though largely for just a few dollars each, used), I’ve redistributed the items around the playroom. I’d like to figure out some sort of rotation system, but in the meantime the playroom has gone back to being an overwhelming carnival of plastic. Little Girl doesn’t need it, but she seems to enjoy it, and that’s what counts.

Not festive

Friday night I was supposed to go downtown, out to dinner, with some women from my mothers’ group. I wouldn’t call any of them friends, exactly, but over time we’ve been inching toward that a little bit, and I was looking forward to the evening out. Except that I was still in vast amounts of pain from my shot and wished desperately for some crutches to materialize. What I did have at hand, though, was some leftover pain pills from when Husband had Bell’s palsy last year. So I took one.

For several hours there was no effect, but by the time the ladies came by to get me, my foot still hurt, but I didn’t care too much. Husband helped me into the back seat; I propped my leg up, and off we went to pick another reveler up. The music was loud, the conversation was flowing, and the husbands were putting the children to bed. It was great.

After collecting the final woman we quickly made our way down some windy roads towards the city. The car was a stick-shift, though, driven by someone who was not very smooth on the machinery, and what with the darkness’s being punctuated by an extra-bright extra-tiny GPS screen staring me in the face, being jangled about in the back seat, the pain pill sitting in my empty stomach, and, finally, the detailed discussion of the Ethiopian food we would be eating, I started to get very car sick. I tried to talk myself out of it, but the sweaty, cold skin and the striking nausea would not be denied. I had to ask them to turn around and take me home.

Luckily we were only a few minutes from my house at that time so it wasn’t too much of a detour. But, oh, I felt like such a dork. I probably should have decided not to go before they came and got me, since I felt so bad, but we were celebrating a birthday (not mine) and I take those things seriously. Not to be, though. And now they’re not very likely to invite me out again. I feel a little like a high schooler who got too drunk and threw up all over the other kids’ shoes.

In lieu of a guiding topic

Had to go to the podiatrist’s today to get my foot (duh) checked out from that fall I had on Halloween (it still hurts) and to get a fantastically painful cortisone shot in my toe that has arthritis. (The doctor said my joint looked “moth-eaten” in the X-ray. Yay!) The shot wasn’t as bad I as remember from the last one four years ago (which was so painful that I waited four years to get another one) but the aftermath OH MY GOD. I have had to cancel today’s plans since my foot stings and burns and etc. excruciatingly painfully unless I elevate it up to my head-level, and even then it’s not a happy foot. So that sucks. And that’s why Little Girl is watching Season 1 Friends episodes on the DVD player and I’m all twisted up in a weird way with my foot on the back of the couch saying “fuck” a lot under my breath.

+++

It’s college application season and I’m back to doing my alumni interviews. However, it’s not nearly as fun as it used to be now that absolutely nobody gets in. The last guy I interviewed who got accepted was a snide and arrogant jerk whom I did not recommend to them. Nonetheless, I talk to these overeager people for forty-five minutes, I take notes, I spend half an hour writing up a report, and…

+++

I’ve been enjoying my university teaching post. I’m just an adjunct, teaching just the one course, but it’s just perfect. Two afternoons a week I don’t have to find something for Little Girl and me to do (and she seems to be having a delightful time with the babysitter and has even learned yoga) and I get to use my skills and education. Win win! I’m still doing my part-time work-from-home research-related gig and I still keep talking about quitting it (because it’s monotonous and fills up my evenings), but they just keep sending me those paychecks which makes it harder.

+++

Little Girl is quite the little boss these days. N–a do it! Mine! Outside now! Hungee! Hungee now! Yummy food! No! Yummy food! No! N–a wah wah! Mine! Now! She’s also very free with the hugs and the kisses and has been extremely solicitous about my foot boo boos, and, oh she loves to read to herself, and has memorized enough of books and reports on pictures well enough that the ratio of real words to gibberish is 50-50, and she’s just so cute. I’ll keep her.