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No TV? Yes, TV. And Tongue-Kissing.

September 9th, 2006

Day 7: The kids watched a half hour of some crap and another half hour of some other crap. (PBS Kids and the stoned sloth. I think.) Bonus points: I made dinner, being the kind of good mom who does feed her kids.

Day 8: No TV for anyone. No one asked, even. This was kinda cool. And I got to finish this incredible book I just read, Kindred, by Octavia Butler, about a woman who time travels and risks her life to try to save her future. I highly recommend this one.

Soccer season? Not for Wacky Boy, who “opted out.”

“I’ll go, but I won’t play. I don’t want to play soccer. Call dad and tell him.” This, after I wasted half an hour trying on and purchasing a pair of cleats that actually fit him. (We were going to send him in his sister’s old cleats, which were two sizes too big. This gave me guilt.) Fwaaa, fwaaa, fwaaa to infinity.

He’s only four for God’s sake. The boy doesn’t need to play soccer yet. Or ever. I just wanted the thrill of seeing him kick something, or someone, other than me or the dog.

His new favorite game is tongue-kissing Wacky Nekkid Mini-Neighbor, who is three.

“HE STUCK HIS TONGUE IN MY MOUTH!” she told me and her mom, giggling.

Me: “NO TONGUE! WE’VE TALKED ABOUT THIS!” (He is blue-eyed, with a huge grin and long, shaggy, surfer boy blond hair. Apparently surfer boys can get by with this kind of behavior.)

Wacky Nekkid Neighbor, nonchalant: “Yeah, we’re big on tongues here.”

He was as excited about soccer as he is about preschool. By this I mean, not at all. By this I mean, quite a bit less excited than he is about tongue-kissing.

Or hitting the dog in the head with a plastic mallet.

And as a bonus stress freak-out for me, there is no space in the a.m. session of pre-k, and they want to stick him in the afternoon session. (Preschool starts Monday; they were supposed to let me know by end of day today, Friday. Instead we’ve been haggling on the phone for two days between me, the secretary, the pre-k teacher and the principal about why it’s really, really critical that PLEASE GOD LET HIM IN THE MORNING SESSION I NEED TO WRITE. I SWEAR TO YOU HE DOESN’T BITE ANYONE OTHER THAN FAMILY. AND HE PROMISES HE WON’T TONGUE-KISS. I NEED TO FINISH THIS MANUSCRIPT PLEASE? “Okay. I’ll check with this other family. Maybe they’ll take the afternoon slot.” Click. And no call back.)

This will kill me if we do afternoons, because trying to get WB back out of the house, when he’s already been out of the house to drop off Wacky Girl (same school), it’s no fun. Because he’ll be set up, with Charades, or his trains, or a project in the backyard that involves killing as many bugs as he can in a ten-minute period, and good damn luck getting the lunch eaten at precisely 11:30 a.m., shoes back on, coat back on and out the door in time for afternoon session.

I didn’t know I was going to end up this way, may I just say that for the record? Signing up my four-year-old for soccer. Cringing when a preschool teacher tells me, “Other parents need the morning spots because they work.” Telling my son not to tongue-kiss the neighbor. (I knew I’d be faced with that one, actually, but I thought he’d be ten or twelve, not four.)

And yes, I do work, thanks for asking! There’s the writing and editing thing. I work. I just don’t get paid. Much. Or regularly.

Morning hours are good for writing and editing. Afternoon hours, especially after I’ve grappled with a crabby preschooler who, “NO! I WILL NOT LIKE PRESCHOOL! I WILL NOT GO TO PRESCHOOL! I GO TO THE NEIGHBOR’S NOW!” are good for lying on the couch with a cool rag on my head, reaching for another two Tylenol and maybe a noose, and realizing that in half an hour I need to leave to pick up both kids at school. And that the sewer line is backed up again.

And that the guy who’s supposed to install our storm windows is missing in action.

And that the painter who was supposed to do the finish work (from last summer) is, likewise, missing in action.

And that no matter what I cook, the kids won’t eat it. Hockey God is so sweet about my cooking — he’s always a willing guinea pig. (PS — How psyched was he about WB dropping out of soccer, before we’d even started? PSYCHED. Because this means he doesn’t have to coach.)

These are not problems. I know people have “real” problems, like their country is getting the shit bombed out of them by the USA, or they’re hungry, or cold, or they have to work, they have to do “real” work, not this silly little bullshit I do.

This artist bullshit.

My mom told me that one of the mommies at Anne Tyler’s kid’s school asked her across the playground, “Anne! Are you still doing your little writing, or have you found a real job?” This made me feel sorta better. I guess. Only I’m not incredible like Anne Tyler. I’m just this chick who stays home and, you know, doesn’t work.

A lot of women and men don’t have the “luxury” of staying home cleaning up shit and more shit and yet more shit that isn’t even their shit and then crying because they’ve been singlehandedly taken down by so much shit and a willful, cursing preschooler yet again.

“Fuck, those people were crazy wild,” he told me last week after our friends left.

Yeah, fuck. Some people are just crazy wild. Like those of us who “get” to stay home. I have a mad desire to run over and lick my husband’s feet every time someone says this in front of him.

“And your wife gets to stay home?”

Lick, lick. “Thanks for letting me stay home, baby. Want to swap jobs next week?”

I want:

1) Childcare instead of bombs paid for by the government

2) to be paid as much as my husband, because that’s fair (why do you think I stay home and not him? It’s not because I’m naturally talented at shitwork. He makes twice as much as I do)

3) for WB to grow out of this phase

4) no Bratz, ever, because I hate Bratz (WG: “You think they’re hootchie-mamas, don’t you?”)

5) no more plastic crap in my house or in the world (see Garbageland by Elizabeth Royte

6) Peace

7) Food and jobs and a place to sleep for everyone

8) to sell a manuscript in my lifetime

Short of that I want:

1) Morning preschool




  1. Zipdodah says

    Just a comment along the lines of “women who work.” I was speaking with my mother-in-law last night about this comment. (Which, my own rant would take up all of your blog, so I am just going to relay this brief comment on what she told me)
    She was in the child care business for over 25 years, just recently retired. At her retirement party there were approximately 4 to 5 women who approached her to let her know that they were envious and jealous of her and her relationship with their children. Nice thing to relay to a woman who’s cared for your children not only at the daycare for 24//7 but she also did home care for these people. She found it a curious comment…in that these women who chose to work full time out of the home..”just wished that their children would not have become so attached to her!” um……huh? Oy….
    my question is: “What the hell do these people think a stay-at-home mother or father does?” Let’s see….I know!! You make WG and WB feed and dress themselves, drive themselves to school, do laundry, yard work, cook, care for the animals, housework, balance the checkbook, grocery shop, wash your hair, bathe you, read to you, write for you….then and only then they can do their homework, while you flit about.

    September 10th, 2006 | #

  2. Wacky Mommy says

    I like to eat bon-bons while flitting about.

    September 10th, 2006 | #

  3. Jenny Ryan says

    OK, the tongue-kissing turned the tide and now I am TOTALLY bookmarking your site!Love it! :p

    September 12th, 2006 | #

  4. Wacky Mommy says

    Thank you, nice lady!

    September 12th, 2006 | #

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