I’m a housewife, which means I pretty much sit around all day on my
voluptuous ass, eating bonbons and watching soaps (“General Hospital”
and “Desperate Housewives” on tape) while the kids turn the living room
into a golf course using their toy clubs, plastic cups and, for golf
balls, uncooked eggs.

I’m a stay-at-home mom, which means I spend every minute of every day
zooming around to Mommy and Me yoga, music, and swimming, and no time
for naps! We’re on busy-busy schedule. Maybe a car nap in the mini-van
if we’re lucky. We have healthy, nutritious snacks like Pirate Booty
and organic soy milk and then it’s zoom-zoom at the park. Then off to
ballet, where the other mothers and I critically eye each other’s spawn
and tell ourselves, “My daughter is so much more coordinated than hers.”

No, I’m an anxious mom, cuz we’re always sick, we always cancel
playdates, we have Hoof-and-Mouth, chickenpox, rotovirus. We throw up a
lot. We break out in random rashes. We break other people’s toys when
we do make it for a playdate. We’re not potty-trained in a timely
fashion, we talk back to grown-ups, we throw fits and we never ever
have dinner on the table when dad gets home.

Really, I’m a woman. A voter. A laundress. I’m worthy. I’m not worthy.
I’m a Domestic Goddess. I’ve been called “vitriolic,” “tramp,” “snatch”
and “bitch.” I will claim the last label but not the first three. I am The Bitch. I’m a writer and editor and lover. I’m a gardener and a hiker and an ice
skater. I love to sleep. I love to read. I like TV. I’m a wife and a
mom and a housewife and a worker and a lot like you, maybe.

It’s red hot over here cuz I’m pissed off. Again.

(An aside — the carnival ROCKED! The kids had a blast and the grown-ups did, too  — more on that tomorrow…)

I just read a dorky story by Stephen Beaven (he says it’s pronounced “Bevin” like Evan, not “Beaven” like “Beaver” note to SB —
change your byline, dude) and Amy Hsuan in today’s Oregonian. Headline was “Neighborhoods hot; schools not” and was all about how North/Northeast Portland families are sending their kids elsewhere to school. (The westside, for instance, or private.)

Hello? Rilly???

Why is the story dorky? Cuz they don’t get to the g.d. point: Race is an issue. Education is political. N/NE
(my part of town, where i was born, raised and schooled, thank you, yes I’m an eastside rat) has been about as “diverse” as white Portland gets, ie — there are black and white and brown and yellow and red people here. That’s why I like it here.

You hear more languages here than just English. And more and more white people are moving in to what they cleverly call “the ‘hood” and displacing the families who have lived here for decades. And the new transplants are refusing to attend the schools in the neighborhood because why? There are still black people here. (And brown; white, make that “poor white” not “classy white,” like the transplants believe themselves to be, argh; yellow and red people…) It makes the transplants uncomfortable.

Last year, three white PTA moms told me their kids couldn’t attend the neighborhood schools because (direct quote) “We’d be in the minority!” (Technically, they wouldn’t. But the mix at some of the schools in the neighborhood — don’t ever say ‘hood, okay? It pisses me off — is approximately 1/3 black, 1/3 white, 1/3 Hispanic, small percentage Native American, Pacific Islander, and Asian. So if you’re thinking “us” (whites) against “them” (anyone who’s not white) yeah, then white is the minority. What’s the problem, petunia?)

Stephen and Amy quote a North Portland mom who “did her homework” (her words) and decided to send her kid to a westside school, cuz the North Portland school in their neighborhood “didn’t have the resources to educate the students.” And Ainsworth, where her young’un is now going to school, has a Spanish immersion program. Baby, you didn’t do your homework, cuz Beach
Elementary, right up the street from you, has a Spanish Immersion program! Did they bother to mention this in the story?

No.

Did this family bother to try Beach, to see if they liked it?

No.

Did the story mention race issues? Economics? Snobbery? One of the moms was bragging that she would never have her kid attend King, her neighborhood school, but she got such a good deal on her house, she can afford private school tuition! Well, you rock, baby! Good for you!

Who will your kid play with, when she’s not in school? Will she know her neighbors’ names? Will you?

“Too many parents make life hard for their children by trying, too zealously, to make it easy for them.”

— Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, poet, dramatist, novelist, and philosopher (1749-1832)

I’m not saying that throwing a carnival for the kiddies is making life easy for them — it’s making life more fun for them, for sure. But
damn, I’ve put less hours into major projects at work than I have for this carnival. We’re organized, no doubt about it. There are four of us on the committee, plus a couple of auxiliary members. We’ve rounded up a bunch of volunteers, wrangled donations, planned out games, bought bags of toys (the whoopee cushions, I’ve heard, are especially popular), made up a schedule, gathered bag after bag of empty shoeboxes. (It’s a Mardi Gras theme — YES I KNOW IT’S LENT NOW, sorry!! — so the kids can make miniature “floats” out of shoeboxes that they’ve decorated with tissue paper and glitter.) They can also make or buy masks, and they get free tickets if they come in costume.

Wacky Boy is going as a bumblebee (thank you, A! I love the little plastic stinger on the butt), and Wacky Girl is going as a princess, or a witch. (She takes after mommy, awwwww…)

Wacky Daddy took the day off! Hot dog! He’s out now picking up cakes & doughnuts for the much-vaunted Cakewalk. Mama Em and one of her baby monkeys are doing the modern version of “hunting and gathering” for the same stuff in a different part of town. (You’re familiar with the Cakewalk concept, yes? I’ve explained the game to about ten adults and kids in the last week. Poor things, never having done the Cakewalk before! Numbers on the floor, kinda like musical chairs. The band plays, everyone walks, then the band stops and if you’re on the Lucky Number you get to pick out the cake — or pie, which A and I like
better — of your choice.)

(Carnival tip: Make friends with the bakery managers at your local grocery stores. If they won’t give it to you for free — many of them will, though — at least they’ll save you a shopping cart or two of day-old half-priced stuff. Carnival tip #2: Kids and adults, too, go completely bonkers for a carnival. Surly, drunken parents you never thought would volunteer for anything are suddenly sunny and smiley and telling you they’d love nothing more than to work the beverages table.

“We’re having iced tea AND lemonade? Coooool!”

We’re having a Cajun dinner (gumbo, dirty rice and beans, sausages, Moon Pies, the works), Cajun music, games, door prizes, a raffle, and a parade at the end. I think we’ve got about forty cakes, pies, and various forms of packaged sugar for the cakewalk, plus we’re ordering a huge sheet cake, decorated in Mardi Gras colors, to serve with the dinners.

Crazy? You bet.

Somedays the whole zen thing is not working for me. Breathe… breathe… breathe… focus on the calming effect of the sudsy dishwater as I scrub the same damn pan over and over and OVER?&!@$*! no, breathe… breathe…

how much compost can one family of four create???

No, wait, focus on the swish-a, swish-a of the washing machine, the sunlight coming through the front windows, onto the floor… the buckling floor, where the sagging beams below are sinking, it’s like a g.d. rollercoaster in here. Must call contractor, goddammit, how much is this going to cost? Re-fi house. Again.

when am i supposed to clean the unpaid-for house? The in-laws are getting here Saturday. But not ’til dinnertime. Saturday morning? After we’ve been up late the night before at the school carnival? In between music class (10-11 a.m.) and dance (noon-1 p.m.)? What happened to easy-going Saturdays? Sleeping in, going for a walk. Must walk the dog so he doesn’t chew up furniture. Goofyass anxious obsessive-compulsive dog. Too bad he doesn’t clean, it’d give him a place to throw all that manic energy. Put him outside, he chews the exterior of the house. Leave him inside, he chews up the woodwork. Chewing up the scenery like a bad actor.

No, wait — look at the bright yellow, neatly-aligned recycling bins out front… ah, breathe, breathe.

Today is cool, but yesterday — tough. Too much PTA stuff, back breaking, kids screaming. Most people get a wake-up call (at their hotel, or from the alarm clock) at 6:30 a.m. Mine arrived at 6:30 p.m., when my daughter walked into the office, where I was trying to wrap up my end of the loose ends for the carnival. She was munching on a half-empty container of mac and cheese.

She announced: “So. I guess I’ll eat this for dinner!”

Mommy guilt. But she wasn’t mad, or starving to death. Just making a statement. And feeding herself. Wait! This is the first time she’s ever done this. It’s kinda cool, that she’s getting self-reliant. And she’ll love the carnival, it’ll be a blast.

My husband made some soup and Texas burgers (have u had them? very good. They taste like genuine barbecue, sans meat) when he got home, I wrapped up my loose ends, everyone had dinner together (a little late, but whatever) and all was well. Peaceful, really.

And all that “zen” carried over to… right now.

Any ideas on throwing a fun, low-stress party (ha!) for three 3-year-olds? (We’re thinking of having one big party rather than… three big parties. And we’re thinking we don’t want to have it at one of our houses, or at Chuck E. Cheese… please.

“Put your toothbrush
on your mouth
put your toothbrush
on your mouth
Ask yourself
‘Why is my Mommy so wacky?
Why is my Mommy so wacky?’…”

“Wacky Mommy,” the first song my daughter ever wrote (age 2)

Yes, she was 2 at the time, the child is gifted! What can I say? It’s because of moi. And her dad. My motto for parenthood (and I think you should adopt this one, too):

“All the credit, none of the guilt.”

Because when your kids are acting like neurotic little brats, whose fault is it? That’s right — yours. Cuz you spoil them, freak out when they get injured, let them sleep in your bed, etc. But when they make a good joke, or look adorable, or are obviously Smart and Brilliant, then that has nothing to do with you.

Maybe they’re wearing clothes that match, and haven’t stepped in dog shit that day… then it’s all “Oh, honey, look how cute you are in that little red jacket! You are adorable!” It’s never “You look just like your mommy! I can tell she really spent a lot of time cleaning up your grubby lil face while you wailed!”

I am refusing from here on out to take responsibility for the bullshit my kids pull. This bullshit includes but is not limited to: random nose picking, tantrums at the store, and stating loudly “I’m bored!” when the PTA president is talking during a meeting.

My little darling girl is five, and still a monkey genius. Her brother is the 2-year-old in the house. I am… a writer. A mother. Wife to a hockey player. Living in the Pacific Northwest. Helping plan the school carnival. And dammit, my back is killing me!

This blog will be about mothering, endless PTA meetings, how to handle school politics, re-la-tion-ships (husbands, friends and family), gossip “The spice of life!” as my friend M calls it, and whatever else I feel like. Questions and comments are welcome. I’ll keep it anonymous, to protect the innocent (and guilty).

Happy Valentine’s Day. Off to get more Motrin, and I’ll post tomorrow.