The "Yummy Mummies" or How I Have Become What I Despised

I can't really decide if I'm a hypocrite or merely have more insight into the lives of housewives in California.

When first I moved to the Central Coast, I couldn't believe how pampered the moms on the school run looked. Manicured nails, salon tans, artfully streaked and cut hair, expensive exercise togs, diamonds the size of gobstoppers, fer cryin' out loud!. I just had two step-kids at the time, and I was lucky to get my hair combed before I walked 'em to school.

Today, heading back to my minivan after walking the wee lassies to class, I looked down and admired my pretty, red-painted toes. Then I thought about my hair appointment next week. I pondered the linen sun dress I was wearing and how the color suited my tan. Suddenly, and with horror,  I realized I had become one of the high-maintainance stay-at-home-moms I used to look down my nose at.

Maybe this was my working-class snobbery coming back to bite me on the butt. I mean, I'm not that high-maintainance. My one indulgence is a pedicure; after chasing rambunctious twins, washing endless dirty dishes and folding countless mounds of clean laundry, the foot rub is very soothing. The cute little black sandals I picked up for less than 4 bucks at Target. The dress I've had for years and it's comfy. I've been getting inexpensive haircuts and haven't had a color weave in over a year.

So, am I taking care of myself or am I an over-indulged wife? Taking time to take care of myself is important, right? Or is this a justification? Is money spent on pedicures, flattering clothing and hair color a waste?

Thoughts?

Trip to the Pumpkin Patch

No, *that* was the worst night's sleep in recorded parental history..... a.k.a. Night Terrors!

Clearly, I have offended the gods. Or perhaps I unknowingly ran over a leprechaun. The pixies must be angry. Something.

Yesterday, the girls had a very busy and very exciting day. First, they went to church with Daddy; that's fun. Then we went down to San Luis to go swimming; always a thrill. Then we had the neighbors over for dinner. That was what did the damage.

The neighbor kids and Claire & Aeron were rampaging full-tilt boogie at 9pm, completely trashing the family room. They were giggling like maniacs, spilling out the toy buckets, jumping on each other; absolute pandemonium.

We got the girls down, and retired to the Boudoir for some quality sweetie time. Enjoyed a glass of wine, read our books, listened to soothing music. Until about 10:30pm, anyway.

Aeron starts crying. Then the crying gets louder and more anguished. I went into her room and she was uncovered and thrashing about. I hug the child, talk to her softly, rub her back and she subsides. I lay her down, cover her up and leave.

Miles and I tag-teamed the kid for the next five hours. She finally stopped about 3am.

Good thing she's cute.

In the middle of the night; episode 13

Aeron's back to her evil ways. Three times she cried in her sleep last night.

The first time was about 10pm. She whimpered for a few minutes, then quieted down.

Next time was about midnight. She started to mewl , worked up to sniveling, and proceeded right on to a full-throated wail. By the time I decided she wasn't gonna pipe down and got out of bed, she was in the potty. In the dark. Crying.

"Boo. Whatsa matter?" No answer, just more crying.

"Aeron. Why are you crying?" She just looked at me, hopped off the pot and pulled up her drawers.

I followed the staggering child back to her room, whereupon, she flung herself into bed. I tucked her in, gave her Blue Bear, and pulled up the covers.

"Aeron! Stop crying!" I fiercely whispered, glancing over to Claire's bed. The other one was half-off her bed, covers on the floor, pillow over her head. Aeron finally focused her eyes, and whispered, "OK, Mama."

Round three came at 2:34am. Sobbing from Aeron echoed throughout the house. I sighed and climbed out of bed, trying to figure out whom I possibly could have offended: the gypsies? a leprechaun, some bruja, perhaps?


Aeron was in bed this time, covers all over, Blue Bear on the floor. I asked her what was wrong.

"Wwwwwhaaaaaa (gasp!) ahhhhh-huhnnnna (gasp!) ammmmnnna (snort!) PORK! And that's (gasp!) NOT NICE!"

What a difference a generation makes

Do all y'all remember going to elementary school? Some grownup would boot you out the door at the appropriate time, and you'd walk to the bus stop or directly to school, carrying your lunch and books and, at least in Michigan in the winter, wearing your snow suit. You'd get to school, struggle out of your snow gear (ah, the complete humiliation of getting stuck in one's snow pants....I don't think I ever recovered) hang up your coat, put your lunch in your cubby and come to order before the bell rang.

Well, kiddies, I'm here to tell you it doesn't work like that anymore.

Firstly, one must drive one's offspring to school. Winter or summer, fair weather or foul. Then, having battled through the shoals of minivans, (the only time there are traffic jams here in Mayberry) you find a place to park. Then you unload all the kids, put the baby in the stroller, grab the toddler before she dives in front of cars and everyone heads to class. There is practically one adult on campus for each and every child, plus teachers, the principle and the volunteers on playground supervision and crossing guard duty. The place is positively swarming with grownups.

Claire and Aeron's class enters through the "back yard" door of their room, because the morning class is exiting through the front door. Mrs. Davis is outside, collecting papers and putting name tag stickers on all the kids. Backpacks, jackets and lunch bags are left outside on hooks on the wall. Once the bell rings and I give hugs and kisses to my girls, I join the stream of parents, grandparents and daycare providers and we all head to the main gate and back to our minivans. There is lots of chatting and admiring of babies and moms chasing down the runaway toddlers. Kids are strapped back into car seats to sound of "Sierra! Stop that!" and "Colin, don't hit Logan!" and everyone drives off. We in minivans had to be careful pulling out so as not to hit the few intrepid souls who walk, pushing strollers to and from the school.

This scene is played out three times a day! Don't these people have jobs?

Three reasons for all this parental involvement, as far as I can tell. First, there is no bus service in Mayberry. We can't afford it and still have things like music and libraries. Second, people are afraid to let their kids out of their sight. The media would have you believe there are child molesters behind every bush, such is our culture of fear. And, lastly, there is the meteoric rise of that dreaded creature, the "helicopter parent". A.k.a. the "lawnmower parent". A pejorative expression for the sort of mom or dad who "hovers" over their kids, micromanaging them or "smooths the way" for their darling poopsie.

I used to feel guilty about making Kayla and Cameron walk to school, but not anymore. Kayla, in particular hates it, probably as she feels it makes her look bad socially. So then I start talking about studies which found that kids who walk to school do better on tests and come closer to meeting their exercise goals. (which gets me eye-rolling every time) Plus, I just hate the idea that I must be a chauffeur to the kids. They have feet. They have expensive bicycles. They should use them.

Of course, I can't just pitch five-year-old little girls out the door. It's a twenty minute walk, at best speed. So I drive 'em to the park, and then walk them the few blocks in. One day last week, I dropped Claire & Aeron at the gate and they walked themselves to class. They were so very proud of themselves! Today, I walked them to class, but they didn't want me to. They wanted to be big girls and do it all by themselves!

I firmly believe the best thing I can teach all my kids is to not need me.

Kindergarten!

Ah.... the day my girls finally go to public school! Three hours of someone else keeping them busy that I don't have to pay for!

Sunday morning

OK, so, here's the drill on Sunday mornings. Miles takes all the kids to church and Mama stays home and enjoys her solitude.

Sounds simple, right? One would think I could sleep in while my husband marshals the troops and takes 'em all off to get right with Jesus. But, naturally, it doesn't work that way.

Miles woke me up and at first, it looked like it was going to be a smooth morning. Miles was dressed in a pressed shirt and the house was quiet. We coordinated the afternoon plans and he went away. Mitzi got up from her nest at the foot of the bed and came to lay on my head and nuzzle my ear.

But alas, such moments of peace are fleeting.....

"Aeron, stop looking at me!" It was not, as one might expect, her twin sister making this complaint. It was Cameron. Who is 12.

I started scratching Mitzi's ears, causing her to purr madly. And since I had one ear in the pillow and she was lying across the other, she made quite an effective white noise machine.

"Aeron! Eat your breakfast and stop looking at me!" Huh. I heard that one through the cat.

Heaving the sigh of the much-put-upon, I moved the cat and climbed out of bed. I'll just tell Cam to knock it off and I'll go back to bed.

"Cameron," I said from the top of the stairs. "Are you listening to yourself?" He mumbled something and I went back to bed. Mitzi joyously came prancing up my chest and began to lick my face.

For about two minutes. The sniping started up again and I again got out of bed. Put my glasses on and marched downstairs. Cameron was seated at the dining room table, wearing earbuds attached to his MP3 player, with some kind of electronic game in front of him, eating a cheeseburger. Claire and Aeron were at the breakfast counter, not eating their bowls of Mama-made granola. Everyone was in their jammies. It was ten minutes before they all needed to leave. Miles was nowhere to be found.

"Claire and Aeron. Eat. There will be no cookies at church if you don't eat your breakfast. Cameron. What are you drinking?"

"Lemonade," sheepishly. Totally against the rules and he knows it.

"Dude. Don't make me have to be the Food Police!" I glared.

Miles poked his head in the back door. "Jen, I'm on the phone. Could you get the girls into some decent clothes for church, please?"

Sigh......

I hustle the little girls upstairs and into their room, with instructions to get out of their jammies and into some clothes. I go back downstairs to get a cup of coffee, only to find none in the pot. What?!?

Miles comes back into the house and I ask, "No coffee?!?"

"That coffee pot is pissing me off!" he replies. I just look at him for a moment, then get out the french press and the coffee grinder.

Aeron yells from her room, "I'm out of underpants!" Miles yells back, "Get a pair from Claire's basket!" "Noooooooo!!!!" wails Claire. Above our heads, an argument breaks out over Tinkerbell undies.

"Dad." says Cameron, coming into the kitchen. "I don't have any clean underwear." Miles covers his eyes with his hands.

The little girls are screeching at each other by this time. "Would you go deal with your daughter?!" Miles asks.

"You go deal with my daughter," I remarked, all righteously indignant. "I'm making coffee."

Miles gives me the stink eye for a moment, herds Cameron out of the kitchen, issues some orders, and then goes upstairs to wade into the fray. As I leisurely grind my dark roast, I hear snatches of the battle above.

"Daddy! I don't wanna wear that!" "You had your chance to get dressed. Now I'm picking your clothes!" "Ow! Daddy! You brushed my ear!" "Those are MY underpants!"

I was stirring in my half-and-half when Miles called out, "To the van! Claire, the van is that-away! Say goodbye to Mama!"

A couple of moist smooches on the cheek, and then all was peaceful again.