Due to Extenuating Circumstances

Adventures in Unplanned Parenthood

Archive for the category “Uncategorized”

18 Jan 2016

A Day in the Life of My House

We live in a small house with two bedrooms, two baths and an open kitchen/living room. I’m the night owl, Mac is the early bird. Baby is the wild card. Here is the diary of our domicile:

Midnight: Baby in bed, TV snacking completed. Mac downstairs to finish emails and brush teeth. Dishwasher loaded, counters wiped, toys put in basket. Why is everything so dusty?

1:00 am. I shower. Various foam cutouts shaped like fish, octopi (octopuses? Dictionary disagreements abound) shoved around shower in space not under my feet but also not clogging drain. Step on squirting plastic blowfish and get jetstream of freezing water all the way up to my own blowhole. Screaming muffled, blowfish thrown near sink.

2:00 am. Arrange various pillows, blankets etc, climb into bed.

3:00 am. Elves turn on dishwasher. At least I assume that’s what happens.

4-7 am. House remains in near-perfect state of least-possible-amount-of-chaos.

7:00 am. Mac up. Downstairs to his bathroom, I assume (based on time spent) to shower, shave, write a chilling exposé of the sheep shearing industry, check in with his MI-6 handler (codename Canuckle Sandwich) plus use toilet facilities in masculine yet dainty manner.

8:00 am Baby UP! This means total rearrangement of living room. We need him contained there, and there’s no door. So, he’s blocked off using a chair at one end, my rocking chair at the other, and a long ottoman in the middle. He also needs to be fed, so pull his high chair towards table. This is important later.

9:00 am. I’m up. It takes three minutes for my hair to fall into place, I throw on casual trousers and a silk top, then slick on some NARS lipgloss and emerge ready to face the day. No, I’m lying, but this is my blog and Mac can tell his truth in another blog if he likes. My schedule to get out of bed has a simple mathematical formula:

Mac leaves for work – 5 minutes (four if Baby is screaming)= Sarah is up

Here’s what that, in reality, entails: I need to put away all the pillows used to keep comfortable in the night (you think somebody with severe chronic pain, back issues and abdominal muscle weakness sleeps with a single pillow under her head? Moron. If I had anything more propping me up I’d be a banana republic). I throw on an abdominal brace over my nightshirt (Anonymous Black Jersey, size Baggy) and stagger towards the bathroom. I get halfway to the sink, groping for my contacts and mouthwash, when I step on the goddamn blowfish. Throw blowfish back in tub. Mentally vow to cut blowfish to ribbons while his friends Octopus and Squeezy Gator watch. Find baby.

10:00 am. Minimal food has been prepared but kitchen is a disaster. How? HOW? Husband used one plate for toast, baby ate Name Brand Grain Circles. I see a bread board out, crumbs, salt, pepper, cumin (huh?), three unwashed pans, formula powder and two empty bottles with rings but no nipples, two bread knives, a potato peeler, two coffee mugs (aHA! Proof husband has MI-6 handler. He looks way too stressed to be having hot, salacious affair), and the ceremonial cake server from our wedding. Whatever.

11:00 am. Baby naps. Move highchair away from table, so can move ottoman back, so can fit vacuum through to living room space. Try to move stuff from living room into kitchen to dust. Dust just falls all over floor. Pick up everything on floor, place on furniture, so as to vacuum. Now fallen dust transferred from shelves to things on floor to furniture. Dust furniture. Falls on floor. Fuck you, dust. Fuck you.

12:00 noon: Put toys back on floor, barriers back in place, vacuum back against wall, put highchair next to table, get baby, feed baby. Kitchen mess now includes dishes from thawed pureed carrots, thawed pureed peas, the spoon I fed him with, the spoon he needs to bang on the tray while I feed him, crusty puffs I picked off the side of the chair, the pot, pan, spatula, plate, cup, knife, fork and spoon involved in me making my own eggs before giving up and microwaving individual pizza, and pizza tray.

1:00 pm. Empty dishwasher run by elves. Throw everything in it, make sure to leave room for dinner atrocities.

2:00 pm. Imaginatively rearrange toy baskets and the ottoman to make my living room look bigger. Realize the reason it doesn’t look bigger is because it’s small. Try to put smaller basket back where it belongs, run into stupid highchair.

3:00 pm. Realize it’s really, really stupid for people with my particular health concerns to dust, vacuum, lift baskets, rearrange ottomans and run into a high chair all in one day.

4:00-7:00 pm. Move baby from crib to living room to changing table to high chair to jumperoo to floor. Realize everywhere he goes there is a trail of trucks, stuffed animals, plastic rings, Scare the Hell Out of Me Elmo, crusty puffs and Name Brand Grain Circles. Don’t care, it’s not poop.

8:00 pm. It’s poop. Bathtime! Pulls out foam toys, Squeezy Gator, and blowfish. Mental note to remove blowfish directly after bath has drained. Baby is washed, shampooed, rinsed, dried, lotioned, diapered and pajamaed. He then drags his butt on the floor and collects, naturally, dust.

8:45 pm: Emergency non-hourly entry to report we do eat dinner. Eventually. When we can find the potato peeler. Kitchen now full of final dinner detritus including plates, mugs because I’m too lazy to reach for the clean cups one shelf up, pots, pans, bread board, knives, cumin? Whatever.

9:00 pm. Baby should be in bed. Attempt every ten minutes until achieved. Get him final bottle, which means locating those two mystery bottle seen this morning. Yeah, good luck with that, Bordens!

10:00 pm. We should clean kitchen now, answer emails, pick up toys, prepare for bed. We watch Swedish TV with subtitles. We are very happy, especially when the baby refuses to sleep and it doesn’t matter how long he wails in my arms; we can just read the subtitles.

11:55 pm. Throw everything in the dishwasher and push the buttons that invoke the elves.

11:59 pm. Did I drain the tub and put away blowfish? Yeah. I’m sure I did.

 

 

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16 Jan 2016

The Something About Mary

In Defense of the School Bully

If you have kids you may know Mary. Your preschool age daughter came home crying because she got bitten, or kicked. Maybe she was screamed at or at recess Mary struck her in the face. You get a call that your 5 year old son isn’t seriously injured, but you should know today a girl flew into a rage and throttled your son. The student involved will (of course) be dealt with but you think to yourself “how?!” This isn’t the first time Mary has done this and every parent in the class knows Mary will be there again tomorrow. It beggars belief, but not only is Mary there the next day…she does it again. She tries to choke your son again. Nobody is dealing with this. How do we have the teacher, the para, the principal and half the parents in the class complaining AND NOBODY IS DEALING WITH THIS?

You wonder what in God’s name the parents are doing. Or not doing. It’s practically impossible to run out of theories: dad is abusive, mom is helpless, Mary is severely mentally ill, Mary might be the victim of molestation, they’re too strict, not strict enough, her pediatrician is clearly incompetent and on and on and on. Mary must be in distress and no one is helping her, is she neglected, do older kids beat her up? Can they afford a child psychologist? Finally, what in the hell do you tell your own kids? Stand up for yourself (yes, but how and what does that mean?), we all face bullies in life (but when you’re old enough to deal with it?), turn the other cheek (and get throttled?), all kids go through bad phases (like this?), she’s sick and needs help so run to an adult, run away, hit her back harder WHAT WHAT WHAT WHAT WHAT IS THE ANSWER?

Every Mary is different. Please let me tell you about my Mary. I’ve known her since she was born. I fed Mary her first bottle after tying her exhausted, breastfeeding mother down and insisting she take a nap or I would taser her. Mary has a toy zebra I gave her that she gets out when I come to visit. Her fashion sense is miraculous, she puts on 9 random items of clothing in no particular order and looks like an ad for a children’s boutique in Manhattan. She is small for her age but strong. She had a serious speech delay because she required a procedure to fix something with her ears. When you can’t hear what’s being said, how can you repeat it? She loves singing and will dance to the movie Annie using a broom as a prop. Mary will do anything for the chance to play with makeup brushes or splash in water. Mary understands she had a baby brother but he died when she was 4. She remembers him. I remember the pain of her whole family, everyone understanding what it meant to them but nobody understanding how much a 4 year old truly gets about the baby who came to the house but then went away forever.

Mary is very careful with my tummy because she knows it has bad ouchies. She delights in bringing me my cane. She has also purposefully hurt me. She once slammed my hand with a hair dryer and after I told her it hurt she looked me right in the eye and did it harder. Mary has physically hurt other children I know and it hurt to hear the other child say he doesn’t want to be friends with a bad girl.

She has been moved to her new “big girl” school, because the local public school couldn’t handle her outbursts even after an IEP had been established. I sent her stickers to congratulate her on going to the new Big Girl school. In addition to the specialized school she has two therapists, an army of devoted family friends, a nanny she adores and two parents who know exactly what the other parents think. What they say. What they would say, if the tables were turned and Mary had been the victim, not the bully.

Do you know what it’s like to be Mary’s parents? I have seen Tina freeze and go pale because the school’s caller ID appeared on her ringing cellphone. Heard the panic and defeat in her voice when she learns Mary is no longer allowed in this school, this day camp, that dance class. She wonders how she could have been so (anything) to have made a daughter that behaves like this. Was it the speech delay? Was it her brother’s death? Would every other mother have noticed The Thing that predicted violent outbursts? I’ve watched her dad painstakingly reinforce every gentle touch, every kind word, constantly trying to give her positive attention for following rules. Mary gets stars, stickers, dessert, special bath toys, anything he can devise to find the way to get Mary to realize that good behavior will be celebrated.

I think most of us know Marys aren’t inherently bad kids, if there are such a thing. The thing is, some Marys come from great homes that have endured horrible misfortunes. How can you guess your child isn’t communicating well with others because she can’t hear? She looks like she can hear. She responds to every sound. She simply hears it differently than you do. How can anybody possibly know what death means to a four year old? Think about how much it tears us apart from the inside, the howling scream of pain that some people never fully let out. Be honest: if you could, wouldn’t you like to scream, bite, kick and punch your way out of the worst pain of your life? I sure as hell would. There are a hundred horrible things that adults can barely survive that children absorb in subtle, unpredictable ways.

Your child will meet a Mary. Nobody is suggesting your child must be put up with abuse or threatening behavior. When you have a second, think about the hurricane that must be happening inside the other child’s mind, body and soul. Think about the hours her parents may have spent praying to God, Allah, Dr. Spock, anybody that would soothe the hurricane inside her. In Mary’s quietest, most secure moments she is loving, gentle, funny and kind. Imagine how she might feel that your child doesn’t know that. The Something About Mary is part of her. I hope you get to meet the rest of her. She’s especially poignant singing It’s a Hard Knock Life.

 

 

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07 Jan 2016
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Screw Batman; Send Robin.

I had a meltdown around Christmas. I choose my words carefully. I didn’t get a little upset things weren’t perfect and throw a hissy fit. We’re talking complete, total, full-on meltdown climaxing with me telling my one year old (yes, really) if he hated me that much he can return his Christmas presents, thrusting him into the arms of the grandma he much prefers then running out of the room into the front yard where it was both dark and 25 degrees and screaming until three elderly neighbors turned on their living room lights and my furry coat hood stuck to my face with the snot running out my nose. If there was a Bat signal for Shady Pines, one of the old folks probably would have turned it on. I was in Trouble.

This was nuclear-level mommy meltdown. I had HAD it. I was DONE. This was for a few reasons, but the most glaringly obvious and painful was that my son is going through a phase where he just doesn’t like me very much. There are a few logical reasons for this, most notable amongst them that since my abdominal issues have gotten worse I can’t pick him up and play with him. Also, he’s one. He throws a tantrum when he gets peach puffs and not sweet potato puffs. But let me tell you, logic has nothing to do with the Mommy Meltdown. It is complete and total pain. That’s all it is. Lest you need reminding, not only did I want this child so much I got this child, I wanted this child so much I involved a fingerprinter, a social worker, two state agencies, a lawyer, a judge, more money than I make in a year and a midnight trip to Walmart three days before Christmas. Mac and I really, REALLY wanted this child. But right now the baby doesn’t want me very much. He thinks the sun shines out of his father’s ass (which makes waking up next to him a real fucking joy) and he thinks Grandma is pretty great. We recently returned from Canada and he thinks Grandma and Grandpa Canuck are pretty awesome. His cousin the Dude is fun. In fact, my son likes everybody that comes into contact with him. Except me. Hence, the complete meltdown.

So, mid-meltdown I realize I can’t stay out front forever. My parents live in a retirement community and I’m not kidding about the lights coming on. This was the most action Shady Pines has seen since they decided hanging beach towels on your deck rail was “unsightly” and the Towelers fought the non-Towlers on the grounds of being stodgy old party poopers (yes, that happened). I was crying, screaming, cursing, crying some more, ugly crying, hyperventilating-crying, and wondering how the hell I was going to spend 17 years raising a kid who screams every time I try to talk to him. It was like starting parenthood with a teenager who poops his pants. God, the level of anger and hurt I felt was overwhelming and massive and unbelievable. I’ve had some epic breakups in my time, some honest Guinness world record holders. But I have never felt as rejected as I have the last few months. He doesn’t get that I CAN’T throw him in the air. I CAN’T pick him up and hold him for an hour or two. I CAN’T put him in his carseat. It has been medically impossible. And he will never, ever know it hurts me more than it hurts him. It hurts me more than anybody has ever hurt.

So I crawl back into my parents’ enclosed porch, because my snot is, and you know how I feel about using this word inappropriately, literally freezing into the fur on my coat hood. My eyes have swollen into puffy little slits. My father knows I’m out there, but good timing or abject fear, doesn’t matter which, has kept him from coming out. Finally my sister Robin and the Dude arrive. Robin sends the Dude inside (“Where’s the baby? I wanna play with the baby! He loves me!”) and asks what happened. To her credit, she doesn’t laugh. Instead, she tells me the story of our Good Friends. Miss Good is 5. When she was 16 months old, she went through a phase where she hated Mr. Good Friend. Seriously, like yelled at him “NO!” every time he tried to interact with him. OK, I think, that’s pretty reassuring. Mr. Good Friend is up for several prestigous parenting awards I just made up, including Most Invested in Raising a Liberal and Compassionate Child and Healthy Diet Without Being Snobby About It. He’s a really Good Dad. She acted this way? She LOVES him now!

Robin tells me to get in her car. We go to the grocery store, and she buys me some really gross treats, including Ho-Hos that were set to expire that week. Have you ever has a Hostess cake less than a year before it’s set to expire? No. I didn’t think they existed. They do. And they are ungodly.

Then we went back. I went inside the house. I tried to wash my face, and we had dinner, which was chili with cinnamon rolls and if that confuses you then you’re not Nebraskan, more’s the pity for you.

There are plenty of signs Baby can tolerate my presence. I’m trying hard to see them. I’ve also gotten the big, ugly cry out of the way for awhile, which feels good. Most of all, this was a good lesson that I don’t need Batman, Superman, Spiderman or any of those other childless, freewheeling, testosterone driven “heroes.” The next time my world is falling apart, send Robin. Robin has a kid. She gets it.

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27 Dec 2015
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One batch, one family

There are many, many reasons to celebrate Christmas. Jesus is the Reason for the Season is a popular refrain and I like how that encapsulates a religious meaning for Christians in the story of  Joseph and Mary desperate for a place to give birth to Jesus. Christmas is a cornerstone of faith for 1/3 of the world’s populace, give or take a few. If Jesus is the main person in your religion, having a birthday party for him seems solid to me.

The old standard songs have some pretty great holiday justifications; getting home for Christmas even if it’s only your dreams, asking Santa for nothing but the company of a loved one, laughing at the mean old Grinch. Some are funny out of context, and laughing is a good reason to celebrate. It can be meteorological (Let it Snow!), audiological (sleighbells ring, can you listen?), psychological (Do You Hear what I Hear?), pathological (baby, it’s cold outside and you seem like a suave creep), even zoological (STOP with the turtle doves. She’s just not that into you and you need to walk away).

For others, Christmas time is about gifts. The act of giving, receiving, surprise, generosity, ingenuity…all good reasons to celebrate.

For me, Christmas is about sugar cookies. It’s my mom and dad’s main holiday tradition. There is no Christmas without sugar cookies. More specifically, there is no Christmas without everyone getting together and frosting them. For our mixed bunch (believers and non-believers alike) sugar cookie time is the essence of the church we go to to find our Christmas meaning. It’s our ancestry (we are many things, ALL of them cookie-centric cultures at the holidays). It’s also our culinary history. In her iconic “Cooky Book” Betty Crocker gives two versions of sugar cookies: Mary and Ethel. We bake the Ethel version. We have more ideology in common with Muslims fasting for Ramadan than we do with “Mary” recipe sugar cookie bakers. We take the Ethel recipe very seriously.

Cookie decorating is our artistic release. In years past Dad has given his cookie men plaid pants, mom has given her cookie ladies curly hair, Robin made an Elmo cookie, I turned a tree-shaped cookie into a KC Chiefs arrow.

We did our cookies later than usual this year, December 23rd. Robin and her family were there, I was there with Baby and Mac came from work to my parent’s house an hour later. This year saw several singular creations. The Dude experimented with Pollack-esque sprinkles while his dad made a cookie man wearing an ugly Christmas sweater vest of M&Ms. I swirled two runny frostings in a cool pattern I saw in some magazine named ‘Taste for People Classier Than You.” Robin even removed the head of one sugar cookie man and stuck it up the backend with some frosting. She then gave the head an orange combover and we celebrated eating one of this year’s brand name head-in-ass presidential candidates.

We listened to Christmas CDs, decided “Is it a Red Hot or is it a red M&M?” is a good game for people you don’t like very much, fed the baby a few cereal puffs. I fondly remembered when dad ate so many cookies we required a quadruple batch to be stocked up for the Christmas season. I especially remembered trying to sneak dough while they were in the fridge overnight and then attempting to cover the telltale spoon divots. I thought about the countless sugar cookie people that have paraded across our plates.

Sugar cookies are white. They are frosted with white, light green, or light pink frosting. The Imes family does not DO loud colors, colored gel, anything piped. Mom makes the cookies and frosting from scratch and everyone sits around one table for the games to begin. You get three frostings, a knife, and maybe a toothpick for detail work. You may have sprinkles or candies but you may NOT have these:

sprinkles

as Robin dumped an entire jar on the floor in our old house in 1989 and we were still pulling them out of kitchen baseboards when my parents moved 11 years later. This is true.

But this year, this year was different. The set-up was the same, the obnoxious jokes were hilarious, the contest to see who has the best cookie was highly competitive, mom fussed to get the curly hair just right, people surreptitiously ate their “mistakes.” It was the clone of Christmases past in all the best ways. As I watched everyone reaching for the green frosting and asking where the mini-chips went I absorbed the scene. I mean I really saw us. Then I knew: if everybody makes the cookies, everybody frosts the cookies, everybody eats the cookies, then these cookies are the Christmas tradition that define our family. One batch, one family. It’s the thing we can’t buy, won’t outsource and wouldn’t ever trade.

That’s when it hit me. In the most important way imaginable my sugar cookie family has changed. There is a new cookie on the table. Expansion was required for the familial rite of passage. So in 2015, for the first time ever, the ritual was amended.  I made a batch of chocolate frosting.

One batch, one family.

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22 Dec 2015
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And many more

Our son turned one. We didn’t meet him (or even know about him) until Dec. 22nd. Like many adoptive families we will celebrate Gotcha Day privately, but my parents hosted a birthday dinner for family and friends.

The cashier who saw me buying birthday cupcakes asked if they were for me. I mentioned it was Baby’s 1st birthday and he replied “You must be a lot more comfortable than you were a year ago right now!” I told him the truth, which was my husband and I were watching a British TV mystery and I felt no discomfort whatsoever.  For those of you concerned about the pain of childbirth I wholeheartedly suggest you let someone else go through it. If you’re an adoptive mom yearning for the actual experience of labor and delivery just walk around your house with a robe on backwards so your ass hangs out while you moan as though you’re dying of terminal constipation. See if that curbs your cravings.

Yes, only 365 days ago our Extenuating Circumstance was born. He threw us head first into the realm of baby gear, snotsuckers, feetie pajamas, formula burps, diaper gussets, childproofing, colic screaming and cereal puffs. There will never be enough words for how much I love this goofy, grinning, crying, screaming, cooing, farting, gurgling boy. He made a mess of my house and my heart. Here is my wonderful and silly son, in all his glory. He is the definition of the gift that keeps on giving.

First Birthday

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21 Dec 2015

Guest Artist Series: Becky Boesen

Becky, a playwright, director, actress and producer from Lincoln, NE is our final guest artist. You can see her next work, Puddin and the Grumble, at the Lied Center this spring.

On behalf of the entire DtEC family, we wish you a very merry Christmas, however you have time to celebrate it.

These Are the Things I have No Frickin’ Time For

Written by Sarah Imes Borden

Performed by Becky Boesen

These Are the Things I Have No Frickin’ Time For

Raindrops on roses are useless at Christmas

When you have kids it’s a serious business

Buying the right toys is my only chore

Everything else I don’t have frickin’ time for

 

Beautiful presents in artisan papers

Bold centerpieces with elegant tapers

Handcrafted pine wreaths to hang on my door,

Cause those are the things I will have fricken’ time for?

 

We won’t send portraits of us looking happy

Or cheerful notecards where I’m warm and sappy

Pictures with Santa result in a war

These are more things I have no frickin’ time for

 

Our tree is plastic, we don’t own a manger

My famous fruitcake is made by a stranger

You’ll all get giftcards from some random store

Anything else I have no frickin time for

 

As my kid yaks in a giftsack

That was for his dad

I simply remember life sucks in December and then I don’t feel so bad!

 

 

 

 

 

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10 Dec 2015
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On the level

Experts say that when you speak to a child, you should get down to their eye level to talk to them. I have also read that the most efficient method of childproofing your home is to crawl around on your hands and knees to see the room the way your child does. After an extended effort to see his world through Baby’s eyes, I have learned this unavoidable truth: my 11 month old son is running rings around me and there is no way to stop him.

Baby and I spent an hour in our little living room, examining the landscape together. The following is a complete and unedited transcript of the event as it happened.

Me: Let’s start at our previously established weak point, the entertainment center. Now that it’s padlocked and braced with extra dowels inside, components are secured. TV is far enough back, the cabinet is screwed to the wall, and pushing the center at baby’s level reveals little to no wobbling/shaking. Excellent. Moving on…

Baby: Hey look! There’s a baby in there! What if I wave hi? HOMG he’s waving…wait. It’s me in there! How did I get in there? I need to pound on the glass to feel me in there! poundpoundpoundpoundpoundpoundpoundpound

Me: Bookshelves flanking entertainment center: screwed into walls and we put the heaviest books on the bottom of the shelves. He can’t pull them out and all the chock- chotzkees-chochky dammit. Trinkets are out of reach.

Baby: poundpoundpoundpoundpoundpoundpoundpoundooooh! Books! I love books! I’m gonna pull some out and suck on one. I like the big green one. Pull out and GAH! HEAVY! Sad. So sad. Too heavy to put in my mouth, so saaaaad and waaaaaaaaah.

Me: Hey! What’s wrong? Are you OK? Why are you–wait. Where are you going?

Baby: OSCAR! IFUCKINGLOVETHISCAT. Gotta follow the cat. Gotta follow the cat. Gotta follow the cat. NO! I wanna snack on the book! Noooo, follow the cat!

At this point baby executes a move where he buttscoots half way across the room only to do a 180 and come right back. We call this his Crazy Ivan move.

Me: Soft. Soft, baby. Soft! If you want to pet Oscar you have to be soooooft. Hey– Oscar fits under the couch. Could Baby fit under the couch? I’m going to see how big the opening is… ooof. Oh man. I think I’m stuck halfway under the couch. SOFT, BABY!

Baby: Mommy’s busy. I bet this is a good time to see if the stairs are free.

Me: No! No! Hey! Hey! Baby! Look! Come here! Don’t go over there, don’t go (sound of me dislocating shoulder from under couch) WAIT! What about the Christmas tree? That’s new! That’s shiny! That’s tantalizing and forbidden and just out of reach! Why don’t you head for that?

Baby: Yeah, I saw that go up. Honestly, it’s so obviously a trap I can’t be bothered.

Me: No really! It’s there all month! Lights, shiny ornaments, breakable things, this should be your Mardi Gras.

Baby: Mommy, put your shoulder joint back in then pick me up so we can discuss the entrapment bullshit. You don’t even let me have cereal puffs without supervision, now the holiday shrub is fair game?

Me: Nah, you’re right. As long as we’re talking candidly, anything else you see down here you could kill yourself on?

Baby: You know I can’t stay away from the slidy thingies on the outlets but newsflash; that’s not the clear and present danger. The real story here is your stupid glider footstool.

Me: Beg pardon?

Baby: That sucker is amazing. If I pull myself up on it, I’ll lose my balance, fall backwards and bonk my head which is 10 minutes of crying at a minimum. If I pitch forward my only tooth will get knocked out. Thirty minutes crying plus a frantic call to your dentist. Check out the bottom of the footstool. Pinch my fingers or get bonked in the forehead depending on direction and force I push/pull. If I escape all that, I’ll push myself up on it, then try to walk and I’ll take my first steps all alone and you’ll miss it because you’re stuck under the couch. You have no idea what you’re doing, do you?

Me: Oh, for crying out loud. Isn’t it time for you to go to to the middle of the room and do a Crazy Ivan or something?

Baby: Good talk, mom. Where’s Oscar?

 

 

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07 Dec 2015
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Guest Artist Series: Stacie Blair

Stacie is a New York City based performer and music teacher for children. She’s a trained opera singer who also enjoys playing the ukelele and doing day work on films. We both want to wish a very Happy Hanukkah to everyone who celebrates!

It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year (for Jews)

Written by Sarah Imes Borden and performed by Stacie Blair

It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year

 

It’s the most wonderful time of the year

With the kids dreidel spinning

And betting who’s winning

While everyone cheers!

It’s the most wonderful time, of the year!

 

It’s the hap-happiest season of all

We light the menorah

And think of the torah

And eat doughnut balls!

It’s the hap-happiest season of all

 

We put on our yarmulkes

Celebrate Hanukkah

Laugh at your Christmas gift stress,

There’s no war on Christmas

We’re so glad we miss this

So Fox news just give it a rest!

 

It’s the most wonderful time of the night

Open some tchotchkes

And fry up our latkes

Then have a quick bite

For the eight days that we pause, not attack your Santa Claus

For our year-ly fest-i-val of light!!!

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28 Nov 2015

The wisdom to know the difference

Unless you live under an especially nonporous and far-flung rock, you know the quote about “the wisdom to know the difference.” This Thanksgiving weekend, I am deciding to embrace all of the things I cannot change.

  • My husband. If I could change what I don’t understand about Mac, someone else could change what I do understand, and love, and often secretly marvel at. I’d rather that not be the case.
  • The garage. It’s never going to be clean. It’s a black hole of old boxes with mysterious markings like “Donnie’s flatware.” It’s in handwriting I don’t recognize, and we don’t know anyone named Donnie. We also have bits of electrical equipment I don’t know how to use, a breadmaker from 2001, a giftwrap plastic holder that doesn’t close properly, giftwrap covered in finely ground sawdust, a sit-up exercising frame I should be using, a powersaw I should not, and an enormous bag of red solo cups. Who the hell is leaving flatware, cups and exercise equipment in my garage? I blame Donnie Wahlberg.
  • My students. I can teach, guide, ask, cajole, wheedle, bark, instruct and demonstrate. Not change.
  • My abdomen. My abdomen is a rogue nation in my world. The head negotiated with it, the heart pleaded with it, the gallbladder attacked it. Eventually the hand signed forms to remove large chunks of it and the legs gave up enabling it all the time. My mouth has imposed sanctions. My nerves are shot because of it. A coalition of the willing (eyes and feet) got it to as many specialists as it took, and still takes, to keep it in line with the global philosophy. They have all failed to make peace with it. So my ears are listening to every other body part and deciding some things will never be fixed.. We have extended a peacekeeping force to do what can be done.
  • Cat hair. We vacuum every day and dust three times a week. I don’t know where it comes from. We only have one cat. I wonder if he fleeces other cats and secretly brings it in while we’re at work. Every week I have enough hair to construct a whole new cat if I want. I’m thinking of going into the pillow business.
  • My friends’ friends. I never cared until Facebook. I’d better stop caring so much or I’m going to cyberthrottle someone I couldn’t pick out of a lineup in real life.
  • The plight of every suffering person.
  • The situation of every impoverished person.
  • The pain of every person who can’t tell Coke is better than Pepsi
  • The dried cereal stuck to my child. He can’t quit dropping the cereal puffs out of his mouth. They’re stuck EVERYWHERE. On the back of the highchair, on his butt, on the living room rug. I find them stuck in his hair, on bibs that got gluten-glued to diapers in his diaperbag, in the meshy part of his pack’n’prison. They’re mashed into the cat’s tail, on the welcome mat by the back door, in the mouth of the stuffed lion on his activity center, the back of Mac’s sweater and clogging up my tub’s drain. I have an incredible plan concerning cost-effective pothole repair with a Gerber sponsorship.These things are delicious cement just waiting to be activated by a hungry baby.
  • Donald Trump. He’s a natural disaster much like a tornado or a hurricane. You can’t stop it on your own, your best bet is to band together and help everyone in the aftermath.
  • Diapers
  • Dammit. Mac called me on my bullshit.
    • See the first sentence.
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25 Nov 2015
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Featured Artist Series: Lacey Hannan

This holiday season, I wanted to give all of you a gift for staying with us on the adventure thus far. Over the next month DtEC will have videos of holiday favorites performed by my very talented actress friends, with a few minor story edits as done by yours truly. I hope you enjoy our festive offerings as much as we enjoyed making them for you.

First up, Hollywood actress and model Lacey Hannan performs a new holiday classic, “‘Twas Thanksgiving Day.”

‘Twas Thanksgiving Day

Written by Sarah Imes Borden and performed by Lacey Hannan

 

Tis Thanksgiving morning and all through the house, everyone’s stirring, even my spouse

The turkey’s still frozen, my gravy won’t thicken, the Butterball Hotline just told me “serve chicken”

 

My brother in law has burnt both the hams, my kids ate the marshmallows meant for the yams

My sister in sweatpants and I in my jeans, have now come to blows over who’ll make the beans

 

My husband has ruined three knives and a pan, his job was to open the cranberry can

I’m basting potatoes and mashing a bird, at this rate we’ll eat on December the third

 

 

When out at the kids table arose such a clatter, Ibsprang from the kitchen to see what’s the matter

Turns out my son’s soda made a big mess– I’m so damn tired I couldn’t care less

 

Then what to my glazed over eyes should appear? Oh thank you God, my mother is here!

With casseroles full of already-sliced meat, and homemade sage stuffing I can’t wait to eat.

 

Her car contains every feast food you can buy, salads and cheesecakes and fresh pumpkin pie!

Savory sauces and sweet little blintzes, when she smells my food she just barely winces

 

We spring to the table, ignoring the messes, forgetting to put on our ties and nice dresses

We slam back turducken and drink all the wine, for such a disaster it ended up fine

 

As mom washed up dishes without a word, I cried about roasting the still-frozen bird

I heard her laugh loudly as she drove out of sight…“Nobody gets their First Thanksgiving right!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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