Cicada Central

May 30, 2013

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: I’m not really a nature girl, per se. Not up close, anyway.

For those of you who were around for the Fordeville Swarm Incident of 2012, you’ll recall that I was terrorized by tens of thousands of honey bees and I thought the End of Days was going down in my backyard. Or maybe a Candyman sequel.

Well, it turns out that whole thing was nothing but a warm-up act. Sort of an Amateur Night. Because, if you really want to freak me the hell out, you’ll make my yard the Global Headquarters for the 17 Year Brood II Cicadas.

It’s a crazy sex party outside my window.

A loud, messy, shameless sex party.

And these guys have been waiting 17 years for some action.

It feels more like a horror movie. Especially when you think about this stat: There are as many as one billion emerging cicadas per square mile. Put another way: Cicadas may outnumber humans by a ratio of 600:1.

What?!

I grew up in New Jersey and I honestly don’t remember any of this cicada madness from my childhood. But it appears that the property on which my current home sits is my own personal Poltergeist of insect scenarios. Because I really never pictured myself doing things like sweeping hundreds of bugs off my front porch and backyard swing set multiple times a day. It’s just not something you think will ever be in your Parental Job Description.

“Mom! Mom! Get the broooooooom! Sweep them away! I can’t walk to the car! MOMMMMMMMMM — there’s another one and another and  another and — ewwwwwww, don’t step on that one. OH NO, you stepped on it and now it’s all mushy on the steps and I can’t walk there. And there are a few more, and what number comes after 12,000?”

I try to set a decent example for my kids. Honestly, it’s like being in the running for a Best Actress Oscar.

  • What I say, with relative calm, while screaming on the inside: “Oh, come on, they don’t hurt anyone. Don’t worry about them. But they sure are everywhere, huh?” 
  • What I really think: “HOW MANY MORE DAYS? HOW MANY MORE DAYS? OMG, MAKE THEM GO AWAY BEFORE I GIVE BIRTH SO I CAN TAKE THIS BABY FOR A WALK SOMETIME IN ITS FIRST MONTH OF LIFE.”

I’m practically Meryl Streep. I know.

Because, seriously, the trunks of my trees look like they’re moving sometimes. As does my lawn, where the nasty little spawn continue to crawl out of holes in the ground in huge numbers.

 

And now, I have a few questions about this whole phenomenon. Some may be rhetorical.

  • What. The. Fuck. Mother. Nature?
  • Is this revenge for the honey bee removal? It is, right? Some sort of twisted karma insect vendetta? {If so, I repent. Just make this stop.}
  • Why did I ever leave Manhattan? Whyyyyyyy?
  • Can’t we find a small patch of land to declare a Cicada-Free Zone?
  • Why are parts of my town wholly unaffected? Do they pay extra taxes or are they just better people?
  • Where can I order a residential bunker to be installed under my home for the next month? And will it be temperature-controlled enough to store wine?

The carcasses crunch under my feet. The mating call sounds like an ongoing car alarm. The birds are all flying around with cicadas hanging out of their beaks. It’s like National Geographic on steroids.

I know, they do no harm.

I know, it’s a miracle of nature.

I know, The Circle of Life. All of that.

Or, it’s my personal definition of Hell — much like being locked in a room with an endless loop of Taylor Swift songs.

Go ahead — tell me I’m overreacting. That’s fine. I’m sure it seems that way. After all, they are just harmless bugs having big orgy in my yard. I shouldn’t begrudge them their moment. And they’ll be gone soon, not to return for 17 years.

So when the summer of 2030 arrives, you will find me on vacation in a bug-free land. Or securely tucked away in the awesome wine bunker I had installed back in good old 2013.

 

 

 

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Last Firsts

May 23, 2013

“You must be beyond ready.”

“You just want that baby out, huh?”

“Aren’t you so done with being pregnant?”

I get these comments a lot now. Probably because the size of my stomach is uncomfortable for the human eye to focus on without incurring optic muscle strain.

And that’s fine — I’m not offended. None of it is mean-spirited.

But I’ll tell you a little secret: I’ve just never been terribly uncomfortable or miserable when pregnant. Overall, it doesn’t really bother me beyond the minor things.

I mean, yeah, I’d prefer to wear normal clothes and have a waistline that didn’t resemble the equator. And, yes, my body temperature is distinctly in the Thermonuclear range while my husband freezes with a 61-degree thermostat setting. And I miss sleeping on my stomach. I miss sushi. I miss multiple cups of mind-crushing coffee. And, for the love of all that is holy, I miss wine.

And I’m not all Mother Earthy and out in a meadow celebrating the wonders of the human body. It’s not that. I just don’t happen to mind pregnancy all that much. I think I’ve been lucky in that it has never caused me massive discomfort or, worse, any major problems.

And the bigger secret is that I think I will miss it.

I’m about 99.8% sure that this will be our last child. My husband and the Global Department of Advanced Maternal Age are both about 1087% sure. We are all in agreement. And yet I am filled with what I’ll call pre-emptive nostalgia. Everything is about to be The Last Something.

Next week, I’ll be going to the last ultrasound I’ll ever have. {At least from an obstetrics perspective. If I accidentally swallow a rare gold coin sometime in the future, then back to Radiology I’ll go.}

The following week, I’ll check into the Labor & Delivery unit for the last time.

And then, I’ll bring home a newborn for the last time.

And all of those firsts that this baby will have — we will celebrate them and marvel over them and run with giddy parental excitement to capture them with our cameras.

But, still, I suspect I’ll be wistful that they will be the the last firsts.

{Yes, you can remind me that I said all of this when I am a sleep-deprived maniac in a few weeks.}

I’m beyond excited for this baby to get here — that’s an understatement. But I’m also not in a rush, if that makes sense. There’s something about the now that I love. The waiting. The anticipation. The holding onto this chapter just a bit longer, before things get a little more chaotic, complicated and crazy.

I feel this way even knowing — without a doubt — that our party of five will be fabulous, too. With new chapters that bring new firsts. I know this.

But that doesn’t stop me from also knowing that this giant stomach — in its last two weeks of clumsiness and eye-popping physics — is something that I’ll miss more than a little. Even if it’s the right time for it to be the last.

 

 

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Welcome to the Circus

May 14, 2013

“Paper or plastic?”

I was in the grocery store yesterday, as I am on most Mondays. I was staring at the ridiculous magazine headlines near the check-out {just before purchasing two of these fine publications}. I was tired. I mentally calculated when I would have time for a shower later in the afternoon between school pick-ups, karate and dinner prep.

And I wondered if, just a day before, it had really happened. Had I been up on a stage? With my name in a program?

“Ma’am, do you have your Price Plus card?”

Had I been all dressed up? Blinded by the lights of the stage? Had I really heard the words of my own writing come out of my mouth, through that microphone and into the audience of hundreds before me?

“Any coupons today?”

What a difference a day makes.

I don’t expect that I’ll ever forget what a great experience it was to be part of the Listen to Your Mother show in New York. It was really a thrill to share a stage with such a wonderful group of people — some professional writers and performers, and some not {ahem} — who brought such a huge array of motherhood stories to life. Every one of them impressed me more than I can say.

Let me tell you a few truths about the whole thing.

  • I was terrified. Really terrified. Like, I-might-pass-out kind of terrified.
  • I was stressed out. In true Murphy’s Law fashion, my son was projectile vomiting the whole night before, which kind of limits one’s babysitting options. And I was convinced that I would be the next one taken down by this virus, just in time to take the stage. {Thankfully, this didn’t happen.}
  • And, for the record, how many maternity dresses do you think one would have to try on at 35 weeks pregnant to find something that looks decent-ish enough to wear on a stage? Does 25 sound about right to you? OK, good.

But, all that aside, everything — somehow — came together. I was lucky to have family and friends give up their own Mother’s Day plans to come and support me. And you know you have amazing friends when they offer to babysit your sick kids so that your husband can come and see the show.

I felt guilty about spending Mother’s Day largely away from my kids. Yet, it was still somehow so fitting to be exactly where I was. I was doing something completely for me, yet it was something absolutely drawn from the essence of my daily motherhood grind. So even though my kids weren’t in the theater, they were up there with me on that stage — in my mind and on those pages from which I read. They were the reason I could do this.

I’m told there will be a YouTube link available at some point and, depending on how much of a Mack truck I look like, I may or may not share it with you when I get it. So, here is the written version of the piece I read. For the full effect, picture me overheating with fear and wondering if I’m actually about to faint.

But I’d do it again. In a heartbeat.

Yep, it happened.

“No, no coupons today. Paper bags, please. And add these two magazines to the total.”

 

_____________

Welcome to the Circus 

 

Dear Child #3 {and, yes, we’ll get you a proper name},

I thought it might be helpful if we had a little chat before your June arrival.  I want to make sure you understand the lay of the land around here.  Because it’s probably pretty traumatic to be thrust into the world unexpectedly.  A world of chaos and strange customs.  A world inexplicably ruled a little more by Taylor Swift every day.

It’s hard enough for me to understand this place, and I’ve been here a while — so it must be completely unsettling for you.  Like suddenly joining the circus. Without even signing up for an audition.

So let’s think of this as your Circus Orientation Guide so that everything seems just a little less freakshow when you get here.

Let me introduce the main players to you.

There’s me – I’m the ringmaster.  The one who keeps the show running.  The one who attempts to contain all scheduling delays to under an hour. The multi-tasker who is just one flaming juggling pin shy of a domestic inferno. You may know me better as the person you often hear screaming “Get in the car, get in the car, get IN THE CAR, I’M LEAVING — GET. IN. THE CAR!”  That, incidentally, is nothing to worry about.  Just standard operating procedure around here.

And your dad.  When not pushing the limits of a gripping Home Depot addiction, he is the guy up on the high wire of our act — without a net — maintaining a sense of calm that keeps a certain ringmaster from throwing herself into the tiger’s cage. He astounds me every day with his solid footing and roll-with-the-punches mentality. And yet, this man never fails to delight the masses with his quirks and his laughter. He is the showstopper. Armed with extraneous power tools.

Let’s move on to the Clown Car.  Or, better said: Great news — you also have two siblings waiting to meet you!

Your big brother just turned six.  Currently Clown-in-Chief, he takes his leadership role seriously. He is a student of detail and a sensitive little soul. But he also has other aspirations.  For example, he is currently on track to break the world record for Number of Consecutive Questions Asked in a Six Year Period.  In addition, he can teach you all about the fine art of debate. I think his method, once published and with proper agency representation, will gain a loyal following.  The working title is Wearing Down Your Mother Through Endless Rebuttals: One Boy’s Journey From No. Anyway, he is really excited to have you around — as long as you’re a boy.

You also have a big sister, the clown apprentice.  She will be four this summer.  But she thinks she’s 12, so don’t say anything.  This is the girl who will grow up to tell all the jokes and charm the crowds. And because she has zero regard for her personal safety and would be well-served by wearing a helmet at all times, we are considering her for the human-shot-out-of-the cannon act.  Or, based on her table manners, she may soon headline the plate-spinning portion of the show. She is also really excited to have you around — as long as you’re a girl.

Back to me, though.  Because I’m the one you’ll be hanging out with the most in the beginning.

Just to be clear, I’m far from perfect.

For instance, I curse too much.  I know this because a sailor once told me during Fleet Week that I have a bad mouth. Also, I had very high hair in the 80s.  I miss living in Manhattan sometimes but I carry its residual pent-up road rage around the suburbs with me.  I am deathly afraid of craft stores and am 100% lacking the DIY gene, so you shouldn’t expect any sort of popsicle stick building or rainy-day diorama creations from me.

But, on the flip side: I make a mean red sauce, have been known to tell a good story now and then, and I am uniquely qualified to teach you – in 21 years – how to responsibly conquer a roulette table.

And here’s the truth about running this circus: There was actually a time when I wasn’t sure I ever wanted to be a mother.  Until I was.

And then, after your brother was born, I knew I had to have a second child.

And then I wasn’t sure about a third.  Until I was.

And then I knew I wasn’t finished — even with my imperfect parenting, a high rate of baking disasters and a broad cynicism of class moms.  I knew we needed you.

And you’ll be here before I know it.

So, welcome to the circus, baby. It’s the show of a lifetime and the best gig, by far, I’ve ever had. What some call madness under the big top, or three rings of crazy, we simply call the “home” command in the minivan navigation system.

Now, all that’s left is whether to buy the pink or the blue baby unicycle.

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The Curious Consumer & Restoration Hardware

May 8, 2013

 

Dear Restoration Hardware:

As a consumer goods company, I have to imagine you value market feedback about your products.

I recently received the latest edition of your Baby & Child catalog.

My, it is stunning. So chic and luxe.

And, after turning each super-fabulous page that made the paper stock of my holiday cards feel like unadulterated sandpaper accented with flecks of glass, I do have a few questions for you.

  • First and foremost, how do you feel about your employees drinking on the job? I ask because it’s clear — after looking at your prices and then making an optometry appointment to have my prescription checked — that your marketing team is probably hitting the bottle. Big time. Possibly with a side of hallucinogenics.
  • I’m also curious about where, exactly, you conduct your focus groups. Is it in a hermetically sealed luxury pod in Beverly Hills? Or perhaps at the Spelling Mansion? Or on the set of The Real Housewives franchise?

But of course I can’t look away. It’s like a car crash. Made of custom tufted silks.

And so I’ll admit, I did have my eye on a few specific items that I’d like to discuss with you.

Let’s start with this nursery. I am, after all, only about a month away from the arrival of my third child and on the hunt for some fresh ideas.

{Image courtesy: Restoration Hardware}

 

This was an eye-opener for me. All this time, I thought that my taste was more of the sensible/everyday/shabby chic {minus the chic}, but I see that I have been overlooking the Royal Infant/Salute to Will and Kate theme. Very interesting, indeed. Just a few questions, though:

  • Now, do you find it odd that this crib costs more than the monthly rent on my first Manhattan apartment? No? Maybe it’s just me.
  • If my kid’s personal butler is away on vacation when my order arrives, will you help us set it up? Or is concierge service extra?
  • Why not add a clothing line to the mix? I, for one, am dying to see how a babe living in such a nursery would be dressed. I’m guessing that the onesies I bought in bulk at Target last week might not cut it and may, in fact, burst into flames upon entry of such a room.
  • That’s genuine lead crystal on the sconces, right? Yep, the ones within the reach of a toddler standing up in the crib. Those. I was just trying to figure out the depth of the flesh wound my child might encounter from those pesky glass-to-skin punctures.

 

Moving on to the lighting department. So many choices!

{Image courtesy: Restoration Hardware}

 

Personally, I find this line to be a relief. Because, first of all, I was really worried about having the proper formal lighting scheme under which my young children can see which variety of Goldfish they are eating. It’s also critical for tea parties to have as much crystal as humanly possible in the room. And — bonus! — it works well with my son wielding ninja swords all over the house.

Again, just a few follow-up questions before I proceed with my order:

  • Can I place these on hold long enough to speak with my insurance company about putting additional personal liability coverage on our homeowners policy?
  • How is the child in the photo adjusting to the clear lack of furniture in her room? I mean, does she know that her parents blew all their cash on light fixtures and that’s why she has to sit on a pillow and store her books on the floor? She looks like she’s taking it in stride, although the padded walls give me pause. Is she OK? Or is she writing in that journal about what will prove to be years of pent-up resentment? Maybe just keep an eye on her.

 

Finally, thank you for resolving a major issue that has been pressing on my mind: What furnishings can I buy to help my kids relax?

{Image courtesy: Restoration Hardware}

 

Well, now I am breathing a huge sigh of relief. Were it not for your Vintage Cigar Leather Sofa, my kids would have to suffer the indignities of sitting on adult-sized furniture to unwind after a long day of playing. Where else would they plan their world travels like this young gentleman? I mean, I can’t just have them sitting on the floor while watching Disney, Jr.

Plus, the leather is ideal — I can just brush off most food and drink stains — not to mention blend in anything that a stray marker may leave behind. Truly, this is a lifesaver. And, priced at just under $2,000, the practicality of it really hits home. How the hell have we been getting by without this?

 

Last night, I finished thumbing through your catalog. But I must say that this been an education — not only in decor, but in home equity loans as well. I can only hope that you will begin issuing seasonal editions so that I have new decor aspirations at my fingertips on a rolling basis throughout the year.

Finally, let me offer my congratulations. Your latest line manages to make Pottery Barn Kids look reasonable and prudent, with bargain basement pricing. That’s no small feat.

Thanks in advance for addressing my concerns. If you start manufacturing strollers that will surely outperform my 2010 car, please put me on your mailing list straight away.

I must be the first to know.

 

 

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Filed Under: Knocked Up, That Which Drives Me Crazy 31 Comments

Listen to Your Mother

May 6, 2013

Only six more days until I stand up on a stage in Manhattan and read a piece of my writing to hundreds of strangers.

Here are some things you will not find me saying about this upcoming experience:

  • No big deal — just your typical Sunday.
  • I’m not terrified. At all.
  • I have tons of flattering wardrobe options to choose from at 35 weeks pregnant.

Because, the truth is, I have several questions in the category of Reasons Why Getting On Stage Will Be Terrifying:

  • What if I completely freeze when I’m up there?
  • What if my jokes fall flat?
  • What if I go into labor? On stage?

Anything is possible.

But one thing is certain: I am honored and thrilled to be in this year’s NYC cast of Listen to Your Mother.

 

 

This is one of 24 Listen to Your Mother shows taking place across the country this year, giving Mother’s Day a microphone and featuring writers and performers telling their own tales of motherhood. Having been in rehearsals with my fellow cast members, I can tell you that our stories range from the funny, to the sweet, to the downright heartbreaking. Some of us are mothers. Some are not. And, together, we’ve got the goods on the complexity, diversity and humor of motherhood.

What? You want to come and see the show in New York on Sunday at 5pm? Excellent! We’ll be at Symphony Space on 95th & Broadway. Even the marquee says so.

You want to bring your mom? Great! It will be forever known as That Year You Took Her To See That Fabulous Show for Mother’s Day. Sure, you’re setting the gift bar high for the future, but it will be worth it {said the perhaps-not-totally-objective cast member}.

Oh — you want to ditch your mom after brunch? OK, I guess that works too — I’m not getting involved, but just give her a nice gift first.

Ohhhh — you want to ditch your kids for the evening, after opening the gifts they made by hand for you and enjoying the five-course brunch they prepared? Psssst — I can help. {Note: The show’s content is not suitable for young children anyway, so you’re not technically “ditching them” as much as you’ll be “supporting me.” It’s all in the semantics.}

You want to know if I go into labor on stage? Fine, but please tell my husband to narrow down his list of baby names already. And if you know a good anesthesiologist, feel free to bring him/her to the show as your +1.

 

There are two ways to make all of this happen:

1) Enter to win a free pair of tickets that I’m giving away, courtesy of the show’s producers. Just leave a comment on this post between now and Wednesday at midnight (ET).

2) If you don’t win the freebies, you can buy tickets here. 

 

I hope to see you there! I’ll the one with the giant belly trying to sneak some snacks onto the stage.

 

Giveaway small print: One entry per person. Contest open to U.S. residents age 18 and over. Entries close on Wednesday, May 8 at midnight. Winner will be randomly selected via Random.org and announced here. If winner does not respond within twenty-four hours, a new winner will be selected. I was not compensated for this post or for promoting this giveaway. All opinions are my own {as always}.

 

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