I don’t have a name for what is happening here online, I do know that strangers are coming together to form friendships and within the bounds of these friendships, actions are taken. I met Melissa once in Chicago and it was like finding your friend you’d been searching the world for. I didn’t need more of her than just those moments, nor she I. Melissa was recently in town for a taping of Dr. Phil so the kids and I met her for a quick dinner at Hollywood and Highland.

In keeping with it being Hollywood, I met Bob Saget on my way to Melissa and later we were both greeted by a delinquent smoking a joint in the hallway of the Raddsion. I had the children avert their eyes, “clove cigarettes” we explained to them.

We had dinner and took a brief walk on Hollywood Boulevard. “Oh my gosh Melissa, I know her.” I grasped Melissa’s forearm. She looked at me and I continued, “Melissa, I know her from Mark Hovarth’s videos. I know about her dog and her catheter, and her need to see her family. I know her three wishes.”

Standing on Hollywood Boulvard, buying my children toys they don’t need (and may or may not want) I grabbed my friend’s sleeve and whisper again, “I know her.”

But I don’t do anything, because just as quickly as she appeared, she disappears again. My middle class guilt has me gasping for breath.

Mark made Viper visible.

My kids are in a private school.

My kids aren’t in private school because I believe so deeply in a tiered education system, or because I think they’re too gifted/talented/smart/special to be in school with the general population. We actually bought our home in part for the local school. My children are in private school because The Los Angeles Unified School District (LAUSD) is a colossal failure. We didn’t opt for private school when we found out that there was no art education or PE, we knew there would be none of that, but we also knew that we’d be able to afford to supplement those activities.

We put our son in private school when his kindergarten teacher refused to help him clean his glasses after lunch without an IEP. An IEP is an Individual Education Plan, and it’s available to children with special needs. I understand that technically wearing glasses is a special need. I simply could not start my son’s academic career with with a teacher who didn’t feel like she was on his team.

After moving both kids to private school I realized that they really do deserve it. The classrooms are spectacular, and it’s nice that they have brand new computers and smart boards, but they have something even richer. My kids have amazing teachers who love learning, teaching and who revere and respect childhood. My kids also have a peer group that will elevate them. Everything else is truly a bonus.

I try to keep this in mind when as my husband travels the world, and asks why we don’t take European vacations with the kids. “They go to private school.” I reply. He doesn’t seem to understand it, as his trips are planned by his assistant at work or by me at home. We don’t have $15,000 for a family of four to have a nice time in Milan or in London. I guess we would if we lived more modestly in other ways, but the big expense is school.

I try to not resent it, and for the most part I’m grateful that my children were accepted there. Sometimes I look at the quality of their work and just pinch myself. I went to Chadwick, my husband went to a school of the same caliber, we both understand the import of rigor, and that a good education is the one and only gift we can give our children that no one can take away. Ever.

Still, I feel a little overwhelmed when I see other families who don’t pay for school, and seem to have a lot more expendable income. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to being jealous, but I know this is the right thing for our kids.

This post was inspired in part by this expose by the LA Weekly.

I’ve picked him up from the airport. I love him, I’m so happy to see him. My body defied me.

I’m a heap of exhaustion after eight days of heat wave and parenting. It’s been over 100 degrees for the past five days, and though I’m absolutely delighted that my husband is home, it’s not primarily that I want to be with him. It’s because I cannot stand one more solitary moment of being a single parent.

I can’t break up fights, listen to music, entertain or cajole. I can’t play Rock Band, Monopoly, spoons, soccer or catch.

It’s only when I see my husband, that I realize how terribly exhausted I am, and though I’d love to hug and kiss him, what I really want to do is cry.

I’m tired.

We’ve named it reentry. Much like atmospheric reentry there is a certain amount of risk. Now that we are twelve years into marriage and almost eleven years into parenting, we have a solution. I leave the house.

When the kids were tiny his job took him away much more than it does now. There would be several weeks each spring where he’d be gone and then another few weeks following that where the days were so long, that all we’d see of him was his laundry. The locations changed but the scenarios seldom did.

He would leave and the first day I would miss him, the second day I would be tired and trying to keep up with the kids, and the kids would miss him. Somewhere between days three and four we would catch our rhythm, the rules of the house would subtly change, and the kids and I would adapt to a life without Dad. The day before he came back home, we’d anxiously prepare ourselves and our home, and the day he returned we would be awkward, loving and excited.

Then the first full day back we would fight.

My husband and I aren’t fighters, we don’t bicker, we don’t agree on everything, but fighting is unusual. I realized it was me. The dynamic was just not working for us. I’d shift our household rules ever so slightly to allow for the fact that there were two of them and just one of me, and when my husband would return, he’d shift the rules back. I felt like I’d been inadequate, and like they were my kids, not ours.

I’m not really one to cater much to feelings. Though I’m sure a therapist would tell you that they are “valid” feelings, that doesn’t mean they need to be acted upon.

Now, when he returns, in an effort to avoid the destructive nature of reentry I leave. I greet my husband as I typically would, but for that first full day I find errands to do, or tennis matches that must be played. I leave my husband with his children and the trio enjoys one another for a day. I don’t tell him he’s doing it wrong, and I’m not in the room for a day where he’s fairly certain I’ve done it wrong. On day two I rejoin the family, and we are a family again, no fighting, and everyone is happy to be together.

He comes home tomorrow night, Monday is Yom Kippur. There will be reeentry coupled with fasting. This I’m not ready for.

Heh, I opened up my email and the topic for September is “Me Time”. I thought, “ooh I’d love to write about that, me time is so important.”

Then I got busy with my me time, so I never got around to a proper post. I exercise, it’s a non negotiable part of my day. If I don’t exercise, I don’t sleep well, if I don’t sleep I cry. I don’t cry like whimper either, I cry in great big sobbing gusts of snottiness peppered with I hate my lifestyle.

So me time matters.

Now if September would just slow down, stop playing cruel tricks on me and allow me more than 42 minutes a day I’d be very appreciative. Right now, me time has turned into we time, and I’m chasing kids.

I could resent it, but I’m opting to embrace it, because any minute they might not want to be with me.

For those of you unfamiliar with Little League, the season is over. We are now involved in what is known as “Fall Ball”. I don’t typically say “we” when it comes to children’s sports, but I assure you “we” are involved in fall ball. The kids play for a couple of hours each Sunday and the parents cheer and take stunning pictures of their little boys. Why? Because little boys in team uniforms are absolutely adorable, squishable and oooohhh yummy.

Unless

You are the only mother there whose child has dingy white pants because every part of your heart and soul knows that bleach is about vanity and kicks the crap out of Mother Earth. Then the PMS kicks in… so I’m fighting back tears standing in the aisles of the grocery story and I called Lolita, “Alexander’s pants are brown, my son slides into every base and I don’t know what to do.” She hemmed and hawed, and said, “I use Tide, but I know you like things to be eco friendly…” and while she was still talking, I was tossing Tide into my grocery cart. You see, I know Lolita and she has two boys and they have sparkly clothes, so I was in.

This is how the pants started out:

I tried used Tide and ended up with this

Naturally the first questions were, “did Tide pay you to say that?” and “did they send you samples?”

Answers: No, Tide did not pay me to do anything. No, they did not send me a sample.

Blanket Answer: When I get samples of products they typically end up at The Interfaith Food Pantry.

I know those are just iPhone pictures, but trust me, I went to Little League with my camera and my son, and I sat in the bleachers with the best feeling any mother could ever have. The feeling of knowing that I’m a better housewife than you are.  My kid had an amazing play in the outfield, but by then his pants were stained again, so I wasn’t feeling quite as perky. Offhandedly I mentioned to Jane that I was happy about Alexander’s pants being so white, and the Tide had worked well and she interrupted me with:

Mo-om that is the worst thing you could do for the planet. Tide takes fifteen years to go back into the ground. I told you go to Gelsons and get the stuff that’s good for the planet.

My daughter is furious, and with one swipe she takes the wind out of my clean-pants-glory filled sails.

I do exactly what any self respecting Mommy Blogger worth her salt would do in the same situation. I called Tide’s PR folks. [shut up and stop laughing] I happen to know that there are more than a few Moms on the Tide account and that they would know how to talk to my daughter. An incredibly sensitive email was sent to my daughter, who was delighted, that included some simple facts about Tide being phosphate free and concentrated. There was mention made of their cold water wash, and it was just the perfect letter for a ten year old. I was so hopeful, and when I logged onto her email account (yes I read my children’s emails and I recommend you do too) here’s the reply I saw:

Thank you for sending me that email but I have heard that it takes 15 years
for Tide to go it to the ground and… Well yeah.

In case you are worried about me, I’ve found the perfect solution. I’m hiding all the laundry soap from my kid. Mother Earth can suckit, I like sparkling white clothes.

Oh and also, we won’t be going to Rock A Little Feed A Lot, because even though my family would have loved seeing Sheryl Crow perform live, I don’t think that giving America Frankenfood solves the hunger issue. It does however, explain why our children are morbidly obese.