Recently in Misc Neuroses Category

Today part-way through an article in Us Weekly about how celebrities lost their postpartum weight--or maybe it was the story about George Clooney and his ex-girlfriend having recently "kept in touch" via email--I set the magazine down in my lap and ran my mind though a voluntary exercise of abject terror.

I was at the chiropractor. Sitting on the table in a blue hospital gown and an absurd little triangular lead apron, a grossly inadequate-seeming shield for my baby-makin' parts from the x-rays I'd just had taken. X-rays of my lower back and neck--standard stuff the new doc figured would confirm his garden variety "baby trauma, computer hunch, yadda yadda" diagnosis about my bag of bones.

At some point in the middle of whatever article it was, I suddenly realized just how long I'd been sitting there reading that crappy magazine. Long enough to envision a scenario whereby the doctors were all in the other room, leaning with concern into the light box of my x-rays and discussing just how they'd break the news to me about the wretched thing they saw--long enough to make that terrible image suddenly seem as though it was without a doubt what had to be happening and why I was waiting so damn long.

And here I'd been. Haplessly reading a magazine. Ignorant and blissful. Expecting that after scanning the pictures showing celebrities doing things 'just like us' (putting money in the parking meter!) the doctor would come back, inform me the x-rays were just fine, tell me to get dressed, direct me to another room for a heat pack and a few righteous neck crunches, then send me on my way home to collect Mark and the girls for a rainy-day visit to the wildlife sanctuary.

But really what would-could-might be about to go down would make these few page-flipping minutes seem like the happiest carefree bored would-that-I-could-go-back-there time ever. What if the doctors came in, stern and serious? And after our talk I had to dig out my cell phone, call Mark, tell him he needed to come meet me there, or maybe even at the hospital? What if something suddenly on this otherwise nondescript day sent me into a mother-love panic about my fragile and about-to-crumble mortality jeopardizing my happy-go-lucky magazine-reading life and my heretofore inadequately appreciated days and months and years with my beloved husband and those blessed beautiful girls?

It could happen.

But in some deep deep place I think I somehow knew that this whole mental spiral was only meant to act itself out in my mind. Based in part on the odds. But also because if I thought it might really be happening I don't think I could even bear to conjure it up. To take it all the way though to the sickening horrible thought that I can barely force myself to retun to now--my sweet small children, motherless.

Who knows what triggered this sudden ardent need for a heroine-heavy dose of life perspective. Maybe, God willing, the doctor'd come back in, all in a flurry with some double-booked back-up of neck-wringing to wrangle with, and like some hairdresser who's gotten behind on one appointment that'll screw her for the whole day, apologize as he hastily loaded a heating pad on my back to move me through the rotation and out the door--one more down.

And thankfully, blessedly, thank you thank you thank you Mr. Universe, Sir, some version of that did happen.

But still in my relief the thought lingered that maybe one room over there was another woman who wasn't so lucky. And if not in this doctor's office surely somewhere nearby someone was getting crappy news. Someone's plans to go home and heat up leftover chicken soup for lunch were about to be shot to shit.

I had a professor in London my junior year of college. A rapid-fire-talking layered-clothing-wearing kindly woman whose voice was as high-pitched as it was shrill. Truth be told I don't even remember what genre of lit she taught, though it seems like it should be 19th Century.

Anyway, one day I went to her office for our tutorial--the one-on-one sessions that comprised the Brit's collegiate learning structure. ("Here's the syllabus. Read the books. Meet with me every other week--maybe over a pint--to chat. And turn in five papers by the end of the term.") So I walk into her office. She's all in a tizzy--much more than her usual state. Wisps of gray hair flying out of her bun and glasses low on her nose. Standing up behind her desk slapping together teetering piles of books and papers and folders and a tea cup or two while clucking to herself, "Oh, Margorie. Come on now! Come on."

Then, having done nothing to acknowledge my presence at her door, she lets out a sudden shriek, "Oh yes! Yes, yes, yes!" And clutching a little ratty brown leather billfold to her chest and exhaling deeply closes her eyes for a moment then flaps them open wide cackling, "Kristen! Dear! I am so very happy to have you be the first person to know that my wallet is now found! Hiding right here in plain view! And you know really, it's such a thrill. Sometimes," she said leaning closer to me, and I can still picture her grinning giddily on the verge of this, "--when you think something is lost--you've utterly and uncompromisingly convinced yourself of it, and then--behold!--why it's suddenly right there! Right back there for you! Do you know how sometimes it's really such a wonderful delight to have it back that it sort of makes having lost in the first place actually quite worthwhile?"

Yes, Margorie. Yes, I do.  

The most socially acceptable medium for showing off one's kids seems to be the holiday photo card. I mean, it beats the expense, travel, trauma--and let's face it, limited exposure--of the child pageant circuit.

My sister Judy always calls in any feedback she's gotten about our cards, which is nice. She covers off on some of the "what cute kids!" compliments that I might otherwise miss out on.

Judy's best friend Lindelle, who lives on the East Coast, apparently called her last year at 5AM California time squealing about Kate's posed-by-the-fir-tree innocent beauty. (Despite the two plus decades Judy's been out here Lindelle has not yet caught on to--or simply decided to ignore--the time difference.) Good Auntie that Judy is, she was willing to take the call despite the early hour, in order to thoroughly process and discuss all elements of the card. (And that's just one reason why they're from-womb-to-tomb friends.) 

Judy called in her report about this year's card a couple weeks ago. Blah blah blah Kate is pretty. And apparently word on the street is that Paigey's a ringer for our mom. When I shared this with Mark, he claimed he'd been hearing that Paige is a wee version of him.

In either case, both these comments set off my internal awww meter.

But then with further reflection--and a dash of neuroses--it got me wondering. If Paige looks like my mother and Mark, then Mark looks like my mother, right? So does that mean that in some short-circuited Electra-like Complex I married my, uh, mother? And then, did my mother and I give birth to a female baby who looks like my shoulda-been husband?

It's all just too frightening and confusing.

Maybe next year we'll just send out cards with pictures of Santa. 

My mother used to make up crap constantly. I mean, it was all in the service of urging one of her four daughters to do something, and as the mother of one child who's turned the unbearable age of three, I can feel her pain. At one point the poor woman had a newborn, an 11-month old, and a 22-month-old. (Then ten years later I happily hit the scene. Surprise!)

Anyway, knowing what I know now, whatever the woman went through to get through the day is totally fine by me.

Her specialty was outlining elaborate reasons why things should be done. Often she'd add some statistics to back-up her argument. And I'm not talking about the classics like "you have to wait at least an hour to swim after eating." She'd bust out much more detailed data. And although she's not around to ask the origins of her plentiful stats, I have every reason to believe that based on how convenient they were to her--and the fact that with re-use the numbers sometimes changed--I'd wager she made them up on the spot.

"95% of household accidents happen from untied shoes!" she'd bellow after me as I ran through the house.

Throughout the winter months I'd hear some variant of:
"If you don't wear a hat you lose 85% of your body heat through your head."

And of course there was:
"70% of kids who sit that close to the TV develop vision problems, you know."

Her: "Do you know how many kids who ride their bikes without helmets get into accidents and turn into vegetables?
Me: "Uh... sixty-five percent?"

Who knows. Maybe in Reader's Digest or whatever women's magazines she was reading at the time they had entire sections devoted to citing maternally-weildible stats like these. Perhaps she really did have primary sources for it all.

She also had an arsenal of other warnings. They were statistic-free but still rife with veiled health threats: "Drinking coffee will stunt your growth" was one of her evergreens, though I don't remember ever wanting so much as a taste of her coffee when she was having a cup. Maybe the sum-total of her maternal sleep deprivation by the time I was born led her to preemptively fend people away from her coffee. And again, who could blame her?

Even later in her life when she was so sick that her body could barely process food, she'd insist we stop at Dunkin' Donuts on the way home from chemotherapy. Something I argued fruitlessly with her about until, requesting the doctor back me up one day, he pulled me outside the exam room to gingerly advise me that if coffee was something she enjoyed "at this point in her life" I should just let her have it.

Hello gut-wrenching reality check.

But anyway, where the hell was I? Mom. Coffee. And most importantly stunted growth--believe it or not, that being the little nugget that I was making my way toward. (Still happy you've come along for the ride?)

The thing is with Paige--the gal I've been trying to get to through all this Mom memory blather--is that she's so utterly delightful, delicious and unbearably baby-like still. It devastates me to think of her growing up. Truly! If only I thought the coffee could stunt her growth, I'd give it a shot. (Then I'd just need to figure out how to administer it, since at the ripe age of 11 months beverage-wise the gal's still exclusively about the boob.)

When Kate was a baby I did one of the smartest things a new mother could do. I got a sitter to come over one day a week--the neighbor's part-time nanny who wanted extra hours. She watched Kate on Friday nights too so Mark and I could go on dates, ultimately talking about how much we adored (and missed) Kate.

I've said it before and no truer words have I spoken: Better to pay for babysitting now than marriage counseling later. (Copyright, 2005-2008 McClusky)

Aaaanyway, it was that nanny, Blanca, who dealt me my first eye-opener about Kate's growth. I was looking through some larger-sized baby clothes and commenting on how darling they'd be once Kate fit into them. And in her sweetest, non-confrontational, most respectful way, Blanca looked me straight in the eye and said, "Uh, Kristen? She'll fit into those now!"

And sure, it turned out that maybe I was infantilizing ole' Kater Tot a wee bit. I realized that maybe we were shimmying her into the 3 to 6 month clothing when really, heck, those 9-month duds weren't exactly big on her. (Or maybe even fit.) It was just...she was my baaaby! If she was fitting into these bigger clothes it meant--absurd as it is to consider when it's a matter of months--she was growing up.

This brought into perspective the crying jag a friend told me about years earlier when her husband assembled their first-born's crib. The baby wasn't even three-months-old, and was just making the move out of the bassinet. As her husband toiled over the assembly directions, Lisa threw herself on their bed for a dramatic "she's growing up sooo fast" bawling sesh.

Today I think this is not crazy-lady behavior at all.

Well, whatever psychological force was holding me back from Kate's move away from babydom seems to only be amplified with Paigey Wig. With Kate, I think it was that she was my first. But with Paige, she's my last! And such a dumpling, that one! A living doll, I tell you!

Isn't it okay for me to still dress her in snap-crotch onesies when she's in high school? And really, what 8-year-old needs treads on their shoes when a soft hand-knitted booty is so much comfier? And say what you will about the independence kids get from walking about on their own. Isn't there something to be said for the cozy warmth and security that a sling could provide a preteen during those often awkward and trying pubescent years?

Of course, taking the worst possible opportunity to do it, when she's pushing herself backwards around her room (her brand of crawling) and sobbing dramatically because she needs a nap, I decided to go through Paige's drawers today and purloin all the obviously outgrown clothes.

Alas, there's no future sib to get another round of wear out of the burgundy Catamini romper, or the brilliant NASA shirt our friend Kenneth gave Paige. Gone for good is the peach cashmere cable knit cardigan that made both Kate and Paige's cheeks look flushed and utterly edible. And even the threadbare but darling Carter's standbys--the now-pilly footy PJs with the lamb and giraffe appliques. I'd think twice about putting them in a thrift store pile based on their condition alone, but can't bear to rid myself of the outfits my sweet girls wore curled up like angels asleep in their cribs. (Sleep has so many rich positive memories for mothers.)

For weeks--maybe months--now, Mark has emerged from dressing Paige remarking that he'd had to "wedge a leg" of hers into a certain pair of pants or had to "stuff her into" her pink hooded coat. (His none-too-subtle cues to me to get the girl some new clothes.) And half-heartedly I'd mumble something to appease him for the moment.

Well Miss Paige, today you've officially made the transition to 18-month-old clothing. (The fact that baby clothes are often sized older than the wee ones themselves is particularly cruel to me and my type.) May your plump little ham hock thighs never strain beneath the pressure of the 0 to 6 month pea green Zutano fleece pants again. And know that even if we don't have the good fortune that you somehow acquire coffee, devise a way to consume it, and it actually results in retarding your growth--even if that never comes to pass, just know that you'll still always be my little girl.    

No one ever thinks of themselves as being unclean, do you think? I mean, I think it's like craziness. Those who are don't think that they are. And therefore you can never really know if you're dirty or crazy, or God forbid, both.

Unfortunately, as Mistress of the Mansion here, I've recently gotten some distressing clues about the state of our cleanliness. But instead of sweeping this information under the proverbial carpet, I thought I'd just come out and confess. Maybe sharing this will aid in getting me the help I apparently need.

So, last week for us was rife with celebration. We hosted a big fun holiday shindig Saturday night, dined in SF with visiting friends Sunday, and had an over-the-top 20-or-so course dinner at The French Laundry on Tuesday.

Wednesday, when I should've been holed up filling out my Betty Ford Center application, I was out schlepping the kids around somewhere. And when I unfolded what we refer to as the Silver Stroller--since anything even remotely gray is silver in Kate's charmed world--I pulled down the rickety worthless visor to found an uneaten yet terribly unappealing crepe--strawberry and Nutella, if you must know. One that'd we'd greedily ordered as an extra and which had been wedged in the visor since our jaunt to the local Farmer's Market uh, three days earlier. I ran it inside the house--disgustedly holding the edges of the paper plate by my fingertips like it was a live mouse--while Kate screamed after me for all the 'hood to hear, "What is that, Mama?"

Um... Ick!

One more reason to expedite our now Silver 'n Brown Stroller to live out the next few million years teetering atop a bunch of other abandoned crap at a dump. (Sorry, Al Gore!)

Later that very day, while preparing a sumptuous meal for my family, I reached into the cupboard for the lettuce spinner. When I opened it I nearly Edvard Munch screamed to see it already contained some lettuce. From the party on Saturday night! And what's more, it had also developed a noisome pale green liquid sloshing around in the bottom of the bowl.

How utterly charming.

As if these two incidents--in the same day, no less--weren't enough reason for me to call a producer from Oprah and give myself over as the subject on their next filthy housewives segment (a nice counterpoint to their always-riveting OCD hand washing shows), there's more.

So, in the winter sometimes ants come into the house. This is not unusual for these parts, and I'm not trying to defend myself here but I will say that the ants in Northern California are SUCH WIMPS. I mean, the first small smattering of rain sends them running inside frantic-like. They're all, "Oh, it's wet out there! Oh, it's chilly! We'd really be much happier trooping along in a creepy single file line around the grout in your bathtub, or swarming around that raisin your kid dropped in the front hall."

Don't get me wrong. We loathe, detest, and abhor the suckers. Mark wields his stink-trail killing can of lemon scented Pledge like he's Rambo with a 'roid rage, and undertakes what he maniacally calls a "bloody genocide" while I tend to the crying cowering children in the other room.

And, now that I've laid my secret ant shame bare, I'll go so far as to reveal that at its worst I'm plagued with nightmares that I'll come home some day and an ant will be sitting in his boxer shorts on our couch, drinking one of Mark's Firestone Double Barrel Ales and watching Bravo reality TV.

Such attitude they have! Such entitlement! And worst of all, such large families.

But, as I said, you can litter any home around here with the highest grade free-range organic Agent Orange and a few of those little suckers will still ferret their way indoors. So, at least I know that my filth is also that of my neighbors.

Until yesterday. I was changing Miss Paige. Had her up on the changing table and cooing some lovesick Mama blather into her sweet punum, and seconds after tearing open the diaper Velcro, what do I see marching dizzily across her bare butt cheek?

Well, I think you know.

After Mark and I lamented that this was about the most tragic thing that could befall our sweet cherub's innocent pudge, we resorted to epic overuse of the expression "ants in your pants," and have been delightedly accusing Paige of having them since. Using cute baby voices of course.

I've long contended that the elevator buttons at Target were some of the dirtiest places on earth. (Think of the cumulative effect of all those germ-infested nose-pickers who insist on pushing the buttons...) But after the events of this past week, I'm fearful that there's a considerable amount of filth much closer to home than I'd care to admit.

Several years ago Mark prohibited me from ever using Evite again.

Back then we were in our stupidly fabulous Noe Valley flat (which we took no credit for the chic-ness of, it was all the gay owners), and we were throwing a party for some reason or other. And bucking old school tradition and everything I was ever raised to know, we used an online invitation.

It was a new age, and I was trying to embrace this whole internet craze.

My painstaking efforts to ensure the invitation was as witty and clever as possible and that I'd selected the cutest of all the design templates, turned instantly into an obsession over checking the status of responses once I hit Send and the invitation went out.

The thing is, it's amazing how much time you can spend sitting in front of your computer hitting Refresh to see who all has responded. Or, as I was looking at it, seeing who your real friends were. These Evite things even tell you the date people first look at the invitation--all great information for building your case against your perspective guests. "This is insane!" I'd call to Mark where he was lying under the car changing the oil. "Kevin saw the invitation four days ago and still hasn't RSVPed. What's he doing? Waiting for a better offer?!"

And through the shower curtain I reported, "The Vaheys are a "yes with bells on," the Surhs regret that they'll be in Tahoe, and Ellen, Heather, and Tim and Kara still haven't even seen it. Do you think I should call them to make sure they got it?"

Mark, pulling back the curtain to reveal a shampoo-foam covered head says, "Kristen, you have Got. To. Stop."

Well, here I am today, a recovering Evite sender thanks to quitting cold turkey at Mark's ultimatum-like urging, and he--my very own "sponsor" as it were--has unwittingly provided me with yet another outlet for obsessive monitoring. What's that you ask?

Google Analytics.

This brilliant web-based tool--available to me at all hours of day and night--informs me of nearly everything I want to know about the people--you, as it were--who come to this very blog. I can see how many people visit, how long they stay, how they got here, and even what state they live in. The only information I'm lacking is my readers' favorite type of tea, and rabid Decaf Earl Grey lover that I am, I don't discount this as non-critical information.

But the where readers live thing. It's that which brings me to my most recent little hobby, perusing the map graphic to see if I'm filling in the states--flushing out the map with readers in every port, as it were. How the map works is the concentration of readers is expressed by the darkness of the color green. So, my great state of Cali, where my largest readership hails, is the darkest forest green. Vermont, on the other hand, where motherload mania hasn't kicked in quite yet, is but a pale chartreuse. Godforsaken reader-free states like Louisiana are a pale piss yellow.

Late at night when I'm having my everyone's-asleep-and-I-should-be-too Me Time, is when I do my most fervid blog reading, blog posting, and crazy lady blog analytics reviewing. Wielding the mighty power of the information Google so enchantingly provides me makes me feel at times like part of CNN's crack political team. You know how over the past year they were always interacting with some overly hi-tech absurd map to illustrate something like how Clinton was faring against Obama (I know. So old school to think of that now!)? It's like I'm a not-as-smart-as but I'd boldly venture to say cuter version of Candy Crowley.

Wielding the data, yo.

Knowing all this state stuff has also allowed me to determine that the almighty bloggess Dooce, who I wittily emailed several weeks ago to entreat her to glance at my lowly mortal blog, has not in fact dropped by. Her home state of Utah is still that maddening, taunting, yellow.

I should point out that it's not even like I'm hell-bent on building a motherload empire or anything. In fact, when this whole blog thang started a few years ago, more than anything it was an outlet for this suddenly-staying-home mama to use my Big Girl voice (and words). And aside from the nursing and diaper changing and constant cell-phone use, it was simply something to do. I didn't expect for a minute that there'd be any readers other than Mark, my father, and my friend Julie, all of whom I was paying at the time.

But now years later, being handed the god-like power to assess who stops by unpaid, my Achiever self kicked in in that empty place where my workaholic corporate self used to reside, and I suddenly wanted nothing more than to see all those states lit up bright green like a, well, Christmas tree. In this year of economic-slump low-budg Christmas gifting, what better token could be bestowed upon me? Aside from a black (and a brown) pair of boots, tickets to some first-class child-free Caribbean resort, and personalized Crane's stationery, I can think of no better present.

In all, there are eleven states I'm lacking. Though I've already gotten friends working on Indiana and Maine. (Thanks, Julie and Mary!)

So then, if you'd like to get swept up in the unbridled joy of this Very Special Christmas Project, here's how you can help. Reach out to your former college roommate who's now living in Iowa, and ask her to check this blog out. Or that cousin in West Virginia who you secretly, naughtily always harbored a crush on. Or what about that old friend from the summer camp with the long Indian name that you went to year after year and eventually was a counselor at? The woman you recently got back in touch with on Facebook. Isn't she living in Delaware now? And if someone knows somebody in Wyoming--though I can't imagine how anyone could--just think how their cold dark winter days would be brightened by a little dose of motherload!

I've also got Montana, Vermont, and Tennessee up for the taking. What folks in those states need more than ever is, no doubt, this very blog.

And hey, have your friend post an identifying comment like, "Hoosiers in the house, yo!", to receive extra credit points and my eternal adoration.

For a quick review, here are the eleven states (in no particular order) that I need readers in:

1. Montana
2. Wyoming
3. Utah
4. Iowa
5. Indiana
6. Tennessee
7. Louisiana
8. West Virginia
9. Delaware
10. Vermont
11. Maine

Just imagine the happy scene on Christmas morning when the McCluskys are gathered under the Christmas tree with Paige clapping with glee on her first Noel, Kate tearing through her stocking, Mark capturing it all in pictures, and me, laptop balanced on crossed legs, checking the daily Google Analytics report to discover that it's all green green green! No better gift could be given, not only to me, but to my neglected husband and children.

I'd love to see it at least once before Mark dismantles the program in a New Year's effort to preserve both his sanity and mine.

Several months ago I bought a wooden toy chest as one of my volunteer duties for Kate's preschool auction. A guy from the furniture store took it out to the car for me while I was signing the credit card receipt.

A few minutes later he came back in and said, "I'm sorry. I can't put that in your car." Odd, since he'd measured it and my car minutes ago and assured me there was plenty of room.

After waiting a couple seconds and (I assume) delightfully registering my confusion, the guy leans into my face and leers, "I can't put it in a car with a Carleton College sticker! I went to St. Olaf!"

Sadly for him, I had no awareness of the apparent collegiate rivalry to which he was referring, since it's Mark who's the Carleton alum.

Sadly for me, I didn't think fast enough to make the "We always said you St. Olaf people would be moving furniture for us one day" comment.

Oh well. It's just another little weird-since-it-ain't-my-college scenario that's cropped up ever since we had Kate and I started driving Mark's car, which along with its superior kid-transporting space, comes emblazoned with his alma mater's sticker across the back window.

Actually, I barely notice it myself now, but every once and a while I'll get something like a realtor's business card left on the windshield that says, "Hey, fellow Carl! Please call me if you're ever looking for a house in the Bay Area!" (Cute or annoying? You decide!)

And just a few weeks ago a friend's husband offered to ran out to my car for something and not knowing whether he knew which one was mine I started to say, "It's the silver Subaru--" and he jumped in "--with the Carleton College sticker. Yeah, yeah, I know it."

It's not like I have anything against Carleton. I mean, aside from the fact they swiped my small liberal arts college's former president. News of which came through to Mark and I via our respective alumni newsletters. Kenyon's two-bit pamphlet-like paper arrived one day with a pathetic entreaty that "the search was on" for a new president. The cover story seemed nearly as desperate as, "Hey, know anyone who's kinda smart and willing to live in a fancy house in hell-and-gone rural Ohio for not much money but a noble job? We're looking for a new president. (See reverse side for application.)"

Or at least in my mind it seemed that way.

The Carleton alumni rag is all schmancy, printed on stock only a former magazine hack could love, with stunning close-up cover photos of former students who are off excelling in some dazzling job you never even knew existed but is utterly world-bettering, death-defying, and/or hip. Let's just say that the issue of The Voice that came to us a couple weeks after Kenyon's sorry ass we-don't-got-no-president newsletter was a gloating tribute to their new glorious leader.

It was all so tragic I don't think Mark even had much fun chiding me for it.

And to think that on a daily basis I drive around the Carleton-mobile that has a sticker on it that everyone I know has seemed to notice and comment on at one time or other as if the whole car is wrapped in that plastic sheeting advertisement stuff they did a lot of before all those kooky dot coms with animal names folded a few years back.

So this morning I'd just parked outside my new chiropractor's office when a guy pulled up alongside me in a way that set off my paranoid mind to wondering if I'd taken his spot, leveled a parking meter, or had the end of my scarf dragging out the door on the street for the past seven miles. Instead the guy is kinda smirking, motions for me to roll down my window, and calls out as if I'm on the other end of a wind tunnel and he needs me to grab a safety harness, "CARLETON! I see the Carleton sticker on your car!"

"Yes," I say wearily, preparing for his let-down when I have to eventually tell him I don't know the double-secret Carl handshake. And feigning interest: "Did you go there?"

"YES! I DID!" he shouts enthusiastically and unnecessarily. "Do you have a child that goes there?!"

[Sudden sound of needle scratching across record] A child? A child?

Okay, so I think Mark and I need to talk about that sticker finally coming off. Or maybe me just getting a new car altogether. The Sube is clearly not doing anything to uphold my youthful image.

Am I the only one who wishes real life was like Tivo?

I mean, sometimes I feel like if I could just hit Pause for a few minutes (or hours)--freezing the rest of the world, not me--it'd give me a chance to run around like a madwoman and get my shit together, even slap on some lip gloss and smooth down my clothes before taking a deep cleansing breath through the nostrils, smiling serenely, then hitting Resume.

Wouldn't that just rock?

Yesterday I totally needed Tivo Life functionality. We were at our local kiddie digs, Frog Park, and I was chatting with an extremely super duper pregnant woman. Kate ran up to us and asked her, "Do you have a baby in your belly?" to which she laughed and said "Yes! I do!" (I think she was in that nearly almost overdue get-this-thing-out-of-me phase. The Fourth Trimester, as it were.)

Anyway, then Kate looked up at me with a quizzical head tilt and asked, "How do they put babies in the belly, Mama?"

At which point I nearly swooned and needed to hold onto Huge Preg-o for support. Nearly.

Instead, several possible and seemingly inappropriate answers raced through my head, along with the thought "Why don't I have a canned response ready? Why the hell am I so unprepared for this?" And also the thought, "She's not even three, for God's sake! Isn't it a bit early for this question?!"

Thankfully, Large Pregster had waddled off to help her ecto-child who was experiencing some sort of monkey bar issue. So at least my stuttering, blathering answer would take place in relative privacy. But still. I needed that Tivo Pause button.

But then, in the next split second--since this dense stream of neurotic thoughts managed to whirl through my noggin at a furious pace--Kate squealed and pointed across the playground. "Look at that little dog!!" And like a blur she ran off to inspect a wee decrepit Chihuahua who was tied up to the fence, her question to me nearly instantly forgotten.

Uh, phew!

Having had some time to reflect upon this, I'm still utterly at a loss for how I'd answer her in an age-appropriate way. I'm hoping that the Friday Mama Posse will have some brilliance and insight to send my way. So cross your fingers that the question doesn't resurface before then.

In the meantime, I think the obvious solution is to get a dog.

My sister Ellen rented a house in San Francisco for about six years before she went downstairs one day to find her house guest cutting into a huge avocado from the tree in her yard. Ellen was about to tell her they weren't edible, when her friend gushed, "You are so lucky to have these right here for the taking! I've been eating them all week. I think they're the best avocados I've ever had!"

Upon learning this Ellen was confused, delighted, and understandably annoyed with herself. Back when she'd first moved in, a neighbor, or the landlord--it was hard to remember exactly who--mentioned something about the avocados not being good. At least she thought they had.

And of course, in all her years living there, she never thought to try one.  

As mean as it is to admit, I've always found that story hilarious. Just so funny that she was overlooking something so good that was right there under her nose.

Well, karma's a bitch. It seems like lately I've had my own slew of small missed opportunities. So I guess Ellen can have the last laugh.

The other day in a fit of must-feed-the-family-but-cannot-summon-energy-to-cook, I decided to try out a somewhat dumpy looking Thai restaurant that's just two blocks away for take-out. Mark picked it up and said the place was packed. And when we started eating we saw why. Great chicken satay. Delicious pad thai. And cheap!

How maddening. The place could not be closer to our house. So we've missed out on three years of cheap-easy-yummy Thai food. Argh.

Then when my frienda Brenda arrived dirty and tired from a long road trip on Thursday, I ushered her into the Pink Bathroom, explaining that for our first couple years in the house we disparaged its shower. The stall seemed small. Mark found the shower head low. But then for some reason I used it one day, and realized that the water pressure and even the heat was far better than the shower we exclusively used.

I guess the only other time I'd used the now-favorite shower was when I was in labor with Kate. Probably not the best time to make a judgment call on something. Now, of course, I won't set foot in the White Bathroom. I guess I'm somewhat of an extremist. For me things are either pink or white.

Back when I first moved to San Francisco I wrote a story for the free weekly paper about dream analysis, and interviewed a bunch of herbal-tea quaffing, poncho-wearing Marin hippie dream experts. One woman asked me about any recurring dreams I've had. There was the UFO abduction in the driveway of my childhood home dream. (Hey, don't laugh.) But I haven't had that one since I was a kid. The one I was having at the time of the interview was that after a long time living in a particular house I'd realize that there was another room, or a whole wing even, that I'd never been to.

And of course, it was decked out and fabulous or packed with young hot studs and fifty-dollar bills. Well, not really the money and men part so much. But it was distressing nonetheless since these unknown-about parts of my dreamworld houses sent me into repetitive head-thumping V8 moments. Why oh why hadn't I ever just opened that door?

The hippie dream lady told me it meant that I was looking for new unrealized things in my life; paths not yet explored. And that I was lazy about not opening doors that were right there in front of me.

I've got to think that there's some of that being played out in my world right now. I mean, the shower, the Thai place, and then the other day I go downstairs to dig up some of Kate's old clothes for Paige and find a trove of forgotten but adorable outfits--many of them Oilily or French designer baby duds that my sister Judy manages to send our way as often as the Sunday paper. Of course, half of them were either already too small for chubby Paige, would fit her for about a week more, or would have been perfect for this past summer. Drat.

Of course I can't bear to have her not wear them, so the next time we go anywhere I'll have to do several costume changes for Paige, like she's a mini Cher in concert. (I'll likely skip the wigs and make-up.)  It'll be exhausting, but oh so worth it to get one more wearing out of these crazy cute little numbers.

And frankly, the Paige clothing is one thing. But we're getting ready for a yard sale. (Yes, Mr. and Mrs. Packrat are actually planning for a public purge. I mean, Bravo should be sending Dr. Phil and a camera crew over here because the pain, anguish, and eventual victory of the whole endeavor will no doubt make for brilliant reality TV.) So, here I am last week spelunking though toys, baby gear, clothing--you name it--and dumping it into the yard sale pile.

Maternity clothes are difficult to let go of only due to my lingering desire to have another baby. I made it doable by thinking I'll just buy all new stuff if I ever need to. Besides, how sad can you get about letting go of immense mumu-like shirts and elastic waistband pants? Even if you did pay a king's ransom for them.

And in the midst of digging with both arms like a dog through one of those huge plastic tubs, I unearth a pocket of non-maternity duds. And I see my jeans. My cute pre-preg Lucky jeans, some dark DKNY jeans I think I bought mere moments before the pregnancy pee stick turned positive, and even my faithful faded old Levi's. In a fit of sentimental fashion fervor I step out of the skirt I'm wearing and right there in the basement start trying on my pre-Paige clothes.

And the heartbreaking mind-blowing thing is, they all fit. No wrenching the zipper up or stretching them over my thighs. No thinking I can wear a long shirt cape-like over my ass to conceal it. These clothes all legitimately fit like, well, like they were mine.

Joy!

But then I also find some nice linen shorts, a bunch of little skirts, and a navy silk shirt with white polka dots (which sounds horrendous but believe me is darling) that I bought last summer in, of all places, a little boutique in Bristol. Who knows when all these cute clothes started to fit again! For all I know, I could've been wearing these things all summer instead of my restricted post-partum wardrobe which included, ashamed as I am to admit it, a couple pairs of Mark's Patagonia shorts that I'd borrow when I was desperate.

So all these missed opportunities can't help but make me wonder how I avoid things like these from happening again in the future. Frantically sample the food in each and every local restaurant to ensure we're not missing out on some easy-to-acquire gastronomic treat? Obsessively taste the fruits in my and my neighbor's yards? And conduct tests on the efficacy of household appliances--pitting one burner against another--so as to know I'm using the best ones and won't suffer any future regrets?

Perhaps I should just give into what I'll call the Parents' VCR Approach to Life (TM). I mean, back in the day, whose parents ever performed any other function on their VCRs other than Play and Rewind? Sure there was other stuff it could do, and they were even aware of that, but it didn't ever seem to bother them. They never seemed to lose any sleep over the thought that they were missing out.

Maybe as parents get older so many of these little things they could be doing but are somehow missing out on keep piling up until they get to the point that they just have to throw in the towel and become at ease with it all.

And so, tomorrow perhaps, I shall work on embracing this new philosophy. While strutting around in my brown wedge sandals and my cute little pre-pregnancy jeans.

For a while now Kate's been all hopped up on hearing me tell stories about when I was a little girl. I've told her about vacations we took, playing in snowstorms, my sailing lessons, and the day we went to see the dog, Tramp, we ended up adopting. But by far of all the stories I've conjured from my past, the one Kate requests the most is the one about when my mother forgot to pick me up from school.

You see, my elementary school was across the street from my house. But my mother would still take me there--help me cross the street in the morning and fetch me at the end of the day because, of course, YOU NEVER CROSS THE STREET WITHOUT HOLDING MOMMY'S HAND. Right?

So, one day my mommy didn't come to get me. All the other mommy's and daddy's came to pick up their kids. (I always include daddies when I tell Kate this story, but really, hell if a single dad performed this duty back then.) So, bereft that my mother had potentially left me and taken off on the Green Tortoise bus to California, or some such, I stood in the corner of the school yard and cried and cried and cried.

(She was likely on the order of four minutes late. But you know, kids and time and all that.)

So here I am crying.

"Then who came, Mommy? Then who came and saw you?"

Then, as I was standing there, a police man pulled up.

"In a police car, Mom?"

Yes, in a police car. And he said, "What's wrong little girl." And I told him about how my mother always picks me up from school but today she didn't come get me. So, the nice police man asked me if I knew where I lived, and if I wanted him to give me a ride home.

"In the POLICE CAR, Mama?"

Yes, in the police car. Of course I felt super cool. So I get into the police car and I'm checking it all out and the police man asked me where I lived. And I pointed to the yellow house right across the street.

"Hahaha [fake laughter], that's funny, Mama, right?" Kate says, not entirely understanding why it's funny but knowing it's supposed to be.

Yes, that is funny, Kate. But the police man didn't laugh. He just asked me if I thought we should just drive around the block a couple times before he took me home. (No, he didn't offer to put on the siren. But I took what I could get.)

Anyway, when we get to my house the police man rings the bell and through the window I saw my mother at the kitchen sink. She sees me and the police man, opens her mouth, looks at the clock over the stove, and runs to open the door while she's drying her hands. She explains with immense embarrassment (as I stand smugly holding the policeman's hand) that she had totally lost track of time and thank you SO MUCH officer, and of course that will never happen again.

Needless to say, my mother would have to endure several lifetimes before I'd ever let her live that one down. 

Anyway, I've managed to pass that old yarn down through a generation. And, like any kid, I could come up with a few other stories of minor maternal slip-ups. None of them truly damaging, neglectful, or malicious, but certainly things that collectively informed some of my "I'll never do that" attitudes about my own mothering.

Like when my friend Steve told me he and his wife were expecting their first child. Nearly immediately after announcing the news he vowed he'd never do that spit on your thumb and clean your kid's face move. So, you know, we all have our issues.

For me the "I won't do thats" are more along the lines of forgotten field trip permission slips. My mother seemed to lack the gene for ever remember getting those in on time, leaving me to hold up more than a few field trips when a teacher flipping through a pile of papers at the front of the bus would mutter in dismay, "Oh wait... We don't have one for Kristen Bruno. Again."

Mom also thought nothing of leaving a sink full of dishes when we'd go see my grandmother for a few days. As for me, I can't go to the bathroom with a dirty dish in the sink.

The other big thing I vowed to never fall prey to was lateness. Four girls, one mother, and one shower--and our collective estrogen level--made it understandably difficult getting out of the house en masse. Late, loud and clumsy arrivals tended to be a Bruno family hallmark. They gave grumpy Father Coffey a legitimate reason to leer over his pulpit, and me a legitimate reason to swear that my own family would assuredly be different some day.

Today, with Grandma Peggy here providing two extra hands, Googled driving directions, and a departure time mapped out that'd give Kate plenty of time to suss out the scene and fluff up her tutu before her first dance class--we set out. Well, I didn't actually print out the directions, just skimmed them. I did write down the address. But before long it was apparent that I had no idea where I was going.

An exit off the highway dumped me into an unfamiliar neighborhood (stress spike), though I managed to quickly get back on in the other direction (manic upswing), to quickly realize it was the totally wrong highway altogether (flop sweat). I fumbled around in the backseat with one hand trying to wrench my phone out of the diaper bag. I considered calling the dance studio for directions, then Mark (for directions and sympathy), then just trying to figure it out on my own.

The clock ticked away minutes closer and closer to the class' 9AM start time. I did a lot of muttering under my breath and a couple seemingly safe u-turns, though my mother-in-law  was gripping the side of the car door white-knuckled. She politely kept offering to "do whatever she could to help"--no doubt ending that sentence in her mind with "just get me there alive."

All the while I lambasted myself over how Kate would miss getting a good start to her new class. Meeting the teacher, hearing the rules, getting oriented with the other kids. Was I remembering all the first classes I got to late? You bet your ass I was.

Did I think about the first bat mitzvah I was invited to? Where my mother drove me to the one synagogue she ever remembered seeing in Providence, where I threw open the doors to an empty temple, then returned to the car--which was of course devoid of the invitation--where we continued to drive around the city asking pedestrians if they knew of any synagogues nearby, until finally, after a teeth-grinding grand tour of no less than five synagogues we found Cheryl's family and friends pouring out onto the sidewalk at the end of her ceremony? (Don't worry, I didn't miss the Blue Jeans Disco Dance at the Marriott after.)

Anyway, as I was driving around hell and gone Oakland with my mother-in-law, and baby, and three-year-old who was asking "Where's my dance class, Mama?" yes, yes, yes, I was thinking about all that.

Eventually my own Guardian Angel Direction-Dispensing Pedestrian pointed us in the direction of MacArthur Boulevard. And despite a long series of palm-sweating steering wheel squeezing red lights, we slowly made progress in the right direction.

Blah blah blah. We eventually got there ten minutes late. Surprisingly, I hadn't blown a neck artery, and Peggy hadn't peed her pants from fear of my driving or my rabid must-get-there-on-time wild-eyed determination.

Peggy pumped money into the meter, holding Paige on one hip, and I grabbed Kate and ran down the sidewalk into the dance studio. When we regrouped after Kate joined the class Peggy kindly made a "we're a little late but no harm done" remark.

Indeed, it didn't appear that Kate's lateness affected her in any long term psyche-scarring way. Though I guess it's too soon to tell. It'll take a few more times of us skidding in after the bell before she makes her own resolve to never do all the things that I do when she has her own family some day.

I fear I've somehow found myself at the beginning of a Stephen King short story. At least I hope it's a short story. I really don't have the patience to see what'll unfold in the time it takes to get through a novel.

It all seemed so innocuous. A few weekends ago, Kate, Paige, and I ventured out to some yard sales on our street while Mark was on a bike ride. We hit what appeared to be the kid-crap jackpot--a family with some older children was purging some great books, puzzles, and Kate's favorite thing--dolls. We actually scored three dolls, doll clothes, and even a mini Bjorn-type carrier which caused Kate to nearly weep with joy when she first laid eyes on it. Kate staggered away from that sale with the greedy satisfaction that rich kids in Manhattan have after an FAO Schwartz spree.

We got home and I tossed what was washable into the hamper, then grabbed some Lysol disinfectant wipes to kill whatever Ebola or Junta type viruses might be lingering on the dolls' hard plastic faces and extremities.

That's when, standing over the sink, I stared into the face of one of the dolls and recoiled to see none other than my own baby, Paige, looking back at me. I mean, it's UNCANNY how much this doll looks like Paige. I nearly did one of those Looney Tunes head shakes followed by a close-up peer and squint to make sure I wasn't seeing things.

I brought the thing over to Paige and held it up next to her. Aside from the doll's Buddha-like man breasts, the thing is essentially Paige in inanimate plastic form.

Even Kate saw the freaky resemblance, but was nonplussed. As if coming to acquire your baby sister's doll doppleganger is a perrrrrfectly normal thing to happen on a Saturday morning. Ah the sweet innocence of childhood.

So then. What next? Exactly my question. I mean, something like this doesn't happen and then the family lives happily ever after, right?

Thus far I'm thrilled to report that it's been life as usual at Casa McClusky. Though if something would happen I'd at least be relieved of this brutal state of suspense. But I guess that's why Stephen King is so good at what he does, right?

At any rate, if anything weird goes down around here I can tell you right now, the doll did it.