Recently in The Mama Posse Category

It wasn't until some time late Monday that I realized that Mark and I staying home alone with the kids on election night was a poor decision. So I called out to my Friday Mama Posse like a deer raises her tail to signal her kinfolk.

Sure we have young kids. Yes, it's a school night. But heralding this new desperately needed change, something that's been dangled in front of us tantalizingly for so very long--if, or when, we finally get it and seal the deal--we really need to be in the company of friends.

So I heated up some homemade squash soup, tossed champagne left-over from our wedding into the fridge, and called an order in to Extreme Pizza.

By 7:30 Megan had already cried tears of joy, most adults were wearing old party hats from Kate's second birthday, and I was drunkenly photographing my "I Voted" sticker in different settings--on a doll, on Baby Wes, on Mary's forehead. Oh, and let's not forget me making Drew pretend to shoot up with the Fisher Price doctor's kit syringe.

Good times.

One could make the argument that the kids--bleary-eyed one-year-olds and amped up three-year-olds who were ravaging the house with a toxic combination of toys, organic Teddy Puffs, and each other's rabid encouragement--were acting more mature than the adults.

Aside from the two lucky ones who scored our limited Baby Sleeping Vessels, the kids stayed up way too late. And the adults drank way too much.

We're all paying for it today, and I can't think of any reason more worth it.

Barack on, Obama! Once these hangovers pass we can all work on getting used to what it feels like to be proud of our President. And heck, maybe even our country.

Can I hear an Amen?!

Invariably when you're traveling and you tell someone you live in Northern California, you get that tired old oh-sure-it's-pretty-and-all-but-what-about-earthquakes?! reaction. Some folks will verbalize it, and with others you can just tell by looking at them that they're thinking it and are silently pitying your poor sense of judgment.

As a longtime NoCal resident--16 years now!--I find the whole earthquake thing an absurd reason to avoid living here. (God please spare us tonight if The Big One should hit.) I mean, there are far better reasons to not live here. Exorbitant real estate prices, atrocious bagels, crappy public schools, the almost spooky lack of corn muffins, the unswimmably cold Pacific Ocean....

Don't get me wrong. There are many many reasons why this is one of the most amazing places in the U.S. to live, but I'm also aware of the place's pitfalls. I mean, the bagels. Are. Truly. Dreadful.

Though one thing I will say we're blessedly exempt from is the maddening small talk about the weather that seems to comprise about 45% of all conversational airtime in New England. Frankly, I'd happily plunk my house astride a fault line to live free of that natter.

It's not that we're such brilliant conversationalists here on the West Coast. More likely that our weather tends to be so damn predictable it becomes a conversational neutral. Instead we drone on incessantly about sky-high real estate prices. (I guess we're still boring, just on different topics.)

But every once and a while you get a day like yesterday, and all those repressed or misplaced weather hounds come out of hiding. And sometimes they're the least likely suspects.

So when the Friday Mama Posse convened, the mothers and babes in arms sat at Sacha's kitchen table, and the three-year-olds occasionally tore past in a howling squealing stream. A couple times in the blur I noticed little Ella B. clutching a child-sized rainbow striped umbrella.

Running in from the backyard at one point she called out triumphantly, "I think the rain is coming, Mama!" Causing Megan to laugh and turn to us, "She's been talking about this all morning. The girl is so excited that it's going to rain today." Mary chimed in that she totally was too. I think we actually all agreed. After the typical six-month or so rain-free stretch, an impending downpour was fraught with novelty. Sure, even excitement.

Throughout the day, I couldn't help but notice other people looking up at the gray sky, marveling. No dramatic leaf colors. No city-stopping snowstorms. We don't even have many of those sunny-but-chilly days everyone back East gleefully calls crisp. Sure, you can haul out some heavier sweaters and even boots if you like, though during the days you may still opt for flip flops. Our seasonal changes are more subtle than the showy Midwest and East Coast drama. But to some sensitive California souls they don't go unnoticed.

As the day wound down I chatted with a neighbor out in front of the house. The sun was setting so early it seemed, and the air was cooling off. The much-anticipated rain hadn't started yet, but likely would in a few hours. Even though in our mellow family mode we'd be staying in anyway, I remarked it was the perfect Friday night to be home, snugged in warm and cozy, watching a movie.

Back inside, Mark had dinner underway and called out from the kitchen if I wanted a drink. After a moment's thought, I jumped into the new season with both feet and said I'd take a bourbon and Coke.

Ah, yes. Fall indeed.

At 6:40 on Sunday morning when Paige babbled her wake-up call, Mark and I cracked our eyes open, smacked opened and closed our bone-dry mouths, and softly groaned as we remembered the day that stretched ahead of us. We were having a huge yard sale.

For all we knew, early birds were already prowling around our front porch with the hopes of finding some ignorantly-priced Noritake china. Having to lug everything out of the garage and around to the front yard seemed torture enough, then then Kate's tiny voice joined the chorus with Paige. "Mama! I woke up!"

My God, we also had children to tend to. And in the wake of a supremely fun party the night before--where Mike and Myra renewed their vows on their 15th anniversary and treated their friends to an exceptionally fabulous throw down--here we were, heads throbbing, lying tangled in our sheets like some suburban American version of Sid and Nancy.

Not pretty.

It's just more validation that my on-the-fly early morning nanny service would catch on like wildfire. If I could have picked up the phone for urgent back-up, I would've paid $100 an hour for childcare. Easily.

Anyway, at least I'd consumed a vat of Don's superb pinot the night before and had good reason for my state of disarray. Whereas this past Friday, I had no alcohol-related excuse for my behavior.

So Friday. When I arrive at Megan's house for mother's group, she's in her garage bent over two ride-on cars she's assembling for the twins and she mutters between clenched teeth that she's been in a fantastically crappy mood. It's such a gift that Megan A) admits to her foul mood but still throws a yard party worthy of the Smith & Hawken catalog, B) is the kind of friend who doesn't sugarcoat life when she's bedraggled, and C) manages to do her hair in cute braids despite it all. Megan is rarely off her game, and with three kids under three, no nanny, and a hubbie with a time-sucking job, I'd be enjoying the creature comforts of a sanatorium if I were her.

Anyway, aside from her admission of it, you'd never know the woman was crabby. But then in some weird transference that we tried to make sense of later, the bad mood somehow leeched over to me. There was either some fierce 'power of suggestion' energy out there, or maybe some as-yet-undead part of my childhood Catholicism urged me to take it on like some priest in an exorcism. More likely it was the exhaustion that'd caught up to me from waking-in-the-night children and not sleeping well with Mark out of town.

After lunch, with some help from Mary, who impressively coaxed naked Kate (long story) back into her clothes and even her car seat while I wrangled Paige, I drove home, nearly slumping over the steering wheel, hoping the day's excitement would warrant Little Miss Never Nap into even the smallest kip. I never sleep when the kids do, but since I caught Megan's mood like a bad cold and was generally haggard from the night before, I'd have gladly done a swan dive into bed.

No luck. Kate invoked reserve stores of energy and refused to even play quietly in her room. So when I staggered in to feign some active parenting, I was all over her suggestion that "you be the baby and I be the mommy."  This involved her even tucking me into her bed (bliss!). And the next thing I remember, Officer, I was fluttering my eyes open after having totally conked out. D'oh!

Thankfully the curtains were not on fire, Kate wasn't out on the sidewalk chatting with strangers, and Paige was still safely snoozing in her crib.

The rush of maternal negligence that surged through me went unnoticed by Kate who was tootling around in her room and came over to me saying, "You woke up now, Baby! You want some milk and a snack, Baby?"

And just as I was settling in to thinking "Okay, I dozed off for a bit here but everything's okay..." I remembered that I'd taken a sleeping Paige out the car earlier with the thought that I'd come back, grab my bag, and lock up. Which of course, I never did.

"Mommy?" I said to Kate, because God knows when she is Mommy and I am Baby I can never mistakenly call her Kate. (The house could be burning down and if I called her Kate she'd sit on the floor and scream, "My name is not Kate! I'm Snooooow Whiiiiiite!" And refuse to budge.) So I'm all, "Baby forgot something in the car. I'll be right back, Mommy."

I'd parked on the street, since our garage might as well be in the next town over. And from the second I set foot on the porch I notice I somehow managed to park with the two right wheels on the sidewalk. My God. Had I been sleep-driving? Then I walk around to the street-side door where Paigey's car seat is, and of course, it's open. Not wide open, mind you, but still. And on the front passenger seat? My bag with my wallet, iPhone, yadda yadda yadda. This may be okay in say, Bristol, Rhode Island. But this is Oakland, people. Thankfully--mercifully--it was all still there.

I mean, imagine if I had been drunk how ugly that scene would have been.

Not one to stew silently in my own shame, but to share it (see: this blog) I immediately call my friend Jennifer who lives next door. And she says brightly, "Hey I saw your great parking job!" Oy! Nothing like being beaten to the punch on my own self-flagellation.

But it really was an odd day. Thankfully, no hangover was associated with this not-drunk-but-acting-like it afternoon. I also didn't don a lampshade, call any old boyfriends, or snarf down a whole sleeve of Chips Ahoy cookies. (Not that I call old boyfriends these days, Mark...) Worst of all, Mary reported late yesterday that the Bad Mood Virus had somehow been passed on to her. I can only hope that its course of destruction ended there.

And thankfully, yesterday when I truly was hungover, my two sisters arrived to valiantly pitch in with the yard sale--merchandising items, setting prices on the fly, convincing people they needed our old crap, and collecting cash with the efficiency and security of a Swiss bank.

At the end of a long and exhausting day I looked at Kate and Paige across the dinner table and smiled thinking that they'll be there for each other for all the good times, and for all the hung-over yard sales.

I realized recently that my blog lacks an About Me section.

The problem is, my personal IT support technician/spouse is away on a business trip, so I'm unable to alter the site's, uh, complex architecture singlehandedly. (Besides, it makes Mark feel so needed when I let him do these things for me.)

While I await his return, here's my first take on how I might describe myself:

I'm a mother of two from Oakland, CA who hates mushrooms. My ears aren't pierced. Well, they were once, but those holes closed up decades ago. My mother died of pancreatic cancer. Women who've had natural childbirth are my heroes. I've never seen Star Wars. I've been a VP, toy reviewer, CNN producer, and state park employee. My favorite holiday is July 4th. I love surprises, resist change, and can't tolerate wimpyness. I adore old women. I've had migraines that have put my right eye out of commission for weeks at a time. I once ate a 24-course meal. I've never competed in the Olympics. I went to cooking school to become a pastry chef, then decided against it. I've chatted with Mick Jagger. I loved high school and was unimpressed with college. My father's name is Ferdinand. Altogether I've taken 13 years of French. I've never had a perm. I've lived in Rhode Island, Ohio, Massachusetts, D.C., New York, Georgia, California, France, and England. In a life riddled with happiness, motherhood has brought me supreme contentment. Some people think I have nice hands. I once spent a raucous night out with the White House Secret Service. Sometimes I want to eat my children. I don't know how to follow a football game. My husband spent the better part of his career at Sports Illustrated. If I were President, liking coconut-flavored rum wouldn't be uncool. I pronounce 'aunt' AHHHnt and 'apricot' with a short 'a.' Cats scare me. I have a terrible memory. The greatest compliment I've ever gotten is that my daughter Kate looks like me. I can dish it out but I can't take it. Math Game Day in fourth grade always gave me a stomachache. My father is afraid of heights and peach fuzz. A psychic once told me I was a famous ballerina in a past life. I skipped having a first marriage and got a brilliant trophy husband at age 37. I've never had braces. For a made-for-TV movie I once played a woman who choked while eating in a restaurant. Parades often make me cry with joy. If I had a hammer, I'd hammer in the morning. The love I have for my husband and daughters can best be described as rabid. I'm an obsessive yard saler and recovering packrat. My super powers are the ability to sleep anywhere and parallel parking. I'm the youngest of four girls. I disagree with the way the word 'segue' is spelled. I didn't make a million dollars before turning 30. I look dead in both yellow and light gray. I once stuck a pussy willow up my nose. Seeing a person carrying a box of hot pizza always delights me. I think people who put lines through their sevens are pretentious. If it's not too much to ask, I'd like a high school marching band to play at my funeral. I know how to say the following things in Polish: 'underwear,' 'Grandma,' 'ass,' and 'I'm going to throw up.' I'm a wannabe Jew. If it weren't for house cleaners, I'd get around to changing my sheets about as often as frat boys do. My best piece of financial advice is to pay for babysitting now instead of marriage counseling later. I'm an avid recycler. My greatest life's work has been ridding myself of any trace of a Rhode Island accent. It wasn't until my mother was gone and I had children of my own that I realized I'd inherited her brilliance for tackling tough laundry challenges. I can't be inside on sunny days. I felt betrayed my senior year of college when the hippies cut their hair short to get jobs at investment banks. I'm not even a little bit country. My last meal would include a Del's Lemonade.
 
How much room do they give you in those blog templates for the About Me section anyway?

Well, this will have to do for starters.

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.

This weekend when I was chatting on the phone with my friend Mary, Kate asked if she could talk to her son, Will.

After their conversation, Kate handed the phone back to me and said disappointedly, "I wanted him to say more."

On her end, Mary reported that Will said, "I told Kate all about my life."

Typical, huh? Here's the guy feeling like he's bared his soul, and the girl just wishes he could open up to her a bit more.

Ah well, they're three. They have plenty of time to work this stuff out.

It's good to have a group of Mama friends who you can say nearly anything in front of and they'll not only not be horrified, they'll suggest a great solution, rush to console you, or tell you they've been through the same thing--only nine times more gruesome and harrowing. You walk away either armed with answers, relieved that it's not as bad as it could be, or both.

I mean, how can you go wrong with that kind of support? If high school friendships were like that we'd all be so secure and functional most therapists would be out of business.

A couple weeks ago I was out for dinner and a movie with my Mama posse. After downing our pre-theater beers like frat boys on a bender (even sans kids we're efficient), we settled into chatting and got to the topic of babies. Specifically if any of us would be having more.

One friend's a strong 'maybe.' She's definitely getting that twinkle in her uterus, but she's not sure whether it's just her body telling her it's that time again, or if it really makes sense for her family. Another woman was more clear-cut. "Uh, no. We are done." And the third has already taken physiological steps to close down the factory, as it were. Though that's not stopping her from sometimes daydreaming about adding yet another to their party of five.

As for me? Well, I can understand everyone's position. I nod in hearty agreement with whatever reasons each of them share for wanting what they want--or what they don't want, as it were. Which is to say, I enjoy indulging myself on all angles of the issue, even though I know it's nearly certain that our ball-bouncing days are gone around here.

Anyway, at one point in this chatting-while-speed-eating-and-drinking meal, in some non-explicit way one friend made a comment alluding to something that I didn't catch at all. And it sparked the 'We Are Done' Mama to say, "Oh, totally! I mean even I think of having another one for that reason." Then the mother of three chimes in that even with three already, she's had that thought too.

And I'm sitting there, having totally lost the train of conversation within a matter of seconds, and lamenting why I always miss the good parts. I'm the one cleaning condensation off my snorkel mask when all the sea turtles swim by, or up getting popcorn during the scene when the two women kiss. So I guess I should be used to it.

What's weird is they're all fervently--but also kind of abashedly--agreeing to something. And when I ask what it is, they all turn to me, but still can't seem to make themselves articulate what it is. And this is a group of women with whom I've discussed constipation, condoms, and other issues of a fecal, sexual, and personal nature, without batting an eye. Oh, and we talk about reality TV, too.

So finally, one friend skirts the issue in an attempt to explain it to me. "You know," she says, "If you have three," emphasizing the three, "then if something were to..." She still can't bear to spit it out, but as it clicks in my brain I,of course, call out loudly, "Oh! What you're saying is if one dies, you'll still have two other ones?," causing the older Latino server behind the counter to snap his head in my direction and catch eyes with me. And likely causing my friends to want to take me out too. (Since, there would still be three of them left...)

More than anything I was surprised that I'd never had this thought myself. Generally I think my Mama brain has explored every possible potential horror story, wacky scenario, and what-if situation related to family, children, and marriage. That's what you do in the many collective hours of nursing a baby in the middle of the night. In case you were wondering.

And I would like to make it perfectly clear that these mothers are adoring, devoted, and utterly first-rate at this motherhood thing. It's not that they're doing Britneys, driving recklessly with un-carseated kids and thinking to themselves, "Who cares if I crash? I have back-up children!" No, no, no. That's not it at all.

This idea that they admit is, um, offbeat--though their very unwillingness to so much as say it out loud--is actually the kind of thinking that comes out of mad mad Mama love. That comes from the desperate place that you don't want to go to but you force yourself to, which is to think of what your life would be like if suddenly you were without one of your beloved babies. And since you've made yourself go there, then like all practical problem-solving mothers, you need to figure out what happens next in that most unthinkable scenario. And as much as you fear that even having these thoughts might make any of them more likely (God forbid) to come to pass, the only consolation you can provide yourself is that at least you would still have another child--or children--to love.
 
See? It's all rather bleak, but I totally get it. And I'm truly shocked that I hadn't ever had the thought myself.

From there our conversation veered off to other morbid and mundane topics. And we shoveled down more barbeque, swilled beer, intermittently reminded each other the movie was about to start, and felt grateful that we were Mamas of sweet healthy children who were home safely with their fathers as we enjoyed a rare and blissful night out.