Stork's Nest

Ode to Kate

I have been wanting to say this out loud for about six months now, and just haven’t had the guts. I had too much wine last night and I am still a bit off my game, so I will go ahead and finally blurt it out. OK. Here it goes. I like Kate Gosselin. I even like her crazy old hairdo. Kate is really just a STORK in a TV personality’s tummy tuck and hair extensions. She is a mother of eight who wants to stay home with her kids but who’d also like enough money to buy some Manolos. Can you really blame a girl for that?

And didn’t she do something that we moms would all love to do? She not only got to stay home with her kids but she got free stuff for doing it.  And I am not talking about a box of Huggies here and there (which is exciting enough). Kate was making a living off of celebrity cooking lessons, free trips to Hawaii, unlimited Gymboree clothes, dude ranch trips, free dental work, you name it and she got it. Imagine if you could take every ad in every magazine and make it your reality. I personally think that my kids could learn quite a bit from a trip to Italy (or from Mommy and Daddy going to Italy alone for that matter). Or from Mommy getting to guest host American Idol. Maybe from a playdate with the Obama girls (although perhaps that needs to wait until Annie is potty trained for some obvious, embarrassing reasons).  And I really think they could benefit from Mommy going shopping.  Every. Single. Day.

So, was Kate exploiting her kids? She maintains she did the show to capture the memories with them in a way not else possible. Do I buy that? Nah. Well, I partially believe it might have started out that way but that then she started getting all this free stuff. And she even started getting pretty again, in a way that perhaps a mom of eight never believed possible. And, as you moms know, pretty is really a euphemism for showered with your hair brushed.

Was Kate mean? Did she ever yell at her kids? Let those among us without misplaced anger cast the first stone. Did she treat her husband like crap? Has Dan ever annoyed me but failing to bring the kids’ matching socks or any socks at all? Has he ever dawdled mercilessly—and cluelessly— at Babies R Us? Do I wonder why I have to hold Jay so he can help the big kids brush their teeth, while I do this exact thing every morning with baby on hip? Of course not. But if I had, would you blame me? Would you ever do such a thing? And now imagine your husband doing all this dolled up in Ed Hardy. I rest my case.

 You might wonder why I bring this up now, given Kate’s star is fizzling. Well, it’s because I really feel for her now more than ever.  She had the perfect STORK gig. And the whole secret to being a STORK is having that perfect job—a job that lets you pay the bills, get some mental stimulation and, most importantly, be within arm’s reach of your kids most of the time. Now poor Kate is out there in crazy hair extensions—which simply cannot be practical with eight kids running around. Imagine bath time, flipping all that fake hair all over the place as you struggle to find the facecloth. Making peanut butter sandwiches. You get the picture.

I feel for you, Kate. I hope you come back to STORKdom soon. If it is any consolation, remember this: fame might be fleeting but a tummy tuck is forever. And that, dear reader, would be what my five-year-old might call a “hint-hint”.

 

 

On Schedules, Soaks and Soaps

Today I had one of those days where, despite my best intentions, I consistently misjudged things by just a few minutes.  And all of you STORKS out there know what happens when you blow a few minutes. You blow the whole schedule.  And there goes the day.

Trying to work, raise three kids, and occasionally eat more than candy corn takes precision, planning and patience. And some days I just don’t have any of these.

It always starts out fine, just like today did. The schedule was pretty simple: get dressed for work and dress everyone else, drop Danny off at preschool, go home and nurse Jay, and then leave at 9:30 for a meeting at 11 in Mountain View. On a good day, this is only a 30 minute drive, but today was all about torrential rains and highway flooding so I thought I would play it safe. And, of course, stop at Starbucks.

When I got to Danny’s school, I hit the first potential roadblock. They had no power, so they might send everyone home. As we waited to see what the decision would be, the lights came back on. Aaah. But then the teacher said that if the power went off again then we would have to come pick up the kids--which of course is a bit of a problem if you are me and you are going to be in Mountain View. I had visions of my poor babysitter (we STORKS prefer that term to nanny, makes us feel more involved) dragging my 2 year old and 8 month old through torrential floods to pick up Danny. Getting a bit panicked, I said to one of the teachers, but I am going to Mountain View, what should I do. She said, we’ll get him home, don’t worry. And that is the best thing about preschool teachers: there is always an instant solution no matter how messy the problem (or child) might be. Reassured, I headed home.

I won’t bore you with all the details of what happened next but here is a quick synopsis: I left late and rushed because Jay nursed longer than I expected; I ended up having to run into CVS because I forgot a notebook and while there I bought two bags of jelly hearts because, well, they were there; I got lost going to my meeting for an hour because I missed a highway exit that I took almost daily when I LIVED in Mountain View for TWO YEARS and then when I finally got close to the right location I dropped the directions while tearing into the jelly heats because I had missed breakfast and, again, because they were there; I went to the meeting and then got back in my car and managed to get lost again finding my way back to the highway as I took an urgent client call. 2 hours in the car and a 45 minute meeting. There goes the morning.

After regrouping on email a bit and feeding Jay, I decided to take advantage of a break in the storm and walk the 10 minutes to school to get Danny. You can imagine what happens next. Danny and I ended up in a scene out of a disaster movie, wind-swept hail, thunder rumbling, a friend stopping to offer us a ride but me foolishly saying we were OK, and Danny of course loving every minute of this, dawdling in the storm. Preschoolers are, after all, genetically predisposed to mess with mother’s schedules.

The afternoon was frantic as usual after that as I struggled to get work done to get us out the door by four for Danny’s Little Gym “show” and the promised pizza after he earned his medal. We got there on time, despite me, and when we were finally sitting, having pizza I thought hey, we are somehow back on schedule. Even when we drove home, things were looking up. Even though Dan is away tonight, I got the kids bathed and baby Jay didn’t even throw a fit while Danny and Annie were in the tub. The big kids were in bed before eight. The night schedule was in place and in play. Or so I thought until Jay inexplicably decided he wanted to play instead of sleep. He just finally went down now.  And work and clean-up still looms before me.

A part of me can’t help but be a bit disappointed in the way the schedule went crazy today. But there were little pleasures that came along with my mistakes. A bag of candy. The look on Danny’s little face, framed with his froggie rain coat, as he let the hail smack him right on his freckled chin.  Annie, dressed in her princess finest, climbing on my lap while I whipped through my emails.  Jay’s shrieks and tight hugs.  And did I mention the bag of candy.

But now the day is wrapping up and I have just one more thing on the schedule. And it is my dirty little secret. I am going to watch my soap opera. Yes, I am an enlightened, perhaps overeducated woman and yes I watch a soap opera, which I just referred to as “my” soap opera, almost every day. 

And why do I like it so much? Well, it is one part of my schedule that I know I can rely on. And I think those soap opera actors have a lot in common with us STORKS. They too have a lot of lines and a lot of cues that they need to learn and follow every day. Sometimes they have flashes of brilliance, sometimes they just plain suck, but most often they are just OK, they are making it all work and making the best of whatever bizarre situation they end up in. And I like them for that. Because, really, they are just like us.

The Bathroom Break

There are many habits that I am sure, even after almost seven years of marriage, my husband still finds quite endearing.  The way I eat my candy corn in three bites. The way I brush my teeth twice just so they can be extra sparkly. However, this is not about one of them. It is about the one thing that probably (OK, definitely) annoys him the most about me: my last minute bathroom trips.

Yes, I admit it. Whenever we are about to head out somewhere, I tell Dan, as politely as possible (well, sometimes not so politely) that I will meet him and the kids in the minivan in one minute.  When we sit down to dinner, just the two of us, I excuse myself for just one little minute. And Dan nods, warns of cold dinners, late appointments and then thinks secret thoughts about me but gives me my space.   

Dan, I am sorry to do this but I am here to confirm your worst fears.  It isn’t even always that I have to go the bathroom. It is just that I relish the fact that I can actually go in and try.  And yes I do take my time a bit while you are waiting. Just because I can. And because I have been holding it for quite possibly 24 hours.

One of the most notable changes in my life since becoming a STORK is that I no longer have a bathroom break. When I am in the home office, surrounded by a pile of dirty plates and a jumbo tea cup, there is always one more email (or perhaps one more Facebook update) that just has to be done before I can go walk the three steps  or so to the bathroom.  

When I do get up, I am typically greeted with yells from the kids to come and see something they have made, to read a book, to kiss a scrape or to just generally be witness to whatever they are doing at the very second I leave the room, be it drawing a dragon, screaming at each other, begging for TV or chocolate, or just wanting a hug.  And as much as I rationally think to myself that what I really should be doing is going to the bathroom, I just can’t resist their bright little faces or even Annie’s prima donna two year old meltdowns. I hold it. And when I do finally look at the clock and know I have only a few seconds before my next conference call, and I tell them I have to run to the bathroom,  they do what any respectable kid would do. They announce they too have to go and cut me in line so that I ended up holding it for another hour.  

Then, the day is over and dinner prep begins, as does Jay’s politely-called “fussy” hour where he insists on being held while I cook and try to sweep the floor.  One more seltzer water down.  No bathroom in sight. And even when Jay is in the Bjorn and relief is close at hand, someone always needs something. And so I hold it again.

I don’t really mind all this holding it. I think of it as monster Kegel exercises or something. I am a bit sad that my once epic consumption of liquids (which Annie has inherited but unfortunately paired with a fierce objection to potty training) has been curtailed. But it is a small price to pay for quality time.

That said, husbands of STORKS (affectionately called DORKS), a word of advice: never mess with your wives’ bathroom breaks. It is most likely the only alone time they have the entire day. To you, it is a few minutes of annoyance. To us, it is a brief stretch of reckless abandon, of crazy teenage freedom. Seriously. We might take bathroom breaks over diamonds. That’s the kind of crazy value shift that happens when you have kids.

Anyways, I have said enough and frankly have been holding it since dinner to get this blog done.   

The Stork Has Landed

Since I had my third baby, my five year old son and two ½ year old daughters have asked me about how babies get out. Being a very modern mommy, I of course tell them the truth (which is why when Danny was two and he asked about his privates I told him it was called a penis--it isn’t my fault that he heard “peanut”). Anyways, my kids were shocked when I told them the (sanitized) truth. Danny announced that it was far too small down there for a baby to get out. To which I replied: exactly.  

 Once upon a time I would have told my kids that a stork had delivered them. A big old bird with a baby in a sling hanging from its mouth glided down to earth and slipped a cooing baby into its parents’ loving embrace.  Storks are thought to be harbingers of happiness and prosperity. They also tend to nest atop chimneys, down which a new baby could be imagined entering the house, just like Santa.  

I always kind of liked this image of a stork delivering a baby. Maybe it is because I ate a lot of Vlasic pickles as a child. Regardless, when I first saw a stork in France I was shocked. They are not just big, they are HUGE. They fly low to the ground and frankly they seem a bit clumsy.  I was impressed with their sheer awkwardness on the landscape, the magnitude of their big old selves trying to get their mission accomplished. But now that I am a mom I realized something. That stork is me.

I am a new category of mom: the stork, short for the combination stay-at-home/working mom. I am one of those people who are trying to both go to baby music class and run a business. Take the “st” from stay-at-home and the “ork” from work and there you have it: a stork (and yes also a dork).   I am the mom who one day shows up at school pick-up in the gnarliest sweats you have ever seen and the next day in a full suit. You wonder to yourself, what does she do? Does she work? Or is she maybe just rich and therefore likes to dress nice one day and slum it the next just because she can?  I won’t tell you because, when I am at a kids’ thing, I am trying to blend in as a stay-at-home mom. My biggest compliment is when you know me for years without ever realizing I work. But then, when I am at work, I won’t tell you a thing about my kids because I don’t want to be labeled as a mom instead of as an expert. Some days I might just fool you. And some days I might show up at a client meeting with peanut butter in my hair. I am big and perhaps a little clutzy but, you know what, I get the job done at home and at work. And I might actually even have some fun doing it.

Why do I do this? Because I don’t want to miss a minute of my kids’ lives but I also need to pay the bills and make something of all that education I insisted on getting (and let my parents pay for).  

This blog is dedicated to all you fellow STORKS out there, all of you ladies who live in the inbetween, who drive minivans but carry Coach bags to meetings; who crunch numbers as they pack lunches; who abandon sleep to squeeze in a surprise afternoon at the park and then stay up until two making up the lost time. Who work conference calls around ballet classes and whose kids know that closed door means Mommy is really working hard but will always accept love notes slipped under the door.

I applaud you. We are a new breed of mommies, I think. We aren’t trying to have it all--frankly we don’t have the least amount of time (or desire) to define what “all” is. We are the storks: we may be on conference calls down the hall but we are always hovering nearby, sometimes dropping the baby down the chimney a bit too hard while we try to write a plan and nurse simultaneously but, man, we are reliable and we are here.

This blog will be the true life tales of a stork. I may occasionally change names and I might even protect the innocent. But I only average about five hours of sleep a night so you never know what you might get. And you know what, that is OK, I think I might just like it that way.