February 28, 2005

Glamore Gal

It was a cold and rainy Sunday afternoon. Bill and I slept through church after celebrating my 38th birthday a bit too voraciously, so I was feeling spiritually deficient. The gala had left me with a nagging headache. I tried to make a dent in the pile of dirty laundry, but my dryer wheezed and burped and then stopped, and no amount of kicking or jiggling could make it tumble dry.

As I walked to through the kitchen to unload the dishwasher, my feet crunched on the bits of red clay that had fallen from the boys’ cleats after baseball practice. I sighed, and vacuumed the floor. I sent the twins to their rooms with strict orders not to emerge until their bedrooms were absolutely clean, including their closets and under their beds.

Bill and Finn left to go to the grocery store, and I descended wearily into the basement to do some fascinating internet research on dryers. I had narrowed my search to two promising models when the phone rang. Suddenly, my life changed.

It was an acquaintance of mine who runs a hip clothing store here in town.

“Hey, I need a model for this big fashion show fundraiser in two weeks. All the boutiques are participating, and we’re expecting a big crowd. Would you be interested?”

I wasn’t sure I had heard her correctly.

“You mean ME?” I asked incredulously.

“Yes. You’d be great! You’re tiny and cute,” she said. I don’t think of myself as tiny and cute, exactly. More like stylish and self-confident, but whatever. I could be tiny and cute. Maybe.

“You know, you haven’t seen me in a while,” I said. “In the interest of fair disclosure, you ought to know a few of the less attractive things about me. I’m five feet four inches max. I wear a 36AA bra, so any outfits requiring cleavage would be out. I have a huge scar on my back from my crack up to the base of my neck from my spine surgeries. I have been waging a constant battle against adult-onset acne. I think I have a big nose.”

“Go on,” she said. She sounded a little less enthusiastic.

“On the other hand, I do have some good attributes,” I said. “I am currently winning the war against the zits. I have some reliable fake stick-on boobs that make me a solid size A, and I have great legs and fingernails.”

Apparently this was enough.

“You’ll be perfect!” she trilled. “You’ll need to have a fitting, and we’ll have a rehearsal on the catwalk the day before. You’ll need to go to Meditation Salon the morning of for hair and makeup, and call time for the models is 1:30. ”

I didn’t have any idea what a call time was, and I have never walked on a catwalk in my life. But the thought of free hair and makeup, just like a real model, was exhilarating! I pictured myself in the chair, lazily holding a glass of champagne in one hand and my cell phone in the other. I’d be talking to Bill, saying something like “Honey, did Finn remember his glove and his water? Oh, sorry– I have to go– Omar has to set my hair. See you on the catwalk!”

I was really liking the sound of this. “I’m in,” I told her.

“Wonderful!” she chirped. “You’ll be the perfect model to expand my demographic. I already have a sixteen year old, an eighteen year old and a twenty-three year old, and I need an older model, you know, to balance things out.”

What a letdown. It was flattering to be asked to be a model, but it didn’t feel so great to realize I was being recruited as a “mature” model. I changed my mental image of the preparation. Now I was sitting in a salon chair being attended by an old blue-haired lady named Florence, who was busily setting my hair in hot rollers in preparation for shaping it into an enormous beehive. I was holding a cold cup of coffee, not champagne. I tried my cellphone, but couldn’t get a signal.

I banished the image from my mind. Better a mature model than never a model at all.

I went upstairs and made dinner: Beef Balls in Red Wine Sauce with Winter Vegetables. Finn and Drew ate their rice and examined their meatballs in lieu of actually eating them. Porter attacked his plate with gusto.

Finn interrupted his meatball study to announce,”Dad, I can’t believe you’ll be 40 in two years. That’s scary.”

Bill looked at him in disbelief. “That’s not scary. That’s young.”

Finn shook his head, “Well, it seems old to me,” he maintained.

For a brief moment there was silence at the table. I checked on everyone’s beef ball progress. Finn’s plate was still quite full. I swear, I don’t know why I don’t just fix Easy Mac and hot dogs every night. Cooking with no resulting appreciation can wear you out.

Seeing the look on my face, Finn tried deperately to save himself. “You know, Dad,” he said, “you won’t LOOK 40. You’ll look 30 and Mom will look 25 because she’s the most beautiful Mom in the whole world!”

He looked at me expectantly to gauge my reaction.

“Finn,” I said sternly, “You still have to eat your meatball. And if you do not eat it for dinner, I am wrapping it up and giving it to you for breakfast.”

He scowled, and went back to making tiny pinpricks in the surface of his meat with the tines of his fork. Porter finished his meal, and Drew’s, and went back for more.

I declared an end to our happy family meal, then cleaned the kitchen while everyone showered and bathed. By the time the Academy Awards had started, I was settled in front of the TV, ready to get some red carpet tips.

Finn and Bill came to join me. Finn jumped when he saw my face.

“Mom!” he yelled, “you look like a zombie! What is all over your face?”

“It is a sulfur mask,” I replied, with as much dignity as I could muster. It does make my face a chalky greenish white, and I had smeared it from my forehead to my neck, leaving only my lips, eyeballs and nostrils bare. Just then Drew and Porter wandered in, smelling blueberry fresh from their shampoo. Porter immediately claimed the space next to me and snuggled as close as he could, while Drew looked at me with disgust.

“You look hideous,” he announced, as he settled himself onto the sofa. I may not have mentioned that Drew is the palest, whitest kid in North America. He has white-blond hair, blue eyes, a pointy little chin, and skinny arms and legs. He has very long feet and toes. We call him our little Martian, in a loving way, of course. I didn’t think Drew had any right to comment on the whiteness of my face, given his pasty demeanor, but this was too complicated to point out to a six year old.

“Mom is a ghost! Mom is a ghost!” Porter began chanting, dancing around the room in his Sponge Bob underpants.

“Everyone sit down and be quiet!” I bellowed. “This is what ladies do to look beautiful.”

“Mom,” Finn said hesitantly, “don’t take this the wrong way, but you really don’t look beautiful.”

“I know I don’t look beautiful now,” I hissed, “but after I wash it off my skin will be fresh and glowing.” I was having a little trouble enunciating because I had Crest Whitestrips on my upper and lower teeth, and they were slipping a little.

“Do you have Saran wrap on your teeth?” Porter asked, staring intently at my mouth.

“No, these are pieces of plastic you put on your teeth so they will be whiter,” I answered.

“Do I have to do that?” Porter asked.

“No, this is another thing ladies do to be beautiful,” I answered.

“I’m glad I’m not a girl,” Finn said.

“Me, too,” said Drew. “You look hideous.”

“You already said that,” I told him. Porter curled up next to me, sucking his fingers and clutching my chenille turtleneck.

Bill and I let the boys watch thirty minutes of the Oscars, which was a mistake, because Chris Rock, the host, said “pootytang” in his opening monologue and Porter and Drew heard it and thought it was the funniest word they had ever heard, which it might be. (Later I googled the word to see just how awful it was, and found out it’s actually “Pootie Tang,” and it’s the name of a bad movie. It sounds like something a lot worse.)

They had just started jumping from one sofa to the other shouting “POOTYTANG!” when Bill and I decided we’d had enough.

“Glamore family meeting!” Bill said. “It’s time to calm down and go to bed.”

“Pootytang!” Porter responded. Drew started laughing so hard he fell off the sofa.

“You cannot say ‘pootytang’ anymore,” I decreed. “It’s like stupidhead and shut up and pinkeye. I do not want to hear you say it here, and you most certainly should not say it at school.”

“Yes ma’am,” Porter said.

“I wasn’t saying it,” Finn said.

“I know,” I said. “Don’t start.”

Drew was still laughing too hard to respond, so Bill picked him up and stuck him in the bed. I tucked Porter in and kissed Drew.

My face was starting to feel tight and heavy, so I went to the bathroom to rinse off my mask. Examining my face in the mirror, I certainly couldn’t tell any difference, but beauty does not happen overnight.

I finished my nightly routine and hopped in the bed to read my Sunday New York Times. Bill was already in bed, reading the latest issue of Triathlete. After a moment, he started sniffing.

“Do you smell something?” he asked.

“No.”

He continued sniffing around. Then he started smelling my elbow. “It’s you,” he proclaimed. “You smell like something’s burning at the beach.”

“That’s my self-tanner,” I told him.

He looked puzzled.

“You know, you put it on your skin every day and after a few days you have a natural looking tan,” I explained.

“It doesn’t smell natural,” he said. “It smells like an oceanfront barbecue. Are you going to put that on EVERY night until this fashion show?”

I considered this. I don’t really have Nicole Kidman coloring and creamy pale skin, and a good tan goes a long way toward hiding stubborn pimples.

“Yes,” I said. “It’s my only chance to model, and I am going to do it right. Bronze skin is in. And I’m still not finished. I’ve still got to practice my walk and my pose.”

“Okay,” Bill said. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

I got out of bed and walked carefully from the bed to the closet, holding my head up, and placing one foot carefully in front of the other. At the end of my walk, I turned to face Bill and posed, making a sexy pout with my lips.

He turned bright red and stuck his face under the covers. I could see his shoulders heaving under the sheets. I strode over and grabbed the sheets off him.

“Are you laughing at me?” I demanded.

Bill wiped his eyes and struggled to regain his composure.

“Honey, that was some great walking. You look very sexy, especially in that T shirt and underwear. I think you’ve got the walk down. But what was the part where you stood still and stuck out your lips like you’re blowing on your soup?” he howled, laughing so hard the bed started knocking against the wall.

“That’s my sexy pout,” I said defensively. “That’s what you do when you stop to let everyone look at your outfit.”

“Has someone actually told you to make that face?” he asked.

“Well, no,” I admitted. “I made it up myself.”

He pulled me over and hugged me. “Honey, keep up the walk. You look damn good, and make sure you get a short outfit to show off those legs. But,” and he started laughing again, “you’ve got to come up with a better sexy pout. You look like you’re blowing out candles on a birthday cake.”

So, my new career as a mature model is off to a shaky start, but I am confident I’ll have all the kinks worked out by the time of the show.

February 22, 2005

Finn Glamore: Poet Laureate

The twins are in kindergarten, and they are really starting to read and write. These days the teachers encourage them to write phonetically, and they worry about learning proper spelling later. I suppose that now, with spell check readily available, this is a pretty good method. However, it results in my getting a lot of strange notes along the lines of “Mom I luv yu an kin we hev a peetza partee?”

Anyway, their work reminded me of Finn’s writing debut when he was in kindergarten, years ago. It was apparent even then that Finn had inherited my writing talent. Near the end of the school year, a local bookstore organized a poetry reading where all attendees would be allowed to read a work of original poetry. It was to be held on a Friday night, and Finn’s teacher encouraged all her students to attend.

Finn was pumped up about it, and worked on his presentation all week. He would not let me see the poems he was going to read. Bill was out of town on business, so I asked my mom to come along to maximize Finn’s audience.

Friday arrived, and it was pouring rain. I thought about telling Finn the event had been canceled due to flooding at the mall, but then my mothering instinct took over, thank God, and I got everyone into clean clothes and loaded them into the van. This part was challenging; Drew and Porter were cranky and I was exhausted, so I fed them yogurt while I had a cup of coffee with a splash of Kahlua. I hoped this would help me stay awake yet provide me with a much-needed feeling of calm.

It continued to storm, and by the time I parked and got everyone headed in the right direction, we were fifteen minutes late. I was panicking. I am used to being on time everywhere I go, and I certainly did not want to ruin Finn’s poetry debut. But once we got there, it was apparent that our lateness did not affect the performance, because we made up almost half the audience.

Only seven kids and two teachers showed up, probably because it was a Friday night and all the other parents had babysitters and were out partying. The spectators settled into folding chairs facing a podium. My mom had saved us seats, so we sat right up front. Of course, there were no bad seats since the audience was so small. The students formed a line next to the podium and waited with their sheets of paper. Each child took a turn reading a poem. Finn read two.

I Am Speshull

I am speshull becuz I can hit a bassball
I am speshull becuz I hav a loos tooth
I am speshull becuz I am a big brother
I am speshull becus I hav the oldis dog in the class

By Finn Glamore

Thunderous applause! Cameras flashed! The audience begged for more. Finn obliged.

My Wif

I love my wif.
Watever she duz to me
I stil want to kis her.

By Finn Glamore

After he read his poems, the bookstore people presented him with a journal. He immediately began writing in it, from the time we got into the van until late that night. (I encouraged this, as I did it when I was a kid, and I rummaged around in the attic and found my old lap desk for him to use).

His next endeavor was somewhat unsettling.

The Ferst Day of Skool

Hart thumping
Chest beeting
Throt gulping
Thet is how I felt the ferst day of skool.

By Finn Glamore

His subsequent work was popular with other members of our household, but not with me.

No

No no no
Thet is what my mom alwayes ses
No ise creem
No snacs
No tv
No

By Finn Glamore

I have encouraged him to write a poem that goes something like this:

Yes

Yes I will drive you to school at an ungodly hour of the morning
Yes I will clean your clothes even though you have a clean shirt in your closet that cost $20
Yes I will help you look for your teddy bear
Yes you can have some yogurt
She is the most beautiful mom in the world
And she looks like she is in high school

By Finn Glamore

So far he prefers to follow his own muse.

February 17, 2005

You Vamp!

I suppose there are bigger problems in the world (and Lord knows I’ve had my share), but I am having a fashion crisis, and instead of worrying about Iraq, Finn’s inability to pass his 9’s in the Multiplication Mad Minute, or the weird bumps on Drew’s chest, I am focusing on another dilemma.

Bill and I are going to New Orleans this weekend with nine other couples to celebrate a friend’s 40th birthday. I’ve got my clothes picked out and have scheduled a highlight, manicure and pedicure. On my lunch break, I stopped by a boutique to get a bottle of my favorite nail polish: Chanel Vamp.

It’s the most wonderful color nail polish ever invented: a rich dark chocolaty-red, almost black, and I have been wearing it since the mid-90’s. I started wearing it before anyone else in the tiny kingdom, and my mother was appalled. She told me I looked like Dracula, not a businesslike lawyer or a nurturing mother. I ignored her. I have great fingernails and I keep them short and manicured. That way people can focus on my hands, not my teeny tiny titties.

Soon after I started wearing it, Chanel’s Vamp polish became all the rage, and I was the cool trendsetter. I even found a wonderful bargain substitute for Vamp: Revlon’s Vixen. But this weekend there will be lots of people to impress, and it’s almost my birthday, so I decided to treat myself to a bottle of the real thing.

A handsome man named Paolo was working the counter at the boutique. “I need some Vamp,” I announced.

Paolo sucked in his breath and looked at my nails, which are currently Vixen with a few chips. “Let me see if we have some.”

He rummaged through a drawer and then said,”No, honey. We’re all out. You know Vamp’s been discontinued.” He looked at my nails disapprovingly.

“What?” I yelped. My voice echoed through the store.

“Darling, Vamp is over,” Paolo said dramatically. “O-V-E-R. It’s been over for years. Everyone’s doing the nude nail, or the french manicure. See?” He pointed to the nail polish display. There were testers of all kinds of light colors that ranged from pale white to pale pink to pale tan. There was also one tester left of Vamp. The other testers had been used, but the Vamp was pristine. Paolo saw me looking at it.

“Look,” he said. “No one has touched that bottle.”

Down deep, I knew Vamp wasn’t as hot as it had been. Every week I pore over the pages of my US Weekly. It has been a long time since a celebrity on the red carpet has had colored nails, but no one had declared that Vamp was officially “OVER” except for Paolo. Still, if it were really hot, US Weekly would be full of pictures of celebrities with Vamp nails.

I picked up a bottle of Beige Naturel and held it up to my hand. “This looks awful,” I said.

“Ooh, it does,” Paolo said. He picked up Pink Mink, Natural Pink and Jasmin and held them up against my nails.

“These are all going to be very hard for you to wear, since you’re a Vamp girl,” he said. “But you’ve got to pick one. You can’t do Vamp. It’s toast. Finito.”

I stared at him in disbelief. Paolo was essentially forbidding me to wear Vamp. His message was clear.

“Paolo, please,” I begged. “Look how great it looks with my skin and my wedding ring.”

He examined my hands critically. “Honey, I see. In its heyday, you could wear Vamp better than most. Too bad it’s over.”

“Vamp’s my THING,” I said, pleading. “It’s what I wear. We have a long history.”

“Too long,” Paolo commented. “You pick. I say you do the Pink Mink.”

I picked up a bottle of it and looked at it hopelessly. “I don’t think I can do it, Paolo,” I said.

“Oh, darling, you can do it. It won’t be easy, but you’ve got to suck it up,” Paolo said.

“But other people have their things,” I pointed out. “Elton John has his glasses.”

“Honey, Elton started wearing contacts years ago,” Paolo said.

“Well, Rod Stewart has that hair. That’s his thing. And Prince always wears purple. He’s worn it for decades,” I said.

“And Prince and Rod Stewart are style setters? No way, honey. You’ve got to get a new thing. You don’t want to be granny with her beehive hairdo.”

I didn’t really think that was a fair comparison. Beehives have never been trendy in my lifetime.

“Look, darling, you go to the nail salon and try on some lighter shades and see what you like. It won’t be so bad. You owe it to yourself. You can’t be fabulous everywhere else and have the dark nails. It’s like dragging toilet paper on your shoe.” Paolo turned away and started rearranging the fragrances.

I put down the Pink Mink and looked at the Vamp tester. Paolo must have felt sorry for me, because he took out the Vamp and handed it to me. “You can put it under your pillow, honey, but don’t put it on your nails,” he said. “Come back when you’re ready for Jasmin!”

I know you’re thinking this is a lot of ink and energy devoted to a bottle of nail polish. But really, to me, it’s about much more than that. I have to do something to keep myself from becoming just another minivan driving soccer mom. I’m cooler than that. I desperately need the minivan, and I have to carpool to practice, but I don’t have to conform.

And until now, my Vamp nails have been a way to express my individuality. They scream: “Don’t screw with me! I may be a mom, but I still subscribe to Rolling Stone! I read great books! I cook like a big city chef! I know the lyrics to every No Doubt song! I wear miniskirts to the baseball field! I’ll eat fried octopus! I look hot in a pair of Gap Long and Lean jeans! I just might have a hidden tattoo!”

At least, that’s what they say to me. To Paolo, apparently they scream, “Here comes granny in her beehive hairdo!”

That night, as I was tucking Porter in bed, he snuggled down with Panda Bear, his rocket and my red turtleneck, which I would reclaim and wear if he didn’t love it so much.

Then it occurred to me that while Porter had to give up Naked Baby, he didn’t have to give up all his bedtime companions. Maybe I didn’t have to totally give up my thing, either. Surely there was something between Vamp and Beige that would satisfy both Paolo and me.

I went early for my manicure so I could test a few shades while I was waiting. Melon of Troy was too orange. Alpine Snow was invisible. Aphrodite’s Pink Nightie, despite its racy name, was geriatric. Then a great red caught my eye. If you were comparing nail polish to food, Vamp would be a Hershey Bar, and this color was more like a red hot. It certainly was not the wimpy marshmallow color Paolo was pushing, but it was many shades lighter than Vamp.

I turned over the bottle and read the name: “I’m Not Really A Waitress.” I started trembling– not too long ago, some magazine (maybe even US Weekly!) had decreed that “I’m Not Really a Waitress” was a classic shade. “Classic” means it never goes out of style, and even Paolo couldn’t argue with that.

So I am writing with “I’m Not Really a Waitress” on my nails now. It’s a small concession, but a concession nonetheless. These nails may not shout as loudly, but they still proclaim: “I might be a mom and a lawyer now, but I once was a waitress, so I know the importance of tipping! I expect good customer service, and I send beautifully crafted complaint letters when I don’t get it! I read the New Yorker every week! My husband and I have a passionate relationship! I’m a woman with blue values in a red state!”

Porter had a period of adjustment after Naked Baby’s kidnapping. Like Porter, I’m still getting used to the change. So far I like it. Dare I say it? It’s my new thing.

February 16, 2005

The Naked Baby Kidnapping Caper

Nighttime is when the curious creatures come out at the Glamore house. All of my kids sleep with something at night. Finn has slept with his teddy bear, Jenny, since he was born. (When he has friends over he puts a tiny Auburn jersey on her and calls her “Superman” so no one will think he’s dependent on a female bear for comfort.) Drew sleeps with a small pillow with his name on it (”Little Pillow”) and an orange fluffy duck he got in his Easter basket one year (”Easter Duck”).

(My children are strangely unimaginative when it comes to naming their stuffed animals. I don’t understand it. For years I slept with a small stuffed bunny named “Roquefort Coconuthead” but my children don’t have my talent for distinctive names.)

Porter, however, sleeps with a strange menagerie of items, all specially chosen for their softness, their tags, or that special something that only he can identify. He sleeps with his little monogrammed pillow, a two foot long rocket he got for Christmas, a very small stuffed bunny like the one in “Goodnight Moon” (”Blue Bunny”), a small brown blanket with fringe and a really big consumer tag, Panda Bear, a red chenille turtleneck I got at Kohl’s and intended to wear all this winter until he surreptitiously stole it and hid it in his bed, a soccer medal, and his most prized possession: Naked Baby. Someone left her at our house when Porter was 18 months old. She’s a baby doll and she has no clothes.

When we go somewhere overnight, it’s okay if we forget the rocket or Blue Bunny, but Naked Baby is almost like a fourth child. She has eaten with us at restaurants. Porter sticks her head through the handlebars of his bike when he rides, and although it would choke a lesser companion, Naked Baby doesn’t seem to mind. She’s been to the soccer field, the grocery store, the beach, the doctor’s office, and pretty much anywhere Porter has gone. When Porter gets upset, he doesn’t cling to us and cry for long. Instead, he disappears, and a bit later I’ll look in his room and see him cuddled up on his bed with Naked Baby, peacefully sucking his fingers.

Porter is six now, and it doesn’t bother him a bit that he sleeps with a baby doll. In fact, one day he and Drew each got to have a friend over and I learned just how comfortable he is with his feminine side.

Will and John came rushing into our house and the twins started the obligatory tour of the house, showing off the pantry, the bathroom, and the kitchen. Finally they got to Porter’s room. All four boys were so excited they were running in circles and climbing on Porter’s toy chest and jumping off, over and over and over.

I was listening from my room nearby. It didn’t take two seconds for John to spot Naked Baby on Porter’s bed.

“Hey, you sleep with a baby doll!” John yelled.

“Yes, that’s Naked Baby,” Porter said nonchalantly. I steeled myself, because I knew what was coming next.

“Only GIRLS sleep with DOLLS!” Will said accusingly. I stretched my head closer to the door to hear how Porter would respond.

“No, that’s wrong,” Porter said dismissively. “I sleep with Naked Baby, and I am a BOY!” he said, and I heard a loud THUD as he jumped off his chest onto the floor.

“No, that means you are a girl!” John insisted. “My sister has dolls and she’s a GIRL.”

I was bracing myself for Porter’s tears, but they did not come. Instead I heard Drew speak up in his brother’s defense. “No, Porter is a boy. He has a willie, and only boys have willies.”

“Yes, I have a willie,” Porter agreed. “My mom doesn’t, though. She wears bras on her bosoms.”

Apparently Porter’s willie settled the issue, because Will moved on to his next target. “You have a nightlight!” he said. “Only babies need nightlights!”

Porter and Drew were unperturbed. I began to realize that there really is strength in numbers.

“No,” said Porter, “I am not a baby. Naked Baby is a baby.”

“Yeah, I have a nightlight, too, and we are boys, not babies,” Drew emphasized. “Wanna see my nightlight? It has a baseball on the front.”

“YES,” everyone screamed, and the house shuddered as eight feet ran into Drew’s room to examine his nightlight, his clay pot, and his karate uniform.

The boys had handled Naked Baby’s first social hurdle, but I couldn’t help wondering whether Naked Baby was becoming a problem.

So I called my pediatrician, a very wise man who was my pediatrician, and who knows the boys very well. I described all of Porter’s sleeping companions to him, and he thought a minute.

“Well, the soccer medal needs to be hung on the bedpost, because I don’t want it to choke him. And the rocket sounds uncomfortable, but if he likes it, it can stay. But I am afraid Naked Baby must disappear.”

“Are you sure?” I pressed. I was dreading the thought of upsetting our evening routine, because I get very crispy and short-tempered at night. I like to tuck everyone in with a minimum of fuss, get in bed and read. Naked Baby’s absence was sure to cause a ruckus.

“Yes. He’s six years old. Is he playing with trucks and things, too? Not just dolls?”

I could see where this was heading. “Yes,” I said firmly. “He digs in the dirt with shovels, he dismantles all our small appliances and puts them back together, he makes parachutes out of pipecleaners and paper, he has a collection of Hot Wheels, he rides his bike and his scooter and he loves Lego’s. He doesn’t have any other dolls. Only Naked Baby. Oh, and sometimes I see him rubbing his penis in the bathtub,” I added helpfully.

“Sounds like a normal growing boy to me,” my doctor said. “Get rid of the doll.”

Getting rid of Naked Baby was going to be harder than it sounded. It wasn’t the actual kidnapping; that was easy. I simply waited until Porter was at school, took Naked Baby off his bed, and hid her in the depths of my closet. But dealing with her disappearance would be difficult, and I wasn’t sure how to manage it.

So I did the only thing I could think of that might help. After dinner, while Bill oversaw baths and showers and I cleaned the kitchen, I had a little prayer time.

“Dear God,” I prayed, with my eyes open and my hands covered in suds, because I don’t think God cares if you multitask when you pray– isn’t he the Ultimate Multitasker? “Please help Porter get through the loss of Naked Baby, and give me the wisdom to say the right words to comfort him when he figures out she is gone. Amen.”

That night, I tucked Porter into bed. He gathered all his animals and toys around him, we said his prayers, and kissed him and tiptoed out. Naked Baby wasn’t mentioned.

When I left the room I looked up. “Thanks, God,” I whispered. You’ve got to remember to say thanks when your prayers are answered.

Two nights passed before Porter seemed to notice Naked Baby’s disappearance. Just before bedtime, he came striding into my room, clutching Panda Bear and his rocket. “I can’t find Naked Baby,” he announced. “Have you seen her?”

“Well, she’s certainly not in here,” I said cheerfully, and then I caught myself. I was lying! In fact, Naked Baby was in my closet. I glanced over to make sure the door was closed. It was. “Wow, it’s bedtime already!” I chirped. “Let me tuck you in.”

I did, and he immediately started sucking his fingers, and his eyes grew droopy, and in a moment he was asleep. We had made it through another night. I had asked God to pave the way for Naked Baby’s permanent vacation, and He had. I hated to doubt, but part of me wondered, Could it really be this easy?

Of course not. Nothing in mothering is that easy. Two weeks passed, and I had promised Porter that I would cuddle with him in his bed before bedtime. We lay there in the dark, and I heard the regular slurping sound he makes when he sucks his fingers.

“Mom?” he asked. I stiffened. I felt like a criminal. All I could think about was Naked Baby, alone in the top of my closet. I knew my time of reckoning was at hand.

“Yes, sweetie?” I said.

He took his fingers out of his mouth and looked at me. “When can we get a real monkey for a pet so I can take it to school and show all my friends and it can carry my backpack? When?” He replaced his fingers and continued sucking.

I relaxed.

“Never, honey. I already have you and your brothers. We don’t have room for a monkey.”

“Oh,” he said. “I wish we could have one and he could sleep with me. I do.”

“Me, too,” I said. “I’ve always wanted a monkey.”

Then he started to cry.

“Mom?” he asked.

“Yes?” I whispered.

“Do you think Naked Baby is ever going to come back? Because it’s been a long time and I really miss her,” he said. I looked over at him while I thought of what to say. I looked up at the ceiling, silently reminding God that He had promised to give me the right words when the time came.

“I’m not sure she’s ever coming back, honey,” I said.

“Why not?” he asked.

I put my arm around him and hugged him tight. “I just don’t think she is,” I said, hoping I sounded wise and comforting at the same time. “Sometimes mothers just get a feeling about things.”

He continued to cry. I hugged him, feeling like a poor excuse for a mom. I had kidnapped his favorite doll, and now I was dealing ineptly with the aftermath.

“Do you think she died?”

I thought wildly. Did she? “I don’t know,” I answered honestly. We snuggled deeper into the covers, and his sniffles started to dry up.

“‘Cause if she died, I hope she’s in heaven so I can see her when I get there,” Porter said. And he put his fingers back in his mouth and started sucking.

“Me, too,” I said. “Are you ready to say your prayers?”

So we prayed, Porter out loud, and me to myself, thanking God we had weathered another day without Naked Baby.

The next morning, all three boys were in the kitchen getting breakfast. Drew was fiddling with his cereal, Finn was microwaving some grits, and Porter was wolfing down a bagel. He chewed and swallowed, and announced, “Naked Baby is in heaven, and when I die I am going to see her. I am.”

I wasn’t sure when Porter had decided that
Naked Baby was actually dead, but this seemed like a good solution to
the whole affair.

“What?” Finn asked skeptically. “What happened to Naked Baby?”

“She died. And Porter’s right. She’s in heaven,” I said. Finn looked at me like I was nuts. I motioned to him to stay quiet. “We sure did love Naked Baby, though, didn’t we?” I added. Porter nodded.

I didn’t want to dwell on the death too long, so I switched back into Morning Mom mode. “You’ve got four minutes before Mrs. Sherlock comes,” I said. “Everyone clean up your breakfast and let me check your face.” The boys got up and picked up their dishes, and I kept up a constant “Do you have your homework have you brushed your teeth are you sure your bed is made up” patter until the boys’ carpool came.

And that was the end of Naked Baby, at least as far as Porter was concerned. He occasionally mentions her when I tuck him in at night, but he’s sure she’s in heaven, waiting for him. He seems peaceful about it.

I can’t bring myself to throw her away, so she remains on the top shelf of my closet. After all, she was a big part of the Glamore family for years. Although Porter has recovered nicely, I still
have occasional pangs of guilt about my role in her demise.

Just this morning, when I was getting dressed, I saw her plastic head peering out
from behind my purses. I got a little wistful about the fact that Porter is too old for dolls. But if Porter can be strong, with God’s help, so can I.

February 10, 2005

PTAtrocity

Last night was the PTA Open house, when the school opens its doors and welcomes you into your children’s world. It is ostensibly the time you tour your child’s classroom to see what your child is learning (and what your tax dollars are paying for) but we all know the true purpose. It is an “open house” in the sense that you are opening up your entire family to inspection by all other attendees and you better be well prepared.

This was going to be my big night at PTA Open House, my debut. I missed last year because of my spine surgery, and the year before Finn was my only child in elementary school, so this was the first time my entire family would be there. I dresssed carefully, and wore a black sweater and and short skirt (understated sophistication), my suede boots and fishnets (to show off my shapely legs) and my glasses (so I would look like an intelligent mother). I topped it all off with my fabulous winter coat.

My coat is a beautiful caramel color and it almost reaches the floor. The cuffs and collar are trimmed in caramel curly lamb. Britney Spears was wearing one like it last year in US Weekly. I bet she paid full price for hers, but I waited until the Bloomingdale’s By Mail sale and got mine for a fraction of the retail price. It is one of my best bargain bonanzas ever.

I pictured myself walking serenely from one classroom to the next, oohing and aahing lovingly over my sons’ accomplishments, accompanied by my sexy husband and three well behaved, handsome boys. That’s how the script went, anyway, and I made sure everyone knew it. As we pulled into the school parking lot, I said, “OK guys. Good manners. And stick together. We’re all going to everyone’s classrooms as a family.” I got three “yes m’ams” in return.

We went to Finn’s class first. He’s in the third grade. We read his portfolio of work and admired his self portrait and autobiography. We let the duo go play in the area outside his classroom while we finished perusing his classroom walls, every inch of which were covered with charts, graphs, posters and other educational stuff.

At home I tell Finn, “I don’t care how every one else is doing. As long as you are working your hardest, I will be satisfied.” When I said it, I thought I meant it. Apparently, deep down in some tiny competitive spot in my soul, I really didn’t.

In one corner there was a chart showing how many book tests each child had taken. Isabelle Smyer was far ahead of Finn and the rest of the class. I only had a moment to look without being too obvious, but I quickly estimated that Finn was about twenty books behind her. When I was growing up, I always read the most and the hardest books of anyone in my class. I don’t know who this Isabelle chick thinks she is, but if she thinks she’s got Finn beat in the reading department, she’s wrong. I made a mental note to check on Finn’s reading and get a few more stars by his name on the chart.

As I swished around the room in my shaggy coat, I came to another disturbing poster. On the “Mad Minute” chart, a row of stars marked the multiplication tests each child had passed. You get one minute to correctly answer all the multiplication questions in one family (from 1×1 up to 1×12 for the ones, for example). Again, one row was much longer than the others. It was that damn Isabelle, of course. She was already up to the 12’s.

Finn has tried to pass his 7’s several times but keeps forgetting the same problem that I never could remember: 7×6. I thought once he passed the six family and knew that 6×7 was 42 he’d be able to remember that 7×6 was also 42, but then again, the relationship between the two problems had completely escaped me at that age. I mentally kicked myself for not spending more time with Finn on his multiplication. I’ve been relying on Bill to handle most of that, because I hate arithmetic.

I sighed. Finn might be stinking at math, but at least I was wearing a hot outfit. I took off my coat so the other parents could see my legs. I had to pick a few strands of curly lamb off my sweater, but I still looked sleek and stylish.

We left Finn’s class and went to get the twins so we could go to Porter’s class. As the five of us walked down the hall, I felt a tap on my back, and heard a snuffly voice saying, “Mrs. Glamore? Mrs. Glamore?”

I turned around to see a teary Gunter Gross. He’s one of Drew’s friends and his lips are always very chapped. “Yes, Gunter?” I said.

“Mrs. Glamore? Porter socked me in the face,” Gunter said. He wasn’t bleeding, but he didn’t look so good. I think that was mainly because the chapped area around his lips extended up to his nose and down to his chin. I cringed. This didn’t exactly reflect well on the Glamores.

I pulled Porter over and made him apologize and ask forgiveness. I looked for Gunter’s mother, Lisa, but did not see her, so we headed on to the kindergarten wing. My evening at the elementary school was not proceeding as well as I had hoped.

Somewhere between third grade and kindergarten we lost Finn and Drew. We saw them running ahead of us in the hall and I called sweetly, “Boys, stop running! We’ll meet you in Drew’s class!” Bill, Porter and I continued on our way.

But when we got to Drew’s class, Finn and Drew were not there. We checked up and down the hall for them, but did not see them. So we walked with Porter to his classroom next door.

Porter was thrilled to have both of his parents to himself. He ran around the room, showing us his journal, which featured a lot of pictures of trees and pirates, the reading center, his nap mat and his cubby for his backpack. He was happy and smiling and looking precious.

I smiled at him, then noticed that there was a big pink stain on the front of his shirt. I looked closer, and realized it was toothpaste, and that Porter was wearing the same shirt he had worn to sleep in last night. I had been so busy dressing myself, I hadn’t paid much attention to the boys’ clothes. Oh well. I rationalized that it would have been much worse if he had been a girl.

While we were in Porter’s class, I saw a friend from church whose daughter is in the same class.

“Where are your other boys?” she asked. “I wanted to see them.”

“They went to the library,” I lied. I wanted her to see them, too. They are easily the most handsome brothers in the whole school, and the fact that two of the three were MIA was making it very hard for me to impress everyone with their good looks and impeccable manners.

We went to Drew’s classroom. Drew wasn’t there. Three moms whose kids have double names were, however. I looked for Gunter’s mom so I could apologize for Porter’s hitting, but I did not see her. I went up to Drew’s teacher, Amanda, who was also Finn’s teacher when he was in kindergarten.

“Hey. Have you seen Drew?” I asked.

“Yes, he and Finn ran through here like maniacs a while ago. I knew you wouldn’t mind me disciplining them, so I stopped them and told them to slow down and go find you. They haven’t found you?”

“No,” I said, picturing them wreaking havoc in the classroom. I hoped she had not called them by their names when she disciplined them, so maybe no one would realize they were mine.

“Well, have you seen Gunter’s mom?” I asked. I left out the part about why I needed her, as Porter, at least, was standing beside me looking perfectly angelic, though dirty.

“She’s already been here and left,” Amanda said. “Her name is Leslie, by the way. She said that sometimes you call her Lisa.”

“Oh, damn,” I said. A lady peering at her child’s journal nearby looked up. I gave her a fake smile and turned back to Amanda. “I can’t believe that. I’ve actually been calling her Lisa all year. I’ve never once called her Leslie.”

“That’s no big deal,” Amanda said. “It’s hard to keep track of everyone.”

It is, but Lisa/Leslie and I are on the boxtop committee together and we have carpooled to at least three birthday parties. It had taken me a long time to get in a kindergarten birthday party carpool, and that was a relationship I needed to nurture. I didn’t have any excuse for not knowing her name. My glasses might have made me look intelligent, but I was starting to feel like a fool.

Bill, Porter and I pretended to tour Drew’s room (sans Drew) for about 45 seconds, then we hustled out into the hall to find our missing offspring. I was boiling mad and was already thinking about how I was going to make Finn stay up all night learning his multiplication tables through the 12’s so he could take the next five Mad Minute tests and show Isabelle who the true math genius is.

The big open house celebration was taking place in the gym, and that’s where we found Finn and Drew. The perimeter of the gym was lined with tables full of families eating, and my missing offspring were racing around with a pack of other boys in the center, playing football. As I watched, Drew ran right in front of a mom who was holding a small child with one hand and carrying a plate of fried chicken and mashed potatoes in the other. He almost knocked her over. Apparently she knew him, because she yelled, “Drew Glamore, slow down! Where is your mother?” Several diners looked up.

I slowly edged behind the corner of the bleachers so that neither she nor the other families could see me, and I whispered to Bill, “Go get them! They are acting like savages!”

He strode out onto the gym floor and grabbed Finn and Drew and shepherded them back to me.

“You are in BIG trouble,” I hissed as I put on my shaggy coat. “This is NOT the way Glamores act! We are going home right now!”

“But Mom, there’s a birthday cake for the school and you said we could have a piece,” Porter said.

“No way,” I said, and I turned to go and ran straight into Gunter Gross’s mother. I thought as hard as I could. Was she Lisa, or Leslie? I took a chance.

“Lisa,” I said, adjusting my voice from a hiss into a pleasant husky tone. “I’ve been looking all over for you. Apparently there was a little problem between Porter and Gunter.”

“My name is Leslie. Leslie Gross. Please do not call me Lisa,” Leslie said harshly, and loudly enough that several people turned around to look.

“I wouldn’t call it a little problem,” Leslie continued. “Porter hit my son and he has been crying ever since.”

“I know,” I whispered, trying unsuccessfully to move away. I looked down and saw that my curly lamb cuff was caught on a screw on the bleachers. I tugged at it and it came loose, leaving a tuft of lamb behind.

“I don’t think we can continue to carpool with you if Porter cannot control himself,” Leslie went on. “Gunter is very sensitive and I do not think Porter is a good role model for him.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I need that birthday party carpool. I need it badly. We had a party the next afternoon and I couldn’t drive - I was supposed to be watching Drew take his karate test at the same time.

“Surely you know we do not condone hitting in our family,” I said. “It was just a mistake. Porter has apologized and it won’t happen again.”

Leslie shook her head. “I know how these families full of boys are. They’re rough, that’s what they are. I just don’t think Porter is a very good influence. I’m sorry. You’ll have to carpool to Pump-It-Up with someone else.”

(Pump-It-Up is a warehouse sized building dedicated to loud birthday parties. You rent it out and the guests take off their shoes and run and jump on squishy pads and slides until they are sweaty and cranky. Then you fill them full of sugar, try unsuccessfully to match each kid with his or her shoes, and send them out to their stressed-out parents, who have braved harrowing traffic to pick up their sobbing youngsters. Fun!)

Leslie grabbed Gunter by the hand and walked out of the gym, leaving the five of us staring after her. Frankly, I never knew she had such balls.

The five of us walked in silence to the car. I was dazed. As we drove home, Bill gave the boys a speech about how they had disobeyed our instructions to stay together. They had acted like heathens and sullied the Glamore name. They would have to be punished.

Actually, I wasn’t even focusing on their awful behavior. I was still too stunned at the fact that I had lost an integral part of my carpooling organization, one that I had carefully cultivated.

My debut was a debacle. Damn that Lisa!