April 22, 2005

The New Me

Usually I’m hysterical. Not in a “Quick, slap her– she’s out of her mind!” kind of way, but in a “Ha ha! That post was funny!” kind of way. (Sometimes I’m the first way, too, but not in this blog).

But today is different. I am alternately teary and jubilant. Then I break into sobs again.

I retired yesterday. After thirteen years of practicing law, full time, part time, with breaks for childbirth, interferon treatment, spine surgery, and sick children, I finally realized that it didn’t make much sense to spend my days rushing to the office to finish briefs instead of hugging my children while they’ll still let me. Honestly, God had to about hit me over the head (ok, with the last two months worth of migraines, maybe that was the tactic He was resorting to) to make me figure this out.

I am extremely fortunate. My boss has been a saint throughout my time at the firm, and told me to leave my desk and furnishings unless I never intend to practice law again. I’m certainly not ready to say that. So I have an office, and thus a feeling of security that there’s a place waiting for me in the future. It’s not all backpacks and carpools forever.

I am also blessed to be able to have the option, financially, of staying home. That’s not to say we didn’t enjoy the money I made. But last year my income was eaten up by my hospital bills, so I know we can exist more than comfortably on Bill’s income alone.

The money part is more a mental thing - with a few exceptions here and there, I’ve worked since I was 15. It’s going to be a BIG adjustment not to have my own money coming in.

Plus, there’s a pride aspect to it. I know it’s wrong. I know being a mother is much harder than practicing law. I’ve done both. But when people say, “What do you do?” it’s very easy to say, “I’m a lawyer” and have people understand immediately what that means. Not that people ask women that question very often - it’s a loaded question at your average cocktail party.

So ladies, as I start my 20th hour of being a stay at home mom, what is the preferred title? I’m assuming “Domestic Goddess” is over. Domestic CEO? Household Engineer?

I would go cry, but I must go steam clean my carpets. My mother in law is coming to visit.

April 20, 2005

Out of the Mouths of Babe Ruth Wannabees

Setting: Master Bedroom, 8:14 pm

Players: Drew and Porter, freshly bathed and clad in underwear and T-shirts, sprawl on bed with Daddy, clad in pj’s. Mom has just washed her face and brushed her teeth and put on her winter pajamas, due to the excessively frigid temperature required by the males in the house. With difficulty, Mom wedges her way onto a tiny corner of the bed between Drew and Porter.

Finn enters, showered, wearing only boxer briefs.

Dad: Finn, have you done your homework?

Finn: (nonchalantly) Not yet.

Dad: Go do it.

Finn: (dawdling) Okay.

Mom: (snuggling with Drew and Porter) You mean “Yes sir.”

Finn: Yes, sir.

Dad: Go on.

Porter: I’ve done my homework. I read “Henny Penny.”

Drew: I didn’t have homework.

Porter: No fair.

Finn: Dad, couldn’t you write an excuse?

Dad: For what?

Finn: For me not doing my homework.

Dad: And say what? That you had to play baseball and ride your bike and didn’t get to it?

Finn: Well, yeah.

Dad: No.

Finn: You could tell her I’ve had a lot of baseball practices lately, and games, and that’s made me be really busy.

Dad: Too busy to do your homework?

Finn: (nodding) Exactly!

Dad: No way.

Finn: Why not?

Dad: Do you think Mrs. Zither thinks baseball games are more important than homework?

Mom: Do you think we think baseball games are more important than homework?

Finn: Daddy does.

Dad: (reddening) I do not!

Finn: You’re just saying that because you want to stay married to Mom.

Dad: (very sternly) Son, go do your homework this minute.

(Mom buries her head in the twins’ hair and shakes with laughter.)

Finn exits.

April 13, 2005

Sexy or Slutty: A Biblical Inquiry

If I were a rock star, I would not have to worry about what I wear. I could throw on a pair of fish nets, boots and a leather halter top and go to the grocery store and no one would blink an eye, because that’s what rock stars do.

Unfortunately, as a relative unknown, it would cause quite a stir if I got out of my minivan at Publix in the same outfit. I’d be the talk of the Tiny Kingdom! There’s a much more conservative dress code I am expected to adhere to, and it chafes me.

When I get dressed for a party, I don’t ask the standard questions: “Does this make me
look fat? What is everyone else wearing? What does “dressy casual”
mean?

I am skinny, and I don’t care
what everyone else is wearing. My main goal is to walk on the very
edge of fashion trendy without going over the edge into tacky. That line is thinner than a vermicelli noodle.

Plus, when you get to be a certain age, you are supposed to stop wearing
certain clothes and dress in a more “age appropriate” way. No more
tube tops and cut offs. At least, that’s what I have concluded from
watching “What Not to Wear” a couple of times.

But how do you know when you’ve reached that age? Don’t some women
fall apart faster than others? Given my shapely legs and lack of saggy
bosoms (not that they’re perky - it’s just that I’m flat), can I have a
few more years to wear mini-skirts? Where do I draw the line? Maybe more importantly, where do other people think I should draw it?

This issue came up last weekend when Bill and I were going to an engagement party for some friends. It was finally warm enough to wear spring clothes, and I had bought the chiffony shirt that I modeled in the fashion show. I couldn’t wait to wear it. I tried it on with a pair of lime ankle pants but they were a little big so I looked colorful, dumpy and matronly. I took those off and found a pair of very tight denim capris and put them on. They hugged my butt perfectly (Bill said).

I put on the shirt as I had been instructed during the fashion show, leaving the bottom two buttons unbuttoned. Even though I was not wearing the world’s lowest cut jeans, my belly button was clearly visible. Then came the dilemma: to show the navel or not? It is one thing to flaunt your belly button in a fashion show in front of strangers. It is another thing entirely to do so among people your own age when there is no catwalk in sight.

I tried it both ways, and there was no denying it: I looked much sexier with my belly button showing.

However, it’s probably no coincidence that the age you’re supposed to wear “age-appropriate” clothing is also the age that everyone’s lives start falling apart. We’re surrounded by couples who are struggling in their marriages, and I did not want to be accused of being the slut at the party who tempted men to think lustful thoughts.

Maybe I was giving my belly button too much credit. I am almost 40, and I’ve had three kids. Playboy hasn’t exactly been knocking down my door.

Finally I remembered a verse that has always miffed me a little. I’ll let you read it and see how you like it:

The wife does not have authority over her own body, but the husband does, and likewise also the husband does not have authority over his own body, but his wife does.

(I Corinthians 7:4)

Now, Bill and I don’t usually discuss the Bible before making love. But if we did, this would be the verse he could rely on to say, “Honey, I need it now, and Biblically, you gotta give it to me.” (We lawyers love to cite things to support our arguments.)

And if I protested, he could say, “Yo! Philippians 2:4!” (”Do all things without grumbling or disputing.”)

From a woman’s point of view, the verse is almost useless. I invoke it only rarely:

- “Honey, your toenails are really long, yet if you go for the Guinness world record, you won’t be able to fit in your biking shoes. Want me to bring you some clippers?”

-”Happy Birthday! It’s a nose hair trimmer! It just seemed like something you’d be able to use a lot! I love you!”

-”Me, too, wild thing, but first could you brush your teeth and put on some deodorant, you hunk?”

For the first time, I had run into a situation in which I Cor. 7:4 might actually liberate me, if Bill exercised his authority over my body the way I predicted he would.

I unbuttoned the bottom two buttons of the blouse, cleaned my navel with a Q-tip and summoned Bill from the kitchen to let him make the final call.

“Honey, I need you to make an important decision,” I said. “Do I show the belly button, or cover the button?” I demonstrated the blouse both ways.

“Show the belly button, no question,” said my usually indecisive husband.

“Okay. Knowing that there are going to be people from church, perhaps even people in leadership positions, attending this party, are you firm in your decision?” (Again, a lawyerly touch to make sure he was firm in his convictions.)

“Yes I am!” he said.

Well, using the Bibilical theory, the decision wasn’t even mine to make. So once Bill decreed that the navel should be bared, it was my duty to go along with his decision, and I did, happily. We went to the party, with my belly button on display. Half the church was there, along with a number of people from Bill’s hometown and a bunch of other friends. We had a great time, but my belly button did not see any other navels the whole night.

So was I sexy or slutty? Well, I felt sexy. Some people doubtless thought I took it a little too far, but hey - I had acted in accordance with Biblical principles in letting Bill make the call, so my conscience is clear.

How did I act after we got home from the party: sexy or slutty?

I take the Fifth.

April 12, 2005

The Dirty Secret

You think school is challenging and stressful when you’re a student, but the dirty secret is that it’s even worse when you’re a parent. And you’re not even being graded– at least with letters. Don’t be fooled; people keep score.

While you’re suffering through colic and diapers and the terrible two’s and three’s, you comfort yourself by thinking: soon this kid will go to school and I will have some free time. Sucker!

The fallacy of this belief was driven home to me several years ago when my oldest son, Finn, came home from kindergarten on a Friday with a note.

We are starting our unit on plants. Monday your child needs to bring a seedling to school.

I read the note a couple of times to make sure I wasn’t missing something. A seedling? Wasn’t that an assignment only God could fulfill in such a short time? After rejecting the idea of sending Finn to school with a package of bean sprouts, I went in the yard and dug up a weed, roots intact, and sent him to school with it. No one said anything, so I guess I passed.

So I was not wholly surprised earlier today when I got an email from Porter’s teacher.

Mother’s Day is coming up and we are making a present for you. Please send in $6 cash and 4 horizontal 4×6 color pictures of you and your child by this Friday.

The cash I can handle. The pictures are a problem. I might have had some if Porter were the oldest child, instead of part of the 2nd/3rd child combo. I don’t know that he’s ever been in a picture without Drew. And because I am always the picture taker, not the takee, I am not in any pictures. Thus, the chances of my having a picture of just me and Porter are about .000%. I won’t even get started on the vertical/horizontal issue.

And time is short! I leave Thursday to go see GARBAGE at the Tabernacle on Thursday, and from there I go straight to the beach with the ladies from my Sunday School class. (I know - it’s kind of living at both extremes, isn’t it??) That means that I have to come up with four different, developed, horizontal pictures of Porter and me in the next 30 hours.

The minute the boys got home from school I grabbed Porter and we went outside and huddled together in the azalea bushes and made ugly faces at the camera while Finn took one (horizontal) picture. Then Porter got hungry and went inside for a snack.

I went to Target today and bought everyone new bathing suits, so Porter wants to do a swimsuit shot next. Given the theme of the next picture, I believe I’ll have me a shower and shave my armpits in preparation for the continuation of our Mother’s Day photo session. Stay tuned….

April 7, 2005

The Lone Vagina

You may think you know a lot about me. But very few people know another side of me: The Lone Vagina. Surrounded by testosterone and penises, I observe the habits of the male sex, much as an anthropologist might study another culture.
Perhaps in other posts I will delve into the male’s inability to pick up the pants lying on the floor and put them in the hamper a mere three feet away, or the inordinate amount of laundry generated by the sex that is not usually thought of as “fashion conscious.” But for today I have a different topic.

One conclusion I have drawn from my studies is that males are incapable of going more than a few moments without reminding themselves that they have fascinating exterior genitalia. As an example, allow me to give you a peek at family dinner featuring the Lone Vagina and the four Peckers.

Tonight the boys were all pent up energy at the dinner table. Milks were spilled, napkins fell out of laps, rice was splattered off the rims of plates. No one enjoyed my French Provencal Chicken Stew, which featured chicken legs and thighs simmered with fennel, tomatoes, onions, thyme and potatoes. I also gave them cantaloupe.

“Mom, I don’t exactly like dark meat,” Finn said.

“I know,” I said.  “Eat it anyway. And eat your cantaloupe.”

“I’ll eat it,” Porter said. “I love dark meat and cantaloupe. And sushi.”

“This chicken is hideous,” Drew said, picking up a piece and holding it up to the light as if it were a laboratory specimen. Finn turned to him.

“Don’t you ever talk like that about Mommy’s food,” he said sharply. “She is the best cook in the whole world.”

“But you hate her food, too,” Drew protested.

Finn slugged him, and Drew whacked Finn in the groin.

“OW!” Finn howled. “Drew nutcrackered me!”

He looked at me. “Get it, Mom? Nutcracker? Get it?”

I sighed.  “I am well aware of what you have down there, Finn. I get it,” I said.

“Yeah, he’s got a willie johnson and some BALLS!” Porter yelled, hitting his plate with his elbow. Cantaloupe bounced across the floor.

“You have got to be quiet or milk is going to come out my nose!” Finn shouted.

Porter started chanting, “willie johnson, balls, willie johnson, balls, penis and nutcracker, penis and willie…”

“And that’s where your crotch is,” Drew contributed, adding to the family’s anatomic vocabulary.

I looked at Bill. His face was red and he was trying hard not to laugh. I nudged him under the table with my foot.

“Boys, let’s not say “nutcracker” at the table or at school. Porter, clean up the cantaloupe and sit down. Drew and Finn, eat your chicken. And no more talk about willies,” Bill decreed.

“But he nutcrackered me!” Finn said. “I have to say it if that’s what he did.”

“Just say he racked you,” Bill advised him. I cringed. Is “racked” a word you can say at school? Should I email the principal to see? I like to be really clear with the boys on what words they can and cannot say at school.

“Mom, everyone at the table has a penis except you. Don’t you want one?” Drew asked.

Several possible answers went through my head:

– No, I am quite happy with my own genitalia, thanks.

– No, then the whole house would be a mess and no one would eat decent food or have clean underwear.

– No, I enjoy my vagina.

– You bet! I would like to have one for a day just to see why men are so obsessed with them. I would like to know how it feels to have something dangling between your legs 24/7. Why does it hurt so bad when you get kicked in the crotch? And why does seeing a beautiful girl make it react in such an obvious way?

But the Lone Vagina kept these feelings to herself, called an end to dinner, and retreated to her computer to write up her latest report.