New Schooltime Routines

I’m already dreading the first day of school, which is just around the corner, because that means my kids will be relying upon me to get them there on time, every day. At 7:15am. I’m hosed.

I’m sweating the thought of trying to add a “Routine” to my day. I’m terrible at routines. All that same-old, same-old every day routine goes against my grain. I’m great at formulating a routine. I suck at the follow-through. I realize that “routine” must become my new BFF and fast. Because who else do you think Maya will blame when she sees the tardy count on her report card? (“No, honey, those tardies don’t count against your grades. Really, I promise. What?...No, I will not call your Principal to double check!”)

At least in past years, I had a carpool. So that meant I didn’t need a routine, I just needed to focus on getting my act together on time a few days a week. That’s a manageable task. That’s not the same thing as every day, all five days, every single week, for an entire school year. I figure while I’m working out my new “be-on-time” routine, I’d be best served adding a few more to the super-working-mom list:

Routine #1: Remove my make-up nightly. I’m not sure why after 30+ years, I still struggle with this simple act. I’ll brush my teeth before I go to bed, but makeup removal is a hassle. Those darn little pads take an extra thirty seconds. At this point in my life, I should get over this one and drop it from my routine “wish-list”….accept the raccoon eyes… but its simplicity still taunts me. This has nothing to do with my new school routine, but it’s always the first one that comes to mind.

Routine #2: Pack lunches the night before: I’m embarrassed how simple this task is and how I still need to push myself to create a routine around it. Seriously, I’m just lazy. I’d like to do it at night but with the eight thousand other things I do when I walk in the door after work, it just falls really low on the priority list. It kills me because this routine could clearly save me ten precious minutes I so desperately need in the morning. I wish I could pack lunches for a week—make Maya five PB&J sandwiches and store them in the freezer and then pull one out each day….Oh yeah, it’s called Uncrustables and she hates those…

Routine #3: Get up at 5am to exercise. Really, do I need to explain why I can’t make this a routine? I’ve been doing well this past month, getting out by 6-6:30. But 5am seems unfathomable. Please don’t email me to say you get out to spin class at the gym by 5am. I already have a friend that does that. One’s enough, thank you.

Routine #4: Twenty minutes of reading. This is required by our elementary school and I totally agree with setting aside time each day to read. I’m an avid reader, so this should be a no-brainer. However, I’ve got two kids at two very different levels, with two very different interests in books and only one of whom can read. This presents a problem every time we sit down to do this routine.

Sometimes Maya wants to read on her own near me, but can’t concentrate as I’m reading aloud to Camryn. Half the time I’m raising my voice at Camryn because we can’t read one page without thirty-six interruptions about nonsense that has nothing to do with the story at hand. I suggest Maya read in her room, but she wants to be with me. (Who can argue with this logic?)

Other times, Maya wants to read together. That usually begins with a half-hour argument between the girls over which book to read. Once that’s agreed upon, we all snuggle up for our story. Maya-the-director, interrupts regularly to advise me of exactly how I should read the book. She’s my over-the-shoulder editor. (“You pronounced that word wrong!”) I can’t skip irrelevant passages to speed up the story. (“Wait a minute, you didn’t read this part!”) I didn’t spend enough time analyzing the pictures. (“You’re turning too fast! I didn’t see”) I can’t read in my “voices”. (“Don’t give that girl an Indian accent mom! Stop using French words!”) It’s an exhausting 20 minutes, as you can now clearly imagine why doing this task on a daily basis is painful.

All this is in an effort to get six bazillion things done before I walk out the door. I’ve got to exercise myself & Casey; shower & dress; throw up a load of towels; wake, dress and wash/brush two sleepy, cranky kids; run upstairs for something I will forget; feed two kids (different breakfasts because of course they can’t agree) and one dog (who luckily eats the same thing every day, so no thinking on my part); pack two backpacks; raise my voice to settle a random squabble; sign permission slips; locate homework; prepare three lunches; run through spelling words one more time; find my keys; run back upstairs for something one of the girls forgot; hustle everyone into the car (and settle a disagreement over who is sitting where); run into the house for the keys I left in the laundry room; drive the kids to school, stop at Starbucks, drive to work and start my day.

Whew—tired just writing what my routine will encompass. Must enjoy this last week before the chaos ensues. Hope everyone else’s back to school is less stressful.

Jealousy and envy

When your close girlfriend shares some exciting news with you, let’s say she just returned from an extravagant vacation in Tahiti, I bet you do the same thing as I do. As I listen to her story, perhaps about details such as the in-room amenities or the expansive view from the balcony, I think how thrilled I am for my friend for having such a wonderful experience. It sounds like such an amazing trip, I wish I could go on that vacation and have that experience too. Damn it, I must admit, I'm a little bit jealous.

To be jealous in that nature is not the same as being envious. I know the two words are used mutually exclusive but I think envy is much worse. And being one of the seven deadly sins, it must be worse if God will kill you for it, right?

Envy is when you see something that someone else has, you don’t like the fact that they have it, you want it for yourself, and you don’t want them to have it anymore. The object of envy can be a material possession, a quality or talentd, an achievement or success, a relationship, or any number of things. In other words, envy is the bitch who doesn’t like you because you are more attractive, richer, smarter, with bigger or smaller boobs, or just have a better life than she does.

Friends can be jealous of each other. We can all admit it. We try not to show it but it’s human nature to desire something someone else has. The key word here being ALSO. When my friend has a wonderful experience, I sometimes want it ALSO. I don’t want it INSTEAD of her. I don’t think I should have it and she should not. I don’t think I deserve it any more than she does. Well maybe I think I deserve it just as much. But not more. Either way, these thoughts may be totally selfish, but it’s hard to control your thoughts.

With envy, the thoughts are usually negative and nasty and lead to bitchy, spiteful behavior. Like not inviting a friend to a party and rationalizing that you wanted to keep the invite list small. Bullshit! You were totally envious of your friend and purposely didn’t include her so she would miss out. So you could have fun INSTEAD of her.

Just the other day, I was told by a friend that she hated me when we first met. She said she was envious of me. That I got all the attention when in fact she wanted all the attention. Does that mean that now that we’re friends, she’s jealous and not envious? I really wasn’t quite sure what to do with that information. Either way, it was an uncomfortable conversation, even for me. My only answer is: don’t hate!

Maybe you disagree with how I use the words jealous and envy, but now you know what I think.

Tired from mother's day

I had a wonderful Mother’s Day. My goal was to not do much but relax. I had breakfast and Starbucks served to me, and spent some quality time in the pool with Maya and Casey. Then I had the family over for dinner. It was lovely.

Later that night, I checked my Facebook to see that Maverick had updated his status. It read: I love to spoil my wife, mom, sister, mom-in-law…for mothers day! But, it is one tiring damn day!!

I wrinkled my nose in despair at that last part “one tiring damn day!” I have to laugh and at the sake of killing the good place Maverick and I are in right now, I have to give a very loud HARRUMPH to this notion that spoiling me on this day could be so tiring.

First, the bagel and egg breakfast paired with Starbucks arrived after 11am. Maverick slept in with me and then, when he was ready to head out to get my breakfast, also informed me that he was going to run an errand to Home Depot too. I did ask him to go to Home Depot, but I kinda expected him to bring me breakfast first!

So, instead of having my nice, warm breakfast served to me on a tray, in bed, I had to wait for him to run his errand. I should not have to wait, stomach growling. Breakfast should have been prepared and anticipating my beck and call, preferably from a bell placed on my nightstand. I’m a fantastic mother. I deserved it on my day.

Afterwards, Maverick had to run yet another errand. He was not home all afternoon while gallivanting around town doing stuff. I didn’t get to hang out with him, nor was he around to fetch me a drink when I got hot. I had to do that myself on MY mother’s day. Plus, if he didn’t leave his errands for the last minute, I wouldn’t have had to suffer. So if he was tired, this was completely his own doing.

Meanwhile, I still had to make lunch for Maya, and listen to her incessant whining about how I wasn’t playing with her in the pool. Finally, I informed her that his was my day, and all I wanted to do was float quietly on my raft. If she wanted to join me in doing what I wanted, I would like it. But on my day, I didn’t want to play mermaid. I wanted to do nothing.

At three, I had to get out of the pool and prepare for the troops to arrive. So I straightened up the house, cut up the veggies and assembled the appetizers, washed the dog, prepared the kitchen for dinner and vacuumed the floor. I bathed the kids and myself. All in an hour. On yet another errand, Brian left to pick up the to-go food.

Everyone arrived, and I served the appetizers and made sure everyone had a drink. I heated and served the food. I made plates for my kids. I fed the dog. Maverick, along with Doc and the other men watched golf. Finally, someone shouted that the women were going to sit down and leave the men to handle the rest.

Afterwards, I helped clean up dinner, pack up the leftovers, serve five (5!) cakes, clean up dessert and usher everyone out the door. Once the company left, I got the house back in order, vacuumed again and walked the dog. So much for me not having to do anything on this day.

All in all, Mother’s Day was not much different than every other day. It was a very nice day but I’m not sure what constituted “so much work” for Maverick. Nor am I sure I accomplished my goal of rest and relaxation either. I guess I can take another shot at it come Father’s Day.

Viagra Handshakes

Tonight I read a blog post about Viagra Handshakes. (ed. note. Click the words Viagra Handshakes and read the post I'm referring to...)I laughed at the concept, but as I contemplated my Viagra handshake, I suddenly felt pissed off.

Every woman should learn to have a Viagra handshake. Whether it's for the sake of a job interview or for an introduction to a mutual friend, women should shake hands as strongly as a penis on Viagra. Like men. It signals to men that we can make decisions, be firm, go toe-to-toe with them. It shows we have strength and determination. The will to kick ass. And it's way sexier than a soft, delicate handshake, anyhow.

Much of my early career was spent working in the timeshare and banking industries. Both extremely well known for being boys clubs. Where women could never quite get promoted above her male boss. These boys ran the show and women were just not allowed in the sandbox. Sure one or two with breasts had a big toe dangling over the edge, but those women were still sat at the kiddie table on Thanksgiving.

The men may be smart, but the women were often smarter and savvier. Women knew that to even keep up, a Viagra handshake was critical, even if it seemingly made no difference in title or pay levels. Truth be told, behind every powerful man was a workhorse wonder of a woman.

I worked for several of those men. One guy asked me to do the impossible and then when I pulled it off, he took all the credit. Another schmuck hired me because he thought I was cute, which I disappointingly learned after trusting his as my mentor.

Then there was the little Napoleon-man who snorted. I had to suffer through Monday morning updates with his other direct report, who also happened to be his best friend. They bickered like a sex-deprived married couple. Seriously, it was that bad. My accomplishments were never rewarded like Napoleon's "wife" was, even though I kicked ass and exceeded my goals, unlike the little woman. And why should I have been? Just because I earned it? Wrong. I still didn't have the merchandise between the legs to justify recognition.

I had the BIG boss who I was required to refer to as "Mr. So & So. " He was so big and important, I was prohibited to call him by his first name. He once scolded me that if I wanted to be a "big girl", Tracy, I'm just going to have to learn how to "play with the big boys" and "sit quietly" while the "MEN" made decisions of this "Magnitude". Seriously.

So, if a man asks if a woman needs to have a Viagra handshake, my response is absa-fucking-lutely. I'll pump your hand, Viagra-style, because I'm just as good as you, man. Not to earn your respect, but just because if I wanted, I bet I could kick your ass, too.

PS. One insanely interesting fact: The active ingredient in Viagra can be found naturally in walnuts.

Playing the Game

Maverick and I have a pretty good system for managing two full-time careers and raising two young daughters. We split the morning routine, each taking care of one kid; and in the afternoons, he gets the girls from school, entertains them for a while and then feeds them. When I get home from work, I finish up the nighttime routine of homework, baths, books and bed.

I do the laundry, he takes the dry cleaning. I do the lunches, he does dinner. He manages the finances, the house maintenance, pest control, the landscaper and the pool. I do the shopping, miscellaneous errands, and daily house straightening. I do the scheduling of doctor’s appointments, vet visits, dental cleanings, babysitter and weekend plans. He does all the “daytime” things that I can’t get to and I do all the other things he deems is “my job.” We share the dog responsibilities and taking out the trash. …And so on…and it works for us, usually.

Every so often we get into a pissing match of my least-favorite game, called “Who does more?” Every married or cohabitating couple plays. All you need to get started is to pick out something in your relationship that feels uneven and you want acknowledgement for. There’s no minimum to how small the uneven “thing” can feel. It can be as insignificant as who cleans the orange juice ring left in the sink.

One player goes first and calls out, “I do everything around here! I did X today and Y and Z!” The other person counters with, “What? I did A, B and C! Not to mention that yesterday, I also did X and Y and Z!” The game continues until one player “wins” by beating the other player down to beg for mercy, ask for forgiveness or thank the winner profusely for all he or she has done.

As competitive as I am, for the first twelve years of my relationship, I always went for the win. Sometimes, I’d even continue “playing” long after my Maverick left the game. Now, I’m just tired of playing it and often accept defeat for peace.

The last few days, Maverick has been grumbling about me under his breath. We're playing the "Who does more?" game in silent mode. I know what he's thinking but I didn't engage him in the conversation. I didn't want to. I'm tired. I'm busy. I've been dizzy. I'm just not in the mood to play.

Finally this morning, Maverick started round one. However, instead of the opening line, he began by uncovering a new strategy to the game. He jumped right in without the usual banter and went right for the kill with the "Martyr" card. The martyr card played out like this:

Me: “I’m going in late to the office so I can register Camryn for kindergarten today.”
Him: “Why didn’t you just ask me to do that?”
Me: “Because I can do it. I thought I'd take care of it first so I don't have to bother you with doing it.”
Him: “Why not? I do everything else around here.”

So now, instead of trying to make me feel guilty and/or thankful for how much he does, he’s offered to willingly “do it all” to play his martyr trump card. And of course, the martyr is an automatic win.

The truth is we both have to do what we have to do to keep our family and house running. We have to stop keeping track and just get it done. Sometimes I do more, sometimes he does more. I hear the same game being played daily with all my friends. And we’re all tired of it, yet we can’t seem to find a way to stop the pattern.

Next time, I’m going to try ending the game before it begins. I’ll say: Maverick, you can pass go, and collect your $200. Thanks for playing. Oh, and can you pick up my prescription while you’re out?

A star chart for lip plumper

I decided tonight that I need to make myself a star chart, just like the one I had as a little girl. My mother made it for me and it tracked certain responsibilities I had to do on a daily basis. Do my chores, get a shiny gold star. The chart was intended to reinforce good behavior, so a certain number of stars equaled a wonderful prize, such as a new Barbie or some stickers.

I'm frustrated because I can't seem to get going on certain things I know I need to do for myself. I wonder if the star chart would help motivate me like it did so many years ago. Like remembering to take my eye makeup off at night. I want to do it every night. I know it will only take two minutes, but when I’m ready for sleep, two minutes feels like two extra hours, and all I want to do at that point is get into my bed. So, yes, I skip it many nights.

Honestly, I really don’t care if I wake up in the morning with raccoon eyes. It shouldn’t feel like such a big deal, to admit that I stink at being a responsible woman who takes care of my skin as well as I should. But admiting that fact make me feel like I’m wearing a scarlet letter. No woman in her rightful mind says it aloud either. And when we do admit it to our close girlfriends, we giggle at the relief to know we’re not the only ones.

There are those girls who wouldn’t dream of sleeping with their makeup on. Those girls have hour-long rituals of mud masks and toners, lotions and potions and bottles of hopeful magic. Those girls have drawers full of the latest and greatest in skin-care who-ha and all the latest rage they learn about from their shiny Vogue magazines. I’m definitely not one of those girls.

Sometimes, however, I long to be that girl… who sits on a chaise in front of a well-lit mirror, in a long silky robe with kitten heel slippers at her dressing table, dressing for dinner. The woman who has oodles of time to pay attention to herself. I am that woman when I’m on vacation. Then, I allow myself a whole hour and a half to get dressed in a beautiful marble hotel bathroom, vino in hand, jazz on the radio. I take my sweet time to pluck, shave, trim, inspect, moisturize, glamorize, spritz, curl my lashes, flatten my hair and otherwise enjoy the rituals of womanhood.

But in my reality, I wash and brush with one hand and tear my puppy Casey off my robe with the other. I’m an on-the-go kind of mothery-professional-sort-of-career-girl who wears cargo pants and flip flops to work just because I can. Dressing, like I do on vacation, is a luxury. In my daily life, reality is only getting the fuck dressed and out of the house, kids washed, brushed and fed, shoes on, backpacks packed, and oh, yes, there’s lunch to be made this morning too, plus I’m ten minutes late. I’m tossing the waffles in the sink that my kid asked for and microwaving a second breakfast of pancakes that she didn’t because she changed her mind. I’m getting the dog walked, poop scooped, and sufficiently hydrated and energized. I’m running back into the house, maybe once, usually twice, because I’ve forgotten something. All before 8am.

So when I say looking in the mirror while applying mascara is a luxury, you can see the picture. But there are some things I should do to take better care of myself, like remove my makeup at night. For once, I should make myself a priority again. Because only then will I take an extra minute to do something nice, and god forbid, healthy, for myself.

I had that brilliant epiphany the other weekend. Tonight, though, days later, after all that self-insight, I still have yet to do anything about it. I figured if I reward myself for completing the goal, not only will my chart be filled with lots of gold stars, but I’ll teach myself a new, good-for-me habit. My skin will thank me for it too. And then I can reward myself with that cute lip plumper I saw online at Sephora, because I always wished I had a pouty mouth. Then, as my motto goes, I will deserve it.

Stepping back

I got home from work early last week. Usually, I don’t walk in the door until at least 6:30. But on this day I was settled in right after 5. The kids were playing indoors with a friend and I realized I had time to get a few things done around the house. I made lunches for the next day, put away a basketful of laundry, picked up the mail and had a nice conversation with a neighbor, scheduled a doctor’s visit and put something in the oven for dinner.

While I was waiting for dinner to cook, I realized I had enough time to vacuum the floors. As I pushed the vacuum, I fell into the well of my own thoughts. I considered how nice it was to be home early today. To accomplish tasks that usually had to wait until the weekend to get done, or never done at all. I thought about how relaxed I felt, even though I was wrestling with the vacuum hose as I sucked up the dirt that hides behind the couch cushions.

It dawned on me that I’ve been so consumed by my work these last few years and so accepting of my crazy schedule that after a while, that’s all I know. While my friends remind me how crazy my life is, with a 45+hour work week and a two-hour roundtrip commute to boot, I’ve forgotten the simple joy of being home from work before dark. Before my kids have already eaten and been bathed by someone else.

I contemplated how frantic I feel every day because my laundry list of to-do’s never ends. Nor does it ever seem like it’s getting close to the end. Every week I struggle to remove items that will never get done, period. I thought about all the reasons I went back to work in the first place, to find myself and my sense of worth. To make a difference in the world. To make a meaningful contribution. Whatever happened to all that and is it still worth it, I wondered?

I questioned how happy I am right now, living my crazy life. I decided that what I do now is not the meaningful life contributions I imagined making. So why am I so dedicated to it? Perhaps I would be better off taking a job with less responsibility that would leave more time to do the things I’m missing… like driving my kids to dance class or making them a home-cooked meal more often than just Sunday nights. I thought for a minute that just maybe I was willing to take a step backwards, or laterally, in my career and focus more on my family. To be the mom I wanted to be. To stop having such guilt.

Even considering the thought of back-burnering my career had never dawned on me before. Never ever. As I called the kids to the dinner table, I decided to put some “thinking time” aside later to ponder this new idea.

Then, after I warned Maya to put the bowl of hot pasta down before she got a drink, she dropped the bowl. Not dropped it as in falling vertically onto the floor. Her friend knocked into her and the bowl of pasta went flying everywhere…it landed on counter tops and cabinets and on the floor six feet away. She started to cry that it wasn’t her fault…Camryn began yelling she asked for a drink and hadn’t yet received it…the friend complained she didn’t like what I had made…then I realized I burned what was in the oven…

…and I couldn’t wait to go back to work the next day.

Why can't you see my invisible work?

This past weekend, I wanted to spend my morning relaxing on the couch with a cup of coffee and the Sunday paper. As I settled into my seat and took a moment to breathe, I noticed a cobweb in the corner of my ceiling. After swiping it away with a duster, I then saw three other things that demanded my attention before I sat back down. Before I realized it, my entire morning was eaten up by a dozen other things I had to get done before I actually could sit down and relax.

I realize I fill several hours a day on my weekends doing what a friend coined “Invisible Work.” When I first heard the term, I laughed out loud, I loved it so much. Invisible Work. It’s all the stuff I did around my house each and every day that no one notices gets done except for me.

In a nutshell, Invisible Work is everything we women do every day that’s completely oblivious to our spouses, partners and children. Nobody thanks us for it. It never receives any recognition (unless of course, it’s not done and then it’s visible). It’s the work that fills our day and keeps us from doing what we’d rather do.

IW is putting away laundry, holiday decorations, or sorting socks. IW is going through your kid’s drawer to determine what’s stained, what still fits and what needs to be given away. IW is pulling down everything off the wall unit and cleaning the dust that the cleaning girl doesn’t seem to find. IW is washing the rugs in the bathroom, organizing the pantry, separating the crayons and markers into two containers. Replacing the air fresheners or scrapbooking your kids mementos, your husband’s fishing trip pictures and cleaning out the freezer. It’s writing out your 2009 calendar to ensure you have everyone’s birthdays and anniversaries properly marked. Writing thank you notes, RSVP’ing to the kids invitations. Brushing your dog’s teeth. Wiping down baseboards. Scrubbing paint off the back of the chair. Wiping down the countertops for the tenth time in a day.

Men aren’t as conscious about Invisible Work. They must need special glasses to see it or maybe they’re missing a chromosome for it, but I generally don’t hear about too many men that busy themselves with IW on a daily basis. I can’t imagine many guys who miss Sunday football because they were too preoccupied with IW.

I believe that’s why men and women fight so much. Men think we do nothing all day when women can actually fill their entire life with tons of Invisible Work. IW infuriates the kids too, because it’s all the IW I have to do that keeps me from spending enough quality time with my kids. IW never goes away and there’s always more to do.

That's the perfect arguement for 3-day weekends. I would spend my Friday getting all my IW out of the way, so I actually could read the newspaper and finish my cross-word puzzle. Imagine that...

thank god it's monday because my weekend was exhausting!

Why is it that on the weekends that I don' t have any plans "scheduled" I seem to be busier than ever? After a crazy-ridiculous week of work and deadlines and spreadsheets and meetings, I was looking forward to a little R & R. No plans except for a kids birthday party on Sunday, no sweat. I thought I'd have a leisurely Saturday, go for my morning run, cook some breakfast, enjoy the cool weather, spend time with the kids...ya know, a lot of nothing on a Saturday. Sunday, I anticipated reading the newspaper, enjoying bagels delivered by my husband, with Starbucks of course, a quick jaunt to the birthday party and time to plan a delicious, leisurely Sunday night family dinner.

What happened exactly was that I did all of that and fifty-five zillion other things in between. Six loads of laundry, wipe down the baseboards, help Maverick clean the garage, run errands, prepare sixteen meals, organize the girls' closets, make lists of lists of things I need to get done, and a host of other essential things that were not scheduled on the initial agenda.


I may be a fanatic for a clean glass kitchen table, but I do not exaggerate by telling you I wiped that table down thirty-two times in one weekend. Once after an art project, again after breakfast, another time after snack, again after lunch and afternoon snack, after dinner, after dessert later and finally again after the girls were tucked away in their beds and I saw smudges I missed the first twenty times. Multiply that by two and a half days of the weekend and that quickly adds up to thirty-two.

Then there's the shoes that need to be picked up infinitely and returned to their proper place. I'm always amazed by how four people can create a pile of shoes to fit an army by the end of each day. I also have to put away eight little baggies of unfinished snacks, two dishwasher loads, a host of mail that needs to be scanned, sorted and tossed. Backpacks to be emptied and then filled again within forty-eight hours, homework to be filed and homework to start. Playdates, babysitters and carpooling arrangements to be made. Tivo'ed shows to be watched, scattered magazines to be read and recycled. Pictures to be taken, enhanced, printed, emailed and scrapbooked.

Not to mention the list of "weekend projects" that need to be executed...things that can't happen during the waking work week: windows to be washed, patios to be pressure cleaned; garages to be organized; whole closets that need to be organized, drawers that need to be cleaned, filing that needs to be filed.

And of course, in between all this, I must find time to hang out in the driveway so the kids can get fresh air and play with their friends because we live in a sick world and I can't let them out on their own like I was allowed at their age.

It's no wonder I'm so pooped when it's time to go back to work on Monday.