Mama's Gift

Mama is back in the act.  Acting.  Playing a Mama.

I am doing "Our Town" in Louisville, Kentucky.  A theater where I first worked a little over ten years ago.  Before I was a Mama.

Bean has known for months that I was going to do this play.  We talked about it and did our best to set up a framework in which she could feel comfortable and included in my leaving.  I will be back for Christmas.  She will come down and see the play.  And then I will come home.

Still, Doc Hubby had to peel her, screaming, off of me yesterday when I left for the airport.

"But do you really absolutely have to go do the play?"
"I do.  They are counting on me."
"Do you absolutely have to go today?"
"I do. I'll be back in just a week for Christmas, okay?"
"It is NOT OKAY!!!"

Fifteen years ago I played the daughter in this play.  I loved doing this play.  I loved the soda fountain scene most of all.  I also loved playing the third act but I struggled to find the emotional depths.  The playwright says that Emily sobs when she goes back home and sees her Mama "so young."  I never sobbed.

Today I couldn't get through reading the last act without tearing up embarrassingly.  And of course, Mrs. Webb can't cry.  She's just making biscuits or oatmeal or bacon or whatever Emily's favorite breakfast is.  Because that's Mama's job.

I just spent about 45 minutes trying to figure out what Mrs. Webb's birthday present to Emily in the third act would have been.  Emily turned 12 in 1899.  I have no memory of what I imagined it was when I was playing Emily.  Something Mrs. Webb had to send all the way to Boston for.  Something they didn't even have in Concord...the capitol of New Hampshire.  What in the world can this be? I have some ideas.  They all sound vaguely silly.

I left to come here yesterday...the 15th of December.  All of Bean's Christmas presents are ordered and 90% of them are wrapped.  That's what Mamas do, isn't it?  Find the special presents.  Wrap them.  Send to Boston if you need to.

Do I really absolutely have to come and do this play?  As I was leaving yesterday I just wanted to say "Nope.  Mistake.  Wrong.  Just kidding. Take the suitcases back inside I don't have to go."   I mean, how can I leave her?  She's six!  Our little family is so precious and it's a big world out there.  And after all, it's Christmas.

But I remember that when the offer came to do this play, my heart leapt and I thought "yes!" I think I will be a better Mama if I come to Kentucky for two months to do this play.  I told her that.  I told her that Mama is a storyteller and I need to come and tell this story.  But I can in no way explain my decision to Bean in a way that will satisfy her.

So as much as it is a gift to me, to come here and do this play, I really believe it is a gift to her too.  I had to send all the way to Kentucky for it.  I had to go away and pretend to be someone else's Mama for a while.  And pretend to be part of a different family.  And it's because of my actual daughter, I think, that I could now go back and do the Third Act as Emily.  And begin to glimpse what Emily can see from beyond the grave.  After all I'm fifteen years closer to it.

But it's too late.  I can't go back and be Emily now.  I'm the Mama.

I think that's kind of what this play's about.

Get Well Soon

So...I have two get well cards to send. One was sitting out on my desk. A lovely glittery flowery but yet totally tasteful beautiful thing. I am sending it to my dear friend's aunt who is having surgery. Fine.

So Doc Hubby comes home after work yesterday and I hear Bean whisper to her Daddy and he says "That's such a good idea." And she says "But let's keep it a secret." And he says "Ok." Christmas is coming, I think. How cute.

Cut to bath time, Bean is being a slowpoke about getting into the tub. She is naked. Running around. I look on my desk and the card is gone. "Where's my card?" I say. Bean mutters something. The kid likes sparkly things. She is such a girl.  "I need that card, where is it?" I demand. And somehow thorough the kerfuffle I get the sense that Bean has hidden it under the chair in her room.  I am late in sending out this card. I need the card. I look under the chair, and it isn't there. She isn't getting in the tub.  I'm getting impatient.  "Who are you sending it to?" Bean asks. "Bean, I need that card, it's a get well card, please get it for me." "But who are you sending it to?!" And I snap. "BEAN! GET ME THAT CARD NOW!"

And she bursts into tears. Takes her little naked self into the bedroom and reaches under her big girl bed and pulls out the card. "But I wanted to give it to you for Mother's Daaaaaaaaaaay!" She wails.

I look at Doc Hubby. Really? Really you couldn't have helped me out of this one?

"I need it to send to Ben's Aunt Sandy," I say.

"But I wanted to save it for you for Mother's Daaaaaaaaaaay."

It is a really pretty card. Day 1365 of my reign as Worst Mother In the World.

It's Never About the Hairband

So, Bean and I are spending a lot of time together these days. A lot.  I planned this summer of much time together mostly to assuage my guilt for having been out of town for three months.  Pretty sure Bean has completely forgotten I was gone.  I'm left trying to be a one-woman-summer-camp for three months.

Today we had ballet in the morning and a playdate in the afternoon (still hate that term with the white hot heat of a thousand playground slides--can't we come up with something better? Play appointment? Play coffee?).  My apologies again, NYC parks service. The kids were just planting those blueberries. I realize you will no doubt need to close that section of lawn and reseed.  I will provide the chicken wire.

So by the time we got home, Bean was good and muddy.  Sent her directly in to the bathroom for a shower. She had to go potty first.  Can't remember if she flushed or I did (come on, it was me, of course) but just as I flushed, I also reached down to remove her pink squishy ponytail holder.  And like something out of a movie, it flew out of my hand like a rubber band shot by a ten year old boy, and landed square in the toilet just as the final swirl was circling around the bowl. And gurgle slurp glug glug glug.  It was gone.

I started to laugh.  Insane timing. No possible chance to fish that thing out.

Bean promptly lost it.  Inconsolable, snotty, naked sobbing for about forty minutes.

Did I mention the hair band came from a pack of identical hair bands? She has five more EXACTLY like the one that went down the crapper, in the plastic befeathered carrying bag.  Along with about 40 others in various other pleasing colors.

"But this was my most SPECIAL hairband!!!" naked sob sob snot wipe sob "Can't you call someone to get it back?"

"Well, who could I call, honey.  It went down into the sewer with all the poopy.  You wouldn't want it back now anyway. And we have lots more."

"But what will it do down there?  It will be LONELY!"

sob sob snot.  still naked.

lame comforting from me while I lay on her boppy and try not to fall asleep.

Bean looks up at me with big bluey hazely teary eyes.

"Can't we call the firemen?"

Of course, this isn't about hairbands right? It's never about the hairband. Just like Doc Hubby and I are never really fighting about the dishes.  It's about loss and things going away and never coming back and her dawning realization that life itself implies death and the horrible moment a few days ago when she looked at me and said "Mama I don't want to die." My grandfather and possibly ghosts and you know.

So I said to her, "Are you feeling sad about things getting lost?  Other things that are gone forever?"

And she wiped her snot on her towel and sobbed angrily, "Nooooo! I am just very sad about my very special hairband!"

Make note to discuss with non-slacker mothers who actually read about parenting during the Bean's next playsummit.

We Are Gypsies

Most actors work away from home. We get the odd job where we live, but far more often we are called upon to leave our homes, and our loved ones, and our furry friends, and travel somewhere else to do a show. More often than not we are unemployed at home and employed on the road.

When you are single...this is awesome. So I have been told. When you are married it stings like a ground wasp, but it's kind of fun exploring a new area when your spouse comes to visit. Trying new restaurants. Driving around on the day off. I actually quite liked the feeling of showing my new surroundings to Doc Hubby. My little apartment and my newfound coffee shops and grocery stores. When I work out of town, everything here is mine. My accomplishments. My friends. My bravery to start fresh on my own and dare to do this thing. And everyone knows what a little absence can do to the heart....

But when you are a parent...work out of town is...I don't know yet. For the first time since the Bean was born I have taken a job out of town. And not just a quick hop on a plane or train or even the car. Totally across the country. To a different time zone. The farthest I have ever traveled from home to work. For the longest I have ever been gone (well, it's tied with another job). 11 weeks away from home. And away from my Bean. AM I INSANE???!!!!???!!! I already miss her so much I could eat my arm.

She and Doc Hubby will come to visit for two weeks in the middle. FIVE weeks from now.

I AM TOTALLY INSANE! Commence gnawing.

I already miss the squiggly weight of her on my lap. My mother said that after dinner tonight Bean had a cupcake. As per usual, Bean licked all the icing off her cupcake. Then she set the cake down. But then, Mom said, she stared at the cupcake, completely bereft, as if to say "where did all my icing go?" And then her eyes welled up and she said "I want my Mama."

A little girl, not much bigger than Bean, projectile puked on the plane today. (Note to Doc Hubby, pack wipes and an extra change of clothes in the carry on). I was far enough away to only see the flurry of cleaning from a distance and catch a delayed whiff. We took Bean on her first plane ride about two weeks ago. I am delighted to say she did not puke. Hoping desperately she has inherited Doc Hubby's hearty New England constitution in that regard. I watched that clean up with a teeny bit of schadenfreude I will confess.

So far, not having to clean up puke on a plane is the only good part of leaving a child behind to go and do a play. So far, when you are a parent, work away from home is horrible. I will check back in when I have found a few good coffee shops.

I miss you Bean.

Actual Series of Emails Exchanged Between Me and Doc Hubby Today

The following is a verbatim exchange of emails between myself and Doc Hubby today between 10:11 and 11:16 am.

Me to Doc Hubby: All ok. My texting not working. At a nice blog event. Xo.

Doc Hubby to Me: You OK if I stay here late tonight to work on the grant?

Me to Doc Hubby: If you are ok with me locking our child in a closet.

Doc Hubby to Me: Funny, but dark. You need that girls' weekend.

Me to Doc Hubby: You think I am joking. Also funny.

I am finding two and 3/4 to be so so so so much more challenging than anything to date.

Screaming match two nights ago. Over chicken and a yellow pepper. Sobbing, snotty nosed (on her part), red faced, cruel and fuming (on my part...or was it the other way around). I feel that the battles, particularly over food, are going somewhere quite dark and not at all funny. It was so much easier when I picked out cute little organic green beans and prunes all tidy and pureed. Now she gags on chicken nuggets and mac and cheese and I just want to scream "MOST KIDS WOULD BE SO HAPPY TO HAVE THIS TO EAT!!! THIS IS KID CRACK!!! JUST SLATHER IT IN KETCHUP AND CHEW AND I'LL GIVE YOU A FRIGGIN' CUPCAKE ALREADY!"

Mac and cheese. Nope. Chicken nuggets. Nope. Needless to say anything green. Nope.

I think I am going to have to get some kind of book.

Smarty Pants Preschool Update

Wait listed.

No joke.

My 2 1/2 year old daughter was just wait listed.

I wrote a comment about it on someone else's blog and actually typed "weight listed."

Think that means something? Not sure what, if anything. Maybe I'm putting too much weight on all this even though I keep saying it's crazy and doesn't matter and what the heck is wrong with New York.

Or maybe I just need to start the Fat Flush. Which I appear to be doing tomorrow.

I'm pretty sure that no one should be wait listed before the age of four.

Where's my friend God?

Conversation as I'm loading the Bean into her carseat on Sunday and leaving our mouse-infested, plumbing-free, mildew-ridden upstate fixer-upper.

Bean: Mama, can we go to the cabin?

Me: In a couple of months....I hope Poppop can hear you saying that.

Bean: Where's Poppop?

Me: He's in heaven with God.

Bean: Who's God?

Me: God is...God.

Bean: Where's my friend God?

Me: He's in heaven with Poppop.

Bean: Where is heaven?

Me: Up in the sky.

Bean:...in the sky...

Poppop died a little over a year ago. Hewould be so happy to know how excited the Bean is about going to the cabin. I hope he can hear her. Yet another reason we can't sell the cabin.

Things I Could Blog About

• Food blog: I made Coq Au Vin for the first time last night. The Barefoot Contessa's recipe. My friend Rebecca made this for us once last year and she pulled the chicken off the bone before serving it and served it over egg noodles so I did too. I felt so Julie and Julia. Except I didn't use Julia Child's recipe. And my name is Wendy.
• Mommy Blog: The Bean is sick. Third week of preschool. Only four other kids in her class. She cannot live in a vat of child-safe Purell....right? This will happen. This must needs happen. As must her first stomach bug. At which point I seriously fear instead of standing there and holding her forehead while she barfs into her princess potty, I will run the other way, trying desperately to stifle my own gag reflex. I often fear I am not cut out for this.
• Actress Blog: What is it with the callback? I feel like I'm some kind of callback jinx. To be honest, I can't give you any details about the callback I went on today because I totally honestly had to sign a confidentiality agreement before I did the first audition. I am not joking. This has happened a few times in the past when I was auditioning to hock new products. One of them was that bagel stick thing that came with the cream cheese stuffed inside it. Bagelfuls or something. A complete breakfast in a cellophane wrap. I guess that was a pretty good idea. Has anyone tried one? So I went to the callback for the aforementioned secret thingy. The format was improv. No scripted lines. The first audition was just me and a camera and I felt all free and hilarious and said funny stuff about jello salad. So today I had new funny ideas about jello salad that I was all ready to say when they asked me (no the product is so totally not jello salad or jello in any form). And there were four of us called in at once into a room full of auditore--like twelve--most of whom were staring at computers. They were all sitting around a table, and we had to improvise together. And I got nervous and said the same old stuff about orange jello salad I said the first time instead of the new funnier stuff about green jello salad I thought up last night. And then I couldn't think of anything to say and I just kind of laughed nervously and the man in the suit running things had to prompt all of us and that so isn't a good sign I don't think. But honestly, the guy playing my husband was so funny and believable that when the audition started and the woman asked him a question to prompt him I totally thought it was real and that things just got super awkward in the room. I was fakey and kitchy and stupid. Still I hope they really liked the guy playing my husband because he was so tall that no one else could be his wife except me the Amazonian actress. Did I mention that I used to be in a Broadway play.
  When Allison Janney was first trying to get work, some casting director or agent notoriously said to her, "I don't know what to do with you...lesbians or aliens maybe?" Or wives of very very tall men.
• Mommy Blog meets Actress Blog: So this is too good. Just as I was finishing that last sentence, I got a call from the Smarty Pants Preschool where we are applying for next year. (I love saying "where we are applying"--it's so totally snooty and obnoxious that I kind of get off on it). We're in the midst of preschool applications for next year and this is New York so it is, of course, insane. Where I grew up you "register" for preschool. Here, you "apply." So stupid. The Bean had a playgroup session for the Smarty Pants school today, and her Daddy had to take her because Mama was at the above discussed total waste of time callback. So the Smarty Pants Preschool just called. The Bean has a callback. Another playdate next week. If I mention our trip to Starbucks for Vanilla Bean scones on the way home, then this post becomes a triple Food/Mommy/Actress post.
  

This is what happened the first day I went back to work

So I went back to work yesterday. For the first time since the Little Bean was born, really. I have worked a few days here and there. This is the biggie.

So my dear friend Becca was staying with Bean. Bean loves her. She loves Bean.

However...

Thinking a onesie would be a pain for diaper changes, I put Bean in some jeans that are a wee bit big. Becca put Bean down for her nap. Chattering ensued. Bean does this a lot. Sometimes she just chatters through her whole nap. I call it two hours of quiet time and we go from there. Becca checked for poop. She checked to see if Bean dumped her water all over herself. Neither.

Later...Becca checked again. Bean had removed said big jeans. Removed her diaper. Was sitting pants-less in her crib. May I say, this has NEVER happened before. Okay.

Becca put a diaper back on. Did not put on any new pants. Left Bean to try to sleep.

Later...chatter chatter chatter. Long pause... Then, very clearly, "Becca?"

Becca enters Bean's room to discover Bean has again removed her diaper. And very purposefully pooped on her mattress. Upon Becca's arrival, Bean grins ear to ear, points to her masterpiece on the sheets and exclaims "I did it!" Again let me say, she has never done anything like this before. Ever ever. Ever.

So my question. Acting out? Or merely getting ready to potty train.

And may I add, Becca is a very very very good friend indeed.

Why My Two Year Old Will Most Likely Be Rejected from Kindergarten

So I fancy myself a pretty responsible gal. I always handed my homework in on time. I took hot meals to shutins with my church youth group. I was a girl scout. I pay my bills on time and help old people get things from high shelves (no joke, I can't tell you how many times some old person in my apartment building has asked me to get something off a high shelf for them because I am ginormous).

But when it comes to my baby's medical care, I am so totally paralyzed by fear that I border on negligent. I guess it's fear. Maybe it's laziness. But I think the odds are a lot greater that it's fear.

I forgot her 18 month appointment. I guess...? I mean, honestly, I'm not sure I knew that she needed to have one. Did the doctor actually mention that at her 12 month appointment? Was I so preoccupied with our personal vaccine schedule that I didn't listen? Because usually, I'm pretty genius at listening when people give me instructions. I'm fairly certain the leading contender for my epitaph is currently "Follows Instructions Well." So how is it that I can't kinda get my shit together with getting medical things done for the baby at the right time?

I do, I must admit, lean on the fact that Doc Hubby is in fact, a doctor. Part of me thinks that all of this stuff should just be his responsibility because he has seen the inside of a human body and understands things about it, and it just grosses me out. So despite the fact that "I'm the Mom" I want all that medical stuff to be his department. I don't think he even knows we have departments in this relationship. Except that he always makes the pancakes. And since he never reads my blog, the odds are not good that he is going to become aware of it any time soon.

The day of my daughter's one year doctors appointment (which, if I can read my own handwriting correctly, was well over a month after her first birthday...see what I mean? What is wrong with me?) we took her across the street to a house of vampires where some guy who claims to be a phlebotomist (yeah, that's the kinda vocab I can just toss around because Doc Hubby is in fact, a doctor, and I'd have to be an idiot not to pick up a thing or two over the course of 19 years)stabbed her repeatedly in the arm while she shrieked until finally I grabbed her and fled. Fast forward to a month ago when we happened to see Dr. McJerky in our Peds practice because our wonderful French doctor wasn't in. He managed to make me feel like a total ass because I had staggered my baby's vaccines (it was like he could see the baby slings and BPA free bottles and organic yogurt spewing from my mouth) and never got that blood draw. Which, he insisted, she'd absolutely need for kindergarten. What is with the City of New York? That I can't just enjoy my one year old without worrying about kindergarten. And, by the way, the place they sent us to have it done sucked. And, no one told me I needed it for kindergarten, though I can't say I would have been listening anyway.

So we had the one year blood draw today. Several days after the Bean's second birthday. She screamed bloody murder the entire time. Doc Hubby took one for the team and held her down while the excellent phlebotomist took baby girl's blood (Doc Hubby just had to point out that she did go too deep at first and then had to pull back to hit the vein and I could have lived my whole life and not known that). Then the Bean proceeded to sulk the entire time that Doc Hubby tried to show her off to all the nice people he works with.

Note to self, do not begin this whole path of allowing the Bean's behavior to reflect upon me. I am not responsible for her being two. Or having just been jabbed with a needle.

What Happens in Maine

People who are from Maine are exactly like people from Texas. They just don't hug or say "ya'll" or make quick decisions. They are deliberate and quiet and stoic. And they think that their state is the greatest state in the good old U. S. of A. (because let's face it, ya'll, it's a competition and the winning state gets a plaque). I'm pretty sure that behind closed doors there are people in Maine, particularly way way way Northern Maine, planning secession very quietly.

I like Maine well enough. I shop at LL Bean. I like blueberries. If I had been able to have Bob's Clam Hut cater my wedding I would have done it in a snap. Portland is a hip little town where I don't feel chronically underdressed. They wear fleece to brunch too.

Still, I hate to break it to you...folks from "The County"... but Maine ain't all that.

This is what your state did to my child.

To be specific, this is what the venomous, swarming, apocalyptic mosquitoes in Weld, Maine did to my child.

Start Fed Exing lobster rolls to my apartment, Maine. You got some serious damage to control.