Friday: Bade goodbye to The Man, who was driving to LA with his brother for their cousin’s wedding. Went swimming in the morning, took a long walk in the afternoon, sent an angry email in the early evening. Finished the day by barbequing for the kids and baking cookies.
Saturday: Spent the day with Things One, Two and Three, going to the park, Target, out to lunch, and the “Community Garden.” Was interrogated by the head garden woman and asked the same question (“so, whose garden are you tending again?”) several times (no word yet on whether the garden woman’s application to the FBI was approved yet).
Called Friend Two and left random, angry, slightly unhinged messages about the fact that he wasn’t coming over to relieve my motherhood-ennui that night. Took the Things to the park, yet again, for a picnic dinner, and then took them home to play in the yard.
Exchanged strange and surly phone messages with Friend Two. Called Friend One and requested her to say “Macaroni” into my phone at inappropriate times. Put the Things to bed. Decided that I was being crazy and let Friend Two come over. Mixed gin and tonics and cooked blintzes with Friend Two and discussed the difficulties of parenthood, and watched Friend Two nod knowingly, even though he has no children.
Felt much better.
Sunday: Woke up suddenly to the sentence, issued by Thing Two, “we decided to have a restaurant and cook breakfast!” Ran to the dining room and was relieved that the only foods this restaurant served were toast, orange juice, cereal bars, and yogurt. The toast had ½” of butter on each piece and was salted, but at least the house was still intact and no children were missing appendages. Cleaned. Disinfected. Ate a piece of butter-toast.
Took the Natives to the grocery store and then the ice cream parlor. Stopped by the “Community Garden,” and was refused entrance by two women, as I did not know the combination to the lock. Indicated that I was there to water and weed a friend's garden. Was made aware of the growing vegetable stealing, and told that I could be a tomato thief. Responded by delivering a speech on the meaning of “community” in the phrase “community garden." Told that I was likely responsible for the degradation of “community” in the “community garden” via alleged "tomato thievery." Declared a jihad on smarmy hippies and coined the phrase “tomato nazi.” Felt vindicated. Ordered expensive coffee to celebrate.
Took Things One, Two and Three to the video store, and argued over the various artistic merits of Spongebob Square Pants and Barbie: Rapunzel. Exercised my veto power and rented The Wizard of Oz. At the counter, compromised and also rented Brother Bear and Angelina Ballerina.
Grilled chicken kebabs and slices of sunburst squash for dinner. Only felt a tiny twinge of guilt when telling the Things that the squash was really Eggo waffles. Gave baths and washed hair. Read books to the children and kissed their clean, damp hair.
Called Friend One and made jokes about tomato nazis, hippies who drive Suburbans and all things Oregon.
Fell asleep happy.
*terrible mother
Dear Terrible Mother,
Your weekend sounds very food centric and thus very similar to my weekend, without the Tomato Nazis, the Man, the children, the swimming and the motherhood ennui. (Should that be hyphenated? If so I apologize.)
I also want to speak out clearly in support of heavily buttered toast. Without butter, toast is just dry hard bread. Butter MAKES toast. And the more the better, at least until the point where the oily butter coast the roof of your mouth with its thick oils and weird fats.
Also one final comment about your post.
My god, children sound exhausting! If I had children, I would need a caffeine IV drip.
Posted by: Kari | August 25, 2005 at 10:02 PM
I think my weekends are food centric because having three kids (with all kinds of whacked-out food allergies and preferences) means I'm constantly thinking "what can I feed them for breakfast...lunch...dinner...?" Also, since there are three of them, it ends up being this semi-big deal to, say, cook chicken kebabs and rice and grilled squash and to make sure the table is set and the cups are on the table and the water pitcher is out and no one is yelling and the food is still all warm and ready at the same time and everyone is washed up and they aren't fighting and OH MY GOD I am going to have a panic attack.
A caffeine IV sounds like heaven.
Posted by: Terrible Mother | August 26, 2005 at 10:54 PM
kari is insane, and toast should be only lightly buttered if at all. i'm a fan of fruit preserves (but then, i would be, wouldn't i?).
Posted by: some guy | August 27, 2005 at 11:11 PM
I don't nod knowingly. I'm sure of it. Completely, utterly sure. Goddammit, I'm nodding knowingly right now in the utter surety that I know I don't nod knowingly!
As for toast, my friends, butter both sides, and pre-empt all better butter wars except for those with butter-aversions. In which case, I'm in agreement with Kari (not that I know you, Kari, but this is blog-comment land and in blog-comment land you're automatically and instantly e-intimate) that for something to be "toast," butter must be involved. Otherwise, call it "dry, heated bread" and be done with it.
Posted by: SohipIcan'tseeovermypelvis | August 30, 2005 at 09:18 AM
You all missed the most important thing: That the toast was not only buttered, it was salted! SALTED!
Clearly I have raised heathens.
Friend Two, You nod knowingly all the time. In fact, if the Inuit have 87 words for "snow," you have at least 40 ways of "nodding knowingly," ranging from the "Yes, I think you are absolutely right!" to "I am slightly bored, but will pretend not to be, at your expense," to "OH GOD! She's talking about her kids again. Quick, nod and maybe she'll stop."
Posted by: Terrible Mother | August 30, 2005 at 11:25 PM