Frost/Nixon and Sex

I went to see Frost/Nixon today and ruined the bread. Now, I know what you're thinking after reading the title, but sadly, it's nothing like that.

I played "stay-at-home-mom hooky" today and went to the movies. Frost/Nixon by the way was great, well-acted and exceeded my expectations--especially for being a movie from a play (if you're in doubt, see my post about Doubt). And, I should say, since we're on the subject, quite PG in the sex area; alluded to but not directly mentioned or shown.

Anyway, I got back from the movies with enough time to put some dough together for bread. I've been baking instead of buying bread for the past few months. I figured I'd bake a loaf today since I'm doing a short workshop at the Arden over the next few days and won't be around.

Everything went as planned and I was the multi-tasking queen! Bread was in the oven rising as per the recipe, and I felt pretty damn good about myself...
Aren't I just the bomb? I can bake bread, take care of the family, and stage manage...I rock!

And then my kids came home from school.
My daughter had a bad "pre-teen" day at school: worst runner in the class, friends yelled at her at recess, etc. So I comforted her while my son felt neglected and pouted. It's difficult to deal with my son because he doesn't like to listen to me. He'll listen to Brian but when it comes to me, he likes a fight.

So, we had a fight, and he ended up in his room crying at the top of his lungs.

I left him there for a few moments thinking I could get a couple things done for the workshop and then set the bread for a second rise. Perhaps it sounds cruel to leave my son in his room but when he gets to the point of crying like this, it's better to let him calm down a bit before engaging him again. Most things have to be on his terms--which is probably why we butt heads, I like my terms.

As I am about to print a schedule for the workshop, my daughter enters with two books under her arm, "Mom," she says, "I don't know what this word means."

She has dog-eared the pages.

I bring her into the kitchen so I can tend to the bread when she drops the bomb and shows me the word: SEX.

I eye the half full bottle of wine, pour myself a glass and have The Talk. It's a down and dirty talk about penises, menstruation, uterus', vaginas and sperm. She's thoroughly disgusted at the end.

I'm elated by her reaction.

The bread, however, rose too much, and after punching down and baking, now looks meager and anemic.

The moral of the story is probably: Do not play stay-at-home-mom hooky. But the one I'm taking away from it is: Aren't you glad you didn't have three kids? Because one of them would have been severely neglected.

At least the movie was good.

But How Much Longer in Nano Seconds and if the GW Bridge isn't Backed up?

My kids are obsessed with numbers. They should be math geniuses but not so much. I wish they were math geniuses, then I'd be a lot more patient with their quest to assign a numerical value to everything.

Oh hell, who am I kidding? They could be Stephen flippin' Hawkins and I'd still be annoyed.

We'll be driving somewhere, say to a cousins' house in another state, and right off the bat Brian and I hear, "How long until we get there?"

We try to blow them off with a, "I don't know, it depends on traffic."

Then we get, "Well, say that we don't have any traffic?"

We're caught at this point and everything goes downhill. If we say 4 hours, and we get there in 4 1/2 hours, we don't hear the end of it. If I overshoot and say 5 hours and it takes 4 1/2 hours, my son feels the need to admonish me, "But you said it would take 5 hours."

If we just say we don't know, they ask, "How many highways will we go on during the trip?" But it's not just highways, it's highways, regular roads, tunnels and bridges.

But that last one, that was my fault. I've discovered something in my 10 years of parenting, only I discovered it a bit too late. You can tell your children not to jump on the couch, to flush the toilet or to pick up their clothes over and over and over again. They won't listen. Play a number game with them and you have fallen into a hole of your own making...and there is no way out. On a long trip a few years ago, I thought I'd get out of the "how much longer?" game by saying that we'd be taking 7 highways. I said it once, once I tell you! And now, everytime we get in the car, it's "how many highways?" And yet, they still jump on the couch!

One night, sick of trying to get my kids to finish dinner, I said to them, "I bet you can't finish your rice in 10 bites."

Big mistake.

From then on I had guess the number of bites. Every night.

Or, if I tell my son, "I'll be there in just a minute." I can hear him, whispering, "one mississippi, two mississippi, three mississippi...."

If I'm not there by 60, I hear about it. Down to the last nano-second.

As my children have grown older, I've added to my numerical misery. At the pool one day, I saw my son cannonball into the pool and I said, "Wow, beautiful, I'd give that a 9.6." And it began. Now everytime I'm near a pool with my children, they immediately begin jumping into the pool asking, "what do you give that one mom?"

After the 15th cannonball they all begin to look alike. I feel sorry for the Olympic judges. Annoyed, I channel the Russian judge we all made fun of in the 1980's: "Well, that was awful, I give it a 3.2."

What is it with numbers and kids? Is there anyway to break them of this habit? And can you tell me how long this phase will last? In nanoseconds and with no traffic? onemississippi,twomississippi,threemississippi....

While the Cat's Away...The Rat Tries to Hold it Together

Brian is in Denmark this week for work. While Denmark, is not on the top of my list of places to visit, I would not turn it down. He knew he might have to go but didn't know when, so it sprang up rather suddenly. I'm not upset at all. Perhaps, okay, just a bit jealous. I mean, Denmark, how cool is that?

Sometimes, I look forward to his going away. Life certainly slows down. I can't run out and grab something at night so we end up doing without--and doing just fine. What I can do is lie in bed and watch TV while working on the computer and doing the crossword puzzle without bothering him. Let's just say, Brian is not so much with the multi-tasking.

Dinner is easier when he goes away. For some reason, I never feel like I have to make a big meal when he is not around. Oh, the kids get fed but they eat eggs, tomato soup, pasta--nothing fancy. Talking with other moms, I realize this is almost universal. While our husbands don't demand elaborate dinners, we tend to make them when they're home. Perhaps it's because we know someone is going to appreciate the effort.

But this week has been difficult. The kids have had half-days due to conferences and the afternoons are incredibly long. My daughter doesn't know what to do with herself without homework so she antagonizes her brother. I end up having to be their playmate so they won't kill each other. I eye the clock longingly, wondering, how close to 5 o'clock must one be to open up a 5 o'clock beer.

During normal times (when we're both home), Brian and I try our best to keep the kids occupied until bedtime. Instead of computers or TV, we'll play games with them, read, go over homework, etc. I try to keep this going when Brian is away. It was easier when they couldn't tell time and I could put them in bed 30 minutes earlier; now it's like experimenting with a new form of torture.
To add fuel to the fire, I don't sleep well when Brian is gone. I hear every creak in the house and when they wake you up, those creaks sound exactly like an axe murderer opening up your door. So I'm overtired and trying to negotiate peace between Israel and Iran.

Of course, my allergies are really acting up as well. But I did I mention, I'm not bitter?

No, really, I'm not.