hillary

I don't even know where to begin. The food? The people? The celebrities? (Are celebrities people? Must research.) The underwhelmingness of it all?

Oh I was as excited as a school girl on the subway ride to Bryan's office near Radio City. Then we took a Town Car with one of the lawyers he works for, this sweet young kid, up to Tavern on the Green and when I saw the tent and the photographers, it was like my Nicole Richie moment, without the Balenciaga bag. My heart swelled. And it was down hill from there.

bananas

Aaahhhh! Feel like I'm running too fast this morning. Dragged Stella to Banana Republic, parked miles away so I could have a brisk morning rush through Cobble Hill and Brooklyn Heights and spill orange juice all over the stroller.

You see, Bryan called yesterday and asked if I'd like to go to Hillary Clinton's birthday party tomorrow night at Tavern on the Green. Would I? Can you say 'Babysitter'? This is what is so great about living in New York City. His boss can't go, so here we are more than happy to fill two $1,000 seats.

hebrew school dropout

Is it Sukkoth? I dropped out of Hebrew school so I don't know these things, but I think I heard something on NPR about it. Because parking rules are suspended! Hoorah. This calls for the story of me getting picked up by a Hasidic Jew. At least I like to think so.

It was Rosh Hashana. I had just parked the Camry in front of my building and hauled my daughter, in her car seat, into the ugly and unfashionable Universal stroller frame. An even uglier minivan pulled up and a Hasidic fellow leaned across the filthy front seat and asked me where the nearest gas station was. Sexy. I looked down the street. Was he headed toward Bay Ridge or Park Slope? There were gas stations either way. I was stumped, and told him so.

poop

So my daughter's bouncing away in her doorway jumper yesterday. It's one of those Sundays where it seems like a bitch to even get our sorry asses outside. Laundry everywhere, vacuuming, a deadly obstacle course of toys, Jay Jay The Jet Plane on the VCR, and a little blogging. Bryan walks by Stella with a handful of clean sock balls and says, "Did you poop? It smells like poop," but goes about his business.

A few minutes later I'm washing dishes and I hear, "Elise, come here." Bryan's tone suggests I should drop everything and run, even though I'm down to two items in the sink and it drives me crazy not to finish. So I walk into our bedroom, and follow his gaze to Stella, happily bouncing in her doorway jumper between the living room and our bedroom, and the horror unfolds in slo-mo snapshots before my eyes:

logic of a 2.5 year old—

1)
Hamish: Mommy you crazy driver.
Mommy: No I'm a sane driver.
Hamish: No you crazy driver.
Mommy: Why?
Hamish: 'Cause, 'cause Stella's sleeping.
2)
Mommy: I don't like to be angry at you. Do you like being angry at Mommy?
Hamish: Yeah.
Mommy: You like being angry at Mommy?
Hamish: Yeah.
Mommy: Why?
Hamish: 'Cause I eat poop.

go vagina

I can't believe I survived the week thus far without having a mental breakdown, complete with a crying jag that takes me on a journey across the wall and down to the floor to watch myself cry in the mirror. Am I the only one who does that? I'd think in this age of reality TV we all do it. Aren't we all sure that someone is watching our oscar-worthy performance? Sigh.

So. The soiree at the school (my old work haunt) was good last night. The fact that I even made it there with the kids left me so high, so full of hope for the future, that I tossed and turned at 4:30 this morning, reeling with excitement. I mean, Stella had cried almost all morning. Hamish had no nap. My throat was sore.

sighs required

I never did find those funky sneakers. I'm going to look again today. I already have two kinds of Pumas and Converse low-tops, but now I suspect I need Vans. Need. I'm not even going to write about the job interview I have this afternoon because I read an article about how employers spy on their employees, and their internet lives. Plus, I don't want to jinx it. I may have to journal about it separately. Also, if I don't get the job, then I've dragged you all into this drama that wouldn't exist had I not brought it up and then I feel all, ugh. Last night Stella woke up every half hour crying hysterically. She knew I had other things on my mind, like, what the hell am I going to wear to this job interview I'm not blogging about? She sensed my emotional estrangement. Is that grammatically correct? It just sounds more poetic than "emotional neglect." I guess I'm a sucker for alliteration. Oh boy. I like to sigh. I do it a lot, especially now that I'm a mom. Once I battle the kids into the car in the morning and finally sit in the driver's seat, I let out a sigh and it's the one moment of my day when I feel collected. Or calm, or like crying. Or laughing, depending on my optimism level. I've decided that I'm cynical, but optimistic. I still believe in fairy tales and karma, because if it's all chaos and nothing means anything and there's no consequential bearing on my actions, then I'm really going to be stressed. Sigh. Sometimes when Bryan comes along in the car in the morning (I drop him off on the corner near the subway), we sigh simultaneously. I think this is another reason I am probably going to keep Hamish home Fridays, to simply avoid the morning upheaval of our lives. You wouldn't think that getting two tots out the door at 8:30 would be a harrowing ordeal that required sighing. Ugh, Stella, she stirs.

an explanation

Just back from dropping Hamish at daycare. He goes five mornings a week to a place we love. They have music, and art and nature day where they meet a different animal every week, although Hamish usually chooses not to touch the animal guest. Sometimes Bryan and I worry that our son's not adventurous enough, as if there is a quota for adventureousness (is that a word?) and he has yet to reach it. On the other hand, I applaud his individuality. If all his classmates opt to touch the pet cobra (for example) and Hamish doesn't, then hooray for him. There's always something I can worry about. Better to worry that he doesn't touch than worry if he'll live after getting bit. Is that profound at all? Hamish is also a little anal in his young age. The other day I threw my dirty socks into the hallway to make them closer to the hamper and Hamish walked by, pointed at them and said, "Mom. You socks on the floor," and I gulped, dumbfounded. "Will you put them in the hamper for me?" I asked and he did and I felt such an odd mixture of pride and fear.