eyes on the sky

Have I mentioned that my ultimate goal is enlightenment? My inner self-hater says, ugh really, you are so lofty, Elise, what about making a million bucks? My inner self-hater says, Elise, you are so arrogant to even think you can attain enlightenment, although my inner self-hater also scoffs at the word "attain." But it is. My inner self-lover (not sure how I feel about that term as it smells of sexual things, but maybe that's okay?) says, why the hell not? What better goal is there? And my therapist says, Why not Elise? Sounds good to me. And it's this kind of official (the woman's got a PhD) external validation that keeps me from doubting myself too much. Her seal of approval also brings up my need for validation, which is another item on my lengthy THINGS TO TRANSCEND list, and the very thing that brought me here today to share with you.

here we go loop-de-loo

My children. They look innocent. Like maybe they're fun to be around for ten hours straight every single day. That's what you'd think looking at them idyllically swinging on Daddy's homemade tree swing. It's like a frigging health insurance commercial.

the other other other side

The pic above was taken by our latest budding photog Stella, again she's looking for a way out. Love the perspective of a three-year old. 

In therapy today, by the way I'm in therapy again, and as a stay-at-home mom I can think of nothing more luxurious than sitting in a childless room for fifty minutes talking about myself to someone who is enraptured by my every syllable even if she is paid.

jesus doesn't love us

I started this blog when I was still in my thirties. I will be in my thirties for another hour. I know better at this age than to judge myself or anyone else on the basis of age, but well, call me shallow, say I'm missing the point, and I don't mean that you should ever really do that, but I am freaking out a little about turning forty. The mortality of it all.

I didn't so much freak when I was hitting thirty. Thirty-five smarted, but at thirty, I still thought I had a decent shot at turning into Madonna, or at least into Madonna Junior, back in the day. What a child I still was, but in an endearing way. Which reminds me of one of my recent self-improvement goals, to overcome my tendency to flagellate myself into a bruised pulp. So far my efforts bear fruit. I'm easing my internal dialogue into a kind of maternal tough love. I call it my inner bitch-warrior.

hummus

Mommy and Daddy had a rocky afternoon. I can't get enough me-time and Daddy doesn't get any. Kids are sensitive creatures. They pick up on tensions, even when they involve hurled frozen veggie-burgers (Daddy) and hurled angry curse words (Mommy). It was subtle, yes, but kids are receptive. Like little sponges.

holding forth

Stella turned three this week. Happy birthday Angel-cake. My daughter's age is finally catching up with her height and precocious manner. Now I won't get that smug thrill anymore when people ask how old she is and I say, "Two," and they can't get over it, because she seems older than her tender years. So I'm into showing off about my kids. Apparently. Meanwhile, Hamish refuses to eat anything pink, so he got an ice cream cone. Meanwhile again, I should have saved myself the time and few bucks for the cake mix and just served Stella a can of pink icing. Kids.

movin' on up

The other week or so I facebooked that Because I Love Her, the mother-daughter anthology I have an essay in, was in the self-help section at my local Borders and nowhere to be seen on the Mother's Day display.

spring fashion special

Can you see my Jewish children's Easter "baskets"? I went whole hog this year. The irony of the term "whole hog" is not lost on me, either. As a non-practicing, Buddhist-leaning Hebrew school drop-out, I have absolutely no problem with Christmas. The whole aesthetic gets me drooling like a diseased dog. I go catatonic with slack-jawed glee at the sight of twinkle lights, the smell of pine, and froth with giddy excitement upon viewing a slick, shiny load of gift-wrapped presents, even when I know they will disappoint one way or another.

bad morning somebody

Jennifer Weiner lives in Philly. She read from her upcoming novel at Headhouse Books last Tuesday night and in a fit of career-savvy, fun-loving adventure, I grabbed a pal and headed east to feast my eyes and ears on someone who has the kind of life that I covet, at least that I think I covet, meaning that I tell myself and anyone who listens that I'd give my... my... well, see, that's the thing. I wouldn't give my right arm. I need that to write with. And I couldn't give my firstborn. I'd feel too guilty. And people never say they'd give their second-born. That doesn't roll off the tongue. I'd give my grandmother, but would anyone want a dusty corpse? Doesn't seem like a fair trade, not much of a commodity. I might give my laptop, but how important is a thing you can buy at a store? Eye teeth? No, I'd hold onto those too.

yin yang pink pang

Enjoying the weather, indulging in a little creativity, taking advantage of the natural light. It makes for much tastier paint. It's just not as good when you eat it in the basement. This way it's more like a picnic. Alfresco dining makes even the blandest paints taste special. I like giving special treats to my children because it shows I care. But washing the paint out of her mouth? Off of her face, hair and hands? That's what Stella would call child abuse, if she knew the term. It was so cute, the other day, she said, "Don't say 'fuck,' Mommy." Baby's first swear word. Precious. But you know, the trauma of bathing that I inflict on this tender angel, I think it makes her more creative. Brings out the soulfulness in her work. It's win-win.

Namaste.

a way out

This is the second sewer in two weeks that my children have worshipped. We might have to make it an official Miller ritual. Every playground we go to, scope out the drain, then scream into it for fifteen minutes straight. Who needs a frigging jungle gym anyway? Swings. Pah. Slides. We spit at them. We'll take a mangy old sewer any day of the week. Right kids? Eh? What does Stella hope to find down there? A kindred spirit? An easy escape? This is it, honey. There ain't no way out. You gotta get through it is all. She'd tell you maybe, if she could articulate it, that maybe she just likes to hear the sound of her own voice, her usually piercing ear-splitting shrieks magnified into hell's bellows from echoey damp walls slick with ancient slime, oh the profound joy. To be young again instead of THIS close to forty, willing myself to appreciate the foundling spring sunshine on my face just a little bit more, as if I could. Kids, you always find new ways to inspire me. Now get your ass in the bathtub!

two's the limit

At the playground the other day, the weather was warm, sunny and breezy, one of those magical, unseasonable days where the air got balmier instead of cooler as the sun sank in the sky. I had my two kids there from about one o’clock until four-thirty. At around three I started weakly rounding them up, mostly because there was a lull in mothers that I wanted to talk to. But the kids were having fun climbing the monkey bars, digging in the sand and inspecting the new baseball turf. I was a little hungry, a little ornery, but not dead-set on leaving, especially as it would mean more work for me. Baths. Dinner. Picking up toys. Refereeing fights.

head nut

I woke up around 7:30, happy as a born-again Christian. Sipped my coffee, wrote in my journal, gazed around the room approvingly, even pored over a thick interiors book with Stella cozied on my lap, and somehow didn’t think to look at the clock to wake Hamish until 8:39, six minutes before I usually start schlepping everyone out of the house (at least my goal every morning is to leave by 8:45.) With only six minutes to get ready, there was no time for breakfast at the table, so I got them out with the promise of Pop-Tarts in the car. They’re fortified, people. 

hidden treasure

You might have to click on this picture to really appreciate it. Can you see the bear with its hands on its beefy, beary bits? This is the hidden bonus of playdates at Hamish's friends' houses. You never know what treasures you'll discover. Our bear friend is from a Chinese board book. I think I am now an official fan of Chinese products, poisonous red paint be damned, because you would never in a million years find a photo like this in an American children's book. Can you imagine the Oprah episode condemning the filthy publisher? I took the picture on the sly with my phone camera when the live-in nanny was busying herself in the kitchen toasting cheesy bread and chicken nuggets. Mmm. Nuggets. 

getting busy

Strep is coursing through my family like a raging river. Knock wood, I am the only one who remains strep-free. Hamish started the trickle, the dam broke with Bryan, and Stella is hanging onto a metaphorical tree branch as the bacteria sweeps her into feverish discomfort between doses of bubblegum-pink amoxicillin. It's been a hell of a week planning Hamish's birthday celebration without Bryan to pick up the slack, and he is usually the slack-picker-upper extraordinaire.

got dreams?

When we lived in Brooklyn and Bryan worked typical office hours, I never went to his shows. Now that we're suburbanites, you can't keep me away. Above is his gig in Bryn Mawr. I was convinced that the photographer pictured was from the Main Line Times and that Bryan was finally on his way to superstardom, albeit in a down home hometown kind of way, because while the Big Apple is up to its stem in Americana acts, I imagine the western Philadelphia suburbs are drooling for such a thing and Bryan is their man. But it turned out that the photog was a portrait artist who liked Bryan's look. So I still got my dreams.

licker

Yep, my daughter is a window licker. I take this as an omen. Note to self: buy the eco-friendly window kleener. Note 2: Maybe use it once in a while.

Since you asked, and I thank you for doing so, here's another poem... 

you can’t describe what motherhood is like
to people who don’t have kids
and even if you could
they’d never listen

because what you do that irks them
they swear they’d never do
but then when they’re in it
they can’t believe it’s them too

maybe we all despise ourselves secretly
or maybe it’s just me

log

Hamish was not arrested. The photograph above was taken for his passport at the UPS store and then promptly rejected by the passport office. But if my four-year old son were arrested, I'll bet his mugshot would look a lot like that. Stay out of trouble, boy. It isn't pretty.

And now, a poem for you—

Just as I lie down with my book and sigh
The best moment of my day is shattered
When your baby sister cries

My nerves are suddenly frayed and tattered

new religion

At school we have the option to drop our kids off without getting out of the car, sort of the reverse drive-through, or we can park and unbuckle and schlep them in, in the freezing cold, and when it's not Stella's day, I get to schlep her back to the car and rebuckle, remitten, recoat... Can you guess I choose the former method? Would you?

keeping. carrying.

Very proud of my new poster although I have a hunch that eighty per cent of Domino Magazine readers probably have one. I gotta say, when the kids, say Stella, is screaming when I'm trying to score some solitude upstairs, I take a gander at the message and an automatic deep breath fills my clenched lungs and it like, helps. Plus, it's pretty. Below, I told Stella to make her "mad face."