This week was picture week at my son's school. We always have to pack an extra shirt in his backpack, because invariably his pics are shot after lunch. I get his teeth brushed, my husband combs his hair. (But really, if his shots are after lunch, what's the point?) We tell him once again what to expect and with an air of professionalism he says, "Will they take only one picture or is this a photo shoot?"
Well, excuse me, Miss Desmond. I didn't know you were so particular about your close up.
Living pert near on top of Hollywood has been a concern. I don't want my kids to be Southern Californian cliches, acting as if they just stepped out of the movie Clueless. I don't want them all knowing about the business, and blase about reality. I want our kids to be normal, everyday, dirt kicking kids. Photo shoot? Where did he get that?
Two weeks ago, my three year old daughter was having a time of it. She'd cry if the sheets on her bed didn't match her pillow case, or her underwear had the wrong cartoon character on it. Stuff like that. Well, one morning, she broke out into huge sobs. Out of her line of vision I raised my eyes pleading, please don't let this episode go on for forty-five minutes. I readjusted my expression to one of ultimate mommy concern and went to her. And she said to me, "My vagina hurts and I need my nails done!"
If this is the problem at three, what can I expect at thirteen? This complaint did two things. It pointed out to me that we had no idea what we were getting into when we wanted to adopt a girl child. And is it too late to give her back? Okay, I admit, that last query was fantasy. And I'm probably projecting the teenage horrors to come. It's just that Maxie isn't necessarily a breezy spring drizzle when she's unhappy, oh no, she's a category five hurricane with a tsunami chaser.
My husband has been putting a lot of pressure on himself. The fate of the world weighs heavily between his scapulae. It's money. It's job. It's lack of artistic expression. It's diminished residual pay for work on NCIS for $56.13. Consequently, he doesn't sleep well. He's a tosser, a turner, a talker, and a grinder. Thus, I wake up as if I've been caned, with neck pains and backaches.
Perhaps we are all going through stages. Perhaps they will pass. Perhaps Bill Maher is the true Prophet. All I know, is that I will escape today. I will finish this entry and drive south on Interstate 5, to a coastal hotel where I will be pampered. It's my birthday and I have a couple of kinks to get rid of.
And when I return, Shit Creek may have receded. Maybe not. Either way, I will be rested and prepared. I will smell of lavender and bring a paddle.