Tuesday, May 29, 2012


"Like applying sunscreen to a small child" is a smilie for difficulty. I could say, exasperated, my life as a suburban mother who "delivers obstetrically once, and by car forever after" is "like applying sunscreen to a small child."

I do it daily, two jigger-fuls per child as recommended by my sister's friend, a man I refer to as "the dermatologist."

The verbs are cowpoke: lassoing, wrangling, bellowing. I hear a harmonica, playing mournfully, and dust; this show is a Western. The kids are mustangs. They see Neutrogena wet skin kids, beach & pool on the label of the bottle and bolt, kicking up prairie dust. "No, Mommy, no!"

I wrestle them to the floor, and it's like that game I played at camp: the greased watermelon in a pool game. You'd think I was killing those watermelons, as I paw their nose and cheeks, preventing melanoma. I feel like a marauding bear.

Wednesday, May 23, 2012

The Art of Losing

My son's goldfish that did not have a name other than "that goldfish" died this morning. That goldfish was his first poke in the ribs from that pointing skeletal hand called mortality. Ask not for whom the toilet flushes,  or for whom the bell tolls.  "Why do things have to end, Mom?"

I came up with the simile, "Life is like a song, son," which I knew was lame even as I was saying it."You know Pumped Up Kicks by Foster The People that you like so much? It has a beginning, a middle -- some people call that the bridge -- and an end; it wouldn't be a song if it didn't have an end."

"That is so stupid."

He started to cry. I felt like crying to, the impotent parental tears that I cry when I cannot for the life of me come up with a good answer to a child under ten's brilliant questions like, why do some crabs move sideways and other crabs move forwards and backwards, or we eat shrimp but don't turn pink, but flamingos do? Why?

So I said that I didn't know, and we sat together in the garden, watching the bees in the foxgloves and after awhile he stopped crying and pulled himself together and said very solemnly, "I wish I had named that goldfish Steve."

Monday, May 14, 2012

I'm A Drag Show

"We all came into this world naked. The rest is all drag.”

 I've been watching RuPaul's Drag Race, the thinking-mom's reality show.

How often I forget the world's a stage, and moms are merely players, but RuPaul reminds me I am a character in these light-wash mom-jeans,  with my hair...oh girl, RuPaul would say of my hair.

 Being a drag means mom jeans because you're beat and boring, and perimenopausal. Being in drag means wearing mom jeans LIKE YOU MEAN IT. You're the HMFIC.

Work those mom jeans and head band.  RuPaul would again say, oh girl. Make it fierce. Call yourself LunchBoxx. Work it.

Friday, May 4, 2012

Happy Mother’s Day–Moms of Literature

Happy Mother’s Day–Moms of Literature

Maybe all us moms are moms of fiction, now that I think about it, every mom I know is a character. The role breeds it.