Desperately seeking solitude

(From my 2003 column in the Frederick area Gazette newspapers)

I am writing this column while locked in the powder room. Outside these four walls stands a perfectly nice house with several rooms better suited to writing, but if I open the door, they’ll find me. No, I’m not a dangerous fugitive on the FBI’s most wanted list. Even worse. I’m a Mom.

I have just one husband, one child and one dog, but together, they’ve conspired to rob me of every shred of privacy. If I were a criminal, I would have a shot at solitary confinement. Instead, I’m a law-abiding citizen who must resort to hiding in the loo to get a moment’s peace.

Under ordinary circumstances, even the bathroom isn’t off limits. Usually my economy-sized dog follows me, supervising every bodily function and pressing her cold, wet nose against my bare flesh.

Somehow I’ve also managed to slip in under the radar of my ten-year-old daughter, Caitlyn. If she finds me, she’ll commence firing a rapid volley of questions through the bathroom door -- without hesitation and seemingly without even breathing -- until she finally comes up with something that stumps me.

"When’s Daddy coming home what’s for dinner why do I have to go to church can I watch TV when my homeworks done what does gay mean why do you have hair in your nostrils?" she might inquire at top volume.

"Seven! Leftovers! Because I said so! Maybe! Ask your father! I don't know, and LEAVE ME ALONE!" I reply. Sometimes I’ll throw in an oddball response, like "rutabagas!" or "Outer Mongolia!" just to throw her off balance.

My husband could come home, slip into the LaZBoy and read War and Peace from cover to cover without hearing a peep.

I emerge from my hiding place, and the idyllic scene of domestic tranquility ends. My previously content family suddenly requires my full attention for dinner cooking, homework helping, clothes laundering, permission-slip signing, Scholastic book ordering, bill paying, doctor’s appointment making and dog walking.

Now, don’t get me wrong -- I love my family. I would slay a dragon for them. I would take a bullet for them. I would even go on Fear Factor for them. But I would give a case of Charmin for ten blissfully uninterrupted minutes alone.

I’m thinking of entering the Witness Protection Program, but that seems a little drastic. What I need is a better hiding place. With a lawn chair, some cheerful paint and a padlock, the walk-in closet might just do the trick!

A Fond Farewell to the Mom-mobile

(From my 2003 column in the Frederick area Gazette newspapers)

Losing a friend is always difficult, even when that friend wears steel-belted radials. Yes, after ten years of faithful service, my original mom-mobile has gone to the big junkyard in the sky.

Contrary to popular belief, a mom-mobile doesn’t need to be a particular make or model. Since I have just one child, mine was a little red Honda Civic. Yet her mom-ness was as unmistakable as if she were a minivan.

In the early years, the mom-mobile was still looking pretty cute. As an infant, my daughter, Caitlyn, was too small and powerless to be considered a weapon of mass destruction. Oh, sure, Baby Cait made the obligatory juice and formula spills. Her animal crackers made their way into every nook and cranny. But the real devastation was yet to come.

As my daughter grew, so did her accessories. The full-sized car seat was so large and awkward that I knocked off the mom-mobile’s door trim while trying to squeeze it into the back seat.

And have you ever tried to navigate a full-sized bicycle into the trunk of a Honda Civic? Let’s not even go there. It’s an ugly scene that involves scratching the paint, breaking fingernails and using language unbecoming a lady.

Within a few seasons, any mom-mobile worth her salt also develops an aroma all her own, crafted from a subtle blend of fermented formula dribbles, potty-training accidents and McDonald’s french fries. My own coffee spills and a complete set of antique junk food bags enhance both the aroma and the décor.

Visits to the veterinarian’s office also add character to a mom-mobile. Each and every time we embark upon this journey, I carefully cover the back seat with an extra large towel purchased solely for this purpose. And each and every time, Sunny the Wonder Dog carefully uncovers the seat and yaks up her lunch directly onto the fine upholstery.

Lest you think life as a mom-mobile requires only interior destruction, I’ll also give you a virtual tour of the exterior highlights. To your right, you’ll observe the scraped fender that resulted when toddler Caitlyn let out a blood-curdling scream just as I was trying to parallel park next to a retaining wall.

To your left, you’ll see the mom-mobile’s unique rear door. Its charming “distressed” finish and one-of-a-kind shape occurred one frazzled morning when I backed out of the garage without realizing that the passenger door was ajar. Later, I shredded the door gasket while trying to open the door with a coat hanger when I locked my keys inside after a frantic trip to the pediatrician’s office.

Yes, despite the years of abuse I heaped upon her, the mom-mobile was a dedicated team player, a real trouper who served me well. If she had been a baseball player, she’d be a shoe-in for the Hall of Fame. But since she was but a humble econo-box, I’ll just invite you to raise your sippy cup of apple juice to toast in her honor. To the mom-mobile. She was a classic.

Heartbreaking teenaged angst

So the hubby and the daughter are in the throes of some angst-filled teenage weep-a-thon downstairs. I am hiding.

Whines, moans,and sobs are alternating with actual words. There, I think she just said "I want a ham sandwich!" Either that or "You don't understand me!" Now that I think about it, it's probably the latter.

I really should be keeping score. Ooooh, a triple combo of "nobody likes me" with a double "it's not fair!" Ten points at least for difficulty!

I think I'm going to run away from home.

if it weren't for fertile friends...

I'd never get any quilting done! Here's one I just made for a pregnant co-worker.

American Idol concert pictures

Concert tickets on eBay: $200
Concert parking: $8
Snacks at the arena: $20
Program: $25
Concert T-shirt: $30
Three hours in which my teenager smiles, laughs and speaks pleasantly with me: PRICELESS!!!!!!!!!!!!

trauma, but only to me

I helped my daughter register for her classes for her FIRST YEAR OF HIGH SCHOOL.

Oh! My! God! This might just trigger my first hot flash!

I know she is smart and a good student and a good person, but HIGH SCHOOL! It's the land of boys and sex and drugs and stuff I haven't even started to worry about yet! Yikes! Maybe I'll just lock her in her room instead.

a star is born

My best friend has produced a beautiful baby boy! I'm sure that I'm prejudiced, but he really is beautiful and absolutely perfect, despite what the doctors call "advanced maternal age." For those who can't interpret that, it's doctor-speak for "having a baby when you're so old, most of your friends are already thinking about having their tubes tied."

New Mom Betsy and Baby Ian are doing fine. I think Proud Papa Eric may pull through too! And soon Ian will be the owner of a very colorful, star-covered quilt (see photo from his mom's baby shower, above) that's about 500 times his size, I just need to put on the label and binding. I am really looking forward to being a crazy, doting honorary auntie!

Seeing my friends begin this mind-boggling journey into parenthood has made me think back to my own child's birth! My "baby," Caitlyn, is now 13 1/2, and just about as tall as I am, but when I look at her baby pictures, I can remember all the feelings of love and fear and joy and overwhelm-ed-ness that were coursing through my veins and dancing non-stop through my head! I think this will be the departure point for this month's Journal Quilt!

I've already begun by printing some photos on fabric. I printed out the delivery room family portrait from Caitlyn's and Ian's births, both in color and in sepia, and we'll see where that takes me!