Broken Promise Number X

Dear Thalia and Sage,

I know you cry when I leave for work in the morning these days. I know that an hour in the morning and then (if I'm lucky) a half hour at night isn't enough time. I know that I promised you that tomorrow I would take the day off of work to get you dressed in your costumes and take you to the class Halloween party.

Sometimes things don't work out as we plan. Sometimes I don't have all the control I wish I did. Sometimes I can't say no even when I really really want to.

I'm so very sorry.

I'm trying to remember my mother's advice, to ask myself, "Will this all matter in five years?" I'd like to say it doesn't.

But I keep thinking of the memories I'll miss, the photos I won't take, the tears I'm going to face when I explain, once again, I'm sorry but I have to go to work. Some of them will even be my own.

Forgive me. Forgive me for still being at work tonight at 10:42. Forgive me for all subsequent nights that I'll still be at work at 10:42. This won't be the last. That's just how things go.

I'll still be home for trick or treating. I'll even let you stay up extra late and eat more candy then you should. That's what moms do when they are feeling guilty.

I love you both, more than you know.

Mommy

"Some daddies hit"

"You can't do that, Sage!" Thalia insisted, as Sage pulled the DVDs from the cases (again) and strew them across the floor. "If you do, daddy will be mad...and he will hit you."

"What?" I asked. "What did you say?"

Then more tentatively: "Daddy will be mad. He will hit you?"

"Now why do you think Daddy would hit you? Daddy's never hit you. He loves you. We don't hit people we love."

"But sometimes they do. Sometimes daddies hit if they're mad."

I sat her down and asked her where she learned this.

"James," she said, referring to a boy in her class. "James told me that he had to run because his daddy will hit him if he does something bad. So he runs. He runs away."

I fumbled for words. I said something about daddies loving their kids and kids loving their dads and what James said may or may not be true because people generally don't hit each other.

"But if their daddies are bad, they do. James's daddy is a bad daddy."

Eek.

To be fair, Thalia is in that imaginative stage where she she attributes her own thoughts and needs and ideas to other kids. Like telling me that Sage "wants me to eat a cookie" or that Sage "says I have to watch Caillou," which, frankly, I know isn't true because Caillou sucks beyond belief and my children would never ever like anything that sucks. Also it freaks me out because it makes me think of David Berkowitz revealing that a dog named Sam told him to kill a bunch of teens making out in their cars. In other words, Thalia is either a very imaginative child or she's on her way to being a serial killer.

Of course if the story were true, it would explain why James (not his real name of course) has hit Thalia in the face twice this week.

Eek again.

I don't know what's true and what's not, but the whole thing has given me a very uneasy feeling. I don't even know how to proceed from here except to sit tight, hope that's the end of it and wish that kids were all just perfect and never hit or made up stories and certainly never insisted on watching Caillou.

Thank you Courteney

Nate by text: Shd I keep Thalia up or put her to sleep? Shes asking for u.

Me by text: No, still working. Sigh. Done 930ish then will grab a quick bite.

I've been feeling overwhelmed lately. More than overwhelmed. Working full time along with all my other commitments hasn't left enough time for the girls. Racing home to try and catch them for a few minutes before bed, then waking up to play with them for a half hour and give them breakfast before racing out the door has been tough. Then just when I'm feeling it most, a trip to Chicago for a conference.

Suddenly I understand why my father brought me home trinkets every time he returned home from Houston or Jackson or wherever his own job had him traveling when I was a kid. I promised Thalia a "special treat," hugged her, and walked to the door towards the waiting Town Car.

I couldn't even kissing Sage goodbye; she was napping.

I had one of those verge-of-tears kind of mass in my throat as the driver helped me with my bag.

"Passenger's here!" he shouted into the air as he fiddled with the bluetooth headset. "I'm transporting and I'll get back to you in one hot minute!" He turned to me with the warmest, most genuine smile imaginable. "My sister. She's in Florida, at the playground with her son right now."

A moment ago you couldn't have convinced me that I would have had a conversation with a driver the whole trip to LaGuardia--I just wanted to sulk. But with Courteney, I couldn't help myself. We talked about our fortieth birthdays, we compared notes on Obama, he volunteered his favorite commercials in hiliarious detail. He spent a good five minutes breaking down the lyrics to a song from "my girl, Annie Lenox" then played it for me, belting out the lyrics almost in tune.

He made me laugh.

Sometimes the universe sends us the people we need, right when we need them.

Thank you Courteney. I arrived at the airport on time. And smiling.

Using the copywriting skills for good and not evil (says the Democrat)

I can't donate a million dollars to the Obama campaign. I can't even donate $2000. I can't spend the next two weeks hauling my family up to Ohio to knock on doors. What I can do? Write ads.

Here's one I worked on with Peter Koechley of Moveon.org (former managing editor of The Onion), and director Doug Liman (Bourne Identity, Mr and Mrs Smith, Swingers). Fans of Gossip Girl might recognize some cameos...




And now you know why posting has been light lately. See you all November 5 when we can stand together joyously and shout YES, WE DID.

Love and not-quite-marriage

Six years ago today--or to be more exact, six years ago early tomorrow morning--I walked Nate out of my bedroom, through the living room, and towards the front door. As I kissed him goodbye, I warned, "Just so you know - this isn't going anywhere.

We're just fooling around. I want to be really clear, okay? There's no way this can possibly work."

"Okay," he said.

"Okay," I said.

I kissed him again, and he walked towards the elevator.

Once every so often, eh...I'm wrong. What can I say. But these words in particular are ones I'm happy to have eaten.

Happy anniversary Nate. I love you so much. Even though it's totally grossing you out right now that I'm saying it on my blog.

I love you just the way you are. Glitter is optional.

Every morning I wake up next to Thalia (yep, that hasn't changed) and ask her, "did you sleep well? What did you dream about?"

Generally the answer is "Unicorns." Or "A horse on the beach." Or "We played soccer in the grass park!"

Does she actually dream about these things? Probably not. I'll give her an A for creativity.

But this morning was different.

"I dreamed about a make up kit. For kids. A toy with makeup for kids. That I can put on my face and I can play with it and wear makeup. It's a toy, mommy! A toy! Naybe we can buy it? Naybe we can buy a toy make up kit for kids?"

Not sure if this came from a commerical or a friend at school or just her own imagination.

Sigh.

What's a make-up loving, Beautyhacks-contributing, fashion-loving, feminist mom to do?

I am definitely more influenced than I'd care to admit from my own upbringing, in which nailpolish was not something for children, pierced ears were for 13 year olds (later reduced to 9 with much pleading), heels were meant for grownups, and make up was very reluctantly permitted in junior high. Oh, you should see how my class portrait changed from the sweet seventh grader with braids down the side of her face, to the wild, frizzy-haired eighth grader with the sparkly blue Maybelline eyeliner and the amateurish Clinique mascara application. It was as if I had gone from dorky to made-up and dorky, almost overnight!

But three is not thirteen. And it's not even nine.

So when do we let our girls get all girlie? Or really...womanly. Because that's what it is.

I see little girls with painted toenails and I find it equally endearing and repelling.I think it would be something fun to do with Thalia, and then I wonder if that's teaching her some kind of message that goes beyond temporary tattoos and animal character hair clips. I also rejected the offer at the kids hair salon to put glitter spray in her hair. The lollipop makes her plenty happy--and me too. It may rot her teeth, but it's not rotting her ability to simply be a preschooler.

I'm no make-up hating grinch, of course. I do let Thalia play with my makeup brushes when she asks and let her put on all the lip balm she wants, while assuring her that she's so beautiful that she doesn't need makeup. But then how do I explain my own use of it? The converse of You're so pretty would be Mommy's not pretty enough and that, along with mommy's fat, are not sentences I want to utter in front of my daughters.

I want my girls to have fun with fashion, dress up as crazy as they want, and--I suppose--have at it with my old eyeshadow pallettes. Maybe even the "toy makeup for kids," whatever that may be. But on the other hand, aren't there some things that our daughters should just have to wait for?

I'd count freaking out their moms high on that list.

Well, there's one way to get more people to vote.

"Mommy, can you put on a Thalia show?"

"No sweetie, this is the news. They're talking about the election. Remember how I told you that we're going into a voting booth together soon and we're going to vote for Obama?"

"What's a voting booth?"

"Well you've been in one with me every year. It's like a little room with a curtain that we pull close, and then you pull a big red lever and push some buttons to let people know who we want to be the president."

"And maybe it's a helicopter! Maybe the you push the buttons and it goes UP! Up, mommy! Up in the sky, like the helicopter at Playland! And then it comes down and we can get some cotton candy. Can we go there now mommy? Can we?"

"Maybe in 2012."

Home again.

Riding up in the subway elevator I felt my belly start to flutter while my fingers fiddled with my zipper. Nervous. Anxious. Like the anticipation of seeing an old college friend. Or a former crush.

But it wasn't.

It was my kids.

The 10 hour, 12 hour, 15 hour work days lately are taking a toll. I raced home tonight, the one day I could make it out before six, but the subways weren't cooperating. Missed connections, delayed local trains, a stop between stations.

I raced through the turnstiles, out the exit, into the rain. I bounded up my stairs and through the door.

"MOMMY!" Thalia cried out, and I ran to her.

"Sage just couldn't wait any more," our sitter said. "I just put her down. She was so tired."

I sighed.

Later, we sprawled out on the couch together, Thalia on my belly facing up. I leaned in close--cheek to cheek, skin to skin, wrapping my arms around her as tightly as she'd let me. I felt more like a needy lover than just another working mom, trying to Do It All. Like we're supposed to. Like we somehow think we can.

She talked to me about her day and I breathed in the smell of her just bathed skin. I stroked her arm, tickled her feet, twirled her damp hair. She told me about school, about her classmates, about the snacks they ate. I was so wrapped up in her, in the moment, it was desperately hard to focus on what she was saying. It wasn't important.

But it was.