6:40 p.m., Friday: Our glorious departure is now a panicked getaway. The three of us are wedged so tightly into our VW Beetle that Baby Ben looks like a piece of luggage with a head.
I’d imagined a grand occasion, sort of “Apollo 11” meets “Herbie Goes to Maryland.” Instead, we sneak out of Ann Arbor like theives in the night, weakened by hunger, with an overtired baby wailing from his dufflebag fort in the backseat.
We emerge from Ann Arbor’s Construction Area and Hundred-Mile Parking Lot and peel down US 23, where workers have decorated the shoulders with more pointless orange barrels a show of solidarity. On the left, we pass Ebenezer Baptist Church and Grain Silo. Benny scrabbles around under his blanket and drifts off to sleep.
We drag our weary behinds into a Friendly’s in Maumee, just before the Ohio Turnpike. Benny bounces in his highchair, shredding napkins and staring pop-eyed at fellow diners. Ron and I glumly eat our diet turkey plates (smothered in gravy) and peer at the map. The Ohio Turnpike curves under Lake Erie toward Cleveland, but we plan to break off at Highway 77 and find a hotel near Akron.
We aren’t on the Turnpike long before we turn into the giant concrete pillbox that is the Commodore Perry Service Plaza. The gift shop offers such vital travel commodities as plush butterflies on sticks. Also prominently displayed is a bright yellow self-help book asking “Have You Felt Like Giving Up Lately?” I guess after driving across Ohio, a lot of people feel like giving up.
It was dark before we lurched onto a very bumpy Highway 77, the lights of Akron ahead, but our hopes of a quick hotel room were doomed. The sold-out Holiday Inn displayed a huge placard saying “Welcome NEC International Golfers.”
We fled south, desperate to escape the Golf Tournament Zone. At 11 p.m., in Nowhere, Ohio, I found myself in another Holiday Inn lobby. Five drunk, middle-aged bleach blondes surrounded the desk, keening for connecting rooms. “We made this reservation a YEAR ago!” the ringleader screamed.
The desk clerk nervously smoothed his comb-over. “We can’t guarantee specific rooms, only a certain type --”
“Connecting!” another one yelled. “You know, with the doors between the --”
“We don’t have connecting rooms, here are your keys --”
“We stay here every year for tournament!” the ringleader cried. And apparently every year they reserve the nonexistent connecting rooms. “Where are the ... we’re miles apart! We’re on SEPARATE FLOORS!”
“That’s not right ...”
“... Way the fuck out there ...”
“Connecting! We want connecting rooms!”
Attracted by the chaos, some drunk man wanders over and stirs the pot. “Give ‘em connecting rooms! You oughta have connecting rooms -- with a big bed -- for an orgy!”
I should’ve left right then. Instead I slunk over to a second hotel clerk and asked if there were rooms available. He said only smoking. Deeply relieved, I raced back to the car. “Get us the hell out of here,” I hissed to Ron.
We woke the next morning in a dumpy little hotel in Strasburg, outside the NEC zone. The landscape had changed, surrounding us with little mountain ridges and deeper forests. But our entrance onto 77 was delayed by a New Jersey man who left his van to talk to woman with Ohio license plates. It was an intense coversation; obviously vital enough to back up traffic for a quarter-mile.
Woman: How do I get to Zanesville?
Man: Sorry, I’m from New Jersey..
Woman: Should I take 77 or 22?
Man: I ain’t from here, lady. See the pukey yellow license plate? Now if you want to get to New Brunswick or Pompton Lakes, there I can help you. Pompton’s real nice --
Woman: What if I took 77 east to -- (sudden scream) Eeeek! A crazed silver Beetle with a bike rack and a baby seat is about to run us over for sheer stupidity! Look out!
##
Thursday, August 19, 2004
Tuesday, August 03, 2004
My Job
7 a.m.: Time to wake up and get ready for my job.
I roll out of bed and into the shower. Ron feeds 6-month-old Ben while I wrestle with the curling iron. I’d laid out my clothes the night before and set out cereal bowls and boxes. By 8:30, Ron, Benny and I are washed, dressed, fed and out the door.
After dropping Ron off at the office, I head for my job -- grocery shopping today. Then I’ll do laundry (Benny’s wearing a torn shirt and a pink bib) and wash the car..
Yup, I’m a stay-at-home mom, living a life filled with sloppy hugs and suspicious odors (“Ewwww ... is that the cat? The kid? Or me?”). No schedules, no deadlines, no meetings. Personal chores like eating, showering and trashy-novel-reading could be accomplished at a mother’s convenience.
A mother’s what? There is no mother’s convenience. My baby’s paranormal Spidey sense can detect a book opening three rooms away. Tooth barely meets chocolate donut before an outraged wail resounds from the bedroom.
Oh sure, there’s plenty of flexibility. Which is why I used to find myself cowering in a darkened living room on a sunny afternoon, wearing day-old sweats and picking dust off Benny’s feet. A bottle ... baby’s bath ... a quick laundry load ... and it’s 4 p.m. and I haven’t gone to the store or even opened the drapes. Guess it’s takeout pizza for dinner again.
I was baffled. After all, I was once a newspaper editor juggling multiple deadlines. Now I couldn’t crawl two feet from my front door for the daily paper. What was wrong with me? Why could I handle a job, but not motherhood?
Ouch! Yes, I heard you. I know I’m doing The Most Important Job in the World. This is undeniable. Then I realized: Of course motherhood is a job, but I wasn’t treating it like one.
I understood how to function in the work world. I knew that unless I consistently washed clothes, bought hair products and ate breakfast, I’d show up to work looking like a blonde Woody Allen on speed. So I picked up my dry cleaning, sliced bagels, polished shoes, cleaned out purses. I kept the house marginally clean so I could find my car keys and leave on time.
But how was I showing up for motherhood each morning? Was I prepared to raise America’s Future? Well, the answer wasn’t pretty. A quick check of five pre-requisites to a professional performance yielded the following:
Grooming: Missmatched hairclips hold up my scraggly locks until I can shower during Ben’s morning nap. If he takes one. If it lasts more than 10 minutes. If I’m not derailed by a thousand another necessary chores. At 3 p.m. I give up and slap on a baseball cap. Must hunt and forage for food. I brush my teeth while packing Ben’s diaper bag. I file my nails at red lights on the way to the grocery store.
Clothing: Start the day in ragged sweats and spitup-stinky shirt.. Plan to change after shower (see above.). Upgrade to wrinkled khakis and faded t-shirt for my supermarket audience.
Meals: Breakfast is a cold dinner roll and leftover Gerber’s squash. Lunch is a bag of Oreos (gobbled while driving home from the grocery store) and a bottle of iced tea.
Organizational skills: Can’t find the paper towels. Can’t find the TV remote. Can’t find the cat. Buy giant bale of name-brand Ultra-Trim Leak Guard Moisture System, size 3. Go home and trip over unopened megapack of identical diapers in baby’s room.
Professional development: Log onto baby web sites while Ben chews my mouse pad. Read parenting magazines at bedtime. (“Recent studies indicate that the educational value of fig-filled cookies is greatly .... “ Zzzzzzz.)
True, Ben looks healthy, happy and sort of clean, so I’m succeeding at my job, right? Well, sure, but at what unnecessary cost? I’ve worked at jobs with inadequate resources and impossible deadlines. You can’t keep it up. You gotta quit the job or change your work habits, or one day your coworkers will find you huddled beneath your desk, gnawing on computer cords for a cheap thrill.
Many stay-at-home mothers claim, justfiably, that their work is undervalued. But sometimes that’s because we ourselves undervalue it. We never ask: What do I need to do my best work? The answer is simple. We need the same things our partners need so they can haul that lumber or type those HR memos without going crackers. We need adequate food and rest as well as appropriate clothing, grooming, professional development and -- of course -- a little stress relief.
So here I am at my job, writing this while Ben naps. The house is marginally clean, my cat is sunning on the windowsill and my shirt matches my pants. It’s after 5 p.m., but I’m not punching a time clock. Tonight Ron and I will dine on my patented Hamburger Excitement, made from the ground beef I bought today.
And Ron will feed the baby while I pursue some professional development: a pedicure. My kicky new sandals oughta be a real hit at baby music class. Although last week Benny cried during the opening song, then gnawed on a banjo for thirty minutes. So, maybe we’ll go, maybe we won’t. Maybe we’ll go to the park instead. It all depends on a mother’s convenience.
##
I roll out of bed and into the shower. Ron feeds 6-month-old Ben while I wrestle with the curling iron. I’d laid out my clothes the night before and set out cereal bowls and boxes. By 8:30, Ron, Benny and I are washed, dressed, fed and out the door.
After dropping Ron off at the office, I head for my job -- grocery shopping today. Then I’ll do laundry (Benny’s wearing a torn shirt and a pink bib) and wash the car..
Yup, I’m a stay-at-home mom, living a life filled with sloppy hugs and suspicious odors (“Ewwww ... is that the cat? The kid? Or me?”). No schedules, no deadlines, no meetings. Personal chores like eating, showering and trashy-novel-reading could be accomplished at a mother’s convenience.
A mother’s what? There is no mother’s convenience. My baby’s paranormal Spidey sense can detect a book opening three rooms away. Tooth barely meets chocolate donut before an outraged wail resounds from the bedroom.
Oh sure, there’s plenty of flexibility. Which is why I used to find myself cowering in a darkened living room on a sunny afternoon, wearing day-old sweats and picking dust off Benny’s feet. A bottle ... baby’s bath ... a quick laundry load ... and it’s 4 p.m. and I haven’t gone to the store or even opened the drapes. Guess it’s takeout pizza for dinner again.
I was baffled. After all, I was once a newspaper editor juggling multiple deadlines. Now I couldn’t crawl two feet from my front door for the daily paper. What was wrong with me? Why could I handle a job, but not motherhood?
Ouch! Yes, I heard you. I know I’m doing The Most Important Job in the World. This is undeniable. Then I realized: Of course motherhood is a job, but I wasn’t treating it like one.
I understood how to function in the work world. I knew that unless I consistently washed clothes, bought hair products and ate breakfast, I’d show up to work looking like a blonde Woody Allen on speed. So I picked up my dry cleaning, sliced bagels, polished shoes, cleaned out purses. I kept the house marginally clean so I could find my car keys and leave on time.
But how was I showing up for motherhood each morning? Was I prepared to raise America’s Future? Well, the answer wasn’t pretty. A quick check of five pre-requisites to a professional performance yielded the following:
Grooming: Missmatched hairclips hold up my scraggly locks until I can shower during Ben’s morning nap. If he takes one. If it lasts more than 10 minutes. If I’m not derailed by a thousand another necessary chores. At 3 p.m. I give up and slap on a baseball cap. Must hunt and forage for food. I brush my teeth while packing Ben’s diaper bag. I file my nails at red lights on the way to the grocery store.
Clothing: Start the day in ragged sweats and spitup-stinky shirt.. Plan to change after shower (see above.). Upgrade to wrinkled khakis and faded t-shirt for my supermarket audience.
Meals: Breakfast is a cold dinner roll and leftover Gerber’s squash. Lunch is a bag of Oreos (gobbled while driving home from the grocery store) and a bottle of iced tea.
Organizational skills: Can’t find the paper towels. Can’t find the TV remote. Can’t find the cat. Buy giant bale of name-brand Ultra-Trim Leak Guard Moisture System, size 3. Go home and trip over unopened megapack of identical diapers in baby’s room.
Professional development: Log onto baby web sites while Ben chews my mouse pad. Read parenting magazines at bedtime. (“Recent studies indicate that the educational value of fig-filled cookies is greatly .... “ Zzzzzzz.)
True, Ben looks healthy, happy and sort of clean, so I’m succeeding at my job, right? Well, sure, but at what unnecessary cost? I’ve worked at jobs with inadequate resources and impossible deadlines. You can’t keep it up. You gotta quit the job or change your work habits, or one day your coworkers will find you huddled beneath your desk, gnawing on computer cords for a cheap thrill.
Many stay-at-home mothers claim, justfiably, that their work is undervalued. But sometimes that’s because we ourselves undervalue it. We never ask: What do I need to do my best work? The answer is simple. We need the same things our partners need so they can haul that lumber or type those HR memos without going crackers. We need adequate food and rest as well as appropriate clothing, grooming, professional development and -- of course -- a little stress relief.
So here I am at my job, writing this while Ben naps. The house is marginally clean, my cat is sunning on the windowsill and my shirt matches my pants. It’s after 5 p.m., but I’m not punching a time clock. Tonight Ron and I will dine on my patented Hamburger Excitement, made from the ground beef I bought today.
And Ron will feed the baby while I pursue some professional development: a pedicure. My kicky new sandals oughta be a real hit at baby music class. Although last week Benny cried during the opening song, then gnawed on a banjo for thirty minutes. So, maybe we’ll go, maybe we won’t. Maybe we’ll go to the park instead. It all depends on a mother’s convenience.
##
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