I didn’t get to finish my Mother’s Day post yesterday because I have two kids.
I totally get that Mother’s Day brunch must be one of the toughest shifts for a server to work, but gee whiz, lady. Put some of those acting classes to use and pretend you’re happy to be there. It’s my special brunch. Odie made the reservation weeks ago. I don’t want to hear about how you’ve been there since 8:25 a.m. and the work has been crazy. Surely you have some sort of training in waiting tables during busy shifts?
It was not what I’d hoped it would be, but it was special anyway. Crayons and Cheerios were flying everywhere. I got a bit grumbly when my mimosa didn’t come for 15 minutes. She also messed up Viva’s order, but it isn’t like that kid was going to eat it anyway. She’s three. I asked her if she could pretend, just for one day, that she’s five, but she said no. The mimosa did eventually come. We enjoyed a nice breakfast together as a family of four. There was nothing relaxing about it. Maybe in a few years we can do like the family at the next table and give the kids iPads while we parents eat in grim silence. Now THAT looks like family fun.
One of the best Mother’s Day gifts I got today was Odie getting both girls dressed to go out. Putting Viva in clothes can make a Bloody Mary at 8:00 on Monday morning seem like a reasonable idea. She pivots. She hops. She head bonks. She declares, “I’m a mermaid!” and falls to the ground. She’s like one of those string tension toys where you push the button and it collapses. While I admonish her to stand up straight, hold still, put her foot here or her arm there, she ignores me while going “Whoooooooooaaaaaahhhhhhhh!” and wobbling around. She also vetoes outfits. The more I like it and declare it cute, the more she hates it. Odin help me if I force her into an outfit she doesn’t want to wear. If I tried to arrange some Kelle Hampton style photo shoots, all of Viva’s pictures would be of her in adorable outfits throwing rage tantrums.
Those who don’t have kids or who use different parenting styles than I may chuckle and think I let my child rule over me. No, but she’s old enough to know what she wants to wear and I’m not going to force her into what I think she should wear. I don’t need that level of control over my kids. I have no ego investment in her looking adorable.
I could certainly identify with what Dooce wrote last week about having a three year-old. My Viva and her Marlo are just weeks apart in age. I’d say maybe Marlo is acting out because of the divorce, but my three year-old acts the same way. Just a different version. Saturday I dragged her by the wrist through Target. There are so many cute summer clothes at good prices, but Viva will have none of this. “I don’t LIKE that. I don’t WANT it” is her constant refrain, intoned with as much whine as possible. She tried to sit on the floor to demonstrate that she was mad.
“Mommy, I’m MAD.”
“Well, be mad in the car on the way home. Get off the floor.”
I am privileged to be a mother. I love my children. They really drive me nuts, sometimes, though. In the mornings, when I want to sit and drink my coffee while the Motrin kicks in, they swarm me. We have no fewer than five pieces of furniture in our living room, but both my daughters only want to sit on me. Pringles is going though a phase where she wants to rip my lips off my face. Viva wants to watch something on TV, and as soon as I put it on she will whine, “I don’t like that! I don’t want it! I don’t want that one!” and as soon as I turn it off, she’ll explode in tears, “I wanted that! I want to watch that one! MOMMMMMMMMMMMAAAAAAAAH!!!!”
And I want to come out of my skin.
Then, hours later, they fall asleep. Sometimes I feel tortured with guilt for being impatient or feeling irritated with them. They look so peaceful and innocent while sleeping. Remorsefully, I reach out and stroke a silky curl. In her sleep, Viva mumbles, “No! I don’t WANT it!” and I feel better.
The Friendly Pedant by Mrs. Odie 
Poppa Issues
A few nights ago, I had a vivid dream. I was invited to Florida to meet Kelle Hampton. I knew I had to be dreaming when I agreed to go. I once saw a Palmetto bug in the Museum of Natural History, and that was enough to keep me on the opposite coast FOREVER.
When I arrived, I was greeted by my subconscious’ version of members of her family: her husband, sister, and father. The sister seemed embarrassed and uncomfortable, Poppa was positively smug. Kelle herself was not there, for she was out with the kids, taking pictures for her next blog post. I was escorted to a well-appointed table for dinner, but overcome with paranoia I excused myself to use the restroom. There, I checked my dream version of Poppa Rik’s blog on my phone and saw that he had just posted “The trap is set! The bitch is here!” and the title of his post was “Mrs. Odie is Going Down!”
(Odie snickers, “That was MY dream!”)
The dream got murky there, as dreams do, but somehow I escaped that set up and reunited with my husband. In my dream, he was being played by actor Edward Norton, which was a delightful surprise. Not scary “American History X” Ed Norton, but more along the lines of “Rounders” Norton. Edward/Odie presented me with dream Kelle’s latest book. It was pink with a lace overlay tied with a pretty little silver metallic bow. It looked like a wedding invitation. Inside, a chapter titled “Mrs. Odie is a Bitch” revealed my true identity.
“Mrs. Odie’s real name is: Carrie White.”
I remember being completely freaked and then relieved in a heartbeat because that is NOT my name.
Arthur C. Clarke wrote, “The mind has labyrinthine ways of going about its business.” When I woke up, I had to chuckle. I’ve been working on my novel the past few weeks and I’m simultaneously reading Stephen King’s “On Writing.” Carrie White is the name of the protagonist in his first novel.
I realize that by posting this, I’m opening myself up to all kinds of amateur dream analysis. My therapist would say “Everyone in your dream is you,” so I am both my harshest critic, my own accusor, and my hero. And apparently, I’m Edward Norton.
I had a text conversation with my dad earlier in the day that also set me up for a dream dealing with daddy issues. He’s casting the latest show he wrote, and emailed me pictures of the “drop-dead gorgeous” twenty-somethings they picked. It triggered all kinds of I’m not good enough feelings and made me melancholy. Still, I’m glad my father issues are what they are rather than anyone else’s. I wouldn’t want him telling people we share the same spleen and feeling like he needs to come to my defense or my offense. If he reads my blog, he has never mentioned it except to tell me he thinks I’m a great writer, and he would never tell me I can’t fucking swear.
In my dream, I was horrified at the prospect of being outed, which will happen someday. I got over that terror and accepted the inevitability with resignation. As I said, I’m writing my novel and I will probably publish under my name. It’s a trilogy, I’m writing. There is a love triangle. A beautiful young woman is in love with a kinky, dominating billionaire and a sparkly vampire. Before she chooses her lover, she travels back in time and has to fight to the death on a reality show where the prize is the Iron Throne of the Seven Kingdoms. It’s like nothing you’ve ever read. Working title: Fifty Shades of Hungry Outlandish Twilight Thrones. Available for preorder soon.
And whenever I go to the prom, I spend the whole time looking up.
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