Newlywedded

VIGILANTES OF PARENTAL JUSTICE

While many of us love and adore our parents, it’s hard to imagine that, even when you become a parent, you’re…a parent. It’s surreal thinking that I’m someone’s “mother”—one day, I’ll say things like “Empty the dishwasher or you’ll have no TV,” or “That’s it! You’re grounded,” or even, “That’s your girlfriend?”

Am I going to be the mom who, when my son says he’s sleeping at Ben’s house, will call Ben’s mother to make sure that she’s at home and that the boys are actually going to be where they say there are? Am I going to be embarrassing?

 Guess what? I already am.

 VIGILANTE OF PARENTAL JUSTICE – CASE #1

 New Year’s Eve 2011

Mike and I and a few of our parental friends are standing outside a club/restaurant ready to party the night away. Mind you, we didn’t come by this easily. It takes a lot of work to get a group of parents out…let alone on New Year’s Eve. First of all, we had to be dressed, which is quite a feat when you’re used to wearing the same Target sweatpants (holla back Champion for Target—a mom’s uniform!) and semi dirty t-shirt every single day. So, wearing an outfit…especially a…ahem…hot outfit…is a MAJOR DEAL. Now, that’s just the clothes. Let’s talk logistics. What does it take to get a parent out? First, you need childcare. We booked our NYE babysitter a month in advance and committed to paying her double. We did all of this before we had any semblance of a plan. Then, we had to pick a location for this event. Once we found a place that wasn’t going to force us to eat a prix fixe menu or slap a giant cover charge on us, we were set. No guest list, no drama, just 6 “dying to get out,” “hoping their pants still zip” parents of toddlers out on the town.

We arrive at the door of our New Year’s Eve party spot and we notice, much to our chagrin, that there’s a tall blonde with a clipboard standing out front flanked by two hulking dudes wearing earpieces. This is the sign of…a guest list. A lockout. Something that we were promised wouldn’t happen.

Me: “Hi, uh…we’re here for drinks.”

Door girl: “Your name please?”

Me: “I was told there would be no guest list this evening.”

Door girl: “You were told incorrectly.”

Me: “Oh. Well anyway, we have friends having dinner here so we’re just joining them for drinks.”

Door girl: “And their names are?”

Okay, so we legitimately do have friends having dinner there and we give the tall blonde with the clipboard their names and she disappears into the abyss of “let me see if it’s okay for me to open our completely empty space up to you and your four friends and I’m going to take a really long time so you sweat it out and feel inadequate.”

Little did Blondie know she was messing with the wrong mama.

In the time that it took for her to spin on her wedged heel, “check with the manager,” and return, I became pissed. Really pissed. I was wearing my highest heels. I was wearing my tightest pants and there was no way that she was going to rob me of this night. Maybe last year when I was sleep deprived, drowning in baby weight and boulder-sized breast feeding tatas…maybe then…but not now.

 She returns.

Doorgirl: “So…we can let you two in” (she gestures with her pen to Mike and me) “and two more but that’s it. Sorry. We’re at capacity.”

 And this is what happens when you push 8.4 lbs out of your vagina…

Me: “Do you have any idea what it took for us to get here? We’ve been planning on this for a month. We, and I mean all of us, have hired very expensive help to sit and watch TV while our children sleep. We have gotten dressed up, arranged transportation, and…I’m sorry…did I mention what it’s like getting a babysitter on New Year’s Eve? Anyway, this was no small feat. We’re parents of little children who are ready to party and we were told there would be no list so here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going y to let all of us in and you’re not going to give us any more problems about it because there is NO WAY you’re going to screw this up for us. No f-ing way.”

And I walked right passed her (I think I even grazed her shoulder with my jacket), threw open the big red door and walked right into the fortress, my posse following closely behind.

But I’m not the only vigilante of parental justice living in my house…

VIGILANTE OF PARENTAL JUSTICE – CASE #2:

The other day, at the Farmer’s Market, Mike, Max and I were patiently waiting for a parking space when some guy coming in the other direction swoops in and jacks our space. Now, Mike, who happens to be one of the nicest guys anyone will ever meet—someone who really doesn’t have a temper and someone who I count on to keep ME sane—loses it. We’ve got the kid in the car and we’re on a tight schedule, people. Tight. This means that lunch was supposed to happen seven minutes ago and we’re about 25 minutes away from a pre-nap meltdown. This a—hole who’s stolen our space has just cost us those precious 11 minutes. Minutes that are the difference between having to transfer our kid from the car to the crib, minutes that are the difference between having a semi-peaceful meal and having to peel our screaming child off of the concrete as we apologetically nod to fellow diners and passersby.

And this is what happens when you make a Flip video of your wife pushing 8.4 lbs out of her vagina…

He does what any decent, self respecting father, a true vigilante of parental justice would do. He blocks the entire lane, refuses to let any cars pass us, gets out of the car and walks right up the parking space stealing douchebag’s window and knocks on it. The douchebag is now scared because my husband (of whom I’m now very scared) is knocking furiously at his window and has blocked his ability to leave the space.

Mike: “You just stole my space.”

Douchebag: “Oh hey bro…you know how it is.”

Mike: “No, this is NOT how it is.”

Douchebag: “C’mon man. Let me get out…”

Mike: “You will not get out unless you’re interested in passing by me. You see all of these cars? They’re all piling up because you stole my space. Blatantly stole my space. Now I have my wife and my kid in that car and we need to get to lunch so here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to roll your window up. You’re going to turn your car back on and you’re going to back out of this space and let me get in and then you’re going to drive around and find another place to park your Prius.”

And instead of, oh I don’t know, punching my husband in the face or pulling out his glock and shooting him, the douchebag rolls his window back up, turns his silent car back on and slithers out of the space.

Now, I don’t know if this means that Mike and I will one day be arrested in the assault of another couple during a soccer game or if it means that I’ll become some insane Dance Mom or whether it just means that we’re…embarrassing. The way all parents are meant to be. Yup. I’m pretty sure Max will sprint away from us in the carpool line and beg to be dropped off at the mall by the time he’s five years old, but too bad…at least he’ll learn how to talk his way into a club and get a decent parking space--tools that are integral to success in Tinseltown.

Happy Belated New Year. 

 

The Zen Mom

As most working moms, I live with my head perpetually in my ass. Today, January 2nd, I have it marked on the family calendar (see, we have one of those--I'm so organized, don't you just want to shoot me?) "Alexis goes back to work." But, because I'm an idiot mother who also holds down a job, I didn't realize that today is a national holiday so here I am. Not at work and reflecting on what I like to call "working mother syndrome," which, in my weaker moments, does things like make me want to subscribe to Working Mother magazine and go on the View to talk about "balancing it all." 

Let's be honest. Men don't have this issue (and don't get all "pc" on me because it's true...they don't). People don't walk around saying, "my husband's a working father." No, he's just a father. No one cares whether he works or he doesn't work, but whenever I'm catching up with someone, they always ask me "are you working?" I usually feel very comfortable in my role as a working mom, except when people ask if I'm working because it insinuates that there's another option...which there isn't..so it kind of makes me want to scream back, like a psychopath, "are YOU working ?!?! " But, I don't because, like most working moms, I keep my aggression completely bottled up inside so I can appear to be a Zen mommy, moving through the working mommy days as if it were some kind of Zanex induced twilight sleep...no guilt...no confusion...just acceptance. 

I actually thought I was doing quite well managing my "condition." I had the schedule completely down, Max was happy, Mike was happy and I felt like I had the "balance" that every parenting magazine and stupid Angelina Jolie-esque celebriparent with too many kids drones on about.

Until...the day I was served a bad margarita.

Yes, you see, one of the things no one really talks about is the importance of alcohol in a working mother's life...we momaholics are the types who come home from work and must have a glass of wine or we'll combust. If we're with our children, we look at the clock as it ticks closer to the bedtime hour just so we can pop open that glass of Ramona Pinto Grigio and start swigging. Many of us don't even wait until bedtime and that's just fine too. A drunk mom does things with her own panache.

Anyway, it was a Sunday night and Mike and I had been out with Max for several hours and it was getting late. Max had fallen asleep in the stroller and we decided to pop into a Mexican restaurant for their Sunday night happy hour. Nothing like having a cocktail under the "I really f-ing hope my kid doesn't wake up" umbrella. It's either a seize the moment moment, or it's the dumbest thing you've ever done. The thing is, when mommy orders a cocktail, it had better arrive fast and it had better be delicious. Now, my Zen self didn't realize how much of a momaholic I actually was until I took a sip of the worst margarita I'd ever tasted. Chock full of triple sec and sour mix and yuck. The minute I took that sip, I thought of how hard I work (yeah that's right...how hard I work...I'm no martyr...I'm bitching it like it is). I thought of that f-ing balance...the timing, the scheduing, the endless packing of snacks and lunches and the guilt and the worry and the....oh that waiter was so sad he came up to our table to ask me how my drink was. 

I looked at Mike and he stared at me with those big brown eyes all awash in "please don't...I cant watch..."

"Aaaand how's that drink for ya?" the just off the bus from Indiana to get an acting job waiter chirped.
"Let's talk," I groan.
"Oooohkay...."
"Heres the thing. I ordered s spicy jalapeño cucumber margarita..."
"Yes..."
"First of all, it doesn't taste spicy. It doesn't taste ccucumbery. It doesn't even taste tequila-ish...it tastes like fake lime juice and triple sec and that's about all and I'm sorry sir, I know you didn't make it so I guess...I'm really talking to your bartender through you but in any case it's bad. Also, you served this drink up, without ice, and quite frankly, if I order a margarita, I want it to be ice cold, on the rocks, and if you're going to serve it to me up, it should be advertised that way. Otherwise, I'm really drinking a semi cold, soon to be semi warm drink that I'll have to pour on the rocks anyway and I'd rather just save everyone the time and trouble and..."
"Miss? Would you like me to get you another drink?"

And like any working mother, like any nagging wife, I slipped back into Zen mommy mode and said, passive aggressively and with enough guilt inducing saccharine that this guy was probably going to go cut himself after his shift was over:  "No...no thanks. This is just fine. I...I just thought you should know that it's not what everyone says it is. It's not..what I expected."

And I drank the entire thing and then I was drunk (because working mommy really only needs a splash of triple sec to be wasted) and then max woke up and it was time to leave and contemplate Monday, work, packing and it's back to hoping that I'm doing something right and that I have enough wine in my fridge for when I get home...and for the next 363.5 days of 2012.

Ommmmmm ommmmmm ommmmmm