It's been a very busy few weeks (weddings, work, etc.) so once again I'm going to rely on the benevolence of others and their words.
My sister-in-law, Michelle, is also a writer. She teaches at Grub Street which is an adult education writing center. She also ghost writes books for dudes who aren't talented enough to make what they have to say interesting (heart surgeons and doctors who want to introduce new diet phenoms). She also reports for Worth Magazine. Articles so good and in depth they have the power to tear families apart. Literally. On top of all this, she's a mother who sends me some of the funniest observations on motherhood.
Here's a picture of Michelle's kids:
Here's her latest email:
OK. Samantha's new thing is that her socks have to be absolutely
clean or she freaks out. She can be soaked to the armpits in her own
pee, she can have dried spaghetti sauce caked on her sleeves and
chocolate smears around her collar, but if one spec of dirt has
marred her socks, it's a total f*cking disaster. And she can feel the
dirt in her shoes. She knows the socks are dirty before she even
takes her shoes off and she's already whining and complaining. I
can't tell you the number of socks we go through every day. And your
mother is like some kind of sock dealer. She shows up at the house
with new pairs all the time, with sparklies and hot pink flowers. And
I'm like, you're sending me to hell with these. What are you doing?
Samantha is right this minute writhing on the floor with her little
pink polka dot socks, twisting them around and ramping herself up for
more wailing. Why? I don't know why, except that the tantrum started
when the supposedly clean socks came out of the drier with stains
still on them (Mommie didn't use enough stain remover, that's another
level of hell, right?) So I put more stain remover on them and put
them right back in the washer. Resistance is futile. Now she wants to
wear them, but they're still dirty.
And your mother is threatening to buy Samantha a leotard for her little
preschool gymnastics class. You know, with the low cut front and the
little gauzy skirt sewn in. And I'm thinking 1) I'm going to have to
keep it immaculately clean to keep the crazies away, even though
she'll want to wear it while making mud pies, 2) I'm going to have
to wrestle her into it and pry her out of it kicking and screaming
once a week for a 45 minute "gymnastics" class. Please shoot me now.
And I thought boys were hard. Garret doesn't know that he has socks.
He barely knows that he has feet. He'd run around naked if we'd let
him. Suddenly these are good things.
Sorry to rant, but it's just possible that Larry and I have kids who
are far crazier than the two of us put together.