Motherhood Uncensored

2008. The Year of the Audit.

If you're wondering what I've been up to, I've been swimming in a sea of receipts thanks to a fairly impersonal letter from the IRS I received about 29 days ago telling me that I'm being audited.

It's exactly as awful as it sounds, mostly because I remember that exact tax season quite well, with me wracking my brain at the 11th hour trying to find expenses to bring my down bill to a somewhat swallowable amount.

If only I hadn't been stuck with a not so savvy junior accountant who should have told me that having so many expenses with such a small income would scream "PLEASE AUDIT ME!" I would have done a shot, written the check, and eaten ramen for the next month or so.

Of course, I won't mention the fact that I paid a five figure tax bill that year. Way to squeeze a little more out of a middle class rock, Government.

At the beginning of every year, I vow to be better at my own personal record keeping, but then by the middle of the year, I'm wadding up receipts in drawers all over my hours. That means when tax time rolls around, I'm left to rely on a four-kid memory, credit card and bank statements, and bunch of ziploc bags full of crumpled receipts.

As my good fortune would have it, 2008 was the year that I bought a handy little receipt organizer that I found still stuffed with the receipts, and with the help of my bank statements, Paypal, and about four trees (plus my new accountant who dissuaded me from sending a friendly letter, a copy of my book, and some condom lollipops), I was able to print out almost everything that I wrote off under my "other" expenses.

Even good old Bank of America aka "Thorn in my em-effing side" came through and sent all my credit card statements that they mysteriously could not find and "might take up to 30 days to send."

Now I'm not so naive to think that I'm not going to owe anything. From what I've read in my crazed Googling of "Schedule C Audit OMFG," everyone ends up paying something after an audit.

But they've got to give me some credit for having the balls to write off my mattress as "research."

I figured that was much more reasonable than my kitchen table.

Dear Mom. I totally get it. Love Me.

Part of me believes that there are just some parental inevitabilities, you know, universal truths that our own parents experienced and no matter how hard we try our best to be different and unlike our own parents we fail.

Miserably.

Because kids are kids, whether they've got an Atari Joystick or a Nintendo 3DS in their hand. Or they're wearing Cavariccis or Cavariccis. Again. 

There will always be a trail of clothes on the floor. And wrappers dropped exactly where the lollipop was opened.

In some ways,  this constant is comforting. And not just beause I'm way too tired to play Sherlock Holmes.

There's something reassuring about humanity knowing that we left crumbs on our mother's precious carpet and so do our kids. The crumbs might now be from organic bunny cookies and not the Keebler variety, but fancy pants cookies and those other ones jacked up on high fructose corn sugar that taste really freaking good crumble all the same.

No matter how creative I try to be, I still end up sounding like my mom, which as I'm learning, isn't such a bad thing.

I constantly remind my children to put things back where they belong, or "If you had put it back in the first place then you'd know where it is now" which hearing as a kid was so incredibly eyeroll-worthy but now makes perfect sense, so much so that when it does happen it makes me unreasonably happy. I'm not quite sure how my mom stopped herself from doing some sort of audacious "I told you so!" dance.

I don't have quite the same self-control.

And the crying for absolutely no apparent reason, well for other than a major injury, grief, or missed opportunity for mommy to make out with Ryan Reynolds sends me into a spiral that manifests as the dreaded "I can think of about 40 other actual things to cry about like children who have no food at all and wouldn't be crying because you cut their hot dog at the wrong angle," which is a lighter version of my parents' "I'll give you something to cry about" which I never actually understood what the hell they were talking about until now.

It's no wonder I was sent to my room to ponder such things on a regular basis. And if I didn't go on my own, I would have received their assistance getting there, a handy service I too offer my own kids.

There's plenty that I do differently than my mom, if only because I've got more resources, support, and drive thru Starbucks at my fingertips than she ever did.

But even with all my fancy nursing tops, self-warming baby bottles, and strollers that can practically drive themselves, we're still moms who just want our kids to pick up their crap and for god sakes put it the hell away.

Who's the fairest parent of them all?

Since my husband travels for work almost half the month, when he goes away it's no big deal.

But when I go away, it becomes a bit of a production. A soap opera really. Except instead of 91 year old actresses whose faces are tighter than young children wailing about my departure, they are actually young children.

And they are very very good at what they do.

My early morning flight meant good-byes were done at bedtime, with my two middle children gleefully silenced by my offers of prizes (beads! boas! booze!).

My oldest, however, became overwhelmed by tears during my ritual pep talk that involves asking her to help Daddy and how cool it is to be the big sister and that I won't be gone for long which usually gets me a look that says "BULLSHIT MOTHER" at which point she continues weeping until I offer her prizes too.

Lately, her relationship with my husband has been a bit strained, some of it due to typical six-year-old angst (which I hope is not an indication of how things will be when she's a teenager because that is just cruel) and also because my husband can be a bit challenging.

"He's mean," she explained, which is really her way of saying "stressed" and "frazzled" - something that often happens when he's alone with the kids (usually just three) for an extended period of time.

Like four hours.

But even when he's home for longer than a few days and I'm there with him, he often gets visibly frustrated which translates as short and impatient or to a 6-year-old, mean.

And I get it. I get annoyed and tired and frustrated because parenting is hard and parenting four kids is really hard and I'd probably long for the solitude of an airplane cockpit and a quiet hotel room. I'm often jealous of his schedule, particularly between the hours of 6pm and bedtime when all hell breaks loose.

I've also been tempted to call him every time I wake up to feed the baby but I fear karma would bit me sorely on the ass for that one.

I also do my best to disregard the fact that he will actually be enjoying the solitude of the airplane cockpit and a quiet hotel room very shortly and should just suck it up and slap a smile on his face).

I had to laugh a bit when she told me.

"But Mommy yells an awful lot. I'm much meaner than Daddy!" I reminded her.

And it's true. With all my husband's impatience, he rarely loses his temper like I do.

She thought for a minute and then responded.

"But...," she hesitated, "you say you're sorry."

I squeezed her and combed her hair with my fingers. I never really knew if my apologies actually meant anything, even though I made a point to say sorry when my behavior was wrong.

"Mommies make bad choices too" I tell them. "I'm so sorry, will you forgive me?"

By that time, they're usually on to something else, or consuming "Mommy was an asshole today" cupcakes, a recipe I've perfected over the last few months, and aside from a head nod or a "Yeah, sure," I never really know if they're really listening.

Well, apparently they are.

And even better, those sorries mean something.

That night my daughter gave me the most amazing gift: Freedom from the guilt and worry I've been carrying around for all the times I've lost my shit.

And confirmation that I am, in fact, the better parent.

Ha.

The house stuck in time

It's been a year since I've been home, which is enough time for me to forget why my visits are so infrequent.

My mom still sits on the couch my father sat on, hunched over a bucket as he drooled out of his mouth after his tongue was removed from cancer.

She eats off the kitchen table where my sister first pulled up to standing.

Everywhere I turned I saw photographs of my sister at the same age that my youngest daughter is now.

I know now why Bridget's smile and bright eyes are too familiar to me. She is fair, like my sister. Her eyes are almond shaped, but light - a confusing but mesmerizing combination, like my sister.

And so far, she's leaning towards being a lefty.

Like my sister.

As I ran through the neighborhood, I thought about visiting her, but I knew I wouldn't have time so I did it in my mind. I saw a snapshot of her small gravestone as if I was standing right there.

Deanna Lin Chase

August 27, 1979 - May 8, 1980

I picked the weeds and laid flowers by her name. And I apologized for not getting there sooner.

Maybe it's hormones. Maybe it's because I'm a mother now. Maybe it's because losing a sibling just plain sucks. Always.

When I got home I scooped Bridget up in my arms and took her to my room. As we passed the lifesize picture of my sister that hangs in our hall, she reached out to her.

And she smiled like she knew her well.

 

My pilot is a Jewish carpenter

Last week my mom informed me that she is going to Israel to minister to Holocaust victims. This was after she told me that she'd prefer not to come down and help me out with the kids for my half marathon if she didn't have to because "she hates airports and flying."

Don't worry. I'm getting to the "Holocaust victims" thing. Bear with me.

As it turns out, she took a trip to Sacramento with a friend, had a bad layover experience on the way back, and suddenly she doesn't want to fly unless, well, it's for Jesus apparently. 

The weird part (well, one of the weird parts, I should say) is that she flew on the airline that my husband works for, except instead of asking us to help her book a ticket or at least, advise her on which route to take, she did it all herself.

And so, she gave me this whole "well, I'd prefer not to have to come if you don't really need me, so let me know if your husband makes it back from his trip in time for you to do the race so I don't have to come."

So I told her not to worry about it, because, um, what am I supposed to say to that and that we'd figure it out and well, yeah.

Then she sent me an urgent email about needing my kids' social security numbers because she was getting her affairs in order for a mission trip to Israel.

Is she taking a bus to Israel? A boat? A trolley car? Because last I checked, you have to fly there, for like, a really long time.

I put it off for a few days because I was a little annoyed and then after I got the ALL CAPS I NEED THE SOCIAL SECURITY NUMBERS NOW AND IF I TYPE IN CAPS YOU WILL GET THE MESSAGE SO CALL ME CHILD THAT WAS PULLED FROM MY VAGINA WITH TONGS.

So I did. And I was proud. I didn't even mention the whole flying thing once. Not even a joke.

"Is the Lord going to beam you up to Jerusalem?"

Then she told me that as part of her trip she would be ministering to Holocaust victims.

I think I asked her to repeat herself because it might have been the craziest thing I've ever heard.

My head was filled with questions: Aren't they Jewish? They made it through the Holocaust, why would they want to switch Gods? Are you sure that this is a good idea?

Have you completely lost your mind?

There are about 1000 things wrong with this scenario, not including the whole flying thing. But instead of giving her a piece of my mind, I just listened to her.

The trip is booked. I'm not going to change her mind.

And as a newly minted 60-year-old, I figure she's earned the right to do whatever the hell she wants without her offspring giving her a hard time about it.

I'm hoping that the Holocaust victims will do that for me.

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