When my son doesn’t understand that Mommy needs two freaking minutes to make her damn Soothing Moments tea

The other day my mom trotted into the room holding up a wet paper towel with damp clumps of dust on it. “See,” she said, “this is how you clean your dryer.” My dryer needed to be cleaned? It doesn’t clean itself like I thought ever appliance in my house magically did when I was asleep? Or elves! Like that story, “The Shoemaker and The Elves.” Every morning the Shoemaker woke up to a new pair of shoes made for his shop. Why not me, God? Why spare me those elves?

This is what my mother does. Whenever she brainstorms lessons on household-maintenance, she walks in, bestows me with said wisdom and exits. Most of the time, I’m breast-feeding, so it’s not like I have a free hand to get a pen. During one of her impromptu how-to’s I was trying to get Nathan to aim and connect and said, “Could you just write that down?”

And this is how I got, “Mona’s Obligation As A Wife: Version 1.0″.

Before you criticize Mama-san for being anti-feminist, I have to say this development is great. When my mom is explaining how often I should dry clean Mike’s clothes or change the sheets, I interject with a, “Did you write that down on the list?” And just like that, the lesson’s over and off she goes adding to Wife 101.

Mona's Obligation as a Wife: a Guide by my mother

Little does that notepad girl know, there’s a glass ceiling at the end of that tree.

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In other gender-role news, I’ve been wearing the, “Stay-at-Home-Mom” title or as I like to call it, “Stay-At-Home-All-The-Long-Ass-Day-Mom.” Mike and I decided that I should stay at home with Nathan until he’s old enough for the daycare at his work. Besides, we can survive without the tens of dollars a year I make.

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May 31, 2006 | Filed Under Uncategorized | Leave a Comment 

Random information about my mother

She cannot pronounce “cheddar.” To her, the “h” is silent. Mozart? No, it’s “Mochart.” Do you need to xerox that file? Well have fun “jeeroxing” it, my friend. She also cannot say “chamomile.” To her, it is a Mexican cocktail, pronounced “caa-mo-mee-lay!” Viva Mexico!

She does not use the word “lesbian.” She prefers the term, “tomboy.” She strongly dislikes calling one’s lady business a “vagina” and opts for the more carbohydrate-heavy “pancake.” That’s right, when she says “pancake” she’s not talking about flapjacks.

And my family wonders why I’ve always felt slightly uncomfortable at IHOP.

May 26, 2006 | Filed Under Uncategorized | Leave a Comment 

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