Morphing into Mama

June Goomah

When Matthew asked me to be the June Goomah over at The Blogfathers, I wasn't sure if I should be flattered or insulted.  Given we don't have HBO and, therfore, no Sopranos, and it's been years since I've even seen a mobster flick, I had to Google the word to find what the hell it is.

According to this source, a goomah is a woman with whom you cheat on your wife or girlfriend.  Or as one man explains it:

"This is the difference between a wife and a goomah," Frankie Boy says. "You're on a ship with your wife and your goomah, the ship's about to sink, and you can only save one. Who do you save? Your wife. Because your goomah, she understands."

Still unsure if I should be insulted or not, or if I should tell Husband about this, I headed directly over to The Blogfathers to see what they mean by goomah, and it turns out it just means bringing in some estrogen once a month to "balance out" the overabundance of testosterone over there.  And since the very talented and very Busy Mom was their very first Goomah, I decided I should definitely be very flattered. 

So go on over and check it out. 

The Day I Cracked

God.  It’s been a long time since I’ve been here.  I thought this place would be covered with cobwebs and dust, but you guys keep checkin’ in and sending me love notes.  Warms a mama’s heart, it does, to know she’s been missed.  Thanks.  A lot. 

Given you’ve taken the time to stop by and even comment, I thought I’d take a little time out of the insanity to give you an update.  Brace yourself – it’s insane to me but probably pretty fucking boring to you.

I had a midterm last week, and I have another one on Monday.  Monday’s is going to be a killer because, well, let’s just say I have a professor who gets a kick out playing “hide the information."   And, as you might guess, this game is not particularly helpful when one is being tested on “the information.”  Please try to send “read-the-professor’s-mind vibes” to me Monday evening (PST) to keep me from violently twitching at my desk. 

We closed escrow on Casa MIM on Tuesday, and we were supposed to be moving today because Husband had a business trip scheduled for next weekend.  Notice the tense in that last sentence.  See, Husband decided to cancel that trip, um, yesterday so we can move next weekend and have the house painted this weekend [twitch, twitch].  So, the kids and I spent yesterday getting estimates from and hiring painters, rescheduling the moving truck, canceling our friends who were to help us (and can’t help us next weekend), getting the phone turned back on, rescheduling the cable and internet hookup, and begging my parents to take the kids next weekend.  This last to-do item was not so easy since I’d already had an “incident” with my parents earlier in the week.

The “incident” began on Wednesday (before we'd changed our moving date) when I called my mother to confirm that she and Step-father would be staying at Casa MIM this weekend.  See, Step-father had insisted they come up here and help us move.  Mom was to watch the kids, and Step-father was going to help Husband with the heavy lifting while I handled the smaller items and fragiles. 

“Oh, Step-father decided we’d just drive home every night so we can sleep in our own bed,” my mother casually reported.

“What?!  You’re going to drive 2 HOURS here and 2 HOURS back?  After moving all day?”

“Yeah.  We’ll arrive at 8 and leave by 6 p.m.  It’ll be fine.”

“But that’s CRAZY!  You guys are tired after driving 4 hours in one day just to VISIT us!  But you think you’ll be fine with driving 4 hours AND moving for 10 hours for two, if not three days in a row?  Mom.  Seriously.  That’s just FUCKING nuts.  And besides, if you leave at 6 every night, that means all moving activity stops then.  Husband and I can’t go get the kids’ rooms ready at the new house if we have to do their nighttime routine and get them to bed AND stay home to watch them.  Because I thought you were staying here ALL weekend, I’d assumed you’d be around to sit at home with them at night so Husband and I could hang their drapes and repair their doors.”

“Well, you should have communicated that to Step-father because he had this planned out his own way.”

That’s when I officially cracked. 

“Look, Mom, I think it would be best if you guys just took the kids for the weekend like I’d originally asked.”  [twitch, twitch]

“But Step-father really wants to help you move.”

“Yes, Mom, I understand that [twitch, twitch], but the way he’s planned this is not really the most helpful.  And I thought this was about helping us, not about Step-father trying to be the moving-man hero.”

“Okay.  I’ll talk to him, but he’s not going to be happy about it.”

Like I give a motherfucking fuck.

Anyway, Step-father agreed to surrender his moving-man hero opportunity and instead watch the kids.  But then we changed the move date.  At the last possible minute.

“Mom, I’m sorry to have ask this, but can you guys PLEASE take the kids next weekend instead?”

“What?  But I already planned on them coming this weekend.  I already bought their milk!”

“Look, Mom, I understand [twitch, twitch] you’d already planned on them coming this weekend, and I am sorry to change plans on you at the last minute, but just look at it from my perspective: I’d already planned on MOVING this weekend.  Now I have a hundred-million-fucking things to change and reschedule.  I’m sure the milk will last until next weekend.  Now will you do it?” [twitch, twitch]

“Fine.  But we’re not happy about it.”

Like I give a motherfucking fuck.

[twitch, twitch]

Born To Be Grandma

I don’t really believe in destiny, but sometimes I think I was born to be a therapist.  For whatever reason, people I’ve just met often feel compelled to tell me things about themselves they wouldn’t tell their own dog let alone another person.  Like the other day when a new play group mom admitted she once dated a man for three months who was actually a woman.  Now while I wasn’t particularly phased by this having grown up in San Francisco, she, on the other hand, was so mortified by her admission that she began waving her finger at me and saying, “You . . . you . . . you make me say such things!”  I’m hoping once I’m a licensed therapist such admissions won’t be followed by a look of horror and shouts of “Witch!  Witch!” 

My spellbinding empathy, however, may explain why my mother has always given me too much information about her private life and sought my counsel.  During the years I lived with her, I was often awakened in the middle of the night with her crying at my bedside.

“MIM, are you awake?  Your step-father and I just had a fight.  He left.  I don’t know what to do?  What should I do?”

“I don’t know, Mom.  I’m tired.  And I’m only seven.  Want my teddy bear?”

I did the best I could to help her, but she never took my advice anyway.  Of course, I can’t imagine anyone actually taking the advice of a seven-year-old.  I think she just needed someone to talk to.  The problem was this completely skewed the mother-daughter boundaries.  In fact, it eventually led to full blown role reversal.  Mom, however, didn’t like what she’d helped to create and waged battle with me for many years to redeem her “mother” title.  And, like any person unwilling to relinquish the crown, I fought back.

During my pregnancy with Tod-lar, I finally decided it would be better for me not to talk to my mother.  Every conversation only turned into a yelling match with no winner.  At the time, my decision was a good one, but once Tod-lar actually arrived, I realized I needed to rethink things.  After all, the kid should be able to decide for himself what kind of relationship, if any, he should have with his grandmother. 

So after Tod-lar’s birth, I decided to approach my relationship with my mother in a different way.  I set boundaries and stopped engaging her in power struggles.  This proved to be effective because we both eventually stopped trying to parent each other.  But what’s really helped our relationship is the fact that she is such a stupendous grandmother.  I mean, that woman can grandmother like nobody’s business.  Whenever she comes to visit, she rolls around on the floor playing with the kids, laughing at every little sound and cute face they make.  After taking the kids for a weekend, she has a million stories, all of which show me how much she observes them and is taking the time to get to know them.  Other than Husband, she’s the only other person who gets the same thrill out them that I do. 

Like I said earlier, I don't really believe in destiny, but my mother was born to be Grandma.