I often find myself wondering how I got this job. Mother, I mean. If it required an application, with a demonstrated set of skills, they wouldn't even call me back for an interview. Can't cook. Working knowledge of bed making, but little experience. No rewards or recognition in the area of laundry. Who would hire me?
But now that I have this job, I often feel that if I could be kicked onto the sidewalk with a meager severance in hand, I would be.
I imagine Ian and Julian as a two-man Board of Directors. They would meet in the rarefied atmosphere of a 50th-floor, oak-paneled conference room with a view of the New York harbor, Lady Liberty included. (Hey, look Ian, it's that lady with the candle!) Crayons and Capri Sun would be set up on the table in front of each of them, and a woman with a cart (are you kidding? no way is that me!) would be wheeling in silver trays with assorted kinds of goldfish arrayed on them.
"The next item on the agenda is what to do about Mom," Ian would start.
"What was the rating on her last performance review?" asks Julian.
"We decided to have mercy on her last year and just skip it."
"Oh."
"But things are getting out of control. I think it's time we get ahead of the issue."
"Yes, true. I noticed she's using that word 'stupid' a lot lately. And she says 'what the heck,' too. She knows we don't talk like that in this organization."
"Hmm. And who's this Jesus Christ person she keeps talking about? Do we need to take measures to protect ourselves from a hostile takeover?"
"Perhaps. My main complaint," continues Ian, "is this sandwich she keeps making me. She knows I don't like mustard, but she puts it on anyway. Then I don't eat it and she threatens me with a disciplinary action."
"Yes, hardly reasonable. The issue I'd have to put at the top of the list," affirms Julian, "is that she doesn't let me watch TV during my every waking minute. This hardly makes sense as standard operating procedure. It's completely arbitrary and we have no guarantee of any positive outcomes."
"I agree. Her decision making is definitely flawed. Listen, Julian. I think we just need to manage her more proactively. I know a good motherhood image consultant that we probably need to have her meet with on a regular basis."
"Agreed. Let's do it. But we can't keep mediocre performers around indefinitely. If this doesn't work, she's out."
"I'm for that," Ian puts down his crayons and takes a long last sip of his Capri Sun. "Ahhh. How about we go around the corner for a chocolate milk?"
"After you," says Julian.
Friday, January 21, 2011
Friday, January 7, 2011
100th Post!! -- Let's Play "College"!
Comment on this post or Follow Morning Talks (at right) and raise money for Autism Speaks - see below!
*
This morning, Ian and Julian informed me that they were going to play "College." How could I not be intrigued by this?
"How do you play?" I ask them.
"You put on your backpack," Julian says, "and then," he flips up his little 4-yr-old paws, "you just go to college. That's all."
"Oh. And what do you do there?"
"College stuff," Ian says.
"Who pays the tuition?"
"What's tuition?" Julian asks, shocking me with his pitch-perfect pronunciation of a word I'm sure he doesn't know and will attempt to pretend he's not familiar with for years to come.
"It's what you have to pay to go to school. Do you have any money to pay it?"
They both look at each other. Weren't you supposed to handle that?
"That's OK, Mom. I'll just go to the bank," Ian says with a sigh of relief, patting Julian on the shoulder. What are big brothers for, eh?
"And the bank is going to give you money?"
"Sure," Ian says.
"Nope," I turn off the sink and put the last dripping pot onto the dishtowel. "You have to earn it."
"How do I earn it?"
"Working."
They're both quiet at the mention of this word. Ah, yes, working. That thing Mom and Dad do that takes them away from us. That mysterious thing that happens across the Hudson River where people where dark suits and loud shoes in big towers and come home with bad moods muttering about politics and stupid meetings. Even though they're not supposed to say the word 'stupid.' Ah, yes. Ian leans against the wall and gives Julian a onceover. He shakes his head and lets his Diego backpack slump off his skinny shoulders.
"OK, we'll play something else. I don't think we like college." He gestures to his brother. "C'mon, Jul. Let me show you the spaceship I built."
Julian shivers with delight. "Cool!! A spaceship!" he says, plunking his own Diego backpack on the floor next to Ian's. They run off.
I take a bite of some leftover Christmas fudge and lean against the counter. I listen to them in their room playing, making spaceship noises. Not packing a bag and emptying the place of all signs of life and childhood. Childhood is in full swing, for now. I had succeeded in getting them to forget college, and it makes me feel a little bit like the witch in the gingerbread house. Oh no, boys, you're not getting away from me yet...
*
To celebrate Morning Talks' 100th post, the blog will donate $3 to Autism Speaks for every Comment on today's post and $5 for every new Follower through midnight Sunday. Up to $100. Please pass on this message, and thanks for reading. New posts will be up every other Friday this year. Check back!
Also, for readers interested in what 5-yr-olds have to say, check my other blog, The Book or Bust, on Saturday, Jan 8th for a review of Emma Donoghue's book "Room," written entirely from the perspective of a 5-yr-old boy.
*
This morning, Ian and Julian informed me that they were going to play "College." How could I not be intrigued by this?
"How do you play?" I ask them.
"You put on your backpack," Julian says, "and then," he flips up his little 4-yr-old paws, "you just go to college. That's all."
"Oh. And what do you do there?"
"College stuff," Ian says.
"Who pays the tuition?"
"What's tuition?" Julian asks, shocking me with his pitch-perfect pronunciation of a word I'm sure he doesn't know and will attempt to pretend he's not familiar with for years to come.
"It's what you have to pay to go to school. Do you have any money to pay it?"
They both look at each other. Weren't you supposed to handle that?
"That's OK, Mom. I'll just go to the bank," Ian says with a sigh of relief, patting Julian on the shoulder. What are big brothers for, eh?
"And the bank is going to give you money?"
"Sure," Ian says.
"Nope," I turn off the sink and put the last dripping pot onto the dishtowel. "You have to earn it."
"How do I earn it?"
"Working."
They're both quiet at the mention of this word. Ah, yes, working. That thing Mom and Dad do that takes them away from us. That mysterious thing that happens across the Hudson River where people where dark suits and loud shoes in big towers and come home with bad moods muttering about politics and stupid meetings. Even though they're not supposed to say the word 'stupid.' Ah, yes. Ian leans against the wall and gives Julian a onceover. He shakes his head and lets his Diego backpack slump off his skinny shoulders.
"OK, we'll play something else. I don't think we like college." He gestures to his brother. "C'mon, Jul. Let me show you the spaceship I built."
Julian shivers with delight. "Cool!! A spaceship!" he says, plunking his own Diego backpack on the floor next to Ian's. They run off.
I take a bite of some leftover Christmas fudge and lean against the counter. I listen to them in their room playing, making spaceship noises. Not packing a bag and emptying the place of all signs of life and childhood. Childhood is in full swing, for now. I had succeeded in getting them to forget college, and it makes me feel a little bit like the witch in the gingerbread house. Oh no, boys, you're not getting away from me yet...
*
To celebrate Morning Talks' 100th post, the blog will donate $3 to Autism Speaks for every Comment on today's post and $5 for every new Follower through midnight Sunday. Up to $100. Please pass on this message, and thanks for reading. New posts will be up every other Friday this year. Check back!
Also, for readers interested in what 5-yr-olds have to say, check my other blog, The Book or Bust, on Saturday, Jan 8th for a review of Emma Donoghue's book "Room," written entirely from the perspective of a 5-yr-old boy.
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