Lisa Smith Molinari

WANTED: Mom Manager

In housewives, parenting on January 30, 2012 at 2:15 pm

I was late for the meeting. Again.

With an armful of crumpled papers, I pulled my calendar from its tack on the wall, and rushed down the hall. Sheepishly, I found a seat at the table, spread my papers out around me, and began with as much authority as I could muster:

“This meeting is called to order at, let’s see, twelve minutes after nine. If you don’t mind, I would prefer that these weekly organizational sessions start promptly at the top of the hour. Now, without any further delay, let’s get right down to business.”

“The van still needs new brakes, and if you wait much longer, you’ll be paying for rotors too. Hayden has Driver’s Ed on Tuesday at 4:30, but you must somehow get Anna to her orthodontist appointment at 4:45. The checkbook hasn’t been balanced in three months, which might explain why you bounced a check last week,” I continued.

“Francis is on his last pair of clean underwear today, so please put a load of hot whites in at your earliest convenience. Dinghy is due for his monthly flea treatment. You must write two articles this week. The repairman is coming on Thursday between eight and two to fix the washing machine. And you need to get serious about that diet. Now, how do you plan to get all that done?” I finished, and took a slurp of coffee.

Crickets.

No one responded, because no one was there. I was having my weekly meeting with myself, and as usual, I had no idea how to answer my own demands.

I scribbled a “To Do” list, marked a few things on the calendar, and then went about my day, determined to get it all done this time.

But deep inside, I knew the inevitable pattern of my life would repeat itself again. My week would start out OK, productive even. But soon, something would crop up to throw me off track – a school project, a sick kid, writer’s block. One item on my To Do list would collide into the next, and the ensuing pile up would become overwhelming, causing a strange contradictory reaction in whereby I would completely shut down and get nothing done.

By Thursday, my husband would come home from work to find no dinner, the kids run amuck, and me, dazed and unshowered, draped over my computer chair where I have been surfing vintage Tupperware on e-Bay for the last three hours.

Recently, I decided I’d had enough, and set about figuring out: what fundamental flaw in my character has made it so difficult for me to keep up with my responsibilities as a housewife and mother?

After some thought, and half a box of Cheese Nips, I realized that I have always been a follower, not a leader. An Indian, not a Chief. A Workerbee, not the Queen.

I’m not lazy. I’m not incompetent. I’m not disorganized. I just need a supervisor, a boss, a Manager to watch over me and keep me on track.

Ahh, how different things would be with a Manager to offer clear direction and guidance. Of course, I would subject myself to periodic evaluation and take whatever criticism my Manager might propose.

“Ms. Molinari,” my Manager might say, “While it is clear that you are no stranger to hard work, there is room for improvement in the areas of task prioritization, self motivation and personal hygiene. It is my recommendation that you avoid distractions from your daily priorities such as TJ Maxx, free samples in the grocery store, and mid-day reruns of ‘Mob Wives.’ Also, it would be highly advisable that you start showering every morning.”

But I have to face reality. Unless I find someone willing to be compensated in laundry services and meatloaf, I can’t afford a Manager. I am the Manager, and I have to take responsibility, darn it.

Even if it feels like I’m constantly being dragged through life behind my dirty white minivan, I’ll continue this never-ending game of catch up until my job is done. I’ll try to avoid getting tangled in the minutiae – the e-mails, the dust bunnies, the bills, the burnt dinners, the dark roots – and focus on the big picture: Keeping my family happy and healthy.

The value of our shares may fluctuate day by day, but long-term analysis indicates that this family is on an upward trend. Our employees may complain from time to time, but all in all they report excellent job satisfaction. Management lacks efficiency when it comes to goal attainment, but she is dedicated, sincere, and works overtime and on weekends without pay.

Final recommendation: Despite its flaws, this family business is thriving, so there is no immediate need for a change in management.

The Carpool Blues

In Humor, parenting on January 23, 2012 at 9:34 am

I get up early in the mornin’, round about six-o-clock. Bleary-eyed and yawnin’, I gather up the flock. Pack three chillins in the van, and drive around the block. At the neighbor’s crib, two more are added to my stock.

Coffee cup in hand, I head for open road. My minivan creaks under such a heavy load. Been doin’ this so long, I fear I might explode. Can’t blame nobody, for seeds that I have sowed.

Put my kids in magnet schools, fancy and elite. Top-notch educations, teachers can’t be beat. Academic level so high, no one can compete. Then why, one might ask, am I so downbeat?

Soon after enrollment, much to my surprise, the County pulled a bait and switch, before my very eyes. “We ain’t got no money!” one could hear them cry. They told us, “Suck it up — learn to improvise.”

Though our magnet schools were distant in location, the County in its wisdom, canceled transportation. No yellow school buses from the Board of Education. Parents formed carpools, to cope with their frustration.

So here I sit every morning, radio a-blarin’. In my rear view mirror, I see the kids a-starin’. The price of gas and traffic jams, has tempers a-flarin’. Bite my tongue so young ears won’t hear me a-swearin’.

The drive to school each mornin’, is pretty much the same. It starts out kinda quiet, not enough sleep to blame. Getting up so early each day seems a crying shame. Without a break on weekends, I might just go insane.

Where to tune the radio dial, no one can agree. The girls like the latest hits on Radio Disney. The boys think pop music is so bourgeoisie. They prefer the screeching sounds of alternative rock melodies.

My oldest son doesn’t chime in, because he’s fast asleep. In five months of car-pooling, he’s hardly uttered a peep. With eyes closed and head back, he might be counting sheep. Into his open mouth, a bug or two might leap.

After twenty miles, and at least a dozen red lights, we arrive at the school, the sun now burning bright. I bid them all adieu, as they scramble from my sight. And breathe a sigh of relief — we made it to school all right.

The “Slam!” of the van’s door, heralds the end of child domination. Reaching for the dashboard knobs, I switch the radio station. I tune in the news to distract me from my degradation. Sipping the dregs of tepid coffee, I grope for relaxation.

In thirty minutes, I am home, and go about my day. Sweep the floors, walk the dog, what’s for dinner today? In no time flat it seems, the hours have slipped away. Must pick the kids up from school, there’s no time for delay.

Back in the van and on the road, negative thoughts pervade. Am I just a chauffeur who never will get paid? The rest of the day, am I just a lowly scullery maid? I distract myself with news again, to avoid a violent tirade.

Like tiny escaped prisoners, the kids burst out of school. In the van I hear their chatter about who is super cool. I ask about their homework, and if they’ve learned the Golden Rule. But soon they are too tired to speak, and they begin to drool.

Pulling in the driveway, they look like walking dead. Zombies stumble from my van, toward the humble homestead. They wander in search of snacks, and a place to lay their heads. After homework, activities, dinner and play, it’s time to go to bed.

Five months down, five more to go, not sure if I can make it. I worry that I’ll lose my mind if I’m forced to take it. But these kids are mine, it’s a fact, and nothing will forsake it. And so I must continue on, even if I fake it.

I’ll avoid the pitfalls of despair, like gambling and booze. I’ll try to remember that parenting is something that we choose. I’ll face the fact that, sometimes in life, one must pay the dues. And suffer the trials and tribulations of The Carpool Blues.

The Skittles-Space Continuum

In family on January 15, 2012 at 11:47 am

“Where are the tickets?” I said with a half-panicked gasp. The line was moving steadily ahead, and we were almost at the admissions booth.

My husband searched his wallet, while I frantically fondled my video camera case; my pockets full of gum, tissues, and Dramamine for motion sickness; and my backpack stuffed with water bottles, sunglasses, wet wipes, and brochures

“Found ‘em!” my husband exclaimed with relief, just as we stepped up to the Kennedy Space Center ticket window. Following a wave of tourists through the entrance, our family headed to the IMAX theater to watch a 3-D movie about the Hubble Space Telescope.

Once in our seats, I wondered why humans can put a man on the moon but can’t figure out how to make 3-D glasses look anything less than absolutely ridiculous.

Suddenly, Leonardo DiCaprio’s voice boomed through the theater’s sound system and bursts of stars and nebulae hurtled toward my face. For the next 45 minutes, we were totally transfixed, as unfathomable images of space-walking astronauts, neighboring planets and distant galaxies floated weightlessly before our ridiculously bedecked eyes.

At one point in the film, we saw Hubble telescope photographs of galaxies at the far reaches of our known Universe. Leonardo explained that, due to the speed of light and the mind-boggling distances involved, the images portrayed the celestial bodies as they actually were nearly 13 billion years ago.

As the spectacular images bombarded my senses, my mind struggled to comprehend how mere human beings have figured out how to take detailed photographs of infant galaxies from the dawn of time.

At this very moment, my overworked brain approached maximum capacity. Like some kind of computer crash, the mental strain caused my mind to go blank, and the only thought I could manage was what I wanted for lunch.

We recuperated over hot dogs and soda before heading for the bus that would take us on a tour of the NASA launch facilities. While waiting in line, I occupied my time with people watching

I always enjoyed performing amateur analyses on strangers. I liked to think that I could figure a person out just by seeing what they had in their grocery cart, or what they were reading at the airport terminal, or what they were saying to their friend in the food court.

As I looked up and down the line of space enthusiasts, I noticed a lot of foreigners — Asians, Indians, Persians and Arabs in particular. Everyone looked highly intelligent, and I started feeling a bit intimidated.

I glanced self-consciously at my own little family. Our teenage son was scraping off and eating the plop of hot fudge that was in the middle of his Steeler shirt. Our teenage daughter was twirling her hair and looking at her nail polish. Our youngest daughter was staring cross-eyed at a bubble she just blew. My mother was playing peek-a-boo with a nearby toddler, and my husband was yawning.

Compared to this crowd of intellectually superior science enthusiasts, we looked like a bunch of simpletons.

Just then, I saw another average middle class American family in line, searching for their bus tickets. The husband (or baby-daddy) was wearing a t-shirt that read “Bacon is Meat Candy,” and the mother was clad in a lace crop top that allowed the exposed parts of her tattooed fleshy mid-section to bulge over the top of her short shorts. The daughter was wearing Minnie Mouse ears, and the son was picking his nose.

As they anxiously searched their camera bags and pockets for the tickets, something dropped from the mother’s purse. Colorful candy balls scattered everywhere, and the kids scrambled to retrieve the fallen Skittles. Despite some slight differences (I wouldn’t be caught dead in a crop top and prefer Junior Mints to Skittles) I felt a certain kinship with the family and empathized with their plight.

Later that night after touching moon rocks, riding in Shuttle simulators, and gazing at launch pads, we laid in our hotel beds, still struggling to fathom that a group of chain-smoking, coffee-drinking, Bryl-cream-wearing math and science geeks from the 1960s sent men in a rocket to the moon in an age when cutting edge technology still included black and white console TVs, rotary dial phones, and transistor radios.

The next day, I found myself people watching again while waiting in line for 90 minutes at nearby Space Mountain. Most were wearing silly hats, at least half were eating turkey legs, none looked particularly intelligent, but all seemed happy.

I realized that the people of this world are incredibly diverse. Like space and time, human beings fall on a vast continuum, and whether one is a rocket scientist or dumb as a rock, it is our similarities rather than our differences that define us as humankind.

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