It has been way too long since I wrote my last Jo Mama column for Get Crafty (http://getcrafty.com/columns/jo_mama/). Between being a stay-at-home mom and working on my two novels, I've let some things slide, unfortunately.
Anyway, thanks to those people who emailed to find out where "Jo Mama" has gone. I'll try and stop by, now and again. But I think a regular column is no more. Sigh.
In the mean time, my debut novel The Professors' Wives' Club (NAL/Penguin) comes out on Tuesday. Hooray. I'll be doing a reading at the Barnes and Noble, Greenwich Village, NYC (6th Ave and 8th Street), on Thursday 4th Sept, at 7.30pm.
I am feeling immensely crafty! I finally got around to setting up my very own blogspot over on blogger. I know, i know, it's not actually that hard when you get down to it, but i'm still feeling pleased with myself. I even picked some lovely colors and fonts!
I'm still going to post my benny blogs here (on get crafty's story page) but if you want to read about my latest writing adventures and general thoughts about nothing in particular, come visit me at http://joannerendell.blogspot.com/
Move over, Thomas the Tank Engine. Come on down, Little Blue Engine that Could
Saturday November 11th, 2006 01:00 PM
Call me a sourpuss, but I’d just like to say… “Thomas the Tank Engine, take your idiotic, chubby face and your inane little stories about you and your boy pals and go jump!”
I know, I’m sorry, a lot of people love Thomas. And even if they don’t care either way, their kids love him so they are happy for the peace and quiet which a clutch of “Thomas and Friends” DVDs offer. I totally understand. Benny would happily watch Thomas the Tank Engine all day everyday and, if I let him do that, I can only imagine how many blogs I would write, the hoovering I could finally get done, the piles of dirty clothes I could launder. Hell, I could finish a novel or two while Benny sat slack-jawed in front of the darned engine.
But, I’m telling you, Thomas the Tank is a menace. And it’s not because of his silly expressions or the mischievous things he gets up to. No, it’s because behind those plump cheeks, doe eyes, and toot-toot whistle lurks a girl-hating, patriarchal oppressor.
Okay, maybe that’s a little harsh. But, have you ever noticed how “Thomas and his Friends” should more accurately be called, “Thomas and his Boy Buddies”? There are a few female engines, it’s true. There’s Emily and, er, who else? Oh, of course, Lady – who, just in case we couldn’t tell from her pinky-purple coat, has a name that makes it a hundred percent clear she’s a “lady.” But, two female engines compared to over twenty-five male ones? (yes, I’ve been counting). Please.
And then there’s the matter of the coaches, most of whom are female. Not only are they relegated to this secondary role of being pulled around by the boy engines, but they’re also portrayed as giddy and silly and in need of disciplining. For instance, in the story “Thomas and the Big, Big Bridge,” our hero (!?) Thomas arrives at a precarious, big, big, bridge. While he and guy-pal Henry thoughtfully consider the dangers of crossing, Annie and Clarbel the coaches cry, “Hurry, Hurry,” and get “so excited” that Thomas has “trouble keeping them in line.” Oh poor Thomas, what a trial it must be for him to keep those naughty girlies in line!
Now, I know what some of you might say. Thomas the Tank Engine was written years ago and their Reverend W. V. Awdry who created him didn’t know any better. However, it’s worth pointing out that the first Thomas the Tank Engine book was published in 1946 – sixteen years after the Watty Piper version of “The Little Blue Engine that Could.” Even though “The Little Blue Engine” portrays cutesy trains with smiling faces, this picture book – which is a retelling of the 1910 story “The Pony Tale – shares little else with Thomas the Tank. Indeed, “The Little Blue Engine that Could” kicks Thomas’ ass!
In case you haven’t read it in a while, I’ll give a you a quick recap. A little engine carrying toys and treats to kids on the other side of the mountain is chugging happily along when all of a sudden *she* breaks down. A big engine, an arrogant engine, and a tired engine – all of whom are male – refuse to help. A little blue engine arrives, however, and even though *she* is small and inexperienced, she saves the day. “I think I can, I think can” goes her famous chant, as she hauls the coaches up and over the mountain.
So, okay, the book might be a little second-wave feminist for many people – i.e. girls are best, boys suck. But, when Thomas the Tank Engine and all the other boy-club stories (think “Cars” and “Bob the Builder,” to name just two) still rule the airwaves and dominate the shelves or Barnes and Noble, I think “The Little Engine that Could” and its celebration of girl power is very much needed!
Puff, puff, puff, chug, chug, chug. Ding, dong, ding, dong! Little Blue Engine, you rock!
Our apartment doesn’t have any proper walls. Okay, okay, it does have four proper walls that encase it. Inside, however, the walls between the rooms are fake. Not only are they paper thin, but a foot below the ceiling they stop. Yes, our walls have gaping holes in them.
These “cut-outs,” as they are known in the trade, are the price we pay for living in a NY loft with one – admittedly very large – window. In order to get a little natural light into our cavernous back bedroom, the cut-outs are essential.
However, what they do for light, the cut-outs also do for sound. All those big holes mean that every breath, every sneeze, every dropped coffee cup (and the whispered “F**k” that follows), can be heard through the entire household. This, as you can imagine, is not ideal when you have a three-year old in the house. Especially when that three year old’s sleep is the lifeline of his laptop-naptime mama and her writing career.
I’ve learnt to live with the cut-outs, however. When Benny is napping (or sleeping late in the morning) and I am trying to write, I do everything to minimize noise traversing the cut-outs. The answer machine is set on low, the speakers on my laptop off, and the window closed so the wails of passing fire trucks are just a mute “wah-wahs.” Many a time, I have found myself making important phone calls sitting on the toilet (thankfully, our bathroom has proper walls) and, on one or two occasions, I have conducted meetings in the hallway outside the apartment.
But, something happened today which has made me realize that my noise reducing schemes might have been a little over-the-top. In fact, it revealed them to be completely bloody unnecessary.
The fire alarm went off at six o’clock this morning. Our apartment is in a student dorm so, as Brad and I woke up, squinting our groggy eyes under the alarm’s strobe light and holding our ears against the monotonous, deafening din, we assumed the alarm must have been set off by some partying freshmen. However, through the alarm’s wails, we heard the fire trucks arriving and realized the horrible truth: we were going to drag ourselves out of bed, clamber four flights downstairs, and go stand outside with three hundred pajama-ed students.
As we contemplated this and zipped around finding coats, shoes, hats, and mittens, we finally noticed that Benny – despite the howling alarm and strobing lights – hadn’t moved a muscle. He was deeply and soundly and peacefully asleep. It was only when I heaved him into my arms that his long eyelashes finally fluttered open and he said, confused by all the commotion, “What’sat?”
There was no fire, thankfully. And, in the end, lugging ourselves and a tired three year old outside wasn’t so bad. Benny got to see four truckloads of firefighters and, in the back of a warm minivan, we got to hang out with all the other people in the building who have kids.
And, let’s face it, I’m now a wiser laptop-naptime mama. From now on, when Benny’s sleeping, if I want to talk on the phone or listen to banging rap music or blend smoothies or shout “SH*T” when I accidentally delete an important sentence, I can go right ahead and do it.
YouTube, Herbal Tea, and a Whole Lot of Procrastination
Tuesday October 17th, 2006 04:38 PM
11.30 am – I’ve done it. I am now officially a “suck-it-up-and-pay-for-a-babystitter-and-take-my-laptop-to-a-coffee-shop” mama. With some writing deadlines looming, I decided that naptimes were just not enough anymore. Plus, trying to put Benny down for a nap three hours after he’d just got up – so I could finish a chapter or work on a book review – did seem a little cruel.
So far, my new mama-status is proving to be pretty damn fun. Just half an hour ago, I left Benny with lovely Emily the babysitter who not only wears the coolest vintage outfits, but who also brought along a “My Little Pony” special edition DVD boxset. Spying the shimmering rainbows and pale pink and green ponies on the cover, Benny took Emily’s hand and practically booted me out the door. Gone are the days when he would wail like an abandoned pup if I so much as disappeared behind a doorframe.
So now I’m happily ensconced at the coffee shop in a nearby bookstore. Okay, so I could have got here a little earlier but en route I had to swing through Brooklyn Industries (my favorite store) and paw over, try on, and contemplate buying a number of their new hoodies. I managed to drag myself away without opening my wallet, however, and now here I am, raring to go. My laptop is open and glowing, happy to be out of the house again. I’m stretching my back, limbering my fingers, and the sweet coffee shop aroma is firing my writing neurons. I have a delicious, Benny-free, two hours stretching before me.
Okay, so here I go….Oooh, wait a minute, here comes the waiter guy. And fancy that? He’s wearing the same “This is What a Feminist Looks Like” t-shirt which I just bought for Benny…
11.51 am – What a nice guy. Not only does he have that great t-shirt, he was also kind enough to explain all the different kinds of tea options on the menu and even brought me a taster of the Rooibos Lemon Chiffon tea. Of course, I didn’t like it and had to explain to him that, even though I like the sound of all these herbal teas with their pretty triple-barreled names, I’m just too British to actually like them. “Black tea with lots of caffeine and a dash of milk – it’s the only way,” I explained. This, of course, started a long discussion about my mother country and it turns out the waiter’s aunt lives in London and feels the exact same way about tea. “Herbal Schmerbal, she calls it,” he told me with a laugh.
But now my lovely waiter is off tending to someone else. So, after taking a long sip of my black tea, I place my fingertips on the keypad and…. Well, look at that?! I just caught a glimpse of a sign which says this coffee shop has WiFi. I didn’t know that. Okay, so I know the whole point of coming here was to have an intensive writing session where I couldn’t check my emails and watch ridiculous videos on YouTube whenever I get stuck on a word or a sentence. But, I suppose I could just see if the connection works….
12.34 pm – Hmmm. I didn’t mean to spend all that time online. But my friend sent me that interesting Salon article about Hillary Clinton and then I had to check a couple of my favorite blogs. Oh, and I just had to google that old school friend who I had a really weird dream about last night. I didn’t find her, but I did find this crazy site for people buying and selling horses. You should see the little videos they make to advertise their animals. Billowing manes, ponies in bows, cantoring in the sunset. It’s like horsie porn.
Enough, enough. I only have an hour left. I need to concentrate. And I really will concentrate just as soon as I get back from the bathroom…
1.10 pm – They must have done that on purpose. Placing the bathroom on the other side of the store, so you have to pass by every best seller table and interesting New York fiction stand, before you get there. I couldn’t help stopping and browsing. I mean, how often do I get to be in a bookstore without a three year old pleading for “The Little Engine that Could” at the top of his lungs? And, you know what? Perhaps I shouldn’t feel bad. Looking at new books is research, after all. Especially for a serious, dedicated writer like myself. You have to know what’s on the market, who’s publishing what, who thanking who in their acknowledgments. It’s a vital part of the job.
I’ve got twenty minutes left. If I get my head down, maybe I can churn out a couple of hundred words….ah, but is that my stomach grumbling?
1.30 pm. Time to go. I have written a grand total of 10 words. This means, at ten bucks an hour for 2.5 hours babysitting, I’ve paid $2.50 for each word I’ve written. Seems kind of pricey to me. I’m going to be penniless by the time I finish my 100,000 word novel.
Oh well, that toasted bagel with lashings of cream cheese tasted so good, perhaps it was all worth it. And next time, I promise I will be different. I will be writing powerhouse. Not a t-shirt, tea, or toasted bagel will distract me.
As parents, we sometimes worry about the choices we make for our kids. We worry about whether allowing two hours of Barney and Big Bird every morning – so we can check emails and drink coffee in peace – will render our children incapable of learning from anything but a big furry creature in years to come. We worry that asking our kids to carry cans of beer from the back closet – so we don’t have to make another trip – will lead to a life of alcoholism, brown bags, and park benches. We worry that dragging them to every shop on Broadway – so we can find the perfect pair of black pants for an upcoming Ladies Night – might make them averse to anything black and thus in danger of being snubbed by the New York art scene. We worry about how blogging their poos in the bath or their sunburnt willies – for the amusement of ourselves and the blog-reading public – will prevent them from ever using a public bathroom or joining a nudist colony. We worry that our worries will make them worriers.
One thing we don’t worry about too often is the sleepwear choices we’ve made for our children. After all, what could be as innocuous as a pair of pajamas?
Well, that’s what I thought until a few nights ago.
With the Fall well and truly upon us and the nights getting nippy, the other day I ran out to buy Benny a new sleep suit. He’s incapable of staying under his covers at night and so those delicious, soft, zip-up, all-in-one suits have always been indispensable. Not only that, they look damn adorable. Fleecy and fuzzy, with teddy bear motifs and cute slipper feet. And last Tuesday, oh yes, I bought a particularly gorgeous one. Benny was going to look like a big, cuddly bumble bee in the black and yellow striped sleep suit which I’d found.
But, the other night, when I produced the “nouveau zoot zoot” things took a turn for the unexpected. Unlike last winter, when Benny would happily and compliantly allow himself to be stuffed and zipped into his old (what he called) “zoot zoot”, this year he decided, most emphatically, he didn’t want to be put into such an item. And as Brad and I poked and pulled his flailing arms and feet into the suit, he cried and hollered, “Nooo!” Of course, we just thought he was being his usual temperamental three-year old self and decided to ignore him. He’d get used to it in the end, we figured.
However, as soon as the “zoot zoot” was zipped up, Benny skulked to bed, teary eyed and forlorn. For the first time in a long time, he didn’t ask for books to be read to him and then, curling up on his bed, he went immediately to sleep.
In the morning, things didn’t get better. As soon as he opened his eyes, he looked down at his bumble bee body, let out a wail, and demanded the sleep suit be removed. Throughout the following day, whenever Benny caught sight of the offending article, he’d say with an indignant furrow of his brows, “Don’t like that. Don’t want that.”
We tried the next night to get the suit on him again, hoping that persistence was the key. Our efforts were in vain. He kicked, fought, and screamed and there was no way in hell Benny was going to be zipped into his sleep suit and so – like all the gifted parents we are – we gave up.
Over the last few days, I have wondered about the sleep suit and how Benny – who used to appear happy as a clam in his “zoot zoot” – now loathed it like a freshly steamed Brussel sprout. It got me wondering whether, in fact, he’d always hated it but never had the words to articulate this abhorrence. Perhaps the “zoot zoot” had always been terrifying for Benny. Perhaps it felt constricting like a straightjacket? Or as debilitating as shot of valium in his diapered butt? In previous winters, was every night zipped in his suit like a rerun of One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest? Was I the unyielding tyrant, Nurse Ratched? Was he the long suffering McMurphy? Was he expecting a lobotomy at any minute? Or a stint in solitary confinement? In short, will I be paying his expensive therapy bills for the rest of my life?
Oh boy, the price of a warm baby and a few good night’s sleep.
Undeterred by the sand grains in my keypad and a very near-miss with the birdpoo, I have continued to take Benny to the keypark this week. Of course, I’ve been keeping my eye on those giggling birds and my laptop has not been allowed to come along (it is back gathering dust on my desk once again). But, in our secluded little park at the heart of the noisy city, we’ve been having a lot of fun
So much fun, in fact, that the other day I invited a friend of mine and her three year old son to join us. I figured, it was time they experienced the wonder of the keypark for themselves.
As usual, everything started out beautifully. The sun was out, a soft breeze flittered and fluttered in the trees above, and my friend and I snagged ourselves one of the park’s prime benches: in the shade with a great view of the whole park (and not one trace of bird poo on its wooden slats). Our boys skipped off to the sandpit and we sat for over an hour chatting about life, the world, our respective writing projects, and whether we’ll be laughed out of mommy-land because our two three-year-old sons stubbornly refuse to have anything to do with potties, toilets, and supposed “big boy” underwear (am I the only one in the world to find the whole “big boy” lingo a little annoying??).
Only on two occasions did we have to pull ourselves to our feet. Once, when food was demanded and the other time, when Benny performed some dangerous stunt involving a large plastic bus and a rather steep slide.
When home time loomed, however, the trouble started. My friend and I were not the only ones enjoying the keypark. Of course, our darling boys were enjoying the park too and when the announcement came that it was time to leave, cries of “no” and “I wanna stay” could be heard from Staten Island to Westchester. My friend and I were determined mamas though and sticking to our guns, amid the wails and flails, we pushed, prodded, and cajoled the boys into their strollers.
As we headed toward the gate, with sweaty brows and sniveling children, I looked around and noticed for the first time that we were the only ones left in the park. As we got closer to the gate, I also noticed that the security guard was gone and his little cubicle bore a heavy lock and a scribbled sign reading, “Gone to lunch.”
Now, if I wasn’t such a recent member of the keypark, this would all have been fine. I would have simply whipped out my key to the gate and let us out. But, as a newly signed up member, all I own in a small slip a paper which I show the security guard who then lets me in or out.
As you can imagine, with the security guard gone, no key, and two unhappy kids in need of an afternoon nap, the future didn’t look to rosy. Trying not to panic, my friend and I considered our options: 1.) wait for the guard to return, 2.) hope that some key-carrying park member shows up 3.) call the fire department 4.) scream at the top of our lungs until someone rescued us, or 5.) climb the fence.
Both of us being “laptop naptime mamas,” who need naptime like frozen yogurt needs chocolate sprinkles, were definitely not up for hanging around in the park wasting precious naptime minutes. However, neither of us had a cell phone, so that ruled out the fire department. And screaming, quite frankly, has never been my forte. I’m too British to make all that kind of fuss.
So we plumped for scaling the fence.
Luckily, two construction workers eating lunch nearby saw my friend, with her legs dangling each side of the six-foot high fence, and rushed over to help. What followed was a not-so-elegant dance which involved hoisting two confused, 40lb three-year-olds up into the air and over the fence. Followed by my friend’s super light MacLaren stroller and my jogging stroller – which I’d always thought was so practical and nimble in the city, until the moment I had to lift it above my head and over a high, rusting fence. Getting myself over proved to be a lot easier, although I was thankful not be wearing my favorite skirt from Brooklyn Industries and a pair of “I Heart Construction Workers” panties.
I’m beginning to wonder if there are menacing forces at work in this seemingly idyllic keypark. Although, I have to admit, something good did emerge from our fence-traversing escapades…The kids stopped sniveling.
Sand in My Laptop, Bird Poo on My Touchpad (to the tune of “Tears on my Pillow”)
Saturday September 23rd, 2006 04:48 PM
I had a moment of insight the other day; a sudden “light bulb flashing on, ding-ding” moment. It occurred to me that the beauty of a laptop is that, well, it’s small, closeable, and thus exceedingly portable. It doesn’t have to be welded to one’s desk at home, gathering dust around its hinges. A laptop can go out for walks, it can enjoy the sunshine, breathe fresh air. Indeed, as its name suggests, it can sit on it’s owners lap – perhaps on a sun chair, a swing seat on a porch, on the backseat of a Mercedes convertible.
Of course, none of these seating options are available to me in the middle of crammed and rambunctious Manhattan. However, amid my light bulb moment, it did occur to me that perhaps my laptop would like to come on a trip to the playground!
It seemed such a good idea at the time. After all, we’d just become the proud owners of a key to a private playground owned by NYU (where my partner works). This playground, affectionately known as the “key park,” has delightful amounts of shade, lots of benches, a non-rat-infested sandpit, and more toy diggers than a Bob the Builder Fan Club would know what to do with. Not only that, the park has a heavy gate which even the nimblest of little Houdini fingers would not be able to open and thus there’s no danger of little ‘uns running out to play in the New York traffic. In short, it is an idyllic spot where kids can roam free and parents can kick back, lounge on the shady benches, make calls on their cell, or…yes, maybe even, get out their laptops and squeeze in a little extra writing time.
Or so I thought.
Everything went so well at first. When we reached the park, Benny ran immediately to the sandpit and found his favorite back-loader (a digger, for those of you not familiar) to play with. Meanwhile, I pulled out my computer and smiled to myself as it made the familiar booting-up sing-song chimes. As the sun shone, I typed away, only looking up now and again to check on Benny and make sure he wasn’t in some sort of “mine, no mine!!” altercation with another child.
Five hundred words later – yes, five hundred words! – there was a yelp from the sandpit which I instantly knew to be Benny’s. I looked up to see my much-taller-than-your-average-three-year-old Benny in a face off with a grinning and no-bigger-than-Benny’s-knee-one-year-old. It looked like the little whipper-snapper had snapped up the back loader and now Benny’s face had turned five shades of red and tears were popping from his eyes like a cartoon character.
This is where I discovered the first problem of taking a laptop to a playground. You can’t just throw down an 800 dollar piece of hardware like you would a book, magazine, or scarf you might be knitting. After saving your sweated-over document, you must place set the laptop down cautiously, being sure it isn’t placed in a puddle of juice or on top of some half-chewed bagel. And, of course, all this care and precision takes time.
So while I fiffed and faffed with my laptop, Benny’s wails were so loud they were making the windows in neighboring buildings shudder. Luckily, the mother of the other child had stepped in and as I finally and breathlessly reached the scene, she was already doling out the familiar mommy mantra to her son - “Don’t snatch, must share, you’ll get your turn.” Within seconds, the other child found a more interesting toy to play with, the back loader was back in Benny’s hands, and Benny’s sobs had ebbed to the occasional snot-laced sniff.
After thanking the other mommy, I snuck back to the bench and to my carefully perched laptop and resumed writing again. However, the back loader ruckus must have unsettled Benny because just a few minutes later he was at my side demanding my attention.
“Thomas on the ‘puter?” he asked a couple of times.
When I politely told him “no” he couldn’t look at the Thomas the Tank website and suggested he go back to the sandpit, he jabbed at the screen and repeated, “Thomas on the ‘puter.”
Ordinarily, this kind of jabbing at my laptop would make me just mildly annoyed. However, when I caught a glimpse of his sand covered pinkies, I exploded.
“No, Benny,” I wailed, “You’ll get sand…”
But it was already too late. Little grains of sand were already twinkling on my keypad – mostly around the A, S, W, Q area. I quickly upturned the laptop and began to shake. As I did so, I hoped, sweated, and prayed that my computer wouldn’t come to the same sticky end that an old camera of mine came to after I dropped on the beach one time.
Fortunately, when I flipped the laptop back over and prodded at the keys, all seemed to be working fine. Not only that, Benny had clearly got bored of my laptop shenanigans and was headed back into the playground. So, once again, I began tapping away.
This time I only got a few words written when I heard a weird splatting noise very nearby. At first, I thought it might be a first splash of rain and sighed at the thought of having to clear up, chase after Benny, and leave the park. However, the sky, when I looked up, was crystal blue with just a few tiny fluffy clouds dancing above the rooftops.
Then, scanning the bench next to me, to see where the splatting noise had come from, I noticed a sticky white and grey mess only inches away. Bird poo, of course. Big wet bird poo! I looked up again and in the tree above me – the same tree which was giving me all that lovely shade – sat three straggly city birds, their beady eyes looking down at me. I swear to god, they were giggling.
That was the last straw. There was no way I could risk bird poo on my touchpad. I snapped the laptop shut and, as I shuffled it back in its case, I muttered, “No more fieldtrips for you!”
Last week I was excited to be asked by the creators of rolemommy.com to contribute to their website (see www.rolemommy.com - a great site with hilarious blogs by and for working mom’s). So from now on I’ll be posting my Benny blogs here and there and this is what I posted as a kind of intro blog over at Rolemommy...
A Laptop-Naptime Mama
I wouldn’t really consider myself a working mom. I don’t own a suit. If I tried to walk in kitten heels, I would find myself on a gurney heading straight to ER. A blackberry, to me, is something you pick from a bush and eat. Having to conduct pay negotiations with a nanny would give me bone-chilling nightmares and, if found in a swishy after-work wine bar, I’d be pestering the bartender for a pint of Fosters. Oh, and a regular pay check, what’s that? This mama doesn’t even own a cell phone.
But, then I wouldn’t really consider myself a stay-at-home mom either. I have never baked a cake. Hand-sewing a Thomas the Tank Engine Halloween costume for my three year old son, Benny, would be as unfathomable as quantum physics. And tripping joyfully between toddler-cize classes and mini-Picasso workshops? Please. My energy and time are way too limited.
Okay, I’m generalizing. No one completely falls into either of those categories. Some working moms can stitch kiddie-costumes that would make Yves Saint Laurent weep. And I’ve known stay-at-home mom’s who like to wear mascara and heels to the park (and on the jungle gym) and gladly chug back Sauvignons at fancy wine bars after their days of kid-work.
Unsatisfied with the two available “mom” categories, as many moms probably are, I have decided more categories are needed. To start this process, I hereby name myself a “laptop-naptime mama.”
Now, you may not know too many of these moms. But, believe me, they’re out there. They’re lurking behind unmade beds, behind sinks loaded with peanut butter encrusted knives, and piles of unlaundered, mud-splattered, 3T clothing. These women, like me, have all the trappings of a stay-at-home-mom, i.e. they stay at home with their children. But, as soon as their little darlings disappear off into the land of nod, these mamas sprint – yes, I mean Carl Lewis sprint – to their laptops and begin to pound at the keys, writing their books, their blogs, their journals, or their screenplays.
Being a “laptop-naptime” mom has its downsides. While other mom’s I know leave the park when they please and even go for leisurely coffees or drinks while their kids sleep in strollers, at the first yawn or eye rub from Benny, I must transform into an Army Field General. Orders are barked out, bags have to be packed, the toy Benny’s borrowed from another child must be returned, the ensuing tantrum must be dealt with. All in five minutes, tops. Then, I must sprint home – Carl Lewis style once again – and make sure he does not drop off in his stroller. The transition from stroller to bed is a “laptop-naptime” mom’s worst nightmare. And all this, so I can work for a few precious, peaceful hours on my novel or my blog or sometimes (when I feel like returning to my deep-dark academic past) on an article for a literary journal.
But, as with any other mommy role, being a “laptop-naptime mama” does have its upsides too. For one, because I’m the world’s biggest naptime nazi – I’ll stoop to any kind of bribery or threats to get Benny to sleep – Benny still takes deliciously long naps. Other mom’s I know are pulling their hair out because their three years olds no longer sleep in the afternoons. Not Benny. You can practically see the big ZZZ’s rising from his bed.
In all, I’m enjoying being a “laptop naptime mama.” But I acknowledge it’s a stage. Pretty soon, Benny will join his brethren and stop taking naps. But, when that day comes, I am resolved to be strong and happily rename myself a “suck-it-up-pay-for-a babysitter-and-take-my-laptop-to-a-coffee-shop” mama.
