DCUM Weblog

I'm the last person who needs an excuse to spend more time on the computer.  When my kids want juice, my instinct is to say, "Put that request in an email, will  you?" I've bought everything from aspirin to diapers to shoes on-line (and yes, the shoes didn't fit, and no, I didn't get around to returning them, and please, don't tell my husband. I told him they didn't fit because my feet change size with every pregnancy).

But recently, I took the plunge and entered the great time-suck known as Facebook. I'm not sure why I did it, except all my high school friends were doing it, and I'm just hypocritical enough to tell my kids to stand up to peer pressure but crumble to it in a New York minute myself.

At first I felt addled and ancient. What was the big deal about this newfangled network all the young people were talking about? And why would I want to post a note on someone's "wall" - their Facebook page - when I could have a lengthy, personal, and pleasant talk with them by email? I had no time for this; there were ill-fitting shoes to be ordered.

Originally posted by "anonymous" in the thread titled "DCUM, it's not you, it's me":

I think there are several different types of posters on DCUM. Let's start with the noble nice guys. These people come on here with trepidation, generally do not post many questions, but mainly answer others. They are always nice, always helpful, and go out of their way to say things like "this may not apply to you" or "you've probably already thought of this approach, but have you considered..." They bend over backwards to give helpful advice in a way that doesn't sound overbearing. These people keep me coming back. 

Then there are the obvious trolls. These seem to be the work of one or two posters. Foreign-born former nanny is the standout here. She disagrees with everything just for the sake of being crotchety, typically insults Americans in general, tells us how we're worse than a "third world country", and then adds that she is sorry for our husbands or children. All with creative grammar, lots of ALL CAPS and free standing sentence fragments. 

What parent hasn’t heard these words? “Be an advocate for your child.”

But what does it really mean?

When my 6-year-old started first grade, I kept hearing those words over and over again from parents with children in the public school system.

“Be an advocate for your child.”

And I wondered…what did people really mean when they said that?

Now I know. And I’m here to tell you, this is what it means:

- Talk to your child about his day at school.
- Visit the classroom.
- Ask questions.
- Follow-up.
- If something doesn’t seem quite right to you, talk to the teacher. Talk to other parents. Talk to the principal. Talk to the PTA. Explore the formal complaint process in your school district.
- Follow your gut.

I lost 10 freaking pounds people.

It could be a little more, since I'm in the throes of the PMS bloat and last night scarfed the Peeps I'd bought early for the kids' Easter baskets. But it's real weight, not "bridesmaid dress" weight where you turn around two seconds after a good number on the scale and then THEY'RE BAAACKK like Poltergeist bloody 2 or something. It's wow, I really have to belt these jeans so I don't show butt crack weight. Or dude, I don't need Spanx with that cocktail dress after all weight. The best? Wow, I can't believe those pants still fit is that really my ass did I finally get back to that number? weight.

Last year, we were that family on your airplane.  The ones pleading with the ticket agents to seat us together and arriving late due to a lost blankie in the security line, the ones with two kids constantly crying, the owners of the portable DVD player blasting Dora and Diego for a solid three hours.  You probably bumped into our child's head when it was hanging out in the aisle as she shamelessly nursed uncovered, and yes, we were the ones holding up the deboarding process as we tried to figure out how to open our double stroller.  Hey, you started that game of peek-a-boo - I warned you that it wasn't a good idea in the first five minutes of a cross-country flight. 

At back-to-school night recently, a mother whose child is new to our school rose from her seat with a puzzled look on her face.

“My son came home the other day and told me that you two” -- she gestured toward two of the elementary-school teachers – “are married and are expecting a baby, and that you’re both leaving the school next month. Can you let us know more about that?”

The teachers looked at each other and burst into laughter. When they could finally speak, they explained that none of them are leaving the school, or are pregnant, or are polygamists (the male teacher is married to another woman).

"About 95 percent of what your child tells you is happening in school may not be perfectly accurate,” one of the teachers gently pointed out, at which point all of the parents started laughing.

My husband and I have the worst fights of our marriage over his fantasy life. Before my saintly mother-in-law clutches her heart and topples over, let me explain: Glenn’s fantasies revolves around a trip to Home Depot, where he clutches an empty cart and embarks upon an endless tour of the sultry aisles of home improvement.

“See that drywall?” Glenn will muse, his index finger thoughtfully rubbing his chin. “I could install that.”

No you could not, I want to shriek, but I can’t start a fight, not yet. Not when we’ve walked barely ten feet into Home Depot and there are still endless miles to traverse before we collapse, dehydrated and bedraggled, at the safety of the checkout counter.

“Sure you could,” I’ll say instead, and Glenn will reluctantly inch ahead to scrutinize light bulbs (now those, he can install). But we do not need light bulbs. We do not need drywall. We need nothing at Home Depot except for a box of nails and a tank of gas for the grill. Yet my husband’s eyes are glazed and I can almost hear him panting. In his mind, he is donning a tool belt and building something dangerous and manly, possibly involving electrical sparks and chain saws. There is no room for reason in the male Home Depot fantasy.

I thought this day would never come. My two sons slept through the night last night, then put their breakfast dishes in the sink with only a reminder or six from me (interestingly, the same number of times my husband has to remind me to put my own dishes in the sink). Then my boys trotted happily off to school, giving me a few hours to work and go to the gym to snatch up USWeekly and put the treadmill on its lowest setting (“sloth”).

Life, at long last, is exactly the way I dreamed it would be.

Back when our boys were babies, we were jarred awake three or four times a night, we tore through a box of diapers every week, and, for entertainment on Friday nights, fished objects out of the slot of our DVD player (coins, a plastic Elmo doll, and once, inexplicably, a shriveled breakfast sausage. Expression on Best Buy warranty guy’s face: Priceless).

As a seasoned mother of a six-year-old and a nearly two-year-old, I thought I was past the point where much could shock me. But then school started.

And suddenly I went from the friendly confines of the Green Mom blogosphere to the public school system, where teachers routinely send home “supply lists” containing environmentally unfriendly items such as (gasp) plastic ziplock bags and Purell hand sanitizer (2 bottles, please!), where students use  thousands of styrofoam lunch trays each day (eventually bound for the Incinerator), and where fossil fuels are burned sending children to school on buses that drive past shuttered schools near the bus stops.

I feel like a creature in a strange land.

How’s it going in your world?

Correction: This post originally stated that the styrofoam trays were thrown away. That is incorrect. They are re-used and then after they break are sent to the incinerator.