Weekend Bum

If you have followed my shark tooth encounter, you already know that I cannot multitask. The other day, I threw my car key into the garbage can, unable to distinguish between the key, mail, and empty coffee cup in my hands while walking to the front door. Why take two trips from my car to the house, by way of passing the garbage can, if I can just precariously stack everything, toss the empty cup, and hope for the best instead? Well, it goes without saying that retrieving the key took much longer than taking the more sensible route.

Strangely enough, I can pull myself together at the office without having to dig through the dust bin under my desk (although I occasionally kick it for good measure). Monday thru Friday, I often put out countless fires at work and sometimes make do without meeting my self-imposed water bottle quota (got to stay healthy!) in order to meet a deadline without taking potty breaks. That’s stupid, I know, but when you can’t see the forest through the trees, you certainly can’t see the rationale in a two-minute bathroom break.

If you’d rather make unbecoming noises at your desk while dealing with a runny nose, than ask a coworker for a tissue, since an act of civility could positively halt your freight train momentum dead in its tracks, then what can I say… I juggle and run, checking my to-do list as I go.

Enter Saturday morning, however, and it’s an entirely different story. I can often be found in pajamas until noon, hair up in a “flattering” bun. Weekends are for my kids, and on those rare occasions where my daughter’s play date coincides with my son’s afternoon nap, meaning I have a few hours to myself, I get absolutely nothing done.

I don’t know what to do with myself. I mope, watch TV, feel guilty about watching TV, turn off the tube, find my Kindle, realize it needs to be charged, convince myself that this window of opportunity is too small to do anything productive anyway, and mope some more. In other words, I’m full of excuses with no place to go.

Is it a bad thing? Not really.

While I don’t think it strange that I can go from 100 to zero in absolutely no time at all, I do marvel at the fact that I can take in the quiet of the house without an ounce of desire to muster up energy to do anything. Period.

While the house all around me seems to advertise its need to be cleaned and taken care of, I savor my excuses, put my feet up, and do absolutely nothing. Zilch.

It’s quite liberating, once I let go of the guilt and self-imposed Betty Crocker expectations. Naps are not just for preschoolers. Right? Swifers and sticky kitchen floors, courtesy of an earlier apple juice “incident,” are patient fellas. Both can wait. They might vie for my attention, but won’t derail my day if left unattended for another hour or so.

Sure, some things can’t go unattended. A trip to the grocery store, for instance, is usually nonnegotiable, but their timing is more flexible than my deadlines at work. Come Monday morning, when I’m “on” again, I can always stress some more. For now, I’m taking a nap with my son.

By Marion Kase
Marion Kase is a working mother who lives, plays, and, well, works out in the burbs. She captures a dirty sock laundry list of mundane, sometimes hair-pulling observations, as seen from the brim of my coffee cup, for all the unsung heroes in our wonderful community on her blog, Helicopter-Caterpillar.

You Have Mail (and Need Macaroni Salad)

The other day, I sat through a conference call next to the company’s senior executive. We were both staring at my laptop to discuss a submittal draft that was displayed on my screen. A nationally renowned firm was on the other end of the line, clicking through the same draft simultaneously. Just as I was about to speak, a Microsoft Outlook message preview popped up in the corner of the screen, reminding all members of my daughter’s swim team to bring their bake table items come the following Saturday’s meet.

And why did I choose to give them my work email? Right, because I tend to conduct life maintenance more efficiently when pressed against the wall by deadlines. If I were to rely on my Yahoo account, I could never be trusted with the macaroni responsibility. Messages would simply remain unchecked until after any given swim meets, fundraisers, birthday parties, _____ [fill in appropriate life-maintenance item].

Or maybe it’s selective perception at play. It’s unlikely that I’ll forget my pasta bake table contribution after studying the senior executive’s face for any sort of recognition.

Did it go unnoticed? Maybe I had just imagined a flicker of a smile that had brushed his face while I frantically tried to minimize the email preview.

The swim team (a.k.a. second job commitment) gods were determined to conspire against me that day. You know a meeting you called is no longer effective if: (a) your audience starts to drift, (b) you seethe with envy (and a growling stomach) as you watch your coworkers pass by on their way to lunch, or (c) you receive another ill-timed swim team email about a flapjack fundraiser and don’t throw yourself at the laptop to minimize exposure. Suppressed giggles and derailed trains of thought all around.

But what is a working mom to do, bring the macaroni salad, meet deadlines, and forgo pancakes in lieu of a much-needed coffee break. I have since learned to turn my email off before chairing a meeting, to keep a box of Suddenly Pasta Salad in my pantry (I have, on occasion, stressed over buying mayonnaise last minute), and to enjoy catching up on life maintenance emails after a meeting while enjoying a cup of yummy java.

See. That was easy.

By Marion Kase
Marion Kase is a working mother who lives, plays, and, well, works out in the burbs. She captures a dirty sock laundry list of mundane, sometimes hair-pulling observations, as seen from the brim of her coffee cup, for all the unsung heroes in our wonderful community on her blog, Helicopter-Caterpillar.

Ten mom keyboard shortcuts you wish you’d have for life:

1. Ctrl S: for capturing the moment that makes your nose itch and your eyes water.
2. Undo: for damage control on the nuggets you cleaned off your child’s plate earlier today.
3. Redo: for those two-second hugs your kids are entirely too busy for these days.
4. Ctrl P: for printing an image of your child’s first music recital, when you just don’t want to live the moment through a viewfinder.
5. Ctrl. I: for special emphasis on every word while explaining that big sister’s Lego Hogwarts doesn’t belong in the bathtub.
6. Ctrl. A: for gathering the whole family on time, just once, to head out the door in unison and not be late for a family function, again.
7. Home: for a quick return after a seven-hour swim meet.
8. Insert: for adding funds to your non-existing vacation savings account.
9. Ctrl Z: for life in general, and throw-up in your hair specifically (after your sickie child comes visiting your bedroom in the middle of the night).
10. Pause/Break: need I say more?

By Marion Kase
Marion Kase is a working mother who lives, plays, and, well, works out in the burbs. She captures a dirty sock laundry list of mundane, sometimes hair-pulling observations, as seen from the brim of my coffee cup, for all the unsung heroes in our wonderful community on her blog, Helicopter-Caterpillar.

First Five

Illustration by Melissa Jefferson

When I fumble for my keys at the front door after returning from work, I see my little guy skipping to the window. Before I even step into the hallway, he’s greeting me as a wild cheetah, a renegade pirate, or a roaring T-Rex. It’s a mixed bag; I’m never quite sure what to expect at the door.

I love that my preschooler hops off into another room, waiting for me to follow suit in his already defined scenario, where mom’s part keeps the jungle, pirate boat, or Jurassic park going. Before becoming enthralled by the imaginary world I have suddenly been thrown into, I make a beeline for my daughter, who is busy finishing her homework. A quick kiss and hug later, and I’m answering to “you are the mommy shark, and I’m your baby shark!” Problem is that mommy shark didn’t have time to use the bathroom on company time. Tsk-tsk. So I put down my purse and head upstairs, where I transform from “presentable-with-heels” to “slob-with-bun” in no time.

Winter makes it particularly easy to justify pajama pants and fluffy socks at 5:05 p.m., but I keep my bra on just in case—one never knows who might ring the doorbell at this hour. My sloppy leisurewear selection is slightly more tasteful in summer when I risk running into other human beings my age before dinner and have to dress the part. But winter is a freebie. I usually shape up in time for Girl Scout cookie season, when I can’t really answer the door in Paul Bunyan-patterned pants.

But back to my homecoming. Just five minutes in, I’m ready to build pillow bridges across the living room floor to catch unsuspecting big sis at my baby shark’s whim. Three hours to bedtime, and I try to make the most of our playtime.

The first five minutes back home are often like a switch between different cultures, complete with their own customs and local dialects. Of course, the transition isn’t always a cakewalk. Sometimes, I just want to lounge, mope, and vent. If I had a particularly deadline-driven day at work, playing anything at all can be hard, especially after spending all day in a grown-up sandbox with figurative shovels flying around. But I try. Those precious first minutes often set the tone for the night. Occasionally they are all I have before I grab my daughter’s gear and head off to swim practice with her. Mommy storming into the front door and putting up a timeout-worthy pout isn’t exactly helping anyone, so I sometimes take those five minutes for myself, to read last month’s PTC newsletter in the bathroom while hitting my mental Crtl Z button and start over again. Then…I’m mommy shark.

By Marion Kase
Marion Kase is a working mother who lives, plays, and, well, works out in the burbs. She captures a dirty sock laundry list of mundane, sometimes hair-pulling observations, as seen from the brim of her coffee cup, for all the unsung heroes in our wonderful community on her blog, Helicopter-Caterpillar.

Illustration by Melissa Jefferson. Melissa is a textile designer, graphic artist, and mom of two. You can view her artwork at http://www.coroflot.com/majadesign

Weekend Happiness on a Budget…With Meatballs on the Side

At the end of this past summer, on a rainy Sunday, I packed up the kids and headed for IKEA in Conshohocken. I guess my guys can’t really grow up with a foreign-born mom without learning to appreciate two dollar minifängsts (I have two; they are great!).

It’s sad, yes, but whenever I receive the catalog, I read it like a magazine, with a cup of good coffee in hand. Sometimes I even tag the fifty-cent coffee mugs in the catalog that I’d like to add to my Swedish cupboard repertoire, or the five-dollar vase with the cumbersome first name. (“White vase” works for me, but then again, I don’t design these things.) While I sip my coffee and indulge in a smörgåsbord of perplexing products, I often plan my next trip to the store with the kids. It’s fun for all of us (or maybe they are simply still too young to question the store’s entertainment value).

So with the kids excited about heading inside the super warehouse of endless bargains and incomprehensible merchandise tags, we delved right into the children’s section during our last trip there. My son promptly tried out every single toddler bed, stool, and rocking-something (sure didn’t look like a horse to me). We also threw around snuggly plush broccoli florets and chocolate-covered strawberries (teddy bears are so I går). Genius. Who designs this stuff? Maybe the same people who write Phineas & Ferb episodes. Awesome.

After working our way through the ultra-sleek, perfectly geometric design spaces, I found myself with an armful of items I didn’t exactly need, but were too much fun to pass up. No one really travels for forty-five minutes for the sole purpose of purchasing a one-dollar garlic press. And no trip to the cheery yellow and blue mega-land is complete without stopping at the bistro. It’s the crowning achievement of our shopping adventure. You would think that the euro stops at the cafeteria counter, but IKEA’s food is also amazingly cheap (but good). In fact, kids’ meals were free the day we visited, so we enjoyed meatballs and pommes frites for next to nothing. I read that the color yellow can elicit headaches, but can it stimulate an appetite as well? Maybe their marketers are on to something here…

It’s not just the merchandise, of course, or the joy of watching my kids getting a complete kick out of the store that brings me back for three-hour visits at a time. It’s the memory of growing up overseas, I guess. As absurd as it sounds, this part of Conshohocken connects me to Europe, one meatball at a time.

We all carry around associations with certain places. While pommes, meatballs, and lingon berry jam on the side may seem a bit far-fetched for some, they work for me in every regard. And if I can pick up a new garlic press for pennies in the process, while my kids have a ball, that’s even better.

By Marion Kase
Marion Kase is a working mother who lives, plays, and, well, works out in the burbs. She captures a dirty sock laundry list of mundane, sometimes hair-pulling observations, as seen from the brim of my coffee cup, for all the unsung heroes in our wonderful community on her blog, Helicopter-Caterpillar.

Life in 60 Second Increments

Long-distance relationships are hard. Such relationships among working mothers are nearly impossible, but feasible with a good-calling plan and an occasional Facebook visit.

My husband and I had a long-distance relationship before we got married, one that spanned the Atlantic Ocean. That was nearly twenty years ago, just as people started saying “World Wide Web” with a twinkle in their eyes. Alas, we are living proof that long-distance anything is quite possible, no matter the color of your passport, the deadlines at work, or the mommy commitments after office hours.

One of my best friends lives in Colorado. Judging by the amazing pictures on her FB wall, she truly lives a world away from my backyard here. Our view of Monocacy Hill pales in comparison to her rustic outings. Her backyard critters have sharper teeth than the snuggly ones who frequent ours.

My friend usually calls from her long commute to work on weekends. Her travel along the highway often coincides with our Sunday morning breakfast, a family tradition I have maintained through the years. I try to make up for rushed, two-minute phone calls by trying to call back during my lunch hour the following week, but work often gets in the way. Sometimes I barely have a lunch, let alone energy to do anything but space out while waiting for the microwave to signal that the frozen, high-sodium treat is done. So in voicemail we trust. It actually works better for us than social media, and there’s no corporate firewall to keep me away. (Visit FB at home, on my own time? That’s not exactly high on my to-do-list.) It’s also free of distractions. I can leave a summary of my life up to that point without getting sucked into viewing other friends’ comments about this and that.

With voicemail, we go all out, leaving nothing to chance or misinterpretation. Long after our respective monologs stop ringing in our own ears, we take mental notes of other updates that didn’t fit into the allotted message time and save it for next week. Sometimes the phone cuts off our stream-of-consciousness. If we were really clever, we would build in deliberate, well-timed cliffhangers to assure a more prompt return phone call, but we are not that devious.

Our voicemails are accompanied by familiar background activity: my office’s parking lot clearing out during lunch and her kids getting ready for school. The time difference offers a variety of noises that range from mid-day bustling to morning rush, depending on the message sender’s longitude.

We all carry around enough guilt while trying to juggle it all. I’d rather not add friendship maintenance to the list of “things to improve.” Instead, we rock our long-distance friendship and corner the market on voicemail blogs – when we have the time and energy to do so. Occasionally, we are flat out flabbergasted when we actually connect, often during a “luxurious” one-hour trip to the supermarket, pouring our hearts out while considering the store-brand alternative to overpriced floor cleaners. Would I rather fly out there and spend a weekend chatting? Sure. But the grocery store will have to serve as a backdrop for our girl talk for the time being.

Love you, my friend (you know who you are!), and I promise I’ll TRY to call next Tuesday, while dashing out of the office to catch you before school/work/life ties up our respective phone lines.

By Marion Kase
Marion Kase is a working mother who lives, plays, and, well, works out in the burbs. She captures a dirty sock laundry list of mundane, sometimes hair-pulling observations, as seen from the brim of her coffee cup, for all the unsung heroes in our wonderful community on her blog, Helicopter-Caterpillar.

Sticktoitness

“Mom, can’t you talk like everyone else?” I have waited for this question to pop up; in fact, it’s been nine years in the making. At first, my daughter would only hint at the not-so-subtle difference: “Do other moms talk like you?” What started with a slight awareness has since morphed into an occasional plead for reason when out and about in public. She’s even mastered a perfectly blank stare that provokes a translation – ASAP! I attribute the fact that she doesn’t roll her eyes to accompany the little language face-off to her sweet manners. Even when slightly miffed, she’s got tact.

I’m not a native speaker. My mother tongue is German, and I never miss an opportunity to teach both of my kids. Being raised in a bilingual household that’s predominantly monolingual (since I’m the only one who actively speaks it), I have made a dogged effort to keep our “Rs” rolling and each sentence twice as drawn-out. How else will they learn it? Yes, I have DVDs, books, even toys that speak with a dull German voice that’s, um, a bit scary, but as anyone getting over the Rosetta Stone sticker shock knows, only full emersion works.

Many moons ago, we lived in Miami, where my daughter was born. I quickly learned at the playground, the supermarket checkout line, and virtually all other places that mothers didn’t think twice about switching to English when a non-native speaker entered the picture. At first, I thought that was rude, then I realized that it’s a gift to have such powerful language emersion.

Growing up, English was my favorite subject in school, where it was mandatory for eight years. So I was surprised that I couldn’t understand the American boy, my future husband, I met after I graduated – my vocabulary was barely sufficient to exchange pleasantries, let alone fall in love. It truly takes a much greater effort than an occasional Dora episode to master a new language.

Now I speak German with my kids non-stop, sometimes Deutschlish, when I get tired. Their preferred language and comfort zone is still English, a natural by-product of growing up here. So I have stepped it up a notch and made an effort to not consciously switch once I’m in earshot of someone else. So please, if you stand beside me at the Redner’s checkout line, I’m not being inconsiderate, I’m teaching. Chances are, I’m merely telling them that that candy bar is completely out of the question or to get that finger out of the nose, rather than make fun of someone else.

Think of it as a walking cultural emersion program that sips coffee while reprimanding behavior through impossibly long-sounding, strung together nouns. Don’t worry though; I won’t pause like a certain explorer to wait for my kids to repeat “You.Need.A.Time.Out.Now.” They known when they’re in trouble, no matter the vernacular.

By Marion Kase
Marion Kase is a working mother who lives, plays, and, well, works out in the burbs. She captures a dirty sock laundry list of mundane, sometimes hair-pulling observations, as seen from the brim of my coffee cup, for all the unsung heroes in our wonderful community on her blog, Helicopter-Caterpillar.

It’s Not a Race, It’s Not a Race – Go!

I usually spend 30 min. working out; an equal amount of time in the shower and wrestling with the blow-dryer; and another hour preparing semi-fresh, sometimes questionably nutritious lunches, signing agendas, waking the kids, playing for five minutes, supervising dress code compliance and teeth brushing procedures, and getting myself dolled up with mixy-matchy earrings/shoes/lip gloss. I must look like a Muppet to my neighbors when they catch glimpses of my head frantically bopping past the kitchen window, unless, of course, they are participating in their own little backstage bustle. Part of this hour also includes catching up with other moms at my daughter’s bus stop and finally getting to work – all before 8:20 AM. When I return after 5, I resume where I had left off 9 hours earlier in an effort to get a head start on the next day. The hours between school bus #6 and walking through my front door are often spent meeting hair-raising deadlines while flying by the seat of my pants. My job, which I love, can go from scrounging around for billable items to not being able to wipe my nose properly in an effort to keep said body part to the grindstone. Feast to famine. Water cooler chitchat to midnight emails. My personal record stands at 35 hours of overtime in a single week (don’t worry though, I put the overtime to good therapy use at the mall).

Am I busy? Sure. Aren’t we all though? Of course. No big deal, right? Right. We all do it. There’s a parking lot of proof out there at my kids’ daycare. Come 8:10, the lot clears and the last school bus heads out. The sign-in sheet at my son’s preschool room is already full, and he’s off to bigger and better things with his friends. My daughter, in the meantime, is heading for a packed day of math quizzes, specials, band practice, chorus rehearsals, spelling tests, and “chew and do” breaks in between. It’s always struck me as strange how my kids lead these separate lives during my office hours, while I am off to another planet trading inside jokes with fellow nerds who equally appreciate a good headache when they see one. (I’m a proposal manager – so if you are snorting through your nose at the sight of the term “SF 330,” then you get this sad joke. Hi!).

Like all moms I know, I get more done before 8 AM than in an 8-hour stretch on weekends. But it’s okay, really. I once read that in order to get things done, you should ask a busy person for help. If you follow that logic, working mothers should stand on top of the productivity food chain. When I first returned to work, after my babies were born, I worked while pumping (behind securely locked doors!). Now I frequently avoid a lot of office clutter so I can meet my deadlines before sunset. I sometimes skip lunch to preempt the afternoon rush. I’m busy, but so is the mom next to me. Somehow we all manage to run into each other in the backyard after work, or we give an understanding nod while at the Redner’s checkout line. If we make it look easy, it’s because we have mastered the process and given up on the ever elusive “attagirl.” If our hair goes up in a bun after 5 PM, it’s because we had discreetly pulled out the grey ones hours before. If we don’t mention how hectic it can be sometimes, it’s because we have learned to accept it (carefully kicking the dust bin under your desk is okay). While there are occasional hours of overtime, it’s usually a blip in the greater scheme of a working mother’s life.

On most days, we just need for someone to hold the door so we can rush to our next adventure without getting the laptop, lunchboxes, and superhero cape stuck. Sometimes a shoulder to cry on also helps. Occasionally, we dare go all out and rest on our laurels for five minutes before planning tomorrow’s lunch menu. Last night was one of those times. I had a whole pint of Chunky Monkey, watched TV for an hour, and read two percent of my current book (darn you, Kindle, for your lack of page #s). Life is good, even if happiness is not courtesy of two Vermont hippies. And while I can only speak for myself, there are usually enough hours in the day to find microscopic downtime somewhere, even if that entails reading the PTC newsletter in the bathroom, after turning off the laptop at midnight.

By Marion Kase
Marion Kase is a working mother who lives, plays, and, well, works out in the burbs. She captures a dirty sock laundry list of mundane, sometimes hair-pulling observations, as seen from the brim of my coffee cup, for all the unsung heroes in our wonderful community on her blog, Helicopter-Caterpillar.