T-Bone

The other morning, Seconda told me about a dream she'd had, featuring her new imaginary friend. T-Bone. T-Bone was doing some circus act and Seconda had to rescue her.

That night, when Sec was still awake at 11pm, darting out of her bedroom every five minutes to tell us something terribly important like "I don't like cheddar cheese," and "Don't forget to give me an umbrella when it rains." I told David about T-Bone, in order to boost parental morale.

"She may be a real pain in the ass," I said, "But she's so fucking cool. I mean, where did she even get the idea for a female imaginary friend named T-Bone? Its not like we ever told her about T-Bone Burnett or anything, who is a man, anyway. She is just INHERENTLY cool. Let's remember that."

Sec ran out at that moment to with my lipstick smeared all over her face: "And don't forget to put this lipstick on tomorrow, Mommy, so you can look beautiful like me."

"Coolness does not come without a price," I said unconvincingly to David and to myself.

Then a few days later, we were at a playdate and I was chatting with one of my dear, old Mommy friends and T-Bone come up.

"I don't know where she got the idea," I mused.

"Isn't T-Bone the dog character from one of those PBS shows?" my friend asked.

"What?" I said, somewhat malevolently.

"I don't remember the name of the show but I think on one of those PBS Kids cartoons, there's a dog named T-Bone."

"Oh, great," I grumbled, "Just go ahead and puncture the illusion, which I am desperately clinging to for consolation, that my daughter is inexplicably cool and wildly creative. I need to believe that the defiance and impulsiveness and inflexibility is serving some greater good, some long-term pay off and T-Bone was an important piece of evidence in my case. Which you just trashed. And now I have nothing to believe in."

"Sorry," she said.

I haven't told David that our child's brainchild was born from an unvetted TV show she probably watched at my grandmother's house. I'm sparing him.

Plus -- it occurred to me later that day, when I walked into Sec's room and found she'd pulled very single one of the books off the shelf and left it all in a massive, unapologetic far-flung pile -- it takes an impressive amount of coolness to even recognize a cool name when you hear one. She could have picked Wyatt or Dora to be the name of her new imaginary amigo, but she knew that was pedestrian. There is hope after all.

My House is A Pigsty

One of my mommy friends recently came over for a playdate and told me how refreshing it is to come to our house because I’m not one of those moms who’s worried about keeping up the appearance of having everything neat and tidy and in order.

“My house is a pigsty, you mean?” I said.

“And I think the state of mess in your house works in proportion to how happy you are with your spouse. And you and David are one of the happiest couples I know,” she went on.

“I know you’re not the kind of person who gets offended by that sort of thing,” she added.

I hastened to tell her that she was wrong on two counts: A. That David and I were one of the happiest couples and B. That I’m not the easily-offended type. David and I fight like we’re on Jersey Shore half the time and I, of course, want people to think that I am effortlessly perfect. 

“I don’t want people to think I am a slob, for crying out loud,” I exclaimed.

“You’re not a slob,” she said, “It’s just nice because I go over to other moms’ houses and everything is perfectly in place and it makes you feel bad about the state of your own house.”

The distressing thing was, I didn’t think my house was that messy.

I mean, it wasn’t a day where I swang my front door open with gusto, feeling pride over the fact that my dining room table could actually be used to eat on, rather than rest junk on. It wasn’t a day where my bed was made or where all the stray crayon masterpieces were stowed in their proper place or where I’d done the dishes. It wasn’t THAT kind of day. But it also wasn’t a day where I felt compelled to say, “My house s a total mess,” as I let the guests in.

“If I waited til my house was in order to have people over, we’d never see anyone!” I told her.

“I know,” she said.

“And every spare second I have, I’m working or playing with the kids,” I said, “so when can I clean?”

“I know," she said.

“Plus, as soon as I clean everything up, the kids walk through and instantly re-set it back to maximum mess,” I said.

My friend smiled but said nothing, waiting for the unexpected explosion of defensiveness to blow over. I guess I’d duped her into thinking that I was actually comfortable in my skin and brimming with self-acceptance which of course, I am not. Far from it. Because after my crazy defensive tirade, I proceeded to clean up my house, right in the middle of the playdate. Picking up discarded pajama pants and stray Legos, pairing up shoes and placing them by the door.

And I continued on this over-zealous cleaning jag for about a week, after which point, I found myself spent and relapsed as a slob.

So when my friend Amelia unexpectedly popped over last weekend, she found our house in its standard state of disrepair. What David likes to call Das Messenhaus.

“Your place looks like a tornado hit it,” she said, laughing.

“I know,” I said, “But it is precisely because of this mess that David and I are one of the happiest couples in New York.”