I was reading in the latest issue of Cookie magazine a list of YouTube kid friendly music videos to share with your wee one. The list had favorites like “Mickey” by Toni Basil, “She Drives Me Crazy” by Fine Young Cannibals, and “Say, Say, Say” by Paul McCartney and Michael Jackson (back when Jackson was still Black, though his nose had started to disappear).

Feeling nostalgic and having a few minutes to myself, I YouTubed “Say,Say, Say” and was instantly transported back to the days when MTv only played music videos that were hosted by Martha Quinn and Adam Curry (that would be 1983), when the remote control to the VCR was connected to the VCR by a really, really long cord, and if you had a portable phone, you probably also had a hernia from schlepping the big carrying case around with you.

So, I’m watching the video and I realize that the Michael Jackson’s love interest in it is (wait for it) his sister, LaToya!!! His sister?! As his love interest in a music video?! WTF? How did the complete ickiness and gut roiling grossness of that escape me for so many years? Well, in my defense, in 1983, I was only 5 years old, but still! Thank God they just leave it to some coy flirting seeing as her character is evidently someone else’s lady friend, but still! Yikes! I must have been blinded by the wholesome goodness of Sir Paul and Linda McCartney, but boy was I seeing the light today when I watched the video. Of course, one might be tempted to say, “Well, why are you surprised? It is Michael Jackson.” I guess. . .

Oh well. The song is still outstanding, but I doubt I can ever watch the video again. Oh the humanity. His sister?! *shudder*

We went to DH’s 15 year high school reunion this week-end, dropping Mo and Co off at their grandparents house along the way. I swear we slowed down to like 15 mph before we booted them into the driveway, shouting, “Tuck and roll! Tuck and roll!! Mo! Pick up your sister’s eyeball!”

Anyway, there were a myriad of activities in which to participate in, including cocktail parties, dinners, panels that offered perspectives on the future of the current students, the future of the school, alumni lacrosse games, and so on. Jam packed fun in about 105 degree heat. It’s tough to look like the wife of a member of the Board of Trustees when you’ve got rivers of sweat careening off of your face, splashing into your cleavage and making you look like you’re participating in a one woman wet t-shirt contest, but I did my best.

Now, I went to a private school myself and am familiar with all of the stereotypes associated with private, all-girls, Catholic school. DH’s school is a private boarding school that was all boys up until he was junior. And of course, there are the stereotypes that go along with that. Of course, both of those lists are blogs best saved for another day.

Still, the experience I am about to recount transported me back to high school so fast, I swear I had on a blackwatch plaid skirt and a Mount Saint Mary Academy sweater when it was all over. Anyway, on the second night of the reunion, after a wine and cheese reception, a dinner was held for all of the classes. Very nice affair. There was a band, an open bar, good food, and more alums were coming. In the midst of all of this revelry, I decide to sneak off to the ladies room. I guess as a throw back to when there weren’t any girls, this particular bathroom has one stall. Yes, a ladies room with one stall. I’m thinking it’s more of a water closet than a ladies room, but potato, po-tah-toe, if you get me. Inside this little place is the occupied stall and four other women who all give me the overpriveleged-$400 highlight having-I-wear-nothing-other-than-Manolo Blahniks–in-my-size-double-zero-Diane-Von-Furstenberg-sheath-mini-dress-that-I-can-squeeze-into-because-I-only-eat-Tic Tacs-and-Evian-water stinky eyeball. Hey, I’m just trying use the toilet.

So after I get the once over, they resume talking about their plans post dinner. Evidently, there’s a club in DC that they want to go to where they plan to and I quote, “Get fucked up.” (Katt Williams was right!!!). Alriiiiiiiiiight. I’m guessing at this point, they must be from the class of 2003, but hey, I could be wrong. The one in the stall comes out to wash her hands and the next one goes in. Hand washer begins to lament about having to be on a list to get into the club and the other two Ladies in Waiting start in with a chorus of “What’s that all about? What list? There wasn’t a list last time. . ” and so on. Hand Washer then points to a drink on the side of the sink and says, “Is this mine? I’ve had like seven already, so it probably is.” Wow.

The little chorus of how are we going to get to the club continues until the second one comes out of the stall and silences them all with a, “If we get there before 10pm, we don’t have to be on the list,” and punctuates it with a “God” that is eerily reminiscent of Cher and her Clueless cronies. As she’s washing her hands, her friends keep talking. One of them says, “I don’t see why there has to be a list.” Ol’ girl at the sink turns to her lineup of friends, and since, I’m still waiting to use the toilet, I’m included. “Well you know, ” she says, grabbing her paper towels, “DC is like Hollywood for ugly people.”

What.The.Crap?

Pushing past her twittering coven with their flesh piercing clavicles, I gave them all my best Blue Steel and finally made it into the stall. Ahhh, high school.

I just put Mo down for the (first time) night. She’ll be in her room, in her crib talking to herself at least until 9pm. Around about 8:15, I’ll get a plaintive call, “Mommy, I have to go to the potty!” But, I digress. Before bed, we usually have a story and a prayer. She opted to forgo the story in order to watch the Backyardigans and then have me draw some princesses on her Doodle Pad. Hey, whatever floats your boat.

After I had exhausted my repertoire of princesses and their paraphernalia on that little 5 X 7 pad, I told her it was time for prayers. She put her little hands together and said,

Amen, sister.

You’ll have to forgive my absence of late. DH and I partied like it was 1999 this past week-end. Our respective sorority and fraternity grad chapters co-hosted a Midnight Boat Ride on the Spirit of Norfolk this past week-end, and when I say midnight, I mean, in the middle of the night when no one is up but the homeless guy taking a leak on the side of the Dominion Power building (not that I was looking).

This ol’ gray mare ain’t what she used to be. We were jammin’ to old school Jodeci, Biggie Smalls, Jay-Z, Onyx and all the rest of the groups that made our college parties shake the campus. I felt 19 years old again, doing an Ivy Stroll it with my “saw-rahs” and watching DH and his bros party hop across the dance floor. We hooped. We hollered. We “skee-wee’d” and more. Then, the boat docked, the adrenaline plummeted and I was 29 years old, pigeon toe walking across the parking lot in 2 hour shoes that I’d had on for 5 hours, only half joking when I told DH that I had some Ben-Gay in my purse. I straight up felt like Cinderella, if Cinderella had two kids under two that she wrangled everyday and then decided to stay up ’til 4am to get her party on. Instead of the bell chiming 12am and her coach turning into a pumpkin, when the clock struck 3am and the captain said, “Y’all don’t have to go home, but you gots to get the hee-zee outta here,” I pretty much turned into party pooper extraordinaire. Seriously, I think all the cells in my body conspired to let me function until my feet made it from ship to shore before commencing an entire system shut down.

You see that it’s been a while since my last entry. I guess my party favor from the boat ride was this nasty cold that I’m suffering through. So, even though I’m battling congestion so bad that breathing through my mouth might cause me to suffocate, I had to put something out here. I’m still recovering from letting it all hang out. In a respectable way, of course.

It’s 4:30pm and I felt the need to get out of the house. Mo had been visiting Playhouse Disney on the computer, Co was crawling around getting this, that and the other thing. I was “ret ta go’ and how. So, I packed up all our sundries and just needed to get the little dickens’ into the car. I also needed a way to get Mo off of the computer, into some clothes other than her ballet outfit and into the car so we could go to Target. Priorities, I know. Dinner, schminner. We have to go to Target!! Short of using a crowbar or pulling the plug, I can’t pull her off the computer. I employ the old standby — the egg timer countdown. When the buzzer buzzes, that’s it. All done with Mickey Mouse, no tantrums, no tears, all Target. But here’s the thing — she doesn’t want to go! What?!

I’m stunned that she doesn’t want to go to Target! Who’s child is this? Target is our thing! It’s like the McDonald’s Playplace for adults AND kids. She’s not having it and I’m grasping at straws to figure out how, without manhandling her, the car, to get her to co-operate sans total toddler meltdown. Inspiration strikes in the form of a total win-win on so many levels.

I tell her that if we get ready and go to Target, not only can she keep on her ballet costume, complete with ballet slippers and fairy wings we can have Chinese food for dinner. She has a penchant for chicken and broccoli that is only rivaled for her desire to a) watch the Backyardigans, b) doing “arts & craps” and c) spend the afternoons swinging on the swings at the park. You can see the light bulb go on as she comprehends what I’m saying. And she embraces the idea so totally. As she turns a series of pirouettes to the front door, my dear sweet Mo says, “I’m going to behave right now. Target here we come!”

Wow.

I’ve thought quite a bit about what I wanted to write in honor of Mother’s Day and I’ve come up with a whole lot of “Eh, that’s not what I’m trying to say.” I had this idea to write about how I’ve been influenced, both in good ways and in bad, by mothers I know. How being a mother had helped me recognize what my purpose is and where my passion lies. How motherhood has totally ratcheted up my ability to do more than one thing at a time, although the success of completion is patchy at best. I even contemplated writing about what Mo and Co have taught me about motherhood.. None of those ideas seemed to be where I wanted to go. It’s like having an itch you just can’t reach to scratch. I’m dancing around something, the need to express what my life as a mother is like, especially in the last few weeks.

I sat down to check my email and just had to stop because I was feeling so, so, defeated. What am I doing wrong? So, I just prayed, right there in front of the computer. I asked for that guiding hand, for me to realize that I’m on the right track and if I’m not that I’ll be steered back there. I took a deep, cleansing breath, and then, finished checking my mail. There was a message in my inbox called Invisible Mother about a mom who felt completely invisible to everyone. She went on to write about how she was wondering how things had gotten to where she was only seen as a chauffeur,cook, secretary, and so on, when another, more well traveled friend presented her with a book about the great cathedrals of Europe. She realized, upon reading the book that the connection between herself and those who built the the great cathedrals was a powerful one. For you see, there is no record of who built the great cathedrals. The builders devoted their entire lives to a work that they never saw through to completion. They received no credit for their choices except that in the eyes of God. In her story, she writes, “I closed the book, feeling the missing piece fall into place. It was almost as if I heard God whispering to me, ‘I see you, Charlotte, I see the sacrifices you make ever y day, even when no one around you does. No act of kindness you’ve done, no sequin you’ve sewn on, no cupcake you’ve baked, is too small for me to notice and smile over. You are building a great cathedral, but you can’t see right now what it will become.”