Here is a really sad start to my post. It has been SO long since I’ve posted something, that I actually forgot how to log into my blog! I had to go back through all my old emails and find the link that I emailed myself forever ago in case I ever forgot how to log into my blog. (Thankfully I know myself well enough to have set up for this scenario.) Total tragedy…but what matters is that I’m here now and it’s been TOO long. Babies #1 and #2 are at school, Baby #3 is napping, the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills season is over and the Bethenny Ever After season doesn’t start until next week. I’m yours (at least for the next few minutes).

Lately, I’ve been thinking about divorce – and more specifically, the division of assets.

DON’T WORRY — Hubby #1 isn’t getting off the hook.

Hubby #1’s College Friend is getting divorced after roughly three years of marriage. When I met his Soon-to-be Ex-wife for the first time, let’s just say it wasn’t the same love at first sight for me that it had been for him. She described herself as a “semi-retired model and actress.” She had that glow that only a person newly in love has as she seriously explained to me that planning her wedding was going to take so much time that wouldn’t have any left to work. Seriously? Then she added that she and College Friend planned to have five babies – as quickly as possible. Seriously?? It could be that we were just at totally different places in our lives – I was cynical and sleep deprived, Baby #2 had just been born and I was dealing with engorgement and diaper blow-outs, and her days were filled with cake tastings and dress fittings. I was pretty sure it was more than that though, so I quickly wrote her off as a total idiot and someone I would never be friends with.

Then something surprising happened – she started to grow on me! Every time we saw College Friend and Soon-to-be Ex-wife I would dread the interactions with the mayor of lala land, and would then end up pleasantly surprised (and a little befuddled) that she was kind of a cool girl. Believe me, I was as schocked as you are, but it’s true. I actually started to really like her. She was totally endearing and fun to be around. So much, in fact, that I decided I would call her up and make brunch plans. Yes, I decided that Soon-to-be Ex-wife and I were going to be friends.

Now, for better or for worse, I tend to plan to do a lot of things, but in reality very little actually gets done. This is evidenced by the fact that I haven’t had a blog post since last year even though I’ve had some really swell ideas that were almost completely written…in my head.

When I learned of their split – at a friend’s party, in a rather miserable, “Hey, where’s Soon-to-be Ex-wife?” “We’re getting divorced,” kind of way – I was stumped. What would happen to my soon-to-be friendship with Soon-to-be Ex-wife? Even though we’d only Facebook chatted a couple times, would that mentally planned brunch ever happen? I mean, we were practically extremely close!! In their split, could College Friend keep Hubby #1 and she could keep me? I had invested a lot in this friendship…in my head.

I asked Hubby #1 about how the division of assets would go. “Assets” meaning ME.

“No!” he said, “You can’t go out to brunch with her.”
“Why not?” I whined. Now that she was off limits, I wanted to be friends with her more desperately than ever before.
“Kirstie…” he said in the patient way he does when he’s waiting for me to figure out what other grown-ups know right off the bat.
“Fine,” I sulked.

I wasn’t about to push the matter since one of our biggest fights in history was when I spread the word in a wildfire like way about one of his friend’s girlfriends sleeping with another of his friends. I learned that messing with Hubby #1’s friends wasn’t worth the effort. So, sadly, I accept that Soon-to-be Ex-wife was not my Future BFF. And, really, it’s too bad because without a husband and five kids to tie her down, we could have had a lot of fun.

Every time Hubby #1 walks in to find me watching The Real Housewives, he matter-of-factly says, “You’re getting dumber from watching this.” I always counter with, “No way! I’m getting smarter.”

Okay, so getting smarter is probably a stretch, but I am definitely learning. I’m learning that my life is boring. B-O-R-I-N-G. Nobody ever throws punches, pulls hair or flips tables at my parties. Nobody ever has nervous breakdowns or drunken tirades at my dinners. Nobody ever mean-Tweets about me. Nothing. My life if boring, bland and dull. I get along with my friends and family, and they get along with each other. It’s all just far too mundane.

To remedy this, I suggested to Hubby #1 that we move to Jersey. Clearly, that’s where the action is. Plus, from what I can figure, you can be bankrupt and broke but still live in the lap of luxury, so we wouldn’t have to worry about working. Hubby #1 quickly and without even taking time to consider my idea shot it down. No Jersey for us.

So, maybe spicing my current life up is the answer, but again the problem of actually getting along with the people in my life is an issue. I imagined throwing a party and then stirring up some major shit between people, but I couldn’t really think of any shit to be stirred. Plus, being as non-confrontational as I am would have made this really hard.

Then, when I really started to think about it, I realized that my life used to be exciting. My dad had a Real Housewife worthy temper and I grew up constantly subjected to raging family feuds and furniture flipping, and I didn’t really like it. It was upsetting, unsettling and downright destructive (both to our lives and our stuff). I realized that it might just be the more intelligent decision to continue living in the peace and harmony that makes for a happy, albeit less exciting, life.

So, there you have it Hubby #1 – watching The Real Housewives actually IS making me smarter.

Like so many moms, yesterday marked the official end of my summer. Even though the temperature was still over 100 degrees, Baby #1 and Baby #2 returned to school – first grade and second year of nursery school respectively. The day was bittersweet for me. On one hand – HOORAY! They’re out of my house…a much deserved break from the mess-making, arguing, and constant complaining that filled our summer. On the other hand – BOO HOO! They’re out of my house…no more schedule-free days spent on the slip n slide, saying up late, and just hanging out. The day also marked the official end of my self imposed, and practically Canadian maternity leave. Yes, with two kids at school at the same time and a third who is (thankfully) a good napper, it was time to get back to work.

So, I sat down in front of my computer and wrote a blog post comparing my maternity leave to Megyn Kelly’s with an odd tangent about my grammatical pet peeves, and some elementary school worthy gibberish about how I’d spent my summer vacation which included the words poopy and diaper. I read it over, preparing to post it and I realized something – IT SUCKED. It was embarrassingly bad. There was no way I could let anyone else read it.

I was super dejected. Had I lost my ability to write? Was my sleep deprivation so extreme that I could no longer follow a thought? With each child had I become dumber and Baby #3’s birth had pushed me over the edge? Possibly. My dejection didn’t improve later in the evening when Baby #1 asked where a friend’s mom was at pick up. I explained that his mom worked and his dad stayed home with him. I then overheard my children having a conversation about working parents. They were both in agreement that their dad works. Then Baby #2 said, “Mommy doesn’t work.” It hit me hard. Was he right? Was my career officially and completely over? Then, Baby #1 – shining, sparkling, beacon-of-hope Baby #1 said, “Mommy actually does work. She’s a writer.” AAAAAH!!! The clouds parted, sunshine streamed in and for a moment my world glowed.

With the renewed confidence that only a six year old can provide, I dropped everyone off this morning, came home and sat down in front of my computer again. This blog post might not be my most inspired, but at least I don’t vent my frustrations over misused quotes and apostrophes. Like the kids going back to school, I’m a combination of excitement and anxiety as I put the racket that was my maternity leave behind me and get back to writing because I actually do work.

My week started off with quite a scare. Monday morning, outside of Baby #1’s elementary school, I was approached by a mother, clearly frazzled, on her way out of the principal’s office. She had been there telling him about an attempted kidnapping at a local park the day before. The potential victims were students of the school and her children had been playing at the park at the time the incident occurred. She recounted the terrifying story and the extensive police investigation that followed. She was on her way from the school to talk to a detective and was warning every parent she passed to beware.

For me, kidnapping is one of those topics that makes it harder to sleep at night. Part of this is probably a natural feeling for a parent, but I think it’s worse for me because I was raised by a mother who spent most of my childhood teaching me that most everyone was out to get me. In fact, to this day, she reinforces how terrified I should be to do everything and go anywhere. She is the kind of person who forwards endless e-mails about new ways that killers will trick you at gas stations, in mall parking lots and at the supermarket. Just this morning, while I was on the phone with her, a DWP employee rang my doorbell to have me unlock my gate. She made me call her back as soon as he was gone because, according to her, impersonating DWP employees is a new tactic used by predators. Because of this upbringing, I have to work very hard not to be afraid all the time. I have made a very conscious and concentrated effort not to instill the same panic in my children. Therefore, I find it easier to simply avoid the park because it is impossible for me to be 100% protective of two people who scatter in opposite directions, hide in tunnels and don’t respond when I call their names without scaring them with stories of the horrible things that can happen to children happily swinging. Instead, I convinced Hubby #1 that we needed a swing-set that takes up our entire backyard in order to give our children all the swinging, climbing and sliding satisfaction of a park in an environment where I can sit back and read a magazine.

Even though we don’t go to the park, the news still sent terror through me – maybe my mother is right?!? – and I decided that, perhaps, it was time to instill a little fear in my kids. Baby #2, who just celebrated his third birthday, was the only one home at the time, and so I began with him.

“What would you do if you were at the park and a man you didn’t know asked you if you’d like to come to his car and see his sleeping dog?” I asked, using the lure the local kidnapper had supposedly used. “Would you go with him?”
“Yes!” Baby #2 answered eagerly.
“NO!!” I countered and then, I am ashamed to admit, I told him that the person was going to take him away from me and never give me back.
Baby #2 responded by asking me about the sleeping conditions with his new family.
LESSON #1 – FAILURE

That afternoon, I presented the same scenario to six-year old Baby #1.
She too was willing to go to the car to check out the sleeping dog and only encountered a problem with the fact that the kidnapper might not have a 5-point harness seat for her to ride in.
“The seat doesn’t matter!” I exclaimed. “They are NEVER going to give you back to me. You’ve got bigger problems than the seat!!”
LESSON #2 – FAILURE

I have spent the rest of the week, convincing my children that there are people out to get them. I am ashamed that I have done it, but at the same time, feel a sense of satisfaction that now Baby #2 creates schemes potential predators might use, always ending in him saying, “NO!”

“Mommy, if I’m playing at school and someone I don’t know comes up and asks me if I want to see their dog throw-up, I say NO,” he proudly tells me.
“YES!” I cheer, thrilled that the dangers of the world are sinking in. I decide to let go the fact that even if someone he knows offers him the chance to see dog vomit that he should probably pass.

Then, this morning, I learned that the whole kidnapping threat was false. Some accounts are saying that the kids got it wrong – others are implying that they flat out made it up. I am now torn between admitting to my children that the world is a little safer than I have spent the past five days leading them to believe and not mentioning that it didn’t happen and using the incident as a good excuse to have taught them a lesson they should have already known. And speaking of teaching lessons, should I jump on this new development and move right into the perils of crying wolf?

At some point (and I have perhaps reached that point), all this lesson teaching becomes just as much work as trying to watch two kids at the park! I think, instead, I am going to spend the weekend sitting in the backyard reading a magazine and letting them believe that there are predators with ill dogs lurking under every public slide. As my mother loves to say, “A little fear is what keeps you safe.”

I just had a super fun playdate. Okay, technically it wasn’t my playdate – it was Baby #2’s – but the kid’s mom was so cool that I think I might have had more fun than the kids. In fairness, she didn’t try to play with any of my toys, so it was easier to get along. For moms, a first playdate is a bit like a blind date. Sure my friend Beth said she was really nice, I’d chatted with her outside of school, and we’d exchanged e-mails planning the playdate, but now was the moment of truth – how would two hours of idle chit-chat go? It can be kind of hit and miss.

With Baby #1 at the “drop off” playdate age (which causes me anxiety for separate reasons), I had almost forgotten when Baby #2 started nursery school this year that playdates for him once again meant playdates for me. For a finite amount of time, you can select your child’s friends based on which moms you’d like to hang out with…but then kids start developing relationships of their own and you find yourself having to chat uncomfortably for hours with people you have little or nothing in common with (except obviously having kids the same age). It reminds me of a piece I read in the New Yorker years ago about what it would be like if adults were subjected to the same injustices as children. Basically the article joked about how adults would feel if their children forced them to spend time with people who were simply the same age, or if their children forced them to let someone else drive their brand new Mercedes because you have to share. The article suggests that being forced to spend time with people you don’t share anything in common with and sharing your belongings only happened to children – but let me tell you, when you have a two year old, it happens to you too! There are lots of moms out there, and sometimes the single commonality of having given birth around the same time is not enough to carry you through.

There are the “nice” moms, but “nice” turns into boring about twenty minutes in. Although, I’ll take a “nice” mom any day over a nanny. Showing up for a playdate that turns out to be with the nanny is even worse – especially if the nanny doesn’t speak English. A friend of mine is Haitian, with medium dark skin. She once took her son to a playdate where the nanny thought she was Puerto Rican and spoke Spanish to her the entire time. My friend doesn’t speak Spanish.

There are the “super busy” moms who spend the playdate on their phones or computers. But who can blame them…they are super busy.

There are the “perfect moms.” Obviously they are nice, but they are more stressful than the plain old nice moms because they are perfect. They are dressed to the nines – we’re talking hair and make-up – like they must be going somewhere other than the nursery school drop off and the market. Their houses are spotless – they don’t have dogs and shoes must be left at the bottom of the driveway. They offer delectable homemade snacks. They don’t have a single fault so they give me a complex. How do they do it all? Does their day have more than 24 hours? I certainly don’t have time to wash my hair and bake whole grain muffins in the same day.

There are the “over-sharers.” I’m not saying they make their kid share toys more than anyone else…I’m saying when you leave there, you know their financial situation, how their marriage is, what their kid’s morning poop looked like. You get it, it’s classic TMI.

But once in a golden while, there is a “cool mom.” She’s the best, taking little bits from all the other mom types and wrapping them up in a nice package. She’s nice without being boring – good sense of humor is a must. She’s busy in that she doesn’t stay forever because she has places to go and people to see, but she politely puts it aside for a couple of hours. She’s dressed in cute jeans and sneakers with hair in a ponytail and little or no make-up because who are we kidding, a playdate isn’t a night on the town. She shares enough to make you feel comfortable, but thankfully you have no idea when her last period was. This mom is a rare jewel.

What a great surprise that this morning’s playdate was so much fun. It’s like a blind date where you feel a spark. A kind of “oh my goodness, there could be a friendship here,” feeling. But now, like any blind date, as I sit here envisioning future playdates at the park…maybe the zoo?!?…in the back of my head is a distant worry. Will she call again? What if she doesn’t think I’m a cool mom too?