Didn't I Feed You Yesterday__ A Mother's Guide to Sanity in Stilettos - Laura Bennett [71]
This year Peter and I broke free around nine, leaving the kick-out and cleanup to Nicole and Alicia, much stricter and more capable enforcers than we’ll ever be. I was quite excited to be invited to a fancy party to benefit Central Park. I have to say my husband and I really stood out in a sea of Sarah Palins: Sarah and John, Sarah and Bristol, Sarah and Moose, Sarah as beauty queen, and countless pigs in lipstick. I had carefully placed a top hat on my ’fro, making me pretty much the tallest dominatrix in the place, as well as the shiniest. Peter led me around the venue, in all my fabulousness, and still the only comment I heard repeatedly was “Do you think that’s his real hair?”
THE ONLY OTHER HOLIDAY WE CELEBRATE ON ANY REGULAR BASIS IS Thanksgiving. After our full-on approach to Halloween, and before the oppressive approach of Christmas, I choose to get as far under the turkey radar as possible. Thanksgiving is supposed to be about giving thanks, but everyone knows it is really about food. As you probably know by now, I hate cooking and am not especially fond of eating, so I’ve found a way around slaving over a meal that no one in my family is particularly interested in. Luckily, here in the city we have an amazing grocery-delivery service called Fresh Direct. My family would starve without this modern convenience: with just a few magical clicks of my mouse, I order a meal to my specifications, and the very next day Delivery Dude shows up at my door with a fully cooked Thanksgiving dinner, complete with side dishes and zucchini bread. They even send along a little meat thermometer in case you’re feeling guilty and want to overinvolve yourself in the reheating of the fully cooked bird. Years ago, Cleo was horrified when she arrived home from boarding school to find our first feast-in-a-box; she announced that even though the Thanksgivings up to that point had been inedible, this was just “wrong.” Her longing for June Cleaver has finally subsided, or maybe she has given up, and now the arrival of the Dude is not only a given, but a time-honored family tradition.
WE DID TRY AND ENGAGE THE HOLIDAY IN A REAL WAY ONCE. WE live three blocks away from Macy’s, but usually don’t go to the big parade—as soon as we moved into the neighborhood, we discovered it is basically a made-for-television event, with camera trucks completely corralling the store itself and for twenty blocks up Broadway. Only if you’re well connected can you get the premium bleacher seating, but even for that you have to be there a good two hours before the parade even starts, and Thanksgiving is typically the nastiest, coldest day on the planet. What child will sit still, packed in amid total strangers, for three hours waiting for a giant Clifford to float overhead, when he can watch the same thing in the warmth of his own home mere minutes away? That having been asked, one year Peter summoned his courage and took four of the boys to see the various acts practice the night before the actual event. I was unpacking dinner for the next day and also obesely pregnant with Finn, so Peter dared this outing alone, depending on the slightly older boys to help keep track of the much younger ones. Larson, three years old, highly speech impaired, and lightning fast, waited for Peter to turn his head and slipped away. Panic ensued, with Peik stopping every police officer he could find, Truman shouting Larson’s name over the blasting loudspeakers, and Pierson just plain freaking out, which is a mystery to me because he never seemed to care much about the child before he was lost.
“Which superhero was he wearing?” Peter yelled at Pierson, holding him by the shoulders while clutches of families squeezed by, using this moment of confusion to slip in front of the Shelton pack for a better view.
“I … don’t … know!” Pierson sobbed.
“Think!” Peter commanded. “Was it Spider-Man or Superman?!”
“Spider-Man on top, Superman on the bottom!” Pierson finally managed, relieved to have contributed in some way.
“Dad, look!” Truman shouted