Tag Archives: kids

Ebola Mom, Part 82

(Part, and possible end to, the Ebola Mom series)

First of all, holy crap– it’s been 2 months since I posted. And here I thought I was handling the balance of “me time” and motherhood so well*! But no, turns out I had JUST enough free time during maternity leave to feed myself, pee (and sometimes wipe!), spower (“speed shower,” because who has time to separate words anymore), and stare blankly because as much as I wanted to blog, my brain could only form the words to “Old MacDonald.” Actually, it couldn’t even form the words to THAT. Nora’s Old Macdonald has a rhino and a lemur because farm animals are hard.

Anyway, the point of this post is to announce that sadly, the long, beautiful, borderline abusive relationship between me and Ebola Mom has, it appears, come to an end. And it ended in the tradition of any great Jewish-girl-in-NYC love story– I got ghosted.

About a month ago I sent Ebola Mom an email announcing that I would be returning to work soon, and therefore wanted to check in on Kid’s progress and discuss the continuation of her tutoring.

Weeks passed.

Crickets.

Which, to be honest, is just disappointing. This relationship deserved to end in the same way it started– with me being verbally assaulted. Yes, getting ghosted is insulting, but I really would have preferred she put her complete lack or respect and disregard for human decency into words. Is a quick “Thank you for the 7 years you helped my daughter thrive, but now you and your baby can go fuck yourselves” too much to ask? She left me with nothing postable. Nothing to mark a deserving, bloggable end to this tortured love story.

So, like the single-girl-on-28-different-dating-apps I used to be, I’m deciding to send one last text in the hopes that it will garner a response. Not because I want to continue the relationship or because I can’t take a hint. I’m doing it for you, the fans. Because you’ve invested in this for years, and you deserve closure, god damnit.

Oh also Kid. I like Kid. And she likes me. I’m fairly certain I’m the only normal** adult influence in her life. And now I can only assume she thinks I’m dead, killed by the protruding stomach tumor that I was not allowed to assure her was just a baby.

So here goes. Putting all my pride*** on the line in the hopes of bloggable closure. You’re welcome. And stay tuned.

*never actually thought that.
**when used to reference myself, term always to be taken with grain of salt.
***no pride. Lost all pride in my 20s. Chose to trudge forward without it.

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My 21-Year-Old Self Was an Idiot. Here’s Proof.

We are moving apartments tomorrow, so the past week has been a lot of packing and cleaning out old crap. All of which has been done by a constantly sweating yet not ONCE complaining Eric, while I sit on the couch rubbing my belly, drinking ice water, and grumbling that I’m overwhelmed.

Yesterday Eric pulled this huge dusty box out of the depths of the closet and said “Hey, Emily from 1990, here are your files. Maybe go through them and see if this is something we can throw in the garbage, since we now live in the computer age, and have for 20 plus years?”

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So I just went through the box and he was right– I do not, in fact, need a paper copy of the 1-year-warranty for the Sony Vaio laptop I bought in college, nor a receipt for a Gap cardigan purchased in January. Of 2004.

It took me over an hour to go through, rip up, and discard all the blatantly irrelevant crap this box possessed, but my hard labor was rewarded when I reached the end of the files and came across THIS little gem, posted below (in the form of a PDF link. Sorry, after a whole 2 seconds of trying, I couldn’t figure out how else to post it).

It is a paper I wrote during my senior year of college, entitled “The (abridged) Autobiography of Emily Lerman,” and it is ABSURD. Absurd because it is exactly the kind of sarcastic, self-deprecating shit I would post on this blog, except I HANDED IT IN TO A PROFESSOR. AT AN IVY LEAGUE SCHOOL. FOR A GRADE. 

Now, granted, I got an A. So my professor was either awesome (don’t remember that being the case) or EXTREMELY bored (more likely). Or maybe she appreciated seeing something “different” come across her desk? Most likely she was just drunk. I don’t know, but there’s no doubt something was amiss, because this shit is less a paper for a college course and more a bad audition for Last Comic Standing that ends with the comic sweat-stuttering offstage to a chorus of “You suck!”

So naturally, I need to share it.

A few parts are redacted to protect the innocent, but otherwise I left it in its purest, this-was-definitely-written-by-a-21-year-old-moron form. It’s not even that the writing is that bad (save for a few blatant grammatical errors), it’s just VERY dramatic. Not sure if that was for comedic effect (important in a paper for HISTORY CLASS) or because I was a CHILD when I wrote it, but I do feel the need to clarify that I probably wasn’t THAT miserable as a kid, and Potomac was not THAT absurd a place to grow up (furthermore, the random unneccesary dig I took at my mom, saying she was a real estate agent “when she felt like working” was completely unfair. I can make that joke NOW, but back then, the woman hustled).

Or maybe I was that miserable and growing up in Potomac was that absurd but I’ve now had 15 more years of distance from the “trauma” (img_7593) and kind of just want to smack my young self across the head and be like, “Lighten up, Sassypants. Your life wasn’t hard. You drove a 4Runner.”

Anyway here it is. Enjoy. ( shrug_1f937)

Yes I wrote this for an academic college course

P.S. Future daughter– if I send you to college and this is the kind of shit you produce on my dime, you’re paying your own way.

 

Dear Camp Robindel

Dear Camp Robindel,

Sleep-away camp season is upon us, so I’m filling out an application for my daughter. She’s still in my womb. No, I’m not crazy.

It’s for NEXT summer.

She’ll be almost 1 and, much like all the Lermans starting camp far younger than the suggested age, she’ll be fine. But also like all the Lermans starting camp far younger than the suggested age, it won’t REALLY matter if she’s fine or not, the point is more that her mom needs a break. So she’s getting on that plane, goddamnit.

If my kid is anything like her mom, she’ll be a bit confused, under-showered, and questionably lice-infested for the first few weeks, wondering if Ann and Nat are her new parents and if this bunk is just where she lives now.  Or, if she’s like her Uncle Zack over at brother camp Winaukee, she’ll wear one Teva all summer, be covered in weeks-old temporary tattoos, smell like the dubious roped-off section of the lake, and spend all her free time, voluntarily, with the camp nurse.

The adjustment will be slightly jarring, but then the first time she receives a “free” foot-long Charleston Chew at canteen without having to write the required letter home (because is this dirty, gap-toothed, bowl-haircut kid even old enough to write? No one is certain), she’ll smile and be like, “Oh, ok. I got this. I’m going to run this place now.”

She won’t even bother to wipe the chocolate drool from her chin. It will remain there, crusted over, for two months.

So reserve a spot in Hemlock for Summer of ’19, please. Top bunk. Don’t even waste your time with a guard rail. Kid’s gotta learn.

Love,
Emily, aka “Lerman”
(9-year camper, 3-year counselor. Owner of 3 CR necklaces— 2 actually earned, and 1 because you forgot you already gave me a gold at 9 years, so you gave me another at 10. I did not correct your mistake. I just quietly pumped my fists and gleefully snatched my third necklace, which would be excusable behavior had I not been 19 years old and in charge of roughly 40 middle schoolers at the time.)

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Learn From Your Mother’s Mistakes

Being pregnant has given me a lot of time to reflect on all the stupid shit I did as a kid and to wonder if my daughter is going to be as poor a decision maker as I was.

For instance, one time in high school I smoked the world’s most unnecessarily large and potent amount of weed. I definitely could have stopped at one bong hit and been perfectly pleasantly stoned, but I guess I thought if one was fun, 8 would be REALLY fun, because everything fun is better when you overdo it by 7 times.

I was an honors student.

I have no explanation for this.

I was dropped off at home by a sober friend (I think/hope?) around midnight, and instead of going straight to bed, I chose to sit in the bright, incriminating lights of the kitchen and eat a tub of Breyer’s vanilla ice cream with a large wooden cooking spoon, straight from the tub. I must have been making absurdly loud slobbering noises and dropping the spoon one or 12 too many times, because at some point, my Dad wandered downstairs from his bedroom to see what was going on.

I didn’t even attempt to act like a normal human, I just proceeded to dip my big ass spoon in the tub o’ Breyers and stare at the kitchen TV, ice cream trickling down my chin, while Dad carried on what I think was supposed to be a conversation with me. To this day I have no idea what he said, but if he didn’t realize I was stoned out of my damn mind, well, that’s just sad for him.

To make matters worse, I was so high that I ended up vomiting multiple times in the middle of the night, and then oversleeping the next day, when I was supposed to be at my parents’ friends’ house babysitting their kids. I was a total no-show for the job, with essentially no excuse other than “I took 7 too many bong rips, by accident.” I lost out on a ton of money and so badly pissed off the family, who had been my steady source of income since middle school, that they never asked me to work for them again.

So all this is to say, for the love of god, I pray my kid makes better choices than I did.

I mean– Breyers vanilla?

Aim higher, baby girl. When you’re stoned as shit, you shove that oversized spoon into something worthwhile.

The world is your oyster.

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Remind Me to Thank Your Dad

Finishing a math lesson with a 5 year old….

Me: “Any questions?”

Kid: “Yeah. When that baby comes out of your vagina, is it going to hurt?”

Me: “Excuse me?”

Kid: “Babies come out of vaginas, you know. My dad told me when I asked him how your baby was going to get out of you. He said it would come out of your vagina.”

Me: “Well, remind me to thank your dad. But what I meant was, do you have any MATH questions.”

Kid: “Ummmm…let me think.”

Me: “We just did a whole lesson about how to tell time and read a calendar. Do you have questions about THAT?”

(long pause)

Kid: “Oh! Yes. How many days on the calendar…”

Me: “Ok, that’s better…”

Kid: “…until that baby comes out of your vagina?”

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I Still Think It Was Me

Working with a kid who never pays attention to anything I say, ever.

Me: “I noticed you are extremely focused today. I love it!”

Kid: “Yeah well I realized that you are really smart and have a lot to teach me, and I should really listen to you because you’re a great teacher.”

Me: “Really? So all this focus is because of ME? You just woke up and suddenly realized I’m great?!”

Kid: “Yeah. Is that so crazy? I’m going to listen from now on, because you helped me see that’s important.”

Me (tearing up): “Wow, I just never knew I could have that kind of influence on you. It just goes to show that having one positive role model can really change–

Kid: “Oh and I started taking Ritalin. So maybe that’s also it.”

 

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Ebola Mom, Part 79

(Part of the Ebola Mom series )

On Monday I sent an email to all my clients letting them know I am pregnant, and giving them a heads up about my planned maternity leave in the fall. Every single one of them responded with congratulations and well-wishes, except for Ebola Mom, who did not respond at all.

And just now I received this:

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