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“NOTICE: This product, when extremely cold, may stick to warm lips or tongue. Allow to warm slightly before eating.”

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The dictionary has a few definitions of the word “hermit.”  I’m not going with the one in my title, or the Ornithological one.  I’m going with the one that applies to people who have grown tired of sharing their space with assholes and want to live the rest of their lives alone—or with a few chosen others—under the guise of religious devotion or not.

After the birth of my third child, I retreated into a very hermit-like existence.  I had an infant to tend to and I pretty much hated the living guts of most of the adults I was around day-to-day.  It was easy and forgivable for me to say, Eh, I think I’ll just putter around the house with the baby today and if I feel the need to go out, we’ll take a walk through the park or drive up to the Target around the corner for a few things.  Then I was hit with a series of non-devastating but very inconvenient health problems, followed by a couple of minor surgeries that took a long time to heal.  So, my reclusive behavior was again reinforced by my limited mobility.  I just couldn’t get out and about.  People understood, gave me their sympathy, went on with their bustling, chatty little lives and left me alone. 

But, I healed and the baby grew and over the past couple of years, I’ve found myself slipping into a more visible and socially intense lifestyle and I don’t like it. 

The way I’ve been able to measure this is the frequency of make-up wearing occasions.  Three years ago, I only wore make-up when my appearance would be noted—like when I ran the weekly book club at my son’s school, or when I had a parent-teacher conference, or if we were going to a group picnic for scouts or something.  I never wore make-up to run errands because I rarely bumped into people who knew me.  I’d see people that I recognized, but my status was so low that they didn’t know who I was.  I had become invisible, and I liked it.  Back then, I wore make-up once or twice a week, tops.  Now, I have make-up wearing events every day—sometimes multiple times in a day, and it’s rare for me to go anywhere and not run into several people who recognize me.  At one level, I enjoy the illusion of popularity, but on another level, I am annoyed by the need to check myself in the mirror every single time I leave the house.  All this visibility and running of my mouth is wearing me down.  There are days when I become nauseated by the sound of my own voice reverberating in my head.  I need to put an end to it.  Yesterday, I made a vow to myself to make some real efforts to get back to the quiet hermit I used to be.  I can see where I made wrong turns over the past months, and I have come up with a plan to make sure they don’t happen again.

The baby is a pre-schooler now.  She’s at an age where being around other kids is developmentally good for her.  That’s fine, but I don’t want to be around those other kids’ parents, necessarily.  I’m not one to bond with other women at the gym classes, or find that I have oodles in common with a chick at the pre-school.  It just doesn’t happen to me.  More often than not, I suffer through those encounters knowing that I plan to run home and bash the conversations I overheard in my blog or an essay or a piece of short fiction.  I see these situations as story fodder and that’s what helps to get me through them.   I could be altruistic and see them as a sacrifice I make for the wee one, because she needs exposure to these other little shits so in thirty years she can choose a life of solitude for herself.  When I’m not feeling catty and put out, I do that.  I wrap myself in the “I’m such a good mommy” blanket and actively ignore the nitwits around me with their banal dialogue.  But, that often makes its way into some piece of writing, too.  

My middle child is in a very high-profile position in the community for another ten months.  That sounds so ridiculously pompous and asinine as I read that over that it makes me cringe.  But trust me, I’ve tried to re-word it and that’s the best I’ve come up with.   I like watching my daughter as she goes about her assigned duties.  I get a bang out of it, actually.  But, there’s mingling involved… that means showering and doing my hair, putting on make-up and unstained clothes, and then standing around making small talk.  Once in a while, that’s OK, but in heavy frequency it becomes draining on me.  Not that any of these people are bad or irritating in themselves, it’s just the size of the whole thing is so overwhelming.  So many people, over such a long period of time, doing so very much.  It makes me appreciate being married to a person who is willing and able to take on a chunk of it for me.

Those are my two biggest obstacles in achieving hermithood.  The little one needs to interact with like-sized humans and we’ve made promises with the middle one.  So, it’ll be a gradual re-entry to reclusivity, as those obligations are met or change.  Once the little one is in grade school, I can truly commit myself to this goal.  Until then, I have to jump on opportunities to avoid people as they arise.

I don’t hate everyone.  I find young people particularly entertaining.  There are the teens in that program my daughter is involved with that are great to talk to, and some of their parents are quite witty.  Then there are some “kids” at the taekwondo school that I simply adore.  I put “kids” in quotes because it seems my preferable age range is from about 8 to mid-twenties.  See, the older I get, the older “kids” get, too.  It’s entirely conceivable that when I’m seventy, I’ll find the “kids” in their 30’s and 40’s to be perfectly endearing.  Right now, that happens not too much.  There is a definite correlation between kids I like and their parents though.  I’ve found that if I like the kid, I’ll often like their parents, but it doesn’t always go the other way.

Maybe I like these kids because my own social skills are retarded and I’m actually developmentally seventeen when it comes to conversing.  Or, maybe it’s just the freshness of their language and ideas.  I find that even the most awkward verbal exchanges with one of these kids to be more interesting than a smooth one with the mom of another pre-schooler, where we cover the same old stagnant topics using the same old tired vocabulary, silently judging each other through it all.   So, I’ll hang onto the kids.  I’ll continue leave my split-level, suburban hermitage to go mingle with them and their parents because it’s fun.  And, I’ll keep doing what I’m doing at the schools because I like being involved in the kids’ lives in that way.  So, it seems that my options for being a recluse are quite limited.  

It just all needs to be taken down.  I’d like to put things in slow motion and reduce the volume and brightness a few degrees.  Maybe I don’t need to hide from everyone and everything, I just need to take a break from it to catch my breath.  Maybe a hermit vacation would hit the spot.  Or maybe a quiet weekend with the phone off, a good book, a cup of tea and a plate of spiced cookies made with molasses, raisins and nuts.  

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And I’ve become a planner.

I used to chill hard, and now I plan er, harder. I mean it. I must drive my babysiter nuts because I plan out our week Sunday night. Example:

“So Monday I’m going to work from 10am until lunchtime or so, and than we can go grab lunch at the diner, and I want to bring Paige to the park so lets do that, followed by some work before dinner, okay? Tuesday lets plant flowers in the morning, and I’ll work for 3 hrs 45 minutes and we’ll make chicken salad with curry and apples for lunch and than Paige will nap and I’ll work and than we can go for a walk in the forest but than we’ll take a swim OR sit in the grass and talk..”

I actually plan out conversations.

What’s happening to me? I am a plan freak! The grandma borrowed Paige for the weekend and was deciding whether or not she would take her until Tuesday, she just needed to hear back form her job. Well, I called FIVE TIMES because I felt I couldn’t go on until I knew my plans. Like, if I knew I had an extra 24 hours to myself I’d probably spend more time laying around and reading, or twirling my hair…but if I didn’t I’d crack down and kick some ass cleaning.

I need help. I’m beginging to annoy the SHIT out of well, everyone.

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You see, in our humble abode, the kids and I have a little agreement. I allow the cleaning to be carelessly tossed to the wayside while we engage in cooking lessons, educational bridging exercises, kiddie pool wading and various summer fun activities. The way I figure it, trying to keep the house clean while the kids are present and involved in the messy business of being children, is pretty much a losing battle. Choosing to fight such battles just makes for afternoons filled with nothing but bouts of hair pulling frustration and frantic attempts to erase muddy footprints with the mop before the next stampede of puddle jumpers descends upon the family room.

Why bother?

That is where my husband and I disagree. He is the advocate for preventative cleaning measures and holds the same ideals of keeping a perpetually tidy house, as every other clean freak in the nation.  If he only knew how truly disgusting the house becomes every weekday, from the hours of 7:00 am until he returns home, he would probably have a conniption fit. In fact, I have to keep myself from laughing, on the weekends, when I see him anxiously twiddling his thumbs in the corner of the kitchen as he watches us leisurely go from the first meal of the day to the first activity, without so much as a sweep or table scrubbing. He can only go so long, without asking if “I’d like some help tidying up the area before it gets too bad.” Usually I will oblige his need for immediate sanitation satisfaction, but sometimes I will tell him that I’ll get to it in a minute, just for the fun of watching him pick up a towel and peevishly start scrubbing dishes. It is mean, I know. Hey…after ten years of marriage, I have to find some way of paying him back for refusing to use the laundry hamper for the disposal of his soiled garments, over and over again!

Lucky for me, the husband has a knack for finding a bigger, better more efficient way of doing event he tiniest of household chores. Then, when I finally do get around to picking up a mop, there will be a more efficient way of getting the job done, in less time!  Thanks to his freakish enjoyment of inventing these methods, I have my five o’clock cleaning routine whittled down to a silky smooth forty minutes. His method even leaves me with five extra minutes to check my email and start dinner. When the mess-a-phobe…er, husband comes through our front door, he sees a clean house, a sane mother, dinner on the stove and is none the wiser. Bwahahaha! But please, keep this between us. It may ruin my ability to sneak in some occasional day time blogging and then life, as I know it, would be much less enjoyable. Shhh, it will be our little secret!

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Like many imperfect parents, I’m more or less a very good parent on most days… but this requires a certain amount of concentrated effort and a whole lot of help. I used to get help in a bottle, and now I get help from a variety of sources.

But I still need and want a vice.. something that serves no other purpose than pleasure and rebellion. A way to cut loose and be onesself without getting mistaken for a “ma’am” or a “sir”… or someone who is, say, turning 40.

I like to joke about starting a respite center for mothers staffed with hot Italian boys (or girls, depending on your preferences).. and I’m only sort of joking. Seriously, it’s so very easy to take parenting too farging seriously these days.

But the thing is, I miss having a vice. I don’t want anything life or health or marriage threatening, just something to spice things up and remind me of the wild girl I used to be long long ago.

So when my friend told me of her new “thing” for nicotine-free cigarettes (doesn’t that sound like “no strings attached” sex?? nice idea but highly unlikely?), I thought I’d give them a try.

I’ll report back soon.. but until then.. any vices you’d recommend?

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Here is how my day went yesterday…

I get home from work and immediately begin running errands for three hours straight with my dog, purchasing items for my dog. First the organic pet store 20 minutes from our house. There, with my 75 pound boxer at my side, I have to haul a 30 pound bag of dog food through the store. I get to the register and have to toss the monster bag on the counter (which is conveniently about 4 1/2 feet high). After paying $50 for Hunter’s organic, all natural kibble, I haul the bag to the car. I almost fall over as Hunter lurches me backwards so he can urinate on a bush.

Next stop, a larger pet supply store about 30 minutes away. Off Hunter and I go. The 30 minute trip turns into 45 as traffic backs up. Again, super convenient. We get to the store and Hunter is psyched! We spend 10 minutes walking outside so he can relieve himself upon every bush, tree, stone, blade of grass. He drags me inside and some deranged chiuaua goes postal on my pooch. After the excitement we make it back to the treat aisle. This is always a painful process as Hunter is allergic to just about everything. The ingestion of chicken, for one thing, means an emergency visit to the vet. Chicken happens to be in nearly EVERY dog treat. Again, freakin’ convenient. I’m trying to elegantly stoop down and stand on my tippies as I reach for the few treats he can eat. They also happen to be the most expensive. I hear at least four passer bys comment on how strong and playful my dog is as he does his best to make me fall on my tush.

Then panic sets in. Oh crap! Where are those all natural, locally made carob-chip cookies that my pooch adores? The ones that don’t use eggs. Where are they? They are one of three treats he can eat without developing an allergic reaction, or setting off his IBS. That’s right, my dog has Irritable Bowel Syndrome to boot. Conveniently they have been discontinued. Fine. Off we go with a small bounty of his allergen free, all natural, non-IBS irritating treats. Another $50 at the register.

Back outside the ritual of peeing on every surface continues. We get into the car and head back to the city. 45 minutes later and we are at the small pet boutique that carries the only canned food he can eat — a blend of venison and potatoes. Now why wouldn’t I pick up these cans at the two previous stores? Because, conveniently, this is the only store in a 50 mile radius that carries it. Of course they don’t carry his dry food or any of his treats. I juggle 10 cans in my free arm, the other holding tightly to Hunter’s leash, because this fancy-pants store doesn’t have carts or baskets. $30 and we’re off to the vet’s office.

Hunter always loved the vet. This is the man who, after many painful over-night stays, IV drips, skin tests, and doggie barium enemas, discovered all of Hunter’s ailments. Then Hunter developed a nasty tumor on his ear. Treating it surgically wasn’t really an option because of its locations, so a course of steroids were prescribed. That was fine and dandy, until Hunter had to visit the vet’s office to have the tumor scraped. As you can imagine it was not pleasant. As soon as Hunter realizes whose parking lot we’re in he begins to frantically pace in the backseat. I fight to get him into the office. There I pick up his allergy pills, anti-vomiting pills, and IBS medication. Hunter also needs his allergy shot. This does not make him a happy canine. He tries desperately to escape while I’m paying the hefty bill. $289.

We finally make it home and I’m drained, mentally, physically, and financially. Conveniently, Hunter wants to play football outside. Of course I could ignore him, tell him to go lay down and take a nap, but that would be too damn convenient.

My husband and I go to bed around 11:30. Hunter is snug in between us. At 4am I awake to the sound of him pacing around the house — never a good sign. I wait five minutes, hoping it will pass. Then I hear a sound that can only be compared to empty soda cans crashing to the floor. I jump out of bed and run to the kitchen. Nothing. I circle around to the living room and I see a very timid looking Hunter. He’s shaking. I look down and — ewww — a grotesque, large splattering of what appears to be ten servings of chocolate pudding. Just what I want to see at 4 in the morning.

I usher a traumatized Hunter outside as I clean the mess. Just me in a t-shirt, sans pants, cleaning up doggie diarrhea in front of my open, full glass front door.

After 20 minutes I wrap a blanket around me, just now realizing that I’m half naked, and call my dog inside. He’s too upset to come in. We’ve never hit him, and we always console and comfort him when he gets sick, but he won’t budge. I now have to get my sleeping husband out of bed to go outside, pick up our 75 pound dog, and bring him in. After a few minutes of hugging, gentle words, and a few doses of his medications, Hunter hops into bed with us. He burrows his head, places a paw on my leg, and falls fast asleep. Conveniently, I lay awake for another hour, stroking his belly.

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Their bathroom is like a shrine to Davey Jones’s locker, for crying out loud! My kids feel like they are riding the Pirate’s Of The Carribbean, every time they flush. Even I have considered grabbing a bottle of rum and soaking in the ambiance, while downloading. It’s like a mini vacation every time nature calls!

My sister in law found the painting below, in a remote corner of her dad’s house. It fits perfectly and was free! It was what inspired her to do a nautical theme. Her college aged son, suggested a dark twist of adding the pirate decor.

My kids love the fact that the toilet has a treasure chest and cup-o-jewels on the tank.

The ominous portrait of Black Beard hangs beside the free standing wash basin. Beside it (not shown) are the infamous keys that unlock the imprisoned pirates from the Disney classic movies.

I have to admit, this bathroom is one of the coolest I’ve ever peed in. I don’t blame the kids for wanting to spend so much time in it. It made me consider my own bathroom decor. The kids never seem to want to use our bathrooms. I have found puddles of urine and little stink pickles in every nook and cranny of our house (including the air conditioning unit,) except for the restroom. Maybe the pink floral and jungle themes were not suiting my kids’ fancies. My sister in law suggested using a Disney theme, like the inspiration she drew from “Pirates Of The Carribbean.” I took her advice, but it’s just not getting the same popular response from the kids. In fact, they won’t go anywhere near the bathrooms now. Maybe I shouldn’t have used the “Haunted Mansion” theme as my inspiration. What do you think?

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Saving money is even harder than finding fun in the coupon game. Some say that it is a thrill to look at their savings account and see the figures grow. When I look at our savings account balance, all I see is my new bed room set, waiting to be purchased. When my husband lectures me on retirement and investing, it is like he is speaking Spanish. Sure, I can understand what he is saying, but my native language is much more effortless to comprehend. I speak fluent Spendanese. If there was a game for who can spend the most, I’d be the champ. If you hand me a Nordstrom catalog, I can easily pick out the most expensive pair of Manolo Blahniks on the page, without seeing the prices. How? Easy, they are the pair that my eye is attracted to. Some would say that it is a gift, but it has become my curse.

I have a role to fulfill as a responsible parent of seven kids. It is my duty to save money, do without luxuries and buy generic brands. Do I enjoy it? No. It is my cross to bear. There are so many great things about having a large family and one income. I get to stay home and be the one to raise my kids. I get to witness all of their first milestones. I get to blog in my bikini, while getting a tan. I will never be bored. I get seven bed time kisses. I will have lots of grandkids, someday! I will (hopefully) have one kid that likes me enough to change my diaper when I get old. The money issue, however, is one of the less desirable parts of my life as a mother of seven. I will wear my Target brand jeans, but I will not swing my hips the way I would in True Religions. I will drink my five dollar bottle of wine, but it won’t taste as good. I will drive my 15 passenger van, but will not rev the engine as if I were driving a Jaguar. I accept it, I live it, but nobody can persuade me to be thrilled about it!

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