the lemon law
When Ali’s car wouldn’t start again three weeks ago, I felt really bad for him. Because aside from his beloved car, his laptop, a daughter who vomits like it’s going out of style, and an opinionated wife who never shuts up, what else does Ali really have to live for?
Not much.
So like I said, I felt bad. And that’s why, as Ali waited forever for a special tow truck with a crane to lift his car, Maya and I piled into my car (pajamas and all) and picked him up. Without complaint.
Me: “I think your car is a lemon Ali. You need to talk to a lawyer.”
Ali: “Yeah, maybe.”
The second time Ali’s car stopped working I was a little less sympathetic. Mostly because it was Saturday morning, I had an urgent salon appointment to get to, and thanks to tandem parking Ali’s car was blocking mine. (Those of you who color your hair understand the full extent of this situation.)
As I waited for Ali’s new BFF – the tow truck driver – to pay us a little visit again, I shared my untimely thoughts:
Me: “You need to talk to a Lemon Law lawyer Ali. Like today.”
Ali: “Why are you stressing me out?”
Yesterday marked the third time in three weeks that Ali’s car refused to start. Yes my friends, I had to leave work and deal with Ali’s car situation again. I had a litany of complaints:
- Why are you paying for a car that doesn’t work?
- The fact that they told you, “They can’t replicate the problem and that things have to get worse before they get better” is bull$@#$.
- Does the dealer think you have NOTHING else to do than to hang out waiting for a tow truck to rescue you once a week? You need to march down there and roll some heads.
- Does the dealer think that I have NOTHING else to do than to keep picking you up when your car won’t start? Heads MUST roll.
- You are too nice. Nobody responds to that anymore.
- Did I mention you need to hire a lawyer! Or am I just talking to myself here?
Ali: “I talked to the lawyer. Now will you leave me alone?”
And now I feel bad. Again.
Like this:
finger placement
9 minutes. That’s how long it took Maya to type the first sentence of her book report.
My thought process during that time:
- Wow. It took more than 60 seconds for Maya to type 1/3 of the book’s title.
- I bet she has no idea it’s taking every ounce of control not to wrestle the computer away from her.
- The teacher said that utilizing a computer for this project was optional. So why isn’t Maya giving me an option here?
- We’re still not done with the title and it’s nearly minute 4. At this rate we’ll be done with the other 5 sentences in approximately 6 and one half hours.
- I am a terrible mother. I should be applauding my child’s perseverance. What’s wrong with me?
- I hope her fingers aren’t sticky.
- Stop thinking so negatively Ameena and give her a compliment! “Good job with your finger placement on the keyboard Maya! Great work.”
- Oh…here’s Ali with a camera ready to document things. Because what could be funnier than thinking “Let’s take a picture of Ameena when she’s in sweats and is ready to smack somebody?”
- Tick Tock. Tick Tock.
- I wonder if Maya would notice if I started thumbing through Marie Claire?
- Minute 8 and we have “A Visit to the Art
” so far. That’s it Maya….just type out Galaxy and tell me you want me to do the rest. Please.
So as expected, Maya asked me to type everything after the title. And as expected I felt relieved. And then moments later I felt totally guilty at my thought process, my lack of patience, and my complete disregard for her attempts to be independent.
As expected.
Like this:
a bigger closet
I woke up late yesterday morning. As in 6:25 am. Which, in our home, is basically equivalent to noon.
For a change I felt rested but I feared what the day had in store for me. Because if I don’t hit the gym, figure out what I’m going to wear, catch up on work emails, make Maya’s lunch, and take a shower by 6:30 am? I’m pretty much in trouble for the rest of the day.
So there I was, brushing my teeth like a mad person when I heard it: knock…knock…
Me: “Maya, Mama needs a few minutes. Can you give her a few minutes?”
Maya: “Um. Okay.”
But then 3 1/2 minutes later: knock…knock…
Okay, so I should give her points for knocking. But all I could think was, “For the love of God! Can I not have 5 minutes to myself at 6:30 in the morning?”
Me: “I thought I asked you for 5 minutes? What do you need? Is it important?”
Maya: “Well I want to know if I can have a bigger closet because my dresses are all bunched together on one side and there’s no room for anything. You and dad have big closets. Actually you have two closets. So why can’t I have another one too?”
I'm embarrassed that such a disorganized mess rests within my home.
Seriously? First of all, why does my 7-year-old think she deserves a larger closet? Secondly, why does she have so many dresses? Thirdly, why are we talking about this at the crack of dawn? Fourthly and fifthly? @#$@. And @#$@.
So where was Ali in the midst of all of this? He was eating a leisurely breakfast of tea and oatmeal and was surfing the Internet on the iPad. Without a care in the world.
Typical.
While I'm not going to win Mother/Wife of the Year Award anytime soon, I haven't killed anyone yet or shot myself in the head. And that, my friends, is how I calculate success these days. 
