My Drug-Addicted Grandma (No, Really, It's Funny)

Calgon, take me away ... I keep trying, but it's a load of advertising drivel. I just find myself sitting in a tub surrounded by kids who want to know when dinner is and why my belly is so jiggly.  Either these kids need drugs or I do. I am losing my ever-loving mind.

Right now the girls are pretending to be extremely loud cats.  You know the sound a cat makes when you accidentally step on its tail?  That is the sound all three of them are making.  Little Dude has been banging two Legos together for the last 20 minutes.  I don't want to stop him, because prior to the Lego-banging, he had just finished a major freak-out because a small chunk of popsicle fell on his chair.

What ever happened to the good old days, when housewives could be sent away for a week due to "nerves," and all the cool moms knocked back "mother's little helpers" with gin and tonics at garden club luncheons?  Sure, we see some celebrity moms on Entertainment Tonight who seem to be on something stronger than TrimSpa, but pill-popping for moms has definitely lost its cachet.

My grandmother was one of those 1950s moms who was completely whacked out on enjoyed the benefits of the first generation of prescription "nerve pills."  Like many Hollywood stars and middle-class housewives, she took an extremely popular drug called Miltown. Miltown was the Prozac of its day, except that Miltown was an addictive sedative marketed toward pregnant women.  (I wish I was kidding about that.) 

Conveniently, Miltown was also supposed to be good for "the alcoholic, the agitated senile patient, and the problem child."  Now that will solve your problems: if everyone else is passed out on the kitchen floor, Mommy no longer needs the tranquilizer, does she?

Also like many Hollywood stars and middle-class housewives, my grandmother became addicted to Miltown, and later to alcohol.  When I first found out about that, I was shocked.  That was before I had kids. 

Now I totally get it.

She had three children and an alcoholic ad executive for a husband.  (If you've seen Mad Men you've basically taken a peek into my family photo album.)  In the days without dishwashers and microwaves, she was expected to have a a cold Scotch and a hot dinner at the ready when my grandfather came home.  The children were expected to be clean, presentable, polished, and quiet. 

One of her children, my uncle, is socially ... off.  What I know about his childhood is that he spent the majority of his time building houses and villages (in those halcyon pre-Lego days) with wooden blocks.  Sound like anyone we know?   (Good news, Aspie moms: he's now a successful architect.)

It is extremely difficult, if not impossible, to have an Aspergerish child be both clean and quiet at any time, let alone dinner time.  I actually can't imagine being able to clean the sticky stuff off his face and have a hot dinner ready.  I can manage one of those on a good night. 

But my grandmother was expected to do both, while looking trim and chic.  My grandfather managed ad campaigns with major models of the day; we have photos of him with Grace Kelly.  Standards were pretty high for my grandmother's appearance.  She wore heels every day and white gloves when she went out.  This is not quite how I look when the Absent Minded Professor gets home.  I'm more of a ponytail and flip-flops gal; I do try to remember to re-apply deodorant before he gets home.

So.  I basically microwave dinner, let the kids run wild, and look like crap doing it.  (God, I love my husband.) I have a network of supportive friends, and a wealth of information and forums on the Internet.  And I'm still physically and emotionally drained by the end of the day.

And I'm ready to call up my mommy friends and suggest we totally start a fake garden club so that we can have luncheons and get whacked out on Miltown.  Or at least margaritas.  Or maybe just some chocolate and a good cry. Who's in?