Monday, July 31, 2006
How else can I explain the fact that within 6 hours of learning of her existence, we became the very confused owners of Mishka, a 6 week old purebred Alaskan Husky.
Mishka, with the softest gray eyes and the sweetest temperament I have ever seen in a puppy.
When the breeder set her down at our feet she bolted under my legs and hid there, shaken from the car ride that brought her into our lives. She spent the ride to our house with her nose in my armpit, occasionally stealing glances from under my shirt with those lovely gray eyes.
Auggie, the original Dog wonder has taken a fatherly attitude to her.
Baxter, the much-beleaguered Cat, has given up any hope that he may have a peaceful space in this house. He took one look at Mishka and glared at me. Granted, it has been a rather unpleasant weekend for him. My sil shaved him. I believe she called it the 'lion' cut. I took one look at him and nearly peed my pants laughing.
Hurricane's happy squeals and rapid-fire cries for "meeka!" have been greeted with small wet kisses.
Girl melted at Mishka's feet and was treated to gentle nibbles.
Mr X sighed that very defeated sigh. He never wanted a female dog. He had his heart set on one that would maybe not shed so much.
Still, once he knew he'd been defeated, he demanded only the very best in puppy food for her.
He is currently curled up with her. Snoring together.
I love puppy breath.
And her absolutely ridiculous eyebrows.
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
Um. Have your husband 'lose' his wallet at Chucky Cheese On Crack only to find it 6 hours later after someone has taken all of your credit cards, cash and ATM card.
I hope they use it. Because we cancelled the cards and filed a report with the police and it's a felony and I want them to get arrested and dammitalltheydeservelifeinprison!
And I had a rainbow colada to make me feel better. And another because it was really good. And since I drink exactly never you get semi-drunk blogging and lots of swearing and it's taken me exactically 43 minutes to type this because I have to keep going back or you'll see something more like thiskdf andhi if t dont harfly ,mmmmmmakeee sdenbhse. And I keep forgetting that you are there and I am typiing and OMG I had to cancel all of our fucking credit cards because Fuckers!!
I heart Rainbow Coladas.
That is all.
*Except for OMG poor spell check. I think I maybe broke it. Maybe I should buy it some Coladas too. Mmmmm Captain Morgan's Rum........
**And also except for OMG! What the holy hell people? I have had 8 people find me in the last 2 months by tyoing in "I have worms in me".
Jeebus! Stop putting worms in yourself! I recommend trying alcohol instead.
Thursday, July 20, 2006
10 days of spoiling the kids rotten.
10 days in which to cram what would normally be 6 months worth of activities.
Hopefully by the end I'll still be somewhat sane. Or at least as intact as I am now.
One thing is for certain, they will provide ample fodder for when I return in August.
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
Actually, it's a feeling I've had before. I overhear someone discussing how wonderful their mother was. All the things that they did together, all the things that they learned from them.
And I feel envious.
It's something I will never have, those happy memories and lessons learned at my mother's hand that I can then pass on to my own children.
It has been more than 6 years since my mother died and I waver in how I feel about it all.
I can go weeks without even thinking of her.
We looked vastly different. I often heard people ask if she had adopted me, not quite believing that my beautiful blonde, petite and gentle-voiced mother could have possibly birthed a lumbering loud mouth brunette like me.
I don't see her when I look in the mirror.
I don't see her features in the faces of my children.
We shared little in the way of common interests.
Except for my fascination with her when I was young. During that period I loved her nearly as much as she loved herself.
I will walk into a department store and smell her perfume on another woman. It takes me back to her home. When I would be invited to visit, which until I had my daughter was rarely, her entire house would smell of her perfume. And it should have been overwhelming and stifling, instead it was sweet and light.
I catch a glimpse of a woman as she walks confidently through the mall and for a moment my heart catches. Then she turns and I'm left with the feeling that I have missed out on something grand.
When I was a child I had convinced myself that my mother was really Cher. That when she would need to perform she would simply slip into that long black wig. Their features were similar enough to enable my young mind to believe it, to use this as the reason for why she didn't have time for me.
There were many years where we didn't speak to each other at all. During those times she would lavish extravagant gifts on my siblings with the explanation that they had been such very good children. And I was the bad seed.
She used to tell her therapist that I just got 'lost in the shuffle'.
She wasn't all bad. We did have days where just to sit next to her was like Christmas morning.
But the older I got, the less use she really had for me.
It became apparent that I would never be her, never be what she wanted me to be. I would always be too tall, too brunette, too loud, too much my father's child.
I had hoped things would change once my daughter was born. Briefly I was able to convince myself that it had. That her constant invitations and the things she bought for us were because she loved me.
It wasn't until later that I came to understand that she had hoped my small, nearly blonde daughter would be like her. And a part of me is grateful that she is gone, because it means that that transformation will never come to pass.
My general rule of parenting is to imagine what my mother would do and then do the opposite.
Because her death was so sudden, so unexpected, there was never time to say good-bye. I don't know if that would have made a difference or not.
Some days I think I've forgiven her for who she was. That sounds so arrogant doesn't it? I don't mean it to be.
Sometimes I hate her. Sometimes I miss her. I feel guilty and angry. It is an imbalance and an uncomfortable feeling.
I laugh to think of what she would say now, if she knew how I felt.
Often I think that I will never be able to just let it all go.
The thing that keeps me up at night?
Imagining my daughter feeling the same way about me.
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
There are those that crush your soul until all you can do is choke and claim that the wearer is no one you know.
No where in our marriage vows did it say anything out holy socks worn with sandals. I checked.
Monday, July 17, 2006
So, this time I took pictures.
I thought I had gotten rid of Scary-Ass Clown when it was given to Hurricane for his birthday. I would have sworn that he had burned in an accidental fire that spontaneously sprung from our backyard.
But no. As I gathered things for our yard sale this weekend, Scary-Ass Clown made an appearance. He eyed me with suspicion as I warily applied a 'Free' sticker to his head. I would happily have paid to have him removed from the house.
In what should be no surprise to anyone, no one wanted him. This morning I took a chance that my MIL would not go to a goodwill 20 miles from her house and buy him again (because she has done this sort of thing before) and left him there.
First, I would like you to note his many pockets. Most would assume that these are for shoes. Hurricane and I came to the same conclusion. Those pockets are to hold spare body parts that Scary-Ass Clown could not consume on the spot.
Hurricane took one look at that creepy grin and started crying, burrowing his head into my neck please don't let that thing eat me!
I also feel the need to point out the eyebrows. Those very furry eyebrows. It feels like real hair. Possibly animal. Certainly not her own as it's the wrong color but I wouldn't have been surprised if it was.
After the bejewelled bird barrette that I buried in the backyard and the lighted moving picture of baby Jesus, now Scary-Ass Clown? I find myself more and more wary of opening her 'gifts'. I have a feeling the next one might actually bite.
I will kill you in your sleep!
Be hypnotized by my overly hair eyebrows!
Friday, July 14, 2006
Thursday, July 13, 2006
"Don't you think you're pricing that a bit high? Who's going to buy it at that price?"
"Buy it? This is what I'm willing to pay them to take it away."
Seriously. My grandmother was a yard sale queen. It was physically impossible for her to pass one of those signs and not stop. Most of the things she would buy were things that no human being on the planet would ever want or need. Some things that no one recognized as anything other than a hunk or metal or plastic. And she never paid full price. She once argued with a lady for 10 minutes over something priced at a dime. In the time that it took her to aggravate the lady so much that she gave it to my grandmother for free, my brother had decided to see if a car's cigarette lighter would really scar his skin. It does. But hey, my grandma got a thimble from Ohio for free.
My main worry is that no one will show up.
"Gah! No one is going to come and look at this crap! I'm going to be sitting in our driveway surrounded by crap and our neighbors will really think I'm batty and ohmygoshwhatamIdoingthisfor??? ARRRGGHHH!"
"Seriously? Chill out. If no one shows, we'll just call my mom."
Personally? I don't think this was funny.
His sister once tried to get rid of some clothes that she no longer needed since she lost a lot of weight. Her mom came over and took the clothes. She insisted that they could be tailored to fit her daughter again. Currently they are collecting dust amid the other piles of Only-God-Knows-What-That-Is-Oh-Crap-It-Just-Moved! in their garage.
If his mom comes over, we'll never be able to get rid of this stuff. It will just sit in my house and collect dust until the dust magically comes to life and takes over my brain and I become her and oh my gosh no wonder I can't sleep anymore somebody make it stop!!!
So, yes. We're having a yard sale this weekend. Just please for the love of chocolate, don't tell my mother-in-law.
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
There are times you seem uncertain about what your role in life will be. Is it your duty to be a mother and wife? Or are you supposed to go to college and find work? Is there a hard and defined rule to what you are meant for?
When asked at school what you want to be when you grow up, your answers have varied from swim teacher, to lawyer, police officer, amusement park employee or mother.
I want you to know that those things do not have to be exclusive of eachother.
There is no hard and defined rule for you.
No one can tell you what you are meant for my dear girl. Only you.
If there is one thing you get from me, one thing you can hold true, let it be this.
Your fate, your future, cannot be controlled by anyone else. My daughter, your fate is in your hands.
May they always be full.
Monday, July 10, 2006
At different points in my life I've dealt with bouts of insomnia. As a teen and non-parenty type, it wasn't a big deal.
But once I had kid #1? The insomnia thing sucks.
It's hard to function as a decent parent when you are running on 2 hours of sleep to no sleep for several days in a row.
I just can't get my mind to shut up it's running commentary.
I've been writing this blog for a year now. (Holy shit!) I thought maybe, just maybe, it would help if I had some way to release the stupid things that run through my head all day.
But here I am again. Sitting up in bed, staring out the window as the neighbor's cat chases air around our yard.
Figures. I finally get kid #2 to sleep through the night and I can't.
Sunday, July 09, 2006
Hurricane runs after Girl as she races after the ball he just kicked. They are both laughing. She grabs for the ball and turns, leaning over.
"Here buddy, kick it!"
He reaches up and grabs her hand to steady himself and kicks the ball.
Again, he follows as she runs for the ball. They play for an hour before it's time to come in for lunch.
He sits in his highchair, she at the table by his side.
He squeals merrily as she contorts lips and eyes into goofy poses for his amusement.
She leans over and whispers something in his ear.
He smiles and touches her nose.
Later, after his nap, they are once again in the backyard. This time in the kiddie pool.
He is waving his arms like a maniac, spraying sheets of water in all directions. She laughs and shows him how to load the plastic fish to squirt.
They play until they are wrinkled a bit chilled.
It is evening now. Dinner is over. The light outside is slowly dimming, the air, cooler. I am cleaning up the kitchen, preparing for the next day.
The kids are bathed, ready for bed. Hair damp and brushed. Pajamas soft and sweet smelling.
He sits in her lap as she reads to him, pointing out the animals in the book, cheering him on as he names a few on his own.
He claps his hands. She smiles.
He leans over and kisses her. She pulls him in for a kiss.
I tuck them both into bed.
Despite those days where I think they'll simply never get along, never accept the other's place in this house, I see it now. What they have is what I had always wanted with my own siblings. I hope it will remain. I wish I could bottle it and feed it to them on Those Days.
Girl had spent so much time talking about how she wanted a sibling, specifically a brother, that I don't think she fully realized what it would mean. She spent 7 years as a one and only. Then one day she had to share it all and it was unsettling.
I remember in the hospital as we handed him to her and she smiled, said 'hi little bro'. I also remember how many times she asked me to just put him away so that we could play again. 19 months later and there are still days I wonder. And then there are these moments that take my breath away.
Watching them now, my heart is full but light. And it's good.
Thursday, July 06, 2006
It seemed like a wonderful idea. A sprinkler made just for babies and toddlers in the shape of Elmo. It sprayed a very fine mist in a rather non-threatening (and thankfully not giggling) manner.
But much like his first encounter with the giggling (and yes. I just now, months later, discovered that those Elmo heads giggle when squeezed. So great, now Hurricane can listen to Elmo giggle maniacally while the muppet gobbles up his toes. Fabulous.) slippers, it did not go as expected.
LaLa my dear friend! It's raining! Come inside with me and
we'll eat cookies and plot to destroy Cat!
Wait! Lala? NO! Say it ain't so!
What the hell mom? What did you
do to my friend?
Ugh. He wanted no part of this thing that spit at him. He sat on the side walk and cried La La Nooooo.......
And in case I didn't already understand just how very strange a boy he was, he decided to reveal his fear of the alphabet.
It started simply enough. I began the afternoon, after he wakes from his nap cheerful and angelic (shut up), as I always do. With a cheerful, if a bit (shut up) off key rendition of the ABC's.
He whimpered when I reached C.
Whined at F.
Rubbed his eyes and threw himself into a heap of warm angst in my lap at H.
Covered my mouth and pleaded for me to stop at M.
Began to cry at P.
R made him yell 'NONONONO!' as he covered his head.
By W he was red-faced and tear streaked, gasping in agony.
I couldn't believe that it was the song that had caused him to react that way.
I tried to sing it again but didn't make it beyond B.
I thought maybe he was turning into Simon Cowell thanks to his father's secret addiction to American Idol.
So I sang Twinkle Twinkle Little Star (it has the same tune as ABC), and he clapped and smiled.
I waited until Mr X got him.
I made it to D before his little body burst into flames and the letters simply smothered him.
Mr X tried to sing it for him.
He was immediately tackled and bludgeoned with a Weeble.
I am not sure what sort of falling out my son has had with the alphabet. Only that it was so severe as to have caused their banishment.
Sesame Street has never been so sad.
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
No, that hasn't changed. There are still people on our street who think fireworks safety involves pointing the roman candle up in the air and holding it IN THEIR HANDS as they light it. Our street is littered with casings and only a few body parts. Ash has coated my van in fine gray film.
What has changed is that I now have my very own drug dealer. Someone I hold very dear for they have made it possible to actually leave my house on 4th of July and enjoy the neighbors injuries in person without worrying that our overgrown lap dog has hurled himself through a window in an effort to rescue us from the Smoke! and the Noise! and My G-d Don't These Humans Know They Are In DANGER????
Yes, our lovable brute of Dog has one true fear. Fireworks.
He paces and cries. He buries his head under the bed and whines. He hides in the bathtub and howls. And should we dare to attempt to leave the house and put ourselves in such close proximity to the danger, well. He feels morally obligated to protect us from ourselves.
We realized this the year we left a window open and he jumped through the screen to 'save' us.
So now we happily sedate him. And because of where we live, we must do this for several days. He spends about 4 to 5 days happily wandering through the house in a daze. I imagine it to be like taking care of a very stoned old man. He stumbles and pants. His eyes go from being ridiculously wide open to all squinty and bloodshot. If he is not quite where you left him, simply follow the trail of drool to the kitchen where you will find him looking rather forlornly at the pantry where all the good trash is. Also? Cookies. Human cookies. Also? The staring. At nothing. Yesterday I found him in the hallway staring at the nightlight. I snapped my fingers, called his name, waved food in his general direction but he didn't budge. Just drooled.
Yesterday we spent a large portion of our time laughing at our inebriated dog (as he was sadly the only inebriated one in our house) and trying to confine Hurricane to his own body.
Yesterday was also the day I realized just how different my two children will be.
My dear Girl. She and Dog have much in common. We had to physically carry her off the porch. She wouldn't go near the sparklers much less actually hold one.
In fact, I think her exact words were Are you insane? I'm not touching that and you can't make me lunatic!
I suggested that she go inside and watch from under the bed as Dog often did but she did finally, albeit reluctantly, join us.
She cried. A lot. At first anyway.
By the end though, she actually held a sparkler. Granted it had already been lit for awhile and it only had a few seconds left. Also, she held t as far away from her body as possible and looked as though she may drop it and run at any second. But she did it. And I was proud of her.
Hurricane. Geez. That kid went ape shit. He didn't know whether to sit, stand, or dance. So he did all three. All night.
He pointed and his body shook.
Whoa!!!! OOOOOOOO!!!! WOWWOWWOW!
We had to hold onto him at one point to keep him from running into the street and grabbing the fountain of fireworks our neighbor had set off. He wanted so desperately to hold the pretty lights.
He turned and twisted, craning his neck to see everything being set off. He was in awe.
By the end of our night he was in arms, his head resting against mine. The people who live behind us set off their grand finale and as we watched the sky light up in purple, red, blue and green, Hurricane whispered wow, so softly. I think that summed it all up for him perfectly.
Today as we left the house he lifted his face to the sky in search of those pretty lights he loved so much. When there was no grand show, he hunched his shoulders, raised his arms palms up, bent at the elbows and simply asked where the boo?
Girl simply breathed. Relief. She has 364 days before she will once again be wishing she was Dog.