Wednesday, January 31, 2007
I was cleaning out our closets, dragging out my maternity wear (why do I have a flowered maternity shirt made for someone carrying triplets? I don't even like flowery stuff. The hell?) when I found it. A little metal lock box.
Sure, I had seen it before but never really thought to much of it. It used to be in with his fire safe and everything in there is designed to put me instantly to sleep so I ignored it. But now? Now it was in the closet. And as anyone with any sense of snoopy-ness knows, things found in closets are always more interesting than things found in fire safes.
He uses the same 'super-secret' code for everything so it was easy to open.
And I did. And before I hear all about how "Invasion of Privacy!", "Boundaries", "Trust!" just shut up and consider that if I hadn't you would not now be privy to this very interesting fact about my husband that was heretofore unknown and it is good. Plus, if he really wanted to keep it a secret, he should have left it in the safe because I... *snore*.....
And he knew I was cleaning out the closet. So.... pppbbffffttt!
Where was I?
Oh yes, Mind. Boggled!
Because there in that little cold gray metal box was a bag. Of hair.
A. Bag. Of. Hair.
People! I live in a house where there is a bag of hair in a lock box!
And then it all sort of started to make sense. At least as much as a bag of hair in a lock box can make sense.
See, my husband has often fondly recalled his early 20's when he had really long hair. Down to his ass long. And how he missed it.
What makes this even better? My husband was a big fan of that unfortunate 80's fashion phenomena known as......
Business in Front,
Party in the Back Dude.
Yes. The long (down to the ass) hair in the back and the short and spiky on top.
Judging by the length of the hair in this bag, it could be only one thing.
It was held together at the top with a thick hair tie and then carefully wound into this Ziploc bag.
This thing is 15 years old. He has been carrying around a bag of hair for 15 years.
He's moved so many times, twice with me, and everywhere he has gone, so has this bag of hair.
I am completely..... Boggled!
And one hundred percent convinced that it is my duty, my obligation as his wife to mess with his head.
So here's what I'm thinking. I'm going to get my very long hair cut this weekend (please, I've been wanting to do this for awhile and I just have to now!). I am going to ask them to cut it just above a thick hair tie. I am going to place it in a Ziploc bag.
Then I am going to put it in that little metal lock box and not say one damn word.
I will wait until I know that he has checked on his box of hair. I will wait to see if it has been moved.
I wonder if he will freak out. Maybe he'll think his hair has cloned itself? Maybe he will think that perhaps he had another bag of hair that he forgot at some point?
In a few months, I will make a baby ponytail. One tied with a little pink ribbon and put in a sandwich baggie.
One that will maybe make him think that his bags of hair have mated and made baby hair.
Unless you can think of a better way to mess with the mind of a man who has been saving his mullet hair for 15 years.
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
That meeting today? Totally fine. Because the person I was meeting with was obviously not going to squish me like a bug or lock me in my gym locker or something equally stupid. She wasn't some very cool untouchable. She was just a normal person. A mom, like me. We took care of business and talked about our kids. I told her I was pregnant again. She remembered David's Humpty Dumpty costume from last year. We talked about how our kids were doing in school and their struggles and it was comforting to know that Bre wasn't the only one have some sort of trouble. And I know it sounds totally stupid but it was just one more step in the right direction for me. Because I got through an hour in the company of someone I didn't know very well and I didn't implode.
Someone asked me once why I volunteer for these things, why I put myself in the position to feel so uncomfortable.
Really simple. I don't want to end up being crazy cat lady. I don't want to be a hermit. I don't want to be awkward. I put myself in situations where I have to step outside of my shell because I hope that someday, I won't have that shell.
It was easy when I lived in the same state I grew up in. I had friends who had always known that I could get shy, even around them, but didn't hold it against me. Since moving here I haven't met a lot of people. It's not that I haven't tried, though I could certainly try harder. It's just that I suck at this. I'm better when I'm able to write down my thoughts and then go back and erase it when it's really stupid. Or in pig latin. But I'm working on that. And someday I won't be someone else. That someone else will be me.
* Did I mention that this someone else has to actually go to businesses and ask for discounts and possibly donated stuff? Know anyone who has an extra Wii sitting around? Heh.
Monday, January 29, 2007
1) Our VCR finally revolted by throwing up after one too many showings of Elmo and his Number 5 rap.
2) The toys are in on the plot with my laundry room to destroy what remains of my sanity.
3) Hurricane has returned and moved on from soggy cheerios to blocks. Because blocks go in a lot further than soggy cheerios.
And just for useless trivia's sake..........
I wonder if tomorrow I can convince him to shove in a few more and possibly do a little damage.
"I don't know how you could handle it. This sucks!"
Commence arm-pumping in victory!! Woo-freakin'-hoo! A little empathy just brightened my whole week. I congratulated myself on being able to convey my misery of the past two months to my husband and sent him off the bed.
Karma kicked me in the ass for my pride because by the time I got up, the stomach flu had found me. The only way I could tell the difference between this and the normal morning blahs was the dizziness and other things which I will not mention because. ew. really.
I spent the entire day in bed trying not to die. By evening I was down to dry heaves and able to keep ginger ale down.
I celebrated last night by eating pancakes.
*I have lost 10 lbs. Not particularly surprising, nor worrisome, since I went through this with David too and quickly caught up (and then some) by the end of my second trimester.
*My dog smells like Fritos.
*I was cleaning out my closet and found a bunch of overalls (what the hell was I thinking?) to toss. Among them a pair I have never worn and just do not understand what the hell my husband was thinking in buying them for me. They have piglet on the front pocket.
Do I look like I'm 5?
*I have a meeting tomorrow morning at Breanna's school. I'm supposed to chair Family Fun Nights for the PTA (I've never 'chaired' anything before. What the hell was I thinking?) and I'm feeling anxious about it which I know is completely ridiculous because frick! It's just bingo and maybe a movie night a few months from now! But I am. Anxious I am. I always feel just outside of the loop with these people. Like they've all known each other since grade school and there is no room for me. And the woman I'm meeting tomorrow is completely intimidating to me. It's not her, it's me. It's just my naturally socially awkward, uncomfortable self. I'm always afraid I'll end up speaking pig latin or something stupid like that.
*Lately David has been having these... um... screaming matches? With himself? He is completely inconsolable. One minute he's fine, the next he's screaming in agony. I have no idea how to make it stop but I think I've found the source of my migraines.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
With Breanna, the cat sort of trained her and she also trained the cat.
When we thought maybe it was time to start potty training her we bought one that played music every time she peed. I thought it was the coolest thing in the world! I mean, what kid wouldn't want music to announce their amazing mastery of the potty? Right?
The first time she did it and that music played she ran out of the bathroom crying, still peeing and then refused to go anywhere near it.
I thought we were never going to get her out of diapers. Someday she would be telling her therapist that she would love to use the potty but she was afraid of the orchestra.
Then she saw the cat in the litter box.
I spent the next few weeks pulling her out of the litter box and trying to explain why people don't pee in boxes filled with dirt.
Finally, I moved the litter box into the bathroom, next to the now broken musical toilet. Anytime the cat would go in, so would she.
And then one day I walked in on the cat sitting on the toilet. Peeing. In the toilet.
He sat and looked at me. I stood and stared at him.
He sniffed and I think that if he could have he would have slammed the door in my face. Who did I think I was invading his privacy like that?
With David it's different.
We thought that he was ready. He gave all the cues that he was. He tells us when he's peed or poo-ed, talks about the potty, knows how to flush, and will go into the bathroom to do his thing.
We bought him a non-musical potty (though they had that musical one and I was so tempted because how awesome! except that didn't work out so well last time) and showed it to him. We sat him on it and he happily kicked his feet and sang 'potty, potty, potty'.
Weeks have passed and still nothing.
The other day when I suggested the potty he agreed, but refused to take off his diaper. He sat and smiled, kicked his feet and talked away as though we were best friends having coffee. Then he did the one thing that can only be blamed on his father and makes me so very glad that we have 3 bathrooms.
"Mamas, I need book!"
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
And then there was last night.
Something told me when he got up at 11:30 that this was different, that it was going to be a long night. He fussed when I put him back in bed.
Midnight: He's crying for daddy who is loudly snoring and pretending that he doesn't hear his son screaming or me begging his son to go back to sleep. I tuck Hurricane back into bed and gently knee husband in the side. He rolls over and stops snoring.
12:45- I am just falling back to sleep when Hurricane is again at his door crying. I feel annoyed, frustrated and exhausted. Husband looks at me as I stomp out of the room. I tell Hurricane it's night-night time and let's go back to sleep. He reaches for me and I sigh.
And then I smell it.
I turn on the lights and he is covered in puke. His pitiful little whimpering and the tears in his eyes are enough to undo me.
I gag as I undress him (can't help it, weak gag reflex) and then begin trying to clean up his carpet.
He sits, moaning softly, watching me.
I feel guilty. Poor baby was sick and there I was not listening to his cues.
I get a clean pair of pajamas out and start to dress him.
"mamas? Tummy, huuuurrrtt."
I know baby. I know. And I'm so sorry!
I tuck him back into bed and kiss his sweet head.
"love you boo-bear."
1:30- Once again cleaning up puke and removing his pajamas. I lay towels out on his bed and crawl in next to him but he doesn't want to sleep.
2:00- I'm being taught a lesson in patience. He has decided that he doesn't want me to leave but I shouldn't lay down either.
Suddenly he sits up, moaning. I know what's coming and hold out the towel. He throws up a little more and finally seems tired.
I tuck him back into bed and leave.
2:30- It's going to be a long night. I let him put on his Nemo jammies and I sit on the floor by his bed, waiting for him to fall asleep.
3:15- I sneak back into my own bed.
3:45- Husband let's Hurricane into our bed where he promptly throws up on him, just a little (I managed to not laugh out loud. I am vindictive and mean).
4:15- Everyone is cleaned up and Hurricane is sleeping on Husband's shoulder. I drift off to sleep.
4:30- Husband's alarm clock goes off and I am once again awake. And frustrated.
5:15- drift off to sleep again.
6:00- Hurricane crying in his sleep.
7:30- He is up for good and there is poop all over the bed. Woo-hoo! It's time to party!
I need a nap. And a maid. And a Get Out of Guilt Free card.
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
Bre has been struggling in school. Her last report card noted her to be At or Below grade level in everything but music and P.E.
I can't say that I was terribly surprised. She has always struggled with school. She has always had to work just a little bit harder, a little bit longer. We had, at one point, looked into getting her help at Sylvan's tutoring center (something that would require us to sell some organs to afford). When I talked to her teachers, they insisted that it was simply a maturity issue, that she would catch up and there was no need to worry. But I did. (And just to note: all of her teachers have been excellent. I don't think their response was flippant, just based on their experience and not on what I was seeing.)
This year, her teacher agreed with me. A fact that I am grateful for.
I had a meeting this morning with a few people in the school who will set her up for testing and any help she will need down the road.
It was a little awkward sitting there, talking about our family's health history. Well gee, there is her crazy maternal grandmother who is no longer with us, her crazy biological father who hasn't been around in years, her crazy grandmother on my husband's side who we wouldn't trust to take care of a cockroach. Did I mention that she was deaf for a year as a baby? How about her seizure disorder?
Obviously the earlier she gets help the better. But there is a part of me that wishes she wouldn't have to go down this road. Who wants their kids to struggle? I worry about what will happen. She's only in 3rd grade and she wants to go to college. I wonder if she will. I worry that she'll just give up. It's hard to watch her try so hard and still get it wrong. I can see the frustration in her face and how much she just wants to give up. It makes me crazy because I know she's smart. She has a great imagination. It's just that something gets lost between her brain and the paper and what started out as some amazing story about a girl and a flying cat exploring the Milky Way becomes a girl feeding her cat.
I guess we'll see what happens after the testing. I should hear something by mid-March.
For now, we'll just keep going as we are. And I'll keep trying to come up with a better way to convey what I'm thinking (dang baby brain).
Friday, January 19, 2007
Hug? Yes! I love hugs! Even better when they are from him! Hug!!! (Woo-hoo exclamation points!!!!)
After 5 aisles of repeated bear hugs, I decided it was time for a new game so, I honked his nose.
It's something we've played many times before. I touch his nose and say 'honk honk', he touches mine and says 'beep'. It's silly, but it never fails to distract him until I can think of something better.
Except that this time he didn't beep my nose.
This time he grabbed my nipple in a death grip and yelled "HONK HONK!" until I fell over dead from pain (and maybe a little embarrassment).
Usually he saves his nipple crushing for when I'm changing his diaper.
Dear future Mrs Hurricane,
Yes. I know. I know. I am so sorry.
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
1977- I am born
1997- Breanna is born
2004- David is born and Bre turns 7
Bre also informs us that her first, middle, last and nickname all have 7 letters.
Due date: August 7, 2007
And yes I know the picture is crooked and kind of small but no matter how far I've come in my comfort level as far as sharing information, I can't share my last name. Also, my technician sucked. From being pissy that I didn't have anyone to watch the kids (and never mind that they were perfectly behaved and didn't move from their seats the whole time and even if I did have someone to watch them, what if I had wanted them there?) to rolling her eyes when I asked questions, to frowning when I asked for a picture. Normally this would result in some assy comment from me but I was too happy from seeing that little hand waving.
Monday, January 15, 2007
Still, I am looking forward to Thanksgiving.
Maybe because for the last 6 years straight I have prepared dinner for a bunch of ingrates who can't even take their plates to the sink. Maybe because I don't like having to prepare dinner for and then be ignored by people I'm supposed to call family. Maybe because this year, I get to tell them all to go somewhere else.
Yup. Probably that last one.
The original plan was to go to my SIL's house. The one I don't like. The one who is completely two-faced and phony. The one who trashes me to anyone who will listen but is so sweet to my face. Fuuuunnn.
For 2 months now I've been thinking of ways to get out of going (I love to plan ahead). I figured that even I could fake a good flu. Or maybe the kids could. I didn't realize that my husband had been doing the same thing.
Then I caught him on the computer looking up flights to Disneyland.
That's right in-laws. You're all going to have to find somewhere else to eat this year, we're going to Disneyland!
Even better, after realizing that he could save $1500 and it would only take 20 hours, we're driving.
Woo-hoo! A vacation with no flying involved!
It's enough to make me want to possibly someday have sex again!
I think my boobs are in cahoots to kill me. They were already way too big (in my opinion). I walk into a room about 5 minutes after they do. When I got pregnant, they seemed to take this as their cue to grow bigger. And I know that this is only the beginning. If history repeats itself (and since they have already done this twice, I don't see why this time would be any different) they will grow again this summer and then again after the baby is born and they will end up being one size larger then they were before I got pregnant.
When even my husband notices, with horror, that they have grown? There is a problem.
I am still waiting for this whole 'turning 30' thing to bother me. I'm waiting to see what happens when April rolls around. Maybe I'm saving my nervous breakdown for then.
I still have not downloaded the Christmas pictures from my camera. This is so not like me.
Ultrasound on Wednesday. I really shouldn't be anxious, but I can't help it. I asked my doctor if I could just have my epidural now instead of waiting for labor. He turned me down.
As much as my kids love playing together, I don't think I could have taken another day of it. They have spent all day yelling and arguing over toys. Weebles were hurled and doors were slammed. I separated and pleaded and tried to distract but I'm just not as much fun to play with.
At some point I'm going to put up something worth reading so all this boring stuff may be a distant memory. And possibly deleted.
1) The laundry. The massive piles of laundry which threaten to organize and take over the house in a fit of dirty rage.
2) Organize the toys. The massive piles of toys that are no longer played with which now far out-weigh the toys that are still 'cool'.
3) Dishes. How can there be so many dishes? Hurricane barely eats, Bre only eats stuff that has been pre-made and therefore does not require dishes and I just flat out can't eat. So where are they all coming from?
4) Call PTA President. Again. Because she won't call me back and I'm about to say screw it and let her handle chairing that particular project herself.
5) Set up sleepover for Bre and her friend and be grateful that it isn't our turn.
6) Make bed. Maybe if I could get out of it this would be plausible.
7) Referee children's fighting.
Things That Will Get Done:
1) Nap- mine and Hurricane's
2) Separate playtime for kids to slow the fighting.
3) Nap- mine.
4) Where did all these court shows come from?
5) Nap- mine
6) I really need to clean this bathroom. Maybe later.
7) Did you know Finding Nemo lasts the perfect amount of time for napping?
Thursday, January 11, 2007
I sat down on the floor in front of him and showed him a picture (ok, it was a weak-ass drawing I did) of a woman (yes, that was a woman. She was wearing a dress. Sort of) and in her belly was a baby (it was passable).
He looked at it and then at me, one eyebrow raised. This is his father's expression. Usually meant to convey "crazy woman alert".
"She has a baby in her belly!"
Again, look at the picture, look at me. Still crazy.
"Yes. That's a baby."
He looked doubtful.
Great. Now I have an art critic on my hands.
"Mommy has a baby in her belly." I gently rubbed my belly and waited.
"I haff baby in bebly Mamas." He lifted his shirt and smiled at me.
"No, mommy has a baby in her belly. Your belly is full of goldfish and tickles."
"Baby in Mamas belly."
"No. Baby in my bebly."
Hmmm. I guess it is a bit much to expect him to understand at this point but I didn't think he'd be so argumentative either.
"You get to be a big brother just like you have a big sister! We're going to have a baby!"
At this he threw himself into my lap and declared, "I da baby!"
With any luck, we'll get this figured out before the baby gets here.
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
I think that may just be my way of protecting myself. When it comes to pregnancy, I'm always certain that I will fail.
It never works though. Because when it does fail, I am devastated. Crushed and afraid that this is how it will always be.
This time, after waiting 2 hours for my turn, I just knew that the nurse was going to shake her head and offer me the number to a really good psychiatrist.
There are no words to describe what it was like to hear that little thumpy-thumpy. A steady, strong heartbeat that was not mine but came from me. Because it meant that this is not all in my head. Because it meant that there really is a baby in there. Because it meant that I have reason to hope that this will work. Because of the 3 other pregnancies that had heartbeats, 2 resulted in some pretty adorable children.
Ultrasound to be scheduled tomorrow. Next appointment in 4 weeks.
Plenty of time to torture myself with all those lovely pessimistic thoughts.
Monday, January 08, 2007
As we were leaving, my dad asked if I'd like to stop at the farm.
When I was little, I loved going to the farm. It was my Great Aunt Violet and Uncle Sam's place. Neither of them had ever married (brother and sister) and they always treated us as though we were theirs.
They had 7 acres. A relatively small plot for farming, but perfect for a few unruly children to go wild.
I remember the corn field. We could play tag in there and it was so easy to get lost. Standing in the middle of that field, everything else went away. It was so quiet. I loved standing there with these stalks towering over me, staring up at that bright blue sky.
The barn. Big, red, peeling paint, a little creaky. Perfect for jumping off that 2nd floor loft into the waiting hay bales. OK, it sounds painful now but then? It was free. Aunt Violet would come out from time to time, telling us to stop that before we broke our necks, but Uncle Sam would simply wink at us, knowing that as soon as they were back in the house we would be jumping off that loft again.
The outhouse. Yes, an honest to goodness outhouse. They didn't get indoor plumbing until the early 80's, but my Uncle Sam still preferred that outhouse. I guess after using that outhouse for 75 years, it seemed wrong to change that.
We would spend hours chasing each other around that farm. Never worrying about anything but which tree we should climb first.
My favorite part of our visit was sneaking away from the others and going inside.
No one ever used the front door. That was for strangers and salesmen and since they lived out in the middle of no where (the town didn't get paved roads until the 90's), that was extremely rare. I can only remember their doorbell ringing once and only because the sound of it caused the adults to look at each other as though an alien had suddenly appeared and offered them a cake made of slugs.
The back door led straight into an honest to goodness washroom. No, not a laundry room. They never had a washer and dryer. They had a large metal tub with a washboard and a line out back for drying clothes. My Aunt always insisted that we wash our hands before coming into her kitchen. Seems fairly simple enough. But they didn't have a sink in that room. Instead there was an old porcelain bowl and pitcher. I loved having her pour the water over my hands. Such a simple act but so different from when my parents made me wash my hands at home.
Then we would sit at her kitchen table and I would listen to them talk and answer questions all the while waiting. Because I knew it wouldn't be long before Aunt Violet would hand over that little glass bowl of tea berry mints. If you've never had one, there's really not any decent way to describe them. Only that they do not taste like mint and you will either love them, or hate them.
I loved them.
My Uncle Sam was quiet and thoughtful. My Aunt Violet was so bursting to the tips of her being with life it seemed that she could burst with it.
One day, my Uncle Sam died. And even though the visits continued, they were diminished. As though his loss sucked some of the life out of everything left behind.
The barn seemed a little less. The corn stalks seemed smaller. The trees drooped as though they could no longer pretend to be perfectly maintained climbing wonders.
And then Aunt Violet died and there just wasn't a reason to go to the farm anymore. All the things that had made it so amazing were gone.
Seeing it all again took me back for a moment. But all those memories couldn't hide the truth. The corn was gone of course (it is winter). The barn looks like it should be taken down. 2 of my favorite climbing trees are gone and I miss their branches even more now. The house looks the same and I wonder if the people renting it can love it as much as my Aunt and Uncle did. I wonder if they are still there. In the halls, the kitchen, the rooms that they breathed and laughed in.
As we pulled away, I saw it. There in the back of the house just as perfect as I remembered it.
My Uncle Sam's outhouse.
Thursday, January 04, 2007
See, flying already sucks. I get airsick, I have a pretty nasty case of all day morning sickness going on, and I hate enclosed spaces. So when we landed in Chicago for what should have been only a one hour layover, I was eagerly anticipating a good 30 minutes of rest. Long enough for my stomach to settle before the next round of air bouncing.
After sitting at our gate for an hour and not hearing anything regarding our flight, another passenger let us know that you had changed our gate. How nice it would have been to hear that from you. Maybe before our flight took off? Yes, that would have been lovely.
So off we ran to the new gate. And we sat. And sat.
3 hours later we finally boarded our plane. I blame your delay for why our flight was so bumpy. And maybe that's not fair, but I don't really give a damn since I had to apologize to the people sitting near me for throwing up and grossing them out. I'm just glad I didn't get anyone's shoes.
On our return flight we had to circle the airport before you decided to let us land. Let me tell ya, that descending then lifting back up business? Well, it was fun for my kids, but those airsick bags are just not big enough for all of that.
Remember when I mentioned my issue with enclosed spaces? Right. So guess how much I loved sitting on your tarmac for an hour and a half before we could get to the gate? Almost as much as I loved having to run across your airport (people? Chicago airport? really feckin' big) to get to the next gate only to get there and have you decide that it would be really funny to have us run all the way back to the other end of the airport to our new gate.
But still not nearly as much fun as it was to sit on that next plane for 2 hours waiting for you to fix a small mechanical problem (that alone was nearly enough to send me off the plane and ready to rent a car to get home thank you very much) because the paperwork took an hour and a half to complete.
You suck. You suck. You suck.
I'm bringing my own air sick bags next time.
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
We got home Sunday afternoon. Today is the first time I have been able to get on my computer because every time I come in this room a certain overly hairy and rather sloppy house guest of relation to my husband has his ass parked in front of the screen downloading various Dungeons and Dragons sort of games on my computer. Games which I will spend weeks trying to purge once he leaves because gah!
Did I mention he is nearly 40?
And that he seems to prefer these games to his very lovely wife?
And that he is perhaps deaf which could be the only acceptable reason for why my TV is on full blast 24 hours a day?
And that he comes into the kitchen at 1, 2 and 3 am for a 'midnight snack' and manages to wake everyone else up every time?
A 'midnight snack' I end up having to scrape off my fine dinnerware in the morning because he has not bothered to rinse off the plate?
Plates I am now missing two of?
And the mess. Just crap everywhere.
Yes, we are in fine shape here.
Or we will be once I kill the man.
They went... somewhere. I don't know when they'll be back, just that they will since his stuff is everywhere.
Do you think it would be rude to throw all of his belongings in a box and set it on the curb?