I realize I am a bit biased but, Mr X is an attractive man. Thick dark hair, big brown eyes, full mouth, easy laugh, big (but not Ew Gross! Must-be-steroids kind of big) muscles. He's charming, easy going, always willing to lend a hand (Good Grief! It sounds like I'm describing a dog we want to give away....) great dad.
All this, but if you ask him what his most endearing quality is? He'll tell you it's his iron cast stomach.
"I can eat anything that doesn't eat me first!"
I think he got that saying when he was growing up but no, we will not further discuss my Mother in Law's cleaning and cooking habits. At least not today. Tomorrow?
Tomorrow she is fair game.
What was I saying?
Oh yes. My husband's iron stomach.
He'll eat pretty much anything ( but not bologna, not anything that even remotely sounds like bologna. Not anything with bologna in the name even if it's not bologna because why would you call something bologna if it isn't bologna? What the hell kind of sense does that make? If it's not bologna than they shouldn't call it that. Yes. We actually had an argument about what constitutes bologna and whether or not it was completely moronic that he would eat hot dogs but not bologna. I once tried to make him a sandwich with this lunch meat that looked vaguely like bologna but was actually turkey ham (and what the hell is up with turkey ham anyway? Wasn't it good enough just being turkey or ham? Why and combine? And I know that they would mix that together at the lunchmeat making plant, but every time I see turkey ham, I imagine some poor turkey getting pregnant by a pig and then what would their baby look like? I think it would not be pretty.) and he refused to eat it because he thought I was trying to sneak some bologna in on him. Like I would be that obvious! No. When I'm trying to sneak in some over-processed pig snout I shred it and hide it on his pizza thank you very much. And if he asks? It's ham.)
I must stop going off like that. I keep forgetting what I was talking about. Do you know how annoying it is to be talking to someone when they suddenly go off the whole story and on to something else and then they forget what they were talking about?
I do it all the time. A friend once told me that now she knows what it would be like to be friends with someone with Alzheimer's.
Anyway, Mr X also hates throwing food away (gee, I wonder where he gets that from. But we aren't talking about her today so....). I once watched him eat a week's worth of leftovers (there wasn't enough individually to make a meal and why we had to save all the little bits I'll never understand. We have a dog. Dog would have loved a little chicken parm and tacos) for dinner. It was positively disgusting. I watched with this morbid fascination. It was like watching a bird eat roadkill. So gross that you desperately want to look away, yet you can't.
When he wasn't feeling so well the next day I asked if he thought it might have anything to do with the E.Coli he ingested the night before.
"No way. That stuff was still good. Must have been the cereal."
Right. Because a week's worth of leftover's? No problem. Fresh bag of cocoa puffs? Certain death.
But tonight I drew the line.
He eats this carb control yogurt. It's nasty stuff. I don't really like yogurt to begin with, but this is vile. Tonight he found some way in the back of the fridge behind all the jars of pickles and olives (I hide them in the back so I don't have to see them staring at me).
"How old is this?"
Any time you dig something out of the back of the fridge and have to ask how old it is? Not a good sign.
It expired in the beginning of February.
"You are NOT eating that!"
I had visions of me emptying puke buckets over the next several days as he insisted on finishing all 4 containers of the most vile yogurt ever created.
"Yes I am. It's still good."
"No you are not and no it is NOT!"
"It's fine!"
"Open it."
"Fine, then you will see it's still good and be gone!"
He peeled back the label and I could see this watery ooze swilling around the top.
"It's... it... well. I'll do the sniff test."
And before I could stop him (because I could smell it from 3 feet away) he breathed in and then turned a few shades of green.
I plucked the container from his hands and chucked the yogurt in the trash.
I will never understand what compels a man to eat things that have gone past their prime. Is it a show of their manhood? Or insanity?
Sunday, March 26, 2006
Thursday, March 23, 2006
Random Bits
Damn Blogger. Damn Computer. I had this post almost all typed out and ready to go and then it vanished. This is actually my third attempt at a post tonight since I had typed out this long whiny post but then deleted it because who needs another whiny post from me when you can get a never-ending sentence? Pshaw!
*Parent/Teacher conferences were today. Girl X needs a math tutor. Correction, Girl X needed a math tutor last year. I had found this summer program for her but Mr X balked at the idea of summer school. So here we are again and I can't help thinking that if we had just done this last year, we'd be home free. And of course, the responsibility of finding a good center falls to me. Yipee. Because I'm just so damn good at research.
*Hurricane is going to like blue. If he ever decides that he hates blue, I will cry. No, first I will tell him he is wrong, then I will go crazy, then I will cry.
I am never painting that damn room again. I had to cut the painter's tape from the wall because to rip it off was to take all the paint with it. Dammit.
I can't say it enough. I hate painting. LOATH it.
*Hurricane managed to get melted chocolate chip cookie in my hair. I t was the moment I was trying to crumble it out (chocolate in the hair sucks) that I admitted defeat in regards to ever styling my hair again.
*A little piece of my soul died this morning when I was waiting for the school bus. One of Girl X's school friends (she's 10) was wearing 3 inch heeled boots. Without falling. Without even stumbling a little.
I can't walk up my driveway in sneakers without a guard rail. Shit.
*French Market Lemonade tastes like watered down lemon juice and alka seltzer. Not pleasant.
*My parent's are coming to visit this summer and YAY!!!! The last time they were here they spent several hours at the fish market spotting Bill Gates and that 'Frasier fellow'. I didn't have the heart to tell them that Bill Gates was neither asian, nor a drag queen and that the 'Frasier fellow' didn't actually live in Seattle.
*In the category of Things That Make Me Twitch and Swear A Lot..... A friend got me hooked into this http://home.planet.nl/~Qwyzzle/ Click on the bolero hat. There is a section (I think it's the bird) that has hints. You can hate on me later for it.
*Parent/Teacher conferences were today. Girl X needs a math tutor. Correction, Girl X needed a math tutor last year. I had found this summer program for her but Mr X balked at the idea of summer school. So here we are again and I can't help thinking that if we had just done this last year, we'd be home free. And of course, the responsibility of finding a good center falls to me. Yipee. Because I'm just so damn good at research.
*Hurricane is going to like blue. If he ever decides that he hates blue, I will cry. No, first I will tell him he is wrong, then I will go crazy, then I will cry.
I am never painting that damn room again. I had to cut the painter's tape from the wall because to rip it off was to take all the paint with it. Dammit.
I can't say it enough. I hate painting. LOATH it.
*Hurricane managed to get melted chocolate chip cookie in my hair. I t was the moment I was trying to crumble it out (chocolate in the hair sucks) that I admitted defeat in regards to ever styling my hair again.
*A little piece of my soul died this morning when I was waiting for the school bus. One of Girl X's school friends (she's 10) was wearing 3 inch heeled boots. Without falling. Without even stumbling a little.
I can't walk up my driveway in sneakers without a guard rail. Shit.
*French Market Lemonade tastes like watered down lemon juice and alka seltzer. Not pleasant.
*My parent's are coming to visit this summer and YAY!!!! The last time they were here they spent several hours at the fish market spotting Bill Gates and that 'Frasier fellow'. I didn't have the heart to tell them that Bill Gates was neither asian, nor a drag queen and that the 'Frasier fellow' didn't actually live in Seattle.
*In the category of Things That Make Me Twitch and Swear A Lot..... A friend got me hooked into this http://home.planet.nl/~Qwyzzle/ Click on the bolero hat. There is a section (I think it's the bird) that has hints. You can hate on me later for it.
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
And He Will Never Ask Again
Normally when Mr X asks me what I did that day I answer with a simple 'not much.'
Today was not one of those days. Sadly for him, he asked on a day that involved me painting my elbow blue and getting thrown up on. Twice.
So I did something I never do. I detailed our day for him.
6:50 am- Realize that the screaming is not my imagination and that the tin foil over the window did not work (I am not giving up hope on this one and I don't care if the neighbors think we're crazy because they already think too much about us anyway).
6:55 am- change first diaper of the day. Applaud when I actually have enough brain function to remember to put on a new diaper.
7:00 am- Fall back to sleep with Hurricane on my head.
7:30 am- Get woken up when Girl X pokes me in the cheek. Briefly remember a time when I could sleep until 8 am without anyone poking me in the cheek. Girl X smiles and says she knew I was only pretending to be asleep.
7:35 am- Get Girl X's breakfast. Give Hurricane free rein to destroy the living room. Begin cleaning up from Mr X's mad breakfast rush.
8:00 am- Stand in Girl X's room beggingher to just for the love of all that is good please pick out something to wear because it all looks cute dammit!
8:07 am- Pull Hurricane out of Cat's food bowl. Offer him breakfast which he does not want.
8: 15 am- Tell Girl X if she doesn't get dressed RIGHT. NOW. I am going to pick her clothes for her and she does not want THAT.
8:23 am- Remind Girl X that green teeth aren't pretty and it would be so nice if she would just brush them.
8: 31 am- Ask Girl X to play with Hurricane so that I can make a mad dash to get 'ready' for the day. Ignore the eye-rolling because that would take precious minutes I need to use to brush my teeth.
8:32 am- Throw on the first pair of pants and shirt I find that is clean and dammit I hope that stain isn't too noticeable. Brush teeth and hair at same time. Wash face while picking up dirty clothes Mr X left beside the hamper because putting it in the hamper is, obviously, against his religion. Get mascara on one eye before Hurricane comes in and attaches himself to leg.
8:43 am- Give up trying to pry Hurricane off leg and tell Girl X to get her shoes on.
8:45 am- Go back to bathroom as soon as Iremember that I still only have mascara on one eye.
8:48 am- Start first load of laundry for the day.
8:53 am- Catch Hurricane before he can tip over the trash can. Get him dressed- which includes the 2nd diaper change of the day. Put his shoes on as he is running down the hall.
9:03 am- Throw Girl X's lunch in her bag and race outside to meet the bus.
9: 13 am- Wave bye-bye to bus long after bus has disappeared. Leave toosoon and Hurricane will go into meltdown mode. Must avoid meltdown mode.
9:17 am- Realize that it is now you and Hurricane alone. All alone. Hurricane also realizes this. He smiles his sweet I-am-going-to-paint-the-walls-today smile. Realize that you are at war. With a 16 month old.
9:18 am- Hurricane has decided that he must eat breakfast right this second or he will IMPLODE. FEED ME NOW!! Breakfast is the easiest meal of the day, in that he will eat any breakfast related item. But, you have to be quick.
9:20 am- quickly cut up 2 pancakes as Hurricane clings to both legs, sobbing.
9:23 am- Hobble, Hurricane still attached to your legs, to the table with pancakes and milk.
9:47 am- Breakfast ends with one syrupy plate on the floor.
9:49 am- Briefly remember breakfast that did not involve a carpet full of syrup (or Cat now stuck in that syrup), Elmo plates or the airplane trick. For every single bite.
9:53 am- Scrub syrup off Cat and floor.
10 am- Yay! Sesame street! That all too brief hour in the day when Hurricane is vaguely distracted by Big Bird and Elmo. Realize that you know all the words to the theme song for Sesame Street. Remember a time when the only lyrics you memorized were that of your favorite band.
10:05 am- Start next load of laundry while Elmo pokes fun at Zoe's pet rock. Realize that I am having an argument in my head about why Elmo should not be poking fun at Zoe just because she thinks her pet rock has feelings. Make mental note to get out for the house and talk to some adults for the sake of my mental health.
10:11 am- Fold laundry with 'help' from Hurricane.
10:17 am- Refold laundry Hurricane 'helped' with before getting distracted by Grover.
10:23 am- Begin emptying dishwasher.
10:25 am- Pull Hurricane out of dishwasher. Wash. Rinse. Repeat.
10:30 am- Finish dishes while hurricane is completely hypnotized by Elmo.
10:35 am- Begin search for Box to mail gift to friend.
11:00 am- Sesame street is over and it's snack time. Box still not found.
11:28 am- Finally find suitable box. Must now convince Hurricane it's not a toy.
11:37 am- Make it to the post office in time for Hurricane to reach meltdown mode.
11:45 am- Return home and lay Hurricane down because he finally fell asleep.
11:48 am- Next load of laundry.
11:55 am- Skip folding the rest of the laundry because I just realized that I have not eaten yet and that noise I keep hearing is my stomach.
12:10 pm- Eat and catch up with internet, e-mail.
12:30 pm- Pick up trail of toys and junk left behind by Girl X and Mr X.
12:45 pm- Give up and jump on treadmill.
1:00 pm- Begin to feel guilty about the state of the house and why I'm wasting valuable minutes on this thing.
1:15 pm-Girl X is home from school. Damn early dismissal.
1:17 pm- Help Girl X make her bed and clean up her room.
1:33 pm- Hurricane is awake. Time for more laundry, snacks, and dusting.
And another diaper change. This may not seem like a big deal, except he's mobile and has this hatred for sitting still.
2:15 pm- Pull Hurricane out from under the table where he has cornered Cat in a game of who can slobber on the other more. Hurricane won.
2:40 pm- Videotape hurricane 'dancing'. Laugh when I realize he has his father's 'moves'.
3:00 pm- Ask Hurricane to kindly remove his head from my ass because no matter how hard he tries, and despite the fact that it is rather large, his head simply won't fit up there.
3:02 pm- Pull Hurricane away from ass and change another diaper.
3:07 pm- Send Girl X off to play and make bed.
3:11 pm- Give up and lay down with Hurricane.
3:24 pm- Mr X is home and in act that makes me want to bake him cookies, takes Hurricane so I can nap.
4:32 pm- Get poked in the cheek by Girl X. Bury face when Girl X says she can't believe I was sleeping.
4: 37 pm- Give up and splash cold water on face in vain attempt to wake up.
4:44 pm- Mr X disappears for the next hour and 20 minutes to work out. Take back earlier statement about cookies. Play with Hurricane and the Weebles.
5:00 pm- Make dinner.
5:27 pm- Send Girl X to shower since she's done with dinner.
5:39 pm- Tell Girl X to get out of shower already.
5:46 pm- Hurricane begins coughing hard. His face turns blood red. Pick him up.
5:47 pm- Hurricane throws up on me for the first time that evening.
5:49 pm- Get out of pukey sweater and change Hurricane. Skip the diaper.
5: 56 pm- Hurricane pukes up the rest of his dinner when I pick him up from the changing table.
5:57 pm- Gag.
5:58 pm- Scrub floors and try to keep pukey hair out of face.
6:03 pm- Watch Hurricane, diaperless, walk over to Cat and pee on him.
6:04 pm- Get look of death from Cat.
6:07 pm- Gather things for shower.
6:11 pm- Stop Hurricane from stabbing Cat in the butt with his fingers. Laugh when I realize that my son nearly Kanchoed the Cat.
6:15 pm- Wash pukey hair while Hurricane plays with his butt.
6:17 pm- Tell Girl X snacks can wait until after I'm out of the shower and no I will not get out right now.
6:19 pm- Girl X returns to ask how long I will be in the shower. Make mental note to start locking that door.
6:21 pm- Wash pukey baby who promptly falls asleep on my shoulder.
6:25 pm- Feel guilty for waking up sleepy baby and wish again that I had invested in some earplugs because that kid has some lungs.
By 7 pm, I was making my dinner, feeding Hurricane some toast and cleaning up the dining room. Mr X asked what I did today and I think that will be the last time.
But sometimes, I don't think he gets it.
It's not like my day ended there. I mean, it's almost 11:30 and I'm still up. I had another, please G-d let it be the last, coat of paint to slap on. The kids needed to be put to bed, dinner dishes cleaned up, Girl X's lunch for school needed to be made and laundry still not finished (the laundry is never done here). Plus, cleaning up the toys from Hurricane's mission to destroy.
I wonder how he would do if he had to switch places with me for a day.
Sometimes I get the feeling that he thinks my day goes more like this:
8:30 am- Wake up. Kid's eat. Girl X to school.
9:30- 12:00- Play with Hurricane.
12:00- 3:00- While Hurricane sleeps, eat lunch, play on internet, sleep. Maybe do laundry. What time does Springer come on?
3:30- Husband home. Sleep.
5:00- Make dinner while Husband works out.
6:45- Kid's bathtime
7:30 and 8:00- Kid's bedtime
8:00- whenever- TV time.
I hope he doesn't think that anymore.
Today was not one of those days. Sadly for him, he asked on a day that involved me painting my elbow blue and getting thrown up on. Twice.
So I did something I never do. I detailed our day for him.
6:50 am- Realize that the screaming is not my imagination and that the tin foil over the window did not work (I am not giving up hope on this one and I don't care if the neighbors think we're crazy because they already think too much about us anyway).
6:55 am- change first diaper of the day. Applaud when I actually have enough brain function to remember to put on a new diaper.
7:00 am- Fall back to sleep with Hurricane on my head.
7:30 am- Get woken up when Girl X pokes me in the cheek. Briefly remember a time when I could sleep until 8 am without anyone poking me in the cheek. Girl X smiles and says she knew I was only pretending to be asleep.
7:35 am- Get Girl X's breakfast. Give Hurricane free rein to destroy the living room. Begin cleaning up from Mr X's mad breakfast rush.
8:00 am- Stand in Girl X's room beggingher to just for the love of all that is good please pick out something to wear because it all looks cute dammit!
8:07 am- Pull Hurricane out of Cat's food bowl. Offer him breakfast which he does not want.
8: 15 am- Tell Girl X if she doesn't get dressed RIGHT. NOW. I am going to pick her clothes for her and she does not want THAT.
8:23 am- Remind Girl X that green teeth aren't pretty and it would be so nice if she would just brush them.
8: 31 am- Ask Girl X to play with Hurricane so that I can make a mad dash to get 'ready' for the day. Ignore the eye-rolling because that would take precious minutes I need to use to brush my teeth.
8:32 am- Throw on the first pair of pants and shirt I find that is clean and dammit I hope that stain isn't too noticeable. Brush teeth and hair at same time. Wash face while picking up dirty clothes Mr X left beside the hamper because putting it in the hamper is, obviously, against his religion. Get mascara on one eye before Hurricane comes in and attaches himself to leg.
8:43 am- Give up trying to pry Hurricane off leg and tell Girl X to get her shoes on.
8:45 am- Go back to bathroom as soon as Iremember that I still only have mascara on one eye.
8:48 am- Start first load of laundry for the day.
8:53 am- Catch Hurricane before he can tip over the trash can. Get him dressed- which includes the 2nd diaper change of the day. Put his shoes on as he is running down the hall.
9:03 am- Throw Girl X's lunch in her bag and race outside to meet the bus.
9: 13 am- Wave bye-bye to bus long after bus has disappeared. Leave toosoon and Hurricane will go into meltdown mode. Must avoid meltdown mode.
9:17 am- Realize that it is now you and Hurricane alone. All alone. Hurricane also realizes this. He smiles his sweet I-am-going-to-paint-the-walls-today smile. Realize that you are at war. With a 16 month old.
9:18 am- Hurricane has decided that he must eat breakfast right this second or he will IMPLODE. FEED ME NOW!! Breakfast is the easiest meal of the day, in that he will eat any breakfast related item. But, you have to be quick.
9:20 am- quickly cut up 2 pancakes as Hurricane clings to both legs, sobbing.
9:23 am- Hobble, Hurricane still attached to your legs, to the table with pancakes and milk.
9:47 am- Breakfast ends with one syrupy plate on the floor.
9:49 am- Briefly remember breakfast that did not involve a carpet full of syrup (or Cat now stuck in that syrup), Elmo plates or the airplane trick. For every single bite.
9:53 am- Scrub syrup off Cat and floor.
10 am- Yay! Sesame street! That all too brief hour in the day when Hurricane is vaguely distracted by Big Bird and Elmo. Realize that you know all the words to the theme song for Sesame Street. Remember a time when the only lyrics you memorized were that of your favorite band.
10:05 am- Start next load of laundry while Elmo pokes fun at Zoe's pet rock. Realize that I am having an argument in my head about why Elmo should not be poking fun at Zoe just because she thinks her pet rock has feelings. Make mental note to get out for the house and talk to some adults for the sake of my mental health.
10:11 am- Fold laundry with 'help' from Hurricane.
10:17 am- Refold laundry Hurricane 'helped' with before getting distracted by Grover.
10:23 am- Begin emptying dishwasher.
10:25 am- Pull Hurricane out of dishwasher. Wash. Rinse. Repeat.
10:30 am- Finish dishes while hurricane is completely hypnotized by Elmo.
10:35 am- Begin search for Box to mail gift to friend.
11:00 am- Sesame street is over and it's snack time. Box still not found.
11:28 am- Finally find suitable box. Must now convince Hurricane it's not a toy.
11:37 am- Make it to the post office in time for Hurricane to reach meltdown mode.
11:45 am- Return home and lay Hurricane down because he finally fell asleep.
11:48 am- Next load of laundry.
11:55 am- Skip folding the rest of the laundry because I just realized that I have not eaten yet and that noise I keep hearing is my stomach.
12:10 pm- Eat and catch up with internet, e-mail.
12:30 pm- Pick up trail of toys and junk left behind by Girl X and Mr X.
12:45 pm- Give up and jump on treadmill.
1:00 pm- Begin to feel guilty about the state of the house and why I'm wasting valuable minutes on this thing.
1:15 pm-Girl X is home from school. Damn early dismissal.
1:17 pm- Help Girl X make her bed and clean up her room.
1:33 pm- Hurricane is awake. Time for more laundry, snacks, and dusting.
And another diaper change. This may not seem like a big deal, except he's mobile and has this hatred for sitting still.
2:15 pm- Pull Hurricane out from under the table where he has cornered Cat in a game of who can slobber on the other more. Hurricane won.
2:40 pm- Videotape hurricane 'dancing'. Laugh when I realize he has his father's 'moves'.
3:00 pm- Ask Hurricane to kindly remove his head from my ass because no matter how hard he tries, and despite the fact that it is rather large, his head simply won't fit up there.
3:02 pm- Pull Hurricane away from ass and change another diaper.
3:07 pm- Send Girl X off to play and make bed.
3:11 pm- Give up and lay down with Hurricane.
3:24 pm- Mr X is home and in act that makes me want to bake him cookies, takes Hurricane so I can nap.
4:32 pm- Get poked in the cheek by Girl X. Bury face when Girl X says she can't believe I was sleeping.
4: 37 pm- Give up and splash cold water on face in vain attempt to wake up.
4:44 pm- Mr X disappears for the next hour and 20 minutes to work out. Take back earlier statement about cookies. Play with Hurricane and the Weebles.
5:00 pm- Make dinner.
5:27 pm- Send Girl X to shower since she's done with dinner.
5:39 pm- Tell Girl X to get out of shower already.
5:46 pm- Hurricane begins coughing hard. His face turns blood red. Pick him up.
5:47 pm- Hurricane throws up on me for the first time that evening.
5:49 pm- Get out of pukey sweater and change Hurricane. Skip the diaper.
5: 56 pm- Hurricane pukes up the rest of his dinner when I pick him up from the changing table.
5:57 pm- Gag.
5:58 pm- Scrub floors and try to keep pukey hair out of face.
6:03 pm- Watch Hurricane, diaperless, walk over to Cat and pee on him.
6:04 pm- Get look of death from Cat.
6:07 pm- Gather things for shower.
6:11 pm- Stop Hurricane from stabbing Cat in the butt with his fingers. Laugh when I realize that my son nearly Kanchoed the Cat.
6:15 pm- Wash pukey hair while Hurricane plays with his butt.
6:17 pm- Tell Girl X snacks can wait until after I'm out of the shower and no I will not get out right now.
6:19 pm- Girl X returns to ask how long I will be in the shower. Make mental note to start locking that door.
6:21 pm- Wash pukey baby who promptly falls asleep on my shoulder.
6:25 pm- Feel guilty for waking up sleepy baby and wish again that I had invested in some earplugs because that kid has some lungs.
By 7 pm, I was making my dinner, feeding Hurricane some toast and cleaning up the dining room. Mr X asked what I did today and I think that will be the last time.
But sometimes, I don't think he gets it.
It's not like my day ended there. I mean, it's almost 11:30 and I'm still up. I had another, please G-d let it be the last, coat of paint to slap on. The kids needed to be put to bed, dinner dishes cleaned up, Girl X's lunch for school needed to be made and laundry still not finished (the laundry is never done here). Plus, cleaning up the toys from Hurricane's mission to destroy.
I wonder how he would do if he had to switch places with me for a day.
Sometimes I get the feeling that he thinks my day goes more like this:
8:30 am- Wake up. Kid's eat. Girl X to school.
9:30- 12:00- Play with Hurricane.
12:00- 3:00- While Hurricane sleeps, eat lunch, play on internet, sleep. Maybe do laundry. What time does Springer come on?
3:30- Husband home. Sleep.
5:00- Make dinner while Husband works out.
6:45- Kid's bathtime
7:30 and 8:00- Kid's bedtime
8:00- whenever- TV time.
I hope he doesn't think that anymore.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
An Adoption Tale
Geez. How long ago was it that I said I would do this? Shut up. I forgot ok? And I'm doing it now.
Mr X and I met when Girl X was 2. It was at my sister's wedding. She was marrying his brother. Go ahead and insert your own joke here. It's even funnier when you consider that we don't get along very well.
Girl X distrusted men. She like my dad and my brother but every other male who dared to so much as look at her? They got an earful. And if they got to close, maybe a little fist in the eye.
Mr X spent the entire night with Girl X. She followed him everywhere. He sat on the floor and they played with an ice bucket. She had no interest in me or the pretty flowers I was holding for her.
It took me by surprise. That moment, that one brief moment where she was a normal 2 year old, playing on the floor.
Her own father had more interest in his drugs than his child and I had left him, long overdue, several months earlier. I suppose I was a bit mistrustful of men too. I had little patience or respect for the majority of the ones I had met during my brief solitude. Mostly, I was too busy to take the time to deal with it all.
I wasn't expecting this. I really wasn't expecting him to return since he lived on the other side of the country. But he did. I moved to be with him and we became a family. Something Girl X hadn't really experienced first hand.
She started preschool and we settled into a routine. Her biological father called nearly a year later but never asked for her. I ignored him.
One day, Girl X began calling Mr X 'Daddy'. We began talking about him adopting her someday. I knew it would be a fight because for as little as her biological father had to do with her, he would not like what that meant for his reputation.
We were married and immediately after returning home contacted an attorney who, for a $1000 retainer, did nothing for 3 months.
We hired an attorney Mr X had known for years and began what would turn out to be a 2 year ordeal.
Step one was contacting her biological father to see if he would be willing to terminate his parental rights so that Mr X could adopt her. By this time, I had only heard from him 3 times in 2 years. He never paid child support, wrote her letters or asked about her. Still, I knew he would refuse.
One day, our lawyer called and said he had found my ex-husband and that he wanted to speak to me. When I called, from a payphone, he cursed me out and then demanded that Mr X call him and then he would consider it.
Mr X called him 8 times, all times my ex had suggested, but Ex refused to answer. I suppose he thought if he ignored us we would give up.
I was determined to have this done. All I could think about was what would happen to her if I were to die unexpectedly.
She would be taken from the only father she had ever known after losing her mother, and be placed with a man who would promptly forget her. Taken away from the man who one night turned to me and said, "I keep forgetting that I wasn't in the delivery room. I don't know what else to say but that she is my daughter." And he meant it. He still does. He knows every detail of the day she was born because I've told him. He knows the first two years of her life because I gave them to him. And he has taken them as his. What is more real than that?
At a grocery store once, a clerk looked at her blond curls and our dark hair and said that she didn't look like she belonged. I was pissed but Mr X put her arms around Girl X and said she fit just fine.
Our next step was to take him to court. Which meant that we had to serve him with court papers.
If he faced us in court, I would have to testify. We would have to prove that the benefits of having his rights terminated would by far outweigh the biological father's rights. This is not nearly as easy as one might think.
This was pointless to worry about though until we could find him. Because while his phone number was simple to track down, his actual address was not.
Plus, we had to do all of this from the other side of the country. Everytime I thought we had him, it all went to hell. With the aid of my father, a constable (similar duties to what a sheriff has), we found out that my ex was homeless. He was living in his semi at work.
I guess I wasn't really that surprised. It's not like he was terribly responsible when we were together. I think I was more relieved. Now, even if he fought us, what judge would give him visitation rights with no where to go? And maybe that seems heartless, but my only concern was Girl X. I couldn't fake enough concern over his living arrangements.
Since Ex did not live in the same state as us, he did not have to show up in court. He only had to have a lawyer there. A lawyer he could have for free simply by calling the numbers provided to him on the court papers. In bold letters.
We legally had to give him 20 days to respond. We gave him 40.
The day of the hearing, I was almost 7 months pregnant and ready to throw up. We were both nervous. I was worried he would show. I slipped my hand into Mr X's and we waited for our names to be called.
He didn't show.
It was over in 5 minutes.
Parental rights terminated.
We left the courtroom and immediately started crying. Relief.
The hardest part was over.
We had 2 months until the adoption hearing. Before we could get there, we had to meet with a social worker.
She would do a background search on Mr X and a family history (boy there's a can of worms that should never be opened!) and have a meeting with us.
He had to fill out a 10 page document about himself including his past personal history; what was your childhood like? (Earthworms?) What were you like after high school? (Oh shit!) Why do you want to be this child's father? He also had to get 2 personal references and one from work. These people would have to write at least 3 paragraphs about the type of person/worker Mr X was. We sent some pictures and talked about the things we liked to do as a family.
Mr X and I took Girl X to meet her. He had to inform her of his health which meant owning up to the Thing We Are Not Discussing but we lucked out that she understood. She met with me and I was so nervous. She asked a few questions about my childhood and I was as honest as I could be without turning it into a therapy session.
She met with all of us together and talked to Girl X, mostly asking her what she liked to do and how she felt about the adoption. Girl X was just a few months shy of her 7th birthday by then. Her reply was to look blankly at the social worker and ask if she had any cookies.
Oops.
In all the nervousness and stress of the adoption, we hadn't sat down and really explained it to her. We talked about it, but obviously not enough. Now we had no choice.
I wasn't looking forward to this one. To sitting down and telling Girl X about this other person. I had to be careful about what I said about him. I didn't want Girl X to think negatively of herself simply because of this jackass.
She took it better than I had hoped, wrapping her arms around Mr X and declaring that he was her daddy and nothing else mattered.
And she was right.
November 1, 2004.
It was quiet. The judge asked only a few questions, read the social worker's recommendation, and smiled. Girl X was asked to come up to the judge's chair and bang the gavel. We took pictures. The judge ordered that we go out for ice cream.
And we did.
2 years of legal work;$7,000; 2 lawyers and a social worker. That's what it took.
November 1, 2004 was the day Girl X legally became Mr X's daughter, the name change, a new birth certificate, all the security in knowing she would never be taken away. But in reality? She had been his the day he sat on the floor for 2 hours playing in an ice bucket at his brother's wedding.
Mr X and I met when Girl X was 2. It was at my sister's wedding. She was marrying his brother. Go ahead and insert your own joke here. It's even funnier when you consider that we don't get along very well.
Girl X distrusted men. She like my dad and my brother but every other male who dared to so much as look at her? They got an earful. And if they got to close, maybe a little fist in the eye.
Mr X spent the entire night with Girl X. She followed him everywhere. He sat on the floor and they played with an ice bucket. She had no interest in me or the pretty flowers I was holding for her.
It took me by surprise. That moment, that one brief moment where she was a normal 2 year old, playing on the floor.
Her own father had more interest in his drugs than his child and I had left him, long overdue, several months earlier. I suppose I was a bit mistrustful of men too. I had little patience or respect for the majority of the ones I had met during my brief solitude. Mostly, I was too busy to take the time to deal with it all.
I wasn't expecting this. I really wasn't expecting him to return since he lived on the other side of the country. But he did. I moved to be with him and we became a family. Something Girl X hadn't really experienced first hand.
She started preschool and we settled into a routine. Her biological father called nearly a year later but never asked for her. I ignored him.
One day, Girl X began calling Mr X 'Daddy'. We began talking about him adopting her someday. I knew it would be a fight because for as little as her biological father had to do with her, he would not like what that meant for his reputation.
We were married and immediately after returning home contacted an attorney who, for a $1000 retainer, did nothing for 3 months.
We hired an attorney Mr X had known for years and began what would turn out to be a 2 year ordeal.
Step one was contacting her biological father to see if he would be willing to terminate his parental rights so that Mr X could adopt her. By this time, I had only heard from him 3 times in 2 years. He never paid child support, wrote her letters or asked about her. Still, I knew he would refuse.
One day, our lawyer called and said he had found my ex-husband and that he wanted to speak to me. When I called, from a payphone, he cursed me out and then demanded that Mr X call him and then he would consider it.
Mr X called him 8 times, all times my ex had suggested, but Ex refused to answer. I suppose he thought if he ignored us we would give up.
I was determined to have this done. All I could think about was what would happen to her if I were to die unexpectedly.
She would be taken from the only father she had ever known after losing her mother, and be placed with a man who would promptly forget her. Taken away from the man who one night turned to me and said, "I keep forgetting that I wasn't in the delivery room. I don't know what else to say but that she is my daughter." And he meant it. He still does. He knows every detail of the day she was born because I've told him. He knows the first two years of her life because I gave them to him. And he has taken them as his. What is more real than that?
At a grocery store once, a clerk looked at her blond curls and our dark hair and said that she didn't look like she belonged. I was pissed but Mr X put her arms around Girl X and said she fit just fine.
Our next step was to take him to court. Which meant that we had to serve him with court papers.
If he faced us in court, I would have to testify. We would have to prove that the benefits of having his rights terminated would by far outweigh the biological father's rights. This is not nearly as easy as one might think.
This was pointless to worry about though until we could find him. Because while his phone number was simple to track down, his actual address was not.
Plus, we had to do all of this from the other side of the country. Everytime I thought we had him, it all went to hell. With the aid of my father, a constable (similar duties to what a sheriff has), we found out that my ex was homeless. He was living in his semi at work.
I guess I wasn't really that surprised. It's not like he was terribly responsible when we were together. I think I was more relieved. Now, even if he fought us, what judge would give him visitation rights with no where to go? And maybe that seems heartless, but my only concern was Girl X. I couldn't fake enough concern over his living arrangements.
Since Ex did not live in the same state as us, he did not have to show up in court. He only had to have a lawyer there. A lawyer he could have for free simply by calling the numbers provided to him on the court papers. In bold letters.
We legally had to give him 20 days to respond. We gave him 40.
The day of the hearing, I was almost 7 months pregnant and ready to throw up. We were both nervous. I was worried he would show. I slipped my hand into Mr X's and we waited for our names to be called.
He didn't show.
It was over in 5 minutes.
Parental rights terminated.
We left the courtroom and immediately started crying. Relief.
The hardest part was over.
We had 2 months until the adoption hearing. Before we could get there, we had to meet with a social worker.
She would do a background search on Mr X and a family history (boy there's a can of worms that should never be opened!) and have a meeting with us.
He had to fill out a 10 page document about himself including his past personal history; what was your childhood like? (Earthworms?) What were you like after high school? (Oh shit!) Why do you want to be this child's father? He also had to get 2 personal references and one from work. These people would have to write at least 3 paragraphs about the type of person/worker Mr X was. We sent some pictures and talked about the things we liked to do as a family.
Mr X and I took Girl X to meet her. He had to inform her of his health which meant owning up to the Thing We Are Not Discussing but we lucked out that she understood. She met with me and I was so nervous. She asked a few questions about my childhood and I was as honest as I could be without turning it into a therapy session.
She met with all of us together and talked to Girl X, mostly asking her what she liked to do and how she felt about the adoption. Girl X was just a few months shy of her 7th birthday by then. Her reply was to look blankly at the social worker and ask if she had any cookies.
Oops.
In all the nervousness and stress of the adoption, we hadn't sat down and really explained it to her. We talked about it, but obviously not enough. Now we had no choice.
I wasn't looking forward to this one. To sitting down and telling Girl X about this other person. I had to be careful about what I said about him. I didn't want Girl X to think negatively of herself simply because of this jackass.
She took it better than I had hoped, wrapping her arms around Mr X and declaring that he was her daddy and nothing else mattered.
And she was right.
November 1, 2004.
It was quiet. The judge asked only a few questions, read the social worker's recommendation, and smiled. Girl X was asked to come up to the judge's chair and bang the gavel. We took pictures. The judge ordered that we go out for ice cream.
And we did.
2 years of legal work;$7,000; 2 lawyers and a social worker. That's what it took.
November 1, 2004 was the day Girl X legally became Mr X's daughter, the name change, a new birth certificate, all the security in knowing she would never be taken away. But in reality? She had been his the day he sat on the floor for 2 hours playing in an ice bucket at his brother's wedding.
Sunday, March 19, 2006
House Pains
Alright everyone. I need those of you who are considering painting any portion of your house a dark shade of blue to raise your right arm. Now bend it at the elbow so that your hand is behind your head. Got it? Good, now smack yourself as hard as you can. You'll thank me later.
I was working on the rest of Hurricane's room this weekend. The top half is painted and, for the most part, ready. I was busy with the lower, darker blue, half. After a tinted primer and 3 coats, I have to return to Home Depot for another gallon. I'm thinking it will need at least one, probably two, more coats.
This has been entertaining for Mr X. Less so for me.
I did learn why Mr X covered every inch of our carpet with that paper tarp thing and the window with plastic. I think he probably should have covered the closet doors too. Which reminds me, I need to add white paint to my list. And I hope that when I tell the nice Home Depot paint person that I need closet door white she'll know just what the hell I'm talking about.
I always paint with my socks off so that if, um, make that when, I step in paint, I'll be able to feel it. Although, I don't think it mattered this time because there is no way I would not have felt this.
I had the radio on and I was 'dancing' (ha!) around like a fool, having a grand old time. Then IT happened.
What was IT you ask?
IT was when I managed to step in the paint tray. The deep end of the paint tray. You know, where all the paint sits waiting for a roller. Instead, it got my foot. It stood there for a moment, my foot in 3 inches of Sorcerer's Hat blue paint. And then it hit me. MY FOOT, (do you remember how I have that thing about feet? Specifically my feet? Because this is where I remembered. And this is where it got ugly.) IS IN PAINT AND OMG MY FOOT!!!!
I lost all reason and freaked out, roller full of paint in my hand and one foot caked in blue paint.
I alternated between hopping and stamping, swinging my arms and yelling 'AAUGGHHHH!!!' which brought Mr X running.
He took one look at the room and closed the door. I could hear him laughing all the way downstairs.
I was never so grateful that I had remembered to put the camera away. The last thing I needed was a picture to remember my little freakout.
When it was over there was paint on the closet doors, the plastic over the windows, parts of the upper wall that I will now have to repaint (dammit!) and my little blue footprints all over the paper floor.
I am just thankful that our neighbors didn't witness this little sideshow.
I was working on the rest of Hurricane's room this weekend. The top half is painted and, for the most part, ready. I was busy with the lower, darker blue, half. After a tinted primer and 3 coats, I have to return to Home Depot for another gallon. I'm thinking it will need at least one, probably two, more coats.
This has been entertaining for Mr X. Less so for me.
I did learn why Mr X covered every inch of our carpet with that paper tarp thing and the window with plastic. I think he probably should have covered the closet doors too. Which reminds me, I need to add white paint to my list. And I hope that when I tell the nice Home Depot paint person that I need closet door white she'll know just what the hell I'm talking about.
I always paint with my socks off so that if, um, make that when, I step in paint, I'll be able to feel it. Although, I don't think it mattered this time because there is no way I would not have felt this.
I had the radio on and I was 'dancing' (ha!) around like a fool, having a grand old time. Then IT happened.
What was IT you ask?
IT was when I managed to step in the paint tray. The deep end of the paint tray. You know, where all the paint sits waiting for a roller. Instead, it got my foot. It stood there for a moment, my foot in 3 inches of Sorcerer's Hat blue paint. And then it hit me. MY FOOT, (do you remember how I have that thing about feet? Specifically my feet? Because this is where I remembered. And this is where it got ugly.) IS IN PAINT AND OMG MY FOOT!!!!
I lost all reason and freaked out, roller full of paint in my hand and one foot caked in blue paint.
I alternated between hopping and stamping, swinging my arms and yelling 'AAUGGHHHH!!!' which brought Mr X running.
He took one look at the room and closed the door. I could hear him laughing all the way downstairs.
I was never so grateful that I had remembered to put the camera away. The last thing I needed was a picture to remember my little freakout.
When it was over there was paint on the closet doors, the plastic over the windows, parts of the upper wall that I will now have to repaint (dammit!) and my little blue footprints all over the paper floor.
I am just thankful that our neighbors didn't witness this little sideshow.
Thursday, March 16, 2006
9 hours 23 minutes
That is the time between purchasing my son's first Aquadoodle travel desk to when I began writing dirty messages to my husband. It would have been sooner but I thought maybe some good parenting would involve me waiting until the kids were in bed.
My parents would be so proud.
My parents would be so proud.
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
I Must Get "Y'all" Out of My System. Like Now.
Tonight we thought it would be fun to go out in public and unleash our special brand of crazy on the world. Or at least the dinner crowd at an upscale pizza place (seriously? How upscale can a pizza place be?) and have dinner with some friends.
Yay! More chances to broadcast my social awkwardness!
This was the first time I'd ever met B and T in person (they live in Texas), but I've known M (in 'real' life) for a few years. At least she had some clue how this was going to go. If she didn't, she was quickly reminded when our drinks came and I had 2 straws. I told Girl X is was so that I could stick one up each nostril and just suck it in.
I managed to refrain from giggling everytime B said "y'all" (and I've realized how stupid I sound when I say it because you should really only say that if you're from the south).
Once seated (in the loft area where we could look over and see everyone else. This is important to remember in a moment). I tried to amuse Hurricane. First, he threw his crayons across the floor. Then the book.
I thought that if anything was going to work, it would be the Weebles. The very same Weebles he beat his sister for touching.
I handed it to him.
He looked at me.
He threw it in my general direction but missed.
I watched, in frozen horror, as it went over the balcony. I heard a crash and some excited voices.
I was so ready to climb under the table and never come out but Mr X wouldn't let me.
Thankfully, the Weeble didn't hit anyone. Also? Hurricane didn't cause the crash. In what can only be described as excellent comedic timing, his Weeble landed just as her son through his plate on the floor.
I put the Weeble away.
Girl X smiled and went back to coloring.
We only had to curb our conversation once because I didn't think it would be cool if Girl X went to school and started telling everyone how her mom's friend's coochie had crabs.
Now might be the time to mention that Coochie is a cat and it's a stuffed crab. Just so you don't think we have completely inappropriate conversations with small children at the table. We save those for after they go to bed.
We had ordered breadsticks for Hurricane's dinner which he nibbled. Mr X had planned on sharing his dinner with him. In all, he ate a breadstick, a slice of pepperoni pizza, a chunk of calzone, half a container of mini M&M's and he drank all of his milk.
This was all after the discussion we had about how he picks at food at night.
We also learned that M is an alcoholic glutton. When the bill came, hers totaled $200, including 2 pitchers of beer (which she never shared!). And she is just going to love that I shared that.
I suppose I could explain.
Nah.
I just gotta' dance, y'all!
Blame my brother!
I didn't throw nuttin'. Give me cookies.
Yay! More chances to broadcast my social awkwardness!
This was the first time I'd ever met B and T in person (they live in Texas), but I've known M (in 'real' life) for a few years. At least she had some clue how this was going to go. If she didn't, she was quickly reminded when our drinks came and I had 2 straws. I told Girl X is was so that I could stick one up each nostril and just suck it in.
I managed to refrain from giggling everytime B said "y'all" (and I've realized how stupid I sound when I say it because you should really only say that if you're from the south).
Once seated (in the loft area where we could look over and see everyone else. This is important to remember in a moment). I tried to amuse Hurricane. First, he threw his crayons across the floor. Then the book.
I thought that if anything was going to work, it would be the Weebles. The very same Weebles he beat his sister for touching.
I handed it to him.
He looked at me.
He threw it in my general direction but missed.
I watched, in frozen horror, as it went over the balcony. I heard a crash and some excited voices.
I was so ready to climb under the table and never come out but Mr X wouldn't let me.
Thankfully, the Weeble didn't hit anyone. Also? Hurricane didn't cause the crash. In what can only be described as excellent comedic timing, his Weeble landed just as her son through his plate on the floor.
I put the Weeble away.
Girl X smiled and went back to coloring.
We only had to curb our conversation once because I didn't think it would be cool if Girl X went to school and started telling everyone how her mom's friend's coochie had crabs.
Now might be the time to mention that Coochie is a cat and it's a stuffed crab. Just so you don't think we have completely inappropriate conversations with small children at the table. We save those for after they go to bed.
We had ordered breadsticks for Hurricane's dinner which he nibbled. Mr X had planned on sharing his dinner with him. In all, he ate a breadstick, a slice of pepperoni pizza, a chunk of calzone, half a container of mini M&M's and he drank all of his milk.
This was all after the discussion we had about how he picks at food at night.
We also learned that M is an alcoholic glutton. When the bill came, hers totaled $200, including 2 pitchers of beer (which she never shared!). And she is just going to love that I shared that.
I suppose I could explain.
Nah.
I just gotta' dance, y'all!
Blame my brother!
I didn't throw nuttin'. Give me cookies.Ok, M. I think most people can totally figure out that you got the wrong bill. :)
Because All the Crazy People Are There
We went to my niece's birthday party this weekend. I hate going over there. I love my niece's, but my sister-in-law and her family are just plain crazy.
Last year, her mom cornered my while I was nursing Hurricane and started rubbing my belly. I have no idea what the hell that was about. I see her maybe twice a year and she's rubbing my belly? I don't even let Mr X do that and I married him. Once she started asking me questions about my sex life I knew I had to get out of there. I muttered something about nuns and ran. My socially awkward self was not ready for that.
I had fully expected this to be just as strange since my MIL would be there and my favorite SIL planned to introduce her new boyfriend then. It was to be my job to run interference. In exchange, she would make sure crazy toucher would stay away from me.
MIL pretty much ignored new boyfriend. She relayed all of her questions through SIL even though he was sitting right next to her and for once, she was speaking English. But this is 'normal'. I was fully prepared to direct new boyfriend to the pretty punchbowl the minute she started talking about big boobs. I think I was a little disappointed that she didn't. Or maybe she saved that for after we left.
Crazy Toucher stayed away from me and just as I was beginning to fell relief, Cake Man came along. My sister-in-law's dad. Usually unnoticeable in the shadow of Crazy Toucher, he is extremely loud and annoying. When he came at me with a plate of cake, all I could do was sigh.
"Have some cake." Notice it isn't a question. He was all up in my personal space yelling, and spit talking.
"No thanks."
"Have some cake." The hell??
"No thank you, I don't like cake."
"Have some cake."
Right. I know he's not deaf. I'm not scary skinny and in need of food so again.... The hell?
"I don't want any but MIL does."
"Have some cake."
"Great cake! Thanks, just what I wanted!"
Well, what the hell was I supposed to do? It was take it, or risk the attention of crazy toucher.
I dumped the cake on some very happy kid.
From then on every time I saw Cake man he'd ask me if the cake was good.
"Oh, yeah. Best cake ever!" In my best I'm-pretending-I-was-a-cheerleader voice.
On the way home I asked Mr X why we go to these things.
"Because all the crazy people are there and they all like talking to you. What could be more fun than watching that?"
Last year, her mom cornered my while I was nursing Hurricane and started rubbing my belly. I have no idea what the hell that was about. I see her maybe twice a year and she's rubbing my belly? I don't even let Mr X do that and I married him. Once she started asking me questions about my sex life I knew I had to get out of there. I muttered something about nuns and ran. My socially awkward self was not ready for that.
I had fully expected this to be just as strange since my MIL would be there and my favorite SIL planned to introduce her new boyfriend then. It was to be my job to run interference. In exchange, she would make sure crazy toucher would stay away from me.
MIL pretty much ignored new boyfriend. She relayed all of her questions through SIL even though he was sitting right next to her and for once, she was speaking English. But this is 'normal'. I was fully prepared to direct new boyfriend to the pretty punchbowl the minute she started talking about big boobs. I think I was a little disappointed that she didn't. Or maybe she saved that for after we left.
Crazy Toucher stayed away from me and just as I was beginning to fell relief, Cake Man came along. My sister-in-law's dad. Usually unnoticeable in the shadow of Crazy Toucher, he is extremely loud and annoying. When he came at me with a plate of cake, all I could do was sigh.
"Have some cake." Notice it isn't a question. He was all up in my personal space yelling, and spit talking.
"No thanks."
"Have some cake." The hell??
"No thank you, I don't like cake."
"Have some cake."
Right. I know he's not deaf. I'm not scary skinny and in need of food so again.... The hell?
"I don't want any but MIL does."
"Have some cake."
"Great cake! Thanks, just what I wanted!"
Well, what the hell was I supposed to do? It was take it, or risk the attention of crazy toucher.
I dumped the cake on some very happy kid.
From then on every time I saw Cake man he'd ask me if the cake was good.
"Oh, yeah. Best cake ever!" In my best I'm-pretending-I-was-a-cheerleader voice.
On the way home I asked Mr X why we go to these things.
"Because all the crazy people are there and they all like talking to you. What could be more fun than watching that?"
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
Unspoken
I had lunch with a friend today. She's someone that I trust, I know I could tell her, but I didn't. I could not make the words come out. We were having fun and catching up and I'd like to say that I just didn't want to spoil it but I know that it's more than that.
I know that she reads this blog sometimes. I know that a number of people who read this blog know me in 'real life'. I don't mind that. I know that they wouldn't bring it up outside of this forum unless I mentioned it first.
It's easier for me to say the things that are troubling me here. I can hit publish and leave it here. It's easier to be open here because I can then turn around, smiling, pretending that things are as they should be.
Knowing this, there are still some things I cannot bring myself to mention here. Things I am afraid to say outloud. Things I don't want to see in print. Some very foolish part of me imagines that saying it outloud makes it real. If I don't say it, it won't happen. It's naive, I know. These are the things I do to hold on.
I wonder about the things left unspoken.
I read other blogs and wonder about the secrets beneath the words they type. If they're like me. Afraid of the reality of those words.
I'm always telling Girl X that her words are the most powerful force she has, that she must choose them carefully and be certain that she says what she means. Once, in anger, she told me she hated me. Those words hung there between us like poison. I remained silent and simply looked at her.
She cried and said she didn't mean it. But it stung anyway. We talked about how once you say something, no matter how many times you apologize, no matter times you try to take it back, it's there. The damage is there. The wound may heal, but the scar will always remind you. I know she doesn't hate me, but I needed her to understand.
But what about those unspoken words? I wonder if they can do more damage than if I'd just say it. These unspoken words like disease, slowly burning a hole through me.
It's then that I feel absolutely alone. And maybe a little crazy.
I've researched, studying the effect diet can have on his health, alternative medicines, origins and option after option. I need more information but it gets so overwhelming.
Perhaps part of my fear in divulging this secret, is that I will be alone. We have lost friends because of this, although some may argue that they weren't truly our friends.
8 weeks to go now.
And it remains unspoken.
I know that she reads this blog sometimes. I know that a number of people who read this blog know me in 'real life'. I don't mind that. I know that they wouldn't bring it up outside of this forum unless I mentioned it first.
It's easier for me to say the things that are troubling me here. I can hit publish and leave it here. It's easier to be open here because I can then turn around, smiling, pretending that things are as they should be.
Knowing this, there are still some things I cannot bring myself to mention here. Things I am afraid to say outloud. Things I don't want to see in print. Some very foolish part of me imagines that saying it outloud makes it real. If I don't say it, it won't happen. It's naive, I know. These are the things I do to hold on.
I wonder about the things left unspoken.
I read other blogs and wonder about the secrets beneath the words they type. If they're like me. Afraid of the reality of those words.
I'm always telling Girl X that her words are the most powerful force she has, that she must choose them carefully and be certain that she says what she means. Once, in anger, she told me she hated me. Those words hung there between us like poison. I remained silent and simply looked at her.
She cried and said she didn't mean it. But it stung anyway. We talked about how once you say something, no matter how many times you apologize, no matter times you try to take it back, it's there. The damage is there. The wound may heal, but the scar will always remind you. I know she doesn't hate me, but I needed her to understand.
But what about those unspoken words? I wonder if they can do more damage than if I'd just say it. These unspoken words like disease, slowly burning a hole through me.
It's then that I feel absolutely alone. And maybe a little crazy.
I've researched, studying the effect diet can have on his health, alternative medicines, origins and option after option. I need more information but it gets so overwhelming.
Perhaps part of my fear in divulging this secret, is that I will be alone. We have lost friends because of this, although some may argue that they weren't truly our friends.
8 weeks to go now.
And it remains unspoken.
Sunday, March 12, 2006
That Creaking Is Me
And it's what I get for trying to paint for 6 hours and getting virtually nowhere.
I've been preparing Hurricane's new room. Mostly because I have been feeling this insane need to paint. Because painting! Is! Fun!
I'm starting with the top half of his room which is this tan-ish color that defies description. The bottom half is this deep blue. I can't wait to see it all done.
I can't wait to see it all done because as often as I proclaim my love for painting, after 6 hours I start to remember that I HATE painting. My neck is sore and my shoulders are tense from trying to get good coverage on the ceiling and the higher parts of the wall. The last 3 little toes on my right foot are a lovely shade of tan-ish that defies description. Hair? Streaked with the undefinable color.
At least this time I remembered to wear old clothes. Because, as I am denying that I ever learned first hand, bright pink latex paint does not come out of anything made by Tommy Hilfiger (and I am so complaining about that to him. Not that it ever happened to me).
Hurricane will be moving into Girl X's old room. When we first bought this house, Mr X had the brilliant idea that we should let Girl X pick out the paint. She was 3.
She picked bright pink.
It was sponged on the walls because I had this crazy fear that it would be too overwhelming to have the walls completely covered in it.
When finished, her room could be seen from outer space.
If her door was open, their was this scary pink glow in the hallway. As if a radioactive marshmallow peep had taken residence in her room and wasn't going to leave.
After 2 years of asking every day if we could repaint the room in a color that would not restore eyesight to the blind only to take it away again, Mr X relented. In no small part to the fact that Girl X spent a week begging Mr X to turn down the walls in her room because it was keeping her awake at night (she has my flare for the dramatic).
So we ran to Home Depot. Mr X picked up a pale pink paint sample and Girl X asked him if he was planning on painting his room too. I think he got the hint.
Now at the ripe old age of 5 (5 and 3/4 mom!) she chose a soft blue and a muted green. They were strangely complimentary to eachother.
What we did not know is that with blue paint, you need a tinted primer. We did not know that the pink sponge paint was so evil as to not want to die.
We did not know that it would take 6, YES 6!, gallons of paint to cover everything.
By the time her room was done I had developed a tic everytime I saw a paintbrush.
I will never understand the part of my brain that allows me to forget my hate of painting long enough to want to do it again. I imagine that it's the part of my brain that won't forgive me for watching Alf for so many years.
I've been preparing Hurricane's new room. Mostly because I have been feeling this insane need to paint. Because painting! Is! Fun!
I'm starting with the top half of his room which is this tan-ish color that defies description. The bottom half is this deep blue. I can't wait to see it all done.
I can't wait to see it all done because as often as I proclaim my love for painting, after 6 hours I start to remember that I HATE painting. My neck is sore and my shoulders are tense from trying to get good coverage on the ceiling and the higher parts of the wall. The last 3 little toes on my right foot are a lovely shade of tan-ish that defies description. Hair? Streaked with the undefinable color.
At least this time I remembered to wear old clothes. Because, as I am denying that I ever learned first hand, bright pink latex paint does not come out of anything made by Tommy Hilfiger (and I am so complaining about that to him. Not that it ever happened to me).
Hurricane will be moving into Girl X's old room. When we first bought this house, Mr X had the brilliant idea that we should let Girl X pick out the paint. She was 3.
She picked bright pink.
It was sponged on the walls because I had this crazy fear that it would be too overwhelming to have the walls completely covered in it.
When finished, her room could be seen from outer space.
If her door was open, their was this scary pink glow in the hallway. As if a radioactive marshmallow peep had taken residence in her room and wasn't going to leave.
After 2 years of asking every day if we could repaint the room in a color that would not restore eyesight to the blind only to take it away again, Mr X relented. In no small part to the fact that Girl X spent a week begging Mr X to turn down the walls in her room because it was keeping her awake at night (she has my flare for the dramatic).
So we ran to Home Depot. Mr X picked up a pale pink paint sample and Girl X asked him if he was planning on painting his room too. I think he got the hint.
Now at the ripe old age of 5 (5 and 3/4 mom!) she chose a soft blue and a muted green. They were strangely complimentary to eachother.
What we did not know is that with blue paint, you need a tinted primer. We did not know that the pink sponge paint was so evil as to not want to die.
We did not know that it would take 6, YES 6!, gallons of paint to cover everything.
By the time her room was done I had developed a tic everytime I saw a paintbrush.
I will never understand the part of my brain that allows me to forget my hate of painting long enough to want to do it again. I imagine that it's the part of my brain that won't forgive me for watching Alf for so many years.
Thursday, March 09, 2006
We Should Be Politicians
We are very good at pretending that nothing is wrong.
I think it's probably one of my worst traits. It's gotten me in plenty of trouble before.
I haven't really said anything beyond "We're waiting for his next Dr appt. It's a little nerve-wracking" to anyone. I've been saving all my freak outs for here. Won't that make for some fun blogging?
I guess I just don't know how to open up when we're sinking. Too many times being ignored by our families perhaps? Also, I don't want to be that blubbery girl in the corner talking to no one because everyone is afraid I might blow snot on them.
When we first found out he was sick, we actually lost some friends. Fear of the unknown I suppose. Or maybe just not knowing what to say.
Well, I don't know what to say either.
So I just don't say anything.
I do know that I can spend another section of my life crying on the bathroom floor with the water running. I think one year was enough of that.
We don't seem any different. I think. But it's there. That uncertainty.
I have so many questions for his Dr and I know I need to write them down, but I don't. Not yet. It makes it a little more real. I guess I'm weak because I need my fantasy of everything being ok and I'm doing whatever to prolong that.
Last night I dreampt that a volcano erupted right by our house. I was on my way home with the kids and I could see the lava pouring out. Mr X was home and all I could think was 'at least now I know'.
I woke up crying.
Uncertainty?
It blows.
I think it's probably one of my worst traits. It's gotten me in plenty of trouble before.
I haven't really said anything beyond "We're waiting for his next Dr appt. It's a little nerve-wracking" to anyone. I've been saving all my freak outs for here. Won't that make for some fun blogging?
I guess I just don't know how to open up when we're sinking. Too many times being ignored by our families perhaps? Also, I don't want to be that blubbery girl in the corner talking to no one because everyone is afraid I might blow snot on them.
When we first found out he was sick, we actually lost some friends. Fear of the unknown I suppose. Or maybe just not knowing what to say.
Well, I don't know what to say either.
So I just don't say anything.
I do know that I can spend another section of my life crying on the bathroom floor with the water running. I think one year was enough of that.
We don't seem any different. I think. But it's there. That uncertainty.
I have so many questions for his Dr and I know I need to write them down, but I don't. Not yet. It makes it a little more real. I guess I'm weak because I need my fantasy of everything being ok and I'm doing whatever to prolong that.
Last night I dreampt that a volcano erupted right by our house. I was on my way home with the kids and I could see the lava pouring out. Mr X was home and all I could think was 'at least now I know'.
I woke up crying.
Uncertainty?
It blows.
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
A Crack in the Foundation
I rarely talk about it. In large part because my family gives me the big 'Pshaw!' and changes the subject everytime I bring it up. Add to that Mr X's extreme denial and we have this giant elephant in the room that everyone is ignoring.
Every now and then it demands peanuts and I'm forced to think about it. I don't like to think about it. I've thought too much about it in the past 2 years.
But it's hard to ignore when your husband comes home from his Dr's appointment and tells you he doesn't think it's a good idea to have any more kids because he's not going to be around to raise them with you. Then everything falls apart. If and when don't matter. I feel like I'm trapped in one of Girl X's snowglobes and someone keeps shaking it. I can't get my footing.
He's 35. This isn't supposed to happen now.
A deep breath. Try to remember that I wasn't there so I don't know what the Dr said. He's scared and overwhelmed. All Mr X can say is that of the two types of his disease, his is the worst. The medicine isn't working.
Deep breath and I can feel the steel in my spine. It's not working yet. But it will. Because there are no other options.
If only by the sheer force of my will, these next 9 weeks will pass and we will sit in his Dr's office together. We will look again at his blood tests and it will show that the medicine is working. And our world will be righted again.
I won't have to pretend I'm not scared. We won't discuss cremation vs burial, whether I should move closer to my parents, if I won't shatter into a million pieces simply by missing him.
A deep breath and I pretend to have shoved this all into the back of my mind. I pretend everything is as it should be because the alternative is too much to bear.
9 weeks is suddenly very far away.
Every now and then it demands peanuts and I'm forced to think about it. I don't like to think about it. I've thought too much about it in the past 2 years.
But it's hard to ignore when your husband comes home from his Dr's appointment and tells you he doesn't think it's a good idea to have any more kids because he's not going to be around to raise them with you. Then everything falls apart. If and when don't matter. I feel like I'm trapped in one of Girl X's snowglobes and someone keeps shaking it. I can't get my footing.
He's 35. This isn't supposed to happen now.
A deep breath. Try to remember that I wasn't there so I don't know what the Dr said. He's scared and overwhelmed. All Mr X can say is that of the two types of his disease, his is the worst. The medicine isn't working.
Deep breath and I can feel the steel in my spine. It's not working yet. But it will. Because there are no other options.
If only by the sheer force of my will, these next 9 weeks will pass and we will sit in his Dr's office together. We will look again at his blood tests and it will show that the medicine is working. And our world will be righted again.
I won't have to pretend I'm not scared. We won't discuss cremation vs burial, whether I should move closer to my parents, if I won't shatter into a million pieces simply by missing him.
A deep breath and I pretend to have shoved this all into the back of my mind. I pretend everything is as it should be because the alternative is too much to bear.
9 weeks is suddenly very far away.
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
Flavor of a Smurf
"I can't believe I just watched Flavor Flav's new reality show. I think my IQ just went down a few points."
"He's real?"
"What?"
"Flavor Flav is a real person?"
"Yes Mr X, Flavor Flav is a real person. What did you think he was?"
"I figured it was like Mrs Dash or something."
"Mrs Dash? Are you serious?"
"Well, that or a cartoon."
"Mr X. I think I am going to die. I can't believe I'm going to ask this. What cartoon did you think he was from?"
"I don't know. Like the Smurfs I guess. Or the Snorks because the Snorks were the Smurfs of the Sea right?"
"Oh Cheese."
"So he's real?"
"I'm dying."
"Maybe he could be one of those Ninja Turtles?"
"Stop!"
"The Justice League?"
"I'm leaving the room now."
"A friend of Yogi Bear?"
"Killing me!"
"Is this like that time you told me that it wasn't Jennifer Beals' ass I was drooling over in Flashdance? That was not a guy...........
Honey?"
"He's real?"
"What?"
"Flavor Flav is a real person?"
"Yes Mr X, Flavor Flav is a real person. What did you think he was?"
"I figured it was like Mrs Dash or something."
"Mrs Dash? Are you serious?"
"Well, that or a cartoon."
"Mr X. I think I am going to die. I can't believe I'm going to ask this. What cartoon did you think he was from?"
"I don't know. Like the Smurfs I guess. Or the Snorks because the Snorks were the Smurfs of the Sea right?"
"Oh Cheese."
"So he's real?"
"I'm dying."
"Maybe he could be one of those Ninja Turtles?"
"Stop!"
"The Justice League?"
"I'm leaving the room now."
"A friend of Yogi Bear?"
"Killing me!"
"Is this like that time you told me that it wasn't Jennifer Beals' ass I was drooling over in Flashdance? That was not a guy...........
Honey?"
Monday, March 06, 2006
The Hell?
I have no explanation for why my new post is under yesterday's post but it's there.
Stupid post. You're supposed to be up here! Don't make me do to you what I did to the rose bush!
Stupid post. You're supposed to be up here! Don't make me do to you what I did to the rose bush!
Sunday, March 05, 2006
Hair and Grace
The haircut went surprisingly well. I was convinced that Hurricane would scream and possibly try to bite the stylist or maybe eat the comb she had given him to play with. Instead he smiled liked an angel and held perfectly still. He giggled when she used the clippers. In the end, we can actually see his eyes and I've been informed that I must stop calling him a hippie since he can no longer pull off a ponytail.
Mr X also got a haircut. I'm telling you this only because I had shaved his head in August and the stylist still had to sweep up hair 3 times during his cut.
I married wolfboy.
Maybe not, but sometimes it seems like it. Like when we first started dating and his chest was totally bare.
Internet? I could totally braid his chest now. Give him some corn rows.
I broke my little mini shaver giving him 2 eyebrows that didn't grow out from his temples.
One day a hair appeared in the middle of his forehead where no hair should be. He wouldn't let me yank it, claiming that he was like Sampson and this hair, this single out of place hair was the source of his strength.
I ignored it for as long as I could but it was staring at me. We'd be eating dinner and my eyes would inevitably be drawn to that interloper, waving at me as if to say "PPPBBFFFFTTTTTTT!"
So I waited until he was asleep and then yanked it.
***This is the part where Mr X would normally lament his poor Sampson hair, but I promised not to mention the time he threw out the embroidered hankie my great-grandmother and I worked on together if he stopped whining about that stupid hair.***
Hurricane also got his first black eye this weekend beating his sister by 6 months. Actually, it was a rough weekend in general for falling. Friday he took a dive off the porch into the driveway in an effort to escape the terrifying rock that was at the bottom of our steps. He landed on his face and scraped his forehead and cheek. The black eye came from when he tried to ride Cat and instead ended up smashing his face into the table. He also has a cut and bruise on his nose. He bent down to pick up a toy but he was too close to the entertainment center and hit that instead.
It makes it that much more fun to go out. You know, more fun in the sense that people think we've been beating him with a belt.
Let me set the record straight. We beat him with frying pans. Right after we let him run with scissors. We also encourage our kids to take candy from strangers. That way we don't have to pay for it. I taught Girl X to always tell people at the door that she's home alone because I sure as hell don't want to talk to them. Recently we've been teaching them the joys of playing with fire.
Looks like Hurricane is going to have his Daddy's hair and my gracefulness.
Poor kid is going to be mistaken for a drunk Bigfoot.
Mr X also got a haircut. I'm telling you this only because I had shaved his head in August and the stylist still had to sweep up hair 3 times during his cut.
I married wolfboy.
Maybe not, but sometimes it seems like it. Like when we first started dating and his chest was totally bare.
Internet? I could totally braid his chest now. Give him some corn rows.
I broke my little mini shaver giving him 2 eyebrows that didn't grow out from his temples.
One day a hair appeared in the middle of his forehead where no hair should be. He wouldn't let me yank it, claiming that he was like Sampson and this hair, this single out of place hair was the source of his strength.
I ignored it for as long as I could but it was staring at me. We'd be eating dinner and my eyes would inevitably be drawn to that interloper, waving at me as if to say "PPPBBFFFFTTTTTTT!"
So I waited until he was asleep and then yanked it.
***This is the part where Mr X would normally lament his poor Sampson hair, but I promised not to mention the time he threw out the embroidered hankie my great-grandmother and I worked on together if he stopped whining about that stupid hair.***
Hurricane also got his first black eye this weekend beating his sister by 6 months. Actually, it was a rough weekend in general for falling. Friday he took a dive off the porch into the driveway in an effort to escape the terrifying rock that was at the bottom of our steps. He landed on his face and scraped his forehead and cheek. The black eye came from when he tried to ride Cat and instead ended up smashing his face into the table. He also has a cut and bruise on his nose. He bent down to pick up a toy but he was too close to the entertainment center and hit that instead.
It makes it that much more fun to go out. You know, more fun in the sense that people think we've been beating him with a belt.
Let me set the record straight. We beat him with frying pans. Right after we let him run with scissors. We also encourage our kids to take candy from strangers. That way we don't have to pay for it. I taught Girl X to always tell people at the door that she's home alone because I sure as hell don't want to talk to them. Recently we've been teaching them the joys of playing with fire.
Looks like Hurricane is going to have his Daddy's hair and my gracefulness.
Poor kid is going to be mistaken for a drunk Bigfoot.
My Green (and Black and Blue and Purple) Thumb
Gardening is not my forte. Wow. That's really putting it nicely.
My MIL gave us some roses to plant when we bought our house. I don't really like roses, but it was easier to put them in than it would have been to deal with the fall out of not using them. So, I planted them along the side of the house.
And she wouldn't speak to us for 2 weeks because we had not dug up the wisteria and put them out front as she had envisioned.
One of them looks normal. Maybe 2 feet high, blooms regularly but not overly abundant. Just normal.
The other is about 8 or 9 feet tall and blooms all summer.
I don't think that's what it was supposed to do. It looks more tree than flower. Our tiny red maple that started as one simple shoot has multiplied like a bunny. It now has 7 different trucks. And then there are the Others. The unidentifiable plants that have taken up residence under the tree in an effort to keep me from trying to cut it down. The rhododendron is now this unruly monstrosity threatening my porch. I think I killed the lavender last year.
I tend to do that. Kill plants. They see me coming with a watering can and those gardening shears and they decide it will be quicker and less painful to simply die right then.
Before spring really starts I thought I'd go out and try to get some kind of handle on my little garden.
I left the rhododendron because I have no idea where to begin and I really love it's brilliantly purple blooms. I don't want to kill it. I've actually contemplated asking my MIL for help (which should tell you how desperate I am) because her yard looks like where flowers go to retire. And die. Because she thinks even dead flowers are pretty. But at least she would know what to do with my poor overgrown rhodie.
I started clipping away at the Others. Some of them had little splintery thorns. I didn't see them. I felt them. Feeling them is always ever so much more fun.
I had to stop to pull out all those little splintery things and ow. My hands look like those little tomato pin cushions.
Still I went back for more. This time, I brought gloves. Let's not go over why I didn't just wear them in the first place.
I got most of the Others cleared away but I have no idea what to do with the little stubs sticking up. I'm sure I probably need to dig them up but it just sounds like more work and quite frankly I was already bored with this gardening thing anyway. Still, I decided to take down the Andre the Giant of Rose Bushes.
I was happily clipping away when it happened.
You know what happened right?
Have you ever had a thorn stuck in your finger?
I have.
My thumb is purple and red and sore.
It was then that I lost it.
I started kicking the rose bush and yelling something about sticking the thorns straight up it's root because I'm pretty sure that's the same as a human ass.
The rose bush is still, mostly, there.
And I am no longer allowed to bemoan the fact that our neighbors back away slowly, shielding their children from me as they go.
My MIL gave us some roses to plant when we bought our house. I don't really like roses, but it was easier to put them in than it would have been to deal with the fall out of not using them. So, I planted them along the side of the house.
And she wouldn't speak to us for 2 weeks because we had not dug up the wisteria and put them out front as she had envisioned.
One of them looks normal. Maybe 2 feet high, blooms regularly but not overly abundant. Just normal.
The other is about 8 or 9 feet tall and blooms all summer.
I don't think that's what it was supposed to do. It looks more tree than flower. Our tiny red maple that started as one simple shoot has multiplied like a bunny. It now has 7 different trucks. And then there are the Others. The unidentifiable plants that have taken up residence under the tree in an effort to keep me from trying to cut it down. The rhododendron is now this unruly monstrosity threatening my porch. I think I killed the lavender last year.
I tend to do that. Kill plants. They see me coming with a watering can and those gardening shears and they decide it will be quicker and less painful to simply die right then.
Before spring really starts I thought I'd go out and try to get some kind of handle on my little garden.
I left the rhododendron because I have no idea where to begin and I really love it's brilliantly purple blooms. I don't want to kill it. I've actually contemplated asking my MIL for help (which should tell you how desperate I am) because her yard looks like where flowers go to retire. And die. Because she thinks even dead flowers are pretty. But at least she would know what to do with my poor overgrown rhodie.
I started clipping away at the Others. Some of them had little splintery thorns. I didn't see them. I felt them. Feeling them is always ever so much more fun.
I had to stop to pull out all those little splintery things and ow. My hands look like those little tomato pin cushions.
Still I went back for more. This time, I brought gloves. Let's not go over why I didn't just wear them in the first place.
I got most of the Others cleared away but I have no idea what to do with the little stubs sticking up. I'm sure I probably need to dig them up but it just sounds like more work and quite frankly I was already bored with this gardening thing anyway. Still, I decided to take down the Andre the Giant of Rose Bushes.
I was happily clipping away when it happened.
You know what happened right?
Have you ever had a thorn stuck in your finger?
I have.
My thumb is purple and red and sore.
It was then that I lost it.
I started kicking the rose bush and yelling something about sticking the thorns straight up it's root because I'm pretty sure that's the same as a human ass.
The rose bush is still, mostly, there.
And I am no longer allowed to bemoan the fact that our neighbors back away slowly, shielding their children from me as they go.
Thursday, March 02, 2006
Mr X Gets Knocked Up
* A friend directed me to this website: http://www.thepregnancytester.com/
We were having fun goofing around with it and I thought it would be funny to get Mr X play. At the point where it does the 'scan', Mr X leaned in intently, unblinking.
"What the froggy hell are you doing?"
"It says to hold still for the scan."
And he was serious. I love this man.
Yes, Mr X is pregnant. It's a boy. Even better?
The father is Boss Hogg.
*Hurricane's love of Elmo is only surpassed by his love of a ball. Any ball. Even pictures of a ball. Tonight it was the footballs that Mr X has deemed off limits as they are still in their packaging (and will forever remain so) and on top of his display case.
Hurricane reached his hands up and began this whispery awe-filled chant of 'ball'. When this did not work, he began screaming 'ball'. Mr X agreed that it was in fact, a ball. This did not satisfy Hurricane.
So he grabbed Mr X's face, leaned in and screamed 'ball'! As in 'GIVE ME THAT THING NOW'.
Mr X managed to keep it in the box and still satisfy Hurricane's NEED to touch the ball.
And we learned a valuable lesson.
He's not just saying these words for fun. He means business.
*I found the perfect book for this family. It's called The History of Farting.
I went into a fit of childish giggles upon seeing the title.
*My parents sent the kids some souvenirs from their vacation and a toy for each of them from home. Girl X got a phone. A Bratz phone. These giant purpley lips that just freak the bejesus out of me. She's 8. She's not getting a phone in her room. My luck, she'd end up calling Japan and racking up several thousand dollars. Not that I ever did that as kid. (Sorry Dad!)
Hurricane got this motorcycle thing. No wheels, just the part with all the buttons and the handlebars. And as with anything that a grandparent would send their grandchild, it's noisy as hell.
Bonus points because it made Cat hiss and then run under the hutch sputtering and mewling. I think he's still under there in protest.
* We're taking Hurricane to get his first haircut this weekend. It's long enough to put in a little ponytail and his hair is always in his eyes. He's my little hippie.
Given his inability to sit still for 2 seconds, even when sleeping, this should be an interesting attempt.
We were having fun goofing around with it and I thought it would be funny to get Mr X play. At the point where it does the 'scan', Mr X leaned in intently, unblinking.
"What the froggy hell are you doing?"
"It says to hold still for the scan."
And he was serious. I love this man.
Yes, Mr X is pregnant. It's a boy. Even better?
The father is Boss Hogg.
*Hurricane's love of Elmo is only surpassed by his love of a ball. Any ball. Even pictures of a ball. Tonight it was the footballs that Mr X has deemed off limits as they are still in their packaging (and will forever remain so) and on top of his display case.
Hurricane reached his hands up and began this whispery awe-filled chant of 'ball'. When this did not work, he began screaming 'ball'. Mr X agreed that it was in fact, a ball. This did not satisfy Hurricane.
So he grabbed Mr X's face, leaned in and screamed 'ball'! As in 'GIVE ME THAT THING NOW'.
Mr X managed to keep it in the box and still satisfy Hurricane's NEED to touch the ball.
And we learned a valuable lesson.
He's not just saying these words for fun. He means business.
*I found the perfect book for this family. It's called The History of Farting.
I went into a fit of childish giggles upon seeing the title.
*My parents sent the kids some souvenirs from their vacation and a toy for each of them from home. Girl X got a phone. A Bratz phone. These giant purpley lips that just freak the bejesus out of me. She's 8. She's not getting a phone in her room. My luck, she'd end up calling Japan and racking up several thousand dollars. Not that I ever did that as kid. (Sorry Dad!)
Hurricane got this motorcycle thing. No wheels, just the part with all the buttons and the handlebars. And as with anything that a grandparent would send their grandchild, it's noisy as hell.
Bonus points because it made Cat hiss and then run under the hutch sputtering and mewling. I think he's still under there in protest.
* We're taking Hurricane to get his first haircut this weekend. It's long enough to put in a little ponytail and his hair is always in his eyes. He's my little hippie.
Given his inability to sit still for 2 seconds, even when sleeping, this should be an interesting attempt.
Shopping With A Toddler
Need a workout? Borrow a toddler!
****I do not recommend randomly picking up a toddler at the mall as this will likely freak out the parents and get you beaten with a stroller.****
I took Hurricane to a book store today. I wanted to pick up What your Child Needs to Know For 2nd Grade or something like that. It was a small store, not in the mall (yay!) and there were no shopping carts. Shopping carts; the great cages on wheels. They've become vital to shopping as that is the only way to keep Hurricane in one place for more than 2 seconds.
I spent most of my time chasing Hurricane, trying to distract him with a book, telling him to stop begging strangers for cookies and keeping him from sneaking out the door.
I think I grabbed the right title although I can't be sure. I haven't looked. I may very well have grabbed the Kama Sutra 101 that was on the next shelf. Or How Not to Spill Taco Goop All Over Your Clothing (if there is no such book, there should be one and I would buy it because my clothes? They love the taco goop).
given Hurricane's ability to teletransport, it was an exhausting trip. At one point I had to pull him out of a bin of sale books. I almost walked by him but then he started yelling 'DAR' (he does this all. the. time. at home in order to 'scare' me). I turned around and there he was. Happily eating a board book (yes I bought it and in case you were wondering, Elmo board books taste better than The Wiggles board books based on how many Hurricane has eaten and spit out).
I think this counts as a workout.
****I do not recommend randomly picking up a toddler at the mall as this will likely freak out the parents and get you beaten with a stroller.****
I took Hurricane to a book store today. I wanted to pick up What your Child Needs to Know For 2nd Grade or something like that. It was a small store, not in the mall (yay!) and there were no shopping carts. Shopping carts; the great cages on wheels. They've become vital to shopping as that is the only way to keep Hurricane in one place for more than 2 seconds.
I spent most of my time chasing Hurricane, trying to distract him with a book, telling him to stop begging strangers for cookies and keeping him from sneaking out the door.
I think I grabbed the right title although I can't be sure. I haven't looked. I may very well have grabbed the Kama Sutra 101 that was on the next shelf. Or How Not to Spill Taco Goop All Over Your Clothing (if there is no such book, there should be one and I would buy it because my clothes? They love the taco goop).
given Hurricane's ability to teletransport, it was an exhausting trip. At one point I had to pull him out of a bin of sale books. I almost walked by him but then he started yelling 'DAR' (he does this all. the. time. at home in order to 'scare' me). I turned around and there he was. Happily eating a board book (yes I bought it and in case you were wondering, Elmo board books taste better than The Wiggles board books based on how many Hurricane has eaten and spit out).
I think this counts as a workout.
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
Why I Blame Kevin Bacon
This is going to be random and rambly and the point will be way at the end, well... you should be used to that. I mostly am random and rambly. And now that I say that, I can look at my picture and say that 'yes. yes that person looks random and rambly. And drunk. Very, very drunk.' (Cameras and I do not get along. I think it has to do with the one I accidentally threw over Niagara falls. I was aiming for my brother's head. I was 8.) But without all the random and rambly, the point (Kevin Bacon makes Mr X kill kittens) would not make any sense. Although, I think that I should state right now that I make no promises that any of this will make sense since I am very tired and I hate the Robot.
Right. So, back to Kevin Bacon.
Actually, this starts with my neighbors and the fact that they think I'm some kind of crazy mid-morning drunk. It's not all entirely related to the fact that my ass meets the driveway on a fairly regular basis (damn slippy nature stuff). Or the cookouts we've had over the past several years which inevitably involves my MIL and we should just not go there. Or maybe that Halloween I answered the door with my giant pregnant belly painted like a pumpkin as if it was the most normal thing in the world. This could go on and now that I'm thinking about it, I really don't blame them for thinking that AA needs to like, move in with me.
But I do blame Kevin Bacon because he started it.
I was listening to the radio and Mr X had the 80's station on since he loves 80's music (to which I say Bah! When you can't tell the difference between Huey Lewis and Madonna you can not call yourself an 80's fan!So what if it was 4 years ago! You shall never live it down! Never!! I love the exclamation marks! Ha!). Footloose came on. Footloose! So I started singing along. And dancing. I turned the radio up and got myself all jiggy with it. Girl X was laughing so hard I thought she'd pee her pants. With that encouragement, I really went all out for it. Jumping up and down, kicking my legs, executing a perfect imitation of Kevin Bacon. I spun around still singing and dancing.
And there was one of my neighbors. With Mr X right behind him. He had come over to help move something for Mr X.
I quietly walked over and turned off the radio.
Mr X has wisely not mentioned this incident again.
But this does not entirely explain why it's Kevin Bacon's fault. No. There is more. It's also sort of Mr X's fault. Or at least this is what I tell myself when the neighbors see me and quickly run into their homes.
Mr X can't dance. He thinks he can dance. This makes his attempts even funnier.
Remember when I said I look like I'm having a seizure when I exercise? Mr X should be so lucky when he's dancing.
We were goofing around one weekend. The radio was on, Girl X was completely embarrassed to be related to us. It was a good time. Footloose came on the radio and Mr X started 'dancing'. He was doing some combination of the Robot, the Moonwalk and some odd butt-bumping thing that I can't really explain but it looked painful. So I did what any good wife would do. I started making fun of him. Mocking him. And then I started goofing him. Except doing it the way Kevin Bacon does it in the movie (Seizure anyone?).
This, sadly, made Mr X do the Robot even more emphatically because I think he thought it was good.
No one should ever do the Robot. Every time someone does the Robot, a kitten dies. Footloose makes Mr X do the Robot.
Therefore, Kevin Bacon makes Mr X kill kittens. And my neighbors think I'm an idiot.
I hate you Kevin Bacon.
Right. So, back to Kevin Bacon.
Actually, this starts with my neighbors and the fact that they think I'm some kind of crazy mid-morning drunk. It's not all entirely related to the fact that my ass meets the driveway on a fairly regular basis (damn slippy nature stuff). Or the cookouts we've had over the past several years which inevitably involves my MIL and we should just not go there. Or maybe that Halloween I answered the door with my giant pregnant belly painted like a pumpkin as if it was the most normal thing in the world. This could go on and now that I'm thinking about it, I really don't blame them for thinking that AA needs to like, move in with me.
But I do blame Kevin Bacon because he started it.
I was listening to the radio and Mr X had the 80's station on since he loves 80's music (to which I say Bah! When you can't tell the difference between Huey Lewis and Madonna you can not call yourself an 80's fan!So what if it was 4 years ago! You shall never live it down! Never!! I love the exclamation marks! Ha!). Footloose came on. Footloose! So I started singing along. And dancing. I turned the radio up and got myself all jiggy with it. Girl X was laughing so hard I thought she'd pee her pants. With that encouragement, I really went all out for it. Jumping up and down, kicking my legs, executing a perfect imitation of Kevin Bacon. I spun around still singing and dancing.
And there was one of my neighbors. With Mr X right behind him. He had come over to help move something for Mr X.
I quietly walked over and turned off the radio.
Mr X has wisely not mentioned this incident again.
But this does not entirely explain why it's Kevin Bacon's fault. No. There is more. It's also sort of Mr X's fault. Or at least this is what I tell myself when the neighbors see me and quickly run into their homes.
Mr X can't dance. He thinks he can dance. This makes his attempts even funnier.
Remember when I said I look like I'm having a seizure when I exercise? Mr X should be so lucky when he's dancing.
We were goofing around one weekend. The radio was on, Girl X was completely embarrassed to be related to us. It was a good time. Footloose came on the radio and Mr X started 'dancing'. He was doing some combination of the Robot, the Moonwalk and some odd butt-bumping thing that I can't really explain but it looked painful. So I did what any good wife would do. I started making fun of him. Mocking him. And then I started goofing him. Except doing it the way Kevin Bacon does it in the movie (Seizure anyone?).
This, sadly, made Mr X do the Robot even more emphatically because I think he thought it was good.
No one should ever do the Robot. Every time someone does the Robot, a kitten dies. Footloose makes Mr X do the Robot.
Therefore, Kevin Bacon makes Mr X kill kittens. And my neighbors think I'm an idiot.
I hate you Kevin Bacon.
Monday, February 27, 2006
Instinct
When it comes to parenting, I admit that I rarely know what I'm doing. My guideposts are a little screwy. On one hand, there was my mom. I think that's one can of worms that I can skip opening. I did just clean my kitchen, you know. Let's just leave it at.... no help there.
On the other hand, there's my dad and stepmom who are awesome. And I now know just what kind of parent I want to be when my kids are adults. Which? So not very helpful at the moment. Because I think they key here is actually making sure that they get to be adults. Preferably all in one piece and healthy. Reasonably happy and working would be nice. Clean criminal records would be a bonus.
In the meantime. Huh. So that's where I was.
Here's a confession.
I wing it.
Yup. I pretty much guess. In some cases I think about what my mom did or would have done. Then I do the exact opposite.
For the most part it's worked out well but it's not without it's faults. Most of the time Girl X doesn't care that she's going to get in trouble and does what she wants anyway. And by trouble, I think I should point out that I am not one of those parents that think it's punishment to take away tv for an hour.
Girl X came home from school one day after a particularly bad week to find her room empty except for her bed and a dresser. That helped for awhile.
It's a work in progress and I can see it's getting better.
Still, most of the time? I feel pretty wonky.
And then there are moments where instinct takes over and everything is perfect.
Hurricane is surprisingly easy to put to bed. It took nearly a year, but I can now put him in bed awake and leave. He will be asleep before I make it down the hall. Or at least well on his way.
This day, he had woken up an hour earlier than normal. He normally naps for 2 to 3 hours in the afternoon. This time he barely made it one hour before he was up and raring to go.
By bed time he could barely keep his eyes open. He didn't want his story. He didn't look around as we walked down the hall, opting instead to lay his head down on my shoulder and sigh. I set him in bed, said good night and left the room.
He screamed.
I tried warm milk. On those rare occasions he has been sick, this has soothed him.
He didn't want it.
I tried to hold him.
He kicked.
Something clicked in my head.
With the lights off, we rocked in his room. I softly sang a lullaby I have sung to him since before he was born. (And in my head I could hear him going all Simon Cowell on me but I said 'Bah!') He quieted and turned to look up at me.
I looked at him.
We rocked and I whispered the lullaby.
He was asleep in a moment.
I kept rocking with him, happy that I had somehow figured out what this over-tired bundle needed.
It won't be long before rocking won't solve what ails him.
It won't be long before instinct becomes more complicated with him. I'm seeing that now with Girl X.
When those moments come, I will remember rocking with him in the quiet dark of his room. Breathing in his sweet freshly washed hair and feeling his warmth and weight in my arms.
And, as it does with Girl X now, it will carry my through.
On the other hand, there's my dad and stepmom who are awesome. And I now know just what kind of parent I want to be when my kids are adults. Which? So not very helpful at the moment. Because I think they key here is actually making sure that they get to be adults. Preferably all in one piece and healthy. Reasonably happy and working would be nice. Clean criminal records would be a bonus.
In the meantime. Huh. So that's where I was.
Here's a confession.
I wing it.
Yup. I pretty much guess. In some cases I think about what my mom did or would have done. Then I do the exact opposite.
For the most part it's worked out well but it's not without it's faults. Most of the time Girl X doesn't care that she's going to get in trouble and does what she wants anyway. And by trouble, I think I should point out that I am not one of those parents that think it's punishment to take away tv for an hour.
Girl X came home from school one day after a particularly bad week to find her room empty except for her bed and a dresser. That helped for awhile.
It's a work in progress and I can see it's getting better.
Still, most of the time? I feel pretty wonky.
And then there are moments where instinct takes over and everything is perfect.
Hurricane is surprisingly easy to put to bed. It took nearly a year, but I can now put him in bed awake and leave. He will be asleep before I make it down the hall. Or at least well on his way.
This day, he had woken up an hour earlier than normal. He normally naps for 2 to 3 hours in the afternoon. This time he barely made it one hour before he was up and raring to go.
By bed time he could barely keep his eyes open. He didn't want his story. He didn't look around as we walked down the hall, opting instead to lay his head down on my shoulder and sigh. I set him in bed, said good night and left the room.
He screamed.
I tried warm milk. On those rare occasions he has been sick, this has soothed him.
He didn't want it.
I tried to hold him.
He kicked.
Something clicked in my head.
With the lights off, we rocked in his room. I softly sang a lullaby I have sung to him since before he was born. (And in my head I could hear him going all Simon Cowell on me but I said 'Bah!') He quieted and turned to look up at me.
I looked at him.
We rocked and I whispered the lullaby.
He was asleep in a moment.
I kept rocking with him, happy that I had somehow figured out what this over-tired bundle needed.
It won't be long before rocking won't solve what ails him.
It won't be long before instinct becomes more complicated with him. I'm seeing that now with Girl X.
When those moments come, I will remember rocking with him in the quiet dark of his room. Breathing in his sweet freshly washed hair and feeling his warmth and weight in my arms.
And, as it does with Girl X now, it will carry my through.
Random Poop.
We took the short people to the park this weekend for the first time this year. Hurricane has been here before but he has the memory of a gnat (I wonder where he got that from...... What was I saying?) and so every visit is like the first. He hopped from slide to swing to tunnel to I don't know what that thing is and back again. He is fascinated by the big yellow tunnel that most of the other kids ignore. With all the slides and swings and climbing thingies, who can blame them for ignoring the plastic tube that sits off to the side like a big yellow turd? But for Hurricane? It's a place to hide from everyone. A place where parents don't fit and can't reach. A place he can go to eat bugs and we can't stop him. Yay for the big yellow turd!
He liked the swings. I think he misses his.
Spotting the big yellow turd, complete with yummy dead bugs. (He only ate one before he realized how not like a cookie it tasted).
And Girl X on some random spinny pole. I think she was trying to fly.
He wants the yellow turd but can't escape the parental grip.
After the park we had to stop at Target for a few minor things. Hurricane spotted a ball about half his size and fell instantly in love. For the next 20 minutes as we walked through the store it was to the hushed and fevered chant of 'ball'. Such longing in that word. We caved. Even Girl X couldn't resist when she saw those puffy lips curl and he threw all 23 lbs of his tiny body over that ball. He sighed with such relief it made us laugh. Our little drama king.
He liked the swings. I think he misses his.
Spotting the big yellow turd, complete with yummy dead bugs. (He only ate one before he realized how not like a cookie it tasted).
And Girl X on some random spinny pole. I think she was trying to fly.
He wants the yellow turd but can't escape the parental grip.
After the park we had to stop at Target for a few minor things. Hurricane spotted a ball about half his size and fell instantly in love. For the next 20 minutes as we walked through the store it was to the hushed and fevered chant of 'ball'. Such longing in that word. We caved. Even Girl X couldn't resist when she saw those puffy lips curl and he threw all 23 lbs of his tiny body over that ball. He sighed with such relief it made us laugh. Our little drama king.
Lately, he has been asserting his need for privacy.
We were playing in the living room when he suddenly got up and 'ran' (something where his body tries to catch up with his feet) behind the dining room chairs. I went over to see what he was doing and got The Look *patented 6/2005*. He had squatted down put both hands up. All he needed was a good book.
This is now how all poops are done. We are not allowed to look in his general direction. We are not allowed to talk about it. When he is done, he will come up to us and simply say 'tinky'.
And indeed, it is stinky.
And as of this weekend, his new favorite place to do the 'tinky', is in the big yellow turd in the park where he can dine and grunt undisturbed.
Thursday, February 23, 2006
Insert Witty Title Here
Poor Dog. He developed a hot spot last week. It's this thing where his skin turns gray and oozy and he chews like mad at it until we drag out the Dreaded Cone of Humiliation. I admit to laughing hysterically at the Dreaded Cone of Humiliation. He walks into walls, he gets caught on chairs, and if you throw a treat just right he will spend an hour trying to get it from inside the Dreaded Cone of Humiliation. We are cruel people. Yes, I know that it is not nice to laugh at Poor Dog as he swings his head from side to side trying to shake loose the treat that is lodged at the back of the Dreaded Cone of Humiliation. Yet we do it anyway.
That one hot spot became 3 hot spots. We applied some ointment. (We meaning Mr X because Ew! I am NOT touching THAT!!)
Mr X went to work the following morning and at hurricane's naptime, I went to do laundry. And then I smelled IT.
A way to describe IT?
Rotting flesh?
A skunk?
My MIL's house?
No. Not strong enough.
Rotting flesh sprayed by a skunk found sitting in my MIL's kitchen.
Yup. That would about sum it up.
I could not figure out where the unholy hell IT was coming from. I shoved a handful of dryer sheets under my nose and walked into the living room where the smell seemed to be the strongest.
I thought I would find some poor dead animal Cat had 'played' with.
But no. IT turned out to be Poor Dog.
Internet? Nothing is more pathetic than a horrid smelling dog in the Dreaded Cone of Humiliation.
My sister-in-law came to our rescue. She is a Vet assistant and works at an animal hospital.
Sadly, she could not help us until the next day.
So being the cruel and heartless humans we are, Poor Dog and the Dreaded Cone of Humiliation slept downstairs on a sheet that will now have to be burned (where do you go to burn toxic substances?) and Mr X was given explicit instructions to open all windows to said room before leaving. (Nevermind that it's below freezing! Poor Dog was in that room all damn night with the door closed and I will die, DIE!, if I have to go in there and smell that again whereas you have this iron-cast stomach and nothing bothers you Mr X!)
When Mr X brought Poor Dog and the Dreaded Cone of Humiliation home the next day, I could not stop laughing. Further proof that I have no soul.
Poor Dog's ass was shaved. As in completely bare. Stub of a tail and all.
He had another shaved spot about 5 inches further up on his back but he still looked more red-assed baboon than dog. It was then that I saw that Poor Dog actually had 5 hot spots. No wonder he was miserable!
He now must take 2 antibiotics twice a day (yay for peanut butter!) and have this ointment rubbed in twice a day which? ouch. I feel so bad for Poor Dog. He whimpers and ducks every time he's touched.
He also has to take a steroid every day. Good thing he's neutered. I don't think his ego could take the testicle shrinkage! The really great thing about the steroid? It makes him pee uncontrollably. And it makes him pee green.
He peed when Mr X picked him up. He peed when he got home. He peed 5 minutes later when I filled his water bowl.
Today when Hurricane took his nap I came down to do laundry (it's the only time I really have to do it). I saw Cat sleeping in a chair that he is not supposed to be in and went to move it.
And I stepped in the Lake Erie of pee. And? Ew.
I glared at Cat for a moment before I realized that even he, in his vindictive and spiteful state, could not possibly have peed that much.
Damn steroids.
I thought it was cool when we potty trained Cat. For awhile, he would only pee in the toilet. I have it on tape. Stop laughing. You can't really be surprised that we would be the type of people to tape our cat peeing.
Today I realized something cooler. Of all the places Poor Dog could have peed, of all the prime new carpet spots? He chose the one covered by the plastic things we use under the computer chairs. And those rare times he poops in the house? He won't do it on carpet. He goes to the tile. And that can't be terribly comfortable.
I think that means I have to stop throwing treats into the Dreaded Cone of Humiliation. Because any dog willing to go out of the way to protect my carpet should not be mercilessly teased.
Looks like I'll just have to content with annoying Cat.
That one hot spot became 3 hot spots. We applied some ointment. (We meaning Mr X because Ew! I am NOT touching THAT!!)
Mr X went to work the following morning and at hurricane's naptime, I went to do laundry. And then I smelled IT.
A way to describe IT?
Rotting flesh?
A skunk?
My MIL's house?
No. Not strong enough.
Rotting flesh sprayed by a skunk found sitting in my MIL's kitchen.
Yup. That would about sum it up.
I could not figure out where the unholy hell IT was coming from. I shoved a handful of dryer sheets under my nose and walked into the living room where the smell seemed to be the strongest.
I thought I would find some poor dead animal Cat had 'played' with.
But no. IT turned out to be Poor Dog.
Internet? Nothing is more pathetic than a horrid smelling dog in the Dreaded Cone of Humiliation.
My sister-in-law came to our rescue. She is a Vet assistant and works at an animal hospital.
Sadly, she could not help us until the next day.
So being the cruel and heartless humans we are, Poor Dog and the Dreaded Cone of Humiliation slept downstairs on a sheet that will now have to be burned (where do you go to burn toxic substances?) and Mr X was given explicit instructions to open all windows to said room before leaving. (Nevermind that it's below freezing! Poor Dog was in that room all damn night with the door closed and I will die, DIE!, if I have to go in there and smell that again whereas you have this iron-cast stomach and nothing bothers you Mr X!)
When Mr X brought Poor Dog and the Dreaded Cone of Humiliation home the next day, I could not stop laughing. Further proof that I have no soul.
Poor Dog's ass was shaved. As in completely bare. Stub of a tail and all.
He had another shaved spot about 5 inches further up on his back but he still looked more red-assed baboon than dog. It was then that I saw that Poor Dog actually had 5 hot spots. No wonder he was miserable!
He now must take 2 antibiotics twice a day (yay for peanut butter!) and have this ointment rubbed in twice a day which? ouch. I feel so bad for Poor Dog. He whimpers and ducks every time he's touched.
He also has to take a steroid every day. Good thing he's neutered. I don't think his ego could take the testicle shrinkage! The really great thing about the steroid? It makes him pee uncontrollably. And it makes him pee green.
He peed when Mr X picked him up. He peed when he got home. He peed 5 minutes later when I filled his water bowl.
Today when Hurricane took his nap I came down to do laundry (it's the only time I really have to do it). I saw Cat sleeping in a chair that he is not supposed to be in and went to move it.
And I stepped in the Lake Erie of pee. And? Ew.
I glared at Cat for a moment before I realized that even he, in his vindictive and spiteful state, could not possibly have peed that much.
Damn steroids.
I thought it was cool when we potty trained Cat. For awhile, he would only pee in the toilet. I have it on tape. Stop laughing. You can't really be surprised that we would be the type of people to tape our cat peeing.
Today I realized something cooler. Of all the places Poor Dog could have peed, of all the prime new carpet spots? He chose the one covered by the plastic things we use under the computer chairs. And those rare times he poops in the house? He won't do it on carpet. He goes to the tile. And that can't be terribly comfortable.
I think that means I have to stop throwing treats into the Dreaded Cone of Humiliation. Because any dog willing to go out of the way to protect my carpet should not be mercilessly teased.
Looks like I'll just have to content with annoying Cat.
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
The Things You Take For Granted
When I was a kid, our water company loved me. I liked the never-ending hot shower. I could stay in there until I looked like a pug, all wrinkly and pruney. I absolutely took those for granted.
Even before Hurricane, a shower typically consisted of at least 2 visits from Girl X (one to ask for cookies, the other to ask if she should ask Daddy instead) and one from Mr X (to ask if I told Girl X she could have cookies). Occasionally Dog would nose his way in or someone would flush a toilet which? Not exactly conducive to a relaxing shower.
The first time after Hurricane was born that I attempted a shower without Mr X home to watch him? Disaster.
I brought a bunch of his toys in the bathroom so he would have plenty to play with. He barely glanced up when I turned the water on. I thought it would be great because he was content to play with his toys and no one was home to barrage me with cookie questions and as long as I didn't actually say cookie, Hurricane was fine.
I now look back and laugh at my naivete.
As soon as I stepped in the shower, Hurricane decided that he was bored and began digging into the trash can. I got out and put the trash can and, as a preemptive measure, the toilet paper roll on top of the sink.
I got back into the shower and started to wash my hair.
He started playing with the bowl brush.
I got out and put the bowl brush and, as a sign of resignation, the plunger on top of the sink. I attempted, while shivering, to catch Hurricane's interest with his toys. He was, briefly, distracted.
I continued washing my hair.
Hurricane decided that he couldn't see me in the shower and so, began screaming and trying to climb into the tub.
I got out, with soap dripping into my eyes, and undressed him. I grabbed some of his toys and realized that showers alone were just not going to happen.
I put Hurricane in the shower with me and started rinsing my hair.
He screamed.
I ended up being able to only wash my hair and half my body since I had to hold him.
Today, I thought I would try this again. Had I lost my mind? Well, yes, but that's not it.
Girl X is home from school. Has been all week because she is sick too. Her mood is good, but her glands are swollen enough to make her look like a chipmunk.
I thought that she could play with her brother long enough for me to shower and that they'd distract each other enough that I may even be able to do this in peace.
People? I am so very stupid. And naive. Yes. I am very naive. Look those words up in the dictionary and there's my picture.
I think my first mistake was letting the bathroom door partly open in case they needed me. After this morning, they fend for themselves. I shall arm them with bayonets and pith helmets and send them into the jungle to hunt for wildebeests and I will shower in peace.
I had barely stepped into the shower when it started.
"Mom, Hurricane pulled my hair."
And he's crying. And she has his beloved Weebles.
"Give him back his toy and go away."
I had a head full of soap when she said Hurricane was hungry and could they please have some cookies. It's 9 am. Is she nuts? In this house we have chocolate cake at 9 am! How could she not know this?
I had to get out of the shower, with my soapy head, and give them some cereal bars. Did I mention that they both had waffles not 15 minutes beforehand?
I didn't even make it all the way back into the shower.
"Mom! Can we have some milk? I mean chocolate milk?"
No. I'm trying to dehydrate you. If a plum turns into a prune and a grape into a raisin, I think a kid would turn into a garden gnome. I just need to test that theory.
I started to rinse the shampoo when they decided that the bathroom was the perfect place for hide-and-seek.
I had my hair covered in conditioner when Girl X told me she needed me to sign something.
"What?"
"The guy at the door said he needs a name so we can have the box."
Bugger! I think I've told her about a hundred gajillion times not to answer the door. Ever. And most definitely not when I am in the shower!
I hate it when the Fed-Ex guy smirks at you when you are standing there dripping in a robe. Ass.
Back in the shower. Hurricane decides he wants in and begins to take off his clothes. Girl X grabs his Weeble and runs. He screams, grabs the bowl brush and runs after her.
I close my eyes and count to 3.
"EEEWWWWWWWW"
He hit her with the brush and grabbed his Weeble.
Lesson? Don't mess with a boy's Weeble.
I knew I was running out of time. The water was getting cold and they kept running in and out of the bathroom. It was only a matter of time but again, I foolishly hoped I'd be able to finish without further incident.
Until Hurricane came running in crying and Girl X right behind him yelling "It wasn't me!"
He had fallen into the doorway and cut his head.
I managed to get one leg shaved so this is progress!
There isn't much that I miss about life before the kid's. But a shower that does not require another adult for supervision and a deadbolt on the door is definitely one on the short list.
Even before Hurricane, a shower typically consisted of at least 2 visits from Girl X (one to ask for cookies, the other to ask if she should ask Daddy instead) and one from Mr X (to ask if I told Girl X she could have cookies). Occasionally Dog would nose his way in or someone would flush a toilet which? Not exactly conducive to a relaxing shower.
The first time after Hurricane was born that I attempted a shower without Mr X home to watch him? Disaster.
I brought a bunch of his toys in the bathroom so he would have plenty to play with. He barely glanced up when I turned the water on. I thought it would be great because he was content to play with his toys and no one was home to barrage me with cookie questions and as long as I didn't actually say cookie, Hurricane was fine.
I now look back and laugh at my naivete.
As soon as I stepped in the shower, Hurricane decided that he was bored and began digging into the trash can. I got out and put the trash can and, as a preemptive measure, the toilet paper roll on top of the sink.
I got back into the shower and started to wash my hair.
He started playing with the bowl brush.
I got out and put the bowl brush and, as a sign of resignation, the plunger on top of the sink. I attempted, while shivering, to catch Hurricane's interest with his toys. He was, briefly, distracted.
I continued washing my hair.
Hurricane decided that he couldn't see me in the shower and so, began screaming and trying to climb into the tub.
I got out, with soap dripping into my eyes, and undressed him. I grabbed some of his toys and realized that showers alone were just not going to happen.
I put Hurricane in the shower with me and started rinsing my hair.
He screamed.
I ended up being able to only wash my hair and half my body since I had to hold him.
Today, I thought I would try this again. Had I lost my mind? Well, yes, but that's not it.
Girl X is home from school. Has been all week because she is sick too. Her mood is good, but her glands are swollen enough to make her look like a chipmunk.
I thought that she could play with her brother long enough for me to shower and that they'd distract each other enough that I may even be able to do this in peace.
People? I am so very stupid. And naive. Yes. I am very naive. Look those words up in the dictionary and there's my picture.
I think my first mistake was letting the bathroom door partly open in case they needed me. After this morning, they fend for themselves. I shall arm them with bayonets and pith helmets and send them into the jungle to hunt for wildebeests and I will shower in peace.
I had barely stepped into the shower when it started.
"Mom, Hurricane pulled my hair."
And he's crying. And she has his beloved Weebles.
"Give him back his toy and go away."
I had a head full of soap when she said Hurricane was hungry and could they please have some cookies. It's 9 am. Is she nuts? In this house we have chocolate cake at 9 am! How could she not know this?
I had to get out of the shower, with my soapy head, and give them some cereal bars. Did I mention that they both had waffles not 15 minutes beforehand?
I didn't even make it all the way back into the shower.
"Mom! Can we have some milk? I mean chocolate milk?"
No. I'm trying to dehydrate you. If a plum turns into a prune and a grape into a raisin, I think a kid would turn into a garden gnome. I just need to test that theory.
I started to rinse the shampoo when they decided that the bathroom was the perfect place for hide-and-seek.
I had my hair covered in conditioner when Girl X told me she needed me to sign something.
"What?"
"The guy at the door said he needs a name so we can have the box."
Bugger! I think I've told her about a hundred gajillion times not to answer the door. Ever. And most definitely not when I am in the shower!
I hate it when the Fed-Ex guy smirks at you when you are standing there dripping in a robe. Ass.
Back in the shower. Hurricane decides he wants in and begins to take off his clothes. Girl X grabs his Weeble and runs. He screams, grabs the bowl brush and runs after her.
I close my eyes and count to 3.
"EEEWWWWWWWW"
He hit her with the brush and grabbed his Weeble.
Lesson? Don't mess with a boy's Weeble.
I knew I was running out of time. The water was getting cold and they kept running in and out of the bathroom. It was only a matter of time but again, I foolishly hoped I'd be able to finish without further incident.
Until Hurricane came running in crying and Girl X right behind him yelling "It wasn't me!"
He had fallen into the doorway and cut his head.
I managed to get one leg shaved so this is progress!
There isn't much that I miss about life before the kid's. But a shower that does not require another adult for supervision and a deadbolt on the door is definitely one on the short list.
Sunday, February 19, 2006
The One Where I Am Broken....
First, I am sick. Soooo sick. Nose= pouring. Throat= Thank you good Dr for taking my tonsils out when I was young because owwwwwwww. Voice= scratchy, almost gone. Head= imploding. Sinuses= DIE!!! And I can feel my heart pounding.
Second, I broke my poor baby toe. Or at least I think I did. I stepped funny coming out of my van Friday night and it huuuurrrrttt. I promised Mr X much whining about the toe this weekend. Even more that would be normal for me since I am sick and when I am sick I go into Drama Queen mode. Almost as much as he does. Back to my poor baby toe. I can not step on it. I can not walk. Shoes? Shoes= HAAATTTEEEE. Mr X suggested going to the Dr. I laughed because how silly would it be to go the Dr for a broken toe? He'd just buddy tape it. But mostly because the Dr would likely insist on touching my toe which 1) ow and 2) it's attached to my foot and anything attached to my foot that gets touched? I kick. It's an involuntary reflex. A self-defense move of sorts.
So instead, I've been hobbling around whining in my scratchy almost non-existent voice about my poor baby toe. When I said I wanted blood this weekend, I didn't mean mine. I suppose I should have clarified that a bit.
Mr X was putting together Girl X's bedroom furniture and asked for my help.
"But my tooooeeeee! I can't help, it huuurrrtttsss."
Mr X suggested again going to the Dr only this time for some sedatives. I'm not really sure if the sedatives are for him or for me.
Instead I sat back and watched him put together this gigantic behemoth of an IKEA toy shelf. I watched as he huffed and puffed it into place against the far wall. I looked at Girl X as she frowned and we waited.
I watched as Mr X attempted to put together her new dresser with it's many extra parts that we still don't know where they belong. I am imagining that somewhere out there is another husband attempting to put together this IKEA dresser for his daughter as his wife looks on and he is making up swear words for the missing parts that are here at our house. I watch as Mr X huffs and puffs the dresser into place and cover Girl X's ears as he scratches the paint off the wall and starts talking about rapid antelope.
He attaches the mirror to the wall and Girl X frowns again.
"What?" He asks.
"I want the dresser where the toy shelf is and the toy shelf should go there. That way I can see myself when I wake up and you can see the shelves in the corner with my snow globes. You can't see them now with that thing there and I love you daddy."
I turn around so Mr X can't see me laughing.
He takes the mirror off and rearranges the furniture muttering about kids being smarter than he is. He lands the dresser squarely on his toe and just looks at me.
"Sorry, only one toe whiner per household." I help lift the dresser off his toe as he mutters about moving into his own apartment so he can whine about his toe.
While putting her bed together there was much muttering and confusion. I offered to open the instruction booklet but only received The Look in response.
Girl X wisely let him put the bed where he wanted.
There is still much to be done with setting up her room, most of it I'll do once my toe stops hurting with every little step.
I did suck it up long enough to go to Home Depot with Mr X today and picked out paint for Hurricane's new room. I haven't the heart to tell Mr X that the design for his room would look much better with a chair rail. A chair rail he would have to put up. I would and probably could do it, but it seems that I have the attention span of a gnat.
I still haven't finished recovering the chairs (damn staples).
Originally, I wanted this red with this only a bit lighter brown for the upper half of the room. But Mr X hates red. I think it comes with growing up where everything you ever owned being red. His clothes, the family car, their homes- everything. It's MIL's favorite color. So, we picked blue for the lower half and the lighter brown on top. I just have to figure out what else I want to do in there.
I love to paint. Much like the putting together of furniture, it involves a mess and some swearing.
Second, I broke my poor baby toe. Or at least I think I did. I stepped funny coming out of my van Friday night and it huuuurrrrttt. I promised Mr X much whining about the toe this weekend. Even more that would be normal for me since I am sick and when I am sick I go into Drama Queen mode. Almost as much as he does. Back to my poor baby toe. I can not step on it. I can not walk. Shoes? Shoes= HAAATTTEEEE. Mr X suggested going to the Dr. I laughed because how silly would it be to go the Dr for a broken toe? He'd just buddy tape it. But mostly because the Dr would likely insist on touching my toe which 1) ow and 2) it's attached to my foot and anything attached to my foot that gets touched? I kick. It's an involuntary reflex. A self-defense move of sorts.
So instead, I've been hobbling around whining in my scratchy almost non-existent voice about my poor baby toe. When I said I wanted blood this weekend, I didn't mean mine. I suppose I should have clarified that a bit.
Mr X was putting together Girl X's bedroom furniture and asked for my help.
"But my tooooeeeee! I can't help, it huuurrrtttsss."
Mr X suggested again going to the Dr only this time for some sedatives. I'm not really sure if the sedatives are for him or for me.
Instead I sat back and watched him put together this gigantic behemoth of an IKEA toy shelf. I watched as he huffed and puffed it into place against the far wall. I looked at Girl X as she frowned and we waited.
I watched as Mr X attempted to put together her new dresser with it's many extra parts that we still don't know where they belong. I am imagining that somewhere out there is another husband attempting to put together this IKEA dresser for his daughter as his wife looks on and he is making up swear words for the missing parts that are here at our house. I watch as Mr X huffs and puffs the dresser into place and cover Girl X's ears as he scratches the paint off the wall and starts talking about rapid antelope.
He attaches the mirror to the wall and Girl X frowns again.
"What?" He asks.
"I want the dresser where the toy shelf is and the toy shelf should go there. That way I can see myself when I wake up and you can see the shelves in the corner with my snow globes. You can't see them now with that thing there and I love you daddy."
I turn around so Mr X can't see me laughing.
He takes the mirror off and rearranges the furniture muttering about kids being smarter than he is. He lands the dresser squarely on his toe and just looks at me.
"Sorry, only one toe whiner per household." I help lift the dresser off his toe as he mutters about moving into his own apartment so he can whine about his toe.
While putting her bed together there was much muttering and confusion. I offered to open the instruction booklet but only received The Look in response.
Girl X wisely let him put the bed where he wanted.
There is still much to be done with setting up her room, most of it I'll do once my toe stops hurting with every little step.
I did suck it up long enough to go to Home Depot with Mr X today and picked out paint for Hurricane's new room. I haven't the heart to tell Mr X that the design for his room would look much better with a chair rail. A chair rail he would have to put up. I would and probably could do it, but it seems that I have the attention span of a gnat.
I still haven't finished recovering the chairs (damn staples).
Originally, I wanted this red with this only a bit lighter brown for the upper half of the room. But Mr X hates red. I think it comes with growing up where everything you ever owned being red. His clothes, the family car, their homes- everything. It's MIL's favorite color. So, we picked blue for the lower half and the lighter brown on top. I just have to figure out what else I want to do in there.
I love to paint. Much like the putting together of furniture, it involves a mess and some swearing.
Thursday, February 16, 2006
Little Bit
Tonight as I finished making dinner, I set off the smoke alarm. I hadn't realized how often I really do that until I saw Girl X go to comfort her brother and heard her say.........
"Don't worry Hurricane, that just means dinner is ready."
"Don't worry Hurricane, that just means dinner is ready."
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
Awkward
I'll let you in on a little secret........
I am a big dork. Shocker, I know!
I know I am. I think I probably always have been but I used to be really good at denial. I don't make a good first- or 10th- impression. Computers are easy. I can make friends over the internet with ease. Why? Because I can read over and over the things I write before I hit send and edit the flow stupid things I say so that I sound somewhat less than crazy.
Making friends in person? I have no idea how to do this. It may start out well. I make eye contact with another mom at the library and we make small talk about which is better Walter the Farting Dog or Dog Breath: The Horrible Trouble with Hally Tosis. We realize we live only a few blocks from each other, our kids are close to the same age, and we begin talking play dates. But it's inevitable. I say something incredibly obnoxious, like about how we think farting is an Olympic sport, and suddenly I'm standing there alone with my copy of Harold and The Purple Crayon cursing my broken filter.
Even when I think I get it right, I'll go home and realize that I blew it.
I once tried giving myself 30 seconds before speaking what I was thinking- as opposed to the instant verbal vomiting I usually do- but this only gave me more time to come up with something stupid to announce. Like how I can't go to the bathroom without first looking in the toilet to make sure a snake isn't going to come up and bite me in the ass because stupid me watched the stupid news and saw that guy who found a python in his bathroom. And you know that look people get when they think you have lost your marbles and may start shooting up the place at any moment? Because I do.
I once tried to meet up with some friends I had been chatting with for a few years. I dragged Mr X and Girl X with me in hopes that I'd be less inclined to speak. I left thinking I had been ok. I hadn't said anything too terribly stupid. I actually stayed up for awhile that night analyzing the things I said (I did mention I was a dork right?) and thought that I had finally gotten it right. And then it dawned on me that the reason I didn't say many horribly stupid and obnoxious things is because I kept shoveling food in my mouth like a moron. Why these people still talk to me? Um. Maybe because they're too polite to tell me to just shut up already?
Even when I manage to get past that point or find someone who thinks I'm just a little quirky instead of weird and maybe a little scary, eventually they're going to meet my MIL or some other member of my family and there is just no explaining that.
I won't even talk on the phone to most people because not only do I still say stupid things, but it's like I suddenly forget that they can hear everything I say, so if I run into Mr X while talking, I'll start telling him about Girl X's monster poop and the person on the other end of the phone is all "Ew! I was just about to eat!"
And maybe it's because I don't really know what to say so I just start saying anything that comes to mind. Unfortunately most of the stuff that comes to my mind, is kind of gross and certainly strange.
I am much better suited to this. Because at least here, when I start talking about my dad's battle with the chipmunk it's kind of funny, instead of really sad.
I am a big dork. Shocker, I know!
I know I am. I think I probably always have been but I used to be really good at denial. I don't make a good first- or 10th- impression. Computers are easy. I can make friends over the internet with ease. Why? Because I can read over and over the things I write before I hit send and edit the flow stupid things I say so that I sound somewhat less than crazy.
Making friends in person? I have no idea how to do this. It may start out well. I make eye contact with another mom at the library and we make small talk about which is better Walter the Farting Dog or Dog Breath: The Horrible Trouble with Hally Tosis. We realize we live only a few blocks from each other, our kids are close to the same age, and we begin talking play dates. But it's inevitable. I say something incredibly obnoxious, like about how we think farting is an Olympic sport, and suddenly I'm standing there alone with my copy of Harold and The Purple Crayon cursing my broken filter.
Even when I think I get it right, I'll go home and realize that I blew it.
I once tried giving myself 30 seconds before speaking what I was thinking- as opposed to the instant verbal vomiting I usually do- but this only gave me more time to come up with something stupid to announce. Like how I can't go to the bathroom without first looking in the toilet to make sure a snake isn't going to come up and bite me in the ass because stupid me watched the stupid news and saw that guy who found a python in his bathroom. And you know that look people get when they think you have lost your marbles and may start shooting up the place at any moment? Because I do.
I once tried to meet up with some friends I had been chatting with for a few years. I dragged Mr X and Girl X with me in hopes that I'd be less inclined to speak. I left thinking I had been ok. I hadn't said anything too terribly stupid. I actually stayed up for awhile that night analyzing the things I said (I did mention I was a dork right?) and thought that I had finally gotten it right. And then it dawned on me that the reason I didn't say many horribly stupid and obnoxious things is because I kept shoveling food in my mouth like a moron. Why these people still talk to me? Um. Maybe because they're too polite to tell me to just shut up already?
Even when I manage to get past that point or find someone who thinks I'm just a little quirky instead of weird and maybe a little scary, eventually they're going to meet my MIL or some other member of my family and there is just no explaining that.
I won't even talk on the phone to most people because not only do I still say stupid things, but it's like I suddenly forget that they can hear everything I say, so if I run into Mr X while talking, I'll start telling him about Girl X's monster poop and the person on the other end of the phone is all "Ew! I was just about to eat!"
And maybe it's because I don't really know what to say so I just start saying anything that comes to mind. Unfortunately most of the stuff that comes to my mind, is kind of gross and certainly strange.
I am much better suited to this. Because at least here, when I start talking about my dad's battle with the chipmunk it's kind of funny, instead of really sad.
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