Yeah, ok. I know I already was but at least my kids thought I was cool. Or maybe just pretended too. But now Girl has crossed that invisible line between "My mommy rocks" to "Who me? I'm an orphan."
I know I've made a little stink about this whole coaching thing (I am so going to end up kicking myself in the ass and possibly breaking my foot) but I was also kind of excited about it (aside from having to deal with Annoying Woman). I thought that maybe if I was involved in the things that she was interested in it would help with some of the problems we have been having. And also during those teen years when she really hates me and starts saying how I don't care I can say "Ha! Don't you remember when I was your coach and I ended up in traction? This limp isn't for nothing kid!"
We arrived at practice a little early. I was nervous but ready. Girl ran off to play until practice started. All the other coaches and some of the parents were standing around talking. I noticed Girl's coach from last year and we talked for a minute. It almost seemed normal.
Girl came over to get a drink and she looked at me kind of funny. Her ex-coach asked her if she was excited to start the year and she nodded a little.
I smiled and ruffled her hair.
"She has been asking for weeks now when we start."
And then it happened. You could feel the shift and the other moms looked over at us because it was that palpable.
"Oh My Gosh mom! You are so lame!"
And with that she was off to play and my jaw sat on the pavement.
The other moms quickly turned their heads to ward off of my errant 'lame-mom' germs.
Later on the way home I let her know that talking to me that way was never going to be ok. She apologized (while rolling her eyes) and I sighed.
I don't know that I'll ever get a grip with her. I don't know how to transition from the relationship we had to one that we can both live with. I worry. This is certainly not what I imagined motherhood to be like.
I look at her and I see the girl in pigtails who wouldn't take an oatmeal bath when she had the chicken pox because the water was 'dirty'. I see the girl who would touch her cheek to mine and sigh. I see the girl who would fall asleep in my lap while watching movies.
But that isn't who she is anymore.
I think our children's independence is harder on us as parents.
Does letting her grow really mean letting her go? Do I really have to give up a good bond with her in order to maintain authority? I'm still trying to figure that one out.
As I tucked her into bed tonight (one of the few things she still lets me do), she smiled, a little.
"I'm glad you're my coach mom."
I kissed her forehead, turned off the lights, went into the kitchen and cried.
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
More Proof of My Stupidity
It has been several months so I have been able to block out that horribly stupid thing I did. But now it's come back to bite me in the ass.
Tonight is the first practice for cheerleading. Practice for which I am supposed to teach them things like cheers. And I'm thinking that teaching them dirty cheers will be um, frowned upon? Yes?
Right.
To make this season just fabulous, I've learned that the town's most annoying woman had her daughter placed on my team.
Anything you can do, she can do 20 times better. She knows everything and will happily tell you just how wonderful she is. It is going to take every last bit of restraint to not stick my coach's handbook up her right nostril.
Tonight is the first practice for cheerleading. Practice for which I am supposed to teach them things like cheers. And I'm thinking that teaching them dirty cheers will be um, frowned upon? Yes?
Right.
To make this season just fabulous, I've learned that the town's most annoying woman had her daughter placed on my team.
Anything you can do, she can do 20 times better. She knows everything and will happily tell you just how wonderful she is. It is going to take every last bit of restraint to not stick my coach's handbook up her right nostril.
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
And Now For Another Round of "Oh Holy Hell People!"
Oh Lord. Really. I know I've mentioned before about the surprising number of people who have found me while searching for "she had worms in her" (damn TLC and google) but enough already!
13. 1. 3. Recently. 13 people searching for worms or earthworms.
This I could maybe shake off as whatever but the next one on my list, I just... I.... *bangs head on desk and dies a little*.
"Mother in law accidentally saw penis." "What to do?"
And now I'm left wondering just what happened to bring this about. And why it had to be brought about to my blog. What did I write that put me at #11 for this search request?
Seriously? #11? I'm not going to be satisfied until that one reaches number one.
13. 1. 3. Recently. 13 people searching for worms or earthworms.
This I could maybe shake off as whatever but the next one on my list, I just... I.... *bangs head on desk and dies a little*.
"Mother in law accidentally saw penis." "What to do?"
And now I'm left wondering just what happened to bring this about. And why it had to be brought about to my blog. What did I write that put me at #11 for this search request?
Seriously? #11? I'm not going to be satisfied until that one reaches number one.
Monday, August 14, 2006
Ingenuity
When Girl was a toddler, she preferred her two feet to be firmly planted on the ground. She found destruction at her eye level to be most enjoyable and much more of a surprise for me.
So it was incredibly disconcerting to me to watch Hurricane master his climbing skills on the beds, the table, my bar stools (which should be too high for him but whatever), and the Ikea corner shelving unit that seemed so useful at Ikea but we so don't have a corner to stick it in.
Still, none of that prepared me for this weekend. Saturday to be specific. Saturday I walked into his room knowing he had woken from his nap, fully prepared for a rousing game of Chase-Mommy-Around-the-Kitchen and Pinch-the-Nipples-Watch-Mommy-Cry! I was, instead, treated to the sight of the apple of my eye sitting in his dresser drawer. Pardon, his top dresser drawer. Yes. Well.
I tried my best not to faint (ha!) and instead removed his sturdy self from said drawer and firmly said 'No. Naughty.' Too which, he crumbled. And then naturally, so did I. He was so proud of his monkey-like ability and certainly I should find this skill useful! Perhaps when I throw my car keys on the rooftop in an effort to dislodge a Frisbee (give me a break. I was so wiped out and really, was it so much to ask the 5 year old neighbor boy to get his own damn Frisbee and while you're at it, I think Mr X perhaps left his hat up there and oh don't cry!). Surely then his shimmying up the rain spout would be a life saver. No?
Truly, it was the manner in which my would-be Everest toppler that had me proclaiming his genius status to the entire neighborhood (Please, they all think I'm crazy anyway so what difference could one more bout of insanity make?).
First, he had pulled out his bottom right drawer. Then his middle left, from there it was a simple matter to climb to the top.
Yes. Genius. Or more aptly, enfant terrible.
Since then he has happily displayed his ability to ascend every standing piece in the house.
His current favorite? The kitchen drawers. Even with the child safety locks (ha! They don't even slow him down. I'm the one who ends up pinching her fingers) it is a matter of mere seconds before his on top of the counter, merrily searching for cookies. Or french fries. Or whatever other assortment of goodies I seem to hide up there on those glorious counters he could never explore before.
I may not survive his childhood. He, no doubt, will be fine. But I think my heart will not handle so many of these ever increasing surprises.
So it was incredibly disconcerting to me to watch Hurricane master his climbing skills on the beds, the table, my bar stools (which should be too high for him but whatever), and the Ikea corner shelving unit that seemed so useful at Ikea but we so don't have a corner to stick it in.
Still, none of that prepared me for this weekend. Saturday to be specific. Saturday I walked into his room knowing he had woken from his nap, fully prepared for a rousing game of Chase-Mommy-Around-the-Kitchen and Pinch-the-Nipples-Watch-Mommy-Cry! I was, instead, treated to the sight of the apple of my eye sitting in his dresser drawer. Pardon, his top dresser drawer. Yes. Well.
I tried my best not to faint (ha!) and instead removed his sturdy self from said drawer and firmly said 'No. Naughty.' Too which, he crumbled. And then naturally, so did I. He was so proud of his monkey-like ability and certainly I should find this skill useful! Perhaps when I throw my car keys on the rooftop in an effort to dislodge a Frisbee (give me a break. I was so wiped out and really, was it so much to ask the 5 year old neighbor boy to get his own damn Frisbee and while you're at it, I think Mr X perhaps left his hat up there and oh don't cry!). Surely then his shimmying up the rain spout would be a life saver. No?
Truly, it was the manner in which my would-be Everest toppler that had me proclaiming his genius status to the entire neighborhood (Please, they all think I'm crazy anyway so what difference could one more bout of insanity make?).
First, he had pulled out his bottom right drawer. Then his middle left, from there it was a simple matter to climb to the top.
Yes. Genius. Or more aptly, enfant terrible.
Since then he has happily displayed his ability to ascend every standing piece in the house.
His current favorite? The kitchen drawers. Even with the child safety locks (ha! They don't even slow him down. I'm the one who ends up pinching her fingers) it is a matter of mere seconds before his on top of the counter, merrily searching for cookies. Or french fries. Or whatever other assortment of goodies I seem to hide up there on those glorious counters he could never explore before.
I may not survive his childhood. He, no doubt, will be fine. But I think my heart will not handle so many of these ever increasing surprises.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
Sunny Day, Chasing The Clouds Away....
My siblings and I were unholy terrors as children. We set the oven on fire the first time they left us alone, we conducted scientific experiments involving condiment packets in the kitchen (note: Mayo doesn't travel far, mustard and ketchup are the stains that keep on giving and relish smells really bad after 3 days), we fed the dog baked beans for the sheer joy of hearing my parents gag at 3 am, we made balcony jumping an art form and shoved beans in our ears (when bugs bunny did it, it fell out the other side. When we did it... it... did not really fall out so much as required a Dr to dig it out. Hee!). We were the Malcom in the Middle of our neighborhood.
My parents never knew what to expect from us, or which neighbor would be calling to ask if they knew what we had done in their yard that day.
But there was one hour a day that they knew where we would be. One hour a day that they didn't have to wonder what we had gotten ourselves into.
Sesame street was on and nothing short of Evel Knievel himself asking us to perform stunts with him was going to tear us away from the overstuffed couch in our living room.
Back then Big Bird was the only one who knew about Snuffleupagus. Every one else just thought he was Big Bird's imaginary friend. I would yell at the screen every time they missed him. Snuffy has a baby sister named Alice and wears 65 GGG shoes (how's that for useless trivia?).
There was Oscar, my favorite muppet, with his seemingly sour disposition but I knew better. Look how sweet he was with Slimey, his pet worm! Did you know that in the first season Oscar's fur was orange?
Cookie Monster, whose first name is actually Sid, taught me letters while The Count taught me to not be afraid of vampires. Oh, and how to count of course.
Grover, with his distinctive speech patterns and many talents fascinated me.
Bert and Ernie felt like family to us. We knew all the words to Rubber Ducky.
(From Wikipedia:)
Bert: "Hey, you've got a banana in your ear!"
Ernie: "What?"
Bert: "I said, YOU'VE GOT A BANANA IN YOUR EAR!"
Ernie: "What? I can't hear you; I've got a banana in my ear!"
Comic genious!
I remember when Mr Hooper died as it was the first time I ever experienced loss.
I remember Maria and Gordon as adults who could be trusted.
My parents took us to Sesame Place one year and it felt like Christmas. I had always wanted to live on Sesame Street and this was the next best thing. In my jewelry box on my dresser is the Big Bird pin my dad had bought for me that day. I smile every time I see it.
My parents took us to the drive-in to see Sesame Street: Follow that Bird. I cried when Big Bird ran away, afraid he'd never find his way home. But he did.
Time went on. I went to school. Summer break rolled around and suddenly I was too old and too cool to be watching Sesame Street anymore. My siblings had long since given it up.
But for those few (all too brief, according to my parents) years, my siblings and I were bonded over our love for furry muppets.
When I was pregnant with my daughter I smiled knowing that it wouldn't be long before I could introduce her to the great love of my childhood. And again, when I was pregnant with my son.
Now there are some new muppets on screen.
This season we will get to meet Abby Caddaby ( her name alone is reason to love her).
But it was Elmo, who always refers to himself in the 3rd person, who captured the heart of my son. He can spot him from 3 aisles away in a store and happily calls out for "la-la", his name for Elmo taken from his theme song. Elmo, who gave me moments like this which will make me smile when I'm old and gray. Elmo was the reason I ended up repeating his Number 5 rap in front of my son's playgroup.
Certainly there are moments where just the thought of one more minute of that high-pitched laugh will make me go bananas, but then I see my son laugh and dance.
I see him clap his hands and call out for more "Ma Noonle!", and how can I complain about his pure happiness?
(From Wikipedia:)
Elmo is the only Muppet to ever testify before the U.S. Congress. At the request and with the assistance of Rep. Duke Cunningham, he testified before the House Appropriations Subcommittee on Labor, Health and Human Services and Education in April 2002, urging support for increased funding in music education.
Elmo is meant to be a pre-schooler. He has a pet goldfish, Dorothy, and a natural curiosity that has taken hold over my son.
It tickles me endlessly when I hear him trying to sing along or counting. I love when he chooses a book at the library, knowing it will be one from Sesame Street. I love seeing him sleeping at night, his stuff Elmo tucked under one arm.
More, I live for the moments like I witnessed this week. My 8 year old daughter helping her brother put a band-aid on his Telly beanie baby because Telly got hit on the head on the show. I see compassion.
I am in awe that on Monday, they will be kicking off their 37th season. 37 years of providing educational entertainment to children. I hope they'll be around for my grandchildren so I can share it with them too.
Sesame Street is the one hour each day that I don't have to worry about what he is getting into. It's the one hour a day I know where he will be.
***
I wrote this piece as part of The Lovely Mrs Davis' celebration. I hope you will click on over to her blog on Monday to get a chance at reading other's posts. And better still, write one yourself.
My parents never knew what to expect from us, or which neighbor would be calling to ask if they knew what we had done in their yard that day.
But there was one hour a day that they knew where we would be. One hour a day that they didn't have to wonder what we had gotten ourselves into.
Sesame street was on and nothing short of Evel Knievel himself asking us to perform stunts with him was going to tear us away from the overstuffed couch in our living room.
Back then Big Bird was the only one who knew about Snuffleupagus. Every one else just thought he was Big Bird's imaginary friend. I would yell at the screen every time they missed him. Snuffy has a baby sister named Alice and wears 65 GGG shoes (how's that for useless trivia?).
There was Oscar, my favorite muppet, with his seemingly sour disposition but I knew better. Look how sweet he was with Slimey, his pet worm! Did you know that in the first season Oscar's fur was orange?
Cookie Monster, whose first name is actually Sid, taught me letters while The Count taught me to not be afraid of vampires. Oh, and how to count of course.
Grover, with his distinctive speech patterns and many talents fascinated me.
Bert and Ernie felt like family to us. We knew all the words to Rubber Ducky.
(From Wikipedia:)
Bert: "Hey, you've got a banana in your ear!"
Ernie: "What?"
Bert: "I said, YOU'VE GOT A BANANA IN YOUR EAR!"
Ernie: "What? I can't hear you; I've got a banana in my ear!"
Comic genious!
I remember when Mr Hooper died as it was the first time I ever experienced loss.
I remember Maria and Gordon as adults who could be trusted.
My parents took us to Sesame Place one year and it felt like Christmas. I had always wanted to live on Sesame Street and this was the next best thing. In my jewelry box on my dresser is the Big Bird pin my dad had bought for me that day. I smile every time I see it.
My parents took us to the drive-in to see Sesame Street: Follow that Bird. I cried when Big Bird ran away, afraid he'd never find his way home. But he did.
Time went on. I went to school. Summer break rolled around and suddenly I was too old and too cool to be watching Sesame Street anymore. My siblings had long since given it up.
But for those few (all too brief, according to my parents) years, my siblings and I were bonded over our love for furry muppets.
When I was pregnant with my daughter I smiled knowing that it wouldn't be long before I could introduce her to the great love of my childhood. And again, when I was pregnant with my son.
Now there are some new muppets on screen.
This season we will get to meet Abby Caddaby ( her name alone is reason to love her).
But it was Elmo, who always refers to himself in the 3rd person, who captured the heart of my son. He can spot him from 3 aisles away in a store and happily calls out for "la-la", his name for Elmo taken from his theme song. Elmo, who gave me moments like this which will make me smile when I'm old and gray. Elmo was the reason I ended up repeating his Number 5 rap in front of my son's playgroup.
Certainly there are moments where just the thought of one more minute of that high-pitched laugh will make me go bananas, but then I see my son laugh and dance.
I see him clap his hands and call out for more "Ma Noonle!", and how can I complain about his pure happiness?
(From Wikipedia:)
Elmo is the only Muppet to ever testify before the U.S. Congress. At the request and with the assistance of Rep. Duke Cunningham, he testified before the House Appropriations Subcommittee on Labor, Health and Human Services and Education in April 2002, urging support for increased funding in music education.
Elmo is meant to be a pre-schooler. He has a pet goldfish, Dorothy, and a natural curiosity that has taken hold over my son.
It tickles me endlessly when I hear him trying to sing along or counting. I love when he chooses a book at the library, knowing it will be one from Sesame Street. I love seeing him sleeping at night, his stuff Elmo tucked under one arm.
More, I live for the moments like I witnessed this week. My 8 year old daughter helping her brother put a band-aid on his Telly beanie baby because Telly got hit on the head on the show. I see compassion.
I am in awe that on Monday, they will be kicking off their 37th season. 37 years of providing educational entertainment to children. I hope they'll be around for my grandchildren so I can share it with them too.
Sesame Street is the one hour each day that I don't have to worry about what he is getting into. It's the one hour a day I know where he will be.
***
I wrote this piece as part of The Lovely Mrs Davis' celebration. I hope you will click on over to her blog on Monday to get a chance at reading other's posts. And better still, write one yourself.
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
The Puppy That Ate Seattle
Mishka has been with us now for a little over a week. In that brief time I have had to pry the following things out of her mouth:
1)dirt
2) grass
3)leaves
4) sticks
5) a dirty diaper
6) Hurricane's socks
7) Hurricane's pajama bottoms (and only the bottoms but she has gone after them many times)
8) The Cat
9) a chair
10) the recliner
11) the highchair
12) her bed
13) a flip flop
14) the carpet
15) the pantry door
16) her leash
17)the sliding glass door's blinds
18) a stair
19) a DVD (Nanny Mcphee, I'm not sure if this is a comment on the movie or she just really likes the taste of DVD's)
20) several slugs
21) flowers
22) stones
23)my bed
24) the pillows
25) my abdomenizer stretchy workout thing (Yay! Go dog!)
26) my husband's lunchbox
And each time I've caught her with one of these things in her mouth, she looks up at me with those ridiculous raised eyebrows and waits to see what I will do. Occasionally, if the forbidden treat is especially good (as those slugs must be given the way she would lock her jaw), she will run.
Prying slobbery dead slugs from this dog's mouth is most definitely not on my list of favorite things.
1)dirt
2) grass
3)leaves
4) sticks
5) a dirty diaper
6) Hurricane's socks
7) Hurricane's pajama bottoms (and only the bottoms but she has gone after them many times)
8) The Cat
9) a chair
10) the recliner
11) the highchair
12) her bed
13) a flip flop
14) the carpet
15) the pantry door
16) her leash
17)the sliding glass door's blinds
18) a stair
19) a DVD (Nanny Mcphee, I'm not sure if this is a comment on the movie or she just really likes the taste of DVD's)
20) several slugs
21) flowers
22) stones
23)my bed
24) the pillows
25) my abdomenizer stretchy workout thing (Yay! Go dog!)
26) my husband's lunchbox
And each time I've caught her with one of these things in her mouth, she looks up at me with those ridiculous raised eyebrows and waits to see what I will do. Occasionally, if the forbidden treat is especially good (as those slugs must be given the way she would lock her jaw), she will run.
Prying slobbery dead slugs from this dog's mouth is most definitely not on my list of favorite things.
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
Desperate
At some point in the last 2 years, my daughter has become a new person. Someone I don't really recognize. I hate admitting that I am finding it increasingly difficult to maintain some sort of connection with her.
Before Hurricane she was my sole focus.
Sure she had friends she played with and I had things that had to be done each day and hobbies outside of being her mom. But there was no one else to take the attention away from her.
We still spend time together, just the two of us. But it isn't as often and it's certainly not the same.
I don't think it's a direct result of having her brother. Naturally there is a bit less time to focus on playing with her dolls or letting her 'braid' my hair. It can be exhausting keeping up with both of them. Spending quality time with each alone and making sure things around the house are taken care of and no one loses an eye has harried us a bit.
Still. It seems to me that somewhere between the ages of 6 and 8, she became someone else. Someone more.
Someone separate from me.
She is beginning to push her limits, making more and more of her own decisions. Who she plays with, what she wears, what she plays. She no longer seeks my opinion and has taken to rolling her eyes if I make a suggestion.
I know it's something that I have to learn to adapt to, her as her own person. But I can't help being a little bit sad for the little girl being left behind, and a little bit afraid of this new person rolling her eyes at me.
It wasn't that long ago that I was admiring her for being braver than I was as a kid. Now I'm longing for the days when she was content to let me help her with her dresses.
I know it sounds so stupid but when she was a baby I never thought about the fact that someday she would grow up and ask me to be her a tube top (which was met with a "over my dead body").
I have no idea what the rules are here, only that I have to set them and give her enough room to learn who she is, yet stay close enough to help her when she gets hurt. It's a tedious balancing act and I am sucking at it.
Not a day has gone by this summer that she hasn't back-talked and I haven't wanted to run screaming from the house. I could run to the left and be in Canada in 3 hours.
I love her. Period.
I just miss being able to connect with her the way we used to. And it's terrifying to think that it could always be like this.
Before Hurricane she was my sole focus.
Sure she had friends she played with and I had things that had to be done each day and hobbies outside of being her mom. But there was no one else to take the attention away from her.
We still spend time together, just the two of us. But it isn't as often and it's certainly not the same.
I don't think it's a direct result of having her brother. Naturally there is a bit less time to focus on playing with her dolls or letting her 'braid' my hair. It can be exhausting keeping up with both of them. Spending quality time with each alone and making sure things around the house are taken care of and no one loses an eye has harried us a bit.
Still. It seems to me that somewhere between the ages of 6 and 8, she became someone else. Someone more.
Someone separate from me.
She is beginning to push her limits, making more and more of her own decisions. Who she plays with, what she wears, what she plays. She no longer seeks my opinion and has taken to rolling her eyes if I make a suggestion.
I know it's something that I have to learn to adapt to, her as her own person. But I can't help being a little bit sad for the little girl being left behind, and a little bit afraid of this new person rolling her eyes at me.
It wasn't that long ago that I was admiring her for being braver than I was as a kid. Now I'm longing for the days when she was content to let me help her with her dresses.
I know it sounds so stupid but when she was a baby I never thought about the fact that someday she would grow up and ask me to be her a tube top (which was met with a "over my dead body").
I have no idea what the rules are here, only that I have to set them and give her enough room to learn who she is, yet stay close enough to help her when she gets hurt. It's a tedious balancing act and I am sucking at it.
Not a day has gone by this summer that she hasn't back-talked and I haven't wanted to run screaming from the house. I could run to the left and be in Canada in 3 hours.
I love her. Period.
I just miss being able to connect with her the way we used to. And it's terrifying to think that it could always be like this.
Monday, August 07, 2006
I Learned A Lesson Here (But I Probably Won't Remember It)
I finally get up enough energy to post one giant recap and be done with it and the stupid picture thingy isn't working. So. Damn it.
Instead I will tell you the very stupid thing I did today for I am so very damn stupid.
Today I thought it would be fun to walk half a block to get the mail. With Hurricane. And a puppy.
A puppy who does not understand this whole 'walking on a leash' thing. A toddler who thinks is perfectly acceptable to help himself to neighbor's garages.
It started off well enough. Hurricane held my hand and smiled, chattering mindlessly about what I am certain involved quantum physics and why that means he is owed exactly 4.6 cookies to date. I half dragged Mishka in the other hand while carrying a plastic bag (for poop. ew. except that yes, because I am naively hoping that a certain neighbor will see me cleaning up puppy poop and realize that it sucks to have her dog poop in my driveway everytime he gets loose) and mailbox key.
2 houses away, Mishka realized that we were away from the house and there were lots of interesting new smells to sniff and flies to eat (and ohmygod can we discuss this eating thing in a bit? Because seriously! Damn!) and she ran in between my legs knocking me on my ass (1).
Hurricane laughed (and that's why you're not getting those 4.6 cookies you little bugger) and I pretended I had some dignity as I pried my ass off the sidewalk.
I gave Mishka my best withering sneer.
She panted and wagged her tail.
Bitch.
We continued.
Mishka did not.
I tugged on the leash and she simply stared at me.
I started to walk towards her and she took off running. So now I have one arm stretched out in front (who knew a puppy could be so strong?) to the point that I think I may have gained an inch and I'm leaning over on the other side a bit so I can hold onto Hurricane. Great. I look like a fucking hobbit.
Mishka decided to change course and ran full circle behind me, cutting Hurricane off at the knees so that he fell flat on his diapered butt (2).
I now owe him 4.6 cookies.
We finally made it to the mailbox where I realized that I am even stupider (it's a word now, shut up) than I originally thought. I had to let go of Hurricane to get the mail out. I also had to figure out how to carry the mail, the keys, the bag of poop, the leash and Hurricane back to the house without dropping anything or ending up on my ass, on the bag of poop.
So I thought I'd just let Hurricane walk with me without holding my hand.
He took this to mean that it would be perfectly fine to run into a stranger's garage and fondle their riding mower.
Prying him off of that thing while begging Mishka to please not eat through the bag of poop was not exactly the way I had imagined meeting these people, but I really should not have been surprised.
I tucked the mail under my arm and prayed that it wouldn't end up all over the street, slid the loop of the poop bag over my wrist (please don't let me fall on it!), shoved the leash and the collar in one hand and continued hobbit walking home with Hurricane in the other hand.
I made back to my side of the street and 5 feet away before Mishka took another pass at my legs. I freaked about the poop bag and threw my arm out thereby scattering my mail all over the street before landing on my ass (3). Again.
I told all of this to a friend who asked me why I didn't also take Auggie, wonder-mutt extraordinaire. Yes, because nothing could have made this excursion better like taking my pissed off cone-wearing snob of a dog.
We are no longer friends.
Instead I will tell you the very stupid thing I did today for I am so very damn stupid.
Today I thought it would be fun to walk half a block to get the mail. With Hurricane. And a puppy.
A puppy who does not understand this whole 'walking on a leash' thing. A toddler who thinks is perfectly acceptable to help himself to neighbor's garages.
It started off well enough. Hurricane held my hand and smiled, chattering mindlessly about what I am certain involved quantum physics and why that means he is owed exactly 4.6 cookies to date. I half dragged Mishka in the other hand while carrying a plastic bag (for poop. ew. except that yes, because I am naively hoping that a certain neighbor will see me cleaning up puppy poop and realize that it sucks to have her dog poop in my driveway everytime he gets loose) and mailbox key.
2 houses away, Mishka realized that we were away from the house and there were lots of interesting new smells to sniff and flies to eat (and ohmygod can we discuss this eating thing in a bit? Because seriously! Damn!) and she ran in between my legs knocking me on my ass (1).
Hurricane laughed (and that's why you're not getting those 4.6 cookies you little bugger) and I pretended I had some dignity as I pried my ass off the sidewalk.
I gave Mishka my best withering sneer.
She panted and wagged her tail.
Bitch.
We continued.
Mishka did not.
I tugged on the leash and she simply stared at me.
I started to walk towards her and she took off running. So now I have one arm stretched out in front (who knew a puppy could be so strong?) to the point that I think I may have gained an inch and I'm leaning over on the other side a bit so I can hold onto Hurricane. Great. I look like a fucking hobbit.
Mishka decided to change course and ran full circle behind me, cutting Hurricane off at the knees so that he fell flat on his diapered butt (2).
I now owe him 4.6 cookies.
We finally made it to the mailbox where I realized that I am even stupider (it's a word now, shut up) than I originally thought. I had to let go of Hurricane to get the mail out. I also had to figure out how to carry the mail, the keys, the bag of poop, the leash and Hurricane back to the house without dropping anything or ending up on my ass, on the bag of poop.
So I thought I'd just let Hurricane walk with me without holding my hand.
He took this to mean that it would be perfectly fine to run into a stranger's garage and fondle their riding mower.
Prying him off of that thing while begging Mishka to please not eat through the bag of poop was not exactly the way I had imagined meeting these people, but I really should not have been surprised.
I tucked the mail under my arm and prayed that it wouldn't end up all over the street, slid the loop of the poop bag over my wrist (please don't let me fall on it!), shoved the leash and the collar in one hand and continued hobbit walking home with Hurricane in the other hand.
I made back to my side of the street and 5 feet away before Mishka took another pass at my legs. I freaked about the poop bag and threw my arm out thereby scattering my mail all over the street before landing on my ass (3). Again.
I told all of this to a friend who asked me why I didn't also take Auggie, wonder-mutt extraordinaire. Yes, because nothing could have made this excursion better like taking my pissed off cone-wearing snob of a dog.
We are no longer friends.
Warmed Honey
Yes, recap still owed. I know. Still, this is far more important. No really, it is.
Because, although it took 24 years, I finally got to see BB King in concert on Saturday and it was amazing!
BB King has this incredible spirit that just takes over the moment he steps on stage. He has a fantastic sense of humor and we laughed through much of the evening.
He is 80 and had to sit in a chair as he played but it didn't matter. That man can move.
Maybe it helps that he loves music, loves touring.
When we left that night my husband, my reluctant date, said the three little words every woman wants to hear.
"You were right."
He's never been to a concert before, he's not a music lover in the same vein as I am. But he loved Saturday and has converted to at least being a fan of BB's.
Because, although it took 24 years, I finally got to see BB King in concert on Saturday and it was amazing!
BB King has this incredible spirit that just takes over the moment he steps on stage. He has a fantastic sense of humor and we laughed through much of the evening.
He is 80 and had to sit in a chair as he played but it didn't matter. That man can move.
Maybe it helps that he loves music, loves touring.
When we left that night my husband, my reluctant date, said the three little words every woman wants to hear.
"You were right."
He's never been to a concert before, he's not a music lover in the same vein as I am. But he loved Saturday and has converted to at least being a fan of BB's.
Saturday, August 05, 2006
Note To Self
As you have been told many times in the past 4 years, you have developed an allergy to latex. It eats your skin. It is painful. It takes many weeks to fully heal.
Most band-aids contain latex. Remember? This is how you found out about this whole 'eating of the skin' thing?
So why the hell do you keep forgetting?
This is 2 weeks later.
Dumbass.
Also? ow.
Most band-aids contain latex. Remember? This is how you found out about this whole 'eating of the skin' thing?
So why the hell do you keep forgetting?
This is 2 weeks later.
Dumbass.
Also? ow.
Friday, August 04, 2006
Bastards!
Baxter, poor tortured Cat, has decided that we are simply evil Cat-haters who live only to torment him.
In the past 20 months he has lost his space in our bed, been peed on, jumped at, had his tail chewed on by one teething baby, his eyes have been poked, ears yanked and chased around the house on a daily basis.
Then we bring in new dog. Just when he got used to Auggie and found a way to torment Auggie without being eaten, we bring in Mishka who does not care about boundaries.
Too add insult to injury.........
...... we allowed him to be shaved. Yes, he is sporting last season's lion cut.
My stomach still hurts from laughing.
In the past 20 months he has lost his space in our bed, been peed on, jumped at, had his tail chewed on by one teething baby, his eyes have been poked, ears yanked and chased around the house on a daily basis.
Then we bring in new dog. Just when he got used to Auggie and found a way to torment Auggie without being eaten, we bring in Mishka who does not care about boundaries.
Too add insult to injury.........
...... we allowed him to be shaved. Yes, he is sporting last season's lion cut.
My stomach still hurts from laughing.
Thursday, August 03, 2006
Day One: Zoo
Ok so not exactly day one because really day one was when they got there and then day 2 we went grocery shopping and what is there to say about comparing cheeses in the market?
Right.
So technically day 3: Zoo.
Still boring.
I thought it would be great to spend the day walking about staring mindlessly at animals and maybe making some animal noises and such.
Sadly for us we went on the day that all the animals decided to have a napping contest.
Except the hippos and some of the monkeys.
All the rest? Nothing. Not even a sniffle. The orangutans took one look at us and put a burlap bag over their heads. I am fairly certain that given the option they would have preferred the bags on our heads.
And just to make sure that I understood how much this was a bad idea, the day decided to be much colder than it was supposed to be and I had to buy the kids overpriced sweatshirts. My credit card hates me. Deeply hates me.
From the petting zoo where there were no animals to be pet so we had to settle for petting a fly that wouldn't go away.
The hippos which actually are hippos and not plastic things stuck in the water in a lame attempt to fool us that we were looking at real hippos as I had always assumed because they have never moved before. (Your welcome for the endless sentence).
Right.
So technically day 3: Zoo.
Still boring.
I thought it would be great to spend the day walking about staring mindlessly at animals and maybe making some animal noises and such.
Sadly for us we went on the day that all the animals decided to have a napping contest.
Except the hippos and some of the monkeys.
All the rest? Nothing. Not even a sniffle. The orangutans took one look at us and put a burlap bag over their heads. I am fairly certain that given the option they would have preferred the bags on our heads.
And just to make sure that I understood how much this was a bad idea, the day decided to be much colder than it was supposed to be and I had to buy the kids overpriced sweatshirts. My credit card hates me. Deeply hates me.
From the petting zoo where there were no animals to be pet so we had to settle for petting a fly that wouldn't go away.
The hippos which actually are hippos and not plastic things stuck in the water in a lame attempt to fool us that we were looking at real hippos as I had always assumed because they have never moved before. (Your welcome for the endless sentence).
Even the butterflies took the day off.
As we walked the trails in search of some non-snoring type animals, we kept hearing this 'whoop'. Loud and obnoxious.
Then suddenly very fast.
And all too familiar.
Much like the noise I used to pretend I wasn't hearing as my parent's room shared a wall with mine.
Pointing this out to parents proved to be too much and I spent the rest of the trip trying to forget that my parents ever had sex. Ew.
The whooping turned out to be the monkeys. Monkeys which fell asleep just as soon as came over to see them.
Bastards.
I thought we could maybe salvage the day by taking the kids over to the zoo's new playland. Except that it was closed for the day. I guess playlands need their sleep too.
To make the day just perfect, Girl decided to show off her newly honed snarky skills.
I'm still amazed that she didn't somehow end up becoming part of an exhibit.
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
Control
I am truly in no mood for recaps and pictures which will surely take several posts in order to truly capture the events of my parents visit. All culminating in our fully understanding what it means when our heating vent is directly connected to our daughter's room. Because that is where my parents slept. And sound travels.
Ew.
I am feeling particularly sour as I have also begun to fully understand that the next several years are going to leave me in breathless anticipation of the Girl's moving out. Perhaps even more so now that she has informed me of her intention to move as far as she possibly can from wherever I stand.
She is 8. She has hit the 'tween' years. She has found out that I have buttons and oh how she loves to push them.
This morning was a fairly typical sampling of an average day with her.
I wouldn't let her wear her brand new skirt to play outside with Mishka. So instead of simply throwing on some shorts and having fun, she marched around the house in her underwear yelling at everyone to not look at her.
I directed her to her room where she upended the clothing her grandmother had generously folded for her.
Reason does not exist when she gets like this.
Instead, it is much more satisfying to throw a book at me. So she did. And I threw it in the trash (and in the trash it shall remain!).
My natural instinct to throttle her is always overtaken by reason and I walk away. But I cannot deny that innate urge to slap that snotty smug grin.
No, I won't cross that line. Instead I sigh. Count to a bajillion and ground her happy little ass.
The cherry on top of my pie tonight was when she turned to me and said "I guess you're happy now that you've ruined my life!"
Damn skippy, kid. I consider it my privilege and my grandest achievement to ruin your life on a daily basis.
Ew.
I am feeling particularly sour as I have also begun to fully understand that the next several years are going to leave me in breathless anticipation of the Girl's moving out. Perhaps even more so now that she has informed me of her intention to move as far as she possibly can from wherever I stand.
She is 8. She has hit the 'tween' years. She has found out that I have buttons and oh how she loves to push them.
This morning was a fairly typical sampling of an average day with her.
I wouldn't let her wear her brand new skirt to play outside with Mishka. So instead of simply throwing on some shorts and having fun, she marched around the house in her underwear yelling at everyone to not look at her.
I directed her to her room where she upended the clothing her grandmother had generously folded for her.
Reason does not exist when she gets like this.
Instead, it is much more satisfying to throw a book at me. So she did. And I threw it in the trash (and in the trash it shall remain!).
My natural instinct to throttle her is always overtaken by reason and I walk away. But I cannot deny that innate urge to slap that snotty smug grin.
No, I won't cross that line. Instead I sigh. Count to a bajillion and ground her happy little ass.
The cherry on top of my pie tonight was when she turned to me and said "I guess you're happy now that you've ruined my life!"
Damn skippy, kid. I consider it my privilege and my grandest achievement to ruin your life on a daily basis.
Monday, July 31, 2006
Certifiable
I know I owe a better post than this but vacation isn't technically over until tomorrow. So instead I bring you more proof that we are insane.
How else can I explain the fact that within 6 hours of learning of her existence, we became the very confused owners of Mishka, a 6 week old purebred Alaskan Husky.
Mishka, with the softest gray eyes and the sweetest temperament I have ever seen in a puppy.
When the breeder set her down at our feet she bolted under my legs and hid there, shaken from the car ride that brought her into our lives. She spent the ride to our house with her nose in my armpit, occasionally stealing glances from under my shirt with those lovely gray eyes.
Auggie, the original Dog wonder has taken a fatherly attitude to her.
Baxter, the much-beleaguered Cat, has given up any hope that he may have a peaceful space in this house. He took one look at Mishka and glared at me. Granted, it has been a rather unpleasant weekend for him. My sil shaved him. I believe she called it the 'lion' cut. I took one look at him and nearly peed my pants laughing.
Hurricane's happy squeals and rapid-fire cries for "meeka!" have been greeted with small wet kisses.
Girl melted at Mishka's feet and was treated to gentle nibbles.
Mr X sighed that very defeated sigh. He never wanted a female dog. He had his heart set on one that would maybe not shed so much.
Still, once he knew he'd been defeated, he demanded only the very best in puppy food for her.
He is currently curled up with her. Snoring together.
And I?
I love puppy breath.
And her absolutely ridiculous eyebrows.
How else can I explain the fact that within 6 hours of learning of her existence, we became the very confused owners of Mishka, a 6 week old purebred Alaskan Husky.
Mishka, with the softest gray eyes and the sweetest temperament I have ever seen in a puppy.
When the breeder set her down at our feet she bolted under my legs and hid there, shaken from the car ride that brought her into our lives. She spent the ride to our house with her nose in my armpit, occasionally stealing glances from under my shirt with those lovely gray eyes.
Auggie, the original Dog wonder has taken a fatherly attitude to her.
Baxter, the much-beleaguered Cat, has given up any hope that he may have a peaceful space in this house. He took one look at Mishka and glared at me. Granted, it has been a rather unpleasant weekend for him. My sil shaved him. I believe she called it the 'lion' cut. I took one look at him and nearly peed my pants laughing.
Hurricane's happy squeals and rapid-fire cries for "meeka!" have been greeted with small wet kisses.
Girl melted at Mishka's feet and was treated to gentle nibbles.
Mr X sighed that very defeated sigh. He never wanted a female dog. He had his heart set on one that would maybe not shed so much.
Still, once he knew he'd been defeated, he demanded only the very best in puppy food for her.
He is currently curled up with her. Snoring together.
And I?
I love puppy breath.
And her absolutely ridiculous eyebrows.
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
We Now Interrupt Your Regularly Scheduled Vacation Because OMG! Fuckers!
So what is a really good way to completely fuck up a vacation?
Um. Have your husband 'lose' his wallet at Chucky Cheese On Crack only to find it 6 hours later after someone has taken all of your credit cards, cash and ATM card.
Fuckers.
I hope they use it. Because we cancelled the cards and filed a report with the police and it's a felony and I want them to get arrested and dammitalltheydeservelifeinprison!
And I had a rainbow colada to make me feel better. And another because it was really good. And since I drink exactly never you get semi-drunk blogging and lots of swearing and it's taken me exactically 43 minutes to type this because I have to keep going back or you'll see something more like thiskdf andhi if t dont harfly ,mmmmmmakeee sdenbhse. And I keep forgetting that you are there and I am typiing and OMG I had to cancel all of our fucking credit cards because Fuckers!!
I heart Rainbow Coladas.
That is all.
*Except for OMG poor spell check. I think I maybe broke it. Maybe I should buy it some Coladas too. Mmmmm Captain Morgan's Rum........
**And also except for OMG! What the holy hell people? I have had 8 people find me in the last 2 months by tyoing in "I have worms in me".
Jeebus! Stop putting worms in yourself! I recommend trying alcohol instead.
Um. Have your husband 'lose' his wallet at Chucky Cheese On Crack only to find it 6 hours later after someone has taken all of your credit cards, cash and ATM card.
Fuckers.
I hope they use it. Because we cancelled the cards and filed a report with the police and it's a felony and I want them to get arrested and dammitalltheydeservelifeinprison!
And I had a rainbow colada to make me feel better. And another because it was really good. And since I drink exactly never you get semi-drunk blogging and lots of swearing and it's taken me exactically 43 minutes to type this because I have to keep going back or you'll see something more like thiskdf andhi if t dont harfly ,mmmmmmakeee sdenbhse. And I keep forgetting that you are there and I am typiing and OMG I had to cancel all of our fucking credit cards because Fuckers!!
I heart Rainbow Coladas.
That is all.
*Except for OMG poor spell check. I think I maybe broke it. Maybe I should buy it some Coladas too. Mmmmm Captain Morgan's Rum........
**And also except for OMG! What the holy hell people? I have had 8 people find me in the last 2 months by tyoing in "I have worms in me".
Jeebus! Stop putting worms in yourself! I recommend trying alcohol instead.
Thursday, July 20, 2006
Vacation
In less than 3 days my parents will be here for 10 days.
10 days of spoiling the kids rotten.
10 days in which to cram what would normally be 6 months worth of activities.
Hopefully by the end I'll still be somewhat sane. Or at least as intact as I am now.
One thing is for certain, they will provide ample fodder for when I return in August.
10 days of spoiling the kids rotten.
10 days in which to cram what would normally be 6 months worth of activities.
Hopefully by the end I'll still be somewhat sane. Or at least as intact as I am now.
One thing is for certain, they will provide ample fodder for when I return in August.
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
Mother, Revisited
I had what must seem like the most hideous thoughts the other day. Some women I know were discussing their mothers' hospice care and subsequent deaths. They talked about the things they missed.
Actually, it's a feeling I've had before. I overhear someone discussing how wonderful their mother was. All the things that they did together, all the things that they learned from them.
And I feel envious.
It's something I will never have, those happy memories and lessons learned at my mother's hand that I can then pass on to my own children.
It has been more than 6 years since my mother died and I waver in how I feel about it all.
I can go weeks without even thinking of her.
We looked vastly different. I often heard people ask if she had adopted me, not quite believing that my beautiful blonde, petite and gentle-voiced mother could have possibly birthed a lumbering loud mouth brunette like me.
I don't see her when I look in the mirror.
I don't see her features in the faces of my children.
We shared little in the way of common interests.
Except for my fascination with her when I was young. During that period I loved her nearly as much as she loved herself.
I will walk into a department store and smell her perfume on another woman. It takes me back to her home. When I would be invited to visit, which until I had my daughter was rarely, her entire house would smell of her perfume. And it should have been overwhelming and stifling, instead it was sweet and light.
I catch a glimpse of a woman as she walks confidently through the mall and for a moment my heart catches. Then she turns and I'm left with the feeling that I have missed out on something grand.
When I was a child I had convinced myself that my mother was really Cher. That when she would need to perform she would simply slip into that long black wig. Their features were similar enough to enable my young mind to believe it, to use this as the reason for why she didn't have time for me.
There were many years where we didn't speak to each other at all. During those times she would lavish extravagant gifts on my siblings with the explanation that they had been such very good children. And I was the bad seed.
She used to tell her therapist that I just got 'lost in the shuffle'.
She wasn't all bad. We did have days where just to sit next to her was like Christmas morning.
But the older I got, the less use she really had for me.
It became apparent that I would never be her, never be what she wanted me to be. I would always be too tall, too brunette, too loud, too much my father's child.
I had hoped things would change once my daughter was born. Briefly I was able to convince myself that it had. That her constant invitations and the things she bought for us were because she loved me.
It wasn't until later that I came to understand that she had hoped my small, nearly blonde daughter would be like her. And a part of me is grateful that she is gone, because it means that that transformation will never come to pass.
My general rule of parenting is to imagine what my mother would do and then do the opposite.
Because her death was so sudden, so unexpected, there was never time to say good-bye. I don't know if that would have made a difference or not.
Some days I think I've forgiven her for who she was. That sounds so arrogant doesn't it? I don't mean it to be.
Sometimes I hate her. Sometimes I miss her. I feel guilty and angry. It is an imbalance and an uncomfortable feeling.
I laugh to think of what she would say now, if she knew how I felt.
Often I think that I will never be able to just let it all go.
The thing that keeps me up at night?
Imagining my daughter feeling the same way about me.
Actually, it's a feeling I've had before. I overhear someone discussing how wonderful their mother was. All the things that they did together, all the things that they learned from them.
And I feel envious.
It's something I will never have, those happy memories and lessons learned at my mother's hand that I can then pass on to my own children.
It has been more than 6 years since my mother died and I waver in how I feel about it all.
I can go weeks without even thinking of her.
We looked vastly different. I often heard people ask if she had adopted me, not quite believing that my beautiful blonde, petite and gentle-voiced mother could have possibly birthed a lumbering loud mouth brunette like me.
I don't see her when I look in the mirror.
I don't see her features in the faces of my children.
We shared little in the way of common interests.
Except for my fascination with her when I was young. During that period I loved her nearly as much as she loved herself.
I will walk into a department store and smell her perfume on another woman. It takes me back to her home. When I would be invited to visit, which until I had my daughter was rarely, her entire house would smell of her perfume. And it should have been overwhelming and stifling, instead it was sweet and light.
I catch a glimpse of a woman as she walks confidently through the mall and for a moment my heart catches. Then she turns and I'm left with the feeling that I have missed out on something grand.
When I was a child I had convinced myself that my mother was really Cher. That when she would need to perform she would simply slip into that long black wig. Their features were similar enough to enable my young mind to believe it, to use this as the reason for why she didn't have time for me.
There were many years where we didn't speak to each other at all. During those times she would lavish extravagant gifts on my siblings with the explanation that they had been such very good children. And I was the bad seed.
She used to tell her therapist that I just got 'lost in the shuffle'.
She wasn't all bad. We did have days where just to sit next to her was like Christmas morning.
But the older I got, the less use she really had for me.
It became apparent that I would never be her, never be what she wanted me to be. I would always be too tall, too brunette, too loud, too much my father's child.
I had hoped things would change once my daughter was born. Briefly I was able to convince myself that it had. That her constant invitations and the things she bought for us were because she loved me.
It wasn't until later that I came to understand that she had hoped my small, nearly blonde daughter would be like her. And a part of me is grateful that she is gone, because it means that that transformation will never come to pass.
My general rule of parenting is to imagine what my mother would do and then do the opposite.
Because her death was so sudden, so unexpected, there was never time to say good-bye. I don't know if that would have made a difference or not.
Some days I think I've forgiven her for who she was. That sounds so arrogant doesn't it? I don't mean it to be.
Sometimes I hate her. Sometimes I miss her. I feel guilty and angry. It is an imbalance and an uncomfortable feeling.
I laugh to think of what she would say now, if she knew how I felt.
Often I think that I will never be able to just let it all go.
The thing that keeps me up at night?
Imagining my daughter feeling the same way about me.
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
May They Disappear While I Am Sleeping
I realized today that there are far worse fashion offenses than Clogs.
There are those that crush your soul until all you can do is choke and claim that the wearer is no one you know.
No where in our marriage vows did it say anything out holy socks worn with sandals. I checked.
There are those that crush your soul until all you can do is choke and claim that the wearer is no one you know.
No where in our marriage vows did it say anything out holy socks worn with sandals. I checked.
Monday, July 17, 2006
If It's The Thought That Counts, I'm Afraid Of What This Might Mean
I think that most of the time when I describe my mother-in-law the listener is possibly thinking that I'm exaggerating her craziness, the strange things she says and does. Or, as in this case, gives.
So, this time I took pictures.
I thought I had gotten rid of Scary-Ass Clown when it was given to Hurricane for his birthday. I would have sworn that he had burned in an accidental fire that spontaneously sprung from our backyard.
But no. As I gathered things for our yard sale this weekend, Scary-Ass Clown made an appearance. He eyed me with suspicion as I warily applied a 'Free' sticker to his head. I would happily have paid to have him removed from the house.
In what should be no surprise to anyone, no one wanted him. This morning I took a chance that my MIL would not go to a goodwill 20 miles from her house and buy him again (because she has done this sort of thing before) and left him there.
First, I would like you to note his many pockets. Most would assume that these are for shoes. Hurricane and I came to the same conclusion. Those pockets are to hold spare body parts that Scary-Ass Clown could not consume on the spot.
Hurricane took one look at that creepy grin and started crying, burrowing his head into my neck please don't let that thing eat me!
I also feel the need to point out the eyebrows. Those very furry eyebrows. It feels like real hair. Possibly animal. Certainly not her own as it's the wrong color but I wouldn't have been surprised if it was.
After the bejewelled bird barrette that I buried in the backyard and the lighted moving picture of baby Jesus, now Scary-Ass Clown? I find myself more and more wary of opening her 'gifts'. I have a feeling the next one might actually bite.
I will kill you in your sleep!
Be hypnotized by my overly hair eyebrows!
So, this time I took pictures.
I thought I had gotten rid of Scary-Ass Clown when it was given to Hurricane for his birthday. I would have sworn that he had burned in an accidental fire that spontaneously sprung from our backyard.
But no. As I gathered things for our yard sale this weekend, Scary-Ass Clown made an appearance. He eyed me with suspicion as I warily applied a 'Free' sticker to his head. I would happily have paid to have him removed from the house.
In what should be no surprise to anyone, no one wanted him. This morning I took a chance that my MIL would not go to a goodwill 20 miles from her house and buy him again (because she has done this sort of thing before) and left him there.
First, I would like you to note his many pockets. Most would assume that these are for shoes. Hurricane and I came to the same conclusion. Those pockets are to hold spare body parts that Scary-Ass Clown could not consume on the spot.
Hurricane took one look at that creepy grin and started crying, burrowing his head into my neck please don't let that thing eat me!
I also feel the need to point out the eyebrows. Those very furry eyebrows. It feels like real hair. Possibly animal. Certainly not her own as it's the wrong color but I wouldn't have been surprised if it was.
After the bejewelled bird barrette that I buried in the backyard and the lighted moving picture of baby Jesus, now Scary-Ass Clown? I find myself more and more wary of opening her 'gifts'. I have a feeling the next one might actually bite.
I will kill you in your sleep!
Be hypnotized by my overly hair eyebrows!
Friday, July 14, 2006
Thursday, July 13, 2006
Yard Sale Angst
So we decided to sell a bunch of the crap, er, our stuff that we longer need/want/use. I've been getting stuff together and pricing it all for Saturday. Mr X came in and leaned over my shoulder, frowning.
"Don't you think you're pricing that a bit high? Who's going to buy it at that price?"
"Buy it? This is what I'm willing to pay them to take it away."
Seriously. My grandmother was a yard sale queen. It was physically impossible for her to pass one of those signs and not stop. Most of the things she would buy were things that no human being on the planet would ever want or need. Some things that no one recognized as anything other than a hunk or metal or plastic. And she never paid full price. She once argued with a lady for 10 minutes over something priced at a dime. In the time that it took her to aggravate the lady so much that she gave it to my grandmother for free, my brother had decided to see if a car's cigarette lighter would really scar his skin. It does. But hey, my grandma got a thimble from Ohio for free.
My main worry is that no one will show up.
"Gah! No one is going to come and look at this crap! I'm going to be sitting in our driveway surrounded by crap and our neighbors will really think I'm batty and ohmygoshwhatamIdoingthisfor??? ARRRGGHHH!"
"Seriously? Chill out. If no one shows, we'll just call my mom."
Personally? I don't think this was funny.
His sister once tried to get rid of some clothes that she no longer needed since she lost a lot of weight. Her mom came over and took the clothes. She insisted that they could be tailored to fit her daughter again. Currently they are collecting dust amid the other piles of Only-God-Knows-What-That-Is-Oh-Crap-It-Just-Moved! in their garage.
If his mom comes over, we'll never be able to get rid of this stuff. It will just sit in my house and collect dust until the dust magically comes to life and takes over my brain and I become her and oh my gosh no wonder I can't sleep anymore somebody make it stop!!!
So, yes. We're having a yard sale this weekend. Just please for the love of chocolate, don't tell my mother-in-law.
"Don't you think you're pricing that a bit high? Who's going to buy it at that price?"
"Buy it? This is what I'm willing to pay them to take it away."
Seriously. My grandmother was a yard sale queen. It was physically impossible for her to pass one of those signs and not stop. Most of the things she would buy were things that no human being on the planet would ever want or need. Some things that no one recognized as anything other than a hunk or metal or plastic. And she never paid full price. She once argued with a lady for 10 minutes over something priced at a dime. In the time that it took her to aggravate the lady so much that she gave it to my grandmother for free, my brother had decided to see if a car's cigarette lighter would really scar his skin. It does. But hey, my grandma got a thimble from Ohio for free.
My main worry is that no one will show up.
"Gah! No one is going to come and look at this crap! I'm going to be sitting in our driveway surrounded by crap and our neighbors will really think I'm batty and ohmygoshwhatamIdoingthisfor??? ARRRGGHHH!"
"Seriously? Chill out. If no one shows, we'll just call my mom."
Personally? I don't think this was funny.
His sister once tried to get rid of some clothes that she no longer needed since she lost a lot of weight. Her mom came over and took the clothes. She insisted that they could be tailored to fit her daughter again. Currently they are collecting dust amid the other piles of Only-God-Knows-What-That-Is-Oh-Crap-It-Just-Moved! in their garage.
If his mom comes over, we'll never be able to get rid of this stuff. It will just sit in my house and collect dust until the dust magically comes to life and takes over my brain and I become her and oh my gosh no wonder I can't sleep anymore somebody make it stop!!!
So, yes. We're having a yard sale this weekend. Just please for the love of chocolate, don't tell my mother-in-law.
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
Dear Girl,
Many times you have discussed your future with me. Occasionally you have even understood that this future involves you living in your own house apart from me. Other times the thought of not being under my roof seems to frighten you and you insist that you will always want to live here, with us.
There are times you seem uncertain about what your role in life will be. Is it your duty to be a mother and wife? Or are you supposed to go to college and find work? Is there a hard and defined rule to what you are meant for?
When asked at school what you want to be when you grow up, your answers have varied from swim teacher, to lawyer, police officer, amusement park employee or mother.
I want you to know that those things do not have to be exclusive of eachother.
There is no hard and defined rule for you.
No one can tell you what you are meant for my dear girl. Only you.
If there is one thing you get from me, one thing you can hold true, let it be this.
Your fate, your future, cannot be controlled by anyone else. My daughter, your fate is in your hands.
May they always be full.
There are times you seem uncertain about what your role in life will be. Is it your duty to be a mother and wife? Or are you supposed to go to college and find work? Is there a hard and defined rule to what you are meant for?
When asked at school what you want to be when you grow up, your answers have varied from swim teacher, to lawyer, police officer, amusement park employee or mother.
I want you to know that those things do not have to be exclusive of eachother.
There is no hard and defined rule for you.
No one can tell you what you are meant for my dear girl. Only you.
If there is one thing you get from me, one thing you can hold true, let it be this.
Your fate, your future, cannot be controlled by anyone else. My daughter, your fate is in your hands.
May they always be full.
Monday, July 10, 2006
Sleepless In Seattle
Hello Insomnia, my old friend. It's been almost 6 months since I've seen you. I almost fooled myself into thinking that I was in the clear.
Moron.
At different points in my life I've dealt with bouts of insomnia. As a teen and non-parenty type, it wasn't a big deal.
But once I had kid #1? The insomnia thing sucks.
It's hard to function as a decent parent when you are running on 2 hours of sleep to no sleep for several days in a row.
I just can't get my mind to shut up it's running commentary.
I've been writing this blog for a year now. (Holy shit!) I thought maybe, just maybe, it would help if I had some way to release the stupid things that run through my head all day.
But here I am again. Sitting up in bed, staring out the window as the neighbor's cat chases air around our yard.
Figures. I finally get kid #2 to sleep through the night and I can't.
Moron.
At different points in my life I've dealt with bouts of insomnia. As a teen and non-parenty type, it wasn't a big deal.
But once I had kid #1? The insomnia thing sucks.
It's hard to function as a decent parent when you are running on 2 hours of sleep to no sleep for several days in a row.
I just can't get my mind to shut up it's running commentary.
I've been writing this blog for a year now. (Holy shit!) I thought maybe, just maybe, it would help if I had some way to release the stupid things that run through my head all day.
But here I am again. Sitting up in bed, staring out the window as the neighbor's cat chases air around our yard.
Figures. I finally get kid #2 to sleep through the night and I can't.
Sunday, July 09, 2006
Bonding.
I'm sitting on my deck sipping my iced tea on a warm and quiet late morning. I'm watching the kids as they play .
Hurricane runs after Girl as she races after the ball he just kicked. They are both laughing. She grabs for the ball and turns, leaning over.
"Here buddy, kick it!"
He reaches up and grabs her hand to steady himself and kicks the ball.
Again, he follows as she runs for the ball. They play for an hour before it's time to come in for lunch.
He sits in his highchair, she at the table by his side.
He squeals merrily as she contorts lips and eyes into goofy poses for his amusement.
She leans over and whispers something in his ear.
He smiles and touches her nose.
Later, after his nap, they are once again in the backyard. This time in the kiddie pool.
He is waving his arms like a maniac, spraying sheets of water in all directions. She laughs and shows him how to load the plastic fish to squirt.
They play until they are wrinkled a bit chilled.
It is evening now. Dinner is over. The light outside is slowly dimming, the air, cooler. I am cleaning up the kitchen, preparing for the next day.
The kids are bathed, ready for bed. Hair damp and brushed. Pajamas soft and sweet smelling.
He sits in her lap as she reads to him, pointing out the animals in the book, cheering him on as he names a few on his own.
He claps his hands. She smiles.
He leans over and kisses her. She pulls him in for a kiss.
I tuck them both into bed.
Despite those days where I think they'll simply never get along, never accept the other's place in this house, I see it now. What they have is what I had always wanted with my own siblings. I hope it will remain. I wish I could bottle it and feed it to them on Those Days.
Girl had spent so much time talking about how she wanted a sibling, specifically a brother, that I don't think she fully realized what it would mean. She spent 7 years as a one and only. Then one day she had to share it all and it was unsettling.
I remember in the hospital as we handed him to her and she smiled, said 'hi little bro'. I also remember how many times she asked me to just put him away so that we could play again. 19 months later and there are still days I wonder. And then there are these moments that take my breath away.
Watching them now, my heart is full but light. And it's good.
Hurricane runs after Girl as she races after the ball he just kicked. They are both laughing. She grabs for the ball and turns, leaning over.
"Here buddy, kick it!"
He reaches up and grabs her hand to steady himself and kicks the ball.
Again, he follows as she runs for the ball. They play for an hour before it's time to come in for lunch.
He sits in his highchair, she at the table by his side.
He squeals merrily as she contorts lips and eyes into goofy poses for his amusement.
She leans over and whispers something in his ear.
He smiles and touches her nose.
Later, after his nap, they are once again in the backyard. This time in the kiddie pool.
He is waving his arms like a maniac, spraying sheets of water in all directions. She laughs and shows him how to load the plastic fish to squirt.
They play until they are wrinkled a bit chilled.
It is evening now. Dinner is over. The light outside is slowly dimming, the air, cooler. I am cleaning up the kitchen, preparing for the next day.
The kids are bathed, ready for bed. Hair damp and brushed. Pajamas soft and sweet smelling.
He sits in her lap as she reads to him, pointing out the animals in the book, cheering him on as he names a few on his own.
He claps his hands. She smiles.
He leans over and kisses her. She pulls him in for a kiss.
I tuck them both into bed.
Despite those days where I think they'll simply never get along, never accept the other's place in this house, I see it now. What they have is what I had always wanted with my own siblings. I hope it will remain. I wish I could bottle it and feed it to them on Those Days.
Girl had spent so much time talking about how she wanted a sibling, specifically a brother, that I don't think she fully realized what it would mean. She spent 7 years as a one and only. Then one day she had to share it all and it was unsettling.
I remember in the hospital as we handed him to her and she smiled, said 'hi little bro'. I also remember how many times she asked me to just put him away so that we could play again. 19 months later and there are still days I wonder. And then there are these moments that take my breath away.
Watching them now, my heart is full but light. And it's good.
Thursday, July 06, 2006
Betrayal
As usual, my very best intentions have been thwarted by a furry red muppet bastard and his number one fan's sensitive nature.
It seemed like a wonderful idea. A sprinkler made just for babies and toddlers in the shape of Elmo. It sprayed a very fine mist in a rather non-threatening (and thankfully not giggling) manner.
But much like his first encounter with the giggling (and yes. I just now, months later, discovered that those Elmo heads giggle when squeezed. So great, now Hurricane can listen to Elmo giggle maniacally while the muppet gobbles up his toes. Fabulous.) slippers, it did not go as expected.
LaLa my dear friend! It's raining! Come inside with me and
we'll eat cookies and plot to destroy Cat!
Wait! Lala? NO! Say it ain't so!
What the hell mom? What did you
do to my friend?
It seemed like a wonderful idea. A sprinkler made just for babies and toddlers in the shape of Elmo. It sprayed a very fine mist in a rather non-threatening (and thankfully not giggling) manner.
But much like his first encounter with the giggling (and yes. I just now, months later, discovered that those Elmo heads giggle when squeezed. So great, now Hurricane can listen to Elmo giggle maniacally while the muppet gobbles up his toes. Fabulous.) slippers, it did not go as expected.
LaLa my dear friend! It's raining! Come inside with me and
we'll eat cookies and plot to destroy Cat!
Wait! Lala? NO! Say it ain't so!
What the hell mom? What did youdo to my friend?
Ugh. He wanted no part of this thing that spit at him. He sat on the side walk and cried La La Nooooo.......
And in case I didn't already understand just how very strange a boy he was, he decided to reveal his fear of the alphabet.
It started simply enough. I began the afternoon, after he wakes from his nap cheerful and angelic (shut up), as I always do. With a cheerful, if a bit (shut up) off key rendition of the ABC's.
He whimpered when I reached C.
Whined at F.
Rubbed his eyes and threw himself into a heap of warm angst in my lap at H.
Covered my mouth and pleaded for me to stop at M.
Began to cry at P.
R made him yell 'NONONONO!' as he covered his head.
By W he was red-faced and tear streaked, gasping in agony.
Z.
HATE.
I couldn't believe that it was the song that had caused him to react that way.
I tried to sing it again but didn't make it beyond B.
I thought maybe he was turning into Simon Cowell thanks to his father's secret addiction to American Idol.
So I sang Twinkle Twinkle Little Star (it has the same tune as ABC), and he clapped and smiled.
I waited until Mr X got him.
"Watch this."
I made it to D before his little body burst into flames and the letters simply smothered him.
"Whoa."
Mr X tried to sing it for him.
He was immediately tackled and bludgeoned with a Weeble.
I am not sure what sort of falling out my son has had with the alphabet. Only that it was so severe as to have caused their banishment.
Sesame Street has never been so sad.
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
She'll Have What He's Having
Once upon a time, not terribly long ago, I dreaded the 4th of July. The fireworks lit by idiot neighbors hell bent on setting our house on fire, the fireworks lit by certain unnamed individuals who very nearly blew themselves up as they stood over fireworks lit by other certain unnamed individuals (and for once it wasn't me!), the loud booming, the smoke, the residue that thickly coated everything on our street.
No, that hasn't changed. There are still people on our street who think fireworks safety involves pointing the roman candle up in the air and holding it IN THEIR HANDS as they light it. Our street is littered with casings and only a few body parts. Ash has coated my van in fine gray film.
What has changed is that I now have my very own drug dealer. Someone I hold very dear for they have made it possible to actually leave my house on 4th of July and enjoy the neighbors injuries in person without worrying that our overgrown lap dog has hurled himself through a window in an effort to rescue us from the Smoke! and the Noise! and My G-d Don't These Humans Know They Are In DANGER????
Yes, our lovable brute of Dog has one true fear. Fireworks.
He paces and cries. He buries his head under the bed and whines. He hides in the bathtub and howls. And should we dare to attempt to leave the house and put ourselves in such close proximity to the danger, well. He feels morally obligated to protect us from ourselves.
We realized this the year we left a window open and he jumped through the screen to 'save' us.
So now we happily sedate him. And because of where we live, we must do this for several days. He spends about 4 to 5 days happily wandering through the house in a daze. I imagine it to be like taking care of a very stoned old man. He stumbles and pants. His eyes go from being ridiculously wide open to all squinty and bloodshot. If he is not quite where you left him, simply follow the trail of drool to the kitchen where you will find him looking rather forlornly at the pantry where all the good trash is. Also? Cookies. Human cookies. Also? The staring. At nothing. Yesterday I found him in the hallway staring at the nightlight. I snapped my fingers, called his name, waved food in his general direction but he didn't budge. Just drooled.
Yesterday we spent a large portion of our time laughing at our inebriated dog (as he was sadly the only inebriated one in our house) and trying to confine Hurricane to his own body.
Yesterday was also the day I realized just how different my two children will be.
My dear Girl. She and Dog have much in common. We had to physically carry her off the porch. She wouldn't go near the sparklers much less actually hold one.
In fact, I think her exact words were Are you insane? I'm not touching that and you can't make me lunatic!
I suggested that she go inside and watch from under the bed as Dog often did but she did finally, albeit reluctantly, join us.
She cried. A lot. At first anyway.
By the end though, she actually held a sparkler. Granted it had already been lit for awhile and it only had a few seconds left. Also, she held t as far away from her body as possible and looked as though she may drop it and run at any second. But she did it. And I was proud of her.
Hurricane. Geez. That kid went ape shit. He didn't know whether to sit, stand, or dance. So he did all three. All night.
He pointed and his body shook.
Whoa!!!! OOOOOOOO!!!! WOWWOWWOW!
We had to hold onto him at one point to keep him from running into the street and grabbing the fountain of fireworks our neighbor had set off. He wanted so desperately to hold the pretty lights.
He turned and twisted, craning his neck to see everything being set off. He was in awe.
By the end of our night he was in arms, his head resting against mine. The people who live behind us set off their grand finale and as we watched the sky light up in purple, red, blue and green, Hurricane whispered wow, so softly. I think that summed it all up for him perfectly.
Today as we left the house he lifted his face to the sky in search of those pretty lights he loved so much. When there was no grand show, he hunched his shoulders, raised his arms palms up, bent at the elbows and simply asked where the boo?
Girl simply breathed. Relief. She has 364 days before she will once again be wishing she was Dog.
No, that hasn't changed. There are still people on our street who think fireworks safety involves pointing the roman candle up in the air and holding it IN THEIR HANDS as they light it. Our street is littered with casings and only a few body parts. Ash has coated my van in fine gray film.
What has changed is that I now have my very own drug dealer. Someone I hold very dear for they have made it possible to actually leave my house on 4th of July and enjoy the neighbors injuries in person without worrying that our overgrown lap dog has hurled himself through a window in an effort to rescue us from the Smoke! and the Noise! and My G-d Don't These Humans Know They Are In DANGER????
Yes, our lovable brute of Dog has one true fear. Fireworks.
He paces and cries. He buries his head under the bed and whines. He hides in the bathtub and howls. And should we dare to attempt to leave the house and put ourselves in such close proximity to the danger, well. He feels morally obligated to protect us from ourselves.
We realized this the year we left a window open and he jumped through the screen to 'save' us.
So now we happily sedate him. And because of where we live, we must do this for several days. He spends about 4 to 5 days happily wandering through the house in a daze. I imagine it to be like taking care of a very stoned old man. He stumbles and pants. His eyes go from being ridiculously wide open to all squinty and bloodshot. If he is not quite where you left him, simply follow the trail of drool to the kitchen where you will find him looking rather forlornly at the pantry where all the good trash is. Also? Cookies. Human cookies. Also? The staring. At nothing. Yesterday I found him in the hallway staring at the nightlight. I snapped my fingers, called his name, waved food in his general direction but he didn't budge. Just drooled.
Yesterday we spent a large portion of our time laughing at our inebriated dog (as he was sadly the only inebriated one in our house) and trying to confine Hurricane to his own body.
Yesterday was also the day I realized just how different my two children will be.
My dear Girl. She and Dog have much in common. We had to physically carry her off the porch. She wouldn't go near the sparklers much less actually hold one.
In fact, I think her exact words were Are you insane? I'm not touching that and you can't make me lunatic!
I suggested that she go inside and watch from under the bed as Dog often did but she did finally, albeit reluctantly, join us.
She cried. A lot. At first anyway.
By the end though, she actually held a sparkler. Granted it had already been lit for awhile and it only had a few seconds left. Also, she held t as far away from her body as possible and looked as though she may drop it and run at any second. But she did it. And I was proud of her.
Hurricane. Geez. That kid went ape shit. He didn't know whether to sit, stand, or dance. So he did all three. All night.
He pointed and his body shook.
Whoa!!!! OOOOOOOO!!!! WOWWOWWOW!
We had to hold onto him at one point to keep him from running into the street and grabbing the fountain of fireworks our neighbor had set off. He wanted so desperately to hold the pretty lights.
He turned and twisted, craning his neck to see everything being set off. He was in awe.
By the end of our night he was in arms, his head resting against mine. The people who live behind us set off their grand finale and as we watched the sky light up in purple, red, blue and green, Hurricane whispered wow, so softly. I think that summed it all up for him perfectly.
Today as we left the house he lifted his face to the sky in search of those pretty lights he loved so much. When there was no grand show, he hunched his shoulders, raised his arms palms up, bent at the elbows and simply asked where the boo?
Girl simply breathed. Relief. She has 364 days before she will once again be wishing she was Dog.
Thursday, June 29, 2006
Please Tell Me She Snores.
The Girl had her martial arts thing today. Hurricane and I sat off to the side, half watching. Mostly he tried to run out there and join her.
Finally I gave up trying to hold him back and strapped him to his high chair. For my effort I was treated to the Glare and Growl. I say growl but really? It's funny. Unless you've seen The Grudge, Then not so much. Because you know the part where the wet misshapen Asian girl opens her mouth and makes that guttural noise? Hurricane does an excellent impression that sends ice water down my spine.
In an effort to distract him I ran my fingers up and down his back through the fabric of the umbrella stroller. He is so very ticklish and his back is one of the worst spots.
He squealed and his eyes got wide.
I did it again.
He jumped and laughed. I started laughing too and then it happened.
I snorted.
Yes. I sometimes snort when I laugh. In fact, if I'm really laughing, there's going to be a snort in there somewhere.
Most of the time I can disguise it. Or it's soft enough that no one notices.
This was not one of those times. This was one of those times that one of those 'perfect' moms had to be nearby and of course heard me. And laughed and of course told her equally perfect husband who looked at me and smirked.
She was lean, platinum blonde, perfect teeth, manicured nails and impeccably dressed.
The type that makes me feel as though I've been playing in my mother's makeup.
And I snort when I laugh. Dork.
Finally I gave up trying to hold him back and strapped him to his high chair. For my effort I was treated to the Glare and Growl. I say growl but really? It's funny. Unless you've seen The Grudge, Then not so much. Because you know the part where the wet misshapen Asian girl opens her mouth and makes that guttural noise? Hurricane does an excellent impression that sends ice water down my spine.
In an effort to distract him I ran my fingers up and down his back through the fabric of the umbrella stroller. He is so very ticklish and his back is one of the worst spots.
He squealed and his eyes got wide.
I did it again.
He jumped and laughed. I started laughing too and then it happened.
I snorted.
Yes. I sometimes snort when I laugh. In fact, if I'm really laughing, there's going to be a snort in there somewhere.
Most of the time I can disguise it. Or it's soft enough that no one notices.
This was not one of those times. This was one of those times that one of those 'perfect' moms had to be nearby and of course heard me. And laughed and of course told her equally perfect husband who looked at me and smirked.
She was lean, platinum blonde, perfect teeth, manicured nails and impeccably dressed.
The type that makes me feel as though I've been playing in my mother's makeup.
And I snort when I laugh. Dork.
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
Things My Mother Never Told Me
Boy is that ever a loaded title. I think it would be a shorter post to simply put down the things she did tell me. Hmm. Maybe the things she told me that were useful. Yes. That would be a very brief post.
Perhaps a more appropriate title would have been "Things Other Mothers Probably Didn't Tell Their Daughters About Parenthood That Maybe Would Have Been Helpful. Or Not. But We'll Never Know Because They Didn't Tell Us."
But I don't think that title would have fit so well. You get the point. (shut up dumbass!- Says me. To me.)
*It will soon seem perfectly normal to have a child climbing into your lap as attempt to pee.
*Boys need to be pointed south.
*If you do not point them south, you will get very wet very quickly.
*An 8 year old can demolish a bathroom in 3 minutes flat given the proper motivation and the aid of a toddler armed with a rubber ducky and a love of toilets and flushing.
*Rubber duckies do not fit down the toilet. But they can get stuck just enough to cause a flood.
*Silence is scary. It means the children have found something interesting (Read: destructive) to do. Sometimes the screaming is a good thing.
*Cats don't like oatmeal. Not even if it's blue and made in one of your kitchen drawers by one very bored child.
*Children repeat the one word you wish they hadn't heard. Often at the most unfortunate moment. Like at your grandparent's anniversary dinner when she (3 at the time) asks your grandmother to pass the fucking rice. Be grateful grandma can't hear well.
*Children have the uncanny ability to physically harm you when you least expect it. Like the head butting thing I mentioned before? The one where you think it's entirely possible that your toddler just broke your nose? Or when they actually do break your glasses? (Yes. He did.)
*When it comes to food, kids can be damn picky. They will not eat simply because you told them too. Yes, mixed vegetable have to be separated before this one will eat them. That one won't eat anything on the plate if there is even a hint of vegetable in there. This one won't eat things that are red. That one will only eat things that can be made into finger food.
*Kids can also be extremely possessive of said food. Like when the girl stabbed her grandpa in the hand with her fork when he tried to take a bite of her pancake. Or when version 2.0 took a bite out of girl for taking a bite out of his ice cream.
*Kids know what the ice cream truck is on instinct. It doesn't matter how many times you tell them that music is for the vegetable truck, they know.
*Children like sticking stuff in holes. Cover your nose or you'll get woken up when one of them decides to shove one of your tampons (which they really loved unwrapping and dipping into the toilet first) up your nostril. Nothing like a little toilet water in your nose to start your day.
*A child who can memorize 3 Shel Silverstein poems in 2 days for a theater camp production will not remember to flush a toilet even though you have been begging her for 2 years to please for pete's sake flush!
*Toothpaste to child is as paint to Picasso. (Also, according to Sarcastic Journalist, poop. Thank you dear Lord for sparing me on this one.)
*Pen does not easily come out of most flooring.
*You will, on occasion, lose your shit.
*Kids like to bang their heads on things. Hard. It's loud and will freak you out but will not cause any brain damage. I hope. (and I also kind of hope that it isn't just my kids who do this because otherwise. Shit.)
*It doesn't matter where you hide that really loud annoying toy. They will find it. Even if you wrap it up in plastic bags and bury it in the garbage bag under the 'leftovers' from your MIL's house.
Perhaps a more appropriate title would have been "Things Other Mothers Probably Didn't Tell Their Daughters About Parenthood That Maybe Would Have Been Helpful. Or Not. But We'll Never Know Because They Didn't Tell Us."
But I don't think that title would have fit so well. You get the point. (shut up dumbass!- Says me. To me.)
*It will soon seem perfectly normal to have a child climbing into your lap as attempt to pee.
*Boys need to be pointed south.
*If you do not point them south, you will get very wet very quickly.
*An 8 year old can demolish a bathroom in 3 minutes flat given the proper motivation and the aid of a toddler armed with a rubber ducky and a love of toilets and flushing.
*Rubber duckies do not fit down the toilet. But they can get stuck just enough to cause a flood.
*Silence is scary. It means the children have found something interesting (Read: destructive) to do. Sometimes the screaming is a good thing.
*Cats don't like oatmeal. Not even if it's blue and made in one of your kitchen drawers by one very bored child.
*Children repeat the one word you wish they hadn't heard. Often at the most unfortunate moment. Like at your grandparent's anniversary dinner when she (3 at the time) asks your grandmother to pass the fucking rice. Be grateful grandma can't hear well.
*Children have the uncanny ability to physically harm you when you least expect it. Like the head butting thing I mentioned before? The one where you think it's entirely possible that your toddler just broke your nose? Or when they actually do break your glasses? (Yes. He did.)
*When it comes to food, kids can be damn picky. They will not eat simply because you told them too. Yes, mixed vegetable have to be separated before this one will eat them. That one won't eat anything on the plate if there is even a hint of vegetable in there. This one won't eat things that are red. That one will only eat things that can be made into finger food.
*Kids can also be extremely possessive of said food. Like when the girl stabbed her grandpa in the hand with her fork when he tried to take a bite of her pancake. Or when version 2.0 took a bite out of girl for taking a bite out of his ice cream.
*Kids know what the ice cream truck is on instinct. It doesn't matter how many times you tell them that music is for the vegetable truck, they know.
*Children like sticking stuff in holes. Cover your nose or you'll get woken up when one of them decides to shove one of your tampons (which they really loved unwrapping and dipping into the toilet first) up your nostril. Nothing like a little toilet water in your nose to start your day.
*A child who can memorize 3 Shel Silverstein poems in 2 days for a theater camp production will not remember to flush a toilet even though you have been begging her for 2 years to please for pete's sake flush!
*Toothpaste to child is as paint to Picasso. (Also, according to Sarcastic Journalist, poop. Thank you dear Lord for sparing me on this one.)
*Pen does not easily come out of most flooring.
*You will, on occasion, lose your shit.
*Kids like to bang their heads on things. Hard. It's loud and will freak you out but will not cause any brain damage. I hope. (and I also kind of hope that it isn't just my kids who do this because otherwise. Shit.)
*It doesn't matter where you hide that really loud annoying toy. They will find it. Even if you wrap it up in plastic bags and bury it in the garbage bag under the 'leftovers' from your MIL's house.
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
The Dark Side
My kids look sweet and, most of the time, are so very well-mannered in public.
Internet?
It is a giant hideous lie!
I can leave them in the living room happily playing together and step 5 feet into the kitchen only to be treated to screaming and the sounds of hell opening up at their feet the moment I am out of their range of vision.
Sure there are moments of peace. Most often between the hours of 8 pm and 7 am. But even occasionally while they are awake and *gasp* together!
It is during these rare moments that they are plotting to destroy whatever grasp on my sanity I may have left.
Today was an especially bad day.
*Hurricane decided to bite himself for once. I can only hope that he has finally learned that biting hurts and he's not going to do it to other people anymore. In the meantime, he has a lovely imprint of his top and bottom teeth on his arm. I asked him what he did and he pointed directly at his sister who imploded on the spot. But since I know her to have a rather big mouth and this was a little bite, I knew he was simply doing what siblings have been doing since the beginning of time, looking to get the other one in trouble for nothing.
*I sent them into the backyard to play because I couldn't take the screaming anymore and thought it would be nice to share it with the neighborhood. There is a mound of rocks back there that Mr X is supposed to be using to line the garden boxes but instead it has become the kids domain. I was working in the kitchen where I could keep on eye on things. It had been quiet for awhile so I figured that Girl X must have buried Hurricane under the mound.
I looked up in time to see Hurricane throw a rock at his sister's head.
Girl X responded by telling him she was going to feed him to his Elmo slippers.
*I thought maybe they needed some time apart. That lasted all of 5 minutes before Girl X was begging to play with her brother again.
5 minutes later she was trying to steal his car from him so he chucked it at her head.
He has really good aim.
*As I was making dinner, they started again. Hurricane was content to sit at the table and play with his car. Girl X decided she liked his seat better so she simply sat down and slid him off the chair.
He screamed and threw a car at her head. Again.
Once she started screaming at him and he started screaming back, I lost it.
I started slamming the frying pan down on the stove and just screaming over them.
They both stopped and just looked at me.
"STOPITSTOPITSTOPITSTOPITSTOPIT!"
I had to leave the room. I was crying and on the verge of just snapping at them both and I didn't want to do that.
I had to lock myself in the bathroom and when Girl X came to tell me she was "hungry and what's for dinner hurricane hit me are you coming out what are you doing mom are youinthereareyouokcanIhaveacookiewhen
isdaddygettinghomemoooommmmm????"
"Mom is on a time out. Go away."
I love my kids. Most of the time I even love being a mom. I'm usually pretty laid back. But every now and then, my mother gets into my head and starts speaking through my mouth and she will not shut up.
That's my biggest fear. That I will be her and my kids will hate me.
Internet?
It is a giant hideous lie!
I can leave them in the living room happily playing together and step 5 feet into the kitchen only to be treated to screaming and the sounds of hell opening up at their feet the moment I am out of their range of vision.
Sure there are moments of peace. Most often between the hours of 8 pm and 7 am. But even occasionally while they are awake and *gasp* together!
It is during these rare moments that they are plotting to destroy whatever grasp on my sanity I may have left.
Today was an especially bad day.
*Hurricane decided to bite himself for once. I can only hope that he has finally learned that biting hurts and he's not going to do it to other people anymore. In the meantime, he has a lovely imprint of his top and bottom teeth on his arm. I asked him what he did and he pointed directly at his sister who imploded on the spot. But since I know her to have a rather big mouth and this was a little bite, I knew he was simply doing what siblings have been doing since the beginning of time, looking to get the other one in trouble for nothing.
*I sent them into the backyard to play because I couldn't take the screaming anymore and thought it would be nice to share it with the neighborhood. There is a mound of rocks back there that Mr X is supposed to be using to line the garden boxes but instead it has become the kids domain. I was working in the kitchen where I could keep on eye on things. It had been quiet for awhile so I figured that Girl X must have buried Hurricane under the mound.
I looked up in time to see Hurricane throw a rock at his sister's head.
Girl X responded by telling him she was going to feed him to his Elmo slippers.
*I thought maybe they needed some time apart. That lasted all of 5 minutes before Girl X was begging to play with her brother again.
5 minutes later she was trying to steal his car from him so he chucked it at her head.
He has really good aim.
*As I was making dinner, they started again. Hurricane was content to sit at the table and play with his car. Girl X decided she liked his seat better so she simply sat down and slid him off the chair.
He screamed and threw a car at her head. Again.
Once she started screaming at him and he started screaming back, I lost it.
I started slamming the frying pan down on the stove and just screaming over them.
They both stopped and just looked at me.
"STOPITSTOPITSTOPITSTOPITSTOPIT!"
I had to leave the room. I was crying and on the verge of just snapping at them both and I didn't want to do that.
I had to lock myself in the bathroom and when Girl X came to tell me she was "hungry and what's for dinner hurricane hit me are you coming out what are you doing mom are youinthereareyouokcanIhaveacookiewhen
isdaddygettinghomemoooommmmm????"
"Mom is on a time out. Go away."
I love my kids. Most of the time I even love being a mom. I'm usually pretty laid back. But every now and then, my mother gets into my head and starts speaking through my mouth and she will not shut up.
That's my biggest fear. That I will be her and my kids will hate me.
Monday, June 26, 2006
Conversations in the car
Me: "Can we count popcorn as a vegetable?"
Mr X: "No."
"Why not? It's corn."
"Yeah but once you pop it, it loses it's vegetability."
"It loses its... vege.. vegeta.. ve-wha?"
"Vegetability."
"That's not a word."
"It is now."
"That makes it sound like vegetables have super powers."
"That would make a really cool Halloween costume."
"Have you been eating expired yogurt again?"
"Not this week. But really, think about it. I bet there's a way to start off in a corn kernel costume then like, pull a cord and have it explode into popcorn. Like BAM! Gimme some candy or I'll pop! and then go back to a kernel before you get to the next house."
"Tell me something."
"What?"
"How the hell did you ever get me to marry you?"
"I didn't say this kind of stuff when we were dating."
"Oh yeah."
"I don't know where I'm going."
"You must have lost your vegetability."
From the backseat:
"Promise me that you two will never speak to my friends."
Which means we have filled our obligation as parents. Our daughter is embarrassed by us. Yay us!
Mr X: "No."
"Why not? It's corn."
"Yeah but once you pop it, it loses it's vegetability."
"It loses its... vege.. vegeta.. ve-wha?"
"Vegetability."
"That's not a word."
"It is now."
"That makes it sound like vegetables have super powers."
"That would make a really cool Halloween costume."
"Have you been eating expired yogurt again?"
"Not this week. But really, think about it. I bet there's a way to start off in a corn kernel costume then like, pull a cord and have it explode into popcorn. Like BAM! Gimme some candy or I'll pop! and then go back to a kernel before you get to the next house."
"Tell me something."
"What?"
"How the hell did you ever get me to marry you?"
"I didn't say this kind of stuff when we were dating."
"Oh yeah."
"I don't know where I'm going."
"You must have lost your vegetability."
From the backseat:
"Promise me that you two will never speak to my friends."
Which means we have filled our obligation as parents. Our daughter is embarrassed by us. Yay us!
Thursday, June 22, 2006
Kicking and Screaming
I told Mr X that his birthday (which was yesterday and he is 37 and I totally didn't forget. Really.) present from me was tickets to go see BB freaking King.
Right now he's in Arizona working. Again.
First he asked how much the tickets were.
I cringed. Because really? Week's worth of groceries and I almost had second thoughts but I don't care. I'll sell a damn kidney.
Then he asked what time it started.
8 pm.
Silence.
"Isn't that kind of late for Hurricane?"
"No, he won't be there."
Then he asked how far away it was and I spoke as quickly as I possibly could so that maybe he wouldn't notice that I said 2 hours which would mean that we'd be gone basically all night.
That's when he pretended that his cell phone was cutting out.
So I hung up and called his sister to ask her to watch the kids for the night of the concert.
By the time Mr X finally called me back, it was set.
I am going to see BB freaking King and he's going with me. End of story. Sort of.
Except for the part where I'll have to drug him and then have him carried out to the car to be driven to the show and possibly cuffed to the table.
I think after what it took for me to actually get the tickets I should be able to not have to fight about it.
Because I had to pick up the phone and push buttons and talk to actual real life people. And if you had heard me today, you would maybe be thinking that it was my first time using the phone. Because I said stupid things like "If I could I'd bear his children" or "Do you think he'd mind if I sat in his lap while he sang?" or "Um, hi. I'd like um to BB Freaking King tickets um buy now. I have um visa. Or a kidney."
So, if you answered the phone today and thought that maybe you were talking to someone who was perhaps mentally challenged, I'm sorry. That was just me.
Right now he's in Arizona working. Again.
First he asked how much the tickets were.
I cringed. Because really? Week's worth of groceries and I almost had second thoughts but I don't care. I'll sell a damn kidney.
Then he asked what time it started.
8 pm.
Silence.
"Isn't that kind of late for Hurricane?"
"No, he won't be there."
Then he asked how far away it was and I spoke as quickly as I possibly could so that maybe he wouldn't notice that I said 2 hours which would mean that we'd be gone basically all night.
That's when he pretended that his cell phone was cutting out.
So I hung up and called his sister to ask her to watch the kids for the night of the concert.
By the time Mr X finally called me back, it was set.
I am going to see BB freaking King and he's going with me. End of story. Sort of.
Except for the part where I'll have to drug him and then have him carried out to the car to be driven to the show and possibly cuffed to the table.
I think after what it took for me to actually get the tickets I should be able to not have to fight about it.
Because I had to pick up the phone and push buttons and talk to actual real life people. And if you had heard me today, you would maybe be thinking that it was my first time using the phone. Because I said stupid things like "If I could I'd bear his children" or "Do you think he'd mind if I sat in his lap while he sang?" or "Um, hi. I'd like um to BB Freaking King tickets um buy now. I have um visa. Or a kidney."
So, if you answered the phone today and thought that maybe you were talking to someone who was perhaps mentally challenged, I'm sorry. That was just me.
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
Before the Thrill is Gone.
I have been dancing around the house all night. I can't stop. Mr X had to hold me down because I wouldn't stop jumping up and down and he feared that I might give myself a concussion if I hit the wall with my head again. What? You don't bang your various body parts (unintentionally of course) on the walls when you dance?
Really?
Well. Anyway.
So excited, danger to myself, ok, we're all caught up.
Because I am going to go and see BB Freaking King in concert in August!!
Sorry- still jumping. I'm just so damned excited! See, every time I've ever had a chance to go see him, something has come up. This time? I don't care if Mr X cuts his arm off on the way, we're tournequeting that thing and enjoying the damned concert even if I have to dose him with valium to stifle his crying.
But that's not really the issue.
The issue is that we have never left Hurricane in the care of another person.
And it's not because of me.
It's Mr X.
At first I thought maybe he felt sorry for the person who would have to watch him. Yesterday Hurricane pulled a shelving unit down on his sister (She's totally fine) and there is that whole plot to destroy the house thing he has going on. But I thought with proper warning, a plan and maybe a toddler sized straight jacket they'd be fine.
No.
So, I thought maybe it's the lack of trustworthy people? My parents are too far away and his parents, um, I can't even complete that without laughing. Seriously. We just saw them this weekend and I couldn't even look at her face because she had painted her eyebrows purple.
Yes. Purple.
How can you leave your child in the care of a woman who would do that to their eyebrows? And I must point out that it wasn't like she had plucked her eyebrows and then filled them in with a little purple. No. She had actually painted purple arched eyebrows over her real ones.
I'm afraid Hurricane would return looking like Barney.
Also? She scares him.
And me.
Back on track.
Trustworthy people.
His sister. She's awesome and would be completely capable of watching him. Also? Friends of ours who he loves and I sometimes think would like to adopt would be great and perfectly willing.
No.
It's him. Mr X.
He simply cannot stand the thought of someone else taking care of him.
He is trying to convince me that the only way he can go is if he can take his phone and maybe spend the concert under the table talking to Hurricane.
Or perhaps sneaking him into the concert with us.
Or I should just go by myself or maybe take a friend and wouldn't our new neighbor like to see BB freaking King?
I think the only reasonable solution is to club him over the head and drag him in there. I will handcuff him to his chair and hold the phone. If necessary, I will duct tape his mouth shut.
Unless you have a better idea?
Really?
Well. Anyway.
So excited, danger to myself, ok, we're all caught up.
Because I am going to go and see BB Freaking King in concert in August!!
Sorry- still jumping. I'm just so damned excited! See, every time I've ever had a chance to go see him, something has come up. This time? I don't care if Mr X cuts his arm off on the way, we're tournequeting that thing and enjoying the damned concert even if I have to dose him with valium to stifle his crying.
But that's not really the issue.
The issue is that we have never left Hurricane in the care of another person.
And it's not because of me.
It's Mr X.
At first I thought maybe he felt sorry for the person who would have to watch him. Yesterday Hurricane pulled a shelving unit down on his sister (She's totally fine) and there is that whole plot to destroy the house thing he has going on. But I thought with proper warning, a plan and maybe a toddler sized straight jacket they'd be fine.
No.
So, I thought maybe it's the lack of trustworthy people? My parents are too far away and his parents, um, I can't even complete that without laughing. Seriously. We just saw them this weekend and I couldn't even look at her face because she had painted her eyebrows purple.
Yes. Purple.
How can you leave your child in the care of a woman who would do that to their eyebrows? And I must point out that it wasn't like she had plucked her eyebrows and then filled them in with a little purple. No. She had actually painted purple arched eyebrows over her real ones.
I'm afraid Hurricane would return looking like Barney.
Also? She scares him.
And me.
Back on track.
Trustworthy people.
His sister. She's awesome and would be completely capable of watching him. Also? Friends of ours who he loves and I sometimes think would like to adopt would be great and perfectly willing.
No.
It's him. Mr X.
He simply cannot stand the thought of someone else taking care of him.
He is trying to convince me that the only way he can go is if he can take his phone and maybe spend the concert under the table talking to Hurricane.
Or perhaps sneaking him into the concert with us.
Or I should just go by myself or maybe take a friend and wouldn't our new neighbor like to see BB freaking King?
I think the only reasonable solution is to club him over the head and drag him in there. I will handcuff him to his chair and hold the phone. If necessary, I will duct tape his mouth shut.
Unless you have a better idea?
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
Motorin'
In our marriage, Mr X is the Big Spender. EBay is my personal nightmare. I am on a first name basis with the UPS, Fed-Ex and USPS drivers. They bring bones for Dog. I think they fear that he will bite them. I have had to refrain from telling them that they need only fear leaving in need of a towel from the shower of drool he wishes to bestow upon them.
I like to save our money for things like, bills. Food. Clothes for the kids. College. Extra money that could be put towards savings. Oh Savings!! Screw Brad Pitt, in my fantasies the knight on the white horse is a padded savings account. And while we have one, I always look at it and think about how long it will be before we can pad it just a bit more.
Mr X likes EBay. He sees that little Buy Now! button in his sleep. I woke him up last night because he was laughing in his sleep. He had been dreaming about buying The Packers on EBay and he had the winning bid. I'm not entirely sure how to react to the reality that he was more excited about having the winning bid than the Packers. I don't think he even noticed me making out with Brett Favre.
Which perhaps explains his inability to walk away from the tricycle at Toys-R-Us that we really didn't need yet but he had to buy because we had a $5 off coupon and it came with a free movie pass! So what if it cost $50 and I could have possibly bought 2 of them and Hurricane is 18 MONTHS AND CANNOT EVEN REACH THE PEDALS.
So, we bought a tricycle. And then thought maybe it's be funny to teach him to ride it. Except that, you know, he can't reach the pedals.
First up: Mental Preparation.
I am the tricycle! I am tough! I am MEAN! GRRRRR!
Step 2: Safety first!
I know it's kind of silly to put a helmet on a kid on a tricycle, but this is Hurricane. And about 2 seconds after this picture was taken, he fell backwards off the bike and landed on his head.
Step 3: Concentration.
Here he is concentrating on using his mind control to make Daddy push him up and down the street for 45 minutes.
Round 1- He scooted off the seat and walked the bike down the sidewalk. scoot scoot shuffle
Round 2- Sat him on the bike, physically placed his feet on the pedals. Feet do not reach the pedals.
"He'll grow into it! It's not too soon!" Mr X declares as he attempts to streeettccchh Hurricane's legs to the pedals.
And Hurricane rewarded him with a kick because he got pulled off the bike seat.
Round 3- Mr X gives up and resigns himself to walking hunched over for the next 6 months as he pushes our son up and down the hill.
Next week, we take the training wheels off of Girl X's bike and I get to take pictures of Mr X running behind her, holding onto the seat as she screams at him not to let go. This is immediately followed by her leaping off the bike while Mr X continues to run.
Thursday, June 15, 2006
Proof That We Don't Love Her
Girl X has been begging for a year now to take some form of martial arts.
"Come on Dad! I'll be able to kick boys' butts when they try to hold my hand!"
"But Mom, it will be good for me to have that..... (Quickly scans paper) dis..eh...p.lll.in.... discipline! Yeah."
Damn. She really knows the right thing to say!
So, despite the fact that she frequently, unintentionally, kicks herself in the head, we acquiesced.
$87 later and she's standing in the grass with a new t-shirt and white belt kicking herself in the head (much to the dismay of her sensei) and imagining herself as the next Jackie Chan (I feel bad that I will have to tell her that Jackie is a man and not a woman as she firmly believes).
I sat off to the side and watched her kick, chop, bend and 'HIE!' for an hour. I thought about how she would be at the end of the 8 weeks and if maybe I shouldn't be teaching Hurricane some new form of self defense for when she begins to use him as her practice dummy.
And then it happened.
She bent to the reverse horse stance and fell over. Flat on her face.
Sorry kid. That's certainly an inherited trait.
Adding to my fear, the instructor (an entirely too enthusiastic man who enjoys exposing his chest hairs) informed us that the kids would eventually begin learning sword play.
My girl with a sharp object?
Someone is going to lose a limb!
"Come on Dad! I'll be able to kick boys' butts when they try to hold my hand!"
"But Mom, it will be good for me to have that..... (Quickly scans paper) dis..eh...p.lll.in.... discipline! Yeah."
Damn. She really knows the right thing to say!
So, despite the fact that she frequently, unintentionally, kicks herself in the head, we acquiesced.
$87 later and she's standing in the grass with a new t-shirt and white belt kicking herself in the head (much to the dismay of her sensei) and imagining herself as the next Jackie Chan (I feel bad that I will have to tell her that Jackie is a man and not a woman as she firmly believes).
I sat off to the side and watched her kick, chop, bend and 'HIE!' for an hour. I thought about how she would be at the end of the 8 weeks and if maybe I shouldn't be teaching Hurricane some new form of self defense for when she begins to use him as her practice dummy.
And then it happened.
She bent to the reverse horse stance and fell over. Flat on her face.
Sorry kid. That's certainly an inherited trait.
Adding to my fear, the instructor (an entirely too enthusiastic man who enjoys exposing his chest hairs) informed us that the kids would eventually begin learning sword play.
My girl with a sharp object?
Someone is going to lose a limb!
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
We Read Winnie The Pooh One Too Many Times
Girl X has the most amazing organizational system. One that is completely incomprehensible to anyone but her.
While she is forever losing her sneakers, or her sweater (usually only realized at the very moment that the bus pulls up to our house resulting, more often than not, in my having to drive her to school as she puts on her sneakers/brushes her teeth/practices her spelling words), ask her where her favorite doll is and she will unearth it from the massive pile of toys she was using to replicate the Eiffel Tower.
Still, it makes me crazy.
Which is why we recently spent several hours cleaning up her room, returning toys to their proper shelves and dirty clothes to the laundry room as she bemoaned the fact that she would never be able to find anything what with it all being placed in it's proper space. Well, that and the fact that she would much rather have been plotting world domination.
As I pulled out her tub of Polly Pockets (I hate those things. More than Elmo. All those tiny clothes and tiny shoes frequently found in the wash...) and explained that she would need to sort through them all, removing the things that didn't belong, placing dolls and clothes in separate bins, I noticed her eyes roll back into her head and her body simply sag.
I smiled and went back to my pile and waited. I knew she was about to say something that would make it all worth it.
sigh
She looked at me sideways and gave me her very best puppy eyes.
"It's such a very big job, and I'm such a very, very small girl."
I simply smiled and she returned to her work, defeated.
While she is forever losing her sneakers, or her sweater (usually only realized at the very moment that the bus pulls up to our house resulting, more often than not, in my having to drive her to school as she puts on her sneakers/brushes her teeth/practices her spelling words), ask her where her favorite doll is and she will unearth it from the massive pile of toys she was using to replicate the Eiffel Tower.
Still, it makes me crazy.
Which is why we recently spent several hours cleaning up her room, returning toys to their proper shelves and dirty clothes to the laundry room as she bemoaned the fact that she would never be able to find anything what with it all being placed in it's proper space. Well, that and the fact that she would much rather have been plotting world domination.
As I pulled out her tub of Polly Pockets (I hate those things. More than Elmo. All those tiny clothes and tiny shoes frequently found in the wash...) and explained that she would need to sort through them all, removing the things that didn't belong, placing dolls and clothes in separate bins, I noticed her eyes roll back into her head and her body simply sag.
I smiled and went back to my pile and waited. I knew she was about to say something that would make it all worth it.
sigh
She looked at me sideways and gave me her very best puppy eyes.
"It's such a very big job, and I'm such a very, very small girl."
I simply smiled and she returned to her work, defeated.
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
Well Baby Mambo
Hurricane's Doctor appointments are a dance. And it's exhausting.
I love his Doctor. The receptionists love Hurricane, helped by the fact that he has been flirting with them since his first appointment. He loves to hold the hand of the brunette and babble softly to her and smile. The other he offers his belly and raises his eyebrows, extending his hand as an invitation to tickle that softly rounded tummy and hear him giggle.
The nurses. He is so wary of them for they bring those sharp things that hurt.
He likes to touch his Doctor's face, her cheek. Smiles. She speaks softly to him.
It's comforting to have somewhere to go when he is throwing up on me that won't freak him out.
Plus, the waiting room is always filled with grandparent types who think Hurricane is just the most prrressshhhhuss baby boy.
So, we get there for his check up and I was prepared. I had graham crackers to prevent a hungry meltdown, milk for a thirsty one and toys to keep him away from the dreaded chalk board that makes me sneeze.
He briefly flirted with his girlfriends but was more interested in getting over to the Toys! Glorious Toys! Toys we don't have at home so therefore they are so interesting!
For a moment he was content with the little beads on wire. And by moment I mean nano-second because his little eye was on the chalk the entire time. I could see his mind working out a plan to get to the chalk. Forbidden chalk.
I positioned myself directly in front of the forbidden chalk.
He signed for eat. I handed him a graham cracker and he smiled.
Two bites.
Throw the cracker.
As I went to pick it up, I saw him from the corner of my eye make a dash for the chalk.
Sucker.
He was superpissed (as opposed to his usual pissed) that I foiled The Plan! The Plan to get the Forbidden Chalk!
He lowered his head and glared up at me.
I can assure you, it is thoroughly uncomfortable to get eyed down by a toddler.
Sign for drink.
I hand him his milk.
He slowly walks away, drinking, smiling at the other people in the room.
Then he 'throws' (by which I mean he carefully sets himself down all while trying to make it look like he's getting ready for a fit, and I'm sorry but until you are willing to sacrifice yourself and do it right, I will not take those fits seriously young man) himself down and starts to 'cry' (all while looking back at me to see if I noticed). I had to see what he was going to do. Pus, the blue-hair group was starting to coo and 'aw-poor-baby' at him and I don't want him thinking that it's not normal for us to laugh at him when he falls.
So I picked him up and hugged him and rubbed his back.
He backed up and pointed to his milk.
As I went to pick it up, he made a beeline for the Forbidden Chalk! Woo-hoo!
So, he was supersuperpissed when I stopped him. Again.
Even more so when he stepped back, angrily pointing at me and yelling 'NONONO!' and I started laughing at him.
We finally got called back to the room.
23 lbs 3 oz and 31 1/2 inches tall at 18 months.
I wonder if he'll always so much smaller than other kids his age.
Then it's shot time. And he knew it because I wouldn't put his pants on.
The kid who loves to be naked kept handing me his pants and asking 'go go?' As if I would somehow forget all about the shots.
When the 2 nurses came in, he just turned and glared at me.
I lay him back on the table and felt myself getting anxious. I always do. As much as we laugh when they fall or kick themselves in the head, I always start crying when they get shots. I tried talking to him but he wanted nothing to do with me.
Well, until he felt the plunger actually go into chunky thigh.
Then, he would have done anything I asked if it meant I would just pick him up and kiss the booboos because ohmywhatthehellmommythatfreakinhurtImeanreally
whatdidIdotodeservethatIjust
wantedthedamnchalk!
After the left the room he instantly stopped crying and signed for eat.
See? Didn't hurt. I just wanted those evil women to feel bad. I think I made that one chick cry! Did you see that?
He touched the bandaids on his thighs and sniffed.
I put his clothes back on and we made our way back to the front.
And as I made our next appointment.............
He ate a piece of chalk.
I love his Doctor. The receptionists love Hurricane, helped by the fact that he has been flirting with them since his first appointment. He loves to hold the hand of the brunette and babble softly to her and smile. The other he offers his belly and raises his eyebrows, extending his hand as an invitation to tickle that softly rounded tummy and hear him giggle.
The nurses. He is so wary of them for they bring those sharp things that hurt.
He likes to touch his Doctor's face, her cheek. Smiles. She speaks softly to him.
It's comforting to have somewhere to go when he is throwing up on me that won't freak him out.
Plus, the waiting room is always filled with grandparent types who think Hurricane is just the most prrressshhhhuss baby boy.
So, we get there for his check up and I was prepared. I had graham crackers to prevent a hungry meltdown, milk for a thirsty one and toys to keep him away from the dreaded chalk board that makes me sneeze.
He briefly flirted with his girlfriends but was more interested in getting over to the Toys! Glorious Toys! Toys we don't have at home so therefore they are so interesting!
For a moment he was content with the little beads on wire. And by moment I mean nano-second because his little eye was on the chalk the entire time. I could see his mind working out a plan to get to the chalk. Forbidden chalk.
I positioned myself directly in front of the forbidden chalk.
He signed for eat. I handed him a graham cracker and he smiled.
Two bites.
Throw the cracker.
As I went to pick it up, I saw him from the corner of my eye make a dash for the chalk.
Sucker.
He was superpissed (as opposed to his usual pissed) that I foiled The Plan! The Plan to get the Forbidden Chalk!
He lowered his head and glared up at me.
I can assure you, it is thoroughly uncomfortable to get eyed down by a toddler.
Sign for drink.
I hand him his milk.
He slowly walks away, drinking, smiling at the other people in the room.
Then he 'throws' (by which I mean he carefully sets himself down all while trying to make it look like he's getting ready for a fit, and I'm sorry but until you are willing to sacrifice yourself and do it right, I will not take those fits seriously young man) himself down and starts to 'cry' (all while looking back at me to see if I noticed). I had to see what he was going to do. Pus, the blue-hair group was starting to coo and 'aw-poor-baby' at him and I don't want him thinking that it's not normal for us to laugh at him when he falls.
So I picked him up and hugged him and rubbed his back.
He backed up and pointed to his milk.
As I went to pick it up, he made a beeline for the Forbidden Chalk! Woo-hoo!
So, he was supersuperpissed when I stopped him. Again.
Even more so when he stepped back, angrily pointing at me and yelling 'NONONO!' and I started laughing at him.
We finally got called back to the room.
23 lbs 3 oz and 31 1/2 inches tall at 18 months.
I wonder if he'll always so much smaller than other kids his age.
Then it's shot time. And he knew it because I wouldn't put his pants on.
The kid who loves to be naked kept handing me his pants and asking 'go go?' As if I would somehow forget all about the shots.
When the 2 nurses came in, he just turned and glared at me.
I lay him back on the table and felt myself getting anxious. I always do. As much as we laugh when they fall or kick themselves in the head, I always start crying when they get shots. I tried talking to him but he wanted nothing to do with me.
Well, until he felt the plunger actually go into chunky thigh.
Then, he would have done anything I asked if it meant I would just pick him up and kiss the booboos because ohmywhatthehellmommythatfreakinhurtImeanreally
whatdidIdotodeservethatIjust
wantedthedamnchalk!
After the left the room he instantly stopped crying and signed for eat.
See? Didn't hurt. I just wanted those evil women to feel bad. I think I made that one chick cry! Did you see that?
He touched the bandaids on his thighs and sniffed.
I put his clothes back on and we made our way back to the front.
And as I made our next appointment.............
He ate a piece of chalk.
Friday, June 09, 2006
Pessimistically Optimistic
Yup. That's fairly accurate to what I'm feeling now.
D-day. Er, DR day. I love his Dr. Not just because he's the bearer of, I don't really want to say good, but maybe understandable?, news. Hmm.
Anyway.
Mr X has Hepatitis B. Something very common in Vietnam, where he was born. Vaccines we take for granted here, not readily available there. Hepatitis is rampant. It's possibly why I cringe when I hear a parent proclaim themselves against vaccines. This smug part of me thinks moron because they don't realize how easy it would be for it to all go wrong. But that's a whole 'nother topic and not why I'm blogging on a weekend. Something I rarely do.
He got it as a child in Vietnam. We don't really know how as no one in his family has it. His Dr, a gastroenterologist, is a specialist in Hepatitis and believes that in some cases, it can be transmitted through saliva, not just blood. A common game in the orphanages then (can't say about now) was a spitting game. Gross, but not the point. Before his family moved here, they stayed in an orphanage for awhile.
When you get Hepatitis as an adult it's different. You either beat it, as I did it, or you die. No symptoms. No clue what's lurking there.
When you get it as a child, it's with you for life. However long that may be.
Then, you have two types. ENG positive or ENG negative (and forgive me if it's just a bit off, I'm still learning myself). A lot of what they know about Hepatitis B is theory. It's a theory that those who are ENG positive are worse off.
Mr X was ENG positive. His liver biopsy would have been acceptable for someone who was 75, but he is 36. So, not good.
But in the 9 weeks that we had to wait, the medicine, Hepsera, began to work.
He converted to ENG negative. A test of his blood showed that he went from a high viral load of Hepatitis DNA to no detectable trace. It's as close to a remission as possible with this disease. Except that he's always going to have it.
He has to stay on the medicine for at least a few years or it will just come back. His liver is scarred but without a detectable trace of the virus, it will begin to heal itself. How cool is that? An organ that can fix itself. Sort of.
No special diet. Also? No alcohol. He can't risk even the slightest bit of damage to his liver, but we already knew that. It's strange but, it's life as always for us.
It is still there, but it's not this dark cloud waiting to strike us down.
D-day. Er, DR day. I love his Dr. Not just because he's the bearer of, I don't really want to say good, but maybe understandable?, news. Hmm.
Anyway.
Mr X has Hepatitis B. Something very common in Vietnam, where he was born. Vaccines we take for granted here, not readily available there. Hepatitis is rampant. It's possibly why I cringe when I hear a parent proclaim themselves against vaccines. This smug part of me thinks moron because they don't realize how easy it would be for it to all go wrong. But that's a whole 'nother topic and not why I'm blogging on a weekend. Something I rarely do.
He got it as a child in Vietnam. We don't really know how as no one in his family has it. His Dr, a gastroenterologist, is a specialist in Hepatitis and believes that in some cases, it can be transmitted through saliva, not just blood. A common game in the orphanages then (can't say about now) was a spitting game. Gross, but not the point. Before his family moved here, they stayed in an orphanage for awhile.
When you get Hepatitis as an adult it's different. You either beat it, as I did it, or you die. No symptoms. No clue what's lurking there.
When you get it as a child, it's with you for life. However long that may be.
Then, you have two types. ENG positive or ENG negative (and forgive me if it's just a bit off, I'm still learning myself). A lot of what they know about Hepatitis B is theory. It's a theory that those who are ENG positive are worse off.
Mr X was ENG positive. His liver biopsy would have been acceptable for someone who was 75, but he is 36. So, not good.
But in the 9 weeks that we had to wait, the medicine, Hepsera, began to work.
He converted to ENG negative. A test of his blood showed that he went from a high viral load of Hepatitis DNA to no detectable trace. It's as close to a remission as possible with this disease. Except that he's always going to have it.
He has to stay on the medicine for at least a few years or it will just come back. His liver is scarred but without a detectable trace of the virus, it will begin to heal itself. How cool is that? An organ that can fix itself. Sort of.
No special diet. Also? No alcohol. He can't risk even the slightest bit of damage to his liver, but we already knew that. It's strange but, it's life as always for us.
It is still there, but it's not this dark cloud waiting to strike us down.
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