It struck me today as I felt this baby drop kick my bladder. This year you will have been gone for 8 years. I'd like to say that I don't miss you, but if I were honest, I'd say I've been missing you my whole life.
I don't think of you very much anymore. While I know that there were some good times in there, they are tainted by the memory of your words, of your careless disregard. But sometimes......
I catch a glimpse of you in the way my son absentmindedly plucks at his pillow; or in the way that my daughter smiles to herself at some happy thought. Sometimes I find a picture of you and it's always the same. No matter your hair color, your clothes, your age. It's that same half smile and no eye contact. The same face I remember through most of my life. Unreadable. Unreachable.
I was organizing photos when I came across a picture of you holding my daughter in the hospital. Even then, you held yourself apart. I wonder what you were so afraid of? What was it in that tiny pink blanket that made you so reserved you couldn't just let go with your own grandchild?
Maybe I shouldn't be surprised at your reservation. You couldn't let yourself love your own daughter, how could you love someone that came from her?
Oh I know you occasionally said the words, usually after a lecture on what I'd done wrong or how I was dressed wrong or shouldn't I lose weight?, but it was always so..... robotic.
And I wonder if I'm giving you too much credit when I feel like you knew what you were doing. Like you knew how much you were hurting me and didn't care. Or worse, enjoyed it.
But then I think of those 'family' vacations. You know the ones. All those times you took my older siblings and my younger siblings on vacation but never me. I was 'too young' and when you found out that I knew my younger siblings were going, you knew I was 'busy'.
Busy.
Yes.
Because suddenly I was.
Did it shock you when at 16 I stopped talking to you? Were you surprised that I refused to come to your home anymore? Did you even notice?
I noticed that it took 6 months before you even called me to see what was going on. And then all you asked me about was gloves. That was also the year you got me underwear for Christmas. Underwear that was 4 sizes too big.
I smiled.
But we did start talking again. It may have taken 3 years and me making that first move, but we did.
I had hoped that my pregnancy would have softened things between us.
I was a fool.
You were just as manipulative as ever.
Except now you were drunk, on Prozac and manipulative.
You caused a major blow out between my brother and I because of your very cruel lie.
Still. I wanted so badly for it to work.
I wanted so badly to have a mother that I willingly subjected myself to your criticism. I never really measured up and yes, I felt it.
And then you died.
And I never got to tell you all the things that I want so desperately to tell you now.
In those first months following your death, I think I was in shock.
In my mind you were the mother I had always wanted and not the person you really were. I grieved for you. But really, I think, I was grieving for what I wanted you to be.
Many times over the years I have thought that I'd forgiven you.
Now I'm not sure that I ever will. I don't know if I can. Maybe I have to be OK with that. I don't hate you. Most of the time, I don't hate you. I'm not really sure why you were the way you were. I'm not sure what I did in my birth to make you resent me so much. But at least now I know that it was your issue. That there isn't something broken in me. Whatever was broken? It was about you.
I was fortunate to have my father and stepmother.
Because now I know that I can love and be loved. I'm not that monster you made me feel like.
You once told me that I was turning out just like you. I think you meant it as a compliment and it was probably the nicest thing you had ever said to me.
But it scared the hell out of me.
I remember looking at my daughter and thinking "hell no."
I have made it my purpose to not be you.
I tell my kids every day that I love them. I make eye contact. I hold them, I kiss them, I tuck them in at night and come running when they have nightmares. I care for them when they are sick.
And I protect them.
Sometimes I wonder how things would be had you lived.
Oh, I know how you would be. The same. Incapable of ever being wrong, or ever feeling compassion for your own offspring.
What I wonder is......
What would I have done?
Would I have continued to allow you to damage me and my daughter?
Or would I have finally had the courage to give you the big kiss off and leave you to your later regrets?
I'd like to think you were capable of regret. At least then, you'd still be human.
Of course, I'm stronger now. It's easier to walk away from something you've always wanted but can never have when you have something so amazing to go home too. Having Joe and my kids..... I almost feel sorry for you because you never had that. But then, I remember that you could have had it all.
I wonder why you didn't want it.
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
On Turning 30
Yesterday was my 30th birthday. For months I've been hearing tales from friends who, upon reaching this 'dreaded' age, went a little nuts or became depressed. In sympathy, they would tell me it would pass but it sucked.
I'm still waiting for the insanity to kick in.
I don't feel any different than I have on any other birthday (except for maybe my 21st when I was so hungover I couldn't remove my forehead from the cool tile of my bathroom floor).
Maybe it's naive for me to believe that it's not such a big deal, but that's where I sit right now.
*******
While the whole turning 30 thing didn't bother me, certain other lack of things did. A lack of things which I've vented to friends about but am refraining from mentioning here in an effort to spare myself the head ache and you the eye-rolling.
A very dear friend who occasionally comments here (Hi ~M~!) surprised me last night with cake and balloons and the sweetest gift and a very dirty card (really! Your mother would be shocked!) which meant the world to me. I am very fortunate to have such great people in my life.
********
In other news.......
I need to go buy some maternity clothes. I am frightened. You may remember the last time I went shopping and how well that turned out.
Now I will be attempting to shop with a belly. But unless I want to spend the rest of this pregnancy naked or in the one overly floral maternity night shirt that survived my pregnancy with Bre, a-shopping I must go.
Mannequins beware.
I'm still waiting for the insanity to kick in.
I don't feel any different than I have on any other birthday (except for maybe my 21st when I was so hungover I couldn't remove my forehead from the cool tile of my bathroom floor).
Maybe it's naive for me to believe that it's not such a big deal, but that's where I sit right now.
*******
While the whole turning 30 thing didn't bother me, certain other lack of things did. A lack of things which I've vented to friends about but am refraining from mentioning here in an effort to spare myself the head ache and you the eye-rolling.
A very dear friend who occasionally comments here (Hi ~M~!) surprised me last night with cake and balloons and the sweetest gift and a very dirty card (really! Your mother would be shocked!) which meant the world to me. I am very fortunate to have such great people in my life.
********
In other news.......
I need to go buy some maternity clothes. I am frightened. You may remember the last time I went shopping and how well that turned out.
Now I will be attempting to shop with a belly. But unless I want to spend the rest of this pregnancy naked or in the one overly floral maternity night shirt that survived my pregnancy with Bre, a-shopping I must go.
Mannequins beware.
Friday, March 30, 2007
5 years
5 years ago today we stood on that ugly patterned carpet and promised to love each other for as long as we lived.
It seemed like a joke. You, the eternal bachelor and me, the odd ball mother of one odd ball daughter.
And yet, somehow, it worked.
I'll never forget seeing you by the minister looking like a statue. I don't think you blinked once. That's ok though. According to the video I blinked for both of us. In fact, my blinking on that tape has made for a great get-drunk-quick drinking game.
We both had so much to learn about what it really meant to be married and I don't think either of us can deny that the first year was awful. But we got through it and the second year tested our ability to really be there for each other.
And we were. And still.
There are days where I want to rip all my hair out because of something you've said or done that makes me bonkers.
And then you lean in to smell my hair, or you touch my hand as you pass me in the hallway, or you reach over to rub my expanding belly and somehow, I forget what I was annoyed with you about.
Because those sweet moments far outweigh the ones where you've left your wet towel on my side of the bed. Again.
When I'm upset with my sister you listen but never attack her even though I know that she's not your favorite person. You have no idea how much that means to me. Because even though we have a difficult (at best) relationship, I would feel the need to defend her if you said something awful about her. I love that you get that absolutely ridiculous side of me.
The night we met, when my sister married your brother, I knew there was something.
At that time, Breanna was wary of every man she saw (with the exception of my brother and father), but she loved you on sight. And when you spent half the reception playing on the floor with her and a bucket of ice, I knew she was right.
There was something very good and so right about you.
The best part of marrying you has been watching you be a father. It doesn't surprise me that I can't put into words here what this means to me. You already know because we've spent long nights talking about it. You already know what it has meant for Bre. 
I love you.
It seemed like a joke. You, the eternal bachelor and me, the odd ball mother of one odd ball daughter.
And yet, somehow, it worked.
I'll never forget seeing you by the minister looking like a statue. I don't think you blinked once. That's ok though. According to the video I blinked for both of us. In fact, my blinking on that tape has made for a great get-drunk-quick drinking game.We both had so much to learn about what it really meant to be married and I don't think either of us can deny that the first year was awful. But we got through it and the second year tested our ability to really be there for each other.
And we were. And still.
There are days where I want to rip all my hair out because of something you've said or done that makes me bonkers.
And then you lean in to smell my hair, or you touch my hand as you pass me in the hallway, or you reach over to rub my expanding belly and somehow, I forget what I was annoyed with you about.
Because those sweet moments far outweigh the ones where you've left your wet towel on my side of the bed. Again.
When I'm upset with my sister you listen but never attack her even though I know that she's not your favorite person. You have no idea how much that means to me. Because even though we have a difficult (at best) relationship, I would feel the need to defend her if you said something awful about her. I love that you get that absolutely ridiculous side of me.
The night we met, when my sister married your brother, I knew there was something.
At that time, Breanna was wary of every man she saw (with the exception of my brother and father), but she loved you on sight. And when you spent half the reception playing on the floor with her and a bucket of ice, I knew she was right.
There was something very good and so right about you.
The best part of marrying you has been watching you be a father. It doesn't surprise me that I can't put into words here what this means to me. You already know because we've spent long nights talking about it. You already know what it has meant for Bre. You knew the first time she called you 'Daddy'.
Happy Anniversary Joe!
I love you.
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Boundaries Shmoundaries
While I am rediscovering boundaries all the time, I realize that the ones I have in regards to my MIL lessen with each ever so brief contact.
I try to hold my disdain in check for my husband's sake but sometimes I find it impossible.
Example.......
We went out for dinner on Sunday to celebrate my FIL's birthday. We were to meet at the restaurant at 5. We naturally assumed they would be late as it is physically impossible for my MIL to be on time for anything. We were surprised to see FIL's car pull in right as we were heading inside.
Or we were until we realized that my MIL was not with him.
She had gone to mass instead.
For the 3rd time that day.
Yes folks, she followed typical fashion of bailing out on family to put in an appearance at church (where, given my admittedly limited experience with her at church, I am fairly certain her time was well spent sleeping/ talking on her cell phone/ writing letters home). My MIL attends every mass given and confession every day. If there is no mass or confession, she has been known to simply sit there and wait for it.
This is far more important than her husband's birthday, a visit with her grandchildren, making sure that her husband got to his very important cardiologist appointment (in her defense, she did have to give a ride to a complete stranger to church instead) and so forth.
It was no surprise at all though that she called just minutes before our dinners were served and guilted someone into picking her up (because driving herself would have meant that none of us cared about her. After all, this dinner was all about her).
I know that I shouldn't be like this towards her. But it's hard not to bitter towards someone who has said and done some very cruel things to me and my family.
I've said before, I've stopped caring so much when she calls me fat (Gee, being 5 months pregnant might have an effect on my body but I could be wrong), mentioned that she didn't want her son to marry me, called me sloppy seconds, discounted my daughter and insulted my parents. But I do. Partly because I always imagined my kids having grandparents they could do things with and we're stuck. My parents would be those grandparents if they didn't live on the other side of the country and I resent that instead, they get ignored. MIL only comes over for birthday parties and holidays. They live just 20 minutes away. We don't go over there because we value the health and safety of our kids and... well.... I don't know how to explain to my MIL that penicillin has already been discovered so it would be OK to clean up now.
But it also bothers me because of how it effects my husband and my relationship with him.
Because as I heard my SIL agreeing to come and pick up my MIL I couldn't help but roll my eyes and my husband gave me that pleading look. That one that says "Please, she's my mother. Please, just accept her".
Yes. Just accept her.
No matter how much she hurts you.
I'm trying.
I try to hold my disdain in check for my husband's sake but sometimes I find it impossible.
Example.......
We went out for dinner on Sunday to celebrate my FIL's birthday. We were to meet at the restaurant at 5. We naturally assumed they would be late as it is physically impossible for my MIL to be on time for anything. We were surprised to see FIL's car pull in right as we were heading inside.
Or we were until we realized that my MIL was not with him.
She had gone to mass instead.
For the 3rd time that day.
Yes folks, she followed typical fashion of bailing out on family to put in an appearance at church (where, given my admittedly limited experience with her at church, I am fairly certain her time was well spent sleeping/ talking on her cell phone/ writing letters home). My MIL attends every mass given and confession every day. If there is no mass or confession, she has been known to simply sit there and wait for it.
This is far more important than her husband's birthday, a visit with her grandchildren, making sure that her husband got to his very important cardiologist appointment (in her defense, she did have to give a ride to a complete stranger to church instead) and so forth.
It was no surprise at all though that she called just minutes before our dinners were served and guilted someone into picking her up (because driving herself would have meant that none of us cared about her. After all, this dinner was all about her).
I know that I shouldn't be like this towards her. But it's hard not to bitter towards someone who has said and done some very cruel things to me and my family.
I've said before, I've stopped caring so much when she calls me fat (Gee, being 5 months pregnant might have an effect on my body but I could be wrong), mentioned that she didn't want her son to marry me, called me sloppy seconds, discounted my daughter and insulted my parents. But I do. Partly because I always imagined my kids having grandparents they could do things with and we're stuck. My parents would be those grandparents if they didn't live on the other side of the country and I resent that instead, they get ignored. MIL only comes over for birthday parties and holidays. They live just 20 minutes away. We don't go over there because we value the health and safety of our kids and... well.... I don't know how to explain to my MIL that penicillin has already been discovered so it would be OK to clean up now.
But it also bothers me because of how it effects my husband and my relationship with him.
Because as I heard my SIL agreeing to come and pick up my MIL I couldn't help but roll my eyes and my husband gave me that pleading look. That one that says "Please, she's my mother. Please, just accept her".
Yes. Just accept her.
No matter how much she hurts you.
I'm trying.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Boundaries
When the nurse handed Breanna to me for the first time, I was overwhelmed with the not only with the love I felt for this tiny pink bundle of girl, but by the responsibility I suddenly had to another human being.
Sometimes I still am.
I wonder if I'm telling her enough, if I'm teaching her enough. Will she remember all the things I've taught her? Will she remember to run and scream if a stranger tries to grab her? Will she remember to wrap herself to the stranger's legs if they should get a hold of her? Will she remember to be wary of strangers and forget the manners I've instilled in her? Will she remember the talks we've had about smoking? Alcohol? Drugs? Peer pressure and bullying? What about the little bit I've told about sex and waiting?
Mostly I wonder if I can tell her everything she needs to know while still letting her have some of that beautiful childhood naivete. It's such a fine, thin balance but I think it's important to maintain some semblance of that line for as long as I can.
******
I'm always aware of what I share here about her and I there are certainly plenty of things that I've wanted to talk about, but can't because it wouldn't be fair to her.
Having a family that constantly throws mistakes I made as a child back at me now, years later, I don't want these days to haunt her as an adult. It sucks and there are only so many times you can apologize for that time you left a few cubes of cheese in your room until it smelled so bad every one thought they were going to die. I was 7.
There are things going on now that I so desperately need to talk about and get feedback on but I can't.
So instead, we continue on as we are. Trying to find new solutions, new ways to deal with it.
I question my boundaries in regards to her every day. Even as I type this I am wary of the things I say. I've deleted several paragraphs because it's just too much.
Do you ever wonder if you've crossed a line when it comes to sharing either with or about your child? Even if it's not on your blog. What about with your friends or family? (And hell no, I'm not sharing any of this with my family because I'll be damned if they do to her what they do to me!)
Sometimes I still am.
I wonder if I'm telling her enough, if I'm teaching her enough. Will she remember all the things I've taught her? Will she remember to run and scream if a stranger tries to grab her? Will she remember to wrap herself to the stranger's legs if they should get a hold of her? Will she remember to be wary of strangers and forget the manners I've instilled in her? Will she remember the talks we've had about smoking? Alcohol? Drugs? Peer pressure and bullying? What about the little bit I've told about sex and waiting?
Mostly I wonder if I can tell her everything she needs to know while still letting her have some of that beautiful childhood naivete. It's such a fine, thin balance but I think it's important to maintain some semblance of that line for as long as I can.
******
I'm always aware of what I share here about her and I there are certainly plenty of things that I've wanted to talk about, but can't because it wouldn't be fair to her.
Having a family that constantly throws mistakes I made as a child back at me now, years later, I don't want these days to haunt her as an adult. It sucks and there are only so many times you can apologize for that time you left a few cubes of cheese in your room until it smelled so bad every one thought they were going to die. I was 7.
There are things going on now that I so desperately need to talk about and get feedback on but I can't.
So instead, we continue on as we are. Trying to find new solutions, new ways to deal with it.
I question my boundaries in regards to her every day. Even as I type this I am wary of the things I say. I've deleted several paragraphs because it's just too much.
Do you ever wonder if you've crossed a line when it comes to sharing either with or about your child? Even if it's not on your blog. What about with your friends or family? (And hell no, I'm not sharing any of this with my family because I'll be damned if they do to her what they do to me!)
Monday, March 19, 2007
Um.... Hi?
Right. So I had this blog that I was sort of trying to keep up and then I got distracted by something bright and shiny and hey! Hi! How are you?
I'm still easily distracted, with or without the bright and shiny but um... that's not really that new. Anyone who has been reading this for any length of time (and holy crap! It just took me 5 minutes to type 'length of time' because I can't hit the right friggin' keys! Hey! What's that bright and shiny thing at my feet?) knows that I tend to get off track and ramble.
It's a gift. (no I can't return it, I lost the receipt)
I had my 'big' ultrasound today. The one where you can find out if there is or is not a penis.
Of all the parenting things there are to fight about, all the issues to stick your nose in and disagree with a person about, I had thought that maybe finding out the gender wouldn't be one of them.
I was so very, very wrong.
We don't want to know.
Or, more accurately, I don't want to know. Joe wants to know but he has a big blabbery mouth and would instantly tell his mother who is the World's Greatest National Broadcaster. It's as good as having flashed on the scoreboard at the Superbowl.
So we didn't find out.
The problem comes in when people (co-workers, family, friends, people I don't really know but come up to me in the supermarket and start demanding answers) ask what we're having.
And I reply, "Well, I'm hoping for a small chinchilla because they are just adorable but I think my husband wants a Packer's linebacker."
For some reason this answer just doesn't seem to satisfy them, but the thought of having to say (for the hundred millionth time) that we don't want to know and then hearing the inevitable gasps of horror? Meh. Not so appealing.
I've heard all the "Don't you want to be prepared?", "How can you stand not knowing", and "But it makes it so much easier for us!" that I can handle, thanks.
And what do you mean it makes it easier for you? Last time I checked, it was my ass expanding and bladder being pounded. I am also fairly certain you weren't there when this baby was made so please, why am I making this easier for you?
Preparation. OK. I guess it matters to some, but I don't really need any extra prep time. We have some neutral outfits and can easily pick up those gender specific things when we need to.
I just don't see what the big deal is. I like not knowing. Maybe that makes me strange, I don't care. I don't care if you find out what you're having. Whatever floats your boat. But please, leave my uterus and baby of unknown gender alone.
There. I almost feel better.
Maybe to be safe I should wear a warning sign, because the next person that says anything is getting kicked.
On the upside of things, the baby looks great and is here by named Java-baby. Despite my abhorrence of coffee, this kid seems to be on a permanent caffeine high. He or she couldn't hold still for 10 seconds and at one point, bared butt to the tech. I think I detected a little 'kiss this' in there but kept my mouth shut.
With the eyes over the face, playing peek-a-boo....
Mid-flip.......
And totally pissed off. Note the legs kicking straight up. And sorry kid, but I hate olives, it just ain't happenin'.
I'm still easily distracted, with or without the bright and shiny but um... that's not really that new. Anyone who has been reading this for any length of time (and holy crap! It just took me 5 minutes to type 'length of time' because I can't hit the right friggin' keys! Hey! What's that bright and shiny thing at my feet?) knows that I tend to get off track and ramble.
It's a gift. (no I can't return it, I lost the receipt)
I had my 'big' ultrasound today. The one where you can find out if there is or is not a penis.
Of all the parenting things there are to fight about, all the issues to stick your nose in and disagree with a person about, I had thought that maybe finding out the gender wouldn't be one of them.
I was so very, very wrong.
We don't want to know.
Or, more accurately, I don't want to know. Joe wants to know but he has a big blabbery mouth and would instantly tell his mother who is the World's Greatest National Broadcaster. It's as good as having flashed on the scoreboard at the Superbowl.
So we didn't find out.
The problem comes in when people (co-workers, family, friends, people I don't really know but come up to me in the supermarket and start demanding answers) ask what we're having.
And I reply, "Well, I'm hoping for a small chinchilla because they are just adorable but I think my husband wants a Packer's linebacker."
For some reason this answer just doesn't seem to satisfy them, but the thought of having to say (for the hundred millionth time) that we don't want to know and then hearing the inevitable gasps of horror? Meh. Not so appealing.
I've heard all the "Don't you want to be prepared?", "How can you stand not knowing", and "But it makes it so much easier for us!" that I can handle, thanks.
And what do you mean it makes it easier for you? Last time I checked, it was my ass expanding and bladder being pounded. I am also fairly certain you weren't there when this baby was made so please, why am I making this easier for you?
Preparation. OK. I guess it matters to some, but I don't really need any extra prep time. We have some neutral outfits and can easily pick up those gender specific things when we need to.
I just don't see what the big deal is. I like not knowing. Maybe that makes me strange, I don't care. I don't care if you find out what you're having. Whatever floats your boat. But please, leave my uterus and baby of unknown gender alone.
There. I almost feel better.
Maybe to be safe I should wear a warning sign, because the next person that says anything is getting kicked.
On the upside of things, the baby looks great and is here by named Java-baby. Despite my abhorrence of coffee, this kid seems to be on a permanent caffeine high. He or she couldn't hold still for 10 seconds and at one point, bared butt to the tech. I think I detected a little 'kiss this' in there but kept my mouth shut.
With the eyes over the face, playing peek-a-boo....
Mid-flip.......
And totally pissed off. Note the legs kicking straight up. And sorry kid, but I hate olives, it just ain't happenin'.
******************
I went with the watch. I know, it was the safer bet but what ever. I had it engraved so he can't return it which means he's just going to have to suck it up and pretend to love it!
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Shopping For The Difficult
Our 5th wedding anniversary is coming up on March 30th and I still haven't actually bought Joe anything. Normally this wouldn't be a big deal because we don't normally make a big deal out of anniversaries. My birthday is 3 days later so usually we just have a nice dinner, no gifts, no fuss. I like it that way.
Joe is the most difficult person to buy for.
At Christmas, he returned one gift I bought because 'it wasn't as cool as he thought it would be'.
I thought I had him one year. He had been really into watching this mini-series but had to miss several of the shows because we were on vacation. So for Christmas I went to several different stores and finally found the last copy of the series. I was so excited because finally, I knew I had something he would love.
2 years later it's sitting on the shelf still in the wrapper.
This time though, I really want to get him something he'll love.
I already got my sewing machine, which I wasn't expecting and now absolutely couldn't live without. I know he has something else up his sleeve.
So I'm going to share with you some of the ideas I've come up with and then when he opens whatever I pick and smiles politely we can all pull out our hair. Or maybe just me but you'll sympathize.... right?
First up......
Harley Davidson! He loves motorcycles and has always said he wanted a Harley. Which, obviously, I can't afford but a one day rental? Maybe?
Ok, so he gave his brother his motorcycle because he never had time to ride it anymore but still. It's a Harley Davidson.
There is also this PGA Golf lessons style package that I know would be a hit. Too bad it's way out of my price range!
I think this could work because he could just pick what he wants to do, but they don't tell you what any of the options are. And what if the options suck?
With this I could possibly get him to stop doing the robot in public (it is the only dance he knows) but since we never go dancing? I'm thinking it wouldn't really be worth it. But man would I ever love to try it!
I've automatically skipped over any ideas that involve jumping out of planes or being up in the clouds for any reason. I fear he may want me to come with him and you know how I feel about planes. I think it's fairly obvious how I feel about jumping out of them, hang-gliding, or hot air suicide missions. Right.
I do have a few more practical ideas.
Like this from the Packers Pro shop. I did get him a Packer's watch at Christmas but it was more of a sports watch. One which is currently amid the Great Pile O' Packer's Things He Has Been Given But Refuses To Open. Like the mouse pad and the key chain or the light switch plate. I know. I've said it a million times, he's nuts. He knows it. But he still won't open that stuff up. But this watch? It's nice enough that he might wear it. Sometimes. Like 2 or 3 times a year?
I could buy him a few rounds of golf at his favorite course and wrap it up with a simple bag of tees, balls (golf, not his) and some other golf related item that will be completely foreign to me.
Or.... you could totally save me here and give me some ideas.
I'd rather not beg but................
HELP!
Joe is the most difficult person to buy for.
At Christmas, he returned one gift I bought because 'it wasn't as cool as he thought it would be'.
I thought I had him one year. He had been really into watching this mini-series but had to miss several of the shows because we were on vacation. So for Christmas I went to several different stores and finally found the last copy of the series. I was so excited because finally, I knew I had something he would love.
2 years later it's sitting on the shelf still in the wrapper.
This time though, I really want to get him something he'll love.
I already got my sewing machine, which I wasn't expecting and now absolutely couldn't live without. I know he has something else up his sleeve.
So I'm going to share with you some of the ideas I've come up with and then when he opens whatever I pick and smiles politely we can all pull out our hair. Or maybe just me but you'll sympathize.... right?
First up......
Harley Davidson! He loves motorcycles and has always said he wanted a Harley. Which, obviously, I can't afford but a one day rental? Maybe?
Ok, so he gave his brother his motorcycle because he never had time to ride it anymore but still. It's a Harley Davidson.
There is also this PGA Golf lessons style package that I know would be a hit. Too bad it's way out of my price range!
I think this could work because he could just pick what he wants to do, but they don't tell you what any of the options are. And what if the options suck?
With this I could possibly get him to stop doing the robot in public (it is the only dance he knows) but since we never go dancing? I'm thinking it wouldn't really be worth it. But man would I ever love to try it!
I've automatically skipped over any ideas that involve jumping out of planes or being up in the clouds for any reason. I fear he may want me to come with him and you know how I feel about planes. I think it's fairly obvious how I feel about jumping out of them, hang-gliding, or hot air suicide missions. Right.
I do have a few more practical ideas.
Like this from the Packers Pro shop. I did get him a Packer's watch at Christmas but it was more of a sports watch. One which is currently amid the Great Pile O' Packer's Things He Has Been Given But Refuses To Open. Like the mouse pad and the key chain or the light switch plate. I know. I've said it a million times, he's nuts. He knows it. But he still won't open that stuff up. But this watch? It's nice enough that he might wear it. Sometimes. Like 2 or 3 times a year?
I could buy him a few rounds of golf at his favorite course and wrap it up with a simple bag of tees, balls (golf, not his) and some other golf related item that will be completely foreign to me.
Or.... you could totally save me here and give me some ideas.
I'd rather not beg but................
HELP!
Thursday, March 08, 2007
Bang Head Slowly
Today was my meeting with the People at Bre's school. We went over her tests and talked and........
*sigh*
Is it bad that I'm disappointed that there is nothing they can do for her?
I mean, it's good news. Really. Sort of.
No, it really is.
Because she's smart. Which I knew, but she's smart in the way that she really doesn't need any help. She's actually on the high end of average on many things that surprised me (like vocabulary comprehension and memory). She knew things that I think even surprised them (like that fish can fart). She only fell below the level on one thing but it all averaged out to the fact that she's fine.
I could see her teacher's shoulders drop and hear the frustration and shock in her voice when she asked what else she could do. And I felt it too.
Something is clearly getting lost in the translation for Breanna. She does so well one-on-one but she gets in that classroom and she's just.... lost.
There is very little that we can do for her now that we aren't already doing. I guess we have to just wait and hope that she catches up. That something in her will snap in place and she'll be able to perform on paper in class the way she does at home.
In the meantime I have to make an appointment with her neurologist just to make sure that she isn't having seizures again. I haven't noticed anything but some of her fogginess could be attributed to seizures or even some residual left over from her medication. It's only been a little over a year since we stopped all meds.
It's frustrating to have hope that something will change for her and to then have it yanked away. It's not that I wanted her to have a learning disability and it's not that I'm not grateful that she's OK. It's that I am now at a loss for where to go. It's that I am now more worried than ever about what happens to her next.
*******
When I was pregnant with Bre, we referred to her as The Lump Unknown.
She had been rather unexpected and being young and stupid, I didn't know when my LMP (last period) was. On an ultrasound I had, up in the one corner was a little notation, 'lmp umknown'.
My mother, in a rare friendly moment, laughed because she knew that I hadn't wanted to find out the gender. She pointed to that little notation and declared her future grandchild The Lump Unknown. It stuck.
With David, he was the sprout, Houdini (for his uncanny ability to run and hide every time they wanted to listen to his heartbeat- even during labor), spud, or muppet.
With this one, it has been The Worry.
I want to change that. I think this one deserves some better reference then that.
Baby's heart rate- 152
Blood pressure- normal
Answer for the vertigo and such- "Dehydration and could you please for the love of.... just stop worrying so much. Find some way to de-stress. Please."
Right. And I thought he knew me.
*sigh*
Is it bad that I'm disappointed that there is nothing they can do for her?
I mean, it's good news. Really. Sort of.
No, it really is.
Because she's smart. Which I knew, but she's smart in the way that she really doesn't need any help. She's actually on the high end of average on many things that surprised me (like vocabulary comprehension and memory). She knew things that I think even surprised them (like that fish can fart). She only fell below the level on one thing but it all averaged out to the fact that she's fine.
I could see her teacher's shoulders drop and hear the frustration and shock in her voice when she asked what else she could do. And I felt it too.
Something is clearly getting lost in the translation for Breanna. She does so well one-on-one but she gets in that classroom and she's just.... lost.
There is very little that we can do for her now that we aren't already doing. I guess we have to just wait and hope that she catches up. That something in her will snap in place and she'll be able to perform on paper in class the way she does at home.
In the meantime I have to make an appointment with her neurologist just to make sure that she isn't having seizures again. I haven't noticed anything but some of her fogginess could be attributed to seizures or even some residual left over from her medication. It's only been a little over a year since we stopped all meds.
It's frustrating to have hope that something will change for her and to then have it yanked away. It's not that I wanted her to have a learning disability and it's not that I'm not grateful that she's OK. It's that I am now at a loss for where to go. It's that I am now more worried than ever about what happens to her next.
*******
When I was pregnant with Bre, we referred to her as The Lump Unknown.
She had been rather unexpected and being young and stupid, I didn't know when my LMP (last period) was. On an ultrasound I had, up in the one corner was a little notation, 'lmp umknown'.
My mother, in a rare friendly moment, laughed because she knew that I hadn't wanted to find out the gender. She pointed to that little notation and declared her future grandchild The Lump Unknown. It stuck.
With David, he was the sprout, Houdini (for his uncanny ability to run and hide every time they wanted to listen to his heartbeat- even during labor), spud, or muppet.
With this one, it has been The Worry.
I want to change that. I think this one deserves some better reference then that.
Baby's heart rate- 152
Blood pressure- normal
Answer for the vertigo and such- "Dehydration and could you please for the love of.... just stop worrying so much. Find some way to de-stress. Please."
Right. And I thought he knew me.
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
Defect Queen
Right before the Superbowl Joe decided to buy a new TV. We needed another TV almost as much as we need our own space shuttle, but he insisted that it was something we couldn't live without because this wasn't your everyday TV, oh no, this was an LCD HD TV. Is that enough letters for you? Because as soon as he said it I asked if that included the t-e-q-u-i-l-a that would be needed for him to explain this to me and that was clearly going to have to wait a few months.
He sighed and ordered his new alphabet-happy TV.
After chasing down the UPS guy to get our new TV, he was more than eager to hook 'the girl' up in our room. After 4 hours, he had it mounted, the old TV stored very conveniently in the middle of the living room (he had wanted to set down in the bathroom 'for a few minutes') and was ready to set up our new TV.
He turned it on and after 5 seconds it shut itself off.
For an hour he sat there and turned it on and watched it shut itself off.
He looked like someone just kicked his puppy.
We now, finally, have a new working alphabet-happy TV.
I recently bought David one of those Leap Frog Alphabet refrigerator thingies. When we got home he was so excited to play with his 'lebbers' that I immediately took it out of the box.
It was rather disappointing when 'D' said 'F', 'L' said 'Z', and so on.
David looked at me and just said 'No'.
We tested the next one in the store to make sure it worked. I was tempted to keep the broken one because I thought it was pretty damn funny but then I thought about David's first day of kindergarten and thought.... maybe not so much.
In 3 years we've been through 4 treadmills. It's not like they get hard use or that they are some cheap model, it's just that we seem to be magnets for the defective and broken.
I know that when we go to rent movies, we'll get at least one out of the 3 we always rent that will be scratched and end up skipping over the good parts.
I think it's just a given for us that we will know every crack in the counter at the customer service desks of many stores.
It never bothered me until I realized that I was doing it with my pregnancies too.
Because even though things have been going well enough (OK, by the standards of my last successful pregnancy which is to say, freaky but hanging in there), even though there is a heartbeat, even though I know I can feel this baby move? I don't trust it.
Even as he or she is doing flips on my bladder and pressing it's little body against my abdomen so that there is no doubt that they are alright, I don't believe it. I list all the other things it could be. Gas. Wishful thinking. A mental breakdown. Alien possession.
And I hate that. I wish I could believe it. I wish I could picture us a family of 5 and know that that is what we will be in a few months.
But I can't.
He sighed and ordered his new alphabet-happy TV.
After chasing down the UPS guy to get our new TV, he was more than eager to hook 'the girl' up in our room.
He turned it on and after 5 seconds it shut itself off.
For an hour he sat there and turned it on and watched it shut itself off.
He looked like someone just kicked his puppy.
We now, finally, have a new working alphabet-happy TV.
I recently bought David one of those Leap Frog Alphabet refrigerator thingies. When we got home he was so excited to play with his 'lebbers' that I immediately took it out of the box.
It was rather disappointing when 'D' said 'F', 'L' said 'Z', and so on.
David looked at me and just said 'No'.
We tested the next one in the store to make sure it worked. I was tempted to keep the broken one because I thought it was pretty damn funny but then I thought about David's first day of kindergarten and thought.... maybe not so much.
In 3 years we've been through 4 treadmills. It's not like they get hard use or that they are some cheap model, it's just that we seem to be magnets for the defective and broken.
I know that when we go to rent movies, we'll get at least one out of the 3 we always rent that will be scratched and end up skipping over the good parts.
I think it's just a given for us that we will know every crack in the counter at the customer service desks of many stores.
It never bothered me until I realized that I was doing it with my pregnancies too.
Because even though things have been going well enough (OK, by the standards of my last successful pregnancy which is to say, freaky but hanging in there), even though there is a heartbeat, even though I know I can feel this baby move? I don't trust it.
Even as he or she is doing flips on my bladder and pressing it's little body against my abdomen so that there is no doubt that they are alright, I don't believe it. I list all the other things it could be. Gas. Wishful thinking. A mental breakdown. Alien possession.
And I hate that. I wish I could believe it. I wish I could picture us a family of 5 and know that that is what we will be in a few months.
But I can't.
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
Briefly
Several years ago I came across this site and have wasted many an hour laughing and groaning at every update. In the current update, though I will not tell you which one, is my own brief tale. One that is further cause for why my sister and I have such difficulty in getting along.
My appointment was cancelled this morning so I have to wait until Thursday to discuss the vertigo/migraines/maddeningly itchy legs. In the meantime, I can feel this little spawn moving and rolling.
David has taken to kissing my belly and talking to the baby. He has offered to take my belly skating and the baby can come too if she wants. He has also requested a sister, not a brother, though I believe that his older sister may have put him up to it.
Thursday morning I will be meeting with a team at Bre's school to get the results of her testing. It seems an odd thing but, I am praying that there is something. Because if there is nothing wrong with her, then what will happen to her? At the rate she's going in her education, I am afraid to contemplate that thought much further.
My appointment was cancelled this morning so I have to wait until Thursday to discuss the vertigo/migraines/maddeningly itchy legs. In the meantime, I can feel this little spawn moving and rolling.
David has taken to kissing my belly and talking to the baby. He has offered to take my belly skating and the baby can come too if she wants. He has also requested a sister, not a brother, though I believe that his older sister may have put him up to it.
Thursday morning I will be meeting with a team at Bre's school to get the results of her testing. It seems an odd thing but, I am praying that there is something. Because if there is nothing wrong with her, then what will happen to her? At the rate she's going in her education, I am afraid to contemplate that thought much further.
Thursday, March 01, 2007
Blerg
You know that feeling where you are just absolutely certain that there is something very, very wrong with you? OK, I know there's something wrong with me but that's not what I'm talking about.
I'm referring to my desperate need to scratch the skin off my legs every night because the itching is just that intense. Or the massive throbbing headaches that come on with no warning. And mostly the vertigo.
Dizzy is nothing. Dizzy is a really fast teacup ride and if you just lay down and close your eyes it will all go away.
Vertigo is finding yourself curled into a ball on your bathroom floor because you think if you could just make the room stop long enough to pick your head up off the floor you may throw up. Vertigo is closing your eyes and free-falling ass over ears; spinning completely out of control and there is no end in sight.
And when it passes?
I long for morning sickness.
Doctor's appointment Tuesday if I can hang in that long.
I'm referring to my desperate need to scratch the skin off my legs every night because the itching is just that intense. Or the massive throbbing headaches that come on with no warning. And mostly the vertigo.
Dizzy is nothing. Dizzy is a really fast teacup ride and if you just lay down and close your eyes it will all go away.
Vertigo is finding yourself curled into a ball on your bathroom floor because you think if you could just make the room stop long enough to pick your head up off the floor you may throw up. Vertigo is closing your eyes and free-falling ass over ears; spinning completely out of control and there is no end in sight.
And when it passes?
I long for morning sickness.
Doctor's appointment Tuesday if I can hang in that long.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Stitch Happy
Yesterday Joe finished work early and was home by 11. I can count on one hand how many times this has happened during the last 7 years. And considering that he will be out of town for the rest of this week and next, it was very much needed.
Whenever he has to work out of town the kids join forces and find new ways to destroy my flimsy grip on my sanity. It is these days that lead me to wonder how smart it is for us to continue adding to our family. If our kids are anything like we were, the youngest will be the mastermind and pure evil (I was the youngest). We're so screwed.
Joe knows how crazy those long days make me which probably explains his willingness to let me buy a new sewing machine yesterday.
It's been 7 years since I've had a working sewing machine which explains my excitement (and possibly Joe's horror at the amount we just spent on this thing for me to get excited over such a little thing) when I managed to thread it right the first time.
Tomorrow I hope to find the on/off switch.
In the meantime I am going to pretend we didn't spend as much as we did on this machine. Instead I am going to pretend that it can magically sew all the clothes we will need for the next 10 years making the expense well worth it.
Whenever he has to work out of town the kids join forces and find new ways to destroy my flimsy grip on my sanity. It is these days that lead me to wonder how smart it is for us to continue adding to our family. If our kids are anything like we were, the youngest will be the mastermind and pure evil (I was the youngest). We're so screwed.
Joe knows how crazy those long days make me which probably explains his willingness to let me buy a new sewing machine yesterday.
It's been 7 years since I've had a working sewing machine which explains my excitement (and possibly Joe's horror at the amount we just spent on this thing for me to get excited over such a little thing) when I managed to thread it right the first time.
Tomorrow I hope to find the on/off switch.
In the meantime I am going to pretend we didn't spend as much as we did on this machine. Instead I am going to pretend that it can magically sew all the clothes we will need for the next 10 years making the expense well worth it.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Who's The Boss?
"OK Davey, it's time to go to the grocery store!"
"No."
"What? Boy, get your shoes on. We're going."
"No Mamas, I watch Dora."
"Uh-huh. Let's go to the store and you can get a cookie."
"Watch Dora first."
"David."
"Mamas. Shhh!"
"David. We're leaving."
......
"David?"
......
So. Um. Dora was pretty good today I guess.
"No."
"What? Boy, get your shoes on. We're going."
"No Mamas, I watch Dora."
"Uh-huh. Let's go to the store and you can get a cookie."
"Watch Dora first."
"David."
"Mamas. Shhh!"
"David. We're leaving."
......
"David?"
......
So. Um. Dora was pretty good today I guess.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Customer Service At It's Best
I've spent the last few hours roaming the house, kicking the walls and mumbling obscenities to myself. I have scared the dogs, dented my toes and sort of damaged the door to the pantry.
Note: Yelling random things about people being idiots and 'hello! Identity fraud you dill hole' at no one in particular may be fine while in your own home, but doing so while standing on your front porch waiting for your dog to get done doing his business makes your neighbors run away.
I got a letter today. A letter from a credit card company to a certain unnamed store (twits!) about my credit card with them.
A credit card that I don't have.
One that I never applied for.
Sufficiently concerned, and slightly suspicious since the name of the store (dingus!) was not on the letter, I called the number that was microscopically printed on the bottom (bastards!).
Have I ever mentioned how much I hate talking to robots? Those stupid automated answering services that wait for you to say a certain thing and then come back with a 'Sorry, I did not understand that. Could you repeat your request?' when all you said was that you wanted to talk to a real live person and not be lost on the phone with a robot for 45 minutes. I do. Hate them I mean. It's rather difficult to ask questions and get real answers as to what is going on when you can't talk to an actual person. UPS does it too. It's one of the many reasons I hate UPS. Well, that and the fact that our UPS guy refuses to ring our bell when we need to sign for a package. He sticks a note on the door and then runs away even as you are chasing after him yelling 'wait'. I once sat on my porch for 4 hours waiting for him because I knew it was the only way I was getting my package. He looked pissed when he saw me sitting there and didn't even notice when I signed 'bite me' instead of my name.
Anyway, I sat on the phone with the robot for long enough to start crying and begging to speak to a real person and I don't know why, but it worked. Unless, maybe as I've often wondered, that robot was an actual person totally screwing with my head.
So real 'person' (tomato brain) comes on and says 'what'.
What?
How about 'what the hell?'
I explain that I got this letter about a credit card that I never applied for and I don't even know who they are and could she tell me what's going on?
*SIGH*
Oh. Yes. This should be fun.
In the most I'm-bored-and-you're-stupid tone she could muster, she said the name of the store and suggested that I had a credit card with a different store in the past. How having a card with a different store (which I didn't) would translate to this card now I don't know but that was my first indication that this was going to be way more difficult than was necessary.
She insisted upon the date that I opened this account, I insisted that I had not opened this account and could she please close it.
She demanded my social security number. I assured her she didn't need the full number.
This is where she began to YELL AT ME.
Ho.ly. Shit.
I offered her the last half just to confirm that she had it and she offered to hang up on me.
Joe came in the room at which point I told him "Dude, this lady is yelling at me and I'm not really sure why."
Meanwhile she's screaming "Ma'am" in my ear until I think I'm going to go deaf and I started to shake because I was getting pissed.
She finally let me confirm my information without giving her the full number (seriously? was that really such a big deal to just take the last 4 digits and then verify it with the rest of the info?).
After which, she smugly reported that if I didn't open an account with them then how did she have that information?
Hello dumb ass, welcome to this century. Have you ever read a newspaper, watch TV, or maybe listened when any one has ever mentioned the words 'identity theft' to you?
But, still wanting to maintain some level of decency here, I told her to please stop yelling at me and consider that someone else may have opened the account with my information. At any rate it didn't matter, the account needed to be closed.
She continued to yell in my ear (I'm holding the phone away from my head and Joe can hear her from across the room. It was like talking to my MIL only more pleasant) about how I opened an account and no one else could have given them that information but whatever because she was closing the account.
And then she hung up on me and I didn't even have the opportunity to tell her that the sticky side of that maxi was supposed to go down. So, sorry. I may have been able to save the next person's eardrums but she was way too fast on that hang-up for me.
Note: Yelling random things about people being idiots and 'hello! Identity fraud you dill hole' at no one in particular may be fine while in your own home, but doing so while standing on your front porch waiting for your dog to get done doing his business makes your neighbors run away.
I got a letter today. A letter from a credit card company to a certain unnamed store (twits!) about my credit card with them.
A credit card that I don't have.
One that I never applied for.
Sufficiently concerned, and slightly suspicious since the name of the store (dingus!) was not on the letter, I called the number that was microscopically printed on the bottom (bastards!).
Have I ever mentioned how much I hate talking to robots? Those stupid automated answering services that wait for you to say a certain thing and then come back with a 'Sorry, I did not understand that. Could you repeat your request?' when all you said was that you wanted to talk to a real live person and not be lost on the phone with a robot for 45 minutes. I do. Hate them I mean. It's rather difficult to ask questions and get real answers as to what is going on when you can't talk to an actual person. UPS does it too. It's one of the many reasons I hate UPS. Well, that and the fact that our UPS guy refuses to ring our bell when we need to sign for a package. He sticks a note on the door and then runs away even as you are chasing after him yelling 'wait'. I once sat on my porch for 4 hours waiting for him because I knew it was the only way I was getting my package. He looked pissed when he saw me sitting there and didn't even notice when I signed 'bite me' instead of my name.
Anyway, I sat on the phone with the robot for long enough to start crying and begging to speak to a real person and I don't know why, but it worked. Unless, maybe as I've often wondered, that robot was an actual person totally screwing with my head.
So real 'person' (tomato brain) comes on and says 'what'.
What?
How about 'what the hell?'
I explain that I got this letter about a credit card that I never applied for and I don't even know who they are and could she tell me what's going on?
*SIGH*
Oh. Yes. This should be fun.
In the most I'm-bored-and-you're-stupid tone she could muster, she said the name of the store and suggested that I had a credit card with a different store in the past. How having a card with a different store (which I didn't) would translate to this card now I don't know but that was my first indication that this was going to be way more difficult than was necessary.
She insisted upon the date that I opened this account, I insisted that I had not opened this account and could she please close it.
She demanded my social security number. I assured her she didn't need the full number.
This is where she began to YELL AT ME.
Ho.ly. Shit.
I offered her the last half just to confirm that she had it and she offered to hang up on me.
Joe came in the room at which point I told him "Dude, this lady is yelling at me and I'm not really sure why."
Meanwhile she's screaming "Ma'am" in my ear until I think I'm going to go deaf and I started to shake because I was getting pissed.
She finally let me confirm my information without giving her the full number (seriously? was that really such a big deal to just take the last 4 digits and then verify it with the rest of the info?).
After which, she smugly reported that if I didn't open an account with them then how did she have that information?
Hello dumb ass, welcome to this century. Have you ever read a newspaper, watch TV, or maybe listened when any one has ever mentioned the words 'identity theft' to you?
But, still wanting to maintain some level of decency here, I told her to please stop yelling at me and consider that someone else may have opened the account with my information. At any rate it didn't matter, the account needed to be closed.
She continued to yell in my ear (I'm holding the phone away from my head and Joe can hear her from across the room. It was like talking to my MIL only more pleasant) about how I opened an account and no one else could have given them that information but whatever because she was closing the account.
And then she hung up on me and I didn't even have the opportunity to tell her that the sticky side of that maxi was supposed to go down. So, sorry. I may have been able to save the next person's eardrums but she was way too fast on that hang-up for me.
Monday, February 19, 2007
Hairapy
When I was a teen I changed my hair every month. From cutting it, to the unfortunate perm to coloring it, it was the one thing in my life at that time that I had control over.
And it always seemed to cause problems for someone else in my family. Funny how my hair could cause so much grief for someone whose head it did not sit on.
The unfortunate perm, as it will always be remembered by me, started with my very odd desire to have spiral curls. Like Shirley Temple. Because when you were a teen didn't you want to look like Shirley Temple? Wait... no? Well what's wrong with you then? Whatever. I did want them and I bugged the hell out of my dad for weeks about it. Having a step mom who owned her own beauty salon would make one think that this would be an easy enough request to fulfill. Except that I was a teenager and we didn't like each other very much back then.
Then my mom decided to take me to her stylist and give me the perm as a birthday present. This was a huge deal and should have sent the alarm bells ringing in my head. Especially since my birthday had passed several months before and I had thought that the phone call was my birthday present. But my desire to have those curls outweighed my natural suspicion of anything involving my mother so I agreed.
I had really long hair at the time (which the stylist managed to burn quite a bit of it off as she was burning my neck with those damn chemicals) and my mother repeatedly mentioned how this was costing her a fortune and I had better appreciate it. Other than that, nothing was said in regards to my hair. Not even a roll of the eyes or a snort from my stepmother when she saw it.
A few weeks passed and I grew annoyed with the constant poof in the back and I began to get that itch to do something odd to my hair. I thought that I had better show restraint though since my mother had spent a 'damn fortune and a little appreciation would be nice'. So I only shaved off the lower half of the back. Something that would not be noticeable to anyone unless I wore my hair up and that was something I only did when my best friend and I were sneaking off to a club an hour away where all the other little freaks hung out.
Except that I did wear my hair in a ponytail one day when I was painting. I paused to get a drink and my stepbrother saw my hair.
It took exactly 2 days for him to rat me out (bastard).
My mother waited for Thanksgiving to pounce.
As soon as I walked in her door and went to give her a hug, I knew. She crossed her arms and took a step back. She demanded to see what her ungrateful daughter had done and then proceeded to chew me out for 20 minutes for ruining the gift she had given me. Then she decided that we wouldn't discuss it further because she didn't want her holiday ruined. Naturally the rest of dinner was spent discussing my hair and how ungrateful I was.
I think it was 6 months before we started speaking again.
I started coloring my hair when I was 13. I always did it myself, never made a mess and as long as I wasn't wrecking the house I guess my dad figured it wasn't the worst thing in the world. I was blond for about a week once (I look terrible as a blond), varying shades of red or brunette. Black hair a few times but it was such a pain to get rid of that I stopped using the permanent color for that one. When I was 17, I died my hair pink.
My dad had a bit of a meltdown over that one. Not really because it was pink but because it was right before we were to go over to my aunt's house and she already had a rather low opinion of me. He kept asking 'why?' over and over again.
My answer of 'they were out of blue' didn't seem to satisfy.
Through all those years of hair damage, the one thing I learned was that black hair dye is bad. Very bad. Especially when you are as white as me. I earned the nickname 'snow white' during that time which was then a compliment but not so much now. My hair held that black dye like it was it's true love. The last time, I had to have my hair stripped and even then it clung to my hair in patches.
3 years later the black was finally all gone and I felt certain that that was the last I had seen of it.
And then I decided to dye my hair this weekend. A perfectly harmless dark brown.
It's black.
And it always seemed to cause problems for someone else in my family. Funny how my hair could cause so much grief for someone whose head it did not sit on.
The unfortunate perm, as it will always be remembered by me, started with my very odd desire to have spiral curls. Like Shirley Temple. Because when you were a teen didn't you want to look like Shirley Temple? Wait... no? Well what's wrong with you then? Whatever. I did want them and I bugged the hell out of my dad for weeks about it. Having a step mom who owned her own beauty salon would make one think that this would be an easy enough request to fulfill. Except that I was a teenager and we didn't like each other very much back then.
Then my mom decided to take me to her stylist and give me the perm as a birthday present. This was a huge deal and should have sent the alarm bells ringing in my head. Especially since my birthday had passed several months before and I had thought that the phone call was my birthday present. But my desire to have those curls outweighed my natural suspicion of anything involving my mother so I agreed.
I had really long hair at the time (which the stylist managed to burn quite a bit of it off as she was burning my neck with those damn chemicals) and my mother repeatedly mentioned how this was costing her a fortune and I had better appreciate it. Other than that, nothing was said in regards to my hair. Not even a roll of the eyes or a snort from my stepmother when she saw it.
A few weeks passed and I grew annoyed with the constant poof in the back and I began to get that itch to do something odd to my hair. I thought that I had better show restraint though since my mother had spent a 'damn fortune and a little appreciation would be nice'. So I only shaved off the lower half of the back. Something that would not be noticeable to anyone unless I wore my hair up and that was something I only did when my best friend and I were sneaking off to a club an hour away where all the other little freaks hung out.
Except that I did wear my hair in a ponytail one day when I was painting. I paused to get a drink and my stepbrother saw my hair.
It took exactly 2 days for him to rat me out (bastard).
My mother waited for Thanksgiving to pounce.
As soon as I walked in her door and went to give her a hug, I knew. She crossed her arms and took a step back. She demanded to see what her ungrateful daughter had done and then proceeded to chew me out for 20 minutes for ruining the gift she had given me. Then she decided that we wouldn't discuss it further because she didn't want her holiday ruined. Naturally the rest of dinner was spent discussing my hair and how ungrateful I was.
I think it was 6 months before we started speaking again.
I started coloring my hair when I was 13. I always did it myself, never made a mess and as long as I wasn't wrecking the house I guess my dad figured it wasn't the worst thing in the world. I was blond for about a week once (I look terrible as a blond), varying shades of red or brunette. Black hair a few times but it was such a pain to get rid of that I stopped using the permanent color for that one. When I was 17, I died my hair pink.
My dad had a bit of a meltdown over that one. Not really because it was pink but because it was right before we were to go over to my aunt's house and she already had a rather low opinion of me. He kept asking 'why?' over and over again.
My answer of 'they were out of blue' didn't seem to satisfy.
Through all those years of hair damage, the one thing I learned was that black hair dye is bad. Very bad. Especially when you are as white as me. I earned the nickname 'snow white' during that time which was then a compliment but not so much now. My hair held that black dye like it was it's true love. The last time, I had to have my hair stripped and even then it clung to my hair in patches.
3 years later the black was finally all gone and I felt certain that that was the last I had seen of it.
And then I decided to dye my hair this weekend. A perfectly harmless dark brown.
It's black.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Food For Thought
The one part about pregnancy that I am never ready for is the food cravings. I know it's pretty normal and whatever but I still just don't get it.
There are times where I'm craving something so bad that the thought of eating anything else makes me nauseous. There was the week where all I could eat were BLT's. Then it was cinnamon Life cereal. Baked potatoes. The 2 days where I ate nothing but apples and cheese. I can deal with all that.
What I can't handle are the other odd food cravings.
*Pickles- They're OK on burgers but I've never been the kind of person to suddenly decide to just eat one. What really makes me bonkers is that it's never sour enough. Do they make extra sour pretzels?
*Olives- I hate olives. They are revolting and I've admitted more than once that they freak me out. Those little red pimentos in the center make them look like eyeballs. Disgusting, free-floating eyeballs staring back at me every time I open the refrigerator.
*Steak- OK, I know. It's not disgusting. I've just always preferred chicken. Except now I can't eat chicken.
*Gummy worms- again, not disgusting but I haven't eaten a gummy worm since I was a kid. Last week? I ate the whole bag. And then told Bre we must have lost them.
*The jar of mystery in the back of the fridge- I have no idea what it is. They look like little white flower buds. I don't know where they came from but the urge to eat them is there. Which totally explains why I put it on Joe's car seat the other night after he went to bed. I don't know what he did with it once he got to work but they are gone.
When I was pregnant with David, I woke up at 2 am craving a pumpkin pie so badly I made one. At 2 am.
And then ate the whole thing.
With Bre I ate an entire jar of applesauce without even realizing it.
I don't know. Maybe it's genetic.
When my mom was pregnant with me she ate a jar of cold sauerkraut every day (and she hated sauerkraut). She also blamed me for feeling so horribly sick for her entire pregnancy (yes, the sauerkraut had nothing to do with it).
There are times where I'm craving something so bad that the thought of eating anything else makes me nauseous. There was the week where all I could eat were BLT's. Then it was cinnamon Life cereal. Baked potatoes. The 2 days where I ate nothing but apples and cheese. I can deal with all that.
What I can't handle are the other odd food cravings.
*Pickles- They're OK on burgers but I've never been the kind of person to suddenly decide to just eat one. What really makes me bonkers is that it's never sour enough. Do they make extra sour pretzels?
*Olives- I hate olives. They are revolting and I've admitted more than once that they freak me out. Those little red pimentos in the center make them look like eyeballs. Disgusting, free-floating eyeballs staring back at me every time I open the refrigerator.
*Steak- OK, I know. It's not disgusting. I've just always preferred chicken. Except now I can't eat chicken.
*Gummy worms- again, not disgusting but I haven't eaten a gummy worm since I was a kid. Last week? I ate the whole bag. And then told Bre we must have lost them.
*The jar of mystery in the back of the fridge- I have no idea what it is. They look like little white flower buds. I don't know where they came from but the urge to eat them is there. Which totally explains why I put it on Joe's car seat the other night after he went to bed. I don't know what he did with it once he got to work but they are gone.
When I was pregnant with David, I woke up at 2 am craving a pumpkin pie so badly I made one. At 2 am.
And then ate the whole thing.
With Bre I ate an entire jar of applesauce without even realizing it.
I don't know. Maybe it's genetic.
When my mom was pregnant with me she ate a jar of cold sauerkraut every day (and she hated sauerkraut). She also blamed me for feeling so horribly sick for her entire pregnancy (yes, the sauerkraut had nothing to do with it).
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Biting Off More Than I Can Chew
In the time that my husband and I have been together we have celebrated Valentine's Day exactly once. It was the first year together and it just happened to fall on the weekend that I flew out here to see him (I still lived in PA) so I'm not sure that it really counts since we would have done all the things we did whether it was Valentine's Day or not.
I have nothing against celebrating. I mean, whatever tops your taco. We just... don't.
But we do have a ritual.
About 2 weeks before Valentine's, Joe will start mentioning a funny card he saw for me or talking about flowers, etc. Then I roll my eyes and tell him to please don't.
It's not that I don't appreciate the thought. It's just that I add up the total that he or I would spend on cards, flowers, candy or whatever and I think about all the other things we could use that money for, like going to the movies, or applying it to a credit card, and I just don't see the point. We tell each other we love each other every day. We do nice things for each other all the time. If we're out and we see something that the other person would love or could really use, we usually get it.
But this year? This is a little different. Because there is something I want for Valentine's Day this year.
This year, I want him to help dig me out of the big pile of volunteer work I managed to get myself into. This year, I want him to help me make the 300 scrapbooks I accidentally volunteered myself for. Or maybe just teach me to say no.
I have nothing against celebrating. I mean, whatever tops your taco. We just... don't.
But we do have a ritual.
About 2 weeks before Valentine's, Joe will start mentioning a funny card he saw for me or talking about flowers, etc. Then I roll my eyes and tell him to please don't.
It's not that I don't appreciate the thought. It's just that I add up the total that he or I would spend on cards, flowers, candy or whatever and I think about all the other things we could use that money for, like going to the movies, or applying it to a credit card, and I just don't see the point. We tell each other we love each other every day. We do nice things for each other all the time. If we're out and we see something that the other person would love or could really use, we usually get it.
But this year? This is a little different. Because there is something I want for Valentine's Day this year.
This year, I want him to help dig me out of the big pile of volunteer work I managed to get myself into. This year, I want him to help me make the 300 scrapbooks I accidentally volunteered myself for. Or maybe just teach me to say no.
Monday, February 12, 2007
I Think I Remember My Name
The nice thing about blogging is that right now? I can talk to you and breathe at the same time. And you can possibly understand just what the hell I'm saying. Because really? I sound like Mushmouth.
If I turn my head to the right, I can breathe out of my left nostril. If it I turn the the left, I can breathe out of my right nostril. If I look straight ahead, I can't breathe. If I stand up, I can breathe again.
It's a really fun game and my husband has been enjoying my nightly sleep routine because he always enjoys not being able to sleep.
I tell you all this so I can also tell you that I am not allowed to be sick right now. I have tried to explain this to my sinus' (bite me grammar people. Or get me some decongestant so I can think), but they told me to suck snot.
I am not allowed to be sick right now because it is Monday. Which means it's no longer the weekend. And you know that rule right? The one that says moms can't be sick except on weekends when someone else (in my case, Joe) is home to take care of the kids, nothing major needs to get done, the kids don't have some activity and you don't have important plans (like getting roasted to death in your friend's very beautiful new Durango on your way to dinner because she doesn't have blood in her veins. No, she has ice cubes floating around in there which force her to freeze even if it is like 90 degrees. But since she didn't yell at you for taking a goofy picture of her with your camera phone and she doesn't laugh at the stupid things you say, you put the window down and pretend to be a dog. Did I mention I had fun?).
Right. So, it's Monday. I am not allowed to be sick anymore. I just wish this rule also applied to children. Because there is nothing more pathetic than a sick little boy who can't sleep. Or, more accurately, can only sleep in 10 minute increments before he coughs which then makes him cry because it just hurts. And you can't even hold him to comfort him because it hurts to be touched.
His eyes are all red, his nose just keeps dripping, he's had a fever and he sounds like he swallowed a seal whole.
We sat around at the walk-in clinic for 3 hours just to be told that he had a 'flu-like' illness that was not the flu. Which makes me feel even worse that I let them do that test to see if it was the flu. Have you ever had that test? David highly recommends it. They take this thin wire (it looks like the under wire from a bra) and shove it up each nostril. As the Dr put it, "Not all the way back to brain but... well he's not going to like it."
Well, duh.
He screamed for 20 minutes after it was over and when the Dr came back in the room he ran and hid behind the table with his hands over his nose.
And for all that time and pain?
He was rewarded with cough syrup with codeine.
Or maybe I was rewarded.
I guess it depends on how you look at it.
I look at it like he was asleep 15 minutes after taking it and he's been asleep for 3 whole uninterrupted hours.
I'm sure we are horrible parents and whatever but the best part was when we were getting him in his jammies and his eyes were closed and he was talking. "Piggies... oink, oink, mooo... stinky.... NO MINE!... haha...."
He was snoring when we laid him down.
I hope that after this round of illness, we get a break. We need it. We need 7 days where no one is sick.
If I turn my head to the right, I can breathe out of my left nostril. If it I turn the the left, I can breathe out of my right nostril. If I look straight ahead, I can't breathe. If I stand up, I can breathe again.
It's a really fun game and my husband has been enjoying my nightly sleep routine because he always enjoys not being able to sleep.
I tell you all this so I can also tell you that I am not allowed to be sick right now. I have tried to explain this to my sinus' (bite me grammar people. Or get me some decongestant so I can think), but they told me to suck snot.
I am not allowed to be sick right now because it is Monday. Which means it's no longer the weekend. And you know that rule right? The one that says moms can't be sick except on weekends when someone else (in my case, Joe) is home to take care of the kids, nothing major needs to get done, the kids don't have some activity and you don't have important plans (like getting roasted to death in your friend's very beautiful new Durango on your way to dinner because she doesn't have blood in her veins. No, she has ice cubes floating around in there which force her to freeze even if it is like 90 degrees. But since she didn't yell at you for taking a goofy picture of her with your camera phone and she doesn't laugh at the stupid things you say, you put the window down and pretend to be a dog. Did I mention I had fun?).
Right. So, it's Monday. I am not allowed to be sick anymore. I just wish this rule also applied to children. Because there is nothing more pathetic than a sick little boy who can't sleep. Or, more accurately, can only sleep in 10 minute increments before he coughs which then makes him cry because it just hurts. And you can't even hold him to comfort him because it hurts to be touched.
His eyes are all red, his nose just keeps dripping, he's had a fever and he sounds like he swallowed a seal whole.
We sat around at the walk-in clinic for 3 hours just to be told that he had a 'flu-like' illness that was not the flu. Which makes me feel even worse that I let them do that test to see if it was the flu. Have you ever had that test? David highly recommends it. They take this thin wire (it looks like the under wire from a bra) and shove it up each nostril. As the Dr put it, "Not all the way back to brain but... well he's not going to like it."
Well, duh.
He screamed for 20 minutes after it was over and when the Dr came back in the room he ran and hid behind the table with his hands over his nose.
And for all that time and pain?
He was rewarded with cough syrup with codeine.
Or maybe I was rewarded.
I guess it depends on how you look at it.
I look at it like he was asleep 15 minutes after taking it and he's been asleep for 3 whole uninterrupted hours.
I'm sure we are horrible parents and whatever but the best part was when we were getting him in his jammies and his eyes were closed and he was talking. "Piggies... oink, oink, mooo... stinky.... NO MINE!... haha...."
He was snoring when we laid him down.
I hope that after this round of illness, we get a break. We need it. We need 7 days where no one is sick.
Thursday, February 08, 2007
Language Arts
It wasn't that many posts ago that I admitted that I couldn't understand most of what my Hurricane said to me. There were a few very clear words: cookie, juice, no, stinky. Simple, basic words needed to get through your average day. Everything else seemed to be a different language. Something spoken only in those jungle tribes featured on the Discovery Channel.
Recently a new child has taken the place of that foreigner I pretended to understand. Someone who says things like "mommy wake up" and "open ta gate peas" and "no mommy no. no boccli, no rice. I want pop-tar."
Someone who speaks complete sentences. Someone I can understand.
Most of the time.
There is still the matter of the "Nahg a dopito don don ok?"
I have not one clue as to what he is referring to but I know it's important because even if I'm in the middle of explaining to the cashier that she can't put my milk on top of my bread, he will grab my face and pull me into him, his head tilted into mine so that he is peering down at me for a change. We are eye to eye as he very sternly tells me, "Nahg a dopito don don ok?"
But the part that kills me is that he leans back and pats my cheek as if to say "that's my girl."
I'm not sure what it is I'm supposed to do but I'm clearly not doing it if his disappointed sigh and head shaking is any indication.
***********************
Despite her many objections, Bre is getting the new vaccine Gardisil.
We went back and forth for all of 5 seconds on whether or not we should. I don't know if our insurance will cover it or not and quite frankly we don't care. It's worth it.
*****************
My husband is dragging me into this century and forcing me to get a cell phone.
Yes, my dirty little secret is that I don't have a cell phone. The 5th grader down the street has one but not me and he thinks that there is something wrong with that.
Recently a new child has taken the place of that foreigner I pretended to understand. Someone who says things like "mommy wake up" and "open ta gate peas" and "no mommy no. no boccli, no rice. I want pop-tar."
Someone who speaks complete sentences. Someone I can understand.
Most of the time.
There is still the matter of the "Nahg a dopito don don ok?"
I have not one clue as to what he is referring to but I know it's important because even if I'm in the middle of explaining to the cashier that she can't put my milk on top of my bread, he will grab my face and pull me into him, his head tilted into mine so that he is peering down at me for a change. We are eye to eye as he very sternly tells me, "Nahg a dopito don don ok?"
But the part that kills me is that he leans back and pats my cheek as if to say "that's my girl."
I'm not sure what it is I'm supposed to do but I'm clearly not doing it if his disappointed sigh and head shaking is any indication.
***********************
Despite her many objections, Bre is getting the new vaccine Gardisil.
We went back and forth for all of 5 seconds on whether or not we should. I don't know if our insurance will cover it or not and quite frankly we don't care. It's worth it.
*****************
My husband is dragging me into this century and forcing me to get a cell phone.
Yes, my dirty little secret is that I don't have a cell phone. The 5th grader down the street has one but not me and he thinks that there is something wrong with that.
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
It's Never Going To Be Different
I had a regular check-up with my OB today. Just your average once a month check. Weight, questions, heart beat.
Except that when I was laying there waiting for the nurse practitioner to find the little thumpy-thumpy, she didn't.
It felt like forever, laying there while she moved the Doppler around searching for my baby. Each second that passed made me feel heavier, as though the absence of that sound was pushing me through the table.
"Well, it's still early so I wouldn't worry."
Of course you wouldn't. But I would. I'm 14 weeks. I've heard and seen the heartbeat. I've had several miscarriages before. Those patronizing words did nothing to alleviate my worry.
She suggested an ultrasound and asked me to wait while she went to get someone else who could do it.
I lay there on the table listening to my son crinkle the paper at my legs. My already swelling belly was covered in gel.
And it had been a long time since I had felt that alone.
Please God please please, not again.
She came back with a nurse who took my hand and said she'd try the Doppler once before the ultrasound.
And she found it immediately.
I was surprised to realize that I was crying.
I know it was partly in relief. My baby is OK. I am still pregnant and moving ahead.
But I think I was also crying because I know that I am never going to be as naive as I was with Bre. I am never going to be that relaxed. I am never going to be able to look at my ever swelling abdomen and not wonder if everything is really OK, or if it's all going to go horribly wrong. Again.
I thought I was doing alright. I hadn't freaked out once in the past few weeks since I heard the heartbeat. I ignored the headaches I was getting and my stiff neck and considered a new pillow. I never thought about how my muscles react to stress.
And I know that I'm doing it again. I'm bottling up that fear, that anxiety about this baby because I don't know how to express that to the people who care about me. I am afraid of them telling me that I'm crazy or worse, that I need to 'relax'. That is the sort of thing that makes me feel justified in punching them in the nose.
Before they found the heartbeat, David was tickling my feet. My feet. Anyone who knows me knows that this is a huge deal for me. I can't even stand the thought of anyone touching my feet. I have never had a pedicure because I can't refrain from kicking people who touch my feet.
But he tickled them. After we left I realized that I never even reacted. Not even a little bit.
I need to do something, find some way of handling this better.
Except that when I was laying there waiting for the nurse practitioner to find the little thumpy-thumpy, she didn't.
It felt like forever, laying there while she moved the Doppler around searching for my baby. Each second that passed made me feel heavier, as though the absence of that sound was pushing me through the table.
"Well, it's still early so I wouldn't worry."
Of course you wouldn't. But I would. I'm 14 weeks. I've heard and seen the heartbeat. I've had several miscarriages before. Those patronizing words did nothing to alleviate my worry.
She suggested an ultrasound and asked me to wait while she went to get someone else who could do it.
I lay there on the table listening to my son crinkle the paper at my legs. My already swelling belly was covered in gel.
And it had been a long time since I had felt that alone.
Please God please please, not again.
She came back with a nurse who took my hand and said she'd try the Doppler once before the ultrasound.
And she found it immediately.
I was surprised to realize that I was crying.
I know it was partly in relief. My baby is OK. I am still pregnant and moving ahead.
But I think I was also crying because I know that I am never going to be as naive as I was with Bre. I am never going to be that relaxed. I am never going to be able to look at my ever swelling abdomen and not wonder if everything is really OK, or if it's all going to go horribly wrong. Again.
I thought I was doing alright. I hadn't freaked out once in the past few weeks since I heard the heartbeat. I ignored the headaches I was getting and my stiff neck and considered a new pillow. I never thought about how my muscles react to stress.
And I know that I'm doing it again. I'm bottling up that fear, that anxiety about this baby because I don't know how to express that to the people who care about me. I am afraid of them telling me that I'm crazy or worse, that I need to 'relax'. That is the sort of thing that makes me feel justified in punching them in the nose.
Before they found the heartbeat, David was tickling my feet. My feet. Anyone who knows me knows that this is a huge deal for me. I can't even stand the thought of anyone touching my feet. I have never had a pedicure because I can't refrain from kicking people who touch my feet.
But he tickled them. After we left I realized that I never even reacted. Not even a little bit.
I need to do something, find some way of handling this better.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
My Husband's Dirty Little Secret
I can't believe that after nearly 5 years of marriage I have discovered that my husband has been keeping a secret from me. Huge, massive secret with deep, deep repercussions here people! 5 years! Massive Secret! When I think of all he had to do to keep this from me.... I just... I... mind. Boggled.
I was cleaning out our closets, dragging out my maternity wear (why do I have a flowered maternity shirt made for someone carrying triplets? I don't even like flowery stuff. The hell?) when I found it. A little metal lock box.
Sure, I had seen it before but never really thought to much of it. It used to be in with his fire safe and everything in there is designed to put me instantly to sleep so I ignored it. But now? Now it was in the closet. And as anyone with any sense of snoopy-ness knows, things found in closets are always more interesting than things found in fire safes.
He uses the same 'super-secret' code for everything so it was easy to open.
And I did. And before I hear all about how "Invasion of Privacy!", "Boundaries", "Trust!" just shut up and consider that if I hadn't you would not now be privy to this very interesting fact about my husband that was heretofore unknown and it is good. Plus, if he really wanted to keep it a secret, he should have left it in the safe because I... *snore*.....
And he knew I was cleaning out the closet. So.... pppbbffffttt!
Where was I?
Oh yes, Mind. Boggled!
Because there in that little cold gray metal box was a bag. Of hair.
A. Bag. Of. Hair.
People! I live in a house where there is a bag of hair in a lock box!
And then it all sort of started to make sense. At least as much as a bag of hair in a lock box can make sense.
See, my husband has often fondly recalled his early 20's when he had really long hair. Down to his ass long. And how he missed it.
What makes this even better? My husband was a big fan of that unfortunate 80's fashion phenomena known as......
The Mullet.
Business in Front,
Party in the Back Dude.
Yes. The long (down to the ass) hair in the back and the short and spiky on top.
Judging by the length of the hair in this bag, it could be only one thing.
It was held together at the top with a thick hair tie and then carefully wound into this Ziploc bag.
This thing is 15 years old. He has been carrying around a bag of hair for 15 years.
He's moved so many times, twice with me, and everywhere he has gone, so has this bag of hair.
I am completely..... Boggled!
And one hundred percent convinced that it is my duty, my obligation as his wife to mess with his head.
So here's what I'm thinking. I'm going to get my very long hair cut this weekend (please, I've been wanting to do this for awhile and I just have to now!). I am going to ask them to cut it just above a thick hair tie. I am going to place it in a Ziploc bag.
Then I am going to put it in that little metal lock box and not say one damn word.
I will wait until I know that he has checked on his box of hair. I will wait to see if it has been moved.
I wonder if he will freak out. Maybe he'll think his hair has cloned itself? Maybe he will think that perhaps he had another bag of hair that he forgot at some point?
Whatever.
In a few months, I will make a baby ponytail. One tied with a little pink ribbon and put in a sandwich baggie.
One that will maybe make him think that his bags of hair have mated and made baby hair.
Unless you can think of a better way to mess with the mind of a man who has been saving his mullet hair for 15 years.
I was cleaning out our closets, dragging out my maternity wear (why do I have a flowered maternity shirt made for someone carrying triplets? I don't even like flowery stuff. The hell?) when I found it. A little metal lock box.
Sure, I had seen it before but never really thought to much of it. It used to be in with his fire safe and everything in there is designed to put me instantly to sleep so I ignored it. But now? Now it was in the closet. And as anyone with any sense of snoopy-ness knows, things found in closets are always more interesting than things found in fire safes.
He uses the same 'super-secret' code for everything so it was easy to open.
And I did. And before I hear all about how "Invasion of Privacy!", "Boundaries", "Trust!" just shut up and consider that if I hadn't you would not now be privy to this very interesting fact about my husband that was heretofore unknown and it is good. Plus, if he really wanted to keep it a secret, he should have left it in the safe because I... *snore*.....
And he knew I was cleaning out the closet. So.... pppbbffffttt!
Where was I?
Oh yes, Mind. Boggled!
Because there in that little cold gray metal box was a bag. Of hair.
A. Bag. Of. Hair.
People! I live in a house where there is a bag of hair in a lock box!
And then it all sort of started to make sense. At least as much as a bag of hair in a lock box can make sense.
See, my husband has often fondly recalled his early 20's when he had really long hair. Down to his ass long. And how he missed it.
What makes this even better? My husband was a big fan of that unfortunate 80's fashion phenomena known as......
The Mullet.
Business in Front,
Party in the Back Dude.
Yes. The long (down to the ass) hair in the back and the short and spiky on top.
Judging by the length of the hair in this bag, it could be only one thing.
It was held together at the top with a thick hair tie and then carefully wound into this Ziploc bag.
This thing is 15 years old. He has been carrying around a bag of hair for 15 years.
He's moved so many times, twice with me, and everywhere he has gone, so has this bag of hair.
I am completely..... Boggled!
And one hundred percent convinced that it is my duty, my obligation as his wife to mess with his head.
So here's what I'm thinking. I'm going to get my very long hair cut this weekend (please, I've been wanting to do this for awhile and I just have to now!). I am going to ask them to cut it just above a thick hair tie. I am going to place it in a Ziploc bag.
Then I am going to put it in that little metal lock box and not say one damn word.
I will wait until I know that he has checked on his box of hair. I will wait to see if it has been moved.
I wonder if he will freak out. Maybe he'll think his hair has cloned itself? Maybe he will think that perhaps he had another bag of hair that he forgot at some point?
Whatever.
In a few months, I will make a baby ponytail. One tied with a little pink ribbon and put in a sandwich baggie.
One that will maybe make him think that his bags of hair have mated and made baby hair.
Unless you can think of a better way to mess with the mind of a man who has been saving his mullet hair for 15 years.
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Being Someone Else
I'm such a freak. I hate that I worry I so much. I hate that I think about all the stupid things that could (or did) fall out of my mouth. I hate being awkward.
That meeting today? Totally fine. Because the person I was meeting with was obviously not going to squish me like a bug or lock me in my gym locker or something equally stupid. She wasn't some very cool untouchable. She was just a normal person. A mom, like me. We took care of business and talked about our kids. I told her I was pregnant again. She remembered David's Humpty Dumpty costume from last year. We talked about how our kids were doing in school and their struggles and it was comforting to know that Bre wasn't the only one have some sort of trouble. And I know it sounds totally stupid but it was just one more step in the right direction for me. Because I got through an hour in the company of someone I didn't know very well and I didn't implode.
Someone asked me once why I volunteer for these things, why I put myself in the position to feel so uncomfortable.
Really simple. I don't want to end up being crazy cat lady. I don't want to be a hermit. I don't want to be awkward. I put myself in situations where I have to step outside of my shell because I hope that someday, I won't have that shell.
It was easy when I lived in the same state I grew up in. I had friends who had always known that I could get shy, even around them, but didn't hold it against me. Since moving here I haven't met a lot of people. It's not that I haven't tried, though I could certainly try harder. It's just that I suck at this. I'm better when I'm able to write down my thoughts and then go back and erase it when it's really stupid. Or in pig latin. But I'm working on that. And someday I won't be someone else. That someone else will be me.
* Did I mention that this someone else has to actually go to businesses and ask for discounts and possibly donated stuff? Know anyone who has an extra Wii sitting around? Heh.
That meeting today? Totally fine. Because the person I was meeting with was obviously not going to squish me like a bug or lock me in my gym locker or something equally stupid. She wasn't some very cool untouchable. She was just a normal person. A mom, like me. We took care of business and talked about our kids. I told her I was pregnant again. She remembered David's Humpty Dumpty costume from last year. We talked about how our kids were doing in school and their struggles and it was comforting to know that Bre wasn't the only one have some sort of trouble. And I know it sounds totally stupid but it was just one more step in the right direction for me. Because I got through an hour in the company of someone I didn't know very well and I didn't implode.
Someone asked me once why I volunteer for these things, why I put myself in the position to feel so uncomfortable.
Really simple. I don't want to end up being crazy cat lady. I don't want to be a hermit. I don't want to be awkward. I put myself in situations where I have to step outside of my shell because I hope that someday, I won't have that shell.
It was easy when I lived in the same state I grew up in. I had friends who had always known that I could get shy, even around them, but didn't hold it against me. Since moving here I haven't met a lot of people. It's not that I haven't tried, though I could certainly try harder. It's just that I suck at this. I'm better when I'm able to write down my thoughts and then go back and erase it when it's really stupid. Or in pig latin. But I'm working on that. And someday I won't be someone else. That someone else will be me.
* Did I mention that this someone else has to actually go to businesses and ask for discounts and possibly donated stuff? Know anyone who has an extra Wii sitting around? Heh.
Monday, January 29, 2007
Speaking of Inevitable...........
One of the following statements is true. Can you pick out the right one?
Our VCR can hold 5 blocks (3 long, 1 triangle and one half circle), a police wall from his train set and a motorcycle puzzle piece and still be able to play that freakin' Elmo tape.
I wonder if tomorrow I can convince him to shove in a few more and possibly do a little damage.
1) Our VCR finally revolted by throwing up after one too many showings of Elmo and his Number 5 rap.
2) The toys are in on the plot with my laundry room to destroy what remains of my sanity.
3) Hurricane has returned and moved on from soggy cheerios to blocks. Because blocks go in a lot further than soggy cheerios.
And just for useless trivia's sake..........
Our VCR can hold 5 blocks (3 long, 1 triangle and one half circle), a police wall from his train set and a motorcycle puzzle piece and still be able to play that freakin' Elmo tape.I wonder if tomorrow I can convince him to shove in a few more and possibly do a little damage.
Random Bits
*Friday, Joe came home with the stomach flu. He was sufficiently miserable and just wanted to go to bed. After listening to him complain and moan for awhile, I mentioned that this is what morning sickness feels like and this is what I've felt like for the past 2 months.
"I don't know how you could handle it. This sucks!"
Commence arm-pumping in victory!! Woo-freakin'-hoo! A little empathy just brightened my whole week. I congratulated myself on being able to convey my misery of the past two months to my husband and sent him off the bed.
Karma kicked me in the ass for my pride because by the time I got up, the stomach flu had found me. The only way I could tell the difference between this and the normal morning blahs was the dizziness and other things which I will not mention because. ew. really.
I spent the entire day in bed trying not to die. By evening I was down to dry heaves and able to keep ginger ale down.
I celebrated last night by eating pancakes.
*I have lost 10 lbs. Not particularly surprising, nor worrisome, since I went through this with David too and quickly caught up (and then some) by the end of my second trimester.
*My dog smells like Fritos.
*I was cleaning out my closet and found a bunch of overalls (what the hell was I thinking?) to toss. Among them a pair I have never worn and just do not understand what the hell my husband was thinking in buying them for me. They have piglet on the front pocket.
Do I look like I'm 5?
*I have a meeting tomorrow morning at Breanna's school. I'm supposed to chair Family Fun Nights for the PTA (I've never 'chaired' anything before. What the hell was I thinking?) and I'm feeling anxious about it which I know is completely ridiculous because frick! It's just bingo and maybe a movie night a few months from now! But I am. Anxious I am. I always feel just outside of the loop with these people. Like they've all known each other since grade school and there is no room for me. And the woman I'm meeting tomorrow is completely intimidating to me. It's not her, it's me. It's just my naturally socially awkward, uncomfortable self. I'm always afraid I'll end up speaking pig latin or something stupid like that.
*Lately David has been having these... um... screaming matches? With himself? He is completely inconsolable. One minute he's fine, the next he's screaming in agony. I have no idea how to make it stop but I think I've found the source of my migraines.
"I don't know how you could handle it. This sucks!"
Commence arm-pumping in victory!! Woo-freakin'-hoo! A little empathy just brightened my whole week. I congratulated myself on being able to convey my misery of the past two months to my husband and sent him off the bed.
Karma kicked me in the ass for my pride because by the time I got up, the stomach flu had found me. The only way I could tell the difference between this and the normal morning blahs was the dizziness and other things which I will not mention because. ew. really.
I spent the entire day in bed trying not to die. By evening I was down to dry heaves and able to keep ginger ale down.
I celebrated last night by eating pancakes.
*I have lost 10 lbs. Not particularly surprising, nor worrisome, since I went through this with David too and quickly caught up (and then some) by the end of my second trimester.
*My dog smells like Fritos.
*I was cleaning out my closet and found a bunch of overalls (what the hell was I thinking?) to toss. Among them a pair I have never worn and just do not understand what the hell my husband was thinking in buying them for me. They have piglet on the front pocket.
Do I look like I'm 5?
*I have a meeting tomorrow morning at Breanna's school. I'm supposed to chair Family Fun Nights for the PTA (I've never 'chaired' anything before. What the hell was I thinking?) and I'm feeling anxious about it which I know is completely ridiculous because frick! It's just bingo and maybe a movie night a few months from now! But I am. Anxious I am. I always feel just outside of the loop with these people. Like they've all known each other since grade school and there is no room for me. And the woman I'm meeting tomorrow is completely intimidating to me. It's not her, it's me. It's just my naturally socially awkward, uncomfortable self. I'm always afraid I'll end up speaking pig latin or something stupid like that.
*Lately David has been having these... um... screaming matches? With himself? He is completely inconsolable. One minute he's fine, the next he's screaming in agony. I have no idea how to make it stop but I think I've found the source of my migraines.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
The Potty Has It
Everywhere I turn lately people are talking about potty-training. What's the right age? What's the best method? Or 'geez, that kid is 3 and still not potty-trained?' as though it's going to prevent them from some day attending Harvard.
With Breanna, the cat sort of trained her and she also trained the cat.
When we thought maybe it was time to start potty training her we bought one that played music every time she peed. I thought it was the coolest thing in the world! I mean, what kid wouldn't want music to announce their amazing mastery of the potty? Right?
The first time she did it and that music played she ran out of the bathroom crying, still peeing and then refused to go anywhere near it.
I thought we were never going to get her out of diapers. Someday she would be telling her therapist that she would love to use the potty but she was afraid of the orchestra.
Then she saw the cat in the litter box.
I spent the next few weeks pulling her out of the litter box and trying to explain why people don't pee in boxes filled with dirt.
Finally, I moved the litter box into the bathroom, next to the now broken musical toilet. Anytime the cat would go in, so would she.
And then one day I walked in on the cat sitting on the toilet. Peeing. In the toilet.
He sat and looked at me. I stood and stared at him.
He sniffed and I think that if he could have he would have slammed the door in my face. Who did I think I was invading his privacy like that?
With David it's different.
We thought that he was ready. He gave all the cues that he was. He tells us when he's peed or poo-ed, talks about the potty, knows how to flush, and will go into the bathroom to do his thing.
We bought him a non-musical potty (though they had that musical one and I was so tempted because how awesome! except that didn't work out so well last time) and showed it to him. We sat him on it and he happily kicked his feet and sang 'potty, potty, potty'.
But, nothing.
Weeks have passed and still nothing.
The other day when I suggested the potty he agreed, but refused to take off his diaper. He sat and smiled, kicked his feet and talked away as though we were best friends having coffee. Then he did the one thing that can only be blamed on his father and makes me so very glad that we have 3 bathrooms.
"Mamas, I need book!"
With Breanna, the cat sort of trained her and she also trained the cat.
When we thought maybe it was time to start potty training her we bought one that played music every time she peed. I thought it was the coolest thing in the world! I mean, what kid wouldn't want music to announce their amazing mastery of the potty? Right?
The first time she did it and that music played she ran out of the bathroom crying, still peeing and then refused to go anywhere near it.
I thought we were never going to get her out of diapers. Someday she would be telling her therapist that she would love to use the potty but she was afraid of the orchestra.
Then she saw the cat in the litter box.
I spent the next few weeks pulling her out of the litter box and trying to explain why people don't pee in boxes filled with dirt.
Finally, I moved the litter box into the bathroom, next to the now broken musical toilet. Anytime the cat would go in, so would she.
And then one day I walked in on the cat sitting on the toilet. Peeing. In the toilet.
He sat and looked at me. I stood and stared at him.
He sniffed and I think that if he could have he would have slammed the door in my face. Who did I think I was invading his privacy like that?
With David it's different.
We thought that he was ready. He gave all the cues that he was. He tells us when he's peed or poo-ed, talks about the potty, knows how to flush, and will go into the bathroom to do his thing.
We bought him a non-musical potty (though they had that musical one and I was so tempted because how awesome! except that didn't work out so well last time) and showed it to him. We sat him on it and he happily kicked his feet and sang 'potty, potty, potty'.
But, nothing.
Weeks have passed and still nothing.
The other day when I suggested the potty he agreed, but refused to take off his diaper. He sat and smiled, kicked his feet and talked away as though we were best friends having coffee. Then he did the one thing that can only be blamed on his father and makes me so very glad that we have 3 bathrooms.
"Mamas, I need book!"
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
Quit With The Big Sad Puppy Eyes Already!
After months of thinking that Hurricane was never going to sleep, that we were going to spend the rest of our lives returning him to bed and begging him to sleep, he finally seemed to get it. He loved his bed time routine (in which I must kiss puppy 4 times and him 5 and puppy must have it's own cup of water) and would generally sleep until 7:30 am when he would crawl into bed with me and watch cartoons. Occasionally he would get up in the middle of the night, usually if he'd lost his cup of water, but he would happily go right back to sleep once I tucked him in. Nap time has been a breeze. He gets his pediasure and a back rub and that's that.
And then there was last night.
Something told me when he got up at 11:30 that this was different, that it was going to be a long night. He fussed when I put him back in bed.
Midnight: He's crying for daddy who is loudly snoring and pretending that he doesn't hear his son screaming or me begging his son to go back to sleep. I tuck Hurricane back into bed and gently knee husband in the side. He rolls over and stops snoring.
12:45- I am just falling back to sleep when Hurricane is again at his door crying. I feel annoyed, frustrated and exhausted. Husband looks at me as I stomp out of the room. I tell Hurricane it's night-night time and let's go back to sleep. He reaches for me and I sigh.
And then I smell it.
I turn on the lights and he is covered in puke. His pitiful little whimpering and the tears in his eyes are enough to undo me.
I gag as I undress him (can't help it, weak gag reflex) and then begin trying to clean up his carpet.
He sits, moaning softly, watching me.
I feel guilty. Poor baby was sick and there I was not listening to his cues.
I get a clean pair of pajamas out and start to dress him.
"mamas? Tummy, huuuurrrtt."
I know baby. I know. And I'm so sorry!
I tuck him back into bed and kiss his sweet head.
"love you boo-bear."
"Oo-kay mamas."
1:30- Once again cleaning up puke and removing his pajamas. I lay towels out on his bed and crawl in next to him but he doesn't want to sleep.
2:00- I'm being taught a lesson in patience. He has decided that he doesn't want me to leave but I shouldn't lay down either.
Suddenly he sits up, moaning. I know what's coming and hold out the towel. He throws up a little more and finally seems tired.
I tuck him back into bed and leave.
2:30- It's going to be a long night. I let him put on his Nemo jammies and I sit on the floor by his bed, waiting for him to fall asleep.
3:15- I sneak back into my own bed.
3:45- Husband let's Hurricane into our bed where he promptly throws up on him, just a little (I managed to not laugh out loud. I am vindictive and mean).
4:15- Everyone is cleaned up and Hurricane is sleeping on Husband's shoulder. I drift off to sleep.
4:30- Husband's alarm clock goes off and I am once again awake. And frustrated.
5:15- drift off to sleep again.
6:00- Hurricane crying in his sleep.
7:30- He is up for good and there is poop all over the bed. Woo-hoo! It's time to party!
I need a nap. And a maid. And a Get Out of Guilt Free card.
And then there was last night.
Something told me when he got up at 11:30 that this was different, that it was going to be a long night. He fussed when I put him back in bed.
Midnight: He's crying for daddy who is loudly snoring and pretending that he doesn't hear his son screaming or me begging his son to go back to sleep. I tuck Hurricane back into bed and gently knee husband in the side. He rolls over and stops snoring.
12:45- I am just falling back to sleep when Hurricane is again at his door crying. I feel annoyed, frustrated and exhausted. Husband looks at me as I stomp out of the room. I tell Hurricane it's night-night time and let's go back to sleep. He reaches for me and I sigh.
And then I smell it.
I turn on the lights and he is covered in puke. His pitiful little whimpering and the tears in his eyes are enough to undo me.
I gag as I undress him (can't help it, weak gag reflex) and then begin trying to clean up his carpet.
He sits, moaning softly, watching me.
I feel guilty. Poor baby was sick and there I was not listening to his cues.
I get a clean pair of pajamas out and start to dress him.
"mamas? Tummy, huuuurrrtt."
I know baby. I know. And I'm so sorry!
I tuck him back into bed and kiss his sweet head.
"love you boo-bear."
"Oo-kay mamas."
1:30- Once again cleaning up puke and removing his pajamas. I lay towels out on his bed and crawl in next to him but he doesn't want to sleep.
2:00- I'm being taught a lesson in patience. He has decided that he doesn't want me to leave but I shouldn't lay down either.
Suddenly he sits up, moaning. I know what's coming and hold out the towel. He throws up a little more and finally seems tired.
I tuck him back into bed and leave.
2:30- It's going to be a long night. I let him put on his Nemo jammies and I sit on the floor by his bed, waiting for him to fall asleep.
3:15- I sneak back into my own bed.
3:45- Husband let's Hurricane into our bed where he promptly throws up on him, just a little (I managed to not laugh out loud. I am vindictive and mean).
4:15- Everyone is cleaned up and Hurricane is sleeping on Husband's shoulder. I drift off to sleep.
4:30- Husband's alarm clock goes off and I am once again awake. And frustrated.
5:15- drift off to sleep again.
6:00- Hurricane crying in his sleep.
7:30- He is up for good and there is poop all over the bed. Woo-hoo! It's time to party!
I need a nap. And a maid. And a Get Out of Guilt Free card.
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
The Long Road
I've been avoiding saying anything about this for a few months now. Not because there is anything really wrong, but just that there wasn't anything to say about it. Plus, I wasn't really sure how to articulate my thoughts about the situation.
Bre has been struggling in school. Her last report card noted her to be At or Below grade level in everything but music and P.E.
I can't say that I was terribly surprised. She has always struggled with school. She has always had to work just a little bit harder, a little bit longer. We had, at one point, looked into getting her help at Sylvan's tutoring center (something that would require us to sell some organs to afford). When I talked to her teachers, they insisted that it was simply a maturity issue, that she would catch up and there was no need to worry. But I did. (And just to note: all of her teachers have been excellent. I don't think their response was flippant, just based on their experience and not on what I was seeing.)
This year, her teacher agreed with me. A fact that I am grateful for.
I had a meeting this morning with a few people in the school who will set her up for testing and any help she will need down the road.
It was a little awkward sitting there, talking about our family's health history. Well gee, there is her crazy maternal grandmother who is no longer with us, her crazy biological father who hasn't been around in years, her crazy grandmother on my husband's side who we wouldn't trust to take care of a cockroach. Did I mention that she was deaf for a year as a baby? How about her seizure disorder?
Obviously the earlier she gets help the better. But there is a part of me that wishes she wouldn't have to go down this road. Who wants their kids to struggle? I worry about what will happen. She's only in 3rd grade and she wants to go to college. I wonder if she will. I worry that she'll just give up. It's hard to watch her try so hard and still get it wrong. I can see the frustration in her face and how much she just wants to give up. It makes me crazy because I know she's smart. She has a great imagination. It's just that something gets lost between her brain and the paper and what started out as some amazing story about a girl and a flying cat exploring the Milky Way becomes a girl feeding her cat.
I guess we'll see what happens after the testing. I should hear something by mid-March.
For now, we'll just keep going as we are. And I'll keep trying to come up with a better way to convey what I'm thinking (dang baby brain).
Bre has been struggling in school. Her last report card noted her to be At or Below grade level in everything but music and P.E.
I can't say that I was terribly surprised. She has always struggled with school. She has always had to work just a little bit harder, a little bit longer. We had, at one point, looked into getting her help at Sylvan's tutoring center (something that would require us to sell some organs to afford). When I talked to her teachers, they insisted that it was simply a maturity issue, that she would catch up and there was no need to worry. But I did. (And just to note: all of her teachers have been excellent. I don't think their response was flippant, just based on their experience and not on what I was seeing.)
This year, her teacher agreed with me. A fact that I am grateful for.
I had a meeting this morning with a few people in the school who will set her up for testing and any help she will need down the road.
It was a little awkward sitting there, talking about our family's health history. Well gee, there is her crazy maternal grandmother who is no longer with us, her crazy biological father who hasn't been around in years, her crazy grandmother on my husband's side who we wouldn't trust to take care of a cockroach. Did I mention that she was deaf for a year as a baby? How about her seizure disorder?
Obviously the earlier she gets help the better. But there is a part of me that wishes she wouldn't have to go down this road. Who wants their kids to struggle? I worry about what will happen. She's only in 3rd grade and she wants to go to college. I wonder if she will. I worry that she'll just give up. It's hard to watch her try so hard and still get it wrong. I can see the frustration in her face and how much she just wants to give up. It makes me crazy because I know she's smart. She has a great imagination. It's just that something gets lost between her brain and the paper and what started out as some amazing story about a girl and a flying cat exploring the Milky Way becomes a girl feeding her cat.
I guess we'll see what happens after the testing. I should hear something by mid-March.
For now, we'll just keep going as we are. And I'll keep trying to come up with a better way to convey what I'm thinking (dang baby brain).
Friday, January 19, 2007
The Infatuation Starts Early
Hurricane and I were winding our way through the grocery store, our typical Friday routine. His non-stop chatter (seriously? This kid never shuts up. He has started talking in his sleep which when added with the fact that he sleeps with his eyes partly open? Totally freaking me out) filled the store while I picked out juice boxes and bananas.
"Huck mamas?"
Hug? Yes! I love hugs! Even better when they are from him! Hug!!! (Woo-hoo exclamation points!!!!)
After 5 aisles of repeated bear hugs, I decided it was time for a new game so, I honked his nose.
It's something we've played many times before. I touch his nose and say 'honk honk', he touches mine and says 'beep'. It's silly, but it never fails to distract him until I can think of something better.
Except that this time he didn't beep my nose.
This time he grabbed my nipple in a death grip and yelled "HONK HONK!" until I fell over dead from pain (and maybe a little embarrassment).
Usually he saves his nipple crushing for when I'm changing his diaper.
Dear future Mrs Hurricane,
Yes. I know. I know. I am so sorry.
Love,
Nippleless.
"Huck mamas?"
Hug? Yes! I love hugs! Even better when they are from him! Hug!!! (Woo-hoo exclamation points!!!!)
After 5 aisles of repeated bear hugs, I decided it was time for a new game so, I honked his nose.
It's something we've played many times before. I touch his nose and say 'honk honk', he touches mine and says 'beep'. It's silly, but it never fails to distract him until I can think of something better.
Except that this time he didn't beep my nose.
This time he grabbed my nipple in a death grip and yelled "HONK HONK!" until I fell over dead from pain (and maybe a little embarrassment).
Usually he saves his nipple crushing for when I'm changing his diaper.
Dear future Mrs Hurricane,
Yes. I know. I know. I am so sorry.
Love,
Nippleless.
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
Seven Is Heaven (or another post no one will care about but maybe me)
1947- My dad is born
1977- I am born
1997- Breanna is born
2004- David is born and Bre turns 7
Bre also informs us that her first, middle, last and nickname all have 7 letters.
Due date: August 7, 2007
And yes I know the picture is crooked and kind of small but no matter how far I've come in my comfort level as far as sharing information, I can't share my last name. Also, my technician sucked. From being pissy that I didn't have anyone to watch the kids (and never mind that they were perfectly behaved and didn't move from their seats the whole time and even if I did have someone to watch them, what if I had wanted them there?) to rolling her eyes when I asked questions, to frowning when I asked for a picture. Normally this would result in some assy comment from me but I was too happy from seeing that little hand waving.
1977- I am born
1997- Breanna is born
2004- David is born and Bre turns 7
Bre also informs us that her first, middle, last and nickname all have 7 letters.
Due date: August 7, 2007And yes I know the picture is crooked and kind of small but no matter how far I've come in my comfort level as far as sharing information, I can't share my last name. Also, my technician sucked. From being pissy that I didn't have anyone to watch the kids (and never mind that they were perfectly behaved and didn't move from their seats the whole time and even if I did have someone to watch them, what if I had wanted them there?) to rolling her eyes when I asked questions, to frowning when I asked for a picture. Normally this would result in some assy comment from me but I was too happy from seeing that little hand waving.
Monday, January 15, 2007
Random Bits
It's January. Middle of January actually. There are 10 months until Thanksgiving. There are a lot of big things happening between then and now. I'm turning 30 (meh), my favorite BIL is getting deployed (voluntarily. I think Joe got the brains in the family) to Iraq, we're having a baby, my parents will be here to visit, my dad is turning 60, Joe's 20 year high school reunion is this summer, Bre will turn 10 (double digits- yikes!) and a host of other things we have to look forward too.
Still, I am looking forward to Thanksgiving.
Maybe because for the last 6 years straight I have prepared dinner for a bunch of ingrates who can't even take their plates to the sink. Maybe because I don't like having to prepare dinner for and then be ignored by people I'm supposed to call family. Maybe because this year, I get to tell them all to go somewhere else.
Yup. Probably that last one.
The original plan was to go to my SIL's house. The one I don't like. The one who is completely two-faced and phony. The one who trashes me to anyone who will listen but is so sweet to my face. Fuuuunnn.
For 2 months now I've been thinking of ways to get out of going (I love to plan ahead). I figured that even I could fake a good flu. Or maybe the kids could. I didn't realize that my husband had been doing the same thing.
Then I caught him on the computer looking up flights to Disneyland.
That's right in-laws. You're all going to have to find somewhere else to eat this year, we're going to Disneyland!
Even better, after realizing that he could save $1500 and it would only take 20 hours, we're driving.
Woo-hoo! A vacation with no flying involved!
It's enough to make me want to possibly someday have sex again!
Maybe.
*****************
I think my boobs are in cahoots to kill me. They were already way too big (in my opinion). I walk into a room about 5 minutes after they do. When I got pregnant, they seemed to take this as their cue to grow bigger. And I know that this is only the beginning. If history repeats itself (and since they have already done this twice, I don't see why this time would be any different) they will grow again this summer and then again after the baby is born and they will end up being one size larger then they were before I got pregnant.
When even my husband notices, with horror, that they have grown? There is a problem.
*************
I am still waiting for this whole 'turning 30' thing to bother me. I'm waiting to see what happens when April rolls around. Maybe I'm saving my nervous breakdown for then.
**********
I still have not downloaded the Christmas pictures from my camera. This is so not like me.
********
Ultrasound on Wednesday. I really shouldn't be anxious, but I can't help it. I asked my doctor if I could just have my epidural now instead of waiting for labor. He turned me down.
*******
As much as my kids love playing together, I don't think I could have taken another day of it. They have spent all day yelling and arguing over toys. Weebles were hurled and doors were slammed. I separated and pleaded and tried to distract but I'm just not as much fun to play with.
*******
At some point I'm going to put up something worth reading so all this boring stuff may be a distant memory. And possibly deleted.
Still, I am looking forward to Thanksgiving.
Maybe because for the last 6 years straight I have prepared dinner for a bunch of ingrates who can't even take their plates to the sink. Maybe because I don't like having to prepare dinner for and then be ignored by people I'm supposed to call family. Maybe because this year, I get to tell them all to go somewhere else.
Yup. Probably that last one.
The original plan was to go to my SIL's house. The one I don't like. The one who is completely two-faced and phony. The one who trashes me to anyone who will listen but is so sweet to my face. Fuuuunnn.
For 2 months now I've been thinking of ways to get out of going (I love to plan ahead). I figured that even I could fake a good flu. Or maybe the kids could. I didn't realize that my husband had been doing the same thing.
Then I caught him on the computer looking up flights to Disneyland.
That's right in-laws. You're all going to have to find somewhere else to eat this year, we're going to Disneyland!
Even better, after realizing that he could save $1500 and it would only take 20 hours, we're driving.
Woo-hoo! A vacation with no flying involved!
It's enough to make me want to possibly someday have sex again!
Maybe.
*****************
I think my boobs are in cahoots to kill me. They were already way too big (in my opinion). I walk into a room about 5 minutes after they do. When I got pregnant, they seemed to take this as their cue to grow bigger. And I know that this is only the beginning. If history repeats itself (and since they have already done this twice, I don't see why this time would be any different) they will grow again this summer and then again after the baby is born and they will end up being one size larger then they were before I got pregnant.
When even my husband notices, with horror, that they have grown? There is a problem.
*************
I am still waiting for this whole 'turning 30' thing to bother me. I'm waiting to see what happens when April rolls around. Maybe I'm saving my nervous breakdown for then.
**********
I still have not downloaded the Christmas pictures from my camera. This is so not like me.
********
Ultrasound on Wednesday. I really shouldn't be anxious, but I can't help it. I asked my doctor if I could just have my epidural now instead of waiting for labor. He turned me down.
*******
As much as my kids love playing together, I don't think I could have taken another day of it. They have spent all day yelling and arguing over toys. Weebles were hurled and doors were slammed. I separated and pleaded and tried to distract but I'm just not as much fun to play with.
*******
At some point I'm going to put up something worth reading so all this boring stuff may be a distant memory. And possibly deleted.
One Of Those Weeks.
To Do:
1) The laundry. The massive piles of laundry which threaten to organize and take over the house in a fit of dirty rage.
2) Organize the toys. The massive piles of toys that are no longer played with which now far out-weigh the toys that are still 'cool'.
3) Dishes. How can there be so many dishes? Hurricane barely eats, Bre only eats stuff that has been pre-made and therefore does not require dishes and I just flat out can't eat. So where are they all coming from?
4) Call PTA President. Again. Because she won't call me back and I'm about to say screw it and let her handle chairing that particular project herself.
5) Set up sleepover for Bre and her friend and be grateful that it isn't our turn.
6) Make bed. Maybe if I could get out of it this would be plausible.
7) Referee children's fighting.
Things That Will Get Done:
1) Nap- mine and Hurricane's
2) Separate playtime for kids to slow the fighting.
3) Nap- mine.
4) Where did all these court shows come from?
5) Nap- mine
6) I really need to clean this bathroom. Maybe later.
7) Did you know Finding Nemo lasts the perfect amount of time for napping?
1) The laundry. The massive piles of laundry which threaten to organize and take over the house in a fit of dirty rage.
2) Organize the toys. The massive piles of toys that are no longer played with which now far out-weigh the toys that are still 'cool'.
3) Dishes. How can there be so many dishes? Hurricane barely eats, Bre only eats stuff that has been pre-made and therefore does not require dishes and I just flat out can't eat. So where are they all coming from?
4) Call PTA President. Again. Because she won't call me back and I'm about to say screw it and let her handle chairing that particular project herself.
5) Set up sleepover for Bre and her friend and be grateful that it isn't our turn.
6) Make bed. Maybe if I could get out of it this would be plausible.
7) Referee children's fighting.
Things That Will Get Done:
1) Nap- mine and Hurricane's
2) Separate playtime for kids to slow the fighting.
3) Nap- mine.
4) Where did all these court shows come from?
5) Nap- mine
6) I really need to clean this bathroom. Maybe later.
7) Did you know Finding Nemo lasts the perfect amount of time for napping?
Thursday, January 11, 2007
This Is Going To Be Harder Than I Thought
Since I got to hear the heartbeat and am feeling strangely optimistic (did I just say that?), I decided to try to explain to my little Hurricane that he is going to be a big brother.
I sat down on the floor in front of him and showed him a picture (ok, it was a weak-ass drawing I did) of a woman (yes, that was a woman. She was wearing a dress. Sort of) and in her belly was a baby (it was passable).
He looked at it and then at me, one eyebrow raised. This is his father's expression. Usually meant to convey "crazy woman alert".
"She has a baby in her belly!"
Again, look at the picture, look at me. Still crazy.
"Dat's baby?"
"Yes. That's a baby."
He looked doubtful.
"Dat's doggy."
Great. Now I have an art critic on my hands.
New tactic.
"Mommy has a baby in her belly." I gently rubbed my belly and waited.
"I haff baby in bebly Mamas." He lifted his shirt and smiled at me.
"No, mommy has a baby in her belly. Your belly is full of goldfish and tickles."
"No."
"Baby in Mamas belly."
"No. Baby in my bebly."
Hmmm. I guess it is a bit much to expect him to understand at this point but I didn't think he'd be so argumentative either.
"You get to be a big brother just like you have a big sister! We're going to have a baby!"
At this he threw himself into my lap and declared, "I da baby!"
With any luck, we'll get this figured out before the baby gets here.
I sat down on the floor in front of him and showed him a picture (ok, it was a weak-ass drawing I did) of a woman (yes, that was a woman. She was wearing a dress. Sort of) and in her belly was a baby (it was passable).
He looked at it and then at me, one eyebrow raised. This is his father's expression. Usually meant to convey "crazy woman alert".
"She has a baby in her belly!"
Again, look at the picture, look at me. Still crazy.
"Dat's baby?"
"Yes. That's a baby."
He looked doubtful.
"Dat's doggy."
Great. Now I have an art critic on my hands.
New tactic.
"Mommy has a baby in her belly." I gently rubbed my belly and waited.
"I haff baby in bebly Mamas." He lifted his shirt and smiled at me.
"No, mommy has a baby in her belly. Your belly is full of goldfish and tickles."
"No."
"Baby in Mamas belly."
"No. Baby in my bebly."
Hmmm. I guess it is a bit much to expect him to understand at this point but I didn't think he'd be so argumentative either.
"You get to be a big brother just like you have a big sister! We're going to have a baby!"
At this he threw himself into my lap and declared, "I da baby!"
With any luck, we'll get this figured out before the baby gets here.
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
I Love Thumpy-Thumpy
I have been living, for several weeks now, with the certainty that I was going to walk into my Doctor's appointment today and be told that this pregnancy was just my imagination. That this constant desire to toss my cookies, the sudden increase in the size of the girls (and yeah, great, as if they weren't already big enough to qualify for their own zip code. Move over Rhode Island, you have competition), my achy legs and serious aversion to any form of meat was all some very cruel mind game I'm playing with myself.
I think that may just be my way of protecting myself. When it comes to pregnancy, I'm always certain that I will fail.
It never works though. Because when it does fail, I am devastated. Crushed and afraid that this is how it will always be.
This time, after waiting 2 hours for my turn, I just knew that the nurse was going to shake her head and offer me the number to a really good psychiatrist.
There are no words to describe what it was like to hear that little thumpy-thumpy. A steady, strong heartbeat that was not mine but came from me. Because it meant that this is not all in my head. Because it meant that there really is a baby in there. Because it meant that I have reason to hope that this will work. Because of the 3 other pregnancies that had heartbeats, 2 resulted in some pretty adorable children.
Ultrasound to be scheduled tomorrow. Next appointment in 4 weeks.
Plenty of time to torture myself with all those lovely pessimistic thoughts.
I think that may just be my way of protecting myself. When it comes to pregnancy, I'm always certain that I will fail.
It never works though. Because when it does fail, I am devastated. Crushed and afraid that this is how it will always be.
This time, after waiting 2 hours for my turn, I just knew that the nurse was going to shake her head and offer me the number to a really good psychiatrist.
There are no words to describe what it was like to hear that little thumpy-thumpy. A steady, strong heartbeat that was not mine but came from me. Because it meant that this is not all in my head. Because it meant that there really is a baby in there. Because it meant that I have reason to hope that this will work. Because of the 3 other pregnancies that had heartbeats, 2 resulted in some pretty adorable children.
Ultrasound to be scheduled tomorrow. Next appointment in 4 weeks.
Plenty of time to torture myself with all those lovely pessimistic thoughts.
Monday, January 08, 2007
Somehow Fitting
When we were visiting my parents over Christmas we took a day to put flowers on my grandmother's grave. It seemed wrong that it had been nearly 2 years since she had died and I had yet to stop at her grave.
As we were leaving, my dad asked if I'd like to stop at the farm.
The farm.
When I was little, I loved going to the farm. It was my Great Aunt Violet and Uncle Sam's place. Neither of them had ever married (brother and sister) and they always treated us as though we were theirs.
They had 7 acres. A relatively small plot for farming, but perfect for a few unruly children to go wild.
I remember the corn field. We could play tag in there and it was so easy to get lost. Standing in the middle of that field, everything else went away. It was so quiet. I loved standing there with these stalks towering over me, staring up at that bright blue sky.
The barn. Big, red, peeling paint, a little creaky. Perfect for jumping off that 2nd floor loft into the waiting hay bales. OK, it sounds painful now but then? It was free. Aunt Violet would come out from time to time, telling us to stop that before we broke our necks, but Uncle Sam would simply wink at us, knowing that as soon as they were back in the house we would be jumping off that loft again.
The outhouse. Yes, an honest to goodness outhouse. They didn't get indoor plumbing until the early 80's, but my Uncle Sam still preferred that outhouse. I guess after using that outhouse for 75 years, it seemed wrong to change that.
We would spend hours chasing each other around that farm. Never worrying about anything but which tree we should climb first.
My favorite part of our visit was sneaking away from the others and going inside.
No one ever used the front door. That was for strangers and salesmen and since they lived out in the middle of no where (the town didn't get paved roads until the 90's), that was extremely rare. I can only remember their doorbell ringing once and only because the sound of it caused the adults to look at each other as though an alien had suddenly appeared and offered them a cake made of slugs.
The back door led straight into an honest to goodness washroom. No, not a laundry room. They never had a washer and dryer. They had a large metal tub with a washboard and a line out back for drying clothes. My Aunt always insisted that we wash our hands before coming into her kitchen. Seems fairly simple enough. But they didn't have a sink in that room. Instead there was an old porcelain bowl and pitcher. I loved having her pour the water over my hands. Such a simple act but so different from when my parents made me wash my hands at home.
Then we would sit at her kitchen table and I would listen to them talk and answer questions all the while waiting. Because I knew it wouldn't be long before Aunt Violet would hand over that little glass bowl of tea berry mints. If you've never had one, there's really not any decent way to describe them. Only that they do not taste like mint and you will either love them, or hate them.
I loved them.
My Uncle Sam was quiet and thoughtful. My Aunt Violet was so bursting to the tips of her being with life it seemed that she could burst with it.
One day, my Uncle Sam died. And even though the visits continued, they were diminished. As though his loss sucked some of the life out of everything left behind.
The barn seemed a little less. The corn stalks seemed smaller. The trees drooped as though they could no longer pretend to be perfectly maintained climbing wonders.
And then Aunt Violet died and there just wasn't a reason to go to the farm anymore. All the things that had made it so amazing were gone.
Seeing it all again took me back for a moment. But all those memories couldn't hide the truth. The corn was gone of course (it is winter). The barn looks like it should be taken down. 2 of my favorite climbing trees are gone and I miss their branches even more now. The house looks the same and I wonder if the people renting it can love it as much as my Aunt and Uncle did. I wonder if they are still there. In the halls, the kitchen, the rooms that they breathed and laughed in.
As we pulled away, I saw it. There in the back of the house just as perfect as I remembered it.
My Uncle Sam's outhouse.
As we were leaving, my dad asked if I'd like to stop at the farm.
The farm.
When I was little, I loved going to the farm. It was my Great Aunt Violet and Uncle Sam's place. Neither of them had ever married (brother and sister) and they always treated us as though we were theirs.
They had 7 acres. A relatively small plot for farming, but perfect for a few unruly children to go wild.
I remember the corn field. We could play tag in there and it was so easy to get lost. Standing in the middle of that field, everything else went away. It was so quiet. I loved standing there with these stalks towering over me, staring up at that bright blue sky.
The barn. Big, red, peeling paint, a little creaky. Perfect for jumping off that 2nd floor loft into the waiting hay bales. OK, it sounds painful now but then? It was free. Aunt Violet would come out from time to time, telling us to stop that before we broke our necks, but Uncle Sam would simply wink at us, knowing that as soon as they were back in the house we would be jumping off that loft again.
The outhouse. Yes, an honest to goodness outhouse. They didn't get indoor plumbing until the early 80's, but my Uncle Sam still preferred that outhouse. I guess after using that outhouse for 75 years, it seemed wrong to change that.
We would spend hours chasing each other around that farm. Never worrying about anything but which tree we should climb first.
My favorite part of our visit was sneaking away from the others and going inside.
No one ever used the front door. That was for strangers and salesmen and since they lived out in the middle of no where (the town didn't get paved roads until the 90's), that was extremely rare. I can only remember their doorbell ringing once and only because the sound of it caused the adults to look at each other as though an alien had suddenly appeared and offered them a cake made of slugs.
The back door led straight into an honest to goodness washroom. No, not a laundry room. They never had a washer and dryer. They had a large metal tub with a washboard and a line out back for drying clothes. My Aunt always insisted that we wash our hands before coming into her kitchen. Seems fairly simple enough. But they didn't have a sink in that room. Instead there was an old porcelain bowl and pitcher. I loved having her pour the water over my hands. Such a simple act but so different from when my parents made me wash my hands at home.
Then we would sit at her kitchen table and I would listen to them talk and answer questions all the while waiting. Because I knew it wouldn't be long before Aunt Violet would hand over that little glass bowl of tea berry mints. If you've never had one, there's really not any decent way to describe them. Only that they do not taste like mint and you will either love them, or hate them.
I loved them.
My Uncle Sam was quiet and thoughtful. My Aunt Violet was so bursting to the tips of her being with life it seemed that she could burst with it.
One day, my Uncle Sam died. And even though the visits continued, they were diminished. As though his loss sucked some of the life out of everything left behind.
The barn seemed a little less. The corn stalks seemed smaller. The trees drooped as though they could no longer pretend to be perfectly maintained climbing wonders.
And then Aunt Violet died and there just wasn't a reason to go to the farm anymore. All the things that had made it so amazing were gone.
Seeing it all again took me back for a moment. But all those memories couldn't hide the truth. The corn was gone of course (it is winter). The barn looks like it should be taken down. 2 of my favorite climbing trees are gone and I miss their branches even more now. The house looks the same and I wonder if the people renting it can love it as much as my Aunt and Uncle did. I wonder if they are still there. In the halls, the kitchen, the rooms that they breathed and laughed in.
As we pulled away, I saw it. There in the back of the house just as perfect as I remembered it.
My Uncle Sam's outhouse.
Thursday, January 04, 2007
Dear Chicago Airport
I hate you. No. That's just not right. I loathe you. Yes, that seems more accurate. Although somewhere out there is a stronger word, a more fitting word, to convey the depth of my hatred for you.
See, flying already sucks. I get airsick, I have a pretty nasty case of all day morning sickness going on, and I hate enclosed spaces. So when we landed in Chicago for what should have been only a one hour layover, I was eagerly anticipating a good 30 minutes of rest. Long enough for my stomach to settle before the next round of air bouncing.
After sitting at our gate for an hour and not hearing anything regarding our flight, another passenger let us know that you had changed our gate. How nice it would have been to hear that from you. Maybe before our flight took off? Yes, that would have been lovely.
So off we ran to the new gate. And we sat. And sat.
And sat.
3 hours later we finally boarded our plane. I blame your delay for why our flight was so bumpy. And maybe that's not fair, but I don't really give a damn since I had to apologize to the people sitting near me for throwing up and grossing them out. I'm just glad I didn't get anyone's shoes.
On our return flight we had to circle the airport before you decided to let us land. Let me tell ya, that descending then lifting back up business? Well, it was fun for my kids, but those airsick bags are just not big enough for all of that.
Remember when I mentioned my issue with enclosed spaces? Right. So guess how much I loved sitting on your tarmac for an hour and a half before we could get to the gate? Almost as much as I loved having to run across your airport (people? Chicago airport? really feckin' big) to get to the next gate only to get there and have you decide that it would be really funny to have us run all the way back to the other end of the airport to our new gate.
But still not nearly as much fun as it was to sit on that next plane for 2 hours waiting for you to fix a small mechanical problem (that alone was nearly enough to send me off the plane and ready to rent a car to get home thank you very much) because the paperwork took an hour and a half to complete.
You suck. You suck. You suck.
Sincerely,
I'm bringing my own air sick bags next time.
See, flying already sucks. I get airsick, I have a pretty nasty case of all day morning sickness going on, and I hate enclosed spaces. So when we landed in Chicago for what should have been only a one hour layover, I was eagerly anticipating a good 30 minutes of rest. Long enough for my stomach to settle before the next round of air bouncing.
After sitting at our gate for an hour and not hearing anything regarding our flight, another passenger let us know that you had changed our gate. How nice it would have been to hear that from you. Maybe before our flight took off? Yes, that would have been lovely.
So off we ran to the new gate. And we sat. And sat.
And sat.
3 hours later we finally boarded our plane. I blame your delay for why our flight was so bumpy. And maybe that's not fair, but I don't really give a damn since I had to apologize to the people sitting near me for throwing up and grossing them out. I'm just glad I didn't get anyone's shoes.
On our return flight we had to circle the airport before you decided to let us land. Let me tell ya, that descending then lifting back up business? Well, it was fun for my kids, but those airsick bags are just not big enough for all of that.
Remember when I mentioned my issue with enclosed spaces? Right. So guess how much I loved sitting on your tarmac for an hour and a half before we could get to the gate? Almost as much as I loved having to run across your airport (people? Chicago airport? really feckin' big) to get to the next gate only to get there and have you decide that it would be really funny to have us run all the way back to the other end of the airport to our new gate.
But still not nearly as much fun as it was to sit on that next plane for 2 hours waiting for you to fix a small mechanical problem (that alone was nearly enough to send me off the plane and ready to rent a car to get home thank you very much) because the paperwork took an hour and a half to complete.
You suck. You suck. You suck.
Sincerely,
I'm bringing my own air sick bags next time.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
