That is the time between purchasing my son's first Aquadoodle travel desk to when I began writing dirty messages to my husband. It would have been sooner but I thought maybe some good parenting would involve me waiting until the kids were in bed.
My parents would be so proud.
Thursday, March 16, 2006
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
I Must Get "Y'all" Out of My System. Like Now.
Tonight we thought it would be fun to go out in public and unleash our special brand of crazy on the world. Or at least the dinner crowd at an upscale pizza place (seriously? How upscale can a pizza place be?) and have dinner with some friends.
Yay! More chances to broadcast my social awkwardness!
This was the first time I'd ever met B and T in person (they live in Texas), but I've known M (in 'real' life) for a few years. At least she had some clue how this was going to go. If she didn't, she was quickly reminded when our drinks came and I had 2 straws. I told Girl X is was so that I could stick one up each nostril and just suck it in.
I managed to refrain from giggling everytime B said "y'all" (and I've realized how stupid I sound when I say it because you should really only say that if you're from the south).
Once seated (in the loft area where we could look over and see everyone else. This is important to remember in a moment). I tried to amuse Hurricane. First, he threw his crayons across the floor. Then the book.
I thought that if anything was going to work, it would be the Weebles. The very same Weebles he beat his sister for touching.
I handed it to him.
He looked at me.
He threw it in my general direction but missed.
I watched, in frozen horror, as it went over the balcony. I heard a crash and some excited voices.
I was so ready to climb under the table and never come out but Mr X wouldn't let me.
Thankfully, the Weeble didn't hit anyone. Also? Hurricane didn't cause the crash. In what can only be described as excellent comedic timing, his Weeble landed just as her son through his plate on the floor.
I put the Weeble away.
Girl X smiled and went back to coloring.
We only had to curb our conversation once because I didn't think it would be cool if Girl X went to school and started telling everyone how her mom's friend's coochie had crabs.
Now might be the time to mention that Coochie is a cat and it's a stuffed crab. Just so you don't think we have completely inappropriate conversations with small children at the table. We save those for after they go to bed.
We had ordered breadsticks for Hurricane's dinner which he nibbled. Mr X had planned on sharing his dinner with him. In all, he ate a breadstick, a slice of pepperoni pizza, a chunk of calzone, half a container of mini M&M's and he drank all of his milk.
This was all after the discussion we had about how he picks at food at night.
We also learned that M is an alcoholic glutton. When the bill came, hers totaled $200, including 2 pitchers of beer (which she never shared!). And she is just going to love that I shared that.
I suppose I could explain.
Nah.
I just gotta' dance, y'all!
Blame my brother!
I didn't throw nuttin'. Give me cookies.
Yay! More chances to broadcast my social awkwardness!
This was the first time I'd ever met B and T in person (they live in Texas), but I've known M (in 'real' life) for a few years. At least she had some clue how this was going to go. If she didn't, she was quickly reminded when our drinks came and I had 2 straws. I told Girl X is was so that I could stick one up each nostril and just suck it in.
I managed to refrain from giggling everytime B said "y'all" (and I've realized how stupid I sound when I say it because you should really only say that if you're from the south).
Once seated (in the loft area where we could look over and see everyone else. This is important to remember in a moment). I tried to amuse Hurricane. First, he threw his crayons across the floor. Then the book.
I thought that if anything was going to work, it would be the Weebles. The very same Weebles he beat his sister for touching.
I handed it to him.
He looked at me.
He threw it in my general direction but missed.
I watched, in frozen horror, as it went over the balcony. I heard a crash and some excited voices.
I was so ready to climb under the table and never come out but Mr X wouldn't let me.
Thankfully, the Weeble didn't hit anyone. Also? Hurricane didn't cause the crash. In what can only be described as excellent comedic timing, his Weeble landed just as her son through his plate on the floor.
I put the Weeble away.
Girl X smiled and went back to coloring.
We only had to curb our conversation once because I didn't think it would be cool if Girl X went to school and started telling everyone how her mom's friend's coochie had crabs.
Now might be the time to mention that Coochie is a cat and it's a stuffed crab. Just so you don't think we have completely inappropriate conversations with small children at the table. We save those for after they go to bed.
We had ordered breadsticks for Hurricane's dinner which he nibbled. Mr X had planned on sharing his dinner with him. In all, he ate a breadstick, a slice of pepperoni pizza, a chunk of calzone, half a container of mini M&M's and he drank all of his milk.
This was all after the discussion we had about how he picks at food at night.
We also learned that M is an alcoholic glutton. When the bill came, hers totaled $200, including 2 pitchers of beer (which she never shared!). And she is just going to love that I shared that.
I suppose I could explain.
Nah.
I just gotta' dance, y'all!
Blame my brother!
I didn't throw nuttin'. Give me cookies.Ok, M. I think most people can totally figure out that you got the wrong bill. :)
Because All the Crazy People Are There
We went to my niece's birthday party this weekend. I hate going over there. I love my niece's, but my sister-in-law and her family are just plain crazy.
Last year, her mom cornered my while I was nursing Hurricane and started rubbing my belly. I have no idea what the hell that was about. I see her maybe twice a year and she's rubbing my belly? I don't even let Mr X do that and I married him. Once she started asking me questions about my sex life I knew I had to get out of there. I muttered something about nuns and ran. My socially awkward self was not ready for that.
I had fully expected this to be just as strange since my MIL would be there and my favorite SIL planned to introduce her new boyfriend then. It was to be my job to run interference. In exchange, she would make sure crazy toucher would stay away from me.
MIL pretty much ignored new boyfriend. She relayed all of her questions through SIL even though he was sitting right next to her and for once, she was speaking English. But this is 'normal'. I was fully prepared to direct new boyfriend to the pretty punchbowl the minute she started talking about big boobs. I think I was a little disappointed that she didn't. Or maybe she saved that for after we left.
Crazy Toucher stayed away from me and just as I was beginning to fell relief, Cake Man came along. My sister-in-law's dad. Usually unnoticeable in the shadow of Crazy Toucher, he is extremely loud and annoying. When he came at me with a plate of cake, all I could do was sigh.
"Have some cake." Notice it isn't a question. He was all up in my personal space yelling, and spit talking.
"No thanks."
"Have some cake." The hell??
"No thank you, I don't like cake."
"Have some cake."
Right. I know he's not deaf. I'm not scary skinny and in need of food so again.... The hell?
"I don't want any but MIL does."
"Have some cake."
"Great cake! Thanks, just what I wanted!"
Well, what the hell was I supposed to do? It was take it, or risk the attention of crazy toucher.
I dumped the cake on some very happy kid.
From then on every time I saw Cake man he'd ask me if the cake was good.
"Oh, yeah. Best cake ever!" In my best I'm-pretending-I-was-a-cheerleader voice.
On the way home I asked Mr X why we go to these things.
"Because all the crazy people are there and they all like talking to you. What could be more fun than watching that?"
Last year, her mom cornered my while I was nursing Hurricane and started rubbing my belly. I have no idea what the hell that was about. I see her maybe twice a year and she's rubbing my belly? I don't even let Mr X do that and I married him. Once she started asking me questions about my sex life I knew I had to get out of there. I muttered something about nuns and ran. My socially awkward self was not ready for that.
I had fully expected this to be just as strange since my MIL would be there and my favorite SIL planned to introduce her new boyfriend then. It was to be my job to run interference. In exchange, she would make sure crazy toucher would stay away from me.
MIL pretty much ignored new boyfriend. She relayed all of her questions through SIL even though he was sitting right next to her and for once, she was speaking English. But this is 'normal'. I was fully prepared to direct new boyfriend to the pretty punchbowl the minute she started talking about big boobs. I think I was a little disappointed that she didn't. Or maybe she saved that for after we left.
Crazy Toucher stayed away from me and just as I was beginning to fell relief, Cake Man came along. My sister-in-law's dad. Usually unnoticeable in the shadow of Crazy Toucher, he is extremely loud and annoying. When he came at me with a plate of cake, all I could do was sigh.
"Have some cake." Notice it isn't a question. He was all up in my personal space yelling, and spit talking.
"No thanks."
"Have some cake." The hell??
"No thank you, I don't like cake."
"Have some cake."
Right. I know he's not deaf. I'm not scary skinny and in need of food so again.... The hell?
"I don't want any but MIL does."
"Have some cake."
"Great cake! Thanks, just what I wanted!"
Well, what the hell was I supposed to do? It was take it, or risk the attention of crazy toucher.
I dumped the cake on some very happy kid.
From then on every time I saw Cake man he'd ask me if the cake was good.
"Oh, yeah. Best cake ever!" In my best I'm-pretending-I-was-a-cheerleader voice.
On the way home I asked Mr X why we go to these things.
"Because all the crazy people are there and they all like talking to you. What could be more fun than watching that?"
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
Unspoken
I had lunch with a friend today. She's someone that I trust, I know I could tell her, but I didn't. I could not make the words come out. We were having fun and catching up and I'd like to say that I just didn't want to spoil it but I know that it's more than that.
I know that she reads this blog sometimes. I know that a number of people who read this blog know me in 'real life'. I don't mind that. I know that they wouldn't bring it up outside of this forum unless I mentioned it first.
It's easier for me to say the things that are troubling me here. I can hit publish and leave it here. It's easier to be open here because I can then turn around, smiling, pretending that things are as they should be.
Knowing this, there are still some things I cannot bring myself to mention here. Things I am afraid to say outloud. Things I don't want to see in print. Some very foolish part of me imagines that saying it outloud makes it real. If I don't say it, it won't happen. It's naive, I know. These are the things I do to hold on.
I wonder about the things left unspoken.
I read other blogs and wonder about the secrets beneath the words they type. If they're like me. Afraid of the reality of those words.
I'm always telling Girl X that her words are the most powerful force she has, that she must choose them carefully and be certain that she says what she means. Once, in anger, she told me she hated me. Those words hung there between us like poison. I remained silent and simply looked at her.
She cried and said she didn't mean it. But it stung anyway. We talked about how once you say something, no matter how many times you apologize, no matter times you try to take it back, it's there. The damage is there. The wound may heal, but the scar will always remind you. I know she doesn't hate me, but I needed her to understand.
But what about those unspoken words? I wonder if they can do more damage than if I'd just say it. These unspoken words like disease, slowly burning a hole through me.
It's then that I feel absolutely alone. And maybe a little crazy.
I've researched, studying the effect diet can have on his health, alternative medicines, origins and option after option. I need more information but it gets so overwhelming.
Perhaps part of my fear in divulging this secret, is that I will be alone. We have lost friends because of this, although some may argue that they weren't truly our friends.
8 weeks to go now.
And it remains unspoken.
I know that she reads this blog sometimes. I know that a number of people who read this blog know me in 'real life'. I don't mind that. I know that they wouldn't bring it up outside of this forum unless I mentioned it first.
It's easier for me to say the things that are troubling me here. I can hit publish and leave it here. It's easier to be open here because I can then turn around, smiling, pretending that things are as they should be.
Knowing this, there are still some things I cannot bring myself to mention here. Things I am afraid to say outloud. Things I don't want to see in print. Some very foolish part of me imagines that saying it outloud makes it real. If I don't say it, it won't happen. It's naive, I know. These are the things I do to hold on.
I wonder about the things left unspoken.
I read other blogs and wonder about the secrets beneath the words they type. If they're like me. Afraid of the reality of those words.
I'm always telling Girl X that her words are the most powerful force she has, that she must choose them carefully and be certain that she says what she means. Once, in anger, she told me she hated me. Those words hung there between us like poison. I remained silent and simply looked at her.
She cried and said she didn't mean it. But it stung anyway. We talked about how once you say something, no matter how many times you apologize, no matter times you try to take it back, it's there. The damage is there. The wound may heal, but the scar will always remind you. I know she doesn't hate me, but I needed her to understand.
But what about those unspoken words? I wonder if they can do more damage than if I'd just say it. These unspoken words like disease, slowly burning a hole through me.
It's then that I feel absolutely alone. And maybe a little crazy.
I've researched, studying the effect diet can have on his health, alternative medicines, origins and option after option. I need more information but it gets so overwhelming.
Perhaps part of my fear in divulging this secret, is that I will be alone. We have lost friends because of this, although some may argue that they weren't truly our friends.
8 weeks to go now.
And it remains unspoken.
Sunday, March 12, 2006
That Creaking Is Me
And it's what I get for trying to paint for 6 hours and getting virtually nowhere.
I've been preparing Hurricane's new room. Mostly because I have been feeling this insane need to paint. Because painting! Is! Fun!
I'm starting with the top half of his room which is this tan-ish color that defies description. The bottom half is this deep blue. I can't wait to see it all done.
I can't wait to see it all done because as often as I proclaim my love for painting, after 6 hours I start to remember that I HATE painting. My neck is sore and my shoulders are tense from trying to get good coverage on the ceiling and the higher parts of the wall. The last 3 little toes on my right foot are a lovely shade of tan-ish that defies description. Hair? Streaked with the undefinable color.
At least this time I remembered to wear old clothes. Because, as I am denying that I ever learned first hand, bright pink latex paint does not come out of anything made by Tommy Hilfiger (and I am so complaining about that to him. Not that it ever happened to me).
Hurricane will be moving into Girl X's old room. When we first bought this house, Mr X had the brilliant idea that we should let Girl X pick out the paint. She was 3.
She picked bright pink.
It was sponged on the walls because I had this crazy fear that it would be too overwhelming to have the walls completely covered in it.
When finished, her room could be seen from outer space.
If her door was open, their was this scary pink glow in the hallway. As if a radioactive marshmallow peep had taken residence in her room and wasn't going to leave.
After 2 years of asking every day if we could repaint the room in a color that would not restore eyesight to the blind only to take it away again, Mr X relented. In no small part to the fact that Girl X spent a week begging Mr X to turn down the walls in her room because it was keeping her awake at night (she has my flare for the dramatic).
So we ran to Home Depot. Mr X picked up a pale pink paint sample and Girl X asked him if he was planning on painting his room too. I think he got the hint.
Now at the ripe old age of 5 (5 and 3/4 mom!) she chose a soft blue and a muted green. They were strangely complimentary to eachother.
What we did not know is that with blue paint, you need a tinted primer. We did not know that the pink sponge paint was so evil as to not want to die.
We did not know that it would take 6, YES 6!, gallons of paint to cover everything.
By the time her room was done I had developed a tic everytime I saw a paintbrush.
I will never understand the part of my brain that allows me to forget my hate of painting long enough to want to do it again. I imagine that it's the part of my brain that won't forgive me for watching Alf for so many years.
I've been preparing Hurricane's new room. Mostly because I have been feeling this insane need to paint. Because painting! Is! Fun!
I'm starting with the top half of his room which is this tan-ish color that defies description. The bottom half is this deep blue. I can't wait to see it all done.
I can't wait to see it all done because as often as I proclaim my love for painting, after 6 hours I start to remember that I HATE painting. My neck is sore and my shoulders are tense from trying to get good coverage on the ceiling and the higher parts of the wall. The last 3 little toes on my right foot are a lovely shade of tan-ish that defies description. Hair? Streaked with the undefinable color.
At least this time I remembered to wear old clothes. Because, as I am denying that I ever learned first hand, bright pink latex paint does not come out of anything made by Tommy Hilfiger (and I am so complaining about that to him. Not that it ever happened to me).
Hurricane will be moving into Girl X's old room. When we first bought this house, Mr X had the brilliant idea that we should let Girl X pick out the paint. She was 3.
She picked bright pink.
It was sponged on the walls because I had this crazy fear that it would be too overwhelming to have the walls completely covered in it.
When finished, her room could be seen from outer space.
If her door was open, their was this scary pink glow in the hallway. As if a radioactive marshmallow peep had taken residence in her room and wasn't going to leave.
After 2 years of asking every day if we could repaint the room in a color that would not restore eyesight to the blind only to take it away again, Mr X relented. In no small part to the fact that Girl X spent a week begging Mr X to turn down the walls in her room because it was keeping her awake at night (she has my flare for the dramatic).
So we ran to Home Depot. Mr X picked up a pale pink paint sample and Girl X asked him if he was planning on painting his room too. I think he got the hint.
Now at the ripe old age of 5 (5 and 3/4 mom!) she chose a soft blue and a muted green. They were strangely complimentary to eachother.
What we did not know is that with blue paint, you need a tinted primer. We did not know that the pink sponge paint was so evil as to not want to die.
We did not know that it would take 6, YES 6!, gallons of paint to cover everything.
By the time her room was done I had developed a tic everytime I saw a paintbrush.
I will never understand the part of my brain that allows me to forget my hate of painting long enough to want to do it again. I imagine that it's the part of my brain that won't forgive me for watching Alf for so many years.
Thursday, March 09, 2006
We Should Be Politicians
We are very good at pretending that nothing is wrong.
I think it's probably one of my worst traits. It's gotten me in plenty of trouble before.
I haven't really said anything beyond "We're waiting for his next Dr appt. It's a little nerve-wracking" to anyone. I've been saving all my freak outs for here. Won't that make for some fun blogging?
I guess I just don't know how to open up when we're sinking. Too many times being ignored by our families perhaps? Also, I don't want to be that blubbery girl in the corner talking to no one because everyone is afraid I might blow snot on them.
When we first found out he was sick, we actually lost some friends. Fear of the unknown I suppose. Or maybe just not knowing what to say.
Well, I don't know what to say either.
So I just don't say anything.
I do know that I can spend another section of my life crying on the bathroom floor with the water running. I think one year was enough of that.
We don't seem any different. I think. But it's there. That uncertainty.
I have so many questions for his Dr and I know I need to write them down, but I don't. Not yet. It makes it a little more real. I guess I'm weak because I need my fantasy of everything being ok and I'm doing whatever to prolong that.
Last night I dreampt that a volcano erupted right by our house. I was on my way home with the kids and I could see the lava pouring out. Mr X was home and all I could think was 'at least now I know'.
I woke up crying.
Uncertainty?
It blows.
I think it's probably one of my worst traits. It's gotten me in plenty of trouble before.
I haven't really said anything beyond "We're waiting for his next Dr appt. It's a little nerve-wracking" to anyone. I've been saving all my freak outs for here. Won't that make for some fun blogging?
I guess I just don't know how to open up when we're sinking. Too many times being ignored by our families perhaps? Also, I don't want to be that blubbery girl in the corner talking to no one because everyone is afraid I might blow snot on them.
When we first found out he was sick, we actually lost some friends. Fear of the unknown I suppose. Or maybe just not knowing what to say.
Well, I don't know what to say either.
So I just don't say anything.
I do know that I can spend another section of my life crying on the bathroom floor with the water running. I think one year was enough of that.
We don't seem any different. I think. But it's there. That uncertainty.
I have so many questions for his Dr and I know I need to write them down, but I don't. Not yet. It makes it a little more real. I guess I'm weak because I need my fantasy of everything being ok and I'm doing whatever to prolong that.
Last night I dreampt that a volcano erupted right by our house. I was on my way home with the kids and I could see the lava pouring out. Mr X was home and all I could think was 'at least now I know'.
I woke up crying.
Uncertainty?
It blows.
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
A Crack in the Foundation
I rarely talk about it. In large part because my family gives me the big 'Pshaw!' and changes the subject everytime I bring it up. Add to that Mr X's extreme denial and we have this giant elephant in the room that everyone is ignoring.
Every now and then it demands peanuts and I'm forced to think about it. I don't like to think about it. I've thought too much about it in the past 2 years.
But it's hard to ignore when your husband comes home from his Dr's appointment and tells you he doesn't think it's a good idea to have any more kids because he's not going to be around to raise them with you. Then everything falls apart. If and when don't matter. I feel like I'm trapped in one of Girl X's snowglobes and someone keeps shaking it. I can't get my footing.
He's 35. This isn't supposed to happen now.
A deep breath. Try to remember that I wasn't there so I don't know what the Dr said. He's scared and overwhelmed. All Mr X can say is that of the two types of his disease, his is the worst. The medicine isn't working.
Deep breath and I can feel the steel in my spine. It's not working yet. But it will. Because there are no other options.
If only by the sheer force of my will, these next 9 weeks will pass and we will sit in his Dr's office together. We will look again at his blood tests and it will show that the medicine is working. And our world will be righted again.
I won't have to pretend I'm not scared. We won't discuss cremation vs burial, whether I should move closer to my parents, if I won't shatter into a million pieces simply by missing him.
A deep breath and I pretend to have shoved this all into the back of my mind. I pretend everything is as it should be because the alternative is too much to bear.
9 weeks is suddenly very far away.
Every now and then it demands peanuts and I'm forced to think about it. I don't like to think about it. I've thought too much about it in the past 2 years.
But it's hard to ignore when your husband comes home from his Dr's appointment and tells you he doesn't think it's a good idea to have any more kids because he's not going to be around to raise them with you. Then everything falls apart. If and when don't matter. I feel like I'm trapped in one of Girl X's snowglobes and someone keeps shaking it. I can't get my footing.
He's 35. This isn't supposed to happen now.
A deep breath. Try to remember that I wasn't there so I don't know what the Dr said. He's scared and overwhelmed. All Mr X can say is that of the two types of his disease, his is the worst. The medicine isn't working.
Deep breath and I can feel the steel in my spine. It's not working yet. But it will. Because there are no other options.
If only by the sheer force of my will, these next 9 weeks will pass and we will sit in his Dr's office together. We will look again at his blood tests and it will show that the medicine is working. And our world will be righted again.
I won't have to pretend I'm not scared. We won't discuss cremation vs burial, whether I should move closer to my parents, if I won't shatter into a million pieces simply by missing him.
A deep breath and I pretend to have shoved this all into the back of my mind. I pretend everything is as it should be because the alternative is too much to bear.
9 weeks is suddenly very far away.
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
Flavor of a Smurf
"I can't believe I just watched Flavor Flav's new reality show. I think my IQ just went down a few points."
"He's real?"
"What?"
"Flavor Flav is a real person?"
"Yes Mr X, Flavor Flav is a real person. What did you think he was?"
"I figured it was like Mrs Dash or something."
"Mrs Dash? Are you serious?"
"Well, that or a cartoon."
"Mr X. I think I am going to die. I can't believe I'm going to ask this. What cartoon did you think he was from?"
"I don't know. Like the Smurfs I guess. Or the Snorks because the Snorks were the Smurfs of the Sea right?"
"Oh Cheese."
"So he's real?"
"I'm dying."
"Maybe he could be one of those Ninja Turtles?"
"Stop!"
"The Justice League?"
"I'm leaving the room now."
"A friend of Yogi Bear?"
"Killing me!"
"Is this like that time you told me that it wasn't Jennifer Beals' ass I was drooling over in Flashdance? That was not a guy...........
Honey?"
"He's real?"
"What?"
"Flavor Flav is a real person?"
"Yes Mr X, Flavor Flav is a real person. What did you think he was?"
"I figured it was like Mrs Dash or something."
"Mrs Dash? Are you serious?"
"Well, that or a cartoon."
"Mr X. I think I am going to die. I can't believe I'm going to ask this. What cartoon did you think he was from?"
"I don't know. Like the Smurfs I guess. Or the Snorks because the Snorks were the Smurfs of the Sea right?"
"Oh Cheese."
"So he's real?"
"I'm dying."
"Maybe he could be one of those Ninja Turtles?"
"Stop!"
"The Justice League?"
"I'm leaving the room now."
"A friend of Yogi Bear?"
"Killing me!"
"Is this like that time you told me that it wasn't Jennifer Beals' ass I was drooling over in Flashdance? That was not a guy...........
Honey?"
Monday, March 06, 2006
The Hell?
I have no explanation for why my new post is under yesterday's post but it's there.
Stupid post. You're supposed to be up here! Don't make me do to you what I did to the rose bush!
Stupid post. You're supposed to be up here! Don't make me do to you what I did to the rose bush!
Sunday, March 05, 2006
Hair and Grace
The haircut went surprisingly well. I was convinced that Hurricane would scream and possibly try to bite the stylist or maybe eat the comb she had given him to play with. Instead he smiled liked an angel and held perfectly still. He giggled when she used the clippers. In the end, we can actually see his eyes and I've been informed that I must stop calling him a hippie since he can no longer pull off a ponytail.
Mr X also got a haircut. I'm telling you this only because I had shaved his head in August and the stylist still had to sweep up hair 3 times during his cut.
I married wolfboy.
Maybe not, but sometimes it seems like it. Like when we first started dating and his chest was totally bare.
Internet? I could totally braid his chest now. Give him some corn rows.
I broke my little mini shaver giving him 2 eyebrows that didn't grow out from his temples.
One day a hair appeared in the middle of his forehead where no hair should be. He wouldn't let me yank it, claiming that he was like Sampson and this hair, this single out of place hair was the source of his strength.
I ignored it for as long as I could but it was staring at me. We'd be eating dinner and my eyes would inevitably be drawn to that interloper, waving at me as if to say "PPPBBFFFFTTTTTTT!"
So I waited until he was asleep and then yanked it.
***This is the part where Mr X would normally lament his poor Sampson hair, but I promised not to mention the time he threw out the embroidered hankie my great-grandmother and I worked on together if he stopped whining about that stupid hair.***
Hurricane also got his first black eye this weekend beating his sister by 6 months. Actually, it was a rough weekend in general for falling. Friday he took a dive off the porch into the driveway in an effort to escape the terrifying rock that was at the bottom of our steps. He landed on his face and scraped his forehead and cheek. The black eye came from when he tried to ride Cat and instead ended up smashing his face into the table. He also has a cut and bruise on his nose. He bent down to pick up a toy but he was too close to the entertainment center and hit that instead.
It makes it that much more fun to go out. You know, more fun in the sense that people think we've been beating him with a belt.
Let me set the record straight. We beat him with frying pans. Right after we let him run with scissors. We also encourage our kids to take candy from strangers. That way we don't have to pay for it. I taught Girl X to always tell people at the door that she's home alone because I sure as hell don't want to talk to them. Recently we've been teaching them the joys of playing with fire.
Looks like Hurricane is going to have his Daddy's hair and my gracefulness.
Poor kid is going to be mistaken for a drunk Bigfoot.
Mr X also got a haircut. I'm telling you this only because I had shaved his head in August and the stylist still had to sweep up hair 3 times during his cut.
I married wolfboy.
Maybe not, but sometimes it seems like it. Like when we first started dating and his chest was totally bare.
Internet? I could totally braid his chest now. Give him some corn rows.
I broke my little mini shaver giving him 2 eyebrows that didn't grow out from his temples.
One day a hair appeared in the middle of his forehead where no hair should be. He wouldn't let me yank it, claiming that he was like Sampson and this hair, this single out of place hair was the source of his strength.
I ignored it for as long as I could but it was staring at me. We'd be eating dinner and my eyes would inevitably be drawn to that interloper, waving at me as if to say "PPPBBFFFFTTTTTTT!"
So I waited until he was asleep and then yanked it.
***This is the part where Mr X would normally lament his poor Sampson hair, but I promised not to mention the time he threw out the embroidered hankie my great-grandmother and I worked on together if he stopped whining about that stupid hair.***
Hurricane also got his first black eye this weekend beating his sister by 6 months. Actually, it was a rough weekend in general for falling. Friday he took a dive off the porch into the driveway in an effort to escape the terrifying rock that was at the bottom of our steps. He landed on his face and scraped his forehead and cheek. The black eye came from when he tried to ride Cat and instead ended up smashing his face into the table. He also has a cut and bruise on his nose. He bent down to pick up a toy but he was too close to the entertainment center and hit that instead.
It makes it that much more fun to go out. You know, more fun in the sense that people think we've been beating him with a belt.
Let me set the record straight. We beat him with frying pans. Right after we let him run with scissors. We also encourage our kids to take candy from strangers. That way we don't have to pay for it. I taught Girl X to always tell people at the door that she's home alone because I sure as hell don't want to talk to them. Recently we've been teaching them the joys of playing with fire.
Looks like Hurricane is going to have his Daddy's hair and my gracefulness.
Poor kid is going to be mistaken for a drunk Bigfoot.
My Green (and Black and Blue and Purple) Thumb
Gardening is not my forte. Wow. That's really putting it nicely.
My MIL gave us some roses to plant when we bought our house. I don't really like roses, but it was easier to put them in than it would have been to deal with the fall out of not using them. So, I planted them along the side of the house.
And she wouldn't speak to us for 2 weeks because we had not dug up the wisteria and put them out front as she had envisioned.
One of them looks normal. Maybe 2 feet high, blooms regularly but not overly abundant. Just normal.
The other is about 8 or 9 feet tall and blooms all summer.
I don't think that's what it was supposed to do. It looks more tree than flower. Our tiny red maple that started as one simple shoot has multiplied like a bunny. It now has 7 different trucks. And then there are the Others. The unidentifiable plants that have taken up residence under the tree in an effort to keep me from trying to cut it down. The rhododendron is now this unruly monstrosity threatening my porch. I think I killed the lavender last year.
I tend to do that. Kill plants. They see me coming with a watering can and those gardening shears and they decide it will be quicker and less painful to simply die right then.
Before spring really starts I thought I'd go out and try to get some kind of handle on my little garden.
I left the rhododendron because I have no idea where to begin and I really love it's brilliantly purple blooms. I don't want to kill it. I've actually contemplated asking my MIL for help (which should tell you how desperate I am) because her yard looks like where flowers go to retire. And die. Because she thinks even dead flowers are pretty. But at least she would know what to do with my poor overgrown rhodie.
I started clipping away at the Others. Some of them had little splintery thorns. I didn't see them. I felt them. Feeling them is always ever so much more fun.
I had to stop to pull out all those little splintery things and ow. My hands look like those little tomato pin cushions.
Still I went back for more. This time, I brought gloves. Let's not go over why I didn't just wear them in the first place.
I got most of the Others cleared away but I have no idea what to do with the little stubs sticking up. I'm sure I probably need to dig them up but it just sounds like more work and quite frankly I was already bored with this gardening thing anyway. Still, I decided to take down the Andre the Giant of Rose Bushes.
I was happily clipping away when it happened.
You know what happened right?
Have you ever had a thorn stuck in your finger?
I have.
My thumb is purple and red and sore.
It was then that I lost it.
I started kicking the rose bush and yelling something about sticking the thorns straight up it's root because I'm pretty sure that's the same as a human ass.
The rose bush is still, mostly, there.
And I am no longer allowed to bemoan the fact that our neighbors back away slowly, shielding their children from me as they go.
My MIL gave us some roses to plant when we bought our house. I don't really like roses, but it was easier to put them in than it would have been to deal with the fall out of not using them. So, I planted them along the side of the house.
And she wouldn't speak to us for 2 weeks because we had not dug up the wisteria and put them out front as she had envisioned.
One of them looks normal. Maybe 2 feet high, blooms regularly but not overly abundant. Just normal.
The other is about 8 or 9 feet tall and blooms all summer.
I don't think that's what it was supposed to do. It looks more tree than flower. Our tiny red maple that started as one simple shoot has multiplied like a bunny. It now has 7 different trucks. And then there are the Others. The unidentifiable plants that have taken up residence under the tree in an effort to keep me from trying to cut it down. The rhododendron is now this unruly monstrosity threatening my porch. I think I killed the lavender last year.
I tend to do that. Kill plants. They see me coming with a watering can and those gardening shears and they decide it will be quicker and less painful to simply die right then.
Before spring really starts I thought I'd go out and try to get some kind of handle on my little garden.
I left the rhododendron because I have no idea where to begin and I really love it's brilliantly purple blooms. I don't want to kill it. I've actually contemplated asking my MIL for help (which should tell you how desperate I am) because her yard looks like where flowers go to retire. And die. Because she thinks even dead flowers are pretty. But at least she would know what to do with my poor overgrown rhodie.
I started clipping away at the Others. Some of them had little splintery thorns. I didn't see them. I felt them. Feeling them is always ever so much more fun.
I had to stop to pull out all those little splintery things and ow. My hands look like those little tomato pin cushions.
Still I went back for more. This time, I brought gloves. Let's not go over why I didn't just wear them in the first place.
I got most of the Others cleared away but I have no idea what to do with the little stubs sticking up. I'm sure I probably need to dig them up but it just sounds like more work and quite frankly I was already bored with this gardening thing anyway. Still, I decided to take down the Andre the Giant of Rose Bushes.
I was happily clipping away when it happened.
You know what happened right?
Have you ever had a thorn stuck in your finger?
I have.
My thumb is purple and red and sore.
It was then that I lost it.
I started kicking the rose bush and yelling something about sticking the thorns straight up it's root because I'm pretty sure that's the same as a human ass.
The rose bush is still, mostly, there.
And I am no longer allowed to bemoan the fact that our neighbors back away slowly, shielding their children from me as they go.
Thursday, March 02, 2006
Mr X Gets Knocked Up
* A friend directed me to this website: http://www.thepregnancytester.com/
We were having fun goofing around with it and I thought it would be funny to get Mr X play. At the point where it does the 'scan', Mr X leaned in intently, unblinking.
"What the froggy hell are you doing?"
"It says to hold still for the scan."
And he was serious. I love this man.
Yes, Mr X is pregnant. It's a boy. Even better?
The father is Boss Hogg.
*Hurricane's love of Elmo is only surpassed by his love of a ball. Any ball. Even pictures of a ball. Tonight it was the footballs that Mr X has deemed off limits as they are still in their packaging (and will forever remain so) and on top of his display case.
Hurricane reached his hands up and began this whispery awe-filled chant of 'ball'. When this did not work, he began screaming 'ball'. Mr X agreed that it was in fact, a ball. This did not satisfy Hurricane.
So he grabbed Mr X's face, leaned in and screamed 'ball'! As in 'GIVE ME THAT THING NOW'.
Mr X managed to keep it in the box and still satisfy Hurricane's NEED to touch the ball.
And we learned a valuable lesson.
He's not just saying these words for fun. He means business.
*I found the perfect book for this family. It's called The History of Farting.
I went into a fit of childish giggles upon seeing the title.
*My parents sent the kids some souvenirs from their vacation and a toy for each of them from home. Girl X got a phone. A Bratz phone. These giant purpley lips that just freak the bejesus out of me. She's 8. She's not getting a phone in her room. My luck, she'd end up calling Japan and racking up several thousand dollars. Not that I ever did that as kid. (Sorry Dad!)
Hurricane got this motorcycle thing. No wheels, just the part with all the buttons and the handlebars. And as with anything that a grandparent would send their grandchild, it's noisy as hell.
Bonus points because it made Cat hiss and then run under the hutch sputtering and mewling. I think he's still under there in protest.
* We're taking Hurricane to get his first haircut this weekend. It's long enough to put in a little ponytail and his hair is always in his eyes. He's my little hippie.
Given his inability to sit still for 2 seconds, even when sleeping, this should be an interesting attempt.
We were having fun goofing around with it and I thought it would be funny to get Mr X play. At the point where it does the 'scan', Mr X leaned in intently, unblinking.
"What the froggy hell are you doing?"
"It says to hold still for the scan."
And he was serious. I love this man.
Yes, Mr X is pregnant. It's a boy. Even better?
The father is Boss Hogg.
*Hurricane's love of Elmo is only surpassed by his love of a ball. Any ball. Even pictures of a ball. Tonight it was the footballs that Mr X has deemed off limits as they are still in their packaging (and will forever remain so) and on top of his display case.
Hurricane reached his hands up and began this whispery awe-filled chant of 'ball'. When this did not work, he began screaming 'ball'. Mr X agreed that it was in fact, a ball. This did not satisfy Hurricane.
So he grabbed Mr X's face, leaned in and screamed 'ball'! As in 'GIVE ME THAT THING NOW'.
Mr X managed to keep it in the box and still satisfy Hurricane's NEED to touch the ball.
And we learned a valuable lesson.
He's not just saying these words for fun. He means business.
*I found the perfect book for this family. It's called The History of Farting.
I went into a fit of childish giggles upon seeing the title.
*My parents sent the kids some souvenirs from their vacation and a toy for each of them from home. Girl X got a phone. A Bratz phone. These giant purpley lips that just freak the bejesus out of me. She's 8. She's not getting a phone in her room. My luck, she'd end up calling Japan and racking up several thousand dollars. Not that I ever did that as kid. (Sorry Dad!)
Hurricane got this motorcycle thing. No wheels, just the part with all the buttons and the handlebars. And as with anything that a grandparent would send their grandchild, it's noisy as hell.
Bonus points because it made Cat hiss and then run under the hutch sputtering and mewling. I think he's still under there in protest.
* We're taking Hurricane to get his first haircut this weekend. It's long enough to put in a little ponytail and his hair is always in his eyes. He's my little hippie.
Given his inability to sit still for 2 seconds, even when sleeping, this should be an interesting attempt.
Shopping With A Toddler
Need a workout? Borrow a toddler!
****I do not recommend randomly picking up a toddler at the mall as this will likely freak out the parents and get you beaten with a stroller.****
I took Hurricane to a book store today. I wanted to pick up What your Child Needs to Know For 2nd Grade or something like that. It was a small store, not in the mall (yay!) and there were no shopping carts. Shopping carts; the great cages on wheels. They've become vital to shopping as that is the only way to keep Hurricane in one place for more than 2 seconds.
I spent most of my time chasing Hurricane, trying to distract him with a book, telling him to stop begging strangers for cookies and keeping him from sneaking out the door.
I think I grabbed the right title although I can't be sure. I haven't looked. I may very well have grabbed the Kama Sutra 101 that was on the next shelf. Or How Not to Spill Taco Goop All Over Your Clothing (if there is no such book, there should be one and I would buy it because my clothes? They love the taco goop).
given Hurricane's ability to teletransport, it was an exhausting trip. At one point I had to pull him out of a bin of sale books. I almost walked by him but then he started yelling 'DAR' (he does this all. the. time. at home in order to 'scare' me). I turned around and there he was. Happily eating a board book (yes I bought it and in case you were wondering, Elmo board books taste better than The Wiggles board books based on how many Hurricane has eaten and spit out).
I think this counts as a workout.
****I do not recommend randomly picking up a toddler at the mall as this will likely freak out the parents and get you beaten with a stroller.****
I took Hurricane to a book store today. I wanted to pick up What your Child Needs to Know For 2nd Grade or something like that. It was a small store, not in the mall (yay!) and there were no shopping carts. Shopping carts; the great cages on wheels. They've become vital to shopping as that is the only way to keep Hurricane in one place for more than 2 seconds.
I spent most of my time chasing Hurricane, trying to distract him with a book, telling him to stop begging strangers for cookies and keeping him from sneaking out the door.
I think I grabbed the right title although I can't be sure. I haven't looked. I may very well have grabbed the Kama Sutra 101 that was on the next shelf. Or How Not to Spill Taco Goop All Over Your Clothing (if there is no such book, there should be one and I would buy it because my clothes? They love the taco goop).
given Hurricane's ability to teletransport, it was an exhausting trip. At one point I had to pull him out of a bin of sale books. I almost walked by him but then he started yelling 'DAR' (he does this all. the. time. at home in order to 'scare' me). I turned around and there he was. Happily eating a board book (yes I bought it and in case you were wondering, Elmo board books taste better than The Wiggles board books based on how many Hurricane has eaten and spit out).
I think this counts as a workout.
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
Why I Blame Kevin Bacon
This is going to be random and rambly and the point will be way at the end, well... you should be used to that. I mostly am random and rambly. And now that I say that, I can look at my picture and say that 'yes. yes that person looks random and rambly. And drunk. Very, very drunk.' (Cameras and I do not get along. I think it has to do with the one I accidentally threw over Niagara falls. I was aiming for my brother's head. I was 8.) But without all the random and rambly, the point (Kevin Bacon makes Mr X kill kittens) would not make any sense. Although, I think that I should state right now that I make no promises that any of this will make sense since I am very tired and I hate the Robot.
Right. So, back to Kevin Bacon.
Actually, this starts with my neighbors and the fact that they think I'm some kind of crazy mid-morning drunk. It's not all entirely related to the fact that my ass meets the driveway on a fairly regular basis (damn slippy nature stuff). Or the cookouts we've had over the past several years which inevitably involves my MIL and we should just not go there. Or maybe that Halloween I answered the door with my giant pregnant belly painted like a pumpkin as if it was the most normal thing in the world. This could go on and now that I'm thinking about it, I really don't blame them for thinking that AA needs to like, move in with me.
But I do blame Kevin Bacon because he started it.
I was listening to the radio and Mr X had the 80's station on since he loves 80's music (to which I say Bah! When you can't tell the difference between Huey Lewis and Madonna you can not call yourself an 80's fan!So what if it was 4 years ago! You shall never live it down! Never!! I love the exclamation marks! Ha!). Footloose came on. Footloose! So I started singing along. And dancing. I turned the radio up and got myself all jiggy with it. Girl X was laughing so hard I thought she'd pee her pants. With that encouragement, I really went all out for it. Jumping up and down, kicking my legs, executing a perfect imitation of Kevin Bacon. I spun around still singing and dancing.
And there was one of my neighbors. With Mr X right behind him. He had come over to help move something for Mr X.
I quietly walked over and turned off the radio.
Mr X has wisely not mentioned this incident again.
But this does not entirely explain why it's Kevin Bacon's fault. No. There is more. It's also sort of Mr X's fault. Or at least this is what I tell myself when the neighbors see me and quickly run into their homes.
Mr X can't dance. He thinks he can dance. This makes his attempts even funnier.
Remember when I said I look like I'm having a seizure when I exercise? Mr X should be so lucky when he's dancing.
We were goofing around one weekend. The radio was on, Girl X was completely embarrassed to be related to us. It was a good time. Footloose came on the radio and Mr X started 'dancing'. He was doing some combination of the Robot, the Moonwalk and some odd butt-bumping thing that I can't really explain but it looked painful. So I did what any good wife would do. I started making fun of him. Mocking him. And then I started goofing him. Except doing it the way Kevin Bacon does it in the movie (Seizure anyone?).
This, sadly, made Mr X do the Robot even more emphatically because I think he thought it was good.
No one should ever do the Robot. Every time someone does the Robot, a kitten dies. Footloose makes Mr X do the Robot.
Therefore, Kevin Bacon makes Mr X kill kittens. And my neighbors think I'm an idiot.
I hate you Kevin Bacon.
Right. So, back to Kevin Bacon.
Actually, this starts with my neighbors and the fact that they think I'm some kind of crazy mid-morning drunk. It's not all entirely related to the fact that my ass meets the driveway on a fairly regular basis (damn slippy nature stuff). Or the cookouts we've had over the past several years which inevitably involves my MIL and we should just not go there. Or maybe that Halloween I answered the door with my giant pregnant belly painted like a pumpkin as if it was the most normal thing in the world. This could go on and now that I'm thinking about it, I really don't blame them for thinking that AA needs to like, move in with me.
But I do blame Kevin Bacon because he started it.
I was listening to the radio and Mr X had the 80's station on since he loves 80's music (to which I say Bah! When you can't tell the difference between Huey Lewis and Madonna you can not call yourself an 80's fan!So what if it was 4 years ago! You shall never live it down! Never!! I love the exclamation marks! Ha!). Footloose came on. Footloose! So I started singing along. And dancing. I turned the radio up and got myself all jiggy with it. Girl X was laughing so hard I thought she'd pee her pants. With that encouragement, I really went all out for it. Jumping up and down, kicking my legs, executing a perfect imitation of Kevin Bacon. I spun around still singing and dancing.
And there was one of my neighbors. With Mr X right behind him. He had come over to help move something for Mr X.
I quietly walked over and turned off the radio.
Mr X has wisely not mentioned this incident again.
But this does not entirely explain why it's Kevin Bacon's fault. No. There is more. It's also sort of Mr X's fault. Or at least this is what I tell myself when the neighbors see me and quickly run into their homes.
Mr X can't dance. He thinks he can dance. This makes his attempts even funnier.
Remember when I said I look like I'm having a seizure when I exercise? Mr X should be so lucky when he's dancing.
We were goofing around one weekend. The radio was on, Girl X was completely embarrassed to be related to us. It was a good time. Footloose came on the radio and Mr X started 'dancing'. He was doing some combination of the Robot, the Moonwalk and some odd butt-bumping thing that I can't really explain but it looked painful. So I did what any good wife would do. I started making fun of him. Mocking him. And then I started goofing him. Except doing it the way Kevin Bacon does it in the movie (Seizure anyone?).
This, sadly, made Mr X do the Robot even more emphatically because I think he thought it was good.
No one should ever do the Robot. Every time someone does the Robot, a kitten dies. Footloose makes Mr X do the Robot.
Therefore, Kevin Bacon makes Mr X kill kittens. And my neighbors think I'm an idiot.
I hate you Kevin Bacon.
Monday, February 27, 2006
Instinct
When it comes to parenting, I admit that I rarely know what I'm doing. My guideposts are a little screwy. On one hand, there was my mom. I think that's one can of worms that I can skip opening. I did just clean my kitchen, you know. Let's just leave it at.... no help there.
On the other hand, there's my dad and stepmom who are awesome. And I now know just what kind of parent I want to be when my kids are adults. Which? So not very helpful at the moment. Because I think they key here is actually making sure that they get to be adults. Preferably all in one piece and healthy. Reasonably happy and working would be nice. Clean criminal records would be a bonus.
In the meantime. Huh. So that's where I was.
Here's a confession.
I wing it.
Yup. I pretty much guess. In some cases I think about what my mom did or would have done. Then I do the exact opposite.
For the most part it's worked out well but it's not without it's faults. Most of the time Girl X doesn't care that she's going to get in trouble and does what she wants anyway. And by trouble, I think I should point out that I am not one of those parents that think it's punishment to take away tv for an hour.
Girl X came home from school one day after a particularly bad week to find her room empty except for her bed and a dresser. That helped for awhile.
It's a work in progress and I can see it's getting better.
Still, most of the time? I feel pretty wonky.
And then there are moments where instinct takes over and everything is perfect.
Hurricane is surprisingly easy to put to bed. It took nearly a year, but I can now put him in bed awake and leave. He will be asleep before I make it down the hall. Or at least well on his way.
This day, he had woken up an hour earlier than normal. He normally naps for 2 to 3 hours in the afternoon. This time he barely made it one hour before he was up and raring to go.
By bed time he could barely keep his eyes open. He didn't want his story. He didn't look around as we walked down the hall, opting instead to lay his head down on my shoulder and sigh. I set him in bed, said good night and left the room.
He screamed.
I tried warm milk. On those rare occasions he has been sick, this has soothed him.
He didn't want it.
I tried to hold him.
He kicked.
Something clicked in my head.
With the lights off, we rocked in his room. I softly sang a lullaby I have sung to him since before he was born. (And in my head I could hear him going all Simon Cowell on me but I said 'Bah!') He quieted and turned to look up at me.
I looked at him.
We rocked and I whispered the lullaby.
He was asleep in a moment.
I kept rocking with him, happy that I had somehow figured out what this over-tired bundle needed.
It won't be long before rocking won't solve what ails him.
It won't be long before instinct becomes more complicated with him. I'm seeing that now with Girl X.
When those moments come, I will remember rocking with him in the quiet dark of his room. Breathing in his sweet freshly washed hair and feeling his warmth and weight in my arms.
And, as it does with Girl X now, it will carry my through.
On the other hand, there's my dad and stepmom who are awesome. And I now know just what kind of parent I want to be when my kids are adults. Which? So not very helpful at the moment. Because I think they key here is actually making sure that they get to be adults. Preferably all in one piece and healthy. Reasonably happy and working would be nice. Clean criminal records would be a bonus.
In the meantime. Huh. So that's where I was.
Here's a confession.
I wing it.
Yup. I pretty much guess. In some cases I think about what my mom did or would have done. Then I do the exact opposite.
For the most part it's worked out well but it's not without it's faults. Most of the time Girl X doesn't care that she's going to get in trouble and does what she wants anyway. And by trouble, I think I should point out that I am not one of those parents that think it's punishment to take away tv for an hour.
Girl X came home from school one day after a particularly bad week to find her room empty except for her bed and a dresser. That helped for awhile.
It's a work in progress and I can see it's getting better.
Still, most of the time? I feel pretty wonky.
And then there are moments where instinct takes over and everything is perfect.
Hurricane is surprisingly easy to put to bed. It took nearly a year, but I can now put him in bed awake and leave. He will be asleep before I make it down the hall. Or at least well on his way.
This day, he had woken up an hour earlier than normal. He normally naps for 2 to 3 hours in the afternoon. This time he barely made it one hour before he was up and raring to go.
By bed time he could barely keep his eyes open. He didn't want his story. He didn't look around as we walked down the hall, opting instead to lay his head down on my shoulder and sigh. I set him in bed, said good night and left the room.
He screamed.
I tried warm milk. On those rare occasions he has been sick, this has soothed him.
He didn't want it.
I tried to hold him.
He kicked.
Something clicked in my head.
With the lights off, we rocked in his room. I softly sang a lullaby I have sung to him since before he was born. (And in my head I could hear him going all Simon Cowell on me but I said 'Bah!') He quieted and turned to look up at me.
I looked at him.
We rocked and I whispered the lullaby.
He was asleep in a moment.
I kept rocking with him, happy that I had somehow figured out what this over-tired bundle needed.
It won't be long before rocking won't solve what ails him.
It won't be long before instinct becomes more complicated with him. I'm seeing that now with Girl X.
When those moments come, I will remember rocking with him in the quiet dark of his room. Breathing in his sweet freshly washed hair and feeling his warmth and weight in my arms.
And, as it does with Girl X now, it will carry my through.
Random Poop.
We took the short people to the park this weekend for the first time this year. Hurricane has been here before but he has the memory of a gnat (I wonder where he got that from...... What was I saying?) and so every visit is like the first. He hopped from slide to swing to tunnel to I don't know what that thing is and back again. He is fascinated by the big yellow tunnel that most of the other kids ignore. With all the slides and swings and climbing thingies, who can blame them for ignoring the plastic tube that sits off to the side like a big yellow turd? But for Hurricane? It's a place to hide from everyone. A place where parents don't fit and can't reach. A place he can go to eat bugs and we can't stop him. Yay for the big yellow turd!
He liked the swings. I think he misses his.
Spotting the big yellow turd, complete with yummy dead bugs. (He only ate one before he realized how not like a cookie it tasted).
And Girl X on some random spinny pole. I think she was trying to fly.
He wants the yellow turd but can't escape the parental grip.
After the park we had to stop at Target for a few minor things. Hurricane spotted a ball about half his size and fell instantly in love. For the next 20 minutes as we walked through the store it was to the hushed and fevered chant of 'ball'. Such longing in that word. We caved. Even Girl X couldn't resist when she saw those puffy lips curl and he threw all 23 lbs of his tiny body over that ball. He sighed with such relief it made us laugh. Our little drama king.
He liked the swings. I think he misses his.
Spotting the big yellow turd, complete with yummy dead bugs. (He only ate one before he realized how not like a cookie it tasted).
And Girl X on some random spinny pole. I think she was trying to fly.
He wants the yellow turd but can't escape the parental grip.
After the park we had to stop at Target for a few minor things. Hurricane spotted a ball about half his size and fell instantly in love. For the next 20 minutes as we walked through the store it was to the hushed and fevered chant of 'ball'. Such longing in that word. We caved. Even Girl X couldn't resist when she saw those puffy lips curl and he threw all 23 lbs of his tiny body over that ball. He sighed with such relief it made us laugh. Our little drama king.
Lately, he has been asserting his need for privacy.
We were playing in the living room when he suddenly got up and 'ran' (something where his body tries to catch up with his feet) behind the dining room chairs. I went over to see what he was doing and got The Look *patented 6/2005*. He had squatted down put both hands up. All he needed was a good book.
This is now how all poops are done. We are not allowed to look in his general direction. We are not allowed to talk about it. When he is done, he will come up to us and simply say 'tinky'.
And indeed, it is stinky.
And as of this weekend, his new favorite place to do the 'tinky', is in the big yellow turd in the park where he can dine and grunt undisturbed.
Thursday, February 23, 2006
Insert Witty Title Here
Poor Dog. He developed a hot spot last week. It's this thing where his skin turns gray and oozy and he chews like mad at it until we drag out the Dreaded Cone of Humiliation. I admit to laughing hysterically at the Dreaded Cone of Humiliation. He walks into walls, he gets caught on chairs, and if you throw a treat just right he will spend an hour trying to get it from inside the Dreaded Cone of Humiliation. We are cruel people. Yes, I know that it is not nice to laugh at Poor Dog as he swings his head from side to side trying to shake loose the treat that is lodged at the back of the Dreaded Cone of Humiliation. Yet we do it anyway.
That one hot spot became 3 hot spots. We applied some ointment. (We meaning Mr X because Ew! I am NOT touching THAT!!)
Mr X went to work the following morning and at hurricane's naptime, I went to do laundry. And then I smelled IT.
A way to describe IT?
Rotting flesh?
A skunk?
My MIL's house?
No. Not strong enough.
Rotting flesh sprayed by a skunk found sitting in my MIL's kitchen.
Yup. That would about sum it up.
I could not figure out where the unholy hell IT was coming from. I shoved a handful of dryer sheets under my nose and walked into the living room where the smell seemed to be the strongest.
I thought I would find some poor dead animal Cat had 'played' with.
But no. IT turned out to be Poor Dog.
Internet? Nothing is more pathetic than a horrid smelling dog in the Dreaded Cone of Humiliation.
My sister-in-law came to our rescue. She is a Vet assistant and works at an animal hospital.
Sadly, she could not help us until the next day.
So being the cruel and heartless humans we are, Poor Dog and the Dreaded Cone of Humiliation slept downstairs on a sheet that will now have to be burned (where do you go to burn toxic substances?) and Mr X was given explicit instructions to open all windows to said room before leaving. (Nevermind that it's below freezing! Poor Dog was in that room all damn night with the door closed and I will die, DIE!, if I have to go in there and smell that again whereas you have this iron-cast stomach and nothing bothers you Mr X!)
When Mr X brought Poor Dog and the Dreaded Cone of Humiliation home the next day, I could not stop laughing. Further proof that I have no soul.
Poor Dog's ass was shaved. As in completely bare. Stub of a tail and all.
He had another shaved spot about 5 inches further up on his back but he still looked more red-assed baboon than dog. It was then that I saw that Poor Dog actually had 5 hot spots. No wonder he was miserable!
He now must take 2 antibiotics twice a day (yay for peanut butter!) and have this ointment rubbed in twice a day which? ouch. I feel so bad for Poor Dog. He whimpers and ducks every time he's touched.
He also has to take a steroid every day. Good thing he's neutered. I don't think his ego could take the testicle shrinkage! The really great thing about the steroid? It makes him pee uncontrollably. And it makes him pee green.
He peed when Mr X picked him up. He peed when he got home. He peed 5 minutes later when I filled his water bowl.
Today when Hurricane took his nap I came down to do laundry (it's the only time I really have to do it). I saw Cat sleeping in a chair that he is not supposed to be in and went to move it.
And I stepped in the Lake Erie of pee. And? Ew.
I glared at Cat for a moment before I realized that even he, in his vindictive and spiteful state, could not possibly have peed that much.
Damn steroids.
I thought it was cool when we potty trained Cat. For awhile, he would only pee in the toilet. I have it on tape. Stop laughing. You can't really be surprised that we would be the type of people to tape our cat peeing.
Today I realized something cooler. Of all the places Poor Dog could have peed, of all the prime new carpet spots? He chose the one covered by the plastic things we use under the computer chairs. And those rare times he poops in the house? He won't do it on carpet. He goes to the tile. And that can't be terribly comfortable.
I think that means I have to stop throwing treats into the Dreaded Cone of Humiliation. Because any dog willing to go out of the way to protect my carpet should not be mercilessly teased.
Looks like I'll just have to content with annoying Cat.
That one hot spot became 3 hot spots. We applied some ointment. (We meaning Mr X because Ew! I am NOT touching THAT!!)
Mr X went to work the following morning and at hurricane's naptime, I went to do laundry. And then I smelled IT.
A way to describe IT?
Rotting flesh?
A skunk?
My MIL's house?
No. Not strong enough.
Rotting flesh sprayed by a skunk found sitting in my MIL's kitchen.
Yup. That would about sum it up.
I could not figure out where the unholy hell IT was coming from. I shoved a handful of dryer sheets under my nose and walked into the living room where the smell seemed to be the strongest.
I thought I would find some poor dead animal Cat had 'played' with.
But no. IT turned out to be Poor Dog.
Internet? Nothing is more pathetic than a horrid smelling dog in the Dreaded Cone of Humiliation.
My sister-in-law came to our rescue. She is a Vet assistant and works at an animal hospital.
Sadly, she could not help us until the next day.
So being the cruel and heartless humans we are, Poor Dog and the Dreaded Cone of Humiliation slept downstairs on a sheet that will now have to be burned (where do you go to burn toxic substances?) and Mr X was given explicit instructions to open all windows to said room before leaving. (Nevermind that it's below freezing! Poor Dog was in that room all damn night with the door closed and I will die, DIE!, if I have to go in there and smell that again whereas you have this iron-cast stomach and nothing bothers you Mr X!)
When Mr X brought Poor Dog and the Dreaded Cone of Humiliation home the next day, I could not stop laughing. Further proof that I have no soul.
Poor Dog's ass was shaved. As in completely bare. Stub of a tail and all.
He had another shaved spot about 5 inches further up on his back but he still looked more red-assed baboon than dog. It was then that I saw that Poor Dog actually had 5 hot spots. No wonder he was miserable!
He now must take 2 antibiotics twice a day (yay for peanut butter!) and have this ointment rubbed in twice a day which? ouch. I feel so bad for Poor Dog. He whimpers and ducks every time he's touched.
He also has to take a steroid every day. Good thing he's neutered. I don't think his ego could take the testicle shrinkage! The really great thing about the steroid? It makes him pee uncontrollably. And it makes him pee green.
He peed when Mr X picked him up. He peed when he got home. He peed 5 minutes later when I filled his water bowl.
Today when Hurricane took his nap I came down to do laundry (it's the only time I really have to do it). I saw Cat sleeping in a chair that he is not supposed to be in and went to move it.
And I stepped in the Lake Erie of pee. And? Ew.
I glared at Cat for a moment before I realized that even he, in his vindictive and spiteful state, could not possibly have peed that much.
Damn steroids.
I thought it was cool when we potty trained Cat. For awhile, he would only pee in the toilet. I have it on tape. Stop laughing. You can't really be surprised that we would be the type of people to tape our cat peeing.
Today I realized something cooler. Of all the places Poor Dog could have peed, of all the prime new carpet spots? He chose the one covered by the plastic things we use under the computer chairs. And those rare times he poops in the house? He won't do it on carpet. He goes to the tile. And that can't be terribly comfortable.
I think that means I have to stop throwing treats into the Dreaded Cone of Humiliation. Because any dog willing to go out of the way to protect my carpet should not be mercilessly teased.
Looks like I'll just have to content with annoying Cat.
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
The Things You Take For Granted
When I was a kid, our water company loved me. I liked the never-ending hot shower. I could stay in there until I looked like a pug, all wrinkly and pruney. I absolutely took those for granted.
Even before Hurricane, a shower typically consisted of at least 2 visits from Girl X (one to ask for cookies, the other to ask if she should ask Daddy instead) and one from Mr X (to ask if I told Girl X she could have cookies). Occasionally Dog would nose his way in or someone would flush a toilet which? Not exactly conducive to a relaxing shower.
The first time after Hurricane was born that I attempted a shower without Mr X home to watch him? Disaster.
I brought a bunch of his toys in the bathroom so he would have plenty to play with. He barely glanced up when I turned the water on. I thought it would be great because he was content to play with his toys and no one was home to barrage me with cookie questions and as long as I didn't actually say cookie, Hurricane was fine.
I now look back and laugh at my naivete.
As soon as I stepped in the shower, Hurricane decided that he was bored and began digging into the trash can. I got out and put the trash can and, as a preemptive measure, the toilet paper roll on top of the sink.
I got back into the shower and started to wash my hair.
He started playing with the bowl brush.
I got out and put the bowl brush and, as a sign of resignation, the plunger on top of the sink. I attempted, while shivering, to catch Hurricane's interest with his toys. He was, briefly, distracted.
I continued washing my hair.
Hurricane decided that he couldn't see me in the shower and so, began screaming and trying to climb into the tub.
I got out, with soap dripping into my eyes, and undressed him. I grabbed some of his toys and realized that showers alone were just not going to happen.
I put Hurricane in the shower with me and started rinsing my hair.
He screamed.
I ended up being able to only wash my hair and half my body since I had to hold him.
Today, I thought I would try this again. Had I lost my mind? Well, yes, but that's not it.
Girl X is home from school. Has been all week because she is sick too. Her mood is good, but her glands are swollen enough to make her look like a chipmunk.
I thought that she could play with her brother long enough for me to shower and that they'd distract each other enough that I may even be able to do this in peace.
People? I am so very stupid. And naive. Yes. I am very naive. Look those words up in the dictionary and there's my picture.
I think my first mistake was letting the bathroom door partly open in case they needed me. After this morning, they fend for themselves. I shall arm them with bayonets and pith helmets and send them into the jungle to hunt for wildebeests and I will shower in peace.
I had barely stepped into the shower when it started.
"Mom, Hurricane pulled my hair."
And he's crying. And she has his beloved Weebles.
"Give him back his toy and go away."
I had a head full of soap when she said Hurricane was hungry and could they please have some cookies. It's 9 am. Is she nuts? In this house we have chocolate cake at 9 am! How could she not know this?
I had to get out of the shower, with my soapy head, and give them some cereal bars. Did I mention that they both had waffles not 15 minutes beforehand?
I didn't even make it all the way back into the shower.
"Mom! Can we have some milk? I mean chocolate milk?"
No. I'm trying to dehydrate you. If a plum turns into a prune and a grape into a raisin, I think a kid would turn into a garden gnome. I just need to test that theory.
I started to rinse the shampoo when they decided that the bathroom was the perfect place for hide-and-seek.
I had my hair covered in conditioner when Girl X told me she needed me to sign something.
"What?"
"The guy at the door said he needs a name so we can have the box."
Bugger! I think I've told her about a hundred gajillion times not to answer the door. Ever. And most definitely not when I am in the shower!
I hate it when the Fed-Ex guy smirks at you when you are standing there dripping in a robe. Ass.
Back in the shower. Hurricane decides he wants in and begins to take off his clothes. Girl X grabs his Weeble and runs. He screams, grabs the bowl brush and runs after her.
I close my eyes and count to 3.
"EEEWWWWWWWW"
He hit her with the brush and grabbed his Weeble.
Lesson? Don't mess with a boy's Weeble.
I knew I was running out of time. The water was getting cold and they kept running in and out of the bathroom. It was only a matter of time but again, I foolishly hoped I'd be able to finish without further incident.
Until Hurricane came running in crying and Girl X right behind him yelling "It wasn't me!"
He had fallen into the doorway and cut his head.
I managed to get one leg shaved so this is progress!
There isn't much that I miss about life before the kid's. But a shower that does not require another adult for supervision and a deadbolt on the door is definitely one on the short list.
Even before Hurricane, a shower typically consisted of at least 2 visits from Girl X (one to ask for cookies, the other to ask if she should ask Daddy instead) and one from Mr X (to ask if I told Girl X she could have cookies). Occasionally Dog would nose his way in or someone would flush a toilet which? Not exactly conducive to a relaxing shower.
The first time after Hurricane was born that I attempted a shower without Mr X home to watch him? Disaster.
I brought a bunch of his toys in the bathroom so he would have plenty to play with. He barely glanced up when I turned the water on. I thought it would be great because he was content to play with his toys and no one was home to barrage me with cookie questions and as long as I didn't actually say cookie, Hurricane was fine.
I now look back and laugh at my naivete.
As soon as I stepped in the shower, Hurricane decided that he was bored and began digging into the trash can. I got out and put the trash can and, as a preemptive measure, the toilet paper roll on top of the sink.
I got back into the shower and started to wash my hair.
He started playing with the bowl brush.
I got out and put the bowl brush and, as a sign of resignation, the plunger on top of the sink. I attempted, while shivering, to catch Hurricane's interest with his toys. He was, briefly, distracted.
I continued washing my hair.
Hurricane decided that he couldn't see me in the shower and so, began screaming and trying to climb into the tub.
I got out, with soap dripping into my eyes, and undressed him. I grabbed some of his toys and realized that showers alone were just not going to happen.
I put Hurricane in the shower with me and started rinsing my hair.
He screamed.
I ended up being able to only wash my hair and half my body since I had to hold him.
Today, I thought I would try this again. Had I lost my mind? Well, yes, but that's not it.
Girl X is home from school. Has been all week because she is sick too. Her mood is good, but her glands are swollen enough to make her look like a chipmunk.
I thought that she could play with her brother long enough for me to shower and that they'd distract each other enough that I may even be able to do this in peace.
People? I am so very stupid. And naive. Yes. I am very naive. Look those words up in the dictionary and there's my picture.
I think my first mistake was letting the bathroom door partly open in case they needed me. After this morning, they fend for themselves. I shall arm them with bayonets and pith helmets and send them into the jungle to hunt for wildebeests and I will shower in peace.
I had barely stepped into the shower when it started.
"Mom, Hurricane pulled my hair."
And he's crying. And she has his beloved Weebles.
"Give him back his toy and go away."
I had a head full of soap when she said Hurricane was hungry and could they please have some cookies. It's 9 am. Is she nuts? In this house we have chocolate cake at 9 am! How could she not know this?
I had to get out of the shower, with my soapy head, and give them some cereal bars. Did I mention that they both had waffles not 15 minutes beforehand?
I didn't even make it all the way back into the shower.
"Mom! Can we have some milk? I mean chocolate milk?"
No. I'm trying to dehydrate you. If a plum turns into a prune and a grape into a raisin, I think a kid would turn into a garden gnome. I just need to test that theory.
I started to rinse the shampoo when they decided that the bathroom was the perfect place for hide-and-seek.
I had my hair covered in conditioner when Girl X told me she needed me to sign something.
"What?"
"The guy at the door said he needs a name so we can have the box."
Bugger! I think I've told her about a hundred gajillion times not to answer the door. Ever. And most definitely not when I am in the shower!
I hate it when the Fed-Ex guy smirks at you when you are standing there dripping in a robe. Ass.
Back in the shower. Hurricane decides he wants in and begins to take off his clothes. Girl X grabs his Weeble and runs. He screams, grabs the bowl brush and runs after her.
I close my eyes and count to 3.
"EEEWWWWWWWW"
He hit her with the brush and grabbed his Weeble.
Lesson? Don't mess with a boy's Weeble.
I knew I was running out of time. The water was getting cold and they kept running in and out of the bathroom. It was only a matter of time but again, I foolishly hoped I'd be able to finish without further incident.
Until Hurricane came running in crying and Girl X right behind him yelling "It wasn't me!"
He had fallen into the doorway and cut his head.
I managed to get one leg shaved so this is progress!
There isn't much that I miss about life before the kid's. But a shower that does not require another adult for supervision and a deadbolt on the door is definitely one on the short list.
Sunday, February 19, 2006
The One Where I Am Broken....
First, I am sick. Soooo sick. Nose= pouring. Throat= Thank you good Dr for taking my tonsils out when I was young because owwwwwwww. Voice= scratchy, almost gone. Head= imploding. Sinuses= DIE!!! And I can feel my heart pounding.
Second, I broke my poor baby toe. Or at least I think I did. I stepped funny coming out of my van Friday night and it huuuurrrrttt. I promised Mr X much whining about the toe this weekend. Even more that would be normal for me since I am sick and when I am sick I go into Drama Queen mode. Almost as much as he does. Back to my poor baby toe. I can not step on it. I can not walk. Shoes? Shoes= HAAATTTEEEE. Mr X suggested going to the Dr. I laughed because how silly would it be to go the Dr for a broken toe? He'd just buddy tape it. But mostly because the Dr would likely insist on touching my toe which 1) ow and 2) it's attached to my foot and anything attached to my foot that gets touched? I kick. It's an involuntary reflex. A self-defense move of sorts.
So instead, I've been hobbling around whining in my scratchy almost non-existent voice about my poor baby toe. When I said I wanted blood this weekend, I didn't mean mine. I suppose I should have clarified that a bit.
Mr X was putting together Girl X's bedroom furniture and asked for my help.
"But my tooooeeeee! I can't help, it huuurrrtttsss."
Mr X suggested again going to the Dr only this time for some sedatives. I'm not really sure if the sedatives are for him or for me.
Instead I sat back and watched him put together this gigantic behemoth of an IKEA toy shelf. I watched as he huffed and puffed it into place against the far wall. I looked at Girl X as she frowned and we waited.
I watched as Mr X attempted to put together her new dresser with it's many extra parts that we still don't know where they belong. I am imagining that somewhere out there is another husband attempting to put together this IKEA dresser for his daughter as his wife looks on and he is making up swear words for the missing parts that are here at our house. I watch as Mr X huffs and puffs the dresser into place and cover Girl X's ears as he scratches the paint off the wall and starts talking about rapid antelope.
He attaches the mirror to the wall and Girl X frowns again.
"What?" He asks.
"I want the dresser where the toy shelf is and the toy shelf should go there. That way I can see myself when I wake up and you can see the shelves in the corner with my snow globes. You can't see them now with that thing there and I love you daddy."
I turn around so Mr X can't see me laughing.
He takes the mirror off and rearranges the furniture muttering about kids being smarter than he is. He lands the dresser squarely on his toe and just looks at me.
"Sorry, only one toe whiner per household." I help lift the dresser off his toe as he mutters about moving into his own apartment so he can whine about his toe.
While putting her bed together there was much muttering and confusion. I offered to open the instruction booklet but only received The Look in response.
Girl X wisely let him put the bed where he wanted.
There is still much to be done with setting up her room, most of it I'll do once my toe stops hurting with every little step.
I did suck it up long enough to go to Home Depot with Mr X today and picked out paint for Hurricane's new room. I haven't the heart to tell Mr X that the design for his room would look much better with a chair rail. A chair rail he would have to put up. I would and probably could do it, but it seems that I have the attention span of a gnat.
I still haven't finished recovering the chairs (damn staples).
Originally, I wanted this red with this only a bit lighter brown for the upper half of the room. But Mr X hates red. I think it comes with growing up where everything you ever owned being red. His clothes, the family car, their homes- everything. It's MIL's favorite color. So, we picked blue for the lower half and the lighter brown on top. I just have to figure out what else I want to do in there.
I love to paint. Much like the putting together of furniture, it involves a mess and some swearing.
Second, I broke my poor baby toe. Or at least I think I did. I stepped funny coming out of my van Friday night and it huuuurrrrttt. I promised Mr X much whining about the toe this weekend. Even more that would be normal for me since I am sick and when I am sick I go into Drama Queen mode. Almost as much as he does. Back to my poor baby toe. I can not step on it. I can not walk. Shoes? Shoes= HAAATTTEEEE. Mr X suggested going to the Dr. I laughed because how silly would it be to go the Dr for a broken toe? He'd just buddy tape it. But mostly because the Dr would likely insist on touching my toe which 1) ow and 2) it's attached to my foot and anything attached to my foot that gets touched? I kick. It's an involuntary reflex. A self-defense move of sorts.
So instead, I've been hobbling around whining in my scratchy almost non-existent voice about my poor baby toe. When I said I wanted blood this weekend, I didn't mean mine. I suppose I should have clarified that a bit.
Mr X was putting together Girl X's bedroom furniture and asked for my help.
"But my tooooeeeee! I can't help, it huuurrrtttsss."
Mr X suggested again going to the Dr only this time for some sedatives. I'm not really sure if the sedatives are for him or for me.
Instead I sat back and watched him put together this gigantic behemoth of an IKEA toy shelf. I watched as he huffed and puffed it into place against the far wall. I looked at Girl X as she frowned and we waited.
I watched as Mr X attempted to put together her new dresser with it's many extra parts that we still don't know where they belong. I am imagining that somewhere out there is another husband attempting to put together this IKEA dresser for his daughter as his wife looks on and he is making up swear words for the missing parts that are here at our house. I watch as Mr X huffs and puffs the dresser into place and cover Girl X's ears as he scratches the paint off the wall and starts talking about rapid antelope.
He attaches the mirror to the wall and Girl X frowns again.
"What?" He asks.
"I want the dresser where the toy shelf is and the toy shelf should go there. That way I can see myself when I wake up and you can see the shelves in the corner with my snow globes. You can't see them now with that thing there and I love you daddy."
I turn around so Mr X can't see me laughing.
He takes the mirror off and rearranges the furniture muttering about kids being smarter than he is. He lands the dresser squarely on his toe and just looks at me.
"Sorry, only one toe whiner per household." I help lift the dresser off his toe as he mutters about moving into his own apartment so he can whine about his toe.
While putting her bed together there was much muttering and confusion. I offered to open the instruction booklet but only received The Look in response.
Girl X wisely let him put the bed where he wanted.
There is still much to be done with setting up her room, most of it I'll do once my toe stops hurting with every little step.
I did suck it up long enough to go to Home Depot with Mr X today and picked out paint for Hurricane's new room. I haven't the heart to tell Mr X that the design for his room would look much better with a chair rail. A chair rail he would have to put up. I would and probably could do it, but it seems that I have the attention span of a gnat.
I still haven't finished recovering the chairs (damn staples).
Originally, I wanted this red with this only a bit lighter brown for the upper half of the room. But Mr X hates red. I think it comes with growing up where everything you ever owned being red. His clothes, the family car, their homes- everything. It's MIL's favorite color. So, we picked blue for the lower half and the lighter brown on top. I just have to figure out what else I want to do in there.
I love to paint. Much like the putting together of furniture, it involves a mess and some swearing.
Thursday, February 16, 2006
Little Bit
Tonight as I finished making dinner, I set off the smoke alarm. I hadn't realized how often I really do that until I saw Girl X go to comfort her brother and heard her say.........
"Don't worry Hurricane, that just means dinner is ready."
"Don't worry Hurricane, that just means dinner is ready."
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