Ubbi Dubbi

What? I disappear for a week and you want an explanation? Hmm....
How about a "I can't believe she just said that!" story instead?

I had a really bad abscess last week. Painful, wretched, much thrashing and twisting of sheets. I believe I requested an epidural for my face at one point though Mr X says it doesn't count since I regularly state that it would be a good day for an epidural. I say it does because this time it was for my face and it would have greatly reduced my crabbiness.
He now wishes he had become an anesthesiologist.
I was a horrid little bitch all week, then came Friday. Friday my head spun around and I spit pea soup and sounded like Mushmouth. Friday I woke up with troutmouth.
It dawned on me, as I tried to push some Motrin past my swollen upper lip, that maybe I should like, I don't know, see a Doctor? Except that it was Friday. You know, when every other damn person in the world decides they better go see the Doctor and get their percocet refilled.
Which is how I ended up at the walk-in clinic sitting next to The Queen of Bitchy.
I set Hurricane down to play as we waited the requisite 2 hours.
QB looked me up and down and clearly found me lacking.
I'd like to know just what is wrong with having Kix in your hair and smushed in banana in your pants? This can't be worse than wearing pajama bottoms to the mall. Right? Anyone?
Anyway, she looked me over and then did a double take.
"Where did you get your lips done? They look amazing!"
"Umbidi uh doo?"
"Excuse me?"
"Ib said, is an infeckthun."
"An infection?"
"uh-huh."
"Right. Sure. Why don't you just tell me?"

Now a normal person would have simply ignored her, not rubbing their finger around the abscess, grimacing and offering to pass on the thrashing, retching, horridness in order to be graced with troutmouth.

Yes a normal person.

But I think I've made it quite clear that I will never be a normal person.

She left which meant I only had to wait an hour and a half. Yay me!

Taking a Break

Much needed, can't explain, check back in a week. Sorry.

The Things We Do To Just Maintain

My relationship with Girl is on a tentative upswing at the moment. She is preoccupied with the first rush of days back at school (thank you hallowed halls of her Elementary school. I will refrain from commenting further on the fetid odor of dead sweaty animals in the parking lot) and cheer practice.

I am attempting to ignore the occasional outburst of cheeky comments. I pretend I don't see her rolling her eyes when I tell her she has to clean her room.
In return she took my hand after practice one night and thanked me for coaching her squad this year.

I'll admit, reluctantly, that despite my earlier hesitancy I am enjoying it. I vetoed only one cheer they wanted to do because there is something about children ranging in age from 5-9 yelling 'Shake your booty' and wagging their butts while bent over at adults and players that makes me want to die.
So that got a 'Oh hell no'. They shrugged and moved on to the next one. One which didn't seem bad, merely fatuous. It makes me wince a little because these girls are smart and the cheer is.... um.... not.
But they love it and I'll take it any day over them shaking their asses at grown men.
Unfortunately it ranks right up there with Elmo's Rap in that once it's in your head It Never Goes Away. I'm sure it doesn't help that Girl has been repeating it several times a day for the past month.
And now I give it to you.

Like totally, For sure (and yes, they get all valley girl here)
I just had a manicure
the sun, I swear
it's bleaching out my hair (are you annoyed yet? I am)
33 to 44
I don't know that silly score (mostly because we're in midget football and
no one tells us a damn thing)
Win Win
Fight Fight
Gee I hope I look all right?
Don't answer! (and with this they throw their hand up ala
'talk to the hand' and turn away. Shoot.
Me. Now. Please.)

I'm still in awe of her. She makes friends easily, something I've never been good at. She has boundless energy (provided I don't ask her to use some of that energy to say, clean her room, then suddenly she's so tired she couldn't possibly lift her arm. Look, see? Totally hanging down, can't even touch the bed much less actually make it). She adores her brother and when he's not beating her with Weebles, he follows her around like she's Elmo. I once nailed my brother in the balls with an ice ball because he dared to look at me when we were walking to school thereby announcing to everyone that we knew each other and that was unacceptable.

I worry that I won't be able to keep up. I don't want to be one of those moms that everyone rolls their eyes at because good grief woman! Let the girl do her own damn hair she's 25 for cripes sake! I don't want to be her best friend, or any friend really.
I would be ok with getting through her teen years as we are right now. Still her mom, her independence established, and still allowed to peek in on occasion.

I could live with that.

How To Dress Your Mobile Baby Turned Toddler

The rules have completely changed. I have bruises up and down my arms to prove it. So, in an effort to make it easier for you and maybe show that I have reason to be as completely crazed as I am.................

Step One: Gather supplies in one central location. If at all possible, be in an area that will make escape difficult if not impossible. Like a prison cell. Or a cage.

Step Two: Pull Hurricane out from under his bed.

Step Three: Chase Hurricane down the hall begging him to please stop.

Step Four: Unclench Hurricane's fist from Cat's tail.

Step Five: Carry Hurricane kicking and screeching to the changing cage, er... room.

Step Six: Begin to remove pajamas, dodge kicking feet (and can someone please explain how a child weighing less than 30 pounds can kick like he's a horse? My arms are so bruised I look like I had an accident with Easter dye.) and try to throw clothing into the waiting laundry basket.

Step Seven: Miss the laundry basket by 4 feet, get bruised for your efforts. Don't worry, no one will notice the bruise thanks to the 50 others currently covering your arms.

Step Eight: Say a silent prayer and remove diaper.

Step Nine: Try to sing over Hurricane's screaming in a lame attempt to distract him from the fact that you are changing his diaper.

Step Ten: Poke the hell out of your fingers trying to pin the cloth diaper closed without jabbing those adorably chunky thighs currently kicking the crap out of you.

Step Eleven: Bandage bloody fingers.

Step Twelve: Place diaper cover over right foot.

Step Thirteen: Place diaper cover over right foot.

Step Fourteen: Hold diaper cover out of Hurricane's eye sight and grit teeth.

Step Fifteen: Quickly rush cover over both feet at once while singing Elmo's Number 5 rap and pray that no one is outside listening through the open window.

Step Sixteen: Curse the diaper cover you are still holding in your hand as Hurricane smiles angelically at you.

Step Seventeen: Turn your back to Hurricane and lay over his waist. Slowly slip cover over his feet and then quickly pull it up.

Step Eighteen: Stick out tongue at Hurricane and do little victory dance.

Step Nineteen: Get smacked in head with diaper cover that Hurricane removed while you were doing the victory dance.

Step Twenty: Take a coffee break.

Step 21: Bite inner cheek as Hurricane slips diaper cover on by himself.

Step 22: Pick up shirt and eye Hurricane warily. He smiles.

Step 23: Pull shirt down as Hurricane tries to rip shirt off.

Step 24: Speak rapidly about getting dressed so that you can go to the park and have cookies and chocolate milk and play with Elmo.

Step 25: Lean over Hurricane as you try to bend his arm into the sleeve.

Step 26: Repeat step 25 for the other side.

Step 27: Stare miserably at shorts.

Step 28: Wish shorts could magically put themselves on.

Step 29: Contemplate painting on Hurricane's shorts.

Step 30: Pry Hurricane off the dresser he has just scaled.

Step 31: Repeat steps 12 through 20 twice.

Step 32: Hand shorts to Hurricane hoping he will repeat step 21.

Step 33: Remove shorts from head where Hurricane proudly threw them.

Step 34: Tackle Hurricane and lay on his legs as you yank shorts on.

Step 35: Hold Hurricane upside down while pulling shorts on the rest of the way.

Step 36: Curse shoes.

Step 37: Eat a snickers mini bite.

Step 38: Bribe Hurricane with a cookie and break the world record for putting on shoes.

Step 39: Take a nap.

Dog Days

The best part about Labor Day weekend is the knowledge that at the end of it, school starts. Yes. As of Wednesday Girl will be back in school thereby saving us the hours of my lameness and her exasperation at my ill-planned attempts to be cool.
We celebrated Sunday by going to the All-American traditional cookout. With dogs. Ours, theirs, others. Mishka was reunited with 2 of her litter mates and they spent the entire afternoon and evening rolling, nipping, sniffing and flipping each other.
We watched and ate and interacted with other adults which? Seriously? Was it always that good? Because I'm almost certain that I didn't say anything to horribly stupid (minus the idiotic conversation I initiated about Hurricane's rash and the subsequent switch to cloth diapers which no one cared about so I shut up and we moved on). We laughed and talked and I didn't feel entirely out of place for once.


Hurricane loved the piano but was less certain of Her. But she loved him. She hugged him and kissed him and anytime they came within 5 feet of each other she felt compelled to put her arms around him.
Her father insisted that she immediately go to her room and remain there until she is 30. She is a beautiful little girl with liquid chocolate eyes. Her parents are doomed.
Mishka is one of these dogs but I'm not all that sure which one. I know she's not the dark one in the back.


Face is tasty!!
Meet the Ball. Let this be a warning of the Ball, should you ever happen to find yourself in the backyard of the Ball. Do NOT throw the Ball. Trust me.
Because I did when we first got there. I threw the Ball just as her owner was warning me not to. I then spent the rest of the evening being followed by the Ball Catcher who was slobberly hoping I would throw the Ball again. And again. And again.
And again.
When I escaped to the deck, Ball Catcher wandered the yard looking for some other sucker to throw the Ball. The moment my feet again touched grass, there she was, drool pooling around the Ball in her mouth. She would drop it by my feet and if I dared to refuse to pick up the Ball, she would follow me and at first opportunity, insert her body before my feet and again drop the Ball looking at me with expectancy. Throw the Ball throw the Ball throw the Ball!
Desperately panting, Come on! Throw the Ball!
Internet? Do NOT throw the Ball.
I spent 5 hours throwing the Ball and my arm fucking hurts.

Here is where Hurricane became enraged. Because puppies? Totally cute. Puppies in his pool? No freakin' way! He stomped into the water yelling and waving his arms calling them all 'Eeka!' (his name for our puppy) and surprising them enough to chase them off.

Satisfied, he stepped out and stood guard at the side.

****************************

This morning I gave him a bowl of cereal. He took two Apple Jacks and refused the rest.

At lunch I handed him a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. He sniffed and walked away.

We went out to eat dinner. Girl happily munched her chicken fingers (I don't think she's ever ordered anything else) and looked doubtfully at Hurricane's chicken quesadilla.

He poked it.

He stuck his crayon in it.

He laughed and merrily refused to eat.

How can a child subsist on 2 Apple Jacks?

****************************

At the risk of regretting saying anything at all, at the risk of being a fool given our past difficulties, we finally reached a definite decision about having more children.

It's a yes.

Here's to trying, ignoring the failing, hoping for the best.

Medically Speaking

We just got back from the Doctor's a few moments ago. Hurricane is passed out in his room because the whole thing was just exhausting. First flirting with the secretaries, then the waiting room ladies, and the nurses. Then there was the running from the Doctor followed by the biting of the Doctor (which Girl is so jealous of because all she ever did was kick the Doctor in the face and why didn't she think of the biting because that can leave scars and how awesome would that be?).
Since Hurricane was 2 months old he has had a really nasty recurring diaper rash. Yea, I know. I know. Diaper rash, big deal right?
Well, yes. It is. Or it is when it causes your ass to bleed and will not just please to go away thank you very much.
It would fade to a pale pink only to return to it's angry, scaly, bleeding self in a week. We threw out the wipes, slathered him in Nystantin, some other prescription cream and triple paste. We let him run naked which left Cat hating us even more than he had before we brought this thing that likes to pee on him home. We sacrificed goats to the Gods of Diapered Asses. We talked to the rash, trying to convince it of the absolutely amazing places it could go if it would just get off of our son's ass.
Still, it stayed. It ate away at his skin until finally Hurricane just began denying the poop.

Most mornings he would greet me with a smile, then promptly stick his diaper-clad butt in the air and yell "Sstttiiiinnnggkkkeeeeeeeeeeee!!!"
But on those mornings when he would quickly hide his hands behind his back and declare "I no poo-ey", I knew the rash had returned.

There are claw marks on the walls of our hallway where tried to stop the inevitable march to the changing table. Our neighbors asked in concern and not at all hoping to need to call CPS if we were perhaps beating him and wouldn't that explain the screaming they heard?

No. What would explain it, and what would have been nice to know 18 months ago is monumentally simple.

He is allergic to the gel in the diapers.

I left the Doctor's armed with 2 new prescriptions to hopefully (oh please God!) get rid of the infection that has taken over his allergic reaction and the suggestion that we begin cloth diapering.
Yes, we will.

I am annoyed, endlessly, that it took as long as it has to know what was going on. We have been to the Doctor for this very rash 9 times. Each time we were given a prescription for some antifungal ointment and told it would clear up if we just gave it time. It would clear up if we just used all the ointment. It would clear up if we let him run naked for awhile. It would clear up if we stopped using wipes.

But it didn't. And now we know it never would have.

I blame myself more than anything. I should have been more insistent. I should have known that it was something more given his skin issues and mine. I should have sacrificed a chicken instead of a goat.

Actual Things Recently Stated In My House

Oh the pages I could fill on this one! But for the sake of my laziness, for oh how I love the laziness, how about if I just stick to this week?

-"Oh God please don't eat that slug! Please don't eat that slug. Don't eat that slugdonteatthatslugdonteatthatslugewewewew...... How many times am I going to have to pry dead slugs out of your mouth before you learn that crickets taste better?"

-"No Hurricane. I no longer put the cookies on the counter. If you want them you will just have to climb up on top of the refrigerator."
(Which, yes. He did. For I am a dumbass.)

-"I have no idea what his mom said but I'm pretty sure it was something about my going to hell. Because it's always about my going to hell. I love her."

-"You have the most hideous feet I have ever seen. I love you but I think I may hurl if those things come any closer."

-"But I don't like peas! They taste like green."
(I have no idea what green tastes like but Her Royal Highness, Queen of the Prepubescent Cheerleaders swears it is perfectly vile. Also lame. Yes. Very lame.)

-"Shut up! Ketchup is so a vegetable. It has to be because it's the only one your son will eat."

-"The only way you are getting me to go camping is if you kidnap Johnny Depp and have him chained naked to our tent. Just make sure he's made up like Jack Sparrow, 'k?"

-"Did that dog just eat poop?"
Yes. Yes she did.

-"Look! I can do a cartwheel!" *crash* "Um... Mom? Hurricane broke your side table."

-"Mahn an teese?" "No. No manatees for breakfast." Long pause with that unnerving glare that only toddlers are capable of..... "I want MAHNANTEESE!!!!!"
"And I want non-possessed type children, Linda Blair. You're still not getting manatees for breakfast. Here, have a cookie."
(Because only in my head is a cookie more acceptable for breakfast than mac and cheese.)

-"That John Wayne painting is going to be worth something someday!"

"Why? Is there going to be a desperate need for and shortage of ugly felt?"

-"Pshaw! I would so have made a kick-ass Rainbow Brite and she would have eaten Garth Vader for breakfast!"

-"No, He-Man was way hotter than Optimus Prime but I'd take Lion-O over either of them anyday."

-"Hurricane! Stop biting the dog. Cat is right there."

-"You're just excited that school is starting because then you can take Hurricane to the movies all day and then watch cartoons and eat ice cream while I'm being tortured!"

-"Just remember while you're pressing that forward button 17 times a day, I get to choose your nursing home."

"Yeah well, Girl gets to choose yours and it might be good to remember that she likes her grandparents. Now shut up and read."

-"EEKA! NO BIIEEE!!!"
(screamed by angry toddler to Mishka which utterly confounded her as she had been sound asleep across the room at the time.)

-"Canada is still only a few measly hours away."

The Scourge of the Soccer Mom Network

If you see the words 'Soccer Mom Network' and have no idea what I'm talking about (which I swear, half of what I write? I write thinking 'no way anyone is going to get this let alone think 'ha!funny' but oh well' and I write it anyway) go here and scroll on down to trouble in paradise.
I laughed when I read it because I so got it! It was the same thing when Girl was in T-ball and sort of the same thing with Cheerleading.
Then today I got really excited because I discovered something that terrifies soccer mom's more than bad highlights and and full calorie dressing.

I was leading cheer practice under the covered pavement of one local elementary school. It was raining. It was chilly. The Soccer moms took over one end of the shelter which was totally fine. It gave the girls an idea of how loud they had to yell to be heard over the blaring sirens of a thousand ambulances.
Or it was totally fine until a few parents decided their boys should practice kicking the ball at the girls.
Finally, after the youngest had been bowled over, yet again, in the midst of their favorite cheer, I spoke up.
"Excuse me?"

Heads spun around but the bodies, oddly, still faced forward.

"Could you boys please practice elsewhere or maybe at least not use the girls as target practice?"

The Soccer Mom Network as a whole sighed. I've never before seen synchronized sighing and eye-rolling.

One over high-lighted Soccer Mom stepped forward.

"I suppose the boys could practice out there. In the rain."

And before I could retort with a 'Well gee, we wouldn't want to let the preshus little Hunter-William-Landon's get wet! They might melt!', 4 little heads turned in sync and gave the most frightening glare I've ever born witness too.
Thunder clapped and the Heavens cut loose a torrential rain of fire and those Soccer Moms were instantly burned to ashes.
For there is nothing more frightening than pissed off prepubescent cheerleaders who know how to Huerky.

The boys quickly picked up their ball and ran to the field. The remaining soccer spectators decided it would be safer to observe practice in the rain.
All 4 girls smiled angelically and turned their attention back to performing the perfect pencil jump.

I highly recommend getting your very own prepubescent cheerleader.
Think of the possibilities!
Your boss won't give you a raise?
He will after one quick round of "I've got Spirit!" involving a left side hurdler and a right diagonal.
Mechanic ripping you off? Not after little Janie shows him her Liberty with a dismount he'll be feeling for months.
Neighbor dumping his garbage in your yard (please tell me we're not alone!)? Just have sweet little Susie pay him a visit with her poms and megaphone. He'll be mowing your yard in no time.

I Was Due

Every now and then I disillusion myself with thoughts of being graceful, non-klutzy, able to walk 5 feet without falling on my face.
And then gravity kicks in and knocks me back to reality.

I am still trying to train Mishka (the 2 and 1/2 month old husky that snores louder than my husband). I had her outside to do her thing when she took off for the neighbors lovely green yard.
Our yard is sort of green. Here and there. In between all the patches of brown and then there's the bare spots that have yet to recover from those damn moles (and I would totally link you back to that whole saga if Blogger weren't being such a bitch).
So, off she ran and I followed just hoping they wouldn't notice that she was eating their lovely flowers. She is slippery and it took at least 4 devoured peonies before I caught her.
I started to carry her back over to our house when it happened.
We had our driveway extended a few months ago and when we did it left this little step up from the neighbors lovely yard to our driveway. A 6 inch step that I forgot all about until my foot found it and my chin met the sidewalk.
I skinned my knee, my shoe went flying off behind me. I caught the brunt of the fall with my hands and arms and cracked my chin on the pavement.
I laid there cursing gravity while Mishka chewed on my hair.
One of the neighborhood kids, I think she's maybe 4, stood over me slurping her popsicle.
"Whatcha' do that for?"

"It's fun. Why don't you try it?"

She didn't take me up on that. I'm almost sure I would've stopped her.

Maybe.

Because I Can't Believe I Forgot..........

In making my laziest post ever, I totally skipped over the part that still haunts me. And everytime I see this picture, I feel a little ill but........



Did you know that some fish have teeth. Like, an underbite and everything?

Fucking teeth!

Picture Day

Never mind that it's been a few weeks of me trying and Blogger being a little bitch. Or that they are entirely out of sequence. They are posted. Except I don't remember half of what I had intended to say, so let's skip the boring parts and I'll hit the hightlights. Yes? Woo-hoo!


First up is proof of Hurricane's inherited feelings about feet.

He? Absolutely against them. Except, perhaps, for his own which, he has informed me and I concur, taste quite yummy.

One of the Lime Kilns at Lime Kiln Point. There was a point to this picture but I'm not entirely sure it's interesting anymore. Maybe because I don't remember the whole story. I do remember that this is just north of Dead Man's Bay, so named because well..... duh. Lime, in it's powdered form, it does not like the water. Workers would load this powdered lime onto the boats but because that area of the coast is so rocky, it would frequently get wet and burn up the entire ship.
Pretty. This is a favored point for whale watching. It's my favorite spot on the island. The lavendar fields. Really great place to go, take a deep breath and relax, if you like the smell of lavendar. I do not. 3 seconds after taking this picture and seeing the long expanse of lavendar planted before me (which was about 5 seconds after getting out of the van), I returned to the van and attempted to not throw up.

I almost succeeded.

While he desperately hates feet, he is hopelessly in love with frogs. He would not leave this damn guy alone. The guy would move on to greet another kid and there was my son, tugging at his leg in awe breathily bleating 'rrriimmiihhhttt?'
Meet Spot. Spot does not Baaaa as a normal sheep would. Spot burps. Loudly. Spot burped every time Hurricane turned his back. Hurricane was utterly confused by this noise because he was certain it came from this animal but it didn't even blink when he looked at it. Finally, he stood with his back turned slightly and caught it mid-burp.

Hurricane burped back and laughed.

They burped back and forth at eachother for 10 minutes before Hurricane's father rolled his eyes and carried him away.

This trip also began Hurricane's obsession with Dance Dance Revolution. I am certain this will lead to a fulfilling life touring the country in order to dance in competitions. Oh, you didn't know people did that? Well, yes. They do.
Then there were the chickens. Chickens my children felt the need to chase, much to the amusement of our friends, the owners of said chickens.

Girl would run after them, her arms flailing at her sides, yelling "Chicken nuggets, fried chicken, buffalo wings, chicken soup! MMMM!!" Proving only that she is my child, demented and lovely.

Hurricane simply bent over, his arms behind his back and "bawk, bawk bawk". Smiling as though he knew exactly what it was he was saying to them.

Verbal

In the past few weeks, Hurricane has become more and more verbal. He has happily slapped "paw-paw's bebly" and ran from "Bama's bad fee!"
As with the signs he learned from us, most of his words have to do with food.
"Mama. Diiinnnna?"

"Dinner?"

"DIIIINNNNAAAA!"

"Ok, I'll make you dinner."
As I start compiling the makings of grilled cheese with his hummus dip, he frowns and tugs at my pant leg.

"Man and teese!"

"Mac and cheese?"

"Man and teese! Man and teese!" He claps his hands pleased with being able to express his wants.

In the morning I am woken to his pleas for 'ceeerrreaahhhllll!'
In the afternoon it's 'ha dog' or 'peeba and ehhllly'.
"Cackers."
"Ilk."
"Waner."
"Bana."

My favorite is his hopeful request for a cookie.
Recently after being handed one cookie, he looked mournfully at his empty hand. He then turned his ever wanting face to mine.

"Two?"

I was so pleased that our practice with counting (which consist of me repeating the numbers 1 through 10 over and over again while he ignores me and shoves blocks into Cat's face) that I happily handed him another.

"foooor?"

But not that pleased.

One night as we read together he put his hand to my mouth.
"I go nigh-nigh?"

I was shocked! Normally he regards his bedtime as a joke his father and I play on ourselves. As if he would actually go to sleep when there are so many far interesting things to do and climb.

As he still had 5 minutes before we commenced his normal, and laughable, bedtime routine, I gently told him not yet.

That is the precise moment my child was possessed.
He lowered his sweet face, stuck out his lower lip, raised his eyes and in his most growly voice to date replied,
"I GO NIGH-NIGH!"

He was in bed within 2 minutes.

Today, again, I was given the opportunity to question the wisdom in teaching him to speak.
We were waiting as the mechanic finished up the oil change on our van.
He spotted a pretty woman in the corner and smiled.
"Hi."

She smiled and returned his wave.

Feeling brave, he moved closer.
Before I could fully realize what he was after, he had begun to lift her shirt.
"Boobies!"

The woman laughed and managed to keep her shirt down but my face is still red.

Number Pain

I have always had trouble with math. I took Pre-algebra twice in high school and again during my brief stint in college. I just didn't get it. English, History, Science, lunch? No problem.
Math? Bah!
It possibly didn't help that I found it much more interesting to explore the inner recesses of Tommy Milford's* mouth than to solve for y, but not the point.
I took the kids to the library yesterday and as I scanned the stacks pretending that it was not my toddler singing Elmo's World at the top of his lungs, I found it.
The Complete Idiot's Guide to Algebra.

I thought that applied rather aptly to me. Yes. A book written just for me. It even had my name on it (see: idiot).
How hard could it be?

I read the whole first chapter, happily making notes in the notebook I bought just for this. Girl sat next to me and shook her head for I am lame.
I did the chapter problems and checked my answers so certain that I had it all right.

I missed one of the possibly categories in the first question and got number 4 completely wrong. I still don't know what I did wrong on number 4.
I thought maybe I read it wrong but....
When you see this 6+2(5+8) you would add 6+2, 5+8 and then multiply the answers. Right?
Good grief. I can't believe I'm asking the internet to help me with math. And I'm almost 30 (*whimper*).

I took the book outside with Mishka, our overly hyper Husky puppy. As I was walking back into the house I caught my hip on the railing off of our deck. My hip swelled and there is a giant, hideous purple and black bruise. I couldn't even sleep on that side which meant, of course, that that was the only way I wanted to sleep.

As I sniffled and applied ice, I googled my 9th grade Pre-Algebra teacher.

Dear Mr Pocket-Protector,

You lied. Math is painful. Enclosed, please find picture of my very tender hip, injured while studying algebra.

Yours,
That Girl Who Was Always Attached to
Tommy Milford's Face


*Name has been slightly changed to protect, um... me.

One Step Forward

I am so ignoring my illiterate little troll and moving on. After, of course, a round of thank yous for the comments and e-mails.
Mostly it just made me roll my eyes and curse the writer for not paying attention in school.

Sunday I took Girl to see The Barnyard. It was just what a kid's movie was supposed to be and it felt good to sit there with her in the quiet theater and laugh. Just the two of us.
I threw popcorn at her and she knocked my elbow off our shared armrest.
She rested her head against my arm and I smiled. She didn't pull away when I kissed her head.
When the movie was over I asked her what her favorite part was.
We both agreed it had to be Wild Mike. She said it reminded her of her brother. She envied his 'no-fear' approach to everything.
His 'no-fear' approach terrifies me.
We laughed and talked on the drive home.
I sighed when we pulled into our driveway as she ran off to play with her friends.
She yelled 'Thanks mom!' over her shoulder.

For the first time in months I feel like we can do this.

I'm not saying that everything is ok, that I no longer worry about who she is and how we can relate.
Just that hope isn't lost.

Bite Me Very Much

I read my posts about girl and my problems with her twice. Carefully. I pored over every word just to be sure and now that I am I have to tell you (hateful e-mailer) to kindly kiss my ass. I'll even mark off which acre is all yours.

Not once did I say that I didn't want her or that I hated her.

I admit that I may have read your e-mail wrong as I speak English and by the looks of your e-mail you don't. What else could possibly explain what this 'an u d evn no cuz u d car 2 no is ur fawl' is?

Quite simply, I love my daughter. Yes we're having some problems right now. I'm finding connecting with her a challenge while she changes. But we're working on it.

And if all else fails I'll just leave her at the zoo.

You Win

http://www.google.co.uk/search?hl=en&q=I+fear+that+the+stapler+has+mated+with+the+paper+towels.++&meta=


I just.... I.... Gawd! Really?

The Day I Became "Lame"

Yeah, ok. I know I already was but at least my kids thought I was cool. Or maybe just pretended too. But now Girl has crossed that invisible line between "My mommy rocks" to "Who me? I'm an orphan."
I know I've made a little stink about this whole coaching thing (I am so going to end up kicking myself in the ass and possibly breaking my foot) but I was also kind of excited about it (aside from having to deal with Annoying Woman). I thought that maybe if I was involved in the things that she was interested in it would help with some of the problems we have been having. And also during those teen years when she really hates me and starts saying how I don't care I can say "Ha! Don't you remember when I was your coach and I ended up in traction? This limp isn't for nothing kid!"
We arrived at practice a little early. I was nervous but ready. Girl ran off to play until practice started. All the other coaches and some of the parents were standing around talking. I noticed Girl's coach from last year and we talked for a minute. It almost seemed normal.
Girl came over to get a drink and she looked at me kind of funny. Her ex-coach asked her if she was excited to start the year and she nodded a little.
I smiled and ruffled her hair.
"She has been asking for weeks now when we start."

And then it happened. You could feel the shift and the other moms looked over at us because it was that palpable.

"Oh My Gosh mom! You are so lame!"

And with that she was off to play and my jaw sat on the pavement.
The other moms quickly turned their heads to ward off of my errant 'lame-mom' germs.

Later on the way home I let her know that talking to me that way was never going to be ok. She apologized (while rolling her eyes) and I sighed.

I don't know that I'll ever get a grip with her. I don't know how to transition from the relationship we had to one that we can both live with. I worry. This is certainly not what I imagined motherhood to be like.

I look at her and I see the girl in pigtails who wouldn't take an oatmeal bath when she had the chicken pox because the water was 'dirty'. I see the girl who would touch her cheek to mine and sigh. I see the girl who would fall asleep in my lap while watching movies.

But that isn't who she is anymore.

I think our children's independence is harder on us as parents.

Does letting her grow really mean letting her go? Do I really have to give up a good bond with her in order to maintain authority? I'm still trying to figure that one out.

As I tucked her into bed tonight (one of the few things she still lets me do), she smiled, a little.
"I'm glad you're my coach mom."

I kissed her forehead, turned off the lights, went into the kitchen and cried.

More Proof of My Stupidity

It has been several months so I have been able to block out that horribly stupid thing I did. But now it's come back to bite me in the ass.

Tonight is the first practice for cheerleading. Practice for which I am supposed to teach them things like cheers. And I'm thinking that teaching them dirty cheers will be um, frowned upon? Yes?
Right.

To make this season just fabulous, I've learned that the town's most annoying woman had her daughter placed on my team.
Anything you can do, she can do 20 times better. She knows everything and will happily tell you just how wonderful she is. It is going to take every last bit of restraint to not stick my coach's handbook up her right nostril.

And Now For Another Round of "Oh Holy Hell People!"

Oh Lord. Really. I know I've mentioned before about the surprising number of people who have found me while searching for "she had worms in her" (damn TLC and google) but enough already!
13. 1. 3. Recently. 13 people searching for worms or earthworms.

This I could maybe shake off as whatever but the next one on my list, I just... I.... *bangs head on desk and dies a little*.
"Mother in law accidentally saw penis." "What to do?"

And now I'm left wondering just what happened to bring this about. And why it had to be brought about to my blog. What did I write that put me at #11 for this search request?
Seriously? #11? I'm not going to be satisfied until that one reaches number one.

Ingenuity

When Girl was a toddler, she preferred her two feet to be firmly planted on the ground. She found destruction at her eye level to be most enjoyable and much more of a surprise for me.
So it was incredibly disconcerting to me to watch Hurricane master his climbing skills on the beds, the table, my bar stools (which should be too high for him but whatever), and the Ikea corner shelving unit that seemed so useful at Ikea but we so don't have a corner to stick it in.
Still, none of that prepared me for this weekend. Saturday to be specific. Saturday I walked into his room knowing he had woken from his nap, fully prepared for a rousing game of Chase-Mommy-Around-the-Kitchen and Pinch-the-Nipples-Watch-Mommy-Cry! I was, instead, treated to the sight of the apple of my eye sitting in his dresser drawer. Pardon, his top dresser drawer. Yes. Well.
I tried my best not to faint (ha!) and instead removed his sturdy self from said drawer and firmly said 'No. Naughty.' Too which, he crumbled. And then naturally, so did I. He was so proud of his monkey-like ability and certainly I should find this skill useful! Perhaps when I throw my car keys on the rooftop in an effort to dislodge a Frisbee (give me a break. I was so wiped out and really, was it so much to ask the 5 year old neighbor boy to get his own damn Frisbee and while you're at it, I think Mr X perhaps left his hat up there and oh don't cry!). Surely then his shimmying up the rain spout would be a life saver. No?
Truly, it was the manner in which my would-be Everest toppler that had me proclaiming his genius status to the entire neighborhood (Please, they all think I'm crazy anyway so what difference could one more bout of insanity make?).
First, he had pulled out his bottom right drawer. Then his middle left, from there it was a simple matter to climb to the top.
Yes. Genius. Or more aptly, enfant terrible.
Since then he has happily displayed his ability to ascend every standing piece in the house.
His current favorite? The kitchen drawers. Even with the child safety locks (ha! They don't even slow him down. I'm the one who ends up pinching her fingers) it is a matter of mere seconds before his on top of the counter, merrily searching for cookies. Or french fries. Or whatever other assortment of goodies I seem to hide up there on those glorious counters he could never explore before.
I may not survive his childhood. He, no doubt, will be fine. But I think my heart will not handle so many of these ever increasing surprises.