When my husband starts giving me the Look it can only mean one of two things:
1) I've said something incredibly stupid (often)
or
2) He's about to say something I won't believe (slightly less often)
So when he started giving me that look last night and I hadn't said anything in a whole 5 minutes (a new record for me) I knew I was in for some serious bullshit.
"You look like Sandra Bullock."
People. Seriously. I am in no way delusional enough to think I look like her. So, the hell?
Later we were watching Deal or No Deal, trying to figure out where She will most like handcuff herself to a chair. As one of the women opened their case, he turned to me again.
"You look like her too. And you have the same name!"
"What the hell have you been smoking?"
Here's the thing.........
As deluded as he may be about what I look like, it's flattering. And I appreciate it.
Especially since it could be so much worse.
********
Last night after Joe went to bed the phone started ringing. Since it was late (read well past the time when people will call for everyday conversation and closer to 'Oh no! What hospital?') I naturally assumed it would be my mother-in-law.
Actually it was the Monroe Correctional Facility but close enough.
For the next 2 hours this inmate called every 10 minutes.
I don't know who it was, couldn't understand the name he kept saying but last time I checked, my forehead didn't have a giant 'STUPID' tattoo on it.
So I refused the call. Repeatedly.
Then I got smart and just left the damn phone off the hook.
Joe woke up when I finally crawled into bed and I told him about the calls.
"Was his name Nathan?" (And I'm totally changing the names here because, come on. Do I really need that headache? Right.)
"I don't know, I couldn't understand him. I'm not even sure it was a him."
Pause.
"Could it have been Allen?"
"Who are these people?"
"One is a guy I hung out with in high school, he should be getting out of prison any day now so if he calls, hang up. The other one is my cousin."
I have been married to this guy for 4 years and I'm only now finding this stuff out???
I'm guessing that he figured his mom is enough to handle and throwing in the rest of the family would have sent me screaming.
What he doesn't realize is that his family craziness makes my family seem normal and that is the first time that has ever happened.
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
Monday, October 16, 2006
Fashionista
There seems to be some unwritten dictate that moms suddenly stop buying things for themselves. (Or so it would seem to moms I know, namely my sister, playgroup people, certain friends.......) Topping this list is clothing.
I am really good at not buying clothes for myself.
So good in fact, that my newest pair of jeans dates back to 1999 when the previous pair died at the hands of one very pissed off Oliver- cat who hated everyone and everything and was not afraid to express this hatred by destroying random objects. I maybe would have not been so upset if not for the fact that I was a single mom and literally counting pennies to pay the bills. And the fact that I was like, wearing the pants at the time. (Are you noticing a trend here? Cats? They do not like me. And really is there any reason I need to continue getting them?)
Anyway.. clothes. My daily uniform consists of jeans (most older than daughter) and either sweatshirt (which must be about 4 sizes too big and appear to be swallowing me) or t-shirt (also too big and possibly bearing the name of some random business not necessarily in this area).
Right. Pretty pathetic. I know.
In an effort to turn this whole situation around and bearing in mind that I've lost nearly 30 lbs in the past 6 months and should maybe try to find something that fits, I went shopping. For clothes. In actual stores that did not bear 'Mart' anywhere in it's name.
If I learned anything from this experience it is this:
1) I don't know what I like.
2) I am dangerous around mannequins.
3) It is possible to get kicked out of certain stores which shall remain nameless.
4) I prefer shopping on-line.
Addressing these issues:
1) I don't know what I like.
I used to know what I like. No patterns, no pink, clean lines, pretty but not skanky.
So, still a big no on the skanky thing but I sort of liked some of the patterns. I even found a skirt that I LOVED and wanted (me? in a skirt? Has hell frozen over?) but then I didn't know what to pair it with. I knew that since it had a pattern I needed to stay away from patterns but did you know that there are about a million different shades of black? Because I didn't until the salesgirl suggested I stay away from the chocolate blacks and maybe try a midnight black but don't get it confused with a charcoal black and then my head exploded and the skirt was ruined what with all the blood and everything.
Then I found another skirt I really liked except I kind of cheated because it was on a mannequin and I could see what it was supposed to be worn with and it was beautiful and I wanted it. Sadly, the only one left was on the mannequin.
Which leads us to.....
2) I am dangerous around mannequins (and other displays which are loud when they crash to the floor)
So, the skirt on the mannequin was the last one and I thought I'd just quick peek and see if it was even in my size before bugging the clerk about taking it down.
Note to others: Do not touch the mannequins. They are specially arranged to crash when touched by anyone but sales persons. And when they crash they will take out another display of artfully arranged accessories and possibly an innocent bystander or two.
Which leads to........
3) I was asked, rather pointedly, if I was done shopping and could they suggest perhaps, another store. Perhaps their closest rival?
4) Yes. Online shopping. As long as you are aware of just what size you need, perfectly acceptable. In fact, decidedly preferred method of shopping.
I am really good at not buying clothes for myself.
So good in fact, that my newest pair of jeans dates back to 1999 when the previous pair died at the hands of one very pissed off Oliver- cat who hated everyone and everything and was not afraid to express this hatred by destroying random objects. I maybe would have not been so upset if not for the fact that I was a single mom and literally counting pennies to pay the bills. And the fact that I was like, wearing the pants at the time. (Are you noticing a trend here? Cats? They do not like me. And really is there any reason I need to continue getting them?)
Anyway.. clothes. My daily uniform consists of jeans (most older than daughter) and either sweatshirt (which must be about 4 sizes too big and appear to be swallowing me) or t-shirt (also too big and possibly bearing the name of some random business not necessarily in this area).
Right. Pretty pathetic. I know.
In an effort to turn this whole situation around and bearing in mind that I've lost nearly 30 lbs in the past 6 months and should maybe try to find something that fits, I went shopping. For clothes. In actual stores that did not bear 'Mart' anywhere in it's name.
If I learned anything from this experience it is this:
1) I don't know what I like.
2) I am dangerous around mannequins.
3) It is possible to get kicked out of certain stores which shall remain nameless.
4) I prefer shopping on-line.
Addressing these issues:
1) I don't know what I like.
I used to know what I like. No patterns, no pink, clean lines, pretty but not skanky.
So, still a big no on the skanky thing but I sort of liked some of the patterns. I even found a skirt that I LOVED and wanted (me? in a skirt? Has hell frozen over?) but then I didn't know what to pair it with. I knew that since it had a pattern I needed to stay away from patterns but did you know that there are about a million different shades of black? Because I didn't until the salesgirl suggested I stay away from the chocolate blacks and maybe try a midnight black but don't get it confused with a charcoal black and then my head exploded and the skirt was ruined what with all the blood and everything.
Then I found another skirt I really liked except I kind of cheated because it was on a mannequin and I could see what it was supposed to be worn with and it was beautiful and I wanted it. Sadly, the only one left was on the mannequin.
Which leads us to.....
2) I am dangerous around mannequins (and other displays which are loud when they crash to the floor)
So, the skirt on the mannequin was the last one and I thought I'd just quick peek and see if it was even in my size before bugging the clerk about taking it down.
Note to others: Do not touch the mannequins. They are specially arranged to crash when touched by anyone but sales persons. And when they crash they will take out another display of artfully arranged accessories and possibly an innocent bystander or two.
Which leads to........
3) I was asked, rather pointedly, if I was done shopping and could they suggest perhaps, another store. Perhaps their closest rival?
4) Yes. Online shopping. As long as you are aware of just what size you need, perfectly acceptable. In fact, decidedly preferred method of shopping.
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Courage
AM and Veronica of Toddled Dredge both have very good, get you thinking (Isn't that scary? Me, thinking? Dangerous!) posts about bravery today.
I think (there's that word again- eek!) that's easy to say that given the chance you'd play the hero. I think if we never had to prove it, we'd all say that we would step in to help someone in trouble. But like I told AM, I'm more hesitant when my kids are with me (and good grief when are they not?). When I'm by myself I tend to forget that I don't have to say every little thing that pops into my head (Hello? Anyone remember the incident with police chief? And after a quick search I can't find it so.... forget I said anything. There was no incident with a police chief, my hitting his car and nearly ending up in jail. Nope. No idea what you're talking about. Moving on....).
I've been sitting here with this post for 2 hours now. Starting and then erasing everything I've written because it seems so inadequate.
I started to talk about how I thought being a parent was brave.
But then I remembered that I haven't always been such a great example of that.
Instead all I can think of was when at my least brave (great now I sound like a kid writing her first essay. Go me!) moment, someone took over for me.
It was the beginning of June of this year. Girl was due home from school and Hurricane and I were playing in the living room. The bus stop is right in front of my house so I can always hear the bus pull up. I rarely go out there with her anymore since she prefers to have the time with her friends. In the morning I occasionally peek out from my window.
This day, I heard the bus pull up and through the open window, the sound of kids laughing, teasing, removing the subdued nature of their classwork.
I knew Girl would linger a bit, laughing with friends, making plans for later. I gathered her usual after school snack.
I heard the bus pull away and the voices begin to drift.
I looked to the door and waited.
I frowned. Lingering longer than she normally would. Things to do kid. Walk through that door and let's get busy. Come on kid.
I walked to the window and looked out on a very empty street.
I felt like someone had thrown ice water down my spine. My chest felt a little tight.
It's OK, she just missed her bus. Had to be.
I called the school and after a brief search......
She wasn't there.
I called the bus dispatch and the bus driver checked. She wasn't on the bus. The driver couldn't be sure she had gotten on.
My knees felt weak and I suddenly couldn't stop shaking.
I called my neighbor. Her son and my daughter are friends and surely he saw her on the bus. Had to.
"No, I didn't see her."
My knees crumbled.
Oh God, please.
I started to cry.
And then suddenly my neighbor was there at my door. Ready to step in and hold my hand, make calls, help me find my daughter. Because I had just lost my ability to not shake.
I shake now even thinking about it.
Because for 30 minutes in June, I didn't know where my daughter was and it was the single most terrifying moment of my life and the only reason I didn't completely lose my shit was because my neighbor stopped helping her 3 kids to come over and just be there.
Girl had gotten off at a friend's house. Her teacher had given her a note that I had written that was meant for a previous day. Just a simple misunderstanding.
It seems so simple doesn't it? Maybe it doesn't qualify as bravery by most definitions.
But that day my neighbor was my hero. She was brave when I couldn't be.
I think (there's that word again- eek!) that's easy to say that given the chance you'd play the hero. I think if we never had to prove it, we'd all say that we would step in to help someone in trouble. But like I told AM, I'm more hesitant when my kids are with me (and good grief when are they not?). When I'm by myself I tend to forget that I don't have to say every little thing that pops into my head (Hello? Anyone remember the incident with police chief? And after a quick search I can't find it so.... forget I said anything. There was no incident with a police chief, my hitting his car and nearly ending up in jail. Nope. No idea what you're talking about. Moving on....).
I've been sitting here with this post for 2 hours now. Starting and then erasing everything I've written because it seems so inadequate.
I started to talk about how I thought being a parent was brave.
But then I remembered that I haven't always been such a great example of that.
Instead all I can think of was when at my least brave (great now I sound like a kid writing her first essay. Go me!) moment, someone took over for me.
It was the beginning of June of this year. Girl was due home from school and Hurricane and I were playing in the living room. The bus stop is right in front of my house so I can always hear the bus pull up. I rarely go out there with her anymore since she prefers to have the time with her friends. In the morning I occasionally peek out from my window.
This day, I heard the bus pull up and through the open window, the sound of kids laughing, teasing, removing the subdued nature of their classwork.
I knew Girl would linger a bit, laughing with friends, making plans for later. I gathered her usual after school snack.
I heard the bus pull away and the voices begin to drift.
I looked to the door and waited.
I frowned. Lingering longer than she normally would. Things to do kid. Walk through that door and let's get busy. Come on kid.
I walked to the window and looked out on a very empty street.
I felt like someone had thrown ice water down my spine. My chest felt a little tight.
It's OK, she just missed her bus. Had to be.
I called the school and after a brief search......
She wasn't there.
I called the bus dispatch and the bus driver checked. She wasn't on the bus. The driver couldn't be sure she had gotten on.
My knees felt weak and I suddenly couldn't stop shaking.
I called my neighbor. Her son and my daughter are friends and surely he saw her on the bus. Had to.
"No, I didn't see her."
My knees crumbled.
Oh God, please.
I started to cry.
And then suddenly my neighbor was there at my door. Ready to step in and hold my hand, make calls, help me find my daughter. Because I had just lost my ability to not shake.
I shake now even thinking about it.
Because for 30 minutes in June, I didn't know where my daughter was and it was the single most terrifying moment of my life and the only reason I didn't completely lose my shit was because my neighbor stopped helping her 3 kids to come over and just be there.
Girl had gotten off at a friend's house. Her teacher had given her a note that I had written that was meant for a previous day. Just a simple misunderstanding.
It seems so simple doesn't it? Maybe it doesn't qualify as bravery by most definitions.
But that day my neighbor was my hero. She was brave when I couldn't be.
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
By The Numbers
A few weeks ago we went to the circus. And then I just sort of forgot that we ever went (or more accurately got bored at the thought of writing a post about it and then having someone tell me I'm an evil animal killer because we went to the circus and every year there are people there protesting and trying to hand my kids pictures of dead animals so ick).
I think I would have been perfectly happy to just keep on forgetting, because as much fun as sitting in horribly uncomfortable seats, eating super salty ice cold popcorn and trying to not go blind from all of the flashing lights is, blocking out that memory makes it possible for me to go again the next year when 'Girl' starts begging again (and I know, geez already. What happened to coming out of the blogging closet? But I will get to that. eventually. Probably).
I had a really good lead on the forgetting until Hurricane found the pictures from that day and decided to teach me a lesson. Or at least that's what I think he was trying to do. It's hard to say for sure since he was yelling at me and apparently very angry about the elephants.
He pulled me away from washing dishes, tugging my shirt all the way into the living room. He forced me down by tackling my knees. He dropped the pictures in my lap and began to yell, his little finger pointing angrily at me;
"Un, two, tree NELEFUNNN!!"
His face got red, his lips pouting.
"Yes, that's an elephant."
"NO MAMA! Un, two, tree NELEFUNNNN!"
"You want an elephant?"
"Un, two, tree NELEFUNNN! Nawny Mama."
"I don't know what Daddy has been telling you but I am not naughty."
He pointed to the picture again.
"Un, two, tree NELEFUNNN!!"
I looked at the picture.
One.
Two.
Three.
3 elephants.
Did he actually count that? Or is this just one of those non-sensical things that would probably make sense if I spoke the language?
"How many ears does mommy have?"
"Un. Two."
Pause.
"Nose."
"Yes, that's my nose. Could you please take your finger out of it?"
"Un, two, tree, nelefunn?"
"I don't have any elephants. They don't make good pets."
Blank stare.
"How about cookies?"
"Nelefunn cookies?"
"Their shaped likes cats but close enough."
I handed him un, two, tree cat cookies.
He set them side by side on the table and looked at them quietly.
Sigh.
"Mama?"
"What?"
"Un, two, tree."
Pause.
"Figh?"
Yeah. Everything is perfectly normal.
I think I would have been perfectly happy to just keep on forgetting, because as much fun as sitting in horribly uncomfortable seats, eating super salty ice cold popcorn and trying to not go blind from all of the flashing lights is, blocking out that memory makes it possible for me to go again the next year when 'Girl' starts begging again (and I know, geez already. What happened to coming out of the blogging closet? But I will get to that. eventually. Probably).
I had a really good lead on the forgetting until Hurricane found the pictures from that day and decided to teach me a lesson. Or at least that's what I think he was trying to do. It's hard to say for sure since he was yelling at me and apparently very angry about the elephants.
He pulled me away from washing dishes, tugging my shirt all the way into the living room. He forced me down by tackling my knees. He dropped the pictures in my lap and began to yell, his little finger pointing angrily at me;
"Un, two, tree NELEFUNNN!!"
His face got red, his lips pouting.
"Yes, that's an elephant."
"NO MAMA! Un, two, tree NELEFUNNNN!"
"You want an elephant?"
"Un, two, tree NELEFUNNN! Nawny Mama."
"I don't know what Daddy has been telling you but I am not naughty."
He pointed to the picture again.
"Un, two, tree NELEFUNNN!!"
I looked at the picture.
One.
Two.
Three.
3 elephants.
Did he actually count that? Or is this just one of those non-sensical things that would probably make sense if I spoke the language?
"How many ears does mommy have?"
"Un. Two."
Pause.
"Nose."
"Yes, that's my nose. Could you please take your finger out of it?"
"Un, two, tree, nelefunn?"
"I don't have any elephants. They don't make good pets."
Blank stare.
"How about cookies?"
"Nelefunn cookies?"
"Their shaped likes cats but close enough."
I handed him un, two, tree cat cookies.
He set them side by side on the table and looked at them quietly.
Sigh.
"Mama?"
"What?"
"Un, two, tree."
Pause.
"Figh?"
Yeah. Everything is perfectly normal.
*Yes, that is your first really bad glimpse of Mr X, otherwise known as Joe, or the guy that still does the robot, or the guy who is a really good sport when I sew the leg of his underwear shut solely for my amusement. Hee!
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Don't Speak
One of the reasons I've been hesitant to come out of the 'blogging closet' (hee!) is the loss of not my anonymity, but of the people I talk about. Most of the time I don't care. I have no intention of ratting out which neighbor plays air guitar to Kelly Clarkson's songs in his garage when he thinks no one can see him. But the people I can't really hide?
Sure I could put up a bunch of 'Keep Off the Grass' signs but when has that ever worked?
I've spoken before about my mother-in-law and her issues. I've deleted posts about her too because even when this blog was anonymous, I felt a certain amount of guilt about having her flaws relayed for all to see.
I genuinely believe that she is a good person. But I think that her issues have taken over her life, her family's life, and now my family's life and that makes it really hard not to feel some anger towards her.
I know she cannot help being sick, but I am frustrated that she will not get help. I am frustrated that her family won't make her get help.
I am angry that just when things should be good, just when things are calm, the phone rings and here we go again. I am angry at the things she says to my husband, her son, that make his eyes droopy, his shoulders sag, and ages him.
I am angry that I can't really talk about it because she's not my mom and it's not my place.
I am sad for her and the things that she feels, the things that make her afraid, angry, depressed. I am sad that she has always been like this, and most likely always will.
I am afraid for her, for what will happen if nothing changes.
It's exhausting dealing with an illness that no one will admit too.
Sure I could put up a bunch of 'Keep Off the Grass' signs but when has that ever worked?
I've spoken before about my mother-in-law and her issues. I've deleted posts about her too because even when this blog was anonymous, I felt a certain amount of guilt about having her flaws relayed for all to see.
I genuinely believe that she is a good person. But I think that her issues have taken over her life, her family's life, and now my family's life and that makes it really hard not to feel some anger towards her.
I know she cannot help being sick, but I am frustrated that she will not get help. I am frustrated that her family won't make her get help.
I am angry that just when things should be good, just when things are calm, the phone rings and here we go again. I am angry at the things she says to my husband, her son, that make his eyes droopy, his shoulders sag, and ages him.
I am angry that I can't really talk about it because she's not my mom and it's not my place.
I am sad for her and the things that she feels, the things that make her afraid, angry, depressed. I am sad that she has always been like this, and most likely always will.
I am afraid for her, for what will happen if nothing changes.
It's exhausting dealing with an illness that no one will admit too.
Monday, October 09, 2006
The 'Hood At 2 AM
There's nothing like waking up at 2 am by some strange noise only to realize that you're very old dog is peeing in the middle of your living room.
And I can't exactly get mad at him because he just can't hold it in anymore.
So I let him outside while I cleaned the carpet (which? So fun at 2 am with sleepy eyes and no glasses!).
Since we moved to this house 5 years ago, Auggie has run way twice. The last time was 2002. So, I never worry about letting him out because he just doesn't run off. We could leave him sitting on the front porch, go to the store and return an hour later to find him still there. On the front porch with a rather confused look on his face which can only be translated to I didn't know you guys left! Well, how's...zzzzz......... Because that is exactly how much interest he has in anything outside of our yard.
Which is why when I opened the door to call him back in and he wasn't there, I freaked. Well, first I stood frozen in place in my bare feet (which were frozen because our deck was wet and it was exactly feckin' freezing degrees out) staring out into the dark wondering if maybe I was imaging the whole thing because I do have a tendency to wild dreams which turn out to be completely false (I just spent 30 minutes trying to find that post I know I wrote about that crazy dream I had where someone stole an ice cream truck and kept driving it by our house with the music playing and the cops chasing them and I could hear my husband complaining to his boss because it was 4 am and then I finally decided to get up and see what was going on and it turned out to be a dream and then my husband thought that maybe I was a little crazy. But I can't find it so run-on sentence summary it is!). But once my toes started to turn blue, I realized it was true. 2:15 am and I was going to have to go hunt for my dog.
Any other time I would have crawled back into bed, mumbling about that crazy mutt and waited for him to come loping back, stub of a tail wagging and head down.
But Auggie is nearly 13 and has bad hips. One fall and he would be stuck outside in the cold until someone rescued him.
So out I went in my pj's and slippers. And in I went to change into pants and a sweater and sneakers because my neighbors have seen enough of my pj's and they were still up. And it was cold.
I grabbed a flashlight and started walking.
One of the nice things about my street is that it's fairly calm. Especially at 2:15 am.
It's also very very dark at 2:15 am.
And foggy.
And kind of creepy.
There is a wooded path that leads to a pond down the street from us. The entrance is only a few houses away and Auggie loves to go down there so I headed in that direction.
You know in scary movies when the victim, um... person starts walking all scared and shivery down some dark alley and you sit there and laugh because you could totally walk down there and not be scared?
I am not one of those people. I stood at the front of the path, staring into the trees and wondering just what could be lurking past where my flashlight could reach. I contemplated how I would react should some homicidal maniac jump out at me, away from where people might actually hear me clearly.
I decided that probably Auggie didn't go down that way. Maybe.
Whatever. I wasn't going down that way. Hell, I wouldn't even walk down the other side of the development because there weren't any street lights down there.
So I got in the van and started driving. Up one side and back down to the other end.
I learned that half my neighborhood stays awake all night. It was 2:30 am.
At the very end of the road, away from most of the houses, there sat a little townhouse. All dark except for the little black car with the two kids making out in the front seat.
In case you were wondering, if you ever interrupt 2 teenagers gettin' it on at 2:30 am to ask if they have seen a large black dog wondering by, you will get the finger. However, if you counter with a 'Does your mom know what you are doing right now?' you will receive a 'No ma'am. I'm sorry I didn't see your dog.'
Just for future reference. You know, should you ever find yourself looking for your dog at 2:30 am.
I got back to the house and my husband was standing on the porch waiting. He rolled his eyes when I told him I was too scared to go down to the pond. He took the flashlight and off he went, leaving me to imagine some homicidal maniac jumping out of a tree and tackling him.
Needless to say, he came back. Dog-less, but in one piece.
After another lap around the increasingly foggy neighborhood, we gave up and returned to bed. It was 3 am.
Auggie returned by 4 am. A little damp, tongue hanging out, and completely fine.
I wonder where he went. I wonder what he humped. I am even more grateful that he was fixed long ago.
I wonder if he saw those kids in that car.
And I can't exactly get mad at him because he just can't hold it in anymore.
So I let him outside while I cleaned the carpet (which? So fun at 2 am with sleepy eyes and no glasses!).
Since we moved to this house 5 years ago, Auggie has run way twice. The last time was 2002. So, I never worry about letting him out because he just doesn't run off. We could leave him sitting on the front porch, go to the store and return an hour later to find him still there. On the front porch with a rather confused look on his face which can only be translated to I didn't know you guys left! Well, how's...zzzzz......... Because that is exactly how much interest he has in anything outside of our yard.
Which is why when I opened the door to call him back in and he wasn't there, I freaked. Well, first I stood frozen in place in my bare feet (which were frozen because our deck was wet and it was exactly feckin' freezing degrees out) staring out into the dark wondering if maybe I was imaging the whole thing because I do have a tendency to wild dreams which turn out to be completely false (I just spent 30 minutes trying to find that post I know I wrote about that crazy dream I had where someone stole an ice cream truck and kept driving it by our house with the music playing and the cops chasing them and I could hear my husband complaining to his boss because it was 4 am and then I finally decided to get up and see what was going on and it turned out to be a dream and then my husband thought that maybe I was a little crazy. But I can't find it so run-on sentence summary it is!). But once my toes started to turn blue, I realized it was true. 2:15 am and I was going to have to go hunt for my dog.
Any other time I would have crawled back into bed, mumbling about that crazy mutt and waited for him to come loping back, stub of a tail wagging and head down.
But Auggie is nearly 13 and has bad hips. One fall and he would be stuck outside in the cold until someone rescued him.
So out I went in my pj's and slippers. And in I went to change into pants and a sweater and sneakers because my neighbors have seen enough of my pj's and they were still up. And it was cold.
I grabbed a flashlight and started walking.
One of the nice things about my street is that it's fairly calm. Especially at 2:15 am.
It's also very very dark at 2:15 am.
And foggy.
And kind of creepy.
There is a wooded path that leads to a pond down the street from us. The entrance is only a few houses away and Auggie loves to go down there so I headed in that direction.
You know in scary movies when the victim, um... person starts walking all scared and shivery down some dark alley and you sit there and laugh because you could totally walk down there and not be scared?
I am not one of those people. I stood at the front of the path, staring into the trees and wondering just what could be lurking past where my flashlight could reach. I contemplated how I would react should some homicidal maniac jump out at me, away from where people might actually hear me clearly.
I decided that probably Auggie didn't go down that way. Maybe.
Whatever. I wasn't going down that way. Hell, I wouldn't even walk down the other side of the development because there weren't any street lights down there.
So I got in the van and started driving. Up one side and back down to the other end.
I learned that half my neighborhood stays awake all night. It was 2:30 am.
At the very end of the road, away from most of the houses, there sat a little townhouse. All dark except for the little black car with the two kids making out in the front seat.
In case you were wondering, if you ever interrupt 2 teenagers gettin' it on at 2:30 am to ask if they have seen a large black dog wondering by, you will get the finger. However, if you counter with a 'Does your mom know what you are doing right now?' you will receive a 'No ma'am. I'm sorry I didn't see your dog.'
Just for future reference. You know, should you ever find yourself looking for your dog at 2:30 am.
I got back to the house and my husband was standing on the porch waiting. He rolled his eyes when I told him I was too scared to go down to the pond. He took the flashlight and off he went, leaving me to imagine some homicidal maniac jumping out of a tree and tackling him.
Needless to say, he came back. Dog-less, but in one piece.
After another lap around the increasingly foggy neighborhood, we gave up and returned to bed. It was 3 am.
Auggie returned by 4 am. A little damp, tongue hanging out, and completely fine.
I wonder where he went. I wonder what he humped. I am even more grateful that he was fixed long ago.
I wonder if he saw those kids in that car.
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
Coming Out
I know I'm supposed to be writing my next post about education in America but.... meh.
Kidding! I just want more time to think it over and get my thoughts in order.
In the meantime... site business!
Notice the new links on the right. Antique Mommy is pretty damn funny. Especially those posts about Tuna. I can relate.
Kill the Goat. You just have to read her. It's the law or something.
Then there's this whole business of completely changing this blog. As in, the name, reorganizing, dumping some "What the hell was I thinking" posts, and not calling myself Mrs X anymore.
Maybe actually using my name since I feel pretty damn lame and I'm almost bored with the porn hits I keep getting because apparently Mrs X is a porn star.
So, hi! I'm Megan, blogger known to attack moles with shovels and end up on ass in front of neighbors (and bastards! They're baa-aack!).
But now I need a name for my blog and I'm thinking it could be fun to see what you guys come up with.
Kidding! I just want more time to think it over and get my thoughts in order.
In the meantime... site business!
Notice the new links on the right. Antique Mommy is pretty damn funny. Especially those posts about Tuna. I can relate.
Kill the Goat. You just have to read her. It's the law or something.
Then there's this whole business of completely changing this blog. As in, the name, reorganizing, dumping some "What the hell was I thinking" posts, and not calling myself Mrs X anymore.
Maybe actually using my name since I feel pretty damn lame and I'm almost bored with the porn hits I keep getting because apparently Mrs X is a porn star.
So, hi! I'm Megan, blogger known to attack moles with shovels and end up on ass in front of neighbors (and bastards! They're baa-aack!).
But now I need a name for my blog and I'm thinking it could be fun to see what you guys come up with.
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
Two For One
Preparing For the Future
We have our kitchen completely gated off so that Mishka (the puppy that ate the universe) cannot get out and like, eat our heads while we sleep. One of the unforeseen side effects of having the kitchen completely gated off, is Hurricane's love of being behind bars.
He shakes the gate and giggles like a mad man. He will not leave the kitchen. Not even for Elmo. And for this child to not even be willing to leave for Elmo? That's pretty damn serious.
So, being the encouraging mom that I am I decided to help him out.
We didn't have any empty tin cans, so we had to settle for a plastic bowl.
We have our kitchen completely gated off so that Mishka (the puppy that ate the universe) cannot get out and like, eat our heads while we sleep. One of the unforeseen side effects of having the kitchen completely gated off, is Hurricane's love of being behind bars.
He shakes the gate and giggles like a mad man. He will not leave the kitchen. Not even for Elmo. And for this child to not even be willing to leave for Elmo? That's pretty damn serious.So, being the encouraging mom that I am I decided to help him out.
We didn't have any empty tin cans, so we had to settle for a plastic bowl.
Nobody knows the trouble I've seen..........
************
And I'm Totally Going To Die Now
And it started out as such a promising day! Hurricane napped, Girl smiled at me, I had things under control for the first time ever.
But. Ugh. I had to take Girl to the doctor the other day and she had to get this parasite test which involves me playing with poisonous chemicals and poo. Yay! Fun! And it's not even my birthday!
About 2 minutes before we had to leave for cheer practice, Girl had to go. I sighed and gave up actually being on time since I knew I'd have to do the test and get it over with.
The first container was no problem. Gross, but done.
The next container? It decided that I was a fucking joke and balancing? Ha! It laughs at my whole 'let's balance it here on this perfectly flat step stool' and does a cartwheel into my lap and oh my damn! That label said carcinogens and poison and now it's sitting in my lap! Dammit!!
I did the perfectly normal thing and freaked right the fuck out.
I ran into the laundry room, threw off my pants and scrubbed my legs with soap. I scrubbed up the floor and then threw out the washcloth because who the hell wants to use that thing again?
I ran up to tell Mr X what happened, you know, just in case I fell over and died at least he would know why. He was all "yeah, OK. You're fine." Which? Wrong thing to say.
I gave him the look of death, he laughed and off to practice we went.
As soon as practice was over, we ran into the lab to turn in the one sample I was able to get and tell them I was dying.
The guy yawned, handed me a new container of poison (seriously? What the hell? I thought hospitals wanted people to not die), and said 'OK'.
"But, um, what about the bottle I dumped in my lap?"
"Yeah."
"Do I need to be worried or anything that I just dumped a carcinogen in my lap?"
"Why'd you do that?"
Oh I don't know, I thought it'd be fun. You know, I'm a wild and crazy lady like that.
"Is there anything for me to be concerned about?" (I thought maybe the usual sarcasm would be a bad idea right now).
"Nah. Good night."
And yet, somehow, I'm not really feeling reassured by that.
To make myself feel better, I told Mr X that I was going to have to get a series of shots and our insurance wouldn't cover it. Now how long should I wait before I tell him I was kidding?
Monday, October 02, 2006
Memory Loss
I tucked him into his big boy bed, pulled up the covers and kissed his cheek. I recited all the goodnight parts of Goodnight Moon and wished him sweet dreams. I slipped out of his room and blew him kisses.
He blew a kiss back.
"Nigh-nigh mommy!"
I turned out the hall light and walked into the kitchen.
No, it's not a fantasy.
Do you maybe remember when I wrote a few posts about sleep issues ?
Because I almost didn't.
See, I was standing there in the kitchen, smiling, and saying how awesome it was to just tuck him in and how cool it was that he blew me kiss and that he would stay there all night and not wake me up until 7 and Pshaw! Sleep issues? Whatever!
Then Mr X had to go and like, ruin it all by speaking.
"Yeah, remember when he wouldn't sleep at all?"
"No. What the hell are you talking about?"
"It was only a couple of months ago. Remember, you went a little nuts just because he wasn't sleeping more than like, an hour, at a time?"
And I'm all "Buuuhhh?"
Because there was this protective thing going on in my head that just sort of....... blocked it all out. Like they say that you never really remember the pains of labor (Ha! I bet a man came up with that. I'd like to pull a cannonball out of his penis and see if he remembers the pain of that), only I actually forgot this?
The hell?
I wonder how many other things he has done that I have simply blocked out in order to get up every morning.
I better be careful with this. This could be really bad when he gets to be a teenager.
"Hey mom, can I borrow the car?"
"Sure!"
"Honey? Don't you remember that the last time he borrowed your car he played bumper cars with the guys and nearly totalled it?"
"What the hell are you talking about?"
See what I mean? Bad. Very, very bad.
He blew a kiss back.
"Nigh-nigh mommy!"
I turned out the hall light and walked into the kitchen.
No, it's not a fantasy.
Do you maybe remember when I wrote a few posts about sleep issues ?
Because I almost didn't.
See, I was standing there in the kitchen, smiling, and saying how awesome it was to just tuck him in and how cool it was that he blew me kiss and that he would stay there all night and not wake me up until 7 and Pshaw! Sleep issues? Whatever!
Then Mr X had to go and like, ruin it all by speaking.
"Yeah, remember when he wouldn't sleep at all?"
"No. What the hell are you talking about?"
"It was only a couple of months ago. Remember, you went a little nuts just because he wasn't sleeping more than like, an hour, at a time?"
And I'm all "Buuuhhh?"
Because there was this protective thing going on in my head that just sort of....... blocked it all out. Like they say that you never really remember the pains of labor (Ha! I bet a man came up with that. I'd like to pull a cannonball out of his penis and see if he remembers the pain of that), only I actually forgot this?
The hell?
I wonder how many other things he has done that I have simply blocked out in order to get up every morning.
I better be careful with this. This could be really bad when he gets to be a teenager.
"Hey mom, can I borrow the car?"
"Sure!"
"Honey? Don't you remember that the last time he borrowed your car he played bumper cars with the guys and nearly totalled it?"
"What the hell are you talking about?"
See what I mean? Bad. Very, very bad.
Thursday, September 28, 2006
She'll Be The Crazy One
A few nights ago there were about 7 messages on our answering machine, all about 5 minutes apart and all from my Mother-in-law. Yes, she of the 'ok-love-you-bye-bye' has returned (for those just tuning in, my MIL will call and ramble on and on not hearing anything you say, the end it with an 'ok love you, bye bye' except that she doesn't actually hang up. No, she keeps going on and on and saying bye but not actually meaning it until finally you just hang up and claim that the phone just like, died in your hands and yes that does happen a lot and gee you're right we should get that checked. *breath!*).
Anyway, all of the messages were variations on "You call me back now! Life-altering news! Big changes! So exciting! You call now!" (Again, I should mention for those just joining that my MIL is completely freaking nuts. Also, Vietnamese. She likes to say things to me in Vietnamese that I couldn't possibly understand except that you know it's not good. Probably something about me going to hell. Or being sloppy seconds. All things I have heard many times).
So after the 7th one, I finally told Mr X to just call her back because I wasn't going to answer dammit and I was not going to listen to these messages and maybe it will be good news. Like she's finally moving to California (Take that California!).
He calls back and she answers so excited about her Big! Life! Altering! News! News which she refuses to share.
Yes folks, she called us 7 times in a row, one right after the other all to tell us: NOTHING!
She insists that he call back and let his dad tell him. Apparently her news was so damn exciting she couldn't walk the phone downstairs and hand it to her husband so that he could tell us the Big! Life! Altering! News! No, Mr x had to call back (seriously people? What the feck is that?).
But whatever, she's not my mom (Ha! Hahahahaha! Pardon me while I am reduced to hysterical laughter).
Mr X calls back and asks his dad what's up. What is this Big! Life! Altering! News!?
And what does his dad say?
Could it be "oh, we're moving?"
Maybe, "We won the lottery"
I know, "Don't ask me how but somehow your mom is pregnant again"
(Haha! Good one universe!)
No. His dad is quiet for a moment and then says..............
"What are you talking about?"
What. Are. You. Talking. About.
Feckin' WHAT????
Mr X's head implodes as he hears his mom yell (hell even I could hear his mom and I was on the other side of the room which good frogs people! Do you realize how freakin' loud she has to be to yell downstairs at her house into a phone her husband is holding and I can hear her loud and clear when the phone is no where near my head?) "Tell them what happen to me today!"
"Oh that?" *sigh* (FIL's, not mine).
His mom is going to be in the audience for Deal or No Deal.
Take that in a moment.
She is going to be in the audience, not a contestant, for Deal or No Deal.
Mr X hung up and just looked at me because he knew I was thinking just what he was thinking.
Just how the feck is this going to change her life? Or more accurately, just what is she planning on doing at the show to insure that she will become a video that is passed around the web for all of eternity?
I don't think she'll go crazy and offer to start feeding everyone and then end up in jail for killing them all because, hey, I've had her cooking and I've seen her kitchen. It would be murder.
I don't think she'll strip naked and run across stage. OK, probably not but don't rule that out entirely.
She might try to take over one of the suitcase girl's job.
I do know that unless they do some serious editing, you will be able to see my MIL. She'll be the one wearing bright red flowers with the red plaid pants and the giant bird and flower barrettes in her hair. She'll have her make-up done by Tammy Faye and 6 inch red heels to make herself taller.
Just listen for someone yelling "Howie! You marry my daughter! Deal! Deal! Are you Catholic? I love you Howie!"
Anyway, all of the messages were variations on "You call me back now! Life-altering news! Big changes! So exciting! You call now!" (Again, I should mention for those just joining that my MIL is completely freaking nuts. Also, Vietnamese. She likes to say things to me in Vietnamese that I couldn't possibly understand except that you know it's not good. Probably something about me going to hell. Or being sloppy seconds. All things I have heard many times).
So after the 7th one, I finally told Mr X to just call her back because I wasn't going to answer dammit and I was not going to listen to these messages and maybe it will be good news. Like she's finally moving to California (Take that California!).
He calls back and she answers so excited about her Big! Life! Altering! News! News which she refuses to share.
Yes folks, she called us 7 times in a row, one right after the other all to tell us: NOTHING!
She insists that he call back and let his dad tell him. Apparently her news was so damn exciting she couldn't walk the phone downstairs and hand it to her husband so that he could tell us the Big! Life! Altering! News! No, Mr x had to call back (seriously people? What the feck is that?).
But whatever, she's not my mom (Ha! Hahahahaha! Pardon me while I am reduced to hysterical laughter).
Mr X calls back and asks his dad what's up. What is this Big! Life! Altering! News!?
And what does his dad say?
Could it be "oh, we're moving?"
Maybe, "We won the lottery"
I know, "Don't ask me how but somehow your mom is pregnant again"
(Haha! Good one universe!)
No. His dad is quiet for a moment and then says..............
"What are you talking about?"
What. Are. You. Talking. About.
Feckin' WHAT????
Mr X's head implodes as he hears his mom yell (hell even I could hear his mom and I was on the other side of the room which good frogs people! Do you realize how freakin' loud she has to be to yell downstairs at her house into a phone her husband is holding and I can hear her loud and clear when the phone is no where near my head?) "Tell them what happen to me today!"
"Oh that?" *sigh* (FIL's, not mine).
His mom is going to be in the audience for Deal or No Deal.
Take that in a moment.
She is going to be in the audience, not a contestant, for Deal or No Deal.
Mr X hung up and just looked at me because he knew I was thinking just what he was thinking.
Just how the feck is this going to change her life? Or more accurately, just what is she planning on doing at the show to insure that she will become a video that is passed around the web for all of eternity?
I don't think she'll go crazy and offer to start feeding everyone and then end up in jail for killing them all because, hey, I've had her cooking and I've seen her kitchen. It would be murder.
I don't think she'll strip naked and run across stage. OK, probably not but don't rule that out entirely.
She might try to take over one of the suitcase girl's job.
I do know that unless they do some serious editing, you will be able to see my MIL. She'll be the one wearing bright red flowers with the red plaid pants and the giant bird and flower barrettes in her hair. She'll have her make-up done by Tammy Faye and 6 inch red heels to make herself taller.
Just listen for someone yelling "Howie! You marry my daughter! Deal! Deal! Are you Catholic? I love you Howie!"
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Education in America: Homework
I started writing this, a little fired up by the article, thinking I'd make a quick point and get out. Then I started talking and thinking (and boy is that ever dangerous) and getting really bugged out when it came to the state of education in this country. So, now it's going to be a series of posts and I hope that you will participate with your thoughts on the subject, your ideas for what could work, your problems with the state of education in your own schools. Feel free to comment here or e-mail me at thediaryofmrsx@yahoo.com .
Last week I caught this article on Slate. Did you read it? Go ahead and take a minute to catch up. Go on, I'll wait.
Ready?
OK, so I couldn't believe what I was seeing! I mean really? No homework? Sure Girl would think that was awesome! Almost as awesome! as being held back a year because I can pretty much guarantee that's exactly what would happen.
Let me stop here for a moment before I go into the rest of what I wanted to say to just point out my personal experience on the whole homework vs no homework deal. Girl? She struggles in school. She is easily distracted and and if she can't see the teacher speaking, see the problem being dissected in front of her, she is lost. I think some of it relates back to her early childhood hearing loss. She still has trouble saying certain words. Now how many teachers do you know can sit in front of one student all day speaking directly to them and still maintain a classroom? Right. Girl does pretty well in school. She's smarter then she pretends to be. But she needs that one on one time she gets when she brings her homework home. She needs that practice. She needs the extra work to manage her study habits. So even if the teacher doesn't assign work, I give her work to do. Math, reading, sentence structures, whatever she does in class, we review at home. It has made a tremendous difference in her grades.
However, even if she didn't have the difficulty she does in her learning process, I would still expect her to do homework. I want to see that she understands what is being taught in class and that she is not just copying what she sees her classmates doing.
Now, personal feelings aside, I still feel that homework is an absolute necessary as long as it relates to what they are studying in class. Because really? What is the point in doing this at home if they aren't going over it in class? What are they learning then?
Last week I posed the question of homework: yes or no? to some teachers.
While the answers varied, the general consensus was "Yes" and "Are you kidding me?"
The few who had problems with homework? The main concern was the amount of time that it was taking their kids to get through the work, claiming that their kids were coming home with several hours of work and sad little faces.
I think (and teachers out there correct me if I'm wrong) there is a general guideline of 10 minutes times grade level. So a child in 4th grade could handle 40 minutes of homework and that would be reasonable.
At least it is until you consider that quite often, it's the parents who have to nudge the shoulder of their child into doing that homework and helping them correct their mistakes.
Here, I admit that I am fortunate. I'm home all day. Yeah, yeah. I'm busy and all that blah blah blah. Whatever, I'm still here everyday so when Girl steps off that bus, bag and attitude in tow, I can help her get done with whatever work she has to do and still have time to make dinner, throw in another load of laundry, pry Cat out of Hurricane's mouth and perform my clown routine.
But what about when both parents work or single parents who are already stretched to the limits so when they get home and are faced with 40 minutes of 6 x 9 and "how do you spell 'relief'?" (t-e-q-u-i-l-a), dinner, laundry, possibly other kids crying for attention and all those other little things that have to get done? What about when you just don't have time to sit down and help them with the work?
There is also the argument that teachers have our kdis for 6- 7 hours a day and that should be plenty of time to get across whatever lesson they were going over that day.
I think that's flat out lame. 6-7 hours? Take out lunch, recess, music, PE, library, art, computer and tell me how much time do they have left to cover math, science, spelling, grammar, social studies, reading, and so on. Homework isn't a teaching tool, it's a review of what has already been learned (or at least it should be).
I believe homework is a necessary evil but it's hard to see the balance between that, play, family, etc.
One idea is to create a homework club. An afterschool group that can meet, do the work, and have someone their to answer questions and go over the work with them.
This too has it's problems. The school has to be willing to give up space for it and a teacher or parents are required to volunteer their time. But what else is there?
What do you do? What does your school do? Where do you sit on the Great Homework Debate?
Last week I caught this article on Slate. Did you read it? Go ahead and take a minute to catch up. Go on, I'll wait.
Ready?
OK, so I couldn't believe what I was seeing! I mean really? No homework? Sure Girl would think that was awesome! Almost as awesome! as being held back a year because I can pretty much guarantee that's exactly what would happen.
Let me stop here for a moment before I go into the rest of what I wanted to say to just point out my personal experience on the whole homework vs no homework deal. Girl? She struggles in school. She is easily distracted and and if she can't see the teacher speaking, see the problem being dissected in front of her, she is lost. I think some of it relates back to her early childhood hearing loss. She still has trouble saying certain words. Now how many teachers do you know can sit in front of one student all day speaking directly to them and still maintain a classroom? Right. Girl does pretty well in school. She's smarter then she pretends to be. But she needs that one on one time she gets when she brings her homework home. She needs that practice. She needs the extra work to manage her study habits. So even if the teacher doesn't assign work, I give her work to do. Math, reading, sentence structures, whatever she does in class, we review at home. It has made a tremendous difference in her grades.
However, even if she didn't have the difficulty she does in her learning process, I would still expect her to do homework. I want to see that she understands what is being taught in class and that she is not just copying what she sees her classmates doing.
Now, personal feelings aside, I still feel that homework is an absolute necessary as long as it relates to what they are studying in class. Because really? What is the point in doing this at home if they aren't going over it in class? What are they learning then?
Last week I posed the question of homework: yes or no? to some teachers.
While the answers varied, the general consensus was "Yes" and "Are you kidding me?"
The few who had problems with homework? The main concern was the amount of time that it was taking their kids to get through the work, claiming that their kids were coming home with several hours of work and sad little faces.
I think (and teachers out there correct me if I'm wrong) there is a general guideline of 10 minutes times grade level. So a child in 4th grade could handle 40 minutes of homework and that would be reasonable.
At least it is until you consider that quite often, it's the parents who have to nudge the shoulder of their child into doing that homework and helping them correct their mistakes.
Here, I admit that I am fortunate. I'm home all day. Yeah, yeah. I'm busy and all that blah blah blah. Whatever, I'm still here everyday so when Girl steps off that bus, bag and attitude in tow, I can help her get done with whatever work she has to do and still have time to make dinner, throw in another load of laundry, pry Cat out of Hurricane's mouth and perform my clown routine.
But what about when both parents work or single parents who are already stretched to the limits so when they get home and are faced with 40 minutes of 6 x 9 and "how do you spell 'relief'?" (t-e-q-u-i-l-a), dinner, laundry, possibly other kids crying for attention and all those other little things that have to get done? What about when you just don't have time to sit down and help them with the work?
There is also the argument that teachers have our kdis for 6- 7 hours a day and that should be plenty of time to get across whatever lesson they were going over that day.
I think that's flat out lame. 6-7 hours? Take out lunch, recess, music, PE, library, art, computer and tell me how much time do they have left to cover math, science, spelling, grammar, social studies, reading, and so on. Homework isn't a teaching tool, it's a review of what has already been learned (or at least it should be).
I believe homework is a necessary evil but it's hard to see the balance between that, play, family, etc.
One idea is to create a homework club. An afterschool group that can meet, do the work, and have someone their to answer questions and go over the work with them.
This too has it's problems. The school has to be willing to give up space for it and a teacher or parents are required to volunteer their time. But what else is there?
What do you do? What does your school do? Where do you sit on the Great Homework Debate?
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
Let The Eye-Rolling Commence
Pardon me as I continue muttering to myself incoherently. It's just that... well, here we go again. Except that rather than curling into a ball on the floor, I'm just rolling my eyes and asking why I wasted $7.98 on a pregnancy test when a mere 2 hours after getting a positive it ended anyway.
It's rather similar to last time's number 3. Fairly pathetic. I feel the universe laughing at me, mocking me because surely I didn't actually believe it would be that easy? Well, maybe a little. For about 2 hours anyway.
Better luck next time.
It's rather similar to last time's number 3. Fairly pathetic. I feel the universe laughing at me, mocking me because surely I didn't actually believe it would be that easy? Well, maybe a little. For about 2 hours anyway.
Better luck next time.
Monday, September 25, 2006
Snapped
Saturday was.... um.... hmm.
Yeah that.
Despite getting minimal sleep during the night (home remedy my ass), I was up and ready to for Girl's game at 6 am. Too bad the game didn't start until 9 am. The girls cheered while the team was massacred, their first loss. I found it hard to concentrate as Hurricane was with me and Mr X was at work and Hurricane decided to play How Loud Can I Scream? until I thought I would just snap. He wanted absolutely nothing to do with me. He preferred the company of two of the moms. Absolute strangers to him and completely unarmed of cookies. He cooed and smiled and sang with them while I pretended to be watching the game.
Traitor.
The game ended and we trudged back to the van. Hurricane waved and shouted 'bye-bye' to all of his new friends. As soon as we were out of eyesight, he returned to his earlier game. I think he's trying to see if he can break glass. Or me.
By 1:00, it was me.
I was shaking, Girl was cleaning up the living room and trying so hard to be helpful and Hurricane was pulling on my legs and screaming, which he had been doing since we got home.
He was simply inconsolable. Not hungry, not tired (already had a nap dammit), not wet, don't want to read, don't want to play, don't want to not read and play, want want want, no no no.
I had been tugged and pulled all over the house, fake cheerful smiles and gritted teeth. Perhaps it wouldn't have been so bad had this not been day 3 of said behavior and I had even one decent nights sleep out of those 3 nights.
I unhinged his little claws from my knee and locked myself in the bathroom. I splashed cold water on my face and admitted that I needed a break before I went ape shit bananas again and started eating my hair.
When I stepped back out, Girl had popped in Hurricane's favorite movie and set him on her bed. His favorite reward and not something she lets him do very often. She smiled at me and curled up next to him. He settled and laughed at Nemo flashing across the screen.
Sometimes despite, or maybe because of, our distance, her maturing, her asserting her independence, I get to see just how cool she is.
It's things like this, taking care of her brother, sticking up for me, offering to help her dad, these things make it possible to overlook the sweatpants she stuffed in my treadmill rather than putting away. Or the fact that I found an ungodly amount of candy wrappers in her nightstand drawer. Or that she keeps insisting that I'm lame.
Yeah that.
Despite getting minimal sleep during the night (home remedy my ass), I was up and ready to for Girl's game at 6 am. Too bad the game didn't start until 9 am. The girls cheered while the team was massacred, their first loss. I found it hard to concentrate as Hurricane was with me and Mr X was at work and Hurricane decided to play How Loud Can I Scream? until I thought I would just snap. He wanted absolutely nothing to do with me. He preferred the company of two of the moms. Absolute strangers to him and completely unarmed of cookies. He cooed and smiled and sang with them while I pretended to be watching the game.
Traitor.
The game ended and we trudged back to the van. Hurricane waved and shouted 'bye-bye' to all of his new friends. As soon as we were out of eyesight, he returned to his earlier game. I think he's trying to see if he can break glass. Or me.
By 1:00, it was me.
I was shaking, Girl was cleaning up the living room and trying so hard to be helpful and Hurricane was pulling on my legs and screaming, which he had been doing since we got home.
He was simply inconsolable. Not hungry, not tired (already had a nap dammit), not wet, don't want to read, don't want to play, don't want to not read and play, want want want, no no no.
I had been tugged and pulled all over the house, fake cheerful smiles and gritted teeth. Perhaps it wouldn't have been so bad had this not been day 3 of said behavior and I had even one decent nights sleep out of those 3 nights.
I unhinged his little claws from my knee and locked myself in the bathroom. I splashed cold water on my face and admitted that I needed a break before I went ape shit bananas again and started eating my hair.
When I stepped back out, Girl had popped in Hurricane's favorite movie and set him on her bed. His favorite reward and not something she lets him do very often. She smiled at me and curled up next to him. He settled and laughed at Nemo flashing across the screen.
Sometimes despite, or maybe because of, our distance, her maturing, her asserting her independence, I get to see just how cool she is.
It's things like this, taking care of her brother, sticking up for me, offering to help her dad, these things make it possible to overlook the sweatpants she stuffed in my treadmill rather than putting away. Or the fact that I found an ungodly amount of candy wrappers in her nightstand drawer. Or that she keeps insisting that I'm lame.
Thursday, September 21, 2006
Random Bits
Remember when I posted that great big list of Crap My Puppy Has Eaten?
Let's continue that, yes?
Dryer sheets
Welcome mat (I am trying not to read too much into this but she's eaten 2 of them now)
One screen door
The mat that her doggy bowls sit on
The cat
mosquitoes
Girl's pink feather boa (but not the white one. Maybe because it's after labor day?)
Two flip flops. One from two different sets. (bitch)
Plastic golf club
5 socks (none from the same pair. Double bitch)
A corner of the wall in the kitchen
The cord to Hurricane's favorite little fishy light up thingy
One set of Mickey Mouse ears
A gate
My damn kitchen floor (Arrrgghhh! Bitch!)
Several diapers
One Polly pocket
A stuffed animal of indeterminate origin
**************************
I hate the waiting part of trying to conceive. I've never been that good at waiting for anything. When I was little, I used to peek at my presents, fold the tape back down and go back to bed. This was maybe 30 minutes before we were all going to wake up and open them anyway. So waiting now, over something that makes me anxious and a little scared anyway?
*************************
At cheer practice the other night, one of the girls was really grumpy. At one point, when I dared to make them repeat a cheer they had already done, she leaned over and told my daughter that I was mean.
I waited, thinking girl would agree.
She stepped out of lineup, squared off with her hands on her hips and threw her head back.
"My mom is NOT mean!"
It may have been a simple case of 'no one picks on my mom but me', but whatever. I'll take what I can get.
*****************************
The bad.
Our poor Dog is dying. Auggie will be 13 in November. He's a German Shepherd/ Doberman mix. Beautiful, gentle, so terribly sweet.
He has a tumor that is pressing into his stomach. It could be a year from now. It could be 6 weeks. But it will be.
My husband is in denial. I mean, we knew this was coming. He's 13 for pete's sakes. But it's Auggie. Mr X has had him since he was just a puppy with paws too big to walk on.
He sings. Did I ever tell you that? Classical music, Enigma, No Doubt's 'Don't speak', certain commercials.
When I had my miscarriages, he would lay in the bed with me and let me cry into his fur. He laid at my feet at night and all day, just so I wouldn't be alone. When I was pregnant with Hurricane, he used to lay his head on my lap, jumping when he'd get kicked.
When Girl and I first moved in with Mr X, she would sit on his back to reach the cookies, sharing them with him. He accepted us without question.
I can't imagine this house without him.
Let's continue that, yes?
Dryer sheets
Welcome mat (I am trying not to read too much into this but she's eaten 2 of them now)
One screen door
The mat that her doggy bowls sit on
The cat
mosquitoes
Girl's pink feather boa (but not the white one. Maybe because it's after labor day?)
Two flip flops. One from two different sets. (bitch)
Plastic golf club
5 socks (none from the same pair. Double bitch)
A corner of the wall in the kitchen
The cord to Hurricane's favorite little fishy light up thingy
One set of Mickey Mouse ears
A gate
My damn kitchen floor (Arrrgghhh! Bitch!)
Several diapers
One Polly pocket
A stuffed animal of indeterminate origin
**************************
I hate the waiting part of trying to conceive. I've never been that good at waiting for anything. When I was little, I used to peek at my presents, fold the tape back down and go back to bed. This was maybe 30 minutes before we were all going to wake up and open them anyway. So waiting now, over something that makes me anxious and a little scared anyway?
*************************
At cheer practice the other night, one of the girls was really grumpy. At one point, when I dared to make them repeat a cheer they had already done, she leaned over and told my daughter that I was mean.
I waited, thinking girl would agree.
She stepped out of lineup, squared off with her hands on her hips and threw her head back.
"My mom is NOT mean!"
It may have been a simple case of 'no one picks on my mom but me', but whatever. I'll take what I can get.
*****************************
The bad.
Our poor Dog is dying. Auggie will be 13 in November. He's a German Shepherd/ Doberman mix. Beautiful, gentle, so terribly sweet.
He has a tumor that is pressing into his stomach. It could be a year from now. It could be 6 weeks. But it will be.
My husband is in denial. I mean, we knew this was coming. He's 13 for pete's sakes. But it's Auggie. Mr X has had him since he was just a puppy with paws too big to walk on.
He sings. Did I ever tell you that? Classical music, Enigma, No Doubt's 'Don't speak', certain commercials.
When I had my miscarriages, he would lay in the bed with me and let me cry into his fur. He laid at my feet at night and all day, just so I wouldn't be alone. When I was pregnant with Hurricane, he used to lay his head on my lap, jumping when he'd get kicked.
When Girl and I first moved in with Mr X, she would sit on his back to reach the cookies, sharing them with him. He accepted us without question.
I can't imagine this house without him.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
Confession
I like to think that I'm a fairly even-tempered person. I don't yell, even if someone has made oatmeal for the cat in my towel drawer or when someone maybe shoves a tampon in my nose when I'm sleeping. When confronted with the Queen of Bitchy (see previous post) I merely offer what she is asking for but no yelling, OK maybe a bit of eye-rolling but I don't think that counts as anger.
But put me behind the wheel and I become my father.
When my older sister was 3, my father was bringing her home from the park. He tried to make a light but it turned red just before he reached it and there was a cop there so, he stopped. Hard. From the back seat came my sister "Stupid-ass woman" as that was my father's favored response to what he felt was other's bad driving. Now, my father found this hysterical and made the colossal mistake of telling my mother.
Despite the verbal lashing, his driving like a lunatic remained. As did the insults. I learned that 'prick' was a bad word when I was 4 and I repeated it after my dad cut off some guy who in turn gave him the finger.
He tailgates all. the. time. And speeds. Following him is a nightmare. Because if you don't keep up with him doing 90 down the highway? He will call you, while he's doing 90 down the highway, and ask what's the matter.
When we mention his driving in terms of "oh hell no I am not getting in that car with him" or "No, Girl doesn't want to ride with you" he gets defensive and claims to have never had an accident. Which may be true. If you don't count scratching other's vehicles when trying to pass them or that time he took off someone's mirror trying to take a turn over a median.
Knowing this, knowing that the man who taught me to drive (and clung to the seat belt while I did 10 mph down the road because he wouldn't let me do the posted 25 I might add), the man I regularly rode along with has this intense road rage issue, I should know better.
But I don't. I find myself getting antsy behind the wheel. Impatient. Frustrated when the guy in front of me is doing 25 in a 25 when he could be getting away with doing 30. Pissy when someone is doing 60 in the passing lane of the freeway even though the lane beside them is totally open and they could get over. Irate when the guy behind me starts riding my bumper (even though I do it too) that I start tapping my brakes, almost begging him to hit me. Angry when the guy in front of me stops at the yield sign because there is a car 2 minutes away.
I feel myself getting angry, my feet tapping, my hands gripping the wheel until they hurt.
Then I notice the little sticker in their back window.
*Road Rage Killed Our Angel ____________*
And I feel shamed. I remember when it happened. I remember seeing her picture and thinking how beautiful she was and how I cried for her mom. She was going to a prom after party with her date. Two cars around them had been racing each other in traffic, cutting each other off, swerving. One car passed them on the left, heading into on-coming traffic. He swerved back into the lane and hit her car. He came out without a scratch. She died. 17 and gone.
What am I doing? I feel my eyes well up. I breathe deep and sit back.
I hate how I feel when I drive. I hate being angry. I hate being that driver.
It's something I've been working on. It takes a conscious effort, being aware of my temper. Reminding myself that being home 2 minutes later doesn't matter so long as I get home. Reminding myself that my kids trust me. Deep breathing.
It doesn't always work. The kids start fighting and I just want to get home and the guy in front of me is taking his sweet time and I want to explode, just get out of the car and push his foot down on the gas pedal because I can'timaginehavingtosithereonemoredamnminuteAAAAHHHH!!!
My knuckles are white on the wheel.
My heart is racing.
My face feels hot.
My jaw is clenched and my teeth hurt.
It's making me tired.
I open the window and take a deep breath.
"Kids. Zip it."
My tone brooks no argument and they settle.
I tell myself to calm down and relax my jaw.
Sometimes I fail miserably.
This guy has been sitting in the passing lane for 5 minutes and there is no reason too. getovergetovergetovergetovergetovergetover.....
But he won't. I sigh and whip around him, speeding up and pulling in front of him hoping he catches the not so subtle hint.
"Asshole."
But really, who's the real asshole?
It's me.
I have to say, this must be the hardest thing I've ever tried to change. I quit smoking 3 1/2 years ago. I've limited my swearing to not in front of the kids (except, sadly, when I'm driving). I've become a morning person (or at least enough of one to be able to put together a few semi-coherent thoughts). But this?
This is something I desperately want to change and am finding it very difficult.
Do you feel that? When you slide in behind that wheel, do you get tense? Aggressive? Frustrated and impatient?
What are your tactics for overcoming bad habits? How do you change the things that you don't like about yourself?
But put me behind the wheel and I become my father.
When my older sister was 3, my father was bringing her home from the park. He tried to make a light but it turned red just before he reached it and there was a cop there so, he stopped. Hard. From the back seat came my sister "Stupid-ass woman" as that was my father's favored response to what he felt was other's bad driving. Now, my father found this hysterical and made the colossal mistake of telling my mother.
Despite the verbal lashing, his driving like a lunatic remained. As did the insults. I learned that 'prick' was a bad word when I was 4 and I repeated it after my dad cut off some guy who in turn gave him the finger.
He tailgates all. the. time. And speeds. Following him is a nightmare. Because if you don't keep up with him doing 90 down the highway? He will call you, while he's doing 90 down the highway, and ask what's the matter.
When we mention his driving in terms of "oh hell no I am not getting in that car with him" or "No, Girl doesn't want to ride with you" he gets defensive and claims to have never had an accident. Which may be true. If you don't count scratching other's vehicles when trying to pass them or that time he took off someone's mirror trying to take a turn over a median.
Knowing this, knowing that the man who taught me to drive (and clung to the seat belt while I did 10 mph down the road because he wouldn't let me do the posted 25 I might add), the man I regularly rode along with has this intense road rage issue, I should know better.
But I don't. I find myself getting antsy behind the wheel. Impatient. Frustrated when the guy in front of me is doing 25 in a 25 when he could be getting away with doing 30. Pissy when someone is doing 60 in the passing lane of the freeway even though the lane beside them is totally open and they could get over. Irate when the guy behind me starts riding my bumper (even though I do it too) that I start tapping my brakes, almost begging him to hit me. Angry when the guy in front of me stops at the yield sign because there is a car 2 minutes away.
I feel myself getting angry, my feet tapping, my hands gripping the wheel until they hurt.
Then I notice the little sticker in their back window.
*Road Rage Killed Our Angel ____________*
And I feel shamed. I remember when it happened. I remember seeing her picture and thinking how beautiful she was and how I cried for her mom. She was going to a prom after party with her date. Two cars around them had been racing each other in traffic, cutting each other off, swerving. One car passed them on the left, heading into on-coming traffic. He swerved back into the lane and hit her car. He came out without a scratch. She died. 17 and gone.
What am I doing? I feel my eyes well up. I breathe deep and sit back.
I hate how I feel when I drive. I hate being angry. I hate being that driver.
It's something I've been working on. It takes a conscious effort, being aware of my temper. Reminding myself that being home 2 minutes later doesn't matter so long as I get home. Reminding myself that my kids trust me. Deep breathing.
It doesn't always work. The kids start fighting and I just want to get home and the guy in front of me is taking his sweet time and I want to explode, just get out of the car and push his foot down on the gas pedal because I can'timaginehavingtosithereonemoredamnminuteAAAAHHHH!!!
My knuckles are white on the wheel.
My heart is racing.
My face feels hot.
My jaw is clenched and my teeth hurt.
It's making me tired.
I open the window and take a deep breath.
"Kids. Zip it."
My tone brooks no argument and they settle.
I tell myself to calm down and relax my jaw.
Sometimes I fail miserably.
This guy has been sitting in the passing lane for 5 minutes and there is no reason too. getovergetovergetovergetovergetovergetover.....
But he won't. I sigh and whip around him, speeding up and pulling in front of him hoping he catches the not so subtle hint.
"Asshole."
But really, who's the real asshole?
It's me.
I have to say, this must be the hardest thing I've ever tried to change. I quit smoking 3 1/2 years ago. I've limited my swearing to not in front of the kids (except, sadly, when I'm driving). I've become a morning person (or at least enough of one to be able to put together a few semi-coherent thoughts). But this?
This is something I desperately want to change and am finding it very difficult.
Do you feel that? When you slide in behind that wheel, do you get tense? Aggressive? Frustrated and impatient?
What are your tactics for overcoming bad habits? How do you change the things that you don't like about yourself?
Monday, September 18, 2006
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!
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!
Monday, September 11, 2006
Thursday, September 07, 2006
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.
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.
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
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.
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.
Monday, September 04, 2006
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.
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.
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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?
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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.
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