'Tis the season to have hot flashes, fa-la-la-la-la, La-open-a-freakin'-window!
JAO will be wearing a t-shirt, a button-down and his suit jacket and still put on his long, wool coat and gloves. Meanwhile, I am driving the kids to school in a tank top and bare feet. I suffer through the drive in the stifling heat because their little hormonal systems have yet to undergo the assault mine has, and then as soon as they jump out of the car, I roll down the window and stick my arm out into the wind trying to direct more of the cold air onto my overheated torso.
I really miss wearing turtlenecks and cute sweaters. Okay, so I wouldn’t wear a cute sweater now anyway because my extra body bulk would only look even more bulky, but still. I have figured out that scarves are the way to go. I can wrap one around my neck when I am a bit chilly and still be able to easily yank it from my steaming body when I start to over-heat.
I know everyone is complaining right now about how cold it is her in the South. And I agree that if it is going to be this cold, we should at least have some snow. But, there is nothing as refreshing to a hot-flasher as strolling out to the mail box in shorts and a t-shirt when it is 25 degrees outside.
It wasn’t always like this. There was a time when I could wear a camisole, a sweater and a scarf and be quite comfortable. Now, just thinking about that makes me want to open the freezer and sit inside.
Worried that I might have developed some exotic ailment that affects only the body’s ability to regulate its temperature -- like some South American reptilian disease or something -- I had the doctor run a complete blood work analysis on me last year. Sadly, the lab said there was nothing exotic about me at all.
At first I attributed it to just one other way having children has wrecked my poor body. However, I do know women who suffer from this and have not birthed any kids. So, now I’ll just blame Eve. She’s the eternal fall-gal for any weird body thing that women must endure but from which men are unjustly exempt.
Too bad I can’t develop some magic, rapid weight-loss disease.
Wait...I think that’s called cancer.
Never mind. I’ll just stick with the hot flashes.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
It's What All the Kids Are Doing
Well, it was bound to happen. Every time I drive my kids to school wearing my pajamas and no make-up, I think, “Gee, I hope I don’t miss carpool or else I’ll have to walk inside in my p.j.’s.” And, you know how some mornings you just wake up looking better than others? Well, this was not one of those mornings.
Thanks to the stupid, little, hybrid car in front of me going 30-miles-per-hour in a 45 zone, this morning I paraded myself through a throng of smartly-dressed ladies on their way to Bible study while wearing my red and white striped Old Navy pajama bottoms and looking like death warmed over, frozen, and then re-heated.
At least I was wearing a bra today. That’s something.
I suppose I could blame myself for not leaving the house earlier, but I like me. I’d rather focus my anger toward someone else. Plus, people who drive hybrids annoy me. Save the planet on your own time and get out of my way -- I have places to go and ozone to destroy. Oh, and my stuffed and mounted baby seal is ready at the taxidermist.
Tra-la-la.
Yesterday, my children invented a new game. I wish I could say that it was brilliant and worthy of a quick trademark and immediate release just in time for Christmas. But, well, it’s not.
I was in the kitchen preparing some very yummy potato soup, which is extremely time-consuming, but totally worth it. L and Z were playing together in the den. Which is to say, they were teasing and baiting each other, wrestling around and alternating between laughing and crying, “Mom! He/she hit/bit/slapped/kicked/insulted/maimed me!” Typical afternoon.
They were hungry and I was only halfway through the peeling and cubing of 5 pounds of potatoes, so I offered them some grapes. After only a few minutes I heard, “Mom! These grapes have seeds in them!”
What? I never even looked at the bag because why would I think the grapes had seeds? Why the heck do they even sell grapes with seeds anymore? Is anyone buying bags of seeded grapes and going home and planting them in their back yard?
So, the seed announcement was followed by, “Mom! Z just spit the grapes out all over the carpet!”
Great. “Bring the grapes back in the kitchen, guys!”
Silence.
“Guys?”
The next sound I heard was the sound of all the grapes being dumped out on the floor.
“Hey! Pick those up, L! Z! Are you still there?”
Then I heard laughter and L said, “Okay, my turn!”
I put down my potato peeler and went to investigate. As I walked into the living room, I saw L standing at the top of the nine-foot ladder and Z standing underneath it.
(Side bar: Since we are still in the middle of Christmas decorating, the ladder is still in the middle of the living room. Z has a stone bruise on his heel from climbing to the top and using a long piece of rope garland to repel back down. The last time, he repelled just a bit too hard.)
Anyway, I arrived just in time to see L dump the entire bowl of grapes down onto her waiting brother’s head. And he laughed because, apparently, that is what he knew she was going to do and he was okay with that.
“What on earth are you doing?” I asked, surprised. Though I really don’t know why I bother with surprise anymore.
L informed me, “We made up a new game.”
“What is it called?”
Z piped up with, “The Grapes Dumping on My Head Game!”
L gave him a withering look. “No, Z, it’s not.” Then she turned to me. “It’s The Grape Dropping Game, Mom.”
Oh, well, that sounds much better. “What are the rules?”
“There are no rules.”
“Well, how do you know who wins?”
“We’re all winners, Mom.”
“Yeah…if you’re a Socialist.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Pick up the grapes. And, Z, get down off the ladder.”
He protested, “But it’s my turn!”
“Fine. But if you fall, L is driving you to the hospital this time. I have to finish my soup.”
And they say too much TV hinders the imagination.
Thanks to the stupid, little, hybrid car in front of me going 30-miles-per-hour in a 45 zone, this morning I paraded myself through a throng of smartly-dressed ladies on their way to Bible study while wearing my red and white striped Old Navy pajama bottoms and looking like death warmed over, frozen, and then re-heated.
At least I was wearing a bra today. That’s something.
I suppose I could blame myself for not leaving the house earlier, but I like me. I’d rather focus my anger toward someone else. Plus, people who drive hybrids annoy me. Save the planet on your own time and get out of my way -- I have places to go and ozone to destroy. Oh, and my stuffed and mounted baby seal is ready at the taxidermist.
Tra-la-la.
Yesterday, my children invented a new game. I wish I could say that it was brilliant and worthy of a quick trademark and immediate release just in time for Christmas. But, well, it’s not.
I was in the kitchen preparing some very yummy potato soup, which is extremely time-consuming, but totally worth it. L and Z were playing together in the den. Which is to say, they were teasing and baiting each other, wrestling around and alternating between laughing and crying, “Mom! He/she hit/bit/slapped/kicked/insulted/maimed me!” Typical afternoon.
They were hungry and I was only halfway through the peeling and cubing of 5 pounds of potatoes, so I offered them some grapes. After only a few minutes I heard, “Mom! These grapes have seeds in them!”
What? I never even looked at the bag because why would I think the grapes had seeds? Why the heck do they even sell grapes with seeds anymore? Is anyone buying bags of seeded grapes and going home and planting them in their back yard?
So, the seed announcement was followed by, “Mom! Z just spit the grapes out all over the carpet!”
Great. “Bring the grapes back in the kitchen, guys!”
Silence.
“Guys?”
The next sound I heard was the sound of all the grapes being dumped out on the floor.
“Hey! Pick those up, L! Z! Are you still there?”
Then I heard laughter and L said, “Okay, my turn!”
I put down my potato peeler and went to investigate. As I walked into the living room, I saw L standing at the top of the nine-foot ladder and Z standing underneath it.
(Side bar: Since we are still in the middle of Christmas decorating, the ladder is still in the middle of the living room. Z has a stone bruise on his heel from climbing to the top and using a long piece of rope garland to repel back down. The last time, he repelled just a bit too hard.)
Anyway, I arrived just in time to see L dump the entire bowl of grapes down onto her waiting brother’s head. And he laughed because, apparently, that is what he knew she was going to do and he was okay with that.
“What on earth are you doing?” I asked, surprised. Though I really don’t know why I bother with surprise anymore.
L informed me, “We made up a new game.”
“What is it called?”
Z piped up with, “The Grapes Dumping on My Head Game!”
L gave him a withering look. “No, Z, it’s not.” Then she turned to me. “It’s The Grape Dropping Game, Mom.”
Oh, well, that sounds much better. “What are the rules?”
“There are no rules.”
“Well, how do you know who wins?”
“We’re all winners, Mom.”
“Yeah…if you’re a Socialist.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Pick up the grapes. And, Z, get down off the ladder.”
He protested, “But it’s my turn!”
“Fine. But if you fall, L is driving you to the hospital this time. I have to finish my soup.”
And they say too much TV hinders the imagination.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
The Sign Says "No Soliciting"
Yeah, yeah, it’s been forever since I last blogged, so I don’t blame you if you hate me and never want to read another word I’ve written. But, just in case you do, I have to share my latest encounter with the bizarre.
My doorbell rang and I wasn’t expecting anybody. In this day and age, with cell phones, texts, email, Facebook, etc., it is rare that someone will simply show-up on your doorstep unless they want to sell you something or kill you. Since I was pretty sure I hadn’t ticked anybody off badly enough to warrant a killing, I assumed the rather normal-looking man was a solicitor. (Though, it should be pointed out, that there is a nice, little wooden sign posted at the entrance to the neighborhood that says, “No Soliciting.” Unless, of course, you are soliciting cookies or candy. Then I’ll let you get away with it.)
I opened the door and the man looked at me quizzically and asked, “Do you remember me? Have you lived here for more than six years or so? Because I have cleaned this house before. So, if you have lived here for more than six years, then you’ve met me before.”
“Um...what?”
He then pointed to my next-door neighbor’s house and asked, “Didn’t that lady have cancer? Or she has cancer or something?”
“Uh...not that I am aware of.”
To further prove that he had, indeed, cleaned my house before, he then pointed to a house down the street and said, “And that guy had a big boat, didn’t he? Were you living here when he parked his big boat on the right-hand side of the house?”
“Er...I have never seen a boat there.” Then thinking perhaps the poor man was either lost or loony, I asked, “Are you sure you are in the right neighborhood?”
He laughed at that, but then proceeded to tell me that he was an exterior house cleaner and could pressure wash my entire house, from the gutter to the ground, and make it look like new. He started pointing out the black, moldy stuff on the door jamb and other areas where foreign matter was growing on my stucco. Quite frankly, I had never even noticed any of that. So then I got all paranoid thinking that everyone who has come to my home has shuddered inwardly at the unsightly fungus as they crossed over my threshold. And just what is that stuff, anyway?
But he ripped my attention back to him by saying, “Just so you don’t think I’m bull-shitting you, here are the names of your neighbors whose houses I’m doing.”
Excuse me?! Did he just use profanity while trying to sell me his services? I don’t appreciate that kind of language! What the hell?!
Okay, fine, so maybe I do, but not from some stranger who randomly shows up on my doorstep and starts taking walks down memory lane through my neighborhood.
He whipped out his iPad and touched the screen to wake it up. It came to life and there was a webpage with a video on it. It wasn’t playing, it was just the screen capture with that faint triangle on it that lets you know it is a video and you should play it. Creepy Solicitor pointed to the video and asked, “Oh, have you seen this?”
I was not sure what it was a video of, and even more not sure of what it might have to do with his convincing me he wasn’t a bull-shitter. He continued without waiting for a response from me, however, by saying, “The Russians blew up a pirate ship -- with the pirates still on it! They captured the boat, chained the pirates to the deck and blew the shit up!”
Inside my head, I was screaming, “What in the name of all that is holy is going on here?! Am I being punked or something?”
Outwardly, I said, “Um...what?”
He said, “Yeah, you’ll never hear about stuff like that on the news, but it happens. Today everyone is so politically correct, you know? Everyone is always looking at us and blaming us for doing things, but the Russians, they do that kind of thing all the time!”
Ah, to be so free from world public opinion like the Russians. Wouldn’t that be swell?
He went back to his iPad, closed the deadly-Russian-pirate-killing video, and pulled up another screen. He then turned it so I could read it better. It was a list of about five or six people who were supposedly hiring Creepy Solicitor to clean their homes -- complete with names, addresses, telephone numbers and how much money they were being charged.
He asked, “Do you know any of these people?”
I didn’t, but then, again, my next-door neighbor is apparently dying of cancer and I had no idea about that either.
“See that house over that way -- you gotta lean over -- see it? The one with the grey chimney? I’m cleaning her house today. What’s her name? Karen? Carol? Something like that.”
“I don’t know her either.” Boy, I really need to get out and meet my neighbors.
Creepy Solicitor went back into his sales pitch and talked about cleaning the windows and how everything would look like new. Then he started telling me about how he could clean the driveway, walkway and the back deck. He appeared to be winding down his spiel, for which I was grateful.
But then he upped the creep factor on me again by saying, “If I remember correctly, you have a really huge back deck, right? Do you mind if I walk back there and take a look to make sure it’s what I remember?”
“Well, um, there are dogs back there.” I realized I wasn't being very articulate, but this guy was throwing me off my game with his whack-a-dooness.
“That’s okay, I’ll just look over the fence. I’ll be right back.”
As I stood alone in my doorway, I began to think it wasn’t so wise to allow some stranger to wander around my backyard. But, then again, he was no stranger -- he knew more people in my neighborhood than I did. Plus, he had handed me a really nice, laminated doorhanger with his company name and number on it. If he was a rapist, he sure did spend a lot of money on his printed props.
He returned from his recon mission and announced that, yep, the back deck was just like he remembered and he could clean the deck, around the pool, the driveway, the walkway and the sidewalk in front of the house all for the low-low price of $175. The house and windows would be $275. And, here’s the best part, he could do it as early as tomorrow. Oh, hosanna!
I really hated to turn him down right then and there, especially since he had been so enthusiastic in his pitch. Oh, and warned me about the free-wheeling Russians who so brazenly practice their own sense of vigilante justice. But, I really wasn’t in the mood to spend nearly 400 of my Christmas-shopping dollars on cleaning the outside of my house -- which I hardly ever see anyway.
So, I used the standard “I’m just a girl and I don’t make decisions about money and I’ll have to check with my big, strong husband who has a much better handle on such confusing things.” Yeah, I can be really anti-feminist movement when it suits me.
I told him we would discuss it and give him a call if we decided we were in need of his services. He then thanked me and went on his way.
He’s probably just up the street right now asking that person if they know the lady with the huge back deck and warning them about the Russians.
See? Now wasn’t that worth the wait?
My doorbell rang and I wasn’t expecting anybody. In this day and age, with cell phones, texts, email, Facebook, etc., it is rare that someone will simply show-up on your doorstep unless they want to sell you something or kill you. Since I was pretty sure I hadn’t ticked anybody off badly enough to warrant a killing, I assumed the rather normal-looking man was a solicitor. (Though, it should be pointed out, that there is a nice, little wooden sign posted at the entrance to the neighborhood that says, “No Soliciting.” Unless, of course, you are soliciting cookies or candy. Then I’ll let you get away with it.)
I opened the door and the man looked at me quizzically and asked, “Do you remember me? Have you lived here for more than six years or so? Because I have cleaned this house before. So, if you have lived here for more than six years, then you’ve met me before.”
“Um...what?”
He then pointed to my next-door neighbor’s house and asked, “Didn’t that lady have cancer? Or she has cancer or something?”
“Uh...not that I am aware of.”
To further prove that he had, indeed, cleaned my house before, he then pointed to a house down the street and said, “And that guy had a big boat, didn’t he? Were you living here when he parked his big boat on the right-hand side of the house?”
“Er...I have never seen a boat there.” Then thinking perhaps the poor man was either lost or loony, I asked, “Are you sure you are in the right neighborhood?”
He laughed at that, but then proceeded to tell me that he was an exterior house cleaner and could pressure wash my entire house, from the gutter to the ground, and make it look like new. He started pointing out the black, moldy stuff on the door jamb and other areas where foreign matter was growing on my stucco. Quite frankly, I had never even noticed any of that. So then I got all paranoid thinking that everyone who has come to my home has shuddered inwardly at the unsightly fungus as they crossed over my threshold. And just what is that stuff, anyway?
But he ripped my attention back to him by saying, “Just so you don’t think I’m bull-shitting you, here are the names of your neighbors whose houses I’m doing.”
Excuse me?! Did he just use profanity while trying to sell me his services? I don’t appreciate that kind of language! What the hell?!
Okay, fine, so maybe I do, but not from some stranger who randomly shows up on my doorstep and starts taking walks down memory lane through my neighborhood.
He whipped out his iPad and touched the screen to wake it up. It came to life and there was a webpage with a video on it. It wasn’t playing, it was just the screen capture with that faint triangle on it that lets you know it is a video and you should play it. Creepy Solicitor pointed to the video and asked, “Oh, have you seen this?”
I was not sure what it was a video of, and even more not sure of what it might have to do with his convincing me he wasn’t a bull-shitter. He continued without waiting for a response from me, however, by saying, “The Russians blew up a pirate ship -- with the pirates still on it! They captured the boat, chained the pirates to the deck and blew the shit up!”
Inside my head, I was screaming, “What in the name of all that is holy is going on here?! Am I being punked or something?”
Outwardly, I said, “Um...what?”
He said, “Yeah, you’ll never hear about stuff like that on the news, but it happens. Today everyone is so politically correct, you know? Everyone is always looking at us and blaming us for doing things, but the Russians, they do that kind of thing all the time!”
Ah, to be so free from world public opinion like the Russians. Wouldn’t that be swell?
He went back to his iPad, closed the deadly-Russian-pirate-killing video, and pulled up another screen. He then turned it so I could read it better. It was a list of about five or six people who were supposedly hiring Creepy Solicitor to clean their homes -- complete with names, addresses, telephone numbers and how much money they were being charged.
He asked, “Do you know any of these people?”
I didn’t, but then, again, my next-door neighbor is apparently dying of cancer and I had no idea about that either.
“See that house over that way -- you gotta lean over -- see it? The one with the grey chimney? I’m cleaning her house today. What’s her name? Karen? Carol? Something like that.”
“I don’t know her either.” Boy, I really need to get out and meet my neighbors.
Creepy Solicitor went back into his sales pitch and talked about cleaning the windows and how everything would look like new. Then he started telling me about how he could clean the driveway, walkway and the back deck. He appeared to be winding down his spiel, for which I was grateful.
But then he upped the creep factor on me again by saying, “If I remember correctly, you have a really huge back deck, right? Do you mind if I walk back there and take a look to make sure it’s what I remember?”
“Well, um, there are dogs back there.” I realized I wasn't being very articulate, but this guy was throwing me off my game with his whack-a-dooness.
“That’s okay, I’ll just look over the fence. I’ll be right back.”
As I stood alone in my doorway, I began to think it wasn’t so wise to allow some stranger to wander around my backyard. But, then again, he was no stranger -- he knew more people in my neighborhood than I did. Plus, he had handed me a really nice, laminated doorhanger with his company name and number on it. If he was a rapist, he sure did spend a lot of money on his printed props.
He returned from his recon mission and announced that, yep, the back deck was just like he remembered and he could clean the deck, around the pool, the driveway, the walkway and the sidewalk in front of the house all for the low-low price of $175. The house and windows would be $275. And, here’s the best part, he could do it as early as tomorrow. Oh, hosanna!
I really hated to turn him down right then and there, especially since he had been so enthusiastic in his pitch. Oh, and warned me about the free-wheeling Russians who so brazenly practice their own sense of vigilante justice. But, I really wasn’t in the mood to spend nearly 400 of my Christmas-shopping dollars on cleaning the outside of my house -- which I hardly ever see anyway.
So, I used the standard “I’m just a girl and I don’t make decisions about money and I’ll have to check with my big, strong husband who has a much better handle on such confusing things.” Yeah, I can be really anti-feminist movement when it suits me.
I told him we would discuss it and give him a call if we decided we were in need of his services. He then thanked me and went on his way.
He’s probably just up the street right now asking that person if they know the lady with the huge back deck and warning them about the Russians.
See? Now wasn’t that worth the wait?
Friday, September 10, 2010
Little L Moments
L has started kindergarten, which means I am now old enough to have a child in school. Okay, fine, so I was old enough for that a decade ago, but that’s not the point. I have been making fun of all the moms I know who boo-hooed over their kid’s first day of school and mocked their sentimentality over something so silly. And to answer your next question, no, I did not cry on L’s first day of school. JAO, however...
But I would be remiss if I didn’t take a few moments to reflect on this momentous occasion in L’s life. Our nearly six years together has been interesting, to say the least. So, in honor of my daughter's new role as a matriculator, I thought I’d share some of my favorite Little L Moments from the past. I hope you enjoy reading them more than I enjoyed living them.
Our first tale takes place in May of 2007 just two weeks after the birth of Z. L was two-and-a-half. Thus the stage was set for misery.
With a newborn Z to look after, I hadn't been getting as much sleep as I needed and so I really, really wanted a nap. I got the baby boy to sleep and read some books to L. She was acting pretty tired so I hoped she'd go down without a fight. Schyeah, right.
I put her in her bed and threatened her life if she got up and then I went to my room to collapse. Sure enough, a few minutes later, I heard her get out of bed. I marched back down the hall, made her get back in bed and wearily trudged back to my room. This time, I fell asleep myself as soon as my head hit the pillow.
Fifteen minutes later, I awoke from a dead sleep to find L standing next to my bed with her hands covered in blood.
Blood!
Inwardly, I freaked out -- but she was so calm that I quickly realized she was not in danger of bleeding out. Nor did she appear to be feeling pain. I rushed her into her bathroom where I washed her hands and discovered a small cut on her thumb. I put a bandage on it and decided that she would live.
Then, I walked into L’s room to discover the source of the cut -- broken glass was littering her bed and floor and there was blood all over her sheets. The child had stood on her bed and wielding a plastic, yellow maraca, shattered the globe covering the light on her ceiling fan! And this was no accident. While she was tall for her age, she still had to jump up in the air in order to make contact with the light! This was a deliberate Mariachi attack on her light fixture.
I had to treat her sheets (which were brand-new Pottery Barn sheets, by the way) with stain remover and throw them in the wash. Then I had to do a super-duper vacuuming job on her carpet to remove the tiny shards of glass. Then, I had to follow and remove the trail of bloody hand prints that led from her door, down the hall and into my room.
Needless to say, I never got that nap.
Our next tale takes place the following New Year's Day. JAO, the kids and I ventured out to the mall to exchange some Christmas gifts. L was tired and irritable and basically being quite difficult. Baby Z was still in his sweet, agreeable baby phase and was content to ride in the stroller. (It would be another year or so before Z would fully embrace his Spawn of Satan persona.)
In an extremely crowded Macy’s, we split up -- I went with Z to one side of the store and L and JAO stood in line at the Men’s department to exchange a sweater. I finished first and returned to my husband and daughter. As Z and I were approaching, I could tell that JAO was irritated with L for continuously having to tell her to stop messing with all the things around the register.
When the exchange was complete, L turned to walk away. From my vantage point, a gentleman and his young son were between me and her. The next thing I saw, a little hand reached out from nowhere and punched the little boy square in the face. For the tiniest second I thought, “Oh, please don’t let that have been L.” But, the very next second, sure enough, here comes L sauntering around the man and the now-screaming boy, looking as though she hadn’t a care in the world.
The father was on his cell phone and didn’t even see what happened, but his mother, who was standing a few feet away, did. We both ran up at the same time -- she trying to comfort her child who was the victim of this random act of violence and me apologizing profusely for mine, the random act.
Even worse, the little boy and his parents were obviously of Indian descent. L could have been charged with a hate crime!
Fortunately, the assaulted boy’s parents could not have been more gracious. She assured me that her son was fine and she was not going to call the ACLU. I drug my demon child out of the store by the arm, fuming and ready to ship her off to Russia.
(It should be pointed out that this was not the first time L has randomly assaulted some other child. I couldn’t even relax at a playground because I never knew when she was going to haul off and smack the preschooler next to her.)
Outside the store, JAO asked a now contrite L why she hit that boy. Through her remorseful (whatever) tears, she replied, “Because I’m mean.”
She got no arguments from me.
But now Little L is a kindergartener and I am pleased to announce that she has not smacked anyone in the face (except for her little brother) since that day. And as crazy as she has made me, I can honestly say that being her mom has been a lot of fun. I am very proud of my girl and I’m looking forward to seeing the amazing young woman she will become.
Though I hope she doesn’t become that woman any time soon. Because I am way too young to be the mother of a woman.
But I would be remiss if I didn’t take a few moments to reflect on this momentous occasion in L’s life. Our nearly six years together has been interesting, to say the least. So, in honor of my daughter's new role as a matriculator, I thought I’d share some of my favorite Little L Moments from the past. I hope you enjoy reading them more than I enjoyed living them.
Our first tale takes place in May of 2007 just two weeks after the birth of Z. L was two-and-a-half. Thus the stage was set for misery.
With a newborn Z to look after, I hadn't been getting as much sleep as I needed and so I really, really wanted a nap. I got the baby boy to sleep and read some books to L. She was acting pretty tired so I hoped she'd go down without a fight. Schyeah, right.
I put her in her bed and threatened her life if she got up and then I went to my room to collapse. Sure enough, a few minutes later, I heard her get out of bed. I marched back down the hall, made her get back in bed and wearily trudged back to my room. This time, I fell asleep myself as soon as my head hit the pillow.
Fifteen minutes later, I awoke from a dead sleep to find L standing next to my bed with her hands covered in blood.
Blood!
Inwardly, I freaked out -- but she was so calm that I quickly realized she was not in danger of bleeding out. Nor did she appear to be feeling pain. I rushed her into her bathroom where I washed her hands and discovered a small cut on her thumb. I put a bandage on it and decided that she would live.
Then, I walked into L’s room to discover the source of the cut -- broken glass was littering her bed and floor and there was blood all over her sheets. The child had stood on her bed and wielding a plastic, yellow maraca, shattered the globe covering the light on her ceiling fan! And this was no accident. While she was tall for her age, she still had to jump up in the air in order to make contact with the light! This was a deliberate Mariachi attack on her light fixture.
I had to treat her sheets (which were brand-new Pottery Barn sheets, by the way) with stain remover and throw them in the wash. Then I had to do a super-duper vacuuming job on her carpet to remove the tiny shards of glass. Then, I had to follow and remove the trail of bloody hand prints that led from her door, down the hall and into my room.
Needless to say, I never got that nap.
Our next tale takes place the following New Year's Day. JAO, the kids and I ventured out to the mall to exchange some Christmas gifts. L was tired and irritable and basically being quite difficult. Baby Z was still in his sweet, agreeable baby phase and was content to ride in the stroller. (It would be another year or so before Z would fully embrace his Spawn of Satan persona.)
In an extremely crowded Macy’s, we split up -- I went with Z to one side of the store and L and JAO stood in line at the Men’s department to exchange a sweater. I finished first and returned to my husband and daughter. As Z and I were approaching, I could tell that JAO was irritated with L for continuously having to tell her to stop messing with all the things around the register.
When the exchange was complete, L turned to walk away. From my vantage point, a gentleman and his young son were between me and her. The next thing I saw, a little hand reached out from nowhere and punched the little boy square in the face. For the tiniest second I thought, “Oh, please don’t let that have been L.” But, the very next second, sure enough, here comes L sauntering around the man and the now-screaming boy, looking as though she hadn’t a care in the world.
The father was on his cell phone and didn’t even see what happened, but his mother, who was standing a few feet away, did. We both ran up at the same time -- she trying to comfort her child who was the victim of this random act of violence and me apologizing profusely for mine, the random act.
Even worse, the little boy and his parents were obviously of Indian descent. L could have been charged with a hate crime!
Fortunately, the assaulted boy’s parents could not have been more gracious. She assured me that her son was fine and she was not going to call the ACLU. I drug my demon child out of the store by the arm, fuming and ready to ship her off to Russia.
(It should be pointed out that this was not the first time L has randomly assaulted some other child. I couldn’t even relax at a playground because I never knew when she was going to haul off and smack the preschooler next to her.)
Outside the store, JAO asked a now contrite L why she hit that boy. Through her remorseful (whatever) tears, she replied, “Because I’m mean.”
She got no arguments from me.
But now Little L is a kindergartener and I am pleased to announce that she has not smacked anyone in the face (except for her little brother) since that day. And as crazy as she has made me, I can honestly say that being her mom has been a lot of fun. I am very proud of my girl and I’m looking forward to seeing the amazing young woman she will become.
Though I hope she doesn’t become that woman any time soon. Because I am way too young to be the mother of a woman.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Paying for a Summer of Sin
Hey, Jenny, it’s me, Regina.
Yeah, it has been a while.
I’m fine. Well, sorta.
My summer? It was good. Too good, I guess. That’s kinda why I’m calling. You know how last Spring I was looking all hot and feeling good about myself? Well, I’m still looking hot -- but it’s really more of an over-weight, sweaty-hot. Perhaps it would have behooved me to be a bit more vigilant over the summer.
My activity level? Well, how many calories do you think you burn carrying a cooler of beer down to the beach?
Not that much, huh?
It was a case, you know, not just some dinky six-pack.
Oh.
Did I make good choices? Sure! When the choice was between fried shrimp or fried scallops.
Yeah, I know. I use humor to mask my shame. So, um, I was thinking...can I come back in?
That’s swell. Wait...you won’t have to weigh me, will you?
You will? Crap. Can I at least weigh in the nude?
No? Man, you guys are really sticklers for that rule, aren’t you?
Fine. I’ll see you at 11:00.
Yeah, I’m really looking forward to it, too. And afterward I’m thinking about going for a PAP smear and a mammogram just to round out the day of fun.
Yes. That was my humor.
Bye.
And here we go again.
Can someone please explain to me how it can take four months to lose the same amount of weight you can gain in only one month? And don’t go saying it was the laying around and eating fried foods and drinking fruity drinks all summer that did it. If I wanted brutal honesty I would have called my mom.
I guess I feel like it just happened so fast. One minute I was buying the first two-piece swim-suit I’d bought in nearly seven years, and the next minute I was searching my drawer for the pants I wore home from the delivery room. It’s so frustrating.
I simply got too comfortable with myself. Sure, that’s supposed to be the touchy-feely, everyone’s a winner, we accept all kinds attitude. But, let’s be honest -- it’s that type of mentality that allows a 200-pound woman to wear a thong bikini and a 300-pound man to wear a Speedo. I don’t care how at-one with yourself you are, Oprah --suck it in or cover it up!
Wah, wah, wah. I'm too fat. Blah, blah, blah.
I suppose I can continue to bitch and complain or I can throw away the Chex Mix, pour out the wine, take the wrapper off the “Dancing With the Stars Workout DVD” and get back at it.
Yes. That was my humor again.
Because I don’t care how much weigh, it is NEVER okay to pour out wine.
Yeah, it has been a while.
I’m fine. Well, sorta.
My summer? It was good. Too good, I guess. That’s kinda why I’m calling. You know how last Spring I was looking all hot and feeling good about myself? Well, I’m still looking hot -- but it’s really more of an over-weight, sweaty-hot. Perhaps it would have behooved me to be a bit more vigilant over the summer.
My activity level? Well, how many calories do you think you burn carrying a cooler of beer down to the beach?
Not that much, huh?
It was a case, you know, not just some dinky six-pack.
Oh.
Did I make good choices? Sure! When the choice was between fried shrimp or fried scallops.
Yeah, I know. I use humor to mask my shame. So, um, I was thinking...can I come back in?
That’s swell. Wait...you won’t have to weigh me, will you?
You will? Crap. Can I at least weigh in the nude?
No? Man, you guys are really sticklers for that rule, aren’t you?
Fine. I’ll see you at 11:00.
Yeah, I’m really looking forward to it, too. And afterward I’m thinking about going for a PAP smear and a mammogram just to round out the day of fun.
Yes. That was my humor.
Bye.
And here we go again.
Can someone please explain to me how it can take four months to lose the same amount of weight you can gain in only one month? And don’t go saying it was the laying around and eating fried foods and drinking fruity drinks all summer that did it. If I wanted brutal honesty I would have called my mom.
I guess I feel like it just happened so fast. One minute I was buying the first two-piece swim-suit I’d bought in nearly seven years, and the next minute I was searching my drawer for the pants I wore home from the delivery room. It’s so frustrating.
I simply got too comfortable with myself. Sure, that’s supposed to be the touchy-feely, everyone’s a winner, we accept all kinds attitude. But, let’s be honest -- it’s that type of mentality that allows a 200-pound woman to wear a thong bikini and a 300-pound man to wear a Speedo. I don’t care how at-one with yourself you are, Oprah --suck it in or cover it up!
Wah, wah, wah. I'm too fat. Blah, blah, blah.
I suppose I can continue to bitch and complain or I can throw away the Chex Mix, pour out the wine, take the wrapper off the “Dancing With the Stars Workout DVD” and get back at it.
Yes. That was my humor again.
Because I don’t care how much weigh, it is NEVER okay to pour out wine.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
The Manson Family Summer
For the love of all that is Mark Harmon, I wish my kids were in summer school.
Now I understand why my mother was never as excited about summer vacation as I was -- and why her mood seemed to suddenly lift on the first day of school. If I have to spend any more time alone with these two people who insist on calling me “Mom,” I truly don’t think we’ll emerge from this summer vacation with any semblance of a healthy mother/child relationship.
I resent how being a stay-at-home mom in the summer is essentially like having another part-time job. During the school year, I have my normal mom duties -- laundry, meals, applying the occasional SpongeBob band-aid, maybe reading a book or two if I’m in the mood. But that is when I have a limited number of hours alone with the children each day. Over the summer, however, they are always here! I wake up in the morning, and they are here. I turn around at lunch time, and they are still here. I go to cook dinner and they are still, freakin’ here! All day! Every day! They never go anywhere else! Why didn’t anyone ever tell me about this?
So, my summer job has become entertaining these children. And, I don’t mind admitting -- I should be fired from this job.
Sure, I could pack us up and head out to the park, but guess what? The park is boring. At least it is for me. Like I want to sit on a hard bench and sweat in the blistering sun just so they can run around on playground equipment that has been touched by every snot-nosed, germy, virus-carrying kid in the county? At home, they may fight with each other, but at least I have my computer. And my air-conditioning.
And yes, I could arrange for play dates, but that requires me to take a shower and put on makeup and try and look presentable to the other moms.
Museums require everyone acting civilized and mannerly -- and that simply ain’t gonna happen. The Aquarium costs a bazillion dollars, the movies cost even more and all those bouncy, jumpy places are loud and smell like dirty socks.
So, my laziness and my -- okay fine, it’s just my laziness -- has left us stuck at home for the majority of the summer with nothing to do but get on each other’s nerves.
As a result, we have all slipped into behavior that is almost feral with regards to how we treat one another. There has been screaming, hitting, biting, crying, name-calling and mocking. And that’s just from me. The kids have been much worse. Nothing I do seems to evoke a positive response, so I have sunk deep into the negative just to exact my revenge.
Our house is plenty big enough to allow two smallish children to coexist without having to ever come into contact with each other. However, they will not stay away from each other! There is a constant display of acrobatics and professional wrestling that inevitably leaves one of them crying. I have heard myself say more times than I care to admit, that grand old Cosby line, “No one in this house is allowed to touch anyone else in this house ever again!!”
But it never works.
If one of them turns on the Wii, the gaming console sends out a high-frequency vibration that only another child can hear and causes that child to come screaming into the room crying, “I want to play! I get the white remote! No, I don’t want to play bowling!!”
I know we’ll never be the Von Trapp family, but we could at least stop resembling the Manson family.
Last night, I decided we needed to have an emergency family meeting to deal with this growing problem.
Before the kids were to go upstairs and get ready for bed, I sat them down on the sofa, summoned all of my years of parenting website research and attempted to reach their little hearts and minds. I began all Dr. Spock-like by telling them that I, too, was guilty of bad behavior. I apologized for yelling and being short-tempered and using an ugly voice with them. I then asked them if they thought they could help by being better listeners and being kind to each other and showing JAO and I more respect.
L was the first to nod and respond. “Right,” L agreed. “We need better manner. New ones.”
“That’s right, L, we do.”
“Because mine are old.”
“Oh. Well, then we definitely should get you some new ones.”
I turned to Z, “Z, are you going to use your manners?”
L answered my question instead by saying seriously, “I’ve never seen any manners in Z’s room.”
Well, that explains a lot.
“Then we’ll have to get him some.”
“Good idea, Mom.”
After we all agreed that we would start over anew, fresh-family-faced and full of love and mutual respect, L jumped up from the couch and announced, “Okay, now I have something to say.”
“That’s wonderful, L, we would be happy to listen.” See what a great, loving, supportive mom I am already becoming? After only one, good, After School Special chat, the kids have fallen in line and jumped whole-heartedly on the Ozzy and Harriet bandwagon.
L ran across the room saying, “Give me one second;” followed closely by her parrot who intoned, “Gib me un second!” They ducked behind the recliner to prepare for their speech. I took a seat next to JAO on the sofa. We exchanged loving smiles that seemed to say, “Aren’t our children wonderful, Darling?” “Yes, Love of My Life, we are truly blessed.”
After a few moments of whispers between the two, L walked proudly out from behind the chair to take her position right in front of her father and me. She stood tall and began what I was sure was going to be a mature, respectful message full of promises of obedience and deference toward her loving parental units.
This is what she said:
“Mom, Dad, I love you. And you love me. And...” She whipped herself around, flung her tutu up in the air, and stuck out her back end to reveal her bare butt.
I am not kidding.
Next came Z with his Toy Story Pull-Up down around his ankles, saying, “I lub you!” and he, too, bent at the waist and mooned us.
JAO and I did the only thing we could do -- laugh. We laughed until tears came. We laughed until the kids were rolling on the floor with their shiney hineys flashing also laughing hysterically.
In the end (pun intended) I guess I would prefer a house full of zany laughter than one of strict, rigid obedience.
How better to say, “I love you” than with a good, old-fashioned mooning?
Now I understand why my mother was never as excited about summer vacation as I was -- and why her mood seemed to suddenly lift on the first day of school. If I have to spend any more time alone with these two people who insist on calling me “Mom,” I truly don’t think we’ll emerge from this summer vacation with any semblance of a healthy mother/child relationship.
I resent how being a stay-at-home mom in the summer is essentially like having another part-time job. During the school year, I have my normal mom duties -- laundry, meals, applying the occasional SpongeBob band-aid, maybe reading a book or two if I’m in the mood. But that is when I have a limited number of hours alone with the children each day. Over the summer, however, they are always here! I wake up in the morning, and they are here. I turn around at lunch time, and they are still here. I go to cook dinner and they are still, freakin’ here! All day! Every day! They never go anywhere else! Why didn’t anyone ever tell me about this?
So, my summer job has become entertaining these children. And, I don’t mind admitting -- I should be fired from this job.
Sure, I could pack us up and head out to the park, but guess what? The park is boring. At least it is for me. Like I want to sit on a hard bench and sweat in the blistering sun just so they can run around on playground equipment that has been touched by every snot-nosed, germy, virus-carrying kid in the county? At home, they may fight with each other, but at least I have my computer. And my air-conditioning.
And yes, I could arrange for play dates, but that requires me to take a shower and put on makeup and try and look presentable to the other moms.
Museums require everyone acting civilized and mannerly -- and that simply ain’t gonna happen. The Aquarium costs a bazillion dollars, the movies cost even more and all those bouncy, jumpy places are loud and smell like dirty socks.
So, my laziness and my -- okay fine, it’s just my laziness -- has left us stuck at home for the majority of the summer with nothing to do but get on each other’s nerves.
As a result, we have all slipped into behavior that is almost feral with regards to how we treat one another. There has been screaming, hitting, biting, crying, name-calling and mocking. And that’s just from me. The kids have been much worse. Nothing I do seems to evoke a positive response, so I have sunk deep into the negative just to exact my revenge.
Our house is plenty big enough to allow two smallish children to coexist without having to ever come into contact with each other. However, they will not stay away from each other! There is a constant display of acrobatics and professional wrestling that inevitably leaves one of them crying. I have heard myself say more times than I care to admit, that grand old Cosby line, “No one in this house is allowed to touch anyone else in this house ever again!!”
But it never works.
If one of them turns on the Wii, the gaming console sends out a high-frequency vibration that only another child can hear and causes that child to come screaming into the room crying, “I want to play! I get the white remote! No, I don’t want to play bowling!!”
I know we’ll never be the Von Trapp family, but we could at least stop resembling the Manson family.
Last night, I decided we needed to have an emergency family meeting to deal with this growing problem.
Before the kids were to go upstairs and get ready for bed, I sat them down on the sofa, summoned all of my years of parenting website research and attempted to reach their little hearts and minds. I began all Dr. Spock-like by telling them that I, too, was guilty of bad behavior. I apologized for yelling and being short-tempered and using an ugly voice with them. I then asked them if they thought they could help by being better listeners and being kind to each other and showing JAO and I more respect.
L was the first to nod and respond. “Right,” L agreed. “We need better manner. New ones.”
“That’s right, L, we do.”
“Because mine are old.”
“Oh. Well, then we definitely should get you some new ones.”
I turned to Z, “Z, are you going to use your manners?”
L answered my question instead by saying seriously, “I’ve never seen any manners in Z’s room.”
Well, that explains a lot.
“Then we’ll have to get him some.”
“Good idea, Mom.”
After we all agreed that we would start over anew, fresh-family-faced and full of love and mutual respect, L jumped up from the couch and announced, “Okay, now I have something to say.”
“That’s wonderful, L, we would be happy to listen.” See what a great, loving, supportive mom I am already becoming? After only one, good, After School Special chat, the kids have fallen in line and jumped whole-heartedly on the Ozzy and Harriet bandwagon.
L ran across the room saying, “Give me one second;” followed closely by her parrot who intoned, “Gib me un second!” They ducked behind the recliner to prepare for their speech. I took a seat next to JAO on the sofa. We exchanged loving smiles that seemed to say, “Aren’t our children wonderful, Darling?” “Yes, Love of My Life, we are truly blessed.”
After a few moments of whispers between the two, L walked proudly out from behind the chair to take her position right in front of her father and me. She stood tall and began what I was sure was going to be a mature, respectful message full of promises of obedience and deference toward her loving parental units.
This is what she said:
“Mom, Dad, I love you. And you love me. And...” She whipped herself around, flung her tutu up in the air, and stuck out her back end to reveal her bare butt.
I am not kidding.
Next came Z with his Toy Story Pull-Up down around his ankles, saying, “I lub you!” and he, too, bent at the waist and mooned us.
JAO and I did the only thing we could do -- laugh. We laughed until tears came. We laughed until the kids were rolling on the floor with their shiney hineys flashing also laughing hysterically.
In the end (pun intended) I guess I would prefer a house full of zany laughter than one of strict, rigid obedience.
How better to say, “I love you” than with a good, old-fashioned mooning?
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Papa, Can You Hear Me?
It’s funny how differently two people can view the exact same situation. Take into account that one of those people is a female and the other a male, and the view of the experience becomes even greater.
This past weekend, JAO, L and I attended a retirement party for some friends. Z was relegated to my brother and sister-in-law’s house because, well, I wanted to enjoy my evening. I wasn’t concerned about L, however, because she has now reached the age where she can occupy her time and basically take care of herself. I knew that our friends’ 8-year-old and 13-year-old daughters would be there and that L would enjoy spending time with them.
As I expected, L hung out with the big girls and seemed to be having a great time. I didn’t feel the need to hover or to constantly inquire as to her well-being. I trusted the two girls she was with and I trusted her. I knew she wasn’t going to head down to the street and hitch a ride to Alabama. (Like anyone would voluntarily choose to go to Alabama, right?)
Oh, I’m kidding. Don’t go all Midnight in Montgomery on me.
I noticed, however, that JAO seemed more concerned with her whereabouts and went in search of her several times. He would say, “Where’s L?” And I would respond, “Um, out there somewhere.” Then he would look disgusted at my lack of maternal concern and then go look for her. Of course, she was always just around the front of the house or up near the tree line in the back yard. Only once was she found hanging with the crack heads on the street corner.
When it came time to fix our plates for dinner, I attempted to assist her in this effort. I was quickly rebuffed with the proclamation, “Mom! If you’ll just leave me alone, I will make my own choices.”
I backed off and said, “Okay, Ms. Thing, go to it.” She then proceeded to fill her plate with one hotdog bun, a scoop of pasta salad and a pile of sliced watermelon. I dared to call out from the other side of the room, “L, you know there are hot dogs there, too, right?” I was shot down with a withering look and a roll of the eyes. I was like, “Whatever, Diva, go all vegetarian if you want.” I then fixed my own plate and sat down to enjoy a nice dinner complete with adult conversation. And I didn’t have to cut up anyone’s hot dog into non-choking-sized bites.
I did take a few moments to reflect on how grown-up she seemed sitting around chatting with the Big Girls. She’s really tall for her age and I will forever be jealous of her willowy figure and curly, blond hair. She had her Dora purse on her arm and a ton of Silly Bandz on her wrist and I was struck with a sense of pride at how beautifully mature she was acting.
Yes, she pouted when I told her it was time to go, but that was to be expected. That’s how I respond when JAO tells me it is time to leave the mall. So, I didn’t hold that reaction against her.
On the ride home, however, JAO seemed distracted and slightly upset. I finally got him to admit that his feelings were hurt by L’s behavior. Apparently, he didn’t appreciate her new-found maturity like I did. I didn’t laugh at him (at least not out loud) because I could tell he was really upset by this. I tried to tell him that it was all a part of her growing up. That it was natural for her to establish her independence and begin to do things on her own.
There is a difference in how fathers view their daughters and how they view their sons. The same holds true with mothers. I will go to my grave insisting that Z needs to be cuddled and loved-up. And JAO will forever see L as his baby girl. Maybe that’s the way it is supposed to be. I don’t see L as my little girl. I see her as the other woman in my house whose mood swings and dramatic flair rival my own. I’m also not the touchy-feely, sentimental mommy who laments the passing of each stage of her kid’s life. Instead I celebrate each graduation as a step closer to their independence and my freedom.
I don’t need to be needed. I need to be left alone.
I told JAO that I know for a fact that little girls will always need their daddies, even when they insist they don’t. They don’t call us “Daddy’s Little Girl” for nothing. A father’s place in his daughter’s heart will never be replaced. There may be rivals, but never any that pose a serious threat. JAO secures his place in L’s heart every time he reads her a bedtime story or let’s her stand on his feet while they dance. Or every time he pushes her on a swing or plays Duck, Duck, Goose in the living room or wears a tiara while enjoying some imaginary tea. Every hug, every smile, every soothing whisper tells her how much he loves her.
Yes, JAO, L will always need her Daddy. Well, at least she will always need her Daddy’s wallet.
HAHAHAHAA! You thought I was going to go completely Hallmarky on you, didn’t you?
Whatever.
This past weekend, JAO, L and I attended a retirement party for some friends. Z was relegated to my brother and sister-in-law’s house because, well, I wanted to enjoy my evening. I wasn’t concerned about L, however, because she has now reached the age where she can occupy her time and basically take care of herself. I knew that our friends’ 8-year-old and 13-year-old daughters would be there and that L would enjoy spending time with them.
As I expected, L hung out with the big girls and seemed to be having a great time. I didn’t feel the need to hover or to constantly inquire as to her well-being. I trusted the two girls she was with and I trusted her. I knew she wasn’t going to head down to the street and hitch a ride to Alabama. (Like anyone would voluntarily choose to go to Alabama, right?)
Oh, I’m kidding. Don’t go all Midnight in Montgomery on me.
I noticed, however, that JAO seemed more concerned with her whereabouts and went in search of her several times. He would say, “Where’s L?” And I would respond, “Um, out there somewhere.” Then he would look disgusted at my lack of maternal concern and then go look for her. Of course, she was always just around the front of the house or up near the tree line in the back yard. Only once was she found hanging with the crack heads on the street corner.
When it came time to fix our plates for dinner, I attempted to assist her in this effort. I was quickly rebuffed with the proclamation, “Mom! If you’ll just leave me alone, I will make my own choices.”
I backed off and said, “Okay, Ms. Thing, go to it.” She then proceeded to fill her plate with one hotdog bun, a scoop of pasta salad and a pile of sliced watermelon. I dared to call out from the other side of the room, “L, you know there are hot dogs there, too, right?” I was shot down with a withering look and a roll of the eyes. I was like, “Whatever, Diva, go all vegetarian if you want.” I then fixed my own plate and sat down to enjoy a nice dinner complete with adult conversation. And I didn’t have to cut up anyone’s hot dog into non-choking-sized bites.
I did take a few moments to reflect on how grown-up she seemed sitting around chatting with the Big Girls. She’s really tall for her age and I will forever be jealous of her willowy figure and curly, blond hair. She had her Dora purse on her arm and a ton of Silly Bandz on her wrist and I was struck with a sense of pride at how beautifully mature she was acting.
Yes, she pouted when I told her it was time to go, but that was to be expected. That’s how I respond when JAO tells me it is time to leave the mall. So, I didn’t hold that reaction against her.
On the ride home, however, JAO seemed distracted and slightly upset. I finally got him to admit that his feelings were hurt by L’s behavior. Apparently, he didn’t appreciate her new-found maturity like I did. I didn’t laugh at him (at least not out loud) because I could tell he was really upset by this. I tried to tell him that it was all a part of her growing up. That it was natural for her to establish her independence and begin to do things on her own.
There is a difference in how fathers view their daughters and how they view their sons. The same holds true with mothers. I will go to my grave insisting that Z needs to be cuddled and loved-up. And JAO will forever see L as his baby girl. Maybe that’s the way it is supposed to be. I don’t see L as my little girl. I see her as the other woman in my house whose mood swings and dramatic flair rival my own. I’m also not the touchy-feely, sentimental mommy who laments the passing of each stage of her kid’s life. Instead I celebrate each graduation as a step closer to their independence and my freedom.
I don’t need to be needed. I need to be left alone.
I told JAO that I know for a fact that little girls will always need their daddies, even when they insist they don’t. They don’t call us “Daddy’s Little Girl” for nothing. A father’s place in his daughter’s heart will never be replaced. There may be rivals, but never any that pose a serious threat. JAO secures his place in L’s heart every time he reads her a bedtime story or let’s her stand on his feet while they dance. Or every time he pushes her on a swing or plays Duck, Duck, Goose in the living room or wears a tiara while enjoying some imaginary tea. Every hug, every smile, every soothing whisper tells her how much he loves her.
Yes, JAO, L will always need her Daddy. Well, at least she will always need her Daddy’s wallet.
HAHAHAHAA! You thought I was going to go completely Hallmarky on you, didn’t you?
Whatever.
Friday, May 21, 2010
Full Contact Parenting
You know those days when you just can’t wait for it to end so you can enjoy the relaxing bliss that is that first glass of wine? Tuesday was one of those days.
Okay, fine -- so practically every day is one of those days. Don’t judge me.
It started when JAO announced that he really needed to catch up on some work and, therefore, would not be home until late. Uggh.
Whenever I know not to expect JAO home until late, the afternoon seems to stretch on endlessly. It’s not that I mind being around my children that long by myself, it’s just that -- okay, it is that I mind being around my children that long by myself. They seem to fight more and get on my nerves more when I am flying solo.
When both parents are present, the burden of parenting can be equally shared. One parent breaks up the first fight while the second parent gets the next dirty diaper. Parent One prepares the food while Parent Two wipes off the faces and hands -- and table, chairs and walls. Single parents have my utmost respect. How they do it without going all rifle-in-a-clock-tower is beyond me.
So, I began to formulate a plan: We would swim in the pool until they were ready to drop, then we’d enjoy a nutritious dinner of hot dogs and carrot sticks before retiring to the den for popcorn and Movie Night.
All seemed to be going according to plan; L and Z frolicked in the pool and I chatted with my friend on the phone while attempting to soak up some sun. Let’s face it, cellulite looks so much better when it is tan. I was just beginning to think I would survive my solo flight unharmed when the stench of pool poo filled my nostrils. That little (insert expletive here) pooped in the pool once again. It was mostly contained by the swim diaper and rubber pants that he was wearing, but I was still too grossed-out to allow L and Z to continue playing in the water. My plans for an afternoon in the pool were shot and so I was faced with the dubious task of entertaining these little people until bedtime.
After an hour of bickering and whining from all of us, I decided to bump up Movie Night. We watched “Charolette’s Web” and I was instantly reminded of why I had avoided seeing the film when it first came out. I cried like a freakin’ baby! Stupid spider.
When the movie ended, we still had time to kill before the nutritious hot dogs and carrot stick dinner. So I decided it was time to reattempt the removal of the splinter Z had in his foot. After all, it had been there since Sunday. JAO and I had tried to get it out the afternoon it happened, but to no avail. If you have never had the occasion to remove -- or attempt to remove -- a splinter from any part of a child’s body, let me help you understand the situation. It’s like an Olympic event. It involves strength, endurance and determination. Picture the Crocodile Hunter (God rest his soul) laying on top of a giant crock and wrestling it to the ground all the while trying to keep his limbs and extremities out of the flailing creature’s mouth. It’s kinda like that.
Our first attempt at the splinter removal involved JAO pinning Z down, L holding a flashlight and me wielding the tweezers. I couldn’t even get to the splinter because Z was wriggling and kicking and screaming. I looked at JAO and said, “What kind of a man are you? This kid weighs 35 pounds -- can’t you keep him still?” My husband replied, “Fine! You hold him then!”
People, that kid is strong. Especially when he doesn’t want to do something. We gave up after about 15 minutes when we were all too exhausted to continue.
This was no ordinary splinter, however. It was really a thin sliver of metal that had come off the rotary drill bit thingy JAO had used when he was repairing the grout on the pool. So, I knew it couldn’t stay in his foot for long. What if it became embedded and then infected and what if he then had to walk around with a piece of metal in his foot and constantly be stopped walking through metal detectors and having to explain that he wasn’t carrying a weapon but rather his foot contained a splinter that his weakling parents were unable to remove?
No, it had to come out.
As soon as he saw me coming with the tweezers, he freaked. I tried calm cajoling, I tried bribery, I tried threatening -- nothing would convince him to simply sit still and allow me to do what needed to be done. Finally I said, “screw it” and I laid my entire body over his and pinned him to the floor. He was on his stomach facing one way, and I was laying on his back facing his feet. Even in this position, he was still able to squirm and kick and flop around enough to hinder my efforts. He was screaming and shrieking and trying to bite my leg. Then he twisted his upper body enough so that he could start pounding his fist on my back. All the while, poor L is holding the flashlight and saying, “I don’t like this Mommy! This is scary!”
Another therapy session added to her list. And his.
At last the tweezers hit their target and the metal sliver came out. I released Z and sat up. He was so far beyond upset that he continued to furiously scream and cry. If he knew any curse words, I’m sure I would have heard a litany of expletives. He grabbed a shirt off the back of the couch, thrust it into his mouth and bit down on it in a rage.
I still had the metal shard in my hand and didn’t want to drop it on the floor lest anyone else step on it and we’d have to go through this all over again. So, as I was rising to properly dispose of the offending piece of metal, L reached out to her hysterical brother in an attempt to give him a calming hug. The next thing I saw was his foot flying through the air to land a kick squarely on his sister’s mouth.
Instantly, she let out a screech and blood started flowing from her mouth. She had bit down on her tongue -- hard. So, now I have two screaming kids, one bleeding and the other one crying to near convulsions and I’m still holding the metal splinter in my hand.
I quickly ushered L into the kitchen when I dropped the splinter on the counter and grabbed some paper towels to hold over her mouth. Z followed right behind us. His cries had progressed to the sniffling and whimpering and rapid intake of breaths that usually follows a major kid crying jag. Once I was sure I didn’t need to take L to the emergency room for tongue stitches, I sat down on the kitchen floor and held both my upset babies in my arms and rocked and shushed and tried to restore peace.
I even shed a tear or two.
In the end, everyone went to bed splinter and stiches free. Being a single parent sucks. And some days so does being a kid.
But at least the parent has the wine.
Okay, fine -- so practically every day is one of those days. Don’t judge me.
It started when JAO announced that he really needed to catch up on some work and, therefore, would not be home until late. Uggh.
Whenever I know not to expect JAO home until late, the afternoon seems to stretch on endlessly. It’s not that I mind being around my children that long by myself, it’s just that -- okay, it is that I mind being around my children that long by myself. They seem to fight more and get on my nerves more when I am flying solo.
When both parents are present, the burden of parenting can be equally shared. One parent breaks up the first fight while the second parent gets the next dirty diaper. Parent One prepares the food while Parent Two wipes off the faces and hands -- and table, chairs and walls. Single parents have my utmost respect. How they do it without going all rifle-in-a-clock-tower is beyond me.
So, I began to formulate a plan: We would swim in the pool until they were ready to drop, then we’d enjoy a nutritious dinner of hot dogs and carrot sticks before retiring to the den for popcorn and Movie Night.
All seemed to be going according to plan; L and Z frolicked in the pool and I chatted with my friend on the phone while attempting to soak up some sun. Let’s face it, cellulite looks so much better when it is tan. I was just beginning to think I would survive my solo flight unharmed when the stench of pool poo filled my nostrils. That little (insert expletive here) pooped in the pool once again. It was mostly contained by the swim diaper and rubber pants that he was wearing, but I was still too grossed-out to allow L and Z to continue playing in the water. My plans for an afternoon in the pool were shot and so I was faced with the dubious task of entertaining these little people until bedtime.
After an hour of bickering and whining from all of us, I decided to bump up Movie Night. We watched “Charolette’s Web” and I was instantly reminded of why I had avoided seeing the film when it first came out. I cried like a freakin’ baby! Stupid spider.
When the movie ended, we still had time to kill before the nutritious hot dogs and carrot stick dinner. So I decided it was time to reattempt the removal of the splinter Z had in his foot. After all, it had been there since Sunday. JAO and I had tried to get it out the afternoon it happened, but to no avail. If you have never had the occasion to remove -- or attempt to remove -- a splinter from any part of a child’s body, let me help you understand the situation. It’s like an Olympic event. It involves strength, endurance and determination. Picture the Crocodile Hunter (God rest his soul) laying on top of a giant crock and wrestling it to the ground all the while trying to keep his limbs and extremities out of the flailing creature’s mouth. It’s kinda like that.
Our first attempt at the splinter removal involved JAO pinning Z down, L holding a flashlight and me wielding the tweezers. I couldn’t even get to the splinter because Z was wriggling and kicking and screaming. I looked at JAO and said, “What kind of a man are you? This kid weighs 35 pounds -- can’t you keep him still?” My husband replied, “Fine! You hold him then!”
People, that kid is strong. Especially when he doesn’t want to do something. We gave up after about 15 minutes when we were all too exhausted to continue.
This was no ordinary splinter, however. It was really a thin sliver of metal that had come off the rotary drill bit thingy JAO had used when he was repairing the grout on the pool. So, I knew it couldn’t stay in his foot for long. What if it became embedded and then infected and what if he then had to walk around with a piece of metal in his foot and constantly be stopped walking through metal detectors and having to explain that he wasn’t carrying a weapon but rather his foot contained a splinter that his weakling parents were unable to remove?
No, it had to come out.
As soon as he saw me coming with the tweezers, he freaked. I tried calm cajoling, I tried bribery, I tried threatening -- nothing would convince him to simply sit still and allow me to do what needed to be done. Finally I said, “screw it” and I laid my entire body over his and pinned him to the floor. He was on his stomach facing one way, and I was laying on his back facing his feet. Even in this position, he was still able to squirm and kick and flop around enough to hinder my efforts. He was screaming and shrieking and trying to bite my leg. Then he twisted his upper body enough so that he could start pounding his fist on my back. All the while, poor L is holding the flashlight and saying, “I don’t like this Mommy! This is scary!”
Another therapy session added to her list. And his.
At last the tweezers hit their target and the metal sliver came out. I released Z and sat up. He was so far beyond upset that he continued to furiously scream and cry. If he knew any curse words, I’m sure I would have heard a litany of expletives. He grabbed a shirt off the back of the couch, thrust it into his mouth and bit down on it in a rage.
I still had the metal shard in my hand and didn’t want to drop it on the floor lest anyone else step on it and we’d have to go through this all over again. So, as I was rising to properly dispose of the offending piece of metal, L reached out to her hysterical brother in an attempt to give him a calming hug. The next thing I saw was his foot flying through the air to land a kick squarely on his sister’s mouth.
Instantly, she let out a screech and blood started flowing from her mouth. She had bit down on her tongue -- hard. So, now I have two screaming kids, one bleeding and the other one crying to near convulsions and I’m still holding the metal splinter in my hand.
I quickly ushered L into the kitchen when I dropped the splinter on the counter and grabbed some paper towels to hold over her mouth. Z followed right behind us. His cries had progressed to the sniffling and whimpering and rapid intake of breaths that usually follows a major kid crying jag. Once I was sure I didn’t need to take L to the emergency room for tongue stitches, I sat down on the kitchen floor and held both my upset babies in my arms and rocked and shushed and tried to restore peace.
I even shed a tear or two.
In the end, everyone went to bed splinter and stiches free. Being a single parent sucks. And some days so does being a kid.
But at least the parent has the wine.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
The Talk
When I was young and thought my mother was crazy and out-of-touch, I promised myself and my future daughter that I would be a cool, laid-back, understanding mom. I’d be the kind of mom that my daughter’s friends would look at and say, “Wow, it is so stellar that your mom is, like, so totally awesome.” I was a child of the 80s. Back then, that was the hip way to talk.
But then I grew up. Well, kinda. And I have discovered that I don’t need to be L’s best friend and be a part of all the gossip and late-night talks about which boy is the cutest in class. I just want her to see me as someone she can come to with any problem or question and trust that I will give her an honest and direct answer.
I have struggled with this idea of truthfulness and how it extends (or doesn’t extend) to Santa, the Tooth Fairy and all those other harmless lies we tell our children. I play along, but will always fear that these untruths will taint my image as someone who can be trusted. But this past weekend, when my baby girl curled up on my lap, looked at me with those beautiful, blue, trusting eyes and very sincerely asked, “How does a baby come out of your stomach?” the last thing I wanted to do, was to give her an honest and direct answer.
I paused only slightly and then said, “Well, when it is time for the baby to be born, you go to the hospital and the doctor gets the baby out.” Ha! I did it! That was an honest and direct response that only answered the question asked. No need to elaborate, right?
Wrong.
“Yes, Mom, but how does the doctor get the baby out?”
Damn. Now what? Do I really want to get into this right now with a five-and-a-half-year-old? Is she old enough to know where babies come from? Of course, she’s not asking how the baby got there -- at least not yet. But, if I open up this discussion won’t it lead to The Talk?
Crap, she’s noticed how long I’ve been silent. Now any answer I give her will take on a magnified sense of importance simply because of the time it took to answer it. What if I tell her and then she goes and blabs it to all the other kids in preschool and I get angry phone calls from parents who weren’t even thinking about The Talk, but now must have it because obviously our household is one of sin and promiscuity and our daughter is a fountain of sexual knowledge?!
Okay, say something -- anything!
Speak, woman!
I know! Maybe she’ll accept the c-section explanation better and will be easier to comprehend. Okay, fine...go with that...
“Well, um, sometimes the doctor will have to get the baby out by opening up the mommy’s tummy. See, he makes a cut from here to here and -- ”
At this point, L burst into tears. Clearly, that was not the right direction to take.
I was hit with a litany of “I don’t want the doctor to cut open my tummy! I don’t want to have a baby! Don’t make me, okay Mommy! Promise I don’t ever have to have a baby!”
I was trying to calm her down and assure her that wasn’t a decision she had to make right now. The only way I could get out of that situation was to promise her that I was not going to make her have a baby now or any time in the future. That stopped the tears, but we both walked away from that encounter emotionally drained. And I felt like a huge failure. One of the first big moments in our relationship as trusting daughter/truthful mother was blown all to heck.
I spent the rest of the day worrying about it and trying to figure out how to rectify the situation. I simply couldn’t let her go on thinking that child birth was the horror show she was envisioning.
That night, before I tucked her in, I sat down on her bed beside her and said, “L, can we chat for just a minute about something?”
“Sure, Mom.”
“Well, you know how we talked this morning about how babies are born and you got so upset?”
“Yes. I cried and cried." She began to look concerned again and asked, "I don’t have to have a baby, do I?”
“No, honey," I replied. Then in a lighthearted manner I continued, "Look, L, there’s something else I need to tell you. See, there are two ways a baby can be born. One of them is for the doctor to open up the mommy’s tummy, but the other way is for it to come out from somewhere else.”
“Oh. Where?”
“Well, you know how our body has a lot of different holes, right? And each one is for something different; our nose is how we smell, and our mouth is how we eat, and our ears are how we hear. Well, you know that you have a hole in your hiney where the poo comes out -- ”
People, the disbelieving look on her face said, “Cheese and crackers! Lady, do not tell me that babies come out of your butt!”
Quickly I said, “And then there is your hoo-hoo. Babies come out of your hoo-hoo.”
Her response was to pause for a moment and then crack up laughing and say, “They come out of your hoo-hoo?! Ooooh, that is so gross!”
To which I replied, “Well, yes, it sorta is.”
(On a side note: I know that it is considered the progressive way of parenting to use the correct anatomical words for body parts. And we do use the correct words for everything but the hoo-hoo. I hate the V-word. It just sounds icky to me and I never use it. Perhaps it was all the years of being taunted with the horrible nickname Vagina-Regina. Whatever -- hoo-hoo it is.)
“Does it hurt?”
Yes, it hurts worse than anything you could ever imagine and you will wish someone would club you over the head with a metal hospital stool just so your could focus your attention on some pain other than the excruciating sensation of Mac truck trying to drive its way out of your hoo-hoo.
“No, it’s not that bad. The doctor can give you some medicine that makes it not hurt at all.”
“Do you drink the medicine?”
“No. Brace yourself...it’s a shot. But, the shot doesn’t even hurt.”
“You don’t feel the shot?”
No, because you are already writhing in so much pain to the point where a gigantic needle being shoved into your spine is hardly even noticeable.
“Nope. Don’t feel it at all.”
Then, my little girl let out a huge sigh of relief and a big grin spread across her face. She said, “Okay, Mom. Maybe I will think about having a baby after all.”
“That’s great, L. Just don’t think about it for another 20 years or so, okay?”
She threw her arms around my neck and said, “Thank you for making me feel better, Mommy.”
I hugged my baby girl and said, “You’re welcome, Monkey. Now you get some sleep, okay?”
For the love of all that is ovulating, please fall asleep before you remember to ask me how the baby gets in your tummy in the first place...
“Good night, L. I love you.”
“I love you, too, Mommy. Good night.”
Whew!
Being truthful is hard work. Where’s the stork when you need him?
But then I grew up. Well, kinda. And I have discovered that I don’t need to be L’s best friend and be a part of all the gossip and late-night talks about which boy is the cutest in class. I just want her to see me as someone she can come to with any problem or question and trust that I will give her an honest and direct answer.
I have struggled with this idea of truthfulness and how it extends (or doesn’t extend) to Santa, the Tooth Fairy and all those other harmless lies we tell our children. I play along, but will always fear that these untruths will taint my image as someone who can be trusted. But this past weekend, when my baby girl curled up on my lap, looked at me with those beautiful, blue, trusting eyes and very sincerely asked, “How does a baby come out of your stomach?” the last thing I wanted to do, was to give her an honest and direct answer.
I paused only slightly and then said, “Well, when it is time for the baby to be born, you go to the hospital and the doctor gets the baby out.” Ha! I did it! That was an honest and direct response that only answered the question asked. No need to elaborate, right?
Wrong.
“Yes, Mom, but how does the doctor get the baby out?”
Damn. Now what? Do I really want to get into this right now with a five-and-a-half-year-old? Is she old enough to know where babies come from? Of course, she’s not asking how the baby got there -- at least not yet. But, if I open up this discussion won’t it lead to The Talk?
Crap, she’s noticed how long I’ve been silent. Now any answer I give her will take on a magnified sense of importance simply because of the time it took to answer it. What if I tell her and then she goes and blabs it to all the other kids in preschool and I get angry phone calls from parents who weren’t even thinking about The Talk, but now must have it because obviously our household is one of sin and promiscuity and our daughter is a fountain of sexual knowledge?!
Okay, say something -- anything!
Speak, woman!
I know! Maybe she’ll accept the c-section explanation better and will be easier to comprehend. Okay, fine...go with that...
“Well, um, sometimes the doctor will have to get the baby out by opening up the mommy’s tummy. See, he makes a cut from here to here and -- ”
At this point, L burst into tears. Clearly, that was not the right direction to take.
I was hit with a litany of “I don’t want the doctor to cut open my tummy! I don’t want to have a baby! Don’t make me, okay Mommy! Promise I don’t ever have to have a baby!”
I was trying to calm her down and assure her that wasn’t a decision she had to make right now. The only way I could get out of that situation was to promise her that I was not going to make her have a baby now or any time in the future. That stopped the tears, but we both walked away from that encounter emotionally drained. And I felt like a huge failure. One of the first big moments in our relationship as trusting daughter/truthful mother was blown all to heck.
I spent the rest of the day worrying about it and trying to figure out how to rectify the situation. I simply couldn’t let her go on thinking that child birth was the horror show she was envisioning.
That night, before I tucked her in, I sat down on her bed beside her and said, “L, can we chat for just a minute about something?”
“Sure, Mom.”
“Well, you know how we talked this morning about how babies are born and you got so upset?”
“Yes. I cried and cried." She began to look concerned again and asked, "I don’t have to have a baby, do I?”
“No, honey," I replied. Then in a lighthearted manner I continued, "Look, L, there’s something else I need to tell you. See, there are two ways a baby can be born. One of them is for the doctor to open up the mommy’s tummy, but the other way is for it to come out from somewhere else.”
“Oh. Where?”
“Well, you know how our body has a lot of different holes, right? And each one is for something different; our nose is how we smell, and our mouth is how we eat, and our ears are how we hear. Well, you know that you have a hole in your hiney where the poo comes out -- ”
People, the disbelieving look on her face said, “Cheese and crackers! Lady, do not tell me that babies come out of your butt!”
Quickly I said, “And then there is your hoo-hoo. Babies come out of your hoo-hoo.”
Her response was to pause for a moment and then crack up laughing and say, “They come out of your hoo-hoo?! Ooooh, that is so gross!”
To which I replied, “Well, yes, it sorta is.”
(On a side note: I know that it is considered the progressive way of parenting to use the correct anatomical words for body parts. And we do use the correct words for everything but the hoo-hoo. I hate the V-word. It just sounds icky to me and I never use it. Perhaps it was all the years of being taunted with the horrible nickname Vagina-Regina. Whatever -- hoo-hoo it is.)
“Does it hurt?”
Yes, it hurts worse than anything you could ever imagine and you will wish someone would club you over the head with a metal hospital stool just so your could focus your attention on some pain other than the excruciating sensation of Mac truck trying to drive its way out of your hoo-hoo.
“No, it’s not that bad. The doctor can give you some medicine that makes it not hurt at all.”
“Do you drink the medicine?”
“No. Brace yourself...it’s a shot. But, the shot doesn’t even hurt.”
“You don’t feel the shot?”
No, because you are already writhing in so much pain to the point where a gigantic needle being shoved into your spine is hardly even noticeable.
“Nope. Don’t feel it at all.”
Then, my little girl let out a huge sigh of relief and a big grin spread across her face. She said, “Okay, Mom. Maybe I will think about having a baby after all.”
“That’s great, L. Just don’t think about it for another 20 years or so, okay?”
She threw her arms around my neck and said, “Thank you for making me feel better, Mommy.”
I hugged my baby girl and said, “You’re welcome, Monkey. Now you get some sleep, okay?”
For the love of all that is ovulating, please fall asleep before you remember to ask me how the baby gets in your tummy in the first place...
“Good night, L. I love you.”
“I love you, too, Mommy. Good night.”
Whew!
Being truthful is hard work. Where’s the stork when you need him?
Monday, May 10, 2010
Things Z Taught Me
Z turned three-years-old yesterday. I think I am now supposed to pause and reflect sentimentally on the past 1095 days this boy has been in my life. I should pull out all the standard clichés about the rapid progression of time and the “it seems like only yesterday” phrases. But tearing up at my kids’ baby pictures and lamenting the official end of my role as a mother of and infant/toddler is not my style.
I’m not made of stone, people -- I love that boy more than I ever thought it was possible to love someone who was so destructive. JAO accuses me of being soft on Z and falling for his little boy, cute manipulative ways. And I freely admit to my guilt. When he was first born, I had this overwhelming desire to retreat to my bedroom with my sweet, swaddled baby son and lock out the rest of the world. Now, of course, it is my overwhelming desire to flee to my room and lock Z out.
Nah, I’m kidding. No matter what, that kid is my favorite baby son and nothing will ever change that. I used to tease JAO about how much his mother still dotes on him and looks at him as though he could do no wrong; when I, in fact, know better. But now I understand her looks of adoration cast on her now-grown son. I used to tell my mother that she liked my brother best and she would always deny it. Now, however, I have a sneaking suspicion that I might have been right all along. You don’t mess with mothers and sons. There is a bubble around them that seals their special bond and protects it from the rest of the world.
Inside the bubble, however, a war of frustration and determination -- and sometimes poo -- rages.
Begrudgingly I will admit that I have come to, somewhat, enjoy the new form our relationship has taken. It’s a “him vs. me” game that both of us are determined to win. Z is trying to come up with new and creative ways to destroy my home or display some type of crazy-in-the-head shocking behavior and I, of course, try to thwart his efforts. Who is winning? I like to think that arguments could be made for either side; however, my guess is that you would all put your money on Z.
At the very least, life with Z has not been boring. In fact, it has been quite educational. The following is my list of Top Ten Things I Have Learned Being the Mommy of Z:
I know there are more lessons to be learned from my favorite little man and I look forward to whatever the next 1095 days have to bring. I am a better mom and perhaps even a better person because of Z. And yes, I teared-up a little bit during that last sentence. Like I said, I'm not made of stone. I love my son -- poo and all.
I’m not made of stone, people -- I love that boy more than I ever thought it was possible to love someone who was so destructive. JAO accuses me of being soft on Z and falling for his little boy, cute manipulative ways. And I freely admit to my guilt. When he was first born, I had this overwhelming desire to retreat to my bedroom with my sweet, swaddled baby son and lock out the rest of the world. Now, of course, it is my overwhelming desire to flee to my room and lock Z out.
Nah, I’m kidding. No matter what, that kid is my favorite baby son and nothing will ever change that. I used to tease JAO about how much his mother still dotes on him and looks at him as though he could do no wrong; when I, in fact, know better. But now I understand her looks of adoration cast on her now-grown son. I used to tell my mother that she liked my brother best and she would always deny it. Now, however, I have a sneaking suspicion that I might have been right all along. You don’t mess with mothers and sons. There is a bubble around them that seals their special bond and protects it from the rest of the world.
Inside the bubble, however, a war of frustration and determination -- and sometimes poo -- rages.
Begrudgingly I will admit that I have come to, somewhat, enjoy the new form our relationship has taken. It’s a “him vs. me” game that both of us are determined to win. Z is trying to come up with new and creative ways to destroy my home or display some type of crazy-in-the-head shocking behavior and I, of course, try to thwart his efforts. Who is winning? I like to think that arguments could be made for either side; however, my guess is that you would all put your money on Z.
At the very least, life with Z has not been boring. In fact, it has been quite educational. The following is my list of Top Ten Things I Have Learned Being the Mommy of Z:
1.) Nothing cracks me up more (or disturbs me as much) as watching Z roll his eyes back in his head to the point where his pupils almost entirely disappear from sight.
2.) Washable markers are not, in fact, washable when applied to carpet.
3.) If you’re bored, throwing toys down the heating and air vents in the floor is a fun distraction.
4.) If you try hard enough, you can wedge a wooden train into almost any crevice to the point where it is impossible to retrieve.
5.) A running child can cross the entire length of a Super Target in 12 seconds. A running mom pushing a buggy needs at least 20.
6.) Spill-proof cups are not, in fact, spill-proof when hurled at the wall with the intent of a major-league pitcher.
7.) The command “faster!” screamed by an excited Z being pushed on a swing can make passers-by think he is commenting on the marital status of their parents at the time of their birth.
8.) An open container of anything -- water, Coke, a can of Spaghettioes -- should never be left out unless you wish to see the contents of the container dumped out onto whatever surface is available.
9.) Even after he has had a complete, nutritious meal, if you walk into the room carrying anything remotely food-like, he will rush over to you and hold his mouth open like a baby bird. “Bite? Me, bite?” “Z, this is a plate of fish head and cabbage.” “Me have some?” Sigh.
10.) A little boy dressed in a pink tu-tu and sporting a head full of pink hair bows still looks like a boy.
I know there are more lessons to be learned from my favorite little man and I look forward to whatever the next 1095 days have to bring. I am a better mom and perhaps even a better person because of Z. And yes, I teared-up a little bit during that last sentence. Like I said, I'm not made of stone. I love my son -- poo and all.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Let's Start a Revolution
So, apparently, The Revolution is coming. Are you prepared?
Anyone who knows my husband is aware of his fiscally conservative values. He is not one to make judgments on social issues, but for the love of all that is capitalistic don’t mess with his money. JAO is a financial advisor and is, therefore, quite knowledgeable in the ways of, well, finance. I, on the other hand, haven’t balanced a checkbook in nearly a decade. I don’t know who holds our mortgage, where our investments are or how much money is in his 401K. If pressed, I probably couldn’t even tell you what a 401K is. And I am fine with that.
JAO tells me I need to learn all this stuff just in case something ever happens to him. I tell him I choose to be optimistic about his longevity. Plus, what if I die before he does? Then I will have learned all that money stuff for nothing.
Lately, however, JAO is showing signs of increased unrest and frustration with our government. Don’t be too concerned; he hasn’t slipped into the realm of radical extremism. You don’t need to call the FBI and tell them he’s buying property at Ruby Ridge. But, I think he has looked at land up in the mountains of North Georgia.
It all started with Glenn Beck. Say what you will about the man, he is charismatic and very passionate about his beliefs. I don’t care to listen to him rant, but he seems to be saying a lot of the things JAO has been feeling only didn’t have the chalkboard on which to illustrate it. I prefer to unwind at the end of the day with a glass of wine and a good episode of 48 Hours Hard Evidence. JAO likes to kick back with Glenn.
The next step came with the purchase of the book The Backyard Homestead, a manual that promises to help you “produce all the food you need on just a quarter acre!” When asked why this was a necessary purchase, JAO replied, “We may need to know how to live off the land in order to survive The Revolution.”
My response was, “Unless there are instructions in there for growing your own Chex Mix trees or Pringles bushes, then I would rather not survive.” He then pointed out that there is a section in the book dedicated the growing, harvesting and fermenting of grapes for the purpose of making wine. So, I may be able to stick around for a least a few weeks after The Revolution.
Then came the delivery from FedEx. Inside the package were boxes of ammunition and a heavy-duty, Army type backpack. Being a hunter and an avid gun enthusiast, I wasn’t too surprised by the ammo. The third item, however, I found puzzling -- if not a bit disturbing. (I know, I know, some of you may find the ammo disturbing. I’m not going to get all NRA on you, but I have no problem with guns when in the hands of someone responsible and well-trained. We have a gun safe and every weapon in this house is securely locked up and out of the reach of children. So get off my 2nd Amendment back, okay?)
So, back to what I found disturbing: Also in the box, was $75 worth of MREs. That’s Meal, Ready to Eat for those militarily-challenged. Or my sister-in-law who called them MR3s.
I just cocked my head to the side, looked at him in wonder and asked, “What in the name of all that is frivolous and crazy made you buy those?”
“I don’t know. I wanted to see what they tasted like. I thought I could take them down to the hunting camp.”
“So, you want to sit in the woods in the middle of nowhere and eat your freeze-dried meatloaf and pretend you are the only one left on the planet?”
“Something like that.” Then he said, “You’ll thank me for all this preparation when The Revolution happens and we need this stuff to survive.”
I felt like I finally needed to get to the bottom of this revolutionary fear. “What, exactly, do you think is going to happen that will require us to live in mud huts and fashion clothing out of bacon?”
His response was to say that if the people who were opposed to the government finally got fed up enough and rose up against the tyranny then the government would respond by trying to crush the opposition. It’s not like history isn’t littered with that type of scenario. A Revolution is what this country was founded on. Is it really so far-fetched to think it could never happen again?
“It is never a bad idea," he concluded, "to be prepared.”
“I guess," I replied, "but think about this: If The Revolution occurs, there is bound to be a large wave of casualties at the onset, followed by those who have to dig in and live off the land to survive. I plan to die in the first wave. I am not a survivor. Gloria Gainer was not singing to me. I hope in the wilderness you can find a like-minded, Bear Grylls, Man vs. Wild, uber-woman to help you tend your gardens and repopulate the country with hearty, freedom-loving patriots like yourselves.”
He thought for a second and then said, “Okay. I’m going to go put this stuff down in the hunting closet. See ya.”
A few days later I saw a t-shirt that said, “Party like it’s 1773!” It made me laugh. Though it was a bit of a disturbing laugh.
And then I thought, “Hmmm...I wonder if that shirt comes in bacon...?”
Anyone who knows my husband is aware of his fiscally conservative values. He is not one to make judgments on social issues, but for the love of all that is capitalistic don’t mess with his money. JAO is a financial advisor and is, therefore, quite knowledgeable in the ways of, well, finance. I, on the other hand, haven’t balanced a checkbook in nearly a decade. I don’t know who holds our mortgage, where our investments are or how much money is in his 401K. If pressed, I probably couldn’t even tell you what a 401K is. And I am fine with that.
JAO tells me I need to learn all this stuff just in case something ever happens to him. I tell him I choose to be optimistic about his longevity. Plus, what if I die before he does? Then I will have learned all that money stuff for nothing.
Lately, however, JAO is showing signs of increased unrest and frustration with our government. Don’t be too concerned; he hasn’t slipped into the realm of radical extremism. You don’t need to call the FBI and tell them he’s buying property at Ruby Ridge. But, I think he has looked at land up in the mountains of North Georgia.
It all started with Glenn Beck. Say what you will about the man, he is charismatic and very passionate about his beliefs. I don’t care to listen to him rant, but he seems to be saying a lot of the things JAO has been feeling only didn’t have the chalkboard on which to illustrate it. I prefer to unwind at the end of the day with a glass of wine and a good episode of 48 Hours Hard Evidence. JAO likes to kick back with Glenn.
The next step came with the purchase of the book The Backyard Homestead, a manual that promises to help you “produce all the food you need on just a quarter acre!” When asked why this was a necessary purchase, JAO replied, “We may need to know how to live off the land in order to survive The Revolution.”
My response was, “Unless there are instructions in there for growing your own Chex Mix trees or Pringles bushes, then I would rather not survive.” He then pointed out that there is a section in the book dedicated the growing, harvesting and fermenting of grapes for the purpose of making wine. So, I may be able to stick around for a least a few weeks after The Revolution.
Then came the delivery from FedEx. Inside the package were boxes of ammunition and a heavy-duty, Army type backpack. Being a hunter and an avid gun enthusiast, I wasn’t too surprised by the ammo. The third item, however, I found puzzling -- if not a bit disturbing. (I know, I know, some of you may find the ammo disturbing. I’m not going to get all NRA on you, but I have no problem with guns when in the hands of someone responsible and well-trained. We have a gun safe and every weapon in this house is securely locked up and out of the reach of children. So get off my 2nd Amendment back, okay?)
So, back to what I found disturbing: Also in the box, was $75 worth of MREs. That’s Meal, Ready to Eat for those militarily-challenged. Or my sister-in-law who called them MR3s.
I just cocked my head to the side, looked at him in wonder and asked, “What in the name of all that is frivolous and crazy made you buy those?”
“I don’t know. I wanted to see what they tasted like. I thought I could take them down to the hunting camp.”
“So, you want to sit in the woods in the middle of nowhere and eat your freeze-dried meatloaf and pretend you are the only one left on the planet?”
“Something like that.” Then he said, “You’ll thank me for all this preparation when The Revolution happens and we need this stuff to survive.”
I felt like I finally needed to get to the bottom of this revolutionary fear. “What, exactly, do you think is going to happen that will require us to live in mud huts and fashion clothing out of bacon?”
His response was to say that if the people who were opposed to the government finally got fed up enough and rose up against the tyranny then the government would respond by trying to crush the opposition. It’s not like history isn’t littered with that type of scenario. A Revolution is what this country was founded on. Is it really so far-fetched to think it could never happen again?
“It is never a bad idea," he concluded, "to be prepared.”
“I guess," I replied, "but think about this: If The Revolution occurs, there is bound to be a large wave of casualties at the onset, followed by those who have to dig in and live off the land to survive. I plan to die in the first wave. I am not a survivor. Gloria Gainer was not singing to me. I hope in the wilderness you can find a like-minded, Bear Grylls, Man vs. Wild, uber-woman to help you tend your gardens and repopulate the country with hearty, freedom-loving patriots like yourselves.”
He thought for a second and then said, “Okay. I’m going to go put this stuff down in the hunting closet. See ya.”
A few days later I saw a t-shirt that said, “Party like it’s 1773!” It made me laugh. Though it was a bit of a disturbing laugh.
And then I thought, “Hmmm...I wonder if that shirt comes in bacon...?”
Monday, April 26, 2010
WTH?
What, in the holy hell is wrong with me? Wait...don’t answer that.
Monday mornings are usually quite lazy for us. Not that we are overly-active and productive the rest of the week. However, on Mondays, no one goes to school and we typically don’t have anywhere special to be until L’s ballet class at 4:30 in afternoon. So, this morning, I lounged around upstairs (okay, fine, I was still in the bed) until about 10:30. Yes, my life is hard. Don’t be a hater. JAO was making some important, financial-business phone calls and Z and L were fiddling around in the playroom. All was right with the world.
From my bed, I took a couple of phone calls then wandered downstairs to pour my first cup of coffee. I decided to check L’s ballet schedule to see if there was anything I needed to know about her class today. Sure enough, April 26 is listed as Fun Dancewear Day, which means the students can abandon their required light blue leotard and skirt in favor of something more, um, fun. Usually, it just means the class is full of Disney princess wannabes.
Because I am so thorough, or maybe because there is some part of my brain that fell out during pregnancy, I double-checked my own calendar to make sure that today was, indeed, the 26th of April. In case you were wondering, it is.
Also, in case you were wondering today is Ella’s Princess birthday party.
What??! Quickly, I grabbed the party invitation and, in a panic, scanned the details. My heart sank as I read the arrival time: 11:00 a.m. People, I looked at the clock and it said 10:58. Yes, I had this party written on my calendar, but I wrote that it was at 1:00! Every time I have glanced up at the calendar that hangs just above my computer -- the computer I am constantly on and, therefore, am constantly looking at said calendar -- I have read that the party was at 1:00.
Regardless, I knew that if I allowed L to miss this party, she would be crushed. It would be just another sad tale to add to her growing list of maternal failures to be discussed with her future therapist. I was not going to let that happen. Operation Get L to the Princess Party was a go!
Trying to keep the panic out of my voice, I yelled for L that we needed to get ready for Ella's party now! Why don’t you step inside my head and I’ll take you on the ride that followed...
Blue princess dress! Go get it! Wait, it’s not upstairs. Where is it? Where is it? Oh, yeah! She’d spilled a bit of fingernail polish on it last week and I was supposed to be trying to get it out. It’s in the laundry room! Uh oh, it’s underneath a pile of sheets and towels. Is it too wrinkled? No. It’s good. How does it smell? Fine. Wait? How about the polish? Nope, barely visible. Thank the Lord.
Quick! Put it on! Where are your fancy, silver sparkle shoes? Crap! We left them at Gran’s house last week! Don’t panic, don’t panic...here, wear the old ones from Target. They still have some sparkle in them. No, they look fine! Hurry!
Okay, princess hair...pile it all up on top of your head and spray it. Perfect! Jewelry, jewelry...here! Put on this necklace. Quick, run to your room and get a bracelet! I don’t care which one, just run!
Thank you, Jesus, it is a drop-off party so I don’t have to look too cute. I should probably put on a bra, though. Where’s the sundress I had on yesterday? Here it is. Yes, L, I am going to wear underwear. Geez! Okay, now I’m at least presentable.
A crown, a crown...where’s a freakin’ crown? For the love of all that is royal, any other morning, I would have stepped on about four tiaras just getting from my bed to the bathroom. Now there isn’t one to be found. Throw everything out of the dress-up basket -- of course it’s at the very bottom -- got it! The princess transformation is now complete!
Where’s the gift? On the kitchen counter. Thank heavens I thought to buy it last week instead of my usual just pick something up on the way to the party MO. Crap, I don’t have a bag -- good here’s one that isn’t too beat-up. Throw the gift in there along with some tissue paper. Card, card, we didn’t get a card! Oh, good, there’s a tag on the bag that hasn’t been written on. Quick, write "Love, L" on it! Done! To the van!!
Okay, you can get out of my head, now.
Faithful readers, I want you to know I got L to that party at 11:10. Touch that! That must be some kind of record! Fortunately, the party was only 1.2 miles away from the house and JAO was still home so I didn’t have to worry about getting Z dressed to go with us. Another potential childhood trauma avoided. Phew.
Now here’s the last laugh of this pathetic story: When I got back home, I took a closer look at my calendar and discovered that I had, indeed, listed the correct time for the party. But the two ones in my number 11 were written too close together.
Seriously. WTH?
Monday mornings are usually quite lazy for us. Not that we are overly-active and productive the rest of the week. However, on Mondays, no one goes to school and we typically don’t have anywhere special to be until L’s ballet class at 4:30 in afternoon. So, this morning, I lounged around upstairs (okay, fine, I was still in the bed) until about 10:30. Yes, my life is hard. Don’t be a hater. JAO was making some important, financial-business phone calls and Z and L were fiddling around in the playroom. All was right with the world.
From my bed, I took a couple of phone calls then wandered downstairs to pour my first cup of coffee. I decided to check L’s ballet schedule to see if there was anything I needed to know about her class today. Sure enough, April 26 is listed as Fun Dancewear Day, which means the students can abandon their required light blue leotard and skirt in favor of something more, um, fun. Usually, it just means the class is full of Disney princess wannabes.
Because I am so thorough, or maybe because there is some part of my brain that fell out during pregnancy, I double-checked my own calendar to make sure that today was, indeed, the 26th of April. In case you were wondering, it is.
Also, in case you were wondering today is Ella’s Princess birthday party.
What??! Quickly, I grabbed the party invitation and, in a panic, scanned the details. My heart sank as I read the arrival time: 11:00 a.m. People, I looked at the clock and it said 10:58. Yes, I had this party written on my calendar, but I wrote that it was at 1:00! Every time I have glanced up at the calendar that hangs just above my computer -- the computer I am constantly on and, therefore, am constantly looking at said calendar -- I have read that the party was at 1:00.
Regardless, I knew that if I allowed L to miss this party, she would be crushed. It would be just another sad tale to add to her growing list of maternal failures to be discussed with her future therapist. I was not going to let that happen. Operation Get L to the Princess Party was a go!
Trying to keep the panic out of my voice, I yelled for L that we needed to get ready for Ella's party now! Why don’t you step inside my head and I’ll take you on the ride that followed...
Blue princess dress! Go get it! Wait, it’s not upstairs. Where is it? Where is it? Oh, yeah! She’d spilled a bit of fingernail polish on it last week and I was supposed to be trying to get it out. It’s in the laundry room! Uh oh, it’s underneath a pile of sheets and towels. Is it too wrinkled? No. It’s good. How does it smell? Fine. Wait? How about the polish? Nope, barely visible. Thank the Lord.
Quick! Put it on! Where are your fancy, silver sparkle shoes? Crap! We left them at Gran’s house last week! Don’t panic, don’t panic...here, wear the old ones from Target. They still have some sparkle in them. No, they look fine! Hurry!
Okay, princess hair...pile it all up on top of your head and spray it. Perfect! Jewelry, jewelry...here! Put on this necklace. Quick, run to your room and get a bracelet! I don’t care which one, just run!
Thank you, Jesus, it is a drop-off party so I don’t have to look too cute. I should probably put on a bra, though. Where’s the sundress I had on yesterday? Here it is. Yes, L, I am going to wear underwear. Geez! Okay, now I’m at least presentable.
A crown, a crown...where’s a freakin’ crown? For the love of all that is royal, any other morning, I would have stepped on about four tiaras just getting from my bed to the bathroom. Now there isn’t one to be found. Throw everything out of the dress-up basket -- of course it’s at the very bottom -- got it! The princess transformation is now complete!
Where’s the gift? On the kitchen counter. Thank heavens I thought to buy it last week instead of my usual just pick something up on the way to the party MO. Crap, I don’t have a bag -- good here’s one that isn’t too beat-up. Throw the gift in there along with some tissue paper. Card, card, we didn’t get a card! Oh, good, there’s a tag on the bag that hasn’t been written on. Quick, write "Love, L" on it! Done! To the van!!
Okay, you can get out of my head, now.
Faithful readers, I want you to know I got L to that party at 11:10. Touch that! That must be some kind of record! Fortunately, the party was only 1.2 miles away from the house and JAO was still home so I didn’t have to worry about getting Z dressed to go with us. Another potential childhood trauma avoided. Phew.
Now here’s the last laugh of this pathetic story: When I got back home, I took a closer look at my calendar and discovered that I had, indeed, listed the correct time for the party. But the two ones in my number 11 were written too close together.
Seriously. WTH?
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Z is Trying to Kill Me
I am sure there will come a time when you all tire of my seemingly endless tirade against my son. I will also be extremely relieved to reach the point where that little -- deep, calming breath -- boy is no longer giving me topics on which to write.
Sadly, that time has not yet come. Please enjoy tonight’s edition of “Z is Trying to Kill Me Slowly but Surely.”
My mother-in-law baby-sat the kids today and JAO didn’t arrive home until around 7:45. So Z and L were allowed to stay up just a bit past their bedtime to see their father and spend some more time with their Nana. As it was nearing 9:00, a very sleepy Z was curled up next to me on the sofa, sucking his thumb and exuding all kinds of sweet, little boy cuteness.
I believe I have mentioned before that I have grown leery of his innocent angel tactics and very rarely fall for his attempts at manipulating me into thinking he is anything but the Spawn of Satan. Even though I allowed myself to indulge in a few cuddles, I remained on-guard and alert for any signs of a sudden uprising. He can turn on a dime. You always have to be ready.
I was carrying the deceptively adorable child up the stairs and he cupped my face in his hands and put kisses on both of my eyelids. Don’t go saying, “Awwww...how cute” to that! I think he was trying to get me to trip while going up the stairs.
After a brief battle over whether or not the stripped p.j. pants went with the shirt with the baseball glove and ball on it (apparently he’s never seen the old fashioned baseball uniforms), I managed to brush a few of his teeth and tuck him into bed. I pulled his ducky blanket up to his chin and kissed him, Toothless and Rocket (a plastic tree ornament of the rocket from Little Einsteins), and bid them all a good night.
I retired to the home office for some emailing, Facebooking, FoxNews.com-ing (don’t judge me) and generally chilling out at the end of the day. I was just in the middle of an article on Iran sanctions when I heard the tell-tale sound of a young person “sneaking” down the stairs. I use the term sneaking loosely because the kid seems to have no idea that sound travels.
I turned around as he got to the bottom of the steps and I said, “Z...what do you think you are doing?”
His response was to half walk/half shuffle into the office, all the while making a strange tapping noise on the hardwood floor as he moved along. He reached the office chair where I was sitting and it was then that I realized the tapping noise was being made by the small plastic top of a Chapstick tube that he was gripping in between his toes. The air around me was suddenly awash with the unmistakable scent of the lip balm.
“Z, did you put Chapstick on your lips?”
“No.”
“On your face?”
“No.”
“Well, where did you put it?”
He responded by holding his hands up, palms out, in front of my face.
“You put it on your hands?”
“Yes.” Grin. Beat. “And the carpet.”
“WHAT?”
I leapt up from my chair and grabbed him by the shirt collar and ordered him upstairs to show me what he had done. This kid had the nerve to hold his evil, little hands up to me indicating I was to carry him upstairs to witness his destruction!
“No way, Jose, you march your little butt up those stairs right now and show me what you’ve done.”
So, we got to his room and, with some trepidation, I turned on the overhead light. There was no Chapstick damage to be found. I was relieved -- but only briefly.
“Z? Where is the Chapstick?”
Big smile. “Downstairs. Me show you. Come on, Mommy!”
I allowed myself to be lead down the stairs, bracing myself for what I was about to encounter. People, it is just as bad as you might imagine. This kid -- who only last week received not one, but two spankings with The Spoon for writing on the carpet with blue marker, took a tube of Chapstick and smeared and smushed it all into the carpet. And he had the nerve to look all proud about it!
This was not your plain tube of Chapstick, my friend. It was cherry -- bright red cherry. And he did it right next to one of the horrid blue crop circles still evident from last week. Now my carpet resembles a bowl of that freakin’ rainbow sherbet that comes at the end of your meal at a Japanese restaurant!
I called my mother to vent before I went all Medieval on the boy. She reminded me that I once took a tracing wheel and punctured her dining room table with tiny, little holes. And I wrote on my bedroom wall in permanent ink (we didn’t have washable markers back then, you know). And I may have spilled an entire bottle of nail polish remover on her cedar chest, which ate off all the finish.
Dear Karma, you suck.
She sympathized, warned me against beating Z and told me to go write about the incident in an effort to release my frustration. And, under no circumstance, was I allowed to refer to her grandson as “The Spawn of Satan.”
Silly, silly woman. If it looks like a duck, walks like a duck, and sounds like a duck, then Z is evil. Now, where the hell is that carpet cleaner...
Sadly, that time has not yet come. Please enjoy tonight’s edition of “Z is Trying to Kill Me Slowly but Surely.”
My mother-in-law baby-sat the kids today and JAO didn’t arrive home until around 7:45. So Z and L were allowed to stay up just a bit past their bedtime to see their father and spend some more time with their Nana. As it was nearing 9:00, a very sleepy Z was curled up next to me on the sofa, sucking his thumb and exuding all kinds of sweet, little boy cuteness.
I believe I have mentioned before that I have grown leery of his innocent angel tactics and very rarely fall for his attempts at manipulating me into thinking he is anything but the Spawn of Satan. Even though I allowed myself to indulge in a few cuddles, I remained on-guard and alert for any signs of a sudden uprising. He can turn on a dime. You always have to be ready.
I was carrying the deceptively adorable child up the stairs and he cupped my face in his hands and put kisses on both of my eyelids. Don’t go saying, “Awwww...how cute” to that! I think he was trying to get me to trip while going up the stairs.
After a brief battle over whether or not the stripped p.j. pants went with the shirt with the baseball glove and ball on it (apparently he’s never seen the old fashioned baseball uniforms), I managed to brush a few of his teeth and tuck him into bed. I pulled his ducky blanket up to his chin and kissed him, Toothless and Rocket (a plastic tree ornament of the rocket from Little Einsteins), and bid them all a good night.
I retired to the home office for some emailing, Facebooking, FoxNews.com-ing (don’t judge me) and generally chilling out at the end of the day. I was just in the middle of an article on Iran sanctions when I heard the tell-tale sound of a young person “sneaking” down the stairs. I use the term sneaking loosely because the kid seems to have no idea that sound travels.
I turned around as he got to the bottom of the steps and I said, “Z...what do you think you are doing?”
His response was to half walk/half shuffle into the office, all the while making a strange tapping noise on the hardwood floor as he moved along. He reached the office chair where I was sitting and it was then that I realized the tapping noise was being made by the small plastic top of a Chapstick tube that he was gripping in between his toes. The air around me was suddenly awash with the unmistakable scent of the lip balm.
“Z, did you put Chapstick on your lips?”
“No.”
“On your face?”
“No.”
“Well, where did you put it?”
He responded by holding his hands up, palms out, in front of my face.
“You put it on your hands?”
“Yes.” Grin. Beat. “And the carpet.”
“WHAT?”
I leapt up from my chair and grabbed him by the shirt collar and ordered him upstairs to show me what he had done. This kid had the nerve to hold his evil, little hands up to me indicating I was to carry him upstairs to witness his destruction!
“No way, Jose, you march your little butt up those stairs right now and show me what you’ve done.”
So, we got to his room and, with some trepidation, I turned on the overhead light. There was no Chapstick damage to be found. I was relieved -- but only briefly.
“Z? Where is the Chapstick?”
Big smile. “Downstairs. Me show you. Come on, Mommy!”
I allowed myself to be lead down the stairs, bracing myself for what I was about to encounter. People, it is just as bad as you might imagine. This kid -- who only last week received not one, but two spankings with The Spoon for writing on the carpet with blue marker, took a tube of Chapstick and smeared and smushed it all into the carpet. And he had the nerve to look all proud about it!
This was not your plain tube of Chapstick, my friend. It was cherry -- bright red cherry. And he did it right next to one of the horrid blue crop circles still evident from last week. Now my carpet resembles a bowl of that freakin’ rainbow sherbet that comes at the end of your meal at a Japanese restaurant!
I called my mother to vent before I went all Medieval on the boy. She reminded me that I once took a tracing wheel and punctured her dining room table with tiny, little holes. And I wrote on my bedroom wall in permanent ink (we didn’t have washable markers back then, you know). And I may have spilled an entire bottle of nail polish remover on her cedar chest, which ate off all the finish.
Dear Karma, you suck.
She sympathized, warned me against beating Z and told me to go write about the incident in an effort to release my frustration. And, under no circumstance, was I allowed to refer to her grandson as “The Spawn of Satan.”
Silly, silly woman. If it looks like a duck, walks like a duck, and sounds like a duck, then Z is evil. Now, where the hell is that carpet cleaner...
Friday, April 23, 2010
Mother of the Year
I have taken one more giant step away from the trophy awarded to the Mother of the Year.
Allow me to share my shame...
A bit of background for those not in the know: I am notoriously late everywhere I go. It doesn’t help that I married someone who also suffers from the same affliction. Even when we have the best intentions, we always seem to be running behind. Well into adulthood, our kids will probably still have nightmares where they wake up screaming, “I don’t have time to deal with you this morning! Eat your frozen pancake or we’re going to be late!”
A great example: We chose our church based on its proximity to our house. It is only 2.81 miles from our driveway to the church parking lot -- and we are still the last ones to arrive at Sunday School (well, if we arrive at all).
In high school I once flunked my Economics class because it was first period and I was late nearly 50 percent of the time. I know, I know, what a shocker that I did not do well in a class involving math and money management. But, seriously, if I had actually been on time to school and had attended the class like I was supposed to I’m sure that I -- oh, screw it. I would have failed either way.
Anyway, there are times when I have striven to overcome this stigma and actually attempted to arrive somewhere on time. Yesterday morning was one of those times.
It was Mom’s Tea day at L’s preschool. She had been talking about it for weeks and was so excited that I was going to be coming to her class. She said there was a special song she was going to sing for me and a special gift that she’d made -- but I wasn’t supposed to ask her about any of it because it was all a big surprise. I was filled with the special Mother-Daughter glow that only comes with being the mother of a daughter.
For the record, there is a Mother-Son glow, too, but it is much dimmer. And it smells like pee.
I didn’t have to be there until 11:00 am, which, to some people, is already pretty late in the day. To me, however, anything before noon is “the morning,” and I hate “the morning.” But, I got the kids up, dropped them off at carpool and returned home with an entire hour-and-a-half to get ready for the party. L and Z’s preschool is at our church which, I believe I have mentioned, is only 2.81 miles away. Factoring in traffic lights and the occasional bike rider -- I don’t give a crap what your bumper sticker says, I don’t like to share so get your flippin’ bike-riding butt off my road -- then I knew I could get from my driveway to the church in about eight minutes.
I ate a quick breakfast, checked my email, Facebooked a bit and then headed upstairs to get ready. I didn’t dawdle in the shower -- I only washed and shaved what was necessary and appropriate for a preschool function. I applied my makeup and fancied-up my hair in record time. I even had time to touch-up the polish on my toes.
That minor act, however, would prove to be my downfall.
My sister-in-law called just as I was about to head downstairs and walk out the door. No biggie, I can talk and walk at the same time. While chatting, I ran the brush through my hair one more time, fastened my silver hoop earrings to my ears, gave myself the critical once-over in the full-length mirror and trotted off downstairs. I purposefully did not put my shoes on because I had just polished my toes and I knew that my cute BCBG black flip-flops with the black jeweled flowers where in the van on the floor in front of Z’s seat. They had been for nearly two weeks since I just kept failing to get them out and bring them back into the house. There are a lot of things that just “hang out” in the van for weeks at a time. Minivans are like that.
So, I continue to chat with my SIL while driving to the church and I pulled into the parking lot at 10:54. For those not good at math -- or perhaps those that flunked classes involving math -- that left me with six whole minutes to spare. I knew I could walk in calmly, take my time on the stairs and mingle in the hall outside the classroom with the other moms while we waited for the door to open and see the beautiful, smiling faces of our preschoolers so excited by our presence in their school.
The feeling of pride at my early arrival was just starting to waft over me when it was replaced by a sudden and horrible sense of dread. I slowly twisted my body around to look behind my seat -- and was greeted by an empty floorboard completely devoid of any type of footwear.
Just the afternoon before, I had cleaned out the car and had finally taken the BCBG flip-flops back inside and put them in my closet.
With a panicked, “OhmygodIhavetogo” salutation to my SIL, I snapped my cell phone closed and quickly raced through all my options. Can I get home and back in time? I am a pretty fast driver. Do I go in barefoot? That seems unsanitary. Isn’t there another pair of shoes in the way back of the van? Yes, but they are winter pumps and will not go with this blue sundress at all.
My final decision was to throw the car back in gear and peel out of the parking lot at a speed not recommended in the preschool handbook. I was thinking, “Be calm, but drive fast.” I knew I had six minutes to make the round trip. But even if God granted my fervently uttered Sam-Beckett-Quantum-Leap prayer to bend time, I still couldn’t make it to my house and back in that amount of time.
Still, I had to try. The thought of L standing there all by herself while all the other on-time moms embraced their children and sat down to their chicken salad puff pastry and fruit kabobs made my desire to run the hell over the bike rider who was in my way all the more intense. I swung into my driveway, slammed the car in park, raced into the house and up the stairs, grabbed the BCBG flip flops and was back in the driver’s seat in less than sixty seconds.
Now, my perfectly made-up face was flushed and my flawlessly arranged hair was sticking to my lip gloss, I was out of breath and no longer feeling the Mother-Daughter glow.
Each minute raced by on the digital dashboard clock and I arrived back in the parking lot at 11:03. Ordinarily being a few minutes (or even a half-hour) late would not have been that big of a deal. Well, to me anyway. But, I knew that I was dealing with an overly-emotional five-year-old who would not take too kindly to my tardiness. I jumped out of the van, grabbed the trouble-causing shoes and ran barefoot across the parking lot. I paused inside just long enough to slip on the flip flops and hurried down the stairs and toward L’s classroom. As I approached the room, I could see my precious baby girl, hunched over on the floor just inside the doorway, sobbing, while her teacher tried to console her.
People, I am not a sentimental person. I don’t do guilt and have the fabulously convenient gift of being able to talk myself out of feeling blame or remorse. But, the image of my daughter so heart-broken by the thought that her mother was not going to attend her special day really, really got to me. Even my powers of deflection could not overcome my feeling of total poo at that moment.
Her teacher looked up just as I rushed into the room and I heard her say, “See? I told you Mommy wouldn’t miss it!” Of course, we had the entire room’s attention at that point. I threw my arms around L and said, “You are not going to believe what your silly Mommy did. I came all the way over here and didn’t have any shoes! So, I had to race back to the house and get some. I probably should have just come in here barefoot!”
I earned the laughs of the other moms and L eventually dried her tears enough to help me decorate my foam teapot picture frame. One of the moms told me that L had only been crying for just a few seconds before I arrived. So, that made me feel a little bit better. We ended up having a lovely morning. I enjoyed hearing “I Love You a Bushel and a Peck,” picking out the portrait L drew of me (I knew it was me because of the blue eyes and eye lashes) and reading what she wrote about me in her All About Mom book. Apparently, she thinks I am 60-years-old, weigh 42 pounds and my favorite food is white Jenny Craig bars and skinny food. (Well, how else do you think I maintain my 42 pounds?)
My favorite line was “I am glad that I have my mom because...I really like her.”
And I suppose if this is the worst I do to L throughout her childhood, she should consider herself lucky.
At least she didn’t have parents who came to pick her up at middle school driving a mud-encrusted Blazer pulling a fishing boat while she shrank back in abject teenager horror and embarrassment at being seen in such a vehicle.
Yes, Dad, I still remember that...
Allow me to share my shame...
A bit of background for those not in the know: I am notoriously late everywhere I go. It doesn’t help that I married someone who also suffers from the same affliction. Even when we have the best intentions, we always seem to be running behind. Well into adulthood, our kids will probably still have nightmares where they wake up screaming, “I don’t have time to deal with you this morning! Eat your frozen pancake or we’re going to be late!”
A great example: We chose our church based on its proximity to our house. It is only 2.81 miles from our driveway to the church parking lot -- and we are still the last ones to arrive at Sunday School (well, if we arrive at all).
In high school I once flunked my Economics class because it was first period and I was late nearly 50 percent of the time. I know, I know, what a shocker that I did not do well in a class involving math and money management. But, seriously, if I had actually been on time to school and had attended the class like I was supposed to I’m sure that I -- oh, screw it. I would have failed either way.
Anyway, there are times when I have striven to overcome this stigma and actually attempted to arrive somewhere on time. Yesterday morning was one of those times.
It was Mom’s Tea day at L’s preschool. She had been talking about it for weeks and was so excited that I was going to be coming to her class. She said there was a special song she was going to sing for me and a special gift that she’d made -- but I wasn’t supposed to ask her about any of it because it was all a big surprise. I was filled with the special Mother-Daughter glow that only comes with being the mother of a daughter.
For the record, there is a Mother-Son glow, too, but it is much dimmer. And it smells like pee.
I didn’t have to be there until 11:00 am, which, to some people, is already pretty late in the day. To me, however, anything before noon is “the morning,” and I hate “the morning.” But, I got the kids up, dropped them off at carpool and returned home with an entire hour-and-a-half to get ready for the party. L and Z’s preschool is at our church which, I believe I have mentioned, is only 2.81 miles away. Factoring in traffic lights and the occasional bike rider -- I don’t give a crap what your bumper sticker says, I don’t like to share so get your flippin’ bike-riding butt off my road -- then I knew I could get from my driveway to the church in about eight minutes.
I ate a quick breakfast, checked my email, Facebooked a bit and then headed upstairs to get ready. I didn’t dawdle in the shower -- I only washed and shaved what was necessary and appropriate for a preschool function. I applied my makeup and fancied-up my hair in record time. I even had time to touch-up the polish on my toes.
That minor act, however, would prove to be my downfall.
My sister-in-law called just as I was about to head downstairs and walk out the door. No biggie, I can talk and walk at the same time. While chatting, I ran the brush through my hair one more time, fastened my silver hoop earrings to my ears, gave myself the critical once-over in the full-length mirror and trotted off downstairs. I purposefully did not put my shoes on because I had just polished my toes and I knew that my cute BCBG black flip-flops with the black jeweled flowers where in the van on the floor in front of Z’s seat. They had been for nearly two weeks since I just kept failing to get them out and bring them back into the house. There are a lot of things that just “hang out” in the van for weeks at a time. Minivans are like that.
So, I continue to chat with my SIL while driving to the church and I pulled into the parking lot at 10:54. For those not good at math -- or perhaps those that flunked classes involving math -- that left me with six whole minutes to spare. I knew I could walk in calmly, take my time on the stairs and mingle in the hall outside the classroom with the other moms while we waited for the door to open and see the beautiful, smiling faces of our preschoolers so excited by our presence in their school.
The feeling of pride at my early arrival was just starting to waft over me when it was replaced by a sudden and horrible sense of dread. I slowly twisted my body around to look behind my seat -- and was greeted by an empty floorboard completely devoid of any type of footwear.
Just the afternoon before, I had cleaned out the car and had finally taken the BCBG flip-flops back inside and put them in my closet.
With a panicked, “OhmygodIhavetogo” salutation to my SIL, I snapped my cell phone closed and quickly raced through all my options. Can I get home and back in time? I am a pretty fast driver. Do I go in barefoot? That seems unsanitary. Isn’t there another pair of shoes in the way back of the van? Yes, but they are winter pumps and will not go with this blue sundress at all.
My final decision was to throw the car back in gear and peel out of the parking lot at a speed not recommended in the preschool handbook. I was thinking, “Be calm, but drive fast.” I knew I had six minutes to make the round trip. But even if God granted my fervently uttered Sam-Beckett-Quantum-Leap prayer to bend time, I still couldn’t make it to my house and back in that amount of time.
Still, I had to try. The thought of L standing there all by herself while all the other on-time moms embraced their children and sat down to their chicken salad puff pastry and fruit kabobs made my desire to run the hell over the bike rider who was in my way all the more intense. I swung into my driveway, slammed the car in park, raced into the house and up the stairs, grabbed the BCBG flip flops and was back in the driver’s seat in less than sixty seconds.
Now, my perfectly made-up face was flushed and my flawlessly arranged hair was sticking to my lip gloss, I was out of breath and no longer feeling the Mother-Daughter glow.
Each minute raced by on the digital dashboard clock and I arrived back in the parking lot at 11:03. Ordinarily being a few minutes (or even a half-hour) late would not have been that big of a deal. Well, to me anyway. But, I knew that I was dealing with an overly-emotional five-year-old who would not take too kindly to my tardiness. I jumped out of the van, grabbed the trouble-causing shoes and ran barefoot across the parking lot. I paused inside just long enough to slip on the flip flops and hurried down the stairs and toward L’s classroom. As I approached the room, I could see my precious baby girl, hunched over on the floor just inside the doorway, sobbing, while her teacher tried to console her.
People, I am not a sentimental person. I don’t do guilt and have the fabulously convenient gift of being able to talk myself out of feeling blame or remorse. But, the image of my daughter so heart-broken by the thought that her mother was not going to attend her special day really, really got to me. Even my powers of deflection could not overcome my feeling of total poo at that moment.
Her teacher looked up just as I rushed into the room and I heard her say, “See? I told you Mommy wouldn’t miss it!” Of course, we had the entire room’s attention at that point. I threw my arms around L and said, “You are not going to believe what your silly Mommy did. I came all the way over here and didn’t have any shoes! So, I had to race back to the house and get some. I probably should have just come in here barefoot!”
I earned the laughs of the other moms and L eventually dried her tears enough to help me decorate my foam teapot picture frame. One of the moms told me that L had only been crying for just a few seconds before I arrived. So, that made me feel a little bit better. We ended up having a lovely morning. I enjoyed hearing “I Love You a Bushel and a Peck,” picking out the portrait L drew of me (I knew it was me because of the blue eyes and eye lashes) and reading what she wrote about me in her All About Mom book. Apparently, she thinks I am 60-years-old, weigh 42 pounds and my favorite food is white Jenny Craig bars and skinny food. (Well, how else do you think I maintain my 42 pounds?)
My favorite line was “I am glad that I have my mom because...I really like her.”
And I suppose if this is the worst I do to L throughout her childhood, she should consider herself lucky.
At least she didn’t have parents who came to pick her up at middle school driving a mud-encrusted Blazer pulling a fishing boat while she shrank back in abject teenager horror and embarrassment at being seen in such a vehicle.
Yes, Dad, I still remember that...
Saturday, April 17, 2010
What A Waste Of -- SQUIRREL!
I can already tell that this post is going to ramble like Kenny Rogers. Oh, wait...he was a gambler. See what I mean? Sometimes I just know I have no focus and my mind twists and turns and shoots off on tangents and I -- SQUIRREL! -- get easily distracted.
So, um, good luck with this.
Last night, as I put Z to bed, pulled his favorite ducky blanket up under his chin and gently brushed his soft, blond hair away from his face, I found myself thinking -- why the hell did I pay nearly $100 for an authentic Cowboy Woody doll and Buzz Lightyear action figure when this kid prefers to curl up every night with a McDonald’s Happy Meal toy?
This cheap, little plastic thing is Toothless, one of the dragons from the new movie, “How to Tame Your Dragon.” Right now, it is sharing Z’s ducky blanket as if it were a cherished member of his family. I even have to kiss Toothless goodnight. Oh, and Hiccup, the little plastic boy riding on the back of Toothless, gets a kiss, too.
Here’s the kicker: The dang thing’s wings fell off the first day he got it and no matter how many times you put them back in -- and believe me, we have to try at least five times a day -- they refuse to stay on. So, not only is Z foregoing the more expensive, high quality toys for a toy that came with fries and a hamburger, but the preferred toy is not even whole! He’s walking around lovingly clutching this amputated dragon and looking like he belongs in a cardboard box on the street corner.
I am constantly amazed at what entertains or amuses my children. Sometimes I worry that they are not that bright. When I see them stare in fascination at a worm on the sidewalk or laugh hysterically while spinning in circles until they stumble drunk into the wall, I worry about their ability to get into even a community college. But then I see other children get just as excited about sitting on a raft in the middle of the driveway huddled under an umbrella in the pouring rain and I don’t worry as much.
Well, I still worry about Z, but you all know the reasons for that.
SQUIRREL!
Our AeroGrow hydroponic garden has a not-so-fresh odor. In fact, it smells a bit like a fish tank. I don’t want to eat basil grown in an aquarium. I need to tell JAO to check on his plants.
Back to kids and toys -- I know it sounds cliché to say that kids prefer the box and the wrapping to the actual gift inside, but it is true. And have you ever given a child a gift that you put in some random box and watched their face when they opened the wrapping to reveal the Calphalon logo and a picture of a frying pan? Classic.
Adults know not to judge the gift by the box. They make no assumptions until they actually open the box and see the contents. That is unless, of course, the box is from Tiffany’s. Any woman can quickly identify the distinctive light blue-shaded box wrapped in a satin ribbon. She might even keep it in her purse and “accidentally” let it fall out onto the table at her next Bunco game.
SQUIRREL!
I think the foul odor from the kitchen might not be coming from the AeroGrow after all. JAO went on a fishing trip with some clients -- because nothing says, “Trust me with your money” than a fat catfish on the end of a Disney princess fishing pole. (That was for my brother. I’m sure JAO has a Buzz Lightyear pole.) Anyway, he bought boxed lunches from ABC -- that’s Atlanta Bread Company for those outside of the ATL. Oh, and that’s Atlanta for those on the other side of the Mason-Dixon. Oh, and that’s the line that separated the North from the South during the War of Northern Aggression. Oh, and that’s the Civil War for all those north of the...oh forget it.
So, the boxed lunches are still sitting on the counter reeking of dill pickle juice and day-old lunch meat. They will now be removed to the outside trashcan.
I’ve never received the treasured blue Tiffany's box. When I was pregnant with L, we received notice that one of JAO’s wealthy clients had a gift for us and I was to pick it up at Tiffany’s. I was very excited and couldn’t imagine what it could be. I made sure to dress elegantly, (you know as elegantly as possible while hauling around a 9-pound fetus in my uterus) and marched proudly into the store. Turns out the gift was a porcelain bunny bank. A nice thought, but I will admit somewhat of a let-down. However, the saleslady did put it in a Tiffany-blue bag. So, that was a bonus. I hung onto that bag for quite a while. Once I took the Tiffany’s bag with me to the mall and made sure to casually display it to every woman I passed in the hopes that she would think I actually carried something Tiffany-licous in the bag. But, then I realized I was at a mall that didn’t even have a Tiffany’s. So, then I just looked lame.
SQUIRREL!
The foul kitchen odor still lingers! Ah ha! I think it may be coming from the half-gallon of carpet cleaner solution I left in the sink. One would think that a solution designed to remove foulness from various household surfaces would have a pleasant smell. But, alas, this carpet cleaning solution does not. It will now be poured down the drain and sink-eratored away.
Okay, so thanks for following me down this rabbit hole. I’m sure you wish you had these last ten minutes of your life back. And if it took you more than ten minutes to read this, you might be clutching a wing-less Happy Meal dragon and spinning in circles in your living room.
I think I will now go and try and do something productive with my -- Ooooh! Something shiny....!
So, um, good luck with this.
Last night, as I put Z to bed, pulled his favorite ducky blanket up under his chin and gently brushed his soft, blond hair away from his face, I found myself thinking -- why the hell did I pay nearly $100 for an authentic Cowboy Woody doll and Buzz Lightyear action figure when this kid prefers to curl up every night with a McDonald’s Happy Meal toy?
This cheap, little plastic thing is Toothless, one of the dragons from the new movie, “How to Tame Your Dragon.” Right now, it is sharing Z’s ducky blanket as if it were a cherished member of his family. I even have to kiss Toothless goodnight. Oh, and Hiccup, the little plastic boy riding on the back of Toothless, gets a kiss, too.
Here’s the kicker: The dang thing’s wings fell off the first day he got it and no matter how many times you put them back in -- and believe me, we have to try at least five times a day -- they refuse to stay on. So, not only is Z foregoing the more expensive, high quality toys for a toy that came with fries and a hamburger, but the preferred toy is not even whole! He’s walking around lovingly clutching this amputated dragon and looking like he belongs in a cardboard box on the street corner.
I am constantly amazed at what entertains or amuses my children. Sometimes I worry that they are not that bright. When I see them stare in fascination at a worm on the sidewalk or laugh hysterically while spinning in circles until they stumble drunk into the wall, I worry about their ability to get into even a community college. But then I see other children get just as excited about sitting on a raft in the middle of the driveway huddled under an umbrella in the pouring rain and I don’t worry as much.
Well, I still worry about Z, but you all know the reasons for that.
SQUIRREL!
Our AeroGrow hydroponic garden has a not-so-fresh odor. In fact, it smells a bit like a fish tank. I don’t want to eat basil grown in an aquarium. I need to tell JAO to check on his plants.
Back to kids and toys -- I know it sounds cliché to say that kids prefer the box and the wrapping to the actual gift inside, but it is true. And have you ever given a child a gift that you put in some random box and watched their face when they opened the wrapping to reveal the Calphalon logo and a picture of a frying pan? Classic.
Adults know not to judge the gift by the box. They make no assumptions until they actually open the box and see the contents. That is unless, of course, the box is from Tiffany’s. Any woman can quickly identify the distinctive light blue-shaded box wrapped in a satin ribbon. She might even keep it in her purse and “accidentally” let it fall out onto the table at her next Bunco game.
SQUIRREL!
I think the foul odor from the kitchen might not be coming from the AeroGrow after all. JAO went on a fishing trip with some clients -- because nothing says, “Trust me with your money” than a fat catfish on the end of a Disney princess fishing pole. (That was for my brother. I’m sure JAO has a Buzz Lightyear pole.) Anyway, he bought boxed lunches from ABC -- that’s Atlanta Bread Company for those outside of the ATL. Oh, and that’s Atlanta for those on the other side of the Mason-Dixon. Oh, and that’s the line that separated the North from the South during the War of Northern Aggression. Oh, and that’s the Civil War for all those north of the...oh forget it.
So, the boxed lunches are still sitting on the counter reeking of dill pickle juice and day-old lunch meat. They will now be removed to the outside trashcan.
I’ve never received the treasured blue Tiffany's box. When I was pregnant with L, we received notice that one of JAO’s wealthy clients had a gift for us and I was to pick it up at Tiffany’s. I was very excited and couldn’t imagine what it could be. I made sure to dress elegantly, (you know as elegantly as possible while hauling around a 9-pound fetus in my uterus) and marched proudly into the store. Turns out the gift was a porcelain bunny bank. A nice thought, but I will admit somewhat of a let-down. However, the saleslady did put it in a Tiffany-blue bag. So, that was a bonus. I hung onto that bag for quite a while. Once I took the Tiffany’s bag with me to the mall and made sure to casually display it to every woman I passed in the hopes that she would think I actually carried something Tiffany-licous in the bag. But, then I realized I was at a mall that didn’t even have a Tiffany’s. So, then I just looked lame.
SQUIRREL!
The foul kitchen odor still lingers! Ah ha! I think it may be coming from the half-gallon of carpet cleaner solution I left in the sink. One would think that a solution designed to remove foulness from various household surfaces would have a pleasant smell. But, alas, this carpet cleaning solution does not. It will now be poured down the drain and sink-eratored away.
Okay, so thanks for following me down this rabbit hole. I’m sure you wish you had these last ten minutes of your life back. And if it took you more than ten minutes to read this, you might be clutching a wing-less Happy Meal dragon and spinning in circles in your living room.
I think I will now go and try and do something productive with my -- Ooooh! Something shiny....!
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
I Hate You, Crayola
After a week at the beach ignoring Jillian’s workouts and indulging in one too many fried shrimp (shrimps?), I knew it was time to get back to my exercise routine. I cleared a space in front of the TV, fired up Yoga Meltdown and then gave L and Z my standard Threats to the Children Speech.
I told them both to play anywhere in the house as long as they were nowhere near me. I listed all toys and activities available to them in each room of the house, as if they were new to this environment and had no idea how many trains, blocks, Barbies, coloring books and dress-up clothes there were to be found here. I forbade them from yelling, running, fighting, biting (that one was for Z), climbing on my back and/or doing anything else that might distract me from “my practice.” I made sure they knew they were not to enter the pantry, open the front door, pick up the telephone or play with the computer. And last, but not least, told Z that if he wanted to color, he was not to color on any surface but paper that was previously designated as paper that was acceptable for coloring. This last statement carried an additional warning: If you write on anything but paper, I will spank you with the wooden spoon.
Now before you get all After School Special on Child Abuse on me, you should know that the wooden spoon is rarely used in this house. You really only have to use it once to implant its terribleness in their impressionable little minds so that the mere threat of its use can bring about the desired effect.
Or so one would hope.
With the threats issued and the kids happily playing in other parts of the house, I began to meld my heart to the sky and match my movements with my breathing. For the most part, I only had to yell at Z once to get out of the living room and stop bouncing a balloon off my butt, and tell L that if she was going to insist on giving me a running commentary on how I wasn’t raising my leg as high as Jillian or going as deep into the lunges, then she was going to have to leave the room as well.
I was almost done with the workout and attempting to fold my body in half during the locust pose, when I heard, “Mom! Z is writing on the floor with a marker!”
I pushed myself up off the floor with an exasperated huff and marched purposefully into the kitchen. Sensing my anger, L had already grabbed some paper towels and was attempting to rid the white tile of the offensive blue marker. She’s funny like that -- she has no problem sitting on Z’s head or attempting to choke him with a feather boa, but the minute I make an aggressive move toward him, suddenly she’s Meryl Streep and I’m the dingo about to eat her baby.
True to my word, I went to the drawer containing The Spoon. I didn’t want to spank him, but if I make a threat and fail to follow-through, then whatever tenuous hold I have on my role as disciplinarian will suffer even more damage. So, I delivered a swift smack to Z’s bottom and sat him down in time out. Of course he wailed as if I had thrashed him with a cat-o-nine tails and L rushed to his side to offer solace.
I was going to return to the living room to finish the last few poses when I stumbled upon what can only be described as Z’s attempt at crop circles drawn into the beige carpet with the same blue marker. I didn’t see them on my way to the kitchen because I was focused at the mess on the tile. Needless to say, I was stunned, horrified and angry. Oh, my friends...I was very angry.
Trying, somewhat unsuccessfully to control my extreme furiousity (sometimes you have to make up words to really get your point across), I marched over to where L was lovingly wiping blue marker off Z’s face and hands and yanked him back to standing. I drug him over to the drawer containing The Spoon and yes, I spanked him again -- this time making sure no padded diaper got in the way.
I know I am writing this to sound funny because, well, that’s what I do, but let me tell you I had tears of anger glistening in my eyes. I could barely speak to him to express how upset I was with him. Not that he needed me to explain. The Spoon is a pretty good interpreter.
Poor L was hovering around him nervously, probably trying to formulate an escape plan for her and her brother should I make a move toward The Spoon again. I put him back in time out and made sure he was aware of just how bad it could get for him if he dared move from that spot.
People, it wasn’t just a small mark or two here and there on the carpet. The boy clutched the marker in his chubby, little fist, holding it like Sharon Stone wielding an ice pick, and pressed-down firmly into the carpet to create his masterpiece. If you think I am exaggerating, please refer to the pictures posted below.
Now look me in the eye and tell me you wouldn't have used The Spoon, too.
I emptied an entire $20 can of professional carpet cleaner on the lines and proceeded to scrub away the ink. Correction -- attempted to scrub away the ink. For the love of all-that-claims-to-be-washable-but-isn’t, Crayola, you can take your washable marker claim and -- well do something unpleasant with it.
I knew that merely scrubbing it with a towel wasn’t going to do the trick, so I hauled out the Bissel carpet cleaner.
As soon as I switched it on, I was reminded of the last time I used the Little Green Machine. Perhaps you all remember The Great Poo Incident of January 2010. Well, I still remember it well -- but apparently I didn’t remember to rinse out the carpet cleaner after I used it to remove Z’s poo art from the staircase landing. The horrid stench wafted out of the machine and only added to my frustration and anger. Then, after I replaced the nasty water with fresh cleaning solution, I began the tedious task of removing the blue marker which basically involved washing each individual strand of carpet down to its roots.
During all of this, L was hovering around offering to help and trying to make me feel better by saying things like, “Good job, Mommy! You are a really good carpet cleaner” while Z sat in time out loudly singing the theme song to Fan Boy and Chum Chum.
While I was still scrubbing, JAO called to check in. I was still so upset that I had to go into another room and choke back angry tears as I described the scene. Plus, I needed to be out of the kids' earshot lest L hear of my plans to put Z on the next plane to Russia.
I had to stop in the middle of my carpet recovery mission to give the kids some lunch. I was still so angry at Z that I deliberately gave L the bowl of Spaghettio's with Franks that had the most franks in it. I didn't tell them that, but secretly knowing it made me feel just a tiny bit better.
Finally, I think I may have managed to erase most of the crop circles from the carpet. And I think I may have decided to allow Z to live another day. Sorry this post is a bit long-winded, but I found it necessary from a therapeutic stand-point to write it all down as a means of recovery. I am finally starting to come down from my anger high and can somewhat see the humor in the situation. But only somewhat.
I just went to check on Z (he had been sent to his room after throwing the TV remote at L’s head -- but at this point I am too drained to even comment on that one) and found him curled up asleep in his bed with his favorite ducky blanket wrapped around his body and his little arm tucked underneath his train pillow. Yes, he looks so sweet and I love him more than anything. But I can’t afford to let my guard down. His cuteness is a mask, people. Behind that peacefully-cute, sleeping face is a brain that is probably, at this very moment, churning out more ways to destroy my home and my sanity.
It’s only a matter of time before one of us breaks.
And I’m putting my money on me.
I told them both to play anywhere in the house as long as they were nowhere near me. I listed all toys and activities available to them in each room of the house, as if they were new to this environment and had no idea how many trains, blocks, Barbies, coloring books and dress-up clothes there were to be found here. I forbade them from yelling, running, fighting, biting (that one was for Z), climbing on my back and/or doing anything else that might distract me from “my practice.” I made sure they knew they were not to enter the pantry, open the front door, pick up the telephone or play with the computer. And last, but not least, told Z that if he wanted to color, he was not to color on any surface but paper that was previously designated as paper that was acceptable for coloring. This last statement carried an additional warning: If you write on anything but paper, I will spank you with the wooden spoon.
Now before you get all After School Special on Child Abuse on me, you should know that the wooden spoon is rarely used in this house. You really only have to use it once to implant its terribleness in their impressionable little minds so that the mere threat of its use can bring about the desired effect.
Or so one would hope.
With the threats issued and the kids happily playing in other parts of the house, I began to meld my heart to the sky and match my movements with my breathing. For the most part, I only had to yell at Z once to get out of the living room and stop bouncing a balloon off my butt, and tell L that if she was going to insist on giving me a running commentary on how I wasn’t raising my leg as high as Jillian or going as deep into the lunges, then she was going to have to leave the room as well.
I was almost done with the workout and attempting to fold my body in half during the locust pose, when I heard, “Mom! Z is writing on the floor with a marker!”
I pushed myself up off the floor with an exasperated huff and marched purposefully into the kitchen. Sensing my anger, L had already grabbed some paper towels and was attempting to rid the white tile of the offensive blue marker. She’s funny like that -- she has no problem sitting on Z’s head or attempting to choke him with a feather boa, but the minute I make an aggressive move toward him, suddenly she’s Meryl Streep and I’m the dingo about to eat her baby.
True to my word, I went to the drawer containing The Spoon. I didn’t want to spank him, but if I make a threat and fail to follow-through, then whatever tenuous hold I have on my role as disciplinarian will suffer even more damage. So, I delivered a swift smack to Z’s bottom and sat him down in time out. Of course he wailed as if I had thrashed him with a cat-o-nine tails and L rushed to his side to offer solace.
I was going to return to the living room to finish the last few poses when I stumbled upon what can only be described as Z’s attempt at crop circles drawn into the beige carpet with the same blue marker. I didn’t see them on my way to the kitchen because I was focused at the mess on the tile. Needless to say, I was stunned, horrified and angry. Oh, my friends...I was very angry.
Trying, somewhat unsuccessfully to control my extreme furiousity (sometimes you have to make up words to really get your point across), I marched over to where L was lovingly wiping blue marker off Z’s face and hands and yanked him back to standing. I drug him over to the drawer containing The Spoon and yes, I spanked him again -- this time making sure no padded diaper got in the way.
I know I am writing this to sound funny because, well, that’s what I do, but let me tell you I had tears of anger glistening in my eyes. I could barely speak to him to express how upset I was with him. Not that he needed me to explain. The Spoon is a pretty good interpreter.
Poor L was hovering around him nervously, probably trying to formulate an escape plan for her and her brother should I make a move toward The Spoon again. I put him back in time out and made sure he was aware of just how bad it could get for him if he dared move from that spot.
People, it wasn’t just a small mark or two here and there on the carpet. The boy clutched the marker in his chubby, little fist, holding it like Sharon Stone wielding an ice pick, and pressed-down firmly into the carpet to create his masterpiece. If you think I am exaggerating, please refer to the pictures posted below.
Now look me in the eye and tell me you wouldn't have used The Spoon, too.
I emptied an entire $20 can of professional carpet cleaner on the lines and proceeded to scrub away the ink. Correction -- attempted to scrub away the ink. For the love of all-that-claims-to-be-washable-but-isn’t, Crayola, you can take your washable marker claim and -- well do something unpleasant with it.
I knew that merely scrubbing it with a towel wasn’t going to do the trick, so I hauled out the Bissel carpet cleaner.
As soon as I switched it on, I was reminded of the last time I used the Little Green Machine. Perhaps you all remember The Great Poo Incident of January 2010. Well, I still remember it well -- but apparently I didn’t remember to rinse out the carpet cleaner after I used it to remove Z’s poo art from the staircase landing. The horrid stench wafted out of the machine and only added to my frustration and anger. Then, after I replaced the nasty water with fresh cleaning solution, I began the tedious task of removing the blue marker which basically involved washing each individual strand of carpet down to its roots.
During all of this, L was hovering around offering to help and trying to make me feel better by saying things like, “Good job, Mommy! You are a really good carpet cleaner” while Z sat in time out loudly singing the theme song to Fan Boy and Chum Chum.
While I was still scrubbing, JAO called to check in. I was still so upset that I had to go into another room and choke back angry tears as I described the scene. Plus, I needed to be out of the kids' earshot lest L hear of my plans to put Z on the next plane to Russia.
I had to stop in the middle of my carpet recovery mission to give the kids some lunch. I was still so angry at Z that I deliberately gave L the bowl of Spaghettio's with Franks that had the most franks in it. I didn't tell them that, but secretly knowing it made me feel just a tiny bit better.
Finally, I think I may have managed to erase most of the crop circles from the carpet. And I think I may have decided to allow Z to live another day. Sorry this post is a bit long-winded, but I found it necessary from a therapeutic stand-point to write it all down as a means of recovery. I am finally starting to come down from my anger high and can somewhat see the humor in the situation. But only somewhat.
I just went to check on Z (he had been sent to his room after throwing the TV remote at L’s head -- but at this point I am too drained to even comment on that one) and found him curled up asleep in his bed with his favorite ducky blanket wrapped around his body and his little arm tucked underneath his train pillow. Yes, he looks so sweet and I love him more than anything. But I can’t afford to let my guard down. His cuteness is a mask, people. Behind that peacefully-cute, sleeping face is a brain that is probably, at this very moment, churning out more ways to destroy my home and my sanity.
It’s only a matter of time before one of us breaks.
And I’m putting my money on me.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Ape Scent Gloriola
I am glad that it is starting to get warmer and we are finally emerging from the cruel, cold, opposite-of-global-warming winter we all had to endure. However, I must stay true to my negativity and admit that there are certain aspects of the warmer weather that I absolutely abhor.
First, there are the bees, wasps and other flying forms of annoying nature that reappear as soon as the weather begins to warm. Bees are needed for pollination, furthering plant life, blah, blah, blah. I suppose I should be grateful for honey, but since nature has also given us sugar, I would be willing to forego sticky honey if it meant an end to the bee. But, what do wasps do? Or yellow jackets? What do they make or help to sustain? And carpenter bees are the absolute worst -- chewing up my beautiful deck and dive-bombing the kids. If I were as small as a carpenter bee, I would think twice before I fronted a creature that was 200 times my size. Good thing we have those electrified tennis racquets.
Next, there is the pollen. It’s green and dusty and itchy and covers the world in its pea-soup haze. It coats your tongue and throat and makes you feel like you’ve been sucking on a piece of chalk. And my kids have been sneezing like coke-heads ever since it appeared. Science can grow babies in test tubes and clone farm animals -- can’t they come up with some other way for flowers to pollinate? Something less messy and far less sneezy?
But the most offensive aspect of the fahrenheit rising is the hot, nasty, sweaty odor that wafts up off of kids after they have been running around outside in the sun. I just threw up a little in my mouth just thinking about it.
When I was in grade school, I would greet rainy days with relief because it meant we would not be going outside for recess. I much preferred sitting quietly at my desk and reading the latest Judy Blume than suffering through the rest of the afternoon engulfed in the ape scent gloriola that rolled off the over-heated bodies of a classroom of sweaty kids.
I know my children are supposed to get “fresh air and exercise” and all that other healthy crap they spew on the parenting websites. However, even my unending love for my children is no match for the noxious stench of L and Z after a trip to the playground.
I’m not saying I won’t let my kids play outside this summer. I’m just saying they may be taking multiple baths per day. Or maybe I’ll just hose them down before I let them back in the house. There may be nothing more redneck than bathing your kids in the front yard -- but, at least they would be sweet-smelling redneck kids.
First, there are the bees, wasps and other flying forms of annoying nature that reappear as soon as the weather begins to warm. Bees are needed for pollination, furthering plant life, blah, blah, blah. I suppose I should be grateful for honey, but since nature has also given us sugar, I would be willing to forego sticky honey if it meant an end to the bee. But, what do wasps do? Or yellow jackets? What do they make or help to sustain? And carpenter bees are the absolute worst -- chewing up my beautiful deck and dive-bombing the kids. If I were as small as a carpenter bee, I would think twice before I fronted a creature that was 200 times my size. Good thing we have those electrified tennis racquets.
Next, there is the pollen. It’s green and dusty and itchy and covers the world in its pea-soup haze. It coats your tongue and throat and makes you feel like you’ve been sucking on a piece of chalk. And my kids have been sneezing like coke-heads ever since it appeared. Science can grow babies in test tubes and clone farm animals -- can’t they come up with some other way for flowers to pollinate? Something less messy and far less sneezy?
But the most offensive aspect of the fahrenheit rising is the hot, nasty, sweaty odor that wafts up off of kids after they have been running around outside in the sun. I just threw up a little in my mouth just thinking about it.
When I was in grade school, I would greet rainy days with relief because it meant we would not be going outside for recess. I much preferred sitting quietly at my desk and reading the latest Judy Blume than suffering through the rest of the afternoon engulfed in the ape scent gloriola that rolled off the over-heated bodies of a classroom of sweaty kids.
I know my children are supposed to get “fresh air and exercise” and all that other healthy crap they spew on the parenting websites. However, even my unending love for my children is no match for the noxious stench of L and Z after a trip to the playground.
I’m not saying I won’t let my kids play outside this summer. I’m just saying they may be taking multiple baths per day. Or maybe I’ll just hose them down before I let them back in the house. There may be nothing more redneck than bathing your kids in the front yard -- but, at least they would be sweet-smelling redneck kids.
Friday, April 2, 2010
Rescue 9-1-1
I was driving down the highway yesterday afternoon when I came upon a very large section of the median that was on fire. As we happen to be under a fire advisory, I can only assume that some jackass threw their cigarette out the window and it set the fire-prone grass ablaze. I'm sorry, I shouldn't make such a harsh accusations when I don't know the facts or the person or persons involved. It could have been some jackass with a crackpipe.
Anyway, this fire was roaring away unattended and, for all I knew, unbeknownst to the proper authorities. However, the eastbound side of the highway was heavily involved in rush hour traffic, so hundreds of fellow motorists were also bearing witness to this inferno. (See how the fire gets bigger and bigger every time I mention it? I'm building up the excitement. Oh, well, I guess by telling you that, I am actually taking away from the excitement, aren't I? Damn.)
Anyway (again), this fire was ripping its way down the median engulfing wild flowers and discarded fast food wrappers and there were no fire trucks in site. As I mentioned before, I was not the lone traveler on this stretch of highway and was, therefore, pretty sure that those around me were aware of the blaze. So, then the question becomes, what do I do about it?
I think, "Do I call 9-1-1?" I have always felt that 9-1-1 was an abused public service. You may find yourself standing over the dying body of a gunshot victim and are put on hold because the 9-1-1 operator is listening to some yahoo complain that his neighbor's radio is too loud. So, what, exactly constitutes a 9-1-1 worthy situation? My fear is that I would call and they would be all mad that I wasted a 9-1-1 call on something that was not considered a legitimate emergency.
So then the question becomes, if I don't call 9-1-1, who should I call? Is there a direct phone line to the fire department? Surely they have phones there. But, what if I call them and they say, "Um, yeah, you're going to have to go through 9-1-1 for this. Then, they will have to push the button that rings our little bell so we all know to slide down the pole. I can't do that just based on your call." And even if I wanted to call the fire department, I wouldn't know which one. At this point, I'm not even sure which county I'm in. I'd hate to call one county and have them get all made because it wasn't their jurisdiction.
See how stressful this is becoming?
So, then I wonder, "If I call 9-1-1, will I be considered a hero? Will my 9-1-1 tape be played back on the news with my words being typed out along the bottom of the screen in case those watching couldn't quite make out what I was saying?"
So, then I think, "Okay, if you call, you'd better speak clearly. Then maybe, when they play back your tape, they won't feel the need to close caption your call."
But then I think, "Well, what if, like, 127 other people have already called and the operator is all, 'Um, yeah, we already know about that. So, thanks for clogging up the switchboard with your lame attempt at being a hero, but if you'll excuse me, I have the dying body of a gunshot victim on hold.'"
And then by this time, I am a good three or four exists past the inferno and I can't even remember where the dang fire was in the first place. So, then I think, "Well, hell, if I call 9-1-1 now, I won't even be able to tell them where the fire is!"
And then "Boom, Boom Pow" came on the radio and I forgot about the fire and started thinking that I really needed to download the edited radio version of this song because L knew that they were using the real s-word even when I wasn't even aware of what they were saying.
So, um, if you hear about a massive brushfire that wiped out half the interstate during rush hour yesterday afternoon because it blazed out of control due to the fact that no one alerted the authorities, then, um, yeah...my bad.
Anyway, this fire was roaring away unattended and, for all I knew, unbeknownst to the proper authorities. However, the eastbound side of the highway was heavily involved in rush hour traffic, so hundreds of fellow motorists were also bearing witness to this inferno. (See how the fire gets bigger and bigger every time I mention it? I'm building up the excitement. Oh, well, I guess by telling you that, I am actually taking away from the excitement, aren't I? Damn.)
Anyway (again), this fire was ripping its way down the median engulfing wild flowers and discarded fast food wrappers and there were no fire trucks in site. As I mentioned before, I was not the lone traveler on this stretch of highway and was, therefore, pretty sure that those around me were aware of the blaze. So, then the question becomes, what do I do about it?
I think, "Do I call 9-1-1?" I have always felt that 9-1-1 was an abused public service. You may find yourself standing over the dying body of a gunshot victim and are put on hold because the 9-1-1 operator is listening to some yahoo complain that his neighbor's radio is too loud. So, what, exactly constitutes a 9-1-1 worthy situation? My fear is that I would call and they would be all mad that I wasted a 9-1-1 call on something that was not considered a legitimate emergency.
So then the question becomes, if I don't call 9-1-1, who should I call? Is there a direct phone line to the fire department? Surely they have phones there. But, what if I call them and they say, "Um, yeah, you're going to have to go through 9-1-1 for this. Then, they will have to push the button that rings our little bell so we all know to slide down the pole. I can't do that just based on your call." And even if I wanted to call the fire department, I wouldn't know which one. At this point, I'm not even sure which county I'm in. I'd hate to call one county and have them get all made because it wasn't their jurisdiction.
See how stressful this is becoming?
So, then I wonder, "If I call 9-1-1, will I be considered a hero? Will my 9-1-1 tape be played back on the news with my words being typed out along the bottom of the screen in case those watching couldn't quite make out what I was saying?"
So, then I think, "Okay, if you call, you'd better speak clearly. Then maybe, when they play back your tape, they won't feel the need to close caption your call."
But then I think, "Well, what if, like, 127 other people have already called and the operator is all, 'Um, yeah, we already know about that. So, thanks for clogging up the switchboard with your lame attempt at being a hero, but if you'll excuse me, I have the dying body of a gunshot victim on hold.'"
And then by this time, I am a good three or four exists past the inferno and I can't even remember where the dang fire was in the first place. So, then I think, "Well, hell, if I call 9-1-1 now, I won't even be able to tell them where the fire is!"
And then "Boom, Boom Pow" came on the radio and I forgot about the fire and started thinking that I really needed to download the edited radio version of this song because L knew that they were using the real s-word even when I wasn't even aware of what they were saying.
So, um, if you hear about a massive brushfire that wiped out half the interstate during rush hour yesterday afternoon because it blazed out of control due to the fact that no one alerted the authorities, then, um, yeah...my bad.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
A Mother's Love
Yesterday, I sent L into the kitchen to get the Dust Buster from the pantry so I could clean up yet another popcorn mess made by Z. Every time I give that boy popcorn I tell him "Do not dump this out on the floor. Yes, ma'am?"
"Yes, ma'am."
Dump.
Of course what does that say about me for continuing to give him popcorn? Forget it, I don't want to know.
So, anyway, I'm on the living room floor picking up the kernels one by one (Z is beside me "helping" by eating the popcorn off the floor like a puppy), waiting on L to return with the vacuum. Two minutes later she comes strolling back into the den with a cup of water and sits down on the couch.
I look at her.
She looks at me.
I give her the classic, raised eyebrows, palms outstretched, what-the-hell look.
She goes, "What?"
Exasperated, I cry, "Where's the freakin' Dust Buster?"
"Mom! You're not supposed to say freakin'!"
"Sorry." Deep, calming breath. "Where is the Dust Buster, my darling?"
"Oh. I forgot."
"You forgot? I sent you into the kitchen to get the Dust Buster and you come back in here with a cup of water? What's that about?"
"I was thirsty."
"So, sometime within the four seconds it took you to walk from the den into the kitchen, my request for the Dust Buster flew out of your head and was replaced by this sudden and primal need for liquid refreshment? Is that what you're telling me?!"
But, somewhere in the middle of that tirade she turned to the TV and began to watch Ellen and I lost her.
Despite that minor set-back, I am amazed at how much L has learned over the past year. And she takes such great pride in her accomplishments. I believe I have mentioned before that she is way more of an over-achiever than I am. It will be interesting to see how long I can keep up with her. I know as soon as she gets to long division, I'll have to bail.
Anyway, she said something that I thought was really brilliant and it made me stop and just look at her in awe. It was truly one of those Hallmark, mushy, Mom Moments where a hazy beam of sunlight shines down around your child and your heart swells with so much joy and love at this wonderful gift you have been given.
I said, "You know, L, have I told you lately how so very proud I am of you? You have learned your address, how to spell your last name, how to tie your shoes and you can count all the way to 100!"
I had barely finished praising my beautiful, beaming girl when Z came tearing into the kitchen to proudly show us how he had stuffed an entire slice of white bread inside his mouth. I took one look at those chipmunk cheeks and those shining eyes and said, "Yes, Z, I am proud of you, too!"
Thirty seconds later I was practically Heimliching the kid to keep him from chocking and digging the soggy wad of dough out of his throat while L was hopping around squealing, "Ewwww...gross! It has his spit all over it!"
The sunbeam was gone and I was back to seeing them under the unflattering glare of the florescent, kitchen light.
But, God help me, I still love 'em.
"Yes, ma'am."
Dump.
Of course what does that say about me for continuing to give him popcorn? Forget it, I don't want to know.
So, anyway, I'm on the living room floor picking up the kernels one by one (Z is beside me "helping" by eating the popcorn off the floor like a puppy), waiting on L to return with the vacuum. Two minutes later she comes strolling back into the den with a cup of water and sits down on the couch.
I look at her.
She looks at me.
I give her the classic, raised eyebrows, palms outstretched, what-the-hell look.
She goes, "What?"
Exasperated, I cry, "Where's the freakin' Dust Buster?"
"Mom! You're not supposed to say freakin'!"
"Sorry." Deep, calming breath. "Where is the Dust Buster, my darling?"
"Oh. I forgot."
"You forgot? I sent you into the kitchen to get the Dust Buster and you come back in here with a cup of water? What's that about?"
"I was thirsty."
"So, sometime within the four seconds it took you to walk from the den into the kitchen, my request for the Dust Buster flew out of your head and was replaced by this sudden and primal need for liquid refreshment? Is that what you're telling me?!"
But, somewhere in the middle of that tirade she turned to the TV and began to watch Ellen and I lost her.
Despite that minor set-back, I am amazed at how much L has learned over the past year. And she takes such great pride in her accomplishments. I believe I have mentioned before that she is way more of an over-achiever than I am. It will be interesting to see how long I can keep up with her. I know as soon as she gets to long division, I'll have to bail.
Anyway, she said something that I thought was really brilliant and it made me stop and just look at her in awe. It was truly one of those Hallmark, mushy, Mom Moments where a hazy beam of sunlight shines down around your child and your heart swells with so much joy and love at this wonderful gift you have been given.
I said, "You know, L, have I told you lately how so very proud I am of you? You have learned your address, how to spell your last name, how to tie your shoes and you can count all the way to 100!"
I had barely finished praising my beautiful, beaming girl when Z came tearing into the kitchen to proudly show us how he had stuffed an entire slice of white bread inside his mouth. I took one look at those chipmunk cheeks and those shining eyes and said, "Yes, Z, I am proud of you, too!"
Thirty seconds later I was practically Heimliching the kid to keep him from chocking and digging the soggy wad of dough out of his throat while L was hopping around squealing, "Ewwww...gross! It has his spit all over it!"
The sunbeam was gone and I was back to seeing them under the unflattering glare of the florescent, kitchen light.
But, God help me, I still love 'em.
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