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...?”
Thursday, April 29, 2010
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.
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