After coming off a most hellacious week on-call, where my average nightly sleep for the week totaled three hours, it was bound to happen...For those that know me, and my insomnia, you know how hard it is for me to get four straight hours of sleep, let alone eight...and while my husband was traveling.
I woke up to the soothing sounds of the forest on my alarm clock. [stretching] I wonder if I can hit snooze. WAIT! That cannot be right! It cannot. I bolt straight out of bed and rush to my iPhone charging. OMG, OMG, OMG! I overslept. I. Overslept. ME! I don't even sleep, so how can I oversleep?
Not only did I oversleep, I slept through my alarm clock going off for two hours straight. TWO STRAIGHT HOURS (yes, I know most of your alarm clocks will turn off after one, but hey, this is tranquil nature. It is meant to be enjoyed!) It was 6:30, and I was supposed to be working 30 minutes ago! I grab my tooth brush, and rampantly squeeze the paste. I brush while putting on my pants. Spit, rinse...Is that toothpaste all over the vanity? No time, NO TIME!
I run downstairs and attempt to put on my socks while hopping on one foot around a corner. My daughter should have been woken up five minutes ago. JESUS! How did I sleep through the alarm for TWO WHOLE HOURS?!?! I round the corner again to find my son, fully dressed sitting on the couch in the dark:
"SURPRISE MOMMY" Good God, kid...I think his rustling must have been what woke me up.
I boot up my laptop, I dial in. I attempt 10 minutes of work before our Nanny arrives. The look on her face says "Whoa!" I know at this point that I must look like my husband after riding Space Mountain. I must have coffee! BREW, for the love of all that is holy, BREW!!! Coffee in hand, purse, keys I head for the door.
SHIT! My laptop. I power it down and pack it up. The ride to work was frantic. Did you all know that minivans have a warp speed? I do now. I made the 18 mile, traffic congested trek in 15 minutes flat. Not too shabby. [This is a voyage that typically takes 20 minutes on a good day when there is no traffic.]
Pretty proud of myself, I roll upstairs to my desk. I plug in and get ready to attempt to save my morning. I take off my coat. I fling my hat down. I look into the mirror. NICE! I don't even remember putting my hair up. Bonus points to me.
Uh, wait. My fuzzy brain thinks for the first time all morning...I don't put my hair in 1/2 pony tails for work with a pony tail holder. I reserve those for bed time... I stop and double over in laughter. I didn't even comb my hair! Well, at least I brushed my teeth, or at least I attempted to. If the copious amounts of toothpaste I left on the counter are any indication...there may not have been any on my toothbrush...
Thursday, December 13, 2012
Friday, November 30, 2012
The Moments that Define You
There are moments in life that define who you are and make you realize what is important in your life. I'm fairly grounded to the point that the only things that truly matter to me are my husband and my "Things". Last night was one of those moments for me. One of the most terrifying in my life. An instant that passed too slowly and that made me break down and take stock of all that I have... Let me illustrate...
I was making dinner. My son's job is to set the table. We were out of napkins. Napkins. Stupid fuhking napkins. Napkins that could have changed my entire life in the blink of an eye. My son went down stairs to the pantry to get more napkins. Or, that was the intent.
What actually happened is that he went down five stairs and then fell as-over-tea-kettle down the next eight to wind up laid out on the concrete floor of our basement. Screaming ensued. He screamed. We ran. We screamed. My husband screamed for him not to move. I screamed for my husband not to touch him.
He was taken to the hospital where luckily he was un-concussed and banged up pretty badly, but OK. Five horrible, excruciating hours later he and his father returned home. I didn't sleep. I worried. I thought about what if's. What if he had broken his neck? What if he didn't come home? What if I didn't have him?
I've cried. I've sat thinking that I'm not much without him. I've learned that he's part of my soul, and there isn't a deal that I didn't offer up to God to just have him OK. I've experienced loss before, I've been afraid, I'd thought I knew what was important in life. This. This was different. This was terror. Sheer pure, utter, undefinable terror. And as parents, we walk this line quietly every day: when your child gets on a bus, when your child goes to play at a friend's, when your child gets sick - but those moments shout at you in moments of crisis.
Those moments define who you are and what you are capable of. And these moments make you thankful for every breath you take and realize how fragile your reality is. I've thanked God countless times in the last 24 hours, and I'm thankful for all the offers of help and concern. Mostly, I'm thankful for the guardian angel that kept my gentle son safe. I'm certainly have countless blessings.
I was making dinner. My son's job is to set the table. We were out of napkins. Napkins. Stupid fuhking napkins. Napkins that could have changed my entire life in the blink of an eye. My son went down stairs to the pantry to get more napkins. Or, that was the intent.
What actually happened is that he went down five stairs and then fell as-over-tea-kettle down the next eight to wind up laid out on the concrete floor of our basement. Screaming ensued. He screamed. We ran. We screamed. My husband screamed for him not to move. I screamed for my husband not to touch him.
He was taken to the hospital where luckily he was un-concussed and banged up pretty badly, but OK. Five horrible, excruciating hours later he and his father returned home. I didn't sleep. I worried. I thought about what if's. What if he had broken his neck? What if he didn't come home? What if I didn't have him?
I've cried. I've sat thinking that I'm not much without him. I've learned that he's part of my soul, and there isn't a deal that I didn't offer up to God to just have him OK. I've experienced loss before, I've been afraid, I'd thought I knew what was important in life. This. This was different. This was terror. Sheer pure, utter, undefinable terror. And as parents, we walk this line quietly every day: when your child gets on a bus, when your child goes to play at a friend's, when your child gets sick - but those moments shout at you in moments of crisis.
Those moments define who you are and what you are capable of. And these moments make you thankful for every breath you take and realize how fragile your reality is. I've thanked God countless times in the last 24 hours, and I'm thankful for all the offers of help and concern. Mostly, I'm thankful for the guardian angel that kept my gentle son safe. I'm certainly have countless blessings.
Thursday, November 22, 2012
Happy Thanksgiving!
Today it seems appropriate to take stock of my life and be thankful for everything that I am fortunate enough to have. With that in mind, I wanted to share with you all the one thing that I am grateful for above all other things: my husband.
I know the dangers of wrapping your happiness around one person, with so many variables, unknowns and out-of-your-control instances in life - but my current joy comes not from what the future may hold, but what he has brought me in the past. The last 14 years (well, 14 years in a few more days) have been the most wonder years that anyone could have asked for.
This man, regardless of what our to-be's might be, has brought me immeasurable gifts in my time on this planet (more than 1/3 of which has been spent with him). He's given me the three most gorgeous children I could have ever imagined. He's granted me peace and a soothing tongue when dealing with their uh...fiery spirits. He's made us all feel safe and loved and secure. And his presence has made our house into a welcoming home where we all can feel watched out for.
He's given me the most cherished present I could ask for outside of our family: laughter. Every day, it seems, he's made me laugh. I've spent hours with him, doing nothing, and reveling in how hilarious our situations can be and are. He's made me giggle, chortle, snort, and cry from his dorky attempts at humor.
He's brought me reality. Not your reality, nor theirs; but ours. And it's perfect. From my controlling nature, his procrastination, my eldest's need for approval, my middle's quirkiness and my youngest's mischievousness - it's real. Every last minute of it. It's ours, and we own it and we love it. We don't look to others and what they have and wish it were ours. We find our way to be content in the here & now - something I've struggled with prior to him showing me it can happen.
And he's given me love. Love that fills my heart, my mind and my soul. Love that consumes me. Love that renews itself every now and then - making me even more appreciative of what he's shown me. A love that is never taken for granted with late night phone calls when he travels (like we carried on when we started dating), with random dancing in my kitchen while making dinner and with soft smiles and knowing touches when our busy lives don't have time for anything else.
No matter how short or how long my life may be, I'm thankful today and every day (and even those days I hardly seem it) for the moments, big and small, that you've already provided. Thank you, Brannon for being you and more than I could have imagined a person capable of. I was lost and I was broken...thank you for finding me.
I know the dangers of wrapping your happiness around one person, with so many variables, unknowns and out-of-your-control instances in life - but my current joy comes not from what the future may hold, but what he has brought me in the past. The last 14 years (well, 14 years in a few more days) have been the most wonder years that anyone could have asked for.
This man, regardless of what our to-be's might be, has brought me immeasurable gifts in my time on this planet (more than 1/3 of which has been spent with him). He's given me the three most gorgeous children I could have ever imagined. He's granted me peace and a soothing tongue when dealing with their uh...fiery spirits. He's made us all feel safe and loved and secure. And his presence has made our house into a welcoming home where we all can feel watched out for.
He's given me the most cherished present I could ask for outside of our family: laughter. Every day, it seems, he's made me laugh. I've spent hours with him, doing nothing, and reveling in how hilarious our situations can be and are. He's made me giggle, chortle, snort, and cry from his dorky attempts at humor.
He's brought me reality. Not your reality, nor theirs; but ours. And it's perfect. From my controlling nature, his procrastination, my eldest's need for approval, my middle's quirkiness and my youngest's mischievousness - it's real. Every last minute of it. It's ours, and we own it and we love it. We don't look to others and what they have and wish it were ours. We find our way to be content in the here & now - something I've struggled with prior to him showing me it can happen.
And he's given me love. Love that fills my heart, my mind and my soul. Love that consumes me. Love that renews itself every now and then - making me even more appreciative of what he's shown me. A love that is never taken for granted with late night phone calls when he travels (like we carried on when we started dating), with random dancing in my kitchen while making dinner and with soft smiles and knowing touches when our busy lives don't have time for anything else.
No matter how short or how long my life may be, I'm thankful today and every day (and even those days I hardly seem it) for the moments, big and small, that you've already provided. Thank you, Brannon for being you and more than I could have imagined a person capable of. I was lost and I was broken...thank you for finding me.
Friday, November 2, 2012
Brusha, brusha, brusha...
Living with someone is difficult. You bring your own brand of neurosis that you've had to deal with your entire life, and they bring theirs to the abode. My husband and I discovered early on how to live with each other peacefully, but it wasn't easy. In the beginning, it was the little things. The inconsequential things we learned are what truly destroy relationships. Not money, not differing political opinions, no - much more serious things...like toothpaste.
See, when we moved in together we each brought our own idea of utopia to our homestead. Having grown up vastly different, we discovered quickly which set the other off (yes, he gets angry too!).
The largest of all these issues was the toothpaste. We used the same kind. We shared a tube. Let me explain what happens when a psychotic neat freak moves in with a closet slob: we fought. A lot. Over toothpaste. He gooed it on his brush, smooshed the cap back on and rolled the damned tube up. I would clean it off, clean out the cap, unroll it, push the toothpaste up and go on my way. That is until I couldn't take it any more.
We had a knock down drag out, over toothpaste. You wonder how two intelligent, higher educated individuals could fight over toothpaste, I'll tell you. Ever have someone constantly following you undoing everything you had just done? That is what we both felt like. It was a HUGE issue. We learned quickly that these seemingly tiny issues are what hold the key to a relationship's unraveling. We resorted to name calling:
"Globber!"
"Anal control freak!"
"You're gross! Pig..."
"You're bossy!"
There was pent up anger...yes, over toothpaste. You think, "Hell, it's just toothpaste!" and you push it down. Finally it reared it's ugly head and a battle over toothpaste turned into a battle over every other little thing that drove us mad about the other. Toothpaste. And because it was such a small issue, it never dawned on either of us to buy separate tubes. Why in the hell would we do that? We use the same kind! Who has two tubes of the same kind of toothpaste laying around being used?
After the last fight in our apartment over this then $2 item, I had had enough! I stomped out and went straight to the store with the "I'll show him!" mentality. I bought my own tube! OMG! I said it! I bought my own tube of toothpaste! It was liberating! It was refreshing! And most of all from my point of view, my tube was pristine looking.
And the fighting ceased. Completely. Toothpaste. Really? Yes... We've since learned that we have to stop sweating the small stuff. It's the small stuff that grows & festers and turns into something much larger...like bread. When you first knead it, it's a small ball...let it sit around a few hours at room temperature and you have something much, much bigger. Since then, we've called the little things that bother us in this wonderful life together "toothpaste". We've learned to air them and take immediate action, lest they rise and become ready to be baked into something solid.
And we've learned everyone has toothpaste in their life. What's your toothpaste?
Thursday, October 18, 2012
Click, click, click...
Recently, I decided to go on an adventure. Wait! Let me back up. I was looking at recipes online. One made me think of my coworker. I sent her the link. She asked, "How DO you find all these things?!?!" Simple. I look at a site I know, then I click - "Ooooh, that recipe/link looks good!"
That in mind, I went on my adventure. Instead of following recipe links, I happened to click the lovely icon at the top of this screen, NEXT BLOG. Let me tell you that I'm not sure if I'll adventure down this path again.
I clicked. Bo-RING! This photographer doesn't even have talent. Anyone can take pictures of a grassy field at dusk. Click! Another photographer? Ooooh, you do weddings...I gotcha. CLICK! Oh, my - to my surprise yet another photographer? Good Grief! Are there only photographers out there? Christ people, get some sense - It's a hobby, that few ever carve a career out of. Good luck if you think having a blog is going to help. I'm sure that's not how Annie Leibovitz got her start...
Anyways, I kept clicking. It became more hurried and fanatical. Click, CLick CLICK! click, click, click, click - next and so on and so forth and I started mumbling to myself, "Photographer, mom who HOLY SHIT - she put pictures of her kids up with names, locations, dates - might as well include their social security numbers or invite convicted felons over for dinner...wow, you like yourself huh? Put some clothes on...note to self: Self, never ever visit this blog again. OMG! What are these people doing?!?"
I had to stop. I think I went into a full meltdown mode. While I use this medium for my own enjoyment with the hopes that my friends & family might get a kick out of my incessant moan-holing (that's bitching for any of you who aren't hip to my lingo) and the idea that if I don't put my thoughts to paper my head might just explode - there are a LOT of freaks out there. And not just weirdos, but really bizarre folks. Apparently, they let any old random person walk into a Best Buy and come out with a machine, sporting 8 GB of RAM that can melt retinas and ruin lives in approximately five minutes...let me elaborate.
The fateful click that I think forever scarred me was attested to this woman whom I assumed REALLY liked to take pictures of herself in the buff with what I can only assume are the various plates she owns? At least I hope she owns them. How creepy would that be if she didn't own them? What if you knew her, but didn't know you knew her?!? What if she had been over for a dinner party and that was YOUR plate? God forbid, what if she put it back in the cupboard without washing it and you are currently eating off of it? Gross.
These are the people out there, free to roam your interwebs and prowl the blogospheres. I can tell you now that I will think twice before randomly clicking through blog links again...
That in mind, I went on my adventure. Instead of following recipe links, I happened to click the lovely icon at the top of this screen, NEXT BLOG. Let me tell you that I'm not sure if I'll adventure down this path again.
I clicked. Bo-RING! This photographer doesn't even have talent. Anyone can take pictures of a grassy field at dusk. Click! Another photographer? Ooooh, you do weddings...I gotcha. CLICK! Oh, my - to my surprise yet another photographer? Good Grief! Are there only photographers out there? Christ people, get some sense - It's a hobby, that few ever carve a career out of. Good luck if you think having a blog is going to help. I'm sure that's not how Annie Leibovitz got her start...
Anyways, I kept clicking. It became more hurried and fanatical. Click, CLick CLICK! click, click, click, click - next and so on and so forth and I started mumbling to myself, "Photographer, mom who HOLY SHIT - she put pictures of her kids up with names, locations, dates - might as well include their social security numbers or invite convicted felons over for dinner...wow, you like yourself huh? Put some clothes on...note to self: Self, never ever visit this blog again. OMG! What are these people doing?!?"
I had to stop. I think I went into a full meltdown mode. While I use this medium for my own enjoyment with the hopes that my friends & family might get a kick out of my incessant moan-holing (that's bitching for any of you who aren't hip to my lingo) and the idea that if I don't put my thoughts to paper my head might just explode - there are a LOT of freaks out there. And not just weirdos, but really bizarre folks. Apparently, they let any old random person walk into a Best Buy and come out with a machine, sporting 8 GB of RAM that can melt retinas and ruin lives in approximately five minutes...let me elaborate.
The fateful click that I think forever scarred me was attested to this woman whom I assumed REALLY liked to take pictures of herself in the buff with what I can only assume are the various plates she owns? At least I hope she owns them. How creepy would that be if she didn't own them? What if you knew her, but didn't know you knew her?!? What if she had been over for a dinner party and that was YOUR plate? God forbid, what if she put it back in the cupboard without washing it and you are currently eating off of it? Gross.
These are the people out there, free to roam your interwebs and prowl the blogospheres. I can tell you now that I will think twice before randomly clicking through blog links again...
Thursday, September 27, 2012
Hoarders Wanted...Inquire Within
I was raised as an only child of a bi-polar. While I have four brothers, the oldest were out of the house while I was still young and the youngest were my father's and lived elsewhere. This situation left quite a few things to be desired in my childhood, but it taught me a few useful things; one of which was the fact that manual labor and a good old fashioned cry is good for the soul. Hand in hand, cleanliness is next to godliness.
When I'm stressed to my limits, I find that I revert to comforting things...the smell of something baking or bleach. The choice to bake or clean is dependent upon my pissedoffedness levels. The angrier I am at my stressors, the more intense my need to clean. Normally, my house is in a general state of "tidy" with random dust or cat hair that would be acceptable to most. Occasionally, my house is clean enough to make Mommy Dearest uber proud. Bring it Faye Dunaway! And rarely, rarely...cleaning my house isn't enough to rid my inner demons. I need a hoarder.
In instances of intense stress, junking items in my own home will no longer do. No longer do I derive satisfaction from ousting my husband's week old receipts. Nevermore will chucking out my kids' stickers while muttering to myself curb this random need.
I yearn to get my hands on a hoarder's mother-load and I see this proposal as a mutually beneficial relationship. Have an Aunt Phyllis who has been pack ratting into her hidey-hole for the last 40 years? I have unresolved rage that needs to be purged. Know Clyde whose collection of trinkets has made it impossible to vacuum? Strangely, in this mode - I enjoy cleaning grout with a toothbrush. What luck!
Every item I can shuck into a garbage bag lifts the burden that weighs on my shoulders. Every bizarre knickknack or 20 year old tube of Neosporin I can trash makes me realize that my stress and current source of discontent is really inconsequential. Ultimately, the literal cleaning meets the figurative and I can let go.
Somewhere between the Pine-sol and the tattered vestiges of my sour attitude, I can just cry it out. In the end I feel loads better and Grandma Millie's kitchen is again usable...So, can I come clean your stuff?
When I'm stressed to my limits, I find that I revert to comforting things...the smell of something baking or bleach. The choice to bake or clean is dependent upon my pissedoffedness levels. The angrier I am at my stressors, the more intense my need to clean. Normally, my house is in a general state of "tidy" with random dust or cat hair that would be acceptable to most. Occasionally, my house is clean enough to make Mommy Dearest uber proud. Bring it Faye Dunaway! And rarely, rarely...cleaning my house isn't enough to rid my inner demons. I need a hoarder.
In instances of intense stress, junking items in my own home will no longer do. No longer do I derive satisfaction from ousting my husband's week old receipts. Nevermore will chucking out my kids' stickers while muttering to myself curb this random need.
I yearn to get my hands on a hoarder's mother-load and I see this proposal as a mutually beneficial relationship. Have an Aunt Phyllis who has been pack ratting into her hidey-hole for the last 40 years? I have unresolved rage that needs to be purged. Know Clyde whose collection of trinkets has made it impossible to vacuum? Strangely, in this mode - I enjoy cleaning grout with a toothbrush. What luck!
Every item I can shuck into a garbage bag lifts the burden that weighs on my shoulders. Every bizarre knickknack or 20 year old tube of Neosporin I can trash makes me realize that my stress and current source of discontent is really inconsequential. Ultimately, the literal cleaning meets the figurative and I can let go.
Somewhere between the Pine-sol and the tattered vestiges of my sour attitude, I can just cry it out. In the end I feel loads better and Grandma Millie's kitchen is again usable...So, can I come clean your stuff?
Friday, September 21, 2012
Trick Or Treat...Smell My Feet
Every year (or more aptly, as far back as I can remember), my husband and I dressed to match for Halloween. We go all out. It is, after all, my favorite holiday outside of my birthday. As our family grew, so did our elaborate matching costumes.
We've been the cast of Peter Pan:
Alice's Wonderland (for some reason I can't find the photo with all of us):
A family of vampires:
and so on and so forth.
This year was to be the first year that we were going to let everyone pick their own costumes. The thought of it made me a little teary. I wasn't ready to let go of one of my favorite times of year: the picking of the Halloween costumes...until I saw my children milling over my Halloween books & magazines.
"What are we going to be this year, Mommy?"
Could it be? Could I get one more year of family bliss and cohesive outfitting? I thought and thought and thought. There was one thing I always wanted us to be, but I couldn't figure out how to make the cast of five characters into six, until a coworker provided me with my brilliant solution. All I had to do was convince my sister-in-law that she would actually WANT to dress up as Scooby-Doo. I mean, what 30-something woman wants to dress up as Scooby-Doo? Apparently, my sister-in-law!
I could barely get the words out. It seemed she had been waiting as long for me to come up with this masterful costume idea as I had been wanting to do it. For the rest of the day I was barraged with questions and ideas:
Will we actually have Scooby snacks that I can eat? Yes.
I'm going to get a wig...Why? WHY?!?! So I can randomly put it on and hide behind a ficus tree...
I'm going to need to get glasses with the fake nose for me to put on as well.
Did you know that ROFL makes me think of Scooby saying 'Waffle'?
Can we make your minivan into the Mystery Machine?
Oooh, can I go into a van, fill it with smoke and come out with the munchies?!?
I was sent a link into the history and personality break down for each member of this rag-tag cast. Funny, we all seemed to fit - can you figure out who each of us will be? And no, bonus points will not be awarded for guessing who Scooby is...
We've been the cast of Peter Pan:
A family of vampires:
and so on and so forth.
This year was to be the first year that we were going to let everyone pick their own costumes. The thought of it made me a little teary. I wasn't ready to let go of one of my favorite times of year: the picking of the Halloween costumes...until I saw my children milling over my Halloween books & magazines.
"What are we going to be this year, Mommy?"
Could it be? Could I get one more year of family bliss and cohesive outfitting? I thought and thought and thought. There was one thing I always wanted us to be, but I couldn't figure out how to make the cast of five characters into six, until a coworker provided me with my brilliant solution. All I had to do was convince my sister-in-law that she would actually WANT to dress up as Scooby-Doo. I mean, what 30-something woman wants to dress up as Scooby-Doo? Apparently, my sister-in-law!
I could barely get the words out. It seemed she had been waiting as long for me to come up with this masterful costume idea as I had been wanting to do it. For the rest of the day I was barraged with questions and ideas:
Will we actually have Scooby snacks that I can eat? Yes.
I'm going to get a wig...Why? WHY?!?! So I can randomly put it on and hide behind a ficus tree...
I'm going to need to get glasses with the fake nose for me to put on as well.
Did you know that ROFL makes me think of Scooby saying 'Waffle'?
Can we make your minivan into the Mystery Machine?
Oooh, can I go into a van, fill it with smoke and come out with the munchies?!?
I was sent a link into the history and personality break down for each member of this rag-tag cast. Funny, we all seemed to fit - can you figure out who each of us will be? And no, bonus points will not be awarded for guessing who Scooby is...
Friday, September 7, 2012
Run, Run...As Fast As You Can...
We're health conscious in my house. By that I mean, we're aware of how healthy we used to be, and we attempt to get back there. Of course, my tactics are different than my husband's. See, he's motivated to live a long and healthy life; to see his kids grow and get married and live wonderfully blissful lives of their own.
I'm motivated to make sure he only looks at me from now until forever. Once upon a time, in a galaxy far, FAR away - where no children existed, I looked good enough to demand that by merely breathing....Now, to my sadness, I have to work at it, and I'm not even remotely close to hotness. [shaking my head] Not even close...
So, I diet. I eat salads. I row. I bike. And now, I run. I downloaded this couch to 5K app. And this snooty animated character is training me to run 3 point whatever miles without keeling over. What is going to happen, is that I'm going to slip on my own sweat and be found lying in a pool of it, drooling and praying for death. [sigh]
Most recently, my oldest has taken an interest into why we exercise so much (my husband makes her ride her bike with him on his jogs...). Here's how it played out one evening, as I prepped for my torture on the treadmill...
She looked at me in my work out garb, and my John McEnroe (circa 1985) Head band, as I stretched my calves. "Mommy, why do you run?"
"Because once, before you inhabited my personal space, I used to be hot. And while I'll never be able to reclaim that fully, I know that without a doubt I'll try my damnedest to get back there. Ultimately, I'll take solace in lording it all over you for the rest of your life..."
[my husband yells his encouragement from the other room] "You're really never going to let that go, are you?" Hello? Has he not been with me for the past 14 years? Who did he think he married nine years ago next week? Oh, right...that hot chick.
"Nope...and I'll have it known, if I drop F-bombs while running, I'm going to blame them on the kids too!"
My daughter, in her infinite seven-year-old wisdom, shakes her head at me and walks out of the room. "Have fun running!" is shouted over her shoulder. You have no idea kid...no idea.
I'm motivated to make sure he only looks at me from now until forever. Once upon a time, in a galaxy far, FAR away - where no children existed, I looked good enough to demand that by merely breathing....Now, to my sadness, I have to work at it, and I'm not even remotely close to hotness. [shaking my head] Not even close...
So, I diet. I eat salads. I row. I bike. And now, I run. I downloaded this couch to 5K app. And this snooty animated character is training me to run 3 point whatever miles without keeling over. What is going to happen, is that I'm going to slip on my own sweat and be found lying in a pool of it, drooling and praying for death. [sigh]
Most recently, my oldest has taken an interest into why we exercise so much (my husband makes her ride her bike with him on his jogs...). Here's how it played out one evening, as I prepped for my torture on the treadmill...
She looked at me in my work out garb, and my John McEnroe (circa 1985) Head band, as I stretched my calves. "Mommy, why do you run?"
"Because once, before you inhabited my personal space, I used to be hot. And while I'll never be able to reclaim that fully, I know that without a doubt I'll try my damnedest to get back there. Ultimately, I'll take solace in lording it all over you for the rest of your life..."
[my husband yells his encouragement from the other room] "You're really never going to let that go, are you?" Hello? Has he not been with me for the past 14 years? Who did he think he married nine years ago next week? Oh, right...that hot chick.
"Nope...and I'll have it known, if I drop F-bombs while running, I'm going to blame them on the kids too!"
My daughter, in her infinite seven-year-old wisdom, shakes her head at me and walks out of the room. "Have fun running!" is shouted over her shoulder. You have no idea kid...no idea.
Thursday, August 30, 2012
No, I Wasn't Watching That...
Admittedly, we are TV junkies. I have this bizarre fascination with educational TV and documentaries. On any given cold wintery day (or most any late evening) I can be found plopped on my couch, snuggled up with the hubs watching either of the aforementioned. And then, I have a guilty pleasure. A self-indulgence so wicked I'm nearly ashamed to go into it. But discuss it I did, and found that many parents of small children share my obsession.
Thank you, Disney Channel for Phineas & Ferb. Many nights, I find myself still watching enthralled long after my children have gone to bed; having selected yet another episode from our Netflix queue. And I'm not alone. These two fun loving and genius kids, along with their pet platypus turned secret agent, can keep me endlessly entertained. The show is witty, hilarious and horribly addicting. Let me explain their magic.
The show has offensive stereotypes straight down to their fat white trash bully or the Indian kid who yearns for extra credit, yet the show is hardly offensive. There is creativity and song abound. Song? Yes, song... Most recently we watched a repeat episode where they circumnavigate the world during the solstice to truly make the most of the longest day of the year. They stop in the Himalayas to visit Baljeet's uncle's rubber band & ball factory. This clip is not for the faint of heart....
This song was stuck in my head for days on end. Just when I thought I might be rid of singing it at my desk while at work, my husband goes out for the night. During our bedtime routine, my son was lollygagging through his shower. I promise music should he continue in a timely fashion. I play the clip. This bubble laden kid starts to shake it. "Rubber bands....RUBBER BALLS" [insert a pelvic thrust here for good measure] I snort. "THEY CAN BOUNCE BLAH BLAH MMMM MMMM SOME AYYYYYYEEEEE". This kid belts for all he is worth. His bubble covered body poof becomes a microphone. [throw in some more tiny hiney shaking] I bust out laughing and have to leave the bathroom.
Moments later he emerges, only to stand in his robe in the living room shaking his posterior like it's his full time job. His sisters get up and join in. Suddenly, everyone is singing. Loudly; and off-key, "RUBBER BANDS, RUBBER BALLS....THIS IS WHERE THEY TEST THE STRETCHING..." I get up and attempt to corral the next one into the bathroom. For any parent out there, you know this is as pointless as herding cats. Finally, everyone is bathed and rubber-banded out. I breathe a sigh of relief and plop on our couch.
My husband strolls in an hour or so later, to find me in the same position, and totally engrossed in - you guessed it: Phineas & Ferb. And it never once occurred to me to change the channel. He begins to laugh at me...that is until I get up and sing, "Rubber bands, rubber balls..." Let's just say the kiddies aren't the only ones who can shake it to this catchy beat...
Thank you, Disney Channel for Phineas & Ferb. Many nights, I find myself still watching enthralled long after my children have gone to bed; having selected yet another episode from our Netflix queue. And I'm not alone. These two fun loving and genius kids, along with their pet platypus turned secret agent, can keep me endlessly entertained. The show is witty, hilarious and horribly addicting. Let me explain their magic.
The show has offensive stereotypes straight down to their fat white trash bully or the Indian kid who yearns for extra credit, yet the show is hardly offensive. There is creativity and song abound. Song? Yes, song... Most recently we watched a repeat episode where they circumnavigate the world during the solstice to truly make the most of the longest day of the year. They stop in the Himalayas to visit Baljeet's uncle's rubber band & ball factory. This clip is not for the faint of heart....
This song was stuck in my head for days on end. Just when I thought I might be rid of singing it at my desk while at work, my husband goes out for the night. During our bedtime routine, my son was lollygagging through his shower. I promise music should he continue in a timely fashion. I play the clip. This bubble laden kid starts to shake it. "Rubber bands....RUBBER BALLS" [insert a pelvic thrust here for good measure] I snort. "THEY CAN BOUNCE BLAH BLAH MMMM MMMM SOME AYYYYYYEEEEE". This kid belts for all he is worth. His bubble covered body poof becomes a microphone. [throw in some more tiny hiney shaking] I bust out laughing and have to leave the bathroom.
Moments later he emerges, only to stand in his robe in the living room shaking his posterior like it's his full time job. His sisters get up and join in. Suddenly, everyone is singing. Loudly; and off-key, "RUBBER BANDS, RUBBER BALLS....THIS IS WHERE THEY TEST THE STRETCHING..." I get up and attempt to corral the next one into the bathroom. For any parent out there, you know this is as pointless as herding cats. Finally, everyone is bathed and rubber-banded out. I breathe a sigh of relief and plop on our couch.
My husband strolls in an hour or so later, to find me in the same position, and totally engrossed in - you guessed it: Phineas & Ferb. And it never once occurred to me to change the channel. He begins to laugh at me...that is until I get up and sing, "Rubber bands, rubber balls..." Let's just say the kiddies aren't the only ones who can shake it to this catchy beat...
Friday, August 17, 2012
Show Me Yo Teef...
This past week has been an adventure, as we have assembled our family for our yearly reunion. This is something I look forward to every year. We took the week off. We visited. We went places. We laughed...a lot. And most of all, we learned all about dentures.
My son is a precocious little boy. Not your typical little boy. He likes dinosaurs, but not like most boys do. He likes to learn about them, to sit for hours studying their anatomy, to dig for their bones in my back yard. He wants to be a paleontologist when he grows up...well, for now. After this week, I think he might want to be a dentist.
See, I needed someone to watch my kids while I went out to the car. Bring in: Aunt Mary. Come to find out I didn't need to go to the car, so I walked in on a run amok game of Simon Says. I stepped in. My oldest was horrified when I shouted, "Simon says take out your teeth!" and Aunt Mary complied. My son was transfixed.
Aunt Mary's teeth that night became something akin to a rock star in my house. "She can take them out, that is SOOOOOO cool." We had more conversations than I can count.
"I want to be able to take out my teeth, but they're in there pretty good."
"I wonder if her teeth hurt her?"
"Great Grandpa Hausler had fake teeth too, which allowed him to eat hard things like rocks!"
Really?!?! Rocks? It's become fact that I cannot argue against, because all three of my creative children have seen him eat hard things, such as rocks and boulders, when he was alive. Nice. I'm glad you all will remember your Great Grandfather fondly, but must you really call him Great Grandpa Rock Biter? Sigh...
At dinner I sit my son next to Aunt Mary, knowing full well I can bribe him to eat his dinner if she takes out her teeth once more. He walks in, and lights up when he sees her. "Aunt Mary, will you come sit by me?" He proceeds to plague her with questions about her dental apparatus. This poor woman. Our rides home every night are spent answering and dodging questions about how grown ups get fake teeth, while staring at this little boy who is plotting on getting his own pair.
"George Washington had wood teeth," pipes the oldest from the back seat. Oh Boy. "Well, if wooden teeth are good enough for our first president, they are good enough for me." And that was that. At least birthday present shopping this year has been made easier for me. "Hi, I'd like one set of archaic wooden dentures, please?"
And for anyone who encounters my son on a go forward, please be patient when his first question is, "Can you take out your teeth???"
My son is a precocious little boy. Not your typical little boy. He likes dinosaurs, but not like most boys do. He likes to learn about them, to sit for hours studying their anatomy, to dig for their bones in my back yard. He wants to be a paleontologist when he grows up...well, for now. After this week, I think he might want to be a dentist.
See, I needed someone to watch my kids while I went out to the car. Bring in: Aunt Mary. Come to find out I didn't need to go to the car, so I walked in on a run amok game of Simon Says. I stepped in. My oldest was horrified when I shouted, "Simon says take out your teeth!" and Aunt Mary complied. My son was transfixed.
Aunt Mary's teeth that night became something akin to a rock star in my house. "She can take them out, that is SOOOOOO cool." We had more conversations than I can count.
"I want to be able to take out my teeth, but they're in there pretty good."
"I wonder if her teeth hurt her?"
"Great Grandpa Hausler had fake teeth too, which allowed him to eat hard things like rocks!"
Really?!?! Rocks? It's become fact that I cannot argue against, because all three of my creative children have seen him eat hard things, such as rocks and boulders, when he was alive. Nice. I'm glad you all will remember your Great Grandfather fondly, but must you really call him Great Grandpa Rock Biter? Sigh...
At dinner I sit my son next to Aunt Mary, knowing full well I can bribe him to eat his dinner if she takes out her teeth once more. He walks in, and lights up when he sees her. "Aunt Mary, will you come sit by me?" He proceeds to plague her with questions about her dental apparatus. This poor woman. Our rides home every night are spent answering and dodging questions about how grown ups get fake teeth, while staring at this little boy who is plotting on getting his own pair.
"George Washington had wood teeth," pipes the oldest from the back seat. Oh Boy. "Well, if wooden teeth are good enough for our first president, they are good enough for me." And that was that. At least birthday present shopping this year has been made easier for me. "Hi, I'd like one set of archaic wooden dentures, please?"
And for anyone who encounters my son on a go forward, please be patient when his first question is, "Can you take out your teeth???"
Friday, August 10, 2012
$20 To The Therapy Jar
When my husband and I thought about having children we joked about making a Therapy Jar. A jar in which we'd input $5 anytime we did something that would be the catalyst to send our at the time hypothetical children into therapy. Then we actually had kids. And I actually made a jar. And money was deposited. And then it got robbed...by me. And an IOU was written. Needless to say, I owe the therapy jar unquantifiable amounts of money. For my own therapy, here's my most recent need to deposit...
I have the utmost respect for single parents. I was raised by one. I do not want to be one. Every now and then I get a small taste of what it might be like, as my husband travels for work. No thank you...even for a week.
I'm not sane normally, but when he's gone I become something else. Something...terrifying. I have zero patience. I have no tolerance for shenanigans. I have negative time to myself, and those brief moments before falling asleep, I many times just lay in bed and cry.
Isn't being a parent grand? Thankfully, I've found I'm not alone. It's that one dirty secret that most parents will keep from everyone - you know, that you occasionally turn into a psycho-hose beast. Most recently, my oldest was getting ready for bed. The youngest had to go potty. In the two minutes they were alone in the bathroom, one had screwed around, kicked the other (who was seated on the toilet) in the throat hard enough to break skin. To say I lost my shit would be an understatement. To say I went bat-shit crazy would be putting it lightly.
By the end of my tirade, I had not one injured crying child, but a second crying child from what will probably take years of therapy to undo. In one brief moment, I realized what I'd accomplished, immediately sent the oldest to bed. Then onto the youngest. I bathed her in silence. I tucked them in. I bit my tongue and stifled my tears.
Then onto my middle. Somewhere between the shampoo and hair rinsing, I put my head on the side of the tub and just cried it out. I was tired. I felt alone. And most of all, I needed a hug because I remembered that I was human and for the past 45 minutes, I had sucked being a human and I lost control as a parent. Two scrawny, wet, bubble covered arms encircled my neck.
"Mommy, why are you crying? Are you sad?"
"Yes I'm sad. Tonight I failed as a Mom. I didn't think before I spoke (or hysterically screamed as it were), and I acted in a way that didn't make me proud. I hurt your sister's feelings and I can't undo that."
He looked up at me with his big kind eyes and proceeded to tell me all the ways that he didn't think I was a flop. "I love you. You are fun. You keep me safe. You hug me. You love me. You protect me. And I'm always proud of you." It's hard to explain to a five-year-old why their sweet words made you cry even more.
I didn't deserve any of that tonight, but this tiny voice inside me told me that to keep what he said true I could never give up. I have to remember to kneel down to their level and talk softly no matter how much I want to yell. I have to remember to grab them and hug them when I'm so frustrated I'm going to break. And I have to remember I'm human, and that when I flounder next (as I'm sure to) that I don't let it beat me. I wrote my daughter an apology and I said a prayer to God that when they're older, all my hugs are what win out in their childhood memories...
I have the utmost respect for single parents. I was raised by one. I do not want to be one. Every now and then I get a small taste of what it might be like, as my husband travels for work. No thank you...even for a week.
I'm not sane normally, but when he's gone I become something else. Something...terrifying. I have zero patience. I have no tolerance for shenanigans. I have negative time to myself, and those brief moments before falling asleep, I many times just lay in bed and cry.
Isn't being a parent grand? Thankfully, I've found I'm not alone. It's that one dirty secret that most parents will keep from everyone - you know, that you occasionally turn into a psycho-hose beast. Most recently, my oldest was getting ready for bed. The youngest had to go potty. In the two minutes they were alone in the bathroom, one had screwed around, kicked the other (who was seated on the toilet) in the throat hard enough to break skin. To say I lost my shit would be an understatement. To say I went bat-shit crazy would be putting it lightly.
By the end of my tirade, I had not one injured crying child, but a second crying child from what will probably take years of therapy to undo. In one brief moment, I realized what I'd accomplished, immediately sent the oldest to bed. Then onto the youngest. I bathed her in silence. I tucked them in. I bit my tongue and stifled my tears.
Then onto my middle. Somewhere between the shampoo and hair rinsing, I put my head on the side of the tub and just cried it out. I was tired. I felt alone. And most of all, I needed a hug because I remembered that I was human and for the past 45 minutes, I had sucked being a human and I lost control as a parent. Two scrawny, wet, bubble covered arms encircled my neck.
"Mommy, why are you crying? Are you sad?"
"Yes I'm sad. Tonight I failed as a Mom. I didn't think before I spoke (or hysterically screamed as it were), and I acted in a way that didn't make me proud. I hurt your sister's feelings and I can't undo that."
He looked up at me with his big kind eyes and proceeded to tell me all the ways that he didn't think I was a flop. "I love you. You are fun. You keep me safe. You hug me. You love me. You protect me. And I'm always proud of you." It's hard to explain to a five-year-old why their sweet words made you cry even more.
I didn't deserve any of that tonight, but this tiny voice inside me told me that to keep what he said true I could never give up. I have to remember to kneel down to their level and talk softly no matter how much I want to yell. I have to remember to grab them and hug them when I'm so frustrated I'm going to break. And I have to remember I'm human, and that when I flounder next (as I'm sure to) that I don't let it beat me. I wrote my daughter an apology and I said a prayer to God that when they're older, all my hugs are what win out in their childhood memories...
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
Psst...My Soul For Your Snickers.
Lately, I've been contemplating what my soul is worth. See: I would love to be thin. I yearn to be thin with the zest of 1000 lemons. It makes me do crazy things, I want it so badly. I'm forced to eat raw squash & zucchini for an afternoon snack when what I really want is a Whatchamacallit. I've contemplated knocking down small children to steal their cake, and I've actually thought about accosting the ice cream man. I'm obligated to get on some stupid machine and jog in place, pedal while going nowhere or row myself into oblivion. I find all these things to be deplorable.
So, while rowing away, cursing up a storm in my head...F#CK this and SH!T on that with every pull, I wonder. Hmmm: what exactly would I barter with the devil to be thin? Is my soul merely worth being a size 6? Or should I add stipulations? I want to be thin, and have chocolate never count in my diet again. Could you imagine being able to have limitless quantities of chocolate with no recourse? Of course I can!
In my mind, I'm whisked away to the land of Willy Wonka. I just licked a wall! I'm floating in his chocolate river (please though - minus that creepy boat ride). Crap, who is that fat chick in the black bathing suit...Jesus - it is me: Row harder, row harder! Suddenly, my vision of a candied utopia vanishes and I hear the sweaty guy next to me grunting away. God, I hate this. I want to give up. I swear again - this time might have been aloud. I receive a few stink eyes.
Row, Row, Row your boat...Although, it's not a boat. If it were, I'd have a nice sea mist on my face. I'd be in the sun. I'd have a cool breeze ruffling my pink hair. Instead, I just angrily jerked on a handle bar and dropped the F-bomb in at least five different languages. UGH! I think about the watermelon I ate for breakfast. The large salad I had for lunch. The granola I had for a snack and I pray that my @ss doesn't explode on my next pull...No wonder most vegetarians I know are pale and unsmiling - they must poop 30 times a day...
Once more I day dream, "Dear Mr. Satan - If I give you my soul, would you allow me to be thin yet still retain some womanly curves, allow me to eat copious amounts of chocolate, and make it so I never have to work out again?" It's right about then the sweat rolls into my eye. This time I know I cursed out loud.
I stop for a moment and wipe my brow. It's about then that I realize that I don't REALLY want to make a deal with Lucifer. I can do this. I CAN! I can be proud of myself for making healthy choices. For teaching my kids what hard work & perseverance will get you. For doing it even though I'd rather have dental work done (yes, seriously - dental work).
So, for the countless people I have offended with my mouth in the wonderful family establishment I am a member of, please accept my sincerest apologies; now get the FOff my rowing machine. I'm on a mission...
So, while rowing away, cursing up a storm in my head...F#CK this and SH!T on that with every pull, I wonder. Hmmm: what exactly would I barter with the devil to be thin? Is my soul merely worth being a size 6? Or should I add stipulations? I want to be thin, and have chocolate never count in my diet again.
In my mind, I'm whisked away to the land of Willy Wonka. I just licked a wall! I'm floating in his chocolate river (please though - minus that creepy boat ride). Crap, who is that fat chick in the black bathing suit...Jesus - it is me: Row harder, row harder! Suddenly, my vision of a candied utopia vanishes and I hear the sweaty guy next to me grunting away. God, I hate this. I want to give up. I swear again - this time might have been aloud. I receive a few stink eyes.
Row, Row, Row your boat...Although, it's not a boat. If it were, I'd have a nice sea mist on my face. I'd be in the sun. I'd have a cool breeze ruffling my pink hair. Instead, I just angrily jerked on a handle bar and dropped the F-bomb in at least five different languages. UGH! I think about the watermelon I ate for breakfast. The large salad I had for lunch. The granola I had for a snack and I pray that my @ss doesn't explode on my next pull...No wonder most vegetarians I know are pale and unsmiling - they must poop 30 times a day...
Once more I day dream, "Dear Mr. Satan - If I give you my soul, would you allow me to be thin yet still retain some womanly curves, allow me to eat copious amounts of chocolate, and make it so I never have to work out again?" It's right about then the sweat rolls into my eye. This time I know I cursed out loud.
I stop for a moment and wipe my brow. It's about then that I realize that I don't REALLY want to make a deal with Lucifer. I can do this. I CAN! I can be proud of myself for making healthy choices. For teaching my kids what hard work & perseverance will get you. For doing it even though I'd rather have dental work done (yes, seriously - dental work).
So, for the countless people I have offended with my mouth in the wonderful family establishment I am a member of, please accept my sincerest apologies; now get the FOff my rowing machine. I'm on a mission...
Friday, July 20, 2012
Promises Are Meant To Be Kept...
I have very few rules in life. The rules I have are iron clad and not to be taken lightly. I live by these rules and they have shaped me into the person that I am. Rule #1 is to be true to yourself and to never compromise your beliefs. Rule #2 is to give life everything you've got because you'll never know when you don't have any more to give. Rule #3 is to never have regrets (sure we've all done stupid things, but don't regret them, use them as learning opportunities) and Rule #4 - never make promises you cannot or may not be able to keep.
Most recently Rule #4 came under the scrutiny of my five-year-old son.
We were driving along on a summer family outing. My husband said something rude/mean to me, which I made a gasp and jokingly respond with, "Fine. I just won't love you anymore." He smiled, looked at me and retorted, "You will. You promised." He seemed pretty smug.
The whole exchange, which I thought happened in the front of the car and would go unnoticed by the little ears around us, was of great curiosity to my son. He had heard the entire exchange and wondered how his daddy could smile when I said I would not love him any longer. My husband merely told him, "I smile because I know Mommy couldn't do that - she promised me she would always love me and she always keeps her promises. It's a rule."
I then had the most wonderful back & forth with him.
"Mommy, why do you HAVE to keep all your promises."
"Because, I won't make a promise unless I'm going to keep it. You can do many things in life, but promises should be reserved for things that you have control over and can see through until the end. Like loving Daddy...I make a choice every day to love him. There are days when I don't like him much, but I sure do love him, and I remind myself that I promised him that I would always love him. So, I do. It's that simple."
"But what if you're mad at him?"
"Doesn't matter, sweetie. My word is my bond. I promised him I would love him. I don't break promises. I can be mad at him. Just because I'm mad at him doesn't mean I don't love him any more. I've decided to always love him. Then I promised and it is that simple. Just because I'm mad or hurt or angry or sad doesn't mean I give up on my promise & throw it all away. It means I have to love him more and try again."
My son seemed to puzzle this over. While he thought, I mulled myself. The greatest gift I can give to my kids is to love their father. Especially when I don't like him. Especially when I'm mad at him. Especially when I don't want to. It's what makes us strong. It's what makes me, well...me. I promised and that is that in my book. I smiled to myself and rubbed my husband's neck (who was also smiling - I think he might have been having a cocky moment....)
The next words I will forever remember - "Mommy, do you promise to love me?"
"Absolutely. I promise to love you every day and then forever more."
Suddenly, his smile mirrored his father's and I knew he understood.
Friday, July 13, 2012
Off We Go - Into The Great Wide Open...
As summer began, I called to order a family meeting. We gathered round the table and brainstormed activities to conquer and own as a family. These items ranged from playing in the sprinkler and getting ice cream to much loftier accomplishments such as hiking and camping.
Most recently, we checked off going to a beautiful state park in our area: Letchworth. While there our plan was to stop at various vistas, take pictures have a picnic lunch, walk to the falls (upper and lower) check out the koi pond and maybe sneak in some swimming at the pool. This was my trial insight into the greater realm of camping.
Please keep in mind my idea of camping is to "rough" it at a hojo. I mean, come on, those things are a far cry from a Hilton and can be closely associated with most wildernesses that I'm familiar with. In any case, let me tell you why Letchworth was an epic fail and I stare sadly at the 'not to be attempted this year's #7' on our list...
Lunch started out at a great overlook. There were plenty of tables to choose from and very few people. Excellent! I send my husband back for our picnic basket and cooler. In the meanwhile I told the kids to settle on a table. That one...no. That one...no... That one? "OMG! PICK A TABLE ALREADY!" The settled on a high top granite table that sat 8-12. They like their space.
Then the bugs arrived. At first they swatted. Then they got up. The bugs followed. They ran. They yelled. We moved tables. A low top that seated about 16. Ok, you can spread out...nice. A blood curdling scream filled the air. While my youngest stuck her leg into a spider web, I had a heart attack. Never mind there was no spider in it (nor had there been for some time), we once again moved tables.
We pick our third and final table. A lovely table closer to people where the kids could spread out and a swarm of some sort of bug thing felt the need to circumnavigate my head. No biggie. I would not freak out. These kids need to see a calming reassurance in the presence of bugs to know it is O. K. Right.
These bugs landed. I swatted. The buzzed. I moved. I'm fairly certain that day my protein ingestion levels had to be off the charts as I think I swallowed half of them. Mmmm, crunchy. Then suddenly to my relief they were gone. MORE SCREAMING! I almost choked on the cherries I was eating. "Jesus! What is it?!?!" My oldest is off & running. Swinging her arms as if she's in a fit of epilepsy (hmmm, wonder where the pool is?). Shouts of, "BUGS!" filter back to me.
Sighing I pick up. I tell them that we will not be camping this year. My husband rolls his eyes. And my son who has been sitting precariously on a bench, too terrified to eat because if he looks at his food for just a moment a prehistoric bug might climb over the bluff and swallow him whole; begins to sob uncontrollably. Really? It was like watching a fire break out at a circus. Children were crying, run amok and you'd think being chased by killer clowns...
You kids hate the outdoors. You are terrified of any bugs. And yet you want to go camping? Sure. Let's plan our weekend to Stony Brook....
Most recently, we checked off going to a beautiful state park in our area: Letchworth. While there our plan was to stop at various vistas, take pictures have a picnic lunch, walk to the falls (upper and lower) check out the koi pond and maybe sneak in some swimming at the pool. This was my trial insight into the greater realm of camping.
Please keep in mind my idea of camping is to "rough" it at a hojo. I mean, come on, those things are a far cry from a Hilton and can be closely associated with most wildernesses that I'm familiar with. In any case, let me tell you why Letchworth was an epic fail and I stare sadly at the 'not to be attempted this year's #7' on our list...
Lunch started out at a great overlook. There were plenty of tables to choose from and very few people. Excellent! I send my husband back for our picnic basket and cooler. In the meanwhile I told the kids to settle on a table. That one...no. That one...no... That one? "OMG! PICK A TABLE ALREADY!" The settled on a high top granite table that sat 8-12. They like their space.
Then the bugs arrived. At first they swatted. Then they got up. The bugs followed. They ran. They yelled. We moved tables. A low top that seated about 16. Ok, you can spread out...nice. A blood curdling scream filled the air. While my youngest stuck her leg into a spider web, I had a heart attack. Never mind there was no spider in it (nor had there been for some time), we once again moved tables.
We pick our third and final table. A lovely table closer to people where the kids could spread out and a swarm of some sort of bug thing felt the need to circumnavigate my head. No biggie. I would not freak out. These kids need to see a calming reassurance in the presence of bugs to know it is O. K. Right.
These bugs landed. I swatted. The buzzed. I moved. I'm fairly certain that day my protein ingestion levels had to be off the charts as I think I swallowed half of them. Mmmm, crunchy. Then suddenly to my relief they were gone. MORE SCREAMING! I almost choked on the cherries I was eating. "Jesus! What is it?!?!" My oldest is off & running. Swinging her arms as if she's in a fit of epilepsy (hmmm, wonder where the pool is?). Shouts of, "BUGS!" filter back to me.
Sighing I pick up. I tell them that we will not be camping this year. My husband rolls his eyes. And my son who has been sitting precariously on a bench, too terrified to eat because if he looks at his food for just a moment a prehistoric bug might climb over the bluff and swallow him whole; begins to sob uncontrollably. Really? It was like watching a fire break out at a circus. Children were crying, run amok and you'd think being chased by killer clowns...
You kids hate the outdoors. You are terrified of any bugs. And yet you want to go camping? Sure. Let's plan our weekend to Stony Brook....
Thursday, June 28, 2012
Inner turmoil, yes! Cardboard? No....
I've fallen victim to one of the greatest marketing ploys in recent years. I've watched countless commercials about fiber. Fiber additives. Fiber enriched products. Fiber pills and powders. What an exceedingly brilliant idea! I have in my hand two cereals. Both equally tasty looking. Both similar in calories per portion size. One has a poop-ton more fiber. I bet you can guess which one went in my cart.
And that was how this fateful tragedy started. I ate a handful of this cereal one afternoon when my sandwich had somehow gotten soggy (there is nothing I hate more than soggy bread - GROSS!). Four hours later on my ride home from work, the 150 grams per serving of fiber took its toll. I thought I was going to die. I wasn't sure I was going to make the ride home. I'm lucky there were no cops, as explaining, "I'm only speeding because I really have to crap, or fart - I'm not sure which just yet" wouldn't end well, I don't think...
By the time dinner rolls around, I might as well just spend my evening in the bathroom. Having to excuse myself every time I have to fluff (you remember that I'm still saving up to buy that 13th goat to marry off the oldest with flatulence issues...) is proving to be the most extensive exercise I've logged in some time. I'm at the table. I'm in the bathroom. I'm at the table. I'm in the bathroom. I'm walking back to the table...Oh, hell. I give up!
The kids laugh, and I'm reminded of every time one of my older family members has had a pooting problem. Grandmas who toot as they walk. Uncles who bust ass because they can no longer hear it and think no one else can either. Small babies that break wind loud enough to put grown men to shame. I'm sorry I ever made fun of any of them. I can barely stand to be in the same room as my own butt by this point.
Three days later, I still see no end in sight. I wonder if I should sue the "Delicious, Yes!" folks for not putting a disclaimer on their box for people with IBS. At this point, I've eaten so many bananas, cups of applesauce and cheese sticks I'm sure I'll never need a toilet again. My husband hugs me, trying to offer support - only to run from the room screaming. I'm afraid to go out in public. My children are no longer giggling.
My only consolation is in my evil thought that I will use my remaining cereal to make some sort of tasty treat. There are so many people I would love to pass along uncontrollable wind to! Just imagine: you hold in your hand something guaranteed to give someone massive gas in approximately two to four hours...Now, imagine a plate of cereal bars placed in a lovely array on a conference room table. Sure! Help yourself, they're delicious, yes?
And that was how this fateful tragedy started. I ate a handful of this cereal one afternoon when my sandwich had somehow gotten soggy (there is nothing I hate more than soggy bread - GROSS!). Four hours later on my ride home from work, the 150 grams per serving of fiber took its toll. I thought I was going to die. I wasn't sure I was going to make the ride home. I'm lucky there were no cops, as explaining, "I'm only speeding because I really have to crap, or fart - I'm not sure which just yet" wouldn't end well, I don't think...
By the time dinner rolls around, I might as well just spend my evening in the bathroom. Having to excuse myself every time I have to fluff (you remember that I'm still saving up to buy that 13th goat to marry off the oldest with flatulence issues...) is proving to be the most extensive exercise I've logged in some time. I'm at the table. I'm in the bathroom. I'm at the table. I'm in the bathroom. I'm walking back to the table...Oh, hell. I give up!
The kids laugh, and I'm reminded of every time one of my older family members has had a pooting problem. Grandmas who toot as they walk. Uncles who bust ass because they can no longer hear it and think no one else can either. Small babies that break wind loud enough to put grown men to shame. I'm sorry I ever made fun of any of them. I can barely stand to be in the same room as my own butt by this point.
Three days later, I still see no end in sight. I wonder if I should sue the "Delicious, Yes!" folks for not putting a disclaimer on their box for people with IBS. At this point, I've eaten so many bananas, cups of applesauce and cheese sticks I'm sure I'll never need a toilet again. My husband hugs me, trying to offer support - only to run from the room screaming. I'm afraid to go out in public. My children are no longer giggling.
My only consolation is in my evil thought that I will use my remaining cereal to make some sort of tasty treat. There are so many people I would love to pass along uncontrollable wind to! Just imagine: you hold in your hand something guaranteed to give someone massive gas in approximately two to four hours...Now, imagine a plate of cereal bars placed in a lovely array on a conference room table. Sure! Help yourself, they're delicious, yes?
Thursday, June 14, 2012
I'm Going To Pave It, Paint It Green And Call It a Lawn...
I hate yard work. Yeah, I said it. I'd rather have dental work done. Seriously. If I could merely go to the dentist for an entire afternoon - get scraped, poked, flossed, polished, drilled, sucked, x-rayed and Novocained (and not necessarily in any particular order); come home and discover that my lawn had been mowed, my beds mulched and some minor weeding had been done - I'd think it the most wonderful trade-off on earth. To all you nay-sayers who prefer to spend hours on your knees, sweating profusely in the hot sun, digging in the earth only to have a giant creature from some sort of horrible 80's B-flick skitter across your shoe or hand, I gag and roll my eyes at you...
You see, that is precisely it. It was a gorgeous sunny day. The kids were playing. The husband was mowing. And I got the brilliant idea to start weeding the giant eye-sore known as "the retaining wall". Manual labor suits me just fine. Pissily, I yanked. I grabbed, pulled and chucked over my shoulder. "Wanna sass me kid? HAHA! Take that!" I imagined the what-the-hell-ever-it-was that I just ripped out of the ground actually taught my child some manners. Oh yes, I could get into this. Then. It. Happened.
The hairy barking tree spider that I am terrified inhabit all the dark crevices of any place I have to stick a hand into - appeared. This bitch would have been the size of my fist had I of taken the time to draw a circle around it. This monstrosity ran over my foot, carrying its egg sac, the size of a large gumball - looked up at me; hissed, spit and then gave me the finger. ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!?!
Natural instinct told me to run into my house, get the keys to my Jeep and drive away, never coming back. At the very least I wanted to scream like the giant baby that I am. In my head, ear piercing girly screams echo'd throughout my neighborhood. In reality I jumped. Said a four letter word that would get my mouth soaped out by my mother and noticed my three small children watching me. "Don't panic, Cathy. Play it cool. Don't terrify them, because if you do...no one will ever be raised brave enough to kill these goddamned things for you," I whispered to myself as fortification. I sauntered up to my husband.
"Hoooooooney? [I eyeballed the kids for good measure and to take stock of their interest level. SHIT! They're staring. I have to speak in code...] Do we have appropriate pestilent riddance?" In true man form, he cocked his head, took his sweet-assed time and finally answered, "Nothing that you want." Ugh.
"The spade. Can you get me the spade?" I think I may have shouted this at him, I'm not quite sure as panic was starting to take over. At this inquiry, he actually looked frightened at what I might have come across, but complied. He went into the garage, got the spade and handed it to me. I walked back to the horror in my yard. I swung for all I was worth. Not once, not twice, but three times. Tears threatened to spill. I think I nearly passed out. I gagged more than once. I made an oath right then and there to never do yard work again...
And, I can tell you this: I killed the M F'ing thing. Or did I?
You see, that is precisely it. It was a gorgeous sunny day. The kids were playing. The husband was mowing. And I got the brilliant idea to start weeding the giant eye-sore known as "the retaining wall". Manual labor suits me just fine. Pissily, I yanked. I grabbed, pulled and chucked over my shoulder. "Wanna sass me kid? HAHA! Take that!" I imagined the what-the-hell-ever-it-was that I just ripped out of the ground actually taught my child some manners. Oh yes, I could get into this. Then. It. Happened.
The hairy barking tree spider that I am terrified inhabit all the dark crevices of any place I have to stick a hand into - appeared. This bitch would have been the size of my fist had I of taken the time to draw a circle around it. This monstrosity ran over my foot, carrying its egg sac, the size of a large gumball - looked up at me; hissed, spit and then gave me the finger. ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!?!
Natural instinct told me to run into my house, get the keys to my Jeep and drive away, never coming back. At the very least I wanted to scream like the giant baby that I am. In my head, ear piercing girly screams echo'd throughout my neighborhood. In reality I jumped. Said a four letter word that would get my mouth soaped out by my mother and noticed my three small children watching me. "Don't panic, Cathy. Play it cool. Don't terrify them, because if you do...no one will ever be raised brave enough to kill these goddamned things for you," I whispered to myself as fortification. I sauntered up to my husband.
"Hoooooooney? [I eyeballed the kids for good measure and to take stock of their interest level. SHIT! They're staring. I have to speak in code...] Do we have appropriate pestilent riddance?" In true man form, he cocked his head, took his sweet-assed time and finally answered, "Nothing that you want." Ugh.
"The spade. Can you get me the spade?" I think I may have shouted this at him, I'm not quite sure as panic was starting to take over. At this inquiry, he actually looked frightened at what I might have come across, but complied. He went into the garage, got the spade and handed it to me. I walked back to the horror in my yard. I swung for all I was worth. Not once, not twice, but three times. Tears threatened to spill. I think I nearly passed out. I gagged more than once. I made an oath right then and there to never do yard work again...
And, I can tell you this: I killed the M F'ing thing. Or did I?
 |
| This photo is courtesy of my nanny. Taken next day in my garage with a cell phone. Outside of some *minor* work done in red to illustrate, this photo has not been edited in any way. |
Thursday, June 7, 2012
Honey-do...
What is it about men and grocery stores? This is one of the world's greatest mysteries for me. For the sake of plausability, I'm going to use my husband as an example - but in general I find these stories to hold true for my brothers, my friends' husbands and for countless single men across the land.
Typically, when we are in need of some sort of food item, I run by Wegman's. There is one up the street from us in fact; less than two miles away. I can go, get a gallon of milk and be back home in the span of about 15 minutes. Grocery shopping for our family of five is done primarily on a bi-weekly basis (outside of sporadic trips back to get additional milk and produce). I can plan our grocery list, get to the store, purchase about $300 in food and will be back home in about an hour and 30 minutes, give or take five.
This time is my serenity. I leave my lovely children at home. I relish the moments by myself with nothing but an aisle full of shampoo and my grocery cart. I dawdle. I look. I read labels. And I do it all in less than an hour (remember, I still have to be checked out, loaded and drive home with my remaining 30 minutes).
My husband however, has reason for concern. His trip to the store for a gallon of milk takes about an hour. He comes back with his hair mussed, his shirt slightly askew, dirt smudges on his face, sweating and slightly panic stricken. In his hands are a dozen eggs, some orange tic-tacs and silly putty. In a terrified voice, he beseeches me to never send him back to that hell on earth.
I'm left to stare bewildered and very confused. How on earth could he have been gone so long? What in God's name was he actually doing? Should I make sure he gets his vision tested - you DO realize the cartons of milk are right inside the door, practically accosting you before you can peruse the rest of their seemingly hazardous confines??? I think I must have mumbled countless things about him cheating on me and covering it up with eggs and candy of all things...Upset, with hands covered in remnants of tonight's meat loaf mixture, I grab my keys and storm out the door to pick up the initially requested milk.
Driving to the store, I take stock of myself and have to laugh. My hands still have raw meat particles on them. I'm sure I look pissed off enough to kill a water buffalo and I have to wonder - Is it really that stupefying, or is he merely an evil genius?
Typically, when we are in need of some sort of food item, I run by Wegman's. There is one up the street from us in fact; less than two miles away. I can go, get a gallon of milk and be back home in the span of about 15 minutes. Grocery shopping for our family of five is done primarily on a bi-weekly basis (outside of sporadic trips back to get additional milk and produce). I can plan our grocery list, get to the store, purchase about $300 in food and will be back home in about an hour and 30 minutes, give or take five.
This time is my serenity. I leave my lovely children at home. I relish the moments by myself with nothing but an aisle full of shampoo and my grocery cart. I dawdle. I look. I read labels. And I do it all in less than an hour (remember, I still have to be checked out, loaded and drive home with my remaining 30 minutes).
My husband however, has reason for concern. His trip to the store for a gallon of milk takes about an hour. He comes back with his hair mussed, his shirt slightly askew, dirt smudges on his face, sweating and slightly panic stricken. In his hands are a dozen eggs, some orange tic-tacs and silly putty. In a terrified voice, he beseeches me to never send him back to that hell on earth.
I'm left to stare bewildered and very confused. How on earth could he have been gone so long? What in God's name was he actually doing? Should I make sure he gets his vision tested - you DO realize the cartons of milk are right inside the door, practically accosting you before you can peruse the rest of their seemingly hazardous confines??? I think I must have mumbled countless things about him cheating on me and covering it up with eggs and candy of all things...Upset, with hands covered in remnants of tonight's meat loaf mixture, I grab my keys and storm out the door to pick up the initially requested milk.
Driving to the store, I take stock of myself and have to laugh. My hands still have raw meat particles on them. I'm sure I look pissed off enough to kill a water buffalo and I have to wonder - Is it really that stupefying, or is he merely an evil genius?
Thursday, May 24, 2012
I Love the Smell of Napalm in the Morning
Nightmares. Cold sweats. Paranoia. Feeling anxious. Loss of sleep. I'm starting to think that I suffer from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder...."But, Cathy," you say. "You've never been in the military, been shot at or suffered any sort of life altering altercation that forever changed you. It can't be possible." Well, not making light of anyone who has ever served our nation, but this disorder affects many, and I feel...if you've ever been regularly on-call - you might have PTSD as well.
Let me explain:
For an entire week (out of a month) from the hours of 10pm - 7am M-F I am at the mercy of an on-call phone. These hours are much extended through the weekend. This phone beeps, rings, buzzes and is nothing short of hell on earth. I can't sleep. Motor skills fail. Normal thought process has a break down. I begin to think I hear people talking about me. I form conspiracy theories (ok, you caught me. I form MORE than usual) And granted, it may have been due to rampant caffeine consumption - I have had waking hallucinations. I've awoken from a tortured slumber shouting, "I have to call the customer!" And, most importantly, I know all of the shit hit the fan on my watch on purpose. You did it, didn't you?!?!
And then there is relief. The following Monday morning, bright and early at 7am, I arrive at my office. I'm haggard. I'm pissed off. I'm psychotic (again...a bit more than normal, OK? Don't judge me!). I'm temporarily deaf in my left ear and for a brief moment I smile. Sinisterly. I place the on-call phone on the desk of one of my beloved coworkers and maniacally laugh that it is now going to be their pain and not mine. MANIACAL LAUGH!
I spend the entire next week trying to reclaim missed hours of slumber (I've even been known to skip dinner to catch a nap on the couch). I walk around jumping at every buzz or ring in my house - having awful flashbacks to my most recent on-call. I refuse to answer any phone. There are still nightmares, though. Visions of dastardly hackers finding their way into my home & personal life through my unsecured computer and/or voicemail. I get the shakes even worse as I begin to wean myself off of the caffeine.
I spend the following week vegging out and enjoying a life outside of work. I play with my kids. I make dinners. I bake. I smile more. I'm able to write blog posts. I notice that my husband is a wonderful human being. The Delirium Tremors have mostly stopped. I'm free to call and text and answer phones and surf the interwebs. I've stopped wishing plague upon the masses.
Just about the time that I think I won't need any personal therapy and will be able to continue my life in a relatively happy and somewhat normal function, I go back on-call. AAAAAARRRRRGGGGHHHH! And the vicious circle continues...
Thursday, May 10, 2012
Thanks, Mom!
I was remiss last week in my posting diligence - I was busy sucking up time with my kids. I had missed them, you see, after grown up weekend - and took some extra time to revel in all things Mom...which brings me to this upcoming Mother's Day.
I've been thinking about what this day meant to me before these little rays of shining light came into my life, what it means to me now and what I really truly want for my special moments. I can remember planning things - gifts or events or brunches for my own mother and wistfully thinking, "When I'm a Mom, this day is going to be soooo fabulous." I find the day ends up being much more harried, stressed and frenzied than most other days as we try to cram his mother, my mother, her mother, their mother, its mother and any other mother on the face of the planet into our day. I end up day dreaming....
I think of fat babies who smell like cookies and powder and love. I find myself reliving first giggles and those first tentative "Mama"s. I imagine future door slamming and "This hurts me more than it hurts you". And I wish for silly moments crowded on my huge bed with funny faces, happy laughter, the world's greatest huggies and my family...to go on forever.
I know Moms who have loved & lost. I'm familiar with Moms who are gone and will never be forgotten. Moms to be and Moms who will cry over never being. And I'm especially fond of my own mom.
She's this amazing kook, who has no idea what she's really worth. I am absolutely certain she is the only person on earth to ever: earn my love, not deserve my hate, endure my wrath, pick up my broken pieces, foster my dreams, sooth my broken heart, suffer my disdain, combat my ridicule, provide me with a sense of worth and quietly know all about me - successfully. Who else in this lifetime could accomplish that? Only someone truly special.
It's with that said that I've come to realize over the years that Mother's Day isn't something fabulous. It's about a lingering hug, and an exchanged glance that can speak more in three seconds than anyone could begin to put in words in the rest of a lifetime...and a carefully whispered, "I love you."
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
Simba...It Is Time!
One weekend a year, my mom (who as of this precise moment is the greatest person alive) watches my children and allows my husband and I to get away. On this weekend, we leave, hastily. We don't look back. We act silly. We don't answer phone calls (unless it's my mom). We do whirlwind sightseeing that our small kids are not yet capable of. And, most importantly, we recall who we were before our children, and fall in love all over again.
Sometimes, parents need a brief gift of four days to come home refreshed and feeling human with a sense of self. It is so easy to lose yourself in the shuffle. I leave on this adventure in two days...and in honor, I thought to share some of the things that come Friday morning I'll be thanking God I'll be without until Monday night, but come Monday night I'll be desperately yearning for once more:
Right now, I'll not miss those things, but there are some things that even the die-hard in me will go into withdrawal over, after moments of leaving home:
All in all, if these are my lists of misses and non-misses, I'm surely one lucky Mom. Luckier so for the chance to get away - in what I'm telling my kids, "Important Cathy & BJ time, b/c everyone needs their own time to be who they are, and we need a couple of days to be someone other than Mommy & Daddy so that we can come home and be better at being Mommy & Daddy for you."
On that promise, my kids think this is the greatest idea. A weekend with Granny, who I'm sure will forego naps, offer endless desserts and who would never ever make gross things for dinner; and come Monday a much more patient Mommy and Daddy will return. What's not to love? And now, Simba...it is time to take your rightful place, amid your bursting back pack and travel sized liquid gels, with passport in hand and em barque on your greatest journey - the Grown Up Weekend.
Sometimes, parents need a brief gift of four days to come home refreshed and feeling human with a sense of self. It is so easy to lose yourself in the shuffle. I leave on this adventure in two days...and in honor, I thought to share some of the things that come Friday morning I'll be thanking God I'll be without until Monday night, but come Monday night I'll be desperately yearning for once more:
- No one waking me up before sunrise by screaming in my face.
- No one hollering that they were pinched, shoved, bitten or spit upon by their sibling(s).
- No one coming to snuggle, only to fart on my lap.
- No animated movies on the TV.
- No one complaining about what I made for dinner and informing me that they are refusing to eat it (I am NOT cooking).
- No boogers wiped on my pants...well, not unless I wipe them there.
- No multiple inquiries about what is going to be for dessert, and then the incessant nagging about why I've not made dessert (see above about complaining about the dinners, you little jerks).
- No one ransacking my purse.
- No one using my bathroom b/c the other one was occupied, only to dump nail polish on my granite vanity.
- No one asking me to fix something, retrieve this, put together that or help find it.
Right now, I'll not miss those things, but there are some things that even the die-hard in me will go into withdrawal over, after moments of leaving home:
- Sticky hugs and wet slobbery kisses.
- Kissing boo-boos and using my Mommy-Magic to heal what ails.
- Hearing, "I love you, Mommy" at bed time tuck-ins.
- Looks of surprise and awe when I walk through the door each evening.
All in all, if these are my lists of misses and non-misses, I'm surely one lucky Mom. Luckier so for the chance to get away - in what I'm telling my kids, "Important Cathy & BJ time, b/c everyone needs their own time to be who they are, and we need a couple of days to be someone other than Mommy & Daddy so that we can come home and be better at being Mommy & Daddy for you."
On that promise, my kids think this is the greatest idea. A weekend with Granny, who I'm sure will forego naps, offer endless desserts and who would never ever make gross things for dinner; and come Monday a much more patient Mommy and Daddy will return. What's not to love? And now, Simba...it is time to take your rightful place, amid your bursting back pack and travel sized liquid gels, with passport in hand and em barque on your greatest journey - the Grown Up Weekend.
Friday, April 13, 2012
Just Karate Chop the Hell Outta It...
One of my favorite times in my house is when I’m making dinner. I get home earlier than most, and this is my time with my kids. And by “with my kids” I mean – I send them out of my kitchen after my rounds of huggies are done. “Go on, go play so mommy can make something nutritious for your tummies.”
This is my zen time. I get to cook, usually uninterrupted by my three little angels. Our house has great acoustics, so I can usually hear most everything going on in the other room. Some moments are priceless gems as these siblings have a moment of shining glory and play together nicely, and some moments are well – moments of pure insanity. Mostly these moments rule. Many times, I let them play out and see how it unfolds – only stepping in when I sense danger with my Spidey-sense tingling. And some moments, the best moments are when I hear the most random and bizarre things being said in the other room that leave me with no clue as to what these little darlings are even thinking, let alone doing (please keep in mind that they are seven, five and three years old).
“I’m going to work, and when I get there I’ll have a briefcase.” Nice. I’m wondering if they even know what a briefcase is. I don’t think I know anyone who actually owns one…
“You can’t put that there, because then chocolate will get flung all over the ceiling.” Good thing I plan on painting the living room soon.
“I’m not going to hug you because T-Rex will bite your face off.” Oh my. That’s sorta disturbing.
“I’m just going to use my strainer as a tennis racquet and we’ll be able to play golf just fine.” Watch out Tiger Woods.
“Did you see how far that went? I didn’t know your baby could fly.” Thank God we’ve finally decided on not having any more kids.
“And then I karate chop the soup and you can have it for dinner.” That is precisely how Julia Childs would do it – she’d just karate chop the hell out of it.
We have an old house with creaky hardwood floors so most of these moments are followed by children scampering about and crawling on their knees – creaking away. The moments are gone in the blink of an eye, but some will always stick with me…Such as, “Smell my finger.” Seconds later when I looked in, there were no children in the room other than the one with the stink finger, and I decided it best to just not ask any questions…
This is my zen time. I get to cook, usually uninterrupted by my three little angels. Our house has great acoustics, so I can usually hear most everything going on in the other room. Some moments are priceless gems as these siblings have a moment of shining glory and play together nicely, and some moments are well – moments of pure insanity. Mostly these moments rule. Many times, I let them play out and see how it unfolds – only stepping in when I sense danger with my Spidey-sense tingling. And some moments, the best moments are when I hear the most random and bizarre things being said in the other room that leave me with no clue as to what these little darlings are even thinking, let alone doing (please keep in mind that they are seven, five and three years old).
“I’m going to work, and when I get there I’ll have a briefcase.” Nice. I’m wondering if they even know what a briefcase is. I don’t think I know anyone who actually owns one…
“You can’t put that there, because then chocolate will get flung all over the ceiling.” Good thing I plan on painting the living room soon.
“I’m not going to hug you because T-Rex will bite your face off.” Oh my. That’s sorta disturbing.
“I’m just going to use my strainer as a tennis racquet and we’ll be able to play golf just fine.” Watch out Tiger Woods.
“Did you see how far that went? I didn’t know your baby could fly.” Thank God we’ve finally decided on not having any more kids.
“And then I karate chop the soup and you can have it for dinner.” That is precisely how Julia Childs would do it – she’d just karate chop the hell out of it.
We have an old house with creaky hardwood floors so most of these moments are followed by children scampering about and crawling on their knees – creaking away. The moments are gone in the blink of an eye, but some will always stick with me…Such as, “Smell my finger.” Seconds later when I looked in, there were no children in the room other than the one with the stink finger, and I decided it best to just not ask any questions…
Friday, April 6, 2012
Your Character Speaks Leaps & Bounds
A good friend recently told me that I needed to get down the story of my husband & I for my kids. I pondered. I guess I sometimes take for granted the specialness of the bond that he and I have. I sometimes fail to see what outsiders find amazing and beautiful. And sometimes, I completely revel in the fact that I married the best person I know. I guess that is our secret.
One of my favorite stories to retell about him is from when we were merely friends. In fact, I was, at the time – dating one of his buddies (that being how we met). He did something so small, as a friend, that has stuck with me all these years. It was a single act of kindness that spoke leaps and bounds about who he is – inside and out…as he would have done it for anyone.
Let’s flash back to 1997. I was a college student. We both were. Difference being, I was a poor and scared college student. My mother for reasons I’ll not go into didn’t approve of my going to “the lady doctor”. I found a way for my own health to see someone. I saved my small paychecks and drove myself to Planned Parenthood. They provided me with healthcare at a reasonable price when I wasn’t allowed to use her insurance to care for myself.
About a week after a routine visit, I received a phone call. Something was wrong. They needed to see me right away. That day; tomorrow wouldn’t do. I was terrified. It was a 40+ min. trip home to see the doctor. I was frightened and didn’t want to make it on my own. My roommates were working and wouldn’t call in to go with me. My boyfriend at the time had classes. I was beside myself. I had decided not to go. I was too afraid to – sounds completely stupid, I know, but I was 19 and 19 year olds are not known for their intelligent decision making.
I did the only thing I thought reasonable. I showed up at BJ’s apartment. I just needed to talk it out to someone, and everyone I had called prior didn’t have the time to listen to the blathering ramblings of their scared friend. BJ was there, as always. Running late to his class - a shocker. Rather than brushing me off, he sat down and listened earnestly. Then he took my hand and told me it was dangerous to avoid something I needed to do for myself just because I was fearful. He asked if he could go with me to keep me company on that long drive home.
Through my tears, I accepted his greatest gift – his offer of unquestioning friendship. [Forgive me, I get a little teary recalling how special that moment was]...OK, I'm alright.
In one of the most worrisome times in my short life, the people who should have been by my side were too busy with their own lives to help, but this guy, a friend of my boyfriend spoke volumes in his quiet presence about who he was.
Unassumingly, he sat beside me the whole car ride, listening to me ramble and snort and choke back sobs as I blew my nose and thought of all the doomsday what-ifs. He never called my fears silly or unreasonable. He just listened and was there without strings, because that is what friends do.
Upon arrival, he helped my inconsolable self check in. He held my hand in the lobby and patiently waited there while I was called back to be seen. And when I walked out, with results, nearly an hour later, he hugged me while I cried with relief that it wasn’t as bad as they had thought (and no where near what my over-imaginative mind had conjured up).
When we left, he actually thanked me for letting him be there for me. Can you believe that? He. Thanked. Me.
At the time, we were never more than friends, but I when I think back on things, I think that might have been the moment when I first fell in love with him.
One day when my kids are old enough to understand, the best piece of advice I’ll ever be able to give to them is: Marry the best person you know. That’s what I did. To date, it’s the best thing I’ve ever done. And he’s still – 15 years later, the best person I know.
One of my favorite stories to retell about him is from when we were merely friends. In fact, I was, at the time – dating one of his buddies (that being how we met). He did something so small, as a friend, that has stuck with me all these years. It was a single act of kindness that spoke leaps and bounds about who he is – inside and out…as he would have done it for anyone.
Let’s flash back to 1997. I was a college student. We both were. Difference being, I was a poor and scared college student. My mother for reasons I’ll not go into didn’t approve of my going to “the lady doctor”. I found a way for my own health to see someone. I saved my small paychecks and drove myself to Planned Parenthood. They provided me with healthcare at a reasonable price when I wasn’t allowed to use her insurance to care for myself.
About a week after a routine visit, I received a phone call. Something was wrong. They needed to see me right away. That day; tomorrow wouldn’t do. I was terrified. It was a 40+ min. trip home to see the doctor. I was frightened and didn’t want to make it on my own. My roommates were working and wouldn’t call in to go with me. My boyfriend at the time had classes. I was beside myself. I had decided not to go. I was too afraid to – sounds completely stupid, I know, but I was 19 and 19 year olds are not known for their intelligent decision making.
I did the only thing I thought reasonable. I showed up at BJ’s apartment. I just needed to talk it out to someone, and everyone I had called prior didn’t have the time to listen to the blathering ramblings of their scared friend. BJ was there, as always. Running late to his class - a shocker. Rather than brushing me off, he sat down and listened earnestly. Then he took my hand and told me it was dangerous to avoid something I needed to do for myself just because I was fearful. He asked if he could go with me to keep me company on that long drive home.
Through my tears, I accepted his greatest gift – his offer of unquestioning friendship. [Forgive me, I get a little teary recalling how special that moment was]...OK, I'm alright.
In one of the most worrisome times in my short life, the people who should have been by my side were too busy with their own lives to help, but this guy, a friend of my boyfriend spoke volumes in his quiet presence about who he was.
Unassumingly, he sat beside me the whole car ride, listening to me ramble and snort and choke back sobs as I blew my nose and thought of all the doomsday what-ifs. He never called my fears silly or unreasonable. He just listened and was there without strings, because that is what friends do.
Upon arrival, he helped my inconsolable self check in. He held my hand in the lobby and patiently waited there while I was called back to be seen. And when I walked out, with results, nearly an hour later, he hugged me while I cried with relief that it wasn’t as bad as they had thought (and no where near what my over-imaginative mind had conjured up).
When we left, he actually thanked me for letting him be there for me. Can you believe that? He. Thanked. Me.
At the time, we were never more than friends, but I when I think back on things, I think that might have been the moment when I first fell in love with him.
One day when my kids are old enough to understand, the best piece of advice I’ll ever be able to give to them is: Marry the best person you know. That’s what I did. To date, it’s the best thing I’ve ever done. And he’s still – 15 years later, the best person I know.
Thursday, March 29, 2012
I Have A Finger, And I'm Not Afraid To Use It...
I have an addictive personality. There, I've said it. To my husband, whose conversations I've ignored, to my kids whose drawings I've barely glanced at, and to anyone whose phone call I've not returned - you can blame my friend Scott. And this horrible game called Draw Something (think: Pictionary but via cell phones).
Once upon a time, in a time before I was a doting wife and an attentive mother, I was quite an amazing artist. I was this close to going to school to hone my skills. When reality set in, I decided that I'd rather have art as an enjoyable hobby than a job controlled by "the man". In the past 14 years, my husband has rarely seen me break out my supplies and nourish this talent of mine. When he has, he said he was dumbfounded.
And then...in an attempt to be playful, I invited said friend to a game of Words with friends. I'm not sure if he didn't like me handing him his ass, or if he was just not committed, or if the thought of me singing the Jeopardy tune while he took his sweet-assed time playing a word prompted this, but he resigned and then invited me to a game of Draw Something. Ahhh, the fateful invite.
Here, I figure I can excel once more, and unleash my skills of an artist! Want to know what I've come to find? I can draw anything in 30 seconds or less and do it in a manner that would lead you to believe a four-year-old illustrated it. I can do it in a mere three colors, and that you can, indeed, pull a muscle from laughing.
Most recently, my biggest artistic triumph was my move to my Sister-in-law. Bless her heart, she was the (I'm sure) proud recipient of one terribly out of proportion ball sack and penis...peeing all over. You see, I had to draw the word: Pee.
Quickly, I thought: draw a toilet. Draw someone on the toilet. Make the water in the toilet yella. No, no. Too time consuming. Draw a toilet. Make the pee yella. Use an arrow to point to the pee. Still too long!
And then it hit me. First I draw my stick man with what looks like a third arm, complete with a bicep with my stream. Excellent! Took me all of five seconds. Wait. She might be confused. It does look rather, un-human. Junk it. Start again. Then there was this brilliant moment of loopty-loos and a few awkwardly placed ovals with a giant fat yella line coming out. Oh yeah, baby. No one could foul this up.
Although, I'm slightly frightened. See, in my former life - I was a realist. A perfectionist. I was known for trashing canvas and burning paintings not good enough. And strangely, horribly now, I'm reduced to drawing with my finger. On a phone; as if I am Picasso's illegitimate something. Pathetic. And yet - wildly hilarious.
If you haven't had the chance yet...invite me to play. It's worth it. And if you've been the recipient of my hellacious drawings...I'm sorry. Or not.
Once upon a time, in a time before I was a doting wife and an attentive mother, I was quite an amazing artist. I was this close to going to school to hone my skills. When reality set in, I decided that I'd rather have art as an enjoyable hobby than a job controlled by "the man". In the past 14 years, my husband has rarely seen me break out my supplies and nourish this talent of mine. When he has, he said he was dumbfounded.
And then...in an attempt to be playful, I invited said friend to a game of Words with friends. I'm not sure if he didn't like me handing him his ass, or if he was just not committed, or if the thought of me singing the Jeopardy tune while he took his sweet-assed time playing a word prompted this, but he resigned and then invited me to a game of Draw Something. Ahhh, the fateful invite.
Here, I figure I can excel once more, and unleash my skills of an artist! Want to know what I've come to find? I can draw anything in 30 seconds or less and do it in a manner that would lead you to believe a four-year-old illustrated it. I can do it in a mere three colors, and that you can, indeed, pull a muscle from laughing.
Most recently, my biggest artistic triumph was my move to my Sister-in-law. Bless her heart, she was the (I'm sure) proud recipient of one terribly out of proportion ball sack and penis...peeing all over. You see, I had to draw the word: Pee.
Quickly, I thought: draw a toilet. Draw someone on the toilet. Make the water in the toilet yella. No, no. Too time consuming. Draw a toilet. Make the pee yella. Use an arrow to point to the pee. Still too long!
And then it hit me. First I draw my stick man with what looks like a third arm, complete with a bicep with my stream. Excellent! Took me all of five seconds. Wait. She might be confused. It does look rather, un-human. Junk it. Start again. Then there was this brilliant moment of loopty-loos and a few awkwardly placed ovals with a giant fat yella line coming out. Oh yeah, baby. No one could foul this up.
Although, I'm slightly frightened. See, in my former life - I was a realist. A perfectionist. I was known for trashing canvas and burning paintings not good enough. And strangely, horribly now, I'm reduced to drawing with my finger. On a phone; as if I am Picasso's illegitimate something. Pathetic. And yet - wildly hilarious.
If you haven't had the chance yet...invite me to play. It's worth it. And if you've been the recipient of my hellacious drawings...I'm sorry. Or not.
Thursday, March 22, 2012
Kids Say The Darnedest Things...
One only need be in the presence of a child for moments to find out the darnedest of facts, details and meaning in their young lives. The cake in my household has been taken by my youngest; my lovely three-year-old daughter. I thought to share a few of her most recent greatest hits...
Shortly after emerging from bath, in her clean jammies and undies, my delightfully scented child hunkers next to me on the couch and loudly informs the inhabitants of the living room, "I can't sit still because my undies are up my butt crack!" Yikes, that sounds like a problem indeed.
Strangely, this child is fascinated with California. She's already decided that she will be moving there upon growing up. "I'm going to live in California because it's nice there. The polar bears don't live there. If they did, they would destroy your house, but they're not there so my house will be safe." Good to know. I'll guard against the random polar bears that inhabit our back yard in the winter months.
She gets on your lap, gets off your lap, gets on your lap, gets off until, flustered, you inquire if she has ants in her pants. Her reply? "No! If there were, they'd eat my crotch then I couldn't pee any more." Seriously? I better watch out for crotch-eating ants - I imagine this being one of the most tragic species of all...
She hates wearing socks. Socks can be found strewn about our house at any given point. Just last night, she plops down on my dining room floor and tells my friend while picking out her toe-jam, "This crud gets in my toes from the air. Air is bad for this dirty toe-jam." Then proceeds to wipe the sock fuzzy from between her toes on my floor. Ugh, gross kid, we eat in here!
I inquire of my children, "Hey guys - how did this pink marker get on the couch? Do any of you know?" The resounding reply shouted into my ear? "Daddy did it! I saw him! Now, are you going to spank him? Please?" Wow, Daddy...watch out, LBG's got it in for you!
Like most kids, mine LOVE to play "En Garde" with sticks. When I requested they drop their sticks because someone was going to get hurt, I'm told, "We're not going to hurt each other, we're just bashing our sticks together until someone gets whacked." I see now...you're not going to hurt anyone playing like that.
While rough-housing with Grandpa she requests, "Can you pinch my hiney?" He looks at me weirdly then complies with a shrug of his shoulders. I nearly fall over in mirth as she scolds him, "Not like that. That's all wrong. You need to do it like Mommy does." Sue me, there's something irresistible about pinching your kid's butt; I can so see why football players are so keen to it.
And last, but certainly not least has to come the grunting from the bathroom. This child makes sure to close the door while she does her business "because she needs her privacy" which is great. What's not so great? Hearing a shout, "Daddy, get in here! I need you to hold my butt cheeks apart so that my poopin' can come out!" I've never thanked God so much as I did in that moment that she chose him as her favorite parent...
Shortly after emerging from bath, in her clean jammies and undies, my delightfully scented child hunkers next to me on the couch and loudly informs the inhabitants of the living room, "I can't sit still because my undies are up my butt crack!" Yikes, that sounds like a problem indeed.
Strangely, this child is fascinated with California. She's already decided that she will be moving there upon growing up. "I'm going to live in California because it's nice there. The polar bears don't live there. If they did, they would destroy your house, but they're not there so my house will be safe." Good to know. I'll guard against the random polar bears that inhabit our back yard in the winter months.
She gets on your lap, gets off your lap, gets on your lap, gets off until, flustered, you inquire if she has ants in her pants. Her reply? "No! If there were, they'd eat my crotch then I couldn't pee any more." Seriously? I better watch out for crotch-eating ants - I imagine this being one of the most tragic species of all...
She hates wearing socks. Socks can be found strewn about our house at any given point. Just last night, she plops down on my dining room floor and tells my friend while picking out her toe-jam, "This crud gets in my toes from the air. Air is bad for this dirty toe-jam." Then proceeds to wipe the sock fuzzy from between her toes on my floor. Ugh, gross kid, we eat in here!
I inquire of my children, "Hey guys - how did this pink marker get on the couch? Do any of you know?" The resounding reply shouted into my ear? "Daddy did it! I saw him! Now, are you going to spank him? Please?" Wow, Daddy...watch out, LBG's got it in for you!
Like most kids, mine LOVE to play "En Garde" with sticks. When I requested they drop their sticks because someone was going to get hurt, I'm told, "We're not going to hurt each other, we're just bashing our sticks together until someone gets whacked." I see now...you're not going to hurt anyone playing like that.
While rough-housing with Grandpa she requests, "Can you pinch my hiney?" He looks at me weirdly then complies with a shrug of his shoulders. I nearly fall over in mirth as she scolds him, "Not like that. That's all wrong. You need to do it like Mommy does." Sue me, there's something irresistible about pinching your kid's butt; I can so see why football players are so keen to it.
And last, but certainly not least has to come the grunting from the bathroom. This child makes sure to close the door while she does her business "because she needs her privacy" which is great. What's not so great? Hearing a shout, "Daddy, get in here! I need you to hold my butt cheeks apart so that my poopin' can come out!" I've never thanked God so much as I did in that moment that she chose him as her favorite parent...
Friday, March 9, 2012
You Mind If I Eat That?!?
I'm chubby. Three kids and about 1 zillion Ho-hos after my wedding, I've packed on about 40 pounds. It doesn't help that I'm a baker by heart & soul. I love to bake...and cook. Plainly, I enjoy food. I don't eat because my daddy didn't love me enough or because I was last picked for dodge ball in gym classes growing up. We have healthy and nutritious home cooked meals in my house most every single night (with splurge items on the weekends - homemade macaroni and cheese with sauteed mushrooms & rosemary or chicken with caramelized apples in a amaretto sauce). I eat a little too much because, well...it tastes so damned good.
On my road to shed those 40 pounds (it was 50 not so long ago, thank you), I've discovered something. I know why some people are referred to as "Skinny Bitches". These poor creatures are starving. Mind you, I'm on an aggressive diet (that I keep sneaking snacks on...which surely is not helping the fact that I've maintained my weight three weeks running and only this morning bitched out my scale for a slight Oreo transgression last night) that mainly limits me to 1390 calories a day - that is until I shed another pound and it drops; but I've rediscovered some things about myself.
I'm one mean SOB when I'm hungry. Lately, that's most every five minutes. Stay the hell out of my way. Especially if I am en route to the microwave with yet another bowl of tasty and delicious low calorie soup I made & froze. It's soup people - really, I'm thinking about sinking my teeth into some wonderful burger laden with cheese and something sauteed. This is a terribly sad substitute. I think I told some poor coworker to jump off the building when he greeted me in passing. I think I might have strangled the innocent person who offered me a bag of low calorie microwave popcorn as an alternative. If I did, and you find the body - please call me so I can conceal it better the second time around.
Skinny bitches. I've wanted to go back to being one for so long that I forgot how I used to stare at food. I forgot that my normally sarcastic self became down right evil. I remember looking at people with disdain while passing through the food court in the mall thinking, "I'd maul that guy just to get one of those fries..." Which is funny, considering I rarely eat fast food. I've even contemplated tackling random babies to obtain their scrumptious, if not drool covered teething biscuit.
So, the next time you see a skinny woman cussing someone out, or note the rail thin driver who cut you off then gave YOU the finger...just realize this poor darling hasn't eaten properly in possibly years. The tiny high school girl who budged in front of you in line at the grocery store - she was just trying to score a bagel that would provide her life sustaining nutrients for the next eight hours. Cut her some slack. And carry a bag of carrots. This might potentially save your life.
On my road to shed those 40 pounds (it was 50 not so long ago, thank you), I've discovered something. I know why some people are referred to as "Skinny Bitches". These poor creatures are starving. Mind you, I'm on an aggressive diet (that I keep sneaking snacks on...which surely is not helping the fact that I've maintained my weight three weeks running and only this morning bitched out my scale for a slight Oreo transgression last night) that mainly limits me to 1390 calories a day - that is until I shed another pound and it drops; but I've rediscovered some things about myself.
I'm one mean SOB when I'm hungry. Lately, that's most every five minutes. Stay the hell out of my way. Especially if I am en route to the microwave with yet another bowl of tasty and delicious low calorie soup I made & froze. It's soup people - really, I'm thinking about sinking my teeth into some wonderful burger laden with cheese and something sauteed. This is a terribly sad substitute. I think I told some poor coworker to jump off the building when he greeted me in passing. I think I might have strangled the innocent person who offered me a bag of low calorie microwave popcorn as an alternative. If I did, and you find the body - please call me so I can conceal it better the second time around.
Skinny bitches. I've wanted to go back to being one for so long that I forgot how I used to stare at food. I forgot that my normally sarcastic self became down right evil. I remember looking at people with disdain while passing through the food court in the mall thinking, "I'd maul that guy just to get one of those fries..." Which is funny, considering I rarely eat fast food. I've even contemplated tackling random babies to obtain their scrumptious, if not drool covered teething biscuit.
So, the next time you see a skinny woman cussing someone out, or note the rail thin driver who cut you off then gave YOU the finger...just realize this poor darling hasn't eaten properly in possibly years. The tiny high school girl who budged in front of you in line at the grocery store - she was just trying to score a bagel that would provide her life sustaining nutrients for the next eight hours. Cut her some slack. And carry a bag of carrots. This might potentially save your life.
Thursday, March 1, 2012
I've Looked into the Eye of Sauron...
As I sat tonight thinking about what to write, I listened to the sounds of my children coming from their rooms. Normally, this is a happy sound filled with laughter and toys beeping, clanking, smashing and crashing. Tonight, that was not the case. The sounds I heard were just plainly disturbing. My seven-year-old was reading some freaking potty training book we inherited to my three-yea-old, who incidentally IS already potty trained.
Tonight, I learned that Prudence makes wee-wee and poo-poo in her potty. [Mind you, I already know the book and I’m aware that her “potty” looks more like a pottery orange juice carafe than an actual potty] I heard them discussing Prudence’s poop hole. They were generally amazed that Prudence “sat on a pitcher in her room” to take a dump. They contemplated Prudence’s bigger issues – like what would happen if her mommy didn’t empty the crap into the potty…and if Prudence would have to do it herself: GROSS!
My girls discussed the fact that Prudence walked around with no undies on. They thoroughly dissected the fact that she would need some pairs when she went to kindergarten. They wondered if she wore her pants without her undies too. Frankly, I hope I never live to find out that particular answer. Or that I don’t have to be home when my husband has to have the “you cannot go to school commando style” conversation with my son.
Enter my son into the actual mix. Now, conversation turned to Prudence’s poo-poo and the fact that it wasn’t as big as a dinosaur’s. Then the oldest screamed about how much that would stink. The youngest chimed in that Prudence couldn’t smell as bad as chicken butt. I knew at this point, I should have stopped the conversation, but plainly – I was transfixed.
Transfixed that is, until the children in question emerged from the room, and entered mine. Suddenly, Prudence and her poop-hole were shoved in my face. I was treated to many disturbing pages of Prudence’s naked hind end. I sincerely hope that the author and illustrators are proud of themselves. I’m going to have nightmares for the rest of my natural adult life. If I never see another poop-hole again, it will be too soon!
Tonight, I learned that Prudence makes wee-wee and poo-poo in her potty. [Mind you, I already know the book and I’m aware that her “potty” looks more like a pottery orange juice carafe than an actual potty] I heard them discussing Prudence’s poop hole. They were generally amazed that Prudence “sat on a pitcher in her room” to take a dump. They contemplated Prudence’s bigger issues – like what would happen if her mommy didn’t empty the crap into the potty…and if Prudence would have to do it herself: GROSS!
My girls discussed the fact that Prudence walked around with no undies on. They thoroughly dissected the fact that she would need some pairs when she went to kindergarten. They wondered if she wore her pants without her undies too. Frankly, I hope I never live to find out that particular answer. Or that I don’t have to be home when my husband has to have the “you cannot go to school commando style” conversation with my son.
Enter my son into the actual mix. Now, conversation turned to Prudence’s poo-poo and the fact that it wasn’t as big as a dinosaur’s. Then the oldest screamed about how much that would stink. The youngest chimed in that Prudence couldn’t smell as bad as chicken butt. I knew at this point, I should have stopped the conversation, but plainly – I was transfixed.
Transfixed that is, until the children in question emerged from the room, and entered mine. Suddenly, Prudence and her poop-hole were shoved in my face. I was treated to many disturbing pages of Prudence’s naked hind end. I sincerely hope that the author and illustrators are proud of themselves. I’m going to have nightmares for the rest of my natural adult life. If I never see another poop-hole again, it will be too soon!
Friday, February 24, 2012
Masters of Multitasking?
It has become official. I've seen everything. I find that a simple drive home from work provides me with enough thrills, disappointments, sense of accomplishment and shock to last the rest of my life. Every day, I'm able to thank God that I was able to maneuver through the sea of idiots on the road and merely arrive at my destination in one piece.
While everyone is no stranger to the rampant texter or the SCREAMING guy on the phone in traffic, I have to wonder if you've all witnessed the things that have now permanently scarred me. I also believe that my karma has taken a severe hit with regard to these skilled navigators with the lovely and refreshing thoughts I've had about each...
One morning, while in the busiest part of our highway referred to as "the Can of Worms", I watched an extremely haggard looking woman apply her mascara at 45mph. Was it wrong of me to pray she poked her eye out, smashed into the concrete divider and died in a fiery mass roadside?
I don't know about you, but I couldn't walk & read a book to save my life - let alone drive, but one very charming guy was doing just that one lazy afternoon. Did I mention he was reading "The Help" while also drinking what I assumed to be a venti horkin fiber chunked latte? Too perverse to hope he got to the part about the pie and blew latte from his nose all over his windshield, veered erratically off the road to smash his little Jaguar in a mud covered ditch?
One woman gave new meanings to the term "drive it like you stole it". When I bravely approached passing on the driver's side, I noted that she was knitting. Now, I'm all for knitting circles, but I don't think a steering wheel is the circle intended. Should I repent for imagining her impaling her skull with said needle into the back of her head rest?
Imagine if you would: I'm driving on the highway in the middle of three lanes - no one to my left OR my right. Yet, strangely, behind me is a gentleman in his giant SUV careening to and fro while tailgating me so closely, I cannot determine what brand of SUV he's driving. Did I fail to mention my three small children are in the car with me? Hmmm. Sorry to have left that detail out. I was happy to see, however, that this gentleman, upon *finally* passing me, had enough skill to give me the finger while talking on the phone, eating some delish little tidbit from Timmy Ho's AND typing out an email of some sort on. his. laptop. I silently requested that if God were to ever give me just one thing...it would be the F-bomb strategically located in that email to a very important customer who would randomly pull all their business.
Everyday on my ride home, I marvel at the little things, such as people second knuckle deep into their nose, people changing their clothes or even turning around to chastise an unruly child. And I wonder...when did we get so self important that we couldn't take a moment to do any of these things (above) BEFORE leaving our home or place of business.
A word of caution? Don't tailgate me. I'm known for sinisterly down-shifting gears without the use of a brake...and then calmly praying for your demise from whatever extracurricular activity you're partaking in - even if it IS knitting ME a sweater.
While everyone is no stranger to the rampant texter or the SCREAMING guy on the phone in traffic, I have to wonder if you've all witnessed the things that have now permanently scarred me. I also believe that my karma has taken a severe hit with regard to these skilled navigators with the lovely and refreshing thoughts I've had about each...
One morning, while in the busiest part of our highway referred to as "the Can of Worms", I watched an extremely haggard looking woman apply her mascara at 45mph. Was it wrong of me to pray she poked her eye out, smashed into the concrete divider and died in a fiery mass roadside?
I don't know about you, but I couldn't walk & read a book to save my life - let alone drive, but one very charming guy was doing just that one lazy afternoon. Did I mention he was reading "The Help" while also drinking what I assumed to be a venti horkin fiber chunked latte? Too perverse to hope he got to the part about the pie and blew latte from his nose all over his windshield, veered erratically off the road to smash his little Jaguar in a mud covered ditch?
One woman gave new meanings to the term "drive it like you stole it". When I bravely approached passing on the driver's side, I noted that she was knitting. Now, I'm all for knitting circles, but I don't think a steering wheel is the circle intended. Should I repent for imagining her impaling her skull with said needle into the back of her head rest?
Imagine if you would: I'm driving on the highway in the middle of three lanes - no one to my left OR my right. Yet, strangely, behind me is a gentleman in his giant SUV careening to and fro while tailgating me so closely, I cannot determine what brand of SUV he's driving. Did I fail to mention my three small children are in the car with me? Hmmm. Sorry to have left that detail out. I was happy to see, however, that this gentleman, upon *finally* passing me, had enough skill to give me the finger while talking on the phone, eating some delish little tidbit from Timmy Ho's AND typing out an email of some sort on. his. laptop. I silently requested that if God were to ever give me just one thing...it would be the F-bomb strategically located in that email to a very important customer who would randomly pull all their business.
Everyday on my ride home, I marvel at the little things, such as people second knuckle deep into their nose, people changing their clothes or even turning around to chastise an unruly child. And I wonder...when did we get so self important that we couldn't take a moment to do any of these things (above) BEFORE leaving our home or place of business.
A word of caution? Don't tailgate me. I'm known for sinisterly down-shifting gears without the use of a brake...and then calmly praying for your demise from whatever extracurricular activity you're partaking in - even if it IS knitting ME a sweater.
Thursday, February 16, 2012
I Got The Moves Like Jagger – on LSD, after watching Arachnophobia
My oldest takes 45 min+ in the shower. Now, you ask me what-in-God’s-name could a seven-year-old possibly be doing in the shower, and I answer: drying her face off. She’s horror-struck by water. The moment she gets a drip of water on her face, she gets out of the shower, dries her face and then gets back in. My “aha!” moment when I opened my latest water bill; by fronting the cost of swimming lessons, I could cut my water bill by 50%!
I enrolled all three Things in swimming lessons at our local YMCA. My lovely little children behave in the water just as they do out of it, for the most part… The baby has been dubbed by her teachers as “The Fearless Evel Knievel”. This child has outright refused to swim with a noodle, jumped in deep water without permission and has blatantly done her own thing – swimming about like a fish, when the instructor’s back is turned. I see swim teams in this one’s future. My son lives up to his OCD’d moniker, “Monk”. The water temp. needs to be just so. He can only get in this way. He may only swim about like this. He may only doggy paddle after the blue balls. And in precisely that order.
Now, my oldest is where it gets interesting. And by interesting, I really meant dumbfounding. We do not make eye contact, lest it mistake disdain for compassion and begin screaming louder. [Let me state this child has never been water-boarded, never been dunked, never given any reason to irrationally fear water to this degree.] Her teacher is patient & kind, and I pray – stupid enough to let us re-enroll her. This child is VERY excited every Friday to go to her swimming lessons. She professes her love of swimming. *Loudly* All. The. Way. There…
Then, she enters the pool. What happens can only be described through the colorful narration and your imagination, “Picture an epileptic in a pool with a strobe light in the middle of a rave.” She convulses. She screeches. She coughs. She feigns gagging. And at this point, she’s only stood in waist deep water.
Recently, my good friend was subjected to this traumatizing event (and by traumatizing event, I mean: I’m scarred. I shall never be able to sleep soundly again!). Said friend is watching Evel Knievel sass her teacher, when I lean over and whisper, “Hear the screaming? Don’t look – but it’s been forced into the deep end.” I had been conscious, but ignoring, the blood curdling screams of my oldest in the deep end (for over five minutes by my count) with nothing to save her except a noodle and her own moxie. There was no way this was going to end well.
“OMG! Is someone drowning? Why aren’t the lifeguards moving?” It then dawns on her where the shrieking was coming from. She looks at me with a slightly concerned look of mortification. “Is. That. Her?” Oh yes. The terrifying wailing coming from the deep end was the knee-jerk reaction of my petrified child. I was then informed I should double my payments to these people. The thought *had* occurred to me.
Lessons are done. Kids are dried and changed and heading to the car to go home when the oldest turns and informs us all, “This was such a great week. I swam in the deep end. I love swimming! It is so much fun!” Kid, if that herky-jerky wretched movement you’re doing is called swimming, I think I need to demand a refund. Someone sold you a bag of goods …or at the very least – a shoddy strobe light.
I enrolled all three Things in swimming lessons at our local YMCA. My lovely little children behave in the water just as they do out of it, for the most part… The baby has been dubbed by her teachers as “The Fearless Evel Knievel”. This child has outright refused to swim with a noodle, jumped in deep water without permission and has blatantly done her own thing – swimming about like a fish, when the instructor’s back is turned. I see swim teams in this one’s future. My son lives up to his OCD’d moniker, “Monk”. The water temp. needs to be just so. He can only get in this way. He may only swim about like this. He may only doggy paddle after the blue balls. And in precisely that order.
Now, my oldest is where it gets interesting. And by interesting, I really meant dumbfounding. We do not make eye contact, lest it mistake disdain for compassion and begin screaming louder. [Let me state this child has never been water-boarded, never been dunked, never given any reason to irrationally fear water to this degree.] Her teacher is patient & kind, and I pray – stupid enough to let us re-enroll her. This child is VERY excited every Friday to go to her swimming lessons. She professes her love of swimming. *Loudly* All. The. Way. There…
Then, she enters the pool. What happens can only be described through the colorful narration and your imagination, “Picture an epileptic in a pool with a strobe light in the middle of a rave.” She convulses. She screeches. She coughs. She feigns gagging. And at this point, she’s only stood in waist deep water.
Recently, my good friend was subjected to this traumatizing event (and by traumatizing event, I mean: I’m scarred. I shall never be able to sleep soundly again!). Said friend is watching Evel Knievel sass her teacher, when I lean over and whisper, “Hear the screaming? Don’t look – but it’s been forced into the deep end.” I had been conscious, but ignoring, the blood curdling screams of my oldest in the deep end (for over five minutes by my count) with nothing to save her except a noodle and her own moxie. There was no way this was going to end well.
“OMG! Is someone drowning? Why aren’t the lifeguards moving?” It then dawns on her where the shrieking was coming from. She looks at me with a slightly concerned look of mortification. “Is. That. Her?” Oh yes. The terrifying wailing coming from the deep end was the knee-jerk reaction of my petrified child. I was then informed I should double my payments to these people. The thought *had* occurred to me.
Lessons are done. Kids are dried and changed and heading to the car to go home when the oldest turns and informs us all, “This was such a great week. I swam in the deep end. I love swimming! It is so much fun!” Kid, if that herky-jerky wretched movement you’re doing is called swimming, I think I need to demand a refund. Someone sold you a bag of goods …or at the very least – a shoddy strobe light.
Friday, February 10, 2012
Season of....The Skunk?
When my husband goes out of town for business, I drive the kid hauler. It is no secret that I loathe this vehicle. Today being no exception...
Last night, I took Thing 1 to her piano lesson. We came home, like normal. What was not normal was that this child did not close the side panel door - which she normally jumps at the opportunity to do (pushing a button that makes a car door close is mad fun, you know). As part of my nightly shop closing - checking all external doors of our house to ensure they were locked, turning off lights, starting the dishwasher - it never dawned on me to go outside and look at the far side of our minivan to ensure that the door was closed.
Upon taking my belongings out to the car to start it this morning, I noted that the car had been aired out. Ahhh, the smells of fresh air! No longer did this minivan smell like an armpit. Interesting...I look around. Oh hell! That door had to have been open all night long! Good thing the idiot light didn't stay on alerting me to this fact, or not only would I be admiring the fresh outdoorsy scent in the car; I'd be cursing my kid for needing a jump.
Then, the funny thought occurs to me: I've seen Tommy Boy. You know the part, where the deer they think is dead in the back seat wakes up and rips their car apart, they careen wildly around the road and all that jazz. I immediately think of all the skunks I've seen on the side of the road lately. Hmmm. There must be an abundance of skunks. OMG! What if one is in the loathed Silver Bullet? What if it is related to a badger and attacks me while I drive down the highway, attempting to rip my face off (at this point you should realize I am not one with nature or "critters").
I do what any self-respecting woman does at this point. I chose to ignore this possibility and close all the doors, start the car and drive off, all the while pretending to be oblivious of the potential intruder in my vehicle. Intruder? Christ, there could even be a knife-weilding lunatic homeless man in the back hatch! At this point, I vow never to make fun of the idiot bimbo in any horror movie who gets in an unlocked car without checking her backseat. I mash the gas.
Thankfully, I arrived at work; face in tact, no stab wounds, car still smelling wildly fresh (thinking to myself if it had been a skunk or a homeless dude, my car would have smelled to high heaven). Thanks for worrying though.
Last night, I took Thing 1 to her piano lesson. We came home, like normal. What was not normal was that this child did not close the side panel door - which she normally jumps at the opportunity to do (pushing a button that makes a car door close is mad fun, you know). As part of my nightly shop closing - checking all external doors of our house to ensure they were locked, turning off lights, starting the dishwasher - it never dawned on me to go outside and look at the far side of our minivan to ensure that the door was closed.
Upon taking my belongings out to the car to start it this morning, I noted that the car had been aired out. Ahhh, the smells of fresh air! No longer did this minivan smell like an armpit. Interesting...I look around. Oh hell! That door had to have been open all night long! Good thing the idiot light didn't stay on alerting me to this fact, or not only would I be admiring the fresh outdoorsy scent in the car; I'd be cursing my kid for needing a jump.
Then, the funny thought occurs to me: I've seen Tommy Boy. You know the part, where the deer they think is dead in the back seat wakes up and rips their car apart, they careen wildly around the road and all that jazz. I immediately think of all the skunks I've seen on the side of the road lately. Hmmm. There must be an abundance of skunks. OMG! What if one is in the loathed Silver Bullet? What if it is related to a badger and attacks me while I drive down the highway, attempting to rip my face off (at this point you should realize I am not one with nature or "critters").
I do what any self-respecting woman does at this point. I chose to ignore this possibility and close all the doors, start the car and drive off, all the while pretending to be oblivious of the potential intruder in my vehicle. Intruder? Christ, there could even be a knife-weilding lunatic homeless man in the back hatch! At this point, I vow never to make fun of the idiot bimbo in any horror movie who gets in an unlocked car without checking her backseat. I mash the gas.
Thankfully, I arrived at work; face in tact, no stab wounds, car still smelling wildly fresh (thinking to myself if it had been a skunk or a homeless dude, my car would have smelled to high heaven). Thanks for worrying though.
Friday, February 3, 2012
Sneaky McSneakerson
My son is a quiet and sweet little boy. Not your typical boy’s boy. He doesn’t loudly play with trucks. He does not run and jump and knock things over. He does not hit, bite, scream nor throw things. He plays with dinosaurs. He wants to be a paleontologist. He loves to give hugs and make peace. He loves to say goodbye to his Mommy in the mornings…and this is what is going to get him killed one day.
Out of my three kids, he is the early riser. I have visions of one day sleeping past 6:30am, but for now it is just a pipe dream. We still have baby monitors in the kids room (even though the “baby” is three-years-old). I can hear them sleeping peacefully and breathing softly (or as in the case of my oldest – mouth-breathing like Darth Vader). I can hear the cats padding softly though the house. And yet, somehow, my son was able to get out of bed, go to the bathroom and creep upstairs. I’m awakened at 4:00am by my son jumping up on the side of my bed screaming, “SURPRISE!”
I’m high strung, slightly paranoid, and mainly out of reflex of years of torture at the hands of my four brothers, I swing first and ask questions later. I almost knocked this kid in the face! As I fully came-to, I explained sweetly that he must not do this to Mommy…instead, if he feels the need to shout SURPRISE! At unsuspecting adults in the midst of nightly slumber – he should do this on Daddy’s side of the bed. Quite possibly, my husband would even sleep through this, and while I’d wake…the collateral damage would be minimized.
A few mornings ago, I was up and taking my belongings out to my car at 6:15am. I left the porch door ajar. I slinked back through the opening. I GASPED! I almost bashed the door (on purpose) into my son’s face. Here, this sweet little guy just wanted to hug Mommy good-bye; and is standing ram-rod straight behind the partially opened door in our pitch black dining room. His presence was given away by the whites of his eyes.
“Jesus, kid! That’s creepy! You can’t do that. [I start to think to myself that I need to tone down my reaction b/c he’s going to cry soon]. Give Mommy a hug… [I hear my husband in the shower already]. Now, go upstairs and tell Daddy that you’re awake.”
At this point, I have visions of Captain Stealth tiptoeing upstairs and standing mute outside of the shower curtain. I giggle for a moment as I imagine my husband flinging back the shower curtain to have his wits scared out of him as our oddly awake son just stands there staring at him. At this point, he jumps in terrified horror and slips in the shower, breaking his head open… “And make sure you tell Daddy you’re there!” I shoo him upstairs.
I grab my coffee and as I stroll out to my car, I take a moment to think of how cute he is…and how one day I’m either going to accidentally pop him one out of a fight or flight sense of self-defense, or I’m going to die of shock. Who said children should be seen & not heard?!?
Out of my three kids, he is the early riser. I have visions of one day sleeping past 6:30am, but for now it is just a pipe dream. We still have baby monitors in the kids room (even though the “baby” is three-years-old). I can hear them sleeping peacefully and breathing softly (or as in the case of my oldest – mouth-breathing like Darth Vader). I can hear the cats padding softly though the house. And yet, somehow, my son was able to get out of bed, go to the bathroom and creep upstairs. I’m awakened at 4:00am by my son jumping up on the side of my bed screaming, “SURPRISE!”
I’m high strung, slightly paranoid, and mainly out of reflex of years of torture at the hands of my four brothers, I swing first and ask questions later. I almost knocked this kid in the face! As I fully came-to, I explained sweetly that he must not do this to Mommy…instead, if he feels the need to shout SURPRISE! At unsuspecting adults in the midst of nightly slumber – he should do this on Daddy’s side of the bed. Quite possibly, my husband would even sleep through this, and while I’d wake…the collateral damage would be minimized.
A few mornings ago, I was up and taking my belongings out to my car at 6:15am. I left the porch door ajar. I slinked back through the opening. I GASPED! I almost bashed the door (on purpose) into my son’s face. Here, this sweet little guy just wanted to hug Mommy good-bye; and is standing ram-rod straight behind the partially opened door in our pitch black dining room. His presence was given away by the whites of his eyes.
“Jesus, kid! That’s creepy! You can’t do that. [I start to think to myself that I need to tone down my reaction b/c he’s going to cry soon]. Give Mommy a hug… [I hear my husband in the shower already]. Now, go upstairs and tell Daddy that you’re awake.”
At this point, I have visions of Captain Stealth tiptoeing upstairs and standing mute outside of the shower curtain. I giggle for a moment as I imagine my husband flinging back the shower curtain to have his wits scared out of him as our oddly awake son just stands there staring at him. At this point, he jumps in terrified horror and slips in the shower, breaking his head open… “And make sure you tell Daddy you’re there!” I shoo him upstairs.
I grab my coffee and as I stroll out to my car, I take a moment to think of how cute he is…and how one day I’m either going to accidentally pop him one out of a fight or flight sense of self-defense, or I’m going to die of shock. Who said children should be seen & not heard?!?
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Let It Snow, Let It Snow...
Typically this time of year I find myself cursing snow. This year is no exception, but I find my curses are much louder and for completely different reasons!
Normally, I hate how we are dumped on with Lake Effect snow belts and the natives to this frozen tundra seem to forget where they live six months of the year – preferring to believe they live in a warm & balmy state that does not get oodles of the white stuff. Or, so their driving would imply. Come on people, you drove in this crap last year! You should know better than to mash on your brakes on a bridge – it’s frozen, and you ARE going to slide. Seriously, are you tailgating me in this near white out? You should know, I have a manual transmission and I love to screw with people like you who violate my personal space…by jamming my Rugged Jeep down a gear to slow suddenly without ever touching my brake. I’m sure my spare tire will look lovely mounted/embedded in your hood.
Instead this month, I look around to the amazingly dreary place I call home. There is no snow to cover the fact that trees just look sickly this time of year. The soggy mud laden ground is not a wintery wonder to behold and lastly, there is NOTHING preventing my allergies from acting up. Yes. That godforsaken snow limits my misery for a few months out of the year due to nasal allergies. Instead, the blustery cold winds are whipping up some sort of unknown spore or pollen or random pieces of smoot that I am horribly allergic to. Are you kidding me? This is my payment for wishing for no snow?
Yesterday morning I woke up resembling Eric Stoltz from Mask. Well, either him or the Elephant Man. You can take your pick. In any case, I look like I had taken about six bee stings to the eye. It was nearly swollen shut. I had trouble breathing. My kids screamed and ran away from me in horror. Hell, I may have the greatest idea in biological warfare. Crop dust the enemy with the pollen of whatever, to the point of no escape and watch as they blow their noses, dry their watery itchy eyes, cough in dry throated terror and wallow in the depths of self pity; all the while wondering, “Where can I get something to treat this crap?!?!”
So far today, I’ve washed down two Benadryl, a Zyrtec, some Nasonex, 3 Extra Strength Tylenol with a steaming hot cup of detox tea. The swelling in my face is finally starting to subside, and I’ve been graced enough to be able to utter more than the feeble, “Mmmmfshs shhhfb,” this morning to the Nanny as I stumbled out the door for work. The side effects though have ranged from a slight twitchiness to the shakes and some random Tourrettes thrown in (yes, I’m talking about the loudly shouted swear word kind…)
Dear Mother Nature – I changed my mind…I’d like the snow back. And while you’re at it…[insert another Tourettes outbreak here]!
Normally, I hate how we are dumped on with Lake Effect snow belts and the natives to this frozen tundra seem to forget where they live six months of the year – preferring to believe they live in a warm & balmy state that does not get oodles of the white stuff. Or, so their driving would imply. Come on people, you drove in this crap last year! You should know better than to mash on your brakes on a bridge – it’s frozen, and you ARE going to slide. Seriously, are you tailgating me in this near white out? You should know, I have a manual transmission and I love to screw with people like you who violate my personal space…by jamming my Rugged Jeep down a gear to slow suddenly without ever touching my brake. I’m sure my spare tire will look lovely mounted/embedded in your hood.
Instead this month, I look around to the amazingly dreary place I call home. There is no snow to cover the fact that trees just look sickly this time of year. The soggy mud laden ground is not a wintery wonder to behold and lastly, there is NOTHING preventing my allergies from acting up. Yes. That godforsaken snow limits my misery for a few months out of the year due to nasal allergies. Instead, the blustery cold winds are whipping up some sort of unknown spore or pollen or random pieces of smoot that I am horribly allergic to. Are you kidding me? This is my payment for wishing for no snow?
Yesterday morning I woke up resembling Eric Stoltz from Mask. Well, either him or the Elephant Man. You can take your pick. In any case, I look like I had taken about six bee stings to the eye. It was nearly swollen shut. I had trouble breathing. My kids screamed and ran away from me in horror. Hell, I may have the greatest idea in biological warfare. Crop dust the enemy with the pollen of whatever, to the point of no escape and watch as they blow their noses, dry their watery itchy eyes, cough in dry throated terror and wallow in the depths of self pity; all the while wondering, “Where can I get something to treat this crap?!?!”
So far today, I’ve washed down two Benadryl, a Zyrtec, some Nasonex, 3 Extra Strength Tylenol with a steaming hot cup of detox tea. The swelling in my face is finally starting to subside, and I’ve been graced enough to be able to utter more than the feeble, “Mmmmfshs shhhfb,” this morning to the Nanny as I stumbled out the door for work. The side effects though have ranged from a slight twitchiness to the shakes and some random Tourrettes thrown in (yes, I’m talking about the loudly shouted swear word kind…)
Dear Mother Nature – I changed my mind…I’d like the snow back. And while you’re at it…[insert another Tourettes outbreak here]!
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