I’ve discovered the purpose of those houses whose front yards are plastered with various lawn decorations of all sorts of shapes & sizes. From children silhouettes playing hide & seek, the cow tail hose holder, pink flamingos and even the Virgin Mother in a ½ bathtub….it is to distract you from the crazy person “gardening”.
I’ll admit, I hate doing yard work. I have a black thumb (yet strangely the rosebushes that were in our yard long before our arrival; flourish every year, though I hack them down to nubby stumps every fall) and have attempted to kill every plant within my reach. I’d just as soon plow & pave my entire yard, paint it green and pretend it was a “lawn”.
My typical day out weeding goes something like this:
“Is that a weed? Honey!? Do you know what the hell that is? Is it supposed to be growing there?” No response, save for my oldest screaming, “Can I have your baby shovel (referring to my gardening spade)? I want to dig a big hole.” Fabulous. “No Digging!”
“Honey???”
At this point, I usually march into our garage in search of weed killer of some sort. In the process, about 6 different things from a shelf fall on my head. A spider lands on my face. I scream like a small child. My arms swat. More things fall from the shelf. I smash my big toe into the kids’ wagon. I then trip over a soccer ball, and land ass-over-teakettle on the ground, weed killer in hand and only partially wounded.
I hobble like Quasimodo back into my front yard. My hair is askew and covered in cob webs…I think I’m bruised up like a prize fighter. I’ve started mumbling to myself, “#%&*@!...weeds, $^*@!! that I have to do...” I’ve started gesturing with my hands as I encounter the hole dug near a tree in the yard, you know – the apparent escape effort of my daughter to evacuate her current hell & find her way to China. I drop the weed killer…it lands on my toe (you know, the one that just blasted a wagon?), I swear some more.
Finally, I blast the bejesus out of the offender in my mulch. Right then my husband walks up and informs me that I just sprayed the kids’ daisies that they planted last week. Noting the car driving by with lookie-loos as I start to pull my hair out…I realize how much more incognito I’d look if only I had a lawn full of atrocious ornaments.
Friday, June 10, 2011
Saturday, June 4, 2011
Yep, she's Indian...
I've come to realize, since having kids...that these little individuals are hilarious. Their improper use of words, their inflection of voice and even their gestures are amazing. I'm the proud mother to three vibrant, creative and opinionated little cherubs. Ok, you're catching me on a good day - many times, I think I've spawned aliens. In any case, my "baby"; my two-year-old, we've discovered - is Indian.
Alright, that's not really PC - she's Native American. Don't let the blue eyes, tow-head and pale skin fool you...she's Indian (I'm already giving up on the PC thing...). This child has renamed herself, and most everything in our house. Gone are the days when you could simply call here by her mere first name. Now, you must address this Native Princess as "Leila Big Girl". She's the younger sister to "Noah Has A Mohawk" and "Callah Purple Glasses".
Yesterday, I made the mistake of not properly following the correct dissertation protocol when requesting Leila Big Girl's presence. I thought I was going to be scalped. She peered at me over her glasses (which magnify her bright blue eyes by about 1000%). She growled. She grabbed my face. I think she may have tried to bite me. And what normally is this sweet high pitched toddler voice was replaced by demon speak, "I LEILA BIG GIRL. YOU ARE NOT MY MOMMY!" Hey now, that was a bit uncalled for.
"I AM your mother. Now, get your hiney over here, I need to talk to you." Brave, bold move on my part. She rushed at me in a frenzy. Mashed her face against mine. I was sure a war cry was to follow. I was terribly amiss. Instead, in a voice straight out of the Exorcist, she informed me, "I LEILA BIG GIRL, I LEILA BIG GIRL, I LEILA BIG GIRL!" Each shout became painfully (on my ear drums) more obvious that I was powerless to stop the name and culture change that just happened inside my home.
Having no longer remembered what the hell I even wanted from "Leila Big Girl", I got up and did what any other self-respecting parent would do...I grabbed my purse, told my husband I was going out, and asked if Target sold Chieftain Headdresses.
Alright, that's not really PC - she's Native American. Don't let the blue eyes, tow-head and pale skin fool you...she's Indian (I'm already giving up on the PC thing...). This child has renamed herself, and most everything in our house. Gone are the days when you could simply call here by her mere first name. Now, you must address this Native Princess as "Leila Big Girl". She's the younger sister to "Noah Has A Mohawk" and "Callah Purple Glasses".
Yesterday, I made the mistake of not properly following the correct dissertation protocol when requesting Leila Big Girl's presence. I thought I was going to be scalped. She peered at me over her glasses (which magnify her bright blue eyes by about 1000%). She growled. She grabbed my face. I think she may have tried to bite me. And what normally is this sweet high pitched toddler voice was replaced by demon speak, "I LEILA BIG GIRL. YOU ARE NOT MY MOMMY!" Hey now, that was a bit uncalled for.
"I AM your mother. Now, get your hiney over here, I need to talk to you." Brave, bold move on my part. She rushed at me in a frenzy. Mashed her face against mine. I was sure a war cry was to follow. I was terribly amiss. Instead, in a voice straight out of the Exorcist, she informed me, "I LEILA BIG GIRL, I LEILA BIG GIRL, I LEILA BIG GIRL!" Each shout became painfully (on my ear drums) more obvious that I was powerless to stop the name and culture change that just happened inside my home.
Having no longer remembered what the hell I even wanted from "Leila Big Girl", I got up and did what any other self-respecting parent would do...I grabbed my purse, told my husband I was going out, and asked if Target sold Chieftain Headdresses.
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