So, most of the relocation of toys is complete. Most everything is sorted and put upstairs. Unfortunately, there is excessive furniture left in the playroom. Anyone need bookshelves? Rocking chairs? Sofas? Excessively large TVs? Coffee tables?
Regardless of how overstuffed the playroom is, we have a friend who is a prof at MSU coming to visit us this weekend. MSU and M used to have epic games of Monopoly and apparently, MSU is also a mean ping pong player. SO, this means we had to get the ping pong table purchased, brought home, and assembled yesterday so that MSU and M can have their epic ping pong tournament. There's your background info. Now let me tell you the saga.
We go to Academy Sporting Goods and look into the ping pong tables. A man of few spoken words (but ironically completely covered in tattoo writing) gives us sparse information and directions for pick up. The ping pong table weighs nothing short of a thousand pounds. Two HUGE dudes with scary tattoos lift it on to the top of the Highlander which audibly sighs under the weight. Apparently, because of lawyers, Tweedlepsycho and Tweedlescary are not allowed to tie the thousand pound box onto the top of my car should it slide off in transit and kill someone. M and I tie the thousand pounds down with this rinky dink twine, that by the way, will not stop the box or keep it from killing someone. As I am doing that, I open the car door to stand up taller, and S is leaning on the door. He falls out as I open the door, I scramble to save him from landing on the ground on his head.
Ping.
We get the table home, and S is asleep. I vaguely wonder if perhaps he has a concussion from hitting his head on the side of the car. Should I wake him and deal with the wrath of S? I take my chances on the concussion.
Pong.
M and I basically keep the unwieldy table in a controlled fall from the top of the car. We manage to drag, pull, maneuver it into the playroom. (4 feet from the carport, mind you). Inside the box are relatively few pieces, since we bought the partially assembled table, and instructions. The instructions optimistically inform us that assembly takes approximately 30 minutes...
Ping.
...On Pluto. We did not argue, go back, make mistakes, or in any way screw up, and we were still working on it 2 hours later. The instructions were translated from the original Sanskrit and therefore completely incomprehensible. We were left squinting over microscopic and completely confusing diagrams. The phone rang unanswered, S woke up, E came home from school, all events which passed vaguely through our consciousness as we pored over our work.
Pong.
Eventually, ta-da: our ping pong table was assembled (except for net). On the upside, my physical labour for the day was finished. On the down side, it was now time to start dinner. Gin and diet tonic to the rescue.
Ping.
I made the kids' favorite dinner, which is fondly called yummy crust chicken. Which I find funny because while it does have a yummy crust, it is pork. I made a pork schnitzel with spaetzle. (That's a lot of z's for one meal). M made a lovely arugula salad (we share Obama's elitist salad greens preferences). S was not up for yummy crust chorken, so I indulged his little Ebola-infected self and made him Stouffer's mac and cheese. I have to point out at this juncture that mac and cheese were three words I did not expect to hear at all yesterday.
Pong.
We sit down to eat, and S decides he made a mistake, and should have opted for the buttery spaetzle. So he starts to cry. I explain calmly that he can eat the mac and THEN eat the spaetzle. A well balanced carb dinner. Temper Tantrum erupts.
Ping.
My dinner was awesome, in case you were wondering. I used a combination if Italian bread crumbs, Parmesan cheese, and panko crumbs for the crust, and it fried up to this lovely golden color. Yumm. I used this delicious food to tune out S's tantrum. I sipped my g and t as though I were in a fine, quiet restaurant. The constant whine of "I don't want mac and cheese" faded into the background. Randomly, and suddenly, E falls out of his chair.
Pong.
On to the floor. Along with his (thankfully) melamine plate. What the frig? He explains he was trying to stop Clooney from eating some mac he spilled (E had mac and spaetzle along with his chorken). E now has mac in his hair, on his clothes, all over the floor, everywhere. G and T mommy thinks this is pretty funny. M scoops some of S's still untouched-due to tantrum-mac and cheese on to E's plate.
Ping.
Tantrum escalates. Sam's refrain now changes to "I want ALL the mac and cheese. Don't give it away," despite the fact that the portion left on his plate is untouched. G and T #2 really helped me out at this juncture. E ate everything on his plate. S's mac and cheese that he STILL wanted all of is untouched. I'd had too much spaetzle for my diet. I scooped out more.
Pong.
The arugula salad was excellent. So easy. Baby arugula, lemon, olive oil, and fresh Parmesan Reggiano shaved on top. Yumm. E was eating dessert while S was still demanding that he get ALL the mac and cheese. He must have said the words "mac and cheese" three hundred times by this point.
Ping.
E clears the table, I begin washing. S FINALLY ate his mac and cheese. He brings me his plate and asks for dessert. G and T#2 mommy snorts.
Pong.
Finally, the kitchen was clean, the kids were bathed, tucked in, medicated, etc. The house was silent. I was ready for my favorite show on TV. My hour of escapism. I was ready for it. I earned it. My post ping pong assembly body ached. My post S temper tantrum head ached. Give me my hot David Boreanaz and Emily Deschanel sexual tension and give it to me NOW.
What's this? Fox has rescheduled my show? It has replaced it with reruns of some crappy reality shit? Screw it. I'm going to bed.
Game. Set. Match.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Parenting 101 at 1 AM
Let me preface this entry with a note to my mother: I get it. E doesn't feel well. We should all get some slack when we are sick. I am NOT being too hard on him. Honest.
At midnight, I hear crying. It's been a long time since I've heard crying in the middle of the night, and now, quite frankly, I find it disorienting. I stumbled into the hall only to find E stumbling toward me. His ear hurt. I understand. I spent every other week of me pre-k life with an ear infection. I have sympathy. I trot downstairs, fetch the Motrin and some Chamomile oil that is allegedly useful for easing ear pain. (The list of things that Chamomile "treats" is long. I don't dismiss ALL homeopathic remedies, but still...ear drops of Chamomile??) I figure at least it has the placebo effect going for it. When I bring them back upstairs, E gives me the look of death: "I will NOT take that disgusting medicine." It's grape chewable Motrin junior strength, so he only has to take two. I figure this is not so bad. Patiently, especially given the unholy hour, I explain that the sooner he takes it, the sooner he will feel better. I administer the drops, and lie down next to him to pat him back to sleep.
For the next HOUR, he is periodically yelling at me. Telling me that medicine only made him worse, that he hates me for making him take it, and that he is probably going to die. The highlight, I think, is when he moans, "Mom. I don't think I'm going to make it..." I was tempted to ask if he wanted to bequeath his Han Solo to his brother, but in my maternal kindness, I refrained from sarcasm.
He doesn't think he's going to make it?? That's my brave soldier. Way to gut it up, kid. I mean, yelling at me? Did I do this to him? Am I not awake at a single digit, dark hour trying my absolute best to ease his discomfort? I brought a microwaved towel up and covered his ear, it always seemed to me that warmth eased the discomfort. Of course, E whisper-screams (after all we wouldn't want any one else to be awakened by our festivities) that warm is all wrong. Only cold will make it better. I trot ( a little slower now) down the stairs, grab an ice pack and wrap it in a towel. I return, gently lay it on his ear only to hear that is WAAAAAY too cold.
I lay there for an hour. I worked to get his ear soothed for an hour. I did everything I could think of. For AN HOUR.
This morning, when E wakes up, he is still in a foul mood. I told him that despite his illness, he could remain civil and respectful to me. He snaps back, "it's because you kept me up all night with your stupid medicine."
In any event, if any comment to this post includes the words "AWWWWWWW" or "POOR THING," I will be unhappy. The kid's ear will recover with his super germ killing antibiotic/liquid gold. My parenting motivation may not.
At midnight, I hear crying. It's been a long time since I've heard crying in the middle of the night, and now, quite frankly, I find it disorienting. I stumbled into the hall only to find E stumbling toward me. His ear hurt. I understand. I spent every other week of me pre-k life with an ear infection. I have sympathy. I trot downstairs, fetch the Motrin and some Chamomile oil that is allegedly useful for easing ear pain. (The list of things that Chamomile "treats" is long. I don't dismiss ALL homeopathic remedies, but still...ear drops of Chamomile??) I figure at least it has the placebo effect going for it. When I bring them back upstairs, E gives me the look of death: "I will NOT take that disgusting medicine." It's grape chewable Motrin junior strength, so he only has to take two. I figure this is not so bad. Patiently, especially given the unholy hour, I explain that the sooner he takes it, the sooner he will feel better. I administer the drops, and lie down next to him to pat him back to sleep.
For the next HOUR, he is periodically yelling at me. Telling me that medicine only made him worse, that he hates me for making him take it, and that he is probably going to die. The highlight, I think, is when he moans, "Mom. I don't think I'm going to make it..." I was tempted to ask if he wanted to bequeath his Han Solo to his brother, but in my maternal kindness, I refrained from sarcasm.
He doesn't think he's going to make it?? That's my brave soldier. Way to gut it up, kid. I mean, yelling at me? Did I do this to him? Am I not awake at a single digit, dark hour trying my absolute best to ease his discomfort? I brought a microwaved towel up and covered his ear, it always seemed to me that warmth eased the discomfort. Of course, E whisper-screams (after all we wouldn't want any one else to be awakened by our festivities) that warm is all wrong. Only cold will make it better. I trot ( a little slower now) down the stairs, grab an ice pack and wrap it in a towel. I return, gently lay it on his ear only to hear that is WAAAAAY too cold.
I lay there for an hour. I worked to get his ear soothed for an hour. I did everything I could think of. For AN HOUR.
This morning, when E wakes up, he is still in a foul mood. I told him that despite his illness, he could remain civil and respectful to me. He snaps back, "it's because you kept me up all night with your stupid medicine."
In any event, if any comment to this post includes the words "AWWWWWWW" or "POOR THING," I will be unhappy. The kid's ear will recover with his super germ killing antibiotic/liquid gold. My parenting motivation may not.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Kids' Weekend: Day 4
Today was E's turn to stay home. We went to the Dr. this morning to verify that he had an ear infection. Of course, they believe that since the last two ear infections were resistant to antibiotics, that he has to take a super-antibiotic which is going to upset his digestive system (ahem) and costs over $100! Yeah, no health care reform necessary. $100 for an ear infection....
So, I took him out to lunch afterward and spent some time reading stories. When he's one on one without his brother, he's so much like the toddler he once was--sweet and earnest and cute. Then, we bring his brother back into the picture, and it's like that scene from Alien when the creature leaps out of that guy's chest. Freaky, unexpected, and a little slimy. What is it with siblings?
Even now, my sister and I talk every day on the phone. We offer and accept advice and ideas from one another. We usually respect and at least like one another's taste. But something happens when we get together. Regression, aggression? Maybe it's because we fall into roles of first born and second born, where I get bossy and she gets petulant. But it's often tense.
I once read in Time that siblings define who we are even more than our parents. I wonder if that's good or bad for my boys. E is, on his own, such a bright, interesting and engaging child. S is funny and sweet and thoughtful (he offered M his last cookie last night after dinner. AWWW). Together, it's awful. E is impatient and bossy and dismissive. He's often even plain out mean. S is physical and aggressive in retaliation (and most often, in fairness, it is retaliation). If we could choose our own families would it be different? Would we choose people with whom we constantly agree?
I hope the boys work it out. I hope they learn to bring out the best in each other, rather than the absolute worst.
On a lighter note, I hope it doesn't rain until afternoon tomorrow. I really want to walk outside tomorrow. I hope this is the last blast of winter we have to deal with. I hope I can get my house in order for our house guest on Friday.
I am absolutely, by the way, throwing out my last Gourmet magazine. I made a spaghetti and meatball recipe that took FOREVER today and it received lukewarm reviews at best. The boys didn't eat it at all, and M ate it, but gave it a meh followed by a thumbs down after it "failed to sit right" after dinner. This failure, coupled with the $78 veal brisket leads me to think I am better off on my own, or with the aid of Rachael Ray. At least with her help, I only spend 30 minutes on a failure! Thank God the diet tonic water was back on the shelf today. I don't think I could have stomached the clean up of a second Italian meal disaster without it.
On that note...it's 8 PM and time for bed. I figure lots of rest will help me fight off the Ebola the kids have.
So, I took him out to lunch afterward and spent some time reading stories. When he's one on one without his brother, he's so much like the toddler he once was--sweet and earnest and cute. Then, we bring his brother back into the picture, and it's like that scene from Alien when the creature leaps out of that guy's chest. Freaky, unexpected, and a little slimy. What is it with siblings?
Even now, my sister and I talk every day on the phone. We offer and accept advice and ideas from one another. We usually respect and at least like one another's taste. But something happens when we get together. Regression, aggression? Maybe it's because we fall into roles of first born and second born, where I get bossy and she gets petulant. But it's often tense.
I once read in Time that siblings define who we are even more than our parents. I wonder if that's good or bad for my boys. E is, on his own, such a bright, interesting and engaging child. S is funny and sweet and thoughtful (he offered M his last cookie last night after dinner. AWWW). Together, it's awful. E is impatient and bossy and dismissive. He's often even plain out mean. S is physical and aggressive in retaliation (and most often, in fairness, it is retaliation). If we could choose our own families would it be different? Would we choose people with whom we constantly agree?
I hope the boys work it out. I hope they learn to bring out the best in each other, rather than the absolute worst.
On a lighter note, I hope it doesn't rain until afternoon tomorrow. I really want to walk outside tomorrow. I hope this is the last blast of winter we have to deal with. I hope I can get my house in order for our house guest on Friday.
I am absolutely, by the way, throwing out my last Gourmet magazine. I made a spaghetti and meatball recipe that took FOREVER today and it received lukewarm reviews at best. The boys didn't eat it at all, and M ate it, but gave it a meh followed by a thumbs down after it "failed to sit right" after dinner. This failure, coupled with the $78 veal brisket leads me to think I am better off on my own, or with the aid of Rachael Ray. At least with her help, I only spend 30 minutes on a failure! Thank God the diet tonic water was back on the shelf today. I don't think I could have stomached the clean up of a second Italian meal disaster without it.
On that note...it's 8 PM and time for bed. I figure lots of rest will help me fight off the Ebola the kids have.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Making Hay While the Sun Shines
S is home with a fever today. Which means I am sure of two things: 1. His hideous behaviour over the weekend was probably because he felt crappy. 2. I am sure to have whatever insidious Dengue disease he has. Let the snot begin.
So, by default, today is weekend day for him. Which is ok. He has no energy and is lying in my bed, moaning through commercials and then drooling through cartoons. As long as he doesn't miraculously feel better, we'll make it through the day.
I am working to recover from one of my "projects." I got it in my head that the kids would play with their toys more and clean up better if their toys were split and stored in their closets in their rooms. Thus, the playroom would be liberated from chronic mess and be restored to its rightful place as MINE. I want to put the treadmill in the playroom so I can watch TV while I run/walk. M wants to put a ping pong table in there, and we have a dartboard from college that could go in there, too. Ergo: plan is hatched. Immediately, we find a hitch: we have to move the mess from the playroom to the boys' closets, organize the mess, and sort it to appropriate owners. That part was yesterday. And by yesterday, I mean ALL YESTERDAY was spent moving crap, and throwing old crap out. Then, I got the bee in my bonnet to sort all the boys' stuff, so I went through old clothes, threw away, put in bags for Goodwill, and reserved the nicest stuff for friends with small boys. Needless to say, this morning, the house looked like a bomb went off. Sure, the closets were neat and tidy, (the last time I will ever be able to say that, I am sure) but only because everything that didn't QUITE go in them is still all over. ACK. Today, I am doing laundry (hand me downs from E to S), throwing away anything I can't find a home for, and schlepping the last of the crap out from the playroom.
It will all be very exciting, I am sure. When it's finished. If it's finished. I could be one of those people who live in a house lined with moving boxes. At the moment, that doesn't sound THAT hideous. Things must be bad.
Did I just sneeze? Oh, crap. Dengue's coming for me next.
So, by default, today is weekend day for him. Which is ok. He has no energy and is lying in my bed, moaning through commercials and then drooling through cartoons. As long as he doesn't miraculously feel better, we'll make it through the day.
I am working to recover from one of my "projects." I got it in my head that the kids would play with their toys more and clean up better if their toys were split and stored in their closets in their rooms. Thus, the playroom would be liberated from chronic mess and be restored to its rightful place as MINE. I want to put the treadmill in the playroom so I can watch TV while I run/walk. M wants to put a ping pong table in there, and we have a dartboard from college that could go in there, too. Ergo: plan is hatched. Immediately, we find a hitch: we have to move the mess from the playroom to the boys' closets, organize the mess, and sort it to appropriate owners. That part was yesterday. And by yesterday, I mean ALL YESTERDAY was spent moving crap, and throwing old crap out. Then, I got the bee in my bonnet to sort all the boys' stuff, so I went through old clothes, threw away, put in bags for Goodwill, and reserved the nicest stuff for friends with small boys. Needless to say, this morning, the house looked like a bomb went off. Sure, the closets were neat and tidy, (the last time I will ever be able to say that, I am sure) but only because everything that didn't QUITE go in them is still all over. ACK. Today, I am doing laundry (hand me downs from E to S), throwing away anything I can't find a home for, and schlepping the last of the crap out from the playroom.
It will all be very exciting, I am sure. When it's finished. If it's finished. I could be one of those people who live in a house lined with moving boxes. At the moment, that doesn't sound THAT hideous. Things must be bad.
Did I just sneeze? Oh, crap. Dengue's coming for me next.
Friday, January 23, 2009
Mullet Mania
I woke up this morning with this vague discontent, a slight case of the blues, and in the early morning fog of awakening, couldn't quite place why I felt that way. I sat up, and the swing of my hair instantly reminded me: I got a bad haircut yesterday.
I know. Obama worked on a failed economy, splintered diplomacy, two wars, and really a world on the brink of total collapse. I got a bad haircut. But has this forum ever really been about real problems? I think not. So, my haircut is, essentially, a mullet. The business in the front is down to my earlobes, and the party in the back is past my shoulders. This haircut was bad enough to prompt M to actually notice. It's never good when your husband notices a haircut. Also, I am not sure what to do about it. I am not reluctant to go tell my stylist that I don't care for it, I just don't think there's going to be any solution to the problem except for taking a weed whacker to the back--and really I don't want to take so much length off the hair.
All of this happened because I told her my hair was growing in like the famed "Rachel" haircut of the 90s from Friends. So instead of having a longitudinal issue with my hair, my problems are now latitudinal. This sucks.
She did, however, give an awesome eyebrow wax. As my sister says, there's nothing quite so disconcerting as empowering some one else to rip off part of your eyebrows while you can't see a thing. EP feels so helpless, in fact, that her first reaction upon being handed the mirror to check things out, is relief--she's always afraid she'll pick up the mirror and see her eyebrows have been Whoopi Goldberg'd. But this wax wasn't just a relief, it was downright thorough. Natural, and you know, not super thin and arched. My focus with my eyebrows is this: I have a high forehead. Not just sort of, I have a Omaha Beach up there. If the eyebrows get super thin, which they have in the past, they look completely out of scale. Like a Hitler moustache on an elephant. I need some substantial above-eye fur. So that worked out well, at least. Although hell--it does NOTHING to distract from the mullet mayhem.
I'm sorry I haven't posted much this week. I have been on a cleaning binge, followed by an exercise bender. Which I suppose is not the worst kind of bender there is, but nonetheless has been a tremendous time suck for me. Damn weight loss goals. Damn failed weight loss goals. Maybe if I trim off the rest of this freaking haircut, I could lose a half pound or so...
I know. Obama worked on a failed economy, splintered diplomacy, two wars, and really a world on the brink of total collapse. I got a bad haircut. But has this forum ever really been about real problems? I think not. So, my haircut is, essentially, a mullet. The business in the front is down to my earlobes, and the party in the back is past my shoulders. This haircut was bad enough to prompt M to actually notice. It's never good when your husband notices a haircut. Also, I am not sure what to do about it. I am not reluctant to go tell my stylist that I don't care for it, I just don't think there's going to be any solution to the problem except for taking a weed whacker to the back--and really I don't want to take so much length off the hair.
All of this happened because I told her my hair was growing in like the famed "Rachel" haircut of the 90s from Friends. So instead of having a longitudinal issue with my hair, my problems are now latitudinal. This sucks.
She did, however, give an awesome eyebrow wax. As my sister says, there's nothing quite so disconcerting as empowering some one else to rip off part of your eyebrows while you can't see a thing. EP feels so helpless, in fact, that her first reaction upon being handed the mirror to check things out, is relief--she's always afraid she'll pick up the mirror and see her eyebrows have been Whoopi Goldberg'd. But this wax wasn't just a relief, it was downright thorough. Natural, and you know, not super thin and arched. My focus with my eyebrows is this: I have a high forehead. Not just sort of, I have a Omaha Beach up there. If the eyebrows get super thin, which they have in the past, they look completely out of scale. Like a Hitler moustache on an elephant. I need some substantial above-eye fur. So that worked out well, at least. Although hell--it does NOTHING to distract from the mullet mayhem.
I'm sorry I haven't posted much this week. I have been on a cleaning binge, followed by an exercise bender. Which I suppose is not the worst kind of bender there is, but nonetheless has been a tremendous time suck for me. Damn weight loss goals. Damn failed weight loss goals. Maybe if I trim off the rest of this freaking haircut, I could lose a half pound or so...
Monday, January 19, 2009
Another Three Day Weekend...
Once again, I am reminded that in a former life, a life before children, I used to love three day weekends. I used to crave them, schedule them onto my books for weeks, plan them, savor every moment of them. Now, it is simply a matter of survival. I have to outlast these little suckers until Tuesday. Their stamina is shocking.
Right now, M is playing the music video to Jack Johnson's Taylor is a Good Girl, which was, once upon a time, E's favorite song. When he was barely able to talk, E could sing this song so beautifully. He knew all the words, and would ask questions about the song. He had a friend named Taylor in his class, and he used to pretend that the song was for her. Tonight at dinner, we were talking about the song, and E revealed that he didn't remember it. There is something so sad about that. It was a whole family thing--everyone would ask E to sing Taylor. His teachers at his school would ask him to sing it, and now he says he never even heard the song before.
I understand that the "first five" are the most important years in a child's life. I, obviously, subscribe to that theory, since I have committed to staying home and being the main part of my childrens' days until they are school-aged. But, it hardly seems fair that they don't EVEN remember half that time. I mean, it's freaking heart breaking to think about the hours that I spent working puzzles, listening to music, playing with little friend, singing songs, and just being with my kids aren't even registering in the conscious mind of my little dudes. Sure, there is the educational benefit, and the subconscious consistency and love he (theoretically) felt during those early years, but NOT EVEN TO REMEMBER THEM? That's cruel. I think of all those sleepless nights, those tedious hours of blocks, and toys, and all the things developing minds do, and I can only hope that those moments, some of which are treasures to me, exist somewhere in the minds of my little men.
I love my children, and I naturally would do what is best for them, whether they consciously remember it or not....but wouldn't it be nice if they did?
Right now, M is playing the music video to Jack Johnson's Taylor is a Good Girl, which was, once upon a time, E's favorite song. When he was barely able to talk, E could sing this song so beautifully. He knew all the words, and would ask questions about the song. He had a friend named Taylor in his class, and he used to pretend that the song was for her. Tonight at dinner, we were talking about the song, and E revealed that he didn't remember it. There is something so sad about that. It was a whole family thing--everyone would ask E to sing Taylor. His teachers at his school would ask him to sing it, and now he says he never even heard the song before.
I understand that the "first five" are the most important years in a child's life. I, obviously, subscribe to that theory, since I have committed to staying home and being the main part of my childrens' days until they are school-aged. But, it hardly seems fair that they don't EVEN remember half that time. I mean, it's freaking heart breaking to think about the hours that I spent working puzzles, listening to music, playing with little friend, singing songs, and just being with my kids aren't even registering in the conscious mind of my little dudes. Sure, there is the educational benefit, and the subconscious consistency and love he (theoretically) felt during those early years, but NOT EVEN TO REMEMBER THEM? That's cruel. I think of all those sleepless nights, those tedious hours of blocks, and toys, and all the things developing minds do, and I can only hope that those moments, some of which are treasures to me, exist somewhere in the minds of my little men.
I love my children, and I naturally would do what is best for them, whether they consciously remember it or not....but wouldn't it be nice if they did?
Friday, January 16, 2009
A Brief Thought
It is 7:30. I ate my healthy dinner. I am miserable and wonky and have the world's worst period. WHERE ARE MY FREAKING GIRL SCOUT COOKIES????????????????? If I had those now, I would be making them my bitch. I would be scarfing them down as though they were imminently perishable. I would BE those cookies.
As it is now, I am just cranky.
As it is now, I am just cranky.
Super News Controlling Woman
Ok. There is a lot to process here. First of all, let me make it clear that I had no idea I wielded such power. I mean, nowhere in the comic book universe is a hero with the power to shape the news simply by looking through it. Second of all, for those who have expressed concern, I wish no ill-will on anybody I know. There are no voodoo dolls or such. Third, I am left wondering what to do next. I told MT that I want to find headlines of calorie-free cookies or perhaps an instant, free, healthy, painless weight loss program.
All that being said, last night I was left grappling with a paradox few mere mortals can understand. All at once I was powerful, coordinating fearsome pigeons into a hapless mega-ton aircraft. And yet, I was rendered completely lame by an overpriced veal roast for dinner. The roast, all $78 whopping dollars of it, was to be used in a Gourmet Magazine Veal Cacciatore so delicious that the recipe writers promised I would be sneaking tastes of it en route to the table. While the broth and sauce were indeed delicious, the meat itself was more like the world's most expensive brisket. And bland. Did I mention bland? If meat could be described as "corky" as in resembling cork in taste and texture, than this is that. I was so disappointed. More than an hour of work, shopping for all the ingredients, only to be failed by the most expensive link in the chain. Devastating. Not to mention that this provides fodder for M's files of failed, overly-ambitious, overly-expensive dinners. A file which includes the "well-done $100 prime rib of beef for 8 incident of 2007."
Finally, in a smaller, but nonetheless discouraging blow to my comic-book quality power, I found that only one of the bottles of tonic water I grabbed from the shelf at the market was diet. Which means that I ingested a ridiculous and unplanned for number of calories by finishing off that liter bottle. I KNEW those tasted better...damn full calorie quinine. I wanted the full fight against Malaria with none of the calories!
So, if you were envious of my plane-crash causing powers (also, the bird element really made this sort of a natural disaster, too) be comforted to know that I am (alas) not omnipotent. My Achilles' Heels of failed dinners and overly caloric beverages are the same pitfalls all humans suffer. Tonight's dinner is back to basics: burgers or spaghetti perhaps. And I promise to use my headline scouring powers for only good, not evil.
All that being said, last night I was left grappling with a paradox few mere mortals can understand. All at once I was powerful, coordinating fearsome pigeons into a hapless mega-ton aircraft. And yet, I was rendered completely lame by an overpriced veal roast for dinner. The roast, all $78 whopping dollars of it, was to be used in a Gourmet Magazine Veal Cacciatore so delicious that the recipe writers promised I would be sneaking tastes of it en route to the table. While the broth and sauce were indeed delicious, the meat itself was more like the world's most expensive brisket. And bland. Did I mention bland? If meat could be described as "corky" as in resembling cork in taste and texture, than this is that. I was so disappointed. More than an hour of work, shopping for all the ingredients, only to be failed by the most expensive link in the chain. Devastating. Not to mention that this provides fodder for M's files of failed, overly-ambitious, overly-expensive dinners. A file which includes the "well-done $100 prime rib of beef for 8 incident of 2007."
Finally, in a smaller, but nonetheless discouraging blow to my comic-book quality power, I found that only one of the bottles of tonic water I grabbed from the shelf at the market was diet. Which means that I ingested a ridiculous and unplanned for number of calories by finishing off that liter bottle. I KNEW those tasted better...damn full calorie quinine. I wanted the full fight against Malaria with none of the calories!
So, if you were envious of my plane-crash causing powers (also, the bird element really made this sort of a natural disaster, too) be comforted to know that I am (alas) not omnipotent. My Achilles' Heels of failed dinners and overly caloric beverages are the same pitfalls all humans suffer. Tonight's dinner is back to basics: burgers or spaghetti perhaps. And I promise to use my headline scouring powers for only good, not evil.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
US Airways
WOW! A plane landed in the Hudson River at 48th Street in Manhattan! Holy cow. That must have seriously freaked people out. Also, how unnerving is it that a flock of birds can cause a plane to crash?
I am sure NTSB will consider this one a cake walk, since everyone survived and is a witness, and the plane is intact, if underwater.
I can't believe I confessed my searching for air accidents and one happened today. So strange. I will be following it closely, of course.
I am sure NTSB will consider this one a cake walk, since everyone survived and is a witness, and the plane is intact, if underwater.
I can't believe I confessed my searching for air accidents and one happened today. So strange. I will be following it closely, of course.
Graceful Hobos
I woke up this morning with that achy-painy, crampy sour stomach PMS thing. Or that achy-painy, crampy sour stomach had 4 gin and tonics thing. Sage shopping advice: do not buy tonic water by the liter--you will feel compelled to use it all before it goes flat. Which is, approximately, 4 giant gin and tonics.
Even The Mummy: Tomb of the Dragon Emperor was almost tolerable after that many drinks. No, actually, that is not true. The Mummy: Tomb of the Dragon Emperor would be intolerable unless you had passed out from g and t's. Even then, touch and go.
Clooney looks a bit rough this morning, too. He got groomed two days ago, and the groomer put that stupid bow in his hair again. But, after two days, the bow is a bit disheveled, and the hair is falling out of it, and the gingerbread man on the bow is upside down. Such that in my morning grousing, I thought he resembled a slightly past her prime daytime hooker. Poor thing, I would take out the bow, but meh. This way I can still see his so-ugly-it's-almost-cute face. E will pull it out soon enough.
So, this morning, S comes in to my room in the weeeeeeeeeeeeee hours of the morning and gets in my bed. He puts his feetcicles right between my toasty knees and expects a warm up. There is nothing like ice cold feet in your warm covers at 5-something in the morning. Then, he wakes the dog, who loves to pull my hair while it's all splayed out on the pillow. While it feels kinda good that he scratches and massages my scalp, I could totally do without having my hair yanked at that hour. Finally, the cat mews in. He slept inside because it has been kill-a-cat cold outside the last two nights. I decide to get out of bed.
Now, I have coffee/death breath, dog-teased hair resembling Drew Barrymore's coif from the Golden Globes, big terry robe, mismatched jammies, and the ever-fashionable Croc flops on (walked the dog). I squint at the too-bright computer screen to check mail, and read the news. I need to read the headlines first thing in the morning to confirm the world did not end overnight. Which is funny, since of course the Internet wouldn't work if the world ended overnight. But still. I scour headlines for natural/weather related disasters and plane crashes. Mostly because I find the first fascinating and if I could have any job in the world, it would be NTSB investigator, since those people are awesome. Thankfully, the skies were friendly last night, and I had email from a childhood friend who found me on Facebook. It was very nice to hear from her, as she appears very successful, happy, engaged, and really in a good place. Also, she said I had an elegance in my photo that was Grace Kelly-ish.
How could I have let THIS friend slip away??
There is nothing better than looking like an absolute refugee/hobo in the still-dark of the morning and reading that I had elegance. It puts a wry smile on my face now. Even in the harsh-not-yet-showered lookin' like Courtney Love reality of day.
Grace Kelly. Heh.
Even The Mummy: Tomb of the Dragon Emperor was almost tolerable after that many drinks. No, actually, that is not true. The Mummy: Tomb of the Dragon Emperor would be intolerable unless you had passed out from g and t's. Even then, touch and go.
Clooney looks a bit rough this morning, too. He got groomed two days ago, and the groomer put that stupid bow in his hair again. But, after two days, the bow is a bit disheveled, and the hair is falling out of it, and the gingerbread man on the bow is upside down. Such that in my morning grousing, I thought he resembled a slightly past her prime daytime hooker. Poor thing, I would take out the bow, but meh. This way I can still see his so-ugly-it's-almost-cute face. E will pull it out soon enough.
So, this morning, S comes in to my room in the weeeeeeeeeeeeee hours of the morning and gets in my bed. He puts his feetcicles right between my toasty knees and expects a warm up. There is nothing like ice cold feet in your warm covers at 5-something in the morning. Then, he wakes the dog, who loves to pull my hair while it's all splayed out on the pillow. While it feels kinda good that he scratches and massages my scalp, I could totally do without having my hair yanked at that hour. Finally, the cat mews in. He slept inside because it has been kill-a-cat cold outside the last two nights. I decide to get out of bed.
Now, I have coffee/death breath, dog-teased hair resembling Drew Barrymore's coif from the Golden Globes, big terry robe, mismatched jammies, and the ever-fashionable Croc flops on (walked the dog). I squint at the too-bright computer screen to check mail, and read the news. I need to read the headlines first thing in the morning to confirm the world did not end overnight. Which is funny, since of course the Internet wouldn't work if the world ended overnight. But still. I scour headlines for natural/weather related disasters and plane crashes. Mostly because I find the first fascinating and if I could have any job in the world, it would be NTSB investigator, since those people are awesome. Thankfully, the skies were friendly last night, and I had email from a childhood friend who found me on Facebook. It was very nice to hear from her, as she appears very successful, happy, engaged, and really in a good place. Also, she said I had an elegance in my photo that was Grace Kelly-ish.
How could I have let THIS friend slip away??
There is nothing better than looking like an absolute refugee/hobo in the still-dark of the morning and reading that I had elegance. It puts a wry smile on my face now. Even in the harsh-not-yet-showered lookin' like Courtney Love reality of day.
Grace Kelly. Heh.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Why I will never celebrate another holiday, ever
You know, since E was born, we have been taking him with us all over the continent for vacations, adventures and visits with his family. In fact, when he was a mere 8 weeks old, I took him (solo) to visit my family for the holidays. Many a winter holiday has been spent in SoCal. We have driven hundreds of miles from Columbia, MO to STL or KC to fly thousands of miles to SoCal. My parents and relatives have spoiled him rotten out there, with presents, annual ornaments on the tree, bikes to ride, parks to play at, excursions to museums. It's possible that in E's six years on this planet, we haven't missed a winter break out in the wacky west. During the rest of M's holiday breaks, we did other fun stuff. In Columbia, I filled spray bottles with colors and the kids (with Dad) built colorful snow critters. We let them slide down our ridiculously steep street. We celebrated with festive meals at friends' homes. Here in Mobile, we take them to see the 2 million Christmas lights at Bellingrath Gardens. We even stop and get Starbucks hot cocoa for the walk. We have taken them on not one, but TWO holiday cruises since we've moved here. Plus, I am sure that M can think of even more things we've done with them over the winter-y holidays. But, you get the idea.
You find yourself asking why I'm telling you this. Right before the holidays THIS year, E and some of his friends went to a kids' class at an meal-assembly place called Bayside Dinners (that prop is gonna cost!) It was a bit pricey, but promised to be very fun for them. The kids even got to draw pictures and write a brief story. The prompt for the picture and story was to "draw a picture and tell about your favorite holiday memory."
E drew a picture of a snowman and our old dog, Madison. I thought, this is promising. Below the cute, but somewhat rushed drawing, he wrote:
Favorite Holiday Memory. Allrighty then.
You find yourself asking why I'm telling you this. Right before the holidays THIS year, E and some of his friends went to a kids' class at an meal-assembly place called Bayside Dinners (that prop is gonna cost!) It was a bit pricey, but promised to be very fun for them. The kids even got to draw pictures and write a brief story. The prompt for the picture and story was to "draw a picture and tell about your favorite holiday memory."
E drew a picture of a snowman and our old dog, Madison. I thought, this is promising. Below the cute, but somewhat rushed drawing, he wrote:
One time in the winter, Daddy pushed me into the snow. I cried to the top
of my lungs. But, I got over it
Favorite Holiday Memory. Allrighty then.
Monday, January 12, 2009
5 PM Funnies
Holy freaking cow. ANOTHER Girl Scout came to my door yesterday. She was so cute in her little green vest, and she rides carpool with us every day, and she was out in the cold hawking her delicious wares, that I couldn't say no. I am now up to 5 boxes. Should I have a Girl Scout Cookie party and spread the delicious calories around? Perhaps. Maybe I could feed Selma Hayak, because I saw her photo from the Golden Globes last night, and except for her breasts, which are magnificently well nourished, the rest of her body looks like it could really use some Thin Mint love.
S, in his effort to get my parental attention, decided to incorporate one of the things he loves most in the world, NASCAR, with one of the things I love most in the world, The Red Carpet. He started out in full pj's racing around our family room/kitchen/dining room loop chasing the dog. M and I were sitting in what would, in effect, be the infield of a NASCAR race, on the couch. The sound effects were superb. But the part that I really enjoyed was every three laps or so, he would be sporting something different about his clothing. No shirt, no pants, shirt but no pants. At some point, to add to the comedy, the dog stopped playing altogether. He crapped out on my feet but S kept going 'round and 'round. Then, magnificently, he changed direction. He came at us unexpectedly from whence he had just left, which we found hilarious. I had hoped he would be saying "mooz, mooz" since he was going backwards, but no. He was beginning to sweat. The dog hopped back in for a lap or two, and then figured the kid was on his own. S comes by with pants on his head. Then, no underwear, singing "NAKED BOY." Then, underwear again..."it's cold," he shouts as he zips by us. All told, this mayhem lasted for about 5 minutes.
Which is good, because as he was finishing, I was just about ready for a second gin and tonic.
The first gin and tonic may explain why I thought this was so freaking funny.
S, in his effort to get my parental attention, decided to incorporate one of the things he loves most in the world, NASCAR, with one of the things I love most in the world, The Red Carpet. He started out in full pj's racing around our family room/kitchen/dining room loop chasing the dog. M and I were sitting in what would, in effect, be the infield of a NASCAR race, on the couch. The sound effects were superb. But the part that I really enjoyed was every three laps or so, he would be sporting something different about his clothing. No shirt, no pants, shirt but no pants. At some point, to add to the comedy, the dog stopped playing altogether. He crapped out on my feet but S kept going 'round and 'round. Then, magnificently, he changed direction. He came at us unexpectedly from whence he had just left, which we found hilarious. I had hoped he would be saying "mooz, mooz" since he was going backwards, but no. He was beginning to sweat. The dog hopped back in for a lap or two, and then figured the kid was on his own. S comes by with pants on his head. Then, no underwear, singing "NAKED BOY." Then, underwear again..."it's cold," he shouts as he zips by us. All told, this mayhem lasted for about 5 minutes.
Which is good, because as he was finishing, I was just about ready for a second gin and tonic.
The first gin and tonic may explain why I thought this was so freaking funny.
Friday, January 9, 2009
The Green Scourge
OK. Fundraisers are KILLING me. I wrote about the babysitters' cookie dough (all 3 lbs of it) that was ingested before achieving its full potential as cookies. And she raised money to go to London. Now, there are Girl Scouts wanting to go on a cruise. First of all, why should Girl Scouts get to go on a cruise? What do tween girls get out of that experience? Sure, someone like me can really maximize the opportunity. I can work a buffet like nobody's business. I can have the margarita man wear the deck thin between me and the bar. I can nap in the sun like a cat. I can stay in a spa 'til I'm pruney. But girls? C'mon. A cruise is WASTED on them. Four days of wearing matchy-matchy tee shirts and giggling up and down stairways. Tromping down hallways and disturbing people's naps. Splashing in the pool and getting water in people's margaritas. Cutting in line at the buffet. All tee-hee and pst psst over some 20 something guy they're "secretly" following around the ship, but who isn't really great, because clearly he doesn't have a job and is mooching this trip off his retiree parents who are playing bridge somewhere on board. Bah. Girl Scouts have no business on a cruise.
Furthermore, they have no business funding their cruise with calories foisted on me. Asking me to allow the Thin Mint devil into my freezer and home. Cracking the door open to Somoas and Trefoils. Knowing full well their seductive powers over me. Knowing, and casually tossing aside my fragile commitment to lose ten pounds by April. Those damn tweens and their devil-may-care relationship with carbs. They walk to my door with the arrogance of youth and high metabolisms and innocently ask if I would be interested in ordering a box of cookies.
Interested? Honey I would smack you down where you stand for a box of thin mints. I would hijack your mom's cookie delivery Suburban. Girlie, you would not want to meet me in a dark alley with your green box-filled backpack. I can take you.
So, in the name of charity, Girl Scout cookies are en route to my house. Some one, please come take them from me. Tear them from my scraggly talons. Please. Exorcise the delicious calories from me. If you see a Girl Scout, nab her cookies. Mock her uniform. Tell her Scouts is a pale, watered down imitation of Boy Scouts and all the real things boys can do. Do anything to keep her from fulfilling her mission of fattening my ass.
The Girl Scouts must be stopped.
Furthermore, they have no business funding their cruise with calories foisted on me. Asking me to allow the Thin Mint devil into my freezer and home. Cracking the door open to Somoas and Trefoils. Knowing full well their seductive powers over me. Knowing, and casually tossing aside my fragile commitment to lose ten pounds by April. Those damn tweens and their devil-may-care relationship with carbs. They walk to my door with the arrogance of youth and high metabolisms and innocently ask if I would be interested in ordering a box of cookies.
Interested? Honey I would smack you down where you stand for a box of thin mints. I would hijack your mom's cookie delivery Suburban. Girlie, you would not want to meet me in a dark alley with your green box-filled backpack. I can take you.
So, in the name of charity, Girl Scout cookies are en route to my house. Some one, please come take them from me. Tear them from my scraggly talons. Please. Exorcise the delicious calories from me. If you see a Girl Scout, nab her cookies. Mock her uniform. Tell her Scouts is a pale, watered down imitation of Boy Scouts and all the real things boys can do. Do anything to keep her from fulfilling her mission of fattening my ass.
The Girl Scouts must be stopped.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
What will I do today?
Yesterday, as I was walking S into school, a fellow mom remarked, "S is so funny. You must spend every day with him laughing and having fun."
Really? You could have started conversation with the tried and true--"some weather..." "did you see the game last night?" "Has any one ever told you you have beautiful eyes?" I mean anything seemed more reasonable than spending all day laughing and having fun.
Not that S is a bad kid. I probably spend more time with him having fun than a lot of other moms spend with their kids. I DO, in fact, enjoy his company most of the time. I often find his strange comments amusing. His rubber face does have some comedic value. But spending every day in gleeful bliss with my child seems more like a commercial for Sandals All-inclusive Family Resorts than actual life.
How could a real-life mom with two real-life children actually think that her cohorts, however many there may be, spend their days in commercial-quality happiness? Was she feverish? Confused? Outright nuts?
Yah, life is a laugh-a-minute, all right. We have fun, sure. I laugh (most often AT my children rather than WITH them) but still. My kids do and say funny stuff. But, mostly there's a lot of business. Chores, bribing, whining, the occasionally temper tantrum. Also, what kind of Mrs. Cleaver mom does she think I am? Is she totally unobservant? I'm a freaking train wreck every day when I see her. Often still partly-pajama'd. Always running late. Harried. What possible evidence does she have that could make her think I am the kind of mom who can sit at home and laugh with my son? Hello?
I mean NOBODY who's married would come up to another married woman and say, "your life must be completely perfect. Your husband must be neat, tidy, talented in the kitchen, wealthy, charming, doting, have perfectly discreet bodily functions, and have the sexual prowess of Sting.*" I mean NOBODY is that deluded.
My kids are great. My husband's great. We're not the cover art for Functional Family Today or anything. But, we're good. We're happy. Things are nice.
But, if any one is wondering what I do all day every day, it is not constant slow-mo, sitcom laughter with S. Well, at least not most days.
*There seems to be a collective playgroup fantasy about MT's hubby. It's possible one of the playgroup moms HAS approached MT with this comment.
Really? You could have started conversation with the tried and true--"some weather..." "did you see the game last night?" "Has any one ever told you you have beautiful eyes?" I mean anything seemed more reasonable than spending all day laughing and having fun.
Not that S is a bad kid. I probably spend more time with him having fun than a lot of other moms spend with their kids. I DO, in fact, enjoy his company most of the time. I often find his strange comments amusing. His rubber face does have some comedic value. But spending every day in gleeful bliss with my child seems more like a commercial for Sandals All-inclusive Family Resorts than actual life.
How could a real-life mom with two real-life children actually think that her cohorts, however many there may be, spend their days in commercial-quality happiness? Was she feverish? Confused? Outright nuts?
Yah, life is a laugh-a-minute, all right. We have fun, sure. I laugh (most often AT my children rather than WITH them) but still. My kids do and say funny stuff. But, mostly there's a lot of business. Chores, bribing, whining, the occasionally temper tantrum. Also, what kind of Mrs. Cleaver mom does she think I am? Is she totally unobservant? I'm a freaking train wreck every day when I see her. Often still partly-pajama'd. Always running late. Harried. What possible evidence does she have that could make her think I am the kind of mom who can sit at home and laugh with my son? Hello?
I mean NOBODY who's married would come up to another married woman and say, "your life must be completely perfect. Your husband must be neat, tidy, talented in the kitchen, wealthy, charming, doting, have perfectly discreet bodily functions, and have the sexual prowess of Sting.*" I mean NOBODY is that deluded.
My kids are great. My husband's great. We're not the cover art for Functional Family Today or anything. But, we're good. We're happy. Things are nice.
But, if any one is wondering what I do all day every day, it is not constant slow-mo, sitcom laughter with S. Well, at least not most days.
*There seems to be a collective playgroup fantasy about MT's hubby. It's possible one of the playgroup moms HAS approached MT with this comment.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Hard to Contain
OK. It's January 7th, and thus far I have walked every day of the new year. I am 6 days into my New Year's Resolution. I just can't see how this is going to last for 358 more days. I am modifying my expectations. I have to walk every day and lose weight until April, the latter of the 2 weddings I have to go to this year. Then, all bets are off. While I have to say it'd be awesome to be one of those moms who is just rocking 40, I don't see that in my future. Don't get me wrong, I will not be headed down the road to MomJeansHell, I am just not going to be any thinner than I am now.
Alas.
A few weeks ago, on SNL was a Digital Short starring Andy Samberg and featuring Justin Timberlake, entitled Ji** in My Pants. Right now, I find that video just a hair shy of being the funniest thing I've ever seen (same cast, Di** in a Box wins). Un/Fortunately, the tune is catchy. I mean REALLY catchy. So much so, that I find myself humming the tune. Also, the video starts out predictably (given its title) with Samberg and a hot model. But rapidly transforms to a Samberg who is prematurely and unduly excited by such mundane things as an alarm clock and caller ID. But in a completely unforeseeable and extraordinarily inappropriate development, M and I have taken to adapting the tune to our own daily routine. Rather than "I open a window and a breeze blows in and I ji** in my pants," we find the "washer is done and the clothes are clean and I ji** in my pants." Or "dinner was good, and I crave dessert and I ji** in my pants."
Needless to say, we never sing at full volume, or we completely mute the offending word when young ears are around, but still. What is WRONG with us? Are we 19? Are we depraved? Are we sexually frustrated to the point of singing juvenile songs? I suppose the answers are: We wish. Yes. Probably. Heckuva past time, really. Making up scenarios in our daily routines which would be arousing to the point of premature uh, ecstasy?
My blog is posted, it's nearly 5, time for a cocktail and I ji** in my pants.
Yeah, that'll do.
Check out the video at hulu.com or nbc.com
Alas.
A few weeks ago, on SNL was a Digital Short starring Andy Samberg and featuring Justin Timberlake, entitled Ji** in My Pants. Right now, I find that video just a hair shy of being the funniest thing I've ever seen (same cast, Di** in a Box wins). Un/Fortunately, the tune is catchy. I mean REALLY catchy. So much so, that I find myself humming the tune. Also, the video starts out predictably (given its title) with Samberg and a hot model. But rapidly transforms to a Samberg who is prematurely and unduly excited by such mundane things as an alarm clock and caller ID. But in a completely unforeseeable and extraordinarily inappropriate development, M and I have taken to adapting the tune to our own daily routine. Rather than "I open a window and a breeze blows in and I ji** in my pants," we find the "washer is done and the clothes are clean and I ji** in my pants." Or "dinner was good, and I crave dessert and I ji** in my pants."
Needless to say, we never sing at full volume, or we completely mute the offending word when young ears are around, but still. What is WRONG with us? Are we 19? Are we depraved? Are we sexually frustrated to the point of singing juvenile songs? I suppose the answers are: We wish. Yes. Probably. Heckuva past time, really. Making up scenarios in our daily routines which would be arousing to the point of premature uh, ecstasy?
My blog is posted, it's nearly 5, time for a cocktail and I ji** in my pants.
Yeah, that'll do.
Check out the video at hulu.com or nbc.com
Monday, January 5, 2009
Finding One's Place
Up and at 'em. Today's the day! The kids are off to school! Hooray, hooray, hooray!
Unfortunately, they aren't going without a fight. E has decided he hates school. He tells everyone how much he hates it. I find this disappointing, both because I forecast years of fighting over school, and because it's something E is truly good at. If you don't love what you're good at, then your life is bound to be unhappy.
Naturally, then, this morning, we got a primer in passive-aggression. The dawdling, whining. The totally inability to get shoes on until MK drives up for carpool. He left behind his raincoat in the end, which is going to make both his mood and his body even damper. I know and remember vividly how hard the first day after break is. So I tried to be patient, but honestly, E can try my patience like no one else.
S hasn't yet even dressed. Denial seems to be his choice this morning. Little does he know that I have NO problem dropping him off at school in pj's. That's just the kind of mom I am.
So now that the boys are back to the daily grind, and M is about to go back to school, I am left wondering what I am going to do with myself. If I were like my sister, and incredibly self motivated, I could get myself to the gym nearly every day, eat like a bird and be skinny in no time. But, alas. MK is finishing her degree, MT is working, and I need to find my thing. Right now, though, I can't even finish a thought. I am not sure what I want my thing to be. It's a mini crisis, all right. Please direct your suggestions to the comments section.
Unfortunately, they aren't going without a fight. E has decided he hates school. He tells everyone how much he hates it. I find this disappointing, both because I forecast years of fighting over school, and because it's something E is truly good at. If you don't love what you're good at, then your life is bound to be unhappy.
Naturally, then, this morning, we got a primer in passive-aggression. The dawdling, whining. The totally inability to get shoes on until MK drives up for carpool. He left behind his raincoat in the end, which is going to make both his mood and his body even damper. I know and remember vividly how hard the first day after break is. So I tried to be patient, but honestly, E can try my patience like no one else.
S hasn't yet even dressed. Denial seems to be his choice this morning. Little does he know that I have NO problem dropping him off at school in pj's. That's just the kind of mom I am.
So now that the boys are back to the daily grind, and M is about to go back to school, I am left wondering what I am going to do with myself. If I were like my sister, and incredibly self motivated, I could get myself to the gym nearly every day, eat like a bird and be skinny in no time. But, alas. MK is finishing her degree, MT is working, and I need to find my thing. Right now, though, I can't even finish a thought. I am not sure what I want my thing to be. It's a mini crisis, all right. Please direct your suggestions to the comments section.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Asking For It
You know, sometimes your child comes to you with questions and you think the best answer would be succinct, true (of course) and raise as few OTHER questions as possible. Sometimes, of course, children come up with whoppers and you find yourself in a Southwest Airlines "Wanna get away?" ad. Sometimes, though, I find myself with the questions. And occasionally, my question is immediately visible in a labyrinth of other questions.
Yesterday, the boys had to do their weekly collection of laundry to bring down to the washer--a fairly basic chore for children their ages. While I was cleaning out the office, E shouts from upstairs:
"Sorry, Mom. I accidentally threw half of one of your shirts in the toilet."
"Mmm-hmm." I go back to work...processing....wait for it...the words are registering in the correct order now...a visual is forming....NOW
"You did WHAT?" Question #1
"Accidentally threw half of one of your shirts in the toilet."
Suddenly, as though the green flag were thrown, questions race around my head: Half? Threw? Flush? Accidentally? HUH? I could understand each individual word, but in that order, I found them baffling.
Sometimes, of course, as I teach my children every day, it is better just to keep one's mouth shut. Which I did. Those questions have answers I should probably live without.
Children manage feats incomprehensible to those of us who are over 4 feet tall. They can transform the most basic tasks into Criss Angel-inspired mysteries. I am stunned by the bizarreness, the intricacy, and the enormity of their messes and mishaps. I am grateful that we usually escape hospital-grade injuries, because no ER Dr. would ever believe my stories.
Of course after the kids managed to get the laundry down to the washing machine, E had a question of his own:
"Haven't you always wanted to live in a castle?"
Processing...out of nowhere...does he want something...unclear....trick question?
"There's a HUGE laundry castle for you in the laundry room. It's tall enough for you to live in!!"
Another answer that I could probably live without.
Yesterday, the boys had to do their weekly collection of laundry to bring down to the washer--a fairly basic chore for children their ages. While I was cleaning out the office, E shouts from upstairs:
"Sorry, Mom. I accidentally threw half of one of your shirts in the toilet."
"Mmm-hmm." I go back to work...processing....wait for it...the words are registering in the correct order now...a visual is forming....NOW
"You did WHAT?" Question #1
"Accidentally threw half of one of your shirts in the toilet."
Suddenly, as though the green flag were thrown, questions race around my head: Half? Threw? Flush? Accidentally? HUH? I could understand each individual word, but in that order, I found them baffling.
Sometimes, of course, as I teach my children every day, it is better just to keep one's mouth shut. Which I did. Those questions have answers I should probably live without.
Children manage feats incomprehensible to those of us who are over 4 feet tall. They can transform the most basic tasks into Criss Angel-inspired mysteries. I am stunned by the bizarreness, the intricacy, and the enormity of their messes and mishaps. I am grateful that we usually escape hospital-grade injuries, because no ER Dr. would ever believe my stories.
Of course after the kids managed to get the laundry down to the washing machine, E had a question of his own:
"Haven't you always wanted to live in a castle?"
Processing...out of nowhere...does he want something...unclear....trick question?
"There's a HUGE laundry castle for you in the laundry room. It's tall enough for you to live in!!"
Another answer that I could probably live without.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
How Bob Costas ruined sports
I think I might be able to come to terms with Northwestern's defeat in the Alamo Bowl now. Maybe. Not having won a bowl game in this century and barely in the last is getting to be grim. And everything started out so promising. At least we beat the spread. All those people who thought we would totally suck lost money.
And it's possible that I was in a bad mood because NU was losing, but the telecast brought to my attention one of the most annoying things about "big" sporting events. First off, the announcers had it in their head that Missouri was going to trample NU, so every time NU succeeded, the announcers sounded shocked and amazed. Also, the Missouri quarterback is graduating this year. Apparently, he was THE ONLY ONE ON THE FIELD. The camera crew was obsessed with Chase Daniel's family in the crowd. After every play, offensive or defensive, we had to see how the Daniel Family reacted. Did we get to see NU players' families? Not one. The broadcasters had decided that Chase Daniel was their Bob Costas Type Feel Good Story and so we had to fixate on that. Isn't defeat in overtime enough punishment? Why were we subject to the ongoing saga of one single player's family? Even if I weren't suffering in defeat; even if I were a graduating senior from University of Missouri, I would have been ticked. As it was, I was wishing massive flight delays for the Daniel Family's trip home. Grr.
Bob Costas began this movement of showing the "softer" side of sports. During the Olympics, he narrates these in-depth stories with the sappy music and the soft lens work. He tells us that during training, an Olympian in some obscure sport found out he had a third cousin twice removed who was training for the Uzbekistan team in the same sport, and how they felt an immediate kinship, and how tragically before they were able to reunite during the Opening Ceremonies, the new cousin fell into a hole, and is stuck there unable to compete because his village doesn't have any rope to pull him out. I HATE those stories. They range from sort of irrelevant to totally inane. Every single athlete has overcome adversity by the time they get to the Olympic level. I admire them, and respect their dedication. But having runty Costas with his dyed hair (toupee?) and bad plastic surgery go on and on about it in front of a fake fireplace makes me want to puke.
I know, I have no soul. What can I say? Those side-stories are the reason why Internet coverage of sporting events was invented. Reporters can delve into athlete's personal lives, and only those interested types can seek it out.
As it turns out, I may not be over the NU loss. I seem to be bitter.
In other news, I would like to apologize to my Father-In-Law who felt maligned by my DNA/Holiday post of a couple of weeks ago. I meant no disrespect, and in fact TRIED (unsuccessfully) to indicate that my husband was born into a relatively normal family. I am very sorry for hurting your feelings in any way.
I got on the scale this morning. The New Year is not off to a promising start.
And it's possible that I was in a bad mood because NU was losing, but the telecast brought to my attention one of the most annoying things about "big" sporting events. First off, the announcers had it in their head that Missouri was going to trample NU, so every time NU succeeded, the announcers sounded shocked and amazed. Also, the Missouri quarterback is graduating this year. Apparently, he was THE ONLY ONE ON THE FIELD. The camera crew was obsessed with Chase Daniel's family in the crowd. After every play, offensive or defensive, we had to see how the Daniel Family reacted. Did we get to see NU players' families? Not one. The broadcasters had decided that Chase Daniel was their Bob Costas Type Feel Good Story and so we had to fixate on that. Isn't defeat in overtime enough punishment? Why were we subject to the ongoing saga of one single player's family? Even if I weren't suffering in defeat; even if I were a graduating senior from University of Missouri, I would have been ticked. As it was, I was wishing massive flight delays for the Daniel Family's trip home. Grr.
Bob Costas began this movement of showing the "softer" side of sports. During the Olympics, he narrates these in-depth stories with the sappy music and the soft lens work. He tells us that during training, an Olympian in some obscure sport found out he had a third cousin twice removed who was training for the Uzbekistan team in the same sport, and how they felt an immediate kinship, and how tragically before they were able to reunite during the Opening Ceremonies, the new cousin fell into a hole, and is stuck there unable to compete because his village doesn't have any rope to pull him out. I HATE those stories. They range from sort of irrelevant to totally inane. Every single athlete has overcome adversity by the time they get to the Olympic level. I admire them, and respect their dedication. But having runty Costas with his dyed hair (toupee?) and bad plastic surgery go on and on about it in front of a fake fireplace makes me want to puke.
I know, I have no soul. What can I say? Those side-stories are the reason why Internet coverage of sporting events was invented. Reporters can delve into athlete's personal lives, and only those interested types can seek it out.
As it turns out, I may not be over the NU loss. I seem to be bitter.
In other news, I would like to apologize to my Father-In-Law who felt maligned by my DNA/Holiday post of a couple of weeks ago. I meant no disrespect, and in fact TRIED (unsuccessfully) to indicate that my husband was born into a relatively normal family. I am very sorry for hurting your feelings in any way.
I got on the scale this morning. The New Year is not off to a promising start.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)