According to an impromptu survey I conducted this morning outside of S's school, the most disgusting sound in the universe is the sound of husbands eating carrots/salad. While I can say that is annoying, I am going to ignore the survey, and write about the sound that irritates ME the most in the universe. Because, let's be honest, this is all about ME.
I propose that the most revolting sound in the universe is the sound of a dog licking itself. Perhaps it's disgusting because of what they are licking, or maybe it's just that overly wet sound of their tongues, or maybe some combination of the two, but it sends me up a wall. Blech. This sound is infinitely amplified when it is done in my bed, on my pillow, at 1:30 in the morning. What diurnal animal practices personal hygiene at that hour? Who needs to practice personal cleansing at that hour? My dog eats squirrel poop for an appetizer and then needs to be CLEAN at 1:30 in the morning? I don't think so. Squirrel poop nullifies any right that dog has to cleanliness of any sort.
To be fair to the dog, though, his moist licking might not have been so irritating or so revolting had I not already been awake. I was so exhausted last night that I might have actually slept through it. But, naturally, I was awake. Again. For the 1890th consecutive day of my life. Last night's parade was S rather than E. S was in his bed moaning at 1 AM. I heard him through the dimness of deep sleep and went to his room to investigate. He was wide awake: not groggy, not disoriented, not potentially sleep walking or talking. AWAKE. Like it's the middle of the freaking day. He informs me that there is something spooky in his room. As if the vague "spooky" wasn't enough for me, he then offers me a comprehensive, thesaurus-quality list of other words to describe his room: eerie, creepy, shivery, scary, haunted, horrifying.
I do the traditional mom consolation, snuggle for a few minutes and return to my bed.
As I lay down on what I think is my blankie (see yesterday's post), I realize it's Clooney. We are currently trying to train Clooney not to sleep at the head of the bed, but rather at the foot or somewhere in between. He's just too hot and restless to have on my pillow, wrapped around my head like a little hair turban. So, he crept up while I was out. I pick him up, move him down to my knees, and settle back into bed.
Five minutes later, S is moaning again. I decide to ignore, but moaning escalates to the dread, "mah-mie, mah-mie" lilting call. It's worse than being paged at the airport. I go back to his room, offer consolation, pat him in the bed, pull up the covers, and assure him there is nothing spooky or nearly spooky in his bedroom. In fact, I turn on the light to the lowest level and agree to leave it on so that all the bogies will hate the light and run away. I crawl back in to bed. Clooney is on my pillow. Licking himself. Thoroughly.
I move him down to my knees and try to snuggle in. But the licking continues. I reach down and flip him over. The licking resumes. I reach down and push him. Licking pauses, resumes. I try to dislodge him with my foot. The licking stops while he regains his balance, and then continues. For EVER. Finally, after what may have been 3 minutes or an hour, it stops. I am so irritated that I am having trouble going back to sleep, but am drifting...drifting....
Thumpthumpthumpthumpthump
The scratching starts.
By the way, I remembered the word diurnal while I was lying in bed thinking of this morning's post. My brain can actually work at that hour. Freaky.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Too Old to Knit Your Own
Tonight, I got Dressed Up for a shindig at M's work. It was probably a lot more fun for me than for him and his colleagues, because I was there to socialize with people I hardly ever see, and they were all there having dinner with the same crowd and talking shop.
At our table was one of M's colleagues who is a really thoughtful parent. She seems to have this overarching philosophy to her parenting style. To me, this is remarkable in two ways: she has cultivated and managed to adhere to a parenting persona--a philosophy which saturates the way she deals with her children all the time and, also despite being a working mother she has a pervasive calm that clearly reveals she's not just in "survival mode" with her kids--a trait I respect tremendously.
So, at dinner, we were having the standard small talk about children, and she revealed this very sweet anecdote. She explained that both she and her husband remember the trauma associated with the (inevitable) wearing out of their security lovies of infancy. He, apparently, lost his pacifier in a sibling tug of war and she wore her lovie out. Now, as so many parents are, she is determined to spare her beautiful girls this painful milestone. She has been tenderly mending her daughter's lovie so that she will be able to outgrow it on her own terms rather than at the whim of the washer/dryer.
The earnestness of this mom and her effort to avoid recreating this childhood drama struck me as so beautiful and intimate. It was a nostalgic moment to a time when articles were mended rather than tossed. But also, it was a stand against the recapitulation of childhood rites. Of defying convention and preserving the idyll of youth for a moment longer. And I thought that this effort, so clearly articulated and so gently rendered testified to this mom's philosophy, to a coherent plan to raise children.
And then, naturally, my thoughts wandered to the completely non-coherent "plan" of raising my children. Of winging it, day by day. Of the mercurial inconsistencies with which we deal with our own kids. And how, in some zany way, this reflects the way I was raised.
Now, let me say this before my mother calls me and chastises me for publicly criticizing her parenting plan: I clearly admire colleague's thoughtful plan. I think it's a great gift to her daughters and will yield positive results. Our "plan" and the one with which I was raised are merely different. I refuse to pass judgement on any one.
My kids also have their security blankets (in their cases, they both have blankies). My mother bought each of them several in the event of loss or damage. While this certainly lacks the olde tyme nostalgia of repairing a lovie, it is certainly more practical. I see no end to the lovies. Both boys still seek them out before bedtime, and are insistent that we travel with them. I have no plans to ween them from their lovies or in any way interfere.
That being said, I should probably reveal this teensy detail: I still sleep with my lovie. Sort of. My lovie from infancy went with me to college, through marriage, and through my first son. After 30-ish years, it began to wear thin, and I was concerned about irreversible damage to it. So, last winter, I knitted a new one. It's a similar size, though different in color and texture, but it serves its job just fine. My sister, for the record, also sleeps with her lovie. When she and her fiance were married, my parents gave HIM a lovie just like hers because lovies are (truth be told) nice to sleep with.
But this leaves us with the fact that in our thirties, my sister and I still have attachments to our security blankets. Normal? Certainly not. Going to change? Hell, no. My blankie still serves the same purpose it did 30 years ago: it is comforting. Its smell, its coolness, its softness, all are familiar and positive. I sleep better with it than I do without it.
Is this a failure? A failure to move away from parents? A failure to soothe my fears and anxieties as an adult? Is it a failure of my parents to remove it from me at the "appropriate" developmental moment? By sparing me the trauma of taking it from me, did they instead condemn me to its necessity? Should I recreate that parenting decision or should I tell my children at the "right" time that they are too old for it? That their lovie is beyond repair? That all of the tears and frustration and love and security that they have poured into and extracted from that simple soft fabric are gone? Deposited in the landfill or some mothballed box in the attic?
In what I consider an era of stunted adolescence (adult infatuations with video games, "retro" cartoons and fashions, and a pervasive nostalgia for simpler times) I can see the argument for removing the lovies. For taking the safe haven of home to introduce a child to maturation and independence. I can see that indulging children can be construed as the first step in a lifelong obligation of indulging and supporting adult children.
But at the same time, this is an era of premature maturity. A time when adolescents are challenged by emotional and physical choices and opportunities not previously seen until college or perhaps ever. Can extending the comfort and bliss of childhood a little longer possibly be a bad thing? Can a sleeping child cuddled into his blankie be stunted? Couldn't even Freud argue that sometimes a lovie is just a lovie?
But, then again. When my sister and I are together at my parents' house and we head off to bed in our jammies with our blankies, my dad the "child expert" sighs and says, "How could I have raised children who never outgrew their transitional objects?"
How could he, indeed.
At our table was one of M's colleagues who is a really thoughtful parent. She seems to have this overarching philosophy to her parenting style. To me, this is remarkable in two ways: she has cultivated and managed to adhere to a parenting persona--a philosophy which saturates the way she deals with her children all the time and, also despite being a working mother she has a pervasive calm that clearly reveals she's not just in "survival mode" with her kids--a trait I respect tremendously.
So, at dinner, we were having the standard small talk about children, and she revealed this very sweet anecdote. She explained that both she and her husband remember the trauma associated with the (inevitable) wearing out of their security lovies of infancy. He, apparently, lost his pacifier in a sibling tug of war and she wore her lovie out. Now, as so many parents are, she is determined to spare her beautiful girls this painful milestone. She has been tenderly mending her daughter's lovie so that she will be able to outgrow it on her own terms rather than at the whim of the washer/dryer.
The earnestness of this mom and her effort to avoid recreating this childhood drama struck me as so beautiful and intimate. It was a nostalgic moment to a time when articles were mended rather than tossed. But also, it was a stand against the recapitulation of childhood rites. Of defying convention and preserving the idyll of youth for a moment longer. And I thought that this effort, so clearly articulated and so gently rendered testified to this mom's philosophy, to a coherent plan to raise children.
And then, naturally, my thoughts wandered to the completely non-coherent "plan" of raising my children. Of winging it, day by day. Of the mercurial inconsistencies with which we deal with our own kids. And how, in some zany way, this reflects the way I was raised.
Now, let me say this before my mother calls me and chastises me for publicly criticizing her parenting plan: I clearly admire colleague's thoughtful plan. I think it's a great gift to her daughters and will yield positive results. Our "plan" and the one with which I was raised are merely different. I refuse to pass judgement on any one.
My kids also have their security blankets (in their cases, they both have blankies). My mother bought each of them several in the event of loss or damage. While this certainly lacks the olde tyme nostalgia of repairing a lovie, it is certainly more practical. I see no end to the lovies. Both boys still seek them out before bedtime, and are insistent that we travel with them. I have no plans to ween them from their lovies or in any way interfere.
That being said, I should probably reveal this teensy detail: I still sleep with my lovie. Sort of. My lovie from infancy went with me to college, through marriage, and through my first son. After 30-ish years, it began to wear thin, and I was concerned about irreversible damage to it. So, last winter, I knitted a new one. It's a similar size, though different in color and texture, but it serves its job just fine. My sister, for the record, also sleeps with her lovie. When she and her fiance were married, my parents gave HIM a lovie just like hers because lovies are (truth be told) nice to sleep with.
But this leaves us with the fact that in our thirties, my sister and I still have attachments to our security blankets. Normal? Certainly not. Going to change? Hell, no. My blankie still serves the same purpose it did 30 years ago: it is comforting. Its smell, its coolness, its softness, all are familiar and positive. I sleep better with it than I do without it.
Is this a failure? A failure to move away from parents? A failure to soothe my fears and anxieties as an adult? Is it a failure of my parents to remove it from me at the "appropriate" developmental moment? By sparing me the trauma of taking it from me, did they instead condemn me to its necessity? Should I recreate that parenting decision or should I tell my children at the "right" time that they are too old for it? That their lovie is beyond repair? That all of the tears and frustration and love and security that they have poured into and extracted from that simple soft fabric are gone? Deposited in the landfill or some mothballed box in the attic?
In what I consider an era of stunted adolescence (adult infatuations with video games, "retro" cartoons and fashions, and a pervasive nostalgia for simpler times) I can see the argument for removing the lovies. For taking the safe haven of home to introduce a child to maturation and independence. I can see that indulging children can be construed as the first step in a lifelong obligation of indulging and supporting adult children.
But at the same time, this is an era of premature maturity. A time when adolescents are challenged by emotional and physical choices and opportunities not previously seen until college or perhaps ever. Can extending the comfort and bliss of childhood a little longer possibly be a bad thing? Can a sleeping child cuddled into his blankie be stunted? Couldn't even Freud argue that sometimes a lovie is just a lovie?
But, then again. When my sister and I are together at my parents' house and we head off to bed in our jammies with our blankies, my dad the "child expert" sighs and says, "How could I have raised children who never outgrew their transitional objects?"
How could he, indeed.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Pantry Diving
My kids are a little bit like hobbits and Winnie the Pooh when it comes to eating...breakfast, tensies, lunch, onesies, late snack, dinner...a little smackerel of food here, a little smackerel there.
It is 8:15 and S is on breakfast #3. I feel obligated to feed him in the mornings, because he never eats very well, and breakfast(s) is/are the most important meal(s) of the day. Today, he had an apple toaster pastry, which he ate, but to which he gave lukewarm reviews; oatmeal, because that's what his brother had; Cheerios, because after cleaning up two breakfasts, that's all I was offering.
Theoretically, the way the kids eat is healthy: small meals throughout the day prevent you from loading up on one fattening meal (this is how I eat, by the way). However, how can children survive on pure carbohydrates? That's all mine ever eat! Fruit, sure. Crackers, chips, foods of an unnatural color, fruit-ish snacks, granola bars, bagels, cereal. My kids have never met a refined carb/sugar they didn't like. Protein is another story altogether. Meat? Nope. Chicken? EWWWWWWWWW. Yogurt? Not unless it's florescent pink and comes with a cartoon character on it. (i.e., carbohydrate) Fish? If it's deep fried.
Every food not happily disguised with dressing, breading, ketchup, food coloring or chocolate is a struggle. Apparently, S eats better at school when he is presented with limited options, but small consolation this is to me. MK said she broke her son of the juice habit over summer by only offering water. This is my current plan. More water, less sugar, and no smackerels.
I assume this will last about two days or until I have to check the children into the hospital for dehydration.
S has finished breakfast #3, and is off to school, where he will happily receive his tensies. I, on the other hand, have been washing clothes, linens, dishes, and picking up the remnants of weekend revelry and have not yet had breakfast #1.
Unless cup #5 of coffee counts.
It is 8:15 and S is on breakfast #3. I feel obligated to feed him in the mornings, because he never eats very well, and breakfast(s) is/are the most important meal(s) of the day. Today, he had an apple toaster pastry, which he ate, but to which he gave lukewarm reviews; oatmeal, because that's what his brother had; Cheerios, because after cleaning up two breakfasts, that's all I was offering.
Theoretically, the way the kids eat is healthy: small meals throughout the day prevent you from loading up on one fattening meal (this is how I eat, by the way). However, how can children survive on pure carbohydrates? That's all mine ever eat! Fruit, sure. Crackers, chips, foods of an unnatural color, fruit-ish snacks, granola bars, bagels, cereal. My kids have never met a refined carb/sugar they didn't like. Protein is another story altogether. Meat? Nope. Chicken? EWWWWWWWWW. Yogurt? Not unless it's florescent pink and comes with a cartoon character on it. (i.e., carbohydrate) Fish? If it's deep fried.
Every food not happily disguised with dressing, breading, ketchup, food coloring or chocolate is a struggle. Apparently, S eats better at school when he is presented with limited options, but small consolation this is to me. MK said she broke her son of the juice habit over summer by only offering water. This is my current plan. More water, less sugar, and no smackerels.
I assume this will last about two days or until I have to check the children into the hospital for dehydration.
S has finished breakfast #3, and is off to school, where he will happily receive his tensies. I, on the other hand, have been washing clothes, linens, dishes, and picking up the remnants of weekend revelry and have not yet had breakfast #1.
Unless cup #5 of coffee counts.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Goodbye, Dorothy Zbornak
You of the toupe'd ex, the completely Jewish child of a Sicilian midget...you of the punchline and wry one liner...you of the sensible shoes and flowing housepants...of the ridiculously sensible, tall, and funny.
You are the result of my Facebook quiz, "Which Golden Girl are you?"
When I was 10, you were my favorite.
So long, Dorothy. May heaven be nothing like St. Olaf...
You are the result of my Facebook quiz, "Which Golden Girl are you?"
When I was 10, you were my favorite.
So long, Dorothy. May heaven be nothing like St. Olaf...
Friday, April 24, 2009
Blood suckers and kids
Sorry about yesterday, folks. I had a Bob the Builder Day...the kind of day where my mantra is Can she do it? Yes, she can! Sorta.
In the morning, I had to carpool, clean, laundry, make a hot entree for 10 people (more on this later), get groceries, deliver a FedEx that came to the house to M at work. But, then my afternoon redeemed everything: I sat by the pool and supervised the kids in the backyard. Which was overwhelmingly good. Except for the mosquitoes. Poor S was eaten alive by the things. I don't really know what to do about it. I don't like to spray the yard, because 1. the spray kills every bug--good or bad, not to mention frogs and lizards. 2. It builds up in the yard and could be washed into the pool, and of course, the streams and lakes and Gulf 3. The mosquitoes will just move to my neighbors' yards.
But, on the other hand, those suckers (hehe. Pun) are just driving my baby nuts! Plus, they transmit icky disease. Any one have any ideas short of nuking the joint?
OK. the entree for 10. Once a term, the teachers at E's school get "homemade" lunches from various moms. They get to eat at nicely set tables and visit with one another. Volunteer parents "kid sit" the classrooms while the teachers eat. It's really very nice. Only, yesterday as I was making a huge pan of food, I was feeling a little bitter. I'm over it.
And, finally, in the category of "concrete thinkers." This morning, M and I were discussing parental things regarding movie night and weekend plans. As he was walking out, he says, "when we get it worked out, we can tell Ethan." So, of course Ethan wants to know what we can tell him. M responds with, "You are on a need to know basis. Do you need to know?"
"I know how to run the bases without the coach telling me."
(Insert bah-dum-bum drum here.)
In the morning, I had to carpool, clean, laundry, make a hot entree for 10 people (more on this later), get groceries, deliver a FedEx that came to the house to M at work. But, then my afternoon redeemed everything: I sat by the pool and supervised the kids in the backyard. Which was overwhelmingly good. Except for the mosquitoes. Poor S was eaten alive by the things. I don't really know what to do about it. I don't like to spray the yard, because 1. the spray kills every bug--good or bad, not to mention frogs and lizards. 2. It builds up in the yard and could be washed into the pool, and of course, the streams and lakes and Gulf 3. The mosquitoes will just move to my neighbors' yards.
But, on the other hand, those suckers (hehe. Pun) are just driving my baby nuts! Plus, they transmit icky disease. Any one have any ideas short of nuking the joint?
OK. the entree for 10. Once a term, the teachers at E's school get "homemade" lunches from various moms. They get to eat at nicely set tables and visit with one another. Volunteer parents "kid sit" the classrooms while the teachers eat. It's really very nice. Only, yesterday as I was making a huge pan of food, I was feeling a little bitter. I'm over it.
And, finally, in the category of "concrete thinkers." This morning, M and I were discussing parental things regarding movie night and weekend plans. As he was walking out, he says, "when we get it worked out, we can tell Ethan." So, of course Ethan wants to know what we can tell him. M responds with, "You are on a need to know basis. Do you need to know?"
"I know how to run the bases without the coach telling me."
(Insert bah-dum-bum drum here.)
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
A Thousand Words
It is picture day. Why do the companies even bother? E invariably comes home with a proof that is un-purchaseable. He usually has a Heath Ledger as the Joker smile--looking crazed, and just slightly bemused. "Casual" is not a word in E's photography lexicon. Which is unfortunate, as E is one of the most photogenic kids ever.
S, on the other hand, after I go 10 rounds over what to wear, invariably looks sweet in his pictures. He projects this casual sweetness that makes you want to scoop him up. Which is funny, because S is one of the least photogenic kids ever.
So, yes another dichotomy in the list of things that make my children polar opposites. And the clothes! What a fight with the clothes. I am tempted to let them wear whatever they want to wear so that when they look back as adults, they can say, "what am I wearing?" And I can reply with "hobo chic." God forbid we wear collars on picture day. Or solids. Or not plaids with stripes. Or something without a hole. (but it's my favorite!) I am tempted to allow it. Then, later, take them to a studio for pictures befitting grandma. Wouldn't it be great to look back at your school pictures and realize YOU were the one who dressed you like a total dork, not your mother?
I have this plan to pull out childhood photos for my grown child's fiancee and say, "see? He thought his teddy bear tee shirt (backwards) really went well with these purple too-short sweatpants (backwards) and awesomely with these blue dinosaur sandals?"
E went through an extended pirate phase when he was about three. He went to school in his red boots (often only one--it was his peg leg), his three-pointed pirate hat, his sweatshirt (backwards), two or three t-shirts (he often couldn't decide, so he'd wear them all), sweatpants (always too short) and occasionally, an eye patch. You have to love Montessori schools, where they "fostered" that kind of "free thinking" and let him wear it, too!
My school pictures are historically awful. There were the Dorothy Hamill haircut years. There was the year I had no front teeth and Mom put a bow tie on me, there were the braces and acne years. Even my senior year in high school picture, which was put in the Northwestern Facebook was not so great. When M and I started dating, he didn't want to show that photo to his friends. Something about big cheeks, big hair, giant pumpkin head.
So, I am sensitive to the kids' school photo issues. I certainly have my own. When we get the proofs back, we'll see. Psycho Joker or sweet little boy? You never know...
S, on the other hand, after I go 10 rounds over what to wear, invariably looks sweet in his pictures. He projects this casual sweetness that makes you want to scoop him up. Which is funny, because S is one of the least photogenic kids ever.
So, yes another dichotomy in the list of things that make my children polar opposites. And the clothes! What a fight with the clothes. I am tempted to let them wear whatever they want to wear so that when they look back as adults, they can say, "what am I wearing?" And I can reply with "hobo chic." God forbid we wear collars on picture day. Or solids. Or not plaids with stripes. Or something without a hole. (but it's my favorite!) I am tempted to allow it. Then, later, take them to a studio for pictures befitting grandma. Wouldn't it be great to look back at your school pictures and realize YOU were the one who dressed you like a total dork, not your mother?
I have this plan to pull out childhood photos for my grown child's fiancee and say, "see? He thought his teddy bear tee shirt (backwards) really went well with these purple too-short sweatpants (backwards) and awesomely with these blue dinosaur sandals?"
E went through an extended pirate phase when he was about three. He went to school in his red boots (often only one--it was his peg leg), his three-pointed pirate hat, his sweatshirt (backwards), two or three t-shirts (he often couldn't decide, so he'd wear them all), sweatpants (always too short) and occasionally, an eye patch. You have to love Montessori schools, where they "fostered" that kind of "free thinking" and let him wear it, too!
My school pictures are historically awful. There were the Dorothy Hamill haircut years. There was the year I had no front teeth and Mom put a bow tie on me, there were the braces and acne years. Even my senior year in high school picture, which was put in the Northwestern Facebook was not so great. When M and I started dating, he didn't want to show that photo to his friends. Something about big cheeks, big hair, giant pumpkin head.
So, I am sensitive to the kids' school photo issues. I certainly have my own. When we get the proofs back, we'll see. Psycho Joker or sweet little boy? You never know...
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Duh? Huh?
I actually feel drugged this morning. I am slow, and dopey, and disoriented. While I hate the feeling, I am optimistic that some one is trying to slowly poison me to death.
I generally try to say away from potty humor, because I realize not everyone shares my German amusement with the scatological. But, last night after dinner, we took a family walk around the cul-de-sac to facilitate digestion. Along the way, I hear significant tooting, but refrain from commenting so as not to potentially embarrass M. As M is talking, he tries to urge the culprit to apologize by prompting, "excuse me, by the way," to which E says, "no dad, it was me."
This, in a nutshell, is children. Their entire knowledge of the world is based on a single false assumption: that parents are morons.
Did E not get that? Did E think that M was apologizing for a toot he did not commit? Did E think that M would toot and NOT notice? Do our children consider it a small miracle that we don't walk into walls and drown in sinks on a regular basis?
I think E's superiority phase is one of the most annoying phases we've come across with the kids. He constantly correct us, tells us the "facts" and feeds his brother misinformation. He is high on his soap box, and oozing self righteousness.
So, right now I have been thinking of many phases we've outlasted. Certainly this superiority thing is irritating. More irritating than the clingy phase? The calling me by my first name phase? The ignoring me completely in favor of dad (and vice versa) phase. Is it harder than S's I'm never going to sleep again phase? (Oh, wait, we're still in that phase. Not so much a phase, but a mission statement.) Worse than the independent dressing phase (hobo chic, I call it)? Worse than the "I can't do it" or the "Let me do it" phases? I just don't know.
Don't you feel that as soon as you have figured your kids out, they've moved on to something else? And underlying it all is this fallacy that THEY know more than YOU about everything. I think sometimes it's all a big joke. That kids know the power they wield over parents and amuse themselves and each other by torturing us. Do they have secret meetings to discuss their plans and successes? Little midget doors they sneak through, with a secret little handshake, little chocolate milk bartenders in their little speakeasies? At least the thought of that amuses me...because being chronically stupid in my child's eyes is wearing thin.
I generally try to say away from potty humor, because I realize not everyone shares my German amusement with the scatological. But, last night after dinner, we took a family walk around the cul-de-sac to facilitate digestion. Along the way, I hear significant tooting, but refrain from commenting so as not to potentially embarrass M. As M is talking, he tries to urge the culprit to apologize by prompting, "excuse me, by the way," to which E says, "no dad, it was me."
This, in a nutshell, is children. Their entire knowledge of the world is based on a single false assumption: that parents are morons.
Did E not get that? Did E think that M was apologizing for a toot he did not commit? Did E think that M would toot and NOT notice? Do our children consider it a small miracle that we don't walk into walls and drown in sinks on a regular basis?
I think E's superiority phase is one of the most annoying phases we've come across with the kids. He constantly correct us, tells us the "facts" and feeds his brother misinformation. He is high on his soap box, and oozing self righteousness.
So, right now I have been thinking of many phases we've outlasted. Certainly this superiority thing is irritating. More irritating than the clingy phase? The calling me by my first name phase? The ignoring me completely in favor of dad (and vice versa) phase. Is it harder than S's I'm never going to sleep again phase? (Oh, wait, we're still in that phase. Not so much a phase, but a mission statement.) Worse than the independent dressing phase (hobo chic, I call it)? Worse than the "I can't do it" or the "Let me do it" phases? I just don't know.
Don't you feel that as soon as you have figured your kids out, they've moved on to something else? And underlying it all is this fallacy that THEY know more than YOU about everything. I think sometimes it's all a big joke. That kids know the power they wield over parents and amuse themselves and each other by torturing us. Do they have secret meetings to discuss their plans and successes? Little midget doors they sneak through, with a secret little handshake, little chocolate milk bartenders in their little speakeasies? At least the thought of that amuses me...because being chronically stupid in my child's eyes is wearing thin.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Global warming and other impending crises
Not to be melodramatic about this, but "Free at last, free at last! Thank God Almighty, I'm free at last!"
Never before have I felt so utterly gleeful at my children's return to school. Never has such a tremendous weight been lifted from my shoulders. Never before have I felt like doing a dance upon my liberation.
And yet.
There is this dark and sinking dread looming over my day. It is as ominous as the shadow of the spaceship in some war of the worlds-type film. It is black and unforgiving.
This is not the kind of nightmare where everything is surreal and bizarre and you are floating through the universe when suddenly hijacked my an alien ship piloted by Glurg, king of the toilet paper people. This is the REAL DEAL, people. I have had a vision of the end.
I am shocked because even my friends who "love" their children and "enjoy spending time with them" are echoing my fears. They say that these school aged years are so different from when they were preschoolers. They say the children are harder (is that possible) to entertain than before. They say that school age children are more difficult to manage without the structure of school. They say this year will be worse than the last.
This is like the global warming of child rearing. You know it's there. You just want to drive your Hummer around and pretend it's not. You know it's going to end badly, and yet, you think, I do love my aerosol cans. Summer is the apocalyptic end that Al Gore has been predicting for us, while we have been cheerily listening to the naysayers. People, we are DOOMED.
So, I can only say I have taken two preliminary steps towards coping with the impending catastrophe. 1. Drinking regularly. This dulls the pain and fuels the denial. 2. Laughter. A good psychotic, maniacal laugh can really scare your kids. However, I have to urge you not to combine the two. Last night, M was teasing E about his manners, and I laughed unexpectedly, blowing a vodka martini out my nose.
You know, that really burns.
Never before have I felt so utterly gleeful at my children's return to school. Never has such a tremendous weight been lifted from my shoulders. Never before have I felt like doing a dance upon my liberation.
And yet.
There is this dark and sinking dread looming over my day. It is as ominous as the shadow of the spaceship in some war of the worlds-type film. It is black and unforgiving.
It is summer.
What the hell am I going to do with these kids for ten weeks? How is this possibly going to work without bodily injury to myself or others? I have this recurring nightmare, and it involves being duct-taped to the refrigerator while my children do a racist little Indian chant around me. M will come home to find me there, being prepared for the spit with a whole apple in my mouth like a luau pig. And, worst of all, I have this nightmare while I AM AWAKE.This is not the kind of nightmare where everything is surreal and bizarre and you are floating through the universe when suddenly hijacked my an alien ship piloted by Glurg, king of the toilet paper people. This is the REAL DEAL, people. I have had a vision of the end.
I am shocked because even my friends who "love" their children and "enjoy spending time with them" are echoing my fears. They say that these school aged years are so different from when they were preschoolers. They say the children are harder (is that possible) to entertain than before. They say that school age children are more difficult to manage without the structure of school. They say this year will be worse than the last.
This is like the global warming of child rearing. You know it's there. You just want to drive your Hummer around and pretend it's not. You know it's going to end badly, and yet, you think, I do love my aerosol cans. Summer is the apocalyptic end that Al Gore has been predicting for us, while we have been cheerily listening to the naysayers. People, we are DOOMED.
So, I can only say I have taken two preliminary steps towards coping with the impending catastrophe. 1. Drinking regularly. This dulls the pain and fuels the denial. 2. Laughter. A good psychotic, maniacal laugh can really scare your kids. However, I have to urge you not to combine the two. Last night, M was teasing E about his manners, and I laughed unexpectedly, blowing a vodka martini out my nose.
You know, that really burns.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Summer on the Horizon
So, I'm looking at the calendar, and I don't want to alarm any one, but summer is four, count 'em four weeks away. My blood pressure is rising. I can feel it. M and I already started plans for a week at the beach, and then back to CA for ten days or so, but there are a lot of empty days on that calendar! Do you think S is too young for 10 weeks or so of sleepaway camp? I'm just saying, living independently could give him some confidence, help get him ready for moving away to college.
Yesterday, we watched the1970s original Escape to Witch Mountain with the boys. First off, movie expectations were so much lower then. The special effects were, without exaggeration, not as sophisticated as the local weatherman's animated map. The performances from the kid actors were earnest, but simplistic, in that Leave it to Beaver kind of way. I thought, that despite the camp factor, it was a cute little movie. The bad guys were comically bungling, and not particularly menacing, the "escape" was more like an exciting car ride, when the kids used their telekinesis, we could see the string used to create the effect.
And yet.
S found the movie boring, which I get. I think telepathic aliens might be a bit of a comprehension stretch for a four year old. And E was up all night with nightmares...Huh? He came in my room three times last night, saying he had "Witch Mountain" nightmares. Of poorly animated flying Winnebagos? Huh? You never know what's going to strike your kids strangely.
Today threatens rain, and at 8 AM, the kids have already been back from Waffle House for an hour. I am hoping for another movie today, laundry, relaxation, and an early school-night bedtime.
And, in a small triumph--I found chaise lounges for the pool yesterday!
Let me say, Woo-Hoo!
Yesterday, we watched the1970s original Escape to Witch Mountain with the boys. First off, movie expectations were so much lower then. The special effects were, without exaggeration, not as sophisticated as the local weatherman's animated map. The performances from the kid actors were earnest, but simplistic, in that Leave it to Beaver kind of way. I thought, that despite the camp factor, it was a cute little movie. The bad guys were comically bungling, and not particularly menacing, the "escape" was more like an exciting car ride, when the kids used their telekinesis, we could see the string used to create the effect.
And yet.
S found the movie boring, which I get. I think telepathic aliens might be a bit of a comprehension stretch for a four year old. And E was up all night with nightmares...Huh? He came in my room three times last night, saying he had "Witch Mountain" nightmares. Of poorly animated flying Winnebagos? Huh? You never know what's going to strike your kids strangely.
Today threatens rain, and at 8 AM, the kids have already been back from Waffle House for an hour. I am hoping for another movie today, laundry, relaxation, and an early school-night bedtime.
And, in a small triumph--I found chaise lounges for the pool yesterday!
Let me say, Woo-Hoo!
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Home AGAIN
We boogied out of town for an overnighter in New Orleans. M had a short meeting, and then we took the kids to the zoo. When asking S what his favorite animal was, he said the white tigers. When we asked him what his least favorite animal was, he said, "all the rest." E said he was "not an animal guy" and so the zoo was only "OK."
Whaaa? Since when do kids have such discerning pastimes? Since when do kids not LOVE zoos?
Had yummy dinner at Emeril's NOLA, and the kids were civilized. The waiter told us our kids were well behaved, which is a refreshing change.
But now we're home and this time I MEAN it. We are not going anywhere for a long while. I don't want to pack, unpack or do a mound of laundry. I don't want strange beds or children sleeping with us. I want home and school, and all the regular things that go into a day. And I want this Spring Break to be OVER NOW.
Today, we have TBall at 9. After that, the kids are on their own. They can do anything short of playing in the pool or traffic, but I'm checking out for the day. Is that completely irresponsible?
Whaaa? Since when do kids have such discerning pastimes? Since when do kids not LOVE zoos?
Had yummy dinner at Emeril's NOLA, and the kids were civilized. The waiter told us our kids were well behaved, which is a refreshing change.
But now we're home and this time I MEAN it. We are not going anywhere for a long while. I don't want to pack, unpack or do a mound of laundry. I don't want strange beds or children sleeping with us. I want home and school, and all the regular things that go into a day. And I want this Spring Break to be OVER NOW.
Today, we have TBall at 9. After that, the kids are on their own. They can do anything short of playing in the pool or traffic, but I'm checking out for the day. Is that completely irresponsible?
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Time Wounds All Heels
You know how "they" say that your brain blocks the painful memory of childbirth? That without that self-protectiveness, women would remember the trauma, and fear having more children...(that theory doesn't work for c-section by the way. I remember every agonizing second, thank you)
Well, our embargo against our children lasted an all-time short six days. We had put up a travel hiatus, saying that NEVER again would we travel with our children. After their performance in Montreal, we would not take a family trip this summer, this year, or possibly until the kids were 18.
So, we're going to New Orleans tomorrow. M has to go for a short presentation for work tomorrow, and I thought since I would be talked to death, I thought I might as well be talked to death WITH M in the car. We're going to take them to the zoo, and then Friday, we'll get some beignets and head home. I think two hours each way is a little too long to do alone in one day, anyway for M. What a pain. And Priceline.com had a deal. And...and...and. I am always making excuses for reneging on our declarations. Wimp.
Today, we're off to the museum and to lunch. Which sounds civilized, except that it's the Exploreum and we'll probably eat at McD's. Not quite the same thing.
M spent yesterday in bed with labyrinthitis. All time worst non-flu disease. Practicing on my family practice license (my dad has a license, ya know), I was able to diagnose and treat M's ailment. However, he wanted to go see a "REAL" doctor, who confirmed my initial suspicions. (Phew. What if he had otic twenty-four hour cancer or something and I had missed it?) Hope you feel better, M.
Well, our embargo against our children lasted an all-time short six days. We had put up a travel hiatus, saying that NEVER again would we travel with our children. After their performance in Montreal, we would not take a family trip this summer, this year, or possibly until the kids were 18.
So, we're going to New Orleans tomorrow. M has to go for a short presentation for work tomorrow, and I thought since I would be talked to death, I thought I might as well be talked to death WITH M in the car. We're going to take them to the zoo, and then Friday, we'll get some beignets and head home. I think two hours each way is a little too long to do alone in one day, anyway for M. What a pain. And Priceline.com had a deal. And...and...and. I am always making excuses for reneging on our declarations. Wimp.
Today, we're off to the museum and to lunch. Which sounds civilized, except that it's the Exploreum and we'll probably eat at McD's. Not quite the same thing.
M spent yesterday in bed with labyrinthitis. All time worst non-flu disease. Practicing on my family practice license (my dad has a license, ya know), I was able to diagnose and treat M's ailment. However, he wanted to go see a "REAL" doctor, who confirmed my initial suspicions. (Phew. What if he had otic twenty-four hour cancer or something and I had missed it?) Hope you feel better, M.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Harper's Island: Home Edition
Have you seen the commercials for the new CBS series, Harper's Island? It is like an Agatha Christie movie with a voted-off-the-island Survivor quality. Every week for 13 weeks, some one gets offed.
Of course, the characters are all the good stereotypes: rich bride, up-and-coming groom, rich father of the bride disappointed with poor groom, cheating spouses, drunk uncle, mysterious and kinda sleazy groom's brother, groom's best female friend with serious history, conniving ex-fiance of the bride trying to muck everything up.
Here, the stereotypes are less Melrose-y and more cartoon dysfunction Simpson-y. Bart is experimenting with fire, Lisa is doing ballet, Homer is upstairs in bed (sick) and I just remain a humble Marge-ostrich, with my head in the sand (actually a cup o' joe). How is this going to end? I think I might build a raft, Castaway style, and sail off the island myself.
Wow. That was a lot of TV metaphor going on there. Wish us luck. I expect the bodies to start piling up.
Of course, the characters are all the good stereotypes: rich bride, up-and-coming groom, rich father of the bride disappointed with poor groom, cheating spouses, drunk uncle, mysterious and kinda sleazy groom's brother, groom's best female friend with serious history, conniving ex-fiance of the bride trying to muck everything up.
Here, the stereotypes are less Melrose-y and more cartoon dysfunction Simpson-y. Bart is experimenting with fire, Lisa is doing ballet, Homer is upstairs in bed (sick) and I just remain a humble Marge-ostrich, with my head in the sand (actually a cup o' joe). How is this going to end? I think I might build a raft, Castaway style, and sail off the island myself.
Wow. That was a lot of TV metaphor going on there. Wish us luck. I expect the bodies to start piling up.
Monday, April 13, 2009
no, No, NO!
Took S to school today only to find it abandoned. Is this some well-executed practical joke? Haha, I'm laughing....now open up the doors! BOTH my kids are off again? Why on earth did we schedule our trip when they were IN school? Now, after the agony of the trip, we just move the party home?
God is laughing at me. I can tell. I know this, because it is also raining, so I can't kick them out of the house. Not that they would go. I asked them to play outside yesterday and E promptly replies, "I do not feel comfortable playing in the yard without a parent."
Was he in some scared straight program somewhere? Did school show him a safety video without my consent? What on earth could happen to him in the yard? His chances of being strangled are much lower outside of my reach, I can say that. Is he anticipating serial killers with candy? Crazy drunken drivers at 10AM on a cul-de-sac? Falling off of...what? We have no play equipment or trees. Remember when kids played outside?
My sister and I used to make up games and played outside even though our street was so steep that we couldn't have bikes or skates. I remember once we played spies and hid under a willow tree and wrote codes on the bark with Liquid Paper. Once, we pulled up the long grass on the embankment and tried to dry it into flax and straw. We also carved out a divot in a slope under an olive tree and made it our fort. We didn't have toys outside, we just played. I can attest to the fact that we didn't have balls or sporting goods--we lost a few soccer balls to the roses at the bottom of the hill, and then we stopped trying.
I don't know why kids can't play outside anymore. They don't seem to even want to. No sword fights with sticks, no climbing trees, no hide and seek. Who has scared this out of them? Have we tech-ed it out of them with all the inside stuff to do?
When it stops raining, they are going out. If it starts lightning, then they are going out with a kite and key.
God is laughing at me. I can tell. I know this, because it is also raining, so I can't kick them out of the house. Not that they would go. I asked them to play outside yesterday and E promptly replies, "I do not feel comfortable playing in the yard without a parent."
Was he in some scared straight program somewhere? Did school show him a safety video without my consent? What on earth could happen to him in the yard? His chances of being strangled are much lower outside of my reach, I can say that. Is he anticipating serial killers with candy? Crazy drunken drivers at 10AM on a cul-de-sac? Falling off of...what? We have no play equipment or trees. Remember when kids played outside?
My sister and I used to make up games and played outside even though our street was so steep that we couldn't have bikes or skates. I remember once we played spies and hid under a willow tree and wrote codes on the bark with Liquid Paper. Once, we pulled up the long grass on the embankment and tried to dry it into flax and straw. We also carved out a divot in a slope under an olive tree and made it our fort. We didn't have toys outside, we just played. I can attest to the fact that we didn't have balls or sporting goods--we lost a few soccer balls to the roses at the bottom of the hill, and then we stopped trying.
I don't know why kids can't play outside anymore. They don't seem to even want to. No sword fights with sticks, no climbing trees, no hide and seek. Who has scared this out of them? Have we tech-ed it out of them with all the inside stuff to do?
When it stops raining, they are going out. If it starts lightning, then they are going out with a kite and key.
Life with a Teenage Daughter
How is it that I gave birth to two sons, and now have one son and a teenage daughter? And not just any teen daughter or a well-mannered and sensible one from the Walton family, but Kelly Bundy from Married With Children. E has mastered the fine art of tilting his head and saying nuh-uh with that slight Valley Girl twang that makes you want to wring his neck. He also has this eye roll that he breaks out the moment you ask him to do something. As though he is the Queen of England and you have asked him to dust the crown jewels. As if.
E has also been spending the last week of Spring Break (he missed a week of school, and has this week off. In effect, a 2 week break as an extra little treat in my life) in his room, choreographing with Fosse-like precision what I can only imagine is a bio-musical of his semi-tragic life.
I know it seems that I am coming down hard on young E. But, his behavior of late has been a series of small defiances, smart-alec comments, and snarkiness with his brother that is slowly driving me insane.
We tried to practice T-Ball this weekend in the park. Priscilla ran from the ball in fear, and then insisted that we not make him practice fielding because it isn't fun. Nevermind that in his entire T-Ball career has he actually made a single play. Of course, given E's genetics, and my total indifference towards childhood sports, I don't expect him to be Derek Jeter out on the field, I only wish he would a) try his hardest b) be unafraid of a ball that will not hurt him c) practice without crying.
I have never seen a kid cry as much as E. I tousled his hair yesterday and he cried. I made chicken for dinner and he cried. I didn't melt the cheese on his ham and cheese and he cried. M took him on a walk around the neighborhood and HE CRIED.
Waah. OMG, mom. I mean, what if I miss a text while you are making me enjoy the fresh air and have a nice walk? Totally.
I have only slight comfort this week. S goes back to school, so I can deal one on one with Nancy. He asked if we could go get sushi today for lunch, so we will do that. I am sure he is on a low-carb diet or something. Hopefully, with a little extra doting from his parents this week, his attitude will turn around. If not, we're in for a long 12 years.
E has also been spending the last week of Spring Break (he missed a week of school, and has this week off. In effect, a 2 week break as an extra little treat in my life) in his room, choreographing with Fosse-like precision what I can only imagine is a bio-musical of his semi-tragic life.
I know it seems that I am coming down hard on young E. But, his behavior of late has been a series of small defiances, smart-alec comments, and snarkiness with his brother that is slowly driving me insane.
We tried to practice T-Ball this weekend in the park. Priscilla ran from the ball in fear, and then insisted that we not make him practice fielding because it isn't fun. Nevermind that in his entire T-Ball career has he actually made a single play. Of course, given E's genetics, and my total indifference towards childhood sports, I don't expect him to be Derek Jeter out on the field, I only wish he would a) try his hardest b) be unafraid of a ball that will not hurt him c) practice without crying.
I have never seen a kid cry as much as E. I tousled his hair yesterday and he cried. I made chicken for dinner and he cried. I didn't melt the cheese on his ham and cheese and he cried. M took him on a walk around the neighborhood and HE CRIED.
Waah. OMG, mom. I mean, what if I miss a text while you are making me enjoy the fresh air and have a nice walk? Totally.
I have only slight comfort this week. S goes back to school, so I can deal one on one with Nancy. He asked if we could go get sushi today for lunch, so we will do that. I am sure he is on a low-carb diet or something. Hopefully, with a little extra doting from his parents this week, his attitude will turn around. If not, we're in for a long 12 years.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Hair raising defense
Many of you are leaping to the defense of the dog, who has been described as hideous, pathetic, and naked. I would like to take this opportunity to outline our actions and to assure the Clooney-protecting public that his hair, like all hair, WILL GROW BACK.
First. Clooney chewed a purple ball point pen a few weeks ago. There was ink on his face, his chin, his chest, his forelegs and all over his front paws. In fact, there were little pinkish paw prints all over my bathroom. Honestly, I was having a hard time waiting for that to grow out. I am not sure what I will do when Ethan comes home with purple hair, but I will cross that (horrifying) adolescent bridge when we come to it.
Second. Clooney missed his bi-monthly groom because we were in Montreal. At the kennel, they give him a bath, but not a very good comb-out. His hair was very matted under his armpits, where they stuck his stupid ponytail, and wherever he could lick it. I REALLY didn't want to go through all that hair, cutting out mats. It's a hairy, itchy mess.
Third. It's hot out. And, granted he's not an outside dog, but he goes out for walks and sits by the pool, and I don't want him to suffer. Sure, suffering for a dog that includes lounging by the pool with a big bowl of water, but still. It's more comfortable without the rug.
So. I get it. Clooney looks like a cross between a Bush Baby and a squirrel. He's pathetic. Even Optimistic TC suggested the poor mutt looks like Carol Channing. All true. Even the dog seems aware of his revealing state, and looks as though he would do the cartoon crotch cover up if he could. With this haircut, he is 93% head and tail. He looks like we ran across him with a lawnmower. He's nude and ratlike. All true. Maybe we should get him one of those bodily injury lawyers on the back of the yellow pages. Maybe his canine friends think he's having a Britney Spears-inspired breakdown.
I do feel a little bad for the pooch. But, then again, he's clean, he smells good, and his fur is completely under control. It'll be back. I promise.
First. Clooney chewed a purple ball point pen a few weeks ago. There was ink on his face, his chin, his chest, his forelegs and all over his front paws. In fact, there were little pinkish paw prints all over my bathroom. Honestly, I was having a hard time waiting for that to grow out. I am not sure what I will do when Ethan comes home with purple hair, but I will cross that (horrifying) adolescent bridge when we come to it.
Second. Clooney missed his bi-monthly groom because we were in Montreal. At the kennel, they give him a bath, but not a very good comb-out. His hair was very matted under his armpits, where they stuck his stupid ponytail, and wherever he could lick it. I REALLY didn't want to go through all that hair, cutting out mats. It's a hairy, itchy mess.
Third. It's hot out. And, granted he's not an outside dog, but he goes out for walks and sits by the pool, and I don't want him to suffer. Sure, suffering for a dog that includes lounging by the pool with a big bowl of water, but still. It's more comfortable without the rug.
So. I get it. Clooney looks like a cross between a Bush Baby and a squirrel. He's pathetic. Even Optimistic TC suggested the poor mutt looks like Carol Channing. All true. Even the dog seems aware of his revealing state, and looks as though he would do the cartoon crotch cover up if he could. With this haircut, he is 93% head and tail. He looks like we ran across him with a lawnmower. He's nude and ratlike. All true. Maybe we should get him one of those bodily injury lawyers on the back of the yellow pages. Maybe his canine friends think he's having a Britney Spears-inspired breakdown.
I do feel a little bad for the pooch. But, then again, he's clean, he smells good, and his fur is completely under control. It'll be back. I promise.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Clooney, not Esquire worthy
Do you ever have that dream where you go out in front of a huge group of people, and you've forgotten something important, like your pants?
Friday, April 10, 2009
Woohoo! New pics!
WOW! M ordered the computer and poof! it appeared in our doorway this afternoon. I am up and running again.
So. First things first. I offer you a photo of the perfect Spring Break vacay:
So. First things first. I offer you a photo of the perfect Spring Break vacay:
Note the tropical locale, the complete lack of children, the romantic aspects of being on a large boat. Also, note lush vegetation and blue skies.
Here is a photo from our trip to Montreal:
Note: freezing, miserable child, extensive amount of snow, lack of any leaves or promise of spring. Note the GIANT FREAKING PARKA on that kid. It was frickin' cold. Quebec Tourism Board be damned: do not travel to Montreal before July, or risk snow!
Bed Bath and Beyond
Holy crap. I thought I would never get home. I have photos for you all, but my computer has died with the ominous message: "Shut Down due to thermal event." And it's gone forever now. (RIP, poor computer) Apparently, M has somehow cultivated artificial intelligence in his computer, because every time I go near it, it has a Pavlovian freak out. It knows that somehow my camera peripherals are gonna screw everything up. It's trained to fear me!
Wednesday, we went to Montreal, the mountain. I wish that I were kidding about this: we couldn't go to the top, because the stair pathway was so thick with ice and snow, that everything had solidified into a giant ramp o' snow. Ridiculous.
Yesterday, I started every sentence with, "I'm so glad to be home." I got groceries, rescued the dog from the kennel. I even went to Bed Bath and Beyond. Favorite. Store. Ever. How great is a store with an "As seen on TV" section? Or sells both random and intriguing small appliances? A travel toothbrush sanitizer? A clock radio/backscratcher/birdfeeder? A kitchen timer/spatula/salad spinner? Love that store. I bought a dozen tall glasses (mine seem to be regularly kidnapped by the glass gnomes). I got one of those super cool gel-pro kitchen mats that's all cushiony for in front of the sink. And, I got biodegradable trash can liners for the kitchen trash. Because nothing says environmental responsibility like a consumer-driven manic trip to Bed Bath and Beyond-ond-ond.
Then, I went in search of 2 chaise lounges, and two outdoor umbrellas for the pool area. I have yet to find these articles for a reasonable price. Why should reclining in the shade, drinking a margarita, and perfunctorily supervising my children in the pool cost so much? Also, for the record, cute cabana boys are just NEVER on sale anymore. Stupid economy.
So, search for chaise lounges failed. On the side, does anyone know if those pool discs that float on top of the pool actually warm it up? Or is this a scam? I'd appreciate input.
Wednesday, we went to Montreal, the mountain. I wish that I were kidding about this: we couldn't go to the top, because the stair pathway was so thick with ice and snow, that everything had solidified into a giant ramp o' snow. Ridiculous.
Yesterday, I started every sentence with, "I'm so glad to be home." I got groceries, rescued the dog from the kennel. I even went to Bed Bath and Beyond. Favorite. Store. Ever. How great is a store with an "As seen on TV" section? Or sells both random and intriguing small appliances? A travel toothbrush sanitizer? A clock radio/backscratcher/birdfeeder? A kitchen timer/spatula/salad spinner? Love that store. I bought a dozen tall glasses (mine seem to be regularly kidnapped by the glass gnomes). I got one of those super cool gel-pro kitchen mats that's all cushiony for in front of the sink. And, I got biodegradable trash can liners for the kitchen trash. Because nothing says environmental responsibility like a consumer-driven manic trip to Bed Bath and Beyond-ond-ond.
Then, I went in search of 2 chaise lounges, and two outdoor umbrellas for the pool area. I have yet to find these articles for a reasonable price. Why should reclining in the shade, drinking a margarita, and perfunctorily supervising my children in the pool cost so much? Also, for the record, cute cabana boys are just NEVER on sale anymore. Stupid economy.
So, search for chaise lounges failed. On the side, does anyone know if those pool discs that float on top of the pool actually warm it up? Or is this a scam? I'd appreciate input.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Misbehavin' in Montreal
So, S is continuing his all-continent total mortification tour. He has misbehaved in ever N.American country, in several cities, time zones, and International Waters. (Into which I was tempted to throw him.)
Today, his behaviour (still inMontreal, you know) was so awful, that I contemplated going into "Sexxy Sexxy" to buy a whip to spank him. Last night, we took him to a pie restaurant. YES, PIE. And he couldn't manage to behave, eat properly, or not cry. And there was PIE. And brownies, and cake, and chocolate milk, and crayons, and, and and...
Despite S's best efforts, we are having a pretty good visit. My French is disastrously bad. It is so hard to keep up. The weather is so bad, even the locals are complaining, except of course our Most Optimistic Friend, TC. MOFTC still professes to enjoy the "seasons" and whatnot. I am very happy with Mobile's seasons: hot and hotter. It is in the 40s with rain. Except the other morning, the weather gods heard me complaining and stopped the rain...and made it snow. All of the family and friends we have visited, though, are in good health and happiness. Which is so nice. When you see some people once every ten years, they often have a laundry list of ailments and minor catastrophes, and none of our visits have been like that.
Of course, the airlines canceled the route we had originally scheduled home. They did one of those standard emails: "your itinerary has been f**d." We don't get home until midnight tomorrow night.
We had a lot of fun at the wedding on Sunday. It was a great mishmash of people from around the world. Also, the longest version of the Hora I have ever heard. We also got to see my in laws, who look great. I hope they enjoyed their 20 hour trip away from their kids!
For those of you in AL who just endured my psychotic cleaning frenzy ahead of my family's most recent visit: good news! My mom is coming back next month! Dustbunnies, beware.
Looking forward to coming home tomorrow. M has canceled any vacations that might have been floating around my brain lately. I don't think we will be dragging him out of his ZIP code anytime soon.
We are staying in a house built in 1870 to house priests from the Cathedral across the street. Unfortunately, in 140 years, the floors have become uneven, and poor M lost half of a big toenail in a bloody stubbing incident on Friday. The poor guy has been a real trouper (funny Canadians and their random u's), but sadistic Sam keeps stepping on it. I think that either S is testing him, or that S is the most accurate pain-maker of the day. I think it is an apt metaphor for S's recent emotional treatment of his family.
Today, his behaviour (still inMontreal, you know) was so awful, that I contemplated going into "Sexxy Sexxy" to buy a whip to spank him. Last night, we took him to a pie restaurant. YES, PIE. And he couldn't manage to behave, eat properly, or not cry. And there was PIE. And brownies, and cake, and chocolate milk, and crayons, and, and and...
Despite S's best efforts, we are having a pretty good visit. My French is disastrously bad. It is so hard to keep up. The weather is so bad, even the locals are complaining, except of course our Most Optimistic Friend, TC. MOFTC still professes to enjoy the "seasons" and whatnot. I am very happy with Mobile's seasons: hot and hotter. It is in the 40s with rain. Except the other morning, the weather gods heard me complaining and stopped the rain...and made it snow. All of the family and friends we have visited, though, are in good health and happiness. Which is so nice. When you see some people once every ten years, they often have a laundry list of ailments and minor catastrophes, and none of our visits have been like that.
Of course, the airlines canceled the route we had originally scheduled home. They did one of those standard emails: "your itinerary has been f**d." We don't get home until midnight tomorrow night.
We had a lot of fun at the wedding on Sunday. It was a great mishmash of people from around the world. Also, the longest version of the Hora I have ever heard. We also got to see my in laws, who look great. I hope they enjoyed their 20 hour trip away from their kids!
For those of you in AL who just endured my psychotic cleaning frenzy ahead of my family's most recent visit: good news! My mom is coming back next month! Dustbunnies, beware.
Looking forward to coming home tomorrow. M has canceled any vacations that might have been floating around my brain lately. I don't think we will be dragging him out of his ZIP code anytime soon.
We are staying in a house built in 1870 to house priests from the Cathedral across the street. Unfortunately, in 140 years, the floors have become uneven, and poor M lost half of a big toenail in a bloody stubbing incident on Friday. The poor guy has been a real trouper (funny Canadians and their random u's), but sadistic Sam keeps stepping on it. I think that either S is testing him, or that S is the most accurate pain-maker of the day. I think it is an apt metaphor for S's recent emotional treatment of his family.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Healthcare or Heat?
So, it's snowing here in Montreal. SNOW! I have decided I am going to start a public service campaign to let Canadians know that they do not need to live under these conditions. Sure, they have healthcare and proper social services and sure they pay their taxes but they also have to accept snow in April. Americans joke about the great white North, and Canadians living in igloos, and being Eskimos and whatever and yet...it is snowing...in APRIL!!
I know all my Canadian friends will give me a hard time for being a soft Cali girl, but even the Starbucks Barrista says to me this morning, "some weather, eh?" So, even the locals think it sucks.
When I look at the weather for Mobile, it seems that spring will soon be heating into summer and poor Montreal hasn't yet enjoyed its first spring of green grass.
Attention Canada:
Trade in your healthcare cards and parkas: come get a tan and an HMO!
I know all my Canadian friends will give me a hard time for being a soft Cali girl, but even the Starbucks Barrista says to me this morning, "some weather, eh?" So, even the locals think it sucks.
When I look at the weather for Mobile, it seems that spring will soon be heating into summer and poor Montreal hasn't yet enjoyed its first spring of green grass.
Attention Canada:
Trade in your healthcare cards and parkas: come get a tan and an HMO!
Thursday, April 2, 2009
No fleas, please
I saw a flea on me. On my bed, there was a flea.
I do not want a flea on me. I got that flea from old Cloon-ey.
That flea is now dead to me.
But, could there be another flea? Another flea at sea near me?
You may be smug cuz you ain't got no bugs,
but I saw a flea on me!
I'll be the flea la-dy.
After being panicked out of bed by the flea, I can assure you, M will be doing a flea check on me when he gets home:
I am horrified that there was a flea in my bed. From my dog on to me. That is so uncool.
I do not want a flea on me. I got that flea from old Cloon-ey.
That flea is now dead to me.
But, could there be another flea? Another flea at sea near me?
You may be smug cuz you ain't got no bugs,
but I saw a flea on me!
I'll be the flea la-dy.
After being panicked out of bed by the flea, I can assure you, M will be doing a flea check on me when he gets home:
I am horrified that there was a flea in my bed. From my dog on to me. That is so uncool.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Big Picture Parenting
Yesterday, I had my monthly visit with the Rabbi. Which, now that I say it like that sounds much like a euphemism for a period. But, no, I actually had a visit with our Rabbi. It was a fascinating conversation for me, anyway. We talked of violence and war in the Middle East. We talked of politics of peace and change, we talked of Jewish culture and faith, and of parenting and participating meaningfully in our world.
He is a very thoughtful man. And I love that in many of our conversations, he turns to parable and metaphor. His most interesting ideas often begin with, "let me tell you a story..." I jokingly tell him that he should charge by the hour. Because for years, I certainly paid by the hour for the kind of self examination our discussions prompt!
Our visits are combination analysis and education for me. I enjoy the lessons he can impart as a parent of children older than mine, as a person older than I, wiser than I, and far more educated in the interactions of "spirit" and "mind" than I. Though (and this will surprise you) I do not consider myself religious, I do look forward to the soul "exercises" our conferences provoke. I always leave his study wanting to be a better person, do better deeds, think better thoughts.
Of the rabbis I have visited with, he is the most accessible, the most human. And I am intrigued by the dichotomy of his spiritual obligations as a public Jew, as the leader and role model for a congregation, and the practical obstacles to a traditional Jewish life that he faces living in Mobile, Alabama. (Not that I am insulting Mobile, here) But, this is not exactly a hub of Jewish culture.
This month, I was particularly focused on my responsibility, my charge as a Jewish parent. I brought with me thoughts about spiritual and cultural identity, raising Jewish children in Christian schools, about the complexities and ambivalence I have in faith, and whether these are my personal baggage, or concerns I should share with my children. And when.
I repeatedly expressed my concern about this "big picture" issue of family and faith. I was very preoccupied with the spiritual health and confidence and safety of my children.
And then I realized, S's class had been let out for over an hour. And I had no idea where he was.
Sometimes, excellent parenting lies in the details.
He is a very thoughtful man. And I love that in many of our conversations, he turns to parable and metaphor. His most interesting ideas often begin with, "let me tell you a story..." I jokingly tell him that he should charge by the hour. Because for years, I certainly paid by the hour for the kind of self examination our discussions prompt!
Our visits are combination analysis and education for me. I enjoy the lessons he can impart as a parent of children older than mine, as a person older than I, wiser than I, and far more educated in the interactions of "spirit" and "mind" than I. Though (and this will surprise you) I do not consider myself religious, I do look forward to the soul "exercises" our conferences provoke. I always leave his study wanting to be a better person, do better deeds, think better thoughts.
Of the rabbis I have visited with, he is the most accessible, the most human. And I am intrigued by the dichotomy of his spiritual obligations as a public Jew, as the leader and role model for a congregation, and the practical obstacles to a traditional Jewish life that he faces living in Mobile, Alabama. (Not that I am insulting Mobile, here) But, this is not exactly a hub of Jewish culture.
This month, I was particularly focused on my responsibility, my charge as a Jewish parent. I brought with me thoughts about spiritual and cultural identity, raising Jewish children in Christian schools, about the complexities and ambivalence I have in faith, and whether these are my personal baggage, or concerns I should share with my children. And when.
I repeatedly expressed my concern about this "big picture" issue of family and faith. I was very preoccupied with the spiritual health and confidence and safety of my children.
And then I realized, S's class had been let out for over an hour. And I had no idea where he was.
Sometimes, excellent parenting lies in the details.
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