So, I survived my pukers and poopers, and I think I'm ready to blog again...
Fall brings with it many traditions--football, school, gross germs, and of course, birthday parties. I know that my friends aren't going to be offended by this post because (haha!) I exacted revenge and invited them to E's party. But, I get ahead of myself.
First and foremost, yesterday was my baby's 7th birthday. And I totally forgot. He woke up and asked me what treats I was bringing to school, and instead of playing cool, I said, "treats? Why am I bringing treats today?" And in mid-question mark, mid syllable, it dawned on me. And like in the movies, everything turned to slow motion, and the word t--r---eeeeeee---aaaaa--tttt escaped from my mouth before I could shut it. So, I raced down to the grocery, snapped up some M&M cookies (thankfully, E has pre-baked taste) and delivered them to school in time for festivities.
Crap. Apparently the statute of limitations is 7 years. Seven years before I no longer go into full fledged crazy lady mode for my kids' birthdays.
I used to plan weeks in advance, order custom made invitations and monogrammed napkins, plan menus, and elevate my little celebrity to royal status. But, this year, I got crazy with the High Holy Days, I am looking ahead to our trip to Phoenix next week, and I didn't have a coinciding influx of family to gauge the countdown. And poor E's birthday totally snuck up on me. Also, S had Monday off of school, so my whole week was thrown off. And his birthday party is the week AFTER his actual birthday, which is a new development. And. And. I suck.
But, this brings me to the subject of birthday parties. Which I loathe. In Mobile, the parents don't drop the kids off and leave. Nooo, we get to stay and attempt to "visit" while being crawled on, interrupted by kids begging for tokens, listening to screaming kids and ringing, beeping arcade games. Whatever indoor playplace hell has become birthday central is my own personal misery. All I can think about is the Ebola (wearing microscopic party hats to be festive) leaving the giant slides, the arcade games, the museum exhibits and crawling on to my body, and infecting me with something snotty, achy, painy, and gross. Shiver.
Plus, it is a universal competition among parents to see who can sugar up the kids to the highest level and then send them home--totally amped on cake, frosting, and other sticky carbs--to break off into nuclear family unit torture sessions.
And, of course, birthday parties invariably coincide with soccer games, other birthday parties, Northwestern football games, my nap time, music lessons, baseball playoffs, my other nap time, or something else I'd rather be doing. (Which of course, is ANYTHING)
So, in short, I'd like to say that E's birthday party is this weekend. If you would like to come share in the "festivities" let me know. I'd be happy to invite you.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Good Jewish Mothers Are Always Prepared...
Yesterday, I was waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay to busy to post. In fact, I was so distracted that the chicken soup I started making stayed on the stove with the burner on for 5 hours while I was out with the kids doing music class etc. I had completely forgotten about it. Surprisingly, my soup was not ruined, nor did my house burn down. Woohoo!
And that's where my luck ran out yesterday.
Kids home and in bed. TV on. M home early. All is well. Then, E puked. Hurled. Vomited. Booted. Yakked. Threw up. All of it. All over. Until his poor little body had nothing left in it, and he was bringing up bile in the midst of dry heaves. Fever soared. Dixie cup of water came back. Nothing stayed down. Including the poor child himself. Up and down. In and out of my room. Miserable.
Sleep? No way. By 6 this morning, I was at the grocery store for Pedialyte, ginger ale, and massive amounts of Lysol. I want a decontamination zone right outside E's room. I think I've already scrubbed the outermost layer of epidermis off my hands. Positive thinking.
Ironically, flu shots are being given at M's work today. I think we might get immunity the hard way.
So, there will be plenty of time for me to post today. I will be here all day. Cleaning up sheets and towels from last night. Tending to poor E. I assume I should keep S home today, too. Just in case? My only outing today will be to the pediatrician. Hopefully, she has some magic cure that the media has been to distracted to publicize. Doubtful.
At least I still have chicken soup.
And that's where my luck ran out yesterday.
Kids home and in bed. TV on. M home early. All is well. Then, E puked. Hurled. Vomited. Booted. Yakked. Threw up. All of it. All over. Until his poor little body had nothing left in it, and he was bringing up bile in the midst of dry heaves. Fever soared. Dixie cup of water came back. Nothing stayed down. Including the poor child himself. Up and down. In and out of my room. Miserable.
Sleep? No way. By 6 this morning, I was at the grocery store for Pedialyte, ginger ale, and massive amounts of Lysol. I want a decontamination zone right outside E's room. I think I've already scrubbed the outermost layer of epidermis off my hands. Positive thinking.
Ironically, flu shots are being given at M's work today. I think we might get immunity the hard way.
So, there will be plenty of time for me to post today. I will be here all day. Cleaning up sheets and towels from last night. Tending to poor E. I assume I should keep S home today, too. Just in case? My only outing today will be to the pediatrician. Hopefully, she has some magic cure that the media has been to distracted to publicize. Doubtful.
At least I still have chicken soup.
Monday, September 21, 2009
The Jaws of Ownership
Ok. Home ownership kinda sucks. I'm not complaining, because of course, there are many hundreds of thousands, millions of people who do not have the luxury of complaining. And yes, of course, I am complaining.
It's not just the money. I mean yes, it's the money. Everyone knows it's the money. The payments, the insurance, the maintenance, the unforeseen expense. But, the money is a problem for ownership of everything. I mean car payments, insurance, maintenance. Even renters have unforeseen costs. Spending money is the entry level nuisance.
It's more than the money. It's the life-sucking, time-warping burden of it all. The massive amount of paperwork going in and out. The decision making process, prioritizing, knowing everything, responsibility.
I've said before that to be a good parent and homeowner, one needs to be: an engineer, an architect, a contractor, a handyman, a lawyer, a doctor, an educator, a psychiatrist, a developmental expert, an arborist, a mechanic, a plumber, an IT expert, an air traffic controller, AND possess an encyclopedic knowledge of the world. It's overwhelming, and it's relentless.
I can walk by any square inch of my house and realize there is work to be done: new siding, new pool liner, grout sealing, paint touch ups, weed removal, driveway repair, vacuuming, landscaping, organizing, replacing,updating, cleaning...the list is virtually endless.
Today, for example, I have to call the electrician to fix the bathroom ventilation issue, get an estimate on replacing the kids' bathroom ventilation thing, and fixing the light in S's room, which seems suddenly disconnected from the switch that has historically controlled it. I also had to call the Whirlpool dude to fix my recently deceased, though previously mentioned NEW dryer which won't start. I also have my usual errands to run, and have to walk past the putrefying smell of squirrel decomp from the back yard trash every time I get into the car. I need to reorganize the tools in the carport to make getting to the car easier, and I REALLY ought to hang some pictures before they get broken leaning against the walls.
This being, you know, Monday. It's frustrating. It's enraging. It's completely too much to process. I fixed the boys' commode (sorta), I improved the drainage into the yard during the most recent rounds of torrential rain, I washed ten thousand loads of wash. And there's MORE MORE MORE.
I didn't think it would be like this. I thought that once we moved into a house, there would always be a couple of manageable chores on the "honey-do" list, but I didn't think it would be a ledger of expensive, long-term, irritating big projects. Projects that involve hours on hold, waiting for repair/delivery/maintenance people who couldn't value my time any less. Projects that I didn't make for us to do--things that are just ageing, corroding, wearing out, or fading fast. I thought eventually, the house would just "be."
Right now, I am procrastinating on the next project, which is short and simple: going out to get the mail. There are going to be bills, and reminders, and fees, and more things that require mine or M's attention. Right now, I just want to stare straight ahead, look into the vast newness of the Internet, and forget the mildewing, ageing, eroding, warping, wearing out that is occurring behind me.
Phew. I'm tired just thinking of it all....
It's not just the money. I mean yes, it's the money. Everyone knows it's the money. The payments, the insurance, the maintenance, the unforeseen expense. But, the money is a problem for ownership of everything. I mean car payments, insurance, maintenance. Even renters have unforeseen costs. Spending money is the entry level nuisance.
It's more than the money. It's the life-sucking, time-warping burden of it all. The massive amount of paperwork going in and out. The decision making process, prioritizing, knowing everything, responsibility.
I've said before that to be a good parent and homeowner, one needs to be: an engineer, an architect, a contractor, a handyman, a lawyer, a doctor, an educator, a psychiatrist, a developmental expert, an arborist, a mechanic, a plumber, an IT expert, an air traffic controller, AND possess an encyclopedic knowledge of the world. It's overwhelming, and it's relentless.
I can walk by any square inch of my house and realize there is work to be done: new siding, new pool liner, grout sealing, paint touch ups, weed removal, driveway repair, vacuuming, landscaping, organizing, replacing,updating, cleaning...the list is virtually endless.
Today, for example, I have to call the electrician to fix the bathroom ventilation issue, get an estimate on replacing the kids' bathroom ventilation thing, and fixing the light in S's room, which seems suddenly disconnected from the switch that has historically controlled it. I also had to call the Whirlpool dude to fix my recently deceased, though previously mentioned NEW dryer which won't start. I also have my usual errands to run, and have to walk past the putrefying smell of squirrel decomp from the back yard trash every time I get into the car. I need to reorganize the tools in the carport to make getting to the car easier, and I REALLY ought to hang some pictures before they get broken leaning against the walls.
This being, you know, Monday. It's frustrating. It's enraging. It's completely too much to process. I fixed the boys' commode (sorta), I improved the drainage into the yard during the most recent rounds of torrential rain, I washed ten thousand loads of wash. And there's MORE MORE MORE.
I didn't think it would be like this. I thought that once we moved into a house, there would always be a couple of manageable chores on the "honey-do" list, but I didn't think it would be a ledger of expensive, long-term, irritating big projects. Projects that involve hours on hold, waiting for repair/delivery/maintenance people who couldn't value my time any less. Projects that I didn't make for us to do--things that are just ageing, corroding, wearing out, or fading fast. I thought eventually, the house would just "be."
Right now, I am procrastinating on the next project, which is short and simple: going out to get the mail. There are going to be bills, and reminders, and fees, and more things that require mine or M's attention. Right now, I just want to stare straight ahead, look into the vast newness of the Internet, and forget the mildewing, ageing, eroding, warping, wearing out that is occurring behind me.
Phew. I'm tired just thinking of it all....
Body Count Update
Another day, another squirrel. I'm beginning to come to terms with the fact that our cat is schizophrenic. In the house, he's an affectionate, purring lovey. Outside, he's a murderous, bloodthirsty fiend. The squirrels call him Cat the Ripper. They run in fear, but apparently, they don't run fast enough.
Friday, September 18, 2009
Technicolor Torture
Some things just don't go together. They really just shouldn't even be mentioned together in the same sentence. Nuts and gum. Mayonnaise and picnics, Circus Peanuts, and well...anything.
This is my least favorite combination right this minute: crayons and my brand spankin' new high efficiency dryer.
I need not elaborate.
What is with my kids? Sure, I should have checked the pockets (though my kids hardly EVER put stuff in there) but WAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH. Why? WHY? WHY?
My washer and dryer are shiny new. (Except for the dent put in it by the delivery man...) and so pretty. I sometimes just pet them when I walk past. The stainless steel drum of the washer is pristine behind the perfectly sealed glass. It's perfect.
Except for the orange and navy crayola-thon that went through the dryer yesterday afternoon. Fortunately, it was in a load of dark laundry, so you can't easily see the marks haphazardly drawn on EVERYTHING in that load. M's underwear looks like a Skittle farted in it. E's uniform has been spiced up a bit with wax confetti. My running shorts are going to melt multicolored sweat the next time I take them out.
But, oh. The dryer. My beautiful, pristine, white dryer. Rainbow Brite puked in my beautiful dryer after a late night with some Lucky Charms. My dryer...is...defiled.
Sniff.
I got out the Magic Eraser. (Isn't that Mr. Clean sexy?) I set to work inside my dryer. The drum light kept switching off. My neck was all twisted. I had a crick in my back. Cursing, pissed, mad as I've ever been. I've run stickers through the wash before, and in fact, my old dryer still bears a glittery cat by the lint filter. That was ok. I've run rocks, and playground gravel, and money galore. But never crayons. Crayons, of all things...not something like Play-do that gets HARD when it gets hot, but something that melts all freaking over everything.
In my new dryer.
My kids are a menace to everything new and shiny. Sure they break their own stuff, but that's not enough--now they have to break mine.
Instead of doing laundry yesterday, I spent my time cleaning the laundry MACHINE. That's just unfair. Now, I have to decide if it's clean enough to run again. The whites won't be as lucky, and I just can't bear to think of sleeping on Crayola-24 pack sheets.
This is my least favorite combination right this minute: crayons and my brand spankin' new high efficiency dryer.
I need not elaborate.
What is with my kids? Sure, I should have checked the pockets (though my kids hardly EVER put stuff in there) but WAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH. Why? WHY? WHY?
My washer and dryer are shiny new. (Except for the dent put in it by the delivery man...) and so pretty. I sometimes just pet them when I walk past. The stainless steel drum of the washer is pristine behind the perfectly sealed glass. It's perfect.
Except for the orange and navy crayola-thon that went through the dryer yesterday afternoon. Fortunately, it was in a load of dark laundry, so you can't easily see the marks haphazardly drawn on EVERYTHING in that load. M's underwear looks like a Skittle farted in it. E's uniform has been spiced up a bit with wax confetti. My running shorts are going to melt multicolored sweat the next time I take them out.
But, oh. The dryer. My beautiful, pristine, white dryer. Rainbow Brite puked in my beautiful dryer after a late night with some Lucky Charms. My dryer...is...defiled.
Sniff.
I got out the Magic Eraser. (Isn't that Mr. Clean sexy?) I set to work inside my dryer. The drum light kept switching off. My neck was all twisted. I had a crick in my back. Cursing, pissed, mad as I've ever been. I've run stickers through the wash before, and in fact, my old dryer still bears a glittery cat by the lint filter. That was ok. I've run rocks, and playground gravel, and money galore. But never crayons. Crayons, of all things...not something like Play-do that gets HARD when it gets hot, but something that melts all freaking over everything.
In my new dryer.
My kids are a menace to everything new and shiny. Sure they break their own stuff, but that's not enough--now they have to break mine.
Instead of doing laundry yesterday, I spent my time cleaning the laundry MACHINE. That's just unfair. Now, I have to decide if it's clean enough to run again. The whites won't be as lucky, and I just can't bear to think of sleeping on Crayola-24 pack sheets.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
OMG! Season Premiere Night!
So, yes. It's only a TV show.
OMG.
It's fake. It's pretend.
It'shere It'shere It'shere!!!
It isn't REAL. It's just TV.
I know I know I know. Ohmygod, Ohmygod, Ohmygod.
HOORAY!
I am squealing like a tween at Zac Efron.
TV season starts this week. Finally. This summer was the longest summer offseason for football, and because of the Hollywood Writers' Strike, this year's TV schedule was all messed up, too. I WANT MY TV, DAMMIT.
And it starts tonight tonight tonight! I am unreasonably excited about the season premiere of Bones. Good characters, good dialogue, good chemistry. M and I watched last season's finale today and I got all fired up about the premiere. I love resolution of cliffhangers. Especially ones that will (hopefully) clarify the relationship subplot between two of my favorite TV characters.
There was Angela and Tony, David and Maddie, Ross and Rachel,Joey and Dawson, Mulder and Scully, Buffy and Angel. Now I have Barney and Robin. Booth and Brennan. Like every other unabashed TV junkie, I have rooted for these relationships season after season. Sure, the romance diminishes the show. Sure, the shows generally jump the shark after the romance blooms. Nonetheless, I still root for it, I still grin and clap stupidly when the chemistry peaks, and I never get tired of a well-written romance (sub)plot in a good TV show.
Why the goofy enthusiasm for TV, you ask. Don't you have a life, you ask. Well, frankly, no. My life is that of normal married person with children. I don't have friends to meet in a bar at all hours of the night. I don't have murders to solve, bones to analyze, DNA scans to rush. I am not a suspiciously frequent victim of crime. So, no. I do not have a lot going on in my life, and frankly, I'm pretty glad.
I can sit down with some ice cream. (My friend Cici has said that if you stuff a bunch of raisins in your mouth all at once, you can pretend it's a brownie. Either Cici has never had a proper brownie, or she's finding some freaking awesome raisins.) I can ogle my TV man candy, (M LOVES it when I do that. He will provoke: "OOOH. Look at that charming smile. Ooh. I bet you love it. Why don't you marry it?" But I don't care about his 3rd grade ridicule. One, because I'm behaving like a third grader when I get all starry eyed about my TVMC, and two, because I don't care. My family is cared for, my job is done for the day, and for one short hour, I can be starry eyed and daydreamy and giggly if I want to. I can free my inner tween if I want to.
In fact, I used to have pin-up posters of my TV crushes (and George Clooney, whom, despite my love, I never watched on ER.) on the inside of the cabinet door at my desk. Publicity shots, headshots from imdb.com, pullouts from fan mags (I only bought them for the posters), whatever. It was, literally, a closet obsession. When we left Missouri, the pictures didn't make it with us. Despite that milestone in growth toward adulthood, I regress every evening to soak up my primetime faves.
3 hours and counting...
OMG.
It's fake. It's pretend.
It'shere It'shere It'shere!!!
It isn't REAL. It's just TV.
I know I know I know. Ohmygod, Ohmygod, Ohmygod.
HOORAY!
I am squealing like a tween at Zac Efron.
TV season starts this week. Finally. This summer was the longest summer offseason for football, and because of the Hollywood Writers' Strike, this year's TV schedule was all messed up, too. I WANT MY TV, DAMMIT.
And it starts tonight tonight tonight! I am unreasonably excited about the season premiere of Bones. Good characters, good dialogue, good chemistry. M and I watched last season's finale today and I got all fired up about the premiere. I love resolution of cliffhangers. Especially ones that will (hopefully) clarify the relationship subplot between two of my favorite TV characters.
There was Angela and Tony, David and Maddie, Ross and Rachel,Joey and Dawson, Mulder and Scully, Buffy and Angel. Now I have Barney and Robin. Booth and Brennan. Like every other unabashed TV junkie, I have rooted for these relationships season after season. Sure, the romance diminishes the show. Sure, the shows generally jump the shark after the romance blooms. Nonetheless, I still root for it, I still grin and clap stupidly when the chemistry peaks, and I never get tired of a well-written romance (sub)plot in a good TV show.
Why the goofy enthusiasm for TV, you ask. Don't you have a life, you ask. Well, frankly, no. My life is that of normal married person with children. I don't have friends to meet in a bar at all hours of the night. I don't have murders to solve, bones to analyze, DNA scans to rush. I am not a suspiciously frequent victim of crime. So, no. I do not have a lot going on in my life, and frankly, I'm pretty glad.
I can sit down with some ice cream. (My friend Cici has said that if you stuff a bunch of raisins in your mouth all at once, you can pretend it's a brownie. Either Cici has never had a proper brownie, or she's finding some freaking awesome raisins.) I can ogle my TV man candy, (M LOVES it when I do that. He will provoke: "OOOH. Look at that charming smile. Ooh. I bet you love it. Why don't you marry it?" But I don't care about his 3rd grade ridicule. One, because I'm behaving like a third grader when I get all starry eyed about my TVMC, and two, because I don't care. My family is cared for, my job is done for the day, and for one short hour, I can be starry eyed and daydreamy and giggly if I want to. I can free my inner tween if I want to.
In fact, I used to have pin-up posters of my TV crushes (and George Clooney, whom, despite my love, I never watched on ER.) on the inside of the cabinet door at my desk. Publicity shots, headshots from imdb.com, pullouts from fan mags (I only bought them for the posters), whatever. It was, literally, a closet obsession. When we left Missouri, the pictures didn't make it with us. Despite that milestone in growth toward adulthood, I regress every evening to soak up my primetime faves.
3 hours and counting...
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Pulp NonFiction
I think I need a lawyer. And a good one, too. Like TV sleazy defense lawyer good. Because I think some one in this house has made a deal with the devil. And we gotta get out of that contract.
This morning, E takes dog out for constitutional in back yard. Comes back ringing the doorbell. I, being snappish, answer the front door, and say, "WHAT? Why didn't you come back in the back door?"
"Because the cat ate a squirrel and he probably has rabies and I don't want to touch it."
"Don't be ridiculous, the cat ate that squirrel a long time ago. He'd be foaming and dead by now if he had rabies."
"But MOM."
"Come on in, put the dog in the box, it's time to go to school." We gather the stuff for carpool.
I open the back door, and two cats are sitting there, looking royale.
At the bottom of the step. Disemboweled. Dismembered. Squirrel.
"Let me ask you cats something, do you see a sign on my house that says dead squirrel storage?"
Cats stare blankly.
"No. Do you know why you don't see a sign on my house that says dead squirrel storage?"
Cats stare blankly.
"Because storing dead squirrels is not my business."
Cats stare blankly.
I think some one has signed a deal with the devil, and dead vermin are the signing bonus. Since the Terminix god, I mean guy, came, cockroaches have been crawling out of the walls to die. (I don't mind cleaning those up at ALL.) But now, cats serving us extra rare squirrel pate seems a little excessive. I mean, is this our incentive? Aren't we supposed to get lots of money or sexy dates, or something like in the movies? No one ever said anything about dead squirrels in the contract-with-the-devil movies. I'm talking to you, Brendan Frasier.
The cats' pride made it even worse. They were so pleased that they had brought us most of the squirrel. Like, "what? You aren't happy? We only ate two legs and a kidney. We saved you the best parts! C'mon..."
Of course, the cats don't understand the explosiveness of the S situation. S sees that dead squirrel, he's gonna freak. I call M. The cavalry is at work. The cavalry is not gonna come and clean this up. It's all me. Shiver.
I gave the squirrel a fitting funeral for such an ignominious death. I scooped him with a garden trowel onto the plastic clam shell container of the new toilet flusher I bought, and dropped him in a double-layer Target bag and sent him off to the trash bin.
Just call me The Wolf.
This morning, E takes dog out for constitutional in back yard. Comes back ringing the doorbell. I, being snappish, answer the front door, and say, "WHAT? Why didn't you come back in the back door?"
"Because the cat ate a squirrel and he probably has rabies and I don't want to touch it."
"Don't be ridiculous, the cat ate that squirrel a long time ago. He'd be foaming and dead by now if he had rabies."
"But MOM."
"Come on in, put the dog in the box, it's time to go to school." We gather the stuff for carpool.
I open the back door, and two cats are sitting there, looking royale.
At the bottom of the step. Disemboweled. Dismembered. Squirrel.
"Let me ask you cats something, do you see a sign on my house that says dead squirrel storage?"
Cats stare blankly.
"No. Do you know why you don't see a sign on my house that says dead squirrel storage?"
Cats stare blankly.
"Because storing dead squirrels is not my business."
Cats stare blankly.
I think some one has signed a deal with the devil, and dead vermin are the signing bonus. Since the Terminix god, I mean guy, came, cockroaches have been crawling out of the walls to die. (I don't mind cleaning those up at ALL.) But now, cats serving us extra rare squirrel pate seems a little excessive. I mean, is this our incentive? Aren't we supposed to get lots of money or sexy dates, or something like in the movies? No one ever said anything about dead squirrels in the contract-with-the-devil movies. I'm talking to you, Brendan Frasier.
The cats' pride made it even worse. They were so pleased that they had brought us most of the squirrel. Like, "what? You aren't happy? We only ate two legs and a kidney. We saved you the best parts! C'mon..."
Of course, the cats don't understand the explosiveness of the S situation. S sees that dead squirrel, he's gonna freak. I call M. The cavalry is at work. The cavalry is not gonna come and clean this up. It's all me. Shiver.
I gave the squirrel a fitting funeral for such an ignominious death. I scooped him with a garden trowel onto the plastic clam shell container of the new toilet flusher I bought, and dropped him in a double-layer Target bag and sent him off to the trash bin.
Just call me The Wolf.
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