Funny moment on Sunday:
On a car ride back from my cousin's wedding in San Marcos, the kids were doing something in the back seat that Eli and I weren't really paying attention to, until talk got a little louder. When we tuned in, Colin had just handed Hallie a single sunflower petal.
Her response was over-the-top gratitude, "Oh, thank you, that's so very kind of you!" She petted the petal, holding it to her cheek, murmuring lovingly to it.
Meanwhile, Colin had a double handful of petals, which he was muttering over in a voice that was half-Golem, half-crazy-prospector--"It's gold. Gold, I tell you!!"--while shaking his flowery fists to the roof of the car in triumph.
And the thing was, the petals had come from the wedding bouquet which the bride had bestowed on Hallie the night before. Colin was intensely jealous of this--being so keenly attuned to injustice as it pertains to things his sister gets and he doesn't--so he had ripped the heads off about four sunflowers, denuded them, and then, perhaps feeling a distant twinge of something vaguely like guilt, gave back a single petal. Which she adored beyond reason, because her beloved big brother gave her something (a tragically rare occurrence), never realizing that they were ALL hers by rights.
And when did he learn about crazy prospectors, anyway??
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Monday, November 15, 2010
Follicle Follies
I never did get back to the Tragedy of Hallie's Hair, did I? Well, it wasn't actually that bad, as it turned out...but in a nutshell, it was this:
Hallie woke up one day with the most colossally bad tangle I've ever seen hanging just off-center at the back of her head. I girded myself for battle with a comb and nearly-full bottle of spray detangler, and waded in...only to gape with dawning horror as every strand I untangled fell off her head and into my hand. If I can figure out the complicated machinations necessary, I'll include a picture of the large mass of escaped hair, because, really, it was hard to fathom. I thought I must have been causing this follicular exodus (insert pangs of terrified guilt), until I looked more closely, and saw that, instead of falling out at the root, these strands were leaving behind two or three inches still attached, mixed in with hanks of the correct length.
This was mystifying...as was the process of trying to get a definitive answer from a three year old who thinks--is not sure--but thinks she might be in trouble, and also is easily distracted by shiny objects. Especially mirrors reflecting her favorite image, herself. (Note to self: never interrogate Hallie in the bathroom, ever again.)
So...I may never know exactly what happened, because accounts vary depending on mood, person asking, and whether or not princesses are involved...but I think that Hallie was toodling around in her room in the dark again (she has stopped the nocturnal cleaning sessions, but nocturnal toodling is still hip), came across a contraband pair of scissors she had "borrowed" from Colin earlier that day, and just stuck them in her hair in random spots, snipping occasionally, causing the hair to fall only part way out, and then tangle. That's my theory.
End result: no bald patches, just weirdly thin places that defy styling of any kind, and straggle down looking like her mother doesn't brush her hair. This bothers me almost more than a shaved head would, that I might be perceived as letting my child out of the house with an unkempt head. I think my soul just died a little. Me, the Queen of the Well-Placed Bow (well, Arch Duchess...my mother's the Queen). And I thought broken bones were traumatic...
Hallie woke up one day with the most colossally bad tangle I've ever seen hanging just off-center at the back of her head. I girded myself for battle with a comb and nearly-full bottle of spray detangler, and waded in...only to gape with dawning horror as every strand I untangled fell off her head and into my hand. If I can figure out the complicated machinations necessary, I'll include a picture of the large mass of escaped hair, because, really, it was hard to fathom. I thought I must have been causing this follicular exodus (insert pangs of terrified guilt), until I looked more closely, and saw that, instead of falling out at the root, these strands were leaving behind two or three inches still attached, mixed in with hanks of the correct length.
This was mystifying...as was the process of trying to get a definitive answer from a three year old who thinks--is not sure--but thinks she might be in trouble, and also is easily distracted by shiny objects. Especially mirrors reflecting her favorite image, herself. (Note to self: never interrogate Hallie in the bathroom, ever again.)
So...I may never know exactly what happened, because accounts vary depending on mood, person asking, and whether or not princesses are involved...but I think that Hallie was toodling around in her room in the dark again (she has stopped the nocturnal cleaning sessions, but nocturnal toodling is still hip), came across a contraband pair of scissors she had "borrowed" from Colin earlier that day, and just stuck them in her hair in random spots, snipping occasionally, causing the hair to fall only part way out, and then tangle. That's my theory.
End result: no bald patches, just weirdly thin places that defy styling of any kind, and straggle down looking like her mother doesn't brush her hair. This bothers me almost more than a shaved head would, that I might be perceived as letting my child out of the house with an unkempt head. I think my soul just died a little. Me, the Queen of the Well-Placed Bow (well, Arch Duchess...my mother's the Queen). And I thought broken bones were traumatic...
Monday, October 4, 2010
Catching Up
Hmm. It appears I have been lax in my blogging duties. Several weeks have gone by--several extraordinary weeks--and I have not blogged about them once. Perhaps this has been a case of living so intensely for this short while that I was unable to distance myself enough to write about it. I sincerely hope that's over.
For most of my life I've had this silent voice-over running through my head during any halfway-interesting occurrence, wherein I figure out how I would describe it in writing. I can't really help it; it just happens. But I do find that as I search for the right words and phrases to capture the moment, that moment becomes...a little blunted. Whatever extremes of joy or sorrow I'm feeling, the edges aren't quite so sharp after I've mentally written it down for posterity. Coping mechanism? Perhaps. Mental instability? Possibly. Although I prefer to think of it as "destined to be a writer". And I have actually been very surprised in my adulthood to find that not everyone has this voice--unless you're all lying to me?
But these last few weeks have been so very intense (at least at first) and then so very busy (up until this very moment--have to run Hallie to school, be right back) that my voice-over has been, for the first time I can remember, silent. It's a little eerie.
So, even though my helpful inner writer has not actually helped with these past weeks, here's what I've been up to:
Colin started Kindergarten. That was pretty emotional and overwhelming, but nothing compared to the moment when, an hour into his first day, I got the call that he'd broken his arm. So many panicky, chaotic moments jammed into that day...I don't even know if I can describe them. But here's the thing...from the safe distance of 3-plus weeks later, I can know, rationally, that a broken arm is not that huge a deal in the greater scheme, totally fixable, happens to tons of kids, perhaps even most. But those of you with young children, go look at their perfect little limbs that you've kissed since they were babies...that smooth, unmarred skin...and imagine seeing a bleeding wound, and an extra elbow in a terribly wrong place. At the time, it seemed pretty darn horrible enough--and not a single trauma-blunting voice to be found. I felt every particle...my baby was HURT. Weird how I can switch back and forth between that moment and feel it just as sharply all over again--I mean, I could let myself go and just sob--and then snap back to the day-to-day minutia of helping him do stuff with one hand. More coping mechanisms, I'm guessing.
So there's the emotional intensity, enough to last me for a while...and meanwhile, life goes on at blinding speed, and I'm struggling desperately to keep up with this whole school regime. Two kids on two schedules that I've barely got a grip on--and I know some other moms with three or four, which completely boggles my brain. Just getting up every day when it's still dark out is a near-fatal shock to my so-not-a-morning-person system. I feel like those letters should be capitalized: EVERY DAY. Then once I realize I'm really, truly, brutally awake, I have to fly into action, cooking and packaging and exhorting (but sweetly) and dressing flailing limbs when cooperation fails and then exhorting some more (less sweetly). I realize mothers everywhere have had to adjust to this same phenomenon for generations, but I still feel woefully unprepared, and like I want to shake somebody and say, "Do you get it?? Every day!!" Strangely, I get little sympathy with this approach. Huh.
I wonder just how long it will take to adapt to this new, exhausting way of life (it hasn't even been four full weeks yet). And I also wonder if I will still be able to hear that little voice-over in the midst of all this doing, or if it's been stunned into silence for good. Mental defect or not, I kinda miss it.
P.S.
My husband pointed out that I didn't include another hugely traumatic upheaval, and that I would spoil the chronological flow if I tried to throw it in later, but I am insisting that Hallie's Self-Applied Haircut is its own, free-standing blog entry. So I'm not talking about it now.
For most of my life I've had this silent voice-over running through my head during any halfway-interesting occurrence, wherein I figure out how I would describe it in writing. I can't really help it; it just happens. But I do find that as I search for the right words and phrases to capture the moment, that moment becomes...a little blunted. Whatever extremes of joy or sorrow I'm feeling, the edges aren't quite so sharp after I've mentally written it down for posterity. Coping mechanism? Perhaps. Mental instability? Possibly. Although I prefer to think of it as "destined to be a writer". And I have actually been very surprised in my adulthood to find that not everyone has this voice--unless you're all lying to me?
But these last few weeks have been so very intense (at least at first) and then so very busy (up until this very moment--have to run Hallie to school, be right back) that my voice-over has been, for the first time I can remember, silent. It's a little eerie.
So, even though my helpful inner writer has not actually helped with these past weeks, here's what I've been up to:
Colin started Kindergarten. That was pretty emotional and overwhelming, but nothing compared to the moment when, an hour into his first day, I got the call that he'd broken his arm. So many panicky, chaotic moments jammed into that day...I don't even know if I can describe them. But here's the thing...from the safe distance of 3-plus weeks later, I can know, rationally, that a broken arm is not that huge a deal in the greater scheme, totally fixable, happens to tons of kids, perhaps even most. But those of you with young children, go look at their perfect little limbs that you've kissed since they were babies...that smooth, unmarred skin...and imagine seeing a bleeding wound, and an extra elbow in a terribly wrong place. At the time, it seemed pretty darn horrible enough--and not a single trauma-blunting voice to be found. I felt every particle...my baby was HURT. Weird how I can switch back and forth between that moment and feel it just as sharply all over again--I mean, I could let myself go and just sob--and then snap back to the day-to-day minutia of helping him do stuff with one hand. More coping mechanisms, I'm guessing.
So there's the emotional intensity, enough to last me for a while...and meanwhile, life goes on at blinding speed, and I'm struggling desperately to keep up with this whole school regime. Two kids on two schedules that I've barely got a grip on--and I know some other moms with three or four, which completely boggles my brain. Just getting up every day when it's still dark out is a near-fatal shock to my so-not-a-morning-person system. I feel like those letters should be capitalized: EVERY DAY. Then once I realize I'm really, truly, brutally awake, I have to fly into action, cooking and packaging and exhorting (but sweetly) and dressing flailing limbs when cooperation fails and then exhorting some more (less sweetly). I realize mothers everywhere have had to adjust to this same phenomenon for generations, but I still feel woefully unprepared, and like I want to shake somebody and say, "Do you get it?? Every day!!" Strangely, I get little sympathy with this approach. Huh.
I wonder just how long it will take to adapt to this new, exhausting way of life (it hasn't even been four full weeks yet). And I also wonder if I will still be able to hear that little voice-over in the midst of all this doing, or if it's been stunned into silence for good. Mental defect or not, I kinda miss it.
P.S.
My husband pointed out that I didn't include another hugely traumatic upheaval, and that I would spoil the chronological flow if I tried to throw it in later, but I am insisting that Hallie's Self-Applied Haircut is its own, free-standing blog entry. So I'm not talking about it now.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Future Stand-up Comic
Looking back over my recent posts, I realize that 3 year old Hallie and her shenanigans are a recurring, perhaps even repetitive, topic.
I realize this, but I am helpless to stop it, because, I'm sorry people, she's just flat out funny!
Here's the latest proof:
Today as I was sitting at the computer, doing something desperately important like cruising around Facebook, Hallie wandered in. She drifted over to the window, and started aimlessly playing with the blinds, banging them around, trying to reach the pull-cord--basic low-grade naughtiness, generally employed to gain attention.
"What are you doing, Hallie?" I asked, a warning clear in my voice, giving her the chance to cease the borderline behavior. I asked this of my three-year old, you understand...little bitty girl, barely out of toddlerhood, cute as a button, limited three-year-old understanding.
The answer I got back, however, could have come from a thirty-year old, worldly, wryly ironic--it's all in the tone--aided and abetted by the sly, over-the-shoulder glance that said, I know you know the answer to that question, so I'm not even going to dignify it with the truth.
"What are you doing, Hallie?"
"Bobbing for apples, of course."
Of course, once she saw my reaction (i.e., gales of laughter), the thirty year old left the building, and the three-year old was back. She wanted to recreate the scene over and over, and I think now believes that the phrase "bobbing for apples" is the Great Punchline of the Century, no set-up required, slays 'em in the aisles every time. So her comedic sense comes and goes...but just wait till she's four!
I realize this, but I am helpless to stop it, because, I'm sorry people, she's just flat out funny!
Here's the latest proof:
Today as I was sitting at the computer, doing something desperately important like cruising around Facebook, Hallie wandered in. She drifted over to the window, and started aimlessly playing with the blinds, banging them around, trying to reach the pull-cord--basic low-grade naughtiness, generally employed to gain attention.
"What are you doing, Hallie?" I asked, a warning clear in my voice, giving her the chance to cease the borderline behavior. I asked this of my three-year old, you understand...little bitty girl, barely out of toddlerhood, cute as a button, limited three-year-old understanding.
The answer I got back, however, could have come from a thirty-year old, worldly, wryly ironic--it's all in the tone--aided and abetted by the sly, over-the-shoulder glance that said, I know you know the answer to that question, so I'm not even going to dignify it with the truth.
"What are you doing, Hallie?"
"Bobbing for apples, of course."
Of course, once she saw my reaction (i.e., gales of laughter), the thirty year old left the building, and the three-year old was back. She wanted to recreate the scene over and over, and I think now believes that the phrase "bobbing for apples" is the Great Punchline of the Century, no set-up required, slays 'em in the aisles every time. So her comedic sense comes and goes...but just wait till she's four!
Monday, August 23, 2010
"Don't make me do this..."
Yesterday afternoon, Colin engaged in his favorite activity of terrorizing his sister. This has many forms, but on this occasion was manifested by threatening her with his replica of a Napoleon-era pistol, straight from Paris, France, folks. It's not supposed to be a toy, but any time he picks it up to "just look" at it, the urge to brandish it at someone overwhelms him. So that's what he was doing, before Mommy and Daddy intervened and repeated our mandate of not pointing guns at people, not pretending to wound, maim, dismember, eviscerate, or otherwise do violence to living creatures, even if it happens to be your little sister. So there's the back story.
Several minutes later, Hallie wanted something to drink. I was deep in the throes of painting something, so I referred her to Daddy. Daddy was deep in the throes of computing something, so he asked her to wait a minute. Apparently she had a thirst the likes of which has never been seen, so she waxed impatient within seconds, and the polite, singsong-y "May I please have something to drink" turned abruptly to a screechy "Give me something to drink right now!!"
Suddenly she had our undivided attention.
"Hallie, that is not the way you talk to people," said Eli. "It is not okay to yell at Daddy like that."
"But I wanted something to drink!"
"And I said I would get you something, in just one minute. You need to be patient."
Silence. Then, in a tone implying that this was the only possible outcome for withholding beverages, and it was on our heads and we had only ourselves to blame, Hallie declared:
"I don't like those words. If that's what you're going to say to me, I'm just going to have to go shoot Colin."
Exit, stage right!
Her whole demeanor was so "hey, I didn't want it to come to this, but you leave me no choice," that Eli and I couldn't even respond. Basically, we just got schooled. A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do, and if certain parties of siblitude have to pay the price for parental malfeasance, hey, that's just spreading the karma out a little more evenly, isn't it?
Several minutes later, Hallie wanted something to drink. I was deep in the throes of painting something, so I referred her to Daddy. Daddy was deep in the throes of computing something, so he asked her to wait a minute. Apparently she had a thirst the likes of which has never been seen, so she waxed impatient within seconds, and the polite, singsong-y "May I please have something to drink" turned abruptly to a screechy "Give me something to drink right now!!"
Suddenly she had our undivided attention.
"Hallie, that is not the way you talk to people," said Eli. "It is not okay to yell at Daddy like that."
"But I wanted something to drink!"
"And I said I would get you something, in just one minute. You need to be patient."
Silence. Then, in a tone implying that this was the only possible outcome for withholding beverages, and it was on our heads and we had only ourselves to blame, Hallie declared:
"I don't like those words. If that's what you're going to say to me, I'm just going to have to go shoot Colin."
Exit, stage right!
Her whole demeanor was so "hey, I didn't want it to come to this, but you leave me no choice," that Eli and I couldn't even respond. Basically, we just got schooled. A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do, and if certain parties of siblitude have to pay the price for parental malfeasance, hey, that's just spreading the karma out a little more evenly, isn't it?
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Bigotry in a parking lot
Last night on KCET was a showing of "South Pacific", live from Lincoln Center. Aside from being a terrific show, this was especially significant because I actually know--or rather, knew--one of the cast members. Eric Anderson and I sang and performed together way back when my mom ran her children's chorale, and now there he is, mugging it up as...Stew Pot? Two Pots? Not sure, have to watch more closely...but wow, what an amazing thing, to see someone I grew up with, living out his dream on Broadway. He's so, so good.
So that's why I tuned in (and why it's recorded on my DVR), and I still haven't watched the whole thing, just bits and pieces. But I saw enough to remind myself of some of the subject matter, and to be surprised all over again at the honest portrayal of racism, particularly coming from that era...it just always takes me by surprise, and makes me wonder how shocking and provocative that was when it first opened, because I guess I have this notion that it just wasn't talked about, or at least certainly wasn't present in mainstream culture. Clearly, a mistaken assumption, at least to some extent.
So the song that stuck in my head was "You've Got to Be Carefully Taught"...it just kept spinning around and around in my brain as I was getting ready for bed, and I was idly musing about my grandparents, particularly my deceased grandfather, the opera singer, the musical theater man, the pretty darn bigoted guy, and wondering...did he ever sing that song? What did that mean to him? Did he know he was a bigot? Did it make him challenge that mindset, or was that just the way it was? I'll never know.
But then I suddenly remembered a disturbing incident I'd witnessed that very day--how it slipped my mind, I have no clue. I had pulled into an Albertson's parking lot with the kids--not a store I usually go to, but I was looking for something particular. As I parked, I noticed a group of three people--two men and a woman--in the next aisle, talking together next to an SUV. I don't even know why I took note, except that the woman had her head covered, and that drew my eye, and so I guess I made an automatic judgment of "Muslim", even though, head covering aside, nothing about her or either of her companions shouted any particular kind of thing other than "regular person". It looked like one man was showing the other two a piece of paper that seemed to have a picture on it, and the look on the woman's face was attentive and inquisitive. The other man wore sunglasses, so I couldn't read his expression.
The kids and I were getting ready to get out of the car, and as I opened my door I heard a raised voice, and glanced up to see the paper-bearing gentleman gesticulating and sounding angry, although I couldn't hear the words. I sat for a moment, wondering what was going on, as the woman's companion made some comment, finger raised--my take was censure of some sort. Here the angry man got even louder, shook his paper, and yelled, "I'm not the one who cut this woman's nose off, and put her picture on Time magazine!" He started to walk away, and then turned to deliver one last zinger: "There is only one Islam, and it's EVIL!" Then he turned and stalked into the store.
I sat there staring after him, holding my children back, wondering if I wanted to even go into the same store that this man had entered, to expose them to that level of hatred, and belatedly wanting to see if the other couple were all right, but they had already gotten in their car and driven away. I was awash with so many emotions: alarm, confusion, embarrassment for the way this man represented...I don't know what...America? Christians? White people? I don't know who he thought he was representing, I just didn't want it to be me.
And I could not stop thinking about how that whole exchange might have occurred, even though I had very little data to put together a hypothesis. But why was he carrying that picture? Why was he so prepared for a confrontation? Did he leave the house intending to find one? Was it some sort of evangelical campaign, to show Muslims the error of their faith? Or was he targeting Muslim Americans, holding individuals accountable for the actions of Muslims around the world? I'm certain that he thought he was on the right side...and maybe his intentions weren't all that misplaced, maybe he is truly moved to horror by the plight of women in the Muslim world, a position I applaud...but his methods...
And here was an uncomfortable thought...how did he know what faith that couple held, unless he, like me, made a snap judgment based on the woman's head cloth? What did that mean about me? And even the fact that I wanted to go apologize to those people, did that mean that I felt I was automatically in the crazy man's camp, abhorrent as I found him, and needed to apologize for my compatriot's actions, which meant that those people were...other? Or maybe I just wanted to distance myself from him, to say to them, "we're not all like that", except that that's still an "us & them" statement, isn't it? How do I escape that? How do I keep from passing that to my children?
And now here's that song again, "You've got to be taught to hate and fear" going round and round my head...
Weird how events can converge, sometimes.
So that's why I tuned in (and why it's recorded on my DVR), and I still haven't watched the whole thing, just bits and pieces. But I saw enough to remind myself of some of the subject matter, and to be surprised all over again at the honest portrayal of racism, particularly coming from that era...it just always takes me by surprise, and makes me wonder how shocking and provocative that was when it first opened, because I guess I have this notion that it just wasn't talked about, or at least certainly wasn't present in mainstream culture. Clearly, a mistaken assumption, at least to some extent.
So the song that stuck in my head was "You've Got to Be Carefully Taught"...it just kept spinning around and around in my brain as I was getting ready for bed, and I was idly musing about my grandparents, particularly my deceased grandfather, the opera singer, the musical theater man, the pretty darn bigoted guy, and wondering...did he ever sing that song? What did that mean to him? Did he know he was a bigot? Did it make him challenge that mindset, or was that just the way it was? I'll never know.
But then I suddenly remembered a disturbing incident I'd witnessed that very day--how it slipped my mind, I have no clue. I had pulled into an Albertson's parking lot with the kids--not a store I usually go to, but I was looking for something particular. As I parked, I noticed a group of three people--two men and a woman--in the next aisle, talking together next to an SUV. I don't even know why I took note, except that the woman had her head covered, and that drew my eye, and so I guess I made an automatic judgment of "Muslim", even though, head covering aside, nothing about her or either of her companions shouted any particular kind of thing other than "regular person". It looked like one man was showing the other two a piece of paper that seemed to have a picture on it, and the look on the woman's face was attentive and inquisitive. The other man wore sunglasses, so I couldn't read his expression.
The kids and I were getting ready to get out of the car, and as I opened my door I heard a raised voice, and glanced up to see the paper-bearing gentleman gesticulating and sounding angry, although I couldn't hear the words. I sat for a moment, wondering what was going on, as the woman's companion made some comment, finger raised--my take was censure of some sort. Here the angry man got even louder, shook his paper, and yelled, "I'm not the one who cut this woman's nose off, and put her picture on Time magazine!" He started to walk away, and then turned to deliver one last zinger: "There is only one Islam, and it's EVIL!" Then he turned and stalked into the store.
I sat there staring after him, holding my children back, wondering if I wanted to even go into the same store that this man had entered, to expose them to that level of hatred, and belatedly wanting to see if the other couple were all right, but they had already gotten in their car and driven away. I was awash with so many emotions: alarm, confusion, embarrassment for the way this man represented...I don't know what...America? Christians? White people? I don't know who he thought he was representing, I just didn't want it to be me.
And I could not stop thinking about how that whole exchange might have occurred, even though I had very little data to put together a hypothesis. But why was he carrying that picture? Why was he so prepared for a confrontation? Did he leave the house intending to find one? Was it some sort of evangelical campaign, to show Muslims the error of their faith? Or was he targeting Muslim Americans, holding individuals accountable for the actions of Muslims around the world? I'm certain that he thought he was on the right side...and maybe his intentions weren't all that misplaced, maybe he is truly moved to horror by the plight of women in the Muslim world, a position I applaud...but his methods...
And here was an uncomfortable thought...how did he know what faith that couple held, unless he, like me, made a snap judgment based on the woman's head cloth? What did that mean about me? And even the fact that I wanted to go apologize to those people, did that mean that I felt I was automatically in the crazy man's camp, abhorrent as I found him, and needed to apologize for my compatriot's actions, which meant that those people were...other? Or maybe I just wanted to distance myself from him, to say to them, "we're not all like that", except that that's still an "us & them" statement, isn't it? How do I escape that? How do I keep from passing that to my children?
And now here's that song again, "You've got to be taught to hate and fear" going round and round my head...
Weird how events can converge, sometimes.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
My daughter is missing the point.
"Penalty boxes" (aka time-outs) are supposed to be dreaded episodes of consequential discipline for serious transgressions, such as, just as a for instance, throwing a Wow Wow Wubbzy hand-held video game squarely at your brother's head. The appropriate attitude should be dismay at having gotten oneself into this situation, contrition for the act, and a resolve not to do it again. At least for the next half hour. Apparently it's not working out that way.
Hallie's penalty box is a booster seat strapped to a folding chair, placed in the living room (where it clashes horribly with the surrounding decor) because it's the only place boring enough to (hopefully) engender the proper spirit of reflection and apology. Eli wandered downstairs this evening and happened to see her sitting in it (after the video game incident), and, because conversation or vocalizations of any kind are strictly prohibited while in penalty box, he quickly averted his eyes so as not to engage her--but not before she gave him a saucy wink, grabbed the dangling, unused safety strap, and buckled herself in.
A minute or so later, the timer went off, signaling the end of the allotted time, and Eli came back around the corner to tell her she could get up now--the next step being apologizing to her brother for braining him. She refused.
"I can't, Daddy. I'm still in the air."
Apparently she had just come from a lavish ball, and was jetting home--Princess Airline, no doubt--and could not possibly get out of her chair, because the seat belt light was not on, and she could clearly see the ground far, far below, so it just wouldn't be safe to wander around the aircraft before it landed.
Sigh.
I think we need a new disciplinary tool.
"Penalty boxes" (aka time-outs) are supposed to be dreaded episodes of consequential discipline for serious transgressions, such as, just as a for instance, throwing a Wow Wow Wubbzy hand-held video game squarely at your brother's head. The appropriate attitude should be dismay at having gotten oneself into this situation, contrition for the act, and a resolve not to do it again. At least for the next half hour. Apparently it's not working out that way.
Hallie's penalty box is a booster seat strapped to a folding chair, placed in the living room (where it clashes horribly with the surrounding decor) because it's the only place boring enough to (hopefully) engender the proper spirit of reflection and apology. Eli wandered downstairs this evening and happened to see her sitting in it (after the video game incident), and, because conversation or vocalizations of any kind are strictly prohibited while in penalty box, he quickly averted his eyes so as not to engage her--but not before she gave him a saucy wink, grabbed the dangling, unused safety strap, and buckled herself in.
A minute or so later, the timer went off, signaling the end of the allotted time, and Eli came back around the corner to tell her she could get up now--the next step being apologizing to her brother for braining him. She refused.
"I can't, Daddy. I'm still in the air."
Apparently she had just come from a lavish ball, and was jetting home--Princess Airline, no doubt--and could not possibly get out of her chair, because the seat belt light was not on, and she could clearly see the ground far, far below, so it just wouldn't be safe to wander around the aircraft before it landed.
Sigh.
I think we need a new disciplinary tool.
Monday, July 26, 2010
My Boy
Sometimes Colin just sends me reeling...the heart on this kid...
He spent the day with my mom (again), to give me just one more day to get my stamina back before I have to face the two-kid-dynamic on my own. They had spent quite a bit of time at Target (man, I love that store) and he came in with his serious face on, and a wad of tissue in his hand. As he started to hand it to me, Mom suggested I sit down, that this was "that kind of present." Even that heads-up did not even begin to prepare me.
Nestled inside the Kleenex was a large, trendy heart necklace, hung on a cord with minimal metal (since I get massive rashes for even looking at cheap jewelry too long, let alone wearing it on my skin). It's bold, burgundy, and rather lovely, but Mom tells me turn it over. Engraved on the back is the phrase "Hold on to your dreams." Very sweet...and then I realize it's a locket. I open it up, and there's a tightly folded yellow Post-It inside--which neither Colin nor Mom will let me look at yet...clearly a slow build here! So I look at the locket, and inside is another engraved message: "Fortune favors the brave."
Mom tells me that this is what sealed the deal for Colin (the fact that it closed with a magnet helped, too), because he looked up at her--you can't even imagine the earnestness of those eyes, framed by those impossibly long eyelashes--and said, "My Mommy had surgery, that's really brave!"
Now, having been properly primed, I was allowed to open the Post-It, which I began to read out loud, and then suddenly couldn't. Oh, my boy, my boy...he dictated to Mom (the Post-It was all she could find in the car to write on), and this is what he wanted to tell me, in his own words:
You have gentle courage, Mama.
You are getting so strong.
This is my heart for you.
Love, Colin
He spent the day with my mom (again), to give me just one more day to get my stamina back before I have to face the two-kid-dynamic on my own. They had spent quite a bit of time at Target (man, I love that store) and he came in with his serious face on, and a wad of tissue in his hand. As he started to hand it to me, Mom suggested I sit down, that this was "that kind of present." Even that heads-up did not even begin to prepare me.
Nestled inside the Kleenex was a large, trendy heart necklace, hung on a cord with minimal metal (since I get massive rashes for even looking at cheap jewelry too long, let alone wearing it on my skin). It's bold, burgundy, and rather lovely, but Mom tells me turn it over. Engraved on the back is the phrase "Hold on to your dreams." Very sweet...and then I realize it's a locket. I open it up, and there's a tightly folded yellow Post-It inside--which neither Colin nor Mom will let me look at yet...clearly a slow build here! So I look at the locket, and inside is another engraved message: "Fortune favors the brave."
Mom tells me that this is what sealed the deal for Colin (the fact that it closed with a magnet helped, too), because he looked up at her--you can't even imagine the earnestness of those eyes, framed by those impossibly long eyelashes--and said, "My Mommy had surgery, that's really brave!"
Now, having been properly primed, I was allowed to open the Post-It, which I began to read out loud, and then suddenly couldn't. Oh, my boy, my boy...he dictated to Mom (the Post-It was all she could find in the car to write on), and this is what he wanted to tell me, in his own words:
You have gentle courage, Mama.
You are getting so strong.
This is my heart for you.
Love, Colin
Eavesdropping
Conversation overheard between two children: Hallie (age 3) washing her face, Colin (age 5) on the toilet (!!), transcribed by Mommy to the best of her ability.
Colin: Salt is sand. Salt is the same as sand. That's why when you're at the beach you're in the salty water and you're all sandy. And you have to get the sand out of the water. That's why God made fish.
Hallie: Ohhhhh. That's why.
Colin: You know what the first fish was? A dinosaur.
Hallie: What?? That's amAZing!!
Colin: Yes, a dinosaur. But then they all died, and then God made houses for people to live in.
Hallie: That's amAZing!! And that's why when I go to heaven, I'm going to see God!
Colin: Right. Unless he's dead.
Hallie: God's going to die? He might die??
Colin: Right. In Heaven. That's where all the spirits go.
Hallie: Yes!! That's amAZing!!
Colin: Stop saying that. (loud groan) I may have to stop telling you all this...
Later....
Hallie: Mommy, I love you. Are you going to die? Are you going to try not to? Are you going to keep your brain inside you? That's good. Night-night!
Colin: Salt is sand. Salt is the same as sand. That's why when you're at the beach you're in the salty water and you're all sandy. And you have to get the sand out of the water. That's why God made fish.
Hallie: Ohhhhh. That's why.
Colin: You know what the first fish was? A dinosaur.
Hallie: What?? That's amAZing!!
Colin: Yes, a dinosaur. But then they all died, and then God made houses for people to live in.
Hallie: That's amAZing!! And that's why when I go to heaven, I'm going to see God!
Colin: Right. Unless he's dead.
Hallie: God's going to die? He might die??
Colin: Right. In Heaven. That's where all the spirits go.
Hallie: Yes!! That's amAZing!!
Colin: Stop saying that. (loud groan) I may have to stop telling you all this...
Later....
Hallie: Mommy, I love you. Are you going to die? Are you going to try not to? Are you going to keep your brain inside you? That's good. Night-night!
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Conversations with Hallie
Yesterday Hallie hurls herself into my arms after her nap (moderately painful...gentle with Mommy, please!), and we have a little hugfest for a few moments.
Hallie: "I love you."
Me: "I love you too, sweetheart."
Hallie, pulling away to look up at me: "You love me?"
Me, surprised: "Well, yes!"
Hallie: "Do you not want me to diiieeee?" (characteristically drawing out the word)
Me: "No!!"
Hallie, very sincerely: "All right. I'll try not to."
Hallie: "I love you."
Me: "I love you too, sweetheart."
Hallie, pulling away to look up at me: "You love me?"
Me, surprised: "Well, yes!"
Hallie: "Do you not want me to diiieeee?" (characteristically drawing out the word)
Me: "No!!"
Hallie, very sincerely: "All right. I'll try not to."
Friday, July 23, 2010
Battle Scars
The kids like to look at my battle-scarred torso. Now, I don't know what lasting scarring this is inflicting on their little psyches, but since we're trying to be as open about it as we think they can handle without being stricken by terror, I let them, occasionally. But I like to look at it also. Not pretty at all, mind you. I look like I was shanked in some very exciting, probably gang-related prison fight, by a very inept attacker who missed all things major. But I'm sorta fascinated with it, startling and colorful as it is...and mostly wondering two things: what the hell is going on in there, and did I really ask for this, like, voluntarily? Right now, in my liquid Vicodin-aided haze (yes, it comes in liquid form, improbably termed an elixir, or at least you think so until you receive its pain-abating blessing. Elixir, indeed. 'Fess up. You're a little jealous right now.)--anyway, with Vicodin standing in for blood, this seems like an awfully drastic step I just took, and one with immediate consequences I just did not see coming.
I think I'm really glad I have no clue what I looked like right after surgery in the ICU. Only my mother, my spouse, and my nurses saw that, and they can all be silenced. I did hear small snippets of "yellow" and "puffy" that kind of put me off asking for a mirror...and then the next day, when I was moved to a room WITH a mirror, they all told me how much better I looked...and I saw what I looked like then...um, scary, no thanks, I'll destroy your cameras if anyone tried to capture the before, I mean it, I will hunt you down. I ain't playin. So that wasn't a scenario I had played out in mind ahead of time.
I really don't have a good idea about how things have been changed around in there, despite the many videos I watched, and lectures I was forced to listen to...I know this got disconnected from that, and reconnected to this thing up here. That's the sum total of my practical knowledge. But I kinda want just a sneak peek, without seeing anything that would make me lose my (very tiny) lunch.
And then, the pain, which is inseparable from the gas. See, during surgery they like to pump gas into you to help move things around in there, and then sew you up and leave it there! Apparently the theory is your body will absorb it and know what to do with it (which explains being repeatedly asked about your hi-jinks in that arena until it stops being embarrassing and just gets boring). This perhaps also explains the "puffy". Did you know you could have gas pain in your neck? Shooting up into your ear canals? "I'm sorry, I can't hear you, I have gas in my ear." What fun we can have with our innards, if only we apply ourselves! These were not facts I ever came across, or ever considered needing to have access to. For those of you who may experience this one day, at least someone told you! And that still doesn't really talk about the pain...which I really don't want to talk about. It's there, it's pain-full, don't wanna focus on it. I have my good friend Vicodin.
Then there's the fist that seems to have popped into being deep in my left side. That's what it feels like, that somebody got a handful of my soft & squishies and is using that handful to relieve stress. Good for you. I'd like my soft parts back now.
The really comforting thing is, this is all "normal". So evidently I somehow could have found out about each and every one of them, and been prepared. Failed as a fact checker! Woulda been good info to have!
Hiccups hurt. That I find childishly cruel.
And I did it all to myself, on purpose, with a goal in mind, with a doctor's blessing (several, actually), me, me, no one else but me did this.
Hence my fascination with the train wreck on my torso--no midriff baring tops in my future, that's for damn sure!
Must look for positives: I no longer drift off, or suddenly find that I'm awake but the lights are out, because my eyes have taken a coffee break, right in the middle of a conversation. This was useful if I was trying to convey to the speaker a) boredom with the topic; or b) pity for me at my obvious fragility. Not useful for actually trying to, you know, talk. Or being so bored I finally opted for an edited-for-content movie in my room that I actually wanted to see, only to find that I can listen, but not watch, at least until I truly fall asleep and dream I'm happily married to David Spade (even in the dream, my dream self was fairly puzzled by this choice, but committed to the role like a pro). And he wasn't even IN the movie! Analyze THAT! So...no longer have to deal with that.
The weird abrupt power-downs occur less often, and less imperatively--I described it to my aunt as having an off-switch that someone else was messing around with. So I only have to get horizontal--fast, mind you--for maybe 20 minutes, not 82.
I've lost twelve pounds, which is skewed and weird and I know won't last, but hey, that's sure a pretty little silver lining you've got there!
Big positive, actually got out of the house today with Mom's help, and got my toes all prettified, and my heels sanded down. So from toe to ankle, you can't even tell I'm just days out of the hospital--unless you wonder at the dragging, halting pace, and the slow, majestic paths that lead from one cushioned object to another. Hallie got hers done too, with the same color as mine, and the same white flower on the big toe. She was so excited, she was nearly catatonic. Couldn't move, speak, smile, nothing...until we told her not to move. Rookie mistake, we know better. It was all kind of hilarious, and great to get out of the house, even if I was a menace on the road afterward because I kept shaking myself awake--remember the power-down things? Awkward when you're driving.
So...summing up time...it's all getting better, and I'm sure I'll remember at some point that there was a really good reason I did this, I just have to stop hurting to find it again. I think I left it under the Vicodin.
I think I'm really glad I have no clue what I looked like right after surgery in the ICU. Only my mother, my spouse, and my nurses saw that, and they can all be silenced. I did hear small snippets of "yellow" and "puffy" that kind of put me off asking for a mirror...and then the next day, when I was moved to a room WITH a mirror, they all told me how much better I looked...and I saw what I looked like then...um, scary, no thanks, I'll destroy your cameras if anyone tried to capture the before, I mean it, I will hunt you down. I ain't playin. So that wasn't a scenario I had played out in mind ahead of time.
I really don't have a good idea about how things have been changed around in there, despite the many videos I watched, and lectures I was forced to listen to...I know this got disconnected from that, and reconnected to this thing up here. That's the sum total of my practical knowledge. But I kinda want just a sneak peek, without seeing anything that would make me lose my (very tiny) lunch.
And then, the pain, which is inseparable from the gas. See, during surgery they like to pump gas into you to help move things around in there, and then sew you up and leave it there! Apparently the theory is your body will absorb it and know what to do with it (which explains being repeatedly asked about your hi-jinks in that arena until it stops being embarrassing and just gets boring). This perhaps also explains the "puffy". Did you know you could have gas pain in your neck? Shooting up into your ear canals? "I'm sorry, I can't hear you, I have gas in my ear." What fun we can have with our innards, if only we apply ourselves! These were not facts I ever came across, or ever considered needing to have access to. For those of you who may experience this one day, at least someone told you! And that still doesn't really talk about the pain...which I really don't want to talk about. It's there, it's pain-full, don't wanna focus on it. I have my good friend Vicodin.
Then there's the fist that seems to have popped into being deep in my left side. That's what it feels like, that somebody got a handful of my soft & squishies and is using that handful to relieve stress. Good for you. I'd like my soft parts back now.
The really comforting thing is, this is all "normal". So evidently I somehow could have found out about each and every one of them, and been prepared. Failed as a fact checker! Woulda been good info to have!
Hiccups hurt. That I find childishly cruel.
And I did it all to myself, on purpose, with a goal in mind, with a doctor's blessing (several, actually), me, me, no one else but me did this.
Hence my fascination with the train wreck on my torso--no midriff baring tops in my future, that's for damn sure!
Must look for positives: I no longer drift off, or suddenly find that I'm awake but the lights are out, because my eyes have taken a coffee break, right in the middle of a conversation. This was useful if I was trying to convey to the speaker a) boredom with the topic; or b) pity for me at my obvious fragility. Not useful for actually trying to, you know, talk. Or being so bored I finally opted for an edited-for-content movie in my room that I actually wanted to see, only to find that I can listen, but not watch, at least until I truly fall asleep and dream I'm happily married to David Spade (even in the dream, my dream self was fairly puzzled by this choice, but committed to the role like a pro). And he wasn't even IN the movie! Analyze THAT! So...no longer have to deal with that.
The weird abrupt power-downs occur less often, and less imperatively--I described it to my aunt as having an off-switch that someone else was messing around with. So I only have to get horizontal--fast, mind you--for maybe 20 minutes, not 82.
I've lost twelve pounds, which is skewed and weird and I know won't last, but hey, that's sure a pretty little silver lining you've got there!
Big positive, actually got out of the house today with Mom's help, and got my toes all prettified, and my heels sanded down. So from toe to ankle, you can't even tell I'm just days out of the hospital--unless you wonder at the dragging, halting pace, and the slow, majestic paths that lead from one cushioned object to another. Hallie got hers done too, with the same color as mine, and the same white flower on the big toe. She was so excited, she was nearly catatonic. Couldn't move, speak, smile, nothing...until we told her not to move. Rookie mistake, we know better. It was all kind of hilarious, and great to get out of the house, even if I was a menace on the road afterward because I kept shaking myself awake--remember the power-down things? Awkward when you're driving.
So...summing up time...it's all getting better, and I'm sure I'll remember at some point that there was a really good reason I did this, I just have to stop hurting to find it again. I think I left it under the Vicodin.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
The deed is done. I am now post-gastric bypass. Very silly of me, I now realize, but somehow the prospect of pain never factored into my thinking. And God said, Ha!
Upside, I think I lost 5 pounds today (if the scale can be trusted, the earth's gravity didn't shift, etc.). I'm just so damn glad to be out of the hospital I can't even say. I will say, however, that waking up from anesthesia is one of my top five least favorite things to do, and I can't even think what the other four would be.
Because apparently those events just weren't momentous enough on their own, my baby, my boy, my sweet little guy, got his first loose tooth today, at the tender age of 5 1/2. Also not something that had factored into my thinking, at least not till the ripe old age of 6. God's LOL-ing at me right now. Colin is ecstatic, I'm teary whenever I think of it, and Hallie is green with jealousy--and certain that she'll wake up to a loose tooth of her own. One traumatic event at a time for Mommy, sweetheart...
Upside, I think I lost 5 pounds today (if the scale can be trusted, the earth's gravity didn't shift, etc.). I'm just so damn glad to be out of the hospital I can't even say. I will say, however, that waking up from anesthesia is one of my top five least favorite things to do, and I can't even think what the other four would be.
Because apparently those events just weren't momentous enough on their own, my baby, my boy, my sweet little guy, got his first loose tooth today, at the tender age of 5 1/2. Also not something that had factored into my thinking, at least not till the ripe old age of 6. God's LOL-ing at me right now. Colin is ecstatic, I'm teary whenever I think of it, and Hallie is green with jealousy--and certain that she'll wake up to a loose tooth of her own. One traumatic event at a time for Mommy, sweetheart...
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Epidermally speaking
So given that I'm staring down the barrel of a huge life change (gosh, that's some super-positive imagery there...I'm excited about it, really! I swear!), it has apparently sparked some impulses to improve myself in other areas. Ergo, I have rediscovered my somewhat dormant urge to do something really radical: moisturize.
I feel like I'm confessing something pretty dark and potentially humiliating here, but...my skin has not felt the sweet, humid kiss of moisturizer in a while now. I've sort of been stuck been in a fall-into-bed-any-which-way mode--too many grueling nights of retail adventures or colorful evenings with the kids, I guess, to think about adding another step between me and that mattress.
But suddenly last night, out of nowhere, I heard this little tiny voice calling out, "I'm thirsty!" I believe it was my epidermis. The voice was pretty faint, but then, I think it'd been calling for a while now, and had just about given up and accepted its fate. So I got up and started hunting around for moisturizer. I had to go digging in the scary dark places under my sink to find it, but I don't think it had gone rancid or anything--can you get botulism from bad moisturizer? Great, now I'm gonna worry about that, too...
It sounds silly, but I actually do think this is a small sign of...something. Here I am about to radically alter my physiology, change my relationship with food forever, and now that the panic is starting to subside, I think I'm experiencing some urges to take care of myself in other ways. Even something as small as moisturizing (which as I keep reading, you can't really overstate the importance of...I think Cosmo said so). So I think it's a pretty good sign, that maybe I can shift my focus--at least sometimes--from everyone else's needs, and take a closer look at some of my own. Or it's a midlife crisis. Good for the pores, either way.
Next step: to rediscover the joys of pedicures, convince my husband it's cheaper than therapy, and save money on the all bedsheets my sandpaper feet would otherwise shred to bits.
I feel like I'm confessing something pretty dark and potentially humiliating here, but...my skin has not felt the sweet, humid kiss of moisturizer in a while now. I've sort of been stuck been in a fall-into-bed-any-which-way mode--too many grueling nights of retail adventures or colorful evenings with the kids, I guess, to think about adding another step between me and that mattress.
But suddenly last night, out of nowhere, I heard this little tiny voice calling out, "I'm thirsty!" I believe it was my epidermis. The voice was pretty faint, but then, I think it'd been calling for a while now, and had just about given up and accepted its fate. So I got up and started hunting around for moisturizer. I had to go digging in the scary dark places under my sink to find it, but I don't think it had gone rancid or anything--can you get botulism from bad moisturizer? Great, now I'm gonna worry about that, too...
It sounds silly, but I actually do think this is a small sign of...something. Here I am about to radically alter my physiology, change my relationship with food forever, and now that the panic is starting to subside, I think I'm experiencing some urges to take care of myself in other ways. Even something as small as moisturizing (which as I keep reading, you can't really overstate the importance of...I think Cosmo said so). So I think it's a pretty good sign, that maybe I can shift my focus--at least sometimes--from everyone else's needs, and take a closer look at some of my own. Or it's a midlife crisis. Good for the pores, either way.
Next step: to rediscover the joys of pedicures, convince my husband it's cheaper than therapy, and save money on the all bedsheets my sandpaper feet would otherwise shred to bits.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Ways to avoid cleaning one's house:
Goof around on the computer
Read a chapter in a good book
Check on your spread in Frontierville (aka, goofing around on the computer)
Write a few e-mails (see above)
Have lunch
Check to see if your e-mails have gotten a reply
Decide the dog has to go outside, right now, regardless of the actual urgency of the potty dance being performed
Update your Facebook status from your iPhone (doesn't count as computer-goofing)
Scrub a bathroom or two, just to have something to show for yourself--do it well, your pride is riding on this, and you don't wanna have to come back
Take a break, reward yourself by goofing around on the computer
Goof around on the computer
Read a chapter in a good book
Check on your spread in Frontierville (aka, goofing around on the computer)
Write a few e-mails (see above)
Have lunch
Check to see if your e-mails have gotten a reply
Decide the dog has to go outside, right now, regardless of the actual urgency of the potty dance being performed
Update your Facebook status from your iPhone (doesn't count as computer-goofing)
Scrub a bathroom or two, just to have something to show for yourself--do it well, your pride is riding on this, and you don't wanna have to come back
Take a break, reward yourself by goofing around on the computer
Monday, July 12, 2010
The other day Eli, the kids and I were driving to a surprise anniversary party for some very dear friends. First we had to meet my parents at a mall, transfer a child to their car in the semi-vain hope that being separated would encourage each child to take a nap on the fly, and then hit the road again promptly so that we would reach our destination on time, two hours later. Yeah, it was pretty far away.
So about 20 minutes after leaving the house (having spent roughly 15 of those minutes in line for gas at Costco...yes dear, I know it's cheaper, but we're on a schedule!!!) I realize that Eli is going the wrong way. I point this out, and he says, "No, this is the way to Fashion Island."
"No!!" I say. "We're meeting at South Coast Plaza! I told you this, at least 3 times!"
As we all know, those malls are kind of in opposite directions...not good!!
Now I'm tense (well, I've been tense since the gas station, to be honest) so we bicker about this a little. To his credit, Eli apologized several times, and said (also several times), "I guess I had Fashion Island stuck in my head."
At this point, I'm not quite ready to be done with being ticked off, so the tension is still fairly thick in the car...until a clear, high little voice from the back seat rings out:
"Daddy," says Hallie reasonably, "if Fashion Island is stuck in your head, then you have to just...just...pull it right out!" (with appropriate hand gestures to illustrate)
Poof! Magic! Tension gone!
I'm really curious, though...what was her mental picture there?
So about 20 minutes after leaving the house (having spent roughly 15 of those minutes in line for gas at Costco...yes dear, I know it's cheaper, but we're on a schedule!!!) I realize that Eli is going the wrong way. I point this out, and he says, "No, this is the way to Fashion Island."
"No!!" I say. "We're meeting at South Coast Plaza! I told you this, at least 3 times!"
As we all know, those malls are kind of in opposite directions...not good!!
Now I'm tense (well, I've been tense since the gas station, to be honest) so we bicker about this a little. To his credit, Eli apologized several times, and said (also several times), "I guess I had Fashion Island stuck in my head."
At this point, I'm not quite ready to be done with being ticked off, so the tension is still fairly thick in the car...until a clear, high little voice from the back seat rings out:
"Daddy," says Hallie reasonably, "if Fashion Island is stuck in your head, then you have to just...just...pull it right out!" (with appropriate hand gestures to illustrate)
Poof! Magic! Tension gone!
I'm really curious, though...what was her mental picture there?
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Lara is so tired...
...(it's one a.m.) that the letter arrangement on the keyboard seems like a worthwhile topic of discussion. Come on, who thinks this makes sense? Try showing it to a five year old and asking him to type his name...and be prepared to stay awhile! Could it be more counterituitive? Really? Could I have picked a more germane topic to throw out to the masses?
Oh Lord, now I'm going to get dozens of replies--my husband's first among them, no doubt, about the history of, the necessity for,the beauty of, whatever, whatever, whatever. Ha, I say! If my punch drunk fingers can't find the correct characters (you have no idea the sheer amount of damage control I'm having to do), then I say, the system is flawed! Ha! So there you have it, it's new, it's radical, it's edgy, it's out there (makes me think of "When Harry Met Sally), now you gotta deal with it!
Yeah. That is so me. Rebel, malcontent, social activist. All things everyone who knows me thinks of first. Right.
Ahh. I think I can sleep now, content that I have...um...elevated awareness about...um...keyboard arrangement. I suspect I'll regret this in the morning.
Oh Lord, now I'm going to get dozens of replies--my husband's first among them, no doubt, about the history of, the necessity for,the beauty of, whatever, whatever, whatever. Ha, I say! If my punch drunk fingers can't find the correct characters (you have no idea the sheer amount of damage control I'm having to do), then I say, the system is flawed! Ha! So there you have it, it's new, it's radical, it's edgy, it's out there (makes me think of "When Harry Met Sally), now you gotta deal with it!
Yeah. That is so me. Rebel, malcontent, social activist. All things everyone who knows me thinks of first. Right.
Ahh. I think I can sleep now, content that I have...um...elevated awareness about...um...keyboard arrangement. I suspect I'll regret this in the morning.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
3 year olds are awesome
Even though this happened about a month ago, I had to write this down, for posterity's sake. Posterity will thank me some day.
So, Hallie has a truly fabulous Cinderella dress--this is no over-glitzed, dime-a-dozen Disney frock, but a one-of-a-kind creation handmade by her very own Nana for Halloween. As an aside, because Nana made it and doesn't want to ever repeat the process, the dress has a great many tucks and seam allowances, so that we can just let it out as Hallie grows...so many, in fact, that she just might end up wearing it to prom someday. As a minidress.
Anyway. The dress is so fabulous, and so beloved, that Hallie asks to wear it every day.
Every. Single. Day.
Consequently, Cinderella sightings have increased dramatically in my neighborhood, the grocery store, the drug store...you get the idea.
So one day the dog desperately needed a walk, and I simply did not have the emotional fortitude to extract the Hallie buried inside the Cinderella, so Cinderella came, too. Things went pretty well (although my Cinderella has an inexplicable desire to stop every few feet and build "fire pits" out of pine needles...which I do not remember at all from the movie), until we ran across a gaggle of tween girls. Two of them instantly cooed over the fabulosity that walked with me, and one could not be bothered. Hallie, as is her wont, struck up a conversation with the girls, one she was quite willing to extend indefinitely, and one the gaggle quickly became bored with. As I gently chivvied her along, trying to spare the girls (and let the poor dog do his business), Hallie turned back one last time and called out, "See ya later, alligator!" Dutifully, one girl responded with the required, "After 'while, crocodile!" Things suddenly went south.
Hallie rounded on her assailant, filled with an indignant fury that threatened to burst seams and tucks, and placed her hands firmly on her hips. Glaring with righteous fervor, she shouted, "I'm not a crocodile! Can't you see the dress? I'm CINDERELLA!!!"
The bewildered girls gaped at her as I dragged Hallie away, quivering with barely-suppressed guffaws while trying to explain the socially-accepted rote exchange that had just taken place. Hallie glanced coldly over her shoulder at me, muttering, "Well, I don't like that at all," picked up her skirts, and stomped off toward home in high princess-like dudgeon.
I haven't come across those girls since.
So, Hallie has a truly fabulous Cinderella dress--this is no over-glitzed, dime-a-dozen Disney frock, but a one-of-a-kind creation handmade by her very own Nana for Halloween. As an aside, because Nana made it and doesn't want to ever repeat the process, the dress has a great many tucks and seam allowances, so that we can just let it out as Hallie grows...so many, in fact, that she just might end up wearing it to prom someday. As a minidress.
Anyway. The dress is so fabulous, and so beloved, that Hallie asks to wear it every day.
Every. Single. Day.
Consequently, Cinderella sightings have increased dramatically in my neighborhood, the grocery store, the drug store...you get the idea.
So one day the dog desperately needed a walk, and I simply did not have the emotional fortitude to extract the Hallie buried inside the Cinderella, so Cinderella came, too. Things went pretty well (although my Cinderella has an inexplicable desire to stop every few feet and build "fire pits" out of pine needles...which I do not remember at all from the movie), until we ran across a gaggle of tween girls. Two of them instantly cooed over the fabulosity that walked with me, and one could not be bothered. Hallie, as is her wont, struck up a conversation with the girls, one she was quite willing to extend indefinitely, and one the gaggle quickly became bored with. As I gently chivvied her along, trying to spare the girls (and let the poor dog do his business), Hallie turned back one last time and called out, "See ya later, alligator!" Dutifully, one girl responded with the required, "After 'while, crocodile!" Things suddenly went south.
Hallie rounded on her assailant, filled with an indignant fury that threatened to burst seams and tucks, and placed her hands firmly on her hips. Glaring with righteous fervor, she shouted, "I'm not a crocodile! Can't you see the dress? I'm CINDERELLA!!!"
The bewildered girls gaped at her as I dragged Hallie away, quivering with barely-suppressed guffaws while trying to explain the socially-accepted rote exchange that had just taken place. Hallie glanced coldly over her shoulder at me, muttering, "Well, I don't like that at all," picked up her skirts, and stomped off toward home in high princess-like dudgeon.
I haven't come across those girls since.
Saturday, July 3, 2010
I'm in freak out mode. Not quite full-on breathing-into-a-paper-bag-crying-hysterically-curled-up in-a-corner-babbling-incoherently freak out....but I can kind of see it coming. I have so much to do, and can't start anything, or finish anything (do those cancel each other out?), and I pretty much just want to hide. My typical stress response.
Am I entitled to feel stressed? Let's consider this past week:
VBS every morning until noon--which required me to be far more active over a sustained period of time than I am accustomed to being, so my body felt tired, sore, and generally outraged. I think it's still mad at me.
Work nearly every night--which I have oodles of resentment for anyway, given the ridiculously low wage I receive for the headaches of retail, which I swore I would never return to, and yet here I am. Not to mention that it takes me away from my family, which I loathe...yeah, yeah, I know I'm doing this to help said family, and it's the only thing that I could find that would let me work evenings and weekends...doesn't matter, I still detest the necessity. At least in my more pessimistic moments--can you tell that this is one?
Carved out time to celebrate my anniversary--okay, not a stress at all, other than finding someone to watch the kids (thank you little brother), and actually pretty enjoyable. Grown up time with my sweetheart. Can't really complain about that. So I won't. Just another event on the agenda.
Squeezed in a visit with my dearest friend and her kids, literally sandwiched between VBS and work, again, something I loved doing, so not really complaining, it just added to a jampacked week.
That same night, after working till ten, picked up my parents from the airport and welcomed them back from France--again, enjoyable, but the day simply wouldn't end.
Completed two commissioned signs for a newly-uncled friend of mine. Still have one to go.
And I have company coming over tomorrow, because I can't bear not having a 4th celebration...but it means I have to spend all of today (except for right now; can we say "avoidance"?) cleaning my house. Probably be up until after midnight working on it, because that's just how this always turns out. That's how I roll.
But the big, overriding thing that I think I haven't really been dealing with, and that I think is tipping the balance over into freak-out, is my upcoming surgery. I'm having gastric bypass--holy crap, did I just say that in a semi-public forum?? But, yeah. Three weeks until I overhaul my body and my way of life. It's kind of huge.
I think I'm more nervous than I realized, and I haven't had time to think about it--even though, I forgot to mention, this week I also had to squeeze in a couple doctor visits to get ten (!!) vials of blood drawn, have an EKG, drink barium so that they could x-ray my esophagus (I have a few choice words for the person who tried to make that horrendous crap taste better by adding "strawberry" flavor) and meet with the surgeon. You'd think those things would put this topic front and center in my cranium, but no. Instead it's been simmering in the back where I can't get a good look at it.
Sooooooooo....commence freak out!!! Maybe I'm feeling a little justified to have some moderate hysterics...but the floor isn't cleaning itself, it's lunch time for little ones, I have to get the homemade ice cream started for tomorrow...I really don't have time. Maybe Monday. I'll pencil that in.
Am I entitled to feel stressed? Let's consider this past week:
VBS every morning until noon--which required me to be far more active over a sustained period of time than I am accustomed to being, so my body felt tired, sore, and generally outraged. I think it's still mad at me.
Work nearly every night--which I have oodles of resentment for anyway, given the ridiculously low wage I receive for the headaches of retail, which I swore I would never return to, and yet here I am. Not to mention that it takes me away from my family, which I loathe...yeah, yeah, I know I'm doing this to help said family, and it's the only thing that I could find that would let me work evenings and weekends...doesn't matter, I still detest the necessity. At least in my more pessimistic moments--can you tell that this is one?
Carved out time to celebrate my anniversary--okay, not a stress at all, other than finding someone to watch the kids (thank you little brother), and actually pretty enjoyable. Grown up time with my sweetheart. Can't really complain about that. So I won't. Just another event on the agenda.
Squeezed in a visit with my dearest friend and her kids, literally sandwiched between VBS and work, again, something I loved doing, so not really complaining, it just added to a jampacked week.
That same night, after working till ten, picked up my parents from the airport and welcomed them back from France--again, enjoyable, but the day simply wouldn't end.
Completed two commissioned signs for a newly-uncled friend of mine. Still have one to go.
And I have company coming over tomorrow, because I can't bear not having a 4th celebration...but it means I have to spend all of today (except for right now; can we say "avoidance"?) cleaning my house. Probably be up until after midnight working on it, because that's just how this always turns out. That's how I roll.
But the big, overriding thing that I think I haven't really been dealing with, and that I think is tipping the balance over into freak-out, is my upcoming surgery. I'm having gastric bypass--holy crap, did I just say that in a semi-public forum?? But, yeah. Three weeks until I overhaul my body and my way of life. It's kind of huge.
I think I'm more nervous than I realized, and I haven't had time to think about it--even though, I forgot to mention, this week I also had to squeeze in a couple doctor visits to get ten (!!) vials of blood drawn, have an EKG, drink barium so that they could x-ray my esophagus (I have a few choice words for the person who tried to make that horrendous crap taste better by adding "strawberry" flavor) and meet with the surgeon. You'd think those things would put this topic front and center in my cranium, but no. Instead it's been simmering in the back where I can't get a good look at it.
Sooooooooo....commence freak out!!! Maybe I'm feeling a little justified to have some moderate hysterics...but the floor isn't cleaning itself, it's lunch time for little ones, I have to get the homemade ice cream started for tomorrow...I really don't have time. Maybe Monday. I'll pencil that in.
Monday, June 28, 2010
VBS Hell
I'm in VBS hell. Well, it's not entirely hellacious, there are some bright spots...but I'm wondering why I volunteered for this. Again. For the uninitiated, VBS is short for Vacation Bible School, a wonderful institution that offers some structure for one's children in the otherwise formless sea of summer, with a little religion thrown in. Once I send my children off, I could wallow in three hours of silence, in the (temporary) utter absence of whining, and light-saber-wielding-sibling-stalking. I could meditate. I could work out (insert hysterical laughter here). I could...nap.
I didn't do any of those things. Instead, while my children trooped off in their standard-issue eye-searing orange t-shirts, I...put on an eye-searing orange t-shirt. I stood in front of 6-odd classes of 20 kids each. And I danced like a crazy person. I have now thrust my arms over my head--in order to demonstrate proper "Galactic Blast" technique--so many times I think my shoulders might possibly be paralyzed. While exhorting assorted disinterested pre-teens to participate and sing with actual sound issuing from their lips (this seems to be a new and bizarre concept), thus singing ever more loudly myself, I now sound like an emphysematic truck driver. I embraced perspiration (no, little boy, I did not just take a shower, but thank you so much for asking).
Like I said, though, there was a bright spot: at the end of the day, leading the entire group of 100 kids in singing that cursed rocket ship song one more time, I look out and see my own little Colin and Hallie, dancing for all they're worth, singing at the top of their little pitch-challenged voices, utterly committed, and thrilled to the core that their Mommy was Music Leader.
Day one: success.
I didn't do any of those things. Instead, while my children trooped off in their standard-issue eye-searing orange t-shirts, I...put on an eye-searing orange t-shirt. I stood in front of 6-odd classes of 20 kids each. And I danced like a crazy person. I have now thrust my arms over my head--in order to demonstrate proper "Galactic Blast" technique--so many times I think my shoulders might possibly be paralyzed. While exhorting assorted disinterested pre-teens to participate and sing with actual sound issuing from their lips (this seems to be a new and bizarre concept), thus singing ever more loudly myself, I now sound like an emphysematic truck driver. I embraced perspiration (no, little boy, I did not just take a shower, but thank you so much for asking).
Like I said, though, there was a bright spot: at the end of the day, leading the entire group of 100 kids in singing that cursed rocket ship song one more time, I look out and see my own little Colin and Hallie, dancing for all they're worth, singing at the top of their little pitch-challenged voices, utterly committed, and thrilled to the core that their Mommy was Music Leader.
Day one: success.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
I am in love with sleep these days. OMG...that sleep could be this good!! There are no words, except, thank you, CPAP inventor...while I question your design aesthetic and curse the day that mirrored doors were installed at the foot of my bed...still, I salute you, and am eager to partake in your bounty once more. Lead on, Great Warrior in the raging battle against sleep apnea. Lead on. I will follow, even unto the end of dreaming. Also known as waking up.
This was originally one of those questions that was going around Facebook a while back....but I ended up pleasantly surprised with my list, and like to remind myself of a few of them, from time to time. So here are 25 random things. About me.
1. I have two really, really, really, cute kids. I'm not bragging...I'm just saying. Actual fact.
2. The first time I met my best friend, she looked at me across the table during PSAT testing, and asked to draw my lips. I graciously acceded to her request, and a marvelous friendship was born.
3. When I met my husband (10-ish years ago), some people thought he was probably an axe murderer, because the only people who tried dating over the internet were losers and psychos (except me?).
4. I think one of my son's jobs in my life is to help me understand my brother better.
5. My parents still live in the house I grew up in.
6. I didn't move out of that house until embarrassingly late in life.
7. I was on the ten-year college plan, but it took me twelve.
8. I have yet do anything with my degree...I sort of resent it because I accidentally got one geared for teaching, and I don't wanna teach!
9. My dream is, once the kids are in school, to go back myself and get an MFA in creative writing, which is what I chickened out of doing the first time around.
10. I'm a terrible housekeeper.
11. I can't quite get the words "stay-at-home mom" out of my mouth without sounding the teensiest bit defensive.
12. Conversely, I wouldn't trade this time with my kids while they are so little for anything or any job.
13. At one time, I had a voice teacher that pretty much guaranteed me he could make me a Broadway star. Um...what happened there?
14. One of my favorite things in life is being in rehearsal for a production...I almost wish they could go on indefinitely. Although the performance is pretty great, too.
15. Also on my to do list for when the kids are in school: get into community theater.
16. I suspect I have a somewhat inflated notion of how much time I will have to myself when the kids are in school.
17. I am extremely conflict-avoidant; Colin is also helping me with that by generating as much conflict as a four (now five) year old mind can dream up.
18. While I love to write, coming up with an ending is and has always been the bane of my existence...therefore, this list is suddenly getting very difficult.
19. I am the Queen of all Procrastinators. For example, right now I should be cleaning my house for company.
20. Dang, five more things? Um...I really love cats...or at least I do in theory...now that I have kids, I find that my capacity for having demands placed on me is pretty much exhausted before I get to the cat. So I guess this means I really should wait on getting a dog? Addendum: Cat died, got the dog...and the same phenomenon (not so shocking), is repeating itself. Poor dog.
21. I apparently am a Slayer of Goldfish.
22. I am currently completely obsessed with Dragon Wars, which, as my best friend pointed out, doesn't actually DO anything. She's right, and yet...oh, sorry, gotta go check on my gold! Addendum: Down with Dragon Wars, onto FrontierVille! Also does nothing, but I still gotta go check on my spread! There might be bears! Does this mean anything, like about escapism, an addictive personality...? Nah.
23. My husband is the love of my life, and I don't tell him that nearly enough.
24. I love living in California, and am always completely bewildered when my friends actually want to move away. Sorry guys, but I think you're a little mental!
25. When I had my first car, I was strongly resistant to the notion that any sort of maintenance was really necessary...and I still secretly hold out hope that a self-healing vehicle will hit the markets in my lifetime.
1. I have two really, really, really, cute kids. I'm not bragging...I'm just saying. Actual fact.
2. The first time I met my best friend, she looked at me across the table during PSAT testing, and asked to draw my lips. I graciously acceded to her request, and a marvelous friendship was born.
3. When I met my husband (10-ish years ago), some people thought he was probably an axe murderer, because the only people who tried dating over the internet were losers and psychos (except me?).
4. I think one of my son's jobs in my life is to help me understand my brother better.
5. My parents still live in the house I grew up in.
6. I didn't move out of that house until embarrassingly late in life.
7. I was on the ten-year college plan, but it took me twelve.
8. I have yet do anything with my degree...I sort of resent it because I accidentally got one geared for teaching, and I don't wanna teach!
9. My dream is, once the kids are in school, to go back myself and get an MFA in creative writing, which is what I chickened out of doing the first time around.
10. I'm a terrible housekeeper.
11. I can't quite get the words "stay-at-home mom" out of my mouth without sounding the teensiest bit defensive.
12. Conversely, I wouldn't trade this time with my kids while they are so little for anything or any job.
13. At one time, I had a voice teacher that pretty much guaranteed me he could make me a Broadway star. Um...what happened there?
14. One of my favorite things in life is being in rehearsal for a production...I almost wish they could go on indefinitely. Although the performance is pretty great, too.
15. Also on my to do list for when the kids are in school: get into community theater.
16. I suspect I have a somewhat inflated notion of how much time I will have to myself when the kids are in school.
17. I am extremely conflict-avoidant; Colin is also helping me with that by generating as much conflict as a four (now five) year old mind can dream up.
18. While I love to write, coming up with an ending is and has always been the bane of my existence...therefore, this list is suddenly getting very difficult.
19. I am the Queen of all Procrastinators. For example, right now I should be cleaning my house for company.
20. Dang, five more things? Um...I really love cats...or at least I do in theory...now that I have kids, I find that my capacity for having demands placed on me is pretty much exhausted before I get to the cat. So I guess this means I really should wait on getting a dog? Addendum: Cat died, got the dog...and the same phenomenon (not so shocking), is repeating itself. Poor dog.
21. I apparently am a Slayer of Goldfish.
22. I am currently completely obsessed with Dragon Wars, which, as my best friend pointed out, doesn't actually DO anything. She's right, and yet...oh, sorry, gotta go check on my gold! Addendum: Down with Dragon Wars, onto FrontierVille! Also does nothing, but I still gotta go check on my spread! There might be bears! Does this mean anything, like about escapism, an addictive personality...? Nah.
23. My husband is the love of my life, and I don't tell him that nearly enough.
24. I love living in California, and am always completely bewildered when my friends actually want to move away. Sorry guys, but I think you're a little mental!
25. When I had my first car, I was strongly resistant to the notion that any sort of maintenance was really necessary...and I still secretly hold out hope that a self-healing vehicle will hit the markets in my lifetime.
Monday, June 21, 2010
Poignant moment somewhere around last Halloween, I think…Colin, then 4 1/2, got really fascinated with bald eagles for a few weeks--this is what he does, fasten onto a topic and suck it dry, saturating himself in it. Anyway, I showed him lots of clips on YouTube, while trying to explain the difficult, abstract concept of symbolism—i.e., why the bald eagle is particularly important, and to us as Americans specifically. Try explaining patriotism to a four year old!
We found a video of an eagle named Challenger, with the schmaltziest, cheesiest patriotic song I have ever heard about “When Challenger Flies”— I mean seriously, it had me gagging and rolling my eyes—and on the fourth or fifth straight playback when I thought I was going to truly hurl, I look over at my little boy and realized that he had tears in his eyes. He really didn’t know what to do with such a big emotion, and had to have a little cry fest for a minute, saying he felt “sad”…but how stunning when I realized that, no matter how lame I thought it was, this experience of being moved by music, of being uplifted, impassioned, stirred up, was, for him, brand new. What a wonder that I got to see that moment, and could put aside my jaded cynicism for a while, and maybe guide him through that a little bit. What an honor. And what a magical child to feel, so deeply, so young...he staggers me.
We found a video of an eagle named Challenger, with the schmaltziest, cheesiest patriotic song I have ever heard about “When Challenger Flies”— I mean seriously, it had me gagging and rolling my eyes—and on the fourth or fifth straight playback when I thought I was going to truly hurl, I look over at my little boy and realized that he had tears in his eyes. He really didn’t know what to do with such a big emotion, and had to have a little cry fest for a minute, saying he felt “sad”…but how stunning when I realized that, no matter how lame I thought it was, this experience of being moved by music, of being uplifted, impassioned, stirred up, was, for him, brand new. What a wonder that I got to see that moment, and could put aside my jaded cynicism for a while, and maybe guide him through that a little bit. What an honor. And what a magical child to feel, so deeply, so young...he staggers me.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
It's 8:09 a.m., and I'm waiting for a man to show up. Once he gets here, I will usher him into my bedroom, and beg him to show me how his techno-toys work...it will involve straps, and hoses, and heavy breathing. Yes, that's right...I'm having an affair with...a CPAP machine.
See, it turns out, there's a reason I've been exhausted for the last, oh, six years or so. There's a reason I have trouble remembering what happened last week, for why I can't fall asleep without my good friend Ambien, for myriad aches, pains, and other small complaints. I have that uber-sexy, don't-you-wish-you-had-it-too condition, sleep apnea.
I know this because I got to have a sleep adventure at a lab, where they attached about 20 electrodes and wires to my face, body and scalp with this thick, sticky goop (so glad I'd washed my hair special for the occasion), gathered it all into a heavy ponytail behind me so I was afraid to move too much, and then wished me pleasant dreams. Um, yeah. That went really well. Despite my conviction that sleep was pretty much impossible under these conditions, I did sleep, sporadically (it was a looooong couple of hours), and apparently had enough apnea "events" to allow my doctor to diagnose it, and prescribe this lovely contraption that I am literally waiting with bated breath for.
So, come on, technician guy, do your worst, give me your bulkiest, unloveliest, unsexiest machine. I'm ready for you. And I think I'll probably end up thanking you for it, as the mere idea of sleep...real sleep...night after night of restful, restorative sleep... makes me all verklempt.
See, it turns out, there's a reason I've been exhausted for the last, oh, six years or so. There's a reason I have trouble remembering what happened last week, for why I can't fall asleep without my good friend Ambien, for myriad aches, pains, and other small complaints. I have that uber-sexy, don't-you-wish-you-had-it-too condition, sleep apnea.
I know this because I got to have a sleep adventure at a lab, where they attached about 20 electrodes and wires to my face, body and scalp with this thick, sticky goop (so glad I'd washed my hair special for the occasion), gathered it all into a heavy ponytail behind me so I was afraid to move too much, and then wished me pleasant dreams. Um, yeah. That went really well. Despite my conviction that sleep was pretty much impossible under these conditions, I did sleep, sporadically (it was a looooong couple of hours), and apparently had enough apnea "events" to allow my doctor to diagnose it, and prescribe this lovely contraption that I am literally waiting with bated breath for.
So, come on, technician guy, do your worst, give me your bulkiest, unloveliest, unsexiest machine. I'm ready for you. And I think I'll probably end up thanking you for it, as the mere idea of sleep...real sleep...night after night of restful, restorative sleep...
Monday, June 14, 2010
So, I just thought I'd compile a small list of the ways in which I have found my five year old son sleeping, in the last few months...this boy must have wonderful adventures once I kiss him good night and close the door:
A) With a giant stuffed snake wrapped around his head--unclear if it was protecting or eating him.
B) With his hands tucked angelically under his cheek, but a full-size toy rifle balanced carefully across his body--perhaps to fend off the snake?
C) With his head nestled inside a large Lego bucket--my personal favorite, and one for which I really can't come up with an explanation.
And one night I think I quashed a burgeoning adventure (bad Mommy, bad Mommy) by making him take off an ever-so-snazzy, silver-grey Kenneth Cole dressy vest, 2 sizes too small (which looked entirely fabulous over his bug jammies) before he climbed into bed ...who knows what he could have done with that one.
A few months later... Shoved his mattress out from the wall about a foot, and squeezed into the space he'd created...when I came in and took a picture of him, he roused enough to sit up and gabble incensed nonsense at me (which was both funny and unnerving) and flung himself back down.The next night he improved upon this idea , shoving the mattress completely off the bed, and was sleeping on the boxsprings when I found him. Do you know how uncomfortable a boxspring is?? The next day he told me his mattress was there for anyone who might have wanted to visit in the night. I thought it was awfully considerate, even as I commanded him never to do it again.
Meanwhile, his baby sister (aged 3) is clearly feeling a little inspired by big brother's boldness, and has staged a few nighttime discoveries of her own, although it tends to run toward cleaning her room when we think she's asleep (which prompts me to wonder whose child she is, as she's clearly not mine), sleeping dead center in the middle of the floor sans any blankets or pillows, and inexplicably draping small blankets over random objects.
Can I just say I don't remember having nearly this much fun when the lights went out when I was a little girl. Well, except that one time I rigged a booby trap in my room to catch a criminal....but that's for another time.
A) With a giant stuffed snake wrapped around his head--unclear if it was protecting or eating him.
B) With his hands tucked angelically under his cheek, but a full-size toy rifle balanced carefully across his body--perhaps to fend off the snake?
C) With his head nestled inside a large Lego bucket--my personal favorite, and one for which I really can't come up with an explanation.
And one night I think I quashed a burgeoning adventure (bad Mommy, bad Mommy) by making him take off an ever-so-snazzy, silver-grey Kenneth Cole dressy vest, 2 sizes too small (which looked entirely fabulous over his bug jammies) before he climbed into bed ...who knows what he could have done with that one.
A few months later... Shoved his mattress out from the wall about a foot, and squeezed into the space he'd created...when I came in and took a picture of him, he roused enough to sit up and gabble incensed nonsense at me (which was both funny and unnerving) and flung himself back down.The next night he improved upon this idea , shoving the mattress completely off the bed, and was sleeping on the boxsprings when I found him. Do you know how uncomfortable a boxspring is?? The next day he told me his mattress was there for anyone who might have wanted to visit in the night. I thought it was awfully considerate, even as I commanded him never to do it again.
Meanwhile, his baby sister (aged 3) is clearly feeling a little inspired by big brother's boldness, and has staged a few nighttime discoveries of her own, although it tends to run toward cleaning her room when we think she's asleep (which prompts me to wonder whose child she is, as she's clearly not mine), sleeping dead center in the middle of the floor sans any blankets or pillows, and inexplicably draping small blankets over random objects.
Can I just say I don't remember having nearly this much fun when the lights went out when I was a little girl. Well, except that one time I rigged a booby trap in my room to catch a criminal....but that's for another time.
So I just created a blog, and I have NO IDEA what to do with it. I'm always a little behind the technology curve, and at this point, I've pretty much lost hope of ever catching up.
But here's my intent with this...thing...I just summoned out of the ether: to write about the stuff that goes on my life. Oooooooh. Cutting edge, huh? Never been done before in the history of the internet! But, as I was reminded recently, write what you know...so you're going to hear about the antics of my two young kids, the new dog, the paradoxes of being a stay-at-home mom, how I know when I've lost my candidacy for Mother of the Year...stuff like that. Probably some stuff about my sporadic attempts at tapping into my personal creative well (hint: you're looking at one right now!).
Now we'll see how interesting we all--me included--find this experiment.
But here's my intent with this...thing...I just summoned out of the ether: to write about the stuff that goes on my life. Oooooooh. Cutting edge, huh? Never been done before in the history of the internet! But, as I was reminded recently, write what you know...so you're going to hear about the antics of my two young kids, the new dog, the paradoxes of being a stay-at-home mom, how I know when I've lost my candidacy for Mother of the Year...stuff like that. Probably some stuff about my sporadic attempts at tapping into my personal creative well (hint: you're looking at one right now!).
Now we'll see how interesting we all--me included--find this experiment.
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