March 31, 2005 | Haven't been hit by lightning yet!

I received one of those fake eBay scam mails today. I was urged to update my account, but cautioned “Never share your eBay password to anyone!” Dang… I was this close to succumbing to their nefarious plan. But I never give my credit card information to people for whom English is a second language, because I’m an elitist American snob.

Then I was reading along… somewhere… today (I can’t even remember where, but it doesn’t really matter), and a poster commented that they would skip any posts where the language wasn’t perfect, because they’re “really a stickler for proper grammer.” (sic) Cuz, you know, it’s so verry anoying when peuple dont have grammer skillz. I resisted the urge to reply “Pot, meet kettle.” Or that I’m really a stickler for spelling, and I’ve decreed that the original poster has been sentenced to death via multiple puncture wounds with red editing pens.

The devil’s in the details, as they say.
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Offspring: ecstasy and agony

“It is too early in the morning for you to be shrieking at the top of your lungs.”

“I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. Please stop.”

“I’m not”

“You most certainly are, now cut it out and stop arguing with me.”
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March 30, 2005 | It's not a regret, it's an "experience"

There’s no good excuse for how grumpy I’m feeling about this, but by way of explanation: My feet are sticky. This is enough to annoy a normal person, and drive to the brink of madness a person who spent the previous night bemoaning the lack of time and cleanliness in her surroundings. (Oh! Pick me! Pick ME!)

Not one, but TWO cups of milk hit the deck in my kitchen today. One per child. One this morning, as I gently coaxed (read: hollered) for the kids to please getyourstuffonrightnow because fortheloveofgodhowisitpossibletobesoslow, and one this evening, roughly .3264 seconds after I said, “If you don’t stop fooling around, you’re going to spill your milk.”

The Rules of Good Parenting dictate that you allow your children to experience cause and effect and let them clean up their own messes. The Rules of Reality say that there is NO TIME for ANYONE to adequately clean up after spilled milk when you’re already in danger of missing the bus, and also that watching a not-quite-seven-year-old swirl 8 ounces of milk around a hardwood floor with half a roll of paper towels has been shown to cause cancer in laboratory rats and facial tics in stressed-out mamas.

So let’s all blame the spilled milk for the following, but there’s no point in crying over it. At least that’s what I hear.
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March 29, 2005 | What do I do all day?

There are things about adulthood and parenthood that you just can’t know–absolutely cannot conceive of–before you experience them. Someone could try to tell you, beforehand, and it wouldn’t matter. You wouldn’t hear it, or you’d just laugh yourself silly, or you’d ask the person telling you what they’ve been smoking and could you please maybe have some.

I thought I understood this stuff and there weren’t many surprises left in store for me. I have experienced cupping my hands to catch vomit (save the carpet!). I have watched my toddler tumble down the stairs in slow motion because there was a baby in my arms and lunging to a daring rescue was impossible. I have learned that you really can make dinner with a temperature of 103 if you have to. I have come to cherish the sweet peace of uninterrupted sleep (when I get it). Stuff like that.

What I seem to keep learning and relearning about is how there are just never enough hours in the day.
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March 28, 2005 | Offspring: ecstasy and agony

Me: Put your pajamas on, please.
Him: You sit on the floor.
Me: Okay, I’ll sit on the floor while you put your pajamas on. *sitting down*
Him: *tackling me and knocking me flat* DODGEBALL!
Me: *wrestling a squirming boy off my chest* What?? What about the Taj Mahal?
Him: Hee! No, Mama, Dodgeball!
Me: You don’t have a ball.
Him: NO! Mama! I knocked you down. That’s dodgeball!
Me: *peeling him off of me, sitting back up* Ummmm, no, actually that’s not dodgeball. Put your jammies on.
Him: Okay. But first… *launching at me again* DODGEBALL!
Me: Ooof. Um, honey, first of all, please stop LANDING on me, and second of all, dodgeball is played with a ball that you then try to dodge. All you are doing is jumping on me, with no ball, and there has been no dodging. See the difference?

He stopped to consider this, for a moment. There he was, sitting astride my chest, looking contemplative… then he leaned in close until we were nose to nose…
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March 27, 2005 | What do I do all day?

I feel quite certain that I shall be full to the brim from Easter dinner for several days. It can’t be possible to consume that quantity of food (Christ is risen; let’s eat!) and be hungry again in the same week. But when there’s a table spread with good eats from end to end, the rule is that you just keep eating until you can no longer reach for more food for fear of buttons popping off your clothing and putting out the eye(s) of your neighbor.

And when Jesus did that whole “should you remove the beam from your own eye before tending to the speck in your brother’s” story, I don’t really think he was referring to ocular injuries sustained from a third helping of sweet potatoes gone horribly awry. Seriously. So by all means, eat yourself into a stupor, but then stop before someone gets hurt.

Was I going somewhere with this? Oh, right. I remember now.

I dined with friends, because when there’s a holiday and it’s not my turn with the kids, everyone I’ve ever known invites me to dinner. It’s nice. Now, a normal, cultured person would conclude dinner by thanking her hosts for a lovely meal. Me? I asked for the ham bone.
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March 25, 2005 | Offspring: ecstasy and agony

I am in the midst of planning my daughter’s first ever not-at-home birthday party. In the past we’ve always had parties here at the house. I’m not a great hostess and I’m not super creative or crafty (what a ringing endorsement; don’t you want to send your kid over here for a party, now?), but no one has ever complained. I make a mean cake; I have friends who know how to whip up various party-worthy games and prizes and whatnot; and I’ve always managed to pull it off.

This year, no can do. No time. No spare brain cells. And the audience is becoming a lot more critical. What would delight a pack of preschoolers or even kindergarteners is just not cool enough for worldly 7-year-olds, you know. Puh-leeze. And judging by the amount of sleep I’m getting most of the time, creating one of my “special” cakes could be accomplished only by eschewing slumber for an entire night.

And truthfully, I’ve kinda exceeded my quota of Chickadee-inspired breakdowns for this year, already. Why add frosting and housecleaning to the mix? Much better to give some other people some money, and allow myself to believe that the resultant party will be magical, and my daughter will be happy.

That’s my story and I’m sticking to it! Sort of.
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Job? Huh?

Warning: I’m about to talk about my job. Please come tell me that I will lose my job for talking about my job. Because you would totally be the first person to tell me that, and I reveal so much about my job and so flagrantly discuss in detail so many identifying characteristics of my job and also accuse my employers of eating babies. While sodomizing goats. All the time. So please come tell me I’m about to get fired. I like it.

Ahem.

Anyway. What was I talking about? Oh, right! My job. (Shhhhhhh.) Gosh, I love my job. I do. (Don’t forget to tell me that I can still be fired even though all I ever do is talk about how much I love my job.)

So this morning, school had a snow delay (OH MY GOD it’s almost April SO ENOUGH WITH THE SNOW, ALREADY), and I was a few minutes later than usual to the office (extra time was required to explain to the children ELEVENTY BILLION TIMES that school being delayed didn’t mean they didn’t have to go to daycare, because I still had to go to work). Not a big deal, since my normal arrival time is about two minutes after the crack of dawn. So there I was, a mere twelve minute after dawn, drinking my tea and reading my email.

And then a colleague stuck her head in my office and said, “The movers will be here around noon.”

“Uh… okay?” was what I said, I think. I mean, in my head, I said “WHAT THE HELL?” but I don’t think I said that out loud. Today.
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March 24, 2005 | Haven't been hit by lightning yet!

… to correctly select either horror or amusement.

* An email arrived, addressed to a handful of people, saying that THIS IS BROKEN AND NEEDS TO BE ADDRESSED RIGHT NOW. Ah, the satisfaction of being able to mail back within 10 minutes “All fixed.” And it didn’t hurt to receive back, “Hey, we may just have to keep you around here after all!”

* After correctly reciting her phone number, address, and birthday, and spelling all of our names, and generally responding to this barrage of questions with grace and prodigy aplomb, imagine the look on my face when the doctor said, “Now, Chickadee, do you have any brothers or sisters?” and Chickadee fixed her gaze upon the inquisitor and in her most bored tone replied, “Nope.”

* After a long phone call about the trials and travails of single motherhood: “Listen,” I told her, “just get through today. That’s all you have to do.” It seemed logical… right up until she said, “And tomorrow?” I had to think about it. “Well, tomorrow isn’t gonna be here for like half a day, yet!” I declared so brightly that we both dissolved into giggles. (Reminds me of one of my favorite sayings: I try to take it one day at a time, but sometimes several days attack me at once.)

* Upon his arrival in my room this morning: “Hey, Monkey, are you dry today??” *crickets chirp* “Well, I’m CUTE!” Alrighty, then.

* “MAMA! I don’t know why, I just CAN’T brush my hair today! You need to do it!” And in another bid for Mother of the Year, I replied, “Well, I could probably brush your hair for you, but you know, I don’t know WHY, but I just CAN’T plan your birthday party. Oh well.” Guess what? She regained her long-lost hair-brushing skills INSTANTLY!

March 22, 2005 | Offspring: ecstasy and agony

Yeah… that was the sound of my bubble bursting.

Oh well. Up and down and round and round. Tomorrow will be better.

In the meantime, my son is inching towards something huge. I almost missed it, in the midst of everything that’s been going on with Chickadee. Also, I have to confess that I haven’t been entirely receptive to his progress. Because that’s the sort of rotten mother that I am!

Anyway, I have a perfectly logical excuse for failing to recognize what’s going on with Monkey, right away: how the hell was I supposed to know?
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