Monkey has a friend. Now, this is not exactly a first; Monkey has always had friends. When he's having good days, he is charming and gregarious and has no trouble ingratiating himself to others. The problems come in on the not-so-good days when he is easily frustrated and quick to anger. On those days, the not-quite-friends decide to play elsewhere, and the few select kids who've chosen to hang out with him anyway give him wide berth for the day. And maybe the next day, too. "He never wants to play with me anymore," Monkey lamented of one longtime friend, the other day. "We like to do...
Last year when I started my garden, I had no idea what I was doing. This year I at least have some idea of how little I know, so I consider that progress. Last year I started almost everything as a plant, with a few seeds sown directly into my planter boxes and grown outside. About a month (maybe even more) after I began the garden, though, I decided to try starting some tomatoes from seed, and so I did that, inside, until they were big enough to transplant. I then moved them to their designated planting spots, where they promptly turned white and tried to die. If you're a seasoned gardener,...
When Chickadee gets her license, she would like to buy a red VW Beetle with yellow lightning bolts down the sides. She has been telling us this for YEARS, which of course means that for years we have been telling her that 1) it's good to have dreams and 2) she should feel free to get a job at any time. When that elicits whining and complaining, Otto always points out that he's perfectly willing to gift her his car once she's driving. As his car is already 20 years old, for some reason this doesn't thrill her. Go figure. Given her lifelong obsession with Beetles, you'd think that playing...
I would certainly never tell him about this while he is a child, and maybe I'll never tell him, but the fact of the matter is that I have recurring nightmares about Monkey dying. And it's just as awful as it sounds. Sometimes I go for months and months without it happening. In the past I've even gone a year or more. But they always come back. The only time I've ever dreamed about Chickadee dying was after our car accident, and they faded away after a few months. On the other hand, my nightmares about losing Monkey started when I was pregnant with him. That means I'm coming up on a dozen...
Friday morning was one of those days where we're aaaaaalmost done with the week, and everyone is tired and grumpy, and we're running late and wishing it was already Saturday. So when Chickadee dragged her way through her shower and came downstairs late and then was fussing with a necklace instead of eating her breakfast or feeding the dog, I may have been a little impatient. There may have been some yelling. She may have flounced out the door without even saying goodbye, and I may have been righteously indignant that SHE was mad at ME when I wasn't the one dragging ass. When the phone rang...
I have guilt. I have guilt over lots of things, but right now I'm talking about the guilt I feel whenever one of you pretty people feels compelled to comment "You're such a good mom!" or something similar, because I know the truth, you see. And the truth is not some sort of hipster self-deprecating "Oh no I'm not" thing where I just feel that it's not edgy enough to cop to being a decent parent, either. I mean, I am a decent parent. Sometimes I'm a GREAT parent. But most of the time I'm a decent parent. And occasionally? I am a terrible parent. The "you're so awesome" accolades invariably...
I am rather (emotionally, intellectually) wrapped up in my kids at the moment. There will be a time for telling more, but right now I'm only going to say that we have one last IEP meeting today, and tomorrow we head into Atlanta to see the long-awaited specialist about Chickadee's mystery skin condition. In short: my Mama Bear heart is heavy with anger and fear, respectively, and that makes it hard to say much that's worth sharing. Recently it seems like I've had to explain to a lot of people "what it's like" with a kid like Monkey, and I never know where to start, because sometimes it's...
The last few sleepover adventures left you crabby and snappish and generally impossible, so we lowered the boom last summer: No more sleepovers until you are 12. So of course as your birthday approached you began planning a grand sleepover party, and were astonished to realize that no, actually, we were not going to green-light ten friends sleeping over. Because WE SAID. And WE PROMISED! When you were 12! And you're turning 12 now and THAT'S NOT FAIR and WE ARE MEAN! We calmly explained that "when you are 12" meant "sometime after you are 12 we will resume letting you have a single friend...
I often feel like a lot of things leave you with no choice but to cry or to laugh, and laughing is a lot more fun. Not that I always manage it, don't get me wrong. I've done my share of crying. And sometimes I throw in some yelling and swearing, just for good measure (I've always been something of an overachiever, I know). But it's also clear to me that laughter is an undervalued commodity when it comes to maintaining a healthy outlook on life. You know, one that's more "It will all work out in the end" and less "I may just need to punch someone in the face." Fortunately for me, my family is...
