Just a friendly suggestion
Dear Dr. Jerk,
Mamas know. Mamas know when their babies are sick, and mamas know how their children react to pain. Do not roll your eyes when my child who has sensory integration issues complains that you are pressing too hard, nor may you prove some sort of point by pressing twice as hard on the other side (and then act surprised when he screams).
Do not smirk or make condescending remarks like, “Oh, REALLY?” when I try to explain to you that his assessment of pain being a “2” on a scale from 1 to 10 means absolutely nothing on account of the aforementioned sensory disorder, as well as a general propensity to either downplay or not recognize physical discomfort. I know he is sick because I am his MOTHER and I can TELL. Do you really think I enjoy spending hours waiting around at your office so much that I would do it just for kicks? read more…
The miracle of Christmas
I’m a sucker for Christmas. Oh, I could tell you it’s because I didn’t come to Christianity until later in life or that it’s because of faith and hope and such—and both of those things happen to be true—but the truest explanation is simply that it’s shiny and pretty and the closest I come to GOODWILL TOWARDS (HU)MAN all year. It’s festive. And twinkly. And shut up.
So this weekend I was giddy, pulling out the Christmas decorations, setting lights just so, and even placing our faux mistletoe ball in the doorway by the bottom of the stairs. (Why no, I never do tire of a solid month of “KISS ME! KIIIIIIISS MEEEEEEE!!!” every time a child comes skidding to a stop there.)
Last night we fell to decorating the tree, and all was right in my world. read more…
The (puppy) honeymoon’s over
Me, just now, to the dog: Would you like a yummy fresh breath stick? Because if you don’t stop licking my face, I’m pretty sure I’m going to puke on your head. Your breath is PUTRID.
Suggestions on your favorite doggie-breath-freshening products are welcome. Because GOOD GOD.
Angst on a plate
I’m over at Five Full Plates today, exposing my tender pink insides and admitting that I’m a whiner.
(Wow, I’ll bet you never saw THAT one coming.)
Love never runs out of reasons
Tomorrow Otto is having a birthday. His 39th birthday, in fact. My birthday is in the summer, so I happen to love that stretch of time between early December and mid-August when I can pretend he’s an entire year older than I am.
We don’t have any big plans; life has been a little too hectic lately to plan much, but we’ll see what we can do to celebrate the day in style.
In the meantime, as a little pre-birthday warm-up, I thought I’d share 39 Things I Love About Otto in honor of his impending 39th birthday.
1) He puts up with me. (Truly, this should be number 1 through 50,000.)
2) He lets me put my cold feet on him at night. read more…
Just because I am not getting sick
Just because Monkey has this nasty cold and I woke up this morning feeling logy and thick and sluggish does not mean that I am coming down with his cold.
Just because I never actually, you know, stop kissing him on the mouth until he’s leaking snot from every visible orifice doesn’t mean I’m prone to picking up his virus. I mean, I drink ORANGE JUICE. That stuff is like Kryptonite to cold viruses. For Otto, anyway.
Just because I have this weird cold sore thing that sprang up yesterday on the wayyyyyyy back left side of my tongue (in an impossible place to view, but likewise in an impossible place not to move/bump/feel any time I eat or talk) does not mean I am getting sick. Because I’m not.
And all the things that pissed me off yesterday don’t mean I’m getting sick, either. read more…
Puberty = pants on fire
My daughter owns The Care and Keeping of You, which is a really wonderful and fairly comprehensive book for girls about the changes that puberty wreaks on unsuspecting females. It doesn’t talk about sex, just the various physical and emotional changes of growing up. I recommend it to people all the time, because it’s age-appropriate even for little girls (I think we got it when she was six or seven), but also includes things like illustrated cartoon drawings of how to insert a tampon. (You’re welcome; it’s not often I can work the word “tampon” into the very first paragraph.)
Anyway, I’ve always appreciated that there’s a lot of discussion in there about MOOD SWINGS. It says things like, “You may be angry or unhappy and not know why.” I have considered making that into a giant banner for Chickadee’s room. As it is, I often tell her that she suffers from PPMS (Permanent Pre-Menstrual Syndrome). Because I’m a loving mother.
I do have one quibble with the book, though, and I hope maybe they’ll correct it in the next version: Nowhere does it talk about how hitting puberty activates the Lying Gene. read more…
Also, there were bears
A several-day absence here is somewhat unprecedented for me—even when I had my hysterectomy, even when I was felled by the flu, heck, even when I went and got married, in the five and a half years this place has been around, I’ve generally not gone more than a couple of days between postings.
Which means something really CRAZY must’ve happened this week/weekend to keep me away. Something unbelievable. Something all-encompassing. Something that took all of my time and attention and strength!
Yes. Well. Um. See, we’d had my folks here all week, and then there was Black Friday and there were leftovers to eat and days to spent in pajamas and children to snuggle and a dog to walk, and… then it was Monday. Hello, Monday! read more…
Love is thankful
Today I am thankful for many, many things—for my family, near and far, for a houseful of love and laughter, for a table about to be loaded up with delicious food, for a husband who silently worked around me as I wrecked the kitchen this morning, cleaning up after me before I even had a chance to ask him to.
And I would like it noted for the record that even in a time of hormones and angst, I am particularly thankful for a daughter who insists on—and creates—fancy napkins.
Happy Love Thursday, happy Thanksgiving, and I hope you and yours have fancy napkins (real or metaphorical) today, too.
Concerts from the edge
I didn’t mean to disappear, like that, but I came down with an extreme case of Chickenwithitsheadcutoffitis. It’s not fatal—thankfully—but does cause me to talk to inanimate objects. Example: This morning as I brewed up a nice, big pot of turkey brine (mmmm, briny!) on one side of me while throwing cranberries into my food processor on the other side, I asked the brine how it was doing. To be more precise, I said: “How are you doing, brine?” My father is slightly hard of hearing, but from his vantage point at the kitchen table he wanted to know who Brian was and why I was talking to him.
With anyone else I suppose that would’ve been awkward. But with Dad it was more like, “I’m chatting with the brine. OBVIOUSLY.” And he nodded and went back to what he was doing.
Then again, I’m pretty sure the menfolk have already been sent to the store or on various other errands four or five times in the last day and a half, so he was probably just relieved I wasn’t going, “DAMMIT! I forgot the [fill in the blank with some ingredient here]!” I never realized that men require other men to go to the grocery store, but I guess Publix and husbands turns out to sort of be like women and bar bathrooms. read more…