All in the timing
So yesterday, I was working along and minding my own business when the phone rang.
It was school. Chickadee was in the nurse’s office, and did I want to come pick her up?
Because I am the meanest mother in the entire world, I asked if they had taken her temperature. They had not. So I offered to wait while they did.
She had a fever. I thanked the caller and asked her to let Chickadee know that I would be there in ten minutes.
Twenty minutes later we were back home and Chickadee crawled into bed and was asleep almost instantly. Poor thing. read more…
Love sounds like home
I don’t know when I got them, exactly; it seems to me that it was probably when I was pregnant with Chickadee or when she was very small. Something about how babies would find wind chimes soothing, I think. Back then I was all about Doing It Right and I was very busy strictly adhering to the Organic Twigs and Berries diet so that I could have the Perfect Healthy Baby. (Other things I was busy doing: Buying the Perfect Stroller, picking out the Perfect Crib Bedding, and driving myself Perfectly Batshit Insane worrying that I Would Somehow Mess Up The Perfect Baby.)
[Digression: My Perfect Baby is now an Perfectly Delightful, If Somewhat Premenstrual Tween. That Karma, she is a charming serving wench when it comes to thick wedges of humble pie, oh yes she is.]
Nevertheless: We got the set of wind chimes I deemed the most melodious
Maybe he’ll name his yacht after us
I meant to sit down and write something this morning, before I had to drop everything and take Monkey up to the orthodontist to get braces installed on every remaining tooth and possibly a few of his limbs, but as usual, I didn’t get it done.
I was too busy doing work things. And also soup things. I do love my crockpot, but some day I’m going to figure out how to remember that when recipes call for a metric buttload of chopped vegetables I should probably take care of that the night before, rather than while checking email and making phone calls and freaking out about everything that needs to be done that day and OMG I haven’t even showered yet and the carrots still need to be diced! Whoops.
Any by the way, it’s a wee bit challenging to pack a lunch of “soft things” for a picky eater, but I figured a ham sandwich after getting another pound of metal in his mouth would be sort of mean. read more…
At day’s end, still made for each other
There are subtle changes, here in our post-remarriage lives, that I rarely think about. The big changes are easy, of course. But the little things sort of creep up on a person.
Like how I never put away laundry anymore, fully believing that the Laundry Fairy will be along to tidy up after me. Or that I can wash everything and fold it and declare, “Look! I did the laundry!” and then after it sits in our bedroom in the baskets for three days, Otto will put it away for me. Whatever.
Or like how I plan certain meals and buy certain foods because I know Otto really likes them. I mean, it’s not that we never ate pork chops before (mmmm… hog fat…), it’s just that it wasn’t typically something I’d seek out. But he likes them, and so now I look for them. (Last night we had apricot-glazed chops and all approved.) read more…
Glued with love and Stitch Witchery
With less than a week to go, I think it’s safe to say that Yes, Virginia, I have once again bitten off more than I can chew when it comes to this whole Halloween costume thing. I’m too cheap to buy fancy costumes, you see, so I’m always all “Sure, I can make that!”
Except that I can’t. Or I can, but it ends up involving something like… oh, I don’t know… sewing fifty miniature chicks onto my son’s clothing. Or—not that I’m naming anything specific, like maybe THIS WEEKEND—spending half a day modifying a skirt for my daughter using scissors, lace, stitch witchery, and colorful language.
And then going out to Target for fairy wings and devil wings, and realizing I have absolutely no clue as to how to merge the two without threatening the structural integrity of the item to be worn. And let’s not even mention the fact that the devil wings? Are from a DOG COSTUME.
Yep. You totally wish I was YOUR mom. read more…
Mostly it involves a lot of spinach
Many thanks to everyone who took the time to share in the last post how they handle kids and activities and arranging bread on their skulls while laying on the floor. I really enjoyed reading the array of responses, and confess that it was a relief for me to read that my kids aren’t the only ones activity-hopping. I guess I have concerns about them never finding their “thing,” (or, alternatively, giving up on the thing that they’re actually quite adept at—swimming is the first sport Chickadee’s shown real potential in, and her reaction is a resounding “whatever”), but yes, of course, y’all made me realize that at this age, flitting around is the right way to go.
In fact, when they get home from school today, I’m going to tell them that I was just kidding when I told them to “get a job,” earlier. Chickadee spent a couple of hours polishing her resume, true, but I think they’ll be relieved.
Anyway, I was just making some pizza dough, and realized I wanted to talk about food. read more…
Diddums loves the flugelhorn
I have an absolutely not-at-all-facetious question that is starting to gnaw away at me, so I’m going to ask it even though it may result in the revocation of my mothering credentials.
While I very much believe that children display their own personhood, if you will, quite early on—toddlerhood is all about making it clear that I HAVE OPINIONS, DAMMIT! after all—I don’t believe that most of them have a very good sense of what sorts of activities they will enjoy, long-term. Sure, you have the occasional kid who picks up a violin at age three and is a virtuoso by eight, but for most, “activities” are a mostly an exercise in parental endurance… right?
And that’s the question: Does your child guide their activity participation, or do you? And if you have older kids, how has that changed over the years?
I have a very good reason for asking, you know. read more…
Wicked awesome
So, last week my pal Foodie (remember Foodie? Perhaps I should always refer to her in context in a way that makes her sound all mysterious, like Hey! Remember Foodie and the Gazpacho of Doom?) called me up and said, “I have a friend who got a couple of show tickets she can’t use for Tuesday night. Wanna go?”
This was a no-brainer for me, for several reasons.
1) I was a theater major in college, and although I’m very very very glad I didn’t decide to pursue that as a career, I am still a fool for a great stage production
2) I very much like hanging out with Foodie
3) Getting out of the house on a weeknight for something other than a school-related meeting sounds like the height of decadence to me, because I have no life.
So of course, I said HELL YES. And also probably “What time are you picking me up?” read more…
My blood is southern
Although the few natives I’ve met ’round here have made it painfully clear that I will forever and always be a YANKEE (said with either a touch of disdain or, alternatively, a healthy dollop of incredulity, as if declaring me to have four extra toes), the time has come to admit that I have become a southerner in one very important respect: I can no longer handle Winter.
The irony here is plentiful, seeing as how my hysterectomy has greatly decreased my tolerance for extreme heat and has me perpetually teetering on the edge of a hot flash. I knew this before I moved to one of the hottest states in the nation, of course. [In fact, I like to bring it up now and then and dangle it in Otto’s face as proof of my undying love for him, that I moved my broken-thermostat-ed self to the fiery pit of hell JUST FOR HIM, but this always backfires because actually, I like it here more than he does and he’d be happy to move back up north (job situation permitting). Then I feel dumb for having started in.]
Anyway. Winter has arrived. read more…
And then it was back to real life
Having the parental units in-house is a marvelous experience that makes me yearn for those days of yore when multiple generations shared a dwelling as a matter of course. Back then I’m sure that everyone got on everyone else’s nerves and someone was always pounding on the bathroom outhouse door screaming that they needed to get in, HURRY UP, but from here I can paint a picture of total domestic bliss worth coveting.
(Not that I’ve ever been known to distort the facts to suit my fancy. Nuh uh.)
And now everything will go back to normal—back to school, back to work, back to meals being an unremarkable affair around our little kitchen table instead of a giant feast at the dining room table while we all remark on HOW BEAUTIFUL the room is, ESPECIALLY THE PLASTER, and then everyone has another serving of Endless Food and then (naturally) there is dessert, afterwards. read more…