Foils McGee and the Scissors of Doom
Good morning! I have to make this quick, because this morning I have to go run some errands, and by “run some errands” I of course mean “buy a hat.”
My inability to figure out what the hell I’m doing with my hair as regards either the cut or the color is well-documented—specifically, here, here, and here. Oh, wait. Also here.
My name is Mir, and I have hair problems. Oh, the humanity!
So, um, true to form, it took me until a week before my trip up to NYC to remember that, oh yes, I HAVE MEDUSA HAIR. And although I wasn’t thrilled with the results of the last time I had my hair done, it was serviceable enough, I supposed, and the price was right, so I called that same woman again. read more…
Into the woods, a little while longer
I may have mentioned that I accompanied my daughter’s class on a field trip on Monday. There’s really no way to describe heading into the woods with twenty-four fourth graders, some of whom believe that nature ends at the edge of the playground.
Chickadee is turning ten soon, and I keep asking her, “So, when do I become an embarrassment? When will the very idea of me daring to show my face within a mile radius strike fear into your heart?” Make no mistake—I’ve already started becoming stupid. Very, very stupid. And demanding. [Insert huffy sigh here.] But so far, she laughs at the idea of my mere presence being horrifying.
She loves to have me come into her class. She’s proud to have me along, while the other kids cluster around and ask to see my nails, my phone, my shoes; they ripple with shy happiness when I remember their names; I am a rare and exotic life form in the classrom, and it never ceases to amaze me. Still, my days are numbered. read more…
If only funny came in a wrap dress
There aren’t words to adequately describe how completely ANNOYED I was when I dashed off yesterday’s post, and even as I wrote it I thought to myself that folks would probably suggest I take a nice hot bath or perhaps half a bottle of Xanax and go have some quiet time. But no, it turned into One Of Those Things where my extensive premeditation was “GAH!” and yet it turned out to be a piece that went over really well.
We’ll not discuss the times I slave over a piece of writing, convinced it’s marvelous, and the reaction is a resounding chorus of crickets chirping. It’s a Murphy’s Law application to writing for an audience, methinks.
And we’ll also not discuss the pressure (OH THE PRESSURE) of following up after such a post, when I know deep in my insecure little heart that whatever I say today will not be as amusing as yesterday. Alas. read more…
Picture it on pink paper
Dear Sir and Madam:
It it with a heavy heart and much regret that I feel the need to inform you of my decision to tender my resignation as Greatest Mother In The World. We all know that lately I’ve simply become unable to keep up with the demands of the position, and I wish to fall back at this time to something more befitting my capabilities.
This morning I feel that perhaps Mom Who Does Just Enough might be a more suitable choice. Or—should you feel it a better selection—Serviceable Mom. I shall leave it to your discretion as to which would be most useful to the organization as a whole.
I do thank you for the chance to be something more, but now that I’ve realized exactly how thankless this position really is, I’m afraid I am simply going to have to suggest that you get your own damn breakfast in the future. read more…
Inject moment of levity. . . here
What do you do after a long week and a horrible day when the worry is eating you up and you wonder if you’ll ever get your footing when it comes to this parenting thing? Well, if it’s the night before Easter, you have to chat with the Easter Bunny and strategize, of course.
But you’re probably not feeling much like making trails of eggs to follow, or like writing little cutesy clue-notes.
In fact, you may be thinking that you don’t much care if the kids find the baskets at all. That’s not TRUE, of course, but you’re not in a very good mood.
But then a thought strikes you, see, and instead of adding to your general grumpiness, it suddenly feels like the funniest thing in the world, this idea, and you check with your husband and say “Can we even DO that? Would it be funny?” and he’s chuckling and shaking his head, and then he goes out to the garage. read more…
The sounds only he can hear
A while ago my friend and fellow mom to a “different” child, Susan Wagner, wrote a piece called What It’s Like which I have often, secretly (until now) gone back to read when I need a little boost of solidarity. Susan says:
The hardest thing for me about parenting Henry has been the sense that every time I get my feet under me, the ground moves again and I am left struggling to get my balance. I think Henry is doing well, I can see that he’s doing well, but now I am worried all over again, and I am worried that maybe I’m not really helping as much or as well as I could be.
One of the things that I am trying to let go of is that constant worry; I’m trying to look at my children, both of them, and see not what might go wrong but what is going right. But I worry that with Henry, if I’m not ready for the disaster, I will be completely overwhelmed when it comes and will not be able to help him. And so I wait for the next bad thing, which is never — ever — the bad thing I was waiting for but always something I am completely unprepared to deal with on the fly.
I am deep in the midst of “completely unprepared to deal with on the fly” and I am so afraid I’m doing it wrong. read more…
Cadbury Hummus Eggs all around
As is so often the case, the moment where I hit the wall—and it happened yesterday morning right before I wrote that post, which was right after my darling son took a swig of the medication I offered and then promptly gagged and spat two teaspoons of liquid somehow, inexplicably, into a gallon of mess on himself, the couch, and the carpet—is the moment where things start to improve for no reason at all.
Throughout the day I read through your kind comments and grumbled to myself at every suggestion of shakes or protein powder or anything else. Because he was eating NOTHING. He was drinking NOTHING. He was shoving ice cream away, whining that it was too cold. He was saying he couldn’t drink through a straw because it hurt and that he couldn’t drink from a cup because he couldn’t get his mouth right on the rim. He was taking an hour to eat two ounces of yogurt and crying about it like I was beating him. I was at rock bottom in terms of how to care for my kid, and it was killing me. read more…
This is me, not worrying
I am not worrying. Nope. Not me.
I mean, I’m sure it’s PERFECTLY FINE that my son has had his new appliances in for three days and is still basically refusing to eat or drink. The fact that I’ve spent the last three days in the kitchen making smoothies, special yogurts, the smoothest mashed potatoes known to man, and turning cornbread into a beverage only to watch two sips/bites turn into an hour-long odyssey of fury and exhaustion—after which the food I spent so long preparing ends up in the trash—is no big deal. And even though the child doesn’t have a spare ounce of body fat on him, I’m confident he can’t ACTUALLY waste away to nothing, because that never really happens.
He has to eat eventually. Right? Right. Not worried. Nope. read more…
Failing my duties as a white parent
I’ve seen a lot of people reference Stuff White People Like recently, either amused or outraged, and I have to say that I haven’t yet decided which side of the fence I land on. Some of the stuff there is pretty funny, albeit irreverent. (Which is of course WHY it’s funny….)
Anyway, I’ve seen lots of discussion of item number 16, Gifted Children. We all have gifted kids! White people like gifted kids! Also, when our kids mess up, it’s just because they’re TOO gifted to function on this mundane plane of existence! This is what I’m supposed to believe, apparently.
Well, first of all, I am here to tell you that my gifted children (preshus! gifted!) are (I presume) a lot more difficult to raise than their less-gifted (and less NEUROTIC, I mean, let’s be honest here) counterparts. Second, here come the Political Correctness Police to haul me away, but at least one of my gifted kids is L-A-Z-Y. read more…
The very definition of pitiful
The children are home, yes, and boy are their arms tired. (Ba dum bump!) Between the time change, the vacation, and the hellish trip back, they are exhausted beyond all reason. Waking them up yesterday morning for school made me feel like a card-carrying sadist, and yesterday afternoon as first one and then the other melted down while we were out, they took turns pulling themselves together out in the car while I watched from twenty feet away. Chickadee took that opportunity to read a few pages of a book and then slink back over to me and apologize; Monkey clambered into his seat and promptly FELL ASLEEP in broad daylight.
It is the saddest thing I’ve ever seen.
Of course, poor Monkey got an extra helping of torture, because despite his last tragic trip to the orthodontist he was all excited to go BACK again yesterday! read more…