How much is enough?
Somehow–mixed up with my headache and my fever and my general discontent with the entire world–I feel like the issue Where The Kids Rank has been striking me a lot, recently.
Jay just wrote an interesting musing on the issue of kids vs. spouse, and a parenting community I belong to recently had a discussion about what it means to prioritize your kids and your marriage appropriately. Granted, I have no spouse to worry about in this equation, but it’s still an issue about which I have an intense curiosity (due in part to the fact that my own marriage started unravelling as soon as the kids hit the scene).
I know someone who often refers to one of their (young) kids as their “best friend.” It horrifies me. We’re supposed to raise our kids. We’re supposed to guide them. We’re supposed to model appropriate adult relationships. We’re supposed to provide for them and accept that the relationship is unequal by nature. The disservice visited upon a child who is imbued with such misplaced importance at such a young age… well, I’d not want to be bankrolling that therapy fund. (I know, I know; it’s too bad I can’t tell you how I really feel about that….)
But I do worry that I’m too far afield, myself.
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I hate it when that happens
I hate it when I wake up with a migraine so intense, I lay in bed with a pillow over my head and whimper for a while before dragging myself into the (bright! too bright! TURN OFF THE SUN!) bathroom for my meds.
I hate it when I go back to sleep for a while, and when I wake up, my $&#^@! head still hurts.
I hate it when I force myself to get up and take a shower, and about halfway through my shower I realize there is no way I’m leaving the house.
I hate it when I’m trying to sleep with wet hair and my pillow’s all soggy.
I hate it when I miss church.
I hate it when I sleep all morning and still feel awful when I try to get up, later.
I hate it when I have to admit to my ex that I’m unwell, and ask him to please bring the kids back rather than forcing me to get in a car and try to drive like this.
I hate it when my daughter gets on the phone and sounds really pitiful and says “My head hurts, too, Mama. Real bad.”
I hate it when I ask my ex if he’s taken her temperature or given her any medicine, and he says they’re out right now.
I hate it that I have to suggest that maybe he should consider NOT BEING OUT because it appears that his child isn’t feeling well.
I hate it when I’m right, sometimes.
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Deluge
I woke up this morning to the drone of pounding rain. Thanks to all the snow we had this winter, and the severity of this storm system, they’re predicting New England will be experiencing some of the worst flooding it’s had in years.
Then again, “a whole heckuva lotta rain” or even “moderate flooding” probably doesn’t make for a very sensational news story.
Regardless; I am not worried about washing away. The way I see it (and how exactly is that, you ask? Why, through my half-empty glass, of course!), that would be sort of calm and peaceful. And entirely unlike the day I have planned.
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Dot your Ts and cross your Is
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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Well, in that case….
“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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Pardon me… could you pass the Grey Poupon?
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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Time keeps on slipping, slipping, slipping…
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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Thank goodness it wasn’t wrestling
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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The ham bone’s connected to the future bone
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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Cookies and capsules
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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