Date night aftermath
I had a wild date last night, and I’m paying for it, this morning.
We smuggled drinks into the theatre, you see. We passed the bottles back and forth while we giggled, and by the end of the movie? The popcorn was gone, the bottles were empty, and we were up way past our bedtimes. Flying high on our mischief, I guess you could say.
This morning? My head is screaming in protest. Church was out of the question, in my sorry shape. (Cue the lightning bolt.) I’m dragging around and feeling my age… twice my age, that is.
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Credit where credit is due
(Or, And now for something completely different.)
The ex took the kids to swim lessons today, and when he brought them back he helped me take out the air conditioners. Then we went through a ton of stuff in the basement and he crammed his car full with a load of boxes. (Yes, he moved out over a year and a half ago. Speed is not one of his attributes.) He even disposed of a dead mouse for me (another one).
He was helpful, and polite, and downright normal. It’s a little disconcerting, but I’ll take it.
Wonders never cease.
Saturday morning
- I should not be surprised when the neighbor’s dog pounces on Chickadee a week before school pictures and leaves a horrible-looking scratch down her cheek.
- Neither should I be surprised that–in retelling this story to a friend–I am laughed at for belaboring the photo angle just seconds after saying that a millimeter to the left and she would’ve lost her eye.
- Friday nights are hard.
- Sometimes they are unexpectedly made easier with Instant Messenger.
- I am going to hell.
- My children will allow me to sleep in on Saturdays, if by “sleep in” you mean “come tattle on one another relentlessly until I get up.”
- It seems I sent Jay a whole lotta traffic last month.
- Which is why I’m quite sure he will nominate me for a Diarist Award. Seems only fair.
- Apparently this is the last quarter I’d be eligible in the “new” category. (Hint, hint.)
- I am uncomfortable plugging myself. But not so uncomfortable as to render me unable to do so.
- I am going to hell. Possibly for all the immoral and annoying things I do, or maybe just for being repetitive.
The mice are back in town
I lay awake in bed last night to the pitter-patter of little feet above my head. The plummetting nighttime temperatures have once again convinced the local rodent population that Casa Mir is an acceptable hotel.
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The most handsomest
Everything I ever needed to know about good self-esteem I learned from my son.
Today Monkey is having his class pictures done. Last night, I asked him if he wanted to help me pick out what he would wear. He’s coming up on 5 now, you know, so I figured he might want to have a say. Little did I know.
“Let’s try on this shirt,” I said brightly. He eyed it and then slipped his arms in. It was too big, on account of you don’t actually grow all that fast on the all pop-tart diet. “Okay, not this one. Take it off, please. How about this red one?” That one fit, and he spun around for me to admire him.
“This one is very handsome,” he told me. “Do you think I should maybe wear a tie?” I raised my eyebrows. He pointed back into the closet. “There’s a tie hanging on that hanger. I think it would make me even more handsome.” I bit my lip to keep from laughing and brought the tie out for his inspection. “Oh, diggers and trucks! This is perfect!” he exclaimed.
I couldn’t resist giving him a squeeze as I laid the shirt and tie out on his chair. “Okay, honey, go brush your teeth, please.”
“Okay, Mama.” He trotted out to the bathroom and then spun around and came back, a single finger perched in the air to signal a matter of great importance. “Um, Mama?”
“Yes, love?”
“Which pants will I be wearing?” I choked just a little, but managed to keep a serious face.
“These jeans, I think,” I said, showing him the jeans I’d taken out before we picked the shirt. He tilted his head at his dungarees and shook it ever so slightly.
“Mama, don’t you think I would be even more handsomer in some nicer pants with my red shirt and my tie?”
“Oh!” Clearly I hadn’t realized the can of worms I’d opened, here. “Well, maybe you’re right. Shall I pull out a pair of church pants, do you think?”
“Yes, please.” He watched me like a hawk while I dug through his pants drawer, and pulled out a pair of cuffed khaki chinos.
“Do you think these are okay?”
“Yes, those will be lovely.” (I swear to God I am not making this up. If you have never seen a small boy declare his pants lovely, you simply have not lived.) “Um, Mama?”
“Yes?”
“Do those pants have the… uh…” he was gesticulating wildly, and I waited. “The ummm… thingies… that are for trapping a belt?”
“Oh! Belt loops?” He brightened.
“Yes! Belt loopses! Does it have those?”
“Yes, these pants have belt loops. Do you suppose you need a belt as well?”
“Mama,” now the rolling of eyes; yes! Clearly I am so brain-damaged, my ability just to breathe with regularity is astonishing. “Of course I need a belt to look handsomest!”
“Okay, that’s fine, I’ll take out your belt, too. Anything else?” He pondered for a moment.
“Nice shoes?”
“They’re downstairs in the mudroom. I think you’re all set, buddy.”
“Okay. You are going to be buying lots of my pictures because I am going to be so handsome you can’t stand it, I think.”
At this point, I had to laugh, because it was a necessary release to prevent the melting of my brain and heart from excessive adorableness. “I think you are exactly right, Monkey.”
Fast forward to this morning. Breakfast was peppered with practice smiles and running commentary on how he would not paint today, and he would be very careful not to get dirty, and he wondered if any of his friends would be nearly so handsome as he. (Probably not, we concluded.) Chickadee doesn’t have photos until next week, so she ate in sullen silence and whispered to Monkey that his tie was stupid when she thought I wasn’t listening. This didn’t produce even the slightest damper on his mood of self-adoration, thankfully.
We arrived at the bus stop and Monkey went to each of the three neighbor girls, in turn, to announce, “I am wearing a tie today. Because I am handsome.” He took their giggling for agreement, and threw his arms around my legs as the bus arrived. “Bye, Chickie!” he called out. Then: “Mama, I am so excited to be so handsomish for pictures. Let’s get me to school!”
I brushed his hair one last time and gave him a kiss as he ran off to show his tie to his friends. “Ohhhhh, Monkey, don’t you look handsome!” gushed one of the teachers.
“Yes!” he agreed. I should be embarrassed, I guess. But why? He’s very matter-of-fact about his elite status. His joy is contagious. He is—after all—the most handsomest. We should all be so kind to ourselves.
Grocery beatitudes
Blessed are the “Shopper’s Club” specials: for they shall fill thy freezer and pantry.
Blessed is the glorious crockpot: for it shall prepare delicious meals with minimal effort.
Blessed are the children who will refuse to eat the bounty of the crockpot: for they are cute and therefore shall not be slain.
Blessed are the toaster pastries: for they shall sustain The Child That Never Eats.
Blessed are the hurricane-ravaged groves of Florida: for they shall raise the price of orange juice and vex the nations.
Blessed are the multigrain rice cakes: for they are cheap and give the illusion of providing healthy snacks for the little children.
Blessed is the salad that comes in a bag: for it shall be tossed with the snip of the scissors.
Blessed are the large brown eggs: for brown eggs are local eggs and local eggs are fresh. (You’re welcome for sticking that commercial jingle into your brain.)
Blessed is the cheerful cashier: for she shall punch three $25 spots on thy rewards booklet even though thou only purchased $63 of groceries.
Rejoice, and be exceedingly glad: for the children still will refuse to eat: but now there is a vast array of sustenance for them to abhor.
Sins of the Mir
I am still chuckling after reading Jay‘s confessions for the week. He has invited fellow bloggers to step up to the confessional as well, so here goes.
I have recently sinned, both in action and in my heart. This past week alone, I:
- Told Chickadee the atomic fireballs are all gone. They aren’t; they are in my nightstand drawer and I have been eating them steadily while watching TV before I go to bed.
- Avoided several friends when they called and told them later that I was out, hoping that they would then believe I truly am busy and not sitting around wallowing.
- Scanned multiple items at Target and when I decided I didn’t want them, left them by the scanner instead of putting them back.
- Told my son that if he woke me up again I was going to take his blanket away and possibly make him sleep outside.
- Forgot to tell my mother that I received that package she sent. (Hey Mom! Got it! Thank you!)
- Thought of a kick-ass invention idea for the Invention Convention and am trying to figure out how to get Chickadee to think it’s her idea and develop it without me actually telling her, because that would be wrong. (Okay, I’m not sure I’m sorry about this one, if I can really manage some sort of subliminal suggestion scheme that works.)
- Received neighbors’ mail in my mailbox, decided it didn’t look important, and threw it away rather than walk back outside and either deliver it or leave it for the postlady.
- Fantasized about my Culligan man delivering more than soda ash.
Like Jay, I’ll take suggestions on my proper penance.
Return of the Tired
Let’s take a quick inventory of my day thus far, shall we?
12:00 (Midnight): I think to myself, I should really go to sleep now.
12:45: I actually turn out the light.
1:25ish: I look at the clock and wonder why I’m still awake.
2:17: I am awakened by snivelling.
Him: *snivel* *whine* *whimper* *snotsucking*
Me: Huh? Wha? Monkey, what’s the matter?
Him: I can’t find teetee! Waaahhhhhhh!
Me: Oh, honey. It’s okay. C’mon, we’ll find him.
I get out of bed and follow him back to his room, where we commence searching for ye olde nasty comfort rag in the serene glow of his Thomas night light.
Him: It’s gone! It’s gone! My teetee! Gone! WAAAAHHHHHHHHH!
Me: Hang on, I’m still looking….
Him: Teeeeeeeeeeeteeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
Me: AHA! Here it is, buddy. It was stuck between the sheet and the blanket. Okay, now come lay down and go back to sleep.
Him: Teetee? You found teetee?
Me: Yes, baby. Here. Lay down and–
Him: WAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!
Me: ????
Him: I WANTED TO FIND TEETEE. NOT YOU. LOSE HIM AGAIN!
Me: I am going to try very hard not to get angry at you right now, but it is the middle of the night and you need to stop this and go back to sleep.
Him: I WANTED TO FIND HIM! BAD MAMA!
Me: Yeah, okay. Good night. I’m going back to bed, thankyouverymuch.
Him: NOOOOO DON’T LEAVE ME!!
Those of you without kids? Run out and have some as soon as possible. This is way better than just getting to sleep at night. Yes.
I ended up going back to my bed and down to his room again a few more times before I could get him to be quiet. There’s nothing like a few laps in the middle of the night, I say. Now you all know the secret to my youthful figure. And that’s how it was that…
… 7:22: OH MY GOD I OVERSLEPT IT’S LATE GET UP GET DRESSED WE’RE LATE GET MOVING!!!
7:41: Crap, I never got groceries. Lunches… lunches… who wants… crackers? Yummy crackers! With… um… raisins! Yes! And… napkins! And a juice box! And… pickles? Oh well. They never eat what I pack, anyway.
7:58: We round the corner to the bus stop (in the car, on account of it is still pouring) in time to see the bus come around the opposite corner and start slowing for the stop. Yesterday’s little assisted-drag to the bus stop apparently didn’t scar Chickadee for life, but did teach her something, because that girl hopped out of the car, waited for my signal to cross, then sprinted over to the bus, turned and ran back to me, kissed me, and ran right up onto the bus. Ahhh.
8:08: Monkey kisses me good-bye and runs off to play with his classmates.
8:22: I return to the house and have a refreshing and nutritious breakfast of… granola bars. I really need to get to the store.
11:29 (now): I finally leave for the store. Because that’s the sort of immediate action kinda woman I am. Look out, world! I have coupons!
All the fun you can fit in 2.25 rooms
I cleaned the bathrooms tonight. I guess I was needing a little boost, a little reassurance that I do actually take care of things around here once in a while. Also they were starting to smell weird.
I’d told myself that the toilets were merely victims of hard water. Those blooming science experiments sprang up overnight, really. It’s not like I’d neglected to clean for weeks or anything. That would really be gross, don’t you think? Yes it would. So it must be the hard water. I have no idea what the Culligan man is doing here. Perhaps we have wild monkey sex in the basement in front of those large tank things that are most certainly not a water treatment system.
Anyway.
I set to cleaning, revelling in the unfolding cleanliness and fresh scent as I scrubbed. Nothing beats a clean bathroom in a house with small children. It’s a fleeting joy, yes, but quite lovely. I started in the downstairs half-bath, of course, because it’s the smallest and easiest to clean. The biggest challenge in that bathroom is locating and hanging up the hand towels. Monkey prefers a hand washing method akin to sprinting, and it often results in towels yanked from the rod and left languishing behind the door. Chickadee, on the other hand, often confiscates the towels for various purposes and I’m lucky to find them at all. In other words, I scrub the toilet and wipe down the counter and sink and change the towels and I’m done. That’s just the warm-up.
Upstairs, I tackled the kids’ bathroom next. I found myself having a flashback to my own childhood. The house I grew up in had a blue bathroom. Everything in that bathroom was blue, including the sink. One of my chores was to clean the bathroom sink, and I invariably thought to myself–as I scrubbed the field of toothpaste dots off the blue porcelain–that all sinks into which toothpaste is spat should be white. But as I started cleaning the children’s white sink I realized that colored sinks may serve an important purpose. It’s possible that if the sink were a color other than white, I might have gotten my lazy rear in gear and cleaned it sooner. As it was, I spent the bulk of my time in there chiselling away at the toothpaste. Toothpaste in the sink, which I’d been able to ignore until I was armed with Clorox. Toothpaste on the mirror, which I’d known was there but hadn’t felt like acknowledging. Toothpaste on the floor and the counter and the door, which made me wonder if I should perhaps tape the children to the floor and put cones on their heads (like the ones they put on dogs so they won’t eat their stitches) every time they brush.
Finally all that was left was my own bathroom. I’ve always considered the master bath here to be a full bathroom, but I’ve since been informed that a bathroom with a shower stall and no tub is a 3/4 bathroom. So, I’d done the half bath, the full bath, and was on to my 3/4 bath… which seems like it should’ve been somewhere smack dab in the middle, complexity-wise. I know what you’re thinking. Surely after Toothpasteville my bathroom was a relative cakewalk. But here’s the thing. I’m the only person who uses my bathroom. That leaves me free to clean in there even less often than I clean the rest of my house.
I’m considering shaving my head. Cleaning up the accumulated hairballs and scraping the congealed hairspray-and-dust shellac off of my counter does that to me. Bleah. But on the upside, I’ve got a nice buzz going from the mildew remover I used in the shower. Woo!
I’ll be admiring all 3–sorry, 2.25–rooms once again before I go to bed. Once the kids get up, all bets are off. My little slice of accomplishment will disappear in a fine mist of toothpaste splatter. There’s a brilliant metaphor in there, somewhere, but I am far too distracted by all these shiny faucets to figure it out.
This is the alternative
That denial thing sure was fun while it lasted.
Did you know that it takes 3,000 cows to supply the NFL with enough leather for a year’s supply of footballs? It’s true. I know this because I am brilliant. Or because it says so on my Sorrento Trivia Stringster, because there is very little food in the house and I’m eating string cheese. 3,000 cows dying for football? That’s just wrong. I protest! I shall go on an all-bacon diet in support of the bovine community. Because I care.
It’s raining, which is enough to put me in a funk under the best of circumstances. I should be delighted that it waited to start until after the kids were off, this morning, but instead I am obsessing over the fact that I sent them to school in their matching Veggie Tales fleece jackets instead of in their rain coats. Further proof of my substandard mothering skills, and all.
So I have spent my morning doing my hermit impression–which, really, is coming along quite nicely, but needs a bit more practice to achieve perfection–which means I have not gotten the necessary groceries or made any of those important networking contacts that everyone assures me will land me that great job. (Which great job is that? I have no idea. But I’m assured that I will know it when I see it. Personally I fear it’s on the other side of a bright white light, but that’s another story for another time.) Now I am steeling myself for an early pick-up of Miss Chickadee so that I can take her to the therapy appointment that I demanded when calling her therapist last Friday.
Me: We don’t have an appointment scheduled until the middle of October. We need one now. She’s not doing well, I gave it some “adjustment” time like you suggested, and she’s just getting worse.
Therapist: Hmmm. Well, what’s going on?
Me: Besides the usual? Besides the defiance, the screaming, the crying, and the lashing out? How about her daily trips to the nurse with her mystery ailments? How about the big hole she cut in her dress today for which I am seriously considering locking her in the basement??
Therapist: How about you bring her in on Tuesday?
Me: Fine. Good.
Therapist: How about you consider some Valium, also?
Me: No thanks, I’m kind of used to these feelings of rage and inadequacy, now.
Okay, those last two lines are fictitious. But as anyone with a young child in therapy knows, any child therapist worth her salt is as much in the business of teaching the parents how to more effectively parent the child with problems as she is in the business of treating the child. And on Friday, I was in serious need of intervention. It had been a long week.
The kids went to their dad’s for the weekend, Sunday night was uneventful, yesterday went off without a hitch. Now how long will it take me to learn that no good deed goes unpunished? This morning was one struggle after another because–oh, yeah–I had committed the cardinal sin of forgetting for one day that I have a difficult child. (Skip the hate mail, please. I love that little girl more than life itself, but no one is ever going to accuse her of being easy.) This morning was my refresher course. And so it came to pass that we parted on very poor terms this morning, which probably means she had a rotten day at school, which means that picking her up early is something I’m not exactly relishing. But the therapy part, that’s good, of course. If I don’t kill her before we get there.
I have grown to quite adore the other mom with whom we wait for the bus. Her daughters are delightful, and she herself is a take-no-nonsense yet kind woman. She witnessed this morning’s fiasco (which culminated in Chickadee–who was sullenly refusing to traverse the last 60 feet or so to the bus stop–being dragged by me over to the waiting bus and placed bodily inside, while she cried; yes I am the world’s meanest mother) without passing judgement and then comforted me after the bus pulled away. Meanwhile, Monkey skipped in little circles around me and patted her dog and little cartoon birds and butterflies danced around his happy-go-lucky head. The other mom gestured his way and said, “He’s really different than she is, huh?”
“Yep,” I agreed. “God decided to cut me a break the second time.” We laughed. She was sympathetic and encouraging. I felt a bit better.
Now, as I try to prepare myself to head out into the rain to face the child whom I cherish but rarely feel capable of handling, I wish things were different. I wish things were easier, for both of us. But–as a wise friend of mine is prone to saying–it is what it is. Yesterday was a gift and today it’s time to get back to reality. We’ll get where we need to be. And it could be a lot worse. I could be one of those 3,000 cows.