I did it all for the apples
I’ve still got… ummm… at least fifteen pounds of apples. Fresh, juicy, orchard-ripe apples. We’d demolished the Labor Day apple crisp at the barbeque, so I decided to make another one.
I swear to you, I finished filling the dish and got it into the oven, and the bag of apples was just as full as it had been before I started. Freaky. If I were a better person, I’d see this as my opportunity to feed the starving masses. But I’m not, and so mostly I see it as me having way more apples than necessary.
The recipe I used tonight was a new variation, using crushed ginger snaps in lieu of flour in the topping. Oh. My. Good. Ness. I kept picking bits off the top while I let it cool for all of about thirty seconds. Then I dished myself a generous bowlful and realized–horror of horrors–I was out of vanilla ice cream.
Hot apple crisp. No vanilla ice cream. Jesus wept.
What’s that they say? Desperation is the mother of ingenuity? (Yes, I know that’s not it. Shut UP.) I grabbed the half-gallon of chocolate/vanilla patchwork and carefully dug out a few vanilla squares. What other choice did I have?
And then… bliss. Sweet bliss. Later, as I licked my bowl (hell yes I licked the bowl) I contemplated the possibility that I don’t even like apples. It’s possible. If I could make an entire pie plate of that crumbly, buttery, gingery topping without experiencing guilt and/or heart disease, that’s what I’d be doing. But you put that magic stuff on a mound of apples and–voila!–it’s practically healthy. I can work my way through a few apples for absolution.
Do you think the kids will believe me if I tell them it’s yucky? Oh, wait. Better yet! I’ll tell them it’s delicious and good for them. That’s perfect. They’ll never want any, then!
From maternal guilt to parental superiority
Okay, I’m over the whole Tragic Biking Accident thing, now. Thank you for your comments. Special thanks to my Dad for reminding me about the incident where my finger was slammed in a car door upon our arrival at a cast party. Yep, I did the silent scream in a Friendly’s parking lot, and won a trip to the ER, and lived to tell the tale. (Parents know the silent scream; the longer it lasts, the greater the chance of serious injury.) That hurt like hell; but in looking back, now, all I really think about is wanting a Fribble. Mmmmmm… Fribbles.
So I’m okay, as are the kids. Monkey did his usual fussing this morning over… ummm… everything, and he was quite surly until I managed to stuff a couple of pop-tarts into him, but then he was fine. All of which is SOP for mornings around here.
Onward and upward. I haven’t bitched about my ex for a while. He continues to reach greater heights of dumbfuckery, and I just can’t keep it all to myself anymore. It wouldn’t be fair.
Mr. Very Involved Father proposed a schedule of visitation–early in the divorce proceedings–which more or less had the children going back and forth every day. This was typical of his pattern; he wants what he wants, and as the children are prized possessions rather than sentient beings with their own schedules and needs, they should be available for his use as he sees fit. Hang on… my eyes rolled so far up in my head, just then, that they got stuck. Ow. Okay, better now.
Anyhoo, we managed to negotiate down to every other weekend and one dinner and one afternoon a week. I’d been unsure about that afternoon thing. It was fine while Chickadee had half-day kindergarten and Monkey was in preschool, but what about once “real” school started? “Don’t worry about it,” my lawyer whispered confidently, “that’ll just go away once school starts.”
Well now school has started, and Mr. Very Involved Father has already told me more than once that “that time will have to come from somewhere else.” I don’t think he appreciated me laughing at him, either, but I couldn’t help it. I mean, as much as I’d love to have that watch from “The Girl, The Gold Watch and Everything,” at the present time I don’t know of a way to manufacture more hours. When I pointed out that it wasn’t like I had extra time with her, that we were both experiencing a decrease in time due to school, he continued to grumble.
Keep in mind here, too, that he lives about half an hour away, in traffic. It’s not like the kids can just skip down the street to see him. Transportation in this scenario is a significant time suck.
So, there we were, school about to start, the ex all miffed (probably in his mind, I had purposely manufactured the school schedule to try to rob him of his precious time on account of I am the Devil’s Henchwoman), and me hoping that the visitation thing will somehow–mercifully–resolve on its own. School started last Wednesday and Thursday is usually his afternoon with them. Imagine my surprise on Tuesday when he informed me–with shuffling of feet and darting of eyes–that he had a business trip this week, and would have to miss Thursday’s visit. Would that be okay?
I was stunned. Yeah, that’d be fine. First week of school is going to be hairy, this works out better, actually. Oh, good, he said. And he was probably going to visit an old friend on his way back, so he’d be back Sunday, maybe Monday. Oooookay.
Here’s where my brain tapped me on the shoulder and whispered, “Something’s fishy.”
Traditionally, because I have so much more time with the kids than he does, if he’s not being a total pain in my ass, I allow him to have the kids on Monday holidays when he’s off work. Mr. Very Involved Father had just given up his Thursday afternoon and the potential of an entire day on Monday. Hmmm.
Know what? He’s been at his current job for a year and a half, and has never once had to travel. Not once.
Mr. Very Involved Father calls to talk to the children every single night that he’s not with them. Although he has just a cell phone (no regular phone) and is therefore, theoretically, always reachable, he does the calling. He has a knack for calling just as we sit down to dinner or at otherwise inconvenient times. But he insists on being the one to call us, rather than vice versa. From Thursday through Sunday, he consistently called just minutes before the kids were going to bed, wanting to know if he could call back later. Um, no. The kids are going to bed, talk to them now. “Oh, what time are they going to bed?” he would ask.
If you have known me for five minutes then you know that I am a loving but very strict parent. It was one of the greatest strife-builders in our marriage. He believes in parenting through Fun and Stuff, and I believe in being consistent. The children go to bed at 7:30. They’ve been going to bed at 7:30 for years. I did not change their bedtime. I am not somehow unpredictable in this way. I allowed some flexibility over the summer, then two weeks before school resumed I went back to Regular Bedtime. This is not news. And yet there he was, calling again and again, to say he was in the middle of something (dinner, headed to a movie, etc.) and could they maybe just stay up a while to wait for his call?
Ex? The earth’s axis called. It wanted me to let you know you don’t make it spin.
Yesterday, he didn’t even call. Now, normally–given his bizarre control needs over the whole phone call thing–if he doesn’t call before bed, too bad so sad for him. The kids don’t notice and they go to bed. But yesterday Chickadee mastered her bike! And she wanted to tell Daddy. So we called–fifteen minutes before bed–and he wanted to know if he could call us back. Shoot, there go my eyes again….
So they talked for a few minutes, and then I got on the phone to remind him that we’d need to discuss transportation for the next day (today), as it’s dinner night and usually I deliver the kids to him at 4:00. Well, Chickadee often doesn’t get off the bus until 4:00, so clearly something would need to change. The ex told me he’d have his dinner with his friends and then call me on his way back home.
He didn’t call last night, or today. As I sit here, it’s 1:00 and I still haven’t heard from him.
I will give you three guesses as to where he went on his extended weekend.
Now let’s be clear: I don’t begrudge him going to spend some time with his honey. But I hate being lied to, and for someone who claims to be a Very Involved Father he certainly gave up his visitation in a hurry, dontcha think? Which brings us to the reason that he lied. He is constantly angling for more time with the kids, and wouldn’t it look bad if I was able to bring up that he sacrificed his time for a booty call? Oh my, yes.
I cannot wait until the kids are old enough to draw their own conclusions.
Ticket to ride
We met up with friends and went to a local orchard and picked about thirty pounds of apples today. Then we went back to their house and made apple crisp, and applesauce, and husked corn and marinated meat and got ready for the barbeque to come later. But before we started cooking for the BBQ we went out on our friends’ circle to ride bikes.
Chickadee fell over. And fell over again. And fell over a few more times, after that. She wobbled, and crashed into a mailbox. I would let go and gravity would just reach up an invisible hand and WHOMP grab her entire bike and throw her to the ground. I kept asking if she needed a break. No; she was fine. Help me up! Again!
And somehow, finally, it clicked. And she rode. And rode. And rode some more. She must’ve made about a hundred laps around that circle today. There was some wobbling, and some decidedly ungraceful stopping, but there was an awful lot of big-girl two-wheel riding. And we all whooped and hollered and cheered and I blinked back tears, even as I giggled to behold the ramrod-straight back, the look of concentration, the stiffness of her arms (which clung to the handlebars for dear life), and the jerky steering.
It had the potential to be the sort of picture-perfect day with which I am entirely unfamiliar. It almost was.
And while it would make an amusing story if it hadn’t actually happened, the part where Monkey ran too close to her and the resultant slow motion horror film included him falling to the ground and being run over–first by the front wheel, then again by the back wheel; all while I stood frozen, too far away to help–kind of ruined it for me.
Monkey’s okay. He has an impressive hematoma on one of his legs, and some tire tracks that I may have to explain tomorrow at school, but he’s alright. I thought for sure one or both of his legs was broken. Nope. His pride was badly injured and he’s pretty banged up, but in the final analysis it was a tiny scrape on the pinky finger of his left hand that he deemed the most critical injury, so I guess he’s fine.
Chickadee just about had a nervous breakdown. She went from such pride to feeling like she’d done something horrible. It was an accident, of course; we all knew that. But she was worried that I was angry with her (I had scooped up Monkey and run back into the house in a flurry of incoherent screaming, I think) and waited anxiously for word that Monkey was okay. Once we returned with a healthy verdict, she collapsed on me in a puddle, crying and begging forgiveness. Poor little girl.
In the end, all was well. We ate dinner and went out to ride some more, and Chickadee’s newfound two-wheel glory was restored (and Monkey stayed far away from where she was riding). We came home and got everyone clean and tucked into bed, and they fell asleep right away. Their memories of today will be happy ones.
The only problem now is that I still feel like I was hit by a bus. I will lie awake in bed tonight and recount all the ways in which I screwed up today. I should’ve been able to prevent the collision. I should’ve been close enough to intervene once it happened. I should’ve been able to say something soothing to Chickadee right at first, rather than screaming like a loon and making it worse. I should’ve been able to stay calmer, comfort Monkey more, so that he wouldn’t have cried so hard he started gagging, all while I fought panic and tried to ascertain if he was badly injured. I should’ve known what to say to Chickadee afterwards to make her feel better right then.
I should’ve, I should’ve, I should’ve.
I wish I was the kind of person who has stories about things like the amazing day that my oldest learned to ride her bike without training wheels, and how it was fabulous and memorable and she was so proud and so were we and then we had ice cream. What I am is the sort of person whose story about what should’ve been an uncomplicated and happy day ended up including a huge scare which injured one child and may have ruined the day for the other one. I’m the sort of person who feels like I’m forever taking one step forward and two steps back.
Sometimes, I really dislike the sort of person I am. I wish I could find the key to making things less complicated (even if only in my mind).
So, hey, guess what! Chickadee learned to ride her bike today. Isn’t that great? Tell me it’s great. Help me distill that from the rest.
And on the seventh day, God talked too long
One of the things I like about being a Methodist is that our services tend to be right about an hour long. And unlike some other religions, we have them on Sunday mornings. Not Saturday nights, not in the middle of the week; there is not an expectation that one must attend endless hours of religious training every week or somehow be lacking. One hour. Totally doable.
Now before I’m pegged for the heathen that I am, I’ll also point out that there are myriad opportunities (at least in my church) for further fellowship and study, and I avail myself of these activities quite often. I consider myself to be very involved with my congregation. It’s not that I don’t want to give more time to my church family. It’s that my church family seems to genuinely like me and I’d like to keep it that way. And the Sunday morning thing? Includes the children.
I love my children. Heck, I adore my children. I love them and hug them and squeeze them and call them embarrassing goofy little names and pretend to eat their feet even when those feet smell like sweaty socks. But my children are only going to sit quietly in rapture for an hour or more if Disney animation is involved. So that peaceful, calm feeling that washes over me when I attend worship on my own? Is not so much a part of our family Sundays.
During the “regular season” (which is basically the school year), the children attend the first 15-20 minutes of worship, and then right after the children’s sermon, they leave for Junior Church. It’s lovely. That’s just enough time for me to gaze adoringly at them from the choir loft, make some really severe faces and “cut it out right now” hand gestures, and remind Chickadee to actually take Monkey with her to Junior Church. It’s perfect, really.
Today? Was the last day of our summer season. There was no Junior Church. Choir won’t be singing until next week, so I had to sit with the kids. And our pastor has returned from sabbatical, which is wonderful, but all summer long we’ve had guest leaders who have all been uniform in their brevity. Our regular pastor is incredible, but no one is ever going to accuse him of being a man of few words. Then add into the mix the fact that today was Communion Sunday. And to top it all off, there was a baptism.
It was a loooooooooong service.
The kids picked up junior bulletins and about six thousand crayons on our way in. Chickadee then selected what turned out to be the only pew with a large enough crack between the seat and the back for crayons to fit through. Color color color PLINK color color PLINK PLINK color color “hey I can’t find the blue crayon!” “It’s on the floor, pick those up, and shhhhh.” Monkey then scrambled around on the floor grabbing crayons while the pew of little old ladies behind us cooed over Chickadee, commenting on how well-behaved she was being. Chickadee responded to this praise by kicking her brother in the head as he was on his way back up.
First hymn: balance hymn book on Chickadee’s head with one hand while using the other to hold a snuffling Monkey who has shimmied up my side, bringing half my hemline with him. Excellent.
Baptism: “Looka the baby, Mama! Look at him! BABY! Look over here! BABY!”
Children’s sermon: Chickadee hovered dangerously close to the altar candles, while Monkey piped up with periodic repetition of the pastor’s tale as if he was on perpetual time delay.
Scripture reading: “Dear, would they like these?” kindly offered the woman right behind us, holding out a couple of Dum-Dum lollipops as I litigated another episode of Crayongate. “Bless you!” I gasped as I grabbed for them. Monkey settled to unwrapping, while Chickadee held hers tightly and declared she wanted to save it for later. Mentally adding it to the list of Things I Never Thought I’d Find Myself Saying, I leaned over and whispered to my eldest, “You are going to unwrap that lollipop right now and put it in your mouth and suck on it slowly and not say a single word until it’s gone.” Wide-eyed, she obeyed.
Communion: “Body of Christ, broken for you.” “MAMA! I want some-a-dat bread!”
Sermon: “Is it time to go?” “Now is it time to go?” “When will it be time to go?”
One hour and twenty-seven minutes later, we narrowly escaped… me with the remaining shreds of my sanity, them with their hides intact (if a little sticky from the lollies). “They’re so darling… and so active!” all the ladies noted as I gathered up papers and crayons. I just smiled and told Monkey to put his shoes back on.
Now for the second random pop culture reference of the day
Tonight at bedtime we commenced an all-too-common search for Monkey’s beloved “teetee.” Teetee is a most ratty and disgusting security blanket. Monkey does not sleep without teetee. And in our family it is understood that you may joke about almost anything, but you do not joke about teetee, or–more specifically–teetee’s whereabouts.
So I cannot explain to you how it was that I stumbled upon teetee and found myself transported back to a time when I used to turn up my boom box and sing into my hair brush. I casually strolled past my unsuspecting son, then began waving his blanket in the air above my head while shaking my behind, leaping side to side, and belting out:
Oh Teetee you’re so fine
You’re so fine and you’re ALL MINE!
Hey Teetee!
Hey Teetee!
There are two ways this could have gone. I fully expected it to go the first way, really. Monkey could have started screaming and crying in indignation about this mistreatment of his beloved rag, and I would’ve stopped immediately and been ashamed. But I guess it’s my lucky day, because it went the second way, where Monkey thought that I was the most amusing and hilarious person on the planet. And that’s how I ended up butchering “Mickey” for a full 20 minutes, all the while getting the best workout I’ve had in months, dancing around like a fool and dangling this germy atrocity all over my children and acting like a cheerleader on acid.
Sometimes it doesn’t take much to lift my spirits.
Gee, my hair smells confused
I have recently discovered–through my stepmom–the miracle that is Infusium. Chickadee has been swimming all summer long and her hair has all but turned to straw. I’d switched to a sun-n-swim type shampoo, and that was helping, but her hair was still a long way from feeling like hair. During our trip home, Grandma broke out all her Infusium products for Chickadee and goodness and softness were restored to her world.
So I returned home and bought the shampoo, the conditioner, and the leave-in spray treatment. On account of I’m an awesome mother. And possibly also because I’d used them on my own hair and really liked them, too. All of these new potions had been living in the kids’ bathroom, and this morning I stole the shampoo and conditioner back for my own use.
There I was in the shower, sudsing up, and reading the shampoo bottle. Because, well, the bottle was right there. Large letters at the top inform me that this is the Original Infusium. Damn straight, I think while I lather my hair. Accept no substitutes! But halfway down the bottle, in slanty print–this conveys excitement, you see, because the news is so fabulous that even the font can’t stand up straight–it boasts “New Formula!” Huh? I checked the conditioner; same thing.
Someone in their marketing department needs to stop inhaling the hair products. Otherwise I am totally going to apply to be their new Vice President of Finance.
Aim high!
I have been kind of marking time until Big Company calls me to schedule my second interview. I’ve also been becoming convinced, with each passing hour, that I will never hear from them again and this isn’t so much a job possibility as another exercise in Why I Suck, but I’m neurotic that way. It’s a gift, really.
So you can understand how it was that I got all excited when I received an email today from Big Company with the subject line, “Regarding your resume submission to Big Company.”
When you submit your resume to Big Company online, they have one of these fancy schmancy job-matching systems. The idea is that if you input enough information, their database can automatically match you up with appropriate jobs and let you know when things are available. It’s a great idea, even if you do have to spend about an hour answering all of their various questions in addition to attaching your actual resume. It has about forty screens of info you have to get through; you know the sort.
Education Level (please select one of the following):
o Eighth Grade (and a license to drive a thresher)
o High School
o Some College
o Associate’s Degree
o College Degree
o Some Graduate Work
o Master’s Degree
o Business Degree
o Doctorate
o Super Egghead Ruler of the Universe
Computer Proficiency (please select one of the following):
o I like Pong on my Atari.
o I can program the clock on my VCR.
o My 486 is really fast.
o Basic Windows proficiency.
o I write little scripts for fun.
o I heart Linux.
o There’s a Cray in my basement that I built myself.
So I’d filled all of that out, a while ago, and then this week I went in to interview as a Case Manager for Division DoGood. In my perception, this is a reasonable match for me. The position is a step or two above entry level, but humbly acknowledges that–having been out of the workforce for a few years–I need to start over a bit and work my way up. This position also sits on a ladder wherein I could advance quite a bit, over time, if I so desired. Believe me, I’ve given myself quite a few pats on the back for figuring out the perfect solution to my job needs.
And it’s true that I think pretty highly of myself, sometimes, but it’s also true that I tend to sell myself short, on occasion. Which is why it’s such a relief to know that Big Company has analyzed my education, experience, and skills and has assessed me in a completely objective manner.
Big Company was contacting me today to let me know that I have been matched with a new opening, and I should please follow the links to formally apply for this spot. I was congratulated on meeting their criteria and encouraged to act quickly, if interested. Me, a Case Manager? Pshaw. That’s so beneath me.
No, today Big Company would like to invite me to apply to be their Vice President of Finance. I’m not quite sure how to break it to Big Company that I can barely balance my checkbook, that me in any position anywhere that uses the term “Finance” is most certainly a sign of the Apocolypse, and that I’m about as aptly suited to VPship in their organization as I am to being the Vice President of the United States. I mean, I can see that they really put a lot of thought into this career match. And I hate to disappoint. It’s quite the conundrum. Also? My confidence in Big Company as a pillar of the business world is somewhat shaken.
On the other hand, I do feel sort of powerful. Could someone peel me a grape?
Ode to a grasshopper
You are so green, you are so buggy.
We caught you yesterday (it was muggy).
And now today to school you’ll go
for everyone in class to show.
This unit on insects, it came with bug buckets!
Someone brought a frog (it caused a big ruckus).
Please don’t die on the bus; that would be sad.
Just keep hopping like you’re really quite mad.
Enjoy the ride, look after my girl…
by the way, she thinks the trip will make you hurl.
“Hey Mama…
… that napkin didn’t say anything!”
“Yes it did. What did it say?”
“It said ‘read this napkin’ but then it didn’t say anything else. That was just silly.”
I think maybe tomorrow’s napkin will say “Whatever you do, don’t read this napkin!”
How long before her teacher calls CPS, do ya figure?
Why I love therapy
Me: Blahbity blah blah summer blah blah surgery blah blah hormones blah blah medication blah blah anxiety blah blah I probably should’ve come in sooner.
Therapist: *nodding* *listening intently* Thank goodness you’re feeling better.
Me: Yeah but blahbity blah blah lonely blah blah stupid ex blah blah cattle call job interviews blah blah Russian child bride!
Therapist: *makes snarky comment about the ex*
Me: *snorting into my coffee* I love you. In a non-lesbian, non-stalking, completely appropriate doctor/patient kind of way, of course.
Therapist: *laughs*
Me: Anyway, blahbity blah blah medication blah blah wait and see blah blah lonely lonely blah blah must find a job blah blah oh guess what, I’m a moron and sent email to The Toad when I was feeling really low blah blah still lonely blah blah hate men yet want one blah blah I’m a MORON.
Therapist: Cut yourself some slack. You’ve had a hard year. What you’re feeling is completely normal.
Me: Oh. *pause* Yeah, I think you’re right.
Therapist: See you next week.
Me: Okay!