Tuesday is Chooseday!
(And also, I am a follower… wow I almost said typed that with a straight face… and nothing interesting has happened yet today ’round here cept for a game of Go Fish involving a stuffed puppy who regularly drew multiple cards, dirty cheater.)
Would you rather:
- your best friend overhear you telling somebody else a deep secret about them OR your child overhear you venting your frustrations about your significant other?
- learn an obscure language only spoken by 15 other people on the planet OR be able to guess somebody’s exact birthdate, just by looking at them?
- have eyebrows that grow in VERY bushy, daily, no matter how you try to prune them OR make a sound like a tuba whenever you blow your nose?
- have a job that makes $200,000 a year, but you only get to see your family once a week for 3 hours OR make just enough to survive from check-to-check, but be able to see your family whenever you want?
Well as my savings for the Therapy Fund are already being socked away (and spent), I guess I take the latter. My kids have heard me vent about my ex, which is–in my opinion–normal and not so horrible as long as I keep it clean. Don’t get me wrong, I try to keep their hearing of this stuff to a minimum, but to me it just isn’t on par with violating a trust like repeating a secret. (It’s no secret my ex frustrates the beejesus outta me, not even to my 4-year-old!)
I’m not really planning to go work at a carnival any time soon, so I pick the obscure language. What if those 15 people are really cool?
I knew posting that picture was a bad idea; that was really low writing about my eyebrows!!! Ahem. Huh? Oh. Um, tuba sound, please. At least that would be intermittent rather than ever-present.
It appears that I’ve already selected the second option, although if I were given the opportunity to swap for the money I definitely wouldn’t. Being poor isn’t so bad. Three hours a week with my kids would only be enough time for me to feed and bathe them a settle a couple of arguments.
It has come to my attention…
… that not everyone was charmed impressed amused that I had my kindergarten school portrait in my profile.
After sorting through approximately 6,591 family photos, I cut out this one that I didn’t completely hate. (There was another one that was pretty good, an almost artsy kinda profile shot from a birthday party, where my hair looked fabulous and I was about to help blow out the candles… and Julia said it looked like I was getting ready to snort some coke. Alrighty then.)
So there I am. This is a move of The New Fearless Me, putting my face out there for anyone and everyone. It makes me very uncomfortable. But I’m told it won’t kill me. We’ll see.
25 things that go bump in the night
The title is a misnomer; few, if any, of these things actually go bump in the night. But they all frighten me.
1) The Swan.
2) The fact that I am compelled to watch The Swan.
3) That weird little dancing bald guy in the commercials for Six Flags who shows up in a bus and jitterbugs around until everyone joins him for a romp at the amusement park.
4) Women who think they can’t leave the house without make-up on.
5) Men who think women shouldn’t leave the house without make-up on.
6) People who take their marriages for granted.
7) People who don’t like kids.
8) People who think I must be miserable because I’m divorced.
9) Hail. (This string of thunderstorms we’ve been having hasn’t bothered me in the slightest; now they’re running “hail warning” banners across the bottom of the TV screen and I’m freaking.)
10) How easily my children trust.
11) “Gingy” from the Walmart commercials (though he was quite good in Shrek 2, I’ll admit).
12) Teenage drivers on cell phones.
13) Seeing babies/children not properly restrained in carseats/seatbelts.
14) The possibility that I may need to stab my son with his Epi-Pen to save his life someday.
15) The possibility that I may do that and he’ll die anyway.
16) Heights.
17) Wasps.
18) Small spaces.
19) Failure.
20) Thongs. (Not the footwear….)
21) The Junior Women’s League.
22) The guy at the diner around the corner who fawns all over my daughter and tells me how beautiful she is when we eat there. (We don’t go there anymore.)
23) Anyone wearing spandex who is not on a bicycle or in the gym.
24) Minutes 30 to 44 when I’m doing 45 minutes on my elliptical trainer.
25) Life without carbs.
Gimme my money back (please)
To Whom It May Concern:
I am writing to you today in reference to the deposits placed with your organization to hold summer camp slots for my children, Chickadee and Monkey IdiotboysLastNameWhichWeAreAllStuckWithNow. On March 6th, 2004, the children were registered as follows:
Chickadee: Weeks 3-6 for Camp By The Lake, and Weeks 7 and 8 at Tap/Ballet Camp Which Isn’t Nearly Expensive Enough Already So You Will Require Me To Purchase a $75 Recital Outfit. Pre- and post-care for all weeks.
Monkey: Weeks 7 and 8 for Camp For Kids Not Actually Old Enough For Camp But Conveniently Located Down The Hall From Tap/Ballet. Pre- and post-care for both weeks.
Total deposits placed with you for these registrations total $360 ($270 for Chickadee and $90 for Monkey).
At the time of registration, (which is by the way insanely early for most people to actually know what life is going to look like over the summer, but if you don’t register then there are no slots left and people laugh at you when you attempt to find a space for your kids later on) I anticipated being employed full-time this summer, hence the need for such extended childcare coverage. Since then I have realized there is no full-time employment which I can easily procure that will offset the cost of two children in full-time care (and don’t even get me started on the guilt of having considered this when I long ago committed to being a full- or at least mostly-stay-at-home-mom).
I have read your policy on refunds and although the double-speak and fine print did make my head swim just a bit, it does state that deposits can be refunded “at the discretion” of your organization in special circumstances. Barring that, it states that deposit money can be transferred amongst participants.
Well here’s my special circumstance: I don’t have a job, and child support might be just enough to scrape by on with no daycare, and so I have elected to stay home with my children this summer. However, as my ex is the one who placed the deposit money with you (on his credit card, and then was at my door less than an hour later demanding a check, but I couldn’t do the registration because that’s only for members of your elite organization and when said ex got a “family” membership which he could’ve easily added me to with no one the wiser and then I would’ve been able to take the kids swimming, he expressly pointed out that he was divorced from that horrible woman (me) and so no, he did not have a wife to add), I don’t even want a refund. Should you refund the money, it will go to the ex’s credit card and then I won’t see it for eons. Not because the ex would try to keep it for his own (he is anal to a frightening degree about what he perceives as monetary fairness) but because he is so absent-minded I wouldn’t be able to recoup it without nagging and arguing and I’m trying really hard not to do that stuff anymore because it’s more aggravating than being poor.
So, I am perfectly happy to settle this situation with a transfer of funds to my friend Heather, who is in fact gainfully employed and has also registered her kids in your camp program. Right now you have $360 of my money. Please withdraw my children’s registration from all programs except the Chickadee’s week 7-8 slot at dance camp (I have promised this to her for so long that I cannot take it away now without sealing my status as The Meanest Mama Ever). Please use $200 of my deposit money as the full payment for dance camp. Please transfer the remaining $160 to my friend Heather’s account, and I will work it out with her.
Failure to comply with my request will result in my going Hulk on you, so please don’t jerk me around for what is a tiny amount of money for you but an entire month’s groceries for me, mkay?
Thank you in advance for your cooperation in this matter.
Sincerely Yours,
Miriam IdiotboysLastNameWhichWeAreAllStuckWithNow
To sleep, perchance to… torment Mama
I would like to sit down and calculate how many waking hours I’ve spent trying to get my children to go to sleep. No, I wouldn’t. It would probably make me cry. I accept that this is part of the Mama job description, just as part of being a kid is that you don’t go down without a fight, whether you need to cry and whine that you are NOT tired or get out of bed eleventy times or simply work on your headstands in bed and then fall crashing out of the bed with the approximate velocity and force of a herd of thundering wildebeasts and then wonder why the following reception is not more solicitous. I get it.
What I don’t get is how the very same creature who fought sleep tooth and nail can succumb to it so completely that they will continue to be asleep even once they are technically awake. (No, I didn’t typo.) In my world, if you are upright and your eyes are open, that’s called being awake, dammit.
I came upstairs tonight expecting to spend 60 seconds doing my “rounds” and then come climb into my own bed. Silly me. First I went into the Chickadee’s room, turned off her music, and started to switch off her nightlight. She was snoring, so I knew she was asleep. Silly me (again). As my hand neared the nightlight, she started screaming at me. Eyes open, half sitting up, and speaking an ancient tongue with which I’m not familiar. But since her head didn’t rotate and the bed stayed on the floor I’m thinking it might be okay. The conversation went kind of like this:
Her: VASNEF ERTY BAK FULAR SEN!
Me: Shhhh, it’s just me, go back to sleep.
Her: GERFLU! HASNEK BABA!
Me: Honey, shhhhh, it’s alright. Sleep, baby.
Her: WAAAAAAAAABKET NOOOOOOOOOO!!!
Me: Oh for crying out loud… same to you.
(I left the room and she stopped.)
Next it was on to the Monkey. In the continued yet hopeless campaign to get him nighttime potty trained, I drag his little tushie out of bed every night before I turn in, and take him to the bathroom. Tonight was our usual; I carried him to the bathroom, set him down where he swayed back and forth with one eye open while I pulled down his jammies and pull-up, and sat him on the toilet. Usually he goes right away and we get him put back together and into bed in a jiffy.
Sometimes he’s too sleepy, and forgets to aim. After several incidents which I will refrain from detailing here, we put an end to vertical urination right quick. All sitting, all the time, buster. But aim is still required because, well, inconveniently enough, the toilet is underneath, not straight out in front.
Which brings us to tonight’s joy. It went like this:
Me: Honey, point down.
Him: *snore*
Me: HONEY. Point down, please.
Him: unngh.
Me: HELLOOOOOOOO. Can you hear me?
Him: yeah.
Me: Good. Please point down, you’re going to pee on me.
Him: *starts to cry*
Me: What’s the matter? Why are you crying?
Him: *no answer, more snuffling*
Me: Why are you crying? Stop it, you’re fine. Just point down and peepee please.
Him: *starts to list to the left, hands still–maddeningly!–limp at his sides*
Me: Do you want to go back to bed?
Him: Yes. Bed.
Me: Great, just point down and pee and we’ll get you right back into bed.
Him: *back to crying*
I am embarassed to admit… this went on for a good five minutes. I raised my voice… I actually clapped in the child’s face (I know, I know, but I was running out of ideas)… and when I was just about ready to forget it and take him back to bed, he peed.
All over me. And the floor. And his pajamas.
And then he cried.
And I didn’t kill him.
Which I think makes me eligible for sainthood, wouldn’t you agree? Only I would like a shower before the ceremony, please.
Simplify Sunday
I fear that Julia–Master (mistress?) of All That is Funkalicious in Graphics–is going to kill me, or at least spend a loooong time guilting me, when she sees that I’ve removed the cool banner she made for me. I do love that supercool night sky background, and all of the nifty text transformations that Those Of Us With Cheapo Limited Edition Photoshop can only dream about. But this place isn’t meant to be about being flashy, and Sundays bring out my desire to simplify in a way that little else does.
Feel free to leave long, wistful, deeply yearning comments about how the previous banner was quite simply the most beautiful and perfect creation you’d ever seen, and how Julia should rightfully be given her own island nation to rule. She’ll appreciate it, and it may shorten the number of days she won’t speak to me.
The kids and I made it to church on time (*flex*) this morning, with a minimum of frustration, and after a long talk about Last Time’s Behavior (“So, is it okay to run down the aisle screaming “MAMA SHE TOOK MY CRAYON!” when you are supposed to be sitting quietly and I am up in the choir loft singing?”) today’s behavior was exemplary, if I do say so myself. During the children’s sermon the pastor asked what would happen if it never rained again, and the Monkey immediately piped up, all serious-like, “All the lakes would dry up!” and there was a collective oh-isn’t-he-just-so-precious murmur from the congregation. During Junior Church the Chickadee chose to forego her own project in favor of assisting a friend who needed help (the teacher pulled me aside to fill me in on this, with profuse admiration). If I’d been any warmer and fuzzier by the time we left church, I would’ve needed to strip naked for ventilation.
So we returned home and I tried to preserve this feeling the way that any good mom does; I decided we need to Make Goodies.
After some discussion and digging in the pantry, we decided to try the recipe on the back of the Golden Grahams cereal box for s’mores bars. This is like making rice krispy treats with some chocolate melted into the marshmallow goo (and different cereal, obviously). The glow started to fade as both children danced around the kitchen, underfoot, and I tried not to drip molten goo on either of them. By the time I’d sprayed my hands with Pam before mixing it all up (and then discovered that this particular little Hint from Heloise only works in making your hands non-stick for about 2 seconds) and found myself up to my elbows in solidifying graham glop, I’d evicted them from the area. So much for my Norman Rockwell afternoon.
But all was forgiven about one hour and seventeen skirmishes later, when–being the fantabulous mom that I am–I parked the kids in front of A Bug’s Life with two s’mores squares. And oh, how it brings me back to a simpler time… a time when I could drink an entire cup of coffee before it got cold. (Just did it; a little slice of heaven.) Only now everything is better by a magnitude I never knew possible, because I have something chocolate to eat with my coffee two little complications who love me even when I’m cranky.
Caution: Inventions in mirror are dumber than they may appear
A top 10 from today, if you’ll indulge me….
1) Disappearing patterns on pull-ups. The point of these little gems is to motivate your child to stay dry all night. In the commercials, a small child appearing barely old enough to walk, much less scale the potty, runs triumphantly to mommy to display that the pull-up still bears the decorative print and Mommy wow, I’m a big kid now! The kid in the commercial has been wearing that pull-up for less than 10 seconds. I can attest that putting spaceships on the Buzz Lightyear pull-ups was really stupid, because a four-year-old boy will run triumphantly into your room in the morning to declare “Buzz wiped out all the evil alien ships!” Yeah. Buzz and the three glasses of water you sucked down at bedtime, buddy.
2) Children’s chewable vitamins in a variety of shapes and colors. Fun shapes! Bright colors! Fun to eat! Um, no. Fun to argue over, as in why-does-she-have-a-monkey-and-I-have-an-elephant and I-only-like-the-pink-ones and awwwww-I-had-a-lion-yesterday.
3) The Miracle-Gro sprayer attachment thingie for the hose. I may be dumb (no comments from the peanut gallery, please), but I’m not blind. The whole idea of this gizmo is that the perfect, proper amount of fertilizer is being mixed evenly into the spray, yes? Funny, that perfect amount turns the first 30 seconds of spray dark blue, progressively lightening for the next 30 seconds, and then for the rest of the watering session I’m just an idiot with a big stupid bottle nozzle attachment on my hose.
4) Milk in the light-block bottle. Precious vitamins can be leached out of the milk by dangerous light striking the plastic container. Oh my! Guess what? There are no vitamins in water, which is what we’ll be drinking with lunch when I buy the light-block bottle on sale and forget that since it’s not see-through, I can’t see when we run out.
5) Sneakers with velcro for little kids. Isn’t it great when they can be self-sufficient and get their own shoes on? Isn’t it somehow less great when they discover that they can stick the velcro to their socks, the carpet, their sister…?
6) Slip-on sneakers for children who always complain their shoes are too tight. I’m not naming any names, mind you. Just keep in mind that if a six-year-old stumbles on her way down the garage step, the resultant regaining of balance may end with one shoe outside the garage. And she will be laughing too hard to go retrieve it. And her brother may find this an excellent excuse to start throwing his shoes. You can do what you want; I’m just sayin’.
7) Cup-holder holes in the arms of movie theatre seats. Let’s face it: everyone knows those things are never quite the right size for your soda, anyway. They are, however, just the right size for small arms… practicing making anchor ropes out of windbreakers… feet… and dropping candy through.
8) Candyland. I’m just putting it on the list because I would rather chew off my own leg than play this never-ending repetitive simulation of purgatory.
9) Pizza pans with holes in them for crispier crusts. Do they make the crust crispier? I have no idea. Do they make a gigantic crumby mess all over the counter when you cut the pizza? Hell yes.
10) Vibrating toothbrushes for children. I used to have big blue blobs of toothpaste on the bathroom counter. Now I have big blue blobs of toothpaste on the counter overlaid with a fine mist of light blue toothpaste-and-spittle spatter. (And also, “Great green globs of greasy grimy gopher guts” is now stuck in my head, though strictly speaking that is not the fault of the toothbrushes.)
P.S. Shrek 2 gets a big thumbs-up from me, although I would like to watch it again without hearing “What’s funny, Mama? Why did that make you laugh?” two hundred and fifty-nine times.
Even Better!
 I am a Gauntlet Adventurer.I strive to improve my living conditions by hoarding gold, food, and sometimes keys and potions. I love adventure, fighting, and particularly winning – especially when there’s a prize at stake. I occasionally get lost inside buildings and can’t find the exit. I need food badly. What Video Game Character Are You? |
(And the sad part is, I think this one was more accurate than the girlfriend test….)
Thank Goodness
|
You Are A Professional Girlfriend! You are the perfect girlfriend – big surprise! Heaven knows you’ve had enough practice. That’s why you’re a total pro. If there was an Emily Post of girlfriends, it would be you. You know how to act in every situation … to make both you and your guy happy. |
It must be my professional girlfriend status that has me beating away the men with a stick. Oh, wait, those are mosquitoes. My mistake.
I confess. What was proud self-assurance this morning turned down the path of woulda-coulda-shouldas by evening. But I’m all better now that I know I’m a perfect girlfriend. That will come in very handy on my next date. Which will be happening in 2012.
Oops
So I’m having a pretty good morning… got the kids off to school without major incidence… came back home and was cleaning and such and thinking about how yesterday really wasn’t too bad… I’d feared it would be a very difficult day for me because it marked an event about which I feel great ambivalence, and a fair amount of regret… but all in all it was okay. I got things done. I didn’t feel the need to have a major wallow. I felt alright. By evening I’d felt a hurdle had been overcome and I was (dare I say it?) doing some good growing. All of this I was reviewing this morning, and I gave myself another of those little mental pat-on-the-backs (honestly, if I don’t do it, who will?).
Then the phone rang. It was my therapist; did I realize we have a session scheduled for this morning that I’d missed?
You know, I love irony as much as the next smartass, but it is possible to have too much of a good thing.
So I did the big ol’ Homer Simpson DOH! and apologized profusely for my ditziness… checked my calendar, where indeed I found the appointment written clearly right on today’s date. She was very nice about it. But nothing is quite so deflating to the ego’s well-being as knowing that your therapist thinks you’re a flake.
Not that I need a therapist or therapy at all. I mean, I could’ve dealt with the slow breakdown of my marriage, the “100 Years Divorce” (okay it didn’t really take that long, it just felt that way), the saga of Dr. Husband and Mr. Idiotboy, taking a seriously crappy job because of impending divorce, getting treated like crap at seriously crappy job, getting laid off from seriously crappy job, realizing no one was going to hire me to do anything better, watching my savings dwindle, one child with life-threatening food allergies, one child with chronic clinical depression starting at the tender age of four, and maintaining a house and raising two kids all on my own… on my own. I could’ve. It’s just that I figured that would all be a lot more complicated if my head exploded.
Having missed this morning’s therapy session, I give you (for those who asked, and for those who didn’t, too bad) the event from May 20, 2003 that renders me a complete asshat: Just a few months post-separation, I had my first date in about ten years. It was too early, I wasn’t ready, and my choice of partner was–to be kind–questionable. From this evolved a relationship that alternately gave me hope and made me doubt and loathe myself. It destroyed a dear friendship. It nearly destroyed me. I learned my lesson but I think “ignorance is bliss” is applicable here.
The rub is this: I hold a grudge. Always have. (And I do love how–when discussing this topic with my father a few days back–he tiptoed around this particular “feature” of mine as if perhaps I don’t realize that I am a demanding bitch.) In this case, although I am now A-OK with myself and the world and myself in the world and even this person no longer being part of that, I’ll be damned if I can stop being pissed at him. I literally sat him down on multiple occasions to reiterate please handle with care, I am damaged right now and I can’t take more and please don’t move forward if this isn’t what you truly want. He ignored me, because he is a hopeful and selfish bastard. And I will move on, I will love again, I will find the one I seek… and he will continue to walk the walk and talk the talk until the enormity hits him and he runs away as fast as his legs can carry him (again and again and again)… which means I should feel sorry for him. But I don’t. It’s about the most infuriating thing in the world, I think, to see such a gifted person so incapable of love when they should damn well know better.
I don’t know if my missing my appointment falls under the “there are no accidents” category or the “sometimes a cigar is just a cigar” category. Either way, I don’t feel half bad. Onward and upward! (*insert annoyingly repetitive “I’m Still Standing” music here for maximum cheesiness*)