Math and other things
I keep thinking I’ll post something coherent when a full-fledged story presents itself, and then I look over the past 9+ years of writing and realize that this whole notion of actually having a cohesive narrative has never stopped me BEFORE. Why now? Possibly because I am lazy, or possibly because there’s some gelato in the freezer and it’s not going to eat itself. I don’t know. But because I’m a trooper, I shall soldier forward as best I can with disjointed bits and pieces of things.
I’m a giver.
Summer mathin’. I may have mentioned the whole math thing…? Hey, kids, let’s do an entire year of accelerated math in a 6-week summer course, online, in the snow, uphill both ways! Okay, the last two may not technically be true, but still. The 6-week course started on a Monday and then concludes with a final 5 weeks later on a Tuesday, so the MATH people are bad at COUNTING. (Irony: it’s what’s on the syllabus!) It’s a 5-week long course and I’m fairly certain it’s designed to kill the students who are taking it. Chickie doesn’t seem to mind, most of the time, but it is killing ME, and I DO mind. read more…
So very warm and fuzzy
Here’s a part of a terrible picture I snuck around a corner of Kira‘s house and snapped while my girly was chilling out with her new posse:
(From left to right: Tre watching Max play a video game, Max playing said video game, Chickadee texting and making Max into her personal cushion, and Raphael desperately wishing he was the one playing the video game.)
There’s something unspeakably awesome about your friend’s kids welcoming your kid into the fold, so of course I wrote about our trip for Alpha Mom because I still feel like there are cartoon bluebirds circling my head. (Sure, they’re teenage bluebirds with stinky feet and they periodically squabble with each other, but still.)
Back from summer camp
Hey, we’re home again. And I almost feel normal. (“Normal” being relative when it comes to me, natch.) Know what is NOT a great way to overcome any potential jetlag when traveling back home to Eastern time after being on Mountain time? Planning to take the last flight home on Sunday evening. I mean, it’s probably not a great idea, anyway, but then if it’s truly the airline’s last flight of the night to Atlanta, chances are they’re going to delay the flight to catch all the folks who are making a connection, and then chances are that a ginormous storm cell is going to divert your flight path so that your long flight is even longer, and then to top that off, once you arrive in Atlanta at 1:00 in the morning they will insist that your luggage is arriving on carousel 2 but actually it is carousel 5 and once you figure that out and collect your things and make your way out to the parking shuttle and get in your car and find your way out and FINALLY white-knuckle it home through the pouring rain, just a few miles from your house a railroad crossing will insist there’s a train coming when there isn’t. And then you’ll watch several people slalom through the gates while you have palpitations and you will eventually turn around and go back and find the longest way home possible.
This is why you shouldn’t give a mouse a cookie, or maybe it’s why it’s not a great idea to go to bed around 3:30 and then get up and try to work the next day. (Needless to say, Monday was kind of a blur.) read more…
Teenagers and travel and moths (oh my)
There was a time in my life—a long time, actually—when I thought I would have a houseful of children. Then I realized I was neither independently wealthy nor particularly patient, so I figured 3 or 4 kids would be plenty. And then, y’know, life happened, and I ended up with two kids and the realization that I am perfectly content with the size of my family. (Well, okay, some days I’m perfectly content and some days I am willing to sell the children for puppies or parts or even just to make the noise stop.)
So this is to say that I have no regrets about the state of my life or the size of my family. On the other hand, I packed up Chickadee and we flew out here to Kira‘s house, and I am positively marinating in pack-o-teens and lots of kill-me-dead-with-the-adorableness of watching said teens cater to Sophia (who is FOUR and a BIG GIRL), and there is a not tiny part of me which thinks that having an entire houseful of rowdy children would be really, really awesome.
Kira and I have been friends for coming up on a decade, now, and this is the first time our children have met, which is just weird because my kids know Kira and Kira’s kids know me. (I’m bummed that Monkey isn’t here, but he is still off being manly with Otto.) I think it took about half a day for Kira’s boys and Chickie to fall into an easy pattern of competing to see who could be the most obnoxious to each other (it turns out that my 15-year-old and Kira’s nearly-15-year-old may actually be sharing a brain, which is both frightening and FANTASTIC), and suddenly I can picture what life would be like if we formed a commune. It would be loud, mind you, but very entertaining. read more…
The joy of poppin’ tags
This week over at Alpha Mom, I’ve written about the best way to go thrifting with your teen. It does not include any information about my daughter’s penchant for going straight for the neon-green hooker heels and dancing around in them declaring, “I’M A PRETTY LAYDEEEEEEEE!” (which, now that I think of it, seems like a glaring omission). I did, however, manage to piss off a commenter pretty much immediately, because when I say “this is the rule in our family,” OBVIOUSLY what I am saying is “I am judging you for doing anything differently and you should get really mad and leave me an angry comment.”
Oh, Internet. Never change! It’s okay, I can soothe my battered soul over at Goodwill.
Still here, just boring
I didn’t mean to wander off and forget to post for so long. This is the part where I should apologize and tell you how completely fantastical and over-full my life is, I guess, except that:
1) I believe that YOUR life is probably interesting enough that me not posting matters to you pretty much not at all, or at least it shouldn’t, and
2) I have absolutely no idea what I’ve been doing, and I’m sure it wasn’t that exciting or I would remember.
The second one is kind of a lie, actually. SOME of what I’ve been doing is having flashbacks to high school math, because OH GOD ALL THE MATHS. Did I mention that my darling daughter is taking this insane math class? Two or three or fifteen times? Listen, if you told me to pick between the math class my daughter is taking OR receiving a Brazilian wax administered by drunken toddlers, I would be hard-pressed to tell you which one I would prefer. By the time she finished the first week, she was all “I think I’ll work ahead this weekend! This is going great!” and I was just silently weeping in the corner.
I’m not sure I could pass this class again if I had the whole academic year to do it—I mean, I’m pretty sure I took this class back in 1987 or so, but my brain was younger and more elastic back then—and here she is, whipping through it in 6 weeks. One day it was all “MOM, I NEED HELP WITH THESE 3-DIMENSIONAL GRAPHS” and the next day it was “Okay, that unit’s over, what do you know about standard deviation?” read more…
Y’all can call me the little lady
Otto and I enjoy a fairly egalitarian relationship, I think, which is mindfully arranged through cooperation, compromise, and the fact that we both really like each other and try hard to be helpful to one another rather than being lazy or assholes. I don’t see us ever writing a marriage guide, or anything (“Step 1: Don’t be an asshole. Step 2: Remember Step 1!”), but it seems to work pretty well for us.
Sure, I do the bulk of the cooking, but that’s because I’m home a lot more often than he is, and also because I really enjoy cooking—NOT because I’m female or because he can’t or won’t cook. (He does cook, just not as often as I do.) And yes, he seems to be chief bed-maker, and I’m not sure why, although it may possibly be related to me not giving a crap about whether or not the bed is made. Stuff like that. Also, Otto is in charge of Fixing All The Things because he’s good at it. And I am in charge of beating the children because it poses fewer legal issues. Etc.
And it used to be that when it came to things like arranging for a plumber to come or, say, getting the pool company to finish fixing the pool (STILL LEAKING, THANKS FOR ASKING), we would take turns handling these issues. But eventually we gave up and now Otto handles all of that, on account of my pretty little head can’t be bothered. read more…
Are your kids reading this summer?
In the midst of math-mania (we are now on either Day 3 or Day 4 of the Summer Math Torture, depending on whether or not you count the day Chickadee was locked out of the system, and I am thinking about chewing off my own leg to escape, but Chickie seems to be holding up pretty well), we are still trying to hold to our general philosophy of summer being the perfect time to devour all of the books you didn’t have time to read during the school year. (This is partially to counteract Monkey’s philosophy that summer is the perfect time to buy yourself a Zelda game for the Wii and play it for five hours straight before your mother notices you’re still in your pajamas mid-afternoon and glued to the television. Whoops.)
Anyway. What were we talking about? Oh, right! Books! I wrote a piece for Alpha Mom about the books my teens recommend for summer reading, and if you have similarly-inclined kids you may find their picks interesting. Or maybe you have some recommendation to add, which would be cool, too.
What communication issues?
I think the most solid foundation for a healthy, mutually-fulfilling relationship is good communication. Fortunately, being a writer-type-person who likes to make many word-like squawkings with both my hands and my face-hole, PLUS given the importance I place on really listening to similar transmissions from the ones I love, I’ve got this one down pat. My family never has to feel like we don’t all understand each other.
I mean… uhhhh… unless one of us has been doing math for 10+ hours straight and another of us has been trying offer support for said unholy amount of time devoted to said math while wondering WHY IN THE WORLD we thought a summer class was a good idea.
Her: What are you making?
Me: Lentils.
Her: For?
Me: Eating…?
Her: No, I mean eating for…?
Me: … dinner??
Her: … FOR????
*we glare at each other, tension building, each sure the other is being deliberately obtuse*
Me: Oh! For TACOS!
Her: Oh! I love tacos.
I am trying to find a way to blame this on math. I may need a little more time, but I’m sure I’ll figure it out.
Thoughts about pools (and other things)
I’m doing an experiment this summer, though saying it like that makes it sound like I’m being all official and science-y, when in reality I am just trying to embrace my inner sloth. Here it is: I’m trying not to work on the weekends. WEIRD, RIGHT?? I tend to suffer from a common affliction called “freelance creep;” sure, I sleep a little later on the weekends, but I find myself using those weekend days to catch up on things I somehow didn’t finish during the week. It sounds innocuous, but then I find myself sitting at the computer for hours and I hear that just walking away from work for a day or two at a time is healthy or something. So I’ve been taking the weekends off and I’m sure my productivity is down (minus) but overall my give-a-crap is up (plus!) so I’m calling it a win.
This means I get up on Monday morning feeling vaguely hungover. It’s not alcohol, it’s all that FREEDOM. An entire two days filled with WHATEVER. Crazy, man. Fortunately, this gives me all sorts of time to think about STUFF and THINGS and then I can come back and share all of those revelations with you. I know, you’re thrilled. Try to contain your excitement. Or at least save it for the weekend when you’re not supposed to be working. (You’re welcome!) read more…