There's this kid who's been showing up around here just about every damn day since oh...I'll say the middle of October almost 8 years ago. So we feed him and make small talk and all that sort of thing, you know, and I'll venture to say we've come to a rather comfortable conviviality between us. He stays over at night and keeps a toothbrush and some extra clothes around, so you see how it is.
Well. I don't know where this kid went, but he is gone like $2 gasoline. Got this other kid now who really could be the other kid's brother, honest to God, but this kid is different from the old kid. Really different.
Now, I'm not one to make waves (hush now), so I figured we'd all go along with the new kid for a bit and see how it all pans out. So far so good. They wear the same size and go to the same school and all that, but this new kid, he came with hair gel. Hair gel that he bought with his own money (so you KNOW he's not my kid if he's picking up the tab). Some dollar store vat of blue goo with Sport on the label.
Don't nobody panic. They can smell fear.
So tonight this hair gel-carrying kid decides he wants to take a bath and relax. RELAX.
WTF? be cool, mommy, be realll cool.
Kid comes out of the bathroom after what I must assume was a relaxing spa-esque event and every last bit of his general hair area is sealed, plastered, decoupaged in blue sport goo. I mean his hair is blue, that's how much blue goo there is. I know. How much blue goo is left? How much could be left? Rest well, dear friends, it's a big vat.
He likes it. He says his hair smells "fresh." And it's "shiny". (Oh ho, yes baby, it is de-fi-nitely shiny) Tells me he "wants to get a head start on good hair for tomorrow." Oh sweet mercy. I mean, really. I frankly will be shocked if he's able to get that head of pre-gelled good hair off his pillow by the time that sport stuff dries.
And I am waiting on that Bourbon, Lord. (Isn't that part of a Psalm? Me and God, we joke, it's cool)
I do like this new kid. He's pretty funny and any man who brings his own toiletries is a-okay in my book, but I do miss the old kid. Lord, I had to set a simple box trap just to check his shirt buttons, but we had a good long run, me and him.
Now, I don't foresee that trouble with this new kid. As a matter of fact, I'm thinking we're looking at a whole 'nother kind trouble with sport goo kid.
Yup.
Friday, September 19, 2008
Thursday, September 18, 2008
The Wheels on the Bus...
Put That Little Red-Headed Fellow on his Little Yellow Bus for the first time this week so he can go to his Special School. Now, I am sure mothers face more terrifying situations every day, but I am also absolutely sure that most of those mothers are naturally way braver about all that stuff they need to be brave about. Most mothers would not whine about an all morning stomach ache and then, after waiving gaily (maniacally, even) at the taillights of that baby bus with my baby on it (and only four other students and two accredited adults going to the one place and, after all, they get there just fine every other day, but this time they took my LRHF), most mothers would not hurl themselves into some SUDDENLY VERY IMPORTANT TRELLIS CONSTRUCTION and OTHER ABSOLUTELY THIS MINUTE NECESSARY GARDEN STUFF just to hide the weepies. Now, I'll grant you, I got a LOT of trellises built, but there comes a point when you have to ask yourself how many is too many?Dh didn't stop me until I was darn near finished a sort of limpy-looking pergola. It's for the best, really, that thing would never have survived any actual plants with leaves and stuff. .
Oh, my baby. My sweet LRHF. On that little bus in his little public school uniform. Going into the city (it's not Manhattan, folks...believe me). Word School, we call it. So he can get his words, we tell his brothers. It's pretty much the truth, too, so it makes sense to them too. And the Fuzzy Headed Fellow is boiling jealous over the bus thing. He thinks he could use some of that there Word School, too. I lean more toward boarding school for him (insert the weak laughter of a half-joking late-day mother here).
It was a very long day for the not-brave mommies. A long looking-out-the-window day. To be fair, tho, we must remember that I am not what you might call a "let's keep busy and get our jobs done" kind of mommy in the first place, so don't get all concerned over that.
He made it okay, just fine even, my Beautiful Boy on His Bus. Arrived home to cheering crowds who certainly would have hoisted him upon their shoulders had the driveway hill not been such an a trip up the Andes in the first place. Instead, Mommy got to carry all 46 lbs of LRHF all the way up that s.o.b. hill. I don't care. There was triumph and there was joy. I thought for a second that there was ticker tape, but turns out that his bookbag was open and stuff was flying out in the breeze.
You can bet, though, you can be absodamnlutely sure, that for all time, in my mommy heart and in his LRH heart, we had us some fine tickertape coming down on us that September day.
He goes back tomorrow.
*sigh*
Oh, my baby. My sweet LRHF. On that little bus in his little public school uniform. Going into the city (it's not Manhattan, folks...believe me). Word School, we call it. So he can get his words, we tell his brothers. It's pretty much the truth, too, so it makes sense to them too. And the Fuzzy Headed Fellow is boiling jealous over the bus thing. He thinks he could use some of that there Word School, too. I lean more toward boarding school for him (insert the weak laughter of a half-joking late-day mother here).
It was a very long day for the not-brave mommies. A long looking-out-the-window day. To be fair, tho, we must remember that I am not what you might call a "let's keep busy and get our jobs done" kind of mommy in the first place, so don't get all concerned over that.
He made it okay, just fine even, my Beautiful Boy on His Bus. Arrived home to cheering crowds who certainly would have hoisted him upon their shoulders had the driveway hill not been such an a trip up the Andes in the first place. Instead, Mommy got to carry all 46 lbs of LRHF all the way up that s.o.b. hill. I don't care. There was triumph and there was joy. I thought for a second that there was ticker tape, but turns out that his bookbag was open and stuff was flying out in the breeze.
You can bet, though, you can be absodamnlutely sure, that for all time, in my mommy heart and in his LRH heart, we had us some fine tickertape coming down on us that September day.
He goes back tomorrow.
*sigh*
"The Ladaaays Like It When You're Handsome..."
These words, a direct and unedited quote from Big Red Headed Boy, as he stands in my bathroom, just one month shy of his 8th year, with a big boy hand full of runny mousse (my good mousse at that) all ready to splat it upon his big red head. Have Mercy. Have Mercy on me right this very minute Lord, because I am just about falling out of myself over this. He used my blowdryer last week. Now, my children, none excepted, have a perfect genetic hybrid of my hair and dh's hair. So it's rather um....equine-tail-like. Brushy. Coarse. Thick. Same cowlick in all three, right smack over the left eye. I can say with all the certainty of the Resurrection that none of my babies will ever sport those obnoxiously long "bama bangs" because that hair in that cowlick spot will never ever go along with the necessary gravity. As a matter of fact, all three boys get taller as their hair gets longer. LRHF, LFHF and BRHB. It grows up, like zoysia grass. Daddy's hair does just the same, faster if he's been drinking a bit.
Oh, but this morning. My boy telling me all about combing his hair (brush cut, mind you, maybe 1/3 inch long. Maybe) while he smears mousse in it. That was some mighty sharp red hair that left our house bound for second grade on this fine morning.
Be kind to my boy, Dear Ladies. You don't want to be on my bad side.
Oh, but this morning. My boy telling me all about combing his hair (brush cut, mind you, maybe 1/3 inch long. Maybe) while he smears mousse in it. That was some mighty sharp red hair that left our house bound for second grade on this fine morning.
Be kind to my boy, Dear Ladies. You don't want to be on my bad side.
Monday, September 15, 2008
MMMMMMMMMMMMMmmmmmm
Remember how the lawnmower was held together by drapery hardware? Remember how awful it was? I shudder at the recollection as well, but my neighbor came over and prounounced T.O.D. on ol' Red this past Sunday. Nothing to be done. R.I.P. in Briggs&Stratton heaven, Good Friend. You were loved and will be missed. I saved up my own lil pin money and bought that ol' Red long time ago. Just this past Mother's Day, I learned how to take the blades off and sharpen them with my orbital sander. I know, the gift that keeps on giving.
But it was time to let go. I know. She was ready.
Fortunately, I managed to weave through all the stages of grief in time to go buy a new damned mower. Not easy and not without psychological consequence, but I needed it. Our neighborhood needed it. It's bad enough that we decorate for Halloween with a certain earthy abandon that can only mean we're witches (b/c either you are a Baptist or you are a Witch and I believe in Transubstantiation and some other uppity unliteral stuff and am therefore not a Baptist), but the unlovely lawn, well, that was call for a thrashing of some sort, I'm sure.
Got out all my tools. wrenches, pliers, gator grip thingies, ready to roll. Put that "replacement" lawnmower (that will never be part of this family, you can take that to the bank) together and just get the job done without sentiment or affection. I don't need a lawnmover to fulfill a need, you know? But have mercy, you know they come almost completely together now? That last one, well, I practically needed to soder parts of it before I could use it. Almost anticlimactic.
She's a sweet push, I'll tell you what. Yessir. In and out and around the gardens and up and down the hill in front...she did the job. All the neighbors were waving at me (always genteel in my overalls and bandanna) and it was nice.
Let me be perfectly clear here: It was not Red. Never could be Red. But it was okay. Nice, even. I may come to love again.
I don't know.
But it was time to let go. I know. She was ready.
Fortunately, I managed to weave through all the stages of grief in time to go buy a new damned mower. Not easy and not without psychological consequence, but I needed it. Our neighborhood needed it. It's bad enough that we decorate for Halloween with a certain earthy abandon that can only mean we're witches (b/c either you are a Baptist or you are a Witch and I believe in Transubstantiation and some other uppity unliteral stuff and am therefore not a Baptist), but the unlovely lawn, well, that was call for a thrashing of some sort, I'm sure.
Got out all my tools. wrenches, pliers, gator grip thingies, ready to roll. Put that "replacement" lawnmower (that will never be part of this family, you can take that to the bank) together and just get the job done without sentiment or affection. I don't need a lawnmover to fulfill a need, you know? But have mercy, you know they come almost completely together now? That last one, well, I practically needed to soder parts of it before I could use it. Almost anticlimactic.
She's a sweet push, I'll tell you what. Yessir. In and out and around the gardens and up and down the hill in front...she did the job. All the neighbors were waving at me (always genteel in my overalls and bandanna) and it was nice.
Let me be perfectly clear here: It was not Red. Never could be Red. But it was okay. Nice, even. I may come to love again.
I don't know.
Friday, September 12, 2008
Oh, the Humanity!
If you read yesterday's post and you are the least bit familiar with bodily functions, you will need no further explanation regarding today's abbreviated entry, except to say that the long-awaited event did not occur within hygienically-acceptable parameters and there were no missiles launched.
There were no survivors.
There were no survivors.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
How Could I Ever Suspect Such a Precious Angel-Baby?
I suppose I have not yet said much about my middle child. That Fuzzy Headed Fellow. First born of the twins--eyes wide open (scared the doc) and a head full of crazy (not that kind) dark hair. Now, I just don't have that kind of baby, so if I hadn't been there to see it, I might wonder. Some days I wish I could wonder, but as I say, I saw him arrive and I truly don't think the ob had a throw-down infant up his sleeve when he got down to business, so he is mine. (By the way, YOU try giving birth on an operating table with no stirrups or nothing. It's like being on an ironing board stacked on top of a washing machine.
Anyway, TFHF said his first words at 8 months and hasn't slowed down since. He's totally dominant over the red headed fellow and he's pretty sure that he could take the seven year old . I'm not sure I could put up too much of a fight regarding that there. He's brilliant and elfish--sort of a Curious George after a really good waxing and he knows his stuff. This works out well for him because everything is his stuff. No really.
*sigh*
The only thing is, well, my darling middle child, my brilliant angel with the crazy professor hair...well, he has another talent. He can withhold bowel movements (I'd say poop, but you know, older folks get so touchy) apparently forever. Or at least until he requires the installation of what he not-so-fondly calls a "butt missile." Dunno if you've ever administered something like this to a very wiry (in spite of the constipation, ah youth!) four year old with a verrrrrry strident yell, but I can keep it all nicely vicarious by simply offering to deliver him again rather than administer the butt missile. I guess that's not uncommon, but I really mean it. So he's on one of his not- excreting kicks. This kick usually triggers a not-eating kick, for all the obvious gastronomic reasons.
So I hand the kid his dinner. Not my culinary highpoint, I realize, but still. And he takes it to the table and there it sits. It's gotten to where he cannot watch his beloved "Spongy" until he furnishes (probably) concrete evidence of the necessary bodily function. I mean business when Sponge Bob is in play. About 20 minutes later, my angel-baby brings me his plate. His clean plate. I mean it has been washed. Whaaaaa? Now, I did not fall off the Mommy-Truck yesterday, folks. And I certainly did not fall off the He-Gets-It-From-His-Father-truck recently either. I gently, gently wonder aloud where that food went and how that plate got clean. Hmmm...Have I watched enough Law& Order? The boy is just about to lawyer up when I suggest we take a stroll back to the bathroom. Just for kicks, you see. Just some quality time, him and me. I don't need to go any further here, do I? You get it. Trashcan, Sink, Clean Plate. Yeah.
I am in hell. Got my mother and my four year old starving themselves. Really speaks to my nurturing side, doesn't it? More like a nurturing angle, I guess
.
Go to bed, Children.
My gosh, I'm tired. My gosh, I hate dh's hours. My gosh, my house is messy. My gosh, my kids are challenging. My gosh...
We're low on Bourbon.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Hang on Heart of Dixie--Crazy Mama Comin'!!
Yes, I know that there are those who would say, "Well, Honey, you've been in Alabama for a good long time now...how is it that 'crazy mama' (e.g. me! go figure) is just now arriving?"
Ain't me, ya'll! It's the Mother of Crazy Mamas. My own precious Living-Life-Less Interested-with-Lithium- Cheerio & Laxative-Loving Mama.
Oh God. Oh GodohGodohGod. (is that a song from Godspell? I really think it might be...)
Just got off the phone w/my dad. God, what a mess. What a nightmare. Who goes batcrap at 68? ( Mama, now just prop that hand right up there, because sure enough, you did just that very thing.) My dad is soooooo not cut out for this situation. He was not cut out to raise children, for heaven's sake, so how can he take on this anvil in his sunset years? I'm not standing up for him, no, no, we've not much gotten along for, oh...since I was born, and he's a very broken soul himself in many ways. In fact, we had an out and out screaming match just this past december during which he raised his hand to me. And not to say hey. Fortunately, he is old, and I am strong and I caught his hand before it made contact with my face, but I am 41 years old and oh, please, you get the picture, don't you? I left my childhood home that night and vomited in the garden (takes me back to the 80s, that does) on my way back to my sister's house (next door). Swore I wouldn't be back until somebody sent me pics of urns with both dates filled in. Come to think about it, I swore a lot that night.
But are any of us undamaged? Aren't we all a pretty messed up bunch of snotty overtired toddlers? I think that's how God sees us. There's a line in an Emmylou Harris song--"You're a mess but you're My child" and I aspire to work super-hard and maybe get it together enough for God to say that to me. I just have to work out some uh...issues...and uh...keep refilling my meds...and uh...someday...
Anyway, I am trying. Am not great, or all forgiving or even half forgiving, but I am trying. He is in pain and I do know enough about crazy to help him understand crazy. Yes, Mercy I do. And I will learn from this, I know. I am learning. It's sort of like those silly ol' aesthetics who slept on rocks and wore itchy store-brand clothes. Well, not quite. I have suffered enough at his hand (no pun intended, but what a slip, yes?) But I do kind of get the distinct feeling that it helps me to be less of a mess in some ways. That God breathes a clarity into my addled and coffee-starved brain and this allows me to help my father. Any lessons I might pick up along the way are just bonus.
I know, helping my father should not be or take an act of God. This, I know. I am not all honor-y or holy or Christ-y for doing this. I know. Don't mean to imply any of that. I suppose I'm just in awe of how God works. Dag, yeah, love thy neighbor, but Loooord (all whiny), he's my father and he just about broke all three of his kids (my sibs take waaay more meds than I, fyi). Love him anyway, Lord says. Damn.
So then I told him to ship her crazy binge/purge ass down to Dixie. Open ended. Yeah, because I need more distraction. Something to really rattle things up. Yeah. But I said it and he's doing it. He needs it. That's the thing. He's been a caregiver to his parents for the last 15 years (not good at it, mind you) and now he's got Mamalottacrazy till death do they part. Oh and there are firearms all over that freaking house. (I know this because I asked the last time the kids were up) Behind clocks and shit, like five or seven of them. WTF? So uh yeah...might be good for this pair to have a time out.
I'm rambling. Am always so mortally sad after talking w/him.I miss my motherand hate that my kids don't know her like did. I am realy doing shoddy work in the helping dad department. Well, I try to point out how much he's changed and learned (maya angelou--"when we know better, we do better" heaven help me if he ever finds out who maya angelou is) but I know it's cold comfort. I know. I'm sorry. Other than the graham cracker crumbs, two hotwheels cars and a yellow crayon, it's all I have in my bag of tricks right now.
So Southwest her ass on down. Yeah, that'll be fun.She thinks that you MUST print out your boarding pass at the exact 24 hour mark from the time you will board the plane. If you know Southwest, then you know that you GET 24 hours in which to do this. Last time she came, the twins ate a candle. How does that happen, I ask you? Why would an open flame be within proximity of those two? Aw, why ask why?
Patience, Lord. I ask for Patience. And Bourbon. Definitely Bourbon (notice how the name of our Lord and the name of the drink are both in caps. Sad really.) The big bottle. And Lord, Let's avoid the cheap stuff, okay? Yeah, that and Patience. I am sure that those two things will get us through this.
Aren't you?
Ain't me, ya'll! It's the Mother of Crazy Mamas. My own precious Living-Life-Less Interested-with-Lithium- Cheerio & Laxative-Loving Mama.
Oh God. Oh GodohGodohGod. (is that a song from Godspell? I really think it might be...)
Just got off the phone w/my dad. God, what a mess. What a nightmare. Who goes batcrap at 68? ( Mama, now just prop that hand right up there, because sure enough, you did just that very thing.) My dad is soooooo not cut out for this situation. He was not cut out to raise children, for heaven's sake, so how can he take on this anvil in his sunset years? I'm not standing up for him, no, no, we've not much gotten along for, oh...since I was born, and he's a very broken soul himself in many ways. In fact, we had an out and out screaming match just this past december during which he raised his hand to me. And not to say hey. Fortunately, he is old, and I am strong and I caught his hand before it made contact with my face, but I am 41 years old and oh, please, you get the picture, don't you? I left my childhood home that night and vomited in the garden (takes me back to the 80s, that does) on my way back to my sister's house (next door). Swore I wouldn't be back until somebody sent me pics of urns with both dates filled in. Come to think about it, I swore a lot that night.
But are any of us undamaged? Aren't we all a pretty messed up bunch of snotty overtired toddlers? I think that's how God sees us. There's a line in an Emmylou Harris song--"You're a mess but you're My child" and I aspire to work super-hard and maybe get it together enough for God to say that to me. I just have to work out some uh...issues...and uh...keep refilling my meds...and uh...someday...
Anyway, I am trying. Am not great, or all forgiving or even half forgiving, but I am trying. He is in pain and I do know enough about crazy to help him understand crazy. Yes, Mercy I do. And I will learn from this, I know. I am learning. It's sort of like those silly ol' aesthetics who slept on rocks and wore itchy store-brand clothes. Well, not quite. I have suffered enough at his hand (no pun intended, but what a slip, yes?) But I do kind of get the distinct feeling that it helps me to be less of a mess in some ways. That God breathes a clarity into my addled and coffee-starved brain and this allows me to help my father. Any lessons I might pick up along the way are just bonus.
I know, helping my father should not be or take an act of God. This, I know. I am not all honor-y or holy or Christ-y for doing this. I know. Don't mean to imply any of that. I suppose I'm just in awe of how God works. Dag, yeah, love thy neighbor, but Loooord (all whiny), he's my father and he just about broke all three of his kids (my sibs take waaay more meds than I, fyi). Love him anyway, Lord says. Damn.
So then I told him to ship her crazy binge/purge ass down to Dixie. Open ended. Yeah, because I need more distraction. Something to really rattle things up. Yeah. But I said it and he's doing it. He needs it. That's the thing. He's been a caregiver to his parents for the last 15 years (not good at it, mind you) and now he's got Mamalottacrazy till death do they part. Oh and there are firearms all over that freaking house. (I know this because I asked the last time the kids were up) Behind clocks and shit, like five or seven of them. WTF? So uh yeah...might be good for this pair to have a time out.
I'm rambling. Am always so mortally sad after talking w/him.I miss my motherand hate that my kids don't know her like did. I am realy doing shoddy work in the helping dad department. Well, I try to point out how much he's changed and learned (maya angelou--"when we know better, we do better" heaven help me if he ever finds out who maya angelou is) but I know it's cold comfort. I know. I'm sorry. Other than the graham cracker crumbs, two hotwheels cars and a yellow crayon, it's all I have in my bag of tricks right now.
So Southwest her ass on down. Yeah, that'll be fun.She thinks that you MUST print out your boarding pass at the exact 24 hour mark from the time you will board the plane. If you know Southwest, then you know that you GET 24 hours in which to do this. Last time she came, the twins ate a candle. How does that happen, I ask you? Why would an open flame be within proximity of those two? Aw, why ask why?
Patience, Lord. I ask for Patience. And Bourbon. Definitely Bourbon (notice how the name of our Lord and the name of the drink are both in caps. Sad really.) The big bottle. And Lord, Let's avoid the cheap stuff, okay? Yeah, that and Patience. I am sure that those two things will get us through this.
Aren't you?
Saturday, September 6, 2008
Double Dutch Doors
When a child begins to propel him/herself in an independent and successful fashion with some regularity, a responsible parent takes measures to insure (ensure?) that said child will remain in a safe, comfortable, and stimulating environment. We call this the baby gate period.
At some point in a child's development, he/she will master either climbing the babygate or even (you clever baby!) opening the baby gate without adult assistance. It is at this juncture that a responsible parent will take particular care to safeguard surrounding areas while simultaneously developing a weirdly precise parent-radar. We call this the baby-proofing period.
In the normal course of events, once a child is shepherded safely through those perilous first two periods of development, the child can be allowed (within reason, of course) to free-range roam the residence. We call this the who-the-hell-pushed-all-my-tampons-out-of-the-applicator period.
In the case of my children, and most pointedly That Little Red-Headed Fellow, a responsible parent would certainly have a better grip on the general whereabouts of the children. I, however, am not a member of that particular parental organization. No, I charge up the reciprocating saw and cut a door in half and install each half in the two main portals to all that is sharp, permanent, and not meant for human consumption. With sliding bolts. And ledges (all the better to prevent climbing, my dear)
LRHF has outwitted this aged and slow-witted mommy time and time again with the baby gate thing. i really tried. Lived in a fantasy world, really. I moved it up. I moved it down, but added a panel to the top. I removed the panel, moved the gate again and re-installed the panel on the other end. The panel, by the way, was the top of one of those mini coolers. Really gave the whole process a lot of thought. RefreakingGardless, he was up and over and into all that is sharp, permanent and inedible before I had my drillbits away. These gates, these contraptions, inventions, they simply existed to boggle adult minds and injure adult private parts, to mystify and annoy the cats, and they were fun at parties.
But with each tweak, each adaption, LRHF would simply, patiently watch as I drilled and anchored and leveled and cursed and drilled again (because I cannot level anything. ANYTHING. Ask anybody. It's a nightmare). Upon completion, I would (metaphorically) stand back and admire my handiwork, brush the sawdust from my hands and gather up the tools. Bout three squeaks and a thump later, LRHF was at my heels. Gee, that gate was fun too, mommy. Now let's staple stuff to the catbox and taste the surge protector.
God, I just wanted to keep him safe, you know? It's not Sing-Sing here. I'm by myself with them a lot (A LOT) and ever since I admitted to myself that there are no servant/ fairies (that's the first step you know, admitting it), I am often engaged in tasks are best completed, well, without their help.
There. I said it.
I have many tools. Some are sharp (see entry re: upholstery stapler), some are heavy, and some are um...surprisingly quick-bonding. So I need to know that he's safe while I'm trying to be safe (again, see stapler entry).
So far so good with the dutch doors. There's a lot of knocking, but mostly, he likes to balance his cup on waaay up on the ledge (all I see is the little hand and the cup--like some crazy noir puppet show) and I swear he times me to see how long before his refill arrives.
But I can't get that song out of my head. Double Dutch something or other. Because I really need more nonsense up there. And you and I both know that the only proven cure to this sort of thing is the theme song from the Banana Splits Show (How old are YOU??). Ah, but the cure trumps the condition , believe me.
*sigh*
One banana, two banana, three banana four..., sing along, you know you want to...la la la....
At some point in a child's development, he/she will master either climbing the babygate or even (you clever baby!) opening the baby gate without adult assistance. It is at this juncture that a responsible parent will take particular care to safeguard surrounding areas while simultaneously developing a weirdly precise parent-radar. We call this the baby-proofing period.
In the normal course of events, once a child is shepherded safely through those perilous first two periods of development, the child can be allowed (within reason, of course) to free-range roam the residence. We call this the who-the-hell-pushed-all-my-tampons-out-of-the-applicator period.
In the case of my children, and most pointedly That Little Red-Headed Fellow, a responsible parent would certainly have a better grip on the general whereabouts of the children. I, however, am not a member of that particular parental organization. No, I charge up the reciprocating saw and cut a door in half and install each half in the two main portals to all that is sharp, permanent, and not meant for human consumption. With sliding bolts. And ledges (all the better to prevent climbing, my dear)
LRHF has outwitted this aged and slow-witted mommy time and time again with the baby gate thing. i really tried. Lived in a fantasy world, really. I moved it up. I moved it down, but added a panel to the top. I removed the panel, moved the gate again and re-installed the panel on the other end. The panel, by the way, was the top of one of those mini coolers. Really gave the whole process a lot of thought. RefreakingGardless, he was up and over and into all that is sharp, permanent and inedible before I had my drillbits away. These gates, these contraptions, inventions, they simply existed to boggle adult minds and injure adult private parts, to mystify and annoy the cats, and they were fun at parties.
But with each tweak, each adaption, LRHF would simply, patiently watch as I drilled and anchored and leveled and cursed and drilled again (because I cannot level anything. ANYTHING. Ask anybody. It's a nightmare). Upon completion, I would (metaphorically) stand back and admire my handiwork, brush the sawdust from my hands and gather up the tools. Bout three squeaks and a thump later, LRHF was at my heels. Gee, that gate was fun too, mommy. Now let's staple stuff to the catbox and taste the surge protector.
God, I just wanted to keep him safe, you know? It's not Sing-Sing here. I'm by myself with them a lot (A LOT) and ever since I admitted to myself that there are no servant/ fairies (that's the first step you know, admitting it), I am often engaged in tasks are best completed, well, without their help.
There. I said it.
I have many tools. Some are sharp (see entry re: upholstery stapler), some are heavy, and some are um...surprisingly quick-bonding. So I need to know that he's safe while I'm trying to be safe (again, see stapler entry).
So far so good with the dutch doors. There's a lot of knocking, but mostly, he likes to balance his cup on waaay up on the ledge (all I see is the little hand and the cup--like some crazy noir puppet show) and I swear he times me to see how long before his refill arrives.
But I can't get that song out of my head. Double Dutch something or other. Because I really need more nonsense up there. And you and I both know that the only proven cure to this sort of thing is the theme song from the Banana Splits Show (How old are YOU??). Ah, but the cure trumps the condition , believe me.
*sigh*
One banana, two banana, three banana four..., sing along, you know you want to...la la la....
Thursday, September 4, 2008
A Car...a Car...Shining in the Night...
What have I gone and done with this day? I swear, it was right here last time I checked. The whole damned thing was right in front of me and now...
*sigh*
Bought a car today. Um...a most unholy union of suv and wagon, I guess you 'd say. Look, it was my final shot to break out of the MommyVan. Tear down those childproof windows, I say. Of course, had I not totaled said MommyVan, we'd all be in a much happier (albeit MommyVannish) place with no car payments and third row seating, but what can you do?
I think it took all day. That's all I can figure. It must have taken all day. Ever since I stopped w/the coffee (don't even ask how that's going), I, uh...I ain't the quickest bunny in the hutch. But yes, we were definitely in the car place at least twice today and the first time I went w/ my dh who was never closer than 8 or 20 cars away from me and my trusty notebook of blue book/mpg/mechanic's advice so that I had to whip around and call for him about sixteen times and then w a i t f o r h i m t o w a l k o n o v e r from wherever the freak he was, and then the second time was when I went back during rush hour with all my kids and an extra one (god bless my dear friend who drove me) for the actual purchase which I can only compare to what we know of masonic rituals as described on the history channel. By then it was definitely nightfall and definitely raining.
Now, I had me some Lasik a few years back b/c I needed my glasses to find my glasses and I love being able to see. Love it tons and tons. Great stuff. Every morning is a surprise. Showers, of course, aren't so great a surprise because for the first 40 years of my life I was naive about my naked self, but that's what God made eyelids for, yes? Anyway, the sole downside of the Lasik Miracle is that I have a bit of a halo effect after dark. No big deal. When it's not raining. When I'm not driving a new (in 2004 it was) car. When I'm not driving a new(see prev. interjection re: actual newness) car that is a manual after 7 years of automatic glissade. You may recall that the catalyst (read: accident) for this vehicle occurred in the rain. BTW, those places do NOT appreciate big-eyed questions about what that funny looking extra pedal is for.
So, after a halo-ey (hallowed?) five speed drive and forgetting to downshift at the final hill before our freaking driveway (duh), we're home.
Is this the beginning of something, this rearing up from the MommyVan? Could there be some chrysalis-sy type thing going on? I wonder about stuff like that. Not for long because you cannot wonder such arcane things and pry the limbs of small children apart w/o causing permanent damage, but I do wonder. In between that other stuff.
And sometime I will tell you how this car thing is exactly and honest to god just like my wedding dress thing. No kidding. It's almost a mad-lib.
Now you go wonder about that.
*sigh*
Bought a car today. Um...a most unholy union of suv and wagon, I guess you 'd say. Look, it was my final shot to break out of the MommyVan. Tear down those childproof windows, I say. Of course, had I not totaled said MommyVan, we'd all be in a much happier (albeit MommyVannish) place with no car payments and third row seating, but what can you do?
I think it took all day. That's all I can figure. It must have taken all day. Ever since I stopped w/the coffee (don't even ask how that's going), I, uh...I ain't the quickest bunny in the hutch. But yes, we were definitely in the car place at least twice today and the first time I went w/ my dh who was never closer than 8 or 20 cars away from me and my trusty notebook of blue book/mpg/mechanic's advice so that I had to whip around and call for him about sixteen times and then w a i t f o r h i m t o w a l k o n o v e r from wherever the freak he was, and then the second time was when I went back during rush hour with all my kids and an extra one (god bless my dear friend who drove me) for the actual purchase which I can only compare to what we know of masonic rituals as described on the history channel. By then it was definitely nightfall and definitely raining.
Now, I had me some Lasik a few years back b/c I needed my glasses to find my glasses and I love being able to see. Love it tons and tons. Great stuff. Every morning is a surprise. Showers, of course, aren't so great a surprise because for the first 40 years of my life I was naive about my naked self, but that's what God made eyelids for, yes? Anyway, the sole downside of the Lasik Miracle is that I have a bit of a halo effect after dark. No big deal. When it's not raining. When I'm not driving a new (in 2004 it was) car. When I'm not driving a new(see prev. interjection re: actual newness) car that is a manual after 7 years of automatic glissade. You may recall that the catalyst (read: accident) for this vehicle occurred in the rain. BTW, those places do NOT appreciate big-eyed questions about what that funny looking extra pedal is for.
So, after a halo-ey (hallowed?) five speed drive and forgetting to downshift at the final hill before our freaking driveway (duh), we're home.
Is this the beginning of something, this rearing up from the MommyVan? Could there be some chrysalis-sy type thing going on? I wonder about stuff like that. Not for long because you cannot wonder such arcane things and pry the limbs of small children apart w/o causing permanent damage, but I do wonder. In between that other stuff.
And sometime I will tell you how this car thing is exactly and honest to god just like my wedding dress thing. No kidding. It's almost a mad-lib.
Now you go wonder about that.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
He Gets it Honest, that Little Round Headed Fellow
All his sensory stuff. Downright mitochondrial, even. Can't figure whether I'm amused or mystified (or horrified) by the stuff I will do just to avoid folding laundry and emptying the dishwasher. Dh is of the latter two schools of thought on the subject, poor thing.
Just finished building me a hummingbird feeder out of an antique diet rite bottle, a wire hanger, the rubber wheely thing from a kid car, some makeup sponges (clean), a bit of surgical tubing, and (best for last) a cube from the "Don't Break the Ice" game.
Yup. Mighty proud just now. Now, I won't say it was easy and I won't say it was necessary, but it was what I did instead of emptying the dishwasher. There were no injuries sustained, and isn't that really the important thing? Oh wait, it also had the gasket thing from an old Avent bottle. Yeah, can't forget that.
Ooh, I love to "see if I might could figure out how to maybe (insert project here)." Not particularly good at it (see entry regarding washer repair and hand stapling) but I do so love to get into stuff. Just like the little fellow. He gets it honest.
So there I am, riding the endorphin high of fait accomplait (not that the hummingbirds even noticed--they can be such carbo-bitches) and I see a fan. Regular old plastic computer-colored fan.
hmmmm.....
No more. No sir and no thank you. No more mousy little fan for me 'cause I tricked that baby out baaaad. (oh god, even *I* think maybe you should stop here). Painted that baby--they come apart you know--a rich liatris purple and then did the blades in silver. Fab? yes. Fin? no. Put some sparkles on the blades and then laid some polished glass beads over the part that says breeze machine or whatever. Now fin. Fab, Fin and Fine.
Poor dh. He'll not even notice. Even if he can see it over the piles of unfolded laundry and unmatched socks. Even if an ephemeral sprite of light from one of the fanblade sparklies catches his eye in the early morning light.
*sigh*
So much texture. So much sparkle. So much color. Possibly too much for the little fan that mostly sorta hangs out in my bathroom, I dunno. I do know the LRHF will be all about it when he sees it. He will be in sensory heaven. We two will really enjoy this disco tricked out bad-ass fan. We're just alike that way.
Yessir, that's my baby. That bauble didn't fall far from the chandelier, if you get my drift. (if you didn't get my drift replace bauble with apple and chandelier with tree and that should help).
I have no idea about the dishes and laundry. Ah well.
Just finished building me a hummingbird feeder out of an antique diet rite bottle, a wire hanger, the rubber wheely thing from a kid car, some makeup sponges (clean), a bit of surgical tubing, and (best for last) a cube from the "Don't Break the Ice" game.
Yup. Mighty proud just now. Now, I won't say it was easy and I won't say it was necessary, but it was what I did instead of emptying the dishwasher. There were no injuries sustained, and isn't that really the important thing? Oh wait, it also had the gasket thing from an old Avent bottle. Yeah, can't forget that.
Ooh, I love to "see if I might could figure out how to maybe (insert project here)." Not particularly good at it (see entry regarding washer repair and hand stapling) but I do so love to get into stuff. Just like the little fellow. He gets it honest.
So there I am, riding the endorphin high of fait accomplait (not that the hummingbirds even noticed--they can be such carbo-bitches) and I see a fan. Regular old plastic computer-colored fan.
hmmmm.....
No more. No sir and no thank you. No more mousy little fan for me 'cause I tricked that baby out baaaad. (oh god, even *I* think maybe you should stop here). Painted that baby--they come apart you know--a rich liatris purple and then did the blades in silver. Fab? yes. Fin? no. Put some sparkles on the blades and then laid some polished glass beads over the part that says breeze machine or whatever. Now fin. Fab, Fin and Fine.
Poor dh. He'll not even notice. Even if he can see it over the piles of unfolded laundry and unmatched socks. Even if an ephemeral sprite of light from one of the fanblade sparklies catches his eye in the early morning light.
*sigh*
So much texture. So much sparkle. So much color. Possibly too much for the little fan that mostly sorta hangs out in my bathroom, I dunno. I do know the LRHF will be all about it when he sees it. He will be in sensory heaven. We two will really enjoy this disco tricked out bad-ass fan. We're just alike that way.
Yessir, that's my baby. That bauble didn't fall far from the chandelier, if you get my drift. (if you didn't get my drift replace bauble with apple and chandelier with tree and that should help).
I have no idea about the dishes and laundry. Ah well.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Somewhere Over the Spectrum (disorder)
Had the little round headed fellow's IEP mtg this a.m. My Spectrum Sunshine Sugarbunny. I used to go to 'em when I was a teacher (hey, got me out of teaching a class, no?) so it was no big deal. Moved some goals and junk around. Let DH hear a perfeshional smarty person say that I'm actually a capable, fit, and (wtf?) excellent mother. Neither of us really buy it, but it's nice to hear when one is blessed with a quirky child. Or two. Or gene pool. Whatever.
LRHF is gonna ride the little bus to school. He's four. He's my baby--arrived 38 minutes after his twin b/c he was wanting some alone time with me. He's the embodiment of the magic that I don't dare embrace. Loves rainstorms. Loves wind. Loves water. Very elemental, this kid. I get that. More than I like to admit, I get that. No, I don't eat rocks (ahem) or crayons, but I probably would like it if I did. Who can say? We're a lot alike.
I try to see him as a mother and as a teacher. I think that this means I use a mother's heart and a teacher's words. I do see progress. He makes progress and I totally miss it b/c his brothers are shoving sticks into each others' belly buttons and imitating train whistles. He's all there. I tell people that the pantry is fully stocked, but the door's hard to open. Receptive language is good. If he feels like it. He's also a man of my dh's bloodline and so what he can do and what he will do are two very different menu options. I'm learning a lot from him. He, simply by virtue of being himself, has shown me a facet of God that I am definitely too thick to see on my own. So, thank you little round headed fellow. We'll figure the rest out. The little bus. The other kids. The IEPs. All the condiments that come with a spectrum sugarbunny. (Like hunting down and eradicating the annual crop of bright shiny red nandina berries before someone decides to be a birdy and taste them)
It is exhausting and I am too old for even a passel of regular old boykids, much less this brood. It's a lot. I know this for a fact because people are always telling me that it's a lot. So I tell you the same. To me, it's just a lot of just how it is. This is not to imply that I would win any mommy awards, believe you me. My children get corn syrup stuff and chicken nuggets. My children usually need haircuts and baths. My children (sit down here) have no computer games or whatever those thingies are. Sometimes, I think my children have no sane mother figure. I dunno. When I was a teacher, my mentor explained how kids find the teachers who best sooth them through hard days. She was a million times right. I found her, didn't I? Anyway, I believe that it is just the same for mothers and children. I don't want to believe it because it's hard, hard, hard, and a lot of it involves screaming children and body fluids, and everybody else's kids seem so freaking normal, but what can you do? Oh, it would bring you to tears to hear this child's version of Hark the Herald Angels Sing (trans:" hardee heh angelssng, goryto nubon kin" but with sweet, sweet perfect little voice.
Oh, he's a million gifts to me. And a million trials. Trials and gifts. checks and balances. Hmm...did I just learn something there?
Nah.
I have to go. It's not all spiritual awakenings and smiling angels in LahLahLand. Right now, for example, I'm getting a faint whiff of permanent marker from the living room so uh...more later.
thanks.
lah
LRHF is gonna ride the little bus to school. He's four. He's my baby--arrived 38 minutes after his twin b/c he was wanting some alone time with me. He's the embodiment of the magic that I don't dare embrace. Loves rainstorms. Loves wind. Loves water. Very elemental, this kid. I get that. More than I like to admit, I get that. No, I don't eat rocks (ahem) or crayons, but I probably would like it if I did. Who can say? We're a lot alike.
I try to see him as a mother and as a teacher. I think that this means I use a mother's heart and a teacher's words. I do see progress. He makes progress and I totally miss it b/c his brothers are shoving sticks into each others' belly buttons and imitating train whistles. He's all there. I tell people that the pantry is fully stocked, but the door's hard to open. Receptive language is good. If he feels like it. He's also a man of my dh's bloodline and so what he can do and what he will do are two very different menu options. I'm learning a lot from him. He, simply by virtue of being himself, has shown me a facet of God that I am definitely too thick to see on my own. So, thank you little round headed fellow. We'll figure the rest out. The little bus. The other kids. The IEPs. All the condiments that come with a spectrum sugarbunny. (Like hunting down and eradicating the annual crop of bright shiny red nandina berries before someone decides to be a birdy and taste them)
It is exhausting and I am too old for even a passel of regular old boykids, much less this brood. It's a lot. I know this for a fact because people are always telling me that it's a lot. So I tell you the same. To me, it's just a lot of just how it is. This is not to imply that I would win any mommy awards, believe you me. My children get corn syrup stuff and chicken nuggets. My children usually need haircuts and baths. My children (sit down here) have no computer games or whatever those thingies are. Sometimes, I think my children have no sane mother figure. I dunno. When I was a teacher, my mentor explained how kids find the teachers who best sooth them through hard days. She was a million times right. I found her, didn't I? Anyway, I believe that it is just the same for mothers and children. I don't want to believe it because it's hard, hard, hard, and a lot of it involves screaming children and body fluids, and everybody else's kids seem so freaking normal, but what can you do? Oh, it would bring you to tears to hear this child's version of Hark the Herald Angels Sing (trans:" hardee heh angelssng, goryto nubon kin" but with sweet, sweet perfect little voice.
Oh, he's a million gifts to me. And a million trials. Trials and gifts. checks and balances. Hmm...did I just learn something there?
Nah.
I have to go. It's not all spiritual awakenings and smiling angels in LahLahLand. Right now, for example, I'm getting a faint whiff of permanent marker from the living room so uh...more later.
thanks.
lah
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