i humbly submit
I would like to take this opportunity to suggest that I make an excellent cookie. I am not one to commonly brag about my skills in the kitchen. Truly. But when it comes to baking I may say that I am qualified to prepare a decent, nay amazing, cookie or cake or pie or tart.
If you are ever invited to Chez Honestyrain (which, let's be honest, is highly unlikely because we don't really like people over here) come prepared to enjoy a variety of treats prepared by my ever so talented hands. You won't be sorry you came.
Some day I will have a big house with a big kitchen with lots and lots of space for fancy schmancy baking accoutrements and two, yes i said two, ovens. I will bake up a storm!
And then I will grow so big they will have to remove me from my house with a crane. But since the house is enormous I'll be able to wallow in my humongousness for a good long while. Horrah!
Did you know humOngous can be spelled that way OR humUngous? Dictionary dot com says so.
PS. I've never made a tart. I got a little carried away back there. Sorry. But if I ever DID it would ROCK THE HOUSE.
life is in the details
A short time ago I spilled a container of cake sprinkles. Pink Piggies, Blue Whales (or Whalies, if you like), Yellow Duck (ies) and multi colored dinosaurs. To preserve my sanilty I was careful to sweep up every. freakin'. crumbly. bit. Else my Three year old would, with his See-It-from-Space Vision, discover even the broken back end of a purple dinosaur. Even if said Tyrannosaurus Rex bottom were poking out ever so slightly from under the fridge. Even if the lights were out and he was running through the room as fast as he can with his Running Socks on.
And my day would go on and on forever should such a sighting take place.
Mommy, may I have some sprinkles like those kind with the DInoSAURS and the DUCKies what swimmed in the ICE CREAM that time, remember! Mommy, may I have ICE CREAM??? Chocolate ICE CREAM but wiff SPIRNKLES on it but not the FLOWER sprinkles just the DINOsaur sprinkles! Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaase Mommy pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaase!!!
Repeat eight thousand times, then bed, then drinks for mommy, then mommy is a drunk.
It's important to be thorough, you see, when completeing household chores.
lifting heavy things
You won't believe it but I am about to join my Old Gym even though I vowed I wouldn't go back. It turns out my outcry of injustice regarding the membership card was little more than grandstanding. I love my old gym. I love it. Please take me back, Old Gym.
I woke up today with that strong desire to lift heavy things. Sure, my kids are heavy, but I'm thinking more of things that don't talk or cry or whine or require constant neverending feeding. Therefore, I am to return to my Old Gym and offer them approximately forty dollars per month for one full year so that I can go there way too early in the day to lift things and maybe step up and down up and down to music once in a while.
I used to teach aerobics and weight lifting. Frankly, prior to having my children I was in spectacular shape. I swore this would not change after having kids but I didn't know. I wasn't informed. Babies, although small and unable to move around a lot, require a great freakin' deal of time and attention. Mostly at night. And not sleeping for years at a stretch makes going to the gym - difficult.
Excuses Excuses.
Yesterday I was making a bed or putting away someone's laundry or carrying some person down the stairs when I remembered what it was like to have the thighs of a woman who leg pressed four hundred and ten pounds. That's when it hit. Time to go back. Sure, I'll be starting out at 30 pounds on the leg press and crying over it being oh so fucking heavy but a girl's gotta start somewhere, yeah?
Some people think that once you're a mom you should A) shut up and go to PTA meetings between batches of cookie baking and B) accept that you will never be hot again.
Fuck that shit. I will do the PTA and bake the cookies but I will also be hot and I will lift four hundred and ten pound with my legs again. Children make me stronger. I am stronger than ever. I am, I said.
it's cute really, how pathetic he is
I was just in Husband's bathroom to, you know, take a piss. Across from the place where you do that and other eliminatory type functions there is a towel bar. On said towel bar there is currently a Ralph Lauren Navy Blue Towel that someone, not me, obviously tried to hang in a visually pleasing manner. And failed. Horribly. Yet I could not help smiling at the effort. And how badly that effort turned out given that, in my opinion, folding a towel requires little more than two functioning upper limbs and a desire to succeed.
I didn't refold it because I prefer his crooked attempt. Today. Tomorrow it'll probably make me cringe. For now I am warmed by his apparant desire to please me. Or avoid my wrath. Either way.
water proof mittens and who the hell cares
I remember having water proof mitts as a kid. You know the ones I'm talking about. Those miserable Anti Movement Devices. Can't bend 'em, cant grab onto a thing, not even glue. Sure your hands were dry as The Sahara but all you could do was stand there like the village idiot, hands stiff as a board. You'd watch your friends, whose mothers had somehow missed the Waterproof Bandwagon, making snowballs, buidling forts from blocks of ice and snow. While you, toasty and dry, cried icicle tears for not being able to join in. Yeah, you'd try. You'd stick your pathetic mittened hands into a pile of highly anticipated and worshiped snow only to come up with a few flakes sliding hopelessly back to the ground. Once in a while three or four would manage to grab on and you'd attempt to fashion a ball of snow then throw it at your friend Jenny or Tom. They wouldn't even run. There was no need. The NonSnowball would fly from your hand and float to the ground like feather falling from the sky. It was a sad sad business.
Until.
Someone, maybe you, came up with the idea that you could take the mitts off. Aha! Now we're thinking! Off them came and you didn't even try to hide it. You chucked them out in the middle of the yard defiantly, daring anyone to make you put them back on. As if you ever would. Bare hands make better snowballs than anything in the world! Great Glorious Day! A smile returns to the once weepy face of an innocent child.
Until.
Damn. No one said it was gonna hurt when the cold set in. Cold burns, ya know, which you wouldn't think until it happens. Now you're crying to your mom and even though she said don't come crying to me she's hugging you all up and warming your Rudolph the Rednosed Reindeer colored hands. She'll blow on them, hide them inside of her very warm been in the house this whole time hands and she might even resort to putting them under her arms because that's the warmest place on the human body. And you love your mom so much for not being mad and helping you stop crying and making sure you don't die from your hands freezing off of your body. You promise you'll never take your mitts off again because your mitts are your best friend!
Until.
well slap my ass and call me shirley
Sex and a twenty minute shower in the same day? Margaritas for everyone, it's Happy Hour! All's I need is a glass of Grape Fantasy Kool Aid before bed and I am set. I'm not even gonna brush my teeth. I'm walkin' on the wild side, people. The Wild Side. First the Pantie Six Pack, now this. Things are looking up, Friends, up up up.
i'm putting on this sweater, so get me milk!
Communicating with a tired eighteen month old is tantamount to an exchange with the Korean lady who works at and possibly owns the convenience store across the street from my old apartment. I'd stand there nodding, grinning, wondering if she was in fact telling me how she planned to kill me and run off with my husband under her strangely hairy arm. By strange I mean hairy in patches. A little here, a little there. Really hard to look at but I could never look away. Much as she couldn't take her eyes off my man. A silly circle we made, her staring at him, me staring at her patchy sasquatch arms and him pretending to not be looking over at the magazines to catch a glimpse of Foot Fetish Quarterly.
Wait, that has nothing to do with what I was talking about.
Right. Last night I was sitting there with my Little Girl who is almost eighteen months old and doesn't speak much Korean at all when she and I had an exchange that made me gurgle with laughter. Here's how it went, short version:
After finding a white sweater of her on the floor behind the dog's bed under the box of shoes I need to put into storage she went about trying to put the thing on. Being that she is one year old dressing herself is not an activity of daily living she has mastered. Naturally the sweater was upsidedowninsideout and twisted like a pretzel but damn if she didn't get her little fist into that arm hole. Success! Or so I thought.
Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh she screamed with red face and utter disgust for things have gone oh so wrong mommmmmmy!
I offered to help, as any decent mother would do, only to be soundly put down with a right hand to the throat and a kick in the shins.
Ok, you do it, I said.
She tried again, again, again and every time got angrier and angrier as I laughed helplessly. I wanted very much to make it work out the way she wanted and I tried to help, honest I did. Nothing worked. I was a failure in her wee eyes and I felt the sting of it. No mother wants to be so useless to her children.
But nothing would do! I tried to divert her attention, hiding the sweater under my bum. Didn't work. I suggested her dollies as a better means of entertainment but she would have none of it. I was almost giddy with laughter by then because her devotion to the task she'd set before herself was singular. My Girl, not to be deterred. I was proud.
Then something changed and I began to wonder if the sweater was not the real matter after all. Her interest in it seemed more hysterical and confused after thirty or forty minutes of putting it on one arm taking it off one arm putting it on one arm taking it off one arm. I'm not sure what it was that finally went boing! in my brain but I thought to ask:
Sweetie, do you want some milk?
TOSS! Sweater is chucked and off she marches to the kitchen, relieved that I have finally figured it out. I don't know what I was thinking. I mean, duh. All those other times when she yanked on my shirt or said MILK obviously messed with my decipherability. I am so sorry. But I am back on duty and won't miss the next One Year Old Secret Code Putting On This Sweater Means I Want Milk episode. Swear. I'd had a long day. That's the only excuse I have. Sorry Baby Girl.
It's like dealing with the insane around here.
the undergarment obsession, chapter three
Further to our discussion regarding the 98 cent panties and hopefully some day bras I have most happy news! Today, not more than an hour ago, I bought six, yes six, additional pairs of 98 cent panties at the grocery superstore. I am ecstatic! So much so that I cannot stop using ex!cla!ma!tion! marks after everything that I say! I have exclamation marks dancing in my brain! I am awash with glee! Oh Joyous Day!
I could not be happier if I'd been given a million dollars today because all the money in the world cannot compare to a 6 pack of panties that will. not. bunch.
Am I right?
drop it like it's hot
There is a Loop of Cool and I am miles and miles out of it. Yesterday I learned this lesson while watching Much Music, which is the Canadian version of MTV. During this 30 minutes I can never get back I discovered many things I did not know. Among them the new phrase being bandied about the Popular Vernacular: Drop It Like It's Hot.
I gather that one time rapper turned actor returned to rapper Snoop Dogg coined this particular phrase. I saw the video last night. I'm not cool enough for this song. I'm sure it'll grow on me. I'll make sure it does. I want back into The Loop.
The only thing worse than being out of The Loop is forgetting that The Loop exists. The startling news that it in fact does dragged me out of my jammie wearing stupor long enough to say - hey, drop it like it's hot.
It just occurred to me that those within The Loop would likely take serious issue with it being called The Loop. There is no doubt a far hipper term that I am not privvy to.
What the hell happened to me?
I got old. Oh God, I'm old. And saying Drop It Like It's Hot when you're old like me just comes off as desperate and goofy. Think back to your mom dancing around the kitchen with her apron on, tea towel over her shoulder and slippers flapping against the pink and green flowered linoleum. She'd just picked up on the latest moves six months behind everyone else and butchered them right in front of your eyes. Mortifying you to the core of your being. That's me now. Dropping it like it's hot and looking like an old woman in her silly apron who should get back to baking her cookies and making her PTA phone calls before dark. Because women like me don't do anything after dark. It's not proper.
And if I am nothing else I am certainly proper.
I also saw the new Destiny's Child video last night and beyond not knowing what I should say if ever faced with a social situation requiring knowledge of current slangology I decided I want long hair again because fuck if that Beyonce's hair doesn't fly around like magical beauty. I used to have long flowing hair that would have looked really neat if I danced around in unison with my girlfriends, shaking my booty and whatnot as a large fan blew just the right amount of wind at my head. I only cut it for a change but I can grow it back like THAT and I'm so gonna. And then I'll get my friends to come over for a dance-off type thing. It's gonna be cool. And then we'll drop it like it's hot.
I'm still not clear how that one works. What am I dropping and should I wait til it cools down before I pick it up again? Does anyone know? I don't want to cock it up because I would not look cool if I cock it up.
ack, medusa!
Ok, I'm not really surprised. The Medusa I refer to is me and I knew she was there. Wild about the hair area and not really so darned gorgeous anywhere else. Not an easy thing to admit for all the Internet to see but there you have it. I could conceivably come here and claim to be anyone, anything. I could say I'm Heidi Friggin' Klum if I wanted to but I wouldn't want to be Heidi Friggin' Klum so why would I do that? I'm Me and Me is plenty good enough. Who the hell are you to judge! You think you know me! You don't know me!
Wait. Sorry. I'm sorry about that. I'm sure you didn't say anything to warrant such an attack. I take it back. Stay.
I'm all about the Honest (except for when I'm Not) and I'll be honest with you. Right now this very second as I type this (but not necessarily as you read it because you know, I move on) I am wearing jammies, have not brushed my teeth and (ahem, hem) my hair is not, shall we say, presentable. I'm just chillin' here with my family and they love me exactly the way I am. Mainly because they have no choice. Really, The Children have never seen me any other way. They are the cause of this downfall of my appearance and they work hard, every day, at maintaining a level of neediness that precludes Mommy's Self Care Routine of years and years back.
Husband jumped back three feet on seeing my Medusa a few minutes ago. It is in particularly fine form. He says it's alright though. He's got Bert hair, he says. I'd like to say I'm Ernie to his Bert but that would be sugar coating the reality of my up-do.
Have you seen that woman at the grocery store who is clearly not pulled together but has faked it by wearing more designery sweats and a trendy jacket? Well picture her also trying to act as though she did wash her hair this morning and it only looks like this because her stylist is booked for weeks. She goes to that kind of stylist. The so popular kind who can't take her even though she looks like THIS.
I'm not worried about it really, my current state of disrepair. I think it's normal for the mom of two young kids to look a little less than runway ready. That every other mom I see on the street looks way better than me is often attributed to the fact that she is obviously much younger. If i'd had my kids when I was 18 I'd be back to a size 3 and shiny hair by now too.
For now the bookstore manager can go blow if he thinks I came out last night to impress the likes of him. I was there for my Harper's Magazine and a copy of The Pocket Stylist. Which I quickly mentioed was a gift and it could be returned if my giftee did not like it, yes?
barf with barf on it and then a little barf on the side
Have you ever seen a geyser of vomit gush from the mouth of your offspring? I have done. Today, in fact. Just this very morning. On a drive in the country. Sun shining, Birds chirping, All is well.
Until.
From the front seat Husband and I hear:
Cough, cough. Coooough, hack, cough. Pause. Coughcoughcough.
Son, we say, be careful. Cough gently, we say. We didn't sound the least bit annoyed out of having been cleaning up barf for days on end and not wanting to do so any more. We're better than that.
Cough, cough, coughity cough.
Son, really, slow down.
COUGH, cough.
Are you ok?
Cough, hack, barf.
Oh My God!
BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARF.
OH. MY. GOD. PULL. OVER.
Barf, glug, glug, barf, barf, glug, glug.
It's ok, honey, mommy is here.
PULLOVERISAID!
At least the boy had the decency to undergo this fit of overindulged ahem.hem.hemming just as we approached a small town wherein there be a Subway and said Subway saw more of my son's breakfast than they would have ever imagined. I'm no scientist and don't claim to know math but I adamantly believe that everything he injested prior to the volcanus episode of milk and bran flakes must have gathered and multiplied while resting in his belly before their exodus from his wee frame. Because I was with the child from dawn until this time and he did not, I repeat, did not ingest that much of anything.
His jacket was soaked, his shirt beneath the jacket was soaked, his tummy beneath the shirt beneath the jacket was soaked. His pants were drenched. His car seat was a river of milky vomit. The seat in front of him splattered with specks of white.
In the bathroom of the Subway, to whom I owe a debt of gratitude for it's Being There, I removed my t-shirt of pink and baby blue to replace his unwearable clothes and covered him further with Husband's North Face Black Fleece Jacket which fell to mid calf on the boy. It was thus he reappeared from the Ladies Room and walked back to our truck. All diginity for not having any idea, at three years of age, that this was most humiliating. And Mommy sure didn't let on. Let the truck drivers stare.
By the way, this all happened again later but this time he made it to the bathroom in our very own house before issuing forth 2 glasses of chocolate milk. Thanks Kid!
By the way No. 2, I had a sweatshirt to wear in place of my pink and blue t-shirt. Rest easy, the truckers did not find their breakfast suddenly improved by the sight of me prancing through in the nude.
addiction
Every time Husband and I return from Wherever we are loath to take off our jackets and get the children settled in of doors before we race to our respective computers to check the net. For me it's the blogs or my email, for him it's the message board for his work stuff or gaming sites. We're mental for it and I wonder how we survived before it was invented. I can't even spell without the internet. Dictionary dot com is my best friend.
Consider the following scenario from approximately 10 years ago:
Husband and I return from our respective jobs at approximately 430pm on a Tuesday afternoon. We enter our two bedroom hardwood floor walk-up apartment to the welcoming aroma of our neighbours existence seeping through the floors, walls and under the front door. A mixture of cigarette smoke, onions boiled in salty water and something remarkably similar to scorched human hair dipped in a vat of Channel No.5. We are beaten and downtrodden by the reality that is our daily struggle. There is little to look forward to yet we muscle on, grasping at what little joy we can find.
We turn on Episode One of The Simpsons while enjoying a snack of chips and iced tea.
We sigh.
We change channel to Repeat Episode of Seinfeld and discuss our options for dinner.
We order pizza.
We change channel to Epsiode Two of The Simpsons and wait for pizza.
Pizza arrives.
We change channel to Episode Three Of The Simpsons and contemplate killing one another for a change of scene.
We eat pizza and I vow we will never watch The Simpsons again.
Wednesday, Scenario Repeats.
I know what you're thinking. My God That Sucks. Could it have been that bad? Could anything have been so awful? Did these people not own books? Were they not able to find some other thing to do? I tell you this, no. They were not. We were not. Life was sad and lonely and desperate. The sun did not shine, the food was bland and our brains were utter mush.
But no more! Consider a recent Tuesday. The day dawns, a blue sky greets our happy little family and we rejoice at being alive. We hug our Lovely Smelling Children and send them off to play gleefully in their room while we Mommy and Daddy share an embrace all our own. We lay thusly for a full 18 seconds before Lovely Smelling Children return to hop hop hop back into our bed a grin from ear to ear with gratitude for being alive at such an historical time in history. We then spring from the bed, apply slippers to our feet and fluffy robes to our bodies and bound down the stairs as though it were Christmas Morning. For downstairs there is the great and glorious Internet waiting for us with open and non-Simpson like arms! It is Quick! Smart! Funny! Intelligent! which is not exactly the same as smart and it is also Resourseful! but not in that dry Encyclodpedia Britannica way. Oh No! This Internet business is like nothing before and we are shamelessly addicted to it. Take my food, take my blankie and pillow but please don't ever take my Precious Internet. I am a better woman for the Internet and I'd like to publicly praise it's inventor, Samuel J Interneticus for having the I Don't Know What Kind Of Smartskidoodles to come up with something so danged cool. Thanks, Sammy!
No More Simpsons!
he's fine
They did a chest xray and gave hima good going over. He was slightly dehydrated but did not need an iv. They said that if he did not pee the rest of the day to bring him back but he has peed. He's still not well but is thankfully not desperately ill.
This is the hardest thing about being a parent.
my baby boy
I am just about to take my Son to Children's Hospital. He has not peed in at least 24 hours, has slept for 16 and would still be sleeping had i not woken him up. His pediatrician's office said to take him in which is what I thought they'd say. He's 3.5 and just not himself. I expect they will give him an iv for dehydration. Please think of us today. I will report back when I can.
I confess, I am worried.
preparing to do battle
The kids are sick. Last night the Little One barfed every fifteen minutes all night long. Her Brother got up for the day at 5am and was a bear all day for not having slept long enough. Now he too is sick but not barfing and I am in for a long night of coughing and puking, depending on the child.
I am ready for either. My evening's entertainment included washing sheets, collecting every blanket we own and creating a clean up station next to my bed. I have cough medicine, diapers, wipes, paper towel, wash cloths, towels, extra balnkets to make up for any that get puked on mid slumber. Tonight I will not be caught off guard.
Which means everyone will sleep like a rock.
There is nothing worse than sick kids. It breaks a mommy's heart. And makes her feel even more guilty for not being perfect and having been impatient at Walmart when the sickies weren't behaving perfectly earlier today. Who takes sick kids to Walmart? My memberships to the Superior Mommy Society is in serious danger. And rightfully so.
popcorn, with salt and butter
I've stopped buying microave popcorn because although it is easy and often yummy it does strange things to my intestinal well being and has been linked to various undesirable ailments such as cancer and whatnot. I've never heard anything good about whatnont so I'm off the nuked corn for good.
Which means the old hot air popper has come out of retirement. Let's all say a horrah! Who doesn't love popcorn dripping with butter and salt on Friday Night Movie Night? Add a glass of home made lemonade and dang, what else do you need? Popcorn is a healthy snack, thank you very much. Ok, fine, the dripping with butter part isn't but just you shut up about that. There's no need to go and ruin a good time now. At least I've stopped eating chips and dips. Now that'll kill ya.
i'll be in bedding if you need me
Up until two and a half years ago I had a queen size water bed. It was great as far as comfort and keeping me toasty cozy in the winter. Thing was I could never find sheets for it. Water beds became passe soon after I got it and retailers stopped carrying linens to fit their irregular size. My mom made me sheets once and when those wore out I started sleeping on blankets that I tucked under the bladder. I spent all of those years admittedly sleeping like a baby but I longed for the kind of bed you see in Metropolitan Home.
Shopping for the New Bed, the King Size Bed offered a ray of hope. Letting go of the bed I'd loved for so many years, all of my adult life thus far, was hard but the time had come for me to move on. At some point we all need to ditch the shelves on cinder blocks for something a little more stylish, a little more grown up. I mean, what if I was still using milk crates to store my stuff. The blue plastic milk crates my roommate and I stole after coming out of the movie theatre one night. We ran so fast, down the escalator, into her Audi. Oh we laughed.
All those years with makeshift sheets gave me plenty of time to develop a passion for something better and when we finally got the King Size bed upstairs (took out half a wall and twisted the mattress so bad it should have ruined every coil in there) I could not rest until I spent every penny in the bank on bedding no one would ever be permitted to sleep on. I call it my Formal Bedding. It goes on in the morning, comes off before bed. It's one of those deals where there are so many pillows they take up half the bed. I spent more on that bed than most people spend on bedding in a lifetime. And I doubt I'm done yet. I need to have a winter set and a summer set. Naturally I'll have to change the art in the room according to the season as well. First I'll have to get art but when I do I'll be happy to change it seasonally.
You might be thinking I'm a fool. That the money could be better spent on a big screen TV or a lot of video games or new sheets for everyone on the street. I say calm down. I didn't spend that much. I spent a lot but we'r not going bankrupt over it. I'll tell you this, if I had gobs and gobs of money I'd buy really expensive bedding and change it often. I really would. An hour in the bedding department makes my heart race. I get weepy when I think of all the designs out there that I've never even seen. Gosh, just think. And while I'm at it I think I'll fantasize about all the china patterns out there too. Dreamy sigh.
lucky
It almost seems silly to drink hot chocolate from my winter scene snowman mug when here it is November 12th and not a flake of snow to be seen. It may not be sunbathing weather but I bet if I wore shorts outside today I would not die. This is great and glorious news and I am thankful for it.
I think I'll drink from my seasonal mug and laugh at my good fortune today because you never know what tomorrow will bring. Maybe a blizzard! Dontchya just love a blizzard!
you're bugging me (or: here, have a cookie)
I am the worst sort of person. When I am weary of my children or simply need them to be busy long enough for me to perform some mundane task such as empty the dishwasher, tweeze my eyebrows or take a deep breath to keep from screaming my head right off of my body, I will offer them a morsel of delight. Could be candy but could also be fruit. They're just as happy with a succulent orange as they are a box of chocolates.
The problem is, if you haven't heard, The Parent Rule Book (of which there is no hard copy) clearly states in Section 6, Subsection 4.5:
No Parent (referring primarily to the Mother but also in some rare cases the Father)shall ever use food in place of proper parenting. Neither shall She use any device such as a television, video game, computer or the like as a Babysitter for any or all of her children at any time under any circumstances (some exceptions apply, please see Section 6, Subsection 4.7 of The Parent Rule Book for further details).
I am so not following that rule. Or Subsection 4.7 either, to be honest. And if You've read the Parenting Rule Book you know this consistues dismissal from the Superior Mommy Society. I've managed to keep my failings a secret until now. It just got to be too draining keeping up the charade. I had to confess my sins.
My mom either didn't know about The Parenting Rule Book or thumbed her nose at it Nineteen Seventies Defiance. Whatever the case I remember being given a cigarette package to chew on by way of keeping me busy and you know that shit don't measure up.
Look, we all know parenting is a lot harder than it looks from the next booth at McDonalds when you're twenty and full of shit thinking you'd handle That Woman's kids way better than she does. And I never meant to feed my children snackies while they sat glued to the television so that I could read blogs and drink hot chocolate made from a powder mix. I always thought I'd be Super Mom. I thought I would read them Shakespeare and play classical music as we sipped our morning orange juice and discussed world events. Turns out if you didn't do it before you had kids you're not likely to after. Who wants a bunch of snotty Shakespeare reading orange juice sippin' little brats running around humming Mozart anyway?
That my Son knows John Kerry is a Good Man and George Bush is a Bad Man speaks to the fact that I am a good parent after all. I think an occassional cracker offered out of desperation for quiet rather than with a purely nutritional intent is fine as long as the important stuff is getting said. And in my house, we're very serious about Good versus Evil. Believe that.
the undergarment obsession, chapter two
I bought more 98 cent panties the other day and it brought to mind the issue of the 98 cent bra. Bras tend to be both strangulating and spendy which upsets me on both points. Having boobs of a certain (ahem) size negates letting the girls go commando unless knee length milkers are what you're going for. And as I am not and do find myself in the size bracket that I speak of, I am forced to spend Husband's hard earned money on Boobalah Restraining Devices of varying cost, color and appeal.
Some guys like boobs, bras and the eventual undoing of a bra which is totally fine. I get that. But I have yet to find anything even remotely comfortble as far as bras go. Unless you count my old nursing bras. They've been worn to death and display more of a tshirt consistency. A big old stretched out nasty tshirt.
Hang on men. Don't leave me just yet. It's going to turn out well, I promise.
I've never seen a 98 cent bra and I suspect I wouldn't buy one if I did. There is something undeniably special about bras that just isn't true for panties. I mean, look where panties go. They cover bums and even the nicest bum is just a bum and while the other part up front serves a lovely other than bathroom purpose there's still no denying that my panties see more toilets than they do man bits so I insist that they be comfortable. But bras, oh wretched bras, if they don't fit right your teets end up looking flatter than they are, smaller than they are, pointier than they are, far less cleavaged than they could if only, if only. And every girl wants to look her best in that new angora sweater so that (fill in name) will ask her to dance at the Christmas sock hop. I confess to having just such a concern myself.
So bras remain in the upper echelons of price point as faar as under things go which will do for now. But I swear to you, if this writing thing doesn't pan out I'm going to start my own bra business and sell the suckers for 98 cents at the grocery superstore. Because I know what it's like to buy yet another friggin' bra that's like tying oneself up with a garden hose and a little bit of lace. And that just isn't worth thirty bucks.
7 things that are true
Scrambled eggs made for someone else taste way better than scrambled eggs I make for me.
Chocolate chips eaten by the handful between the hours of 1am and 5am will not make you gain weight.
Food eaten off of the plate of one's spouse cannot make you gain weight.
Wanting a child to go to bed very very badly will cause that child to be up until midnight.
Renting movies to watch after the kids go to bed will make kids stay up hours past their bed time (even talking about renting movies can cause this phenomenon to go into effect).
Claiming that you will never drink again after a night and/or morning of barfing your face off will last precisely 5 months and 14 days if you are between the ages of 29 and 35 when the event took place.
Asking a dog to stop barking, whether sweetly or with great volume and anger, will not ever cause a dog to stop barking for any length of time valued by its owner.
patience
Dictionary dot com defines patience as the capacity, quality or fact of being patient. It lists the following as synonyms for the word: long suffering, resignation, forbearance. It goes on to say that these nouns denote the capacity to endure hardship, difficulty or inconvenience without complaint,
They had me at long suffering and resignation but lost me at without complaint. I was so close.
Let us consider, in some detail, the concept of patience as it relates to the mother of two small children aged three and one. In this case the mother in question would be me. The children in question, mine.
It isn't that I have no patience. I have some. I believe I even have a plentiful supply of it. Said supply, however, is not neverending and is taxed in varying degrees by a number of factors. See Figure One below.
Figure One - Things that tax Mother's patience in varying degrees (in no particular order):
Lack of sleep
Poor quality of sleep
Relentlesssness of children
Constant barrage of same question three thousand times in a row by same child in span of 30 seconds
No time to oneself
Whining
Not being allowed to pee or shower without people at the door screaming bloody murder
Request for food and drink when children have just enjoyed a snack in sufficient quantity to hold them until meal time
Other sundry items
The following conversation took plave in my kitchen not ten minutes ago between myself and my Son after the timer on the over began to beep.
Son: (running in from living room): Muffins are ready, muffins are ready!!!
Me: They are still very hot, we have to wait to eat them.
Son: Muffins are ready!
Me: Yes but they are very hot. We just have to let them cool for a few minutes and then we can enjoy their hearty goodness.
Son: I want muffins!
Me: Honey, they are fresh from the oven and although they smell very lovely and are certainly cooked, they are too hot for the sweet mouths of my wee babes.
Son: MUFFFFFINNNNNSSSS!!!
Me: They. Are. Hot!
Son: Pleeeeeeeeease mommy Pleeeeeeeeeeease.
Me: Fine! Here! Don't come crying to me when you finally discover that mommy is right right right!!! Do you want butter on them, sweetheart?
Had that conversation ended after the 'sweet mouths of my wee babes' my patience would have been intact. I swear it. It is the neverending, unrelenting quality of the interaction that wears me down and I know that this is the essence of being a child. This ability to outwit, outplay and outlast one's mother and come up victorious in the quest for a muffin three and a half minutes sooner than she was planning to offer them up. I remember well the inability to do as my mother asked. I also remmber believing he to be evil and insane for doing all of the things I now do. Such as refusing to give her children food that was molten hot even when her children, myself included, begged over and over and over and over until she finally said Fine, you little ungrateful buggers! Burn your faces off, what do I care.
At least I've grown beyond saying something as awful as that. I would never.
The only remedy to this problem of taxed patience is to reduce the degree to which one is exposed to those things that robbed one of one's daily quota of patience. Hence preschool and naps. And Grandparents who babysit. Sadly, these things do not in any way help in the grand scheme because here they come again. Again. Again. Again. Again. Some day they will go to school all day and I will rejoice as my husband reminds me that I once planned to home school. Which I would do were it not for being human and having been sucked dry at the Well of Patience.
I work at it every day, mind you and hope to grow and improve over time. But let's be honest, I'll never outgrow being human and my kids will suffer for it. And one day they will remember how I refused to feed them as they begged and pleaded. There's nothing I can do about it. They'll get over it.
Gotta run, they need me.
bed time snack
tablespoon of low fat peanut butter with chocolate chips on top
crooked things
I am the sort of person who does not like for things to be crooked. In summer I am deeply concerned with the straightening of patio furniture and cannot enjoy myself if there is a flower planter misaligned. Imagine the fun one's spouse can have toying with one's crooked obsession.
Husband: I'm just going to move this chair here by only one little inch to drive you absolutely mad.
Me: Noooooo, don't!!!
Husband: And then I will race over here and turn this planter so that it does not line up with the corner of the patio at all but is not so far off that it's lack of symmetry creates a different kind of symmetry that you can live with. Haha!
Me: Noooooo, please don't!
Husband: You can't stop me!
It makes for all kind of merriment, as you see.
I admit to enjoying the perfection of a well placed chair or shower curtain hanging so that either side is at the same distance from the wall and it's bottom hanging at the same level along the length of the tub. Some might call it Obsessive Compulsive but I say poppycock. So I iron my teatowels. Doesn't everyone?
I've wondered where this love of symmetry comes from. Actually, I just wondered it a moment ago for the first time ever but now that I have I'll hazard a guess. When I was a kid I had a lazy eye which means that one of my eyes wandered and I was sometimes called crooked eyes by my (very mean and not beaten nearly enough) brothers. I have psychoanalyzed myself in just the past two and a half minutes and I suspect my desire for straight eyes has crossed over into the remainder of my life in other ways. Oh the pun of using the word 'crossed' just then. There is no escaping the connection.
Whatever the origin I am a contented lover of all things properly aligned and will never change my ways. I am happiest when each of my dining room chairs is tucked beneath the table at the same rate of tuckedness. Don't even get me started on the making of a bed. A well made bed is ecstasy. An unmade bed can be ecstasy too but that's a different topic for a differnt day.
If you'll excuse me now I have some blinds to straighten a coffee table that needs to be positioned so that it lines up with the pattern on the area rug....
judge me not
Until September of this year I was by all accounts the World's Most Perfect Mom. My Child, my Boy, was the best behaved, smartest, nicest and most gentle child ever to be issued forth into the world and I, by association, shined in the glow of his Being. People everywhere said, my goodness, what an excellent child. What a superior mother to have reared such an amazing person.
And he is, don't get me wrong.
Or was. Enter Mrs. Teacher Lady of the Montessori School of Making Mommy See The Error Of Her Ways. Mrs. Teacher Lady is a good and decent God fearing woman who has an unnatural ability to control a room of three and four year olds in a stern but loving way whereby rendering the parents of said three and four year olds incompetent and foolish by comparison. My once flawless child is now better than ever at her hand which must, you see, give mommy pause. Make mommy think. Leave mommy wondering if perhaps there have been aspects of her parenting that were wanting. Wanting what, mommy does not know, cannot say, but the wondering remains. The self doubt seeps deeper and deeper into her bones, leaving an ache so desperate that mommy can't sleep at night.
Wait. Hold on. No. Nothing that dramatic. For heaven's sake. Take a deep breath. It's not that serious. Sheesh.
Let me give you a for instance. The line up. Every day we, parents and children, line up outside the classroom until Mrs. Teacher Lady opens the door. Any fool can imagine a hallway full of preschoolers and see that this would be no church service festival of silence. And yet, it ought to be. According to the dellusional Mrs. Teacher Lady. We all know it's impossible to expect them to line up, single file, speak to no one and breathe only when absolutely necessary yet she insists it's the opposite of impossible. She thinks it's totally possible. When we mere parents fail to make it so there is nothing left to assume but that we have failed and will continue to fail until our children are criminals and grown up talker backers.
My Son, dear boy, loves school but insists on a daily basis that he would prefer there be no rules and would I please speak to Mrs. Teacher Lady on his behalf in this regard. It is all I can do to keep from admitting that mommy is no longer the one in charge. I lost all power the day I dropped him there by being so far less able at managing my own child than a complete stranger. The only thing I can do is bone up on my parenting books (I have none) and mind Mrs. Teacher Lady myself. I'll never be Perfect Mom again, but there's still hope that I can rise up from the ashes of our rude awakening.
And I don't think there is anything wrong with a child screaming for more candy right now in the middle of walmart while refusing to put his pants back on because a) candy is good and b) they could afford to turn the damned heat down in that store. Mrs. Teacher Lady can't argue with that.
poked in the eye by the truth
After a nice dinner out with the family this evening I decided to fill out the survey that came with our bill. The server we had was very good and I like to say so when I can. The questions were innocuous until the second to last section.
Select the category which applies to you:
18-24 years
25-34 years
35-49 years
other numbers applying to even older people
Imagine my dismay when I realized that I, once young and energetic, have slipped unnoticed into an age bracket with people approaching fifty. Fifty, my friends. I'm not saying fifty is old but essentially, I've got one foot on a banana peel. Great. A lovely dinner and for dessert, your own mortality dipped in no-more-dancing-on the-speakers sauce. Who knew? This morning I woke up the same old me. A little tired, a little thick around the middle but basically, the same fun loving wild thing I was 5, 10, 15 years ago. Having stories from fifteen years ago should have in itself opened my eyes to my current station in life. I am not old, but I am in the company of old people and I am startled by this new information.
I have been poked in the eye by the truth and it'll take some getting used to. Does anyone wanna go drinking with me? I'd like to go make a fool of myself dancing on the speakers and see if anyone tries to pick me up. Margaritas for everyone!
reason
Sometimes when I am out walking alone a man will be coming toward me and I'll just get a feeling and decide to move to the other side of the street. These guys might be perfectly normal, show no signs of threat. But a warning sounds within me and I know it's best to keep my distance, protect myself profelactically. This is the way I feel about George Bush. Beyond the many and detailed reasons I can offer for why I don't trust him there is also something about the man that makes me want to walk on the other side of the street and keep my eye open for a safe place to take refuge. It's a feeling that can't be explained but it cannot either be ignored.
a canadian perspective
I'm getting into the game a little late here because the kids wouldn't go to bed. Better late than never though. Damn. All the maps are looking awfully red and that just can't be good. But George Stephanopolous (if I spelled that right I would like some kind of reward) says there's still lots of ways Kerry can get the 270 he needs and I like the look of old George S so I'm keeping my fingers crossed. Right now Dubya has 195 to Kerry's 112. Is that good for Kerry? I don't see how but then again, I find the entire system in the US confusing and not a little absurd. How can someone become president when he (or someday she) has not won the majority of the popular votes in the land? Can anyone tell me why that makes sense?
Speaking of women, why is it that the US has never elected a woman president. More than that, why does it appear to be something that is not likely to happen anytime soon? And does anyone else think that the first female president will be Hillary Clinton?
A conversation between me, my son and the televison:
Son: That's George Bush, Mommy. He's a BAD MAN.
Me: Yes, Son, he is.
Son: I not like that man, him bad.
TV: blah blah blah if George Bush were to win blah blah blah
Son: George Bush going to win, Mommy.
Me: No, Son, George Bush is NOT going to win.
Son: Yeah, that other man gonna hafta work very hard to BEAT him (gives an air uppercut to drive the point home)
The boy knows politics.
I have two thoughts on GWB appearing on camera tonight. Well, three thoughts. One, I don't think candidates are allowed to campagin on election day in Canada and find it very strange that any campagining or appearances took place today. Two, how desperate and pathetic. And three, how smug.
Current tally sits at Bush 207 and Kerry 199. There is hope yet and I am immensely relieved.
Pennsylvania has gone to Kerry which I gather from Tom Brokaw is great news for Kerry. I love Pennsylvania! Thank you Pensylvania. I'm so glad I don't live in Pennsylvania because typing out Pennsylvania is torture.
What ever happened to marking an X on your ballet? Am I naive to suggest that there were far fewer controversies back in the day? Last time I voted I marked an X. We're backwater up here In Canada I guess. We don't vote with machines. I just heard Tom Brokaw saying that somewhere they had to have some people come and fix the machines because people couldn't vote. Brilliant. The biggest problem you face with marking an X is needing to ask the woman at the front to sharpen some pencils....
Arrested Development is a funny, smart show. Ray Liotta is guesting on ER this week. Amazing Race is starting again soon. What time do you think this election stuff is going to end...I'm getting sleepy already.
Ah feck, Bush 219 and Kerry 199. My husband has gone off to play video games because he has the patience to wait until it's all over and done with. For some reason I need to experience the torture. The guy being interviewed right now on North Dakota news says this could go a lot longer because everyone is being careful about saying who has what votes. I bloody guess so. The last election was an utter embarrassment. I think someone should have called do-over.
I'm going to be finding out who won with Katie Couric, arent I? Seems such a shame to have invested so much of my evening for nothing more than a little anxiety at seeing a RED map early on. Ooooohhhhh there's Anderson Cooper on CNN. HE's enough to keep me up a few more minutes. Remember when he hosted The Mole? So funny. Did you know he's Gloria Vanderbilt's son? I learned that from Pink Lemonade Diva. Thanks Pink.
Bush 197 Kerry 188. Um, Kerry had 199 five minutes ago. Who stole 11 Kerry votes? Who? That's not fair and I promise you there will be an investigation! This is like the longest reality show ever. It's like watching the OScars but tehre isn;t anyone cuing the band to move things along.
I'm going to turn to Canadian news to see what they're saying. They are interviewing a couple of American who live in Canada and one of them is saying that she feels proud to be an American and hasn't felt this way for a long time. She is proud of how many people have shown up to vote and feels really excited about the democratic process tonight. She thinks Kerry will win. The other woman she's with says she doesn't really understand the process but she feels that the US is ready for change and Kerry will win. Earlier CBC Newsworld had some little comedy bits about the US election that were really funny. I wish Americans could see how the rest of the world views Bush. It might give them pause. He is seen as something of an evil moron for the most part. A dumb guy with a lot of power. Frightening.
Well, Husband has just come to say we should go to bed and I tend to agree. He's just letting the doggie out for a last pee and then we will drag ourselves up to bed. But will I sleep for needing to know what happens! I bet anything I will check the net in the middle of the night when I get up to pee. My Little Guy is sleeping here on the couch next to me and has no trouble ignoring the issues of the day in the name of open-mouthed deep sleep slumber. Oh how I envy him! I'll give one last Go Kerry and hope for the best as I toddle off to bed. Hopefully I will wake to a brighter world in the morning.
Back to Bush 210 and Kerry 199. He can still win, right???
the undergarment obsession
I buy my panties at the grocery superstore for 98 cents a pair. Right off I know you're thinking, Oh Sexy and you're right, it's not. But I have really good reasons and if you bear with me as I work through this issue right here before your very eyes I think my reasons will make perfect sense to each and every one of you.
Or not.
First, I think panties are evil if somewhat necessary and I wear them with the same level of enthusiasm as bras. When I was a lot younger I would go without both. I won't bore you with the details of eventually coming around to reluctant accpetance of their use if not comfort as I don't want to offend the delicate among my readership. But suffice it to say that I now wear both every day and am obsessed with finding the perfect pair of panties. And when I discover this gem I promise you I will buy stock, amass a neverending supply and scream it from the rooftops so that all women can know the freedom I have unearthed.
But it'll never happen so don't bother waiting for word.
Because here's the thing: a woman's body changes from minute to minute on the basis of the slightest shift in fluid, how much she's eaten, how long she slept last night, how many poops she's had this week (not that women poop, but you know) and whether she's spending most of her time sitting on her money maker more than she spends shaking it. For panties to fit ust nicely all of these things must be working in absolute symmetry and absolute symmetry, if you know science, is unlikely. There's a mathematical forumla you can apply to understand this correlation more fully. I can email it to you if you want....
This inequity of these factors bring us to the 98 cent undies from the grocery superstore. My theory is this - an it's a good one - if you've only spent 98 cents on a pair of panties it makes no difference if you ever wear them and if, by some stroke of increbile luck you can get a good stretch out of them all the pwer to you because by god, sister, a good man may be hard to find but looking for the perfect man doesn't compare to that of The Great Pantie Search.
I've paid ten bucks for one pair of panties (what exactly makes them a 'pair' by the way?) and they fit no better than my cheapies from the grocery superstore so I ask you this - why buy expensive pretty panties I'll never wear? They might look nicer on the old backside but the old backside gets kinda grumpy when strangled so the logic just isn't there for me.
I haven't given up hope though and continue to investigate pretty panties from time to time and even buy some and wear them. And on those perfect symmetry days that all works out great but there at the front of my underwear drawer sits a stack of 98 cent cotton britches that feel like I'm wearing air and air, friends, feels good. And if you'll excuse my saying so, they don't look that bad either. It's not what you put on the bottom but the bottom itself that counts.
big tv night
Tomorrow is a big day. The United States will elect a (hopefully) new president. I am looking forward to the coverage the way I would the finale of Amazing Race or like way back when M*A*S*H was going off the air. It feels like something big is happening.
I'm not even American.
I can't help thinking that there will be plenty of controversy. I wonder if we just do things bassackwards up here in Canada because our elections go off without a hitch. But then most things about our politics and politicians are different. In the US there's a lot of attention to who the candidate will be bringing with him into the White House...the people who will become, by association, the First Family. We don't have a First Family here. Frankly, I don't even know if the current guy has a wife. Not sure on the kid aspect either. Maybe he's boffing some intern as we speak but I honestly don't care. That's between him, the intern and his wife if he's got one. As long as he's running the country in a way that doesn't make us look like assholes and nothing is going horribly wrong on the home front, he's good. We just don't glorify the post in the same way Americans do.
Don't get me wrong. It matters who's at the helm and I do vote. But our leaders don't become famous the way entertainers do. Hell, our entertainers don't become entertainers the way American entertainers do. We're just a different brand of cat. Not better. Just different.
This isn't the first time I've been interested in the outcome of a US election. The last one had my attention as well. Seems anything George Bush is involved in will hold me in it's grasp. Last time I actually thought it was a joke he was running. I honestly thought it was going to be an Al Gore White House and only tuned in to see how badly Goofy Old George would lose. Imagine my surprise. I kept thining for weeks after that we would all wake up as if in a dream and the right man would be President. Oh silly dreamer.
For tomorrow's festivities I have no such illusions. I am fully aware of the fact that Goofy may win again (using the term 'win' loosley) and I am going to be watching. Might even pop some corn. It's an event and all I can say is I'm going to be so ticked if G Dubya wins. You know how you're watching the finale of Amazing race and they make it look like this shit team is going to win. And if the shit team really wins you're so disappointed that you vow you'll never watch again? It's like that.
Look, I know it's serious and not just for Americans but for the world at large as well. But what are you gonna do? The shit guy might win. That's democracy. I just keep telling myself he can't possibly make things any worse than he has....
why I am not a time traveller
As you know there has been a time change this past weekend. An hour back. No ahead. Back. Ahead. Well, when it was 6 o'clock we had to make it...5 o'clock. No, wait. At 9 o'clock in the morning the new time was 10 o'clock. No, 5 is 7, 10 is 1 and 6 is...well 6 is 8...is 8 still bed time? And if so what time will they be up - 4am (which is 9 in real time, I think)?
You see my point.
Right now it's 6:01 but if we were on Day Before Yesterday Time it would be...I swear to god I don't know. I just do not know! What goddamn time is it??? And is it frickin' bed time yet???
