No good mother will ever admit that she loves one child more than another, and since I like to think I am a good mother, I don't love one of my children more than another. I love whichever child with whom I can get some alone time. I love one child for theological reasons, another for the humor, and then there is Boo. Boo has been known as many things - the mistake, the extra gift, the love baby, the Valium baby, the child that has created pregnancies in others. He is all of those. He is also the child about whom I am the most emotionally fragile. He is the child who has been to the hospital twice and actually been scary sick. He is the child who I can not ever see any bad in anything he does and can love his way out of anything with me. After he was born, I literally felt like the final piece of my heart was in place. His sole flaw is he does not want to wipe his butt, and it is not like you can let him "cry it out" on the toilet because he will sit there for 45 minutes waiting for you, and I have decided that I would rather wipe his butt than deal with a child with hemorrhoids. He also does not like anyone to see him naked. A friend recently recounted a story where she walked in on him and her daughter, and the daughter was naked, and Boo announced, "I don't like to be naked around other people." Even on German beaches where there is not a covered butt on a child for 100 yards, he would be fully dressed and completely happy. I am banking on that because with his ferocious skills at manipulating women, we would have a difficult life after puberty set in.
Last night, he announced, "I am tired" and went to bed by himself at 8:15. This is sort of the equivalent of Newt Gingrinch showing up somewhere in a tiara and high heels. It doesn't happen. So, he sleeps until 6:18 a.m. when he wakes up just like he does ever day of his life. To the minute. He lies in bed beside me (Husband is out of town) and tells me he is thirsty, hungry, sick, unhappy, etc., until finally I concede defeat and we get up at 7:30. I carry him downstairs and lay him on the couch and he immediately falls right back asleep and sleeps for three more hours. He has never once in his entire life from infancy on gone back to sleep immediately after waking up. He surfaces for around 2 hours and consumes a slice of bread and tells me he wants to go back to sleep. I have by this point called the doctor and asked "Is it possible for a child to sleep too much?" The short answer is no, but in my mind he has already had cancer, diabetes, and a brain tumor today. I think it is the flu, though, and I am not digging the thought of that one, except he doesn't have fever, and I didn't get the shot for him because I have never actually known a child to get the flu.
That is all. I am going to go and watch him sleep.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Monday, February 9, 2009
Children stupid actions
So, life has been dull lately, for which I am amazingly grateful. The highlight of the last two weeks was the fact that I have REALLY disciplined my children for the first time. I am not talking about the psychotic mommy screaming at them which you know will be the bread-and-butter of future "My mom is insane" stories and which still reduces them to tears but has zero long term impact, but where there is a slim chance they will remember it. At least one of my children will, at least. My middle child who is the one making the majority of the stupid personal decisions (I can quickly think of at least 3 times with squealing brakes and shattered looking faces on drivers when he ignored the fact it was a street) is also the one who seems to retain the message the longest. I am not an overprotective mother, but I do like to have the vaguest idea of where my kids are, even if it is simply "outside." The other day Monkey Boy went outside and my only instruction was tell me where he was going. If you go inside somewhere, tell me. Of course, he did not do this. I knew he was one of two places, but there is that embarrassing phone call to the wrong parent (oh, 2 hours after I should have made it?), "Do you have my kid?" and they don't. I finally called the correct parent and told her, "Tell him to run. He is in trouble." My son is FAST and he ran in screaming "I KNOW! I FORGOT TO CALL!" So, he lost all screen time (video, tv, computer) for 4 days which culminated in him literally lying on the couch moaning, "Can I do ANY chore to make this end sooner?"
Meanwhile, Bunny got herself grounded for two weeks. She is almost a pre-teen, which means that she is starting to think about lying. A lot. Nothing makes me crazier than a liar. Except a liar who blames the mistake on her five-year-old brother. So, she has been grounded for two weeks. She is oblivious. She is secretly defiant. She sits and "reads" while Boo watches TV. She tells Monkey Boy how to navigate a page (which is sort of like telling A-Rod how to play baseball). Next time she is grounded, I am going to add "NO Books." If she can read, she isn't being punished.
Yesterday I told her I was going to show her something on the computer. She happily bounced upstairs, just so I could go through a power point presentation on the perils of methamphetamine, lingering long over the rotten teeth and abscesses in the arms from shooting up. She was begging me to quit, but, oh, no, I had a platform. My poor kids - I have been on a two year tirade about drugs and sex, and I feel fairly confident that they are going to see through many smoke screens that might get thrown up in their faces. Of course, this has been a long time coming.
I have always been offended by calling parts "weenies" and "down there" and so I have always used the technical language. This has come back to bite me, one instance in particular. My children were sitting in Target (they were 3 and 4) in a shopping cart. We were waiting to check out on a particularly busy day, so they decided it was time to talk anatomy in the LOUDEST POSSIBLE VOICES. DS: Do you have a PENIS? DD: No, I have a VAGINA. Girls have VAGINAS, boys have PENISES!!!!!" The woman in front of me was standing straighter and straighter while the mother behind me was openly laughing. DS went through a period where he was always checking to make sure his "package" (there I go with an euphemism, but it is a blog for all) was still there. I don't know why boys do this, but he spent a good 6 months holding his friend. I tried to ignore it or do the "this is for private time" thing, but I should have just told the washing machine for all it mattered. Anyway, Christmas Eve rolled around. It was the family service. He trotted down to the front alter to listen to the story and stood by the storyteller so he could see. He immediately checked to make sure he had brought his stuff with him. My church looks very much like a European cathedral, and it has the accompanying acoustics. Anyway, I watched this for about 5 minutes in total mortification until I couldn't stand it and he didn't respond to the flailing hands of his mother at all. So finally I went and snatched him up and whispered in his ear, "Get you hand out of your pants!" And which point he screamed and the whole church got to hear, "I LIKE TO TOUCH MY PENIS!!!!!" Yes, I will tell this to his prom date, first girlfriend, future wife.
Husband dear is trying to woo me to Europe this year. For most people, they don't view this as a trial, but he comes from a very beautiful, extremely boring (and rainy) part of Deutschland. This year he has promised an "extra" vacation where we actually go somewhere fun and warm and with ANYTHING to do. Whenever we go to Eutin, one of my highlights is going into the back yard with salt and killing slugs. Yes, I actually look forward to this because I am slug-phobic and killing them soothes a deep part of my soul. And I am happy to concede that my mother-in-law is a far better cook than me.
So, this year he is dangling Crete in front of me. I am quite happy about this, but I don't expect it to happen. However, he is giving me time to plan my trip. Every time a place is suggested, I go and strip the library shelves and spend six months in preparation, watching, reading, organizing, etc. I make plan books that list the opening times/dates of museums, the highlights you must see, the restaurants we need to eat. I would have been fantastic as a planner of D-Day. By the time we get to the vacation spot, there is no opportunity for saying "Oh, I didn't know that!" I can be led astray by pretty flowers and shiny things or fried foods, but for the most part, I love planning our lives completely on a trip. I am so type A about this, I HONEST TO GOD had us be the first car in the Disneyland parking lot. And I started screaming at them to "GET OUT OF THE CAR NOW!!!" because cars were coming in after us and we would not be first in line at the breakfast buffet with Chip and Dale. We were done with Disneyland in two hours because of the extreme amount of planning. The next day I did not plan and we were unable to get on the Dumbo ride because we went there oh, whenever...So, right now I am immersed in Minotaurs, caves, beaches, Minoan archeology, etc. Even if we don't go, it has distracted me from my disobedient children.
Meanwhile, Bunny got herself grounded for two weeks. She is almost a pre-teen, which means that she is starting to think about lying. A lot. Nothing makes me crazier than a liar. Except a liar who blames the mistake on her five-year-old brother. So, she has been grounded for two weeks. She is oblivious. She is secretly defiant. She sits and "reads" while Boo watches TV. She tells Monkey Boy how to navigate a page (which is sort of like telling A-Rod how to play baseball). Next time she is grounded, I am going to add "NO Books." If she can read, she isn't being punished.
Yesterday I told her I was going to show her something on the computer. She happily bounced upstairs, just so I could go through a power point presentation on the perils of methamphetamine, lingering long over the rotten teeth and abscesses in the arms from shooting up. She was begging me to quit, but, oh, no, I had a platform. My poor kids - I have been on a two year tirade about drugs and sex, and I feel fairly confident that they are going to see through many smoke screens that might get thrown up in their faces. Of course, this has been a long time coming.
I have always been offended by calling parts "weenies" and "down there" and so I have always used the technical language. This has come back to bite me, one instance in particular. My children were sitting in Target (they were 3 and 4) in a shopping cart. We were waiting to check out on a particularly busy day, so they decided it was time to talk anatomy in the LOUDEST POSSIBLE VOICES. DS: Do you have a PENIS? DD: No, I have a VAGINA. Girls have VAGINAS, boys have PENISES!!!!!" The woman in front of me was standing straighter and straighter while the mother behind me was openly laughing. DS went through a period where he was always checking to make sure his "package" (there I go with an euphemism, but it is a blog for all) was still there. I don't know why boys do this, but he spent a good 6 months holding his friend. I tried to ignore it or do the "this is for private time" thing, but I should have just told the washing machine for all it mattered. Anyway, Christmas Eve rolled around. It was the family service. He trotted down to the front alter to listen to the story and stood by the storyteller so he could see. He immediately checked to make sure he had brought his stuff with him. My church looks very much like a European cathedral, and it has the accompanying acoustics. Anyway, I watched this for about 5 minutes in total mortification until I couldn't stand it and he didn't respond to the flailing hands of his mother at all. So finally I went and snatched him up and whispered in his ear, "Get you hand out of your pants!" And which point he screamed and the whole church got to hear, "I LIKE TO TOUCH MY PENIS!!!!!" Yes, I will tell this to his prom date, first girlfriend, future wife.
Husband dear is trying to woo me to Europe this year. For most people, they don't view this as a trial, but he comes from a very beautiful, extremely boring (and rainy) part of Deutschland. This year he has promised an "extra" vacation where we actually go somewhere fun and warm and with ANYTHING to do. Whenever we go to Eutin, one of my highlights is going into the back yard with salt and killing slugs. Yes, I actually look forward to this because I am slug-phobic and killing them soothes a deep part of my soul. And I am happy to concede that my mother-in-law is a far better cook than me.
So, this year he is dangling Crete in front of me. I am quite happy about this, but I don't expect it to happen. However, he is giving me time to plan my trip. Every time a place is suggested, I go and strip the library shelves and spend six months in preparation, watching, reading, organizing, etc. I make plan books that list the opening times/dates of museums, the highlights you must see, the restaurants we need to eat. I would have been fantastic as a planner of D-Day. By the time we get to the vacation spot, there is no opportunity for saying "Oh, I didn't know that!" I can be led astray by pretty flowers and shiny things or fried foods, but for the most part, I love planning our lives completely on a trip. I am so type A about this, I HONEST TO GOD had us be the first car in the Disneyland parking lot. And I started screaming at them to "GET OUT OF THE CAR NOW!!!" because cars were coming in after us and we would not be first in line at the breakfast buffet with Chip and Dale. We were done with Disneyland in two hours because of the extreme amount of planning. The next day I did not plan and we were unable to get on the Dumbo ride because we went there oh, whenever...So, right now I am immersed in Minotaurs, caves, beaches, Minoan archeology, etc. Even if we don't go, it has distracted me from my disobedient children.
Monday, January 19, 2009
The Samsonite Children
I love to travel. I love to travel so much that I will give up almost anything to go somewhere else. The only thing I need in that "somewhere else" is a place to sleep. I don't care about the quality, the pillows, the sanitation. Just need to know it exists. I think this stems from growing up in Mississippi where a trip is anything longer than 45 minutes. I don't think I had gone to Jackson, the capital of Mississippi, more than 5 times before I went there for college. I never actually went to Memphis except to get on a plane. My parents' divorce worked to my advantage because Daddy clumped his visitation into long periods, so I got to go to wherever he was stationed - West Point, NY (cadets!!!), Shippensburg, PA (Amish!!!!), and San Antonio, Texas (pinatas!!!!). He even got a year of me while in Germany. The point of all of this is I had long, long, long periods of nothing with brief flares of adventure.
One of my favorite things about my husband is even though he is one of the least spontaneous people I know, he loves to travel as much as I do. We work well as a team. He needs the promise of food; I need the promise of rest. Together we can do all. Except we had kids. Kids have a few more needs than sleep and food. Regular schedules and all of that. Not mine. We broke them of that very young. My oldest was probably 8 years old before she realized that most people never go to Europe and most people her age go on vacation without using a plane. She honestly thought a vacation required a 24 hour endurance march before hand. My middle child has fallen asleep TWICE on the floor during waits to go through customs. He also has never slept on a transatlantic flight. As soon as they could walk, they were given a backpack with wheels and told to pull it and anything they needed to eat or play with better be in that bag.
The "big two" have traveled cross-country with me (without husband) where one of them was in a stroller and the other was strapped in a carseat on one of those foldable suitcase rolling thingies. While we lived in Europe, they sold these cool little skateboards that you could attach to the back of your stroller so an older kid could ride standing up and the younger one could sit. Bunny quickly learned how to put 3/4s of her body into the basket under the stroller, her knees remaining on the board, and take a nap. She was photographed by stunned onlookers in at least 5 countries doing this.
So, because we go almost every year to Europe, I am going to give you tips on how to prepare for each country we have visited.
Poland. - Krakow has something called cobblestones. They also have lots of inner city nature. Like giant slugs and pigeons that are all prone to diarrhea. And big hills. And no handicapped accessibility. And the men and women go in different doors to get to the toilet and end up in the same place. There is absolutely nothing on the menu that my children would eat so they lived on a diet of bread.
London (separate from England)
London has rude people who don't care about how long it takes to put your stroller on a bus. They will start driving with half of your family on the bus and half off. Also, in London, they don't have any protective cording around priceless sculptures in museums, so yes, your kids can touch them. That is when the alarms go off. Modern art museums are perfect for preschoolers. You can do shape searches. However, installation art can be a problem if part of it involves a TV loop where a woman goes from simulating an orgasm to talking to you. My daughter stood transfixed for fifteen minutes and wanted to know why the lady kept crying. The acoustics in the British Museum are concert worthy, and loud hooting echoes really well. And all the guards at the Tower of London are used to being fondled by small children. And your child screaming, "Where is Paddington Bear?" as you hurdle through the Paddington Station is generally considered funny, no matter how loud. The London Eye (the ferris wheel) is the best thing you can ever take a kid on in London.
England (well, Newcastle)
All the nice people in England live in Newcastle. Maybe it is because they make good beer. They are very indulgent of children. They find it charming when your 6-year-old daughter eats 5 sausages in one sitting. They don't mind when your children barf all over the hotel floor (cleaning standards aren't as high there, so this requires a bigger effort on the part of the staff). The subway conductors take your word for the fact you have lost your ticket. They will reimburse you for all the children's tickets you didn't need to buy that you did and apologize for the worker who sold it to you. You don't actually have to get off the bus. Ever. You can stay on the continual loop until your kids wake up from their nap. Just like London, you can buy an entire prepared meal in a grocery store. Cheese by the slice.
Cyprus - Greek people love kids. They don't blink when you walk in a restuarant with them. Your children do not have to remain in their seats. You can convince your child that octopus is a french fry. Sometimes. Mosaics are not as fascinating to kids as they are to adults. The people with tops on on the beach are the Greeks and the Americans. The British are the ones with cigarettes. The French are the ones whose boobies don't slide off of their chests into their armpits. It is worth it to rent an umbrella on the beach.
Sweden - I love Sweden. Sweden is the most child-friendly place in Europe. However, they never knew what to do with my children because Swedish children don't have temper tantrums in restaurants. Generally, there is not a kids' menu and they will make something for your kid and not charge you. If they do, it is minimal. You can live a completely cash free life in Sweden. Credit cards everywhere. If you go to the grocery store, watch your kids because there tends to be bins of candy at the end of the checkout line and your kids can eat an AMAZING amount of candy while you are looking the other way. And the grocery stores do not have bathrooms. Ever. Nor do any of the stores. You are not allowed to pee anywhere in Sweden. But when you get to go to the bathroom, be prepared. Every bathroom has an emergency cord you can pull which will set off an alarm and bring someone to rescue you. Your child will do this the minute you pull down your pants. Every single time. You turn it off by pulling it again. I left a lot of alarms blinking before I figured that out.
We have gotten calmer about traveling with the arrival of #3. I will save some stories about travel with 3 for the next blog. I am running out of stuff to say.
One of my favorite things about my husband is even though he is one of the least spontaneous people I know, he loves to travel as much as I do. We work well as a team. He needs the promise of food; I need the promise of rest. Together we can do all. Except we had kids. Kids have a few more needs than sleep and food. Regular schedules and all of that. Not mine. We broke them of that very young. My oldest was probably 8 years old before she realized that most people never go to Europe and most people her age go on vacation without using a plane. She honestly thought a vacation required a 24 hour endurance march before hand. My middle child has fallen asleep TWICE on the floor during waits to go through customs. He also has never slept on a transatlantic flight. As soon as they could walk, they were given a backpack with wheels and told to pull it and anything they needed to eat or play with better be in that bag.
The "big two" have traveled cross-country with me (without husband) where one of them was in a stroller and the other was strapped in a carseat on one of those foldable suitcase rolling thingies. While we lived in Europe, they sold these cool little skateboards that you could attach to the back of your stroller so an older kid could ride standing up and the younger one could sit. Bunny quickly learned how to put 3/4s of her body into the basket under the stroller, her knees remaining on the board, and take a nap. She was photographed by stunned onlookers in at least 5 countries doing this.
So, because we go almost every year to Europe, I am going to give you tips on how to prepare for each country we have visited.
Poland. - Krakow has something called cobblestones. They also have lots of inner city nature. Like giant slugs and pigeons that are all prone to diarrhea. And big hills. And no handicapped accessibility. And the men and women go in different doors to get to the toilet and end up in the same place. There is absolutely nothing on the menu that my children would eat so they lived on a diet of bread.
London (separate from England)
London has rude people who don't care about how long it takes to put your stroller on a bus. They will start driving with half of your family on the bus and half off. Also, in London, they don't have any protective cording around priceless sculptures in museums, so yes, your kids can touch them. That is when the alarms go off. Modern art museums are perfect for preschoolers. You can do shape searches. However, installation art can be a problem if part of it involves a TV loop where a woman goes from simulating an orgasm to talking to you. My daughter stood transfixed for fifteen minutes and wanted to know why the lady kept crying. The acoustics in the British Museum are concert worthy, and loud hooting echoes really well. And all the guards at the Tower of London are used to being fondled by small children. And your child screaming, "Where is Paddington Bear?" as you hurdle through the Paddington Station is generally considered funny, no matter how loud. The London Eye (the ferris wheel) is the best thing you can ever take a kid on in London.
England (well, Newcastle)
All the nice people in England live in Newcastle. Maybe it is because they make good beer. They are very indulgent of children. They find it charming when your 6-year-old daughter eats 5 sausages in one sitting. They don't mind when your children barf all over the hotel floor (cleaning standards aren't as high there, so this requires a bigger effort on the part of the staff). The subway conductors take your word for the fact you have lost your ticket. They will reimburse you for all the children's tickets you didn't need to buy that you did and apologize for the worker who sold it to you. You don't actually have to get off the bus. Ever. You can stay on the continual loop until your kids wake up from their nap. Just like London, you can buy an entire prepared meal in a grocery store. Cheese by the slice.
Cyprus - Greek people love kids. They don't blink when you walk in a restuarant with them. Your children do not have to remain in their seats. You can convince your child that octopus is a french fry. Sometimes. Mosaics are not as fascinating to kids as they are to adults. The people with tops on on the beach are the Greeks and the Americans. The British are the ones with cigarettes. The French are the ones whose boobies don't slide off of their chests into their armpits. It is worth it to rent an umbrella on the beach.
Sweden - I love Sweden. Sweden is the most child-friendly place in Europe. However, they never knew what to do with my children because Swedish children don't have temper tantrums in restaurants. Generally, there is not a kids' menu and they will make something for your kid and not charge you. If they do, it is minimal. You can live a completely cash free life in Sweden. Credit cards everywhere. If you go to the grocery store, watch your kids because there tends to be bins of candy at the end of the checkout line and your kids can eat an AMAZING amount of candy while you are looking the other way. And the grocery stores do not have bathrooms. Ever. Nor do any of the stores. You are not allowed to pee anywhere in Sweden. But when you get to go to the bathroom, be prepared. Every bathroom has an emergency cord you can pull which will set off an alarm and bring someone to rescue you. Your child will do this the minute you pull down your pants. Every single time. You turn it off by pulling it again. I left a lot of alarms blinking before I figured that out.
We have gotten calmer about traveling with the arrival of #3. I will save some stories about travel with 3 for the next blog. I am running out of stuff to say.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
Fire Ants vs. Me
So, we survived Christmas. We went to Mississippi. We survived Mississippi. So, we went to New Orleans. All I can say about New Orleans is it loses some of its charm when you travel with small children and you have to continually be on the lookout to prevent their awareness of the things that many people come to New Orleans to see. "Mama, what does it mean when it says the Men are prettier than the girls?" "Why are those women in this picture licking each other?" "Mom, why is that person singing out loud in the middle of the day?" "What does it mean to suck their heads and eat their tails?" There are also the great moments - the beauty of the Garden district, all the live oak trees that were made to be climbed, the sheer otherworldliness of the French Quarter. It made me be proud to be Southern again, even though New Orleans is another planet from the Mississippi Delta. However, it DOES have one thing in common with my beloved Mississippi - FIRE ANTS.
Growing up, my mother loved to scare/thrill me with stories of African Killer Bees. I remember always thinking, "This is the year they attack!" However, it never happened. But the fire ants did come. And they do kill people. For some very horrible reason they like nursing homes and I believe at least two people have expired from fire ants bites. Anyway, fire ants are BAD. I have been stung by bees, wasps, and yellow jackets. I will take them any day over a fire ant, mainly because you generally only get one of the flying nasties. The fire ants bring all their relatives and near neighbors. And they don't die after they bite. The first time I was really bitten by fire ants was in college. It was dark. I was out with a friend, being generally irresponsible, when I realized I had to pee. And there were no options on the Natchez Trace at night, like all self-sufficient women out there, I decided to just use the side of the road. The problem was I had consumed just enough irresponsibility to have delayed reaction time. And that delayed reaction time was way too much between when I started using the fire ant pile for my personal latrine and when I realized that I was covered with fire ants and they did not like being aquatic ants. I had 62 bites between my knees and my toes (sandals and all, you know). No shoe the next day. Which brings me to the point of the story. There are fire ants in downtown New Orleans and they found me. In broad daylight. I found this out as I was walking through the French Market, and I am pretty sure I looked like I had been voodoo cursed with all the sudden jumping and slapping of myself and the occasional moan. I would have been screaming expletives except I had the children with me, but since I was inhibiting their full shopping experience of tourist crap, I probably could have cursed like a drunk sailor and they would not have noticed. I didn't get that many bites, but I learned it is better to be bitten on the toe than on the tender insides of your knees. And, like many a visitor to New Orleans, I barely made it back to my car before I was yanking off my clothes, but as my friend Adrienne referred to it, I am glad they died before they got to my personal French Quarter.
Growing up, my mother loved to scare/thrill me with stories of African Killer Bees. I remember always thinking, "This is the year they attack!" However, it never happened. But the fire ants did come. And they do kill people. For some very horrible reason they like nursing homes and I believe at least two people have expired from fire ants bites. Anyway, fire ants are BAD. I have been stung by bees, wasps, and yellow jackets. I will take them any day over a fire ant, mainly because you generally only get one of the flying nasties. The fire ants bring all their relatives and near neighbors. And they don't die after they bite. The first time I was really bitten by fire ants was in college. It was dark. I was out with a friend, being generally irresponsible, when I realized I had to pee. And there were no options on the Natchez Trace at night, like all self-sufficient women out there, I decided to just use the side of the road. The problem was I had consumed just enough irresponsibility to have delayed reaction time. And that delayed reaction time was way too much between when I started using the fire ant pile for my personal latrine and when I realized that I was covered with fire ants and they did not like being aquatic ants. I had 62 bites between my knees and my toes (sandals and all, you know). No shoe the next day. Which brings me to the point of the story. There are fire ants in downtown New Orleans and they found me. In broad daylight. I found this out as I was walking through the French Market, and I am pretty sure I looked like I had been voodoo cursed with all the sudden jumping and slapping of myself and the occasional moan. I would have been screaming expletives except I had the children with me, but since I was inhibiting their full shopping experience of tourist crap, I probably could have cursed like a drunk sailor and they would not have noticed. I didn't get that many bites, but I learned it is better to be bitten on the toe than on the tender insides of your knees. And, like many a visitor to New Orleans, I barely made it back to my car before I was yanking off my clothes, but as my friend Adrienne referred to it, I am glad they died before they got to my personal French Quarter.
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Where did he come from???
So, one of the great mysteries of science to me is how can a female body produces a male child. And how those boy children can come out and look not one iota like their mother and be pod people of their father. In the big picture I am really grateful because managing my daughter/twin is going to be emotionally exhausting enough, and taking care of the boys is simply a source of amusement.
Every child is special. Every mother loves every child equally. However, every child does not serve the same purpose in a family. Monkey Boy is my primary source of entertainment. Literally, since the moment I saw his little jewels on the ultrasound screen, I have been walking around saying, "How did that happen?" Before and shortly after his birth, I had 3 different situations from 3 unique cultures which told me he was special. First of all, before we knew who he was, a woman from India put her hands on my stomach and said, "Oh, this is a very special little boy." Then when he was born, the water never broke. In old-fashioned times, this is called being "born under the caul" and in Celtic traditions meant he was a blessed child. Finally, a Chinese friend of mine did his horoscope which involved spinning a book, flipping a bunch of pages, making "HMMMM" noises, and ultimately declaring Monkey's future the best he has ever seen. He was born under all the right stars. I firmly believe that he is special, mainly because he is still alive. This is because through no effort of my own, but it is because he has a Grade A, high ranking guardian angel.
You know how you read about children in the paper and you think, "Well, what kind of parent doesn't notice their child is on top of the china cabinet?" The answer to that is that person is me. If you don't know your child can climb vertical surfaces and has suction toes, you don't expect to find them hiding on closet shelves, or looking in your second floor windows from a tree at age THREE. You expect there to be a learning curve. Nope, Monkey Boy has never, ever injured himself beyond a single bandaid injury despite glorious feats of stupidity.
Classic example. We see a stunt rider on a bicycle. I know things are over. Monkey is not yet five, but he is riding his bike everywhere. One day the doorbell rings. I had no idea M.B. was outside, but he was there standing on my doorstep crying with bloody knees and a bike lying in the yard. I scoop up my injured little boy and ask him what happened. His reply, "I rode down the front (brick) steps." "Well, what did you learn?" "I don't have the right kind of bike." He has also managed to climb up the stairs of our jungle gym set with his bike so he can ride down the bumpy slide. (Mom: WHAT ARE YOU DOING? Boy child: I HAVE ON MY HELMET!) We have had to pass rules like you can't climb higher than a second floor window. I have personally been to every neighbor on my street to tell them that if my child injures himself on their property or rides into his/her car, I know they didn't do it.
He thinks school, religion, and girls are all jokes and a waste of his time. School is when you doodle, religion is something he can't wait to quit, and girls are not even worth thinking about. Hair is only something you deal with twice a year, and washing it is silly since it just gets dirty again. I see dreadlocks in his future. His dream job changes, but right now it is be a professional soccer star for awhile before going to graduate school and becoming a scientist that wins a Nobel prize.
I am pretty much the only female that is infallible. His father has the information he actually wants, but Mama is the source of joy. All other people are just a waste of his time. He doesn't mind them, but they don't really serve a purpose and so he can be very rude and ingore them. He is sweet to little kids, but he probably won't notice if they are male or female. He can tell you the score of some random World Cup game from 4 years ago, but he has no idea when he last changed his underwear. (His sister just asked him, and his reply: I don't know. I haven't worn underwear for a month.) He is a glorious pile of farts, facts, cuddles and elbows. Every day for Monkey Boy is a day full of promise, and every day for me WITH Monkey Boy is a day full of sunshine.
Every child is special. Every mother loves every child equally. However, every child does not serve the same purpose in a family. Monkey Boy is my primary source of entertainment. Literally, since the moment I saw his little jewels on the ultrasound screen, I have been walking around saying, "How did that happen?" Before and shortly after his birth, I had 3 different situations from 3 unique cultures which told me he was special. First of all, before we knew who he was, a woman from India put her hands on my stomach and said, "Oh, this is a very special little boy." Then when he was born, the water never broke. In old-fashioned times, this is called being "born under the caul" and in Celtic traditions meant he was a blessed child. Finally, a Chinese friend of mine did his horoscope which involved spinning a book, flipping a bunch of pages, making "HMMMM" noises, and ultimately declaring Monkey's future the best he has ever seen. He was born under all the right stars. I firmly believe that he is special, mainly because he is still alive. This is because through no effort of my own, but it is because he has a Grade A, high ranking guardian angel.
You know how you read about children in the paper and you think, "Well, what kind of parent doesn't notice their child is on top of the china cabinet?" The answer to that is that person is me. If you don't know your child can climb vertical surfaces and has suction toes, you don't expect to find them hiding on closet shelves, or looking in your second floor windows from a tree at age THREE. You expect there to be a learning curve. Nope, Monkey Boy has never, ever injured himself beyond a single bandaid injury despite glorious feats of stupidity.
Classic example. We see a stunt rider on a bicycle. I know things are over. Monkey is not yet five, but he is riding his bike everywhere. One day the doorbell rings. I had no idea M.B. was outside, but he was there standing on my doorstep crying with bloody knees and a bike lying in the yard. I scoop up my injured little boy and ask him what happened. His reply, "I rode down the front (brick) steps." "Well, what did you learn?" "I don't have the right kind of bike." He has also managed to climb up the stairs of our jungle gym set with his bike so he can ride down the bumpy slide. (Mom: WHAT ARE YOU DOING? Boy child: I HAVE ON MY HELMET!) We have had to pass rules like you can't climb higher than a second floor window. I have personally been to every neighbor on my street to tell them that if my child injures himself on their property or rides into his/her car, I know they didn't do it.
He thinks school, religion, and girls are all jokes and a waste of his time. School is when you doodle, religion is something he can't wait to quit, and girls are not even worth thinking about. Hair is only something you deal with twice a year, and washing it is silly since it just gets dirty again. I see dreadlocks in his future. His dream job changes, but right now it is be a professional soccer star for awhile before going to graduate school and becoming a scientist that wins a Nobel prize.
I am pretty much the only female that is infallible. His father has the information he actually wants, but Mama is the source of joy. All other people are just a waste of his time. He doesn't mind them, but they don't really serve a purpose and so he can be very rude and ingore them. He is sweet to little kids, but he probably won't notice if they are male or female. He can tell you the score of some random World Cup game from 4 years ago, but he has no idea when he last changed his underwear. (His sister just asked him, and his reply: I don't know. I haven't worn underwear for a month.) He is a glorious pile of farts, facts, cuddles and elbows. Every day for Monkey Boy is a day full of promise, and every day for me WITH Monkey Boy is a day full of sunshine.
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Uses for Old Boyfriends
I haven't been writing in awhile because I have been trying to live a dull life. It has gone really well, except for my obsession with Facebook. Frequently you hear all about how the computer and on-line communities have caused real relationships to fail to develop. I am the counterargument. At this point in my life, I have the attention span of a guinea pig and zero time for meaningful conversations. My whole life I have been blessed with an excess of friends, most of whom never have managed to escape my Christmas card list. I have tons of people I want to be in touch with but I don't have any time to do so. Enter Facebook. Through it, I have managed to stay in touch with more people with less time. I have refound elementary school friends, archrivals, sorority sisters, people to whom I taught TV theme songs, a couple of folks I didn't realize were as strange as they are... I can quickly scan a friend's page and find out if anything interesting has happened to them and move on without discussing any details. Facebook is perfect for those seeking shallow encounters. But there is one problem. Ex-boyfriends
My whole life I have liked boys. I remember my PRESCHOOL favorite boy, my first grade, second grade, etc. My poor first-grade boyfriend I managed to find in a cotton field at a Blues Festival, and all I can say is I am glad he is unlikely to remember that encounter because he was so much worse off than I was. Liking boys and having a boyfriend are two entirely different things, and I didn't manage to acquire one of my very own until 10th grade, but after that I had a fairly steady supply until my husband. Once I acquired him, I had to stop collecting obviously. But I do have a strict ex-boyfriend rule: We can break up, but you can never leave. I have just lovely relationships with almost any boy I have ever dated/had a crush on/talked to for a long time. One of my favorite ex-boyfriends is providing the future spouse for my child. He has three gorgeous boys, and I have generously told Bunny she can have any one of them. Another ex-boyfriend is actually responsible for explaining stock markets and world news to me. Another ex-boyfriend is the source of all musical suggestions. Yet another is the science go-to guy. Each of these was lacking in some essential quality that my husband possesses, so even though I am fondly attached to all of them, it is sort of like the way you feel about your grandmother's furniture. Sure, it was good for a nap when you were little, but you don't actually want that furniture in the house. However, like I said, they can't leave. The main reason for this is my childhood hobby, funeral planning.
Like most little girls from Mississippi, I grew up playing wedding. Imagine the cutest boy from Leland Middle School or Sean Cassidy, draw an elaborate picture of your dress, winnow down the list of friends worth enough for bridesmaid status, and play pretend wedding. It was fun and satisfactory to a degree, but not nearly as much fun as what I really liked to do, playing funeral. I have been writing my wills since I was in third grade, making lists of who gets what stuffed animal. My actual will has a codicil where my best friend, Shelley, gets my pink rotary phone with the glow-in-the-dark funeral advertisement on the handset. She was determined it not be a family heirloom. Anyway, back to funerals. I am ashamed to admit it, but I would love to attend my actual funeral. Shortly into my marriage, I explained to my beloved what exactly my funeral would entail. Detailed explanations. However, it is now time to revisit those decisions.
I always thought I wanted to be cremated and dumped into a volcano, thrown into the Mississippi River, or something. I also wanted everyone to sit around and tell stupid stories about me and write them all down for my children, just in case they remember me as some saintly figure. HA. Now, however, I want a green funeral. You know where you become fodder for trees? I love the idea of being buried somewhere in some crappy, non-hermetically sealed box and having a Christmas tree farm planted on top of me. No, I am from Mississippi, so I want a pecan farm. And, the part that I want my ex-boyfriends for is I want them to be pall bearers. Several of them have failed to inform their wives of the central role I played in their lives, so they would probably have to mention coming to the funeral, but I just love the symbolism of them dumping me in the ground. Just like they dumped me (or, occasionally, visa versa). That way all my relatives will be free to wail and throw roses in the hole and comfort my little angels and my distraught husband who will probably still be trying to figure out where I stored Daniel's socks and how to turn on the dryer and who will, if he truly loved me, be unable to focus on getting me in the ground and other such funeral details (hence, the detailed to do list). Wouldn't you love to be there for that? Which is, again, why I love Facebook. I only had four ex-boyfriends that I was confident I could beg to help me (I want to do it like Camille in the opera - slow, drawn-out, dramatic, then boom, I am dead, so I can have time to explain my plans but die before I have to comfort anyone), but Facebook has helped me acquire at least one more and a couple I can possible call on for backup. I haven't cleared this with my husband, so he might not actually like the drama of it all, but it definitely appeals to me. But if the show gets scheduled anytime soon, which I am NOT hoping for, I will let you know so you can beg an invite.
My whole life I have liked boys. I remember my PRESCHOOL favorite boy, my first grade, second grade, etc. My poor first-grade boyfriend I managed to find in a cotton field at a Blues Festival, and all I can say is I am glad he is unlikely to remember that encounter because he was so much worse off than I was. Liking boys and having a boyfriend are two entirely different things, and I didn't manage to acquire one of my very own until 10th grade, but after that I had a fairly steady supply until my husband. Once I acquired him, I had to stop collecting obviously. But I do have a strict ex-boyfriend rule: We can break up, but you can never leave. I have just lovely relationships with almost any boy I have ever dated/had a crush on/talked to for a long time. One of my favorite ex-boyfriends is providing the future spouse for my child. He has three gorgeous boys, and I have generously told Bunny she can have any one of them. Another ex-boyfriend is actually responsible for explaining stock markets and world news to me. Another ex-boyfriend is the source of all musical suggestions. Yet another is the science go-to guy. Each of these was lacking in some essential quality that my husband possesses, so even though I am fondly attached to all of them, it is sort of like the way you feel about your grandmother's furniture. Sure, it was good for a nap when you were little, but you don't actually want that furniture in the house. However, like I said, they can't leave. The main reason for this is my childhood hobby, funeral planning.
Like most little girls from Mississippi, I grew up playing wedding. Imagine the cutest boy from Leland Middle School or Sean Cassidy, draw an elaborate picture of your dress, winnow down the list of friends worth enough for bridesmaid status, and play pretend wedding. It was fun and satisfactory to a degree, but not nearly as much fun as what I really liked to do, playing funeral. I have been writing my wills since I was in third grade, making lists of who gets what stuffed animal. My actual will has a codicil where my best friend, Shelley, gets my pink rotary phone with the glow-in-the-dark funeral advertisement on the handset. She was determined it not be a family heirloom. Anyway, back to funerals. I am ashamed to admit it, but I would love to attend my actual funeral. Shortly into my marriage, I explained to my beloved what exactly my funeral would entail. Detailed explanations. However, it is now time to revisit those decisions.
I always thought I wanted to be cremated and dumped into a volcano, thrown into the Mississippi River, or something. I also wanted everyone to sit around and tell stupid stories about me and write them all down for my children, just in case they remember me as some saintly figure. HA. Now, however, I want a green funeral. You know where you become fodder for trees? I love the idea of being buried somewhere in some crappy, non-hermetically sealed box and having a Christmas tree farm planted on top of me. No, I am from Mississippi, so I want a pecan farm. And, the part that I want my ex-boyfriends for is I want them to be pall bearers. Several of them have failed to inform their wives of the central role I played in their lives, so they would probably have to mention coming to the funeral, but I just love the symbolism of them dumping me in the ground. Just like they dumped me (or, occasionally, visa versa). That way all my relatives will be free to wail and throw roses in the hole and comfort my little angels and my distraught husband who will probably still be trying to figure out where I stored Daniel's socks and how to turn on the dryer and who will, if he truly loved me, be unable to focus on getting me in the ground and other such funeral details (hence, the detailed to do list). Wouldn't you love to be there for that? Which is, again, why I love Facebook. I only had four ex-boyfriends that I was confident I could beg to help me (I want to do it like Camille in the opera - slow, drawn-out, dramatic, then boom, I am dead, so I can have time to explain my plans but die before I have to comfort anyone), but Facebook has helped me acquire at least one more and a couple I can possible call on for backup. I haven't cleared this with my husband, so he might not actually like the drama of it all, but it definitely appeals to me. But if the show gets scheduled anytime soon, which I am NOT hoping for, I will let you know so you can beg an invite.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Selfish needs and motorized transport
When I started this blog, I intended it to be a place where I wrote about funny stuff that happened to me and to nurture the illusion that I would actually write something "real" someday. All I can say to that now is "bleh." I can't even remember the last really funny thing that happened to me. I am pretty sure that funny stuff HAS happened, but I think there is a good chance I would not notice. All I want to do lately is bolt and run. Not just from caring for all the crippled folks around (wait, watching a four year old with a full leg cast run is funny, maybe I should make a video), but from anything that vaguely resembles responsibility. I am so overcome with selfish desires right now. Now, I am not talking about standard desires (a clean house, obedient children), I want really selfish stuff that I have never had ANY interest in. All-inclusive vacations, shiny stuff that supports genoicide in Africa, pretty things that look good in Vogue on anorexic people, foods with the first three ingredients to be: butter, cream, sugar. All of this stuff is so foreign to me, yet I want, want, want. I am going to use that as my gauge of when I am happy again, when my desires return to normal: olive bar purchases, a bubble bath, new houseshoes, a complete collection of Bare Naked Ladies CDs.
We are off on a trip again, this time to see my Aunt Becky who I generally refer to as "the family member I have never disliked." This is a good thing since it is my daughter's first name. She married a man named "Boots" who is loved almost as much as she is by my children, and they have a dachshund named Spike who could get work as a footbal lineman. He can take down a full grown person once he hits full speed and he can get Boo airborne. Today Boo was crying after a Spike flight, and when I went outside he was saying, "My leg, my leg!" I had this moment of terror that I was going to have a two cast kid (now THAT would be a funny video), but once I picked the magnolia pod out of his knee he was mobile once more. There is a precedent for this because when I was in high school I had surgery on my right foot for which I needed crutches. Being a stupid teenager, I decided it was a perfect time to learn to ride a motorbike. Unfortunately, I did not get adequate steering directions so I immediately drove into a freshly plowed cotton field, where I went airborne, had the bike land on my good ankle resulting in a massive sprain and making it impossible to walk for a couple of days. And Bunny, true to form, yanked out a couple of teeth when I was in a situation where I could do nothing about it since searching for kleenex at high speeds is probably up there with texting on the list of stupid ideas. She still believes in the tooth fairy (or claims to) and she looked at me and said, "This is a MOLAR. I think it is worth more, DON'T YOU THINK SO, MOMMY?" Five bucks for two. How was that for a run-on paragraph?
Today we went to the "Little White House" where FDR died. I was very impressed with the interpreter's ability to keep a straight face when she said that FDR had not had an affair. Yeah, whatever, she had a bedroom and Eleanor didn't? Figure that one out, ranger lady. I also learned that it would be a very, very bad idea to ever give my mother a motorized wheelchair because once she gets a little speed going, I think she becomes Bo Duke behind the wheel of General Lee. Things like curbs and feet were just soooooo irrelevant. Not that she has tortured me enough or anything, but she now has a torn rotator cuff which may mean surgery. Did no one get the memo that I am NOT GOOD AT NURSING CARE? On the other hand, it would mean a night off while she was in the hospital. This isn't outpatient, right?
We are off on a trip again, this time to see my Aunt Becky who I generally refer to as "the family member I have never disliked." This is a good thing since it is my daughter's first name. She married a man named "Boots" who is loved almost as much as she is by my children, and they have a dachshund named Spike who could get work as a footbal lineman. He can take down a full grown person once he hits full speed and he can get Boo airborne. Today Boo was crying after a Spike flight, and when I went outside he was saying, "My leg, my leg!" I had this moment of terror that I was going to have a two cast kid (now THAT would be a funny video), but once I picked the magnolia pod out of his knee he was mobile once more. There is a precedent for this because when I was in high school I had surgery on my right foot for which I needed crutches. Being a stupid teenager, I decided it was a perfect time to learn to ride a motorbike. Unfortunately, I did not get adequate steering directions so I immediately drove into a freshly plowed cotton field, where I went airborne, had the bike land on my good ankle resulting in a massive sprain and making it impossible to walk for a couple of days. And Bunny, true to form, yanked out a couple of teeth when I was in a situation where I could do nothing about it since searching for kleenex at high speeds is probably up there with texting on the list of stupid ideas. She still believes in the tooth fairy (or claims to) and she looked at me and said, "This is a MOLAR. I think it is worth more, DON'T YOU THINK SO, MOMMY?" Five bucks for two. How was that for a run-on paragraph?
Today we went to the "Little White House" where FDR died. I was very impressed with the interpreter's ability to keep a straight face when she said that FDR had not had an affair. Yeah, whatever, she had a bedroom and Eleanor didn't? Figure that one out, ranger lady. I also learned that it would be a very, very bad idea to ever give my mother a motorized wheelchair because once she gets a little speed going, I think she becomes Bo Duke behind the wheel of General Lee. Things like curbs and feet were just soooooo irrelevant. Not that she has tortured me enough or anything, but she now has a torn rotator cuff which may mean surgery. Did no one get the memo that I am NOT GOOD AT NURSING CARE? On the other hand, it would mean a night off while she was in the hospital. This isn't outpatient, right?
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