It's that time of year again, my friends.
Sweltering heat, swimming pools, flippy-floppies - and the one thing that makes me want to pack the house in sound-proof insulation for this week every year: fireworks.
It never fails. I get the kids into their beds later than usual from a day of summer fun, they quiet down and drift off, and PAP! PAPPAPPAPPAPPAPPAP!
I dash to the window to see which neighbor kid is causing me to think hateful thoughts in their direction. It's not that I begrudge them their fun, but I wish that fun could be had between the hours of 5 and 8 PM.
Instead, from 8 to 11 PM we are serenaded with a cacophony of startling explosions. Some are mildly irritating whizzing blurs that only serve to make the little girls run screaming from a haphazard flight path. Others are those awful whistling rockets that zoom into the sky before blanketing the neighborhood with a giant KA-BOOM. Or, my absolute non-favorite, the sudden repetition of the ear-splitting firecrackers.
After bedtime for the week surrounding the 4th of July, my jaws are clenched and my eyes are widened in horror at the possibility of my kids' sleep being disrupted by popping, cracking, booming fireworks.
Would you believe that I'm better this year than I have been for the past 3 years? That I'm less worried about fireworks than ever before? It's true. I am slightly more relaxed now than I used to be. So much so that I only annoy my husband half as much as I used to be capable of doing when I hear a random explosion somewhere in our neighborhood. In years past, Justin would have to usher me away from the window so the neighbors wouldn't see the smoke pluming from my ears. Now he just sighs and shakes his head when I begin my annual tirade against the injustice of late-night fireworks. When he points out that the kids are both still sleeping soundly, my panicky bubble loses a bit of steam.
Are there towns where private fireworks are outlawed? If so, where can I see a copy of their regulations that I may present at the next local town hall meeting? I'd present a much more convincing case if I could find the precedence to back up my proposition.
I do enjoy seeing the large-scale productions that scatter brilliant colors across the sky in celebration of our country's independence. They are awe inspiring and beautiful. From a safe distance. I fear I won't be much better once my kids are old enough to take part in the lighting of their own fireworks. I don't like being within 100 yards of the things, so I can't imagine being comfortable if my babies are any closer than that either.
Fireworks make me a jumpy, nervous mess - due in part to a semi-dangerous run in with a rogue flaming fountain when I was a teenager. It tipped over, or malfunctioned, and shot fireballs at the blanket I was sitting on with a few friends. It wasn't that big of a deal in hindsight, because no one was seriously hurt. But THE POTENTIAL was there. And that potential has led me to boycott fireworks ever since.
My husband used to have way cool bottle rocket wars with the other way cool boys in his neighborhood, so he doesn't see what all the fuss is about.
But deep down? I know that he's just as frustrated by the cracking and popping of fireworks at bedtime as I am.
Because that cracking and popping turns me into an irate mama, and if that's not frustrating to a laid-back hubby, I don't know what is.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Monday, June 29, 2009
Starring Mia - As Herself
Picture this: A thirty pound preschooler with sweet piggy-tails, standing on the front row at the VBS program. Place a small group of well-behaved children around and behind her who are doing their best to sing the correct words and make the correct hand motions.
Now, bend her down 90 degrees at the waist, airplane her arms out from both sides, and tilt her head straight up to look at the audience. Now make her dance. Make her arms twist in semi-circles around her stationary body, and make her bounce to her own rhythm. Knock her knees together. Open her mouth and stick out her tongue, widen her eyes and wiggle her brows.
Got it?
That was my daughter at her first VBS program last weekend. Completely off the wall in her hammy behavior, not one word of one song was sung by Mia. Not one choreographed hand motion was executed by her.
It was stinkin' adorable. From a strictly non-partial viewpoint.
Let me back up and say that she'd been singing these songs at home all week and moving in what I assume were the correct motions to go along with the music. She totally knew some of what she was supposed to do. Being 3, I didn't expect her to know all of it, but I also didn't expect her to be quite so unabashedly enthusiastic in making up HER OWN program.
I think she would have done at least a little bit of the program as instructed, had I not been on the front row with a video camera. She took one look in my direction, and whipped out her best Dora/Barney dance moves.
You see, Mia LOVES to watch herself on the video camera. We can sit her down with an old recording of herself, and she'll laugh her socks off at her own antics. She'll recite the lines, knowing the scenes by heart. She has occasionally (somehow) recruited her sophisticated mother for reenactments of some of her favorite moments. If I stretch veeeerrry far, I can even pretend we're doing an intelligence-boosting activity when we begin these staged performances.
So I'm pretty sure she saw the video camera at Friday night's program and was so excited about having a new video of herself to watch and re-perform, that she forgot what she was supposed to be performing in the first place.
This week she'll be singing and dancing her way through some very spirited reenactments of herself. However, if she asks (ahem, directs) me to dance like she did, I'll have to plead laundry duty. I'm not sure I could survive that level of spinning.
Now, bend her down 90 degrees at the waist, airplane her arms out from both sides, and tilt her head straight up to look at the audience. Now make her dance. Make her arms twist in semi-circles around her stationary body, and make her bounce to her own rhythm. Knock her knees together. Open her mouth and stick out her tongue, widen her eyes and wiggle her brows.
Got it?
That was my daughter at her first VBS program last weekend. Completely off the wall in her hammy behavior, not one word of one song was sung by Mia. Not one choreographed hand motion was executed by her.
It was stinkin' adorable. From a strictly non-partial viewpoint.
Let me back up and say that she'd been singing these songs at home all week and moving in what I assume were the correct motions to go along with the music. She totally knew some of what she was supposed to do. Being 3, I didn't expect her to know all of it, but I also didn't expect her to be quite so unabashedly enthusiastic in making up HER OWN program.
I think she would have done at least a little bit of the program as instructed, had I not been on the front row with a video camera. She took one look in my direction, and whipped out her best Dora/Barney dance moves.
You see, Mia LOVES to watch herself on the video camera. We can sit her down with an old recording of herself, and she'll laugh her socks off at her own antics. She'll recite the lines, knowing the scenes by heart. She has occasionally (somehow) recruited her sophisticated mother for reenactments of some of her favorite moments. If I stretch veeeerrry far, I can even pretend we're doing an intelligence-boosting activity when we begin these staged performances.
So I'm pretty sure she saw the video camera at Friday night's program and was so excited about having a new video of herself to watch and re-perform, that she forgot what she was supposed to be performing in the first place.
This week she'll be singing and dancing her way through some very spirited reenactments of herself. However, if she asks (ahem, directs) me to dance like she did, I'll have to plead laundry duty. I'm not sure I could survive that level of spinning.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Spice Girl
In honor of my parents' 29th wedding anniversary last night, we all went out to dinner together. My mom's favorite place is Red Lobster, where she somehow managed to trick the restaurant into serving her double the snow crab for half the price. Wisdom, thou are mother.
The girls behaved pretty nicely, considering the looooong wait for food, and when the cheddar biscuits arrived (hours after I thought they were due) they were gobbled up fast by toddler and adult alike. Mia, alone, waited to eat hers. It was too hot, she said.
When she finally got around to biting into her biscuit, she had something to say about it:
"My biscuit is a spice carnival!" she said to me.
Which was apparently a good thing, because she ate the rest of it before we could say, 'Wha..?"
What a distinguished palate she has. Maybe she's a budding foodie who will one day spurn the tackiness of chain restaurants.
And where does that leave mom's home cooking, I'd like to know? No spice carnivals here, I assure you - unless butter and garlic count.
My cooking provides more of a flavor hostel - just enough to survive on.
The girls behaved pretty nicely, considering the looooong wait for food, and when the cheddar biscuits arrived (hours after I thought they were due) they were gobbled up fast by toddler and adult alike. Mia, alone, waited to eat hers. It was too hot, she said.
When she finally got around to biting into her biscuit, she had something to say about it:
"My biscuit is a spice carnival!" she said to me.
Which was apparently a good thing, because she ate the rest of it before we could say, 'Wha..?"
What a distinguished palate she has. Maybe she's a budding foodie who will one day spurn the tackiness of chain restaurants.
And where does that leave mom's home cooking, I'd like to know? No spice carnivals here, I assure you - unless butter and garlic count.
My cooking provides more of a flavor hostel - just enough to survive on.
Friday, June 26, 2009
7 Quick Takes Friday, #20
1. You know it's summer when the A/C doesn't kick off until 3 AM, and then comes back on at 8 AM, coughing and dragging it's heels from all the hard work it's been doing. I almost feel sorry for the poor unit, but then I step outside and sink chest deep into a thick soup of HOT before scurrying back into the blessedly cool house, preparing a pep talk so that the air conditioner will never doubt it's important place in our lives. I love you, A/C.
2. Having seen several recommendations lately for The Mitford Series, I checked out the first book at the library this week. I don't even know what it's about or if its style will suit my own, but it's on a lot of folks' favorite books list so I thought I'd give it a shot. Here's hoping I enjoy it as much as some others have. Have you read it?
3. On a related note: What's your favorite book?
4. When I was growing up, I always wondered why my mom never really bought herself many new outfits. Occasionally, she'd get something small for herself, but it seemed she had clothes in her closet that were older than I was. As a teenager, I shopped weekly, spending my paycheck on worthless items and wearing something only a few times before it got boring. This went on throughout college, and into my first years as a wife.
Then I had babies. Any free time or money was spent on my daughters. I was never good at leaving my baby with a sitter for even a small amount of time to go do something for myself. (I'm still not - I know all the parenting experts tell you how important it is to make time to get away, but it's just not the way I work. Maybe a few babies down the line I'll relax a bit...) Shopping just fell by the wayside. My clothes are getting to be old and well-worn. So? I went to the mall this week with Lauren in tow - specifically to get something for myself. Every time I do this, I feel some small bit of guilt over purchasing something mostly unnecessary. Why is that? Am I not worthwhile enough to get a pair of decent shorts to wear in this oppressive heat? Is a cute sundress too extravagant for a stay at home mom with nowhere more important to go than the grocery store?
This time though, the guilt stayed at bay. Maybe I'm gaining confidence in my worth as a non-earner. Maybe the sale was good enough. Whatever. I got some shorts and a dress, and I'm happy about it.
5. Mia's been going to VBS every night this week, and it's worn me out. No, I'm not helping with it or anything; I'm staying home to put the baby -ach, I mean toddler- to bed which includes a nursing session (a highly mom-oriented task). But it's worn me out with BEDTIME WORRY. I am so not comfortable with a week of bedtimes that are 90 minutes later than usual. As expected, Mia's exhausted, but I think it's been worth it. She's having a ball. She even has a line in a skit for the program tonight. I'll take Lauren with me and make her exhausted too because there's no way I'm missing my 3 year old's first performance. (Hmm...I see a casual dress-wearing occasion after all...)
6. So if you feel a slight tremor in the earth at around 7:09 PM central time tonight, don't worry. It's just my heart breaking from witnessing my beautiful baby girl grow up so fast.
Also, the aftershocks you will feel at about 8:12 PM will be from me nervously thumping my leg, worrying that Lauren will have a horrible night's sleep and a terribly early morning wake up due to her phenomenally late bed time. (Horrible, terrible, phenomenal. Yikesal.)
I apologize in advance.
7. This attached itself to my home earlier this week.
I almost fainted because I was sure it was a tiny bat. It was, after all, hanging upside down. Or do bats only do that in scary cartoons? (I was always terrified of Scooby-Doo growing up. So, yes - cartoons are scary.) Then I got to looking at it's camo wings. Pretty neat. From a comfortable, camera-zoomable distance.
I started feeling imaginary things crawling on me while I took this picture, so we're just lucky the camera isn't in pieces from being smashed on our driveway by a bug underappreciater named Moi.
Have a wonderful weekend! Stay cool by sweet talking your air conditioner and checking out more Quick Takes.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Foreign Languages
Lauren has learned a new phrase this week. She frequently says 'thank you' now. Rather, she says 'tihn-tyouh.' Be still my heart. As a mom who loves all things polite and kind, these words are music to my ears.
A few nights ago, she helped me pick up all the books on the floor below the bookshelf. Placing each one carefully on the shelf, she looked sideways at me and said "tihn-tyouh!" each time. I tried not to take a bite out of her cute little cheeks right then and there, she was so adorable. The phone rang in the middle of our clean-up, so I left her there on her own. She kept saying her baby version of thank you as I walked away, and I felt proud of her politeness and cleaning skills.
Until the phone conversation ended (Really, it never began because I was speaking to a foreigner with an accent so indecipherable that she (he?) may as well have been singing her (his?) national anthem to me.) and I came back to the bookshelves, ready to be amazed at Lauren's organizational prowess.
Except, she'd graduated from replacing books, to removing whatever books were already shelved.
She sing-songed 'tihn-tyouh' each time she dropped a book on top of her growing pile.
We have a ways to go with the usage of this favorite phrase of mine.
A few nights ago, she helped me pick up all the books on the floor below the bookshelf. Placing each one carefully on the shelf, she looked sideways at me and said "tihn-tyouh!" each time. I tried not to take a bite out of her cute little cheeks right then and there, she was so adorable. The phone rang in the middle of our clean-up, so I left her there on her own. She kept saying her baby version of thank you as I walked away, and I felt proud of her politeness and cleaning skills.
Until the phone conversation ended (Really, it never began because I was speaking to a foreigner with an accent so indecipherable that she (he?) may as well have been singing her (his?) national anthem to me.) and I came back to the bookshelves, ready to be amazed at Lauren's organizational prowess.
Except, she'd graduated from replacing books, to removing whatever books were already shelved.
She sing-songed 'tihn-tyouh' each time she dropped a book on top of her growing pile.
We have a ways to go with the usage of this favorite phrase of mine.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
The Toddler Experience: Getting Dressed
As told by LJ, 15 months.
First, we get NAKED!! Naked! Naked! Naked!
You'll never understand this freedom, mama. The wad of diaper is suddenly dislodged from its unrighteous placement, and the air...oh, the air. My legs are free from restriction, and I must positively RUN!
Wait, what?
You talkin' to me? I'm not coming back to you! You must be crazy if you think I'm gonna stop...guh.
So fine. You got me. I can still make this fun.
Aaaahhhh yes. The air has set me free and now I've set my bladder free. Heehee. Haha. Chuckle. Where are you running off to? Oooh, a chase? Yesssss!
Uh-oh, can't catch me sucka! Whoops. Guess that pee is still a little wet on my feet, makes the running a bit tricky in the kitchen. Good thing you brought a towel. So you got me again. Unfair advantage and all, but whatever.
Hey did you know that if I throw myself backwards really fast as you're carrying me to the bedroom, I can make you say this awesome word about a holy whatchamajig? I can't pronounce it myself, but wait - throwing in 3 - 2 - 1 - ...augh...and THERE it was! Hahaha. You almost ran us into the wall that time. Well I'm pinned to you now, but I'll try it again later.
Oh, yes! The bed is the best place for playing! Hold on...you're holding me down...you want me to be still? Alright. Look, see? I'm perfectly still, you can ease up now.
Booyah! Haha, had you there didn't I! I'm rolling - I'm flopping - I'm bouncing - I'm - well it's fun, though, right?! You don't smile much anymore, mama. How come?
Ugh. Here comes the new diaper. You'll smile about that. I know there's something really boring coming when you smile at me like that. You open your eyes wide, and start talking like I'm a newborn. It's a dead giveaway, mom. Diapers are dull, no matter how 'fun' you try to make them sound. But you know what is fun? Helicopter legs! WOOHOO!! If I get a good head start, I can flip myself right over and - sigh - it's almost like you expected me to try that. I'm gonna have to get some new moves. I guess it is somewhat entertaining to watch you fold yourself in half to pin me down with a leg while you reach for the diaper cream.
That stuff actually feels nice. It's like a massage, only - HEY! watch where you're putting that MOTHER! Yeah, I remember the 'thermometer' incident. I've got my eye on you, momsie.
Now that you've almost got the diaper all the way attached...BAM! Did you see that arch? My belly was WAY up in the air!! I'm getting some good flexibility these days. You don't seem impressed...ohhhh - I see. The diaper cream's on your bedspread now. Well, you've gotta wash it sometime. I think I peed on it a few days ago anyway; didn't dad tell you?
Sigh. Commando time is over. I'm diapered again, are you happy now? What are you looking for? Oh, the socks? I tossed them behind the headboard a few minutes ago. Surprised you didn't notice that one. I'm quicker than I thought. Or you're just getting less observant. How old are you now?
Now for the pants. These aren't my favorites mom, what's the big idea? Iwon'twearthemIwon'twearthemIwon'twear - Well, for an old lady, your reflexes are still quick. I was kicking with everything I had, there.
Sweet! Are we done now? Cause I left a piece of nectarine on the bathroom floor earlier. I've worked up an appetite with all this - SHIRT!? NO NO NO! The head hole on this one is way too tight and I always -
Waaahhhh! Aiiiiiighhhhh! Waaahhhh! I always get STUCK! Fine, fine, a hug and some sweet talk is all well enough after the fact. But next time can't we skip it altogether? I'll behave, I promise. Snuffle. I think deep down you get some satisfaction from seeing my huge head emerge from a too-small opening. You seem amazed that nothing gets ripped. Why is that?
Now is it over? I've been through enough, and you have some pee to clean up if I remember right, so let's just - ARMS TOO?! Wait! I can't fold that way! There's NO HOLE! There's NO HOLE! I'll have to push my way out hard enough to make a hole right here up by the neck...waaahhh! Aiiiiiighhhhh!
Oh. I see what you were aiming for. But there can't possibly be another similar arm hole in the opposite side of the shirt, DON'T TRY IT! IT'S A SCAM! Waaahhh! Aiiiiiighhhhh!
Oh. Well I never expected that. I swear the shirt seemed armless from my point of view. I was trapped there for a minute, huh? Close call.
Now. NOW. Where was I? Yessss! This bed is HUGE! It just goes on, and on, and - HEY, why are you grabbing my ankle so tightly? Man, you sure did jump across this whole bed pretty quick. For a senior citizen, I mean. And I was almost to the edge, too. Jeez.
First, we get NAKED!! Naked! Naked! Naked!
You'll never understand this freedom, mama. The wad of diaper is suddenly dislodged from its unrighteous placement, and the air...oh, the air. My legs are free from restriction, and I must positively RUN!
Wait, what?
You talkin' to me? I'm not coming back to you! You must be crazy if you think I'm gonna stop...guh.
So fine. You got me. I can still make this fun.
Aaaahhhh yes. The air has set me free and now I've set my bladder free. Heehee. Haha. Chuckle. Where are you running off to? Oooh, a chase? Yesssss!
Uh-oh, can't catch me sucka! Whoops. Guess that pee is still a little wet on my feet, makes the running a bit tricky in the kitchen. Good thing you brought a towel. So you got me again. Unfair advantage and all, but whatever.
Hey did you know that if I throw myself backwards really fast as you're carrying me to the bedroom, I can make you say this awesome word about a holy whatchamajig? I can't pronounce it myself, but wait - throwing in 3 - 2 - 1 - ...augh...and THERE it was! Hahaha. You almost ran us into the wall that time. Well I'm pinned to you now, but I'll try it again later.
Oh, yes! The bed is the best place for playing! Hold on...you're holding me down...you want me to be still? Alright. Look, see? I'm perfectly still, you can ease up now.
Booyah! Haha, had you there didn't I! I'm rolling - I'm flopping - I'm bouncing - I'm - well it's fun, though, right?! You don't smile much anymore, mama. How come?
Ugh. Here comes the new diaper. You'll smile about that. I know there's something really boring coming when you smile at me like that. You open your eyes wide, and start talking like I'm a newborn. It's a dead giveaway, mom. Diapers are dull, no matter how 'fun' you try to make them sound. But you know what is fun? Helicopter legs! WOOHOO!! If I get a good head start, I can flip myself right over and - sigh - it's almost like you expected me to try that. I'm gonna have to get some new moves. I guess it is somewhat entertaining to watch you fold yourself in half to pin me down with a leg while you reach for the diaper cream.
That stuff actually feels nice. It's like a massage, only - HEY! watch where you're putting that MOTHER! Yeah, I remember the 'thermometer' incident. I've got my eye on you, momsie.
Now that you've almost got the diaper all the way attached...BAM! Did you see that arch? My belly was WAY up in the air!! I'm getting some good flexibility these days. You don't seem impressed...ohhhh - I see. The diaper cream's on your bedspread now. Well, you've gotta wash it sometime. I think I peed on it a few days ago anyway; didn't dad tell you?
Sigh. Commando time is over. I'm diapered again, are you happy now? What are you looking for? Oh, the socks? I tossed them behind the headboard a few minutes ago. Surprised you didn't notice that one. I'm quicker than I thought. Or you're just getting less observant. How old are you now?
Now for the pants. These aren't my favorites mom, what's the big idea? Iwon'twearthemIwon'twearthemIwon'twear - Well, for an old lady, your reflexes are still quick. I was kicking with everything I had, there.
Sweet! Are we done now? Cause I left a piece of nectarine on the bathroom floor earlier. I've worked up an appetite with all this - SHIRT!? NO NO NO! The head hole on this one is way too tight and I always -
Waaahhhh! Aiiiiiighhhhh! Waaahhhh! I always get STUCK! Fine, fine, a hug and some sweet talk is all well enough after the fact. But next time can't we skip it altogether? I'll behave, I promise. Snuffle. I think deep down you get some satisfaction from seeing my huge head emerge from a too-small opening. You seem amazed that nothing gets ripped. Why is that?
Now is it over? I've been through enough, and you have some pee to clean up if I remember right, so let's just - ARMS TOO?! Wait! I can't fold that way! There's NO HOLE! There's NO HOLE! I'll have to push my way out hard enough to make a hole right here up by the neck...waaahhh! Aiiiiiighhhhh!
Oh. I see what you were aiming for. But there can't possibly be another similar arm hole in the opposite side of the shirt, DON'T TRY IT! IT'S A SCAM! Waaahhh! Aiiiiiighhhhh!
Oh. Well I never expected that. I swear the shirt seemed armless from my point of view. I was trapped there for a minute, huh? Close call.
Now. NOW. Where was I? Yessss! This bed is HUGE! It just goes on, and on, and - HEY, why are you grabbing my ankle so tightly? Man, you sure did jump across this whole bed pretty quick. For a senior citizen, I mean. And I was almost to the edge, too. Jeez.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
The Bar Has Been Lifted
On our way into the library, I give Mia the reminders: be quiet, stay still, don't throw a fit when it's time to go. She assures me of her understanding and hops along joyfully by my side. Carefully placing the old books into the book return slot, she whispers to me that she doesn't want to go into the parents' side - just the kids' side. No matter how sweet her whispers, I disappoint her by letting her know we'll spend our first few minutes on the boring, quiet side of the library. She behaves beautifully, whispering her normal million-and-one questions all the time.
"Why is it so quiet here?"
"Because people are trying to read."
"Why are they trying to read?"
"Because that's what a Library is for."
"Why is a Library for that?"
"So they have a quiet place to read."
"What are they reading?"
"I don't know, baby. Shhhh..."
Shedding our whispers for normal voices, we roam the shortened bookshelves. We toss new books into our stroller while watching the other kids play with puzzles, trains, beanbag chairs, and I know Mia is not long for this roaming. She wants to escape to the train table so badly, I can see the waves of anticipation rolling off of her body.
"Can I please please please play with the trains now?"
"Almost."
"When are we gonna play with the trains?"
"Just a few more minutes,
and we'll go over there together."
"I'm behaving nicely?"
"Yes, you are. Thank you."
When our stroller carries the weight of a preschooler in books, we make our way to the play area. Mia, sensing a shift in purpose, looks at me with twinkles in her blue eyes. The trains? she whispers.
I nod.
She gallops the few feet left and sizes up her options. There's a little boy and a toddler girl, each hovering over the trains protectively, wary of their new competition. Mia grabs the nearest train and begins to drive it around the tracks while I search the closest bookshelf for any beautiful book that may catch my attention.
Vaguely, I gather that Mia (of course) has struck up a conversation with the little boy. They're chattering away, or rather, the boy is chattering. Which surprises me since Mia's been trying to hold in her thoughts for much of our library wandering - I thought for sure that they'd be spilling out all over the place. I glance in her direction and tune myself more closely in to what they're discussing.
The boy is running a play-by-play of his train's actions, barely stopping for breath between each thought before plowing ahead into another description - riveting - of his locomotive friends. Mia opens her mouth several times, trying to sneak in a sentence of her own to no avail. This boy, I think, will never ever stop talking.
When the boy finally comes up for air, Mia slowly begins her statement - drawing it out just to fill up as much space as she can with words of her own before she's talked under the rug again.
"Well."
"That's just."
"Very..."
"Interesting."
I giggle at her obvious lack of knowledge in how to react to such a long monologue (as well as her sweet, too mature response). A taste, I think, of her own medicine. Only, now that she knows there are others out there who will try to out-talk her, I think she will up her game.
I will be talked under the rug, even further than I already am.
Monday, June 22, 2009
A Moment In Mama-Heaven
They say that parents learn to distinguish one sort of their baby's cry from another. A hungry cry will sound different than a tired cry, scared cry, or irritated cry. So it was disheartening when my babies were born and I remained clueless on the crying front. They all sounded the same to me. I'd shuffle through the list of possibilities in my head, inevitably deciding that hunger was the culprit in most cases, if only to stick a cork in the noisemaker. I finally decided that 'the experts' were full of boohockey on this count. Crying is crying, as far as I ever knew.
Only when the babies got older - like, 12 months older - was I able to notice true differences. I know a whine from a pain. I know a temper tantrum from a stranger danger. Even in the middle of the night, I can now tell if I actually need to haul myself out of the warm cocoon of my cozy bed to attend to a stray cry. Thank goodness.
Lauren cries out in the middle of the night on a fairly regular basis. For 10 or 15 seconds, she'll wail like her blankie's gone missing - which, for all I know could be the case - and I just leave her to it. If I go check on her, she's likely to come fully awake and then I'm left with a grumpy midnight baby. The worst sort. These short crying bursts barely even register on my radar anymore. My body knows I'm not getting up for anything short of a screaming howl, so my brain stays only slightly aware and steers me back to dreamland when no action is warranted.
But when action is warranted, the adrenaline kicks in, shooting me out of bed instantly to save my sweet baby from whatever is causing her harm.
Last night, action was warranted.
Lauren cried out, but it was a screaming, howling, fear-filled cry instead of her usual sleepy wail. I ran to her room and scooped her up; she wrapped her body around mine and held on for dear life. I couldn't have pried her away even if I'd wanted to, which I definitely did not. Once she was clinging so tightly to me, I was in mama-heaven. There's something about being so needed, providing such security for my babies, that takes me away to another place - one where I don't mind being awoken in the middle of the night. A place that smells of baby shampoo and lovey blankies. A place where no lights are needed and we exist only on dimply-handed touches and chubby-armed embraces.
She burrowed into me for several minutes while I calmed and soothed her into sleep. When her arms went limp again, I settled her back into bed, arranged her blankie just within her grasp, and backed away from my tiny angel. She calmly sighed as I made my way out her door.
My time was up in mama-heaven.
I went back to my own abandoned bed thinking that sometimes I need to disregard my cry-radar and go snuggle with Lauren even if she doesn't really need me to. Sometimes I need a little slice of heaven, right smack in the middle of my night.
As long as that little slice doesn't intrude too much into my beauty sleep. A few minutes every few weeks will be fine, thanks.
I wouldn't want to become spoiled.
Only when the babies got older - like, 12 months older - was I able to notice true differences. I know a whine from a pain. I know a temper tantrum from a stranger danger. Even in the middle of the night, I can now tell if I actually need to haul myself out of the warm cocoon of my cozy bed to attend to a stray cry. Thank goodness.
Lauren cries out in the middle of the night on a fairly regular basis. For 10 or 15 seconds, she'll wail like her blankie's gone missing - which, for all I know could be the case - and I just leave her to it. If I go check on her, she's likely to come fully awake and then I'm left with a grumpy midnight baby. The worst sort. These short crying bursts barely even register on my radar anymore. My body knows I'm not getting up for anything short of a screaming howl, so my brain stays only slightly aware and steers me back to dreamland when no action is warranted.
But when action is warranted, the adrenaline kicks in, shooting me out of bed instantly to save my sweet baby from whatever is causing her harm.
Last night, action was warranted.
Lauren cried out, but it was a screaming, howling, fear-filled cry instead of her usual sleepy wail. I ran to her room and scooped her up; she wrapped her body around mine and held on for dear life. I couldn't have pried her away even if I'd wanted to, which I definitely did not. Once she was clinging so tightly to me, I was in mama-heaven. There's something about being so needed, providing such security for my babies, that takes me away to another place - one where I don't mind being awoken in the middle of the night. A place that smells of baby shampoo and lovey blankies. A place where no lights are needed and we exist only on dimply-handed touches and chubby-armed embraces.
She burrowed into me for several minutes while I calmed and soothed her into sleep. When her arms went limp again, I settled her back into bed, arranged her blankie just within her grasp, and backed away from my tiny angel. She calmly sighed as I made my way out her door.
My time was up in mama-heaven.
I went back to my own abandoned bed thinking that sometimes I need to disregard my cry-radar and go snuggle with Lauren even if she doesn't really need me to. Sometimes I need a little slice of heaven, right smack in the middle of my night.
As long as that little slice doesn't intrude too much into my beauty sleep. A few minutes every few weeks will be fine, thanks.
I wouldn't want to become spoiled.
Friday, June 19, 2009
7 Quick Takes Friday, #19
Sorry about the 'more hormones' reference on the Mr. Linky...it was a leftover from last week and showed up without my permission. So, sorry to disappoint, but there will be no hormones here today. Bad Mr. Linky!
1. I spent the better part of my evening last night typing the three words that comprise my header. 'This Heavenly Life' was never so difficult for me to eek out from behind a blinking cursor.
I found a tutorial about how to make your own custom banner using a free downloaded program called Gimp. (Sorry if everyone but me knows about this program...consider me fashionably late.) Karen at Simply Amusing Designs has gone to great lengths to provide a wonderfully detailed outline of the steps required for designing a banner. And I do mean wonderful - it was so helpful and exact that I felt my chest puff out with confidence as I looked through it and decided I'd give it a shot.
It's supposed to be easy to use if you are familiar with Photoshop, which I am not. So, it was trial and error the whole time. And holy moley, design layout, software, and html are some pretty wicked foreign torture devices. At least for me. I'm more of a oooh, look at the pretty colors! kind of girl. I get confused easily.
Knowing I didn't have a picture for the background (wow - exciting banner.) I just focused on the text. Difficult? Nah. It only took me 2 hours. For 3 words. And I'm unhappy with my font. So I'll be trying new things when I get some more energy, and a renewed puffy chest.
Mine's been sorely deflated. (Hey now, watch yourself - No rude jokes please. My daughter's got that area covered.)
2. Instead of staying up late last night scowling at the computer screen, I should have been cleaning. (Or *gasp* sleeping!) Justin's grandma and aunt are coming for a quick visit and I'm hoping not to reveal my dustbunnies and errant crumbs to them.
Shoot, I guess I'd be happy if a few forgotten cracker crumbs were the only things they noticed. I'm bad about leaving something in the wrong place for so long that it starts to look right. Only, guests are bound to wonder why there's a stack of old binders beside the couch. Or a fizzing bath ball on the kitchen counter. Or a makeup brush in the entryway. (Note to self: Clean those up before naptime!)
3. If there's one reason I love having visitors, it's because I DO end up with a cleaner house, temporarily at least. I am a whirlwind of cleaning activity in the days or hours before guests arrive. My husband is always a little scared of my frantic cleaning, wondering why it's such a big deal. "They've had little kids at home before, they'll understand. CALM DOWN." But I'm all, "Why are you trying to distract me with your talking! Grab the duster!"
Beware the unexpected visitor, though. If they call on their way, it's like D-day over here. All systems are go. If there's no call, I'll just cry inside, hoping the cute kids offer a distraction from last nights dinner pans.
Unless I'm really comfortable with you, in which case you'll receive the full measure of our normally chaotic house. Isn't that nice of me? Those we love the most have a tendency to merit the least effort sometimes. Wouldn't the world be a better place if we treated our loved ones with as much respect and politeness as we do with strangers?
This is becoming an entirely different quick take than it started out as. Rambling. Moving on.
4. I think the universe is trying to send me a hint. You know when you hear something once or twice and you think, what a coincidence - I just heard something about that. Then you hear about it a third or fourth time? And a fifth and sixth? Until it no longer seems like a coincidence, but your guardian angel tapping your shoulder? Lately, I've heard about or read so many personal accounts of skin cancer and the necessity of sunscreen that I'm wondering if I shouldn't schedule a dermatologist appointment to have myself checked out. In the meantime, we're sporting sky-high SPF's to counteract my sun-fear. I think we'll go through gallons of sunscreen before the summer's out.
Even Mia's gotten on the bandwagon, thankfully. Before we go outside, she makes sure to remind me that she needs sunscreen so the sun won't burn her skin. Brainwash 'em early and often, I say.
I am high on the paranoia, yes. And, yes I'm a lil' bit of a worrier. Why do you ask?
5. Lauren's vocabulary is really growing. At 14 months old, her pronunciation is quite far fetched, but she's trying so hard and is gaining words every day. Yesterday, she learned 'snack' and 'fork'. 'Nackkk' and 'korkkk' respectively, in her vernacular. I love how she pronounces words that end in the K sound. She puts such effort behind that sound that it comes out with a guttural undertone. She sounds German. I think. Don't they really have a deep back-of-the-tongue K sound? Or Russian maybe? I'm not sure. Foreign, at least.
6. What are your Father's Day plans? I especially need to know details on activities, menus, and gifts. Not that I've put off planning for the weekend. Just curious.
Isn't it beautiful?
There's a cabbage in there that I'm hoping my mom will take command of and show me how to use in an appealing manner. Slaw maybe? For a Father's Day barbecue? (That's one item I can use for the weekend...Seriously...I need your help.)
Have a beautiful weekend, and stop by Jen's Quick Takes for a list of many, many, many more opportunities to spy into the lives of random bloggers. They'll be glad to know ya.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
She Comes From The Land Down Under
Mia has this cute little kangaroo toy. She plays with it on a rotation with her other 4,759 stuffed animals, so sometimes it gets lonely. Until mama picks it up and...
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Whoops! There goes the baby!
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Except...that ain't no ordinary joey. It's only a HEAD. With a NECK. It's BODY-less. *shudder*
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The mama kangaroo looks indignant, doesn't she? Like, "it's none of your business what I keep in my pouch, you judgemental so-and-so!"
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But she's going to need to keep a better eye on her joey-head. The little critter's gone and hijacked a My Little Pony shoe, and it looks like she's off to see the world. She's ready to stand on her own two vertebrae. She's got the wind ruffling her neck hair and she's shunning the pouch in favor of bigger and better things.
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I know how you feel, mama. You raise a baby only to watch them walk away.
Need a hankie?
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Happy Harvest
The garden fairy has been visiting my back yard. Who knew when I started out with this that it would actually grow big enough to produce food?! I went out yesterday morning to water the veggies and decided that they were growing so well, I had to document it for your viewing pleasure. Whether you like it or not. But green is supposed to be soothing to the senses, right? So there's that, if you're veggie averse.
When I took a closer look at those green beans, I wondered, hmmm...at what point are these mysterious creatures supposed to be harvested? I have vague memories of picking green beans from my grandma's vegetable garden and snapping huge bowls full of them, but I couldn't remember how big they were supposed to be. I picked them anyway.
May I present to you, my first EVER homegrown harvest? Small but beautiful. The green beans were delicious with last night's dinner.
While the beans and broccoli I picked yesterday didn't amount to much, the rest of the garden is bursting with life as well. Here's what I'm looking forward to.
And you know what these are: green tomatoes. Soon to be bright, shiny, red beauties. I think I'll have more tomatoes than I'll know what to do with. Now I understand why so many people are giving away bags of veggies every summer. You can't grow just a few. One plant produces so much, you're left with an abundance no matter what. And since I know squat about canning or preserving? You're all welcome to come get some 'maters from my backyard.
And assuming the caterpillars stay away.
Oh, and as long as severe storms don't blow them all away and pound them down with hail.
But, if there are any left after all of those stipulations and after I've eaten my fill?
You're welcome to them.
For a dollar apiece.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Send Me No Flowers
Somewhere in the world, there must be a Lady's Code of Acceptable Behavior. Probably included in this respectable manuscript is a chapter on the receiving of flowers, outlining all of the possible reasons for flowers to be given to a lady, and how she should behave upon receipt of such lovely blooms. She will gush and admire. She will thank and arrange. She will fuss and (maybe even) weep. She will love the flowers and enjoy them profusely, as befits a proper lady.
I must not be a proper lady, because I'd rather not get flowers. A blender, a garden tool, a candle - anything but flowers.
My feelings are complex and deeply entrenched (I'm a vast, wide ocean...), but I'll do my best to sum them up in one word: embarrassment.
Memories of a high-school fundraiser come to mind. Boys were allowed to purchase single carnations from some booster club to send to a girl of their choice in one of her classes on Valentine's Day. Only, in my junior year, an admirer broke the rules and had a half-dozen roses delivered to me - one each hour of the day. It was a sweet thought. Directed at the wrong girl. Nothing screams LOOK AT ME like an interruption in the middle of class for a rose to be handed to the shy girl with flaming cheeks. I had liked that boy, but from then on I could only remember how embarrassed I'd been due to his actions. (Side note: girls are cruel, huh? He was only following the rules that most girls would've appreciated...just not this girl.)
Memories of working in a busy department store come to mind. A boy I was dating had 2 dozen roses delivered to me one busy Saturday at work. He and I had gotten in trouble for lying to my parents about where we'd been the night before, so I was grounded and upset. He wanted to cheer me up. Except, a young kid ordering such an extravagant arrangement aroused suspicion, apparently. The people I worked with assumed we had done much more wrong than just lying about our whereabouts. Not to mention all the random customers ooohing at me and my ginormous bouquet. All these people paying attention to me. It was unbearable, and I disposed of the flowers as soon as I was able to do so without anybody noticing. That poor boy. He didn't stand a chance. (Again with the cruelty. I feel bad now, knowing how much money he wasted on the roses and how unappreciative I was.)
Memories of working in a tiny office with just one other person - my boss - come to mind. My husband had flowers delivered for some occasion, I no longer remember why. My boss was not the kind of person to let me retreat into my shy shell. He noticed my embarrassment, and exploited it whenever he could, just to see what shade of red my face could conceivable become. So when I got a beautiful bouquet from Justin, he speculated aloud, in front of customers, as to the reason behind them. A lover's tiff? A newlywed's apology? Was there infidelity involved? I (and whatever innocent client) always knew my boss's personality enough to know he was just joking, and I tried to play along...but that didn't stop the embarrassment from showing up in excess blood form behind my thin skin.
So flowers? Not my bag, baby.
Even now, when I'd be the only one to witness my flower delivery, I don't appreciate them as much as most women presumably do. They're pretty, sure, but you spent HOW much money on them? And they're going to DIE? And I'll feel bad for not being able to keep them alive longer? No thank you. May I suggest a nice novel instead?
Thankfully, my wonderful husband now knows my feelings about flowers even if he doesn't understand them. I'm quite the girly-girl, and for me to beg him not to get me flowers must've confused his years of man-training. But knowing me as he does, and accepting me anyway, he got me the best possible gift for our anniversary yesterday.
Chocolates.
And not those mysteriously-filled chocolate shells where you never know if you'll be biting into nougat, pecans, or orange creme either. (I'm noticing quite the picky streak within myself...) He got me LINDT Petits Desserts. Little chocolatier creations that are perfect and wonderful. Truffleicious bites of chocolatey goodness. I LOVE LINDT CHOCOLATES.
And I have no negative memories associated with them. Score!
He knows me so well.
Or, I've trained him so well.
Whatever the case, it feels good to be so accepted - weird gift regulations and all.
I must not be a proper lady, because I'd rather not get flowers. A blender, a garden tool, a candle - anything but flowers.
My feelings are complex and deeply entrenched (I'm a vast, wide ocean...), but I'll do my best to sum them up in one word: embarrassment.
Memories of a high-school fundraiser come to mind. Boys were allowed to purchase single carnations from some booster club to send to a girl of their choice in one of her classes on Valentine's Day. Only, in my junior year, an admirer broke the rules and had a half-dozen roses delivered to me - one each hour of the day. It was a sweet thought. Directed at the wrong girl. Nothing screams LOOK AT ME like an interruption in the middle of class for a rose to be handed to the shy girl with flaming cheeks. I had liked that boy, but from then on I could only remember how embarrassed I'd been due to his actions. (Side note: girls are cruel, huh? He was only following the rules that most girls would've appreciated...just not this girl.)
Memories of working in a busy department store come to mind. A boy I was dating had 2 dozen roses delivered to me one busy Saturday at work. He and I had gotten in trouble for lying to my parents about where we'd been the night before, so I was grounded and upset. He wanted to cheer me up. Except, a young kid ordering such an extravagant arrangement aroused suspicion, apparently. The people I worked with assumed we had done much more wrong than just lying about our whereabouts. Not to mention all the random customers ooohing at me and my ginormous bouquet. All these people paying attention to me. It was unbearable, and I disposed of the flowers as soon as I was able to do so without anybody noticing. That poor boy. He didn't stand a chance. (Again with the cruelty. I feel bad now, knowing how much money he wasted on the roses and how unappreciative I was.)
Memories of working in a tiny office with just one other person - my boss - come to mind. My husband had flowers delivered for some occasion, I no longer remember why. My boss was not the kind of person to let me retreat into my shy shell. He noticed my embarrassment, and exploited it whenever he could, just to see what shade of red my face could conceivable become. So when I got a beautiful bouquet from Justin, he speculated aloud, in front of customers, as to the reason behind them. A lover's tiff? A newlywed's apology? Was there infidelity involved? I (and whatever innocent client) always knew my boss's personality enough to know he was just joking, and I tried to play along...but that didn't stop the embarrassment from showing up in excess blood form behind my thin skin.
So flowers? Not my bag, baby.
Even now, when I'd be the only one to witness my flower delivery, I don't appreciate them as much as most women presumably do. They're pretty, sure, but you spent HOW much money on them? And they're going to DIE? And I'll feel bad for not being able to keep them alive longer? No thank you. May I suggest a nice novel instead?
Thankfully, my wonderful husband now knows my feelings about flowers even if he doesn't understand them. I'm quite the girly-girl, and for me to beg him not to get me flowers must've confused his years of man-training. But knowing me as he does, and accepting me anyway, he got me the best possible gift for our anniversary yesterday.
Chocolates.
And not those mysteriously-filled chocolate shells where you never know if you'll be biting into nougat, pecans, or orange creme either. (I'm noticing quite the picky streak within myself...) He got me LINDT Petits Desserts. Little chocolatier creations that are perfect and wonderful. Truffleicious bites of chocolatey goodness. I LOVE LINDT CHOCOLATES.
And I have no negative memories associated with them. Score!
He knows me so well.
Or, I've trained him so well.
Whatever the case, it feels good to be so accepted - weird gift regulations and all.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
6 Years!
That's how long I've been lucky enough to call this man my husband.
He loves me even when I've got evil eyes.
He is a wonderful father, giving freely of himself to entertain his children.
He loves his girls more than anything else. Before we had kids, I had a slight worry that he'd love our kids more than he loved me. Which is an immature and selfish thought, to be sure. But now that I see the depth of his love for our kids, it has only strengthened our own.
He's cool under pressure.
And I love him.
I'm proud to be his wife.
Love you, honey! Here's to 60 more years together. Rain or shine, come what may, richer or poorer, hell or high water.
You get the idea.
Friday, June 12, 2009
7 Quick Takes Friday, #18
1. I feel blah. Most of this whole week has been blah. Aren't you glad you stopped by today to witness my bundles of joy?
2. Last night, I made a sourdough bread pudding - one of the bright spots in this week. My husband was out of town and I'm not ashamed to admit that I've eaten more than half the pan by myself. Have I introduced you to my sweet tooth?
3. Before we had kids (and for the first 10 months of Mia's life) Justin traveled for work. He'd be gone for a couple weeks every month, leaving me free to lounge around in my granny panties with no worries about him seeing me in such a state. So when he told me he'd have to take an overnight trip for work, it shouldn't have bothered me; I'd be fine on my own - history was proof. But I found myself bothered anyway. What would I do if a bug showed up? What if I heard a burglar snooping in our shed? Who would make sure the house was closed up tight before bed? Where would I stash my cold feet if not against his warm legs?
Though I know I can stand on my own, and take care of business around here by myself if necessary, it's good to be reminded that I don't want that. I need my husband. And not just in that 'thank goodness you're home, here are the kids, I'm going to sit down for a while' way. I need him in the 'thank goodness you're here with me to fill up all these gaping empty spaces that show up when you go away' way.
Maybe absence does make the heart grow fonder, even when you didn't know it could grow any more. Even when your heart's been full of such a vast expanse of love for so long that you think you'll burst if it grows any more.
And now I'm stopping. The sappy sap is obscuring my keyboard.
4. Maybe I'm hormonal. Number 1 and Number 3 are indicating that all signs point in that direction. I'd say Number 2 too, but I always overeat sweet soft carbs.
Do you smell donuts, or is that just me?
5. It's nearing time for me to get a haircut again, but I find myself torn. (As usual - I have hairstyle amnesia. Always hoping for a different outcome with the same input, and never being satisfied that my limp stringy hair won't magically transform into a smooth flowing sheet of locks.) I'm just able to pull it back into a ponytail and OH MY GOSH the feeling of hair being pulled tight away from my face and neck on a hot day is like a drug. It feels cool and calm and fuss-free. It feels like putting on a brand new pair of clean, snug socks. It feels like quietly slipping into a glassy smooth body of water on a starry summer night. It feels like burying my face in the crook of my husband's neck and inhaling until my lungs are full.
So I'm not sure I'm ready to give up my new drug yet, is what I'm saying.
6. Check this book out of the library for your preschooler: Daisy Comes Home, by Jan Brett. (This is our first experience with her books, but I hear they're all wonderful.) Mia is loving it. We've easily read it 10 times and we've only had it 3 days. The artwork is beautiful, the story is sweet, and best of all, Mia's full of conversation about it. Questions, observations, ideas - she talks about the story all day. We're up to our pigtails in reading comprehension over here. It's one billion times more entertaining than, say, Dora's Musical Rescue.
Does anybody else think books about TV and movie characters should be outlawed? Banned from existence? I appreciate a well-timed cartoon DVD as much as the next toddler-mama, but to have them filling up our books too...seems cruel and unusual. Those books are always a struggle for me to actually get through without imagining them sprouting wings and flying to the nearest recycle center.
This is something I never thought about before I had kids.
7. Oh yeah - all that sap from a few numbers back? I think it stems from the fact that this weekend is the 6 year anniversary of a beautiful day when Justin and I vowed to love and cherish each other until parted by death.
We plan to celebrate by creating our third child.
KIDDING! (Sorry mom. Hurry and wipe the spewed hot tea off your computer screen before dad sees and tries to convince you to buy a new one.)
I think I mentioned something earlier about being hormonal? Well that stuff bleeds over into humor, too. There's really no controlling it.
For more (hormone-free, I'm assuming) quick takes, head over to Conversion Diary. Have a wonderful weekend!
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
This Is The Thanks I Get?
We've been pretty lucky on the potty training front. (I can't believe I just said that out loud! Quick - throw some salt over your shoulder!) (What?) Mia's been trained for close to a year now, and we've only had a handful of accidents. They've cropped up when she's been too excited to take time away from the fun, or when I haven't been diligent in asking if she needs to go. Very rarely, she's had an accident in the middle of the night.
Such as last night.
After calming her cries and assuring her that this was no big deal, I stripped off her wet jammies, getting myself soaked in the process. I wiped her down with a warm washcloth and dressed her in dry jammies, laying her on a pillow on the floor while I worked. I quickly changed her sheets, switched out the blankets, and tried not to notice the pee that had gotten on my own pajamas. I'd have to change, too. I piled the wet clothes and bedding in the bathroom to be dealt with in the morning, and scrubbed my own hands free of the urine smell they'd absorbed. Then, I tucked her back into a clean, soft bed. I leaned down and kissed her face, snuggling for just a moment before saying goodnight.
So grateful was she for my midnight service that she looked up at me with sleepy eyes and mumbled:
"Someone has the yucky! It's not me, mama, it must be you! You need to go brush your teeth, OK?"
I just nodded on my way out the door, and went to change my clothes. Clothes that were soaked through with my precious baby's urine. I walked past the pile of stinking bedding, wondering how lucky one mom can be.
I get to have urine-interrupted sleep, followed by midnight insults.
Woo.
But how weird am I, that I love this pee-soaked, nighttime crying, morning-breathed life?
Don't answer that.
Such as last night.
After calming her cries and assuring her that this was no big deal, I stripped off her wet jammies, getting myself soaked in the process. I wiped her down with a warm washcloth and dressed her in dry jammies, laying her on a pillow on the floor while I worked. I quickly changed her sheets, switched out the blankets, and tried not to notice the pee that had gotten on my own pajamas. I'd have to change, too. I piled the wet clothes and bedding in the bathroom to be dealt with in the morning, and scrubbed my own hands free of the urine smell they'd absorbed. Then, I tucked her back into a clean, soft bed. I leaned down and kissed her face, snuggling for just a moment before saying goodnight.
So grateful was she for my midnight service that she looked up at me with sleepy eyes and mumbled:
"Someone has the yucky! It's not me, mama, it must be you! You need to go brush your teeth, OK?"
I just nodded on my way out the door, and went to change my clothes. Clothes that were soaked through with my precious baby's urine. I walked past the pile of stinking bedding, wondering how lucky one mom can be.
I get to have urine-interrupted sleep, followed by midnight insults.
Woo.
But how weird am I, that I love this pee-soaked, nighttime crying, morning-breathed life?
Don't answer that.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Here Are My Terms
During the past two weeks or so, I've had two separate conversations with two separate friends, about one touchy topic.
Playing outside.
Alright, so it's not touchy in the obvious sense, like - say - breast versus bottle, but I feel a definite walking on eggshells sense around it.
I'm a big supporter of active, outdoor play. Unstructured, creative, dirty, free, and plentiful: these are the characteristics that come to mind when I imagine a good outdoor playtime. And all of those things are wonderful, even desirable in helping to grow healthy, active children. I remember my childhood with fondness (snowballs slamming into my face, being shoved into the creek unawares, watching as my barbie floated away down a drainage ditch, peeling my sunburned skin away to reveal more sunburned skin, cleaning out dog pens, being left behind as my brother rode off with the neighborhood boys on their fast bikes...what's not to love about that?) and feel grateful that we learned how to entertain ourselves surrounded by the beauty of nature.
I want those things for my kids (minus a few of the more frightening details). I want them to appreciate shade during the heat of the summer, and the beauty of an approaching thunderstorm. I want them to prefer the fun of a mud-pie factory over the numbing glare of a TV. I want them to explore the woods, and imagine an entire kingdom of creatures that live there.
But there's a catch - this is the part my friends and I admitted to each other - I don't want to go outside, myself. Which is not OK from a childhood development standpoint. I feel the imaginary weight of judgement sitting on my shoulders already. To admit that I'd rather let the kids bounce off the walls inside during a perfectly beautiful, if slightly hot day, feels like a sacrilege.
Don't misunderstand, I love nature. It's beautiful, and miraculous, and a constant source of wonder for me.
The only downside is, I'm a sissy. I don't enjoy being in extreme temperatures, by which I mean anything outside of a range between 55 and 75 degrees. 85 degrees? Too hot. I'll be sweating through my nursing tank. 45 degrees? Too cold. My hiney will be freezing while I keep an eye on the bundled up kids. I can't sit the baby down on a muddy ground and I can't help the toddler down the burning hot slide if the baby's in my arms.
Of course, the problem is that I've become so acclimated to a temperature controlled home that my body is automatically uncomfortable in other settings. If I lived outdoors, I'd notice the difference in temperatures, and accommodate for them, but I'd get used to it. Alas, I live in a house - no need for acclimation to excessive heat or cold.
So how do I instill my children with a love of the outdoors if I don't want to go outdoors? The answer is simple: suck it up. Be a woman and venture into the sweltering heat when the kids want to play outside, even if it means gnats and ticks will be swarming around my stationary figure as I push swings for hours at a time. Joyfully admire the tiny snake my daughter has found, and discuss how cool it is even if I'm squirming inside with fear of that evil creature. Sweat through a layer of clean clothing after just stepping out of the shower, if that's the perfect time to go outside, even if it means I'll be less-than-clean for the rest of the day.
The answer is simple, yes. It's the execution that trips me up. If only I could lay out my terms for nature to comply with...
a. The sun is to be shining brightly, but be frequently shaded by fluffy white clouds.
b. Those fluffy white clouds will be moving swiftly across the sky due to a gentle cooling breeze.
c. The temperatures will remain within the range mentioned above: 55 to 75 degrees. (Excluding the months of December and January only, during which time the temperatures may drop as necessary for snowfall.)
d. Gnats, flies, bees, etc. will be too interested in the flowering gardens to buzz incessantly around our heads.
e. All grass will be soft and lush, in order for children to run barefoot without complaining about the scratchy, dry, hot ground.
f. Although air temperatures should remain within the above temperatures, water temperatures should never fall below 80 degrees.
g. Snakes, spiders, grasshoppers, and other such creepy creatures will not venture close to us until there is a man or grandmother present for supervision.
h. Rain will fall only during naptimes and bedtimes.
i. Snow will fall only during weekdays, never on weekends or holidays (excluding Christmas).
I believe I've just outlined the natural habitat in heaven.
Assuming these terms are not met, I'll do my best this summer to play outside. And I'll do my best to like it, because I want my kids to like it. I'll smile through the sweat. I'll chat with the gnats. I'll kick the snake away when my child is looking the other direction. And then I'll offer lemonade and cookies and a Curious George video when I admit defeat. We'll watch the monkey play in his cartoon version of nature.
I'm just being honest.
Playing outside.
Alright, so it's not touchy in the obvious sense, like - say - breast versus bottle, but I feel a definite walking on eggshells sense around it.
I'm a big supporter of active, outdoor play. Unstructured, creative, dirty, free, and plentiful: these are the characteristics that come to mind when I imagine a good outdoor playtime. And all of those things are wonderful, even desirable in helping to grow healthy, active children. I remember my childhood with fondness (snowballs slamming into my face, being shoved into the creek unawares, watching as my barbie floated away down a drainage ditch, peeling my sunburned skin away to reveal more sunburned skin, cleaning out dog pens, being left behind as my brother rode off with the neighborhood boys on their fast bikes...what's not to love about that?) and feel grateful that we learned how to entertain ourselves surrounded by the beauty of nature.
I want those things for my kids (minus a few of the more frightening details). I want them to appreciate shade during the heat of the summer, and the beauty of an approaching thunderstorm. I want them to prefer the fun of a mud-pie factory over the numbing glare of a TV. I want them to explore the woods, and imagine an entire kingdom of creatures that live there.
But there's a catch - this is the part my friends and I admitted to each other - I don't want to go outside, myself. Which is not OK from a childhood development standpoint. I feel the imaginary weight of judgement sitting on my shoulders already. To admit that I'd rather let the kids bounce off the walls inside during a perfectly beautiful, if slightly hot day, feels like a sacrilege.
Don't misunderstand, I love nature. It's beautiful, and miraculous, and a constant source of wonder for me.
The only downside is, I'm a sissy. I don't enjoy being in extreme temperatures, by which I mean anything outside of a range between 55 and 75 degrees. 85 degrees? Too hot. I'll be sweating through my nursing tank. 45 degrees? Too cold. My hiney will be freezing while I keep an eye on the bundled up kids. I can't sit the baby down on a muddy ground and I can't help the toddler down the burning hot slide if the baby's in my arms.
Of course, the problem is that I've become so acclimated to a temperature controlled home that my body is automatically uncomfortable in other settings. If I lived outdoors, I'd notice the difference in temperatures, and accommodate for them, but I'd get used to it. Alas, I live in a house - no need for acclimation to excessive heat or cold.
So how do I instill my children with a love of the outdoors if I don't want to go outdoors? The answer is simple: suck it up. Be a woman and venture into the sweltering heat when the kids want to play outside, even if it means gnats and ticks will be swarming around my stationary figure as I push swings for hours at a time. Joyfully admire the tiny snake my daughter has found, and discuss how cool it is even if I'm squirming inside with fear of that evil creature. Sweat through a layer of clean clothing after just stepping out of the shower, if that's the perfect time to go outside, even if it means I'll be less-than-clean for the rest of the day.
The answer is simple, yes. It's the execution that trips me up. If only I could lay out my terms for nature to comply with...
a. The sun is to be shining brightly, but be frequently shaded by fluffy white clouds.
b. Those fluffy white clouds will be moving swiftly across the sky due to a gentle cooling breeze.
c. The temperatures will remain within the range mentioned above: 55 to 75 degrees. (Excluding the months of December and January only, during which time the temperatures may drop as necessary for snowfall.)
d. Gnats, flies, bees, etc. will be too interested in the flowering gardens to buzz incessantly around our heads.
e. All grass will be soft and lush, in order for children to run barefoot without complaining about the scratchy, dry, hot ground.
f. Although air temperatures should remain within the above temperatures, water temperatures should never fall below 80 degrees.
g. Snakes, spiders, grasshoppers, and other such creepy creatures will not venture close to us until there is a man or grandmother present for supervision.
h. Rain will fall only during naptimes and bedtimes.
i. Snow will fall only during weekdays, never on weekends or holidays (excluding Christmas).
I believe I've just outlined the natural habitat in heaven.
Assuming these terms are not met, I'll do my best this summer to play outside. And I'll do my best to like it, because I want my kids to like it. I'll smile through the sweat. I'll chat with the gnats. I'll kick the snake away when my child is looking the other direction. And then I'll offer lemonade and cookies and a Curious George video when I admit defeat. We'll watch the monkey play in his cartoon version of nature.
I'm just being honest.
Saturday, June 6, 2009
You Know What's Sad?
Just now a glob of half chewed pop tart fell out of Lauren's mouth and rolled onto her shirt. I picked it up, placed it back in her mouth, and then licked my fingers clean.
Only thinking about what I had done after the fact.
Essentially, I just licked my baby's crumb-y spit.
And now I'm an official mother.
Because rather than gagging on someone else's saliva, it made me hungry for pop tarts.
Enjoy your breakfast!
Only thinking about what I had done after the fact.
Essentially, I just licked my baby's crumb-y spit.
And now I'm an official mother.
Because rather than gagging on someone else's saliva, it made me hungry for pop tarts.
Enjoy your breakfast!
Thursday, June 4, 2009
7 Quick Takes Friday, #17
My husband's put a monkey on my back, telling me I need more pictures on this blog and less words. Of course, that's only so he'll have less to dutifully read each night. But as a dutiful spouse myself, I thought I'd aim for lotsa pictures today. We'll see how it goes.
1. Lauren is a little spitfire these days. She's bursting with activity and learning new things every minute. Or - to rephrase - she's bursting with mischief and learning new tricks every minute. This week, she started poking food with a fork and actually getting said food into her mouth. Isn't she young for this? Or maybe I just have a different reference point - we're still trying to coerce Mia into feeding herself, and she's 3 and a half. Another new trick? She's beginning to point out and name body parts. Nose, Eyes, Belly Button, Mouth. Endless fun from a new toddler's standpoint. (Since the monkey on my back is saying I thought you said PICTURES? I'll stop rambling now and get to the point.)
And a very adorable point she is, while demonstrating her belly button location technique. Look at those baby blues.
2. Lauren had a run-in with a wrought iron stand-up mirror this week as well. It was our first busted bloody lip in this household, and it was no fun at all. In this picture, you can see the banged up left corner of her mouth, and a little of the bruise on her cheek.
That is, if you can get around that sassy little pointer finger. I believe she was getting ready to show me where my mouth was right when I snapped the shutter.
3. Last week, I mentioned that my garden is flourishing. It's flourishing so well that I think it may overflow it's allotted space because the bed is too darn full. As if that were a problem. But now I've got a real problem.
This pretty lil' gal, or someone quite like her, has been munching on my cabbages and broccoli, laying tiny eggs within the leaves. But not for long. I've got some Baccilus-something-or-other that will hopefully send her for a long night's sleep in the cabbage patch in the sky so my garden can get back on track. After all, I can't let this entire TANGLE of veggie plants be eaten by bugs, can I?
That just wouldn't be fair to my handsome raised-vegetable-bed-builder.
4. Speaking of him, he and Mia had a story-time party in the 'play-house' (as Mia calls it) earlier this week just before bedtime. It was way cute.
5. Even cuter was this face they both pulled at the same time, without either one having knowledge of what the other was doing. Classic.
6. This next picture is one I forgot to add to my Mia Goes To The Library post earlier this week. (It was a smashing good time; you should go check it out if you haven't already.) Since I have this weird feeling about altering a post after it's already been published, I didn't put it in the original post. It feels like cheating. Against whom, I'm not sure, but I just feel wrong about doing it.
I believe I just heard the clear voice of my junior high spanish teacher saying "YOU'RE ONLY CHEATING YOURSELVES! AND I WILL CATCH YOU!"
At any rate, here's the picture I would have posted with the story if I didn't have some deep-seated scholastic issues.
Oh, never mind.
7. Last week I mentioned my niece, Evie, was turning one. We had a great time at her birthday party, and the pictures turned out so summery and fun.
Speaking of baby blues...Mia and Lauren have them in matching shades of beautiful.
For more quick takes, visit Jen at Conversion Diary. Here's wishing you a caterpillar-free weekend! (I'll hope for the same...)
Mia Goes To The Library
We have a book at our house called 'Lola Goes To The Library,' about a little girl (can you guess what her name is?) and her favorite place to be (can you guess where it is?). Mia's loved this book for a long time, and for some reason I really like it too. I don't know if it's a particularly good children's story, but it's stuck tight at our house which is a good rating as far as I'm concerned when you take into account our high turnover rate for favorite stories.
Being on summer break, and being in a transitory period between Lauren needing two naps and one, I found myself with NOTHING to do yesterday morning. Usually, I'd put LJ down for a nap and play My Little Ponies with Mia before cleaning some area of the house that could no longer be ignored. But in an effort to keep the baby (toddler?!?) entertained and awake, I decided to pack up our book-loving selves and head to the library.
The library is a place I'd fallen out of the habit of visiting since Lauren's come along. With Mia, we went to different activities and story times pretty often, and I remember being worn out after our library trips. She was a rambunctious and willful toddler (isn't that the DEFINITION of toddler?), and it was common for me to be sweating and cranky by the time we left the building. Oddly, though, it was a sanctuary despite all the tantrums and screaming. The children's librarians seemed to accept Mia's sometimes embarrassing behavior with joy. I imagine they saw that sort of thing all the time - just never when I was around to see that it happened to other mothers too - and were happy to be there for us, offering reasons for me to get us out of the house. God bless children's librarians everywhere for having the heart to wish US upon themselves. And for being gracious in answering questions from a mom with a twisting, flailing, screaming toddler in her arms, (hypothetically speaking...) all while seeming pleased to help.
Holding tightly to those memories of the library, I had a hard time imagining myself darkening their doors with not one, but two children in tow. I knew the day would come, but I wasn't ready for a long time to attempt it. Luckily, I didn't put it off so long that it became a massive, looming obstacle. Oh wait....
That is what I did.
When I made the decision to go to the library yesterday morning, I first had a talk with Mia. It was largely unnecessary, because she is more often well-behaved than not these days, but I am nothing if not thorough with THE RULES. She was so excited to be going to the library (just! like! LOLA!) that I kicked myself for a few seconds for being such a ninny. I was still concerned that Lauren would be mad about being confined to the stroller but cheerios will shut that girl up right quick, so on we pushed.
It was spectacular. No, really. I know you're thinking seriously? We're talking about the library here? But fo' reals, yo. It was awesome. And not just because I love books down to the toes of my soul; Mia was so overwhelmed with joy that I think she nearly expired from excitement. I almost had to sweep up sparkling bits of exploded Mia from the children's library floor. We chose 5 books that she decided she couldn't live without, and then went to sign her up for her very own library card. Swoon.
The best part? My favorite librarian remembered us - by name - after almost a year and a half of absence. She was happy to see us back. I almost hugged her.
But then she probably would have been less HAPPY and more AWKWARD.
And I'd have left the library sweaty and embarrassed, yet again.
Being on summer break, and being in a transitory period between Lauren needing two naps and one, I found myself with NOTHING to do yesterday morning. Usually, I'd put LJ down for a nap and play My Little Ponies with Mia before cleaning some area of the house that could no longer be ignored. But in an effort to keep the baby (toddler?!?) entertained and awake, I decided to pack up our book-loving selves and head to the library.
The library is a place I'd fallen out of the habit of visiting since Lauren's come along. With Mia, we went to different activities and story times pretty often, and I remember being worn out after our library trips. She was a rambunctious and willful toddler (isn't that the DEFINITION of toddler?), and it was common for me to be sweating and cranky by the time we left the building. Oddly, though, it was a sanctuary despite all the tantrums and screaming. The children's librarians seemed to accept Mia's sometimes embarrassing behavior with joy. I imagine they saw that sort of thing all the time - just never when I was around to see that it happened to other mothers too - and were happy to be there for us, offering reasons for me to get us out of the house. God bless children's librarians everywhere for having the heart to wish US upon themselves. And for being gracious in answering questions from a mom with a twisting, flailing, screaming toddler in her arms, (hypothetically speaking...) all while seeming pleased to help.
Holding tightly to those memories of the library, I had a hard time imagining myself darkening their doors with not one, but two children in tow. I knew the day would come, but I wasn't ready for a long time to attempt it. Luckily, I didn't put it off so long that it became a massive, looming obstacle. Oh wait....
That is what I did.
When I made the decision to go to the library yesterday morning, I first had a talk with Mia. It was largely unnecessary, because she is more often well-behaved than not these days, but I am nothing if not thorough with THE RULES. She was so excited to be going to the library (just! like! LOLA!) that I kicked myself for a few seconds for being such a ninny. I was still concerned that Lauren would be mad about being confined to the stroller but cheerios will shut that girl up right quick, so on we pushed.
It was spectacular. No, really. I know you're thinking seriously? We're talking about the library here? But fo' reals, yo. It was awesome. And not just because I love books down to the toes of my soul; Mia was so overwhelmed with joy that I think she nearly expired from excitement. I almost had to sweep up sparkling bits of exploded Mia from the children's library floor. We chose 5 books that she decided she couldn't live without, and then went to sign her up for her very own library card. Swoon.
The best part? My favorite librarian remembered us - by name - after almost a year and a half of absence. She was happy to see us back. I almost hugged her.
But then she probably would have been less HAPPY and more AWKWARD.
And I'd have left the library sweaty and embarrassed, yet again.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
It's Cool; I Feel Alive
I have an addictive personality. And I don't mean that when you meet me, you will be so bowled over by my charm and wit that you'll become addicted to me. (Although, you might be. Stranger things have happened.) No, what I mean is that I easily get addicted to things.
Routine is one of those things. I imagine that has a lot to do with control.
Reading is another of those things. I sometimes read to the exclusion of all else (except of course, routine), forsaking real life until the book is finished.
I may or may not be addicted to blog comments...only time will tell. It doesn't look good though, my friends. It doesn't look good.
Donuts are yet another example of my propensity to be addicted.
Knowing how bad they are for me, I frequently swear off donuts - unlike some of my other addictions. Only, my mind is so often deceived by the evil donut-devil, that I am frequently tricked into consuming them. I arm myself while navigating the bakery aisles with facts and intelligent reasoning. You JUST bought everything to make cookies with. You need to keep your arteries healthy. You are trying to stick to a budget that will allow you to stay at home with the kids for as long as possible. High cholesterol runs in the family. Your youthful metabolism won't always hide your addiction from public view. You need to set a good example for your daughters. All of these reminders are flowing through my head as I cross paths with the Krispy Kreme display.
Suddenly, the dialogue wavers as a handsome donut-devil grasps hold of my clammy hand and lovingly guides me off track. Now I am thinking, You JUST bought cookie stuff, so what's the difference between that and donuts? You need soft foods because your mouth is still sore from surgery. These aren't even whole donuts - these are mere holes. Tiny. You can just have one or two, rather than a whole huge donut. But wait...$4.39 for HOLES? That's boo-hawkie. A dozen regular glazed are only one dollar more - think of the savings. From a volume standpoint, that's way more donut for your money. Only, those crullers are just $3.49. Smallish, cakeish, and they look VERY soft...Yes, get the crullers and just put back those Oreo Cakesters you snuck in earlier. Who were you trying to fool?! But now, that's not fair, Cakesters are only $2.50. Just get them anyway, and you'll not need any more sweets for WEEKS.
I have no willpower, you see?
And if only I'd quit swearing them off, the donuts would surely lose their appeal soon. When I go for a week or (*gasp!*) two without donuts due to my latest attack of conscience, they only taste THAT much more amazing when I fall off the wagon again. They're much easier to justify then, as well. It's been 12 DAYS! You're a rockstar! You deserve a treat...just one little single serving from the a la carte bakery stand won't hurt! It's not like you'll get a whole box. Ooooh, there are only 3 chocolate covered cake donuts left! You better grab them, and go ahead and get 3 more to make an even half-dozen. (YOU ARE SUCH A LOSER!) Wait, what? Who was that?
Tell me I'm not the only one. Tell me you're addicted to something, too?
Routine is one of those things. I imagine that has a lot to do with control.
Reading is another of those things. I sometimes read to the exclusion of all else (except of course, routine), forsaking real life until the book is finished.
I may or may not be addicted to blog comments...only time will tell. It doesn't look good though, my friends. It doesn't look good.
Donuts are yet another example of my propensity to be addicted.
Knowing how bad they are for me, I frequently swear off donuts - unlike some of my other addictions. Only, my mind is so often deceived by the evil donut-devil, that I am frequently tricked into consuming them. I arm myself while navigating the bakery aisles with facts and intelligent reasoning. You JUST bought everything to make cookies with. You need to keep your arteries healthy. You are trying to stick to a budget that will allow you to stay at home with the kids for as long as possible. High cholesterol runs in the family. Your youthful metabolism won't always hide your addiction from public view. You need to set a good example for your daughters. All of these reminders are flowing through my head as I cross paths with the Krispy Kreme display.
Suddenly, the dialogue wavers as a handsome donut-devil grasps hold of my clammy hand and lovingly guides me off track. Now I am thinking, You JUST bought cookie stuff, so what's the difference between that and donuts? You need soft foods because your mouth is still sore from surgery. These aren't even whole donuts - these are mere holes. Tiny. You can just have one or two, rather than a whole huge donut. But wait...$4.39 for HOLES? That's boo-hawkie. A dozen regular glazed are only one dollar more - think of the savings. From a volume standpoint, that's way more donut for your money. Only, those crullers are just $3.49. Smallish, cakeish, and they look VERY soft...Yes, get the crullers and just put back those Oreo Cakesters you snuck in earlier. Who were you trying to fool?! But now, that's not fair, Cakesters are only $2.50. Just get them anyway, and you'll not need any more sweets for WEEKS.
I have no willpower, you see?
And if only I'd quit swearing them off, the donuts would surely lose their appeal soon. When I go for a week or (*gasp!*) two without donuts due to my latest attack of conscience, they only taste THAT much more amazing when I fall off the wagon again. They're much easier to justify then, as well. It's been 12 DAYS! You're a rockstar! You deserve a treat...just one little single serving from the a la carte bakery stand won't hurt! It's not like you'll get a whole box. Ooooh, there are only 3 chocolate covered cake donuts left! You better grab them, and go ahead and get 3 more to make an even half-dozen. (YOU ARE SUCH A LOSER!) Wait, what? Who was that?
Tell me I'm not the only one. Tell me you're addicted to something, too?
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
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Monday, June 1, 2009
An Open Letter To My Local Wal-Mart
Dear Supercenter,
As a shopper and all around advocate of the goodness that is your shopping facility, I frequent your store several times a month. In order to acquire all of the items that are needed to sustain a family of four at prices that are not directly at odds with our dwindling budget, as well as to stock up on all things necessary to feed my sugar and novel addiction, your store is my first line of enablement - I mean, defense. However, I feel as though I would be remiss if I did not inform you of an important detail that I believe has been overlooked by your higher-ups.
Upon entering the store, the first place a customer's eyes gravitate towards is the colossal stack of shopping carts lined up just so - ostensibly placed to let the customer know that he or she is being taken care of with an ample supply of carts. If only it were that simple.
During a recent trip to your store, my cart selection attempts were thwarted so badly that I almost gave up and marched right back out to the blazing parking lot. But, having spent the time and energy to pack up the kids along with sufficient supplies for a grocery shopping trip, (snacks, toys, tranquilizers, etc.) this was not an option for me.
For example, if there was a cart sitting handily out in front, all by itself, one would assume that this cart was prime for the taking. Upon inspection, though, one would realize that the lonely cart has a pile of what appears to be swine-flu ridden facial tissues lodged within it's wire basket. In an effort to obtain a snot-free cart, I stepped back to the next available one, wedged so tightly with it's mate that it could only have been budged by a pinpointed nuclear blast. Of which there are none available to me. (As a side note, this weaponry might be the only man-made item in the universe which is not carried by your store...)
My third try gained me a beautiful cart, easily disconnected from the pile, and promptly filled with my purse and two darling children. As we set off from the entryway into the store proper, I was made aware of the underlying fault with the cart I had chosen. It had a wonky wheel. This wheel sat directly perpendicular to my line of travel at all times. No matter in which direction I turned, the wonky wheel conspired against me. The kids were unloaded, and yet another cart was retrieved for my supposed use. Halfway into the fresh produce section, we felt distinct buh-humps with every revolution of the cart's wheels; one of the front wheels had been ground down on one edge, producing a cart reminiscent of a hydrolicized hoopty. However, at this point I'd spent far too long on cart inspection and retrieval, and we just made do.
I might add, for your sake Wal-Mart, that this hoopty-motion cart was somewhat entertaining for both my children and my fellow shoppers. I believe I was the only individual not enjoying it's antics.
As we traveled through the store the cart got worse and worse, so that in order to make a turn, I had to first come to a full stop, (directly in the path of oncoming cart traffic) back up approximately 3 steps, heave the cart sideways for a few feet, and hope it gained momentum fast enough to counteract it's natural reflex to tip over. I apologized to the shoppers whom my back-and-forth activity inconvenienced, but they were all very kind and understanding.
Understanding, because it seems as if they had all been there before. My fellow shoppers looked at me with pity because in their hearts they were probably saying, There but for the grace of Sam Walton go I. It would appear as if this situation is not isolated, nor is it infrequent. Therefore, it would appear as if Wal-Mart stores, both Super and otherwise, should employ a cart technician around the clock.
C'mon, Wally. We're dropping large enough portions of our paychecks into your facility every day, that a cart technician would only be common courtesy on your part.
Thank you for your time.
ALWAYS (see how I did that?),
Sarah the Heavenly
As a shopper and all around advocate of the goodness that is your shopping facility, I frequent your store several times a month. In order to acquire all of the items that are needed to sustain a family of four at prices that are not directly at odds with our dwindling budget, as well as to stock up on all things necessary to feed my sugar and novel addiction, your store is my first line of enablement - I mean, defense. However, I feel as though I would be remiss if I did not inform you of an important detail that I believe has been overlooked by your higher-ups.
Upon entering the store, the first place a customer's eyes gravitate towards is the colossal stack of shopping carts lined up just so - ostensibly placed to let the customer know that he or she is being taken care of with an ample supply of carts. If only it were that simple.
During a recent trip to your store, my cart selection attempts were thwarted so badly that I almost gave up and marched right back out to the blazing parking lot. But, having spent the time and energy to pack up the kids along with sufficient supplies for a grocery shopping trip, (snacks, toys, tranquilizers, etc.) this was not an option for me.
For example, if there was a cart sitting handily out in front, all by itself, one would assume that this cart was prime for the taking. Upon inspection, though, one would realize that the lonely cart has a pile of what appears to be swine-flu ridden facial tissues lodged within it's wire basket. In an effort to obtain a snot-free cart, I stepped back to the next available one, wedged so tightly with it's mate that it could only have been budged by a pinpointed nuclear blast. Of which there are none available to me. (As a side note, this weaponry might be the only man-made item in the universe which is not carried by your store...)
My third try gained me a beautiful cart, easily disconnected from the pile, and promptly filled with my purse and two darling children. As we set off from the entryway into the store proper, I was made aware of the underlying fault with the cart I had chosen. It had a wonky wheel. This wheel sat directly perpendicular to my line of travel at all times. No matter in which direction I turned, the wonky wheel conspired against me. The kids were unloaded, and yet another cart was retrieved for my supposed use. Halfway into the fresh produce section, we felt distinct buh-humps with every revolution of the cart's wheels; one of the front wheels had been ground down on one edge, producing a cart reminiscent of a hydrolicized hoopty. However, at this point I'd spent far too long on cart inspection and retrieval, and we just made do.
I might add, for your sake Wal-Mart, that this hoopty-motion cart was somewhat entertaining for both my children and my fellow shoppers. I believe I was the only individual not enjoying it's antics.
As we traveled through the store the cart got worse and worse, so that in order to make a turn, I had to first come to a full stop, (directly in the path of oncoming cart traffic) back up approximately 3 steps, heave the cart sideways for a few feet, and hope it gained momentum fast enough to counteract it's natural reflex to tip over. I apologized to the shoppers whom my back-and-forth activity inconvenienced, but they were all very kind and understanding.
Understanding, because it seems as if they had all been there before. My fellow shoppers looked at me with pity because in their hearts they were probably saying, There but for the grace of Sam Walton go I. It would appear as if this situation is not isolated, nor is it infrequent. Therefore, it would appear as if Wal-Mart stores, both Super and otherwise, should employ a cart technician around the clock.
C'mon, Wally. We're dropping large enough portions of our paychecks into your facility every day, that a cart technician would only be common courtesy on your part.
Thank you for your time.
ALWAYS (see how I did that?),
Sarah the Heavenly
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