The later my kids go to bed, the later I go to bed, and it's killing me. Or at least irritating me, which is close enough to the same thing to warrant complaint. It's summer, and that should mean long, lazy nights plus slow, late mornings. Except in the Heavenly Household, it doesn't mean that at all. It means busy, late nights plus same-time-as-always mornings plus cranky kids. Or cranky mama. Aren't they the same thing?
And I don't even know what I'm doing late at night, except stubbornly demanding that my me-time isn't lessened just because the kids were cutting into it with their late bedtimes. So they didn't go to bed until 9 o'clock? FINE THEN I WILL STAY UP UNTIL MIDNIGHT.
As if I'm tricking the earth into rotating slower in accommodation of my needs.
(Wouldn't that be super awesome?)
Instead, the earth mocks me. The cicadas in the woods tease me. The moon stares at me.
While I read or watch PBS or refresh Facebook with frenetic repetition because something entertaining MUST have been updated within the past 120 seconds, right? Oh, and Pinterest -- don't get me started. I'm convinced our brains are all on hyper-mega-overload and that we can no longer sustain simple, one-dimensional thought. If that's even a thing; I wouldn't know because my brain is firing in too many different exciting, creative, hilarious, delirious directions at once. Or so the internet leads me to believe.
When I skipped to bed last night in that hyper-tired state of the living dead, I decided to read for just a few more minutes because I declare books-in-bed to be the very best of sleeping aides. The correct dosage is debatable, but for me, two chapters and just-one-more-page work rather well.
My eyes got scratchy. My body got soft. The tension and swirl of too many thoughts evaporated into the night air, and oh...
I rolled over, ready for sleep. Everything was quiet except for the nightime racket in the forest. I breathed in. Out. In. Ouuuuutttt....
And you know how the half-sleeping/half-waking brain pulls insane jokes out of its back pockets just to freak you out? How you're just barely aware that your last thought made absolutely no sense, but you'll fall asleep in approximately 27 seconds, so it doesn't matter anyway?
That happened. Right at the intersection of drowsy and zonk.
Ray Liotta -- the Goodfellas Ray Liotta, not the Field of Dreams Ray Liotta, although that would have been even creepier now that I think about it -- looked me squarely in the eyes, pointed an accusatory finger at me and said, You PINCHED the french toast. His incensed voice rang quite clearly in my quiet bedroom.
I immediately felt sorry for my transgression, of course. Then wondered why my errant pre-sleep thoughts conjured up Ray Liotta and french toast in the first place.
And then zonk.
Seriously, I NEED to go to bed earlier, people.
Showing posts with label Quirky. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Quirky. Show all posts
Friday, July 20, 2012
Saturday, June 30, 2012
VacMan - An Anthropomorphic Hero
Jade has been leading us through Description and Setting, a writing craft book by Ron Rozelle, and I'm trying to follow along in hopes of learning a thing or two (dozen...). This week's assignment was to write about an object in or around the house in a way that assigns human characteristics. Here goes!
In the world of household cleaners, our vacuum cleaner is the superhero.
He stands ready in the hall closet, projecting a quiet dignity with his stature and his multiple HEPA filters. Beside the boxed Christmas decorations and hoarded gift bags, he hides in plain sight. A hero in disguise.
There seems to be no crack in his facade; each tool is tucked tightly away at all times under form-fitting covers. And yet...I believe that under his muscled exterior, he is perhaps terrified of the evils he expects to face. The upended box of Rice Krispies. The torn bits of styrofoam. The cobwebbed corners. His canister surely shudders in anticipation of the worst jobs, but he is resolute: the house needs him. The people need him. Each morning, he is introspective, checking his powers for weaknesses that would break a lesser hero's suction. He pulls in his gut to calm his nerves, cracking his accordian-hosed neck to release fear like pressure under groaning slabs of volcanic rock.
Although he is a hero, the vacuum cleaner isn't immune to fear. He merely faces down the hair-strewn carpets with determination, propelling his beater-brush forward whether he wants to or not. Reaching his long arms under dark beds despite his quavering engine. Sucking up villainous spiders for the faint-hearted lady of the house.
He does what he must. Because if he doesn't, then who will? He is VacMan. (A nickname he loathes, but bears with resignation as a tribute to the household he loyally serves. He prefers his civilian name: Mr. Dyson.)
As he rolls past crawling babies and shrieking children, he renews a vow of protection:
On hardest vinyl, or thickest rug, no pile shall withstand my tug. Let those who worship crumbs and bugs, beware my power: VacMan's plug.
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
Spirited
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I always knew the girls were spirited but seeing them like this is a little bit...haunting...don't you think? Overexposure and a too-open shutter will do that to you, I suppose.
But it was kind of fitting for the occasion. We helped welcome my brother's family into their new home -- a beautiful place on a big stretch of land full of fruit trees and wild grasses and weathered buildings. The barn is magnificently aged and worn, but the house itself is entirely refinished and comfortable.
And just the slightest
bit
frightening.
Hear me out: there are hidden closets and passageways and trap doors. There are secret entrances and deep closets. It's a hide-and-seeker's dream. I know the girls will have the MOST fun playing there with their cousin, but it was all I could do to walk through the empty rooms without shivering -- on a hot day.
Once they get furniture arranged and family accents placed, it will not be frightening at all.
Except for the basement with its steep, narrow staircase.
And the tiny, child-sized door leading to the attic from the upstairs bedroom.
And the way the little gabled cutouts seem to hide the barest whisper of a shadow...
Old farm houses are awesome, as long as I'm only stopping by for frequent visits. Because peeing my pants each time I tiptoe past a trapdoor or over a creaky step would just not be conducive to my cool-mom status. I need to guard that diligently as I fear it's already waning; my spirited kids see right through me.
What do you think? Would you love to live in an old farm house? Or are you more likely to be a skiddish, pants-wetting visitor?
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
My Time In Hell
Going grocery shopping is not my personal favorite chore.
When I was a newlywed, I loved going to the store with Justin and lazily filling a cart. The process was so domestic. So simple and lovely.
Now when I go to the grocery store, it's when I can wedge a trip between the baby's nap and preschool pick-up. The cart is filled with the baby carrier almost to the exclusion of any groceries and poor Landon swims in a sea of food.
I'm sweating by the time I've raced around the store's perimeter, my cart probably has a stiff wheel, and Lauren's preschool ends in ten minutes. I'll be late. I'm always late. Then, at home, there's no newlywed husband waiting with strong arms to unload my purchases; there's only me. Me with the baby on this hip and the preschooler on this hand and new naps unfolding like a lover's arms before us.
Still, grocery shopping isn't all bad. There are a few moments of joy that come as I load my things onto the conveyor belt. You have to understand: organization thrills me. Perhaps because I see so little of it in my home, and am too undisciplined to make it more common. The conveyor belt is a small, manageable bit of organizational pleasure. Grouping the products by temperature and heft and boxiness and tenderness. I take a shocking amount of geeky pride in providing the cashier with easy-to-bag items. Even more so if I've remembered my cloth bags. (Which is almost never.)
So when my efforts are thwarted by a disturbingly inept bagger, it takes all of my tactful willpower to not push her aside and bag the items myself. I mean, I HAD the cream RIGHT there next to the butter and you put it...with the bananas?! It's hard, you guys, being so generous with my bitten tongue. I say nothing. But in the parking lot, I rearrange a few things (tortillas on top of a whole chicken? really? dishwasher detergent alongside flour? REALLY?) so that my nervous tic won't make the drive home more dangerous than it needs to be. I can breathe easily once the frozen things are stacked together next to the refrigerated things and all of my heavy produce is nestled snugly away from the bruisable bananas.
But there's this thing that's in the corner of my mind: I could do the bagging BY MYSELF if I went to self-checkout. I usually eschew the option because honestly, my overloaded cart is too full to make the option any less time consuming than the regular checkout.
Until the day it wasn't. I ran into town for a handful of things and needed to hurry; self-checkout was empty, so there I made my stand.
I felt proud of the beeps as my products were scanned across the lasers. I weighed my plums. I rolled my oatmeal carton. I swished my cheese across the glass. It was all very satisfying.
But before I knew it, I had boxed goods bagged with my grapes and a large yogurt carton tipping over beside my bread. My head almost exploded right there on the beeping register, but I pressed on. I tried to move the yogurt into a different bag to alleviate the pressure. Just as I lifted it, the robot-machine pinged noisily at me:
Please put the item BACK in the bag before scanning your next item. Please put the item BACK in the...
I obeyed, flustered, and Stoneyfield Farms lay sullenly beside Earthgrains. The world tilted, but I couldn't intervene again. The pinging machine would notice, and then there'd be hell to pay. In the form of attention garnered by robot-lady's accusatory voice.
Now there was another customer waiting behind me, shifting from foot to foot while my hands hovered over a pound of ground turkey. But I couldn't put that in yet, because the bag in front of me was still waiting and I needed to choose something to match the bread...or the yogurt.
WHICH THING DID I NEED TO MATCH?!
It was becoming too much for me. My cheeks caught fire and the customer behind me cleared some phlegm. I panicked. I grabbed a can of diced tomatoes and ran it across the lasers while reaching for another item -- any item -- to complete this hellish madness. But I had forgotten to bag the tomatoes before scanning the Oreos...
PLEASE PLACE THE ITEM IN THE BAG! I swore the robot-machine-lady-voice was yelling at me, and I dropped the can of tomatoes on the scanner with a crash.
I looked around nervously. The self-check attendant was eyeing a clipboard, but I just knew she was about to declare me incompetent and boot me over into checkout lane 5, where a mother of twin toddlers was wrangling three carts' worth of food onto a groaning conveyor belt.
The Oreos seemed to mock me. The tomatoes sobbed great, acidic tears. The phlegmy customer leaned against his cart. The store spun in trippy circles.
My heart cried out, I need my mama!
When I was a newlywed, I loved going to the store with Justin and lazily filling a cart. The process was so domestic. So simple and lovely.
Now when I go to the grocery store, it's when I can wedge a trip between the baby's nap and preschool pick-up. The cart is filled with the baby carrier almost to the exclusion of any groceries and poor Landon swims in a sea of food.
 |
| Remember this? Happens every week... |
I'm sweating by the time I've raced around the store's perimeter, my cart probably has a stiff wheel, and Lauren's preschool ends in ten minutes. I'll be late. I'm always late. Then, at home, there's no newlywed husband waiting with strong arms to unload my purchases; there's only me. Me with the baby on this hip and the preschooler on this hand and new naps unfolding like a lover's arms before us.
Still, grocery shopping isn't all bad. There are a few moments of joy that come as I load my things onto the conveyor belt. You have to understand: organization thrills me. Perhaps because I see so little of it in my home, and am too undisciplined to make it more common. The conveyor belt is a small, manageable bit of organizational pleasure. Grouping the products by temperature and heft and boxiness and tenderness. I take a shocking amount of geeky pride in providing the cashier with easy-to-bag items. Even more so if I've remembered my cloth bags. (Which is almost never.)
So when my efforts are thwarted by a disturbingly inept bagger, it takes all of my tactful willpower to not push her aside and bag the items myself. I mean, I HAD the cream RIGHT there next to the butter and you put it...with the bananas?! It's hard, you guys, being so generous with my bitten tongue. I say nothing. But in the parking lot, I rearrange a few things (tortillas on top of a whole chicken? really? dishwasher detergent alongside flour? REALLY?) so that my nervous tic won't make the drive home more dangerous than it needs to be. I can breathe easily once the frozen things are stacked together next to the refrigerated things and all of my heavy produce is nestled snugly away from the bruisable bananas.
But there's this thing that's in the corner of my mind: I could do the bagging BY MYSELF if I went to self-checkout. I usually eschew the option because honestly, my overloaded cart is too full to make the option any less time consuming than the regular checkout.
Until the day it wasn't. I ran into town for a handful of things and needed to hurry; self-checkout was empty, so there I made my stand.
I felt proud of the beeps as my products were scanned across the lasers. I weighed my plums. I rolled my oatmeal carton. I swished my cheese across the glass. It was all very satisfying.
But before I knew it, I had boxed goods bagged with my grapes and a large yogurt carton tipping over beside my bread. My head almost exploded right there on the beeping register, but I pressed on. I tried to move the yogurt into a different bag to alleviate the pressure. Just as I lifted it, the robot-machine pinged noisily at me:
Please put the item BACK in the bag before scanning your next item. Please put the item BACK in the...
I obeyed, flustered, and Stoneyfield Farms lay sullenly beside Earthgrains. The world tilted, but I couldn't intervene again. The pinging machine would notice, and then there'd be hell to pay. In the form of attention garnered by robot-lady's accusatory voice.
Now there was another customer waiting behind me, shifting from foot to foot while my hands hovered over a pound of ground turkey. But I couldn't put that in yet, because the bag in front of me was still waiting and I needed to choose something to match the bread...or the yogurt.
WHICH THING DID I NEED TO MATCH?!
It was becoming too much for me. My cheeks caught fire and the customer behind me cleared some phlegm. I panicked. I grabbed a can of diced tomatoes and ran it across the lasers while reaching for another item -- any item -- to complete this hellish madness. But I had forgotten to bag the tomatoes before scanning the Oreos...
PLEASE PLACE THE ITEM IN THE BAG! I swore the robot-machine-lady-voice was yelling at me, and I dropped the can of tomatoes on the scanner with a crash.
I looked around nervously. The self-check attendant was eyeing a clipboard, but I just knew she was about to declare me incompetent and boot me over into checkout lane 5, where a mother of twin toddlers was wrangling three carts' worth of food onto a groaning conveyor belt.
The Oreos seemed to mock me. The tomatoes sobbed great, acidic tears. The phlegmy customer leaned against his cart. The store spun in trippy circles.
My heart cried out, I need my mama!
------------
So I ripped into the Oreos as soon as my tushie hit the driver's seat. I mean, what other option did I have?
Yeah, me and grocery shopping aren't on the best of terms right now. And self-checkout can die a slow death. Long live cashiers and baggers.
'Inept' is saintly compared to what I'M capable of in the checkout line.
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
A Failure
I once folded a pile of clean towels.
Promptly, which was strange. They usually sit in a heap on some unsuspecting surface -- couch; bed; bassinet -- until the surface is needed for a replacing load of darks or delicates. But not this pile; it was folded while the towels still clung greedily to the dryer's warmth.
And the way I fold towels is something to behold. It takes a certain class of perfectionist to make sure no two blue towels are together, but that the growing tower of mismatched towels are in a sort of succession of color. Blue, yellow, purple, white, blue, yellow, purple...
I'm very particular. It's quite necessary. I haven't figured out why, yet, but still.
So this stack of warm, clean towels were folded. On our love seat. (Because if towels don't say love...) Then, I did what any right-minded girl would do with such a stack. I left them there. Later in the afternoon, they were toppled during the daily seating-area-as-trampoline match-up: the preschooler in this corner, the kindergartner in this corner.
Blame was placed. Help was demanded. Towels were fixed.
I carried half of the stack to the front bathroom along with an assortment of fine washcloths. The other half languished, cold and rumpled, in their regurgitated stack. On the coffee table. (Because if towels don't say kick your feet up...)
The sun set. The sun rose. Twice. (Then once more.)
The stack was in the way of a coloring sheet and plate of strawberries on the coffee table, and the linen closet was, perhaps, a few too many steps in the wrong direction. So the stack was relocated, again. To the back of the couch. (Because if towels don't remind you of a stylish, knit throw on the sofa's rear...)
And as I sit here typing, the towels rebuke me. They are growing flat with helplessness. Any fluff of promise has departed along with my assertion of good housekeeping skills.
If it weren't for the satisfaction of a nicely distributed color assortment (blue, yellow, blue, beige), I'd consider throwing the lot of them back into the dryer for another chance at perfection.
As it is, I'll probably shuffle them to the ottoman. That's at least seven steps closer to the linen closet.
I certainly won't make any promises, though; I once folded a pile of clean towels, but the rest is up to fate.
Promptly, which was strange. They usually sit in a heap on some unsuspecting surface -- couch; bed; bassinet -- until the surface is needed for a replacing load of darks or delicates. But not this pile; it was folded while the towels still clung greedily to the dryer's warmth.
And the way I fold towels is something to behold. It takes a certain class of perfectionist to make sure no two blue towels are together, but that the growing tower of mismatched towels are in a sort of succession of color. Blue, yellow, purple, white, blue, yellow, purple...
I'm very particular. It's quite necessary. I haven't figured out why, yet, but still.
So this stack of warm, clean towels were folded. On our love seat. (Because if towels don't say love...) Then, I did what any right-minded girl would do with such a stack. I left them there. Later in the afternoon, they were toppled during the daily seating-area-as-trampoline match-up: the preschooler in this corner, the kindergartner in this corner.
Blame was placed. Help was demanded. Towels were fixed.
I carried half of the stack to the front bathroom along with an assortment of fine washcloths. The other half languished, cold and rumpled, in their regurgitated stack. On the coffee table. (Because if towels don't say kick your feet up...)
The sun set. The sun rose. Twice. (Then once more.)
The stack was in the way of a coloring sheet and plate of strawberries on the coffee table, and the linen closet was, perhaps, a few too many steps in the wrong direction. So the stack was relocated, again. To the back of the couch. (Because if towels don't remind you of a stylish, knit throw on the sofa's rear...)
And as I sit here typing, the towels rebuke me. They are growing flat with helplessness. Any fluff of promise has departed along with my assertion of good housekeeping skills.
If it weren't for the satisfaction of a nicely distributed color assortment (blue, yellow, blue, beige), I'd consider throwing the lot of them back into the dryer for another chance at perfection.
As it is, I'll probably shuffle them to the ottoman. That's at least seven steps closer to the linen closet.
I certainly won't make any promises, though; I once folded a pile of clean towels, but the rest is up to fate.
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
This is How People Go Crazy
Step 1: Agree to take a road-trip on a holiday weekend with a 7-week-old baby boy and his two sick sisters. Wait patiently on the morning-of to ascertain that the 5-year-old will be able to travel without (a) vomiting or (b) crying. Hit the road.
Step 2: Be sure to forget 3 out of 4 toothbrushes and mom's deodorant. Remember the snack bag at the expense of proper hygiene.
Step 3: Plan to stop every 55 minutes for either bathroom breaks, bottom-wiggle breaks, baby-nursing breaks, or wrong-turn breaks.
Step 4: Fail to make time adjustments based on gale-force winds and driving rain on the highway. (But be thankful for the loudly lashing raindrops which help the baby sleep for the first half of the drive. They help mask the constant cries from the back seat which holds the world's most lovably impatient sisters.)
Step 5: Let the 5-year-old sleep on the floorboards of the car at a rest stop until her headache goes away. Be worried that you'll never arrive at your destination.
Step 6: Treat the kids to your evil foe: happy meals with zero nutritional redeeming value, and 100% unknown food(ish) substances because you are SURE the Hello Kitty toys will erase the misery of the road-trip. Watch as both kids refuse most of the nasty food. Watch as one kid doesn't even open her Hello Kitty toy. Watch her cry from a returned headache.
Step 7: Enjoy your visit with family. Laugh and hug and converse. Say goodbye too soon.
Step 8: Turn around 27 hours after your journey began, and head home.
Step 9: Wonder what that blinking light on your dashboard is indicative of. Pull out the Nissan owner's manual. Stop at a gas station to check the tire pressure -- use your magical pressure-reading skillz because you don't own a pressure gauge.
Step 10: Repeat step 3.
Step 11: Be pleased when the baby finally nurses for a good, looong stretch of time because the car is otherwise empty (and peacefully quiet); the big kids are playing on the grass beside a gas station with your good-sport of a husband. Leave the gas station after a 30 minute layover.
Step 12: As soon as you hit the highway again, wait for your brain to ooze from your ears when your 3-year-old forces an emergency U-turn to the SAME gas station you just vacated. Clench your jaw because you know she can't help her body's urges.
Step 13: Wait in a line of grumpy women in a 3-stall restroom wherein 2 stalls are made unusable due to lack of toilet paper and one stall is occupied with a long-suffering (and probably embarrassed, poor thing) mother and her young son.
Step 14: Take your turn in the stall (finally).
Step 15: Lose the jaw-clenching contest when your 3-year-old declares she doesn't, after all, have to go number two.
Step 16: March back to the vehicle. Switch drivers.
Step 17: Return to the highway.
Step 18: Remember that it's dinner time.
Step 19: Drive immediately to the nearest mental-health facility and check yourself in. Call grandma to pick up the kids. Tell her they're hungry. And they probably have to go number two.
Step 20: Drool. Care not.
Step 2: Be sure to forget 3 out of 4 toothbrushes and mom's deodorant. Remember the snack bag at the expense of proper hygiene.
Step 3: Plan to stop every 55 minutes for either bathroom breaks, bottom-wiggle breaks, baby-nursing breaks, or wrong-turn breaks.
Step 4: Fail to make time adjustments based on gale-force winds and driving rain on the highway. (But be thankful for the loudly lashing raindrops which help the baby sleep for the first half of the drive. They help mask the constant cries from the back seat which holds the world's most lovably impatient sisters.)
Step 5: Let the 5-year-old sleep on the floorboards of the car at a rest stop until her headache goes away. Be worried that you'll never arrive at your destination.
Step 6: Treat the kids to your evil foe: happy meals with zero nutritional redeeming value, and 100% unknown food(ish) substances because you are SURE the Hello Kitty toys will erase the misery of the road-trip. Watch as both kids refuse most of the nasty food. Watch as one kid doesn't even open her Hello Kitty toy. Watch her cry from a returned headache.
Step 7: Enjoy your visit with family. Laugh and hug and converse. Say goodbye too soon.
Step 8: Turn around 27 hours after your journey began, and head home.
Step 9: Wonder what that blinking light on your dashboard is indicative of. Pull out the Nissan owner's manual. Stop at a gas station to check the tire pressure -- use your magical pressure-reading skillz because you don't own a pressure gauge.
Step 10: Repeat step 3.
Step 11: Be pleased when the baby finally nurses for a good, looong stretch of time because the car is otherwise empty (and peacefully quiet); the big kids are playing on the grass beside a gas station with your good-sport of a husband. Leave the gas station after a 30 minute layover.
Step 12: As soon as you hit the highway again, wait for your brain to ooze from your ears when your 3-year-old forces an emergency U-turn to the SAME gas station you just vacated. Clench your jaw because you know she can't help her body's urges.
Step 13: Wait in a line of grumpy women in a 3-stall restroom wherein 2 stalls are made unusable due to lack of toilet paper and one stall is occupied with a long-suffering (and probably embarrassed, poor thing) mother and her young son.
Step 14: Take your turn in the stall (finally).
Step 15: Lose the jaw-clenching contest when your 3-year-old declares she doesn't, after all, have to go number two.
Step 16: March back to the vehicle. Switch drivers.
Step 17: Return to the highway.
Step 18: Remember that it's dinner time.
Step 19: Drive immediately to the nearest mental-health facility and check yourself in. Call grandma to pick up the kids. Tell her they're hungry. And they probably have to go number two.
Step 20: Drool. Care not.
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
'Sleep When The Baby Sleeps' and Other Stupid Stuff
It's probably meant to be a helpful tip from experienced parents to newbies. They offer it with knowing nods and smiles, helping those below them on the parenting ladder with this crucial advice: Sleep when the baby sleeps, they say.
Once, I acknowledged this with wide, doe-eyes and a tremulous heart. Oh, of COURSE! THANK you for your help!
Now, though, I know better. When experienced parents tell this to their first-time counterparts, they're really issuing a warning as frightening as any apocalyptic prophesy. They're saying (with their heads spinning maniacally, mouths foaming, and eyes rolling heavenward) YOU'LL ONLY EVER SLEEP AGAIN IF IT'S WHEN THE BABY ALLOWS THE STARS TO ALIGN AND HIS OWN GASSY EMISSIONS TO BRIEFLY HALT THEIR IRRITATING MINISTRATIONS ON YOUR BEHALF. YOU. HAVE. BEEN. WARNED.
Really, the better advice would be to learn how to survive on no sleep at all. Now THAT would be worthwhile knowledge! Because no matter how sleepy a child is, the instant you lay his head down on a surface that is anything other than human skin, he may feign sleep momentarily. You may be lulled into thinking he will persist in rest. You may even tiptoe to the nearest bed or couch or unforgiving kitchen floor to lay down your own head.
But.
As soon as you breathe that single, exultant exhalation and reach for a blanket or pillow with which to celebrate your victory....
The baby will awaken.
It has been foretold. It has been passed down from generation to exhausted generation, and the method of its transmission is this seemingly benign advice.
If you so happen to be on the receiving end of Sleep when the baby sleeps, you can retain your tenuous grip on sanity by remembering the truth behind the words. The threat behind them.
And you can answer with a kind-hearted and effusively gracious:
No thanks. I think I'll shower/eat/stare into the ether/contemplate the demise of Kris Humphries/write an unintelligible blog post instead.
It just makes sense.
(Maybe.)
Once, I acknowledged this with wide, doe-eyes and a tremulous heart. Oh, of COURSE! THANK you for your help!
Now, though, I know better. When experienced parents tell this to their first-time counterparts, they're really issuing a warning as frightening as any apocalyptic prophesy. They're saying (with their heads spinning maniacally, mouths foaming, and eyes rolling heavenward) YOU'LL ONLY EVER SLEEP AGAIN IF IT'S WHEN THE BABY ALLOWS THE STARS TO ALIGN AND HIS OWN GASSY EMISSIONS TO BRIEFLY HALT THEIR IRRITATING MINISTRATIONS ON YOUR BEHALF. YOU. HAVE. BEEN. WARNED.
Really, the better advice would be to learn how to survive on no sleep at all. Now THAT would be worthwhile knowledge! Because no matter how sleepy a child is, the instant you lay his head down on a surface that is anything other than human skin, he may feign sleep momentarily. You may be lulled into thinking he will persist in rest. You may even tiptoe to the nearest bed or couch or unforgiving kitchen floor to lay down your own head.
But.
As soon as you breathe that single, exultant exhalation and reach for a blanket or pillow with which to celebrate your victory....
The baby will awaken.
It has been foretold. It has been passed down from generation to exhausted generation, and the method of its transmission is this seemingly benign advice.
If you so happen to be on the receiving end of Sleep when the baby sleeps, you can retain your tenuous grip on sanity by remembering the truth behind the words. The threat behind them.
And you can answer with a kind-hearted and effusively gracious:
No thanks. I think I'll shower/eat/stare into the ether/contemplate the demise of Kris Humphries/write an unintelligible blog post instead.
It just makes sense.
(Maybe.)
Monday, October 17, 2011
Status Updates I've Been Too Sleepy To Share
::: I could totally feed twelve babies with these monsters. #ouch
::: You know when you start seeing double and your eyes cross from being so tired? That's when I can't close them anyway because it would mean taking my eyes off of this boy. Such a doll...
::: *snore*
::: I miss the postpartum nurses who got me fresh water at all hours of the night.
::: He's a champion nurser -- very enthusiastic and knowledgeable. Justin says: "That's my boy!"
::: I've seen a man fall in love with his first child. I've seen a man snuggle his precious second daughter. I've seen a man cradle his only son. Life is beautiful.
::: *snooze*
::: Remind me again why we had hard floors installed throughout the entire house just months before we had a new baby? #TIPTOE!
::: Whoever invented engorgement should be punished. By having basketballs strapped to their most tender parts. And then bouncing on them.
::: Just when you think you can't possibly love him anymore -- he pees on daddy's face.
And a real status -- I need your help here!
::: What's your favorite cloth nursing pad? I need SUPER absorbency, and my current cloth options don't hold up to the power of these founts.
::: *zonk*
::: You know when you start seeing double and your eyes cross from being so tired? That's when I can't close them anyway because it would mean taking my eyes off of this boy. Such a doll...
::: *snore*
::: I miss the postpartum nurses who got me fresh water at all hours of the night.
::: He's a champion nurser -- very enthusiastic and knowledgeable. Justin says: "That's my boy!"
::: I've seen a man fall in love with his first child. I've seen a man snuggle his precious second daughter. I've seen a man cradle his only son. Life is beautiful.
::: *snooze*
::: Remind me again why we had hard floors installed throughout the entire house just months before we had a new baby? #TIPTOE!
::: Whoever invented engorgement should be punished. By having basketballs strapped to their most tender parts. And then bouncing on them.
::: Just when you think you can't possibly love him anymore -- he pees on daddy's face.
And a real status -- I need your help here!
::: What's your favorite cloth nursing pad? I need SUPER absorbency, and my current cloth options don't hold up to the power of these founts.
::: *zonk*
Saturday, October 1, 2011
Close Encounters
I had a dream this week that I was abducted by aliens.
In the back yard at midnight on a clear, dark night, I could see the horizon very clearly. Stars were pinpricks of light that did nothing to outshine a large, hovering orb in the west. Five times the size of the moon. Immediately, my dreaming mind recognized it as a sattelite. Its lights blinked and twittered in a series of mesmerising patterns, and I could make out a large H on its front. It floated slowly up, then down towards the land, then -- faster than I would have thought possible for a sattelite -- it raced downard beyond the horizon. Dancing out of my eyesight to other latitudes.
But it had only been the bait. For a second later, while I stared at the now empty horizon, a ship of sorts settled above my head, and...I was up. Gone. Abducted and...
Strangely anxious. Not afraid, just anxious. What in the world (not in the world...) was about to happen?
In the back yard at midnight on a clear, dark night, I could see the horizon very clearly. Stars were pinpricks of light that did nothing to outshine a large, hovering orb in the west. Five times the size of the moon. Immediately, my dreaming mind recognized it as a sattelite. Its lights blinked and twittered in a series of mesmerising patterns, and I could make out a large H on its front. It floated slowly up, then down towards the land, then -- faster than I would have thought possible for a sattelite -- it raced downard beyond the horizon. Dancing out of my eyesight to other latitudes.
But it had only been the bait. For a second later, while I stared at the now empty horizon, a ship of sorts settled above my head, and...I was up. Gone. Abducted and...
Strangely anxious. Not afraid, just anxious. What in the world (not in the world...) was about to happen?
------------
4:39 PM
I sit in ballet practice with one hand over my abdomen. It's twisting and contorting and bulging with regularity, like the baby inside wants to dance, too. I peek around at the other parents, sure that one or all of them -- because I'm just that important -- are staring at my freely moving belly. At times, I straighten and gasp under my breath because a foot is trying unsuccessfully to break through to the world outside. Where it can finally stretch and kick without resistance.
I rub at what I assume to be a heel, and it melts back into ambiguity. Relief.
------------
12:37 AM
I'm on my left side, waking suddenly and angrily. I've only been asleep a few hours, and was so hoping I'd be able to rest longer between bathroom breaks tonight. Justin is steady and warm in front of me. The nerve of him; sleeping while I suffer. I impatiently jiggle his arm -- the one closest to me -- and push against it until he makes a fist and flexes his muscles. (Even in his sleep, he's helpful and kind. Which somehow irritates me in all my midnight grumpiness.) I use his arm as a lever to grunt and groan my way into an upright position, swivel my legs -- so slowly -- to the edge of the bed, and sit there for a moment, willing myself not to wet the bed before I can guarantee my balance and strength are both stable enough to help me up.
My muscles are half-asleep and half-spasmodic. This is ridiculous.
Two hours later, the cycle repeats.
------------
10:18 AM
I am overcome with the need to speak freely at the grocery store. And to a near stranger -- the cashier I see almost weekly -- I begin telling the story of my dilation and effacement. Her eyes are surprised and a little entertained: who reveals such intimate details with one so far removed from the situation?! Kindly, she doesn't seem to mind. Must be the camaraderie of mothers everywhere. So when I say I mean, unless they're going to reach up in there and pull out a slip of paper that has the actual date and time of this baby's arrival -- like a fortune cookie! -- I don't really know what a pelvic exam accomplishes, other than to make me crazy!
I laugh at my own joke. There are people behind me in line. I avoid their eyes as I waddle towards the exit with my cart full of comfort food, because...did all of that really just come out of my mouth?
It absolutely did. And I will tell it again to the next person who is so unfortunate as to be in my path.
-----------
So the concensus is in.
I have, in all truth, been abducted by aliens. It's the only logical explanation.
Friday, September 16, 2011
An Imperfect Understanding of 'Nest'
It is 8:45 PM -- considerably past the time when my pregnant body told me I should already be in bed -- and I've successfully removed my contacts. I'm wearing my husband's shorts and a too-short T-shirt, and I'm getting ready for blessed sleep.
But instead of crawling into bed, I notice some yucky spots behind my bathroom sink's faucet. They've been there for months, yes, but at this moment, they're mocking me with their mildewy stamp of disapproval; I'm a terrible housekeeper. I grab a bottle of something that will remove all traces of mockery from those yucky spots, and start spraying.
I scrub. I move on to the sink proper, and scrub some more. It looks nice, I think, but more importantly, there are no more yucky spots to haunt my dreams tonight. I can rest.
Except, I remember: the bathtub is also sporting some proof of my housewifely laziness. And since the spray bottle and sponge are still in my grip, I head that way.
Except, I remember again: the drain in this tub has been clogged for a few days now. If I want to clean this and have it mean anything, I need to do surgery first. With a screwdriver and a pair of tweezers. It takes me awhile to remember where the tweezers are (on top of the microwave in the kitchen -- makes sense, right?), but when I finally find them, I am ready.
So, it is 9:10 PM, and I'm on my hands and knees in the dirty bathtub, digging for unmentionable masses of drain-clogging matter with an old pair of tweezers. And finding a strangely grotesque satisfaction in seeing what I can pull out next. Since I only gag twice in this process, I consider it a success. Especially when the job is done.
Spray bottle in hand (again), I douse the bathtub with lemon-scented suds, and get to scrubbing. The bottle pledges to contain a 'scrub-free' solution that will simply eat away at any foul accumulations in my tub, but it is lying. I must summon elbow-grease and shoulder-grease and every other kind of grease in order to make the tub perfectly clean, for perfectly clean it must be.
Standing up -- snapping joints in my legsbackknees as I rise -- I remember the laundry I need to switch out. I've already completed three loads of laundry since the girls went to bed, but piles of it are multiplying on my bed, and it is all pink. I think of how that will change. Three weeks. So soon?
Now, it is 9:45 PM and I am standing in the baby's nursery. There are paint squares lining the edge of the crib where they either match or contrast with his newly arrived bedding. There are drawers full of tiny onesies and footie pajamas. The window is open to allow a cleansing breeze -- so cool and fresh on this September evening. I look around and smile. Then I worry....
With only three weeks left, I wonder when my nesting instinct will kick in? Because so far...I've gotten nothing done.
But instead of crawling into bed, I notice some yucky spots behind my bathroom sink's faucet. They've been there for months, yes, but at this moment, they're mocking me with their mildewy stamp of disapproval; I'm a terrible housekeeper. I grab a bottle of something that will remove all traces of mockery from those yucky spots, and start spraying.
I scrub. I move on to the sink proper, and scrub some more. It looks nice, I think, but more importantly, there are no more yucky spots to haunt my dreams tonight. I can rest.
Except, I remember: the bathtub is also sporting some proof of my housewifely laziness. And since the spray bottle and sponge are still in my grip, I head that way.
Except, I remember again: the drain in this tub has been clogged for a few days now. If I want to clean this and have it mean anything, I need to do surgery first. With a screwdriver and a pair of tweezers. It takes me awhile to remember where the tweezers are (on top of the microwave in the kitchen -- makes sense, right?), but when I finally find them, I am ready.
So, it is 9:10 PM, and I'm on my hands and knees in the dirty bathtub, digging for unmentionable masses of drain-clogging matter with an old pair of tweezers. And finding a strangely grotesque satisfaction in seeing what I can pull out next. Since I only gag twice in this process, I consider it a success. Especially when the job is done.
Spray bottle in hand (again), I douse the bathtub with lemon-scented suds, and get to scrubbing. The bottle pledges to contain a 'scrub-free' solution that will simply eat away at any foul accumulations in my tub, but it is lying. I must summon elbow-grease and shoulder-grease and every other kind of grease in order to make the tub perfectly clean, for perfectly clean it must be.
Standing up -- snapping joints in my legsbackknees as I rise -- I remember the laundry I need to switch out. I've already completed three loads of laundry since the girls went to bed, but piles of it are multiplying on my bed, and it is all pink. I think of how that will change. Three weeks. So soon?
Now, it is 9:45 PM and I am standing in the baby's nursery. There are paint squares lining the edge of the crib where they either match or contrast with his newly arrived bedding. There are drawers full of tiny onesies and footie pajamas. The window is open to allow a cleansing breeze -- so cool and fresh on this September evening. I look around and smile. Then I worry....
With only three weeks left, I wonder when my nesting instinct will kick in? Because so far...I've gotten nothing done.
Monday, September 12, 2011
Sunken Treasure and Lost Marbles
One of the hardest parts about Mia being in Kindergarten all day is that she's in kindergarten ALL day. I don't get to see her reactions or hear her answers or experience her excitement or notice her shyness. I can't watch her in that place and it's crazy-making.
I don't just want to be a fly on the wall, I want to be an embedded camera with emotion-detecting sensors and voice-enhancing recorders.
I want to know everything that happens, and is that too much to ask?
So when she comes home each afternoon, besides pestering her to TALK TO ME for pity's sake, one of my favorite activities is to empty her backpack. The folder that travels from teacher to parent is full of golden nuggets which explain to me, in some small part, how Mia's day went. There are activity sheets and notes and projects and reminders....it's a veritable sunken treasure. Only it's dry. And mostly worthless in a worldly way.
But, oh, to see a worksheet with her drawings and numbers and carefully written M-i-a in the upper corner...bliss. A shot of almost-interaction at the end of a missing-you sort of day.
Only, one day last week, her backpack came home extra-heavy. It was weighted down and bulging. There's never been that much material in her take-home folder, and I was intrigued.
"Mia, what's in this backpack today?" I asked. "It's so big."
"Yeah," she tossed out with indifference, "it's because I have homework." She turned her attention back to a bowl of grapes and a coloring page while I began an internal dialogue that can only be described as CRAZY.
Homework?! But...but...this is kindergarten! Isn't it too soon for that? And what on EARTH could qualify for homework at this age -- this is terrible! Sure, I'll be able to help her with whatever's in the bag today, but come on! Before long, she'll be doing long-division (do they even have such a thing anymore?!) and geometric equations and I WON'T know how to help her then! We'll have long, frustrating nights around the kitchen table with her feeling fed up with her parents' lack of useful knowledge, while we secretly curse the school-system for requiring something as irrelevant as trigonometry to be taught! And to kindergartners! Because I just heard the other day that now they're not so interested in knowing about circles and squares -- oh, no. The shapes to KNOW by 6 years old are trapezoids and parallelograms! I can't even spell those things, for pete's sake! And if they're too advanced for the unassuming circle, they'll probably be too advanced for simple addition! WHICH WILL PROBABLY BE THE EXTENT OF MY HELPFUL ABILITIES!!
Worn out and fretful, I gingerly placed the unopened backpack by the back door, and stepped away. I turned my back on it. I made dinner. Mia and Lauren played while we chatted. My calm veneer was cracked, but still mostly in place.
But after dinner, I knew it was time for the inevitable: the backpack's contents must be examined. I could handle whatever was in that bag. I'm an adult, after all. I'm not afraid of a little homework, am I?
Pfshaw.
Once on my knees, the bag felt like it held a ton of homework-bricks. Surely it was filled with all manner of nonsensical work to be completed by my darling kindergartner. Her innocence would be lost. Her playful joy in attending school, shattered.
But there was nothing for it.
Ziiiiiiiip. I peeked inside. Pulled out her lunchbox. Jacket. Naptime teddy bear. Yellow folder. And...
A library book?
A library book! Of course, I thought! That makes perfect sense as a type of homework! Reading together as a family IS one of the best indicators of high test-scores later in life, right? Of COURSE!!
I showed it to Mia who became excited right away. "Oh yeah! Today was library day, and every kid got to pick their very own book to bring home! My teacher says it has to live in my backpack until next week's library day, but we get to read it whenever we want! Can it be our bedtime story?!"
"Absolutely!" I was overjoyed. Library books are my forte, if I do say so. "This is an awesome kind of homework, isn't it sweetie?"
Mia tilted her head. "Well THAT'S not my homework, silly!"
I tilted my head (the better to dump all the crazy out...). "Wh...what's your homework, then?"
"Here," she said, grabbing the take-home folder and rifling through its pockets. She pulled out a zippered-baggie with carefully stapled sheets of colored paper inside. "This book is one I MADE and I have to read it to you."
More pride and gushing from me, but thankfully, not of the crazy sort. (I don't think so anyway.) She read the short story, catching sight words and remembering picture clues, smiling the whole time.
"I can walk to school."
"I can ride to school."
"I can drive to school."
She read it. And she was proud of it.
And maybe that's the point of kindergarten homework, after all.
Because it's probably not intended to make mama lose her carefully contained marbles. Not to say it won't happen again...
I don't just want to be a fly on the wall, I want to be an embedded camera with emotion-detecting sensors and voice-enhancing recorders.
I want to know everything that happens, and is that too much to ask?
So when she comes home each afternoon, besides pestering her to TALK TO ME for pity's sake, one of my favorite activities is to empty her backpack. The folder that travels from teacher to parent is full of golden nuggets which explain to me, in some small part, how Mia's day went. There are activity sheets and notes and projects and reminders....it's a veritable sunken treasure. Only it's dry. And mostly worthless in a worldly way.
But, oh, to see a worksheet with her drawings and numbers and carefully written M-i-a in the upper corner...bliss. A shot of almost-interaction at the end of a missing-you sort of day.
Only, one day last week, her backpack came home extra-heavy. It was weighted down and bulging. There's never been that much material in her take-home folder, and I was intrigued.
"Mia, what's in this backpack today?" I asked. "It's so big."
"Yeah," she tossed out with indifference, "it's because I have homework." She turned her attention back to a bowl of grapes and a coloring page while I began an internal dialogue that can only be described as CRAZY.
Homework?! But...but...this is kindergarten! Isn't it too soon for that? And what on EARTH could qualify for homework at this age -- this is terrible! Sure, I'll be able to help her with whatever's in the bag today, but come on! Before long, she'll be doing long-division (do they even have such a thing anymore?!) and geometric equations and I WON'T know how to help her then! We'll have long, frustrating nights around the kitchen table with her feeling fed up with her parents' lack of useful knowledge, while we secretly curse the school-system for requiring something as irrelevant as trigonometry to be taught! And to kindergartners! Because I just heard the other day that now they're not so interested in knowing about circles and squares -- oh, no. The shapes to KNOW by 6 years old are trapezoids and parallelograms! I can't even spell those things, for pete's sake! And if they're too advanced for the unassuming circle, they'll probably be too advanced for simple addition! WHICH WILL PROBABLY BE THE EXTENT OF MY HELPFUL ABILITIES!!
Worn out and fretful, I gingerly placed the unopened backpack by the back door, and stepped away. I turned my back on it. I made dinner. Mia and Lauren played while we chatted. My calm veneer was cracked, but still mostly in place.
But after dinner, I knew it was time for the inevitable: the backpack's contents must be examined. I could handle whatever was in that bag. I'm an adult, after all. I'm not afraid of a little homework, am I?
Pfshaw.
Once on my knees, the bag felt like it held a ton of homework-bricks. Surely it was filled with all manner of nonsensical work to be completed by my darling kindergartner. Her innocence would be lost. Her playful joy in attending school, shattered.
But there was nothing for it.
Ziiiiiiiip. I peeked inside. Pulled out her lunchbox. Jacket. Naptime teddy bear. Yellow folder. And...
A library book?
A library book! Of course, I thought! That makes perfect sense as a type of homework! Reading together as a family IS one of the best indicators of high test-scores later in life, right? Of COURSE!!
I showed it to Mia who became excited right away. "Oh yeah! Today was library day, and every kid got to pick their very own book to bring home! My teacher says it has to live in my backpack until next week's library day, but we get to read it whenever we want! Can it be our bedtime story?!"
"Absolutely!" I was overjoyed. Library books are my forte, if I do say so. "This is an awesome kind of homework, isn't it sweetie?"
Mia tilted her head. "Well THAT'S not my homework, silly!"
I tilted my head (the better to dump all the crazy out...). "Wh...what's your homework, then?"
"Here," she said, grabbing the take-home folder and rifling through its pockets. She pulled out a zippered-baggie with carefully stapled sheets of colored paper inside. "This book is one I MADE and I have to read it to you."
More pride and gushing from me, but thankfully, not of the crazy sort. (I don't think so anyway.) She read the short story, catching sight words and remembering picture clues, smiling the whole time.
"I can walk to school."
"I can ride to school."
"I can drive to school."
She read it. And she was proud of it.
And maybe that's the point of kindergarten homework, after all.
Because it's probably not intended to make mama lose her carefully contained marbles. Not to say it won't happen again...
Friday, July 29, 2011
Just a Bunch of Random Sentences, Stacked
Kindergarten starts in a few weeks for Mia.
Preschool starts in a few weeks for Lauren.
I am 30 weeks pregnant.
We still don't have a vehicle that will hold all three children and their respective (gargantuan) carseats.
July has had an average daytime high temperature of one-hundred-and-seventy-nine degrees. (Says Sarah the Meteorologist.)
And that doesn't include the heat index.
All students in the Joplin School District are receiving ALL of their school supplies as donations through our Bright Futures Adopt-An-Eagle program.
I cannot eat enough watermelon to maintain satisfaction.
But my belly looks like a watermelon anyway.
The swimming pool feels too warm.
I keep forgetting to shave my legs, and refuse to wear anything other than short-shorts with tank tops.
I do not forget to shave my underarms, thank heavens.
We have no baby boy nursery yet.
We are running out of time.
But the girls love the new 'playroom' that is the baby's future home.
I cannot see my feet.
I'm cool with that.
We found another dead animal in our yard: a headless, juvenile opossum.
We think it was decapitated by an owl.
Our floors have been re-floored this week, and BOY am I glad that's finished.
My pelvic bones are crunching together in a side-by-side grind these days.
I'm not cool with that.
Hence, the waddling.
I plan on making this sometime this weekend, and consuming it with zero assistance, whatsoever.
(Hence, the extra waddling.)
What's running, rampant and unedited, through your mind on this last Friday of July?
Preschool starts in a few weeks for Lauren.
I am 30 weeks pregnant.
We still don't have a vehicle that will hold all three children and their respective (gargantuan) carseats.
July has had an average daytime high temperature of one-hundred-and-seventy-nine degrees. (Says Sarah the Meteorologist.)
And that doesn't include the heat index.
All students in the Joplin School District are receiving ALL of their school supplies as donations through our Bright Futures Adopt-An-Eagle program.
I cannot eat enough watermelon to maintain satisfaction.
But my belly looks like a watermelon anyway.
The swimming pool feels too warm.
I keep forgetting to shave my legs, and refuse to wear anything other than short-shorts with tank tops.
I do not forget to shave my underarms, thank heavens.
We have no baby boy nursery yet.
We are running out of time.
But the girls love the new 'playroom' that is the baby's future home.
I cannot see my feet.
I'm cool with that.
We found another dead animal in our yard: a headless, juvenile opossum.
We think it was decapitated by an owl.
Our floors have been re-floored this week, and BOY am I glad that's finished.
My pelvic bones are crunching together in a side-by-side grind these days.
I'm not cool with that.
Hence, the waddling.
I plan on making this sometime this weekend, and consuming it with zero assistance, whatsoever.
(Hence, the extra waddling.)
What's running, rampant and unedited, through your mind on this last Friday of July?
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
How To Enjoy Summer (If You're Desperate)
You guys, it's hot. I mean hawwwwwttttt.
I know you know what I mean, too, because apparently our country is in the midst of the hottest summer on record (and I feel like I'm half-making that statement up...but I swear I heard it somewhere...anybody know the truth?), so chances are good that you're moaning miserably somewhere, too, even though that may be half a country away from me.
It's occurring to me now just how lucky I am to be in my third trimester this July. The July of the hottest summer on record. (I'm sticking with it.)
So what do I do in July, in my third trimester? I take the kids outside, of course. As long as it's before 9AM, I mean. And only on the shaded side of the house. And only to make myself feel better about the long, indoor afternoon we'll have ahead of us.
Imagine us, if you will:
Three Heavenly Ladies -- two, little and sweet, if sweaty, and one, LARGE and round anddrenched glowing.
We traipse across the porcupine-esque landscape of our yard, maybe attending to our fairy house,
![]()
maybe looking with longing towards the scalding surface of the swingset. (One of us looking with longing towards the air-conditioned house...) We find things to keep us busy for a few measly, though suffocating, minutes.
One day, it's a snakeskin curled up in an empty stump by the woods.
![]()
This, I admit, is kind of cool. Plus, it leads to some fun in the way of impromptu learning. After telling them all I know about why snakes shed their skin, and contemplating where the snake is now, we get to go inside and do more research on the internet. We get to call daddy and regale him with our discovery.
![]()
We get to decorate our fairy house with a garland of empty, papery skin.
Another day, we make the startling deduction that grasshoppers actually fly as well as hop. Another day, we notice that the garden (the poor, nibbled, neglected garden) is overflowing with weeds. But we can't stay out there long enough to clean it up. (Plus, mama is somewhat convinced that the giant, skinless snake is lying there in wait, in the only growing vegetation for many yards.)
And then comes a day which will live in infamy.
The day of the dead rabbit.
It's not as startling to the children as I think it should be, which is why it takes me a second to remember that I should warn them not to touch the 'beautiful fur' of this poor, mangled fella. They obey, but wonder why? Why can't they touch it? Well, more impromptu learning opportunities abound, and now they know that dead flesh is home to lots and lots of nastiness in the way of germs and bugs and lord only knows what else.
Not to mention, HEY! The bunny's been sitting in the hot summer sun for some untold number of hours, and mama might gag if you step any closer to deduce what's been eating the thing.
Away we go, on our merry travels to the street, where surely we can walk without coming across any expired rodents. The walk is good. We are sufficiently melted when we call it a morning and ooze our way back to the house.
But the biggest girl -- the one who isn't afraid of real things, only imaginary things -- races around the house for one last glimpse at the carrion in our back yard. I agree, as long as she promises not to touch it. I wait in the shade for her return, thankful that hubby will arrive like a knight in shining armor to remove the carcass from our premises sometime in the coming hours.
Sadly, I do not suspect that the biggest girl's curiosity will allow her to do what happens next.
Which is --
the thing she does --
bending over the rabbit until her nose is mere centimeters away --
to sniff a giant whiff of Eau de Offal.
Well, she just wanted to know what it might smell like. It's something I've never stopped to wonder, you know? But now she knows: "That smelled disgusting."
Oh, summer. You're a thing of wonder, indeed.
I know you know what I mean, too, because apparently our country is in the midst of the hottest summer on record (and I feel like I'm half-making that statement up...but I swear I heard it somewhere...anybody know the truth?), so chances are good that you're moaning miserably somewhere, too, even though that may be half a country away from me.
It's occurring to me now just how lucky I am to be in my third trimester this July. The July of the hottest summer on record. (I'm sticking with it.)
So what do I do in July, in my third trimester? I take the kids outside, of course. As long as it's before 9AM, I mean. And only on the shaded side of the house. And only to make myself feel better about the long, indoor afternoon we'll have ahead of us.
Imagine us, if you will:
Three Heavenly Ladies -- two, little and sweet, if sweaty, and one, LARGE and round and
We traipse across the porcupine-esque landscape of our yard, maybe attending to our fairy house,
maybe looking with longing towards the scalding surface of the swingset. (One of us looking with longing towards the air-conditioned house...) We find things to keep us busy for a few measly, though suffocating, minutes.
One day, it's a snakeskin curled up in an empty stump by the woods.
This, I admit, is kind of cool. Plus, it leads to some fun in the way of impromptu learning. After telling them all I know about why snakes shed their skin, and contemplating where the snake is now, we get to go inside and do more research on the internet. We get to call daddy and regale him with our discovery.
We get to decorate our fairy house with a garland of empty, papery skin.
Another day, we make the startling deduction that grasshoppers actually fly as well as hop. Another day, we notice that the garden (the poor, nibbled, neglected garden) is overflowing with weeds. But we can't stay out there long enough to clean it up. (Plus, mama is somewhat convinced that the giant, skinless snake is lying there in wait, in the only growing vegetation for many yards.)
And then comes a day which will live in infamy.
The day of the dead rabbit.
It's not as startling to the children as I think it should be, which is why it takes me a second to remember that I should warn them not to touch the 'beautiful fur' of this poor, mangled fella. They obey, but wonder why? Why can't they touch it? Well, more impromptu learning opportunities abound, and now they know that dead flesh is home to lots and lots of nastiness in the way of germs and bugs and lord only knows what else.
Not to mention, HEY! The bunny's been sitting in the hot summer sun for some untold number of hours, and mama might gag if you step any closer to deduce what's been eating the thing.
Away we go, on our merry travels to the street, where surely we can walk without coming across any expired rodents. The walk is good. We are sufficiently melted when we call it a morning and ooze our way back to the house.
But the biggest girl -- the one who isn't afraid of real things, only imaginary things -- races around the house for one last glimpse at the carrion in our back yard. I agree, as long as she promises not to touch it. I wait in the shade for her return, thankful that hubby will arrive like a knight in shining armor to remove the carcass from our premises sometime in the coming hours.
Sadly, I do not suspect that the biggest girl's curiosity will allow her to do what happens next.
Which is --
the thing she does --
bending over the rabbit until her nose is mere centimeters away --
to sniff a giant whiff of Eau de Offal.
Well, she just wanted to know what it might smell like. It's something I've never stopped to wonder, you know? But now she knows: "That smelled disgusting."
Oh, summer. You're a thing of wonder, indeed.
Saturday, July 16, 2011
An Addendum to the Romance
Something else romance is after 11 years of togetherness? Sarcastic. And trouble-making.
Scene: Justin and Sarah are watching an episode of Smallville (oh yes -- they are serious fans) in which Clark has to say goodbye to the meteor-infected Lana. He is rendered allergic to her, but fights his way through the anguish and torturous pain in order to kiss her one last, passionate time.
Sarah: *sighing with misty eyes; fishing for compliments* Would you fight your way through impossible pain and torture beyond measure just to kiss me?
Justin: *with deep emotion* Absolutely, baby. A million times over.
Sarah: *swooning*
Justin: In fact, I do it every morning when you roll over with morning breath. TORTURE.
End Scene.
Begin gut-punching.
Scene: Justin and Sarah are watching an episode of Smallville (oh yes -- they are serious fans) in which Clark has to say goodbye to the meteor-infected Lana. He is rendered allergic to her, but fights his way through the anguish and torturous pain in order to kiss her one last, passionate time.
Sarah: *sighing with misty eyes; fishing for compliments* Would you fight your way through impossible pain and torture beyond measure just to kiss me?
Justin: *with deep emotion* Absolutely, baby. A million times over.
Sarah: *swooning*
Justin: In fact, I do it every morning when you roll over with morning breath. TORTURE.
End Scene.
Begin gut-punching.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
The Very Definition of Undecided Stubbornality*
I do not want a dog.
We do not need a dog.
I do not want a dog.
He cannot have a dog.
I do not want a dog.
But I kind of want this puppy....
*Since I made up this word, I can totally claim ownership of its definition, right?
Monday, April 11, 2011
Sarah and the Giant Dogs
I don't love dogs. (Please don't let this change your positive opinion of me, if, in fact, it is a positive opinion. I'm a good-natured girl, I promise!)
I wouldn't say I hate them, but it's definitely been awhile since I've enjoyed the company of a dog. As a little girl, I adored them; doted on them; begged for puppies; rolled around in the grass with our own dog. Now, though, I can't stand the thought of a wayward, sloppy tongue greeting me each morning or the dingy-excited jump and maul upon each return home. I can't stand the thought of one more thing to clean up after.
I do try to smile genially at whatever dogs we may encounter; it's not their fault I don't like them. My parents' dog, for instance, is a nice sort of fella. Laid-back, humanish in mannerism, their Yellow Labrador is a good boy. I pet his (clean) ears on occasion. I rub his upturned belly with my foot. I appreciate his quiet gaze.
But still, he sheds. He licks. He rolls in oddly-smelling substances.
The girls, however, are dog aficionados. Indiscriminately, they love dogs. They're cautious at first, as they should be, making sure the dog wants to be played with or (as often the case may be) ridden around the yard. I don't discourage this doggy-adoration. It's fun and cute, and as long as the dogs aren't irritating me, I don't mind them one bit.
Until the dogs in question are large, stray, and...large. Gigantic, actually. Loud. Enormous.
Last week, a couple of stray dogs wandered out of the woods and settled themselves in our back yard. For the day. There they camped, under the shadow of our roof, while I hid inside, wondering what to do about them. (Though I'm not a dog-lover, I didn't want to call the pound; don't they...get rid of dogs with no forthcoming owners?) The girls were at school for the morning, so while they weren't there to see (and be afraid), I attempted to rid our yard of the beastly dogs.
One was a large, muscular Boxer. The other was (I think) a French Mastiff. GIANT DOGS. In my yard, they barked on occasion, but mostly just rested in the grass. Like an idiot, I stepped into the yard to see if they'd run away. You know: strangers are scary, right? You run away from them?
Yeah, not if you're a two-hundred pound mastiff and his perky (HUGE) boxer friend.
As I stepped slowly into their view, hands calmly at my sides, the boxer raised up from the ground and rumbled a quick, muffled bark in my direction. At that, I stepped one foot backwards, and tried not to wet myself.
As soon as the boxer barked, the mastiff lumbered himself off the ground into a great mound of standing beast. His boulder-shaped head swung in my direction at the same time the boxer leapt three short leaps forward, each jump punctuated by three deep barks.
I almost fell over my feet, coordination not being my strongest suit as an athlete. (Me not being an athlete at all, anyway.) Behind me was the gate, and I scrambled towards it in the least stunningly graceful way imaginable. Despite wanting the dogs to go away, I locked the gate on my mad dash to safety, and pondered how to lure them from my yard with...what? Raw meat? A well-aimed garden hose?
Instead, I left to get the girls from school, silently propping the gate back open again, but otherwise avoiding the issue entirely. On the way home, I told them that they wouldn't be allowed to play outside until the strange dogs left, but that they could peek out the window at them. (Tres exciting, eh?)
As soon as they were able, the girls dashed to the open window and stared at the monstrous dogs in our grass.
Whispering and gesturing, I told them how to watch quietly. How to examine the giant creatures without gaining the dogs' attention.
Lauren and Mia were impervious to my worry.
"Hi puppy!" Lauren welcomed them.
"Here, puppy, puppy! Here puppy!" Mia squealed.
But before I could stop their joyful talk, the dogs noticed us. Out the window, the boxer tilted his head towards the girls' sweet voices...
and his clipped tail began wagging so hard that his entire backside wobbled gracelessly. I swear, he smiled. His tongue lolled out one side of his happy mouth, and he ambled joyfully towards the house, drawn by the tiny, high voices of my children.
The mastiff followed suit, heaving himself up and around the side of our house. They both began to explore my porch, and settled in to be admired by the girls.
And, of course, to be properly documented by me: the frightened cat-lover. (By the way, my cat was nowhere to be seen during this whole ordeal. He knows when to skedaddle.)
After awhile, the dogs ambled off to the neighbor's driveway, and then out of the neighborhood entirely.
When they were gone, I had the startling (and uncharacteristic) urge to pet the mastiff. To see if he was as solid as he looked. To measure the width of his impossibly broad chest.
And really, just to say that I'd been brave enough to get within arm's reach of the GIANT DOG.
I wouldn't say I hate them, but it's definitely been awhile since I've enjoyed the company of a dog. As a little girl, I adored them; doted on them; begged for puppies; rolled around in the grass with our own dog. Now, though, I can't stand the thought of a wayward, sloppy tongue greeting me each morning or the dingy-excited jump and maul upon each return home. I can't stand the thought of one more thing to clean up after.
I do try to smile genially at whatever dogs we may encounter; it's not their fault I don't like them. My parents' dog, for instance, is a nice sort of fella. Laid-back, humanish in mannerism, their Yellow Labrador is a good boy. I pet his (clean) ears on occasion. I rub his upturned belly with my foot. I appreciate his quiet gaze.
But still, he sheds. He licks. He rolls in oddly-smelling substances.
The girls, however, are dog aficionados. Indiscriminately, they love dogs. They're cautious at first, as they should be, making sure the dog wants to be played with or (as often the case may be) ridden around the yard. I don't discourage this doggy-adoration. It's fun and cute, and as long as the dogs aren't irritating me, I don't mind them one bit.
Until the dogs in question are large, stray, and...large. Gigantic, actually. Loud. Enormous.
Last week, a couple of stray dogs wandered out of the woods and settled themselves in our back yard. For the day. There they camped, under the shadow of our roof, while I hid inside, wondering what to do about them. (Though I'm not a dog-lover, I didn't want to call the pound; don't they...get rid of dogs with no forthcoming owners?) The girls were at school for the morning, so while they weren't there to see (and be afraid), I attempted to rid our yard of the beastly dogs.
One was a large, muscular Boxer. The other was (I think) a French Mastiff. GIANT DOGS. In my yard, they barked on occasion, but mostly just rested in the grass. Like an idiot, I stepped into the yard to see if they'd run away. You know: strangers are scary, right? You run away from them?
Yeah, not if you're a two-hundred pound mastiff and his perky (HUGE) boxer friend.
As I stepped slowly into their view, hands calmly at my sides, the boxer raised up from the ground and rumbled a quick, muffled bark in my direction. At that, I stepped one foot backwards, and tried not to wet myself.
As soon as the boxer barked, the mastiff lumbered himself off the ground into a great mound of standing beast. His boulder-shaped head swung in my direction at the same time the boxer leapt three short leaps forward, each jump punctuated by three deep barks.
I almost fell over my feet, coordination not being my strongest suit as an athlete. (Me not being an athlete at all, anyway.) Behind me was the gate, and I scrambled towards it in the least stunningly graceful way imaginable. Despite wanting the dogs to go away, I locked the gate on my mad dash to safety, and pondered how to lure them from my yard with...what? Raw meat? A well-aimed garden hose?
Instead, I left to get the girls from school, silently propping the gate back open again, but otherwise avoiding the issue entirely. On the way home, I told them that they wouldn't be allowed to play outside until the strange dogs left, but that they could peek out the window at them. (Tres exciting, eh?)
As soon as they were able, the girls dashed to the open window and stared at the monstrous dogs in our grass.
Whispering and gesturing, I told them how to watch quietly. How to examine the giant creatures without gaining the dogs' attention.
Lauren and Mia were impervious to my worry.
"Hi puppy!" Lauren welcomed them.
"Here, puppy, puppy! Here puppy!" Mia squealed.
But before I could stop their joyful talk, the dogs noticed us. Out the window, the boxer tilted his head towards the girls' sweet voices...
and his clipped tail began wagging so hard that his entire backside wobbled gracelessly. I swear, he smiled. His tongue lolled out one side of his happy mouth, and he ambled joyfully towards the house, drawn by the tiny, high voices of my children.
The mastiff followed suit, heaving himself up and around the side of our house. They both began to explore my porch, and settled in to be admired by the girls.
And, of course, to be properly documented by me: the frightened cat-lover. (By the way, my cat was nowhere to be seen during this whole ordeal. He knows when to skedaddle.)
After awhile, the dogs ambled off to the neighbor's driveway, and then out of the neighborhood entirely.
When they were gone, I had the startling (and uncharacteristic) urge to pet the mastiff. To see if he was as solid as he looked. To measure the width of his impossibly broad chest.
And really, just to say that I'd been brave enough to get within arm's reach of the GIANT DOG.
Friday, April 8, 2011
7 Things I Learned This Week
1. If there is a hard-boiled egg in your refrigerator and you can't exactly remember the date on which it was placed there, it's better NOT to take a test-bite. This will lead to much heaving over the kitchen sink, even if you're not 13 weeks pregnant.
2. When you remove your wedding rings to slather lotion on your hands, it's not advisable to leave them lounging on a counter-top where they might be discovered by a 3-year-old's inquisitive fingers. You'll be left with a missing engagement ring and heart full of remorse.
3. However this question is phrased, you will never ever be able to give a coherent answer: Hey mom? Why is your voice a circle?
4. It is quite possible to drink your doctor's recommended daily ounces of milk, but it may require more Oreo cookie consumption than he'd be comfortable with. It's a tough trade-off, but somebody's gotta do it.
5. Being overly proud of yourself for remembering to pay the bills on time will quickly fade into irritation the next day when you realize that you've left the required checkbook at home on the bill-paying desk instead of bringing it to the (overdue) ballet appointment.
6. When you clean the toilet and your husband remarks upon its brilliance with both surprise and awe, you'll know that you've waited too long between cleanings. You'll also know that it's time for hubby to wield his own toilet brush more often, since he appreciates the darn gleam so much.
7. On the night before your daughter's preschool class is having an egg-drop competition, in which the whole family was supposed to participate in creating a suitably cushy egg-dropping-contraption, you'll realize that no matter your age, you will always be a procrastinator. (Thankfully, the egg won't suffer the consequences -- you may be perpetually late, but you're also a genius.)
More Quick Takes are here.
2. When you remove your wedding rings to slather lotion on your hands, it's not advisable to leave them lounging on a counter-top where they might be discovered by a 3-year-old's inquisitive fingers. You'll be left with a missing engagement ring and heart full of remorse.
3. However this question is phrased, you will never ever be able to give a coherent answer: Hey mom? Why is your voice a circle?
4. It is quite possible to drink your doctor's recommended daily ounces of milk, but it may require more Oreo cookie consumption than he'd be comfortable with. It's a tough trade-off, but somebody's gotta do it.
5. Being overly proud of yourself for remembering to pay the bills on time will quickly fade into irritation the next day when you realize that you've left the required checkbook at home on the bill-paying desk instead of bringing it to the (overdue) ballet appointment.
6. When you clean the toilet and your husband remarks upon its brilliance with both surprise and awe, you'll know that you've waited too long between cleanings. You'll also know that it's time for hubby to wield his own toilet brush more often, since he appreciates the darn gleam so much.
7. On the night before your daughter's preschool class is having an egg-drop competition, in which the whole family was supposed to participate in creating a suitably cushy egg-dropping-contraption, you'll realize that no matter your age, you will always be a procrastinator. (Thankfully, the egg won't suffer the consequences -- you may be perpetually late, but you're also a genius.)
More Quick Takes are here.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
I Meant to Do That
I didn't skip my shower yesterday morning...I was just trying to conserve water. And shampoo. And razor blades.
I also didn't send the kids out to play so I could have some quiet time to myself...I was just trying to foster independent play. They are endlessly creative until I'm around: then they require constant entertainment.
I certainly didn't feed my children boxed macaroni and cheese for lunch simply because I had an unhealthy craving....it was just that we were out of the usual lunch suspects. Calcium and carbohydrates are important nutrients, after all.
I didn't wear a low-cut shirt yesterday because I'm beyond thrilled with my new pregnancy decolletage...but because I've fallen behind on laundry. And really, this shirt didn't seem so low-cut last month.
I didn't haul a screaming toddler out of the library yesterday...I politely escorted her. She was almost contrite after a delayed time-out.
I didn't spend unnecessary hoards of time yesterday researching the earliest detection (by the mother) of fetal movement. It was vital to my sanity because I swear I felt this baby move...at only 10 weeks. (Which seems to be possibly, according to my highly scientific research.)
And I definitely did NOT forget to make my bed....I just intended to wash the sheets. Tomorrow.
I also didn't send the kids out to play so I could have some quiet time to myself...I was just trying to foster independent play. They are endlessly creative until I'm around: then they require constant entertainment.
I certainly didn't feed my children boxed macaroni and cheese for lunch simply because I had an unhealthy craving....it was just that we were out of the usual lunch suspects. Calcium and carbohydrates are important nutrients, after all.
I didn't wear a low-cut shirt yesterday because I'm beyond thrilled with my new pregnancy decolletage...but because I've fallen behind on laundry. And really, this shirt didn't seem so low-cut last month.
I didn't haul a screaming toddler out of the library yesterday...I politely escorted her. She was almost contrite after a delayed time-out.
I didn't spend unnecessary hoards of time yesterday researching the earliest detection (by the mother) of fetal movement. It was vital to my sanity because I swear I felt this baby move...at only 10 weeks. (Which seems to be possibly, according to my highly scientific research.)
And I definitely did NOT forget to make my bed....I just intended to wash the sheets. Tomorrow.
Friday, March 4, 2011
Five for Friday
First, have you seen my friend Alita's giveaway? It's for MORE HOTTER SHOES!! This is the last giveaway from Hotter that I know of, and you have GOT to go enter -- these shoes are wonderful and quality and pretty. And expensive. But not for one lucky winner....
Second, Mia yelled and yelled last night for Justin to come into her room after bedtime. (I'd thought we'd moved past this...) Her majorly pressing question? "Hey Dad, why don't belly buttons have any bones?" I was glad it was him trying to explain biology and anatomy, and not me. That late at night (approximately 7:35pm), I'm not up for such trivia.
Third, have you checked out my Heavenly365 photo blog lately? I'm having FUN over there, you guys. All of my photos aren't fabulous (in fact, most are not), but they're providing such a running pictorial commentary to what our lives look like right now. The colors and adventures and boredom and moods and seasons...it's wonderful to think so much can be conveyed through a series of photos, without a single word. The lack of need to explain or expound is freeing. But it's also a little frightening. I mean...I'm a writer. Sort of.
Fourth, Mia's recent imaginary play has rendered me half amused, half concerned. The 'daughter' in this cast is either throwing a massive tantrum, face-down on her bed or sleeping away the day (with a selection of delicious cupcakes at her feet as a luxurious treat). And the parents have either been incapacitated by exhaustion or relegated to the floor for the daughter's comfort. But at least she's using her imagination....
Fifth, my dear friend Lenae had her much-anticipated baby girl on Wednesday!! Sweet baby Quinn is a doll, and I wish I could smooch her darling, tiny, plump cheeks in person. But will you join me in smooching them via cyber-kiss? Happy Birthday, Quinn!
P.S. I'm on my way to my first pre-natal appointment this morning...a finally heard-heartbeat awaits! Wish us luck!
Second, Mia yelled and yelled last night for Justin to come into her room after bedtime. (I'd thought we'd moved past this...) Her majorly pressing question? "Hey Dad, why don't belly buttons have any bones?" I was glad it was him trying to explain biology and anatomy, and not me. That late at night (approximately 7:35pm), I'm not up for such trivia.
Third, have you checked out my Heavenly365 photo blog lately? I'm having FUN over there, you guys. All of my photos aren't fabulous (in fact, most are not), but they're providing such a running pictorial commentary to what our lives look like right now. The colors and adventures and boredom and moods and seasons...it's wonderful to think so much can be conveyed through a series of photos, without a single word. The lack of need to explain or expound is freeing. But it's also a little frightening. I mean...I'm a writer. Sort of.
Fourth, Mia's recent imaginary play has rendered me half amused, half concerned. The 'daughter' in this cast is either throwing a massive tantrum, face-down on her bed or sleeping away the day (with a selection of delicious cupcakes at her feet as a luxurious treat). And the parents have either been incapacitated by exhaustion or relegated to the floor for the daughter's comfort. But at least she's using her imagination....
Fifth, my dear friend Lenae had her much-anticipated baby girl on Wednesday!! Sweet baby Quinn is a doll, and I wish I could smooch her darling, tiny, plump cheeks in person. But will you join me in smooching them via cyber-kiss? Happy Birthday, Quinn!
P.S. I'm on my way to my first pre-natal appointment this morning...a finally heard-heartbeat awaits! Wish us luck!
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Bigger Picture Moment: When Cravings and Hormones Collide
Yesterday, I came very close to declaring myself incompetent.
By the bright and tender hour of 9am, I'd already forgotten both my daughter's lunch box and my empty gas tank. We dashed across town to school, praying the fumes would carry us onward, and I fixed the left-behind lunch after gassing up on the way home. It was all very fixable.
Fixable with nachos, that is.
Because for some reason, the crunch and spice of carnival quality (or, lack of quality) nachos are what my body needs more than anything these days, I spent the morning fantasizing about them. I considered 9:30 too early to indulge in such a snack, so I waited. I wrote a little bit. I folded some laundry. I kept one eye on the clock, and at EXACTLY 11am I was out the door. (In my slippers, no less.)
I drove to the nearest Taco Bell (because where else can you find the drippy kind of yellow cheese sauce that passes for food-product? Seriously, where? It's not Velveeta, it's not queso...it's an anomaly.) and whipped around the drive-thru. I scanned the list of nacho options and decided all I really wanted (nay: NEEDED) was the plain old chips and dip, although the Grande choices and additions didn't seem half bad, either...
Finally at the cashier window, I rolled down my window, pulled off my sunglasses, and peered in at the gentleman cashier. He looked at me with amusement, his eyebrows high.
I stared back at him politely, waiting for...
Ah. My mouth popped open as my misstep became clear. I'd driven straight past the order-box, and now I was staring at a man who was wondering what sort of tomfoolery I could possibly be up to.
"Uh...I didn't....order...did I." My face was hot despite the cool breeze.
He shook his head with a belly laugh. "Nope, you sure didn't. Drove right past the box with your window shut tight."
I cleared my throat and rummaged in my coin holder, despite the fact that -- you know -- I still hadn't received a total. "I, uh...I have no idea what just happened," I giggled nervously. "Um, do I need to reverse and make an order, or..."
Thank goodness he said no, because my incapacity to order a 99-cent nacho would have surely precluded me from having the ability to drive backwards around a precise curve without also backing over the order box with my rear-fender.
Still embarrassed, I ordered the nachos, paid, and (blessedly) pulled forward to meet the anonymity of the pick-up window.
It was mortifying, but not so much so as to have made me abandon my craving. I dove into the nachos like they were my last nachos, ever -- and they very well may be, because I don't plan on going through that drive-thru again in this lifetime. (Thank heavens for dutiful husbands, though...)
To make myself feel better, I made my favorite homemade bread recipe for dinner that evening. The recipe I've made a couple of times a month for the past...year? The recipe I have memorized and cradled in my heart?
I made it wrong. I forgot the salt and oil. It was terrible.
To make myself feel better again, I thumped around the kitchen in search of lemons. Not lemons but lemon-flavored snacks. (Nachos to lemons in less than 12 hours...fickle.) To my poor, confused husband, I lamented: "I need lemons. Like...creamy lemons. Creamy, cold lemons. Creamy, cold, sweet lemons. Like, lemon sorbet. No! Lemon ice cream."
Ever helpful, Justin's eyes got bright. "Hey! Let's make some lemonade and freeze it until it gets slushy!"
I drew back in horror. "That sounds disgusting!!"
And then I burst into tears. He was only trying to help, and he was being so sweet, and he smelled so good, and I loved him SO VERY MUCH with a sudden FEROCITY that overwhelmed me...
It wasn't pretty. I sobbed and snotted and heaved.
Justin rushed out the door with a promise to fix me, and returned a few minutes later with a lemon cream-slush. I was still catching my breath and drying my eyes. The cream-slush was perfect in every way and I almost cried with joy and love and thankfulness.
And the meaning behind all of this hormonal incompetence?
I woke up this morning with complete sanity. Today is another day. As will tomorrow be. I'll get through this terror of widely-swinging cravings and hormonal shifts.
We're seeing the Bigger Picture through simple moments -- moments that force us to stop and take notice of the ways our worlds are important, meaningful, and beautiful. Please join Hyacynth at Undercover Mother for more moments, and to share your own!
By the bright and tender hour of 9am, I'd already forgotten both my daughter's lunch box and my empty gas tank. We dashed across town to school, praying the fumes would carry us onward, and I fixed the left-behind lunch after gassing up on the way home. It was all very fixable.
Fixable with nachos, that is.
Because for some reason, the crunch and spice of carnival quality (or, lack of quality) nachos are what my body needs more than anything these days, I spent the morning fantasizing about them. I considered 9:30 too early to indulge in such a snack, so I waited. I wrote a little bit. I folded some laundry. I kept one eye on the clock, and at EXACTLY 11am I was out the door. (In my slippers, no less.)
I drove to the nearest Taco Bell (because where else can you find the drippy kind of yellow cheese sauce that passes for food-product? Seriously, where? It's not Velveeta, it's not queso...it's an anomaly.) and whipped around the drive-thru. I scanned the list of nacho options and decided all I really wanted (nay: NEEDED) was the plain old chips and dip, although the Grande choices and additions didn't seem half bad, either...
Finally at the cashier window, I rolled down my window, pulled off my sunglasses, and peered in at the gentleman cashier. He looked at me with amusement, his eyebrows high.
I stared back at him politely, waiting for...
Ah. My mouth popped open as my misstep became clear. I'd driven straight past the order-box, and now I was staring at a man who was wondering what sort of tomfoolery I could possibly be up to.
"Uh...I didn't....order...did I." My face was hot despite the cool breeze.
He shook his head with a belly laugh. "Nope, you sure didn't. Drove right past the box with your window shut tight."
I cleared my throat and rummaged in my coin holder, despite the fact that -- you know -- I still hadn't received a total. "I, uh...I have no idea what just happened," I giggled nervously. "Um, do I need to reverse and make an order, or..."
Thank goodness he said no, because my incapacity to order a 99-cent nacho would have surely precluded me from having the ability to drive backwards around a precise curve without also backing over the order box with my rear-fender.
Still embarrassed, I ordered the nachos, paid, and (blessedly) pulled forward to meet the anonymity of the pick-up window.
It was mortifying, but not so much so as to have made me abandon my craving. I dove into the nachos like they were my last nachos, ever -- and they very well may be, because I don't plan on going through that drive-thru again in this lifetime. (Thank heavens for dutiful husbands, though...)
To make myself feel better, I made my favorite homemade bread recipe for dinner that evening. The recipe I've made a couple of times a month for the past...year? The recipe I have memorized and cradled in my heart?
I made it wrong. I forgot the salt and oil. It was terrible.
To make myself feel better again, I thumped around the kitchen in search of lemons. Not lemons but lemon-flavored snacks. (Nachos to lemons in less than 12 hours...fickle.) To my poor, confused husband, I lamented: "I need lemons. Like...creamy lemons. Creamy, cold lemons. Creamy, cold, sweet lemons. Like, lemon sorbet. No! Lemon ice cream."
Ever helpful, Justin's eyes got bright. "Hey! Let's make some lemonade and freeze it until it gets slushy!"
I drew back in horror. "That sounds disgusting!!"
And then I burst into tears. He was only trying to help, and he was being so sweet, and he smelled so good, and I loved him SO VERY MUCH with a sudden FEROCITY that overwhelmed me...
It wasn't pretty. I sobbed and snotted and heaved.
Justin rushed out the door with a promise to fix me, and returned a few minutes later with a lemon cream-slush. I was still catching my breath and drying my eyes. The cream-slush was perfect in every way and I almost cried with joy and love and thankfulness.
And the meaning behind all of this hormonal incompetence?
I woke up this morning with complete sanity. Today is another day. As will tomorrow be. I'll get through this terror of widely-swinging cravings and hormonal shifts.
Plus, I found some nacho-cheese sauce at the grocery store.
We're seeing the Bigger Picture through simple moments -- moments that force us to stop and take notice of the ways our worlds are important, meaningful, and beautiful. Please join Hyacynth at Undercover Mother for more moments, and to share your own!
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