Well, It's Father's Day and it wouldn't be fair to have written a tribute to my mom for Mother's Day and then not have one for my dad.
My dad is like no other man on the planet.
NO other.
Be assured.
It's true.
My dad is creative, smart, funny and completely impossible to fully explain.
He can build something fantastic out of absolutely nothing, in a fashion that would make McGuyver look like a novice.
And he has.
His inventions are numerous.
One was an enclosure he welded to fit into the back of his Ford F250 truck that we all called the "cow cage."
It was what it sounds like it was.
It served many purposes.
One of which was to completely embarass me in high school in the times I was forced to drive that truck to school.
I can still hear the rattle of it as I drove over the speed bumps that led into student parking. Try being popular in a blue cow cage truck.
Try.
He invented a dog-pulled sled that was on wheels.
It was a contraption in the truest sense of the word. And it was fun on the beach.
We'd drive it out there, hook our two family dogs up to the harnesses and take off, gently pulling the hand brake if they got going too fast.
He welded and hammered and melted noxious chemicals on the kitchen stove at all hours of the night.
*Tink. Tink. Tink.*
He once build a canoe in the living room. He still has that canoe.
I learned to fall asleep to just about anything, including light flashes from the welder and banging against the anvil in the living room as he mounted a rivet on something or made designs in some leather item he was designing.
He was the best person to have in your circle when it was school project time, because even though I hated it at the time, he wanted it to be perfect.
Just so.
The Egyptian dioramma couldn't just have straight chop stick palm trees beside it, they had to be bent like REAL palm trees. So we steamed them. On the stove. At midnight.
We got an A.
Until the day she died, my fifth grade teacher held on to that dioramma as an example to all of what REAL chop stick palm trees looked like.
He fishes.
He camps.
He sews.
He rides horses.
He brought home unusual pets. This was heaven for a girl who loved every animal. This list of pets included, but was not limited to:
a skunk
a raccoon
a pair of chipmunks
a pot bellied pig
emus
ostriches
cats
dogs
a catfish named Smoky (That actually lived for YEARS in a fish tank in the dining room)
hostile chickens
rabbits
rats
and for awhile, we had pigeons until my brother forgot to feed them while my dad was gone on a trip and came home to a dozen dead pigeons.
He was strict.
There was a chunk of my life where he would measure my fingernails wiht a micrometer weekly because he didn't want me having long nails. It was too "hooker-y"
He thought he was funny. He'd call my boyfriends by the wrong name on purpose just to throw them off and make them question if I was seeing someone else.
He once switched out my toothpaste for hemhorroid cream and fell out of his chair laughing when I came out of the bathroom saying,
"Dad.....What did you DO?!"
because my mouth was numb and not so minty.
His medical practices included treating himself with horse medication which he always kept in the fridge next to the eggs, and soaking wounds in liquid bleach.
Amazingly.....They both worked.
He's had more near death experiences than I can count and it's almost dinner conversation now, with how used to it we all are.
"I was pinned under a tractor for 12 hours today while buzzards stood watch just waiting for me to die."
"Wow. You must be hungry. Can you pass the salt?"
My brother and I spend hours laughing our way through the memories of how he'd drink a slim fast , do 5 sit ups, and then follow that with a handfull of cookies and a nap.
Or the time he sent us out front with a box full of bread crumbs and told us to pluck all the snails from off the side of the house and put them in the box. He said he was going to cook them.
He said they were dinner.
He taught me to draw.
He taught me to work.
He also taught me to drive after my mom gave up on watching her life pass before her eyes.
He has always smelled like metal, wool, leather, rope and hard work.
He can draw out an invention on a napkin at lunch, complete with dimentions, and go home and knock it out in hours. Amazing. He once built a horse trailer that way.
He plays every instrument and is the type of guy that ALWAYS has on hand, in his truck, whatever it is you are looking for no matter where or when.
Need a paper cutter? Got it.
Bottled water? It's there.
Native American beading kit? Don't doubt it.
It's probably under the weed-whacker or the model ship kit.
We've had our moments of misunderstanding eachother -- As I became a teenager and he was....well....a dad.
But no matter what, I can always say that as complex as he sounds, I know just who he is.
He has never waivered.
Never made me question. I know where he stands and what he believes in, and one of those things he believes in is me.
I'll never ever forget him helping me pack up a truck with all of my belongings while he was still in his work clothes as I set off on my own - Moving out for the first time. He had tears in his eyes as he patted the hood and told me to come home for dinner soon because my "Mom would be missing me."
Now that I'm married, I watch as my husband comes in the door from work and immediately dons a pink tiarra if asked to, jumping in an instant from Costco Chic to Princess Perfect.
I see how the girls all look up to him and expect certain things from him and I see myself as a little girl, looking up to him -- this mystifying, amazing person.
I only hope that my daughters will one day look back on their childhoods with the same smiles and laughter.
I hope they'll compare notes about things their dad used to say and do and that they will get as much joy from their memories.
My dad wasn't perfect, but he did the most important thing you can do as a dad.
He showed up.
He stayed and worked at it.
So for every dad out there, hold your Slim Fast Shake to the sky and let's toast to Fatherhood.
Every anvil pounding minute of it.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Must be nice
I really need a vacation.
My muscles need it.
My brain needs it.
My de-pigmented body needs it.
Yesterday I found my third ever gray hair. Not a normal gray hair, either, but a curly short one located right on my temple that stuck out like a mini goat horn.
I promptly plucked out, even though the voices in my head told me not to.
I'm just not ready for that kind of nonsense.
I'm not ready to base my hair dye decisions on which one covers gray the best.
I like picking it just 'cause it's pretty.
I'm only 33 for goodness sake.
It's not that the gray hairs are a surprise, I guess.
I knew they'd come sooner or later.
I mean, the women in my family tree make it look more like a cotton plant than a tree.
I just felt like I was going to one day come out of this crazed state I've been in lately and find myself able to retrace my steps and find the old me in almost as good - if not AS good of shape as before.
Maybe with a few more laugh lines, but not gray headed, worry lined and in need of a tuck and a few medications.
I thought it was a phase I'd just pass through.
A phase of my eyes bulging out of my head as I yell things like, "We don't throw broccoli on the dog." and "Who put Daddy's toothbrush in the VCR?"
You know. THAT kind.
I realized today as I sopped up milk that Tessa had spilled all over the computer table (one of her daily destructions) that it was very likely that I would die there; sprawled beneath the computer table with my head tangled in wet, milky wires.
I thought, "Wouldn't it just be TYPICAL that I wouldn't even get a peaceful DEATH, but a milky wirey electrocution one.
The dog eating mouthfuls of the cat's food behind me.
The girls fighting over the Little People Corn Farmer in the background.
Probably no one would even notice I was gone for days.
They'd just wonder why their stomachs were growling.
It would be typical if it was something dramatic, because that's what every day is around here. Some crisis in need of being averted. Some mystery to figure out. Some lie to get to the bottom of.
(And no, Chloe, I don't believe that it was PHOEBE who sprayed Tessa's entire head - AGAIN - with the spray bottle.)
I'm just so TIRED lately.
The girls have been waking up 4 times a night, and when one isn't up you'd better believe the other one will wake her up.
It's a regular occurence to have two fussy, sleepy bodies climbing into our bed every night at 3:00.
Because, apparently, it is forbidden for me to rest for the entirety of my life.
Lastnight Justin asked me if I had to work watching Addy, my little daycare girl, today.
I told him yes, but that that was the only day this week that I had her.
To this he replied,
"Hmmmmm. Must be nice."
Yeah.
It's a regular Club Med around here.
I just spend all day laying around with cucumber slices on my eyes with an umbrella in my drink.
Must be nice.
Hmph.
And, Yes. We did get in a fight after that.
No one even has a clue what I do all day.
No one knows that I am never EVER ready to wake up when I wake up. That I drag myself out of bed to make breakfast for three very picky eaters, then spend every moment from then till bed time either cooking something, cleaning some sort of animal bodily fluid out of the carpet, doing laundry, breaking up a cage match, or planning what I WILL be cooking.
No appreciation for the thousands of socks I match, or the fact that they never have to go out without a decent hairstyle.
No real thanks for staying up till 10 hot glue gunning mini flower vases to a display board for a science project that is due the very next day. And no thank you for riding my bike in the rain to find the flowers that would go IN those vases.
It's draining. It's stressful.
It gives curly gray goat horn hairs at one's temple.
It's a good thing those darned kids are so cute.
God knew about this when He planned the whole child/parent thing.
He knew if they looked even the slightest bit off, they'd most likely be sold on ebay or traded for a good pair of Danskos.
I need a neck rub. A long one. Not one that is done while baseball is on and that stops for veeeeerrrrrryyyyyyy long pauses when a run is about to be batted in or a foul ball caught.
I need someone else to plan dinner. Not just for a night. For a good solid week.
And while they're at it, opening and closing the fridge pulling food out, they could maybe throw in the other hated chore - The packing of the school lunch.
The lunch that you will labor over and figure out how to make balanced, but then will open at the end of the school day to find mostly smashed and rotten in the bottom of the bag.
Then this is when I am expected to give the standard lecture about children in Africa (Why is it that they are always the example) who would walk for 6 hours to get that lunch, then share it with 4 other kids.
I'm tired of lecturing.
I'm tired of cleaning.
I'm tired of the dog puking from eating the cat food.
I'm tired of the screaming and the fighting over silly things like the corn farmer.
I just need a vacation.
Or at the very least a long hot bath with the door locked.
My muscles need it.
My brain needs it.
My de-pigmented body needs it.
Yesterday I found my third ever gray hair. Not a normal gray hair, either, but a curly short one located right on my temple that stuck out like a mini goat horn.
I promptly plucked out, even though the voices in my head told me not to.
I'm just not ready for that kind of nonsense.
I'm not ready to base my hair dye decisions on which one covers gray the best.
I like picking it just 'cause it's pretty.
I'm only 33 for goodness sake.
It's not that the gray hairs are a surprise, I guess.
I knew they'd come sooner or later.
I mean, the women in my family tree make it look more like a cotton plant than a tree.
I just felt like I was going to one day come out of this crazed state I've been in lately and find myself able to retrace my steps and find the old me in almost as good - if not AS good of shape as before.
Maybe with a few more laugh lines, but not gray headed, worry lined and in need of a tuck and a few medications.
I thought it was a phase I'd just pass through.
A phase of my eyes bulging out of my head as I yell things like, "We don't throw broccoli on the dog." and "Who put Daddy's toothbrush in the VCR?"
You know. THAT kind.
I realized today as I sopped up milk that Tessa had spilled all over the computer table (one of her daily destructions) that it was very likely that I would die there; sprawled beneath the computer table with my head tangled in wet, milky wires.
I thought, "Wouldn't it just be TYPICAL that I wouldn't even get a peaceful DEATH, but a milky wirey electrocution one.
The dog eating mouthfuls of the cat's food behind me.
The girls fighting over the Little People Corn Farmer in the background.
Probably no one would even notice I was gone for days.
They'd just wonder why their stomachs were growling.
It would be typical if it was something dramatic, because that's what every day is around here. Some crisis in need of being averted. Some mystery to figure out. Some lie to get to the bottom of.
(And no, Chloe, I don't believe that it was PHOEBE who sprayed Tessa's entire head - AGAIN - with the spray bottle.)
I'm just so TIRED lately.
The girls have been waking up 4 times a night, and when one isn't up you'd better believe the other one will wake her up.
It's a regular occurence to have two fussy, sleepy bodies climbing into our bed every night at 3:00.
Because, apparently, it is forbidden for me to rest for the entirety of my life.
Lastnight Justin asked me if I had to work watching Addy, my little daycare girl, today.
I told him yes, but that that was the only day this week that I had her.
To this he replied,
"Hmmmmm. Must be nice."
Yeah.
It's a regular Club Med around here.
I just spend all day laying around with cucumber slices on my eyes with an umbrella in my drink.
Must be nice.
Hmph.
And, Yes. We did get in a fight after that.
No one even has a clue what I do all day.
No one knows that I am never EVER ready to wake up when I wake up. That I drag myself out of bed to make breakfast for three very picky eaters, then spend every moment from then till bed time either cooking something, cleaning some sort of animal bodily fluid out of the carpet, doing laundry, breaking up a cage match, or planning what I WILL be cooking.
No appreciation for the thousands of socks I match, or the fact that they never have to go out without a decent hairstyle.
No real thanks for staying up till 10 hot glue gunning mini flower vases to a display board for a science project that is due the very next day. And no thank you for riding my bike in the rain to find the flowers that would go IN those vases.
It's draining. It's stressful.
It gives curly gray goat horn hairs at one's temple.
It's a good thing those darned kids are so cute.
God knew about this when He planned the whole child/parent thing.
He knew if they looked even the slightest bit off, they'd most likely be sold on ebay or traded for a good pair of Danskos.
I need a neck rub. A long one. Not one that is done while baseball is on and that stops for veeeeerrrrrryyyyyyy long pauses when a run is about to be batted in or a foul ball caught.
I need someone else to plan dinner. Not just for a night. For a good solid week.
And while they're at it, opening and closing the fridge pulling food out, they could maybe throw in the other hated chore - The packing of the school lunch.
The lunch that you will labor over and figure out how to make balanced, but then will open at the end of the school day to find mostly smashed and rotten in the bottom of the bag.
Then this is when I am expected to give the standard lecture about children in Africa (Why is it that they are always the example) who would walk for 6 hours to get that lunch, then share it with 4 other kids.
I'm tired of lecturing.
I'm tired of cleaning.
I'm tired of the dog puking from eating the cat food.
I'm tired of the screaming and the fighting over silly things like the corn farmer.
I just need a vacation.
Or at the very least a long hot bath with the door locked.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Motherhood: Secrets Revealed
Mom.
The name that evokes emotions and memories in us all.
When I think of my own mother, I smile with dozens of memories.
I remember how for most of my life I wanted one thing:
Flowing long hair.
I tied towels around my head, braided panty hose legs and begged that she would let me grow it.
Instead, my mother insisted on the next best thing:
The permed mullet.
I can still smell the scent of perm solution that burned my nostrils as I sat in a salon full of blue haired old women who had no idea that there was a difference between a regular perm and a SPIRAL.
It is the very reason I loathe my fifth grade picture.
I remember recognizing that she really DID love me as I saw the terror in her face when my dad forced us to try to recapture his panicked,running free ostrich and wrestle it to the ground on Easter Sunday.
Hunting for eggs was never the same.
It was supposed to be locked up.
Instead, it was loose and running around the field like it's head was on fire. We were dressed in our finest. I was completely freaked out.
My dad shouted, "Beware of the feet! One kick from an ostrich can kill a lion!"
My mom about passed out.
We won't even go into WHY we had an ostrich....
We laugh that every time we passed by the nearby dairy (Which was daily, because we lived around the corner.) she would slow the car to a crawl, look worriedly at some exhausted cow taking a nap in the afternoon sun and say with a concerned tone, "Is that cow....DEAD?!"
We now have concepts of "Is That Cow Dead?" paraphenalia.
Look for it in stores.
She taught me to drive, and made it out in one piece, even though I gave her whiplash trying to learn a clutch and she wore a hole in the floorboard doing her famous "air brake."
And she never met a piece of REALLY well done meat she didn't like.
The King House - Home of the Beef Chip.
I hid from her the piercings I gave myself in my bedroom with an apholstery needle and an ice cube, ------------and my diary.
She probably hid from ME the boarding school brochures I'm sure she was having mailed to her.
She taught me to be a mother - as she worked and sacrificed and pulled out her hair from the stress of raising a daughter who thought outside the box.
Her daughter who did crazy things that I don't dare mention.
We fought, we cried, we laughed, we rolled our eyes - But we always came back around to the part where we made up and said we were sorry.
She drove me to the mall, to youth group, to the doctor, to school and sometimes crazy.
That is, until she and my father decided I was trustworthy enough to drive a string of embarassing cars: The blue Ford F150 with the cattle cage welded on top, (Yes, it sounds like what it was.)
the Volvo that leaned to the right with the fluffs of fake sheepskin that would blow off into your mouth if you were unfortunate enough to sit in the back seat with the windows down. The Sentra with the 2 month old rotten bag of tomato juice hidden under the driver's seat.
She is the reason I wanted to be a mother - Because I saw in her that being a mother could be the greatest thing you could ever hope to do.
That it could make you happy in ways that you'd never be able to explain, and give you love that you didn't know existed.
She made me believe it was worth doing.
She's awesome.
Amazing woman. Talented. Generous. Friend to all. Nurturing. FABULOUS grandmother.
The "Woman for the job"
But along with these things I would also like to add to the list:
Keeper of Detrimental Secrets.
I have realized over the years that I have been a mother that there were SEVERAL things that my mom "forgot" to tell me.
I don't think it was really intentional. I don't think it was a diobolical plan to leave me wounded and left for dead.
"X"s for eyes.
It was simply LEFT OUT.
Therefore,
I have comprised a list of things that I feel are important for MY daughters to know, should they ever embark on the wonderful journey of motherhood.
_________________________________________________________________________________
1) The number of boogers you will be handed will FAR outnumber the number of fresh, hand-picked bouquets you will receive.
2) Children LOVE to poop first thing in the morning, so make sure if you are not NATURALLY a morning person, you prepare for this, because it will be the start to your day many days, whether you like it or not.
3) There will be hundreds of nights where you will sleep on the floor of your child's room praying their fever will break.
There will be as many times getting thrown up on, or poop under your nails.
But for every hundred of these situations, you will be allowed only one quarter of a sick day.
This quarter of a sick day must be taken while standing up and while stirring some sort of food that you will, in turn, feed the children.
You must never look as if you are resting. Resting is forbidden. Forever.
4) From now on, if you need quiet and concentration, you will be required to make all phone calls from a dark and closed closet.
Buy a headlamp.
You may need it for taking notes and messages.
Any more light than this will alert the kids as to where to find you.
Do this and you can kiss all appointment scheduling goodbye.
5) You will never gradually and calmly wake up again.
From the birth of your first child on, you will either be screamed awake, poked awake, have your eyelids pryed open, have something scary and oddly warm thrust into your hands, or wake to the sound of your name being chanted 30 times with the words, "I'm hungry." following.
6) From here on out, dinner out will mostly mean going to whatever restaurant gives balloons.
7) Every item of your clothing will now have a mystery stain.
At first you will care.
Then you won't.
8) Your favorite hairstyle will be whatever you can do in 30 seconds with one hand, because you will need the other hand free for keeping your toddler from throwing Daddy's toothbrush into the toilet.
9) All showering will be postponed until 2:00 pm,
or until further notice.
10)Your Seven jeans will be replaced with yoga pants.
11) You will soon scoff at couples who go out to late dinners and aren't even seated until 9:00.
I mean, don't they know that LOST is on?! **yawn**
12) You will plan everything, pack everything, double check everything, worry about everything, and run everything for EVERYONE and they will still probably love Daddy more.
13)You will spend every Mother's Day planning Father's Day.
14) With every subsequent pregnancy, you will lose more and more brain cells.
Go more than three and you will need help remembering things like cursive and your own state's capital.
There are more.
Oh.......
There are more.
But, alas, I lack the time to list them all.
I have more pressing things to do, like:
clean Nutella out of the carpet.
I guess it was probably better that she didn't tell me all these secrets.
Because then, when given the choice of marriage and family or singledom, It may have swayed the vote.
I may not have had my three beautiful girls and gotten to experience it for myself.
So for all the truths you taught me and even the ones you kept - Thanks, Mom. I love you.
You made motherhood seem like something I'd want to do some day.
I just hope I can do it as well as you did.
The name that evokes emotions and memories in us all.
When I think of my own mother, I smile with dozens of memories.
I remember how for most of my life I wanted one thing:
Flowing long hair.
I tied towels around my head, braided panty hose legs and begged that she would let me grow it.
Instead, my mother insisted on the next best thing:
The permed mullet.
I can still smell the scent of perm solution that burned my nostrils as I sat in a salon full of blue haired old women who had no idea that there was a difference between a regular perm and a SPIRAL.
It is the very reason I loathe my fifth grade picture.
I remember recognizing that she really DID love me as I saw the terror in her face when my dad forced us to try to recapture his panicked,running free ostrich and wrestle it to the ground on Easter Sunday.
Hunting for eggs was never the same.
It was supposed to be locked up.
Instead, it was loose and running around the field like it's head was on fire. We were dressed in our finest. I was completely freaked out.
My dad shouted, "Beware of the feet! One kick from an ostrich can kill a lion!"
My mom about passed out.
We won't even go into WHY we had an ostrich....
We laugh that every time we passed by the nearby dairy (Which was daily, because we lived around the corner.) she would slow the car to a crawl, look worriedly at some exhausted cow taking a nap in the afternoon sun and say with a concerned tone, "Is that cow....DEAD?!"
We now have concepts of "Is That Cow Dead?" paraphenalia.
Look for it in stores.
She taught me to drive, and made it out in one piece, even though I gave her whiplash trying to learn a clutch and she wore a hole in the floorboard doing her famous "air brake."
And she never met a piece of REALLY well done meat she didn't like.
The King House - Home of the Beef Chip.
I hid from her the piercings I gave myself in my bedroom with an apholstery needle and an ice cube, ------------and my diary.
She probably hid from ME the boarding school brochures I'm sure she was having mailed to her.
She taught me to be a mother - as she worked and sacrificed and pulled out her hair from the stress of raising a daughter who thought outside the box.
Her daughter who did crazy things that I don't dare mention.
We fought, we cried, we laughed, we rolled our eyes - But we always came back around to the part where we made up and said we were sorry.
She drove me to the mall, to youth group, to the doctor, to school and sometimes crazy.
That is, until she and my father decided I was trustworthy enough to drive a string of embarassing cars: The blue Ford F150 with the cattle cage welded on top, (Yes, it sounds like what it was.)
the Volvo that leaned to the right with the fluffs of fake sheepskin that would blow off into your mouth if you were unfortunate enough to sit in the back seat with the windows down. The Sentra with the 2 month old rotten bag of tomato juice hidden under the driver's seat.
She is the reason I wanted to be a mother - Because I saw in her that being a mother could be the greatest thing you could ever hope to do.
That it could make you happy in ways that you'd never be able to explain, and give you love that you didn't know existed.
She made me believe it was worth doing.
She's awesome.
Amazing woman. Talented. Generous. Friend to all. Nurturing. FABULOUS grandmother.
The "Woman for the job"
But along with these things I would also like to add to the list:
Keeper of Detrimental Secrets.
I have realized over the years that I have been a mother that there were SEVERAL things that my mom "forgot" to tell me.
I don't think it was really intentional. I don't think it was a diobolical plan to leave me wounded and left for dead.
"X"s for eyes.
It was simply LEFT OUT.
Therefore,
I have comprised a list of things that I feel are important for MY daughters to know, should they ever embark on the wonderful journey of motherhood.
_________________________________________________________________________________
1) The number of boogers you will be handed will FAR outnumber the number of fresh, hand-picked bouquets you will receive.
2) Children LOVE to poop first thing in the morning, so make sure if you are not NATURALLY a morning person, you prepare for this, because it will be the start to your day many days, whether you like it or not.
3) There will be hundreds of nights where you will sleep on the floor of your child's room praying their fever will break.
There will be as many times getting thrown up on, or poop under your nails.
But for every hundred of these situations, you will be allowed only one quarter of a sick day.
This quarter of a sick day must be taken while standing up and while stirring some sort of food that you will, in turn, feed the children.
You must never look as if you are resting. Resting is forbidden. Forever.
4) From now on, if you need quiet and concentration, you will be required to make all phone calls from a dark and closed closet.
Buy a headlamp.
You may need it for taking notes and messages.
Any more light than this will alert the kids as to where to find you.
Do this and you can kiss all appointment scheduling goodbye.
5) You will never gradually and calmly wake up again.
From the birth of your first child on, you will either be screamed awake, poked awake, have your eyelids pryed open, have something scary and oddly warm thrust into your hands, or wake to the sound of your name being chanted 30 times with the words, "I'm hungry." following.
6) From here on out, dinner out will mostly mean going to whatever restaurant gives balloons.
7) Every item of your clothing will now have a mystery stain.
At first you will care.
Then you won't.
8) Your favorite hairstyle will be whatever you can do in 30 seconds with one hand, because you will need the other hand free for keeping your toddler from throwing Daddy's toothbrush into the toilet.
9) All showering will be postponed until 2:00 pm,
or until further notice.
10)Your Seven jeans will be replaced with yoga pants.
11) You will soon scoff at couples who go out to late dinners and aren't even seated until 9:00.
I mean, don't they know that LOST is on?! **yawn**
12) You will plan everything, pack everything, double check everything, worry about everything, and run everything for EVERYONE and they will still probably love Daddy more.
13)You will spend every Mother's Day planning Father's Day.
14) With every subsequent pregnancy, you will lose more and more brain cells.
Go more than three and you will need help remembering things like cursive and your own state's capital.
There are more.
Oh.......
There are more.
But, alas, I lack the time to list them all.
I have more pressing things to do, like:
clean Nutella out of the carpet.
I guess it was probably better that she didn't tell me all these secrets.
Because then, when given the choice of marriage and family or singledom, It may have swayed the vote.
I may not have had my three beautiful girls and gotten to experience it for myself.
So for all the truths you taught me and even the ones you kept - Thanks, Mom. I love you.
You made motherhood seem like something I'd want to do some day.
I just hope I can do it as well as you did.
Friday, April 9, 2010
The Greenest Grass
To the lovely couple sitting next to us at Flavor tonight who were clearly on their first date, I have one thing to say: May we serve as a lesson to you.
After about 4 changes of plans for tonight, we ended up going out to dinner WITH the kids.
We were supposed to be in Sausalito, overlooking the bay, catching up with old friends. Laughing. Clinking glasses.
All was well and good until we had to wait for our food - Something the kids are not used to. (And if anyone has seen them, they know this is true.)
Tessa started to climb out of her high chair, shouting, "Down! Down! Get down!" and Chloe laid in the booth crying that she'd lost her band aid and her ankle (which is actually her knuckle) hurt "weally WEALLY BAD and it's bweeding SO MUCH!" (In actuality this was a very small scrape on her big toe that had happened hours ago and barely bled at the time, but somehow became her entire focus of the day.)
I asked Justin to take Tessa ouside while we waited and walk her around so she didn't ruin the dinner of all those who dined around us.
He did.
Begrudgingly.
While he did this, I consoled a distraught Chloe and told her we would dress her foot wound as soon as we were done eating.
The waiter brought crayons.
She was happy again.
I believe my children may be bi-polar.
As soon as the food did come, Chloe - Very recently potty trained - told me she needed to go - ALSO "Weally weally bad."
I took her in and you would have thought it was Disneyland with how excited she was.
She took one look at the 15 varying rolls of toilet paper on the wall, sitting on the hand rail, and scattered all around the floor and shouted out, "Oh Mommy! I wuv this place! Look at all the toilet paper you have to choose from!"
After all, it IS all about choices.
When I returned to the table, Tessa had turned her cup into an impromptu shape sorter and was shoving crayons and ciabatta bread into the straw hole.
The only thing that would make her stop crying from me taking that away was giving her a fork to try out.
This, she loved. There was fish flying and ketchup being flung about. By the end of it all, our table looked like a war zone.
As I wrote out my S.O.S. message in crayon on a napkin, I also eavesdropped in on the first-date couple next to us and all their small talk.
He talked about some Mexican dish he makes, She picked from the wine list. They laughed nervously at things that weren't even that funny.
Then I looked back at Justin and we smiled at eachother knowingly.
In the midst of our chaos, it felt so good to know we were past that part.
They might just look at us and think how worn we looked or how hectic it seemed, but really, we know better.
I would have never even thought twice about how fantastic a wide array of toilet paper roll choices are on my own.
And forks ARE fun.
We left the restaurant and let the kids play in the fountain downtown for a few minutes. We walked past a polka band playing in the street. Chloe did a jig. Tessa snuck more fries from the to-go container.
I realized as I looked longingly at couples quietly eating calm, peaceful meals, that all eyes were on us.
Those couples whos zen dinners I'd envied were nudging eachother and pointing at the girls with smiles on their faces. People were stopping and watching Chloe dance.
Maybe some of them even wished they were sitting at the table with the ciabatta/water shape sorter. Afterall, it WAS innovation at its best.
It's so easy to spend life looking longingly at what you don't have.
When I was single, I wanted a dark, handsome man. Now that I have it, I need to be reminded of that in the times when he's making comments about me needing a retaining wall to hold the clothes piled high on my dresser, or I'm mad that he took my Greek yogurt in his lunch.
When we were trying to get pregnant with Chloe, Every baby made me want to cry and bathe myself in baby bubble bath.
I need to remember that when I'm dragging the girls across the grass at the park headed back for the van because the two little ones are screaming and Alena's in some sort of hormonal melt down.(A scene that ALSO happened today)
Sometimes going out sounds so nice. All dressed up. Clothes free of dried snot.
I fondly remember group bbqs and staying out till 3:00. But then, all I wanted was what I have right now - Chubby, sticky, ketchup fingers patting on my arm at dinner.
I WANTED to be wrapping a barely cut toe in a Barbie band-aid.
I guess my point is - Be happy with what you have when you have it. Whatever it is. Because it is constantly changing.
I need to remember that though they be flinging food and writhing around, at least they are eating dinner with us. All too soon, they'll be off to the mall with their friends eating giant pretzels for dinner.
At least french fries are KIND OF made from a vegetable.
Soon this will all be over and I'll be sitting with Justin in some restaurant alone, nudging him to watch someone else's toddler dance by the fountain and I'll be sad that it all went by so fast.
The grass isn't always greener.
Sometimes the greenest grass is right under your feet.
After about 4 changes of plans for tonight, we ended up going out to dinner WITH the kids.
We were supposed to be in Sausalito, overlooking the bay, catching up with old friends. Laughing. Clinking glasses.
All was well and good until we had to wait for our food - Something the kids are not used to. (And if anyone has seen them, they know this is true.)
Tessa started to climb out of her high chair, shouting, "Down! Down! Get down!" and Chloe laid in the booth crying that she'd lost her band aid and her ankle (which is actually her knuckle) hurt "weally WEALLY BAD and it's bweeding SO MUCH!" (In actuality this was a very small scrape on her big toe that had happened hours ago and barely bled at the time, but somehow became her entire focus of the day.)
I asked Justin to take Tessa ouside while we waited and walk her around so she didn't ruin the dinner of all those who dined around us.
He did.
Begrudgingly.
While he did this, I consoled a distraught Chloe and told her we would dress her foot wound as soon as we were done eating.
The waiter brought crayons.
She was happy again.
I believe my children may be bi-polar.
As soon as the food did come, Chloe - Very recently potty trained - told me she needed to go - ALSO "Weally weally bad."
I took her in and you would have thought it was Disneyland with how excited she was.
She took one look at the 15 varying rolls of toilet paper on the wall, sitting on the hand rail, and scattered all around the floor and shouted out, "Oh Mommy! I wuv this place! Look at all the toilet paper you have to choose from!"
After all, it IS all about choices.
When I returned to the table, Tessa had turned her cup into an impromptu shape sorter and was shoving crayons and ciabatta bread into the straw hole.
The only thing that would make her stop crying from me taking that away was giving her a fork to try out.
This, she loved. There was fish flying and ketchup being flung about. By the end of it all, our table looked like a war zone.
As I wrote out my S.O.S. message in crayon on a napkin, I also eavesdropped in on the first-date couple next to us and all their small talk.
He talked about some Mexican dish he makes, She picked from the wine list. They laughed nervously at things that weren't even that funny.
Then I looked back at Justin and we smiled at eachother knowingly.
In the midst of our chaos, it felt so good to know we were past that part.
They might just look at us and think how worn we looked or how hectic it seemed, but really, we know better.
I would have never even thought twice about how fantastic a wide array of toilet paper roll choices are on my own.
And forks ARE fun.
We left the restaurant and let the kids play in the fountain downtown for a few minutes. We walked past a polka band playing in the street. Chloe did a jig. Tessa snuck more fries from the to-go container.
I realized as I looked longingly at couples quietly eating calm, peaceful meals, that all eyes were on us.
Those couples whos zen dinners I'd envied were nudging eachother and pointing at the girls with smiles on their faces. People were stopping and watching Chloe dance.
Maybe some of them even wished they were sitting at the table with the ciabatta/water shape sorter. Afterall, it WAS innovation at its best.
It's so easy to spend life looking longingly at what you don't have.
When I was single, I wanted a dark, handsome man. Now that I have it, I need to be reminded of that in the times when he's making comments about me needing a retaining wall to hold the clothes piled high on my dresser, or I'm mad that he took my Greek yogurt in his lunch.
When we were trying to get pregnant with Chloe, Every baby made me want to cry and bathe myself in baby bubble bath.
I need to remember that when I'm dragging the girls across the grass at the park headed back for the van because the two little ones are screaming and Alena's in some sort of hormonal melt down.(A scene that ALSO happened today)
Sometimes going out sounds so nice. All dressed up. Clothes free of dried snot.
I fondly remember group bbqs and staying out till 3:00. But then, all I wanted was what I have right now - Chubby, sticky, ketchup fingers patting on my arm at dinner.
I WANTED to be wrapping a barely cut toe in a Barbie band-aid.
I guess my point is - Be happy with what you have when you have it. Whatever it is. Because it is constantly changing.
I need to remember that though they be flinging food and writhing around, at least they are eating dinner with us. All too soon, they'll be off to the mall with their friends eating giant pretzels for dinner.
At least french fries are KIND OF made from a vegetable.
Soon this will all be over and I'll be sitting with Justin in some restaurant alone, nudging him to watch someone else's toddler dance by the fountain and I'll be sad that it all went by so fast.
The grass isn't always greener.
Sometimes the greenest grass is right under your feet.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
We're all sick.
Again.
It's been never ending this season.
If I'm not popping a couple Advil myself, I'm wiping my 50th snotty nose of the day, or wrestling a child, WWF style, to the floor to administer some form of medication.
It hasn't been fun.
And with every one else, it's alright - Pretty much your run of the mill sick behavior - teary, tired, lethargic behavior.
But not with Chloe.
Healthy Chloe is a force to be reckoned with, but she holds no measure to Sick Chloe.
My hands shake as I even type the words....
When Chloe is sick, we all go into survival mode.
We shout out orders for more tissues from the top of the stairs like army seargeants. We crawl on our bellies with Tylenol bottles in our mouths and water sippies cupped in our hands to avoid the things that are probably being thrown or are spontaneously combusting around us. There are noises you've never heard and veins you never knew you had that will appear on your forehead.
It becomes a war zone. We wear helmets and hasmat suits.
The worst of all is that she cannot handle the feeling of her nose even STARTING to run. This means that every 5 seconds, she puts on a petrified expression and shouts, "Mama! Mama! I NEED A TISSUE!!!!!!" to which I respond by wiping NOTHING and then repeating all of that again in just a few seconds.
We've tried responding calmly that it doesn't appear her nose is running, but that only brings on writhing and crying and wringing of her hands with screams of,
"I can't do it myseeeeeeeellllllllf! PLEASE! Heeeelllllllllllllllp meeeeeeeeee."
She becomes demanding, telling us what we "have" to do and saying things like, "I just can't eat my dinner. I'm in too much pain."
Yeah.
True story.
We rolled our eyes, too.
Besides all this, we've been majorly cooped up. I feel like this old house cat I used to housesit for named Chelsey. Chelsey wasn't ever let out and would sit at the cracked window for hours with her nose pressed against the screen just trying to at least breathe some fresh air. The owner would always warn,
"Don't open the door too wide. Chelsey will bolt."
I feel Chelsey's pain.
The other day I got out for two glorious hours with my mom to do some shopping and I felt like I was in a musical where birds sing along to your tune and there's dancing in the streets.
Where random street vendors hand you fresh bouquets without expecting payment.
But then I returned to mayhem.
Justin's eyes were bugging out of his head and as I opened the door I immediately heard Chloe yelling, "Daddy!!!! I need my nose wiped!!!"
"I'm coming!" he said.
Then he fake cried for a minute.
At this moment, the dog spun by.
And poor Alena, with all of her pre-teenness just asks to go to her room a lot and has begun locking the bathroom door to get just a minute of peace.
Sometimes I want to ask if I can come in there with her and maybe we could just sit and fiddle with bath toys and plot our escape.
The other day we climbed into her bed together and a few seconds later heard Chloe approaching and my first instinct was to say, "hide." or pretend to be asleep as if I were 5. I just didn't want to get up and get a tissue.
Justin has spent all his days off helping take care of the girls and me. He doesn't do well with being confined, though. It's never long before the need for a project takes over. He needs some way of physically working out his stress.
This time that need worked itself out in the way of him completely ripping out all the plants in the back yard while I wasn't looking. He says he's going to expand it so there's more room for the kids to play. This is a great idea, actually, at least in theory - I just was surprised to one minute gaze out the slider to my back yard and it's full, soft Heather and climbing potato vines, and then the next, look out and see this:
But - I have chosen to trust. Trust and hope this is not a repeat of what we now call "The Cafe Door Incident"
I don't even think I need to explain.
He reminded me that I get the indoors as my domain, and he gets the outside.
Right about now, I'm not so sure I WANT the indoors to be my domain.
I'm just hoping all this sickness means we'll have a really healthy summer. I need to believe that. I'm actually clinging to that hope for dear life.
I've just got to get out.
My skin is starting to look pale and ashen from lack of sun like I'm some sort of mole person. Even my fabulous Neutrogena 3 in 1 under eye conceiler is struggling to conceil what I've got going on.
I wouldn't trade it, though. Not even for the days of sleeping in until noon.
To coin John and Kate: It might be a crazy life, but it's our life.
Now, if you'll excuse me - I have a nose to wipe.
Again.
It's been never ending this season.
If I'm not popping a couple Advil myself, I'm wiping my 50th snotty nose of the day, or wrestling a child, WWF style, to the floor to administer some form of medication.
It hasn't been fun.
And with every one else, it's alright - Pretty much your run of the mill sick behavior - teary, tired, lethargic behavior.
But not with Chloe.
Healthy Chloe is a force to be reckoned with, but she holds no measure to Sick Chloe.
My hands shake as I even type the words....
When Chloe is sick, we all go into survival mode.
We shout out orders for more tissues from the top of the stairs like army seargeants. We crawl on our bellies with Tylenol bottles in our mouths and water sippies cupped in our hands to avoid the things that are probably being thrown or are spontaneously combusting around us. There are noises you've never heard and veins you never knew you had that will appear on your forehead.
It becomes a war zone. We wear helmets and hasmat suits.
The worst of all is that she cannot handle the feeling of her nose even STARTING to run. This means that every 5 seconds, she puts on a petrified expression and shouts, "Mama! Mama! I NEED A TISSUE!!!!!!" to which I respond by wiping NOTHING and then repeating all of that again in just a few seconds.
We've tried responding calmly that it doesn't appear her nose is running, but that only brings on writhing and crying and wringing of her hands with screams of,
"I can't do it myseeeeeeeellllllllf! PLEASE! Heeeelllllllllllllllp meeeeeeeeee."
She becomes demanding, telling us what we "have" to do and saying things like, "I just can't eat my dinner. I'm in too much pain."
Yeah.
True story.
We rolled our eyes, too.
Besides all this, we've been majorly cooped up. I feel like this old house cat I used to housesit for named Chelsey. Chelsey wasn't ever let out and would sit at the cracked window for hours with her nose pressed against the screen just trying to at least breathe some fresh air. The owner would always warn,
"Don't open the door too wide. Chelsey will bolt."
I feel Chelsey's pain.
The other day I got out for two glorious hours with my mom to do some shopping and I felt like I was in a musical where birds sing along to your tune and there's dancing in the streets.
Where random street vendors hand you fresh bouquets without expecting payment.
But then I returned to mayhem.
Justin's eyes were bugging out of his head and as I opened the door I immediately heard Chloe yelling, "Daddy!!!! I need my nose wiped!!!"
"I'm coming!" he said.
Then he fake cried for a minute.
At this moment, the dog spun by.
And poor Alena, with all of her pre-teenness just asks to go to her room a lot and has begun locking the bathroom door to get just a minute of peace.
Sometimes I want to ask if I can come in there with her and maybe we could just sit and fiddle with bath toys and plot our escape.
The other day we climbed into her bed together and a few seconds later heard Chloe approaching and my first instinct was to say, "hide." or pretend to be asleep as if I were 5. I just didn't want to get up and get a tissue.
Justin has spent all his days off helping take care of the girls and me. He doesn't do well with being confined, though. It's never long before the need for a project takes over. He needs some way of physically working out his stress.
This time that need worked itself out in the way of him completely ripping out all the plants in the back yard while I wasn't looking. He says he's going to expand it so there's more room for the kids to play. This is a great idea, actually, at least in theory - I just was surprised to one minute gaze out the slider to my back yard and it's full, soft Heather and climbing potato vines, and then the next, look out and see this:
But - I have chosen to trust. Trust and hope this is not a repeat of what we now call "The Cafe Door Incident"
I don't even think I need to explain.
He reminded me that I get the indoors as my domain, and he gets the outside.
Right about now, I'm not so sure I WANT the indoors to be my domain.
I'm just hoping all this sickness means we'll have a really healthy summer. I need to believe that. I'm actually clinging to that hope for dear life.
I've just got to get out.
My skin is starting to look pale and ashen from lack of sun like I'm some sort of mole person. Even my fabulous Neutrogena 3 in 1 under eye conceiler is struggling to conceil what I've got going on.
I wouldn't trade it, though. Not even for the days of sleeping in until noon.
To coin John and Kate: It might be a crazy life, but it's our life.
Now, if you'll excuse me - I have a nose to wipe.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Rejoining the Land of the Living
Yeesh.
What a crazy last couple of weeks.
I have concocted a theory that my body rejected peace and quiet and alone time like a donor organ because the day following my much touted "Kerri Day" began the worst two weeks of my life.
It started with a headache that spread into the world's most painful double outer ear infection. I have never been in so much pain. Never. I wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy - or even John Lithgow.
I would honestly rather be strung upside down and whipped WHILE in labor with twins than ever go through that again.
The ear infection led to cellulitus in my face and neck and my ears swelling shut completely - so much so that they had to insert a wick to get the medication in. I know. It's gross. I could have been a TLC special.
"Woman Without Ears"
I spent a solid two weeks bed ridden with a heating pad on one side of my head while ear drops soaked in the other.
After starting page 3 of my medications spreadsheet, I realized that this is what it would feel like to be 80 years old. I can tell you, it's not fun.
Golden years, they are not. They're more of a mustard yellow.
At the height of my misery, I spent over an hour in Memorial Hospital's ER on one of the busiest nights they've ever had. They had just had 4 helicopters land and it was apparently a bum sleepover.
I finally decided to go to Community Hospital's ER instead after watching one lady dry heave for an hour, then ask to bum a smoke.
It was just too much to bear that AND to sit next to a shifty-eyed gangster who suspiciously wouldn't take his right hand out of the waist of his coat.
I'd rather die of an ear infection than a gun shot.
Commmunity wasn't much better, though it was empty. The check in window was fogged over. The nurse had zebra nails. They had a dot-matrix printer. I think they made my hospital bracelet out of dry noodles and scotch tape.
I really realized why it was empty when they walked me down the hallway to my room (Which hadn't been cleaned from the previous patient) and noted the mint green tile walls.
**NOTE: Mint green tile walls are never a good sign. The only times I can recall seeing mint green tile walls are in movies that involve
a)zombies, b)serial killers, c)haunted, empty hospitals of torture.**
They did give me good meds there.I didn't even know Advil came in 800mgs.
This was helpful to drown out the blood curdling screams of the lady down the hall who was being brought in by an army of cops while she shouted, "They busted my ******* face with a ******* flashlight!"
Nice.
The nurse felt it time to tell me that this was the hospital for the mental institution and the county jail.
I was really glad to go home.
So, in the days following, I have been seeing a specialist. Thank goodness. He has helped me immensely. I have nothing but praise for him. The only comical thing about him, though, is that he REALLY wears one of those headbands with the big metalic circle thing that I've only ever seen cartoon doctors wear. I didn't even know they were real.
They are.
So now, after 7 prescriptions, 3 trips to the doctor, one trip to urgent care, 2 different ERs, 3 trips to the specialist and 2 weeks worth bed rest...I'm proud to say I'm rejoining the land of the living. Slowly.
It's a good thing because I was teetering dangerously close to looking like Shrek.
I'm glad that I know for a fact that should I ever become seriously ill and NOT be able to take care of myself, I can count on my BFF Lisa to fly to the U.S. just to do things like pluck unruly hairs and keep my legs shaved. I'll never be fully let go. It's important to have an "In-case-of-emergency-Plucker" in your life.
So yesterday I got a haircut, I painted my nails, and I put on the ever important under-eye-conceiler.
I'm practically as good as new.
I still can't hear out of my right ear all the way, but I'm trying to figure out why that might not just be a GOOD thing. I can't hear my name being called a hundred times. I can't hear Chloe shouting, "NO TESSA!" I can't hear the alarm. I can't hear the phone call that will tell me that my car warranty is about to expire.
All good as far as I can tell.
And I learned that the family really CAN do things on their own. I don't have to cook every dinner for them to survive. The world will not crumble if Mommy needs a nap.
They all pulled together and got stuff done. My mom and Justin were champions.
Life can go on without Mommy there to do it all every second of the day. That's a lesson I really did need to learn. It's the knowledge I'd eluded for so long that had driven the original Kerri Day to be so needed.
This tells me another Kerri Day may be just around the corner. And a well deserved one at that.
What a crazy last couple of weeks.
I have concocted a theory that my body rejected peace and quiet and alone time like a donor organ because the day following my much touted "Kerri Day" began the worst two weeks of my life.
It started with a headache that spread into the world's most painful double outer ear infection. I have never been in so much pain. Never. I wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy - or even John Lithgow.
I would honestly rather be strung upside down and whipped WHILE in labor with twins than ever go through that again.
The ear infection led to cellulitus in my face and neck and my ears swelling shut completely - so much so that they had to insert a wick to get the medication in. I know. It's gross. I could have been a TLC special.
"Woman Without Ears"
I spent a solid two weeks bed ridden with a heating pad on one side of my head while ear drops soaked in the other.
After starting page 3 of my medications spreadsheet, I realized that this is what it would feel like to be 80 years old. I can tell you, it's not fun.
Golden years, they are not. They're more of a mustard yellow.
At the height of my misery, I spent over an hour in Memorial Hospital's ER on one of the busiest nights they've ever had. They had just had 4 helicopters land and it was apparently a bum sleepover.
I finally decided to go to Community Hospital's ER instead after watching one lady dry heave for an hour, then ask to bum a smoke.
It was just too much to bear that AND to sit next to a shifty-eyed gangster who suspiciously wouldn't take his right hand out of the waist of his coat.
I'd rather die of an ear infection than a gun shot.
Commmunity wasn't much better, though it was empty. The check in window was fogged over. The nurse had zebra nails. They had a dot-matrix printer. I think they made my hospital bracelet out of dry noodles and scotch tape.
I really realized why it was empty when they walked me down the hallway to my room (Which hadn't been cleaned from the previous patient) and noted the mint green tile walls.
**NOTE: Mint green tile walls are never a good sign. The only times I can recall seeing mint green tile walls are in movies that involve
a)zombies, b)serial killers, c)haunted, empty hospitals of torture.**
They did give me good meds there.I didn't even know Advil came in 800mgs.
This was helpful to drown out the blood curdling screams of the lady down the hall who was being brought in by an army of cops while she shouted, "They busted my ******* face with a ******* flashlight!"
Nice.
The nurse felt it time to tell me that this was the hospital for the mental institution and the county jail.
I was really glad to go home.
So, in the days following, I have been seeing a specialist. Thank goodness. He has helped me immensely. I have nothing but praise for him. The only comical thing about him, though, is that he REALLY wears one of those headbands with the big metalic circle thing that I've only ever seen cartoon doctors wear. I didn't even know they were real.
They are.
So now, after 7 prescriptions, 3 trips to the doctor, one trip to urgent care, 2 different ERs, 3 trips to the specialist and 2 weeks worth bed rest...I'm proud to say I'm rejoining the land of the living. Slowly.
It's a good thing because I was teetering dangerously close to looking like Shrek.
I'm glad that I know for a fact that should I ever become seriously ill and NOT be able to take care of myself, I can count on my BFF Lisa to fly to the U.S. just to do things like pluck unruly hairs and keep my legs shaved. I'll never be fully let go. It's important to have an "In-case-of-emergency-Plucker" in your life.
So yesterday I got a haircut, I painted my nails, and I put on the ever important under-eye-conceiler.
I'm practically as good as new.
I still can't hear out of my right ear all the way, but I'm trying to figure out why that might not just be a GOOD thing. I can't hear my name being called a hundred times. I can't hear Chloe shouting, "NO TESSA!" I can't hear the alarm. I can't hear the phone call that will tell me that my car warranty is about to expire.
All good as far as I can tell.
And I learned that the family really CAN do things on their own. I don't have to cook every dinner for them to survive. The world will not crumble if Mommy needs a nap.
They all pulled together and got stuff done. My mom and Justin were champions.
Life can go on without Mommy there to do it all every second of the day. That's a lesson I really did need to learn. It's the knowledge I'd eluded for so long that had driven the original Kerri Day to be so needed.
This tells me another Kerri Day may be just around the corner. And a well deserved one at that.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
pirouettes and puffy eyes
Well, we started out this glorious day with a bang.
Literally.
It must have been some sort of transformer outside, because the power was out and when we called PG&E, they told us that it was most likely not going to be back on for about 5+ hours. Awesome. I had to get ready for the day and didn't know how I'd do it. We don't realize how much we rely on power.
The main thing I noticed was how gravely I had taken my blow drier for granted. I was able to take a shower, but not much can be said for the makeup job I did in the dark or the hairstyle I settled on.
What was funny was that when I see a woman out in public with the hair I had today, I judge them.
I shouldn't, but I do. I think, "The wet look went out in the early 90's. Time to get a copy of InStyle and soak it in."
Today, that woman was me. Don't be so quick to judge. Lesson learned.
I piled the kids in the car in my typical manner of making myself into a human pack mule, carrying 2 bags, a travel mug, someone's leftover breakfast, A change of clothes for Chloe, Tessa's bottle, and the Two Ton Toddler herself. In one load.
I rolled up the garage door by hand and was on my way to Chloe's first real ballet class.
I was mentally trying to shake off the hectic feel from the morning and was looking forward to seeing the dancing. Hearing the laughing. The soft, sweet music. The sound of small feet on the wooden floors.
I had filled out the papers, gotten her all dressed up - hair in buns and all - and she was yammering on and on about how she was going to be SO beautiful and she was going to "dance like a princess". She'd talked about ballet for months.
We were all excited.
Afterall, it's not just ANY activity that gets me out of the house alone with three girls before 10:00.
(My friend Angie will tell you this is true, as she can attest to the fact that she has dropped by on MORE than one occasion to find me still in pajamas at noon with at least one child wearing only a diaper.)
We got there, rushed in, payed the money, took Chloe to the door and she REFUSED to go in.
I finally convinced her after some prodding, but even that only lasted about 5 minutes, and then she came running out bawling, telling me she didn't want to do ballet because,
"It's too stinky in that room."
I looked at Alena as if to say, "Can you BELIEVE this?" only to have Alena respond,
"It's true. It smells gross."
Oh LORD give me strength to raise three daughters....
So, I went to get my possibly non refundable money back for the class and the costume and the registration as several other parents looked on me with pity in their eyes only to turn back around and find Chloe had apparently recovered from her olifactory abominations and was pirouetting around the entry way without a care in the world.
It figures.
Oh well. This means we have time to go shopping. (With the children)
What was I thinking?!
I wish I would have called to memory the fact that the only way a person can shop with Chloe is if they have a good 6 hours to spare. Chloe is the s l o w e s t walker. Ever.
You will spend half your day looking behind you and telling her, "Chloe PLEASE come ON!" but when she sees you stop and turn, she will stop dead in her tracks to maintain her distance.
She should have been born in Iran, I guess. She would eat it up if it was MANDATED that she walk behind.
Add to this that while you are busy looking behind you at Chloe, Tessa will no doubtedly be pulling everything off of every rack as you walk by without you knowing and either eating it or hiding it.
I have had to send Alena back in to more stores than I can count because I find that Tessa shoplifted some item and stashed it in the stroller under her thighs. (A great hiding space if you're in the 120th percentile)
I just feel like we cause a scene everywhere we go.
Tessa's screaming and writhing, trying to escape. Chloe's still back at the CAR, practically.
And did I mention it was an outdoor mall, because then it started to rain. Hard.
WHY do I even try to do this? Why didn't I just do what I usually do and stay HOME for three days in a row not even going out to get the mail?
Now picture me, with my scary done-in-the-dark mascara running down my face, my hairstyle that I won't even bother describing, darting from store to store like a maniac just wishing for ONE moment where I can try something on for myself while simultaneously pushing Tessa and yelling for Chloe.
This is not the shopping days of yore.
I remember a time when I could shop for hours. When I didn't feel like I was on some sort of speed date with myself. A time when I didn't glance at my reflexion in the window of a store I passed and for a second think I saw Christopher Lloyd before I realized it was ME, wild eyed and frizz headed.
Ahhhhh.
I need a babysitter, a couple hundred bucks and a deep tissue massage.
And maybe one of those multi-strand necklaces I've had my eye on just for the icing on top...
Because we all know a mommy sitting rocking in the corner and drooling on herself is no good to anyone. And besides....Who would make dinner?
Literally.
It must have been some sort of transformer outside, because the power was out and when we called PG&E, they told us that it was most likely not going to be back on for about 5+ hours. Awesome. I had to get ready for the day and didn't know how I'd do it. We don't realize how much we rely on power.
The main thing I noticed was how gravely I had taken my blow drier for granted. I was able to take a shower, but not much can be said for the makeup job I did in the dark or the hairstyle I settled on.
What was funny was that when I see a woman out in public with the hair I had today, I judge them.
I shouldn't, but I do. I think, "The wet look went out in the early 90's. Time to get a copy of InStyle and soak it in."
Today, that woman was me. Don't be so quick to judge. Lesson learned.
I piled the kids in the car in my typical manner of making myself into a human pack mule, carrying 2 bags, a travel mug, someone's leftover breakfast, A change of clothes for Chloe, Tessa's bottle, and the Two Ton Toddler herself. In one load.
I rolled up the garage door by hand and was on my way to Chloe's first real ballet class.
I was mentally trying to shake off the hectic feel from the morning and was looking forward to seeing the dancing. Hearing the laughing. The soft, sweet music. The sound of small feet on the wooden floors.
I had filled out the papers, gotten her all dressed up - hair in buns and all - and she was yammering on and on about how she was going to be SO beautiful and she was going to "dance like a princess". She'd talked about ballet for months.
We were all excited.
Afterall, it's not just ANY activity that gets me out of the house alone with three girls before 10:00.
(My friend Angie will tell you this is true, as she can attest to the fact that she has dropped by on MORE than one occasion to find me still in pajamas at noon with at least one child wearing only a diaper.)
We got there, rushed in, payed the money, took Chloe to the door and she REFUSED to go in.
I finally convinced her after some prodding, but even that only lasted about 5 minutes, and then she came running out bawling, telling me she didn't want to do ballet because,
"It's too stinky in that room."
I looked at Alena as if to say, "Can you BELIEVE this?" only to have Alena respond,
"It's true. It smells gross."
Oh LORD give me strength to raise three daughters....
So, I went to get my possibly non refundable money back for the class and the costume and the registration as several other parents looked on me with pity in their eyes only to turn back around and find Chloe had apparently recovered from her olifactory abominations and was pirouetting around the entry way without a care in the world.
It figures.
Oh well. This means we have time to go shopping. (With the children)
What was I thinking?!
I wish I would have called to memory the fact that the only way a person can shop with Chloe is if they have a good 6 hours to spare. Chloe is the s l o w e s t walker. Ever.
You will spend half your day looking behind you and telling her, "Chloe PLEASE come ON!" but when she sees you stop and turn, she will stop dead in her tracks to maintain her distance.
She should have been born in Iran, I guess. She would eat it up if it was MANDATED that she walk behind.
Add to this that while you are busy looking behind you at Chloe, Tessa will no doubtedly be pulling everything off of every rack as you walk by without you knowing and either eating it or hiding it.
I have had to send Alena back in to more stores than I can count because I find that Tessa shoplifted some item and stashed it in the stroller under her thighs. (A great hiding space if you're in the 120th percentile)
I just feel like we cause a scene everywhere we go.
Tessa's screaming and writhing, trying to escape. Chloe's still back at the CAR, practically.
And did I mention it was an outdoor mall, because then it started to rain. Hard.
WHY do I even try to do this? Why didn't I just do what I usually do and stay HOME for three days in a row not even going out to get the mail?
Now picture me, with my scary done-in-the-dark mascara running down my face, my hairstyle that I won't even bother describing, darting from store to store like a maniac just wishing for ONE moment where I can try something on for myself while simultaneously pushing Tessa and yelling for Chloe.
This is not the shopping days of yore.
I remember a time when I could shop for hours. When I didn't feel like I was on some sort of speed date with myself. A time when I didn't glance at my reflexion in the window of a store I passed and for a second think I saw Christopher Lloyd before I realized it was ME, wild eyed and frizz headed.
Ahhhhh.
I need a babysitter, a couple hundred bucks and a deep tissue massage.
And maybe one of those multi-strand necklaces I've had my eye on just for the icing on top...
Because we all know a mommy sitting rocking in the corner and drooling on herself is no good to anyone. And besides....Who would make dinner?
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