- You can never have enough glue on your project.
- When choosing your outfit, it matters if you LIKE each piece, not if they go together, match, or are even in season. Why not throw on a Buckeye jersey, turtleneck, tutu, leggings, and one tennis shoe and one croc?
- Going poop is still reason to celebrate with a high five and a piece of chocolate.
- Kicking your brother's legs out from under him, if an Olympic sport, would earn you some gold.
- Plastic heels are perfect for every occasion.
- Time stands still when you look at a butterfly.
- A new set of bubbles and a wand will not only make your day, but will make your day awesome.
- Life really is as simple as listening, smiling, and going with the flow. (If you are in the mood to listen, smile, or not rule the roost.)
- If someone is able to walk, communicate, and smile, you are instantly friends for the duration of the play date. They get kudos if they have an extra set of fairy wings.
- Without a doubt, you know you are the prettiest, smartest, funniest, nicest, and best kid in the world.
Friday, April 30, 2010
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Shoe Man
I was taught, at a very young age, that good, solid shoes needed to fit correctly (one thumb from the tip of the shoe) and constantly be in excellent condition and if they should ever break down, wear out, rip, etc. it will, in fact, change your entire spinal alignment and those shoes should be donated (to some poor sap who wonder's why the Goodwill sneakers she relies on give her a bad back) immediately. Seriously. You can't make this stuff up.
My father has always been in the shoe business, at least as long as I've known him. He is funny, smart, caring, and generous to a fault. In fact, our best man's speech at our wedding talked about when he met my parents, my dad opened the door and said, "What size are you?" while shaking his hand.
Best Man had no idea my dad was a shoe man and didn't know wether to punch him or rattle off his neck/sleeve numbers, inseam, waist, and anything else important, as this was the Father of the Bride and maybe if you gave him your size he would pay for the tux? Mr. (at that point, Fiance) explained my dad was known to give away shoes to anyone and everyone he meets (ask our cleaning lady, my sorority sisters, dry cleaners, and our wedding planner if you don't believe me) and within minutes my dad was on his ottoman-turn-shoe store fitting seat and was fitting Best Man into a few comfy pairs of trainers, runners, and boots.
This was normal in my house and until Mr. came along I never knew this didn't happen in most homes. It never dawned on me that Stephen's dad, who owned a local tennis club wasn't having you try out different rackets each time we were over, or a family friend who was a big wig at Victoria's Secret didn't have fitting rooms and a way to measure cup sizes in his foyer, but it just seemed normal that everyone was this generous and giving to the people around them.
My dad is endearing and everyone speaks highly of him, without a single pause, and loves his advice.
So, when it came time to get Zoe new shoes, it always falls on Bobsa and TT to fit and purchase very expensive shoes that will grow with the child, not mold or impression young bones, and make the child a genius (read the box). This would be easier if they lived within 1000 miles of Des Moines, but they are beach front on the West Coast loving the So Cal sun. So, TT came to town and noticed Zoe was in need of new shoes. So, they got four new pairs.
Zoe still had her heart set on a pair of glittery, gaudy train wrecks that she HAD TO HAVE. The kind of shoes that make momma's cringe and little girls cry over. TT offered to pay the $75 at Von Maur for them, but I begged her not to spend more than $20 on "disposable" shoes. Trust me, at the first rip, tear, or scuff they will be deemed unusable by momma and have to go to the poor kids, as Z calls Goodwill.
My mom shuddered and let out an animal-like sound as we walked into PayLess. This had happened one other time in my life, when I was in a small town desperate for black heels for a good friend's funeral. The blisters scarred my tender toes and I've since tried to erase it from my memory. Anyways, PayLess had a pair of silver glitter horrors that would make Dorothy's ruby reds look dull. So, we braved the cheap pleather-filled aisles and found The Shoes.
And Zoe did a little dance, twinkle in her eye, and fell in love.
I swear I heard her utter, "Hello, Lover!"
Seeing as she had them on faster than she has ever gotten a shoe on in her life - and on the appropriate feet - we knew we were hosed.
She threw her foot out so fast she tripped a little and said, "Check 'em out! Sparkly shoes!"
TT opened up her phone, dialed Bobsa, and said, "We have a problem" while explaining the situation. Bobsa urged us to trek back up the mall, past the play land, and the pretzel store, which ultimately, is like asking a soldier to race back through a mine field just for shits and giggles, with a few "$75 for correct spinal alignment is nothing!"s and we were dismayed. Then Zoe grabbed the phone.
"Bobsa! Bobsa! I got sparkly shoes! Real real ones! Dey are GORGEOUS!" and after she dropped the phone with a kiss on the mouthpiece, TT asked, "What do I do?"
And Bobsa said...
"Get them in every color!"
And that was how we knew, without a doubt, that the shoe man had yet another lady love in his life.
My father has always been in the shoe business, at least as long as I've known him. He is funny, smart, caring, and generous to a fault. In fact, our best man's speech at our wedding talked about when he met my parents, my dad opened the door and said, "What size are you?" while shaking his hand.
Best Man had no idea my dad was a shoe man and didn't know wether to punch him or rattle off his neck/sleeve numbers, inseam, waist, and anything else important, as this was the Father of the Bride and maybe if you gave him your size he would pay for the tux? Mr. (at that point, Fiance) explained my dad was known to give away shoes to anyone and everyone he meets (ask our cleaning lady, my sorority sisters, dry cleaners, and our wedding planner if you don't believe me) and within minutes my dad was on his ottoman-turn-shoe store fitting seat and was fitting Best Man into a few comfy pairs of trainers, runners, and boots.
This was normal in my house and until Mr. came along I never knew this didn't happen in most homes. It never dawned on me that Stephen's dad, who owned a local tennis club wasn't having you try out different rackets each time we were over, or a family friend who was a big wig at Victoria's Secret didn't have fitting rooms and a way to measure cup sizes in his foyer, but it just seemed normal that everyone was this generous and giving to the people around them.
My dad is endearing and everyone speaks highly of him, without a single pause, and loves his advice.
So, when it came time to get Zoe new shoes, it always falls on Bobsa and TT to fit and purchase very expensive shoes that will grow with the child, not mold or impression young bones, and make the child a genius (read the box). This would be easier if they lived within 1000 miles of Des Moines, but they are beach front on the West Coast loving the So Cal sun. So, TT came to town and noticed Zoe was in need of new shoes. So, they got four new pairs.
Zoe still had her heart set on a pair of glittery, gaudy train wrecks that she HAD TO HAVE. The kind of shoes that make momma's cringe and little girls cry over. TT offered to pay the $75 at Von Maur for them, but I begged her not to spend more than $20 on "disposable" shoes. Trust me, at the first rip, tear, or scuff they will be deemed unusable by momma and have to go to the poor kids, as Z calls Goodwill.
My mom shuddered and let out an animal-like sound as we walked into PayLess. This had happened one other time in my life, when I was in a small town desperate for black heels for a good friend's funeral. The blisters scarred my tender toes and I've since tried to erase it from my memory. Anyways, PayLess had a pair of silver glitter horrors that would make Dorothy's ruby reds look dull. So, we braved the cheap pleather-filled aisles and found The Shoes.
And Zoe did a little dance, twinkle in her eye, and fell in love.
I swear I heard her utter, "Hello, Lover!"
Seeing as she had them on faster than she has ever gotten a shoe on in her life - and on the appropriate feet - we knew we were hosed.
She threw her foot out so fast she tripped a little and said, "Check 'em out! Sparkly shoes!"
TT opened up her phone, dialed Bobsa, and said, "We have a problem" while explaining the situation. Bobsa urged us to trek back up the mall, past the play land, and the pretzel store, which ultimately, is like asking a soldier to race back through a mine field just for shits and giggles, with a few "$75 for correct spinal alignment is nothing!"s and we were dismayed. Then Zoe grabbed the phone.
"Bobsa! Bobsa! I got sparkly shoes! Real real ones! Dey are GORGEOUS!" and after she dropped the phone with a kiss on the mouthpiece, TT asked, "What do I do?"
And Bobsa said...
"Get them in every color!"
And that was how we knew, without a doubt, that the shoe man had yet another lady love in his life.
Wave Makers
This morning I got my butt out of bed after Mr. kicked my shin - again - and told me I couldn't let Rebecca down.
"Sure I can!" I mumbled in his direction as I stumbled to our bathroom, refused to turn on the lights to pee and brushed my teeth in hot water because I turned on the wrong faucet. Does it make your mouth double clean to kill the germs with toothpaste and hot hot water? I'll have to look into this. Anyways, I pulled on the old swim suit that best suited a geriatric fat grandma than a twenty-something (I have three weeks) girl. Too bad it fit. Snugly. Too snug? Noooooooo.
Pitch black cold air shocked my eyes open as I hauled myself into Mr.'s Envoy. He left it in the driveway for me so I wouldn't wake the kids up when I left at the unGodly hour of 5-something to go shock my body that we were moving just to move, not to chase diapered butts or energetic preschoolers.
The Y was buzzing with activity, skinny people drinking stainless steel bottles of water with sweaty ponytails that looked better than my hair why I style. So, I stepped back out and waited for Rebecca on the sidewalk. As she walked up with some serious bed head and jammies -- I love her -- and did a little "Yay Us!" cheer that pumped us both us and made our round bellies roll as Svelte Momma held open the door for us and then ruined the kind gesture with a roll of her eyes. We entered the Y with a little bit of nervousness that happens when you see someone naked for the first time. When you can fit into clothes at Lane Bryant, trust me, a swimsuit is the equivalent of naked.
We giggled as we undressed in the locker room and literally ran and jumped in the pool, maintaining complete eye contact. Come to think of it I still couldn't tell you what her suit looked like from below the shoulder straps.
We made waves. Just our waves happened to be in a different direction, style, and tempo than anyone else in the class. More eye rolls ensued, some from ladies old enough to be my mom's mom. Apparently, the instructor thought "pendulum swing! One two!" was enough direction when all you could see was her neck and head bobbing in the cold pool to get you doing her exact moves. So, we tried and laughed and laughed and tried.
We were moving! And having fun. Although, I must have had a better work out than Rebecca because she had to use one arm on anything that made her DD's try to float out of her suit, which happened to be most circuits. We plan on going back twice a week, on mornings that our men aren't at the Y. I just hope the Moth Ball Lady who gleefully cheered "this rough pool bottom is like a pumice stone" just as I accidentally swallowed a bit of pool - and then choked it back out - and the incontinent lady who I'm pretty sure had a few bursts of yellow under her as we did some hard core jumping jacks using the bar weights. One time Moth Ball Lady called me out and asked why I was drowning, while my body weight should have been supported by my wrists. I called out FIBROMYALGIA, you old Coot! and shut her up. In my head.
All in all, it was a really nice way to start the day, even if I did ingest a little urine and sloughed dead skin from some geriatric toes.
"Sure I can!" I mumbled in his direction as I stumbled to our bathroom, refused to turn on the lights to pee and brushed my teeth in hot water because I turned on the wrong faucet. Does it make your mouth double clean to kill the germs with toothpaste and hot hot water? I'll have to look into this. Anyways, I pulled on the old swim suit that best suited a geriatric fat grandma than a twenty-something (I have three weeks) girl. Too bad it fit. Snugly. Too snug? Noooooooo.
Pitch black cold air shocked my eyes open as I hauled myself into Mr.'s Envoy. He left it in the driveway for me so I wouldn't wake the kids up when I left at the unGodly hour of 5-something to go shock my body that we were moving just to move, not to chase diapered butts or energetic preschoolers.
The Y was buzzing with activity, skinny people drinking stainless steel bottles of water with sweaty ponytails that looked better than my hair why I style. So, I stepped back out and waited for Rebecca on the sidewalk. As she walked up with some serious bed head and jammies -- I love her -- and did a little "Yay Us!" cheer that pumped us both us and made our round bellies roll as Svelte Momma held open the door for us and then ruined the kind gesture with a roll of her eyes. We entered the Y with a little bit of nervousness that happens when you see someone naked for the first time. When you can fit into clothes at Lane Bryant, trust me, a swimsuit is the equivalent of naked.
We giggled as we undressed in the locker room and literally ran and jumped in the pool, maintaining complete eye contact. Come to think of it I still couldn't tell you what her suit looked like from below the shoulder straps.
We made waves. Just our waves happened to be in a different direction, style, and tempo than anyone else in the class. More eye rolls ensued, some from ladies old enough to be my mom's mom. Apparently, the instructor thought "pendulum swing! One two!" was enough direction when all you could see was her neck and head bobbing in the cold pool to get you doing her exact moves. So, we tried and laughed and laughed and tried.
We were moving! And having fun. Although, I must have had a better work out than Rebecca because she had to use one arm on anything that made her DD's try to float out of her suit, which happened to be most circuits. We plan on going back twice a week, on mornings that our men aren't at the Y. I just hope the Moth Ball Lady who gleefully cheered "this rough pool bottom is like a pumice stone" just as I accidentally swallowed a bit of pool - and then choked it back out - and the incontinent lady who I'm pretty sure had a few bursts of yellow under her as we did some hard core jumping jacks using the bar weights. One time Moth Ball Lady called me out and asked why I was drowning, while my body weight should have been supported by my wrists. I called out FIBROMYALGIA, you old Coot! and shut her up. In my head.
All in all, it was a really nice way to start the day, even if I did ingest a little urine and sloughed dead skin from some geriatric toes.
"All You Care to Eat"
Since when did restaurants start tooting "All You Care to Eat" instead of "ALL YOU CAN EAT!" in neon signs? When did this happen? I think it's been fairly gradual and I think it's really funny. Is this some way to combat obesity in America? Did someone really think changing the vernacular, not the meaning, of something will also change behaviors?
We went to a local supermarkets "All You Care to Eat" kids night. Mr. was out of town, kids were driving me crazy, and at some point someone had told me on Tuesday nights it was kid's night and they 1) Ate free 2) had crafts 3) supplied free nannies. Well, two out of three isn't bad.
So, I printed a flyer for the $5 All You Care to Eat event and packed Zoe & Xander and off we went in hopes of a plethora of dining choices to satisfy some growling stomachs.
What we walked into would make Weight Watchers shudder. It looked like a cattle drive for the most robust, rotund, and shoe-tying impaired Iowans. I was thrown off at the girth of most diners, sad to say I fit right in. We got in line (if you've ever wrestled two kids into five-point harnesses and then out of them, you know you are staying at the said location and NOT moving locales) and when we got in the store, realized it was a Chinese All You Care to Eat spread.
This was a greasy mess of rice and various friend meats that were every bit as sneezed and picked over like any ol' Sizzler or Ponderosa BUFFET my parents never let me step foot in.
Vernacular shift or not, these people were shoveling in all they cared to... and could.
We didn't partake in the buffet that bestowing China's name to may cause WWIII and stepped over to the deli to do sandwiches and a side of Ambrosia Salad - really, who can resist pink marshmallow's called salad? And we watched.
Zoe asked if three men were pregnant "cause they must have BIG babies in their bellies!" and if the one couple shoveling in fried rice knew they offered silverware AND napkins, and I lost my appetite.
So, dinner and a show.
We went to a local supermarkets "All You Care to Eat" kids night. Mr. was out of town, kids were driving me crazy, and at some point someone had told me on Tuesday nights it was kid's night and they 1) Ate free 2) had crafts 3) supplied free nannies. Well, two out of three isn't bad.
So, I printed a flyer for the $5 All You Care to Eat event and packed Zoe & Xander and off we went in hopes of a plethora of dining choices to satisfy some growling stomachs.
What we walked into would make Weight Watchers shudder. It looked like a cattle drive for the most robust, rotund, and shoe-tying impaired Iowans. I was thrown off at the girth of most diners, sad to say I fit right in. We got in line (if you've ever wrestled two kids into five-point harnesses and then out of them, you know you are staying at the said location and NOT moving locales) and when we got in the store, realized it was a Chinese All You Care to Eat spread.
This was a greasy mess of rice and various friend meats that were every bit as sneezed and picked over like any ol' Sizzler or Ponderosa BUFFET my parents never let me step foot in.
Vernacular shift or not, these people were shoveling in all they cared to... and could.
We didn't partake in the buffet that bestowing China's name to may cause WWIII and stepped over to the deli to do sandwiches and a side of Ambrosia Salad - really, who can resist pink marshmallow's called salad? And we watched.
Zoe asked if three men were pregnant "cause they must have BIG babies in their bellies!" and if the one couple shoveling in fried rice knew they offered silverware AND napkins, and I lost my appetite.
So, dinner and a show.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
San Diego is Spanish for...
I made a huge mistake when we were visiting my parents in California. Everytime we were on the 5 and I'd see a sign for San Diego (which is all time time, as they are 45 minutes north) I'd say, in my best Ron Burgundy voice, "San Diego is Spanish for Whale's Vagina" and my dad would laugh and my mom would give me a dirty look. I guess we know who has seen Anchor Man and who has been deprived.
This went on for the 10 days we were out there last. Six weeks ago.
So, this morning I took of Zoe's nighttime diaper - I'm sure she is potty trained enough not to wear one at night, but who wants to wake up and clean sheets at 4am when you have another one who really isn't too pumped about sleeping all night yet? - and she threw her legs back and yellled, "SAN DIEGO! FINNISH FOR DOLPHIN'S BUTT!"
I laughed so hard my stomach ached and I ripped off the elastic tab of the diaper I was holding.
Finnish for Dolphin's butt? Really?
This went on for the 10 days we were out there last. Six weeks ago.
So, this morning I took of Zoe's nighttime diaper - I'm sure she is potty trained enough not to wear one at night, but who wants to wake up and clean sheets at 4am when you have another one who really isn't too pumped about sleeping all night yet? - and she threw her legs back and yellled, "SAN DIEGO! FINNISH FOR DOLPHIN'S BUTT!"
I laughed so hard my stomach ached and I ripped off the elastic tab of the diaper I was holding.
Finnish for Dolphin's butt? Really?
La La La
This, from my napping first-born:
"My cat is Mooooooooooooooo-cha chip and I love him so much. He has fur, whiskers, and 1-2-3-4-5-6- FOUR paws, and likes when I do this! OUCH! My cat is Mooooooooooooooo-cha chip and I love him so much. He has fur, whiskers, and 1-2-3-4-5-6- FOUR paws, and likes when I do this! OUCH! My cat is Mooooooooooooooo-cha chip and I love him so much. He has fur, whiskers, and 1-2-3-4-5-6- FOUR paws, and likes when I do this! Come back here, Mocha!"
"My cat is Mooooooooooooooo-cha chip and I love him so much. He has fur, whiskers, and 1-2-3-4-5-6- FOUR paws, and likes when I do this! OUCH! My cat is Mooooooooooooooo-cha chip and I love him so much. He has fur, whiskers, and 1-2-3-4-5-6- FOUR paws, and likes when I do this! OUCH! My cat is Mooooooooooooooo-cha chip and I love him so much. He has fur, whiskers, and 1-2-3-4-5-6- FOUR paws, and likes when I do this! Come back here, Mocha!"
At 6 am
At 6 am this morning Zoe ran into our room, Lovey on her head, and jumped on me.
"Morning, Mama!"
"Morning, Z!"
"Is Daddy at work?"
"No. He's in the shower, I think."
"Good. Girl talk time," Now, when I hear her say this I smile and get nervous. It's cute, but it always means bargaining of some kind. And sadly, she can out argue me in a circle until I give up like the best litigator you could hire. I just didn't need to have a mental beat down from a preschooler at 6 am, you know? "Here's the deal. We can go play outside and make brownies. Two deals. One is go outside. The other is make brownies. Deal?"
"No! We are going to lay here until the sun comes up and then clean the house before we go to Backyard Adventures for play date."
"Nope. I gave you two deals. Pick one."
"Z, I think you are confusing deals with options. When I give you two options (like stop throwing your blocks at your brothers head OR go to your room without a snack) you must pick one. A deal is when I bribe you in public, (like Stop screaming for Cheeto's in the middle of the aisle and flopping around like a dying fish and I'll let you eat the blackberries before we pay for them while you sit quietly in the cart). Neither of these are deals."
"Yep. It's a deal. Pick one."
The doorbell rang in the middle of this conversation to nowhere and I looked for a bra (didn't find one) and threw on a sweatshirt (better than a bra, even on 80 degree mornings).
We were outside (Deal 1) and she was in the sandbox for I even had a chance to shout for her to get inside and at the very least find her jammie bottoms, walked through the rest of the landscape job, and then I realized we had a play date we scheduled - meaning I needed to bring snacks for 18 kids.
I looked in the walk-in pantry of temptation and realized unless the kids wanted spaghetti, something with diced green chilis and salsa, or a Pringle's can of stale chips, we'd make a quick batch of brownies.
Licking the spoon, I called Zoe in from the backyard. It was 7:00 by then and she needed to eat an Eggo or something. She sprinted forth, smiling.
"Come on in, baby!"
"Yeah! You picked both deals!" with a high five into the house.
Huh?
"I played outside AND you made me brownies!" she smiled, hugged me, kissed my cheek and rubbed my back. Worked for me. Mom of the Year, folks.
I just smiled and rubbed her back when she plucked the brownie spoon from my hands, licked it, and winked as she walked away.
"Morning, Mama!"
"Morning, Z!"
"Is Daddy at work?"
"No. He's in the shower, I think."
"Good. Girl talk time," Now, when I hear her say this I smile and get nervous. It's cute, but it always means bargaining of some kind. And sadly, she can out argue me in a circle until I give up like the best litigator you could hire. I just didn't need to have a mental beat down from a preschooler at 6 am, you know? "Here's the deal. We can go play outside and make brownies. Two deals. One is go outside. The other is make brownies. Deal?"
"No! We are going to lay here until the sun comes up and then clean the house before we go to Backyard Adventures for play date."
"Nope. I gave you two deals. Pick one."
"Z, I think you are confusing deals with options. When I give you two options (like stop throwing your blocks at your brothers head OR go to your room without a snack) you must pick one. A deal is when I bribe you in public, (like Stop screaming for Cheeto's in the middle of the aisle and flopping around like a dying fish and I'll let you eat the blackberries before we pay for them while you sit quietly in the cart). Neither of these are deals."
"Yep. It's a deal. Pick one."
The doorbell rang in the middle of this conversation to nowhere and I looked for a bra (didn't find one) and threw on a sweatshirt (better than a bra, even on 80 degree mornings).
We were outside (Deal 1) and she was in the sandbox for I even had a chance to shout for her to get inside and at the very least find her jammie bottoms, walked through the rest of the landscape job, and then I realized we had a play date we scheduled - meaning I needed to bring snacks for 18 kids.
I looked in the walk-in pantry of temptation and realized unless the kids wanted spaghetti, something with diced green chilis and salsa, or a Pringle's can of stale chips, we'd make a quick batch of brownies.
Licking the spoon, I called Zoe in from the backyard. It was 7:00 by then and she needed to eat an Eggo or something. She sprinted forth, smiling.
"Come on in, baby!"
"Yeah! You picked both deals!" with a high five into the house.
Huh?
"I played outside AND you made me brownies!" she smiled, hugged me, kissed my cheek and rubbed my back. Worked for me. Mom of the Year, folks.
I just smiled and rubbed her back when she plucked the brownie spoon from my hands, licked it, and winked as she walked away.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
3 Things Zoe has done lately to make me crack up
3. Does the Stanky Leg dance each and every time she gets in the bathtub.
2. Screams "I. WILL. DO. IT!!!" ten times, then, after I give up, she screams, "HELP MEEEEEEEEE!"
1. Sings "All the Stinky Piggies" to the tune of "All the Single Ladies" and wiggle her feet in Xander's face.
2. Screams "I. WILL. DO. IT!!!" ten times, then, after I give up, she screams, "HELP MEEEEEEEEE!"
1. Sings "All the Stinky Piggies" to the tune of "All the Single Ladies" and wiggle her feet in Xander's face.
Don't Blink
It was a quick trip into the mega-chain bookstore. Grab the baby, our stroller, and run in, up the escalator, and into the kid's section to find some new books for the almost-three year old's birthday gifts. Should have been a quick trip, actually.
Snapping Xander into his new, cheap-o stoller (I've given up on Chicco's, Graco's, and Combi's - if you've ever gate checked one on a plane somehow they get mangled into scrap metal with bits of colorful fabric by the time they get it back to you while deplaning) I pinched my *$(%&$%)#%*&$)*^& finger again. It's just deep enough to squirt blood from your sensitive finger than never gets used unless you are attaching a five-point harness on a 15-month-old with legs he wants to use, not a diapered butt he wants to sit on.
Cursing like a sailor I tucked Xander's hands by his sides as I wrestled this beast of a harness on his meaty frame. His eyes got big and he said, "Uh Oh!" Yep.
We made it into the store and when I handed the customer service employee who knows more about American Literature than I do (with my degree to teach it) a $50 gift card. He scans it and says, "$1.72, ma'am!"
Ok, two major issues here.
1. I thought this was the $50 I won from the local paper. Check it again with your nifty gadget. CHECK IT.
2. MA'AM? I may be overweight and can't pull off a bandana as a shirt anymore, but seriously, MA'AM? When did this happen?
"How old are you," I asked, checking his name tag, "Christopher?"
"Pardon me?"
"How old are you?"
"23."
"I am in my twenties, too!" for another month. Four weeks from Sunday, actually.
"Nice."
"Yes. So why is it that you called me ma'am?"
"To be polite?" he replied with a question ringing out. At this point Xander was fussing so I popped a forbidden non-Safe-T-Pop in his little mouth and gave Christopher a stink eye. "Did you need anything else?" as he started plucking away at the computer in front of me. I knew he was updating his Facebook status to say, "is stuck helping a Fat Middle Aged Woman realize she's a long way and 75 pounds from Miss."
"Please check the gift card again. I know it's for $50. Like it says," I say smugly, thrusting the card back at him.
Swipe.
"Nope, sorry, ma'am. Still $1.72."
"So, 23-year-old-Christopher-born-in-the-same-decade-as-me-but-still-feels-the-need-to-call-me-ma'am, how do I go about getting the full amount of the gift card that should be on it?"
Christopher was now printing something and reaching for it.
"How about you go home and find Curious George Goes to the Museum {Zoe's pick}, Clifford takes a Walk {a new board book for Xander), Of Mice and Men {when I thought I should start rereading a classic a week to keep my brain active}, Sex & The City: The Series {when I realized I can only read on the toilet and in the downtime I have, I want to watch Carrie before the next one comes out, not cry over a special brother duo}, and the Sesame Street Golden Book Set {yep, blew through it about three months ago}, your receipt, and bring them back. Once returned, you will have the full $50 back on your gift card balance."You know, he said this really smug.
As I slowly turned the stroller and a very sticky Xander around Christopher made sure to say a polite "Thank you, Ma'am!"
We then tackled the escalator, made it to the kids area, and managed to only clear off three displays, four shelves, and the train table before I grabbed the first five books I saw around us, put Sticky Man back in his stroller, pinched another finger, and found the elevator to go down, detoured to the Clearance, I mean "Bargain Books" area, and then as Xander tried his best to go boneless, clear a few more shelves and shoplift a few Lindt truffles, I pulled out my wallet.
Beads of sweat trickled down my face as the line of people grew behind us. Chill out, people. Unless you have a stroller with you, chances are you don't need to get out of here in lightening speed. I mean, you are chilling in a bookstore at 10am on a Tuesday, ya know?
Where is my Visa? Visa, where are you? I called into the depths of the diaper bag, as it was apparent by the 12 expired gift cards, stale mints, used tissues, a rattle, three dollar bills, 37-cents and Iowa license strewn on the counter that it wasn't in my Coach purse. I name-drop at this point because it is the only thing on me most days that would prove we are not homeless. I dress like this because it fits and will be stained within the hour, not because I have no other choice.
My face went white as I looked up to the teller and who is it? Jack-of-all-trades Christopher is standing before me, skinny arms crossed, impatient look on his pasty face. "Ma'am, do you have means to pay?"
"Nope."
I wheeled Xander out of the store in a hurry, realized the contents of my purse were still scattered about the store, picked them up, left the stale mints and a tissue for Christopher, and was almost in tears as I realized Zoe was playing Costco last night and kept talking about her silver Costco card. I bet it also moonlights as Momma's Visa.
As I did my best to disappear an older woman stopped in front of me, out of her place in line. She was dressed very well, had on expensive pumps, and wore a gorgeous set of ivory pearls around her aging neckline.
"Don't blink, honey."
I was a little thrown off and embarrassed so I did a half-smile and tried to walk past her.
"One day he'll be off and running and you'd kill to have him so close to you again."
"My baby girl will be three this week and it's so hard to imagine that three years have happened already - I barely remember her at this age and it wasn't even a year and a half ago!"
Xander did a zerbert and the lady laughed. He then squealed, threw his sippy at her, pulled over a "Best Sellers" cardboard sign, and puked up the last of the non-Safe-T-Pop.
"Doesn't mean your days aren't tougher than shit, but it does go by too quick!" she said with a laugh and stepped into the line.
I will have to remind myself not to blink because some days I'd rather just hit the snooze button and sleep through them.
Snapping Xander into his new, cheap-o stoller (I've given up on Chicco's, Graco's, and Combi's - if you've ever gate checked one on a plane somehow they get mangled into scrap metal with bits of colorful fabric by the time they get it back to you while deplaning) I pinched my *$(%&$%)#%*&$)*^& finger again. It's just deep enough to squirt blood from your sensitive finger than never gets used unless you are attaching a five-point harness on a 15-month-old with legs he wants to use, not a diapered butt he wants to sit on.
Cursing like a sailor I tucked Xander's hands by his sides as I wrestled this beast of a harness on his meaty frame. His eyes got big and he said, "Uh Oh!" Yep.
We made it into the store and when I handed the customer service employee who knows more about American Literature than I do (with my degree to teach it) a $50 gift card. He scans it and says, "$1.72, ma'am!"
Ok, two major issues here.
1. I thought this was the $50 I won from the local paper. Check it again with your nifty gadget. CHECK IT.
2. MA'AM? I may be overweight and can't pull off a bandana as a shirt anymore, but seriously, MA'AM? When did this happen?
"How old are you," I asked, checking his name tag, "Christopher?"
"Pardon me?"
"How old are you?"
"23."
"I am in my twenties, too!" for another month. Four weeks from Sunday, actually.
"Nice."
"Yes. So why is it that you called me ma'am?"
"To be polite?" he replied with a question ringing out. At this point Xander was fussing so I popped a forbidden non-Safe-T-Pop in his little mouth and gave Christopher a stink eye. "Did you need anything else?" as he started plucking away at the computer in front of me. I knew he was updating his Facebook status to say, "is stuck helping a Fat Middle Aged Woman realize she's a long way and 75 pounds from Miss."
"Please check the gift card again. I know it's for $50. Like it says," I say smugly, thrusting the card back at him.
Swipe.
"Nope, sorry, ma'am. Still $1.72."
"So, 23-year-old-Christopher-born-in-the-same-decade-as-me-but-still-feels-the-need-to-call-me-ma'am, how do I go about getting the full amount of the gift card that should be on it?"
Christopher was now printing something and reaching for it.
"How about you go home and find Curious George Goes to the Museum {Zoe's pick}, Clifford takes a Walk {a new board book for Xander), Of Mice and Men {when I thought I should start rereading a classic a week to keep my brain active}, Sex & The City: The Series {when I realized I can only read on the toilet and in the downtime I have, I want to watch Carrie before the next one comes out, not cry over a special brother duo}, and the Sesame Street Golden Book Set {yep, blew through it about three months ago}, your receipt, and bring them back. Once returned, you will have the full $50 back on your gift card balance."You know, he said this really smug.
As I slowly turned the stroller and a very sticky Xander around Christopher made sure to say a polite "Thank you, Ma'am!"
We then tackled the escalator, made it to the kids area, and managed to only clear off three displays, four shelves, and the train table before I grabbed the first five books I saw around us, put Sticky Man back in his stroller, pinched another finger, and found the elevator to go down, detoured to the Clearance, I mean "Bargain Books" area, and then as Xander tried his best to go boneless, clear a few more shelves and shoplift a few Lindt truffles, I pulled out my wallet.
Beads of sweat trickled down my face as the line of people grew behind us. Chill out, people. Unless you have a stroller with you, chances are you don't need to get out of here in lightening speed. I mean, you are chilling in a bookstore at 10am on a Tuesday, ya know?
Where is my Visa? Visa, where are you? I called into the depths of the diaper bag, as it was apparent by the 12 expired gift cards, stale mints, used tissues, a rattle, three dollar bills, 37-cents and Iowa license strewn on the counter that it wasn't in my Coach purse. I name-drop at this point because it is the only thing on me most days that would prove we are not homeless. I dress like this because it fits and will be stained within the hour, not because I have no other choice.
My face went white as I looked up to the teller and who is it? Jack-of-all-trades Christopher is standing before me, skinny arms crossed, impatient look on his pasty face. "Ma'am, do you have means to pay?"
"Nope."
I wheeled Xander out of the store in a hurry, realized the contents of my purse were still scattered about the store, picked them up, left the stale mints and a tissue for Christopher, and was almost in tears as I realized Zoe was playing Costco last night and kept talking about her silver Costco card. I bet it also moonlights as Momma's Visa.
As I did my best to disappear an older woman stopped in front of me, out of her place in line. She was dressed very well, had on expensive pumps, and wore a gorgeous set of ivory pearls around her aging neckline.
"Don't blink, honey."
I was a little thrown off and embarrassed so I did a half-smile and tried to walk past her.
"One day he'll be off and running and you'd kill to have him so close to you again."
"My baby girl will be three this week and it's so hard to imagine that three years have happened already - I barely remember her at this age and it wasn't even a year and a half ago!"
Xander did a zerbert and the lady laughed. He then squealed, threw his sippy at her, pulled over a "Best Sellers" cardboard sign, and puked up the last of the non-Safe-T-Pop.
"Doesn't mean your days aren't tougher than shit, but it does go by too quick!" she said with a laugh and stepped into the line.
I will have to remind myself not to blink because some days I'd rather just hit the snooze button and sleep through them.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Kitty Cat!
Such a sweet morning around here. Both kids laying on our bed, footie jams on, heads propped on their favorite pillows. Zoe had Chip in a headlock and Xander's chubby hands tapped the top of the cat's head a bit too rough. In an effort to break free, Chip was sideways as Zoe pointed out his eyes, nose, whiskers ("for fat cats to be safe, X!"), and then on his back, arms askew, and starting to hiss.
"Dose are his nipples. Dose are his feet. Dose are his cute cute furry ball sacks!"
She didn't get any further as I yanked the cat away just before a little hand got to the cute furry ball sacks and she said, "Hey! We still 'splorin him, Mom!"
Nope. We are good for the day!
"Dose are his nipples. Dose are his feet. Dose are his cute cute furry ball sacks!"
She didn't get any further as I yanked the cat away just before a little hand got to the cute furry ball sacks and she said, "Hey! We still 'splorin him, Mom!"
Nope. We are good for the day!
5 Favorite things from Zoe's mouth lately
5. "Of course!" This is her new response to requests.
4. "Now, mom, does Peter in my class have a peanut or bagina? How do you know?" while peeing while Peter and his mom are in the next stall.
3. "Mom, why are you vacuuming? We having a play date here?" while I started cleaning for the first time since the snow melted.
2. "Maybe we should both calm down and talk about this later? Deal?" as she is being sent to her room. Again.
1. "That girl is a mess!" to a screaming toddler in Target. Dirty looks ensued, FYI.
4. "Now, mom, does Peter in my class have a peanut or bagina? How do you know?" while peeing while Peter and his mom are in the next stall.
3. "Mom, why are you vacuuming? We having a play date here?" while I started cleaning for the first time since the snow melted.
2. "Maybe we should both calm down and talk about this later? Deal?" as she is being sent to her room. Again.
1. "That girl is a mess!" to a screaming toddler in Target. Dirty looks ensued, FYI.
Our Doodle
In her first few days of being in our lives, at four months old, she learned to literally climb a baby gate to make her escape into the wild of the whole house when we'd depart. Soon, Mr. started putting double gates up - one on one in the doorway of our laundry room. Every day she would be out, waiting at the front door when we'd come home from work.
One day, curious how this nine-pound pup could escape over the two-story gates, Mr. came home from work and placed her in the laundry room, locking her in as usual. And then he stepped aside. A whimper, a whine, and a little energy came from the baby dog. She jumped straight up, caught her paws in the middle of the gates, grunted as she pulled her back legs up to the gate, pushed off, and threw her body over the top gate and whizzed through the air until she slid across the hardwood in the kitchen, stood up, and shook it off. Tail wagging, paws-too-big for her body shaking, she hopped up and jumped - literally - into his arms.
Mr. jimmy-rigged quite a few contraptions, but even with the best duct tape, string, tennis balls, and glue our junk drawer offered, it couldn't contain this sweet apricot-colored beast. In time, she taught us that she ruled the roost and she was a free spirit who should never be contained.
Then, one day, it happened. This sweet, smart beast started talking.
And she had a lisp. And maybe a tongue thrust?
"Frow it! Frow the damn ball!" she would scream in our faces as soon as we were within a twenty-foot radius of her prized, filthy, slobbery tennis ball.
"Sheriously, Dad. Shtop blaming me!" each and every time a miserable smell would permeate the room.
In her four years on earth her vocabulary is startling similar to the first time she started speaking in front of her human slaves. Occasionally we'll get a new curse word or two (like when we pluck her from the tub when the kids are getting their baths and she really wants in on the action) or when we refuse to put her desires for a butt-scratching above our need to use both hands when we eat, but for the most part she just screams "FROW IT!" when we are near a ball, frisbee, or water bottle.
Doodle hates to be tied down. So, leashes are out. She eats her leashes as snacks and likes to get the leash down to one string, stay close, and then at the worst possible time - like entering the groomers or when a pack of beagles go down the street - she moves forth and with a snap of her head, she's running free and you have another $20 "Life is Good" leash dangling from your hand, minus a dog. Trust me, it may say Life is Good, but a dog on the run is not what makes life good! Especially in a neighborhood with rules about dogs and leashes. Oops. Dogs on leashes.
My dog isn't afraid to bite a humping dog's penis in retaliation for his unwanted advances, which I may say is definitely the equivilent of a rape whistle for dogs. She uses it well, and sometimes a bit prematurely, but it gets the message across.
When we were robbed a few months ago she led the burglar like Sacajewa leading Lewis & Clark West, leading them to my grandmother's black pearls, diamonds, and emerald ring with one slice of lunch meat and a wag. When stalker man entered our home she was sunning herself on the deck, all four feet suspended in mid-air as she dreamed about a 16 ounce filet. She is a gentle soul. Unless a beagle crosses into our sidewalk. Then it's game on. If people can be racist on the basis of skin alone, then dogs can be breedist based on breed alone. Word to the wise: if you are a beagle, do not, repeat, do not walk on the sidewalk on either side of our house. You will be growled, howled, and barked at until you quiver under her ferocious presence. Then Doodle will go find a ball, nudge it in my direction, and curse at me until it's thrown.
I have learned a lot of great lessons from this pooch and her vocabulary, but when it comes down to it, she has taught my kids how to love and respect a life, even if it is cursing from it's snout to FROW IT!
One day, curious how this nine-pound pup could escape over the two-story gates, Mr. came home from work and placed her in the laundry room, locking her in as usual. And then he stepped aside. A whimper, a whine, and a little energy came from the baby dog. She jumped straight up, caught her paws in the middle of the gates, grunted as she pulled her back legs up to the gate, pushed off, and threw her body over the top gate and whizzed through the air until she slid across the hardwood in the kitchen, stood up, and shook it off. Tail wagging, paws-too-big for her body shaking, she hopped up and jumped - literally - into his arms.
Mr. jimmy-rigged quite a few contraptions, but even with the best duct tape, string, tennis balls, and glue our junk drawer offered, it couldn't contain this sweet apricot-colored beast. In time, she taught us that she ruled the roost and she was a free spirit who should never be contained.
Then, one day, it happened. This sweet, smart beast started talking.
And she had a lisp. And maybe a tongue thrust?
"Frow it! Frow the damn ball!" she would scream in our faces as soon as we were within a twenty-foot radius of her prized, filthy, slobbery tennis ball.
"Sheriously, Dad. Shtop blaming me!" each and every time a miserable smell would permeate the room.
In her four years on earth her vocabulary is startling similar to the first time she started speaking in front of her human slaves. Occasionally we'll get a new curse word or two (like when we pluck her from the tub when the kids are getting their baths and she really wants in on the action) or when we refuse to put her desires for a butt-scratching above our need to use both hands when we eat, but for the most part she just screams "FROW IT!" when we are near a ball, frisbee, or water bottle.
Doodle hates to be tied down. So, leashes are out. She eats her leashes as snacks and likes to get the leash down to one string, stay close, and then at the worst possible time - like entering the groomers or when a pack of beagles go down the street - she moves forth and with a snap of her head, she's running free and you have another $20 "Life is Good" leash dangling from your hand, minus a dog. Trust me, it may say Life is Good, but a dog on the run is not what makes life good! Especially in a neighborhood with rules about dogs and leashes. Oops. Dogs on leashes.
My dog isn't afraid to bite a humping dog's penis in retaliation for his unwanted advances, which I may say is definitely the equivilent of a rape whistle for dogs. She uses it well, and sometimes a bit prematurely, but it gets the message across.
When we were robbed a few months ago she led the burglar like Sacajewa leading Lewis & Clark West, leading them to my grandmother's black pearls, diamonds, and emerald ring with one slice of lunch meat and a wag. When stalker man entered our home she was sunning herself on the deck, all four feet suspended in mid-air as she dreamed about a 16 ounce filet. She is a gentle soul. Unless a beagle crosses into our sidewalk. Then it's game on. If people can be racist on the basis of skin alone, then dogs can be breedist based on breed alone. Word to the wise: if you are a beagle, do not, repeat, do not walk on the sidewalk on either side of our house. You will be growled, howled, and barked at until you quiver under her ferocious presence. Then Doodle will go find a ball, nudge it in my direction, and curse at me until it's thrown.
I have learned a lot of great lessons from this pooch and her vocabulary, but when it comes down to it, she has taught my kids how to love and respect a life, even if it is cursing from it's snout to FROW IT!
Wiggle when I Giggle
When I put my phone on vibrate, I wondered how much it vibrates? Cause, I don't need anything vibrating in my pocket that makes my belly wiggle that triggers my boobs to dance and me to say, "Helllooooooooooooooo!" as I answer. I just need it to vibrate and not sing "All the Single Ladies!" when my best friend calls or something equally embarrassing. Like the 50+ Momma in Target the other day who's phone started screaming out "Muskrat Sally" a little louder than my kids were roaring... and roar they were, as we couldn't find anyone in the free cookie area of the bakery. You should see how fast Mama shops when it's a non-free cookie day at Target. Game On. I will break a sweat to get us through the aisles with everything we need, $20 in things we definitely don't need, and a bunch of items my kids have grabbed off the shelves or from another cart when we are in a tough squeeze in a busy aisle.
Phone on vibrate, kids in bed, and cold glass of water on the end table. CHECK. Mac powered up and ready for some Facebook, Yahoo, and Blogger time? CHECK.
Quiet time countdown is on.
As I got knee deep into a great new article, I heard a "Mooooom!" that could only be whined by Zoe for that long. That girl has a set of lungs on her.
"ZOE! Shhhhh! Xander is sleeping!" I stage-whispered up to her as she sat outside Xander's door and shouted down to me.
"Come get me," comes from the girl who has apparently climbed down from her tall bed, gotten into my make up stash, and was playing with the remote control in my room while she was supposed to be sleeping. Yep, I think she can handle coming down the stairs on her own. I tell her so and the arguement I knew would ensues.
Finally, she gives up and starts down the stairs, one by one. I turn on Diego and make a bed for her on the couch, and get back to mommy's time.
"This house is a train wreck!" comes from the makeshift bed.
"Wreck. Not train wreck."
"Nope, pretty sure it's a train wreck."
"Zo, just watch Diego. Mama needs a few minutes, okay?"
"Okay."
Seven seconds later, "Let's blow bubbles!"
"NO! You can go up and nap or you can watch a Diego. Either way, Mom needs a break."
"It hurts to break your leg. Nick told me."
"I'm sure it does."
The conversation continued until I closed the laptop, chugged my water - because God help us all if I leave a non-sippy-lidded cup out - and went into the kitchen.
"Let's make brownies! Or chocolate chip cookies!" shouted my not-at-all-sleepy side kick.
"Zo! I am just putting my cup away. We aren't baking today."
And then I looked at her. Her little eyes lost her spark and shoulders sagged just a little.
"Okay, come on. Let's get out the Play Doh!" came out of my mouth before I remembered that Play Doh means absolute chaos and my mind completely on the task at hand. No multi-tasking when Play Doh is out and all over the kitchen.
She then started in on doing the Stanky Leg dance in her t-shirt and undies from her nap. I laughed and she then said, "Your belly just shook like a bowl full of jelly! Like Santa!"
Yep, baby, my figure is in vibrate mode for now.
Phone on vibrate, kids in bed, and cold glass of water on the end table. CHECK. Mac powered up and ready for some Facebook, Yahoo, and Blogger time? CHECK.
Quiet time countdown is on.
As I got knee deep into a great new article, I heard a "Mooooom!" that could only be whined by Zoe for that long. That girl has a set of lungs on her.
"ZOE! Shhhhh! Xander is sleeping!" I stage-whispered up to her as she sat outside Xander's door and shouted down to me.
"Come get me," comes from the girl who has apparently climbed down from her tall bed, gotten into my make up stash, and was playing with the remote control in my room while she was supposed to be sleeping. Yep, I think she can handle coming down the stairs on her own. I tell her so and the arguement I knew would ensues.
Finally, she gives up and starts down the stairs, one by one. I turn on Diego and make a bed for her on the couch, and get back to mommy's time.
"This house is a train wreck!" comes from the makeshift bed.
"Wreck. Not train wreck."
"Nope, pretty sure it's a train wreck."
"Zo, just watch Diego. Mama needs a few minutes, okay?"
"Okay."
Seven seconds later, "Let's blow bubbles!"
"NO! You can go up and nap or you can watch a Diego. Either way, Mom needs a break."
"It hurts to break your leg. Nick told me."
"I'm sure it does."
The conversation continued until I closed the laptop, chugged my water - because God help us all if I leave a non-sippy-lidded cup out - and went into the kitchen.
"Let's make brownies! Or chocolate chip cookies!" shouted my not-at-all-sleepy side kick.
"Zo! I am just putting my cup away. We aren't baking today."
And then I looked at her. Her little eyes lost her spark and shoulders sagged just a little.
"Okay, come on. Let's get out the Play Doh!" came out of my mouth before I remembered that Play Doh means absolute chaos and my mind completely on the task at hand. No multi-tasking when Play Doh is out and all over the kitchen.
She then started in on doing the Stanky Leg dance in her t-shirt and undies from her nap. I laughed and she then said, "Your belly just shook like a bowl full of jelly! Like Santa!"
Yep, baby, my figure is in vibrate mode for now.
Inside Jokes
Sitting in church when everyone is praying, I do a really bad thing. I bow my head and do a fake close of the eyes. Then my eyelids spring open wide and I do a crowd intake. Sort of like a census - how many people are here, do I know them, and how my kids are behaving compared to theirs. I pray sometimes, but most of the time I save my prayers for when I am alone and can focus on them. I've never been able to pray in public - it doesn't feel right to me. The idea of it is cool, but the actual praying part is a bit daunting. What if someone here CAN hear my thoughts? No thanks, I'd rather take a pass and speak to the big man in private.
For the most part, I feel a kinship with the kids in the pews. Some do the fake bow down, too, but most are oblivious and go on lifting their skirt, mom pulling it down one-handed and head bent, skirt up, mom pulls it down over and over, while the little one picks her nose and silently tap dances. It happens every time and it's always a someone else's child. A few times I've started to laugh out loud and had to muffle it when a person looks up, kinda like Jesus and I are participating in the best inside joke. But, the kids and I, we have a hard time absorbing all this information thrown at us in one hour. We haven't been schooled enough to know what they are talking about, so we pick up the main points, sing really loud when it's a good song, and sometimes need to shake our legs and move when it gets a little stuffy in there.
This week Pastor Timm spoke at length about being luke warm - the people who went to church, were raised in church, and then turned their backs on it. The people who believe they are spiritual but do not believe they need to go to church. I felt like he was looking directly at me and wondering why I was sitting there pretending to pray, clapping with the music, and rubbing my daughter's back (after threatening her to "throw a rice crispie in church one more time". I am who he was talking about - the luke warm. The non-believing believer. Although, I wasn't raised in church.
My dad grew up with two of the most devout Catholics you would ever meet. My MomMom once told me a story about being audited for six consecutive years because no one really donated, and claimed to donate, that much of their income to charity and church when they made so little income to start. But they did. They went to church faithfully and were the picture perfect members of the clergy - you could set your watch and calendars by their Lord's Prayers and service attendance. They lost a young son in the Vietnam war, although ironically, he died in Germany, and I know their faith was the only thing that kept them moving, while their three kids and plethora of grandkids eventually kept them living.
Nana and Papa were of different faiths - both Christian, but just different enough to make the nuns ill thinking the White kids were raised with two religions and not just Catholic. My mom remembers being slapped on the knuckles in parochial school for defending her dad to the nuns, as they promised he'd roast in hell. By the time she was in middle school she was skipping CCD to meet some friends at the ice cream shop with her donation money. She knew where she wasn't wanted and never got the warm hug and glow from the Lord. Not in that church.
Maybe it was losing his brother when his parents spent their life as servants to the one who could have granted their biggest prayer, or maybe it was knowing my mom wasn't comfortable in church, or maybe my dad really felt lukewarm, too, but they made a conscience decision not to take me to church, temple, or mosk. Sundays were days to spend together, do what we loved, and become closer as a family. Sundays were about having everyone to our house for a big dinner and a poker game or two after the dishes were done - from the kids to the grandparents, everyone had a spot around the table and a trick up their sleeve. I look back on Sundays with the fondness and appreciation I look back to my first love or kiss. Sweet and perfect.
I went to a YMCA residence camp - Camp Kern - and fell in love with "church music". I'd go home after a week away singing all the songs I'd learned and slowly by fall would remember Princess Pat and Alice the Camel over any of the others, summer after summer. Finally, I found heaven. During the summer of 1999 I was a camp counselor - real deal, not junior counselor - at Camp Cheerio in Roaring Gap, North Carolina. I fell in L-O-V-E with residence camp, wilderness, and CHURCH MUSIC!
Every night at Vespers we'd gather around a gorgeous campfire deep in the Appalachians and sing beautiful music. During devotions we'd sing and all day we'd sing. Some silly, some slow, some fast, but all gorgeous. I heard almost every Mercy Me song for the first time at least a hundred times and loved Steven Curtis Chapman and all his lyrics. At nineteen, I learned I was a very very spiritual person.
I love church music. Contemporary church music. I don't love a lot of the "Good Christian People" I meet all the time who can sing every line of the songs. You know, the type of person who someone who regularly attends church and thinks highly of who they will be called a "good Christian person". What does that mean? It's somehow supposed to be the highest honor you can bestow upon someone, but I think the mere whisper of that is degrading to my Jewish cousins or Muslim neighbors. Instead of "they are a good person" it's "good CHRISTIAN person", so other religions cannot even compare to how good this person is in daily life.
I love the idea of using the Bible as a piece of literature to grow and love by - but all the hate that is spewed forth from Bible worshipers is sickening. I'm not even close to inferring all Bible worshipers are hateful - in fact, it seems to be a small percentage - but those people make the others look bad. The people I'm talking about spew forth about God loving everyone, God makes no mistakes, etc... but are the first people to hate on someone of a different race, sexual orientation, or creed.
I know so many people who 99.9% of other Christians would have no problem labeling "Good Christian People". However, these GCP are the ones who immediately turn up their noses when they learn someone's child "turned gay". Huh? Where is God's love? The GCP is sometimes the one who will raise your eyebrows as you talk by your mailbox with a nod to the new neighbors and say, eyebrows raised, "You know, they are from The South Side AND have a bi-racial grandchild!" expecting you to gasp, faint, and quiver on the front lawn. They are the same people who feel threatened in their marriage and the sanctity of their vows when another loving couple wants to make it official, too. Who happen to be of the same gender - how does that hurt your marriage? How does it make you more Godly to deny good people the rights you have as a heterosexual? What good will come of that?
As I sat there listening to Pastor Timm, who I adore, I must say, I realized I am lukewarm. Very lukewarm. I believe in 90% of what I'm told when I sit in his church. He's a very very kind man, wonderful role model for my children, and believes with a passion what he preaches. He speaks with so much energy and enthusiasm, and never puts himself on a higher level than who he preaches to - his kids sit in the second row, behaving, but also acting their age occasionally and his wife is pretty, nice, and sometimes wears jeans. They are great people. I haven't read the Bible. I haven't done a Bible study, or small group, or really learned a lot more than what I've learned in a plethora of services over the years. I should, so I can make my own decisions and decide once and for all where I sit on this spectrum we call faith.
What I do know is that my mom made a comment to me one time that I was as good as a GCP can get. I asked her what she meant and she said that I will help anyone and everyone, give and never expect to get, and help charities and needy people without a blink of an eye. She said it's acceptance and a willingness to understand everyone, selflessness and an understanding of the world while feeling the spirit of God all around you, all the time, that makes you a GCP, not fervently attending Sunday mass and donating 10% of your income, that make you a GCP.
Perhaps. Thanks, Mom.
Or perhaps it is something greater, like the desire to be God's Child again, like Pastor Luke challenged us to want to become that makes us a GCP. You know, not to be a better version of yourself, but to become a child of God and new again. I just don't know.
I'd love to know Pastor Timm's thoughts, because after his service Sunday, it's all I can think about.
For the most part, I feel a kinship with the kids in the pews. Some do the fake bow down, too, but most are oblivious and go on lifting their skirt, mom pulling it down one-handed and head bent, skirt up, mom pulls it down over and over, while the little one picks her nose and silently tap dances. It happens every time and it's always a someone else's child. A few times I've started to laugh out loud and had to muffle it when a person looks up, kinda like Jesus and I are participating in the best inside joke. But, the kids and I, we have a hard time absorbing all this information thrown at us in one hour. We haven't been schooled enough to know what they are talking about, so we pick up the main points, sing really loud when it's a good song, and sometimes need to shake our legs and move when it gets a little stuffy in there.
This week Pastor Timm spoke at length about being luke warm - the people who went to church, were raised in church, and then turned their backs on it. The people who believe they are spiritual but do not believe they need to go to church. I felt like he was looking directly at me and wondering why I was sitting there pretending to pray, clapping with the music, and rubbing my daughter's back (after threatening her to "throw a rice crispie in church one more time". I am who he was talking about - the luke warm. The non-believing believer. Although, I wasn't raised in church.
My dad grew up with two of the most devout Catholics you would ever meet. My MomMom once told me a story about being audited for six consecutive years because no one really donated, and claimed to donate, that much of their income to charity and church when they made so little income to start. But they did. They went to church faithfully and were the picture perfect members of the clergy - you could set your watch and calendars by their Lord's Prayers and service attendance. They lost a young son in the Vietnam war, although ironically, he died in Germany, and I know their faith was the only thing that kept them moving, while their three kids and plethora of grandkids eventually kept them living.
Nana and Papa were of different faiths - both Christian, but just different enough to make the nuns ill thinking the White kids were raised with two religions and not just Catholic. My mom remembers being slapped on the knuckles in parochial school for defending her dad to the nuns, as they promised he'd roast in hell. By the time she was in middle school she was skipping CCD to meet some friends at the ice cream shop with her donation money. She knew where she wasn't wanted and never got the warm hug and glow from the Lord. Not in that church.
Maybe it was losing his brother when his parents spent their life as servants to the one who could have granted their biggest prayer, or maybe it was knowing my mom wasn't comfortable in church, or maybe my dad really felt lukewarm, too, but they made a conscience decision not to take me to church, temple, or mosk. Sundays were days to spend together, do what we loved, and become closer as a family. Sundays were about having everyone to our house for a big dinner and a poker game or two after the dishes were done - from the kids to the grandparents, everyone had a spot around the table and a trick up their sleeve. I look back on Sundays with the fondness and appreciation I look back to my first love or kiss. Sweet and perfect.
I went to a YMCA residence camp - Camp Kern - and fell in love with "church music". I'd go home after a week away singing all the songs I'd learned and slowly by fall would remember Princess Pat and Alice the Camel over any of the others, summer after summer. Finally, I found heaven. During the summer of 1999 I was a camp counselor - real deal, not junior counselor - at Camp Cheerio in Roaring Gap, North Carolina. I fell in L-O-V-E with residence camp, wilderness, and CHURCH MUSIC!
Every night at Vespers we'd gather around a gorgeous campfire deep in the Appalachians and sing beautiful music. During devotions we'd sing and all day we'd sing. Some silly, some slow, some fast, but all gorgeous. I heard almost every Mercy Me song for the first time at least a hundred times and loved Steven Curtis Chapman and all his lyrics. At nineteen, I learned I was a very very spiritual person.
I love church music. Contemporary church music. I don't love a lot of the "Good Christian People" I meet all the time who can sing every line of the songs. You know, the type of person who someone who regularly attends church and thinks highly of who they will be called a "good Christian person". What does that mean? It's somehow supposed to be the highest honor you can bestow upon someone, but I think the mere whisper of that is degrading to my Jewish cousins or Muslim neighbors. Instead of "they are a good person" it's "good CHRISTIAN person", so other religions cannot even compare to how good this person is in daily life.
I love the idea of using the Bible as a piece of literature to grow and love by - but all the hate that is spewed forth from Bible worshipers is sickening. I'm not even close to inferring all Bible worshipers are hateful - in fact, it seems to be a small percentage - but those people make the others look bad. The people I'm talking about spew forth about God loving everyone, God makes no mistakes, etc... but are the first people to hate on someone of a different race, sexual orientation, or creed.
I know so many people who 99.9% of other Christians would have no problem labeling "Good Christian People". However, these GCP are the ones who immediately turn up their noses when they learn someone's child "turned gay". Huh? Where is God's love? The GCP is sometimes the one who will raise your eyebrows as you talk by your mailbox with a nod to the new neighbors and say, eyebrows raised, "You know, they are from The South Side AND have a bi-racial grandchild!" expecting you to gasp, faint, and quiver on the front lawn. They are the same people who feel threatened in their marriage and the sanctity of their vows when another loving couple wants to make it official, too. Who happen to be of the same gender - how does that hurt your marriage? How does it make you more Godly to deny good people the rights you have as a heterosexual? What good will come of that?
As I sat there listening to Pastor Timm, who I adore, I must say, I realized I am lukewarm. Very lukewarm. I believe in 90% of what I'm told when I sit in his church. He's a very very kind man, wonderful role model for my children, and believes with a passion what he preaches. He speaks with so much energy and enthusiasm, and never puts himself on a higher level than who he preaches to - his kids sit in the second row, behaving, but also acting their age occasionally and his wife is pretty, nice, and sometimes wears jeans. They are great people. I haven't read the Bible. I haven't done a Bible study, or small group, or really learned a lot more than what I've learned in a plethora of services over the years. I should, so I can make my own decisions and decide once and for all where I sit on this spectrum we call faith.
What I do know is that my mom made a comment to me one time that I was as good as a GCP can get. I asked her what she meant and she said that I will help anyone and everyone, give and never expect to get, and help charities and needy people without a blink of an eye. She said it's acceptance and a willingness to understand everyone, selflessness and an understanding of the world while feeling the spirit of God all around you, all the time, that makes you a GCP, not fervently attending Sunday mass and donating 10% of your income, that make you a GCP.
Perhaps. Thanks, Mom.
Or perhaps it is something greater, like the desire to be God's Child again, like Pastor Luke challenged us to want to become that makes us a GCP. You know, not to be a better version of yourself, but to become a child of God and new again. I just don't know.
I'd love to know Pastor Timm's thoughts, because after his service Sunday, it's all I can think about.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Outhouse?
We live on the corner of a quiet cul-de-sac and the main entrance into our neighborhood. A lot of cars buzz by, all day long. The late afternoon hours see more traffic, and coincide with the witching hours at our house. You know, the time a few hours after naps (when they take them) and before dinner (and when daddy comes home). The witching hours.
Hands-down, it was one of the top five worst afternoons ever around this place. Kids were nuts, neither napped, and a storm was rolling in. Storm + Rain = Muddy Backyard we cannot play in. Ugh.
Zoe was running around on the deck, smashing her new Easter-egg shaped chalk all over the wood, house, and occasionally the sliding glass door. To my knowledge, there were six eggs in the package, however, after said eggs were plucked from between her toes/hair/fingers/knees, she still managed to find large pieces to continue this miserable cycle until I almost screamed so loud it would knock her over. You know, I could picture myself as a cartoon and this tornado of hot air would just hit her and take her down as I just screamed, blowing her hair back until she plopped on the ground, staining her Dora's.
Instead, we talked calmly about poor choices, good choices, and how to model great behavior! SCORE! No spanks, just talking. Feeling like I did my job, almost smug as I sauntered into the house, I was snapped out of my reverie as Xander tottered on the brink of the bottomless stairs, one tiny step from a trip to the children's hospital. Again.
Scooping him up and pulling a green bead, dime, and half-rice krispie bar, respectively, from his storage hold (aka cheeks) I took him to his safe spot. The high chair that has a five-point harness, secured to the floor, and a tray to help wrangle him down. As I was securing the escape artist to his seat I looked up.
My daughter was bare naked. As in check-out-these-tan-lines bare naked.
"What the fu---" went through my head and was quickly interrupted with my mouth screaming, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"
Her eyes were bigger than UFO's as we made eye contact.
"Anything!"
"Anything? You aren't doing anything?"
"Anything!" as annoyance crept into her voice.
"WHY ARE YOU NAKED? Are you peeing?" opening the sliding door and stubbing my already broken baby toe on the threshold.
"I not peeing."
"What are you doing?"
"It feels good to be nakey!"
I was 99.9% sure she was peeing. However, I wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt. Zoe was, afterall, two and curious. Maybe she did just want to feel the warm sunshine on her pasty-white ass cheeks. We pulled up her pants, I kissed her head, and we parted ways.
Xander had thrown all his toys off his tray and was trying to rock himself out of the safe seat and into harms way by way of a split noggin on the ceramic tile.
Glancing up, Zoe wasn't on the swing set. Heart thumping, I let Xander attempt to get a personalized baby helmet and walked out the backdoor. The school bus' wheels were screeching to a halt, kids hopping off, and a few started laughing. At me. No, following their gazes, I saw what they were laughing at. A little girl with pig tails, pink bows, shaking a tail feather. A naked tail feather.
"ZOE!"
"Anything."
"GET. IN. HERE. NOW."
"I not do ANYTHING!" (Slowly stopping her Elvis-inspired pelvic number.)
"You are naked and dancing like it's spring break on South Padre Island. Go. INSIDE. NOW."
She sauntered over to me, not even bothering to pick up her dress, undies, or socks, and went inside defeated.
I didn't even ask her to explain. She had pee running down her leg - must have been quite a show out there - and wiped her down, slipped clothes on, and drug her up to her bedroom for a "rest".
When I came down Xander was screaming, dinner was about to boil over on the clean stove, and I sat down and just started laughing.
The kid really does have some rhythm.
Hands-down, it was one of the top five worst afternoons ever around this place. Kids were nuts, neither napped, and a storm was rolling in. Storm + Rain = Muddy Backyard we cannot play in. Ugh.
Zoe was running around on the deck, smashing her new Easter-egg shaped chalk all over the wood, house, and occasionally the sliding glass door. To my knowledge, there were six eggs in the package, however, after said eggs were plucked from between her toes/hair/fingers/knees, she still managed to find large pieces to continue this miserable cycle until I almost screamed so loud it would knock her over. You know, I could picture myself as a cartoon and this tornado of hot air would just hit her and take her down as I just screamed, blowing her hair back until she plopped on the ground, staining her Dora's.
Instead, we talked calmly about poor choices, good choices, and how to model great behavior! SCORE! No spanks, just talking. Feeling like I did my job, almost smug as I sauntered into the house, I was snapped out of my reverie as Xander tottered on the brink of the bottomless stairs, one tiny step from a trip to the children's hospital. Again.
Scooping him up and pulling a green bead, dime, and half-rice krispie bar, respectively, from his storage hold (aka cheeks) I took him to his safe spot. The high chair that has a five-point harness, secured to the floor, and a tray to help wrangle him down. As I was securing the escape artist to his seat I looked up.
My daughter was bare naked. As in check-out-these-tan-lines bare naked.
"What the fu---" went through my head and was quickly interrupted with my mouth screaming, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"
Her eyes were bigger than UFO's as we made eye contact.
"Anything!"
"Anything? You aren't doing anything?"
"Anything!" as annoyance crept into her voice.
"WHY ARE YOU NAKED? Are you peeing?" opening the sliding door and stubbing my already broken baby toe on the threshold.
"I not peeing."
"What are you doing?"
"It feels good to be nakey!"
I was 99.9% sure she was peeing. However, I wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt. Zoe was, afterall, two and curious. Maybe she did just want to feel the warm sunshine on her pasty-white ass cheeks. We pulled up her pants, I kissed her head, and we parted ways.
Xander had thrown all his toys off his tray and was trying to rock himself out of the safe seat and into harms way by way of a split noggin on the ceramic tile.
Glancing up, Zoe wasn't on the swing set. Heart thumping, I let Xander attempt to get a personalized baby helmet and walked out the backdoor. The school bus' wheels were screeching to a halt, kids hopping off, and a few started laughing. At me. No, following their gazes, I saw what they were laughing at. A little girl with pig tails, pink bows, shaking a tail feather. A naked tail feather.
"ZOE!"
"Anything."
"GET. IN. HERE. NOW."
"I not do ANYTHING!" (Slowly stopping her Elvis-inspired pelvic number.)
"You are naked and dancing like it's spring break on South Padre Island. Go. INSIDE. NOW."
She sauntered over to me, not even bothering to pick up her dress, undies, or socks, and went inside defeated.
I didn't even ask her to explain. She had pee running down her leg - must have been quite a show out there - and wiped her down, slipped clothes on, and drug her up to her bedroom for a "rest".
When I came down Xander was screaming, dinner was about to boil over on the clean stove, and I sat down and just started laughing.
The kid really does have some rhythm.
10 Things I've learned from my son
10 things I've learned from my son.
10. There is nothing cuter than a little boy in a real Polo shirt. Or a little boy in a white onesie. Or a little boy with his first big boy haircut. Or a little boy snuggling on your shoulder. Or a little boy smiling at you.
9. He might be a Momma's Boy, but when Daddy walks in the door, no one else will do for at least a half-hour.
8. He will pee like a sprinkler on a thirsty lawn as soon as his diaper is off.
7. Babies do not deconstruct if their diaper is not changed every 90 minutes. In fact, they can go on three diapers a day on really really hectic ones.
6. He has known how to flirt since he came into the world. His smile will melt the elderly, young, and pessimistic alike.
5. He might be on Earth to change the world, do great things, or make the sea part. Or to be a plumber. Doesn't matter. As long as he's happy, you'll be thrilled for him.
4. In his eyes, you will see every characteristic you dreamed of in a man. He is perfect.
3. Pink is the new blue. At least when your sister is your personal stylist.
2. When someone is cruel to you just hug them, forgive them, and move on. Life isn't about fighting for your toys back, it's about loving and appreciating the people around you.
1. His penis is his prized possession. Anytime he has access to his goods, he will check on it and make sure it's there with a little wiggle. Or two.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Look Both Ways!
The kids both said, "WHOA!" as we skirted around the goose. Another pair of geese began to cross the street when a car 200 feet in front of us hit one of them. Looked like the male. He soared like a spiral-tossed football up and over the Jeep. Red brake lights never even flashed.
I must have made a sound because Zoe was immediately alerted and said, "What? What's wrong, Mom?"
"Oh... just a goose got hit by a car."
Just then I noticed the smaller of the pair of geese. She was quivering and looking at her dead partner. His wing flapped lifelessly in the strong prairie wind and I swear her feet almost gave out under her. I slowed to almost a crawl, noticing her quaking legs and droopy head. She was paralyzed in fear.
I started to pull the car over. Anyone who has spent longer than an hour with me knows I am a bleeding heart for anything in trouble and kids and animals trump all else. So, a sad goose who just lost her mate was enough to send my PMS-ing self into tears on the side of the road.
As I pulled over on a deserted neighborhood street it dawned on me that the goose wouldn't come to "Treat!" or "Come here, girl" like Doodle. I needed something to shoo her out of harms way.
Looking at the floor of the mini, I had a red fleece baby blanket, six individual sippy cups, one pair of winter boots too small for Zoe and too pink for Xander, and three empty Venti plastic cups from the grandest place on earth. Grabbing the baby blanket, I stepped out onto the street. The kids were engrossed in Diego, or so I thought.
Mrs. Gander & I locked eyes. She was still quaking, shaking, and looked completely lost. She didn't even budge as I stepped closer to her, still on the other side of the curb. Out of nowhere, another mini-van tore out from a cul-de-sac and flew up to us. Without so much as a tap to the brakes or swerve of the ol' wheel, the crunch of Mrs. Gander hitting the grill is something I'll never forget. My eyes must have closed because I cannot remember seeing it happen. I did, however, see Momma Mini texting and applying another coat of mascara, so I'm not sure she knew if the thump was a child, goose, or muffler.
Warm tears flew off my cheeks and dropped to the pavement. Shoulders slumped, I opened the door to hear Zoe crying.
"Mom! That poor poor duck! Did you see that? Why? What dat happen?" as huge tears fell off her chubby cheeks.
"Zo, I don't know. I don't know why that happened." Hopping into the driver's side I didn't even have the strength to comfort her. I was torn up. "Zoe, you need to be extra careful when you cross the street! You look both ways. Both ways!" That goose could have been you! went through my head as I got a little shakier, and dizzy from shaking my head side to side a half-dozen times to illustrate proper street crossing etiquette.
Just then, my cell phone rang and it was my best friend in Iowa. Her dear father-in-law passed away suddenly and she had driven the 14-hour drive home alone, with a two year old and five year old, and her husband was flying in from a business trip out west that evening. Grief swallowed me up with a gulp and I had to resist sobbing into her ear as she sobbed into mine. Quickly, we got off the phone with the heartbreaking cry you can only do when you've lost someone you love in my ear.
My mind was spinning out of control.
"Momma! What happened? What Momma?"
"Camille's grandpa died. Her momma just called to tell us."
"He died? Like the gooses?"
Heartbroken, I didn't even have the energy to explain gooses vs. geese. "Yes, Baby. He went to heaven like the geese."
Pause.
"He should have looked both ways, Mom!"
Isn't that the truth? We all need to look both ways and soak in the goodness because life truly does change in an instant.
I must have made a sound because Zoe was immediately alerted and said, "What? What's wrong, Mom?"
"Oh... just a goose got hit by a car."
Just then I noticed the smaller of the pair of geese. She was quivering and looking at her dead partner. His wing flapped lifelessly in the strong prairie wind and I swear her feet almost gave out under her. I slowed to almost a crawl, noticing her quaking legs and droopy head. She was paralyzed in fear.
I started to pull the car over. Anyone who has spent longer than an hour with me knows I am a bleeding heart for anything in trouble and kids and animals trump all else. So, a sad goose who just lost her mate was enough to send my PMS-ing self into tears on the side of the road.
As I pulled over on a deserted neighborhood street it dawned on me that the goose wouldn't come to "Treat!" or "Come here, girl" like Doodle. I needed something to shoo her out of harms way.
Looking at the floor of the mini, I had a red fleece baby blanket, six individual sippy cups, one pair of winter boots too small for Zoe and too pink for Xander, and three empty Venti plastic cups from the grandest place on earth. Grabbing the baby blanket, I stepped out onto the street. The kids were engrossed in Diego, or so I thought.
Mrs. Gander & I locked eyes. She was still quaking, shaking, and looked completely lost. She didn't even budge as I stepped closer to her, still on the other side of the curb. Out of nowhere, another mini-van tore out from a cul-de-sac and flew up to us. Without so much as a tap to the brakes or swerve of the ol' wheel, the crunch of Mrs. Gander hitting the grill is something I'll never forget. My eyes must have closed because I cannot remember seeing it happen. I did, however, see Momma Mini texting and applying another coat of mascara, so I'm not sure she knew if the thump was a child, goose, or muffler.
Warm tears flew off my cheeks and dropped to the pavement. Shoulders slumped, I opened the door to hear Zoe crying.
"Mom! That poor poor duck! Did you see that? Why? What dat happen?" as huge tears fell off her chubby cheeks.
"Zo, I don't know. I don't know why that happened." Hopping into the driver's side I didn't even have the strength to comfort her. I was torn up. "Zoe, you need to be extra careful when you cross the street! You look both ways. Both ways!" That goose could have been you! went through my head as I got a little shakier, and dizzy from shaking my head side to side a half-dozen times to illustrate proper street crossing etiquette.
Just then, my cell phone rang and it was my best friend in Iowa. Her dear father-in-law passed away suddenly and she had driven the 14-hour drive home alone, with a two year old and five year old, and her husband was flying in from a business trip out west that evening. Grief swallowed me up with a gulp and I had to resist sobbing into her ear as she sobbed into mine. Quickly, we got off the phone with the heartbreaking cry you can only do when you've lost someone you love in my ear.
My mind was spinning out of control.
"Momma! What happened? What Momma?"
"Camille's grandpa died. Her momma just called to tell us."
"He died? Like the gooses?"
Heartbroken, I didn't even have the energy to explain gooses vs. geese. "Yes, Baby. He went to heaven like the geese."
Pause.
"He should have looked both ways, Mom!"
Isn't that the truth? We all need to look both ways and soak in the goodness because life truly does change in an instant.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Can I get a drink?
We were lounging on the couch, in the instant before it sank in that we were late for play school, while it was still downtime as Xander napped above our heads.
Zo was feeling really relaxed as she dug for gold - how does one finger get that far up a nostril - and watched Olivia while also playing on her lap top. Sweaty feet on me and a granola bar on her lap, she really was completely relaxed.
Not paying too much attention to the finger until I saw it pop into her mouth, I almost gagged. Zo pulled it in and out, letting the booger linger on her tongue and then pop out, each time less attached to her pointer finger.
Resisting the overwhelming urge to puke, I stood up, grabbed the ever-present Purell and suds her hand with a double dose of the chemical concoction guaranteed to be awful for human kind in a decade. Studies will show it. Anyways, I asked her where she learned to do this new trick.
"Doodle taught me!"
"Zoe! Don't lie to me. Dogs don't eat their boogers!"
"Nope. But they do lick their butts!"
"So, are you going to try to lick your butt now, too, just to make it officially the grossest day EVER around here?"
"Sorry, Mom."
We settled back into the gentle reverie of the morning and then her clammy foot was tapping into the side of my stomach. As my head turned in her direction, this is what I heard.
"Mom! Can you get me a drink? Big boogers are SAAAAAALTEEEEEEE!"
Zo was feeling really relaxed as she dug for gold - how does one finger get that far up a nostril - and watched Olivia while also playing on her lap top. Sweaty feet on me and a granola bar on her lap, she really was completely relaxed.
Not paying too much attention to the finger until I saw it pop into her mouth, I almost gagged. Zo pulled it in and out, letting the booger linger on her tongue and then pop out, each time less attached to her pointer finger.
Resisting the overwhelming urge to puke, I stood up, grabbed the ever-present Purell and suds her hand with a double dose of the chemical concoction guaranteed to be awful for human kind in a decade. Studies will show it. Anyways, I asked her where she learned to do this new trick.
"Doodle taught me!"
"Zoe! Don't lie to me. Dogs don't eat their boogers!"
"Nope. But they do lick their butts!"
"So, are you going to try to lick your butt now, too, just to make it officially the grossest day EVER around here?"
"Sorry, Mom."
We settled back into the gentle reverie of the morning and then her clammy foot was tapping into the side of my stomach. As my head turned in her direction, this is what I heard.
"Mom! Can you get me a drink? Big boogers are SAAAAAALTEEEEEEE!"
Monday, April 12, 2010
Hold this!
We had just done the Tour de Target (pronounced Tar-shay, like it's French) and Zoe had spent the last two hours practicing the role of "13 year old with a serious attitude" she must be auditioning for soon. I was unloading the back of the mini-van and each time I passed Zoe's side she would ask to be unbuckled.
I guess "ask" isn't really the term I should use. What word fully describes "get-me-out-now-or-I'll-continue-to-screech-at-such-a-high-octave-and-decibel-you-will-not-only-want-to-cry-but-will-have-to-break-down-in-total-hysteria-with-threats-on-my-life-to-stop-me"?
So, Zoe asked about a hundred times to get out of her seat and I had to wonder why. She knew she was destined for a nap - something she loves to hate - and she was currently half-way through a new Diego episode about a wild antelope in her recliner-inspired car seat that costs more than my entire line of Coach purses.
"Mooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooom. Hold this!" She thrust her tiny little hand out of the car and into my face.
"What is it?" as she wiped it on my cheek. NOT GOOD. I repeat, NOT GOOD.
"Snot!"
Well, she got her wish. That five-point harness (that would keep her torso from moving even if I could hit "EJECT" and thrust her through the moon roof on days like today) came off so quickly I wondered if it was actually all locked up. Her little body was tossed into the back foyer so hard she was a bit thrown off and when I told her to SCOOT, NOW! she did it.
I slapped her self on the toilet, demanded some pee action, and was surprised by how quickly she made water and hopped off. No argument commenced about the merits of washing our hands vs. not, she just started lathering up. She hopped into bed, I kissed her, and closed the door.
I. NEED. A. BREAK.
With one hand my bra was off as I fell onto my bed. Closing my eyes I knew I could take a three hour nap and wake up with drool so heavy my face would chap. Done. Just as I nodded off I remembered something. Something important.
Oh, shit. The groceries!
As I walked by the car again I noticed something moving. XANDER!
Xander's little foot was moving as he chased something in his dream. That poor second child - he was left for twenty minutes in the car to fend for himself. Looks like the new Cheeto bag was within his reach, based on the orange fingers, mouth, and toes(?).
So, what is a mom to do? I propped open the door to the house, put the garage door down, and reclined my driver's seat to take a twenty minute power nap so powerful my drool would make my face chap!
I guess "ask" isn't really the term I should use. What word fully describes "get-me-out-now-or-I'll-continue-to-screech-at-such-a-high-octave-and-decibel-you-will-not-only-want-to-cry-but-will-have-to-break-down-in-total-hysteria-with-threats-on-my-life-to-stop-me"?
So, Zoe asked about a hundred times to get out of her seat and I had to wonder why. She knew she was destined for a nap - something she loves to hate - and she was currently half-way through a new Diego episode about a wild antelope in her recliner-inspired car seat that costs more than my entire line of Coach purses.
"Mooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooom. Hold this!" She thrust her tiny little hand out of the car and into my face.
"What is it?" as she wiped it on my cheek. NOT GOOD. I repeat, NOT GOOD.
"Snot!"
Well, she got her wish. That five-point harness (that would keep her torso from moving even if I could hit "EJECT" and thrust her through the moon roof on days like today) came off so quickly I wondered if it was actually all locked up. Her little body was tossed into the back foyer so hard she was a bit thrown off and when I told her to SCOOT, NOW! she did it.
I slapped her self on the toilet, demanded some pee action, and was surprised by how quickly she made water and hopped off. No argument commenced about the merits of washing our hands vs. not, she just started lathering up. She hopped into bed, I kissed her, and closed the door.
I. NEED. A. BREAK.
With one hand my bra was off as I fell onto my bed. Closing my eyes I knew I could take a three hour nap and wake up with drool so heavy my face would chap. Done. Just as I nodded off I remembered something. Something important.
Oh, shit. The groceries!
As I walked by the car again I noticed something moving. XANDER!
Xander's little foot was moving as he chased something in his dream. That poor second child - he was left for twenty minutes in the car to fend for himself. Looks like the new Cheeto bag was within his reach, based on the orange fingers, mouth, and toes(?).
So, what is a mom to do? I propped open the door to the house, put the garage door down, and reclined my driver's seat to take a twenty minute power nap so powerful my drool would make my face chap!
Do you remember?
Do you remember the days when blowing bubbles at a park was the only thing on your mind? As in, that minute, that second, that single moment? Watching your bubble grow as you adjust your breath to create the perfect sphere that shined like a rainbow in the April sun? I don't either.
I watched my kids this morning and I was downright jealous of them. We met up with our Mommy Group at a local park that had it all - picnic shelter, a big kids and a little kids area, and best of all -- a huge sandbox and swings. From a two month old wrapped Moby-style around her momma's midrif to a pair of four year old twins, we had buckets, shovels, sidewalk chalk, and bubbles everywhere. The kids were all giggles and smiles as they knew that the 76 degrees and sun were just the start to many many more days like this one. Spring has sprung!
Zoe made instant friends with one of the four year old twins and they didn't seem to mind or notice an 18-month age gap.
They just cracked up at each other jokes, "Knock Knock!"
"Who's there?"
"Cat!"
"Cat Who?"
"Meeeeeee-owwww!" as they both fell into the grass in a fit of laughter.
Mason's mom had his little sister wrapped around her, came from Library time, and remembered to stock her car with all the sand and play gear previously mentioned. I felt like a real loser with the two Mercy Hospital mugs (my C-section war badges) and two Gladware containers we brought. In all honestly, I was pumped I remembered anything that could be used in the sandbox! Usually I only catch on to making a Park Pack in late-August each summer.
Xander just followed the older boys around and had a ball in the sandbox that could also host a truck rally it was so dusty and dirty. More than once I saw him nibble on a pebble or two and wondered if that would be considered an organic snack or not?
Zoe and her new friend were laughing hysterically and then suddenly started playing butterfly. You could feel their energy and almost picture their gorgeous five foot wing spans with hearts and rainbows bedazzling the air. They ran with their heads thrown back and knees high, delighted to just move in an open space and warm air.
When was the last time I ever wanted to run? Actually wanted to throw my hands out and just move? When was the last time I laughed so hard my sides hurt with a new friend? Actually laughed a real laugh with an adult? Have I ever bent down and stared a grasshopper eye to eye without any intent to get it off my porch/deck/driveway? Just looked at it to look? Have I ever stepped into a sandbox and said, "Hell yeah!" while kicking off my feet and diving in, belly first, not caring if it was inside my undies or toenails?
This place is free. It doesn't cost a thing. You can show up at all hours and enjoy it. My kids had more fun here for three hours than they did at $60 a pop at Sea World this winter.
When did it take a lot more than a bottle of soapy water, a wand, and a blue sky to make me happy?
How can I get back to this place in time where the world stands still and your cares drift away until you are left with a smile, dirty fingernails, and an overwhelming desire for a popsicle on a park bench?
I watched my kids this morning and I was downright jealous of them. We met up with our Mommy Group at a local park that had it all - picnic shelter, a big kids and a little kids area, and best of all -- a huge sandbox and swings. From a two month old wrapped Moby-style around her momma's midrif to a pair of four year old twins, we had buckets, shovels, sidewalk chalk, and bubbles everywhere. The kids were all giggles and smiles as they knew that the 76 degrees and sun were just the start to many many more days like this one. Spring has sprung!
Zoe made instant friends with one of the four year old twins and they didn't seem to mind or notice an 18-month age gap.
They just cracked up at each other jokes, "Knock Knock!"
"Who's there?"
"Cat!"
"Cat Who?"
"Meeeeeee-owwww!" as they both fell into the grass in a fit of laughter.
Mason's mom had his little sister wrapped around her, came from Library time, and remembered to stock her car with all the sand and play gear previously mentioned. I felt like a real loser with the two Mercy Hospital mugs (my C-section war badges) and two Gladware containers we brought. In all honestly, I was pumped I remembered anything that could be used in the sandbox! Usually I only catch on to making a Park Pack in late-August each summer.
Xander just followed the older boys around and had a ball in the sandbox that could also host a truck rally it was so dusty and dirty. More than once I saw him nibble on a pebble or two and wondered if that would be considered an organic snack or not?
Zoe and her new friend were laughing hysterically and then suddenly started playing butterfly. You could feel their energy and almost picture their gorgeous five foot wing spans with hearts and rainbows bedazzling the air. They ran with their heads thrown back and knees high, delighted to just move in an open space and warm air.
When was the last time I ever wanted to run? Actually wanted to throw my hands out and just move? When was the last time I laughed so hard my sides hurt with a new friend? Actually laughed a real laugh with an adult? Have I ever bent down and stared a grasshopper eye to eye without any intent to get it off my porch/deck/driveway? Just looked at it to look? Have I ever stepped into a sandbox and said, "Hell yeah!" while kicking off my feet and diving in, belly first, not caring if it was inside my undies or toenails?
This place is free. It doesn't cost a thing. You can show up at all hours and enjoy it. My kids had more fun here for three hours than they did at $60 a pop at Sea World this winter.
When did it take a lot more than a bottle of soapy water, a wand, and a blue sky to make me happy?
How can I get back to this place in time where the world stands still and your cares drift away until you are left with a smile, dirty fingernails, and an overwhelming desire for a popsicle on a park bench?
Wild Rumpus Party
When handed the hand-crafted invitation, I was really impressed. A 3-D monster with pipe cleaner wild fur and googly eyes begged for our presence on a Sunday afternoon in two weeks. We didn't know the family at all - just hey's and can you believe it's Thursday already's? from the pickup line at preschool, but Zoe loved Andy and when he was handing out invitations she gave an emphatic "I'll be there!" and a wink.
The week before we were walking through Target and I told Zoe we should think about what we want to get Andy for his birthday. She replied after giving the question some thought, "I think a present, Mom!"
The Easter Bunny had recently delivered The. Coolest. Gift. Ever. A wild and crazy bubble maker that guaranteed - and sadly, delivered - a thousand bubbles a minute. The Bunny thought it would fun to have bubbles all over when the kids came down on their morning egg hunt to show where the baskets were "hidden" (in plain sight on the kitchen table). Well, after saturating the carpet in suds, froth, and layers of bubbles, it is now delegated to the ceramic-tiled bathroom during bubble baths.
Zoe's eyes widened at a "Summer is Coming! We promise, Des Moines, we will wear shorts by July!" display and cried out, "Mom!!!! I know where the Easter Bunny shops!" and miraculously pointed out a majority of her Easter basket trinkets!
I love two year olds. She just trusted that a bunny shopped here for his wares as opposed to asking the all-important, heartbreaking question I will never be ready to answer or explain.
"Can this be Andy's present? It is so cool!" she asked, hopping off the cart she had been precariously perched upon in a single flying leap.
"A bubble maker? I don't know..." this is a pay back present. One perfect for the crazy uncle who gives your kids no-volume button toys guaranteed to make you insane, deaf, or mean mommy by 10am any morning they find it from it's "hiding" place. Andy's mom seemed nice enough, but I didn't know her. Would she freak out if bubbles were on her builder-grade carpet trashed from three years of kids, dog, and two cats like I do on a regular basis? Okay, I never flip out. I just try to make it blend in so one day, in a few more stains, it will look like cool tie dye carpet.
"YES!" and that settled it, as the bubble maker and Zoe were back in the cart already. We picked out some more bubbles as refills and a cool Diego bubble wand that the Easter Bunny had already graced us with, and remembered to ask for a gift receipt. Proud of myself I made a mental note to mapquest their address BEFORE we were running late to the party.
I plugged in the address twice, just to make sure that this was the house we were to spend two hours on a Sunday in... yep. The huge houses off a main street we always go by on our way home from Target.
I am a house nut. Seriously, I could go to Parade of Homes, Home-a-Rama, whatever, every day for the rest of my life. I love houses, house hunting, and all things that go in houses. So, this was more of a treat for me.
Emailing Andy's mom, I asked if parents were supposed to stay, leave, what? Andy's Mom was sweet and laid back - whatever you feel most comfortable with.
On the day of the party Zoe completely dismissed her cute new yellow Polo dress, Janie & Jack sweater, and leggings and would only wear her Gap hooded tunic and some new favorite 80's style leggings we were not about to leave the mall without. Really? To a party?
We pulled up and if we hadn't seen our best friend Zoe and her momma walking up the winding cobblestone walkway to the grandest house of all, I wouldn't believe it was this house. The nicest, most decadent house on the street. It was like a beacon of cedar, stone, and leaded glass with landscaping and sculptures from the coolest modern art garden you've ever seen in an ad.
The entry way did not disappoint. Andy was looking cute in his usual surfer boy duds and a smile on his face as his besties made their way into his gorgeous digs. Shoes were flung off as kids were off to the greatest of great rooms I've ever seen. The wood work alone in this house would make a Master Carpenter weak in the knees, let alone the walls upon walls of windows, and the decorative touches that made this house look like the perfect collection of eclectic taste that just made the lime, violet, and new blue shades work like a fine-tuned machine. No builder grade carpet in here. Actually, no carpet in here at all. Just miles of hand-crafted mahogany? teak? maple? that made my heart skip a beat.
Andy's Mom ushered us all into the basement and Other Zoe's Mom said it best with a, "I have to keep pushing my jaw up" as we entered a basement so open, spacious, and gorgeous that all three finished floors of our home could cozy up on this level alone... and correction, this visible part of the lower level. It was way bigger than our house once we started walking around.
Her craft room was decorated like something Martha Stewart would love to hate. It wasn't crafty. It was clean, organized, and chic. Galvanized steel tables the size of my garage, storage everywhere, and wooden scissors, three foot paint brushes, and phenomenal colors on the walls that weren't decked in floor to 15" ceiling windows. Set out were all the fixins to make the monsters of the hour - and the kids dug in.
Andy's Mom looked at us and said, "I didn't realize they are all such capable little people!" and I had to agree. A half-dozen three year olds just scampered up stools and started working, mastering glue dots, craft tack, and scrapping supplies galore to create amazing 3 foot monsters. Zoe also liked being the Glue Master and made sure that her four-eyed creation would not only stick to everything in sight, but not dry by the next morning.
The kids were then welcomed into another area of the basement that made the coolest of play areas - public or private - look somehow boring and mundane. The carpet created a moat around the two story castle fit for the princesses and prince's who raced into it and started playing all kinds of great games only three year olds can create and enjoy.
I just looked around and realized that once again, a major portion of my house could fit into the playroom portion of this amazing basement.
The party went on like this - each new room to explore and create perfect entertaining venues for the pint-sized and adult-sized alike.
I don't think I could explain this house to you correctly, so I won't. But I can explain that I initially thought Andy's mom was aloof. She just didn't talk a lot at pick up/drop off and the few times we'd run into each other at Target or the grocery, she didn't do much more than a "Hi" and wander off.
In her own home, she was the consumate hostess, and opened up and just wanted to talk. I knew I liked her when we walked past the exercise room and the gorgeous art said, "Andy's Mom, put down the cookie and get in here!"
The party was low-key and perfect. Andy opened up his gifts with his best friends all around and the kids didn't care if they were in a castle or a cage. They were just together and that really was the most impressive part of it all.
Until Bestie Zoe said, "Mom! Can I have my birthday party at this place next year?" and everyone started laughing. Yeah, Andy's Mom... what are your rental fees? I'd love a night in this place!
The week before we were walking through Target and I told Zoe we should think about what we want to get Andy for his birthday. She replied after giving the question some thought, "I think a present, Mom!"
The Easter Bunny had recently delivered The. Coolest. Gift. Ever. A wild and crazy bubble maker that guaranteed - and sadly, delivered - a thousand bubbles a minute. The Bunny thought it would fun to have bubbles all over when the kids came down on their morning egg hunt to show where the baskets were "hidden" (in plain sight on the kitchen table). Well, after saturating the carpet in suds, froth, and layers of bubbles, it is now delegated to the ceramic-tiled bathroom during bubble baths.
Zoe's eyes widened at a "Summer is Coming! We promise, Des Moines, we will wear shorts by July!" display and cried out, "Mom!!!! I know where the Easter Bunny shops!" and miraculously pointed out a majority of her Easter basket trinkets!
I love two year olds. She just trusted that a bunny shopped here for his wares as opposed to asking the all-important, heartbreaking question I will never be ready to answer or explain.
"Can this be Andy's present? It is so cool!" she asked, hopping off the cart she had been precariously perched upon in a single flying leap.
"A bubble maker? I don't know..." this is a pay back present. One perfect for the crazy uncle who gives your kids no-volume button toys guaranteed to make you insane, deaf, or mean mommy by 10am any morning they find it from it's "hiding" place. Andy's mom seemed nice enough, but I didn't know her. Would she freak out if bubbles were on her builder-grade carpet trashed from three years of kids, dog, and two cats like I do on a regular basis? Okay, I never flip out. I just try to make it blend in so one day, in a few more stains, it will look like cool tie dye carpet.
"YES!" and that settled it, as the bubble maker and Zoe were back in the cart already. We picked out some more bubbles as refills and a cool Diego bubble wand that the Easter Bunny had already graced us with, and remembered to ask for a gift receipt. Proud of myself I made a mental note to mapquest their address BEFORE we were running late to the party.
I plugged in the address twice, just to make sure that this was the house we were to spend two hours on a Sunday in... yep. The huge houses off a main street we always go by on our way home from Target.
I am a house nut. Seriously, I could go to Parade of Homes, Home-a-Rama, whatever, every day for the rest of my life. I love houses, house hunting, and all things that go in houses. So, this was more of a treat for me.
Emailing Andy's mom, I asked if parents were supposed to stay, leave, what? Andy's Mom was sweet and laid back - whatever you feel most comfortable with.
On the day of the party Zoe completely dismissed her cute new yellow Polo dress, Janie & Jack sweater, and leggings and would only wear her Gap hooded tunic and some new favorite 80's style leggings we were not about to leave the mall without. Really? To a party?
We pulled up and if we hadn't seen our best friend Zoe and her momma walking up the winding cobblestone walkway to the grandest house of all, I wouldn't believe it was this house. The nicest, most decadent house on the street. It was like a beacon of cedar, stone, and leaded glass with landscaping and sculptures from the coolest modern art garden you've ever seen in an ad.
The entry way did not disappoint. Andy was looking cute in his usual surfer boy duds and a smile on his face as his besties made their way into his gorgeous digs. Shoes were flung off as kids were off to the greatest of great rooms I've ever seen. The wood work alone in this house would make a Master Carpenter weak in the knees, let alone the walls upon walls of windows, and the decorative touches that made this house look like the perfect collection of eclectic taste that just made the lime, violet, and new blue shades work like a fine-tuned machine. No builder grade carpet in here. Actually, no carpet in here at all. Just miles of hand-crafted mahogany? teak? maple? that made my heart skip a beat.
Andy's Mom ushered us all into the basement and Other Zoe's Mom said it best with a, "I have to keep pushing my jaw up" as we entered a basement so open, spacious, and gorgeous that all three finished floors of our home could cozy up on this level alone... and correction, this visible part of the lower level. It was way bigger than our house once we started walking around.
Her craft room was decorated like something Martha Stewart would love to hate. It wasn't crafty. It was clean, organized, and chic. Galvanized steel tables the size of my garage, storage everywhere, and wooden scissors, three foot paint brushes, and phenomenal colors on the walls that weren't decked in floor to 15" ceiling windows. Set out were all the fixins to make the monsters of the hour - and the kids dug in.
Andy's Mom looked at us and said, "I didn't realize they are all such capable little people!" and I had to agree. A half-dozen three year olds just scampered up stools and started working, mastering glue dots, craft tack, and scrapping supplies galore to create amazing 3 foot monsters. Zoe also liked being the Glue Master and made sure that her four-eyed creation would not only stick to everything in sight, but not dry by the next morning.
The kids were then welcomed into another area of the basement that made the coolest of play areas - public or private - look somehow boring and mundane. The carpet created a moat around the two story castle fit for the princesses and prince's who raced into it and started playing all kinds of great games only three year olds can create and enjoy.
I just looked around and realized that once again, a major portion of my house could fit into the playroom portion of this amazing basement.
The party went on like this - each new room to explore and create perfect entertaining venues for the pint-sized and adult-sized alike.
I don't think I could explain this house to you correctly, so I won't. But I can explain that I initially thought Andy's mom was aloof. She just didn't talk a lot at pick up/drop off and the few times we'd run into each other at Target or the grocery, she didn't do much more than a "Hi" and wander off.
In her own home, she was the consumate hostess, and opened up and just wanted to talk. I knew I liked her when we walked past the exercise room and the gorgeous art said, "Andy's Mom, put down the cookie and get in here!"
The party was low-key and perfect. Andy opened up his gifts with his best friends all around and the kids didn't care if they were in a castle or a cage. They were just together and that really was the most impressive part of it all.
Until Bestie Zoe said, "Mom! Can I have my birthday party at this place next year?" and everyone started laughing. Yeah, Andy's Mom... what are your rental fees? I'd love a night in this place!
Saturday, April 10, 2010
WIll you take less?
There had to be six or seven dozen more hangers to detag, mark down 50% off, and then count, recount, and make sure the amount of tags matched the amount of items this buyer was purchasing. It could have been a very monotonous task, but there were so many people in line behind this woman, and so much work to do for each sale, that instead of getting bored, I considered just pulling the tags off instead of taking off the safety pins - one by one by one - my fingers were started to bleed, and I just kept moving, grooving, and making jokes.
Some people laughed and would start helping out, but most people during the last two hours of the church consignment sale were there only to get a bargain - not to make a new friend. They were especially not there to help out and actually take some tags off the new-to-them items. Arms limp, like cooked noodles, staring off into space as if I was some peon not even worth their time, I'd haul their wares out of their bags, off strollers, and out of boxes.
At some point I did a full sniff check of the pits, as I smelled something foul and wanted to make sure it wasn't emanating from me. Nope - someone must have been rethinking that chimichanga for lunch or something. Anyways, I started detagging her items and realized she had a triple stroller and two preschoolers hanging off of her every limb.
I said, "Well it's a good thing you don't have your hands full!"
Not even a smile. Quickening my pace I asked her if she understood that any tags written in red wouldn't be marked down, all other tags were half-off.
"Oh. Then I don't want them," she said, not even looking in my direction. Now, this could mean a few things. Like, I don't want any of the red tags, the whole lot of at least 200 items you have now taken off no less than three safety pins, one tag, and a hanger off each item, or the five kids that were making her prematurely gray. I tried to clarify, but she just reprimanded her oldest and stared straight ahead.
"Ma'am. Do you want any of these items?"
"Yes. The half-off ones."
There was a line of over 30 people with equally large purchases waiting for the two of us volunteers to help them get through the line. I hadn't eaten breakfast, had bleeding fingers from multiple safety pin pokes, and now I was to go through the descriptions of each of the 200 labels to determine which clothes I'd have to put back and then find those actual clothes to rehang.
"I'm really sorry, but I'm going to need your help. You see this line of people I have to help? I cannot go through this without you! Someone was supposed to give you a heads up about the half-off in any color but red," I said, thinking about the fifteen minute intercom blasts explaining so much, all the sign-age, and the greeter at the entrance telling each person entering about the 50% off sale.
"Oh. I heard. I'll just pay half of the total bill. Do it all the time."
Now I was dazed and confused.
"This is a church fundraiser. Individual sellers set the price and determine if it's half-off or not, and what their price is. We cannot, in any capacity, change the worth of an item. It's what is listed, half-off, and nothing is debatable, not like a garage sale."
"I'll take all the half offs, and pay half of that. Final offer."
"We cannot barter. It's the price is the price the sellers set."
"Well, I'll give you 30%."
Now the customers were getting irritated and restless.
"It truly isn't that simple. Whatever we add it up to, that's what you'll pay. You can go through and pick the items from there, but you'll have to sort the tags and items at that point."
It just kept going. I finally offered to start helping other customers as she bartered about bartering. All the while the three in the stroller were howling, the older two were playing hopscotch through the line, and I was seriously hoping my deoderant was holding up to this stress level.
I then realized that maybe she just couldn't afford to clothe her kids. She wasn't being rude. She really had little money to get them clothes and even at consignment prices at half-off they needed a discount. We were in a church, for God's sake! I needed to help this woman instead of wish her out of my sight!
"You know what? I know what it's like to have your hands full and lots of people to care for! In a half-hour all this stuff will be boxed up and picked up by the Family Thrift on 3rd. If you go there tomorrow or early next week, I'm sure it'll all be there at even lower prices," proud of myself for spilling the beans as to where the items were going, and knowing even if this church wasn't about to make money from this sale, it would be goodwill and charity, and God would happy.
"Are you serious? You think I need charity?" she sputtered as she laughed in my face. Before I could even back peddle out of this one, she marched the six of them out of the sanctuary and into the parking lot in a furious fit.
Someone in the middle of the line applauded and I wasn't sure what to do with the 200 plus items on the rack in front of me. So, I cleared them off, laid them in piles on the ground, and started helping the next customer.
"You have GOT TO BE KIDDING!" shouted the customer who had detagged, desafety pinned, and neatly handed a stack of tags to me.
I looked in the same direction to see the previous customer loading the kids into a pimped out Escalade... parked in the handicapped space.
Some people laughed and would start helping out, but most people during the last two hours of the church consignment sale were there only to get a bargain - not to make a new friend. They were especially not there to help out and actually take some tags off the new-to-them items. Arms limp, like cooked noodles, staring off into space as if I was some peon not even worth their time, I'd haul their wares out of their bags, off strollers, and out of boxes.
At some point I did a full sniff check of the pits, as I smelled something foul and wanted to make sure it wasn't emanating from me. Nope - someone must have been rethinking that chimichanga for lunch or something. Anyways, I started detagging her items and realized she had a triple stroller and two preschoolers hanging off of her every limb.
I said, "Well it's a good thing you don't have your hands full!"
Not even a smile. Quickening my pace I asked her if she understood that any tags written in red wouldn't be marked down, all other tags were half-off.
"Oh. Then I don't want them," she said, not even looking in my direction. Now, this could mean a few things. Like, I don't want any of the red tags, the whole lot of at least 200 items you have now taken off no less than three safety pins, one tag, and a hanger off each item, or the five kids that were making her prematurely gray. I tried to clarify, but she just reprimanded her oldest and stared straight ahead.
"Ma'am. Do you want any of these items?"
"Yes. The half-off ones."
There was a line of over 30 people with equally large purchases waiting for the two of us volunteers to help them get through the line. I hadn't eaten breakfast, had bleeding fingers from multiple safety pin pokes, and now I was to go through the descriptions of each of the 200 labels to determine which clothes I'd have to put back and then find those actual clothes to rehang.
"I'm really sorry, but I'm going to need your help. You see this line of people I have to help? I cannot go through this without you! Someone was supposed to give you a heads up about the half-off in any color but red," I said, thinking about the fifteen minute intercom blasts explaining so much, all the sign-age, and the greeter at the entrance telling each person entering about the 50% off sale.
"Oh. I heard. I'll just pay half of the total bill. Do it all the time."
Now I was dazed and confused.
"This is a church fundraiser. Individual sellers set the price and determine if it's half-off or not, and what their price is. We cannot, in any capacity, change the worth of an item. It's what is listed, half-off, and nothing is debatable, not like a garage sale."
"I'll take all the half offs, and pay half of that. Final offer."
"We cannot barter. It's the price is the price the sellers set."
"Well, I'll give you 30%."
Now the customers were getting irritated and restless.
"It truly isn't that simple. Whatever we add it up to, that's what you'll pay. You can go through and pick the items from there, but you'll have to sort the tags and items at that point."
It just kept going. I finally offered to start helping other customers as she bartered about bartering. All the while the three in the stroller were howling, the older two were playing hopscotch through the line, and I was seriously hoping my deoderant was holding up to this stress level.
I then realized that maybe she just couldn't afford to clothe her kids. She wasn't being rude. She really had little money to get them clothes and even at consignment prices at half-off they needed a discount. We were in a church, for God's sake! I needed to help this woman instead of wish her out of my sight!
"You know what? I know what it's like to have your hands full and lots of people to care for! In a half-hour all this stuff will be boxed up and picked up by the Family Thrift on 3rd. If you go there tomorrow or early next week, I'm sure it'll all be there at even lower prices," proud of myself for spilling the beans as to where the items were going, and knowing even if this church wasn't about to make money from this sale, it would be goodwill and charity, and God would happy.
"Are you serious? You think I need charity?" she sputtered as she laughed in my face. Before I could even back peddle out of this one, she marched the six of them out of the sanctuary and into the parking lot in a furious fit.
Someone in the middle of the line applauded and I wasn't sure what to do with the 200 plus items on the rack in front of me. So, I cleared them off, laid them in piles on the ground, and started helping the next customer.
"You have GOT TO BE KIDDING!" shouted the customer who had detagged, desafety pinned, and neatly handed a stack of tags to me.
I looked in the same direction to see the previous customer loading the kids into a pimped out Escalade... parked in the handicapped space.
Friday, April 9, 2010
Do you have a minute?
A ball of furious one year old and two year old rolled past me, both death-gripping the handle of a cheap rolling backpack I found at a consignment sale. They are rolling through, under, over, and by a few thousand dollar's of Toys R Us' finest, but when it comes to one really wanting to play with one toy, it's game on. No other toy will do. So this minute it's the $3 used back pack with Diego and Baby Jaguar smiling on them as they scream, scratch, and howl, making the WWE look like a pack of wussies.
Just short of cracking a chair over Xander's head, Zoe let up to grab her baby brother's prized possession, a dollar store foam sword. She wacked him, he swung the backpack at her, and they both screamed and tried to get the other's toy - without giving up an inch of the one they clasped in their sweaty paws.
The Wonder Pets sang about Teamwork in the background, dog howled as a beagle trotted down the side walk (seriously, can dogs be breedist?) and the phone rang from somewhere under a couch cushion... or the basement stairs?
"BE QUIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIET!" I shouted as I brought the phone (on it's fifth, and last, ring) to my ear.
"Pardon?" came a gruff voice on the other end.
"Not you, the kids. Who's speaking?"
"Detective Man."
"Oh, sure. I was hoping you'd call. Any news?"
"We need to ask you a few more questions about the events Saturday evening."
"Okay. Did the other Detective fill you in?"
"Mmmm Hmmm." And so came a round of at least 20 mundane questions I've answered to six, seven different officers in the past week.
While I tried to stay on track Xander started up the stairs, something he just now mastered, pulling up the now jam-packed with a helicopter, little people farm, and various plastic toys we've accumulated from way too many happy meals backpack. He was tottering on Step #5, trying to use those baby muscles and about to lose the fight to opponent Gravity. Zoe was also closing in on the backpack with her plastic Big Bertha her grandparents thought she'd enjoy. They were right. She did enjoy it. Just not to hit plastic golf balls. She loved to use it as a mallet to hit babies on the head/back/stomach when they least expect it, the big screen TV when pretending to play baseball, and the back of my head when I would sit on the floor to pick up toys.
Maybe I responded with a few too many "Sure. Yep. Sounds right!" because Detective Man stopped and asked, "Are you listening to me?"
An emphatic YES - maybe too emphatic - came from my end as I heard a whack and two 20-something pounders come tumbling down the stairs.
"I will call again, Mrs. at a better time." grumbled Detective Man. The phone went dead in my ears as I realized Detective Man did not get his job by enjoying a good sense of humor or by oozing charm.
"Talk to you when they are both in school full time." I replied with an exasperated chuckle, checking for broken bones in a pile of human and plastic debris, to the "hang up, dumb ass!" tone crackling in my ear.
Just short of cracking a chair over Xander's head, Zoe let up to grab her baby brother's prized possession, a dollar store foam sword. She wacked him, he swung the backpack at her, and they both screamed and tried to get the other's toy - without giving up an inch of the one they clasped in their sweaty paws.
The Wonder Pets sang about Teamwork in the background, dog howled as a beagle trotted down the side walk (seriously, can dogs be breedist?) and the phone rang from somewhere under a couch cushion... or the basement stairs?
"BE QUIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIET!" I shouted as I brought the phone (on it's fifth, and last, ring) to my ear.
"Pardon?" came a gruff voice on the other end.
"Not you, the kids. Who's speaking?"
"Detective Man."
"Oh, sure. I was hoping you'd call. Any news?"
"We need to ask you a few more questions about the events Saturday evening."
"Okay. Did the other Detective fill you in?"
"Mmmm Hmmm." And so came a round of at least 20 mundane questions I've answered to six, seven different officers in the past week.
While I tried to stay on track Xander started up the stairs, something he just now mastered, pulling up the now jam-packed with a helicopter, little people farm, and various plastic toys we've accumulated from way too many happy meals backpack. He was tottering on Step #5, trying to use those baby muscles and about to lose the fight to opponent Gravity. Zoe was also closing in on the backpack with her plastic Big Bertha her grandparents thought she'd enjoy. They were right. She did enjoy it. Just not to hit plastic golf balls. She loved to use it as a mallet to hit babies on the head/back/stomach when they least expect it, the big screen TV when pretending to play baseball, and the back of my head when I would sit on the floor to pick up toys.
Maybe I responded with a few too many "Sure. Yep. Sounds right!" because Detective Man stopped and asked, "Are you listening to me?"
An emphatic YES - maybe too emphatic - came from my end as I heard a whack and two 20-something pounders come tumbling down the stairs.
"I will call again, Mrs. at a better time." grumbled Detective Man. The phone went dead in my ears as I realized Detective Man did not get his job by enjoying a good sense of humor or by oozing charm.
"Talk to you when they are both in school full time." I replied with an exasperated chuckle, checking for broken bones in a pile of human and plastic debris, to the "hang up, dumb ass!" tone crackling in my ear.
I Do It.
Zoe and Xander like to take their baths together. Correction. Mr. & Mrs. like to give the kids a bath together, making it a half-hour bathing 5K as opposed to an hour bathing marathon.
Xander has graduated from his bath seat. He knows this means freedom with a capitol F and he likes to do a slippery death wiggle to the side of the luge, stand up, and hold onto the side and jump. Jump. On the same legs he doesn't trust himself to propel his body forward in the same fluid motions the rest of us just call walking, he jumps on the slippery slopes of a Jazuzzi tub with a built-in wave maker.
The wave maker stands about 35" tall, has light yellow hair, and takes pride in soaking anything within five feet of the tub.
Little Miss Wave Maker and X played in the bath while cleaning the bathroom floors by slopping out soapy water and throwing rubber ducks and foam letters out of the tub to skid across the floor and do more cleaning than mommy does on a usual monthly-rotation.
"You missed that corner!" I said as a purple Z whizzed by my head.
Zoe took aim and used a small rubber duck to detail a cabinet corner that hadn't been wiped down in awhile.
Xander just laughed and tested his luck (and tried to determine if it's little boys or cats who have nine lives) by cruising by the wave maker and all around the Jacuzzi tub, little dimpled hands clinging to the slippery ivory cast that is supposed to look like ceramic tile.
Time for suds I called out either in my head, or aloud, as I grabbed the Burt's Bees and started to lather X-man up.
"I do! I do it!"
"No, Zo, I'll wash him." I tried to stay calm as she wrestled the bottle of not-cancer-causing children's wash from her rather impressive grip.
"No. I. Do. It."
"You may wash his belly and feet," knowing what argument would ensue. "feet and belly only."
"No. I'll get his Peanuts."
Zoe is enthralled by the tiny appendage just south of his belly button and takes any chance she can get to explore.
"Nope, Momma already did. But you can do his feet."
"Nooooooooo! I clean his peanuts!" Now, granted, his peanuts was within inches of her shoulder as he completed his lap around the tub, and she did have a significantly better angle on it, but I had to defer that task to myself.
After he was lathered and she was slipping a hand or limb in to make sure his 2000 parts were not only clean, but sparkling, I turned the Burt's Bees on her.
"I. DO. IT!"
Nooooooooooooooooooooo! I'll do it, for the love of God. I'll throw some soap on you, bubble you up, rinse you off, get both of you out of the bubble bath before I, who am not partaking in any submersion, prunes, and off to bed before I commit myself.
Instead, I handed her the bottle and let her start at her face and work her way down to her sweet pruned toes. She is so good and thorough, and takes her time. As in, each hair must get a bit of a massage, fingers splayed, she gets between each one, and she makes sure that even behind her knees have been washed and rewashed within an inch of their life.
So, we talked and talked. About play school, her best friend Zoe, and why Xander liked to walk around the tub over and over and over and over and over again. We both laughed a few dozen times and I started to relax - hell, a few towels will clean up the moat around the tub and it's just water saturating the baseboards. What's a little water when you are kneeled down next to your greatest gifts giggling as the sun goes down?
Mr. was done with the dishes and came in to giggles and smiles. He smiled, kneeled down, and plucked the X-man and his glory from the tub, wrapping him in a Xander-sized hooded towel.
"Baby JeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeSussssssssssssssssssss!" shouted Zo. "I want to be Baby JeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeSussssssssssssssssssss!"
Mr. and I looked back and forth at one another wondering how the conversation took a drastic shift to a religious conversation neither of us were excited to explain that there was only one Baby Jesus and he wasn't ready to hand over his crown of thorns to our only daughter quite yet.
"Baby JeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeSussssssssssssssssssss!" shouted Zo. AGAIN. "I want to be Baby JeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeSussssssssssssssssssss!"
With a look like, Have Fun, Momma! Mr. turned to leave the soak zone and glanced in the mirror. Burrito Boy was wrapped in a large bath towel with only his little bare feet and round face sticking out. Just like Baby Jesus in our new kid-friendly cresh.
After determining Zoe wanted Daddy to hold her all wrapped up like Xander, he handed X off to me and grabbed Zoe's treasured butterfly towel. And she went balistic.
When I say balistic, I say this with the complete respect for the way a two year old was programmed to do - the finest 0 to 60 you've ever experienced, really. She went from pale to red to purple as she held (and held) her breath til the breath, Zo, breath chant in my head started. Her lips blue, she let out more air than a depressurizing scuba tank unleashed.
The roar ripped through the bathroom and tore off the blinds. The roar made walls shake, hair stand on end, and the trash can fall over. Nope, that was the Doodle who had been cowering in the corner tearing out of the bathroom and knocking into the trash can in her rush to leave me alone with the Beast.
Mr.'s head popped back into the room as he shouted, trying to make his point over the roar, to no avail.
"Do. YOU. want. a DIFFERENT. TOWEL?" he shouted, third time's a charm.
"Baby JeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeSussssssssssssssssssss!" shouted Zo. "I want to be Baby JeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeSussssssssssssssssssss!"
Mr. started ranting, I started working on the migraine of all migraines, and X started to crawl back into the standing water in his clean jammies.
Jumping off the soaked stool, I grabbed him and gladly gave Mr. and Zo the bathroom to have a showdown.
Screaming ensued, Daddy cursing started as he tried to get the slippery seal out of the tub as she went boneless and skated around, just out of daddy's reach, all over the bottom of the large luge.
I threw Xanders towel in, hoping another towel on the floor could soak up some of the remaining moat and create a less slippery footing for Daddy, and she stopped.
The Beast was no longer roaring. Beauty took his place. She stood up, let the water out of the tub, stepped through Daddy's arms, and picked up the towel, wrapped it around herself, and hopped into his arms.
A stunned Daddy turned as he held a Burrito Girl.
"Baby Jesus!" she shouted with glee.
Apparently Baby Jesus is only authentic if wrapped in a pink and navy floral towel her parents got on their honeymoon in Hawaii.
Xander has graduated from his bath seat. He knows this means freedom with a capitol F and he likes to do a slippery death wiggle to the side of the luge, stand up, and hold onto the side and jump. Jump. On the same legs he doesn't trust himself to propel his body forward in the same fluid motions the rest of us just call walking, he jumps on the slippery slopes of a Jazuzzi tub with a built-in wave maker.
The wave maker stands about 35" tall, has light yellow hair, and takes pride in soaking anything within five feet of the tub.
Little Miss Wave Maker and X played in the bath while cleaning the bathroom floors by slopping out soapy water and throwing rubber ducks and foam letters out of the tub to skid across the floor and do more cleaning than mommy does on a usual monthly-rotation.
"You missed that corner!" I said as a purple Z whizzed by my head.
Zoe took aim and used a small rubber duck to detail a cabinet corner that hadn't been wiped down in awhile.
Xander just laughed and tested his luck (and tried to determine if it's little boys or cats who have nine lives) by cruising by the wave maker and all around the Jacuzzi tub, little dimpled hands clinging to the slippery ivory cast that is supposed to look like ceramic tile.
Time for suds I called out either in my head, or aloud, as I grabbed the Burt's Bees and started to lather X-man up.
"I do! I do it!"
"No, Zo, I'll wash him." I tried to stay calm as she wrestled the bottle of not-cancer-causing children's wash from her rather impressive grip.
"No. I. Do. It."
"You may wash his belly and feet," knowing what argument would ensue. "feet and belly only."
"No. I'll get his Peanuts."
Zoe is enthralled by the tiny appendage just south of his belly button and takes any chance she can get to explore.
"Nope, Momma already did. But you can do his feet."
"Nooooooooo! I clean his peanuts!" Now, granted, his peanuts was within inches of her shoulder as he completed his lap around the tub, and she did have a significantly better angle on it, but I had to defer that task to myself.
After he was lathered and she was slipping a hand or limb in to make sure his 2000 parts were not only clean, but sparkling, I turned the Burt's Bees on her.
"I. DO. IT!"
Nooooooooooooooooooooo! I'll do it, for the love of God. I'll throw some soap on you, bubble you up, rinse you off, get both of you out of the bubble bath before I, who am not partaking in any submersion, prunes, and off to bed before I commit myself.
Instead, I handed her the bottle and let her start at her face and work her way down to her sweet pruned toes. She is so good and thorough, and takes her time. As in, each hair must get a bit of a massage, fingers splayed, she gets between each one, and she makes sure that even behind her knees have been washed and rewashed within an inch of their life.
So, we talked and talked. About play school, her best friend Zoe, and why Xander liked to walk around the tub over and over and over and over and over again. We both laughed a few dozen times and I started to relax - hell, a few towels will clean up the moat around the tub and it's just water saturating the baseboards. What's a little water when you are kneeled down next to your greatest gifts giggling as the sun goes down?
Mr. was done with the dishes and came in to giggles and smiles. He smiled, kneeled down, and plucked the X-man and his glory from the tub, wrapping him in a Xander-sized hooded towel.
"Baby JeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeSussssssssssssssssssss!" shouted Zo. "I want to be Baby JeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeSussssssssssssssssssss!"
Mr. and I looked back and forth at one another wondering how the conversation took a drastic shift to a religious conversation neither of us were excited to explain that there was only one Baby Jesus and he wasn't ready to hand over his crown of thorns to our only daughter quite yet.
"Baby JeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeSussssssssssssssssssss!" shouted Zo. AGAIN. "I want to be Baby JeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeSussssssssssssssssssss!"
With a look like, Have Fun, Momma! Mr. turned to leave the soak zone and glanced in the mirror. Burrito Boy was wrapped in a large bath towel with only his little bare feet and round face sticking out. Just like Baby Jesus in our new kid-friendly cresh.
After determining Zoe wanted Daddy to hold her all wrapped up like Xander, he handed X off to me and grabbed Zoe's treasured butterfly towel. And she went balistic.
When I say balistic, I say this with the complete respect for the way a two year old was programmed to do - the finest 0 to 60 you've ever experienced, really. She went from pale to red to purple as she held (and held) her breath til the breath, Zo, breath chant in my head started. Her lips blue, she let out more air than a depressurizing scuba tank unleashed.
The roar ripped through the bathroom and tore off the blinds. The roar made walls shake, hair stand on end, and the trash can fall over. Nope, that was the Doodle who had been cowering in the corner tearing out of the bathroom and knocking into the trash can in her rush to leave me alone with the Beast.
Mr.'s head popped back into the room as he shouted, trying to make his point over the roar, to no avail.
"Do. YOU. want. a DIFFERENT. TOWEL?" he shouted, third time's a charm.
"Baby JeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeSussssssssssssssssssss!" shouted Zo. "I want to be Baby JeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeSussssssssssssssssssss!"
Mr. started ranting, I started working on the migraine of all migraines, and X started to crawl back into the standing water in his clean jammies.
Jumping off the soaked stool, I grabbed him and gladly gave Mr. and Zo the bathroom to have a showdown.
Screaming ensued, Daddy cursing started as he tried to get the slippery seal out of the tub as she went boneless and skated around, just out of daddy's reach, all over the bottom of the large luge.
I threw Xanders towel in, hoping another towel on the floor could soak up some of the remaining moat and create a less slippery footing for Daddy, and she stopped.
The Beast was no longer roaring. Beauty took his place. She stood up, let the water out of the tub, stepped through Daddy's arms, and picked up the towel, wrapped it around herself, and hopped into his arms.
A stunned Daddy turned as he held a Burrito Girl.
"Baby Jesus!" she shouted with glee.
Apparently Baby Jesus is only authentic if wrapped in a pink and navy floral towel her parents got on their honeymoon in Hawaii.
Cockadoodledoo
You know it's early when you cannot call anyone. As in, it's an ungodly hour here, on central time, so can I call the East Coast? Nope. Still 6am there. Can I call my mom in California? Definitely not. A close mommy-friend in Iowa? Just because things are stirring at their house does not mean she wants me talking her ear off as she half-sleeps with the Cartoon channel blaring in their ears as she wings a half-eaten fruit roll-up to each kid as they climb into with mom and dad!
So I drove home from the airport in complete silence. Do you know how quiet that is?
At first, it was really really nice. I listened to the interstate under the good ol' mini and got into a rhythm with the monotonous tones of the road.
I was rubbing the doodle's head - mentally thinking I needed to call the groomer for her spring shave down - and a little bored.
Stopped at a lone McD's south of Des Moines on a quiet street.
"A number one, no meat, sandwich only."
"Ma'am, it's breakfast only."
"Yes. I'd like the number one, no meat, sandwich only."
"No sandwiches. Just breakfast."
"Okay, I'd like the number one, no meat, McMuffin please."
"Please pull around."
When Drive-Thru lady and I were finally on the same page, I threw in another curve ball.
"May I please add a number two meal with a large coffee and extra hash brown?"
"Huh?"
"May I please add a number two meal with a large coffee and extra hash brown?"
"It'll cost ya." Now, are we talking the going rate of $3.79 plus tax, or something else?
"Yes, I'm prepared to pay for it." Maybe some people get their kicks ordering a lone sandwich and then demanding a large combo platter for their sleeping husband at home, demand it be free, so they not only get a free meal but also rid themselves of the guilt associated with eating McD's at 5am?
Back on the freeway, when I had gulped down the best culinary masterpiece in the world, I was wishing I could eat an Egg & Cheese McMuffin every morning for the rest of my life, thoughts filled my head.
My Life! I'll be thirty in six weeks. T-H-I-R-T-Y. There are some cute song lyrics describing the epiphany you have on your thirtieth birthday, but I haven't had an epiphany. I've had an anxiety attack or two, but no epiphany.
As I plucked McMuffin remants from my molars, drove by myself on the highways outside of Des Moines, I did have an epiphany. Contemplated calling my hubby, but his sweet self isn't so sweet before 8am, two cups of coffee, and a hefty helping of Mike & Mike on the radio, that was out.
Radio! This car has a sound system that with the switch of a button spins music meant for mommy's. Even women! Sometimes Mommy's who also feel like Women!
And music that makes mommy remember Thursdays weren't just exciting TV nights, a size four was when I felt fat, teas were excuses to get drunk with hot frat boys and my sorority sisters - side note, do hot frat boys still wear Gap button downs, sleeves slightly rolled, khaki pants, and Reef sandals? If so, reunion to BGSU, Pi Phi's. I need me some Sig Ep eye candy!
Back to the epiphany. A radio. A sound delightful to my ears that takes me back to dancing with my dad at our wedding, my husband and I's first song, the song my first love and I broke up to in his car, the last song I heard waiting on news that a grandparent had passed... you get the idea. MUSIC. Not Diego, The Letter Factory, or Sesame Street 25th Music Anniversary. MUSIC.
Silence really isn't that golden when you have thirty stations to scan through seeking that one perfect song in the wee hours of the morning!
So I drove home from the airport in complete silence. Do you know how quiet that is?
At first, it was really really nice. I listened to the interstate under the good ol' mini and got into a rhythm with the monotonous tones of the road.
I was rubbing the doodle's head - mentally thinking I needed to call the groomer for her spring shave down - and a little bored.
Stopped at a lone McD's south of Des Moines on a quiet street.
"A number one, no meat, sandwich only."
"Ma'am, it's breakfast only."
"Yes. I'd like the number one, no meat, sandwich only."
"No sandwiches. Just breakfast."
"Okay, I'd like the number one, no meat, McMuffin please."
"Please pull around."
When Drive-Thru lady and I were finally on the same page, I threw in another curve ball.
"May I please add a number two meal with a large coffee and extra hash brown?"
"Huh?"
"May I please add a number two meal with a large coffee and extra hash brown?"
"It'll cost ya." Now, are we talking the going rate of $3.79 plus tax, or something else?
"Yes, I'm prepared to pay for it." Maybe some people get their kicks ordering a lone sandwich and then demanding a large combo platter for their sleeping husband at home, demand it be free, so they not only get a free meal but also rid themselves of the guilt associated with eating McD's at 5am?
Back on the freeway, when I had gulped down the best culinary masterpiece in the world, I was wishing I could eat an Egg & Cheese McMuffin every morning for the rest of my life, thoughts filled my head.
My Life! I'll be thirty in six weeks. T-H-I-R-T-Y. There are some cute song lyrics describing the epiphany you have on your thirtieth birthday, but I haven't had an epiphany. I've had an anxiety attack or two, but no epiphany.
As I plucked McMuffin remants from my molars, drove by myself on the highways outside of Des Moines, I did have an epiphany. Contemplated calling my hubby, but his sweet self isn't so sweet before 8am, two cups of coffee, and a hefty helping of Mike & Mike on the radio, that was out.
Radio! This car has a sound system that with the switch of a button spins music meant for mommy's. Even women! Sometimes Mommy's who also feel like Women!
And music that makes mommy remember Thursdays weren't just exciting TV nights, a size four was when I felt fat, teas were excuses to get drunk with hot frat boys and my sorority sisters - side note, do hot frat boys still wear Gap button downs, sleeves slightly rolled, khaki pants, and Reef sandals? If so, reunion to BGSU, Pi Phi's. I need me some Sig Ep eye candy!
Back to the epiphany. A radio. A sound delightful to my ears that takes me back to dancing with my dad at our wedding, my husband and I's first song, the song my first love and I broke up to in his car, the last song I heard waiting on news that a grandparent had passed... you get the idea. MUSIC. Not Diego, The Letter Factory, or Sesame Street 25th Music Anniversary. MUSIC.
Silence really isn't that golden when you have thirty stations to scan through seeking that one perfect song in the wee hours of the morning!
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Monitors
At three a.m., in the darkest of night, a man was in our bathroom. He was speaking softly, but he was in there.
Mr. grabbed the bat hidden under the bed and crept to the bathroom clad in black socks, some boxers that should have been pitched before fatherhood, okay, before we started dating, and some serious bed head.
"Shhhhh. Stay here." my husband whispered in the still of the night.
Nah, I think I'll go make some bacon and eggs while you kick the intruders ass with your little league bat! went through my head as I laid there, listening to this man speak softly from my sink.
Mr. threw on the lights as he burst through the bathroom door, bat ready to strike the whispering giant.
No one.
Trembling, but adrenaline pumping, Mr. swung open the door to the commode.
No one.
But still, the whispering giant was in the room.
Under the sink? Nope?
In the master closet? Uh uh.
And then, oddest thing of all, the sleeping giant started singing.
"What the Fu--" from my husband was interrupted by both of us realizing our neighbor was taking care of his new baby girl and singing her back to sleep.
Sweet Neighbor baby was back to sleep, Neighbor Man kissed her good night and whispered sweet dreams as he climbed into his own bed next to his sleeping wife, and my husband and I were wide awake and laughing.
That baby monitor was perched on our counter in the master bath, whispering sweet nothings in all our ears. Time to change the channel!
Mr. grabbed the bat hidden under the bed and crept to the bathroom clad in black socks, some boxers that should have been pitched before fatherhood, okay, before we started dating, and some serious bed head.
"Shhhhh. Stay here." my husband whispered in the still of the night.
Nah, I think I'll go make some bacon and eggs while you kick the intruders ass with your little league bat! went through my head as I laid there, listening to this man speak softly from my sink.
Mr. threw on the lights as he burst through the bathroom door, bat ready to strike the whispering giant.
No one.
Trembling, but adrenaline pumping, Mr. swung open the door to the commode.
No one.
But still, the whispering giant was in the room.
Under the sink? Nope?
In the master closet? Uh uh.
And then, oddest thing of all, the sleeping giant started singing.
"What the Fu--" from my husband was interrupted by both of us realizing our neighbor was taking care of his new baby girl and singing her back to sleep.
Sweet Neighbor baby was back to sleep, Neighbor Man kissed her good night and whispered sweet dreams as he climbed into his own bed next to his sleeping wife, and my husband and I were wide awake and laughing.
That baby monitor was perched on our counter in the master bath, whispering sweet nothings in all our ears. Time to change the channel!
Real Party?
Jilly Bean brought Zoe the cutest raincoat ever. Ever. Pink, polka dot lining, heart pockets. Adorable.
We had an ice cream cake and a mini party for Zo so Aunt Jill could celebrate with us before leaving in the morning. Zoe was thrilled, but had to mention - over and over - that this wasn't her real party, but pretend. Mr. thinks she was trying to convince us this wasn't a party, just a chance for some ice cream cake and a gift. She needed to make sure this was just the beginning of Birth Month.
Pumped, Zoe ripped into her beautifully wrapped gift and pulled out... the raincoat. And pulled out some tissue paper. And some tissue paper. And turned over the pink bag, shook it, and shoved her little blond head up into overturned bag.
"Um. Jilly Bean. Where my gift?"
"The raincoat, honey!"
"No. My gift. For my birfday."
The card fluttered out of the bag, landing on Zo's feet.
"Yes! A Book! A New Book! I love Books!"
"Sweety, that's your card."
"Dad, dis not my real birfday gift, right?"
We had an ice cream cake and a mini party for Zo so Aunt Jill could celebrate with us before leaving in the morning. Zoe was thrilled, but had to mention - over and over - that this wasn't her real party, but pretend. Mr. thinks she was trying to convince us this wasn't a party, just a chance for some ice cream cake and a gift. She needed to make sure this was just the beginning of Birth Month.
Pumped, Zoe ripped into her beautifully wrapped gift and pulled out... the raincoat. And pulled out some tissue paper. And some tissue paper. And turned over the pink bag, shook it, and shoved her little blond head up into overturned bag.
"Um. Jilly Bean. Where my gift?"
"The raincoat, honey!"
"No. My gift. For my birfday."
The card fluttered out of the bag, landing on Zo's feet.
"Yes! A Book! A New Book! I love Books!"
"Sweety, that's your card."
"Dad, dis not my real birfday gift, right?"
Jilly Bean
After Stalker from Hell entered our lives we've learned that it isn't smart to have just one adult in this house -- it's nuts around here and easy to lose sight of a sweet angel we love so dearly. So, this week my Aunt Jill came out to be our Savior. She flew in Tuesday morning and Xander and I parked in short term parking.
I ended up getting my rotund self stuck between the slider door and the Escalade next to us. Good thing it's winter in Des Moines and cars are clean. NOT. They are covered in crud. Nice. My new raincoat was a fun splurge that was now looking like something I drug out of the Goodwill pile that had been chilling in our garage for a decade. X was rocking his new Baby Gap navy overalls and navy and white striped button down - he was downright adorable and clean, as I held him out like a cub meeting his pride (think Lion King and Simba a la Circle of Life) and he just kicked and kicked thinking this game of "how can we not get covered in scum" was the best game ever.
We made it into the airport and waited at the end of the tunnel where passengers emerge back into the bomb-laden waiting areas. A portly, tiny man better suited to spend his days playing Bridge at the local Senior Center came over to us and tapped on his TSA badge. A conversation ensued that really, is comical now.
"Ma'am, are you a ticketed passenger?"
"Nope! Just waiting on my Aunt."
"You do see the sign stating TICKETED PASSENGERS ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT?"
I looked up, saw it, and realized that Xander's Pedi Ped-clad toes were sort of beyond the sign.
"Oh. Sorry!" and Baby Unibomber was pulled back into the war-zone.
TSA Grandpa walked back the eight feet to his stool, sat down, and stared. When Baby Unibomber started to totter within two feet of the sign, he hauled up his girth, shuffled on over, tapped his badge, and started the whole thing over again.
And again.
Let me assure you this airport is not JFK or LAX. In fact, I once forgot my driver's license and was waved through security with a smile and a have a nice trip! I've also never once been asked to not bring a liquid through or take off a sweatshirt.
So, I think Gomer Pile was just thrilled to finally have something to do with his eight hour shift. Something exciting like tap his badge and make sure Baby Unibomber didn't get within a foot of a thirty foot tunnel to security.
Finally, after his badge was covered in his finger prints from tap-tap-tapping, Aunt Jill came through the tunnel and Xander started saying, "Nanananananananananananana!"
Nana was my grandma, Jill's mom.
Jill's eyes teared up and she said, "I'll be your Nana!"
X dived-bombed her arms and nestled into her neck with a "Nananananananananana!"
A love story shortly commenced and my Aunt's heart doubled in size as her sweet grand-nephew felt her mom's spirit in her essence. That, if you knew my Nana, is the biggest compliment a woman could receive.
Oh, Nana. I'm glad you've met my little man. I knew you'd love him, too.
I ended up getting my rotund self stuck between the slider door and the Escalade next to us. Good thing it's winter in Des Moines and cars are clean. NOT. They are covered in crud. Nice. My new raincoat was a fun splurge that was now looking like something I drug out of the Goodwill pile that had been chilling in our garage for a decade. X was rocking his new Baby Gap navy overalls and navy and white striped button down - he was downright adorable and clean, as I held him out like a cub meeting his pride (think Lion King and Simba a la Circle of Life) and he just kicked and kicked thinking this game of "how can we not get covered in scum" was the best game ever.
We made it into the airport and waited at the end of the tunnel where passengers emerge back into the bomb-laden waiting areas. A portly, tiny man better suited to spend his days playing Bridge at the local Senior Center came over to us and tapped on his TSA badge. A conversation ensued that really, is comical now.
"Ma'am, are you a ticketed passenger?"
"Nope! Just waiting on my Aunt."
"You do see the sign stating TICKETED PASSENGERS ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT?"
I looked up, saw it, and realized that Xander's Pedi Ped-clad toes were sort of beyond the sign.
"Oh. Sorry!" and Baby Unibomber was pulled back into the war-zone.
TSA Grandpa walked back the eight feet to his stool, sat down, and stared. When Baby Unibomber started to totter within two feet of the sign, he hauled up his girth, shuffled on over, tapped his badge, and started the whole thing over again.
And again.
Let me assure you this airport is not JFK or LAX. In fact, I once forgot my driver's license and was waved through security with a smile and a have a nice trip! I've also never once been asked to not bring a liquid through or take off a sweatshirt.
So, I think Gomer Pile was just thrilled to finally have something to do with his eight hour shift. Something exciting like tap his badge and make sure Baby Unibomber didn't get within a foot of a thirty foot tunnel to security.
Finally, after his badge was covered in his finger prints from tap-tap-tapping, Aunt Jill came through the tunnel and Xander started saying, "Nanananananananananananana!"
Nana was my grandma, Jill's mom.
Jill's eyes teared up and she said, "I'll be your Nana!"
X dived-bombed her arms and nestled into her neck with a "Nananananananananana!"
A love story shortly commenced and my Aunt's heart doubled in size as her sweet grand-nephew felt her mom's spirit in her essence. That, if you knew my Nana, is the biggest compliment a woman could receive.
Oh, Nana. I'm glad you've met my little man. I knew you'd love him, too.
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