Today my husband told me he can't find his favorite pair of jeans. We don't have a lot of clothes, so his favorite pair is pretty much his only pair, and he wants them back. He said, "I put them in the wash a long time ago--maybe a week and a half ago--so they must have ended up in (our son's) room."
There was a time when I might have been touched by his assumption that a week and a half is a short time in the world of laundry, his belief that I get through the piles so regularly that he can expect his jeans a day or so after he drops them in a hamper or on the floor. Now, I just roll my eyes. I don't even try to explain, so he continues to believe that the piles of clean laundry somehow get mixed up and his clothes end up in the wrong room and surface weeks later.
There are seven people living in this house and I am the only one who does laundry. (I know I said we don't have many clothes, but we do try to wear clean clothes, so laundry still must be done.) Our oldest daughter sometimes brings her laundry over to our house, too--she starts it herself, but she usually isn't here when the times comes to move it to the dryer, so I frequently finish it because I need the washer. So that's eight people. Plus, my mother-in-law now lives with us. She has Alzheimer's and her pants and bedding sometimes need emergency, immediate trips to the washing machine. I also have a dachshund that pees on the towel in her crate every night, so that has to be washed every day. Stinky stuff like mother-in-law and dog laundry takes precedence over my husband's jeans, so of course it's possible for his pants to sit at the bottom of a hamper for weeks on end. I'm still doing laundry--just not that laundry.
The laundry argument between me and my husband goes way back. We had been married a year or two when the fun of doing his laundry wore off and I tried to back out. I told him he should do his own laundry. The first time I said this, I was frustrated at the piles of undone laundry and wanted to reduce my own work load. He got mad and told me that it wasn't fair for me to wait to announce this new rule until the dirty laundry had piled up. I decided I would finish all the laundry, then tell him he needed to do his own from then on. After I had all the laundry clean and put away, it didn't seem like such a big deal, so I didn't say anything. The laundry would pile up, I'd be frustrated, tell him to do some, and the whole process would repeat. I always thought it was my fault for not being more organized, not his for never stepping in to start doing his own laundry at that point when he was starting with it all clean. He doesn't remember any of this, by the way--at least, the few times I've brought it up, he claims not to remember.
I don't know why I have to do the laundry. I'm like a rat in a maze, following the rules set forth by some unseen power beyond my understanding, trying to be satisfied if now and then I am rewarded by a bit of cheese.
Friday, June 17, 2011
Wednesday, April 06, 2011
My Brain Hurts
I haven't posted in over a year. I think it's because I am going to college now, and taking writing classes, and I'm afraid to write anything any more in case it's wrong.
But tonight, I had this poetry writing class, and I said bad stuff about someone's poem and now I feel horrible guilt.
I simply can not stand this woman's poems. None of them. I react almost physically to them. They make me want to pull out my hair and throw things.
Well, this hasn't helped. I still feel guilt. And my head hurts.
But tonight, I had this poetry writing class, and I said bad stuff about someone's poem and now I feel horrible guilt.
I simply can not stand this woman's poems. None of them. I react almost physically to them. They make me want to pull out my hair and throw things.
Well, this hasn't helped. I still feel guilt. And my head hurts.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Haiti Again
People just don't seem to understand the situation in Haiti.
I don't know why they wouldn't understand, but somehow it just seems like they don't.
Lillie has had a fever, so I took her to the doctor today (turns out she has an ear infection). The doctor, who has been our pediatrician since before we adopted from Haiti, breezed into the exam room and said, "I've been thinking about you guys. Are you going to go to Haiti?"
Slightly startled by this, I said, "Well, what they really need is doctors. YOU could go."
She said, "Oh, but everyone says they don't need pediatricians. They need orthopedists right now."
Not sure how to respond to this totally inaccurate statement, I finally said, "Oh, I'm sure you could stitch people up." She laughed and went on to examine Lillie.
Let's think about this. Say you got your basic severely injured person lying on the sidewalk in Haiti with no treatment, and you ask him/her, "Do you want to continue lying here with no treatment, or would you like your broken bones to be treated by a pediatrician from the United States?"
Call me crazy, but I think most people would opt for the pediatrician.
I don't know why they wouldn't understand, but somehow it just seems like they don't.
Lillie has had a fever, so I took her to the doctor today (turns out she has an ear infection). The doctor, who has been our pediatrician since before we adopted from Haiti, breezed into the exam room and said, "I've been thinking about you guys. Are you going to go to Haiti?"
Slightly startled by this, I said, "Well, what they really need is doctors. YOU could go."
She said, "Oh, but everyone says they don't need pediatricians. They need orthopedists right now."
Not sure how to respond to this totally inaccurate statement, I finally said, "Oh, I'm sure you could stitch people up." She laughed and went on to examine Lillie.
Let's think about this. Say you got your basic severely injured person lying on the sidewalk in Haiti with no treatment, and you ask him/her, "Do you want to continue lying here with no treatment, or would you like your broken bones to be treated by a pediatrician from the United States?"
Call me crazy, but I think most people would opt for the pediatrician.
Friday, January 15, 2010
MORE ON HAITI, and the BLACK SWAN EFFECT
More tragic news coming out of Haiti all the time, post-earthquake. Aid is trying to get there.
Haiti is portrayed in the news, sometimes by people who have never been there, as poor, dangerous, dirty, bad beyond belief. And some of it is. I think the most appalling part of Haiti is something I noticed when we took some orphanage kids to swim in the ocean at an elegant resort. I picked up a brochure for the resort and saw that the cover featured a fifty-ish white man, chubby, balding, swimming in the pool with a very young black woman and a big smile. Then I caught on--this resort catered to white guys looking for a good time with black teenagers in a country with virtually no law. Ick.
Anyway, here's what I meant to post--I loved Haiti. I was only there a few times, for a few days each time, but I really did love it. I liked waking up in the morning to that clear, luminous Haitian light and the sound of roosters. I liked the guys selling stuff on the streets, and the way they act like they've known you forever and you really NEED this doll or this statue (even though, of course, they just want the money, I know that). I liked the activity on the streets. I liked riding in tap-taps. I just liked Haiti, I don't know why. I wish we could go back.
The way my husband puts it, if you live in Haiti, your chances of encountering a Black Swan (a random, unpredictable event) are much greater than in the U.S., and I think that's true. That's why I don't feel like I could pack up my kids and move there, like some people have (and I admire them very much). I'm too cautious--I don't know that I could move my kids to a country where they might be fine, but statistically, their chances of dying are greater than they are here--dying of things that they would be unlikely to die of, here.
In ten years, my youngest child will be a senior in high school. If we make it that far, we could go back to Haiti--or anywhere--and do whatever--help with clinics, or orphanages, or something. I just feel like I can't go back until we have only ourselves to risk.
If you are thinking, "The earthquake was a natural disaster, not something that can be blamed on Haiti," that's true. But if you are buried in rubble, your chances of being dug out quickly and treated medically are way lower in Haiti than here. That's where the Black Swan risk comes in.
Haiti is portrayed in the news, sometimes by people who have never been there, as poor, dangerous, dirty, bad beyond belief. And some of it is. I think the most appalling part of Haiti is something I noticed when we took some orphanage kids to swim in the ocean at an elegant resort. I picked up a brochure for the resort and saw that the cover featured a fifty-ish white man, chubby, balding, swimming in the pool with a very young black woman and a big smile. Then I caught on--this resort catered to white guys looking for a good time with black teenagers in a country with virtually no law. Ick.
Anyway, here's what I meant to post--I loved Haiti. I was only there a few times, for a few days each time, but I really did love it. I liked waking up in the morning to that clear, luminous Haitian light and the sound of roosters. I liked the guys selling stuff on the streets, and the way they act like they've known you forever and you really NEED this doll or this statue (even though, of course, they just want the money, I know that). I liked the activity on the streets. I liked riding in tap-taps. I just liked Haiti, I don't know why. I wish we could go back.
The way my husband puts it, if you live in Haiti, your chances of encountering a Black Swan (a random, unpredictable event) are much greater than in the U.S., and I think that's true. That's why I don't feel like I could pack up my kids and move there, like some people have (and I admire them very much). I'm too cautious--I don't know that I could move my kids to a country where they might be fine, but statistically, their chances of dying are greater than they are here--dying of things that they would be unlikely to die of, here.
In ten years, my youngest child will be a senior in high school. If we make it that far, we could go back to Haiti--or anywhere--and do whatever--help with clinics, or orphanages, or something. I just feel like I can't go back until we have only ourselves to risk.
If you are thinking, "The earthquake was a natural disaster, not something that can be blamed on Haiti," that's true. But if you are buried in rubble, your chances of being dug out quickly and treated medically are way lower in Haiti than here. That's where the Black Swan risk comes in.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
The Earthquake, Haiti
I'll try to post a link to photos on here somewhere.
I've been reading the Livesays' blog and various updates on the catastrophic earthquake that hit Port-au-Prince yesterday. It's a little weirder for us than for most Americans, reading this stuff, because we've actually been there. I read that there are rumors that the Hotel Montana collapsed, and I remember eating dinner there. And so forth.
It's all unbelievably horrible--but I'm glad to see the reports and photos of people from various other countries rushing to provide aid. It almost makes me feel like Haiti is a thinking entity, somehow, like Haiti finally said, "Okay, you folks in other countries have ignored us long enough--the poverty, the suffering. Even the hurricanes didn't get much attention. Just what does it take, folks? How about THIS--is THIS bad enough for you? Will you finally send help now?"
I mean, the news reports state that electricity is out in PAP, as if it's part of the earthquake situation--yeah, electricity goes out all the time there. That's actually normal. If you live there, you put up with regular, periodic loss of power. And they report that the hospitals can't handle all the injured people--that's normal too. If you don't have the money to pay for your treatment up front in a Haitian hospital, you don't get treatment. You die on the street. It was that way PRE-earthquake.
There's just so much to fix there. They can't just fix the earthquake damage and make it all fine, because the damage goes deeper. I'm picturing good Samaritans from other countries coming in to give medical treatment to an earthquake victim, a little girl perhaps, and saying, "Okay, this one, we've cleaned her up and treated her injuries. But, hmm, she also seems to be very malnourished. And I don't think these sores on her hands are part of her earthquake injuries--it looks like scabies to me. And, um, I think she has intestinal parasites, and there are some old infected scabs on her head, and that cough--has she had a TB test? And, and, and . . . "
It's all sad and tragic and horrible and I'm so sorry. But at the same time, I'm glad Haiti finally got their attention.
I've been reading the Livesays' blog and various updates on the catastrophic earthquake that hit Port-au-Prince yesterday. It's a little weirder for us than for most Americans, reading this stuff, because we've actually been there. I read that there are rumors that the Hotel Montana collapsed, and I remember eating dinner there. And so forth.
It's all unbelievably horrible--but I'm glad to see the reports and photos of people from various other countries rushing to provide aid. It almost makes me feel like Haiti is a thinking entity, somehow, like Haiti finally said, "Okay, you folks in other countries have ignored us long enough--the poverty, the suffering. Even the hurricanes didn't get much attention. Just what does it take, folks? How about THIS--is THIS bad enough for you? Will you finally send help now?"
I mean, the news reports state that electricity is out in PAP, as if it's part of the earthquake situation--yeah, electricity goes out all the time there. That's actually normal. If you live there, you put up with regular, periodic loss of power. And they report that the hospitals can't handle all the injured people--that's normal too. If you don't have the money to pay for your treatment up front in a Haitian hospital, you don't get treatment. You die on the street. It was that way PRE-earthquake.
There's just so much to fix there. They can't just fix the earthquake damage and make it all fine, because the damage goes deeper. I'm picturing good Samaritans from other countries coming in to give medical treatment to an earthquake victim, a little girl perhaps, and saying, "Okay, this one, we've cleaned her up and treated her injuries. But, hmm, she also seems to be very malnourished. And I don't think these sores on her hands are part of her earthquake injuries--it looks like scabies to me. And, um, I think she has intestinal parasites, and there are some old infected scabs on her head, and that cough--has she had a TB test? And, and, and . . . "
It's all sad and tragic and horrible and I'm so sorry. But at the same time, I'm glad Haiti finally got their attention.
Monday, January 11, 2010
Grades
In my two college classes, I got one "A" and one "A minus."
I am not taking anything this semester. Maybe over the summer. I have to decide.
I am not taking anything this semester. Maybe over the summer. I have to decide.
Surviving Christmas
We survived Christmas, although I didn't know if I was going to make it through Xmas Day. When you have kids, Xmas should be about joy, and happy faces of children seeing the packages under the tree, and sisters sharing the fun of getting their very first American Girl dolls together, and families sharing a Christmas meal, and so forth.
But how on earth do people get past the work to reach the joy? I'm flummoxed. I spent days before Christmas cleaning and cooking and wrapping. Stayed awake Christmas Eve getting younger kids to sleep, and waiting for older kids and Dad to get home from midnight service. Got up at four am Christmas Day to sneak into the living room and do the Santa thing. Went back to bed. Got up again when sounds of children roused me. After presents Christmas morning, I cleaned and cooked so Grandma could come for lunch. More presents. Cleaned and cooked so Grandpa and his wife could come for dinner. More presents (house is trashed anew with each round of presents). Rushed out to traditional Christmas evening movie. Came home, cleaned again. Cleaned next day.
I figure I put in about twelve hours of work on Christmas Day, and I don't even do the fancy stuff. No extensive decorating. No elaborate Christmas cookies. No gingerbread houses. No roast goose. We fed Grandma "dirty rice" from a box, for gosh sakes. I should have been able to make time to simply sit and enjoy Christmas.
How do people do it?
But how on earth do people get past the work to reach the joy? I'm flummoxed. I spent days before Christmas cleaning and cooking and wrapping. Stayed awake Christmas Eve getting younger kids to sleep, and waiting for older kids and Dad to get home from midnight service. Got up at four am Christmas Day to sneak into the living room and do the Santa thing. Went back to bed. Got up again when sounds of children roused me. After presents Christmas morning, I cleaned and cooked so Grandma could come for lunch. More presents. Cleaned and cooked so Grandpa and his wife could come for dinner. More presents (house is trashed anew with each round of presents). Rushed out to traditional Christmas evening movie. Came home, cleaned again. Cleaned next day.
I figure I put in about twelve hours of work on Christmas Day, and I don't even do the fancy stuff. No extensive decorating. No elaborate Christmas cookies. No gingerbread houses. No roast goose. We fed Grandma "dirty rice" from a box, for gosh sakes. I should have been able to make time to simply sit and enjoy Christmas.
How do people do it?
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
P.S.
I am still in college. I stuck with two classes (started with four, panicked and dropped two the first week).
Only two more weeks of classes plus finals week. Maybe I can make it.
Only two more weeks of classes plus finals week. Maybe I can make it.
Reply to Grandma's Christmas Present Query Email
Hi Mom,
Here's some ideas for Christmas presents for the kids.
I explained to Francie how she can draw what she's actually looking at--like paying attention to actual angles and shadows, rather than just drawing four straight legs on a table, etc. She's been very happy about that and is actually doing a good job of it. She's drawing things in the background smaller because that's how she sees it, and so on. Anyway, she's very excited about art right now. She likes that cartoon drawing book you left here for her. We might get her a drawing book for Christmas, but it's not likely we'd end up picking out the exact same one, if you want to get her one. She is also always running out of markers and crayons because she leaves them lying around and the dogs eat them.
Lillie likes anything to do with cooking. She would probably even be happy with ingredients, like cupcake mix, frosting, and sprinkles.
Amelia claims to collect stickers. I don't really see the point of that, but she seems to like it. Francie says to tell you that she wants a Hannah Montana Barbie doll. (We are not planning to get her one.) Amelia and Francie both wear earrings.
I don't know what to do about Alan and Angelo. Angelo could use clothes, he's really short on jeans and pants and shoes. I think he wears a 28/30 or 32 in pants (he's very skinny) or a men's size small in anything else. He won't wear anything if it's the least bit baggy. Anything from Wal-Mart he could always exchange. Alan could use clothes too but probably wouldn't consider clothes a Christmas present. He says he wants a million dollars. His second choice was office supplies, Dr. Pepper, and duct tape.
Fred and I could always use towels or puffy bed pillows (most of ours are old and flat). One thing I would like would be holiday candles, like bayberry or pumpkin pie scent, because I like them and this is the only time of year they sell them. Wal-Mart has some for 3 and 4 dollars.
I don't know about Tillie, maybe you could email her.
Is it okay if I start paying back the rest of what I owe you after Christmas (I don't mean the 300.00 check you have for Monday, I mean the earlier money)? We have to figure out how to come up with $2,000 down payment for two sets of braces, now. I hate the orthodontist's office. We've been putting off Amelia's but I guess we have to do Lillie's soon because she has a top front tooth that won't come down because other teeth are in the way.
Here's some ideas for Christmas presents for the kids.
I explained to Francie how she can draw what she's actually looking at--like paying attention to actual angles and shadows, rather than just drawing four straight legs on a table, etc. She's been very happy about that and is actually doing a good job of it. She's drawing things in the background smaller because that's how she sees it, and so on. Anyway, she's very excited about art right now. She likes that cartoon drawing book you left here for her. We might get her a drawing book for Christmas, but it's not likely we'd end up picking out the exact same one, if you want to get her one. She is also always running out of markers and crayons because she leaves them lying around and the dogs eat them.
Lillie likes anything to do with cooking. She would probably even be happy with ingredients, like cupcake mix, frosting, and sprinkles.
Amelia claims to collect stickers. I don't really see the point of that, but she seems to like it. Francie says to tell you that she wants a Hannah Montana Barbie doll. (We are not planning to get her one.) Amelia and Francie both wear earrings.
I don't know what to do about Alan and Angelo. Angelo could use clothes, he's really short on jeans and pants and shoes. I think he wears a 28/30 or 32 in pants (he's very skinny) or a men's size small in anything else. He won't wear anything if it's the least bit baggy. Anything from Wal-Mart he could always exchange. Alan could use clothes too but probably wouldn't consider clothes a Christmas present. He says he wants a million dollars. His second choice was office supplies, Dr. Pepper, and duct tape.
Fred and I could always use towels or puffy bed pillows (most of ours are old and flat). One thing I would like would be holiday candles, like bayberry or pumpkin pie scent, because I like them and this is the only time of year they sell them. Wal-Mart has some for 3 and 4 dollars.
I don't know about Tillie, maybe you could email her.
Is it okay if I start paying back the rest of what I owe you after Christmas (I don't mean the 300.00 check you have for Monday, I mean the earlier money)? We have to figure out how to come up with $2,000 down payment for two sets of braces, now. I hate the orthodontist's office. We've been putting off Amelia's but I guess we have to do Lillie's soon because she has a top front tooth that won't come down because other teeth are in the way.
Thursday, September 03, 2009
A REALLY BAD IDEA
I don't know if I will be posting much for the next few months.
I quit work and went back to college. It's been almost two weeks now.
By the second day, I knew I'd made a mistake.
How could I have been so stupid? I can't deal with class discussions, group projects, or oral presentations. I can't exchange my work with the person sitting next to me and then discuss it with them. I just can't.
I should have remembered all of this. School isn't just about whether you are smart enough to do the work, or whether you are willing to try hard. School is at least--at LEAST--50% personality.
I've had a stomachache and wobbly knees 24/7 since the semester started (well, okay, not when I'm asleep). Only three and a half months to go.
I can't quit, because I took the grant money. I can hate every minute, I can flunk, but I can't quit.
So I might not feel like posting anything for a while. Unless the kids do something cute.
I quit work and went back to college. It's been almost two weeks now.
By the second day, I knew I'd made a mistake.
How could I have been so stupid? I can't deal with class discussions, group projects, or oral presentations. I can't exchange my work with the person sitting next to me and then discuss it with them. I just can't.
I should have remembered all of this. School isn't just about whether you are smart enough to do the work, or whether you are willing to try hard. School is at least--at LEAST--50% personality.
I've had a stomachache and wobbly knees 24/7 since the semester started (well, okay, not when I'm asleep). Only three and a half months to go.
I can't quit, because I took the grant money. I can hate every minute, I can flunk, but I can't quit.
So I might not feel like posting anything for a while. Unless the kids do something cute.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
THE WASHER IS HERE. LET US DANCE WITH JOY.
Okay, so buying a washer online, sight unseen, didn't work after all.
I happened to check my email a few hours after ordering, only to find an email from Home Depot saying that my card was declined so my order would be canceled.
Normally, see, this would be totally believable. I assume that my credit will be bad in any and all circumstances. (I even get nervous paying with cash. Seriously--as I wait in line at Wal-Mart, bills in hand, I worry that they won't take them. This is not as crazy as it sounds. Our local deli once posted a sign that they would no longer accept any bills over $20 in size. You can't even count on cash any more.)
Back to the washer. The card should actually have been fine, because we weren't using our card. We were using Fred's work card, with the plan of paying it back as soon as the bill came in.
Much discussion and several phone calls later, it turned out that although the credit card company did indeed have the transaction on record and did plan to charge us for a washing machine from Home Depot, HD itself had no intention of bringing us a washing machine. Apparently, when you order online, if it takes more than thirty seconds for the transaction to complete, their system decides you are scum and doesn't finish the transaction.
At the point in the conversation with Home Depot where Fred figured this out, he turned to me and said, "You want to just cancel this and go and buy one in person?" So we did. Emergency child care call to Grandma and we went.
And we did everything the old-fashioned way. I have no idea what the user reviews are for this washer. I did not check Consumer Reports. The sales guy showed it to us and said it was a good one, and it was marked down by $250 because it was ever so slightly used. Somebody returned a set, washer and dryer, supposedly because they wanted a different color. So we bought the washer, loaded it into the van because they don't do delivery on used items, and brought it home.
I must say, not knowing the user reviews is kind of nice.
This thing is a front-loader. I had not even checked those before, because although they are apparently the latest thing in home washers, they are more expensive than top-loaders. And they can have mold issues because they seal so tightly.
The guy at the store said that we should dry off the rubber seal and the door after a load, then leave the door open for at least 1/2 hour to let it dry, to prevent mold. Being paranoid, I just leave the door swinging open on ours all the time it's not actually in use. It's not very pretty that way, but maybe it won't get moldy.
And this washer IS kind of cool. The front lights up like the panels in a cockpit. There's a cool soap and fabric softener dispenser. It's a 4.0, so it holds a lot.
I like it. I'm happy.
Buying the old-fashioned way worked out, at least so far. But my three hours spent trying to buy one online were not wasted. I learned a lot about washers. I knew what the guy in the store meant when he said, for example, that "people return this model a lot because they don't like not being able to set the water level." So the store buying process went really fast.
I happened to check my email a few hours after ordering, only to find an email from Home Depot saying that my card was declined so my order would be canceled.
Normally, see, this would be totally believable. I assume that my credit will be bad in any and all circumstances. (I even get nervous paying with cash. Seriously--as I wait in line at Wal-Mart, bills in hand, I worry that they won't take them. This is not as crazy as it sounds. Our local deli once posted a sign that they would no longer accept any bills over $20 in size. You can't even count on cash any more.)
Back to the washer. The card should actually have been fine, because we weren't using our card. We were using Fred's work card, with the plan of paying it back as soon as the bill came in.
Much discussion and several phone calls later, it turned out that although the credit card company did indeed have the transaction on record and did plan to charge us for a washing machine from Home Depot, HD itself had no intention of bringing us a washing machine. Apparently, when you order online, if it takes more than thirty seconds for the transaction to complete, their system decides you are scum and doesn't finish the transaction.
At the point in the conversation with Home Depot where Fred figured this out, he turned to me and said, "You want to just cancel this and go and buy one in person?" So we did. Emergency child care call to Grandma and we went.
And we did everything the old-fashioned way. I have no idea what the user reviews are for this washer. I did not check Consumer Reports. The sales guy showed it to us and said it was a good one, and it was marked down by $250 because it was ever so slightly used. Somebody returned a set, washer and dryer, supposedly because they wanted a different color. So we bought the washer, loaded it into the van because they don't do delivery on used items, and brought it home.
I must say, not knowing the user reviews is kind of nice.
This thing is a front-loader. I had not even checked those before, because although they are apparently the latest thing in home washers, they are more expensive than top-loaders. And they can have mold issues because they seal so tightly.
The guy at the store said that we should dry off the rubber seal and the door after a load, then leave the door open for at least 1/2 hour to let it dry, to prevent mold. Being paranoid, I just leave the door swinging open on ours all the time it's not actually in use. It's not very pretty that way, but maybe it won't get moldy.
And this washer IS kind of cool. The front lights up like the panels in a cockpit. There's a cool soap and fabric softener dispenser. It's a 4.0, so it holds a lot.
I like it. I'm happy.
Buying the old-fashioned way worked out, at least so far. But my three hours spent trying to buy one online were not wasted. I learned a lot about washers. I knew what the guy in the store meant when he said, for example, that "people return this model a lot because they don't like not being able to set the water level." So the store buying process went really fast.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
MULTIPLE PERSONALITIES, MULTIPLE CHILDREN
I was an only child. I complain about the chaos around here, but I do think it's healthier for children to be raised with other children. Healthier for the kids, at least. The parents wear out faster.
Sometimes it's hard to keep track of just how many kids we have, especially if you listen from the other room. The two little ones (ages 7 and 8 as of this writing) take on multiple roles in their make-believe games. Francie, in particular, is capable of being two or three different people and of talking for all of them.
Overheard from the kitchen (where there are TWO children):
Francie is rolling around on an ottoman with wheels, which is apparently a car, and talking to herself. Arguing with herself, actually. I finally figure out that she is representing two arguing children, probably herself and Lillie.
Francie: "I want to be in the front seat! No, I get to be in the front seat!"
Lillie, who is presumably the mom, runs in: "Guys-guys-guys, the wheel is in the front seat so I will be in the front seat. You two will be in the back seat. Now let's go shopping. You both stay with me."
Francie: "Can I be in the front back seat?" (I have no idea what that means.)
Just how many kids did I have, anyway?
Sometimes it's hard to keep track of just how many kids we have, especially if you listen from the other room. The two little ones (ages 7 and 8 as of this writing) take on multiple roles in their make-believe games. Francie, in particular, is capable of being two or three different people and of talking for all of them.
Overheard from the kitchen (where there are TWO children):
Francie is rolling around on an ottoman with wheels, which is apparently a car, and talking to herself. Arguing with herself, actually. I finally figure out that she is representing two arguing children, probably herself and Lillie.
Francie: "I want to be in the front seat! No, I get to be in the front seat!"
Lillie, who is presumably the mom, runs in: "Guys-guys-guys, the wheel is in the front seat so I will be in the front seat. You two will be in the back seat. Now let's go shopping. You both stay with me."
Francie: "Can I be in the front back seat?" (I have no idea what that means.)
Just how many kids did I have, anyway?
SEEN ON CRAIGSLIST
"Two Missouri Foxtrotters - One is 14 yrs old and is 15.1 hands - Very well manured."
Monday, August 17, 2009
WASHDAY WOES
Our washing machine quit working a few weeks ago.
We do laundry for seven people here, plus all the misc. towels, dishtowels, cleaning rags, and dog blankets. I have a dachshund that pees in her crate almost every night, which means I have a stinky dog towel to wash every morning. If you let it sit around in a hamper, it gets REALLY stinky. If I bathe dogs, I have a lot of towels that need immediate washing. The rug by the back door hasn't been washed in weeks. Ick.
The little girls like to change clothes multiple times a day, and they don't always (or usually) put the still-clean stuff they just took off back where it goes. They throw it on the floor and the cats sleep on it and it becomes dirty-by-default laundry.
We have a lot of laundry. I need a washing machine.
I've gone over to Grandma's apartment to do laundry several times. Grandma has one washer, but there's also a free one down the hall. Grandma lives in an apartment complex the size of Rhode Island, so I have to walk about a quarter mile down the hall to the washer. The routine goes like this: Put clothes in Grandma's washer. Walk down hall, put clothes in other washer. Go back to Grandma's. Wait. Put in fabric softener. Back down hall, put in fabric softener. Go back to Grandma's. Wait. Move clothes to dryer. Walk down hall, put clothes in dryer. Go back to Grandma's. Wait. Etc. until it's all done.
We've also been to the laundromat twice. It costs massive amounts of quarters and the woman who runs it is scary. Friendly, but not my type. She wants to talk to everyone and she has an enormous, booming voice. She monitors your every move and the kids can't put fingerprints on anything without her telling them to stop--nicely, but still, I can't handle the idea that the friendly laundry room lady is watching my every move. Last time, I stayed home and sent Fred.
This wasn't actually supposed to be about not having a washer. It was supposed to be about buying a washer, which I just did, online. It was a whole lot harder than I thought it would be.
Once upon a time, I guess that a person who needed a washer would go to a store, shop around, look at washers, talk to salespeople, and then buy one.
Now, we have the dubious advantage of online reviews--user reviews, and Consumer Reports. Naturally, I had to research washing machines before buying one.
Just picking out a model you like isn't enough, of course. You have to make sure that you can actually find it in your area, and that you can get someone to deliver it for a reasonable price, and that they will haul away the old one.
I went back and forth online approximately five thousand times between Consumer Reports, Home Depot, Lowe's, Best Buy, and a lot of misc. sites where I was hunting for user reviews of particular models. All this was complicated by the fact that I really really wanted a larger machine than we've had before, so the 3.5 vs. 4.0 factor was weighed into everything else.
It turns out that you can't find a perfect washing machine. They all get their fair share of negative reviews, even if you spend a thousand dollars, and some of the "Recommended" Consumer Reports washers have user reviews on Consumer Reports that universally say the washer is a piece of junk.
I mean, this was exhausting.
I finally got one. Online, sight unseen. There's just no way we want to go out and shop for one, kids in tow, store to store to store. Forget it. I'm not real picky, I just want the thing to run properly and to hold a lot of laundry.
Total cost, including tax and the required new hoses: 535.82. Free delivery and haul away of old appliance by Home Depot. Perfect user reviews? No. Several people said that it broke down. I'm hoping they are just way too hard on washers, overload, etc. and that the thing will work for us.
Delivery scheduled for two days from now, and I can hardly wait. I guess the pee towels will just have to pile up a bit longer.
We do laundry for seven people here, plus all the misc. towels, dishtowels, cleaning rags, and dog blankets. I have a dachshund that pees in her crate almost every night, which means I have a stinky dog towel to wash every morning. If you let it sit around in a hamper, it gets REALLY stinky. If I bathe dogs, I have a lot of towels that need immediate washing. The rug by the back door hasn't been washed in weeks. Ick.
The little girls like to change clothes multiple times a day, and they don't always (or usually) put the still-clean stuff they just took off back where it goes. They throw it on the floor and the cats sleep on it and it becomes dirty-by-default laundry.
We have a lot of laundry. I need a washing machine.
I've gone over to Grandma's apartment to do laundry several times. Grandma has one washer, but there's also a free one down the hall. Grandma lives in an apartment complex the size of Rhode Island, so I have to walk about a quarter mile down the hall to the washer. The routine goes like this: Put clothes in Grandma's washer. Walk down hall, put clothes in other washer. Go back to Grandma's. Wait. Put in fabric softener. Back down hall, put in fabric softener. Go back to Grandma's. Wait. Move clothes to dryer. Walk down hall, put clothes in dryer. Go back to Grandma's. Wait. Etc. until it's all done.
We've also been to the laundromat twice. It costs massive amounts of quarters and the woman who runs it is scary. Friendly, but not my type. She wants to talk to everyone and she has an enormous, booming voice. She monitors your every move and the kids can't put fingerprints on anything without her telling them to stop--nicely, but still, I can't handle the idea that the friendly laundry room lady is watching my every move. Last time, I stayed home and sent Fred.
This wasn't actually supposed to be about not having a washer. It was supposed to be about buying a washer, which I just did, online. It was a whole lot harder than I thought it would be.
Once upon a time, I guess that a person who needed a washer would go to a store, shop around, look at washers, talk to salespeople, and then buy one.
Now, we have the dubious advantage of online reviews--user reviews, and Consumer Reports. Naturally, I had to research washing machines before buying one.
Just picking out a model you like isn't enough, of course. You have to make sure that you can actually find it in your area, and that you can get someone to deliver it for a reasonable price, and that they will haul away the old one.
I went back and forth online approximately five thousand times between Consumer Reports, Home Depot, Lowe's, Best Buy, and a lot of misc. sites where I was hunting for user reviews of particular models. All this was complicated by the fact that I really really wanted a larger machine than we've had before, so the 3.5 vs. 4.0 factor was weighed into everything else.
It turns out that you can't find a perfect washing machine. They all get their fair share of negative reviews, even if you spend a thousand dollars, and some of the "Recommended" Consumer Reports washers have user reviews on Consumer Reports that universally say the washer is a piece of junk.
I mean, this was exhausting.
I finally got one. Online, sight unseen. There's just no way we want to go out and shop for one, kids in tow, store to store to store. Forget it. I'm not real picky, I just want the thing to run properly and to hold a lot of laundry.
Total cost, including tax and the required new hoses: 535.82. Free delivery and haul away of old appliance by Home Depot. Perfect user reviews? No. Several people said that it broke down. I'm hoping they are just way too hard on washers, overload, etc. and that the thing will work for us.
Delivery scheduled for two days from now, and I can hardly wait. I guess the pee towels will just have to pile up a bit longer.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Jesus Off the Cross
I don't know if I've mentioned this, but Fred is a pastor. (I myself am not a religious person.)
I am a tad bit obsessive about cleaning. The house is usually a mess, because no one else around here cares, but I organize constantly in the quest for a perfection that never comes. Today I cleaned out a drawer that had some old stuff of Fred's in it.
One of the things in the drawer was a small wooden carving of Jesus. There was a wooden cross next to it; the two apparently went together. So I went to ask Fred if he still wanted this thing.
He said, "Well, it's in the drawer because Jesus fell off the cross and I just hated to nail him back on."
I am a tad bit obsessive about cleaning. The house is usually a mess, because no one else around here cares, but I organize constantly in the quest for a perfection that never comes. Today I cleaned out a drawer that had some old stuff of Fred's in it.
One of the things in the drawer was a small wooden carving of Jesus. There was a wooden cross next to it; the two apparently went together. So I went to ask Fred if he still wanted this thing.
He said, "Well, it's in the drawer because Jesus fell off the cross and I just hated to nail him back on."
Saturday, August 08, 2009
I AM BARBIE
Some women go to spas. Me, if I want to relax, I agree to let the children do a makeover on me. Lying back and letting them smear stuff on my face has a tranquilizing effect.
Yesterday, Francie and Lillie desperately wanted to get out my few little scraps of real makeup and use them on me. Now, I know what will happen. The makeup will get used up, used wrong, messed up, and lost. This is one reason I rarely wear makeup. Someone plays with it and ruins it, and I don't get around to buying more for a few months.
However, after they begged and pleaded, I said okay.
I don't own much makeup, so using it correctly doesn't take them long enough. They put a little mascara and eyeshadow on me, and they're done. Not enough fun.
So they found a makeup sponge and used it to apply brown eyeshadow to my whole face, like foundation. I looked like I'd been in some kind of strange tanning booth that not only tans, but leaves you with a shiny, sparkly glow.
As they were working, Francie said happily, "Oh my gosh, it's just like we bought a new Mom!"
Lillie replied, "You can't buy a new Mom. It's like Mom is our new doll!"
Yesterday, Francie and Lillie desperately wanted to get out my few little scraps of real makeup and use them on me. Now, I know what will happen. The makeup will get used up, used wrong, messed up, and lost. This is one reason I rarely wear makeup. Someone plays with it and ruins it, and I don't get around to buying more for a few months.
However, after they begged and pleaded, I said okay.
I don't own much makeup, so using it correctly doesn't take them long enough. They put a little mascara and eyeshadow on me, and they're done. Not enough fun.
So they found a makeup sponge and used it to apply brown eyeshadow to my whole face, like foundation. I looked like I'd been in some kind of strange tanning booth that not only tans, but leaves you with a shiny, sparkly glow.
As they were working, Francie said happily, "Oh my gosh, it's just like we bought a new Mom!"
Lillie replied, "You can't buy a new Mom. It's like Mom is our new doll!"
Saturday, July 18, 2009
My Future As The Kids See It
Lillie turned eight years old yesterday. It's been a long eight years--two house moves, the international adoptions, a different job for Fred, a part-time job for me. I feel like it's twenty years.
Lillie stubbed her toe this afternoon and cried, and as I held her on my lap, we had this conversation:
Me: "Look at my big, eight-year old girl. Where did my little baby go?"
Lillie: "Mom, I grew up. But no matter how big I get, I'll always be your little baby."
Me: "And when you get big, I'll come and live next door to you and help take care of your kids."
Lillie, snuggling in and smiling sweetly: "That's right. I'm going to live just as close as I can to the nursing home that you're in."
Lillie stubbed her toe this afternoon and cried, and as I held her on my lap, we had this conversation:
Me: "Look at my big, eight-year old girl. Where did my little baby go?"
Lillie: "Mom, I grew up. But no matter how big I get, I'll always be your little baby."
Me: "And when you get big, I'll come and live next door to you and help take care of your kids."
Lillie, snuggling in and smiling sweetly: "That's right. I'm going to live just as close as I can to the nursing home that you're in."
Thursday, June 25, 2009
FROM THE BACKSEAT
Mom: "Do you guys have to fight ALL the time?"
Child 1: (shrugs) "It's what we do. It's our job."
Child 2: "Yeah, we're sisters. It is our job."
Child 1: (shrugs) "It's what we do. It's our job."
Child 2: "Yeah, we're sisters. It is our job."
Thursday, June 11, 2009
SNAPSHOT OF A CHILD
At the dog park.
Francie, age seven, wearing a swimsuit and shorts, pink sweatshirt tied around her neck like a cape, arms stretched out in front of her, fists waving, big grin, running across the field, shouting, "I am SuperFrancie!"
Francie, age seven, wearing a swimsuit and shorts, pink sweatshirt tied around her neck like a cape, arms stretched out in front of her, fists waving, big grin, running across the field, shouting, "I am SuperFrancie!"
Tuesday, June 09, 2009
BIRTHDAY PARTY UPDATE
Lillie's 8th birthday party is over.
Things don't always turn out how you think.
The free YMCA pool party turned out to be kind of, well, weird. Fred had the nerve to compare it to "Little Miss Sunshine," although I'm not sure what he meant by that and I don't think he does either. I guess it was the element of looking around and thinking, "This isn't what I was expecting, and you know, it's also a little strange."
Lillie wanted to invite just the girls in her class, because boys "look funny in swimsuits." Okay. Whatever. We printed enough invitations for the girls, and Lillie took them to school, with instructions to pass them out tactfully so the boys wouldn't feel bad. (I would never send invitations to school for just some girls and not others, but I thought, hey, she's inviting all the girls and no boys--that's okay for a school distribution, especially on the last day when they've all got other things to think about.)
Lillie had been invited to two parties by boys, but we didn't RSVP for those, because I didn't think she should go to their parties if she wasn't inviting them to her party. She was fine with that.
That evening, I had a message on my phone: "Um, this is Travis's mom, and we're calling to RSVP for Lillie's birthday. And Travis is having his party this Saturday, and we were wondering if Lillie is coming."
Dang. Track down Lillie, confront her. "Oh," she says, "I had two extra invitations, and Travis and Brandon wanted them, so I said they could come."
This is, of course, my fault for expecting a second-grader to understand the subtleties of birthday party etiquette. Of course, sweet Lillie would announce to anyone in sight that they could come to her party if they wanted to.
I was now faced with the fun task of calling Travis's mom and saying something like, "Hi, Lillie will be at Travis's party, and by the way, she left some of her invitations at home, so she didn't have enough at school to give all the kids. So if your son has any friends in the class who didn't get invitations, please let them know that they are welcome to come."
Or the alternative: "Travis wasn't supposed to get an invitation and isn't really invited. It's just for girls."
Being chicken (and, I hope, somewhat polite), I chose the first option. Travis's mom told Tyler's mom, so Travis and Tyler were coming. No girls RSVP'd at all until the morning of the party, and then just three. One of them brought her little brother.
Tyler brought his older brother--a brother old enough to have the beginnings of a mustache. He was supposedly there to help Tyler in the pool, but he also sat at the table with the kids, participated in games, and took a goody bag. He seemed like a nice kid. But it was a little odd.
Lillie comes from a class where only strange children accept birthday party invitations, that's all there is to it. Does Maya, the school counselor's daughter and obvious future president of the student body, come to the party? No. Only odd children and their mothers come to the party. (We are not simply a weird family ostracized by the normal families at school. Although we may be a little weird, Francie, who is just one grade below Lillie, is in a class full of room-mother-type parents who bring their perfect children to everything, including Francie's parties, thank goodness.)
Okay, I admit it, not everyone at the party was odd. I invited a few kids that we knew from other sources, who are normal with normal parents (as normal as we are, anyway). And there was one little friend of Lillie's from the class who was very nice. Her grandma brought her, and I can say with some certainty that these are not people I would suspect of whipping up batches of meth in their garage, something I'm not quite sure of with the other parents.
Here's the best thing about Lillie's party. She doesn't care. She doesn't care that both moms who stayed (Travis's and Tyler's) were kind of strange. She doesn't care that most of the girls in her class couldn't come. She doesn't care that the YMCA pool wasn't all that great.
Lillie doesn't even care about Travis and the balloons. See, we decorated primarily with balloons. Then Travis' mom announced that Travis is allergic to balloons and can not touch them, so then Grandma Kay, my mother, a former teacher and therefore overly concerned with political correctness when confronted with groups of children, proceeded to swat all the balloons into the corners of the room in an effort to save Travis from them. I'm tellin' ya, it was a weird party.
But Lillie, bless her heart, thinks that she had the best birthday party in the history of the world.
Here's a story about Lillie. My grandmother is in a nursing home now. My mother visits her daily. We don't visit often, because, well, I'm lousy at nursing homes, and it's hard to corral the kids in a very non-kid-friendly environment. This is not an older adult assisted living facility, it's a nursing home, where most of the residents wear diapers and don't recognize their own children.
But sometimes, my mother takes Lillie over, because, she says, Lillie will talk to anyone there. Lillie DOESN'T SEEM TO KNOW THAT THERE'S ANYTHING WRONG WITH THE RESIDENTS. She chats, happy as she can be.
My mother recently moved from a duplex to an apartment. Lillie suggested to her that she move into the nursing home with Grandma Mary, because they could share a room, and wouldn't that be nice? My mother says that upon hearing this, Amelia, age twelve, looked at Lillie as if she were nuts, but Lillie didn't see any reason why anyone wouldn't be happy to move right into the nursing home. Lillie would probably have been fine with us having her birthday party at the nursing home.
I am a birthday party klutz, birthday party phobic. I would rather scrub floors than throw a kid's party, mostly because I always feel, afterward, as if I didn't do a good enough job. I am so grateful to this kid for loving her strange birthday party. It makes it all worth it.
Things don't always turn out how you think.
The free YMCA pool party turned out to be kind of, well, weird. Fred had the nerve to compare it to "Little Miss Sunshine," although I'm not sure what he meant by that and I don't think he does either. I guess it was the element of looking around and thinking, "This isn't what I was expecting, and you know, it's also a little strange."
Lillie wanted to invite just the girls in her class, because boys "look funny in swimsuits." Okay. Whatever. We printed enough invitations for the girls, and Lillie took them to school, with instructions to pass them out tactfully so the boys wouldn't feel bad. (I would never send invitations to school for just some girls and not others, but I thought, hey, she's inviting all the girls and no boys--that's okay for a school distribution, especially on the last day when they've all got other things to think about.)
Lillie had been invited to two parties by boys, but we didn't RSVP for those, because I didn't think she should go to their parties if she wasn't inviting them to her party. She was fine with that.
That evening, I had a message on my phone: "Um, this is Travis's mom, and we're calling to RSVP for Lillie's birthday. And Travis is having his party this Saturday, and we were wondering if Lillie is coming."
Dang. Track down Lillie, confront her. "Oh," she says, "I had two extra invitations, and Travis and Brandon wanted them, so I said they could come."
This is, of course, my fault for expecting a second-grader to understand the subtleties of birthday party etiquette. Of course, sweet Lillie would announce to anyone in sight that they could come to her party if they wanted to.
I was now faced with the fun task of calling Travis's mom and saying something like, "Hi, Lillie will be at Travis's party, and by the way, she left some of her invitations at home, so she didn't have enough at school to give all the kids. So if your son has any friends in the class who didn't get invitations, please let them know that they are welcome to come."
Or the alternative: "Travis wasn't supposed to get an invitation and isn't really invited. It's just for girls."
Being chicken (and, I hope, somewhat polite), I chose the first option. Travis's mom told Tyler's mom, so Travis and Tyler were coming. No girls RSVP'd at all until the morning of the party, and then just three. One of them brought her little brother.
Tyler brought his older brother--a brother old enough to have the beginnings of a mustache. He was supposedly there to help Tyler in the pool, but he also sat at the table with the kids, participated in games, and took a goody bag. He seemed like a nice kid. But it was a little odd.
Lillie comes from a class where only strange children accept birthday party invitations, that's all there is to it. Does Maya, the school counselor's daughter and obvious future president of the student body, come to the party? No. Only odd children and their mothers come to the party. (We are not simply a weird family ostracized by the normal families at school. Although we may be a little weird, Francie, who is just one grade below Lillie, is in a class full of room-mother-type parents who bring their perfect children to everything, including Francie's parties, thank goodness.)
Okay, I admit it, not everyone at the party was odd. I invited a few kids that we knew from other sources, who are normal with normal parents (as normal as we are, anyway). And there was one little friend of Lillie's from the class who was very nice. Her grandma brought her, and I can say with some certainty that these are not people I would suspect of whipping up batches of meth in their garage, something I'm not quite sure of with the other parents.
Here's the best thing about Lillie's party. She doesn't care. She doesn't care that both moms who stayed (Travis's and Tyler's) were kind of strange. She doesn't care that most of the girls in her class couldn't come. She doesn't care that the YMCA pool wasn't all that great.
Lillie doesn't even care about Travis and the balloons. See, we decorated primarily with balloons. Then Travis' mom announced that Travis is allergic to balloons and can not touch them, so then Grandma Kay, my mother, a former teacher and therefore overly concerned with political correctness when confronted with groups of children, proceeded to swat all the balloons into the corners of the room in an effort to save Travis from them. I'm tellin' ya, it was a weird party.
But Lillie, bless her heart, thinks that she had the best birthday party in the history of the world.
Here's a story about Lillie. My grandmother is in a nursing home now. My mother visits her daily. We don't visit often, because, well, I'm lousy at nursing homes, and it's hard to corral the kids in a very non-kid-friendly environment. This is not an older adult assisted living facility, it's a nursing home, where most of the residents wear diapers and don't recognize their own children.
But sometimes, my mother takes Lillie over, because, she says, Lillie will talk to anyone there. Lillie DOESN'T SEEM TO KNOW THAT THERE'S ANYTHING WRONG WITH THE RESIDENTS. She chats, happy as she can be.
My mother recently moved from a duplex to an apartment. Lillie suggested to her that she move into the nursing home with Grandma Mary, because they could share a room, and wouldn't that be nice? My mother says that upon hearing this, Amelia, age twelve, looked at Lillie as if she were nuts, but Lillie didn't see any reason why anyone wouldn't be happy to move right into the nursing home. Lillie would probably have been fine with us having her birthday party at the nursing home.
I am a birthday party klutz, birthday party phobic. I would rather scrub floors than throw a kid's party, mostly because I always feel, afterward, as if I didn't do a good enough job. I am so grateful to this kid for loving her strange birthday party. It makes it all worth it.
Wednesday, June 03, 2009
Francie's Birthday Party--Aargh and Help
I am at a total loss here.
Birthday parties are the most complicated kid things I deal with, I think. I know, someone with a child in a wheelchair, or a child with cancer, would think I am horrible to say that. I realize I'm very lucky that I am able to think that birthday parties are a major issue.
Elementary-age kids, especially girls, live for their birthday parties. From preschool through second grade, the worst thing you can say to someone is, "You can't come to my birthday." They never say "birthday party," but "birthday." The word "birthday" means it all.
Francie's birthday is in late April. Lillie's birthday is in July. July birthdays complicate parties, because she's not in school and that makes it hard to track kids down to invite them.
Last year we had a joint party for both girls right after school was out, in June. That would have worked okay, except that Francie comes from a class with a lot of involved moms who bring their kids to birthday parties, and Lillie comes from a class that doesn't hang together very well. So Francie had more guests and more presents than Lillie.
This year, Lillie, the eternally perfect and lucky child, won a birthday party package from the local YMCA. She has chosen a swim party, which we are having next weekend, right after school gets out for the summer. She's inviting the girls in her class. I hope they show up. I hate birthday parties so much I put off making the invitations as long as possible. She's passing them out today, the last day of school.
Then there's Francie. Sigh. Aargh. The poor kid.
We did have cake and presents on her actual birthday, over a month ago now. I have not yet had the party. She's very sad about this. I'm a horrible mom.
The whole spring birthday season has coincided with a lean time for us financially. The car people want their payment, the kid wants a birthday party. Who wins? Francie doesn't understand this, especially when Lillie's party is a given, because it's mostly free. (Why not have a joint party again at the Y? Well, I was afraid the Y might object to my bringing in two kids for the one party that we won, which is in Lillie's name.)
So, today is the last day of school, and I'm sitting here trying to figure out what the hell to do about Francie's birthday party, because if we are passing out invitations to something, I have to decide what it is, make invitations for it, and have Francie pass them out less than two hours from now.
Her school friends from last year's class are now split into two classes. If I invited both classes, it would mean inviting close to fifty kids. What if they all showed up? I was thinking of a home party, because it would be cheaper, but our house won't hold that many kids.
We can just invite her special friends, but how does she pass out invitations to just some kids and not make others feel bad?
We could just invite her current class, but that won't work at all. There's a core group of kids and moms who hang out together (I'm not one of them, but Francie is on the fringe) and if I just invite one class, half the group will be left out. To complicate matters further, there are twins who are split between the two classes, and whose mom gets upset if only one of them is invited to something.
I checked the school directory, hoping for addresses so we could figure this out later and mail invitations. There are only phone numbers and only about half the kids have those listed.
I suggested a "half-birthday" party to Francie yesterday. For September. She could invite next year's class. She cried. Besides, then I'd feel like I have to write on the invitations that it's not her real birthday and please don't feel obliged to bring presents, which opens up a whole new can of worms. ("No presents? Lillie got presents! Cry, sob.")
Francie, honey, if you read this when you are thirty years old and you feel like you were neglected as a kid, while Lillie the golden child splashed and enjoyed her fancy YMCA pool party, please know that I am doing the best that I can. Honest.
I still don't know what to do about this birthday party. I have, let's see, about an hour now to come up with something.
Birthday parties are the most complicated kid things I deal with, I think. I know, someone with a child in a wheelchair, or a child with cancer, would think I am horrible to say that. I realize I'm very lucky that I am able to think that birthday parties are a major issue.
Elementary-age kids, especially girls, live for their birthday parties. From preschool through second grade, the worst thing you can say to someone is, "You can't come to my birthday." They never say "birthday party," but "birthday." The word "birthday" means it all.
Francie's birthday is in late April. Lillie's birthday is in July. July birthdays complicate parties, because she's not in school and that makes it hard to track kids down to invite them.
Last year we had a joint party for both girls right after school was out, in June. That would have worked okay, except that Francie comes from a class with a lot of involved moms who bring their kids to birthday parties, and Lillie comes from a class that doesn't hang together very well. So Francie had more guests and more presents than Lillie.
This year, Lillie, the eternally perfect and lucky child, won a birthday party package from the local YMCA. She has chosen a swim party, which we are having next weekend, right after school gets out for the summer. She's inviting the girls in her class. I hope they show up. I hate birthday parties so much I put off making the invitations as long as possible. She's passing them out today, the last day of school.
Then there's Francie. Sigh. Aargh. The poor kid.
We did have cake and presents on her actual birthday, over a month ago now. I have not yet had the party. She's very sad about this. I'm a horrible mom.
The whole spring birthday season has coincided with a lean time for us financially. The car people want their payment, the kid wants a birthday party. Who wins? Francie doesn't understand this, especially when Lillie's party is a given, because it's mostly free. (Why not have a joint party again at the Y? Well, I was afraid the Y might object to my bringing in two kids for the one party that we won, which is in Lillie's name.)
So, today is the last day of school, and I'm sitting here trying to figure out what the hell to do about Francie's birthday party, because if we are passing out invitations to something, I have to decide what it is, make invitations for it, and have Francie pass them out less than two hours from now.
Her school friends from last year's class are now split into two classes. If I invited both classes, it would mean inviting close to fifty kids. What if they all showed up? I was thinking of a home party, because it would be cheaper, but our house won't hold that many kids.
We can just invite her special friends, but how does she pass out invitations to just some kids and not make others feel bad?
We could just invite her current class, but that won't work at all. There's a core group of kids and moms who hang out together (I'm not one of them, but Francie is on the fringe) and if I just invite one class, half the group will be left out. To complicate matters further, there are twins who are split between the two classes, and whose mom gets upset if only one of them is invited to something.
I checked the school directory, hoping for addresses so we could figure this out later and mail invitations. There are only phone numbers and only about half the kids have those listed.
I suggested a "half-birthday" party to Francie yesterday. For September. She could invite next year's class. She cried. Besides, then I'd feel like I have to write on the invitations that it's not her real birthday and please don't feel obliged to bring presents, which opens up a whole new can of worms. ("No presents? Lillie got presents! Cry, sob.")
Francie, honey, if you read this when you are thirty years old and you feel like you were neglected as a kid, while Lillie the golden child splashed and enjoyed her fancy YMCA pool party, please know that I am doing the best that I can. Honest.
I still don't know what to do about this birthday party. I have, let's see, about an hour now to come up with something.
Friday, May 29, 2009
KILLING ANNA
I want to kill Anna.
Anna is the afternoon kennel person who shares a job, in a way, with me, the morning kennel person. I am a fat, wrinkled old lady (at least, from her perspective I probably am). She is a 21-year-old twinkie (at least, from my perspective).
We are supposed to take the boarding dogs out, clean the cages and runs, clean cat cages, clean in general. She is stuck with two jobs in the afternoon that I don't have to do in the morning, I'll admit: feeding dogs and wiping out the cages that the day's grooming animals were in (they all go home at the end of the day).
I'm sorry, I know I'm a bitch, but she just does a crappy job of EVERYTHING! She will not clean. I come in every morning and clean up stuff from the day before, stuff that I, were I evening kennel person, would have cleaned up the night before. The runs are still littered with the grooming hair that gets blown around every day. The urine-soaked newspapers under the racks are not changed. There's stuff sitting around where it doesn't belong. The floors are not swept.
I've tried reporting it to the vets. I've tried complaining. It doesn't help; they don't work in the kennel area, they hardly ever even go back there, and they see this as my inability to get along with Anna. If I didn't clean for a couple of weeks and the place began to stink to high heaven, they might get the message, but I can't stand to do that. So I keep doing my job, plus half of Anna's job.
I spend hours of my life, every morning, angry at this girl. It's not a healthy way to live.
Today, after everything was cleaned up and I was grooming a cat, I tried to relax, calm down, get reasonable. The poor girl is just a kid from Podunk, here in Hillbilly County, Missouri, married to same. She'll never go to college. Most likely, neither she nor her husband will ever have a better job than this one. (I have the same job she does, of course, but at least my husband has a real job, and my older kids are in college and will hopefully avoid my sorry fate.) I am the adult here. I need to just get over it, be nice, act my age. I need to quit complaining, to not be mean.
Okay. I can do that. I swear (as I stand there grooming the cat), never again will I make a snide comment about Anna.
Then Anna comes in and says to the other groomer, "You want to hear a joke? My dad told me this and I didn't think it was all that funny, but I told it to my husband and he thought it was really funny."
Keep in mind here, I have black children.
Anna's joke starts out, "What does a colored guy name his dog?"
I didn't hear the rest of it, but that was enough. Sigh. I'm just going to have to kill her.
Anna is the afternoon kennel person who shares a job, in a way, with me, the morning kennel person. I am a fat, wrinkled old lady (at least, from her perspective I probably am). She is a 21-year-old twinkie (at least, from my perspective).
We are supposed to take the boarding dogs out, clean the cages and runs, clean cat cages, clean in general. She is stuck with two jobs in the afternoon that I don't have to do in the morning, I'll admit: feeding dogs and wiping out the cages that the day's grooming animals were in (they all go home at the end of the day).
I'm sorry, I know I'm a bitch, but she just does a crappy job of EVERYTHING! She will not clean. I come in every morning and clean up stuff from the day before, stuff that I, were I evening kennel person, would have cleaned up the night before. The runs are still littered with the grooming hair that gets blown around every day. The urine-soaked newspapers under the racks are not changed. There's stuff sitting around where it doesn't belong. The floors are not swept.
I've tried reporting it to the vets. I've tried complaining. It doesn't help; they don't work in the kennel area, they hardly ever even go back there, and they see this as my inability to get along with Anna. If I didn't clean for a couple of weeks and the place began to stink to high heaven, they might get the message, but I can't stand to do that. So I keep doing my job, plus half of Anna's job.
I spend hours of my life, every morning, angry at this girl. It's not a healthy way to live.
Today, after everything was cleaned up and I was grooming a cat, I tried to relax, calm down, get reasonable. The poor girl is just a kid from Podunk, here in Hillbilly County, Missouri, married to same. She'll never go to college. Most likely, neither she nor her husband will ever have a better job than this one. (I have the same job she does, of course, but at least my husband has a real job, and my older kids are in college and will hopefully avoid my sorry fate.) I am the adult here. I need to just get over it, be nice, act my age. I need to quit complaining, to not be mean.
Okay. I can do that. I swear (as I stand there grooming the cat), never again will I make a snide comment about Anna.
Then Anna comes in and says to the other groomer, "You want to hear a joke? My dad told me this and I didn't think it was all that funny, but I told it to my husband and he thought it was really funny."
Keep in mind here, I have black children.
Anna's joke starts out, "What does a colored guy name his dog?"
I didn't hear the rest of it, but that was enough. Sigh. I'm just going to have to kill her.
Monday, May 25, 2009
THE YEAR OF TEETH
These kids hurt themselves ALL THE TIME.
At least, it seems that way.
Within the past half hour, both the seven-year-olds have come to me to report injuries.
One bumped her face on the freezer (How? How?) and came to me crying. Once she stopped crying, she had to try to pull her lip down as far as possible to show me the ouchie inside her mouth, regardless of the times I've told the kids that I really can't put bandaids or medicine inside their mouths (there was no blood that I could see, so it must not have been that bad).
The other had her leg stepped on by the eighty-five pound labrador. I know, it really does hurt. He's done that to me, stepped on my bare feet. Those nails dig in. I know. It does hurt. But you gotta just keep going.
I always try to dish out the sympathy. I pat the back, I hug, I say, oh, I'm so sorry you're hurt. If appropriate, I offer bandaids and Neosporin.
But I have to admit, my heart isn't always in it. Sometimes I'm just going through the motions. They report everything to me--every little twinge of the body, every wrong done to them by a sister. Lillie says almost every night, "Ooh, I think I'm gonna barf." I don't know why. Maybe an upset stomach is the way her body signals it's bedtime. She never actually does barf. I don't think the kid has thrown up in the past year.
After a while, I just kinda go on autopilot. My first emotion on hearing crying is no longer, "Oh, the poor baby." It's, "AGAIN? Didn't we just do this?"
It's made worse by the fact that they are at that age where their teeth are shedding like hair, it seems. They lose teeth at school. They lose teeth at church. They lose teeth at home. I guess it seems like so many teeth because there are two of them the same age. Somebody's always losing a tooth, or dealing with a tooth that is so loose that she can twist it around in her mouth.
For some reason, they feel it is necessary to show me all of this. Look, the bottom of my tooth is black. (That's okay, it's about to fall out anyway.) Look, blood. (That's normal when you lose a tooth. Just rinse your mouth, you'll be all right.)
But I do try to be sympathetic. My husband, Fred, says that when he was a little kid, he tried to hide his injuries from his mom, because she would yell at him. Now, I know that sounds awful. I think it's something that he, and I, didn't understand before we had multiple kids ourselves. What kind of mom would yell at a kid for hurting himself?
Fred's mom had six kids, and from the sound of it, he was a bit accident-prone. Unlike our girls' imaginary stomachaches or minuscule ouchies, he made numerous trips to the emergency room for stitches. On one memorable occasion, he was coasting down the driveway in a wagon and got his hand caught under it, dragging his hand the length of the driveway. He still has the scar. I think his mom's reaction was due to having to suddenly figure out what to do with multiple little kids while she took the bleeding one to the hospital.
I try to remember that we don't want our kids to think they have to hide bad stuff from us, so I sympathize with the ouchies, with the reports that sister was mean to me again, with the lost teeth.
At least, it seems that way.
Within the past half hour, both the seven-year-olds have come to me to report injuries.
One bumped her face on the freezer (How? How?) and came to me crying. Once she stopped crying, she had to try to pull her lip down as far as possible to show me the ouchie inside her mouth, regardless of the times I've told the kids that I really can't put bandaids or medicine inside their mouths (there was no blood that I could see, so it must not have been that bad).
The other had her leg stepped on by the eighty-five pound labrador. I know, it really does hurt. He's done that to me, stepped on my bare feet. Those nails dig in. I know. It does hurt. But you gotta just keep going.
I always try to dish out the sympathy. I pat the back, I hug, I say, oh, I'm so sorry you're hurt. If appropriate, I offer bandaids and Neosporin.
But I have to admit, my heart isn't always in it. Sometimes I'm just going through the motions. They report everything to me--every little twinge of the body, every wrong done to them by a sister. Lillie says almost every night, "Ooh, I think I'm gonna barf." I don't know why. Maybe an upset stomach is the way her body signals it's bedtime. She never actually does barf. I don't think the kid has thrown up in the past year.
After a while, I just kinda go on autopilot. My first emotion on hearing crying is no longer, "Oh, the poor baby." It's, "AGAIN? Didn't we just do this?"
It's made worse by the fact that they are at that age where their teeth are shedding like hair, it seems. They lose teeth at school. They lose teeth at church. They lose teeth at home. I guess it seems like so many teeth because there are two of them the same age. Somebody's always losing a tooth, or dealing with a tooth that is so loose that she can twist it around in her mouth.
For some reason, they feel it is necessary to show me all of this. Look, the bottom of my tooth is black. (That's okay, it's about to fall out anyway.) Look, blood. (That's normal when you lose a tooth. Just rinse your mouth, you'll be all right.)
But I do try to be sympathetic. My husband, Fred, says that when he was a little kid, he tried to hide his injuries from his mom, because she would yell at him. Now, I know that sounds awful. I think it's something that he, and I, didn't understand before we had multiple kids ourselves. What kind of mom would yell at a kid for hurting himself?
Fred's mom had six kids, and from the sound of it, he was a bit accident-prone. Unlike our girls' imaginary stomachaches or minuscule ouchies, he made numerous trips to the emergency room for stitches. On one memorable occasion, he was coasting down the driveway in a wagon and got his hand caught under it, dragging his hand the length of the driveway. He still has the scar. I think his mom's reaction was due to having to suddenly figure out what to do with multiple little kids while she took the bleeding one to the hospital.
I try to remember that we don't want our kids to think they have to hide bad stuff from us, so I sympathize with the ouchies, with the reports that sister was mean to me again, with the lost teeth.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
WHAT WE TEACH CHILDREN
Important Life Lesson #463:
How To Respond To Your Parents In A Wal-Mart Parking Lot
MOM
"Francie, go on over to the car."
CHILD
Option #1 (Correct): "Okay, mom."
Option #2 (Incorrect): "Yeah, where do you think I'm going, to the potato farm?"
(Potato farm? Don't ask me, she's never been to a potato farm as far as I know.)
How To Respond To Your Parents In A Wal-Mart Parking Lot
MOM
"Francie, go on over to the car."
CHILD
Option #1 (Correct): "Okay, mom."
Option #2 (Incorrect): "Yeah, where do you think I'm going, to the potato farm?"
(Potato farm? Don't ask me, she's never been to a potato farm as far as I know.)
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
BUZZWORTHY BEHAVIOR. OR NOT.
As usual, I have not posted lately because, well, there are so many more important things to do, most of them involving gross stuff that I have to clean up and that someone else messes up as soon as I leave the room, enlivened by the occasional bout of trying to figure out what to say to my father the next time he visits and makes a comment about the half-painted living room which has remained half-painted since the last time he stopped by, several weeks ago.
But I will try to take a moment to record this most important part of our lives: Buzzworthy Behavior.
The elementary school has this new Buzzworthy program this year. It's a system of giving kids points for good behavior and taking them away for bad behavior. They try to make it cute by adding little cartoon bees to everything, thus the buzzworthy aspect.
Recently, the kids who had at least a 90% on their behavior points got to have a party at school. I called ahead, found out when the party was to be, and kept Francie home that day.
Lillie has a consistent 100% on her behavior points. Some days she is so good that her Buzzworthiness is reported to the principal, and we get an automated phone call that evening, with a recording reporting to us that Lillie had Buzzworthy Behavior. One day Lillie was so perfect that her Buzzworthy Behavior was reported to the school office TWICE, some sort of record, probably.
Francie, meanwhile, has an 81%. But here's the deal.
These two girls are nine months apart in age. They live in the same house. They eat the same foods, share a room, sleep about the same amount of time, have the same parents and siblings. And I'd be willing to bet that Francie tries just as hard to be good as Lillie. It just doesn't come as easy for her.
The school assumes that we can change a child's behavior by creating a better home environment. Well, I guess we know that it's not the home environment.
The school assumes that a child can change his/her behavior based on getting rewarded for it. Any kid who tries hard enough, can attend that party.
Bah, I say, bah.
What it comes down to is that Francie is being punished for being genetically a louder and more active person than Lillie. It's as simple as that.
I kept her out of school the day of the party, took her to work with me, and took her out to lunch.
Now the school has sent home a note informing us that Field Day, on the last day of school, will be only for those kids with a certain percentage on their behavior points. Field Day, I tell you, Field Day! All kids should get to participate in Field Day on the last day of school. The kid's in first grade, and they are willing to tell her that she might miss Field Day if she's too bad this year? What kind of monsters are running this school, anyway? Geez.
I give the teachers and principal a 0% on their Buzzworthy Empathy Scores. So there.
But I will try to take a moment to record this most important part of our lives: Buzzworthy Behavior.
The elementary school has this new Buzzworthy program this year. It's a system of giving kids points for good behavior and taking them away for bad behavior. They try to make it cute by adding little cartoon bees to everything, thus the buzzworthy aspect.
Recently, the kids who had at least a 90% on their behavior points got to have a party at school. I called ahead, found out when the party was to be, and kept Francie home that day.
Lillie has a consistent 100% on her behavior points. Some days she is so good that her Buzzworthiness is reported to the principal, and we get an automated phone call that evening, with a recording reporting to us that Lillie had Buzzworthy Behavior. One day Lillie was so perfect that her Buzzworthy Behavior was reported to the school office TWICE, some sort of record, probably.
Francie, meanwhile, has an 81%. But here's the deal.
These two girls are nine months apart in age. They live in the same house. They eat the same foods, share a room, sleep about the same amount of time, have the same parents and siblings. And I'd be willing to bet that Francie tries just as hard to be good as Lillie. It just doesn't come as easy for her.
The school assumes that we can change a child's behavior by creating a better home environment. Well, I guess we know that it's not the home environment.
The school assumes that a child can change his/her behavior based on getting rewarded for it. Any kid who tries hard enough, can attend that party.
Bah, I say, bah.
What it comes down to is that Francie is being punished for being genetically a louder and more active person than Lillie. It's as simple as that.
I kept her out of school the day of the party, took her to work with me, and took her out to lunch.
Now the school has sent home a note informing us that Field Day, on the last day of school, will be only for those kids with a certain percentage on their behavior points. Field Day, I tell you, Field Day! All kids should get to participate in Field Day on the last day of school. The kid's in first grade, and they are willing to tell her that she might miss Field Day if she's too bad this year? What kind of monsters are running this school, anyway? Geez.
I give the teachers and principal a 0% on their Buzzworthy Empathy Scores. So there.
Friday, May 08, 2009
HOW WE KNOW CHILDREN HAVE NO GRASP OF REALITY
When riding in the back seat of a car, children will repeatedly say to the person in the front seat who is DRIVING the car: "Mom, look at me!"
Monday, April 27, 2009
Friday, April 24, 2009
OUR LIFE
Mom and Dad, alias Fred and Wilma:
Wilma arrives home from her job cleaning kennels and bathing dogs and collapses into a chair. She is exhausted and smells like a dog.
Wilma: "My back is killing me."
Fred: "Oh, good, you're here. We need to figure out the rest of the day. I have a meeting at church, about that funeral."
Wilma: "Why is Amelia back already? Why isn't she still at Madison's house? Why is Madison here?"
Fred: "Madison's grandpa had a heart attack this morning, so Madison's mom brought them over here. Madison's mom was going to the hospital. Your mother took Francie and Lillie with her this morning. I thought she was just taking Francie. I couldn't remember why she was taking her, though, so I wasn't sure what was going on, and Lillie went too."
Wilma: "She was taking Francie to get a pair of shoes for her birthday present. I didn't know she was taking Lillie either. I never know what's going on."
Fred: "Lillie has a hair appointment at Aunt Judy's salon at 1:00."
Wilma: "What? When did that happen? What did she do, call and make her own hair appointment? She's seven."
Fred: "Yeah, she did. She said she wanted her bangs cut, so I gave her the phone and told her to call Aunt Judy. But I didn't know your mother was taking her somewhere. I told your mother that Lillie has a hair appointment. I guess they'll be back in time."
Wilma: "It's 12:15 now, they'd better get back soon. If she's getting her bangs cut, she should get her hair cut too, as long as she's there. And we still have Aunt Judy's Christmas present. We should take that along." (Note: this conversation is taking place in April.)
Phone rings. Fred answers, describes location of hair salon where Aunt Judy works, hangs up.
Fred: "Okay, I guess your mother thought she was taking Lillie to the hair appointment."
Wilma: "Huh? What about getting her hair cut while she's there? Are they going to do that? What about the Christmas present? Oh, just give me the damn phone."
Fred hands Wilma the phone. Wilma dials.
Wilma: "Hello? It's me. So, you're taking Lillie to get her hair cut? Okay. Can you ask Aunt Judy to cut her hair too, not just her bangs? Just a chin-length cut, like last time. Okay, put her on. Hi, Lillie. Can you ask Aunt Judy to cut your hair too? Like you had it last time was good. About to your chin. Why can't you hear me? Is it loud there, or you just can't hear me? Okay, CAN YOU HEAR ME NOW? What do you mean, no. I just asked if you can hear me and you said no, so you must have been able to hear me. Okay, I'll yell. CAN YOU GET YOUR HAIR CUT TOO, BESIDES GETTING YOUR BANGS CUT? YES, I KNOW YOU ARE GETTING YOUR HAIR CUT. BUT CAN YOU GET IT CUT ALL OVER, LIKE LAST TIME, AS LONG AS TO YOUR CHIN? WHAT? Oh, hi. She says she can't hear me. Just get her hair cut like last time--yes. Bye."
Wilma to Fred: "Stop laughing."
Wilma arrives home from her job cleaning kennels and bathing dogs and collapses into a chair. She is exhausted and smells like a dog.
Wilma: "My back is killing me."
Fred: "Oh, good, you're here. We need to figure out the rest of the day. I have a meeting at church, about that funeral."
Wilma: "Why is Amelia back already? Why isn't she still at Madison's house? Why is Madison here?"
Fred: "Madison's grandpa had a heart attack this morning, so Madison's mom brought them over here. Madison's mom was going to the hospital. Your mother took Francie and Lillie with her this morning. I thought she was just taking Francie. I couldn't remember why she was taking her, though, so I wasn't sure what was going on, and Lillie went too."
Wilma: "She was taking Francie to get a pair of shoes for her birthday present. I didn't know she was taking Lillie either. I never know what's going on."
Fred: "Lillie has a hair appointment at Aunt Judy's salon at 1:00."
Wilma: "What? When did that happen? What did she do, call and make her own hair appointment? She's seven."
Fred: "Yeah, she did. She said she wanted her bangs cut, so I gave her the phone and told her to call Aunt Judy. But I didn't know your mother was taking her somewhere. I told your mother that Lillie has a hair appointment. I guess they'll be back in time."
Wilma: "It's 12:15 now, they'd better get back soon. If she's getting her bangs cut, she should get her hair cut too, as long as she's there. And we still have Aunt Judy's Christmas present. We should take that along." (Note: this conversation is taking place in April.)
Phone rings. Fred answers, describes location of hair salon where Aunt Judy works, hangs up.
Fred: "Okay, I guess your mother thought she was taking Lillie to the hair appointment."
Wilma: "Huh? What about getting her hair cut while she's there? Are they going to do that? What about the Christmas present? Oh, just give me the damn phone."
Fred hands Wilma the phone. Wilma dials.
Wilma: "Hello? It's me. So, you're taking Lillie to get her hair cut? Okay. Can you ask Aunt Judy to cut her hair too, not just her bangs? Just a chin-length cut, like last time. Okay, put her on. Hi, Lillie. Can you ask Aunt Judy to cut your hair too? Like you had it last time was good. About to your chin. Why can't you hear me? Is it loud there, or you just can't hear me? Okay, CAN YOU HEAR ME NOW? What do you mean, no. I just asked if you can hear me and you said no, so you must have been able to hear me. Okay, I'll yell. CAN YOU GET YOUR HAIR CUT TOO, BESIDES GETTING YOUR BANGS CUT? YES, I KNOW YOU ARE GETTING YOUR HAIR CUT. BUT CAN YOU GET IT CUT ALL OVER, LIKE LAST TIME, AS LONG AS TO YOUR CHIN? WHAT? Oh, hi. She says she can't hear me. Just get her hair cut like last time--yes. Bye."
Wilma to Fred: "Stop laughing."
Friday, April 17, 2009
Susan Boyle
I have to post this, although I will refrain from commenting on it since half the world has already commented on it and how many comments do we really need?:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9lp0IWv8QZY
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9lp0IWv8QZY
Friday, March 27, 2009
IT DOESN'T GET ANY BETTER
I am on an unexpected vacation.
It's spring break for the kids, and it turns out that the twinkie who does afternoon kennels wants extra work this week anyway. It's her last paycheck before the cruise that she and her husband are taking to celebrate their first anniversary. (The twinkie is twenty-one years old.) So,I was able to take a few days off. Thursday through Sunday, to be precise.
Four days off. In a row. Four straight days. This hasn't happened since I went back to work a year and a half ago.
It's lovely. The first day, I was so relaxed, I felt like I'd been given a sedative. I hadn't realized how much it was bothering me, having to get up and go over to that stupid place every single morning of my life.
Not having to go anywhere in the morning affects the night before, too. I will make a confession, here--I usually sleep in Lillie's bed. My official excuse is that she has been known to sleepwalk, and I caught her opening the back door in her sleep one night.
The real reason is that I just love snuggling up to my baby at night, even though my baby is now in elementary school. Francie and Amelia sleep in the next room, or maybe the same room, depending on how you look at it--the rooms were once two small bedrooms, and were turned into one larger room by someone who knocked out a doorway and replaced it with an open arch.
I lie down with Francie to get her to fall asleep, then move into bed with Lillie. Francie wakes up during the night and gets into bed with Amelia whenever she can get away with it. Kids just like to sleep with people, that's all, and they like to do so a lot longer than our standard Americanized wisdom allows. I won't still be sleeping with Lillie when she's twelve, or even ten. But if I can get away with it for now, by golly I'm going to.
I'm getting older. I'm not having any more babies. My time for snuggling with a little kid at night is running out, and that makes it all the more precious.
Bedtime is usually the best part of my day. Francie is asleep, finally. Amelia is in bed. A book on tape is playing quietly in the background, "Talking to Dragons," or "Thimble Summer." Our kids have always fallen asleep to books on tape.
The dogs have been fed, been watered, been out, and are safely in their crates for the night.
And finally, finally, I get to go to bed.
I lift up the edge of the covers and slide in next to Lillie. There's an open window right by the bed, on my side, and the breeze is a cool spring breeze, almost chilly. When I slide under the covers, I enter the pocket of warm, body-temperature air that surrounds Lillie, who is a solid, slightly damp, breathing lump of child. It's delicious. It actually makes me a little giddy, a little giggly--the remnants of the baby hormones kicking in, I think.
Then comes the best part. I get to read in bed.
I had some stuff on hold at the library, and Fred picked it up for me. The house is sort of clean, for a change. It's spring break, and we don't have much scheduled. The continual, daily 8:00 a.m. and 3:00 p.m. deadlines are missing, this week.
So, once the kids are asleep, it's just reading.
I rarely wander the library, looking for books. Instead, I look at book catalogs and Amazon.com book reviews, find stuff that sounds good, check online to see if the library has it. If they do, I put it on hold.
This time, I had decided to work my way through some more of Jon Katz's books. I'd read "A Dog Year" and "A Good Dog." (Actually, I now own the library copy of "A Good Dog," because our shiba inu chewed on a corner of the book and we had to pay for it. The librarian got a kick out of that one.)
When Fred brought home my reserved books and dumped them on the kitchen table, I found that I had: by Jon Katz: "Geeks," "Running to the Mountain," "The New Work of Dogs," and "Izzy and Lenore." I also had "The Graveyard Book" by Neil Gaiman.
As it turned out, I hit the jackpot with this batch. Immersed in dogs, I can get tired of the subject. Two of the Jon Katz books were prior to his dog-writing days. I read "Geeks" first, and loved it. Then I went on to "The Graveyard Book," a different sort of children's book which was nevertheless quite the page-turner.
Then, "Running to the Mountain." I never heard of Thomas Merton before, and I'm afraid I don't especially care for him since reading this book. Although I got only glimpses of what his life and writing must have been like, I'm thinking the guy needed a baby to take care of so he could get some perspective and quit brooding.
But I liked the rest of the book. Surprisingly, at about the point where Katz is getting the yard cleaned up in his mountain retreat, I started to pine (no pun intended) for a mountain retreat of my own. I didn't even realize I wanted one, until then.
I know that it's ridiculous, a character flaw probably, to find yourself in every book you read, to decide that yes! This is what I needed! In my own defense, I don't think the whole mountain cabin thing is quite like that, for me.
I am a loner. I have always been a loner. I got married and had six kids so I wouldn't have to reach out to the world, because I'm no good at it. The world surrounds me by default.
However, I think that once the kids are grown, once I am over the hormonally-driven desire of youth for friends and family, I will return to being a loner, this time contentedly. In high school, not being able to talk to the popular kids is a failure. As a mom, not being able to chat up the Room Mother Moms is not something that bothers me for myself, but I feel guilty for not being that kind of parent for my kids. As an older person whose kids are on their own, I think I'll be relieved to put all that behind me. I think I'd love to have my own little house somewhere, just me and a couple of dogs. And a cat, for the mice.
As it is now, I don't have my own space at all, at all. I clean the whole house. I decorate the whole house. I organize drawers, closets, I pick out paint colors. Fred doesn't get in my way for all that stuff. So how can I say I don't have my own space?
Well, no part of it is mine, just mine, to use. In my desire to make everything fit, to give Fred enough space so that he doesn't resent us all, to give the kids the space that they need, my space has become expendable.
I have given over the "master" bedroom--a small room without its own bath, as is necessary for the master bedroom when you have lots of kids in the house--to Fred. He calls it his Man-Cave. The kids go in there when he's gone, watch TV, and leave cereal bowls and shoes lying around. He hollers. But I stay away from the room, mostly, leaving it to him. It's gradually becoming a slightly neater version of his college apartment, with everything from his allergy tablet bottles to his socks to his tool kit OUT instead of put away, so he can get to it all easily, I guess.
My shirts hang at one end of the girls' closet. My other clothes are in a dresser in their room. I sleep anywhere and everywhere, my favorite sleeping place being snuggled next to Lillie, on the fold-out couch that serves as her bed, right next to the window. It's my spot--but it's only my spot when no one else is using that room, or using the room next to it through the archway, or coming to find me because they want something.
So, the space on the window side of the sleeper couch becomes totally mine when: everyone is asleep. The dogs have gone out, have been fed and watered, and are in their crates for the night. All is quiet.
Then I can snuggle into my warm space next to Lillie. I open the window a crack. From my spot, I can reach out my right arm and touch the window screen. The sweet spring breeze wafts across the bed, and with the window within arm's length, I can adjust it however I want, depending on how cold I get. I might have a drink and some cookies balanced on the arm of the couch. Pillows propped behind me, just right. If my feet get cold, I move them further into Lillie's pocket of warmth. The dogs rustle in their crates. Through the open window, I hear the local owl hooting.
I have four days off. No alarm clock to set. No calculating in my head just when I will have to fall asleep by in order to make it through the next day. I turn on my flashlight--I read in bed by flashlight, like a kid sneaking books under the covers--and I read as late as I want to. Since the books showed up on Tuesday, I've finished three of the Jon Katz books and "The Graveyard Book."
I know there are people who vacation in Paris, attend parties in Manhattan, climb Mount Everest, bike across the country. I guess I'm kind of a dud, but I can't imagine anything more blissful than the night I just described--a pile of good books, an open window in spring, and a bed warmed by a sleeping child who loves me. It doesn't get any better.
Conversation with Lillie
The big girls (ages 12 and 11, Amelia and her friend) are watching a movie in the living room. The little girls, Francie and Lillie, are disturbing them. It's past bedtime anyway (it's spring break). So, bedtime for the little girls. Lillie is crying.
Lillie: "The big girls get to do everything! How come they get to do whatever they want?"
Mom: "Because they're big. They don't get to do whatever they want, anyway."
Lillie, wailing and insistent: "I'm big!"
Mom: "Hmm . . . did you grow? What did I tell you about growing? You are not allowed to grow. If you grow, then I won't have my baby any more."
Lillie: "Mom, you know I can't help my body! I have to grow!"
Mom: "I don't grow. I haven't grown in ages. If I can stop growing, you can."
Lillie: "Mom! You stopped growing because at some point in somebody's life they stop growing. Because they're full grown. That's why you'll never be as tall as Daddy. My teacher said so."
Mom: "Your teacher! What do teachers know? I think you can stop growing if you want to."
Lillie: "Mom!" Rolls eyes. "Teachers know everything." Pauses to think. "Except, they forget where they put stuff a lot."
Lillie: "The big girls get to do everything! How come they get to do whatever they want?"
Mom: "Because they're big. They don't get to do whatever they want, anyway."
Lillie, wailing and insistent: "I'm big!"
Mom: "Hmm . . . did you grow? What did I tell you about growing? You are not allowed to grow. If you grow, then I won't have my baby any more."
Lillie: "Mom, you know I can't help my body! I have to grow!"
Mom: "I don't grow. I haven't grown in ages. If I can stop growing, you can."
Lillie: "Mom! You stopped growing because at some point in somebody's life they stop growing. Because they're full grown. That's why you'll never be as tall as Daddy. My teacher said so."
Mom: "Your teacher! What do teachers know? I think you can stop growing if you want to."
Lillie: "Mom!" Rolls eyes. "Teachers know everything." Pauses to think. "Except, they forget where they put stuff a lot."
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
I'm Younger Than I Think
I haven't posted for a while. The combination of work and cleaning up at home after seven people becomes discouraging and all-consuming. Sometimes I write a post entitled something like, "Take This Job and Shove It," only to delete it without posting.
I clean kennels and bathe dogs (and cats). Sometimes, when the two full-time groomers have too many animals on the books, I groom. I make more money per hour grooming than the $9/hour I get for doing the other stuff. I'd rather just groom a couple of days a week, and forget the kennel work altogether. Working two full days a week sounds great. (Yes, I know lots of people work forty hours a week and then come home to feed kids and clean up their houses. I am grumpy and don't wish to discuss them.)
My present schedule: Go in for four hours every weekday morning and every other Saturday morning, and do kennels for the whole weekend once a month. But I know my employer, a dour and intimidating man, doesn't want to find someone else to do the morning kennel work. I am an old mom and I CLEAN. Usually, the people who apply for my type of job are 20-year-old twinkies. They don't clean. Not very well, anyway. The place smells better since I started working there. The boss doesn't want me to quit doing kennels and to just groom. I don't have the guts to insist on it.
The thing is, I could easily spend four hours a day cleaning and doing laundry and yardwork at home. But by the time I've done it at work all morning, I'm not perky enough to come home and jump right into more frenzied activity. Therefore, the house is a freakin' mess most of the time. (I once told the kids, "The house is my brain. When the house looks like this, my brain is a wreck, and I'm cranky."
When you spend four hours cleaning kennels, putting dogs out, and bathing animals, you spend those four hours on your feet and moving. I lift dogs into the bathtub that weigh up to about eighty to ninety pounds (beyond that, I have to get help).
There's a limit to how much activity my poor old mom body can take in one day, any more. I'm old. I'm ancient, I'm wearing out, I'm depressed. My knees make slight crunching sounds when I go down stairs. In twenty years, I'll probably need knee replacement surgery, like my mother did two years ago.
On the other hand, I'm a year younger than I thought I was. I discovered this when I had to fill out some paperwork or other for the kids, and I had to figure out how old my husband Fred is. Once I did that, it didn't add up--I know he's three-and-a-half years older than I am, but aren't I . . . ?
Nope. All last year I thought I was XX years old, but it turns out that it's THIS year that I'm XX years old. Hey, those numbers sort of run together during the middle years of each decade, I've found.
So, some good news. I have an extra year of life to do something wonderful, something grand. If I could just figure out what it is. I'm about the same age as the president. He's president. I'm cleaning kennels. I must have screwed up somewhere . . .
Tuesday, February 03, 2009
Current Events
Obama is now president. Yay.
On the eve of the inauguration, Amelia and her friend Mikayla (ages 12 and 11):
Amelia: "Who was the youngest president?"
Mikayla: "I don't know. They're all pretty old."
On the eve of the inauguration, Amelia and her friend Mikayla (ages 12 and 11):
Amelia: "Who was the youngest president?"
Mikayla: "I don't know. They're all pretty old."
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Mamma Mia!
I got the DVD for Christmas, a surprise, because I don't usually expect anything for Christmas (expect nothing and you will not be disappointed). Amelia saw it at a friend's house, and she's heard the songs since the friend's parents play it in their car. Tillie, the theater major, had seen it. But the little girls and I had not seen this ABBA-themed screen version of a Broadway and London production that I never heard of before I started noticing previews for the movie.
The first time I watched it, I was a bit disappointed. You gotta admit it--the older guys can't sing.
The other weird thing about the movie is the time factor. While the character Sophie is a luminous and totally believable 20-year-old, and her boyfriend is a major hunk and also a totally believable 20-year-old (and they can both sing), the "adult" characters are all, well, too old. Meryl Streep is in her late fifties, but her character should be about, say, forty-five at the most. And "twenty years ago" looks like it was supposed to be in the sixties or seventies, which doesn't add up.
(This is not necessarily a big deal, I just happen to like accuracy. Some kinds of accuracy, anyway. I liked the movie "The Core," where the center of the earth stops moving and they have to go down there in kind of a submarine/rocket ship and start it up again. Hey, I was fine with that. But back to Mamma Mia--)
I was also confused, because I didn't know anything about ABBA except what I saw in "Muriel's Wedding."
So after the first time, I sat down and watched the director's commentary version. Then I watched the regular movie again. Then I got on the internet and looked up just who or what ABBA is, and what on earth a "Super Trouper" is, and it all started to come together.
The little girls watched it with me, and they were hooked--of course, it's just the kind of thing that elementary-school-aged girls would love. It's especially suited for Francie, who can't sit still through any movie unless people are leaping around and singing.
The director's commentary cleared up some stuff for me--like the Greek folk hanging around and singing backup while the actors don't pay much attention to them. Turns out they are supposed to be a Greek chorus. Okay. As a kid, I could never figure out the ballet sequences in musicals either. Like "Oklahoma," which I used to watch on our local public television station. Everything would be moving right along, and suddenly they would drop into some random fantasy ballet stuff. Never could figure that out, when I was in junior high.
Meryl Streep can sing. The women, although technically too old for their parts, are in great shape. As a forty-something woman, I started to look at them and think, gee, HOW old is she? I need to take some dance lessons. At one point, Christine Baranski, who is in her mid-fifties, lifts a very lithe leg into the air so that her foot is level with her head. It made me want to take ballet lessons. Maybe it's not too late after all.
Although I have never been an ABBA fan, here's the thing--you watch the movie, and then you can't get the songs out of your head. They're like a drug. You need more. I also got an Ipod for Christmas (huge surprise, as I said) and I am planning to buy the CD and get Amelia or Alan to download it onto the Ipod for me. Then I can listen at work, in an effort to get enough of "Honey, Honey" and "Waterloo" so that they stop playing in my head spontaneously ALL THE FREAKING TIME.
So, it's addictive. After my first disappointment, I ended up giving it five stars on Netflix, because, what the hell. Meryl Streep jumps on a bed. Everyone wears sequins and makes complete fools of themselves. There's a Greek chorus floating on clouds. Why not.
Pierce Brosnan still can't sing. Colin Firth sings very sweetly when he's allowed to, on the boat. At the end, of course--well, I read that he was embarrassed by the movie, but he shouldn't be. Hey, we all know he never would have picked out those boots for himself.
Anyway, I give it a thumbs up, if you are a female. I would never dream of trying to convince Fred to watch it.
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