If my girls' school had a Bulletin Board of Shame, my picture would officially be at the top. In fact, it would probably have a big red circle with a line through it, symbolically declaring that under no circumstances should I be entrusted with a child. Well, maybe not quite that bad since schools are mandatory reporters, and CPS hasn't come knock-knock-knocking...yet.
Okay, I'm probably exaggerating a bit, but boy do I feel like the worst mom on the face of the planet right now. Let me back up a bit. Once upon a time, I was the absolute greatest. I just was. If you e-mailed me (I told you, backing up a bit), I would reply right away. If you left me a message, I would call. If you gave me a task, I would complete it ahead of time and better than you anticipated. I was the pillar of organization and responsibility, proven by my grade point averages and my Circle of Responsibility that reached around the globe...twice.
Then, I had kids and quit my paying job. At first, the changes in my personality were subtle enough that I didn't even notice them. It wasn't until my kids started school that it started to hit me that I was no longer on the ball. In fact, the ball was locked away in some gym teacher's office, and I had absolutely no access to it. The eldest was easy enough, but when the middle one started kindergarten last year, that's when I completely fell apart. The amount of paperwork that comes home from school is mind-boggling, and I couldn't keep it straight to save my life. Schedules and e-mails and websites and circus performing...it was just too much.
That's when I really started to actually lose my mind and earned my initial place on the Bulletin Board of Shame. Right around Christmas program time last year, my anxiety had risen to such a feverish level that I had myself a full-blown panic attack at the school the evening of the oldest's program. I was lying on the sidewalk, in the dark and rain, and it occurred to me that maybe I wasn't the greatest anymore. I got through it by the hair on my chinny chin chin, which I had forgotten to pluck, and managed to get my wet butt inside, but not before doing some deep breathing exercises in the hallway where the principal got to witness my undoing. I'm pretty sure I won't be first on the sub list when I go back to work.
So, with the help of some meds, I got the anxiety to a more reasonable level, but unfortunately, there's no pill to keep my crap organized and keep me from becoming That Mom. I really am her. I miss deadlines, picture days, school barbeques, field trips, pick up, drop off, most Thursdays all together, and Waste Free Wednesday (another blog for another day).
Today, I was feeling pretty good. I made most of dinner this morning, and it was a good one, too. In between rain storms, I decided to get to work getting my yard pretty. I hate yard work, but I love my husband and knew he'd be so proud of me that he might even buy me some vodka so I could have a cocktail (failure in reasoning: he needs to know about the yard work ahead of time in order to bring the vodka home, and if I don't tell him, he doesn't know about it). I weeded, poop scooped, cut back the hostas, and then did something I haven't done since we moved here: I mowed the lawn. Back AND front. Oh, boy, was I feeling pleased with myself.
Little did I know that while I was outside being Super Wife, the school was calling me on my phone that I neglected to bring out with me. The Bean was in the office with a fever and a sore throat. I got the message an hour after they called me, which also happened to be 10 minutes before school was dismissing. When I finally called, they informed me that she had napped the afternoon away and they had pulled Wendy from her classroom so she could be with Nina. Oh, man, did I deflate quickly. The school secretary's voice was dripping with disdain, and I can hardly say I blame her, even though Nina really is the cutest thing when she's sleeping and it should have been delightful for them to look in on her while they waited for her neglectful mother to come rescue her.
Now, mind you, this is a very cautious school. Like, super duper cautious. I kid you not, last year, they sent Nina home with a very bad tummy ache, advising me to take her to the doctor because some parasite from Panama or something was going around school. It took exactly one good fart for Nina to feel better, but by then, we were halfway home. So, when they asked if I would like to come get her or if she and her sister should ride their bikes home, I said to let 'em ride. I mean, I don't exactly trust the school's story on how bad my kids' condition actually is.
Turns out, it was 102.8 degrees bad. I not only let her rot away in the office all afternoon--or, you know, an hour--but I also made her ride her bike home. This is why my picture has been moved to the top of the board. I would just like to tell whomever is on the Mother of the Year nominating committee that I completely understand my omission from your list of candidates. If you need me, I'll be glued to my phone, waiting for the next illness to strike.
Tuesday, October 1, 2013
Monday, September 23, 2013
The Trials of 4-Year-Old Freedom
Let me be frank for a minute: whoever said that 5 o'clock was the appropriate time to start drinking never had a 4-year-old boy. They just didn't. Whoever said it was either a masochist or childless. It is either/or, by the way. You can't have children and not be a masochist. So, to the childless, I say 5 o'clock is too late. To the masochists, I say mind your own business.
My boy is driving me nuts. Like, really, really nuts, and there is really no getting around the fact that the only way to counter the nuts is with wine, be it 9 a.m. or 6 p.m.
Last week, I didn't feel well. As is the case with a stay at home mom, the kids just don't care. I don't get a sick day. I just have to muddle through as best I can. The best I could do that day was watch TV with my little guy after his sisters departed for school. In an unprecedented act of sleepiness, I completely passed out on the couch. For two hours. Two very solid hours. When I awakened, I discovered my little man had seized the opportunity to unleash his creativity on my house.
I found crayon wall art. I found a yellow lab with a new blue marker tattoo. Upstairs, he had attempted culinary uniqueness by making mouthwash soup with large dallops of toothpaste all over the bathroom counter. Entering the playroom, I saw that what was formerly a half a ream of printer paper and a new roll of Scotch tape was now a giant paper fort intended to house his stuffed animals. It was like Christmas Nightmare on Elm Street with a new horrible surprise waiting around every corner. I give him credit for doing all of this relatively silently, but, man, that will teach me to get sick and accidentally fall asleep ever again.
Then, a few days ago, I decided to take a shower. I do this on a daily basis. I have for several years. I find it's the only way I can feel human. I used to let my babies scream in their bouncer seats just so I could wash away the filth they had pooped, peed, and barfed on me the day before. It seemed like a fair trade off. Now that they keep most of their bodily functions to themselves, I guess I don't need to shower daily, but I do. I think it's a side effect of living in America where frivolity reigns.
I took 10 minutes. Just 10. Titus has not even noticed my absence in the past. He sits with his morning snack and PBS, and he prefers to be left alone. Well, not this day. This day, the boy had a mission: Destroy the House and Drive Mommy Bat Poo Crazy, Part 2. This time, I met with an even worse mess in a fraction of the time. He managed to get the sugar bowl off the top shelf of a cabinet. It was completely empty by the time he was done with it. I imagine a good portion went to his tummy, but there was plenty left to coat the counter, the kitchen floor, and part of the living room floor. Of course, you can't have sugar scattered all over the place without raisin bran. I found this all over the living room floor and in between each and every couch cushion. The dogs had a lot of fun with this, so many of the areas where the cereal landed were now covered in sugar and dog drool. He wasn't finished. He got out our iced tea maker (remember: America=frivolity). He filled it with a box of rice crispies (lower case because I buy the store brand; clearly my children do not deserve name brand), some peanuts in the shell, a generous helping of milk, and half a box of cheese crackers (again, off brand). Oh--and don't forget, sugar on top! Then he plugged it in and let that little concoction stew.
I was speechless. Mouth-open-wide-eyed-smoke-coming-out-of-my-ears speechless. Titus looked at me sheepishly and said slyly, "Mommy, I made you a snack." Immediately, the phrase, "Good intentions pave the road to hell" came to mind. I merely pointed to the couch, and he took his cue and sat down. Had he been a dog, his tail would have been between his little, scheming legs.
Someday I may look back and laugh at all this. For now, all I know is 5 o'clock isn't early enough to reach for the wine, especially now that I can't have iced tea.
My boy is driving me nuts. Like, really, really nuts, and there is really no getting around the fact that the only way to counter the nuts is with wine, be it 9 a.m. or 6 p.m.
Last week, I didn't feel well. As is the case with a stay at home mom, the kids just don't care. I don't get a sick day. I just have to muddle through as best I can. The best I could do that day was watch TV with my little guy after his sisters departed for school. In an unprecedented act of sleepiness, I completely passed out on the couch. For two hours. Two very solid hours. When I awakened, I discovered my little man had seized the opportunity to unleash his creativity on my house.
I found crayon wall art. I found a yellow lab with a new blue marker tattoo. Upstairs, he had attempted culinary uniqueness by making mouthwash soup with large dallops of toothpaste all over the bathroom counter. Entering the playroom, I saw that what was formerly a half a ream of printer paper and a new roll of Scotch tape was now a giant paper fort intended to house his stuffed animals. It was like Christmas Nightmare on Elm Street with a new horrible surprise waiting around every corner. I give him credit for doing all of this relatively silently, but, man, that will teach me to get sick and accidentally fall asleep ever again.
Then, a few days ago, I decided to take a shower. I do this on a daily basis. I have for several years. I find it's the only way I can feel human. I used to let my babies scream in their bouncer seats just so I could wash away the filth they had pooped, peed, and barfed on me the day before. It seemed like a fair trade off. Now that they keep most of their bodily functions to themselves, I guess I don't need to shower daily, but I do. I think it's a side effect of living in America where frivolity reigns.
I took 10 minutes. Just 10. Titus has not even noticed my absence in the past. He sits with his morning snack and PBS, and he prefers to be left alone. Well, not this day. This day, the boy had a mission: Destroy the House and Drive Mommy Bat Poo Crazy, Part 2. This time, I met with an even worse mess in a fraction of the time. He managed to get the sugar bowl off the top shelf of a cabinet. It was completely empty by the time he was done with it. I imagine a good portion went to his tummy, but there was plenty left to coat the counter, the kitchen floor, and part of the living room floor. Of course, you can't have sugar scattered all over the place without raisin bran. I found this all over the living room floor and in between each and every couch cushion. The dogs had a lot of fun with this, so many of the areas where the cereal landed were now covered in sugar and dog drool. He wasn't finished. He got out our iced tea maker (remember: America=frivolity). He filled it with a box of rice crispies (lower case because I buy the store brand; clearly my children do not deserve name brand), some peanuts in the shell, a generous helping of milk, and half a box of cheese crackers (again, off brand). Oh--and don't forget, sugar on top! Then he plugged it in and let that little concoction stew.
I was speechless. Mouth-open-wide-eyed-smoke-coming-out-of-my-ears speechless. Titus looked at me sheepishly and said slyly, "Mommy, I made you a snack." Immediately, the phrase, "Good intentions pave the road to hell" came to mind. I merely pointed to the couch, and he took his cue and sat down. Had he been a dog, his tail would have been between his little, scheming legs.
Someday I may look back and laugh at all this. For now, all I know is 5 o'clock isn't early enough to reach for the wine, especially now that I can't have iced tea.
Thursday, August 8, 2013
A Blog About Dogs...and Cats, Too, I Guess
The fact is, I am a cat person right down to my inner guts and core. I love their independence, their cleanliness, their blatant disregard for everyone around them, their sweet little faces, their fastidiousness, and pretty much everything else about them. Basically, the cat is everything I wish I could be all at once while still getting people to cater to my every whim and quirk. My cat can walk across my face at 3 in the morning, insisting on food, and I happily get up to serve. If any of my children walked across my face at 3 in the morning, for any reason, I would break out the Mommy Monster and let them have it. It's just the natural order and reasonings of a True Cat Person.
Dogs are a whole different story for me. I barely tolerate most of them. If I encounter a cat in the suburban wild, I will stop in my tracks and attempt to interact with it. If I encounter a dog, I barely give it a second look. They're just so damn happy all the time, and I prefer my animals to have a little more moodiness. A dog will dole out affection for people like a clown handing out candy at a parade. While this may appeal to the masses, I find it patronizing and trivial. Anything worth having takes work, and the love of a cat is definitely worth working for.
When we first got married, I went into a bit of a funk. I was substitute teaching while Peter finished his last year of law school. While I hit the jackpot when it came to men, there was still a hole in my life. That hole turned out to be cat-shaped. We cajoled our landlord, with the help of his cat-loving wife, into disregarding his "no pets" clause and letting us get a kitty. We found her at the shelter. She was 7 months of awesome, and she was ready to come home with us. We promptly changed her name from Kharn to Alice the Wondercat. You can do that with cats. You can't do that with dogs. Alice has been my constant companion for 10 years, and I can't get enough of her, especially since the only person she loves in our house is me.
Then we moved to our current home. My husband, a staunch Dog Person, began his campaign for canine companionship. It so happened that a friend of ours had a lovely yellow lab she needed to re-home. She was 2, pre-trained, kind of cute, super friendly, and I was willing to give it a shot. 3 years later, Pearl is a fixture in our family, shedding all over, eating poop like it's candy, smelling terrible, and making everybody smile. Even me once in a while. Then Peter got into his head that Pearl needed a friend...
Along came Mahone. Another re-homed dog, he is a German Short Haired Pointer with a nervous disposition and an inability to sit still. He has his moments of cuteness, but for the most part, he drives me insane. The kids adore him. He naps with Titus. He chases my cat. He slips on the laminate floors. He eats food faster than a cheetah runs.
And so it came to pass, this True Cat Person became a dog rescuer. Crazy, smelly dogs. I am willing to admit, but only to you, that sometimes I love them. Their incessant cheerfulness can be kind of endearing. Now that I have a Dyson, cleaning up after them is much easier and kind of enjoyable. However, my favorite part of the day is putting them in their crates for the night. When Alice the Wondercat hears the click of the locks, she knows that the house is once again hers, and seeing her pop out from under the bed, hungry for food and affection, brings a calm and peace to my life like nothing else can.
Dogs are a whole different story for me. I barely tolerate most of them. If I encounter a cat in the suburban wild, I will stop in my tracks and attempt to interact with it. If I encounter a dog, I barely give it a second look. They're just so damn happy all the time, and I prefer my animals to have a little more moodiness. A dog will dole out affection for people like a clown handing out candy at a parade. While this may appeal to the masses, I find it patronizing and trivial. Anything worth having takes work, and the love of a cat is definitely worth working for.
When we first got married, I went into a bit of a funk. I was substitute teaching while Peter finished his last year of law school. While I hit the jackpot when it came to men, there was still a hole in my life. That hole turned out to be cat-shaped. We cajoled our landlord, with the help of his cat-loving wife, into disregarding his "no pets" clause and letting us get a kitty. We found her at the shelter. She was 7 months of awesome, and she was ready to come home with us. We promptly changed her name from Kharn to Alice the Wondercat. You can do that with cats. You can't do that with dogs. Alice has been my constant companion for 10 years, and I can't get enough of her, especially since the only person she loves in our house is me.
Then we moved to our current home. My husband, a staunch Dog Person, began his campaign for canine companionship. It so happened that a friend of ours had a lovely yellow lab she needed to re-home. She was 2, pre-trained, kind of cute, super friendly, and I was willing to give it a shot. 3 years later, Pearl is a fixture in our family, shedding all over, eating poop like it's candy, smelling terrible, and making everybody smile. Even me once in a while. Then Peter got into his head that Pearl needed a friend...
Along came Mahone. Another re-homed dog, he is a German Short Haired Pointer with a nervous disposition and an inability to sit still. He has his moments of cuteness, but for the most part, he drives me insane. The kids adore him. He naps with Titus. He chases my cat. He slips on the laminate floors. He eats food faster than a cheetah runs.
And so it came to pass, this True Cat Person became a dog rescuer. Crazy, smelly dogs. I am willing to admit, but only to you, that sometimes I love them. Their incessant cheerfulness can be kind of endearing. Now that I have a Dyson, cleaning up after them is much easier and kind of enjoyable. However, my favorite part of the day is putting them in their crates for the night. When Alice the Wondercat hears the click of the locks, she knows that the house is once again hers, and seeing her pop out from under the bed, hungry for food and affection, brings a calm and peace to my life like nothing else can.
Sunday, August 4, 2013
Scaling the Wall
The day before yesterday, I flew to the Midwest with the three offspring in tow. We come back for a month in the summer to swim, eat, drink, visit friends, and get in some quality time with my parents. The thing about my job is that it's portable. I can just relocate to Illinois for a month. Unfortunately, Peter cannot, so he gets stuck behind for at least half of our time here. This means I get to fly alone with the kids.
As you can imagine, I'm not the calmest flyer. Well, I'm not the calmest anything, to be completely honest. So, I like to get to the airport with plenty of time to spare. I catalogue all the things that could go wrong: heavy traffic, extra long security lines, broken down computers, alien insect invasions, and I prefer to give myself as big a buffer as possible. The result this last trip was having almost 2 hours to spare. We ate an overpriced breakfast. We went to the bathroom. Twice. Then we went to the kids' play area.
The curious thing about the kids' play area at SeaTac airport is the 8 foot wall that doesn't go all the way to the ceiling. There are two diagonal ducts or something, but really, there's no practical reason for the absence of wall. Perhaps budget cuts. Budget cuts seem to be a logical reason. Who knows? The wall is the perfect temptation for a little person like Titus who loves to throw things at random, and throw he did. He threw his absolutely most favorite and necessary toy in the world: his Night Night. His whole world crumbled when I peeked over the wall from the top of the children's climbing structure and told him there was nothing I could do.
We had to go to our gate. It was almost time to board. You have never seen such a disappointed little person in your life, and even though it wasn't my fault, I felt so very, very guilty. I tried to find someone who worked at the airport. Apparently, no one works at the airport. They work for the airlines, sure, but ask them to help you find a person who works for the airport, and they look at you like you are a recent asylum escapee. I guess the airport just runs on robots and fairy dust.
I managed to find a ticketing agent who had small children who had favorite toys in the whole wide world, and she managed to find someone who worked for maintenance, I assume for the airport, but they could have worked for Denny's for all I know. We were told to go back to the play area and wait. So we did. And we waited. And they didn't come. The boarding time was now dangerously close. I had paid extra to get priority seating, and that didn't come cheap. It was now a matter of weighing my son's emotional and mental well-being against the extra $100 I spent to get on the plane first so we could get the seats we needed (we flew Southwest who doesn't assign seats). I could have bought him 10 new Night Nights for that $100, but somehow, it wouldn't be the same. He'd always associate the airport with this traumatic event, and, let's face it, I'd always feel guilty there. Since we utilize the airport frequently, I didn't want to shoulder all those negative feelings for the rest of my life. It was time for Mama to go over the wall.
I assessed the situation. There was a room full of children and their parents. There was a bench I could climb up in order to get to the top of the wall. There was a large man sitting on this bench. I thought, worse case scenario, he could help me back up. Or I could maybe shimmy up those diagonal ducts that were covered in enough dust to fill 275 vacuum cleaners. I took the kids in. I told them to stay. I went over the wall. The room behind me fell silent. When I got to the top, I saw two things: a long drop down and a metal cross bar that could help me get back over if I could manage to get a foot hold because it was at my eye level.
I landed with a very soft thud in dust thick enough to cover my flip-flopped feet. I retrieved Night Night, who was slightly dirty but no worse for the wear. He survived his flight. I threw him over and heard a very happy Titus. I knew I had made the right decision. Did I mention I was wearing black pants? Now to get to that cross bar. I had to take a running start, which kicked up a cloud of dust all the way to the ceiling that most likely settled on most of the people in the room. I hit the wall with a bang, got my foot up, pulled myself up with the strength of Hercules if Hercules was an out-of-shape woman with little to no upper body strength that was determined to reunite with her children and still make it to priority seating boarding.
When I came over, every jaw in the room had hit the floor. My pants, once black, were now a light grey. I used my white sweatshirt to wipe up the dusty footprints I left on the bench, and we were off in a little cloud of triumph mixed with humiliation with a generous sprinkling of smug on top. We made it to the gate right as our group was boarding, and all was right with the world, even if I was leaving a trail of dust behind me that would put Pig Pen to shame.
We had to go to our gate. It was almost time to board. You have never seen such a disappointed little person in your life, and even though it wasn't my fault, I felt so very, very guilty. I tried to find someone who worked at the airport. Apparently, no one works at the airport. They work for the airlines, sure, but ask them to help you find a person who works for the airport, and they look at you like you are a recent asylum escapee. I guess the airport just runs on robots and fairy dust.
I managed to find a ticketing agent who had small children who had favorite toys in the whole wide world, and she managed to find someone who worked for maintenance, I assume for the airport, but they could have worked for Denny's for all I know. We were told to go back to the play area and wait. So we did. And we waited. And they didn't come. The boarding time was now dangerously close. I had paid extra to get priority seating, and that didn't come cheap. It was now a matter of weighing my son's emotional and mental well-being against the extra $100 I spent to get on the plane first so we could get the seats we needed (we flew Southwest who doesn't assign seats). I could have bought him 10 new Night Nights for that $100, but somehow, it wouldn't be the same. He'd always associate the airport with this traumatic event, and, let's face it, I'd always feel guilty there. Since we utilize the airport frequently, I didn't want to shoulder all those negative feelings for the rest of my life. It was time for Mama to go over the wall.
I assessed the situation. There was a room full of children and their parents. There was a bench I could climb up in order to get to the top of the wall. There was a large man sitting on this bench. I thought, worse case scenario, he could help me back up. Or I could maybe shimmy up those diagonal ducts that were covered in enough dust to fill 275 vacuum cleaners. I took the kids in. I told them to stay. I went over the wall. The room behind me fell silent. When I got to the top, I saw two things: a long drop down and a metal cross bar that could help me get back over if I could manage to get a foot hold because it was at my eye level.
I landed with a very soft thud in dust thick enough to cover my flip-flopped feet. I retrieved Night Night, who was slightly dirty but no worse for the wear. He survived his flight. I threw him over and heard a very happy Titus. I knew I had made the right decision. Did I mention I was wearing black pants? Now to get to that cross bar. I had to take a running start, which kicked up a cloud of dust all the way to the ceiling that most likely settled on most of the people in the room. I hit the wall with a bang, got my foot up, pulled myself up with the strength of Hercules if Hercules was an out-of-shape woman with little to no upper body strength that was determined to reunite with her children and still make it to priority seating boarding.
When I came over, every jaw in the room had hit the floor. My pants, once black, were now a light grey. I used my white sweatshirt to wipe up the dusty footprints I left on the bench, and we were off in a little cloud of triumph mixed with humiliation with a generous sprinkling of smug on top. We made it to the gate right as our group was boarding, and all was right with the world, even if I was leaving a trail of dust behind me that would put Pig Pen to shame.
Friday, July 26, 2013
My Problem With Peter Pan
Actually, the title's a bit misleading. I have no problem with Peter Pan. I loved the book. It's delightfully dark and imaginative and fun. Peter Pan is much less lovable, and Captain Hook is far more formidable. Tinkerbell was just a blip on Peter Pan's pixie spectrum. He forgot her. He forgot the kids. He was quite sad, really.
Then Disney got ahold of the story, and they kid-friendlied it right up, which is silly because it's a children's story to begin with. Children could just handle darker, scarier things back in the day. Maybe it's because they could still get polio. I don't know.
Anyway, Disney created a more palatable version for modern(ish) kids. Maybe post-war kids were needing less scary and more fairy. I apologize for that rhyme. Sometimes I can't resist. Even in the Disney version, however, Tinkerbell was a naughty pixie, and pirates were clearly the enemy. That's not my problem with Peter Pan, though.
My problem with Peter Pan in the hands of Disney is what they're doing with it now. Why does Tinkerbell have her own franchise? Did everyone forget that she's a manipulative, abusive, murderous, betraying pixie? She tried to have Wendy killed. She told Captain Hook where to find Peter Pan and the Lost Boys. Sure, she saved him from the bomb, but that would never have happened if she had comported herself like a nice pixie in the first place. She brought that bomb on herself.
So when I see Tinkerbell, I feel as though she's more villain than hero, and her entire pixie franchise is everything that's wrong with kids today: behave badly, get rewarded. It's so true that the nice guy finishes last. I mean, where are John and Michael? Why don't the Darling children have their own spin off?
As if rewarding a bad pixie with fame and fortune weren't enough, Disney decided to further plunder and taint the Neverland legacy with "Jake and the Neverland Pirates." Wait. What? Neverland pirates are bad. They're the enemy. Why do the kids want to be Neverland pirates? The pirates lose in the end of the Disney version, and they go on killing in the real version. Now, they've been reduced to cute little kids with a bumbling Captain Hook who occasionally helps them on their little adventures. This is most troubling. Kids need to respect the villain for what it is: evil and scary.
Oh, Disney, I know you need to make a few more bucks, but please, please don't continue rewarding the bad guys. It seriously messes with my head. Tinkerbell should be in prison, and Captain Hook should be dead, skewered at the end of Peter Pan's sword. You know who could give me this scenario? Tim Burton.
Then Disney got ahold of the story, and they kid-friendlied it right up, which is silly because it's a children's story to begin with. Children could just handle darker, scarier things back in the day. Maybe it's because they could still get polio. I don't know.
Anyway, Disney created a more palatable version for modern(ish) kids. Maybe post-war kids were needing less scary and more fairy. I apologize for that rhyme. Sometimes I can't resist. Even in the Disney version, however, Tinkerbell was a naughty pixie, and pirates were clearly the enemy. That's not my problem with Peter Pan, though.
My problem with Peter Pan in the hands of Disney is what they're doing with it now. Why does Tinkerbell have her own franchise? Did everyone forget that she's a manipulative, abusive, murderous, betraying pixie? She tried to have Wendy killed. She told Captain Hook where to find Peter Pan and the Lost Boys. Sure, she saved him from the bomb, but that would never have happened if she had comported herself like a nice pixie in the first place. She brought that bomb on herself.
So when I see Tinkerbell, I feel as though she's more villain than hero, and her entire pixie franchise is everything that's wrong with kids today: behave badly, get rewarded. It's so true that the nice guy finishes last. I mean, where are John and Michael? Why don't the Darling children have their own spin off?
As if rewarding a bad pixie with fame and fortune weren't enough, Disney decided to further plunder and taint the Neverland legacy with "Jake and the Neverland Pirates." Wait. What? Neverland pirates are bad. They're the enemy. Why do the kids want to be Neverland pirates? The pirates lose in the end of the Disney version, and they go on killing in the real version. Now, they've been reduced to cute little kids with a bumbling Captain Hook who occasionally helps them on their little adventures. This is most troubling. Kids need to respect the villain for what it is: evil and scary.
Oh, Disney, I know you need to make a few more bucks, but please, please don't continue rewarding the bad guys. It seriously messes with my head. Tinkerbell should be in prison, and Captain Hook should be dead, skewered at the end of Peter Pan's sword. You know who could give me this scenario? Tim Burton.
Tuesday, July 23, 2013
Whenever I Open My Mouth...
...my mother comes out. This is a little saying that is going around Facebook in various meme forms these days. I have to tell you, I can't relate. I was blessed with a mom who apparently never said anything memorable in the obnoxious category.
It's inevitable when you become a parent to ponder the parenting you received (and, let's face it, are still receiving). My memory may be skewed by rose-colored hindsight glasses, but I have no memory of my mom yelling. She never lost her temper. She was always willing to chat with me until her eyes couldn't stay open any longer. She spent lots of quality time with me. She was a great mom. I pale in comparison to her.
I yell. My temper is always just under the surface, ready to blow. Some days I can't wait for the kids' bedtime so I can have a little peace and quiet. I hide from them in my room. I take care of the basics, and I hug and kiss them and tell them how amazing they are and how much I love them. Hopefully these will be the things they remember when they have kids and ponder their own upbringing. This may be wishful thinking on my part.
My kids will definitely be able to relate to the "whenever I open my mouth" quote. I give them a lot of good material. Gems like, "If you do that, you'll kill yourself and be dead," or, "Don't answer the door. There's crazy people out there," or "I didn't give birth to pigs, so stop trying to live like them," or one of my favorite go-to's, "If you don't shut your faces, I'll sit on you." It's not uncommon for me to ask myself, "What the heck does that mean?" or to admonish myself for introducing even more confusion into my children's already mixed-up, chaotic world.
Already I hear them using my mom-isms on each other. Wendy, as the oldest, is the biggest offender. Titus, as the youngest, makes me laugh. Everything of mine that he repeats sounds so cute in his little squeaky voice. I only hope that the things I say that they are absorbing won't do too much permanent damage.
So, maybe whenever I open my mouth, my mom doesn't come out. Of course, this just applies to the things I say. Whenever I open my mouth to laugh, my mom shoots forth from my innards. When we get going, we both have the same laugh that the elder Mr. Dawes has at the end of Mary Poppins. You know, the breathy one that killed him? Only, the laugh hasn't killed us yet. It does make me pee my pants, though.
I'm glad to have this in common with my mom.
Already I hear them using my mom-isms on each other. Wendy, as the oldest, is the biggest offender. Titus, as the youngest, makes me laugh. Everything of mine that he repeats sounds so cute in his little squeaky voice. I only hope that the things I say that they are absorbing won't do too much permanent damage.
So, maybe whenever I open my mouth, my mom doesn't come out. Of course, this just applies to the things I say. Whenever I open my mouth to laugh, my mom shoots forth from my innards. When we get going, we both have the same laugh that the elder Mr. Dawes has at the end of Mary Poppins. You know, the breathy one that killed him? Only, the laugh hasn't killed us yet. It does make me pee my pants, though.
I'm glad to have this in common with my mom.
Thursday, July 18, 2013
Where No Woman Has Gone Before...
Captain's Log: Stardate 71813
Offspring are participating in an unauthorized session of Rapid Body Liquid Ejection. Day 4, and their rebellion continues. They seem to be in an alternating pattern so I can't learn their routine. Any one of them could explode at any time, and I am helpless to stop it.
The new washing machine is being tested frequently. I am happy to report that it is standing up to the task of purifying all clothing and linens that come into contact with the body liquids. Its cheerful medley announcing the end of its cycle is a pleasant diversion in an otherwise bleak house. I am happy with this machine.
Equally satisfying in its performance is the carpet steam cleaner. Deciding to purchase one when the crew moved to a bigger home was very wise on the part of myself and the Commander. What would otherwise be hours of scrubbing on my hands and knees has been reduced to merely pushing and pulling while in a comfortable standing position. Carpets are still intact. Rooms are fresh.
This participation in the RBLE has proven one thing: the offspring are all, indeed, human. While suffering from nausea, exhaustion, dehydration, and general cabin fever, they have all displayed very passionate, albeit very unpleasant, emotions which an android could not possess. This alleviates my fears that they are cyborgs who will rise up in their sleep and kill me.
I eagerly await relief from Commander Beckwith who is at his central command procuring funds for this mission. I fear we may be close to mutiny, and I don't know how much longer I can contain the offspring. My mission, for now, is to remain still and hope they do not see me, for if they do, things could get ugly.
Signing off.
Wednesday, July 17, 2013
4 Years With 3
Four years ago today, I became a mother of three. My little Titus made his world debut during the hottest weather in recorded Seattle history. I should have known he was going to give me a continual run for my money.
Watching Titus grow and trying to keep him alive has been a bit of a cursed blessing. On the one hand, he's completely and insanely adorable. On the other hand, he is hell bent on destroying the world. Most days I find myself caught in this vortex of craziness that occurs when his adorable meets his awful, and in that vortex, I twitch and giggle.
Becoming a mom for the first time was interesting. All things were so new, and there were so many rules and regulations to learn and follow. I left pages of instructions for my in-laws when they would take Wendy, never minding that they raised 6 kids. I lived in a constant state of panic and second-guessing. As a result, I missed out on actually enjoying the baby phase, wishing it away one poop blow-out at a time. For the record, and in retrospect, she was an amazing baby. Very portable and lovable and squishy.
After a few years with Wendy, I felt confident enough that I could not only have a second baby but that I could also enjoy it. Of course, it took a few times to get a pregnancy to stick. I got to house two babies for several weeks, but they decided to take the short route to heaven. But Nina? Nina stuck. That kid probably bullied her way to the front of the egg pool, and she's been a kick in the pants ever since. She came out completely opposite from her big sister, and I enjoyed my little curly-topped baby girl very much.
Then we decided to go for one more. I grew up in a family of 2 kids, and I always wondered what it would be like to have 3. That seems like a good reason to bring another human into the world, yes? Transitioning from 1 to 2 was a bit of a leap. I felt like I was betraying Wendy by introducing another person into her perfect little world. But thinking about going from 2 to 3 was a different story. Wendy took to Nina immediately. They'd love their little brother.
They did. They do. Of course, Nina handled the transition about as well as an elephant handles ballet. Before Titus, she was perfectly satisfied with how Peter parented her. He could give her baths and put her to bed and hold her and other such pleasantries. After Titus? Well, after Titus Peter failed to meet her standards. Only I could administer proper care. So, you know, that was a bit of a challenge, especially when recovering from a c-section and breast feeding and trying not to melt in the relentless heat.
Here we are, 4 years later. New house. Central air conditioning. Sleeping through the night. It's been a bit of a bumpy road, and I'm sure it will continue to be for years to come. I wouldn't trade life with 3 kids for a second, though. That's not true. I'd trade it for a luxury cruise around the world, but I'd want it back the minute I got home. An hour after I got home. Maybe a week.
Watching Titus grow and trying to keep him alive has been a bit of a cursed blessing. On the one hand, he's completely and insanely adorable. On the other hand, he is hell bent on destroying the world. Most days I find myself caught in this vortex of craziness that occurs when his adorable meets his awful, and in that vortex, I twitch and giggle.
Becoming a mom for the first time was interesting. All things were so new, and there were so many rules and regulations to learn and follow. I left pages of instructions for my in-laws when they would take Wendy, never minding that they raised 6 kids. I lived in a constant state of panic and second-guessing. As a result, I missed out on actually enjoying the baby phase, wishing it away one poop blow-out at a time. For the record, and in retrospect, she was an amazing baby. Very portable and lovable and squishy.
After a few years with Wendy, I felt confident enough that I could not only have a second baby but that I could also enjoy it. Of course, it took a few times to get a pregnancy to stick. I got to house two babies for several weeks, but they decided to take the short route to heaven. But Nina? Nina stuck. That kid probably bullied her way to the front of the egg pool, and she's been a kick in the pants ever since. She came out completely opposite from her big sister, and I enjoyed my little curly-topped baby girl very much.
Then we decided to go for one more. I grew up in a family of 2 kids, and I always wondered what it would be like to have 3. That seems like a good reason to bring another human into the world, yes? Transitioning from 1 to 2 was a bit of a leap. I felt like I was betraying Wendy by introducing another person into her perfect little world. But thinking about going from 2 to 3 was a different story. Wendy took to Nina immediately. They'd love their little brother.
They did. They do. Of course, Nina handled the transition about as well as an elephant handles ballet. Before Titus, she was perfectly satisfied with how Peter parented her. He could give her baths and put her to bed and hold her and other such pleasantries. After Titus? Well, after Titus Peter failed to meet her standards. Only I could administer proper care. So, you know, that was a bit of a challenge, especially when recovering from a c-section and breast feeding and trying not to melt in the relentless heat.
Here we are, 4 years later. New house. Central air conditioning. Sleeping through the night. It's been a bit of a bumpy road, and I'm sure it will continue to be for years to come. I wouldn't trade life with 3 kids for a second, though. That's not true. I'd trade it for a luxury cruise around the world, but I'd want it back the minute I got home. An hour after I got home. Maybe a week.
Tuesday, July 16, 2013
One of THOSE Days
Warning: I love Jesus, but I cuss a little.
Everyone has days where they hate their jobs. It's inevitable. I'm a stay at home mom, and today, I hate my job. When people ask what I do for a living and I tell them, they get a dreamy look in their eyes and say something along the lines of, "Oh, that must be such bliss. You have the most important job in the world." I'm calling bullshit.
A few days ago, my middle child threw up. Then she threw up again. Sunday night, her brother started throwing up. Yesterday, I spent the day throwing up. Today, the oldest clenched her stomach and wailed about how she, too, needed to throw up. On top of that, the youngest now has forest green diarrhea shooting from his butt every half hour. Of course, being cooped up brought out the demons in my babies, and they spent the day relentlessly picking on each other, and I spent the day screaming at them because I am too pooped out to be rational. I'm feeling anything but blissful and important. I'm feeling resentful, grossed out, and tired.
Now, as I soothe my scream-sore throat with a little bit of whiskey, I am pondering motherhood. I have several friends who have had their first babies in the last several weeks. It's with no great amount of pride that I admit to rolling my eyes with every precious status update and picture they post about how in love they are with their baby and how perfect life is. I have to almost physically restrain myself from posting dripping sarcasm all over their pages about how hard it's going to get. It's like when you've been married for a while and you go to a wedding and the bride and groom are all googly-eyed. You want to laugh derisively, knowing all the crap that lies ahead and how clueless they are to real life.
Oh, how dumb are the newbies, and I can say that because I was once a dumb newbie myself. I really think that birds have the right idea. When they get sick of their kids, they just shove them out of the nest. Today, I was ready to shove all of them out. Instead, I'm opting for whiskey and ridiculously early bed times.
Here's hoping for a better tomorrow, shit free and blissful.
Everyone has days where they hate their jobs. It's inevitable. I'm a stay at home mom, and today, I hate my job. When people ask what I do for a living and I tell them, they get a dreamy look in their eyes and say something along the lines of, "Oh, that must be such bliss. You have the most important job in the world." I'm calling bullshit.
A few days ago, my middle child threw up. Then she threw up again. Sunday night, her brother started throwing up. Yesterday, I spent the day throwing up. Today, the oldest clenched her stomach and wailed about how she, too, needed to throw up. On top of that, the youngest now has forest green diarrhea shooting from his butt every half hour. Of course, being cooped up brought out the demons in my babies, and they spent the day relentlessly picking on each other, and I spent the day screaming at them because I am too pooped out to be rational. I'm feeling anything but blissful and important. I'm feeling resentful, grossed out, and tired.
Now, as I soothe my scream-sore throat with a little bit of whiskey, I am pondering motherhood. I have several friends who have had their first babies in the last several weeks. It's with no great amount of pride that I admit to rolling my eyes with every precious status update and picture they post about how in love they are with their baby and how perfect life is. I have to almost physically restrain myself from posting dripping sarcasm all over their pages about how hard it's going to get. It's like when you've been married for a while and you go to a wedding and the bride and groom are all googly-eyed. You want to laugh derisively, knowing all the crap that lies ahead and how clueless they are to real life.
Oh, how dumb are the newbies, and I can say that because I was once a dumb newbie myself. I really think that birds have the right idea. When they get sick of their kids, they just shove them out of the nest. Today, I was ready to shove all of them out. Instead, I'm opting for whiskey and ridiculously early bed times.
Here's hoping for a better tomorrow, shit free and blissful.
Monday, July 8, 2013
Brits and BBQ
This weekend I went to a wedding. It was lovely. The bride was radiant. The groom was the proper amount of emotional. The flowers, the food, the decor. All of it was perfection. I tend to not get too excited about weddings, but this one was especially good. The bride is the daughter of the first friend I made when I moved out here 12 years ago, and her groom is a delightful man from England.
Going to a wedding that was half British was a treat. The British do not mess around when it comes to wedding. They dress like it's prom night, completing their ensembles with whimsical, colorful fascinators that truly made me grin. Having grown accustomed to the rather blase way we do weddings in America and considering my love for all things British Isles, I enjoyed being a part of this celebration more than my little Midwest heart can explain.
All that said, I would be remiss if I didn't take just a small shot at British cuisine. I don't get it at all, and frankly, I'm not a fan. To be fair, I'm not even remotely an adventurous eater, and my palette is very, very limited. Still, they pick such strange body parts to eat. Kidney pie and black pudding and haggis. All of it is simply too much for me to comprehend. You can imagine my relief, then, when the bride announced that we'd be feasting on the groom's favorite food: BBQ.
What a feast it was, too! Pulled pork as far as the eye can see. Beans. Chicken. All of it smelling like heaven on earth. As much as I loved the buffet line, it was the bunch of British guys behind me that truly captured my attention. They had no idea what anything was, and I felt it my American duty to talk them through each delicacy. Pulled pork and chicken were easy to describe. Where I got tripped up was trying to, on the fly, explain baked beans and coleslaw. My brain drew a complete blank, having spent my whole life eating them with great relish and never having the sense to ask what exactly I was eating. Oh, I mumbled something about brown sugar and cabbage, but I know I didn't do the food justice.
Then came the true test of my cuisine knowledge: the multiple bottles of BBQ sauce at the end of the table. Being called to task to explain the nuances of the different sauces was more than I could handle. The best I could do was tell them that Carolina BBQ sauce is more mustardy. I also warned them that the Texas sauce would be very spicy, which they seemed to appreciate. However, I couldn't take credit for knowing that because the bottle said "very spicy."
In the end, I watched them all gobble up their food with what appeared to be indifference, which in Britain is usually a sign of happiness. My eyes rolled back happily with every savory bite, which in Britain is probably a sign of insanity. Thank God we were in America. The last thing I need is to get committed for loving BBQ.
Going to a wedding that was half British was a treat. The British do not mess around when it comes to wedding. They dress like it's prom night, completing their ensembles with whimsical, colorful fascinators that truly made me grin. Having grown accustomed to the rather blase way we do weddings in America and considering my love for all things British Isles, I enjoyed being a part of this celebration more than my little Midwest heart can explain.
All that said, I would be remiss if I didn't take just a small shot at British cuisine. I don't get it at all, and frankly, I'm not a fan. To be fair, I'm not even remotely an adventurous eater, and my palette is very, very limited. Still, they pick such strange body parts to eat. Kidney pie and black pudding and haggis. All of it is simply too much for me to comprehend. You can imagine my relief, then, when the bride announced that we'd be feasting on the groom's favorite food: BBQ.
What a feast it was, too! Pulled pork as far as the eye can see. Beans. Chicken. All of it smelling like heaven on earth. As much as I loved the buffet line, it was the bunch of British guys behind me that truly captured my attention. They had no idea what anything was, and I felt it my American duty to talk them through each delicacy. Pulled pork and chicken were easy to describe. Where I got tripped up was trying to, on the fly, explain baked beans and coleslaw. My brain drew a complete blank, having spent my whole life eating them with great relish and never having the sense to ask what exactly I was eating. Oh, I mumbled something about brown sugar and cabbage, but I know I didn't do the food justice.
Then came the true test of my cuisine knowledge: the multiple bottles of BBQ sauce at the end of the table. Being called to task to explain the nuances of the different sauces was more than I could handle. The best I could do was tell them that Carolina BBQ sauce is more mustardy. I also warned them that the Texas sauce would be very spicy, which they seemed to appreciate. However, I couldn't take credit for knowing that because the bottle said "very spicy."
In the end, I watched them all gobble up their food with what appeared to be indifference, which in Britain is usually a sign of happiness. My eyes rolled back happily with every savory bite, which in Britain is probably a sign of insanity. Thank God we were in America. The last thing I need is to get committed for loving BBQ.
Friday, July 5, 2013
Four on the Fourth
Okay, okay. I'm behind again. So sue me.
Fourth of July. Independence Day. I absolutely love my country. I vote. I cover my heart when the anthem's sung. I get all misty-eyed when I hear patriotic songs. I fly my flag. Honestly, I love America. It's the greatest country in the world, and I'm not even biased. I've been to other countries. They're nice, but America? Well, it's my home and the land that I love.
It may come as a bit of a surprise, given my gushing, if I tell you that I hate celebrating the 4th. What it represents is great. How we celebrate? For a woman who has major anxiety that is triggered by many things, one of the worst being sudden, loud noises, you can imagine that my miswired brain goes a little haywire and my nerves go into overdrive. I just hate the bangs and the whistles and the booms and the blinding fire. If I were a puppy, I'd be in a heightened state of excitement, and I'd pee every time a firecracker went off. It's a good thing I'm not a puppy and just a mom. I only pee when I sneeze, cough, or laugh.
One comfort I get from the chaos of the holiday is that I get to spend it with my family. The one I married into. They're a fun bunch of people from all different ends of the zany spectrum of life. This year, all the family from the 4 corners of the globe--I really never understood that phrase since a globe is clearly cornerless--gathered for a rip roarin' good time. One of my husband's cousins has a couple of stinking cute kids, and one of them is just a couple months older than my Titus.
Titus and Reese made quite a pair last night. Reese is 4. Titus is going to be 4 in a matter of days. One thing that makes me just a bit sad about where we live is that my kids don't have cousins their own age. Reese and his little sister are in California. My brother's kids are in North Carolina. Whenever the little cousins can get together, it's a beautiful and wonderful thing.
Reese and Titus did a little circling of each other, kind of like dogs do before they decide to be friends. Once they established that the other was an acceptable playmate, they went for fun with reckless abandon. What joy, what bliss when they found a cooler full of ice. A bottomless snack for their little mouths to enjoy. They'd stick a cube or 4 in their mouth and then decide that was too much of a commitment before spitting it back in the cooler. The ecstasy of unattended bowls of chips! Their little fists grabbed more than their mouths could hold, and spit-covered crumbs made their way back into the bowl while the boys shoveled the chips in with complete glee.
Then came the fireworks. Each pop was met with shrieks of joy. Every bang was accompanied by delirious cries of "AWESOME!" Their little fists pumped the air and their little legs bounced up and down with each mortar that flew into the air and exploded with a shower of sparkling beauty. While the air noisily filled with a cloud of sulfur-scented smoke, it dawned on me. Watching these two little boys with their unchecked joy and their self abandon had kept my anxiety down to almost nil. Their wonder and their obliviousness to the world around them made my fourth not only tolerable but absolutely enjoyable.
To be four on the Fourth is truly a wonder. I look forward to next year, but I'll make sure I eat as many chips as I can before the boys find them.
Fourth of July. Independence Day. I absolutely love my country. I vote. I cover my heart when the anthem's sung. I get all misty-eyed when I hear patriotic songs. I fly my flag. Honestly, I love America. It's the greatest country in the world, and I'm not even biased. I've been to other countries. They're nice, but America? Well, it's my home and the land that I love.
It may come as a bit of a surprise, given my gushing, if I tell you that I hate celebrating the 4th. What it represents is great. How we celebrate? For a woman who has major anxiety that is triggered by many things, one of the worst being sudden, loud noises, you can imagine that my miswired brain goes a little haywire and my nerves go into overdrive. I just hate the bangs and the whistles and the booms and the blinding fire. If I were a puppy, I'd be in a heightened state of excitement, and I'd pee every time a firecracker went off. It's a good thing I'm not a puppy and just a mom. I only pee when I sneeze, cough, or laugh.
One comfort I get from the chaos of the holiday is that I get to spend it with my family. The one I married into. They're a fun bunch of people from all different ends of the zany spectrum of life. This year, all the family from the 4 corners of the globe--I really never understood that phrase since a globe is clearly cornerless--gathered for a rip roarin' good time. One of my husband's cousins has a couple of stinking cute kids, and one of them is just a couple months older than my Titus.
Titus and Reese made quite a pair last night. Reese is 4. Titus is going to be 4 in a matter of days. One thing that makes me just a bit sad about where we live is that my kids don't have cousins their own age. Reese and his little sister are in California. My brother's kids are in North Carolina. Whenever the little cousins can get together, it's a beautiful and wonderful thing.
Reese and Titus did a little circling of each other, kind of like dogs do before they decide to be friends. Once they established that the other was an acceptable playmate, they went for fun with reckless abandon. What joy, what bliss when they found a cooler full of ice. A bottomless snack for their little mouths to enjoy. They'd stick a cube or 4 in their mouth and then decide that was too much of a commitment before spitting it back in the cooler. The ecstasy of unattended bowls of chips! Their little fists grabbed more than their mouths could hold, and spit-covered crumbs made their way back into the bowl while the boys shoveled the chips in with complete glee.
Then came the fireworks. Each pop was met with shrieks of joy. Every bang was accompanied by delirious cries of "AWESOME!" Their little fists pumped the air and their little legs bounced up and down with each mortar that flew into the air and exploded with a shower of sparkling beauty. While the air noisily filled with a cloud of sulfur-scented smoke, it dawned on me. Watching these two little boys with their unchecked joy and their self abandon had kept my anxiety down to almost nil. Their wonder and their obliviousness to the world around them made my fourth not only tolerable but absolutely enjoyable.
To be four on the Fourth is truly a wonder. I look forward to next year, but I'll make sure I eat as many chips as I can before the boys find them.
Wednesday, July 3, 2013
Gummy Candy
My very favorite kind of candy, after Snickers, which always goes without saying, is gummy candy. I can't get enough. If someone put a pound of gummy worms in front of me, I would consume the entire quantity before they could say, "Save me some red ones." I really don't know what it is. The fruitiness? Possibly. The chewy, slightly challenging texture? Possibly. The way they smell like fruits of the forest covered in dew and sunshine and rainbows and butterflies? I'm pretty sure that's it.
The summer of 1999 was probably the greatest summer of my life. I was 20, and I was on my third Royal Servant missions trip. This particular summer, I was a "senior woman," which means I was part of the leadership of the leadership of the students. My duty was to feed my team of 90 people three square meals a day. Now, my team spent 6 weeks hopping from campground to campground all over Europe. Royal Servants sends out many teams all over the world, and before any team goes out for their adventures in awesomeness, they go through training camp in Southern Illinois. Well, more Central Illinois, but I'm from Northern Illinois, and anything south of Chicago is Southern Illinois. Really, it's practically a different state, much like Western Washington is almost entirely separate from Eastern Washington. I digress.
At this training camp, somewhere significantly south of Chicago, I met a really cute boy. 2 years later, I moved to Washington to be near him, and 3 years later, I married him. So, really, how could the summer of 1999 not be my favorite summer? As if meeting Peter wasn't enough, there was one more wonderful thing that happened that summer.
While bonding with my many students and staff on this crazy missions trip, I happened to mention that I loved gummy candy with a passion usually reserved for lovers. My fabulous teammates took this revelation to heart, and whenever we visited cities or stopped at rest stops or put up tents in a new campground, at least 4 or 5 people made it a point to bring me a gummy treat. It truly was as happy as I have ever been minus my wedding day and each of my kids' birthday. International gummy candy as far as the eye can see.
My favorite offering had to be what one sweet little 13-year-old soul brought me in Paris. She had wandered into God only knows what kind of confiserie and managed to procure me what she thought were banana-flavored gummies in the shape of bananas. Bless her little heart, but if those things weren't delicious little phalluses. I never told. Anyone. I just ate them quickly. A respectable lady probably would have discretely tossed them, but I am anything but respectable or lady-like when candy is on the table.
I shall end this post with a poem, which I tend to hate but sometimes enjoy composing:
Summer of Gummies
Always in my sticky heart
Chewy ecstasy
The summer of 1999 was probably the greatest summer of my life. I was 20, and I was on my third Royal Servant missions trip. This particular summer, I was a "senior woman," which means I was part of the leadership of the leadership of the students. My duty was to feed my team of 90 people three square meals a day. Now, my team spent 6 weeks hopping from campground to campground all over Europe. Royal Servants sends out many teams all over the world, and before any team goes out for their adventures in awesomeness, they go through training camp in Southern Illinois. Well, more Central Illinois, but I'm from Northern Illinois, and anything south of Chicago is Southern Illinois. Really, it's practically a different state, much like Western Washington is almost entirely separate from Eastern Washington. I digress.
At this training camp, somewhere significantly south of Chicago, I met a really cute boy. 2 years later, I moved to Washington to be near him, and 3 years later, I married him. So, really, how could the summer of 1999 not be my favorite summer? As if meeting Peter wasn't enough, there was one more wonderful thing that happened that summer.
While bonding with my many students and staff on this crazy missions trip, I happened to mention that I loved gummy candy with a passion usually reserved for lovers. My fabulous teammates took this revelation to heart, and whenever we visited cities or stopped at rest stops or put up tents in a new campground, at least 4 or 5 people made it a point to bring me a gummy treat. It truly was as happy as I have ever been minus my wedding day and each of my kids' birthday. International gummy candy as far as the eye can see.
My favorite offering had to be what one sweet little 13-year-old soul brought me in Paris. She had wandered into God only knows what kind of confiserie and managed to procure me what she thought were banana-flavored gummies in the shape of bananas. Bless her little heart, but if those things weren't delicious little phalluses. I never told. Anyone. I just ate them quickly. A respectable lady probably would have discretely tossed them, but I am anything but respectable or lady-like when candy is on the table.
I shall end this post with a poem, which I tend to hate but sometimes enjoy composing:
Summer of Gummies
Always in my sticky heart
Chewy ecstasy
Monday, July 1, 2013
Some Like it Neat
I have the greatest in-laws. They love to take all three of my children away. If there's a 3-day weekend, the kids usually go. If there's a spring break, the kids usually go. Now that it's summer break, the kids went. Away. I love them with all my heart and brains and guts, but I sure do appreciate the breaks every now and then so my nerves have a chance to heal from their frequently frazzled state.
Since the kids are gone, and since it is incredibly hot out this week, I'm enjoying three of my favorite things on the planet: quiet, central air conditioning, and organizing. Oh, how I love to organize. I love to purge the house of junk, discarded toys, ill-fitting clothes, worn out shoes. Second only to the shrieks and cries of my children with the ability to take me to the brink of insanity, is a disorganized, cluttered house. It's probably almost crippling, my desire for order, but only for those around me. For me, it's bliss.
Entering my daughters' room is like entering a space specifically and deliberately designed to crack my fragile psyche. I get twitchy and edgy when I walk in there. My breathing becomes rapid, my blood pressure rises, and I break out in a cold sweat. Then I remember: I'm home alone. The room is mine. I get to turn the chaos into sweet, sweet, tranquil order.
As I worked through the wreckage today, I was struck by the differences between my two girls. Wendy, my very sensitive bookworm, turns every scrap of paper and every piece of lint into a treasure. She stuffs these things in her "treasure box," which is really just an under-the-bed storage box I gave each girl for the purpose of storing out of sight what they deemed most important in life. Wendy's box barely closes. The lid is bending, struggling to stay closed while pieces of paper poke out in every direction as though trying to draw breath as they slowly die under the weight of old notebooks and broken crayons. There's no rhyme or reason, and I fear that this child might be a lost cause.
Incidentally, I fought like a Hun warrior against every urge I had to turn that treasure box upside down over the garbage can, knowing that her little heart would be broken. I may lose sleep tonight thinking about that box, but it will be the sleeplessness of a woman who has made the right decision. I made the right decision, didn't I?
Then I came to Nina's treasure box. My wild and crazy middle child who is blissfully unaware of the world around her, who dances through life without a care, who can melt down like no other kid I've ever met had a treasure box in perfect order. The lid closed with ease. The contents were laid in the box carefully and methodically. It was like finding a rose in the middle of winter. Hope sprang up in my heart. My neuroses may just be rubbing off on her. Oh, she may stuff dirty clothes under couch cushions rather than take them to the hamper, and she may leave a trail of junk in her wake, and she may be unable to see a mess right under her nose, but that beautiful, organized treasure box put a song in my heart and a grin on my face.
Side note, lest you think I'm cruel to get rid of crap while my kids are gone:
The eldest has figured out a way to beat my system. Whenever she's given a present, usually from the grandparents, she asks them to store it at their home because, "Mommy will probably just throw it away." She'll be fine. Her junk is safely stored all over the country.
Since the kids are gone, and since it is incredibly hot out this week, I'm enjoying three of my favorite things on the planet: quiet, central air conditioning, and organizing. Oh, how I love to organize. I love to purge the house of junk, discarded toys, ill-fitting clothes, worn out shoes. Second only to the shrieks and cries of my children with the ability to take me to the brink of insanity, is a disorganized, cluttered house. It's probably almost crippling, my desire for order, but only for those around me. For me, it's bliss.
Entering my daughters' room is like entering a space specifically and deliberately designed to crack my fragile psyche. I get twitchy and edgy when I walk in there. My breathing becomes rapid, my blood pressure rises, and I break out in a cold sweat. Then I remember: I'm home alone. The room is mine. I get to turn the chaos into sweet, sweet, tranquil order.
As I worked through the wreckage today, I was struck by the differences between my two girls. Wendy, my very sensitive bookworm, turns every scrap of paper and every piece of lint into a treasure. She stuffs these things in her "treasure box," which is really just an under-the-bed storage box I gave each girl for the purpose of storing out of sight what they deemed most important in life. Wendy's box barely closes. The lid is bending, struggling to stay closed while pieces of paper poke out in every direction as though trying to draw breath as they slowly die under the weight of old notebooks and broken crayons. There's no rhyme or reason, and I fear that this child might be a lost cause.
Incidentally, I fought like a Hun warrior against every urge I had to turn that treasure box upside down over the garbage can, knowing that her little heart would be broken. I may lose sleep tonight thinking about that box, but it will be the sleeplessness of a woman who has made the right decision. I made the right decision, didn't I?
Then I came to Nina's treasure box. My wild and crazy middle child who is blissfully unaware of the world around her, who dances through life without a care, who can melt down like no other kid I've ever met had a treasure box in perfect order. The lid closed with ease. The contents were laid in the box carefully and methodically. It was like finding a rose in the middle of winter. Hope sprang up in my heart. My neuroses may just be rubbing off on her. Oh, she may stuff dirty clothes under couch cushions rather than take them to the hamper, and she may leave a trail of junk in her wake, and she may be unable to see a mess right under her nose, but that beautiful, organized treasure box put a song in my heart and a grin on my face.
Side note, lest you think I'm cruel to get rid of crap while my kids are gone:
The eldest has figured out a way to beat my system. Whenever she's given a present, usually from the grandparents, she asks them to store it at their home because, "Mommy will probably just throw it away." She'll be fine. Her junk is safely stored all over the country.
Friday, June 28, 2013
The World is Full of Steak Eggs
I recently succumbed to the smartphone epidemic. I can't say that I'm all that attached to my phone, having no business to attend to on it, but I do enjoy the talk-to-text feature. I try to enunciate as best I can, but sometimes the phone just decides to go a different direction entirely. For instance, while texting with my friend about the events of The Robbery, I said to the talk-to-text feature that "the world is full of pigs." My phone translated it as "the world is full of steak eggs." I really don't know why that strikes me as utterly hilarious, but there you have it: a brand new euphemism for "pigs." Perhaps the world doesn't need one, but there's one nonetheless.
As you know, and are no doubt already sick of hearing, my flowers were stolen. It turns out, however, that that was not the only bizarre thing to happen in my world yesterday. I really do believe that there was a nuclear leak somewhere around here that caused people to do strange things. Allow me to present you some evidence.
1. My best friend's boyfriend sent her a text while she was at work yesterday. Their little dog was going crazy barking, and what did he discover but a total stranger on his porch. Not so strange, you say? This particular man was passed out. Face down. Drunk. He had a can of beer with him. Ah, I see you deciding that this is, indeed, a bizarre thing to find on your porch. It's truly a mystery why he was there or where he went after he left. Did I mention this was about 1 in the afternoon? It's very sad when people can't handle day drinking.
2. As for where this man might have gone, there's one plausible, although improbable, answer, which I present as my second piece of evidence. Another friend of mine told me this story:
Her supervisor at work drives a VW Westfalia Camper. He came out after work to discover that someone had made himself quite at home unbeknownst to the owner. I say "himself" because I'm picturing the guy from the first story also being the culprit in this one. He had slept in the bed, peed in a trash can, left cigarette ashes in the dog's dish, left a plastic bag of wine which he apparently drank out of a coffee cup, and used the poor man's electric shaver! I understand that the VW Westfalia Camper has a certain appeal to the, shall I say, transients of the world, but to use another man's shaver and muck up his dog dish with ashes? That seems to be against the peace-loving code of the VW community.
So, I ask you. Did a cloud of toxic nastiness infect the Pacific Northwest, causing people to turn into wretched steak eggs? I believe something is amiss, and I'm sticking with that.
As you know, and are no doubt already sick of hearing, my flowers were stolen. It turns out, however, that that was not the only bizarre thing to happen in my world yesterday. I really do believe that there was a nuclear leak somewhere around here that caused people to do strange things. Allow me to present you some evidence.
1. My best friend's boyfriend sent her a text while she was at work yesterday. Their little dog was going crazy barking, and what did he discover but a total stranger on his porch. Not so strange, you say? This particular man was passed out. Face down. Drunk. He had a can of beer with him. Ah, I see you deciding that this is, indeed, a bizarre thing to find on your porch. It's truly a mystery why he was there or where he went after he left. Did I mention this was about 1 in the afternoon? It's very sad when people can't handle day drinking.
2. As for where this man might have gone, there's one plausible, although improbable, answer, which I present as my second piece of evidence. Another friend of mine told me this story:
Her supervisor at work drives a VW Westfalia Camper. He came out after work to discover that someone had made himself quite at home unbeknownst to the owner. I say "himself" because I'm picturing the guy from the first story also being the culprit in this one. He had slept in the bed, peed in a trash can, left cigarette ashes in the dog's dish, left a plastic bag of wine which he apparently drank out of a coffee cup, and used the poor man's electric shaver! I understand that the VW Westfalia Camper has a certain appeal to the, shall I say, transients of the world, but to use another man's shaver and muck up his dog dish with ashes? That seems to be against the peace-loving code of the VW community.
So, I ask you. Did a cloud of toxic nastiness infect the Pacific Northwest, causing people to turn into wretched steak eggs? I believe something is amiss, and I'm sticking with that.
Thursday, June 27, 2013
I Was Robbed!
Okay, that might sound more ominous than it really is. It was fun to write, though. Actually, no, it is ominous. I got robbed.
Here's the deal: remember how I told you I love to take my coffee out in the mornings and enjoy my neighborhood? Part of my peaceful mornings includes loving on my three big flower pots full of gorgeous, trailing blooms. I feed them, I trim them, I talk to them like a crazy lady. We have a bond. Considering I have a black thumb of death and considering I bought the flowers almost 2 months ago, the fact that they're still alive is a miracle. I firmly believe, because I've seen it with my own eyes and heard it with my own ears, that plants shudder and murmur, "Not me! Not me! Please don't pick me!" when I go to the store each spring to pluck them from their greenhouse glory and take them to my Garden of Doom.
I had a point. Oh, yeah. The robbery.
This morning, I opened the curtains to welcome the day, and two of my flower pots were missing! What? I circled the house. I peeked on my neighbor's porches. I whined to my husband. All of it was in vain. My pots were gone. Swiped right off my front porch, sucked into the night. Oh, the horror! The heartbreak! The creepy, icky feeling of being totally violated!
It turns out, my neighbor noticed a car late last night driving slowly by my house. Said car drove by twice, stopped, paused long enough to grab the pots, and then sped off. She got the make and model but no license plate. Believe me, anyone who drives a late 80's, reddish Honda Accord hatchback with flip up lights and a hood bra better beware. I'm on the lookout for you and your flower pot stealing jerk face pals. And my gnome. It's just not right to steal a lady's garden gnome, especially when her chair tried to eat her the day before.
Speaking of eating, this is normally the time I turn to Snickers for comfort. As it turns out, God (or the universe, however you're inclined) decided to test my newfound discipline by sending the dingleberry-eating thieves just to see how I would cope. I ate a salad. I am not happy about it, but I did. I still want a Snickers. And a shotgun. And cake. Oh, geeze, where's the celery? Help!
In case you're wondering, I did file a police report. I was scared to do it because speaking to strangers on the telephone gives me major anxiety and takes me to the Place of Panic. Imagine my joy and relief when I saw you could file your report right online. I'm hoping to be bumped to the top of their list of Most Important and Immediate Cases. After all, when they gave me a drop down menu to choose the items that had been stolen, flower pots weren't even on there. That has to make this a curious case and therefore a priority, right?
Hey, I can't have Snickers. Just let me dream.
Here's the deal: remember how I told you I love to take my coffee out in the mornings and enjoy my neighborhood? Part of my peaceful mornings includes loving on my three big flower pots full of gorgeous, trailing blooms. I feed them, I trim them, I talk to them like a crazy lady. We have a bond. Considering I have a black thumb of death and considering I bought the flowers almost 2 months ago, the fact that they're still alive is a miracle. I firmly believe, because I've seen it with my own eyes and heard it with my own ears, that plants shudder and murmur, "Not me! Not me! Please don't pick me!" when I go to the store each spring to pluck them from their greenhouse glory and take them to my Garden of Doom.
I had a point. Oh, yeah. The robbery.
This morning, I opened the curtains to welcome the day, and two of my flower pots were missing! What? I circled the house. I peeked on my neighbor's porches. I whined to my husband. All of it was in vain. My pots were gone. Swiped right off my front porch, sucked into the night. Oh, the horror! The heartbreak! The creepy, icky feeling of being totally violated!
It turns out, my neighbor noticed a car late last night driving slowly by my house. Said car drove by twice, stopped, paused long enough to grab the pots, and then sped off. She got the make and model but no license plate. Believe me, anyone who drives a late 80's, reddish Honda Accord hatchback with flip up lights and a hood bra better beware. I'm on the lookout for you and your flower pot stealing jerk face pals. And my gnome. It's just not right to steal a lady's garden gnome, especially when her chair tried to eat her the day before.
Speaking of eating, this is normally the time I turn to Snickers for comfort. As it turns out, God (or the universe, however you're inclined) decided to test my newfound discipline by sending the dingleberry-eating thieves just to see how I would cope. I ate a salad. I am not happy about it, but I did. I still want a Snickers. And a shotgun. And cake. Oh, geeze, where's the celery? Help!
In case you're wondering, I did file a police report. I was scared to do it because speaking to strangers on the telephone gives me major anxiety and takes me to the Place of Panic. Imagine my joy and relief when I saw you could file your report right online. I'm hoping to be bumped to the top of their list of Most Important and Immediate Cases. After all, when they gave me a drop down menu to choose the items that had been stolen, flower pots weren't even on there. That has to make this a curious case and therefore a priority, right?
Hey, I can't have Snickers. Just let me dream.
Wednesday, June 26, 2013
The Chair Cracked
I love my neighborhood. It's a delightful, sprawling tangle of "cookie cutter" houses. I used to think I'd hate living in a place like this, but there are kids everywhere for my kids to play with, a fantastic neighborhood school, and plenty of anonymity for someone like me who tends to prefer observing from the outside. That is, when I'm not center stage singing or acting. I admit, I'm a conundrum.
I love mornings in my neighborhood. They're so peaceful and quiet. Most of the neighbors are still preparing for their days. Cars pull out intermittently. You hear the occasional happy bark from a dog who has finally been freed from the house. Joggers pass by. You can hear the trees rustle and the birds fill their branches with squawks and squeals and occasional songs. Is it any wonder that I enjoy taking my coffee out to my front porch to just bask in the charm of it all? It's also a good way to gird my loins for a day of chaos that comes with three kids, two dogs, and a cat, even if the cat's completely perfect and never bugs anybody.
This morning, as is my norm, I threw on a sweatshirt over my pajama top (yes, I was wearing pants as well, but I didn't put a sweatshirt over my pants) and headed outside. No one ever notices me on my porch, and that's the way I like it. I stood for a bit, breathing deeply and enjoying watching a cat across the street prowl after some unseen prey. Then I pulled up my blue adirondack Target special and sat down.
That's when it happened. The chair cracked. The peace of the morning was broken as snapping plastic rang through the air, loud as gunshots. Even the kitty across the street jumped into the air and turned 180 degrees as it tried to process this interruption to its hunting. Perhaps the crack would have gone somewhat unnoticed, but when I sat, the plastic that cracked also managed to pinch my nether regions. As you can imagine, this is both startling and extremely painful, and the only proper response is a guttural yelp. So, loud crack followed by distressed yelp is apparently enough for some of the neighbors to come out and see what's happening in Utopia.
On the one hand, it's nice to know we all look out for each other. On the other hand, I had to explain that I just broke my chair, which is embarrassing enough in itself, but I had to do it in pajama pants with bed head and no bra. So much for anonymity. I believe I just catapulted myself into the annals of "Crazy Neighbor Lady."
Moral of the story: run a comb through your hair and hike up the ladies before going outside because you never know when you'll have to explain yourself to the neighbors.
Side note: it's still painful to go potty.
I love mornings in my neighborhood. They're so peaceful and quiet. Most of the neighbors are still preparing for their days. Cars pull out intermittently. You hear the occasional happy bark from a dog who has finally been freed from the house. Joggers pass by. You can hear the trees rustle and the birds fill their branches with squawks and squeals and occasional songs. Is it any wonder that I enjoy taking my coffee out to my front porch to just bask in the charm of it all? It's also a good way to gird my loins for a day of chaos that comes with three kids, two dogs, and a cat, even if the cat's completely perfect and never bugs anybody.
This morning, as is my norm, I threw on a sweatshirt over my pajama top (yes, I was wearing pants as well, but I didn't put a sweatshirt over my pants) and headed outside. No one ever notices me on my porch, and that's the way I like it. I stood for a bit, breathing deeply and enjoying watching a cat across the street prowl after some unseen prey. Then I pulled up my blue adirondack Target special and sat down.
That's when it happened. The chair cracked. The peace of the morning was broken as snapping plastic rang through the air, loud as gunshots. Even the kitty across the street jumped into the air and turned 180 degrees as it tried to process this interruption to its hunting. Perhaps the crack would have gone somewhat unnoticed, but when I sat, the plastic that cracked also managed to pinch my nether regions. As you can imagine, this is both startling and extremely painful, and the only proper response is a guttural yelp. So, loud crack followed by distressed yelp is apparently enough for some of the neighbors to come out and see what's happening in Utopia.
On the one hand, it's nice to know we all look out for each other. On the other hand, I had to explain that I just broke my chair, which is embarrassing enough in itself, but I had to do it in pajama pants with bed head and no bra. So much for anonymity. I believe I just catapulted myself into the annals of "Crazy Neighbor Lady."
Moral of the story: run a comb through your hair and hike up the ladies before going outside because you never know when you'll have to explain yourself to the neighbors.
Side note: it's still painful to go potty.
Monday, June 10, 2013
Who It Is
It has to be done. I have, just a few days into this project, drawn a blank on what to write, so I will just tell you about myself and the people that drive me crazy.
This is who it is, "it" being me.
I'm a 34 1/2-year-old stay at home mom. I was a middle school language arts teacher in my former life, but I gave that up when I realized that I liked my own kid way more than I liked other people's kids. That, and my freshly-graduated-from-law-school-and-passed-the-bar-on-his-very-first-try husband got a job that could support us.
I married a boy I met on a missions trip 14 years ago. I met him 14 years ago, that is. I married him 11 years ago. His name is Peter. He is so tall and handsome and sweet and wonderful and cuddly that I moved from Rockford, IL all the way to Bremerton, WA just to hitch my wagon to his star. I'm still very glad that I did.
I started growing humans in my guts about a year after the marrying stuff was done. I had a baby girl that we call Wendy. She's 9, smart as a whip, sassy as a cat, and prettier than a sunset over a lake. She's a complete mystery to me, too. She has this thing called "over sensitivity" that I tend to treat with a firm "girl, you better man up" without noticeably effective results. I'm sure we'll laugh about it one day when she's committed me to a sub-par nursing home as payback for all my mothering missteps.
We liked Wendy so much, we decided to have another baby, just for fun. We call her Nina. She's 6, and she'll either take over the world or end up running a commune of some sort. Stay tuned. She skips through life without much care, and she's zany as a drunken clown. Her big brown eyes will melt your heart, and her ability to never hear the answer you give to her many, many questions will frustrate you to the point of thinking an anvil to the foot would be less painful than explaining yourself one.more.time.
Then Peter got an even better job. We figured the natural way to celebrate was with one more kid. I remember being profoundly disappointed when I found out I was having a boy. I mean, my gals are seriously the most beautiful things you've ever seen, and they're simply delightful except when they're not. Plus, I had lots of leftover girl clothes. Then Titus came forth into the world, nearly 4 years ago, and it took one look for me to realize that no woman will ever be good enough for him. The kid's got charisma and an overwhelming desire to destroy everything. He's also really good at the Wii, and Mario reduces him to tears on an almost daily basis.
We also have 2 dogs that have odd and disgusting habits, and we have a cat who hates just about everyone except me. She's my favorite. No, like my favorite. I'm a cat nut. I can't draw them, but I adore them.
There you have it. On the most upper part of the surface, that's Who It Is.
This is who it is, "it" being me.
I'm a 34 1/2-year-old stay at home mom. I was a middle school language arts teacher in my former life, but I gave that up when I realized that I liked my own kid way more than I liked other people's kids. That, and my freshly-graduated-from-law-school-and-passed-the-bar-on-his-very-first-try husband got a job that could support us.
I married a boy I met on a missions trip 14 years ago. I met him 14 years ago, that is. I married him 11 years ago. His name is Peter. He is so tall and handsome and sweet and wonderful and cuddly that I moved from Rockford, IL all the way to Bremerton, WA just to hitch my wagon to his star. I'm still very glad that I did.
I started growing humans in my guts about a year after the marrying stuff was done. I had a baby girl that we call Wendy. She's 9, smart as a whip, sassy as a cat, and prettier than a sunset over a lake. She's a complete mystery to me, too. She has this thing called "over sensitivity" that I tend to treat with a firm "girl, you better man up" without noticeably effective results. I'm sure we'll laugh about it one day when she's committed me to a sub-par nursing home as payback for all my mothering missteps.
We liked Wendy so much, we decided to have another baby, just for fun. We call her Nina. She's 6, and she'll either take over the world or end up running a commune of some sort. Stay tuned. She skips through life without much care, and she's zany as a drunken clown. Her big brown eyes will melt your heart, and her ability to never hear the answer you give to her many, many questions will frustrate you to the point of thinking an anvil to the foot would be less painful than explaining yourself one.more.time.
Then Peter got an even better job. We figured the natural way to celebrate was with one more kid. I remember being profoundly disappointed when I found out I was having a boy. I mean, my gals are seriously the most beautiful things you've ever seen, and they're simply delightful except when they're not. Plus, I had lots of leftover girl clothes. Then Titus came forth into the world, nearly 4 years ago, and it took one look for me to realize that no woman will ever be good enough for him. The kid's got charisma and an overwhelming desire to destroy everything. He's also really good at the Wii, and Mario reduces him to tears on an almost daily basis.
We also have 2 dogs that have odd and disgusting habits, and we have a cat who hates just about everyone except me. She's my favorite. No, like my favorite. I'm a cat nut. I can't draw them, but I adore them.
There you have it. On the most upper part of the surface, that's Who It Is.
Friday, June 7, 2013
Cat Drawings
Just an afterthought. I like these cat drawings. I didn't draw them because they are cats and not trees.
They belong to Manny. I found them here:
http://mannford85.blogspot.com/2009/12/felines.html
They belong to Manny. I found them here:
http://mannford85.blogspot.com/2009/12/felines.html
Drawing Blindly
When I was a kid, my big brother and I would watch a TV show that taught you how to draw. I don't remember what show it was. It wasn't Bob Ross.
Incidentally, I can never seem to remember Bob Ross's name, but if you do a Google search, like I did, for "bushy haired artist," you'll find him on the first page of hits. You'll also find a picture of Helen Hunt. That one didn't make sense to me at all. I digress.
Anyway, we used to watch this show, and Jake, that's my brother, could draw whatever they taught. He was, to my young mind, an amazing artist, and I was always so envious that he could take a pencil to paper and draw exactly what he wanted. I couldn't draw what they taught on the TV show whose name I cannot remember. In fact, my drawings never ended where they started. I may have set out to draw, say, a cat, but one wrong line and the whole thing would simply have to be turned into a tree. I was a very unfocused artist.
Over the years, I have given up drawing. I simply cannot create something original. I discovered that my true medium is the written word. And although my brother is a superior human being on so many levels, maybe even most of the levels, it makes me just a little bit happy to note that on this level, this word putting downing level, I am better than he is.
However, I'm still unfocused. People have been telling me for years that I should blog or write a book or have a newspaper column or create pithy quips for catalogues. The problem is, I haven't found my focus. I need a hobby, though, and I need some discipline in my life. Therefore, I have decided to quit waiting for my focus and start writing. At some point, I may turn this cat into a tree or an elephant or a skyscraper. Who knows? I just know that I want to work with words. Perhaps it will amount to nothing. Perhaps no one will ever read this. Perhaps I do not care, as long as I'm writing.
If you decide to come along with me on this journey to who knows where, then I will ask you to drop your expectations right where you sit and just go with it. You may read about my mental illness struggles, or a bizarre dream, or something delightful one of my kids said, or my almost romantic involvement with Snickers, or maybe even how I hate to fill my van with gas. This blog is mostly for me to try and get a little discipline into my art and into my life. But it's a little for you, too. Please enjoy, and maybe try drawing a cat and letting me know how it turns out.
Incidentally, I can never seem to remember Bob Ross's name, but if you do a Google search, like I did, for "bushy haired artist," you'll find him on the first page of hits. You'll also find a picture of Helen Hunt. That one didn't make sense to me at all. I digress.
Anyway, we used to watch this show, and Jake, that's my brother, could draw whatever they taught. He was, to my young mind, an amazing artist, and I was always so envious that he could take a pencil to paper and draw exactly what he wanted. I couldn't draw what they taught on the TV show whose name I cannot remember. In fact, my drawings never ended where they started. I may have set out to draw, say, a cat, but one wrong line and the whole thing would simply have to be turned into a tree. I was a very unfocused artist.
Over the years, I have given up drawing. I simply cannot create something original. I discovered that my true medium is the written word. And although my brother is a superior human being on so many levels, maybe even most of the levels, it makes me just a little bit happy to note that on this level, this word putting downing level, I am better than he is.
However, I'm still unfocused. People have been telling me for years that I should blog or write a book or have a newspaper column or create pithy quips for catalogues. The problem is, I haven't found my focus. I need a hobby, though, and I need some discipline in my life. Therefore, I have decided to quit waiting for my focus and start writing. At some point, I may turn this cat into a tree or an elephant or a skyscraper. Who knows? I just know that I want to work with words. Perhaps it will amount to nothing. Perhaps no one will ever read this. Perhaps I do not care, as long as I'm writing.
If you decide to come along with me on this journey to who knows where, then I will ask you to drop your expectations right where you sit and just go with it. You may read about my mental illness struggles, or a bizarre dream, or something delightful one of my kids said, or my almost romantic involvement with Snickers, or maybe even how I hate to fill my van with gas. This blog is mostly for me to try and get a little discipline into my art and into my life. But it's a little for you, too. Please enjoy, and maybe try drawing a cat and letting me know how it turns out.
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