Madeline and Sophie check out the Juke-box
Thursday, June 30, 2005
Warning: Sleep deprived incomprehensible ramblings and prescription drug abuse ahead
So I couldn't sleep last night because my back has been acting up. (Do I sound like a 50 year old drama queen or what?) From my mother, I inherited a right leg that is slightly shorter than the left, and as a result a wacked out right hip and lower back. Come to think of it, I also inherited my chin whiskers, "voluptuous" figure (It's the pioneer genes--we're always saving up for a hard winter.), tendency toward co-dependency, and thin hair. Thanks Mom.
Usually when I can's sleep, I finagle half a Zanex from Erik. Unfortunately, he was sleeping soundly, and I didn't want to wake him up. After an unsuccessful prowl around his pants pockets and dresser, I started getting a little desperate. You know the feeling. Take a look at the clock. See that it's 1:30. Say to yourself, "Well, I can still get 5 hours in." Look again. See that it's now 2:00. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. Around 2:30ish, I began scouting the medicine cabinet for sleep aids. No Niquil. No Tylenol pm. No Benedryl. A Ha! A bottle of prescription cough medicine. Says right here--may cause drowsiness. Sounds good to me. So--I took a big swig. Too big apparently, because instead of sleeping, I ended up with the creepy crawlies. That kind of sped-up itchy scalp crawling feeling that is pretty much the opposite of sleep. Fuck. It looks like much coffee and yawning are in my future.
I took my dad out on a date for Father's Day (late--I know) last week. We had dinner, went to a movie, had a talk. It seems like in all the people I truly love, there is one character trait that I both love and hate in them. In my mom, it is her intense ability to care. This is a blessing and a curse. She knows my back is acting up and has been calling--taking Sophie without me having to ask--bringing me Alive. So sweet. On the other hand, she is very easy to hurt--particularly when it comes to the Mormon church and the fact that I am not a part of it any more. She feels completely responsible, and is sure that I won't be with her in the afterlife. It honestly pains her everyday. So we've grown this vicious cycle of her being hurt and me being hurt about her hurt, and her being hurt about my hurt about her hurt. Exhausting.
Oh--I was talking about my dad. Sorry. What I love and hate (hate is strong--maybe don't understand would be better) about him, is that he takes absolutely no responsibility for other people's choices or feelings. Where as with my mom, any discussion about the church turns into an emotional shit-sandwich, with my dad--it's no big deal. Example: One day we drove by a Mormon church that was being built (not hard here in Southern Utah). He said to me, "You should go back to church." I said, "No I shouldn't." He said, "Why not?" I said, "Because I don't believe in it." He said, "Well, that's the only good reason." End of discussion. Honestly, that was one of the most emotionally releasing talks I've ever had.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
As there is no Sophie reference in the above post--I'll take this chance to say that my daughter is absolutely beautiful. Really. Model beautiful. Movie star beautiful. I feel like a shallow shit for saying this, but I love to dress her in something cute (not every day--often she looks like a dirty street urchin), do her hair, and take her out and listen to people say, "Isn't that a beautiful little girl!"
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
How about the pile of peed on training pants waiting for me to wash them?
Usually when I can's sleep, I finagle half a Zanex from Erik. Unfortunately, he was sleeping soundly, and I didn't want to wake him up. After an unsuccessful prowl around his pants pockets and dresser, I started getting a little desperate. You know the feeling. Take a look at the clock. See that it's 1:30. Say to yourself, "Well, I can still get 5 hours in." Look again. See that it's now 2:00. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. Around 2:30ish, I began scouting the medicine cabinet for sleep aids. No Niquil. No Tylenol pm. No Benedryl. A Ha! A bottle of prescription cough medicine. Says right here--may cause drowsiness. Sounds good to me. So--I took a big swig. Too big apparently, because instead of sleeping, I ended up with the creepy crawlies. That kind of sped-up itchy scalp crawling feeling that is pretty much the opposite of sleep. Fuck. It looks like much coffee and yawning are in my future.
I took my dad out on a date for Father's Day (late--I know) last week. We had dinner, went to a movie, had a talk. It seems like in all the people I truly love, there is one character trait that I both love and hate in them. In my mom, it is her intense ability to care. This is a blessing and a curse. She knows my back is acting up and has been calling--taking Sophie without me having to ask--bringing me Alive. So sweet. On the other hand, she is very easy to hurt--particularly when it comes to the Mormon church and the fact that I am not a part of it any more. She feels completely responsible, and is sure that I won't be with her in the afterlife. It honestly pains her everyday. So we've grown this vicious cycle of her being hurt and me being hurt about her hurt, and her being hurt about my hurt about her hurt. Exhausting.
Oh--I was talking about my dad. Sorry. What I love and hate (hate is strong--maybe don't understand would be better) about him, is that he takes absolutely no responsibility for other people's choices or feelings. Where as with my mom, any discussion about the church turns into an emotional shit-sandwich, with my dad--it's no big deal. Example: One day we drove by a Mormon church that was being built (not hard here in Southern Utah). He said to me, "You should go back to church." I said, "No I shouldn't." He said, "Why not?" I said, "Because I don't believe in it." He said, "Well, that's the only good reason." End of discussion. Honestly, that was one of the most emotionally releasing talks I've ever had.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
As there is no Sophie reference in the above post--I'll take this chance to say that my daughter is absolutely beautiful. Really. Model beautiful. Movie star beautiful. I feel like a shallow shit for saying this, but I love to dress her in something cute (not every day--often she looks like a dirty street urchin), do her hair, and take her out and listen to people say, "Isn't that a beautiful little girl!"
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
How about the pile of peed on training pants waiting for me to wash them?
Monday, June 27, 2005
Spoil Sport
"I'm skating on my Sprite!" Sophie just announced this to me. It amazes me the things that she thinks are ok--things that she just tells me thinking that I'll totally be on board. Just now, she spilled Sprite, on purpose, on the kitchen floor, and was sliding around on it. I honestly think she assumed that I'd say something like, "What a good idea!" and join her.
Yesterday while eating dinner, she yelled at me from her high chair (in front of the tv. Yes, I am the world's worst mother.) "Mom! I'm making soup!" What she was doing was sucking the juice out of her sippy cup and spitting it into her tortellini. Again, when I firmly told her (yelled at her) to STOP SPITTING ON HER FOOD she looked at me all hurt, like I should have instead asked her for a bite. Sigh.
There are many such stories. Sophie thinks that the toilet and toilet paper are recreational. The other day I caught her standing on her stool, dipping her foot in the toilet. She looked at me and smiled, and said, "Brrr. It's cold!" Christ Almighty. So we had a talk about germs and poop and NOT PUTTING BODY PARTS IN THE TOILET! Then just moments ago, sitting on the toilet to pee (the potty training is going slowly but surely) she lowered her butt into the water, on purpose, and again informed me how cold the water was. Fuck it. Maybe we'll just have to install a bidet.
I'm too sad about Mandy going home to write about her or her trip. Maybe tomorrow.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
Obviously, I'm rarely at a loss for amusing anecdotes.
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
Constant vigilance
Yesterday while eating dinner, she yelled at me from her high chair (in front of the tv. Yes, I am the world's worst mother.) "Mom! I'm making soup!" What she was doing was sucking the juice out of her sippy cup and spitting it into her tortellini. Again, when I firmly told her (yelled at her) to STOP SPITTING ON HER FOOD she looked at me all hurt, like I should have instead asked her for a bite. Sigh.
There are many such stories. Sophie thinks that the toilet and toilet paper are recreational. The other day I caught her standing on her stool, dipping her foot in the toilet. She looked at me and smiled, and said, "Brrr. It's cold!" Christ Almighty. So we had a talk about germs and poop and NOT PUTTING BODY PARTS IN THE TOILET! Then just moments ago, sitting on the toilet to pee (the potty training is going slowly but surely) she lowered her butt into the water, on purpose, and again informed me how cold the water was. Fuck it. Maybe we'll just have to install a bidet.
I'm too sad about Mandy going home to write about her or her trip. Maybe tomorrow.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
Obviously, I'm rarely at a loss for amusing anecdotes.
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
Constant vigilance
Friday, June 24, 2005
Huzzah!
I learned 2 main things at the week long class I just took on being a mentor teacher.
1. I wasn't crazy or lazy or incompetent 5 years ago when I started teaching and had no idea what the fuck I was doing. I just didn't have anyone to show me what to do. Beginning teachers now, since the mentor legislation, are very fortunate to have an experienced colleague who is assigned and paid to help them through the rough times, and not to be thrown to the sharks in the traditional "sink or swim" method of inducting teachers. Honestly, at my first job, I didn't even know where the supply room was, or that I could have access to it. I didn't know where the faculty bathroom was for weeks. As far as curriculum development, I knew what I had learned in college, but that had NOTHING to do with working in a real classroom. Next year, I will SO make sure that my protege (That word seems so pompous and hilarious. It's better than "mentee" thought.) knows the ins and outs of the school, is armed with plenty of lesson plans and ideas, and I will teach her all the Jedi mind tricks I have learned in the past 5 years.
2. Sitting in class all day SUCKS ASS! Whenever I have an experience where I have to be the student again, it reminds me that I must let my kids move around, communicate with each other, make sense of the material by using it, and for god's sake, shut the hell up every once in a while! Why do we make kids sit and sit and sit at school? By Friday afternoon, I was talking to my neighbor, doodling, writing notes, and making excuses to leave the room. So, I wrote in big letters on the front of my planning calendar, "Kids need to move and talk and explore!" Elementary teachers seem to know this, but we high school teachers forget. Hopefully, I'll remember this in the fall.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
Sophie has made up her own "naughty" word. It is "peanut butter poo" When you ask her what who wants to eat, or what she is playing with, she'll get this little smirk on her face and say, "Ummm. Peanut butter poo!" She makes up knock-knock jokes like "Knock Knock." "Whose there?" "Peanut butter." "Peanut butter who?" "Peanut butter Poo!!" Then she laughs hysterically. I do too.
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
She's learned to scale the bathroom counter and turn the water on. I almost had a heart attack today when I went into the bathroom and found her teetering on the edge of the sink with the hot water running.
p.s. Just a little tip. If you complain to your spouse that he/she don't communicate with you well, and he/she says, "Well, sometimes you're kind of hard to talk to," a good response isn't, "Fuck that!"
1. I wasn't crazy or lazy or incompetent 5 years ago when I started teaching and had no idea what the fuck I was doing. I just didn't have anyone to show me what to do. Beginning teachers now, since the mentor legislation, are very fortunate to have an experienced colleague who is assigned and paid to help them through the rough times, and not to be thrown to the sharks in the traditional "sink or swim" method of inducting teachers. Honestly, at my first job, I didn't even know where the supply room was, or that I could have access to it. I didn't know where the faculty bathroom was for weeks. As far as curriculum development, I knew what I had learned in college, but that had NOTHING to do with working in a real classroom. Next year, I will SO make sure that my protege (That word seems so pompous and hilarious. It's better than "mentee" thought.) knows the ins and outs of the school, is armed with plenty of lesson plans and ideas, and I will teach her all the Jedi mind tricks I have learned in the past 5 years.
2. Sitting in class all day SUCKS ASS! Whenever I have an experience where I have to be the student again, it reminds me that I must let my kids move around, communicate with each other, make sense of the material by using it, and for god's sake, shut the hell up every once in a while! Why do we make kids sit and sit and sit at school? By Friday afternoon, I was talking to my neighbor, doodling, writing notes, and making excuses to leave the room. So, I wrote in big letters on the front of my planning calendar, "Kids need to move and talk and explore!" Elementary teachers seem to know this, but we high school teachers forget. Hopefully, I'll remember this in the fall.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
Sophie has made up her own "naughty" word. It is "peanut butter poo" When you ask her what who wants to eat, or what she is playing with, she'll get this little smirk on her face and say, "Ummm. Peanut butter poo!" She makes up knock-knock jokes like "Knock Knock." "Whose there?" "Peanut butter." "Peanut butter who?" "Peanut butter Poo!!" Then she laughs hysterically. I do too.
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
She's learned to scale the bathroom counter and turn the water on. I almost had a heart attack today when I went into the bathroom and found her teetering on the edge of the sink with the hot water running.
p.s. Just a little tip. If you complain to your spouse that he/she don't communicate with you well, and he/she says, "Well, sometimes you're kind of hard to talk to," a good response isn't, "Fuck that!"
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
What's in a name?
I read an interesting comment--to my sister--on my friend's blog--by said friend's boyfriend. Although the two of them (boy and sis) have been friends for years, he had to ask her her name. Bizarre? You see, she's Amanda. Officially. Growing up she was Mandy. Now I think only family calls her Mandy, and to everyone else, she's Amanda. When this change happened and why, I'm not really sure.
Personally, I seem to have a different name for every roll I play. At work, I'm Rebecca. Close friends call me Becca. My family has called, and will always call me Becky. When Janzen could start talking, he decided to call me Boo. Now he's 11, and Boo I remain to him, and to Erik's family. (The nieces and nephews call me "Aunty Boo.") I don't really know how this happened either. I guess on job applications, I wrote my full name, Rebecca, and so that's what the boss, and ipso facto, the other employees called me. The Becca thing I just don't know.
Neither Mandy nor I (nor Katy for that matter) have middle names. The plan is/was, that when we get/got married, our maiden names become our middle names. Growing up, I always felt TOTALLY GYPED (Is gyped short for gypsy, and is it therefore a racial slur? Jesus, I hope not) and bitched about it to the point where my dad gave Mandy and me fake middle names. I became Rebecca Sue Ann. Mandy became Amanda Lou Jean. We heard these names when my dad was in a particularly jovial mood.
When thinking of a name for Sophie, one thing I wanted her to have was a cool middle name. If I had MY way (luckily I didn't) she would have been named Juniper Blue. (Called Junie) Erik wanted to name her Scout. Then one day, I was going through the list of names I had made, just reading combinations of names to Erik to check for their first/middle compatibility. Gene is Erik's insane, wonderful, boisterous grandmother's name, so I had written it on the list with all the other family names. When I said "Sophie Gene" time stopped for an instant. The air kind of shimmered. There was no further discussion or doubt. We both knew that Sophie Gene was on her way.
She's had several nick-names in her almost 3 years. At first, her dad and bro called her "Soup," a rather undignified reference to the consistency of the poop in her diaper. I called her "Pumpkin Pants," and "Sugar Bugger," a nickname I stole from Mandy. We've also caller her "Bug" and "Darth Sophius" as well as "Miss" and the longest endearment, "Sweet Angel Princess Dreamer."
Sophie already knows that when she hears Mommy say her whole name, "Sophie Gene Jorgensen!" trouble is coming. For a while she called me "Mommy Boo" but then settled back into Mommy.
Because of my class and her napping schedule, I haven't seen her very much this week, and I miss her like crazy. In my head, I call her "Sweet Sophie Gene" and can't wait until next week when we can play and do errands together and watch Care Bears. Of course, by Wednesday, I'll be blogging about how mind-numbingly dull motherhood can be.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
Picking up your sweet girl after not seeing her all day and getting a big hug, kiss, and lick on the cheek.
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
Missing her all day
Personally, I seem to have a different name for every roll I play. At work, I'm Rebecca. Close friends call me Becca. My family has called, and will always call me Becky. When Janzen could start talking, he decided to call me Boo. Now he's 11, and Boo I remain to him, and to Erik's family. (The nieces and nephews call me "Aunty Boo.") I don't really know how this happened either. I guess on job applications, I wrote my full name, Rebecca, and so that's what the boss, and ipso facto, the other employees called me. The Becca thing I just don't know.
Neither Mandy nor I (nor Katy for that matter) have middle names. The plan is/was, that when we get/got married, our maiden names become our middle names. Growing up, I always felt TOTALLY GYPED (Is gyped short for gypsy, and is it therefore a racial slur? Jesus, I hope not) and bitched about it to the point where my dad gave Mandy and me fake middle names. I became Rebecca Sue Ann. Mandy became Amanda Lou Jean. We heard these names when my dad was in a particularly jovial mood.
When thinking of a name for Sophie, one thing I wanted her to have was a cool middle name. If I had MY way (luckily I didn't) she would have been named Juniper Blue. (Called Junie) Erik wanted to name her Scout. Then one day, I was going through the list of names I had made, just reading combinations of names to Erik to check for their first/middle compatibility. Gene is Erik's insane, wonderful, boisterous grandmother's name, so I had written it on the list with all the other family names. When I said "Sophie Gene" time stopped for an instant. The air kind of shimmered. There was no further discussion or doubt. We both knew that Sophie Gene was on her way.
She's had several nick-names in her almost 3 years. At first, her dad and bro called her "Soup," a rather undignified reference to the consistency of the poop in her diaper. I called her "Pumpkin Pants," and "Sugar Bugger," a nickname I stole from Mandy. We've also caller her "Bug" and "Darth Sophius" as well as "Miss" and the longest endearment, "Sweet Angel Princess Dreamer."
Sophie already knows that when she hears Mommy say her whole name, "Sophie Gene Jorgensen!" trouble is coming. For a while she called me "Mommy Boo" but then settled back into Mommy.
Because of my class and her napping schedule, I haven't seen her very much this week, and I miss her like crazy. In my head, I call her "Sweet Sophie Gene" and can't wait until next week when we can play and do errands together and watch Care Bears. Of course, by Wednesday, I'll be blogging about how mind-numbingly dull motherhood can be.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
Picking up your sweet girl after not seeing her all day and getting a big hug, kiss, and lick on the cheek.
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
Missing her all day
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
Dum dum da da dum
I'm taking a class all day every day this week on how to become a mentor teacher. Dare I say it is one of the more boring things I've done in my life? It's always good for me to take a class and realize how mother-fucking boring it is to sit and sit and sit and listen to someone talk at you. Our teacher is actually pretty good, but she doesn't say "teaching." She says, "the profession." For some reason this bugs the shit out of me. I've started tallying how many times she says it. Today it's been 13. So--my loyal fans (laugh, snort) you may be disappointed to know that my posts will be few and far between this week.
So, as for the hilarious but disturbing werewolf/Sophie pictures, Janzen decided that the perfect Father's day present for Erik would be a wolf man mask. Mine is not to reason why. I don't know how we did it, but we found one. Rather than being afraid of it, Sophie thought it was THE BOMB and has been wearing it pretty regularly for the past 2 days.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
Laughing and laughing and laughing
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
Finding babysitters
So, as for the hilarious but disturbing werewolf/Sophie pictures, Janzen decided that the perfect Father's day present for Erik would be a wolf man mask. Mine is not to reason why. I don't know how we did it, but we found one. Rather than being afraid of it, Sophie thought it was THE BOMB and has been wearing it pretty regularly for the past 2 days.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
Laughing and laughing and laughing
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
Finding babysitters
Sunday, June 19, 2005
The Candy Man Can
I have yet to see the third, sixth, whatever it is, newest Star Wars movie. I'm not a die hard Star Wars fan, but I was disappointed by numbers 1&2 or 4&5, or whatever. No Han Solo (insert purring growl in appreciation of young Harrison Ford with a blaster), shitty directing, annoying amphibious creatures. Sophie has not seen any of "new" Star Wars movies, but, because of a strange connection she's made regarding Darth Vader, she's already his number one fan.
You see, the very first Pez dispenser that she happened to receive was Darth Vader. She knew nothing about his betrayal of the Jedi, or cyborg soullessness. All she knew was that if you lifted up his head--CANDY! And better yet, you can keep lifting, and the candy KEEPS COMING! That is why Sophie refers to Vader as, "The Candy Man."
So a couple of days ago, we were all sitting around, and decided to put in Episode 4--A New Hope--or as I prefer to call it, Star Wars. When Vader made his first entrance, Sophie was beside herself--not with fear, but with joyful appreciation. "Wook Mommy! Wook! It's the Candy Man!" She sat through the rest of the movie--enjoying Chewbaca, asking about Leah--but mostly waiting with baited breath for the appearance of the man who in her mind must be cousins with Santa Clause, or at least the Easter Bunny--The Candy Man aka Darth Vader aka Annakin Skywalker.
What's kind of odd about her camaraderie with Darth Vader is that she has this funny mannerism that we've been calling "Vadering" for about a year now. When she's particularly pissed, she'll hold her arm out stiffly, with her fingers spread and pointing straight forward and say firmly, "No Daddy!" (or Mommy or whoever.) We call it Vadering (as in--"Sophie just totally Vadered you") because it's like the thing Vader does to strangle that general guy in one or another of the movies. We know that she's especially pissed when we get a "Double Vader"--both hands out.
On another Sophie/Star Wars note, the other day she opened the fridge and dragged out a nearly full gallon of milk. I must have been comatose on the couch--because I didn't notice. Janzen walked by, oblivious to both Sophie and the milk, until she screeched, "Janzen--Don't put my milk away!" This, of course, clued both Janz and I into the fact that some milk intervention was needed. After I confiscated the milk, we laughingly discussed how Sophie had totally yet inadvertently tattled on herself. I said to Janzen--"She should have said, 'Move along Janzen. This is not the milk you're looking for.'" He thought this was so hilarious, he spent the rest of the day teaching her to say, "Move along. This is not the milk you're looking for."
Today's best thing about being a mom:
I should write more about my step-son. He's a total hoot. Plus, he is the most consciencious person with a Y chromosome I've ever met. Several times a day he says, "Boo (his nick name for me since he could talk) is there anything I can do to help?" I'm dead fucking serious. He says this. Then he helps. Folks--he's 11! Plus, we've started watching Monty Python together. We'll just be sitting around, and suddenly he'll say "Are you suggesting that coconuts migrate?" (If you didn't get that quote, we can't be friends--unless you go rent The Holy Grail immediately and watch it tonight.) It's pretty cool to have a kid (I think I can claim him as partially mine) who is also an incredibly funny and empathetic friend. (But of course, African swallows are non-migratory.)
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
Getting a "Double Vader" just for suggesting that perhaps pulling the entire roll of toilet paper off the roll and putting it in the toilet isn't such a great idea.
You see, the very first Pez dispenser that she happened to receive was Darth Vader. She knew nothing about his betrayal of the Jedi, or cyborg soullessness. All she knew was that if you lifted up his head--CANDY! And better yet, you can keep lifting, and the candy KEEPS COMING! That is why Sophie refers to Vader as, "The Candy Man."
So a couple of days ago, we were all sitting around, and decided to put in Episode 4--A New Hope--or as I prefer to call it, Star Wars. When Vader made his first entrance, Sophie was beside herself--not with fear, but with joyful appreciation. "Wook Mommy! Wook! It's the Candy Man!" She sat through the rest of the movie--enjoying Chewbaca, asking about Leah--but mostly waiting with baited breath for the appearance of the man who in her mind must be cousins with Santa Clause, or at least the Easter Bunny--The Candy Man aka Darth Vader aka Annakin Skywalker.
What's kind of odd about her camaraderie with Darth Vader is that she has this funny mannerism that we've been calling "Vadering" for about a year now. When she's particularly pissed, she'll hold her arm out stiffly, with her fingers spread and pointing straight forward and say firmly, "No Daddy!" (or Mommy or whoever.) We call it Vadering (as in--"Sophie just totally Vadered you") because it's like the thing Vader does to strangle that general guy in one or another of the movies. We know that she's especially pissed when we get a "Double Vader"--both hands out.
On another Sophie/Star Wars note, the other day she opened the fridge and dragged out a nearly full gallon of milk. I must have been comatose on the couch--because I didn't notice. Janzen walked by, oblivious to both Sophie and the milk, until she screeched, "Janzen--Don't put my milk away!" This, of course, clued both Janz and I into the fact that some milk intervention was needed. After I confiscated the milk, we laughingly discussed how Sophie had totally yet inadvertently tattled on herself. I said to Janzen--"She should have said, 'Move along Janzen. This is not the milk you're looking for.'" He thought this was so hilarious, he spent the rest of the day teaching her to say, "Move along. This is not the milk you're looking for."
Today's best thing about being a mom:
I should write more about my step-son. He's a total hoot. Plus, he is the most consciencious person with a Y chromosome I've ever met. Several times a day he says, "Boo (his nick name for me since he could talk) is there anything I can do to help?" I'm dead fucking serious. He says this. Then he helps. Folks--he's 11! Plus, we've started watching Monty Python together. We'll just be sitting around, and suddenly he'll say "Are you suggesting that coconuts migrate?" (If you didn't get that quote, we can't be friends--unless you go rent The Holy Grail immediately and watch it tonight.) It's pretty cool to have a kid (I think I can claim him as partially mine) who is also an incredibly funny and empathetic friend. (But of course, African swallows are non-migratory.)
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
Getting a "Double Vader" just for suggesting that perhaps pulling the entire roll of toilet paper off the roll and putting it in the toilet isn't such a great idea.
Friday, June 17, 2005
Better living through chemistry
I've been taking an anti-depressant for about 18 months. One day, I found myself sitting in the doctor's office, bawling uncontrollably, filling out some little "check often, sometimes, rarely, or never" paper with questions like, "I feel hopeless," and "I am a total spaz," and "I am completely unable to deal with my fucking husband and all the shit that is required of me regarding family and work," and "I think I am a total fat ass who resembles a bloated elephant seal." (I might have made up those last 3, but those were the questions in spirit, if not fact.) So, after taking one look at me, and then my survey, I think the doc's exact words were, "Well. You're REALLY depressed." He sent me on my way with 2 prescriptions--one for Lexipro (the spell check wanted to replace Lexipro with Lucifer. ha), and one for Phentermine (one of the phens of the former fen-phen).
2 weeks ago, I quit taking the Lexipro--without telling my doctor or anyone. My prescription ran out, and I didn't refill it. I figured--hey, I'm doing all right. Apparently, that was the drugs talking, because I feel like Ted Kazinski (Another spell-check irony. Apparently the closest thing to Kazinski in the spell dictionary is "jazziness".) I literally have been flipping everyone and everything mental birds for days. My current mantra is "I hate. I hate. I hate."
I know the arguments. If you're diabetic, you take insulin. If you're arm's broken, you get a cast. Something about taking those pills just makes/made me feel so mother-fucking defective. Like I can't keep my shit together. Unfortunately for Erik, when I'm depressed, every single word he says makes me either roll my eyes, start bawling, or become totally pissed off. He is currently demanding that I listen to him tell me what a rude bitch I am, and I am ignoring him while blogging. Hopefully, you won't read a post-humus blog written by a sister or friend tearfully explaining that we have both expired.
Oh. I also quit taking the Phentermine. The resultant 30 pounds that I've gained are really pissing me off. Something about loosing those 50 pounds last summer made me feel like I'd finally been admitted into the skinny girl's club--a club that I had always wanted to be a member of and never been. Members of this club are allowed to tuck their shirts in, wear swimming suits without t-shirts over them, shop in the regular size department, and aren't card-carrying members of Lane Bryant. I think I've been officially kicked out of the club. None of my clothes fit, my stomach bulges over the tops of my pants, and only after many many drinks would I even consider putting on a swimming suit.
Guess I'd better add a little about Sophie. The potty-training is going so-so. I haven't been as diligent and vigilant as I should. After yesterday's momentous poop, she totally peed all over herself at grandma's house. She had a rough time sleeping last night--nighmares again. But--she's still a beautiful angel, and is having lots of fun with the cousins.
Mandy's visit is being a little soured by my pissiness, and Katy's job news. It seems like my mom's taking Kate's resignation even harder than Katy--and my mom is the living embodiment of the phrase, "If Mama ain't happy-ain't nobody happy." But, she (Mandy) has another week, so maybe I can pull my head out of my ass and act like a human.
No best and worst today.
2 weeks ago, I quit taking the Lexipro--without telling my doctor or anyone. My prescription ran out, and I didn't refill it. I figured--hey, I'm doing all right. Apparently, that was the drugs talking, because I feel like Ted Kazinski (Another spell-check irony. Apparently the closest thing to Kazinski in the spell dictionary is "jazziness".) I literally have been flipping everyone and everything mental birds for days. My current mantra is "I hate. I hate. I hate."
I know the arguments. If you're diabetic, you take insulin. If you're arm's broken, you get a cast. Something about taking those pills just makes/made me feel so mother-fucking defective. Like I can't keep my shit together. Unfortunately for Erik, when I'm depressed, every single word he says makes me either roll my eyes, start bawling, or become totally pissed off. He is currently demanding that I listen to him tell me what a rude bitch I am, and I am ignoring him while blogging. Hopefully, you won't read a post-humus blog written by a sister or friend tearfully explaining that we have both expired.
Oh. I also quit taking the Phentermine. The resultant 30 pounds that I've gained are really pissing me off. Something about loosing those 50 pounds last summer made me feel like I'd finally been admitted into the skinny girl's club--a club that I had always wanted to be a member of and never been. Members of this club are allowed to tuck their shirts in, wear swimming suits without t-shirts over them, shop in the regular size department, and aren't card-carrying members of Lane Bryant. I think I've been officially kicked out of the club. None of my clothes fit, my stomach bulges over the tops of my pants, and only after many many drinks would I even consider putting on a swimming suit.
Guess I'd better add a little about Sophie. The potty-training is going so-so. I haven't been as diligent and vigilant as I should. After yesterday's momentous poop, she totally peed all over herself at grandma's house. She had a rough time sleeping last night--nighmares again. But--she's still a beautiful angel, and is having lots of fun with the cousins.
Mandy's visit is being a little soured by my pissiness, and Katy's job news. It seems like my mom's taking Kate's resignation even harder than Katy--and my mom is the living embodiment of the phrase, "If Mama ain't happy-ain't nobody happy." But, she (Mandy) has another week, so maybe I can pull my head out of my ass and act like a human.
No best and worst today.
Thursday, June 16, 2005
Houston--We have poop!
Just moments ago, Sophie did her first poop in the potty! Granted--it was a very tiny poop, but this is a huge breakthrough. Woo hoo! (It's official. I am cheering over poop.)
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
I'm it?
Tagged indeed. This is a new facet to the blogtopia of which, thus far, I have been unaware. I do have my doubts, being a complete grouchy-ass about all things resembling chain letters. Nothing pisses me off more than to get a mail that I am supposed to forward to 872 people before I spontaneously combust. However, I don't want to be a spoilsport and so from whatever miscellaneous person to rich girl/poor girl to strangeafeet to katydidz to me, here is the topic with which I was presented (I'm kind of having a kick out of odd prepositional phrasing for some reason) and my responses.
Complete five of the following statements, and then tag three others to do the same:
If I could be a musician, If I could be a doctor, If I could be a painter, If I could be a gardener, If I could be a missionary, If I could be a chef, If I could be an architect, If I could be a linguist, If I could be a psychologist, If I could be a librarian, If I could be an athlete, If I could be a lawyer, If I could be an inn-keeper, If I could be a professor, If I could be a writer, If I could be a llama-rider, If I could be a bonnie pirate, If I could be an astronaut, If I could be a world famous blogger, If I could be a justice on any one court in the world, If I could be married to any current famous political figure
If I could be a musician I would want very much to be one in the style of Joan Jett. She is the rockinist gal around, in my humble opinion. Probably one of my favorite all time summer activities is to drive around with all the windows down, playing "I Love Rock and Roll" at ear splitting decibels, and sing like it ain't no thing. I often tell my students, when they ask why I chose to be a teacher, that it was either going to be teacher or rock star--and ultimately, I decided to go with teacher. They think this is a joke, but it's totally true. My big sis and I plan, in our next lives, (after raising little Buccaneers with Johnny Depp) on starting a band called "Liquid Evil." (It is very important to pronounce the "Evil" part as "EE-Vill", rhyming it with the phrase "we will" not "we pull." We've decided that our first album will be called Debauchery. Damn. Maybe I should have gone with rock star.
If I could be an athlete, I would be on of those HOT HOT HOT soccer playing chicks that I see practicing at the field by my house. Long blond ponytail--shin guards--tight ass in the shiny soccer shorts. I had a brief stint as a soccer player when I was 12. Chubby 12. Awkward as ass 12. Glasses wearing, fantasy novel reading, bad hair-cut 12. I had no business playing soccer. The team was co-ed. My dad was assistant coach. I remember hearing people watching the games saying, "Someone really needs to let that little chubby girl sit out and have a drink. She is bright red. I'm afraid she is going to faint." Why I was playing soccer and why my dad was assistant coach, I seem to have blocked out of my mind completely. If it was his idea, I certainly hope that he gets what is cosmically coming to him for it. If it was mine, I think I already have.
If I could be a llama rider, I suppose I would try ASAP to find something a bit more streamlined and less, umm, lama-ish to ride.
If I could be a psychiatrist I would try and figure out why for the past week, I keep having these bizarre apocalyptic sex dreams. I hardly ever dream, and I almost never have nightmares--but for the last few nights, my subconscious has been totally effed up.
OK--so that's 4 not 5, but I just can't go any further.
So--Kodi, Patrice and Paul (Jen--give him a heads up--will you?) TAG--You're it!
Today's best thing about being a mom:
Actually, one of Sophie's favorite games is tag, and any other game that includes running and screaming. When I ask her what she did at school, her first response is usually, "Played tag and chase and race." I love how she understands tag only as much as she will poke you and yell "Tag! You're it!" and run away. However, if you poke her and say "tag" she's pretty much lost. It's fun to watch her learn the ropes of being a kid.
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
The elbow trauma continues. I hate knowing that she's hurting, and being able to do very little about it.
Complete five of the following statements, and then tag three others to do the same:
If I could be a musician, If I could be a doctor, If I could be a painter, If I could be a gardener, If I could be a missionary, If I could be a chef, If I could be an architect, If I could be a linguist, If I could be a psychologist, If I could be a librarian, If I could be an athlete, If I could be a lawyer, If I could be an inn-keeper, If I could be a professor, If I could be a writer, If I could be a llama-rider, If I could be a bonnie pirate, If I could be an astronaut, If I could be a world famous blogger, If I could be a justice on any one court in the world, If I could be married to any current famous political figure
If I could be a musician I would want very much to be one in the style of Joan Jett. She is the rockinist gal around, in my humble opinion. Probably one of my favorite all time summer activities is to drive around with all the windows down, playing "I Love Rock and Roll" at ear splitting decibels, and sing like it ain't no thing. I often tell my students, when they ask why I chose to be a teacher, that it was either going to be teacher or rock star--and ultimately, I decided to go with teacher. They think this is a joke, but it's totally true. My big sis and I plan, in our next lives, (after raising little Buccaneers with Johnny Depp) on starting a band called "Liquid Evil." (It is very important to pronounce the "Evil" part as "EE-Vill", rhyming it with the phrase "we will" not "we pull." We've decided that our first album will be called Debauchery. Damn. Maybe I should have gone with rock star.
If I could be an athlete, I would be on of those HOT HOT HOT soccer playing chicks that I see practicing at the field by my house. Long blond ponytail--shin guards--tight ass in the shiny soccer shorts. I had a brief stint as a soccer player when I was 12. Chubby 12. Awkward as ass 12. Glasses wearing, fantasy novel reading, bad hair-cut 12. I had no business playing soccer. The team was co-ed. My dad was assistant coach. I remember hearing people watching the games saying, "Someone really needs to let that little chubby girl sit out and have a drink. She is bright red. I'm afraid she is going to faint." Why I was playing soccer and why my dad was assistant coach, I seem to have blocked out of my mind completely. If it was his idea, I certainly hope that he gets what is cosmically coming to him for it. If it was mine, I think I already have.
If I could be a llama rider, I suppose I would try ASAP to find something a bit more streamlined and less, umm, lama-ish to ride.
If I could be a psychiatrist I would try and figure out why for the past week, I keep having these bizarre apocalyptic sex dreams. I hardly ever dream, and I almost never have nightmares--but for the last few nights, my subconscious has been totally effed up.
OK--so that's 4 not 5, but I just can't go any further.
So--Kodi, Patrice and Paul (Jen--give him a heads up--will you?) TAG--You're it!
Today's best thing about being a mom:
Actually, one of Sophie's favorite games is tag, and any other game that includes running and screaming. When I ask her what she did at school, her first response is usually, "Played tag and chase and race." I love how she understands tag only as much as she will poke you and yell "Tag! You're it!" and run away. However, if you poke her and say "tag" she's pretty much lost. It's fun to watch her learn the ropes of being a kid.
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
The elbow trauma continues. I hate knowing that she's hurting, and being able to do very little about it.
Monday, June 13, 2005
Just an update
Just a boring continuation of the falling at Grandma's house story. I'll try and write something a little less play-by-play tomorrow.
Last night, after the head bashing episode, Sophie began complaining of 2 things. 1, that her cousin had pushed her off the chair (I don't envy her the talk the she and her mom are going to have) and 2, that her arm hurt. The pain in her arm kept getting worse, to the point where she wasn't using it, was holding it close to her body, and would flinch if it was touched.
So today was a series of broken promises. I first promised Sophie that we'd go right home after the pediatrician's office. Nope. The doc could tell something was wrong, but decided that x-rays were needed. Then at the hospital, after a terrifying session with the x-ray machine, I promised her that we were ALL DONE! Nope. Just when she had calmed down, the technician came in and informed us that he needed more pictures. After those pictures, I promised her that it was time to go home. Nope. The technician informed us that we needed to take the pictures back to the pediatrician's for her to look at them. Fuckity fuck-o-rama.
Ultimately, it turns out that Sophie "displaced the fatty pad on her elbow." Huh? What the fuck is the fatty pad on her elbow? I mean, I know she's chunky, but elbow fat? Apparently it's part of the joint or something and hurts like a mother when it is moved in the wrong direction. So--now we try to keep her somewhat still and comfortable, then have more x-rays in 10 days. I was not informed what we do after 10 days if said fatty pad isn't back where it belongs.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
I guess getting to say, "Baby, we're really going home now. I promise," and then actually coming home, tucking her in, and letting her sleep off the doctor inspired terror. That doesn't seem like a best thing, but I was very glad when it happened.
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
Doctor's offices and hospitals
Last night, after the head bashing episode, Sophie began complaining of 2 things. 1, that her cousin had pushed her off the chair (I don't envy her the talk the she and her mom are going to have) and 2, that her arm hurt. The pain in her arm kept getting worse, to the point where she wasn't using it, was holding it close to her body, and would flinch if it was touched.
So today was a series of broken promises. I first promised Sophie that we'd go right home after the pediatrician's office. Nope. The doc could tell something was wrong, but decided that x-rays were needed. Then at the hospital, after a terrifying session with the x-ray machine, I promised her that we were ALL DONE! Nope. Just when she had calmed down, the technician came in and informed us that he needed more pictures. After those pictures, I promised her that it was time to go home. Nope. The technician informed us that we needed to take the pictures back to the pediatrician's for her to look at them. Fuckity fuck-o-rama.
Ultimately, it turns out that Sophie "displaced the fatty pad on her elbow." Huh? What the fuck is the fatty pad on her elbow? I mean, I know she's chunky, but elbow fat? Apparently it's part of the joint or something and hurts like a mother when it is moved in the wrong direction. So--now we try to keep her somewhat still and comfortable, then have more x-rays in 10 days. I was not informed what we do after 10 days if said fatty pad isn't back where it belongs.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
I guess getting to say, "Baby, we're really going home now. I promise," and then actually coming home, tucking her in, and letting her sleep off the doctor inspired terror. That doesn't seem like a best thing, but I was very glad when it happened.
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
Doctor's offices and hospitals
Sunday, June 12, 2005
Crash and burn
Sophie Gene is currently laying in bed, exhausted, with a 1/4 inch long, maybe 1/8 inch gouge in her head. I am currently wearing a shirt that is covered in blood, tears, and snot. Here's what happened.
The clan was all gathered at my mom's house for Sunday dinner. My mother has a very simple love language--she feeds people. Dinner at her house is always a meal of feast-like proportions. Today, with my sis's family back in town, Sunday dinner was to be an event. Roast beef, mashed potatoes, gravy, broccoli with cheese sauce, fruit salad, 2 kinds of pies, rolls, etc. So, I was standing at the kitchen island cutting up broccoli, and I looked into the living room to see Sophie and Madeline playing on the Lazy Boy. I thought to myself, "That doesn't look very safe," and for some asinine reason, took no action.
I then heard Aunt Katy saying, "Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh" in that way that people do when they know something bad is about to happen but can't do anything about it. Then the crash. Then Sophie bawling in my arms, me thinking that she had a few bumps from falling off of the chair, but nothing serious. Then I smelled that unmistakable metallic blood smell. I looked down, and saw that some of her hair was becoming saturated with blood. I did not faint. I did not scream. I sat down immediately with her in my lap so as not to do either, and waited for the cavalry to arrive, and it did.
My only job was to hold her tightly, crooning into her ear that she would be fine, while Aunty Kate took out Sophie's pony tail and Mandy gently pulled Sophie's hair away from the wound and clipped it out of the way. My mom helped wipe the blood off until we could see the very tiny cut. Erik sat by me, patting me while I patted Sophie, and my sweet step-son kept me supplied with cold washcloths to hold on the cut.
The whole experience totally did her in, and after about 15 minutes, she started begging to go home, so home we came. I'm checking on her about every 3 minutes, because all though I'm 99% sure she doesn't have a concussion, I still don't think I should have let her go to sleep. Erik is going to bring me home a plate. Although I'm absolutely sick about Sophie, a part of my brain is still being very self serving, and hoping that he doesn't forget to bring me a piece of pie.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
I'm so grateful to have so many helping hands around when I need them.
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
I feel like a complete fucking moron for not telling those girls to get off of that chair. I don't know what's wrong with me. I totally saw her accident coming, but didn't stop it. Some mistakes are forgivable, but not the ones that end up with bleeding babies.
The clan was all gathered at my mom's house for Sunday dinner. My mother has a very simple love language--she feeds people. Dinner at her house is always a meal of feast-like proportions. Today, with my sis's family back in town, Sunday dinner was to be an event. Roast beef, mashed potatoes, gravy, broccoli with cheese sauce, fruit salad, 2 kinds of pies, rolls, etc. So, I was standing at the kitchen island cutting up broccoli, and I looked into the living room to see Sophie and Madeline playing on the Lazy Boy. I thought to myself, "That doesn't look very safe," and for some asinine reason, took no action.
I then heard Aunt Katy saying, "Oh Oh Oh Oh Oh" in that way that people do when they know something bad is about to happen but can't do anything about it. Then the crash. Then Sophie bawling in my arms, me thinking that she had a few bumps from falling off of the chair, but nothing serious. Then I smelled that unmistakable metallic blood smell. I looked down, and saw that some of her hair was becoming saturated with blood. I did not faint. I did not scream. I sat down immediately with her in my lap so as not to do either, and waited for the cavalry to arrive, and it did.
My only job was to hold her tightly, crooning into her ear that she would be fine, while Aunty Kate took out Sophie's pony tail and Mandy gently pulled Sophie's hair away from the wound and clipped it out of the way. My mom helped wipe the blood off until we could see the very tiny cut. Erik sat by me, patting me while I patted Sophie, and my sweet step-son kept me supplied with cold washcloths to hold on the cut.
The whole experience totally did her in, and after about 15 minutes, she started begging to go home, so home we came. I'm checking on her about every 3 minutes, because all though I'm 99% sure she doesn't have a concussion, I still don't think I should have let her go to sleep. Erik is going to bring me home a plate. Although I'm absolutely sick about Sophie, a part of my brain is still being very self serving, and hoping that he doesn't forget to bring me a piece of pie.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
I'm so grateful to have so many helping hands around when I need them.
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
I feel like a complete fucking moron for not telling those girls to get off of that chair. I don't know what's wrong with me. I totally saw her accident coming, but didn't stop it. Some mistakes are forgivable, but not the ones that end up with bleeding babies.
Friday, June 10, 2005
Bloggin' on the fly
Whew. Mandy (Amanda, amandak, bigsis, whoever she is to you) is here, and we are swimming in kids! Of course, they are having a blast. Last night we had a little family bbq, and the kids played hide and seek, chase, made tents, had a bath together, bumped heads, cried, laughed, didn't eat their dinner, got red jello-jigglers on Grandma's carpet, and went to bed exhausted. (I don't have a digital as yet--have been having the photo shop provide me with cd's from my film--so I took some great pictures that you'll just have to wait for.)
This morning, Sophie, Janzen (here for 2 weeks--hooray!) and I went to my mom's for breakfast. Sophie immediately squirted toothpaste all over herself and Madeline (Mandy's daughter--5--was reading at 4--uses words like "exceptionally" and "pardon") and Madeline's sleeping area. She then got naked--and convinced Mandy's kids to join her in nude-dome. They all jumped in my Dad's walk in shower together--and then naked around the house for a while. (Don't comment if you think naked kids aren't ok. I don't want to hear from you.)
Currently--we're at my house. Mandy is picking up a couple of pizzas, Janzen and Madeline are playing video-games (I still call all video games "nintendo" much to Janzen's disgust--I guess it's a playstation 2.) Zackery (3--sweet as a bug. Looks like a little elf and LOVES to vaccum) is watching Dora the Explorer, and Sophie is dragging out ALL of the toys.
Pictures and updates to follow when time allows.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
COUSINS!
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
Apologizing to family for crazy naked toothpaste-covered daughter.
This morning, Sophie, Janzen (here for 2 weeks--hooray!) and I went to my mom's for breakfast. Sophie immediately squirted toothpaste all over herself and Madeline (Mandy's daughter--5--was reading at 4--uses words like "exceptionally" and "pardon") and Madeline's sleeping area. She then got naked--and convinced Mandy's kids to join her in nude-dome. They all jumped in my Dad's walk in shower together--and then naked around the house for a while. (Don't comment if you think naked kids aren't ok. I don't want to hear from you.)
Currently--we're at my house. Mandy is picking up a couple of pizzas, Janzen and Madeline are playing video-games (I still call all video games "nintendo" much to Janzen's disgust--I guess it's a playstation 2.) Zackery (3--sweet as a bug. Looks like a little elf and LOVES to vaccum) is watching Dora the Explorer, and Sophie is dragging out ALL of the toys.
Pictures and updates to follow when time allows.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
COUSINS!
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
Apologizing to family for crazy naked toothpaste-covered daughter.
Thursday, June 09, 2005
YYYaaawwwnnn
Every night, after I have climbed into bed, read my book for a while, and finally switched off the lamp on my night stand, I close my eyes and whisper, "I love you Sophie Gene." She doesn't know I do this, and I don't really do it out of habit or a sense of duty. I guess I do it because when everything is quiet, and I'm ready to let the day slip away, it's the last thing I think.
Like nearly everyone on the planet, I'm plagued by the big questions. What's the point? Why am I here? Is any of this real? As a young child, I often entertained the solipsistic thought that the world was just a kind of huge joke or test, created just for me to stumble through and figure out. The bottom line is I don't know anything. The world may be an illusion. Everything I think is true may end up being false. But--the one thing that I KNOW, beyond any doubt, that will never ever change, is that I love my baby girl.
Of course, last night, after whispering my evening benediction, I heard the tell tale click of her door opening, then my door opening, then saw her little face appeared next to me, saying "Mommy--I'm hungry." She wasn't. She just couldn't sleep because I let her take a four hour nap yesterday afternoon. I knew at the time that those four lovely hours to myself would bite me in the ass, and they did. We had a LONG night. Up and down every hour or two. Now I'm completely exhausted and will have to slog (a word?) through this day in a sleep deprived haze.
So--I took her to day-care (she still goes one day a week even though school's out--I want her to keep some continuity so she won't freak out when I go back to work in the fall. Yes, yes--I also relish having 1/2 a day to just have my OWN agenda with no Care Bears or popsicles or dress-ups) went and got a tall sugar-free Macciato (totally misspelled. p.s. While the gal was making it, I watched her put the real caramel on top--not the sugar free. I figure those calories don't count because it was someone else's mistake.) and am going to make myself go through Sophie's toys and organize them, then clean the house, then go to work for a couple of hours.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
I used this one, I think, in my first blog, but I guess there are no rules against repeats. Having someone in your life to love unconditionally--even after they spread packing peanuts all over the house and keep you up all night and sneak the bananas out of kitchen and smash them into the carpet with their feet and say shit in front of grandma--is quite a gift.
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
Watching "Care Bears the Movie," "Care Bears to the Rescue," and "Care Bears: The Big Race" in one day is enough to make me jealous of those parents who don't allow TV in their houses.
Like nearly everyone on the planet, I'm plagued by the big questions. What's the point? Why am I here? Is any of this real? As a young child, I often entertained the solipsistic thought that the world was just a kind of huge joke or test, created just for me to stumble through and figure out. The bottom line is I don't know anything. The world may be an illusion. Everything I think is true may end up being false. But--the one thing that I KNOW, beyond any doubt, that will never ever change, is that I love my baby girl.
Of course, last night, after whispering my evening benediction, I heard the tell tale click of her door opening, then my door opening, then saw her little face appeared next to me, saying "Mommy--I'm hungry." She wasn't. She just couldn't sleep because I let her take a four hour nap yesterday afternoon. I knew at the time that those four lovely hours to myself would bite me in the ass, and they did. We had a LONG night. Up and down every hour or two. Now I'm completely exhausted and will have to slog (a word?) through this day in a sleep deprived haze.
So--I took her to day-care (she still goes one day a week even though school's out--I want her to keep some continuity so she won't freak out when I go back to work in the fall. Yes, yes--I also relish having 1/2 a day to just have my OWN agenda with no Care Bears or popsicles or dress-ups) went and got a tall sugar-free Macciato (totally misspelled. p.s. While the gal was making it, I watched her put the real caramel on top--not the sugar free. I figure those calories don't count because it was someone else's mistake.) and am going to make myself go through Sophie's toys and organize them, then clean the house, then go to work for a couple of hours.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
I used this one, I think, in my first blog, but I guess there are no rules against repeats. Having someone in your life to love unconditionally--even after they spread packing peanuts all over the house and keep you up all night and sneak the bananas out of kitchen and smash them into the carpet with their feet and say shit in front of grandma--is quite a gift.
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
Watching "Care Bears the Movie," "Care Bears to the Rescue," and "Care Bears: The Big Race" in one day is enough to make me jealous of those parents who don't allow TV in their houses.
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
Three's a crowd--sometimes
Sorry to those of you unfortunate souls who read this mornings post. I deleted it. I was wallowing in a bit of self centered-ness, and totally talking out of my ass. For those of you who missed it--count yourselves lucky.
So--on to a topic which has previously been off limits in my blog. Erik. My husband. My love. My friend. My constant struggle. The mirror in which I see myself every day--and sometimes, I don't like what I see.
The Jorgensen house is a house full of Leos. If you know anything about astrology, you should be shaking your head or gasping in pity for us. All Leos secretly expect that when they enter a room, be it the waiting room at the doctor's office or the living room at a friend's house, they will receive a standing ovation. Of course, this rarely happens, and as a result, we always feel just slightly let down. By nature, Leos are leaders--following is a bit beneath us. We want to be adored, respected, and we want people to do what we tell them to do. The picture isn't totally grim, because being around a Leo is usually a lot of fun. Because we want your adoration, we're willing to earn it, and tend to be witty and clever and fun (we hope).
This is true of all 3 Jorgensen Leos. We all think that the other two should really be a bit more grateful to be able to spend their time with us. We all are sure that WE are the leader of this pride, and the other two should just shut the fuck up and do what we say. (Sorry for the odd plural pronoun usage.) As a result, things are often rocky.
Before Sophie came along, Erik and I battled often for the role of HLIC (head lion in charge). Things got down right ugly a few times. In my family, the silent treatment is an art. We did not yell. We offered one another stony and stoic looks--often going months without saying more than the absolute necessity to one who had crossed us. Erik's family, on the other hand, are fighters--yellers--get it on the table and have it out-ers. So, for the first several years of our marriage, he yelled and I suffered in silence, and we were both pretty miserable.
Then, just before I found out I was pregnant, things started going better. We started communicating--getting along. That lasted about 9 months. Along came Sophie, the grandest lion in all the jungle, and things went south.
Now that she's 2, headstrong 2, noncompliant 2, sweet and sassy 2, we may need to hire a mediator. Because we are together ALL DAY EVERY DAY Sophie has become a bit of a mommy's girl. This obviously hurts Erik's feelings. Who wouldn't be put out by a statement like, "Mommy--tell daddy to go back to work." Her Leo need to control and his Leo pride are clashing big time. Add to that the fact that he and I hardly spend any time alone together and I'm obsessive about the house and being a good mom and often forget that he and I are the most important twosome in my life--not me and Sophie, and you can see how the dynamic can be in my house.
Without going into detail, things came to a head last night, and something is going to need to change. So--although Erik doesn't read my blog daily (as he should) I want to tell him here--in public (kind-of) that I love him. That I'm sorry that Sophie and I sometimes form a club of 2. That I am going to try harder to make room and time for just him and me. That I appreciate him so much and don't know what I'd do without him.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
Well folks--kids will teach you more about yourself than any other person or thing on the planet.
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
It's so hard to be a mom and a wife and a friend and a sister and a daughter and an employee and well--yourself!--without dropping the ball and leaving someone or something out.
So--on to a topic which has previously been off limits in my blog. Erik. My husband. My love. My friend. My constant struggle. The mirror in which I see myself every day--and sometimes, I don't like what I see.
The Jorgensen house is a house full of Leos. If you know anything about astrology, you should be shaking your head or gasping in pity for us. All Leos secretly expect that when they enter a room, be it the waiting room at the doctor's office or the living room at a friend's house, they will receive a standing ovation. Of course, this rarely happens, and as a result, we always feel just slightly let down. By nature, Leos are leaders--following is a bit beneath us. We want to be adored, respected, and we want people to do what we tell them to do. The picture isn't totally grim, because being around a Leo is usually a lot of fun. Because we want your adoration, we're willing to earn it, and tend to be witty and clever and fun (we hope).
This is true of all 3 Jorgensen Leos. We all think that the other two should really be a bit more grateful to be able to spend their time with us. We all are sure that WE are the leader of this pride, and the other two should just shut the fuck up and do what we say. (Sorry for the odd plural pronoun usage.) As a result, things are often rocky.
Before Sophie came along, Erik and I battled often for the role of HLIC (head lion in charge). Things got down right ugly a few times. In my family, the silent treatment is an art. We did not yell. We offered one another stony and stoic looks--often going months without saying more than the absolute necessity to one who had crossed us. Erik's family, on the other hand, are fighters--yellers--get it on the table and have it out-ers. So, for the first several years of our marriage, he yelled and I suffered in silence, and we were both pretty miserable.
Then, just before I found out I was pregnant, things started going better. We started communicating--getting along. That lasted about 9 months. Along came Sophie, the grandest lion in all the jungle, and things went south.
Now that she's 2, headstrong 2, noncompliant 2, sweet and sassy 2, we may need to hire a mediator. Because we are together ALL DAY EVERY DAY Sophie has become a bit of a mommy's girl. This obviously hurts Erik's feelings. Who wouldn't be put out by a statement like, "Mommy--tell daddy to go back to work." Her Leo need to control and his Leo pride are clashing big time. Add to that the fact that he and I hardly spend any time alone together and I'm obsessive about the house and being a good mom and often forget that he and I are the most important twosome in my life--not me and Sophie, and you can see how the dynamic can be in my house.
Without going into detail, things came to a head last night, and something is going to need to change. So--although Erik doesn't read my blog daily (as he should) I want to tell him here--in public (kind-of) that I love him. That I'm sorry that Sophie and I sometimes form a club of 2. That I am going to try harder to make room and time for just him and me. That I appreciate him so much and don't know what I'd do without him.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
Well folks--kids will teach you more about yourself than any other person or thing on the planet.
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
It's so hard to be a mom and a wife and a friend and a sister and a daughter and an employee and well--yourself!--without dropping the ball and leaving someone or something out.
Saturday, June 04, 2005
Do heffalumps fart?
This morning, Sophie and I were playing in my bed; you know the drill--hiding under the covers, tickle fights, being kitty mommy and kitty baby, etc. During the course of our play, I farted. Loudly. You know, one of those that had been waiting all night and then Ka Blam! Sophie went very still. Her eyes grew wide. She asked, "Was that a heffalump Mommy?" (Non-parents of toddlers--a heffalump is a very cuddly elephantine creature who lives with Pooh, et. al. in the Hundred Acre Wood--recently introduced in "The Heffalump Movie"--and who makes a very loud trumpeting type sound.)
So now we have it. Our official family farting euphemism. Every family needs one--and we haven't really settled on one until now. Yes--we did things like blame it on the cat, or each other. We'd call farts toots or stink bombs or other various silly 10 year old boy inspired things, but now we are truly a family because when someone farts, we'll all ask together, "Was that a heffalump?"
In my mom and dad's house, we called farting "speaking." Here's why. Apparently when I was around Sophie's age, we were at a family reunion. I was in the high-chair being doted upon by various aunts, uncles, grandparents, etc. Suddenly I farted very loudly, surprising both myself and my retinue. In amazement I said, "Oh! My bottom speaks!" Though I don't remember uttering this ill fated turn of phrase, I have never been allowed to forget that I said it, and in doing so renamed the fart for my entire extended family.
Of course, some people and families are uptight about farting, and probably wouldn't say fart if they were blown out of their chair by an especially violent burst of LIG. (LIG is the fart euphemism of my uncle's family. It stands for "Large Intestinal Gas." I don't know the story behind it--though I'm feeling inspired to do a little research.) To me--family and farting go hand in hand. Who else can you fart in front of if not your family?
When Erik and I were dating, I would never have dreamed of farting in front of him. In fact, he lived in a total piece of shit apartment, and the toilet didn't really work. He was the only one who could make it flush. So rather than suffer through the horror of using the bathroom at his house and asking him to flush for me, I would make excuses to go to the gas station across the street and pee there.
After we were married, I was still mortified at the idea of farting in front of him. In fact, I'd wait for him to leave the house to even poop. Then one day, all that changed, and with it, we transitioned from the hazy glow of newlywed-ness into officially married people.
I thought Erik was out of the apartment. He wasn't. He was just in the other room. I had just gotten out of the shower and was wrapped in a towel. For some reason, I sat down on one of our wooden kitchen chairs. Then--I farted one of the loudest farts of my life. Plus, the combination of the wooden chair and my bare-butt created a kind of resonating clapping sound. I remember thinking to myself, "Wow! That was a really loud one!" Just then, Erik walked in the room, laughing so hard he wasn't making a sound. Just kind of jerking and twitching and turning red. When he could breath again, he gasped, "Was that really you?" Luckily, I decided to laugh along with him, and since then, have farted freely in his presence.
So back to the Heffalump call of this morning. Sophie REALLY thought that there was a Heffalump near by. I told her that no, Heffalumps are pretend, and that the sound was just Mommy farting. She was disappointed that she couldn't see a Heffalump, but pretty impressed by my fart. Like her mommy, Soph is a bit of a gassy gal, and this afternoon, she let one rip. She looked at me and smiled, waiting expectantly. I asked her, "Was that a heffalump?" and we had a great laugh together.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
Sharing an inside joke together
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
How nice that yesterday, I had a hard time thinking about a best thing, and today, I'm having a hard time thinking of a worst thing. This is a bit of a repeat from yesterday, but I'm going to have to go with the mess. Damn that girl can sure trash a room, and fast.
So now we have it. Our official family farting euphemism. Every family needs one--and we haven't really settled on one until now. Yes--we did things like blame it on the cat, or each other. We'd call farts toots or stink bombs or other various silly 10 year old boy inspired things, but now we are truly a family because when someone farts, we'll all ask together, "Was that a heffalump?"
In my mom and dad's house, we called farting "speaking." Here's why. Apparently when I was around Sophie's age, we were at a family reunion. I was in the high-chair being doted upon by various aunts, uncles, grandparents, etc. Suddenly I farted very loudly, surprising both myself and my retinue. In amazement I said, "Oh! My bottom speaks!" Though I don't remember uttering this ill fated turn of phrase, I have never been allowed to forget that I said it, and in doing so renamed the fart for my entire extended family.
Of course, some people and families are uptight about farting, and probably wouldn't say fart if they were blown out of their chair by an especially violent burst of LIG. (LIG is the fart euphemism of my uncle's family. It stands for "Large Intestinal Gas." I don't know the story behind it--though I'm feeling inspired to do a little research.) To me--family and farting go hand in hand. Who else can you fart in front of if not your family?
When Erik and I were dating, I would never have dreamed of farting in front of him. In fact, he lived in a total piece of shit apartment, and the toilet didn't really work. He was the only one who could make it flush. So rather than suffer through the horror of using the bathroom at his house and asking him to flush for me, I would make excuses to go to the gas station across the street and pee there.
After we were married, I was still mortified at the idea of farting in front of him. In fact, I'd wait for him to leave the house to even poop. Then one day, all that changed, and with it, we transitioned from the hazy glow of newlywed-ness into officially married people.
I thought Erik was out of the apartment. He wasn't. He was just in the other room. I had just gotten out of the shower and was wrapped in a towel. For some reason, I sat down on one of our wooden kitchen chairs. Then--I farted one of the loudest farts of my life. Plus, the combination of the wooden chair and my bare-butt created a kind of resonating clapping sound. I remember thinking to myself, "Wow! That was a really loud one!" Just then, Erik walked in the room, laughing so hard he wasn't making a sound. Just kind of jerking and twitching and turning red. When he could breath again, he gasped, "Was that really you?" Luckily, I decided to laugh along with him, and since then, have farted freely in his presence.
So back to the Heffalump call of this morning. Sophie REALLY thought that there was a Heffalump near by. I told her that no, Heffalumps are pretend, and that the sound was just Mommy farting. She was disappointed that she couldn't see a Heffalump, but pretty impressed by my fart. Like her mommy, Soph is a bit of a gassy gal, and this afternoon, she let one rip. She looked at me and smiled, waiting expectantly. I asked her, "Was that a heffalump?" and we had a great laugh together.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
Sharing an inside joke together
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
How nice that yesterday, I had a hard time thinking about a best thing, and today, I'm having a hard time thinking of a worst thing. This is a bit of a repeat from yesterday, but I'm going to have to go with the mess. Damn that girl can sure trash a room, and fast.
Friday, June 03, 2005
WFT?
The following is a list of things that are currently on the floor at my house. Things that I didn't put there. Things that I have to pick up.
1 mysterious black cord in a clear plastic bag. Maybe it goes to the computer.
1 pink feather boa--denuded of approx. 40% of its feathers. Said feathers scattered about. Too many to count
11 dominoes
1 deflated 4 square (you remember 4 square--right?) ball
2 remote controls--neither of which go to our current tv, dvd, vcr, etc.
5 socks--none of them pairs
1 wooden box that should hold, but is empty of "lace and trace farm animals"
3 dryer sheets
1 pencil
1 piece of green chalk
1 rock--approx the size of a tennis ball, reddish, shaped oddly like the state of Maine
1 blue silky (see picture in previous post)
1 bra (ok, that's mine)
1 piggy bank
1 empty box of Bausch and Bomb alergy eye drops
7 crayons
1 blue block
1 Spider Man birthday invitation (Addendim--10 minutes later. Discovered black scary beetle--alive--under said invitation)
1 automatic car door unlocker to a car we sold 6 months ago (?!)
1 dvd box sans dvd (the life aquatic)
1 fake kids iron/ironing board
3 puzzle pieces to a Dora the Explorer puzzle--don't know where the rest of the puzzle is
1 receipt from Ritz Camera
1 popsicle stick--painted blue and green
1 doll
1 lid to a Cinderella cup--very weird giant lid with Cinderella's head on it
6 pieces to perfection game--very pointy and painful to step on
2 wipes--used by Erik to wipe crayon off the tv last night
1 large dirty rubber band
1 drawing (by me for sophie) of Tender Heart Bear
8 pennies
1 spoon
1 fork (FYI--the fork is across the room from, not next to, the spoon)
1 juice box straw
1 coupon for Rose Art stickers
1 old curled up security plastic thingy from side of Pirates of the Carribean dvd
3 Cabbage Patch Kid magnets
1 pair of flip-flops (directly in front of the front door. NOT MINE!)
2 cd envelope thingies
As you may have already surmised, I am having my period. I am grouchy. I am sick and fucking tired of picking up other people's shit. Friends--this list is just the living room and entryway (and, only the stuff that is on the floor. It doesn't include all the shit under the couches, on the tables, bookshelves and any other flat surface.) If I even start on the bathroom, bedrooms, etc., I will probably end up running screaming through the streets.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
(long pause while thinking) Well-I guess it gives me something to blog about. Though if I weren't a mom, I could probably blog about lovely vacations, a clean house, hobbies, interesting people, etc.
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
Refer to above list.
Thursday, June 02, 2005
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
Mad...Mad...Madagascar
My sis mentioned Madagascar in passing in her blog today, and I found myself writing an extensive comment about how much I hated it. So--for your reading pleasure, here it is. Watch out Ebert!
Madagascar was the STUPIDEST movie I have EVER SEEN and please keep in mind that I have a freakin' closet full of stupid kid movies. I usually don't mind movies that anthropomorphise (how I wish my vocabulary didn't exceed my spelling abilities) animals--but I really feel that they need to go whole hog. (cringe--unintentional pun.) Either the animals should be people like and talk and not worry about things like eating one another and their own feces, or they should be--well, animals! Madagascar tries to do both, and the result is not only painful to watch but aggressively, mind-numbingly predictable and boring. My one sentence summary of Madagascar--"A formerly captive carnivorous lion winds up in the wild with his herbivorous homies and begins to think they look delicious." In the end, (SPOILER ALERT--as if you couldn't guess) the solution is that he eats fish--because apparently in THIS animal kingdom, fish don't have witty personalities or the voices of quasi-famous actors. The only good parts of the movie were a couple of monkeys-- "If you have any poop--throw it now!" and some conspiracy minded penguins--"What did you do with the people?" "We killed them and ate their livers. Just kidding! They're on a slow lifeboat to China." As an aside, the one line Sophie remembered from the movie, and has been quoting for 6 days is, "You're biting my butt!"
Today's best thing about being a mom:
Sharing the cookie dough beaters
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
Sophie gave herself a hair cut today. A full report and pictures coming tomorrow.
Madagascar was the STUPIDEST movie I have EVER SEEN and please keep in mind that I have a freakin' closet full of stupid kid movies. I usually don't mind movies that anthropomorphise (how I wish my vocabulary didn't exceed my spelling abilities) animals--but I really feel that they need to go whole hog. (cringe--unintentional pun.) Either the animals should be people like and talk and not worry about things like eating one another and their own feces, or they should be--well, animals! Madagascar tries to do both, and the result is not only painful to watch but aggressively, mind-numbingly predictable and boring. My one sentence summary of Madagascar--"A formerly captive carnivorous lion winds up in the wild with his herbivorous homies and begins to think they look delicious." In the end, (SPOILER ALERT--as if you couldn't guess) the solution is that he eats fish--because apparently in THIS animal kingdom, fish don't have witty personalities or the voices of quasi-famous actors. The only good parts of the movie were a couple of monkeys-- "If you have any poop--throw it now!" and some conspiracy minded penguins--"What did you do with the people?" "We killed them and ate their livers. Just kidding! They're on a slow lifeboat to China." As an aside, the one line Sophie remembered from the movie, and has been quoting for 6 days is, "You're biting my butt!"
Today's best thing about being a mom:
Sharing the cookie dough beaters
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
Sophie gave herself a hair cut today. A full report and pictures coming tomorrow.
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