Sophie's better. I'm better. Nuff said.
So--I just peered through her door (no--while I am super mommy, I do not have x-ray vision. Remember her door knob breaking and me climbing out the window? The knob is still missing, so her door has a 2 inch hole in it.) and rather than sleeping, Soph was jumping on her bed, chanting "Cha, cha, cha-cha-cha" like a cracked-up ballroom dance teacher. I opened the door mid jump, and she looked at me, landed on her butt, lay down, and immediately began to fake snore. Looks like a no nap day.
In honor of daylight savings (did we just start saving or unsaving? Damned it I know.) her is a brief Sophie to English lexicon of Sophie words involving time.
last mornin': Any time in the past. ex. "Grandma! Last mornin' I frew up in mommy's bed."
potty time: Potty time is reserved for very specific time intervals: right when mom's food comes at the restaurant, after being buckled into the car seat, immediately after the door closes after being put to bed.
dinner time: Not a time for actually eating, as no candy is involved. Dinner time is strictly for food art creations, and for science type experiments involving volume.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
Nibbling on baby arms and legs.
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
Black marker on my CARPET!
Monday, October 31, 2005
Sunday, October 30, 2005
Saturday, October 29, 2005
Weekend Update
Just a quick update on the weekend so far.
Friday morning I woke up SICK!! Sore throat, eyes red and runny, headache. Fuckity fuck-o-rama. So I ran into work (at 6:30 A.M.!) to get some things ready for a sub, and to call a sub. One of the worst things about teaching is getting up sick, and realizing that you have find a sub.
So--I spent 40 minutes arranging things so that a sub could understand them (note to self. MUST get a generic sub plan ready. It's only been 5 fucking years now.) and then called 4 different subs. No luck. I started to bawl. I really was sick as a dog, and sitting on the phone begging people to take my class was NOT on my list of things to do at that moment.
So I called my principal's cell and left a message--saying that I was sick, that I'd tried to get a sub without success, and that I was going back to bed.
Came home--had a fight with Erik where I TOTALLY lost it and became down right verbally abusive--and then laid down on the floor to cry for a while, the whole time fretting about my kids showing up for class and finding no teacher there.
About 15 minutes later, the sweet sweet sped teacher called, told me that she was taking my 1st period class, and that she was looking for a sub for me, and for me to get my ass in bed. I LOVE FORREST NORLIN.
So--Soph went to school, Erik went to work, and I went to bed.
Today I'm feeling marginally better. I went to the doc and got oral and eye drop antibiotics. (My eyes hurt so bad I can't wear my contacts, and as Soph broke my glasses 2 years ago, I have been BLIND for 2 days.) We can't go to my pal's Halloween party tonight, which sucks, and well, that's about it.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
This is one of those days when it's hard to choose one of these. OK. Animal crackers?
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
Watching "Caillou." It you haven't seen this show, count yourself lucky. Damn. That is some mind numbingly boring yet intensely annoying shit.
Friday morning I woke up SICK!! Sore throat, eyes red and runny, headache. Fuckity fuck-o-rama. So I ran into work (at 6:30 A.M.!) to get some things ready for a sub, and to call a sub. One of the worst things about teaching is getting up sick, and realizing that you have find a sub.
So--I spent 40 minutes arranging things so that a sub could understand them (note to self. MUST get a generic sub plan ready. It's only been 5 fucking years now.) and then called 4 different subs. No luck. I started to bawl. I really was sick as a dog, and sitting on the phone begging people to take my class was NOT on my list of things to do at that moment.
So I called my principal's cell and left a message--saying that I was sick, that I'd tried to get a sub without success, and that I was going back to bed.
Came home--had a fight with Erik where I TOTALLY lost it and became down right verbally abusive--and then laid down on the floor to cry for a while, the whole time fretting about my kids showing up for class and finding no teacher there.
About 15 minutes later, the sweet sweet sped teacher called, told me that she was taking my 1st period class, and that she was looking for a sub for me, and for me to get my ass in bed. I LOVE FORREST NORLIN.
So--Soph went to school, Erik went to work, and I went to bed.
Today I'm feeling marginally better. I went to the doc and got oral and eye drop antibiotics. (My eyes hurt so bad I can't wear my contacts, and as Soph broke my glasses 2 years ago, I have been BLIND for 2 days.) We can't go to my pal's Halloween party tonight, which sucks, and well, that's about it.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
This is one of those days when it's hard to choose one of these. OK. Animal crackers?
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
Watching "Caillou." It you haven't seen this show, count yourself lucky. Damn. That is some mind numbingly boring yet intensely annoying shit.
Thursday, October 27, 2005
Can we make somefin?
Sophie asks me this question about 5 times a day. Because I am the most permissive mother in all the land, we usually bake a batch of cookies, or cupcakes, or make playdough, or pom-pom creatures, or something to add to the freakin' mess that is my house.
Today we made Halloween cupcakes. The last time she was sick, I bought applesauce, and she doesn't like it, so I found a recipe for applesauce raisin cupcakes. I figured we could decorate them with Halloween decor, and tart them around to our friends and family, impressing them with our baking and decorating prowess.
So--I'm frosting, and Sophie is adorning each cupcake with a pumpkin candy-corn type candy. Suddenly she says, "Hey mom! They're like your boobs!" I paused a moment, a bit baffled. Then looked again at the cupcakes. Here's what we had created.
Today we made Halloween cupcakes. The last time she was sick, I bought applesauce, and she doesn't like it, so I found a recipe for applesauce raisin cupcakes. I figured we could decorate them with Halloween decor, and tart them around to our friends and family, impressing them with our baking and decorating prowess.
So--I'm frosting, and Sophie is adorning each cupcake with a pumpkin candy-corn type candy. Suddenly she says, "Hey mom! They're like your boobs!" I paused a moment, a bit baffled. Then looked again at the cupcakes. Here's what we had created.
It's official. Today my daughter and I made boob cupcakes.
Obviously we couldn't deliver a plate of boobs to Grandma Carolyn, Grandma Buddy, etc. So, I removed the, um, nipples, and replaced them with sprinkles and candy corn. Sigh.
On a more PG note, the Funshine costume turned out nice. I think she'll be warm and comfortable in it--and, well, she loves it, and that's what's most important.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
Boob cupcakes
Today's worst thing about being a mom;
Boob cupcakes
Saturday, October 22, 2005
White Trash and Zealots
When people ask me about my heritage, I answer them in all honesty that I am descended from white trash and zealots. (I said this to my dad once, and he laughed and asked what, exactly, constitutes a zealot. I answered, "Well, anyone who would cross 1000+ miles of farmland in a covered wagon to settle in a desert, I guess.)
The zealotry, of course, is due to the Mormon side--my mother's side. Her great-greats were actually tarred and feathered, persecuted, run out of Navuoo, and crossed the plains to settle in Salt Lake. Bless their hearts.
As for the white trash, my dad grew up in Nebraska in a basement house. His dad worked for the railroad until he died of lung cancer. (I once asked my Granny for her chicken and noodles recipe. She started out with, "Well, it's best to use an old rooster.") Dad was a smart little shit, and perfectly fits the bootstrap-pulling American guy. His sister took a different rout--marrying first a wife beater, and then a pedophile.
So--in my family, we're a little strapped to celebrate our heritage. Last Christmas, I looked up some Danish recipes (the zealot side is predominantly Danish) hoping to, you know, embrace our roots, but found mostly recipes for smoked and jellied fish.
Enter--BOWLING!! What a better way to incorporate both the zealotry and white-trashiness than to take the fam down to the lanes for a little rolling on a Friday night.
Fun was had by all. You'll note that in order to truly celebrate our white trash roots, we all dressed in traditional white trash garb. We dined on traditional white trash fare of French fries drenched in fry sauce, (The fry sauce is a very traditional Mormon/Utah condiment. 1/2 catsup, 1/2 mayo. Delish.) push-up pops, and root beer.
The zealotry, of course, is due to the Mormon side--my mother's side. Her great-greats were actually tarred and feathered, persecuted, run out of Navuoo, and crossed the plains to settle in Salt Lake. Bless their hearts.
As for the white trash, my dad grew up in Nebraska in a basement house. His dad worked for the railroad until he died of lung cancer. (I once asked my Granny for her chicken and noodles recipe. She started out with, "Well, it's best to use an old rooster.") Dad was a smart little shit, and perfectly fits the bootstrap-pulling American guy. His sister took a different rout--marrying first a wife beater, and then a pedophile.
So--in my family, we're a little strapped to celebrate our heritage. Last Christmas, I looked up some Danish recipes (the zealot side is predominantly Danish) hoping to, you know, embrace our roots, but found mostly recipes for smoked and jellied fish.
Enter--BOWLING!! What a better way to incorporate both the zealotry and white-trashiness than to take the fam down to the lanes for a little rolling on a Friday night.
Fun was had by all. You'll note that in order to truly celebrate our white trash roots, we all dressed in traditional white trash garb. We dined on traditional white trash fare of French fries drenched in fry sauce, (The fry sauce is a very traditional Mormon/Utah condiment. 1/2 catsup, 1/2 mayo. Delish.) push-up pops, and root beer.
Sophie's a natural. I think she rolled a 35.
Janz rolled a 17, but still had fun.
Erik, of course, won with a 117
Katy was in the running for a long time, but alas, was defeated by Erik with her impressive score of 72.
Here you see my soon to be patented "lean"method of bowling. Simply contort your body in the direction you'd like the ball to roll, and yell, "Get the fuck over!" repeatedly. My method didn't work great, however, and I came in 3rd with a 62.
Today's b
est thing about being a mom.
Behold--my creation! I started making Sophie's Halloween costume today. It was a total blast. When the glue and paint is dry, I'll post a picture of her in it. If you didn't know, this is Funshine Bear. Along with the hat, I'm making a sweat suit into the rest of the costume. Not bad for a $1.00 Walmart hat, a piece of white felt, and 2 tubes of craft paint, eh?
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
Today, I was forced to play "Jimmy" about 20 times. In case you'd like to play too, here's how it works. Sophie lays in her bed. I scratch on her door, then crawl into her room on all fours. Then, I lick Sophie's face, and whimper a bit. She pretends to wake up, then scratches my ears and says, "You silly pooch!" Then, trade rolls, and repeat 10-20 times.
Thursday, October 20, 2005
The Great Pumpkin!
Last weekend we took Sophie to the Great Pumpkin festival. Don't know why I haven't blogged about it until today.After we woke up Saturday morning, I tried to feed and dress Sophie quickly--in order to get us all out the door by 9:00. Fall in Cedar City is WINDY and the earlier you can get started, the less wind there is to deal with. But alas and alak, an early start wasn't to be, and with one thing and another, Erik, Sophie and I didn't make it to the university until almost 11:00.
We milled around for a bit, trying to get our bearings, (passing, on the way, the cotton candy machine which comes into the story later) and found the fairly hidden kiosk where we paid 5 bucks for Sophie's plastic bracelet that let her into all the pumpkin ev
ents.From there, we went to the "pumpkin corral" where Soph could climb all over a giant stack of pumpkins, and then pick one to take with her, and either carve or paint.
After the corral, we went to the painting station, and were given a paper plate with small squirts of different colored paint and one paint brush. (On the way to paint, I noticed several kids at the carving station, all hacking away at pumpkins with real knives and very little supervision. I didn't hear of any major injuries, but damn! That just looked like a very bad idea to me.) Soph had fun painting her pumpkin, and the only trouble there was when she was looking around for somewhere to rinse her paintbrush, noticed Erik's $2 paper cup of Pepsi, and proceeded to give the brush a thorough swishing in it.
Next was the dress up tent. Of course, she choose a princess costume. The very sweet ladies running the tent dressed her to the nines, and then sat her on a throne and took her picture. A minor melt down ensued when Sophie realized that she had to take off and return the costume, but I was able to lure her away with a promise of cookie decorating.
At the cookie decorating station, a cute college guy gave us yet another paper plate, this time with a pumpkin shaped cookie, frosting, and candies. Sophie was so thorough in her cookie decorating, and felt very proud of her ultimate creation. So much so, that had a little "have her cake and eat it too" moment and couldn't decide whether to eat the cookie or save it. Ultimately, she we
nt for eat it, of course.After the cookie decorating, we found a shady spot to sit and I went to procure some $2 hot dogs for all of us. (A side note. I love hot dogs. I rarely eat them, because I know they're freaking gross and filled with nitrates and balls and whatever else, but damn, they're tasty.)
While we were eating, I noticed a couple of 8 year old hoods who had set a pumpkin on a table and were THROWING KNIVES AT IT. TOWARD PEOPLE! I was just getting up to regulate on that action when a festival official of some sort came down on them like a plague or the land. WTF?
"Ghost Eating" was after lunch--the typical eat the doughnut (why is that word SO HARD TO SPELL?) on string with no hands. Soph was a total sport and didn't use her hands once. She didn't win, but got to eat a doughnut on a string with no hands--and that was apparently trophy enough.
By this time, we were all kind of tired and ready to go home, even though Sophie wouldn't admit it. I told her that we'd get a cotton candy on the way out--so she reluctantly agreed to go. Then, horror of horrors, we walked to the cotton candy booth and IT WAS GONE!!! Please don't underestimate how big of a problem this created. Tears. Snot. Kicking. Fuck. So, our nice happy time ended with a huge scene. Oh well.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
Pumpkin painting
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
Lately, Soph is totally into the quarter (usually 50 cents, actually) machines and rides at the supermarket--or wherever else. It's such a pain in the ass. To give in or not to give in? That is the question. Whether 'tis nobler to withstand the screams and tantrums of an angry three year old, or to say yes and be branded as, once again, the most permissive mother in all the land. Sigh.
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
Moi?
Feeling very uninspired and uninspiring today. But luckily--I've been tagged by Lonna, and so will not be forced to write about the gray rainy autumn weather, the 4 loads of laundry I just did, or the fact that it took 3 Clorox Ready Mop pads to mop my kitchen floor--it was so filthy. Oh. I guess I just did.
Ten years ago: Ten years ago, Erik had just proposed to me. I suppose it's time to tell the brief history of our relationship.
I moved to Southern Utah the beginning of my Sophomore year in high school. The move from Central California to Utah was, obviously, tanamount to a death in my mind. So--enter blond, busty California girl into the sad, sad, sorry world of Cedar High School. My first memory of Erik is of him leaning against his locker, watching me walk down the hall, looking as though he was contemplating whether I'd taste better topped with hot fudge or caramel sauce. Damn. He was SO fine. (Still is, of course.)
So--I kept my eye on him. The first time I actually "hung out" with Erik, we were both in line at the snack bar at school. He and his very rowdy friends were in the back of the line, yelling at the lunch ladies, "Do you sell twat burgers?" I had no idea what they were saying--because I had never before hear that particuar vulgarity.
Flash forward about 6 months. I had joined the debate club--40% because he was on it, 60% because I wanted to. Erik had a steady girlfriend--not me--but we flirted fairly outrageously with eachother whenever given a chance. So-- on the bus home this one particular trip, he came and sat by me. It was dark--the bus was chilly. We climbed under a blanket together--and had a delicious make-out session that lasted some 100 miles. Sigh.
Of course, that was QUITE scandalous, and said girlfriend was less than pleased with the news.
For the next 2 years, things followed much this same pattern. He had a girlfriend. We'd fool around. I'd fool around with his friends to piss him off. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.
Then he graduated and I didn't hear from him for some 2 years.
Then one day he called me--out of the blue--at my work. He asked me to come over to his apartment. (Small. Smelly.) Basically--he had me at hello, (I know. Gag.) and a few months later, he asked me to marry him. We were engaged for 2 months--got married (a whole other story) and now, 10 years have passed. Damn.
Five years ago: We had just moved into our house, and I was working 4 jobs. I taught at the "Opportunity School, (11-3)" (the sad, sorry excuse for an alternative high school that existed at the time) was a class size reduction aid for a kindergarten (9:00-10:30), worked at Erik's dad's book store (3:30-6:00), taught an elementary Spanish class a couple afternoons a week. I remember it as being a very busy, but very happy time.
One year ago: Let's see. Sophie was barely 2. Erik and I were in the middle of a huge marital shit sandwich. Not a pleasant time.
Five snacks: Cookie Crisp Cereal, French fries, kettle corn, pine nuts, apples with salt and peanut butter.
Five songs I know all the words to: Son of a Preacher Man, Sweet Home Alabama, Killing Me Softly, I Want You to Want Me, The Gambler
Five things I would do with $100 million: college for Janz and Sophie, publish E's book, buy beautiful home with amazing landscaping, employ personal trainer/chef, breast reduction surgery/laser eye surgery.
Five things I would never wear: "Pro Life" t shirt, garments (Mormon underwear. Really.), a thong, stirrup pants (although I had 5 pair in middle school), jeweled sweat suit (very popular item with old ladies in Las Vegas.)
Five favorite TV shows: Northern Exposure, American Idol, Real World/Road Rules Challenge, Good Eats, Sesame Street
Five biggest joys: Erik, Sophie, Janzen, Someone else doing the dishes, time to read
Five favorite games: (I changed this one. Don't really have and "toys.") Scrabble, Dominoes, Zam Bee Zee, Karaoke Revolution, Song Burst
Five people to pass this on to: Kodi, Katie(Magic), Paul (So he doesn't feel left out--and because I'm very curious about what he was doing 5 years ago), Erik, Jen
Today's best thing about being a mom:
Puddle jumping
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
Laundry
Ten years ago: Ten years ago, Erik had just proposed to me. I suppose it's time to tell the brief history of our relationship.
I moved to Southern Utah the beginning of my Sophomore year in high school. The move from Central California to Utah was, obviously, tanamount to a death in my mind. So--enter blond, busty California girl into the sad, sad, sorry world of Cedar High School. My first memory of Erik is of him leaning against his locker, watching me walk down the hall, looking as though he was contemplating whether I'd taste better topped with hot fudge or caramel sauce. Damn. He was SO fine. (Still is, of course.)
So--I kept my eye on him. The first time I actually "hung out" with Erik, we were both in line at the snack bar at school. He and his very rowdy friends were in the back of the line, yelling at the lunch ladies, "Do you sell twat burgers?" I had no idea what they were saying--because I had never before hear that particuar vulgarity.
Flash forward about 6 months. I had joined the debate club--40% because he was on it, 60% because I wanted to. Erik had a steady girlfriend--not me--but we flirted fairly outrageously with eachother whenever given a chance. So-- on the bus home this one particular trip, he came and sat by me. It was dark--the bus was chilly. We climbed under a blanket together--and had a delicious make-out session that lasted some 100 miles. Sigh.
Of course, that was QUITE scandalous, and said girlfriend was less than pleased with the news.
For the next 2 years, things followed much this same pattern. He had a girlfriend. We'd fool around. I'd fool around with his friends to piss him off. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.
Then he graduated and I didn't hear from him for some 2 years.
Then one day he called me--out of the blue--at my work. He asked me to come over to his apartment. (Small. Smelly.) Basically--he had me at hello, (I know. Gag.) and a few months later, he asked me to marry him. We were engaged for 2 months--got married (a whole other story) and now, 10 years have passed. Damn.
Five years ago: We had just moved into our house, and I was working 4 jobs. I taught at the "Opportunity School, (11-3)" (the sad, sorry excuse for an alternative high school that existed at the time) was a class size reduction aid for a kindergarten (9:00-10:30), worked at Erik's dad's book store (3:30-6:00), taught an elementary Spanish class a couple afternoons a week. I remember it as being a very busy, but very happy time.
One year ago: Let's see. Sophie was barely 2. Erik and I were in the middle of a huge marital shit sandwich. Not a pleasant time.
Five snacks: Cookie Crisp Cereal, French fries, kettle corn, pine nuts, apples with salt and peanut butter.
Five songs I know all the words to: Son of a Preacher Man, Sweet Home Alabama, Killing Me Softly, I Want You to Want Me, The Gambler
Five things I would do with $100 million: college for Janz and Sophie, publish E's book, buy beautiful home with amazing landscaping, employ personal trainer/chef, breast reduction surgery/laser eye surgery.
Five things I would never wear: "Pro Life" t shirt, garments (Mormon underwear. Really.), a thong, stirrup pants (although I had 5 pair in middle school), jeweled sweat suit (very popular item with old ladies in Las Vegas.)
Five favorite TV shows: Northern Exposure, American Idol, Real World/Road Rules Challenge, Good Eats, Sesame Street
Five biggest joys: Erik, Sophie, Janzen, Someone else doing the dishes, time to read
Five favorite games: (I changed this one. Don't really have and "toys.") Scrabble, Dominoes, Zam Bee Zee, Karaoke Revolution, Song Burst
Five people to pass this on to: Kodi, Katie(Magic), Paul (So he doesn't feel left out--and because I'm very curious about what he was doing 5 years ago), Erik, Jen
Today's best thing about being a mom:
Puddle jumping
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
Laundry
Monday, October 17, 2005
Saturday, October 15, 2005
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
Couldn't resist
I know I just posted a bunch of pictures, but these are so cute, I couldn't resist. Every Halloween, Janzen and I (and now Sophie) drive to Paragonah to the pumpkin patch. Paragonah is a "suburb" of Parowan which is a suburb of Cedar City--which last I heard has a population of about 24 thousand. I think about 12 people live in Paragonah. There is a sign on the way into town that says "No shooting in town limits." The sign, is of course, riddled with gun shots. It's not unlikely there to pass a front yard that has 3 rusting trucks, 2 old mobile homes, and a sheep or two thrown in for good measure.
The pumpkin patch is behind the home of a VERY old couple. A sweet old grandma weighs your pumpkins on a 200 year old scale, then charges about 10 cents a pound. If she doesn't feel like collecting money, or is out getting her hair shellacked, there is a sign that says, "Please put money in the pumpkin." Said pumpkin is an old plastic trick-or-treat bucket that sits on top of the scale. This year, the sign also says, "Free pumpkins for children of the 222." (The 222 is the national guard unit from So. Utah that is currently in Iraq.)
Soph liked the patch, but was a little freaked out by the pumpkin vines. They are pretty prickly, and walking through them is a bit of a challenge. I ended up hauling her around on my hip. Janzen makes a very careful study before picking out his pumpkin--searching for the perfect one.
We stopped in Parowan on the way back to have lunch with Erik at the "Frost Stop." (Parowan is the county seat.) On the way home, Janz and I listened to "Wonder Boy" about 10 times, and he told me about the website turdwords.com. I hope to god that he doesn't visit it on his own. After some investigation, as you'll see, I found that the site is pretty sexually explicit, as well as grossly scatalogical. (Well, what do you expect.) Apparently, a "Poo Poo McGoo" is not only Sophie's favorite toddler curse word, but is a prank one plays on a passed out friend. (Fill up a pair of swimming goggles with poo and strap them on passed out "friend."
Back to the pumpkins. This year, we ended up with 87 pounds of pumpkins, which are currently residing in my dining room window box. Soph loves to pat them and talk to them. "So, ummm, Pumpkin. How ya doin'?"
The pumpkin patch is behind the home of a VERY old couple. A sweet old grandma weighs your pumpkins on a 200 year old scale, then charges about 10 cents a pound. If she doesn't feel like collecting money, or is out getting her hair shellacked, there is a sign that says, "Please put money in the pumpkin." Said pumpkin is an old plastic trick-or-treat bucket that sits on top of the scale. This year, the sign also says, "Free pumpkins for children of the 222." (The 222 is the national guard unit from So. Utah that is currently in Iraq.)
Soph liked the patch, but was a little freaked out by the pumpkin vines. They are pretty prickly, and walking through them is a bit of a challenge. I ended up hauling her around on my hip. Janzen makes a very careful study before picking out his pumpkin--searching for the perfect one.
We stopped in Parowan on the way back to have lunch with Erik at the "Frost Stop." (Parowan is the county seat.) On the way home, Janz and I listened to "Wonder Boy" about 10 times, and he told me about the website turdwords.com. I hope to god that he doesn't visit it on his own. After some investigation, as you'll see, I found that the site is pretty sexually explicit, as well as grossly scatalogical. (Well, what do you expect.) Apparently, a "Poo Poo McGoo" is not only Sophie's favorite toddler curse word, but is a prank one plays on a passed out friend. (Fill up a pair of swimming goggles with poo and strap them on passed out "friend."
Back to the pumpkins. This year, we ended up with 87 pounds of pumpkins, which are currently residing in my dining room window box. Soph loves to pat them and talk to them. "So, ummm, Pumpkin. How ya doin'?"
Mission successful
Today's best thing about being a mom:
Today we mailed out some Halloween cards to cousins and friends. Sophie thought licking the envelopes was the most bitchin' thing ever. Then when we went to the post office and she got to put the stamps on them, she almost fainted from excitement. When she actually got to put them in the mailbox, she was literally jumping up and down. I love how much fun she has with everything. I love that that makes me try and think of fun things for us to do together.
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
We went to the Family Dollar today to look for some more cheep Halloween decor. She kept walking up to strangers asking, "Umm. Excuse me. How much is this?"
Monday, October 10, 2005
Cowgirls do NOT clean the house!
I hate housework.
I hate it. I really do.
I'd rather dig ditches or do telemarketing or castrate pigs than clean house.
But it's my job.
My sweet mom came over a few weeks ago and helped me CLEAN Sophie's room. Not just put the shit somewhere other than on the floor--but actually clean it. Decide where everything belongs. Put it there. Clean the windows. Dust the floor moldings. Now--I can actually clean that ONE room without going mad--but the rest of my house is a total cluster-fuck.
I love my house, but it's small. Not quite 1000 square feet. Add to that the fact that a puppy and 3 year old live here, and that my husband is a computer guy who (bless him) strews computer shit hither and thither, and that we're both book people, and that, well, I FUCKING HATE HOUSEWORK, and you can see where this is going.
The book shelves are about 4 sections deep--books in the back, (well to be honest, dust and cobwebs in the back), then book stacked on top of the books, then another layer of dust, and finally assorted miscellaneous crap sitting on and infront of the books. CD's, pictures, videos, computer shit, etc. The thing is, I have no clue where to put it all.
I am not by nature a tidy person, though I desperately want to be. If I lived totally alone, I MIGHT be able to keep things reasonably nice, but keeping things clean with said other messer-uppers is impossible. Add to the fact that I FUCKING HATE HOUSEWORK and we end up slogging through total chaos.
See-although I FUCKING HATE HOUSEWORK I can't stand to live in a messy house. That's my mom's fault. Every Saturday she would provide every member of the family with a list. And every Saturday the house was cleaned--really cleaned. Dusted, mopped, sprayed and polished. This led to a weird kind of schitzophrenia in the cleaning part of my brain. Obviously, I hated my Saturday list. It was total injustice. I had to clean messes that I didn't make. I wanted to be at playing outside, or later, going to the mall, but instead, I was going through my list. When reporting to mom that the list was complete, she would inevitable ask, "Is it done to MY specifications?" Well, no. So I'd go back again--vacuum in the corners, clean under the bed. When the list was finally done, I would be hot, dirty sweaty, and mad. But the house looked great.
Add to that that when my mom was pissed--she cleaned, and made us clean. We would have bi-monthly sit downs where she would loose it, tell us "I can't do this alone!" And as the middle child, my mothers child, the peace maker and taker on-er of all other's feelings, I felt responsible, that I really WASN'T doing enough.
So now I associate cleaning with guilt, with anger, and with having to do something that I do not want to do. But I also think that my house should be, at all times, as clean as my mother's house.
Sophie is napping. (Poor kid is totally constipated. She keeps telling me "I have farts in my belly! Help me get them OUT!) and I should be cleaning the fuck out of the house. I swept the floor, made my bed, and wiped down the counter, but now I am totally fucked. I don't WANT to dust. I don't WANT to clean the walls. I don't WANT to scrub out the tub. If I do these things, I'll be much happier that they're done, but I FUCKING HATE CLEANING HOUSE! If, on the other hand, I read my book or watch tv or do anything else, I won't enjoy it. I'll keep looking at the cobwebs in the corners, the piles of shit on every flat surface, the dust--Christ--the dust--and feel like the world's worst woman, wife, and mother who ever lived.
It's a kind of aggressive impotence. It makes me crazy.
Of course, if you know my sweet, handsome, smart husband, you can imagine his response when I first presented him with his "Saturday" list. To his credit, he didn't tear it up in my face and tell me to fuck off, but he didn't complete it--and he certainly didn't care if the things he did were to "my specifications." He does help--don't get me wrong. But--I don't have an army of cleaning troops like my mom did.
OK. I'll clean off one book case. I'll clean the tub. But that's all.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
Soph and I went to the library this morning. She's starting to love books. Enough said.
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
Other than not knowing what to do to help "get the farts out," I have to say that sleep is such a big issue still. Last night, 2:00 am, she decided that she MUST sleep in her princess sleeping bag blow-up thing. OK. Whatever. Just go the hell to sleep. But--when sleeping in a sleeping bag, one is obviously engaging in slumber party activity--and therefore must have a partner in sleeping on the floor. That was me. I woke up this morning, on her floor, freezing, achy, and pissed. Being the most permissive mother in the world definitely has drawbacks.
I hate it. I really do.
I'd rather dig ditches or do telemarketing or castrate pigs than clean house.
But it's my job.
My sweet mom came over a few weeks ago and helped me CLEAN Sophie's room. Not just put the shit somewhere other than on the floor--but actually clean it. Decide where everything belongs. Put it there. Clean the windows. Dust the floor moldings. Now--I can actually clean that ONE room without going mad--but the rest of my house is a total cluster-fuck.
I love my house, but it's small. Not quite 1000 square feet. Add to that the fact that a puppy and 3 year old live here, and that my husband is a computer guy who (bless him) strews computer shit hither and thither, and that we're both book people, and that, well, I FUCKING HATE HOUSEWORK, and you can see where this is going.
The book shelves are about 4 sections deep--books in the back, (well to be honest, dust and cobwebs in the back), then book stacked on top of the books, then another layer of dust, and finally assorted miscellaneous crap sitting on and infront of the books. CD's, pictures, videos, computer shit, etc. The thing is, I have no clue where to put it all.
I am not by nature a tidy person, though I desperately want to be. If I lived totally alone, I MIGHT be able to keep things reasonably nice, but keeping things clean with said other messer-uppers is impossible. Add to the fact that I FUCKING HATE HOUSEWORK and we end up slogging through total chaos.
See-although I FUCKING HATE HOUSEWORK I can't stand to live in a messy house. That's my mom's fault. Every Saturday she would provide every member of the family with a list. And every Saturday the house was cleaned--really cleaned. Dusted, mopped, sprayed and polished. This led to a weird kind of schitzophrenia in the cleaning part of my brain. Obviously, I hated my Saturday list. It was total injustice. I had to clean messes that I didn't make. I wanted to be at playing outside, or later, going to the mall, but instead, I was going through my list. When reporting to mom that the list was complete, she would inevitable ask, "Is it done to MY specifications?" Well, no. So I'd go back again--vacuum in the corners, clean under the bed. When the list was finally done, I would be hot, dirty sweaty, and mad. But the house looked great.
Add to that that when my mom was pissed--she cleaned, and made us clean. We would have bi-monthly sit downs where she would loose it, tell us "I can't do this alone!" And as the middle child, my mothers child, the peace maker and taker on-er of all other's feelings, I felt responsible, that I really WASN'T doing enough.
So now I associate cleaning with guilt, with anger, and with having to do something that I do not want to do. But I also think that my house should be, at all times, as clean as my mother's house.
Sophie is napping. (Poor kid is totally constipated. She keeps telling me "I have farts in my belly! Help me get them OUT!) and I should be cleaning the fuck out of the house. I swept the floor, made my bed, and wiped down the counter, but now I am totally fucked. I don't WANT to dust. I don't WANT to clean the walls. I don't WANT to scrub out the tub. If I do these things, I'll be much happier that they're done, but I FUCKING HATE CLEANING HOUSE! If, on the other hand, I read my book or watch tv or do anything else, I won't enjoy it. I'll keep looking at the cobwebs in the corners, the piles of shit on every flat surface, the dust--Christ--the dust--and feel like the world's worst woman, wife, and mother who ever lived.
It's a kind of aggressive impotence. It makes me crazy.
Of course, if you know my sweet, handsome, smart husband, you can imagine his response when I first presented him with his "Saturday" list. To his credit, he didn't tear it up in my face and tell me to fuck off, but he didn't complete it--and he certainly didn't care if the things he did were to "my specifications." He does help--don't get me wrong. But--I don't have an army of cleaning troops like my mom did.
OK. I'll clean off one book case. I'll clean the tub. But that's all.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
Soph and I went to the library this morning. She's starting to love books. Enough said.
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
Other than not knowing what to do to help "get the farts out," I have to say that sleep is such a big issue still. Last night, 2:00 am, she decided that she MUST sleep in her princess sleeping bag blow-up thing. OK. Whatever. Just go the hell to sleep. But--when sleeping in a sleeping bag, one is obviously engaging in slumber party activity--and therefore must have a partner in sleeping on the floor. That was me. I woke up this morning, on her floor, freezing, achy, and pissed. Being the most permissive mother in the world definitely has drawbacks.
Sunday, October 09, 2005
The Krause's Summer Visit--In Haiku (looks weird in firefox)
Together at last!
Cousins should play everyday.
Fuck Albuquerque.
Three little monkeys
Think beds are made for jumping
Surely, not for naps!
Zackey-roo and Soph
If Grandma says it's ok
Then it must be so.
Think I'll take a dip.
Good thing Grandma lets me do
anything I want!
This is livin' large!
A nakey popcorn party
Piled in grandma's bed.
Friday, October 07, 2005
Daycare is not for wimps.
"Zip it. Lock it. Put it in your pocket!"
Sophie, apparently, picked up this charming phrase at daycare. She's been using it, on me, nonstop, for about 2 weeks. Jesus Christ on toast. I have to deal with her sassing me--I know, but do I have to put up with sassing that rhymes?
She's also told me "Put that away or it's mine!" (I was holding a pair of her panties at the time) and "Stop it right now or we can't go outside today!" (Trying, at the time, to do her hair.)
It's always hilarious, interesting, and scary to get Sophie's take of what happened during daycare. Today she reported that Tyler peed on the floor, Chloe took off her pants, and Aidan pushed in line. When I asked what she had for lunch, she told me, "French fries and a pickle." I didn't pick up the menu this week, so I can only hope that was wishful thinking.
At Sophie's demand, we at home all have to line up before going outside and put our hands under the table before we eat (??) .
Yesterday, I went in her room to retrieve roll of paper towels that she had stolen. She had carefully ripped of individual towels, laid them around the room, and placed her Care Bears on them--each with an additional towel on top. When I started to pick up the towels, she shrieked, "The kids are laying on their mats! It's time for quiet time!"
I really hate that there's such a big part of her life that goes on that I don't really know about. I know that she's safe. I know that she's having fun. I just hate that it's without me. Many daycare programs now have webcams that you can check on their website. I wish hers would start something like that.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
Soph's deciding what to be for Halloween. She's gone from Rapunzel to Funshine Bear or Merryweather (a fairy on Sleeping Beauty). Holidays are much more fun when you have a little one to celebrate with.
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
Sophie has settled on "cooter" for her female genital euphemism. She was sitting in the tub, and I was telling her Spanish words for different parts of the body. When I didn't know "Spanish for cooter" she threw a full fledged fit, flooding the bathroom with her screening and splashing. Is there a Spanish word for cooter that isn't totally vulgar?
Sophie, apparently, picked up this charming phrase at daycare. She's been using it, on me, nonstop, for about 2 weeks. Jesus Christ on toast. I have to deal with her sassing me--I know, but do I have to put up with sassing that rhymes?
She's also told me "Put that away or it's mine!" (I was holding a pair of her panties at the time) and "Stop it right now or we can't go outside today!" (Trying, at the time, to do her hair.)
It's always hilarious, interesting, and scary to get Sophie's take of what happened during daycare. Today she reported that Tyler peed on the floor, Chloe took off her pants, and Aidan pushed in line. When I asked what she had for lunch, she told me, "French fries and a pickle." I didn't pick up the menu this week, so I can only hope that was wishful thinking.
At Sophie's demand, we at home all have to line up before going outside and put our hands under the table before we eat (??) .
Yesterday, I went in her room to retrieve roll of paper towels that she had stolen. She had carefully ripped of individual towels, laid them around the room, and placed her Care Bears on them--each with an additional towel on top. When I started to pick up the towels, she shrieked, "The kids are laying on their mats! It's time for quiet time!"
I really hate that there's such a big part of her life that goes on that I don't really know about. I know that she's safe. I know that she's having fun. I just hate that it's without me. Many daycare programs now have webcams that you can check on their website. I wish hers would start something like that.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
Soph's deciding what to be for Halloween. She's gone from Rapunzel to Funshine Bear or Merryweather (a fairy on Sleeping Beauty). Holidays are much more fun when you have a little one to celebrate with.
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
Sophie has settled on "cooter" for her female genital euphemism. She was sitting in the tub, and I was telling her Spanish words for different parts of the body. When I didn't know "Spanish for cooter" she threw a full fledged fit, flooding the bathroom with her screening and splashing. Is there a Spanish word for cooter that isn't totally vulgar?
Thursday, October 06, 2005
Katester the Greatster
Some time ago, I promised to write an Ode to Katy, the youngest of the Smith Sisters.
I knew Katy before she knew herself. The first inkling I had about her existence was during a VERY long drive from Monterey, California to Coon Rapids Minnesota. My Navy dad had been restationed (yes to Minnesota) and on the drive, we kept having to stop at the side of the road for my mom to puke. I was 7 at the time, and remember being worried that she was sick. I can't remember exactly when she told us the news, but I think it was sometime during the trip--probably as we were passing through one of the Dakotas.
Here I must digress. One of my favorite childhood memories is of that particular trip. (Back in the day, before the seatbelt Nazis came into power, the lot of us kids would travel in style--rolling around in the back of the station wagon. I have no idea where my parents picked that monstrosity up; in all it's golden glory, we'd cruise from state to state, arguing over who got to sit in the "way back." Hmm. A digression in the middle of my digression. ) My mom had picked up Kenny Rogers: 20 Years of Gold at some gas station. Mandy, Jon and I were ALL in the way back and started a truly bitchen' cover band. We played along to that tape for hours. Our favorite number was Somethings Burning. (Something's burnin! duga duga do do Somethin's burnin! duga duga do do Somethin's Burnin'! duga duga do do do And I think it's luuuv.) Jon was drumming on the cooler. I probably was singing into a banana or something ridiculous, and Mandy, I believe, was singing back up. I discovered that tape at my parents' house a few years back, and it was like finding a piece of the past. Rubin James, Ruby, Lucille, Damn. That's some good shit.
After the move to Minnesota, my mom started to get BIG. When she got ready for church, one of us kids would have to buckle her church shoes because she couldn't reach them. Katy was a ridiculous 2 weeks late--and weighed in at 1o pounds, 2 and 1/2 ounces. I don't remember how much Sophie weighed when she was born--7is pounds I guess, but I never forget Katy's birth weight.
Probably because she was so late, Katy was a very grown-up baby. She'd sit and look around--taking everything in. We called her Bubbakins. My dad would lay on the floor and hold her super-man style, and then just shift her slightly, so that the fat on her face smushed forward, then gently shake her, making her cheeks wobble and jump. Mandy and Jon and I would lay with our heads by my dad's and laugh and laugh.
Katy and I always had a close bond. She'd come to pieces if my mom or dad yelled at me. We played silly games together of the sort a 2 year old and 11 year old can manage. She made up "Bonkers"a game that consisted of us bumping our heads together while yelling, what else, "Bonkers," and then rubbing our foreheads and saying, 'Ouch." We made up a Best Buddy song that I still remember. (Who's your best buddy? Me me me me me. Who's you're best buddy? You you you you you. And we'll be friends forever--forever.)
I've already told the story, some time ago, of how we would play Sleeping Beauty, or Sleeping Beud, as Katy called it. She would stand up on a chair shoulders pink blanket wrapped around her sholders her stuffed pig, Brigita, tucked under the corner. I, being the prince, would ride up on my horse/broomstick, and Kate would throw back her blanket revealing Sleeping Piggy and say, "Here's your precious princess!" After a short battle came the finalie. Katy would belt out, "Now you shall deal with me O prince. And all the powers of HELL!" GT.
So as sisters, we've been close--had fun--but the most lovely part of our relationship has just happened in the past 2-3 years. Katy had become more than my sister; she is a woman who I choose to be friends with. Last week, when I was feeling like total cat shit, she showed up, and did a beautiful job of highlighting my hair. Katy is the family pedicurist, and has never turned me down for a delectable foot soak, massage, and toenail painting. She's willing to really play with my Soph, getting down and crawling around, meowing, and being the best darn kitty a girl could want to play with.
Mental snapshots of Katy pop up in my head as I write this: Dashing through the rain to the ice cream parlor, bearing the Cinderella princess cake that she made Soph for her birthday; microphone in hand, singing Karaoke like a freakin' rock star; playing "boop," a game that she and Janzen invented--and I don't understand--but it truely cracks him up; sitting on the porch with me, shedding angry tears about the incompitence and unfairness of her previous boss.
What a gal!
Today's best thing about being a mom:
We were at my mom's the other day, getting ready to have dinner. Sophie said, "We need to do the performance!" Confused, I asked her what performance. She pointed at my dad and said--"You--say the words." Oh--the blessing on the food! We don't pray at our house, and I fucking love it that she sees prayer at my mom's for what it is--a little performance that has to be done before getting down to the business of eating.
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
I'm having a bit of a mommy identiny crisis lately; loosing the woman in the mother, so to speak. Sometimes I feel like I'm turning into someone I'm not.
I knew Katy before she knew herself. The first inkling I had about her existence was during a VERY long drive from Monterey, California to Coon Rapids Minnesota. My Navy dad had been restationed (yes to Minnesota) and on the drive, we kept having to stop at the side of the road for my mom to puke. I was 7 at the time, and remember being worried that she was sick. I can't remember exactly when she told us the news, but I think it was sometime during the trip--probably as we were passing through one of the Dakotas.
Here I must digress. One of my favorite childhood memories is of that particular trip. (Back in the day, before the seatbelt Nazis came into power, the lot of us kids would travel in style--rolling around in the back of the station wagon. I have no idea where my parents picked that monstrosity up; in all it's golden glory, we'd cruise from state to state, arguing over who got to sit in the "way back." Hmm. A digression in the middle of my digression. ) My mom had picked up Kenny Rogers: 20 Years of Gold at some gas station. Mandy, Jon and I were ALL in the way back and started a truly bitchen' cover band. We played along to that tape for hours. Our favorite number was Somethings Burning. (Something's burnin! duga duga do do Somethin's burnin! duga duga do do Somethin's Burnin'! duga duga do do do And I think it's luuuv.) Jon was drumming on the cooler. I probably was singing into a banana or something ridiculous, and Mandy, I believe, was singing back up. I discovered that tape at my parents' house a few years back, and it was like finding a piece of the past. Rubin James, Ruby, Lucille, Damn. That's some good shit.
After the move to Minnesota, my mom started to get BIG. When she got ready for church, one of us kids would have to buckle her church shoes because she couldn't reach them. Katy was a ridiculous 2 weeks late--and weighed in at 1o pounds, 2 and 1/2 ounces. I don't remember how much Sophie weighed when she was born--7is pounds I guess, but I never forget Katy's birth weight.
Probably because she was so late, Katy was a very grown-up baby. She'd sit and look around--taking everything in. We called her Bubbakins. My dad would lay on the floor and hold her super-man style, and then just shift her slightly, so that the fat on her face smushed forward, then gently shake her, making her cheeks wobble and jump. Mandy and Jon and I would lay with our heads by my dad's and laugh and laugh.
Katy and I always had a close bond. She'd come to pieces if my mom or dad yelled at me. We played silly games together of the sort a 2 year old and 11 year old can manage. She made up "Bonkers"a game that consisted of us bumping our heads together while yelling, what else, "Bonkers," and then rubbing our foreheads and saying, 'Ouch." We made up a Best Buddy song that I still remember. (Who's your best buddy? Me me me me me. Who's you're best buddy? You you you you you. And we'll be friends forever--forever.)
I've already told the story, some time ago, of how we would play Sleeping Beauty, or Sleeping Beud, as Katy called it. She would stand up on a chair shoulders pink blanket wrapped around her sholders her stuffed pig, Brigita, tucked under the corner. I, being the prince, would ride up on my horse/broomstick, and Kate would throw back her blanket revealing Sleeping Piggy and say, "Here's your precious princess!" After a short battle came the finalie. Katy would belt out, "Now you shall deal with me O prince. And all the powers of HELL!" GT.
So as sisters, we've been close--had fun--but the most lovely part of our relationship has just happened in the past 2-3 years. Katy had become more than my sister; she is a woman who I choose to be friends with. Last week, when I was feeling like total cat shit, she showed up, and did a beautiful job of highlighting my hair. Katy is the family pedicurist, and has never turned me down for a delectable foot soak, massage, and toenail painting. She's willing to really play with my Soph, getting down and crawling around, meowing, and being the best darn kitty a girl could want to play with.
Mental snapshots of Katy pop up in my head as I write this: Dashing through the rain to the ice cream parlor, bearing the Cinderella princess cake that she made Soph for her birthday; microphone in hand, singing Karaoke like a freakin' rock star; playing "boop," a game that she and Janzen invented--and I don't understand--but it truely cracks him up; sitting on the porch with me, shedding angry tears about the incompitence and unfairness of her previous boss.
What a gal!
Today's best thing about being a mom:
We were at my mom's the other day, getting ready to have dinner. Sophie said, "We need to do the performance!" Confused, I asked her what performance. She pointed at my dad and said--"You--say the words." Oh--the blessing on the food! We don't pray at our house, and I fucking love it that she sees prayer at my mom's for what it is--a little performance that has to be done before getting down to the business of eating.
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
I'm having a bit of a mommy identiny crisis lately; loosing the woman in the mother, so to speak. Sometimes I feel like I'm turning into someone I'm not.
Saturday, October 01, 2005
Granny
This is a new experience. Blogging in the "business lounge" at the Hampton Inn. On a whim inspired by toddler/husband exhaustion I decided to accompany my dad on a trip (6 hours in the car each way) up state to visit my Granny. Granny is, obviously, my dad's mom. She is 85ish, 300ish pounds, diabetic, and doesn't like to wear her teeth. Yes. I really did need a break.
On the drive up I was swept with this wave of sleepiness. Apparently my body noticed that it wasn't at the beck and call of the tiny tyrant, and figured it would be a good time to rejuve. I slept, looked out the window, read a page here and there in my book, (Almost done Kodi. Jamie is still super hot.) and played with my split ends. One very nice thing about my dad is he has no problem sharing silence. And silence is exactly what I have been craving.
Anyhoo--we arrived around 4:00--checked in, and headed over to the assisted living center. Those places are so creepy to me. I know I'm probably ageist or whatever, but that high a concentration of old--old people makes me feel weird. Plus they all keep their room doors open, so when you walk down the hall, it's hard not to look in. The result is a kind of bizarre geriatric zoo. I know. I'm going to hell. So be it.
Granny thought I was my sister Katy for a while--but Dad cleared that up. I sat and tried to think of something to say for a while (Granny has always been far more interested in and active with my aunt and her kids. We are not at all close.) and then went to the mall to try and rectify my clothing situation. I bought a couple of things at Maurices, and while I like them now, will probably both hate them and have grown out of them by tomorrow. (2 pairs of pants--one brown corduroy, one navy blue--but NOT JEANS, as they are against the dress policy at my school--and 2 shirts, both westernish (I can't help it. I want to be a cowgirl) one, brace yourself, lavender with shiny metallic lavender threads going through it, and one brown with different colored little flowers on it.
I went to the chocolate shop to get Granny a treat. Here's how the conversation went with the 10 year old girl behind the counter.
me: Do you have any chocolate for diabetics?
she: Like--sugar free?
me: Yes
she: Well, we like, have, like, some? With no sugar added?
me: Hmmm. Do you know if it's safe for diabetics?
she: Like, no?
me: (thinking "Well--I hope I don't send Granny into a diabetic coma.") Ok. I'll take an assortment of those. I need the ones that have no nuts and are really soft.
she: vacant look
me: I'm buying them for my granny and she's diabetic and doesn't have any teeth.
she: vacant look
Granny liked the chocolates (I checked with her nurse before giving them to her) and after enduring a Mormon DVD about the frigging resurrection, I pulled out my new clothes to show her, and tried again to think of something to talk about. That was followed by pizza with dad, and the snotty kid at the check-in guest telling me that the log-in number for the computer was on my key--which it fucking well wasn't, and, well, this blog.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
Sophie did give me something to talk to Granny about. I told her about the Jimmy milking episode, as well as the toilet gazing incidents. I THINK she thought my stories were funny. It was hard to tell.
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
As I was leaving, and Sophie was upset, I promised to bring her back a Dandelion Farytopia Barbie. Now I have to comb the city tomorrow and find one--or else.
On the drive up I was swept with this wave of sleepiness. Apparently my body noticed that it wasn't at the beck and call of the tiny tyrant, and figured it would be a good time to rejuve. I slept, looked out the window, read a page here and there in my book, (Almost done Kodi. Jamie is still super hot.) and played with my split ends. One very nice thing about my dad is he has no problem sharing silence. And silence is exactly what I have been craving.
Anyhoo--we arrived around 4:00--checked in, and headed over to the assisted living center. Those places are so creepy to me. I know I'm probably ageist or whatever, but that high a concentration of old--old people makes me feel weird. Plus they all keep their room doors open, so when you walk down the hall, it's hard not to look in. The result is a kind of bizarre geriatric zoo. I know. I'm going to hell. So be it.
Granny thought I was my sister Katy for a while--but Dad cleared that up. I sat and tried to think of something to say for a while (Granny has always been far more interested in and active with my aunt and her kids. We are not at all close.) and then went to the mall to try and rectify my clothing situation. I bought a couple of things at Maurices, and while I like them now, will probably both hate them and have grown out of them by tomorrow. (2 pairs of pants--one brown corduroy, one navy blue--but NOT JEANS, as they are against the dress policy at my school--and 2 shirts, both westernish (I can't help it. I want to be a cowgirl) one, brace yourself, lavender with shiny metallic lavender threads going through it, and one brown with different colored little flowers on it.
I went to the chocolate shop to get Granny a treat. Here's how the conversation went with the 10 year old girl behind the counter.
me: Do you have any chocolate for diabetics?
she: Like--sugar free?
me: Yes
she: Well, we like, have, like, some? With no sugar added?
me: Hmmm. Do you know if it's safe for diabetics?
she: Like, no?
me: (thinking "Well--I hope I don't send Granny into a diabetic coma.") Ok. I'll take an assortment of those. I need the ones that have no nuts and are really soft.
she: vacant look
me: I'm buying them for my granny and she's diabetic and doesn't have any teeth.
she: vacant look
Granny liked the chocolates (I checked with her nurse before giving them to her) and after enduring a Mormon DVD about the frigging resurrection, I pulled out my new clothes to show her, and tried again to think of something to talk about. That was followed by pizza with dad, and the snotty kid at the check-in guest telling me that the log-in number for the computer was on my key--which it fucking well wasn't, and, well, this blog.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
Sophie did give me something to talk to Granny about. I told her about the Jimmy milking episode, as well as the toilet gazing incidents. I THINK she thought my stories were funny. It was hard to tell.
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
As I was leaving, and Sophie was upset, I promised to bring her back a Dandelion Farytopia Barbie. Now I have to comb the city tomorrow and find one--or else.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)