Tuesday, March 27, 2007

A real post?

You want a real post you say? Not a crappy crybaby one that stays up for 2 seconds or a 2 liner about pachyderms as prophylactics or some nonsense about selling a house?

K. I'll try.

First, an update on all members of the household:

Sophie: She's just big. So freaking big. I can't believe it, but kindergarten registration is like, next week! My baby is so definitely not a baby. She's reading tons of sight words and simple short vowel words. Her hair is finally growing out from the cut from hell, and she's being mistaken for a little boy less and less. She continues to beg me for a baby brother/sister, which just ain't gonna happen. Period.

Also, I'm just a bit worried that she may be a sociopath. Really. Isn't a sociopath someone who has no connection at all to the rules of society--thinks they don't apply--but is smart and manipulative and charming? Maybe I'm talking about another "path." Don't believe me?


E found her taking a dollar out of his wallet. He asked her what she was doing. She replied, "Oh, just getting some money from the tooth fairy." His answer, "What?" Hers, "Well, she forgot to put it under my pillow so I'm just taking it from your wallet. Want to share it?"

Last night for no apparent reason, she SLAPPED her dad right in the face. After I sent her friend (B, of course) home, gave her a time out, and yelled at her for a while, I asked her why she did it. She said, "Well, I drank a naughty shake."

Other mishaps and misbehavior have been blamed on her army of imaginary friends, the dog, and the cat. (We don't have a cat.) No matter how much I yammer on about what responsibility is, that girl can come up with a "reason" (excuse) for any and everything.

E: You'll have to ask him.

Janz: Again--huge. He's taller than me and his voice is more Barry White than little boy. E had him shoveling rocks this weekend--a perfect task for a 12 year old kid. He still continues to spout random movie quotes, both at home and at school, but this doesn't seem to scare off the many girls who have crushes on him. So far--he's not interested, at all, (Well, there is the one) but it's just a matter of time. Oh--he won a prize at the history fair for his essay on Nirvana.

Jimmy: I swear to god, my dog is so freaking gross sometimes. Lately, he's having a love affair with my panties, which he roots out of the laundry basket and then chews to bits all day while I'm at work. Just, eww.

Is that all of us? Oh, me.

I'm ok. I went to a PiYo (Pilates/yoga) class on accident (thought it was regular yoga) last Thursday and my stomach is STILL killing me. Also, there's this reoccurring theme in all of my yoga classes lately on the "root lock" (see also mula banda/kegel) and something pronounced ash-venie which as far as I can tell is major ass squeezage. I'm going to have the strongest "pelvic floor" in the land. But dude, really, how much of a work out do my nethers really need? I don't see myself lifting weights with my cooter any time in the future. (Possible new Olympic event? "Now--attempting a 400 lb. cooter lift for the bronze medal...")

Today's best thing about being a mom:
Reading I am not Going to Get up Today

Today's worst thing about being a mom:
She's back to the 5:30 wake up call. I hate it. Really. Hate. It.

Friday, March 23, 2007

House Hunting

We've decided (well, nearly--maybe 90% sure now) to sell our house.

This makes me sad.

I love my little house. It was built in the early 50s, and is just bursting with character. I love the swooping Jetson like lines. I love the big windows. I love the mature yard and huge trees. I love that it's less than a block from the best elementary school in town and that Sophie was a baby in it.

What I DON'T love is that it has one bathroom. I don't love its tiny, tiny bedrooms--so tiny that a queen bed pretty much fills the space. I don't love the huge amount of yardwork attached to those huge trees--or the guilt I feel that it doesn't get done. I don't love that Janzen's bedroom sometimes doubles for a family room, or that the laundry is housed in a very dungeon-like pit.

The market in S. Utah has gone a bit mad since we bought some 7 years ago, so in some ways, we can't afford not to sell. The return we could feasibly get from our initial investment in it is kind of silly. But on the flip side, getting into something bigger/newer/better is going to be tricky as well.

I've already had a panic attack (ok, not real ones, but they did both require a large glass of wine and/or chocolate therapy) over getting the house in order to be shown. Just off the top of my head, I could list 20 things I've put off or let pile up for 7 years--and that's just the inside. Sophie said to me yesterday, "Mommy, my queen-powers are NOT for cleaning; they are for killing dragons," and I wish I could say the same. I think I'd much rather slay a dragon than get my house to the point where I'd be willing to let strangers look at it--let alone love it enough to pay me lots of money for it.

Day before yesterday I went out with a realtor (she's kind of hot) and started looking. I found a house I could truly, truly love, but the catch is, it's only a block away from the freeway. I sat on the back porch, looking at the unbelieveable playhouse, redwood swing-set, dog-run, and hamock, listening to semis going by, thinking, "Would the noise drive me mad?" And I'm afraid the answer was yes. There's a lovely condo that's "in the family" that we might be able to get into very reasonably, but there's no yard (of course) and I really have my heart set on a family room. Other options have slowly been presenting themselves, including building (which scares the shit out of me. E and I can't agree on dinner, let alone a whole entire house) and mainly I want to run screaming.

Tuesday, March 13, 2007

Question of the day

Asked by M in 3rd period...

"Mrs. J--Isn't a pachyderm a kind of birth control?"

Thursday, March 08, 2007

Imaginary Friends

Soph is way into the imaginary friend thing. I mean, she has one, but we don't stop there, not by a long shot. (I'm not making any of the following up. It's all straight out of the mouth of Soph.)

Meet Soph's imaginary friend's brother. He's a cross dresser. I'm serious. Soph tells me all the time about how he's always putting on her princess dress-ups. It really pisses her off. His favorite is the Cinderella costume. He puts it on and "dances around all silly." He also likes to wear my make-up.

Also, a week or two ago, she was having a huge fight in the front yard. By herself, I thought. Upon further investigation, though, I found out that she was having a fight with Addison's (a school friend) imaginary friend. Yes. Her real friend's imaginary friend had stopped by--without her real counterpart-- and royally pissed of Soph in some way or another.

Her imaginary friend also has a grandfather who has a hot air balloon and a cat who is black and white and pink and her name is Mrs. Pink-scootles Jorgensen.

This is just the tip of the imaginary ice berg. We've heard of imaginary cousins, teachers, and even once an imaginary hamster.

Sometimes I worry a bit. It seems to me that there's a fine line between imaginary friends and, um psychosis. Hopefully, she's ok and just really imaginative--not having visions of ghosts or other scary-ish things.

I've been feeling pretty run-down the last few weeks. Obviously the blog has been sliding, as have other unimportant things like personal hygiene, correcting papers, and grocery shopping. However, the sun did come out today, so maybe after charging my solar batteries a bit I'll bounce back.

I've said it before, but I am a solar powered person with no battery back-ups. I actually get pretty annoying in my longing for summer. It's a repetitive tune, I know, but I can't help but sing it. I need the sun. It's a yearning that I feel very, very deeply.

So ends the "guess I better post" post. Hopefully next time I'll have something like, oh, a central threat of meaning, and maybe even a point.

Today's best thing about being a mom:
Today I was the proud recipient of my first tinker-toy flower. Sweet.

Today's worst thing about being a mom:
She busted into the girl scout cookies and spilled a WHOLE BOX of Thin Mints on the floor. But fuck it--we're eating them anyway.