Snippity Snapshots

My gal pal just sent me some very sweet photos of Soph.  As I, her mother, haven't seen fit to take any pictures of her in the past 4 months, I'm sure glad someone else has.

The first two have a bit of a story behind them.  Soph's two best friends are dare devils.  She is not.  So when they thought up the awesome plan of towing one another behind the Barbie Jeep in a bike egg, she immediately said, "Woah girls.  I'm going to need my helmet for that one!"

Here the two of us are at the Montessori Mothers' Day  party.

And this last one is just a day at the park early in the spring.

In further news, I made plans for her birthday party today.  Even if I only invite kids who invited her to their birthday this year, I'm going to end up with about 15.  Plus grandmas, and great grandmas, and other genetic hangers on.  We've officially outgrown ice cream at Grandee's.  So I bit the bullet, reserved a pavilion at the city park, and ordered up a bounce house.  It's too pricey, but I'm hoping that the grandmas will contribute to the bounce house in lieu of buying her more crap.  If any of y'all are in town on August 9th, join us for some sweet, sweet, bouncy fun.

Sunshine and Butterflies

Ok, Ok.  I've been on a bit of a downer the last few posts.  Sorry.  My plan is to cowgirl the hell up and forge ahead with a spring in my step and a song in my mother effing heart.

To that end, here is a (shortish) list of things that make me glad.

1.  Budweiser "Real Men of Genius" ads.  I know.  Lame.  And it's number one on the list.  But that is some funny shit.  My particular favorite is "Mr. Cellphone Holster Wearer."  Because I totally know that guy.
2.  Avocados.
3.  My tomato plants.
4.  Thunder storms.
5.  Punctuating phrases with periods.
6.  Joe Strummer.
7.  Californication--the TV show, not the song.  Watch it.  It has tons of heart.  Well, and tons of boobs.  But an equal amount of heart and boobs.

Wonk

I've been doing better in general the last few months.  More with the exercise.  Less with the snacks.  More with the positive outlook.  Less with the self loathing.

Enter this week.

Things have been down right wonky.  I'm talking cookie dough, pizza, Maui Sweet Onion Kettle Chips, in bed half the day, not washing my hair, seeing a wookie every time I look in the mirror wonky.

And I wish I knew why.

Something tipped.  Something that was causing me to feel the need to take care of myself and be productive and positive has gone awry.
I
n my head I list possibilities.  My first day back at school is August 7th.  (There is simply no August in summer vacation anymore.)  E has switched jobs (I think I can safely say that now that he's officially told his old job.) and is working both for a short time.  The house is for sale (because not having a yard is an issue).  But really, I don't feel actively upset about any of these things.

What I feel is tired.  What I feel is apathy.  What I feel is hungry.  What I feel is afraid.

You know, it might have something to do with being taught, the whole time I was growing up, that the apocalypse, the actual end of days, was probably going to happen in my life time.  The "Second Coming" was always coming, and you had better have all your ducks in  a row.

So when the world begins to feel unbalanced, I start feeling like I should start hoarding water and gas and, shit, I don't know, cracker snacks.  Gas prices go up, and I immediately feel like the whole basis of Western society is going to fall to bits and I'm going to end up running through burning streets, clutching my daughter's hand, dodging bullets and searching for a cave or something to wait out the last great battle in.  (With cracker snacks.)

I read about the economy failing, and my stomach decides that digesting itself is a reasonable response, as we probably won't be able to afford bread soon.

Some Mormons in recovery spend a lot of time focusing on the guilt that the church built into their lives.  For me, it's the fear.  And I don't really know how to deal with it.

So if you should see me at the grocery store, buying flats of canned goods and sacks of flour, just give me a big hug, and reassure me that the end, isn't in fact, nigh.  That things get sketchy, and wonky sometimes, but that it will be OK.

A quick Soph said

I'm determined to not throw away ANY produce.  It's so damn expensive.  The nectarines were getting a little past, so I decided to make smoothies as a snack for Soph and her pal as their afternoon snack.  A little banana, nectarine, ice, milk, wizz in the blender.  I was feeling pretty proud of myself when I presented them both a nice cool, frothy, healthy treat.  Until Soph squealed.

"Jesus mom what is this?  A bubbling vomit swamp?"

(Note to self.  WAY less with the Jesus, or we're going to be ridden out of town on a rail.)

A word about yoga

Sophie has yoga camp today.  She LOVES it.  I signed her up at the studio where I used to take yoga but stopped several months ago.  Because, as I came to find out, I fucking hate yoga.

Ok.  That was a little strong.

Thing is, I used to really love it.  Sure I'd feel a little uncomfortable (read: like a beached whale) sometimes, but generally managed to push through it.  Not so much anymore.

It's a lot of little things, I guess.  The phrase that goes through my head about 80 times whenever I go to a class, "Why don't you shove it up your perfect little enlightened ass?" kind of sums it up though.

See, WAY back in the day when I was still going to church, people would sit around, talking (read: bragging) about "feeling the spirit."  It's a Mormon thing.  And I'd sit there feeling like shit on a stick, because I wasn't feeling it.

Enter the yoga folk.  And their cleansing breaths.  And their flowing energy.  And I find myself back there on the pew, wondering if they are full of sparkly, enlightened bullshit, or if I'm somehow inherently flawed because I'm not getting it.

Add being surrounded by teeny bendy bodies, while mine is neither teeny, nor bendy (I have boobs people.  Laying on my stomach and trying to raise my legs is uncomfortable and embarassing.  And don't even ask me to turn upside down until there have been some serious, serious advancements in the field of boob support, because I'm likely to be smothered by my own tits.)

Yeah, yeah, I know it's not a competition, and that I'm suppose to modify and blah, blah, blah.  Also, it hasn't escaped my attention that the root of the problem is (possibly) ME and not a centuries old practice embraced by millions.

But I still fucking hate it.

Melt Down

Sophie is currently in the middle of a full fledged melt-down.  She's on her top bunk with the covers pulled over her head wailing about how no one likes her, her mom isn't nice, she isn't nice, her life is too hard, etc.

The impetus for this Sophie melt?  I bought the wrong hair clips at Walgreens.

The real story behind the tears?

I have my theories.

The main one is that it is just too, too fucking hot.  So hot.  By 10:00, it's 90 degrees and climbing.  She wants to be outside and run around and go to the park and ride her scooter.  But 1/2 a block down the road the reality of the heat sets in.

Also, she's bored out of her mind.  There is only so much I can do.  We invite friends over.  Go swimming, bowling, do crafts--but ultimately, there are hours to be filled.  We have no yard.  She has no siblings here during the week (and Janz isn't much of a playmate when he is here on the weekends.  What 14 year old boy wants to entertain his spoiled 5 yr old sister) and even an imaginative and resourceful little mind runs out of things to do after weeks an weeks.

A sub-category to the above is that she's bored with me.  And frankly, I'm bored with her too.  Ok.  Let's tell it like it is.  She's driving me bat-shit crazy.  I'm about done meeting the wants/needs/desires/requests/ of my daughter.  Every time I hear "Mama?" "Mom?" "Mommy?" I know that it will be followed with some THING she wants/needs/desires/or is requesting of me.  And guess what?  I don't wanna.  I don't want to get anything down or put anything up or open or close or listen to or watch or do or undo.  Anything.

It's not her fault.  It's not really mine either.  It just is.

So she watches too much TV (well, movies because the satellite is out) and I read too many books (Let's see, this week I've blasted through  The Good Fairies of New York, Gossamer, Dragonbait, Good Omens, and another book of short stories that I can't remember.).  I sometimes reassure myself that back in "olden times" when people couldn't go outdoors, they would sit around and tell stores, and that we're basically just doing that, although our stories are watched and read instead of listened to.  But really I know that's bullshit.
I'd take her up the mountain, but there's always that one thing smack in the middle of the day that prevents it. 

Today it's kid's yoga at 2:30; tomorrow I'm going to work at the jewelry store.

Excuses excuses.