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?
Examples:
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.
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
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.
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
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.
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.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Nothing to see here
I guess I should blog. I mean, I've spent the last hour binging on internet gossip trash, and one can only look at the best and worst dressed of the Academy Awards red carpet so many times. (Loved Nicole Kidman's red, hated that bluish think Kirsten Dunst had on, would like Penelope Cruiz to come spin around my living room a few times so I won't have to dust, and really didn't mind Jennifer Hudson's jacket all that much.)
I internet binge when I'm depressed. Am I depressed? Let's see...
Work? Sucks. I am SO tired of being lied to by teenagers.
House? Dirty. In fact, I am literally laying on a pile of laundry.
Weight? Off the charts
Weather? Snowing...again
Complexion? Zits and wrinkles. Sweet
Yep. Kind of depressed.
I've watched the first two seasons of Angel now, and am pretty sure it has jumped the shark. That medieval alternate-dimension nonsense was just, well, nonsense. Don't get me wrong...I'd still volunteer to teach David Boreanaz a lesson any day of the week (that Lindsey guy isn't half bad either), and chances are in a few days I'll break down and order a used season three somewhere, but the detective agency thing + arc of Angel's angst/demon/whateva crap was going so well. I see a soap opera coming up, and it makes me sad.
Anything else? Work is beginning to get to me in a way it never has before, but this isn't the forum. Hopefully I'll get through fourth quarter, gain some perspective over the summer, and come back next year with a little more hope.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
Luckily, Soph has been a dream the last couple of days. She's on a major cleaning kick, so I have a spray bottle filled with just water and a couple of rags where she can reach them. Also, she's decided that when she grows up, she wants to be either an Eskimo or an alien. Frankly, those don't sound like bad career options to me.
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
We were playing baby this afternoon, and she totally PEED HER PANTS--on PURPOSE. Sigh. I guess we can chalk it up to method acting.
I internet binge when I'm depressed. Am I depressed? Let's see...
Work? Sucks. I am SO tired of being lied to by teenagers.
House? Dirty. In fact, I am literally laying on a pile of laundry.
Weight? Off the charts
Weather? Snowing...again
Complexion? Zits and wrinkles. Sweet
Yep. Kind of depressed.
I've watched the first two seasons of Angel now, and am pretty sure it has jumped the shark. That medieval alternate-dimension nonsense was just, well, nonsense. Don't get me wrong...I'd still volunteer to teach David Boreanaz a lesson any day of the week (that Lindsey guy isn't half bad either), and chances are in a few days I'll break down and order a used season three somewhere, but the detective agency thing + arc of Angel's angst/demon/whateva crap was going so well. I see a soap opera coming up, and it makes me sad.
Anything else? Work is beginning to get to me in a way it never has before, but this isn't the forum. Hopefully I'll get through fourth quarter, gain some perspective over the summer, and come back next year with a little more hope.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
Luckily, Soph has been a dream the last couple of days. She's on a major cleaning kick, so I have a spray bottle filled with just water and a couple of rags where she can reach them. Also, she's decided that when she grows up, she wants to be either an Eskimo or an alien. Frankly, those don't sound like bad career options to me.
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
We were playing baby this afternoon, and she totally PEED HER PANTS--on PURPOSE. Sigh. I guess we can chalk it up to method acting.
Sunday, February 18, 2007
A matter of life and death
Me (to self, while driving family back from Zion National Park): Hmmm. I bet it's getting kind of windy in the back seat. I think I'll roll up Soph's window.
Soph: EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!! Ow! OW!! OW!! EEEEEEEEEE!!
E: You just totally rolled up Soph's arm in the window.
Me: (reaching around to back seat with one arm--rubbing Soph's right wrist and forearm with one hand and steering with the other): Oh shit. Oh sweetie. Mommy's so sorry. That was an accident. I didn't know you had your arm out the window. Didn't I tell you not to put your arm out the window? I'm so sorry baby.
E: Jesus Boo!
Me: Don't you give me shit. I'm having a really hard day. I started my period. My Granny died. I'm doing the best I can.
E (patting me on the leg): I'm sorry baby. Are you doing ok?
Soph: A period is a kind of letter that's just a dot. Did you write a letter mommy?
Me: No honey. Ladies say they're having their period when they're menstruating.
E: Or they say they're getting a visit from Aunt Flow.
Me (glaring at E out of the corner of my eye): Or they say, "I'm bleeding out of my vagina." In yoga they say "moon time."
E: What--is there a note on the bulletin board that says, "Don't wear white sweats during your moon time"?
Me: No dummy. You're not supposed to do inversions when your having your period, so they say, "Don't do this pose if it's your moon time."
E: Why do they say that?
Me: Because your period happens at the same time of the moon cycle every month.
E: Kind of like a werewolf.
Me: No. Nothing at all like a werewolf.
E (not picking up on the reckoning that is coming post haste. I mean, really, really clueless): Yes it is! Awesome. It's like, the same time of the moon--just like a werewolf! Plus first you're normal, then you're really mean and... (Voice fades out as he looks over and sees his death in my eyes.)
Me (gritting my teeth): It's just a natural cycle. More like the tides than like a werewolf.
E: Yes. Yes. You're right.
It's been a rough day. This morning after waking up to bloody panties I decided that a change of scenery would do us all good so I rounded up the troops (E, Soph, and Janz), packed a picnic, and headed south for Zion National Park. About 20 minutes down the road, my mom called on my cell and told me that Granny had died. The first thing I felt was guilt. I had told my dad I'd go with him to Logan this weekend, then backed out. Truth? I backed out because going would have been a huge pain in my ass. So--guilt first. Then sadness. I thought about heading back to Cedar, but decided not to, but to try and keep Granny in my heart as much as possible during our day trip.
We had a nice little walk, a nice lunch, and a great visit with our friend who LIVES in the park (she and her husband are rangers). It was one of those days when you feel sad, then laugh and feel bad because you're not supposed to be laughing, then feel sad some more, and then do something else that seems inappropriate in the face of death.
That's about it.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
Holding hands while walking down in sunny trail in one of the most beautiful places on earth
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
It SUCKS when you accidentally hurt your kid. Totally sucks. Oh. Also, we were about 20 miles out of Springdale and the last bathroom for about an hour when Soph announced that she had to poop. So I turned the car around, drove all the way back, and the first thing she said when we got out of the car at the gas station was, "Why are we here Mom? Oh look! Can we go pet the horsies?" Damn phantom poops.
Soph: EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!! Ow! OW!! OW!! EEEEEEEEEE!!
E: You just totally rolled up Soph's arm in the window.
Me: (reaching around to back seat with one arm--rubbing Soph's right wrist and forearm with one hand and steering with the other): Oh shit. Oh sweetie. Mommy's so sorry. That was an accident. I didn't know you had your arm out the window. Didn't I tell you not to put your arm out the window? I'm so sorry baby.
E: Jesus Boo!
Me: Don't you give me shit. I'm having a really hard day. I started my period. My Granny died. I'm doing the best I can.
E (patting me on the leg): I'm sorry baby. Are you doing ok?
Soph: A period is a kind of letter that's just a dot. Did you write a letter mommy?
Me: No honey. Ladies say they're having their period when they're menstruating.
E: Or they say they're getting a visit from Aunt Flow.
Me (glaring at E out of the corner of my eye): Or they say, "I'm bleeding out of my vagina." In yoga they say "moon time."
E: What--is there a note on the bulletin board that says, "Don't wear white sweats during your moon time"?
Me: No dummy. You're not supposed to do inversions when your having your period, so they say, "Don't do this pose if it's your moon time."
E: Why do they say that?
Me: Because your period happens at the same time of the moon cycle every month.
E: Kind of like a werewolf.
Me: No. Nothing at all like a werewolf.
E (not picking up on the reckoning that is coming post haste. I mean, really, really clueless): Yes it is! Awesome. It's like, the same time of the moon--just like a werewolf! Plus first you're normal, then you're really mean and... (Voice fades out as he looks over and sees his death in my eyes.)
Me (gritting my teeth): It's just a natural cycle. More like the tides than like a werewolf.
E: Yes. Yes. You're right.
It's been a rough day. This morning after waking up to bloody panties I decided that a change of scenery would do us all good so I rounded up the troops (E, Soph, and Janz), packed a picnic, and headed south for Zion National Park. About 20 minutes down the road, my mom called on my cell and told me that Granny had died. The first thing I felt was guilt. I had told my dad I'd go with him to Logan this weekend, then backed out. Truth? I backed out because going would have been a huge pain in my ass. So--guilt first. Then sadness. I thought about heading back to Cedar, but decided not to, but to try and keep Granny in my heart as much as possible during our day trip.
We had a nice little walk, a nice lunch, and a great visit with our friend who LIVES in the park (she and her husband are rangers). It was one of those days when you feel sad, then laugh and feel bad because you're not supposed to be laughing, then feel sad some more, and then do something else that seems inappropriate in the face of death.
That's about it.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
Holding hands while walking down in sunny trail in one of the most beautiful places on earth
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
It SUCKS when you accidentally hurt your kid. Totally sucks. Oh. Also, we were about 20 miles out of Springdale and the last bathroom for about an hour when Soph announced that she had to poop. So I turned the car around, drove all the way back, and the first thing she said when we got out of the car at the gas station was, "Why are we here Mom? Oh look! Can we go pet the horsies?" Damn phantom poops.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
I'm not your mommy.
I have to say this to myself over and over and over every day.
There are so many kids that I "mother" but to whom I (thank Jesus) did not give birth. There are the kids at school. The girl across the street. Janzen--who I love as though I HAD given birth to him, but he has a mother who is doing a fine job.
What am I trying to say here?
I guess that I'm having some boundary issues. Mainly with B--Soph's across the street play friend.
If you've ever come over to my house, chances are you've met B. She's cute as a bug; red THICK curly hair, button nose, grin to melt your heart. The thing is, I'm beginning to think I should be able to add her as a dependent to my taxes this year.
When I buy snacks at the store--I get enough for Soph and B. When we pick up a new coloring book or similar, I automatically grab an extra so that Soph and B won't fight over it.
Do I mind?
Sometimes. See, Bianca's poor mom has 4 other kids. Twin baby boys, a 1st grader and a 3rd grader. Plus, her newish husband has a major life threatening liver disease. Oh. And a pit bull named Princess. All of the above, particularly Princess, have led me to encourage the girls to play at MY house. And I'm glad. It's not that I think B's parents are incapable of watching Soph, but they have quite a crowd over there. And that dog. Lord. I KNOW she's nice and that she knows Soph, but the horror stories you hear about the nice neighborhood pit bull who suddenly chewed off some poor kid's face are just too many.
Also, I feel for the girl. She is surrounded by brothers, her mom works full time, and her new step-dad is pretty much up to his ears. She loves it at my house. And I don't blame her. We have mini pizzas and princess movies up the yang.
I guess what I'm feeling now is a sense of responsibility for this little child, and it sometimes makes me grumpy. When Soph has another friend over, and B knocks on the door, I'd LIKE to say, "Sorry B--Soph has a friend over. Maybe you could come back later." But when I DO say that, her little face crumples and she cries and walks back across the street broken-hearted. So I end up saying, "Come on in. You three better get along or everyone is going home."
It's nice for Soph to have a friend so close by. And in the summer when I can send them outside to play, it won't be such a big deal. Sometimes it just feels like I've sprouted a second child.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
Overhearing her brag about me to her friends-- "MY mom is a teacher and she makes COOKIES!"
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
Finding balance with your kid's friends
There are so many kids that I "mother" but to whom I (thank Jesus) did not give birth. There are the kids at school. The girl across the street. Janzen--who I love as though I HAD given birth to him, but he has a mother who is doing a fine job.
What am I trying to say here?
I guess that I'm having some boundary issues. Mainly with B--Soph's across the street play friend.
If you've ever come over to my house, chances are you've met B. She's cute as a bug; red THICK curly hair, button nose, grin to melt your heart. The thing is, I'm beginning to think I should be able to add her as a dependent to my taxes this year.
When I buy snacks at the store--I get enough for Soph and B. When we pick up a new coloring book or similar, I automatically grab an extra so that Soph and B won't fight over it.
Do I mind?
Sometimes. See, Bianca's poor mom has 4 other kids. Twin baby boys, a 1st grader and a 3rd grader. Plus, her newish husband has a major life threatening liver disease. Oh. And a pit bull named Princess. All of the above, particularly Princess, have led me to encourage the girls to play at MY house. And I'm glad. It's not that I think B's parents are incapable of watching Soph, but they have quite a crowd over there. And that dog. Lord. I KNOW she's nice and that she knows Soph, but the horror stories you hear about the nice neighborhood pit bull who suddenly chewed off some poor kid's face are just too many.
Also, I feel for the girl. She is surrounded by brothers, her mom works full time, and her new step-dad is pretty much up to his ears. She loves it at my house. And I don't blame her. We have mini pizzas and princess movies up the yang.
I guess what I'm feeling now is a sense of responsibility for this little child, and it sometimes makes me grumpy. When Soph has another friend over, and B knocks on the door, I'd LIKE to say, "Sorry B--Soph has a friend over. Maybe you could come back later." But when I DO say that, her little face crumples and she cries and walks back across the street broken-hearted. So I end up saying, "Come on in. You three better get along or everyone is going home."
It's nice for Soph to have a friend so close by. And in the summer when I can send them outside to play, it won't be such a big deal. Sometimes it just feels like I've sprouted a second child.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
Overhearing her brag about me to her friends-- "MY mom is a teacher and she makes COOKIES!"
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
Finding balance with your kid's friends
UBSCT
Today is UBSCT day 1. That is, the Utah Basic Skills Competency Test. Students need to pass all three sections (writing, math, reading) to receive their high school diploma. We'll start right after lunch. I'm armed with 2 bags of mini candy bars, a bag of pretzels, and a box of Cheez-its (which I am currently checking for quality. So far, so good--very cheezy. But I feel I need to test a larger core sample.) Today the kids are writing their persuasive essays and doing the writing multiple choice. I've spent most of the quarter trying to get this stuff into their heads, and so now, we'll see if anything stuck.
So--your assignment is to cheer me up (testing gives me nightmares) by coming up with alternate meanings for the acronym UBSCT. I'll start.
United Blood-Sucker Combative Taskforce
(The name of a hard-core West Nile Virus preventative team?)
So--your assignment is to cheer me up (testing gives me nightmares) by coming up with alternate meanings for the acronym UBSCT. I'll start.
United Blood-Sucker Combative Taskforce
(The name of a hard-core West Nile Virus preventative team?)
Friday, February 09, 2007
Ham and Cheese
I just read a student’s review of Star Wars (A New Hope—We’re watching it to highlight our discussion of shots and angles.) and she didn’t like it. Fine. But the reason she didn’t like it? And I quote--“Well, I’m just not into guys like Ham Solo and life savers and stuff like that.” There are days when I really think I’m making about as much impact on these kids as a q-tip would trying to clean up an oil spill.
However, I think I may be making a bit more impact on the home front. Remember how I promised Sophie a Brat for being brave at the dentist? I brought it up at the store (not sure why) and she said, “Mommy, I don’t want a Brat. They’re too sexy.” Score one for the Sophinator! And maybe me for possibly teaching her something about body image and age appropriateness for four year olds.
And speaking about body image and age appropriateness, I went back to yoga last night. Braniac lady was not there, neither was random guy. The teacher, however, was the same, and I felt surprisingly ok. I stopped by after class to talk to her about the incident, and she told me that BL told HER that the reason she asked if I was pregnant was because I was so bendy—as pregnant ladies get very flexible. Now, that sounds like total bullshit to me—(almost on par with the girls who showed up 5 minutes before the end of a 90 minute class, smelling like cigarette smoke, who told me they needed to make an emergency tampon run. Girls—that one works for being 5-20 minutes late at the BEGINNING of class, not the end. Also—pop a mint first.) but whatever.
I’ve been walking and yoga-ing almost every day. On the flip side, I’ve been eating like total crap. One thing at a time, I guess. I have an awesome friend (one of those get things DONE girls) who has been calling me to walk (there’s a free indoor track on the SUU campus. Who knew?) and who signed me up for Everyday Food Magazine—and although it IS a Martha Steward publication, and therefore gives me a slight case of the willies, apparently it’s very low-key, and has good, easy recipes using unprocessed ingredients, that is family friendly. (Apparently, this blog is being brought to you today by Everyday Food Magazine.)
Today’s best thing about being a mom:
Every morning, Soph comes into my room about 10 minutes before my alarm goes off. This is not necessarily good. What is so sweet is that she loves me to scoot over so she can lay in the warm spot I slept in, and cuddle me for a bit before we start our day.
Today’s worst thing about being a mom:
I bought her Cinderella 3—for 20 bucks—and she hates it. Not that I blame her; it kind of sucks. I sure could have made better use of that 20 bucks though.
However, I think I may be making a bit more impact on the home front. Remember how I promised Sophie a Brat for being brave at the dentist? I brought it up at the store (not sure why) and she said, “Mommy, I don’t want a Brat. They’re too sexy.” Score one for the Sophinator! And maybe me for possibly teaching her something about body image and age appropriateness for four year olds.
And speaking about body image and age appropriateness, I went back to yoga last night. Braniac lady was not there, neither was random guy. The teacher, however, was the same, and I felt surprisingly ok. I stopped by after class to talk to her about the incident, and she told me that BL told HER that the reason she asked if I was pregnant was because I was so bendy—as pregnant ladies get very flexible. Now, that sounds like total bullshit to me—(almost on par with the girls who showed up 5 minutes before the end of a 90 minute class, smelling like cigarette smoke, who told me they needed to make an emergency tampon run. Girls—that one works for being 5-20 minutes late at the BEGINNING of class, not the end. Also—pop a mint first.) but whatever.
I’ve been walking and yoga-ing almost every day. On the flip side, I’ve been eating like total crap. One thing at a time, I guess. I have an awesome friend (one of those get things DONE girls) who has been calling me to walk (there’s a free indoor track on the SUU campus. Who knew?) and who signed me up for Everyday Food Magazine—and although it IS a Martha Steward publication, and therefore gives me a slight case of the willies, apparently it’s very low-key, and has good, easy recipes using unprocessed ingredients, that is family friendly. (Apparently, this blog is being brought to you today by Everyday Food Magazine.)
Today’s best thing about being a mom:
Every morning, Soph comes into my room about 10 minutes before my alarm goes off. This is not necessarily good. What is so sweet is that she loves me to scoot over so she can lay in the warm spot I slept in, and cuddle me for a bit before we start our day.
Today’s worst thing about being a mom:
I bought her Cinderella 3—for 20 bucks—and she hates it. Not that I blame her; it kind of sucks. I sure could have made better use of that 20 bucks though.
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
Open mouth...Insert foot
I almost brought this up when J.J. posted his thoughts on his personal lexicon. It’s a topic I’ve nearly addressed a time or two, but have decided that today is the day.
It’s about the use of a word that we throw around, that I used to throw around, but about which I have tried to be more aware. The word in question? Retarded.
I used it in my yoga post, and hesitated a bit before I did. See, I try to avoid it, but I was mad and hurt and felt slightly like breaking the rules. But—I did pause, and with good reason. One is that I personally feel it’s inappropriate, and another is that I know it is particularly offensive to a close friend who reads my blog. (Well, actually, I thought he’d quit reading it.) I’d never throw around the “n” word (feel too weird to even type it) or any other racial slur, even when in a huff, but went ahead and threw this one out there.
Why is it that I (and I assume others) who consider ourselves to be thoughtful in regards to language that pigeon-holes or is derogatory to a certain group of people will use the word “retarded” as though we were 3rd graders teasing kids on the short bus? Do we feel somehow safer using it than its ugly cousins? Is it a kind of disrespect that as habitual or one that we feel carries less of a social penalty? I really don’t know.
Growing up LDS, saying “God” or even worse, “Jesus” as an oath was SUCH a no no that I remember the first time I did. It was 5th grade. I was walking around with a group of friends, and said, “Oh my God!” The earth didn’t crack open, I wasn’t struck by lightning, and my friends didn’t even blink. And know what? It didn’t feel bad. It felt good. Why? Because it was bad. Because my friends said it and now I did. Because I could. Now, of course, I slip up all too often, and have said “Jesus Christ!” in such a way in front of my sister-in-law as to turn her face white. And I felt bad—but not for saying the words—personally, I don’t think Jesus really cares—but because I offended her.
I feel differently about his one.
I guess different language is offensive to different people. I’d say that “retarded” is one of those words that is “officially” offensive to many, but realistically, offensive to only few. Again, I’m not sure why. Frankly, I kind of like to swear, and don’t see myself quitting anytime soon.
But a swear word, I think, is different from a slur. Swear words you just don’t say in front of your mother or your teacher. Slurs imply a lack of sensitivity, and shouldn’t be used at all—even when not in the company of those whom they might offend most.
Saying “retarded” is easy. You can even argue the term was originally just used by health professionals (i.e. Association of Mental Retardation (AAMR)), as a label for those who have an IQ score of 70 or below—that it simply means slow—that its use in the mental health community was fairly common until school kids picked it up and started using it as a name to call one another. But I think that a word’s connotation carries much more weight than its denotation. Saying “Are you retarded?” to someone who you think acted inappropriately, or stupidly, is certainly not in keeping with its original use as an IQ measurement, and using it as a slur is disrespectful to those who know, love, care for, and have mental disabilities.
So here I am, officially revising my personal lexicon. I’m not saying I won’t slip, but I’m not going to excuse myself and think that it’s no big deal.
Nuff said.
Today’s best thing about being a mom:
Damn that girl can be funny! Speaking about denotation and connotation, this weekend, she was pretending to be a frog, and based on her amphibian lessons from school, went around telling everyone, “I’m moist!”
Today’s worst thing about being a mom:
Taming the bed-head
It’s about the use of a word that we throw around, that I used to throw around, but about which I have tried to be more aware. The word in question? Retarded.
I used it in my yoga post, and hesitated a bit before I did. See, I try to avoid it, but I was mad and hurt and felt slightly like breaking the rules. But—I did pause, and with good reason. One is that I personally feel it’s inappropriate, and another is that I know it is particularly offensive to a close friend who reads my blog. (Well, actually, I thought he’d quit reading it.) I’d never throw around the “n” word (feel too weird to even type it) or any other racial slur, even when in a huff, but went ahead and threw this one out there.
Why is it that I (and I assume others) who consider ourselves to be thoughtful in regards to language that pigeon-holes or is derogatory to a certain group of people will use the word “retarded” as though we were 3rd graders teasing kids on the short bus? Do we feel somehow safer using it than its ugly cousins? Is it a kind of disrespect that as habitual or one that we feel carries less of a social penalty? I really don’t know.
Growing up LDS, saying “God” or even worse, “Jesus” as an oath was SUCH a no no that I remember the first time I did. It was 5th grade. I was walking around with a group of friends, and said, “Oh my God!” The earth didn’t crack open, I wasn’t struck by lightning, and my friends didn’t even blink. And know what? It didn’t feel bad. It felt good. Why? Because it was bad. Because my friends said it and now I did. Because I could. Now, of course, I slip up all too often, and have said “Jesus Christ!” in such a way in front of my sister-in-law as to turn her face white. And I felt bad—but not for saying the words—personally, I don’t think Jesus really cares—but because I offended her.
I feel differently about his one.
I guess different language is offensive to different people. I’d say that “retarded” is one of those words that is “officially” offensive to many, but realistically, offensive to only few. Again, I’m not sure why. Frankly, I kind of like to swear, and don’t see myself quitting anytime soon.
But a swear word, I think, is different from a slur. Swear words you just don’t say in front of your mother or your teacher. Slurs imply a lack of sensitivity, and shouldn’t be used at all—even when not in the company of those whom they might offend most.
Saying “retarded” is easy. You can even argue the term was originally just used by health professionals (i.e. Association of Mental Retardation (AAMR)), as a label for those who have an IQ score of 70 or below—that it simply means slow—that its use in the mental health community was fairly common until school kids picked it up and started using it as a name to call one another. But I think that a word’s connotation carries much more weight than its denotation. Saying “Are you retarded?” to someone who you think acted inappropriately, or stupidly, is certainly not in keeping with its original use as an IQ measurement, and using it as a slur is disrespectful to those who know, love, care for, and have mental disabilities.
So here I am, officially revising my personal lexicon. I’m not saying I won’t slip, but I’m not going to excuse myself and think that it’s no big deal.
Nuff said.
Today’s best thing about being a mom:
Damn that girl can be funny! Speaking about denotation and connotation, this weekend, she was pretending to be a frog, and based on her amphibian lessons from school, went around telling everyone, “I’m moist!”
Today’s worst thing about being a mom:
Taming the bed-head
Monday, February 05, 2007
Coming up next...A plague of locusts or the land
Don't ever say to yourself, "I sure wish something would happen so that I would have something to blog about."
Saturday, about, oh, fourty-five minutes after arriving home from the yoga class that made me cry, Erik hollered that my dad was on the phone for me. I asked, "My dad?" He said, "Yes. Your dad." "Are you sure? Really? My dad? On the phone? For me?" My dad is NOT a phone guy, and I can count on one finger the number of times he's called me in the recent past.
After about .5 seconds of small talk, Dad told me that his mom, my granny, was failing fast, and that the CNA where she lives had told him (or my cousin, or someone) that if anyone wanted to say their goodbyes, they'd better get right to it. So some ninety minutes after that, I found myself in the backseat of my folk's Durango (aka, the Republican Cruiser) en route to Logan.
I'm not all that close to Granny. She has always lived at least a day's drive--sometimes two--away, and her focus has been on my aunt and her kids. That's fine with me. They needed her way more than I ever did. Thing is, that has left a pretty wide rift--distance leaning toward down right dislike--between my dad and his sister. With Granny failing, that rift is more and more in the forefront of our lives.
We spent most of Sunday holding Granny's hand (and our noses. Why do those places have such an awful smell?) and trying to draw her into conversation, but she was just done. She didn't have much to say, and listening seemed to be more than she could really manage as well. The hours ticked by, and it was sad and awkward and then sad some more. At about 3:00 I just couldn't keep it up anymore and I kissed her cheek, told her goodbye, and went out to the waiting room. We left soon after, and frankly, I doubt I'll be able to make the trip again before she passes.
I don't really want to blog about how weird it is/was to know Granny is on her way out; I love her, but she isn't now and never has been part of my day-to-day. I'm so sad for my dad--he has a lot of emotional work to do on this one--and I'm sad that she's so, so, so exhausted, but beyond that, my feelings are pretty ambiguous--especially to me.
We got home around 10:00. Soph and Erik had stayed home, and she was still awake--some 3 hours past her bed time. Needless to say, she was totally wrecked, and so was her dad. What I didn't know because E didn't want to bother me with it in my absence, was that Soph had a terrible toothache the whole time I was gone.
This came as no surprise, because her dentist appointment 7 months ago confirmed that she has a mouth full of cavities, and I never took her to the pediadontist because I was afraid to. This morning I took Soph in to work with me because I had to be there at 7:30 and the dentist office didn't open until 8:00. My prep period is 1st, from 8:00-9:20, so in my dream, the dentist would say come right over, he'd do some dental hocus-pocus, and Soph and I would be back at our respective schools by like 9:15.
Of course that didn't happen, and we were squeezed in at 9:50. That meant I had to find a sub for my 2nd period class. I swear I've had more subs this year than in all my years of teaching combined. As I said, I never took her to the pediadontist; I don't know if I thought the cavities would go away, or her teeth would just fall out, or what, but as the dentist kindly (and pointedly) showed me, the cavities grew like crazy in the time between appointments. The hocus-pocus I was hoping for turned into some pretty major dental work. One of her back molars just had to be pulled, and another had a pulp cap. Soph was an absolute champ though. She cried during the shot to numb her face, but bounced right back and kept her mouth open and held still for the better part of an hour. She couldn't very well go to school, so E came home and stayed with her for a couple of hours, and then she came to school with me for the last little bit of the day.
Guess what I promised her for being brave?
Any Bratt doll she wanted.
I totally caved. Shit--why not? I'm already a failure of a mother; if I'd taken her to the damn pediadontist last summer, she wouldn't have had to loose that tooth.
Plus, the tooth fairy is making a visit tonight. We wrote her a note explaining that even though we don't have it, Soph lost her first baby tooth today. I'm thinking a nice crisp dollar bill will go a little further in assuaging the guilt.
Tune in tomorrow. I'm fully expecting it to rain frogs, or for there to be a plague of locusts or the land.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
I'm SO glad I've been paying that extra fifteen bucks per month for extended dental coverage.
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
The guilt
Saturday, about, oh, fourty-five minutes after arriving home from the yoga class that made me cry, Erik hollered that my dad was on the phone for me. I asked, "My dad?" He said, "Yes. Your dad." "Are you sure? Really? My dad? On the phone? For me?" My dad is NOT a phone guy, and I can count on one finger the number of times he's called me in the recent past.
After about .5 seconds of small talk, Dad told me that his mom, my granny, was failing fast, and that the CNA where she lives had told him (or my cousin, or someone) that if anyone wanted to say their goodbyes, they'd better get right to it. So some ninety minutes after that, I found myself in the backseat of my folk's Durango (aka, the Republican Cruiser) en route to Logan.
I'm not all that close to Granny. She has always lived at least a day's drive--sometimes two--away, and her focus has been on my aunt and her kids. That's fine with me. They needed her way more than I ever did. Thing is, that has left a pretty wide rift--distance leaning toward down right dislike--between my dad and his sister. With Granny failing, that rift is more and more in the forefront of our lives.
We spent most of Sunday holding Granny's hand (and our noses. Why do those places have such an awful smell?) and trying to draw her into conversation, but she was just done. She didn't have much to say, and listening seemed to be more than she could really manage as well. The hours ticked by, and it was sad and awkward and then sad some more. At about 3:00 I just couldn't keep it up anymore and I kissed her cheek, told her goodbye, and went out to the waiting room. We left soon after, and frankly, I doubt I'll be able to make the trip again before she passes.
I don't really want to blog about how weird it is/was to know Granny is on her way out; I love her, but she isn't now and never has been part of my day-to-day. I'm so sad for my dad--he has a lot of emotional work to do on this one--and I'm sad that she's so, so, so exhausted, but beyond that, my feelings are pretty ambiguous--especially to me.
We got home around 10:00. Soph and Erik had stayed home, and she was still awake--some 3 hours past her bed time. Needless to say, she was totally wrecked, and so was her dad. What I didn't know because E didn't want to bother me with it in my absence, was that Soph had a terrible toothache the whole time I was gone.
This came as no surprise, because her dentist appointment 7 months ago confirmed that she has a mouth full of cavities, and I never took her to the pediadontist because I was afraid to. This morning I took Soph in to work with me because I had to be there at 7:30 and the dentist office didn't open until 8:00. My prep period is 1st, from 8:00-9:20, so in my dream, the dentist would say come right over, he'd do some dental hocus-pocus, and Soph and I would be back at our respective schools by like 9:15.
Of course that didn't happen, and we were squeezed in at 9:50. That meant I had to find a sub for my 2nd period class. I swear I've had more subs this year than in all my years of teaching combined. As I said, I never took her to the pediadontist; I don't know if I thought the cavities would go away, or her teeth would just fall out, or what, but as the dentist kindly (and pointedly) showed me, the cavities grew like crazy in the time between appointments. The hocus-pocus I was hoping for turned into some pretty major dental work. One of her back molars just had to be pulled, and another had a pulp cap. Soph was an absolute champ though. She cried during the shot to numb her face, but bounced right back and kept her mouth open and held still for the better part of an hour. She couldn't very well go to school, so E came home and stayed with her for a couple of hours, and then she came to school with me for the last little bit of the day.
Guess what I promised her for being brave?
Any Bratt doll she wanted.
I totally caved. Shit--why not? I'm already a failure of a mother; if I'd taken her to the damn pediadontist last summer, she wouldn't have had to loose that tooth.
Plus, the tooth fairy is making a visit tonight. We wrote her a note explaining that even though we don't have it, Soph lost her first baby tooth today. I'm thinking a nice crisp dollar bill will go a little further in assuaging the guilt.
Tune in tomorrow. I'm fully expecting it to rain frogs, or for there to be a plague of locusts or the land.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
I'm SO glad I've been paying that extra fifteen bucks per month for extended dental coverage.
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
The guilt
Saturday, February 03, 2007
fuckoffassana
I've been embarrassed at yoga class more than once. You know--the toot slipping out in a forward bend, or taking off your shoes only to realize that your feet smell of--feet. And even though it's pretty universally reinforced that yoga is not a competition, it can still feel kind of shitty when your the only one whose knees are poking straight up while everyone else has gracefully horizontal knees in a cross-legged sitting posture.
But today was the first time I felt truly humiliated at yoga class.
I haven't mentioned it, but I've really been making an effort to take care of myself for the last couple of weeks. I've been walking several times. Have tried to be loving to my body. No dieting--because down that path, at least for me, lies hidden trips to the bathroom to puke--but I really, really have been working on being healthy--physically and mentally.
So--after a pretty long hiatus, I went to a yoga class on Thursday. It was actually lovely. The teacher, Lynn, is a very mellow lady--oldish, very low maintenance--who has a passion for running rivers and has spent a large portion of her adult life on a raft. I felt so good after the Thursday class that I decided to go again this morning.
The focus of the class was heart and shoulder opening--something I particularly hate. But--I decided to be open to it. I was making some awesome progress too. I stopped when I felt over-strained, relaxed my stomach, and tried not to be too uncomfortable with the stretches that made me feel I was presenting my huge boobs on a silver platter.
There were only 3 of us in class. A 30ish guy, me, and a 50ish lady. About 50 minutes into the 90 minute class, we were at the wall doing a shoulder opener. The lady and I were at one wall, and the guy and teacher were at the other. Out of the blue, the lady looks over at me, then looks at Lynn, and asks, "Is she expecting?" Lynn says nothing. She then looks at me and says, "Are you expecting?" I said nothing. She looked back at Lynn, and kind of the guy and asks again, "Is she expecting?"
I kind of froze--and tried to keep my shit together for about 30 seconds. I shook my head at what's-her-name, then before I knew it, I was loosing my shit--like all over the place. I grabbed my mat and keys, and literally fled the room. I drove for a while, then stopped because I couldn't see too well. Then I called Mandy--who talked me down (again)--then I took a little walk.
I realize that what's-her name wasn't trying to be hurtful. I know I look pregnant. I have these skinny little legs and arms, and ALL the extra weight I carry sits in my boobs and belly. But what the fuck? Why did she address the question to the class? Why did she ask it in the first place?
Now I don't know if I want to/can go back to class. I'd like to think that I can be a warrior for myself, and say fuck that bitch, (who I know is really probably not a bitch) and keep on keepin' on. But frankly, I'm kind of whipped. I felt and feel like I was hit by a train--while walking in a place where there were no train tracks. I'm embarrassed about my weight. I'm embarrassed about making a scene.
I don't know what I should do or say when I see tactless bitch lady, or random guy, or Lynn. Part of me hopes I will go back to class, and then in the middle of some pose, look at cunt-lady and then at Lynn and say "Is she retarded?" then look back at CL and ask all cordially, "Are you retarded?" and then look back at at Lynn once more and enquire politely, "Really--IS she retarded?"
But today was the first time I felt truly humiliated at yoga class.
I haven't mentioned it, but I've really been making an effort to take care of myself for the last couple of weeks. I've been walking several times. Have tried to be loving to my body. No dieting--because down that path, at least for me, lies hidden trips to the bathroom to puke--but I really, really have been working on being healthy--physically and mentally.
So--after a pretty long hiatus, I went to a yoga class on Thursday. It was actually lovely. The teacher, Lynn, is a very mellow lady--oldish, very low maintenance--who has a passion for running rivers and has spent a large portion of her adult life on a raft. I felt so good after the Thursday class that I decided to go again this morning.
The focus of the class was heart and shoulder opening--something I particularly hate. But--I decided to be open to it. I was making some awesome progress too. I stopped when I felt over-strained, relaxed my stomach, and tried not to be too uncomfortable with the stretches that made me feel I was presenting my huge boobs on a silver platter.
There were only 3 of us in class. A 30ish guy, me, and a 50ish lady. About 50 minutes into the 90 minute class, we were at the wall doing a shoulder opener. The lady and I were at one wall, and the guy and teacher were at the other. Out of the blue, the lady looks over at me, then looks at Lynn, and asks, "Is she expecting?" Lynn says nothing. She then looks at me and says, "Are you expecting?" I said nothing. She looked back at Lynn, and kind of the guy and asks again, "Is she expecting?"
I kind of froze--and tried to keep my shit together for about 30 seconds. I shook my head at what's-her-name, then before I knew it, I was loosing my shit--like all over the place. I grabbed my mat and keys, and literally fled the room. I drove for a while, then stopped because I couldn't see too well. Then I called Mandy--who talked me down (again)--then I took a little walk.
I realize that what's-her name wasn't trying to be hurtful. I know I look pregnant. I have these skinny little legs and arms, and ALL the extra weight I carry sits in my boobs and belly. But what the fuck? Why did she address the question to the class? Why did she ask it in the first place?
Now I don't know if I want to/can go back to class. I'd like to think that I can be a warrior for myself, and say fuck that bitch, (who I know is really probably not a bitch) and keep on keepin' on. But frankly, I'm kind of whipped. I felt and feel like I was hit by a train--while walking in a place where there were no train tracks. I'm embarrassed about my weight. I'm embarrassed about making a scene.
I don't know what I should do or say when I see tactless bitch lady, or random guy, or Lynn. Part of me hopes I will go back to class, and then in the middle of some pose, look at cunt-lady and then at Lynn and say "Is she retarded?" then look back at CL and ask all cordially, "Are you retarded?" and then look back at at Lynn once more and enquire politely, "Really--IS she retarded?"
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
The Days of Our Lives
The desk calender on my, ahem, desk is so ready for a new page. The page which was once white is now gray. The series of rectangles that once marched singularly across the page are now joined by brownish half moon coffee stains, and blue and purple exes marking off each date. Notes are scattered randomly over the page--some of them written in the date boxes as reminders of events, but more are just things I needed to write down and used the first handy paper surface.
Up at the top of the calendar, right next to the "Bell Photographers Inc." title, I've scrawled the words, "The Bad Place." I think this is the name of a book recommended to me by a student, rather than commentary on my state of mind about my job.
The box for Wednesday the 3rd contains the phrase "Awesome Scrabble Prowess." If I remember right, the 3rd is not "Awesome Scrabble Prowess Day." Rather, a student who has been trying for years finally beat me at Scrabble. She demanded a certificate--so I downloaded one from the computer. When I wrote it, I was probably making sure not to spell "awesome" or "prowess" wrong.
Reading across and down the squares as if they were words on a page, the next item of interest is a phone number. I've written it in the square for the 6th and oddly, the 12th and don't have any idea at all who would pick up the line if I called it. The 13th has a url--www.buydixie.edu--and this one I recall. It's the purchasing site for Dixie State--and the spot where I purchased my Willie Nelson tickets. Sharing the square for the 13th is a math problem, written with one number on top of the other. Apparently 14 times 3 is 42, but I have no idea why I needed to know that.
The 14th contains the words "Vente Tall Tall Grande Vente." I was trying to remember coffee sizes for my post about Starbucks. Looks like 2 students had birthdays the week of the 14th. One turned 18--a birthday we dread here, because we usually loose the kids shortly after they turn 18. Some hang in there, but most just slowly fade away, a few to turn up next year at the adult high school.
The week of the 21st starts off with the words "synthetic blend,": E's instructions for me when I was having the oil in the car changed--a job I detest! The 23rd was the school wide family picnic--a surprising success.
The next week, the one in closest reach when I'm using the computer, has an array of very puzzling notes that I've made to myself over the month. Sunday the 20th has my ex-brother-in-law's email address. I sent him a note asking how things were, but the bastard never got back to me. Then I have the puzzling note, "12/1 Rex." I don't know anyone named Rex. Never have. And why 12/1? Such a mystery. Another weird fraction sits in the blank square following the 31st--"13/22" with the name Anna next to it. I know Anna. She has enrolled every year for the past 3, and comes diligently for the first 2 weeks, then is never seen from again. Why did I write her name on my January calendar when I haven't seen her since September? Again--I have no clue.
So--2 more days 'till a fresh, February page. I peeked ahead and while it is nice and white, 2 coffee rings have soaked through. A whole week is filled with the letters "UBSCT" which is pronounced "you-biscuit" and stands for "Utah Basic Skills Competency Test." This is the test all Utah students (ALL--Even sped and ell kids) must pass to receive a diploma. It tests competency in reading, writing, and math, so in reality, it's my job to prepare the kids for 2/3ds of it. Talk about high stakes testing. I'm currently deep in the trenches of the persuasive essay and reading for content. They get 2 chances a year from 10th through 12th grade. And know what? I hate it and I don't want to talk about it any more.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
This one's tricky today. Ok. She slows me down. This helps me see the world and enjoy more moments. Unfortunately it also makes me late for work. Every day.
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
She's just a little sick. Not really sick. Her eyes were just slightly goopy day before yesterday. She has a tiny cough. I've been sending her to school because I'm evil, but have also been feeling way guilty about it. I sent her with a note today telling her teacher to call me if she feels at all like I should come pick her up. Does that make it ok?
Up at the top of the calendar, right next to the "Bell Photographers Inc." title, I've scrawled the words, "The Bad Place." I think this is the name of a book recommended to me by a student, rather than commentary on my state of mind about my job.
The box for Wednesday the 3rd contains the phrase "Awesome Scrabble Prowess." If I remember right, the 3rd is not "Awesome Scrabble Prowess Day." Rather, a student who has been trying for years finally beat me at Scrabble. She demanded a certificate--so I downloaded one from the computer. When I wrote it, I was probably making sure not to spell "awesome" or "prowess" wrong.
Reading across and down the squares as if they were words on a page, the next item of interest is a phone number. I've written it in the square for the 6th and oddly, the 12th and don't have any idea at all who would pick up the line if I called it. The 13th has a url--www.buydixie.edu--and this one I recall. It's the purchasing site for Dixie State--and the spot where I purchased my Willie Nelson tickets. Sharing the square for the 13th is a math problem, written with one number on top of the other. Apparently 14 times 3 is 42, but I have no idea why I needed to know that.
The 14th contains the words "Vente Tall Tall Grande Vente." I was trying to remember coffee sizes for my post about Starbucks. Looks like 2 students had birthdays the week of the 14th. One turned 18--a birthday we dread here, because we usually loose the kids shortly after they turn 18. Some hang in there, but most just slowly fade away, a few to turn up next year at the adult high school.
The week of the 21st starts off with the words "synthetic blend,": E's instructions for me when I was having the oil in the car changed--a job I detest! The 23rd was the school wide family picnic--a surprising success.
The next week, the one in closest reach when I'm using the computer, has an array of very puzzling notes that I've made to myself over the month. Sunday the 20th has my ex-brother-in-law's email address. I sent him a note asking how things were, but the bastard never got back to me. Then I have the puzzling note, "12/1 Rex." I don't know anyone named Rex. Never have. And why 12/1? Such a mystery. Another weird fraction sits in the blank square following the 31st--"13/22" with the name Anna next to it. I know Anna. She has enrolled every year for the past 3, and comes diligently for the first 2 weeks, then is never seen from again. Why did I write her name on my January calendar when I haven't seen her since September? Again--I have no clue.
So--2 more days 'till a fresh, February page. I peeked ahead and while it is nice and white, 2 coffee rings have soaked through. A whole week is filled with the letters "UBSCT" which is pronounced "you-biscuit" and stands for "Utah Basic Skills Competency Test." This is the test all Utah students (ALL--Even sped and ell kids) must pass to receive a diploma. It tests competency in reading, writing, and math, so in reality, it's my job to prepare the kids for 2/3ds of it. Talk about high stakes testing. I'm currently deep in the trenches of the persuasive essay and reading for content. They get 2 chances a year from 10th through 12th grade. And know what? I hate it and I don't want to talk about it any more.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
This one's tricky today. Ok. She slows me down. This helps me see the world and enjoy more moments. Unfortunately it also makes me late for work. Every day.
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
She's just a little sick. Not really sick. Her eyes were just slightly goopy day before yesterday. She has a tiny cough. I've been sending her to school because I'm evil, but have also been feeling way guilty about it. I sent her with a note today telling her teacher to call me if she feels at all like I should come pick her up. Does that make it ok?
Sunday, January 28, 2007
I SUCK!!!
Truly. I suck so so so so bad.
Mandy's birthday was ELEVEN DAYS AGO!!
Last night Soph was having nightmares and climbed in bed with me (again) at about 4:00 a.m. She sleepily told me that she wanted to see Cinderella Three. I sleepily told her that we were going to go see the ballet of Cinderella in a few weeks. This made me think that I'd better write the date of the ballet on the calendar, which made me think that I'd better GET a new calendar, which made me wonder if I'd missed any important events in January by NOT having a calendar which caused me to sit bolt up right in bed because I realized that, yes, I HAD missed an important event--MANDY'S BIRTHDAY!
No one even reminded me. I mean, there was that ONE day (probably the 17th) when my mom and dad and Katy all asked me if I had talked to Mandy. At the time, I thought it was kind of an odd coincidence that they all asked me that on the same day.
DUR!
So, here are 11 things that make me SO GRATEFUL for my big sister. One for each day that I have TOTALLY FORGOT HER BIRTHDAY AND AM A HUGE ASS HOLE.
1. She introduced me to ALL of my favorite authors. I may be the English teacher, but she is the true reader. Starting with Sweet Valley High, (Which, on a side note, taught me how to read. I wasn't a great reader in the early elementary grades because I HATED the crap they gave me to read and would look at he pictures and make up my own MUCH more interesting stories. I picked up a SVH book and my mom told me I couldn't read it because it was both too hard and too racy for me--so, of course, I did, asking her "What is this word" about a million times.) and moving on to Beverly Cleary, Judy Blume, Robin McKinley, Anne McCaffrey, Robert Heinlein, Tamora Pierce, and seventeen or eighteen more that I have ALSO forgotten.
2. Because of her, I didn't have to tell my mom right off when I started my first period, which, for some reason, I really didn't want to do. We were living in Carmel Valley, and I remember seeing the rust colored spot on my panties and thinking, "I better tell Mand about this." She totally hooked me up with a pad and some Midol. Then that night she poked her head in my room after I had gone to bed to check on me, and advise me against sleeping on my back, if I wanted to avoid nasty sheet washing in the morning.
3. More girly stuff--but I had the HARDEST time nursing Soph. Luckily she was nursing Zack at the same time, and we would bust out boobs and babies and she'd show me how it was done. She also showed me how to manually express the milk when my boobs were about ready to explode.
4. She also introduced me to yoga. She, of course, has been ROCKING the yoga lately, while I have been rocking the cheese. I AM going to a class today, though.
5. When I need someone to talk me down, she always has the grounded advice that I need.
6. Madeline's hand-me-downs have kept Soph clothed for, like, her entire life.
7. Mandy's courage in following her own path has given me the courage to follow my own more than once. In school, religion, family life, motherhood, and a number of other things, she has followed her intuition and listened to her own voice. I'm super shitty at doing that. Often when I'm doing something for ME, I hear her voice in my head telling me it's ok.
8. She taught me how to make roasted veggie and goat cheese sandwiches on foccacia. Yum.
9. I also have benefited from Mand's love of music. Growing up, she always had a music collection (composed of a surprising number of cassette singles) and I always had a music collection to borrow from. More recently, she has introduced me to Nina Simone, KT Tunstall, and Mindy Smith.
10. Need I say that I've had a BFF since I was born because of her?
11. She loves me. No matter what. NO MATTER WHAT. I rest in that. Often.
So big sis, I'm so, so sorry to be a birthday forgetting tool. Keep your eye on your mail box when you return from Seattle. I love you. No matter what.
Mandy's birthday was ELEVEN DAYS AGO!!
Last night Soph was having nightmares and climbed in bed with me (again) at about 4:00 a.m. She sleepily told me that she wanted to see Cinderella Three. I sleepily told her that we were going to go see the ballet of Cinderella in a few weeks. This made me think that I'd better write the date of the ballet on the calendar, which made me think that I'd better GET a new calendar, which made me wonder if I'd missed any important events in January by NOT having a calendar which caused me to sit bolt up right in bed because I realized that, yes, I HAD missed an important event--MANDY'S BIRTHDAY!
No one even reminded me. I mean, there was that ONE day (probably the 17th) when my mom and dad and Katy all asked me if I had talked to Mandy. At the time, I thought it was kind of an odd coincidence that they all asked me that on the same day.
DUR!
So, here are 11 things that make me SO GRATEFUL for my big sister. One for each day that I have TOTALLY FORGOT HER BIRTHDAY AND AM A HUGE ASS HOLE.
1. She introduced me to ALL of my favorite authors. I may be the English teacher, but she is the true reader. Starting with Sweet Valley High, (Which, on a side note, taught me how to read. I wasn't a great reader in the early elementary grades because I HATED the crap they gave me to read and would look at he pictures and make up my own MUCH more interesting stories. I picked up a SVH book and my mom told me I couldn't read it because it was both too hard and too racy for me--so, of course, I did, asking her "What is this word" about a million times.) and moving on to Beverly Cleary, Judy Blume, Robin McKinley, Anne McCaffrey, Robert Heinlein, Tamora Pierce, and seventeen or eighteen more that I have ALSO forgotten.
2. Because of her, I didn't have to tell my mom right off when I started my first period, which, for some reason, I really didn't want to do. We were living in Carmel Valley, and I remember seeing the rust colored spot on my panties and thinking, "I better tell Mand about this." She totally hooked me up with a pad and some Midol. Then that night she poked her head in my room after I had gone to bed to check on me, and advise me against sleeping on my back, if I wanted to avoid nasty sheet washing in the morning.
3. More girly stuff--but I had the HARDEST time nursing Soph. Luckily she was nursing Zack at the same time, and we would bust out boobs and babies and she'd show me how it was done. She also showed me how to manually express the milk when my boobs were about ready to explode.
4. She also introduced me to yoga. She, of course, has been ROCKING the yoga lately, while I have been rocking the cheese. I AM going to a class today, though.
5. When I need someone to talk me down, she always has the grounded advice that I need.
6. Madeline's hand-me-downs have kept Soph clothed for, like, her entire life.
7. Mandy's courage in following her own path has given me the courage to follow my own more than once. In school, religion, family life, motherhood, and a number of other things, she has followed her intuition and listened to her own voice. I'm super shitty at doing that. Often when I'm doing something for ME, I hear her voice in my head telling me it's ok.
8. She taught me how to make roasted veggie and goat cheese sandwiches on foccacia. Yum.
9. I also have benefited from Mand's love of music. Growing up, she always had a music collection (composed of a surprising number of cassette singles) and I always had a music collection to borrow from. More recently, she has introduced me to Nina Simone, KT Tunstall, and Mindy Smith.
10. Need I say that I've had a BFF since I was born because of her?
11. She loves me. No matter what. NO MATTER WHAT. I rest in that. Often.
So big sis, I'm so, so sorry to be a birthday forgetting tool. Keep your eye on your mail box when you return from Seattle. I love you. No matter what.
Saturday, January 27, 2007
2 Haiku
Who do I look like?
Modern pre-schools ne-
ver, would dress kids up like In-
dians? Or would they?
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
The Gateway Drink
When I was going to high school, there was nowhere to get a fancy coffee in Cedar City. Kara Thompson and I would skip class (for me, this was usually seminary), go to Shoney’s, and share a pot of pretty crappy coffee while commiserating the state of our love lives (which were actually pretty jumpin’), our family lives (which were also down right reasonable), and living in a crappy one horse town (which did kind of suck).
I probably don’t need to talk too much about the Mormon/coffee connection. The bottom line is-they don’t drink it. It’s part of the “Word of Wisdom” which counsels against MANY things, including “hot drinks,” “strong drinks,” and even eating too much animal flesh (a caveat which most LDS people have conveniently dismissed.) It’s assumed that the caffeine is the enemy in the case of coffee—but caffeine in other forms is much more socially acceptable. In fact my #1 favorite Mormon joke is, “How do you tell a Mormon from a non-Mormon? Take the temperature of her caffeine.” (My second favorite is, “Why should you always take 2 Mormons fishing? If you just take one, he’ll drink all the beer.”)
Then, as I entered into my college years, the odd coffee spot began popping up. Those Cedar Cidians who were “into that kind of thing” were found scratching their heads at blackboard menus, trying to figure out the difference between a cappuccino and a late, as well as translate exotic terms such as café au lait, breve, grande, and vente. For years all I drank were cappuccinos and mochas because I knew what they were and how to order them.
Coffee shops came and went—and they all had 2 things in common. They were locally/privately owned, and the service and ambiance was crappy. Not much has changed in the last 10ish years, until very recently. Our 3 coffee places were ok. The barista was usually a college kid (and apparently, I’m an old lady) and more often than not, he/she was a bit grumpy. The shops themselves were all right, leaning toward the comfortable and hip, but falling short for a number of reasons. Then about 6 months ago, the devil came to town.
Starbucks.
I stuck to my local coffee, as I do with most things. My husband’s family are all local entrepreneurs, so “shop local” is a matter of family, not just community loyalty. Yea, I did hit the drive-thru a few times when I had Soph in the car and didn’t want to drag her out into the snow. And yes, when E brought me a Starbucks in the morning I certainly didn’t turn it down. But today I went in.
Damn is that place nice! Yes, yes, yes, I know it’s all packaged and produced and designed for me to feel very comfortable and cool at the same time. And I did! Nice music? Check. Comfy seating? Check. Tasteful yet slightly exotic décor? Check. Friendly, helpful, and kind of hot red-head lady barista to patiently, but not at all condescendingly help me through my order? Check. I was having a MORNING today, and needed the big guns, so enter the Vente Cinnamon Dulce Latte. Yummy. Oh so, so, so yummy.
It’s official. I’ve been seduced.
I probably don’t need to talk too much about the Mormon/coffee connection. The bottom line is-they don’t drink it. It’s part of the “Word of Wisdom” which counsels against MANY things, including “hot drinks,” “strong drinks,” and even eating too much animal flesh (a caveat which most LDS people have conveniently dismissed.) It’s assumed that the caffeine is the enemy in the case of coffee—but caffeine in other forms is much more socially acceptable. In fact my #1 favorite Mormon joke is, “How do you tell a Mormon from a non-Mormon? Take the temperature of her caffeine.” (My second favorite is, “Why should you always take 2 Mormons fishing? If you just take one, he’ll drink all the beer.”)
Then, as I entered into my college years, the odd coffee spot began popping up. Those Cedar Cidians who were “into that kind of thing” were found scratching their heads at blackboard menus, trying to figure out the difference between a cappuccino and a late, as well as translate exotic terms such as café au lait, breve, grande, and vente. For years all I drank were cappuccinos and mochas because I knew what they were and how to order them.
Coffee shops came and went—and they all had 2 things in common. They were locally/privately owned, and the service and ambiance was crappy. Not much has changed in the last 10ish years, until very recently. Our 3 coffee places were ok. The barista was usually a college kid (and apparently, I’m an old lady) and more often than not, he/she was a bit grumpy. The shops themselves were all right, leaning toward the comfortable and hip, but falling short for a number of reasons. Then about 6 months ago, the devil came to town.
Starbucks.
I stuck to my local coffee, as I do with most things. My husband’s family are all local entrepreneurs, so “shop local” is a matter of family, not just community loyalty. Yea, I did hit the drive-thru a few times when I had Soph in the car and didn’t want to drag her out into the snow. And yes, when E brought me a Starbucks in the morning I certainly didn’t turn it down. But today I went in.
Damn is that place nice! Yes, yes, yes, I know it’s all packaged and produced and designed for me to feel very comfortable and cool at the same time. And I did! Nice music? Check. Comfy seating? Check. Tasteful yet slightly exotic décor? Check. Friendly, helpful, and kind of hot red-head lady barista to patiently, but not at all condescendingly help me through my order? Check. I was having a MORNING today, and needed the big guns, so enter the Vente Cinnamon Dulce Latte. Yummy. Oh so, so, so yummy.
It’s official. I’ve been seduced.
Saturday, January 20, 2007
Tasty Cakes
That's right. Tasty cakes. I mean, Patrice is awesome and all, but awesomer still are the Tasty Cakes which she brought us that are now ALMOST GONE. Well, the little round peanut butter chocolate ones ARE gone (sigh) but I have hidden the last 2 Butterscotch Krimpits in the crock pot--a place where only I would ever find them.
All right, maybe Patrice is equally, or even more awesome than sponge cake-that-is-only-available-in-Philadelphia (What can be done to rectify this immediately?). After all, she took to prison-rules dominoes as though she had been playing it all her life (something you're not telling us Patrice?), has been a gem to Soph, who has been letting her winey flag fly like mad this weekend, (and I'm sure impressed Patrice very much with her table manners and conversational skills. After all--who doesn't want to see a four year old eat over-easy eggs, which she has topped with jelly, with her fingers, and at the same time, listen to her talk baby-talk with her mouth full?) and has been one of the loveliest, easiest house guests it has ever been my pleasure to have.
So--a quick run-down of events:
Patrice arrived at 4:00 a.m. on Friday. You read it right. 4:00 a.m. E was a total peach and picked her up at the airport in Vegas--and with the time change + late-ish flight + slightly longer distance from Vegas to Cedar, I think she was pretty shocked to find herself arriving in the wee small hours. Actually, she was so tired she could hardly move, and white as a sheet. I expected her to sleep until at least noon, but she surprised me by rising at 8:30.
Friday was nice--but we were both pretty exhausted. I took the day off and we had breakfast at the local cowboy haunt, visited Kolob Canyon and then made a quick trip the the grocery store (riveting--eh?). Patrice took a much needed nap and I did a little to get ready for a small gathering. We frittered the afternoon away, and then that evening had a blast playing games with Katy, Paul, Jen and Kodi, and laughing at E who was in life-of-the-party mode.
Today we took a nice long drive up Cedar Mountain. (I got us stuck in the snow--but only for a couple of minutes.) Other than being slightly mortified at the lack of guard rails on the mountain drop-offs, I think Patrice enjoyed seeing our mountain. Then we headed to Grandees for lunch and ice cream, and then to the LDS book store to buy CTR rings for Patrice and family as souvenirs, dropped by my brothers new jewelry store. We leave for the airport in a couple of hours, and although the visit has been short, I think/hope Patrice had a good time. I know I have.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
It's been really fun watching her interact with Patrice.
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
She's so sensitive. And it's getting so old.
All right, maybe Patrice is equally, or even more awesome than sponge cake-that-is-only-available-in-Philadelphia (What can be done to rectify this immediately?). After all, she took to prison-rules dominoes as though she had been playing it all her life (something you're not telling us Patrice?), has been a gem to Soph, who has been letting her winey flag fly like mad this weekend, (and I'm sure impressed Patrice very much with her table manners and conversational skills. After all--who doesn't want to see a four year old eat over-easy eggs, which she has topped with jelly, with her fingers, and at the same time, listen to her talk baby-talk with her mouth full?) and has been one of the loveliest, easiest house guests it has ever been my pleasure to have.
So--a quick run-down of events:
Patrice arrived at 4:00 a.m. on Friday. You read it right. 4:00 a.m. E was a total peach and picked her up at the airport in Vegas--and with the time change + late-ish flight + slightly longer distance from Vegas to Cedar, I think she was pretty shocked to find herself arriving in the wee small hours. Actually, she was so tired she could hardly move, and white as a sheet. I expected her to sleep until at least noon, but she surprised me by rising at 8:30.
Friday was nice--but we were both pretty exhausted. I took the day off and we had breakfast at the local cowboy haunt, visited Kolob Canyon and then made a quick trip the the grocery store (riveting--eh?). Patrice took a much needed nap and I did a little to get ready for a small gathering. We frittered the afternoon away, and then that evening had a blast playing games with Katy, Paul, Jen and Kodi, and laughing at E who was in life-of-the-party mode.
Today we took a nice long drive up Cedar Mountain. (I got us stuck in the snow--but only for a couple of minutes.) Other than being slightly mortified at the lack of guard rails on the mountain drop-offs, I think Patrice enjoyed seeing our mountain. Then we headed to Grandees for lunch and ice cream, and then to the LDS book store to buy CTR rings for Patrice and family as souvenirs, dropped by my brothers new jewelry store. We leave for the airport in a couple of hours, and although the visit has been short, I think/hope Patrice had a good time. I know I have.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
It's been really fun watching her interact with Patrice.
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
She's so sensitive. And it's getting so old.
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
This is me bitching.
2 nights now with fewer than 6 hours of sleep have gone by. And let me just say, if I had the energy, which I do not, I would rip out the trachea (possible?) of anyone who gave me the slightest reason.
I’m having a terrible time falling asleep—and don’t manage to drift off until about 12:00, just in time for Soph to wake me up with various shenanigans. Last night the sound of her bedroom door opening woke me just as I was drifting—you know, that moment in time when you’re falling asleep and the slightest interruption causes your heart and many of your other internal organs to attempt an escape right through your throat? I went looking for her, and couldn’t find her anywhere. She wasn’t in the bathroom, or the living room, or the kitchen. Just when I started to truly panic, I gave the kitchen a more thorough look, and found her, naked, asleep on her belly, on the floor next to the refrigerator. I guess, to her, it seemed like a good idea at the time. It took a half hour or so for her to truly fall back asleep. Apparently, the universe has decided that my optimum sleep hours are between the hours of one and six p.m. Frankly, the universe can shove that idea up its ass, because I am going to truly go crazy if I don’t get some decent sleep.
As for all my news yesterday, with the exception of Patrice’s visit, I’d like to formally complain about all the work involved with the rest of it. New carpet means moving all the crap out of the bedrooms. Also, the ass hats who owned the house before we did did all kinds of crazy stuff to it, so new carpet has necesitated even floors which has necesitated some business with a jack hammer and cement laying (E, not me, of course) which as created quite a mess--all over my new wood floors. New linoleum means taking the toilet out of the bathroom. Remember how I have only 1 potty? I still have no idea how that’s going to work. Don’t get me wrong—I have no major problem with peeing outside, but it’s been around minus 10 or so for the last few nights, and I don’t fancy a pee-cicle forming on my nethers. Plus, not to put too fine a point on it, what if someone has to poop?
The carpet cleaners are going to have to be able to FIND the carpet in the basement. At my house, the basement is “no women’s land.” That is, E and Janz have the run of the place. That + the fact that it’s become a bit of a dumping ground make demucking it a daunting task, to say the very least.
So, I’m telling myself that on Friday, when Patrice is here, the carpets look immaculate, the shitter is reinstalled, and I’m in the middle my second Chardonnay, I’ll look back at today and tomorrow and laugh. At least I better.
Today’s best thing about being a mom:
Well, it’s definitely NOT finding your kid naked on the kitchen floor in the middle of the night.
Today’s worst thing about being a mom:
Not being able to call in the nanny at 12:01 a.m.
I’m having a terrible time falling asleep—and don’t manage to drift off until about 12:00, just in time for Soph to wake me up with various shenanigans. Last night the sound of her bedroom door opening woke me just as I was drifting—you know, that moment in time when you’re falling asleep and the slightest interruption causes your heart and many of your other internal organs to attempt an escape right through your throat? I went looking for her, and couldn’t find her anywhere. She wasn’t in the bathroom, or the living room, or the kitchen. Just when I started to truly panic, I gave the kitchen a more thorough look, and found her, naked, asleep on her belly, on the floor next to the refrigerator. I guess, to her, it seemed like a good idea at the time. It took a half hour or so for her to truly fall back asleep. Apparently, the universe has decided that my optimum sleep hours are between the hours of one and six p.m. Frankly, the universe can shove that idea up its ass, because I am going to truly go crazy if I don’t get some decent sleep.
As for all my news yesterday, with the exception of Patrice’s visit, I’d like to formally complain about all the work involved with the rest of it. New carpet means moving all the crap out of the bedrooms. Also, the ass hats who owned the house before we did did all kinds of crazy stuff to it, so new carpet has necesitated even floors which has necesitated some business with a jack hammer and cement laying (E, not me, of course) which as created quite a mess--all over my new wood floors. New linoleum means taking the toilet out of the bathroom. Remember how I have only 1 potty? I still have no idea how that’s going to work. Don’t get me wrong—I have no major problem with peeing outside, but it’s been around minus 10 or so for the last few nights, and I don’t fancy a pee-cicle forming on my nethers. Plus, not to put too fine a point on it, what if someone has to poop?
The carpet cleaners are going to have to be able to FIND the carpet in the basement. At my house, the basement is “no women’s land.” That is, E and Janz have the run of the place. That + the fact that it’s become a bit of a dumping ground make demucking it a daunting task, to say the very least.
So, I’m telling myself that on Friday, when Patrice is here, the carpets look immaculate, the shitter is reinstalled, and I’m in the middle my second Chardonnay, I’ll look back at today and tomorrow and laugh. At least I better.
Today’s best thing about being a mom:
Well, it’s definitely NOT finding your kid naked on the kitchen floor in the middle of the night.
Today’s worst thing about being a mom:
Not being able to call in the nanny at 12:01 a.m.
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Newsflash
Just kidding. More of a news--flicker?
Exciting things happening in the next 3 days include...
3. New carpet being installed in my bedrooms and hallway.
2. Having the carpet downstairs cleaned.
and (the reason for the cleaning but not installing, because, she's awesome but I'm not a TOTAL freak show...)
1. Patrice is coming for a visit!
She's just staying for 2 nights, but that's so much better than none. I've arranged for Friday off, so as to commence with the smokin' good times asap. Friday day I'm thinking a drive down to Kolob to see the sights and say hi to Kods. Maybe also breakfast at the Market Grill so she can get her cowboy spotting quota filled right off. Friday night is a party with the palls--so dominoes and Uno and adult libations aplenty. (Note to self: find out ingredients in a Shirley Temple and purchase, as this seems to be Patrice's favorite "drink.") Saturday we'll have most of the day to kick it, and then Kods (and hopefully, I) will drive her back to Vegas, and possibly dine at Memphis Barbecue (we all met up there for her last trip to these general parts)--thus starting a mini-tradition, and also creating the opportunity for fried pickles. Sweet.
Let's see. Any other news? I'm pretty deep into Angel--just finished the episodes with Faith, and they were fabulous. Anyone know the back-story of why Doyle cut out so quickly?
Oh--Soph is totally reading, and writing. Mostly 3 letter words with a short vowel, but she's getting a kick out of it. She sounded out and wrote "frog" all by herself a few days ago. Her new favorite past-time is going "tummy diving." While I'm laying on the couch, she pulls my shirt up over my fat stomach, takes a deep breath, plugs her nose, and "dives" her face into my stomach. She then blows a huge raspberry/zrbt into my stomach. I drew the line at her filling my navel with water. I do have SOME pride/parental control.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
Bragging about how smart she is
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
Being woken up a full half-hour before the alarm goes off
Exciting things happening in the next 3 days include...
3. New carpet being installed in my bedrooms and hallway.
2. Having the carpet downstairs cleaned.
and (the reason for the cleaning but not installing, because, she's awesome but I'm not a TOTAL freak show...)
1. Patrice is coming for a visit!
She's just staying for 2 nights, but that's so much better than none. I've arranged for Friday off, so as to commence with the smokin' good times asap. Friday day I'm thinking a drive down to Kolob to see the sights and say hi to Kods. Maybe also breakfast at the Market Grill so she can get her cowboy spotting quota filled right off. Friday night is a party with the palls--so dominoes and Uno and adult libations aplenty. (Note to self: find out ingredients in a Shirley Temple and purchase, as this seems to be Patrice's favorite "drink.") Saturday we'll have most of the day to kick it, and then Kods (and hopefully, I) will drive her back to Vegas, and possibly dine at Memphis Barbecue (we all met up there for her last trip to these general parts)--thus starting a mini-tradition, and also creating the opportunity for fried pickles. Sweet.
Let's see. Any other news? I'm pretty deep into Angel--just finished the episodes with Faith, and they were fabulous. Anyone know the back-story of why Doyle cut out so quickly?
Oh--Soph is totally reading, and writing. Mostly 3 letter words with a short vowel, but she's getting a kick out of it. She sounded out and wrote "frog" all by herself a few days ago. Her new favorite past-time is going "tummy diving." While I'm laying on the couch, she pulls my shirt up over my fat stomach, takes a deep breath, plugs her nose, and "dives" her face into my stomach. She then blows a huge raspberry/zrbt into my stomach. I drew the line at her filling my navel with water. I do have SOME pride/parental control.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
Bragging about how smart she is
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
Being woken up a full half-hour before the alarm goes off
Thursday, January 11, 2007
I'm willing to tell you; I'm wanting to tell you; I'm waiting to tell you.
(Bonus points if you know the movie *hint--it's a musical* from which the subject quote was lifted.)
I really am! That is, willing, wanting, and waiting to tell you all the new and exciting news of my life. Problem is--there just isn't any. Soph is still equal parts precocious, naughty, and sweet as a bug; E is still equal parts maddening and amazing; work is still equal parts gratifying and exasperating; Utah is still equal parts crawling with Mormons and as safe and comfy as a well worn t-shirt; and I am still equal parts mother, wife, teacher, and inner-rock-star-who-is-dying-to-get-out.
What can I say? The days go by, and nothing happens that I feel is blog-worthy. It's both sad and a relief that 4 year-old Soph seems to be past the shenanigans of the last couple of years. I'm afraid there will be no more blogging about pudding art or anatomy lessons. I've said all there is to say about my struggles with weight and body image. I mean really, now many times and ways can you rephrase, "I'm fat but too lazy to do anything about it." I don't know folks. I think this blog may be going the way of the dodo.
I was kind of trying to think of some kind of formulaic approach to the blog--as I've seen others do: Monday, meme day; Tuesday, tantrum day; Wednesday, what-if? day; etc. But I just don't know.
I love my blog. I've fought battles for my blog. But I think I'm about blogged out.
This isn't a plea for comments like, "Don't quit blogging! You are totally awesome and if you quit, my pet hamster Gertrude and I will just absolutely perish!" I'm not deleting the blog or anything. Just thinking about why posting used to be a fun, daily ritual, and now it's a bit of a bi-monthly grind. If you have any ideas about how to bring back the zing, I'd much rather hear those.
So--enough meta-blog-nition. Onto the few bits of news I DO have.
Sophie has another bad hair cut. It's SHORT! Like, boy short. I had it cut at the beauty school (error 1) and it was ok, but not great. Then my mom did a little snipping here and there to try and fix things up (error 2) and I finally took her to my girl (who I go to like once a year) and the result is, well SHORT! No pics but I'll get some up soon. E hates it. I don't HATE it per say, but it's definitely short. I bought her some cute clippies and headbands--that she won't keep in, and even sprung for some $16.00 spray wax stuff (Am I the only one who thinks that calling various hair-goos "product" is kind of lame? As in, "Let's put in some product.") to--what did she say, "piece it out," which I think really means, "mess it up on top a little." I even asked her if she wanted to get her ears pierced--and she did, until the gal said, "Let me get my gun." Dur lady.
In TV news, I finally ordered Angel season one and it arrived yesterday. That lead to a much later night than I'm accustom to (11:30--jump back!) AND reopened the "Who's hotter: Angel or Spike" debate, and what a lovely debate it is. (Pause for vampy threesome fantasy. Ok. Done.) So far, I can say that it's definitely watchable. I'm kind of addicted to the watching-completed-series-on DVD thing. In my brain it feels like reading a nice long novel much more than watching the tube.
What else? Oh--I bought tickets for E and myself to the Willie Nelson and Family concert in February. I love me some Willie. I think I scored pretty decent seats, so that's something to look forward to.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
Kissing her forehead while she's sleeping
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
She has SO many questions about death lately and I just don't know how to answer them. I'm trying to be honest and age appropriate, but for some reason, she seems to be afraid that I'm going to die. I think it's from all the Disney princess movies. Think about it. Snow White? Mom's dead. Sleeping Beauty's mom? Dead. Belle's mom? Dead. They don't come out and say that Ariel and Jasmine's moms are dead, but it's implied by their absence. I can't tell her I'm never going to die, and that's what she wants me to say. I tell her I'm young and healthy and that she doesn't need to worry about it, but man does she.
I really am! That is, willing, wanting, and waiting to tell you all the new and exciting news of my life. Problem is--there just isn't any. Soph is still equal parts precocious, naughty, and sweet as a bug; E is still equal parts maddening and amazing; work is still equal parts gratifying and exasperating; Utah is still equal parts crawling with Mormons and as safe and comfy as a well worn t-shirt; and I am still equal parts mother, wife, teacher, and inner-rock-star-who-is-dying-to-get-out.
What can I say? The days go by, and nothing happens that I feel is blog-worthy. It's both sad and a relief that 4 year-old Soph seems to be past the shenanigans of the last couple of years. I'm afraid there will be no more blogging about pudding art or anatomy lessons. I've said all there is to say about my struggles with weight and body image. I mean really, now many times and ways can you rephrase, "I'm fat but too lazy to do anything about it." I don't know folks. I think this blog may be going the way of the dodo.
I was kind of trying to think of some kind of formulaic approach to the blog--as I've seen others do: Monday, meme day; Tuesday, tantrum day; Wednesday, what-if? day; etc. But I just don't know.
I love my blog. I've fought battles for my blog. But I think I'm about blogged out.
This isn't a plea for comments like, "Don't quit blogging! You are totally awesome and if you quit, my pet hamster Gertrude and I will just absolutely perish!" I'm not deleting the blog or anything. Just thinking about why posting used to be a fun, daily ritual, and now it's a bit of a bi-monthly grind. If you have any ideas about how to bring back the zing, I'd much rather hear those.
So--enough meta-blog-nition. Onto the few bits of news I DO have.
Sophie has another bad hair cut. It's SHORT! Like, boy short. I had it cut at the beauty school (error 1) and it was ok, but not great. Then my mom did a little snipping here and there to try and fix things up (error 2) and I finally took her to my girl (who I go to like once a year) and the result is, well SHORT! No pics but I'll get some up soon. E hates it. I don't HATE it per say, but it's definitely short. I bought her some cute clippies and headbands--that she won't keep in, and even sprung for some $16.00 spray wax stuff (Am I the only one who thinks that calling various hair-goos "product" is kind of lame? As in, "Let's put in some product.") to--what did she say, "piece it out," which I think really means, "mess it up on top a little." I even asked her if she wanted to get her ears pierced--and she did, until the gal said, "Let me get my gun." Dur lady.
In TV news, I finally ordered Angel season one and it arrived yesterday. That lead to a much later night than I'm accustom to (11:30--jump back!) AND reopened the "Who's hotter: Angel or Spike" debate, and what a lovely debate it is. (Pause for vampy threesome fantasy. Ok. Done.) So far, I can say that it's definitely watchable. I'm kind of addicted to the watching-completed-series-on DVD thing. In my brain it feels like reading a nice long novel much more than watching the tube.
What else? Oh--I bought tickets for E and myself to the Willie Nelson and Family concert in February. I love me some Willie. I think I scored pretty decent seats, so that's something to look forward to.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
Kissing her forehead while she's sleeping
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
She has SO many questions about death lately and I just don't know how to answer them. I'm trying to be honest and age appropriate, but for some reason, she seems to be afraid that I'm going to die. I think it's from all the Disney princess movies. Think about it. Snow White? Mom's dead. Sleeping Beauty's mom? Dead. Belle's mom? Dead. They don't come out and say that Ariel and Jasmine's moms are dead, but it's implied by their absence. I can't tell her I'm never going to die, and that's what she wants me to say. I tell her I'm young and healthy and that she doesn't need to worry about it, but man does she.
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