Wednesday, May 5, 2010
A few years ago a new neighborhood was being built about 2 blocks away from my house. The houses were beautiful! Hubs was helping some home-buyers purchase a home there and when he went to preview the homes, he fell in love with one of the models. He came home and said, “Do you want to see an awesome house?” Well, sure, who doesn’t? So we went to LOOK. LOOK as in with your eyes, not your checking account, or so I thought. The second I completed the tour and agreed that it was, indeed, a great house, Hubs said, “I knew you’d like it—let’s move here!” And so the whirlwind started—to move two blocks away.
(I have moved about 24 times since I left home for college. Moving is NOT my favorite thing to do.)
(I also had nightmares during that time…it was always the same: Hubs would drive away, waving out the window that he was late for work while I put one box at a time into Joy’s little red wagon, perched her on top, and transferred our stuff from one home to another, 2 blocks away.)
Things kept going wrong with this planned move, however, and finally I said, “Enough. We’re going to stay put”* (even though our ENTIRE house except for the very basic basics was packed in boxes and sitting in the garage). And so that was that—except that we had purchased flooring for the new home already. It was sitting in the garage next to all of our other worldly possessions. So we decided that the next best thing to getting a new house was getting new flooring in our existing house. Every last thing we owned stayed in the garage (except for our cars) and we had the flooring installed in our home.
Our entire downstairs is dark hardwood (entry, office, living room, dining room, and family room) and slate tile (entry inset, kitchen, bathroom, and laundry room). And I have to admit, they are beautiful, but not very practical. Right after they were installed, the real estate market stalled. All spending came to a screeching halt. We did not even have any extra to spend on area rugs. And so, now that we have Child #2, I am a bundle of nerves during her every waking moment because I am afraid she’s going to hurt herself. And don’t get me started on the cleaning! I sweep, dust mop, vacuum, and mop almost every day, but you can’t tell. Nope. You’d think I didn’t own a single cleaning tool or was too lazy to get off my rear end to do it. Sometimes I think I’ve done it, that they are really clean—and then the sun shines through the back window, with light glaring across my dusty, dirty floors.
So here I am again, back at the top of the list of nominees for Worst Mother of the Year and here’s why: (a) not only have I covered every square inch of my home with hard surfaces that can cause serious bodily injury to a little person just learning to master the art of walking, but (b) the same ‘every square inch’ is also consistently dusty/dirty/gross, and (c) I complain about the beautiful flooring in my home. (Incidentally, this also puts me in the running for Worst Housekeeper of the Year and Most Ungrateful Person of the Year. Don’t hate me because I’m multi-talented!)
*This decision single-handedly kept me out of the running for “Dumbest Financial Decision of the Recession”. Don’t worry, though—I still have time!
Posted by The Editor for Busy Body.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Ten years ago I was a CSI—just like the TV show, just not as glamorous (as the show is, I mean. I am very glamorous—at least I would be if my kids gave me 5 uninterrupted minutes to get myself together in the morning!) And I loved it, being a CSI. It was interesting and bizarre and every day was something different. The funny thing about the job is that you don’t really know if you can do it until you are doing it. Luckily for me, I was able to do it. I think most people could do it if they just had to deal with the way things look—what haven’t we seen on TV or in the movies? The way things look is not what makes the job challenging…what makes the job challenging is the way things smell. And I’m here to tell you, it isn’t pretty.
One day I went in to work and a body had been found in a drainage ditch and it appeared to be wrapped in a tarp. It looked suspicious. The cardinal rule of Crime Scene Investigation is “Do it right the first time, the scene will never be this way again.” So I had to treat it as if it was a homicide which meant getting down and dirty in the ditch. All of the detectives were wearing masks. I wore one, too—not because the smell was so bad (it really was) but I wore one because I did not want a fly to touch my face or (horrors!) my mouth while I was working. When the coroner got there, I assisted her in her investigation. (None of the detectives wanted to get that close because of the smell.) And I told her, “I will do whatever you need me to do with this body, but if I see a rat, I’m gonna freak!” Blood—no problem, body parts—whatever, but keep the vermin away from me—I can’t handle them!
And while I am divulging what I can’t handle, I’ll let you in on another dirty little secret: toilets are at the top of my list. Public bathrooms almost put me over the edge. I still want to throttle Brittany for that barefoot stunt she pulled. Come on! Having kids who need to use public restrooms more frequently than I would like has really been a challenge to my balance. My skin crawls when we cross the threshold into those dirty, germs-running-rampant, cesspools of filth and foul odors which, inexplicably, seem to make kids want to touch every last surface. (I mean really, who in their right mind wants to touch the bolts that hold the toilet to the ground, the bottom of the sink, and the sides of the trashcan?) I will hold it until the cows come home, but what’s a mom to do when you’re out in public and your child utters those dreaded five words…”I need to go potty” ??? Personally, I bring the portable potty training toilet with me in the back of the car. And if we can’t make it out to the car in time, I have a few tricks up my sleeve. Each venture into one of these black holes earns me a badge of motherhood. If only my kids could understand that I’m good—I don’t need any more of those darn badges!
For those of you who are tougher than I am in the bathroom department, I applaud you –and I know you think I am being overly dramatic. Please let me assure you, this is a deep-rooted, enduring aversion that I have to deal with almost daily. When I was a teacher, I had a toilet incident. It was actually my first day of teaching. Not with my classroom full of kids, but of getting my classroom ready for a classroom full of kids. I went to school, got my room assignment, got my keys, got all my “stuff” and went to the room to get it ready. I cleaned, I arranged, I got my bulletin boards set up, name cards placed on each desk, books, materials, and activities placed invitingly around the room. And then another woman walked into the room. It was another teacher, much older—and extremely irate. She went off—“What are you doing here! This is my room! You have no right!” and on and on she went. Then, abruptly, she left. As I stood there, stunned, I heard my name being announced over the PA system. I was being summoned to the principal’s office. Oh, great. What a career this was turning out to be, and I hadn’t officially started yet. Anyway, while meeting the principal for the first time, she regretfully told me that I had erroneously been assigned the wrong room. My classroom was actually on the other side of campus, and the custodian would gladly help me move my “stuff” to my real room. (That was all fine and dandy, but who was going to clean my real room since I had already cleaned my fake room?) And so for the second time in one day I set up my classroom. By the time I was finished, it was late and I needed to go home, but first I needed to go. So I hiked back across campus to go to the bathroom before I left for the day. I went into the stall and locked the door. As I reached up to get my customary TWO toilet seat covers, my wrist grazed my leg and my wristwatch did a swan dive into the toilet. Now, let me tell you this—it was a clean toilet in the staff bathroom, I had not “gone” yet, and I was alone. What do you think I did? If you guessed stand there for 37 minutes, crying and squirming (not because I still needed to go, which I did, but because the last thing I wanted to do was to reach in and retrieve my watch) then you are right! I finally came up with a plan. I left the door locked, and with my best limbo moves, I went under the door, out into the hall and into the office. I got a pencil, went back down the hall, into the bathroom, and back under the locked stall door. Then I fished my watch out of the toilet. I wrapped it in paper towels and shoved it into my bag. It was possibly the worst first day of work ever in the history of a toilet phobic teacher! (By the way, in case you were wondering, the watch stayed wrapped up in paper towels for the better part of the school year. At that point I decided that I still couldn’t stand the fact that it had been in the toilet, and I got rid of the watch.) The office staff assumed that I was upset about my classroom and was especially nice to me the whole time I worked at that school. Everything happens for a reason, I guess.
Just the other night it was bath time for the kiddos. Marlo was already happily sitting in her bath seat. Joy was dawdling and had gotten some tea cups to play tea party in the bath. At the last minute she decided that she needed to go potty before getting into the tub. She went, wiped and as she reached back to flush—you guessed it! She dropped the tea cup into the toilet.
I am a mom now. I don’t have time to debate for 37 minutes before I take action. I had an out of body experience, reached into the toilet (I am gagging as I am writing this) and pulled out the tea cup. The tea cup was thrown into the side of the sink that we don’t use, and I scrubbed my hands for several minutes—while giving Joy a lesson on closing the toilet lid immediately after using it and not having tea cups or other such toys in her hands while going potty. The tea cup is still there. I am probably going to have to tell Hubs that he needs to get it out and put it into a bucket of bleach water…and then I will probably throw it away.
As it turned out, the body in the drainage ditch was a homeless man who had accidentally fallen in and drowned. His body was partially mummified and it was just coincidental that he was wrapped in a tarp. Recent storms had probably caused the water in the ditch to rise and become more turbulent and somehow, the body and tarp united, and came to rest on top of a large pile of debris. It was sad and interesting at the same time.
But I am totally serious—blood, body parts, skin, teeth, bones, dead bodies…piece of cake. Just keep the flies, rats, and toilets away from me. A girl can only take so much.
Posted by The Editor for Busy Body.
Monday, May 3, 2010
The new big thing at our house: the Pokemon show. I know it's been around a long time, but the three just discovered it. Initially, they were familiar with only one character: We have had a pair of like-new, hand-me-down Pikachu slippers since forever. No one has ever really worn them, save an occasional stomp down the hall when they are discovered in the back of the closet. They were on my list of things to find and donate before the big move to the frozen tundra. Not because I thought they wouldn't be useful, but they fell into the "had it and not used it for six months" arbitrary rule I established for decluttering for this move.
And then, they started watching the Pokemon cartoon. Every evening, 2 minutes before the show starts, Bubba, Stump, and Samantha start running around yelling "Where is my Pokemon!!??!!" Tears ensue if the pair of slippers can't be found and then I have to start running around looking too. When both are found, the boys sit in front of the tv, clutching their slippers and watching rapturously for the duration. Sometimes Samantha wants to hold one of the slippers, but she can usually be pacified with something pink.
I hear no talking while the show is on. But after it's over, they start chattering and reenacting their favorite parts. They all like Pikachu best, but to hear them tell it, there are three characters:
Posted by The Editor.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Thursday, April 29, 2010
So...I am here in TX, with my three. We just made it through a week of illness, one with pneumonia, all with high fevers and me trying to get the house ready for market so we can move to North Dakota to reunite with Dad come June.
Yesterday, Samantha was working hard on her dry erase book at the kitchen table for the better part of an hour while I cleaned the kitchen. I was called off to assist Bubba or Stump and then she:
scribbled the table cloth
scribbled her chair cushion
scribbled the cabinets
scribbled the shutters and walked across the living room to the hall and
scribbled a line that followed the chair rail molding (convenient height) all the way down the hallway into the family room to the entertainment center and finished with a beautiful abstract scribble conglomerate that covered the open cabinet doors by the tv
It was a three-room and a long hallway purple scribble-o-rama.
All of this was accomplished in less time than it took me to type it
My apologies for lack of pictures. I grabbed the cleaning cloth and started wiping because the real estate people were coming today! And unless you closely inspect the chair rail, I think all the evidence is gone...
Posted by The Editor.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Gather all of the ingredients together, so that they are close at hand! Get a clean cloth and wipe the bowl clean of any lingering dust from the past.
Take maturity, respect and friendship, and stir gently.
Add unlimited amounts of compassion and kindness, and mix well.
To this, add caring by the handfuls and fold in trust.
Continue stirring gently, adding listening, honesty, and large amounts of communication.
Slip in some dreams, goals, and firm pieces of keeping promises.
Bake in a home filled with peace, beauty and serenity.
Before you taste the finished product, sprinkle liberally with patience, love, and a touch of spice.
Serve very hot, with imagination on the side.
I found this recipe on the internet. It says ‘author unknown’, but I think it was written by a child. Who else but a child would have such a firm grasp on all that is good and pure?
I look at my kids and I think that my heart might explode from loving them so much. They are so soft and sweet and innocent and full of love and kindness—and then it hits me—my mom probably used to look at me like that, too, before I grew up and became a cynical, jaded adult.
And so I think it would be best if we, as adults, forgot about all that we have learned over the years. I think it would be best to return to that place called Childhood where everything is still possible and within reach, where we can touch our dreams, and live a life untainted by worry, stress, limitations, or fear.
I think that by looking ahead of us to role models, we are overlooking the best role models in this world—the pure of heart, also known as our little children.
Joy and Marlo are full of all that is good and kind and sweet and pure.
I’m hoping one day to be just like them.
Posted by The Editor for Busy Body
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
With a 4 year old and a 17 month old, showers are (have to be) strategically planned events. I either have to (a) shower at night when both are asleep, or (b) get up at the crack of dawn before either one is awake, or (c) catch Hubs when he is going to be home and not otherwise engaged for 15 consecutive minutes, or (d) bribe Joy to just chill while Marlo is napping. It gets very tricky to say the least.
Marlo has been hosting a nasty cold for the past week. Otherwise she is a champion napper, but with this cold, all of her routines have been a little off. Friday night neither kiddo slept very well so my night shower was out. Saturday I was not able to get up earlier than the girls. They were filling in for the roosters. Hubs was off and running so I couldn’t count on him. So that left a slot during Marlo’s naptime. Joy, however, had too much integrity to be bribed this particular day. Instead, she convinced me that those precious few moments that Marlo was asleep would be best spent playing Barbies. (So, I concede , this was probably more fun than showering, but not in the best interest of my personal hygiene.) Anyway, the plan was to play Barbies for a few minutes and then go shower. It just so happened that it was salon day for the Barbies and all 72 of them (17 were mine from childhood, 21 are her older half-sister’s, 16 are hers, 7 are Marlo’s, and I’m not sure where the rest came from) HAD to have new hair-dos. And so it happened that before the salon day was finished Marlo woke, prematurely, from her rest. And my hopes and dreams for a shower went down the drain.
Marlo is basically down to one nap a day but since she’s been under the weather and most of her naps are for shortened amounts of time, I have been trying to force the 2-naps-a-day issue. As luck would have it, this was a day that this tactic actually worked. The heavens opened up and shined upon me and gave me a second chance for a shower. It was only 3 pm, after all—I guess better late than never! So, I got Joy all situated watching some mind-rotting cartoon with a chocolate ice cream cone and I sprinted upstairs to take a quick shower.
***If talking about women’s underwear, or nakedness embarrasses you, I apologize (and for you, there will be no point to this post, but) please stop reading at this point, otherwise, read on…***
Glory, hallelujah! I accomplished the most difficult task of the day! When I got out of the shower to get dressed, the bribery had worn off and Joy was waiting on my bed. Now, for some reason, (probably because when she gets out of the tub we pat her bottom and say, “Spanky spanks!” before we dress her) she thinks it’s funny to give me ‘spanky spanks’. At that point I only had time to dry off and get my underwear on. Today the underwear happened to be a thong.
After a few spanky spanks she looked at my thong and said, “Mommy, your BGPs* don’t fit your bottom.” I told her, “Yes, they do.” And she said, “No, they don’t. You have naked bottom back here.” So, again I said, “Yes, they do, these are so you don’t see any lines under your clothes.” She looked at me like she wasn’t buying it, and then finally asked, “Do little girls wear these too?” (Oh, my stars NO! NO! NO!) So I told her (calmly), “Nope, not until you’re a Mommy.” And—thankfully—that was enough explanation…bottom line.
*BGPs=Big Girl Pants
Posted by The Editor for Busy Body
The Editor Advises that you never let Joy learn how to knit, otherwise she might get this into her little head and make her own BGPs to match her momma's.
Monday, April 26, 2010
I live near a farm. It used to be a dairy and crop farm, but times are a-changing. The owners have sold most of their land. Part of it has been turned into a driving range. The fields where they used to do corn field mazes every October has been sold to the county to be converted into a park. The family lives at the top of a small hill in a sprawling ranch-style home which I would love to live in. It is beautiful. The family is amazingly friendly and welcomes visitors.
A few years ago we were at an event that our community holds every year called the Fall Festival. They used to hold this at the farm. At this event I met the man in charge of taking care of the machinery. His name is Marvin and he is a cross between Santa and Merle Olsen. This gentle giant told me that the dog that normally ran loose in and around the property was harmless and so it would be perfectly safe for me to bring Joy to see the animals. The dog’s name was To-Be because he “just wants TO-BE loved.” And loved him Joy did.
And so, for the past 3 years, we have visited the mid-hill farm to see the animals. There are donkeys, alpacas, watusi, deer, ducks, and geese. We take apples and carrots and bread and cereal and peanuts to feed the animals, probably every two or three weeks. Joy especially loves the donkeys. They are loud and bold and their teeth make her laugh. She gets a little skittish at the very last second that they are taking food from her hand and she usually drops it on the ground. They don’t mind in the least.
The alpacas are very curious, but very shy and easily scared. Marlo likes them the best because they are quiet and gentle and calm. They never eat any of the food we try to feed them—at least not while we’re there—but it doesn’t stop Marlo from trying. If I forget to give her some “pet food” to give to them, she doesn’t mind. She shares from her personal stash of gold fish or graham crackers. The kid’s got quite an arm.
The ducks are very animated and the geese are mostly just mean. It is fun to see them fly away, honking…and we always know when they return from their trips. The deer named Spike is easy to feed because he is missing teeth and he can’t bite. That’s always a plus.
We always come home, reluctantly, from our visit to the country in the middle of our city with wind in our hair, fresh air in our lungs, and sunshine in our hearts. What an amazing gift to give the girls—an up close and personal look at these animals. And what an amazing family, these former farmers, who own this land. They welcome visitors onto their property to enjoy their animals. They invite the community to church and community sponsored events that they hold in their “yard”. In this day and age, they certainly don’t make neighbors like that anymore
And To-Be? Marvin told us that To-Be kept running out into the street and was finally picked up by animal control, never To-Be seen again. Joy remembers him every time we go to the farm or pass it on our way to some other destination. Both girls wave at their “friends” and Joy says, “Mom, remember To-Be?” I’m dreading the day that the girls might say, “Mom, remember the animals that used to live here?”
There just isn’t enough stuff like this anymore, at least not where I live: generous neighbors, green fields, farm animals at our fingertips, and friends that just want to be loved. I know the day will come that the farm house will disappear and the animals along with it. I’m hoping it won’t be for a long, long, long time. When that day arrives I will have to just recall the words of J. M. Barrie…”God gave us memory that we might have roses in December.”
Posted by The Editor for Busy Body.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Friday, April 23, 2010
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Joy, my first-born, was THAT baby that would not go to sleep unless you held her. Then, when you tried to put her down, she’d wake up. I know what you’re thinking—“Oh, she’s one of THOSE moms.” In my defense, let me just say that I think Joy read all of the books with expert advice on how to get a baby to go to sleep on her own—and then she wrote her own book. I tried the whole “let her just cry it out” thing. After two weeks of screaming for hours on end, I just gave up. On good nights I was able to nurse her, read her a story, rock her to sleep to her music, and softly place her in her crib. On the not-so-good nights I ended up sleeping in her crib with her (yes, you read that right) just so that I could get some sleep.
This lasted until the child learned how to inch her little pink toes up the side rail of the crib while gripping the edge, then flinging her little 15 month old body over the edge. Let me tell you, that little tiny body makes quite a thump when it hits the floor. And so we began putting her to bed in the Pack n’ Play. I tried to make it as comfortable as possible. My thinking was that it was still a semi-enclosed sleeping facility and the mesh sides provided much less traction for little climbing toes. That worked for a few weeks. Then the monkey in her re-emerged. At that point we were forced to put her in a bed. A BIG GIRL bed. The thing about big girl beds is that they don’t have any seat belts, harnesses, sides, or wall-scaling prevention devices. (The bed rails we got to keep her from falling out didn’t do anything for keeping her from climbing out.) And that was the beginning of my nightly proclamation of “I’m putting Joy to bed.” I would fade into the dark recesses of Joy’s room for the sleeping ritual. That first bed was very low to the ground and made an awful noise if I tried to sneak out after she fell asleep. This was all fine and good IF I was ready to go to bed at 8pm (which, if you know me, I rarely am). It was all less fine and good when I was pregnant with Marlo. It’s hard enough to sleep in a twin bed with an over-active sleeping toddler. It’s worse when you are trying to sleep with an over-active sleeping toddler and an over-active not sleeping baby in utero.
About a month before Baby Marlo arrived, I bid farewell to my “Scrapbooking/Craft Room” , put all of my hobby stuff into boxes and had it shipped, via US Postal Hubs to the attic, and we made the room formerly known as MINE into Joy’s new BIG GIRL ROOM. We painted and decorated and made it into the princess’s royal quarters, complete with a new bed. This bed was much more comfortable and higher up off the ground. The bed rails were transferred from her old bed to this one. We got her new bedding and put twinkle lights up around the room to make it look like stars. She LOVED her new room. She just did not love sleeping in it by herself. So the saga continued, and continued even after Marlo arrived. It was quite a juggling act for the first 6 months of Marlo’s life. And suddenly, one day at the library, I found a book called “The Sleep Easy Solution” by Jennifer Waldburger and Jill Spivack.
This book changed my life. I put Marlo onto sleep training and she is now (at 18 months) an expert sleeper. The book also had tips for toddlers who have already developed bad habits (read: MY Joy). Part of the advice said to make a book about your child, incorporating them into the story of how bedtime should go with them sleeping in their own bed and how it’s beneficial for everyone in the household. And being the diligent, caring mother that I am, I made a book for her, complete with illustrations that look as much like her as my illustrating skills will allow, and we read it. A LOT. Many times, over and over. And everyday she would say, “OK, Mommy, tonight I will sleep by myself.” And every night she would re-neg, into the wee hours of the night until she finally wore me down and broke my spirit and I ended up holding her until she fell asleep, most nights for the duration of the night.
March 28, my friends, was a MOMENTOUS day for us. Joy announced that she was going to sleep by herself that night. (I thought, “Yeah, right—I’ve heard this before), but I SAID, “Wow! What a big girl you are! That’s great.” That day I overheard her reading a book to Marlo. She told her it was her ‘Sleep Solution’ book and it had the “spell” for sleeping like a big girl. At dinner Joy told me the plan: “After dinner we’ll take a tubby, play for awhile, brush our teeth, go potty, read a story, say our prayers and make a wish, and then you can go out and I’ll go to sleep. Does that sound like a good deal?” I agreed that it did and so we got down to putting this plan into action.
Sure enough, after the wish, she told me I could go. One drink request, 17 kisses, 15 hugs, five cover-straightening sessions, one additional night light, and three stuffed animals added to the mix later (at 11:05 pm) she finally went to sleep BY HERSELF. The next night, after the wish, she was asleep before my first 15-minute check.
The night before Easter we were running a little late because of the egg dyeing, and letter writing to the Easter Bunny, and so when it was time for her to get into bed, she actually asked to skip the story and ordered me to get out of her room. I assured her that prayers were still necessary, but then I promptly left. Not even three minutes later she was sound asleep.
We’ve had a couple of nights since that have not gone so great, but for the most part she has done a great job sleeping like a big girl. One night she got a little scared about fires—not that we’ve had any at our house or even near our house—but that night she asked me to do a ‘visit’ with her while she fell asleep. And I agreed to the cameo appearance because I know that a chapter of my first-born baby’s life is coming to a close and I know that I will miss it. Not the frustration, discomfort, or irritation of her needing to be held while she fell asleep, but I will miss her warm little body snuggled up to mine, feeling her heart beating, hearing her breath move in and out, and feeling sleep take over her busy little body.
Oh, Joy—the Sleep Solution spell’s got nothin’ on you, girl!
Posted by The Editor for Busy Body.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
I read (with fascination) one time that in order for lawyers to memorize all the things they need to know for the bar exam, they build knowledge houses in their heads. The way I understand it, they visualize a room and attach facts to all the objects. Then, when they need to retrieve it, they mentally walk into that room to that object, and there it is! I don't know if they all use this method but it gave me an idea.
Updated to add: After some Google research, I found this is called "The Method of Loci" aka The Memory Palace.
One night at bedtime, instead of a story, we started this pillow game: Who's sleeping everywhere? It wasn't originally called that, the name just evolved. The idea was to verbally walk through the house and see who was where. We used our house and the boys' favorite characters. It started small and has grown into a predictable pattern. Both Bubba and Stump can name all of them when I prompt with the location. So, for posterity, here we go:
Who's in the closet? R2D2
Who's in the shower? C3PO
Who's in the tub? R14 (what Stump calls one of the other Star Wars androids)
Who's in the hall? R5D4
Who's in the vent? Shimmer and Bounce (from Miss Spider's Sunny Patch)
Who's in the ceiling fan? Astro Boy's robot mosquitos
Who's in the other vent? Mr. & Mrs. Spider
Who's in the pool? Ponyo and Quack
Who's in the chair by the pool? Chewbacca
Who's patrolling the yard? Johnny5
Who's in the tree? Daphne, Curious George, and Chirp
Who's on the front porch? The Backyardigans
Who's at the kitchen door? The Little Einsteins
Who's in the van? The Wiggles
Who's on the roof? Wall-e, Eve, beautician-bot, painter-bot, gopher, punching-bot
Who's in the tv room? Freddy and Caillou
Who's in the computer room? Kipper
Who's in mommy's room? Velma
Who's in the kitchen? Shaggy, having a snack
Who's under the kitchen table? Scooby-doo
Who's under the train table? I don't know
Who's in Samantha's room? Just Samantha
Who's in Bubba's room? Astro boy
Who's in the closet under the stairs? Peep
If a 5-year-old can retrieve this amount of information, I think, as a method, it is a success. Stump has started adding information, like, listing all the foods that Freddy and Caillou might be eating in the tv room, but I'll save that silly list for another day.
Posted by The Editor.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Why does it seem like when you have the least amount of money everything starts to go downhill? For example, all within the last two months our dryer went out, our toaster broke, Hubs’ car desperately needs a tune up, my cell phone fell apart into two separate pieces, my computer is on its last leg, and my couch, oh my couch.
We got our couch about 6 years ago. We replaced a sofa and a love seat with this couch which is a sectional. It’s awesome because it seats so many people. It runs the length of our family room and there is a detached ottoman at the end, separating the family room from the kitchen. It’s green, which is fine, because it blends in with our décor. The polk-a-dots on the couch, however, are not original. They have accumulated over the past 6 years. It has withstood two babies, three children, one cat, one puppy, one very crumb-droppy, spilly Hubs, countless birthday parties, karaoke nights, 5 Super Bowl Sundays, play dates, sippy cup malfunctions, and a well-intentioned washing of the pillow and cushion covers.
I warned Hubs that washing the covers was not a good idea. I even thought that if I refused to participate it would deter him from wanting to go through with it. It didn’t. To make matters worse, I told him to replace the freshly washed seat cushion covers FIRST (because as we all know, these are the hardest to do) but of course, what do I know? He started with the pillow covers and was extremely pleased with his handiwork, and it was so EASY. But, of course, when he got to the cushions, it was another story. After about an hour of grunting and sweating and mild cursing, he finally conceded that he should have listened to me. And, of course, I got roped into helping him finish the job, which, of course, was most of the job since he had only succeeded in getting half a cover back onto the first cushion. For about a week the covers were, indeed, cleaner, but the couch now looks like we put the whole in its entirety into the washer and dryer. Somehow one of the zippers even managed to break, so that cushion looks especially droopy.
Even so, our couch is the envy of all of our friends because it is SO comfy. It is so comfortable, in fact, not a single friend who has spent more than an hour on our couch has been able to resist falling asleep on it. (And no, we are not boring—people fall asleep on it in the middle of LOUD parties, during out of tune karaoke crooners who could make your ears bleed, and Fourth of July fireworks even.) Hubs and I usually fall asleep on it every single night before we sleepily stumble up to bed in the middle of the night. Our friends call it the Felony Couch—because it’s a crime how comfy it is. I guess that makes it easier to overlook the decorations that have been added over the years.
The couch is on my list of things that need to be fixed/repaired/refurbished/deep cleaned. And when this darn economy picks up, I think we will have it reupholstered. It would be a crime to get rid of a piece of furniture that has so completely proven its worth. We will be smarter this time, however. The “face lift” will include micro-fiber somewhere in its definition and a Scotch-guard treatment—probably everything just short of plastic covers.
I am sitting on the couch as I write this. I think I need to go…I’m getting a little sleepy!
Posted by The Editor for Busy Body.
Monday, April 19, 2010
read: anything for her bottom half, but relishes running around topless? And to make matters worse, her favorite topless activity is dancing in front of the sliding glass door—please! Someone tell me this is a phase!
(I need to know…Joy never did this. Her thing was her belly button and she LOVED to pull up whatever it was that she was wearing so she could hold it. Onesies didn’t solve the problem, either—onesies to Joy were like straight jackets to Houdini. THAT phase lasted the better part of a year.)
Please let it be a phase!Please let it be a phase!Please let it be a phase!Please let it be a phase!*
*A short one!
Posted by The Editor for Busy Body.
Note: Heather Armstrong of Dooce has the opposite problem with her daughter, Leta:
The interview lasted all morning, and then they returned in the afternoon so that they could get footage of us hanging out with Leta. When we picked her up from school we told her that a photographer was coming over to take pictures and then spent the next hour saying, no, Leta, you cannot take off your pants. But she wanted to take off her pants, she always got to take her pants off after school, and I was all, I know, I hate wearing pants, too, but she was going to have to find the strength somewhere inside her to remain clothed for at least the next half hour. So she said, "If I leave my pants on can I have four treats?" And I was all, of course! I don't see anything wrong with rewarding such hard work.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Friday, April 16, 2010
Thursday, April 15, 2010
On the days that I don’t work I have trouble getting the girls motivated to do anything. I guess they think that since I am home, they are, too, and they should spend as much time at home (literally) as possible.
I have grand and glorious plans for when I am at home, but three stories, two cartoons, one looooooooong breakfast, four wardrobe changes, 8 negotiations over hair, two bed-making fiascos, and one tired mama later, my grand and glorious plans have dwindled down and have become very limited due to Marlo’s nap schedule.
This morning we were going to take our babies to the park and have a picnic. Instead, we had to settle for a walk around the block with our babies in their strollers. At a slow pace, with no intermissions, or snack breaks, or photo opps, or wardrobe malfunctions, or rest stops, you can walk around the block in about 6 minutes. With two little girls pushing their babies in their strollers, the same walk takes about 48 minutes.
Joy decided that her ‘baby’ of choice today was her pink “My Pretty Pony”—which she loves, incidentally, because it has a tattoo. (Isn’t that just great?) She settled her pony into her stroller, tucked a lap blanket around her, and packed a diaper bag complete with a bottle, some wipes, a brush, a toy, and a pacifier—all for the pony. She then grabbed a pair of purple sunglasses and she was ready to go.
Marlo got her mid-size baby, stuffed her into the stroller, put on a pair of pink sunglasses (upside down) grabbed her sippy cup and dragged everything out the door. The baby was in the seat sideways, with two legs and an arm inches from dragging on the ground. No worries, though. Joy stuffed a toy in the stroller (“so Marlo’s baby won’t be lonely”) to wedge her in nice and tight. Further accident prevention was made possible by setting Marlo’s sippy cup on the baby’s head—to counter balance the rest of the baby’s body hanging outside of the confines of the stroller.
And away we go. Joy takes the lead to scout the area. She looks for dog poop, squished snails, yucky gutter water, litter, and sticks that might impede our path. From time to time she runs back to us to warn us of the impending dangers up ahead. She also reports on what she sees: “Mom! There are bees in those flowers making nectar to take to the hive!” or “Mom! Those people need to clean up their garage--it’s a mess. Should I tell them to shut their garage door?” or “Mom! Let’s go up these steps and look in their door—it’s glass so we can see in if we put our faces on it!” Of course, all these reports are made in her clearest, loud-enough-to-broadcast-to-the-whole-neighborhood voice. Meanwhile, Marlo assumes the rear of the procession. She waves at all of the barking dogs, the trees, the flowers, cars driving by, the sidewalk, and MUST touch every reachable inch of the mailbox banks that we pass. (There are three on this particular route.) She also has to stop to pull her sunglasses down her nose to examine something very interesting that catches her eye—e.g. sidewalk chalk drawings, lady bugs, weeds growing in the cracks of the sidewalk, etc. Every 26.2 steps she has to stop to take a drink from her sippy—we wouldn’t want her to get dehydrated now, would we? And in between all of these tasks, it’s almost more than we can handle, keeping that stroller on the sidewalk. Today I also noticed that all of the fast and furious coloring that was going on in the loft while I was attempting to get dressed did not just include coloring in the coloring books—Marlo’s legs also got their fair share of hot pink marker embellishment. (Strangely, I am glad that if she did have to color on herself that at least it matches her outfit.) Moving on…
We got the mid-way point today and a car came down the street. I noticed that it was my neighbor, Jessica. Before I could raise my hand to wave (my semi-free hand that I use to carry the garage door opener and my cell phone and to retrieve any items that break free from the strollers), she stopped her car in the middle of the street and got out to say hello to the girls. She thought it was funny that Joy was prancing ahead of us, like a proud mama, while Marlo was sauntering behind, practicing her best princess wave.
So, in the middle of our walk, we took a break, in the middle of the street, to chat with Jessica—about new shoes, painted toe nails, making cookies, doing yard sales, and all the other middle-of-the-walk-in-the-middle-of-the-street-chat sort of things that girls out walking their babies talk about. Joy then gave Jessica a hug and a high five and was off and running again—chasing butterflies and taking the pony on some wild rides on neighbors’ lawns. Marlo gave her two hugs and one slobbery kiss, then sauntered away—pushing with one hand while waving with the other--and promptly ran into a fire hydrant.
Both are now taking naps. I am writing this down so I don’t forget. Every day they teach me that there’s always time to stop and smell the roses.
Posted by The Editor for Busy Body.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
I am finally hearing the things that have been locked inside that curly blond head. I have been waiting for this and love to hear him tell me things like, "I dreamed about stars last night," or "Those tall buildings are skyscrapers, mama," or "I want to be hug-ded me so I can fall asleep," and, whispering to the cat just before falling asleep, "You darling kitten, you shall have some pie."
Posted by The Editor.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
I love pie, but hate to make piecrust. When I was first married, I was enthralled with the picture of the piecrust in the Betty Crocker cookbook. I have wasted hours of my life trying to make the perfect piecrust. And so I would only make pies for very special occasions or holiday. Since most of the other holidays had their own sweet dishes, pies became THE thing for Easter. A wonderful friend gave me an easy recipe for fresh strawberry pie and together with lemon meringue, they were necessities for our family celebration. We probably have more pictures of the girls stirring and then slicking the bowls of the Easter pie fillings than we have of them dyeing their Easter eggs. We didn't have pie at the end of the meal, because we couldn't properly appreciate it while we were so full. We would wait until just about sunset and then mark the end of another memorable Easter by consuming a huge piece of pie.
One Easter, we were not in the mood for the usual sit-down formality of a meal and so we put the ham and potato salad and rolls in a picnic basket and drove a few miles to the backside of nowhere and picnicked and then flew kites all that windy afternoon. We weren't quite prepared, however, to completely break with tradition and so we got home in time for sunset and the Easter pies.
As the years piled up and our family changed, we opted to make Easter dinner into Easter brunch. The Editor would make an unbelievable number of waffles that we would sometimes eat as we walked from the kitchen to the dining room so they would not be less than piping hot as we consumed them. Busybody taught us to eat fresh strawberries dipped first in sour cream and then in brown sugar, and so we no longer needed the strawberry pie. For several years, there were only adults at these get-togethers and they changed quite a bit to accommodate the composition of the family. Usually, one or more daughters would need to leave to visit the other family that now had share rights and the sunset pie was no longer a whole family observance.
This year it was only me and the Norwegian at home for Easter but I still felt compelled to make an Easter pie. The crust didn't seem so difficult--maybe because there was only need for one. And then, because the Norwegian was gone for the day and I had more time than usual, I happened to take note of the microwave instructions on the box of the lemon pudding and pie filling. I would never have departed from the tried and true stirring-in-a-pan method if we had been having guests for dinner. But, I can give up some points on taste in order to gain convenience and, really, is a husband going to notice? Surprisingly, it was easier! I licked the bowl--myself--trying to determine what made those scraped up bits so delectable to little girls. And now I know!
The celebration is over, the pie is gone, but memories have a way of hanging around. Maybe that's why we start traditions, steadfastly maintain them and pass them on.
Posted by The Editor for Gigi.
Monday, April 12, 2010
I am beginning to realize that a lot of my aversions stem from holidays at Grandma’s house. Every Easter when I was little we would go to church, then the entire extended family would convene at Grandma’s for an Easter feast. All of the cousins would bring their basket of eggs for a gigantic Easter egg hunt and then we’d sit down to eat. Our gross boy cousins would then crack and peel several of their Easter eggs, slather them with ketchup (of all things!) and stuff the whole thing into their mouths, with crumbly egg and ketchup oozing out of the corners. I’m not eggsaggerating.(Waiting for the gag reflex to pass…) Who eats eggs like that? (My cousins, that’s who, but besides them?) My guess is no one in civilized society.
Fortunately for me, Marlo is not eggsactly interested in dyeing eggs yet. She IS into furiously coloring them after they are dyed. Joy, however, could hardly contain herself all day long (on Saturday) in anticipation of dyeing the eggs. I tried to minimize the time spent on this endeavor, but there is only a certain amount of corner cutting you can do…the boiling, the mixing of the dyes (we used food coloring this year), doing a scavenger hunt for the egg dippers, covering the table and the kiddos with stainable clothing/table cloths. Finally it was time—and do you know how much time it took Joy to dye 18 eggs? 4 minutes. I guess if I actually liked the dyeing of the eggs, I’d be a little miffed. All that time and energy spent on the preparation and build up for 4 minutes?
So here it is: I don’t mind that it took the better part of a day to prepare for a 4 minute activity. Joy was proud of her work. Marlo embellished to her little heart’s content, and 4 minutes later I was thrilled that it was over, eggstatic even!
Good-bye, Peter Cottontail…see you next year!
Posted by The Editor for Busy Body.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Friday, April 9, 2010
Thursday, April 8, 2010
The latest bedtime story installment for two little boys, one with chocolate eyes and cinnamon hair and the other with blue eyes and blond curls... See here for previous chapters, as well as explanations for the members of the dread crew.
It was a cold, gray, cloudy day in the month of April. The ocean mirrored the sky and the air was still. No wind to fill the sails or make waves. The two pirate ships, captained each by a Captain Brown-Beard-Peg-Leg was drifting at the very edge of Ocean Number Two.
Suddenly, the lookout, Captain Skelty yelled, "Arrgh! Ahoy! Seaweed, dead ahead!" The pirates scrambled but it was too late to change course and both ships sailed straight into the giant bed of muck.
The seaweed on the surface was almost invisible, matching the color of the ocean and sky. And if you know anything about seaweed, if you see a little bit on the surface of the water, there will be vast rope-like streamers hanging way down into the depths. Under the water, however, the seaweed was purple, and green, and black with sparkling gold diamond sparkling shimmers, because it was magic seaweed.
This particular bed of seaweed marked a lair of the Sea Witch, who sometimes lived in a cave on the bottom of the edge of Ocean Number Two. She had been waiting for this day--for both pirate ships to sail into her trap. She had prepared by attaching bells to the ropes of seaweed outside her cave and by putting a spell on the seaweed to ensnare the pirates. When the bells started ringing, she cackled with glee. The seaweed started growing (because of the spell) and wound around the bottoms of the two ships, their rudders, up the sides and over the decks. It climbed up the masts and wound around each pirate in its path, first one leg and then the other leg (unless it was a peg leg and then it wound around the wooden leg), around one and then the other arm, the head, the face, eyepatch and mouth of each pirate. They were stuck! What would they do?!
The spell of the Sea Witch, however, only covered the ships and the pirates she knew: 7 Captain Crackerishes, 2 Captain Brown-Beard-Peg-Legs, an astro-tot, 2 Captain Skeltys (the skeleton pirate who was electricified), Frye the pirate pet ferret and Limey, the pirate parrot, and an alien pirate. What she didn't know when she cast the spell was that two new members had joined the crew: a squid and a starfish, so the seaweed did not wrap around them at all because they were not included in the spell.
Captain Skelty yelled (as the seaweed was blocking his mouth):
"SQUMMM! STARFFFD! WRMM IFF UUGGH, AARGGFFHH!"
(Translation: SQUID! STARFISH! WRAP IT UP, AARGH!)
So Squid and Starfish used all their arms/legs to wrap up the seaweed into a ball, superfast, quick as a flash, lickety-split and throw it overboard. Once Captain Skelty's mouth was cleared, he yelled, "AARGH! over you go too, and PUSH!!" So Squid and Starfish jumped into the bed of seaweed, that had no effect on them, and started pushing the boats out of the seaweed as fast as they could. A strong wind blew across the water and lifted the sails and they zoomed away.
Down below, while the seaweed wrapping was going on, the bells by the Sea Witch's cave were ringing like crazy. And then they stopped. The Sea Witch came out of the cave and shook the bells to make sure they still worked, and they did. She then turned on her jet air packs and shot straight to the surface and popped out of the water just as the pirate ships were sailing out of view. The Sea Witch yelled, "Ohhh, meeee, I have lost! Again!" and dove down to her cave to hide for six days.
Meanwhile on the pirate ships, there was much singing and dancing, "Ahoy, Aaargh! We got away from that old Sea Witch. Now let's have some soup! Aaargh!" So the pirates were served soup from the new soup machine delivered by the lego mars mission crystal leaper crew. Each pirate ate three bowls of soup, burped three times and then ate three more bowls, each. Then they went to their bunks to sack out and dream of another day when they could defeat the Sea Witch for good.
Posted by The Editor.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
We moved to our olive-colored house during my last month of first grade and we didn't move from there until the year before I graduated college. Some of the neighbors were there before we came and may be there still. We invented fanciful names for all of them and sometimes exaggerated stories. You have already heard of Paty, who lived right next door on the corner. We were the second house on the right, with a big pine tree in the front yard. Third house, on our other side, was a family of four, and the dad drove a Mercedes, which was a big deal on our street. We called them (secretly), the dad: MercED, the mom, MerceLINDA, the elder son, MercErry, and the baby, MercASON. The dog was MercIGGSY. You may have realized by now, we made up our own fun, a lot.
The other side of the street on the corner were two brothers who always wore diapers with cowboy boots (when they were toddlers!!). Straight across was a newspaper editor and his wife, he would come home and have a beer and pretzels and share with us, the pretzels, I mean, not the beer.
Next to the newspaper man, a sea captain and his wife moved in and put in a pool (also a big deal on the street). We tried to make friends so we would get invited to swim, but somehow, she never wanted two pestery little girls in her backyard, so we called her Mary and did endless imitations of her squatting to water the lawn (why they put in a pool and not sprinklers, I don't know)...the funny part was imitating the cigarette she was always holding (no smokers in our family, it was taboo and therefore instantly funny) and her gravelly voice when she would yell at her dog, Skipper, when he would try to run out of the yard, "Skaaaaypaaaah!"
Next to her was Uncle Sam, who was nice and always brought us fresh plums from his tree in season. Just like we would share our bountiful harvest of oranges every year from the tree in the backyard. Uncle Sam had several high school age children, one son, Chris, who I thought was my true love and caused much embarrassment for me on several occasions.
Further down the street, it gets a little murky, because we weren't allowed to play out of Gigi's eyesight or range of her voice. There were a few other people, Merona and her sister on our side, four houses from the other end, and Karen across from them, who went to school with Paty.
We also had a lady mailcarrier for awhile, which was foreign to us, all our childhood books clearly showed that was a man's job(!) So, we were convinced she was an infiltrator, especially when she parked her mail jeep in front of Paty's house and she got out and sat in Paty's yard with a brown paper bag and cracked something on a tree trunk in code (later inspection after she left showed it was just hard-boiled eggs for lunch).
Such was our childhood cast of characters.
Then, Busy Body reminded me that:
Did anyone else grow up in such a colorful neighborhood? Or did we just have overactive imaginations?
Posted by The Editor.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
~ Elizabeth Prentiss’ Stepping Heavenward
Marlo just turned 18 months. (How did that happen? I remember being a kid and the summers seemed so LONG. We always found plenty to do, but inevitably, there were always a few days when we got bored. Now I cannot find enough time in my day. Bored? Never. I can always find more than enough to do, and then some.) I just don’t know where the past 18 months have gone. In celebration of her half birthday, we put a pink candle in her ice cream after dinner and sang Happy Birthday to her. She tapped her toes and bobbed her head side to side. I think she spit the candle out and then ate it. (Wax can’t hurt you, right?)
I celebrated this milestone by looking back at all of the pictures we have taken of her, from the day she was born to today. How lucky I am to have this perfect little person in my life. How lucky I am to have been blessed with such a treasure. She has always been completely her own little person. I cannot wait to see what she will do next. In the musical “Annie”, Miss Hannigan sings, “Some women are dripping with diamonds, some women are dripping with pearls. Lucky me, lucky me, look at what I’m dripping with—little girls!” She sings it sarcastically, but I sing it sincerely.
I am truly blessed to have Joy and Marlo—the little sweeties of my life!
Posted by The Editor for Busy Body.
Monday, April 5, 2010
When I was three Gigi put me in ballet. I loved it. It was fun and interesting because my teacher had a Spanish accent and I had a lot of trouble understanding her. Gigi would ask me after class how I liked it and how the class had gone for the day. I would tell her, “It was fun, but Miss Blanca likes to clean a lot. She’s always talking about Lysol.” Gigi was very confused, until she heard Miss Blanca say ‘Let’s all’—which (in my defense) did sound a lot like ‘Lysol’.
I loved the leotards and tights and ballet slippers and tutus. I loved the bar exercises and all of the moves and music. I loved it all—at least that’s how I remember it.
I do remember that there were parts that were VERY challenging for me. Skipping almost put me over the edge. I could do one knee up, but not the other one. Gigi had to walk me to class and home for a couple of weeks to help me learn how to skip—with both legs.
And then there’s the whole left-right thing. I have always had trouble remembering my left from my right. It’s very tricky when it comes to a lot of things like following directions, driving, dancing—and when I was three, it was very tricky for ballet. It made it even more complicated for the recital. I was really worried about messing up because of this problem. And so Gigi came to the rescue. She made me a wrist band, out of a ribbon, Velcro, and a flower, to put on my right wrist so I could remember. It’s a good thing, too, because when the recital rolled around my class of 12 or so dwindled down to 2 and the other girl refused to go on stage. My teacher stood behind the curtain and did our “I’m a Little Tea Pot” routine with me. If I hadn’t had that wrist band, I couldn’t have remembered which was my handle and which was my spout.
That was the end of my ballet career. Other things came up, there wasn’t time or money or whatever and I just never took classes again. And I guess that’s why it’s so much fun to watch Joy in her class. She was DYING to take ballet for the longest time and we finally got her into a class in January. We got her the required attire, we prepped her (mentally) as best we could, and took her to class. And she was very serious and dedicated for the first class and a half. And midway through the second class she decided that there was more to ballet than just being a serious student.
Parents are not allowed in the room, but we can watch through the window. I can’t hear what she’s saying, but I can see her talking—almost the entire class. And I see the teacher saying, “OK, now let’s…” and then Joy starts talking again. I think she talks more than the teacher. And then they start their warm ups and exercises. Joy must think that flinging herself onto the floor or making wacky faces is a way to show the teacher (and probably me) how passionate she is about ballet. She spends more time falling on the floor than she does doing plies. (And, mind you, I only get to watch the class in 20 second intervals because I am chasing Marlo around the studio.) But in those 20 second snippets, I see Joy doing belly flops on the floor, eating her snack, spilling her drink, whipping her hair around, and hanging on the bar “I Love Lucy” style.
There are a few things that remind me of my former dancing days. For one, she gets confused with her right and her left. Miss Kris has to get her to do her individual exercises (usually) more than once because she’s on the wrong foot. That doesn’t bother her in the least—just ask her, she’ll talk you through the whole thing, and give you the play by play, then recap it about 20 times just in case you missed something. Another thing that brings back some memories is that there are certain things she has trouble doing—not skipping, because they don’t skip in her class, but other things cause her problems. And I smile because I know eventually she’ll get it.
Sometimes when she’s acting like a goof I am thankful that I have to run around after Marlo because I can pretend that I don’t see what she’s doing. Other times I try to get her attention to get her to stop messing around and pay attention to the teacher, but she catches sight of me out of the corner of her eye, and then she purposely ignores me. There really are no words—what can I say? She’s 4 and she loves life and she loves to dance. And I love her.
What else is there to say?
Posted by The Editor for Busy Body.
Friday, April 2, 2010
Thursday, April 1, 2010
The problems of aging are many and one is the problem of perception. Things are not always viewed with flexibility and adaptation, but are structured by the past.
I usually just wear clear fingernail polish. This is one step above the example set by my mother who never wore polish. Last week, I took off my old polish and then neglected to replace it. On the way to Busybody’s I looked down and observed my hands and thought, “Oh, well. No one will notice.” We had been there about twenty minutes when Joy came over and whispered, “Gigi, if we get through in time this afternoon, I will polish your nails for you.” Good. A four year old noticed. Either she has much more time in her schedule, is more perceptive OR every adult I have encountered has noticed but been too polite to comment.
When my Mom was just entering the shadows of Alzheimer’s, but still able to walk around and attempt some limited tasks, she needed a full-time caregiver but resisted much of the help offered her. Through the week, I would pop in and out to check on her (and the caregiver) and deliver stuff, but Sundays were our days together. I would do many of the things that she refused to have the caregiver perform. Her nails seemed to always need care. I couldn’t stand that little –sometimes-bigger—line of grime that she wouldn’t submit to letting the caregiver remove. On Sunday afternoons, we would sit with a pan of warm, sudsy water on one our laps and chitchat until her nails were Mom clean again. Even from me, however, she balked at any attempt at manicuring, and it was a real challenge to keep her looking cared for.
One Sunday, I thought it would be fun, because the quest of life is for the good, the true, the beautiful and the fun, to take Mom out for a real manicure. She was always mistrustful of leaving the house because I might be tricking her into doing something she had specifically instructed me not to do, but then again, we might be going out for ice cream or pie or boxed candy (from a candy store) and so she went with me, but made it as difficult as possible. At least, I thought it was as difficult as possible until we reached the nail salon, and then I encountered what as difficult as possible really was.
She didn’t want to extend her hands to the manicurist but would turn towards me and grab my dress with both hands and, being far too ladylike to raise her voice, would entreat me with the most pathetic of looks to pleeeaaassseee, get her out of there. The manicurist had to firmly hold one hand while I held the other while she took off a snippet of nail. Mom then forgot being a lady and yelled, “ouch, ouch, ouch.” “Did you feel that?” “Well, no, but I thought I was going to”, she explained to me—the manicurist was either invisible to her or so far beneath her contempt that she would not talk to her. “Well, just wait until you do feel it, please don’t yell about “going to’”, I requested. My request went unheeded. As the snippets came off the second hand (it had to be snippets because Mom was jerking her hands so spasmodically, that the poor girl was afraid to do more) I said, “ Just dry her hands and slap on one coat of polish, we’re leaving” with a glare at the misbehaving mother. As I outrageously tipped the frazzled manicurist, Mom found her inside stage whisper and instructed me, “Don’t give her money for trying to hurt me.” The door had barely shut behind us when she burst out crying with huge crocodile tears running down her cheeks. I was truly fearful that someone would make a 9-1-1 call for elderly abuse while I was trying to get her back into the car.
I clicked her seatbelt with finality thinking I might leave her in for there for the rest of my Sunday visit, tried to cool off as I went around the car and got into my seat and turned to her and said, “What was that all about?” She was too absorbed with her sobbing to tell me. Her little, stooped shoulders heaved with the utter sorrow of her plight and I was helpless to be with her in it or to remove her from the immediacy of the situation. I had cooled down: There was ice around my heart and my hands were ice. THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE FUN!
Finally, she said, “I don’t want to die this soon.” I tried to keep my voice normal, “Why do you think you are going to die soon?” She said, “Well, aren’t you trying to make my hands look nice for when they’re folded?” Ohhhhhhhh, I exhaled that as an eight-syllable word. All her opposition to basic hygiene had really been, to her, her fight for life.
Last week, we didn’t finish playing restaurant, or school or talent show in time for Joy to polish my fingernails, but tomorrow when I get there, we are going to spend a blissful few minutes letting her tend to me while I can still refrain from grimacing, grabbing and downright yelling. I may, however, sneak into the bathroom and remove the polish that goes onto other areas than my nails. Grandmas, you know what I’m talkin’ about!
Posted by The Editor for Gigi.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Marlo thinks it’s funny to take a tissue and put it up to her nose and blow. I think it’s funny, too, most of the time. It’s funny because she’s so little and she’s not blowing her nose—she’s blowing through her lips. Whenever she thinks to do it we always get a good laugh.
This morning at church, a few folks more were let in on the joke.
We go to the family room at church because, as I’ve explained before, Marlo is not 100% in agreement with the whole you-have-to-be-quiet-at-church thing. In fact, she thinks that the quieter it is, the more she should fill in with noise—LOTS of noise.
To add to the challenge of church going with a toddler, Hubs is now playing in a baseball league that was supposed to play on Saturday or Sunday afternoons. They changed the schedule after he joined and so for the next umpteen months I have to fend for myself on Sundays.
So, today we got to church really early. We decided to get a cup of hot chocolate. Marlo had her sippy and Joy and I were going to share the hot chocolate while we waited for the service to start. It took a while for the chocolate to cool. Once it did, Joy picked it up—and dropped it. I’m not sure how a gallon of H.C. fit into that cup, but that’s how much came out. Thankfully, it was cool by then because the only person it got on was Marlo. I did my best cleaning job with half a dozen wipes and then decided it was time to drop Joy off at Sunday School.
Marlo and I then made our way to the family room. We found a nice spot in the front where I could keep an eye on her while she played with the other kids and I could still listen. After the service got started and everyone started to quiet down, Marlo decided she needed to examine the contents of my purse and my diaper bag. The item that got her attention was the package of wipes. After a few minutes of semi-quiet struggle, we negotiated a one-wipe compromise. She decided that the best use for a wipe at that time was to blow her nose.
Much to our surprise, she actually did blow her nose. And, lo and behold, a booger came out! Right on the wipe! Marlo took that wipe and looked at it, and looked at it again—and then, in her loudest, clearest voice, started pointing and asking, “What’s that? What’s that? What’s that?” And if it hadn’t been in the middle of church it would have been very amusing. (The 40 or 50 people around us thought it was funny anyway.) I just wanted to pretend it hadn’t happened, but Marlo, then decided she needed to show everyone—and stayed just two steps ahead of me. When I finally caught her she laughed like it was the funniest thing in the world. I’m hoping that God was thinking it was the funniest thing in heaven, too.
When is baseball season over?
Posted by The Editor for Busy Body.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Spiders are spinning away in the trees
Buggies are bouncing and riding the breeze
Gliding through the sky we’re riding high
The fun we hatch in Sunny Patch
To the Hollow Tree
A family on wings and strings and floaty things
Coming home for hugs
Be good to bugs.
This, my friends, is the theme song to the cute little cartoon, Miss Spider’s Sunny Patch Friends. And, yes, I know the words. All of them. Hubs was surprised the other day when he heard me singing along. It’s a catchy little tune, I have to admit, but the only reason I know it is because it is the favorite TV show of the moment. We have to watch each episode as it comes on TV, record each one to play back later, then re-play our favorite parts over and over and over and over and over. If you lived here you would know it, too.
It’s not all bad. It is a cute, wholesome cartoon that teaches good things. There’s no bad language and Miss Spider’s voice is Kristin Davis. Kristin Davis as in Charlotte of Sex and the City Kristin Davis. The sound of her voice takes me back to the BK* days when I could watch Sex and the City, whenever I wanted to (*BK=Before Kids). I used to be into fashion and fun and cool things…now I am into matching hair bows and kids’ fun and Miss Spider’s Sunny Patch Friends. Fashion these days means wearing a shirt that is NOT decorated with dried drool, food and snot. Fun these days is getting an extra 15 minutes of sleep, even if it means falling asleep on the couch before my favorite TV show has ended. And cool things are getting to hear Kristin Davis’ voice and reminiscing about Sex and the City episodes from yesteryear…until I am brought back to reality by the sound of laughter at something funny going on in Sunny Patch.
Yes, I know the theme song to Miss Spider’s Sunny Patch Friends. That makes me cool with my kids, and for now, that makes me the coolest of the cool—that’s how I roll.
Posted by The Editor for Busy Body.