Thinking Of You, Molly Mae

There was a time in life when I wanted nothing more than to be punk.

Pink hair, black eyes, piercings, wristbands, star shaped accessories.  Punk rock in what I perceived to be all it's glory around the year 2000 or so.

Problem was that I had (in my mind) an overbearing father who obstinately refused to let me dye my hair and pierce my face. I told myself that I just didn't dare defy him. But let's be honest, if given consent, I'm still not sure I would've pulled the trigger.

I've also never looked good in eyeliner which means that the heavily lined eyes I yearned for made me look like a six year old dressed up like a raccoon; and one can't possibly leave the house looking like that.

My lion's mane of hair refused to stay stick straight like Avril Lavigne's and an hour of straightening time just wasn't worth the fifteen minutes of good looks I got out of it.

And that's if there was absolutely zero humidity.

Baggy pants and skater shoes just never looked right on me.

But then again, do they ever really look right on anyone?

I'll admit that this particular phase was relatively short lived.  But the desire to look more exciting than I really do most certainly was not.

I used to resent my so called "classic style". Aka, I don't go out on a limb because I'm always afraid I'll look ridiculous. Which is a good thing because when I go out on a limb I usually do. Now I can appreciate that when I look back at pictures of myself in earlier times I've never gone too far in any direction. I tried a few things here and there, and there is for sure an Emily Look, but I never went totally punk. Or totally homeless as I longed to do in my Phish following days.

But there's something about youth that makes us want to dress up.

Maybe it was the insecurity. Not really knowing who I was or where I fit in that caused a desire to look like someone else. But no matter how long I acted, I never felt like the character I played. I just felt like me acting and no one can live that way for any length of time. I admire those that can fully become the character they've developed. They have dedication that I will never know.

Oh the weight of age.

We get older and learn that while the world is still a stage, there should be no spotlight on you as you hurry through Target to pick up some pads.

There's nothing wrong with standing out in a crowd, in fact it's great when applying for a job. But there's something not right about spending that much time on yourself.

I look at people now who, at one time, would have been an idol of mine if only for their dedication to a certain style, but now I can only think of how unfulfilled their lives must be. Have they really no social or professional obligations that require naturally colored hair?  Ever?  How do they find the time to try that hard to look like they didn't try at all? I'm not fooled. You didn't just wake up in those layers of tattered skirts over worn leggings and wool socks with boots.  I know how much those boots cost and you really aren't as poor as you make yourself look. Which is just fine.

But why are you trying so hard?  Doesn't that get exhausting?

I'm not saying that everyone needs to be so consumed with their daily life that they never take the time to consider what they look like. Some personal vanity is necessary, but there's a time and a place for everything. But at a certain point life does become consuming, and things like complicated clothing and accessory combinations just fall by the wayside.

Moderation in all things...

Damn that Louise for having grown up during The Depression and preaching her scorn for all that's wasted in life.

Wasted time preening in the bathroom. Wasted money on clothes you'll hate in six months. Wasted energy consumed by self absorption.

As for me I choose to save my energy for the things that really matter. Things like peeling the glow in the dark silly putty off the lamp in the living room when I mistakenly said "sounds great!" to Lou as she yelled something incoherent as I tried to pee amidst the chaos of my house with a radio that had somehow been turned up way too loud in the mere moments I had been disposed in the bathroom.

Point is that I need all the energy I can gather. So I no longer want to look punk. Or homeless. Or really anything other than moderately put together.

Style is fine, just keep mine simple.

November Snowstorm

Have we truly no blankets warmer than these?

Is this really the day that  I'm destined to freeze?

My nose is running, I'm ready to sneeze.

But can't get a kleenex from the bathroom I can't see.


For all is dark and black today.

With the storm all our power was carried away.

It's been rather dark and it's been getting colder.

Each night, with sleeping on the bed, Gidget gets bolder.


She snuggles between us, a thing never done.

Usually, the slightest move puts her on the run.

But tonight it is cold so we all snuggle in

And pray that soon the power comes in.


But until that glorious day, I'm left here to say:

Are these really all the blankets we own here today?

Fall Paranoia 2010

With Lou's recent revolt against nap time, bedtime has become considerably more simple.  Suddenly, Other Half and I have more evening free time than we probably know what to do with.

Actually, we have plenty to do, there's always something.

Anyways, we have some free time and the weather's been great so we've been making a point of doing nothing but sitting outside and enjoying the night.

We can hardly see our closest neighbor and the backyard opens up into a field.  So while we can't hear cars or people in the dark we can hear plenty: owls, coyotes, geese, ducks, loons, and rogue racoons to name a few.  And then last night we heard someone walking through the field.

Who was that?

Oh my God, is there someone walking out by The Shed?

Is there someone by the garage?

Who the hell are all of these people?  Where are they coming from?  What are they doing?!?

Ha. Nothing.  There's no one there.

We heard the sound of leaves falling in record numbers.

There's nothing to compare to country living and while there are many benefits, there may be a few drawbacks too.  The isolation can make you a strange and paranoid individual...

Burrs

(Sung to the tune of "Oh My Darlin")

Burrs on the blankets
Burrs on the pillows
Burrs on the bathroom rug

The dogs bring burrs in
And I must clean then
Oh my life is so much fun!

Repeat

It's Amazing What A Minivan Can Do

Especially for your social status at preschool.

Last year, wedding ring less and rusty carred, I was the Quasimodo of preschool.  Sure, I had a kid there, but to the other parents, I was absolutely not an equal.

Well we just got a minivan, and, surprise surprise, I'm a star!  Suddenly I'm everyone's best friend. 

This year I can apparently be trusted with play dates, aka a Watch My Kids for a Few Hours date.  I'm cool enough to be part of the gossip at pick up time.  Did you hear about so and so?  No?  Oh that's right, you DON'T have a minivan...  People wave goodbye when we leave and everyone actually acknowledges my Other Half these days.

Sure there are other benefits to having a minivan if your primary cargo is children; namely the space, comfort, and safety.  But honestly, what good are these things if no one will talk to you?  I'm not sure if minivans are cool to preschool parents because of these things or if minivan makers made them with these features due to the minivan's popularity with this crowd.  Classic chicken or egg question.

Either way, I've certainly gotten a hell of a lot cooler since I got this car. 

Who knew that popularity is as simple as an upgrade?  Let me tell you, I should've done this sooner.

Three Year Old Manipulation

I never ceased to be amazed at the details that Lou picks up and the way she's able to use this knowledge to get her way.

When Auntie A was in town in August, Lou joined in on snack time with Little Man.  Auntie A was trying to get Lou to finish her banana, and Lou was trying her damnedest to get out of eating it.

Hey, Auntie A, do you want to finish this banana?

Oh, no thanks Lou, that's for you,

Well, you know, it has pacalcium in it, and you look like you need some.

Potassium, calcium, who cares?  It all sounds the same to her.  Remind me to never try to convince Lou to eat by telling her about all of the good things in her food.  She'll just use it against me or another unsuspecting victim.

Pint Sized Tutu Chasing Lion

After a year and a half of potty hell, Other Half and I made up a bribe irresistable for any three year old:

Use the potty and you get a kitten.

Friday was the day I had to pay this bribe, so Lou and I made a trip to the local Humane Society.  It didn't take long for Lou to find her kitten- he was the one who cried out every time she walked by and was fiendishly trying to destroy the string tied to his kennel door.   His name is Franklin, a three and a half pound orange striped kitten with irresistible yellow green eyes. 

He's a kitten, therefore anything that moves must be subdued.  He puts up with more than his fair share of loving abuse from Lou, but I'm not sure if it's her he loves or just the tutus and trailing ribbons she always wears.  It's possible that he just thinks she's a life sized interactive toy.  And for some insane reason he's completely enamored of the dogs. 

According to proper pet introduction protocol Franklin was kept in isolation for the first few days.  The introduction to the rest of the Collection, although a bit hairy at times, went better than I had thought it would- namely Lou still had a kitten.  I'm not sure if it's stupidity or naivety or a rash of bravery, but this cat doesn't seem as fearful for his life when he's around the dogs as I am.  In fact, he's been quite reckless about it.  Any kitten should be scared to death by these nosy, noisy, territorial beasts, but I'm starting to think he's no ordinary kitten.

The dogs got kicked out the bedroom for a few nights to ensure that we'd have a kitten to wake up to.  Everyone was a bit salty about it, but exhaustion took over and they slept on opposite ends of the couch.  When Franklin was released from his cozy bedroom confinement he beelined for the couch and popped himself right in between Gidge and Chowder.  The dogs, a bit thrown off at first, were too tired to care as much as they had originally wanted to, and everyone slept together.

For about two minutes until Franklin's ADD attention span gave way.  After all, they have tails that move...

So he bit Gidet's tail for a bit and then curled up on her chest.  After much mewing and pawing at her face, Gidge gave in and started to lick him all over.  Dog-spit covered kitten, lovely.  And when he tired of that he made his way over to Chowder and snuggled in between her legs.

This is a lot funnier if you know that Chowder kills anything that moves, anything, like seven Guinea Hens.

And after making himself comfortable, he decided he should try to nurse.

Ah, the look of sheer terror on Chowder's face was delicious.  We were all inside, so she couldn't kill him and bury him and deny having anything to do with it.  She had to put up with it.  And, surprisingly, she did for a few minutes until she hesitantly stood up on the couch and gingerly stepped down, making sure we saw the care she was taking to not rip this kitten's head off.

The dogs might be scary, but not to this little guy.  And it's a good thing, because the house simply isn't big enough for three animals to not get along.

Lou didn't pick out a kitten, she got herself a lion.

That's NOT How It Goes

I sometimes forget that the library is a great place to pick up music as well as books.  Lou and I recently checked out a CD chock full of chick rock perfect for little girls.  One of the songs is the classic Oh Susanna.

This particular song has ignited some debate between Lou and myself as to the correct name of a particular state.  I call it Alabama.  She calls it Alabambo.

Oh Susanna
Oh don't you cry for me
I come from Alabambo
With my banjo on my knee

This evening, as my Other Half and I were instructed to sing so that Lou could be a ballerina, I asked what song we should be singing. 

Twinkle Twinkle made the list, along with the Ah ah ah song from The Little Mermaid.

And then, for some dumb reason, I suggested Oh Susanna.

What a mistake.

First of all, I started from what I believed to be the beginning of the song.  I sang the first line and was promptly reprimanded because, "That's NOT how it starts!"  When I finally got to the good part, the chorus, I was, again, wrong.

It's NOT ALABAMA!  It's ALABAMBO!  (Emphasis on the "bam").

Well exuuuuse me!  But when I was in Geography class (about a million years ago) the state was, in fact, Alabama.  Somehow, between about 1992 and now the name has changed and I had no idea.

Do all three year olds think they know more than their parents or is this my curse for always knowing more than my parents did?  Is this going to last forever?  Lady, I know I don't have that many years on you, but trust me, in some cases I do actually know what I'm talking about.  Plus, my spell checker just suggested "Alabama" in all instances where I've written Alabambo.

But maybe not. 

Maybe the name's changed and I had no idea, after all, as Lou would say, "Mom, you're pretty old."

Everyone Watch Out, Mom's on the Tractor

Dad, you might want to skip this one...

I'm kidding! 

But seriously, go read something else.

I like to think that as a highly independent woman there's nothing I can't do.  No obstacle too extreme for me and nothing I can't accomplish.  So at the beginning of the summer, after much harassment, I was finally allowed to learn how to operate The Tractor.  Not just that little Cub Cadet I'd been using to cruise around the yard for three years now, but the John Deere.  The mac daddy of tractors. 

Finally the freedom to cut the wildly growing grass myself and not depend on one of The Men when it needed to be done.  And so finally I get to drive The Tractor.

And it's way too much fun.

It's also slightly scary.

See the thing is that the tractor doesn't really pick up speed unless you've got it on the rabbit setting (yeah, I can use it, but I have no idea what the correct terms are for those three fancy levers on the thing).  But once you've moved it up and you're speeding along at a rabbit pace, you realize that you're probably going too fast for your own good.  And then you realize that there's a fence post straight ahead.

Whew, cleared the post, but OH SHIT THERE'S A HILL!

The Tractor has a wonderful safety mechanism that turns off the mower when The Tractor has been driven erratically or you've slammed on the brakes.

Great in theory, but that happens to be how I drive The Tractor; which means that I'm constantly having to restart the mower. 

I'm starting to realize why my dad was so petrified when I got my license. 

So here I am, plodding along, cutting some grass when all of a sudden I realize that I'm just driving and not cutting.  So I put the mower back on and try to retrace my steps.  Therefore, instead of those perfectly mowed lines I want to create, the yard looks like it's been mowed by a drunken clown.

And then there's all the stuff in the yard: Lou's toys, dog toys, branches and other tree debris.

Try as I might, I never seem to avoid these hazards as much as I'd like to think I do.  Thankfully the mower cuts up most of what I run over, destroying the evidence.  But take that Nerf ball, for example, the one that's been living in the backyard all summer, up until the point when I took over mowing.  It's not that I just ran over it.  I think I ran over it at least three times.  Sure Chowdy had ripped it up a bit, but I completely destroyed it.  There's still bits of foam dotting the yard.

And of course I need to watch out for my Collection.  You'd think they'd know better than to try to spend quality time with my when I'm on the tractor.  But there's Chowder up ahead.  She's figured out that if you drop the tennis ball in front of The Tractor it will disappear for a moment before being shot out into the field, much farther than if I had just thrown it for her.  And Gidge considers herself the defender of the yard and she's decided that the yard needs to be defended from The Tractor.  Maybe she just realizes the danger I've put the yard in by operating The Tractor myself.  Either way, she runs right in front of me, barking and acting as if, at any moment, she could hurl herself in front of me and into the path of oncoming dismemberment.  Lady, I put it on rabbit speed!  Get out of my way!

I nearly took out Brandis' nest last week and now I've got all those tiny fluffs of baby to avoid.

But despite the perils, I love driving The Tractor; and Dad, since I know you're still reading, you'll be hard pressed to get me to give it up.  There's something to be said about the freedom of a motorized vehicle.  The feeling that I really could just set off into the sunset and leave it all behind.  Not that I'd get too far, but I'll bet you I could make it out to 96.  It's not the calm, quiet peace that I yearn for, but it's the monotonous drum of the power under your feet and the thoughts inside your head.  I can't hear you, so don't even bother trying to talk to me.  It's the overwhelming smell of freshly cut grass and weeds.  It's the feeling of a pile of grass tossed into your face by a rogue wind, something I don't think you can appreciate until you've been trapped in an air conditioned house with a stir crazy Collection for days on end.  And then there's the birds.  They're smart enough to know that if this noisy beast kicks up grass, it's kicking up bugs too.  So the field is filled with swallows darting around and swooping low to eat their fill. 

And, of course, it's the challenge.  The challenge of getting it all done before nap time's over.  The challenge of making the yard not look like it belongs to hillbillies.  The challenge of fixing the damage I did last time.  And although it's a wild ride, I get better every time. 

So everyone, look out!  Mom's on the tractor and she may never get off.

What's Up With Brandis?

After a week or so of disappearing during the day, Bradis disappeared for good.  I could sometimes hear her if I were working in the backyard, but no one ever saw her. 

And then, one afternoon during Band Camp she was located, hidden in an overgrown garden, covering what appeared to be a surprisingly well made nest.  She left for a bit the next day, after the tractor had decimated the quiet of that garden and I saw the nest first hand.  Very well made.  And filled with sixteen eggs.

And after that she never left again.

So that ruled gathering those eggs, a few at a time, and finally being able to benefit from this Guinea investment I had made.

She sat there.  For more than three weeks.  She never left.  After almost a week I finally brought a water dish down to that garden, not daring to get too close; but she never got up.  I brought chicken food and tried to toss her some so that she could eat without moving.  She bit me last week when I tried that.  Those tornadoes we had?  Brandis stood her ground.  The pelting rain and howling winds were no match for her determination to nurture these unfertilized eggs. 

I was no longer interested in those old eggs; but I was really starting to wonder when they would finally rot underneath her and what I should do about this increasingly desperate situation when I saw her miraculously appear in the yard.  Not far from the nest, true, but this was progress.  When Lou made a beeline for the nest Brandis made a beeline for Lou and we thought it best to keep our distance.

She stayed on the nest the next day, but she seemed to be slightly in front of it; Other Half saw a few eggs poking out from behind her widely expanding tail.

And the next day she was no longer on the nest.  She had moved to the back of the garden and the ground around her seemed to be moving.

Emily, she has chicks.

It took a moment for the nonchalant statement of my Other Half to sink in.

Holy shit she had babies. 

Twelve to be exact.  By the next morning the whole family was out strolling the yard. 

And now, despite my best attempts, I have fourteen Guinea Hens strolling my yard once more.  I swore I wasn't going to get any babies this year.  Apparently that's just not up to me.

What are the odds that of the two rejected Hens, one was a male?  How come I never knew it?  I've read all there is to read on Guinea Hens, and as far as I can tell, the only way to sex them is by listening to their call.  Maybe my ears are untrained, but these two birds sound exactly the same to me; neither more annoying than the other. 

All the same, they had babies.  They probably thought they were the last two Guineas in existence and  the very survival of their breed depended on them to procreate. 

Who knows.  All I know is that I'm back at square one.

There's always something and it never ends.

It's Actually Kind of Quiet Out Here...

Our relaxing summers out here on the farm are usually anything but relaxing; but of course I wouldn't have it any other way.

Our house is always packed to the brim, and since we don't yet have sixteen children, we make sure to fill this empty space with animals.  Sibling is in and out, usually with a ragtag collection trailing him.  But it's been slowly quieting down, and the departure of Other Half started a tailspin of abandonment.

Old Man Band has been having marital problems lately, so their appearances have been sparse.  And then Other Half left.  Quickly followed by the departure of The Band.

In preparation for an EP recording in Chicago, these big strong men have had Band Camp.  Most likely, not the Band Camp you're picturing.

They moved in last Sunday, filling the basement with the awful reek of twenty-three year old boys in the morning.  Instead of our usual six cars strewn about, we now have nine cars rotting in various locations.  Graciously, they did go grocery shopping, leaving me with not an inch of spare fridge space.  You can track their progress starting with the pile of sandals in the middle of the doorway and then finding the heat of an open window in the crisp air conditioning; like arrows pointing you to the Shed.  Following proper protocol, The Band makes sure they never practice during normal business hours, and since the Noise Ban has been lifted, they try not to practice during any of what could be considered "normal hours".  During my mid-morning laundry run I'm regaled with heroic tales of epic bluegrass jams lit by the three am moon.  Never mind the fact that they're all awake and around at one in the afternoon, they're too busy sunbathing in the yard, or jogging topless for all the farmers to gawk, or creating culinary masterpieces, to be practicing.

They meet their mothers for dinner and go out for drinks with their girlfriends and make sure to turn on their amps by ten at night.

Thank goodness we barely have neighbors to notice. 

But, they're serious about Band Camp.  And I have to admit that they do sound incredible after a dedicated and intense ten night stint of awesome rock. 

And they've certainly earned their name.

Their myspace page is littered with pictures taken out here, and after making their presence known for a few days, they started to blend in and actually make themselves useful- never mind that when you go to the Shed to ask for their help they're sweating and rocking out in boxers.  All the same, who was there when we needed to move the unreasonably heavy chicken coop?  The Big Strong Men.  Who can help you start the mower when it's giving you hell?  Big Strong Men.  Who can help you stretch king sized sheets across the line, call the Hounds in from the hunt, and then move that chicken coop again because The Voice has deemed it was wrong the first time?  You got it. 

And now everyone's gone and I'm not sure how I feel about it.  Although I know he's basking in the silence, I've been doing all I can to make sure that The Voice doesn't notice that it's just me left.  Sure, it was liberating to cut the fields in my swimsuit, but I had no background music.  There's no one to mock The Muppet with me and my poor Sweet Monster Head is almost out of her mind with worry.

Bottom line is that it's actually kind of quiet out here.  Sure I'm out here in the country for that blessed peace and quiet, but I'm ready for the mayhem to resume.

Let's hope they all return soon, before I completely lose it and instead of simply talking to my Collection, I wait around for it to respond...

This One's For You, Dear Cousin

Well, it's official, I have a ball and glittering chain.  No longer can I claim single parenting, I'm going to be a wife.

He asked Wednesday night.

This has prompted a wide range of emotions from Lou who can't decide just exactly how excited or how upset she should be.  Amid the frenzied excitement surrounding an upcoming wedding, Lou's found many things to worry about:

1.  After I get married I won't be her mother anymore.

2.  Other Half and I will go live together- without her.

3.  She DOES NOT want to change her name.

This recent development in events isn't entirely unexpected and we've been talking about it with Lou for a while now.  We've made it clear to her that being married won't change a thing about our family.  All it does is tell the world that we are, and always will be, a family.

We have daily talks about family, usually ours, but her concept of family is still new and developing, and up until just over a year ago, our family was me and her.  She accepted my Other Half right away, just as he accepted her, but the newness wore off after a while and she wasn't too sure she wanted to share me.  She and I have talked about how, by loving Dad, I don't love her any less.  Instead of splitting my love I got more.  And then, I got even more because I love our family too.  So I have love for her, love for Dad, love for our family, and then some extra love for the Collection.

Lou had a momentary meltdown when she was seized by the idea that Dad and I were going to get married and then go live together, without her, maybe in the woods or something.  And since I can't tell her how completely absurd the idea of me living in the woods really is, we calmly reiterated the family concept and stressed that marriage changes nothing about our family. 

But maybe we've been stressing this love for everyone always and forever a bit too much.  Stability is key, and I want her to know that I'll always love her, but love doesn't mean I can take care of it all.

We have a rule that if you don't attempt to eat your dinner at dinnertime then it becomes your snack before bed.  No ice cream, no animal crackers, none of the good stuff unless you eat dinner.  And, standard for a Saturday, Lou didn't even touch her plate at dinner.  So, naturally, it was brought back at story time which prompted the following: 

Lou: Mom, I love you.

Me: I love you too.

Lou: We'll ALWAYS live together, right? And we'll ALWAYS be family?  And we'll ALWAYS love each other?

Me:  ABSOLUTELY!  You are, and always will be, my baby girl and I will love you forever!

Lou: Good.
Then can you eat some of these leftovers for me?  Cuz that's what family does, they share leftovers.

Nice try. 

But, like I said, family's a new and developing concept and why not see what you can get away with.

I Think I Got a Riley

I grew up with two dogs, Tara and Riley. 

When I was three, in the first in a series of seemingly unplanned events I would grow to anticipate, I picked out Tara from the humane society.  We thought Tara was around a year old, odds are she was closer to three or four.  A German Shepherd, Corgi mix, Tara was unique, to say the least.  She was my dog, my forever companion, my confidante, my protector, and my best friend with four legs.

Tara knew my soul.   

Riley was the puppy my mom brought home, after being urged not to, and though I loved Riley, he was the dog I never wanted.

Riley's proud heritage began with a Border Collie mother who's favorite lookout was from the branches of a large tree in her front yard.  We have no idea who his dad was.  A Shepherd maybe?  Where Tara followed me everywhere, Riley couldn't care less where I was or what I wanted him to do.  What?  Did you just call me?  Um, actually I couldn't hear you...

Tara's dedication knew no bounds.  If, at the playground, I climbed up the nearly vertical stairs to the slide, Tara was right there behind me.  Something I'm told is all but impossible to teach dogs, much less ones with miniature legs.  She dutifully guarded the front door of the neighbors house when I babysat.  Walking home with me and Doc, guarding us from the silent night on our quiet street.  She never spent the night in one place, preferring instead to take short naps in a rotation of locations: start in the upstairs hallway, as close to center as she could get from the three bedrooms.  From there she moved to the landing on the stairs, my room, my brother's room, my parents' room, before returning to the hall to start the rotation again.

Riley slept wherever he happened to find himself tired and wasn't too bothered if someone came to the door.  No amount of coaxing or treats could convince Riley to ride with us in the canoe.  Tara got in because we were, Riley wanted his feet on stable ground.  We called him Guy Smiley because his hound face made him look like as if he were perpetually smiling, making him always look so pleasant, even when he was blatantly defying you.

We never needed a fence with Tara.  She knew where our yard began and ended and she never wanted to stray too far lest she miss an opportunity to protect the house or one of its occupants.

Riley was a wandering man.  Even away in college I got calls from housewives who'd had my dog with them all day, He's been great, we baked cookies!  Sure I got the occasional angry call to come pick up my dog, he's been wandering the neighborhood; but more often than not I would get a call from a woman who claimed that Riley had come to her door during a rain, or heat, or whatever adverse weather he'd invented, and begged to be let in.  Once in, Riley would happily accept any treats and a nice spot to nap.  When he was ready to be off again he would simply wait by the door.  And if, after a few hours and a failed phone call to convince her husband they should keep this dog, he was still there, I would get a call asking where she could drop him off.

Riley was Sibling's dog.  Two free spirits who had found one another.

So when I found myself dogless more than a year ago, the choice was simple: a short-legged rescue dog who was between the ages of one and three.  I wanted my Tara back.

Unfortunately, I'm afraid I've accidentally acquired a Riley.

Her name is  Gidget.

A Corgi, Australian Shepherd mix, she makes Tara look normal.  She is, at first glance, a slight reincarnation of Tara.  And yet she is also a healthy mix of Riley.

Gidge has Tara's body shape but less fur and different colors, well, that's if you don't count her massively large head. 

Gidge is Lou's best friend.  Always ready with a kiss and a smile, she's the dog that Lou can lean on, literally and figuratively.  She is more than patient with children, specifically the ones pulling her ears and tail.  She's down for a good old fashioned race, but she knows who brought her home and she doesn't want to stay away too long.  She patrols the house and yard, the lethal combination of herding dog heritage makes it impossible for her to ignore any issue, even an imaginary one.

And in so many ways she is my Tara.  She is my four legged nanny and the dog I want to snuggle when I'm happy, sad, confused, or otherwise overcome with emotion.  She loves her mother and she wants nothing more than to see me smile.  She guards my Collection because she knows that it is important to me, therefore it's important to her.

But she is also my Riley.  My goofy dog I will never understand with her own idea of what needs to be done when.

Maybe Gidge is here to teach me a lesson about loving dogs for who they are.  For loving the wanderer in them, their free spirit and departure from the term "mans best friend".  For appreciating that the darling puppy they most surely were only loosely resembles the dog they have become.  Gidge shows me how much I can love a dog that doesn't fit into my idea of what a dog should be.

In the way that Tara imparted her wisdom, Gidge has shared some of hers with me.  I do have my Tara back.

She's just also a Riley.

It's Party Time?

Today at the zoo I saw a mom wearing a shirt that said "Party Today, Confess Tomorrow."

Seriously? 

What kind of a mother wears a shirt that says this?  Is she trying to avoid play dates?  She had two kids, when does she find the time to party?  To whom is she confessing?  Does she tell the whole truth or is this day-after confession just as shady as her previous night's activities?  And how, exactly, does she define "party"?

The P word (don't want to say it too loud just in case Lou is in earshot, which she ALWAYS is, possibly even while she sleeps, it's a crazy osmosis-like process) took on a whole new meaning once Lou was in the picture. 

Party suddenly meant an alcohol free gathering, between the hours of one and four pm, made up of women who wanted nothing more than to share their wealth of maternal wisdom and give me all the things I "absolutely can't live without during baby's first year!" or things that were just "SO CUTE!" they couldn't resist buying.  The spiked punch was replaced with a concoction of fresh squeezed lemonade dotted with drowning fruit.  Finger sandwiches and salads lined the walls and there wasn't an ashtray in sight.  No more drunken darts.  Instead we cut string in an attempt to guess the girth of my ever expanding middle and sampled baby food, guessing what former food had been mashed to create it.     

Party slowly evolved to include birthday parties.  Not the last minute, uncoordinated get-togethers I had been attending not so long ago, but full fledged kids' parties complete with inflatable jumpy and face paints.  They start at ten in the morning and we need two days to get back to normal.  Not because of anything we put in our bodies, but because of the energy exerted by them. 

Maybe I need to get out more often, but it seems that the parties I remember from my past are fewer and farther between.  Now when I hear the word Party my first thought is something along the lines of, "what the hell do you buy a three year old boy?" or "how much do you think they spent on THIS setup?" instead of, "what should I wear?"

We've got a party tomorrow.  And yes, it will be one hell of a shindig, there's going to be fire trucks and cake. 

But really, when your world revolves around someone who's forearm is about the size of your hand what more do you want?

Of course I still want to party like an adult.  And, I'll admit it, I sometimes do.  But I don't advertise it and I have no desire to.  There comes a time- in theory it happens before you have that second kid- where you realize you have to grow up.  Party doesn't revolve around you, it's not for or about you.  And that's not just ok, that's how it should be.

You're a mother now, so save the T-shirts printed with sayings for the childless set.  They have less to lose if anyone finds out about the previous night.

As for me, I'm keeping my "adult parties", and confessions, to myself.

If You Give a Girl a Turkey

If you give a girl a Turkey she has to make sure that he's cozy.

So she makes a little bed and gives him lots of light.

Then she has to feed the Turkey.

So she goes to the feed store to get some Turkey Food.
When she gets there she discovers that the feed store has
     some baby Chicks.
Well she's sure the Turkey wants some friends.
So she gets a couple of Chicks to live with the Turkey.

If she has Chicks they need a bigger house.

So she builds a coop for her Chickens and Turkey.

Once she's built the coop she realizes that it looks really plain.
So she builds some flower boxes to adorn the coop.

Once she's built the flower boxes she realizes that she should
     probably grow more than just flowers.
These birds like corn so she may as well grow some of that too.
When she gives the birds the corn they say they also want some
     grains.

So she goes out into the field and plants some of that too.

The grains grow really fast and soon she has more than she
     knows what to do with.
So because she has extra grain she gets some Goats to keep it
     down.
The Goats get lonely at night and ask for a friend to watch over
     them.

She asks the Dog to sleep outside to watch over the flock.
Of course the Dog wants to sleep inside with her.

So because the Goats are lonely she gets a Llama to keep them
     company.
And that's when she realizes that she needs a bigger barn.

So she builds a nice big barn to keep everyone cozy and out of the
     cold.

Well the chickens have babies and the goats have babies and soon
     she needs more room.
So she buys a bigger farm to make everyone happy.
Her garden grows because if she's growing corn she may as well
     plant everything she likes to eat.

And someday she'll wake up in a large farm surrounded by animals
     and covered in crops.

So if you give a girl a Turkey you should probably just buy her a farm.

And make sure you've got lots of extra cash.

We'll Call Him Mack

This evening family and I went to the beach for a swim before dinner.  As we made drove down Farm Road on the way home my Other Half suddenly slammed on the breaks.

There, just to our left, was a mama turkey and two tiny turkey babies.  They couldn't have been more than a day old.  The little darling stumbled through the field, barely visible above the grass.

That's what my family saw.  What I saw was a lonely baby turkey squatting on the right side of the road. 

My Other Half gave him a wide berth and drove around him.  And then we waited for him to join his mama.  But he didn't join her.  He just stayed sitting on the side of the road peeping like a madman.  After a painfully long minute of his pitiful cries I finally walked over, picked him up, and placed him safely in the tall grass on the other side of the road.  At least he was closer to his family.  Then we stood by the car waiting for him to leave.

But he didn't leave.  And his mother didn't give a damn.  She kept on walking away with her two favorite babies.  Ignoring his cries for help.   

When it was more than obvious that she was just going to leave him there I asked the question we were all thinking: Can we keep him?

And so, of course, we did.  Baby Turkey rode with me in the front seat.  When we got home I busted out the baby chick gear we have from last year's baby guineas.  We got out the heat lamp and crunched up some chicken food for him to eat until I can make it to the feed store tomorrow.  We put Baby Turkey in an empty cardboard box and brought him inside until the baby coop- the rabbit hutch- was ready for him.

Lou wanted to name him Cinderella.  My Other Half is totally over the Princess names.  How about we name The Turkey something other than a Princess name?

Um... Ok. 

Well, how about Belle?

Princess name.

Oh I know! 

Aurora!

After a few unsuccessful attempts to steer her away from Princess names we realized we had the entire arsenal of names from the movie Cars- perfect!  How about Lightning?  Like Lightning McQueen?

Not good.  It should be a girl's name.

She did finally give in, though, when we suggested Mack.  Yay!  We'll call him Mack!  My Other Half is more than a little relieved we didn't name him Cinderella. 

Sure, he might actually be a she, I haven't read enough on turkeys yet to know if there's a way to tell before they get huge.  Oh well, it might actually be Maxine, but for now Turkey is officially Mack.

We had planned on keeping Mack inside for the night to keep an eye on him.  Odds are pretty good that there's a reason his mama didn't want him.  Turns out that day old baby turkeys (poults to be exact) can actually jump quite well.  Mack made his escape from the diaper box as we were putting Lou to bed.  My Other Half discovered him missing and there were a few minutes of frenzied searching- step lightly!- before I spied him frantically trying to leave through the door that goes to the furnace.

So, out to the coop with him.  He looked lonely so I made a bed out of a hand towel and gave him a small stuffed bear to snuggle with. 

And so, once again, the collection grows.  Although at least this time it wasn't, entirely, my fault. 

Oh, and by the way, does anyone have some spare baby turkeys to keep Mack company?

I'm kidding!

I think...

Chronic Bug Aversion

I don't like bugs.

Maybe it's the girly girl in me.  Maybe it's worn off from the distaste for bugs my mother had.  Maybe it's an aversion to all their creepy legs.  I have no idea what it is, but I don't like them.

That's why I have Guinea Hens.

That's also why I have a vacuum.

When my Other Half is around, he's the designated bug-getter.  But he's not always here.  So what's a girl to do?  Why, get the vacuum, of course!  My vacuum is indispensable not only for all the conventional reasons, but also because it's the perfect way to get rid of bugs without having to look at them too closely or to hear that nasty crunch when you grab them.

I don't like to touch bugs- maybe if I absolutely HAVE to, like Lou's life depends on it.  But other than this extreme and remote circumstance, I try not to touch them.  This leaves me with a few options when one appears inside:

The first is the Napkin Technique, where you use a napkin as a paper shield and grab the offending bug.  But you need to get so close to the bugs.  You need to actually grab them.  Sure, your hand is protected by a thin layer of paper, but what if the bug suddenly mutates into a Godzilla-like entity that threatens to destroy your home unless you feed it?  What if it grows a set of fangs and infects you with a poisonous venom in one deadly bite?  And I have to come back to the grabbing aspect because when you grab a bug you need to hold on tightly lest it get away.  What if you feel it?  What if you hear it crunch?

No.  For obvious reasons the Napkin Technique simply will not work.

Another technique is Drowning- glorified water boarding.  This technique removes the risk of a deadly hand bite as your hand need never touch said bug.  But the first problem is that one must get close enough to turn on the water and you run the risk of seeing the bug.  Sure, once the water is on the bug is rendered helpless as he is sent to the watery depths from whence he can never return.  But what if he does?  What if this particular bug is some sort of super bug, able to withstand massive amounts of water?  What if the water actually brings about these super bugs powers; fueling his bug-filled rage and causing him to launch himself skyward and back into the sink?  Plus, this only works if the bug is already in the sink.  If it's not then you're faced with the dilemma of getting it in there and you're most likely going to have to apply the napkin technique.

Therefore Drowning, too, is out of the question.

I could trap them in Tupperware and toss them outside.  The Trapping technique was highly favored with the geckos that often made their way inside when we lived in Florida.  But, again, I don't want to see or get too close to bugs, so I cannot use the Trapping Technique.

The best technique I've found thus far, aside from calling one of the Hens inside, is to suck the offending bug up with the vacuum.  Best part is that you can stay as far away from the bug as your vacuum hose is long.

Of course, you can't just suck up the bug and be done with it.  You need to run the vacuum for a period of time to ensure his death and eternal entrapment.  I like to count to ten before I turn the vacuum off.  It's a good, safe number to count to.  Plus, it's easy to remember in times of high stress, such as the times I'm faced with a bug.

For all of us with Chronic Bug Aversion, there is hope and there are options.  Pick your technique and perfect it.  You too can conquer bugs without the help of a designated bug-getter. 

Although it never hurts to keep one around, just in case.

Time for Me

That's something I have to do for myself.  Make time for myself. 

Time to shower, time do put on makeup, time to read, time to do nothing but be.

That's the thing about being Mom.  My job is to take care of everyone around me, but who's going to take care of me?  For the lack of another qualified candidate it has to be me.

There's this image that mothers try to live up to.  This impossible standard of a well-manicured woman with an immaculate house who makes extravagant dinners but her kitchen's still clean.  A woman who makes sure that everyone's bed is made, the toilet seat is kept down, the pantry is full, the playroom is clean, and the diaper bag is always packed.

We accept this image of a well-run house, but what about the woman behind it all?

How does she find the time to be so put together?

She has to take time for herself.  She has to set limits in order to do this.  How come we don't see that part?  And when the hell does she do it?!?  Out of the plethora of baby advice I received, I really wish someone would have just said to me, "you deserve to shower every day."

Instead I got advice on which diapers to buy, what clothes Lou should be wearing at every stage of life, tricks to get food out of the minuscule crevices high chair manufacturers are apparently mandated to make (why aren't high chairs made of one solid piece of plastic? that would eliminate the countless folds and cracks that trap baby food and breed mold...), what food I should buy, what food I shouldn't buy, which diaper cream was best, where to buy nursing pads, how to fold blankets to form perfect baby sushi rolls, what music to play at bedtime, what music to play in the morning, what books I absolutely, positively must read to my child. 

But nothing, not one little bit of it, was about how to take care of me.  How am I supposed to shower when I have a child who sleeps no more than two hours at a time?  When do I get to read? Do I ever get to just sit?Oh, I should do all that when she's sleeping?  Ok, well then when do I sleep? 

But that's the point of motherhood (martyrhood?).  No one cares if your teeth are brushed.  What matters is whether everyone is fed, diapers are clean, there's socks to wear to the playground and you know what's for dinner.  You have to be the one to care about you, and it's all about finding a balance. 

After my ethereal epidermal with Lou I was seized with the compulsion to curl my eyelashes.  I believe the drug-induced logic was that people would be looking at me, fretting over me after I had given birth. 

Oh how I was mistaken. 

Despite seventeen hours of the most gruesome pain of my life, no one gave a damn how I was doing.  It wasn't about me anymore.

So it's not about me, and it never will be.  But through it all, I do still care whether or not I'm clean.  I do feel better when I've curled my eyelashes, and I'm a hell of a lot more confident when my underwear is clean.  And that's the thing about being Mom.  I'm the one in charge now, I'm to one to take care of others, there's no one here to remind me that it's ok to be clean.  I'm the one who does the teaching now.

So I'm trying to lead by example.  Sure, I could play with Lou as soon as I get up.  But I'll be a much better sport if I have a cup of coffee and let myself shower first.  She won't waste away without me for fifteen minutes and she'll learn that I'm human too- crazy concept.  Hey, she might even learn that showers are something she should WANT to do in the morning.  I can take twenty minutes to read sometimes.  If I want my child to read, it can't just be something I preach.  She values what I value and if I read, then she will too.  And I can curl my eyelashes in the morning.  Odds are I won't give her some makeup complex, hopefully I just teach her to make sure she's put together.

So maybe that baby advice I needed was really just some reassurance that it's ok to take care of me too, doing so won't take away from my parenting.

Well that and, "Leave sometimes!  Everyone will be better off if you do."

Good Lord How I Must have Aged...

Hyundai has an ingenious new commercial for their Sonata featuring a sixteen year old's bedroom. The point of the commercial is that we don't live like sixteen year olds, but we do have to share the road with them so your car had better be safe.

Obviously this room is exaggerated for entertainment purposes, but I'm pretty sure my room was almost equally horrific when I was sixteen.  No wonder my dad was always on me to clean...  Anyways, there's days when I still feel like I'm sixteen and not ready for all of this real life I've got on my plate, but this ad makes me realize just how old I've become.

Being six months pregnant for my twenty-first birthday, I missed out on a lot of that late college, early twenties, roommate-sharing type of life.  There's a small sense of loss at things I've missed out on.  I've never been able to go out and party without worrying about what's going on at home, crash wherever the night takes me, and sleep in on someone's couch the next day before heading out to a late breakfast I can't keep down.  I never lived in that house in some shady part of the city with five other girls where I had some romantic vision of sleeping late and walking down the street for coffee with the last two dollars I had after paying rent. 

But now when I think of those things, I'm not feeling like I lost out on all that much. 

I still have friends living in that rented roommate-filled house in the city, but that life has lost it's sparkle for me.  I have no desire to share a bathroom with someone who isn't family and I can only think how disgusting it would be to cook on a shared stove in a kitchen I'm not all that keen on cleaning because, hey I didn't make that mess, and then eat off of a plate that some other chick has hand washed.

Ick.

I would loathe cleaning the bathroom filled with some other girl's hair and I'm not sure I could bring myself to scrub a toilet used by other people.  Sure I do that here, but at least I made fifty percent of the bladders that use this one.  I'm pumped that I never have to lug a pile of dirty laundry down to the laundromat and let the world see my bras.  I know the dude who cuts my grass and he's the same one who will be doing this until age or a gratuitous income make him stop. 

I can paint my walls without an angry letter from my landlord. 

I have a garden.

In short, it feels nice to grow up.  Nice to wake up early not because someone's yelling that I'm running late, but because I just wake up early now; things to do- always things to do.  Nice to know that the dirty dishes are there because we had a late ice-cream night, not because Mindy came home drunk again and gorged herself on all things chocolate.  Nice that the hair on the floor belongs to me, and that wet spot on Lou's bed is there in the morning because she's three and has night-time accidents that have nothing to do with drinking too much and then taking an Ambien.  And nice that I can park my car in a garage and not down the street three blocks.

Guess that's all part of growing up.

Heavens I'm getting old.

A Place of Her Own

A place for stickers, more specifically.

Lou's three, so naturally, stickers are kind of a big deal around here.  Now don't get me wrong, I like stickers as much as the next gal, but a three-year old in possession of a sticker is a potential house destroyer.  Kids with stickers are in desparate need of a place to put them.

This is because, unlike me, Lou doesn't give a damn if the front door is bit sticky from sticker residue.  She thinks my desk would look a lot nicer if I would just decorate with a few stickers.  See, look how great the fish tank looks now that she's jazzed it up!  She couldn't care less if there are stickers wasting away on the floor; never actually removed, simply worn and ground in...  In short, she just really likes stickers, and if she had her way they'd be dotting the entire house.

Unfortunately, this is where we disagree.

I'm trying to let go some of my obsession with cleanliness, however I can't go so far as to let her decorate, willy nilly, with her stickers.  A girl's got to have some standards.

But I have to remember that the stickers are more than just a Made In China glossy picture of the latest princess craze.  This desire to decorate speaks to our inner desire to make a place for ourselves.  So she needs a place for stickers, we all do.  As adults we have paint, gardens, clothes, and real cars as our stickers.  We are constantly defining ourseves to the world through our stickers.  These personalized objects are signs of who we are and what we value.  And right now the things Lou values are:

     1. Princesses- Cinderella's best, but hey, we really like them all
     2. Anything in the pink and purple color spectrum
     3. Fuzzy animals with oversized eyes

Disastrously for Lou, these are not among the things I currently value above all else.

But Lou needs a place of her own, so I've made some concessions.  It started with sheets of construction paper put up on the wall.  One in the playroom for fun stickers, and one in the bathroom for those ones you earn by using the potty.  She's been given a bit more freedom to place stickers, judiciously and under adult supervision, in a few other places that are designated Lou spaces.  And, of course, she can cover her body with stickers all she wants; that shirt you're wearing, go to town!   

I know that she just wants her world to reflect who she is.

And it's my job to help her to do that without stickers.

Otis and Brandis

Lou has renamed the Hens.  Formerly Cinderella and Miss Lily, the Hens have been renamed Otis and Brandis.

These are certainly more apt names for these two birds.

I asked Lou how she came up with the names.  Oh, she just did.  So I asked her which hen was Otis.

Otis is the one who runs after me.

The Hens are both female, so like any poultry group missing a male, one female acts as the dominant one, taking over the role usually reserved for roosters.  Otis is, apparently, that hen.

Otis is slightly larger than Brandis.  And while Brandis likes nothing more than to relax in the dirt holes they've dug, Otis is constantly on alert.  Brandis looks like she's always warming the eggs she cares nothing about and lays only when she's up in the tree.  Yeah, they're not too smart.  The Hens patrol all day, taking frequent breaks for dirt baths.  Brandis lays down and snuggles into the dirt, kicking it up with her feet and wings.  Otis is down for a quick bath, but she's got things to do and a yard to oversee.  And she's constantly on the offense. 

Any noise will set Otis off.  She stands, alert, and honks in the direction of the offending noise.  Heaven help you if you try to get too close to HER hen, Brandis.  She's the one who scares off the smaller birds and she chases the dogs (and cats) away if they get too close while Brandis lounges.  She's also often running at the always offensive air conditioner.  Leave a ball in the yard?  Otis will run after it, wings up, looking as large as she can, until the wind finally blows it away.

So it makes sense that Lou thinks of Otis as the one who runs after her. 

Big, bad Otis.  Protector of the Hen Tribe.

The Bird Sanctuary

Little did I know upon coming home with those darling little bundle of Guineas that I would soon be opening a bird sanctuary. I have yet to name it, but it's open and operating.

I started out feederless and have progressed to six feeders and a chicken coop. This new combination of food and Hens has left this place crawling with birds. Chickadees and juncos bounce around The Tree and mourning doves dot the power lines. Bluebirds and blue jays flit through the yard, and for a second year the house wren has returned to her nest above the kitchen window. The first set of babies have just hatched, and the nest is too high for us to really spy, but we can see tiny tail feathers peeking out. give them a few days and they too will be flying around this place.  The Pheasant's been spending more time around, getting closer and closer to the house. We used to only see him out in the field until one day he appeared in the back yard. Now he makes a regular appearance. The Hens have begun to return his call from the field.

We've also, apparently, acquired a turkey. The other day as Lou got ready for school, she and my Other Half watched a turkey make his way across the street to hang out with the Hens. The birds stared at one another, separated by the street, for a few moments before the Hens went back to eating. The turkey came over and ate with them. He left as soon as the front door opened, but we've seen him around, spending more and more time with the Hens. I can only imagine what kind of children they'll have...

And for some unknown reason, we've had more than a few ducks wandering the yard. It makes no sense, there's no body of water here, but here they are, none the less.

In short, this place is littered with birds. But on second thought, sanctuary might not be the correct term.

For one we've got three rowdy dogs. That's enough to keep the birds on edge. Not to mention the two cats who are more than ready to catch a bird snack. And then there's Lou. It's a favorite pastime of hers to keep the Hens on their toes. She's runs after them and they run in circles like maniacs. They're not smart enough to fly away, or even just run away. Instead they squawk and run in circles until Lou tires of her game.  She's also not a fan of the birds that live in HER pine tree.  So I often catch her yelling at them to leave, she's trying to have a goddamned tea party!

And the Hens are none too fond of our new sanctuary status.  They don't mind the little birds in the trees, but they chase after the ones on the ground.  Hen 1 (recently renamed Otis) runs after them and honks until they retreat to higher ground.  She also scares away the mama wren when she wanders into the garden.  Those bugs belong to her!

So maybe I haven't opened a bird sanctuary after all.  Maybe all I've done is created more chaos for our already chaotic yard.

Oh well, it's calming for me, so I'll call it a sanctuary.

Battery Operated

As a product of the iPhone generation Lou believes that there's no limit to what a phone can do and that everything runs on batteries.

Broken phone?  New batteries.  Game not working?  No problem, just grab some new batteries.  Dead car?  Just charge that battery.

The other day Lou was biking in the driveway and having a tough time of it.  She was getting stuck in the run-off from the dirt road and her wheels were slipping.  She looked at me soberly and said:

Mom, my bike's not working.  I think it needs some new batteries.

Ha. 

You, my dear, are the batteries, the power behind that bike.  How can we charge you up?  Would you like a snack?  Maybe you need a quick nap.

Wouldn't it be nice if everything were battery operated?  Fixing anything would be so simple.

Good.  Because by the time Lou has to start fixing things herself, everything probably will be powered by batteries.  And she already knows how to fix it all.     

Girls Poo Too

C'mon, it's not that gross.

Why is it that a poop joke is always funny and it's fine for boys to do, but everyone gets all grossed out when girl's poop?  What is this cultural aversion to female feces?  I have to wonder what kind of a message Lou is picking up.  I know that when I was five and figured out that society didn't like girls to poo, I decided that I'd probably be best off just not getting married as I loved to fart but couldn't imagine farting in front of a boy.  What would I ever do if my husband had to go into the bathroom after I poo'd?  He'd totally smell it!

Thank goodness I got over that.  Life would've been lonely.

I went to high school with a kid who didn't find out until his junior year that girls pooped too.  Seriously?!?!  He finally found out because a girl pooped during a party.  Subsequent potty users ID'd the smell she'd left behind.  God we were immature...  Anyways, that's how he found out- not because his mother told him or anything like that.  And not becuase he lived with his mom and any normal person wouldn't go to such lengths to conceal their poo, nope, nothing like that.  Is this something that we're no longer teaching our boys?  Girls are human too and their body functions in basically the same way yours does...  Guess that's just not a popular message.

Instead we pretend that our little girls really are the flowers they're named after.

Well I, for one, encourage the enjoyment brought on by gaseous emissions.  I remind Lou that you're technically not suppossed to fart in public, but hey, we all do it so don't stress.  I tell her that most people outside of our immediate family probably aren't as impressed as we are by her "massive poo", but we think it's cool, so celebrate all you want inside these walls!

Poo is just something that we all do; no sense in fighting what's going to happen anyways, there's plenty of other things to do.

I know that things won't change overnight, it's never going to be socially acceptable to fart in public, and we're girls, so we're probably not going to promote the fact that we poo.  But we all do it, so let's stop stressing so much.

Let's remember that girls poo too, and that's just fine!

Field Trip Trauma

Today was the annual end of the year field trip to the Animal Farm for Lou's school. 

Of course it's been raining all week, making the already muddy farm even muddier, and creating puddles so large and delicious even I could hardly resist them.  Needless to say, everyone was soaked by the time we finally made it back to the parking lot, and the relief I felt when I saw my car and knew that I had the freedom to just leave was immeasurable.

But this thought occurred to me as I was wrangling stray children and herding them towards our tour guide: why is it that the only parents who came along are the parents of the children who don't need them there?  I know that if I were to send Lou on the field trip alone she would behave herself.  Sure, she'd still be a three year old, but she'd come back when you ask her to, she wouldn't barge into the barn if you told the kids not to, and she wouldn't push, shove, hit, bite, bicker with, bother, or in general harass everyone else.  Same could be said for the children of the other five parents who came along.

The kids you really dread taking out in public, those are the kids who are allowed to go on field trips sans-parent.  Why is that?  If my kid were half the problem that some of these other ones were, I would be too embarassed to leave her alone with others. 

Actually this lack of parent is probably why these kids are the way they are, but I'm trying to be non-judgemental here (not an easy feat for me as many of you know).

Are these parents that desperate for a break that they need an entire week of mornings off from their child, no matter the circumstance?  That they're willing to let their children traumatize other parents?  It's bad enough that the teacher knows what your kid's really like, are you sure you want everyone else to as well?  Maybe just living with such a whirlwind clouds the senses and dulls the part of the brain used for rational judgement.  Clearly, some of these parents weren't thinking when they dropped their tired crab-monster off at school with a bag lunch and sped back to the comfort of their couch. 

Honestly, if your kid is three, four, or five years old, then this field trip, one of only two the whole year, is a pretty big deal and if you're not working, then what's your excuse for not being there?  Why wouldn't you want to be there to take pictures and be in the loop when your kid starts retelling the field trip at dinner?

I'm not a parenting expert, but it seems to me that mostly what these frenzied maniacs want is for someone to listen to them.  They talk incessantly, and if it gets on your nerves, then try listening to it for a while.  Kids are more likely to shut up and take a break if they know that you'll listen when then open their mouths again.  They push because it makes you pay attention, and they run off just to see if you'll care enough to go get them.     

Problem is, that when it's not your kid, the knee-jerk reaction to a kid who's been nothing but a bully all day and shoves yours is to slap her across the face. 

I'm still debating whether or not that would've been a good idea.  Sure I'd probably feel pretty low right now, and true, it wouldn't be setting the best of examples for Lou, but if she's made it to the age of five and no one has yet taught her that that's just not acceptable, then maybe, in some ways, I'd be doing her a favor by teaching her. 

The point is, I can't parent your kid.  Neither can any of the other parents who came along, and Lord help the teacher who has to see that child every day.  I know, it's exhauting having a high-intensity kid, believe me.  But this is your high intensity kid, so get used to it, and start taking some control over the situation and both of your lives.  Even just pretending you're in charge can do wonders- for your self-esteem and your kid.  Try it sometime.  You just might find that being around your child isn't that big of a chore and maybe next time you'll tag along on the field trip.

Unless your kid is the shover.  Better to just cut your losses now and admit defeat.

I'm kidding!

Kind of.

Booger Cup

It's been a hell of a week.  I've got some extra time this morning and I thought to myself, I should really sit down with a cup of coffee and catch up on the news...

Since I'm half-blind before I have my coffee I poured myself the cup my Other Half has so thoughtfully left out for me and stumbled towards my desk.  I gingerly took the first sip, which is always too hot for me but I can never resist, clicked on Drudge and then wrapped my hand around the handle for a good gulp.

And that's when I noticed something sticky.  My middle finger was suctioned to the cup, held in place by a massive booger.

Gross. 

Although after three years of being a mother, it's not as gross as it once would have been.

I will bet you all I own that I know who put that booger there, although I can't even pretend I know why she did it.  Probably just because.  I'm often amazed at the places where they show up, but this is a first on one of MY cups.  If it were anyone else leaving boogers on my cup, this would be a really big deal.  Like a "you should really avoid mom for a while" kind of deal.  But since she's not here for me to see that smirk, I have no idea if this was done to be funny or if she just needed a place to hide her booger before dad saw it. 

What is it about our own flesh and blood that makes us so complacent in their abuse?  Ok, maybe abuse is too strong a word, but I think that in some countries, the crap I've put up with lately is considered abuse.

Like yesterday, when after a big day, she completely melted on the way to the car.  Had to be carried, kicking and screaming; strapping the car seat was an incredible feat of skill and speed.  She yelled the entire six minutes home that she just didn't love me anymore, her strongest insult since the word hate has been ruled out by a preschool of kids not allowed to express strong feelings.  Of course she got distracted once we got there and saw that Grandpa had mowed the majority of the field.  But I'm pretty sure that exposing the ear drums to a scream that high pitched for six minutes at a time is in fact a torture method used on terrorists. 

But I'm her mother so not only am I suppossed to put up with this crap, but I'm also suppossed to try and understand where it's coming from.  So I stayed calm in the car, resisting the urge to turn around and do my best impression of my dad and tell her to SHUT THE F*** UP! and willed myself to remember that she'd had a big day and skipped nap. 

Maybe it's those high intensity times that make the small things, like boogers on coffee cups, seem a lot funnier than they probably are.

There are a million ways to make someone smile.  And while a valiant attempt was made by my duo on Mother's Day, it's really those moments you don't expect that make life enjoyable.  And, of course, it doesn't hurt that boogers are easily removed. 

Wish the same could be said for those damn shower crayons...

Adding to the Collection

Well it's been almost three weeks since poor Pierre went up to fish heaven (aka our septic system).

He'd been pretty sad for a few days, moping around the tank.  Cinderella did her best to cheer him up, nibbling his tail and nudging him in an attempt to make him feel better, but to no avail.  I came home one day to find him quite dead.

Thankfully he was anchored near the bottom, wedged between a few rocks.  I was hoping he'd stay there until after Lou went to bed and my Other Half came home from work so that he could be the bad guy and flush the fish.  Unfortunately, Cinderella was still trying to cheer him up so when I looked at the tank a few minutes later she had dislodged him and he was drifting all over, even Lou would know he was was dead.  Therefore I would have to be the one to flush him, and quickly, before naptime was over.  Here's my dirty little secret: even though I've had a fish for about the last five years, they creep me out.  They're fine when they're in the tank, but I hate how the wriggle when I scoop them out to clean...  I used to stand outside my dorm room and wait for someone willing to scoop out the fish each week so I could clean the tank.  Then when the tank was clean I'd have to wait again for someone willing to put the fish back in.  

Anyways, I put on my big girl pants and flushed Pierre.  And Cinderella has been lonely ever since.  So this morning as I ran errands I stopped by PetsMart to buy her some new friends. 

I couldn't figure out where they kept the smaller goldfish.  In the rows upon rows of fish the only goldfish I found were the large ones with puffy cheeks, and that's just too much fish for me and our small tank to handle.  I finally found someone who appeared to work there and asked where they kept the smaller goldfish.  The kid stared blankly for a moment or two before the lightbulb came on.

Oh, they're in the Feeder Tank!

The feeder tank?!?  Gross.  Remind me to never buy a pet that I have to feed live fish to, not that I'll probably need much reminding.  He walked me over to the feeder tank, a veritable clusterfuck of skinny goldfish in various colors and undetermined states of life and death, and told me to pick some out, he'd be back in a minute after he moved some boxes.  I had to walk away and check if the tortoise was still around, I couldn't handle all these fish crawling all over eachother.  He finally came back and asked if I'd picked any out.  Was he kidding?  It was impossible to see individual fish in there.  I told him I had a lonely goldfish, and could he please just scoop out two that looked reasonably alive.

With suprising disregard for the welfare of the fish, two living goldfish were quickly scooped up and put in a bag.  I also decided to get a male betta to put in a flower vase that's been sitting around here for months.  I never get flowers anyways, and we've been talking about how it would look cool to have a fish in that vase. 

 

Yeah, I know I have a collection problem.  

On the way home I wondered what Lou would name the new fish.  Chances are they'll be named Ariel and Belle, but I wasn't sure what she would name the betta.

I got home just before naptime ended.  Lou got up, came to find me, and spied the fish instead.

Oooooh!  Princess Tiana!!!  Mom, thank you so much for getting me a Princess Tiana!

Who would've thought that a thirteen cent fish could bring so much joy?  I think I'm going to stop buying toys.

The other goldfish is named Princess Belle, and the betta has been named Prince Charming because he's a boy. 

I'm not sure how long the fish craze is going to last, hopefully long enough for Lou to be able to scoop them out of their tanks when it's time to clean.  Either way, I'm stuck with fish for a while now.

Oh well, it's fun, it's funny to hear the names Lou comes up with, and entertaining to watch.

At least now the cats have a TV.