As I discussed earlier, I have recently received a prescription for Vicodin. I’ve never taken Vicodin before and was concerned about how it would affect me. Needless to say, after taking it for six days, I decided I was better off without the Vicodin.
On the first evening of my injury, I took one Vicodin at around 6 pm and another around 9 pm. (The bottle said I could take 1-2 every six hours.) It was around 9 pm that I decided it would be a good idea to soak my ankle in a container of ice water, as recommended by my doctor. While trying to get the container off of the countertop, I knocked over a plate which promptly hit my good foot, bounced off, hit the ceramic tile floor, and shattered into a million pieces. I then abandoned my quest to soak my ankle in ice water and went back to the couch.
After a few minutes, I decided it would be a good thing to organize my bills/mail that had accumulated over the long weekend I was away. (Apparently, I have a hard time with the injury = rest & relaxation thing.) I sorted my mail into several piles - bills to pay, checks to deposit, and garbage. By this time, the Vicodin high was feeling pretty good and I thought it would be a good time to go to bed. I threw away the garbage and put the bills and checks in my briefcase.
Or so I thought.
Vicodin makes me very foggy, even when it is technically out of my system. I wasn’t taking it during the day, but even the one pill at night made me feel slow during the day. So, I decided this weekend to stop taking it. That was when I decided to reorganize my mail, including the bills and checks I sorted several days beforehand.
And that was when I realized I had thrown away a check for $800 from my dad, which was repayment for airplane tickets I purchased for him and my mom a couple of weeks ago. (While my dad loves to shop online, he has an inherent fear of places like Priceline or CheapTickets and will not shop at those sites. So when I told him I had found a good deal on tickets, he made me purchase them.) Not only had I thrown it away, I had thrown it away and the garbage men had already picked up the garbage. Damn!
So, last night I had to call my dad and ask him to send me another check. Since "The Closer" was on until 9 pm, I called them around 9:15 pm. It took my dad six rings to get to the phone, which is unusual because he always answers it as if he was sitting on the phone (because he usually is). When he finally answered, the answering machine came on and I had to identify myself three times (by name, I might add) before he realized who it was.
Dad: I can’t turn the machine off . . . could you call back?
Me: OK. (I hang up the phone, think that's weird and call back)
Dad: Hello?
Me: Yeah, it’s me.
Dad: I can’t turn off this god damn machine . . . hold on. (fumbles with answering machine for a few seconds.)
Dad: OK - what’s up?
Me: Oh, nothing much but I need a new check for those airplane tickets.
I then explained at length what had happened with the Vicodin and my stupidity, mistaking my dad's silence on the other end for irritation with me for being so irresponsible.
Dad: What check?
Me: The check for $800 you sent me for the airplane tickets.
Dad: I sent you a check for $800?
Me: Yes, for the airplane tickets.
Dad: To you?
Me: Yes!
Dad: Did it bounce?
Me: NO! I threw it away on accident. I need a new one.
Dad: For how much?
Me: $800.
Dad: Let me check my register. . . .
Long pause.
Dad: You haven’t cashed it yet, according to my bank.
Me: I know! I threw it away! I need a new one so I can cash it!
Long pause.
Dad: You know what . . . I just took my sleeping pill right before you called. Could you email me about this tomorrow?
Me: Sure, goodnight.
Well, at least I know he'll understand about the Vicodin-fog thing.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Monday, September 15, 2008
"You're Just Working Part Time Now, Right?"
This is a quote from my lovely sister-in-law during our past family weekend.
I'm not kidding.
For those of you who know me, you know why that is funny and how freaking clueless she is. For those of you who don't know me, I'll explain how bat-shit crazy that statement is and then you will laugh . . . and perhaps want to slap her silly. (Seriously . . . would somebody please slap her silly? It violates family code for me to slap her, but if a perfect stranger did it, that would be just fine.)
Anyway, to know why this is funny, you have to know a little bit about me. First . . . yes, I am a lawyer and a mother, as are many other people. However, sometimes I have a really hard time truthfully saying I put my children before my job. I think I usually put my children before my job, but my priorities may be a bit skewed at times. I love my job. I am good at my job. When someone asks me, "Who are you?" I will say "lawyer" before "mother" in most circumstances.
Don't get me wrong, I love being a mother and I love my kids. But motherhood does not subsume my individual persona and delete all that I was before being a mother. I did not give up being an individual just because I had a family.
Second, I'm a very progressive person. I was raised by two working parents, both of whom loved their jobs very much . . . as much as they loved their children. We were not the traditional family where dad worked and mom stayed at home cleaning and caring for children. Truthfully, if my mom had stayed home with us, one or both of us would not have made it past the age of 11. In short, I was raised to value myself as an individual, as a woman, as part of a couple, and as a mother equally.
My sister-in-law is very similar in those respects. I know she loves her job as much if not more as her children. (She's not a lawyer, but some sort of wicked-smart statistician.) She never wanted to take maternity leave (until she actually realized it might be hard to recover from giving birth and take care of a newborn and work at the same time.) She gets pissed when my brother works too much and leaves her at home with the kids. I know nothing about her family (because she doesn't speak to them), so I can't compare on that front. But my point is that she should understand the working mother thing, but . . . as usual, she sees nothing of the world outside her own steel box of a brain.
The other thing about me that makes this statement funny is I'm a single mother. That means . . . . (shocker) . . . I parent alone. That means, there is only one income in my house. So, how exactly would I be able to survive with two kids on half my income and still be able to afford things like . . . my car, my house, my student loans, and family trips to Galena?
Clueless.
CLUELESS, I tell you.
C-L-U-E-L-E-S-S.
When she asked this question, I must of looked stunned or confused or dumb-founded because she added, "Well, I mean . . . you know, because having the two kids and all. I thought you wouldn't be able to still work full time."
I responded, "Oh, of course I am!"
What I wanted to say, "And the alternative is . . . welfare?"
She responded, "I still don't know how you do it."
I responded, "Oh, thanks."
What I wanted to say, "Because I'm a better person then you are. That's how I do it."
I'm not kidding.
For those of you who know me, you know why that is funny and how freaking clueless she is. For those of you who don't know me, I'll explain how bat-shit crazy that statement is and then you will laugh . . . and perhaps want to slap her silly. (Seriously . . . would somebody please slap her silly? It violates family code for me to slap her, but if a perfect stranger did it, that would be just fine.)
Anyway, to know why this is funny, you have to know a little bit about me. First . . . yes, I am a lawyer and a mother, as are many other people. However, sometimes I have a really hard time truthfully saying I put my children before my job. I think I usually put my children before my job, but my priorities may be a bit skewed at times. I love my job. I am good at my job. When someone asks me, "Who are you?" I will say "lawyer" before "mother" in most circumstances.
Don't get me wrong, I love being a mother and I love my kids. But motherhood does not subsume my individual persona and delete all that I was before being a mother. I did not give up being an individual just because I had a family.
Second, I'm a very progressive person. I was raised by two working parents, both of whom loved their jobs very much . . . as much as they loved their children. We were not the traditional family where dad worked and mom stayed at home cleaning and caring for children. Truthfully, if my mom had stayed home with us, one or both of us would not have made it past the age of 11. In short, I was raised to value myself as an individual, as a woman, as part of a couple, and as a mother equally.
My sister-in-law is very similar in those respects. I know she loves her job as much if not more as her children. (She's not a lawyer, but some sort of wicked-smart statistician.) She never wanted to take maternity leave (until she actually realized it might be hard to recover from giving birth and take care of a newborn and work at the same time.) She gets pissed when my brother works too much and leaves her at home with the kids. I know nothing about her family (because she doesn't speak to them), so I can't compare on that front. But my point is that she should understand the working mother thing, but . . . as usual, she sees nothing of the world outside her own steel box of a brain.
The other thing about me that makes this statement funny is I'm a single mother. That means . . . . (shocker) . . . I parent alone. That means, there is only one income in my house. So, how exactly would I be able to survive with two kids on half my income and still be able to afford things like . . . my car, my house, my student loans, and family trips to Galena?
Clueless.
CLUELESS, I tell you.
C-L-U-E-L-E-S-S.
When she asked this question, I must of looked stunned or confused or dumb-founded because she added, "Well, I mean . . . you know, because having the two kids and all. I thought you wouldn't be able to still work full time."
I responded, "Oh, of course I am!"
What I wanted to say, "And the alternative is . . . welfare?"
She responded, "I still don't know how you do it."
I responded, "Oh, thanks."
What I wanted to say, "Because I'm a better person then you are. That's how I do it."
Friday, September 12, 2008
Damn Nature!
For my parents' 40th wedding anniversary, I decided to arrange a family get together weekend in Galena. We rented a large four bedroom house in the Galena Territory, which was beautiful. The house was perfect for the nine of us - me, my two kids, my parents, my brother and sister-in-law, and their two kids. The house was down in a valley and surrounded by trees. Oak trees, to be exact.
There were two decks and a porch. The larger deck was half screened in and half open. We grilled almost every night we were there for the grown-ups' meal. We ate in the screened in porch-dining-room. The other porch was smaller and all screened it. It contained a hammock and was on the third floor. Swinging in that hammock in the middle of the oak tree forest was like heaven. There was a slight chill in the air and I took my kids up there and rocked slowly to the beat of a nearby woodpecker. I sang them every song I could remember while we snuggled under a blanket and rocked. We listened to the oak trees drop their acorns one by one on the roof of the porch. I could have stayed there in that hammock forever.
As is par for the course for any family gathering, there were ups and downs. Any family that says they get along with each other for five straight days is lying. Real families don't work that way. We all have our own quirks and habits, our own pet peeves and annoyances, and we all have old family-battle-wounds ready to be exposed for fresh blood.
But those old wounds are the subject of another post. I'm here to speak of new wounds . . . mine, specifically.
On Tuesday late morning, we were all packed and ready to go. My kids were crabby because it was right after lunch and time for their naps. My plan was to get on the road so they could sleep all the way back to Peoria in the car. I was in a rush. I was charging around like a madwoman loading the car. I was charging around on an uneven gravel driveway . . . covered with acorns. I slipped on a bunch of acorns, heard a loud POP from my right ankle and went down.
I'm sure I screamed FUUUUUUUCK!!!! because it hurt like a son-of-a-bitch. As I lay on the ground, my son came to look at me saying, "Mama! Mama! Mama!" My daughter and my parents were right there too. The swelling in my right ankle started immediately and I couldn't put any weight on it.
God Damn Acorns!
I found some athletic tape in a first aid kit and wrapped my ankle. My parents offered to take me to the hospital in Galena or drive me home to Peoria. Both of those options sound like a colossal waste of time . . . and huge disruptions in my kids' schedule that would surely lead to screaming and fit-throwing. No. I wanted to keep on my schedule and . . . just . . . go . . . home.
The good news was I could still drive, after copious amounts of Advil. The pressure of using the gas and brake pedals was not that bad on my ankle. So I drove all the way home and then called a very good friend to come sit with my kids while I went to Prompt Care. After one look at the ankle, the doctor thought it might be broken.
But it wasn't . . . just a really, really bad sprain. So, I got a nice air/gel split, a beautiful set of crutches, and a three week supply of Vicodin. Yay Vicodin!!
The first night wasn't so bad. I took a Vicodin and thought . . . this will be fine. Sure - I'll hobble around for a few days, but it won't really slow me down.
WRONG. Having a sprained ankle sucks and sucks hard. Let me tell you the ways it sucks and sucks hard:
(1) My foot looks disgusting. It is all swollen and purple/red/green/grey/yellow. The black-purple bruises go all the way around my foot. The purpleness extends to my toes and my toes are swollen. Worse than that . . . I can't comfortably reach my toenails to paint them and the old polish looks like hell. And even worse than that . . . I can't balance long enough in the shower to shave my legs. Bottle of Nair . . . here I come!
(2) Walking on crutches is fucking HARD work. By the end of the first full day of crutches, my arms hurt worse than my ankle. So, I abandoned one crutch and am hobbling around using one as a counter balance to my gimpy foot.
(3) It takes twice as long to do anything (although that may be a side effect of the Vicodin) and certain things start to look impossible. I haven't done laundry from our trip yet because I would have to repeatedly go up and down two flights of stairs carrying laundry baskets and I'm just not able to do that while either (a) sitting on my butt and sliding down or (b) crawling up on my knees.
(4) The only shoes I can wear are Birkenstocks because my foot is so fat. This may become an issue when I have to go to court. Birks are frowned upon in court. Hell . . . exposed toes and heels are frowned upon in court.
(5) Because I can only wear Birks, my work clothing options are limited unless I want to look like an idiot. And since I already look like half an idiot limping at a snail's pace around the office, I don't feel like looking like a complete idiot.
(6) People have been so nice and helpful, but I have a really hard time accepting help. It was so hard to watch Katie wash my dishes last night while her daughter helped my daughter get ready for bed and her son pick up toys in my living room. I don't know how I will ever repay them, although I did promise to clean their house if Katie ever breaks or sprains anything.
Although some people think I am whining too much, I have actually found some bright spots in my current predicament. This injury has shown that maybe I need to take a step back from my Type A tendencies. Does it really matter that the house is not totally picked up? Does it really matter that there is undone laundry, as long as we all have clean clothes to wear? Does it really matter if we don't leave the house exactly on time in the morning? Will my children be permanently harmed by eating fast food every night for a week? No. (I really typed "yes" there first . . . I'm working on it.)
I don't know who said, "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger*" but I subscribe to that theory. Given the last year of my life, I should be really freaking strong by now.
*Here's the thing with that quote - if something doesn't kill you, it makes you stronger, right? But you won't know if something is killing you or making you stronger until you are dead. Then you will know what killed you, but it's not like you can go back and say, "Damn it - that thing really was bad enough to kill me" because you're dead. So, just assume everything makes you stronger until something kills you. If you don't die, then you know you are stronger!
There were two decks and a porch. The larger deck was half screened in and half open. We grilled almost every night we were there for the grown-ups' meal. We ate in the screened in porch-dining-room. The other porch was smaller and all screened it. It contained a hammock and was on the third floor. Swinging in that hammock in the middle of the oak tree forest was like heaven. There was a slight chill in the air and I took my kids up there and rocked slowly to the beat of a nearby woodpecker. I sang them every song I could remember while we snuggled under a blanket and rocked. We listened to the oak trees drop their acorns one by one on the roof of the porch. I could have stayed there in that hammock forever.
As is par for the course for any family gathering, there were ups and downs. Any family that says they get along with each other for five straight days is lying. Real families don't work that way. We all have our own quirks and habits, our own pet peeves and annoyances, and we all have old family-battle-wounds ready to be exposed for fresh blood.
But those old wounds are the subject of another post. I'm here to speak of new wounds . . . mine, specifically.
On Tuesday late morning, we were all packed and ready to go. My kids were crabby because it was right after lunch and time for their naps. My plan was to get on the road so they could sleep all the way back to Peoria in the car. I was in a rush. I was charging around like a madwoman loading the car. I was charging around on an uneven gravel driveway . . . covered with acorns. I slipped on a bunch of acorns, heard a loud POP from my right ankle and went down.
I'm sure I screamed FUUUUUUUCK!!!! because it hurt like a son-of-a-bitch. As I lay on the ground, my son came to look at me saying, "Mama! Mama! Mama!" My daughter and my parents were right there too. The swelling in my right ankle started immediately and I couldn't put any weight on it.
God Damn Acorns!
I found some athletic tape in a first aid kit and wrapped my ankle. My parents offered to take me to the hospital in Galena or drive me home to Peoria. Both of those options sound like a colossal waste of time . . . and huge disruptions in my kids' schedule that would surely lead to screaming and fit-throwing. No. I wanted to keep on my schedule and . . . just . . . go . . . home.
The good news was I could still drive, after copious amounts of Advil. The pressure of using the gas and brake pedals was not that bad on my ankle. So I drove all the way home and then called a very good friend to come sit with my kids while I went to Prompt Care. After one look at the ankle, the doctor thought it might be broken.
But it wasn't . . . just a really, really bad sprain. So, I got a nice air/gel split, a beautiful set of crutches, and a three week supply of Vicodin. Yay Vicodin!!
The first night wasn't so bad. I took a Vicodin and thought . . . this will be fine. Sure - I'll hobble around for a few days, but it won't really slow me down.
WRONG. Having a sprained ankle sucks and sucks hard. Let me tell you the ways it sucks and sucks hard:
(1) My foot looks disgusting. It is all swollen and purple/red/green/grey/yellow. The black-purple bruises go all the way around my foot. The purpleness extends to my toes and my toes are swollen. Worse than that . . . I can't comfortably reach my toenails to paint them and the old polish looks like hell. And even worse than that . . . I can't balance long enough in the shower to shave my legs. Bottle of Nair . . . here I come!
(2) Walking on crutches is fucking HARD work. By the end of the first full day of crutches, my arms hurt worse than my ankle. So, I abandoned one crutch and am hobbling around using one as a counter balance to my gimpy foot.
(3) It takes twice as long to do anything (although that may be a side effect of the Vicodin) and certain things start to look impossible. I haven't done laundry from our trip yet because I would have to repeatedly go up and down two flights of stairs carrying laundry baskets and I'm just not able to do that while either (a) sitting on my butt and sliding down or (b) crawling up on my knees.
(4) The only shoes I can wear are Birkenstocks because my foot is so fat. This may become an issue when I have to go to court. Birks are frowned upon in court. Hell . . . exposed toes and heels are frowned upon in court.
(5) Because I can only wear Birks, my work clothing options are limited unless I want to look like an idiot. And since I already look like half an idiot limping at a snail's pace around the office, I don't feel like looking like a complete idiot.
(6) People have been so nice and helpful, but I have a really hard time accepting help. It was so hard to watch Katie wash my dishes last night while her daughter helped my daughter get ready for bed and her son pick up toys in my living room. I don't know how I will ever repay them, although I did promise to clean their house if Katie ever breaks or sprains anything.
Although some people think I am whining too much, I have actually found some bright spots in my current predicament. This injury has shown that maybe I need to take a step back from my Type A tendencies. Does it really matter that the house is not totally picked up? Does it really matter that there is undone laundry, as long as we all have clean clothes to wear? Does it really matter if we don't leave the house exactly on time in the morning? Will my children be permanently harmed by eating fast food every night for a week? No. (I really typed "yes" there first . . . I'm working on it.)
I don't know who said, "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger*" but I subscribe to that theory. Given the last year of my life, I should be really freaking strong by now.
*Here's the thing with that quote - if something doesn't kill you, it makes you stronger, right? But you won't know if something is killing you or making you stronger until you are dead. Then you will know what killed you, but it's not like you can go back and say, "Damn it - that thing really was bad enough to kill me" because you're dead. So, just assume everything makes you stronger until something kills you. If you don't die, then you know you are stronger!
Thursday, September 4, 2008
The Gravy Train Has Ended
When I was born, my maternal grandfather decided he would send each grandchild a birthday present equaling $1 for every year they had achieved. So, when I was 10 years old, he sent me a check for $10; when I was 21 years old, he sent me a check for $21, etc. Although I am his oldest grandchild, he did this for each of his 8 grandchildren.
This continued until I turned 30. When I turned 30, he decided to cap the birthday presents at $30. I think there were a combination of factors. First, it is probably hard to remember the ages of his grandchildren and make sure they all got the right amount. Second, he was a firm believer in adults being able to support themselves and probably thought that once you reached 30, you should not need more money from your family. (Of course, history in my family shows this is patently untrue - we're an educated lot, but not particularly savvy with money - but whatever . . . .) Third, I think he was worried about his own longevity and fairness. As the oldest grandchild, I was destined to benefit more from age-calibrated birthday gifts than my youngest cousin, who is 16 years younger than I am.
Most importantly, however, I think he began to worry about the amount of money he would be paying out in a year. The year I turned 30, his other grandchildren would have turned 27, 26, 23, 22, 19, 17, and 14. This equals $178 in birthday gifts. Now, my grandfather is not a poor man and has significant retirement savings. However, he also can be quite miserly when it comes to spending money on other people.
So, for six years, I received $30 every birthday. And then came this year . . . my 37th birthday was at the end of August. I got my card from him yesterday. The envelope contained my birthday card, the invitation to his 90th birthday party which is in October, and directions to his house from the Sea-Tac airport. No check.
Now, I don't expect my almost 90 year old grandfather to get me a birthday present. In fact, I know in his mind the lack of check is actually a compliment. He feels I am mature enough and able to support myself well and don't need his money. And, I'm pretty proud that my only surviving grandparent is able to remember my birthday, hand-write a birthday card, and throw a formal 90th birthday party. Believe me . . . two of my other grandparents made it past 90, but they wouldn't have been able to do any of that.
So, I guess the birthday gravy train stops at 37. I'll have to alert my cousins.
This continued until I turned 30. When I turned 30, he decided to cap the birthday presents at $30. I think there were a combination of factors. First, it is probably hard to remember the ages of his grandchildren and make sure they all got the right amount. Second, he was a firm believer in adults being able to support themselves and probably thought that once you reached 30, you should not need more money from your family. (Of course, history in my family shows this is patently untrue - we're an educated lot, but not particularly savvy with money - but whatever . . . .) Third, I think he was worried about his own longevity and fairness. As the oldest grandchild, I was destined to benefit more from age-calibrated birthday gifts than my youngest cousin, who is 16 years younger than I am.
Most importantly, however, I think he began to worry about the amount of money he would be paying out in a year. The year I turned 30, his other grandchildren would have turned 27, 26, 23, 22, 19, 17, and 14. This equals $178 in birthday gifts. Now, my grandfather is not a poor man and has significant retirement savings. However, he also can be quite miserly when it comes to spending money on other people.
So, for six years, I received $30 every birthday. And then came this year . . . my 37th birthday was at the end of August. I got my card from him yesterday. The envelope contained my birthday card, the invitation to his 90th birthday party which is in October, and directions to his house from the Sea-Tac airport. No check.
Now, I don't expect my almost 90 year old grandfather to get me a birthday present. In fact, I know in his mind the lack of check is actually a compliment. He feels I am mature enough and able to support myself well and don't need his money. And, I'm pretty proud that my only surviving grandparent is able to remember my birthday, hand-write a birthday card, and throw a formal 90th birthday party. Believe me . . . two of my other grandparents made it past 90, but they wouldn't have been able to do any of that.
So, I guess the birthday gravy train stops at 37. I'll have to alert my cousins.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Come ON, WTVP!
Why does WTVP find it necessary to change the time of Sesame Street every now and again? Just when we got a nice little schedule going on weekday mornings that was really beneficial for me getting ready for work in the morning . . . WTVP moved Sesame Street from 7 am to 9 am. Not helpful.
Our nice little schedule hinged on Elmo's World coming on Sesame Street every morning at 7:40 am. I get up at 6:45, take a shower, and feed the dog. The kids get out of bed at 7 am, I get them dressed, comb their hair, and we all have breakfast by 7:30. This is perfect timing for them to have faces washed, teeth brushed, shoes on, and go to the living room for Elmo at 7:40. From 7:40 to 8:15 was my personal time. That was just enough time to iron my clothes, get dressed, do my hair, put on make-up, accessorize, and get my stuff ready for the day.
Elmo's World, followed by 15 minutes of Curious George, was my savior. Sure, after Elmo's World was over, my son would lose interest and find something else to play with, usually standing with me in the bathroom while I put make-up on. But my daughter would continue to watch Curious George, thereby eliminating the potential for disagreements between the two of them which take time out of my schedule to resolve.
But now, WTVP has decided to put Curious George on at 7 am, Sid the Science Kid at 7:30 am, Super WHY! at 8 am, Clifford the Big Red Dog at 8:30 am, and Sesame Street at 9 am. Why, I ask you . . . WHY? (And that's not Super WHY - just WHY?!?!) My kids have absolutely no interest in Sid the Science Kid and Super WHY - they just don't. They are 21 months and 3 years old. Sesame Street is their thing!
This 15-30 minutes of TV is the only TV my children watch on a regular basis. I realize there are other children's shows on cable at this time, but none that I feel like letting my kids watch. Or that they will actually watch. Or that don't have commericals.
In the middle of me having a fit about this today, it took me some time to remember I can get Sesame Street on On Demand. Unfortunately, to get to Elmo's World, I have to fast forward for 40 minutes of the show, which takes about 5 minutes out of my morning, so . . . just damn!
Damn . . . Damn . . . Damn!
I am sure that there are plenty of parents out there who love the 9 am Sesame Street time. Stay-at-home parents, parents with different work schedules, home day cares, etc. Well, good for them. It doesn't work for me, thank you very much, and I would like to know who they consulted before making this change. Probably no one who has children who actually watch these shows. So much for "public" television. This member of the "public" is pissed.
Our nice little schedule hinged on Elmo's World coming on Sesame Street every morning at 7:40 am. I get up at 6:45, take a shower, and feed the dog. The kids get out of bed at 7 am, I get them dressed, comb their hair, and we all have breakfast by 7:30. This is perfect timing for them to have faces washed, teeth brushed, shoes on, and go to the living room for Elmo at 7:40. From 7:40 to 8:15 was my personal time. That was just enough time to iron my clothes, get dressed, do my hair, put on make-up, accessorize, and get my stuff ready for the day.
Elmo's World, followed by 15 minutes of Curious George, was my savior. Sure, after Elmo's World was over, my son would lose interest and find something else to play with, usually standing with me in the bathroom while I put make-up on. But my daughter would continue to watch Curious George, thereby eliminating the potential for disagreements between the two of them which take time out of my schedule to resolve.
But now, WTVP has decided to put Curious George on at 7 am, Sid the Science Kid at 7:30 am, Super WHY! at 8 am, Clifford the Big Red Dog at 8:30 am, and Sesame Street at 9 am. Why, I ask you . . . WHY? (And that's not Super WHY - just WHY?!?!) My kids have absolutely no interest in Sid the Science Kid and Super WHY - they just don't. They are 21 months and 3 years old. Sesame Street is their thing!
This 15-30 minutes of TV is the only TV my children watch on a regular basis. I realize there are other children's shows on cable at this time, but none that I feel like letting my kids watch. Or that they will actually watch. Or that don't have commericals.
In the middle of me having a fit about this today, it took me some time to remember I can get Sesame Street on On Demand. Unfortunately, to get to Elmo's World, I have to fast forward for 40 minutes of the show, which takes about 5 minutes out of my morning, so . . . just damn!
Damn . . . Damn . . . Damn!
I am sure that there are plenty of parents out there who love the 9 am Sesame Street time. Stay-at-home parents, parents with different work schedules, home day cares, etc. Well, good for them. It doesn't work for me, thank you very much, and I would like to know who they consulted before making this change. Probably no one who has children who actually watch these shows. So much for "public" television. This member of the "public" is pissed.
Friday, August 29, 2008
I Am the Best Attorney EVER*
If you are currently being represented by counsel, or have been represented by counsel in the past, please consider this. Would your attorney walk up 30 flights of stairs to get to her office to appear at a telephonic hearing on your behalf because the elevators were broken in her office building?
No?
Well, I did. In three inch heels. Granted, it was more motivated out of fear of being held in contempt for failing to appear at the hearing, but still . . . I did it.
And it took me less than 10 minutes and I wasn’t sore afterwards, which is pretty damn good in my book.
*Disclaimer for the ethics police: The title of my post is not intended to assert or claim that I am, in fact, the best attorney ever. I am not the best attorney ever and neither are you. The title was intended to be eye-catching and humorous. Because I know you were born without the humor gene, I am explaining this to you so I don’t have to face a complaint based on what is just a funny little blog post. Besides, if athletic ability and fortitude were a prerequisite to being a good attorney, 75% of the attorneys in Illinois would fail miserably.
No?
Well, I did. In three inch heels. Granted, it was more motivated out of fear of being held in contempt for failing to appear at the hearing, but still . . . I did it.
And it took me less than 10 minutes and I wasn’t sore afterwards, which is pretty damn good in my book.
*Disclaimer for the ethics police: The title of my post is not intended to assert or claim that I am, in fact, the best attorney ever. I am not the best attorney ever and neither are you. The title was intended to be eye-catching and humorous. Because I know you were born without the humor gene, I am explaining this to you so I don’t have to face a complaint based on what is just a funny little blog post. Besides, if athletic ability and fortitude were a prerequisite to being a good attorney, 75% of the attorneys in Illinois would fail miserably.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Updated Blogroll
Seeing that I have not updated my blogroll since I started this blog in May of 2007, I thought it was about time. I deleted some dead links and some blogs I never read anymore. Most importantly, I added many people whom I should have added months ago. My apologies for not adding you sooner. I've been busy. (I mean, I was too busy to vaccinate my cat for two years, what made you think I would be able to perform secretarial blog work in a timely manner?)
I'm sure I have forgotten someone and, as a result, someone is going to get their undies in a bunch. Rest assured, if you are not on my blogroll, there are two possible explanations: (1) I simply forgot because I am an overworked, overtired, professional single mom who would rather write a blog than maintain it, and things slip through the cracks sometimes; or (2) I don't like you.
If you think you fall under the first category, feel free to email me at hypertechnical@gmail.com and I will add you to the roll . . . sometime in the next 18 months or so.
If you think you fall under the second category, you can also email me to discuss the matter, if you really feel it necessary. But beware . . . I've been told I'm mean.
OH - and anyone who posts a picture of my knee taken on Saturday, August 23, 2008, might risk being banned from my blogroll. Yeah, that's how I roll. I know who you are! But I will take cash payments for the use of my knee's likeness on your blog.
I'm sure I have forgotten someone and, as a result, someone is going to get their undies in a bunch. Rest assured, if you are not on my blogroll, there are two possible explanations: (1) I simply forgot because I am an overworked, overtired, professional single mom who would rather write a blog than maintain it, and things slip through the cracks sometimes; or (2) I don't like you.
If you think you fall under the first category, feel free to email me at hypertechnical@gmail.com and I will add you to the roll . . . sometime in the next 18 months or so.
If you think you fall under the second category, you can also email me to discuss the matter, if you really feel it necessary. But beware . . . I've been told I'm mean.
OH - and anyone who posts a picture of my knee taken on Saturday, August 23, 2008, might risk being banned from my blogroll. Yeah, that's how I roll. I know who you are! But I will take cash payments for the use of my knee's likeness on your blog.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Is It the Thought that Counts If No Thought was Had?
As I mentioned in a previous post, my brother and sister-in-law suck at birthdays. My daughter's birthday was last Friday and my birthday is this coming Saturday. I sent my brother and sister-in-law an evite for my daughter's birthday party, hoping to make them remember that, "Oh, she has a birthday . . . perhaps we should send her something . . . like a card . . . or a present?" Not that I think my kid needs more stuff, she has cleaned up pretty well for her birthday thus far. It is the principle of the whole thing. When you only have one aunt and uncle, it would be nice if they remembered your birthday.
Yesterday, I came home and saw that there were two cards in the mail from my brother. The first one was addressed to me and I figured, hey . . . I bet that's my birthday card!! And it's early too!
Not so much. The front of the card had a saxophone on it, which is weird because I played the violin and we really don't have any connections to saxophones that I can think of. I opened it and realized it was a thank you card for my nephew's birthday present. That still doesn't explain the saxophone, but whatever. My brother's handwriting is atrocious, but I could make out ". . . loved . . . airplane . . . remember . . . you . . ." Well, that's nice, I thought.
Then I turned to the next card, which also had my brother's return address on it. Then I read the mailing address. It was in my brother's handwriting, but it was addressed to my sister-in-law. Sure, the address was mine, but the name was hers. Interesting, I thought. Then I figured that it must be my daughter's birthday card and my brother was distracted and knew he was supposed to send the card to someone at my address but not me and just wrote his wife's name.
As I was opening the card, my daughter says, "Is it for me? Is it for me? For my birthday?" Before I read the card, I told her it was for her birthday.
Not so much. It was a birthday card for me that had a small dog playing a metallic red electric guitar. On the inside it said, "No matter how old you get, you still rock!" I was glad they remembered my birthday, but a little sad they forgot hers, so I gave her the card and told her it was her birthday card. Thank god she can't read yet.
Yesterday, I came home and saw that there were two cards in the mail from my brother. The first one was addressed to me and I figured, hey . . . I bet that's my birthday card!! And it's early too!
Not so much. The front of the card had a saxophone on it, which is weird because I played the violin and we really don't have any connections to saxophones that I can think of. I opened it and realized it was a thank you card for my nephew's birthday present. That still doesn't explain the saxophone, but whatever. My brother's handwriting is atrocious, but I could make out ". . . loved . . . airplane . . . remember . . . you . . ." Well, that's nice, I thought.
Then I turned to the next card, which also had my brother's return address on it. Then I read the mailing address. It was in my brother's handwriting, but it was addressed to my sister-in-law. Sure, the address was mine, but the name was hers. Interesting, I thought. Then I figured that it must be my daughter's birthday card and my brother was distracted and knew he was supposed to send the card to someone at my address but not me and just wrote his wife's name.
As I was opening the card, my daughter says, "Is it for me? Is it for me? For my birthday?" Before I read the card, I told her it was for her birthday.
Not so much. It was a birthday card for me that had a small dog playing a metallic red electric guitar. On the inside it said, "No matter how old you get, you still rock!" I was glad they remembered my birthday, but a little sad they forgot hers, so I gave her the card and told her it was her birthday card. Thank god she can't read yet.
Friday, August 22, 2008
The Punishment Doesn’t Fit the Crime
I’ve been having a craptacular week. Just one thing after another after another. Mostly work related, but there has been some personal crap too. On Tuesday, I came home to find a yellow piece of paper stuck in my front door. It was from an animal control officer. It said, "Please contact our office no later than 8-21-08 at 5:00 regarding the following item(s). Failure to do so will result in legal action."
My crime? "Rabies vaccination and/or registration of cat. Ticket will be issued." Great.
I’ll readily admit I haven’t always gotten my cat vaccinated for rabies in a timely manner. He is an indoor only cat. He never goes outside, except for the few times he tricks a new person into leaving the front door open too long. Then he runs out and flops on the nearest driveway. And stays there until I go pick him up and carry him back to the house. The only rabid animal he is in danger of being bitten by is my dog and she always gets her yearly rabies vaccination.
It is not that I care more for my dog than I care for my cat. They irritate me equally. However, it is much easier to get the dog to the vet than it is to get the cat to the vet. The dog hops in the back seat and is happy on a leash. The cat never goes outside and would probably maim me if I put him on a leash. And, for some reason, I no longer have a cat carrier, so transporting the cat to the vet is an issue. But, I guess the rabies vaccination police don’t consider all those factors when issuing tickets.
I decided that it was probably time to get him vaccinated anyway, just to avoid any legal unpleasantness. (I mean, you never know what they'll take away your law license for these days.) I called my vet and checked to make sure I was actually late on the vaccination - just checking if the animal control people were yanking my chain. She said, "Well . . . it has been awhile. The last one he got was in October of 2005. I’m surprised they haven’t gotten you before!" OK, so I missed two vaccinations (2006 and 2007), which sounds a whole lot better than saying it has been three years since he was vaccinated.
I said, "I don’t really know how to get him there - I don’t have a carrier anymore." She replied, "Oh, just put him in a pillowcase . . . just don’t tie a knot in it."
Oh yeah, because that will make him even happier to go to the vet. I swear, I would not want to be the one taking him out of the pillowcase.
Anyway, I borrowed a cat carrier, made the appointment for this morning, went on my merry way, still having a shitty week. Then I got the ticket in the mail last night. I was assuming that, since the rabies tag fee is $12 for neutered cats, that the ticket might be two or three times that amount - like between $25 and $35. That’s not too painful, I thought. I’ll just be better about remembering next time.
The ticket was $100.
$100
Holy crap. I almost fell off my chair. And that’s only if I: (1) admit my guilt and (2) pay the fine before my court date. Otherwise, I can go to court, plead guilty, and pay $115. Or, I can proceed to a bench trial and probably get fined three times that amount for wasting the court’s time. No wonder they are going after these horrible rabies vaccination offenders. Cold hard cash.
Of course, that doesn’t count the money I have to pay to actually get him the rabies shot. There is a $12 fee to the County, a $40 fee for the well-cat exam, a $10 fee for the rabies vaccine, and $20 for the distemper vaccine. So that’s $82 in addition to the ticket. My cat cost me $182 today. I’m seriously considering taken him off Iams and switching to Meow Mix.
Then again, let’s do the math. If I was keeping up on the vaccinations, he would have cost me $82 in 2006, $82 in 2007, and $82 in 2008. That equals $246, which is obviously more than $182. So, by breaking the law, I actually saved $64. I’m not sure how much deterrence there is in this sentence. Don't tell animal control . . . .
Furthermore, almost everyone I have talked to says one or all of their animals is not up on their rabies vaccinations. My parents said they didn’t think their recently deceased cat had ever had a rabies vaccination after she came home from the shelter. My dad said he was worried that they would make him get her a rabies shot before they agreed to put her to sleep. (They didn't, but doesn't that just seem like something the government would do? Make you protect your cat from disease before having it killed?)
I'm not planning on doing the "layaway" version of feline rabies vaccinations again in the future, however. Apparently, the fine goes up upon your second offense. I bet there is even a three strikes law. For the third offense, you go to jail for life. This is a serious crime, people. You better watch yourselves.
My crime? "Rabies vaccination and/or registration of cat. Ticket will be issued." Great.
I’ll readily admit I haven’t always gotten my cat vaccinated for rabies in a timely manner. He is an indoor only cat. He never goes outside, except for the few times he tricks a new person into leaving the front door open too long. Then he runs out and flops on the nearest driveway. And stays there until I go pick him up and carry him back to the house. The only rabid animal he is in danger of being bitten by is my dog and she always gets her yearly rabies vaccination.
It is not that I care more for my dog than I care for my cat. They irritate me equally. However, it is much easier to get the dog to the vet than it is to get the cat to the vet. The dog hops in the back seat and is happy on a leash. The cat never goes outside and would probably maim me if I put him on a leash. And, for some reason, I no longer have a cat carrier, so transporting the cat to the vet is an issue. But, I guess the rabies vaccination police don’t consider all those factors when issuing tickets.
I decided that it was probably time to get him vaccinated anyway, just to avoid any legal unpleasantness. (I mean, you never know what they'll take away your law license for these days.) I called my vet and checked to make sure I was actually late on the vaccination - just checking if the animal control people were yanking my chain. She said, "Well . . . it has been awhile. The last one he got was in October of 2005. I’m surprised they haven’t gotten you before!" OK, so I missed two vaccinations (2006 and 2007), which sounds a whole lot better than saying it has been three years since he was vaccinated.
I said, "I don’t really know how to get him there - I don’t have a carrier anymore." She replied, "Oh, just put him in a pillowcase . . . just don’t tie a knot in it."
Oh yeah, because that will make him even happier to go to the vet. I swear, I would not want to be the one taking him out of the pillowcase.
Anyway, I borrowed a cat carrier, made the appointment for this morning, went on my merry way, still having a shitty week. Then I got the ticket in the mail last night. I was assuming that, since the rabies tag fee is $12 for neutered cats, that the ticket might be two or three times that amount - like between $25 and $35. That’s not too painful, I thought. I’ll just be better about remembering next time.
The ticket was $100.
$100
Holy crap. I almost fell off my chair. And that’s only if I: (1) admit my guilt and (2) pay the fine before my court date. Otherwise, I can go to court, plead guilty, and pay $115. Or, I can proceed to a bench trial and probably get fined three times that amount for wasting the court’s time. No wonder they are going after these horrible rabies vaccination offenders. Cold hard cash.
Of course, that doesn’t count the money I have to pay to actually get him the rabies shot. There is a $12 fee to the County, a $40 fee for the well-cat exam, a $10 fee for the rabies vaccine, and $20 for the distemper vaccine. So that’s $82 in addition to the ticket. My cat cost me $182 today. I’m seriously considering taken him off Iams and switching to Meow Mix.
Then again, let’s do the math. If I was keeping up on the vaccinations, he would have cost me $82 in 2006, $82 in 2007, and $82 in 2008. That equals $246, which is obviously more than $182. So, by breaking the law, I actually saved $64. I’m not sure how much deterrence there is in this sentence. Don't tell animal control . . . .
Furthermore, almost everyone I have talked to says one or all of their animals is not up on their rabies vaccinations. My parents said they didn’t think their recently deceased cat had ever had a rabies vaccination after she came home from the shelter. My dad said he was worried that they would make him get her a rabies shot before they agreed to put her to sleep. (They didn't, but doesn't that just seem like something the government would do? Make you protect your cat from disease before having it killed?)
I'm not planning on doing the "layaway" version of feline rabies vaccinations again in the future, however. Apparently, the fine goes up upon your second offense. I bet there is even a three strikes law. For the third offense, you go to jail for life. This is a serious crime, people. You better watch yourselves.
Monday, August 18, 2008
I Am Not A Crook!
One of the best parts of having young children is to make them say things that are hilarious coming from a two year old's mouth. Sometimes things are just funnier when they come from kids.
Not surprisingly, a lot of our funnier moments come in the bathroom. I have two very small bathrooms in my house and, more often than not, I am joined in the bathroom by two kids, a large dog, and a cat. Many funny things happen in the bathroom and this weekend was no exception.
I was in one of the bathrooms fixing my hair and both kids were in the bathroom with me. They were playing with the various headbands and hair elastic bands I have looped around the door knobs in the bathroom. My son managed to get one headband around his head, across his forehead - hippie style, with curls sticking out the sides. My daughter joined suit and said, "Look it, Mama!!"
I looked down and said, "Well, if you are going to be hippies, you have to learn how to say Peace." and I showed them the two-fingered peace symbol. My daughter was confused because the two finger gesture is also how you count two and since she is two-almost-three, she has been obsessed with showing me two fingers and three fingers.
Me: (showing two fingers) say, "Peace!"
Son: Eace! (he has problems with beginning consonants)
Daughter: That's two!
Me: It is also "Peace!" Say "Peace!"
Daughter: (holding up two fingers on each hand) Peace!
Me: Well, if you are going to do it that way . . . you have to say this (doing my best Richard Nixon imitation and holding out two fingers on each hand), "I'm not a crook!"
Silence and blank stares.
Me: See, if you have out two hands doing Peace, you have to say, "I'm not a crook!" So, say it. "I'm not a crook!"
More silence and blank stares.
Me: "I'm not a crook!"
Daughter: Yes you are.
Oh, if she only knew how funny that really is.
Not surprisingly, a lot of our funnier moments come in the bathroom. I have two very small bathrooms in my house and, more often than not, I am joined in the bathroom by two kids, a large dog, and a cat. Many funny things happen in the bathroom and this weekend was no exception.
I was in one of the bathrooms fixing my hair and both kids were in the bathroom with me. They were playing with the various headbands and hair elastic bands I have looped around the door knobs in the bathroom. My son managed to get one headband around his head, across his forehead - hippie style, with curls sticking out the sides. My daughter joined suit and said, "Look it, Mama!!"
I looked down and said, "Well, if you are going to be hippies, you have to learn how to say Peace." and I showed them the two-fingered peace symbol. My daughter was confused because the two finger gesture is also how you count two and since she is two-almost-three, she has been obsessed with showing me two fingers and three fingers.
Me: (showing two fingers) say, "Peace!"
Son: Eace! (he has problems with beginning consonants)
Daughter: That's two!
Me: It is also "Peace!" Say "Peace!"
Daughter: (holding up two fingers on each hand) Peace!
Me: Well, if you are going to do it that way . . . you have to say this (doing my best Richard Nixon imitation and holding out two fingers on each hand), "I'm not a crook!"
Silence and blank stares.
Me: See, if you have out two hands doing Peace, you have to say, "I'm not a crook!" So, say it. "I'm not a crook!"
More silence and blank stares.
Me: "I'm not a crook!"
Daughter: Yes you are.
Oh, if she only knew how funny that really is.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
It's the Thought that Counts
My nephew's birthday is at the end of June. This year, he turned three years old and he is an airplane fanatic. So, I got him a toy airplane and some pajamas with airplanes on them. He lives in Wisconsin, so I mailed the package to him. Admittedly, I mailed the package late - not until July 7th. To compensate for my lateness, I spent the money and overnight mailed it. Obviously, he should have received it on July 8th.
Well, imagine my surprise when my parents told me they were at his house on August 8th and there, sitting in the front hall, was the birthday present box . . . unopened. Now, granted, the box itself does not scream I AM A BIRTHDAY PRESENT because it is just a plain brown box. However, in big all capital letters, it is addressed to my nephew from me. I even used my full name, just in case my brother and sister-in-law were confused. There it was, a month later, still in the hallway.
Now there are several things that strike me as odd about this situation. First, what kind of three year old leaves a package alone for four weeks? The minute my three year old spies a package, she is like a cadaver dog in a morgue. She points at the box until I open it and show her the contents, even if the contents are just for me. Of course, most often, the contents are for her or my son, so she is justified. She was really pissed when I wouldn't open the box from American Girl, even though it was a plain brown box with no markings and she had no idea it contained her birthday presents.
Second, what kind of parents deny their three year old a birthday present? They had to know it was in there - it's not like I send them packages every day. And it was addressed to their son, for crying outside. What else could it have been?
Third, how the hell did they deal with a big box in their front hallway for a month? They have a small apartment-style condo which is just over 900 square feet. In this small space live two adults, two children, and three cats who each weigh over 20 pounds. The box was big enough to take up a good portion of the front hallway, which is really just part of their living room. How did they manage to step around or over it for a month without just opening it?
Fourth, why would they leave it out when they know my parents are coming? There are very few secrets in our immediate family and, they had to know my parents (in particular, my dad) would tell me about it the first time he had the chance. They had to know it would piss me off because they know shit like that pisses me off.
As long as I am on that rant, let's talk about birthday gifts for a little bit. I may be a little late giving birthday gifts, but I always give them and I am a damn good gift giver. Once my nephew got to open the box and see his airplane, he loved it and carried it around for the rest of the weekend. I give gifts because I like to pick out gifts for people and give them, particularly for children. And I don't necessarily expect to receive gifts in return, but it would be nice if my brother and sister-in-law would remember just one of my kids' birthdays.
That's right . . . I have a daughter who is almost three and a son who will be two in November. And not once have they received birthday presents from their only aunt and uncle. Not even a card. As I have mentioned before, they suck at giving gifts. But what is stopping them from calling and asking what my children would like? That shit just pisses me off.
Well, imagine my surprise when my parents told me they were at his house on August 8th and there, sitting in the front hall, was the birthday present box . . . unopened. Now, granted, the box itself does not scream I AM A BIRTHDAY PRESENT because it is just a plain brown box. However, in big all capital letters, it is addressed to my nephew from me. I even used my full name, just in case my brother and sister-in-law were confused. There it was, a month later, still in the hallway.
Now there are several things that strike me as odd about this situation. First, what kind of three year old leaves a package alone for four weeks? The minute my three year old spies a package, she is like a cadaver dog in a morgue. She points at the box until I open it and show her the contents, even if the contents are just for me. Of course, most often, the contents are for her or my son, so she is justified. She was really pissed when I wouldn't open the box from American Girl, even though it was a plain brown box with no markings and she had no idea it contained her birthday presents.
Second, what kind of parents deny their three year old a birthday present? They had to know it was in there - it's not like I send them packages every day. And it was addressed to their son, for crying outside. What else could it have been?
Third, how the hell did they deal with a big box in their front hallway for a month? They have a small apartment-style condo which is just over 900 square feet. In this small space live two adults, two children, and three cats who each weigh over 20 pounds. The box was big enough to take up a good portion of the front hallway, which is really just part of their living room. How did they manage to step around or over it for a month without just opening it?
Fourth, why would they leave it out when they know my parents are coming? There are very few secrets in our immediate family and, they had to know my parents (in particular, my dad) would tell me about it the first time he had the chance. They had to know it would piss me off because they know shit like that pisses me off.
As long as I am on that rant, let's talk about birthday gifts for a little bit. I may be a little late giving birthday gifts, but I always give them and I am a damn good gift giver. Once my nephew got to open the box and see his airplane, he loved it and carried it around for the rest of the weekend. I give gifts because I like to pick out gifts for people and give them, particularly for children. And I don't necessarily expect to receive gifts in return, but it would be nice if my brother and sister-in-law would remember just one of my kids' birthdays.
That's right . . . I have a daughter who is almost three and a son who will be two in November. And not once have they received birthday presents from their only aunt and uncle. Not even a card. As I have mentioned before, they suck at giving gifts. But what is stopping them from calling and asking what my children would like? That shit just pisses me off.
Monday, August 11, 2008
You Say That?
I make a concerted effort not to swear around my children. Well, actually I have made a concerted effort not to swear around my children since they were old enough to repeat what I say. It’s been difficult, however, to curtail when there is a fair amount of swearing done in my office and sometimes swear words are just the perfect expression you need in a situation.
I often slip when I am tired or distracted. My daughter excels at catching my slips and whenever she does, I explain, "I know . . . Mama said a not nice word. Sometimes mamas need to say those words. But those words are not for you to say, okay?" She agrees and, so far, I haven’t heard her say any of my not nice words. Now, when she catches me, she says, "You say that?" meaning, "You can say that and I can’t, Mama?" Pretty soon, however, she is going to forget that I have told her not to say certain words and say something really inappropriate in front of someone. So, I have been trying extra hard not to swear.
Well, last night didn’t help things much. At 2:30 this morning, she started screaming, "MAMA! MAMA!!" The scream was so sudden and high pitched that I thought she had lost a limb or was bleeding from the head or something. When I arrived in her room, she was in her bed, apparently fine and all in one piece . . . still screaming. I said, not so nicely, "WHAT?!? What is your problem?" (I’m not the most nurturing person at 2:30 in the morning.)
"I got boogers."
"Jesus Christ! Can’t you wipe them on your sheets like every other normal child?"
She responded with, "No . . . you say that?"
I groaned and went and got her a box of Kleenex. I tucked her in and kissed her good night again. Then I went to my room and went back to sleep. I was exhausted. I hadn’t gone to sleep until past midnight and I thought I would be able to get at least another four hours of sleep.
Wrong.
At 6 am, I become barely conscious of a thumping noise and a weight on the end of the bed. Glancing at the clock, I assumed it is the dog wagging her tail while sleeping on my bed. I whispered, "Knock it off, dog," and closed my eyes. After a short silence, the thumping started again. I mean-whispered, "STOP it, dog." Another silence and then . . . thump, thump, thump, thump, thump. In my regular mean-mommy voice, I said "STOP. IT. RIGHT. NOW."
A longer silence followed, which allowed me to close my eyes and almost get back to sleep. But then it started again . . . thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump. Before I turned over and sat up in bed, I said:
"GOD DAMN IT, dog, KNOCK THAT SHIT OFF!!"
Then I turned over and sat up. There, sitting on the end of my bed was my daughter. Predictably, she said, "You say that?" Groan. My head hit the pillow again and I asked her, "What are you doing?"
"Patting my baby and reading my book."
I looked up at her again and saw she had her baby doll face down on the bed and covered with a blanket. She was patting that baby’s back within an inch of its life. On her lap, she was holding a book open with her other hand. I noticed she did not have a picture book, rather she was holding a medium sized adult paperback. "What are you reading?" I asked her.
"This book," she said, holding it up.
She was "reading" A Room of One’s Own by Virginia Woolf.
It’s really hard to be mad at her for that.
I often slip when I am tired or distracted. My daughter excels at catching my slips and whenever she does, I explain, "I know . . . Mama said a not nice word. Sometimes mamas need to say those words. But those words are not for you to say, okay?" She agrees and, so far, I haven’t heard her say any of my not nice words. Now, when she catches me, she says, "You say that?" meaning, "You can say that and I can’t, Mama?" Pretty soon, however, she is going to forget that I have told her not to say certain words and say something really inappropriate in front of someone. So, I have been trying extra hard not to swear.
Well, last night didn’t help things much. At 2:30 this morning, she started screaming, "MAMA! MAMA!!" The scream was so sudden and high pitched that I thought she had lost a limb or was bleeding from the head or something. When I arrived in her room, she was in her bed, apparently fine and all in one piece . . . still screaming. I said, not so nicely, "WHAT?!? What is your problem?" (I’m not the most nurturing person at 2:30 in the morning.)
"I got boogers."
"Jesus Christ! Can’t you wipe them on your sheets like every other normal child?"
She responded with, "No . . . you say that?"
I groaned and went and got her a box of Kleenex. I tucked her in and kissed her good night again. Then I went to my room and went back to sleep. I was exhausted. I hadn’t gone to sleep until past midnight and I thought I would be able to get at least another four hours of sleep.
Wrong.
At 6 am, I become barely conscious of a thumping noise and a weight on the end of the bed. Glancing at the clock, I assumed it is the dog wagging her tail while sleeping on my bed. I whispered, "Knock it off, dog," and closed my eyes. After a short silence, the thumping started again. I mean-whispered, "STOP it, dog." Another silence and then . . . thump, thump, thump, thump, thump. In my regular mean-mommy voice, I said "STOP. IT. RIGHT. NOW."
A longer silence followed, which allowed me to close my eyes and almost get back to sleep. But then it started again . . . thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump. Before I turned over and sat up in bed, I said:
"GOD DAMN IT, dog, KNOCK THAT SHIT OFF!!"
Then I turned over and sat up. There, sitting on the end of my bed was my daughter. Predictably, she said, "You say that?" Groan. My head hit the pillow again and I asked her, "What are you doing?"
"Patting my baby and reading my book."
I looked up at her again and saw she had her baby doll face down on the bed and covered with a blanket. She was patting that baby’s back within an inch of its life. On her lap, she was holding a book open with her other hand. I noticed she did not have a picture book, rather she was holding a medium sized adult paperback. "What are you reading?" I asked her.
"This book," she said, holding it up.
She was "reading" A Room of One’s Own by Virginia Woolf.
It’s really hard to be mad at her for that.
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
A Certain Kind of Envy
It seems that many profound conversations with one's children happen in the car, while the parent is driving and the child is in the back seat. Who knows, maybe children pick this time to bring up the big issues because they know their parents are captive. Maybe they know this is a good time because the parent is preoccupied. For whatever reason, this is the conversation we had last night coming home from work:
Daughter: How come boys stand up?
Me: Stand up where?
Daughter: Stand up to go potty. How come boys stand up?
I paused for a moment, wondering how far this conversation was going to go. We were approaching the drive through pharmacy window and I really didn't want to have the conversation while the pharmacists listened.
Daughter: How come, Mama?
Me: Because boys have penises.
Daughter: Penis? Girls not have penis?
Me: No, only boys.
She was silent for a few minutes, obviously thinking this over. Then she said this:
Daughter: When I get big, I gonna have a penis.
Me: Really?
Daughter: Yep . . . when I get big.
I resisted the urge to ask her where she was going to get this new penis (after she got big, of course.) Then I started wondering where they get the penises for women who have sex change operations to become men. The penis doesn't exactly seem to be an organ that could be donated on your donor card, does it? I'm kinda scared to google it because (1) who knows what kind of "list" I would be on if I googled something like that and (2) if I did google it, there might be pictures and that would make me throw up.
Daughter: How come boys stand up?
Me: Stand up where?
Daughter: Stand up to go potty. How come boys stand up?
I paused for a moment, wondering how far this conversation was going to go. We were approaching the drive through pharmacy window and I really didn't want to have the conversation while the pharmacists listened.
Daughter: How come, Mama?
Me: Because boys have penises.
Daughter: Penis? Girls not have penis?
Me: No, only boys.
She was silent for a few minutes, obviously thinking this over. Then she said this:
Daughter: When I get big, I gonna have a penis.
Me: Really?
Daughter: Yep . . . when I get big.
I resisted the urge to ask her where she was going to get this new penis (after she got big, of course.) Then I started wondering where they get the penises for women who have sex change operations to become men. The penis doesn't exactly seem to be an organ that could be donated on your donor card, does it? I'm kinda scared to google it because (1) who knows what kind of "list" I would be on if I googled something like that and (2) if I did google it, there might be pictures and that would make me throw up.
Friday, August 1, 2008
I've Been Tagged!
Rixblix tagged me to disclose six random things about myself. Here it is, Rix!
Tag Rules:
(1) Link to the person who tagged you.
(2) Post the rules on the blog.
(3) Write six random things about yourself.
(4) Tag six people at the end of your post.
(5) Let each person know they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.
(6) Let the tagger know when your entry is up.
My six random things:
(1) I have been to every state in the United States except Florida, Alaska, and Hawaii.
(2) I took a year off between high school and college and it was one of the best decisions I have ever made.
(3) When I was a freshman in high school, I wanted to be an architect. My school counselor suggested I take a mechanical drafting class, so I signed up for it. The first day of class, I walked in and I was the only girl in the class. The teacher pulled me aside and said, "We have never had a girl take this class. Wouldn't you be happier if you took art?" I was 14 years old and I was totally intimidated so I dropped the class and took art. I'd love to go back and smack that teacher in the head.
(4) On my mother's side, I am the first generation born in the United States.
(5) When I was 9, my grandfather built for me (at my request) a set of bunk beds just like the one Arnold and Willis shared on Diff'rent Strokes, except mine had white posts instead of brown posts. (I would totally link to an episode that shows the bed, except for the fact that I can't figure out how to do it and am getting really frustrated and pissed off. If you really want to see it, go to YouTube and search for Diff'rent Strokes Movin' In Part 2.) That bed is still in my parents' basement.
(6) In 1987, my brother and I both appeared on the front page of our small town newspaper. He had won an art contest and I had been selected for the All-State Orchestra.
I'm tagging Eyebrows, Peoria Illinoisan, Reno (because he bitched on Rix's blog), Mistress of the Post, Morton Malaise, and East Bluff Barbie (because she needs a reason to post - please?).
Tag Rules:
(1) Link to the person who tagged you.
(2) Post the rules on the blog.
(3) Write six random things about yourself.
(4) Tag six people at the end of your post.
(5) Let each person know they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.
(6) Let the tagger know when your entry is up.
My six random things:
(1) I have been to every state in the United States except Florida, Alaska, and Hawaii.
(2) I took a year off between high school and college and it was one of the best decisions I have ever made.
(3) When I was a freshman in high school, I wanted to be an architect. My school counselor suggested I take a mechanical drafting class, so I signed up for it. The first day of class, I walked in and I was the only girl in the class. The teacher pulled me aside and said, "We have never had a girl take this class. Wouldn't you be happier if you took art?" I was 14 years old and I was totally intimidated so I dropped the class and took art. I'd love to go back and smack that teacher in the head.
(4) On my mother's side, I am the first generation born in the United States.
(5) When I was 9, my grandfather built for me (at my request) a set of bunk beds just like the one Arnold and Willis shared on Diff'rent Strokes, except mine had white posts instead of brown posts. (I would totally link to an episode that shows the bed, except for the fact that I can't figure out how to do it and am getting really frustrated and pissed off. If you really want to see it, go to YouTube and search for Diff'rent Strokes Movin' In Part 2.) That bed is still in my parents' basement.
(6) In 1987, my brother and I both appeared on the front page of our small town newspaper. He had won an art contest and I had been selected for the All-State Orchestra.
I'm tagging Eyebrows, Peoria Illinoisan, Reno (because he bitched on Rix's blog), Mistress of the Post, Morton Malaise, and East Bluff Barbie (because she needs a reason to post - please?).
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