It's my birthday this weekend.
I always get reflective around my birthday. I think about my life so far. The people I love. The people I've lost. I think about my future. The people I'll come to love. The people that are not yet to here.
I keep getting asked what I want for my birthday.
I truly, deeply, madly do not want anything.
I just want to be left alone. I want to think. I want to write. I don't want to think. I want to watch episodes of Lost. I want to tweet. Maybe even play FarmVille. Don't judge that last one.
I don't want to get dressed up and go to dinner. I don't want to open gifts or cards.
I'm not sad. I'm not depressed. I just don't want to celebrate.
But I will.
Because others want to and I know it's important to them.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Monday, January 25, 2010
Waiting in the waiting room. A room for waiting. And other things too.
Last Friday I took the kid to have two tests (an upper GI and an ultrasound) in our search to diagnose her continued stomach problems. I can tell you, trusted Internet, what they are because you don't know her real name. When the doctor first told us he was going to order the ultrasound she was mortified. She forbade me from speaking about it with anyone outside our family. When I asked her why, she hissed ultrasounds are for pregnant women, MOTHER. Clearly my child watches too much Discovery channel. Or MTV's Teen Mom. Either one. I'm kidding about MTV. Mostly. No really, she doesn't watch that. I guess I should be glad that she was mortified at the thought of being pregnant. It must mean I'm doing my job.
This is what she had to drink. It was disgusting.
She was a trooper. I was so proud.
I really struggled to write the rest of this post because that day turned out to be more emotional than I expected. I wasn't expecting to meet the people I did or hear the things I did. I'm going to get a little serious, folks. I hope you can hang on for the ride.
We left the house early. It was raining. A lot. I also was almost out of gas. But I ignored that because it was raining. I always have this optimism that I won't COMPLETELY run out of gas because I never do. Someday living on the edge will catch up to me.
We arrived at our destination and navigated the maze to find our location, in the basement, where they store stuff. It was kind of creepy.
I'm not sure if you know this but an upper GI takes hours. Hours. I read that on the instruction sheet they sent to us but, really, I thought they were kidding (they weren't). I guess those instructions aren't meant to make you laugh but to prepare you to sit in a room (it really was an alcove) for hours with complete strangers. It didn't prepare you for the fact that it might leave your heart a little broken.
People came and went. Some of them didn't take hours. There were three of us that did.
The first girl was there when we arrived. She was about 20. It seemed like she had to drink like a hundred of those 20 ounce cups of barium. She told me later she tried not to gag so she wouldn't freak out my kid. I told her that she didn't know how much that really meant to me.
The second was the family of a baby boy who arrived during one of our first times in to see how far the barium had progressed through her system. He had to take his through a bottle. He was about 4 months old and weighed shy of 10 pounds. The looks this kid gave his father as he fed him that bottle were unforgettable.
There's not much to do in a waiting room but wait. And watch CNN. And shield your kid from seeing CNN when they showed two men who had been shot in the middle of the road in Haiti for carrying rice. And chuckle at the man who was snoring in the corner while his wife was in getting her test done. And feel excited when you all agree it's time to turn the channel.
But as those first few moments of awkwardness passed, we talked. We shared why each of us were there. We cheered each other on as barium drinks were finished. We wished each other luck as we took another trip in to see if it would be our last. We consoled each other when it wasn't.
After two hours, the young woman left having finally reached her goal. It was just me and the kid (who was beginning to show fatigue) and the family with the baby. The mother and I talked about babies and birth stories and breastfeeding and thrush and sleepless nights. They listened as the kid talked about her "wonderful dogs". They were optimistic that they would find that their son had reflux and he'd get treatment to finally get him to gain weight. She told me he had a heart condition that they were going to fix soon. We figured out that our kids were seeing the same specialist.
I was there when the doctor came out to talk to them. He was dressed in scrubs and a rain coat. I was there as he told him it wasn't reflux. I was there when he told them he wanted to hospitalize the baby for about a week to try to figure out what was going on. I was there as the mother asked question after question. I was there when the doctor admitted that it was likely that his heart was failing so it was important to hospitalize him soon.
He didn't speak to them in a terse manner. He listened. He was patient. I was a little shocked he spoke to them with us in the room but there weren't many options for privacy. I was thankful that the kid was enraptured by the TV.
He finished his conversation with them and then looked at me and asked me what our name was again so he could check on my daughter's test. I muttered her name. I couldn't look at the mother. I knew I would cry. For her. For her baby. And I wasn't even the one who would have to deal with the aftermath of the news that had just been delivered.
As the doctor walked passed us, they were called in again. I'll admit, I was relieved to have a few minutes to compose myself. When they came out I could tell she had been crying. They were done, they said. They walked over to shake my hand and say goodbye. I stood up and went to the mother. I gently touched her son's head and told her I would pray for them. I didn't know what else to say. I'm not a religious person but I know people find comfort in those words. I, myself, have found comfort in those words. The father asked me what he could pray about for us. I didn't know what to say. I was ashamed and embarrassed. I knew I felt like that because how could I ask him to pray for us when they were in a much more dire situation than we were? I told him that we were very lucky. But I could tell that he needed for me to tell him something. I asked him to pray that we find out what is going on with Miss her stomach (she has a preliminary diagnosis of abdominal migraines). He asked me our names. I told him. They left. I let a tear roll down my cheek after they rounded the corner.
I felt horrible because I didn't think to ask for their names even though I knew the baby's name.
I sat there praying for them. I prayed for them as we finished her test. I prayed for them as I watched the gas tank needle settle on E for the last 15 miles of our trip. I prayed for them as I stopped at McDonald's for a very hungry kid who had fallen asleep on the way home. I prayed for them as I got all of our stuff in the house, through the rain. I prayed for them as I yelled at our dogs for making a mess.
I haven't stopped thinking about them since that moment. I haven't stopped praying for them.
This is what she had to drink. It was disgusting.
She was a trooper. I was so proud.
I really struggled to write the rest of this post because that day turned out to be more emotional than I expected. I wasn't expecting to meet the people I did or hear the things I did. I'm going to get a little serious, folks. I hope you can hang on for the ride.
We left the house early. It was raining. A lot. I also was almost out of gas. But I ignored that because it was raining. I always have this optimism that I won't COMPLETELY run out of gas because I never do. Someday living on the edge will catch up to me.
We arrived at our destination and navigated the maze to find our location, in the basement, where they store stuff. It was kind of creepy.
I'm not sure if you know this but an upper GI takes hours. Hours. I read that on the instruction sheet they sent to us but, really, I thought they were kidding (they weren't). I guess those instructions aren't meant to make you laugh but to prepare you to sit in a room (it really was an alcove) for hours with complete strangers. It didn't prepare you for the fact that it might leave your heart a little broken.
People came and went. Some of them didn't take hours. There were three of us that did.
The first girl was there when we arrived. She was about 20. It seemed like she had to drink like a hundred of those 20 ounce cups of barium. She told me later she tried not to gag so she wouldn't freak out my kid. I told her that she didn't know how much that really meant to me.
The second was the family of a baby boy who arrived during one of our first times in to see how far the barium had progressed through her system. He had to take his through a bottle. He was about 4 months old and weighed shy of 10 pounds. The looks this kid gave his father as he fed him that bottle were unforgettable.
There's not much to do in a waiting room but wait. And watch CNN. And shield your kid from seeing CNN when they showed two men who had been shot in the middle of the road in Haiti for carrying rice. And chuckle at the man who was snoring in the corner while his wife was in getting her test done. And feel excited when you all agree it's time to turn the channel.
But as those first few moments of awkwardness passed, we talked. We shared why each of us were there. We cheered each other on as barium drinks were finished. We wished each other luck as we took another trip in to see if it would be our last. We consoled each other when it wasn't.
After two hours, the young woman left having finally reached her goal. It was just me and the kid (who was beginning to show fatigue) and the family with the baby. The mother and I talked about babies and birth stories and breastfeeding and thrush and sleepless nights. They listened as the kid talked about her "wonderful dogs". They were optimistic that they would find that their son had reflux and he'd get treatment to finally get him to gain weight. She told me he had a heart condition that they were going to fix soon. We figured out that our kids were seeing the same specialist.
I was there when the doctor came out to talk to them. He was dressed in scrubs and a rain coat. I was there as he told him it wasn't reflux. I was there when he told them he wanted to hospitalize the baby for about a week to try to figure out what was going on. I was there as the mother asked question after question. I was there when the doctor admitted that it was likely that his heart was failing so it was important to hospitalize him soon.
He didn't speak to them in a terse manner. He listened. He was patient. I was a little shocked he spoke to them with us in the room but there weren't many options for privacy. I was thankful that the kid was enraptured by the TV.
He finished his conversation with them and then looked at me and asked me what our name was again so he could check on my daughter's test. I muttered her name. I couldn't look at the mother. I knew I would cry. For her. For her baby. And I wasn't even the one who would have to deal with the aftermath of the news that had just been delivered.
As the doctor walked passed us, they were called in again. I'll admit, I was relieved to have a few minutes to compose myself. When they came out I could tell she had been crying. They were done, they said. They walked over to shake my hand and say goodbye. I stood up and went to the mother. I gently touched her son's head and told her I would pray for them. I didn't know what else to say. I'm not a religious person but I know people find comfort in those words. I, myself, have found comfort in those words. The father asked me what he could pray about for us. I didn't know what to say. I was ashamed and embarrassed. I knew I felt like that because how could I ask him to pray for us when they were in a much more dire situation than we were? I told him that we were very lucky. But I could tell that he needed for me to tell him something. I asked him to pray that we find out what is going on with Miss her stomach (she has a preliminary diagnosis of abdominal migraines). He asked me our names. I told him. They left. I let a tear roll down my cheek after they rounded the corner.
I felt horrible because I didn't think to ask for their names even though I knew the baby's name.
I sat there praying for them. I prayed for them as we finished her test. I prayed for them as I watched the gas tank needle settle on E for the last 15 miles of our trip. I prayed for them as I stopped at McDonald's for a very hungry kid who had fallen asleep on the way home. I prayed for them as I got all of our stuff in the house, through the rain. I prayed for them as I yelled at our dogs for making a mess.
I haven't stopped thinking about them since that moment. I haven't stopped praying for them.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Cracking the code.
The other night, for some reason, our two girl dogs were shunning the boy dog. Every time he came near them they nipped at him or moved away. My guess is that they did this because they are tired of him sniffing (or worse) what is coming out of them while they are doing their business outside. Beautiful mental picture, right? Try seeing it in person. GAG ME WITH A SPOON.
I'll give you a few moments to compose yourself and/or get back from retching in the bathroom.
My kid loves the dogs until she hates them. On this particular night, she was siding with the boy and felt sorry for him. She sat down next to him and started petting him. As she does this she starts to talk to him. For the tone of voice think: nurturing mother. This is what I heard. This is what I said. I don't make this shit stuff up. (Crossed out words of profanity for you, Mom).
The Kid: Oh, Cow. It's okay. Listen, sometimes girls don't want you to bother them. But if you really like them and want them to love you, you have to find the one thing they are interested in and get interested in it too. They don't like to lick (eat, whatever) poo. They like to play with toys, lay on the couch, and eat.
Cow: <wagging tail> <rolling on belly> <sniffing unmentionable places> <being swatted away>
The Kid: Just try, Cow. You'll see.
Cow: <head tilt>
Me: Um, you know the girls are his sisters...so...he's just trying to be friends with them, right?
The Kid: Duh.
Me: That was some good advice...so...uh...if a boy was interested in you what might he try to be interested in? (I said it just as awkwardly, trust me).
The Kid: Knowledge. I like learning about things. I especially like science. They'd probably try movies or Barbie's but I like to learn things so if they talked to me about learning that would work for my heart.
Me: Uh...um...er...has any boy tried to talk to you about knowledge yet?
The Kid: Nah. They haven't cracked that code yet.
Me: <silently> phew.
Here's to no boys "cracking the code" for a long, long time.
I'll give you a few moments to compose yourself and/or get back from retching in the bathroom.
My kid loves the dogs until she hates them. On this particular night, she was siding with the boy and felt sorry for him. She sat down next to him and started petting him. As she does this she starts to talk to him. For the tone of voice think: nurturing mother. This is what I heard. This is what I said. I don't make this shit stuff up. (Crossed out words of profanity for you, Mom).
The Kid: Oh, Cow. It's okay. Listen, sometimes girls don't want you to bother them. But if you really like them and want them to love you, you have to find the one thing they are interested in and get interested in it too. They don't like to lick (eat, whatever) poo. They like to play with toys, lay on the couch, and eat.
Cow: <wagging tail> <rolling on belly> <sniffing unmentionable places> <being swatted away>
The Kid: Just try, Cow. You'll see.
Cow: <head tilt>
Me: Um, you know the girls are his sisters...so...he's just trying to be friends with them, right?
The Kid: Duh.
Me: That was some good advice...so...uh...if a boy was interested in you what might he try to be interested in? (I said it just as awkwardly, trust me).
The Kid: Knowledge. I like learning about things. I especially like science. They'd probably try movies or Barbie's but I like to learn things so if they talked to me about learning that would work for my heart.
Me: Uh...um...er...has any boy tried to talk to you about knowledge yet?
The Kid: Nah. They haven't cracked that code yet.
Me: <silently> phew.
Here's to no boys "cracking the code" for a long, long time.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
My little rookie.
We signed the kid up for softball before Christmas because we felt that she really needed to play a team sport. She wasn't too thrilled with the idea. She had a lot of conditions we had to meet, too.
1) No pictures or videos at practices.
2) No pictures at games.
3) Get her a puppy.
I said I could do 1 and 2, but not 3. She agreed. I think she threw in the puppy as a negotiation tactic. I only realized this later, of course. I hate being outsmarted by a fourth grader.
So today was the BIG DAY. Try-outs. All the kids get on a team but they run them through drills to see what their skill level is for placement.
Of the fifty kids that were there, I'd say about 6 had never played before. The rest? Professionals. Serious. I was beyond nervous. I was beyond scared. I was petrified for her.
As we waited for it to start I could tell she was nervous. A little clingy. She watched her iPod. She asked a thousand times if it was time yet. We'd reassure her that she'd do great. Just do your best. All that jazz. Inside? I was dying.
The time arrived. She saw the other girls going into the dugout. She told us she thought she should go. She grabbed her stuff and left. It was so hard not to grab her and run back to the car and into the safety of our home.
I told my husband that she is so much braver than I was at that age. She's so much braver than I am now.
They were a bit disorganized. She was standing alone out on the field with no partner to play catch with. Looking around nervously. Me? I was glued to the bleachers. My heart breaking in a million little pieces.
Finally someone noticed and she was paired up with another little girl who, clearly, was professional. But patient. She took a few tough ones. I could tell she was hurt. We found out later her bracelet broke. She was trying to pick up the pieces as she played catch. We thought she was distracted and trying to find rocks.
As they waited for the first drill she ran to me. I could see she was distressed. On her way, she tripped. She came to tell me she got hit with a softball in the ribs but now her knee was bleeding. I think she was just nervous and needed me to comfort her. I hugged her. I admit, I said "there's no crying in baseball" because that was all I could think of to say and since we just watched "A League of Their Own" last night, it was the first thing that popped into my head. Not my finest moment. She shook it off. She just needed that. Me. And then she was okay. My husband took her to the first aid station. She went back to the dugout.
First drill was hitting. Oh. My. God. Kill. Me. Now. These girls could HIT. They bunted. The HIT to the outfield! I knew she would have no freaking idea what "bunting" was and while we had practiced a lot I felt like an idiot for not preparing her better. A lady sat down next to me. She told me she was the wife of one of the coaches. She could see I was nervous. She told me it would be fine. It was her turn. She stood wrong. Held the bat wrong. Did I mention I was dying on the bleachers as this was happening? No? I WAS. The woman next to me cheered loudly for her because I couldn't even talk. She shot dirty looks to some guy in the stands who was hollering at her (nothing mean, just stuff like "push into it") and yelled over him, encouraging her. She swung and swung and swung and the last two? She got a piece of both of them. The lady hooted for her as she ran to first base. I thanked her. She understood. I'll never be able to thank her enough for being my voice when I couldn't speak.
She was so proud. I could see the look on her face from sixty feet away. Smiling ear-to-ear. She sat with the other girls. I could see her laughing. She was happy. I learned later from husband (who was standing close to the team so he could hear what they were saying to the girls) that the other girls were so supportive of her. Told her she was doing good. Explained what different things meant.
The drills after that went well - she may not have thrown it as far as the other girls or caught pop-flies but she tried. And she had fun.
It was finally over - except for those that wanted try out for pitcher. From across the field I see her run to line up. I frantically called my husband. "Don't let her do it!" He told me, "She wants to try. Let her."
I couldn't bear the thought of her trying out against these girls. I ran towards them. By the time I got there she was getting her stuff. Something changed her mind. I learned later it was because she was cold. I'm glad it was cold. I'm also glad I didn't try to stop her. What kind of lesson would that have been? If it's hard or you don't know, don't try?
If I had been there by myself with her I probably would have swept her up and carried her home the first time she came running to me. Thankfully my husband (and later, my parents and sister) were there to prevent me.
I've got to stop letting my fear and insecurity rule her life. My husband helps me with that every day.
She went out there. She did her best. She asked questions. She made friends.
I've never been so proud of her in my life.
1) No pictures or videos at practices.
2) No pictures at games.
3) Get her a puppy.
I said I could do 1 and 2, but not 3. She agreed. I think she threw in the puppy as a negotiation tactic. I only realized this later, of course. I hate being outsmarted by a fourth grader.
So today was the BIG DAY. Try-outs. All the kids get on a team but they run them through drills to see what their skill level is for placement.
Of the fifty kids that were there, I'd say about 6 had never played before. The rest? Professionals. Serious. I was beyond nervous. I was beyond scared. I was petrified for her.
As we waited for it to start I could tell she was nervous. A little clingy. She watched her iPod. She asked a thousand times if it was time yet. We'd reassure her that she'd do great. Just do your best. All that jazz. Inside? I was dying.
The time arrived. She saw the other girls going into the dugout. She told us she thought she should go. She grabbed her stuff and left. It was so hard not to grab her and run back to the car and into the safety of our home.
I told my husband that she is so much braver than I was at that age. She's so much braver than I am now.
They were a bit disorganized. She was standing alone out on the field with no partner to play catch with. Looking around nervously. Me? I was glued to the bleachers. My heart breaking in a million little pieces.
Finally someone noticed and she was paired up with another little girl who, clearly, was professional. But patient. She took a few tough ones. I could tell she was hurt. We found out later her bracelet broke. She was trying to pick up the pieces as she played catch. We thought she was distracted and trying to find rocks.
As they waited for the first drill she ran to me. I could see she was distressed. On her way, she tripped. She came to tell me she got hit with a softball in the ribs but now her knee was bleeding. I think she was just nervous and needed me to comfort her. I hugged her. I admit, I said "there's no crying in baseball" because that was all I could think of to say and since we just watched "A League of Their Own" last night, it was the first thing that popped into my head. Not my finest moment. She shook it off. She just needed that. Me. And then she was okay. My husband took her to the first aid station. She went back to the dugout.
First drill was hitting. Oh. My. God. Kill. Me. Now. These girls could HIT. They bunted. The HIT to the outfield! I knew she would have no freaking idea what "bunting" was and while we had practiced a lot I felt like an idiot for not preparing her better. A lady sat down next to me. She told me she was the wife of one of the coaches. She could see I was nervous. She told me it would be fine. It was her turn. She stood wrong. Held the bat wrong. Did I mention I was dying on the bleachers as this was happening? No? I WAS. The woman next to me cheered loudly for her because I couldn't even talk. She shot dirty looks to some guy in the stands who was hollering at her (nothing mean, just stuff like "push into it") and yelled over him, encouraging her. She swung and swung and swung and the last two? She got a piece of both of them. The lady hooted for her as she ran to first base. I thanked her. She understood. I'll never be able to thank her enough for being my voice when I couldn't speak.
She was so proud. I could see the look on her face from sixty feet away. Smiling ear-to-ear. She sat with the other girls. I could see her laughing. She was happy. I learned later from husband (who was standing close to the team so he could hear what they were saying to the girls) that the other girls were so supportive of her. Told her she was doing good. Explained what different things meant.
The drills after that went well - she may not have thrown it as far as the other girls or caught pop-flies but she tried. And she had fun.
It was finally over - except for those that wanted try out for pitcher. From across the field I see her run to line up. I frantically called my husband. "Don't let her do it!" He told me, "She wants to try. Let her."
I couldn't bear the thought of her trying out against these girls. I ran towards them. By the time I got there she was getting her stuff. Something changed her mind. I learned later it was because she was cold. I'm glad it was cold. I'm also glad I didn't try to stop her. What kind of lesson would that have been? If it's hard or you don't know, don't try?
If I had been there by myself with her I probably would have swept her up and carried her home the first time she came running to me. Thankfully my husband (and later, my parents and sister) were there to prevent me.
I've got to stop letting my fear and insecurity rule her life. My husband helps me with that every day.
She went out there. She did her best. She asked questions. She made friends.
I've never been so proud of her in my life.
Image stolen from the Interwebz because, as previously stated, I was forbidden from even taking a picture of the grass.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
I should be making love to my DVR but it's afraid of intimacy. Or it was broke for a week. Either one.
Making love to the DVR may be taking it a little too far. I'm not even sure how one would accomplish that unless the remote is involved...
Pretend the ellipsis at the end of that last sentence is me waiting for you to take your time being incredibly grossed out by what I just wrote.
I see that statement a lot - I'm making love to this or that. I recently saw I'm making love to Dairy Queen. What does that mean? Do you mean the girl that just got voted to represent the cows? Or the ice-cream shop? I suppose if it was the cowgirl then they might have said I'm making love to the Dairy Queen. But maybe they just have bad grammar? I'm hoping someone explains it to me. I'm confused. And it's too rude to ask. So I just talk about it on my blog. I have manners.
Fourth paragraph in and I'll get to my point now. Although calling what I wrote above "paragraphs" might be a stretch. I'm sorry but talking about making love to things was incredibly distracting. I'll stop now. Our DVR broke right before Christmas. I like to think it was rabid squirrels who came down the chimney of the fireplace we never use (we live in Southern California, hello!) and chewed on the cords but my husband told me he thinks because it was unplugged too long. The reason it was unplugged too long is that the kid was not behaving and kept trying to watch TV upstairs so he just unplugged the box downstairs. I like my explanation better. It's more creative. Although props to him for outsmarting that kid.
Our new DVR arrived after Christmas and we could finally CONTROL live TV once more. All was right in the world. It was like little tiny hug from Baby Jesus every time I paused something.
Until last Thursday. Baby Jesus took his love away from me. That was when I realized that none of the timers were set anymore and I missed The Office and 30 Rock. I think I did anyway. They didn't record. I obviously don't miss them enough to see if there were new episodes by going to NBC.com or anything. I'm kind of mad at NBC right now anyway because of Conan. I love Conan.
I went into the incredibly complicated set up so we wouldn't have the same tragedy this week and do you know what I found? Timers. For. Every. Single. Program. Geared. Toward. Children.
The kid figured it out before I did.
Pretend the ellipsis at the end of that last sentence is me waiting for you to take your time being incredibly grossed out by what I just wrote.
I see that statement a lot - I'm making love to this or that. I recently saw I'm making love to Dairy Queen. What does that mean? Do you mean the girl that just got voted to represent the cows? Or the ice-cream shop? I suppose if it was the cowgirl then they might have said I'm making love to the Dairy Queen. But maybe they just have bad grammar? I'm hoping someone explains it to me. I'm confused. And it's too rude to ask. So I just talk about it on my blog. I have manners.
Fourth paragraph in and I'll get to my point now. Although calling what I wrote above "paragraphs" might be a stretch. I'm sorry but talking about making love to things was incredibly distracting. I'll stop now. Our DVR broke right before Christmas. I like to think it was rabid squirrels who came down the chimney of the fireplace we never use (we live in Southern California, hello!) and chewed on the cords but my husband told me he thinks because it was unplugged too long. The reason it was unplugged too long is that the kid was not behaving and kept trying to watch TV upstairs so he just unplugged the box downstairs. I like my explanation better. It's more creative. Although props to him for outsmarting that kid.
Our new DVR arrived after Christmas and we could finally CONTROL live TV once more. All was right in the world. It was like little tiny hug from Baby Jesus every time I paused something.
Until last Thursday. Baby Jesus took his love away from me. That was when I realized that none of the timers were set anymore and I missed The Office and 30 Rock. I think I did anyway. They didn't record. I obviously don't miss them enough to see if there were new episodes by going to NBC.com or anything. I'm kind of mad at NBC right now anyway because of Conan. I love Conan.
I went into the incredibly complicated set up so we wouldn't have the same tragedy this week and do you know what I found? Timers. For. Every. Single. Program. Geared. Toward. Children.
The kid figured it out before I did.
How many times have your kids proved that they are smarter, faster, and have more insurance than you?
1,000 points to anyone who can tell me what book-turned-movie inspired that last question.
You'll win ... my respect.
No?
Fine.
You'll just get 1,000 points in an imaginary contest.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Grass.
Kid: Why are you taking a picture of the grass?
Me: I'm not. I'm taking video.
Kid: That's even more stupid.
Me: Thanks.
I love the support I get. It's awesome.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
I may have a fever. A fever involving a baby. Otherwise known as "baby fever".
Someone take my temperature and then take me to the hospital. And commit me.
We've been talking about having a baby but I really wasn't sure. Babies are a lot of work. Life is pretty good right now. The kid uses the bathroom herself, dresses herself, cooks for herself and even does laundry!
Babies can't do any of that stuff AND they cry. They can't talk so they can't tell you what's wrong and you go out of your mind imagining all sorts of horrible things and then they burp and they stop crying and you are so relieved (and exhausted) that you start crying, of course, they start crying again too and you're back to square one.
The kid will talk to me, most of the time. Babies never talk to you and ask you how your life is going.
Basically what I'm saying is that babies are selfish and play mind games.
There are wonderful things about babies -- you don't have to hurry to find a bathroom because they can just go in their pants. Need food? Just whip out a boob. And clothes? They wear WHATEVER you put on them! They don't care if it doesn't match or makes them look like a dork. They can't talk back to you and tell you that you are the WORST MOTHER IN THE WORLD. All of that comes much later.
I know that you do, at some point, have to clean up that dirty mess in their pants. And sometimes they want to eat at 2:30 in the morning, then 4:30, then 6:30. And I'm pretty sure that happens every night but it's hard to remember because, really, it was all such a blur. They also create laundry instead of doing it for you. And they cry. A lot. Beatrice cried for the first three months of her life. Solid. Except for sleeping and eating. But cuddling with that sweet little baby made up for all of that. Cuddling with her even now makes up for all of that. Even when she tells me I'm the WORST MOTHER IN THE WORLD.
I was so conflicted I asked a trusted friend for their opinion. Do you know how many sites are dedicated to "should I have a baby?" A lot. Google wasn't as helpful as I had hoped but I think it told me I should.
I posed the question on Twitter and everyone who responded said I should. No one told me that I shouldn't. I'm still trying to figure out if the people who told me that I should like me or not.
I told my husband we had to have a baby now because Google said so and so did the ladies on Twitter. He threatened to take away my computer but I'm not sure what good that would do because I still have my iPhone. He probably wasn't thinking clearly.
Despite all the work that I know babies are...I also know that it all melts away when you cuddle that sweet baby goodness. And now we're back to my original point that I'm insane and I want you to take me to the hospital to commit me because I do want to have another baby. I really do.
Now that we decided we want to have one we have to decide when to have one (probably after I get out of the mental hospital) so I'm off to google that.
Don't tell my husband.
We've been talking about having a baby but I really wasn't sure. Babies are a lot of work. Life is pretty good right now. The kid uses the bathroom herself, dresses herself, cooks for herself and even does laundry!
Babies can't do any of that stuff AND they cry. They can't talk so they can't tell you what's wrong and you go out of your mind imagining all sorts of horrible things and then they burp and they stop crying and you are so relieved (and exhausted) that you start crying, of course, they start crying again too and you're back to square one.
The kid will talk to me, most of the time. Babies never talk to you and ask you how your life is going.
Basically what I'm saying is that babies are selfish and play mind games.
There are wonderful things about babies -- you don't have to hurry to find a bathroom because they can just go in their pants. Need food? Just whip out a boob. And clothes? They wear WHATEVER you put on them! They don't care if it doesn't match or makes them look like a dork. They can't talk back to you and tell you that you are the WORST MOTHER IN THE WORLD. All of that comes much later.
I know that you do, at some point, have to clean up that dirty mess in their pants. And sometimes they want to eat at 2:30 in the morning, then 4:30, then 6:30. And I'm pretty sure that happens every night but it's hard to remember because, really, it was all such a blur. They also create laundry instead of doing it for you. And they cry. A lot. Beatrice cried for the first three months of her life. Solid. Except for sleeping and eating. But cuddling with that sweet little baby made up for all of that. Cuddling with her even now makes up for all of that. Even when she tells me I'm the WORST MOTHER IN THE WORLD.
I was so conflicted I asked a trusted friend for their opinion. Do you know how many sites are dedicated to "should I have a baby?" A lot. Google wasn't as helpful as I had hoped but I think it told me I should.
I posed the question on Twitter and everyone who responded said I should. No one told me that I shouldn't. I'm still trying to figure out if the people who told me that I should like me or not.
I told my husband we had to have a baby now because Google said so and so did the ladies on Twitter. He threatened to take away my computer but I'm not sure what good that would do because I still have my iPhone. He probably wasn't thinking clearly.
Despite all the work that I know babies are...I also know that it all melts away when you cuddle that sweet baby goodness. And now we're back to my original point that I'm insane and I want you to take me to the hospital to commit me because I do want to have another baby. I really do.
Now that we decided we want to have one we have to decide when to have one (probably after I get out of the mental hospital) so I'm off to google that.
Don't tell my husband.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Monday, January 4, 2010
It's Bowser. Not Browser. Also, I'm a jerk.
We got the new Super Mario Bros. for the Wii for Christmas and it kind of became an obsession. I say "we" but really it was a gift for the kid. She doesn't like to play because she doesn't like to fall into the hot lava. But she likes to watch us play. And look up cheat codes on the Internet for us. We'll say "we're on level 4-2" and she'll respond "4-2 coming online in 3, 2, 1". Then my husband will bounce on my head and push me into the hot lava and I'll call him a jerk and she'll yell at me. It's family bonding at its best.
Of course, not having lived through the original Super Mario Bros. game the kid has no idea who all the characters are (the koopas, the mushrooms, and YOSHI!). I remember playing the original game in my brother's bedroom and marveling at how awesome the graphics were. We were used to playing Pong or some such game on our Commodore 64 and this HAD COLOR! AND FIRE! AND BRICKS YOU BREAK WITH YOUR HEAD! You only had so many lives to play with and if you lost them then you had to start over. There were no "continues" -- in the new game my husband is on his 78th continue -- and each continue gives you at least 5 lives...I'm only at 33...but I guess I should tell you that I bubble through a lot of it so I don't get pushed into hot lava. Also, obviously, in the new game up to 4 people can play AT THE SAME TIME. Remember when you had to take turns? And hope that whoever you were playing with didn't beat the world first? No? Just me?
Anyway, back to my original point. The kid didn't know who the characters were...and so we would tell her and then she'd refer back to them as if she had been playing for 25 years like the rest of us...except for Bowser. In her little Millennial generation head Bowser became "Browser" (note the "r"). Also, in my little smart ass head this became a wonderful opportunity.
Beatrice: "Does that castle have the original Browser?"
Me: "Yes. His nickname is Netscape."
Of course my husband chuckled but she just accepted it. And, Internet, it might be child cruelty but I just let it go. I didn't explain it to her. Until last night when she asked if we were going to try to beat "Netscrape" (note the "r") again to get the star coins for that level.
I broke down and told her I was just being a smart ass aleck. I couldn't have her go to school and say that her parents played Super Mario Bros. and beat the original Browser, Netscape. Can you imagine? Kids are assholes! She would be so embarrassed! So I explained that Netscape was one of the first popular Internet browsers and when she called him "Browser" I couldn't let that joke just roll on by down a dusty, country dirt road. I had to do it. I told her that there are many types of Internet browsers like IE or Firefox or Safari or Chrome and then it got even more confusing because she thought I was just talking about Google but we cleared that up and then she got really mad at me and then I let her have a lollipop and she loved me again. Lollipops are the best at repairing damaged relationships.
Except.
Now when I try to say Bowser I actually call him Browser because I can't stop thinking about it. Now I'll be the one who is taunted because you know grown-ups can be such assholes. So, you see the joke has back-fired on me.
Of course, my embarrassment will only last until I imagine myself hurling a ice ball at their head and finishing it with a butt-stomp.
Smooches.
Of course, not having lived through the original Super Mario Bros. game the kid has no idea who all the characters are (the koopas, the mushrooms, and YOSHI!). I remember playing the original game in my brother's bedroom and marveling at how awesome the graphics were. We were used to playing Pong or some such game on our Commodore 64 and this HAD COLOR! AND FIRE! AND BRICKS YOU BREAK WITH YOUR HEAD! You only had so many lives to play with and if you lost them then you had to start over. There were no "continues" -- in the new game my husband is on his 78th continue -- and each continue gives you at least 5 lives...I'm only at 33...but I guess I should tell you that I bubble through a lot of it so I don't get pushed into hot lava. Also, obviously, in the new game up to 4 people can play AT THE SAME TIME. Remember when you had to take turns? And hope that whoever you were playing with didn't beat the world first? No? Just me?
Anyway, back to my original point. The kid didn't know who the characters were...and so we would tell her and then she'd refer back to them as if she had been playing for 25 years like the rest of us...except for Bowser. In her little Millennial generation head Bowser became "Browser" (note the "r"). Also, in my little smart ass head this became a wonderful opportunity.
Beatrice: "Does that castle have the original Browser?"
Me: "Yes. His nickname is Netscape."
Of course my husband chuckled but she just accepted it. And, Internet, it might be child cruelty but I just let it go. I didn't explain it to her. Until last night when she asked if we were going to try to beat "Netscrape" (note the "r") again to get the star coins for that level.
I broke down and told her I was just being a smart ass aleck. I couldn't have her go to school and say that her parents played Super Mario Bros. and beat the original Browser, Netscape. Can you imagine? Kids are assholes! She would be so embarrassed! So I explained that Netscape was one of the first popular Internet browsers and when she called him "Browser" I couldn't let that joke just roll on by down a dusty, country dirt road. I had to do it. I told her that there are many types of Internet browsers like IE or Firefox or Safari or Chrome and then it got even more confusing because she thought I was just talking about Google but we cleared that up and then she got really mad at me and then I let her have a lollipop and she loved me again. Lollipops are the best at repairing damaged relationships.
Except.
Now when I try to say Bowser I actually call him Browser because I can't stop thinking about it. Now I'll be the one who is taunted because you know grown-ups can be such assholes. So, you see the joke has back-fired on me.
Of course, my embarrassment will only last until I imagine myself hurling a ice ball at their head and finishing it with a butt-stomp.
Smooches.
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