tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-81167973779454221632024-03-19T03:04:13.320-07:00Sodramaticsodramatichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06852166424759577030noreply@blogger.comBlogger31125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8116797377945422163.post-71629081149879531992017-08-30T06:18:00.004-07:002017-08-30T21:03:13.684-07:00These Crashy Days...<br />
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So a good friend sent me a private FB message saying if I didn't want to be so strong all of the time she was here to listen to me winge and whine anytime I needed it. Said friend is definitely one of the smartest, safest people with whom I would rant and rave, but I try to save it for these blog posts. I try not to drown people in sorrow on "Best Face forward-Book", that is the place of sunshine and light and family pics and "see how well I'm doing?? I'm fine, no Fine, no FINE I tell you, godddamit!<br />
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The truth is I dread every round of chemo. I had a major meltdown last time when I thought I was on my "getting better" day (according to the demanding schedule inside of my head, based on the last round) and I tried to take the small dog for a five mintue shuffle down the road and found myself heart pounding, lathery sweat, shaking trying to get home. Plus the stupid dog refused to poop, which probably meant a lovely surprise on the kitchen floor later, but that's a whine for another time...<br />
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I can sum up my chemo week (I get my infusion on a Tuesday and usuallys start crashing on Thursday) like the opening theme of that classic, feel good show, Happy Days, if you're old enough to remember Fonz and the Gang sing along in your head: <br />
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Tuesday, Wednesday - HAPPY DAYS (I have a buttload of steroids keeping me artificially afloat)<br />
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Thursday, Friday -CRASHY DAYS (steroids have worn off... the drugged "Bill Cosby's date" feeling) sets in...<br />
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Saturday, Sunday - BONE PAINY DAYS (from my immune booster shot, ususally settles in a throbbing headache and lower back pain, with bonus shots down my front femurs, fun!)<br />
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Monday Comes, METAL MOUTH AND GUMS, and everything tastes like burnt sooo-ooot!<br />
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Sing it! These days go ooon-ooon-oon... these crashy days!!! For about 10-12 days they go ooon-ooon-oon, (along with gastrointestinal distress and various emotional breakdowns!)<br />
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Sing it!... Ah, suck it!<br />
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<br />sodramatichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06852166424759577030noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8116797377945422163.post-26966792750946878192017-08-23T17:13:00.001-07:002017-08-23T17:29:38.685-07:00On Camping and other "C" words.....<br />
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Well, well well... who knew it could happen? A family vacation during which I do not cry once? It only took 10 years for us to be able to leave with the boys out of the house and not wish for the sweet realease of.. oh, wait, maybe I shouldn't joke about that anymore, given present circumstances.<br />
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Ahem,<br />
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So i guess I'll put this experience into the gratitude category which has gotten a lot longer as of late. I have to work carefully to control the behavior of my mind. It is so easy to get scared and say "what if.. and worry about whether the dreaded beastie will decide to spread, now or down the road. Granted, it has a 95% chance of never making another uninvited appearance, but that 5% will niggle at you, if you let it. It is an unpredictable beast and when my mind wants to dwell on this I must control it's behavior, like that of a toddler. Re-direct, distract, give it ice-cream.<br />
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Counting my blessings is a great way to change the direction of my meandering brain. This experience has given me as much as it has taken away, I am awestruck by the kindness and thoughtfulness of my friends, and people who hardly know me, but still go out of their way with a kind message or gesture or a gift. I have learned that my family is not a bunch of people who wait until all of my work is done to get a scrap of my time, nor should they be. I have given myself permission to carve out time to take care of myself, to say no and to not feel obligated. I have learned that the phrase "it's not life or death" really means just that, because I now have a context to compare. <br />
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When the doctor gives you the "C" diagnosis, you really, genuinely believe in that moment that you are going to die, that your children will be motherless, that you will miss everything from that point on. To then find out you are probably going to be ok is really to have your life yanked from you, re-molded and given back in a new form. That new form is often given in a perspective that few get to truly experience. <br />
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It is a small club with a very shitty inititation ceremony, but I'm so glad to have it's membership. sodramatichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06852166424759577030noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8116797377945422163.post-75254370789049105892017-07-31T19:58:00.001-07:002017-08-01T05:50:27.765-07:00Time marches on.. and stomps on my head.Well, it is happening. I don't know if I thought I would get off easy, that I would be lucky. It's strange because through all of this I've always felt incredibly blessed and lucky in my life and I continue to feel that way. I caught the cancer early, it was a stage 1, it was ER/PR + and HR- (the <i>best</i> type of breast cancer to get, you know...) and the tumour was mucinous, which tend not to spread, and the lymph nodes were clear. So I thought I had the proverbial cancer horseshoe up my ass.<br />
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I thought, maybe I wouldn't lose my hair, even though I said out loud "I will definititely lose my hair" to anyone who suggested I may not. I guess deep down inside, maybe I thought I would be lucky. Anyway, as I was blow-drying my hair yesterday (day 13.. LUCKY!) after chemo round #1, and I noticed long strands coming out all over my hands. I tentatively pulled at a few strands, and sure enough.. out they came.<br />
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Even though I said, it's only hair, it will grow back, I'll have a nice wig, it was always an abstract idea that has quickly become concrete. <br />
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I feel sad and this sucks and it makes it real in way that wasn't before. <br />
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My daughter just silently walked over to me and threw her arms around my waist, which was the exact right thing to do. She didn't try to make me feel better or "bright side" it away. <br />
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I got in the shower and I didn't know whether to scrub it all out to get it over with or to baby it to try to stave off the inevitable a little longer. I guess the middle path is always the right one, so I'll baby it until my scheduled hair appointment in a week, at which time I will cut it off short. That way if it goes patchy or wonky up there, I can just plop the wig (whose name is Lindsay.. says the wig maker) on top until I buzz it. That's the plan.<br />
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I just have to let this happen as it will, it's going to anyway. I guess I'll take a pass on this one and save the luck for the important stuff, like living till 100 after I beat this thing. <br />
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<img alt="" class="img" height="200" src="https://scontent-lga3-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t34.0-12/20561830_10159089108430057_1375920991_n.jpg?oh=dffb2c243b11046a1ba4910224e811a0&oe=5982CC41" style="height: 751px; width: 563px;" width="149" />sodramatichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06852166424759577030noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8116797377945422163.post-42442828637017922152017-07-25T05:31:00.000-07:002017-07-25T05:31:03.902-07:00A New Show Begins...I just checked this old blog that I used to write, to help me cope with the tramatic experience of raising twin boys who were a little more "active" and "intense" than I had prepared for. Suffice to say that raising children did not meet with my expectations of my earlier research: namely, childhood reruns of the Cosby Show. <div>
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Well, we all know where putting our faith in the values held by Bill Cosby has gotten us, so I digress...</div>
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I noticed that when the boys began to get a bit easier, I found it more difficult to write, so I stopped. It has never gotten easy, but after the age of 3 or 4 I either found some good drugs or the boys stopped being quite so impossible. Well now I find myself in need of a space to write to chronicle a new experience, for myself, so I don't forget the fight I will win or the lessons I will learn along the way. </div>
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I was diagnosed with breast cancer in April 2017. This came as quite a shock, because I neither had the lifestyle factors (excessive drinking, smoking, obesity etc) or the family history to explain it. I always thought cancer was something I was immune to, having more of a heart disease type family. I had a firm sense of control over my life, I did all the right things, and I still got fucking cancer. </div>
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Ugh.</div>
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The good news, however is that it was a <i>good</i> type of cancer to get. That was my doctor's first consolation after she sent me reeling in her office with the diagnosis. I clung to that word like a life raft for the first 10 seconds. She said it was a mucinous ductal carcinoma. At first she said the mucinous part worried her because it was a rare type of cancer. As soon as I heard "rare" I heard "dead", because there are no large movements to fund research for rare diseases. Then she told me in was a subtype of ductal cartinoma, which was the most treatable type. She gave me a bunch of information and I left in a daze, texting BF, Cyn to "come to my house now". She left her work and came immediately. I called DH Chris at work (he teaches at a high school) and he came right home. </div>
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I couldn't read anything or do anything. Chris and Cynthia read stuff for me and gave me the reassuring pieces where they found them. Apparently mucinous subtype has the best prognosis and is the least likely to spread, which was welcome hope. Then Chris went on to become more of and expert in horemone receptor status, genetic phenotypes of tumours, stages and grades (without burdoning me with this of course).</div>
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I am four months in, and I had to start at the beginning to write about now... but I'll have to save now for later.</div>
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Well the upside is, cancer is a crappy hand to be dealt, but it sure cures writers block.</div>
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sodramatichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06852166424759577030noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8116797377945422163.post-15313875915019288832014-04-30T18:40:00.002-07:002014-04-30T18:43:23.639-07:00Biggest Fan...So it's happening. Last post I wrote about the 10 year old wanting me to be boring around her friends... like do not draw undue attention. Be. The. Coat. Rack. Make yourself useful and nothing more. <br />
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Fine... I resolved to take it in stride. This is what I had been waiting for, right? I have longed for this day, an unravelling of the umbilicus before it strangled me to death. I remember when all three of them were little and they would pounce on me, like a weakened wildebeast straggling behind the herd, to exhausted to fight. There was never enough of me to go around, so much so that I lost myself for a good long while. There's still not quite enough of me to go around for the boys, but while I wasn't looking, she unwrapped herself. She has been picked to run the Marathon of Respect and Equality, something she has wanted to do for the last few years... school kids usually go down to watch the runners finish. This year she gets to run and I was talking about how I was going to juggle my work schedule to be there when she finished. <br />
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"Uh, mom, you don't have to be there..." she opens. "No, honey, I'll make it work" I say. The it hit's me..." um... unless you don't want me to be there" (thinking this could not possibly be true). She gives me a look of relief like I've finally gotten it and she didn't have to spell it out. <br />
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"Oh," I say.. "so you don't want anyone there to see you finish the big race? You've been wanting to run in this for years." She replies, "well my friends and teachers will be there"<br />
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Subtext: they are enough... I don't need you. The person I need to be proud of me at that moment is. not. you. <br />
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So here it is... the moment when the umbilicus begins to unravel and stretch. That bond that we forged when she is little, for the first 7 or 8 years of her life is all that will hold her to me for the next 10 or so years... it's going to stretch out while she floats away from me. I'm sure it will be strong enough to get us through, until she comes back to me. <br />
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This is the moment I was waiting for, her launch, getting a piece of myself back again. <br />
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It doesn't quite fit as nicely as it used to. sodramatichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06852166424759577030noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8116797377945422163.post-80444139711752008882014-02-27T18:27:00.000-08:002014-02-27T18:27:02.244-08:00Alpha FemaleSo I spent the early years of this blog writing about the mind-numbing stress of raising two intense twin boys who seemed intent on wringing every bit of sanity from my withered shell. They are six now, and while life is still "busy".. things have settled to the point where I can now take a breath, sleep in on the weekends (except for the new *&%$# hockey practise... 730 am ice time on Sat <u>WTF!!)</u> I have to say that things are trucking along ok...<br />
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Enter the TWEEN. No, it did not say Queen... although that is probably the expecation. My now ten year old girl. She is a brilliant, beautiful precocious girl. She has always seemed older than her years and is now entering a new phase of her life. I told her when she was younger that someday she would grow to be embarrassed by me, would think she hated me at times and would want nothing to do with me for years. She did not believe me when at age 7 I told her I would be the last person she would want to hang out with. <br />
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It started a few months ago, at age 9... with her asking me haltingly... "Mom, do you think you could be a little less.... ummm, <i>enthusiastic</i> when you pick up my friends in the car?". I recognized the beginning of the end when I saw it, but I have to say it took me about 5 more months to figure out that she did not want a "fun, cool mom"... which incidently, I thought I would EXCEL at .... but a boring, invisible mom. Turns out she wants to be the only act in town when her friends are around. Makes sense. I was not hurt. I worked with teens long enough to know that this is totally normal behavior and I have seen them come back. I have faith that I am not losing her forever, that she will like cool, adventerous mom when she is old enough to work through her identity and find her confidenece. <br />
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I need to write this down so I can remember that I am not hurt by this behavior, this is the beginning of a long period of anthropological research on my part. I'm like the Jane Goodall of my house. She didn't take it personally when her apes threw poop at her, so I am going to attempt to remain stoic when she throws shit at me. <br />
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I'll have to continue to ask myself, WWJD? What would Jane do?<br />
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<u><br /></u>sodramatichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06852166424759577030noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8116797377945422163.post-52450391985070802672012-06-14T07:32:00.000-07:002012-06-16T18:11:10.184-07:00On altered reality and e-craftsOk, so I had a rather awkward situation the other day...ok, maybe it's only awkward in my mind, but I live in a bit of a Seinfeldian universe where the minutia of life is blown up to disproportionate dimensions and is examined for every bit of entertainment or interest that I can milk out of it.<br />
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Kind of like the Kardashians....<br />
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So the other day I'm obsessively checking my facebook (which I generally ignore...Sorry CO), for signs of life from my friend Tiana who went to Thailand for three months in hopes of catching a parasite to drop a dress size or two (Seriously, Khloe, you could learn a thing or two, girl... where is your <i>committment?</i>).<br />
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Actually, Tiana is jetsetting to Bangkok to attend a university there to gain a certification in peace and conflict resolution and we all really miss her..... the parasite will just be a bonus.<br />
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So, back to Facebook, I'm looking for signs of life from T, and I notice that I have received a notification that I have received a comment on a comment that I supposedly left on the wall of an acquaintence that I hardly know ( a friend of a friend's husband) Ack... did you get all that (Hi, y'all... this is my cousin Zeke's boyfriend's sister-in law's parrot's former owner's cousin.... twahce re-moooooved....)<br />
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Curious......have I messaged a strange man who I hardly know in some kind of stress induced fugue state? Nope, I haven't had that kind of stress induced state since last year before the boys turned human....but would have made an awesome blog post...<br />
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But no, I don't remember leaving a comment on this guy's wall. So, getting to the point, when I checked the comment, it turns out that he replied "Aw shucks, thanks!" for a "special birthday card" that I had supposedly made for him online and sent to him for his birthday. <br />
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Now, I know that I have not crafted this guy a special e-card to post to his wall for his birthday.... I'm never on facebook and I'm too lazy to even comment on people's profiles that I do know well. This must be some facebook marketing thing, wherein they create false birthday cards, hijack your profile to send these cards to people on their birthdays to make them click on them and download the app to their profile. So I think, "well, he's probably gotten dozens of these things from other people through the same marketing scheme..."<br />
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I check his wall and.... nope. Among the 50 or so wall posts of well wishers, all from people he actually does know well, here is my post with the message "I made a special birthday card just for you", with my picture profile attached.<br />
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This just looks weird to me. What is he thinking? I met him once, two years ago as the husband of my friend's friend. No other contact since that time. And here I am, the only one on his whole facebook wall with a special birthday card made just for him???? And... what would his wife think? I look like a weirdo.....<br />
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So now I'm left with this dilemma... do I write an offhand comment like, "yeah, I'm glad you had a good birthday, but I didn't send you a card" kind of seems.... bitchy....<br />
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Or do I leave the card and have him think<br />
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A) I'm some kind of strange stalker or:<br />
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B) I'm one of those strange internet people<br />
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You know the ones... sending farmville requests, forwarding you tonnes of "send this to 7 people or you'll have 100 years of bad luck"..., taking the time to calculate how smart they really are with those online IQ tests.... and they have over 4000 face book "friends". <br />
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....Obsessively creating e-cards to send to almost complete strangers over the internet... <br />
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The best I can hope for is that he thinks I'm type B, and that I scrapbook and decoupage too..... and live with lots of cats, and bejewel my wardrobe made entirely of light-wash denim....<br />
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Oh, the sisters Kardashian would kill for that storyline.... <br />
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<br />sodramatichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06852166424759577030noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8116797377945422163.post-56721570019482443572012-06-10T05:47:00.001-07:002012-06-10T05:58:56.380-07:00Pass the mojitos please......Oh, how I would like to blog again. The words just seemed to tumble out of me last year. They boys would do thier typhoon twin act and I would drive to work in tears, roll around on the reception area floor for a while as I reenacted the morning and then I would find 10 or so minutes in my very busy day to write about it. It didn't take any effort, like a waterfall of crap just waiting to bust the dam. <br />
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Now life is less traumatic, the boys are settling down into something that resembles normal levels of difficult and cranky. There are more words and less tears. I actually look forward to the weekend instead of steeling myself against it. I feel like a neglectful parent of this blog. Not that I'm not used to feeling like a bad parent, but this one really eats at me. <br />
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I actually enjoyed writing for the first time in my life. School makes you hate writing, anything akin to putting thoughts to paper or type was <i>work</i>. I liked writing for the fun and release of it. It's hard to write in this condition, I can see why great artists had lives full of strife, it was very convienent to their particilar profession. I even stopped reading my favorite blog, Dooce, when her life started to get too happy. The pressure to write about things and release the dam is just not as great when you are more content. <br />
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I feel like fun Bobby after he has sobered up and everyone finds out he is actually incredibly booooring. Hmmmmmm..... where to find inspiration now... <br />
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Off to the bar.sodramatichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06852166424759577030noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8116797377945422163.post-8506889675928111012011-10-05T08:58:00.000-07:002011-10-07T08:27:18.667-07:00Rocker chick...My 7 year daughter is looking for a very specific school bag, it has to:<br />
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1. Not have any characters on it whatsoever (ie Hanna Montanna)<br />
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2. Be over the shoulder (because backpacks are sooooo kindergarden)<br />
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3. Be not too big (because she's barely 40 lbs)<br />
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4. Be something that harbors NO CHANCE of being copied by other kids in her class (there was a slight emergency when another kid in her class bought the same backpack mid-year...resulting in a frantic search for anything else to carry her books in...by her, I did not participate in that madness. I think she used a rolling suitcase....)<br />
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So my husband calls me on the way home from the mall and says, "I think we found the perfect bag for Kenzie, it's over the shoulder with a nice wide strap, the bag itself is not too big and there's only one left in the store..... but I didn't buy it" <br />
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"Why not?" I say, "This is a problem solved, you actually found a bag that she <i>likes </i>and you didn't fall to your knees with gratitute, raise the bag to the heavens in exaltation and purchase it before someone else did???? Have you never shopped with this kid before??" Trying to get this kid to decide on something that she likes is akin to, well, trying to get my husband to actually decide on something that he likes. If you've read my earlier posts about trying to get him to make a decision, and the subsequent necessity of pharmaceuticals on my part, you'll feel my pain. <br />
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"It has AC DC emblazoned on it.... it giant white letters so I didn't know if that was appropriate". he says. Now, this did give me a moment's pause. I did not want our daughter to be thought of as trying to look older, or beyond her years. I did not want her teachers to think that we were the kind of parents who just lets there kid act 14 when she's only 7, even though she has passed both the disdainful attitude and eye-rolling exams with flying colors. <br />
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He finally made the decision when he took her for a drive and let her listen to some AC DC to see if she liked it. <br />
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She went to school the next day with the bookbag singing "Hell's Bells".<br />
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I'm sure the teachers thought it was cute.....no reflection of my parenting at all....<br />
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<br />sodramatichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06852166424759577030noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8116797377945422163.post-61918705516539991362011-08-25T10:20:00.000-07:002011-08-25T10:26:41.802-07:00Death to the scooter....As I said in the previous post, I was inspired to pick up the ole' quill (or tap on the ole' keyboard) again because my friend CO started blogging. She was inspired because she wants to make some changes in her life (52 of them, once per week for a year...) you can check out her journey here:<a href="http://52changesandotherstories.blogspot.com/">http://52changesandotherstories.blogspot.com/</a>. She is much more ambitious with change. She often states that if it is not big, dramatic and all the way at once that she will not do it. I am a little more gradual with change... I like to dip a big toe in, see how it feels, go slowly and figure I'll get there someday. If it feels uncomfortable, I won't continue. I like to trick myself into changing, make it so gradual that I can deny it's even happening. This is why it has taken me the last 17 years or so to exercise even 2 or 3 times per week. <br />
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I currently am in a yoga phase, I'm trying to do 20 minutes of yoga, 3-5 times per week. The reason I do this is to stave off age-related decline. I have a pact with a couple of friends that we won't let ourselves end up in a nursing home, drooling and being alone. We plan to have a senior- hippie commune, where we travel and exercise and cook and terrorize the young men that we will eventually hire to do the yardwork... I don't ever want to have to use a motorized scooter to get around, not until I'm 100 anyway. <br />
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I also am trying to drink more green tea, because it is so good for you. Unfortunately, while I love regular orange pekoe (Tetley please...) I tend to not like other teas, herbal or green. I'm trying to choke this stuff down for the good of my health, until I jump onto some other health related, life extending bandwagon....<br />
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or scooter.<br />
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sodramatichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06852166424759577030noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8116797377945422163.post-8679569737230279492011-08-24T09:27:00.000-07:002011-08-24T11:03:52.466-07:00Ode to renewed efforts...I have been avoiding looking at my blog because I haven't posted in....4 months. This is typical anxiety avoidance behavior on my part... I feel guilty for not posting, not like I'm disappointing legions of devoted fans or anything. I last wrote about the fact that since my boys have been getting a bit better I haven't had the screaming inside of my head that gets relieved when I write about it. Having said that, they are going through a bit of a rough patch...more on that later, but I'm posting today because on of my friends (Cyn or CO as she is known online..) pointed in my face last night and said.."You need to start writing your blog again, I check it everyday". So even if no else reads it, Cyn, this is for you. I am also inspired because my other slack blogger friend, Dawn has posted on fruitflies, which you can read at <a href="http://heymanwhatthehell.blogspot.com/2011/08/what-is-with-fruit-flies-anyway.html">http://heymanwhatthehell.blogspot.com/2011/08/what-is-with-fruit-flies-anyway.html</a><br />
<br />
Anyway....so I have to think of other things to write about, which should be ok, since I feel the need to verbally regale people with triviality that I find interesting. At least with a blog, they have the option of shutting it off.<br />
<br />
Thank God that's not an option in real life. My fragile ego (think inflated balloon that's easy to pop) couldn't take it. I prefer to live in the misty pink haze of self delusion....no, I'm sure they want to hear about this, just look at their smiling faces, heads nodding in encouragement... wait, maybe that's not a smile but a grimace of pain, and wait...are they <i>nodding off?</i>?? No, it can't be...come on misty pink haze..work for me..<br />
<br />
Maybe you should just head on over to that other blog now....<br />
<br />
<br />
sodramatichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06852166424759577030noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8116797377945422163.post-56008066966725669822011-04-20T10:01:00.000-07:002011-04-20T10:01:32.832-07:00Ages and Stages...and Cages?It's been a while since I've written a blog post. If you read the first one, you really shouldn't be surprised. I'm a little surprised myself that I've stuck with writing a couple of times a month for the last 6 months. Usually I end up jumping onto idea bandwagons, getting bored or distracted by shiny object and leaping right off onto another passing wagon (usually full of chickens and dudes in overalls named Zeke...)<br />
<br />
It is getting a little harder to write about things because my drive to write usually comes out of energy derived when my children (or happenstance in my life) results in some kind of internal trauma, some emotional turmoil, some state of overdramatic whimpering angst that I feel that I have to foist upon the world (oh, the world....really, you think the world reads your blog... more like foist upon the half dozen or so kind folks that take pity on you to read your ramblings... God do I have to be so dramatic all of the time..yes mom, finally I am asking myself this question..congratulations you are now permanently living in my head..)<br />
<br />
Ok, non-grammatical stream of consciousness aside....<br />
<br />
Anyway...it seems that the emotional trauma that has characterized my surviving with a 7 going on 17 year old girl and toddler twin boys is settling down. I find myself able to sit for periods up to 20 mins, and occasionally I can even assume a horizontal position on the couch while they watch something on TV or play the WII. A strange, intermittent peace has descended on the house..starting with Christmas day of this year. The boys are talking more, in between the fighting, and amusing themselves more. The screaming, leg clinging impossible-ness has gotten less. I can now leave a room and gasp, even go up the stairs without a duo of panicked, frantic leaches attaching themselves to my body whilst simultaneously battling each other to occupy the same space. <br />
<br />
I've heard other parents say, "Oh, I just want to freeze them at this age...I don't want them to get any older" Up until now, I could not share this sentiment, my daily mantra of "please grow out of this" repeated over and over in my head has been the only conscience thought regarding ages and stages. <br />
<br />
I can honestly say that I am getting to the point where my husband and I are looking at each other more and more, hands clutched to chests, with the "oh, isn't that <i>cute</i>" head tilt. <br />
<br />
I guess when you are forced to stick with things they get better. There are actually moments that I wish that they would never get older, that I could capture and keep them just as they are.<br />
<br />
Just like any other wild animal.sodramatichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06852166424759577030noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8116797377945422163.post-14135266521969312822011-03-24T10:12:00.000-07:002011-03-24T10:12:02.229-07:00Look at me I'm Sandra Dee....So last week was winter fun-fest or carnival or some such cold-inspired celebration at Mackenzie's elementary school. She is currently in grade one having just turned 7. She comes home and announces that the next day is "dress up like your favorite character day". <br />
<br />
Now this is probably not meant to invoke a panicked parental response, a sharp intake of breath with eyes closed, bracing for the inevitable back and forth of "Why don't you wear this?, No? How about this? What's wrong with this? Why not your halloween costume from last fall? No, no and no? What's that you say, you'll be a social pariah and be laughed out of the school yard if you don't wear exactly the right thing? What's that, you don't know what exactly the right thing looks like, only what exactly the <i>wrong </i>thing looks like? Watch it kid, you're about to knock me over with that eye roll.... <br />
<br />
I was preparing for this fight, our daughter is just like my husband who I vowed never to shop with again, "Honey those pants look fine, no the seam is not hanging too low, no they don't look funny....well maybe when you stand like <i>that </i>but not if you stand erect like a normal homo-sapien... what, after 10 stores you want to go back to the first pair of pants that we saw?? KILL ME NOW, I BEG OF YOU, IF YOU'VE EVER LOVED ME, TAKE THOSE PANTS AND SMOTHER ME WITH THEM? <br />
<br />
Ahem...<br />
<br />
So needless to say I was dreading the same sort of interaction with the picking out of the costume for character day. You can imagine my pleasant surprise when she already knew who she wanted to be...<br />
<br />
"I want to be Sandy from Grease" (which is her current favorite movie, please hold all judgement. It's the more censored TV version... and plus it keeps her busy whilst I'm cleaning up after the poop monsters...)<br />
<br />
"OK", I say, "I'll find you a long skirt and some Bobby socks and a ribbon for your pony tail....."<br />
<br />
"No, Mom", she sighs exasperatedly "The Sandy at the <i>end</i>.." <br />
<br />
Cue sharp intake of breath, eyes closed and heel of hand to the forehead as I brace for the fight.<br />
<br />
"You are not being BAD SANDY", I proclaim, preparing for my puritanical speech...that would be <i>inappropriate</i>.."<br />
<br />
So then I began to question myself as the all powerful censor of her ideas and wishes. The thing is, she knows that the black clad, sexy Sandy at the end of Grease is more powerful, more attractive, more special and gets more attention than Sandra Dee. She doesn't quite get the concept of sex as power in words that she can articulate, but she gets it all the same. I begin to struggle with trying to navigate this reality and stomping on it entirely. We have a discussion about it and I decide to let her go ahead with an age-appropriate version (not to mention it's 30 mins past her bedtime, and I have NO OTHER OPTIONS for costumes in March at this point....)<br />
<br />
So on the way to school the next morning, she is wearing a pair of black leggings, black Mary Jane shoes, a black tank top with a black velvet cardigan (stolen from her Christmas concert dress) I see that the other girls in her class are dressed as princesses (which have been dead to her since age 4), mermaids and I see one Minnie Mouse. I glance at my black clad, blond coiffed kid. <br />
<br />
"You know that the other kids will have no idea who you are, right?" I say....<br />
<br />
"I know" she replies, knowingly nodding her head..."My friends are probably not old enough to watch Grease yet..." <br />
<br />
She has always wanted to be older, I swear to God, two minutes after birth she demanded a New York Times and a glass of chardonnay....<br />
<br />
I struggle with this child. I don't know how much of her personal spirit to squelch. She likes the idea of doing things that are different, that make her appear special and unique. She does not want to be the same as the other "regular" kids in her class.<br />
<br />
Hold on a Warlock Nanosecond, it seems that I've given birth to Charlie Sheen.sodramatichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06852166424759577030noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8116797377945422163.post-55054990008746364212011-03-04T11:41:00.000-08:002011-03-04T11:46:43.825-08:00And this is why we can't have anything nice!So this weekend, one half of the dynamic duo, Marcus, (now 3 and 1/2) decided to start a new hobby. He has decided to begin removing his pull-up (because, no they are <i>not toilet trained yet....</i>just another speedbump on my twinned highway...) and in the great tradition of pissed-off chimpanzees everywhere..has begun smushing poop into any hard to clean surface that he can find. <br />
<br />
He came running into the kitchen on Friday...at suppertime when I was just about to sit down to eat. I was starving, my blood sugar dropping, in a <i> I will EAT YOU if you get in my way...</i> kind of way. He is positively gleeful, naked from the waist down.... singing a made up song about his pee-pee being free or some such opus.<br />
<br />
"I've got nuffin on!!! He squeals..." I think this is adorable until he runs into the den and leaps onto the couch. It is then I notice his backside, and legs and ankles covered in poop. I grab the back of his shirt and lift him vertically, frantically looking around for the scene of the crime whilst he is dangling and getting even more excited about this new turn of events... Poop Crane!! Awesome game Mom!<br />
<br />
I locate the epicenter of the shit storm... the soggy sticky pull-up, smooshed poop side down on the carpet. So now I have a classic parent dilemma, what to clean first? The floor or the child. I am tempted to clean the floor, as the child seems perfectly content with his present circumstance... but I decide to give him a brief hose down before I get to the floor, in an attempt to avoid further poop travels through the house. I only give him a quick wipe down, getting the worst spots, I don't have the luxury time in this situation, so half-assed it is (literally...)<br />
<br />
I need a safe place to stash the half-cleaned kid while I clean the floor, but this will involve having to leave the crime scene unattended, a perfect magnet for the other set of tiny feet scurrying about underfoot. <br />
<br />
So I dash upstairs and stand Marcus in the empty tub, where coerce him into staying upon pain of death to his blankie, and fly back downstairs to get to the den before the other one discovers his brother's gift. <br />
<br />
I get there and begin the process of decontamination. Now the thing is, I have a deep wine-red carpet in the den. I haven't changed it for the same reason I leave the ugly paint and ripped furniture in that room, it's the kids TV room and I don't care what they ruin in there. Also the carpet doesn't show dirt... the downside to this being that it doesn't show POOP either. <br />
<br />
Picture it, I'm on my hands and knees sniffing the carpet like a hound dog, trying to find splatters that have been tracked from the epicenter. The other boy is dancing around my head and jumping on my back, while his brother wails at the insult of being left alone in the upstairs bathroom, naked and still half-covered in poop. <br />
<br />
He proceeded to do this little act two more times over the weekend, once at my mom's house and once yesterday under the dining room table (oh, hardwood you say... nope, he got the fabric covered chairs...give the boy some credit..)<br />
<br />
At least the chimpanzees I could send for scientific experimentation.sodramatichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06852166424759577030noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8116797377945422163.post-38645650768612475572011-02-24T10:26:00.000-08:002011-02-24T10:26:03.218-08:00Toto, we're not in Kansas anymore....So I just watched this great video on TED.com about the 4 Parenting Taboos. (http://www.ted.com/talks/lang/eng/rufus_griscom_alisa_volkman_let_s_talk_parenting_taboos.html) It was a presentation about how the media machine that feeds us all of those joyous images of happy, smiling kids and parents, frolicking on beaches together is greatly misleading to those of us that are not so much frolicking on beaches but more in the trenches, surrounded by mud, in the rain, with bombs exploding everywhere. <br />
<br />
And it always smells like poop....<br />
<br />
I've kind of made it a personal mission of mine to shout from the rooftops the disparity between the Cosby Show and the Skippy Peanut butter commercials and the real life of real parents. It is my hope that my shouting from rooftops (ok, exaggeration... I'm being DRAMATIC again...Sorry Mom...) will keep some new parents from flinging themselves from those rooftops once they discover the reality... (or worse, flinging their children from various elevated surfaces...)<br />
<br />
They talked about the 4 taboo subjects of parenting which I will talk about in several posts:<br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b>Number one: You may not fall in love with your baby right away</b>.<br />
<br />
Well, I wish someone had told me this when I had my first child. I remember looking at her in the bassinet after birth and feeling only what I can describe as a sickening sense of doom... like "Dear God, look at what you've gone and done now...this is not like growing your own broccoli sprouts, you can't give up the project after three days..." I realized I can't take her back, I was now responsible for another human life..I am going to be the source of someone's MOMMY ISSUES! I was numb for many weeks after this, and I didn't leave the house much. This was a shameful secret to me, no one had mentioned that this may happen, that it was normal. I would paste on the bright smile and give Oscar worthy performances of how happy I was when people asked how it was going. I remember the very first time anyone had given me the slightest hint that it didn't have to be all rainbows and butterflies all of the time... A friend that I hadn't seen in a while dropped in and asked me how I was doing and I gave he requisite perky, "mother in heaven" reply. "Really?" she said, "that wasn't the way it was with me at all... I had trouble bonding." <br />
<br />
WHAT? Trouble bonding...."Tell me what you mean..." I asked, unbelievingly... I felt like an alien imposter on earth, trying to blend in with the masses..only to discover that I was not alone, that there was someone else here from my home planet.. In my head I was all like... "There are others like our kind.....?" She described a scenario similar to that which I was currently experiencing. I can't even begin to tell you how that moment changed my life...(drama alert). But seriously...I was shocked. And to top it all off...she didn't even seem to harbor the deep sense of shame that ensures that real parenting facts will never trump the glossy images of contented, well coiffed, comfortably rested families. After that, I began to tentatively talk about how hard it was, and my feeling of being detached. Luckily, things improved...<br />
<br />
I remember the exact moment when the wave of love hit me, and it was when she was about 2 months old, and I was looking at her in her crib and I realized that I was in love with her, not just that I loved her, but it was like falling in romantic love for the first time. I started to cry and snottily apologized to her tiny face for not feeling it all the way before. After that parenting was still hard, but I found myself looking forward to coming home to see her and missing her terribly when she was gone and a strange physical yearning I had to be close to her when she was visiting with her grandparents..<br />
<br />
Ahem, attention grandparents... I am now over it, so if you want to take Miss Attitude now for extended stays... you'll brook no argument from me....... just saying.sodramatichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06852166424759577030noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8116797377945422163.post-54382976650876213852011-02-02T16:18:00.000-08:002011-02-02T17:13:59.665-08:00Humiliation....Jumbotron styleWhew, that last post very depressing and super lame. Who says lame anymore you ask? Well I do, for starters, and I'm sure there is some aging Valley Girl who won't give up her teenage vernacular who is right there with me...<br />
<br />
Anyway. Hmmmmm. What to write about. Well behind door number one I've got a giant monster poop in the middle of the kitchen floor by Zac (I thought it was a stuffed animal behind him, I swear.) Out the top of the diaper and onto the floor in a little pile...my friend CO was visiting...it was bad, you can ask her, I was afraid her child would inadvertently fall into it and never be recovered, which would be a shame, I like baby CO a lot....<br />
<br />
Or behind door number two: the intense, public humiliation that I suffered in front of a room full of people, beamed to other universities?<br />
<br />
Humiliation or Poop: both compelling subjects, I'm sure Shakespeare had the same dilemma when he was figuring out what to write... Hmmmm "To sleep, perchance to dream.... or musings on poop" I'm sure he was wrought with indecision...<br />
<br />
So, humiliation it is....<br />
<br />
Last week I attended a research grant writing workshop at the medical school at Dalhousie, the largest university in Nova Scotia ( for all of you stumbling upon this from Tasikstahn and other parts of the world....)<br />
<br />
After a very painful, non-relevant morning, we came back from lunch to attend a workshop on writing Layperson summaries of our research projects, so that other scientists reading our work would give the go ahead to give us money to continue to be research geeks. <br />
<br />
We are in a giant seminar room in the medical school and I am totally distracted by the technology in this room...there are three Jumbotron screens at the front, and we can see the seminar rooms of the other universty audience and they can see us too. There is a button with a sensor at each seat so that if you push it , one of the 6 high definition cameras in the room will train itself on you so you can be seen on the large screen at the front, as well as the large screens at the front of the rooms of the participating universities. You can see that this is not going to end well, can't you....<br />
<br />
So the guy at the fronts asks the first question, "What should be in a summary?" I lean over to my manager Lynda, and whisper..."the purpose...". Some dude on the left side of the room calls out, "The purpose..." and the prof says, "Yes, exactly...." he then addresses the room, "What else???" <br />
<br />
Now, no one is answering.... he's just standing there like Ben Stein in Ferris Bueller's day off, intoning, "Anyone......anyone....." I immediately begin to feel sorry for the guy. I have this intense rescuing instinct, and I tend to use it, even if others don't particulary need or want to be rescued. I think I was a St. Bernard in a previous life. Come to think of it...I could really use one of those little portable kegs of whisky....who wouldn't love to see that coming?? <br />
<br />
So anyway, after squirming a bit and waiting for someone else to call out an answer I say, "Well, you'd probably want to say something about your methodology......." I expected the guy would be suitably grateful that I saved him from awkwardly standing at the front of the room while everyone else pointedly ignored his question. I also felt ok about answering because he was enthusiastic about the previous answer given by some dude who turned out to be a Zebrafish researcher. I'm sure such a nice guy would reward me with a verbal pat on the head and a nice compliment on the timliness and brilliance of my answer, given just when he needed it the most. Ahh, another satisfied customer....<br />
<br />
So is that what you think the guy did?? "Thankyou, small blonde angel, for your exquisitely correct answer, I can now move on with my day with my will to live left reasonably intact.....lets share a shot of whiskey later shall we?" <br />
<br />
Nope, THAT would not be blog content....no no, friends...there has to be trauma, humiliation, screaming inside of one's head and a ceaseless manic stream of conscienceness in order to qualify for space in this small section of the blogosphere.... <br />
<br />
He trains his critical, "oh, Blondie is going to pretend to be smart" look on me and says, "What exactly do you mean by that....can you follow up on that answer??" <br />
<br />
What? That is not gratitude...no mountain top shots of Glenlivet for you buddy. <br />
<br />
Now, a strange thing happened to me. The enormity of this will be lost to those who do not know me in person, who have never been subject to my never ending stream of verbage, who have never heard me rant in a "I can't believe she hasn't taken a breath yet"...type of way. Not only that, I'm THAT kid who raises her hand to always answer the question, I suffer from an intense case of "Ooooh, Pick-me-itis...." I will make up stuff, dredging bits and pieces of fragmented factoids on any given subject just to have something to say on a topic.... BUT, in this case....<br />
<br />
I had nothing.....I mean... I listened for the voices in my head... who are normally shouting over one another to be heard, "ooh, say this....no, I've got something better.....oh, this will make you look the smartest of alllllllllll!!!" and strangely, they were all quiet, minding their own business, reading newspapers and sipping lattes and laid back cafes somewhere..... maybe meditating or doing suduko, I don't know. <br />
<br />
So I smile weakly, and mumble some offhand attempt at a comedic response, "Oh, that's a good question... I don't want to take up ALL of the time, heh, heh..." and I attempt to wave him off in what I thought of as an "offhand yet disarmingly charming" way. <br />
<br />
He is having none of it..."No, could you follow up that answer please. Oh, and hit your button."<br />
<br />
WHAT? Hit the button, but he didn't make Zebrafish boy hit the button, he just let him sail on by with his correct answer, no jumbotron necessary. <br />
<br />
So I start to get flushed, and I slowly reach for the button whispering under by breath (whilst hyperventilating...) Ohmygod, hewantsmetopushthebutton.......I've got NOTHING! Ok, calm down...just relax... you'll think of something...<br />
<br />
So I push the button and sit in dread as the camera slowly arcs toward me and suddenly, there I am..On the Jumbotron. Oh and did I mention that it was drizzling outside and my mascara was running and I looked like a Romanian Refugee? (Not that I mean to minimize the plight of real refugees, with the starving and the losing of their homes and such, but you get the enormity of my personal angst here..) Anyway, I didn't quite realize how incredibly pathetic I looked until I saw myself in HD at the front of the room. I mean High Definition??? Is this really necessary...celebrities cringe at the thought of HD <i>after </i>they've spent 4 hours in hair and makeup with a professional. All I can say is t'wasn't pretty Cletis....<br />
<br />
So back to frantically searching the recesses of my brain, begging the voices for help. Evidently the union got to them and they were on a mandatory break cause you could hear crickets on the ole thought assembly line. Finally I squeaked out... "Well, maybe you should say something about your participant pool and your research design??" <br />
<br />
"<i>Participant</i> pool<i>......research</i> design<i>....." </i>he intones... ahhhhh. He pauses for a moment as if lost in thought and just when I think he might move on, he begins to lambaste my answer in front of the whole auditorium as well as the auditorium at the University of New Brunswick where the lovely HD signal was beamed to. "Do you <i>actually</i> think anyone would continue to read your summary using words like that?? You've bored me to death in the first sentence"... <br />
<br />
I was actually embarrrased, and the thing is I don't get embarrassed, as in a sense of hot humiliation and shame... The last time it happened was in 2006. The funny thing is, when I told my manager that I was actually embarrased, she said, "Wow, that never happens, the last time I remember was in 2006". That's how seldom it happens, when it does it's a memorable event. And if you've read any of the other posts in this blog, you should know it takes a lot to embarrass me. Not that I shouldn't be embarrassed....I'm just comfortable in my own dorktom, and I take great pleasure at marvelling at just how much of a twit I can be sometimes, often floating above myself, shaking my head and thinking.."Will you just <em>look</em> at yourself down there..."<br />
<br />
<br />
The funny thing, it wasn't even the Jumbotron thing that got me. I was past it, I didn't care anymore. Lacking any decent sense of self-preservation, I proceeded with 2 more futile attempts to redeem myself during the seminar. I spent the rest of the session trying for a right answer, slapping that damn button, not caring that I looked like a desperate, haggard, annoying, overachieving game show contestant.... I just wanted that guy to tell me I was RIGHT about SOMETHING before the end of the day. <br />
<br />
He didn't....<br />
<br />
Gag me with a spoon.sodramatichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06852166424759577030noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8116797377945422163.post-87335011354399482842011-01-24T07:57:00.000-08:002011-01-24T07:57:32.719-08:00And the sleep deprivation continues....Ack, I'm tired. I'm not sure if it's the lack of light, because I stopped taking my Rhodiola, or because I can't sleep because I have to play musical beds all night. <br />
<br />
I start out by needing to sit with the oldest, Kenzie until she falls asleep. She has developed a fear of her bedroom over the last year and refuses to sleep alone. I've tried letting her cry it out at age 6 but she seems so genuinely fearful that I'm sitting with her and hoping this too will pass.<br />
<br />
So anyway, after she falls asleep around 8 or 830 I continue with my night until 11 or so when I go to bed. I am usually woken by Kenzie between 130-230 am when she wakes up and finds herself alone, gets scared and calls for me. I go into her bed for a while until Zac wakes up somewhere between 3 and 4. He too refuses to sleep alone, stating he is scared of his bed. I crawl into bed with him until his brother wakes between 5 and 530 wanting to get up for the day. After some high stakes negotiations, Marcus is settled back into his bed and I try to go back to my own. Sometimes I make it and sometimes Kenzie wakes AGAIN and I have to go back in with her. This happens EVERY NIGHT. <br />
<br />
Luckily I have learned to survive on very little sleep during basic training, back when the twins were infants and woke every two hours until they were 14 months old. I would like to have hope that this will pass but considering Mackenzie is sleeping worse now than than any other time in her life, I'm not optimistic.<br />
<br />
I would usually try to insert something funny here, but my funny is tired today too, so just carry on, go about your business... nothing to see here....sodramatichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06852166424759577030noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8116797377945422163.post-18223346931451245932011-01-13T06:38:00.000-08:002011-01-13T06:38:49.788-08:00I give up, let the judgement begin...........I could also entitle this post, "One of the many reasons I should be asked to get out of the car so I can be smacked on the back of the head".<br />
<br />
This post is not about my kids..... the thing is, they're getting better, they seem to be morphing toward a more humanoid form, from the life-force sucking, face-melting screaming overlords that they were once wont to be. So now I need to find new things to write about, until they throw the next curveball at me and I find myself sobbing in a corner somewhere, while feeling vaguely grateful for blog content.<br />
<br />
So on Monday morning I'm rushing about, getting everyone ready for school/work/babysitters and I go to start the car to warm it up for the mitten refusing screamees. I reach into my purse and find that my car keys are not there. I look in the cubby on the shelf in the kitchen, also no keys, coat pockets.... NOPE! A rising sense of panic begins to engulf me...not that I won't be able to leave the house and I'll be trapped in the snow with bored kids all day trying to work from home....wait, why wasn't I more panicked about that???<br />
<br />
Hmmmm, probably because I was more preoccupied with dreading having to tell the husband that I couldn't find the keys. I'd get THE LOOK, the EYE ROLL and THE sermon about not looking after my stuff and not paying attention, and the I told you this would happen, blah blah blah until I lose the ability to process sound and colors become a blur and I begin to rock back and forth emitting high pitched keening sounds to block it all out. <br />
<br />
You see, the problem is, I <i>may </i>have borrowed his spare set of keys to the car and I<i> may </i>have already <s>irrevocably lost</s> uh, misplaced them. I may have already not paid quite enough attention to where I put the spare valet key that also came with the car. I mean who pays attention to the valet key? How pretentious do you expect me to be that we need a whole separate key for the <i>valet</i> for Pete's sake? There is not one place to valet park in our whole county. I can't be held responsible for keeping it real man. <br />
<br />
So, yes, that's three sets of keys for the car, not in my possession. Oh, and did I fail to mention that we only bought the car 2 1/2 months ago? <br />
<br />
You can commence the fantasy head slapping now. I'll just wait here while you close your eyes and join my husband in this imaginary delivery of due justice. <br />
<br />
So I called in to work and our secretary, who is extremely organized and on the ball stated, "don't worry, you just have to give them the number of the metal security tag that came with the car to get the keys replaced." <br />
<br />
"Ahh, yes" I say, wracking my brain for the faint memory of that tag, "of course, I'll just fetch it from its secured spot where I would have put it away for just such an emergency" <br />
<br />
Of course I have NO flippin' idea where that thing could be, I mean give me a break....why would I pay attention to that, I mean I have THREE sets of keys for the car, why in God's name would I ever need to order more??? <br />
<br />
So as is turns out I have to have the car TOWED to the car dealership and pay for the new high-tech electronic key and it's programming. It came to almost $180. This is of course on top of the over $400 I incurred in fines from events chronicled the last post. <br />
<br />
Go ahead and judge me now, I deserve it....<br />
<br />
I think I'll just go sign up for that back of the head slap now.......sodramatichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06852166424759577030noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8116797377945422163.post-63855856167507610122011-01-04T11:13:00.000-08:002011-01-04T11:13:50.303-08:00Please don't judge me.....I'm kind of cringing as I write this. I don't know why I need to confess my sins in this way, but I'm telling you things here that I usually sanitize for other people who I have to see face to face. <br />
<br />
You see, the problem is, I'm a slackass. I usually procrastinate in doing mundane detail type tasks until severe consequences occur. This is most apparent when it comes to details about my car. <br />
<br />
There, I said it, it's about the car. <br />
<br />
That's not so bad you say? Well just give me a minute here. <br />
<br />
So I'm driving in Halifax (our closest bigger city for all of you who stumble upon this blog from Australia and New Zealand and Russia.....) and I'm with one of my best friends, Tabitha. Now Tab is extremely responsible and not usually a bad influence but something EVIL got into her this day. <br />
<br />
We're coming down a road about to turn into a busy, stop and go type road with lots of traffic lights and I arrive at the intersection just as the light is turning yellow. <br />
<br />
"Just GO!" She says, although it was my instinct to stop, not rush into strange intersections in a city I'm visiting. <br />
<br />
So I go, and I see that now directly behind me as the light changes... there is a police car. <br />
<br />
Now this would not normally be a problem to most non-slack-assed, law abiding citizens of the world. But I begin to panic like I've got a trunk full of Mexican cartel members with nether regions stuffed full of nefarious substances. This is because I have failed to get the licence tags renewed on my car. It is December and they have been expired since September. The cop is close behind me so I just know it is going to be apparent that I have failed to do my law abiding duty of renewing my tags REALLY SOON!<br />
<br />
"I'm just going to turn off here, my tags are expired, I want that Cop off my ass" I say. "Oh, don't be silly," says Tab. That cop is not going to want to get out of a warm car and do all of the paperwork for some stupid expired tags, just keep going. They're too busy at this time of year for that, and probably lazy on top it all". <br />
<br />
So I continue driving, sweating bullets the whole time. Now you may be thinking that I am overreacting, but here's the thing. I couldn't bring myself to tell Tab that, um,<br />
<br />
Ahem... my licence also expired over a year ago. So if I get pulled over, I have no licence for the car and no valid driver's licence. You see my Mexican drug cartel reaction now? <br />
<br />
So, of course the inevitable happens, I'm sitting in traffic at a light and "Whooooo, on go the lights and the siren behind me." We're at a red light and I'm on the inside lane of traffic so I can't go anywhere so I just start yelling, "LIGHTS! What do I do???? I can't move!" We have to sit there, waiting for the light change with the cop's lights going behind me. People in other cars are looking at me..."What?? It's not me...can't you see I am clearly a law abiding citizen here....DO I LOOK LIKE A DRUG RUNNER TO YOU?"<br />
<br />
So we pull over and the cop comes over. Female.... just great, harder to manipulate. She informs me that my licence plate tags are expired and asks to see my license, insurance and registration. <br />
<br />
So now I pretend to dig through my purse to look for my license and the thing is, I know it's not there...I don't carry it with me, cause it's EXPIRED!.. I have this delusion that if I ever get pulled over, I can just say that, "Oops, I don't seem to have my license on me" and they'll say, "Ok, you have 24 hours to bring it to the station, at which point I may feel motivated to get it renewed before I present it to them. I know, it's a miracle people let me handle sharp objects.....<br />
<br />
"I have more bad news, officer" I confess with a cringing look on my face. I don't seem to have my license on me.." "Just cuff me now and throw me in jail" I add dramatically, offering up my wrists for her inspection. She declines politely an asks for some other picture ID to prove that I am indeed the person to whom the car belongs. <br />
<br />
Now, here's something else.... the only picture ID I have is my work ID, and the thing is....it's in a different name than the one on my license and insurance. I have TWO names. One that is legal that I don't use (my birth name) and one that I use that is not legal (my step father's name who raised me from a baby). So some of my ID is in one name (school diplomas, job title) and some is in my legal name on my birth certificate (driver's license, passport). <br />
<br />
So I explain to her my two name thing, and she asks if I have any other ID with my legal name on it. I offer her my credit cards, and then inform her that I realize they of course, could be stolen and prove nothing.... I'm going with as much self deprecation as I can here.... she then asks for my insurance, which I thankfully, do have. I inform her in a self-rightous way that I would "<i>Never </i>drive with out insurance...." which I quickly realize has NO CREDIBILITY coming from me.... she takes my stuff back to the car. <br />
<br />
Then she comes back to the window and informs me that my license expired in January of 2009..that's almost two years ago, it's worse than I thought. It's truly a wonder she didn't demand that I get out of the car just so she could smack the back of my head...Instead she informed me that she can't let me drive the car without a valid licence so my friend has to drive it away under her supervision or she has to have it towed.<br />
<br />
'Oh, no problem officer" I say, and we give her Tab's license. As she goes back to her car I realize that my car is a standard and TAB CANNOT DRIVE A STANDARD. (are you dropping your shaking head into your hands yet??)<br />
<br />
So we have to call Tab's husband, Jamie, to come and rescue us. Tab does not tell him what's going on, only that she'll explain when he gets here. 10 minutes later we see him sitting at the same traffic light (the one that will exist in my nightmares) that we were just at and he looking over at us sitting beside the cop car with the flashing lights, and laughing his ass off! He sends a text. "what did you guys DO?" I'm so glad it wasn't my husband we had to call, he would not have been laughing so hard via text. <br />
<br />
So I finally get the tickets after 20 mins of waiting, and the officer informs me that I can attend court on the date indicated on the ticket and plead not guilty if I so wished. Seriously, I have no idea how she kept a straight face whilst telling me this....yes, I'll go to court and FIGHT THE MAN..or woman as it were. Nope, more like sheepishly taking the ticket, and slinking away as quietly as I could, as a passenger in Tab's car cause now I'm not allowed to drive my own...<br />
<br />
So I went to the DMV as soon as I could and got my license and plates renewed. The picture on my driver's license is the worst one I've ever seen of myself, I look like I'm having an anaphalactic reaction to the camera. <br />
<br />
To punish myself I vowed to keep it and let is serve as an ugly reminder of the ugly day.sodramatichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06852166424759577030noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8116797377945422163.post-82539752983008666362010-12-23T10:28:00.000-08:002010-12-23T10:32:15.894-08:00The Taming of the Shrew...Well nothing says Christmas like a need to lock down the behavior of your erstwhile wellish behaved eldest child. She has been showing more and more signs of spoiled rotten brat syndrome and something had to be done. I hate as a feminist to invoke the title of a most misogynistic play by Shakespeare, with the title shrew being finally tamed by her husband in the end, but it just fits. (I know her sister plays foil to her by NOT being subservient to her husband in the end it is still a parody of the attitudinal climate towards women of that time and is ahead of it's day..blah, blah blah...don't worry...)<br />
<br />
Mackenzie is now 6 and displays the typical kid tendency to be great unless she is home with me. I get the eye rolls, the "Mo-ommm" the constant demands for servitude, this is pretty par for the course. Lately however she has reached a new pinnacle of rude behavior with me. She has started to want to show off for her friends..."look, I shall make my mother jump nay high...." or showing up in front of me suddenly at Gymnastics practise saying, "Mom, DRINK!" Like some kind of pre-adolescent football player cro-magnon in a cute blonde 6 year-old girl package. <br />
<br />
I do not respond to these attempts at tyranny. I'm usually pretty good at ignoring this kind of behavior (or disassociating... as the case may be) I usually respond with a whispered hiss..."So then you want me to start yelling at you in front of your friends then, is that where we're going with this??" I can keep up a remarkable outward appearance of calm while quietly battling back with weapons of my own, mostly the threat of social embarrassment. Then I get the subsequent eye roll and obligatory "Pahleeze......." (subtext, I soooo DO NOT mean this...) Fine, I will weather this pissy missy storm with you....riding the waves of your moodiness until someday you realize everything I've ever done and said has been RIGHT...probably when you have kids of your own who are making you turn yourself inside out wondering where, WHERE in your genetic code they have managed to unlock SUCH behavior.<br />
<br />
I had reached the end however when she tried to hand me her water bottle in the parking lot after gymnastics, with a derisive, "Here..." bored sounding, looking away, like, "I can't even be bothered making eye contact with you as I'm giving you a command, peon.....<br />
<br />
I of course, graciously decline the proffered item, indicating that she is more than capable of carrying it to the car, parked not more than 6 feet away. <br />
<br />
"HERE!...she persists, refusing to acknowledge my previous indication that I was not willing to play her pack mule that day.<br />
<br />
"You can carry it yourself," I say.<br />
<br />
"Fine" she shoots back, "I'll just drop it on the ground..."<br />
<br />
Then reality as I knew it imploded. All I could hear was a giant buzzing noise, (which was probably all of the screaming in my head coalescing into a face twitching, ear bleeding crescendo..) and the temperature of the earth suddenly rocketed upwards, with the speed of a pre-tween eye roll. <br />
<br />
I somehow got home, driving in a dissociative state, and when I walked through the door, Chris knew something was wrong, it might have been the speaking in tongues, I'm not really sure..... <br />
<br />
After some messy tear stained yelling about gratitude, I decided that it was my fault, that how could someone possible possess gratitude when they have everything they need or want served up on a silver platter?<br />
<br />
After 4 1/2 hours in her room she finally came down and tried to help herself to a platter of Christmas brownies on the counter. <br />
<br />
"Step away from the brownies...." I spit out through clenched teeth. I level my best John Wayne gaze at her, "lemme tell ya how it's gonna work for the next week in these parts, pilgrim"<br />
<br />
Then I go on to explain the list of chores that she will be required to to everyday... (gasp, one...)<br />
And the week long embargo on sweets...not even in her lunch. Her snacks will consist of fruit, yogurt or cheese ....I know, cruel and unusual but it has to be done.<br />
<br />
And the best... Mother is on strike, that's right, talk to my union. They say I don't actually have to do anything for you unless it involved keeping you alive, so for the next week don't ask me to get you a cookie/download you some music/reach you a cup/. If it ain't provided in a Japanese POW camp, you ain't gettin' it from me, got it? Oh, except hugs, I'll still give you those, cause I love you which is why I'm doing this...<br />
<br />
Her suitably contrite response to this was, "I'm DEFINITELY not asking for any of those!" then she stomped up the stairs, and SA-LAMMED the door to her bedroom. <br />
<br />
Oh, I thought, I AM going to break your spirit, child. Ah, they could have made a Christmas special out of it all, it was beautiful. <br />
<br />
Anyway, she served her week, which was actually last week. She got off her grounding last weekend, displaying much better behavior. She's smart enough to know that she deserved it. <br />
<br />
Oh, boy, I can't wait until she's 16!sodramatichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06852166424759577030noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8116797377945422163.post-33297796802245254952010-12-15T07:53:00.000-08:002010-12-15T07:53:10.919-08:00God Bless us, everyone!So last week Marcus wakes up and tells me his leg is broken. "Yeah, right kid", I think," this is some master ploy to get something out of me right? You think you can get workers comp in this place? I don't think so....I'll have private investigators getting photos of you dancing down the street before you can say free money...."<br />
<br />
What's that you say? My point...oh yes, I did go a little off there...<br />
<br />
So I take him down to the couch in the toyroom, thinking his leg was asleep and rushed around to get ready. After about 20 minutes I call him to the door to put his coat on and he slides off the couch and collapses on the floor. <br />
<br />
Oh, so he REALLY can't walk...sign me up for the parent of the year award, once again..<br />
<br />
Long story short we get to the emergency room and we wait for 6 hours to see a doctor. Then we wait another 3 while they test him for all kinds of nasty things that could cause spontaneous lack of leg function, and I know from my medical education (mostly Grey's Anatomy and House) that this could be any number of things: cancer, meningitis, maybe lupus? It's always lupis isn't it?<br />
<br />
But seriously, I had rising moments of panic sitting in the ER waiting for the test results to come back. I had thoughts of "you are being punished for venting dramatically on that blog of yours..." <br />
<br />
After consultation with the doctor on call, the paediatrician and the orthopedic surgeon they figured out that it was something called "toxic synosis" where the cold virus that he has had for the last week has actually attacked the synovial fluid in his knee, causing inflammation and an inabilityt to walk. Treatment? 2 junior ibuprofen... I gave them to him at 6 pm and he was walking (after scooting around on the floor for 2 hours) by 8pm.<br />
<br />
I can't tell you how if feels to hear, "Look Mommy I can walk!" <br />
<br />
We had our own little tiny Tim there for a while..... <br />
<br />
I got gratitude for Christmas.sodramatichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06852166424759577030noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8116797377945422163.post-42270142338854357362010-12-06T07:49:00.000-08:002010-12-06T07:49:14.703-08:00Scooby and Shaggy would be proud......It turns out I'm not as tough as I thought I was. Every teenage girl and young woman likes to think that they are tough...we are women hear us roar and all of that. When I was in graduate school to become a psychologist, I thought, "I'm going to be a forensic psychologist, I'm going to work in a PRISON!! I am TOUGH!. I took my first forensic class (an elective), read my first victim statement and I realized, whoa...not cut out for this. Then I thought, I will work with trauma victims, I am tough, I can handle it. Nope, sorry, that made you cry too, do you want your money back for your degree??? <br />
<br />
So now I do research..<br />
<br />
(disclaimer...I did clinical work for 8 years with addicted teenagers, but they were tough, so I didn't have to be.....but I digress)<br />
<br />
Back to me not being tough....<br />
<br />
So last night my 6 y.o. girl, Kenzie wakes me up at 2 am because the wind is blowing. We are having a late fall windstorm and it's really noisy. The fact that she has totally regressed and will not sleep by herself (along with her brother...) is a post for another day....<br />
<br />
So I crawl into her bed and try to sleep. Around 4 am, the fan in her room and the nightlight go out at the same time and we are plunged into darkness. So far, I'm OK...the power is just out, no big deal. Except that her nightlight comes back on and starts flickering madly and chaotically. I think, hmmm, maybe there's some residual electricity left in the circuit and the night light is small enought to be lit by it. Surely there is no ghostly presence trying to send me morse code messages from the great beyond...surely not, heh, heh, that would be ridiculous right?? <br />
<br />
I get up out of the bed and unplug the nightlight and notice that the lamp down the hall in the boys room is still lit. Hmmmm, this is strange, how can there be a power outage in just one room in the house? I touch her lamp and it comes on...ok...must just be this outlet. No morse code from ghosts, just a faulty electrical outlet that's acting wonky in the middle of the night, nothing to worry about there...<br />
<br />
I crawl back into bed and suddenly, the lamp that I just turned on, goes out, plunging us into darkness again. I can still see from the faint glow down the hall that this is only happening in this room. <br />
<br />
I begin to take it personally.....I also begin to try to talk myself out of the bed to investigate, which sounds like this....<br />
<br />
Me: Ok, get out of bed, just go and turn on the hall light and check to make sure the house isn't on fire.<br />
<br />
Me. Nope, uh-uh. There is clearly a monster under the bed just waiting to slither it's tentacles out and drag me screaming under there with him.<br />
<br />
Me. Stop being a baby, you are a PARENT....get up!<br />
<br />
Me: Did you not hear the part about the monster, my feet are BARE for God's sake, that is the universal beacon to monsters. Bare feet....yummy! Listen, if I had socks on, I may be able to deal with the situation, my hands are tied here. <br />
<br />
Me: Listen, in the unlikely event that there IS a monster, and ye DOES love bare feet and he DRAGS you under the bed, don't you realize what that would mean?<br />
<br />
Me: I sense you're trying to trick me here, go on....<br />
<br />
Me: You wouldn't have to do the morning routine with the boys......<br />
<br />
So I LEAP out of bed, across the room and run to the hallway. The light there is working. I hesitate, not sure what to do now. The hall light is too bright to leave on...I know, I'll turn on the linen closet light off the hall. OK, done, back to bed with Kenzie.<br />
<br />
I get in, pull the covers up and , you guessed it, THE LINEN CLOSET LIGHT GOES OUT. <br />
<br />
Ok, now I'm getting a little freaked out. I run down the hall to our room where my husband is sleeping (with the boy who refuses to stay in his own bed....) I LEAP onto his prone body, landing on all fours like a cat who has had his rest disturbed by a rocket launch. I hiss, WAKE UP. " The lights are doing crazy things....I'm really freaked out.... I keep the monsters to myself, even at 4 am, I know that will make me sound a little loony and he won't take me seriously. <br />
<br />
"Where's Kenzie, is she awake too?" he asks" <br />
<br />
Oh. Right. The Child.<br />
<br />
Well it seems as I was running for my life, I may have, umm, left her behind. Fear not, she was covered by the <i>blanket. </i>That is the universal forcefield of protection. Just ask anyone...<br />
<br />
Anyway, as it turns out, the wind downed a tree branch with left us with partial power in that end of the house. The timing of the lights going off? Well I guess that's just a coincidence, right?<br />
<br />
So I call the power company this morning to report the problem. As I'm getting off the phone with the agent, I say, "So is there anything we should do in the meantime, while we're waiting for the line to be fixed?"<br />
<br />
She pauses and says, "Well, I mean, if it catches on fire, <i>definitely</i> call us back."<br />
<br />
I feel safer with the monsters......sodramatichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06852166424759577030noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8116797377945422163.post-67655748856307777792010-11-29T08:02:00.000-08:002010-11-29T10:01:27.381-08:00Mission ImpossibleI have had to wait a while before I wrote this post...my head felt like it was going to blow off from the stress of getting two boys off to the sitter who are currently playing the game..let's drive mom around the bend once and for all!!! I feel like I'm trapped inside of a Gordian knot....They are entering the phase that parenting experts call contrariness...you know,<br />
<br />
"I want this, not that, now I changed my mind, what? You're still trying to reason with me? Take THAT peon, I just changed my mind again, but inside of my head this time, and I didn't tell you, HA! What, you want me to spoonfeed you here.... don't give me the crying face, why are you crying too? If you can't take the heat, get out of the toyroom...."<br />
<br />
So this morning I'm trying to rush around and get the boys something to eat so I can go and get ready for work. I pour them some cereal, with CHOCOLATE MILK AND WHITE MILK ALL MIXED TOGETHER!! Fine, I can do that, you're being a bit of a putz but nothing I can't handle. So I go to hand the bowl to Zac and his face gets all crumply and the morning tears start springing forth..... he wails..., are you ready for this....." NO!!! I want the chocolate milk on the TOP and the white milk on the BOTTOM! <br />
<br />
What's that now.....?<br />
<br />
You want me to bend the laws of Newtonian Physics? Make up new rules of how matter comes together in the universe so you can properly enjoy your breakfast? I mean, is that such an unreasonable thing to ask... Wait, I'll check with God. <br />
<br />
HE SAYS NO!<br />
<br />
Sorry Buddy, God says you are being a poopface and I don't have to play this game with you. You may commence the screaming now.<br />
<br />
Now we turn to the brother. It takes a Herculean effort and 20 full minutes to go from standing in the porch to getting in the car. Something that I can usually accomplish in, oh, say about 17 seconds on my own. Enter the second half of the Mission Impossible Team. Tom Cruise has nothing on these cutie pies, believe me. <br />
<br />
I go to strap Marcus into his car seat, he has a juice box in one hand and a granola bar in the other and he cries, "I cannnnn'tttt doooooo iiiiitttt, Hellllppp......" Whaa, whaa, whaa......"<br />
<br />
I take him under the arms and hoist him into his car seat....and try to buckle him in, then he starts, "NO! I WANT TO DO IT MYSELF!!!!" <br />
<br />
Oh, do you mean you want to do the thing yourself that you just whined about not being able to do yourself?<br />
<br />
I just need to clarify here.... <br />
<br />
This is after a giant tantrum because I had to put the plastic bird back into the house because the full 5 minutes I gave him to do it was clearly not enough time to place an object on a horizontal surface to his liking.<br />
<br />
So now I'm trying to wrestle him into his car seat, despite the cirque du soleil full body contortions he is pulling. My blood pressure is rising and by blood sugar is dropping, not a good combination.... I finally get him in an slam car door to drown out the screaming. I scream out a few choice words beginning with the letter F, the neighbors are probably wondering by now if I have a very driveway specific form of Tourette's.....<br />
<br />
So I finally start to drive them to the sitters, and Marcus notices that the zipper on his boot is down about 1/8 of an inch... He starts screaming..."MYYYYY BOOOOOOOT!! You have to ZIP IT UPPPPPPPP!" I listen to this until I get to the sitters and get out of the car in the driveway to calm him down. I offer to zip up his boot, but no go people. <br />
<br />
"GOOO BACK HOOOMMME, I WANT TO ZIP IT UP AT HHHOOOOMMMMMEEE!!! <br />
<br />
So, what you need then, is for me to find the time to drive back home, to the point where the zipper issue originated to rectify the situation. Well let me check my blackberry to see if it fits with my schedule....<br />
<br />
COMPUTER SAYS NO!<br />
<br />
<br />
I throw them into the sitter's house and run for it, swearing all way to my car. Turns out my Tourette's is not just specific to my driveway.....sodramatichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06852166424759577030noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8116797377945422163.post-86606056332613238982010-11-23T06:48:00.000-08:002010-11-23T06:48:47.739-08:00Rules are there for a reason...Ok so I'm going to write a little about myself here today, the blog is usually about my<s> blood sucking energy vampires</s> darling children and the general decline in mental function that I experience when trying to play the role of <s>zookeeper</s> responsible parent. <br />
<br />
But...there is more to me than just my relationship to the ankle biting set...I have other stuff in my life too. I belong to a community Theatre group with my BFF's Dawn and CO. Being shameless attention whores and general exhibitionists, this is a good fit for us, and gives me an outlet for some real drama, not just the cascades of screamy thoughts that rises to crashing crecendos of catastrophe inside of my head. A little alliteration anyone??<br />
<br />
So anyway, Our group has just finished a production of a play. It was a blast. The thing is, I have this co-star that plays opposite of me, my love interest in the play. The guy is a bit of a narcissist and for some reason had been bragging all week about how good of a dancer he was.<br />
<br />
So after the show we hit a club to do some dancing and shooting pool and the like. We hit the floor where the guy proceeds to break the cardinal rules of guy dancing:<br />
<br />
1. DO NOT back your butt up against the girl with your arms in the air in the "raise the roof" position. This is never attractive, it is a typical girl move, typically done by too drunk 20 somethings in a desperate bid for male attention, not attractive in any case. Do not offer your wildly contorting body to me in some sort of a "behold, you may now lay hands on me" offering. I'll take the head of a chicken, thankyou.<br />
<br />
2. DO NOT raise your hands past chest level, at any point during the dancing. Possible exceptions: A. Punjabi wedding B. Rock concert fist pumping C.Songs like "Jump Around"D by House of Pain or other old school early nineties hip hop..hip hip HORRAY...OOHHHH ...AAAYYY...OHHHH... You get the picture.<br />
<br />
3. DO NOT lead with your shoulders. Men, move your hips in small movements, do not make big lunging movements with your jangley legs, having just had the path cleared with your shaking shoulders. <br />
<br />
4. DO NOT dance with Jangly legs....big steps, legs wide apart. Think, white boys at a barn dance.<br />
<br />
5. DO NOT do the side-clap while wildly bobbing your head. I mean the "I really want to be a spanish Matator, Ole!" side clapping hands up high by the side of the head, or like your a rich guy at a long table in a Carol Burnett skit, summoning the butler to take away the butter.<br />
<br />
6. DO NOT try to garner more attention than the girl that you are dancing with. Men, you are there to be accessories to us on the dancefloor. Keep your movements small and your eyes on us, don't look around the room to see who may be watching you.<br />
<br />
7. Most of all, if you are trying to impress someone with your dancing, DO NOT come up to them casually afterward and say, "So, how's my dancing?"<br />
<br />
You might just get the attention you were looking for as the crowd watches me vomit all over your shoes.sodramatichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06852166424759577030noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8116797377945422163.post-44883339006230437962010-11-17T05:56:00.000-08:002010-11-17T05:56:30.195-08:00Girls, Girls, Girls....I think when ZZ top expressed this sentiment, it may have been a little different than the one that I scream to myself inside of my head. <br />
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My oldest is Mackenzie (Kenzie for short). She is a beautiful, brilliant and verbal child with precocious tendencies. When she was a baby she slept for 12 hour stretches at night, didn't cry much and preferred not to be carried around. When she was a toddler, she never threw tantrums and would calm from a fit of crying when I simply said, "Can you calm down?". People used to credit me with her good behavior and I had a sneaky suspicion that I had nothing to do with it...that it was just the way she was. <br />
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I used to watch my good friend with her boys, who were a little more high maintenance at the time and think, "That looks hard, Kenzie doesn't do any of that..." Turns out I was a Smug Mother of a Girl.....<br />
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Smug mothers of girls can be identified by the slightly confused look of sympathy given to mothers of toddler boys, like "Why are they doing that?, don't they know just to ask them to calm down and they'll stop biting/whining/screaming/jumping off the bedroom dressers...." My poor friend Dawn bore this unconscious attitude from me with grace, only saying "I can't wait until you experience parenting boys..." as her only indication that she knew what I was in for, and that it would be a whole different ball game. Then BLAMMO, my twin boys were born and they haven't slept through the night or stopped screaming yet and they're three! <br />
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So now Kenzie is 6. I heard when she was younger and I only had the one that girls were easier when they were babies but harder when they were older. "Surely not.. I thought, Kenzie is a reasonalble human being and will continue to be so." <br />
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Then reality bitch-slapped me at age 4. There was a new sheriff in town, and her name was ATTITUDE, she was flanked closely by her twin deputies, Passive Aggression and Demandingness. Now when I wake her up in the morning, the first words out of her mouth are "Am I getting my allowance today..I really need Skwinkies, I'm the ONLY one at school who doesn't have them." and MOM, this and MOM that, peppered liberally with eye rolls and sighs. <br />
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So now the boys are at their worst/hardest age and the girl is as her worst/hardest age. <br />
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The smugness has gotten SO smacked off my face, thanks for the foreshadowing Dawn!sodramatichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06852166424759577030noreply@blogger.com2