Okay, this is for my friend, Karla, who told me I have been "tagged" (whatever that means) and had to list the stuff mentioned above. Here it goes.
1. I swallowed a thumbtack when I was nine years old. It lodged itself in my food pipe; hence I am still alive today. While in the hospital, awaiting for whatever it was the doctors were going to do to get the thing out, another girl was brought into my room. By an odd coincidence, this teenager had also swallowed a thumbtack. Her reason for having the tack in her mouth? She was putting up posters in her room, keeping the tacks in her mouth so she could use both hands. I thought my reasoning was far superior. I was checking to see if the tack would be drawn to and stick to the magnet that was also in my mouth. It didn't, by the way. Eventually, when the doctors had time to see me, the put me under with anesthesia, strapped me on a board and turned me upside down, pulled my tongue way out of my mouth, and it rolled right out. Cool, huh? My dad didn't think it was very cool at the time, but I think he's gotten over it....
2. I think shaving your feet and toes is just bizarre.
3. I have to use nitrous oxide at the dentist, just to get my teeth cleaned. Otherwise, it turns into a full blown panic attack.
4. I am shorter than most fourth grade girls.
5. I have never ever dyed, lightened, or colored my hair.
6. I am a college graduate, mother of four, and I still have no idea what I want to do with my life.
7. I have never had any part of my body waxed, and plan to keep it that way, thank you very much.
Are those weird and random enough, Karla?
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Dinnertime: If it's such an important time of the day for the family, why do I dislike it so much?
Dinner. That six-letter word that plagues me on a daily basis; the time of day when, in theory, you gather 'round the dining room table with your family over a lovely meal and discuss the day's events, purportedly bonding in a mystical way that cements the ties a close-knit, non-dysfunctional family ought to.
In my opinion, this is one of the biggest bunches of baloney I've ever heard. Or, perhaps I just haven't figured out how to properly enjoy this wholesome family time. Pray, let me explain just why this is.
For starters, and I do not believe I am alone in this when I say, I strongly dislike, very nearly loathe, having to decide what on earth I am going to feed the hungry ones each night. My sweet husband, always trying to support me with his fine ideas (yes, you did correctly detect a tiny bit of sarcasm in the previous phrase), has suggested on a number of occasions how I might consider putting all of my meal ideas into some sort of computer program that would essentially tell me what I should cook each night. I strongly resist this for a number of reasons. First of all, this is the way he would do it, and I'll be damned if I'll do it the same way. (That's gratitude for you, isn't it?) Secondly, something inside my being is strangely uncomfortable with involving a computer in this situation at all. It's just wrong, alright? And, third, there is such a small number of things that my children will cheerfully eat, I fear the results would be depressing.
And so, we move on to the children. The little rats are so picky; I know most mothers out there have at least one child like this, and so they understand. Whenever I dare to try something new, I can just about guarantee at least 50% of said children are going to despise the creation. Oh the joy. I think there may only be about five meals I make that all four of my offspring actually like, so cooking to please the masses is an impossibility.
My oldest child (who also happens to be my laziest child; go figure) just the other day made a whopper of a statement that angered me to a new level of pissedoffedness. She asked me what was for dinner, and when I told her, she sighed, commenting under her breath, "Oh; not that again."
Just for the record, I can guarantee that she will never, not ever, utter those unholy words again.
Moving right along, once the boring, unwanted food is prepared and set at the table for consumption, I announce in my June Cleaver voice, "Dinner's ready" to all who reside here. This usually illicits what I'll call the anti-response; rarely anything happens, unless of course they are starving and anxiously awaiting the glorious event. Usually, they have to be told a multitude of times to go and wash their hands and come to the table. Next comes the comments about what's being served, which are varied and many. Following that, my husband will ask someone to offer a blessing upon the victuals we are about to consume; never a bad idea when it's something I've prepared, in my opinion. One of two things happens. Either the offspring asked to say the prayer will complain about having to do so, or an argument will ensue with one or several more of the offspring, ranging from, "But I wanted to say the prayer" or "But she got to say it last night" or "I only want seven green beans, because I'm seven" or "Mommy, I don't like this; can I please have chicken nuggets" or "Stop touching me" or assorted other things. (I sincerely hope at this point, mothers are out there reading this, nodding their collective heads, recognizing this scenario from their own lives. I've convinced myself it's not just me and my family; please do not inform me if your truth is contrary to mine.)
When finally the arguments cease, the blessing is offered. If the youngest of our brood is saying the prayer, it's always interesting to hear what is spoken. Sometimes we hear about knights and princes, sometimes a plea is made that no one be allowed to die, and rarely is there ever any mention of food. If the oldest says the blessing, we know in advance what will be said; it is the exact same prayer she says every time she's asked to do it. Creativity and variety are not her forte when offering prayers. At the close of the prayer, there is occasionally a comment made about "She didn't close her eyes" followed by a rebuttal of "How do you know" and a minor scuttle ensues. Finally, it is time to eat.
There is a frantic rush to be the first one to eat. Thankfully, we have arrived at that blessed place where our two oldest can completely fend for themselves. So, we have only to prepare plates for the two younger ones. A steady stream of talking continues, one person interrupting another, with no pause for chewing and swallowing; it all happens simultaneously. In vain, my husband and I attempt to talk about the day. It is pointless, since the kids become exceedingly interested in their father's business at that very time, and ask an unending laundry list of questions that they really don't have the patience to listen and hear the answers to. It is the continuous interruptions and ever-escalating volume level that drive me to near insanity each night at this time.
And so we come full circle. This nightly ritual, being the norm in my home at least, leaves me wondering why I keep hearing that having family dinner together each night is such an important event. It drives me insane. I ask you: How can that be good for the family?
In my opinion, this is one of the biggest bunches of baloney I've ever heard. Or, perhaps I just haven't figured out how to properly enjoy this wholesome family time. Pray, let me explain just why this is.
For starters, and I do not believe I am alone in this when I say, I strongly dislike, very nearly loathe, having to decide what on earth I am going to feed the hungry ones each night. My sweet husband, always trying to support me with his fine ideas (yes, you did correctly detect a tiny bit of sarcasm in the previous phrase), has suggested on a number of occasions how I might consider putting all of my meal ideas into some sort of computer program that would essentially tell me what I should cook each night. I strongly resist this for a number of reasons. First of all, this is the way he would do it, and I'll be damned if I'll do it the same way. (That's gratitude for you, isn't it?) Secondly, something inside my being is strangely uncomfortable with involving a computer in this situation at all. It's just wrong, alright? And, third, there is such a small number of things that my children will cheerfully eat, I fear the results would be depressing.
And so, we move on to the children. The little rats are so picky; I know most mothers out there have at least one child like this, and so they understand. Whenever I dare to try something new, I can just about guarantee at least 50% of said children are going to despise the creation. Oh the joy. I think there may only be about five meals I make that all four of my offspring actually like, so cooking to please the masses is an impossibility.
My oldest child (who also happens to be my laziest child; go figure) just the other day made a whopper of a statement that angered me to a new level of pissedoffedness. She asked me what was for dinner, and when I told her, she sighed, commenting under her breath, "Oh; not that again."
Just for the record, I can guarantee that she will never, not ever, utter those unholy words again.
Moving right along, once the boring, unwanted food is prepared and set at the table for consumption, I announce in my June Cleaver voice, "Dinner's ready" to all who reside here. This usually illicits what I'll call the anti-response; rarely anything happens, unless of course they are starving and anxiously awaiting the glorious event. Usually, they have to be told a multitude of times to go and wash their hands and come to the table. Next comes the comments about what's being served, which are varied and many. Following that, my husband will ask someone to offer a blessing upon the victuals we are about to consume; never a bad idea when it's something I've prepared, in my opinion. One of two things happens. Either the offspring asked to say the prayer will complain about having to do so, or an argument will ensue with one or several more of the offspring, ranging from, "But I wanted to say the prayer" or "But she got to say it last night" or "I only want seven green beans, because I'm seven" or "Mommy, I don't like this; can I please have chicken nuggets" or "Stop touching me" or assorted other things. (I sincerely hope at this point, mothers are out there reading this, nodding their collective heads, recognizing this scenario from their own lives. I've convinced myself it's not just me and my family; please do not inform me if your truth is contrary to mine.)
When finally the arguments cease, the blessing is offered. If the youngest of our brood is saying the prayer, it's always interesting to hear what is spoken. Sometimes we hear about knights and princes, sometimes a plea is made that no one be allowed to die, and rarely is there ever any mention of food. If the oldest says the blessing, we know in advance what will be said; it is the exact same prayer she says every time she's asked to do it. Creativity and variety are not her forte when offering prayers. At the close of the prayer, there is occasionally a comment made about "She didn't close her eyes" followed by a rebuttal of "How do you know" and a minor scuttle ensues. Finally, it is time to eat.
There is a frantic rush to be the first one to eat. Thankfully, we have arrived at that blessed place where our two oldest can completely fend for themselves. So, we have only to prepare plates for the two younger ones. A steady stream of talking continues, one person interrupting another, with no pause for chewing and swallowing; it all happens simultaneously. In vain, my husband and I attempt to talk about the day. It is pointless, since the kids become exceedingly interested in their father's business at that very time, and ask an unending laundry list of questions that they really don't have the patience to listen and hear the answers to. It is the continuous interruptions and ever-escalating volume level that drive me to near insanity each night at this time.
And so we come full circle. This nightly ritual, being the norm in my home at least, leaves me wondering why I keep hearing that having family dinner together each night is such an important event. It drives me insane. I ask you: How can that be good for the family?
Monday, May 19, 2008
Remind me again: Why do I have four kids?
There’s a reason why I don’t like to play with children. Truth be told, there are a multitude of reasons I don’t like playing with children. My children or anybody else’s children; I don’t discriminate. It’s simply the fact that to play with children, from my perspective, inevitably ends up turning into a chore, and an un-fun one at that. Here’s today’s example.
My three older girls were all gone doing things with different friends after school. So, per my four year old son’s request, I invited a little friend over to play with him for an hour and a half while his sisters are gone. I figured, heck, maybe I can get some reading or writing done for the tiny bit of time they’re playing before I have to put back on my mom cap and take care of everyone else’s needs.
I find that I habitually delude myself into thinking, if my kids have friends here to entertain them, then I can focus on other things easier. Ha. That is such a falsehood.
I picked up said little friend to come over to play with my boy, and we drove the minivan home. They wanted to play a game out in the culdesac that they have apparently played before, involving driving battery-operated cars and riding bikes, ramming into one another in some battle-like fashion. I tried to dissuade them from playing out front, because that means I need to be out front to supervise, since none of the older siblings are present to chaperone. I’m not yet comfortable leaving the four year old alone outside, even with his six year old friend accompanying him. Call me crazy…..
Anywho, of course the battery in the Barbie jeep is dead. No one but me ever thinks to take it out and recharge it when it’s dead; hence, frustration ensues all around. So, with no automated driving machine available, they’re only choice was to resort solely to using the bikes. The little friend had to use an old pink bike which was not to his liking; when he verbalized his complaint about the femininity of his mode of transportation, I politely informed him that was his only choice if he wanted to ride (and thought loudly in my head, quit your whining!) My four year old has a very cool little dirt bike with training wheels that he got for his birthday that we pulled out of the garage with some difficulty; if you could see our garage, you would understand why. It’s a minor disaster zone, as (I have convinced myself) are most people’s garages (right?). The bike, of course, has a flat front tire. Crap.
This means, due the lacking presence of the person who should perform this function (i.e., my husband), I have to use our new fangled air compressor pump thingie that I’ve never touched before. The upside was that I located the monstrosity right away, in and of itself a miracle in our garage. The downside, however, was that the frickin’ thing weighed like ten bajillion pounds. Using all the strength acquired from doing my yogalates workout for the last three days, I managed to lift it up and carry it from the garage to my front porch, where an electrical outlet is located. Scooting the cell phone, home phone, Ipod and earphones, laptop and adapter out of the way (which I had carried all outside, ridiculously thinking I would be able to do something with my electronic devices while the children played), I managed to get the aforementioned monstrosity plugged in. Next was attempting to figure out how the stupid thing works.
Now, I have used a hand pump before, to pump up balls or bike tires. I’ve never had any trouble, to speak of, in the usage of these. They’re pretty straightforward, right? Okay, this big fat thing on the porch had NO directions on it, other than the lovely warning label on the back which read “Read all instructions before operating this machinery,” or something similarly useless. Great. Oh well; I can figure this out, I told myself. I graduated Phi Beta Kappa in college; surely that’s good for something, right? I managed to find out where the cord dealybopper was tucked away, and actually got it hooked up in what seemed to be an appropriate manner. Now what?
My son’s little friend quietly suggested, “How ‘bout you flip that little switch on right there?” Right; the on/off switch. Check. Friggin’ smart aleck six year old. After turning some magical dial up, we finally had a sound that resembled an obnoxiously loud vacuum cleaner, and I assumed that was good. Now, I had to find a way to connect the skinny hose thingiemajig to the bike valve stem-mabobber and put air in the tire. After attempting to mate these two things multiple times, I finally consummated their relationship, and recognized immediately the fruit of my labors: the tire was swelling like a pregnant belly. Yay for me!!!!
After what seemed like a suitable length of time and firmness of tire pressure, I removed the air hose dealthing and quickly tried to screw the cap back on the valve to close it off, but to no avail. For whatever reason, I could not seem to get that damn thing screwed back. I had to repeat the process of intercourse multiple times, as the pregnant tire deflated immediately when I couldn’t get the cap screwed on tight enough. After about five attempts, I finally succeeded in my efforts.
As a reward for all my hard work, my son was no longer interested in riding his big boy bike, and pulled his tricycle out of the garage, deciding he’d rather ride that instead. Right. Okay. Fine. Don’t mind me; I’m only sweating buckets here, since the humidity is like 673% outside. Deep breaths; remain calm. I will not throw a fit in anger, no matter how badly I want to right now.
I unplug the air compressor, wind up the cord, figure out how to detach the hose thingie, roll it back up and stuff it in the little cubby it came from, and strain my groin muscles to lift it back up and carry it to the garage, putting it back where I found it. Setting it down on the cement floor, I realized for the first time that there were wheels on the bottom of it, and an extendable handle on top. Son of a……. Deep breaths, again.
I came back to the front porch, bringing with me a folding camp chair, and carefully opened it and put it in the shade. As I sat down, reaching to pick up my laptop, my son’s little buddy rode the pink Barbie bike up to me (we have lots of girl things around, much to the dismay of my sons little friends). He boldly informed me that the front tire of his bike was flat. I just stared at him, with a look on my face that was something like, “You have got to be kidding me.”
Feeling more than a little bit perturbed, I hoisted my butt up off the camp chair and traipsed back to the garage, sighing. At least I knew what I was doing this time, and I didn’t have to carry it. I pulled out the extendable handle on the air compressor and pulled it part way out of the garage, before realizing that there was no way in H-E double hockey sticks it was going fit between the tiny space left between the garage door and the rear end of my minivan. Clearly, I was going to need to do more yogalates, lugging the big thing up again and giving myself a small hernia in the process.
After finishing the second bike, feeling exultant and pissed off simultaneously, I put things away again. On my way back out to my chair, finally done with ‘helping’ the kids, I was then promptly told from the two miscreants that they were done playing outside, and decided they were going inside. I grinned; why am I not surprised? The kids ran in the front door, while I patiently put my camp chair back away, then gathered up my cell phone, my Ipod and earphones, the house phone, my laptop and adapter, and drug everything back in the house. I plopped down on the floor of the living room, dropped everything gently, and wiped the sweat off my face with my shirtsleeve.
And, I ask myself again, why do I have four children? And why do I invite their friends over to play? And why, for the love of Pete, have I made a promise to never drink an alcoholic beverage again? What is wrong with me?
My three older girls were all gone doing things with different friends after school. So, per my four year old son’s request, I invited a little friend over to play with him for an hour and a half while his sisters are gone. I figured, heck, maybe I can get some reading or writing done for the tiny bit of time they’re playing before I have to put back on my mom cap and take care of everyone else’s needs.
I find that I habitually delude myself into thinking, if my kids have friends here to entertain them, then I can focus on other things easier. Ha. That is such a falsehood.
I picked up said little friend to come over to play with my boy, and we drove the minivan home. They wanted to play a game out in the culdesac that they have apparently played before, involving driving battery-operated cars and riding bikes, ramming into one another in some battle-like fashion. I tried to dissuade them from playing out front, because that means I need to be out front to supervise, since none of the older siblings are present to chaperone. I’m not yet comfortable leaving the four year old alone outside, even with his six year old friend accompanying him. Call me crazy…..
Anywho, of course the battery in the Barbie jeep is dead. No one but me ever thinks to take it out and recharge it when it’s dead; hence, frustration ensues all around. So, with no automated driving machine available, they’re only choice was to resort solely to using the bikes. The little friend had to use an old pink bike which was not to his liking; when he verbalized his complaint about the femininity of his mode of transportation, I politely informed him that was his only choice if he wanted to ride (and thought loudly in my head, quit your whining!) My four year old has a very cool little dirt bike with training wheels that he got for his birthday that we pulled out of the garage with some difficulty; if you could see our garage, you would understand why. It’s a minor disaster zone, as (I have convinced myself) are most people’s garages (right?). The bike, of course, has a flat front tire. Crap.
This means, due the lacking presence of the person who should perform this function (i.e., my husband), I have to use our new fangled air compressor pump thingie that I’ve never touched before. The upside was that I located the monstrosity right away, in and of itself a miracle in our garage. The downside, however, was that the frickin’ thing weighed like ten bajillion pounds. Using all the strength acquired from doing my yogalates workout for the last three days, I managed to lift it up and carry it from the garage to my front porch, where an electrical outlet is located. Scooting the cell phone, home phone, Ipod and earphones, laptop and adapter out of the way (which I had carried all outside, ridiculously thinking I would be able to do something with my electronic devices while the children played), I managed to get the aforementioned monstrosity plugged in. Next was attempting to figure out how the stupid thing works.
Now, I have used a hand pump before, to pump up balls or bike tires. I’ve never had any trouble, to speak of, in the usage of these. They’re pretty straightforward, right? Okay, this big fat thing on the porch had NO directions on it, other than the lovely warning label on the back which read “Read all instructions before operating this machinery,” or something similarly useless. Great. Oh well; I can figure this out, I told myself. I graduated Phi Beta Kappa in college; surely that’s good for something, right? I managed to find out where the cord dealybopper was tucked away, and actually got it hooked up in what seemed to be an appropriate manner. Now what?
My son’s little friend quietly suggested, “How ‘bout you flip that little switch on right there?” Right; the on/off switch. Check. Friggin’ smart aleck six year old. After turning some magical dial up, we finally had a sound that resembled an obnoxiously loud vacuum cleaner, and I assumed that was good. Now, I had to find a way to connect the skinny hose thingiemajig to the bike valve stem-mabobber and put air in the tire. After attempting to mate these two things multiple times, I finally consummated their relationship, and recognized immediately the fruit of my labors: the tire was swelling like a pregnant belly. Yay for me!!!!
After what seemed like a suitable length of time and firmness of tire pressure, I removed the air hose dealthing and quickly tried to screw the cap back on the valve to close it off, but to no avail. For whatever reason, I could not seem to get that damn thing screwed back. I had to repeat the process of intercourse multiple times, as the pregnant tire deflated immediately when I couldn’t get the cap screwed on tight enough. After about five attempts, I finally succeeded in my efforts.
As a reward for all my hard work, my son was no longer interested in riding his big boy bike, and pulled his tricycle out of the garage, deciding he’d rather ride that instead. Right. Okay. Fine. Don’t mind me; I’m only sweating buckets here, since the humidity is like 673% outside. Deep breaths; remain calm. I will not throw a fit in anger, no matter how badly I want to right now.
I unplug the air compressor, wind up the cord, figure out how to detach the hose thingie, roll it back up and stuff it in the little cubby it came from, and strain my groin muscles to lift it back up and carry it to the garage, putting it back where I found it. Setting it down on the cement floor, I realized for the first time that there were wheels on the bottom of it, and an extendable handle on top. Son of a……. Deep breaths, again.
I came back to the front porch, bringing with me a folding camp chair, and carefully opened it and put it in the shade. As I sat down, reaching to pick up my laptop, my son’s little buddy rode the pink Barbie bike up to me (we have lots of girl things around, much to the dismay of my sons little friends). He boldly informed me that the front tire of his bike was flat. I just stared at him, with a look on my face that was something like, “You have got to be kidding me.”
Feeling more than a little bit perturbed, I hoisted my butt up off the camp chair and traipsed back to the garage, sighing. At least I knew what I was doing this time, and I didn’t have to carry it. I pulled out the extendable handle on the air compressor and pulled it part way out of the garage, before realizing that there was no way in H-E double hockey sticks it was going fit between the tiny space left between the garage door and the rear end of my minivan. Clearly, I was going to need to do more yogalates, lugging the big thing up again and giving myself a small hernia in the process.
After finishing the second bike, feeling exultant and pissed off simultaneously, I put things away again. On my way back out to my chair, finally done with ‘helping’ the kids, I was then promptly told from the two miscreants that they were done playing outside, and decided they were going inside. I grinned; why am I not surprised? The kids ran in the front door, while I patiently put my camp chair back away, then gathered up my cell phone, my Ipod and earphones, the house phone, my laptop and adapter, and drug everything back in the house. I plopped down on the floor of the living room, dropped everything gently, and wiped the sweat off my face with my shirtsleeve.
And, I ask myself again, why do I have four children? And why do I invite their friends over to play? And why, for the love of Pete, have I made a promise to never drink an alcoholic beverage again? What is wrong with me?
The beginning....
I think, perhaps, if I give the voices in my head an outlet, then I won't feel like I'm going insane. On the other hand, this exercise may result in written confirmation that I am, indeed, certifiably nutters. Oh well. Either way, I can't seem to get the voices to shut up, so I guess I'll give them an opportunity to speak in a manner that isn't too terribly destructive or harmful to myself and my offspring. They are, after all, the people to blame for the voices inside my head (my children, I mean). It's amazing, when you think about it; not only are they annoying loud on the outside, but they tend to produce a resonating noise inside my head that reveberates for varying periods of time, even after they've stopped making external noise. I wonder why....
Anyways, I suppose writing about my frustrated comical experiences is better than experimenting heavily with illegal substances myself or causing bodily harm to said offspring, which, I admit, I have been tempted to do (both) when I find myself in particularly strained moments.
There is one undetermined factor in this. I have yet to decide whether or not I want to share some or all of this babbling with others. Considering it right now it feels very much like I do when I'm having a nightmare; the one where I'm either partially or completely naked in public, usually back in high school again, and can't seem to hide it. What will people think? And, more importantly, how much do I care about what others' opinions are of my writing? I know my mom will love it; she's been encouraging me to write forever now. Besides, she's my mom; by default, she is required by to be my number one fan. And, my husband will be supportive. He supports anything the causes his wife to feel more stable and sane; a wisdom acquired from 15 years of marriage to someone always on the verge of something nearing psychosis. Oh well. I guess no one else will be compelled to read my musings. I have to confess that thinking about writing all of these things down has sparked a little something inside of me that has felt dead for too many years. It's something that has been stuffed deep down inside of me, tucked away, ignored, drowned out by the demands of life. That little something, I think, is me. And, I think I am finally ready to let that little individual (that used to belong to solely to myself, but has long since signed up to belong to a multitude of others) speak up. Watch out world! The voices inside my head have now officially been loosed. You have been warned.
Anyways, I suppose writing about my frustrated comical experiences is better than experimenting heavily with illegal substances myself or causing bodily harm to said offspring, which, I admit, I have been tempted to do (both) when I find myself in particularly strained moments.
There is one undetermined factor in this. I have yet to decide whether or not I want to share some or all of this babbling with others. Considering it right now it feels very much like I do when I'm having a nightmare; the one where I'm either partially or completely naked in public, usually back in high school again, and can't seem to hide it. What will people think? And, more importantly, how much do I care about what others' opinions are of my writing? I know my mom will love it; she's been encouraging me to write forever now. Besides, she's my mom; by default, she is required by to be my number one fan. And, my husband will be supportive. He supports anything the causes his wife to feel more stable and sane; a wisdom acquired from 15 years of marriage to someone always on the verge of something nearing psychosis. Oh well. I guess no one else will be compelled to read my musings. I have to confess that thinking about writing all of these things down has sparked a little something inside of me that has felt dead for too many years. It's something that has been stuffed deep down inside of me, tucked away, ignored, drowned out by the demands of life. That little something, I think, is me. And, I think I am finally ready to let that little individual (that used to belong to solely to myself, but has long since signed up to belong to a multitude of others) speak up. Watch out world! The voices inside my head have now officially been loosed. You have been warned.
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