Yesterday was not going well.
Natalie was in a foul mood. Every few minutes she’d march up to me and scream, “Hurts! Hurts!” and point to her mouth. She has a tooth coming in and I imagine it DOES hurt but she wouldn’t let me help her.
I gave her a teething ring and she threw it down and stomped on it for good measure.
Fine. I get it. Teething rings are for babies.
So I wet a washcloth, stuck it in the freezer for a few minutes and gave it to her with instructions to chew it.
It was too cold.
She threw it across the room and hollered, “Don’t WANT!”
I tried baby Orajel but the taste insulted her. She hurled the tube in my direction and I ducked as it flew over my head.
“Hey, Naomi Campbell,” I called out to Natalie. “We don’t throw. I’m trying to HELP.” I stressed the word help and Natalie didn’t look impressed. She had her chin in the air and her arms folded across her chest. I wanted to jump up and down and scream, “What do you WANT from me?” but I composed myself and took some deep breaths.
“To make us feel better maybe we should go to the mall,” I suggested and Natalie practically dove out the front door.
“Shopping!” she screeched as she rushed to the car.
I wish. I would totally be shopping if I weren’t Cutting Back. That would make me feel better for sure.
“Actually,” I explained to Natalie as I strapped her into her car seat. “We’ll just be playing at the mall playground.”
Natalie seemed content with that.
When we got to the playground her teething woes seemed to be a thing of the past. I lowered myself onto the vinyl bench and watched as she went through a tunnel. I was thrilled that no one else was there and I had a few minutes to think so I sort of went off into a daze….
Then this woman sat down beside me. I was hoping that this woman was also eager to enjoy a few minutes of silence and that she’d keep her mouth shut and not ask me mundane questions and…
“How old is your daughter?” the woman asked.
Crap.
I don’t mind conversing with strangers. I really don’t. But sometimes I feel the need to relish in the silence. Maybe it’s the Only Child in me. I don’t feel the need to fill every bit of quietness with sound.
Plus, I had had a rough morning. I had things thrown at me, I was shouted at and I’m pretty sure Natalie put some kind of curse on me because I had become extra Klutzy. I mean, I am a Klutz in general but that morning I was spilling things left and right---probably because I had a toddler screeching in my ear every few minutes. It’s sort of hard to drink a glass of water and NOT spill it down your front while a piercing banshee type noise suddenly fills the air.
Still, I couldn’t just ignore the woman. That would have been rude. For a brief second I debated pretending I didn’t speak English and saying something like, “Ne Spehken ze English.” But that’s not even a real language. And so, I smiled politely at her and said, “She’s two.” Then I felt like it was good manners to ask her about HER kid so I went, “How old is yours?” I wasn’t sure if she had a boy or a girl. I tried to catch a glimpse but her child dived behind a plastic tree. I would guess a girl because I thought I caught blond hair down the back but these days parents like to allow their boys to grow their hair long. Kate Hudson seems to be a fan of that.
“She just turned two last week,” the woman said cheerfully.
I nodded as though this were fascinating news.
Then I thought I could lapse back into silence. I needed to figure out what I was going to make for dinner and I needed to remember what all we had in the house. So I started to think about that.
We have meat…I could make meat loaf….but I am so not in the mood for meat loaf…I wish we could just go out but we can’t go out since I’m Cutting Back….I hate cooking….I wish I had a personal chef….I wish--
“So is she potty trained yet?” the woman spoke up, interrupting my thoughts.
Damn.
“Not yet,” I said. And because the woman had an expectant for the love of God, ask me about MY KID look on her face I warily went, “How about your daughter?”
The woman practically fell off the bench, she was so excited. “Yes!” she gushed. “Since last week! One day Campbell decided she wanted to use the potty and she’s been using it ever since. For pee AND poops.”
I admit, I was a little impressed. I mean her kid had JUST turned two and was already potty trained? What was wrong with MY kid?
“So is your daughter working on potty training?” superior Mom wondered.
I immediately thought back to the night before when Natalie kicked her potty across the room because I dared to ask if she wanted to sit on it.
“No POTTY!” she had bellowed, her head thrown back dramatically. “NO POTTY!”
I flashed a smile at superior Mom and decided to lie. “We’re working on it. It’s going....splendidly.”
Then I tried to go back to quiet time and think about dinner.
So, I have meat and therefore I can make spaghetti. We have spaghetti every week but it’s one of the few things I can make without burning. Plus, both kids actually eat the spaghetti whereas they tend to pick at anything else I make….so spaghetti it will be. Do we have garlic bread? I know carbs are bad and blah blah blah but you can’t have spaghetti without garlic bread. It’s like a sin or--
“Do you know what time it is?” superior Mom asked.
I dug in my purse and pulled out my cell phone. I told her the time that was on the display and she nodded.
“We have about ten minutes then. Campbell has her French lessons.”
FRENCH lessons? How in the world did she expect a two-year-old to sit and have lessons? Of course, I have to remember that some people give birth to calm children. I give birth to kids who think sitting down is the worst thing ever and who have the motto, “Why sit when you can run?”
“Is someone in your family French?” I wondered. I figured I might as well give up on the silence. It just wasn’t going to happen.
The woman shook her head. “No. I just read that it’s important to introduce other languages while they’re young. It helps mold their minds or something like that.” She shrugged.
Oh.
“How are the lessons going?” I continued. I was intrigued at this point. I just couldn’t fathom Natalie sitting long enough for the teacher to explain to her how to say hello and goodbye in French. I pictured Natalie taking the French book and throwing it at the teacher’s head and yelling, “ALL DONE FRENCHIE!”
The woman grinned. “Wonderfully. Campbell loves to learn.” She gestured to Natalie who was banging her head on the carpet. “So…is your daughter in any type of lessons? Ballet, soccer....”
SOCCER?
If I put Natalie in soccer she’d just snatch up the ball and refuse to share.
“Er....not really. But she does speak some Chinese and Spanish,” I added because I felt like I should say that my daughter did something fascinating.
Plus, it is true. She knows how to say Ni-Hao in Chinese and Hola in Spanish thanks to Noggin. But the lady didn’t have to know this.
“Wow. That’s interesting,” the woman said, looking impressed. “So you teach her the languages yourself?”
I was at a loss. I didn’t know what to say. Do I admit that the television actually teaches her the languages?
Natalie ended up saving me. She ran up and told me seriously, “I poops.” For some reason when she said this I suddenly had it in my head to shout out, “Look at this! Natalie is saying ipoops which is Danish for hello. Did I mention that she could also speak Danish?” (Actually, the Danish word for hello is hej but surely the woman wouldn’t know that.) The weirdest things pop in my head sometimes. Sometimes I think something is surely wrong with me.
“I POOPS!” Natalie said again and gave me an irritated look. She was probably wondering why I wasn’t leaping to my feet to clean her up.
Superior Mom looked thrilled over this whole ordeal. I thought she might even clap her hands in delight. “Oh! She’s telling you she has to poop! Hurry up and get her to the potty, Mom, so she can go!”
What I didn’t tell her is that Natalie had already crapped her diaper and was just telling me to clean her up before she stuck her hands down her pants and tried to do it herself.
“You have a great day!” I told the woman and grabbed a hold of Natalie’s hand. I slung my diaper bag and purse over my shoulder and we headed for the playground exit.
“Hasta la vista!” the woman called out and Natalie gave her a startled look. I thought the lady had lost her ever loving mind at first—I mean after all, she DID name her daughter after soup—but then I realized that hasta la vista was the Spanish words for see you later and I had told her that Natalie spoke some Spanish. So I forced a smile on my face and told Natalie to say “Hasta la vista!” back and Natalie looked at me as though I had sprouted a breast on my head so I just waved enthusiastically for the both of us.
I pulled a confused Natalie towards the bathroom and changed her. When we were washing our hands I said, “Natalie. Am I stunting your growth? Am I ruining your brain? You don’t need French lessons, do you?”
Her response was to stick her head under the running water of the sink.
Hrm. I’ll take that as a no.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Food Rocks!
It's no secret that I'm a huge fan of food.
So I decided to write an entry on some of the foods that I can't get enough of these days.
So here we go:
This is S'mores pudding that I bought at Wal-Mart. I realize the picture doesn't make it look appealing but I swear, it's delicious. And the marshmallows? They just melt in your mouth.
Cinnastyx from Dominoes Pizza. They rock. I practically ate the entire row because Tommy said they looked funny (!) and Natalie only wanted one. I couldn't just let them go to waste, could I?
Cookie cakes! Notice how the things I'm taking pictures of are half eaten. This is because I'm a total pig. It's also obvious that I get a lot of my junk at Wal-Mart. Yeah it's a scary place to shop at times but I'll brave the bearded lady and the guy who scratches his butt and then reaches to grab some apples in order to get to my S'mores pudding and frosted cookie cakes.
Here's the truth: I have to try all the new candy that comes out. It's like some sick compulsion of mine. So when I saw these I got all excited and threw them in my cart. The thing is, they're sort of disgusting...yet I can't stop eating them. They have an intriguing taste and I find myself reaching in the bag for another handful. (Actually, I'm munching on them as I type this.)
Um oops. Where did this come from? John Krasinski isn't food and therefore I can't eat him. (I mean I could but I'm not Hannibal Lector.) Still, he's too cute not to list. (Hey, my husband has been gone since April, I can't HELP it..)
Fine, soda really isn't a food but I need it to get through my day. I don't drink coffee so this is my source of caffeine. I'll drink any diet soda, I'm not prejudiced. I basically buy whatever is on sale and lately the Coke products are nearly $5 for a 12 pack and I'm sorry, no way am I shelling out that much cash for a 12 pack of soda. So diet Pepsi it is.
Plums! Get your jaw off the ground! I eat healthy food too! It may not be as often as I should but I do love my plums.
And because I'm on a picture roll, this is what Natalie will be wearing to my husband's graduation from dog training school next month:
The picture goes with my food list because she was watching some ants and then she tried to eat one. I was all, "Natalie, NO!" which in turn startled her which in turn made her cry which in turn gave me a giant headache.
So I decided to write an entry on some of the foods that I can't get enough of these days.
So here we go:
This is S'mores pudding that I bought at Wal-Mart. I realize the picture doesn't make it look appealing but I swear, it's delicious. And the marshmallows? They just melt in your mouth.
Cinnastyx from Dominoes Pizza. They rock. I practically ate the entire row because Tommy said they looked funny (!) and Natalie only wanted one. I couldn't just let them go to waste, could I?
Cookie cakes! Notice how the things I'm taking pictures of are half eaten. This is because I'm a total pig. It's also obvious that I get a lot of my junk at Wal-Mart. Yeah it's a scary place to shop at times but I'll brave the bearded lady and the guy who scratches his butt and then reaches to grab some apples in order to get to my S'mores pudding and frosted cookie cakes.
Here's the truth: I have to try all the new candy that comes out. It's like some sick compulsion of mine. So when I saw these I got all excited and threw them in my cart. The thing is, they're sort of disgusting...yet I can't stop eating them. They have an intriguing taste and I find myself reaching in the bag for another handful. (Actually, I'm munching on them as I type this.)
Um oops. Where did this come from? John Krasinski isn't food and therefore I can't eat him. (I mean I could but I'm not Hannibal Lector.) Still, he's too cute not to list. (Hey, my husband has been gone since April, I can't HELP it..)
Fine, soda really isn't a food but I need it to get through my day. I don't drink coffee so this is my source of caffeine. I'll drink any diet soda, I'm not prejudiced. I basically buy whatever is on sale and lately the Coke products are nearly $5 for a 12 pack and I'm sorry, no way am I shelling out that much cash for a 12 pack of soda. So diet Pepsi it is.
Plums! Get your jaw off the ground! I eat healthy food too! It may not be as often as I should but I do love my plums.
And because I'm on a picture roll, this is what Natalie will be wearing to my husband's graduation from dog training school next month:
The picture goes with my food list because she was watching some ants and then she tried to eat one. I was all, "Natalie, NO!" which in turn startled her which in turn made her cry which in turn gave me a giant headache.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Chocolate to the Rescue!
So how was your long weekend?
Did you BBQ?
Did you go camping and relax and eat S’mores?
If you did, then I’m totally jealous.
Want to know what I did?
Nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
Well, I cleaned the house and reminded the kids to use their indoor voices at least a bazillion times.
I would have shoved them outside but it was rainy all weekend. Don’t the Weather Gods comprehend that long weekends must be pleasant and sunny?
On Memorial Day I called up my husband to thank him for his service.
“What do you want to buy?” he asked warily.
Oh my God! I was totally being nice and thanking him for his service in the Air Force and he’s asking me what I want?? Can’t I just be nice and not want something?
“No,” Tom replied when I asked him this. “So what do you want?”
“Nothing!” I shrieked. “I’m just thanking you for your service. It’s MUCH appreciated.”
Okay, if I’m being totally honest there are a few books I want. But it’s nothing I need now.
“Thanks....I guess.....” Tom said, still sounding as though he didn’t believe that I didn’t want anything.
“So what are you doing today?” I wondered politely. I imagined that he’d say that he was just lying around and watching TV.
Instead he said, “Oh, I’m going to lunch with your Mom and then we’re going to the outlet mall.”
I nearly dropped the phone.
LUNCH?
SHOPPING AT THE OUTLET MALL?
With MY Mother?
(My parents live near where Tom is taking his class so he usually goes up to stay with them over the weekend.)
“Oh,” I said in a strangled voice. “That must be....nice....”
I was seething. What’s this business about going to the outlet mall? Without me? He doesn’t even APPRECIATE the outlet malls. All he wants to shop at is this boring Black and Decker store and then he’s all, “Well I’m done.” Oh and he has to get a chocolate apple from The Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory. But then that’s it.
Me, I could stay all day. I go to Carters, Oshkosh, Gymboree, Gap, The Children’s Place.....the list goes on and on and on.
And lunch! All I was having was some boring macaroni and cheese.
“I’ll still take you to the outlet mall when you visit,” Tom promised.
But now he’s going to be extra rushed because he’s already BEEN to the outlet malls. So he’ll do a quick sweep of the tool store and when he sees nothing new has arrived he’ll be badgering me to finish up and I’ll be screaming, “If you rush me I’m going to hit you over the head with my purse, so help me God, Tom!”
If people think that Kate from Jon and Kate plus 8 is mean then they should see me when Tom tries to rush me when I’m trying to shop. It’s not a pretty sight.
I hung up a few minutes later. I didn’t want to hear about his exciting day when all I was doing was eating orange macaroni and trying to keep the kids from killing each other.
To cheer myself up, I decided to make brownies. When I make brownies I totally lick the bowl clean. Sure I could get salmonella but it’s never happened before. Plus, Hulk Hogan swallows eggs raw and he’s....well, he’s still breathing.
I gave the kids a spoonful of the batter and then took my bowl and my spoon and tried to hide in the laundry room. See, if the kids saw me happily noshing on the batter, they’d want some more.
So there I was, leaning against the washer and totally pigging out on the chocolate. Oooo, it was delicious. I was in a state of euphoria and I was about to stick another heaping spoonful in my mouth when....
“Mommy! THERE you are!”
Uh oh. Busted.
My son Tommy stood in the doorway and narrowed his eyes at me. He still had his spoon which was now licked clean and started coming at me with it.
What?
What’s he doing?
He already got a bite! Why’s he looking at me like he’s going to get....MORE? This is my chocolate, dammit, and I don’t have to share!
Plus, I’m totally PMSing and when you’re PMSing it cancels out the whole sharing thing, right?
“What are you....doing son?” I asked weakly and quickly put the bowl over my head as Tommy made a move to get more batter.
“I want more,” he told me simply and tried to jump to reach the bowl.
At that moment Natalie rushed into the room with her spoon out.
IS THERE NO PLACE TO HIDE IN THIS HOUSE?
(No.)
Okay. Think. THINK. I had to distract these kids so they wouldn’t eat my batter.
“How about we have some Hershey’s Kisses?” I asked in a high pitched voice to make it seem like this was an exciting offer.
Because Natalie is two, she fell for it. She clapped her hands and went, “Cah-co-dat!” and dropped her spoon on the floor.
But Tommy is seven and doesn’t fall for things like that anymore. He gave me a stern look and went, “I don’t WANT a Hershey’s Kiss. I want that.” And he gestured to my bowl.
In the end I gave him another bite. But then I quickly finished the rest and when he asked for more I told him in a sad voice (with cheeks stuffed with chocolate), “I’m sorry, son. It’s all gone.”
Tom called me a few minutes later and I was feeling sated from the chocolate mix so it didn’t hurt as badly that he was shopping without me.
“You’ll be proud of me. I just bought two chocolate apples,” Tom said.
That is a huge feat. I can’t just go to the outlet mall and buy apples.
“Did you at least go to Gymboree and think about me?” I asked hopefully. I had pictured Tom wistfully stepping into Gymboree and gazing around the store and then his heart would clench because he realized how much he missed me....
“Um. No,” Tom said, clearly confused.
Oh.
It's all good, though. I had my chocolate and I was still on a high from that so I wasn't insulted.
Did you BBQ?
Did you go camping and relax and eat S’mores?
If you did, then I’m totally jealous.
Want to know what I did?
Nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
Well, I cleaned the house and reminded the kids to use their indoor voices at least a bazillion times.
I would have shoved them outside but it was rainy all weekend. Don’t the Weather Gods comprehend that long weekends must be pleasant and sunny?
On Memorial Day I called up my husband to thank him for his service.
“What do you want to buy?” he asked warily.
Oh my God! I was totally being nice and thanking him for his service in the Air Force and he’s asking me what I want?? Can’t I just be nice and not want something?
“No,” Tom replied when I asked him this. “So what do you want?”
“Nothing!” I shrieked. “I’m just thanking you for your service. It’s MUCH appreciated.”
Okay, if I’m being totally honest there are a few books I want. But it’s nothing I need now.
“Thanks....I guess.....” Tom said, still sounding as though he didn’t believe that I didn’t want anything.
“So what are you doing today?” I wondered politely. I imagined that he’d say that he was just lying around and watching TV.
Instead he said, “Oh, I’m going to lunch with your Mom and then we’re going to the outlet mall.”
I nearly dropped the phone.
LUNCH?
SHOPPING AT THE OUTLET MALL?
With MY Mother?
(My parents live near where Tom is taking his class so he usually goes up to stay with them over the weekend.)
“Oh,” I said in a strangled voice. “That must be....nice....”
I was seething. What’s this business about going to the outlet mall? Without me? He doesn’t even APPRECIATE the outlet malls. All he wants to shop at is this boring Black and Decker store and then he’s all, “Well I’m done.” Oh and he has to get a chocolate apple from The Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory. But then that’s it.
Me, I could stay all day. I go to Carters, Oshkosh, Gymboree, Gap, The Children’s Place.....the list goes on and on and on.
And lunch! All I was having was some boring macaroni and cheese.
“I’ll still take you to the outlet mall when you visit,” Tom promised.
But now he’s going to be extra rushed because he’s already BEEN to the outlet malls. So he’ll do a quick sweep of the tool store and when he sees nothing new has arrived he’ll be badgering me to finish up and I’ll be screaming, “If you rush me I’m going to hit you over the head with my purse, so help me God, Tom!”
If people think that Kate from Jon and Kate plus 8 is mean then they should see me when Tom tries to rush me when I’m trying to shop. It’s not a pretty sight.
I hung up a few minutes later. I didn’t want to hear about his exciting day when all I was doing was eating orange macaroni and trying to keep the kids from killing each other.
To cheer myself up, I decided to make brownies. When I make brownies I totally lick the bowl clean. Sure I could get salmonella but it’s never happened before. Plus, Hulk Hogan swallows eggs raw and he’s....well, he’s still breathing.
I gave the kids a spoonful of the batter and then took my bowl and my spoon and tried to hide in the laundry room. See, if the kids saw me happily noshing on the batter, they’d want some more.
So there I was, leaning against the washer and totally pigging out on the chocolate. Oooo, it was delicious. I was in a state of euphoria and I was about to stick another heaping spoonful in my mouth when....
“Mommy! THERE you are!”
Uh oh. Busted.
My son Tommy stood in the doorway and narrowed his eyes at me. He still had his spoon which was now licked clean and started coming at me with it.
What?
What’s he doing?
He already got a bite! Why’s he looking at me like he’s going to get....MORE? This is my chocolate, dammit, and I don’t have to share!
Plus, I’m totally PMSing and when you’re PMSing it cancels out the whole sharing thing, right?
“What are you....doing son?” I asked weakly and quickly put the bowl over my head as Tommy made a move to get more batter.
“I want more,” he told me simply and tried to jump to reach the bowl.
At that moment Natalie rushed into the room with her spoon out.
IS THERE NO PLACE TO HIDE IN THIS HOUSE?
(No.)
Okay. Think. THINK. I had to distract these kids so they wouldn’t eat my batter.
“How about we have some Hershey’s Kisses?” I asked in a high pitched voice to make it seem like this was an exciting offer.
Because Natalie is two, she fell for it. She clapped her hands and went, “Cah-co-dat!” and dropped her spoon on the floor.
But Tommy is seven and doesn’t fall for things like that anymore. He gave me a stern look and went, “I don’t WANT a Hershey’s Kiss. I want that.” And he gestured to my bowl.
In the end I gave him another bite. But then I quickly finished the rest and when he asked for more I told him in a sad voice (with cheeks stuffed with chocolate), “I’m sorry, son. It’s all gone.”
Tom called me a few minutes later and I was feeling sated from the chocolate mix so it didn’t hurt as badly that he was shopping without me.
“You’ll be proud of me. I just bought two chocolate apples,” Tom said.
That is a huge feat. I can’t just go to the outlet mall and buy apples.
“Did you at least go to Gymboree and think about me?” I asked hopefully. I had pictured Tom wistfully stepping into Gymboree and gazing around the store and then his heart would clench because he realized how much he missed me....
“Um. No,” Tom said, clearly confused.
Oh.
It's all good, though. I had my chocolate and I was still on a high from that so I wasn't insulted.
Monday, May 25, 2009
Tommy's Presentation Day
My son Tommy goes to something called Language Lab in the afternoons. It’s a place that helps him with his speech. Sometimes he doesn’t pronounce things clearly enough. I understand him almost all the time but that’s because he came from my uterus. Anyhow, they were having a Presentation Day and parents were invited to come.
Natalie was thrilled to see her brother. The second we walked in the classroom she yanked her hand from mine and rushed to Tommy.
“Bruh-dder!” she shrieked. “Bruh-dder!”
Tommy was sitting in a row with his other classmates—Language Lab has about 7 other students in it. He looked a little embarrassed when Natalie hurled her tiny body at his chest. He sort of patted her hair and muttered out a hello. He loves his sister, I know he does, but he never seems overly thrilled with her. He claims she’s too loud which is amusing to me because Tommy has also been blessed with a fantastic set of lungs.
“Tommy’s Mom!” a familiar voice shrieked.
I cringed.
Oh no.
The voice belonged to Blake, the annoying kid who lives on our street and can’t take no for an answer. He’s always at our door and he once tattled on Tommy for jump roping. He looked all serious with his bug eyes as he said, “Could you tell Tommy to stop jump roping? I don’t like it.”
Plus, the kid always calls me Tommy’s Mom even though I’ve asked him to call me Amber. I guess I should tell him to call me Miss Amber but Miss Amber reminds me of an old lady who makes cheese.
“Tommy’s Mooooom!” Blake’s irritating voice called out again. “It’s me! Blake!” He waved his arm in the air as though I completely forgot who he was.
Sorry Blake. I don’t have that kind of luck.
“Tommy’s Mom!” Blake continued and I debated taking off my sock and stuffing it in his mouth.
I forced a smile and waved hello as I picked up Natalie and took a seat behind Tommy.
“You could sit behind ME, Tommy’s Mom,” Blake said grandly as though this were a huge prize.
The forced smile remained on my face. My cheeks started to hurt. “Actually,” I said in what I hoped was a polite voice. “I’m going to sit behind Tommy.”
Blake looked confused. He’s the only kid I know who wouldn’t comprehend that line.
“Why?” he wondered.
Because Tommy came out of my crotch and you didn’t! I wanted to snap.
Instead I said, “Because Tommy is my son.” And praise Jesus that you aren’t.
Blake opened his mouth to say something else but I leaned over to Tommy and quickly asked how he was doing.
Tommy shrugged. “Fine.” Then his face brightened. “I get to read the slide first!”
Huh? Read what slide?
Then I realize that there was a slide show set up front with the title “We Love Fruits and Vegetables!” on the front.
What in the world was this teacher teaching the students?
I’m kidding.
But is it wrong that I counted how many students there were (8) and then started wondering how long they would be reading for? No offense but watching kids read is about as fun as scrubbing limescale off the bathtub. Plus I wasn’t sure if Natalie would sit through that.
A few more parents filtered in and then the teacher clapped her hands and said it was time to begin.
Tommy instantly jumped from his seat and marched up to the front of the room and boldly took the microphone. He read easily from the slide about liking broccoli, cauliflower and some other vegetable that eludes me but I can assure you tastes like feet. Then he talked about growing stuff in a garden when we lived in England and I had no idea what he was talking about. What garden? What universe would I have a garden? Did the poor guy mistake that hunk of dirt that grew absolutely nothing for a garden?
Still, I watched him proudly and was surprised that he didn’t even seem shy being in front of the class. When I was in school and had to talk in front of the class I’d panic and would practically break out into hives. But Tommy acted like it was no big deal and only stumbled over one word (scrumptious which is not a word I’d use to describe broccoli.....)
When he was finished it got boring. I tried to look interested as a kid talked about how delicious tomatoes were.
I started to daydream.
Lalala....chocolate....cake....buttercream frosting....LITTLE DEBBIE SNACK CAKES.....
Then I’d come to when Natalie would slide off her chair and try to escape. So I’d grab the back of her shirt and pull her to me and start daydreaming again.
Ice cream....Zero bars...John Krasinski....Reeses Peanut Butter Cups....isn’t it ironic that I’m thinking about junk food when the class is talking about fruits and vegetables? I must be a messed up adult.
When the fifth kid started to read my eyes started to grow heavy. The room was dark and I just couldn’t muster the interest to focus on a love story about carrots. And some kids read incredibly slow. Like this: carrots.......are.......delicious......and......orange.....
When the last kid finished reading I started clapping enthusiastically and realized no one else was clapping.
Oh. Oops.
Then the kids moved onto a play entitled Fast Food Gulp Gulp. I got excited and started to think, Finally, a play that doesn’t bash fast food! Obviously I get that fast food is greasy and disgusting but if you eat it in moderation it’s not so bad.
This is Tommy reciting his lines. He was a customer ordering a delicious burger. The hat made me think of Crocodile Dundee.
But then as the play continued it turned out that the moral WAS that fast food was disgusting and will give you a stomach ache.
Then the restaurant that was once serving delicious pizza and burgers and chicken turned into a health food joint.
Blah. It was probably one of those types that blend up grass and roots to cleanse your system. I'm sorry but I will NEVER drink grass and roots. My system will just be forever messed up.
This is Tommy checking out the health food place. He seemed as baffled as I was and looked like he wanted to ask, "Um, where'd the burgers go?"
After the play was over it was time to pass out reading awards.
Tommy read the second most books in the class. He read a total of 56 books. This one kid read over 200 and I think he was totally lying. Please. It was on the tip of my tongue to shout, "LIAR!" when he went up to get his award but I did not.
And then when that was over it was time for refreshments.
Guess what was out?
You guessed it.
Fruits and vegetables.
You know, when I was growing up I remember cupcakes and cookies at these sort of occasions. But then you have the parents that whine and complain about health food and they spoil it for the rest of us. Sure, have your fruits and vegetables but don't skip out on the cupcakes or the cookies!
Now, there were some cookies up there but they were the granola kind with raisins. I'm a firm believer of the law that says that you do NOT put raisins in cookies.
Tommy and Natalie both wanted brocolli (!) and I nibbled on some tomatoes and pretended it was a hunk of chocolate.
Then after that it was over. The kids had prepared some plants and the teacher handed me Tommy's plant.
"It still has to harden and it still needs to be cared for a few days," she told me.
Huh? Harden. CARED FOR? Does she not get that I KILL plants? Not on purpose, mind you, but I've never been able to keep one alive for more than a few days.
I gave her a blank look and said, "So...I water it?"
She gave me a perplexed look and went, "Yes...." as though she were speaking to a complete idiot.
I held the tiny plant that was in a decorated cup for a few seconds and then forced a smile on my face.
"Great!" I said and hoped that I sounded excited. "I'll...er...take great care of this!" I twirled the cup in the air and nearly dropped it. The teacher sucked in her breath sharply.
"Mommy. Let ME hold it. You'll BREAK it," Tommy lectured, taking his beloved plant from me.
Oh. Sorry.
I grabbed Tommy's backpack and thanked the teacher and was about to head out the door when Blake the World's Most Annoying Kid called out to me.
"Tommy's Mom!"
I was tempted to keep going and pretend that I hadn't heard him. But Blake's parents were there and I didn't want them to think I was a total kid hater. So I stopped, turned around and gave him another forced grin.
"Yes, Blake?"
"Do you want to see the picture I made?" Blake wondered hopefully. He had a picture in his hands and actually, I DIDN'T want to see the picture he made but instead I nodded.
He turned the picture around and I couldn't quite make out what it was. It looked like a blob. With eyes and, what in the world...horns? Thankfully I speak parent and I know exactly what to say when you don't know what a kid has drawn.
"It's lovely. TELL me about it!"
See, you always have to say tell me about it because if you go, "What in the CRAP is that?" you'll insult the artist and then they might cry and then you'll feel bad so trust me, it's just easier to ask them about the picture.
Of course, if the kid is as annoying as Blake you might be sitting there for ten minutes as he explains every.single.detail.
"And this is his eyeball for him to, you know see. This is grass down here for him to, you know, eat..."
Thankfully I've been blessed with an impatient two-year-old so Natalie shrieked and pointed to the door.
"GO HOME!" she boomed.
I pretended to be all sad that I wasn't able to sit through Blake's explanation of his creature's digestive tracts but in reality I was all, "Oh bless you, Natalie. Bless you."
Tommy now has two weeks of school left. I'm a little afraid. It means I'll probably have to see Blake on a daily basis.
Help me.
Natalie was thrilled to see her brother. The second we walked in the classroom she yanked her hand from mine and rushed to Tommy.
“Bruh-dder!” she shrieked. “Bruh-dder!”
Tommy was sitting in a row with his other classmates—Language Lab has about 7 other students in it. He looked a little embarrassed when Natalie hurled her tiny body at his chest. He sort of patted her hair and muttered out a hello. He loves his sister, I know he does, but he never seems overly thrilled with her. He claims she’s too loud which is amusing to me because Tommy has also been blessed with a fantastic set of lungs.
“Tommy’s Mom!” a familiar voice shrieked.
I cringed.
Oh no.
The voice belonged to Blake, the annoying kid who lives on our street and can’t take no for an answer. He’s always at our door and he once tattled on Tommy for jump roping. He looked all serious with his bug eyes as he said, “Could you tell Tommy to stop jump roping? I don’t like it.”
Plus, the kid always calls me Tommy’s Mom even though I’ve asked him to call me Amber. I guess I should tell him to call me Miss Amber but Miss Amber reminds me of an old lady who makes cheese.
“Tommy’s Mooooom!” Blake’s irritating voice called out again. “It’s me! Blake!” He waved his arm in the air as though I completely forgot who he was.
Sorry Blake. I don’t have that kind of luck.
“Tommy’s Mom!” Blake continued and I debated taking off my sock and stuffing it in his mouth.
I forced a smile and waved hello as I picked up Natalie and took a seat behind Tommy.
“You could sit behind ME, Tommy’s Mom,” Blake said grandly as though this were a huge prize.
The forced smile remained on my face. My cheeks started to hurt. “Actually,” I said in what I hoped was a polite voice. “I’m going to sit behind Tommy.”
Blake looked confused. He’s the only kid I know who wouldn’t comprehend that line.
“Why?” he wondered.
Because Tommy came out of my crotch and you didn’t! I wanted to snap.
Instead I said, “Because Tommy is my son.” And praise Jesus that you aren’t.
Blake opened his mouth to say something else but I leaned over to Tommy and quickly asked how he was doing.
Tommy shrugged. “Fine.” Then his face brightened. “I get to read the slide first!”
Huh? Read what slide?
Then I realize that there was a slide show set up front with the title “We Love Fruits and Vegetables!” on the front.
What in the world was this teacher teaching the students?
I’m kidding.
But is it wrong that I counted how many students there were (8) and then started wondering how long they would be reading for? No offense but watching kids read is about as fun as scrubbing limescale off the bathtub. Plus I wasn’t sure if Natalie would sit through that.
A few more parents filtered in and then the teacher clapped her hands and said it was time to begin.
Tommy instantly jumped from his seat and marched up to the front of the room and boldly took the microphone. He read easily from the slide about liking broccoli, cauliflower and some other vegetable that eludes me but I can assure you tastes like feet. Then he talked about growing stuff in a garden when we lived in England and I had no idea what he was talking about. What garden? What universe would I have a garden? Did the poor guy mistake that hunk of dirt that grew absolutely nothing for a garden?
Still, I watched him proudly and was surprised that he didn’t even seem shy being in front of the class. When I was in school and had to talk in front of the class I’d panic and would practically break out into hives. But Tommy acted like it was no big deal and only stumbled over one word (scrumptious which is not a word I’d use to describe broccoli.....)
When he was finished it got boring. I tried to look interested as a kid talked about how delicious tomatoes were.
I started to daydream.
Lalala....chocolate....cake....buttercream frosting....LITTLE DEBBIE SNACK CAKES.....
Then I’d come to when Natalie would slide off her chair and try to escape. So I’d grab the back of her shirt and pull her to me and start daydreaming again.
Ice cream....Zero bars...John Krasinski....Reeses Peanut Butter Cups....isn’t it ironic that I’m thinking about junk food when the class is talking about fruits and vegetables? I must be a messed up adult.
When the fifth kid started to read my eyes started to grow heavy. The room was dark and I just couldn’t muster the interest to focus on a love story about carrots. And some kids read incredibly slow. Like this: carrots.......are.......delicious......and......orange.....
When the last kid finished reading I started clapping enthusiastically and realized no one else was clapping.
Oh. Oops.
Then the kids moved onto a play entitled Fast Food Gulp Gulp. I got excited and started to think, Finally, a play that doesn’t bash fast food! Obviously I get that fast food is greasy and disgusting but if you eat it in moderation it’s not so bad.
This is Tommy reciting his lines. He was a customer ordering a delicious burger. The hat made me think of Crocodile Dundee.
But then as the play continued it turned out that the moral WAS that fast food was disgusting and will give you a stomach ache.
Then the restaurant that was once serving delicious pizza and burgers and chicken turned into a health food joint.
Blah. It was probably one of those types that blend up grass and roots to cleanse your system. I'm sorry but I will NEVER drink grass and roots. My system will just be forever messed up.
This is Tommy checking out the health food place. He seemed as baffled as I was and looked like he wanted to ask, "Um, where'd the burgers go?"
After the play was over it was time to pass out reading awards.
Tommy read the second most books in the class. He read a total of 56 books. This one kid read over 200 and I think he was totally lying. Please. It was on the tip of my tongue to shout, "LIAR!" when he went up to get his award but I did not.
And then when that was over it was time for refreshments.
Guess what was out?
You guessed it.
Fruits and vegetables.
You know, when I was growing up I remember cupcakes and cookies at these sort of occasions. But then you have the parents that whine and complain about health food and they spoil it for the rest of us. Sure, have your fruits and vegetables but don't skip out on the cupcakes or the cookies!
Now, there were some cookies up there but they were the granola kind with raisins. I'm a firm believer of the law that says that you do NOT put raisins in cookies.
Tommy and Natalie both wanted brocolli (!) and I nibbled on some tomatoes and pretended it was a hunk of chocolate.
Then after that it was over. The kids had prepared some plants and the teacher handed me Tommy's plant.
"It still has to harden and it still needs to be cared for a few days," she told me.
Huh? Harden. CARED FOR? Does she not get that I KILL plants? Not on purpose, mind you, but I've never been able to keep one alive for more than a few days.
I gave her a blank look and said, "So...I water it?"
She gave me a perplexed look and went, "Yes...." as though she were speaking to a complete idiot.
I held the tiny plant that was in a decorated cup for a few seconds and then forced a smile on my face.
"Great!" I said and hoped that I sounded excited. "I'll...er...take great care of this!" I twirled the cup in the air and nearly dropped it. The teacher sucked in her breath sharply.
"Mommy. Let ME hold it. You'll BREAK it," Tommy lectured, taking his beloved plant from me.
Oh. Sorry.
I grabbed Tommy's backpack and thanked the teacher and was about to head out the door when Blake the World's Most Annoying Kid called out to me.
"Tommy's Mom!"
I was tempted to keep going and pretend that I hadn't heard him. But Blake's parents were there and I didn't want them to think I was a total kid hater. So I stopped, turned around and gave him another forced grin.
"Yes, Blake?"
"Do you want to see the picture I made?" Blake wondered hopefully. He had a picture in his hands and actually, I DIDN'T want to see the picture he made but instead I nodded.
He turned the picture around and I couldn't quite make out what it was. It looked like a blob. With eyes and, what in the world...horns? Thankfully I speak parent and I know exactly what to say when you don't know what a kid has drawn.
"It's lovely. TELL me about it!"
See, you always have to say tell me about it because if you go, "What in the CRAP is that?" you'll insult the artist and then they might cry and then you'll feel bad so trust me, it's just easier to ask them about the picture.
Of course, if the kid is as annoying as Blake you might be sitting there for ten minutes as he explains every.single.detail.
"And this is his eyeball for him to, you know see. This is grass down here for him to, you know, eat..."
Thankfully I've been blessed with an impatient two-year-old so Natalie shrieked and pointed to the door.
"GO HOME!" she boomed.
I pretended to be all sad that I wasn't able to sit through Blake's explanation of his creature's digestive tracts but in reality I was all, "Oh bless you, Natalie. Bless you."
Tommy now has two weeks of school left. I'm a little afraid. It means I'll probably have to see Blake on a daily basis.
Help me.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Letters to Tom
Most people know that my husband Tom is on TDY until June. He’s been gone since April. I usually send him letters or e-mails to keep his spirits up.
The following is the type of letter that I usually send him because I don’t want him to worry about us. The second letter will be the type of letter that I wish I could send.
Dear Tom,
We miss you over here and hope you are doing well. Tommy has been really interested in plants lately and insisted that we buy some marigold seeds. He constantly chatters about roots and the importance of sunlight and water for his beloved plants. Sometimes I wonder if he’s too attached to his plants because one day he put his potted flower in my bed because he thought it could use a rest. It was pretty funny!
Natalie is becoming more independent. We’re working on potty training and have had no successes but I hope she surprises me one day. She also prefers to get dressed herself and if you dare help her, she’ll get upset. She’s a silly girl!
As for me, well, I’m just taking things day by day. The bed is empty without you.
I can’t wait to see you next month. I plan on throwing my arms around your neck and resting my head on your shoulder. I’m so proud of you!
We all love you!
Amber, Tommy and Natalie
--------------------------------
This is the letter that I WANT to send:
Tom,
I hope you don’t plan on going away anytime soon. Because I will not allow it. I need a break. These children are monsters, absolute monsters!
Tommy won’t stop talking about plants and there is no polite way to say, “I could care less about your flower!” So I have to stand there and listen to him prattle on and on about it and then he’ll ask me why we don’t have a garden and I’ll say, “Because Mommy kills plants!” Then he’ll look all horrified and hug his potted plant to his chest and toss me a dirty look as though he thinks I murder plants on purpose.
Do you know what your son did? He put his potted plant IN MY BED because he said that it needed to rest. There was dirt all over the place. I was so close to tossing the thing out the window but I didn’t simply because I didn’t want to hear the screams that Tommy surely would have emitted if I had tossed his green friend into the street. I told him through clenched teeth that plants don’t NEED a bed and to please not do that ever again.
Tommy also put a few marigold seeds in the spaghetti sauce. He said that they’d taste good because he mistook them for sunflower seeds. So now I’m petrified that we’re all going to be shitting marigolds in a few days. If we see each other again and a flower is coming out of my ass, well, you’ll know what happened.
Natalie has clearly lost her shit. She’ll tell me that she needs to use the potty and I’ll get all excited but she won’t do a thing on it. She’ll sit for two seconds and then run off stark naked and take a crap on the floor. I’m not joking. SHE TOOK A CRAP ON THE FLOOR! Our daughter is part monkey, I swear it.
Natalie also likes dressing herself which means it takes an hour for her to get ready. She’ll slowly put on her shirt but she can’t figure out all the holes yet so she’ll try and push her head through the arm hole and if I dare tell her that it’s wrong she’ll turn into Linda Blair and throw a ten minute fit. So I’ve learned to keep my mouth shut. It’s just easier that way.
The only bright spot in all of this is that I get the bed to myself. I’m sorry, but you might have to sleep on the couch when you get home. I love stretching out. I love resting my arm on your abandoned pillow. I’m not sure if I’m going to be able to share again.
So I will see you next month and don’t be offended if the second I see you I give you a quick kiss, deposit Natalie into your arms, push Tommy in your direction and take off towards the hills. I swear, I’ll be back. I just need a few days of silence.
June can’t come soon enough.
Oh, and yeah, I love you.
Amber, Tommy and Natalie
The following is the type of letter that I usually send him because I don’t want him to worry about us. The second letter will be the type of letter that I wish I could send.
Dear Tom,
We miss you over here and hope you are doing well. Tommy has been really interested in plants lately and insisted that we buy some marigold seeds. He constantly chatters about roots and the importance of sunlight and water for his beloved plants. Sometimes I wonder if he’s too attached to his plants because one day he put his potted flower in my bed because he thought it could use a rest. It was pretty funny!
Natalie is becoming more independent. We’re working on potty training and have had no successes but I hope she surprises me one day. She also prefers to get dressed herself and if you dare help her, she’ll get upset. She’s a silly girl!
As for me, well, I’m just taking things day by day. The bed is empty without you.
I can’t wait to see you next month. I plan on throwing my arms around your neck and resting my head on your shoulder. I’m so proud of you!
We all love you!
Amber, Tommy and Natalie
--------------------------------
This is the letter that I WANT to send:
Tom,
I hope you don’t plan on going away anytime soon. Because I will not allow it. I need a break. These children are monsters, absolute monsters!
Tommy won’t stop talking about plants and there is no polite way to say, “I could care less about your flower!” So I have to stand there and listen to him prattle on and on about it and then he’ll ask me why we don’t have a garden and I’ll say, “Because Mommy kills plants!” Then he’ll look all horrified and hug his potted plant to his chest and toss me a dirty look as though he thinks I murder plants on purpose.
Do you know what your son did? He put his potted plant IN MY BED because he said that it needed to rest. There was dirt all over the place. I was so close to tossing the thing out the window but I didn’t simply because I didn’t want to hear the screams that Tommy surely would have emitted if I had tossed his green friend into the street. I told him through clenched teeth that plants don’t NEED a bed and to please not do that ever again.
Tommy also put a few marigold seeds in the spaghetti sauce. He said that they’d taste good because he mistook them for sunflower seeds. So now I’m petrified that we’re all going to be shitting marigolds in a few days. If we see each other again and a flower is coming out of my ass, well, you’ll know what happened.
Natalie has clearly lost her shit. She’ll tell me that she needs to use the potty and I’ll get all excited but she won’t do a thing on it. She’ll sit for two seconds and then run off stark naked and take a crap on the floor. I’m not joking. SHE TOOK A CRAP ON THE FLOOR! Our daughter is part monkey, I swear it.
Natalie also likes dressing herself which means it takes an hour for her to get ready. She’ll slowly put on her shirt but she can’t figure out all the holes yet so she’ll try and push her head through the arm hole and if I dare tell her that it’s wrong she’ll turn into Linda Blair and throw a ten minute fit. So I’ve learned to keep my mouth shut. It’s just easier that way.
The only bright spot in all of this is that I get the bed to myself. I’m sorry, but you might have to sleep on the couch when you get home. I love stretching out. I love resting my arm on your abandoned pillow. I’m not sure if I’m going to be able to share again.
So I will see you next month and don’t be offended if the second I see you I give you a quick kiss, deposit Natalie into your arms, push Tommy in your direction and take off towards the hills. I swear, I’ll be back. I just need a few days of silence.
June can’t come soon enough.
Oh, and yeah, I love you.
Amber, Tommy and Natalie
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Swim Lessons with Michael Phelps
So here’s the thing.
I can’t swim.
I mean, I can dog paddle so I guess I can technically swim. But it’s sort of embarrassing to dog paddle around a pool.
I had swim lessons as a child but I was petrified on sticking my head in the water so they didn’t go very well. I still don’t like to put my head in the water. My husband is greatly amused by this. He once scooped me up and said he was going to throw me into the pool.
He let me down only because I dug my nails into his skin and screamed straight into his eardrum.
I know I need to learn how to swim better. It’s going to be embarrassing when my own child swims right past me as I’m dog paddling along the water. I need to set an example!
Which was why this Michael Phelps swim lesson intrigued me.
In case you’re in no mood to click the link, well, basically it’s an auction for a private swim lesson with Michael Phelps. The money goes to a charity and if we had that kind of money then I’d probably bid on it.
Let’s just pretend that we’re rolling in cash and I won the auction. I’d show up at the aquatic center wearing an oversized t-shirt over my swimsuit because hello, I’m not about to let Michael Phelps see my thighs. Or my stretch marks. Apparently he hangs around with strippers with tight bodies and breasts as big as my head so I wouldn’t want to startle him with my pale skin and breasts that are probably the size of his ears.
I imagine Michael would be surprised to see me because I believe the auction is intended for swim lessons for a CHILD. Because after all, most adults know how to swim, right? So he’d be giving me a baffled look as I calmly set my duffle bag that would contain my towel and a water bottle down.
“Is your kid coming?” Michael might ask and this is when I’ll realize that he’s standing there in nothing but a tiny Speedo. My face will immediately flush because hello, the Speedo doesn’t leave much to the imagination. It’s just a tiny bit of spandex covering the...well....you know...and you really can’t HELP but look.
So to be on the safe side I opt to look right over Michael’s shoulder at the wall as I speak to him because I know if I look him in the face that my eyes will inevitably wander downward and he’ll think I’m a total perv.
And I’m not, I swear it, I’m not a pervert. But it’s sort of hard not to look when someone strolls out in a tiny swatch of body hugging material.
Of course Michael will wonder what I’m staring at and will follow my gaze to the wall and stare at me in bewilderment.
“Oh,” I’ll say all flustered. “Sorry. It’s hard to look at you when you’re wearing...that...” And then I’ll gesture to his Speedo and dear God, because it’s me my hand will nearly bump his....area....and he’ll think I’m about to molest him or something.
“How about we get started?” Michael will suggest and then he’ll easily jump into the pool.
So I’ll slowly start to take off my shoes and walk over to the pool.
“Um, aren’t you going to take off your shirt?” Michael will wonder.
Is he insane? I’m not about to take off my shirt and frighten the Speedo off of him.
“I think I’ll keep it on. If that’s okay,” I’ll quickly add because I wouldn’t want to insult him. I mean, he’s won a bazillion medals which means he’s sort of like a swimming god.
“Keep it on if you’d like,” Michael will say because really, he just wants to get this over with and go home and play video games.
Then I’ll head to the pool stairs and Michael will call out, “You know, you can just jump in!”
Jump in! Does he want me to DIE? Honestly, Michael Phelps, you may have won a bazillion medals but you have a terrible memory. Maybe all the swimming he does has ruined his memory. Did he forget that I’m here for SWIM LESSONS and thus don’t know how to SWIM?
But then a thought will hit me. Suppose Michael thinks that I’m PRETENDING to not know how to swim just so I could meet him? I mean, fine, I do have a crush on the guy but I wouldn’t pay over two grand just to MEET him. No offense.
“I really can’t swim,” I’ll be compelled to say as I grip onto the side of the pool for dear life.
Michael will probably not believe me. He’ll start to prattle on about safety, something that his lawyers made sure that he’d say so he wouldn’t get sued if I drowned. Then he’ll ask if I know how to tread water and I’ll say, “For like ten seconds.”
Michael will demonstrate how to tread water and will patiently wait for me to let go of the wall.
I’ll slowly let go and start to move my arms and legs like crazy and then I’ll start to panic when I realize that I’m not treading in water but instead thrashing around the pool like I’m a mad woman. I’ll instantly freak out and my hand will go back to gripping the side of the pool.
“What was that?” Michael will wonder, still calmly treading water like it’s no big deal.
Poor Michael. All the chlorine must’ve ruined his sight. Did he not see that I nearly DROWNED?
“I nearly drowned,” I’ll say incredulously.
A sigh will come from Michael’s lips. He’ll be thinking, okay, I think my donating swim lesson days are over. I can’t handle this. I’ll just give the charity a chunk of cash from all my endorsements.
“I won’t let you drown,” Michael will promise. “Try again. Like this.” He’ll demonstrate again and it’ll look so easy that I’ll let go of the wall and try again.
It’ll go smoothly at first and I’ll call out, “Oh my gosh! I’m doing it! For more than ten seconds!” but then I’ll realize that I’m slowly sinking and I’ll make a dying animal noise and reach dramatically for the wall.
“You’re panicking. Don’t panic. Calm down. Breathe. If you panic, you’re going to go under,” Michael will say in cool, even tones.
Go under? I can’t go under!
“Maybe we should move onto something else,” Michael will suggest giving me a forced smile. “Since you seem so terrified of going under, how about we stick our head in the water and blow bubbles so you see there is nothing to be afraid of?”
STICK MY HEAD UNDER?
“Actually,” I’ll say. “I’d like to learn how to swim without having to stick my head under. If that’s okay,” I’ll quickly add.
Michael will close his eyes briefly as though he’s going to his happy place. Then he’ll open them, toss me his tenth forced smile of the day and explain through clenched teeth that if I want to learn how to swim that I’ll have to stick my head under the water.
“Are you worried about your hair?” Michael will inquire. Because I imagine he’s been around those girly women who flip out if their hair gets dirty or if they chip a nail. I could care less about that. My hair never works anyhow and I chew my nails. So I’ll shake my head and say, “No. I’m worried that I’ll DROWN.” I’ll say this all seriously with wide eyes and Michael will be somewhat amused.
“I told you. I’m not going to let you drown. Now come on. Stick your head under like this and blow some bubbles,” Michael will say and then his head will disappear under the water and a sea of bubbles will pop up.
I’ll take a deep breath and do the same. Or at least I’ll try to before flipping out and gluing myself to the wall again.
“You’re panicking again,” Michael’s voice will boom out causing me to jump. Uh oh. He’s starting to lose his patience. He’ll quickly realize that he’s just shouted at the person who has donated over two grand for a charity and therefore he has to be nice. So he’ll close his eyes again to go to his happy place and then he’ll say, “Let’s move on.”
Right. Let’s.
“I’m going to show you how to do a breaststroke. Each time you do a stroke you tilt your head so you can breathe. Got it?” Michael will say and then show me what he means. He makes it look so easy, of course.
I decide that I’ll try because after all, I gave birth to two children so swimming should be a breeze. Right?
But as soon as I attempt to copy Michael’s moves I realize that I breathe at the wrong moment and inhale a bunch of water. So then I’ll start thrashing again and I realize that I’m going to die and Michael quickly swims over to me and tries to scoop me up but I’m going nuts and my limbs are all over the place and Michael is shouting, “COULD YOU PLEASE REMOVE YOUR NAILS FROM MY BACK? I’m trying to HELP YOU!”
Oops. I’ll relax and let Michael take me over to the side of the pool. He’ll stare at me with shock and say in a surprised tone, “You really don’t know how to swim, do you? I honestly thought you were joking….” he’ll trail off and give me an apologetic look.
Yup. Just as I thought. He assumed I forked over all that cash just to meet him. Sorry Michael Phelps, but I’m not a psycho. I really DO need to learn how to swim.
“Look, if I had known that you really couldn’t swim I’d have started off easier. Here, let me get something,” Michael will say and then will easily hoist himself out of the pool. I’ll try not to look at his butt but again, Spandex doesn’t cover much and it’s RIGHT THERE IN FRONT OF ME.
Michael will jog over to the corner of the room and pick up a yellow foam thing.
“A kickboard!” he’ll shout triumphantly, jumping back into the pool. He’ll hand it over to me. “There. Just swim around the pool with me like that.”
I’ll feel a little foolish accepting the kickboard but I’ll take it because I don’t want to drown.
I get the feeling that the kickboard was intended for a child but it doesn’t matter.
“Let’s race,” Michael will suggest.
Racing Michael Phelps! A once in a lifetime opportunity! Suppose I end up beating him and he’ll be impressed with my supersonic kick and go on the news and say that he’s just been beaten by someone who doesn’t even know how to swim....
So I’ll nod my head enthusiastically and he’ll shout “GO!” and I’ll take off with the kickboard underneath me. But then halfway to the other side of the pool my legs will start to ache and I’ll wonder how Michael does this for more than an hour each day.
“I’m tired!” I’ll gasp out as Michael touches the other side of the pool. I stop kicking and sort of bob in place.
“You’re tired?” Michael will shout. “Do you know that I swim in the pool two hours a day, TWICE a day and don’t even get a day off?”
Um.
“Er...no?” I’ll admit.
“Surely you can make it to the end of the pool and back?” Michael will continue.
No. No I can’t, Michael Phelps. Because I’m allergic to exercise and this really feels like exercise. My thighs are burning and the chlorine fumes are starting to make me dizzy. But I can’t tell him this because he took time out of his day to teach me how to swim. So I’ll start kicking again and try to forget that my legs feel like they’re about to break off.
I’ll make it to the end ten minutes later and Michael will look like he’s about to fall asleep.
“Great job!” he’ll yell when I finally make it over. “Fantastic! You did a GREAT job!” he’ll say overenthusiastically. “You’re done!”
What? I’m done? I thought we were swimming back down the pool?
“I thought you said—” I’ll start but Michael is already climbing out of the pool.
“I have an autographed picture for you and a copy of my book,” he’ll be saying as I kick my way over to the pool stairs. I’ll slowly climb out of the pool, still confused. I mean, I really haven’t learned how to swim.
“Here you go,” Michael will say and practically shove his picture and book in my baffled arms. I’ll realize that he has a towel around his waist, thank goodness. “You have a fantastic day.” Then he’ll turn on his heel and because his legs are so long he’ll have disappeared into the locker room in record time.
And that, my friends, is why I will not be bidding on the lessons. I do not want to wind up being known as “the chick who made Michael Phelps lose his patience.” And then, oh my gosh, suppose he ends up losing a race at the London Olympics and during an interview Michael will be all, “I’ve never swum the same since this one woman dug her nails into my back and punctured a muscle.”
I can’t have that sort of thing on my conscience!
I just can’t.
I can’t swim.
I mean, I can dog paddle so I guess I can technically swim. But it’s sort of embarrassing to dog paddle around a pool.
I had swim lessons as a child but I was petrified on sticking my head in the water so they didn’t go very well. I still don’t like to put my head in the water. My husband is greatly amused by this. He once scooped me up and said he was going to throw me into the pool.
He let me down only because I dug my nails into his skin and screamed straight into his eardrum.
I know I need to learn how to swim better. It’s going to be embarrassing when my own child swims right past me as I’m dog paddling along the water. I need to set an example!
Which was why this Michael Phelps swim lesson intrigued me.
In case you’re in no mood to click the link, well, basically it’s an auction for a private swim lesson with Michael Phelps. The money goes to a charity and if we had that kind of money then I’d probably bid on it.
Let’s just pretend that we’re rolling in cash and I won the auction. I’d show up at the aquatic center wearing an oversized t-shirt over my swimsuit because hello, I’m not about to let Michael Phelps see my thighs. Or my stretch marks. Apparently he hangs around with strippers with tight bodies and breasts as big as my head so I wouldn’t want to startle him with my pale skin and breasts that are probably the size of his ears.
I imagine Michael would be surprised to see me because I believe the auction is intended for swim lessons for a CHILD. Because after all, most adults know how to swim, right? So he’d be giving me a baffled look as I calmly set my duffle bag that would contain my towel and a water bottle down.
“Is your kid coming?” Michael might ask and this is when I’ll realize that he’s standing there in nothing but a tiny Speedo. My face will immediately flush because hello, the Speedo doesn’t leave much to the imagination. It’s just a tiny bit of spandex covering the...well....you know...and you really can’t HELP but look.
So to be on the safe side I opt to look right over Michael’s shoulder at the wall as I speak to him because I know if I look him in the face that my eyes will inevitably wander downward and he’ll think I’m a total perv.
And I’m not, I swear it, I’m not a pervert. But it’s sort of hard not to look when someone strolls out in a tiny swatch of body hugging material.
Of course Michael will wonder what I’m staring at and will follow my gaze to the wall and stare at me in bewilderment.
“Oh,” I’ll say all flustered. “Sorry. It’s hard to look at you when you’re wearing...that...” And then I’ll gesture to his Speedo and dear God, because it’s me my hand will nearly bump his....area....and he’ll think I’m about to molest him or something.
“How about we get started?” Michael will suggest and then he’ll easily jump into the pool.
So I’ll slowly start to take off my shoes and walk over to the pool.
“Um, aren’t you going to take off your shirt?” Michael will wonder.
Is he insane? I’m not about to take off my shirt and frighten the Speedo off of him.
“I think I’ll keep it on. If that’s okay,” I’ll quickly add because I wouldn’t want to insult him. I mean, he’s won a bazillion medals which means he’s sort of like a swimming god.
“Keep it on if you’d like,” Michael will say because really, he just wants to get this over with and go home and play video games.
Then I’ll head to the pool stairs and Michael will call out, “You know, you can just jump in!”
Jump in! Does he want me to DIE? Honestly, Michael Phelps, you may have won a bazillion medals but you have a terrible memory. Maybe all the swimming he does has ruined his memory. Did he forget that I’m here for SWIM LESSONS and thus don’t know how to SWIM?
But then a thought will hit me. Suppose Michael thinks that I’m PRETENDING to not know how to swim just so I could meet him? I mean, fine, I do have a crush on the guy but I wouldn’t pay over two grand just to MEET him. No offense.
“I really can’t swim,” I’ll be compelled to say as I grip onto the side of the pool for dear life.
Michael will probably not believe me. He’ll start to prattle on about safety, something that his lawyers made sure that he’d say so he wouldn’t get sued if I drowned. Then he’ll ask if I know how to tread water and I’ll say, “For like ten seconds.”
Michael will demonstrate how to tread water and will patiently wait for me to let go of the wall.
I’ll slowly let go and start to move my arms and legs like crazy and then I’ll start to panic when I realize that I’m not treading in water but instead thrashing around the pool like I’m a mad woman. I’ll instantly freak out and my hand will go back to gripping the side of the pool.
“What was that?” Michael will wonder, still calmly treading water like it’s no big deal.
Poor Michael. All the chlorine must’ve ruined his sight. Did he not see that I nearly DROWNED?
“I nearly drowned,” I’ll say incredulously.
A sigh will come from Michael’s lips. He’ll be thinking, okay, I think my donating swim lesson days are over. I can’t handle this. I’ll just give the charity a chunk of cash from all my endorsements.
“I won’t let you drown,” Michael will promise. “Try again. Like this.” He’ll demonstrate again and it’ll look so easy that I’ll let go of the wall and try again.
It’ll go smoothly at first and I’ll call out, “Oh my gosh! I’m doing it! For more than ten seconds!” but then I’ll realize that I’m slowly sinking and I’ll make a dying animal noise and reach dramatically for the wall.
“You’re panicking. Don’t panic. Calm down. Breathe. If you panic, you’re going to go under,” Michael will say in cool, even tones.
Go under? I can’t go under!
“Maybe we should move onto something else,” Michael will suggest giving me a forced smile. “Since you seem so terrified of going under, how about we stick our head in the water and blow bubbles so you see there is nothing to be afraid of?”
STICK MY HEAD UNDER?
“Actually,” I’ll say. “I’d like to learn how to swim without having to stick my head under. If that’s okay,” I’ll quickly add.
Michael will close his eyes briefly as though he’s going to his happy place. Then he’ll open them, toss me his tenth forced smile of the day and explain through clenched teeth that if I want to learn how to swim that I’ll have to stick my head under the water.
“Are you worried about your hair?” Michael will inquire. Because I imagine he’s been around those girly women who flip out if their hair gets dirty or if they chip a nail. I could care less about that. My hair never works anyhow and I chew my nails. So I’ll shake my head and say, “No. I’m worried that I’ll DROWN.” I’ll say this all seriously with wide eyes and Michael will be somewhat amused.
“I told you. I’m not going to let you drown. Now come on. Stick your head under like this and blow some bubbles,” Michael will say and then his head will disappear under the water and a sea of bubbles will pop up.
I’ll take a deep breath and do the same. Or at least I’ll try to before flipping out and gluing myself to the wall again.
“You’re panicking again,” Michael’s voice will boom out causing me to jump. Uh oh. He’s starting to lose his patience. He’ll quickly realize that he’s just shouted at the person who has donated over two grand for a charity and therefore he has to be nice. So he’ll close his eyes again to go to his happy place and then he’ll say, “Let’s move on.”
Right. Let’s.
“I’m going to show you how to do a breaststroke. Each time you do a stroke you tilt your head so you can breathe. Got it?” Michael will say and then show me what he means. He makes it look so easy, of course.
I decide that I’ll try because after all, I gave birth to two children so swimming should be a breeze. Right?
But as soon as I attempt to copy Michael’s moves I realize that I breathe at the wrong moment and inhale a bunch of water. So then I’ll start thrashing again and I realize that I’m going to die and Michael quickly swims over to me and tries to scoop me up but I’m going nuts and my limbs are all over the place and Michael is shouting, “COULD YOU PLEASE REMOVE YOUR NAILS FROM MY BACK? I’m trying to HELP YOU!”
Oops. I’ll relax and let Michael take me over to the side of the pool. He’ll stare at me with shock and say in a surprised tone, “You really don’t know how to swim, do you? I honestly thought you were joking….” he’ll trail off and give me an apologetic look.
Yup. Just as I thought. He assumed I forked over all that cash just to meet him. Sorry Michael Phelps, but I’m not a psycho. I really DO need to learn how to swim.
“Look, if I had known that you really couldn’t swim I’d have started off easier. Here, let me get something,” Michael will say and then will easily hoist himself out of the pool. I’ll try not to look at his butt but again, Spandex doesn’t cover much and it’s RIGHT THERE IN FRONT OF ME.
Michael will jog over to the corner of the room and pick up a yellow foam thing.
“A kickboard!” he’ll shout triumphantly, jumping back into the pool. He’ll hand it over to me. “There. Just swim around the pool with me like that.”
I’ll feel a little foolish accepting the kickboard but I’ll take it because I don’t want to drown.
I get the feeling that the kickboard was intended for a child but it doesn’t matter.
“Let’s race,” Michael will suggest.
Racing Michael Phelps! A once in a lifetime opportunity! Suppose I end up beating him and he’ll be impressed with my supersonic kick and go on the news and say that he’s just been beaten by someone who doesn’t even know how to swim....
So I’ll nod my head enthusiastically and he’ll shout “GO!” and I’ll take off with the kickboard underneath me. But then halfway to the other side of the pool my legs will start to ache and I’ll wonder how Michael does this for more than an hour each day.
“I’m tired!” I’ll gasp out as Michael touches the other side of the pool. I stop kicking and sort of bob in place.
“You’re tired?” Michael will shout. “Do you know that I swim in the pool two hours a day, TWICE a day and don’t even get a day off?”
Um.
“Er...no?” I’ll admit.
“Surely you can make it to the end of the pool and back?” Michael will continue.
No. No I can’t, Michael Phelps. Because I’m allergic to exercise and this really feels like exercise. My thighs are burning and the chlorine fumes are starting to make me dizzy. But I can’t tell him this because he took time out of his day to teach me how to swim. So I’ll start kicking again and try to forget that my legs feel like they’re about to break off.
I’ll make it to the end ten minutes later and Michael will look like he’s about to fall asleep.
“Great job!” he’ll yell when I finally make it over. “Fantastic! You did a GREAT job!” he’ll say overenthusiastically. “You’re done!”
What? I’m done? I thought we were swimming back down the pool?
“I thought you said—” I’ll start but Michael is already climbing out of the pool.
“I have an autographed picture for you and a copy of my book,” he’ll be saying as I kick my way over to the pool stairs. I’ll slowly climb out of the pool, still confused. I mean, I really haven’t learned how to swim.
“Here you go,” Michael will say and practically shove his picture and book in my baffled arms. I’ll realize that he has a towel around his waist, thank goodness. “You have a fantastic day.” Then he’ll turn on his heel and because his legs are so long he’ll have disappeared into the locker room in record time.
And that, my friends, is why I will not be bidding on the lessons. I do not want to wind up being known as “the chick who made Michael Phelps lose his patience.” And then, oh my gosh, suppose he ends up losing a race at the London Olympics and during an interview Michael will be all, “I’ve never swum the same since this one woman dug her nails into my back and punctured a muscle.”
I can’t have that sort of thing on my conscience!
I just can’t.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Inappropriate Husbands
The phone rang right as Natalie was going through her thirteenth fit of the day. This time she was upset because I wouldn’t let her take the DVDs out of the cabinet. I’m sorry, but the last time she did that it looked like the entire DVD section of Wal-Mart had thrown up in my living room. Plus she totally ripped off my Sex and the City covers and that was just not cool. What does she have against Sarah Jessica Parker?
Tommy was whining because I told him that he had to wear suntan lotion before he went outside. This gravely insulted him and he was in the middle of listing the reasons why he didn’t need the lotion when I picked up the phone.
“Number SIX! It smells weird!” Tommy shrieked as I said hello into the receiver.
“What are you wearing?” came a husky voice.
Excuse me?
I pulled the phone away from my ear and looked at it as though it were a giant booger. Ew, did someone mistake my number for a sex hotline?
“Who is this?” I said warily.
“Your husband. What are you wearing?”
Oh for---seriously? In the middle of the DAY?
“Black sweats and a yellow t-shirt,” I said in a deadpan voice right as Tommy was screaming, “Reason EIGHT! I don’t LIKE lotion!”
“I bet you look hot,” Tom said in a seductive voice.
I cradled the phone against my shoulder. “Yeah. I’m sweating like a pig.”
Tom groaned. “Why won’t you talk sexy with me?”
Oh great. Tom started with the whining. I hate when he whines.
“Tom. I’m surrounded by children. It’s not an appropriate time,” I reminded him.
“No time is an appropriate time,” Tom grumbled.
Sorry. During the day I’m busy wrangling children. By the time they’re in bed I’m too exhausted to form an erotic sentence.
“I’ll call you later,” Tom said, all dejected.
Oh boo hoo. I hung up and stuck the phone in my pocket. I managed to get suntan lotion on Tommy, even though he was on reason fifteen why he didn’t like the stuff. (“Reason fifteen! It feels SLIMY!”)
We all headed outside and I thought I could sit for a few minutes while the kids ran out their energy. But no. Right before my butt hit the pavement, Natalie wanted me to play with her. She stuck a hat on my head and pulled on my arm and pointed to the area where she wanted me to stand.
“Actually, Mommy just wants to sit,” I said and started to head back to my sitting spot.
“PLAY! PLAY! PLAY!” Natalie started jumping up and down in horror.
Good gracious. I thought she’d pass out from the excitement and I was in no mood to wait around at the ER so I agreed to play. I sort of stood there while Natalie handed me a bag and started putting a bunch of stuff into it.
I’m not exactly sure what this game was.
My bag was nearly filled to capacity when the phone rang. I dug it out of my pocket.
“Hello?” I said. The bag straps were starting to dig into my arm from all the weight. Ouch.
“Do you know what I’m doing now?” came the familiar husky voice.
Oh Lord. Here we go again.
“Are you watching TV?” I wondered hopefully. Please be watching the TV.
“I’m laying on the bed. Naked.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m envious. What I would give to lay on the bed naked. But one of the kids would probably walk in on me and then I’ll have to answer questions such as why I have boobies, what’s wrong with them and didn’t I know I could only be naked in private? To which I’d reply that I WAS trying to be private but apparently a shut door means come on in to our children,” I said dryly.
Tom sighed. “Fine. Forget it,” he grumbled.
“Tom. You know I love you. But I’m tired. I get that your class is exhausting but you get a break when it’s over. You get a break over the weekend. I rarely get a break. Even during the night I’m still on the clock. Your daughter thinks two AM is a fantastic time to wake and have a party. So excuse me if I can’t talk nasty to you,” I ranted as Natalie tried to stuff a car in the overfilled bag.
“I just miss you,” Tom said in a tiny voice.
Aw. Poor guy. All he wants is to hear my voice and---
“Are you wearing panties?” Tom continued hopefully.
He’s deaf. My husband is deaf.
“Yes. Disgusting panties with holes. Look Tom, I’m not doing this right now. Unless you want Tommy to go to school tomorrow and start talking about fellatio with the kids, you’ll stop this talk right now,” I hissed. I lowered my voice so the kids wouldn’t hear fellatio. I could just see Tommy heading off to school and saying during playtime, “I’m going to make myself a pie with fellatio,” because he’ll assume it’s food or something and then I’ll get a phone call from the teacher and be lectured on how to be appropriate.
At that moment there was a clap of thunder. We’re having a string of storms this week. Natalie has decided that thunder terrifies her so when this happened she let out a bloodcurdling scream.
“What’s going on over there?” Tom asked while his kid carried on as though someone had told her that her favorite character Brobee was dead.
“That would be your daughter,” I explained, setting the full bag down and scooping Natalie up. “She’s afraid of thunderstorms.”
“See Mommy? It’s going to rain. I put on lotion for NOTHING!” Tommy wailed.
“Since when is Natalie afraid of thunderstorms?” Tom asked as I shuffled the kids back inside.
“INSIDE IS BORING!” Tommy shouted as I closed the front door.
“Since...I don’t know, the last time we had a storm,” I replied, attempting to set Natalie down. But she had a death grip around my neck and refused to let go.
Tom gave a wistful sigh. “I’m missing so much.”
“You’ll see them soon,” I said in a strangled voice because Natalie was starting to cut off my air supply. I tried to get her to loosen her grip but it was difficult while trying to balance the phone against my ear.
Tom mistook my strangled voice for crying because he said, “Awww, I miss you too. Don’t cry.”
I didn’t bother to correct him. I just let him act like he was comforting me because that distracted him from inquiring about my undergarments again.
Tommy was whining because I told him that he had to wear suntan lotion before he went outside. This gravely insulted him and he was in the middle of listing the reasons why he didn’t need the lotion when I picked up the phone.
“Number SIX! It smells weird!” Tommy shrieked as I said hello into the receiver.
“What are you wearing?” came a husky voice.
Excuse me?
I pulled the phone away from my ear and looked at it as though it were a giant booger. Ew, did someone mistake my number for a sex hotline?
“Who is this?” I said warily.
“Your husband. What are you wearing?”
Oh for---seriously? In the middle of the DAY?
“Black sweats and a yellow t-shirt,” I said in a deadpan voice right as Tommy was screaming, “Reason EIGHT! I don’t LIKE lotion!”
“I bet you look hot,” Tom said in a seductive voice.
I cradled the phone against my shoulder. “Yeah. I’m sweating like a pig.”
Tom groaned. “Why won’t you talk sexy with me?”
Oh great. Tom started with the whining. I hate when he whines.
“Tom. I’m surrounded by children. It’s not an appropriate time,” I reminded him.
“No time is an appropriate time,” Tom grumbled.
Sorry. During the day I’m busy wrangling children. By the time they’re in bed I’m too exhausted to form an erotic sentence.
“I’ll call you later,” Tom said, all dejected.
Oh boo hoo. I hung up and stuck the phone in my pocket. I managed to get suntan lotion on Tommy, even though he was on reason fifteen why he didn’t like the stuff. (“Reason fifteen! It feels SLIMY!”)
We all headed outside and I thought I could sit for a few minutes while the kids ran out their energy. But no. Right before my butt hit the pavement, Natalie wanted me to play with her. She stuck a hat on my head and pulled on my arm and pointed to the area where she wanted me to stand.
“Actually, Mommy just wants to sit,” I said and started to head back to my sitting spot.
“PLAY! PLAY! PLAY!” Natalie started jumping up and down in horror.
Good gracious. I thought she’d pass out from the excitement and I was in no mood to wait around at the ER so I agreed to play. I sort of stood there while Natalie handed me a bag and started putting a bunch of stuff into it.
I’m not exactly sure what this game was.
My bag was nearly filled to capacity when the phone rang. I dug it out of my pocket.
“Hello?” I said. The bag straps were starting to dig into my arm from all the weight. Ouch.
“Do you know what I’m doing now?” came the familiar husky voice.
Oh Lord. Here we go again.
“Are you watching TV?” I wondered hopefully. Please be watching the TV.
“I’m laying on the bed. Naked.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m envious. What I would give to lay on the bed naked. But one of the kids would probably walk in on me and then I’ll have to answer questions such as why I have boobies, what’s wrong with them and didn’t I know I could only be naked in private? To which I’d reply that I WAS trying to be private but apparently a shut door means come on in to our children,” I said dryly.
Tom sighed. “Fine. Forget it,” he grumbled.
“Tom. You know I love you. But I’m tired. I get that your class is exhausting but you get a break when it’s over. You get a break over the weekend. I rarely get a break. Even during the night I’m still on the clock. Your daughter thinks two AM is a fantastic time to wake and have a party. So excuse me if I can’t talk nasty to you,” I ranted as Natalie tried to stuff a car in the overfilled bag.
“I just miss you,” Tom said in a tiny voice.
Aw. Poor guy. All he wants is to hear my voice and---
“Are you wearing panties?” Tom continued hopefully.
He’s deaf. My husband is deaf.
“Yes. Disgusting panties with holes. Look Tom, I’m not doing this right now. Unless you want Tommy to go to school tomorrow and start talking about fellatio with the kids, you’ll stop this talk right now,” I hissed. I lowered my voice so the kids wouldn’t hear fellatio. I could just see Tommy heading off to school and saying during playtime, “I’m going to make myself a pie with fellatio,” because he’ll assume it’s food or something and then I’ll get a phone call from the teacher and be lectured on how to be appropriate.
At that moment there was a clap of thunder. We’re having a string of storms this week. Natalie has decided that thunder terrifies her so when this happened she let out a bloodcurdling scream.
“What’s going on over there?” Tom asked while his kid carried on as though someone had told her that her favorite character Brobee was dead.
“That would be your daughter,” I explained, setting the full bag down and scooping Natalie up. “She’s afraid of thunderstorms.”
“See Mommy? It’s going to rain. I put on lotion for NOTHING!” Tommy wailed.
“Since when is Natalie afraid of thunderstorms?” Tom asked as I shuffled the kids back inside.
“INSIDE IS BORING!” Tommy shouted as I closed the front door.
“Since...I don’t know, the last time we had a storm,” I replied, attempting to set Natalie down. But she had a death grip around my neck and refused to let go.
Tom gave a wistful sigh. “I’m missing so much.”
“You’ll see them soon,” I said in a strangled voice because Natalie was starting to cut off my air supply. I tried to get her to loosen her grip but it was difficult while trying to balance the phone against my ear.
Tom mistook my strangled voice for crying because he said, “Awww, I miss you too. Don’t cry.”
I didn’t bother to correct him. I just let him act like he was comforting me because that distracted him from inquiring about my undergarments again.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
You Prime It
So I was on a high from changing the license plates all by myself. I decided, hey, while I’m at it, why not mow the yard? A lot of people were mowing their yard. Granted, most of the people were MEN. I sort of stared wistfully at the guy across the street as he pushed the mower effortlessly across his yard. I think he caught me staring at him and assumed that I was checking out his butt.
Sorry. But no. I was just jealous that all these men were out in their yards and I was stuck doing it myself.
I sighed and headed into the garage to pull the mower out. The mower, by the way, was wedged in the corner and was surrounded by my treasures. See, I call them treasures; my husband refers to them as JUNK. Excuse me, my old high school notebooks are NOT junk. They could come in handy someday. Suppose I want to remember what my sixth period class was back in 1998? You just never know.
So after I pushed my treasures aside I went to yank the mower out. But it wasn’t budging. I grunted and strained until I realized that one of the wheels was trapped by an old scarf. Ew! Where did that scarf come from? It was neon (!) multicolored and something that I would never be caught dead in. Ew! Then I realized that it was my husband’s old scarf. See, we had gone through a bunch of boxes and Tom had opted to KEEP the scarf in case our son wanted it someday.
I couldn’t fathom anyone wearing that scarf. Ever. So I sort of tossed it behind some boxes and hoped that a mouse would come out and eat it/poop on it/drag it away....
I guess the scarf started a love affair with the mower or something because I had to pull a few times in order to get it free.
Then I tossed it behind some boxes again.
I dragged the mower to the yard and took a deep breath before yanking on the string that turned it on.
I pulled and....
....nothing happened.
So I pulled again.
Nothing.
Then I started muttering a bunch of inappropriate words and I may have even kicked the mower’s side.
“You WILL work,” I told the mower sternly. I have a problem with talking to inanimate objects.
Thankfully my neighbor, who had been spraying weed killer in his yard, had gone inside so he didn’t catch my mini-tantrum. However, I saw one of his curtains flick as though someone had been standing there.
Uh oh.
They may have seen me talk to the mower.
Great. Now my neighbor is going to think I’m crazy like Anne Heche when she lost her mind and started talking alien.
I’m not like that, I swear.
I stomped in the house and dialed my husband’s number.
“Hello?” he said.
“How do I turn the mower on? I’m pulling and nothing is happening!” I shouted dramatically.
“Is it SO hard for you to say hello first?” Tom wondered.
“HELLO!” I said my voice laced with irritation. "How do I turn on the mower?"
Seriously. It was hot and sweat was starting to form on my brow. I am not attractive when I turn hot. I become a drippy red-faced mess. I wanted to mow and get it over with. It was not the time for pleasantries.
“You prime it,” Tom said calmly. He’s used to my antics. Sometimes I think he may even get off on them. Then he can be like, “Yes, I’m the sane one in this relationship.”
Prime it?
What’s a prime it? It sounded like a new dance move or something.
“What’s a prime it?” I questioned. It was like an entirely different language.
Tom chuckled. Oh, laugh it up mister. We’ll see who is laughing when we see each other for the first time in three months and I’m wearing granny panties and pretending that I’m on my period.
“You know that red button on the front of the mower?” Tom said.
I walked to the front of the mower and squatted down. I noticed a red button with the word PRIME 6TIMES above it.
Oh.
Oops.
“I see it,” I replied and started pushing it.
“The mower should work now,” Tom said knowingly as though he had just discovered how to make chocolate or something.
I pulled the string and the mower roared to life.
“Thank you,” I said to Tom. “Talk to you later. Love you!”
See? I can be quite nice when I figure things out.
I got the entire front lawn mowed and part of the back. Then I got tired. I honestly started to see spots and John Krasinski (Jim on The Office ) leaped out from behind a pine tree. So I figured at that point that I needed to stop.
Although, admittedly, I was a little disappointed that John wasn’t really there. It turned out to be an empty box.
Oh well.
Sorry. But no. I was just jealous that all these men were out in their yards and I was stuck doing it myself.
I sighed and headed into the garage to pull the mower out. The mower, by the way, was wedged in the corner and was surrounded by my treasures. See, I call them treasures; my husband refers to them as JUNK. Excuse me, my old high school notebooks are NOT junk. They could come in handy someday. Suppose I want to remember what my sixth period class was back in 1998? You just never know.
So after I pushed my treasures aside I went to yank the mower out. But it wasn’t budging. I grunted and strained until I realized that one of the wheels was trapped by an old scarf. Ew! Where did that scarf come from? It was neon (!) multicolored and something that I would never be caught dead in. Ew! Then I realized that it was my husband’s old scarf. See, we had gone through a bunch of boxes and Tom had opted to KEEP the scarf in case our son wanted it someday.
I couldn’t fathom anyone wearing that scarf. Ever. So I sort of tossed it behind some boxes and hoped that a mouse would come out and eat it/poop on it/drag it away....
I guess the scarf started a love affair with the mower or something because I had to pull a few times in order to get it free.
Then I tossed it behind some boxes again.
I dragged the mower to the yard and took a deep breath before yanking on the string that turned it on.
I pulled and....
....nothing happened.
So I pulled again.
Nothing.
Then I started muttering a bunch of inappropriate words and I may have even kicked the mower’s side.
“You WILL work,” I told the mower sternly. I have a problem with talking to inanimate objects.
Thankfully my neighbor, who had been spraying weed killer in his yard, had gone inside so he didn’t catch my mini-tantrum. However, I saw one of his curtains flick as though someone had been standing there.
Uh oh.
They may have seen me talk to the mower.
Great. Now my neighbor is going to think I’m crazy like Anne Heche when she lost her mind and started talking alien.
I’m not like that, I swear.
I stomped in the house and dialed my husband’s number.
“Hello?” he said.
“How do I turn the mower on? I’m pulling and nothing is happening!” I shouted dramatically.
“Is it SO hard for you to say hello first?” Tom wondered.
“HELLO!” I said my voice laced with irritation. "How do I turn on the mower?"
Seriously. It was hot and sweat was starting to form on my brow. I am not attractive when I turn hot. I become a drippy red-faced mess. I wanted to mow and get it over with. It was not the time for pleasantries.
“You prime it,” Tom said calmly. He’s used to my antics. Sometimes I think he may even get off on them. Then he can be like, “Yes, I’m the sane one in this relationship.”
Prime it?
What’s a prime it? It sounded like a new dance move or something.
“What’s a prime it?” I questioned. It was like an entirely different language.
Tom chuckled. Oh, laugh it up mister. We’ll see who is laughing when we see each other for the first time in three months and I’m wearing granny panties and pretending that I’m on my period.
“You know that red button on the front of the mower?” Tom said.
I walked to the front of the mower and squatted down. I noticed a red button with the word PRIME 6TIMES above it.
Oh.
Oops.
“I see it,” I replied and started pushing it.
“The mower should work now,” Tom said knowingly as though he had just discovered how to make chocolate or something.
I pulled the string and the mower roared to life.
“Thank you,” I said to Tom. “Talk to you later. Love you!”
See? I can be quite nice when I figure things out.
I got the entire front lawn mowed and part of the back. Then I got tired. I honestly started to see spots and John Krasinski (Jim on The Office ) leaped out from behind a pine tree. So I figured at that point that I needed to stop.
Although, admittedly, I was a little disappointed that John wasn’t really there. It turned out to be an empty box.
Oh well.
Monday, May 18, 2009
The Duck Tool
The task I was faced with: putting the new license plates on the car
That would be the new Honda Insight by the way. A hybrid. This totally makes up for the fact that I still use plastic bags. Sorry. I try to remember to bring my mesh bags but I forget since I usually have a screeching two year old at my side.
Anyhow, usually my husband changes the license plates. But my husband isn’t here. So I had to do it. Before he left he showed me the tool that I needed to use. For some reason it reminded me of a duck.
“So use the duck tool. Check,” I said.
Tom looked confused as he eyed the tool he was holding. “The duck tool?” He pulled a horrified expression because heaven forbid a woman refer to a man tool as an animal.
On Sunday I tucked the new license plates under my arm and headed out to the garage to find the duck tool. I thought Tom had left it in his tool chest.
But it wasn’t there and okay, I started to panic. I opened and re-opened the drawers and may have uttered some naughty words.
I marched back in the house and dialed Tom’s number.
“Where is the duck tool?” I boomed when he picked up.
“Do you ever say hello first?” came Tom’s response. “You can’t just call someone and---"
“THE DUCK TOOL!”
I’m sorry but it was hot that day and I was nervous about putting the plates on. I had very little patience.
“It’s not a duck tool. The WRENCH is in its case,” Tom replied.
“Thanks,” I said and hung up.
I went to the wrench case and found what I was looking for. Tom had even set it up with the correct size. Phew.
Then I headed for the car and took a deep breath. This is it. I can do this. The screws came off easily and I began to feel quite pleased with myself.
I am woman. Watch me change my own license plates. Oh and hear me roar.
I even emitted a roaring noise which made my neighbor raise an eyebrow at me. He was spraying his yard with weed killer and I guess he’s not used to women roaring in his presence.
I got the new license plate in place and started tightening the screws. Only nothing was happening. I’d twist and twist and the screws were not tightening.
I jumped to my feet, threw my hands in the air and muttered, "What the fuck?"
An amused grin played at the corner of my neighbor's lips as he sprayed a huge chunk of weeds.
Then my eye caught something. A black toggle on the back of the duck tool. Hrm.
I decided to press that down and guess what? After I did that, the tool tightened the screws.
Well, excuse me! I thought it was just there for decoration. There are always extra pieces of STUFF on purses and shoes. For decoration. But now that I think of it, I imagine tools don't have decorations because they're boring.
I was so thrilled with myself for figuring it out that I didn't even notice the buzzing sound beside me. I was happily tightening the screws and thinking to myself, "If I can do this, I can do anything! Lalala."
"There's a bee on your shoe," my neighbor called out.
How nice. A bee on my shoe, most likely praising me for--
WHAT?
THERE'S A BEE ON MY SHOE?
I took off across the yard, waving my hands over my head wildly and screaming at the top of my lungs. In the process I also started kicking off my shoes and they flew across the driveway.
"BEEEEEEEEEE! BEEEEEEEEEEEE!" I screeched.
The neighorhood kids, including my son, were all clustered in the middle of the cul de sac. They all tossed me bewildered looks as I raced across the yard.
Then I realized that I probably looked like a complete wimp and forced myself to calm down.
But look, I've been stung before and it HURT. Of course I should be telling myself that since I was able to push two kids from my junk then surely I should be able to endure a bee sting.
But, see, with my kids I had a lovely thing called an epidural.
I pretended that I hadn't just made a complete fool of myself and calmly walked over to my abandoned shoes.
"Thank you for letting me know," I told the neighbor with a sharp nod of my head.
I pretended that I didn't hear the neighborhood kids (including my son!) laughing at me. I just went back to the task on hand and tried to forget that I had just streaked across my yard.
I moved to the back of the car and removed our temporary plates. This was a little difficult because of the trunk handle. I couldn't twist the wrench around because it bumped into the handle. So this took a little longer.
I refused to put the license plate holders back on though. I am NOT the dealerships free advertisement. Sorry. Last I checked, they weren't making a contribution to my car payments. So I will not display their name unless they want to send me a fee.
But the bottom line is that I did it! By myself! No man.
Awesome.
That would be the new Honda Insight by the way. A hybrid. This totally makes up for the fact that I still use plastic bags. Sorry. I try to remember to bring my mesh bags but I forget since I usually have a screeching two year old at my side.
Anyhow, usually my husband changes the license plates. But my husband isn’t here. So I had to do it. Before he left he showed me the tool that I needed to use. For some reason it reminded me of a duck.
“So use the duck tool. Check,” I said.
Tom looked confused as he eyed the tool he was holding. “The duck tool?” He pulled a horrified expression because heaven forbid a woman refer to a man tool as an animal.
On Sunday I tucked the new license plates under my arm and headed out to the garage to find the duck tool. I thought Tom had left it in his tool chest.
But it wasn’t there and okay, I started to panic. I opened and re-opened the drawers and may have uttered some naughty words.
I marched back in the house and dialed Tom’s number.
“Where is the duck tool?” I boomed when he picked up.
“Do you ever say hello first?” came Tom’s response. “You can’t just call someone and---"
“THE DUCK TOOL!”
I’m sorry but it was hot that day and I was nervous about putting the plates on. I had very little patience.
“It’s not a duck tool. The WRENCH is in its case,” Tom replied.
“Thanks,” I said and hung up.
I went to the wrench case and found what I was looking for. Tom had even set it up with the correct size. Phew.
Then I headed for the car and took a deep breath. This is it. I can do this. The screws came off easily and I began to feel quite pleased with myself.
I am woman. Watch me change my own license plates. Oh and hear me roar.
I even emitted a roaring noise which made my neighbor raise an eyebrow at me. He was spraying his yard with weed killer and I guess he’s not used to women roaring in his presence.
I got the new license plate in place and started tightening the screws. Only nothing was happening. I’d twist and twist and the screws were not tightening.
I jumped to my feet, threw my hands in the air and muttered, "What the fuck?"
An amused grin played at the corner of my neighbor's lips as he sprayed a huge chunk of weeds.
Then my eye caught something. A black toggle on the back of the duck tool. Hrm.
I decided to press that down and guess what? After I did that, the tool tightened the screws.
Well, excuse me! I thought it was just there for decoration. There are always extra pieces of STUFF on purses and shoes. For decoration. But now that I think of it, I imagine tools don't have decorations because they're boring.
I was so thrilled with myself for figuring it out that I didn't even notice the buzzing sound beside me. I was happily tightening the screws and thinking to myself, "If I can do this, I can do anything! Lalala."
"There's a bee on your shoe," my neighbor called out.
How nice. A bee on my shoe, most likely praising me for--
WHAT?
THERE'S A BEE ON MY SHOE?
I took off across the yard, waving my hands over my head wildly and screaming at the top of my lungs. In the process I also started kicking off my shoes and they flew across the driveway.
"BEEEEEEEEEE! BEEEEEEEEEEEE!" I screeched.
The neighorhood kids, including my son, were all clustered in the middle of the cul de sac. They all tossed me bewildered looks as I raced across the yard.
Then I realized that I probably looked like a complete wimp and forced myself to calm down.
But look, I've been stung before and it HURT. Of course I should be telling myself that since I was able to push two kids from my junk then surely I should be able to endure a bee sting.
But, see, with my kids I had a lovely thing called an epidural.
I pretended that I hadn't just made a complete fool of myself and calmly walked over to my abandoned shoes.
"Thank you for letting me know," I told the neighbor with a sharp nod of my head.
I pretended that I didn't hear the neighborhood kids (including my son!) laughing at me. I just went back to the task on hand and tried to forget that I had just streaked across my yard.
I moved to the back of the car and removed our temporary plates. This was a little difficult because of the trunk handle. I couldn't twist the wrench around because it bumped into the handle. So this took a little longer.
I refused to put the license plate holders back on though. I am NOT the dealerships free advertisement. Sorry. Last I checked, they weren't making a contribution to my car payments. So I will not display their name unless they want to send me a fee.
But the bottom line is that I did it! By myself! No man.
Awesome.
Friday, May 15, 2009
So Much For Being Nice
That’s it!
I’m finished watching season finales. They only overexcite me and it’s probably not healthy for my heart to race like that.
I watched Grey’s Anatomy last night and for those who don’t know, it’s a doctor show where everyone looks like they’ve stepped out of a J Crew catalogue.
Anyhow, it appears like two people are now dead on the show and the underlying theme of the finale was that you should always tell people that you love them because you never know if they’re going to croak.
I started to think of my husband Tom, who is on TDY at a military dog training school. Suppose he died? Suppose he got a brain tumor like one of the doctors on Grey’s Anatomy? Maybe that’s why he can never remember to put his dirty clothes in the hamper! Because the tumor is blocking his ability to do so!
I started to panic.
So I dialed his number and waited.
“Hello?” came Tom’s groggy voice.
“Tom! I just wanted you to know that I love you!” I blurted out.
“Who IS this?” Tom demanded.
“It’s Amber! I just wanted you to know that I love you!” I repeated. I mean, it’s hot in Texas. He could pass out from the heat. Suppose a polar bear got loose from Sea World and eats him? Oh my gosh, his dog could turn into Cujo and bite out his throat!
“Amber. Is something wrong? Are the kids—” Tom began, sounding alert.
“The kids are fine. I just wanted you to know that I love you,” I said calmly. What part of this was he not comprehending? All he had to say was thank you, I love you, too.
“It’s MIDNIGHT! I have class tomorrow! Are you telling me that you woke me up just to tell me that you LOVE me?” Tom sounded incredulous, which makes sense because the man really doesn’t have a romantic bone in his body. To him, being romantic is when he warns me that he’s about to fart so I’m able to flee the room and not be keeled over from the noxious gases that emits from his body.
Still, I couldn’t snap at him. Because again, what if he died? What if the last words he heard from me were, “Yes, you asshole, I’m calling to say that I love you because I want you to know how much you MEAN to me. You insensitive jerk.”
I swallowed those harsh words back.
“I called to say that I love you because you never know what is going to happen. I mean, first Izzie gets a brain tumor, then George---” I began.
“Amber! Who is Izzie? Who is George? You’re not making ANY sense,” Tom’s impatient voice cut through my thoughts.
Oh. Right. He doesn’t watch Grey’s Anatomy. He’s caught a few episodes and makes fun of the fact that someone always starts to cry. He thinks they all need to buck up.
“It doesn’t matter who they are,” I quickly said. “I just wanted you to know—” I tried again.
“Are they from a TV show? Amber, I told you to stop watching so much TV. You know it upsets you,” Tom interrupted with a sigh.
He’s right. I get too invested in characters and am still pissed off at NBC for canceling this fantastic show called American Dreams.
“Sorry,” I said meekly. “But I did want to tell you that I love you. I didn’t mean to wake you. I’ll let you go now.” I was about to press the hang up button but then Tom’s voice rang out.
“Thank you. I do appreciate it but do you think you can tell me you love me during the day?” Tom wondered.
I smiled. “Deal,” I promised and then added, "But just so you know, I'd love you even if your dog chews your face up."
"I'm going to go now," Tom said and then I heard a click followed by the dial tone.
Okay then.
I’m finished watching season finales. They only overexcite me and it’s probably not healthy for my heart to race like that.
I watched Grey’s Anatomy last night and for those who don’t know, it’s a doctor show where everyone looks like they’ve stepped out of a J Crew catalogue.
Anyhow, it appears like two people are now dead on the show and the underlying theme of the finale was that you should always tell people that you love them because you never know if they’re going to croak.
I started to think of my husband Tom, who is on TDY at a military dog training school. Suppose he died? Suppose he got a brain tumor like one of the doctors on Grey’s Anatomy? Maybe that’s why he can never remember to put his dirty clothes in the hamper! Because the tumor is blocking his ability to do so!
I started to panic.
So I dialed his number and waited.
“Hello?” came Tom’s groggy voice.
“Tom! I just wanted you to know that I love you!” I blurted out.
“Who IS this?” Tom demanded.
“It’s Amber! I just wanted you to know that I love you!” I repeated. I mean, it’s hot in Texas. He could pass out from the heat. Suppose a polar bear got loose from Sea World and eats him? Oh my gosh, his dog could turn into Cujo and bite out his throat!
“Amber. Is something wrong? Are the kids—” Tom began, sounding alert.
“The kids are fine. I just wanted you to know that I love you,” I said calmly. What part of this was he not comprehending? All he had to say was thank you, I love you, too.
“It’s MIDNIGHT! I have class tomorrow! Are you telling me that you woke me up just to tell me that you LOVE me?” Tom sounded incredulous, which makes sense because the man really doesn’t have a romantic bone in his body. To him, being romantic is when he warns me that he’s about to fart so I’m able to flee the room and not be keeled over from the noxious gases that emits from his body.
Still, I couldn’t snap at him. Because again, what if he died? What if the last words he heard from me were, “Yes, you asshole, I’m calling to say that I love you because I want you to know how much you MEAN to me. You insensitive jerk.”
I swallowed those harsh words back.
“I called to say that I love you because you never know what is going to happen. I mean, first Izzie gets a brain tumor, then George---” I began.
“Amber! Who is Izzie? Who is George? You’re not making ANY sense,” Tom’s impatient voice cut through my thoughts.
Oh. Right. He doesn’t watch Grey’s Anatomy. He’s caught a few episodes and makes fun of the fact that someone always starts to cry. He thinks they all need to buck up.
“It doesn’t matter who they are,” I quickly said. “I just wanted you to know—” I tried again.
“Are they from a TV show? Amber, I told you to stop watching so much TV. You know it upsets you,” Tom interrupted with a sigh.
He’s right. I get too invested in characters and am still pissed off at NBC for canceling this fantastic show called American Dreams.
“Sorry,” I said meekly. “But I did want to tell you that I love you. I didn’t mean to wake you. I’ll let you go now.” I was about to press the hang up button but then Tom’s voice rang out.
“Thank you. I do appreciate it but do you think you can tell me you love me during the day?” Tom wondered.
I smiled. “Deal,” I promised and then added, "But just so you know, I'd love you even if your dog chews your face up."
"I'm going to go now," Tom said and then I heard a click followed by the dial tone.
Okay then.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Honestly, I Had To...
I’m sorry.
I had to do it.
I was going to lose my mind.
He’ll be okay, right? He’ll get over it.
The truth is I shouldn’t have bought it in the first place.
But it was 75% off. It’s really difficult for me not to buy something that is marked 75% off.
It’s why one of my kitchen cupboards is stuffed with packages of pens.
It’s why I bought a baseball mitt and bat which confused my husband Tom when he found them sitting on the garage shelf.
“You don’t play,” he pointed out.
“I might. Someday,” I answered wistfully. “I may wake up one day and decide that I’m in the mood to play baseball.” I gave a sharp nod as my husband stared at the mitt in confusion.
“But....you’ve always said that you’re awful in sports. I mean, when we played tennis that one time you shrieked every time the ball came in your direction,” Tom reminded me.
Well excuse me! It’s a little scary when you see a yellow object whizzing towards your head! Am I supposed to just STAND there and let it smack me in the face?
“You’re supposed to HIT it,” Tom told me dryly.
So yes. I have issues with saying no to 75% off things.
I should never have bought it in the first place. I know this now.
Why did I buy it?
Why did I buy this?
I think back to when I spotted it at Target, hanging on the shelf, all alone. I tend to feel sorry for inanimate things. Once I bought a bag of okra because everyone else was going for the corn and the peas and the okra was sitting there like, “What’s wrong with me? Why is no one buying me?”
So I bought it.
And I learned that I did not like okra.
But still. I felt like I did a good deed even though the only thing I did was purchase a vegetable that tasted like leather.
I also bought the recorder because I had read that there is a chance that playing a musical instrument can raise the IQ a few points. As I stood there gazing at the instrument, I pictured Tommy being rejected from the college of his choice because he missed a perfect SAT score by a few points. Then I’d be thinking, “Oh no! Would he have gotten those points had I bought him that recorder? It’s all my fault!” Then Tommy would refuse to talk to me and it would all be because of some woodwind musical instrument.
So into the cart the recorder went and I gave it to Tommy for his birthday. He wasn’t interested at first. When he opened it he wrinkled his nose and said, “What’s THIS?” in a horrified tone.
“A recorder,” I said grandly. “I played the recorder in elementary school.”
But by the time I explained that to him he was already opening his next gift.
A month flew by and Tommy was suddenly was eager to try out his recorder. He took it out of the package and....
...okay, I’m sorry, but the noise that he made sounded like a pissed off banshee.
It was awful.
He blew into it with all of his might and the neighborhood dog started to howl along with him.
He played for an hour straight.
“Maybe you should give it a rest!” I shouted over the noise hopefully. My eardrums felt like they were about to explode and I was paranoid that Natalie would go deaf since she has such tiny ears.
Tommy has been playing the thing every single day.
I started to feel like I was going to lose my mind.
So yesterday I hid it when he went to school.
When he came home he looked around for his recorder.
“Oh,” I said. “I had to take it to get fixed. I, er, stepped on it. It cracked.”
I know lying is bad. But I swear, if I had to sit through the squeaking one more day I honestly felt like I was going to snatch the recorder from Tommy’s hands and throw it out the window.
“The recorder told me he wanted to fly,” I imagined myself saying to Tommy as I tossed it out.
But Tommy is seven now and he doesn’t believe things like that. Plus, that sort of behavior will send him to a therapist's couch when he's in his twenties and he'll be asked to pinpoint the moment when he first felt betrayal and he'll be all, "Well, there was this time when my Mom threw my recorder out the window...."
So for his mental wellbeing, I had to fib.
Tommy wasn’t pleased when I told him but he accepted it. I’m hoping that he’ll forget all about it.
Please tell me that I’m not the only one who has hidden stuff from their kids.
I swear, I’ll give it back.
I just need a few days to....recoup.
And relish in the fact that my home doesn’t sound like twenty angry monkeys live here.
I had to do it.
I was going to lose my mind.
He’ll be okay, right? He’ll get over it.
The truth is I shouldn’t have bought it in the first place.
But it was 75% off. It’s really difficult for me not to buy something that is marked 75% off.
It’s why one of my kitchen cupboards is stuffed with packages of pens.
It’s why I bought a baseball mitt and bat which confused my husband Tom when he found them sitting on the garage shelf.
“You don’t play,” he pointed out.
“I might. Someday,” I answered wistfully. “I may wake up one day and decide that I’m in the mood to play baseball.” I gave a sharp nod as my husband stared at the mitt in confusion.
“But....you’ve always said that you’re awful in sports. I mean, when we played tennis that one time you shrieked every time the ball came in your direction,” Tom reminded me.
Well excuse me! It’s a little scary when you see a yellow object whizzing towards your head! Am I supposed to just STAND there and let it smack me in the face?
“You’re supposed to HIT it,” Tom told me dryly.
So yes. I have issues with saying no to 75% off things.
I should never have bought it in the first place. I know this now.
Why did I buy it?
Why did I buy this?
I think back to when I spotted it at Target, hanging on the shelf, all alone. I tend to feel sorry for inanimate things. Once I bought a bag of okra because everyone else was going for the corn and the peas and the okra was sitting there like, “What’s wrong with me? Why is no one buying me?”
So I bought it.
And I learned that I did not like okra.
But still. I felt like I did a good deed even though the only thing I did was purchase a vegetable that tasted like leather.
I also bought the recorder because I had read that there is a chance that playing a musical instrument can raise the IQ a few points. As I stood there gazing at the instrument, I pictured Tommy being rejected from the college of his choice because he missed a perfect SAT score by a few points. Then I’d be thinking, “Oh no! Would he have gotten those points had I bought him that recorder? It’s all my fault!” Then Tommy would refuse to talk to me and it would all be because of some woodwind musical instrument.
So into the cart the recorder went and I gave it to Tommy for his birthday. He wasn’t interested at first. When he opened it he wrinkled his nose and said, “What’s THIS?” in a horrified tone.
“A recorder,” I said grandly. “I played the recorder in elementary school.”
But by the time I explained that to him he was already opening his next gift.
A month flew by and Tommy was suddenly was eager to try out his recorder. He took it out of the package and....
...okay, I’m sorry, but the noise that he made sounded like a pissed off banshee.
It was awful.
He blew into it with all of his might and the neighborhood dog started to howl along with him.
He played for an hour straight.
“Maybe you should give it a rest!” I shouted over the noise hopefully. My eardrums felt like they were about to explode and I was paranoid that Natalie would go deaf since she has such tiny ears.
Tommy has been playing the thing every single day.
I started to feel like I was going to lose my mind.
So yesterday I hid it when he went to school.
When he came home he looked around for his recorder.
“Oh,” I said. “I had to take it to get fixed. I, er, stepped on it. It cracked.”
I know lying is bad. But I swear, if I had to sit through the squeaking one more day I honestly felt like I was going to snatch the recorder from Tommy’s hands and throw it out the window.
“The recorder told me he wanted to fly,” I imagined myself saying to Tommy as I tossed it out.
But Tommy is seven now and he doesn’t believe things like that. Plus, that sort of behavior will send him to a therapist's couch when he's in his twenties and he'll be asked to pinpoint the moment when he first felt betrayal and he'll be all, "Well, there was this time when my Mom threw my recorder out the window...."
So for his mental wellbeing, I had to fib.
Tommy wasn’t pleased when I told him but he accepted it. I’m hoping that he’ll forget all about it.
Please tell me that I’m not the only one who has hidden stuff from their kids.
I swear, I’ll give it back.
I just need a few days to....recoup.
And relish in the fact that my home doesn’t sound like twenty angry monkeys live here.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
The Stuck Story
“I stuck! I stuck!”
I heard her voice ring out as I was in the middle of folding laundry. Have I ever mentioned that I hate folding laundry? It’s so boring. Fold, fold, fold. To be honest, I’m an awful folder. I basically just shove things in drawers and to this day I don’t understand why people bother to fold their underwear.
I was jamming some of my underwear in the drawer when I heard Natalie’s call.
“I stuck! I stuck!”
Oh no.
I abandoned the clothes and rushed out into the hall. I expected to find Natalie in the toilet, to be honest. She once fell in and was sort of slumped in the middle, limbs sticking out every which way. Maybe that’s why she refuses to use the bathroom. She’s been traumatized, poor thing.
But Natalie wasn’t in the toilet. My heart started to race and I thought back to the laundry room. Did I remember to close the dryer door? Hadn’t a child died from being trapped in a dryer? Of course, in that case, I imagine the dryer had been turned on. And also, it was one of those fancy washer and dryer sets that I lust over whenever I stop into Sears. I’ll drag my hand over the shiny washer and practically drool all over it.
“Hello beautiful,” I’ll say. I’ll run my fingertips over all of the display buttons and pretend that I know exactly what Mixed Load Bell means. Seriously. There is a button that says that. I have a dirty mind so you can probably imagine what I was thinking. But still, inappropriate thoughts and all, I was in love with the fancy washer and dryer set and only left when the sales guy raised an eyebrow at me. I guess he’s not used to customer’s resting their cheek on top of his products.
“I stuck! I stuck!” Natalie called out again.
Whoops! I had been lost in fancy washer and dryer daydream again.
I forced myself to focus and I started to head down the stairs into the laundry room. But then something caught my eye.
She looks confused because I held up one finger and went, “Stay there,” and rushed downstairs to get my camera.
She was probably all, “Woman! Of course I’m going to stay here as I can’t MOVE. Hence, it’s why I’ve been shouting that I’m stuck.”
When I came back with my camera she kept tossing me an, “Are you serious?” look that reminded me so much of her father. He’s forever giving me “are you serious?” looks.
You’d think she’d easily be able to slide out of there, right?
But no. I’d attempt to pull her out and she’d wrap her feet around the structure. I didn’t want to yank her too hard because the thing started to wobble.
I decided I needed to have a talk with Natalie since we weren’t getting anywhere.
“Natalie. Just go limp. You just did it the other day in Target when you were insulted that I didn’t buy you that doll? Remember, Sweetie? Remember how you collapsed in the middle of the aisle and how I had to practically drag you out of the store because you REFUSED to stand?”
Natalie just tossed me a blank look as though she had no idea what I was talking about.
So I tried again.
“Natalie. Remember how we were at Kohls and you decided that you were sick of looking at clothes? You suddenly dropped to your stomach and pretended that you no longer understood English when I was hissing at you to get up? Do you recall how I tried to get you to stand up but you turned into a wet noodle and continued to sink to the floor? Remember, darling? You must remember because that group of old ladies passed us and snickered that I must have my hands full with you and you peeked up and I swear, you WINKED at them?”
Natalie smirked but then quickly wiped it off her face when she saw my expression.
“Okay. Let’s try something else,” I said, taking a deep breath. “I’m going to pull your feet.”
I gripped onto her ankles and tugged but the little minx gripped onto the table with her hands.
“You have to let go!” I said sternly.
Then I gave a loud sigh.
“Look. Just go limp and I’ll give you some chocolate. Deal?”
Natalie’s face let up. When I pulled on her she instantly went limp so she was able to easily slide out. I set her on the floor and explained that we don’t climb on furniture like that.
But she wasn’t listening.
She was already heading downstairs.
“Cah-co-dat!” she shrieked.
“You’re welcome!” I called out to her retreating back.
I suppose I can’t blame her though. I’ve been known to hold out for chocolate, too.
I heard her voice ring out as I was in the middle of folding laundry. Have I ever mentioned that I hate folding laundry? It’s so boring. Fold, fold, fold. To be honest, I’m an awful folder. I basically just shove things in drawers and to this day I don’t understand why people bother to fold their underwear.
I was jamming some of my underwear in the drawer when I heard Natalie’s call.
“I stuck! I stuck!”
Oh no.
I abandoned the clothes and rushed out into the hall. I expected to find Natalie in the toilet, to be honest. She once fell in and was sort of slumped in the middle, limbs sticking out every which way. Maybe that’s why she refuses to use the bathroom. She’s been traumatized, poor thing.
But Natalie wasn’t in the toilet. My heart started to race and I thought back to the laundry room. Did I remember to close the dryer door? Hadn’t a child died from being trapped in a dryer? Of course, in that case, I imagine the dryer had been turned on. And also, it was one of those fancy washer and dryer sets that I lust over whenever I stop into Sears. I’ll drag my hand over the shiny washer and practically drool all over it.
“Hello beautiful,” I’ll say. I’ll run my fingertips over all of the display buttons and pretend that I know exactly what Mixed Load Bell means. Seriously. There is a button that says that. I have a dirty mind so you can probably imagine what I was thinking. But still, inappropriate thoughts and all, I was in love with the fancy washer and dryer set and only left when the sales guy raised an eyebrow at me. I guess he’s not used to customer’s resting their cheek on top of his products.
“I stuck! I stuck!” Natalie called out again.
Whoops! I had been lost in fancy washer and dryer daydream again.
I forced myself to focus and I started to head down the stairs into the laundry room. But then something caught my eye.
She looks confused because I held up one finger and went, “Stay there,” and rushed downstairs to get my camera.
She was probably all, “Woman! Of course I’m going to stay here as I can’t MOVE. Hence, it’s why I’ve been shouting that I’m stuck.”
When I came back with my camera she kept tossing me an, “Are you serious?” look that reminded me so much of her father. He’s forever giving me “are you serious?” looks.
You’d think she’d easily be able to slide out of there, right?
But no. I’d attempt to pull her out and she’d wrap her feet around the structure. I didn’t want to yank her too hard because the thing started to wobble.
I decided I needed to have a talk with Natalie since we weren’t getting anywhere.
“Natalie. Just go limp. You just did it the other day in Target when you were insulted that I didn’t buy you that doll? Remember, Sweetie? Remember how you collapsed in the middle of the aisle and how I had to practically drag you out of the store because you REFUSED to stand?”
Natalie just tossed me a blank look as though she had no idea what I was talking about.
So I tried again.
“Natalie. Remember how we were at Kohls and you decided that you were sick of looking at clothes? You suddenly dropped to your stomach and pretended that you no longer understood English when I was hissing at you to get up? Do you recall how I tried to get you to stand up but you turned into a wet noodle and continued to sink to the floor? Remember, darling? You must remember because that group of old ladies passed us and snickered that I must have my hands full with you and you peeked up and I swear, you WINKED at them?”
Natalie smirked but then quickly wiped it off her face when she saw my expression.
“Okay. Let’s try something else,” I said, taking a deep breath. “I’m going to pull your feet.”
I gripped onto her ankles and tugged but the little minx gripped onto the table with her hands.
“You have to let go!” I said sternly.
Then I gave a loud sigh.
“Look. Just go limp and I’ll give you some chocolate. Deal?”
Natalie’s face let up. When I pulled on her she instantly went limp so she was able to easily slide out. I set her on the floor and explained that we don’t climb on furniture like that.
But she wasn’t listening.
She was already heading downstairs.
“Cah-co-dat!” she shrieked.
“You’re welcome!” I called out to her retreating back.
I suppose I can’t blame her though. I’ve been known to hold out for chocolate, too.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
The Other Woman
My husband is cheating on me.
I’m told the other woman is a bitch, with brown hair and beady eyes.
It’s been said that her breath reeks, which makes me feel a little better.
Apparently she likes to bite my husband when she gets upset, which amuses me because no matter how angry I’ve gotten at Tom, I have yet to chomp on him.
Want to see what she looks like? I found a picture on Tom’s MySpace. He was stupid enough to post it.
Meet The Other Woman.
Don’t worry, I’m kidding about the cheating thing. As far as I know, my husband is not into animals.
He knows better than to ever try to cheat on me. If he thinks the women on Maury are scary when they find out their mates are cheating, then he’d be doubly horrified on my reaction.
He’d never try it though. The man is one of the worst liars in the world. He starts to smirk when he’s telling a fib and he tries hard not to allow his lips to curl upwards but he just can’t help it. In the end, he just winds up looking constipated.
I miss him.
I'll see him next month.
Tom has never been good with expressing his feelings but he wrote this to me:
"I remember the first time that I saw you in the hallway at school. I knew you would be a good wife one day. What I didnt know is you would be my wife. 2 Years later, you came to me with an issue of yours. I just graduated Basic Training when you told me that you were pregnant. How nervous you looked but I told you that I would take care of you and the child. We got married on the 10th of December in a little court house during a snow storm. You made me the happiest man in the world then. You became a mother on 2 March 2002 at 0015 in the morning with my son Tommy. I thought that I couldn't be any happier at that moment but I was wrong. We had another child on 19 Mar 2007 and my life was complete. I got to marry one of the most beatiful woman in the world, had 2 children, and I loving home that I could come home to everyday even if I was in a sour mood. I love you very much and you will always be a wonderful mother and wife. I miss you very much and I will be with you soon.
Love, Tom "
----
I think this means that he misses me too.
I’m told the other woman is a bitch, with brown hair and beady eyes.
It’s been said that her breath reeks, which makes me feel a little better.
Apparently she likes to bite my husband when she gets upset, which amuses me because no matter how angry I’ve gotten at Tom, I have yet to chomp on him.
Want to see what she looks like? I found a picture on Tom’s MySpace. He was stupid enough to post it.
Meet The Other Woman.
Don’t worry, I’m kidding about the cheating thing. As far as I know, my husband is not into animals.
He knows better than to ever try to cheat on me. If he thinks the women on Maury are scary when they find out their mates are cheating, then he’d be doubly horrified on my reaction.
He’d never try it though. The man is one of the worst liars in the world. He starts to smirk when he’s telling a fib and he tries hard not to allow his lips to curl upwards but he just can’t help it. In the end, he just winds up looking constipated.
I miss him.
I'll see him next month.
Tom has never been good with expressing his feelings but he wrote this to me:
"I remember the first time that I saw you in the hallway at school. I knew you would be a good wife one day. What I didnt know is you would be my wife. 2 Years later, you came to me with an issue of yours. I just graduated Basic Training when you told me that you were pregnant. How nervous you looked but I told you that I would take care of you and the child. We got married on the 10th of December in a little court house during a snow storm. You made me the happiest man in the world then. You became a mother on 2 March 2002 at 0015 in the morning with my son Tommy. I thought that I couldn't be any happier at that moment but I was wrong. We had another child on 19 Mar 2007 and my life was complete. I got to marry one of the most beatiful woman in the world, had 2 children, and I loving home that I could come home to everyday even if I was in a sour mood. I love you very much and you will always be a wonderful mother and wife. I miss you very much and I will be with you soon.
Love, Tom "
----
I think this means that he misses me too.
Monday, May 11, 2009
A Day with GeeKey
GeeKey.
That’s the name my son wanted to be called yesterday. I have no idea where he came up with it and yes, I know it sort of looks like the word Geeky but I don’t think that’s what Tommy was thinking about when he insisted I call him that.
He just said it out of the blue when I informed him lunch was ready.
“Tommy. It’s time to eat,” I had called out.
“I’m not Tommy. I’m GeeKey. Call me GeeKey,” Tommy replied seriously.
Fine. Whatever. I’d call him SnotHead if it meant that he’d eat.
For most of the day I’d slip and accidentally call him Tommy though. I’m sorry, I’ve been calling him that for seven years and it’s hard to break the habit. Each time Tommy would stare at me indignantly and shout, “It’s GeeKey, Mr. Mommyhead!”
Needless to say, I started to get a headache.
And Mr. Mommyhead? What the heck was that? It’s MRS. Mommyhead, if you please.
It also didn’t help that Natalie was extra whiney.
“Darling, it’s Mother’s Day. We don’t whine on Mother’s Day,” I’d explain.
But she didn’t care. She’d just tilt her head back and emit a screech that I’m guessing the neighbor’s dog heard because seconds after she yelped, the dog started going spastic.
Then there was a knock on the door and it was Tommy’s annoying friend Blake wanting to play.
Seriously?
On Mother’s Day?
You’re going to send your kid over on MOTHER’S DAY?
I told Blake that no, Tommy couldn’t play. And because Blake can never accept any sort of answer he went, “Why?”
“Because it’s Mother’s Day, Blake,” I replied and shut the door.
Oh, but he was back two hours later.
“Can Tommy play now?” he wondered hopefully.
“No Blake. It’s Mother’s Day!”
You’d think he’d get the hint, right?
Hah.
He was back an hour later.
“Can Tommy—” he started.
“No Blake,” I said through gritted teeth. “We’ve been through this before. Tommy can’t play because it’s Mother’s Day.”
Is it illegal to swing someone else’s kid in the air by their ankles?
If that weren’t enough, my phone kept ringing off the hook.
It was mainly Tom.
I think he felt guilty because he didn’t get me anything and was worried that I was going to off myself because of this.
I’m the one who told him not to get me anything though. Since we’re making car payments again we don’t have as much extra money as we once did. Plus Tom got me Pepto, my adorable pink mini laptop awhile back and that’s more than enough.
I kept explaining to Tom that I was okay, really, I was okay ONLY HIS CHILDREN WERE MONSTERS, ABSOLUTE MONSTERS.
Still, he kept calling.
“How are you?” he’d ask.
“Oh, well, your daughter is currently crying into the carpet because I wouldn’t let her have a lollipop and your son thinks he can fly because he keeps jumping off the couch,” I said, my voice terse.
Sometimes I was lucky to even HAVE a conversation. Tom asked what I planned on doing for dinner and I started off by saying, “Well I think we’re going to Mc—TOMMY, WE DON’T JUMP OFF THE BOOKCASE! What was I saying?”
“You were telling me where you were going,” Tom said patiently. I can almost guarantee he was thanking the stars that he was in Texas and not stuck in the frat house.
“Right. So, we’re probably going to eat at—NATALIE, WE DON’T EAT BUBBLES. We BLOW BUBBLES!” I’d try again.
During one call I accidentally hung up on Tom because I was so frazzled. Plus his son was about to jump off the very top of the stairs. He kept telling me that he was Superman’s son and Superman’s son could do things like that.
“I hate to break this to you,” I told Tommy cautiously as I approached him slowly. I didn’t want to move quickly and have him jump, you see. I was treating him as though he were on the verge of suicide and on television shows when someone is approaching suicidal people who are about to leap off a building or something, they move slowly and speak with their hand out in front of them and in calm tones. This was what I was trying to do. “But you’re not Superman’s son,” I continued in what I hoped was a serene voice. “So you can’t jump. How about I turn on the TV and we’ll see what that crazy yellow sponge is up to?”
I eventually coaxed him downstairs. Thank you, Spongebob.
Then Tom called back and wanted to know why I hung up on him.
So yes. My head was pounding throughout most of the day.
And Tom kept phoning so when the phone rang for what seemed like the hundredth time of the day I picked it up and shouted, “For the love of CHRIST, Tom. I’m OKAY!”
Which insulted him because he said in a sad tone, “I was just calling to say hello.”
Which in turn made me feel horrible.
We ended up going to McDonalds for dinner. I had an intense craving for chicken nuggets, you see.
I also got a chocolate milkshake because on Mother’s Day there are no such things as calories.
When we got home Tommy informed me that his burger looked funny.
“It looks fine, Tommy,” I said firmly.
Tommy looked insulted. “It’s not Tommy, it's GEEKEY!”
I took a deep breath. Seriously, what I wanted to do was get out of my seat and jump up and down on the carpet with my fists balled at my side shrieking, “This is not my life. This is not my life!”
“GeeKey,” I said in a shaky voice that I didn’t even recognize. “Your burger looks fine.”
“It’s brown,” Tommy argued.
“It’s supposed to be brown. It’s MEAT!” I pointed out, nearly losing my cool. I swallowed hard. “Please just EAT, Tommy.”
Tommy’s eyes bugged out of his head. “It’s GEEKEY! GEEKEY, GEEKEY, GEEKEY!”
“GEEKEY!” Natalie giggled, waving a fry in the air.
I closed my eyes briefly and took another deep breath.
Breathe, one, two, three. Breathe, one, two, three.
“You have a wonderful name, Tommy,” I said calmly, opening my eyes. “Why would you want to change it?”
Tommy shrugged. “I needed a change.”
Oh. Lovely. He’s turning into Prince. Soon he’s going to want to be called The Kid Formerly Known as Tommy. Or GeeKey.
“Tommy is a name you should be proud of. You’re named after your Grandpa AND your Daddy.” I said grandly. And because I had just finished watching The Tudors I added, “You’re your Daddy’s heir.”
Whenever I finish watching The Tudors I always get the urge to curtsy and remind Tom that he has to be nice to me because I did my duty as his wife and gave him a son and heir.
Tommy looked confused. “I’m Daddy’s HAIR?” he wondered and then started laughing.
“No. His HEIR. H-E-I-R. Not hair,” I explained.
But the damage had already been done. Tommy kept laughing about being his Daddy’s hair and when Tom called to say goodnight, Tommy proudly said, “Guess what, Daddy? I’m your HAIR!”
Of course Tom was confused and when I explained what Tommy meant, Tom sighed and went, “You really shouldn’t watch that Tudors show anymore. It makes you weird.”
When I tucked the kids in for bed I was ready for the silence. I was all prepared to flop on the couch and just sprawl there for a few hours while figuring out who the Celebrity Apprentice was going to be.
“Goodnight, GeeKey,” I said tucking my son in. I leaned in to give him a hug and Tommy (GeeKey) reached up and grabbed my cheeks.
“I love you very much, Mommy,” he said seriously, looking me straight in the eye.
My heart instantly melted. Because yes, my life can be chaotic and yes, I may occasionally wish that I could run out the house and escape the insanity...but it’s moments like that which makes it all worth it.
That’s the name my son wanted to be called yesterday. I have no idea where he came up with it and yes, I know it sort of looks like the word Geeky but I don’t think that’s what Tommy was thinking about when he insisted I call him that.
He just said it out of the blue when I informed him lunch was ready.
“Tommy. It’s time to eat,” I had called out.
“I’m not Tommy. I’m GeeKey. Call me GeeKey,” Tommy replied seriously.
Fine. Whatever. I’d call him SnotHead if it meant that he’d eat.
For most of the day I’d slip and accidentally call him Tommy though. I’m sorry, I’ve been calling him that for seven years and it’s hard to break the habit. Each time Tommy would stare at me indignantly and shout, “It’s GeeKey, Mr. Mommyhead!”
Needless to say, I started to get a headache.
And Mr. Mommyhead? What the heck was that? It’s MRS. Mommyhead, if you please.
It also didn’t help that Natalie was extra whiney.
“Darling, it’s Mother’s Day. We don’t whine on Mother’s Day,” I’d explain.
But she didn’t care. She’d just tilt her head back and emit a screech that I’m guessing the neighbor’s dog heard because seconds after she yelped, the dog started going spastic.
Then there was a knock on the door and it was Tommy’s annoying friend Blake wanting to play.
Seriously?
On Mother’s Day?
You’re going to send your kid over on MOTHER’S DAY?
I told Blake that no, Tommy couldn’t play. And because Blake can never accept any sort of answer he went, “Why?”
“Because it’s Mother’s Day, Blake,” I replied and shut the door.
Oh, but he was back two hours later.
“Can Tommy play now?” he wondered hopefully.
“No Blake. It’s Mother’s Day!”
You’d think he’d get the hint, right?
Hah.
He was back an hour later.
“Can Tommy—” he started.
“No Blake,” I said through gritted teeth. “We’ve been through this before. Tommy can’t play because it’s Mother’s Day.”
Is it illegal to swing someone else’s kid in the air by their ankles?
If that weren’t enough, my phone kept ringing off the hook.
It was mainly Tom.
I think he felt guilty because he didn’t get me anything and was worried that I was going to off myself because of this.
I’m the one who told him not to get me anything though. Since we’re making car payments again we don’t have as much extra money as we once did. Plus Tom got me Pepto, my adorable pink mini laptop awhile back and that’s more than enough.
I kept explaining to Tom that I was okay, really, I was okay ONLY HIS CHILDREN WERE MONSTERS, ABSOLUTE MONSTERS.
Still, he kept calling.
“How are you?” he’d ask.
“Oh, well, your daughter is currently crying into the carpet because I wouldn’t let her have a lollipop and your son thinks he can fly because he keeps jumping off the couch,” I said, my voice terse.
Sometimes I was lucky to even HAVE a conversation. Tom asked what I planned on doing for dinner and I started off by saying, “Well I think we’re going to Mc—TOMMY, WE DON’T JUMP OFF THE BOOKCASE! What was I saying?”
“You were telling me where you were going,” Tom said patiently. I can almost guarantee he was thanking the stars that he was in Texas and not stuck in the frat house.
“Right. So, we’re probably going to eat at—NATALIE, WE DON’T EAT BUBBLES. We BLOW BUBBLES!” I’d try again.
During one call I accidentally hung up on Tom because I was so frazzled. Plus his son was about to jump off the very top of the stairs. He kept telling me that he was Superman’s son and Superman’s son could do things like that.
“I hate to break this to you,” I told Tommy cautiously as I approached him slowly. I didn’t want to move quickly and have him jump, you see. I was treating him as though he were on the verge of suicide and on television shows when someone is approaching suicidal people who are about to leap off a building or something, they move slowly and speak with their hand out in front of them and in calm tones. This was what I was trying to do. “But you’re not Superman’s son,” I continued in what I hoped was a serene voice. “So you can’t jump. How about I turn on the TV and we’ll see what that crazy yellow sponge is up to?”
I eventually coaxed him downstairs. Thank you, Spongebob.
Then Tom called back and wanted to know why I hung up on him.
So yes. My head was pounding throughout most of the day.
And Tom kept phoning so when the phone rang for what seemed like the hundredth time of the day I picked it up and shouted, “For the love of CHRIST, Tom. I’m OKAY!”
Which insulted him because he said in a sad tone, “I was just calling to say hello.”
Which in turn made me feel horrible.
We ended up going to McDonalds for dinner. I had an intense craving for chicken nuggets, you see.
I also got a chocolate milkshake because on Mother’s Day there are no such things as calories.
When we got home Tommy informed me that his burger looked funny.
“It looks fine, Tommy,” I said firmly.
Tommy looked insulted. “It’s not Tommy, it's GEEKEY!”
I took a deep breath. Seriously, what I wanted to do was get out of my seat and jump up and down on the carpet with my fists balled at my side shrieking, “This is not my life. This is not my life!”
“GeeKey,” I said in a shaky voice that I didn’t even recognize. “Your burger looks fine.”
“It’s brown,” Tommy argued.
“It’s supposed to be brown. It’s MEAT!” I pointed out, nearly losing my cool. I swallowed hard. “Please just EAT, Tommy.”
Tommy’s eyes bugged out of his head. “It’s GEEKEY! GEEKEY, GEEKEY, GEEKEY!”
“GEEKEY!” Natalie giggled, waving a fry in the air.
I closed my eyes briefly and took another deep breath.
Breathe, one, two, three. Breathe, one, two, three.
“You have a wonderful name, Tommy,” I said calmly, opening my eyes. “Why would you want to change it?”
Tommy shrugged. “I needed a change.”
Oh. Lovely. He’s turning into Prince. Soon he’s going to want to be called The Kid Formerly Known as Tommy. Or GeeKey.
“Tommy is a name you should be proud of. You’re named after your Grandpa AND your Daddy.” I said grandly. And because I had just finished watching The Tudors I added, “You’re your Daddy’s heir.”
Whenever I finish watching The Tudors I always get the urge to curtsy and remind Tom that he has to be nice to me because I did my duty as his wife and gave him a son and heir.
Tommy looked confused. “I’m Daddy’s HAIR?” he wondered and then started laughing.
“No. His HEIR. H-E-I-R. Not hair,” I explained.
But the damage had already been done. Tommy kept laughing about being his Daddy’s hair and when Tom called to say goodnight, Tommy proudly said, “Guess what, Daddy? I’m your HAIR!”
Of course Tom was confused and when I explained what Tommy meant, Tom sighed and went, “You really shouldn’t watch that Tudors show anymore. It makes you weird.”
When I tucked the kids in for bed I was ready for the silence. I was all prepared to flop on the couch and just sprawl there for a few hours while figuring out who the Celebrity Apprentice was going to be.
“Goodnight, GeeKey,” I said tucking my son in. I leaned in to give him a hug and Tommy (GeeKey) reached up and grabbed my cheeks.
“I love you very much, Mommy,” he said seriously, looking me straight in the eye.
My heart instantly melted. Because yes, my life can be chaotic and yes, I may occasionally wish that I could run out the house and escape the insanity...but it’s moments like that which makes it all worth it.
Friday, May 8, 2009
The Adventures of P
I bought a small potty for Natalie when she was a year and a half.
I knew she wouldn’t be potty trained that early. Of course I did. I mean, her brother took his sweet time with finally deciding to use the bathroom. I honestly thought he'd be the first college kid who attended class in a Pull Up.
But I still had hope.
What I WISHED would happen is that I’d show the potty to Natalie and she’d clap her hands, announce that she had to pee and promptly go on it. Girls usually train faster than boys, right?
What really happened is that Natalie marched right past the potty and refused to sit on it when I asked if she wanted to try it.
“Nope,” she said and then ran over to her Daddy for protection. (Okay. MOST girls train faster than boys but just not MY girl. I get it.)
I figured, okay, she’s just too young.
My dreams of having her potty trained before she was two disappeared.
When Natalie turned two she suddenly seemed interested in the potty. She seemed to realize that the white throne with the green armrests in the corner of the room was FUN. She pulled it over and my breath caught in my throat.
This is it! She’s going to pee! This is IT!
I was two seconds away from organizing a Natalie Finally Urinated! party. I planned on phoning up all our family members and casually saying something like, “You know Natalie? Who just turned two? Yeah, she went pee in the potty.” I’d sound nonchalant and act as though it weren’t a big deal but inside I’d be screaming, “NO MORE DIAPERS! That means extra money. That means I can go shopping!”
But Natalie didn’t pee.
She sat on the toilet for all of three seconds before abandoning it for an old carrot she had discarded on the couch a few hours before.
“Wait! Don’t you want to pee?” I asked Natalie hopefully. I realized that my voice had raised a few octaves and was causing Natalie’s eyebrows to shoot up in confusion. So I tried to sound normal and started again. “Wouldn’t you like to pee in this fabulous potty?” I even gestured to it with my hands as though I were Vanna White.
Natalie looked me squarely in the eye and went, “No fanks.”
No fanks?
NO FANKS?
What was this NO FANKS business?
Still, I tried not to worry.
And, okay, you know the story of the Boy Who Cried Wolf? Natalie had her own version: The Girl who Cried Pee. Because she’d tease me and would point to the potty enthusiastically and shout that she had to pee and I’d be all, “This is IT!”
But then she’d change her mind and say, “No fanks.” She’d look quite pleased with herself, as if torturing her mother was an enjoyable task.
Eventually I stopped believing that Natalie was really going to pee. She’d ask for the potty and I’d drag it over as though it were a bag of potatoes and it stopped hurting quite so much when Natalie would abandon her commode less than a minute later.
Yesterday Natalie rushed over to me and started shouting, “Pee! Pee! Pee!”
I had never seen her so emphatic about pee before, you see. Usually she’ll just point to the potty and inform me that she wants to sit on it. Then I’ll ask if she wants to PEE in it and she promptly says, “No fanks.” It’s just how it goes. I’ve accepted it.
So when Natalie practically started break dancing while she screeched the word pee, my heart lurched with excitement.
Maybe this is FINALLY it! She’s never been THIS excited before!
“Do you want to pee?” I wondered, trying not to sound too hopeful. I grabbed the potty and blew off the dust that it had started to collect. I set it in the middle of the living room even though this bothers my husband.
“This is where I watch TV. Why is there a toilet in here?” he once asked.
Please.
If he could, he would totally move the toilet in the living room. This would mean that he wouldn’t have to actually get up and, gasp, walk down the hall to the bathroom. One time he was in the middle of watching some ultra boring World War 2 show and he started twitching on the couch to the point where I thought I might have to run him to the ER.
“Are you having some sort of allergic reaction?” I finally asked when I couldn’t take the shuffling any longer.
“No. I have to take a piss but I don’t want to move,” was Tom’s reply. He wiggled his butt into the cushion.
“Um Tom? You do realize that you can PAUSE the program. It’s the beauty of having a DVR,” I reminded him.
“I don’t want to move right now,” was Tom’s stubborn reply.
“I can already tell you how this show ends. We win,” I said.
Still, the man waited until a commercial came on and then he darted into the bathroom, his hands pressed against his crotch.
He doesn’t like the fact that Natalie’s toilet is in the living room but he’s just going to have to live with it. When he’s the one coaxing Natalie to please pee in the potty, just one squirt, just ONE measly squirt then he might have more of a say.
“Here you go, sweetheart. Let’s go pee!” I said to Natalie cheerfully, pointing to the potty.
Natalie looked a little wary.
“Pee!” she repeated, her brow furrowing.
“I know! Let’s PEE! Peeing is FUN!” I cooed.
Okay, never in my life did I ever think that I’d use the phrase “peeing is fun.” But whatever. You say what you need to say, right?
“PEE!” Natalie said again, almost impatiently. I half expected her to stomp her foot into the carpet.
My poor confused kid. I assumed she forgot what she had to do so I started helping her out of her pants.
“PEE PEE PEE PEE!” Natalie started to freak out on me.
“Darling,” I said, my voice verging on sounding impatient. “If you want to pee, we need to take off your pants and diaper.”
I was starting to get paranoid that the fall she had taken the day before had totally warped her memory. Maybe she forgot how to pee? Should I call her pediatrician?
“PEE!” Natalie screamed and suddenly turned and made a break for it. Her left leg was still stuck in her pants, which swung around her ankle as she rushed into the kitchen.
I followed her in and watched in horror as she practically threw herself into the trash can.
My poor daughter! She had lost her memory and thought that we peed in the trash.
“Natalie. No. We don’t pee in the trash—” I started to explain.
“PEE!” Natalie cut me off and pointed into the bin.
I sighed.
I’m not cut out for this. Is there someone I can hire to potty train Natalie? Surely there has to be some potty training company out there.
“Natalie,” I tried again, marching over to her. “We don’t—”
But then something caught my eye.
A flash of blue nestled in the trash.
Huh?
I peered closer and saw this:
What?
And then it dawned on me.
Natalie wasn’t telling me that she had to pee.
She was telling me that she wanted her letter P.
See, Natalie has been known to throw things into the trash. She threw out one of my Henry VIII books before and I spotted it just before I nearly threw some old leftovers that I swore I was going to eat but ended up not eating because I’m not a fan of leftovers on top of it.
“Natalie!” I had lectured. “We don’t throw away Henry VIII!”
Anyhow, I guess what had happened was that she had tossed her letter out and then had second thoughts. Which I can totally understand because I once threw out my last chocolate cookie to prevent me from eating it and then I kept picturing it all alone in the garbage can and was seriously thisclose to digging it back out but then I was all, “Ew, Amber, that is disgusting.” I think I ended up buying more chocolate cookies which sort of defeated the whole purpose of throwing out that other one.
Oh well.
Anyhow, I brought out Natalie’s P and washed it off and handed it to her.
“P,” Natalie said gratefully and hugged it to her chest.
I gave a long sigh. “You wouldn’t want to pee in the potty by any chance, would you?”
And Natalie looked me squarely in the eye and went, “No fanks,” before flouncing off while grasping onto her beloved P.
I knew she wouldn’t be potty trained that early. Of course I did. I mean, her brother took his sweet time with finally deciding to use the bathroom. I honestly thought he'd be the first college kid who attended class in a Pull Up.
But I still had hope.
What I WISHED would happen is that I’d show the potty to Natalie and she’d clap her hands, announce that she had to pee and promptly go on it. Girls usually train faster than boys, right?
What really happened is that Natalie marched right past the potty and refused to sit on it when I asked if she wanted to try it.
“Nope,” she said and then ran over to her Daddy for protection. (Okay. MOST girls train faster than boys but just not MY girl. I get it.)
I figured, okay, she’s just too young.
My dreams of having her potty trained before she was two disappeared.
When Natalie turned two she suddenly seemed interested in the potty. She seemed to realize that the white throne with the green armrests in the corner of the room was FUN. She pulled it over and my breath caught in my throat.
This is it! She’s going to pee! This is IT!
I was two seconds away from organizing a Natalie Finally Urinated! party. I planned on phoning up all our family members and casually saying something like, “You know Natalie? Who just turned two? Yeah, she went pee in the potty.” I’d sound nonchalant and act as though it weren’t a big deal but inside I’d be screaming, “NO MORE DIAPERS! That means extra money. That means I can go shopping!”
But Natalie didn’t pee.
She sat on the toilet for all of three seconds before abandoning it for an old carrot she had discarded on the couch a few hours before.
“Wait! Don’t you want to pee?” I asked Natalie hopefully. I realized that my voice had raised a few octaves and was causing Natalie’s eyebrows to shoot up in confusion. So I tried to sound normal and started again. “Wouldn’t you like to pee in this fabulous potty?” I even gestured to it with my hands as though I were Vanna White.
Natalie looked me squarely in the eye and went, “No fanks.”
No fanks?
NO FANKS?
What was this NO FANKS business?
Still, I tried not to worry.
And, okay, you know the story of the Boy Who Cried Wolf? Natalie had her own version: The Girl who Cried Pee. Because she’d tease me and would point to the potty enthusiastically and shout that she had to pee and I’d be all, “This is IT!”
But then she’d change her mind and say, “No fanks.” She’d look quite pleased with herself, as if torturing her mother was an enjoyable task.
Eventually I stopped believing that Natalie was really going to pee. She’d ask for the potty and I’d drag it over as though it were a bag of potatoes and it stopped hurting quite so much when Natalie would abandon her commode less than a minute later.
Yesterday Natalie rushed over to me and started shouting, “Pee! Pee! Pee!”
I had never seen her so emphatic about pee before, you see. Usually she’ll just point to the potty and inform me that she wants to sit on it. Then I’ll ask if she wants to PEE in it and she promptly says, “No fanks.” It’s just how it goes. I’ve accepted it.
So when Natalie practically started break dancing while she screeched the word pee, my heart lurched with excitement.
Maybe this is FINALLY it! She’s never been THIS excited before!
“Do you want to pee?” I wondered, trying not to sound too hopeful. I grabbed the potty and blew off the dust that it had started to collect. I set it in the middle of the living room even though this bothers my husband.
“This is where I watch TV. Why is there a toilet in here?” he once asked.
Please.
If he could, he would totally move the toilet in the living room. This would mean that he wouldn’t have to actually get up and, gasp, walk down the hall to the bathroom. One time he was in the middle of watching some ultra boring World War 2 show and he started twitching on the couch to the point where I thought I might have to run him to the ER.
“Are you having some sort of allergic reaction?” I finally asked when I couldn’t take the shuffling any longer.
“No. I have to take a piss but I don’t want to move,” was Tom’s reply. He wiggled his butt into the cushion.
“Um Tom? You do realize that you can PAUSE the program. It’s the beauty of having a DVR,” I reminded him.
“I don’t want to move right now,” was Tom’s stubborn reply.
“I can already tell you how this show ends. We win,” I said.
Still, the man waited until a commercial came on and then he darted into the bathroom, his hands pressed against his crotch.
He doesn’t like the fact that Natalie’s toilet is in the living room but he’s just going to have to live with it. When he’s the one coaxing Natalie to please pee in the potty, just one squirt, just ONE measly squirt then he might have more of a say.
“Here you go, sweetheart. Let’s go pee!” I said to Natalie cheerfully, pointing to the potty.
Natalie looked a little wary.
“Pee!” she repeated, her brow furrowing.
“I know! Let’s PEE! Peeing is FUN!” I cooed.
Okay, never in my life did I ever think that I’d use the phrase “peeing is fun.” But whatever. You say what you need to say, right?
“PEE!” Natalie said again, almost impatiently. I half expected her to stomp her foot into the carpet.
My poor confused kid. I assumed she forgot what she had to do so I started helping her out of her pants.
“PEE PEE PEE PEE!” Natalie started to freak out on me.
“Darling,” I said, my voice verging on sounding impatient. “If you want to pee, we need to take off your pants and diaper.”
I was starting to get paranoid that the fall she had taken the day before had totally warped her memory. Maybe she forgot how to pee? Should I call her pediatrician?
“PEE!” Natalie screamed and suddenly turned and made a break for it. Her left leg was still stuck in her pants, which swung around her ankle as she rushed into the kitchen.
I followed her in and watched in horror as she practically threw herself into the trash can.
My poor daughter! She had lost her memory and thought that we peed in the trash.
“Natalie. No. We don’t pee in the trash—” I started to explain.
“PEE!” Natalie cut me off and pointed into the bin.
I sighed.
I’m not cut out for this. Is there someone I can hire to potty train Natalie? Surely there has to be some potty training company out there.
“Natalie,” I tried again, marching over to her. “We don’t—”
But then something caught my eye.
A flash of blue nestled in the trash.
Huh?
I peered closer and saw this:
What?
And then it dawned on me.
Natalie wasn’t telling me that she had to pee.
She was telling me that she wanted her letter P.
See, Natalie has been known to throw things into the trash. She threw out one of my Henry VIII books before and I spotted it just before I nearly threw some old leftovers that I swore I was going to eat but ended up not eating because I’m not a fan of leftovers on top of it.
“Natalie!” I had lectured. “We don’t throw away Henry VIII!”
Anyhow, I guess what had happened was that she had tossed her letter out and then had second thoughts. Which I can totally understand because I once threw out my last chocolate cookie to prevent me from eating it and then I kept picturing it all alone in the garbage can and was seriously thisclose to digging it back out but then I was all, “Ew, Amber, that is disgusting.” I think I ended up buying more chocolate cookies which sort of defeated the whole purpose of throwing out that other one.
Oh well.
Anyhow, I brought out Natalie’s P and washed it off and handed it to her.
“P,” Natalie said gratefully and hugged it to her chest.
I gave a long sigh. “You wouldn’t want to pee in the potty by any chance, would you?”
And Natalie looked me squarely in the eye and went, “No fanks,” before flouncing off while grasping onto her beloved P.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Bug Eyes and Plastic Vs
So I watched that Twilight movie last weekend.
I wish I could say that I loved it.
It seems to be what most people say, right? Or they’ll gush about Edward and say things like, “Edward can bite me whenever he wants!”
Edward better stay away from me or I’ll bash him over the head with my purse. And it would hurt because I have all sorts of crap in my purse at the moment. Yes, I’m one of those ladies who collects STUFF. What of it?
If a guy looked at me like this I’d be terrified:
I mean, look at those bug eyes! If someone stared at me like that I’d glance around the room nervously and inquire what they were looking at.
And if the response was a sultry, “You,” then I’d get up and leave.
Thems crazy eyes, people! CRAZY EYES.
If my husband gazed at me like that then I’d ask if I had something caught in my teeth and was that his polite way of telling me?
“Because no offense Tom, but when your eyes take up half of your face it’s sort of frightening...” I’d say with a shrug.
This also bothered me:
Okay, my medical knowledge is limited. I admit this. Most of my information comes from shows like ER , Grey’s Anatomy and Scrubs.
But, okay, when someone is injured and has to have one of those nose oxygen things, doesn’t it go behind the ears and around the face?
Sort of like this:
Wait, I found an actual picture since I can't paint worth a darn:
It was really distracting to see a plastic tube in the shape of a V stuck against Bella’s face while she talked to Edward.
Did that not bother anyone else?
I couldn’t take the scene seriously because BELLA HAD A PLASTIC V ON HER FACE!
A few times the tube would be over her eye and then I’d get the giggles because, oh my gosh, Bella is moaning to Edward that he can’t leave her but she has a PLASTIC V over her retina.
I realize this movie was low budget but could they not fix the oxygen tube? I imagine Grey’s Anatomy has a bunch of the regular ones in their prop department that they would be willing to lend out.
Needless to say, I will not be watching the movie again.
I wish I could say that I loved it.
It seems to be what most people say, right? Or they’ll gush about Edward and say things like, “Edward can bite me whenever he wants!”
Edward better stay away from me or I’ll bash him over the head with my purse. And it would hurt because I have all sorts of crap in my purse at the moment. Yes, I’m one of those ladies who collects STUFF. What of it?
If a guy looked at me like this I’d be terrified:
I mean, look at those bug eyes! If someone stared at me like that I’d glance around the room nervously and inquire what they were looking at.
And if the response was a sultry, “You,” then I’d get up and leave.
Thems crazy eyes, people! CRAZY EYES.
If my husband gazed at me like that then I’d ask if I had something caught in my teeth and was that his polite way of telling me?
“Because no offense Tom, but when your eyes take up half of your face it’s sort of frightening...” I’d say with a shrug.
This also bothered me:
Okay, my medical knowledge is limited. I admit this. Most of my information comes from shows like ER , Grey’s Anatomy and Scrubs.
But, okay, when someone is injured and has to have one of those nose oxygen things, doesn’t it go behind the ears and around the face?
Sort of like this:
Wait, I found an actual picture since I can't paint worth a darn:
It was really distracting to see a plastic tube in the shape of a V stuck against Bella’s face while she talked to Edward.
Did that not bother anyone else?
I couldn’t take the scene seriously because BELLA HAD A PLASTIC V ON HER FACE!
A few times the tube would be over her eye and then I’d get the giggles because, oh my gosh, Bella is moaning to Edward that he can’t leave her but she has a PLASTIC V over her retina.
I realize this movie was low budget but could they not fix the oxygen tube? I imagine Grey’s Anatomy has a bunch of the regular ones in their prop department that they would be willing to lend out.
Needless to say, I will not be watching the movie again.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
The Sweet Mouth
I have a sweet tooth.
Actually, a more appropriate phase might be that I have a sweet mouth.
I can’t help it.
Who can resist sinking their teeth into a giant slice of chocolate cake?
Who can turn down a Little Debbie snack? (Swiss Rolls. Mmm...)
Who can avoid throwing a bag of Hershey Kisses into the shopping cart?
Who can walk past the bakery section of the grocery store without even glancing at the display case?
I know I can’t.
I try, I really do, but then I spot the bear claws and the cookies and the cupcakes and I just have to stop.
This is what happened to me yesterday.
Actually, it was this woman’s fault. She was talking to the baker and I overheard her saying, “I’ll take a cupcake with the butterfly.”
This caught my attention.
My mind immediately started to race. What? A cupcake with a BUTTERFLY on it? How cool! I’ve GOT to check that out.
So I paused and watched as the baker picked a cupcake with a butterfly on top and placed it in a plastic container. It was beautiful. My mouth practically watered as my eyes drifted over the other treats. There were vanilla cupcakes, chocolate cupcakes, cookies and, oh my gosh, a chocolate brownie with chocolate frosting on top. I had to have that brownie. I was practically salivating all over the glass display.
“Miss? Can I help you with something? Hello? MISS?”
I didn’t realize that the baker was talking to me. I was too busy drooling over the brownie.
“MISS!”
My neck jerked back in surprise. The baker had banged her palm down on the counter and had snapped me out of my trance.
“Oh,” I said in a dazed tone. “I’m sorry. It’s just, you have so many delicious treats—”
“What do you want?” the baker boomed, crossing her arms over her chest. I guess she didn’t want to be complimented on her treats.
“I’ll take two of those butterfly cupcakes,” I replied meekly.
I figured I’d just get something for the kids.
I really tried not to get anything for myself. But my eyes kept flicking over to that chocolate brownie with the chocolate frosting and OH! In the middle of it was a Hershey Kiss.
“Could you hide that brownie for me?” I joked as the baker pulled out a plastic container from the back. “That way I won’t be tempted.”
The baker didn’t look amused. She pursed her lips and said sharply, “Do you want the brownie or not?”
Hello? Did she not HEAR me? I asked her to HIDE the brownie. If she HIDES it then I could pretend that it never existed.
“I...” I hesitated.
Oh no. OH NO.
I didn’t need the brownie. I mean, swim suit season is approaching. A lot of women cut out sweets all together around this time. But I don’t have that kind of willpower. Sure, I want to look nice in my swim suit. But I think I like my sweets more.
Actually, maybe I could just get one of those modest swimsuits that those Duggar girls always wear.
I think they’re onto something. Sure, they want to cover up but maybe they’re also like, “And it means we can totally pig out and no one will notice!”
But then again, if I walked out wearing this, my husband would think that I’ve lost my mind and refuse to be seen with me.
“MISS!”
The baker’s shrill voice cut through my thoughts again.
She did not look amused.
I don’t know why she was so cranky. If I worked with frosting and chocolate I’d be in a wonderful mood.
“I’ll take the brownie,” I said quickly.
I mean, I could work it off with housework. Vacuuming burns what, 300 calories? Okay, probably more like 30 but a girl can dream, right?
I thought I’d be happy with the brownie.
But then my eyes rested on a variety of cheesecake slices.
Cheesecake is my weakness. I love it. I would marry cheesecake if it were legal. Oh, and if I weren’t already married.
I went to The Cheesecake Factory once and I thought I’d pass out from the excitement of all the different cheesecake flavors to choose from. I think I startled the waitress when I clapped my hands after staring at the menu.
“And...” I heard a familiar voice say. “I’ll take a slice of that strawberry cheesecake, too.”
I realized that it was MY voice.
What? Wait!
The baker just raised an eyebrow as she reached for the cheesecake.
“Want me to just bag up everything that’s for sale?” she asked dryly.
I ignored her and just took my treats.
Maybe if she had a chocolate brownie with chocolate frosting and a Hershey Kiss on top then she’d be a happier person.
I had the brownie as soon as I got home.
A reward for doing the grocery shopping and having to bring in all those bags, you see.
It melted in my mouth and to be honest, I wanted another one.
Then I had the cheesecake for breakfast and I weirded out my kids by going, "Mmmmmmm!" every few seconds.
Later in the afternoon I made the mistake of getting on my WiiFit.
I was told that I gained weight:
I thought I DID eat in moderation. I mean, I only had one brownie and one slice of cheesecake.
Then I was told this:
Obviously the WiiFit doesn't have kids.
You can't eat slowly when you have kids. If you eat slowly then you don't eat at all.
Plus, I think I'd bore myself if I had to chew the same bite of food five times.
I'd confuse my husband. He'd be all, "Why are you chewing in slow motion?"
*Sighs*
Oh well.
So I've gained weight.
Maybe I'll give those modest swimsuits another look....
Actually, a more appropriate phase might be that I have a sweet mouth.
I can’t help it.
Who can resist sinking their teeth into a giant slice of chocolate cake?
Who can turn down a Little Debbie snack? (Swiss Rolls. Mmm...)
Who can avoid throwing a bag of Hershey Kisses into the shopping cart?
Who can walk past the bakery section of the grocery store without even glancing at the display case?
I know I can’t.
I try, I really do, but then I spot the bear claws and the cookies and the cupcakes and I just have to stop.
This is what happened to me yesterday.
Actually, it was this woman’s fault. She was talking to the baker and I overheard her saying, “I’ll take a cupcake with the butterfly.”
This caught my attention.
My mind immediately started to race. What? A cupcake with a BUTTERFLY on it? How cool! I’ve GOT to check that out.
So I paused and watched as the baker picked a cupcake with a butterfly on top and placed it in a plastic container. It was beautiful. My mouth practically watered as my eyes drifted over the other treats. There were vanilla cupcakes, chocolate cupcakes, cookies and, oh my gosh, a chocolate brownie with chocolate frosting on top. I had to have that brownie. I was practically salivating all over the glass display.
“Miss? Can I help you with something? Hello? MISS?”
I didn’t realize that the baker was talking to me. I was too busy drooling over the brownie.
“MISS!”
My neck jerked back in surprise. The baker had banged her palm down on the counter and had snapped me out of my trance.
“Oh,” I said in a dazed tone. “I’m sorry. It’s just, you have so many delicious treats—”
“What do you want?” the baker boomed, crossing her arms over her chest. I guess she didn’t want to be complimented on her treats.
“I’ll take two of those butterfly cupcakes,” I replied meekly.
I figured I’d just get something for the kids.
I really tried not to get anything for myself. But my eyes kept flicking over to that chocolate brownie with the chocolate frosting and OH! In the middle of it was a Hershey Kiss.
“Could you hide that brownie for me?” I joked as the baker pulled out a plastic container from the back. “That way I won’t be tempted.”
The baker didn’t look amused. She pursed her lips and said sharply, “Do you want the brownie or not?”
Hello? Did she not HEAR me? I asked her to HIDE the brownie. If she HIDES it then I could pretend that it never existed.
“I...” I hesitated.
Oh no. OH NO.
I didn’t need the brownie. I mean, swim suit season is approaching. A lot of women cut out sweets all together around this time. But I don’t have that kind of willpower. Sure, I want to look nice in my swim suit. But I think I like my sweets more.
Actually, maybe I could just get one of those modest swimsuits that those Duggar girls always wear.
I think they’re onto something. Sure, they want to cover up but maybe they’re also like, “And it means we can totally pig out and no one will notice!”
But then again, if I walked out wearing this, my husband would think that I’ve lost my mind and refuse to be seen with me.
“MISS!”
The baker’s shrill voice cut through my thoughts again.
She did not look amused.
I don’t know why she was so cranky. If I worked with frosting and chocolate I’d be in a wonderful mood.
“I’ll take the brownie,” I said quickly.
I mean, I could work it off with housework. Vacuuming burns what, 300 calories? Okay, probably more like 30 but a girl can dream, right?
I thought I’d be happy with the brownie.
But then my eyes rested on a variety of cheesecake slices.
Cheesecake is my weakness. I love it. I would marry cheesecake if it were legal. Oh, and if I weren’t already married.
I went to The Cheesecake Factory once and I thought I’d pass out from the excitement of all the different cheesecake flavors to choose from. I think I startled the waitress when I clapped my hands after staring at the menu.
“And...” I heard a familiar voice say. “I’ll take a slice of that strawberry cheesecake, too.”
I realized that it was MY voice.
What? Wait!
The baker just raised an eyebrow as she reached for the cheesecake.
“Want me to just bag up everything that’s for sale?” she asked dryly.
I ignored her and just took my treats.
Maybe if she had a chocolate brownie with chocolate frosting and a Hershey Kiss on top then she’d be a happier person.
I had the brownie as soon as I got home.
A reward for doing the grocery shopping and having to bring in all those bags, you see.
It melted in my mouth and to be honest, I wanted another one.
Then I had the cheesecake for breakfast and I weirded out my kids by going, "Mmmmmmm!" every few seconds.
Later in the afternoon I made the mistake of getting on my WiiFit.
I was told that I gained weight:
I thought I DID eat in moderation. I mean, I only had one brownie and one slice of cheesecake.
Then I was told this:
Obviously the WiiFit doesn't have kids.
You can't eat slowly when you have kids. If you eat slowly then you don't eat at all.
Plus, I think I'd bore myself if I had to chew the same bite of food five times.
I'd confuse my husband. He'd be all, "Why are you chewing in slow motion?"
*Sighs*
Oh well.
So I've gained weight.
Maybe I'll give those modest swimsuits another look....
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