Archive for the ‘Daily’ Category
July 05 2011
My brother and his family came by this past Friday night to belatedly celebrate my birthday. With food and good times along with a present. Because in they came carrying a pink Victoria’s Secret gift bag.
I like Victoria’s Secret. Just not from my brother.
I tried not to fixate on this gift bag as it sat on the coffee table in front of us while we made small talk. And there it stayed while the kids filled every corner around it with play and amusing dance moves. We ate dinner with it directly in front of me, pink tissue paper billowing from the top, and watched I Am Legend. It was difficult to pay attention, however, as this bag kept me captivated from the corner of my eye. But not once did I peek in, because frankly I was scared.
When it was time to open my birthday gift, my brother’s girlfriend must have finally took notice of my trepidation. She explained, “We didn’t get you Victoria’s Secret. It was just the only feminine kind of bag I had.”.
“Oh, phew!”, I responded as my apprehension lightened. “Because that would have been awkward.”
We all had a mighty laugh at just how awkward it could have been as I reached into that Victoria’s Secret bag. And instead of being presented with underwear, however, I was given by my brother an adjustable, handheld “massager”. With, as the package states, a smooth tip and 3 side surfaces for “energizing relief of stress related tension”. For personal use only.
Still a little bit awkward.
July 01 2011
1.) At noon, pick up the mound of toys that had been dumped out during the morning.
2.) An hour later, hear those toys being dumped out yet again.
3.) Then some more, into a massive, mixed pile.
4.) Before dinner, pick up the 2nd round of those familiar toys while silently fuming.
5.) In the middle of making dinner, hear those toys dumped out AGAIN.
6.) “REALLY, guys! You’ve got to be kidding me! Didn’t I JUST put these away? Can you at least help clean this up?” No one helps to clean it up.
7.) Sit down to eat dinner but are unable to enjoy your meal because you keep cursing those stupid toys in your head. After dinner, throw the 3rd round of toys in their bins.
8.) 10 minutes before bedtime, hear YET ANOTHER pile of toys dumped out AGAIN.
9.) “Oh, FOR CRYING OUT LOUD!”, you declare to no one in particular. Pick up while swearing and telling each stupid little toy that you hate it, you really, really hate it, you stupid piece of crap. Yeah, I’m talking to you. I can hear you, you know. What? What’s that? Oh, you think so? You better shut it or I’ll pop your stupid head off.
10.) Go to bed and dream of creative ways to dwindle the pile of insolent toys. Many of which may involve fire.
June 23 2011
“Pillowcase?”, Abby requested.
“What do you want the pillowcase for?”, a fair question I thought.
“Um… on feet”, she said as she took apart the pillow herself.
“No, you’re not wearing the pillowcase. It could get dirty, and that’s what you sleep on.”, I explained.
“No?”, she questioned, clearly understanding what she wasn’t supposed to do.
“No”, I replied sternly.
A devilish smirk rose from the corner of her lips as she disappeared into her room, emerging again a few minutes later stuffed inside the purple jersey case like a potato sack. Gathering dirt from the floor exactly as I told her not to do. This is where, if I had more leverage, she would be fired for insubordination. Respect my authority!
“Ghost! Boo!”, Abby instead declared in merry victory.
Circumstances aren’t entirely important, because this discussion is repeated about a hundred times coming 3 opposing directions, wherein you have a small glimpse of my day. I tell them not to do something, the kids do it anyway. I have a saying that it’s “like talking to air”. Wasting my breath. Abby, however, is now at the age where she’s testing her boundaries, thus testing me. Same stuff, different day. It’s like she doesn’t listen on purpose. So bizarre for an almost 3 year old, I know. I should get used to it, you don’t have to tell me. But it doesn’t make it any less exhausting.
June 20 2011
When the kids go to bed at night, I’ve been known to eat a bowl of ice cream. It’s how I unwind. Which is probably also why I’ve yet to lose most of the “baby weight” 3 years later. But I made it through another day with most of my hair, I think I deserve it.
On the really trying days, I even top my Double Fudge Brownie chocolate ice cream with chocolate syrup. I have no excuse for this, really, but I still blame the kids.
As was the case the other night, when I put a few scoops in a bowl and began to drizzle with a ribbon of chocolate. Only it was the last of the bottle. As the air bubbles made an alarming sound like flatulence, Jedi perked up from the dark of his room.
“Mommy?”, he yelled for me. “What was that?”
Crap, I thought. What do I tell him? If I say what it really was, then he’s going to want some. But I don’t want him to have any. I don’t want to share. This is mine, darn it. I earned it. Why isn’t he asleep, anyway? Who cares, what do I say? He’s going to see me walk past with a bowl, he’ll know something’s in it. Think, woman, think.
“It was an empty bottle”, I began.
“Of what?”, he continued to quiz.
But I’m surprisingly quick on my feet when ice cream is concerned. “Salad dressing”, I replied.
“Ew”, he remarked before turning back over to sleep. And as all the kids lay oblivious in their beds, I ate my treat in peace. Because nothing makes a bad day better like a good bowl of salad.
June 14 2011
There was a knock on the door.
Or there must have been, but I couldn’t hear it. Someone was crying at the top of her lungs.
About what, I don’t know. But Abby was a furious rage-filled torpedo, bounding from one room to another lost in a tantrum. I tried seeking a solution. I asked her to explain the problem, in detail and with graphs if possible. I wanted her to discuss her inner turmoil with me in a calm and reasonable tone. Of course that didn’t work. Next, I tried reassuring and consoling. I even hushed. Wine, perhaps? None of it was helping. She seemed content to see the fit through to the end. Thus I turned to the only option left; I ignored.
I once read that ignoring a tantrum is the best method. I’m unsure if this is true or not, my eardrums would lead me to believe otherwise since it makes a heck of a noise.
Settling on the screaming bloody murder method, I hid from my child in the corner of our kitchen, next to the chocolate, though her wails were still fully audible. That’s when I looked out the window, a view overlooking our front porch, and saw a nicely dressed woman dashing away in her heels. Hastily throwing her religious brochure in the handle of our door as she ran, not once looking back. And for a moment, I thought of calling out to her, “Wait, come back, I need to be saved! Save me!”. Though I don’t think that’s the salvation she had in mind.
