Archive for the ‘life’ Tag
April 11 2011
I swear, at one point in time I had other topics of interest to contend. A day that didn’t consist of dirty diapers and spilled milk and tantrums over string cheese. There was a time when I engaged in meaningful discussion. Some might even call them arguments, a more kind term would be debate. My opinion countered against another’s. About the state of our world, the direction it was headed, the ridiculousness of politics. Big, smart stuff, people.
I vaguely recall a joy at simply being heard. My point of view listened to. Sometimes, even taken into consideration. If nothing else, however, I was at least acknowledged.
From what I can remember, it’s nice to be able to express your thoughts in a clear and intellectual fashion.
Now, my most heated discussions have to do with; behavior that constitutes a time-out punishment, hiding in closets: pros and cons, how one can not live on peanut butter and jelly alone (backed by scientific studies, no less), acceptable play items (ie; a dirty mop is not a toy, neither is an oven), the benefits to cleaning up after oneself, and naps: a necessity or waste of time? My position on these matters is probably not surprising.
These debates tend to not be polite, neither are they friendly nor constructive. They can quickly turn downright nasty. Kicking and screaming, a contest is likely to end in wails of discontent. Points are not given the chance to be considered, they are essentially ignored. I am selectively heard, rarely acknowledged, and completely dismissed.
With all of the education I’ve received, along with the bits of information I’ve collected since, I never would have imagined my toughest adversary would sleep in pink Minnie Mouse footie pajamas. My kids have taught me that you don’t need years of knowledge to win a debate, however. The secret is to thoroughly exhaust the opposition until they just don’t give a damn anymore.
April 05 2011
It’s the age old question, asked every night. Regular answers consist of normal child fare: cheeseburgers, pizza, chicken quesadillas. Whether I take their suggestion to heart is another matter. Even if I do, I try to include a vegetable somewhere amongst the million calories. Still, I continue to inquire.
“What do you want for dinner?”
I’m not the best cook. In fact, the other day I had to ask on twitter if I could make the same oven fries with vegetable oil as I was all out of olive. Because oil is oil, right? However, there are a few items on our menu that are raved over. An example of which is ravioli. A bag of frozen meat-filled ravioli, a bottle of store-bought alfredo sauce. I could never be a food blogger for many reasons, but mostly because that’s about as homemade as I get. It is a reasonably light choice all my kids can agree on, though. Including Abby, who still prefers foods on the softer side.
“Would you like me to make ravioli?”
So it may be the age old question that is asked every night, but my daughter’s toddler tongue helps mix it up when ravioli’s involved.
“Olie-olie-olie!”, she calls for in agreement.
I have to admit, it’s become one of my favorites, too. Not because I enjoy the dish that much, but I can’t get enough of her translation. I would fix “olie-olie-olie” every night of the week if I could, as long as Abby never changes the way she speaks. That’s completely doable, right? More so than my eldest excited for asparagus, anyway.
April 01 2011
It was shortly after midnight when all the little ones were finally tucked in asleep and the house was silent. Truth is, this is my favorite part of the day. It’s my chance to exhale the chaos before while enjoying a dose of seldom heard peace and quiet. The dark of latenight with all lights shut down is usually calming and tranquil against the regular harshness of cacophony and noise and wants.
Usually. Until I come upon a shadow in the middle of the hardwood floor outside my bedroom.
At first I thought I’d just step over it, figuring it for a toy we left behind at our nightly pick-up. Except I’d already walked this way a couple times and it was never there before. I don’t remember seeing my cat nearby, but what if he attacked a mouse. Oh my crackers, what if that’s a dead mouse in the middle of my floor? At midnight? Is that a tail? Oh no, there’s a tail! That is so not what I want to deal with during my me time.
Doing what I felt was most appropriate, I ignored the situation entirely. Except I still had a few jaunts to make back and forth before I could settle for the night. A bowl to put up, my netbook to charge back in. Each trip, I tiptoed with restraint and stealth over the dark mound in the middle of the floor. Until curiosity got the best of me. I had to see what it was. Better to do so before my oldest son woke up to use the bathroom only to wind up squishing whatever it is in his bare feet. I couldn’t scar him like that. The things moms do for their kids.
I held my breath, peeked out with a single strained eye, and quickly flashed a light.
It wasn’t a mouse. It wasn’t a mouse! Though it probably had more hair. It was, however, a startling revelation on the state of my housekeeping these days.
March 21 2011
I’m just going to get this out there, with the thought that maybe if I do I’ll feel more inclined to write here. Because right now, it feels like I’m hiding something.
My husband and I are getting a divorce.
Or, we would be if we were legaly married. I’ve called him my husband because that just seemed easier and sounded more permanent than boyfriend. After 13 years and 3 kids, there was nothing about it that didn’t feel like a marriage to me, I didn’t need a piece of paper. Though if I had a do-over, I probably would. Or I just might not put myself in the situation to begin with. As it is, we broke up. Which makes it sound so very high school.
I’ve closed comments because I don’t need sympathy. I appreciate well wishes, but I’m not heartbroken. Not for myself. I’m angry, really angry. And if you get me started I’ll probaby go on a 3,000 word tirade here on the internet and I don’t think that will benefit anyone.
I am, however, heartbroken for my kids. They don’t deserve this. They also don’t deserve two parents fighting to make something work when they just aren’t happy together anymore. From what I can see, however, I’m taking it a lot harder for them than they actually are. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, kids are resilient. And amazing.
Single parenting has been hard, very much so. I’m not used to having much of a break during my days (and nights) but now there are none at all. And there are all kinds of future logistics I’ve probably yet to even consider. But right now, it’s still me and my kids. Without them, I’m sure I’d be a lot more lost than I am.
March 17 2011
Buzz, my 4 year old son who will be 5 next month, has had a hard time with the whole potty thing. This is kind of embarrassing to admit. I’d like to blame his speech delay and behavioral issues, but it’s probably also just as much my fault. He gets it, to a point, as long as he’s completely sans clothes. As soon as I put so much as a pair of underwear on him, he thinks of it like a diaper. He’s better, but I still wouldn’t leave the house with him without protection.
We’ve been working on it diligently this past week though, with much progress made, along with my daughter who has to follow everything her older brother does. So they’ve been running around the house pantsless, like a couple of drunk on milk college kids. At least it saves on laundry.
Yesterday, my parents came over to help watch the kids for a few minutes while I did some things. Of course, my son spent the duration of their visit completely carefree in all his glory. On their way out, I realized my parents left their newspaper behind and went to run it out to them. I told Buzz to stay, I’d be right back, don’t come near the door without clothes on.
Oh, he didn’t come near the door. He opened it. And ran out. Streaking through our yard and in front of the neighbors until I basically tackled him and dragged my exposed and barren child back inside. Hello, neighbors. How’s your day been? I’m sure it’s better than mine. This, oh this is just my son. Please stop staring at his butt.
I’ve never liked potty-training. Who does? But this was one hazard of the job that I never saw coming. Until it streaked like a bolt of naked lightning right in front of me.
