Goddamn.
I just deleted several paragraphs of not-funny, not-particularly-well-written updates on my friends. Despite what I'm sure are top-notch prayers and good vibes from you all, things aren't well. One's husband is dating, not quite two months after moving out. The other is having a miscarriage of a longed-for pregnancy. I feel sad and helpless and guiltily lucky, but also like the membrane separating my (currently quite good) life from their (currently quite awful) situations is very thin, indeed.
I don't remember feeling like this before. When I was younger and I'd hear about awful things, I would lock right into catastrophic thinking and have horrible fantasies about it happening to me. But at the same time, I also had this deep-down belief that it wouldn't, couldn't happen to me. It helped that I only heard about these kinds of tragedies on TV or in books or second-hand through a friend. At 25, I'd never been to a funeral other than an elderly grandparent. I'd never been struck in anger by a parent or partner. I was healthy. I was loved. I was white and middle-class, too, which couldn't have hurt in terms of sheltering me from some of life's ills.
While my anxious nature always imagined the worst and could whip me into a panic just by reading an installment of Reader's Digest "Drama in Real Life" (which, really, I should have known better), I never really felt fragile. My uneventful life, full of love and stability (and, to be fair, very few risks on my part), plus what was probably some youth-fueled sense of invincibility, combined to make this wall between me and tragedy. I understood intellectually that I couldn't protect myself from Life, I also had faith in that wall to do so. I guess you could call this innocence. Or naivete. Or stupidity. You know, depending on how mean you wanted to be.
I don't have that anymore. Not long after I turned 25, a lot of things happened. In a 15-month period: two co-workers lost children (one, an infant, died of congenital abnormalities, the other was 11 and hung himself), 9/11 happened, my mom was diagnosed with stage IV cancer, a friend's five-year-old daughter who had been in remission with leukemia relapsed and died, and a 4-year-old in the day care center (for kids who were HIV+) died of AIDS.
Well, Jesus. When I see it written out like that, I guess it's no wonder that that's about the point I remember feeling that wall start to crumble. I haven't even mentioned the panic attacks or the bike accident or when I broke my foot. Of course, good things happened in there, too. I got a dog. I got married. I found a day job that changed my life and steered me toward what would become my career. I don't remember that time in my life as being particularly sad or dark. It's just that I can look at that time as when I stopped feeling like "Eek! What if this Bad Stuff happens?!" and more like, "Yes. This stuff is going to happen." Not in an Eeyore-y, doomed way, but more resigned. Less innocent.
I no longer feel like there is a wall between me and tragedy. I feel like there's a soap-bubble membrane and right now I'm on the good side, the side where I can be a good friend to those on the other side that need me. Where I can count my blessings and remember that I'm lucky to have a loving, supportive, faithful husband (even if he gets weirdly proprietary about his washcloths) and a healthy, smart, laughing dancing walking baby (even if he has decided he can go down to one nap a day, parents' needs be damned). But I know that it wouldn't take much for me to fall through to that other side.
I don't mean to sound depressed or passive and resigned. That's not it. But neither is it some carpe diem, live-life-for-the-moment thing, not for me. It's more about the realization that life is brutal and beautiful and you have to have both. So instead you just accept the risks and go forth anyway. Not always boldly, not even always willingly, but because that's just how the game is played. And you take the good, you take the bad, you take them both and there you have....no, wait, that's The Facts of Life theme song. My bad.
I guess for me it's just about being wildly, quietly grateful in these moments and doing what I can for people on the other side, knowing that inevitably we will some day switch places.
Monday, July 26, 2010
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
A Hot Dog of a Post (by which I mean full of bits and scraps and offal)
First, if I may start on kind of a downer note, I'm hoping that those of you who do such things will send prayers, good vibes, karma, what have you to a couple of friends of mine going through some awful shit right now. I don't feel right sharing their stories, but I'll trust that any positive energy put forth in the universe will find them. I think it has to do with magnets or something.
*Claps hands briskly*
OK, then! What randomness have I jotted down lately? Oh, well, for one thing, today at work I was in the supply room and a co-worker was talking on her cell phone. Apparently the other person was having a hard time hearing her, so she shouted, "ONE!" I think it is a mark of my own maturity that I refrained from making jazz hands and adding, "Singular sensation!" Although I did sing it under my breath all the way back to my desk.
***
Saturday night I went to a bachelorette party, my very first. Is that odd? I don't know how I've reached the ripe old age of 34 without attending one of these, but there you are. Anyway, this party was held at a karaoke place--but not just any old bar, no sirree. This is a place where you rent private karaoke rooms. Have you all heard of this? Am I just old/unhip? Anyway, picture if you will a small room, only slightly larger than your average handicapped bathroom stall, crammed to the gills with ladies of varying degrees of shrillness. Then add a large TV, two microphones, and a whole lotta adult beverages. You put Lady Gaga's "Bad Romance" in there and shit is ON. Also, for future reference, the eight-minute cut of "We Are The World" is amusing at first, but after five minutes, you don't care who does a great Cyndi Lauper imitation, you just want to move on. You'll thank me later.
***
If I can ever figure out how to master the technology, I'll break my anonymity vows to post a video of Tankbaby dancing at one of the weddings. Truth be told, about 30% of the cuteness can be credited to the suit. A friend gave it to us: black velour overalls, white button-down, red plaid necktie (just the knot and hangy-downy part attached to an elastic band), black velour jacket with lapels. We added tiny red Chuck Taylors and Tankbaby added the total lack of rhythm. He looooves music, and couldn't be kept off the dance floor. His coordination is such that he can only move in quadrants: he could nod his head or wave his arms or drop his booty or move his feet, but none of them all at the same time. However, rapid succession was achieved, all with an expectant look on his face as he approached non-dancers with his wild drunken lurching as if to say, "Do you not HEAR this?" Sometimes he supplemented his argument by signing, "Music!" frantically, which, being as how it was his own mutation of ASL in a crowd of non-even-not-mutated-ASL-using folks, didn't sway people the way he clearly expected. My poor mother-in-law laughed until she wept, and I think only a little of that was due to the open bar.
***
Oh, and speaking of the weddings, I promised stories. It's growing late, so only one for tonight. No, just one, and then I have to go to bed. And no, you won't be getting me a drink of water later. OK, fine, one drink, but then no more, or I'll have to go potty in the middle of the night.
Where was I?
Right, wedding #2 was outside. In addition to a dance floor under a pavilion and a large dining area, they'd set up a little outdoor living room space with white leather couches and end tables. And on these tables there were various large odd-shaped receptacles filled with candy. I wholly endorse this practice. Anyway, Tank missed his nap due to timing, and while we were waiting for dinner he began to literally fall over in his high chair. I took him out and went down to the living room area, positioning myself near the GIANT BRANDY SNIFTER OF JELLY BEANS so that I could nurse him a bit and let him sleep. MOTH came down later with a plate of food, carefully cut up into easily-stabbable pieces so that I could eat one-handed. As we sat there, listening to a truly awful drunken maid of honor speech (oh, yes, that story is coming), we noticed a woman milling about near where we sat. She had a nasal cannula (that's a thing, right? The teeny tube hooked up to your face when you're on oxygen?) and her oxygen tank casually dragged along behind her. She approached the couch and table across from us and from the large vase on the table, withdrew a handful of...sparklers. Unlit, of course, but still...seemed an unwise choice given the whole flammable element thing. I mean, what do you do with sparklers unless you light them? But I'm pretty sure she's not supposed to be having any open flames near the oxygen. I think I learned that from Grey's Anatomy. Anyway, MOTH and I snickered a little curiously, stifling ourselves when she then ambled over to where we were sitting. She looked down at Tankbaby and murmured, "Beautiful baby" (clearly nothing wrong with her vision), then proceeded to open her small evening clutch and shovel in seven or eight scoopfuls of jelly beans. All casual-like, as if this was completely normal behavior. She then nodded at us and moved off to the nearby cocktail tables, where she proceeded to empty the small dishes of Swedish fish into her purse.
I don't know what she had planned for when she got home that night, but either her pulmonologist or her dentist is going to be very displeased.
*Claps hands briskly*
OK, then! What randomness have I jotted down lately? Oh, well, for one thing, today at work I was in the supply room and a co-worker was talking on her cell phone. Apparently the other person was having a hard time hearing her, so she shouted, "ONE!" I think it is a mark of my own maturity that I refrained from making jazz hands and adding, "Singular sensation!" Although I did sing it under my breath all the way back to my desk.
***
Saturday night I went to a bachelorette party, my very first. Is that odd? I don't know how I've reached the ripe old age of 34 without attending one of these, but there you are. Anyway, this party was held at a karaoke place--but not just any old bar, no sirree. This is a place where you rent private karaoke rooms. Have you all heard of this? Am I just old/unhip? Anyway, picture if you will a small room, only slightly larger than your average handicapped bathroom stall, crammed to the gills with ladies of varying degrees of shrillness. Then add a large TV, two microphones, and a whole lotta adult beverages. You put Lady Gaga's "Bad Romance" in there and shit is ON. Also, for future reference, the eight-minute cut of "We Are The World" is amusing at first, but after five minutes, you don't care who does a great Cyndi Lauper imitation, you just want to move on. You'll thank me later.
***
If I can ever figure out how to master the technology, I'll break my anonymity vows to post a video of Tankbaby dancing at one of the weddings. Truth be told, about 30% of the cuteness can be credited to the suit. A friend gave it to us: black velour overalls, white button-down, red plaid necktie (just the knot and hangy-downy part attached to an elastic band), black velour jacket with lapels. We added tiny red Chuck Taylors and Tankbaby added the total lack of rhythm. He looooves music, and couldn't be kept off the dance floor. His coordination is such that he can only move in quadrants: he could nod his head or wave his arms or drop his booty or move his feet, but none of them all at the same time. However, rapid succession was achieved, all with an expectant look on his face as he approached non-dancers with his wild drunken lurching as if to say, "Do you not HEAR this?" Sometimes he supplemented his argument by signing, "Music!" frantically, which, being as how it was his own mutation of ASL in a crowd of non-even-not-mutated-ASL-using folks, didn't sway people the way he clearly expected. My poor mother-in-law laughed until she wept, and I think only a little of that was due to the open bar.
***
Oh, and speaking of the weddings, I promised stories. It's growing late, so only one for tonight. No, just one, and then I have to go to bed. And no, you won't be getting me a drink of water later. OK, fine, one drink, but then no more, or I'll have to go potty in the middle of the night.
Where was I?
Right, wedding #2 was outside. In addition to a dance floor under a pavilion and a large dining area, they'd set up a little outdoor living room space with white leather couches and end tables. And on these tables there were various large odd-shaped receptacles filled with candy. I wholly endorse this practice. Anyway, Tank missed his nap due to timing, and while we were waiting for dinner he began to literally fall over in his high chair. I took him out and went down to the living room area, positioning myself near the GIANT BRANDY SNIFTER OF JELLY BEANS so that I could nurse him a bit and let him sleep. MOTH came down later with a plate of food, carefully cut up into easily-stabbable pieces so that I could eat one-handed. As we sat there, listening to a truly awful drunken maid of honor speech (oh, yes, that story is coming), we noticed a woman milling about near where we sat. She had a nasal cannula (that's a thing, right? The teeny tube hooked up to your face when you're on oxygen?) and her oxygen tank casually dragged along behind her. She approached the couch and table across from us and from the large vase on the table, withdrew a handful of...sparklers. Unlit, of course, but still...seemed an unwise choice given the whole flammable element thing. I mean, what do you do with sparklers unless you light them? But I'm pretty sure she's not supposed to be having any open flames near the oxygen. I think I learned that from Grey's Anatomy. Anyway, MOTH and I snickered a little curiously, stifling ourselves when she then ambled over to where we were sitting. She looked down at Tankbaby and murmured, "Beautiful baby" (clearly nothing wrong with her vision), then proceeded to open her small evening clutch and shovel in seven or eight scoopfuls of jelly beans. All casual-like, as if this was completely normal behavior. She then nodded at us and moved off to the nearby cocktail tables, where she proceeded to empty the small dishes of Swedish fish into her purse.
I don't know what she had planned for when she got home that night, but either her pulmonologist or her dentist is going to be very displeased.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Suck It, Amazing Race!
I survived over 1200 miles with a 15-month-old. I'll take my merit badge now.
Following the advice of my terribly smart commenters, I made small notes about things I wanted to tell you. The first? Is that if you have to drive 1200 miles with a 15-month-old, try to do it while heavily medicated (unless you're driving...then only a light analgesic haze for you). It actually was not too awful, considering that a) even though we left at night, thinking Tankbaby would sleep through the first several hours of the trip, he actually woke about 1:30 AM, freaked about why he was strapped into a chair and, btw, WHERE IS THE BOOB? and b) the entire state of Idaho is currently under construction. What should have been a 12-hour drive took about 20. Go ahead and read that again, those of you with young children, and let me hear your collective "ech." And then! We left Monday night, got into town Tuesday night, had the wedding on Wednesday, and were back on the road Thursday morning, getting back into town Friday night. Poor Tankers. When we got back, he joyously stumbled around the living room, all, "MY TOYS! And a floor! I thought the rest of my life was a carseat, three books, and that old cell phone!" (Of course, it goes without saying that after twenty minutes of sweet, sweet freedom, we bundled him back into the carseat for a trip across town to see the other side of the family, in town for the wedding that happened on Saturday. About 20 miles away.)
Here's the most important thing I learned about traveling across three states in two days with a toddler: make sure the event you drive to is held at the Four Seasons in Jackson Hole, and that you get the roast beef. It is, as the kids say, off the hizzook. (The kids still say that, right?) Totally worth the drive. I considered smuggling some out in my purse for a reward after the return trip.
Oh! You guys! There are more stories to tell about the traveling, the in-laws, and the two very different weddings in general, but those must wait, because the baby's awake and--while a year ago I couldn't imagine this day--he won't nurse for long. But! I gotta tell y'all: THE TROLL STORY LIVES!
We were over at MOTH's aunt and uncle's house the night before the second wedding. It was a full house and I was on Tankbaby Recon Duty, making sure he didn't feed the Weight Watcher bars to the dog or pull all the labels off the canned goods. MOTH approached me excitedly and whispered, "Didja hear it?" Apparently a friend of his uncle's had told everyone about her "friend" and the poor census worker that had come to the door and been mistaken for a, well, you know. Everyone exclaimed appropriately and MOTH nearly chewed off his own chin, trying desperately to catch my eye. He didn't know the woman, so he didn't want to correct her in front of everyone, so he just quietly choked all by his lonesome.
OK, must run. Trying to do this more in manageable, if slightly incomplete chunks. Next time: Attending a Wedding Where the Bride is a 20-Something Fashion Student from SoCal, or How To Feel Old and Frumpy in Ten Short Minutes.
Following the advice of my terribly smart commenters, I made small notes about things I wanted to tell you. The first? Is that if you have to drive 1200 miles with a 15-month-old, try to do it while heavily medicated (unless you're driving...then only a light analgesic haze for you). It actually was not too awful, considering that a) even though we left at night, thinking Tankbaby would sleep through the first several hours of the trip, he actually woke about 1:30 AM, freaked about why he was strapped into a chair and, btw, WHERE IS THE BOOB? and b) the entire state of Idaho is currently under construction. What should have been a 12-hour drive took about 20. Go ahead and read that again, those of you with young children, and let me hear your collective "ech." And then! We left Monday night, got into town Tuesday night, had the wedding on Wednesday, and were back on the road Thursday morning, getting back into town Friday night. Poor Tankers. When we got back, he joyously stumbled around the living room, all, "MY TOYS! And a floor! I thought the rest of my life was a carseat, three books, and that old cell phone!" (Of course, it goes without saying that after twenty minutes of sweet, sweet freedom, we bundled him back into the carseat for a trip across town to see the other side of the family, in town for the wedding that happened on Saturday. About 20 miles away.)
Here's the most important thing I learned about traveling across three states in two days with a toddler: make sure the event you drive to is held at the Four Seasons in Jackson Hole, and that you get the roast beef. It is, as the kids say, off the hizzook. (The kids still say that, right?) Totally worth the drive. I considered smuggling some out in my purse for a reward after the return trip.
Oh! You guys! There are more stories to tell about the traveling, the in-laws, and the two very different weddings in general, but those must wait, because the baby's awake and--while a year ago I couldn't imagine this day--he won't nurse for long. But! I gotta tell y'all: THE TROLL STORY LIVES!
We were over at MOTH's aunt and uncle's house the night before the second wedding. It was a full house and I was on Tankbaby Recon Duty, making sure he didn't feed the Weight Watcher bars to the dog or pull all the labels off the canned goods. MOTH approached me excitedly and whispered, "Didja hear it?" Apparently a friend of his uncle's had told everyone about her "friend" and the poor census worker that had come to the door and been mistaken for a, well, you know. Everyone exclaimed appropriately and MOTH nearly chewed off his own chin, trying desperately to catch my eye. He didn't know the woman, so he didn't want to correct her in front of everyone, so he just quietly choked all by his lonesome.
OK, must run. Trying to do this more in manageable, if slightly incomplete chunks. Next time: Attending a Wedding Where the Bride is a 20-Something Fashion Student from SoCal, or How To Feel Old and Frumpy in Ten Short Minutes.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Contrition, Walking Babies, and the Great Hot Dog Dilemma Solved
Let's get this out of the way: Feh. Work. Worky work work. Cold. Fever! Very high fever! The croup. Another cold. Teething. Holy Mother of God, MOLARS.
Now you're caught up with me. What's new with you? You look great. Seriously. That's a really good color on you. Have you lost weight? I love what you're doing with your hair!!!
And now we hug and you forgive me for being such a loser. Everyone wins!
Actually, let me self-flagellate a little more: I'm on summer break! The first of two (I don't have all summer off, but have a two-and-a-half-week break in June and another three weeks off in August). And MOTH is finally done with his part-time gig on evenings and weekends, so work stopped being an excuse a week ago. And I had Big Plans to post every day to appease the blogging goddesses (this means you), but, well, see above. And next week we're driving to Jackson Hole, Wyoming for a family wedding. (I know! Two 12-hour trips in a car with a 15-month old within a five-day period? Who's jealous? You are.) And then in-laws in town, and then work starts up, and, and, and...I know I've asked this before, but HOW DO YOU PEOPLE DO THIS? Seriously, how do you find time to blog and knit and cook and paint and do non-essential life stuff? We don't have a TV (although I do keep up on Glee and Modern Family on the interweb...Mama likes her stories, dontcha know), I only wash my hair once a week...where is the time I am wasting? Because at some point, I want to do all those things (well, except paint...I'd love to paint, but unless you follow that with "by numbers," it's not likely to be a worthwhile pursuit for me) and when I stop breastfeeding I need to find some time to work out, and God I STILL haven't figured out how to work my videocamera...
Hm. I seem to be a bit of a runaway train today. Let's go with that, because otherwise I'm gonna get all het up about how I haven't posted in three weeks and now any post I write must rise to some David Sedaris level of brilliance, and that way lies less posting, and more insane muttering around the house. Therefore, in no particular order...
Things I Was Going To Tell You, Baby-Related:
1) Tankbaby is walking. I know that this is not news to anyone outside of this family (excepting possibly people I work with, because we are early childhood geeks and developmental milestones are the equivalent of, like, new iPhone unveilings to Mac nerds), but I have to say I find it entirely awesome. Like, I am literally in awe of these previously useless--if delicious--steamed pork bun baby feet that now propel chubby legs all over the house in a tiny drunken stagger. There is not a single ounce of grace in this movement, what with the stampy steps and the slightly flailing arms, but it is functional and hilarious to watch. He has progressed from tentative steps to being able to squat, pick up something, and stand back up without holding on to anything. Our pre-bedtime hour is now spent watching him toddle from place to place, moving objects from here to there according to some odd toddler feng shui. Last Friday he moved every single pair of his pants from the drawer to the living room. MOTH kept coming around the corner with a pile of discarded pants and a sigh.
2) We can just call this the category of So You Think You Can Childproof (there's a show you won't see on NBC, although wouldn't you like to see, like, Tori Spelling try to figure out how to install cabinet locks?). The walking? Is awesome. The added mobility, height, and access? Not so much. MOTH told me that earlier today he had to repeatedly pull Tankbaby away from the silverware drawer--where the KNIVES are--because Tankbaby had somehow gotten the child lock off the drawer, and...hidden it. Wah-wah.
3) Only tangentially related to the baby, but it cracked me up: on Father's Day, MOTH was cleaning the baby up after breakfast and made up a Tom Waits-esque growly spoken word song thing called "Banana-Headed Boy," which included the lyrics, Banana-headed boy/Can't find hats that fit/And has a heck of a time getting on elevators.
Things I Was Going To Tell You, Non-Baby Related:
1) Work has kinda sucked. My student teacher remained lovely, but also very passive and quiet, which means that for nine weeks I spent all day at work feeling like I was the chatty one desperately trying to keep up conversation on an ill-advised blind date. It was tiring. And there's been lots of kid drama, as kids I work with go in and out of foster care. I kept coming close to writing about it, because it is interesting, but it's also depressing as hell. Like, a two-year-old I used to work with had been reunited with bio mom, but is now back with her old foster family, because mom was leaving her and her 15-month-old sister alone in the apartment at night. Locked in their rooms. Where the neighbors could hear them crying, "Mama, let me out!" See? Depressing. And infuriating. And nauseating. And it mostly makes me want to come home and hug my own baby. Well, and sit in a watchtower with a hypodermic rifle and shoot sterilization drugs into crowds of people. (Hello, crazy Googlers! Please seek professional help!)
2) My dad's visit, while lovely, made me quite sad for a few days following, and not just because he lied about that dwarf thing. We've lived here for seven years, and I spent the first four miserable to be so far from my sick mom. And then I finally got to a place of relative peace, and now I have this baby, and he sees his grandpa three or four times a year. Which I know isn't unusual, but I also know people whose parents babysit on random Thursday nights, and who are around for trips to the pumpkin patch, and who know their grandkids' bedtime routines, and...it makes me sad. We live here now, we have roots, and I no longer fantasize about moving back, but...it makes me sad. For all of us.
Argh. There's more, but the boy has been awake for a bit now, and is tiring of playing with Mama's breast pump. (What?) So, rather than end on those depressing notes, I will tell you of MOTH's latest idea: hot dogs with holes drilled in the middle, so that, when sliced into coins, they are "like Cheerios," and thus less likely for kids to choke on them, because of the breathing hole and all. Now if you'll excuse me, we're off to patent that shit.
P.S. I am, as mentioned, a late-adopter, so I know you've all already seen this. But it still makes me giggle. "I'm her mom!" "No...she's not!"
Now you're caught up with me. What's new with you? You look great. Seriously. That's a really good color on you. Have you lost weight? I love what you're doing with your hair!!!
And now we hug and you forgive me for being such a loser. Everyone wins!
Actually, let me self-flagellate a little more: I'm on summer break! The first of two (I don't have all summer off, but have a two-and-a-half-week break in June and another three weeks off in August). And MOTH is finally done with his part-time gig on evenings and weekends, so work stopped being an excuse a week ago. And I had Big Plans to post every day to appease the blogging goddesses (this means you), but, well, see above. And next week we're driving to Jackson Hole, Wyoming for a family wedding. (I know! Two 12-hour trips in a car with a 15-month old within a five-day period? Who's jealous? You are.) And then in-laws in town, and then work starts up, and, and, and...I know I've asked this before, but HOW DO YOU PEOPLE DO THIS? Seriously, how do you find time to blog and knit and cook and paint and do non-essential life stuff? We don't have a TV (although I do keep up on Glee and Modern Family on the interweb...Mama likes her stories, dontcha know), I only wash my hair once a week...where is the time I am wasting? Because at some point, I want to do all those things (well, except paint...I'd love to paint, but unless you follow that with "by numbers," it's not likely to be a worthwhile pursuit for me) and when I stop breastfeeding I need to find some time to work out, and God I STILL haven't figured out how to work my videocamera...
Hm. I seem to be a bit of a runaway train today. Let's go with that, because otherwise I'm gonna get all het up about how I haven't posted in three weeks and now any post I write must rise to some David Sedaris level of brilliance, and that way lies less posting, and more insane muttering around the house. Therefore, in no particular order...
Things I Was Going To Tell You, Baby-Related:
1) Tankbaby is walking. I know that this is not news to anyone outside of this family (excepting possibly people I work with, because we are early childhood geeks and developmental milestones are the equivalent of, like, new iPhone unveilings to Mac nerds), but I have to say I find it entirely awesome. Like, I am literally in awe of these previously useless--if delicious--steamed pork bun baby feet that now propel chubby legs all over the house in a tiny drunken stagger. There is not a single ounce of grace in this movement, what with the stampy steps and the slightly flailing arms, but it is functional and hilarious to watch. He has progressed from tentative steps to being able to squat, pick up something, and stand back up without holding on to anything. Our pre-bedtime hour is now spent watching him toddle from place to place, moving objects from here to there according to some odd toddler feng shui. Last Friday he moved every single pair of his pants from the drawer to the living room. MOTH kept coming around the corner with a pile of discarded pants and a sigh.
2) We can just call this the category of So You Think You Can Childproof (there's a show you won't see on NBC, although wouldn't you like to see, like, Tori Spelling try to figure out how to install cabinet locks?). The walking? Is awesome. The added mobility, height, and access? Not so much. MOTH told me that earlier today he had to repeatedly pull Tankbaby away from the silverware drawer--where the KNIVES are--because Tankbaby had somehow gotten the child lock off the drawer, and...hidden it. Wah-wah.
3) Only tangentially related to the baby, but it cracked me up: on Father's Day, MOTH was cleaning the baby up after breakfast and made up a Tom Waits-esque growly spoken word song thing called "Banana-Headed Boy," which included the lyrics, Banana-headed boy/Can't find hats that fit/And has a heck of a time getting on elevators.
Things I Was Going To Tell You, Non-Baby Related:
1) Work has kinda sucked. My student teacher remained lovely, but also very passive and quiet, which means that for nine weeks I spent all day at work feeling like I was the chatty one desperately trying to keep up conversation on an ill-advised blind date. It was tiring. And there's been lots of kid drama, as kids I work with go in and out of foster care. I kept coming close to writing about it, because it is interesting, but it's also depressing as hell. Like, a two-year-old I used to work with had been reunited with bio mom, but is now back with her old foster family, because mom was leaving her and her 15-month-old sister alone in the apartment at night. Locked in their rooms. Where the neighbors could hear them crying, "Mama, let me out!" See? Depressing. And infuriating. And nauseating. And it mostly makes me want to come home and hug my own baby. Well, and sit in a watchtower with a hypodermic rifle and shoot sterilization drugs into crowds of people. (Hello, crazy Googlers! Please seek professional help!)
2) My dad's visit, while lovely, made me quite sad for a few days following, and not just because he lied about that dwarf thing. We've lived here for seven years, and I spent the first four miserable to be so far from my sick mom. And then I finally got to a place of relative peace, and now I have this baby, and he sees his grandpa three or four times a year. Which I know isn't unusual, but I also know people whose parents babysit on random Thursday nights, and who are around for trips to the pumpkin patch, and who know their grandkids' bedtime routines, and...it makes me sad. We live here now, we have roots, and I no longer fantasize about moving back, but...it makes me sad. For all of us.
Argh. There's more, but the boy has been awake for a bit now, and is tiring of playing with Mama's breast pump. (What?) So, rather than end on those depressing notes, I will tell you of MOTH's latest idea: hot dogs with holes drilled in the middle, so that, when sliced into coins, they are "like Cheerios," and thus less likely for kids to choke on them, because of the breathing hole and all. Now if you'll excuse me, we're off to patent that shit.
P.S. I am, as mentioned, a late-adopter, so I know you've all already seen this. But it still makes me giggle. "I'm her mom!" "No...she's not!"
Monday, June 7, 2010
Apologies All Around...
What, you say, apologies for not writing in over a week? Old news.
Apologies for being so behind on reading and commenting on all of your superior, more prolific blogs? Feh. Been there.
But, an apology for inadvertently contributing to the spread of a ridiculous story via the internet, in a blog read by fives of people? Well, sign me up!
Yeah. Big freaking sigh. My poor dad. He was so befuddled when I told him. It was, after all, his cousin who told him the story, and now he maintains that no-one is trustworthy, especially Iowans. My sister also found out (after repeating the story several times) that this myth was on Snopes.com, and is now recommending that we also question Dad's whole "false alarm shooting in the church story."
So, in sincere contrition, I offer you an almost equally ridiculous story, one that involves Actual People I Know Personally, sources apparently more reliable than my lying father.
Until Tankbaby was born, MOTH and I went each summer to Burning Man. What, I never mentioned that? Yes, yes, we're big hippies. Anyway, one year, some friends of ours from Chicago drove out to join us. At the end of the week, we were all dusty, filthy, and grinning. One couple, Jill and Eric, got their entire bodies painted (Jill in a stunning blue-green, Eric in red), as you do when you're out in the desert with a buncha weirdos. So, picture if you will this dirty, dusty SUV, with four people, all unwashed, one wearing a fisherman's hat with cat ears attached, one painted entirely red, one entirely blue. On the drive home, somewhere in the Midwest, they pull up next to another car at a stoplight. They look over, and there's a guy dressed as Ronald effing McDonald driving the car.
He looks at them. They look at him.
Ronald rolls down his window. Eric does the same.
Ronald says, "Hey, man. What's McHappening?"
Almost as good, yes?
Apologies for being so behind on reading and commenting on all of your superior, more prolific blogs? Feh. Been there.
But, an apology for inadvertently contributing to the spread of a ridiculous story via the internet, in a blog read by fives of people? Well, sign me up!
Yeah. Big freaking sigh. My poor dad. He was so befuddled when I told him. It was, after all, his cousin who told him the story, and now he maintains that no-one is trustworthy, especially Iowans. My sister also found out (after repeating the story several times) that this myth was on Snopes.com, and is now recommending that we also question Dad's whole "false alarm shooting in the church story."
So, in sincere contrition, I offer you an almost equally ridiculous story, one that involves Actual People I Know Personally, sources apparently more reliable than my lying father.
Until Tankbaby was born, MOTH and I went each summer to Burning Man. What, I never mentioned that? Yes, yes, we're big hippies. Anyway, one year, some friends of ours from Chicago drove out to join us. At the end of the week, we were all dusty, filthy, and grinning. One couple, Jill and Eric, got their entire bodies painted (Jill in a stunning blue-green, Eric in red), as you do when you're out in the desert with a buncha weirdos. So, picture if you will this dirty, dusty SUV, with four people, all unwashed, one wearing a fisherman's hat with cat ears attached, one painted entirely red, one entirely blue. On the drive home, somewhere in the Midwest, they pull up next to another car at a stoplight. They look over, and there's a guy dressed as Ronald effing McDonald driving the car.
He looks at them. They look at him.
Ronald rolls down his window. Eric does the same.
Ronald says, "Hey, man. What's McHappening?"
Almost as good, yes?
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Apple, Meet the Tree--UPDATED
Stories That My Dad has Told in the First 24 Hours of His Visit:
1) Last week, at the church where he works as a maintenance man, two guys from the neighboring sketchy apartment complex came over and went and sat in the church. The office ladies asked my dad to go check on them, just to make sure things were kosher. Dad did, and in doing so, left his walkie-talkie behind. The office ladies (one of whom is named Stella, so of course, the telling of this story had to leave room for occasional Brando-esque shouts of "STELLA!") then thought that they heard gunshots. So they called Dad on the walkie, and when they couldn't reach him, they freaked right the hell out and CALLED 911. To report A SHOOTING. AT THE CHURCH. When my dad came out of the church, he was greeted with seventeen squad cars and body-armored cops shouting at him to put his hands in the air and get on the ground. You guys, they cuffed my dad! The poor clucky office hens tried to reassure the cops that it had been a false alarm, but apparently once the "shooter-in-a-church" bell has rung, you can't unring it. Once they saw all four employees who were there that day, they uncuffed them, but there was still full-on searching of the premises, closing of several local major roads, lockdown of the neighboring high school...and, did I mention, they put my dad in freaking handcuffs! I believe I've mentioned my family's obsession with old school Law & Order, so you'll have to imagine our delight at the idea that Dad was preparing to drop a dime on someone in order to take a plea and do the nickel at Riker's.
2) A while back, Dad was called for jury duty, for a case involving a guy who shot someone in front of several witnesses. Dad's jury selection questioning session went as follows:
Defense Attorney: Sir, do you own a handgun?
Dad: No, I do not.
Defense Attorney: May I ask you why?
Dad: I don't intend to kill anybody.
Defense Attorney: Challenge, your Honor!
3) UPDATED: This story is, as it turns out, a hoax. A big fat lie. Clearly, I and my entire ilk are not to be trusted. On the other hand, I guess it's OK to laugh out loud about it, since it's entirely fictional.
OK, this story? Is really kinda sad and definitely politically incorrect on several levels, but I dare you not to laugh at the sheer absurdity of it. So, Dad was out in Iowa visiting family, and Cousin So-and-so was talking about Other Cousin, who has an adult son who is developmentally delayed. This son, let's call him...Darryl, is apparently independent enough to live on his own, and one day he called his mother with some news. "Ma, I caught a troll." "What?" "I caught a troll, Ma, you gotta come home." So Ma-Other-Cousin rushes over, as naturally one would when you hear such news. When she gets there, she hears banging on the closet door and goes over to let out...a little person. A dwarf.
This poor guy was going door to door, working as a census-taker, and when he got to Darryl's house, well...Darryl...um...thought he was a troll. And, decided that the next logical thing to do was to "catch" him, and lock him in a closet. And call his mom. Like you do.
So Ma-Other-Cousin lets this guy out, profuse apologies, and apparently he hasn't pressed charges, because a) Darryl obviously can't be prosecuted as being "of sound mind," and b) he probably isn't in a hurry to be known as the guy who got locked in a closet for resembling a mythical creature. And of course, this was probably quite scary for him, and embarrassing for the mother, and indicates something about Darryl's ability to live independently, but...
"I caught a troll, Ma."
I mean, you can't make this shit up. (UPDATE: Yes, you can. And then someone like me will fall for it.)
1) Last week, at the church where he works as a maintenance man, two guys from the neighboring sketchy apartment complex came over and went and sat in the church. The office ladies asked my dad to go check on them, just to make sure things were kosher. Dad did, and in doing so, left his walkie-talkie behind. The office ladies (one of whom is named Stella, so of course, the telling of this story had to leave room for occasional Brando-esque shouts of "STELLA!") then thought that they heard gunshots. So they called Dad on the walkie, and when they couldn't reach him, they freaked right the hell out and CALLED 911. To report A SHOOTING. AT THE CHURCH. When my dad came out of the church, he was greeted with seventeen squad cars and body-armored cops shouting at him to put his hands in the air and get on the ground. You guys, they cuffed my dad! The poor clucky office hens tried to reassure the cops that it had been a false alarm, but apparently once the "shooter-in-a-church" bell has rung, you can't unring it. Once they saw all four employees who were there that day, they uncuffed them, but there was still full-on searching of the premises, closing of several local major roads, lockdown of the neighboring high school...and, did I mention, they put my dad in freaking handcuffs! I believe I've mentioned my family's obsession with old school Law & Order, so you'll have to imagine our delight at the idea that Dad was preparing to drop a dime on someone in order to take a plea and do the nickel at Riker's.
2) A while back, Dad was called for jury duty, for a case involving a guy who shot someone in front of several witnesses. Dad's jury selection questioning session went as follows:
Defense Attorney: Sir, do you own a handgun?
Dad: No, I do not.
Defense Attorney: May I ask you why?
Dad: I don't intend to kill anybody.
Defense Attorney: Challenge, your Honor!
3) UPDATED: This story is, as it turns out, a hoax. A big fat lie. Clearly, I and my entire ilk are not to be trusted. On the other hand, I guess it's OK to laugh out loud about it, since it's entirely fictional.
OK, this story? Is really kinda sad and definitely politically incorrect on several levels, but I dare you not to laugh at the sheer absurdity of it. So, Dad was out in Iowa visiting family, and Cousin So-and-so was talking about Other Cousin, who has an adult son who is developmentally delayed. This son, let's call him...Darryl, is apparently independent enough to live on his own, and one day he called his mother with some news. "Ma, I caught a troll." "What?" "I caught a troll, Ma, you gotta come home." So Ma-Other-Cousin rushes over, as naturally one would when you hear such news. When she gets there, she hears banging on the closet door and goes over to let out...a little person. A dwarf.
This poor guy was going door to door, working as a census-taker, and when he got to Darryl's house, well...Darryl...um...thought he was a troll. And, decided that the next logical thing to do was to "catch" him, and lock him in a closet. And call his mom. Like you do.
So Ma-Other-Cousin lets this guy out, profuse apologies, and apparently he hasn't pressed charges, because a) Darryl obviously can't be prosecuted as being "of sound mind," and b) he probably isn't in a hurry to be known as the guy who got locked in a closet for resembling a mythical creature. And of course, this was probably quite scary for him, and embarrassing for the mother, and indicates something about Darryl's ability to live independently, but...
"I caught a troll, Ma."
I mean, you can't make this shit up. (UPDATE: Yes, you can. And then someone like me will fall for it.)
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Not Pictured: Gun Rack, Tiny Flaccid Penis
I was stuck behind a truck today in traffic. This truck was plastered with many bumper stickers, the messages of which were so...remarkable that I called my own voicemail at work and read them off, just so that I could later relay them to you:
Ass, Gas, or Grass...No-one Rides for Free
With Beer, Deer, and Pickup Trucks, Who Needs Women?
Tickle This, Elmo! (accompanied by a truly foul little drawing)
www.offmyass.com
Brakes are for Pussies
I gave the driver my number. I sure hope he calls.
Ass, Gas, or Grass...No-one Rides for Free
With Beer, Deer, and Pickup Trucks, Who Needs Women?
Tickle This, Elmo! (accompanied by a truly foul little drawing)
www.offmyass.com
Brakes are for Pussies
I gave the driver my number. I sure hope he calls.
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