Nothing worse

than slamming your baby’s head into the pavement. Yesterday, nice day, sun, tractor rides, silliness, lemonade pops. Good times. When the Boy haughtily challenged to me a game of HORSE because, well, the little shit beat me at PIG two days ago and suddenly he rules and I suck, I told him “not right now, Papoose is running around and he’ll most likely get hit with a stray basketball.” So what do I do? I wait until Papoose walks about ten feet towards the garage and nab the ball away from the Boy and lob it towards the net in an attempt to regain my standing as Supreme HORSE Butt-Kicker. But the god of gravity and all round things projectile failed to amuse me with his twisted little prank. In four cataclysmic seconds the ball completely missed the net, vaulted off the rim, hurled towards the Papoose’s head at an entirely unlikely angle, and thumped his 24ish pound body with the full force of my foot squishing a bug. He jolted forward and plummeted forehead-first onto the pavement. I can’t even begin to express the guilt and horror that instantaneously filled my chest. Of all the people who are going to cause him pain in his life, I should not be one of them.

The poor darling now sports a blue egg speckled with red scabs directly in the middle of his forehead. We planned on taking portraits of all the kids romping with all their cousins on the beach this weekend. Complete with seven matching outfits. I will forever see those pictures and wince, I’m sure of it!

Oy. Need to forgive self. Feeling like big fat stupid jerk.

Teacher inservice day really means

the children savages get to stay home from school and torture their mother with relentless arguing, nonstop teasing and whining, and general hostility until she ultimately cracks and can be found standing in two inches of bathtub water with a half empty bottle of cheap merlot in one hand and a plugged-in toaster in the other.

I love my children. No really.

I’m leaving for Wal*Mart in just about five minutes to walk around. Just walk. And maybe talk a little bit to myself. I might wander through the garden department and take a quick nap under the patio furniture. I may mosey through the fabric department and look at all the shiny buttons. I may even take a stroll all the way over to the deli and eat one of those free cookies. Doesn’t matter because I’ll be enjoying all these refreshing frivolities without any children near me.

Ta!

Heartbroken.

I don’t even know where to start. Ever have one of those moments during which you watch with horror as slow motion renders you helpless? Your hands freeze as your eyes flitter. Your brain screams do something but your body is too stunned. This afternoon I crammed the van with three eager children and took a long overdue trip to the ice cream shop. (seven consecutive days of torrential rain makes for few ice cream dates) Two dishes of dirt and one nutty parfait later, we piled back into the van to slurp and enjoy.

Then it happened.

As I casually plopped the Papoose into his car seat in preparation to share with him my nutty parfait, my right foot awkwardly bumped the tall cup of parfait that I had carelessly placed on the floor. I felt of wave of knowing alarm rush through me as I looked down in time to see my beautiful parfait tipping over and spilling its rich fudgy contents onto the floor of my van. I eyeballed the soft-serve massacre and momentarily considered scooping the fudge shrouded nuts back into the dish. It’s still good! Three second rule! Pause, the ice cream blob was soaking into the floor of my van. Yeah, we don’t want to go there. I salvaged what I could and cried a little.

I sat in disbelief for a minute, listening to the two older kids slurping their dishes of fudgy, gummy wormy, creamy goodness. I almost wanted to snatch them from their greedy little hands and run away and hide. Instead I resigned myself to the inch of cream, nuts, and fudge that remained in the bottom of my cup.

I have yet to clean up the fudge-nut soup in which my van carpets are currently marinating.

Oh Nutty Parfait! I hardly new ye!

Hmm? What? You want to come with?

Uh-uh Mister, you’re on papoose patrol today and Mama’s exiting stage left.

After much putzing around this morning, which included cleaning the house for yet another potential buyer who suddenly decided to re-schedule for next week some time, I felt the aggravation of another “just in case” total house makeover wearing on me. Sure, no problem, really, I SWEAR. I only have a ginormous house and three messy children to pick up after. You take your time, k? Just give me at least an hour’s notice before descending upon me so I can just tuck the comforters under and swiffer the hardwood real quick like. It’ll just take me a sec, k? Fuckers. I had to get away from the house. The house that I’d been imprisoned in (Southern New England sent a week’s worth of cloudburst in my direction) for the last five days with a two foot tall incarnate of the beastly Diablo himself. Complete with a convincingly enchanting grin, scrumptiously plump thighs, and big brown eyes that dupe even the cleverest of parents. Suffice it to say this week has been a total pisser. Today? I HAD to get out. Without the wee one and his teeth that won’t teethe.

“Honey, since we’re no longer showing the house today, I’m going to take the Girl to the city-wide garage sale.” He thinks on this and replies “Why don’t we all go? I’d prefer to not be stuck at home with the baby.” Upon hearing this I slowly lowered my head until my glare came from beneath the cover of my bangs and I channeled that creepy Samara stare. He got it. Sort of.

I spent five hours, FIVE hours, with my giddy Girl pacing from one garage full of junk to the next. We haggled our way through orange crock pots, $5 all-u-can-stuff bags of clothing, and Technotronic cd’s that persuaded me to uncontrollably pump up the jam. We hesitated as to what would best befit our dining room table; a cracked plastic vase of fake pansies or a dusty chicory centerpiece. She found more Barbie-dolls that will eventually become prototypes for the latest hair cut, and I found two wicked cute pairs of gap cords.

In the rain even.

Talkin'bout me.

I've been given this tasty glass of Lemonade on this warm spring morning.

“Three Things MeMe. The three things are supposed to be things that you would like to see occur in your lifetime--serious or silly or sentimental, leaving out Peace In Our Lifetime, Cure for Cancer, all the standard stuff."

I didn’t always recycle; in fact I used to reserve recycling for aluminum cans only. I’m so ashamed that recycling fell relatively short on my list of very important things to do. It was my brother-in-law’s very disappointed facial expression that was the proverbial wake-up call to recycle. He once asked me where to put the cardboard for recycling and I casually said I didn’t bother. I could tell it really troubled him. That was a year ago and since then I’ve been almost neurotic about reusing/recycling garbage that doesn’t decompose, save disposable diapers. I do feel dreadfully guilty over generating such a massive heap of plastic crap sandwiches on a daily basis but I’m not willing to use cloth diapers. Hypocritical? Yes. Okay back to making this about others’ shortcomings. I wish recycling was not only a moral responsibility but a legal responsibility as well.

I wish compost piles would halve your property taxes. The bigger the pile of deliciously smelly rot you’ve got, the less you have to pay to park your house.

I wish for an Uhmerkin boob revolution. If only we could adopt the very healthy European outlook on the function and purpose of breasts. How relaxing and refreshing it would be to nurse my baby at the park without feeling dirty and pornographic. How civilized it would feel to nurse my child in the restaurant chair as opposed to on the ladies’ room toilet. In my lifetime I’d like to feel less censorship on my chest and what I choose to do with it. They’re just boobs people.

School's Out! , Grateful Gal , Is It Spring Yet? you're it!

E3 06 Live on G4

I have officially crossed over into the realm of geek by proxy. I actually had control of the remote this evening and still I curiously chose to watch it. The Husband found it oddly sexy.

Imagine that.

I haven’t a thing to write about. Other than the fact that I finished my class, pulling an A right out of my, erm, never mind. I’m still walking during the evenings despite my irrational fear of becoming a bear snack. I managed to maintain my sanity while the Husband went away on business to Pittsburgh and I played single mother to three monkeys for three days. Two spring concerts and one set of braces. Four new tires and one oil change. An almost successful triumph of night weaning and a tooth that refuses to breach a tiny mouth. A daily smearing of self tanning lotion and a mountain of laundry that rebuffs reduction. The Girl and I are growing our hair long together and the Boy and I have an upcoming date for the mother/son dance. My life is so dreadfully enlivening that I can hardly contain my enthusiasm. And here I ramble on about practically nothing while my very good friend is losing feeling in her face due to overwhelming anxiety and intensely pressing deadlines. Every now and again this indulgent life feels most undeserved.

Zero, My Hero

Take a glance at these lyrics see if you notice anything missing.

Music & Lyrics: Bob Dorough

(spoken)
Zero?
Yeah. Zero is a wonderful thing.
In fact, zero is my hero.
How can zero be a hero?
Well, there are all kinds of heroes, you know.
A man can get to be a hero for a famous battle he fought.
Or by studying very hard and becoming a weightless astronaut.
And then there are heroes of other sorts,
Like the heroes we know from watching sports.
But a hero doesn't have to be a grown up person, you know.
A hero can be a very big dog who comes to your rescue.
Or a very little boy who's smart enough to know what to do.
But let me tell you about my *favorite* hero…

Note the absence of references to female heroes. I often keep the satellite on SIRIUS kid stuff music channel, and I hear this song daily. The lyrics drive me bonkers and I find myself growing ever more frustrated with the artist each time I listen to it. Why must a hero be limited to a man, a boy, and man’s best friend? Why can’t a woman fight in a famous battle or study very hard? Why no mention of how smart little girls can be in troublesome situations? I have no problem with adhering to gender specific roles in certain situations. It’s all about what works most effectively for your family. But to be limited because I’m told it’s appropriate chaps my hide. This song is on a schoolhouse rock music cd and unfortunately there are thousands of little girls who hear this song and receive ambiguous information about what a hero can or can not be. According to this song, they need not apply. What about little boys? What do these lyrics teach them about little girls? How will this affect their sense of respect and equality towards the opposite sex?

My feathers aren’t usually ruffled with regards to gender detailed issues because I’m comfy with the approach I use to teach my own children what is and isn’t appropriate. But a hero? The definition of one is unlimited and the examples given in this particular song are extremely small-minded and partial. I don’t appreciate this artist’s presentation especially considering his impressionable young audience.

Walking good.

Bears bad. I’ve taken to brisk after dinner walks since the most welcomed arrival of spring and fair weather. I’ve tried to be purposeful in my movements, taking the long way around and surmounting the hills instead of keeping to level ground. My calves thank me, as does my posterior. My solitary strolls provide me time for reflection, talking aloud to myself, and breathing the sweet fresh air. Another moment for myself. And the bears. This time last year my pursuit of fitness was prematurely halted by a mama bear and her alarmingly adorable cubs. I happened upon the captivating creatures not 500 feet from my driveway. Having the Papoose strapped to my body in a snuggli caused every hair follicle on my body to stand stiff even more so. I assume we went unnoticed by the bumbling bears but that didn’t make the experience any less threatening. Unfortunately I came upon another mama bear and what appeared to be two newborn cubs not two days ago. I wonder if she’s the same mama, living the same life, in the same woodland neighborhood as me. I’d like to think I’m sharing my little of piece of earth with only one bear. ::shudder:: Last year I fell into a state of terror after my brief bear encounter and I hounded every park ranger in the phone book. I pleaded with them to remove and relocate the bear to a more suitable site. Like not near me. I repeatedly probed the rangers about the nature of bears and the likelihood of an attack. I was freaked, probably from watching too many “When Animals Attack” programs on National Geographic channel. Each park ranger repetitively informed me that an attack by a black bear was truly improbable and that I should simply enjoy the uncommon sighting of a black bear. Okay, right after I finish soiling myself, I’ll sit back and enjoy nature’s ephemeral exquisiteness. Um, no. I can’t help be anything but petrified the moment I realize I’m within yards of a potentially overprotective mama bear while still half a mile from the safekeeping of my big house.

Presently I find myself in the same emotional pickle I was in 12 months ago. The rationally formed half of my brain accepts the unlikelihood of suffering a bear attack while the more prevailing section of my grey matter tends to scream horror when I consider a twilight wander.

Factor to bear in mind (pun intended) when buying a new home? Must be within walking distance of a public bike path and surrounded by minimal woods.

Think I’d look noticeably wary walking with a baseball bat strapped to my belt loop? In my continual quest for a firmer figure, I just might make use of that old wooden Rawlings in the garage.

Dear Mr. President

Pink's voice brought me to tears.