grumbles and grunts

very unsatisfactory indeed

noreply@blogger.com (the grumbles) — Tue, 14 Feb 2012 14:55:00 +0000

A few years ago one of my friends sat me down very seriously and said he wanted to give me some advice. I cocked my head to the side like a dog watching a sandwich and waited for what I was sure was going to be the glowing gem that would transform me from moppet to gilded lady. Was my underwear showing? Did I fart when I walked? He plunged ahead, his face grim.

"Jamie," he began, and he patronizingly leaned forward and cupped his hand over my shoulder, though I can't really remember if that part actually happened or if it just feels like it did, "You pluck your eyebrows too much. They look weird. You should just let them fill in on the sides. That would be better. You're welcome."

I shrugged, stood up, and left.

The lesson here being two things:

Ten years later, I still think about that comment every time I look at my eyebrows.
So thanks very much for that. And,

JOKE'S ON YOU, MOTHERFUCKER, THEY GROW LIKE THIS.

MUAH!

noreply@blogger.com (the grumbles) — Tue, 14 Feb 2012 14:32:00 +0000

how much life-force will $3 buy these days?

noreply@blogger.com (the grumbles) — Mon, 13 Feb 2012 20:04:00 +0000

On Sunday we escorted young the Jude to the pet store so that he could pick out a fish. Yes, a fish of his very own*! *Which I will care for and clean and feed. Obviously. He's two. It's more of a family fish, really. Next time, I'm getting a koala.

For some time now he's been rushing to his humidifier first thing each morning. He peers intently inside and declares, "My fish! He's in the hole! He's hiding!" Which, you know, he's not. You have no fish, kid, there's no fish in the hole. If there were a fish in that particular hole he'd be poofed through the mechanism into moisturizing air particles and I am opposed to fish vaporization, generally, unless it helps my skin glow. End point being, there's no fish in the humidifier. Swear.

After nap time I held out his jacket and he slid his arms in one by one. "Okay Jude, where are we going?" "The Fish Store." "Yes– and when we get there you get to pick out a fish, and it will come home to live with us, right?" "Right."

He pulled his hat down firmly, with purpose, over his ears and chirped happily out the door, "Fiiiiiiish store. Fiiiiiish store. Fiiiiiish store." Who can argue with that?! You'd have to be inhuman, and I myself am eminently human so I couldn't. Also, it was my idea. "Lets get the Jude a fish!" sounded super before someone reminded me that my carnival goldfish from second grade lived 10 years. Oh well. Whatever. I like fish. It could still die tomorrow or next month. Get out your calendars and place your bets.

He stood on his tiptoes and dashed from tank to tank. He was all a-quiver with FISH OH MY GOD FISH FISH OH MY GOD FISH. Finally Jon scooped him up and helped him pick out a little goldfish with a black fin. He watched quietly as the lady scooped it out and bagged it up. When he finally got to hold the bag he was very serious about his tender new charge.

Out of nowhere as we drove home he announced, "Her name Scary Fish."

I will tell you in complete honesty that even if she dies an untimely horrible death we have to explain later it will still be completely worth it because I walked in on him holding a piece of paper up to her bowl and shouting,

"Scary Fish! I make this picture for you's new house!"

If you need me, I'll be over here. #DEADFROMCUTE

year eleven

noreply@blogger.com (the grumbles) — Thu, 09 Feb 2012 16:04:00 +0000

If there's anything that I've learned about marriage up to this point it's that some years are harder than others. Some years pass by without a lot of fuss– life is generally good, love is shared, the days pass and everything is okay. Some years feel like an up hill struggle, but you don't see the hill until you're over it and suddenly you look back and say to your partner, "What the what? I didn't even notice that sucked so bad until it wasn't sucking anymore. Thank god it's over."

You just take each other's hands and you keep walking out into the fog. If there are mountains looming up ahead for you to climb you'll never see them until it's too late. That's the unknown risk we take in sharing a life. Whether or not each forward step is terrifying depends solely on your confidence that the person holding your hand is squeezing it back just as hard as you are.

In between the terrible times and the beautiful ones there is the just okay. Traversing hills and valleys marks crucial turning points and happy memories, but the just okay is what gets us by for the vast majority of our path. Don't underestimate the power of the just okay. There's a pull to focus on the highs and lows, but the middle ground has to be a place you enjoy, a place of comfort, somewhere to live during the spaces in between your journey.

It can be a struggle to acknowledge that this is how it works. Years won't always be sultry kisses and roses. This is the stark silent truth of relationships that last decades instead of years. The first time you find yourself in the blank space between it feels like you've wound your way back to the beginning. But if you can quiet yourself enough to hear it this there is a rhythm, a beat, in the distance reminding you that those things will come back. There's a freedom in accepting the natural cadence of the path, the rebirth of the fire. In the meantime, we can float in the peace of the just okay and smile a secret smile because we know the beat is coming.

In the months leading up to our wedding I folded one thousand paper cranes. I folded the same carefully creased lines over and over a thousand times, my fingers moved themselves by muscle memory. Delicate paper birds overflowed piles all around our two room apartment. It was meditation, preparation, dedication. During our ceremony I folded number one-thousand-and-one, closed my eyes, and made a wish.

parlor tricks

noreply@blogger.com (the grumbles) — Wed, 08 Feb 2012 14:10:00 +0000

tricks from the grumbles on Vimeo.

Best part: "Hiiiiiiiya!"
Most random part: "Daddy, now you gotta hold hands with Mommy."

And I know many of you have seen this by now, but IT'S AMAZING
and we need to talk about it until this becomes the latest internet craze:

earlier , out of nowhere:

the jude: "I've got wizard powers."

breadcrumbs

noreply@blogger.com (the grumbles) — Tue, 07 Feb 2012 15:22:00 +0000

"By preschool no one cares how long you breastfed, or if at all. Least of all your kid. There’s no stamp on anybody’s backpack indicating who did baby-led weaning and who ate Beech Nut out of a jar. Everybody potty trains, and by elementary school you’re happy if you manage to remember that other mom’s NAME, much less give a crap what her work situation is." –@Amalah over at the Advice Smackdown

Somewhere along the path here I stopped writing about parenting. Not completely, I still like to talk about it, but it's not 100% IN YOUR FACE deep analysis the way it used to be. This wasn't a conscious decision, it just blossomed as time passed. I woke up one day and thought, I don't want to talk about that today, and we didn't. I'm not over parenting, I'm over talking about it non-stop, the right and the wrong and the my way and your way. Barf. Boring. Rude.

As the Jude has aged my confidence in myself – in my parenting – has grown. We still have plenty of issues (gah grr arg!) but I don't question how I deal with them, not too closely anyway. Toddlerhood has been downright pleasant. I've considered that we're probably lucky that Jude has a generally pleasant demeanor, but even taking into account the moments I want to sell him to a hobo this is still a fucking DELIGHT in the face of a communication-less screaming infant. I can ask him questions and he'll answer– WITH WORDS. Sing me a love song to toddlerhood, my dear, and I'll sing right along.

My days of obsessive office-bathroom-pumping and milk-supply-fretting are behind me, along with all my baby carriers and mesh crib bumpers and the details of a million other things I spent all my energy fussing over. Now most of my effort goes into running around the room playing fire robots and talking about how and why. I don't have time to research every aspect of upcoming potty training, we'll just wing it and it will be fine. Really. I can just brush it off like that. Look at meeee!

All the things I worried and researched and occupied myself with a year ago feel miles away. I still agree with them, and they're still important (...probably). I'm pleased with the choices we made, but really– it's just not that relevant anymore. Part of it is a natural shift with Jude's development, but part of me looks back on my infant/baby/toddlby self and thinks, wow, that girl had a lot of time on her hands. Was I really worried because that stuff mattered so deeply or was I just grasping for control in an uncontrollable unfamiliar situation? A little of this, and probably a little of that too.

Now that my kid is more like a kid, instead of researching nutritional regimes and sleep habits I've been thinking about not washing my freaking hair and wearing blush as if I actually care about myself. Is this a new life of luxury? It's completely revolutionary to feel like myself again and less like a twenty-four-hour mom robot. I felt lost for a long time there, but I think I've found my way back.

If you ever feel like a swamped, obsessed, only-mom robot, know that it will end. You'll be you again, but you'll also be a mom. You'll just balance it better. It's coming. You'll make it. I was trapped in a sticky dirty play room full of babies and moms and strollers and vomit when suddenly a door opened out of nowhere filled with bright sunlight, and when I stepped through Jude and I were hand in hand on the sidewalk on even footing with the rest of humanity. Hello again, world.

Admittedly, this would be an entirely different story if we were having another baby and starting the journey over from the beginning. Equipped with this knowledge, if there's a next time, maybe it will be easier to find my way back here. I'm leaving breadcrumbs for escape from the trenches.

Is this finally the wisdom of experienced parenthood? I know we will flounder around in the dark for years to come trying to figure out the hard parts of parenting, but–
It's okay. We're okay.

conundrum

noreply@blogger.com (the grumbles) — Mon, 06 Feb 2012 14:59:00 +0000

How am I supposed to get anything done when this is going on?!?

Here is a picture of some pissy lions:

Here is a picture of OMGNOMNOMNOM:

Here is a picture of the best yarn in the universe:

So, you see why I can't get anything useful accomplished, right?

Perfect, glad we're all on the same page now.

I'm toying with you, psychologically!

noreply@blogger.com (the grumbles) — Fri, 03 Feb 2012 13:48:00 +0000

We haven't had one lick of snow this year, which is freakishly abnormal, and even though Nadja is throwing a winter-hating party it's slowly destroying my soul. I look forward to at least one snow day each year as a perfectly acceptable excuse to call in dead to work and play like a kid. No snow = no day off. All work and no play makes grumblies a dull miserable girl.

Ice storm is pretty and yet, also unacceptable.
TWENTY YEARS DUNGEON, WEATHER.

beware the haunted universe

noreply@blogger.com (the grumbles) — Thu, 02 Feb 2012 15:38:00 +0000

"MAMA! WATCH OUT! A scary ghost!"

"....A what?"

"....Do you hear that sound?"

"What sound?"

"BE QUIET. Don't wake up the scary ghost!"

"Uh, okay. Shhhhhh."

"SHHHHHHH. YOU NO GET IN MY CAR, GHOST."

"Can the ghost sit by me?"

"No. The ghost sits in dad's seat, for his seatbelt."

"Ghost safety, very important. What's the ghost's name?"

"..."

"Is it Hebert?"

"NO."

"Maxwell?"

"NO."

"Barthalemew?"

"NO. Scary ghost name GHOST. You a silly goose, mama. I no silly goose."

Okay then.

Have I mentioned that toddlers are amazing?

january, set four

noreply@blogger.com (the grumbles) — Wed, 01 Feb 2012 14:41:00 +0000

{If you're interested in participating in February's photo-a-day starting today! check out the theme list over at Fat Mum Slim's. Anyone can join in, even those that don't have instagram. It's been kind of a fun little mission each day and a challenge to get more creative. Practice makes perfect, DO IT.}

january 2012: one | two | three | four

I don't wash my hair. Yes, really.

noreply@blogger.com (the grumbles) — Tue, 31 Jan 2012 16:47:00 +0000

A few weeks ago I mentioned in passing that I don't wash my hair. This always causes quite a ruckus every time I dare speak it aloud, starting with, awhaaaaaaat? and finishing with, no way. Yes way. And I'm going to tell you all about it (and throw in a shout out to coconut oil at the end), but first I feel I must disclaim:

The following in no way constitutes a self-care plan that anyone else should try. This is not advice. Full stop. Thing is, I think my hair is some sort of hair-unicorn, a hairicorn so to speak, and what works on my future-shirt I cannot emphasize enough, might not work for anyone else. Caprice?

And to those of you who repeatedly insist I am lying, why the HELL would I go out of my way to convince you I don't wash my hair? By all accounts that's something you should hide not tell everyone you know. No secret conspiracy here, man, just more manageable hair.

So, that's my hair.

I've been on a mission to grow it into a breast-covering shirt, so it's getting quite long, nearly a shirt, even. In the past few months I've had a breakthrough revelation. Taking care of hair this long is completely different than maintaining a shorter style. I've changed all my routines and I've been amazed at the results, things which would have never ever worked for me when my hair was shorter make life with long hair so much easier.

Here's the deal, and I'll elaborate because we all know I'm really good at the elaborating part:

1. I don't brush my hair. I mean, maybe once in the morning if it's looking kooky.
2. I don't wash my hair. I did last month with a new shampoo and I curse that woeful day down to the tips of my toes. It whacked out my whole jam and I'm still recovering.
3. The end.

When I say "I don't wash my hair" it's sometimes misunderstood because of the no-poo/no-shampoo thing that's going around. That is not what I do. I have no problem with it, it's just alternative shampoo for hippies, but when I say I don't wash it I mean really not wash it. Hell, I don't really even get it wet. Once a month I'll give it a rinse, otherwise I protect my hairicorn with a shower cap.

I believe part of the reason this works is that my hair is incredibly incredibly thick. Allowing it to get on the "greasier" side helps tame it down into something I can stand to work with. To be honest when it's freshly washed it's an absolute monster. My stylist de-bulks it every time I come in (not often enough) but suffice it to say, I have a lot of hair and frizz/fluffiness is my absolute pet peeve.

This is my hair today, day thirty-something since I last washed/wetted it:

...and that is me, failing at taking my own picture. TRY AGAIN.

Okay. Better. Smooth moves, idiot.

So, this is thirty-something days since last wash. I had it pulled back this morning and took it down just for this picture, so it ain't lookin' all fancy-fance, I mean that's not like... how I "style" my hair or something, that's just what it's doing right this second.

Your questions answered:

Isn't it greasy?
No. And I have no idea why. I quite literally do nothing to it. My hair and skin in general run drier than the damned saharah so it's possible I'm just really lucky. The first week after I wash/rinse I actually find it much too dry and frizzy. It doesn't hit the sweet-spot until week two.

Does it smell, you know that gross "hair" smell?
No. It smells like... nothing. I did get that "hair smell" a lot before though, when I was using products on it.

So you don't use any products?
Not really. If I'm curling it or straightening it I add some protective spray, but that's pretty rare. The only thing I regularly apply to it is coconut oil, magic coconut oil, but we'll get to that in a minute.

Is your scalp itchy?
Sometimes? Not significantly more than I've ever noticed before. It does get oily eventually, it just takes a weirdly long time. I'm probably due for a rinse and clean here soon.

Other tips for life with long hair?
I've had to change things I did for years to start treating my hair more gently and avoid breakage. I don't really brush it, I treat it as carefully as I can. Basically, I try to stay out of its way and it rewards me by looking more awesome than ever before.

• I do not put my hair up in a towel when I get out of the shower. It was causing a huge amount of breakage on the "underneath" hairs which looked hideous when I put it up. Long hair people- stop doing this. It's so so so bad for your hair. Now I lay a towel over my shoulders like a cape and pat it dry. Mysteriously since starting this new routine it also dries twice as fast. I'm not complaining, it used to take it hours and hours to dry.

• I sleep with it in a braid/s. Partially this is to "help with breakage" but truthfully I kept waking up with it wrapped around my neck like a noose and it was really starting to freak me out. My hairicorn has a murderous mind of its own.

Thirty days later the ends still look a little floofy dry to me. Call in - the coconut oil:

Coconut oil, baby.

Coconut oil is a straight up miracle. I use it on my hair, I use it on my face, I use it on my body. You can read full details on its powers here, but let's talk about the hair part because we're talking specifically about hair. I apply organic virgin coconut oil (find it in the cooking section) to the lower half of my hair as a conditioner and moisturizer.

When your hair is super triple long the oil from your scalp is no longer able to filter down to the ends and provide them with protection hence- split ends, dryness, general medusa head. I massage a heaping teaspoon all up in my lower half a few times during that first post-wash week to tame as necessary. While it feels oily at first (during application) within an hour the moisture is absorbed and that feeling goes away, leaving my hair strong and flexible. It was freaky scary the first time, but nothing terrible has happened, in fact I'm very pleased.

Warning: Do not apply it to your scalp! (SARAH.) Especially if you have a "regular" scalp-oil situation going on, it will be an oil-slick. I mean, it's oil.

Coconut oil can be an excellent natural replacement for conditioner or just a fun "spa" style deep-conditioning treatment every once in a while.

...more on coconut oil's magical magic

I also use it as a face wash. It is a gentle makeup remover and healing cleanser. I massage a scoop onto my face, pressing firmly and giving it the ol' one-two for as long as I can stand. Then I wet a towel with very hot water and steam the oil away, wiping gently. IF you do this properly the oil will not stay on your skin, in fact afterward sometimes my skin feels too dry. If you don't wipe/hot enough dirty oil will remain and totally fuck your shit up. Be warned.

I have been a life long sufferer of EXTREME scaring eczema. I have been using coconut oil as a body lotion and BAM. Fixed. I could cry.

Moral of the story:
Do not fear natural oils. Love the oil, respect, and appreciate
the powers of the oil. All will be well.

Also, PS, I don't wash my hair and it's never looked better or been easier
to take care of, SUCKERSSSSS, in YO FACE.

portraits

noreply@blogger.com (the grumbles) — Mon, 30 Jan 2012 15:18:00 +0000

I like you, and I think that if you thought about it you'd know you like me too. (chapter five)

noreply@blogger.com (the grumbles) — Fri, 27 Jan 2012 16:47:00 +0000

{continued from chapter four}

My first face-to-face introduction to the boy of my dreams was not a roaring success with trumpet fanfare and ticker tape, in fact I slunk away from the incident with my tail between my legs feeling black as black as black. He was busy, he had friends who were girls, and the last thing he probably wanted to do was talk to me. I stewed and brooded and grimaced dramatically through the rest of my weekend, you know, standard teenage girl things. It probably looked like I ate some bad meat off the floor, which totally sounds like something I would do anyway.

Come the other side of Monday morning things looked brighter. After all, I had stood next to him, I had talked to him, and more importantly, he knew who I was. Since my crippling shyness only applied to introductions it dawned on me that a whole new world of possibilities had opened up in the game of when can we make out yes please. The hard part was over. The flirting could begin. This I could handle.

I sat down that very morning and I wrote him a note. Today I probably would have just sent him a tweet but that wasn't how things worked before the magic friends in my pocket came to live with me. It was back when passing notes was still a thing, a gateway drug to bigger better highs. I pressed pen to paper and wrote down anything that came into my brain, which was not much.

I will paraphrase for you, as follows:

Hey,
I like, like like like, yeah totally, like like, and DONUTS! They're like, so like like yeah like. I think you're like, super like cute and like. Like, totally yeah like.
- Jamie

I'm so glad this note doesn't still exist, because I'm almost positive that's exactly what it said, word for word, except I probably said 'like' a few hundred more times.

I passed my masterpiece flirtation creation off to a friend to courier during the next period. I held my breath from the second it left my fingertips to the moment she came back to confirm its delivery. Not really, because I would be dead. Maybe I am dead, it was a while. Would he date a zombie? It was a long painful pins and needles while where I binge-ate chocolate donettes and tried to picture his reaction as he read what I'd written.

Would he write back? Would he be pleased? When– now? How 'bout now? NOW?

He was pleased, or at least we can assume he was, because later that day he appeared out of nowhere and passed a folded slip of paper to me in the hall before he melted back through the crowd. I clutched it so tightly I thought my hand would break before I hastily unfolded it and read it three or four hundred times in a row. My eyes tried to burn a hole in the paper they were searching so furiously for hidden meaning.

Spoiler alert: there wasn't any. Oh how I wanted there to be, but there wasn't.

It marked the beginning of a lot of things, though. It was the beginning of many many notes, carefully scribbled and shuttled back and forth; it was the beginning of halting conversations in the hallway that never lasted long enough. Slowly but surely we developed a pattern of finding each other between classes, even if it was just to stand awkwardly and not talk. (Which it was, at first, and I cursed every minute of it that I wasn't more awesomely self-possessed, but it was a place to start.) More importantly my impromptu decision to volunteer for the school play began to pay off. I hung around evening rehearsals and was put to work assisting with costumes, with plenty of opportunities for cute-boy fraternization in between lonely nights painting the set.

At a painfully creeping rate we got to know one another. It turned out he had the charm to match the pants I had fallen head over heels for, and he was kind of a jerk which couldn't be more perfect because I am also kind of a jerk. The only down side was he was hopelessly impossible to read when it came to dating. My flirtiest tried and true techniques were met with lukewarm responses but he laughed at all my most terrible jokes. I hadn't the faintest idea if he was even interested or completely oblivious but he kept coming back.

I didn't quite know what to make of his odd behavior, was this some kind of elaborate scheme? Was he really this straightforward? I was completely unaccustomed to a boy who was interested but not traveling at top speed and for a girl who was notoriously love them and leave them this creeping sort of courtship was uncharted territory.

At times I was out of my mind with confusion but along the way an odd byproduct began to emerge. His sterling character tamed and tempered my impulsive urges, forging them into an unfamiliar feeling– it blossomed into trust. By the time a few weeks passed we had tentatively established an understanding of unspoken mutual interest. Nothing was ever decided or discussed, we just began to fill all the empty spaces in our schedules with each other. It felt as natural as if it had always been that way. I hadn't even known my arm was missing until it was back where it belonged.

One night after play practice I lingered behind, looking for any excuse to stay behind and talk. We walked slowly out to the parking lot, dragging our feet and cracking jokes.

"I can drive you to your car, if you want." (See my car, all of 20 yards across the parking lot.)

"Sure." It was dark, after all. And raining. And please don't make me go yet.

We got in his car, which promptly wouldn't start.
The car had our very best interests at heart, I'm sure of it.

Unfortunately he didn't see the car's good intentions and was terribly super pissed. I stood out in the misty rain while he found someone to give us a jump so that we could trek all the way to the other side of the parking lot. You know, for logic.

We drove through the empty lot in silence. When we pulled up next to my car I couldn't force myself to get out. I looked out at the rain on the windows, hyper-aware of my heart beating up against my collar bones. I glanced over at him in the rippling half light.

Before I even knew what was happening my hand had moved of it's own volition, my fingers slid around the back of his neck up into his hair. When our lips met my world exploded. I was on fire, I was fire. All the question marks in front of me suddenly disappeared. Whatever it was I had been looking for I had found it.

I married him, of course, there was never any other option.

that's just nature, Gunter.

noreply@blogger.com (the grumbles) — Thu, 26 Jan 2012 14:28:00 +0000

There is one huge advantage to going to the zoo in blustery 20° weather: no one else is there. When I say no one I mean it– there was one other car in the parking lot and they weren't even taking tickets at the gate, it was just standing open with the wind rushing on through. FREE ZOO, bring your parka.

Even though it required much bundling up it was worth it because oh my god, winter with a little boy has been painful. He needs more exercise than a greyhound and I'm running out of indoor activities. Be free, little zoo explorer, and you can actually run around by yourself because no one is here. RUN. RUN IT ALL OUT.

Besides, I like the zoo.

This is jude and Joseph, the puma that wanted to eat him.

This is jude, deliberately taunting the puma that wanted to eat him.

Kitty-cat, meow!

Okay dude, time to break off your awkward eye contact.

SERIOUSLY. ANY TIME NOW.

wordless wednesday: dreamboat edition

noreply@blogger.com (the grumbles) — Wed, 25 Jan 2012 16:23:00 +0000

and I'm not even going to apologize

noreply@blogger.com (the grumbles) — Tue, 24 Jan 2012 14:56:00 +0000

(I could post 40 pictures that look identical to this below, but B's face pretty much says it all. Theirs was a match made in heaven, horrible horrible heaven.)

I want to be sorry that I've been taking so many photos with only my phone, really I do, but I'm just having so much fun I can't seem to stop.

So, I guess I won't, and I'll give myself permission to stop feeling bad about it.
The end.

Please stand by for all the photos I've been taking and not sharing. And clam-punch story chapter five. Kthanksbye.

(why my kid is the awesomest addendum, for Jenn)

noreply@blogger.com (the grumbles) — Tue, 24 Jan 2012 14:27:00 +0000

This is a lot more hilarious if you're first familiar with this:

Got it? Okay, go:

Rate me on a scale of 1 to 10: 1 is "totally gross", 10 is "hey, Ice King you look crazy siiiiick!"

noreply@blogger.com (the grumbles) — Mon, 23 Jan 2012 17:26:00 +0000

"Mama, be a robot."

"Bee-boo-bee–"

"NO! Be robot PEOPLE."

"Okay... we are borg, prepared to be assimilated."

"Good."

---

"Look! Squirrel!"

"What? There's no– oh yeah. Huh. That squirrel is really far away. Good eye, man."

"I no have good eye!"

"...Okay."

"That the mama squirrel, climbin' the tree. They throw the nut in the mouth."

---

Climbing the stairs:
"Alright, time for bed. Goodnight dad! Goodnight B! Goodnight Harlan!"

At the top of the stairs:
"Mama, you hear that tiny snakes?"

---

"Oh hey! How was your nap? Did you get good rest?"

"I's sleepin."

"(Jon, do you think we need to turn Buffy off? There's um, punching.)"

"(Let's leave it, he might not notice.)"

The jude, transfixed by vampire fighting:
"That an angry dog in the pumpkin patch."

---

Awesome Babysitter: "Jude! I really like your cool muppet shirt!"

"IT JUST FOR KIDS."

---

Overheard from the kitchen: (Muffled whispering)

"Whatcha doin' in there?"

"I talking to Siri."

Discovered later:

---

The jude, sitting in the front of the shopping cart:

"Fffffpt"

"Hey! Stop! Why are you spitting?!"

"Fffffffffffffffffffffffpt"

"Why! Why are you doing that!"

"Ffffffffpt. I makin' candy mama!"

---

"I gots ten dollars."

"What? You have ten dollars?"

"I gots THE TEN DOLLARS."

"Oookay. Tell me more about the... 'ten dollars'."

"I have the ten dollars. TEN. DOLLARS."

"?!?!"

A week later, pretending to type on the keyboard:

"TEN DOLLARS!!!"

"WAIT WAIT– the internet is ten dollars?"

"Yep."

"Okay then."

"Gimme the ten dollars on your phone. Watch gabba."

---

january, set three

noreply@blogger.com (the grumbles) — Mon, 23 Jan 2012 14:30:00 +0000

(Evidently I was feeling very monochromatic this week)

january 2012: one | two | three | four

I like you, and I think that if you thought about it you'd know you like me too. (chapter four)

noreply@blogger.com (the grumbles) — Fri, 20 Jan 2012 19:20:00 +0000

{continued from chapter three}

Our high school's hockey team was having an unprecedentedly good year, which is only worth noting because it explains why I was getting ready spend my Friday night at a hockey game. I developed the habit of attending as many outside-school events as possible on the off chance that a very particular boy would be there. Then I could see him, being there, and maybe he could see me, also being there. It's all so very complex. This technique only had a passing success rate but it didn't hurt to show up and stand around with my friends. I didn't have anything else to do anyway.

In preparation for an evening of potential boy-lurking I took my time and dressed accordingly, something of a misnomer because what I wore should not be accorded to anyone, ever. I slid on a tank top– which was immediately completely obscured by a giant powder-blue hooded sweatshirt. With matching visor. And white shoes with powder-blue trim. But! It was all okay, because I also had little blue earrings. See? So much better. My fashion playbook at the time read: #1 make everything the same color #2 wear tight pants. At least you can't go wrong with tight pants.

I waved goodbye to my parents on my way out the door and drove off into the night, because I could drive myself places, alone. Those were the days! When I arrived the parking lot at the rink was surprisingly packed and I was relegated to a spot several states away. This is what you get for showing up halfway through the game, idiot, I thought to myself, though in me-of-the-past's defense it takes a long time to look that fine.

I hot-stepped it across the parking lot, eager to meet up with my friend who was already there and get out of the icy wind. As I rounded a line of partially obscured Explorers I bumped directly into someone in the dark. To my great dismay I was face to face with someone I knew, someone I had dated seriously and whom I was not all that excited to bump into unexpectedly.

"Oh, uh. Hi." I stumbled. Cut to inner monologue: Shit shit shit.

I had that uncomfortable feeling you get when you know the other person has seen you be a complete idiot and you'd really rather pretend that never happened. I think they call it 'shame.' Our breakup was what I had thought was long-forgotten history. It was also not pleasant, and completely my fault. Please, let's revisit this moment in soul-crushing detail.

"Hi. How've you been?" he said, and against my better judgement I forced my feet to stop moving because he looked like he expected me to actually stop. We made a following attempt at tiny small talk in the long cold dark before we parted ways. I'm not sure which one of us was happier to escape, me and my queasy regrets or Mr. look at this HOT TICKET you missed in all baby blue.

I cursed under my breath as I rushed on towards the door. So. Great. This was how tonight was going to go. The rink was packed, it was nearly the championship or whatever it was that I was completely oblivious to at the time, I was late, and alone, and now completely rattled by unexpected parking-lot encounter.

I pulled the door open and was greeted by a wave of only slightly warmer than outside air. My friend was milling around near the endcap and I quickly wove a path to join her. The game was more than halfway over which was irrelevant because as soon as I walked up I could see the very particular boy standing only a few paces away.

My breath caught in my throat. Hooooooly crap. Had I not been standing in public at the time I would have needed to put my head between my knees and breathe into a paper bag. My night just went from zero to eleven. He was wearing the pants, and a leather jacket, and his dark curly hair was looking particularly ruffled. The only way it could have looked better was with my fingers in it.

This is the part where we would all like to give me of the past that little push I needed to go over there, because there was no way in hell my frozen, terrified feet were moving on their own.

Lucky for all of us, at that moment there was Laura. Acting as the living voice for us out here screaming NOW NOW GO GO! she took hold of my shoulders and physically forced me forward so I was standing next to him, looking out over the ice.

"Hey, do you know my friend Jamie? You do now. I have to go." And she walked away and left me there, alone. With him. I have never wanted to punch and hug someone so hard at the same time in my life.

"Hi," I breathed, as we stood with our shoulders nearly touching.

"Hi."

We exchanged comments about the game for a few minutes, we made made small talk. It was official– he could not longer deny knowing I existed, or that I was that girl who wanted to date him. I glanced over at his face occasionally and I tried to remember to keep breathing because oh my god he smells good and he's right there oh my god.

After a lull in the conversation during which I was thinking about how awkward I was and he was probably thinking about hockey he said, "I going to a party at my friend's house after this. We're going–"

I interrupted him, "I'm going someplace. To a radio station. My friend works there." It was not a lie exactly, because I did go there later, but I hadn't planned to. If he was going to dismiss me like that well then I was going to be busy too.

The final period buzzer rang and right at the perfectly wrong moment a girl walked up behind us and interrupted the best moment of my life thus far. It was the girl from my class who he had been rumored to be dating. She steadfastly ignored me standing there and he couldn't seem to disengage from her grips as she talked and talked and talked and talked.

I slowly backed away, turned around, and walked out without another word.

Well shit.

{all your questions to be answered in chapter five}

when your toddler is a honey badger

noreply@blogger.com (the grumbles) — Thu, 19 Jan 2012 14:42:00 +0000

Alright, I know you're all going to get pissed because this isn't not a love story chapter four, especially after yesterday's blackout shmackout, but I need to vent because it's really cramping up my brain. I haven't been writing much about parenting of late because things have been a pleasant summer breeze. Here! Have a mojito! It's delightful! I was driving home the other night composing a post in my head (that's how I do it) about how much I adore toddlerhood, and how blissfully happy I am. Since you've been around longer than ten minutes I can assume you all know where this is going– straight into the toilet.

As soon as we were out Awesome Babysitter's door it began: the hitting. I've touched on it once or twice but I've always danced carefully around (here here here) coming out and saying it point blank, not really wanting admit: Dude, we have a hitter. There, I said it. You know how you don't want to tell your mom about the fight you got in with your boyfriend because then she'll hate him forever and she'll only remember the bad things you told her? Don't do that. My kid is still awesome.

We've been having trouble with hitting since he was about a year old, but back then I just thought, Oh, well once he can TALK he'll stop, and then he could talk and I thought, Oh, well once he can express his FEELINGS he'll stop, and now at almost two and a half he can tell us his feelings and GODDAMN IT STOP PUNCHING ME. AKSJBDNAIOU!#!#E !H@B#L!

No one in our house hits. We are not modeling angry behavior, etc. etc. Still, with the freaking hitting. It's super great! Gah. It comes in phases, so sometimes we'll go a month or even two months without incident (!!) and then all of a sudden– back in hitting town. The good news is that he only does it to Jon and I, not at Awesome Babysitter's or anything like that.

He doesn't like being bossed around and reacts accordingly. I can "get" it from a toddler's standpoint: he's powerless against the many decisions he doesn't get to make each day, he feels a rush of emotion and doesn't know how to process it. So here I am, into all this touchy-feely positive discipline but it seems that no matter what routes we've tried (touchy-feely and otherwise) it has had little to no effect–
he's just fucking pissed off.

Arm yourself- the honey badger tool kit:

#1- Avoidance/distraction. Obviously the best way to deal with angry situations is to not have them happen in the first place. We identify what situations are triggering meltdown and take steps to avoid them or make them more fun. This works and is inarguably less horrible for everyone involved.

{The problem I have with this is that some things HAVE to happen– like diaper changing. Unless he's ready to get on the pot (we're working on that) diaper changes still have to happen, not optional or avoidable. No amount of hitting will make the pee magically disappear from the pants, tough it out.}

#2- Offering choices. I do this as much as possible, and he does not give a shit. He does not want to pick between two shirts, or between two snack options. Offering limited choices to help him feel in control makes so much sense to me logically, it's just that my kid doesn't care.

#3- Keeping the cool. People, I have become the queen of temper control. I am even. I am firm. I am not angry. I am endlessly patient. I empathize but stick to the rules. I make stupid crap fun. By all accounts I should feel proud. I feel like I'm really hitting my parenting stride, it's just that my kid doesn't care.

#4- The feelings. I really like the idea of all that feelings stuff. Talking about the feelings, learning to understand and accept the feelings, blah blah blah. "You're feeling angry. It's okay to feel angry. When we're angry we can stomp stomp stomp." You know, that hippy bullshit. I think it's a great IDEA, it's just that my kid doesn't care.

#5- Time in. We're a time-in house, as opposed to time-out, though I think the name is just nitpicking. Since everyone has a different version here's ours: [redacted: giant paragraph explaining our touchy-feely version of time-out that isn't particularly relevant, promise] Personally I don't see it as a "punishment," more of a break from the action, an opportunity to calm down and talk about the rules. We avoid using it as a threat, and frankly I'm not all that convinced it works. Really it wouldn't matter if we did make it a threat because my kid doesn't care.

#6- Lalala I can't hear you. Much to my consternation the only thing that seems to have an effect is completely ignoring the behavior. If it's time for a pants change and he hits– I don't react and keep changing his pants. If he's thrashing around being ridiculous I leave and go load the dishwasher. Once he gets his initial emotions (and hits) out of the way he breaks down into tears and we can talk about what happened.

This was difficult at first, because hey someone's hitting me stop. It's the kind of thing we're trained to not overlook from anyone, let alone kids. Once I shifted to operating on the premise that he's not under control of himself it got easier. Rather than turning it into a battle of wills not reacting seems to help him come to grips with it on his own terms.

- - -

I'm realizing that the ball is in his court on this one, with very little to do with me and my awesome/terrible parenting techniques. No matter what we do this is something that he has to work through. We're being consistent, we're pretty fair, we don't get angry. That's what's frustrating about it. Some connection in his brain that says "no hitting!" isn't making the leap, and we can't do that for him. It's just like every other parenting dilemma– it comes in phases, we keep on working through it, it will end. (Can we repeat that, just for my own psychic well-being? It. Will. End.)

In between these crap incidents he is a magical adorable dream to be around. I genuinely believe that he's just ~~being a little shit~~ completely frazzled and not that he is being motivated by fear or insecurity. Nothing in particular we've done has brought this on. He's not being "bad." It kills me to read articles that claim all toddler hitting is "obviously" a desperate cry for attention. That idea is straight up laughable... but it still stings, occasionally, when I don't have my game face on or after a particularly stupid day.

Truth is, the jude is no shrinking violet. He's as sassy as both of his parents and BOOM, this is exactly what you get when you mix explosives. When I think about what this means for his future I wouldn't want him any other way. Not that I want him to run around punching people on the street as a problem solver, but he will get it eventually, and it's a symptom of something awesome– a confident self. It's just not very fun right now.

I'm not looking for different ways to deal with it. Full. Stop. I don't want a list of suggestions. I feel like our approach is absolutely bang on. I just need... a pep talk. I need someone to come sit in my corner and spray water in my mouth and rub that wax shit all over my forehead so I'm ready for the next round. Team huggybear.

I will outlast you, grouchy little honey badger.
I'm in it to win it until you figure your shit out. Kiss kiss.

blackout shmackout

noreply@blogger.com (the grumbles) — Wed, 18 Jan 2012 15:00:00 +0000

dear friends,

As a few of you may have noticed you were unable to access this site as part of the SOPA/PIPA blackout. The good news is, things are back to normal. If that's all you need to know, byeeeeeee! If you're interested in why I decided to participate I think it's worth a brief mention.

The blackout of Wikipedia and other sites (including this blog!) was not a 'protest' or 'demonstration,' it was a simulation of the future if SOPA/PIPA passes as it reads today. These bills encourage the development of censorship for websites with little recourse or due process.

I have had content and photos scraped/stolen. I am against piracy and I'm all for better protection for our content. This is just not the right step to do that. I read the bills because several people contended that this would, "not affect bloggers, ps shut up yall, WAH." There's no doubt the intended target of this is foreign websites and file-sharing sites like pirate bay. While that might be their best intention, the wording right now leaves a grand canyon of trouble for the rest of us. This is a fumble in the dark which will be at the expense of small creators.

At this point we've all been inundated with SOPA/PIPA information and jokes– trouble is, those old dude's making our legislation aren't on twitter or facebook. We still need to make sure they know we don't support the bills. I wrote to my representatives yesterday and I hope you did/will too.

back to business as usual, and lord help us let it stay that way

all my love,
j grumblies

Ol' Pawhands' Revenge- viva la 2012!

noreply@blogger.com (the grumbles) — Tue, 17 Jan 2012 14:47:00 +0000

Thanks to Walgreens for underwriting this post. I was paid as a member of the Clever Girls Collective, but the content is all mine. Visit http://www.discoverbeautywithin.com/ for beauty tips, deals, and shopping guides.

Hey, remember this chick? God, what a weirdo.

In November I embarked on a peril-filled quest for self improvement– I vowed to wash my face every night before bed, in the hopes that it would make my skin happy. Did it? No. Absolutely not. Operation Pawhands McFacetoucher was a fail inside a fail failed up inside a whale and in fact, that whole deal has kind of given my skin the wiggins ever since. Congratulations! You're ruined.

When it comes to beauty and self-care I'm aggressively apathetic. I'm married. And a mom. And I work. Who the hell cares? Bizarrely, this works for me. BUT, it turns out that kind of attitude can do a number on your self esteem. So, I'm setting some goals for 2012 to help me um... care at all... about ~~that~~ me. And no, one of my goals is not posting more pictures of myself wearing mittens, though I can probably slip that in at least three or four more times.

(I don't really "get" the self portrait thing but yet people ie readers seem to be all up on it. I just can't imagine why you would want to sit around looking at my face. Derp. Here's your face quota for January. It's me! Moving on.)

Beauty goals for apathetic people 2012, all up on it:

Have yall heard of this thing called blush? It's this crazy new– oh wait, no, it's been here forever, I just avoided it because the 80's instilled such a voilent fear of clownface in my heart. I recently discovered that you can apply blush properly and not only look normal, actually improve your appearance. As someone with pale pale skin anything I can do to add color is good, and with a round face I can always use some additional cheek definition. Bronzer has had a long time place in my routine but now I'm on board with the classic. Blush– it's in and/or around my face in 2012.

Get it wet. I mean, moist. I mean, keep it wet. Get it moist? Slick it up? Wow that should stop almost immediately assuming we don't keep going. There was one tiny beam of light that sprung from Operation Pawhands McFacetoucher, and that was learning not to fear moisture. In the past I always saw Mr. Moisture and Dr. Oil as the same thing, evil best friends holding hands and skipping through a field together before their chicky-babes throw me into a pool. I'm coming around. Moisture, and even a certain amount of oil, are actually good for my skin. I can accept this. I can. I will be strong. I will moisturize accordingly. Oil is my friend, or at the very least a benevolent pen-pal.

As I'm sure absolutely none of you are aware, I have been growing my hairs out so they might one day cover my up-top like a shirt. Ol' Pawhands McShirt-hairs, that'll be my name. This is the first time I've had hair this long, oh, ever, and I'm discovering that once I suffered a few inches past that annoying shoulder-length phase my hair is actually easier to take care of than ever before.

To clarify, when I say easier I mean I do nothing to it, ever. I don't brush it, I don't wash it, I don't put things in it. This is not an exaggeration and it probably deserves its own post because no one believes me. After Christmas I made the mistake of using a new shampoo after 27 days of non-washing and I'll be regretting that very fluffy decision until 2014. Do not mess with the hair's self-contained ecosystem (minus when I apply the magic stuff that rhymes with shmoconut boil, go ahead and rub that alllllll up in it), otherwise, don't mess with success. Shirt-hair here we come, wear it loud, wear it proud.

More coffee, look acceptable, be moist, have shirt hair. Boom, 2012 I got this.

How 'bout you?

january, set two

noreply@blogger.com (the grumbles) — Mon, 16 Jan 2012 14:19:00 +0000

(our bedroom- before and after)

(in my bag, top to bottom: flash drives and lens cloth, the jude's watch / my watch, emergency micro machines, lipstick, candycane straw, hat, three clementines, rolling pin, hair clip, wallet
unpictured/barely pictured: millions of coffee receipts)

(this counts as reading, right? totally edumacational.)

(and then I died)

january 2012: one | two | three | four

pretty things

noreply@blogger.com (the grumbles) — Sat, 14 Jan 2012 15:04:00 +0000