Optimistic Cynicism

I'm Old-Fashioned

2012-02-10T08:59:00.007-05:00

As many of us all over the world did, I watched the video of the dad who shot the laptop because his daughter is a teenage brat.

It was nostalgic, really. I also realized how much I appreciate having grown up in the era before social media.

For instance, there was no video evidence of the night I said "F*** You!" to my dad, and my sister thought I was going to die. It would be totally embarrassing if anyone saw how tough I really was... hiding in a closet.

Back then, when some kid took topless pictures of half the Senior girls, he got in trouble for DEVELOPING FILM in class. It's comforting to know that if somebody wanted to be pervy with an up-close of my chest, he'd have to go through the photography teacher.

If I had a crush on a boy, I wrote "Ryan Ashley Boys-Last-Name" a hundred and twenty times in PRIVATE. The only type of hacking that would help some busy-body find my love notes would be prying open my combination locker.

When I snuck out to a wild party, not once did I ever worry about a random video posting of my Boones Farm stupidity making it's way back to my parents.

Maybe I'm just old-fashioned. I like my private pictures on photo paper, my secret love notes folded into a triangle, and all of it stuffed into a shoe box in the back of my closet.

Up-Down, Up-Down

2011-12-19T20:43:00.004-05:00

I've watched the movie Parenthood with Steve Martin maybe 5 times in my whole life, beginning when I was a tween. Every time I watch it, I seem to be in a different section of life. Tween, teen, early twenties, late twenties right after Monsoon was born, and just now in my early thirties. Every time I see it, I find something new and hilarious that I can relate with - something I never even noticed in the movie before.

There's one scene that has stuck with me since that very first viewing at the By-Jo Theatre when I must have been only 11 or 12 years old.

When life seems like a perpetual string of insanity, I think of Batty old Grandma from Parenthood, chittering about her first roller coaster ride. "Up, down, up, down, oh what a ride... Some didn't like it. They went on the merry-go-round. That just goes around. Nothing. Hmph..."

Sometimes life does feel like that first ride, climbing a hill for far too long. It's exhilarating and uncomfortable. It makes you feel sick half way up and might even be a little regrettable, but once you finally get to the top, you only have a few fleeting moments of fear before the momentum catches you and you can't help but smile through the screams.

There are two lessons in riding twice. You know what's coming the second time around. You're prepared, and there are fewer surprises along the way.

Lesson 1 - The more you ride, the more comfortable you get.

Lesson 2 - Those unexpected twists and turns, those hidden loops and surprise falls... they were a really big part of the fun.

Bad Mommy: I was never a star student

2011-09-19T06:40:00.001-04:00

Screaming, for me, is a regular element in the finishing of course work. It's been that way since first grade - or whenever it was we started learning about math (math is stupid, by the way).

In elementary, it often went like, "I HATE math! I hate YOU! I'm stupid! I don't WANT to do it! I don't CARE!!!" At the time, I probably would rather have lived in a box and had no parents than actually sit down and think about subtracting 3 from 7.

In Junior High, it went more like, "I HATE math! I hate YOU! I'm stupid! I don't WANT to do it! I don't CARE!!!" At that time, I definitely would rather have lived in a box and had no parents. Except for the box part - I needed my curling iron and hair spray.

High School was a little different. "I hate EVERYTHING! I hate YOU! YOU'RE stupid! I don't CARE!!!" I did actually move out for a couple of days - not to a box, but it might as well have been. I still didn't care if I had parents, but they did buy my Guess Jeans, so I didn't stay gone long.

Now, as an adult going back to school, things have changed just a tad. There's less blaming of my parents, and boxes don't hold the same intrique; but there's still yelling, more eloquent "bleeping," and sometimes I throw things.

Today, Monsoon said to me, "I'm sorry you're computer doesn't work when you want it to, Mommy. But maybe you should get off those not-nice-words when you're angry."

I feel like I should probably set a better example of how you're supposed to behave while studying. Or maybe he'll make a note of not being an idiot like his mother?

Bam. Right when I least expected it.

2011-09-12T11:55:00.004-04:00

I didn't cry the day Monsoon started Kindergarten. I fully expected to be a soggy mess. I waited all day, but the tears just never came.

The morning went nothing like I anticipated, though. The bus was twenty minutes late, and then it passed our house so we had to run down the street to catch it. I got right in my car and drove straight to school, but all the surrounding streets were packed, so I had to park two blocks away. As soon as I stepped out of the car, his bus passed me. I told him I would be waiting when he got off the bus, so what else could I do? I booked it all the way to the school, half of the path being straight up a huge hill. I couldn't feel my legs by the time I got to him, but he was just stepping onto the sidewalk. I was just in time. We walked to his room together, holding hands, and when we got there, his eyes lit up and he was ready to begin his new adventure. Such a big boy.

I still didn't cry. Probably when I could feel my legs again, I'll be able to cry, I thought. A handful of people called or texted to see how I was doing (funny, they knew I was the one the worry about, not the boy). I couldn't believe it myself, but I was completely fine. Maybe I had grown and matured, too. Maybe I could enjoy the sweetness of this day, rather than finding it just a tad bitter.

Today, I was out running errands and happened to drive by his old preschool. The one he went to for 2 1/2 years; the one he started when he was barely three.

As I drove by, a memory drifted through my head of a little boy with baby-fine hair, ears too big for his head, wearing his tiny navy winter coat that went all the way down to his knees, holding my hand as we walked into that school. I saw his big eyes taking in everything new, saw his little feet pattering down the hall, trying to keep up with my pace. I felt his gentle kiss on my cheek, his short chubby arms around my neck... I heard him squeal, "Mommy!!" in his three year old voice and remembered how he would say, "I Yike school," when he couldn't make the L sound.

So this is how it happened. This is how it finally hit me, and I cried all the way home.

And so it begins...

2011-09-06T06:14:00.000-04:00

Kindergarten starts today.

I'll make him chocolate chip pancakes, and we will sit at the table and chat about the exciting day ahead. I will lay out his first-day-of-school clothes and remind him to brush his teeth and use the potty before he leaves. I will take loads of pictures, of course.

I'll hold his hand in the driveway while we watch the big, yellow bus rumble up our street. We will hear it's unmistakable "screeeeech... Puffffff" as it stops. He will let go of my hand and climb onto the bus. I will wave. I might blow him a kiss, if it won't embarrass him - I'll have to remember to ask.

I'll take my mother's advice and drive to school, meeting him when the bus parks to make sure he knows where to go from there. This is more for me than for him, I know. I will walk him to his classroom. I hope he wants to hold my hand while we walk, but I'll understand if he doesn't.

I will try really hard to not be ridiculous tomorrow morning. I'll try really hard not to cry.

He says I won't be sad like the pretend parents in his 'The Night Before Kindergarten' storybook. "They're silly," he says. "They don't know the kids get to go home after school."

They are silly, I tell him.

I don't tell him I'm silly, too.

Enemim King

2011-09-05T07:18:00.001-04:00

Hello, my name is Ashley and I'm a chocoholic.

My dad gave me half of his Hershey bar when I was barely old enough to eat jarred mush. My mom once picked me up from Kindergarten with an unopened pack of M&Ms in her winter coat pocket, and the first words out of my mouth when I closed the car door were, "I smell chocolate." I can tell the difference between brands of chocolate used in homemade ice cream (FYI: the Valrhona was better than the Ghirardelli). My husband makes me brownies when I'm having a bad week - and he knows not to eat more than one. The rest of the pan is mine. I'm ashamed to admit that I have eaten an entire devil's food cake on more than one occasion. I can honestly not remember the last time I went an entire day without chocolate in some form or another.

So the other day, after Monsoon played the pretty funny joke on me, I was going to need a quick choco-fix or I was going to lose my cool. I ran to the cupboard, knowing all I had were a couple measly bags of chocolate chips. I had to reach up to get them, but when they came down, something else - something bigger - fell on my head.

It was the biggest bag of M&Ms I've ever seen, a parting gift from a coworker before we moved, and I had completely forgotten about them. It was like they were glowing under the florescent light above the kitchen sink and I could almost hear angels singing on high as I stared down at the unopened bag. Of course the boy walked in before I could regain my composure (or hide them), so I poured us a bowl and we played Rummy while we snacked.

After a while, he said, "There's only one left, Mommy. Do you want it? Or can I have it?"

"Monsoon, there are 4 M&Ms left in that bowl."

He looked at me like I was an idiot, rolled his eyes and said, "Yeah. I eat them four at a time."

Apparently this addiction is genetic.

A Good Joke, Huh Mommy?

2011-09-03T07:48:00.000-04:00

Monsoon wasn't feeling too hot the other night, so I gave him a cool, wet compress to put on his forehead. He thought it was awesome and it helped him enough so that he could go to sleep.

The next day, I told him I was going to take a nap. "Go ahead and play, I'll just lay here on your bed and sleep for a bit." Of course I would loved to have taken a nap, but I didn't actually intend to.

I hadn't closed my eyes for an entire minute when I heard him sneak close to me to check if I was asleep yet. I kept my eyes shut. He got excited and quickly left the room, whispering, "I know what I can do for Mommy!" with a giggle. Then I heard the bathroom water running.

How sweet, I thought. He's going to give me a cool compress to help me sleep. I love that kid!

So I waited, keeping my eyes shut, barely able to suppress a grin when I heard him creep back into the room.

He lifted the sopping wet, ice cold wash cloth over me, and squeezed it as hard as he could.

Then he cackled. "That was a pretty good joke, huh Mommy?" More cackling.

I just don't know where he gets this demented sense of humor.

My Brother and the Saw

2011-09-02T07:39:00.005-04:00

I've been writing ever since I can remember. One particular story I wrote as a kid was, like most fiction, based on a real life experience. It was immediately wadded up and pitched out, probably because it scared my mom.

My brother, who couldn't have been more than ten at the time, was working on a project. He had to make something out of wood, I don't know what or why - possibly a race car and possibly for Boy Scouts. I only remember it was wood because he had to use the electric saw in my dad's "workshop" (the garage).

I didn't know anything about saws except the kind in the garage were loud - even from inside the house with all the doors shut - and they could chop off your arm. I probably knew that leaving a child alone in the garage, working on one of them, was not a good idea. I don't recall why my dad wasn't in there with him, either - he could have stepped out for a second to feed the cats or he could have gone on a fishing trip for the weekend, I really can't remember (must be that temporary loss of brain power that I've come to know so well. Apparently my parent's had it, too).

All I know is, my mom and sister and me were watching TV when we heard the most awful, earsplitting cries of agony coming from the garage. Mom jumped up and raced to the garage door; my sister and I tripped over each other to get right behind her. She shoved her tiny body through the door and stopped short. We bumped into her butt and each took a side to peek around.

He was singing.

My sister laughed. Mom cried. I wrote a story with an alternate ending. My mom didn't like it.

We all deal with anxiety and stress in our own way.

Holy Underwear, Batman!

2011-08-26T07:27:00.000-04:00

I should mention that it took me three tries to figure out how to spell underwear. These are the types of holes that are worrisome - the ones in my memory. Hopefully by the time I forget everything else, I will have forgotten that I ever knew those things to begin with.

Other types of holes, however, are just plain bothersome. Holes in my underwear, for instance. Why do I even still have them? Because I don't remember they have holes until I'm using the bathroom with nothing else to look at.

Mornings are rushed. I went to work with my skirt on in-side-out recently, so obviously I pay close attention to my appearance before leaving the house. Even if I do glance in the mirror, I will certainly never do it in my skivvies. I made that mistake once before and there's still a pain in my gut when I think about it. Expanding and sagging don't mix, and that's all I'll say about that.

By the time I've drowned myself in half a pot of coffee, I'm usually out of the house, on with my day, and ready for my first daylight trip to the bathroom. This is when I notice the holes and give myself a 'Hmm. That's right, these need to be replaced' mental note.

A moment later and I'm concentrating on how best to shut off the water and dry my hands without touching anything. The only holes left on my mind are the ones the paper towel might provide as I'm opening the door with it.

Who inspects their undies when they take them off and throw them in the dirty laundry? If I'm not looking at them when I put them on, what's the point when I'm done with them? Therein lies the problem, I suppose.

The holy underwear cycle continues.

Frivolousness of Being

2011-08-25T09:07:00.004-04:00

I took a very rare indulgence in turning on The Today Show for a minute this morning, and I watched a segment on the Super Mom of our generation and why she's depressed. It got me to thinking...

When I got married, I knew what I wanted. I wanted that 50's housewife life where I stayed home to keep house, cook dinner, and care for a load of children. I loved the idea of being that woman. I could relate to that woman.

What I didn't realize until a few years later was that homemakers in the 50's were mostly depressed; popping pills, sticking their heads in the oven, and mixing bleach with ammonia in the bathroom. I could also relate to that woman.

A few years after that, it occurred to me that that woman wasn't permitted to have any sort of true passion or self. She was expected to be extatic about keeping the household in order. That was it. Organizing the Mister's suits and keeping track of his golf bag; making sure little Jimmy made it to his ball game; teaching Suzie to sew and cook and be just as perfectly pretend happy as her mother. After a while, it probably occurred to her, too. This is it? This is my life? What about me?

While I loved being at home with the house and I did enjoy cooking, it just wasn't enough. It was more like I was doing all those things to keep busy. To keep from really feeling anything. To keep from thinking about how I was essentially doing nothing.

What that woman needed was a passion. I found mine in writing. It didn't matter if I was good at it. I just loved funneling thoughts through a pen. It made me feel free. It made my heart speed up, almost like I was doing something completely frivolous just for myself.

So that's it, I think. We get caught up in what other people expect of us, what they think we should be doing, the socially acceptable version of importance. We don't put enough stock in what we need for ourselves.

It's not frivolous at all. It might be the difference between putting a roast in the oven, or sticking your head in.

What's your passion? When did you find it?

So Many Reasons

2011-08-24T09:58:00.004-04:00

There's a reason schools start Kindergarten registration months in advance. It takes a year just to fill out all the paperwork and make sure your child knows enough "personal information" to make the cut before he starts (more like his address & phone number, less like "Mommy has long utters").

There's a reason people don't start University courses the same week they plan to move from one city to another. People who hook up the Internet for your courses don't come on time and you miss deadlines. You could have gone to McDonald's for free wi-fi, but you're feeling a little lazy after packing & hauling.

There's a reason landlords do not move into houses they have rented out. The dishwasher won't drain, the ceiling fan will mildly electrocute your husband, and there will be dog poop petrified to the floor of your garage.

There's a reason you pack your appliances rather than sell them when you move. If you need them again, you won't have to use a toaster oven and a dorm-sized fridge until you get new ones. You child, however, might enjoy having a house full of things just his size for once.

Lastly, there must be a reason why no one will attempt to buy your house... until the day after you move back into it. I just haven't figured that one out yet.

On Moving Crap

2011-08-21T22:22:00.004-04:00

My mom moves stuff. All the time. I've never quite figured out if she likes moving crap, or if she just needs to feel like she's getting something done. Mostly, she rearranges boxes (many of them mine) around her house. Could be she's passively telling me to get them the heck out of her basement, but I'm going to assume she just likes having them there for something to do with her weekends.

I, for one, can't see the enjoyment. We've moved twice now in the past 8 months and I'm pretty sure I'd rather have the flu than do it again.

Aside from the manual labor portion, once you finally get everything you own tightly packed and taped into boxes, maneuvered into an overpriced U-Haul, bounced into the new place, and strategically placed in all the wrong rooms... you go to bed for a few hours and wake up to find that instead of your stuff, you must have packed rabbits because there are twice as many boxes than there were last time you looked - and none of them hold what you need at the moment.

We moved Saturday. It is now Sunday evening, and I can only find socks and underwear. Hopefully I can locate at least one bag-o-clothes that are mine because I'm pretty sure the people at Monsoon's new school won't appreciate my husband's-boxers-and-a-sports-bra ensemble, which I've been rocking for the past 24 hours, when I take him in for Kindergarten registration.

Guys n Bombs

2011-08-10T06:18:00.000-04:00

It feels like only a few weeks ago we brought our screaming bundle of joy home from the hospital, swaddled and held tightly in my arms... idealistic notions of perfect parenthood still floating in our heads. We were going to kick this parenting thing's butt. Right after a quick nap...

My baby is six years old today, and has made out quite a specific birthday list.

Apparently this is what happens to children of "no guns allowed" parents... in addition to being a creative type who can turn ANYTHING into a gun (a stick, legos, his foot, even a marshmallow chewed to pistol-perfection). I don't even know how he KNEW about shooting crap, but he was figuring it out by the time he could talk.

The List:

tank that shoots

airplane with torpedoes

cannon soldiers

soldier action figures

Lego plane with bombs

bombs

I'm still holding out for that nap.

Eat and be Eaten

2011-08-08T06:25:00.000-04:00

Some people believe those who dream often have higher IQs. Others keep dream interpretation books on their nightstands. Some claim to never dream at all, and a few say they know they have dreams but just can't remember anything about them. I don't really buy into all that.

Sometimes they're just dreams and are better forgotten, no matter how realistic they seem. Like when I woke up and repeatedly kicked my husband in the back until he woke up so I could yell at him for cheating on me in my sleep. I was angry for two days.

Occasionally though, it's pretty obvious that your subconscious is sending you a message.

The other night I dreamt I was being chased around a shopping mall by a live T-Rex who kept alternately transforming into a woman in a business suit who bought me snacks. I could have left the mall, of course, but I then I wouldn't get any more snacks. I woke up as the T-Rex version was just about to chomp down on me, and mostly I was thinking how I wouldn't even get to finish my cinnamon soft pretzel.

I'm pretty sure my relationship with food is getting dangerous.

Geographical Anatomy

2011-08-04T05:23:00.002-04:00

How do you explain those parts to a 5 year old? How about a 4 year old? Three year old? Two?

When he was four, Monsoon got up-close and curious as a friend breast-fed her baby in our living room. I explained by way of comparing mommy's milk to cow's milk and he assumed that women have utters. Ahem. He might still call them that...

Most everyone I know has heard the story of the first time he watched me change my niece's diaper and very seriously asked, "Girls have two butts, Mommy?" It's one of my all-time favorites.

When it comes to naming a woman's nethers, no matter how many times he asks, I just can't bring myself to say it. I imagine every name I've heard of would sound vulgar coming from my preschooler. We could go with medical terminology, since he knows he's got a penis, but every time I think of saying "vagina," the scene from Kindergarten Cop plays out in my head.

I realize this has gotten out of hand. I've been deliberating far too long, and someone finally beat me to the punch. A girl at school today gave him his first official anatomy lesson, which he relayed to me at home.

"Hey Mommy? Boys have a penis and girls have a china."

You know you're an ECE professional when...

2011-08-03T06:56:00.000-04:00

I used to love being a preschool teacher. I still like it, but probably it's not as fun when at the end of the day, I don't want to play with my own young child. When Monsoon is a bit older, I look forward to enjoying my profession a bit more. For now, it's an 8-hour-a-day guilt trip followed by a couple hours of tantrums over a "bleh, gross!" dinner; *Sob* Why can't I have a snaa-haa-haack?; cheating at CandyLand; brush your teeth or they'll turn back and fall out; and please get your flipping pajamas on before I sew them to your butt!

Then I pass out and dream about the daily rituals of being a preschool teacher.

You can hold your bladder so long that by the time you finally make it to the bathroom, you get bored waiting on yourself to finish peeing.

If you didn't love potty humor, you'd be stark raving mad by now.

You can no longer smell when someone is poopy, but you instantly recognize the tell-tale butt bullet.

At the end of the day, your kid asks, "did anyone pee on you today, Mommy?" before he hugs you.

You've skipped lunch because you won't eat something with sneeze on it.

If you made a word cloud of everything you say in a day, POOP would take the most prominent position in the display.

You've laughed and cried at the same time more than once. This week. You may also have peed a little.

When a kid actually pees in his own face (and yeah, he did), you do your laugh-and-cry thing for the week.

You say things like, "We sit next to our friends, not on them" and "The toilet is for pottying, not for playing" or even "Underwear first, THEN pants."

You want to say things like, "Ewww!" and "Ewwwww!!" or even "EEEWWWW!!!"

People with other jobs couldn't possibly laugh as much as you do on a work day.

Finding the funnies

2011-08-02T07:02:00.004-04:00

Feels like it shouldn't take twenty minutes of staring at a blank screen with my fingers hovering quietly above the keyboard before I can think of anything to write about. This blog is all about me, and I'm right here having new experiences every day. Why is this so hard? I'm trying to think back to when I wrote a post every day. I always had something to share, some horrifying story turned humorous. Something that should have made me want to crawl under a table and suck my thumb, but ended up making me laugh instead.

That's just it.

I'm stuck in the thumb-sucking/table-crouching mode. I know I've missed it here in the blogosphere, but I think more than just something fun to pass time, it was a way to reorganize my thought process.

What's the old prayer, "Lord, grand me the something-or-other to do some-thing-or-other... and to accept the things I cannot change." That part right there. Blogging forced me to find humor in the things I couldn't change. To enjoy them. To conciously look for them and hope they came my way. Let's face it, if everything was good all the time, nothing would ever be funny.

So my problem right now seems to be that I'm stuck looking at the ridiculousness that is reality. I've forgotten how to flip the switch; how to find the funnies in the newspaper of my life.

Today, I welcome myself back to cathartic blogging. Let the humility begin!

Boring dreams

2010-07-25T10:29:00.002-04:00

Ever notice how when you're kind of bored with life, your dreams tend to get wilder? Maybe your subconscious is making up for your lack of fun? Like dreams are a way for our minds to express what we might be trying to suppress?

So what does it mean when you have dreams like this:

I woke up. I got out of bed. I walked to the kitchen for coffee.

That was my dream last night. That was it.

Do dreams get boring when life is wild?

All I know is, it was really hard to get out of bed twice in one morning.

Anniversary #12

2010-06-27T17:01:00.003-04:00

Like a boyscout, my husband is always prepared. Storm coming? The spare mattress will be propped up in the hallway next to our most inside closet, along with the weather radio and enough flashlights to illuminate The Great American Ballpark before you can say "tornado."

Dear Husband,

I only make fun of you for the things I love most about you. After all, only you with your infinite preparedness could possibly live with this high-maintenance diva for twelve years and still wake up with a smile on your face every (other) morning.

Happy Anniversary, babe.

2010-06-26T18:44:00.004-04:00

Wow. It's been so long since I've even thought about writing a post that my own computer didn't recognize my website and I had to type the whole thing out. And then remember my password. And e-mail address. No wonder I haven't been back. I can't keep track of such things.

I believe - and no, I won't check for certain because I can barely remember how I got to this "new post" page to begin with.... and I'm lazy - but I believe my last post went something like "if I can't say something nice at least 5 posts out of the week, I won't say anything at all."

So maybe you can guess how I've been. Maybe you can relate?

No, no. It's not all bad. There are lots of great things going on, but none of that stuff is interesting enough to write about. For instance, I've played Candy Land a dozen time in the last week. I have a new career. I talk on the phone a lot. I meet new people. I play with Monsoon. Nice things.

I also clean poop off of the floor, throw out soiled diapers, disinfect my house three hundred times a day, wash an old lady, hide my knives (yes a few of them HAVE gone missing) and forget to do laundry most of the time. Not so nice things.

So in leu of all the undesirables, I've been spending more time doing happy stuff to make up for it. Blogging is happy, yes, but it's another thing that takes time away from Monsoon. Time he needs for "just us." I'm here, I'm just not here. For now.

The bright side. Or rather, through the dark side.

2010-05-03T08:43:00.000-04:00

In an effort to stop griping so much about the Dorothy situation, I'm going to limit myself to one whiny-Dorothy moment per every 5 posts. Hopefully I won't have that many gripes, but realistically, I'll simply be writing more often. If I need to vent every week, I'll just have to put some good stuff out here, too. Good - meaning nice or something that makes me laugh, not the kind of good like I promise it'll be interesting.

So this week's bright spot comes in the form of a silver lining.

I had to give Dorothy a shower. That's the cloud part. The dark-middle-of-a-storm-cloud part is while I was bending over to dry the back of her legs that she said (yelled) she couldn't reach because she can't bend over... she bent over. I was confronted by a 77 year old hoo-ha. Blech. As if merely scrubbing her back wasn't gross enough.

The silver lining, you ask?

After seeing her in the buff, my personal body image has skyrocketed. I can finally look in the mirror and think, "it's not that bad." I'm almost sure it has nothing to do with blurry vision after having scratched out my eyes.

6WS: And he's in a parade, too...

2010-05-01T07:45:00.004-04:00

Opening Day - Monsoon's first baseball game.

**Visit Show My Face for more Six Word Saturday enjoyment.**

Bad Mommy Weekly, No More Toys

2010-04-30T12:58:00.004-04:00

I know what you're thinking. This mommy hasn't shared any Bad Mommy Weekly posts in quite a while. She must have discovered the holy grail of mommy-dom. She's become the perfect mommy and no longer has any Bad Mommy stories to tell.

You're absolutely right. Just stop reading now and go find some unfit parent's blog to read. There's nothing to see here.

For those you living in reality, welcome and congratulations! You may continue skimming this post and likely feel better about yourself in the end.

Monsoon is a reallyreallyreallyreally rough kind of kid. He doesn't do anything half way. He likes to pretend, usually that he's a hero out to save the day. Lucky toy who doesn't get chosen to be his nemesis, though. The way he breaks things, you'd think we only let him play with glass toys. Most of the time, it's an accident - he just gets carried away beating the transformer into the ground or drowning the evil electronic microphone in the toilet.

It's because of this toy-torture that he doesn't have as many toys as most kids do. He has plenty - a surplus still, if you ask me - but we weed through and sell or give away toys that he doesn't play with often because if they're here, they'll surely turn into the enemy and once their beheaded, no one will want them.

He still breaks the ones he has, though, so I told him last week that if he broke another one of his toys, we would take away ALL his toys and give some of them to kids who would appreciate them and take care of them. I reminded him all week, when I saw him getting rough with them, of the consequence of breaking another toy.

After only a few days, he came to me, pieces of his bumble bee helmet in his arms, and asked me politely if I would fix it.

Well crap.

I took every toy in the house, made him help me box them up so that he could experience the full effect of what was happening, and put them all out in the garage. He cried. He tried not to cry, which is awful because then I know he isn't doing it just to get his stuff back. He was devastated. So I told him he could keep ONE toy and one toy only. He could keep the helmet he had just broken. It wasn't much of a comfort to him, but I thought it fit well with the lesson I was trying to convey.

So today I'm dusting his room, including the helmet, and I'm thinking, "Well how odd. Two of the four pieces are broken in the exact same spot. Hmmm."

You can guess where this is going, right? It took about ten minutes, but I finally figured out how to put the pieces back together. Apparently, it was made to come apart.

I have to tell him. Don't I?

Anger-shopper

2010-04-23T10:22:00.005-04:00

It's not often that I actually want to shop. For anything. I was never one of those women who relished the thought of a new wardrobe or had to freeze her credit cards in a block of ice to keep from overspending.

Don't get me wrong - I love shoes and purses, but I only buy them if I can't live without them AND they're on clearance. As for other stuff? I can almost always live without it.

Some women shop when they need a pick-me-up. It's like an anti-depressant for them. Me? I'm good with food. No need to get out of my pajamas when I can simply spoon-feed myself an entire jar of nutella or consume the occasional stick of butter dipped in sugar.

But lately... lately, I feel this pull towards the store. Any store, anywhere, that sells anything. It's weird and different and altogether exciting. I find myself surfing Amazon, e-bags, Overstock and countless other online shops (because again, I can stay in my pajamas). It doesn't stop there, though. IRL places like the Coach store call my name - I just want to go in and hug all those beautiful purses!

Another strange thing is happening with me lately, too, and I think the two may be connected. See, I'm usually a pretty laid back (or at least as laid back as a high maintenance girl can be) person. I've learned to breathe through my frustrations, vent in writing, call my friends to get things off my chest, and physically run to keep stress at bay.

Ever since Dorothy moved in, though, I've been on edge. It's mostly the gross-factor. I can handle gross in small doses, like at the park when some kid picks their nose and then wants to hold hands with my son, or if Monsoon crawls around on the floor and forgets to sanitize his hands before eating his chicken fingers, or even when the dog occasionally poops in the house.

The thing about Dorothy is, she's gross all the time, and I'm always here. I'm always thinking about where her crusty fingers have been before she rifled through that bag of pretzels (and then I end up throwing out the bag of pretzels). I'm constantly saying, "No thank you, I don't want to feel how cold your hands are" because you've just spent 40 minutes in the bathroom and not washed your hands before you came out (and then she goes ahead and swipes her nasty paws against my FACE so I can feel how cold she is in our 70 degree house).

I'm not depressed. I'm angry. And I want to shop. I think I'm an anger-shopper.

Happy Earth Day!

2010-04-22T08:28:00.004-04:00

In addition to the G.R.E.E.N. tips I gave you last year, we've been adding to the list of environmentally friendly ways we do things around here...

Dorothy has been especially helpful.

She reuses. Why, just a few days ago I found her using our bathroom hand towels to give herself a whore bath. (Sorry, Earth, but I'm going to have to put a stop to this one).
She saves water. Like I mentioned above, whore bath. She also refuses to wash her hands. (Again, Earth, my apologies. We're going to have to fix this.)
She insists on wearing the same clothes day after day. She also tries to hide her plastic panties (diapers) in her shirt drawer so that she can reuse them night after night. Isn't that helpful? (Dear Earth, I realize you are appreciative of Dorothy's efforts, but I may go insane).

Some of us are trying to help out on a more practical level.

It's tough, I know, but we use the dishwasher. Saves more water than hand-washing.
We keep the tv off until after Monsoon goes to sleep, with the exception of his daily cartoon when I take a shower.
The trampoline! It's more fun than a video game and ensures that the boy will actually sleep when he's supposed to. Bonus: it ensures that I can sleep when I'm supposed to. Take that, insomnia!
I put our reusable water bottles to use. Not only do they hold more water than the plastic throw-away kind, it's fun to watch Dorothy struggle to figure how to use the pop-up top.
Most of our household cleaners have been replaced with environmentally friendly ones, which is especially nice since I find myself disinfecting EVERYTHING several times a day (see Dorothy's bullets above as to why).
We're planting our own veggies this year, and even trying out starting them from seeds. If it works (and by "works" I mean if I remember to water them and transplant them into the garden outside before they die), we will have saved the planet from a few dozen plastic seedling containers from the garden center.

It doesn't seem like much, but every little bit helps. What are you doing for our planet?