Inappropriately Excessively Fun Pool Time

Today we went to The Pool.

There was a stop involved, before The Trip to The Pool.

We picked up some noodles.

Friend + Self + 4 kids + 4 noodles = inappropriately excessive pool fun.

For instance, Friend and Self could be heard to utter any of the following phrases at any time during our pool time:

Put that noodle down.

Keep your noodle to yourself.

Nobody wants to be whacked with your noodle.

Stop poking your noodle into other people, or I will have to remove your noodle.

I don't care why you just knocked a glass off of the table; 'My noodle just got too big' is not a very good reason for losing control of your noodle.

Put your noodle down in the car; it's dangerous to go waving your noodle around when people are driving.

If you don't stop touching his noodle, I will take all the noodles away from everyone!

I am not sure how I feel about everyone having noodles.

Worthy (of historical moments) Conversations

On a recent drive home from a windy beach outing with old friends:

Bubbles: Supergirl, I think you're gonna marry Henry.
Supergirl: Oh YEAH??? Then you are gonna marry Davey and be GAY!
Bubbles and Davey: ........
Bubbles: No I'm NOT! I'm not gonna marry Davey!
Because I'm gonna marry Mama!!





Yesterday, in the Yard:

Mom: Owl, did you hit Bubbles with a sword?
Owl: NO!!!
Mom: Then why did you run away?
Owl: Because I didn't like the NOISE!!
Mom: What noise?
Owl: The CRYING noise!
Mom: Who was crying?
Owl: Bubbles.
Mom: Why was he crying?
Owl: Because I hit him with a sword!

Acupuncture Saved Me Again

It isn't like it hadn't been recommended before.
It had...come up...it had...been suggested.

You know, you are carrying an overwhelming burden. Self-care is important. You are doing a great job caring for the children. You need to take some measures to reduce this amount of stress for yourself while protecting them from it all.... It's too much. What has happened could put anyone on the edge, let alone someone with the cumulative amount of shit you have had to wade through recently. This hits it out of the ballpark. Do something. Here are some numbers.

Yes!! Thank you for the great suggestions. I will just reach into my overdrawn bank account and pay a practitioner to help me.

But then the fabulous suggestion turned into a strong recommendation. One might even call it an insistence. Which manifested as a high-five and a heartfelt agreement.

Fine, I agreed. I took the numbers and called.
And I couldn't believe it when I called....was this for real????
Acupuncture on a sliding scale for $25 low end????

It's been rough here.
We're up; we're down.
Up was feeling so good.
Then: Unimaginable Pitfall
Lately...downish.
Too much.
Piled on.
Too much to digest.
Too much.

So I realized I had no more excuses. I had to go and try it out.
I hadn't been to acupuncture in more than a year, and this was a new practitioner.

It was a slightly different treatment than I remembered with the previous LAC, whom I saw for nearly 10 years - this guy tapped the needles in a bit more...err...firmly? I felt it, but it wasn't exactly a definable pain... and then he gave them a distinct twist, which felt like an electrical charge, which made me jump only twice. Or cringe. Or twitch. Any one of those is acceptable.
I was skeptical.
Then I was left to relax with those needles. I was glad for the blanket I had first politely refused - the needles can make you cold! Warm enough, I started to actually relax.
I breathed.
I thought.
I tried not to think so I could relax.
I remembered how badly I suck at meditation.
I tried breathing and tried to not remember how badly I suck anymore.
I think it must have worked to relax me.
Then I cried.
I don't like this bit.
But it wasn't overwhelming snot-wracked sobs or anything.
Just some quiet streaming tears.
I didn't like it a bit.
But yeah, I cried.

And you know what?
IT FELT GREAT.


I am going back.

Unsilenced

I have been having these particularly disturbing recurring dreams. In these dreams, I am pulling sticky gum? or tar?, or gritty-pebbly putty out of my mouth.

Although I pull it out in clumps and strings, I can't get it all out; I wake up worrying about dental disasters (which is not a completely abstract concept, considering reality), although these dreams do not coincide with any Real Dental Disasters.


Everything I have researched about this type of dream has pointed to the fact that I am feeling or being silenced.
I may be allowing this, but I have been silenced. I have chosen to be allowed to be silenced.

Okay. I will investigate this.

These dreams are stifling me.
They are silencing me.

I have a problem with being silenced.
And yes, I have a problem with being controlled, after taking many careful steps to reclaim my own life.

I will not be silenced.

Which is why I am putting myself back online.

Why I took myself 'offline' is another story, and that will have to wait.

Sighting of A Boy

The family walks past the long window and through the door of the taqueria. The mother leads the way. She is undeniably who I first think she may be; her wild kinky black hair and beautifully pumpkin shaped body have not been altered by the seven years which have passed, and she is easy to recognize.
She is followed by her short, shuffling and grumpy husband, and I lean forward to catch a glimpse of the one I want to see so dearly and at the same time am afraid....and in another short, interrupted breath - he bounces in, buoyant in spite of his father's shadow.
He is tall, considering the stature of his parents.
His hair is like hers, and his smile is hers.
He talks animatedly about black beans or pinto; turns his excitement towards the soda fountain. He is seven.

The mother notices me staring and looks at me suspiciously for a moment before a flicker of recognition.
I wait for her to go first.
"You look familiar...do I know you? I know I know you from something....swim classes? The library? Music class?"
I let her trail off before I decide to answer.
"The NICU. We met in the NICU. Our babies were in together."

She looks at my children, sizing them up...wondering...

So I say, "No. This is my daughter. She was not even two at the time. This is my son, and he is four. It was Elijah who was in the NICU."

"Oh yes, now I remember. How is he doing?"
I shake my head, realizing I got myself into this by staring at her son.
I don't think she wants to hear.

The silence with which she waits indicates she is expecting the rest of the story.

"Well, he died when he was thirteen months old."

We go through the usual dialogue.
"Oh wow. Oh. I am so sorry."
"I know. It's okay. It was terrible. We really miss him. But now it's our family history."
"Oh wow. I am so sorry. I don't know how you....I could never....I don't know what to say...."
"So, your son looks great. Congratulations, he's wonderful."
"Oh wow....the NICU....wow. Oh the NICU...I hadn't thought about it in so long."
"Sorry."

I gather up the scraps of my kids' quesadillas, and herd them out the door. When I turn to wave goodbye, her elbows are propped on the table, her head is in her hands and she is staring glassily into the orange booth in front of her.

"I'm sorry." I toss out, by way of 'goodbye'.




I really was.

Ten Bullet Points

1. Angel Food Ministries: check. There's one 30 miles from here - I am so all over that for July.
2. Kitteh. No, we are not getting a kitten. Although I am very good friends with a veterinarian and would have access to fabulous care, now is not the time.
3. No, build-a-bear clothes are not a necessity. Far from it, in fact. But those behind the 'dress the bear' movement, made my daughter's life brighter yesterday.
4. Yoga for a clinically depressed child with PTSD and behavior issues IS actually a necessity and she starts Tuesday. $6.50 per class.
   
5. My power will not be shut off.
6. I am on the phone with KitchenAid. UPDATE: If you are not calling within the ONE YEAR warranty (hahahahaha) then you are on your own. Who knew 30 pound kitchen appliances were disposable?
   
7. Thank you to those of you who sent WORK my way. Any reviews or writing opportunities are welcome and I work for product and/or actual payment.
   
8. I do this in addition to working 8-6.
9. Yes, block o government cheese IS poor people food, and I am poor right now.
10. I know I am a great mom. Thank you.
    

USAir Hates Families

So, I went back east. The kids came too, since we go pretty much everywhere together.
I needed a(nother) root canal, and Supergirl had a cavity which needed to be filled. No dental insurance + a brother who is a dentist + three roundtrip tickets back east = less money than California dentistry.
Except it turned out that Supergirl actually had insurance. It's just that nobody tried to tell us that when it was relevant and she was covered. Under her father's job. Which he mysteriously lost just days after being ordered to pay child support (which he must have interpreted as one of those 'optional' court orders, as evidenced by my empty mailbox). Strange thing is, he only disclosed the information that the kids were insured when we were about to fly back east. Too bad it wasn't sooner, as in, when they were first covered, because then she probably would have avoided the extraction. Father of the year, I tell you.
When I arrived in the tundra known as Buffalo, NY, it was about -6 degrees. Yes, that is a minus sign before the 6. I would have cried about it, but it was cold enough to freeze saltwater, and tear-sicles are very uncomfortable.
I would like to announce that my children are star travelers. Seriously. People would get on the plane and stare me down when they realized they had been seated near children. But at the end of each flight, those same passengers would inevitably be the ones to praise my children and their good behavior.
In fact, they were better behaved than some of the adult passengers and USAir staff I encountered on my first attempts to fly across the country. When I purchased my tickets I saw that they had seated me rows away from each of my children, aged 8 and 4. I called right away and asked for a seat change but was told they could only help me when I arrived at the airport. I've heard that one before.
When I arrived at SFO, I headed for the nearest agent, even though I had already checked in online. She spent a good deal of time trying to get us seats together, so much time in fact, that I was starting to get nervous about getting through security. She finally said there was nothing she could do, but they would be able to help me at the gate. Again, heard that one before.
By the time we reached the gate, the plane was already boarding. I talked to the gate agent, showed him my tickets, and he replied, "Why did you come at the last minute if you wanted to switch seats?"
"Whhaaaaaat?" I stammered, explaining that I had been at the airport for over an hour! "Why didn't you seat me with my kids?" I fired back.
"I wasn't the one who did that." He snidely replied.
"Ummm.....okay?" I looked at him expectantly.
He shoved my tickets back at me, disgusted. "Those are all middle seats - nobody will want to switch with you and we can't legally force anyone to switch. Plus, there's another family trying to do what you are doing."
"Ummm....okay?" I repeated...."Trying to do what I'm doing? Like sit next to their kids? I can't let them sit 10 rows away from me!! What should I do?"
He waved me on to the jetway. "Good luck with that."
I made my way down the very crowded jetway and down to a flight attendant. She looked at my tickets and said, "There's another family ahead of you trying to do what you're doing."
"So I've heard," I muttered back at her. I felt as if I was being accused of trying to sell cookies and wrapping paper to strangers on the plane. Or worse, was being accused of trying to light my underwear on fire (a joke I could not make in the airport!) ....not just trying to secure seats next to my minor children.
The exasperated flight attendant disappeared and came back to the jetway moments later. "Nobody wants to move into middle seats, and we can't legally force anyone to move from their seat."
I laughed and said, "You have got to be kidding me, right? I mean, okay...I guess it would be fine...I mean I haven't had a six hour break in I don't know HOW long...I guess I can just hand his electronics to the complete strangers sitting next to my four year old and pick him up in Philadelphia (connecting city)." At this point I may or may not have cackled maniacally.
"That's really not that funny." She said, dryly.
"WHAT??" I exploded. I had used up all my patience and humor. "You wouldn't let me put this four year old on a plane without me unless I hired an escort for him but you don't think it's FUNNY that you want to seat him practically in the LAPS of complete STRANGERS?? I think it's fucking HILARIOUS!!"
She handed my tickets back to me.
"Not my policy. Just enforcing it. Sorry, but there's nothing I can tell you. Nobody wants to move."
"That's IT???"
"I'm afraid so." And she left me standing there among a throng of passengers who were relieved that THEY would not be asked to switch seats and therefore sympathetic.
I walked back up to the gate; two kids, three backpacks, one stroller.
"Now what?" I asked the anxiety-plagued gate agent, as I handed back my unused boarding passes.
"Well....we can get you through another city but I have to check and see if I am allowed to do that, since your bags are already on the other plane and it could be a security problem."
"Not MY policy...." I muttered.

And so I was re-routed on another plane, through Charlotte, NC. Where it was a balmy 30 degrees.

So what happened? Anybody else ever experience this?
I have some ideas....
Now that USAir and most other airlines are nickel and diming us to stay in business (pay for bad snack food, pay to check baggage) they have to come up with new and creative ways to make more money than the tickets we already purchased. So some marketing WIZARD came up with the brilliant new plan of charging passengers $5 per flight to reserve a 'premium seat'. 'Premium seat' actually just translates into: A NON- MIDDLE SEAT. So basically, the message is that they hate families. There, I said it. USAir is anti-family. On top of the three full price tickets I purchased, they wanted an extra $5 per family member to ensure we would be able to sit together, instead of placing my children in the virtual laps of strangers.

They call it marketing.
I call it child endangerment.

Verizon Disney App Adventure; Part 1

Remember that secret I may have leaked a teeny tiny bit once or twice?

Yeah, that one.

Well...I was actually working while I was there so don't tell anyone how much fun I really had. I didn't think I would personally enjoy going to Disneyland as much as I would enjoy watching my kids have fun in Disneyland, but well....okay. I liked the mouseland, ALRIGHT??? Can we just keep this between us? Okay, you, me and Verizon.

Verizon?
Yes, Verizon. I was offered the opportunity by my friend, David Hoffman to try out a new Verizon application for Disneyland, and put it to the Gwendomama challenge. I had no idea what I was doing with either the app or Disneyland, because I (shhhhh) am was a Disneyland virgin, and if you saw how many keys were missing from my laptop you would easily and correctly assume my lack of technical snobbery or expertise. But I do love to have fun, and so not only did I accept the challenge...I agreed to be filmed while trying it. (As long as I could say whatever I wanted, whenever.)



I may or may not have been drunk crazed when I agreed to the filming part, but my friends hid the evidence and held me to my agreement.
Okay, I totally made that last part up because I hate the sound of my own voice and can't believe I agreed to be filmed. Why on earth would I talk about getting drunk in the same paragraph I mention Disneyland? This is a family blog. And Disneyland is ALL about the family fun and NOT AT ALL about endorsing drinking heavily. Unless you count Goofy.

First I was all, "Why do I need a special application on my phone to navigate Disneyland?" But nobody could hear me because they were all chatting away on their bluetooth devices. So I shouted, "WHY CAN'T I JUST USE THE PARK PROVIDED MAP?" and looked down to find my instantly discarded to the stroller map being mutilated by my small child. That was easy. Now I knew why, and also made a mental note to not allow the phone near said small child.

Turning on the phone, I found the 'Disney Mobile Magic' app and as soon as it loaded, it found me too! "Look!! It found us!!" I told Heidi, excitedly, "Look! That circle is us!!"
So yes, it knew where we were instantly. Which I find both awesome and creepy. I kept looking over my shoulder to see if someone was shining the circle on us and following us around with a laser dot. I told you, I am not very technical.
Despite my admonitions to 'go before we leave the hotel room', Heidi immediately needed a bathroom. We had just walked onto Main Street, USA, and the kids were overwhelmed with the dazzling Disney eye candy, so we could hardly see signs for a bathroom.
OH! The APP!!

'Mobile Magic' opened, I selected 'Guest Services' from the main menu and the first sub-option to pop up was 'restrooms'...which? Was awesome. Without moving from that spot, we located the subtly labeled and previously invisible bathroom directly behind us within about 40 seconds. Which means that Disney and Verizon are totally fine with you being too lazy to do it the old fashioned way by walking around and looking. And that? Again, awesome.

Right away, Bubbles wanted to meet Mickey. Since he is not a kid likely to be shy of giant masked friendly rodents (as his sister would have been) I was sort of excited to get him to Mickey ASAP. I went to the 'Characters' selection on the app, and just as I was telling Heidi that 'it says he should be right here in Main Street Plaza at 8:40' I looked up from my teeny tiny alluring screen to see a line forming directly in front of me. For Mickey. Right there, at Main Street Plaza.
Correct again, Mobile Magic!

Okay, with the bathroom stop and the meeting of Mickey under our mommy belts, we were ready to attack the meatier subjects at hand: Rides.
"WE WANT TO FIND NEMO!!"
Oh cool, now I was feeling useful! I whipped out the phone again, clicked on 'Attractions', looked for Finding Nemo's Submarine Voyage, and located it on the map to find how to get there from where we were.
Ready for the best part of all?
What's everyone's least favorite part of Disneyland?

.............(' -----take a moment--------')...............

Yes, we all agree.
Waiting in lines.
(That link, by the way has some great tips.)

This app updates every few minutes to tell you what the wait time is on any given ride.
There are other ways of finding out the wait times for rides; you can, alternatively walk to the kiosk in Main Street Plaza at any time and receive the updated wait times for any ride. And I encourage you to search ahead of time, which attractions you want to see and what you want to prioritize
But if you are roaming in the park nowhere near Main Street, and want to check the wait time of any ride at all in any area of the park, the app is going to save you some time.

While we were trying to find Nemo, we saw some rockets.
"WE WANT TO GO ON THE WOCKETS!!"
We were at Disneyland. Where world famous pirates and animatronic adorable small singing children abound, but our kids wanted wockets.
Whatever.
Wockets won.
And off to the wockets rockets we went.
And we were ready for more action.

We found Nemo just where the app said we would, but after our long and tiring submarine voyage, it was time for food.
Out came the phone, and since I was becoming pretty adept at using it, I bragged that I could find anything anyone wanted to eat. Which, with small children, translated into 'quick service and near- instant gratification'. Within a moment we had located a place to eat just yards away from us. My only complaint about this feature is that it showed me every kind of cuisine available from African to Thai food, but not one category was labeled 'coffee' or 'cafe'. If Disney wants me to chase my kids around in their park all day long, the coffee would help.

Something I didn't get to try out but found highly appealing was the 'set alerts' option for the 'Events' option. I tend to get distracted with my kids' involvement and may forget something in which they had earlier expressed interest. For instance, the parade. I could go to the 'Parade' label in 'Events' and set an alert on the phone so that, ten minutes before the parade (or whatever 'Event' I chose) the phone would ring and remind me.

Verizon certainly has a cutting edge product for Disney fans and park goers, and, with any brand new product, there are many suggestions for how to improve it. Droid users will be disappointed to find out that the Mobile Magic Application is not yet available to them.

Personally, I was pretty happy with the features of the app, but the Chocolate phone I was using would shut the app down every time I closed the phone and put it in my pocket. Sadly, this is just the nature of flip phones or phones which close.
I suggested a 'kid tracking application' to Verizon - useful in any situation in the prevention of lost children. If I can have all the benefits of GPS, I want a tiny receiver which I can clip on to my four year old's shirt or pants, activate with my phone, and keep track of him should he stray from my side. I am sure they will get right on that. (HELLO? Really nice guy from Verizon- are you listening?)

All in all?
I had more fun than I thought I would at Disneyland, I am now far more technically savvy than I was before using this app (and phone, for that matter) - so savvy, in fact, that you should hire me to teach you really important technical colored things . My only complaint is that Disney did not control the weather, and we spent one full day of our 2-day pass, drying our soaked shoes and socks over the heater and huddled in the motel room watching cable Disney channel.

My very last tip to you? Choose a motel with a hot tub. Because then, even if you get caught in the only freezing, pouring rainstorm of the year, you can get warm and keep children who are entertained by warmth and water happy.





This post was created voluntarily to record the events which were filmed by David Hoffman. I was not paid to write this post, nor was any other party able to edit the final publication.

Bubbles' First Poem, (as dictated to me yesterday, randomly and all at once in the car)

smoke
fire
house
trees
water
sirens
glass
and hurt
and sad
and scratching
monkey
dogs
arrows.

Definitely NOT Parent's Choice Toy Award Material...

I am in shock.

Bubbles loves his 'guys' more than any other toys. Sure, he loves his rescue heroes, and his trains, but not as much as his 'guys'. Guys are tiny and have many snippety-snappy accessories and come in blue boxes. Playmobil, with its attention to detail and lack of merchandise produced in China, has won our family over.

But today, while searching for 'guys' to go in the castle and boat he has requested for his birthday (he's not getting both, btw), I came across this.

And it is just so so very wrong.


Notice the mask and the scattered (obviously stolen) money.
It's a getaway car.

Spiderman Theme Song Debate

So Bubbles and his buddy, Orion, have a lot in common, beginning with their shared love of superheroes, especially The Best Superhero, Spiderman.

Much to Bubbles' excitement, Orion came to visit this weekend to 'pway wif toys and share the guys'!!

They then sat down to sing, and kept correcting each other on the lyrics of the Spidey theme song:




That was pretty funny, but then they got the giggles, and it devolved into some sort of knee-slapping hilarity:



I know. Just try not to laugh.

Thursday, August 13th: The day my mountain caught on fire...Again.

The Fire.

What can I say? I had hit my very personal emotional wall the night before. Not wanting to be his neighbor; with him insisting on being my neighbor. The person who 'didn't do anything wrong', even though I have clear memory of that person choking me twice. One person can only take so much, right?
I crumpled into a ball of someone who has had to take too much; I tripped over an upended basket of toys I had just cleaned up, then I threw a toy at a basket. Hard. Bubbles noticed and cried, "No Mommy!", I gathered him into my arms and cried. Parenting Fail.

Bubbles likes closure. We have gone through the following process nearly every day for a week now:

Mama, say sorry for throwing my toy.
Bubbles, I am sorry for throwing your toy. I was feeling very sad and it was wrong.
It's okay Mama, it's not your fault.
(Really, it is, but thanks, sweet thing.)
The end.
(Repeat.)

We read some books (Supergirl was on a sleepover), snuggled and fell asleep early that night. I dreamed of helicopters.

5:30 am, Thursday August 13th: Voluntary evacuation phone call.
WHAT??? Apparently there had been a fire raging nearby for nearly 12 hours. I cursed my broken wifi router for its crappy timing.

10:30 am: Mandatory evacuation phone call.

11:00 am: Giggling inappropriately at the act of packing my baby's ashes in a box, for the second time in 14 months, to rescue them from a fire.
After packing 'The Important Stuff', I hit a wall of 50% indecisiveness, 50% ennui. I had no idea what, nor desire to pack anything more.

12:00 noon: I lock the children inside because the smoke is getting bad. Also, they have taken to shoving random things into the car such as individual crayons and tubes of yogurt.

1:30 pm: First visit from the Sheriff. "Sign this or leave," they said.
"We're just looking for the cat..."

2:45 pm: Second visit from the Sheriff. "Sign this or leave," they said.
"We're just looking for the cat..."
"Sign this or leave," they repeated. I nod.


2:55 pm: Telling my eight year old to say goodbye to her house and most of her belongings.
Leaving our ten year old siamese cat, Ocean, behind - because she ran off, presumably afraid of the sudden influx of air traffic.
3:00pm: "Say goodbye to the house," I said.
"Goodbye, house," they both called.
"Say goodbye to Ocean," I choked out.
"Goodbye, Ocean Kitty!" they both shouted, loud enough for any ornery cat with a shred of sense to hear.

We drove off into the smoke, our car crammed full of chickens and ashes and papers and small plastic objects which my children somehow found meaningful and had shoved into the remaining crevices.

5:00 pm: Moving around slowly, the chickens delivered to a chicken foster home (procured by dear veterinarian friends), unsure which move to make next. I knew I had to pick up the recently discharged laptop, so 'stopped by' to visit the friend who lived a block away from there, as she had been one of the nine people who had called me while packing.
Heidi's house had burned down 18 months ago, unrelated to either fire, but she and her (documentary filmmaker) husband lost everything in 1/2 of their house/office; every archive and each and every layer of thought from which it was collected and compiled.
Her response was that of a seasoned friend and refugee.
Her first comment was, "You know you are welcome to stay here, okay? You know that, right? Whatever you need."
Her first question asked was, "I am going to the store. What kind of alcohol can I bring you?"

We stopped by on Thursday and left four days later. Their kindness, our similarly aged and ironically compatible children, their intuitively perfected assistance...their patience with our inherently early vs. late scheduled kids....all added up to the best spontaneous vacation evacuation possible.


One week later: Listening to my three year old tell the story over and over, to anyone who will listen.
"The fire not burned the house! The smoke make mama sick! The cat gone, but she okay! The fire not burn my house!"

We're going home today, to face the endless cleaning of ash and restocking of walls and shelves. I will ponder each item....should I return it to where it was, or should I just pack it up, for we all feel like leaving this place.

We are whole, but we are scarred. We have all had enough.

WTF?

I am not sure what to say about this.

I mean, it is disturbing, people throwing things at each other, and there is nothing funny about domestic violence.....but I can't get the vision of these two hurling cheetos at each other in a violent rage.
And then, how did the police make the decision to arrest them?
Was it based on the incriminating orange fingers?

If You Still Think I Am Genteel In Any Way....Avert Your Eyes.

I can't help myself.

Sharing this story is a sure sign that I've lost all remaining shreds of decency.
But let's just stop pretending shall we?

California Unified Nether Temple Society

The BOS was extolling the virtues of the California Womens Health program, how great the doctors she saw were, blahblablah. Which reminded me that I am way overdue for a girlybits exam. Not to mention the girlybits have been causing me some insomnia-inducing, cancerfearing shuddering terrified thoughts concern. So, to share in her new love of stirrup visits for a mere $15, the BOS began her campaign to get me to the cooter doc.

"Dude. They give you a card. A card that you can use just for your cooter! A cooter card!"
"Oooh wow....do they swipe it?"
"They surely do!"
"Oh! So that would make it like a credit cunt?"
"Exactly!"

So forgive me, dear Marisol, the very nice receptionist from the Womens Health Center, for giggling during our phone conversation when you told me today that I qualified for 'the card'. And that it would cover all my reproductive organ goodies. Because I really was working hard to suppress the nervous gutwrenching fears question that was begging to be answered: And where are you going to swipe that card?


I warned you.

Parenting Lessons: In Progress

Yesterday was a challenge to my parenting expertise stamina.
Supergirl was awful. Sassy, insolent, unrepentant.
She spent the afternoon in time-outs which were extended before they were served.
I wanted to smack her around a bit, but we don't do that.

Finally, by dinnertime, she would just not stop antagonizing her three year old brother. This, as she knows, is a button-pusher for me every time, as I would never have allowed any other seven year old bully to treat her that way when she was three.

I demanded she come downstairs to help me with dinner.
"I don't want to make dinner!" she whined.
"Wash your hands!" I snapped back at her.
Did I care? Did I care at all what she wanted? No, I certainly did not.


I handed her a bowl of eggs.
"Stir!" I commanded, adding melted butter to her eggs.
She pretended to stir very angrily, then became interested in the process of mixing yolks into whites.
"What are we making?" she finally asked.
"Matzoh balls for soup," I replied, beginning to soften, "Will you please cut the carrots?"
"YES!" she said, more brightly now.

Fifteen minutes later, we pulled the matzoh out of the fridge.
"Can I make the balls myself?" she asked.
"Oh, okay." I pretended to relent.

"I miss the times when you used to help me with dinner all the time." I remarked.
"Well, I could do that again...."
"I would really like that."

Thirty minutes later, we were eating steaming, salty, doughy delicious matzoh ball soup.
"Honey, I am so glad you are going to help me in the kitchen again. Dinner always tastes better when you help make it."
"Oh Mama, thank you! I love you! I'm sorry I was bratty today!"





Not a trace of bitterness remained by bedtime.

Supergirl, you are my Superstar.

Ponder This Too

Same place, different view.

Ponder This

Bonus points if you can name that place. Your prize? You get to bask in the knowledge that you are right, just like you always knew you were.

In Like A Sneaky, Cave-Dwelling Lion

I just realized that February is almost over, and greeted that thought with a cold chill and deep dread.

And then I responded to that thought with, 'Come ON get over your bad-ass moping self already. You can't have an annual springtime depression. If you can see it coming, you can avoid it.'
And then: This is not a head-on collision anymore.
And then: Deja vu.

Seriously. Let's look at the track record here.

The short story is:

Elijah would have been six years old on March 31st, 2009.
But he won't.

So if you are looking for another train wreck raw experience, hopefully evolved....then perhaps you have come to the right place this month - hang on!
If you are one of my thirty one fourteen faithful (OR RANDOM) readers who has given up on me because I cannot seem to:

• post regularly
• post anything of content
• post about life
• post about reality
• post enough about death
• stop posting about death
• do any of that shit right

...well then, welcome! Welcome back wholeheartedly, because all of those things are true, which makes you all right. Instead of me.

And this next month is sure to be a lovely walk through the blacks and browns of my poo-filled emotions. And the lovely lilacs and blues and vanillas which are Elijah.


Hang on.

Anthropologetic

Well, it's a sad thing for me to announce, but this recession depression has gotten the best of us, and we have to move back to Grammie's farm.

It's tragic, because we can't fit too much in the truck, and we'll have to get rid of most of our belongings. We did buy a lot of crap absolutely necessary indulgences while caught up in the California housing and credit boom re-mortgaging out our home, and most of it will have to go. But we will make do, and somehow make our new digs look like home again.

I mean sure, we'll have to sleep in the slaughter house dairy barn, but since the dust storms, the milk done all dried up and the cows is all gone to live with Grampie Up There.



We sure do like our privacy, so the kids have their own bedroom out on Grammie's front porch. It's been months since any drop of rain has fallen, so we'll hang that tarp when we come to it.



If y'all want to come visit, we've set up a lovely guest room in the ol' chicken coop (only $250/night for friends and family!)(we gotta buy our crack grits, you know).



We didn't have any room for the tricycles or learnin' books, but I couldn't bear to get rid of my $5000 couch, so we did manage to squeeze it into our quilt-filled pick-up truck when we left the state.

(Whaddya mean there aren't any toys? See those papier mache birds? If those kids so much as drool on them they are dead meat. Toys!)









(Disclaimer of reality: Every photo here is lifted from the most recent Anthropol*gie catalog. Their art director is apparently giving us a vision of things to come...)

Kindergarten Lessons

My kindergarten teacher was Mrs. Masters. She was about 106 years old and she was...rather burned out I think. I had been warned by my three older siblings, that this was not a woman who I would want to cross. If you made her mad, then you would surely be sent to the principal's office, where, it was rumored a well known fact that a paddle with nails would be waiting for your bottom. I was only four, but I was nobody's fool.
I made it through the first few months unnoticed, which was the best possible situation for a student in her class. The two-story indoor wooden climbing structure kept me busy, and I cannot to this day forget the feel and texture of my silky quilted aqua-colored napping blankie. The toys with which we provided were ample and aesthetically sound, and the clever children kept themselves occupied for the majority of the three hour school day.
I learned how to stand in line and raise my hand, sing when I was asked, trace and cut with scissors, and how to find the bathroom on my own.
I didn't put enough glitter on my Halloween pumpkin to be showcased or featured - as evidenced by Heather Holt's own dazzling masterpiece, but by Thanksgiving, the art project was all mine:

My traced-hand rainbow-feathered turkey ruled the center spot on the show-off board; I was cruising.
Then came the Santa project.
You know the one.


I aced the cottonballs on the hat and on the beard. And then came the eyes. I had a strip of black paper, out of which I was supposed to cut Santa's two eyes.
I cut out one; it was perfect, so I set it aside.
I cut another; it was also perfect, so I set it next to my first perfect one.

Oh no.
They did not match up.
They were not the same size.
I had two nearly perfect eyes; each one small and black and nearly circular. But they were not the same size.


My parents happened to have a prominently-placed Modigliani print in the house which severely disturbed me because of her uneven eyes. I mean, come on, look:


Slightly disconcerting to see at breakfast every day from the age of three, perhaps?

(Yes, it really was in the breakfast room.)



So it was, for some reason, important to me that my two little black construction paper Santa eyes, did, in fact - match.

I tried again. One eye, cut carefully with blunt-end scissors and most likely a protruding and thoughtful -or desperate- tongue...and then another eye, which was also perfect and lovely in its own right...but not matching even one of the others.
This continued until I had at least 7 un-matching little black eyes.

I was tired, my chubby fists had just turned five years old, and my guard was down from Mrs. M. I had, in a small phrase, 'had it'.
In an unprecedented fit of frustrated aggravation, I threw my scissors down on the table. Hard. Threw them down.

And oh.
Oh.
Uh-oh.
I was in trouble.

Mrs. Masters saw it. She heard it. She came for me.
I was doomed to leave the group of the good children.
She came for me and I knew what was coming: I had seen it many times before.

She came at me from behind; I looked over my right shoulder just in time to notice her grabbing for my right ear. Which I instantly felt.
"WHAT IS THIS?" She shrieked, pointing accusingly at the thrown scissors.
"I-I-I---can't do it." I cried, snotty-faced and pointing at my discarded mismatched black eyes.
"They don't match!"
"WE! DO! NOT! THROW! SCISSORS!" She bellowed at me, as she waved the blunt-end scissors in my face.
"The eyes!" I pleaded, "I wanted to make them the same, but, but...buh..."
I sputtered...I was afraid that I would pee my pants if I went on...
"We DO NOT THROW SCISSORS!!!!!" She repeated, as I shivered.
She had never let go of my ear, but now she lifted, she yanked. I was standing, and she was dragging, dragging me by my ear towards the door. I was shamed. I was a Bad Kid.
Out to the hallway I was led by my right ear and an irate and decrepit teacher, and there I was left. At the mercy of the nail-filled, paddle-wielding principal. Which everyone knew to be true. Especially those of us with older siblings. Because, why would they lie to us about something that serious, right?

I was momentarily grateful when she released my ear (and with it, the rest of my body) with a flourish into the hallway and slammed the door between us.
I was alone in the hallway.
I was at one end of the hall. At the other end, was the ominous and fabled principal's office.
I had been in school for three months. I had just turned five.
And I was in trouble. Big Trouble.
I thought about the scissors. And the eyes. And I was truly sorry. But I didn't know how to get back into the room. I waited.
I waited some more.
I waited.

Then I heard footsteps. They sounded Big, and they were coming from the opposite end of the building. You know - the office end.
On my left was a drinking fountain, protruding from the wall. One at which I had obediently lined up approximately 134 times. Under it was a hollow ceramic sink and some pipes. And I? I was a shrimp.
I scanned the interior of the ceramic drinking fountain, surveyed the heavy steps coming towards me and then I made a leap.
Up. Into the underside of the fountain. And I fit.
I pushed my feet against the pipe and wedged myself into the cold and bumpy ceramic innards. I could see nothing but the tan and grey tiles below. I tried to pull my feet up higher as I heard the footsteps coming unmistakably toward me....and then they slowed....oh-yes-they-did....they slowed down until I finally un-scrunched my eyes and looked down to see the two black loafers which belonged to the principal. They stopped in front of the drinking fountain. I was trying to pull my dangling tights-clad legs up into the piping, but it was too late. I had been noticed.
Tap tap tap....he knocked on the top of the ceramic.
I hiccuped
Tap tap tap..."Who goes there?" He demanded.
He leaned over to see who was under there, and I felt it coming - I couldn't stop it - it rose up, made its way out of my mouth, and I vomited. Straight down onto the shoes.

He carefully pulled me out of the pipes, avoiding the puddle beneath me, and walked me by the hand, across the hall to the nurse's office. She gave him some towels to clean his shoes and told me to lie down on the green leatherette chaise. I curled up, scrunched my eyes shut again and waited.

My mother came to collect me and my stomach flu vanished as quickly as it had arrived.

One year later, I had the good fortune of having the nicest first grade teacher in the world. When Mrs. Trowbridge showed us all how to fold the paper over before cutting if we wanted two matching anythings, I was amazed at what I could create.
And I was pissed at Mrs. Masters.
I mean, how hard would it have been?