It’s a Boy! Rest Up and Renew the Homeowner’s Insurance

When you are thinking about having a baby, people don’t tell you what raising a child will really be like.  If they did no one would do it and the population would die out.  If you say you are having a boy, they just smile at you.  I think they are laughing on the inside. They say things like, “It’s the most rewarding thing you’ll ever do.” My friend told me, “The child will teach you how to deal with every stage.” That’s Zen parenting, it’s what-is-the-sound-of-one-hand-clapping child rearing, and I’m not really down with that.  I’m not that Buddhist. Or patient. The bootie boy is driving me nuts.

 Is it a boy thing?  If we had had a girl, little Amanda Lee, would it be like this?  Would she spend a half an hour on Christmas day using her new drumsticks to stab the box her karaoke machine came in, yelling, “Kill! Kill! Kill!”?  Would she then rip the cardboard into shreds and exclaim, “I’m a bad guy and I’m gonna throw you in the dungeon!” to the poor innocent box? 

We want to know where he learns words like, kill, die, bad guys, squeeze-out-your-brains. That’s the fun news about raising a child, you can control what the kid watches on TV, but you can’t control what the kid’s friends watch on TV. 

What to Expect When You’re Expecting doesn’t tell you that you will have to remind them to eat and go pee and remember to take their underwear off before they get in the bathtub. They don’t tell you that you will say things like, “put your penis back in your pants,” or “did you wipe good?” as easily as you will say, “would you like juice or milk?” They don’t tell you that every day school pick up feels like annual review day at work. I never know if I will get a “He had a great day.” or if I’ll get a note in his cubby that says “Please see the director.”  Last time I got that note, it was because Tommy took apart the computer mouse “to see what was inside.” Heather told him, “If you are so curious about what’s inside a mouse, take mine apart, but leave the school mouse alone.”  On the day he broke the mouse he also used the magnet wand as a drumstick and cracked it, so I was given a Ziploc bag of broken items and called to the front office for the bad parent talk.

 At the parent lunch a few weeks later, I told Shannon, John’s mom, about our destructo boy and how we had to replace the school items Tommy broke.  Shannon used to babysit Tommy when he was little, and she says my stories make her feel better about her own after school reports on John.  Glad I can help.

 Christmas has been as exciting as usual. Tommy got a karaoke machine, and he is using the microphone to order juice and more syrup on his waffles, as well as sing songs with the fart noises replacing every fifth word.  On Christmas Eve we told him, “Santa doesn’t bring presents to kids who punch their cousins,” and once again I find my self thinking, are girls different?  I’ve heard you can give a girl a coloring book and crayons and she will sit quietly and color for long stretches of time.  Like 30 minutes, long enough for a parent to consume a cup of hot coffee.  If you give our boy crayons and paper, he draws one ten-second “tornado,” and then climbs onto the table and jumps off.  “I’m Spiderman!”  Don’t get me wrong, I love having a boy. I just find myself wondering about the differences between boys and girls. 

On Christmas Eve Tommy’s Grandma Sheri and I took him to the retirement home to hand out Christmas presents.  We told the bootie boy he would be helping Santa. So he was up for it, not so much for the old folks but to see the big man in the red suit. I was a little concerned, hoping the Santa wouldn’t blow it. After all, Santa was prepared for 90-year olds, not a super amped up 4-year old.  When we got there the woman in charge told us, “We are just waiting for Charlie and he’ll put on the suit.”  Sheri and I exchanged worried looks.  Uh, ya, seeing Charlie put on his suit would not be the best pre-Christmas activity for a 4 -year old. So we went to the Sac and Save for a candy cane mission.  When we got back, Tommy hit the halls as helper. You know, for all the times I’ve told him to quit throwing things at the fan, to stop jumping on the couch, be quiet in the library, don’t kick me, go to bed, stop talking during stories, sit down and eat your dinner, don’t be rude, listen to your teachers, be a kind friend, and don’t throw trash on the ground, I wondered if any of it was sinking in.  Would we end up raising a boy who is sweet and kind and has good manners?  Sure he slays imaginary dragons with his new Nerf sword, stabbing them 50 times each, but will he be kind to a person in need?  Will he be gentle and sweet? 

As I watched Tommy hand out gifts to the retirement home residents, I was again reminded that he is naturally such a sweet kid, and that I am so proud of how kind he is. I realized it when he picked two candy canes for himself and gave the rest to Santa and all the old folks.  I realized it when we went in to give presents to a woman whose bed was so low to the ground that Santa had to lie down on the floor so she could see him, and Tommy got down with Santa too and wished her a Merry Christmas.  I realized it when he helped all the residents open their gifts with no fear and no shyness, and wished everyone Merry Christmas.  I had to work to keep Tommy from climbing into bed with the Grandmas and Grandpas, as he called them.   What a sweet boy.

 I hope you all had an awesome holiday season.  I’m thinking on New Year’s resolutions.  I don’t know if I’ll make any, but I do know I have a lot of things I want to accomplish this year. Is that the same thing?  I’ve heard you should pick one word for the year, but c’mon.  One word?  I have a lot to say and a lot to do! Resolve to get my child to stop climbing the furniture and countertops, and stop breaking stuff to see what’s inside? Maybe.  I gotta think about it.

I Don’t Need Your Help

Tommy is in this I-can-do-it-all-myself phase. Yesterday he wanted to get his haircut, but the snow and threats of impending big storm forced us to turn around and abandon what he calls the “haircut place with the steering wheel,” i.e., Snip-Its. This place, if you don’t know it, is like the Chuck E. Cheese of kid haircuts. It’s loud and bright and features a creepy video of dancing scissors that plays while the kid gets their cut. Tommy likes Snip-Its because they have free Dum Dums. Of course they also have expensive hair products and toys, with the goal of getting you to spend fifty bucks on a haircut for your child. They even have haircut parties, which I think is weird. When I was a kid, we never would have wanted to gather at a haircut place to eat cake and open presents. That’s just, I don’t know, not fun. And wouldn’t there be hair on the cake? Yum. That whole kid party thing is another potential topic of craziness that I won’t go into. Anyway, we talked him into Sport Clips, which is right by the house. And we let him tell the haircut lady what he wanted and get his cut all by himself while we waited in the lobby.

Now and then I have these moments when I realize how big my little bootie boy is getting, and this was one of those moments. There he was, smiling at his reflection in the mirror and explaining to his stylist how yes, he really does like snow and cold weather but no, he doesn’t care much for sports. His cut is called the Junior Varsity, which is just too cute. Heather and I had a great time watching him do his big kid haircut. This to me is what parenting is, raising your child to be independent. Doing things like teaching him to tip and say thank you after his haircut and basically preparing him for the big world.

He also likes to order for himself in restaurants. We have encouraged him to do that since he started talking. A few weeks ago we went to Costco and he wanted a Churro, so I gave him two dollars and pointed him towards the end of the order line. While we were standing in line and he looked up at me, his brow furrowed in worry.

“Go stand over there,” he said, pointing to the soda machine counter about 15 feet away. The people in line behind us were smiling at us. They must have thought it was cute, this little dude who didn’t want his Mommy around. I went, after I told him to make sure he said thank you when he got his churro. I also advised him that standing in line does not mean he has to stand 2 inches away from the guy in front of him, especially since that puts his little face right at the dude’s back pocket, not exactly ideal. His turn came and from across the room I watched as he ordered, his little hands gripping the counter and his feet stretching tiptoe so he would be heard. Again I had one of those, aw, gee, he is getting so big and independent, how sweet moments. I start thinking about how little he was when we brought him home from the hospital when he was four days old. Heather put him in her softball glove for a picture, and he was so small he fit perfectly in the glove, all curled up in that newborn, I-have-been-cramped-into-a-tiny-space-and-my-legs-don’t-want-to-stretch-out-yet-way. Oh, he was so little and cute and now he is so big, 100% kid, not a baby anymore. I was so busy thinking about this and getting a little bit weepy over it that I didn’t notice right away that Tommy was waving me over from his spot at the counter. The cashier was smiling patiently at me. I walked over, thinking that maybe in the end he was too shy to order by himself.

“What’s a matter, Buddy?”

“I need more money.” I look at the register: $7.57

“What did you order, Dude?”

“A churro, a piece of cheese pizza, a lemonade and a smoothie.”

Uh, ya, I’m gonna have to watch out for this boy, I think. He might not be ready to order on his own just yet.

Now today we’ve got a snow day, and I ask Tommy if he’ll come shovel the driveway with me. He puts on his snow boots and sweats and long sleeve shirt and out we go. He runs around for a minute, yelling, I Love Snow! and then looks down and starts to cry. “I have snow on my snow boots!” He whines. So I have to take him inside, put on all new dry clothes on him, get him a blanket, and set him up in the back of the car with a baggie of Cheeze-it’s so he can watch while I shovel. All the while I’m thinking, Someday, I will be able to force him to help me shovel the driveway. I can’t wait for that day. But today, he is still my little 4-year old prince who doesn’t like to be wet or cold. And that’s a nice thing too.

My Kid is So Smart

Sometimes explaining language and concepts to a 4-year old is difficult. When he asks what a word means, I try to figure out how to explain it using words he already knows.  Last night we were reading his new favorite book called Brain.  He really loves these Smithsonian books with creative titles: Brain. Heart.  Whales.  Storms. Volcanoes. So we were reading the brain book, and in particular the section about the thalamus and the hypothalamus. The text says, “hypo” means “below” in Latin.  So Tommy tells me, “Hey, if my bunk bed was a brain, I sleep on the hypothalamus and the top bunk is the thalamus.” Sometimes I feel like he might be a genius.  So I say “Exactly, very good analogy.” “What’s an analogy?” he asks.  Ummmm.  I think, how do I explain this?  I say, “It’s kind of like when you make two things that are different, like a brain and a bunk bed, seem the same.”  He tells me, “Oh, I get it, it’s like when I fart and brush my Barbie’s hair at the same time?” Yes, that’s exactly what it means.  I’m telling you, genius.

Dear My Friend, Daily Writing-

Sometimes I don’t even know why you are still my friend.  I have pushed you to the back of my mind so many times.  I have thought, that’s a great idea, I should write that down and then not done it and then thought what was the really awesome thing I thought of writing about?  Oh Daily Writing, when I was younger I really ignored you, telling myself you’d always be there for me and that you were the kind of friend I could value more when I got more life experience. After all, what would we talk about, me so young, you so demanding of perfection?  I thought, once I graduate college, and I don’t have to study so much, you and I will be tight.  And then suddenly that did happen; we were meeting daily at the laptop over coffee. But now I am back in school, and ignoring you once again.  

It’s not that I don’t have ideas for us to work with.  I think about blog posts and how behind I’ve gotten on my weekly habit.  I think I could do something about Wal-Mart from the perspective of the person who also suspects that store might be evil but still needs to stay in the grocery budget and shops there anyway.  I could write about how America is so inundated with mountains of crap at stores like that and questions why we ever even consider putting something like a glittered plastic pumpkin in our carts.  Or I could write about my old boss who used to say unindated when she meant inundated, and “let’s nip this problem in the butt,” my personal favorite, and how fun that would be to make fun of, but then I remember she got laid off in round 2 this year, and how unkind it would be for me to rip on her, even though she’d probably laugh and say, “Wait, what’d I say?”  I could write about layoffs, and how strange it all is, how we all walk around like scared citizens in a war torn country at first, but how by round 3 you start to think it’s such a normal part of corporate America to get laid off that you could survive it, you just wish they’d tell you early in the morning or late at night, when no one is there.  You ask questions like, What’s the severance package like? or, How much does unemployment pay in Nevada?  The answer is “not much” by the way, in case you’re wondering.  If I got “right sized” though, Daily Writing, you and I might visit more.  Or course, it would be bitter, crappy writing at first, but still.  I could do another post about school, but I’ve got no stories really, I’m just pluggin’ along and freaking out over teaching my 15-minute social studies lesson.  I keep on pondering the farewell post, and I am thinking I just might do it so I could get it over with and only feel the push to write papers and work on my novel, but I’d miss the blog too much.   

My life is complicated and I feel a little bit panicked and uneasy, like when I have too many library books out, or when well, I guess how it feels when you know that layoffs are next Wednesday and you think it could be you as logically as anyone else.  After all, you’re the one who makes stupid jokes in meetings to ease the tension and has a special schedule for school.  They know you don’t want to work here forever, because you told them, you dummy.  If I could somehow win Megabucks and ditch this job of mine I could do it all: school, non-profit newsletter, family commitments, baby showers, birthday parties, grocery shopping, reading to the kids at Greenbrae, homemade Halloween costume of the planet Venus that can fit in a carry-on bag, and that novel that I am dying to finish even if the writers group thinks my main character says fuck too often.  Then I remember a story I could write.  I would start it,” This one time, when I was babysitting…” and my friend Maja would laugh and say, “This one time, at band camp…”  Okay, I was 17 and I was babysitting and the dog died and I didn’t even notice and the mom called me after I got home and I thought something was wrong with the baby but she asked me if I thought the dog was acting funny.  And as she told me the deal, I thought, What kind of person has a dog die 2 feet away from them and not even notice? And will she still call me to babysit because the extra money is nice and it’s an easy job. Especially now with no dog to worry about. That would be a good post, funny, in a sick kind of way, which can be the best type of humor. At least for me.  The writers group wants me to submit something funny and they act like that will be a challenge for me. Just because the main character of my novel killed someone and is in therapy and saying fuck a lot and bordering on anorexic, geez, I mean I can be funny too, you know.  Didn’t they read the post about the time I knocked the guy off the ski lift? Now that was funny. 

Oops, Sorry Daily Writing, I went off on a tangent, which is weird because I never really do that.  What I’m trying to tell you is that all I can do is the best I can do every day, with work, writing, working out, parenting, school and homemade Halloween costumes. And you are always with me, even when it feels like you’re not, when I am ignoring you and taking you for granted and assuming I’ll have plenty of time for you later. Geez, you must hate it when I do that.  Friendship should not include guilt, so I promise to let that go.  Just as soon as I write something.  You and I do seem to get along best when I have time, a pot of coffee, hours to spare, and no distractions, but life is just not like that anymore.   Plus, that would be so boring.

The thing is, when you and I get together, when it‘s good, there is no better feeling in the world.  It’s like the best drug ever, the euphoric kind with no side effects but tons of addiction.  Not that I would know about drugs, this is a mommy blog after all.  I definitely didn’t inhale.  So I appreciate you, Daily Writing, and how you have stuck with me all these years, even when you were ignored, when I have loved you too much, when you yourself knew you were flawed, I do appreciate it.  We’ll get together soon, I promise.

All the Things I Should Be Writing About… If I Cared About Shoulds, Which I Don’t. Usually.

Writers have this annoying problem, if they don’t write their heads go wonky. It’s what keeps us sane, the writing I mean, not the wonky head. So here I am, a student again, and feeling overwhelmed with my life, and not doing the one thing that settles me down.  Here are a few things that have been on my mind, that I don’t have time to put in a full blown, focused post, and that seem less and less interesting the longer I don’t write about them. 

Disney Channel 

Handy Manny:  Is he not the worst handy man ever?  I mean, he never has anything but his tiny toolbox and tool belt. In order to start whatever the job is, he will need of a screw or a piece of wood, and the dude has to go to the hardware store every time.  I mean, stock up on some basics, will ya?  He must get paid by the hour, not the job. And all those people are so thankful, they don’t know he is milking the clock and flirting with that tool shop chick, Kelly, all on their dime. Leave Kelly alone and get to work I say. He might be the only handyman in town, but someone needs to file a complaint to the Better Business Bureau on that guy. 

Facebook 

Facebook is cool for about a minute.  You get to see what all your old high school buddies are doing and how they aged.  And then you are thinking, cool, someone I had freshmen algebra with is eating sushi in Minneapolis right now.  My brain doesn’t need this information. Eat your sushi, but don’t post it on the web, okay?  Or you know, it’s good for you that you won your soccer game, but unless your soccer team is the U.S. National Team, I really don’t care. I was guilty of The Wall triteness too, but I have seen the error of my ways and wish everyone else would just quit playing mafia wars and having cyber pillow fights and go get a life.  Become a bell ringer or volunteer at a shelter or knit a sweater and send it to me or something.  My mind really can’t track who is eating sushi, who is on a party bus dressed like an 80’s rocker, and who catered Martin Scorsese’s daughter’s wedding.  What’s important to me is: who will get kicked of Top Chef and Biggest Loser, okay? Because I am enlightened like that. 

Cultural Artifact Box 

You guys will like this. Class assignment:  Bring a shoebox with 5 items that represent your culture.  First, in case you need it (I did), definition of culture: The totality of socially transmitted behavior patterns, arts, beliefs, institutions, and all other products of human work and thought.  Kind of broad, but okay, put that in a shoebox.  You’ll need to share it with a stranger though, so think about what you bring.  And you can only include one picture. Here are my items:  

1. Cupid, who used to be my little Teddy Bear, given to me by Heather when we were first dating and stolen by Tommy.  Cupid came to the hospital with us when he was born, so he’s been around for a while and got squeezed quite a bit during labor.  He is the perfect representation of my family. 

2. A coffee cup. If coffee can’t represent the culture of my life, I don’t know what can. If Annie Savoy of Bull Durham believes in the church of baseball, I believe in the church of coffee.  So many of my best moments center around the almighty cup of hot.

3. My pizelle cookie recipe.  My childhood Christmas tradition – however screwed up we were we always made pizelles every year, and I still do it at my house, along with tamales and biscotti and sometimes these little caramel shortbread pecan thumbprint dealios that make the holiday 5 pound weight gain possible.

 4. A San Luis Obispo postcard.  My past, my home, my love, me. 

5. Teachings of HH (his holiness, but I just call him HH, because we’re tight like that) the Dalai Lama.  This represents compassion, caring, introspection, kindness and the kind of spirituality that doesn’t focus on judging other people’s lives to make me feel better.  It represents all the good I strive for and sometimes reach.  That’s right, you can call me HH, her holiness.

  Conversations overheard at Six Flags last weekend: 

Mom, can I have a quarter for a gumball?  No, we are trying to save our money!  Tip: don’t go to Six Flags then.  Oops, HH forgot about that whole not judging thing, I’m back on it now, carry on.

 Mother to daughter:  Eat your cotton candy like a lady!  As a grown up lady (stop snorting, I could be a lady, my legs are crossed daintily as I type this, so there), I can’t eat cotton candy without making a big sticky mess.

And at home after I called a princess by the wrong name, again. 

Heather: I can understand Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty because they both have blond hair, but Jasmine is not Arial, okay?  I mean, they don’t even look alike. Add that to the sentences I never thought I’d hear from my girlfriend, but that’s why parenting is fun. 

Friends quote of the day:  Looks like it’s time to change somebody’s nicotine patch.

Weird historical fact:  Did you know that Henry Ford would fire you if you didn’t drive a Ford?

 Okay, I feel sufficiently purged of all of those half ideas, so now maybe my mind will open up to a new blog post, a “big girl” post as my savvy web designer friend calls it. Aw heck, I don’t want to be a big girl, all of my pants are too tight already.

Shhh, Do You Hear That? It’s Quiet…

Suddenly my life got very crowded. My brain is filled with unattractive facts of history that make me feel ashamed of our collective past. My work is full of panic over a new program called SAP, and everyone jockeying for their strategic position. I’m not much for corporate jockeying. My home is now one big person, two little people and one small dog more crowded than it was 3 weeks ago. But it’s Fall, football season, and time to bake and make homemade noodles. My history paper is nearly done because I am a super student nerd, and life is still as good as ever. Studying the Great Depression reminds me how lucky I am to have a house to offer, to be able to buy food for my family, and to have a paycheck. And so often I think being surrounded by people is a better option than being alone.

Sometimes when the crowds get to me, I go back in my mind to Angwin, California. I’m at my aunt and uncle’s house, with the beautiful garden, infinity pool, and the perfect guest house that feels like a cabin and retreat. There I am on the bocce ball court, I have a glass of wine in my left hand and the pallino in my right. There is my uncle, giving me advice on how to throw, and behind him is my aunt, smiling behind her own glass of wine. I can smell the citronella in the air, the temperature is perfect, I am barefoot and the dirt court feels so good on my feet. An owl hoots and the score doesn’t matter. The plan for tomorrow is a morning walk, a lot of swimming and a little Pacifico with lime. I am enveloped in a hug of summer, relaxation and love of my family and the people who love me best. I wish the moment could go on forever, but even the memory of it alleviates the crowds in my life and in my head.

Short post, go to your happy place.

First Day of School

First day of school, it’s gonna be grand, and a good breakfast starts with… dark chocolate-covered espresso beans!

Ten years later, it’s all the same really. I don’t feel as old as I look to the 20-year olds in the class, although I did ask my coworker what to wear in order to not look like a “non-trad.”  Then it occurred to me that only a true “non-trad” would even consider asking that question.  So with worries about parking and finding my classroom, and determined to fly under the radar, I headed out for Day 1 of my pursuit of teacher licensure and master’s degree. Outfit: shorts, flip-flops, t-shirt, zip up hoodie.  It’s the best I could do and how I always dress anyway, so it seemed the best choice.  Be yourself, don’t bring your coffee, was the advice I got from my peers.  Hence the espresso beans.  Portable cool kid caffeine, since I don’t drink Amp! Or Monster!  Or whatever that crap the kids like is.  Oops, or you know, something less old-lady sounding.  I don’t go in for the power drinks there Sonny, my ticker can’t take it.

There are a few differences between being a student now vs. then.  I don’t give as much thought to the $5 parking fee.  Back when I was in school as an undergrad, my paycheck covered my rent and bills with about $30/week leftover for food, clothes, movies, etc.  Luckily I worked in a restaurant/bakery where the leftover food was free (I really can live on cherry turnovers and baguettes and be very happy. Fat and happy.), and where the tip jar provided an average of $10-$12 spending money at the end of each shift.  Would I have used half of my cash for parking back then?  No way. Five dollars could buy a Frontier breakfast burrito and fresh-squeezed orange juice, or a latte and green chile bagel at Fred’s. So back then I roller bladed to school to save on parking money. This time I considered parking far away for free and skating, but the traffic and extreme downhill grade of the trip made me opt out of that plan. I thought about death and how much I’d miss my people and leaving the parenting responsibility solely to Heather and how lonely it must be in Heaven with all those do-gooder, God and Peter (isn’t he the saint who lets you in?) suck ups and how sad I’d be once they found out I didn’t really belong and that I was just a good bullshitter and send me to Hell where I really ought to be and where I’m sure people are singing really bad karaoke all the time and the dude in charge (okay, fine, Satan if you want) is making people eat cottage cheese and drink crappy, weak, lukewarm coffee.  I thought about road rash, which I already know from past experience hurts like Hell, and frankly, I shallowly thought about the undesirability of arriving to class all sweaty. Maybe it’s not so shallow, maybe it’s being kind to my fellow classmates. So five dollars seems a good trade off for the alternative above-mentioned options.

On studying: there is no waiting until the last minute, and there will be no all-nighters. It will be a little-snippets-of-time kind of deal, just the same as it is for writing. As far as the all-nighters go, I really hate them and they make me an emotional jerk to be around.  So I am at least for now not planning any of that. For only one class, there most likely won’t be a need for that much studying. I do have two papers to write, and I had the completely nerdy, non-traddy thought that 6-10 pages double-spaced is not enough to say everything I need to say. 

Amidst all my worry about clothes and parking and flying under the radar, I did have a moment, after I was verified to actually be enrolled in the class, of complete excitement that I finally made it here.  It’s like when you are finally getting clicked into the roller coaster after waiting in the long line in the hot sun, and the excitement of the moment surges through your body.  You know, right before you realize that it’s a big mistake and you are way too old to ride something called V2 and you hope you don’t puke or piss your pants or die because the shoulder harness thing pops open when you are 185 feet up. Okay, well, school is nothing like that.  It’s going to be fine.

Writing Assignment: Write an Ode to a Part of Your Body

Ode to Family Resemblance

My mom and I have the exact same feet. I see her feet in my own flip-flop sandaled toes, pinkie toes turned in sideways,as if someone squeezed them into pointy heels for years and years. I see the same sideways pinkies in my son’s tiny tootsies. Ten little toes, all in a wonky row, like Mommy, like Grandma.

Feet might be the only thing Mom and I have in common.

She’s in love with her Singer sewing machine and Butterick patterns; I’m “You’re gonna do what? Sew something? Just buy it already and save some time.” She’s “Hey Honey, I bought you an ice cream maker, you just have to boil cream and vanilla and sugar for a half an hour and keep stirring, keep stirring, don’t forget to stir.” I’m “But Ben and Jerry’s is cheap and they do good work. Very good work.”

She’s Aplets & Cotlets, Chico Sticks and Abba Zabas; I’m Runts and Red Vines and Buttered Popcorn Jelly Bellies.

She’s “The world has gone to shit and I’m gonna die soon. Will you be sad?” I’m “It’s not that bad really. We’ve got coffee. Would you like a cup?”

She’s cream and sugar; I take nothing.

She’s one leg shorter than the other (polio), I’m just short (genetics).

She always thought a girl should wear ruffles and lace and pretty, pretty dresses with un-scabbed knees crossed perfectly and daintily at all times. I thought the best clothes came from my brother’s room, and dresses made playing soccer at recess impossible.

She’s nervous: pace the room, touch everything in my house, read the stuff on my refrigerator, point at the pictures (“Get me a copy.”), can’t sit still, rub-rub-rub the pink, dainty hands with the un-dainty chewed-to-bleeding cuticles against the polyester-covered thigh over and over and over. She’s talk during movies and ask questions but never listen to the answers.

I (sometimes) want to strangle her.

But then I remember that our feet – they are just the same.

100 Caps, er Posts

One hundred caps in soccer is a huge milestone.  A cap is an international appearance in a soccer game, and it basically means you don’t suck.  Nobody makes it to 100 caps if they are a suckage soccer player.  So when it comes to hitting the 100th post milestone as a blogger, I am feeling pretty much like a non-suckage blogging superstar.  Because whether the posts were good or bad, short or long, they were there, and the number one rule of writing is that you have to show up.  So I feel proud to say that I have shown up weekly on this blog for two years, 100 times. 

Thanks to all of you who come here to read, and thanks to Andrea for making my blog look rad.  We all know that wouldn’t happen if it were me doing it, because I still don’t  load my ipod and am not entirely convinced that my show will tape if the TV is not on.  And ya, tape, not DVR or whatever that is.  

Did you guys know that the 100-episode milestone on a sitcom means it can go to syndication and make money for the actors even when they are not working?  So I am wondering when my syndication comes in.  When does the money start rolling in?  That book deal, is it forthcoming?  

To be honest, lately I have been feeling kind of done here on this blog.  Sometimes I re-read old posts, and I am very happy with what I’ve written, but I am not as inspired for new post ideas as I once was.  School starts next week, and I’m not sure how much time I’ll have for writing, and this poor twomommy is last on the priority list.  When it comes to cerebral pursuits, my work in progress is coming in first, which is good.  I split my novel idea into two separate projects and am focusing on the one that fits more as a YA novel.  I have always felt way less mature than my age in many ways, so YA feels like no real stretch, especially as far as writing dialogue goes.  The other piece, number two of the split, is a psychological thriller. Woman steps on dead man’s hand while hiking on lava beds in New Mexico and then her life starts to unravel.  It’s possible that these two ideas will meld back into one novel that jumps back and forth in time, we’ll see, but in order for it to possibly come back together I had to take it apart.  After my daily pursuits of novel writing, reading the numerous books  that live in various places in the house before they are due back at the library, working out,  and keeping up with agent blogs, cakewrecks, and other fun blogs on my blogliness, my own blog posts seem to be getting pushed to the bottom of the priority list.  And of course, the new season of Top Chef Las Vegas has begun.  Hello, I can’t miss that.  

Lately too I have been feeling apprehensive about posting really personal stuff up here if it relates to other people in my life.  I mean, I don’t care if you all know what a dork I am, but I wonder how the bootie boy would feel about me posting his stories here.  I am a big proponent that your stories are your own, and even though he is only four it feels exploitive at times. 

So my lovely readers, I want to thank you for staying with me through 100. I am so proud to hit this milestone.  It’s very nice to write post number 100.  I am not going to quit the blog, but just will keep on keeping on, hoping for new inspiration, and considering a potential change in format.  And if I create a new, more focused blog, I will let you know.  What?  Me? Focused?  Ya, that’ll be happening.

Blady, Blady. Corn, Underwear and my Latest Read. And Weird Pageant Stuff.

I am watching Toddlers and Tiaras and thinking I should really do a blog post already but could I just get some inspiration?  The problem is that my plan was to post about my theory that I am allergic to corn.  Or you know, intolerant to it.  But do you know how boring the post is?  This is me:  boo hoo, I can’t eat Red Vines, chewy Sprees, most chocolate, Captain Crunch, chips, ice cream, etc. anymore, poor me.  Seriously, corn is in everything and I am trying to quit without crying like a baby in the cereal aisle at the grocery store.  That’s the gist.  It feels near impossible to quit corn, but Trader Joe’s helps.  I refuse to quit the tamale-making tradition at Christmas, and beyond that, I’m moving on, a happy mostly corn free life.  Good news for you, the reader of this blog, but that’s all I have to say about that. 

After nixing the corn post, I was thinking about sharing the embarrassing moment number 6.  I mean, this one is good but it’s not top 5 material, so I don’t really know if I should go through the deal of explaining, but I will.  Anyway, here is my newest embarrassing moment.  Those who have been reading this blog regularly know from the dork post that I tend to collect embarrassing moments.  Then I rate them in my mind like the Top Ten on the Late Show and share them with every one I know.  So here is number 6:  Tommy has to bring a little crib sheet to school for naptime, and at the end of the week we bring it home and wash it.  So apparently the last time I washed it, I had some of my underwear in the load as well.  Well, you know, fitted sheets tend to grab things.  So when I went to pick Tommy up from school on Monday and I went to get his daily report out of his cubby I found myself thinking,  Why is there a pair of underwear in his cubby?  Whose underwear?  They are too big to be kid underwear.  Oh. My. God.  Those are my underwear.  I am imagining all the kids getting ready for naptime, the sheet being shaken out, the underwear flying, the staring toddlers, and God only knows what Tommy said.  And could it have been a new pair?  Oh, no, it’s that raggedy old pair, because that’s just how things seem to go.  All right, so as far as embarrassing moments go, it’s not as good as knocking someone off a ski lift or walking down an airplane aisle with the toilet paper flapping, but it’s good enough to keep in mind for a party story, or a work meeting that is just boring and awkward.  I like having these stories in my back pocket, so now I’ve got a pretty good one. 

Back to Toddlers and Tiaras.  Not to be all judgey, but what the hell is wrong with these people?  Tanning, chiropractic adjustments, shaving, tons of makeup, spending $1,000 on one dress to be worn one time, totally crazy.  The funny (and sad)  part is the interviews: 

Parent:  “Oh, she just loves it.  She just tells us, Mommy and Daddy, please let me do pageants forever.  So we do.  We do it for her.  It’s her thing, we are just there to be supportive.” 

Child:  “I usually don’t like it. Well, you know, sometimes I like it, you know, if I win. But if I lose I just feel so guilty.  And it’s boring.  But my mom likes it.” 

Ack, gross.  Don’t cry honey, you’ll wreck your makeup.  Seems like this phrase should not be uttered to a 4-year old, but maybe I’m old fashioned.  

I am reading a lot of young adult and middle grade novels.  Do you guys remember Judy Blume?  I reread Blubber over the weekend.  When I read it as a 4th grader I was terrified by how mean kids can be and what was in store for me in junior high.  This time when I reread it I wanted to slap those mean kids around.  The funny thing is, some people never get over that mean stage.  So maybe you should give a copy of Blubber to your mean coworker.  That’ll do it. 

I am out of ideas for now.  But who knows, I might have another good embarrassing story to share soon.  School is starting shortly, that should offer good “non-trad” stories. 

 Two of my friends who have recently started blogging:  Ex-Capades and Two Poods.  Also check out my cool coworker’s blog.