I don't have anything interesting to report today, so if you're looking for interesting---you've got the wrong blog post. I'm just trying to keep my hand at writing, so that I don't become absolutely inept, in the unlikely event that I am somehow struck mute one day and am only able to communicate through blogs. And possibly tiny little hand-held chalkboards. But only people that are actually in the same room with me at the time will be able to read the gems I spew on my little chalkboard, so I have come to view the blog as infinitely more efficient. Also--less dust.
So. What is going on in my world this morning. . .
I've got nothing.
Devin is still here with us, as he has been for almost a week. I will be the first to admit: it has been a trying week for me. NOT that Devin has done anything wrong. Oh, no. Actually, he has been more or less well-behaved for the larger part of this week. The weight of the 'trying' part rests solely on my shoulders, with the real issue being that, aside from Christmas and summer visits (which are generally longer), and random long-weekends here and there, I am not used to having a five year-old in the house. To the uninitiated, this may sound like a complete non-issue. But to people who have actually spent TIME with five year-olds. . . they get it.
For example: Did you know that five year-olds have NO internal monologue?
Totally true.
(I can only assume that this holds true for ALL five year-olds. Except for the ones with chalkboards. Then I can only IMAGINE all the dust that must surround them.)
But for OUR five year-old, no chalkboards or internal monologues exist. EVERY single thought that wings through his five year-old noggin is immediately verbalized.
And he thinks a LOT.
About EVERYTHING.
And tells you about it.
Without. Cease.
So, as you can see, it is not really an issue with the CHILD, so much as it is an issue with ME not being used to having a mini-human sized talk-radio program turned on full-blast all day long and following me around and arguing with everything I say.
So I try to be patient.
I count to ten a lot.
Sometimes I count to thirty.
And Tylenol is my very good friend.
But most of the time, I just feel really guilty. Because I don't want to be a hard-ass. I LOVE this kid. I think he's AWESOME. I want him to ENJOY his time at our house. But at the same time, and I've thought a LOT about this, it is my responsibility to teach him certain things. If I DON'T---I'm just being lazy.
So we have certain rules at our house. And I don't think they are extreme, or too hard to understand.
Don't jump on the furniture.
Don't play on the stairs. (Poor kid is only slightly more coordinated than I am. I have an enormous fear of sending him back to his mother with a concussion.)
Don't scream at the top of your lungs.
Don't play baseball in the house. (This one is really just so the inside of our house remains intact, and we don't have to replace the majority of our belongings. Still, some days it just feels selfish.)
Don't repeat "I'm sexy and I know it" twelve times in a row. (This one is because I don't feel that 'sexy' is something that a kid his age should be saying. And also because I don't want to have to explain to his teacher why Devin feels that he is so much sexier than the other children in his kindergarden class. Again---selfish.)
So as you can see, there really aren't that many rules to adhere to. But for some reason, every time he comes over, it's like he has completely forgotten ALL of them. Probably because no such rules exist at his house. (Probably because his mother has no such compulsions about keeping her furniture intact. Probably because she's just not as selfish as I am. I'm probably just a really bad person and should not be put in charge of small children.)
Even as I write this, Nolan is eating the tiny rocks out of the fireplace. I feel certain that they couldn't possibly be nutritious.
THOSE ARE JUST FOR DECORATION, NOLAN!!!
So what I'm trying to say, is that I have had a headache for the last 5 days.
And it was really only aggravated by getting pegged in the forehead with the laundry room door two days ago ("I'm sorry I hit you in the head with the door, Dani." "I am too, Devin."), and being head-butted by the baby when he was in a sleep-stupor and really just wanted to be put to bed.
My fault for not being as sensitive to his needs as I should be.
Guess I'll just have to try harder.
Also, in a complete non-sequitur, my husband (who is both adored, and usually more adept at sizing up my mood) finally coaxed me into watching The Notebook last night.
I would like to preface this by saying that I cannot watch Bambi, Dumbo, Pinnochio, those Sarah MacLaughlin commercials, or any movie/commercial/internet meme about childhood bullying, without being disturbed for DAYS on end. Those 'feed the children' commercials destroy me. My mental state is fragile at best. Understand?
So I thought my husband understood this about me, and I begrudgingly agreed (after FOUR YEARS together) to watch The Notebook with him.
What I'm saying is that I TRUSTED him to KEEP ME AWAY from movies like The Notebook.
And he completely betrayed me.
We get to the end, I'm bawling, the credits are rolling, and all I can say is:
"What a HORRIBLE MOVIE."
WHY DID YOU MAKE ME WATCH THAT???!??!?
And he's all "But wasn't it a sweet love story?"
And I'm all "Oh, I don't know what was sweeter: When she couldn't remember the man she loved, when she couldn't remember her LIFE or the children she HAD with him, or when they BOTH DIED AT THE END!"
So I went to sleep last night thinking that I really need to get my ass in gear and write the story of how Michael and I met and fell in love, so that he will have something to read to me to bring me back to him for ROUGHLY FIVE MINUTES when I am 85 years old and diagnosed with dementia.
Some movies just aren't for me.
I should really do something to Michael for putting me through that.
Spiders in his sock drawer SOUNDS extreme, but YOU don't know the GRIEF and personal anxiety that movie caused me.
I'm open to suggestions.
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