It is a sunny day in the neighborhood.
And I am doing nothing. =D
Baby is napping, clothes are in the dryer, and we just got back from a run to the grocery store, for some much needed coffee stuffs. It is a beautiful day, and it feels breezy and wonderful outside.
I have been sitting on our still almost-new back porch area, enjoying the sunshine and paging through my new Game of Thrones book. (I'm on Feast for Crows now, or Season 4. There was a lot of internal debate regarding whether or not to continue on to Book 4, after reading Book 3, LOVING it, and completely ruining the third season for myself. But let it never be said that I learned my lesson. =)
The out-of-doors has put me in a mild sun-stupor, and I feel drowsy and happy.
So I'll write a little wrap-up now, or at least attempt to do so.
Weekly Wrap Up
1.) I went to the dollar store this week.
It was wonderful. =)
I love the dollar store. I love it so much.
I pushed Tookie around in a stroller, and we browsed and took our time. We entertained ideas about planting peas in the back yard. (Nope.) We briefly toyed with the notion of reading some political non-fiction. . . but then rejected the idea immediately. (Because we have met us.) We got a plastic rake and some sidewalk chalk for the baby, and we considered wearing dozens of plastic rainbow-butterfly barrettes in our hair. (We decided that the world was probably not ready for us with our hair bedazzled by a dozen rainbow-butterfly barrettes. We have decided to wait until next month.)
And we got some blue plastic cups. (In a 4-pack!!!! . . .we got two.) . . .I just *knew* that Michael would be freaking DELIGHTED when he saw them. Because, as close friends know, he *only* drinks out of medium sized, blue plastic cups. (Without a lip.)
He is a persnickety man, as he will readily admit. But he is neurotic in strange and hilarious ways that are completely different from my own. And I adore him.
So you only *imagine* my shock when he came home and discovered our new 8 blue cups (Suprise!!! =), and expressed dismay instead of delight.
I have to admit. . . I was baffled.
I said as much.
"I AM BAFFLED!!!"
Ha ha. =) No, but that would have been funny.
What actually happened was:
"But you LOVE blue cups!!" I told him.
He walked to the cabinet, and opened the door where the cups are held. There is not room for another single cup. Not one. Not even a sippy. Unless we throw some away first.
(And I will be damned if I will throw away a perfectly good plastic cup. So there.)
"We don't NEED any more plastic cups!!", said my beloved.
And he was quite right.
And so it would appear that my thoughtful, romantic gesture of bringing home brand new blue cups fell flat.
Alas. =(
2.) We had some family over last weekend.
It was great. =)
The elder Spawn came, and brought his lady-friend. She was polite and lovely and very sweet. And he spent all day playing with and chasing the Padawan, which was also very sweet. Took brought up the rear of the parade, watching their antics and giggling at the silliness.
And then we ate meats and potato salads and pies. =)
And even though I somehow managed to completely screw up the key lime pie (which was the only food-related job that was entrusted to me), the taste of it was still okay.
It looked pretty ghetto, though. Pretty ghetto indeed.
(What happened was that I tried to put on the cool whip topping before the green part had completely set up yet. I guess. And the cool whip must've been pretty hard, because it just seemed to sink to the bottom of the green part. And when I tried to smooth it all out, and make it look nice, it just kind of sank into the green stuff a little deeper. So it was all mixed together, and looked very accidental. Which is NEVER what you want your pie to look like. Or so I'm told.)
I derped it all up, and, consequently, decided to call it Derp Pie.
It was delicious, and even the baby liked it, going from family member to family member to get a bite. Like a baby bird. A baby bird with a fondness for Derp Pie.
Lovely day.
3.) I am tired of writing now.
So good day to you, sirs.
. . .
. . . I say "Good day"!!
Thursday, April 25, 2013
Sunday, April 14, 2013
Mommy Meditations. A letter to my kid. =)
I sit in my usual morning-place, squooshed up to the family computer, perched on the ottoman that has served us as a desk chair for the last several years. My little boy is waking up with strawberry milk and cartoons, about 10 feet away, on the living room couch.
(Covered in lots of snuggy blankets. Cause that's how we DO.)
I browse the internet as I slowly wake up. And I think about how unbelievably quickly life moves. . .
I sip my coffee. Perform small coffee contemplations. I make hazy possibly-we-could-do-this-but-it's-not-written-in-stone plans for the day.
I think about everything my boy and I did yesterday while his Daddy was at work. The fun we had visiting family and friends, doggies and kitties, and listening to music and chits and chats. I feel a surge of gratitude. I hold these simple, unremarkable, and wonderful times with him like jewels in my hand. I marvel at how the seemingly unimportant things we did on some random Tuesday are now being sewn into the quilt of his childhood memories. I wonder about many things, great and small, varying from "what is the nature of life?" to "why HAVEN'T we bought a real computer chair, and made an honest desk out of her?"
I listen to my little boy (the one I waited for for a decade, the one I was beginning to doubt I would ever actually see) walking around and alternating between mumbling under his breath, and positively screeching, as his daddy tries to sleep. . . .
"Ash! Da-da. . . da-da-da-da. Da-DA!! Ash SHOES da-da. . ."
And I think to myself that I don't even care that he's not saying 20 - 24 different words (as the pediatrician indicated he should be), because the ones he IS saying are making up the most beautiful song I think I've ever heard. And the joy I find in being here with him. . . in doing nothing but being here with him. . . makes me feel as if I'm gonna burst.
Now, even as I write this, I think to myself: "Some people are going to think you're full of shit. Some people will say: Nobody's happy ALL the time."
And they would be quite right.
I'm not happy all the time, either.
I'm moody, and overly-sensitive (personally, *I* don't believe that last bit is true, but my husband swears to it, and so I will give him the benefit of the doubt), and prone to anxiety. I can be a verifiable WRECK at times, and to deny it would be untruthful, and just a complete waste of time, besides.
But I sit here, and I think.
And every once in a while, I look up and stare into the den.
And there stands this little boy. . . still in his soft pajamas, curls all over his head, strawberry milk droplets on his shirt and untold amounts of snot (I'm sure) on his sleeve. And he is walking around singing to himself, and brandishing a plastic sword.
He sings, and he slashes the air with his weapon, and wipes at his nose, and smiles at me when he catches me looking. (Which is a lot.) He looks for a kitten to cross his path, a kitten that might be picked up and carried around, smooshed tight to his little chest, in his best approximation of "I'll care for you, sweet thing."
. . . And I don't even know when this happened to me.
I don't know WHEN was the moment that I became this huge softie . . . and I'll admit to being a little confused, a little flummoxed. Because I've always been a bit of a bad-ass (in my own mind), and because this tendency to morph into a puddle of feelings every time a certain boy lights up a room. . . it has sneaked up on me and caught me quite unawares.
But I look at him. This sturdy little boy that loves sweet things and saltines, outlaw country music and kitty cats and back yards. . . and suddenly it's just all OVER me.
And all I can think is: This is going by too fast. Please slow down. I'm afraid I'm going to miss it.
Oh dear God. . .
What if I miss it??
WHAT IF I MISS SOMETHING IMPORTANT.
And the thing is. . . I will.
I will inevitably miss something. Something important.
I will be feeding the cats, or taking up the tea, or switching the clothes over to the dryer. . . and I will miss it.
I won't see the smile. Or the belly laugh. Or the happy-dance. Or his sweet little growing brain put two and two together and get four.
The fact is that I am human. And I'm not going to see it all. I'm not going to get to marvel over every second of it.
I'm going to have to pee sometimes.
So for all those little moments that I'm gonna miss, and for all those times when my head is killing me and my angel has not STOPPED asking questions all day, and for all those times when I WISH I had taken 5 seconds to NOT respond in anger, but I didn't because--again-- I am human. . . I would like to say this:
I see you.
I see you just as you are.
RIGHT.
NOW.
I am fully present for this moment that we're sharing, and I see you for the person, and the child, and the miracle that you are.
And it's too damn much. (In a good way.)
And mommy's crying again.
(You'll roll your eyes at displays like this when you're older, I'm sure of it.)
But your mom has been given the gift of perspective.
It is heavy to hold at times. . . this all-the-time knowledge that so many suffer. Are suffering. Are confused, and cold, hungry, scared, alone.
It keeps me up at night, many nights. Worrying and weeping for people I've never met, and a few that I have. And for the longest time, if you'd asked, I would've told you it was a curse.
But I look at you. . . and that's all it takes. The tears come. They're tears of gratitude, and I really don't know what address they should bear.
But they're there.
You're healthy.
You're happy, and safe, and WELL.
And it is so rare. And it is more than I could ask for.
It is, honestly, such an enormous gift that I can't even comprehend it.
So mommy cries.
She cries for happy reasons, and for all those people that don't have their happy reason right now.
And this over-sensitivity, this "too-much-perspective". . . as heart-breaking as it can be to deal with at times. . . is starting to seem less and less like a curse.
More and more, it is starting to feel like a gift.
A gift that. . . maybe I haven't 100% figured out how to use just yet. . . . Like those dreams that I have that I'm levitating. . . then I wake up and can't figure out which muscles to flex. The knowledge is there. . . on the tip of my brain. But I can't figure out how to reach it just now.
So I'll wipe away tears, and I'll get you more milk.
And I'll just feel grateful, for right now.
Grateful that I was here for this. Grateful that I saw you, and grateful that I was seen.
And that will be enough. =)
(Covered in lots of snuggy blankets. Cause that's how we DO.)
I browse the internet as I slowly wake up. And I think about how unbelievably quickly life moves. . .
I sip my coffee. Perform small coffee contemplations. I make hazy possibly-we-could-do-this-but-it's-not-written-in-stone plans for the day.
I think about everything my boy and I did yesterday while his Daddy was at work. The fun we had visiting family and friends, doggies and kitties, and listening to music and chits and chats. I feel a surge of gratitude. I hold these simple, unremarkable, and wonderful times with him like jewels in my hand. I marvel at how the seemingly unimportant things we did on some random Tuesday are now being sewn into the quilt of his childhood memories. I wonder about many things, great and small, varying from "what is the nature of life?" to "why HAVEN'T we bought a real computer chair, and made an honest desk out of her?"
I listen to my little boy (the one I waited for for a decade, the one I was beginning to doubt I would ever actually see) walking around and alternating between mumbling under his breath, and positively screeching, as his daddy tries to sleep. . . .
"Ash! Da-da. . . da-da-da-da. Da-DA!! Ash SHOES da-da. . ."
And I think to myself that I don't even care that he's not saying 20 - 24 different words (as the pediatrician indicated he should be), because the ones he IS saying are making up the most beautiful song I think I've ever heard. And the joy I find in being here with him. . . in doing nothing but being here with him. . . makes me feel as if I'm gonna burst.
Now, even as I write this, I think to myself: "Some people are going to think you're full of shit. Some people will say: Nobody's happy ALL the time."
And they would be quite right.
I'm not happy all the time, either.
I'm moody, and overly-sensitive (personally, *I* don't believe that last bit is true, but my husband swears to it, and so I will give him the benefit of the doubt), and prone to anxiety. I can be a verifiable WRECK at times, and to deny it would be untruthful, and just a complete waste of time, besides.
But I sit here, and I think.
And every once in a while, I look up and stare into the den.
And there stands this little boy. . . still in his soft pajamas, curls all over his head, strawberry milk droplets on his shirt and untold amounts of snot (I'm sure) on his sleeve. And he is walking around singing to himself, and brandishing a plastic sword.
He sings, and he slashes the air with his weapon, and wipes at his nose, and smiles at me when he catches me looking. (Which is a lot.) He looks for a kitten to cross his path, a kitten that might be picked up and carried around, smooshed tight to his little chest, in his best approximation of "I'll care for you, sweet thing."
. . . And I don't even know when this happened to me.
I don't know WHEN was the moment that I became this huge softie . . . and I'll admit to being a little confused, a little flummoxed. Because I've always been a bit of a bad-ass (in my own mind), and because this tendency to morph into a puddle of feelings every time a certain boy lights up a room. . . it has sneaked up on me and caught me quite unawares.
But I look at him. This sturdy little boy that loves sweet things and saltines, outlaw country music and kitty cats and back yards. . . and suddenly it's just all OVER me.
And all I can think is: This is going by too fast. Please slow down. I'm afraid I'm going to miss it.
Oh dear God. . .
What if I miss it??
WHAT IF I MISS SOMETHING IMPORTANT.
And the thing is. . . I will.
I will inevitably miss something. Something important.
I will be feeding the cats, or taking up the tea, or switching the clothes over to the dryer. . . and I will miss it.
I won't see the smile. Or the belly laugh. Or the happy-dance. Or his sweet little growing brain put two and two together and get four.
The fact is that I am human. And I'm not going to see it all. I'm not going to get to marvel over every second of it.
I'm going to have to pee sometimes.
So for all those little moments that I'm gonna miss, and for all those times when my head is killing me and my angel has not STOPPED asking questions all day, and for all those times when I WISH I had taken 5 seconds to NOT respond in anger, but I didn't because--again-- I am human. . . I would like to say this:
I see you.
I see you just as you are.
RIGHT.
NOW.
I am fully present for this moment that we're sharing, and I see you for the person, and the child, and the miracle that you are.
And it's too damn much. (In a good way.)
And mommy's crying again.
(You'll roll your eyes at displays like this when you're older, I'm sure of it.)
But your mom has been given the gift of perspective.
It is heavy to hold at times. . . this all-the-time knowledge that so many suffer. Are suffering. Are confused, and cold, hungry, scared, alone.
It keeps me up at night, many nights. Worrying and weeping for people I've never met, and a few that I have. And for the longest time, if you'd asked, I would've told you it was a curse.
But I look at you. . . and that's all it takes. The tears come. They're tears of gratitude, and I really don't know what address they should bear.
But they're there.
You're healthy.
You're happy, and safe, and WELL.
And it is so rare. And it is more than I could ask for.
It is, honestly, such an enormous gift that I can't even comprehend it.
So mommy cries.
She cries for happy reasons, and for all those people that don't have their happy reason right now.
And this over-sensitivity, this "too-much-perspective". . . as heart-breaking as it can be to deal with at times. . . is starting to seem less and less like a curse.
More and more, it is starting to feel like a gift.
A gift that. . . maybe I haven't 100% figured out how to use just yet. . . . Like those dreams that I have that I'm levitating. . . then I wake up and can't figure out which muscles to flex. The knowledge is there. . . on the tip of my brain. But I can't figure out how to reach it just now.
So I'll wipe away tears, and I'll get you more milk.
And I'll just feel grateful, for right now.
Grateful that I was here for this. Grateful that I saw you, and grateful that I was seen.
And that will be enough. =)
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
Hope You're Proud of Yourself, MTV
So this morning I was browsing the interwebz, sipping on my iced coffee, and trying to keep pop-tart crumbs from getting everywhere as little Took sat in my lap and munched his (not incredibly healthy) breakfast.
And I happened upon an article about one of the girls from Teen Mom. (I call her a "girl" because she is a girl. If it ever becomes apparent that she has made the leap to womanhood, I will adjust this post accordingly.)
This was not the exact article that I was reading this morning, but it's close enough:
http://www.foxnews.com/entertainment/2013/04/10/teen-mom-star-farrah-abraham-filmed-porn--james-deen/?intcmp=trending
So. . . now that I'm typing, I don't even really know what to say about this. . .
She is of legal age (I can only assume), so I suppose she is free to do whatever she wants. And, believe it or not, I'm not judging her.
I do not think she is a "bad" person.
It's just that reading this article makes me want to cry.
It's not so much that porn stars exist. . . because they have for quite some time. The oldest profession, and all that. I guess the real problem that I have with this is that this is just a GIRL. Obviously a bit of a dim bulb, but someone's daughter nonetheless.
And she is just one of countless others that found herself willing to do literally anything for fifteen minutes of scandalous fame.
What was she thinking?? I found myself asking.
And the answer is: She was thinking she wanted to be famous.
She wanted her name on the web, and she didn't care how it got there. She wanted pretty little things to dress herself in, and pretty little things to drive around in, and pretty little cocktails to drink in pretty little bars where you have to be "somebody" to get past the velvet rope.
. . .And apparently this is all it takes to be "somebody" today.
She was probably thinking that Paris Hilton, and Kim Kardashian, and God only knows who else, made sex tapes, got their names in the headlines, and then recovered from it well enough, no real damage done, and that she could, too.
What she was probably NOT thinking is that once you have destroyed your dignity, it is gone. And getting it back is a tough road that many aren't willing to travel.
We are born naked into this world, and screaming. Hopefully, we have loving parents that take the time to guide us and patiently direct us, and to teach us what it is to be noble, and true, and strong.
And we then take that nobility and truth and strength, and hope against hope that it is enough to guide us through the pitfalls of this life.
In a very real way, in times of trouble, terror, and strife, our dignity is all that we have.
And this child has tossed hers to the wind. Exchanged it for the chance of being a recognizable face, with no care at all as to what she is being recognized FOR.
And yes. My heart weeps for that.
I'm not saying that I'm better than her, because I'm not. We all have to find our way through this world. We are all on our own paths; all learning the same lessons, just in different ways.
And while I would REALLY like to shake my fist and roll my eyes at "society", and demand accountability not only for this girl but for every one out there like her. . . I can't. Because I am a PART of society, am I not?
She is not just that nameless "someone's" daughter. She is MY daughter. And yours, as well.
And we have failed her.
We have failed her by making it cute, and profitable, and not really that big a deal, to get rich off of a sex tape. We've failed her by glamorizing those that have failed to offer any real contribution to society. We've failed her by making it seem that the important things in life are things that fit on your wrist, in your pocket, or in your garage. We've failed her by letting a television do the majority of the at-home parenting, and by accepting the ridiculous, mindless shit that we see on it as something we can't do anything about. By having a mindset of "Oh well, I guess that's just the new normal."
We've failed her by saving our pedestals for our Princesses, and pushing our peace-makers to the back.
And we have failed her by making all of this possible. By NOT drawing a line, and saying "Here it is! HERE is the line! THIS FAR, and NO FARTHER!"
And I happened upon an article about one of the girls from Teen Mom. (I call her a "girl" because she is a girl. If it ever becomes apparent that she has made the leap to womanhood, I will adjust this post accordingly.)
This was not the exact article that I was reading this morning, but it's close enough:
http://www.foxnews.com/entertainment/2013/04/10/teen-mom-star-farrah-abraham-filmed-porn--james-deen/?intcmp=trending
So. . . now that I'm typing, I don't even really know what to say about this. . .
She is of legal age (I can only assume), so I suppose she is free to do whatever she wants. And, believe it or not, I'm not judging her.
I do not think she is a "bad" person.
It's just that reading this article makes me want to cry.
It's not so much that porn stars exist. . . because they have for quite some time. The oldest profession, and all that. I guess the real problem that I have with this is that this is just a GIRL. Obviously a bit of a dim bulb, but someone's daughter nonetheless.
And she is just one of countless others that found herself willing to do literally anything for fifteen minutes of scandalous fame.
What was she thinking?? I found myself asking.
And the answer is: She was thinking she wanted to be famous.
She wanted her name on the web, and she didn't care how it got there. She wanted pretty little things to dress herself in, and pretty little things to drive around in, and pretty little cocktails to drink in pretty little bars where you have to be "somebody" to get past the velvet rope.
. . .And apparently this is all it takes to be "somebody" today.
She was probably thinking that Paris Hilton, and Kim Kardashian, and God only knows who else, made sex tapes, got their names in the headlines, and then recovered from it well enough, no real damage done, and that she could, too.
What she was probably NOT thinking is that once you have destroyed your dignity, it is gone. And getting it back is a tough road that many aren't willing to travel.
We are born naked into this world, and screaming. Hopefully, we have loving parents that take the time to guide us and patiently direct us, and to teach us what it is to be noble, and true, and strong.
And we then take that nobility and truth and strength, and hope against hope that it is enough to guide us through the pitfalls of this life.
In a very real way, in times of trouble, terror, and strife, our dignity is all that we have.
And this child has tossed hers to the wind. Exchanged it for the chance of being a recognizable face, with no care at all as to what she is being recognized FOR.
And yes. My heart weeps for that.
I'm not saying that I'm better than her, because I'm not. We all have to find our way through this world. We are all on our own paths; all learning the same lessons, just in different ways.
And while I would REALLY like to shake my fist and roll my eyes at "society", and demand accountability not only for this girl but for every one out there like her. . . I can't. Because I am a PART of society, am I not?
She is not just that nameless "someone's" daughter. She is MY daughter. And yours, as well.
And we have failed her.
We have failed her by making it cute, and profitable, and not really that big a deal, to get rich off of a sex tape. We've failed her by glamorizing those that have failed to offer any real contribution to society. We've failed her by making it seem that the important things in life are things that fit on your wrist, in your pocket, or in your garage. We've failed her by letting a television do the majority of the at-home parenting, and by accepting the ridiculous, mindless shit that we see on it as something we can't do anything about. By having a mindset of "Oh well, I guess that's just the new normal."
We've failed her by saving our pedestals for our Princesses, and pushing our peace-makers to the back.
And we have failed her by making all of this possible. By NOT drawing a line, and saying "Here it is! HERE is the line! THIS FAR, and NO FARTHER!"
. . .In the world we live in, parenting is quickly becoming the most difficult, and sacred duty that one could have.
And with so many among us ignoring this simple fact, I feel that it falls to the rest of us to pick up the slack.
Even if you don't HAVE children, by your example of what a good, and decent, and FULL life is --- you are a teacher.
And so am I.
And my teaching is going to begin with turning off the tv.
I won't watch MTV. (And no. This is not a boycott. Boycotts want attention. This is merely a personal choice.)
I won't watch ANY network that glamorizes idiocy and panders to the lowest common denominator.
I won't view it as simply a "guilty pleasure." Because BY this guilty pleasure, we are inadvertently SHOWING our children what is acceptable and what is NOT.
I will draw the line.
But I won't stop there. . .
I will TEACH my child.
I will teach him about nature, and beauty, and art. I will show him that standing outside on a sunny, windswept day is about the best feeling in the world.
I will encourage wonder, and questions, and do my best to strengthen creativity.
I will lead by example.
I will show him the magic of books, and music, friendship, and love. I will teach him the joy of a really good meal, shared with the ones that mean the most to you in the world.
I will do my best to show him a quiet life, and the beauty therein.
I will show forgiveness, and patience.
I won't exalt money, and I won't spend my life chasing things that will all be removed once I am buried.
I will teach him what is sacred.
And, if I am successful, I will teach him above all to love, and honor, that which is sacred in himself.
Sunday, March 31, 2013
Easter 2013
It is 11:30 a.m. on Easter Sunday.
I am in a rocking chair in a dim room, rocking my boy to sleep for his nap.
He doesn't cry or scream. At around this time every day, I carry him upstairs and sing and rock him to sleep. He never puts up a fuss. He knows when it's nap time.
He is especially sleepy today, as he's had a morning-full of Easter fun already. He's eaten untold-amounts of jelly beans, a malted milk ball or two, and unwrapped probably a dozen chocolate bunnies. (Didn't eat them. Just unwrapped. Must've changed his mind.)
He's played swords with Devin, and gone out on the front porch (because it is raining) to play with his brand new battery-powered bubble blower. (Those things are AWESOME!!! Best five bucks I've ever spent.)
And he's even had a bath already, though he was QUITE displeased about having to share the space with Devin. (Devin likes to lay down in the tub, thus confining Nolan to a teeny corner. He doesn't care for it. Not at all.)
He's sleepy, so I don't sing today.
We just sit and rock.
And that is all we do.
We listen to the fake ocean sounds on his white noise machine. We listen as the fake tide ebbs and flows.
And we rock back and forth.
. . . And I don't play with my phone. I don't text people, and I don't play any games.
I don't make a running list of any groceries we're out of at the moment. I am not mentally wandering around Publix, reminding myself to get tortillas.
I am not mentally preparing for, or planning any events in the future (though I could CERTAINLY put some planning time to good use).
I am just sitting there, rocking my boy.
(And maybe humming a little.)
And patting his back from time to time, usually in rhythm to whatever song I'm singing in my head.
And, though it would be easy to do, I do not let my mind wander to some undetermined time in the future, when my boy will be too big to sleep in my lap, and those curls might be gone, and I won't be needed to sing him to sleep.
I do not think of those things.
Instead, I focus on what is happening right now.
I kiss the top of his head, and feel his warm cheek. I look at his face, and I marvel at the sweetness of it. I think of his temper tantrums just earlier today, and think how precious and dear he is, and also how prone to slap (if you are annoying him). I marvel at the weight of him in my lap, and think about how much he's grown since he was the fat little peanut we brought home a lifetime ago.
I treasure his smell, I hold him close, and I rock us back and forth.
And I am thankful for so very many things that I don't even have the words to name them all.
But right now, in this room with blue walls and Winnie the Pooh and a false ocean roaring, I find that more than anything, I am just so grateful for this exact moment.
I am grateful because I was actually HERE for it.
I held it in my hand, and looked at it, and SAW it.
(. . .which is a difficult thing to do sometimes.)
And things aren't perfect. Nothing is ever perfect.
But I am learning that it doesn't HAVE to be ---doesn't even have to be close --- for me to appreciate it, and actually BE THERE for it.
And sometimes. . .
Sometimes I am so filled up with gratitude that I feel that I could burst from it.
. . .
And these are my thoughts this Easter.
Also.
Cadbury Eggs.
I am in a rocking chair in a dim room, rocking my boy to sleep for his nap.
He doesn't cry or scream. At around this time every day, I carry him upstairs and sing and rock him to sleep. He never puts up a fuss. He knows when it's nap time.
He is especially sleepy today, as he's had a morning-full of Easter fun already. He's eaten untold-amounts of jelly beans, a malted milk ball or two, and unwrapped probably a dozen chocolate bunnies. (Didn't eat them. Just unwrapped. Must've changed his mind.)
He's played swords with Devin, and gone out on the front porch (because it is raining) to play with his brand new battery-powered bubble blower. (Those things are AWESOME!!! Best five bucks I've ever spent.)
And he's even had a bath already, though he was QUITE displeased about having to share the space with Devin. (Devin likes to lay down in the tub, thus confining Nolan to a teeny corner. He doesn't care for it. Not at all.)
He's sleepy, so I don't sing today.
We just sit and rock.
And that is all we do.
We listen to the fake ocean sounds on his white noise machine. We listen as the fake tide ebbs and flows.
And we rock back and forth.
. . . And I don't play with my phone. I don't text people, and I don't play any games.
I don't make a running list of any groceries we're out of at the moment. I am not mentally wandering around Publix, reminding myself to get tortillas.
I am not mentally preparing for, or planning any events in the future (though I could CERTAINLY put some planning time to good use).
I am just sitting there, rocking my boy.
(And maybe humming a little.)
And patting his back from time to time, usually in rhythm to whatever song I'm singing in my head.
And, though it would be easy to do, I do not let my mind wander to some undetermined time in the future, when my boy will be too big to sleep in my lap, and those curls might be gone, and I won't be needed to sing him to sleep.
I do not think of those things.
Instead, I focus on what is happening right now.
I kiss the top of his head, and feel his warm cheek. I look at his face, and I marvel at the sweetness of it. I think of his temper tantrums just earlier today, and think how precious and dear he is, and also how prone to slap (if you are annoying him). I marvel at the weight of him in my lap, and think about how much he's grown since he was the fat little peanut we brought home a lifetime ago.
I treasure his smell, I hold him close, and I rock us back and forth.
And I am thankful for so very many things that I don't even have the words to name them all.
But right now, in this room with blue walls and Winnie the Pooh and a false ocean roaring, I find that more than anything, I am just so grateful for this exact moment.
I am grateful because I was actually HERE for it.
I held it in my hand, and looked at it, and SAW it.
(. . .which is a difficult thing to do sometimes.)
And things aren't perfect. Nothing is ever perfect.
But I am learning that it doesn't HAVE to be ---doesn't even have to be close --- for me to appreciate it, and actually BE THERE for it.
And sometimes. . .
Sometimes I am so filled up with gratitude that I feel that I could burst from it.
. . .
And these are my thoughts this Easter.
Also.
Cadbury Eggs.
Monday, March 18, 2013
Party Anxieties
Next month my husband is turning 40.
Shocking for him, I'm sure, to have made it this long. A bit shocking for me, as well, to be married to an old pawpaw. =)
And we are having a party for him. ***If you were not invited, this was NOT a slight against you. Mr. Michael has informed me that he plans on drinking. Quite a bit, probably. And as the drinks will be flowing freely all night --- and we are more than happy to offer our upstairs, our couch, and any unoccupied floorspace to anyone that does NOT need to drive --- if I didn't invite you it was simply because I did not think you were the kind of person that might enjoy such shenanigans.
Crap. Now I'm worried that maybe I've hurt someone's feelings.
. . .Perhaps I should mail out an "I didn't invite you because the place is going to be crawling with pirates and I know that you don't care for those types, Matey!" flyer?
Which is precisely why I detest situations such as this.
NOT throwing a shindig for my boo. No, I'm perfectly fine with that. After all, he's ancient now, so who knows how many more parties he's going to get? ;0
No, MY major concern would be in sidestepping the social landmines that inevitably come up in this kind of situation.
. . .Have I accidentally hurt someone's feelings?
. . .Have I made someone feel badly?
. . .Have I made someone feel that maybe I don't care for them???
Good Lord.
These are the kind of things that keep me up at night.
And that's just the minor issues before we even GET to the party!
I'm having a LOT of anxiety about it right now.
So I decided to try to allay some of these fears by browsing the interwebz and getting some ideas.
This, in itself, turned out to be a VERY BAD IDEA.
So now I'm just sitting here, with a glazed and horrified kind of look on my face, sipping my coffee and seriously considering curling into the fetal position and just rocking back and forth until this is all over with. With any luck, I would still be in that position when the party started to happen, and hopefully some kind partygoer would walk by and stick a crab puff in my mouth.
I'm kidding, of course. (We won't be having crab puffs.)
But I AM trying to get a handle on this. . . so maybe I just need to list my anxieties one by one, and then tackle them one at a time.
Here goes.
My List of Party Concerns, and Other Current Terrors
1.) People are coming in from out of town.
We are VERY happy about this. But what it MEANS (if you are me) is that this is the first, and possibly only, time that these people are going to visit us. So my house doesn't just have to be 'clean'. . . it has to be Ready-For-My-Southern-Living-Photo-Shoot-Spotless.
. . .
So for the last few weeks, every time I notice a dribble down the front of the cabinets, or how grubby our baseboards are, I just have to go to my happy place and sing a song and nibble on some cheese until I get distracted and forget about it.
. . .and I think that's probably enough talk about THAT.
2.) We would like to have a Photo Booth.
You know --- a place for guests to stop and take a few pics. Party memories. FUN!!
And Great-Egads-Holy-Jumping-Dieties. . . the price to rent a photo booth is roughly equal to the budget that we have allotted for the entire party. Wow.
So who cares? I'll just MAKE ONE. I'm fairly clever, and TONS of scrappy. I'll just put one together using household items that I already have on hand. Easy-peasy.
. . . And so now I have watched about five different Make Your Own Photo Booth videos on youtube, and the idea of staying in the fetal position for the next couple weeks is sounding better and better.
3.) We do not have a theme.
Months ago, when Michael first expressed interest in a 40th birthday bash, he said that we could do a Care Bears theme. That Care Bears would be fine with him.
And I was ALL ABOUT IT. I was TOTALLY on board.
I was thinking about how lucky I was to have a guy that was going to walk around all night wearing a birthday hat with Friendship Bear on it.
Oh, the GREAT TIMES WE WOULD HAVE!!!!
And then I browsed our local Party City, only to discover that they don't carry Care Bears party decor. (I asked.)
When the helpful Party City lady told me that they didn't HAVE Care Bears, I briefly considered making a stink.
In my head, it unfolded something like this:
Me: "You don't HAVE Care Bears? . . . YOU don't have CARE BEARS??!! YOU ARE A PARTY STORE! THIS IS MY PARTY THEME!"
The lady: "I'm terribly sorry, ma'am, but Care Bears just aren't that popular anymore. Is there anything else I could help you find?"
Me: "YOU CAN FIND ME SOME FRIENDLY FREAKING BEARS WITH HEARTS AND RAINBOWS ON THEIR DAMN TUMMIES, POST HASTE!! This is PARTY CITY!!! I came here for SOLUTIONS!!!!"
The lady: ". . . Perhaps we could help you find another theme?"
Me: "He doesn't WANT 'another theme'!! He is MY special guy, and HE WANTS CARE BEARS, and now I have to tell him that HE CAN'T HAVE CARE BEARS!!! Would YOU like to tell him that he can't have Care Bears? Would YOU like to be the one to take a dump on his dreams?? WOULD YOU, MADAM??!"
And the whole scene ends in a brilliant kerfuffle, with me doing some really bad-ass, Scott Pilgrim-type moves. Then I walk away in the morning sun, singing songs about vengeance, and how friendship is magic.
(That might be My Little Pony. . . I can't be sure. But my dear one has not expressed an interest in a pony theme.)
4.) I have NO IDEA what I am doing.
And this is where we get to the heart of the matter. Aside from the baby's first birthday party (which was fine, because he was only 1, and didn't know what a birthday party WAS, and thus had no expectations), I have never thrown a party before.
I don't have a CLUE how to do it.
Hell, I'm not even that great at GOING to parties. . . I usually just try to stuff my mouth with food, make friends with any pets that might be roaming around, stick like glue to the few people I know, and take frequent bathroom breaks so that I can take deep breaths and try to convince myself that I haven't deeply offended anyone's religion, sports team, or children.
(It's tough being me sometimes. We have issues.)
But I can't DO THAT at this party.
At THIS party, people are going to expect me to be a hostess. I will have to pretend to be charming. I will have to mingle. I will have to know what is going on.
I will have to act as though I am not about to pee in terror.
I will have to make sure the crab puffs don't go bad and poison all of our guests.
(It's really just the kind of situation where spontaneous combustion is about the best I can hope for.)
And so, in a frenzy of hopeful desperation, this morning I decided to browse pinterest and see what I could find in the way of party ideas.
. . .And that is why I am typing this from the fetal position, in the middle of our kitchen floor. (Thankfully, the baby keeps bringing me gummies, so I will not starve.)
Pinterest is really just not intended for people like me.
I think the people who throw parties on pinterest are. . . insane? Bored? Really, really talented alien body-snatchers?
Who ARE these people???
These are people who probably throw parties all the time.
These are people who have little signs for every little tortilla chip they serve that says "Chip" in fancy calligraphy letters, and then goes on to provide a brief history of the chip, as well as an amusing little limerick.
o.0
These people have fancy decorations for everything, and probably spent as much on their party as I will spend on my next car.
Oh wait, nevermind. They just made those decorations with some simple ribbons, sequins, and a glue gun.
And the ice sculpture only took three hours, a degree in engineering, and the steady hand of a surgeon.
I REALLY hate those people.
STOP CRAPPING ON MY PARTY, PERFECT PINTEREST PEOPLE!!
LET SOME OTHER FOLKS FEEL GOOD ABOUT SOMETHING!!!
. . .
Okay, okay.
That anger is probably misplaced.
**Deep breaths.**
I'm sure the party will be lovely.
I love my husband, and I just want him to have a good time with his friends, drink some cocktails, listen to some music, and have some snacks.
Besides, it's the thought that counts, right?
WRONG!!!
(You could not BE MORE WRONG.)
That only applies to Christmas!!!
So I guess I'm lucky, because I'm no longer even worried about the party at all now.
Nope.
NOW, the big questions are: WHY did he marry me??? . . .What skills do I HAVE???
. . .And is it possible to drink coffee while in the fetal position???
I am SO screwed. . .
Shocking for him, I'm sure, to have made it this long. A bit shocking for me, as well, to be married to an old pawpaw. =)
And we are having a party for him. ***If you were not invited, this was NOT a slight against you. Mr. Michael has informed me that he plans on drinking. Quite a bit, probably. And as the drinks will be flowing freely all night --- and we are more than happy to offer our upstairs, our couch, and any unoccupied floorspace to anyone that does NOT need to drive --- if I didn't invite you it was simply because I did not think you were the kind of person that might enjoy such shenanigans.
Crap. Now I'm worried that maybe I've hurt someone's feelings.
. . .Perhaps I should mail out an "I didn't invite you because the place is going to be crawling with pirates and I know that you don't care for those types, Matey!" flyer?
Which is precisely why I detest situations such as this.
NOT throwing a shindig for my boo. No, I'm perfectly fine with that. After all, he's ancient now, so who knows how many more parties he's going to get? ;0
No, MY major concern would be in sidestepping the social landmines that inevitably come up in this kind of situation.
. . .Have I accidentally hurt someone's feelings?
. . .Have I made someone feel badly?
. . .Have I made someone feel that maybe I don't care for them???
Good Lord.
These are the kind of things that keep me up at night.
And that's just the minor issues before we even GET to the party!
I'm having a LOT of anxiety about it right now.
So I decided to try to allay some of these fears by browsing the interwebz and getting some ideas.
This, in itself, turned out to be a VERY BAD IDEA.
So now I'm just sitting here, with a glazed and horrified kind of look on my face, sipping my coffee and seriously considering curling into the fetal position and just rocking back and forth until this is all over with. With any luck, I would still be in that position when the party started to happen, and hopefully some kind partygoer would walk by and stick a crab puff in my mouth.
I'm kidding, of course. (We won't be having crab puffs.)
But I AM trying to get a handle on this. . . so maybe I just need to list my anxieties one by one, and then tackle them one at a time.
Here goes.
My List of Party Concerns, and Other Current Terrors
1.) People are coming in from out of town.
We are VERY happy about this. But what it MEANS (if you are me) is that this is the first, and possibly only, time that these people are going to visit us. So my house doesn't just have to be 'clean'. . . it has to be Ready-For-My-Southern-Living-Photo-Shoot-Spotless.
. . .
So for the last few weeks, every time I notice a dribble down the front of the cabinets, or how grubby our baseboards are, I just have to go to my happy place and sing a song and nibble on some cheese until I get distracted and forget about it.
. . .and I think that's probably enough talk about THAT.
2.) We would like to have a Photo Booth.
You know --- a place for guests to stop and take a few pics. Party memories. FUN!!
And Great-Egads-Holy-Jumping-Dieties. . . the price to rent a photo booth is roughly equal to the budget that we have allotted for the entire party. Wow.
So who cares? I'll just MAKE ONE. I'm fairly clever, and TONS of scrappy. I'll just put one together using household items that I already have on hand. Easy-peasy.
. . . And so now I have watched about five different Make Your Own Photo Booth videos on youtube, and the idea of staying in the fetal position for the next couple weeks is sounding better and better.
3.) We do not have a theme.
Months ago, when Michael first expressed interest in a 40th birthday bash, he said that we could do a Care Bears theme. That Care Bears would be fine with him.
And I was ALL ABOUT IT. I was TOTALLY on board.
I was thinking about how lucky I was to have a guy that was going to walk around all night wearing a birthday hat with Friendship Bear on it.
Oh, the GREAT TIMES WE WOULD HAVE!!!!
And then I browsed our local Party City, only to discover that they don't carry Care Bears party decor. (I asked.)
When the helpful Party City lady told me that they didn't HAVE Care Bears, I briefly considered making a stink.
In my head, it unfolded something like this:
Me: "You don't HAVE Care Bears? . . . YOU don't have CARE BEARS??!! YOU ARE A PARTY STORE! THIS IS MY PARTY THEME!"
The lady: "I'm terribly sorry, ma'am, but Care Bears just aren't that popular anymore. Is there anything else I could help you find?"
Me: "YOU CAN FIND ME SOME FRIENDLY FREAKING BEARS WITH HEARTS AND RAINBOWS ON THEIR DAMN TUMMIES, POST HASTE!! This is PARTY CITY!!! I came here for SOLUTIONS!!!!"
The lady: ". . . Perhaps we could help you find another theme?"
Me: "He doesn't WANT 'another theme'!! He is MY special guy, and HE WANTS CARE BEARS, and now I have to tell him that HE CAN'T HAVE CARE BEARS!!! Would YOU like to tell him that he can't have Care Bears? Would YOU like to be the one to take a dump on his dreams?? WOULD YOU, MADAM??!"
And the whole scene ends in a brilliant kerfuffle, with me doing some really bad-ass, Scott Pilgrim-type moves. Then I walk away in the morning sun, singing songs about vengeance, and how friendship is magic.
(That might be My Little Pony. . . I can't be sure. But my dear one has not expressed an interest in a pony theme.)
4.) I have NO IDEA what I am doing.
And this is where we get to the heart of the matter. Aside from the baby's first birthday party (which was fine, because he was only 1, and didn't know what a birthday party WAS, and thus had no expectations), I have never thrown a party before.
I don't have a CLUE how to do it.
Hell, I'm not even that great at GOING to parties. . . I usually just try to stuff my mouth with food, make friends with any pets that might be roaming around, stick like glue to the few people I know, and take frequent bathroom breaks so that I can take deep breaths and try to convince myself that I haven't deeply offended anyone's religion, sports team, or children.
(It's tough being me sometimes. We have issues.)
But I can't DO THAT at this party.
At THIS party, people are going to expect me to be a hostess. I will have to pretend to be charming. I will have to mingle. I will have to know what is going on.
I will have to act as though I am not about to pee in terror.
I will have to make sure the crab puffs don't go bad and poison all of our guests.
(It's really just the kind of situation where spontaneous combustion is about the best I can hope for.)
And so, in a frenzy of hopeful desperation, this morning I decided to browse pinterest and see what I could find in the way of party ideas.
. . .And that is why I am typing this from the fetal position, in the middle of our kitchen floor. (Thankfully, the baby keeps bringing me gummies, so I will not starve.)
Pinterest is really just not intended for people like me.
I think the people who throw parties on pinterest are. . . insane? Bored? Really, really talented alien body-snatchers?
Who ARE these people???
These are people who probably throw parties all the time.
These are people who have little signs for every little tortilla chip they serve that says "Chip" in fancy calligraphy letters, and then goes on to provide a brief history of the chip, as well as an amusing little limerick.
o.0
These people have fancy decorations for everything, and probably spent as much on their party as I will spend on my next car.
Oh wait, nevermind. They just made those decorations with some simple ribbons, sequins, and a glue gun.
And the ice sculpture only took three hours, a degree in engineering, and the steady hand of a surgeon.
I REALLY hate those people.
STOP CRAPPING ON MY PARTY, PERFECT PINTEREST PEOPLE!!
LET SOME OTHER FOLKS FEEL GOOD ABOUT SOMETHING!!!
. . .
Okay, okay.
That anger is probably misplaced.
**Deep breaths.**
I'm sure the party will be lovely.
I love my husband, and I just want him to have a good time with his friends, drink some cocktails, listen to some music, and have some snacks.
Besides, it's the thought that counts, right?
WRONG!!!
(You could not BE MORE WRONG.)
That only applies to Christmas!!!
So I guess I'm lucky, because I'm no longer even worried about the party at all now.
Nope.
NOW, the big questions are: WHY did he marry me??? . . .What skills do I HAVE???
. . .And is it possible to drink coffee while in the fetal position???
I am SO screwed. . .
Monday, March 11, 2013
Ash Ferley: Double-Kitty
For several years now, as friends and family can attest, we have been a two-cat household.
It has meant no end of sneezing fits for Michael, and 14 years worth of tufts of cat hair in the corner every time I sweep.
Since November of 1999, my life has been consistently populated with at least a Me + 1. He has been a faithful, if foul-tempered, companion by the name of Ash Ferley.
Pictured here:
He IS very much a foul-tempered cat. He has always been this way. As I suppose it must go with people as well, he is just an asshole.
It's just who he is.
I have come to accept this about him, and have learned to just look on it as a personality quirk. It is only fair, as he seems to turn a blind eye to my own glaring personality flaws in return.
(We are always tough but fair.)
And several years ago, while we were still living in Downtown Birmingham, we brought home a little stripey kitty with spots on his belly, and named him Muscles.
Then Ash and Muscles became a duo, and it was them against the world.
I like to think that they were great friends.
I hope they were.
And then, several months ago, we very suddenly lost Muscles. . . .After a suitable mourning period, we decided we were ready to tempt Fate to break us down once again, and brought home another kitten.
Her name is Waylon.
She is incredibly sweet, and utterly fearless, and relentless, and perhaps just a little dumb. But really charming, nonetheless.
But since Muscles died, Michael and I have both noticed the strangest little changes regarding Ash.
When Muscles passed away, Ash himself looked as if he was on the brink of death. He was getting old-ish, for a cat. And he just started looking really skinny, and slow, and more like a paw paw-kitty.
Then Muscles died.
And now Ash has. . . blossomed. His coat is fuller and brighter. He has put on weight. He looks. . .robust. Better than he's looked in YEARS.
And we haven't changed his food, or anything else.
He has just done this on his own.
And so, it is with this heavy on our minds, that Michael and I have been forced to conclude that when Muscles died, Ash stole his life force.
He is, essentially, now two kitties in one.
And, at some point in the future, I can TOTALLY see myself walking around and talking to him and being all "AM I TALKING TO MUSCLES NOW? OR IS THIS ASH I'M SPEAKING WITH??"
(He hates it when I am sarcastic. NO sense of humor.)
=)
Also, while we're on the topic of strange cat-things, Michael is convinced that Waylon intentionally tried to trip him and make him tumble down the stairs the other night. Possibly to his doom.
And Ash has allergies, and has been going to extraordinary lengths to sneeze in our faces.
And, just moments ago, Waylon demonstrated a passing fancy for the taste of Took's two-tarts.
Life with cats is AWESOME.
=)
It has meant no end of sneezing fits for Michael, and 14 years worth of tufts of cat hair in the corner every time I sweep.
Since November of 1999, my life has been consistently populated with at least a Me + 1. He has been a faithful, if foul-tempered, companion by the name of Ash Ferley.
Pictured here:
(He wishes you merry christmas. He does.)
And here, apparently hungover:
(Dude. . . .What?)
He IS very much a foul-tempered cat. He has always been this way. As I suppose it must go with people as well, he is just an asshole.
It's just who he is.
I have come to accept this about him, and have learned to just look on it as a personality quirk. It is only fair, as he seems to turn a blind eye to my own glaring personality flaws in return.
(We are always tough but fair.)
And several years ago, while we were still living in Downtown Birmingham, we brought home a little stripey kitty with spots on his belly, and named him Muscles.
Then Ash and Muscles became a duo, and it was them against the world.
I like to think that they were great friends.
I hope they were.
And then, several months ago, we very suddenly lost Muscles. . . .After a suitable mourning period, we decided we were ready to tempt Fate to break us down once again, and brought home another kitten.
Her name is Waylon.
She is incredibly sweet, and utterly fearless, and relentless, and perhaps just a little dumb. But really charming, nonetheless.
But since Muscles died, Michael and I have both noticed the strangest little changes regarding Ash.
When Muscles passed away, Ash himself looked as if he was on the brink of death. He was getting old-ish, for a cat. And he just started looking really skinny, and slow, and more like a paw paw-kitty.
Then Muscles died.
And now Ash has. . . blossomed. His coat is fuller and brighter. He has put on weight. He looks. . .robust. Better than he's looked in YEARS.
And we haven't changed his food, or anything else.
He has just done this on his own.
And so, it is with this heavy on our minds, that Michael and I have been forced to conclude that when Muscles died, Ash stole his life force.
He is, essentially, now two kitties in one.
And, at some point in the future, I can TOTALLY see myself walking around and talking to him and being all "AM I TALKING TO MUSCLES NOW? OR IS THIS ASH I'M SPEAKING WITH??"
(He hates it when I am sarcastic. NO sense of humor.)
=)
Also, while we're on the topic of strange cat-things, Michael is convinced that Waylon intentionally tried to trip him and make him tumble down the stairs the other night. Possibly to his doom.
And Ash has allergies, and has been going to extraordinary lengths to sneeze in our faces.
And, just moments ago, Waylon demonstrated a passing fancy for the taste of Took's two-tarts.
Life with cats is AWESOME.
=)
Sunday, March 10, 2013
Soccer, Psycho Playthings, and Mean Mommies
Woke up at 6:00 this morning.
Or 7:00.
Hard to say, really. The time change always screws me up and makes me feel like I'm stuck in the Matrix, so I'm not really sure. What I AM sure of is that at some point today I am probably going to go on a crusade to locate all of the (working) AA batteries in the house, so that I can put them in the 3 or 4 clocks that haven't worked in 3 months. Because I can only imagine that Time Change Day is a lot like Easter for all of our clocks. They get dressed up in new batteries, and take a lot of pride in showing the CORRECT time. ("See that? 3:15. Top THAT, bitches.")
Easter for clocks. . . .Which, if I follow that line of thought to its conclusion, I am forced to realize that the 3 or 4 of our clocks that need new batteries, the clocks that have NOT told the correct time in *quite* a while, are probably severely depressed. And possibly quite insane. (I imagine that having your second hand tick once every 8 or 9 seconds is as close as you can possibly come to TORTURE for a clock.)
I mean, telling time is kind of what they DO. It's their PURPOSE in life. And ours have been wrong (VERY wrong) for quite a while.
Hm.
Sad little clocks, screaming out for batteries, wondering what's the use in ticking.
Crap.
Really wish I hadn't thought of that. Because now that I have, I no longer have a choice in the matter. I MUST give them all fresh batteries now. Because now I have given them human qualities (which was stupid of me. Very, VERY stupid.) and if I do NOT replace their batteries, then I am essentially making them suffer for my own twisted amusements.
I really don't care for situations where my overactive imagination pretty much INSISTS upon a course of action for me. It's just that I don't care for having my hand forced on these matters.
I have done this for pretty much all of my life. And it is very irritating. . . . like when I was a kid, and I was pretty sure my stuffed animals came to life when I went to sleep every night. And then I realized that maybe the ones that I didn't sleep with, the ones that were left on the shelf at night, got jealous. Like, REALLY jealous.
Like, "If I can't be her cuddle-friend, then NO ONE CAN."
They were MY stuffed animals. Which meant that I was THEIR WORLD. When you add several more stuffed animals over a period of time (allowing for gift-giving occasions like birthdays and Christmas, etc.), I think it only logical that petty jealousies would erupt. And that a small percentage of said animals would be have attachment issues, paired with a lack of experience with dealing with these complex emotions, and that a smaller faction would (naturally) be criminally insane.
And so I usually slept with a great many stuffed animals in bed with me, ever fearful that one day they would realize that I did this NOT out of a desire for closeness, but out of fear of retaliation. (I was pretty confident that at LEAST a few were substantially unhinged.)
But. Depressed time-keepers and psychotic playthings hell-bent on destruction ASIDE. . . it really is shaping up to be a lovely Sunday. =)
And today is kind of a monumental day, in my teeny little nook of existence.
You see, TODAY is the day of DEVIN'S FIRST SOCCER GAME!!!!!
(Enough exclamation points? Cause I can add some more, no problem. Let me ask: Are you really FEELING that I am excited? Am I making you BELIEVE it?)
Because I AM excited. Or rather, I was. . . until I got to thinking about all the things that I know about soccer.
It is, admittedly, not a lot. And most of it was gleaned from years of paying very close attention to television programs.
What I KNOW About Soccer:
1.) It is VERY big in other countries.
2.) In at least ONE of these "other countries" it is referred to as "football".
3.) . . .Does David Beckham play soccer? Is that why we know him?
4.) Apparently goals are almost never made, and it is mostly just an excuse for the players to get lots of exercise as they run from one end of the field to the other.
5.) They wear sassy little knee socks.*
6.) (*I THINK they wear sassy little knee socks. . . but I have confused sports apparel before.)
7.) The moms that go to watch these games are evil and mean and very judgemental, and they will most likely find a way to mock what I am wearing, and we are probably not going to be friends. (Source: That King of the Hill episode where Peggy went to watch Bobby's soccer game, and all the other mommies made fun of/shunned her because she wasn't wearing the 'right' kind of sweater. Also, the fact that these mommies are mean is, if TELEVISION is to be believed (and I think we can ALL agree: It IS.), just kind of common knowledge.)
So, as you can well see, this list is just RIFE with positives AND negatives. And I'm the kind of person that generally INSISTS on my positives outweighing my negatives. Otherwise, I just stay home. (I'm looking at YOU, Lowe's and Publix.)
But for TODAY'S game, there are a few more tiny facts that you need, in order to see why I am not only GOING, but am rather excited about it.
Well, TWO facts, really. Just two:
1.) This is going to be soccer played by 6 year olds.
2.) According to Devin, they have never had a practice.
Yes, you read that last one right: NEVER had a practice.
This came to light as we were driving home from his school on Friday afternoon.
Me: "So are you excited about your soccer game on Sunday?"
Devin: "Yep."
Me: "What position do you play?"
Devin: ". . .what?"
Me: "What position do you play? What's your job?"
Devin: *blank stare*
Me: (like I am talking to a houseplant) "WHAT DID YOUR COACH TELL YOU TO DO?"
Devin: "Oh. I don't know my coach yet."
Me: ". . .you don't know your coach yet? What about the other kids on your team? Do you know THEM yet?"
Devin: "Nope. I've never met them."
Me: "What about practice? Have you NEVER BEEN TO A PRACTICE?"
Devin: "Nope."
Me: *my turn for a blank stare* "Then. . . how do you know what you're supposed to do?"
Devin: (like HE is talking to a houseplant) "I've PLAYED soccer before. You kick the ball."
Me: "Oh. . . .wait. WHERE have you played?"
Devin: "At my house."
And scene.
So, if I have gotten my point across, then you can clearly see that what we're dealing with here is a sports game wherein at LEAST one of the children involved has NEVER been to a practice, and has NEVER even met his teammates.
Also, they do not have jerseys yet, and so I am anticipating some moments of pure comedy gold, demonstrated by the fact that the kids have completely forgotten who is on their team, and who ISN'T.
Wait. . . do mean mommies take kids' soccer very seriously?
Because *I* know a little boy that is probably going to run out on the field, meet his team, and then attempt to take the ball and become a star. In his own mind, of course. Because he has NO IDEA what he is doing.
You gotta love confidence like that. =)
He's pumped.
I'm pumped.
I'm off to try to locate a smart-looking sweater set.
Ta!***
***In MY head, fancy soccer mommies say things like "Ta!" And they probably don't arrive to the games over-caffeinated. And I imagine that they probably smell very nice. But DO THEY BRING SNACKS?
Seriously ---- do they?
Because I could make certain attempts to befriend mean mommies. . . IF they're packing.
SNACK-PACKING!!!
Woo!
See what I did there? =)
Making it look easy.
EAT IT, mean mommies!!
=p
Or 7:00.
Hard to say, really. The time change always screws me up and makes me feel like I'm stuck in the Matrix, so I'm not really sure. What I AM sure of is that at some point today I am probably going to go on a crusade to locate all of the (working) AA batteries in the house, so that I can put them in the 3 or 4 clocks that haven't worked in 3 months. Because I can only imagine that Time Change Day is a lot like Easter for all of our clocks. They get dressed up in new batteries, and take a lot of pride in showing the CORRECT time. ("See that? 3:15. Top THAT, bitches.")
Easter for clocks. . . .Which, if I follow that line of thought to its conclusion, I am forced to realize that the 3 or 4 of our clocks that need new batteries, the clocks that have NOT told the correct time in *quite* a while, are probably severely depressed. And possibly quite insane. (I imagine that having your second hand tick once every 8 or 9 seconds is as close as you can possibly come to TORTURE for a clock.)
I mean, telling time is kind of what they DO. It's their PURPOSE in life. And ours have been wrong (VERY wrong) for quite a while.
Hm.
Sad little clocks, screaming out for batteries, wondering what's the use in ticking.
Crap.
Really wish I hadn't thought of that. Because now that I have, I no longer have a choice in the matter. I MUST give them all fresh batteries now. Because now I have given them human qualities (which was stupid of me. Very, VERY stupid.) and if I do NOT replace their batteries, then I am essentially making them suffer for my own twisted amusements.
I really don't care for situations where my overactive imagination pretty much INSISTS upon a course of action for me. It's just that I don't care for having my hand forced on these matters.
I have done this for pretty much all of my life. And it is very irritating. . . . like when I was a kid, and I was pretty sure my stuffed animals came to life when I went to sleep every night. And then I realized that maybe the ones that I didn't sleep with, the ones that were left on the shelf at night, got jealous. Like, REALLY jealous.
Like, "If I can't be her cuddle-friend, then NO ONE CAN."
They were MY stuffed animals. Which meant that I was THEIR WORLD. When you add several more stuffed animals over a period of time (allowing for gift-giving occasions like birthdays and Christmas, etc.), I think it only logical that petty jealousies would erupt. And that a small percentage of said animals would be have attachment issues, paired with a lack of experience with dealing with these complex emotions, and that a smaller faction would (naturally) be criminally insane.
And so I usually slept with a great many stuffed animals in bed with me, ever fearful that one day they would realize that I did this NOT out of a desire for closeness, but out of fear of retaliation. (I was pretty confident that at LEAST a few were substantially unhinged.)
But. Depressed time-keepers and psychotic playthings hell-bent on destruction ASIDE. . . it really is shaping up to be a lovely Sunday. =)
And today is kind of a monumental day, in my teeny little nook of existence.
You see, TODAY is the day of DEVIN'S FIRST SOCCER GAME!!!!!
(Enough exclamation points? Cause I can add some more, no problem. Let me ask: Are you really FEELING that I am excited? Am I making you BELIEVE it?)
Because I AM excited. Or rather, I was. . . until I got to thinking about all the things that I know about soccer.
It is, admittedly, not a lot. And most of it was gleaned from years of paying very close attention to television programs.
What I KNOW About Soccer:
1.) It is VERY big in other countries.
2.) In at least ONE of these "other countries" it is referred to as "football".
3.) . . .Does David Beckham play soccer? Is that why we know him?
4.) Apparently goals are almost never made, and it is mostly just an excuse for the players to get lots of exercise as they run from one end of the field to the other.
5.) They wear sassy little knee socks.*
6.) (*I THINK they wear sassy little knee socks. . . but I have confused sports apparel before.)
7.) The moms that go to watch these games are evil and mean and very judgemental, and they will most likely find a way to mock what I am wearing, and we are probably not going to be friends. (Source: That King of the Hill episode where Peggy went to watch Bobby's soccer game, and all the other mommies made fun of/shunned her because she wasn't wearing the 'right' kind of sweater. Also, the fact that these mommies are mean is, if TELEVISION is to be believed (and I think we can ALL agree: It IS.), just kind of common knowledge.)
So, as you can well see, this list is just RIFE with positives AND negatives. And I'm the kind of person that generally INSISTS on my positives outweighing my negatives. Otherwise, I just stay home. (I'm looking at YOU, Lowe's and Publix.)
But for TODAY'S game, there are a few more tiny facts that you need, in order to see why I am not only GOING, but am rather excited about it.
Well, TWO facts, really. Just two:
1.) This is going to be soccer played by 6 year olds.
2.) According to Devin, they have never had a practice.
Yes, you read that last one right: NEVER had a practice.
This came to light as we were driving home from his school on Friday afternoon.
Me: "So are you excited about your soccer game on Sunday?"
Devin: "Yep."
Me: "What position do you play?"
Devin: ". . .what?"
Me: "What position do you play? What's your job?"
Devin: *blank stare*
Me: (like I am talking to a houseplant) "WHAT DID YOUR COACH TELL YOU TO DO?"
Devin: "Oh. I don't know my coach yet."
Me: ". . .you don't know your coach yet? What about the other kids on your team? Do you know THEM yet?"
Devin: "Nope. I've never met them."
Me: "What about practice? Have you NEVER BEEN TO A PRACTICE?"
Devin: "Nope."
Me: *my turn for a blank stare* "Then. . . how do you know what you're supposed to do?"
Devin: (like HE is talking to a houseplant) "I've PLAYED soccer before. You kick the ball."
Me: "Oh. . . .wait. WHERE have you played?"
Devin: "At my house."
And scene.
So, if I have gotten my point across, then you can clearly see that what we're dealing with here is a sports game wherein at LEAST one of the children involved has NEVER been to a practice, and has NEVER even met his teammates.
Also, they do not have jerseys yet, and so I am anticipating some moments of pure comedy gold, demonstrated by the fact that the kids have completely forgotten who is on their team, and who ISN'T.
Wait. . . do mean mommies take kids' soccer very seriously?
Because *I* know a little boy that is probably going to run out on the field, meet his team, and then attempt to take the ball and become a star. In his own mind, of course. Because he has NO IDEA what he is doing.
You gotta love confidence like that. =)
He's pumped.
I'm pumped.
I'm off to try to locate a smart-looking sweater set.
Ta!***
***In MY head, fancy soccer mommies say things like "Ta!" And they probably don't arrive to the games over-caffeinated. And I imagine that they probably smell very nice. But DO THEY BRING SNACKS?
Seriously ---- do they?
Because I could make certain attempts to befriend mean mommies. . . IF they're packing.
SNACK-PACKING!!!
Woo!
See what I did there? =)
Making it look easy.
EAT IT, mean mommies!!
=p
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