Category: kids

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Two Things*

Since I’m spending a whole lot of unsupervised time feeling like the identical twin of a large lumpy splat of mashed potatoes, I’m sending you to two other sites that talk about doctors and body image.

1. Jen linked to Meg Fowler yesterday. The post is long but oh, so worth it.

2. Did you say crappy doctor? Yes, Mimi did.

*Bonus: here is a phrase my son said last night. I’m going to keep it totally out of context because it’s much better that way. “You know, Mom, I’m just not comfortable yelling vagina the same way I do penis.”

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Last Night, Dancing With the Weirdos

I took Alex to a Bar&Grill that turns into a whoopie bar around 9:55pm every night. They have dancing lessons every evening at 7pm and on Tuesday, it’s Salsa night.

The dance floor is quite large and nice but not exactly secluded. Surrounding the perimeter are tables for 2 or 4 where people not choosing to participate in the dance lessons can watch those that are.

Alex and I were very excited to finally be going to dance and learning the Salsa. Totally cool. I hadn’t gone to check out the place before hand so I wasn’t aware of the positioning of the room but even if I had, it wasn’t until about 5 minutes after we started that all the chairs filled up. With men. Men aged 45 and up. With little to no hair on top and greasy scalps shining through. Have I mentioned my daughter is beautiful?

About the time our lovely instructor Conrad *123* with the shirt open at the throat and his glistening chest gleaming beneath the lights *567* starting incorporating the turns *back23* and the side steps *glideandback* that I slowed a little and took a breath, laughing and looking around the room to see who else was having as much fun as us.

Oh, the vultures with their beady eyes. Alex and I sat down for a bit and got a drink of water and within, oh, 90 seconds we were approached. And then we left. Because, as Alex says, ‘Eww. Gross. That guy was hideoderous and he spit all over my face.’

*ahem*

Next week, we’re doing belly dancing, an all-women class in the female teacher’s home.

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Brassiere

‘Mother’ she said, ‘you do realize that that….flesh-colored thing you are wearing is doing nothing that most females require their bras to do…?’ And yes, I did. But there is only so much time to be vain in one day and if it’s my brassiere that sags a little and barely covers and completely fails at protecting the world from my nipples, then so be it. At least I have matching socks on. Oh. No? Well, I’m wearing pants.

But then she took me to the store, leading me by the hand through aisles of underwear and lingerie, which I almost didn’t recognize, so long it’s been since my eyes laid on them, and wondered who the people are who manage to wear plum and ecru flimsy, dressy things while I can barely seem to find my shoes.

She stopped short in front of a wall filled, nay, teeming with breast restrictors of all types. I immediately felt overwhelmed. We left and she had to live with her disappointment.

A few days later, my husband said, ‘Oh, dear. That really is the saddest bra I’ve ever seen. Is it doing anything at all for you besides making your breasts look like sagging, deflated balloons? Why don’t you wear a different one?’ I looked in the mirror and realized that truly, 2 years is a long time for a bra. It had lived a good life. I thanked it and deposited it into the nearest rubbish bin. However, by some strange life predicament, it was the only bra that I had. So, now I had none.

Later that day, my husband and I went to the store and looked at all those bras together. I took fifteen or so into the dressing room and I’m happy to say that when we walked out, I had a total of 4 breast restriction devices in a bag. Never has a woman been so blessed. I was rich with brassieres! I felt a heady sensation and looked at every person we passed with a slight air of superiority because, really, not one of them was walking home with one pink, one off-white, one rose with white polka dots and a darling amount of white trim around the edges and one dangerous and racy dark red number with a steamy black overlay made of black mesh.

‘Really?’ my daughter exclaims after I tell her the good news. ‘Well, why don’t you look any different?’ she asks, examining my mid section. ‘I can still totally see your nipples.’ ‘Oh.’ I replied. ‘I’m not actually wearing one today.’ ‘You mean, you’re totally braless?’ ‘Um, yes. But I combed my hair!’ Her eyes told the story of an old woman that had sailed the sea of a thousand storms and seen vast disappointment. She sighed and said, ‘Well, if saggy boobs are what you want, then who am I to try and change you?’

The next morning, truly repentant, I wore one and have been every day ever since. I still don’t do my makeup every day or shave my legs on a regular basis. But at least the world is saved from my nipples. I only have so much time per day to be vain.

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Two Many Links

It’s no secret I shred like a demon. And now I find out I can make my own music?? (Via Waxy)

Not Martha made awesome rechargeable sun jars. Her step by step instructions rule. These are definitely a contender for next Christmas.

I waited breathlessly for months for Paul Ford to write again and now he is. My lungs thank him as does my brain because he is one of the funniest and smartest writers I (would like to) know.

Miss Snark is a great resource for writers. She is very to the point and full of great information. I would love her as an agent as I’m sure she wouldn’t put up with any funny business. She links to the 20 worst Agencies.

Joe sent me a link to a Thomas P.M. Barnett blog entry which says in well-written words what I sometimes feel after receiving a whole bag of reader mail.

I can’t believe this happened. It just seems so stupid and preventable.

Sassy keeps yelling that we need this stuff to combat the ants throwing a party in our walls. I must admit that it feels like nothing will work but we will be giving it a try as soon as it stops raining.

Susan sent me a bunch of stuff as did Susannah and Lisa. Photos and an update to the painting page coming soon.

Tyler and I play a game where we text each other numbers and it’s like a code where the other person has to decipher it using the keypad to see what they said.

For example: “99966688 277733 2 366677755443323.” is “You are a dorkhead.” But sometimes when a word uses two letters that show up next to each other on the keypad, it gets confusing and since there is no way of knowing what the other person said you just make it up.

For example: “666667777 333333 77766622255” is supposed to be “Moms def rock” but because M and O are on the same key, it ends up being hard to figure out. (Unless I’m your mom. Then you know I rock and there is no question.) But thank goodness we have free texting because the kids and I use it all the time. This entry from Bethemedia is about T9’s effect on our language. I hate T9 and have it turned off but as a result I probably have to hit more buttons than T9 lovers do. On the other hand, I won’t accidentally say ‘book’ instead of ‘cool’ and it won’t be until my boys start saying it and thinking that book is another way to say cool that I’ll start using it to make fun of them which will really just perpetuate the issue and I’ll be the only 93 year old person still saying ‘That is so book’ and ‘Rad’. I am the only 36 year old person that still says ‘Dude’ on a regular basis so I guess that is par. (Via Kottke)

Code Monkey by Jonathan Coulton is my new favorite song. (Via Joe)

Sarah sent me this the other day. She and I are going for sure and bringing our crystal shards with us. Also, have you sent in your entry for the Cringe book yet? (Read Heather’s entry here.)

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Poo?

Joe – don’t read this one. And mom, I’m talking about bowel movements, which aren’t funny, so you should skip this one as well.

Devon is going off to college in the fall. He knows how to make toast and pour milk and sneak wine. That is about the end of his culinary skills at the moment so when he asked me a few weeks ago if I would sign him up for cooking classes, I got excited. Kind of just excited to spend time with him because, dude, I’ll be in those classes with him, but also because it shows he’s thinking farther into the future than when he can have his next LAN party.

Anthony has always loved cooking (pickles) and asked if he could come as well. So, maybe an odd threesome, but I’m very much looking forward to it. And, it’s not dancing. Although I might still try to sneak that in.

Over the weekend we decided to give some baking a try. Now, cooking I can do pretty well most of the time. I’ve learned that beets and beef don’t go together and somewhere in the recesses of my mind I remembered how to make a mean white sauce. Baking, however, is a completely different thing. It’s a science. Things have to be in proportion or bad things happen. I can’t just throw in an extra teaspoon of this or that and give it a taste. Everything has raw eggs in it and is runny or bumpy. It could be hours before you find out if your mixing and whisking was successful. Substitutions don’t always go well. And you should probably read the entire directions before you start, just in case you don’t have everything you need and just in case you start making the sauce that goes on the outside like frosting but you think it’s for the batter so you start pouring it and mixing before you realize that you just added twice as much liquid and 100% too much milk (since there was no milk in the recipe to start with) and then have a huge mess in the oven when the cake rounds explode all over the oven and it burns and stinks up the entire house until you put a cookie tray underneath and catch the last bit of it. And it looks terrible. Kind of like poo. Kind of like poo strips. Which you take off the tray and put on a plate for your son who thinks it is so funny he can hardly stand it.

Case in point:

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Tyler, who was not emotionally invested in the least in our baking session, was free to throw jokes around willy-nilly. It was sad and funny at the same time. But it tasted delicious. We ate the crap out of that poo cake.

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Happy Birthday, Me.

It’s 10pm on the 11th. I’m just about ready to hit the hay.

I’m 36.

I’m super emotional, but it’s not because I’m 36.

I’m happy. And I’m sad, but not for any discernable reason.

I woke up to the sounds of Joe downstairs, puttering around. Then he drove me to LA and I took a photo of a photographer for an interview I’m doing (meta?). I found the photographer at the Disney Concert Hall, went in and got out within 5 minutes (thanks to the helpful and courteous security man at the stairs) and when we got out the sky was strange all afternoon: low clouds with the odd bird flying around (photo below). When we got back home, Alexandra took me out to Starbucks and bought me a Grande Soy Chai Latte with her own gift card (I’ll see the boys tomorrow for the weekend (including Monday! Woot!) but she is going to be gone, so we had our day today). Then we went to the house and watched The Family Stone and picked songs for the CD we want to do together (If anyone has a recording studio, let me know).

Even when I pool all my resources and gather all my strength, I’m still mostly a mess. Picking out what to eat for dinner is almost too much and Joe has to lead me down the grocery aisle feeding me yes or no questions (when I say the words rice and soup, are you happy?) and singing me Little Fat Man to help me through.

But here it is, 10:13 pm on January 11th, 2007, and I’m happy. I may be crying because I can’t seem to control my emotions, but really? I’m happy. And things are great. And Joe made me his famous raspberry donuts and told me he loved me. I know whatever issues I’m having with my sadness and tear ducts isn’t really REAL. It’s hormonal. And everything is fine.

It was a perfect day.

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Today He Can Buy Cigarettes and Vote. And Go To War.

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This is Devon, my first born. He was such a knobby-kneed, curly tow-headed baby. He was the light of my life and had my full attention for only about 18 months until his sister turned up, whining for bottles and diapers, which he willingly and happily fetched for her (me).

Devon has a brain in his head that can sometimes be a bit intimidating. He is just sharp, in the boy genius kind of way. Conversations with him and what he thinks are always informative, entertaining and sometimes I even learn a little something. Although I fear he is becoming a Republican, which I’m proud of at the same time because he has a mind all his own and isn’t afraid to use it and own it.

He was always in the advanced classes all going through school and figured out even before middle school that he could exert very little effort and glide by quite easily. The highlights of his schooling so far, to me, are those moments where I saw him really getting excited about something he was learning, because it happened so rarely. But when it did, that spark in his eye was so, so great. He starts to talk with his hands and then his arms and then his whole body, sitting on the couch, threatens to almost shoot up through the ceiling as he explains how some new computer program interacts with something else, which I have no idea what it all means, but frankly, I don’t care. I’m just watching him and loving it.

I home schooled Devon for the first three years of school while we lived over in Germany. His little sister joined us for most of our classes and got the benefit of watching him make an erupting volcano and combining chemicals to create the foulest smells ever to touch anyone’s nose. Ever. We went for walks around the neighborhood and learned German and got to know the Landlady and often went to pet her farm animals while practicing single digit timetables.

And then somewhere around his 5th grade year, my mind started unraveling at an alarming rate and Devon shouldered more responsibility than some adults. By 6th grade he juggled school and housework and babysitting and entertaining his baby brothers while his sister cooked them meals and did laundry. And then some months later I went away for a year or so and when I came back, he was older.

By the time I made it back to San Diego, his dad had moved the family north and it took me about 2 years to find a local job and move closer to him and the other kids. All through that trying time of driving back and forth and frustration, Devon would tell me, ‘It’s small steps, Mom. Each time it gets a little better.’ And he would give me a hug. And later, when I was alone, I would weep because my son had cause for so much wisdom.

Living close these past two years has been wonderful in so many ways but one of the most valued by me is watching him become a man. He’s a good man. Young, yes, but old in so many ways. This past year he’s poked his toe into the social aspects of high school. He’s learned a little about having a crush on a girl and making a best friend with a guy. Both of which he had never felt safe enough to do before. He has excelled in leadership and became the co-editor of the school paper, which he takes very seriously. He’s also got a great sense of humor and cracks my shit up. We’ve always been the best of friends but it’s been only the past few years that I learned how to be a real mom. And he’s let me be his mom, although he in no way had to and it must have been a very scary concept to trust me.

I worry about all the mistakes I’ve made while he’s been a part of my life. I worry about all the things I’ve put him through. I worry about the issues he’ll have to deal with someday.

And then I look at his face and in his eyes and remember that God and the Universe have everything under control and no amount of my worrying will do anything to change anything. My job is to love him. And I can do that.

Because there is no way to freeze time at 17.5 years old, Devon turns eighteen today. My baby is eighteen. When I was eighteen I had him wrapped round my leg and his sister about to be born. I had lived through years of drug and alcohol abuse and felt about 100 years old. Thank God that all he has to do is attend his last year of high school and prepare to go to college in the fall. Thank God he’s never smoked or done drugs and that his alcohol consumption is at a very age-appropriate level. All of that is hard enough. And he has to register with selective service and possibly get drafted at some point, which scares the crap out me so I don’t think about it very often.

I’m so proud of you, Devon. And I love you with all my heart. Thanks for everything you bring to my life.

Yours always and forever,
Mom

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Two Blessed $@#*&! Years

One of the tragedies of 2006 is that my two year wedding anniversary came and went without nary an acknowledgment from me on this blog, which was scarcely more than I gave it in real life. It falls on the 21st of December, and if you’re keeping up, you know that this year that fell within the Dead Zone, or as we like to call it, ‘The Great Crochet Marathon of Twelve Ought Six.’

When I was freshly back from Seattle in 2002, I met Joe at a networking meeting. I didn’t like him and I didn’t not like him. Sure, he was very nice but I was recently divorced and very concentrated on getting my shit together. I sure as hell wasn’t about to start dating anyone, especially someone that was a Catholic, had no kid experience and was still technically married to his first wife. So, of course, we started dating right away and became exclusive within the first two weeks.

Something you might not know about me: when I know something, I know it and there isn’t much that anyone can tell me that will change my mind. I feel stuff in my gut and that is the end of it. My gut has been my only constant companion and seen me through all kinds of trouble. So, my gut and I stick together. Imagine my surprise when my gut let me know that Joe was not only the really great guy he seemed to be but that also, I would love him, he would love me and we’d be together. Immediately following that message I spent many months pretending it had never happened. However, I did seem to think it was a splendid idea to invite him to meet most of my family a scant 7 weeks after we met. Huh.

Joe has been to Utah eight times in the past few years. The first time he met most of my brothers and sisters and the next time he met my parents. They all, of course, like him and love him. He’s a likable guy. But, they love him no matter how much money he earns or what he looks like or what kind of car he drives. Frankly, the only thing they take into account is if I’m happy. And here it must be clarified that my family looks at the word ‘happy’ in the way that God might: if you are learning, then you are happy because it’s the people God doesn’t bless that much that don’t have the opportunity for learning. Joe and I are so blessed. In fact, these past two years of marriage, we have been blessed beyond what I thought possible. That seems to be always the way.

I think one of the reasons that Joe feels so comfortable visiting my family is because they accepted him so completely. Even before we were married, my parents had us sleeping in the same room. My very Mormon mom. The one that didn’t alert me of my private parts until I was married to my first husband, well after the point of her grandson being implanted in my uterus. I hope my mom doesn’t mind me telling the entire world that, but I just thought it was so great the way she trusted my gut on Joe and I being together. However, my mom still sends my ex-husband Christmas and Birthday cards (with the usual $5 included!) as well as his new wife.* My parents might just rock in that Love the Entire World kind of way. And the World can always use more love.

But, back to Joe. These past two years or so have been rough but great. We moved a few times. We tried, somewhat successfully, to get my daughter to quit glaring at Joe. We started a business together, which ultimately failed. We went to therapy to figure out why we were still married. Joe started a few different jobs and figured out what he likes and doesn’t like in a work environment. I got physically mostly better most of the time. We were pregnant (again) and lost the baby (again) but kept it for the longest amount of time yet. And I learned that I could listen to Joe at least as much as I listen to my gut because Dude is smart! I also learned that if I get out of his way, Joe will figure out a way to do anything he wants, his own way. Man, that sounds a lot like me. But most of all, we got a start on figuring out how to be a couple and take care of each other in a kind and loving way.

Life is always hard. It’s always going to be hard. It doesn’t matter who you are married to or how much money you have or where you live. And really, the only defense you have against the world is your family, those people who love you and who you love and with whom you create a buffeting wall against the hard knocks of the world. The people that will laugh with you, not at you, when you ruined the fancy dinner you made for everyone. And not be embarrassed when you can’t stop going up to strangers and asking them personal questions because you find them so fascinating. And stand by you when you take huge risks and decide to do something that could be a large potential mistake and don’t care how it ends up as long as you are ok, because that is what is important. I’m so happy to have Joe be my family and that we are in this thing together.

Here’s to many more years of being blessed, Baby. Thanks for being on my team.
xo

*My son asked me the other day why Grandma sends his Dad and Step-Mom birthday cards because isn’t that weird when usually people hate each other after divorce? I asked him if he wished she wouldn’t and he said, ‘Nope. I like that about Grandma. And you’d do the same thing, huh. You’re all ….. squishy like her.’ I’m not sure I have ever been so proud to be called squishy.

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Pipe Cleaners and Googly Eyes

While I was traveling in November and December, I forgot about Christmas. As in, Christmas who? I was busy, absorbed completely in what I was working on and it just didn’t occur to me that I should be thinking about something other than interviews and rental cars and forgetting to take my vitamins. Suddenly, it hit me. It was 8 days until Christmas and I had done nothing to prepare. Not only that, we were not going to get any money in for presents, so if there was going to be something under the tree, I needed to make it. And that included everything for the kids and our families. No pressure.

I literally worked 20 hours a day for the next few days and then 24 hours straight a few times on books, hats, blankets, scarves and candles as well as anything else I could glue pipe cleaners to.

We left on Saturday morning for Utah and I took most of my unfinished projects with me. My mom wasn’t surprised to see me lugging in all kinds of equipment. She’s used to me bringing home projects. But, I do think she was a little surprised at the sheer volume of stuff.

While we were there, I crocheted 14 hats and 8 scarves for different family members. That didn’t really scratch the surface of the almost 40 people that came and went over the few days we were there, but it was enough. My fingers now ache and I have a new massive muscle in my right arm that goes down my back. I call it Ellen.

Christmas was lovely. I had helped the kids make presents for each other and all three of my boys sat at my sewing machine and Tony even crocheted a purse for his sister which he then sewed a lining for and THEN hand-sewed into the purse. Ty made a large quilt for Devon and Devon made a jean football-pillow that you can throw in the house for Ty. Until you knock over the lamp. Then stop, please. Alex made Tony a fleece blanket. And it was so much nicer than going to the crowded store, pushing our way through everyone and trying to find something to buy each other.

I think next year, even if we have more money than we did this year, I won’t be rushing off to buy things for the kids. I used to love making things for Christmas and this year really reminded me of that. I got to spend hours thinking about the people I was making the gifts for. The only thing I’d change is starting earlier, say, June.

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Yeasty Fun

Me: Wow, that bread smells good.
Alex: Are you going to have some?
Me: Nope.
Tyler: I thought you liked it more than chocolate?
Me: I do. But if I eat it, I’ll get a carb/sugar crash and you’ll see what your mom looks like on drugs.
Tony: Like those people in movies? No, mommy! Don’t do it!
Me: Riiiight.
Devon: My mom. She got hooked on baguettes.
Alex: Walk away from the bagel!
Joe: Remember the old days when it was just muffins and rolls?
Tony: The muffin: The Gateway Bread.

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Stolen Moment

There are fires burning in Moorpark. We spent the day worried for the families near the flames and smoke. Even their home with their dad is only about two miles away from one hill-o-flames next to the power plant.

Last night, we should have been packing up the car with the kids’ homework and finished projects for school in the morning. But instead, we looked at the internet and found out that school had been cancelled for Monday. And suddenly, time was created. There was no rushing to get things sorted out, clothes found, the football and basketball rounded up. There was no yelling to mom to find a lost paper or pair of socks. We fell into a pocket of Time that had not existed a mere 5 minutes previous. No one had to be anywhere in the morning, except for Joe. Poor Joe. He asked me why, if I was going to orchestrate a fire to get me more time with the kids, why I didn’t place it closer to the freeway where it would affect his ability to get to work.

The tree that had been sitting slightly at an angle and neglected since we’d brought it home suddenly perked up. There hadn’t been any time to attend to it what with the football play off game and other commitments. But now we could. We popped popcorn and made hot chocolate with mini marshmallows and stayed up watching My Cousin Vinny and the Oregon State at Hawaii game that started at 11:30pm. Just because we could. We went to bed at 2am. The kitchen is a complete disaster area. All the kid paraphernalia is piled around the front door.

I think we’ll go out for breakfast. We continue to pray for those being affected by the fires.

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