I have been thinking a lot lately about boys and girls. I have a girl who want to be a boy, boys who think they are hot shit because they are boys, and girls who think boys are dumb. What role does the media play in this? Can I change any of it, and just have everyone be happy with who they are?
Gender and discourse stems from the very beginning of humanity. (Note that the use of "Man" as a general term for everyone is no longer acceptable.) God made Adam first, but then Adam needed a partner, so God took from Adam and made Eve. So if you want to get technical, you could say that Adam is somehow lacking, and Eve is more whole. God did not decide that Adam needed a plaything. Women are meant to be equals, even according to the Good Book.
Yeah, I don't put a ton of stock in that story either. But when you look at evolution and the types of tasks men and women divvied up, it is pretty apparent that men were set up to evolve into bulkier, more physical beings. Women grew into softer, more cunning folks.
Honestly, women have learned the power of manipulation because we don't have the ability to physically overpower others. So I think the answer to all the gender talk is to teach the boys to use what they have to get what they want, and do the same for the girls. We do it, anyway, with our own actions, the things we place importance on for each gender.
The media plays quite a significant role in this as well. Just take a look at any Hollywood affair. The women are all beautiful and glamourous. The men are burly and rugged.
Is encouraging each to play into the roles their gender specifies wrong? Or is it survival of the fittest?
Friday, April 29, 2011
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Tracy, part one--the introduction
1993 was not the year to live on the West Side if you were white. Split by the chocolate water of the Rock River, the kids west of the river went to Auburn high school, while the kids on the other side went to Guilford, Jefferson, and Harlem. The Auburn kids were mostly black and latino, with a few tough white kids thrown in the mix. They were tough because they were poor. They were poor because their parents were mostly the uneducated, blue collar workers that made Rockford tick, and they were destined to stay poor since the education they got at Auburn was more about survival than it was about learning.
I was one of the few privileged white kids stuck on the West side. My mother was a chemist at Pierce Chemical and my father was an engineer at Sunstrand. We lived on the West side out of convenience. Pierce was way out west, and Sunstrand was close to the bypass, so my dad could be there in ten minutes if he timed it right. They made over 100K a year, so I was an easy target for all the Auburn kids, whether they were white or not.
I got my Grandma’s old T-bird when I turned 16. It didn’t have rims on it or a bumpin’ system, like most of the cars the kids at Auburn had. It was also paid for, so I didn’t have to have an after-school job. I parked it between the ghetto cruisers and old beaters, and it stuck out like a shiny, red thumb.
We lived in a house, not an apartment. Our house was not a HUD or Section 8. We didn’t live with my grandparents. We had an extra bedroom and a garage and a landscaped yard. We didn’t have a chain-link fence around the front yard. We didn’t have a pit bull staked out in the yard. We didn’t have plastic on the windows in the winter. I got a new winter coat every year. Not from the Salvation Army. Not a hand-me-down. A brand new winter coat from Marshall Field’s. Some of those kids I don’t think had ever even stepped foot inside Marshall Field’s, much less had a new winter coat.
My classmates made up for all their economic shortfalls with their quick tongues, calling me “Richie Rich” and “Princess” on good days, “Whitey” and “Gringa” among other things on the bad ones. My parents ignored my pleas to go to Boylan, the catholic high school on the Northwest side, since it cost money and the education I was getting at Auburn suited them just fine. The education at Auburn suited me fine, too, it was the threats that made me a little uneasy. My parents told me to just “Suck it up. It will make you stronger.” Mostly it made me a fast runner and a good hider, though.
I wanted to understand why the other kids hated me so. I wanted to understand why I could never understand them. Mostly, though, I wanted to live on the East side of the river, cavort with the kids who were like me, and not be the whipping boy for all the racial, social, and economic adversities the Auburn kids faced. Tracy was my window into their realities.
I was one of the few privileged white kids stuck on the West side. My mother was a chemist at Pierce Chemical and my father was an engineer at Sunstrand. We lived on the West side out of convenience. Pierce was way out west, and Sunstrand was close to the bypass, so my dad could be there in ten minutes if he timed it right. They made over 100K a year, so I was an easy target for all the Auburn kids, whether they were white or not.
I got my Grandma’s old T-bird when I turned 16. It didn’t have rims on it or a bumpin’ system, like most of the cars the kids at Auburn had. It was also paid for, so I didn’t have to have an after-school job. I parked it between the ghetto cruisers and old beaters, and it stuck out like a shiny, red thumb.
We lived in a house, not an apartment. Our house was not a HUD or Section 8. We didn’t live with my grandparents. We had an extra bedroom and a garage and a landscaped yard. We didn’t have a chain-link fence around the front yard. We didn’t have a pit bull staked out in the yard. We didn’t have plastic on the windows in the winter. I got a new winter coat every year. Not from the Salvation Army. Not a hand-me-down. A brand new winter coat from Marshall Field’s. Some of those kids I don’t think had ever even stepped foot inside Marshall Field’s, much less had a new winter coat.
My classmates made up for all their economic shortfalls with their quick tongues, calling me “Richie Rich” and “Princess” on good days, “Whitey” and “Gringa” among other things on the bad ones. My parents ignored my pleas to go to Boylan, the catholic high school on the Northwest side, since it cost money and the education I was getting at Auburn suited them just fine. The education at Auburn suited me fine, too, it was the threats that made me a little uneasy. My parents told me to just “Suck it up. It will make you stronger.” Mostly it made me a fast runner and a good hider, though.
I wanted to understand why the other kids hated me so. I wanted to understand why I could never understand them. Mostly, though, I wanted to live on the East side of the river, cavort with the kids who were like me, and not be the whipping boy for all the racial, social, and economic adversities the Auburn kids faced. Tracy was my window into their realities.
I just want biscotti and world peace!
A nice man approached me today. He told me he was with the newspaper and they were doing a feature article about mothers. I said, "Ha, you don't want to talk to me." "But aren't these your kids?" he asks. I nod. My kids cling to my legs, wondering why I am talking to him. He is, after all, not their daddy, and he is the only man they ever see me talk to.
He begins to walk away, thinking that I have nothing to say to him. He tried, after all. I call him back and begin my tirade. "Do you think that any REAL mother will take time away from her kids to talk to you? What do you want to know so badly? What about ME is newsworthy?"
He looks taken aback, almost frightened. "Well, what would you ask for this Mother's Day, if you were assured your wish would be granted?" I ponder a moment. I'd like to be 30 pounds lighter, I'd like 2 more hours in every day, I'd like a maid, a nanny, a wet-nurse. I say none of these things.
"I'd ask for an uninterrupted cup of coffee with a biscotti. And for everyone to stop fighting. No, not bickering about which movie to watch or which game to play. Real fighting, the kind with guns and bombs, so all the Mommies and Daddies could be home with their children."
He thanked me, and walked away quickly so I only caught a glimpse of the wet on his cheeks.
He begins to walk away, thinking that I have nothing to say to him. He tried, after all. I call him back and begin my tirade. "Do you think that any REAL mother will take time away from her kids to talk to you? What do you want to know so badly? What about ME is newsworthy?"
He looks taken aback, almost frightened. "Well, what would you ask for this Mother's Day, if you were assured your wish would be granted?" I ponder a moment. I'd like to be 30 pounds lighter, I'd like 2 more hours in every day, I'd like a maid, a nanny, a wet-nurse. I say none of these things.
"I'd ask for an uninterrupted cup of coffee with a biscotti. And for everyone to stop fighting. No, not bickering about which movie to watch or which game to play. Real fighting, the kind with guns and bombs, so all the Mommies and Daddies could be home with their children."
He thanked me, and walked away quickly so I only caught a glimpse of the wet on his cheeks.
monsters are REAL!
I admit it, I like to frighten my children, especially the little ones who still literally shake in their Nikes. I must inform you all, since so many of us seem to forget, especially in small towns and small-town atmospheres like Duluth, monsters still exist.
I was reminded of this today. I was in the line at the grocery store and Zane and Nora made a break for the St. Jude's donation contraption, the one where you can watch your coins slide, flip, or spiral into the donation pile. I called them back and gave them each a dime to donate. They took off again.
As I was unloading the haul, I was half-assed watching them. Again, they are mostly good kids who are respectful of adults, so I wasn't surprised to see them both talking with one of the hairdressers who came out of Cost Cutters to see what they were up to.
But then I got to thinking. What if it weren't so innocent? I have lived in this small-town atmosphere for too long, I think, because I didn't have to have my eyes on my children at all time. I have put too much faith in people being good. My obsession with Jeffrey Dahmer, John Wayne Gacy, Charles Manson and others of their likes should have taught me that.
But just acknowledging that evil people exist out in the world is not enough. It has to be BRANDED into the backs of my eyelids, so I see it every time I blink. I have to be paranoid. After all, it's my job to keep these little sheisters safe until they can manage on their own.
Then I start to wonder if the older kids have too little fear of strangers. They are scared of the little old lady who tries to talk to them when they are at the park, maybe because she is old, or maybe because it was a foggy day when she spoke to them.
But not all monsters come out at night. Not all monsters are scary looking. Some are just regular looking people who may seem nice enough at first. They may be charming, suave, and have a pocketful of candy to offer. But they will be none of those things as they slide their manacles around my babies' arms and try to drag them into the back of their rusted out panel van. BEWARE!
I was reminded of this today. I was in the line at the grocery store and Zane and Nora made a break for the St. Jude's donation contraption, the one where you can watch your coins slide, flip, or spiral into the donation pile. I called them back and gave them each a dime to donate. They took off again.
As I was unloading the haul, I was half-assed watching them. Again, they are mostly good kids who are respectful of adults, so I wasn't surprised to see them both talking with one of the hairdressers who came out of Cost Cutters to see what they were up to.
But then I got to thinking. What if it weren't so innocent? I have lived in this small-town atmosphere for too long, I think, because I didn't have to have my eyes on my children at all time. I have put too much faith in people being good. My obsession with Jeffrey Dahmer, John Wayne Gacy, Charles Manson and others of their likes should have taught me that.
But just acknowledging that evil people exist out in the world is not enough. It has to be BRANDED into the backs of my eyelids, so I see it every time I blink. I have to be paranoid. After all, it's my job to keep these little sheisters safe until they can manage on their own.
Then I start to wonder if the older kids have too little fear of strangers. They are scared of the little old lady who tries to talk to them when they are at the park, maybe because she is old, or maybe because it was a foggy day when she spoke to them.
But not all monsters come out at night. Not all monsters are scary looking. Some are just regular looking people who may seem nice enough at first. They may be charming, suave, and have a pocketful of candy to offer. But they will be none of those things as they slide their manacles around my babies' arms and try to drag them into the back of their rusted out panel van. BEWARE!
Monday, April 25, 2011
Classes vs Camps
Tonight we had class. It was "How to fold the goddam chip bag so the chips don't get stale" class. We have had this class before, but apparently all the knowlege acquired in that class was voided by the mass intake of sugar over the Easter holiday.
After finding my bag of veggie straws hanging open in the cupboard, class commenced. Each little shit got their own bag of chips. (Yes, we do keep that many bags of chips in the house. If you have kids over the age of 9, you know what locusts are like!) They had to fold and re-fold the tops of the bags for 15 minutes. Then we had a little lesson about the economics of wasting chips and how quickly chips become stale and inedible.
I sure hope this class sticks, because "How to fold the goddam chip bag so the chips don't get stale" camp doesn't sound like much fun.
After finding my bag of veggie straws hanging open in the cupboard, class commenced. Each little shit got their own bag of chips. (Yes, we do keep that many bags of chips in the house. If you have kids over the age of 9, you know what locusts are like!) They had to fold and re-fold the tops of the bags for 15 minutes. Then we had a little lesson about the economics of wasting chips and how quickly chips become stale and inedible.
I sure hope this class sticks, because "How to fold the goddam chip bag so the chips don't get stale" camp doesn't sound like much fun.
Going Veggie, short-term, sort-of
I stuffed my face with ham and hamburgers and hot dogs and more ham and now my kidneys are crying out for mercy. See, those little bean-shaped critters apparently hae to put in double-OT when we eat meat. I'm no nephrologist, but I think after 34 years of being mainly carnivorous with a side dish of sugar, my ways are catching up to me. I basically feel like crap in direct relation to what I eat.
Since my days of producing children are done, I feel like now would be the optimal time to evaluate what I can cut from my intake. I no longer need oodles and oodles of protein to create new beings. I no longer need sugar to power the "machine." I'm a little freaked out by this, because I love meat. But I love other things too. Chocolate. Preservatives. Sugar. And they have turned on me.
I don't remember what the condition I almost have is called. I eat sugar, and then it turns into the viscious cycle. Either eat more sugar or crash and burn. Sometimes I fall asleep. Other times I continue on my sugar fiasco. Hypoglycemia? I'm not diabetic, yet. But I feel it looming in the near-distance. Either way, poor pancreas is confused. Insulin or no?
So here is my challenge. I am going to go every week for the next month only eating meat one day a week. That is all of May. Meat will be consumed on Thursdays. I will eat no refined sugar for the entire month of May. I am not planning on making my family participate in this. They tend to balk at dietary changes of any sort. I'll get back to ya'll and let you know how it goes down. Seriously, though, its only 31 days, and its in the interest of the kidneys, the pancreas, and the general overall health of Luna and me.
Since my days of producing children are done, I feel like now would be the optimal time to evaluate what I can cut from my intake. I no longer need oodles and oodles of protein to create new beings. I no longer need sugar to power the "machine." I'm a little freaked out by this, because I love meat. But I love other things too. Chocolate. Preservatives. Sugar. And they have turned on me.
I don't remember what the condition I almost have is called. I eat sugar, and then it turns into the viscious cycle. Either eat more sugar or crash and burn. Sometimes I fall asleep. Other times I continue on my sugar fiasco. Hypoglycemia? I'm not diabetic, yet. But I feel it looming in the near-distance. Either way, poor pancreas is confused. Insulin or no?
So here is my challenge. I am going to go every week for the next month only eating meat one day a week. That is all of May. Meat will be consumed on Thursdays. I will eat no refined sugar for the entire month of May. I am not planning on making my family participate in this. They tend to balk at dietary changes of any sort. I'll get back to ya'll and let you know how it goes down. Seriously, though, its only 31 days, and its in the interest of the kidneys, the pancreas, and the general overall health of Luna and me.
What women want
A poem that I wrote for my MFA. I can't find anyone with big enough balls to publish it, even the feminists! I think it's good enough, and it deserves to be read.
What Women Want
I want a red dress.
I want a small waist and big
exotic eyes, the kind that get me noticed.
I want men to swoon
when I speak, even when the words echo
my distaste for them.
I want you
to stop and wait for me
when I fall behind, distracted
by the scent of lilacs or the pile of dogshit
that resembles a man
we both know.
I want to wear flannel shirts. I want
to shed this skin
and wade into the March river, clear and biting,
the current raging. I want
to sit around a campfire, cheeks on high
from whiskey burning in my guy
I want to laugh and be certain
it isn’t too loud, it doesn’t make me ugly.
I want to touch all your right places,
my hands made of peacock feathers, lithe
and vibrant. I want
to flood you with the red
of my dress, comfort you with the soft
flannel of my shirt. I want
to erode away all the girls
you loved before me, the pretty ones
you won’t forget.
I want lakes of fire
in my thighs so I can sear my name
on you, make you wear
it: mailbox, bank account, byline.
The same way I wear yours.
What Women Want
I want a red dress.
I want a small waist and big
exotic eyes, the kind that get me noticed.
I want men to swoon
when I speak, even when the words echo
my distaste for them.
I want you
to stop and wait for me
when I fall behind, distracted
by the scent of lilacs or the pile of dogshit
that resembles a man
we both know.
I want to wear flannel shirts. I want
to shed this skin
and wade into the March river, clear and biting,
the current raging. I want
to sit around a campfire, cheeks on high
from whiskey burning in my guy
I want to laugh and be certain
it isn’t too loud, it doesn’t make me ugly.
I want to touch all your right places,
my hands made of peacock feathers, lithe
and vibrant. I want
to flood you with the red
of my dress, comfort you with the soft
flannel of my shirt. I want
to erode away all the girls
you loved before me, the pretty ones
you won’t forget.
I want lakes of fire
in my thighs so I can sear my name
on you, make you wear
it: mailbox, bank account, byline.
The same way I wear yours.
What's In a Name?
We were at my parents' for Easter, and my dad was telling stories. This doesn't happen much, as he is one of those guys who saves his words for when he is really pissed off. And then they are spectacular curse words that I have heard uttered only by the mouths of soldiers in combat. So his stories warrant listeners hanging on his every word.
He was talking about my grandfather, his dad, the one who died before I was born. Yet another reason I pricked up my ears. I don't know much about him, and have seen very few pictures. The one that is burned in my memory is him sitting at my Grandma Caliendo's kitchen table in a ratty fishing hat holding up a bottle of Peroni, as if to salute the old country. He has a round face and a bulbous nose, kinda like mine. He was Italian to the core, and I guess that is where my dad gets his sense of pride in his heritage. Or maybe it's just an Italian thing.
So, apparently my grandfather had a bunch of friends, but no one knew their real names. The nicknames they had struck me as pretty racist: Blackie, Sheik, Spaghetti, etc. My mom butted in to inform me that Blackie wasn't black or "moulinjan" as the Italians call them. I cringed, realizing how archaic my parents sound. I wondered if Sheik was middle-eastern or if he just looked it. I wonder if Spaghetti was a skinny Italian (Do they make such a thing?)
My dad answered the question that was chugging through my brain: what do you call the wives if you don't know these guys' real names? He didn't want to be disrespectful as a kid. In those days, it was punishable by beating or worse. So when Spaghetti and his wife came to dinner, my old man, in all his little kid glory, addressed the wife of his father's friend as "Mrs. Spaghetti." I don't know if this was met with smirks or laughter or if that was indeed what she preferred to be called. That was the end of the story, and I didn't feel like it was appropriate to ask questions. They would have most likely been met with the raised-eyebrow glare my dad is so famous for, the one Brian says I have down almost perfectly.
I just know now that some of the things that my own children say must be inheirited. Because I'm guessing that even if they don't say it, Booga's wife is "Mrs. Booga" to them. At least they are smart enough not to address her directly.
He was talking about my grandfather, his dad, the one who died before I was born. Yet another reason I pricked up my ears. I don't know much about him, and have seen very few pictures. The one that is burned in my memory is him sitting at my Grandma Caliendo's kitchen table in a ratty fishing hat holding up a bottle of Peroni, as if to salute the old country. He has a round face and a bulbous nose, kinda like mine. He was Italian to the core, and I guess that is where my dad gets his sense of pride in his heritage. Or maybe it's just an Italian thing.
So, apparently my grandfather had a bunch of friends, but no one knew their real names. The nicknames they had struck me as pretty racist: Blackie, Sheik, Spaghetti, etc. My mom butted in to inform me that Blackie wasn't black or "moulinjan" as the Italians call them. I cringed, realizing how archaic my parents sound. I wondered if Sheik was middle-eastern or if he just looked it. I wonder if Spaghetti was a skinny Italian (Do they make such a thing?)
My dad answered the question that was chugging through my brain: what do you call the wives if you don't know these guys' real names? He didn't want to be disrespectful as a kid. In those days, it was punishable by beating or worse. So when Spaghetti and his wife came to dinner, my old man, in all his little kid glory, addressed the wife of his father's friend as "Mrs. Spaghetti." I don't know if this was met with smirks or laughter or if that was indeed what she preferred to be called. That was the end of the story, and I didn't feel like it was appropriate to ask questions. They would have most likely been met with the raised-eyebrow glare my dad is so famous for, the one Brian says I have down almost perfectly.
I just know now that some of the things that my own children say must be inheirited. Because I'm guessing that even if they don't say it, Booga's wife is "Mrs. Booga" to them. At least they are smart enough not to address her directly.
Friday, April 22, 2011
Good Friday vs. Earth Day: The Ultimate Showdown
Jesus Christ vs. Mother Earth. Who wins?
I tend to be one of those folks who, if you can't tangibly see it or hold it in your palm, it just ain't so. Also I was raised far enough south to know about cow tippin and swimmin in the crick. But I have a little bit of faith. Don't get me wrong, I do have a t-shirt that reads "I teach my kids to worship Satan" (that I purchased on the recommendation of a reader for the sole purpose of parent-teacher conferences) but I have faith in God and Jesus and all that. I won't be quoting any bible verses any time soon, as I have never read the good book cover to cover, and I sure don't know it.
Yep, I have a minor in Theology and Religious studies. I guess that just goes to show what you can achieve with bullshit. (Actually it was more reading-based than anything)
So who will I be celebrating today? The tangible, muddy green/blue/brown sphere that sustains us all, or the man who gave his life so we could ruin it? Hmmmm...it seems to me that they go hand-in-hand here. So whatever you need to do here. Go to church. Recycle or pick up litter. Either or both are good practices. Just don't go full-on today and then revert back to being a hypocrite tomorrow. Because God hates a hypocrite, and the Earth will eventually fall victim to them.
I tend to be one of those folks who, if you can't tangibly see it or hold it in your palm, it just ain't so. Also I was raised far enough south to know about cow tippin and swimmin in the crick. But I have a little bit of faith. Don't get me wrong, I do have a t-shirt that reads "I teach my kids to worship Satan" (that I purchased on the recommendation of a reader for the sole purpose of parent-teacher conferences) but I have faith in God and Jesus and all that. I won't be quoting any bible verses any time soon, as I have never read the good book cover to cover, and I sure don't know it.
Yep, I have a minor in Theology and Religious studies. I guess that just goes to show what you can achieve with bullshit. (Actually it was more reading-based than anything)
So who will I be celebrating today? The tangible, muddy green/blue/brown sphere that sustains us all, or the man who gave his life so we could ruin it? Hmmmm...it seems to me that they go hand-in-hand here. So whatever you need to do here. Go to church. Recycle or pick up litter. Either or both are good practices. Just don't go full-on today and then revert back to being a hypocrite tomorrow. Because God hates a hypocrite, and the Earth will eventually fall victim to them.
Who's calling? What did you say?
They have telephone radar. I am sure of it. No, its not some amazing secret power, I don't think. I don't talk much on the phone, but when I do, its like they know. That becomes the optimal time to scream, get hurt, do naughty shit that they otherwise would never do, and torment each other relentlessly. These would all be fine things to do if they didn't do them within five feet of me while I am trying to have a telephone conversation. This morning I have a scheduled telephone conference. I have asked the older kids to keep the little troublemakers out of my hair. This ensures someone will break a bone or need stitches. The baby will cry throughout the entire thing, making it impossible for me to hear what is being said or myself think. It will light my tits on fire and the only thing I will be able to do is not cry out in pain for wanting to nurse the little beast.
I have contemplated locking them all in the garage for that hour, but the neighbors and social service folks probably wouldn't take kindly to that. I have thought about locking myself in my car, but then what if something really tragic happens and they need me? I refuse to send them to daycare so I can make a phone call. And quite honestly, I don't give a rat's ass what they do as long as they are quiet.
Oh, what have I said? This is what I found when my phone call was done. They "cleaned" the toilet. Little fuckers are just trying to help.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Soundtrack for my life
1. What Were You Thinking--Spitalfield
2. Graffiti Worth Reading--Mighty Mighty Bosstones
3. Suds in the Bucked--Sara Evans
4. Skulls--Misfits
5. Beheaded--Offspring
6. Symphony of Destruction--Megadeath
7. Tear in Your Hand--Tori Amos
8. Crazy--Patsy Cline
9. Little White Lies--Frank Sinatra
and two bonus tracks for my days off:
i. Lakeside Park--Ruch
ii. Too Drunk to Fuck--The Dead Kennedys
2. Graffiti Worth Reading--Mighty Mighty Bosstones
3. Suds in the Bucked--Sara Evans
4. Skulls--Misfits
5. Beheaded--Offspring
6. Symphony of Destruction--Megadeath
7. Tear in Your Hand--Tori Amos
8. Crazy--Patsy Cline
9. Little White Lies--Frank Sinatra
and two bonus tracks for my days off:
i. Lakeside Park--Ruch
ii. Too Drunk to Fuck--The Dead Kennedys
Things that are Just So Wrong
We can all admit that things in our society are fucked up. Here is a small sampling of the things that are Just So Wrong with our world:
1. Bikinis for infants. Padded bras for 10-year-olds. Sweatpants for anyone with words like "Sexy" and "Pink" making appearances on the ass. Why is child molestation on the rise? Why is child pornography so rampant? Blame the advertising world, the ones who say that this is not only "ok" but the norm! Sexualizing our children is SO NOT COOL.
2. Going to the ER for a cold that someone has had for 3 or 4 days. Going to the ER trying to get narcotics to feed an addiction. Going to the ER for basically anything non-emergent. There is a reason its called the EMERGENCY room. Why are healthcare costs out of control? This is a big part of it. Those dipshits who are seeking instantr gratification, the ones who have to feel better RIGHT NOW or they come back.
3. The cost of gas climbing a dime a day. I can't complain about the cost of gas, but its constant fluctuation is a PAIN IN MY ASS! Pick a price, oil companies, and live with it. If you lose money, deal with it. (doubtful) Consistency would at least be something we could all deal with.
4. Hormones in food. Our kids grow up way too fast anyway, but to put it on fast forward for bigger chickens and more milk production is just sad and unfortunate.
5. The idea that kids can't swear. They are just words. Said in the right context, the right time and place, they can actually be pretty entertaining coming out of a little kid's mouth. Like when Zane was looking for something (at age 2) and asked my mother in law "Where the fuck is the ---?" Her eyeballs nearly fell out of her head, but she handled it pretty well, I have to say. She just answered him. She didn't giggle (I couldn't help it, but I did it behind my hand.)
6. Pressing one for English. We live in America...?
7. Misused apostrophes. Not apostrophe's.
This list could go on forever and ever, it seems, and I am gettin surly just thinking about it. Comment about some of the things that piss you off the most, and I will rant about them some other day.
1. Bikinis for infants. Padded bras for 10-year-olds. Sweatpants for anyone with words like "Sexy" and "Pink" making appearances on the ass. Why is child molestation on the rise? Why is child pornography so rampant? Blame the advertising world, the ones who say that this is not only "ok" but the norm! Sexualizing our children is SO NOT COOL.
2. Going to the ER for a cold that someone has had for 3 or 4 days. Going to the ER trying to get narcotics to feed an addiction. Going to the ER for basically anything non-emergent. There is a reason its called the EMERGENCY room. Why are healthcare costs out of control? This is a big part of it. Those dipshits who are seeking instantr gratification, the ones who have to feel better RIGHT NOW or they come back.
3. The cost of gas climbing a dime a day. I can't complain about the cost of gas, but its constant fluctuation is a PAIN IN MY ASS! Pick a price, oil companies, and live with it. If you lose money, deal with it. (doubtful) Consistency would at least be something we could all deal with.
4. Hormones in food. Our kids grow up way too fast anyway, but to put it on fast forward for bigger chickens and more milk production is just sad and unfortunate.
5. The idea that kids can't swear. They are just words. Said in the right context, the right time and place, they can actually be pretty entertaining coming out of a little kid's mouth. Like when Zane was looking for something (at age 2) and asked my mother in law "Where the fuck is the ---?" Her eyeballs nearly fell out of her head, but she handled it pretty well, I have to say. She just answered him. She didn't giggle (I couldn't help it, but I did it behind my hand.)
6. Pressing one for English. We live in America...?
7. Misused apostrophes. Not apostrophe's.
This list could go on forever and ever, it seems, and I am gettin surly just thinking about it. Comment about some of the things that piss you off the most, and I will rant about them some other day.
Mistakes at Work
Everyone makes mistakes. Some more than others. That kept in mind, I should forgive whoever decided it would be nice to assign the nursing mother to all the sick kiddos at work. Nevermind they are all full of germs that I can take home to my own little ones, everyone at the hospital has cooties, so what's the difference?
The difference is that every time those little stinkers need a treatment, I get visited by a pair of prickle-boobs. They look at me and I leak. They cry and I leak. They lay there sound asleep and I smell them and I leak. This was not well thought out. The Ds are trying to soak my shirt. I take precautions: wearing patterns, nursing pads, etc. But its like they are hell-bent on my having a wet uniform by morning.
I do my rounds in pediatrics and then disappear for a few minutes into the bathroom with my good friend, the milking machine. There is nothing more charming than sitting in a public bathroom doing this, as others come and rattle the door handle.
I go back, and realize that one of the nurses, Bob was my nurse when I was recovering from my c-section. He makes sure to mention it. I feel exposed. This guy has seen more of me than any of my other co-workers, and I share a locker room with them. How am I supposed to maintain professionalism? How is he? It is obvious we are both uncomfortable with the knowlege of what I look like naked directly following childbirth. Bob won't look me in the eye.
Now tell me, how am I supposed to work like that? Hostile work environment? Try this on for size!
The difference is that every time those little stinkers need a treatment, I get visited by a pair of prickle-boobs. They look at me and I leak. They cry and I leak. They lay there sound asleep and I smell them and I leak. This was not well thought out. The Ds are trying to soak my shirt. I take precautions: wearing patterns, nursing pads, etc. But its like they are hell-bent on my having a wet uniform by morning.
I do my rounds in pediatrics and then disappear for a few minutes into the bathroom with my good friend, the milking machine. There is nothing more charming than sitting in a public bathroom doing this, as others come and rattle the door handle.
I go back, and realize that one of the nurses, Bob was my nurse when I was recovering from my c-section. He makes sure to mention it. I feel exposed. This guy has seen more of me than any of my other co-workers, and I share a locker room with them. How am I supposed to maintain professionalism? How is he? It is obvious we are both uncomfortable with the knowlege of what I look like naked directly following childbirth. Bob won't look me in the eye.
Now tell me, how am I supposed to work like that? Hostile work environment? Try this on for size!
Monday, April 18, 2011
love/hate work/play
As I ready myself for another shift at work, I think a lot about what else I would rather do with my life. Obviously, there is raising kids. But that doesn't pay in anything beyond joy and hugs. And no matter what Mary Poppins likes to think, those things, as nice as they are, don't pay the bills. And eventually the kids will all be grown and the grandkids will take over. I'll still love them all just as much as I did the day they were born, but its different when they can take care of themselves.
I'd like to be a writer. There isn't a lot of capital in that either, unfortunately. I imagine myself not racing around the hospital attempting to get all my scheduled work done in between the "fire calls" but sitting at a giant oak table in front of a wide window, looking out over a meadow. The words spill out of me. They are beautiful and profound.
I'd like to be a musician, but the reality is that I have no inclination in that direction. None whatsoever. Luna likes it when I sing Kenny Rogers "The Gambler" but that's about it. Oh, and I'm tone-deaf. Doesn't help at all.
I resolve that there is really no other path for me. I will continue with my job as a respiratory therapist, at least until I am done with my MFA. Maybe then I can get a gig as an assistant professor at one of the local colleges. Not a lot of loot, still, but to have an office where I can stack up my books (yes, paper books! I have a nook but feel like such a traitor using it) and papers and a desk where I can stash my pens without anyone else rifling through them sounds like such bliss.
I will probably always be a respiratory therapist; I thrive on the adrenaline and gore of traumas. I like the absolution of it. I feel like a good person, like I have helped someone who otherwise would be suffering, at the end of most shifts. I love my co-workers like family. We depend on each other like siblings in an abusive home.
But the shit of it is that as much as we all love our job, we love to hate it more.
I'd like to be a writer. There isn't a lot of capital in that either, unfortunately. I imagine myself not racing around the hospital attempting to get all my scheduled work done in between the "fire calls" but sitting at a giant oak table in front of a wide window, looking out over a meadow. The words spill out of me. They are beautiful and profound.
I'd like to be a musician, but the reality is that I have no inclination in that direction. None whatsoever. Luna likes it when I sing Kenny Rogers "The Gambler" but that's about it. Oh, and I'm tone-deaf. Doesn't help at all.
I resolve that there is really no other path for me. I will continue with my job as a respiratory therapist, at least until I am done with my MFA. Maybe then I can get a gig as an assistant professor at one of the local colleges. Not a lot of loot, still, but to have an office where I can stack up my books (yes, paper books! I have a nook but feel like such a traitor using it) and papers and a desk where I can stash my pens without anyone else rifling through them sounds like such bliss.
I will probably always be a respiratory therapist; I thrive on the adrenaline and gore of traumas. I like the absolution of it. I feel like a good person, like I have helped someone who otherwise would be suffering, at the end of most shifts. I love my co-workers like family. We depend on each other like siblings in an abusive home.
But the shit of it is that as much as we all love our job, we love to hate it more.
Get a load of this, Duluth!
I am a BIG fan of breastfeeding. I think women should do it if they can. I can. I do. I have no modesty about when or where I do it. I don't throw a blanket over my baby's head, because no one else I know eats with a blanket over their head. The only time I have ever been even slightly miffed about feeding my baby anywhere, it was when I was on TV.
We have season tickets to the local college hockey team. Sometimes I go, sometimes I don't. It depends how many of the older kids want to go, mostly. When I do go, though, I insist on sitting on the aisle. Some deep seated fear in me tells me that will be the best place to be if the arena collapses. Mostly I just like having a little extra room on one side, and a quick getaway if one of the kids has to go to the bathroom.
This was a while back, when Zane was just a babe. He was our fifth child, and I had no qualms about taking him to the hockey game when he was a mere infant. I put him in a carrier and snuck him in under my coat, lest we would have to buy a "lap-ticket" for him. I don't know if the guy at the ticket gate was just that dumb, or if he totally let us slide. Either way, it saved us $11.
Our seats were in the nosebleeds, only four or five rows behind us. We hiked up the steps and the kids filed in to their seats. Zane started whimpering, and as any mommy knows, that triggers immediate let-down. So I ditched the carrier and stuffed him up under my shirt. Chow down, kid. The first period commenced. I didn't stand for the National Anthem, but I was just a little busy.
I was watching the game, so I didn't notice the girls beckoning the mascot, Champ. The guy in the bulldog outfit clambered up the stairs and leaned over me to give the girls high-fives. Then the boys had to get in on the action and come give Champ hugs. All the while, this college kid in a bulldog head and hockey jersey is leaning over me while I am nursing my wee one. Broian poked me in the shoulder, and pointed. JESUS FUCKING CHRIST! I was on the jumbotron with my kid under my shirt, for a good full minute! HELLO, HOCKEY FANS!
What I didn't know until the day after was that this particular scene was also a highlight of the game on our local news. When four or five of my co-workers mentioned my "appearance" on the news, I decided to just start saying that I was lobbying for La Leche League instead of watching the game. Hockey in Duluth has never been the same since.
We have season tickets to the local college hockey team. Sometimes I go, sometimes I don't. It depends how many of the older kids want to go, mostly. When I do go, though, I insist on sitting on the aisle. Some deep seated fear in me tells me that will be the best place to be if the arena collapses. Mostly I just like having a little extra room on one side, and a quick getaway if one of the kids has to go to the bathroom.
This was a while back, when Zane was just a babe. He was our fifth child, and I had no qualms about taking him to the hockey game when he was a mere infant. I put him in a carrier and snuck him in under my coat, lest we would have to buy a "lap-ticket" for him. I don't know if the guy at the ticket gate was just that dumb, or if he totally let us slide. Either way, it saved us $11.
Our seats were in the nosebleeds, only four or five rows behind us. We hiked up the steps and the kids filed in to their seats. Zane started whimpering, and as any mommy knows, that triggers immediate let-down. So I ditched the carrier and stuffed him up under my shirt. Chow down, kid. The first period commenced. I didn't stand for the National Anthem, but I was just a little busy.
I was watching the game, so I didn't notice the girls beckoning the mascot, Champ. The guy in the bulldog outfit clambered up the stairs and leaned over me to give the girls high-fives. Then the boys had to get in on the action and come give Champ hugs. All the while, this college kid in a bulldog head and hockey jersey is leaning over me while I am nursing my wee one. Broian poked me in the shoulder, and pointed. JESUS FUCKING CHRIST! I was on the jumbotron with my kid under my shirt, for a good full minute! HELLO, HOCKEY FANS!
What I didn't know until the day after was that this particular scene was also a highlight of the game on our local news. When four or five of my co-workers mentioned my "appearance" on the news, I decided to just start saying that I was lobbying for La Leche League instead of watching the game. Hockey in Duluth has never been the same since.
Heroes in a Half-Cell
Does anyone remember the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, the crime-fighting relics from the sewers? They were a staple in my childhood barrage of cartoon characters: cool music, weapons, and best of all, they were gnarly surf-talkers in hopelessly land-locked places like Byron, Illinois. Better yet, they were all named for Italian renaissance painters. Finally someone I could relate to! My town was predominantly of German descent, but mostly everyone was of mixed-breed. No one had the same pride in their heritage as my brother and me. There were no other Italians.
Of course, me being the genius that I am, I decided to share TMNT with my kids. They should have some sense of what I liked when I was a girl, yes? So we watched the movie and then I was overjoyed to hear them playing turtles in the basement. Then they were instructing neighborhood kids how to play turtles. I thought that TMNT was going to make a comeback!
Then one night, while at work, my husband called me. Mind you, this is two o'clock in the morning. I panicked. Someone was sick or hurt, undoubtedly, if they were able to wake him from his nightly hibernation. Turns out, though, it was the Duluth Police Department that woke him from his slumber.
The two oldest boys had snuck out again. We knew they did it occasionally, and didn't really care because they did harmless things like go to the park and shoot baskets. Big deal, especially when there were far worse things they could be doing. We let it slide. This time, however, their innocence had brought about The Law. They had decided to go skateboarding up at the bank a block away from our house.
No biggie, right? I didn't think so either, until my husband started giggling. Why in the holy hell was he laughing? Our boys just got brought home by the police. THIS WAS SERIOUS SHIT! He kept laughing, so hard he couldn't talk. Finally he got it together enough to speak. The boys had been playing turtles up at the bank, he said. YEAH, SO WHY THE FUCK ARE THE COPS BRINGING THEM HOME? Was this a curfew thing, and if so, my tax dollars needed to be spent elsewhere. No, he replied. It was the ski masks they were wearing on the surviellance videos that worried the coppers. I was silent. Oh, yes, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles wear masks. Oh, yes. They skateboard. BUT NOT AT THE BANK AT ONE AM!!!!!
Those two are going to Harvard, for sure.
But its one of those things. Looking back on it, you just have to laugh. Because if you don't, you will cry.
Of course, me being the genius that I am, I decided to share TMNT with my kids. They should have some sense of what I liked when I was a girl, yes? So we watched the movie and then I was overjoyed to hear them playing turtles in the basement. Then they were instructing neighborhood kids how to play turtles. I thought that TMNT was going to make a comeback!
Then one night, while at work, my husband called me. Mind you, this is two o'clock in the morning. I panicked. Someone was sick or hurt, undoubtedly, if they were able to wake him from his nightly hibernation. Turns out, though, it was the Duluth Police Department that woke him from his slumber.
The two oldest boys had snuck out again. We knew they did it occasionally, and didn't really care because they did harmless things like go to the park and shoot baskets. Big deal, especially when there were far worse things they could be doing. We let it slide. This time, however, their innocence had brought about The Law. They had decided to go skateboarding up at the bank a block away from our house.
No biggie, right? I didn't think so either, until my husband started giggling. Why in the holy hell was he laughing? Our boys just got brought home by the police. THIS WAS SERIOUS SHIT! He kept laughing, so hard he couldn't talk. Finally he got it together enough to speak. The boys had been playing turtles up at the bank, he said. YEAH, SO WHY THE FUCK ARE THE COPS BRINGING THEM HOME? Was this a curfew thing, and if so, my tax dollars needed to be spent elsewhere. No, he replied. It was the ski masks they were wearing on the surviellance videos that worried the coppers. I was silent. Oh, yes, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles wear masks. Oh, yes. They skateboard. BUT NOT AT THE BANK AT ONE AM!!!!!
Those two are going to Harvard, for sure.
But its one of those things. Looking back on it, you just have to laugh. Because if you don't, you will cry.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Hello, we're collecting money...
Who loves solicitors? I know I do! Those at-risk teens they send around the neighborhood selling magazines, those soft-spoken Kirby salesmen who weasel their way in and demonstrate the amazing powers of their non-returnable $1700 vacuum cleaners. They're the best.
So imagine my confusion when my next door neighbor, a lady on the North end of middle-age who refuses to cut her long, witchy hair and does not work, approached me and asked me if the money she donated was tax deductible, and if she needed any paperwork. "Why would you ask me?" I asked her. Well, imagine my shock and horror when she told me that it was my children that she donated to!
It turns out that it really wasn't as bad as I thought, but in those first few moments when my blood pressure was shooting through the stratosphere and I was planning all kinds of possible punishments, it was pretty bad. It turns out the three middle kids (10, 10, and 11) had overheard one of my money discussions with my husband, the one that resulted from the oldest boy getting hit in the mouth with a hockey stick and the subsequent looming dental and medical bills.
We generally don't talk about stuff like money where the kids can overhear us, because they tend to worry more than is necessary. And then they tend to do stuff like go DOOR TO DOOR in the neighborhood asking for DONATIONS for Eli's TEETH! Oh, the humiliation. Oh, the embarassment. It doesn't help, either, that more than half of our neighbors are related to us in some way, shape, or form. It does, however, result in my wanting to wear a paper bag over my head to make the mad dash from the house to the car.
It turns out the kids collected $48 from random generous neighbors. It would have been tax deductible, had we not made them return every red cent of it. The moral of that story is to not talk about bills, money, or anything of any seriousness in front of children, otherwise they get bright ideas about solving the problems themselves. Ugh.
So imagine my confusion when my next door neighbor, a lady on the North end of middle-age who refuses to cut her long, witchy hair and does not work, approached me and asked me if the money she donated was tax deductible, and if she needed any paperwork. "Why would you ask me?" I asked her. Well, imagine my shock and horror when she told me that it was my children that she donated to!
It turns out that it really wasn't as bad as I thought, but in those first few moments when my blood pressure was shooting through the stratosphere and I was planning all kinds of possible punishments, it was pretty bad. It turns out the three middle kids (10, 10, and 11) had overheard one of my money discussions with my husband, the one that resulted from the oldest boy getting hit in the mouth with a hockey stick and the subsequent looming dental and medical bills.
We generally don't talk about stuff like money where the kids can overhear us, because they tend to worry more than is necessary. And then they tend to do stuff like go DOOR TO DOOR in the neighborhood asking for DONATIONS for Eli's TEETH! Oh, the humiliation. Oh, the embarassment. It doesn't help, either, that more than half of our neighbors are related to us in some way, shape, or form. It does, however, result in my wanting to wear a paper bag over my head to make the mad dash from the house to the car.
It turns out the kids collected $48 from random generous neighbors. It would have been tax deductible, had we not made them return every red cent of it. The moral of that story is to not talk about bills, money, or anything of any seriousness in front of children, otherwise they get bright ideas about solving the problems themselves. Ugh.
Friday, April 15, 2011
What they have Ruined
My kids, God love 'em, ruin lots of shit. This is only the beginning:
1. My body. I have never been "thin" or "toned" but I looked human at one point. Now I resemble a balloon that has been blown up too many times and then left in a field for a week. Gross.
2. My house. There are holes in the walls, doors falling off the hinges, towels molding in the bathrooms, bannisters missing, grass replaced by mud, footprints on my kitchen counters, sticky handprints all over, and toys, broken and not, everywhere. Books are "peeled" all over the floor in the babies' bedroom, boogers wiped on the windows, the tv, the pillowcases. Its a disaster. There is no point in cleaning it up. It won't last.
3. My car. Marshmallow fluff smeared on the dashboard, wrappers everywhere, petrified french fries under carseats, pop spilled down the doorskin. Again, disaster.
4. My sobriety. I used to be sober when it was just the 4 older kids, the ones who listened and did what I told them. Those little bastards drive me to it, and the liquor store a half block away (oh, yes, walking distance!) doesn't help at all.
5. My self-image. When my 3 year old asks me why I feed the baby out of my belly button, I get the idea that gravity has not been kind.
6. My sanity. I used to be able to control my swearing. I used to only yell occasionally. Yeah, forget that. I am a yelling, cussing mess. Most of the time. What's that? You lodged a Littlest Pet Shop critter in your sister's nose and now its bleeding? Hmmm...is this something I need to address? How bad is it bleeding?
The list can go on and on, but I want to make clear, for all the things those little freeloaders have ruined, the most important thing is my lonliness. I can never again go to the bathroom alone, without interruption. I can never again talk on the telephone without a little voice screeching in the background. But I will never be lonely, I will never be alone. Oh no, not even if I want to.
1. My body. I have never been "thin" or "toned" but I looked human at one point. Now I resemble a balloon that has been blown up too many times and then left in a field for a week. Gross.
2. My house. There are holes in the walls, doors falling off the hinges, towels molding in the bathrooms, bannisters missing, grass replaced by mud, footprints on my kitchen counters, sticky handprints all over, and toys, broken and not, everywhere. Books are "peeled" all over the floor in the babies' bedroom, boogers wiped on the windows, the tv, the pillowcases. Its a disaster. There is no point in cleaning it up. It won't last.
3. My car. Marshmallow fluff smeared on the dashboard, wrappers everywhere, petrified french fries under carseats, pop spilled down the doorskin. Again, disaster.
4. My sobriety. I used to be sober when it was just the 4 older kids, the ones who listened and did what I told them. Those little bastards drive me to it, and the liquor store a half block away (oh, yes, walking distance!) doesn't help at all.
5. My self-image. When my 3 year old asks me why I feed the baby out of my belly button, I get the idea that gravity has not been kind.
6. My sanity. I used to be able to control my swearing. I used to only yell occasionally. Yeah, forget that. I am a yelling, cussing mess. Most of the time. What's that? You lodged a Littlest Pet Shop critter in your sister's nose and now its bleeding? Hmmm...is this something I need to address? How bad is it bleeding?
The list can go on and on, but I want to make clear, for all the things those little freeloaders have ruined, the most important thing is my lonliness. I can never again go to the bathroom alone, without interruption. I can never again talk on the telephone without a little voice screeching in the background. But I will never be lonely, I will never be alone. Oh no, not even if I want to.
IEP from Hell
Yesterday was my oldest daughter's IEP meeting. For everyone who doesn't know, she is hearing impaired and the schools insist on having an "Indeividual Education Plan" (IEP) for every kid who is different in any way. To make accomodations so learning is easier for them or something. We meet every six months, and the meetings are quite a production: the deaf/hard-of-hearing liason, the principal, the teacher, the speech therapist, the parents. We all sit around and "decide" how to teach the poor kid.
I geared up for the meeting with an hour and a half of bikini shopping 2 months after having a baby and about 10 cups of coffee. I really wanted to be on top of my game. I was like a wet hornet by the time I walked into the school. Shaking and hot and miserable and ferocious. Definitely ready to duel the IEP Gods.
These meetings are also a total joy because my wife-beating, no-child-support-paying ex husband comes to them and pretends A) he gives a shit about his kid and B) he knows what people are talking about. Which is a pretty funny joke because he puts no stock in education at all. Which explains why, at 35, he works at Target and lives in a shitty studio apartment on 4th street in the ghetto.
So we all sat around the table and the "team" read --OUT LOUD, mind you--the papers they had sent out in the mail the week before. Which I had read before coming. When everyone was done reading to me, I had my chance to ask questions. My questions were apparently pretty offensive and rude. Like "Do you think that I am an illiterate?" "If you send these papers out in the mail, why do we have to have these stupid meetings?" "Can't we just stop doing this?" "Do you think this is as big a waste of an hour as I do?"
Do these education professionals prefer parents who just sit and smile and nod complacently? I mean, I am capable of reading the paperwork. I came so they could tell me something that wasn't spelled out in black and white. Christ!
And then a glorious end to a day I already wanted wiped out of my memory forever. I was sitting on the couch nursing Luna and Zane asked me "Mommy, why do you feed the baby out of your belly button?" At least he didn't ask why I was nursing her out of my kneecap, I guess. Fucking gravity!
I geared up for the meeting with an hour and a half of bikini shopping 2 months after having a baby and about 10 cups of coffee. I really wanted to be on top of my game. I was like a wet hornet by the time I walked into the school. Shaking and hot and miserable and ferocious. Definitely ready to duel the IEP Gods.
These meetings are also a total joy because my wife-beating, no-child-support-paying ex husband comes to them and pretends A) he gives a shit about his kid and B) he knows what people are talking about. Which is a pretty funny joke because he puts no stock in education at all. Which explains why, at 35, he works at Target and lives in a shitty studio apartment on 4th street in the ghetto.
So we all sat around the table and the "team" read --OUT LOUD, mind you--the papers they had sent out in the mail the week before. Which I had read before coming. When everyone was done reading to me, I had my chance to ask questions. My questions were apparently pretty offensive and rude. Like "Do you think that I am an illiterate?" "If you send these papers out in the mail, why do we have to have these stupid meetings?" "Can't we just stop doing this?" "Do you think this is as big a waste of an hour as I do?"
Do these education professionals prefer parents who just sit and smile and nod complacently? I mean, I am capable of reading the paperwork. I came so they could tell me something that wasn't spelled out in black and white. Christ!
And then a glorious end to a day I already wanted wiped out of my memory forever. I was sitting on the couch nursing Luna and Zane asked me "Mommy, why do you feed the baby out of your belly button?" At least he didn't ask why I was nursing her out of my kneecap, I guess. Fucking gravity!
Monday, April 11, 2011
Daycare or Bust!
As I was making the trek to my kids' daycare this morning, I was doing the calculations...How many hours would I have to work this pay period to make sending them to daycare worth my while. Three kids at $2.35 an hour--WAIT A MINUTE!!! $2.35 an hour? Is that really all I pay her?
That is one of the things that bothers me about America. We like to think that our children are our priorities. But when we look at the cold hard facts, they say otherwise. My daycare provider is WONDERFUL! I cannot say enough good things about her. She treats my children as if they are her own, and in a way, they are. And I only pay her $7.05 an hour to watch all three of them?! That seems fucked up. Elder care is the same way.
Our children and elderly are the most vulnerable populations we have. We have to pay others to care for them. We put our trust in these individuals to care for those we care most about. And then we pay them squat? It seems pretty backwards.
So this is your challenge, oh faithful readers. This week, don't bitch about the cost of daycare or elder care. Tell your provider "thank you" at the end of the day, at the end of the week. And if you have the means, give them a tip. That's right. Skip a morning coffee at McDonald's for a week and let those who care for our most precious little (and big) people know that they are appreciated. Because what we pay them certainly does not reflect the job that they do, or if it does, maybe you need to reevaluate your provider. Because my kids are worth a LOT more than $2.35 an hour.
That is one of the things that bothers me about America. We like to think that our children are our priorities. But when we look at the cold hard facts, they say otherwise. My daycare provider is WONDERFUL! I cannot say enough good things about her. She treats my children as if they are her own, and in a way, they are. And I only pay her $7.05 an hour to watch all three of them?! That seems fucked up. Elder care is the same way.
Our children and elderly are the most vulnerable populations we have. We have to pay others to care for them. We put our trust in these individuals to care for those we care most about. And then we pay them squat? It seems pretty backwards.
So this is your challenge, oh faithful readers. This week, don't bitch about the cost of daycare or elder care. Tell your provider "thank you" at the end of the day, at the end of the week. And if you have the means, give them a tip. That's right. Skip a morning coffee at McDonald's for a week and let those who care for our most precious little (and big) people know that they are appreciated. Because what we pay them certainly does not reflect the job that they do, or if it does, maybe you need to reevaluate your provider. Because my kids are worth a LOT more than $2.35 an hour.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Cruel vs Coddled?
Last night a friend called me for parenting advice at 12:30. She may have been a little drunk, but whatevs. I was happy to provide her with some ideas for getting her kids (ages 9 & 7) to be a little more independent in the morning before school, but I think she thought my methods rather cruel.
Apparently some people wake their kids up. I have very rarely had to do this, and when I did, it wasn't the kindest way to do it. No gentle knock on the bedroom door, no caress, not even a soft voice. Nope. I hollered up the stairs to "GET UP! YOU ARE GONNA BE LATE!" once. When that did not produce a flurry of footfalls, I retrieved my marbles from the freezer.
This was a long-tempered response to oversleeping. I tried ice in the bed, but was displeased with the wet sheets that resulted. Also, it was just too easy for the little mongerels to roll away from the ice cubes. I found that marbles work far more effectively when kept in the freezer. They maintain their cold, don't melt, and roll with the children's bodies as they squirm to escape. Its very infrequent that I have to bust them out at all though.
My school-aged kids know what time they have to rise in order to complete the things they need to do in order to be ready for school. They get up by themselves, get ready for school, and get themselves out the door in time to catch the school bus. I made it very clear that if they miss the bus, its their own fault and thus they will not get a ride to school from me, they will be walking. Since they know Mama don't talk the talk unless she walks the walk, they have only missed the bus once.
But what about their breakfast, she asks. I almost laugh. These kids have been getting their own cereal/pop tarts/frozen waffles since they were 4. We have cooked breakfast only on Sundays, when I make bacon or sausage and belgian waffles. It serves as both breakfast and lunch, and is a pretty special occaision. I told her to just let her kids know she would no longer be serving them their cereal as they lounge on the couch and watch television. At that age, kids should be able to manage that, right? She seemed pretty horrified, but I guarantee that requiring children to take responsibility for themselves leads to self-motivated, proud kids who are also quite self-sufficient. It also results in a mommy who is slightly less insane, since she can manage to have a cup of coffee and read the paper in the morning, something my dear friend had missed.
I don't coddle my kids at all. But I don't really think expecting two fifth graders and a fourth grader to do a little time management is unreasonable. Maybe I am cruel. But I think it works.
Apparently some people wake their kids up. I have very rarely had to do this, and when I did, it wasn't the kindest way to do it. No gentle knock on the bedroom door, no caress, not even a soft voice. Nope. I hollered up the stairs to "GET UP! YOU ARE GONNA BE LATE!" once. When that did not produce a flurry of footfalls, I retrieved my marbles from the freezer.
This was a long-tempered response to oversleeping. I tried ice in the bed, but was displeased with the wet sheets that resulted. Also, it was just too easy for the little mongerels to roll away from the ice cubes. I found that marbles work far more effectively when kept in the freezer. They maintain their cold, don't melt, and roll with the children's bodies as they squirm to escape. Its very infrequent that I have to bust them out at all though.
My school-aged kids know what time they have to rise in order to complete the things they need to do in order to be ready for school. They get up by themselves, get ready for school, and get themselves out the door in time to catch the school bus. I made it very clear that if they miss the bus, its their own fault and thus they will not get a ride to school from me, they will be walking. Since they know Mama don't talk the talk unless she walks the walk, they have only missed the bus once.
But what about their breakfast, she asks. I almost laugh. These kids have been getting their own cereal/pop tarts/frozen waffles since they were 4. We have cooked breakfast only on Sundays, when I make bacon or sausage and belgian waffles. It serves as both breakfast and lunch, and is a pretty special occaision. I told her to just let her kids know she would no longer be serving them their cereal as they lounge on the couch and watch television. At that age, kids should be able to manage that, right? She seemed pretty horrified, but I guarantee that requiring children to take responsibility for themselves leads to self-motivated, proud kids who are also quite self-sufficient. It also results in a mommy who is slightly less insane, since she can manage to have a cup of coffee and read the paper in the morning, something my dear friend had missed.
I don't coddle my kids at all. But I don't really think expecting two fifth graders and a fourth grader to do a little time management is unreasonable. Maybe I am cruel. But I think it works.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
2011 NCAA Champions!
I admit I don't care much about sports. I can watch hockey once in a while, being from Minnesota. I know the game, I know the rules. My family has season tickets.
I admit that I cry every time they destroy the National Anthem at the UMD games. It seems so disrespectful.
I admit that tonight, I watched a hockey game willingly, on my own, and with my full attention. It was the National Championship game against Michigan. I watched and sweated profusely and wringed my hands as the game went into overtime.
I admit I cried tears of joy as UMD scored the winning goal in overtime. It was a long time coming. This was their first championship. Only their second time in contention for it. The other time, 1984, they lost in overtime. I didn't cry then. I didn't even care.
I am proud tonight to be from Duluth. I am proud of these young men who worked so hard to bring this title to Duluth.
My husband and kids are at the game. I am so happy they got to experience this little part of Duluth history live and in-person, even if the tickets cost a mint. They will never forget this day, this moment. It gives me shivers. I am shocked by the emotions wrapped up in this victory, but at the same time, I am so thrilled to be a part of this. Way to go, Bulldogs!
I admit that I cry every time they destroy the National Anthem at the UMD games. It seems so disrespectful.
I admit that tonight, I watched a hockey game willingly, on my own, and with my full attention. It was the National Championship game against Michigan. I watched and sweated profusely and wringed my hands as the game went into overtime.
I admit I cried tears of joy as UMD scored the winning goal in overtime. It was a long time coming. This was their first championship. Only their second time in contention for it. The other time, 1984, they lost in overtime. I didn't cry then. I didn't even care.
I am proud tonight to be from Duluth. I am proud of these young men who worked so hard to bring this title to Duluth.
My husband and kids are at the game. I am so happy they got to experience this little part of Duluth history live and in-person, even if the tickets cost a mint. They will never forget this day, this moment. It gives me shivers. I am shocked by the emotions wrapped up in this victory, but at the same time, I am so thrilled to be a part of this. Way to go, Bulldogs!
The Mystery Bag Unvieled
My husband, and most men I know, are terrified of purses. I think most women can sympathize with this. Tonight we were at Gander Mountain, shopping for ice fishing jigs, of all things. Apparently at the end of the season, they have a big sale, just like they do with bikinis in August. Who knew. So with a cart loaded down with kids, we spent a good hour and a half looking at jigs.
Toward the end of this jaunt, Luna (2 months) got very crabby and fussy. Bored, breastfed and hungry, I figured. I did what any desperate Gander Mountain Mommy would do as her spouse perused the jigs. I thrust my purse at him and said "I'm taking the baby to the bathroom." He looked at my purse like it was radioactive cat poo, but took it. And put it in the cart with a 2 year old and a 3 year old. I gave him THE LOOK that says "You moron!" and said "I would just hold it if I were you."
What is the aversion to purses ? Mine is a harmless little hot pink Michael Kors number. I think we should de-mystify the woman's purse as mine was de-mistified in Gander Mountain. Yeah, since Mister Cool refused to hold it and let the kids have their way with it, the contents got dumped in the cart, and when he didn't notice that and pushed the cart through the fishing lure aisles, the contents left a trail of my personal effects.
Here goes: 1. Wallet, checkbook, and contents. Boring, yes. But necessary.
2. Diapers. 2 size 5, 2 size 1. wipes. Again, necessary evils when little ones abound.
3. one purell hand sanitizing wipe
4. one Saf-t-pop sucker. Green. For use only in emergency.
5. lip balm. melon flavor.
6. Luna bar, peppermint. Again for emergency use only.
Now, to the really embarassing items (at least I assume, for a man):
1. one tube lanolin. good for cracked and bleeding nipples.
2. two nursing pads, individually wrapped.
3. one tampon, regular absorbency.
That's all. That's it. Sorry guys, we don't keep the secrets of our universe in there. And as far as I can tell, there is nothing radioactive in our purses. So seriously, when we have to make an emergency trip to the bathroom and ask you to hold it, don't abandon it in the cart with little kids who get great joy in sprinkling the contents about. Maybe hot pink isn't the epitome of masculinity, but its usually not great lengths of time that we ask you to keep track of our purses. No big deal. Just hold it. They don't bite. And its a lot less shameful than having to collect the above mentioned contents from the floors of Gander Mountain.
Toward the end of this jaunt, Luna (2 months) got very crabby and fussy. Bored, breastfed and hungry, I figured. I did what any desperate Gander Mountain Mommy would do as her spouse perused the jigs. I thrust my purse at him and said "I'm taking the baby to the bathroom." He looked at my purse like it was radioactive cat poo, but took it. And put it in the cart with a 2 year old and a 3 year old. I gave him THE LOOK that says "You moron!" and said "I would just hold it if I were you."
What is the aversion to purses ? Mine is a harmless little hot pink Michael Kors number. I think we should de-mystify the woman's purse as mine was de-mistified in Gander Mountain. Yeah, since Mister Cool refused to hold it and let the kids have their way with it, the contents got dumped in the cart, and when he didn't notice that and pushed the cart through the fishing lure aisles, the contents left a trail of my personal effects.
Here goes: 1. Wallet, checkbook, and contents. Boring, yes. But necessary.
2. Diapers. 2 size 5, 2 size 1. wipes. Again, necessary evils when little ones abound.
3. one purell hand sanitizing wipe
4. one Saf-t-pop sucker. Green. For use only in emergency.
5. lip balm. melon flavor.
6. Luna bar, peppermint. Again for emergency use only.
Now, to the really embarassing items (at least I assume, for a man):
1. one tube lanolin. good for cracked and bleeding nipples.
2. two nursing pads, individually wrapped.
3. one tampon, regular absorbency.
That's all. That's it. Sorry guys, we don't keep the secrets of our universe in there. And as far as I can tell, there is nothing radioactive in our purses. So seriously, when we have to make an emergency trip to the bathroom and ask you to hold it, don't abandon it in the cart with little kids who get great joy in sprinkling the contents about. Maybe hot pink isn't the epitome of masculinity, but its usually not great lengths of time that we ask you to keep track of our purses. No big deal. Just hold it. They don't bite. And its a lot less shameful than having to collect the above mentioned contents from the floors of Gander Mountain.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Forever hopeful
I will admit it. I buy lottery tickets. Not compulsively, mind you, but five bucks on the Mega Million and five bucks on the Powerball pretty consistently every week. Its my excuse to fantasize. Not that I think we are going to win. I'm certainly not banking on it. But if I buy a few tickets, my chance is as good as any.
For those of you unfamiliar with Duluth, there is a digital billboard along I-35 headed south from here that reads what the jackpots are. We don't take the highway often, as there is really no good reason for us to head to that side of town. Our auto mechanic is on the other side of town, a remnant of when we lived there. We think he is worth the drive. But in passing the billboard the other day on our way to Superior (WI) to get family photos taken, Ava noticed it.
Ava (10) is apt to marry rich, and not like some who marry men with big dreams. Ava will marry a man with a big bank account already. If there is anything her biological mother has taught her, through actions alone, it will be to make SURE he's loaded before she sinks her talons in. So, she isn't exactly a gold-digger yet (she IS ten, remember) but it's coming. And who can blame her?
That being said, Ava noticed the sign. She asked me about it. I told her it was how much the lottery was worth. (At this point I think it was up to 256 mil) Her eyes got round. "Two hundred and fifty six thousand dollars? Whoa." I corrected her. Million. Million. I don't even think she has, at ten, a concept of what things cost. "I wouldn't even know what to do with one million dollars," she proclaims.
I do. I have thought about it long and hard, especially on the days where I go to sleep crying, wondering if I will have to wrap cans of creamed corn for the kids' Christmas gifts again. (Many years ago, I was a single mother and VERY poor. But the oldest boy was little and didn't care what was in the gifts as long as he got to shred the paper.) I told her that a million dollars really isn't even that much money these days, in the times of the uber-rich. I told her that a million dollars would pay off our house and that was about it. It might make life a little easier for us, but we would still have to go to work. She looked horrified. Yes, honey, its true. The four hundred dollars you have saved in the bank really doesn't amount to shit. It will be worth even less when you need it, for college or for a house or a car.
But then she asked "So, is 256 million a lot of money?" Yes. Yes, it is. I don't know if it's Oprah Winfrey money or Bill Gates money, but it's a lot. "Could you quit your jobs if we won that?" Yep. Absolutely. You wouldn't have to work either. You could paint or be a socialite or whatever you wanted to spend your days doing. She pondered this for a few moments. "You bought some tickets, right?" she asked. At this point I had. I had, forever hopeful, purchased $15 worth. I told her. She smiled smugly. "Well, then we are sure to win." End of discussion.
The next day she came home from school beaming. She floated around the house until supper-time. I called her to set the table. She smiled at me. "So, did we win?" I had forgotten what she was thinking of. I looked at her quizzically. "The 256 million?" she reminded me. I sighed. Nope, didn't win. Didn't even win the cost of the tickets back. She looked crushed. "How can that be?"
At that point I didn't want to try and explain odds and statistics to her (remember, she is only ten). I just told her that no one won and we would try again the next week. I call that keepin' the dream alive. *sigh*
For those of you unfamiliar with Duluth, there is a digital billboard along I-35 headed south from here that reads what the jackpots are. We don't take the highway often, as there is really no good reason for us to head to that side of town. Our auto mechanic is on the other side of town, a remnant of when we lived there. We think he is worth the drive. But in passing the billboard the other day on our way to Superior (WI) to get family photos taken, Ava noticed it.
Ava (10) is apt to marry rich, and not like some who marry men with big dreams. Ava will marry a man with a big bank account already. If there is anything her biological mother has taught her, through actions alone, it will be to make SURE he's loaded before she sinks her talons in. So, she isn't exactly a gold-digger yet (she IS ten, remember) but it's coming. And who can blame her?
That being said, Ava noticed the sign. She asked me about it. I told her it was how much the lottery was worth. (At this point I think it was up to 256 mil) Her eyes got round. "Two hundred and fifty six thousand dollars? Whoa." I corrected her. Million. Million. I don't even think she has, at ten, a concept of what things cost. "I wouldn't even know what to do with one million dollars," she proclaims.
I do. I have thought about it long and hard, especially on the days where I go to sleep crying, wondering if I will have to wrap cans of creamed corn for the kids' Christmas gifts again. (Many years ago, I was a single mother and VERY poor. But the oldest boy was little and didn't care what was in the gifts as long as he got to shred the paper.) I told her that a million dollars really isn't even that much money these days, in the times of the uber-rich. I told her that a million dollars would pay off our house and that was about it. It might make life a little easier for us, but we would still have to go to work. She looked horrified. Yes, honey, its true. The four hundred dollars you have saved in the bank really doesn't amount to shit. It will be worth even less when you need it, for college or for a house or a car.
But then she asked "So, is 256 million a lot of money?" Yes. Yes, it is. I don't know if it's Oprah Winfrey money or Bill Gates money, but it's a lot. "Could you quit your jobs if we won that?" Yep. Absolutely. You wouldn't have to work either. You could paint or be a socialite or whatever you wanted to spend your days doing. She pondered this for a few moments. "You bought some tickets, right?" she asked. At this point I had. I had, forever hopeful, purchased $15 worth. I told her. She smiled smugly. "Well, then we are sure to win." End of discussion.
The next day she came home from school beaming. She floated around the house until supper-time. I called her to set the table. She smiled at me. "So, did we win?" I had forgotten what she was thinking of. I looked at her quizzically. "The 256 million?" she reminded me. I sighed. Nope, didn't win. Didn't even win the cost of the tickets back. She looked crushed. "How can that be?"
At that point I didn't want to try and explain odds and statistics to her (remember, she is only ten). I just told her that no one won and we would try again the next week. I call that keepin' the dream alive. *sigh*
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Back to work: too soon for a Type A?
After a wonderful, stress filled, painful 8 weeks of maternity leave, I am returning to work tomorrow night. Part of me is relieved. Part of me is terrified. Part of me is juiced up on coffee and can't tell you anything because its brain is going way faster than my mouth (or in this case, my fingers).
I hate being dependent. Hate it. Having no income leaves me fairly dependent. Brian has been a good sport about it. He has kept a little cash in my wallet and paid my bills with no complaint. He even paid more than the minimums on my credit cards. I am grateful for it, but at the same time, feel like an incredible burden. At least when I have an income, I can muddle through and pay my own bills, if not one or two for the household. I cannot fathom being a housewife and relying solely on my husband for every red cent that passes through my hands. Dependence begone! Relief returns in the form of a regular paycheck, and a night or two out of the house, even if it is at work, in the presence of the sick, hurt, and dying.
At the same time I'm relieved, I'm freaked out. I don't want to leave my baby. I don't want her to forget me. I don't want her to hate me. I don't want her to love anyone more than me. I don't want Brian to have to wake up in the middle of the night and do my job. I don't want Luna to have to try and figure out if it is safe to go back to sleep without me around. I don't want Brian to try and comfort her and then fall asleep and roll over and kill her. Type A personality is really coming through on this, and I have to just back off a little bit. But I'm scared. More scared than I ever was before with any of the other babies, and I don't know why. At least I don't harbor the insane ideas I did when I was going back to work after Zane was born, that I could just set him up in a pack-n-play in the office and then go out and do my work. Hello, control freak!
Caffiene has re-entered my diet. As a nursing mother, it is kind of a no-no, unless you want your baby wound for sound. But I can't make it all night without it. I'm a junkie. What can I say? I've drunk a couple cups of coffee, and now this is the fastest I think I have ever typed anything. I feel like my skin is a whole separate entity, electrified. I am never going to get to sleep!
I would gladly continue to blab on and on about random things, but I have laundry that needs folding, windows that need washing, floors that need steam-cleaning, and coffee that needs drinking. I should lay off, you say? Yes, I probably should. There are lots of things I SHOULD do, though, and like them, laying off the juice is probably not one that I will.
I hate being dependent. Hate it. Having no income leaves me fairly dependent. Brian has been a good sport about it. He has kept a little cash in my wallet and paid my bills with no complaint. He even paid more than the minimums on my credit cards. I am grateful for it, but at the same time, feel like an incredible burden. At least when I have an income, I can muddle through and pay my own bills, if not one or two for the household. I cannot fathom being a housewife and relying solely on my husband for every red cent that passes through my hands. Dependence begone! Relief returns in the form of a regular paycheck, and a night or two out of the house, even if it is at work, in the presence of the sick, hurt, and dying.
At the same time I'm relieved, I'm freaked out. I don't want to leave my baby. I don't want her to forget me. I don't want her to hate me. I don't want her to love anyone more than me. I don't want Brian to have to wake up in the middle of the night and do my job. I don't want Luna to have to try and figure out if it is safe to go back to sleep without me around. I don't want Brian to try and comfort her and then fall asleep and roll over and kill her. Type A personality is really coming through on this, and I have to just back off a little bit. But I'm scared. More scared than I ever was before with any of the other babies, and I don't know why. At least I don't harbor the insane ideas I did when I was going back to work after Zane was born, that I could just set him up in a pack-n-play in the office and then go out and do my work. Hello, control freak!
Caffiene has re-entered my diet. As a nursing mother, it is kind of a no-no, unless you want your baby wound for sound. But I can't make it all night without it. I'm a junkie. What can I say? I've drunk a couple cups of coffee, and now this is the fastest I think I have ever typed anything. I feel like my skin is a whole separate entity, electrified. I am never going to get to sleep!
I would gladly continue to blab on and on about random things, but I have laundry that needs folding, windows that need washing, floors that need steam-cleaning, and coffee that needs drinking. I should lay off, you say? Yes, I probably should. There are lots of things I SHOULD do, though, and like them, laying off the juice is probably not one that I will.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Death by Egging
I went to the grocery mart up the street from our house this morning with three children under the age of 4, two of whom can walk. What was I thinking?
I was thinking we were out of milk again, and I had nothing on the menu for supper. Desperate times call for desperate measures. Besides, how busy can they possibly be at 9AM on a Tuesday? Both my walkers (ages 2 & 3) got a little kiddie cart. Those are clearly not made for distraction. I was hoping that they would be slowed down, and would have less opportunity to add things to my cart when I wasn't looking. We didn't make it past the produce with our cart parade--their two little ones and my life-size. I made them return theirs after the third time they ran over my ankles. Nora crashed into an unsuspecting shopper on her way to return her cart. Tantrums ensued, but were cut short by the discovery that there was orange juice in my cart. Orange juice is quite the treat at our house, and is often used as a reward for good behavior.
As I made my way up and down the aisles of the Piggly Wiggly, Zane and Nora ran ahead of me. They weren't touching anything, causing anyone any trouble, or making any messes. Pretty good, in my book. They only rounded the corner out of my sight a couple times and promptly returned when I called them.
When my cart was sufficiently loaded down, I headed for the checkout lanes. The kids raced ahead. They stood in line with me as I unloaded my groceries, and Zane even lifted the four gallons of milk from the bottom rack of my shopping cart. It was when Nora spied this that the screaming started. She only wanted to help. She did. I have to tell myself that, otherwise I will creep upstairs while she is napping and strangle the life out of her. (I'd never be able to. The only time she is sweet and loveable is when she is asleep. I'd be too enchanted by her.) I cannot take the screaming. I will not take the screaming. I picked her up and put her in the cart, which was now devoid of items, as they were all on the conveyor belt.
Bev, the checkout lady, is our neighbor. She knows me. She knows my kids. She has a fairly good idea of what life at my house must be like. She smiled and told Bob the carryout boy to go get another cart. Nora continued sobbing and shrieking. Bob has no idea what life is like in my house. He started piling shopping bags in the cart with Nora, ignoring Bev. By this point the howls coming from beneath the Stove Top and green beans had reached maximum decibels. I ignored it, hoping she would stop. Zane ignored it. Bev ignored it. Bob tried to talk to her.
Reasoning with a 2 year old is fruitless. Reasoning with my pissed-off Asberger's 2 year old is like playing with a loaded pistol. Its gonna go off, you just have no idea when. It was the eggs, I think, that put her over the edge. The howls abruptly ceased. Two eggs came hurtling out of the cart, aimed right at Bob. I couldn't help but laugh. Bev smiled. Zane looked at me, uncertain of what his reaction should be.
I will say that Nora is quite the girly-girl. She likes pink. She likes dolls. She has to comb her hair before she leaves the house. I will not say that Nora throws like a girl, ever. That girl has got a helluva arm. Bob would probably say so, too. One egg broke on his shoulder. The other broke on his belt buckle. Two more followed, breaking on the floor.
I picked Nora up from beneath the groceries and set her upright on the floor. She wiped her tears on her sleeve. She smiled at Bev. She smiled at Bob. She smiled at me. "Mom," Zane said, "That guy's got egg on his face." He didn't know how right he was, until Bev sent him back to the dairy department to get us another dozen eggs.
I was thinking we were out of milk again, and I had nothing on the menu for supper. Desperate times call for desperate measures. Besides, how busy can they possibly be at 9AM on a Tuesday? Both my walkers (ages 2 & 3) got a little kiddie cart. Those are clearly not made for distraction. I was hoping that they would be slowed down, and would have less opportunity to add things to my cart when I wasn't looking. We didn't make it past the produce with our cart parade--their two little ones and my life-size. I made them return theirs after the third time they ran over my ankles. Nora crashed into an unsuspecting shopper on her way to return her cart. Tantrums ensued, but were cut short by the discovery that there was orange juice in my cart. Orange juice is quite the treat at our house, and is often used as a reward for good behavior.
As I made my way up and down the aisles of the Piggly Wiggly, Zane and Nora ran ahead of me. They weren't touching anything, causing anyone any trouble, or making any messes. Pretty good, in my book. They only rounded the corner out of my sight a couple times and promptly returned when I called them.
When my cart was sufficiently loaded down, I headed for the checkout lanes. The kids raced ahead. They stood in line with me as I unloaded my groceries, and Zane even lifted the four gallons of milk from the bottom rack of my shopping cart. It was when Nora spied this that the screaming started. She only wanted to help. She did. I have to tell myself that, otherwise I will creep upstairs while she is napping and strangle the life out of her. (I'd never be able to. The only time she is sweet and loveable is when she is asleep. I'd be too enchanted by her.) I cannot take the screaming. I will not take the screaming. I picked her up and put her in the cart, which was now devoid of items, as they were all on the conveyor belt.
Bev, the checkout lady, is our neighbor. She knows me. She knows my kids. She has a fairly good idea of what life at my house must be like. She smiled and told Bob the carryout boy to go get another cart. Nora continued sobbing and shrieking. Bob has no idea what life is like in my house. He started piling shopping bags in the cart with Nora, ignoring Bev. By this point the howls coming from beneath the Stove Top and green beans had reached maximum decibels. I ignored it, hoping she would stop. Zane ignored it. Bev ignored it. Bob tried to talk to her.
Reasoning with a 2 year old is fruitless. Reasoning with my pissed-off Asberger's 2 year old is like playing with a loaded pistol. Its gonna go off, you just have no idea when. It was the eggs, I think, that put her over the edge. The howls abruptly ceased. Two eggs came hurtling out of the cart, aimed right at Bob. I couldn't help but laugh. Bev smiled. Zane looked at me, uncertain of what his reaction should be.
I will say that Nora is quite the girly-girl. She likes pink. She likes dolls. She has to comb her hair before she leaves the house. I will not say that Nora throws like a girl, ever. That girl has got a helluva arm. Bob would probably say so, too. One egg broke on his shoulder. The other broke on his belt buckle. Two more followed, breaking on the floor.
I picked Nora up from beneath the groceries and set her upright on the floor. She wiped her tears on her sleeve. She smiled at Bev. She smiled at Bob. She smiled at me. "Mom," Zane said, "That guy's got egg on his face." He didn't know how right he was, until Bev sent him back to the dairy department to get us another dozen eggs.
Monday, April 4, 2011
Yes, I am giving my infant coffee and other obvious answers to stupid questions
My mother taught me at a young age to always answer strangers' questions in a respectful manner. When I became a teenager and rebellion took over, I had to reassess this. "Fine" was no longer the answer for the Midwestern greeting of "How are you?" "How are you?" is a question. I decided if you asked me a question, you were going to get an answer, whether you liked it or not. "Fine" got discarded and profanity started making its appearance. I was "Fucking fabulous" or "Shitty". I was sick of people asking me how I was and then giving me bizarre looks when I told them.
People as a general rule ask some dumb shit. The other day I was feeding my screaming infant a bottle as I pushed her around in the shopping cart at the grocery mart. She gets a little constipated, so sometimes I lace her bottles with a teaspoon of prune juice. It makes for some foul-looking bottles, but it works and in my world, that's what counts. A timid looking little old lady approached me and asked in a very self-riteous manner if I was feeding my child coffee. The absurdity of her question and her ability to be in my business led me to answer with a straight face and no hesitation whatsoever. "Yes." She looked horrified and toodled away before I could flash my tattoos at her.
The clerk at Kohl's not long ago asked me if all six of the children who were with me were mine. I was clearly purchasing them each a pair of tennis shoes and new underwear. While they do not look like me, per se, they all look quite similar. I responded that I randomly pick up neighborhood ragamuffins and take them shopping for Nikes and underpants. She scowled at me. Like it was my fault she was a moron!
Why do people ask these things? Has the obvious become the obscure? Has the human race digressed so far into idiocracy that the apparent is clouded somehow and needs to be clarified? I say, let the stupid questions be met with stupid answers. Ask, and ye shall receive.
People as a general rule ask some dumb shit. The other day I was feeding my screaming infant a bottle as I pushed her around in the shopping cart at the grocery mart. She gets a little constipated, so sometimes I lace her bottles with a teaspoon of prune juice. It makes for some foul-looking bottles, but it works and in my world, that's what counts. A timid looking little old lady approached me and asked in a very self-riteous manner if I was feeding my child coffee. The absurdity of her question and her ability to be in my business led me to answer with a straight face and no hesitation whatsoever. "Yes." She looked horrified and toodled away before I could flash my tattoos at her.
The clerk at Kohl's not long ago asked me if all six of the children who were with me were mine. I was clearly purchasing them each a pair of tennis shoes and new underwear. While they do not look like me, per se, they all look quite similar. I responded that I randomly pick up neighborhood ragamuffins and take them shopping for Nikes and underpants. She scowled at me. Like it was my fault she was a moron!
Why do people ask these things? Has the obvious become the obscure? Has the human race digressed so far into idiocracy that the apparent is clouded somehow and needs to be clarified? I say, let the stupid questions be met with stupid answers. Ask, and ye shall receive.
Friday, April 1, 2011
April Fool's
Today is April Fool's Day. Go figure, I had to go to the gynecologist for my 6-week post-partum checkup. Bet ya'll wanted to know that! But the joke wasn't on me this time. I'm NOT pregnant! And it looks like I won't be again, albeit by some freak medical accident. I got released for work (boo!), got the ok to start working out again (even though I already was) and I got my TB test read. 2 birds, one stone and all that. Gotta love health care!
When I look at Luna, who's 6 weeks old today, I wonder if I made the right decision, the one for permanent sterilization (again). I love babies, I love kids, and I love being a mommy. Then I look at the other kids, the ones who can walk and talk (back) and demand money and rides and ridiculous things like Polly Pockets and Littlest Pet Shop shit and those littlle metal cars that hurt like a sonofabitch when you step on them, and know that I definitely made the right choice. We planned it well, according to my husband, who also loves kids but mostly once they are able to listen and play and tag along with him on his little adventures. We will have grandkids before the house is empty.
I think about this. The older kids are 15, 11, 10 and 10. The little kids are 3, 2, and 6 weeks. He's most likely right. I wonder if I will like the grandkids as much as I like the kids. Then I start to wonder who will be the first to come home and say the words "Mom, you're gonna be a GRANDMA!" I panic. I won't be ready for that. I'm only 34, for God's sake! I mean, I have time. I'm not expecting this for a few years (hopefully), but definitely before I am 50. Weird. Grandma. I guess the joke's on me, after all.
So, will 50 be the new 20? Will it be my "prime"? What constitues "prime" anyway? Is it when you are happiest, most complete? Because if it's when you are happiest, I think my prime was when I was about ten. If it's when you are most "complete" I would tend to believe that prime will only come in old, old age, minus any sickness. I guess I like to speculate that things can only get better from here on out. (Not that they are bad now, or anything.) The kids will get older and stop doing stupid shit, or the stupid shit they do will be less destructive, or the sherriff will eventually have to worry about the stupid shit they do instead of me. Here's to hoping that they stop doing stupid shit altogether.
And then the words every mom loves to hear bright and early on any given Friday, April Fool's Day or not: "Mom, can you get Zane's Batman motorcycle out of my hair?" Yep, this is definitely MY prime, and that was no April Fool's joke.
When I look at Luna, who's 6 weeks old today, I wonder if I made the right decision, the one for permanent sterilization (again). I love babies, I love kids, and I love being a mommy. Then I look at the other kids, the ones who can walk and talk (back) and demand money and rides and ridiculous things like Polly Pockets and Littlest Pet Shop shit and those littlle metal cars that hurt like a sonofabitch when you step on them, and know that I definitely made the right choice. We planned it well, according to my husband, who also loves kids but mostly once they are able to listen and play and tag along with him on his little adventures. We will have grandkids before the house is empty.
I think about this. The older kids are 15, 11, 10 and 10. The little kids are 3, 2, and 6 weeks. He's most likely right. I wonder if I will like the grandkids as much as I like the kids. Then I start to wonder who will be the first to come home and say the words "Mom, you're gonna be a GRANDMA!" I panic. I won't be ready for that. I'm only 34, for God's sake! I mean, I have time. I'm not expecting this for a few years (hopefully), but definitely before I am 50. Weird. Grandma. I guess the joke's on me, after all.
So, will 50 be the new 20? Will it be my "prime"? What constitues "prime" anyway? Is it when you are happiest, most complete? Because if it's when you are happiest, I think my prime was when I was about ten. If it's when you are most "complete" I would tend to believe that prime will only come in old, old age, minus any sickness. I guess I like to speculate that things can only get better from here on out. (Not that they are bad now, or anything.) The kids will get older and stop doing stupid shit, or the stupid shit they do will be less destructive, or the sherriff will eventually have to worry about the stupid shit they do instead of me. Here's to hoping that they stop doing stupid shit altogether.
And then the words every mom loves to hear bright and early on any given Friday, April Fool's Day or not: "Mom, can you get Zane's Batman motorcycle out of my hair?" Yep, this is definitely MY prime, and that was no April Fool's joke.
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