I generally despise New Year's Resolutions. I start strong and end weak. More appropriately, WEEK. Specifically, week three, of January. That's my end point.
Take, for example, weight loss.
January is generally a great time to lose weight. I've consumed at least five pounds of sugar and am sick of all the feasting. Lightning up the food load actually not only makes sense, it also feels good. So, strong starts in this department are easy.
My biggest problem comes around the end of the month/beginning of February. It's called "Super Bowl Party".
Even if I've managed to make it through January to this huge excuse for pigging out, I KNOW I am going to blow it during the football game. The smorgasbord of bad food is just epic. It has to be when you ask people to bring a dish to pass. Because everybody thinks the exact, same thing as they figure out what to bring "What have I been avoiding, on my diet, all month, that I am CRAVING?" Then, they MAKE IT and BRING IT.
So you have junk like chips and queso, mini-cupcakes, little smoked sausages covered with gelatinous* sauce, bundt cake with Kahlua drizzle, crescent roll pinwheels with cream cheese/Parmesan filling, and cookies, cookies, cookies.
The list is endless. It is delicious. And it is completely fattening.
And the beer? Did I mention the assortment of beer? Apparently, those who gave up drinking for New Year's think everyone wants to fall off the wagon with them.
Now, there have been years that, for various reasons, we haven't attended a Super Bowl party. You'd think that would help. But, actually, that's worse. Because my family then thinks we should have all the accouterments from the party we aren't attending right here at ground zero. And quantities shouldn't be limited.
And that means leftovers. Which get eaten over the course of several days, instead of one huge gluttony-fest and then back to normalcy.
So, I head into January fully aware of the big, fat obstacle looming in the distance. And I'm going to have to decide which choice is the lesser of two evils: party at home and deal with leftovers or attend a party and eat my weight in cheese products.
Or, maybe, instead of the lesser of two evils, which creates the lesser of my thighs?
*Yet, oh so tasty!!
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Monday, November 16, 2009
Whack A Mole
"Raising kids is the world's worst migraine mixed with a kick to the balls"--Jill Nowell
I credit myself because, I figure, someday I'll be famous for that humdinger.
I truly don't know how any generations ahead of ours managed to make it through the joys of parenting without becoming homicidal or suicidal. On second thought, some of them WERE both or either of these, but those of us left standing were, um, still standing. And able to procreate and start the whole vicious cycle again.
It seems that once you have one behavior tamped down another one rears it's ugly head. It's like playing a game of "Whack a Mole" with a smallish human being.
*Monday: Disrespectful? Whack--grounded for the evening.
Tuesday: Lied about doing homework the previous night ("I left it at school. Completely finished.") Whack--redo homework and write an apology to teacher.
Wednesday: Hit brother for no apparent reason. Whack. Time-out. Decided to leave time-out prematurely. Whack. Another 20 minutes......Two hours later. Finally out of time-out but now it's time for bed. Whack. Another 20 minutes for rude comment about parenting style.
Thursday: Left house without telling anyone where you were going. Gone missing until almost bedtime. Whack. Two weeks without TV or friends.
Friday: Near perfect morning except somewhere between breakfast table and brushing teeth, went temporarily insane and missed carpool ride. Whack. $5 allowance penalty.
And on it goes. Painfully. And, some days, slower than maple syrup in a blizzard.
Where it stops, only God knows.
Frankly, if I knew that what I was doing today wasn't going to lead to better behavior between now and college, I might just up and go all John Gosselin and leave my abode and shack up with a 20-year-old hottie.
Saddest part of that scenario? There is no doubt in my mind I'd suffer the consequences and end up pregnant again.
WHACK.
*Each example is for illustrative purposes only and may/may not have occurred in this household or the household of our parents.
I credit myself because, I figure, someday I'll be famous for that humdinger.
I truly don't know how any generations ahead of ours managed to make it through the joys of parenting without becoming homicidal or suicidal. On second thought, some of them WERE both or either of these, but those of us left standing were, um, still standing. And able to procreate and start the whole vicious cycle again.
It seems that once you have one behavior tamped down another one rears it's ugly head. It's like playing a game of "Whack a Mole" with a smallish human being.
*Monday: Disrespectful? Whack--grounded for the evening.
Tuesday: Lied about doing homework the previous night ("I left it at school. Completely finished.") Whack--redo homework and write an apology to teacher.
Wednesday: Hit brother for no apparent reason. Whack. Time-out. Decided to leave time-out prematurely. Whack. Another 20 minutes......Two hours later. Finally out of time-out but now it's time for bed. Whack. Another 20 minutes for rude comment about parenting style.
Thursday: Left house without telling anyone where you were going. Gone missing until almost bedtime. Whack. Two weeks without TV or friends.
Friday: Near perfect morning except somewhere between breakfast table and brushing teeth, went temporarily insane and missed carpool ride. Whack. $5 allowance penalty.
And on it goes. Painfully. And, some days, slower than maple syrup in a blizzard.
Where it stops, only God knows.
Frankly, if I knew that what I was doing today wasn't going to lead to better behavior between now and college, I might just up and go all John Gosselin and leave my abode and shack up with a 20-year-old hottie.
Saddest part of that scenario? There is no doubt in my mind I'd suffer the consequences and end up pregnant again.
WHACK.
*Each example is for illustrative purposes only and may/may not have occurred in this household or the household of our parents.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Bribery in Hell
"First, he whacked me, like five times with his stinky gym bag while I was trying to tie my shoe" This is coming from middle son, with the beginnings of stinging tears in his eyes. "Then, he wouldn't quit, and he said he'd tell if I didn't give him a dollar. HE TRIED TO BRIBE ME!"
I couldn't, for the life of me, figure out WHAT in the conversation was bribery material. The rest of the story, as they say, came from my oldest.
"Yes, I whacked him with the gym bag. I already said I was sorry for that. But, he said I should be in Hell."
Yet, my oldest left out the crucial bit of information that he told his brother, for a measly dollar, he could acquire a "Get out of Jail Free" card and have his little exorcism-like comment purged from memory.
If this were a headline in the Dallas Morning News, it would say "Brother whacks sibling with gym bag and is sentenced to Hell. Bribery charges against whacker being considered."
I quote Mike on this "Well, at least he didn't say he should GO to Hell."
We Nowells are quite adept at finding the silver lining in every stinkin' cloud.
Editor's note: Both boys asked the other for forgiveness and, begrudgingly, hugged each other. By the time carpool arrived, they were laughing again.
I couldn't, for the life of me, figure out WHAT in the conversation was bribery material. The rest of the story, as they say, came from my oldest.
"Yes, I whacked him with the gym bag. I already said I was sorry for that. But, he said I should be in Hell."
Yet, my oldest left out the crucial bit of information that he told his brother, for a measly dollar, he could acquire a "Get out of Jail Free" card and have his little exorcism-like comment purged from memory.
If this were a headline in the Dallas Morning News, it would say "Brother whacks sibling with gym bag and is sentenced to Hell. Bribery charges against whacker being considered."
I quote Mike on this "Well, at least he didn't say he should GO to Hell."
We Nowells are quite adept at finding the silver lining in every stinkin' cloud.
Editor's note: Both boys asked the other for forgiveness and, begrudgingly, hugged each other. By the time carpool arrived, they were laughing again.
Friday, November 6, 2009
Priorities
Editor's Note: I am not claiming, by writing this today, that I do all these things. This is a list of things I WISH I could get right daily.
When you get your priorities REALLY straight you realize:
1. God
2. Family (your spouse, kids, and your parents/in-laws. Period. Family beyond that has their OWN family to support them--love them like crazy, but tend to your own.)
3. Friends
Anything you plan that involves all three groups is likely a blessed event. When you seek love, by spending time with those in this world who love you best, you are better able to spread that love around.
Make an extra effort to spend time with God every day and you will find Him showing up in the daily activities you do. Spend less time and see if the Devil doesn't find his foothold.
When you find yourself grumpy about doing something like laundry, dishes, grocery shopping, or carpooling, remember WHO benefits from your efforts. Your actions show love to those around you. That is true, even if you never hear a "thank you" from those who benefit. If you don't believe this, try NOT DOING your chores for a couple of days!
When your to-do list fills with things that don't seem to matter, put them up against the list. Do they benefit God, your family or your friends? If yes, proceed. If no, are they taking beneficial time away from God, your family or your friends? If so, dump those activities off your list.
Learn to say "no". Say it often. Practice in front of the mirror, if you have to. Remember, by saying "no", you are giving someone else the opportunity to say "yes".
If someone refuses to hear your "no", do what is right for God, your family, and your friends. Don't be pressured into doing something because someone else thinks it is a good idea. But, balance that with trying to love people who can't, won't, or don't understand your priorities.
When you have a chance to say "yes" to God, pray and proceed. Again, an opportunity to do good doesn't mean that opportunity was meant for YOU. That's what prayer is for.
Attend church weekly. Or more often, if you can. You live 168 hours every week. God asks for less than 2 hours of that time in his house and for one, 24-hour-day, of your week to REST. Do your best to rest.
It's all about the time. Not about the color of the decorations, or the weight of the invitation, or the perfect cake. It's about talking, sharing, and being together. Just being is all that matters. Because being together communicates love.
Learn to communicate with those you love. Figure out how to talk politics or religion or parenting skills without offense. Accept differing opinions and attitudes. But NEVER compromise on what you believe is right by God. Listening and trying to understand those we love communicates love, not acceptance of their opinions as your own.
When in doubt, err on God's side, as you see it. If you have doubts, see if scripture backs up your thoughts. If it doesn't, don't hesitate to reexamine what you believe. Prayerfully.
Ask for forgiveness. From anyone and everyone you offend or hurt. So many people will never know what it means to be asked for forgiveness in this world. It is a humbling experience to ask and a humbling experience to respond. If you are brought to tears by asking, you probably needed to ask in the first place.
When it comes time to go home, you aren't going to be worried about who will get the retirement account or the fur coat or the collection of comic books. You will be doing a mental checklist of the PEOPLE. And being sure they know you loved them. And being sure you were loved by them and by God.
If you don't believe love is all that really matters, talk with anyone who has been with someone who is dying. Time and time again, love is all that matters.
Love well.
When you get your priorities REALLY straight you realize:
1. God
2. Family (your spouse, kids, and your parents/in-laws. Period. Family beyond that has their OWN family to support them--love them like crazy, but tend to your own.)
3. Friends
Anything you plan that involves all three groups is likely a blessed event. When you seek love, by spending time with those in this world who love you best, you are better able to spread that love around.
Make an extra effort to spend time with God every day and you will find Him showing up in the daily activities you do. Spend less time and see if the Devil doesn't find his foothold.
When you find yourself grumpy about doing something like laundry, dishes, grocery shopping, or carpooling, remember WHO benefits from your efforts. Your actions show love to those around you. That is true, even if you never hear a "thank you" from those who benefit. If you don't believe this, try NOT DOING your chores for a couple of days!
When your to-do list fills with things that don't seem to matter, put them up against the list. Do they benefit God, your family or your friends? If yes, proceed. If no, are they taking beneficial time away from God, your family or your friends? If so, dump those activities off your list.
Learn to say "no". Say it often. Practice in front of the mirror, if you have to. Remember, by saying "no", you are giving someone else the opportunity to say "yes".
If someone refuses to hear your "no", do what is right for God, your family, and your friends. Don't be pressured into doing something because someone else thinks it is a good idea. But, balance that with trying to love people who can't, won't, or don't understand your priorities.
When you have a chance to say "yes" to God, pray and proceed. Again, an opportunity to do good doesn't mean that opportunity was meant for YOU. That's what prayer is for.
Attend church weekly. Or more often, if you can. You live 168 hours every week. God asks for less than 2 hours of that time in his house and for one, 24-hour-day, of your week to REST. Do your best to rest.
It's all about the time. Not about the color of the decorations, or the weight of the invitation, or the perfect cake. It's about talking, sharing, and being together. Just being is all that matters. Because being together communicates love.
Learn to communicate with those you love. Figure out how to talk politics or religion or parenting skills without offense. Accept differing opinions and attitudes. But NEVER compromise on what you believe is right by God. Listening and trying to understand those we love communicates love, not acceptance of their opinions as your own.
When in doubt, err on God's side, as you see it. If you have doubts, see if scripture backs up your thoughts. If it doesn't, don't hesitate to reexamine what you believe. Prayerfully.
Ask for forgiveness. From anyone and everyone you offend or hurt. So many people will never know what it means to be asked for forgiveness in this world. It is a humbling experience to ask and a humbling experience to respond. If you are brought to tears by asking, you probably needed to ask in the first place.
When it comes time to go home, you aren't going to be worried about who will get the retirement account or the fur coat or the collection of comic books. You will be doing a mental checklist of the PEOPLE. And being sure they know you loved them. And being sure you were loved by them and by God.
If you don't believe love is all that really matters, talk with anyone who has been with someone who is dying. Time and time again, love is all that matters.
Love well.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Great Quotes from Little Boys
"Obey the wife."
That is a direct quote from my middle son. To Mike. As he was arguing with me about something so vanilla, so forgettable, that I have no idea what it was.
But the quote? It stuck with me.
The boy sounded so Charlton Heston, as Moses, commanding his Father do something.
It caught us so off guard, both Mike and I busted out laughing. That, as any of you who are parents know, will promote this quote being used again and again. Probably a big blunder, but it really was that funny at the time. And, it completely put the brakes on a goofy disagreement.
I need to file this away for the boy's rehearsal dinner. And, for the first time I am standing in his kitchen, listening to an inane argument with his sweet wife-of-the-future.
Chickens, baby, chickens. Coming home to roost.
Sooner than any of us think.
That is a direct quote from my middle son. To Mike. As he was arguing with me about something so vanilla, so forgettable, that I have no idea what it was.
But the quote? It stuck with me.
The boy sounded so Charlton Heston, as Moses, commanding his Father do something.
It caught us so off guard, both Mike and I busted out laughing. That, as any of you who are parents know, will promote this quote being used again and again. Probably a big blunder, but it really was that funny at the time. And, it completely put the brakes on a goofy disagreement.
I need to file this away for the boy's rehearsal dinner. And, for the first time I am standing in his kitchen, listening to an inane argument with his sweet wife-of-the-future.
Chickens, baby, chickens. Coming home to roost.
Sooner than any of us think.
Monday, November 2, 2009
The 10 Plagues Countdown
A few years ago our house was blessed with a series of boils that was, almost, at least in our minds, of Biblical proportion. It seemed that they just kept coming and were always MRSA, meaning a compounding pharmacy would have to do the honors in mixing up the prescription, which was never covered by our insurance company because the meds were considered "experimental".
Plague number one. Endured. Appreciated for its ability to inflict scars and excrutiating pain on those affected. As well, for its ability to flatten a budget to negative numbers in two prescriptions.
Gross out factor: 115%+.
For Halloween weekend we visited my brother and his family. This was supposed to be the relaxing weekend trip that would leave Dallas and its worries all behind.
Except that, about two hours before trick-or-treating was to commence, one of our boys began scratching his head in earnest. This was nothing new to me. Child had been doing the same for about a week and I kept checking his head. Nada. I chalked it up to poor shampoo rinsing in the shower.
Problem wasn't that he wasn't covered in lice and eggs. It was that his Mama had no idea what she was looking for. Thank goodness for a street savvy Aunt.
The solution? Total head shaving. With dog clippers. Even though only one of the boys was affected, they all got the treatment, including Daddy.
There was much gnashing, wailing, and comments about being a freak with no hair.
Several hours later, every male Nowell had endured lice shampoo and had a newfound appreciation for how much a bald head loses heat in the cold. Momma discovered lice shampoo doesn't stink, but it sure doesn't do much for making hair easy to style.
But, after a few well-chosen pieces of candy and plenty of fun going house-to-house, every one retired to bed pretty happy with their "new look".
This morning, brother and sister-in-law were left with a portion of the dubious task of cleaning linens, beds, pillows, etc. We left, tails between our legs, hoping they will eventually forgive us.
Plague number two. Sucks. Bad. Kids look cute but I'm still grossed out. On the economics side of things, though, this one is a cake walk compared to the boils.
Gross out factor: 1000%+.
Still wondering: which plague is next? Locusts? Frogs? Blood in the water? WHAT?
Stay tuned, campers. With eight more possiblities, I'm positive there's more to come.
Plague number one. Endured. Appreciated for its ability to inflict scars and excrutiating pain on those affected. As well, for its ability to flatten a budget to negative numbers in two prescriptions.
Gross out factor: 115%+.
For Halloween weekend we visited my brother and his family. This was supposed to be the relaxing weekend trip that would leave Dallas and its worries all behind.
Except that, about two hours before trick-or-treating was to commence, one of our boys began scratching his head in earnest. This was nothing new to me. Child had been doing the same for about a week and I kept checking his head. Nada. I chalked it up to poor shampoo rinsing in the shower.
Problem wasn't that he wasn't covered in lice and eggs. It was that his Mama had no idea what she was looking for. Thank goodness for a street savvy Aunt.
The solution? Total head shaving. With dog clippers. Even though only one of the boys was affected, they all got the treatment, including Daddy.
There was much gnashing, wailing, and comments about being a freak with no hair.
Several hours later, every male Nowell had endured lice shampoo and had a newfound appreciation for how much a bald head loses heat in the cold. Momma discovered lice shampoo doesn't stink, but it sure doesn't do much for making hair easy to style.
But, after a few well-chosen pieces of candy and plenty of fun going house-to-house, every one retired to bed pretty happy with their "new look".
This morning, brother and sister-in-law were left with a portion of the dubious task of cleaning linens, beds, pillows, etc. We left, tails between our legs, hoping they will eventually forgive us.
Plague number two. Sucks. Bad. Kids look cute but I'm still grossed out. On the economics side of things, though, this one is a cake walk compared to the boils.
Gross out factor: 1000%+.
Still wondering: which plague is next? Locusts? Frogs? Blood in the water? WHAT?
Stay tuned, campers. With eight more possiblities, I'm positive there's more to come.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
The Cutting Edge
So I am the least fashion/style conscious person on the planet. In fact, to find the genes that have anything to do with anything remotely NOW, you'd have to go back several generations. Then, you'd be in the NOW of the past, so that really defeats the purpose. Let's just say that my side of the family buys into the phrase "It's your thing. Do what you want to do."
Since I'm prone to winging it when it comes to design* and, heaven forbid, NEVER consult magazines that would actually involve anything having to do with "Fall Collections" or "Latest Trends", it was nearly impossible for me to try to get the blank canvas of this house anywhere never presentable without competent help.
Plus, by remaining design-ignorant, I've kept myself from needing the latest and greatest and from running to the store every 20 minutes trying to keep up with the latest incarnation of bell bottoms, paisley prints, and the "in" colors.
This week, however, I was in need of help with color. For the walls. In the TV room.
I actually made a semi-design decision that too much green would be, well, too green. So, I found the email my former neighbor sent and emailed the woman she used to help redecorate her house on a shoe string.**
This is the response I got:
From: Stylishly Cheap Designer
Subject: RE:
To: helpmechoosecolors@yahoo.com
Date: Wednesday, October 28, 2009, 7:32 PM
Jill,
I would love to help you out but I am completely booked until the 2nd week in January. I start Christmas decorating next week - can you believe that?!!!
If you're interested in setting something up in January just let me know and we'll get it on the calendar. My # is 972/555-5555. Thank you so much for your interest in Stylishly Cheap Designer Interiors!
The Stylishly Cheap Designer
WHAT??? I've heard of paying someone to put up Christmas lights on the exterior of their house, but decorate the interior? Really? People pay money for that?
I understand the exterior light thing. What middle-aged man really wants to haul his over-worked, under-exercised body onto the roof, potentially exposing himself to a nasty fall and the holidays in a body cast? Please. Mike gave up on that in his late-20's and I was all for it.
The interior of a house, at Christmas, should feel cozy and warm and full of stuff that kids made at over abundant holiday parties, Sunday School events, and school craft times. There should also be the requisite ornaments handed down from the previous generations. Plus some junk picked up post-Christmas sales at 90% off.
Pretty much, once the tree is up and the flat surfaces of the house are covered with red/green/gold/silver stuff, you are done. The cost? A Sunday afternoon of your time and a few extra ounces on the body due to too many calories from the hot chocolate you downed in the process.
I emailed the SCD back and asked if she knew someone who could help before January as I would likely lose my sanity by then. Plus, I'm afraid our dear contractor will notice he's become part of the family, having been with us since last February, and walk just on that basis.***
We'll see what she says. In the meantime, I'm going to resist the urge to head out to Sherwin Williams for a quick look-see.
Last time I chose colors, we had Pepto Bismol pink in the entryway. I'd like to avoid another color faux-pas like that.
*Yeah. You noticed. Go ahead and admit it.
**I already liked this woman, sight-unseen, for the work she did in my friend's house and for her penchant for cheapness.
***Becoming an honorary member of this family IS that frightful.
Since I'm prone to winging it when it comes to design* and, heaven forbid, NEVER consult magazines that would actually involve anything having to do with "Fall Collections" or "Latest Trends", it was nearly impossible for me to try to get the blank canvas of this house anywhere never presentable without competent help.
Plus, by remaining design-ignorant, I've kept myself from needing the latest and greatest and from running to the store every 20 minutes trying to keep up with the latest incarnation of bell bottoms, paisley prints, and the "in" colors.
This week, however, I was in need of help with color. For the walls. In the TV room.
I actually made a semi-design decision that too much green would be, well, too green. So, I found the email my former neighbor sent and emailed the woman she used to help redecorate her house on a shoe string.**
This is the response I got:
From: Stylishly Cheap Designer
Subject: RE:
To: helpmechoosecolors@yahoo.com
Date: Wednesday, October 28, 2009, 7:32 PM
Jill,
I would love to help you out but I am completely booked until the 2nd week in January. I start Christmas decorating next week - can you believe that?!!!
If you're interested in setting something up in January just let me know and we'll get it on the calendar. My # is 972/555-5555. Thank you so much for your interest in Stylishly Cheap Designer Interiors!
The Stylishly Cheap Designer
WHAT??? I've heard of paying someone to put up Christmas lights on the exterior of their house, but decorate the interior? Really? People pay money for that?
I understand the exterior light thing. What middle-aged man really wants to haul his over-worked, under-exercised body onto the roof, potentially exposing himself to a nasty fall and the holidays in a body cast? Please. Mike gave up on that in his late-20's and I was all for it.
The interior of a house, at Christmas, should feel cozy and warm and full of stuff that kids made at over abundant holiday parties, Sunday School events, and school craft times. There should also be the requisite ornaments handed down from the previous generations. Plus some junk picked up post-Christmas sales at 90% off.
Pretty much, once the tree is up and the flat surfaces of the house are covered with red/green/gold/silver stuff, you are done. The cost? A Sunday afternoon of your time and a few extra ounces on the body due to too many calories from the hot chocolate you downed in the process.
I emailed the SCD back and asked if she knew someone who could help before January as I would likely lose my sanity by then. Plus, I'm afraid our dear contractor will notice he's become part of the family, having been with us since last February, and walk just on that basis.***
We'll see what she says. In the meantime, I'm going to resist the urge to head out to Sherwin Williams for a quick look-see.
Last time I chose colors, we had Pepto Bismol pink in the entryway. I'd like to avoid another color faux-pas like that.
*Yeah. You noticed. Go ahead and admit it.
**I already liked this woman, sight-unseen, for the work she did in my friend's house and for her penchant for cheapness.
***Becoming an honorary member of this family IS that frightful.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Crying over You
Tonight my middle guy cried his own bucket of tears.
We're talking crocodile tears. The kind that are accompanied by a soul-retching sobbing sound. The type that make your body shake uncontrollably.
Mike was lying in bed with him and shooed me off when I asked what was the matter.
So, I went in to tell The Babe goodnight. We started playing "kiss this". I'd kiss his nose, he'd kiss mine. I'd kiss his ear, he'd kiss mine. Then, he asked me to kiss his armpit. After that, the game ended. But, it was fun while it lasted.
Meanwhile, bawling son seemed to be going up the tall side of the world's longest roller-coaster of a cry. Even the front seat of the coaster was no where near the peak.
Being unable to listen to a child of mine wail without knowing WHY, I started noodling this issue. Had Mike finally admitted they weren't going camping with the Boy Scouts this weekend? Had my boy remembered his friends are moving to Italy soon? WHAT???
The suspense/crying was killing me, so I told The Babe I'd be back.* And into middle son's room I went. Again.
This time, I decided to play it cool and not ask about the issue. Instead, I told my son I was sorry he was sad. Then, he rolled over and said, "I'm sad about Don."
At that moment, I was a little confused. I wasn't sure if I heard the word correctly, so I asked Mike. Sure enough, he said Don.
Great-Grandpa Don, that is. Who married Mike's maternal Grandmother after his Grandfather died. Don was the only Great-Grandpa my guy had ever known.
When I snuggled in next to him, I asked what his favorite memories of Don were. After thinking about it for a few seconds, he said "I don't know." And started crying even harder.
After a Kleenex break, I said "Grandpa Don really liked it when you visited him."
He said "Grandpa Don was always nice to me" and "I liked visiting him."
Though his memories of specifics were vague, I completely understood. Years after my Grandpa Robbie died, I couldn't tell you a single conversation we ever had. The specifics were never important. It was the TIME that mattered. And, for my son, time with Grandpa Don had come to an end. Before my boy was ready.
As well, at the tender age of seven, he was beginning to understand the permanency of death; that there are no more do-overs, hugs and kisses, or "See you next time".
And it brought great sadness to him that Grandpa Don had forgotten who has was the last time they saw each other. Parkinson's had taken it's toll. But, being so young, my boy just couldn't understand.
I prayed over him that he would continue having a soft heart and that his future wife would see his tenderness as a strength.
After I prayed, a wonderful thought came to mind: he's not just my son, he's a little bit of me. And he's so much like me that it's scary.
Thank you, Lord. I'd have it no other way.
*But, like Mom, not The Terminator.
We're talking crocodile tears. The kind that are accompanied by a soul-retching sobbing sound. The type that make your body shake uncontrollably.
Mike was lying in bed with him and shooed me off when I asked what was the matter.
So, I went in to tell The Babe goodnight. We started playing "kiss this". I'd kiss his nose, he'd kiss mine. I'd kiss his ear, he'd kiss mine. Then, he asked me to kiss his armpit. After that, the game ended. But, it was fun while it lasted.
Meanwhile, bawling son seemed to be going up the tall side of the world's longest roller-coaster of a cry. Even the front seat of the coaster was no where near the peak.
Being unable to listen to a child of mine wail without knowing WHY, I started noodling this issue. Had Mike finally admitted they weren't going camping with the Boy Scouts this weekend? Had my boy remembered his friends are moving to Italy soon? WHAT???
The suspense/crying was killing me, so I told The Babe I'd be back.* And into middle son's room I went. Again.
This time, I decided to play it cool and not ask about the issue. Instead, I told my son I was sorry he was sad. Then, he rolled over and said, "I'm sad about Don."
At that moment, I was a little confused. I wasn't sure if I heard the word correctly, so I asked Mike. Sure enough, he said Don.
Great-Grandpa Don, that is. Who married Mike's maternal Grandmother after his Grandfather died. Don was the only Great-Grandpa my guy had ever known.
When I snuggled in next to him, I asked what his favorite memories of Don were. After thinking about it for a few seconds, he said "I don't know." And started crying even harder.
After a Kleenex break, I said "Grandpa Don really liked it when you visited him."
He said "Grandpa Don was always nice to me" and "I liked visiting him."
Though his memories of specifics were vague, I completely understood. Years after my Grandpa Robbie died, I couldn't tell you a single conversation we ever had. The specifics were never important. It was the TIME that mattered. And, for my son, time with Grandpa Don had come to an end. Before my boy was ready.
As well, at the tender age of seven, he was beginning to understand the permanency of death; that there are no more do-overs, hugs and kisses, or "See you next time".
And it brought great sadness to him that Grandpa Don had forgotten who has was the last time they saw each other. Parkinson's had taken it's toll. But, being so young, my boy just couldn't understand.
I prayed over him that he would continue having a soft heart and that his future wife would see his tenderness as a strength.
After I prayed, a wonderful thought came to mind: he's not just my son, he's a little bit of me. And he's so much like me that it's scary.
Thank you, Lord. I'd have it no other way.
*But, like Mom, not The Terminator.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Conservative, that's me
I think I have come to realize the difference between conservatives and liberals.
Conservatives think they should keep their money and give it to others as they see fit.
Liberals think they should give their money to the government to use it as the government sees fit.
That's actually a pretty simple distillation of the differences, but I also think an accurate portrayal.
Earlier this week, I received a letter that encapsulated why I will continue to be a conservative. It came from Uganda. Land of the slaughtered, mutilated, and AIDS-ridden.
The little boy who sent the letter lives with his parents and four brothers. He attends "grade three" at a local school. He goes to church on Saturdays for "prayers".
And he signed the letter "Love from your child. Joel Tembo" See, we adopted Joel and two other boys from Africa via WorldVision. Joel is the first to send correspondence.
It is my sincere hope that the political and social climate in Africa will allow us to take the boys on a whirlwind trip to meet Joel, Tseliso (from the country of Lesotho), and Dereje (from the country of Ethiopia).
Adopting these boys and sending money to their community is life-changing, both for our family and for the communities in Africa. If we are able to take that trip, we'll see where our money has made a difference. But, if we never take that trip, I'll still KNOW we did something to be happy about and be glad we were able to help these three boys.
About the only way I would consider giving the government anymore than what I owe them is if they can somehow create the magic that happens when you do something personal for someone. Even if that person never knows who you are, at least you know you've affected their eternity. And once you make that connection, you want to give more.
So far, I haven't seen the same effect come from the government "giving" to people. I do, however, hear a lot of complaining about who has what and what they "deserve".
And in fairness to those complaining, it is really hard to be grateful when you receive from a faceless, non-emotional, "what's your number?" bureaucracy.
I consider it a personal privilege to give. I am grateful I'm allowed to seek out worthy charities and give as I see fit. I want to go above and beyond the "normal" person and help as much as I can. I wish more people would do the same. Because there really IS joy in giving; but you have to put yourself out there to know that.
I just didn't want to save General Motors. And that doesn't make me evil, because, on the flip side, I would have been happy to personally help the PEOPLE of General Motors, should they have asked for assistance.
So, there is the difference, in my eyes. I can either let the government continue to do the job I believe I was called to do or I can do the heavy lifting.
Now, if Washington continues down the path of centralizing every part of life as we know it, then I'll still give. But, my guess is, that I'm unusual. Most people will throw up their hands and let Pennsylvania Ave. do the work. After all, if they are paying higher taxes for those less fortunate, they'll have less to give. And, they will likely receive fewer tax breaks for doing so. And, most importantly, they'll forget what their job is here.
So, I'll continue on, sincerely hoping that some sense will come out of legislation in the next few months.
If it doesn't, I'll just fight harder and louder.
If there's one thing I know for sure, it's that I'm good at that.
Conservatives think they should keep their money and give it to others as they see fit.
Liberals think they should give their money to the government to use it as the government sees fit.
That's actually a pretty simple distillation of the differences, but I also think an accurate portrayal.
Earlier this week, I received a letter that encapsulated why I will continue to be a conservative. It came from Uganda. Land of the slaughtered, mutilated, and AIDS-ridden.
The little boy who sent the letter lives with his parents and four brothers. He attends "grade three" at a local school. He goes to church on Saturdays for "prayers".
And he signed the letter "Love from your child. Joel Tembo" See, we adopted Joel and two other boys from Africa via WorldVision. Joel is the first to send correspondence.
It is my sincere hope that the political and social climate in Africa will allow us to take the boys on a whirlwind trip to meet Joel, Tseliso (from the country of Lesotho), and Dereje (from the country of Ethiopia).
Adopting these boys and sending money to their community is life-changing, both for our family and for the communities in Africa. If we are able to take that trip, we'll see where our money has made a difference. But, if we never take that trip, I'll still KNOW we did something to be happy about and be glad we were able to help these three boys.
About the only way I would consider giving the government anymore than what I owe them is if they can somehow create the magic that happens when you do something personal for someone. Even if that person never knows who you are, at least you know you've affected their eternity. And once you make that connection, you want to give more.
So far, I haven't seen the same effect come from the government "giving" to people. I do, however, hear a lot of complaining about who has what and what they "deserve".
And in fairness to those complaining, it is really hard to be grateful when you receive from a faceless, non-emotional, "what's your number?" bureaucracy.
I consider it a personal privilege to give. I am grateful I'm allowed to seek out worthy charities and give as I see fit. I want to go above and beyond the "normal" person and help as much as I can. I wish more people would do the same. Because there really IS joy in giving; but you have to put yourself out there to know that.
I just didn't want to save General Motors. And that doesn't make me evil, because, on the flip side, I would have been happy to personally help the PEOPLE of General Motors, should they have asked for assistance.
So, there is the difference, in my eyes. I can either let the government continue to do the job I believe I was called to do or I can do the heavy lifting.
Now, if Washington continues down the path of centralizing every part of life as we know it, then I'll still give. But, my guess is, that I'm unusual. Most people will throw up their hands and let Pennsylvania Ave. do the work. After all, if they are paying higher taxes for those less fortunate, they'll have less to give. And, they will likely receive fewer tax breaks for doing so. And, most importantly, they'll forget what their job is here.
So, I'll continue on, sincerely hoping that some sense will come out of legislation in the next few months.
If it doesn't, I'll just fight harder and louder.
If there's one thing I know for sure, it's that I'm good at that.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Bedtime Routines
Last night I made the rounds to the boy's bedrooms. At each, I had to obey the "rules" of the boy's routine. Most nights I'm too tired to remember my marching orders, so I have to watch reactions to see what I'm "supposed" to do.
My oldest doesn't want to be kissed on the lips anymore. I usually remember this when I bend down to him because he reacts the same way women do when they've had a date with a nice guy to whom they aren't attracted: they offer the cheek*. He's, thankfully, still all about the hugs.
Then we went through this little exercise
ME "You know I love you, right?"
"Yeah."
ME "How do you know?"
(Giggling and acting a little embarrassed) "I don't know. I just know."
I didn't push it. I figured this was like trying to explain all the ways I know God loves me--it's an overwhelming list and I wouldn't know where to start.
My middle guy still kisses me on the lips and gives big hugs. Instead of getting all this love from the bottom bunk, he has graduated to reaching down to me from the top bunk. It's kind of like getting love from a giraffe, without that obnoxiously long, black tongue and/or drool. It somewhat freaks me out because I so buy into that theory that broken arms are a natural result of falling from the top bunk to the floor. So, we make it quick.
Exercise #2
ME "You know I love you, right?"
"Yes I do."
ME "How do you know?"
"Because you tell me all the time."
I like people who are straight to the point and shoot from the hip.
The Babe is waiting on bedroom furniture, so he is on a mattress on the floor. I kind of fall gracelessly onto the bed every night. The Babe loves to snuggle and gives lots of kisses and very long hugs.
He would be glad to have Mom or Dad sleep with him every night. When you lie down with him for even a few minutes, he basically smothers you with his arms and puts himself in a position of being face-to-face with you. Claustrophobic for me and BIG incentive to make sure his teeth are properly brushed.
Exercise #3
ME "You know I love you, right?"
"UH HUH."
ME "How do you know?"
"Because it was on the Internet."
Glory be! A four-year-old Internet surfer. Just the thought got me chuckling. The Babe had no idea why this was funny, but he repeated it to Daddy and got another laugh. I'm sure we'll be hearing so much more about the Internet from him now.
As long as it is all "G" rated, includes no potty talk or references to female body parts, I'm cool.
*The Northern cheek, that is.
My oldest doesn't want to be kissed on the lips anymore. I usually remember this when I bend down to him because he reacts the same way women do when they've had a date with a nice guy to whom they aren't attracted: they offer the cheek*. He's, thankfully, still all about the hugs.
Then we went through this little exercise
ME "You know I love you, right?"
"Yeah."
ME "How do you know?"
(Giggling and acting a little embarrassed) "I don't know. I just know."
I didn't push it. I figured this was like trying to explain all the ways I know God loves me--it's an overwhelming list and I wouldn't know where to start.
My middle guy still kisses me on the lips and gives big hugs. Instead of getting all this love from the bottom bunk, he has graduated to reaching down to me from the top bunk. It's kind of like getting love from a giraffe, without that obnoxiously long, black tongue and/or drool. It somewhat freaks me out because I so buy into that theory that broken arms are a natural result of falling from the top bunk to the floor. So, we make it quick.
Exercise #2
ME "You know I love you, right?"
"Yes I do."
ME "How do you know?"
"Because you tell me all the time."
I like people who are straight to the point and shoot from the hip.
The Babe is waiting on bedroom furniture, so he is on a mattress on the floor. I kind of fall gracelessly onto the bed every night. The Babe loves to snuggle and gives lots of kisses and very long hugs.
He would be glad to have Mom or Dad sleep with him every night. When you lie down with him for even a few minutes, he basically smothers you with his arms and puts himself in a position of being face-to-face with you. Claustrophobic for me and BIG incentive to make sure his teeth are properly brushed.
Exercise #3
ME "You know I love you, right?"
"UH HUH."
ME "How do you know?"
"Because it was on the Internet."
Glory be! A four-year-old Internet surfer. Just the thought got me chuckling. The Babe had no idea why this was funny, but he repeated it to Daddy and got another laugh. I'm sure we'll be hearing so much more about the Internet from him now.
As long as it is all "G" rated, includes no potty talk or references to female body parts, I'm cool.
*The Northern cheek, that is.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
The BESTEST Brother in the World
Know what makes you feel old? No, not the sagging, creases, or belly fat. Not that your friends from high school are graduating their children next Spring. No, it's when your YOUNGER brother is turning the big 4-0.
I remember the good old days of screaming matches, name calling, and tongue-sticking-outing. The days when it was boys vs. girls, pitted against each other for days on end over some trivial little issue.
Where have those days gone? Sometimes I actually miss them.
Truly, when our biggest worry was who was going to get the last package of Little Debbie's, what in the world was there to get stressed out about?
Today, my Bro and I get to worry about our kids getting exposed to junk on You Tube, the crazy people who kidnap 11-year-old girls and lock them up for 18 years, and whether or not our children will survive this horrible generation.
But, this weekend, we'll put all those worries behind and stop for a minute to salute the passing of my Bro's youth. My sweet, shy, ATM-loving, devoted father and husband of a Bro. And, truly, the best brother a girl could ask for.
I won't buy him a $12 cane with a horn on it from Party City because that kind of thing embarrasses him. I remember his best friend's wedding, where he was appointed best man. Poor guy almost passed out with fright before going on stage. He swore off wedding gigs from that day forward. Even avoiding having to do a big wedding himself. THAT'S how hard it is for him to be in the spotlight.
If, somehow, anyone in our family ever becomes famous enough that reporters skulk around and find Bro to ask for an interview, he'll become a hermit. Cross my heart, hope to die, he will.
Truth is, for every forty words I speak, Bro speaks one. Or, maybe, more accurately, half of one. He is a man of very few words, so when he does speak, you know to listen because it is likely going to be good. He probably thinks I have diarrhea of the mouth. After all these years, I'm just thankful he still takes the time to listen to my overwhelming ability to drool words.
I'm also thankful that he has a posse of friends whom he adores and keeps in touch with. They are a great collection of guys, gathered from years in high school and college, who are dyed-in-the-wool, true-blue friends. I know he has stayed sane through all these years, and all those beers, because of them.
I'm most thankful that he married a generous, loving, out-spoken*, woman who has endured two pregnancies to bring our beloved niece and nephew to this world. They are a cohesive bond of love in action.
For my part, I know he loves me because, when I ran away from home with a gallon of milk and a box of Cheerios, Bro cried big, croccodile tears. Mom says he was hysterical. Of course, I was just beside the house, under the sailboat, in the pouring rain, eating Cheerios. But HE thought I was gone for good**. If the tables had been reversed, I would have been crying, too.
I hope he knows that I love him fiercely. We don't get on each other's nerves much anymore*** or resort to calling each other unfriendly names, so I think we've made progress. He has grown into a man any sister could be proud of. And I am.
So, here's to you, Bro. Happy 40th. If the good die young, then there's a problem, because you are GREAT.
But, you're still OLD. ;)
*She is so awesome because she has the gift of being outspoken without being a "b" with an itch. Me, on the other hand? A "b" AND an itch...
**This is a true story. I was a little bit melodramatic as a child. Some things never change.
***OK. I can only speak for myself here. I can HOPE I'm speaking for him, too.
I remember the good old days of screaming matches, name calling, and tongue-sticking-outing. The days when it was boys vs. girls, pitted against each other for days on end over some trivial little issue.
Where have those days gone? Sometimes I actually miss them.
Truly, when our biggest worry was who was going to get the last package of Little Debbie's, what in the world was there to get stressed out about?
Today, my Bro and I get to worry about our kids getting exposed to junk on You Tube, the crazy people who kidnap 11-year-old girls and lock them up for 18 years, and whether or not our children will survive this horrible generation.
But, this weekend, we'll put all those worries behind and stop for a minute to salute the passing of my Bro's youth. My sweet, shy, ATM-loving, devoted father and husband of a Bro. And, truly, the best brother a girl could ask for.
I won't buy him a $12 cane with a horn on it from Party City because that kind of thing embarrasses him. I remember his best friend's wedding, where he was appointed best man. Poor guy almost passed out with fright before going on stage. He swore off wedding gigs from that day forward. Even avoiding having to do a big wedding himself. THAT'S how hard it is for him to be in the spotlight.
If, somehow, anyone in our family ever becomes famous enough that reporters skulk around and find Bro to ask for an interview, he'll become a hermit. Cross my heart, hope to die, he will.
Truth is, for every forty words I speak, Bro speaks one. Or, maybe, more accurately, half of one. He is a man of very few words, so when he does speak, you know to listen because it is likely going to be good. He probably thinks I have diarrhea of the mouth. After all these years, I'm just thankful he still takes the time to listen to my overwhelming ability to drool words.
I'm also thankful that he has a posse of friends whom he adores and keeps in touch with. They are a great collection of guys, gathered from years in high school and college, who are dyed-in-the-wool, true-blue friends. I know he has stayed sane through all these years, and all those beers, because of them.
I'm most thankful that he married a generous, loving, out-spoken*, woman who has endured two pregnancies to bring our beloved niece and nephew to this world. They are a cohesive bond of love in action.
For my part, I know he loves me because, when I ran away from home with a gallon of milk and a box of Cheerios, Bro cried big, croccodile tears. Mom says he was hysterical. Of course, I was just beside the house, under the sailboat, in the pouring rain, eating Cheerios. But HE thought I was gone for good**. If the tables had been reversed, I would have been crying, too.
I hope he knows that I love him fiercely. We don't get on each other's nerves much anymore*** or resort to calling each other unfriendly names, so I think we've made progress. He has grown into a man any sister could be proud of. And I am.
So, here's to you, Bro. Happy 40th. If the good die young, then there's a problem, because you are GREAT.
But, you're still OLD. ;)
*She is so awesome because she has the gift of being outspoken without being a "b" with an itch. Me, on the other hand? A "b" AND an itch...
**This is a true story. I was a little bit melodramatic as a child. Some things never change.
***OK. I can only speak for myself here. I can HOPE I'm speaking for him, too.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
The Planning of Dinner
I absolutely despise this time of day. In about fifteen minutes I am going to have to make the final decision on what to put on the dinner table.
Earlier today I thawed some pork. Have no idea what I'm going to do with it, but I can tell you that "How do the little piggies eat?"* won't be part of the conversation at the dinner table because I'm not serving mashed potatoes (there are no spuds in the house....)
I'm short in the rice department, too. Pasta. Nada. I do have a loaf of plain wheat bread, which could make a nice piece of garlic toast with parmesan for those who aren't cow-intolerant.
Fruit is never an issue around here. We are the fruitiest family on the block, in a non-gay kind of way, of course.
Veggies? Choice between asparagus, salad, or green beans. Problem is, there is no concencus across the boy population about which of these they will eat. I obviously didn't give the Babe enough strained lettuce when he was young. Ditto green beans.
I have to stop and give credit to my Mom here. She drilled into my head the concept that no meal was complete unless it had a starch, protein, vegetable, fruit, drink AND a dessert.
Yes, you read that correctly, a dessert. This is where I have to get off the family train to CRAZYVILLE because I would weigh at least 150 pounds MORE if I had dessert every day**.
Mom came by this in the most innocent of ways, when she first married Dad. Turns out my beloved Grandma made a dessert after most every dinner meal. So, naturally, he thought this was the gold standard in families.
Innocuously, after one of the first meals Mom made when they were beginning their lives together, Dad asked "Where's dessert?" Mom, being the doting newlywed wife of the 60's, figured she could bring peace and harmony to their lives with sugar. Hence, the curse of dessert began.
There have been very few days in my life without dessert. Pies, cakes, cookies, puddings, you name it, I've eaten it. There have been a mere handful that I've turned down. In fact, there have been scarce few I haven't attempted to make and serve myself.
Truth is, if Heaven is a place where we eat, I'll be eating nothing but dessert. Breakfast will be coffee with white or strawberry cake topped with buttercream frosting. Lunch will be cookies, with some form of chocolate and nuts, and whole milk. Dinner will include hot tea and key lime pie.
I understand we won't have the same "bodies" in Heaven as we do on Earth. I'm counting on that meaning that I will be able to eat as I please without consequence. Between my songs of praise for God, that is. On that front, God, I'm counting on a new singing voice, too. Please. For YOUR sake?!
But, for now, I'm going to try to turn over a new leaf and return to a legacy of pre-planned, nutritionally-balanced dinners. Without regular desserts.
Stay tuned for my nervous breakdown, which will occur as my body realizes I won't be feeding it processed sugar.
*A Christmas Story. Quite possibly the funniest, most sarcastic movie on the planet. Hence, one of my favs.
**If you don't believe me, check out my inability to resist cake in a previous post.
Earlier today I thawed some pork. Have no idea what I'm going to do with it, but I can tell you that "How do the little piggies eat?"* won't be part of the conversation at the dinner table because I'm not serving mashed potatoes (there are no spuds in the house....)
I'm short in the rice department, too. Pasta. Nada. I do have a loaf of plain wheat bread, which could make a nice piece of garlic toast with parmesan for those who aren't cow-intolerant.
Fruit is never an issue around here. We are the fruitiest family on the block, in a non-gay kind of way, of course.
Veggies? Choice between asparagus, salad, or green beans. Problem is, there is no concencus across the boy population about which of these they will eat. I obviously didn't give the Babe enough strained lettuce when he was young. Ditto green beans.
I have to stop and give credit to my Mom here. She drilled into my head the concept that no meal was complete unless it had a starch, protein, vegetable, fruit, drink AND a dessert.
Yes, you read that correctly, a dessert. This is where I have to get off the family train to CRAZYVILLE because I would weigh at least 150 pounds MORE if I had dessert every day**.
Mom came by this in the most innocent of ways, when she first married Dad. Turns out my beloved Grandma made a dessert after most every dinner meal. So, naturally, he thought this was the gold standard in families.
Innocuously, after one of the first meals Mom made when they were beginning their lives together, Dad asked "Where's dessert?" Mom, being the doting newlywed wife of the 60's, figured she could bring peace and harmony to their lives with sugar. Hence, the curse of dessert began.
There have been very few days in my life without dessert. Pies, cakes, cookies, puddings, you name it, I've eaten it. There have been a mere handful that I've turned down. In fact, there have been scarce few I haven't attempted to make and serve myself.
Truth is, if Heaven is a place where we eat, I'll be eating nothing but dessert. Breakfast will be coffee with white or strawberry cake topped with buttercream frosting. Lunch will be cookies, with some form of chocolate and nuts, and whole milk. Dinner will include hot tea and key lime pie.
I understand we won't have the same "bodies" in Heaven as we do on Earth. I'm counting on that meaning that I will be able to eat as I please without consequence. Between my songs of praise for God, that is. On that front, God, I'm counting on a new singing voice, too. Please. For YOUR sake?!
But, for now, I'm going to try to turn over a new leaf and return to a legacy of pre-planned, nutritionally-balanced dinners. Without regular desserts.
Stay tuned for my nervous breakdown, which will occur as my body realizes I won't be feeding it processed sugar.
*A Christmas Story. Quite possibly the funniest, most sarcastic movie on the planet. Hence, one of my favs.
**If you don't believe me, check out my inability to resist cake in a previous post.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Let Them Eat WAY-TOO-MUCH Cake
I think I just experienced the ultimate, near-perfect, most wonderful day yesterday. It was book-ended by cake.
So, this weekend, we visited my brother and his family near Houston. They have this stellar piece of property that Mike and I drool over every time we visit. They sit on about two wooded acres with a lovely house and a great pool that flows from the house via a patio with a TV, lots of chairs, and a cooler the size of Montana that can hold all sort of beverage. Just for us, it seemed, the weather fairies were out in full-force, giving us plenty of sunshine and cooler temps. Had there been mountains in the background, I would have pronounced it Heaven.
Now the reason for our visit was birthdays. Let's just say that the fertility gods shown upon our family this particular part of the month; we celebrate three birthdays in the span of 13 days at the beginning of September.
Quite correctly, then, there were THREE cakes in the house. White cake/white frosting, chocolate cake/white frosting, and yellow cake/chocolate frosting.
Having this much cake around is MommaJ nirvana. I could have lounged on the back porch with a fork and a barf bucket, all Roman-like*, and eaten all of them in Guinness World Book record time. But, I still have some modicum of decency about me.
On Saturday we enjoyed birthday festivities for brother and my Bro, with gifts, cake, ice cream, and way too many candles. I had a piece of cake the size of a pumpkin in mid-October. A pumpkin grown for it's size. That has to be transported via forklift, to the scale at the county fair, to be weighed in at slightly under 500 lbs. To say I was on a sugar-high would be the worst bit of under-exaggeration in the world.
I ate such a large piece of cake on Saturday night that I thought "That's it. I've enjoyed my cake for the weekend. Back to trying to watch what I eat." Then Sunday morning issued in, with the smell of early-morning coffee wafting through the house, beckoning me to fill my mug half-full of over-sweet, vanilla-flavored creamer and half-full of strong coffee.
The minute the spiked coffee hit my lips and that satisfying sugar met my taste buds, the devil on my right shoulder, from whom all suggestions about eating issue forth, whispered, "Au contraire, madame. You are NOT done eating cake. Turn around."
When I spotted the half-eaten beauties, I felt for them. I imagined the cakes feeling neglected when they were thrown to the back of the counter, maybe to never be touched again. I wondered how it must feel to be covered in transparent plastic, partially-naked at the edges. Well I wasn't taking any chances with the feelings of THESE cake orphans. I greedily helped myself to another pumpkin-sized slice. Then I chased the cake with eggs, so I'd feel better about my diabetes-inducing, artery-choking second slice in less than twelve hours.
For lunch? A big salad. Redemption, of sorts.
Then dinner. Holy cats. One of our bestest couple friends and their kids were celebrating their son's 11th birthday, with their extended family. There were a total of nineteen of us and food for about eighty.
Smoked chicken and brisket, baked potatoes with the fixins, homemade mac n cheese made with an entire stick of butter and at least four cheeses, grilled vegetables, crescent rolls and french bread. A virtual tour of all things grand, starchy, and carby. By the time I ate the obligatory plate of food, I was stuffed. Like a thanksgiving turkey.
Then, around rolled the cake. Marbled white and chocolate cake with white frosting.
I really shouldn't have, but I took the edge piece. In case you've never noticed, there are only four of these coveted areas on a cake. And nobody around me WANTED the one that was cut. So, I dove in with abandon. Frankly, enjoyed every last bite, with absolutely NO guilt.
In fact, I told my friend "This is the perfect day. It began with cake and ended with cake."
Little did I know, but I should have, the day would REALLY end with Tums. But, that, as they say, is another story.
And, in my spirit, I still hear the loud cry of partially-eaten cakes everywhere, beckoning me to their assistance. And so, my war cry, even after much too much of the spongy, airy, divine goodness?
VIVA LA CAKE!
*One of the funniest/grossest SNL skits, the historically inaccurate, "Vomitorium".
So, this weekend, we visited my brother and his family near Houston. They have this stellar piece of property that Mike and I drool over every time we visit. They sit on about two wooded acres with a lovely house and a great pool that flows from the house via a patio with a TV, lots of chairs, and a cooler the size of Montana that can hold all sort of beverage. Just for us, it seemed, the weather fairies were out in full-force, giving us plenty of sunshine and cooler temps. Had there been mountains in the background, I would have pronounced it Heaven.
Now the reason for our visit was birthdays. Let's just say that the fertility gods shown upon our family this particular part of the month; we celebrate three birthdays in the span of 13 days at the beginning of September.
Quite correctly, then, there were THREE cakes in the house. White cake/white frosting, chocolate cake/white frosting, and yellow cake/chocolate frosting.
Having this much cake around is MommaJ nirvana. I could have lounged on the back porch with a fork and a barf bucket, all Roman-like*, and eaten all of them in Guinness World Book record time. But, I still have some modicum of decency about me.
On Saturday we enjoyed birthday festivities for brother and my Bro, with gifts, cake, ice cream, and way too many candles. I had a piece of cake the size of a pumpkin in mid-October. A pumpkin grown for it's size. That has to be transported via forklift, to the scale at the county fair, to be weighed in at slightly under 500 lbs. To say I was on a sugar-high would be the worst bit of under-exaggeration in the world.
I ate such a large piece of cake on Saturday night that I thought "That's it. I've enjoyed my cake for the weekend. Back to trying to watch what I eat." Then Sunday morning issued in, with the smell of early-morning coffee wafting through the house, beckoning me to fill my mug half-full of over-sweet, vanilla-flavored creamer and half-full of strong coffee.
The minute the spiked coffee hit my lips and that satisfying sugar met my taste buds, the devil on my right shoulder, from whom all suggestions about eating issue forth, whispered, "Au contraire, madame. You are NOT done eating cake. Turn around."
When I spotted the half-eaten beauties, I felt for them. I imagined the cakes feeling neglected when they were thrown to the back of the counter, maybe to never be touched again. I wondered how it must feel to be covered in transparent plastic, partially-naked at the edges. Well I wasn't taking any chances with the feelings of THESE cake orphans. I greedily helped myself to another pumpkin-sized slice. Then I chased the cake with eggs, so I'd feel better about my diabetes-inducing, artery-choking second slice in less than twelve hours.
For lunch? A big salad. Redemption, of sorts.
Then dinner. Holy cats. One of our bestest couple friends and their kids were celebrating their son's 11th birthday, with their extended family. There were a total of nineteen of us and food for about eighty.
Smoked chicken and brisket, baked potatoes with the fixins, homemade mac n cheese made with an entire stick of butter and at least four cheeses, grilled vegetables, crescent rolls and french bread. A virtual tour of all things grand, starchy, and carby. By the time I ate the obligatory plate of food, I was stuffed. Like a thanksgiving turkey.
Then, around rolled the cake. Marbled white and chocolate cake with white frosting.
I really shouldn't have, but I took the edge piece. In case you've never noticed, there are only four of these coveted areas on a cake. And nobody around me WANTED the one that was cut. So, I dove in with abandon. Frankly, enjoyed every last bite, with absolutely NO guilt.
In fact, I told my friend "This is the perfect day. It began with cake and ended with cake."
Little did I know, but I should have, the day would REALLY end with Tums. But, that, as they say, is another story.
And, in my spirit, I still hear the loud cry of partially-eaten cakes everywhere, beckoning me to their assistance. And so, my war cry, even after much too much of the spongy, airy, divine goodness?
VIVA LA CAKE!
*One of the funniest/grossest SNL skits, the historically inaccurate, "Vomitorium".
Saturday, September 5, 2009
My husband's evil ways
Somehow during my childhood I was deprived of one of the most beloved little ditties of all times. I had heard it before, just never knew the words or how to properly execute it. That is, until my husband started teaching the boys this song:
"Jill, Jill bo bill
Banana, fanna fo fill
Fee fie mo mill
JJJJIIIILLLLL"
Then he proceeded to go through all the family names, youngest to oldest.
Now, I have to add a little bit to the post by telling you where this was going on and why.
See, at that point we were at about day 2,135 in our remodel* with only ONE bathroom amongst all of us. Turned out, Mike had to use the facilities, I was putting on make-up and, true to form, a child HAD to get into the bathroom to ask a question.**
So, there we were, three of us in a bathroom clearly designed for someone the size of a Smurf. At first, because I was putting on make-up and didn't want to end up looking like a Picasso painting, I refrained from joining in. But, the boys were having SO MUCH FUN, that I threw caution to the wind. And started singing right along.
When we all finished with the family names, Mike looked directly at me and said "Let's do DUCK."
Having now done this annoying song exactly twice in my life, I didn't catch on that I was traveling down the road paved with good intentions that ends up in a twisted pile of wreckage outside the range of cell phone coverage. So, on I go...
"Duck, duck, bo buck
Banana fanna fo _______ "
OH MY GOODNESS. I almost dropped the "F" bomb in front of my, scratch that, OUR kid. And Mike encouraged it?!
In all honesty, Mike thought I KNEW what I was doing and figured I'd just smirk at him and say something pithy. In all honesty, I had NOT a clue. I was just glad I caught myself.
The bruise on Mike's shoulder, should you care to know, has faded quite nicely.
The child in the bathroom with us? Still trying to figure out what came next.
*A wee bit exaggerated, but close to how it feels.
**There is no such thing as privacy in a bathroom once a child learns to walk. It is completely mind-bending for a child to imagine you wouldn't WANT them in the bathroom with you for the entire three minutes it will take to get the job done.
"Jill, Jill bo bill
Banana, fanna fo fill
Fee fie mo mill
JJJJIIIILLLLL"
Then he proceeded to go through all the family names, youngest to oldest.
Now, I have to add a little bit to the post by telling you where this was going on and why.
See, at that point we were at about day 2,135 in our remodel* with only ONE bathroom amongst all of us. Turned out, Mike had to use the facilities, I was putting on make-up and, true to form, a child HAD to get into the bathroom to ask a question.**
So, there we were, three of us in a bathroom clearly designed for someone the size of a Smurf. At first, because I was putting on make-up and didn't want to end up looking like a Picasso painting, I refrained from joining in. But, the boys were having SO MUCH FUN, that I threw caution to the wind. And started singing right along.
When we all finished with the family names, Mike looked directly at me and said "Let's do DUCK."
Having now done this annoying song exactly twice in my life, I didn't catch on that I was traveling down the road paved with good intentions that ends up in a twisted pile of wreckage outside the range of cell phone coverage. So, on I go...
"Duck, duck, bo buck
Banana fanna fo _______ "
OH MY GOODNESS. I almost dropped the "F" bomb in front of my, scratch that, OUR kid. And Mike encouraged it?!
In all honesty, Mike thought I KNEW what I was doing and figured I'd just smirk at him and say something pithy. In all honesty, I had NOT a clue. I was just glad I caught myself.
The bruise on Mike's shoulder, should you care to know, has faded quite nicely.
The child in the bathroom with us? Still trying to figure out what came next.
*A wee bit exaggerated, but close to how it feels.
**There is no such thing as privacy in a bathroom once a child learns to walk. It is completely mind-bending for a child to imagine you wouldn't WANT them in the bathroom with you for the entire three minutes it will take to get the job done.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Car Safety
Today I heard that a new state law is in effect: EVERYONE in the car, regardless of seat location, must wear a seat belt. My first reaction was to wonder how people in Texas are going to install seat belts in the beds of trucks. Then I wondered if the wonder twins, Doug and Tex, were going to need some sort of special doggy-belt and doggy-seat.*
This law also got me waxing nostalgic. It effectively puts the final coffin nails in the last chapter of "Unsafe Car Riding Practices"**, which was a freely distributed tome during my childhood. I remember being free to move about the cabin in the 70's, all whilst inhaling unfiltered cigarette smoke. Those were the days when the captain NEVER turned on the "Fasten Seat belt" or "No Smoking" signs.
I remember, vividly, the game between my father, brother and me that would occur on car trips. Of course, it was FUN for me and my brother. My Father, however, should have had fourteen coronaries for every road adventure, because, for him, this would have been an appropriate response to being slowly tortured to death on the way to our family vacations in our 1970's-era, solid heavy metal, death trap of a car. It went like this:
Dad: "Quiet down back there."
Mom: "I don't see where we are on the map." (We were perpetually lost in my childhood.)
Dad (pointing to somewhere in Illinois though we were currently in Michigan): "We're there."
Mom: "But that's Illinois."
This little banter would go on for awhile before Dad pulled over to the side of the road, took the map from Mom, figured out where we were and where we were going, then gave the map BACK to Mom.
Poor Mom. She was hopelessly map-illiterate for all of my childhood. And Dad was a "half-full" kind of map relinquisher, who figured "THIS trip she'll get the hang of it."***
Now, in the back seat, we still hadn't quieted down. And we were like monkeys in an invisible cage, bounded by the front seat, back doors, and the rear windshield. We'd bounce around, scream, throw things, and paint an invisible line on the back seat whenever we got tired of each other. Then we'd announce "Don't go over that line." Of course, the other did, and that brought screams of "MAAAAHHHHHMMMMOOOOMMMM. She crossed the line."****
Dad (irritated voice): "I thought I told you to quiet down?!"
Kids, bouncing: "OK"*****.
Dad: "I'm serious."
Kids: no response. Still bouncing. Now hitting.
Dad: "DON'T MAKE ME PULL THIS CAR OVER."
Kids: still no response. Bouncing, hitting, and screaming now.
Dad: "I'VE HAD IT!"
Upon hearing that phrase, kids would scatter, because we knew what was next. An arm, much like the tentacle of the giant squid in "20,000 Leagues Under the Sea", was about to makes its way over the front seat, searching for whatever prey it could get its suckers on. It's entire purpose: to get us to SHUT THE HECK UP.
To paint the picture a little more vividly, Dad is six foot four. He wears a size 15 shoe. His arms are LONG. So you knew certain death was about to visit you if you didn't move QUICKLY.
Whoever was lucky enough to get the back windshield ledge and play dead was out of reach. But the poor sucker who hit the floor or backed into the seat was just completely at the mercy of the Gods. You could flatten like a pancake and that hand might still hit you smack dab in the face. Sometimes, if you didn't breathe, that helped, because you weren't giving any indication of location to the tentacled-one.
Usually the car would quiet down after this little game. Then, undoubtedly, one of us would ask "Where are we?" Mom, map in hand, had not a clue but, I imagine, a raging headache. Dad, still winded from the giant squid imitation, was too irritated to respond.
So then the questioning would hit nails-on-a-chalkboard level, with the inevitable "Are we there yet?"
Now, in all my years as a parent, in retort to this annoying question, I have wanted to say, in an oh-so-patient voice, with the look of an angel on my face, "Children, if we were THERE, we wouldn't be HERE. Since we are HERE, we can't possibly be THERE. Once we get THERE, we won't be HERE anymore. So, in the HERE and NOW, please shut your mouth until we get THERE."
Back to the 70's: there were always the complaints of I'm hungry, thirsty, bored, tired, and the happiest one, "I'm going to throw-up." That would be my younger brother, who had the unfortunate habit of getting car sick. Back in the day, since I had yet to experience my own kids with very sensitive gag reflexes, the thought of being a possible vomit victim was horrendous, unfathomable, and downright proposterous. This greatly increased the chances of my parents hearing the "Are we there yet?" line of questioning, as I wanted to get away from barf boy as quickly as humanly possible.
Through all the road trips we took as a family, none of us ever said anything that sent anybody else to a psychiatrist. I'd like to think we had fun while getting on each other's nerves, the way most Americans who vacationed via car did in the 70's and 80's.
Today I thank goodness for airplanes. They make getting THERE pretty quick. Nobody has to rely on map-reading skills, wrong turns are almost non-existent, and, goshdarnit, it's just fun to look out the window at our beautiful country.
Best of all, an airplane is a smoke-free environment, where I can simply sit back, seat belt firmly fastened, have a drink and relax.
Because I KNOW giant squids don't exist at 30,000 feet.
*If PETA has anything to do with it, this will be law next month.
**Not a real book, just a title that encompasses the attitude of the 70's: "I wonder what these things are doing in here?" (sound of seatbelt hitting floor of car.)
***Fast forward 35 years and they are now in possession of a GPS. I'd like to thank the inventor for saving my parents from killing each other during some random road trip. I'm executor of the will and I don't have time to deal with all the paperwork a double-homicide would induce.
****Notice I used a feminine pronoun here. This could have easily been "he". My brother was just as much at fault as I was.
*****This response was a blantant lie. We filtered out anything from the front seat of the car, besides the music coming from the "state-of-the-art" AM/FM, 8-track player.
This law also got me waxing nostalgic. It effectively puts the final coffin nails in the last chapter of "Unsafe Car Riding Practices"**, which was a freely distributed tome during my childhood. I remember being free to move about the cabin in the 70's, all whilst inhaling unfiltered cigarette smoke. Those were the days when the captain NEVER turned on the "Fasten Seat belt" or "No Smoking" signs.
I remember, vividly, the game between my father, brother and me that would occur on car trips. Of course, it was FUN for me and my brother. My Father, however, should have had fourteen coronaries for every road adventure, because, for him, this would have been an appropriate response to being slowly tortured to death on the way to our family vacations in our 1970's-era, solid heavy metal, death trap of a car. It went like this:
Dad: "Quiet down back there."
Mom: "I don't see where we are on the map." (We were perpetually lost in my childhood.)
Dad (pointing to somewhere in Illinois though we were currently in Michigan): "We're there."
Mom: "But that's Illinois."
This little banter would go on for awhile before Dad pulled over to the side of the road, took the map from Mom, figured out where we were and where we were going, then gave the map BACK to Mom.
Poor Mom. She was hopelessly map-illiterate for all of my childhood. And Dad was a "half-full" kind of map relinquisher, who figured "THIS trip she'll get the hang of it."***
Now, in the back seat, we still hadn't quieted down. And we were like monkeys in an invisible cage, bounded by the front seat, back doors, and the rear windshield. We'd bounce around, scream, throw things, and paint an invisible line on the back seat whenever we got tired of each other. Then we'd announce "Don't go over that line." Of course, the other did, and that brought screams of "MAAAAHHHHHMMMMOOOOMMMM. She crossed the line."****
Dad (irritated voice): "I thought I told you to quiet down?!"
Kids, bouncing: "OK"*****.
Dad: "I'm serious."
Kids: no response. Still bouncing. Now hitting.
Dad: "DON'T MAKE ME PULL THIS CAR OVER."
Kids: still no response. Bouncing, hitting, and screaming now.
Dad: "I'VE HAD IT!"
Upon hearing that phrase, kids would scatter, because we knew what was next. An arm, much like the tentacle of the giant squid in "20,000 Leagues Under the Sea", was about to makes its way over the front seat, searching for whatever prey it could get its suckers on. It's entire purpose: to get us to SHUT THE HECK UP.
To paint the picture a little more vividly, Dad is six foot four. He wears a size 15 shoe. His arms are LONG. So you knew certain death was about to visit you if you didn't move QUICKLY.
Whoever was lucky enough to get the back windshield ledge and play dead was out of reach. But the poor sucker who hit the floor or backed into the seat was just completely at the mercy of the Gods. You could flatten like a pancake and that hand might still hit you smack dab in the face. Sometimes, if you didn't breathe, that helped, because you weren't giving any indication of location to the tentacled-one.
Usually the car would quiet down after this little game. Then, undoubtedly, one of us would ask "Where are we?" Mom, map in hand, had not a clue but, I imagine, a raging headache. Dad, still winded from the giant squid imitation, was too irritated to respond.
So then the questioning would hit nails-on-a-chalkboard level, with the inevitable "Are we there yet?"
Now, in all my years as a parent, in retort to this annoying question, I have wanted to say, in an oh-so-patient voice, with the look of an angel on my face, "Children, if we were THERE, we wouldn't be HERE. Since we are HERE, we can't possibly be THERE. Once we get THERE, we won't be HERE anymore. So, in the HERE and NOW, please shut your mouth until we get THERE."
Back to the 70's: there were always the complaints of I'm hungry, thirsty, bored, tired, and the happiest one, "I'm going to throw-up." That would be my younger brother, who had the unfortunate habit of getting car sick. Back in the day, since I had yet to experience my own kids with very sensitive gag reflexes, the thought of being a possible vomit victim was horrendous, unfathomable, and downright proposterous. This greatly increased the chances of my parents hearing the "Are we there yet?" line of questioning, as I wanted to get away from barf boy as quickly as humanly possible.
Through all the road trips we took as a family, none of us ever said anything that sent anybody else to a psychiatrist. I'd like to think we had fun while getting on each other's nerves, the way most Americans who vacationed via car did in the 70's and 80's.
Today I thank goodness for airplanes. They make getting THERE pretty quick. Nobody has to rely on map-reading skills, wrong turns are almost non-existent, and, goshdarnit, it's just fun to look out the window at our beautiful country.
Best of all, an airplane is a smoke-free environment, where I can simply sit back, seat belt firmly fastened, have a drink and relax.
Because I KNOW giant squids don't exist at 30,000 feet.
*If PETA has anything to do with it, this will be law next month.
**Not a real book, just a title that encompasses the attitude of the 70's: "I wonder what these things are doing in here?" (sound of seatbelt hitting floor of car.)
***Fast forward 35 years and they are now in possession of a GPS. I'd like to thank the inventor for saving my parents from killing each other during some random road trip. I'm executor of the will and I don't have time to deal with all the paperwork a double-homicide would induce.
****Notice I used a feminine pronoun here. This could have easily been "he". My brother was just as much at fault as I was.
*****This response was a blantant lie. We filtered out anything from the front seat of the car, besides the music coming from the "state-of-the-art" AM/FM, 8-track player.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Cursing Revisited
I hate being a person who tries my best not to use profanity but feels like it is all bottled up inside, waiting to explode at the most inopportune moment, such as in the middle of carpool line at the Christian school.
It's like buying a can of Coke out of a vending machine and then shaking it without thinking. At some point that thing is gonna belch soda water and sugar all over someone in its path.
I'm kinda like the soda. Sadly, some days I only have to be stirred, not shaken*, to feel all curse-y.
Thankfully, I learned creative cussing from a relative, so, since becoming a Mom, I can usually spill what's on my mind with a funky saying like "Holy Cats", effectively side-stepping a bomb drop.
Which leads me to a little conversation this summer:
Nice Mom** to friend's son: "When are you leaving on vacation?"
Friend's son: "My Mom and Dad are packing the car right now.*** Where were you all yesterday?"
Nice Mom: "We had some errands to run and then went to see a movie."
Friend's son: "What movie?"
Nice Mom: "Night at the Museum II."
Friend's son (all the sudden, slightly more interested in our chat): "OH. How did you like it?"
Nice Mom: "It was good. But I liked the first one better."
Friend's son: "Was there any cursing in it?"
In my head I suddenly hear screeching tires and sense that twisted metal and certain injury is about to come out of this conversation. Sadly, there is no where to go but forward.
Nice Mom (stomach lurching): "Well. Yes. There was some cussing."
Please don't ask which ones. Please don't ask which ones. Please don't ask which ones.
Friend's son: "What word?"
Somebody call 911 and have the wrecker and the ambulance start driving this way.
Nice Mom: "They used the "D" word."
Now, this is a nice kid from a nice, Christian family. I'm pretty sure we'll never see them again.
Friend's son: "OH. My parents HATE IT when I use that word!"
Holy frijole! Did he just say he drops the "D" bomb around his parents? Call off the ambulance, people. Our kids can be their friends again!
Friend's son (leaning in while cupping hands around mouth): "Yeah. They REALLY hate it when I call my brother or sister (looks around to see if anybody has snuck up on us) DUMB."
Nice Mom (crinkling up my nose, because, if I don't, I'll LAUGH): "Yeah. That's a REALLY BAD WORD."
Friend's son: "Yeah. Well, better go. See you when we get home!" Rides off on bike.
I need a good swig of Pepto Bismol after that near-miss. Thankfully, friend's son's parents think the story is adorable when I get up the nerve to tell them I almost accidentally introduced the "D" word to their son.
Me? Next time a kid asks me if there was cussing in a movie, I'm going to say "Why, yes. They used the "J" word."
And, if you don't know what that means, ask your Mom or Dad.
*Shout out to the REAL James Bond, Sean Connery.
**That would be me. This friend thinks I'm nice. I'm not sure all the friends would concur.
***Oblivious to the fact that this is the beginning of the biggest beat down of the summer--driving with family, in steamy, humid heat, with a car full of kids who all love the charming phrase "Are we there yet?" and who repeat it with astounding frequency.
It's like buying a can of Coke out of a vending machine and then shaking it without thinking. At some point that thing is gonna belch soda water and sugar all over someone in its path.
I'm kinda like the soda. Sadly, some days I only have to be stirred, not shaken*, to feel all curse-y.
Thankfully, I learned creative cussing from a relative, so, since becoming a Mom, I can usually spill what's on my mind with a funky saying like "Holy Cats", effectively side-stepping a bomb drop.
Which leads me to a little conversation this summer:
Nice Mom** to friend's son: "When are you leaving on vacation?"
Friend's son: "My Mom and Dad are packing the car right now.*** Where were you all yesterday?"
Nice Mom: "We had some errands to run and then went to see a movie."
Friend's son: "What movie?"
Nice Mom: "Night at the Museum II."
Friend's son (all the sudden, slightly more interested in our chat): "OH. How did you like it?"
Nice Mom: "It was good. But I liked the first one better."
Friend's son: "Was there any cursing in it?"
In my head I suddenly hear screeching tires and sense that twisted metal and certain injury is about to come out of this conversation. Sadly, there is no where to go but forward.
Nice Mom (stomach lurching): "Well. Yes. There was some cussing."
Please don't ask which ones. Please don't ask which ones. Please don't ask which ones.
Friend's son: "What word?"
Somebody call 911 and have the wrecker and the ambulance start driving this way.
Nice Mom: "They used the "D" word."
Now, this is a nice kid from a nice, Christian family. I'm pretty sure we'll never see them again.
Friend's son: "OH. My parents HATE IT when I use that word!"
Holy frijole! Did he just say he drops the "D" bomb around his parents? Call off the ambulance, people. Our kids can be their friends again!
Friend's son (leaning in while cupping hands around mouth): "Yeah. They REALLY hate it when I call my brother or sister (looks around to see if anybody has snuck up on us) DUMB."
Nice Mom (crinkling up my nose, because, if I don't, I'll LAUGH): "Yeah. That's a REALLY BAD WORD."
Friend's son: "Yeah. Well, better go. See you when we get home!" Rides off on bike.
I need a good swig of Pepto Bismol after that near-miss. Thankfully, friend's son's parents think the story is adorable when I get up the nerve to tell them I almost accidentally introduced the "D" word to their son.
Me? Next time a kid asks me if there was cussing in a movie, I'm going to say "Why, yes. They used the "J" word."
And, if you don't know what that means, ask your Mom or Dad.
*Shout out to the REAL James Bond, Sean Connery.
**That would be me. This friend thinks I'm nice. I'm not sure all the friends would concur.
***Oblivious to the fact that this is the beginning of the biggest beat down of the summer--driving with family, in steamy, humid heat, with a car full of kids who all love the charming phrase "Are we there yet?" and who repeat it with astounding frequency.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
School Days, School Days
We are sub-seven days away from school starting up for the boys of the Nowell house and, as far as I can tell, everyone is ready for the routine of Fall to kick in.
Except me. I'm lamenting the fact that school ushers in early mornings. With early mornings come earlier bedtimes and with earlier bedtimes, I have to be an adult again.
WHINE.
Why, you ask, would I have to become an adult AGAIN? Did I lose my status somewhere along the way? Why, YES, I think I did.
In retrospect, I've been a "pseudo-adult" all Summer long. Case in point:
1. I usually wake when the kids come padding into the room, rubbing the sleep out of their eyes, to see if I'll cave in and let them watch cartoons "just once"*. I can USUALLY be relied upon to actually get OUT of bed within a half hour of them entering the room.
2. If the kids return to try their cunning negotiation skills on me again, I firmly refuse their TV request and delay breakfast for another 15 minutes because, in my mind, it's Summer and we shouldn't be on such a rigid schedule**.
3. On more than one occasion, the doorbell has gotten me out of bed, as some contractor has shown up sub-9am, sending me into a dressing frenzy that looks like a cross between the Tazmanian Devil and a model backstage at a designer runway show***.
4. Breakfast has recently slipped into the uncomfortable time slot of brunch, during days that DON'T start with "S"****.
5. Cleaning? I have but one, worn out excuse: every day, new people enter this house to work on some sort of renovation. They always produce dust, dirt, or general odors. No sane person would clean in this environment.
6. I resolved to try to save the environment this year and, accordingly, am only using my "real" everyday china. Therefore, there are always dirty dishes in this house. Why try to keep up with a never-ending proposition?
7. Lunch? Well, let's just say, it's on the fly and occurs sometime before dinner. On more than one occasion, it has resembled a heavy snack on an airplane.
8. Afternoons. Can you say "catch-up" time? Budget work, blogging, laundry, blogging, driving kids to destinations, blogging*****. Need I say more?
9. Our house now has cocktail hour by the pool. Since the kids like to swim almost every afternoon, I sacrifice and enjoy a tasty beverage, poolside, while playing fully-clothed lifeguard******. Can someone help me get the song "Cocomo" out of my mind? HA, ha. Now it's in yours, too.
10. Laundry. Oh My Jeepers. I used to complain because it took so long. Now, it finishes too FAST! I can't keep up with all the laundry in the baskets that is clean. If this is supposed to be efficiency, I'm a monkey's Aunt.
10. Dinner? Dinner-schminner. It's been on the table before dark-thirty every single night since school let out****. And, it's been balanced, thank you very much; I've made sure each munchkin knows how to carry his plate with BOTH hands.
11. Bedtime. Well, let's just say that, if the kids make it to a horitzontal position before 8:30pm, Mike and I are doing the happy dance. We, on the other hand, are asleep in front of the TV by 9:15pm and actually get up to brush our teeth between midnight and 3 a.m. on a regular basis.
What has gotten into us? We used to have sticks up our posteriors. Did they break? Have the fair Nowells gone mad?
I'm not sure. THAT'S for sure. I hope not; I hate surgical procedures. NO--I don't THINK so.
What I do think is a feeling of being "home" settled into our bones once Summer actually began. The house was no longer so foreign; it was ours. Even though it wasn't perfect or perfectly finished, it finally wasn't in the way of our "routine". So, we let down our guard and sunk into the process of letting go of our lives on Heathermore Drive and took on this new life on Briar Cove.
And, we love it. For the first time, in a long time, we've had lazy afternoons, unscheduled periods of rest, and the ability to say "yes" at the last minute. It has felt really good.
But, just around the corner, the routine machine is kicking into high gear. I hope it doesn't suck me into it's grips quite as heavily as it has in years past. We've worked on keeping our after-school activities to a bare minimum and I hope this will add sanity to our lives this Fall.
Now, if I can just figure where to hire a cabana boy and how to have cocktail hour, poolside, year round, MY school days will be PERFECT.
*Truth is, I'd probably agree to letting them shave my head bald if they'd let me sleep ten more minutes. Let's just keep that OUR little secret, though.
**Maybe, just maybe, my prayers will be answered and someone will slip in the front door with a breakfast buffet and I'll be spared morning kitchen duty.
***HUGE emphasis on the Tazmanian Devil in this sentence. Need I admit: uncombed hair and unbrushed teeth. I really should pay these guys a premium.
****This is SO uncharacteristic of me I can't even describe it. I've always been the three square meals and a bag of Oreos in between kind of girl. BRUNCH is NOT part of that equation.
*****I think someone in this house might lose his mind if this doesn't become a PAYING gig. It's somewhat of an obsession.
******And, in case you don't think a clothed lifeguard can save a life, I dove in earlier in the Summer to save a swimmer who was precariously slipping under water well above his head. Scared the living crud out of everyone in the pool, including the potential drowning victim.
****Though I BARELY made it one particularly fine July evening when the margaritas were flowing.....
Except me. I'm lamenting the fact that school ushers in early mornings. With early mornings come earlier bedtimes and with earlier bedtimes, I have to be an adult again.
WHINE.
Why, you ask, would I have to become an adult AGAIN? Did I lose my status somewhere along the way? Why, YES, I think I did.
In retrospect, I've been a "pseudo-adult" all Summer long. Case in point:
1. I usually wake when the kids come padding into the room, rubbing the sleep out of their eyes, to see if I'll cave in and let them watch cartoons "just once"*. I can USUALLY be relied upon to actually get OUT of bed within a half hour of them entering the room.
2. If the kids return to try their cunning negotiation skills on me again, I firmly refuse their TV request and delay breakfast for another 15 minutes because, in my mind, it's Summer and we shouldn't be on such a rigid schedule**.
3. On more than one occasion, the doorbell has gotten me out of bed, as some contractor has shown up sub-9am, sending me into a dressing frenzy that looks like a cross between the Tazmanian Devil and a model backstage at a designer runway show***.
4. Breakfast has recently slipped into the uncomfortable time slot of brunch, during days that DON'T start with "S"****.
5. Cleaning? I have but one, worn out excuse: every day, new people enter this house to work on some sort of renovation. They always produce dust, dirt, or general odors. No sane person would clean in this environment.
6. I resolved to try to save the environment this year and, accordingly, am only using my "real" everyday china. Therefore, there are always dirty dishes in this house. Why try to keep up with a never-ending proposition?
7. Lunch? Well, let's just say, it's on the fly and occurs sometime before dinner. On more than one occasion, it has resembled a heavy snack on an airplane.
8. Afternoons. Can you say "catch-up" time? Budget work, blogging, laundry, blogging, driving kids to destinations, blogging*****. Need I say more?
9. Our house now has cocktail hour by the pool. Since the kids like to swim almost every afternoon, I sacrifice and enjoy a tasty beverage, poolside, while playing fully-clothed lifeguard******. Can someone help me get the song "Cocomo" out of my mind? HA, ha. Now it's in yours, too.
10. Laundry. Oh My Jeepers. I used to complain because it took so long. Now, it finishes too FAST! I can't keep up with all the laundry in the baskets that is clean. If this is supposed to be efficiency, I'm a monkey's Aunt.
10. Dinner? Dinner-schminner. It's been on the table before dark-thirty every single night since school let out****. And, it's been balanced, thank you very much; I've made sure each munchkin knows how to carry his plate with BOTH hands.
11. Bedtime. Well, let's just say that, if the kids make it to a horitzontal position before 8:30pm, Mike and I are doing the happy dance. We, on the other hand, are asleep in front of the TV by 9:15pm and actually get up to brush our teeth between midnight and 3 a.m. on a regular basis.
What has gotten into us? We used to have sticks up our posteriors. Did they break? Have the fair Nowells gone mad?
I'm not sure. THAT'S for sure. I hope not; I hate surgical procedures. NO--I don't THINK so.
What I do think is a feeling of being "home" settled into our bones once Summer actually began. The house was no longer so foreign; it was ours. Even though it wasn't perfect or perfectly finished, it finally wasn't in the way of our "routine". So, we let down our guard and sunk into the process of letting go of our lives on Heathermore Drive and took on this new life on Briar Cove.
And, we love it. For the first time, in a long time, we've had lazy afternoons, unscheduled periods of rest, and the ability to say "yes" at the last minute. It has felt really good.
But, just around the corner, the routine machine is kicking into high gear. I hope it doesn't suck me into it's grips quite as heavily as it has in years past. We've worked on keeping our after-school activities to a bare minimum and I hope this will add sanity to our lives this Fall.
Now, if I can just figure where to hire a cabana boy and how to have cocktail hour, poolside, year round, MY school days will be PERFECT.
*Truth is, I'd probably agree to letting them shave my head bald if they'd let me sleep ten more minutes. Let's just keep that OUR little secret, though.
**Maybe, just maybe, my prayers will be answered and someone will slip in the front door with a breakfast buffet and I'll be spared morning kitchen duty.
***HUGE emphasis on the Tazmanian Devil in this sentence. Need I admit: uncombed hair and unbrushed teeth. I really should pay these guys a premium.
****This is SO uncharacteristic of me I can't even describe it. I've always been the three square meals and a bag of Oreos in between kind of girl. BRUNCH is NOT part of that equation.
*****I think someone in this house might lose his mind if this doesn't become a PAYING gig. It's somewhat of an obsession.
******And, in case you don't think a clothed lifeguard can save a life, I dove in earlier in the Summer to save a swimmer who was precariously slipping under water well above his head. Scared the living crud out of everyone in the pool, including the potential drowning victim.
****Though I BARELY made it one particularly fine July evening when the margaritas were flowing.....
Friday, August 14, 2009
Cousin's Camp
Yesterday morning, we welcomed the arrival of two of the kid's cousins to the Nowell abode. Previously, over Spring Break, my sister-in-law very graciously took our kids for several days after recognizing we couldn't even unpack a pair of underwear with a week of nothing but 24/7 Nowell boys*.
So, with my saintly sister-in-law in mind, I planned this week as a "thank you" repayment for her.
In a trade worthy of the major leagues, we gained the cousins and, simultaneously, Mike's parents took one of our kids for the week. The only thing that could have made this better would have been a generous, sign-on bonus.
Net result: up one non-Nowell kid, down one of our own. That took a lot of whiny out of the conversation.
With all the particulars in place, cousin's camp began.
For the first 20 hours, everyone was on their best behavior. There was plenty of "please", "thank you" and general excitement to be had. In a word: copacetic.
Then, this morning hit.
You must keep in mind that the kids have been messing around with a newly created "fort", made from the washer and dryer boxes of previous posts**.
At first, it was kid nirvana. Then it became "us" against "them". Then it became "You are ___", where each child was assigned a role by the other kids.
After this occurred, the only girl in the entire pack started crying. These weren't little, sweet, roll down your face slowly tears. These were big, falling off your cheeks, crocodile tears.
I did what any Mom who is raising boys and hasn't a clue about raising girls would do: I instantly figured the boys were at fault and asked them how they had hurt her feelings. Seemed logical to me.
They all shrugged their shoulders. From what I was gathering, they really didn't know.
I wanted to pat them all on the back and give them the "BASICS OF YOUR FUTURE WIFE AND ANY DAUGHTERS LECTURE" that goes something like this: "Buck up, guys. This is what life with the female set is going be like later in your life. The quicker you get used to the fact that there is GOING to be crying, the better." But, I still had crying going on in real time and I had to get to the bottom of the situation.
I tried my sweetest voice. I tried pleaded with the brothers and the boy cousin. Nothing was working. My Mommy bag was entirely empty.
I couldn't get anything out of her. And now she was crying so hard and had her head buried so far into the air bed that I couldn't understand a word she was saying.
Eventually*** she tried to calm herself down enough to communicate. The first two passes sounded something like "They, they, they...." (crying jag) and "I, I, I don't want..." (best ostrich imitation, head hitting Aerobed**** at speeds previously reserved for cheetahs.)
After about five minutes of this little game of Mommy torture*****, I finally learned the source of this consternation. She confessed, as the only sub-tween girl in the house, that she had been dealt the role of "Mommy" in the fort game.
And, she said, so pitifully, "I don't WANT to be the Mommy."
Oh, girlfriend. It took everything in my power not to laugh out loud at your sad, sad statement. It rang SO true because there are just some days your Aunt doesn't want to be the Mommy either, honey!
Now I was in completely unchartered territory. Crying, with Nowell sons, is cured by ice packs and brief hugs. Then it's over. On this one I REALLY had to use brain power.
And, apparently I found the right formula! Tears subsiding, after a little bit of well executed negotiation, she earned the coveted title of "sister", avoiding continuation of the dreaded "Mommy" moniker after a brief turn in its torturous grips. WOW! Maybe I could have raised a girl after all?!
I couldn't help but think of queens of centuries past who produced female non-heirs, thus learning their fate on the labor bed*****. It was as if cousin XX chromosome somehow knew she had produced the first male heir and HAD to be Mommy now. Except she wasn't going to have servants and handmaidens and nannies. You just can't run fast enough in this situation, can you, niece-friend?
At the tender age of seven, she is my sage for the times. I've never quite been able to verbalize my frustration as succinctly as she did.
Someday, at one of her baby showers, I'm sure we'll tell this story and it will produce big, hearty laughter.
And, I'll tell her: Sweetness, Mommyhood is frustrating work. There will be days you want to go all Marie Osmond on your clan and get in your car and drive far away. But, you'll come back because, somehow, after a few minutes of solitude it will be TOO quiet and you'll miss the screaming, fighting, and general excitement that comes with having kids.
Mommyhood is, after all, the only job you'll never regret the privilege of having.
*Little did she know that all I really managed to do was sit in the corner of our shell of a house and rock back and forth, drinking cheap wine while singing "KUMBAYA".
**Another downfall of not ever really cleaning: stuff rarely gets thrown out. This is great when you are five. Not so good when you are 43.
***The longest two minutes of my freakin' life.
****When I was pregnant and an insomniac, I watched an entire infomercial on the Aerobed. I ALMOST grabbed my credit card and made the call. Thankfully, I went to bed instead, because others in the family got sucked into the madness. Now we just borrow theirs....
*****I HATE not being able to assign time-outs with certainty and timeliness.
******I just love the irony implicit in the fact that Mr. King was throwing the XX sperm and Mrs. Queen ended up in the guillotine as a thank you gift. Um, HELLO, Mr. King? That leaves YOU and your minions to raise a girl ALL BY YOURSELF. Truly, a time of illogical men.
So, with my saintly sister-in-law in mind, I planned this week as a "thank you" repayment for her.
In a trade worthy of the major leagues, we gained the cousins and, simultaneously, Mike's parents took one of our kids for the week. The only thing that could have made this better would have been a generous, sign-on bonus.
Net result: up one non-Nowell kid, down one of our own. That took a lot of whiny out of the conversation.
With all the particulars in place, cousin's camp began.
For the first 20 hours, everyone was on their best behavior. There was plenty of "please", "thank you" and general excitement to be had. In a word: copacetic.
Then, this morning hit.
You must keep in mind that the kids have been messing around with a newly created "fort", made from the washer and dryer boxes of previous posts**.
At first, it was kid nirvana. Then it became "us" against "them". Then it became "You are ___", where each child was assigned a role by the other kids.
After this occurred, the only girl in the entire pack started crying. These weren't little, sweet, roll down your face slowly tears. These were big, falling off your cheeks, crocodile tears.
I did what any Mom who is raising boys and hasn't a clue about raising girls would do: I instantly figured the boys were at fault and asked them how they had hurt her feelings. Seemed logical to me.
They all shrugged their shoulders. From what I was gathering, they really didn't know.
I wanted to pat them all on the back and give them the "BASICS OF YOUR FUTURE WIFE AND ANY DAUGHTERS LECTURE" that goes something like this: "Buck up, guys. This is what life with the female set is going be like later in your life. The quicker you get used to the fact that there is GOING to be crying, the better." But, I still had crying going on in real time and I had to get to the bottom of the situation.
I tried my sweetest voice. I tried pleaded with the brothers and the boy cousin. Nothing was working. My Mommy bag was entirely empty.
I couldn't get anything out of her. And now she was crying so hard and had her head buried so far into the air bed that I couldn't understand a word she was saying.
Eventually*** she tried to calm herself down enough to communicate. The first two passes sounded something like "They, they, they...." (crying jag) and "I, I, I don't want..." (best ostrich imitation, head hitting Aerobed**** at speeds previously reserved for cheetahs.)
After about five minutes of this little game of Mommy torture*****, I finally learned the source of this consternation. She confessed, as the only sub-tween girl in the house, that she had been dealt the role of "Mommy" in the fort game.
And, she said, so pitifully, "I don't WANT to be the Mommy."
Oh, girlfriend. It took everything in my power not to laugh out loud at your sad, sad statement. It rang SO true because there are just some days your Aunt doesn't want to be the Mommy either, honey!
Now I was in completely unchartered territory. Crying, with Nowell sons, is cured by ice packs and brief hugs. Then it's over. On this one I REALLY had to use brain power.
And, apparently I found the right formula! Tears subsiding, after a little bit of well executed negotiation, she earned the coveted title of "sister", avoiding continuation of the dreaded "Mommy" moniker after a brief turn in its torturous grips. WOW! Maybe I could have raised a girl after all?!
I couldn't help but think of queens of centuries past who produced female non-heirs, thus learning their fate on the labor bed*****. It was as if cousin XX chromosome somehow knew she had produced the first male heir and HAD to be Mommy now. Except she wasn't going to have servants and handmaidens and nannies. You just can't run fast enough in this situation, can you, niece-friend?
At the tender age of seven, she is my sage for the times. I've never quite been able to verbalize my frustration as succinctly as she did.
Someday, at one of her baby showers, I'm sure we'll tell this story and it will produce big, hearty laughter.
And, I'll tell her: Sweetness, Mommyhood is frustrating work. There will be days you want to go all Marie Osmond on your clan and get in your car and drive far away. But, you'll come back because, somehow, after a few minutes of solitude it will be TOO quiet and you'll miss the screaming, fighting, and general excitement that comes with having kids.
Mommyhood is, after all, the only job you'll never regret the privilege of having.
*Little did she know that all I really managed to do was sit in the corner of our shell of a house and rock back and forth, drinking cheap wine while singing "KUMBAYA".
**Another downfall of not ever really cleaning: stuff rarely gets thrown out. This is great when you are five. Not so good when you are 43.
***The longest two minutes of my freakin' life.
****When I was pregnant and an insomniac, I watched an entire infomercial on the Aerobed. I ALMOST grabbed my credit card and made the call. Thankfully, I went to bed instead, because others in the family got sucked into the madness. Now we just borrow theirs....
*****I HATE not being able to assign time-outs with certainty and timeliness.
******I just love the irony implicit in the fact that Mr. King was throwing the XX sperm and Mrs. Queen ended up in the guillotine as a thank you gift. Um, HELLO, Mr. King? That leaves YOU and your minions to raise a girl ALL BY YOURSELF. Truly, a time of illogical men.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Creative Cussing
When you grow up in a house where one-half of the lineage is German, there is going to be cussing. It's really almost a law.
Actually, it's probably closer to simple math: German + pulse = cursing.
Somewhere down the line, after arrival at Ellis Island, the Germans in my family settled in Upstate New York. Not long after that*, they installed a keg in the barn. I am not lying. Attached to a fridge, to keep that sucker cold 24/7.
Now, when you do the math here, you get: German + keg + conscious = extra cussing.
Then, along comes another generation of Germans. They marry a generation of much tamer Europeans, mostly of English heritage. The English are well-known for telling great stories after tanking up on a good ale.
That makes: German x bier + English x ale = more socially acceptable cussing.
Now I've laid the ground work for my childhood.
By the time I hit the scene, the heavy usage of bier/ale was down to a few well-executed beverages after work time. Cheese/crackers as a chaser.
This was, after all, the 70's, the decade of absolute crazy drug use, polyester pant suits, drinking, key parties**/***, and disco dancing****. Frankly, the 70's were UGLY. But the language, at least around our house, was pretty clean thanks to the new kids on the block. Yup, me and my little brother.
Not to brag, but there are few Scrabble players who can sit knee-to-knee with my Dad. And, in case you are thinking my transition from the last sentence is completely missing, let me guide you--to play Scrabble, you have to have an extensive vocabulary. In order to be really good at cussing, without REALLY cussing, you have to EXECUTE said vocabulary with ninja-like mastery.
So: Scrabble master + walking dictionary = creative cussing (the kind that can be done in front of kids.) Hence, the pretty clean language around our house.*****
What does creative cussing sound like? It's the "tapestry of obscenity" Ralphie's Dad weaves in "A Christmas Story". Only louder.
Take a typical Saturday repair. Culprit: faucet in the bathroom with annoying leak. Tools ready? Check. Kids looking on? Check. Pliers in hand, the painstaking dismantling of the faucet handle begins. Surgeons around the world only dream of performing the precision movements being exacted on this spigot. The air is rife with the excitement of avoiding the cost of a plumber.
The creativity begins innocently enough with "son of a biscuit eater" after the pliers slip and cut a knuckle. One band-aid and ten minutes later, once again the plumbing train pulls out of the station. All aboard!
When the handle proves too hard to unscrew, we ratchet up to "fudgemiesters"******. I'm too fixated on where I can find the fudge to realize he's practically dropped the "F" bomb.
We hit full-tilt with "frickinfrackinbabydiapers" after the entire contraption breaks in his hands and water starts spewing all over the bathroom. By the time he's at the third syllable and water has hit the mirror, bro and I have hit the door and run three blocks away. We only turn to look back when we are both winded. And we don't return until we see the plumber's truck pull up.
Once a professional is in the bathroom, we feel safe to return. Priceless tidbits learned from the plumber that day:
1. how to literally envision "butt crack"
2. how to properly use the phrase "son of a b^tch"*******
3. how to effectively use a credit card.
Takeaway: German + tools + creative cussing = expensive plumber with poor judgment of own hiney size and horrid verbiage use around kids.
Now, if you ever hear my kids say something odd like "bearhugalug" and you are wondering "What was THAT?", you'll know.
It's either homage to their German ancestors or the beginning of a beautiful relationship with wacky word problems.
I'll let you be the judge of that.
*I'm taking some time liberties here--I doubt they had a fridge until a few years after landing here. The keg? Bet that was there by noon on day one.
**Watch the movie "The Ice Storm" if you are confused. Better yet, skip the movie and Goggle the term. Buyer beware: you may not want to know.
***Disclaimer, lest I be yelled at by the parentage: to the best of my knowledge, this NEVER happened in our house or any house my parents frequented. It's just an ugly blotch on the decade. Disclaimer II: I only know what this is because I ante-upped money to see the critically-acclaimed "The Ice Storm". DEPRESSING.
****Which only looked good because of all the things that came before it in the sentence. I include the polyester pant suit in that statement. Really, what else WOULD you do The Hustle in?
*****Unless one of my German uncles was visiting. Then all bets were OFF.
******Note the nod to old German heritage. Nice.
*******As in "Well, this s.o.b. is really bent, ain't she?"
Actually, it's probably closer to simple math: German + pulse = cursing.
Somewhere down the line, after arrival at Ellis Island, the Germans in my family settled in Upstate New York. Not long after that*, they installed a keg in the barn. I am not lying. Attached to a fridge, to keep that sucker cold 24/7.
Now, when you do the math here, you get: German + keg + conscious = extra cussing.
Then, along comes another generation of Germans. They marry a generation of much tamer Europeans, mostly of English heritage. The English are well-known for telling great stories after tanking up on a good ale.
That makes: German x bier + English x ale = more socially acceptable cussing.
Now I've laid the ground work for my childhood.
By the time I hit the scene, the heavy usage of bier/ale was down to a few well-executed beverages after work time. Cheese/crackers as a chaser.
This was, after all, the 70's, the decade of absolute crazy drug use, polyester pant suits, drinking, key parties**/***, and disco dancing****. Frankly, the 70's were UGLY. But the language, at least around our house, was pretty clean thanks to the new kids on the block. Yup, me and my little brother.
Not to brag, but there are few Scrabble players who can sit knee-to-knee with my Dad. And, in case you are thinking my transition from the last sentence is completely missing, let me guide you--to play Scrabble, you have to have an extensive vocabulary. In order to be really good at cussing, without REALLY cussing, you have to EXECUTE said vocabulary with ninja-like mastery.
So: Scrabble master + walking dictionary = creative cussing (the kind that can be done in front of kids.) Hence, the pretty clean language around our house.*****
What does creative cussing sound like? It's the "tapestry of obscenity" Ralphie's Dad weaves in "A Christmas Story". Only louder.
Take a typical Saturday repair. Culprit: faucet in the bathroom with annoying leak. Tools ready? Check. Kids looking on? Check. Pliers in hand, the painstaking dismantling of the faucet handle begins. Surgeons around the world only dream of performing the precision movements being exacted on this spigot. The air is rife with the excitement of avoiding the cost of a plumber.
The creativity begins innocently enough with "son of a biscuit eater" after the pliers slip and cut a knuckle. One band-aid and ten minutes later, once again the plumbing train pulls out of the station. All aboard!
When the handle proves too hard to unscrew, we ratchet up to "fudgemiesters"******. I'm too fixated on where I can find the fudge to realize he's practically dropped the "F" bomb.
We hit full-tilt with "frickinfrackinbabydiapers" after the entire contraption breaks in his hands and water starts spewing all over the bathroom. By the time he's at the third syllable and water has hit the mirror, bro and I have hit the door and run three blocks away. We only turn to look back when we are both winded. And we don't return until we see the plumber's truck pull up.
Once a professional is in the bathroom, we feel safe to return. Priceless tidbits learned from the plumber that day:
1. how to literally envision "butt crack"
2. how to properly use the phrase "son of a b^tch"*******
3. how to effectively use a credit card.
Takeaway: German + tools + creative cussing = expensive plumber with poor judgment of own hiney size and horrid verbiage use around kids.
Now, if you ever hear my kids say something odd like "bearhugalug" and you are wondering "What was THAT?", you'll know.
It's either homage to their German ancestors or the beginning of a beautiful relationship with wacky word problems.
I'll let you be the judge of that.
*I'm taking some time liberties here--I doubt they had a fridge until a few years after landing here. The keg? Bet that was there by noon on day one.
**Watch the movie "The Ice Storm" if you are confused. Better yet, skip the movie and Goggle the term. Buyer beware: you may not want to know.
***Disclaimer, lest I be yelled at by the parentage: to the best of my knowledge, this NEVER happened in our house or any house my parents frequented. It's just an ugly blotch on the decade. Disclaimer II: I only know what this is because I ante-upped money to see the critically-acclaimed "The Ice Storm". DEPRESSING.
****Which only looked good because of all the things that came before it in the sentence. I include the polyester pant suit in that statement. Really, what else WOULD you do The Hustle in?
*****Unless one of my German uncles was visiting. Then all bets were OFF.
******Note the nod to old German heritage. Nice.
*******As in "Well, this s.o.b. is really bent, ain't she?"
Sunday, July 26, 2009
My kids think I'm smart??
Over time you learn how much your parents really DO know. Take, for instance, that the boyfriend you had in High School was really not in your league*. Or that you would eventually MISS the days when your only job was in the drive-thru at the Burger King**. Or "This is going to hurt me more than it's going to hurt you."***
Now, being a parent myself, it would be nice to get a jump start on this "You really DO know something" business, instead of waiting for my sweeties to turn 25 and make this revelation****. But, alas, my years of payback have come to roost for the long haul.
You see, in the Sackett/Huber family continuum, we don't try to learn from the lessons of our elders, we just let the mistakes slide into the next generation so we have someone to laugh at come family reunion time.
Take, for example, a certain woman***** who, as a child, destroyed her Mother's NEW DINING ROOM CHAIR. This, of course, devastated the Mother, who complained up the family chain to HER Mother. The pithy response: "I remember when you destroyed MY new furniture. I guess the chickens came home to roost!"
No pity, I tell you. No pity.
So, should I consider it unusual that I've been told, slightly more than once yet barely less than one million times, "Paybacks are Hell"?
Or been told the joke:
"A little boy asks his Mother 'where do gray hairs come from?'
Stealthy replying, the Mother says, 'I get a gray hair every time you misbehave.'
Without missing a beat, the little boy says, 'Then why does Grandma have snow white hair?'"******
I'm guessing I'm supposed to be THE MOTHER in this insipid little joke?
So, instead of getting hammered from both sides of the ancestral hierarchy, and in my quest to make it to the age when my sons KNOW I am as smart as I've suspected all along, I've decided to follow a few golden rules:
1. Don't look for pity from those who wiped your behind or from those whose bottoms you are currently tending to. Save your sob stories for margarita-drinking girlfriends who won't counter with a story about your horrendous childhood/teenage years or how mean you are for yelling after they touched the recently painted bathroom cabinets, then smeared them on their jammies/wall/door jam, when they were SUPPOSED TO BE IN BED.*******
2. Don't try to force your kids into thinking you are smart before your time. You are like a fine wine: if you try to get your kids to imbibe too early, there will be BITTERNESS and throw-up. If you patiently wait until you have reached your peak, there will be glowing reports of your wonderful ripeness. And way less vomit.
3. No matter what you do, remember and sing with gusto, Dory's best line in Finding Nemo: "Just keep swimming, swimming, swimming. Just keep swimming, swimming, swimming." With all the repitition, it will make those around you go stark raving mad. You, however, will be in complete control, whisked away to Doryland, with nary a sad or unhappy thought in your head. Just like Dory....
Oh, and consider investing in cases of Clairol's "6G Light Golden Brown". Then use with stunning frequency. It's a two-for-one defense against silly questions from children AND repetitive matriarchal jokes.
Now I'd say that's smart.
*"Idiots for $200, please, Alex. Yes, sir, that IS my name! My parents were RIGHT!"
**Yes, but I DON'T pine for the clingy brown and orange polyester pantsuits we were forced to wear. Unstylish in ANY era.
***Totally and unequivocally bogus on any continent and in any language. That crap HURT!
****Like some other pinhead I'm faintly acquainted with..attached to..OK, ME. Happy now?
*****Yes, blog readers, I was a hellion early on.
******Always followed by a side-splitting snort/laugh.
*******Bitter? Irritated? Who, me?
Now, being a parent myself, it would be nice to get a jump start on this "You really DO know something" business, instead of waiting for my sweeties to turn 25 and make this revelation****. But, alas, my years of payback have come to roost for the long haul.
You see, in the Sackett/Huber family continuum, we don't try to learn from the lessons of our elders, we just let the mistakes slide into the next generation so we have someone to laugh at come family reunion time.
Take, for example, a certain woman***** who, as a child, destroyed her Mother's NEW DINING ROOM CHAIR. This, of course, devastated the Mother, who complained up the family chain to HER Mother. The pithy response: "I remember when you destroyed MY new furniture. I guess the chickens came home to roost!"
No pity, I tell you. No pity.
So, should I consider it unusual that I've been told, slightly more than once yet barely less than one million times, "Paybacks are Hell"?
Or been told the joke:
"A little boy asks his Mother 'where do gray hairs come from?'
Stealthy replying, the Mother says, 'I get a gray hair every time you misbehave.'
Without missing a beat, the little boy says, 'Then why does Grandma have snow white hair?'"******
I'm guessing I'm supposed to be THE MOTHER in this insipid little joke?
So, instead of getting hammered from both sides of the ancestral hierarchy, and in my quest to make it to the age when my sons KNOW I am as smart as I've suspected all along, I've decided to follow a few golden rules:
1. Don't look for pity from those who wiped your behind or from those whose bottoms you are currently tending to. Save your sob stories for margarita-drinking girlfriends who won't counter with a story about your horrendous childhood/teenage years or how mean you are for yelling after they touched the recently painted bathroom cabinets, then smeared them on their jammies/wall/door jam, when they were SUPPOSED TO BE IN BED.*******
2. Don't try to force your kids into thinking you are smart before your time. You are like a fine wine: if you try to get your kids to imbibe too early, there will be BITTERNESS and throw-up. If you patiently wait until you have reached your peak, there will be glowing reports of your wonderful ripeness. And way less vomit.
3. No matter what you do, remember and sing with gusto, Dory's best line in Finding Nemo: "Just keep swimming, swimming, swimming. Just keep swimming, swimming, swimming." With all the repitition, it will make those around you go stark raving mad. You, however, will be in complete control, whisked away to Doryland, with nary a sad or unhappy thought in your head. Just like Dory....
Oh, and consider investing in cases of Clairol's "6G Light Golden Brown". Then use with stunning frequency. It's a two-for-one defense against silly questions from children AND repetitive matriarchal jokes.
Now I'd say that's smart.
*"Idiots for $200, please, Alex. Yes, sir, that IS my name! My parents were RIGHT!"
**Yes, but I DON'T pine for the clingy brown and orange polyester pantsuits we were forced to wear. Unstylish in ANY era.
***Totally and unequivocally bogus on any continent and in any language. That crap HURT!
****Like some other pinhead I'm faintly acquainted with..attached to..OK, ME. Happy now?
*****Yes, blog readers, I was a hellion early on.
******Always followed by a side-splitting snort/laugh.
*******Bitter? Irritated? Who, me?
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