Today, I went to Target, as I am want to do. I went despite the pouring rain and my lack of raincoat, umbrella, galoshes, etc. and the fact that I had two babies in tow. I needed to use my four dollar coupon for the contact lense solution I like before it expired on Friday. (Coupon shopping being one of the requisite qualities of all SAHM's) So I explained to Annabelle as I parked the car that we needed to be "quick-sticks" and I grabbed her and Tallulah and headed inside.
After purchasing my contact lense solution and 150.00 worth of other stuff, (which is why I am pro heights- walmart, I would never buy cute swimsuits for Annabelle and other stuff at walmart, I would just get the hell out of there as soon as possible) we headed back out to the van-- the weather had not improved.
It was at this point I was approached by a man who offered to walk me to my car under the shelter of his over sized umbrella. I accepted, of course, and was happily trotting along with him when my brain kicked in and told me the following:
Uptight Audrey Brain: dude, are you crazy? this guy could be a serial killer who is going to rape-murder you. He will open the van door, whack you on the head, shove you inside, rape-murder you and/or sell your kids to the almost-white slave market, and the security cameras won't pick it up because of his big umbrella. God, you idiot, quit making small talk and start holding your keys in a menacing way and at least try to study his face so if he lets you live, and that is a big if, you can describe him to the cops.
Happy-go-lucky Stella Brain: okay. I will look at him and study him, but you are totally overreacting. okay, I am looking at his face. wow. look at that toupee. That is a really impressive one. The mother of all toupees. Wavy and long, it almost looks natural, but, as with all toups, the hair is just a little to thick, not thick like thick and sexy, but each individual piece of hair that comprises the toupee is too thick. I am surprised he is even wearing one, most people are just going bald these days, which is fine by me, I mean I love a guy with nice hair and all, but bald can be...
uptight audrey brain: QUIT THAT BLABBERING AND LOOK AT HIS FACE
happy go lucky: okay there is a small mole near his toupee, is that gel, does he put gel on that?
uptight audrey: ARRRGGHHHHH
By this time we reached the car, and he helped me put the car seat in, wished me a good day, and bid me adieu.
Who says chivalry is dead? There he was, my knight with shiny head armour, and me, a damsel with mental distress.
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Thursday, December 23, 2010
When and how we pray
When Annabelle was a baby, the worst time of day was the 2.a.m feeding. The house was lonely and creepy, no one was awake and I had those terrible Johnny Cash blues. I started to dread it every night at about 10p.m. One of those weird things that happens when you have a baby, I guess.
With Tallulah, I enjoy that feeding. Even though I am tired out of my mind, the house seems peaceful and quiet and content. I start by thanking God for all the people at rest in my house and I pray for the health of everyone in my family. And then I ask him for selfish things and for non selfish things.
I am in the habit of praying at all times of the day. For big things (please don't let my mom's cancer come back) and little things (make this light turn green right now before the baby notices the car is stopped and starts to scream again). I think you need to stay in constant contact.
I met a girl (when I say girl I mean someone who is slightly younger than me) once and I knew we would always be friends when she crossed herself as an ambulance went by. I asked what she was doing and she said she always says a little prayer for the person in the ambulance. I never knew anyone else did that besides me.
But nothing beats my mom. My mom is one of those people who every night before she goes to bed says the name of all of her family, sisters, brother, in-laws, neices, nephews, great neices and nephews, and all of her friends. She prays herself to sleep. Her prayers almost always get answered and when they don't, she assumes she is not sincere enough and is doing something wrong. After she broke her ankle, when she was foggy brained on pain meds, I called her and she told me she sent an email to God about her ankle. An email. And although it has become our joke, she continues to tell me that she is sending God an email about something or other. Today she told me how to do it.
Mom: do you want to know how to send and email to God? This is how you do it. You think--
to: God
from: Antoniamstevens@yahoo.com
re: tallulah sleeping though the night
CC: the blessed mother (you always cc the blessed mother on all emails you send to God)
Dear God,
please let Tallulah sleep at least 4 hours tonight. My daughter is tired and needs her rest and this would really help her.
(and then you always sign it like this)
your most humble servant,
antonia in castroville (you have to let him know where you are).
I am going to try it tonight. I will ask him for big things and little things, and I will thank him for all of you who read my blog and ask him to bless you with health and peace and a Merry Christmas.
With Tallulah, I enjoy that feeding. Even though I am tired out of my mind, the house seems peaceful and quiet and content. I start by thanking God for all the people at rest in my house and I pray for the health of everyone in my family. And then I ask him for selfish things and for non selfish things.
I am in the habit of praying at all times of the day. For big things (please don't let my mom's cancer come back) and little things (make this light turn green right now before the baby notices the car is stopped and starts to scream again). I think you need to stay in constant contact.
I met a girl (when I say girl I mean someone who is slightly younger than me) once and I knew we would always be friends when she crossed herself as an ambulance went by. I asked what she was doing and she said she always says a little prayer for the person in the ambulance. I never knew anyone else did that besides me.
But nothing beats my mom. My mom is one of those people who every night before she goes to bed says the name of all of her family, sisters, brother, in-laws, neices, nephews, great neices and nephews, and all of her friends. She prays herself to sleep. Her prayers almost always get answered and when they don't, she assumes she is not sincere enough and is doing something wrong. After she broke her ankle, when she was foggy brained on pain meds, I called her and she told me she sent an email to God about her ankle. An email. And although it has become our joke, she continues to tell me that she is sending God an email about something or other. Today she told me how to do it.
Mom: do you want to know how to send and email to God? This is how you do it. You think--
to: God
from: Antoniamstevens@yahoo.com
re: tallulah sleeping though the night
CC: the blessed mother (you always cc the blessed mother on all emails you send to God)
Dear God,
please let Tallulah sleep at least 4 hours tonight. My daughter is tired and needs her rest and this would really help her.
(and then you always sign it like this)
your most humble servant,
antonia in castroville (you have to let him know where you are).
I am going to try it tonight. I will ask him for big things and little things, and I will thank him for all of you who read my blog and ask him to bless you with health and peace and a Merry Christmas.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
growing pains
It is textbook behavior when a new baby is in the house. The neediness, always wanting my attention, constantly being underfoot--at times I literally trip on her. And it was no surprise, I expected the neediness. I know she loves the baby, that much is obvious, she is always by the bassinet while the baby is sleeping and loving on the baby in her own way, which is not always the most gentle, whenever Tallulah is awake.
But I did not expect a regression in her behavior, doing things that I thought we had grown out of long ago. That has been very frustrating--at times she has been down right destructive--and that causes me to lose my temper, and I yell and it upsets her, which causes more attention-seeking behavior.
I should have dropped her off at the pound years ago and then I wouldn't be dealing with this crap.
But I did not expect a regression in her behavior, doing things that I thought we had grown out of long ago. That has been very frustrating--at times she has been down right destructive--and that causes me to lose my temper, and I yell and it upsets her, which causes more attention-seeking behavior.
I should have dropped her off at the pound years ago and then I wouldn't be dealing with this crap.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
my sunday husband
About once every 6 weeks or so, Hyphen comes to church with us--and it is awesome. He gets all dressed up (raised Episcopalian, he is horrified by the amount of jeans in Catholic church.) and we go together, he kisses me during the sign of peace and holds our hand during the Our Father. He takes Annabelle to the cry room, if the need arises, and afterwards we talk to our friends and then go to Chinatown for lunch, and we feel like a real family. There is something about him coming that makes Sunday beautiful and special and takes away any trace of that Johnny Cash -i'm -so-lonely-and-I-smell-chicken-frying-and-want-to -blow-my-brains-out-because it-is-Sunday-and-I-miss-mama song out of your day.
But that is only once every six weeks. The rest of the time, I am in a relationship with another man. It started in the summer and continues through today, he is my church husband. He must have some weird kind of B.O, that everyone can smell but me, because there is never anyone sitting around him and since I am always running a couple of minutes late, no matter how early I start getting ready, I always end up sitting next to him. I can't really tell how old he is--he could be anywhere from 25-40. He always comes alone. He tolerates Annabelle's squirmy-ness with a detached good humor and during the height of my pregnancy would occasionally help me with the knealer. We don't kiss, but we do hold hands during the Our Father and he picks up the toys/sippys/necklaces that Annabelle drops and hands them to me. I don't know his name, but feel as though it must be Marco or Marcus or Mark. But most likely Marco. We have never spoken, except to say peace be with you, until today.
Today is the day Mexican people celebrate La Virgen of Guadalupe's appearance to Juan Diego, and the Hispanic Community from my Church was putting on a reenactment of this at the Church Gym (what Annabelle likes to call the "church where you can talk and we have a Halloween party") and we went. There he was, in a row behind us this time, but still all alone, with no one sitting around him. He gave me a warm, familiar smile that I took to mean "oh there you are, I was wondering where you were and figured you had the baby. She is so beautiful, how is our other one taking to being a big sister? I bet you are a good big sister. I missed your singing during Church, Annabelle. Anyway, I am so glad you are back, I'll see you next week."
We walked out together and he held the door open for us and today for the first time we said good bye to each other.
Me and my Sunday husband, Marco.
But that is only once every six weeks. The rest of the time, I am in a relationship with another man. It started in the summer and continues through today, he is my church husband. He must have some weird kind of B.O, that everyone can smell but me, because there is never anyone sitting around him and since I am always running a couple of minutes late, no matter how early I start getting ready, I always end up sitting next to him. I can't really tell how old he is--he could be anywhere from 25-40. He always comes alone. He tolerates Annabelle's squirmy-ness with a detached good humor and during the height of my pregnancy would occasionally help me with the knealer. We don't kiss, but we do hold hands during the Our Father and he picks up the toys/sippys/necklaces that Annabelle drops and hands them to me. I don't know his name, but feel as though it must be Marco or Marcus or Mark. But most likely Marco. We have never spoken, except to say peace be with you, until today.
Today is the day Mexican people celebrate La Virgen of Guadalupe's appearance to Juan Diego, and the Hispanic Community from my Church was putting on a reenactment of this at the Church Gym (what Annabelle likes to call the "church where you can talk and we have a Halloween party") and we went. There he was, in a row behind us this time, but still all alone, with no one sitting around him. He gave me a warm, familiar smile that I took to mean "oh there you are, I was wondering where you were and figured you had the baby. She is so beautiful, how is our other one taking to being a big sister? I bet you are a good big sister. I missed your singing during Church, Annabelle. Anyway, I am so glad you are back, I'll see you next week."
We walked out together and he held the door open for us and today for the first time we said good bye to each other.
Me and my Sunday husband, Marco.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
don't read this if you are especially sensitve to the plight of native americans
Phone conversation I had recently with my sister
Me: hey dude, what are you doing?
A: living the dream in palm springs, no kids, no husband, fancy hotel.
Me: oh, yeah, at a conference right? how is the hotel?
A: awesome. It is way better than the last one, except there was no airport shuttle, so I had to split a cab with some ladies who are also attending the conference, and then we all ate dinner together.
Me: oh, that was nice, where were they from?
A: south dakota
Me: what is you conference for?
A: native american health care
Me: What? why?
A: well in the new health care package there is a lot of money set aside to redo some of the Indian clinics...
Me: what???? there are like 10 Indians left, why do they get my money?
A (exasperated): I don't know, ask Obama, maybe to address the horrible diabetes and other health care problems they have been suffering since they adopted the white man's diet.
Me: He doesn't return my calls. maybe they need to eat more tuhtanka. Hey, while you are there, can you get me one of those turquoise cuff bracelets, like a real big one, like 4 inches- I'll pay you back
A(more exasperated) : it is not that kind of conference
Me: sure it is, I am sure they will have a table where they are hawking their wares. Do you think there is going to be anyone there with long hair, like wind-in-his-hair, and if there is, can you text me a picture of it? but only if it is a man, and only if he looks like wind-in-his-hair.
A: (really hacked) umm, sure.
A few days later....
Me: " how was the conference?
A: good
Me: did you get me a cuff?
A; I told you, it wasn't that kind of conference
Me: you mean to tell me that you saw no cuffs?
A: actually, I saw lots of people wearing the cuffs and other kinds of turquoise
Me: and you didn't say "here is this shiny cell phone I'll trade it to you for your cuff."
A:(really pissed) "NO!!!!! They don't barter, they are regular people. I did see a man with long hair, though and he had leather braided in it.
Me: and you didn't send me a picture??? Wait-- were those ladies you ate dinner with Indians--did they have cuffs on???
A (resigned sigh) Yes. they were. And yes they did.
Me: You couldn't simply ask them " hey that is a beautiful cuff, where did you get that? and then they could say "on the res, I know this guy, here is his business card...."
A: (yelling)I AM NOT GOING TO ASK SOMEONE THAT AT A PROFESSIONAL CONFERENCE!!!!! I am not like you. And I am not going to ask someone something just to hear them say on the res!!!!!!
Me: (resigned sigh) I am not sure what kind of sister knows that her sister wants an Indian cuff bracelet and then goes somewhere there are tons of people, including her new friends wearing them and then doesn't bother to ask anyone where they got them or trade her cell phone for one of them!!!!!!!!!!
A: the kind that is not going to do that.
Me: bye
A: bye
Me: hey dude, what are you doing?
A: living the dream in palm springs, no kids, no husband, fancy hotel.
Me: oh, yeah, at a conference right? how is the hotel?
A: awesome. It is way better than the last one, except there was no airport shuttle, so I had to split a cab with some ladies who are also attending the conference, and then we all ate dinner together.
Me: oh, that was nice, where were they from?
A: south dakota
Me: what is you conference for?
A: native american health care
Me: What? why?
A: well in the new health care package there is a lot of money set aside to redo some of the Indian clinics...
Me: what???? there are like 10 Indians left, why do they get my money?
A (exasperated): I don't know, ask Obama, maybe to address the horrible diabetes and other health care problems they have been suffering since they adopted the white man's diet.
Me: He doesn't return my calls. maybe they need to eat more tuhtanka. Hey, while you are there, can you get me one of those turquoise cuff bracelets, like a real big one, like 4 inches- I'll pay you back
A(more exasperated) : it is not that kind of conference
Me: sure it is, I am sure they will have a table where they are hawking their wares. Do you think there is going to be anyone there with long hair, like wind-in-his-hair, and if there is, can you text me a picture of it? but only if it is a man, and only if he looks like wind-in-his-hair.
A: (really hacked) umm, sure.
A few days later....
Me: " how was the conference?
A: good
Me: did you get me a cuff?
A; I told you, it wasn't that kind of conference
Me: you mean to tell me that you saw no cuffs?
A: actually, I saw lots of people wearing the cuffs and other kinds of turquoise
Me: and you didn't say "here is this shiny cell phone I'll trade it to you for your cuff."
A:(really pissed) "NO!!!!! They don't barter, they are regular people. I did see a man with long hair, though and he had leather braided in it.
Me: and you didn't send me a picture??? Wait-- were those ladies you ate dinner with Indians--did they have cuffs on???
A (resigned sigh) Yes. they were. And yes they did.
Me: You couldn't simply ask them " hey that is a beautiful cuff, where did you get that? and then they could say "on the res, I know this guy, here is his business card...."
A: (yelling)I AM NOT GOING TO ASK SOMEONE THAT AT A PROFESSIONAL CONFERENCE!!!!! I am not like you. And I am not going to ask someone something just to hear them say on the res!!!!!!
Me: (resigned sigh) I am not sure what kind of sister knows that her sister wants an Indian cuff bracelet and then goes somewhere there are tons of people, including her new friends wearing them and then doesn't bother to ask anyone where they got them or trade her cell phone for one of them!!!!!!!!!!
A: the kind that is not going to do that.
Me: bye
A: bye
Thursday, December 2, 2010
1985 ford tempo
I used to neck with my boyfriend in a 1985 ford tempo. It was gray with a maroon interior. It had a faded theodoore roosevelt high school parking sticker on it and some little teddy bear thing hung around the rear view mirror. It was scrupulously clean. He spent a lot of time washing it. Hours at a time. He had lots of special sponges and rags to clean the car and lots of dedicated cleaning products. I found this very interesting because at our house we would just fill a bucket with Palmolive and wash the dirt off. But not this guy. He would armour-all the dash and even had this special spray he would put on the tires that made them shiny. I didn't realize you needed to wash the tires of a car, but that is because I drive a "trash can on wheels" as Hyphen likes to put it.
Anyway, I used to go over to his house and help him wash his car (this was in the early 90s, when people still washed their own cars). I am a very "when in rome" type of person, and so I figured as long as I was dating this guy, I might as well help him wash his car, even though my 1986 La Baron was full of drink cups, general filth and said "wash me" on the back. Sometimes he would wash my La Baron, which was nice of him. Then he would always say something like "try to keep it clean this time." Afterwards, we would drive over to the Diamond Shamrock on Austin Highway. He said that out of all the nearby gas stations, this one was the cheapest and he would gas up his car for 95 cents a gallon and then get a big gulp like drink. He would ask me if I wanted one and I would say no, because it was really too much soda for me and I didn't want to be rude and ask for something of someone who drove out of his way to find the cheapest gas he could to fill up his car. (I was somewhat spoiled, having a gas card that my parents paid for.) So I would always say to him "no, I'll just have a little sip of yours." He would laugh and smile in way that I knew he found me endearing and would always finish the "little sip of yours" part of the sentence with me.
That was a long time ago. I am thinking of that car now, tonight, to help me get through this night of mom ping-pong. It is a new game being played at our house, where one child needs me and then the other child needs me and before I finish with one properly and meet her needs the other starts to cry and then the cry turns into a scream and I leave the child I am trying to make comfortable and happy to tend to the one that is making noise. And just when I calm the noisy one down, the first one who was almost calm before I left her, starts to cry again. Ping Pong, get it? It is weird though--God has given me some kind of freakish mom endorphins that are getting me through the game calmly and serenely, and in the end, the ball wins the match with two peaceful, sleeping children as her trohpies.
My husband is sitting on his chair watching the game. He says he needs to rest and cannot help. I am really not sure who he is right now. I asked him for a sip of his drink and he said not to touch it. My van, though, is uncharacteristically clean, and I have tried to keep it clean, this time, for a few days now.
Anyway, I used to go over to his house and help him wash his car (this was in the early 90s, when people still washed their own cars). I am a very "when in rome" type of person, and so I figured as long as I was dating this guy, I might as well help him wash his car, even though my 1986 La Baron was full of drink cups, general filth and said "wash me" on the back. Sometimes he would wash my La Baron, which was nice of him. Then he would always say something like "try to keep it clean this time." Afterwards, we would drive over to the Diamond Shamrock on Austin Highway. He said that out of all the nearby gas stations, this one was the cheapest and he would gas up his car for 95 cents a gallon and then get a big gulp like drink. He would ask me if I wanted one and I would say no, because it was really too much soda for me and I didn't want to be rude and ask for something of someone who drove out of his way to find the cheapest gas he could to fill up his car. (I was somewhat spoiled, having a gas card that my parents paid for.) So I would always say to him "no, I'll just have a little sip of yours." He would laugh and smile in way that I knew he found me endearing and would always finish the "little sip of yours" part of the sentence with me.
That was a long time ago. I am thinking of that car now, tonight, to help me get through this night of mom ping-pong. It is a new game being played at our house, where one child needs me and then the other child needs me and before I finish with one properly and meet her needs the other starts to cry and then the cry turns into a scream and I leave the child I am trying to make comfortable and happy to tend to the one that is making noise. And just when I calm the noisy one down, the first one who was almost calm before I left her, starts to cry again. Ping Pong, get it? It is weird though--God has given me some kind of freakish mom endorphins that are getting me through the game calmly and serenely, and in the end, the ball wins the match with two peaceful, sleeping children as her trohpies.
My husband is sitting on his chair watching the game. He says he needs to rest and cannot help. I am really not sure who he is right now. I asked him for a sip of his drink and he said not to touch it. My van, though, is uncharacteristically clean, and I have tried to keep it clean, this time, for a few days now.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
an addendum
Shortly after I wrote my last blog post, Annabelle threw up in her bed. After we finally calmed her down, put her to sleep in our bed, I got up to pee. As I got back into bed I felt a pop and my water broke. It was one in the morning. We loaded up Annabelle, took her to the people who we have been friends with for half of our lives, and then my water broke some more on their front porch. Hope they get that cleaned up in time--their house is on an upcoming home tour. We headed to the hospital and everything looked like it was going to be great, until I had two contractions in a row and her heart rate dropped. Nurses came dashing into the room and scared me a little bit. I was then put on a gradual pitocin drip and I called my mom to get the prayer chain going. She started it, and then with an ankle broken in three places, got in the car and came down to be here for me and the wee babe. And so as a reward, I let her see the whole birth from a front row seat, if you know what I mean.
So there we were, my mom, a nurse who was married to a Trooper I used to work with, and a doctor who was an exact combination me of my Aunt Belia and Magda C_________ and of course, my dear and loving husband. And some other lady nurses, who I don't remember.
If there is one thing I'll never forget about Annabelle's birth it is the look of joy on my husband's face after she was born.
If there is one thing I'll never forget about Tallulah's birth it is the alternating looks of joy, worry and encouragement on my mother's face as she watched me push my second born out of my body.
And now she is here. Tallulah Rose Nguyen. Perfect Joy. And I can say that still, after a night with no sleep.
So there we were, my mom, a nurse who was married to a Trooper I used to work with, and a doctor who was an exact combination me of my Aunt Belia and Magda C_________ and of course, my dear and loving husband. And some other lady nurses, who I don't remember.
If there is one thing I'll never forget about Annabelle's birth it is the look of joy on my husband's face after she was born.
If there is one thing I'll never forget about Tallulah's birth it is the alternating looks of joy, worry and encouragement on my mother's face as she watched me push my second born out of my body.
And now she is here. Tallulah Rose Nguyen. Perfect Joy. And I can say that still, after a night with no sleep.
Friday, November 12, 2010
overtime
When I was on the last night of my 38th week with Annabelle we went to the Rajun Cajun. I felt very odd, like I was inside of a jar and everyone around me was outside of the jar. My friends were talking and laughing and having a good time and I was watching them with a hazy, detached interest. I had some boudain balls and then we went home. I took a bath, called my sister and we chatted for a bit and then I settled into bed. I was wearing my navy blue flowered pajama bottoms from the gap. I felt something moist between my legs and got out of bed, thinking my mucus plug had come out (sorry to any squeamish readers, but it is totally natural and probably happened to your mom, so get over it). I hopped out of bed and there was a trickle coming down my legs. It continued as I walked to the bathroom and I realized that my water had broken. It was at 10:30 at night. Twleve hours later, we had a baby on the first day of my 39th week.
I am writing this at 10:30. On the last night of my 38th week. Tomorrow is the first day of my 39th week.
Okay, now it is 10:32. We are in pregnancy overtime according to my way of looking at things.
I am writing this at 10:30. On the last night of my 38th week. Tomorrow is the first day of my 39th week.
Okay, now it is 10:32. We are in pregnancy overtime according to my way of looking at things.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
the proper way to clean a kitchen
The Proper Way to Clean a Kitchen
By Ann Stevens, Martha Stewart, Toni Stevens and me
1. Cleaning the kitchen begins before you begin eating. There should always be a properly set table, which means serving food on platters and bowls rather than plating it restaurant style. This allows you to let the pots and pans soak during dinner.
2. Completely clear the table, that way the dining room can look neat while you are cleaning,
3. Wash dishes from least dirty to most dirty.
4. Dry dishes ****
5. Put dishes away ****
6. Clean table with soapy rag.
7. Clean countertops.
8. Clean stove.
9. Sweep floor.
10. Put dirty dish cloths in hamper.
11. Empty trash can.
12. Set out dish cloths for the next day's use.
Now admittedly I don't do these things all of the time. But at a minimum, I put the dishes away.
It is not, I repeat it is not, under any circumstances appropriate to leave clean dishes all over the countertop and sink. One would think that certain people, who are always touting their neatness, and telling other certain people how messy they are would know this. It would be as natural as breathing to a neat person to put away the dishes.
But apparently not.
Certain people have lots of little idiosyncrasies (or idiosycrazies) that they need to have in a certain way in order to function. Like doors closed, lights at a certain level, blinds drawn, clutter put away, etc. Other certain people have very few idiosyncrasies. Very few.
Just one.
One.
Put the dishes away dammit!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
By Ann Stevens, Martha Stewart, Toni Stevens and me
1. Cleaning the kitchen begins before you begin eating. There should always be a properly set table, which means serving food on platters and bowls rather than plating it restaurant style. This allows you to let the pots and pans soak during dinner.
2. Completely clear the table, that way the dining room can look neat while you are cleaning,
3. Wash dishes from least dirty to most dirty.
4. Dry dishes ****
5. Put dishes away ****
6. Clean table with soapy rag.
7. Clean countertops.
8. Clean stove.
9. Sweep floor.
10. Put dirty dish cloths in hamper.
11. Empty trash can.
12. Set out dish cloths for the next day's use.
Now admittedly I don't do these things all of the time. But at a minimum, I put the dishes away.
It is not, I repeat it is not, under any circumstances appropriate to leave clean dishes all over the countertop and sink. One would think that certain people, who are always touting their neatness, and telling other certain people how messy they are would know this. It would be as natural as breathing to a neat person to put away the dishes.
But apparently not.
Certain people have lots of little idiosyncrasies (or idiosycrazies) that they need to have in a certain way in order to function. Like doors closed, lights at a certain level, blinds drawn, clutter put away, etc. Other certain people have very few idiosyncrasies. Very few.
Just one.
One.
Put the dishes away dammit!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
waiting
At the end of your pregnancy, you become something other. You are not really female anymore. You are a gestating individual. Your body is not recognizable, not even to you. You wear the same thing every day because you can't bear to spend any money on anything that you will only wear for a couple of weeks. Your shoes don't fit the same. And so you wear crocs everywhere and even contemplate wearing them to church. You are not yourself. You haven't been yourself for months, but at the end, you are really not the same. You are no longer feminine and it happens so gradually you don't even notice it until one day you are looking at a catalog, or watching a fashion segment on the Today show and realize, "oh yeah, I used to care about that sort of thing. I used to wear belts and tuck my shirt into my pants"
For someone like me, who used to take great delight in choosing what I would wear every day this realization is especially hard. Even after I quit my job, I always tried to wear something semi-cute around the house and put on makeup and style my hair every day. I don't want to be the shlubby mom and wife who walks around in sweats and a t-shirt with holes. Even during pregnancy, I tried to be the cute pregnant mama. But now, I am down to one pair of jeans, two pairs of yoga pants and a couple of dresses that I can really only wear to church. Oh, and crocs, of course. Thank Lord, for giving us crocs.
And I am waiting. Waiting for my girl so I can be a girl again.
For someone like me, who used to take great delight in choosing what I would wear every day this realization is especially hard. Even after I quit my job, I always tried to wear something semi-cute around the house and put on makeup and style my hair every day. I don't want to be the shlubby mom and wife who walks around in sweats and a t-shirt with holes. Even during pregnancy, I tried to be the cute pregnant mama. But now, I am down to one pair of jeans, two pairs of yoga pants and a couple of dresses that I can really only wear to church. Oh, and crocs, of course. Thank Lord, for giving us crocs.
And I am waiting. Waiting for my girl so I can be a girl again.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
into every pregnancy a little rain must fall
1. completed baby room? check
2. house in order? check
3. presents to annabelle from Tallulah? check
4. big sister t-shirt? check
5. dilated half a centimeter? check
6. 60 percent effaced? check
7. mom who broke her ankle in three places and now cannot come to take care of me and Annabelle?
check.
rain, monsoon, tsunami, whatever.
2. house in order? check
3. presents to annabelle from Tallulah? check
4. big sister t-shirt? check
5. dilated half a centimeter? check
6. 60 percent effaced? check
7. mom who broke her ankle in three places and now cannot come to take care of me and Annabelle?
check.
rain, monsoon, tsunami, whatever.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
nesting, resting and pestering
Hyphen took the week off. He cautioned me before hand that he didn't want me to ruin his week by having a baby. My reply, as it is to everyone who asks me to have or refrain from having the baby on a certain day: "I will do my best to oblige all requests."
Now, I thought he would spend the week watching the food network and the cooking channel and maybe we would go to Galveston or some state park and he would make a really elaborate sandwich for the excursion. But no, this is what he did instead:
1. power washed the deck, front porch and driveway
2. blew leaves in the yard
3. fertilized the yard
4. scraped and repainted our door jamb
5. repainted the railing on the front porch
6. repainted the railing on the back deck
7. fixed the ceiling fan
8. cleaned out the trap in the bathroom sink
9. Painted thrift store changing table, transforming it from 70's brown into vintage white
and that was all by Tuesday. I told my mom about this flurry of activity and she told me that this must mean the baby was coming soon and he was nesting. Today, he announced he was going to spend the day in bed and watch tv, and even though I think he is disgusting for doing that and even more disgusting for not having showered since Tuesday night-- I am cool with that--he's on vacation.
Now, during most of his activity, I was sitting down, relaxing, entertaining Annabelle and reading one of my Outlander books. I felt guilty, but I was really tired and I just didn't feel like helping. My mom said this meant the baby was coming soon, and my body was storing up some energy reserves.
On the dog front, the dog follows me where ever I go, even in rooms where she is normally too scared to venture. When I sit on the couch she paces back and forth in front of the couch rubbing her back against my shins. She licks my stomach whenever it is exposed, which, since I refuse to buy larger maternity shirts, is quite a lot. And the other day she licked my boobs (I was clothed at the time).
My mom says my dog is "stoopeed" and my house would be much cleaner if I got rid of her.
I think she is three for three this week.
Now, I thought he would spend the week watching the food network and the cooking channel and maybe we would go to Galveston or some state park and he would make a really elaborate sandwich for the excursion. But no, this is what he did instead:
1. power washed the deck, front porch and driveway
2. blew leaves in the yard
3. fertilized the yard
4. scraped and repainted our door jamb
5. repainted the railing on the front porch
6. repainted the railing on the back deck
7. fixed the ceiling fan
8. cleaned out the trap in the bathroom sink
9. Painted thrift store changing table, transforming it from 70's brown into vintage white
and that was all by Tuesday. I told my mom about this flurry of activity and she told me that this must mean the baby was coming soon and he was nesting. Today, he announced he was going to spend the day in bed and watch tv, and even though I think he is disgusting for doing that and even more disgusting for not having showered since Tuesday night-- I am cool with that--he's on vacation.
Now, during most of his activity, I was sitting down, relaxing, entertaining Annabelle and reading one of my Outlander books. I felt guilty, but I was really tired and I just didn't feel like helping. My mom said this meant the baby was coming soon, and my body was storing up some energy reserves.
On the dog front, the dog follows me where ever I go, even in rooms where she is normally too scared to venture. When I sit on the couch she paces back and forth in front of the couch rubbing her back against my shins. She licks my stomach whenever it is exposed, which, since I refuse to buy larger maternity shirts, is quite a lot. And the other day she licked my boobs (I was clothed at the time).
My mom says my dog is "stoopeed" and my house would be much cleaner if I got rid of her.
I think she is three for three this week.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
things I think about in the middle of the night
Before I begin, I would like to dedicate this entry to a guy who once told me that the bushes I was looking at were mangroves. We were on a car ride from Mexico back to South Padre Island, where our law conference was being held. He told me this after we played 20 questions and his "answer" was St. Ignatius Loyola, (everyone else's "answer" was someone like Madonna, but not his) but before he told me that Harry Truman was a notorious womanizer. It was then I realized he was full of shit, having just read a biography on Truman. Everyone in the car, except for me and my girlfriend were in varying degrees of intoxication, so I suppose I could have forgiven him, except that another guy who was in Outward Bound pointed out that the bushes were not mangroves. For years after at work, whenever anyone said something improbable, someone else would invariably say "I've got to call mangrove on that one...."
Harvard, this one is for you.
Last night, Annabelle was sobbing in her bed and screaming for her mama. It was 1:30. Hyphen quietly told me "don't do it," but am a sucker and a glutton for punishment, so I went in there. When I got in there, she quited down--immediately and started to smile this saccharine, angelic smile. I sat down in the chair by her bed and she started to say, in her super sweet voice "Mama, you are my blessed mother." (Catholicism is already confusing this poor girl).
It was at this point that I started to ponder the nature of man. I took some philosophy class at some point that talked about the idea of the noble savage. That man in his purest state is basically good and civilization and its trapping perverts him. Then there is another school of thought that man is born without morals and is evil and civilization tames him. This is where Harvard comes in. He could enlighten you as to all the details of these two theories and it would sound like this "well, actually, it was Hobbes, who espoused in leviathan ..."
I was thinking about this because I was trying to decide how badly I was being manipulated. How we got so far off course from when she was a baby and I would put her in the crib awake and she would drift off to sleep and remain so until the next morning. Occasionally she would cry, but I always had the fortitude to not go in her room. Was that simply because she could not say "Mama, mama! I need you mama"? If she could have said it, would she, or is this a learned behaviour on her part. Whatever it was, the thought occurred to me that she is a savage, that must be tamed. I explained to her that I was going to go back to my room and she was going to stay in her big girl bed. Her sweet musings quickly turned into a full on screaming and crying tantrum with signs of possible vomiting coming down the pike. Not wanting to clean up vomit--the child can cry herself into urping-- at 1:30 in the morning, I told her she could come into bed with us. She then asked if she could bring Snoopy and her Dora book. I said no.
Later, when, Snoopy, Dora Goes to the Dentist, Annabelle, the dog, Hyphen and I were safely ensconced in the bedroom I asked Hyphen "do you think that man is a noble savage or do you think civilization betters him?" he grunted, turned over and continued snoring. The dog heard me though, and started wagging her tail really hard, making a thump, thump sound on the floor. I am not sure what she thought on the matter, but it is clear to me that someone in our house is definitely being tamed.
Harvard, this one is for you.
Last night, Annabelle was sobbing in her bed and screaming for her mama. It was 1:30. Hyphen quietly told me "don't do it," but am a sucker and a glutton for punishment, so I went in there. When I got in there, she quited down--immediately and started to smile this saccharine, angelic smile. I sat down in the chair by her bed and she started to say, in her super sweet voice "Mama, you are my blessed mother." (Catholicism is already confusing this poor girl).
It was at this point that I started to ponder the nature of man. I took some philosophy class at some point that talked about the idea of the noble savage. That man in his purest state is basically good and civilization and its trapping perverts him. Then there is another school of thought that man is born without morals and is evil and civilization tames him. This is where Harvard comes in. He could enlighten you as to all the details of these two theories and it would sound like this "well, actually, it was Hobbes, who espoused in leviathan ..."
I was thinking about this because I was trying to decide how badly I was being manipulated. How we got so far off course from when she was a baby and I would put her in the crib awake and she would drift off to sleep and remain so until the next morning. Occasionally she would cry, but I always had the fortitude to not go in her room. Was that simply because she could not say "Mama, mama! I need you mama"? If she could have said it, would she, or is this a learned behaviour on her part. Whatever it was, the thought occurred to me that she is a savage, that must be tamed. I explained to her that I was going to go back to my room and she was going to stay in her big girl bed. Her sweet musings quickly turned into a full on screaming and crying tantrum with signs of possible vomiting coming down the pike. Not wanting to clean up vomit--the child can cry herself into urping-- at 1:30 in the morning, I told her she could come into bed with us. She then asked if she could bring Snoopy and her Dora book. I said no.
Later, when, Snoopy, Dora Goes to the Dentist, Annabelle, the dog, Hyphen and I were safely ensconced in the bedroom I asked Hyphen "do you think that man is a noble savage or do you think civilization betters him?" he grunted, turned over and continued snoring. The dog heard me though, and started wagging her tail really hard, making a thump, thump sound on the floor. I am not sure what she thought on the matter, but it is clear to me that someone in our house is definitely being tamed.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
stangers and neighbors and insensitive people
1. Strangers:
I have had three people in the past week tell me that I am going to have my baby any day now. Two of them worked at whataburger (yes, I have been to whataburger twice this week, screw you judgy people, I am gestating dammit!), one at HEB and with each one of them the conversation went exactly like this:
stranger: "when's your baby due?"
Me: "nov. 20th."
stranger: "nu-uh girl, that baby's coming next week."
Me: "you think so?"
Stranger: "that baby's already dropped. look how low you are. No, that baby's coming next week."
I told this to my OB in a futile attempt for her to change my due date back to it's original day, and not the one she devised using her fancy ultrasound machine--oh, excuse me, scientific instrument. But apparently she felt her medical degree trumped the motherly wisdom of the whataburger ladies and wouldn't even agree to split the difference with me. I am beginning to get on board with H's assessment of most doctors --western science does not understand the eastern man-- except mine mantra is something like this "skinny OBs whose kids are 12 and 8 forget how some people start to feel as if they have been pregnant for their entire lives." Well, at least my entire mid to late 30s.
2. Neighbors.
My parents have really nice next door neighbors who they spend a lot of time with. This weekend, I was in town so grandma and grandpa could visit (babysit) with Annabelle while H and I went to a wedding in Dripping Springs ( a place where we now want to move). The neighbors came by the yard to say "hi"
Brenda: "oh, you look great, you don't look that big. Your face looks perfectly normal. From the descriptions I was getting I was expecting..."
Me: "Jabba the Hut? Because that is what my sister said she was expecting. God--what is that woman saying about me?"
Brenda(nervous laughter, like "oh shit, I got Toni in trouble"): well, you look beautiful.
I left and went to check on my mom and sister and the twins, who were also visiting.
Me: "moooommmmm! what are telling people about me? Brenda said "you don't look that big." what are you saying??? And she said I look perfectly normal."
3. Insensitive people
Mom: "sweetie, she is just being kind."
I have had three people in the past week tell me that I am going to have my baby any day now. Two of them worked at whataburger (yes, I have been to whataburger twice this week, screw you judgy people, I am gestating dammit!), one at HEB and with each one of them the conversation went exactly like this:
stranger: "when's your baby due?"
Me: "nov. 20th."
stranger: "nu-uh girl, that baby's coming next week."
Me: "you think so?"
Stranger: "that baby's already dropped. look how low you are. No, that baby's coming next week."
I told this to my OB in a futile attempt for her to change my due date back to it's original day, and not the one she devised using her fancy ultrasound machine--oh, excuse me, scientific instrument. But apparently she felt her medical degree trumped the motherly wisdom of the whataburger ladies and wouldn't even agree to split the difference with me. I am beginning to get on board with H's assessment of most doctors --western science does not understand the eastern man-- except mine mantra is something like this "skinny OBs whose kids are 12 and 8 forget how some people start to feel as if they have been pregnant for their entire lives." Well, at least my entire mid to late 30s.
2. Neighbors.
My parents have really nice next door neighbors who they spend a lot of time with. This weekend, I was in town so grandma and grandpa could visit (babysit) with Annabelle while H and I went to a wedding in Dripping Springs ( a place where we now want to move). The neighbors came by the yard to say "hi"
Brenda: "oh, you look great, you don't look that big. Your face looks perfectly normal. From the descriptions I was getting I was expecting..."
Me: "Jabba the Hut? Because that is what my sister said she was expecting. God--what is that woman saying about me?"
Brenda(nervous laughter, like "oh shit, I got Toni in trouble"): well, you look beautiful.
I left and went to check on my mom and sister and the twins, who were also visiting.
Me: "moooommmmm! what are telling people about me? Brenda said "you don't look that big." what are you saying??? And she said I look perfectly normal."
3. Insensitive people
Mom: "sweetie, she is just being kind."
Saturday, October 9, 2010
this card allows you 5 minutes bitching time....
I would like to take this opportunity to complain......
I remember the last time I felt normal, and I remember it because it was also the first time I started to feel not normal. It was the last week in February. I loaded up the van, drove to Austin, picked up lunch for Audrey, Annabelle and I, helped out with the twins, got groceries, made dinner, cleaned the kitchen, went for a walk, bathed Annabelle and put her to bed and watched tv with Audrey, did the 3:00 a.m. diaper changes and woke up a grumpy mama bear so she could nurse babies. But I felt tired. Now, after all of that, maybe I should have been tired. Except that I used to feel really good all of the time. I never had any aches or pains, no shivering rectum, no sneezing 50 times in a minute, no diarrhea after I eat Asian food. I used to wake up cheerful and went to bed the same way most days.
That was until I was pregnant. In my current delicate condition I have suffered from the following: Nausea, vomiting severe fatigue, bloating, heartburn, constipation, diarrhea, swollen extremities, joint aches, depression, malaise, back pain, reflux, sleeplessness, swollen lymph nodes, allergies, urinary incontinence, brittle nails, numbness in my fingers, irritability and the inability to get off the floor without grunting. My legs are unrecognizable--there is cellulite on my shins. I have stretch marks on top of my old stretch marks. My face looks like it has been stung by several Africanized bees and I have a spare chin. I now have cankles, my toes resemble Vienna Sausages and I haven't worn my wedding ring since April (let the record reflect that Hyphen's fingers are so chubby he hasn't been able to take his off for a few years). I can barely reach the sink to wash the dishes and Annabelle can no longer sit in my lap. The number on the scale has reached an unmentionable mark. My family is taking bets to see how long I will last and no one has put any money in November (my due date is 11/20) due to, as my dad put it "your healthy appearance."
[The record shall also reflect that if you use the phrase "your healthy appearance" to your very pregnant daughter, she will silently tell you to f!#* off and outwardly ask to talk to her mother.]
But since the card has only allowed me 5 minutes of bitching time, this is all I can say.
My baby is healthy. I am healthy. I am a healthy pregnant woman. And I am blessed.
I remember the last time I felt normal, and I remember it because it was also the first time I started to feel not normal. It was the last week in February. I loaded up the van, drove to Austin, picked up lunch for Audrey, Annabelle and I, helped out with the twins, got groceries, made dinner, cleaned the kitchen, went for a walk, bathed Annabelle and put her to bed and watched tv with Audrey, did the 3:00 a.m. diaper changes and woke up a grumpy mama bear so she could nurse babies. But I felt tired. Now, after all of that, maybe I should have been tired. Except that I used to feel really good all of the time. I never had any aches or pains, no shivering rectum, no sneezing 50 times in a minute, no diarrhea after I eat Asian food. I used to wake up cheerful and went to bed the same way most days.
That was until I was pregnant. In my current delicate condition I have suffered from the following: Nausea, vomiting severe fatigue, bloating, heartburn, constipation, diarrhea, swollen extremities, joint aches, depression, malaise, back pain, reflux, sleeplessness, swollen lymph nodes, allergies, urinary incontinence, brittle nails, numbness in my fingers, irritability and the inability to get off the floor without grunting. My legs are unrecognizable--there is cellulite on my shins. I have stretch marks on top of my old stretch marks. My face looks like it has been stung by several Africanized bees and I have a spare chin. I now have cankles, my toes resemble Vienna Sausages and I haven't worn my wedding ring since April (let the record reflect that Hyphen's fingers are so chubby he hasn't been able to take his off for a few years). I can barely reach the sink to wash the dishes and Annabelle can no longer sit in my lap. The number on the scale has reached an unmentionable mark. My family is taking bets to see how long I will last and no one has put any money in November (my due date is 11/20) due to, as my dad put it "your healthy appearance."
[The record shall also reflect that if you use the phrase "your healthy appearance" to your very pregnant daughter, she will silently tell you to f!#* off and outwardly ask to talk to her mother.]
But since the card has only allowed me 5 minutes of bitching time, this is all I can say.
My baby is healthy. I am healthy. I am a healthy pregnant woman. And I am blessed.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
the predator bear
this is an actual conversation that I just had with my mom less than an hour ago....
Mom: "oh, I was watching the news and they did a story on the predator bear."
Me: "what is that?"
Mom: "He is from Japan. He is a cartoon character but they also made him into one of those furry costumes people put on. And in Japan when girls take baths they all take them together in a house and they are naked and he followed them in and molested them. And now they are selling the costume here and he walks up to kids and takes pictures of them and it is terrible. And that is too bad because I love to give the Puffy Taco (mascot of the San Antonio minor league team) a hug.
Now what I should of said was "oh yes, that is too bad." But instead I thought, okay, "I'll put a quarter in and see where this goes"
Me: "I am confused. Does the bear molest these children?"
Mom: "yes"
Me: "but I thought he took pictures of them."
Mom: "he does"
Me: "does he sequester them and then molest them and take their pictures?"
Mom: "he gives them a hug and touches them."
Me: "over the clothes?"
Mom: Ay, I don't know, just keep annabelle away from all bears."
Me: "okay."
Now here are the options I am now considering
a. the news in San Antonio is terrible and reported on a story that was completely non-sensical.
Having seen the news in San Antonio recently, I put this option at about 35 percent.
b. My mom was only paying half attention to the story and got things mixed up.
Having had a 36 year relationship with this woman, I put this option at about 60 percent.
c. The third option is something Hyphen suggested when I repeated this story to him--My mom is smoking pot.
I put this at 5 percent, but only because she is from that time, however it should be lower, because the only thing even remotely naughty that she did was get so drunk one Saturday night that she was still drunk the next morning when her sister and her brother in law came to pick her up for mass.
At least that I know about....
Mom: "oh, I was watching the news and they did a story on the predator bear."
Me: "what is that?"
Mom: "He is from Japan. He is a cartoon character but they also made him into one of those furry costumes people put on. And in Japan when girls take baths they all take them together in a house and they are naked and he followed them in and molested them. And now they are selling the costume here and he walks up to kids and takes pictures of them and it is terrible. And that is too bad because I love to give the Puffy Taco (mascot of the San Antonio minor league team) a hug.
Now what I should of said was "oh yes, that is too bad." But instead I thought, okay, "I'll put a quarter in and see where this goes"
Me: "I am confused. Does the bear molest these children?"
Mom: "yes"
Me: "but I thought he took pictures of them."
Mom: "he does"
Me: "does he sequester them and then molest them and take their pictures?"
Mom: "he gives them a hug and touches them."
Me: "over the clothes?"
Mom: Ay, I don't know, just keep annabelle away from all bears."
Me: "okay."
Now here are the options I am now considering
a. the news in San Antonio is terrible and reported on a story that was completely non-sensical.
Having seen the news in San Antonio recently, I put this option at about 35 percent.
b. My mom was only paying half attention to the story and got things mixed up.
Having had a 36 year relationship with this woman, I put this option at about 60 percent.
c. The third option is something Hyphen suggested when I repeated this story to him--My mom is smoking pot.
I put this at 5 percent, but only because she is from that time, however it should be lower, because the only thing even remotely naughty that she did was get so drunk one Saturday night that she was still drunk the next morning when her sister and her brother in law came to pick her up for mass.
At least that I know about....
Saturday, September 18, 2010
tutus and lizards
My friend needed to run some errands on Friday and she dropped her son off at the house to play. When she got here, Annabelle was wearing every tutu she owns (3--one from the dollar store that my mom got her, one that was Audrey's when we were in ballet, and one I got her from target ) and several purses. She had put a headband and two bows in her hair. We had been playing dress up. My friend commented that I had a real girly girl on my hands.
Well, maybe.
We removed the tutus so we could play outside. Annabelle took off her shoes and was walking barefoot on the driveway--which is littered with half eaten green pecans that the squirrels have impatiently stolen. She found a lizard and chased it about for a while before she figured out how to catch it with her bare hands. We put him in a Tupperware with some grass and she named him Japi-yo. She played garden in her sandbox and planted cauliflower. Then she gathered sticks for her "firecamp." We had to sleep by the "firecamp" and while she gathered the sticks she said cowboy things like "giddyyap" and "ki-yi-yipee-yipee-yay." She also used her "cowboy rope" (aka the rope to her spinning top) to slap at things which is apparently integral at being a cowboy.
I told the kids that Japi-yo needed water with the hopes that he would escape while they were filling his house from the spout. He had turned green by this time and he did escape, but Annabelle was now an expert at catching lizards and he was quickly put back in his house and almost drowned before I could explain that he just needed a drop of water. He escaped again while they dumped the water but was caught once more by my girly-girl.
Then we had popsicles and got really, really dirty and had to go inside to wash off the sand, syrup, and assorted yard dirt.
Hyphen distracted them while I freed Japi-yo. Incidentally putting a red popsicle stick in his house did not make him turn red as we had hoped, he was just brown with a rather grumpy expression.
Well, maybe.
We removed the tutus so we could play outside. Annabelle took off her shoes and was walking barefoot on the driveway--which is littered with half eaten green pecans that the squirrels have impatiently stolen. She found a lizard and chased it about for a while before she figured out how to catch it with her bare hands. We put him in a Tupperware with some grass and she named him Japi-yo. She played garden in her sandbox and planted cauliflower. Then she gathered sticks for her "firecamp." We had to sleep by the "firecamp" and while she gathered the sticks she said cowboy things like "giddyyap" and "ki-yi-yipee-yipee-yay." She also used her "cowboy rope" (aka the rope to her spinning top) to slap at things which is apparently integral at being a cowboy.
I told the kids that Japi-yo needed water with the hopes that he would escape while they were filling his house from the spout. He had turned green by this time and he did escape, but Annabelle was now an expert at catching lizards and he was quickly put back in his house and almost drowned before I could explain that he just needed a drop of water. He escaped again while they dumped the water but was caught once more by my girly-girl.
Then we had popsicles and got really, really dirty and had to go inside to wash off the sand, syrup, and assorted yard dirt.
Hyphen distracted them while I freed Japi-yo. Incidentally putting a red popsicle stick in his house did not make him turn red as we had hoped, he was just brown with a rather grumpy expression.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
our various issues
I came home today from ballet lessons (for Annabelle , not for me) and I immediately noticed the door was locked. I didn't lock it when I left because I couldn't (this is the time of year when it is hard to lock our door, due to the fact that our house is old as the hills). I got scared, but then I thought, "well maybe I locked it" I mean, I try to lock it, and maybe the bolt went across and I didn't realize it. I immediately grab the phone prepared to call 911 in case the invader shows his face. Then I go pee. And there is toilet paper on the holder, and I know I didn't leave it like that. So now I am panicking, but looking for other signs that someone has been there and frantically calling Hyphen. It is close to 5 and I can't think of why he would come home and then leave again. I finally get in touch with me and turns out, he came home while we were in ballet used the bathroom (naturally Hyphen can only really poop comfortably when he has the home court advantage, not me, I can go any where) and then drove to a nearby Japanese food supplier to check things out for a dish they are making for the new restaurant. I was a little weepy and panicky when I talked to him, due to my delicate condition.
Later, as we are watching top chef and he is having his customary second supper of chips, I asked for some. And because I am pregnant, and lazy, and didn't want to get up to get a bowl, I just put them on the side table. He watched me as I did this and gave me the look. The look of total disgust, which I deserved because that was pretty gross. Then he launched into this diatribe:
H: "You are so messy." (then in a falsetto) "Oh my gosh I was so scared, a burglar came into the house today and locked the door and put toilet paper in the bathroom. I have a stalker who is a stocker. I am so scared of the burglar who tidies up my house....."
etc.
I couldn't hear much more because I was laughing and ignoring him haughtily at the same time.
Later, as we are watching top chef and he is having his customary second supper of chips, I asked for some. And because I am pregnant, and lazy, and didn't want to get up to get a bowl, I just put them on the side table. He watched me as I did this and gave me the look. The look of total disgust, which I deserved because that was pretty gross. Then he launched into this diatribe:
H: "You are so messy." (then in a falsetto) "Oh my gosh I was so scared, a burglar came into the house today and locked the door and put toilet paper in the bathroom. I have a stalker who is a stocker. I am so scared of the burglar who tidies up my house....."
etc.
I couldn't hear much more because I was laughing and ignoring him haughtily at the same time.
Monday, September 13, 2010
gd armoire
Once upon a time, there was a lonely armoire. At one time, it had been loved and cherished, and had held hats and gloves and sweaters, but over the years it fell into disfavor and ended up in an unairconditioned leanto laundry room of an old house, stuffed with rags and the occasional rat dropping. Then, a kindly old woodworker saw it and took pity on it. He and his wife took it home. And then the kindly old wood worker took a closer look at it, and discovered there was a reason it was in the unairconditioned leanto laundry room-- it was not very well made. And the kindly old woodworker wanted to split it into kindling, or, in the alternative, throw it away. But his wife, who was not royalty, but was a royal pain in the ass, wanted to keep it, for sentiment's sake. And so they did. And for many years it lived in a rented storage shed. But the woodworker, who while kindly, was also thrifty, got tired of putting money in the storage shed owner's pocket. So he cleaned out the storage shed and tried to convince his wife to get rid of it. And there was much grinding and gnashing of teeth and the wife won, as wives usually do, and the armoire ended up in the kindly woodworker's wood shop, which was also unairconditioned.
And now the armoire was in a very sad state indeed, for it now held nothing and was constantly being cursed by the woodworker for taking up space in his shop.
But the woodworker and his wife had a daughter. And she was fabulous, and creative and beautiful and wonderful in every way. She was also great with child. Her second child, who would have no room or furniture of its own. And so in the hysteria that often accompanies women in this condition, and causes them to do completely irrational things such as getting spiral permanent waves; the daughter asked for the armoire, with the intention of making it look beautiful and shabby chic.
And so after more grinding and gnashing of teeth, the woodworker, who was slightly grumpy by this time, and his wife loaded up the armoire in his truck and drove from the countryside to the big city where the daughter lived.
The city was very hot and humid with highs in the mid 90s and the "feels like temperature" was 104 degrees. And the woodworker and his pregnant daughter put the armoire in the garage which was also unairconditioned. And then the woodworker and his daughter painted the armoire. They put five coats of paint on the armoire in the heat and humidity and unaircontionedness. And they began to curse the armoire. And the woodworker thought that the daughter's ideas were unreasonable and ridiculous, such as painting stripes on the back of it, and covering some of the insides with fabric and buying knobs from anthropologie instead of Lowes. But the woodworker was good humored when it came to his daughter--up to point.
And so it came to pass that they finished it. And they were somewhat pleased with their work. And then it came time to move it the upstairs guestroom, where the child would stay. But the daughter lived in an exceedingly ridiculous house that was built long ago and the stairs on her house were very small. The daughter's husband, who wisely stayed out of the armoire project, told the daughter she should measure it before she undertook the project to make sure it would go up the stairs. But while the daughter was beautiful and creative, she also very flippant of her husband's sage counsel. And so the daughter,who was very great with child indeed, the woodworker who had a bad back and knee, and the wife who was lame in a variety of ways attempted to move the armoire up the stirs and it did not work. There was much yelling. Much, much, much, yelling. And somewhere, in the heavens, the people who had put the armoire in the leanto were laughing. Cackling, actually.
But the daughter was exceedingly stubborn and argumentative and called moving companies. She lectured them about their ridiculous prices and safety policies regarding hoisting things through windows. Then a kindly receptionist took pity on her and whispered very quietly "call my husband."
And that is how the woodworker, his wife and their daughter met Prince Donnell. Who drove to the daughter's house and helped the woodworker shove the armoire though a window while the daughter waited upstairs and despite her delicate condition, pulled it the rest of the way inside. And the daughter wrote Prince Donnell a check for 40 dollars. Then they said good bye to Prince Donnell and waved as he drove off into the hot afternoon sun.
Then the daughter turned around and was amazed as her parents, including her aged and infirmed mother packed up their belongings with record speed and burnt rubber as they backed out of her driveway.
And then the armoire was happy.....
And now the armoire was in a very sad state indeed, for it now held nothing and was constantly being cursed by the woodworker for taking up space in his shop.
But the woodworker and his wife had a daughter. And she was fabulous, and creative and beautiful and wonderful in every way. She was also great with child. Her second child, who would have no room or furniture of its own. And so in the hysteria that often accompanies women in this condition, and causes them to do completely irrational things such as getting spiral permanent waves; the daughter asked for the armoire, with the intention of making it look beautiful and shabby chic.
And so after more grinding and gnashing of teeth, the woodworker, who was slightly grumpy by this time, and his wife loaded up the armoire in his truck and drove from the countryside to the big city where the daughter lived.
The city was very hot and humid with highs in the mid 90s and the "feels like temperature" was 104 degrees. And the woodworker and his pregnant daughter put the armoire in the garage which was also unairconditioned. And then the woodworker and his daughter painted the armoire. They put five coats of paint on the armoire in the heat and humidity and unaircontionedness. And they began to curse the armoire. And the woodworker thought that the daughter's ideas were unreasonable and ridiculous, such as painting stripes on the back of it, and covering some of the insides with fabric and buying knobs from anthropologie instead of Lowes. But the woodworker was good humored when it came to his daughter--up to point.
And so it came to pass that they finished it. And they were somewhat pleased with their work. And then it came time to move it the upstairs guestroom, where the child would stay. But the daughter lived in an exceedingly ridiculous house that was built long ago and the stairs on her house were very small. The daughter's husband, who wisely stayed out of the armoire project, told the daughter she should measure it before she undertook the project to make sure it would go up the stairs. But while the daughter was beautiful and creative, she also very flippant of her husband's sage counsel. And so the daughter,who was very great with child indeed, the woodworker who had a bad back and knee, and the wife who was lame in a variety of ways attempted to move the armoire up the stirs and it did not work. There was much yelling. Much, much, much, yelling. And somewhere, in the heavens, the people who had put the armoire in the leanto were laughing. Cackling, actually.
But the daughter was exceedingly stubborn and argumentative and called moving companies. She lectured them about their ridiculous prices and safety policies regarding hoisting things through windows. Then a kindly receptionist took pity on her and whispered very quietly "call my husband."
And that is how the woodworker, his wife and their daughter met Prince Donnell. Who drove to the daughter's house and helped the woodworker shove the armoire though a window while the daughter waited upstairs and despite her delicate condition, pulled it the rest of the way inside. And the daughter wrote Prince Donnell a check for 40 dollars. Then they said good bye to Prince Donnell and waved as he drove off into the hot afternoon sun.
Then the daughter turned around and was amazed as her parents, including her aged and infirmed mother packed up their belongings with record speed and burnt rubber as they backed out of her driveway.
And then the armoire was happy.....
Friday, September 10, 2010
Don Brown
Don Brown is dead. Dead and gone and buried today. To say he was a grumpy old fart would not be accurate. If you only knew Don Brown and had no concept of what a fart was, you would think farts are not at all pleasant, which, of course, they can be. Dexter Patterson is a grumpy old fart. Not Don Brown. He was irascible and misanthropic. Sly like a fox. Qualities which I personally find endearing, but I didn't necessarily want to talk to him. When I saw this icon of a bygone era in the courtroom, I wanted to run and hide out of fear.
By the time I came to Conroe, he was already on the decline. But he still beat me like a drum in trial. It was an unlawful carrying of a firearm case. The guy was driving in his car with a handgun in the door pocket. In my mind at the time, my youthful, cocky, "we live in the Heights, recycle our trash, don't own guns and never will" mind, the case was clear cut. The guy was guilty. We set out to pick a jury. Don walked in at the last minute, wearing a light blue, suede, nubuck- style jacket with gold cording on the shoulders and lighter shade of blue Wrangler dress pants and, of course, cowboy boots. His white hair was slicked back. I watched the panel of potential jurors as they watched him. Regular good folks, the kind of people that our current commander in chief thinks cling to their guns and religion. It was like John Wayne had walked in the courtroom. And there I was. Twenty-something in my Ann Taylor belted suit. Mercifully, I knew enough to to think "oh shit, this ain't good."
I can't remember if he called me Stella or Miss Stevens, but when he talked he spoke with that peculiar East Texas accent that you don't hear too much nowadays, in an age where everyone is from nowhere. Regardless, it sounded snidely and condescending. Of course, addressing me by my Christian name only occurred when we were conferencing with the judge, to the jury I was the government's attorney. I was the government trying to take their guns away. The defendant was traveling (funny how he never mentioned that to the cop-- see how I am still a sore loser?) and it was his God-given right to have a gun in his car to protect himself if the need should arise. It would be a stretch to say the jury deliberated for10 minutes, because I could hear a lot of toilet flushing going on in the jury room and afterwards, they did not want to talk to me, just to the old gun-slinger, the meaner, crankier, wrinklier, Western version of Matlock.
My only consolation was that a few months later, my friend beat him in a DWI case. She did it with grace and charm, qualities that will get you a long way with a jury when your opponent is as mean as a put-upon rattlesnake. After the guilty verdict, she very sweetly asked the jury for the maximum punishment and got it-- minus about 10 days. After that trial, Mr. Brown called her "Maxumiiiiime -Caru-liiiine." And for years after, on a regular basis brought her huge sacks of candy.
He had a stroke. And he was on death's door, or so we were told by his putative son. But he came back. His skin was green, his nails were yellow, but he was back dammit. And I loved him for it. And a couple of years later he had another stroke. And again we were told, this is it, he won't make it. But he did and a month later was back in the saddle, maybe a little lopsided, but back in the saddle.
And so after the second stroke I just assumed he wasn't going to die, like my mom says "cosa mala nunca muere."
He wasn't mala, not really, not by a long shot-- just a cantankerous old fart, okay, maybe a sour, cantankerous old fart, with my apologies to Mister Patterson and the fart.
By the time I came to Conroe, he was already on the decline. But he still beat me like a drum in trial. It was an unlawful carrying of a firearm case. The guy was driving in his car with a handgun in the door pocket. In my mind at the time, my youthful, cocky, "we live in the Heights, recycle our trash, don't own guns and never will" mind, the case was clear cut. The guy was guilty. We set out to pick a jury. Don walked in at the last minute, wearing a light blue, suede, nubuck- style jacket with gold cording on the shoulders and lighter shade of blue Wrangler dress pants and, of course, cowboy boots. His white hair was slicked back. I watched the panel of potential jurors as they watched him. Regular good folks, the kind of people that our current commander in chief thinks cling to their guns and religion. It was like John Wayne had walked in the courtroom. And there I was. Twenty-something in my Ann Taylor belted suit. Mercifully, I knew enough to to think "oh shit, this ain't good."
I can't remember if he called me Stella or Miss Stevens, but when he talked he spoke with that peculiar East Texas accent that you don't hear too much nowadays, in an age where everyone is from nowhere. Regardless, it sounded snidely and condescending. Of course, addressing me by my Christian name only occurred when we were conferencing with the judge, to the jury I was the government's attorney. I was the government trying to take their guns away. The defendant was traveling (funny how he never mentioned that to the cop-- see how I am still a sore loser?) and it was his God-given right to have a gun in his car to protect himself if the need should arise. It would be a stretch to say the jury deliberated for10 minutes, because I could hear a lot of toilet flushing going on in the jury room and afterwards, they did not want to talk to me, just to the old gun-slinger, the meaner, crankier, wrinklier, Western version of Matlock.
My only consolation was that a few months later, my friend beat him in a DWI case. She did it with grace and charm, qualities that will get you a long way with a jury when your opponent is as mean as a put-upon rattlesnake. After the guilty verdict, she very sweetly asked the jury for the maximum punishment and got it-- minus about 10 days. After that trial, Mr. Brown called her "Maxumiiiiime -Caru-liiiine." And for years after, on a regular basis brought her huge sacks of candy.
He had a stroke. And he was on death's door, or so we were told by his putative son. But he came back. His skin was green, his nails were yellow, but he was back dammit. And I loved him for it. And a couple of years later he had another stroke. And again we were told, this is it, he won't make it. But he did and a month later was back in the saddle, maybe a little lopsided, but back in the saddle.
And so after the second stroke I just assumed he wasn't going to die, like my mom says "cosa mala nunca muere."
He wasn't mala, not really, not by a long shot-- just a cantankerous old fart, okay, maybe a sour, cantankerous old fart, with my apologies to Mister Patterson and the fart.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
a Study in Contrasts at the Texas Nail Spa on Ella and 43rd
Today, I went and had my nails done. I haven't done this in a while, as I now regard a manicure as a luxury, but every once in a while, it is okay to have a treat. There were two other girls in the shop having their nails done. Well, I suppose they were not really girls, but they were certainly not ladies and not really women. I listened to their conversation (they were friends) with amusement. Summary follows:
1. They were in their early twenties.
2. They work at Hooters.
3. Football season was coming and would be good to them from a financial standpoint (the phrase financial standpoint being mine, not theirs).
4. Relationships lasting more than a month were boring to them.
5. They were on facebook and updated their status during their manicure and were delighted on the people who immediately responded and called those people stalkers.
6. They wore and admired each others' really short shorts from urban outfitters.
7. The one next to me was painting her nails green with some kind of design on them (my rudimentary knowledge of Vietnamese let me know I wasn't the only one who thought that was really weird).
8. They could really stand to go to a party tonight.
9. One had a car payment that was killing her.
10. After their nails were done they were going to an aerobics class which one still had to register for, thankfully she had a phone with a touch screen, the touch screen being a somewhat important factor in the registration process.
11. The best part about the class was that while you could wear tennis shoes in the gym, once the class began, you had to wear high heels.
12. They needed to get in shape for Halloween which was a month and a half away and were hoping Hooters could work something out with 24 hour fitness where services could be exchanged, but on this point they were not that optimistic, because people who work at 24 hour fitness don't really eat at Hooters.
In short, they were my worst nightmare and what I think is wrong with America. And then I realized...
1. I have achieved the advanced age of 36.
2 I am a stay at home mom.
3. September 26 will mark the anniversary of the first date in what has become an 18 year relationship with the same man.
4. I like to see pictures of my friends' kids on facebook.
5. I was wearing paint-stained sweatpants and a maternity t-shirt.
6. I was paying good money to have my nails painted the same color as they naturally are.
7. I haven't been to a party in a really long time.
8. I drive a mini-van that smells like sour milk.
9. I can't figure out how to use my touch screen phone.
10. After my manicure, I was going to pick up my two year old and go to the park and I count that as aerobic exercise.
11. I am excited about decorating my mantel with black candles and orange jelly beans for Halloween and making my daughter the "happy pumpkin" costume she has requested.
In short, I was their worst nightmare.
1. They were in their early twenties.
2. They work at Hooters.
3. Football season was coming and would be good to them from a financial standpoint (the phrase financial standpoint being mine, not theirs).
4. Relationships lasting more than a month were boring to them.
5. They were on facebook and updated their status during their manicure and were delighted on the people who immediately responded and called those people stalkers.
6. They wore and admired each others' really short shorts from urban outfitters.
7. The one next to me was painting her nails green with some kind of design on them (my rudimentary knowledge of Vietnamese let me know I wasn't the only one who thought that was really weird).
8. They could really stand to go to a party tonight.
9. One had a car payment that was killing her.
10. After their nails were done they were going to an aerobics class which one still had to register for, thankfully she had a phone with a touch screen, the touch screen being a somewhat important factor in the registration process.
11. The best part about the class was that while you could wear tennis shoes in the gym, once the class began, you had to wear high heels.
12. They needed to get in shape for Halloween which was a month and a half away and were hoping Hooters could work something out with 24 hour fitness where services could be exchanged, but on this point they were not that optimistic, because people who work at 24 hour fitness don't really eat at Hooters.
In short, they were my worst nightmare and what I think is wrong with America. And then I realized...
1. I have achieved the advanced age of 36.
2 I am a stay at home mom.
3. September 26 will mark the anniversary of the first date in what has become an 18 year relationship with the same man.
4. I like to see pictures of my friends' kids on facebook.
5. I was wearing paint-stained sweatpants and a maternity t-shirt.
6. I was paying good money to have my nails painted the same color as they naturally are.
7. I haven't been to a party in a really long time.
8. I drive a mini-van that smells like sour milk.
9. I can't figure out how to use my touch screen phone.
10. After my manicure, I was going to pick up my two year old and go to the park and I count that as aerobic exercise.
11. I am excited about decorating my mantel with black candles and orange jelly beans for Halloween and making my daughter the "happy pumpkin" costume she has requested.
In short, I was their worst nightmare.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
how we know our family
Part 1:
Last night,while I was cooking supper (manicotti stuffed with arugula, prosciutto and goat cheese) Annabelle decided to feed the dog. She went to the pail where we keep the food and put it on a plastic plate. She kind of went over board, as she tends to do, and poured it all over the laundry room floor. I told her she needed to clean up that mess before papa came home. She said "No mama, I want him to say 'oh my goodness, what a mess!'" She repeated this several times while I was trying to convince her to clean it before he came home (I live like the movie sleeping with the enemy except without the abuse-- and to be fair, after a hard day at work, he should come home to a clean, happy child, a smiling wife and a house that doesn't have dog food all over the floor).
She was waiting by the door when he came home.
Annabelle: "papa! Come and look at the mess I made!!!!"
Hyphen walked into the kitchen and laughed and exclaimed:
"Oh my goodness! What a mess! Oh my goodness! Annabelle, look at your mess!"
Me: "well, he doesn't disappoint does he?"
part 2.
My mom tends to hold on to things. The other day she gave me some benadryl that expired in 2000. When I complained about it, she chided me, "Oh, Stella, they just put that on there so you will buy more. Expiration dates don't mean anything." Umm, okay. The sheets on Annabelle's bed at my parents house are Bambi sheets from the 70s that she has held onto all of these years. There was a freakish cold snap at Easter last year and I didn't have a coat for Annabelle, but she still had Audrey's little pink coat at the ready. She is the poster child for "waste not want not," or the Hoarders show, depending on your point of view.
Yesterday, she cleaned out her pantry. She threw away some things. Including a can of corn that expired in 1991. Of course, I had to tell my sister this. Her response-- "were you surprised by that?" Not really, no.
part 3.
My manicotti dinner.
Me: "well, how is it?"
H: "well, its okay. But you know I don't like this kind of stuff."
Me: "what do you mean?"
H: " you know, woman food. Like quiche and sandwiches."
Me: " I was thinking about putting sausage in it."
H: "that might have made it okay."
Actually, I do know he doesn't like to eat that kind of stuff. But as he knows, I don't really care.
Last night,while I was cooking supper (manicotti stuffed with arugula, prosciutto and goat cheese) Annabelle decided to feed the dog. She went to the pail where we keep the food and put it on a plastic plate. She kind of went over board, as she tends to do, and poured it all over the laundry room floor. I told her she needed to clean up that mess before papa came home. She said "No mama, I want him to say 'oh my goodness, what a mess!'" She repeated this several times while I was trying to convince her to clean it before he came home (I live like the movie sleeping with the enemy except without the abuse-- and to be fair, after a hard day at work, he should come home to a clean, happy child, a smiling wife and a house that doesn't have dog food all over the floor).
She was waiting by the door when he came home.
Annabelle: "papa! Come and look at the mess I made!!!!"
Hyphen walked into the kitchen and laughed and exclaimed:
"Oh my goodness! What a mess! Oh my goodness! Annabelle, look at your mess!"
Me: "well, he doesn't disappoint does he?"
part 2.
My mom tends to hold on to things. The other day she gave me some benadryl that expired in 2000. When I complained about it, she chided me, "Oh, Stella, they just put that on there so you will buy more. Expiration dates don't mean anything." Umm, okay. The sheets on Annabelle's bed at my parents house are Bambi sheets from the 70s that she has held onto all of these years. There was a freakish cold snap at Easter last year and I didn't have a coat for Annabelle, but she still had Audrey's little pink coat at the ready. She is the poster child for "waste not want not," or the Hoarders show, depending on your point of view.
Yesterday, she cleaned out her pantry. She threw away some things. Including a can of corn that expired in 1991. Of course, I had to tell my sister this. Her response-- "were you surprised by that?" Not really, no.
part 3.
My manicotti dinner.
Me: "well, how is it?"
H: "well, its okay. But you know I don't like this kind of stuff."
Me: "what do you mean?"
H: " you know, woman food. Like quiche and sandwiches."
Me: " I was thinking about putting sausage in it."
H: "that might have made it okay."
Actually, I do know he doesn't like to eat that kind of stuff. But as he knows, I don't really care.
Monday, August 23, 2010
Ready or not, here we come!
In the evening, after the dishes are washed, I get a little free time while Hyphen and Annabelle play. I usually spend it on the phone with my parents or sister and tonight was no exception. Usually while I am talking there is some form of laughing or screaming going on. Annabelle is usually asking to be hung upside down or she and her father take on the characters of Cinderella and Michael Jackson and dance around the living room. (Michael Jackson/ Cinderella story will have to wait for another day)
Tonight was especially raucous and I realized they were playing some form of hide and go seek. But tonight it seemed as though Hyphen's screams of laughter were more real than they normally are, so I tuned in for a minute and realized....
...that the idiot dog was playing with them.
Now, the dog is a bona fide moron. Her relationship with Annabelle is nebulous at best. Annabelle insists that she sleep in her room every night. But she also yells at Bella in outrage (NO!!! NO!!! NO!!! NO!!! NO!!! NO!!!!) when she does idiot dog stuff, such as eat her candy heart necklace, cord and all, when Annabelle left it--somewhat carelessly-- on the coffee table. (In Annabelle's defense, she had set it down for less than a second before it was gobbled up.)
Annabelle has tried to get the dog to play with her before, but, as I tried to explain to Annabelle, since the dog does not have opposable thumbs, Lego's is probably not the best thing to play with Bella. And you have to rule out traditional games like catch, because she is lazy and just prefers to sit by the back door while you chase after the ball and bring it back to her.
She does tend to horn in when she is not wanted, like the time when Annabelle made me an imaginary cupcake with sprinkles on it, and while I was carefully peeling off the wrapper, the dog tried to snatch it out my hand. Idiot.
Tonight was different. They were running and hiding, she was waiting for them to hide and then she went to find them. If they heard her coming, they would run in the opposite direction. She would then head them off at the pass. They would double back, and hide in the bathroom (tactical error--only one exit) and she would wait until she heard a giggle and corner them in it. There was lots of laughter and tail wagging and those bright dog smiles--the ones that come with the perky ears.
I watched it long enough, that there was no doubt in my mind--my dog can play hide and go seek.
As with most people who play with Annabelle, the dog got tired first and flopped down on the carpet and remained there despite Annabelle's begging "come find me, come find me!"
Now, does this mean my dog has gained some kind of freakish intelligence? Maybe. Annabelle is not the neatest eater--so, could be the dog was just following the pork chop scent that lingered on her chubby little hands.
Tonight was especially raucous and I realized they were playing some form of hide and go seek. But tonight it seemed as though Hyphen's screams of laughter were more real than they normally are, so I tuned in for a minute and realized....
...that the idiot dog was playing with them.
Now, the dog is a bona fide moron. Her relationship with Annabelle is nebulous at best. Annabelle insists that she sleep in her room every night. But she also yells at Bella in outrage (NO!!! NO!!! NO!!! NO!!! NO!!! NO!!!!) when she does idiot dog stuff, such as eat her candy heart necklace, cord and all, when Annabelle left it--somewhat carelessly-- on the coffee table. (In Annabelle's defense, she had set it down for less than a second before it was gobbled up.)
Annabelle has tried to get the dog to play with her before, but, as I tried to explain to Annabelle, since the dog does not have opposable thumbs, Lego's is probably not the best thing to play with Bella. And you have to rule out traditional games like catch, because she is lazy and just prefers to sit by the back door while you chase after the ball and bring it back to her.
She does tend to horn in when she is not wanted, like the time when Annabelle made me an imaginary cupcake with sprinkles on it, and while I was carefully peeling off the wrapper, the dog tried to snatch it out my hand. Idiot.
Tonight was different. They were running and hiding, she was waiting for them to hide and then she went to find them. If they heard her coming, they would run in the opposite direction. She would then head them off at the pass. They would double back, and hide in the bathroom (tactical error--only one exit) and she would wait until she heard a giggle and corner them in it. There was lots of laughter and tail wagging and those bright dog smiles--the ones that come with the perky ears.
I watched it long enough, that there was no doubt in my mind--my dog can play hide and go seek.
As with most people who play with Annabelle, the dog got tired first and flopped down on the carpet and remained there despite Annabelle's begging "come find me, come find me!"
Now, does this mean my dog has gained some kind of freakish intelligence? Maybe. Annabelle is not the neatest eater--so, could be the dog was just following the pork chop scent that lingered on her chubby little hands.
Monday, August 9, 2010
the story of the lucky 13
Today we celebrate our 13th anniversary. The three of us marked the occasion with tulips, candles, wine, pasta puttanesca eaten on dishes from our wedding, and by digging out old wedding photos. I always get sentimental around this time, especially now, in my delicate condition. I tried to explain to Annabelle why this was a special day, but she cannot conceive of the thought that there was an us before there was an us. And when she sees picutres of us from long ago she asks "where was I?" and anwers herself "I was at grandma's house and I was sad because I wasn't there."
The other night at dinner, I put on a Frank Sinatra CD (yes some people still listen to CDs). Annabelle said, "what is this music?" I said "this is Frank Sinatra, this is some of the music mama and pap fell in love to."
Annabelle: "and then what happened?"
Me: "well, then we went on lots of dates, and hugged and kissed each other a lot and had lots of fun."
Annabelle: " and then what happened?"
Me: " then we decided to get married"
Annabelle: "and then what happened?"
Me: "then we got married and mama was the most beautiful bride ever and we had the most wonderful wedding ever and mama and Martha Stewart took 10 years off of Grandpa's life."
Annabelle: "and then what happened?"
Me: "then we moved to Houston and had lots of fun and lived in apartments and in another house and we went out to eat lots and saw movies at 10:00 at night and got dogs and furniture and went on vacations in Mexico."
Annabelle: "and then what happened?"
Me: "then one night we had margaritas and crawfish and then you were in my tummy."
Annabelle: "and then what happened?"
Me: "and then my water broke and papa said 'I have one more week' and I said, 'no you don't,' and then papa got in trouble with the doctor and then you were here and we were the happiest- happiest and you were the best baby ever."
Annabelle: "and then what happened?"
Me: "then we took good care of you and then we went to the library and HEB and then you took a nap and then we made dinner and then we were eating and you askd what kind of music this was."
Annabelle: "and then what happened?"
Me: "I am not sure yet, but I am sure it will be good."
Happy anniversary and thank you to all the people who have loved and supported us over the years.
The other night at dinner, I put on a Frank Sinatra CD (yes some people still listen to CDs). Annabelle said, "what is this music?" I said "this is Frank Sinatra, this is some of the music mama and pap fell in love to."
Annabelle: "and then what happened?"
Me: "well, then we went on lots of dates, and hugged and kissed each other a lot and had lots of fun."
Annabelle: " and then what happened?"
Me: " then we decided to get married"
Annabelle: "and then what happened?"
Me: "then we got married and mama was the most beautiful bride ever and we had the most wonderful wedding ever and mama and Martha Stewart took 10 years off of Grandpa's life."
Annabelle: "and then what happened?"
Me: "then we moved to Houston and had lots of fun and lived in apartments and in another house and we went out to eat lots and saw movies at 10:00 at night and got dogs and furniture and went on vacations in Mexico."
Annabelle: "and then what happened?"
Me: "then one night we had margaritas and crawfish and then you were in my tummy."
Annabelle: "and then what happened?"
Me: "and then my water broke and papa said 'I have one more week' and I said, 'no you don't,' and then papa got in trouble with the doctor and then you were here and we were the happiest- happiest and you were the best baby ever."
Annabelle: "and then what happened?"
Me: "then we took good care of you and then we went to the library and HEB and then you took a nap and then we made dinner and then we were eating and you askd what kind of music this was."
Annabelle: "and then what happened?"
Me: "I am not sure yet, but I am sure it will be good."
Happy anniversary and thank you to all the people who have loved and supported us over the years.
Monday, August 2, 2010
when it is time to do push aways, or push ups, or to just buy a push up bra
Since I have several friends and a sister who either are breastfeeding, or have recently breast fed their babies, Annabelle has gotten quite an eye-ful of the chi-chis lately. And since I breastfed forever, I think it is totally natural and no big deal that Annabelle tries to nurse her dolls and sometimes even tries to get her Papa to act as a wet nurse, which of course, Hyphen does.
She is also becoming more aware of bodies especially the parts that are covered up and occasionally and randomly says "boys have a penis, girls have giants."
Today, while we were coming home from the library, was one of those random annoucement days and it went like this:
Annabelle:Annabelle has little chi-chis. Mama has big chi-chis.
Me:(partially grateful, remembering in high school how someone referred to me as the great plains and Audrey as the rocky mountains, and partially annoyed, remembering a time when I was voted to have the best boobs in the office and now viewing what was once perky and pleasing to have become somewhat National geographic in nature): Yes that's right Annabelle.
Annabelle: Annabelle has little chi-chis and papa has little chi-chis. Mama has big chi-chis. Mama and Grandma and Grandpa have big chi-chis.
Okay, so maybe there should be someone who is more annoyed than I am.
She is also becoming more aware of bodies especially the parts that are covered up and occasionally and randomly says "boys have a penis, girls have giants."
Today, while we were coming home from the library, was one of those random annoucement days and it went like this:
Annabelle:Annabelle has little chi-chis. Mama has big chi-chis.
Me:(partially grateful, remembering in high school how someone referred to me as the great plains and Audrey as the rocky mountains, and partially annoyed, remembering a time when I was voted to have the best boobs in the office and now viewing what was once perky and pleasing to have become somewhat National geographic in nature): Yes that's right Annabelle.
Annabelle: Annabelle has little chi-chis and papa has little chi-chis. Mama has big chi-chis. Mama and Grandma and Grandpa have big chi-chis.
Okay, so maybe there should be someone who is more annoyed than I am.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
allergies
As a parent, you learn to ignore things, such as "Mama, I want to look it at that book," especially when it is repeated 100 times at bedtime. This is a learned parental defense mechanism in order to keep you sane. Now, you'll snap out of ignore mode immediately if it changes to "Mama I need to go poo-poo."
I didn't have too much trouble adapting to this behavior becasue I have been living with Hyphen and his various health complaints, both real and imagined for 13 years. One day I actually decided to pay attention to his complaints and I wrote them all down. They included, but were not limited to: chapped ass, weird mosquito bite on ass, ear pressure, toe nail pain, teeth hurt, vomit in mouth while brushing teeth, eyes hurt (feel hot). The next day they included: coughing/ lougees, glue eye, red eye, weak urine stream, "dirty farts," constricted layrnx, constipation, various mental issue, throat killing him and the feeling of a fine layer of dust on his entire body.
See how you could tune this stuff out after a while? The fine layer of dust has been a complaint that he has had over the years. For a while I started to file that under the various mental issues category. Until I ate some bad shrimp, that made me break out into horrible hives that subsequently sent me to the allergist. They made me fill out a 10 page long survey that had all sorts of questions on it, and while none of the questions dealt with the issue of dirty farts, they did address things like "do you wake in the morning and need to cough," and "do you sneeze at night." As I was filling this out and answering no to every question, I started to think that Hyphen would answer yes to every question. I came home and told him about the survey. And one year and several really bad sinus infections later, he went to see the allergist. Actually it was thirteen years later, because right after we got married I recall how every night he would start to sneeze and would sneeze literally 50 times in a row. I also seem to recall vacations we would take with friends where they would hear him coughing and hacking--while they were downstairs and we were upstairs. I also recall being in the bedroom, talking on the phone with my sister and her saying "Is that H in the bathroom hocking up lougees--good lord how do you live with that?" But the point is, he went.
And guess what? He is allergic to 29 things, including pecan trees, dust mites and cockroaches.
And also guess what? His allergist said for people with dust mite allergies, feeling like there is a layer of dust on their body is a very common complaint.
Now, do I feel bad for making fun of him all these years? No. Because if I ever sneezed 50 times in a row, I would immediately call the doctor and tell them, "hey doc, I just sneezed 50 times, what gives?"
So the allergy msytery is solved. Now onto the really important matters, like cholesterol.
And, in case you are wondering, for me, it was just some bad shrimp.
I didn't have too much trouble adapting to this behavior becasue I have been living with Hyphen and his various health complaints, both real and imagined for 13 years. One day I actually decided to pay attention to his complaints and I wrote them all down. They included, but were not limited to: chapped ass, weird mosquito bite on ass, ear pressure, toe nail pain, teeth hurt, vomit in mouth while brushing teeth, eyes hurt (feel hot). The next day they included: coughing/ lougees, glue eye, red eye, weak urine stream, "dirty farts," constricted layrnx, constipation, various mental issue, throat killing him and the feeling of a fine layer of dust on his entire body.
See how you could tune this stuff out after a while? The fine layer of dust has been a complaint that he has had over the years. For a while I started to file that under the various mental issues category. Until I ate some bad shrimp, that made me break out into horrible hives that subsequently sent me to the allergist. They made me fill out a 10 page long survey that had all sorts of questions on it, and while none of the questions dealt with the issue of dirty farts, they did address things like "do you wake in the morning and need to cough," and "do you sneeze at night." As I was filling this out and answering no to every question, I started to think that Hyphen would answer yes to every question. I came home and told him about the survey. And one year and several really bad sinus infections later, he went to see the allergist. Actually it was thirteen years later, because right after we got married I recall how every night he would start to sneeze and would sneeze literally 50 times in a row. I also seem to recall vacations we would take with friends where they would hear him coughing and hacking--while they were downstairs and we were upstairs. I also recall being in the bedroom, talking on the phone with my sister and her saying "Is that H in the bathroom hocking up lougees--good lord how do you live with that?" But the point is, he went.
And guess what? He is allergic to 29 things, including pecan trees, dust mites and cockroaches.
And also guess what? His allergist said for people with dust mite allergies, feeling like there is a layer of dust on their body is a very common complaint.
Now, do I feel bad for making fun of him all these years? No. Because if I ever sneezed 50 times in a row, I would immediately call the doctor and tell them, "hey doc, I just sneezed 50 times, what gives?"
So the allergy msytery is solved. Now onto the really important matters, like cholesterol.
And, in case you are wondering, for me, it was just some bad shrimp.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
God Punishes
God Punishes--that is one of the religious theories I grew up with--that if you were too cocky, or rude, or impatient, or proud, you were going to get yours. It's a Mexican Catholic thing. I was playing at a friend's house (they were Episcopalian) and I said to my little friend "God punishes" when she did something to annoy me. Her mother, who never yelled, always wore patent leather sandals and who we called by her first name, Duffy, took me aside and said "Stella, you know, God does not punish, He is a loving God." Okay, so maybe they were Baptist, but whatever. It is a theory of retribution to which I have become accustomed.
Today, while at school Annabelle had an accident, the kind where your Dora underwear gets tossed. Then after she came home she told me she needed to go to the potty. She went to the bathroom and started to hide from me behind the towels. When I finally "found" her and got her on the toilet she had peed a little bit on her panties. Costume change. Then tonight after dinner she said she needed to go potty. I took her to the bathroom again. And again, she let some pee out before I could get her on the potty. And then I told her "you only get two costume changes a day, we are going to take a bath in a minute, so you are going to be a naked baby until bath time."
And then I sneezed. Twice. And I am pregnant with my second baby. And I am not the greatest with my kegels.
God Punishes.
Today, while at school Annabelle had an accident, the kind where your Dora underwear gets tossed. Then after she came home she told me she needed to go to the potty. She went to the bathroom and started to hide from me behind the towels. When I finally "found" her and got her on the toilet she had peed a little bit on her panties. Costume change. Then tonight after dinner she said she needed to go potty. I took her to the bathroom again. And again, she let some pee out before I could get her on the potty. And then I told her "you only get two costume changes a day, we are going to take a bath in a minute, so you are going to be a naked baby until bath time."
And then I sneezed. Twice. And I am pregnant with my second baby. And I am not the greatest with my kegels.
God Punishes.
Friday, June 25, 2010
the itsy bitsy pinches
Today, Annabelle grabbed my arm and pinched it, not maliciously, but it was a pinch nonetheless. I explained to her that it hurt and for her to be careful. She in turn said "Mama it was a little pinch, little pinches don't hurt."
Now here is where I beg to disagree. Once, when Audrey and I were little and were going to visit grandma and grandpa Audrey introduced me to the itsy bitsty pinches. We were bored and were in the back seat of the old red Buick and mom and dad were up front, doing the mom and dad thing, which means talking and ignoring all back seat activity unless there is high pitched screaming involved. Audrey said to me "and now it is time for the itsy bitsy pinches." She said it in a high pitched voice and drew out the itsy bitsy part and proceeded to give me the tiny pinches on my arm, and they hurt like fire ant bites. I was in horrible pain, but as usual, when my horrible pain was inflicted by Audrey, instead of screaming, I was laughing. It was pretty funny when you think about it, first you are sitting playing and then you are getting attacked by your cherubic-looking 4 year old kid sister.
I was telling this whole story to my mom and she said, incredulously, I might add, "I never knew about that."
Well, of course she didn't. Moms don't know everything that goes on between siblings--and thank God for that. But she sounded sad, and I felt sad, because I know in a few months time, I am going to have to share Annabelle with someone else. And they will have their own itsty bitsy pinches, and I will never be a part of it. And that is how it should be.
Meanwhile, I trained Annabelle, landlord Pearl-style, to say Audrey's famous tag line. I was curious, I wanted to see if Auntie remembered. We gave her a call and Annabelle said "Auntie it is time for the itsy bitsy pinches," and screamed with laughter. Auntie's response?
"Uh-oh, someone better start running!"
Now here is where I beg to disagree. Once, when Audrey and I were little and were going to visit grandma and grandpa Audrey introduced me to the itsy bitsty pinches. We were bored and were in the back seat of the old red Buick and mom and dad were up front, doing the mom and dad thing, which means talking and ignoring all back seat activity unless there is high pitched screaming involved. Audrey said to me "and now it is time for the itsy bitsy pinches." She said it in a high pitched voice and drew out the itsy bitsy part and proceeded to give me the tiny pinches on my arm, and they hurt like fire ant bites. I was in horrible pain, but as usual, when my horrible pain was inflicted by Audrey, instead of screaming, I was laughing. It was pretty funny when you think about it, first you are sitting playing and then you are getting attacked by your cherubic-looking 4 year old kid sister.
I was telling this whole story to my mom and she said, incredulously, I might add, "I never knew about that."
Well, of course she didn't. Moms don't know everything that goes on between siblings--and thank God for that. But she sounded sad, and I felt sad, because I know in a few months time, I am going to have to share Annabelle with someone else. And they will have their own itsty bitsy pinches, and I will never be a part of it. And that is how it should be.
Meanwhile, I trained Annabelle, landlord Pearl-style, to say Audrey's famous tag line. I was curious, I wanted to see if Auntie remembered. We gave her a call and Annabelle said "Auntie it is time for the itsy bitsy pinches," and screamed with laughter. Auntie's response?
"Uh-oh, someone better start running!"
Sunday, June 20, 2010
pregnancy the second time around
First off, there was morning sickness. And that was just no fun. I can remember every time in my life that I have vomited, and now I have a few more notches in my belt, my personal favorite, being on the road, while driving, in a H-E-B sack, on the way to a 2 year old's birthday party in Austin.
Secondly, there has been much, shall we say as delicately as possible, wind. I burp and fart like nothing anyone has ever seen, sometimes over 50 burps in an hour, each eructation scandalous in its volume and ferocity.
That being said, there is no preoccupation with pregnancy. I can scarcely remember what week I am in and I have not even once looked at the Internet to find out what appendage or organ my baby is growing this week. I eat turkey and blue cheese, suck down ice tea, and routinely pick up a little squirt that weighs more than 20 pounds.
There is no baby's room in the works, just a small corner in the guest room,that I eventually get around to sometime in October.
But this baby is far more loved than the first one, because this baby has a "big 'tister" The big sister kisses the baby and tells anyone else who might get near my tummy, "be careful of my baby." The big sister is going to share her "cribby" with her baby and says that she and the baby are going to have lots of cuddles when the baby drinks "my mama's chi-chis."
This baby is more real to its father too. The first time around he showed zero interest in what was happening, and frequently told me that "pregnancy is no excuse." His only sign of husbandly concern was to seem mildly tense the whole time, snapping to if I ever stubbed my toe or bumped into something and said "ow." In fact the only true interest he showed the first time was to pronounce one Sunday morning "What is wrong with the name Annabelle, I like the name Annabelle, and if it is a boy, then Cowboy." Thankfully, the Good Lord was watching out for me on the issue of gender and names.
Pregnancy the second time around and Hyphen are very different. I awoke one morning to his hand on my belly. He drives out of his way to get me a pepperoni pan pizza from Pizza Hut after his dinner of Chilean Sea Bass and broccoli made me gag. He does as much heavy lifting as Annabelle will allow and cautions me not to "over do it."
And he told Annabelle one day, "what do you think about the name Tallulah? That way there can be a mama named Stella and two sisters named Annabelle and Tallulah." I wasn't too sold on the name until I heard that explanation.
This time, though, I am picking the boy's name.
Henry. Let's hope I get my way.
Secondly, there has been much, shall we say as delicately as possible, wind. I burp and fart like nothing anyone has ever seen, sometimes over 50 burps in an hour, each eructation scandalous in its volume and ferocity.
That being said, there is no preoccupation with pregnancy. I can scarcely remember what week I am in and I have not even once looked at the Internet to find out what appendage or organ my baby is growing this week. I eat turkey and blue cheese, suck down ice tea, and routinely pick up a little squirt that weighs more than 20 pounds.
There is no baby's room in the works, just a small corner in the guest room,that I eventually get around to sometime in October.
But this baby is far more loved than the first one, because this baby has a "big 'tister" The big sister kisses the baby and tells anyone else who might get near my tummy, "be careful of my baby." The big sister is going to share her "cribby" with her baby and says that she and the baby are going to have lots of cuddles when the baby drinks "my mama's chi-chis."
This baby is more real to its father too. The first time around he showed zero interest in what was happening, and frequently told me that "pregnancy is no excuse." His only sign of husbandly concern was to seem mildly tense the whole time, snapping to if I ever stubbed my toe or bumped into something and said "ow." In fact the only true interest he showed the first time was to pronounce one Sunday morning "What is wrong with the name Annabelle, I like the name Annabelle, and if it is a boy, then Cowboy." Thankfully, the Good Lord was watching out for me on the issue of gender and names.
Pregnancy the second time around and Hyphen are very different. I awoke one morning to his hand on my belly. He drives out of his way to get me a pepperoni pan pizza from Pizza Hut after his dinner of Chilean Sea Bass and broccoli made me gag. He does as much heavy lifting as Annabelle will allow and cautions me not to "over do it."
And he told Annabelle one day, "what do you think about the name Tallulah? That way there can be a mama named Stella and two sisters named Annabelle and Tallulah." I wasn't too sold on the name until I heard that explanation.
This time, though, I am picking the boy's name.
Henry. Let's hope I get my way.
Saturday, June 19, 2010
trials and tribulations
Yesterday, after a horrible night of sleep on Annabelle's part and consequently on my part, Annabelle was in rare form. Clingy and naughty all in one. She woke up geared to go to her friends birthday party, which was still a day away. This was explained to her and disappointment ensued. We went to get said friend a present. When kids are under 5, I generally get them clothes for birthdays, because clothes are like a present for the mom and kids have way too many toys anyway. So we went to Gymboree to get clothes. First we had to get dressed. Small battle over what to wear, huge battle over hairstyle. Annabelle's hair is long enough where we need to start putting it in barrettes or pig tails, but she resists completely, pulling them out shortly after they are installed. She likes to feel the wind in her hair, I guess. Then we made a pitstop at Alma Latina, with Hyphen, who took the day off, for a dose of chorizo. She had to sit in my lap the whole breakfast. Then a trip to Target, which got this response "No, No Target. I don't want to go to target, I want to get Andrew a present at Gymboree." Once we were inside, she insisted on walking, not riding in the cart. (in case you are wondering why I haven't smacked her yet, it is because she is two and is asserting her independence and I am trying to help her make "good choices" now, so she won't drink and do drugs in high school--or some other such nonsense I am currently reading in a parenting book entitled Love and Logic.) While at Target, looking at maternity clothes, she told me she was going to hide from me and hid in numerous clothes racks, squealing with laughter when I found her. Finally, I decided she was making bad choices and deposited her in the cart. Smallish tantrum.
Finally we arrived at Gymborre, which she enjoys because there is a tv. There was no one in the store save me and the salesladies. I felt free to shop without watching Annabelle too closely and I peeked over where the tv was to check on her only to discover Annabelle, naked as a jay bird, just finishing the removal of her panties, watching tv. Annabelle likes to be naked for reasons I have not completely discerned. (Note: when I told my mom this instead of laughing, she got quiet and she called me the next day and scolded me saying she could have gotten molested--I was impressed by the restraint on her part, she waited an entire day)
We got home and got ready for her first private swim lesson, which I had been talking up all week. I went to the kitchen, to talk to H and when I went back to her room, she had managed to get a bottle of baby powder and shake its contents all over her floor. She wanted to continue to shake it and I said she could do so outside. (Note: this is not the parenting book, this is me, remembering what it was like to be a kid, and how some messes were just irresistible.)
Swimming lesson? Disaster. Cried to entire time. Mind you, the teacher wasn't super great at getting acquanted with a toddler, she just got her in the pool and said, "let's see you kick."
We got home and I went to talk to H again, who was making lunch and when I went to her room, she found the sunblock and had squirted it all over the floor. This was at the point where I officially lost it and yelled (I am not a yeller mom) "What are you doin????????!!!!!!" And then I did the only thing that was humanly and lovingly and logically possible.
I called in the big guns. I got her father.
In our house, Papa rarely disciplines. If mama rarely yells, papa certainly does not. This is kind of an "apple of his eye house," where the Apple is loved and adored tremendously by her papa/pops/poppi.
I got the paper towels to clean up the mess and was about to walk in the room. H saw me and shooed me away. I could hear him gving her a quiet talk about being naughty and how "some things are toys and others are not and it is okay to play with your toys, but you have to ask mama and papa to play with the things that are not toys." Then I heard "do you understand me? Look at me Annabelle, look me in the eyes. Do you understand me." Then a quivering "yes. I sorry papa. I sorry I squirted this sunscreen." I walked in and scooped her in my arms and cuddled her and said "it's okay." To which papa replied and rightly so, "Actually, it's not okay, but we forgive you."
He went back to the kitchen and we cleaned up the mess.
After I was fnished, I followed him to the kitchen, and slapped him on the butt, pro-athelete style. "You are awesome. That was awesome back there. You are the best dad. Way to go." And he is the best dad, I challenge you, gentle reader, to find a better one....
Today? She is a cherub. A delight, a model citizen, that when in high school will carry packages for old ladies crossing the street and rescue little birds that have fallen from their nests, etc.
Tomorrow? Quien sabe?
Finally we arrived at Gymborre, which she enjoys because there is a tv. There was no one in the store save me and the salesladies. I felt free to shop without watching Annabelle too closely and I peeked over where the tv was to check on her only to discover Annabelle, naked as a jay bird, just finishing the removal of her panties, watching tv. Annabelle likes to be naked for reasons I have not completely discerned. (Note: when I told my mom this instead of laughing, she got quiet and she called me the next day and scolded me saying she could have gotten molested--I was impressed by the restraint on her part, she waited an entire day)
We got home and got ready for her first private swim lesson, which I had been talking up all week. I went to the kitchen, to talk to H and when I went back to her room, she had managed to get a bottle of baby powder and shake its contents all over her floor. She wanted to continue to shake it and I said she could do so outside. (Note: this is not the parenting book, this is me, remembering what it was like to be a kid, and how some messes were just irresistible.)
Swimming lesson? Disaster. Cried to entire time. Mind you, the teacher wasn't super great at getting acquanted with a toddler, she just got her in the pool and said, "let's see you kick."
We got home and I went to talk to H again, who was making lunch and when I went to her room, she found the sunblock and had squirted it all over the floor. This was at the point where I officially lost it and yelled (I am not a yeller mom) "What are you doin????????!!!!!!" And then I did the only thing that was humanly and lovingly and logically possible.
I called in the big guns. I got her father.
In our house, Papa rarely disciplines. If mama rarely yells, papa certainly does not. This is kind of an "apple of his eye house," where the Apple is loved and adored tremendously by her papa/pops/poppi.
I got the paper towels to clean up the mess and was about to walk in the room. H saw me and shooed me away. I could hear him gving her a quiet talk about being naughty and how "some things are toys and others are not and it is okay to play with your toys, but you have to ask mama and papa to play with the things that are not toys." Then I heard "do you understand me? Look at me Annabelle, look me in the eyes. Do you understand me." Then a quivering "yes. I sorry papa. I sorry I squirted this sunscreen." I walked in and scooped her in my arms and cuddled her and said "it's okay." To which papa replied and rightly so, "Actually, it's not okay, but we forgive you."
He went back to the kitchen and we cleaned up the mess.
After I was fnished, I followed him to the kitchen, and slapped him on the butt, pro-athelete style. "You are awesome. That was awesome back there. You are the best dad. Way to go." And he is the best dad, I challenge you, gentle reader, to find a better one....
Today? She is a cherub. A delight, a model citizen, that when in high school will carry packages for old ladies crossing the street and rescue little birds that have fallen from their nests, etc.
Tomorrow? Quien sabe?
Friday, June 11, 2010
eating vietnamese food
The other night we made some vermicelli, with ground beef and cucumber and lettuce and fish sauce. It was delicious of course, and when I say we made it I mean Hyphen made it and I was his trusty and, according to him, messy sous chef. That dish is called bom, or at least that is what it sounds like to me. Annabelle calls it bom pasta. as we were eating Hyphen slurped it up. Now, Hyphen has the best table manners of anyone I have ever known , excepting my friend Carolyn. But he is kind of like Calpurnia in To Kill a Mockingbird, except that instead of having two ways of talking, he has two sets of table manners, American and Asian. Asians slurp and smack when they eat and it is okay to do so (it did take me a while to get used to this).
Now, Annabelle hasn't lived long enough to learn the finer points of cultural anthropology. She just knows one thing:
A: "Papa, you slurwped."
She laughed for a bit and then admonished him in a very serious tone. "We don't slurwp." Then she laughed some more and then she ate some bom and then she slurped. "I slurwp too. We don't slurwp." Then they were both laughing and slurping. I sighed and said "No, we don't slurp."
But, when in Texas, married to a Vietnamese man, eating bom on a hot summer night, do as the husband and daughter do.
Now, Annabelle hasn't lived long enough to learn the finer points of cultural anthropology. She just knows one thing:
A: "Papa, you slurwped."
She laughed for a bit and then admonished him in a very serious tone. "We don't slurwp." Then she laughed some more and then she ate some bom and then she slurped. "I slurwp too. We don't slurwp." Then they were both laughing and slurping. I sighed and said "No, we don't slurp."
But, when in Texas, married to a Vietnamese man, eating bom on a hot summer night, do as the husband and daughter do.
Monday, June 7, 2010
puppet show
We were on vacation for a week, and now it is good to be home--back to the routine. Routine means that Monday is library day, and today at the library they had a marionette show. The show was Aladdin and I am pretty sure it was the same script from when I saw the production at Windcrest Elementary School, with maybe even the same puppets. Aladdin and Jasmine still had blond hair, which I suspect is historically inaccurate. Jafar, is of course, dastardly. They dimmed the lights for the show and as the show started, I was watching Annabelle. She sat, entranced, and after Jafar made his third appearance, she whispered "Mama, I want to go home." She said that every time Jafar had a scene.
Later that evening H asked her about the show. This is what she said.
"That bad guy was bad. He took the lamp. Aladdin is poor (she made her sad face with her pouched out lips when she said that). Princess Jasmine and Aladdin, they kiss. The Genie is a Genie. The bad guy is bad. He is bad. He is very bad. I don't like that bad guy."
Pretty much sums it up.
Later that evening H asked her about the show. This is what she said.
"That bad guy was bad. He took the lamp. Aladdin is poor (she made her sad face with her pouched out lips when she said that). Princess Jasmine and Aladdin, they kiss. The Genie is a Genie. The bad guy is bad. He is bad. He is very bad. I don't like that bad guy."
Pretty much sums it up.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
another ridiculous conversation that I am forced to have
Hyphen: should we just go out to eat tonight?
Me: No, I am making puttanesca, why do you want to go out?
H: because you are going to make a mess in the kitchen.
Me: so? I'll clean it up.
H: No you won't. Seriously, you are the messiest cook I have ever seen. You should start a cooking show called "the messy cook"
Me: "I think I will. The start up money for the show will be from the insurance proceeds from my husband's freakish, sudden and mysterious death. And I will call it "The Happy, Messy Widow Cook. And I will have lots of fans."
Living with Hyphen, is like "Sleeping with the Enemy", but without the violence.
Me: No, I am making puttanesca, why do you want to go out?
H: because you are going to make a mess in the kitchen.
Me: so? I'll clean it up.
H: No you won't. Seriously, you are the messiest cook I have ever seen. You should start a cooking show called "the messy cook"
Me: "I think I will. The start up money for the show will be from the insurance proceeds from my husband's freakish, sudden and mysterious death. And I will call it "The Happy, Messy Widow Cook. And I will have lots of fans."
Living with Hyphen, is like "Sleeping with the Enemy", but without the violence.
Friday, May 7, 2010
speaking of chick-fil-a
While we were there, Annabelle went into the playground. There were lots of big kids in it, so even though she is totally the type who can go into the playground by herself and have a grand time, I went in too. As I was sitting amisdt the chaos, I caught one of the big kids, he was about 5, pretending to punch and karate chop Annabelle. His punches were dangerously close to her face. She was standing there with this curious look on her face, trying to figure him out. Mama Bear had already figured him out, and she jumped up and intervened.
Me(pissed): "What are you doing? She is half your age and half your size."
Karate Kid stared at me with a look of complete shock that someone would talk to his spoiled little West-U self in such a manner.
Me: "now run along and play, but I am going to be watching you and you had better not pick on anyone else."
Karate Kid(as he was running up the playground): "can you see me now"
Me: "yes."
Karate Kid(running to another part of the playground): "you can't see me now though."
Me(although I couldn't see him): "you better believe I can, and don't think for even one second I won't kick you out of here if you misbehave again."
He left on his own accord. And when he did, I gave him one of my special eat-sh*!-die looks. I think my point was made.
Me(pissed): "What are you doing? She is half your age and half your size."
Karate Kid stared at me with a look of complete shock that someone would talk to his spoiled little West-U self in such a manner.
Me: "now run along and play, but I am going to be watching you and you had better not pick on anyone else."
Karate Kid(as he was running up the playground): "can you see me now"
Me: "yes."
Karate Kid(running to another part of the playground): "you can't see me now though."
Me(although I couldn't see him): "you better believe I can, and don't think for even one second I won't kick you out of here if you misbehave again."
He left on his own accord. And when he did, I gave him one of my special eat-sh*!-die looks. I think my point was made.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
lessons learned
The other day we were reading one of Annabelle's favorite library books--Spot Goes to School. It is really a baby book, but she picked it out and likes to read it, and apparently do other things to it, because as I was reading it, I noticed there was a little bit scribble scrabble on it that wasn't there the day before.
"Who did this?" I asked.
She looked thoughtful for a second and whispered "Ann-belle"
I explained to her that you were never supposed to scribble on books, especially library books and that she would need to tell the librarian what she did the next time we went to the library.
"Tell librarian. Say--I sorry I write in this Spot book." she said.
"Yes, that's right. You will need to apologize."
So throughout the week from time to time, she would say something like "I write in Spot book. I tell librarian, I sorry I write in Spot book. Librarian say, that's okay, accidents happen." Periodically, when we would see someone, she would confess, "I write in Spot book" and push her little lips out and make her serious face, the kind of face she makes when she tells on someone for doing something wrong, like when she told me "Grandma drives too fast."
Anyway, Friday came , and our plan was to go to the library, turn in some books, check out some books and then go to Chik-fil-a and have super-delux fun on the playground while mama relaxed and drank her sweet tea.
Right before we went in, she made her little speech to herself and as always it ended with the librarian telling her, "that's okay. Accidents happen." She was full of confidence as she trotted into the library.
But then something happened as I held her up to the counter, got the librarian's attention and showed him the offending page. "Tell him what happened, Annabelle. Tell him what you did." She turn her head away from him and held her head down in what could only be described as abject shame. I prompted her a few more times and she craned her head as far away as she possibly could. The librarian was touched. He looked kind of like how I felt, like he wasn't sure if he was going to laugh or cry.
I was feeling bad for being so old school about something, and then the librarian said "I am going to have to charge you for it." Do whhaaattt???? Eleven dollars later, five of which was a processing fee, I was contemplating whether I should be truly old school and say that we would have to go home and eat peanut butter sandwiches, because I spent all of our Chik-fil-a money on the Spot book. But I saw no reason to punish myself as well.
Lessons learned
1. Annabelle learned not to write in books
2. I learned that honestly is not always the best policy at the Houston Public Library.
"Who did this?" I asked.
She looked thoughtful for a second and whispered "Ann-belle"
I explained to her that you were never supposed to scribble on books, especially library books and that she would need to tell the librarian what she did the next time we went to the library.
"Tell librarian. Say--I sorry I write in this Spot book." she said.
"Yes, that's right. You will need to apologize."
So throughout the week from time to time, she would say something like "I write in Spot book. I tell librarian, I sorry I write in Spot book. Librarian say, that's okay, accidents happen." Periodically, when we would see someone, she would confess, "I write in Spot book" and push her little lips out and make her serious face, the kind of face she makes when she tells on someone for doing something wrong, like when she told me "Grandma drives too fast."
Anyway, Friday came , and our plan was to go to the library, turn in some books, check out some books and then go to Chik-fil-a and have super-delux fun on the playground while mama relaxed and drank her sweet tea.
Right before we went in, she made her little speech to herself and as always it ended with the librarian telling her, "that's okay. Accidents happen." She was full of confidence as she trotted into the library.
But then something happened as I held her up to the counter, got the librarian's attention and showed him the offending page. "Tell him what happened, Annabelle. Tell him what you did." She turn her head away from him and held her head down in what could only be described as abject shame. I prompted her a few more times and she craned her head as far away as she possibly could. The librarian was touched. He looked kind of like how I felt, like he wasn't sure if he was going to laugh or cry.
I was feeling bad for being so old school about something, and then the librarian said "I am going to have to charge you for it." Do whhaaattt???? Eleven dollars later, five of which was a processing fee, I was contemplating whether I should be truly old school and say that we would have to go home and eat peanut butter sandwiches, because I spent all of our Chik-fil-a money on the Spot book. But I saw no reason to punish myself as well.
Lessons learned
1. Annabelle learned not to write in books
2. I learned that honestly is not always the best policy at the Houston Public Library.
Monday, April 26, 2010
potty trained?
Annabelle announced on Saturday that she is potty trained. Depending on how you count it, it either took a few days, a few weeks, a few months or a slap year to get this done. We bought the potty a year ago. Correction-- my mom bought the potty, because she said that at 14 months I was potty trained. Bull. Bull. Big fat Brahman Bull. I was mommy trained--where mommy was trained to take me to the bathroom. But occasionally Annabelle would pee on it. But we were still in diapers. We were off and on in panties since about the fall. Accidents were frequent and Annabelle would never tell me when she needed to go to the bathroom, so as soon as I got frustrated, the diapers came back on. Then we were more solid with the panties starting in about late February, but when I had to go somewhere, or on mother's day out, we were back in diapers. This past week, when I asked her if she wanted to wear panties or diapers to school, she said panties. And so I went to school and told the last hold out on potty training--Annabelle's teacher--that she was wearing panties and that was how it was going to be. Actually, since I am a little scared of her, it was more like "I am sorry, but Annabelle wanted to wear panties today, but don't worry, she has already pooped."
Then we went to fiesta in San Antonio. Fiesta is the best time you will ever have, with an event for everyone, including a Friday parade called the Battle of Flowers that shuts down the entire city and all the school districts. It is a completely wonderful, friendly, family-time that makes you fall in love with San Antonio because it is a city with an actual beating heart. But the bathroom situation is deplorable. I knew she would have to go. And I asked if she needed to and she said yes. So I dragged her and Hyphen (he was needed because I had a slight fear I would drop her down the outhouse hole) to the porta potty. Now, in my delicate condition, smells really get to me. Hyphen opened the door and got it all rigged up with a protective toilet paper covering. And I went in took a breath and gagged. This prompted Annabelle to say "No, I won't." But she was doing to potty dance, and I knew she needed to go, so I suggested that she go behind tree. She was cool with it, Hyphen on the other hand had some anxiety. He didn't want her to go to one tree, because it was too close to a cop. The other tree had dog poop near it. However, I pointed out that this made it a really good place to go, because dogs choose their spots carefully. So she went. We took off her panties, and she peed straight ahead like a man. Then we went back to our seats, where Grandma and Grandpa bought her a bunch of stuff made in China that they, in their 80s incarnation, would have told me and Audrey was for trashy people who like to waste their money. Viva Fiesta!
When we came home on Saturday and were unpacking our stuff, including but not limited to an inflatable Kai Lan doll, a pink parasol and glow-stick bracelets, Annabelle said "Mama, Papa, I am potty trained now."
So far, so good.
Then we went to fiesta in San Antonio. Fiesta is the best time you will ever have, with an event for everyone, including a Friday parade called the Battle of Flowers that shuts down the entire city and all the school districts. It is a completely wonderful, friendly, family-time that makes you fall in love with San Antonio because it is a city with an actual beating heart. But the bathroom situation is deplorable. I knew she would have to go. And I asked if she needed to and she said yes. So I dragged her and Hyphen (he was needed because I had a slight fear I would drop her down the outhouse hole) to the porta potty. Now, in my delicate condition, smells really get to me. Hyphen opened the door and got it all rigged up with a protective toilet paper covering. And I went in took a breath and gagged. This prompted Annabelle to say "No, I won't." But she was doing to potty dance, and I knew she needed to go, so I suggested that she go behind tree. She was cool with it, Hyphen on the other hand had some anxiety. He didn't want her to go to one tree, because it was too close to a cop. The other tree had dog poop near it. However, I pointed out that this made it a really good place to go, because dogs choose their spots carefully. So she went. We took off her panties, and she peed straight ahead like a man. Then we went back to our seats, where Grandma and Grandpa bought her a bunch of stuff made in China that they, in their 80s incarnation, would have told me and Audrey was for trashy people who like to waste their money. Viva Fiesta!
When we came home on Saturday and were unpacking our stuff, including but not limited to an inflatable Kai Lan doll, a pink parasol and glow-stick bracelets, Annabelle said "Mama, Papa, I am potty trained now."
So far, so good.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Dot
Well, we have some progress on the whole "the world revolves around me" aspect of being a toddler. Used to be that if you asked Annabelle what something's name was her reply would be "Annabelle," or in the alternative "Baby Annabelle." Consequently, her favorite doll is named Baby Annabelle, as is her friend Cecilia's doll, which Annabelle took upon herself to name. There were also countless stuffed animals and other random things that shared this moniker.
Now, there is a sudden shift. Dot. Dot is the name of the pet worm she had me dig up from our "beautiful garden" and is the name of all new dolls, a random dog we saw and two squirrels in the park. Oh, and our unborn child. It's name is Dot too.
Dot. I like it, it's kind of spunky.
Now, there is a sudden shift. Dot. Dot is the name of the pet worm she had me dig up from our "beautiful garden" and is the name of all new dolls, a random dog we saw and two squirrels in the park. Oh, and our unborn child. It's name is Dot too.
Dot. I like it, it's kind of spunky.
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