100 year old cautionary tale

Today was blustery and kind of cold for a late January day in Houston.  The kids were outside, playing some sort of camping game with a make shift sleeping bag and I was cooking.  As I headed outside to light the grill, Annabelle asked if I could light the chiminea too, so they could have a campfire.  "No, I am busy making supper, you can ask your father when he gets home," I curtly replied.  Then I looked at her face and I knew what was going on in that little mind of hers:  "I know where the matches are, I 've seen papa light a fire, I can do this, watch me, Miss Too Busy."

I knew I needed to take action, and I knew it needed to be swift and definitive.  There was  no time for love and logic, or talking to your kids so they would listen.  I went with an old standby that has served my people well for generations--a sort of teachable moment, tejano style--which is to say, I decided to scare the shit out of her.

"Annabelle, I am going to tell you a story that is both sad and true.  You know my grandma, the brown lady?"  Nod.  "You know how grandma and I sometimes talk about her and her brothers?"  Nod.  "Well she had a sister too.  But that sister didn't always listen and behave.  And one day they were doing laundry.  Except, back then, they didn't have a washing machine, they did their laundry in huge black pots called cauldrons, and those cauldrons were outside, over a fire.  Well, they told her not to play near the fire, but she didn't listen.  And you know how Laura (little house reference) had to wear long skirts?"  Nods, eyes wide, mouth slightly open.  "Well, so did she, and she played near the fire and her skirts caught on fire, and then she caught on fire and then she died.  That is true.  So don't you play with fire, or matches or go near that chiminea or grill unless me or papa is outside, not even to play camping.  Do you understand?"  Vigorous nodding.

And all was well and then later I called my mom to confess my parental transgression.  For a change, my mom was in complete agreement with me on this one.  "you have to scare kids about fire, that's what my mom told me, to always watch you girls like a hawk, she was always terrified of you girls getting in the fire."  And justifiably so.   For my purpose, I left out the part of how she was haughty and mean to my grandma because my grandma was dark and she was light and she could speak English, even though she was the baby and my grandma could not.  We chatted some more and then I got and idea--

"Mom, this summer, we need to find her.  We need to find her grave."

"Ay, I have no idea where, she is the only one not in the family plot because they were living on a ranch at the time.  Mama knew where it was.  I guess we could go to the Church, she would have had a Catholic burial"

"Didn't you tell me once she was in Crystal City?"

"Yes, but I think they still went to church in Uvalde.  I'll ask Aunt Belia."

Squirming  in the "sleeping bag" 

"This is going to be so fun!

"Yrene.  Her name was Yrene."

oversharing in more than one sense

Today, I was in bed, recovering from a stomach bug that hit me the night before.  The kids watched cartoons for several hours and made a huge mess in the house.  They had a lunch of things Annabelle found in the pantry, and she brought me cups of water and bowls of crackers.  Through all of this neglect and tlc, I was in my pajamas.  I never spend in amount of time in my pajamas.  As soon as I wake up, I put on my makeup, fix my hair, and put on clothes, but today, I was just too sick to care.

Of course it goes without saying that when you wear pajamas, you don't wear a bra.

Annabelle climbed in bed with me, and began to touch my boob.  She lifted up my shirt to get a really good look at it.  And here is where I was torn-- I could pull down my shirt and say, "no," in a firm, annoyed voice.  Or I could be the weird hippy mom that lets it all hang out.

Peace out ya'll.

Anyway, she was looking and started to comment, why is it so pink?  What are all those bumps?  Are you sure you don't have any milk left?  And then:  "It is so pretty, I want to kiss it, but I am too scared."

Tallulah had no such reservations.  And that's when the uptight WASP in me pulled down my shirt.

Annabelle said, "that is a breast Tallulah.  Mommy has breasts.  So does grandma, hers a big and long (grandma, the authentic hippy).  She also has a big bottom.  How big do you think her bottom is mommy?"

"It's just the right size, mija.  God made her just right."

the type of girls they are

Tallulah is the type of girl who will take off her boots and shoes and hair bows at the gap.  And when you ask her where they are, she will say, "in the stroller mama," and make a little face like, "duh," and you will look in the stroller bottom and see how neatly they were placed.

Annabelle is the type of girl who, when at school, gets asked by her favorite boy "you can play with us at recess, you can be the mutant ninja turtle's girlfriend," will politely respond, "no thank you, I don't like to play that," and wander off to sing and play by herself and the other little girls.

Real, crudo and unedited

I am writing this with a sense of foreboding.   In an hour or so, I will go to bed.  And if tonight is like last night...we are in for it.  Last week, Tallulah learned how to climb out of her crib and come downstairs. Mostly, this was not a problem, because she did it at 5:30 (somewhat acceptable) and 6:30 (totally reasonable).  But last night she did it at 2.  From two to three she was squirming around in our bed.  Then at three, Annabelle joined the party.  Then, as is the way of sisters, they started to giggle and be silly.  I took Tallulah back upstairs and told Annabelle to cuddle up to her daddy and go to sleep.  I was upstairs for a good 45 minutes but she wouldn't fall asleep, so I brought her back downstairs, thinking that at least Annabelle would be asleep.  She wasn't of course, so I told Annabelle to go to her room and try to go to sleep.  I could tell T was sleepy and I thought if I could just get her to sleep, then I could lie down with Annabelle and get her to sleep and then it would only be 4:30, and that would be a reasonable amount of sleep for me to function on the next day.  A day where the kids are in school and mother's day out and for the first time since my injury, I did not have physical therapy or a doctors appointment and could be at home to clean and do the home stuff that hasn't been getting done.

Right as she was breathing slowly, Annabelle started to call for me.  Plaintively at first, and then more and more forcefully.   I got out of bed and Tallulah followed me.  I was angry.  I got after them both in a way that was not kind and loving.  I was thinking things and feeling emotions that mothers are not supposed to feel toward their children.  Like rage.  I was resisting the urge to slap and pinch them.  So I settled for making them both cry, and for that I am ashamed.

Maybe there are some things that you shouldn't write about on a blog.  My parents' rodent infestation, for instance.  But for as much as I am a rose colored glasses kind of person, I am an honest person. And this is who I am right now.   Real, crudo, and unedited

Friday night is date night

Tonight, after a day that started with Tallulah climbing out of her crib, coming downstairs, and poking me in the sleeping face saying, "mommy, I whan some meulk peese", I begged H_____ to go out to eat for supper.  He obliged and we went to our standby restaurant.  Teotihuacan, or as we affectionately call it "the T."  We got there later than we usually do, so we had to wait for a table, but our waitress, R_____ got us one as soon as she could and gave Annabelle and Tallulah hugs and kisses and a small Spanish lesson as she usually does, and Tallulah showed her her new rain boots, of which she is very proud.  We don't even have to order.  She brings us our usual: two el monte plates, two kids enchilada plates, lemonade for the kids, tea for me and a water with no ice and a negro modelo for Hyphen.  She always brings the girls a little bit of queso as a treat and Tallulah hogs it all while Annabelle complains about it.  We eat, H talks about work, we talk about the girls, we make small talk about the game, and we are quiet.  I eat with Annabelle next to me and Tallulah in my lap, which means I eat at this really weird angle, cut up people's food, pick up various pieces of dropped flatware off the floor and am generally uncomfortable.

I start to muse about how we used go out to eat, b.c.  We went to some of the nicest places in Houston like Ibiza, Montrrose Cafe, Marks, Hugos, Mocking bird bistro, Vic and Anthony's.  It seemed like every week was a different culinary adventure.  We would start planning at about lunch, when one of us would call the other at work.  H would always  complain "there is no where to eat," (which he still says), but then he would call later in the afternoon and say, "so I heard about this place...." we would call our friends to see if they wanted to join us or meet up for darts afterwards, which they usually did.

Then I started to think about the best meal in my married life.  It was at our honeymoon.  We went off the beaten path somehow and were eating at this lovely place in the hills of Puerto Vallarta.  There were fireworks in the village behind us and our waiter made us some pasta tableside that has never been rivaled.  We also had cream of cilantro soup and some kind of dessert that was on fire.  In reality, it may not have been that good.  It might have just seemed good to our unsophisticated 23-year-old selves, but I still hold this meal out to be the very best  I've ever had, because of the atmosphere, because we were young and because we were so in love, nothing will ever top it--although the hamburger picnic we had in the backyard of our first house while pecan leaves were falling everywhere does come close.

But tonight we were at the T.  But lest you think we are in a terrible rut, let me describe the T.  The T is a Heights neighborhood joint.  Families of all types go there.  As I was waiting for H to bring round the car, I snapped out of my reverie and looked around.  Tonight there was a big group of senior citizens, all decked out in Texans gear, a large Hispanic family celebrating a birthday, average white yuppies with kids,  twenty somethings texting and talking about the new theater downtown that took the place of that "old shabby place, I think it was called the Angelika, it was dark and gross."  Gag.  And there were several big tables of gay men, two of whom were sharing a  kiss, and I hoped my butt was big enough so Annabelle didn't see them, because I am not ready to explain homosexuality or sexuality period to her and there is definitely not anything wrong with that.  So we were outside, waiting on H and I am watching the Tornado Bus Company across the street where a bunch of "guests" to our country were getting out of a bus, hugging and kissing their relatives who were there to greet them.  Then some people covered in tattoos and piercings came out of the T, holding their frothy michiladas.  I heard one of them say "whoa, I didn't know this was that kind of place, I was definitely not prepared to see that.  I know they were sitting at the bar and everything, but geez, get a room."

No, we are not in a rut.  We are not at Marks, we are not at the Backstreet Cafe, and we are not in Puerto Vallarta.  We are right where we are.  Teotihuacan on family date night.

Greetings from the future

Today, I bought an iPhone.  The Mayans were only off by a few days.  But the world is coming to an end.  To make matters worse, I am writing this from my iPad, that my dear and loving husband bought me for Christmas.  And I totally see why people play on their phones all the time instead of playing with their kids.  The phones are cool and they don't whine or talk back, or pee their pants.  But that is all because I cannot figure out how to post the photos I took that are on this stupid thing and I am starting to get really hacked.

Annabelle on football

Annabelle is a gridiron gal and has been since she was about two.  We are currently watching "ketchup" and "mustard" vie for the national championship.  I, am for mustard naturally, but Annabelle and H are for ketchup, Annabelle, because she hates mustard in all forms and H, because he has an unfounded lifelong hatred for Nortre Dame.    She knows the ref signs for false start, touch down and first down.  When I was upstairs tonight, putting T to bed, I hear her yell TOUCHDOWN! and H call from the bathroom--did they score Annabelle?  They had.

Some other Annabelle-isms

1.  "I don't like first downs, I don't like second downs, I don't like third downs.  I like TOUCHDOWNS."

2.  "Arian Foster is incredible, but he is not like touchdown maker Andre Johnson."

3.  Big piles of players are "crumbles."

4.  Tackles are "ker-plonks"

Ketchup just scored again.  I think it's going to be a long night for us mustard fans

Me, not really listening to my parent's pratter

Phone call from parents:

Dad:  well, we had a real nice visit with those little girls this weekend (my sister's kids).  They warmed up to us right away, especially Sam.  We took them to the neighbors and let them feed the horses.

Mom: we had to watch them, I was scared they would bite their fingers off.

Dad: and Robbie offered to let Audrey ride the horse, and she said, "no, I don't think I better."
He offered to let mom ride it too.

Mom: and I almost took him up on it

Me(thinking of the bike incident): seriously?

Dad: I bet it's been 40 years since you were on a horse.  Maybe 50.

Mom: Yeah, but I wanted to ride it.  I can still do it

Dad:  Good Lord.  I got all of that out of my system when I was a kid.

Mom:  you had a horse?  oh, that's right, you did.

Dad: if you can call it a horse.  It was the dumbest, meanest, most ornery nag you ever saw.

Me:  there's a lot of jokes there

Mom: shut up...

this is so much worse

There is a wonderful lady in my neighborhood who has three beautiful children, and one of them has brain cancer.  She has been battling it for almost 4 years now.  She's has had something like 6 surgeries and has been tumor free now for 18 months.  There have been countless prayer vigils, bake sales, garage sales, dinner drops, all the ways that neighbors come together when something like this happens. For a good two years, I didn't even realize who I was praying for--that I had been passing her by every day as I dropped the kids off at school and chatting with her at ballet, until I put two and two together and was astounded that she could even get out of bed in the morning.  And through it all, she has this amazing courage and grace--humor even--and I love her for it.  This ordeal, this horrible ordeal, has made us all hug our babies a little tighter and thank God for the amazing blessings he gives us in our children.

But this is so much worse.

Throughout this joyous season, we have crammed in as much as we can.  Driving to see the lights, visiting with family, singing carols, making cookies, going to see the Nutcracker-- but every once in a while, she catches me and says "what's wrong mama, why do you have that look on your face?"  And what can I tell her?

I was about to load the kids in the car to mail my Christmas cards when I got the call from my mother who was hysterical with grief.  I couldn't believe it, I couldn't understand, and I quickly got on the internet, because I thought it must be an exaggeration on her part.  And then I felt that sickening, panicked feeling I have had, on and off, for the past 11 years and was confused for a second, because this time, there were still planes flying overhead.

But make no mistake--we are grounded.  We are grounded in our inability as a nation to address the mentally ill, gun control, and the vast moral decay of our culture that I am convinced is perpetrated by the Evil One himself.

And the people who we have trusted to lead us out of this cannot even speak to each other without using vulgarities.

This is so much worse.

a public apology

Some time ago, on this very blog, I believe in this post,   I made fun of my husband for watching a show I thought was absurd.

Over the holidays, someone else told me how much they enjoyed the same show.  But I kind of brushed it off, because they share the same DNA and are therefore subject to the same quirks, bad tv obviously being one of them.

Then, last night, as I was folding laundry, I decided to sit in the living room, instead of doing it in the laundry room, as is my evening custom.  The living room tv in our house is completely controlled by my husband, which is why, when he dies from bacon overdose, I will never remarry, because I will finally have control over the remote and can watch-something, see, I don't even know what is on, instead of some dumb chef show--and I will never want to give that up for another man--but I digress.

And so, that is how I came to watch an episode of duck dynasty.  And then I saw another one, and another  one and H and I were laughing hysterically, but at the same time touched by a man who calls his wife "Miss Kay."  I always wanted to be married to someone who called me miss, instead of dude.

So here it goes:  Duck Dynasty is a great, smart funny show and I am a fan.  I highly recommend it to anyone and I am sorry to have made fun of you.

Grizzly still sucks, though.