Hi! I'm back from Florida!
Right, fine, actually I've been back for like, two weeks now but I've only just got over the post-holiday depression. Does everyone else get this? It's almost enough to make me swear off vacations all together, but that's an even more depressing thought so then I figured I'd plan my next vacation right away to give myself something to look forward to, but I have no money so I really can't justify another holiday for a few years yet...I have almost decided to give in and get married just to have an excuse to take another trip. That's totally a good reason right? Stop judging me or you will not be invited to my fantasy Caribbean wedding cruise!
Basically, on the final day of every trip I've ever taken I start to get mopey and sad because it's over and I don't want it to be over and it will be I forever before I get to go away again so I have nothing to look forward to anymore and suddenly my life is so boring and I hate my job and the weather back home sucks and my house is extra cramped and messy and I hate hate hate having a routine and so on and so forth. This time it was even worse because while I was away I got to meet the family I never knew I had and (much to my surprise) I fell in love with them, hard, and I'm not likely to see any of them again for an extremely long time, sigh.
Then the night I got home I found half of my fish swimming in an aquarium full of green tea (the other half were no longer swimming) because my well-meaning aunt had decided to feed them from an unmarked Tupperware container instead of the little jar with the picture of the fish on the label so I got to spend several hours cleaning out a fish tank (FYI if you don't have fish: this is a dirty, smelly, awkward, messy, time consuming job.) after having travelled since 8 am with a 6 year old through 2 flights, 3 airports and a 2 hour drive.
The next morning I picked up my 2 year old from her grandparents house. It felt wrong. I had missed her like crazy and I just wanted to pick her up and squish her back into her place in my heart but somehow... I don't know. She was different. It's as though she has always been a part of me, an extension of my own body if you will. But by abandoning her for 10 days I had strained that connection. Suddenly she was her own little person, independent of me. I was not ready for that. Much guilt ensued.
The next day I went back to work at my crappy minimum wage job at a convenience store, which is still the best job I've ever had, only to find out that the store will be closing at the end of the month and I'll be out of a job with rent to pay and credit card bills freshly rung up from holiday making.
Soon after that I developed a massive rash. It's ugly and so itchy I want to take a potato peeler to my skin except then I would have no skin left because it's all over my body including my face: ears, nose, motherfucking eyelids I tell you...but yet not on my feet or my butt which is cool because scratching that all the live-long day might be socially awkward. My doctor's official diagnosis, corroborated by 3 other medical professionals (one of whom was googling my malady on his phone I swear) was: "Huh, weird!" He referred me to a dermatologist who called to set up my appointment: November 8th. I will have no skin left by November 8th people! Sorry, being itchy makes me grumpy.
Seriously though, it was an awesome vacation and I will totally tell you all about it when I'm in a better mood, m'k?
Showing posts with label wow that's boring. Show all posts
Showing posts with label wow that's boring. Show all posts
Friday, May 21, 2010
Friday, March 12, 2010
Making a Memory
In my earliest memory I waddle into an enormous kitchen, squatting on my heels. My grandma is washing dishes. She looks down at me and asks if I have a tummy ache. I nod.
In my next memory we are moving. The hallway is full of boxes and I am digging through them, looking for a doll named Brenda, scared that she will not get to the new house. We moved when I was three.
I remember being in the hospital to get tubes put in my ears and being offended when the doctor told me I was going in a "big girl crib" instead of a bed. There's no such thing as a big girl crib, stupid.
And then being in the hospital again, waking up suddenly to find my bed surrounded by strangers, rolling me down the hall. Screaming for my mom.
I have a lot of fantastic memories from later on in my childhood. I know I was loved and played with and spoiled. So why are the scary or painful memories the earliest ones my mind chose to keep? I guess trauma makes a big impression. Then I wonder about the things I don't remember, at least not in any concrete form, and what effects they may have had on me.
Just after my mother brought me home from the hospital when I was born she had to take me right back again. I had meningitis and I have been told that I owe my life to baby fat. Had I been a 6 or 7 pound baby I wouldn't have had a chance. As it was, I was nine pounds and might possibly survive, although I would definitely be brain damaged and probably blind and deaf as well. I was spinal tapped and had IV's in my head because my veins were too tiny anywhere else. I got better. I'm not blind or deaf and any brain damage I suffered didn't prevent me from getting on the Honour Roll. I don't remember this, but does it explain my hatred of needles?
I learned to walk when I was nine months old. At that time my mother was working and I stayed with a babysitter. One day my mom got off work early and came to pick me up. When she pulled in to the sitter's house a little boy ran up to her and said:
"Oh good, you're here! She's been crying all day!"
My mom was worried and asked if I was hurt or sick as she headed into the house. The kid said:
"No, she wants out of her seat. Mom keeps her there so she doesn't fall down the step."
It turns out the woman had been keeping me strapped firmly in a stroller for hours every day, supposedly so that I wouldn't topple down the single, three inch, carpeted step between the kitchen and the living room. I never had another babysitter besides my Grandmother again.
I don't remember this, but does it explain why I cannot stand to be physically restrained in any way, for any reason, by anyone?
We try to protect our kids. But everyone gets hurt, or sick, or hurt by someone sick at some point in their childhood. We may not be conscious of the memories, but are they deep inside, shaping the people we will become?
Will Skylar remember me holding her down on an X-ray table as she screamed and tried to claw her way into my arms while a nurse pulled on her broken leg just before her first birthday? I know I'll never forget it.
Will Eden remember being bitten by that dog?
Are my children's first memories more likely to be of us laughing as we jumped over waves at the beach last summer or wrestled in the snow last week, or of us yelling at them for doing something bad?
I have been guilty of assuming my children are too young to remember, telling myself they are not quite real people yet. I have had bad days and told myself it wouldn't matter. I loose my patience and yell at my kids to CALMDOWNBEQUIETSTOP! and longed for the day when they will be old enough to talk to and enjoy being friends with, while telling them that no, I do not want to play hide and seek or Barbies or Snap! I have to quit this or they won't want anything to do with me when they are old enough to do the things I want to do. Skylar is six years old now and she has an awfully good memory. I have started asking myself 'Is this what I want them to remember?' when the urge to yell creeps up on me. I just hope I can put on a convincing enough act of being a happy, involved, playful mom to make up for the times when I am not, and that we can make more good memories than bad.
In my next memory we are moving. The hallway is full of boxes and I am digging through them, looking for a doll named Brenda, scared that she will not get to the new house. We moved when I was three.
I remember being in the hospital to get tubes put in my ears and being offended when the doctor told me I was going in a "big girl crib" instead of a bed. There's no such thing as a big girl crib, stupid.
And then being in the hospital again, waking up suddenly to find my bed surrounded by strangers, rolling me down the hall. Screaming for my mom.
I have a lot of fantastic memories from later on in my childhood. I know I was loved and played with and spoiled. So why are the scary or painful memories the earliest ones my mind chose to keep? I guess trauma makes a big impression. Then I wonder about the things I don't remember, at least not in any concrete form, and what effects they may have had on me.
Just after my mother brought me home from the hospital when I was born she had to take me right back again. I had meningitis and I have been told that I owe my life to baby fat. Had I been a 6 or 7 pound baby I wouldn't have had a chance. As it was, I was nine pounds and might possibly survive, although I would definitely be brain damaged and probably blind and deaf as well. I was spinal tapped and had IV's in my head because my veins were too tiny anywhere else. I got better. I'm not blind or deaf and any brain damage I suffered didn't prevent me from getting on the Honour Roll. I don't remember this, but does it explain my hatred of needles?
I learned to walk when I was nine months old. At that time my mother was working and I stayed with a babysitter. One day my mom got off work early and came to pick me up. When she pulled in to the sitter's house a little boy ran up to her and said:
"Oh good, you're here! She's been crying all day!"
My mom was worried and asked if I was hurt or sick as she headed into the house. The kid said:
"No, she wants out of her seat. Mom keeps her there so she doesn't fall down the step."
It turns out the woman had been keeping me strapped firmly in a stroller for hours every day, supposedly so that I wouldn't topple down the single, three inch, carpeted step between the kitchen and the living room. I never had another babysitter besides my Grandmother again.
I don't remember this, but does it explain why I cannot stand to be physically restrained in any way, for any reason, by anyone?
We try to protect our kids. But everyone gets hurt, or sick, or hurt by someone sick at some point in their childhood. We may not be conscious of the memories, but are they deep inside, shaping the people we will become?
Will Skylar remember me holding her down on an X-ray table as she screamed and tried to claw her way into my arms while a nurse pulled on her broken leg just before her first birthday? I know I'll never forget it.
Will Eden remember being bitten by that dog?
Are my children's first memories more likely to be of us laughing as we jumped over waves at the beach last summer or wrestled in the snow last week, or of us yelling at them for doing something bad?
I have been guilty of assuming my children are too young to remember, telling myself they are not quite real people yet. I have had bad days and told myself it wouldn't matter. I loose my patience and yell at my kids to CALMDOWNBEQUIETSTOP! and longed for the day when they will be old enough to talk to and enjoy being friends with, while telling them that no, I do not want to play hide and seek or Barbies or Snap! I have to quit this or they won't want anything to do with me when they are old enough to do the things I want to do. Skylar is six years old now and she has an awfully good memory. I have started asking myself 'Is this what I want them to remember?' when the urge to yell creeps up on me. I just hope I can put on a convincing enough act of being a happy, involved, playful mom to make up for the times when I am not, and that we can make more good memories than bad.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Just stuff your kid in your suitcase and hope for the best.
In order to escape the cold...and also for some other less compelling reasons like family togetherness and shit, we're going to Disney World! Whoo Hoo! But wait! To go to Disney World we need passports. OK fine, I'll get right on it, you know, in a few weeks. Maybe after the holidays. We're not going until the end of April, after all.
I finally got down to business and downloaded the forms from the uber-helpful Service Ontario website and we began the tedious process of getting photos taken, ID photocopied, Guarantors and References signed on and so on and so forth. Then, when everything was in order, we set out for the Passport Office in person so that we could skip the waiting and potential loss of official documents (Birth Certificates) in the mail.
My paperwork went through without a hitch. Fantastic. Adam's signature was too faint. Easy Fix. Then it was Skylar's turn.
"Is this the only birth certificate you have for her?" asks the courteous government employee.
"Yes?" I was under the impression that having multiple birth certificates would be illegal, wouldn't it? "Why no sir. I have a whole bag full of birth certificates right here. Would you prefer her to have a different name? Perhaps a nice Christmas birthday would suit you? I'm afraid she's pretty set on gender."
"You're going to have to get a Long Form birth certificate. You see, these standard ones don't have enough information for us to confirm that you're her parents. You'll have to request a Long Form from the Service Ontario website." He explained and helpfully wrote the address and steps to follow on the top of our form.
"It has to be that form specifically? A copy of the birth Registration or Statement of Live Birth wouldn't be good enough?" Adam asked hopefully.
"No, this wouldn't be something you're likely to have at home. You have to request it from the government."
I went home and got online, wondering why Service Ontario didn't tell me I needed this form the first time I was here. Then I followed the directions given to me by my friend at the Passport Office and soon found out that he'd clearly never been to this site and had no idea what the hell he was talking about. There was no such frigging thing as a Long Form Birth Certificate.
So I clicked "Contact Us" and asked the invisible person on the other side of the web where I might find a Long Form Birth Certificate. The eventual reply was that what I was looking for was actually called a "Certified Copy of Birth Registration." Fine. Fuck You, Passport Guy.
I went back to stupid Service Ontario and went through the paces to order a Certified Copy of Birth Registration. I was alright with answering questions pertaining to my own name and where I was born, but then the questions got harder. They wanted to know crazy things like the attending physician's name. So I got Skylar's Statement of Live Birth out of my files and found that, luckily it contained all of the pertinent information. I finished the form and payed with a credit card and breathed a sigh of relief that it was all sorted out and then I promptly called my cousin, who would be travelling with us, and told her she'd better get one of these Long Form Birth Certificate/Certified Copy of Registration thingies for her daughter too. Then I forgot about it for a few weeks.
Do you know where I'm going with this yet?
Today I got a letter from the office of the Registrar General. Yay! This must be the Certified Copy of Birth Registration! No, it was a note telling me I had underpaid them by $10.00 and asking me to please pay up in order for my request to be processed. The fuck? I paid online. I paid exactly the amount you asked for. Why do I owe you $10? So I called the number at the top of the page and wended my way through the robots who answered until I was directed to the best possible person to handle my enquiry. The following transcript of our conversation may not be exactly verbatim:
Me- I ordered a Certified Copy of Birth Registration for my kid and now I get a note asking for more money. What up wit that?
Girl- Oh, you must have paid for a first copy when what you wanted was a replacement.
Me- Nuh uh. I don't have one, and I need one so we can get a passport.
Her- Our records indicate one was issued in 2004.
Me- Your records are full of shit. The one area in which I am organized is where it pertains to my kids legal type papers. I am all over that shit.
Her- Are you sure? It's a yellow sheet of paper with a seal type thingy in the corner and at the top it says Statement of Live Birth.
Then my head exploded.
Me- Statement of Live Birth? I HAVE a fucking Statement of Live Birth. That's where I got the information I needed to apply for the fucking Certified Copy of Birth Registration/Long Form Birth Certificate. Nowhere on my Statement of Live Birth does it say anything about Registration or Birth Certificate. Why in God's name doesn't the web site tell you that when applying for a Passport for a child you will require a Birth Certificate and a Goddammedmotherfucking Statement of Live Birth? Why did the douchebag at the passport office tell me that this was something I didn't have? Why doesn't the website say that a Long Form Birth Certificate (aka Certified Copy of Birth Registration) would in fact have a great big heading at the top of the page proclaiming it to be a Cocksuckingshitencrustedpusspewingcunt Statement of Live Birth!?
You know what, it's fine. Ive got one and that's what matters. Sorry to bother you. I'll just take the Statement of Live Birth I have here in my hand and get my kid's passport and all will be well.
Her- I'm sorry, once you apply for a replacement the original is no longer valid.
Me- What? But they refused to issue me a new one because they want another ten bucks.
Her- But it's already in the system. The one you have will be invalid and you won't be able to get a passport with it. You'll have to send the ten dollars and wait for the new one.
Me- I have to send another ten dollars, bringing my total up to forty-five dollars, for a form that I already have? Well that sucks. So can I just go back to that shit-hole Service Ontario site and add the $10 to my previous order?
Her- No, we don't offer that service online.
Me- Why the hell not? They already have my credit card information and clearly some sort of primitive banking capabilities, so why not just...
Her- I'm sorry, you'll have to fill out the form in the message you received by mail and then mail it back to us like it's the fucking dark ages before the advent of all this brilliant technology that lets us ass rape you for forms you've already got because that way we make way more money than we ever would if we pulled our heads out of our twats and asked for things by their correct titles and then told you to bring those same things when you wanted to apply for things that you need so that you can take your kid to the happiest fucking place on earth.
Me-How long?
Her-About 8 weeks.
Eight weeks takes us close to April. If you felt I might be a wee bit testy today, just imagine how pleased I'll be if we miss our vacation because we had to wait for a form that I had all along. This is why people blow up Government buildings folks.* This is exactly why.
*Disclaimer: I'm not going to blow anything up. Seriously, forget I said that. The last thing I need is to straighten all this shit out only to be shot at the airport for uttering death threats. But I did fill out the "Rate Our Service Today" survey on fucking Service Ontario very harshly.
P.S. I just called my cousin to let her know that I may have instructed her to do something really stupid and she said thanks for the heads up, but she really DIDN'T already have that form and it arrived 2 days after she applied for it. Yeah: 2 days for a new form, 8 weeks to replace the one you already have. Fuck you Service Ontario, Fuck you.
I finally got down to business and downloaded the forms from the uber-helpful Service Ontario website and we began the tedious process of getting photos taken, ID photocopied, Guarantors and References signed on and so on and so forth. Then, when everything was in order, we set out for the Passport Office in person so that we could skip the waiting and potential loss of official documents (Birth Certificates) in the mail.
My paperwork went through without a hitch. Fantastic. Adam's signature was too faint. Easy Fix. Then it was Skylar's turn.
"Is this the only birth certificate you have for her?" asks the courteous government employee.
"Yes?" I was under the impression that having multiple birth certificates would be illegal, wouldn't it? "Why no sir. I have a whole bag full of birth certificates right here. Would you prefer her to have a different name? Perhaps a nice Christmas birthday would suit you? I'm afraid she's pretty set on gender."
"You're going to have to get a Long Form birth certificate. You see, these standard ones don't have enough information for us to confirm that you're her parents. You'll have to request a Long Form from the Service Ontario website." He explained and helpfully wrote the address and steps to follow on the top of our form.
"It has to be that form specifically? A copy of the birth Registration or Statement of Live Birth wouldn't be good enough?" Adam asked hopefully.
"No, this wouldn't be something you're likely to have at home. You have to request it from the government."
I went home and got online, wondering why Service Ontario didn't tell me I needed this form the first time I was here. Then I followed the directions given to me by my friend at the Passport Office and soon found out that he'd clearly never been to this site and had no idea what the hell he was talking about. There was no such frigging thing as a Long Form Birth Certificate.
So I clicked "Contact Us" and asked the invisible person on the other side of the web where I might find a Long Form Birth Certificate. The eventual reply was that what I was looking for was actually called a "Certified Copy of Birth Registration." Fine. Fuck You, Passport Guy.
I went back to stupid Service Ontario and went through the paces to order a Certified Copy of Birth Registration. I was alright with answering questions pertaining to my own name and where I was born, but then the questions got harder. They wanted to know crazy things like the attending physician's name. So I got Skylar's Statement of Live Birth out of my files and found that, luckily it contained all of the pertinent information. I finished the form and payed with a credit card and breathed a sigh of relief that it was all sorted out and then I promptly called my cousin, who would be travelling with us, and told her she'd better get one of these Long Form Birth Certificate/Certified Copy of Registration thingies for her daughter too. Then I forgot about it for a few weeks.
Do you know where I'm going with this yet?
Today I got a letter from the office of the Registrar General. Yay! This must be the Certified Copy of Birth Registration! No, it was a note telling me I had underpaid them by $10.00 and asking me to please pay up in order for my request to be processed. The fuck? I paid online. I paid exactly the amount you asked for. Why do I owe you $10? So I called the number at the top of the page and wended my way through the robots who answered until I was directed to the best possible person to handle my enquiry. The following transcript of our conversation may not be exactly verbatim:
Me- I ordered a Certified Copy of Birth Registration for my kid and now I get a note asking for more money. What up wit that?
Girl- Oh, you must have paid for a first copy when what you wanted was a replacement.
Me- Nuh uh. I don't have one, and I need one so we can get a passport.
Her- Our records indicate one was issued in 2004.
Me- Your records are full of shit. The one area in which I am organized is where it pertains to my kids legal type papers. I am all over that shit.
Her- Are you sure? It's a yellow sheet of paper with a seal type thingy in the corner and at the top it says Statement of Live Birth.
Then my head exploded.
Me- Statement of Live Birth? I HAVE a fucking Statement of Live Birth. That's where I got the information I needed to apply for the fucking Certified Copy of Birth Registration/Long Form Birth Certificate. Nowhere on my Statement of Live Birth does it say anything about Registration or Birth Certificate. Why in God's name doesn't the web site tell you that when applying for a Passport for a child you will require a Birth Certificate and a Goddammedmotherfucking Statement of Live Birth? Why did the douchebag at the passport office tell me that this was something I didn't have? Why doesn't the website say that a Long Form Birth Certificate (aka Certified Copy of Birth Registration) would in fact have a great big heading at the top of the page proclaiming it to be a Cocksuckingshitencrustedpusspewingcunt Statement of Live Birth!?
You know what, it's fine. Ive got one and that's what matters. Sorry to bother you. I'll just take the Statement of Live Birth I have here in my hand and get my kid's passport and all will be well.
Her- I'm sorry, once you apply for a replacement the original is no longer valid.
Me- What? But they refused to issue me a new one because they want another ten bucks.
Her- But it's already in the system. The one you have will be invalid and you won't be able to get a passport with it. You'll have to send the ten dollars and wait for the new one.
Me- I have to send another ten dollars, bringing my total up to forty-five dollars, for a form that I already have? Well that sucks. So can I just go back to that shit-hole Service Ontario site and add the $10 to my previous order?
Her- No, we don't offer that service online.
Me- Why the hell not? They already have my credit card information and clearly some sort of primitive banking capabilities, so why not just...
Her- I'm sorry, you'll have to fill out the form in the message you received by mail and then mail it back to us like it's the fucking dark ages before the advent of all this brilliant technology that lets us ass rape you for forms you've already got because that way we make way more money than we ever would if we pulled our heads out of our twats and asked for things by their correct titles and then told you to bring those same things when you wanted to apply for things that you need so that you can take your kid to the happiest fucking place on earth.
Me-How long?
Her-About 8 weeks.
Eight weeks takes us close to April. If you felt I might be a wee bit testy today, just imagine how pleased I'll be if we miss our vacation because we had to wait for a form that I had all along. This is why people blow up Government buildings folks.* This is exactly why.
*Disclaimer: I'm not going to blow anything up. Seriously, forget I said that. The last thing I need is to straighten all this shit out only to be shot at the airport for uttering death threats. But I did fill out the "Rate Our Service Today" survey on fucking Service Ontario very harshly.
P.S. I just called my cousin to let her know that I may have instructed her to do something really stupid and she said thanks for the heads up, but she really DIDN'T already have that form and it arrived 2 days after she applied for it. Yeah: 2 days for a new form, 8 weeks to replace the one you already have. Fuck you Service Ontario, Fuck you.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
The end of my summer, condensed.
It has been pointed out to me that I have not written in a while. Whoo hoo, somebody noticed!
Sooo...let's see:
I went on vacation! It was great. I drank wine and climbed mountains (fine, I rode up a mountain in a gondola-like-tram-thing, I'm not a super-hero here) I shopped and took pictures and caught up with friends I haven't seen in years and drank more wine and splashed in the ocean (ish) and fell in love with the scenery and rode ferries and skybusses and other exotic forms of transportation. I'd tell you all about it, but in all honestly there's only like three people who actually read this and two of you were there. I'd like to thank you both for your organization, hospitality, entertainment, and all around awesomeness as well as for your patience with my public transit retardation (I totally failed to follow even your most basic written instructions) and for the phrase "Gear down, Big Rig." best delivered with a Scottish brogue. To the other one: Sorry, you shoulda been. It was boss.
I worked, but I don't get paid enough to deal with shit like this:
Stupid Kid:What can I get for this? dumping a hand full of coins on my counter and waiting expectantly.
Me: I can't do this with you today. I've got a line-up. You're going to have to count it yourself and figure out what you want. translation: you're not cute enough to get away with this bullshit.
Stupid Kid: How much would it be for a Froster and a Skittles and a Rollo and a Push-Pop?
Me: What size Froster?
Stupid Kid: What's the biggest I can get for this much money?
Me: How much money do you have?
Stupid Kid: uuuuuuhhh...less than three dollars?
Me: You can't get all that stuff.
Stupid Kid: How much is a large Froster and a bag of Skittles with tax?
Me: Around 3 dollars.
Stupid Kid: How much exactly?
Me: Here's a calculator if you'd like to figure it out.
Stupid Kid: Huh? can't you just scan it all in?
Me: No, because I only get the taxes included if I push it in as a sale and total it and then I'd have to cancel it and do it again a dozen times as you fuck around trying to spend every last penny and every time I void a sale I have to print a receipt and write the reason WHY and I can only do that so many times a day and I'm not wasting them all on you AGAIN. Do you see the line of people I'm dealing with here? Do you think this stack of porn is going to price and shelf itself? Guess what kid, porn doesn't just happen. It's my JOB. "No."
Stupid Kid: UUh...what do I do?
Me: Jesus, this twit has got to be 13 years old, what the hell do they teach them in school these days? Add the prices of the Froster and the Skittles together. 1.69+0.99.
Me, to another customer: That's $1.34, Sir. Debit?
Stupid Kid: A dollar thirty four plus what?
Me: No, not you.
Stupid Kid: Then what?
Me: multiply by 0.12 for the tax.
Stupid Kid: Divide by what?
Me, to another customer: Sorry, only the bags of milk are on sale, not the jugs.
Stupid Kid: Is that all?
Me: No, add that number to your original total.
Stupid Kid: A dollar sixty-nine?
Me: No, the Skittles and the Froster together.
Stupid Kid: I forget that.
we repeat the process, step by step, between serving customers, making coffee and pricing chocolate bars.
Stupid Kid: I got a hundred and forty-two dollars and seventy-three cents.
Me: Yes, that's exactly right.
My kid started school. Grade school. Real, 5 day a week, no longer any kind of pre-school school. Where the big kids go. Every day.
In first grade there is homework. We get a book at the beginning of the week. This week it was "Feet." On Monday we're supposed to talk about the pictures. On Tuesday I'm supposed to read the book to her. On Wednesday she's supposed to pick out a few words and so on and so forth until we're so sick of "Feet" we could just puke. Finally she's supposed to answer an asinine question about "Feet." each day. That's the procedure anyway. Except my kid read the book to me on the first day without assistance and her answer to the question "I wonder..." was:
"I wonder why I can't read a properly written book? Who says 'I keep my feet warm. I wear socks'? Why wouldn't you just say 'I wear socks to keep my feet warm? And who cares about feet anyway?"
Well done, my child.
I got a dog. Skylar has been begging for a dog for years and my response has always been: When we get a bigger house. It doesn't look like that's going to happen any time soon, but that didn't stop her from telling everyone she meets that we are going to be getting a dog. A three year old dog, with curly ears, to be specific. So I started reading adds and searching shelters and signing up for Internet dating type services where you are matched up with the pet of your dreams based on age, race, interests and astrological signs. Have you tried to adopt a dog lately? I'm not trying to adopt a baby from China here people, do we seriously need to know about my obedience philosophies, nutrition plans, household income, the lives and deaths of all my past and present pets, and so on and so forth? I'm not even exaggerating here. They wanted to interview every member of my family and come over for a house check, from Toronto, not for free either. They require references and an account with a veterinarian. And it's still around $300-$400. I was bitching about all this while my mom was on the phone ('cause I'm considerate like that) and her friend had a friend of hers in the background and she said she was looking for a home for her dog. He's a three year old Cocker Spaniel (read: curly ears) and he's free. The next day we had a dog.
More on that later.
Sooo...let's see:
I went on vacation! It was great. I drank wine and climbed mountains (fine, I rode up a mountain in a gondola-like-tram-thing, I'm not a super-hero here) I shopped and took pictures and caught up with friends I haven't seen in years and drank more wine and splashed in the ocean (ish) and fell in love with the scenery and rode ferries and skybusses and other exotic forms of transportation. I'd tell you all about it, but in all honestly there's only like three people who actually read this and two of you were there. I'd like to thank you both for your organization, hospitality, entertainment, and all around awesomeness as well as for your patience with my public transit retardation (I totally failed to follow even your most basic written instructions) and for the phrase "Gear down, Big Rig." best delivered with a Scottish brogue. To the other one: Sorry, you shoulda been. It was boss.
I worked, but I don't get paid enough to deal with shit like this:
Stupid Kid:What can I get for this? dumping a hand full of coins on my counter and waiting expectantly.
Me: I can't do this with you today. I've got a line-up. You're going to have to count it yourself and figure out what you want. translation: you're not cute enough to get away with this bullshit.
Stupid Kid: How much would it be for a Froster and a Skittles and a Rollo and a Push-Pop?
Me: What size Froster?
Stupid Kid: What's the biggest I can get for this much money?
Me: How much money do you have?
Stupid Kid: uuuuuuhhh...less than three dollars?
Me: You can't get all that stuff.
Stupid Kid: How much is a large Froster and a bag of Skittles with tax?
Me: Around 3 dollars.
Stupid Kid: How much exactly?
Me: Here's a calculator if you'd like to figure it out.
Stupid Kid: Huh? can't you just scan it all in?
Me: No, because I only get the taxes included if I push it in as a sale and total it and then I'd have to cancel it and do it again a dozen times as you fuck around trying to spend every last penny and every time I void a sale I have to print a receipt and write the reason WHY and I can only do that so many times a day and I'm not wasting them all on you AGAIN. Do you see the line of people I'm dealing with here? Do you think this stack of porn is going to price and shelf itself? Guess what kid, porn doesn't just happen. It's my JOB. "No."
Stupid Kid: UUh...what do I do?
Me: Jesus, this twit has got to be 13 years old, what the hell do they teach them in school these days? Add the prices of the Froster and the Skittles together. 1.69+0.99.
Me, to another customer: That's $1.34, Sir. Debit?
Stupid Kid: A dollar thirty four plus what?
Me: No, not you.
Stupid Kid: Then what?
Me: multiply by 0.12 for the tax.
Stupid Kid: Divide by what?
Me, to another customer: Sorry, only the bags of milk are on sale, not the jugs.
Stupid Kid: Is that all?
Me: No, add that number to your original total.
Stupid Kid: A dollar sixty-nine?
Me: No, the Skittles and the Froster together.
Stupid Kid: I forget that.
we repeat the process, step by step, between serving customers, making coffee and pricing chocolate bars.
Stupid Kid: I got a hundred and forty-two dollars and seventy-three cents.
Me: Yes, that's exactly right.
My kid started school. Grade school. Real, 5 day a week, no longer any kind of pre-school school. Where the big kids go. Every day.
In first grade there is homework. We get a book at the beginning of the week. This week it was "Feet." On Monday we're supposed to talk about the pictures. On Tuesday I'm supposed to read the book to her. On Wednesday she's supposed to pick out a few words and so on and so forth until we're so sick of "Feet" we could just puke. Finally she's supposed to answer an asinine question about "Feet." each day. That's the procedure anyway. Except my kid read the book to me on the first day without assistance and her answer to the question "I wonder..." was:
"I wonder why I can't read a properly written book? Who says 'I keep my feet warm. I wear socks'? Why wouldn't you just say 'I wear socks to keep my feet warm? And who cares about feet anyway?"
Well done, my child.
I got a dog. Skylar has been begging for a dog for years and my response has always been: When we get a bigger house. It doesn't look like that's going to happen any time soon, but that didn't stop her from telling everyone she meets that we are going to be getting a dog. A three year old dog, with curly ears, to be specific. So I started reading adds and searching shelters and signing up for Internet dating type services where you are matched up with the pet of your dreams based on age, race, interests and astrological signs. Have you tried to adopt a dog lately? I'm not trying to adopt a baby from China here people, do we seriously need to know about my obedience philosophies, nutrition plans, household income, the lives and deaths of all my past and present pets, and so on and so forth? I'm not even exaggerating here. They wanted to interview every member of my family and come over for a house check, from Toronto, not for free either. They require references and an account with a veterinarian. And it's still around $300-$400. I was bitching about all this while my mom was on the phone ('cause I'm considerate like that) and her friend had a friend of hers in the background and she said she was looking for a home for her dog. He's a three year old Cocker Spaniel (read: curly ears) and he's free. The next day we had a dog.
More on that later.
Saturday, July 4, 2009
mini vaycay
HI! It's been a while, I know. Been busy. Lots to do. Also, I'm lazy and easily distracted.
Sooo...where were we? Father's day. Right. On that day we dumped our adorable children at Adam's parents place to celebrate with their Papa and we hightailed it to Niagara Falls.
It had occurred to us (Me) that not once in seven years had the two of us gone away for a weekend. We've gone to visit friends or camp out with old buddies or gone our separate ways for a few days now and then, but never actually spent a child-free weekend alone together. I felt it was time to remedy this omission, if only out of morbid curiosity as to whether or not we still had the capacity to get along without the prop of day-to-day life.
So, yes. Niagara Falls, where we enjoyed the most fantastical hotel room our poor, lower-class eyes had ever beheld. With floor to ceiling windows around two walls overlooking both the Canadian and American falls, a king sized bed which we tried out within minutes of walking through the doors and a jacuzzi big enough for the two of us and a bottle of wine.
Fireworks at Niagara Falls. I was going to delete this picture, cause it's boring, but Adam said not to because:
"Look at all those Orbs!"
"Orbs?"
"You know, that's how ghosts look in photographs."
"Uum, we're at Niagara freaking Falls. I think that's caller Water."
"Maybe lots of ghosts decide to come here before they cross over."
"Unfortunate to come on a fireworks night then. Just imagine! Hey, don't go towards the lights! They buuurrnnnn!"
The next day we went to Wonderland and rode the kick-ass new roller coaster: Behemoth ( I highly recommend it, as a roller coaster aficionado) and generally had all the fun that theme parks can provide when you don't bring along kids to whine and complain about standing in line, and get tired and throw fits when they're too short to get on the good rides, and throw more fits because they want some over-priced crap that you'll then have to carry around for the rest of the day, and fall asleep, and slather with sunscreen, and demand to be carried, and beg for ice cream, and throw up the ice cream, and why the hell do they allow children in amusement parks anyway?
We spent that night at what turned out to be a university residence rented out as a hotel for the summer. Less grand yes, but dude, we had a microwave!
Then off to Wasaga Beach for relaxing in the sun. Which was pretty much all we could do there since the water was frigid and filled with some nasty yellow plant-life or sewage spill residue (we debated which it might be and decided we didn't really want to swim anyway) and the entire tourist district burned down a year or two ago and hasn't quite been rebuilt yet.
Then we came home, collected our offspring and enjoyed the first week of summer vacation by: Attending swimming lessons with Skylar. Going to work. Babysitting a crippled dog. Turning 24 and 26, respectively. Playing the wii my mom got us for our birthdays (thanks Mom! p.s. my mom doesn't read this). Filling a kiddie pool in the back yard. Trying to find a teenage babysitter (no luck whatsoever, know anyone?) and going to see UP, which I found hilarious but my kid found by turns terrifying and sad, except for the part about the squirrel, that she liked.
Fun in our own backyard. Happy Canada Day!
Sooo...where were we? Father's day. Right. On that day we dumped our adorable children at Adam's parents place to celebrate with their Papa and we hightailed it to Niagara Falls.
It had occurred to us (Me) that not once in seven years had the two of us gone away for a weekend. We've gone to visit friends or camp out with old buddies or gone our separate ways for a few days now and then, but never actually spent a child-free weekend alone together. I felt it was time to remedy this omission, if only out of morbid curiosity as to whether or not we still had the capacity to get along without the prop of day-to-day life.
So, yes. Niagara Falls, where we enjoyed the most fantastical hotel room our poor, lower-class eyes had ever beheld. With floor to ceiling windows around two walls overlooking both the Canadian and American falls, a king sized bed which we tried out within minutes of walking through the doors and a jacuzzi big enough for the two of us and a bottle of wine.
Fireworks at Niagara Falls. I was going to delete this picture, cause it's boring, but Adam said not to because:"Look at all those Orbs!"
"Orbs?"
"You know, that's how ghosts look in photographs."
"Uum, we're at Niagara freaking Falls. I think that's caller Water."
"Maybe lots of ghosts decide to come here before they cross over."
"Unfortunate to come on a fireworks night then. Just imagine! Hey, don't go towards the lights! They buuurrnnnn!"
The next day we went to Wonderland and rode the kick-ass new roller coaster: Behemoth ( I highly recommend it, as a roller coaster aficionado) and generally had all the fun that theme parks can provide when you don't bring along kids to whine and complain about standing in line, and get tired and throw fits when they're too short to get on the good rides, and throw more fits because they want some over-priced crap that you'll then have to carry around for the rest of the day, and fall asleep, and slather with sunscreen, and demand to be carried, and beg for ice cream, and throw up the ice cream, and why the hell do they allow children in amusement parks anyway?
We spent that night at what turned out to be a university residence rented out as a hotel for the summer. Less grand yes, but dude, we had a microwave!
Then off to Wasaga Beach for relaxing in the sun. Which was pretty much all we could do there since the water was frigid and filled with some nasty yellow plant-life or sewage spill residue (we debated which it might be and decided we didn't really want to swim anyway) and the entire tourist district burned down a year or two ago and hasn't quite been rebuilt yet.
Then we came home, collected our offspring and enjoyed the first week of summer vacation by: Attending swimming lessons with Skylar. Going to work. Babysitting a crippled dog. Turning 24 and 26, respectively. Playing the wii my mom got us for our birthdays (thanks Mom! p.s. my mom doesn't read this). Filling a kiddie pool in the back yard. Trying to find a teenage babysitter (no luck whatsoever, know anyone?) and going to see UP, which I found hilarious but my kid found by turns terrifying and sad, except for the part about the squirrel, that she liked.
Fun in our own backyard. Happy Canada Day!
Friday, April 17, 2009
Luckily, he has no idea what a blog is.
My Grandpa is in his 80's. He's the only male parental figure I've ever known and he taught me to ride a bike and fly a kite and build stuff and he took me for walks down the old train tracks where the wildflowers grew. I'm trying hard to remember all that right now.
He's also the one who slapped me across the face once when I was four or five, right in front of all my little friends as we played in the back yard. He yelled that I'd left the garage door unlocked. I wasn't tall enough to reach the latch on that door.
I once read a book by Diana Gabaldon in which an old man is described as "a mule" Not precisely mean, and not precisely stupid, but incredibly stubborn and once he gets an idea in his head it's impossible to shift him off of it without a stout stick between the eyes. She put it better than that of course, but I'm too pissed off to look up the actual quote right now. Anyway, that's my Grandpa.
He's gotten old and belligerent. He can't handle a single element of change. Nothing is ever to be out of it's place and no one is to do anything without his will and consent.
I have kids. Kids equal change and noise and mess and they have a tendency to do unpredictable things at random moments.
Ever since we got here Skylar has been fascinated by the old camping trailer in the backyard. We never took it camping. It has been in the same place since we moved in 20 years ago. When we were little it was the perfect playhouse, complete with child sized appliances, dishes, bunk beds etc. We were in there all the time. Stupidly, I told Skylar as much. She's been desperate to get in there since we arrived last fall. Now the snowbanks are gone and I gave in to the pleading and let her in this morning. She had just met the neighbour boys and wanted something really cool to show them. She nearly burst with excitement as I shoved some plywood out of the way and wrenched open the swollen and distended door. The trailer has been rotting for two decades and it would surely fall to pieces if anyone tried to pull it anywhere now. It's dirty and mouldy and full of old junk we couldn't think of anyplace else to store. Mice have eaten through a seat cushion and the window in the door is broken, but it's still a pretty kick ass place to be if you're 5.
I watched as Skylar and her friends played happily for 15 minutes or so, then I took Eden inside to put her down for her nap. As I got back downstairs I could hear Grandpa bellowing at Skylar.
"YOU GET OUT OF THERE! GET OUT OF THERE, NOW!"
The little boys ran off so fast it's lucky there were no cars coming as they flew home across the street. Skylar looked stupefied and could only ask "Why?"
"BECAUSE IT'S MINE! I DON'T WANT YOU IN THERE MAKING A MESS, PULLING RUBBISH OUT ALL OVER THE YARD. KEEP OUT OF IT!"
Pretty much the same words he said to me when I was her age, right before clouting me across the head. I was outside and between them faster than I would have thought possible.
"It's just old toys in there..." I began.
"IT'S MINE, AND YOU KEEP THOSE KIDS OUT!"
It's not his, neither is the stuff inside. The kids hadn't gone in unsupervised and they weren't making a mess or bringing anything out. The whole point of the trailer when I was small was as a place to play. But there's no point telling him any of that. He just yells and thunders and turns red. He goes back to the same old arguments about how he owns this house and pays the bills (both of which are NOT true) So we can never argue with him. All we do is try to placate him, no matter how unreasonable he's being. We're always afraid he'll give himself a heart attack or a stroke, or punch someone. He's old, but he's fit and strong. Usually it bugs me, but I behave myself. I can take him yelling at Adam for some ridiculous perceived error in the sorting of the recycling, or yelling at me for somehow clogging up his toilet by supposedly flushing diapers down my toilet (um, what? Even if I did use disposable diapers, which I don't, I wouldn't flush them down a toilet, wtf?) But it took every scrap of my self control to keep my temper after that old grump made my little girl cry.
I'm not good at repressing. It makes my head ache. That's why I'm here writing this utterly boring story. So please excuse me while I vent some things that I honestly don't mean and would never actually say:
Shut the fuck up old man! You don't own this place and we do pay rent. We're the ones who just finished raking all the leaves and fixing the eaves troughs so don't give me this shit about how we're making the place look like crap because there are a few kids toys around. How dare you make my little girl cry for no damn reason at all? Do you know what she said to me when I found her sobbing on the front steps after she ran away from you? "I miss Grammy, I wish she was here. She would know how to make Grandpa be nice." It's true. My Grandma would do anything in the world for a child and she kept you from being a total bastard all the time. Keep up the crazy talk so we can put you in a home and have some peace around here!*
*I don't mean that, well not all of it anyway. I still love him, after all, he's the one who taught me to ride a bike, and fly a kite, and build stuff, and he took me for walks down the old train tracks where the wildflowers grew.
He's also the one who slapped me across the face once when I was four or five, right in front of all my little friends as we played in the back yard. He yelled that I'd left the garage door unlocked. I wasn't tall enough to reach the latch on that door.
I once read a book by Diana Gabaldon in which an old man is described as "a mule" Not precisely mean, and not precisely stupid, but incredibly stubborn and once he gets an idea in his head it's impossible to shift him off of it without a stout stick between the eyes. She put it better than that of course, but I'm too pissed off to look up the actual quote right now. Anyway, that's my Grandpa.
He's gotten old and belligerent. He can't handle a single element of change. Nothing is ever to be out of it's place and no one is to do anything without his will and consent.
I have kids. Kids equal change and noise and mess and they have a tendency to do unpredictable things at random moments.
Ever since we got here Skylar has been fascinated by the old camping trailer in the backyard. We never took it camping. It has been in the same place since we moved in 20 years ago. When we were little it was the perfect playhouse, complete with child sized appliances, dishes, bunk beds etc. We were in there all the time. Stupidly, I told Skylar as much. She's been desperate to get in there since we arrived last fall. Now the snowbanks are gone and I gave in to the pleading and let her in this morning. She had just met the neighbour boys and wanted something really cool to show them. She nearly burst with excitement as I shoved some plywood out of the way and wrenched open the swollen and distended door. The trailer has been rotting for two decades and it would surely fall to pieces if anyone tried to pull it anywhere now. It's dirty and mouldy and full of old junk we couldn't think of anyplace else to store. Mice have eaten through a seat cushion and the window in the door is broken, but it's still a pretty kick ass place to be if you're 5.
I watched as Skylar and her friends played happily for 15 minutes or so, then I took Eden inside to put her down for her nap. As I got back downstairs I could hear Grandpa bellowing at Skylar.
"YOU GET OUT OF THERE! GET OUT OF THERE, NOW!"
The little boys ran off so fast it's lucky there were no cars coming as they flew home across the street. Skylar looked stupefied and could only ask "Why?"
"BECAUSE IT'S MINE! I DON'T WANT YOU IN THERE MAKING A MESS, PULLING RUBBISH OUT ALL OVER THE YARD. KEEP OUT OF IT!"
Pretty much the same words he said to me when I was her age, right before clouting me across the head. I was outside and between them faster than I would have thought possible.
"It's just old toys in there..." I began.
"IT'S MINE, AND YOU KEEP THOSE KIDS OUT!"
It's not his, neither is the stuff inside. The kids hadn't gone in unsupervised and they weren't making a mess or bringing anything out. The whole point of the trailer when I was small was as a place to play. But there's no point telling him any of that. He just yells and thunders and turns red. He goes back to the same old arguments about how he owns this house and pays the bills (both of which are NOT true) So we can never argue with him. All we do is try to placate him, no matter how unreasonable he's being. We're always afraid he'll give himself a heart attack or a stroke, or punch someone. He's old, but he's fit and strong. Usually it bugs me, but I behave myself. I can take him yelling at Adam for some ridiculous perceived error in the sorting of the recycling, or yelling at me for somehow clogging up his toilet by supposedly flushing diapers down my toilet (um, what? Even if I did use disposable diapers, which I don't, I wouldn't flush them down a toilet, wtf?) But it took every scrap of my self control to keep my temper after that old grump made my little girl cry.
I'm not good at repressing. It makes my head ache. That's why I'm here writing this utterly boring story. So please excuse me while I vent some things that I honestly don't mean and would never actually say:
Shut the fuck up old man! You don't own this place and we do pay rent. We're the ones who just finished raking all the leaves and fixing the eaves troughs so don't give me this shit about how we're making the place look like crap because there are a few kids toys around. How dare you make my little girl cry for no damn reason at all? Do you know what she said to me when I found her sobbing on the front steps after she ran away from you? "I miss Grammy, I wish she was here. She would know how to make Grandpa be nice." It's true. My Grandma would do anything in the world for a child and she kept you from being a total bastard all the time. Keep up the crazy talk so we can put you in a home and have some peace around here!*
*I don't mean that, well not all of it anyway. I still love him, after all, he's the one who taught me to ride a bike, and fly a kite, and build stuff, and he took me for walks down the old train tracks where the wildflowers grew.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
You are what you...advertise, apparently.
The next Olympics are (is? whatever) happening in Canada. I personally would find it hard to care less about sports, but they've been advertising it on TV for YEARS now, so even I can't pretend I didn't know. Still, all of that is happening on the other side of this rather large country, so I never really thought it would impact me directly. All that changed last night at McDonalds.
There it was on the side of my root beer : YOU COULD BE AN OFFICIAL OLYMPIC TORCH BEARER WITH COCA COLA!
Who? Me? The one sitting on my too lazy to make dinner ass, eating cheeseburgers and fries and drinking pop? The one telling my kids to finish their McNuggets or they can't have a milkshake? You really want me to represent Canada at an event that emphasizes physical fitness? What the fuck do McDonalds and Coke have to do with the Olympics? Did you not see Supersize Me? No amount of exercising in the world is going to make you healthy if you live on this crap.
Then I thought about it and decided that it was brilliant. As previously stated: I have no interest in the Olympics, but even I would tune in to watch some 400lb tub'o' lard lumber along in a Coke tracksuit with The Torch wobbling in one fist and a BigMac clutched in the other. Just in case he had a heart attack and died in a puddle of fry grease just steps from the....whatever it is they run towards. Now that's entertainment.
I've noticed the same hypocritical bullshit at my kid's school. At the beginning of the year, and in every newsletter, they send home a list of forbidden lunch foods and snacks. According to them we can't send any nut products (no matter how healthy they may be) because of allergies, we should never send any kind of candy. No pop, no juice boxes, no granola bars, no fruit snacks, no pastries and so on and so forth. No whole fruits because kids don't finish them and they end up being thrown out, No pre-packaged lunch meals (read: Lunchables) because they're too high in salt. They sent us a sample lunch menu which included hummus on whole grain pitas, sugar free yogurt (in a reusable container of course, nothing should have disposable packaging) grapes (cut in half for kindergartners to prevent choking) soy milk (also in a reusable container) and shredded carrots. Yummy. This same school constantly sends home order forms. How many slices of Pizza would your child like every Tuesday? Hot Dog day is coming, then Grilled Cheese day. Incidentally would you like to buy an Ice Cream Sandwich on Friday? How about Cupcakes on Monday? Don't forget to return your Chocolate Milk tickets. Then there are Candy-grams for Christmas, Valentines, Easter, National Cleavage day (thanks Bloggess) and any other holiday they can dream up. Why is this? Because the school wants money! And no kid in the world is going to eat a chickpea and barley sandwich with avocados even if you paid them !
Look, we try, OK? Adam is a holistic nutritionist. We know about healthy food. We feed the girls fruit and veggies and multi-vitamins disguised as gummy bears and sometimes smoothies with wheat-grass juice hidden in them. We also feed them Mac 'n Cheese and Fishsticks. That's just life. At least we're honest about it instead of praising the virtues of Macrobiotics while slipping our kids Doritos on the side. Kids are picky! More importantly, I'm picky! I simply don't eat things that taste like crap no matter how good they may be for me. Stop the holier than thou preaching unless you're prepared to back it up.
HAHAHA, I was going to write some more, but my baby just came over to me and said
"Mama? Noo-nals? Noo-nals? Night-night?" and signed "Please" Which means she would like me to make her some noodles before her nap, so I'm off to heat up some Chicken Noodle Soup (full sodium!) maybe I'll slip her some apple slices as well.
There it was on the side of my root beer : YOU COULD BE AN OFFICIAL OLYMPIC TORCH BEARER WITH COCA COLA!
Who? Me? The one sitting on my too lazy to make dinner ass, eating cheeseburgers and fries and drinking pop? The one telling my kids to finish their McNuggets or they can't have a milkshake? You really want me to represent Canada at an event that emphasizes physical fitness? What the fuck do McDonalds and Coke have to do with the Olympics? Did you not see Supersize Me? No amount of exercising in the world is going to make you healthy if you live on this crap.
Then I thought about it and decided that it was brilliant. As previously stated: I have no interest in the Olympics, but even I would tune in to watch some 400lb tub'o' lard lumber along in a Coke tracksuit with The Torch wobbling in one fist and a BigMac clutched in the other. Just in case he had a heart attack and died in a puddle of fry grease just steps from the....whatever it is they run towards. Now that's entertainment.
I've noticed the same hypocritical bullshit at my kid's school. At the beginning of the year, and in every newsletter, they send home a list of forbidden lunch foods and snacks. According to them we can't send any nut products (no matter how healthy they may be) because of allergies, we should never send any kind of candy. No pop, no juice boxes, no granola bars, no fruit snacks, no pastries and so on and so forth. No whole fruits because kids don't finish them and they end up being thrown out, No pre-packaged lunch meals (read: Lunchables) because they're too high in salt. They sent us a sample lunch menu which included hummus on whole grain pitas, sugar free yogurt (in a reusable container of course, nothing should have disposable packaging) grapes (cut in half for kindergartners to prevent choking) soy milk (also in a reusable container) and shredded carrots. Yummy. This same school constantly sends home order forms. How many slices of Pizza would your child like every Tuesday? Hot Dog day is coming, then Grilled Cheese day. Incidentally would you like to buy an Ice Cream Sandwich on Friday? How about Cupcakes on Monday? Don't forget to return your Chocolate Milk tickets. Then there are Candy-grams for Christmas, Valentines, Easter, National Cleavage day (thanks Bloggess) and any other holiday they can dream up. Why is this? Because the school wants money! And no kid in the world is going to eat a chickpea and barley sandwich with avocados even if you paid them !
Look, we try, OK? Adam is a holistic nutritionist. We know about healthy food. We feed the girls fruit and veggies and multi-vitamins disguised as gummy bears and sometimes smoothies with wheat-grass juice hidden in them. We also feed them Mac 'n Cheese and Fishsticks. That's just life. At least we're honest about it instead of praising the virtues of Macrobiotics while slipping our kids Doritos on the side. Kids are picky! More importantly, I'm picky! I simply don't eat things that taste like crap no matter how good they may be for me. Stop the holier than thou preaching unless you're prepared to back it up.
HAHAHA, I was going to write some more, but my baby just came over to me and said
"Mama? Noo-nals? Noo-nals? Night-night?" and signed "Please" Which means she would like me to make her some noodles before her nap, so I'm off to heat up some Chicken Noodle Soup (full sodium!) maybe I'll slip her some apple slices as well.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Do the Potty Wheeze!
*Warning, the following post contains parental content, by which I mean that I am a parent and as such, there are times when I have to talk about my kid's poop. Sorry, that's just the way it is. If you don't want to hear about it, feel free to stop reading now.*
So I'm sick, as I may have mentioned. Yesterday I lost my voice completely and developed a really impressive gasping, painful kind of wheeze that had me propped up with pillows and stealing hits off of an inhaler prescribed for Eden ages ago and never used until now. This morning the breathing is better, but I still nestled my ass firmly on the couch after delivering Skylar to school and let Eden entertain herself by terrorizing the cats and eating handfuls of dry Lucky Charms from the box.
This system worked pretty well for us for an hour or two, until Eden came over to me yelling "Mommy, Mommy. Poop!" and making the "change diaper" sign with her hands. So I dragged my heavy carcass off of the couch and headed upstairs to the change table. I shoved off the cat (who was hiding from Eden) and unsnapped her diaper to find...nothing. It took my fever addled mind a while to process this. WTF child? There is no poop at all, why did you make me get up? Then a totally outlandish idea occurred to me.
"Eden, do you have to poop?" I rasped. "Do you want to poop on the potty?"
She nodded at me in her grave, wide-eyed way.
"OK, OK hang on!" I whispered.
Now, this kid has been utterly uninterested in the whole potty training scene. She has never made the slightest tinkle in the potty and looks rather scandalized and affronted when we suggest it. The potty has been sitting in the bathroom for months, but seeing as how she used to cry at the sight of it, it became more of a secondary towel rack. I flung the towels off of it and sat Eden down.
"OK, big girl" I croaked "Go ahead, make poo poo in the potty"
"Mama potty" She commanded, pointing at the toilet. So I sat.
"No, no pants!" Fine. I'll sit on my potty, you sit on yours. Will you please go poop now?
And she did!
Then she stood up, pointed into the pot and proclaimed "EEEWWW!"
Still pretty surprised, I made every effort to cheer and praise, but with the state of my voice it probably came out a little more scary and growly and demonic than happy, and it was punctuated with gasping coughing spells. Perhaps this is how people develop anal complexes. She never cracked a smile, just kept saying "Eew" and waving bye bye to her turd as it swirled down the john.
I (rather optimistically) let her run bare until nap time, but there was no repeat performance. Before nap I tried to put a diaper on her and boy was she ever pissed about that! So I went with a pair of training pants and I've resigned myself to changing the sheets when she gets up.
*Sob* my baby's growing up. And I just bought that Blueberry Minky diaper too!
So I'm sick, as I may have mentioned. Yesterday I lost my voice completely and developed a really impressive gasping, painful kind of wheeze that had me propped up with pillows and stealing hits off of an inhaler prescribed for Eden ages ago and never used until now. This morning the breathing is better, but I still nestled my ass firmly on the couch after delivering Skylar to school and let Eden entertain herself by terrorizing the cats and eating handfuls of dry Lucky Charms from the box.
This system worked pretty well for us for an hour or two, until Eden came over to me yelling "Mommy, Mommy. Poop!" and making the "change diaper" sign with her hands. So I dragged my heavy carcass off of the couch and headed upstairs to the change table. I shoved off the cat (who was hiding from Eden) and unsnapped her diaper to find...nothing. It took my fever addled mind a while to process this. WTF child? There is no poop at all, why did you make me get up? Then a totally outlandish idea occurred to me.
"Eden, do you have to poop?" I rasped. "Do you want to poop on the potty?"
She nodded at me in her grave, wide-eyed way.
"OK, OK hang on!" I whispered.
Now, this kid has been utterly uninterested in the whole potty training scene. She has never made the slightest tinkle in the potty and looks rather scandalized and affronted when we suggest it. The potty has been sitting in the bathroom for months, but seeing as how she used to cry at the sight of it, it became more of a secondary towel rack. I flung the towels off of it and sat Eden down.
"OK, big girl" I croaked "Go ahead, make poo poo in the potty"
"Mama potty" She commanded, pointing at the toilet. So I sat.
"No, no pants!" Fine. I'll sit on my potty, you sit on yours. Will you please go poop now?
And she did!
Then she stood up, pointed into the pot and proclaimed "EEEWWW!"
Still pretty surprised, I made every effort to cheer and praise, but with the state of my voice it probably came out a little more scary and growly and demonic than happy, and it was punctuated with gasping coughing spells. Perhaps this is how people develop anal complexes. She never cracked a smile, just kept saying "Eew" and waving bye bye to her turd as it swirled down the john.
I (rather optimistically) let her run bare until nap time, but there was no repeat performance. Before nap I tried to put a diaper on her and boy was she ever pissed about that! So I went with a pair of training pants and I've resigned myself to changing the sheets when she gets up.
*Sob* my baby's growing up. And I just bought that Blueberry Minky diaper too!
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Writing about my hair, feel free to skip ahead.
I got my hair cut yesterday. My baby may never forgive me.
Until yesterday my hair was a little longer than shoulder length, brown, wavy, damaged, unkempt, and generally styled so as to scream 'I've given up!' to the world. But Mooch loved it.
When I held her she would take a lock of hair and gently stroke it across her cheek over and over; I was her blankie. At more active moments she would notice the wayward curls and pull them in front of my eyes, then puff at me to encourage me to blow the hair up off of my face. When I would lay her down for a diaper change she would shake her head violently from side to side to get me to lean over her and shake my hair all over her face and belly, this was apparently hilarious, or it tickled, either way.
For all of these reasons I considered leaving my hair alone and letting my scruffiness run free, but then I thought 'Hey, am I seriously going to let a 16 month old make my grooming decisions? It's bad enough that I have gone out in public after letting a 4 year old do my make-up . It's time to take back my own appearance! Also, Christmas is coming and I don't want to be mistaken for anyone's second cousin, Lurleen from the trailer park.'
So it's gone! I went short because I'm a lazy ass and I have found that if it's long I will ignore it and go for the 'Meh, good 'nuff' look. But when it's short I am forced to do something with it, or else look deranged.
Today hair, tomorrow a new sweater, next week make-up and perhaps someday I will renew my gym membership! Maybe not, I really am lazy.
P.S. Mooch has yet to notice anything different and I can still do the puffing thing a little so maybe it's OK.
Until yesterday my hair was a little longer than shoulder length, brown, wavy, damaged, unkempt, and generally styled so as to scream 'I've given up!' to the world. But Mooch loved it.
When I held her she would take a lock of hair and gently stroke it across her cheek over and over; I was her blankie. At more active moments she would notice the wayward curls and pull them in front of my eyes, then puff at me to encourage me to blow the hair up off of my face. When I would lay her down for a diaper change she would shake her head violently from side to side to get me to lean over her and shake my hair all over her face and belly, this was apparently hilarious, or it tickled, either way.
For all of these reasons I considered leaving my hair alone and letting my scruffiness run free, but then I thought 'Hey, am I seriously going to let a 16 month old make my grooming decisions? It's bad enough that I have gone out in public after letting a 4 year old do my make-up . It's time to take back my own appearance! Also, Christmas is coming and I don't want to be mistaken for anyone's second cousin, Lurleen from the trailer park.'
So it's gone! I went short because I'm a lazy ass and I have found that if it's long I will ignore it and go for the 'Meh, good 'nuff' look. But when it's short I am forced to do something with it, or else look deranged.
Today hair, tomorrow a new sweater, next week make-up and perhaps someday I will renew my gym membership! Maybe not, I really am lazy.
P.S. Mooch has yet to notice anything different and I can still do the puffing thing a little so maybe it's OK.
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