Lenten update: mouse #8 has met its maker in the garage.
If you love kids and hate cancer, have a looksie:
Yes, you heard that right. Daniel will be shaving his head for St. Baldrick's this Saturday. Some of you may remember that last year he got a case of the stage-frights and Matt had to step in and go bald before he took Dan home and sheared him. This year, Daniel brought up St. Baldrick's all by himself and said he wanted to shave his head.
Of course, we were skeptical. So we asked him again and again and again if he really wanted to do it. He answered and answered and answered YES. Matt finally asked, "But Daniel, why do you want to do it?"
Daniel's response: "To raise money for St. Baldrick's!" And if Daniel knew the existence and meaning of the word duh, surely he would have added it after the exclamation point.
We'd love to see y'all out there at the event and raise a glass with you. So if you love kids and hate cancer, please check out Daniel's St. Baldrick's page here, where you can donate your pocket change in someone's honor or memory, be it adult, child, or mouse. Research doesn't care why you donate, it just cares that you do.
(Yes, Research is sentient. Duh.)
Sunday, February 26, 2012
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Cupid Strikes Again
Valentine's Day at first only served to remind me how I'm losing my mind. I bought small treats for the kids in advance (against my better judgment) and hid them in a place that I just knew I'd remember when the time came to find them.
It took six hours of on-and-off searching to find the heart-shaped chocolate.
Thankfully the mice didn't find it first. We've caught seven of them and the squatters in the garage must be getting smart, because they keep eating the cheese and peanut butter off the traps without setting them off. It's like they've built the Six Million Dollar Mouse.
I'm giving up failing killing mice for Lent.
I digress.
When the kids got home from school, I let them tear into all their Valentines and gave them forty-five minutes to eat as much sugar as they could. Two of them later reported that they felt sick and stopped eating candy on their own accord. This is the only way we eat Valentines candy in the Griffith house, and then it goes in the trash. There are probably starving kids in China who would like to eat all this crap, but most of this stuff says made in China on the back anyway. So they can just make some more instead of me packaging it up and sending it back, like my children have at one time suggested I do with dinner.
Since I fed my children candy for supper, Mom of the Year didn't have to worry about preparing anything else so she sent them to bed all sticky, without any baths, and focused on the important stuff: what the big people were going to eat.
The thing is, when you're really hungry, that is the absolute worst time to try to plan a menu. It's like going into the grocery store when you've been fasting and you come home with eight pounds of ramen, two bags of Cheetos, and a pork belly. I couldn't decide between American food, Italian food, or Asian food. So I said to hell with it, let's make it all and we'll call it "tapas." Because that's how we [sushi] roll.
And we found out pretty quick that it's very difficult to eat ravioli with chopsticks. And we found out pretty not-so-quick that your house will stink of grease for days when you fry your own potato chips indoors, which is something that I seem to always not-so-quick find out several times a year.
And we ate it all and watched a scary movie about the real reason we've never gone back to the moon, which fits with our Valentine's tradition of eating lots and lots of food and me falling asleep to a horror movie.
And then no more ands at the beginnings of sentences.
The next morning, Eve had her Valentine's program at preschool. It was cute, even though she looked less than happy to be up there singing, but part of that may have been the crash and burn she felt when all that sugar wore off from the night before.
Then, when all the parents got to leave their children and go eat the free sample cookies at the grocery store, I got to stay the rest of the day because Eve was having abandonment issues and wouldn't detach herself from my leg.
She got more Valentine's candy from her friends at preschool. I let her eat it for lunch. I found out that green Fun Dip stains skin. Eve got a bath because we had places to go and people to see and we did not need to be green doing any of those things. I dried her off and told her to put something on as I started folding laundry.
I came downstairs to find Eve in her bathrobe, eating a box of chocolates and watching Downton Abbey. I want to be Eve when I grow up.
We picked up Natalie and Daniel from school and went straight to Duke for the last hour of the radiothon. Eve was so excited when we turned the corner and she saw the building. Dat's my hospital! Dat's my doctors! I wuv Duke Skywalker! I have never been that excited to visit a place where I get poked, prodded, and lose major organs. But that's a testament to how well she's been treated there by the people we are literally in debt to for the better part of the rest of our natural lives.
We met the three other ambassador families who were there for the last hour as well. There was a girl who has already been through fourteen surgeries in her short life to deal with a syndrome she was born with. There was a young man who had recently undergone brain surgery to bring his unmanageable epilepsy under control. There were the twins born almost four months early who miraculously survived yet faced meningitis and brain surgeries and other terrible things no parent should have to consider for their newborn. It was one of those times where I could say Hey, it's not cancer, but at the same time wouldn't swap with any of them. Everything sucks in its own special way.
But for a group of people with so much suckage, nobody seemed to suck. Everyone was quite pleasant and even smiled like the suckage could just go ahead and suck itself for all we care. There was lots of money being raised. Eve would hear an amount and whisper in my ear, Dat's a good number of money.
I mean, there were a lot of people answering a lot of ringing phones taking down a lot of pledges.
And there was the quintessential giant check. And another two sentences that started with and, for which I beg your forgiveness.
"Dat's a WOT of money," says Eve. No joke, Eve! They did that in two days. The most I've raised in two days is a handful of pennies and some popcorn kernels I found under the couch cushions. I can't think of a better place for one and a quarter-million dollars to go than Duke Children's, unless it was going to me so I could be independently wealthy and watch Downton Abbey in my bathrobe in the afternoon while eating a box of chocolate. Or better yet, Taco Bell! No, wait, I meant what I said about Duke being the rightful recipient of such funds. I can do that other stuff on my current income, it just doesn't sound as classy if you're not rich.
It took six hours of on-and-off searching to find the heart-shaped chocolate.
Thankfully the mice didn't find it first. We've caught seven of them and the squatters in the garage must be getting smart, because they keep eating the cheese and peanut butter off the traps without setting them off. It's like they've built the Six Million Dollar Mouse.
I'm giving up failing killing mice for Lent.
I digress.
When the kids got home from school, I let them tear into all their Valentines and gave them forty-five minutes to eat as much sugar as they could. Two of them later reported that they felt sick and stopped eating candy on their own accord. This is the only way we eat Valentines candy in the Griffith house, and then it goes in the trash. There are probably starving kids in China who would like to eat all this crap, but most of this stuff says made in China on the back anyway. So they can just make some more instead of me packaging it up and sending it back, like my children have at one time suggested I do with dinner.
Since I fed my children candy for supper, Mom of the Year didn't have to worry about preparing anything else so she sent them to bed all sticky, without any baths, and focused on the important stuff: what the big people were going to eat.
The thing is, when you're really hungry, that is the absolute worst time to try to plan a menu. It's like going into the grocery store when you've been fasting and you come home with eight pounds of ramen, two bags of Cheetos, and a pork belly. I couldn't decide between American food, Italian food, or Asian food. So I said to hell with it, let's make it all and we'll call it "tapas." Because that's how we [sushi] roll.
And we found out pretty quick that it's very difficult to eat ravioli with chopsticks. And we found out pretty not-so-quick that your house will stink of grease for days when you fry your own potato chips indoors, which is something that I seem to always not-so-quick find out several times a year.
And we ate it all and watched a scary movie about the real reason we've never gone back to the moon, which fits with our Valentine's tradition of eating lots and lots of food and me falling asleep to a horror movie.
And then no more ands at the beginnings of sentences.
The next morning, Eve had her Valentine's program at preschool. It was cute, even though she looked less than happy to be up there singing, but part of that may have been the crash and burn she felt when all that sugar wore off from the night before.
Then, when all the parents got to leave their children and go eat the free sample cookies at the grocery store, I got to stay the rest of the day because Eve was having abandonment issues and wouldn't detach herself from my leg.
She got more Valentine's candy from her friends at preschool. I let her eat it for lunch. I found out that green Fun Dip stains skin. Eve got a bath because we had places to go and people to see and we did not need to be green doing any of those things. I dried her off and told her to put something on as I started folding laundry.
I came downstairs to find Eve in her bathrobe, eating a box of chocolates and watching Downton Abbey. I want to be Eve when I grow up.
We picked up Natalie and Daniel from school and went straight to Duke for the last hour of the radiothon. Eve was so excited when we turned the corner and she saw the building. Dat's my hospital! Dat's my doctors! I wuv Duke Skywalker! I have never been that excited to visit a place where I get poked, prodded, and lose major organs. But that's a testament to how well she's been treated there by the people we are literally in debt to for the better part of the rest of our natural lives.
We met the three other ambassador families who were there for the last hour as well. There was a girl who has already been through fourteen surgeries in her short life to deal with a syndrome she was born with. There was a young man who had recently undergone brain surgery to bring his unmanageable epilepsy under control. There were the twins born almost four months early who miraculously survived yet faced meningitis and brain surgeries and other terrible things no parent should have to consider for their newborn. It was one of those times where I could say Hey, it's not cancer, but at the same time wouldn't swap with any of them. Everything sucks in its own special way.
But for a group of people with so much suckage, nobody seemed to suck. Everyone was quite pleasant and even smiled like the suckage could just go ahead and suck itself for all we care. There was lots of money being raised. Eve would hear an amount and whisper in my ear, Dat's a good number of money.
I mean, there were a lot of people answering a lot of ringing phones taking down a lot of pledges.
And there was the quintessential giant check. And another two sentences that started with and, for which I beg your forgiveness.
"Dat's a WOT of money," says Eve. No joke, Eve! They did that in two days. The most I've raised in two days is a handful of pennies and some popcorn kernels I found under the couch cushions. I can't think of a better place for one and a quarter-million dollars to go than Duke Children's, unless it was going to me so I could be independently wealthy and watch Downton Abbey in my bathrobe in the afternoon while eating a box of chocolate. Or better yet, Taco Bell! No, wait, I meant what I said about Duke being the rightful recipient of such funds. I can do that other stuff on my current income, it just doesn't sound as classy if you're not rich.
Monday, February 13, 2012
Kamikaze Monopoly
Everyday I get to wake up no less than eight different times. The first time will be Eve asking if she can sleep with me, and ten times out of ten I say yes because I'm too tired to fully comprehend the question she survived cancer! The next two times will be Natalie and Daniel laughing maniacally at each other while turning on all the lights upstairs, because it is still dark outside. After that, Eve will wake me up to ask if she can use the potty in our bathroom, which must be so fabulous that she thinks every morning at 5 a.m. I am going to say it's too posh for her bottom. Daniel will then come into the bedroom and ask if he can go downstairs and get a pack of crackers. Natalie will come in next to tell me Daniel is downstairs eating a pack of crackers. I get up again to go pee, because Eve is laying on my bladder. Then, just before the sun rises, I will be awakened to some sort of construction paper craft shoved in my face accompanied by the voice of a grade schooler who says, "Here, Mommy. I made this for you!"
I have enough of this early morning artwork to cover my nightstand three inches deep, so I don't have to dust. I just recycle. Dust is recyclable, too, right? How else do they make those cute little dust bunnies that people like me keep around the house?
My kids are the best at giving homemade gifts. Eve gave me a half-eaten carrot and a pine cone wrapped up in a paper towel that she stabbed with a marker. Natalie gave me a piece of paper that she had scribbled all over, in a way that maybe only Jackson Pollock could understand, before cutting it into four-hundred pieces, putting it into a make-shift envelope that consisted of so much tape that I had to channel my inner-Hulk and rip it open and then watch the confetti rain down all over my bed. It was the most difficult puzzle I've ever had to clean up. Daniel is always making me knives out of popsicle sticks, probably because I'm always losing knives. When they say it's the thought that counts, that's a hell of a Rorschach test.
Those were just some of the gifts I received today. I cherish them wholeheartedly before I throw them away because I know when they get older, they won't want to make their Mommy her own popsicle knife to throw away anymore. They'll just ignore me, except when they ask why they are the only kids who don't have an iPad yet, and I'll remind them that not long ago, nothing made them happier than the day I brought out the thirteen toilet paper tubes I had been saving up in my bathroom with permission to make as many binoculars as they could, enjoying the looks on their faces when they finally understand what an odd number means. Yes, sure, the number 3 is weird looking, I guess. Why do you keep asking me that?
In fact, when we visited Matt's mom on her birthday last month, Daniel decided he was going to make Mimaw a present. Before we left, he came downstairs with his gift and not to be outdone, the girls followed suit. I know Mimaw was impressed with Dan's offering, which was a box with no lid that contained about nine sheets of white paper, one crayon, and two sticks of gum. It was loosely wrapped in construction paper, but was apparently too loose because the crayon and gum had gone missing on the ride there. (They would later be recovered melted and chewed, respectively, both on the floor of the van.) Mimaw was so very excited and said, "How did you know I wanted white paper?" Daniel's response: What for?
Natalie wanted to give Mimaw three boxes of crayons she had found in her room, but I convinced her that Mimaw was only one person who probably only needed one of each color because the last time I checked, she was not ambidextrous nor had a third arm. In order to one-up Daniel, she put the box of used crayons into a slightly larger lid-less box and removed two sticks of gum from the wrapper before tearing them in half so there would be FOUR pieces of gum. And then she loosely wrapped the masterpiece in construction paper. Mimaw, bless her soul, put one of these pieces in her mouth.
Eve couldn't find a lid-less box anywhere, so she filled up a paper lunch bag with various things she knew Mimaw would love. Like, used Chapstick- the kind with teeth marks and balm stuck in the lid; the hair bow she was wearing on the way to Mimaw's house; a ribbon that came off of a Christmas present; beads from a broken necklace she found on the way to Mimaw's house; sticks of torn-up, wrapper-less chewing gum. Mimaw also put one of these pieces of gum in her mouth because she either likes the combination of wintergreen and bubblegum, or because she is a gracious recipient. Or maybe wintergreen and bubblegum is really the best unexpected idea ever, like peanut butter and bacon hamburgers.
But seriously, my grandkids of the future, you can never go wrong with a Taco Bell giftcard in case you're wondering. I have enough gum and paper around here already.
Natalie is a pretty good gift giver in other ways around the house. She has been using her new mop almost daily in the kitchen while saying things like, Dreams are not something to wait for, they are something to work for. Like I'm going to work to be a good mopper!
(Don't ever say I got in the way of my kids' dreams.)
Mom, I don't want to be a lawyer anymore. I want to be a vet. Or a waiter. Well, Nat, whenever I finally fall down the staircase (after tripping over the piles of crap that I've left on stairs 4-8 for the past three weeks, hoping that someone, anyone, in our family would take the time to notice and gather their belongings from said piles of crap and put them where they belong) and I am laid up with a concussion and a broken leg, then you can try out the waiting profession on yours truly while I continue to perfect the art of run-on sentences.
And if I were in a position where I couldn't move, I'm convinced that Natalie would pull up the Monopoly board to the couch and stay there all day and night to keep me company until she brutally bankrupted me. I don't know if I should leave those piles of crap on the stairs anymore. I'm not sure I could take being incapacitated and subjected to any more Monopoly. I finally went bankrupt this evening in the game that we started with her a week and a half ago, and by that point, I was just hoping I'd land on the hotel at Marvin Gardens with $14 to my name and only a handful of properties that weren't already mortgaged. I take back everything bad I ever said about Candy Land; I'll take Gramma Nutt any day to Rich Uncle Pennybags.
My dreams are far removed from those of the aspiring veterinarian or waitstaff, although I think I kind of qualify as both. I just want a refrigerator door full of homemade condiments in Mason jars and a garden full of vegetables. Aside from none of my loved ones having cancer or Taco Bell bringing back green onions, I don't know what else could make me happier. I'm pretty much there on the condiments (because nothing is more miraculous and satisfying in the kitchen as watching egg yolks and oil turn the beautiful white emulsification known as mayonnaise) , but only just beginning with the produce. In the past, I've only grown what can be grown hanging out of a Topsy Turvy planter (tomatoes! And I'm the only one who likes tomatoes! Which has always been fine for me because that means I get more tomatoes!), and some herbs on my deck. But I want to be one of those people who plant too much zucchini and then come summer bitch about how they have too much zucchini.
We have some really good friends who came in and put these bad boys together so I can get my bitch on this summer. If you look closely, you can see some broccoli and cabbage plants in the bed on the right, which makes me both happy and gassy just thinking about harvesting them.
My thumbs have traditionally been more like Judith Light in some bad made-for-tv movie about wives that poison their husbands (I've killed MINT before!) but I'm hoping that they'll turn green with a quickness. Because I want to be that neighbor who is forcing zucchini upon you.
I don't really want to be the crazy neighbor who walks to the bus stop in her pajamas, but some things it's too late for. Maybe it's because I had officially crossed that line this morning when I put on a shirt, a sweater, a coat, my shoes and stepped out into the absolute balm of the twenty-five degree morning before getting halfway to the bus stop and realizing that I still had my pajama pants on. And they weren't actually the kind of pants that could possibly go with any outfit, except the ones that you are clearly sleepwalking to the bus stop in. Red, plaid flannel, high-water pants do not go with latte sweaters and forest green coats. They go with hair rollers and robes and slippers, and I'm only about two steps away from showing up to the bus stop in the full outfit if I get woken up too early tomorrow. Which I most certainly will.
Stand back, paparazzi.
I have enough of this early morning artwork to cover my nightstand three inches deep, so I don't have to dust. I just recycle. Dust is recyclable, too, right? How else do they make those cute little dust bunnies that people like me keep around the house?
My kids are the best at giving homemade gifts. Eve gave me a half-eaten carrot and a pine cone wrapped up in a paper towel that she stabbed with a marker. Natalie gave me a piece of paper that she had scribbled all over, in a way that maybe only Jackson Pollock could understand, before cutting it into four-hundred pieces, putting it into a make-shift envelope that consisted of so much tape that I had to channel my inner-Hulk and rip it open and then watch the confetti rain down all over my bed. It was the most difficult puzzle I've ever had to clean up. Daniel is always making me knives out of popsicle sticks, probably because I'm always losing knives. When they say it's the thought that counts, that's a hell of a Rorschach test.
Those were just some of the gifts I received today. I cherish them wholeheartedly before I throw them away because I know when they get older, they won't want to make their Mommy her own popsicle knife to throw away anymore. They'll just ignore me, except when they ask why they are the only kids who don't have an iPad yet, and I'll remind them that not long ago, nothing made them happier than the day I brought out the thirteen toilet paper tubes I had been saving up in my bathroom with permission to make as many binoculars as they could, enjoying the looks on their faces when they finally understand what an odd number means. Yes, sure, the number 3 is weird looking, I guess. Why do you keep asking me that?
In fact, when we visited Matt's mom on her birthday last month, Daniel decided he was going to make Mimaw a present. Before we left, he came downstairs with his gift and not to be outdone, the girls followed suit. I know Mimaw was impressed with Dan's offering, which was a box with no lid that contained about nine sheets of white paper, one crayon, and two sticks of gum. It was loosely wrapped in construction paper, but was apparently too loose because the crayon and gum had gone missing on the ride there. (They would later be recovered melted and chewed, respectively, both on the floor of the van.) Mimaw was so very excited and said, "How did you know I wanted white paper?" Daniel's response: What for?
Natalie wanted to give Mimaw three boxes of crayons she had found in her room, but I convinced her that Mimaw was only one person who probably only needed one of each color because the last time I checked, she was not ambidextrous nor had a third arm. In order to one-up Daniel, she put the box of used crayons into a slightly larger lid-less box and removed two sticks of gum from the wrapper before tearing them in half so there would be FOUR pieces of gum. And then she loosely wrapped the masterpiece in construction paper. Mimaw, bless her soul, put one of these pieces in her mouth.
Eve couldn't find a lid-less box anywhere, so she filled up a paper lunch bag with various things she knew Mimaw would love. Like, used Chapstick- the kind with teeth marks and balm stuck in the lid; the hair bow she was wearing on the way to Mimaw's house; a ribbon that came off of a Christmas present; beads from a broken necklace she found on the way to Mimaw's house; sticks of torn-up, wrapper-less chewing gum. Mimaw also put one of these pieces of gum in her mouth because she either likes the combination of wintergreen and bubblegum, or because she is a gracious recipient. Or maybe wintergreen and bubblegum is really the best unexpected idea ever, like peanut butter and bacon hamburgers.
But seriously, my grandkids of the future, you can never go wrong with a Taco Bell giftcard in case you're wondering. I have enough gum and paper around here already.
Natalie is a pretty good gift giver in other ways around the house. She has been using her new mop almost daily in the kitchen while saying things like, Dreams are not something to wait for, they are something to work for. Like I'm going to work to be a good mopper!
(Don't ever say I got in the way of my kids' dreams.)
Mom, I don't want to be a lawyer anymore. I want to be a vet. Or a waiter. Well, Nat, whenever I finally fall down the staircase (after tripping over the piles of crap that I've left on stairs 4-8 for the past three weeks, hoping that someone, anyone, in our family would take the time to notice and gather their belongings from said piles of crap and put them where they belong) and I am laid up with a concussion and a broken leg, then you can try out the waiting profession on yours truly while I continue to perfect the art of run-on sentences.
And if I were in a position where I couldn't move, I'm convinced that Natalie would pull up the Monopoly board to the couch and stay there all day and night to keep me company until she brutally bankrupted me. I don't know if I should leave those piles of crap on the stairs anymore. I'm not sure I could take being incapacitated and subjected to any more Monopoly. I finally went bankrupt this evening in the game that we started with her a week and a half ago, and by that point, I was just hoping I'd land on the hotel at Marvin Gardens with $14 to my name and only a handful of properties that weren't already mortgaged. I take back everything bad I ever said about Candy Land; I'll take Gramma Nutt any day to Rich Uncle Pennybags.
My dreams are far removed from those of the aspiring veterinarian or waitstaff, although I think I kind of qualify as both. I just want a refrigerator door full of homemade condiments in Mason jars and a garden full of vegetables. Aside from none of my loved ones having cancer or Taco Bell bringing back green onions, I don't know what else could make me happier. I'm pretty much there on the condiments (because nothing is more miraculous and satisfying in the kitchen as watching egg yolks and oil turn the beautiful white emulsification known as mayonnaise) , but only just beginning with the produce. In the past, I've only grown what can be grown hanging out of a Topsy Turvy planter (tomatoes! And I'm the only one who likes tomatoes! Which has always been fine for me because that means I get more tomatoes!), and some herbs on my deck. But I want to be one of those people who plant too much zucchini and then come summer bitch about how they have too much zucchini.
We have some really good friends who came in and put these bad boys together so I can get my bitch on this summer. If you look closely, you can see some broccoli and cabbage plants in the bed on the right, which makes me both happy and gassy just thinking about harvesting them.
My thumbs have traditionally been more like Judith Light in some bad made-for-tv movie about wives that poison their husbands (I've killed MINT before!) but I'm hoping that they'll turn green with a quickness. Because I want to be that neighbor who is forcing zucchini upon you.
I don't really want to be the crazy neighbor who walks to the bus stop in her pajamas, but some things it's too late for. Maybe it's because I had officially crossed that line this morning when I put on a shirt, a sweater, a coat, my shoes and stepped out into the absolute balm of the twenty-five degree morning before getting halfway to the bus stop and realizing that I still had my pajama pants on. And they weren't actually the kind of pants that could possibly go with any outfit, except the ones that you are clearly sleepwalking to the bus stop in. Red, plaid flannel, high-water pants do not go with latte sweaters and forest green coats. They go with hair rollers and robes and slippers, and I'm only about two steps away from showing up to the bus stop in the full outfit if I get woken up too early tomorrow. Which I most certainly will.
Stand back, paparazzi.
Thursday, February 2, 2012
The case of the busted face
After a fun Friday the Thirteenth at Duke, we loaded up the van and headed to Matt's mom's house. We stopped at Taco Bell for our victory tacos and our van smelled of taco meat for the rest of the weekend. I'm sure it didn't help that we ate twelve of them inside a closed vehicle with the heat on. There is nothing to speed away the smell of taco cling other than time, and maybe a box of baking soda.
It was dark. Our bellies were full. The heat was on. Someone was going to pass out on this drive.
Natalie: Mom! Daniel keeps lying to me!
Me: What is he lying about?
Natalie: Everything! He keeps trying to trick me, and that's lying.
Me: How could he be tricking you? He's asleep.
Natalie: That's the trick! He's awake! [Natalie slaps him across the face] Oh, okay, he's asleep.
Another highlight was when Natalie's eyeballs starting turning yellow. You know you have to pee bad when you start tearing up. We rode about forty miles before stopping on the side of the road, in the middle of the night, at a balmy thirty-eight degrees and had her drop her drawers behind an old pile of bricks. I don't know if I can do this, Mom! Oh wait, I can. And obviously you know the ending to that story: two miles later, we hit a town with three gas stations and four fast-food joints. But the old pile of bricks was probably cleaner. And that's how we roll, because we have extra napkins from Taco Bell and tons of hand sanitizer in the car. Always. Thank God for cancer.
We got to Mimaw's house. The sleep you can get when you're exhausted from peeing in the cold and arguing with sleeping persons negates any deep lingering taco breath that most certainly is coming up from your sister's throat into your face that would otherwise keep you up.
The next day was Mimaw's birthday, so that night she took us to see Delta Rae. And she drove. And if any of you think I'm going to be that nice to you on my birthday, you've got another thing coming. But having a designated driver get you safely back home after treating you to a concert and then letting you eat up all the salt and vinegar potato chips in her pantry means you either have a really awesome host or maybe you're just really that awesome. People want to do these things for you if you're that awesome. But it was probably the former.
And she doesn't at all look like she's not extremely excited to be potentially embarrassed by her in-laws. Not that that would ever happen, even if I were holding an invisible beer. And it didn't. Except maybe that one time Matt and I thought someone on stage had turned the sponge into a castanet-like instrument and he very loudly asked if that meant the song was about safe-sex, and he did so very loudly because they were playing very loud music, except for that one moment where they got all pianissimo on us and he thrust forth his query.
We had fun times at Mimaw's. So much fun, that we forgot to bring Daniel home, so he got to stay with her a few more days before track-out ended. Daniel returned with a homemade book he penned called "Mi Lucke Days," an apparent reference to the fact that he was much happier at Mimaw's where he could eat Lucky Charms for breakfast each morning. Mommy's homemade yogurt is lacking in the freeze-dried marshmallow department and for this I am not sorry, only because the closest I can come to making homemade freeze-dried marshmallows is just leaving a bag of mini-marshmallows open on the counter for a few days before I find them under a pile of forms I was supposed to sign and return to school.
Natalie and Daniel were tracked out of school for an entire month. On their first day back, Eve had the day off because preschool is on a traditional calendar. This seemed unfair to me. Not that I didn't want to spend the day without kids, except I did. Just for a little bit. Just long enough to pin home renovations that I will never, ever do, on Pinterest.
The next day, Eve was still off from school so we had a playdate with friends. Eve and her friend, Sadie, went upstairs to put on costumes and play with cosmetics. Sadie, only four months older than my sweet Eve, comes down with very tastefully done makeup. Eve comes down like she's about to run off to the circus as a sideshow act. I am amazed that they have both used the same products yet achieved such different results, although I guess you could give two people each an egg and one would give you an omelette while the other would give you salmonella.
(Sadie was the omelette in that example.)
When my cell phone rings at 2:30 p.m. and I don't catch it in time, I always wonder if the school is calling because Daniel has thrown up on someone. And when my house phone rings next, I just about know it's them. None of my friends are calling at 2:30 p.m. They are all too busy pinning Weight Watchers recipes.
Sure enough, the caller ID reads Wake County Public Schools. Dammit. What did one of my kids do now?
There was an incident with Daniel today and I just wanted to call and let you know. He may have fallen down in P.E. and...busted his face.
Busted his face? What does that mean exactly? Oh, he's got a fat lip? That's cool. Is he okay? He's okay. He's not in pain, not crying. He's not bleeding and his teeth are all still there. Well, thank you for calling. Are you going to come pick him up? Umm, do I need to? You know, it's not considered a real day in our house unless one of our kids is bleeding from the mouth. Is that a joke? Sure it is, since you're not laughing. If he's not bleeding and not hurt and not crying, then...can't you just send him back to class? Well, I guess we could. [Pause for the asking of the Daniel if he wants his mommy to come pick him] Actually, he's getting emotional so you should probably come get him.
So there was no way I was bringing my floosie daughter into school while she was wearing a torn Barbie dress with enough make up to be in a Lady Gaga video. I didn't have the time nor inclination to start wiping the cheap red lipstick that Santa brought off of her cheeks which can really only be removed with pure acetone and sandpaper. I sent her on her way with the omelette and headed out to school on a very warm day in a very warm sweatshirt; pushing a muddy floosie on the backyard swing after a rainstorm meant I was muddy floosie's muddy mommy, but there was no time to shower, only to cover up with what was closest to the door. I had to get to the emotional one with the busted face.
And when I picked him up, I really did ask in an unnaturally loud and surprised voice what happened to Daniel's missing tooth, except no one was listening to the sweaty mom with the muddy pants. They would have paid attention if I had brought Eve, that's for sure. Although they may have also called a guidance counselor.
I didn't get Wednesday off, either, because Natalie had pink eye. So there went another day to pin creative DIY haircuts.
(Although the next day I did end up doing a do-it-yourself haircut on Natalie and Eve was so enthralled that I've had to remove scissors from her tiny hands on no less than four occasions.)
There are always fundraisers going on at school, and while I love-love-love our school, I could do with a little less monthly-eat-out-and-our-school-gets-15%-of-the-profits. Because I'd just rather give the school $3 than go out to one of these things. First, the kids were given plain pizza boxes at school to decorate. Then they were told that their parents needed to come to a pizza place and buy a pie so they could get their decorated pizza box with a pizza inside! Then they were told this again everyday for a week. Then I got the first automated phone call about it. Then the letters home from the PTA about it. Then the kids home with the stickers on their shirts about it. Then the second automated call from the PTA about it. Then I told them each pizza was $10 and I didn't have the cash on me. Then Natalie went upstairs to her piggy bank and counted out $10 in quarters. Then we ordered the damn pizza because I couldn't stand to hear about it anymore. And then a third automated call to thank those of us who were bullied into buying mediocre pizza and apologize for the parents whose children did not receive mediocre pizza in personalized boxes. So there would be more coupons for pizza going home.
Don't think you can get me to buy pizza because you had my kid color a pizza box; I throw their artwork away like used napkins, which a great deal happen to be. There are only so many toilet paper tubes made to look like penguins that I can keep around here. I ordered the pizza because I was so exhausted from your shock-and-awe pizza campaign that I was too exhausted to cook dinner.
And don't think for one second that I'm not an awesome homemaker just because I couldn't handle the ruthless tactics of the PTA to raise enough money to cover the letters and stickers and phone calls. I was just tired. From unpacking.
From January.
(2010.)
Let me put it this way: our bathroom is way too big for the two of us. It would be better suited for a small tap dance studio. There is no reason why we need so much open space between the sinks and the shower; the square footage could have been used better if the builder had just made a room with nothing but shelves for me to put stuff on. Like a closet, but bigger.
Yes, what I mean is we just needed a bigger closet.
Instead, we have this strangely odd giant bathroom, that is no albatross by any means, but still really unreasonable for two people who only go into the master bath twice a day for only as long as it takes to get showered and brush teeth. It's not like we're rich and have a wine fridge installed next to the bathtub so we can soak and read our gossip mags.
Although that is a very good idea.
So, the floor is big enough to make room for a little old suitcase that I would leave unopened for twelve months and use to pile dirty clothes on, because it was next to my hamper and my hamper had a lid. I liked the lid-less feature of the packed suitcase on the floor better. And I stepped over this suitcase for an entire year. Because I could. And it was there so long that I forgot it had stuff inside and that it shouldn't even be in the middle of the floor.
I finally opened it, only because I decided to catch up on my laundry and was reminded of its presence (it does look pitifully lonely without the shroud of pit-stained t-shirts, stretched-out bras, and holey socks). Inside was a treasure trove of Give Kids the World souvenirs. There were stuffed animals, My First Visit to Disney World! buttons, pictures, postcards, 18 candy canes (from the Christmas tree in our villa), puzzles, DVDs, photo albums, and Monopoly.
Monopoly.
Let it be recorded that I have never finished the board game of Monopoly in my entire life. I could plow through an entire game on our Macintosh Performa in the eighth grade but that doesn't count. When real people and real dice are involved, its unnaturally long for a board game. I think the people who invented it never had kids because surely they would invent a game that could be done in the span of time between being summoned to wipe a bottom.
Natalie saw the game in its shrink-wrapped glory. Can I play this? I dunno, it says ages 8 and up. You could probably play it but it's reeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeally long. Mommy has never finished a game. Well I'll finish it when I beat you! You probably will.
And that Sunday, we spent four-and-a-half hours playing Monopoly. And I remembered that I don't really like that game all that much. And Natalie had hotels on all of her properties, which included Park Place and Boardwalk.
I had to call it quits for the day. We took a picture of the game board and declared it to be continued. Natalie had $3092. I had $53. She would have bankrupted me a lot earlier if only she had charged me rent. I got tired of reminding her to look at her properties as we played, which would have been easy on her part because she owned everything but Baltic.
The game resumed two days later. I cursed the Pass Go, Collect $200 spot each time I landed on it, because that meant I was $200 farther away from being bankrupt. If Dr. Kevorkian were playing with me, he would have euthanized me long before I landed on a Boardwalk hotel ninety minutes later. No Baltic mortgage will come close to save you from that. Not even the rent on an unimproved Boardwalk property.
And there you have it. My first ever completed game of Monopoly. Now I need to go hide that in the back of a closet that the builder didn't build.
So I guess I'll go put it back in the middle of my bathroom floor.
But all winners must get their trophies, and for Natalie, I bought her a new mop. It's a very nice mop with a mircrofiber cloth cover and a built-in squirter so she doesn't have to haul around that heavy bucket anymore. It should make it easier for her to mop every evening after dinner, and just having the downstairs smell like Fabuloso is reason enough for me to have someone haphazardly mop my kitchen floor each night. And this is why I'm still Mom of the Year.
It was dark. Our bellies were full. The heat was on. Someone was going to pass out on this drive.
Natalie: Mom! Daniel keeps lying to me!
Me: What is he lying about?
Natalie: Everything! He keeps trying to trick me, and that's lying.
Me: How could he be tricking you? He's asleep.
Natalie: That's the trick! He's awake! [Natalie slaps him across the face] Oh, okay, he's asleep.
Another highlight was when Natalie's eyeballs starting turning yellow. You know you have to pee bad when you start tearing up. We rode about forty miles before stopping on the side of the road, in the middle of the night, at a balmy thirty-eight degrees and had her drop her drawers behind an old pile of bricks. I don't know if I can do this, Mom! Oh wait, I can. And obviously you know the ending to that story: two miles later, we hit a town with three gas stations and four fast-food joints. But the old pile of bricks was probably cleaner. And that's how we roll, because we have extra napkins from Taco Bell and tons of hand sanitizer in the car. Always. Thank God for cancer.
We got to Mimaw's house. The sleep you can get when you're exhausted from peeing in the cold and arguing with sleeping persons negates any deep lingering taco breath that most certainly is coming up from your sister's throat into your face that would otherwise keep you up.
The next day was Mimaw's birthday, so that night she took us to see Delta Rae. And she drove. And if any of you think I'm going to be that nice to you on my birthday, you've got another thing coming. But having a designated driver get you safely back home after treating you to a concert and then letting you eat up all the salt and vinegar potato chips in her pantry means you either have a really awesome host or maybe you're just really that awesome. People want to do these things for you if you're that awesome. But it was probably the former.
And she doesn't at all look like she's not extremely excited to be potentially embarrassed by her in-laws. Not that that would ever happen, even if I were holding an invisible beer. And it didn't. Except maybe that one time Matt and I thought someone on stage had turned the sponge into a castanet-like instrument and he very loudly asked if that meant the song was about safe-sex, and he did so very loudly because they were playing very loud music, except for that one moment where they got all pianissimo on us and he thrust forth his query.
We had fun times at Mimaw's. So much fun, that we forgot to bring Daniel home, so he got to stay with her a few more days before track-out ended. Daniel returned with a homemade book he penned called "Mi Lucke Days," an apparent reference to the fact that he was much happier at Mimaw's where he could eat Lucky Charms for breakfast each morning. Mommy's homemade yogurt is lacking in the freeze-dried marshmallow department and for this I am not sorry, only because the closest I can come to making homemade freeze-dried marshmallows is just leaving a bag of mini-marshmallows open on the counter for a few days before I find them under a pile of forms I was supposed to sign and return to school.
Natalie and Daniel were tracked out of school for an entire month. On their first day back, Eve had the day off because preschool is on a traditional calendar. This seemed unfair to me. Not that I didn't want to spend the day without kids, except I did. Just for a little bit. Just long enough to pin home renovations that I will never, ever do, on Pinterest.
The next day, Eve was still off from school so we had a playdate with friends. Eve and her friend, Sadie, went upstairs to put on costumes and play with cosmetics. Sadie, only four months older than my sweet Eve, comes down with very tastefully done makeup. Eve comes down like she's about to run off to the circus as a sideshow act. I am amazed that they have both used the same products yet achieved such different results, although I guess you could give two people each an egg and one would give you an omelette while the other would give you salmonella.
(Sadie was the omelette in that example.)
When my cell phone rings at 2:30 p.m. and I don't catch it in time, I always wonder if the school is calling because Daniel has thrown up on someone. And when my house phone rings next, I just about know it's them. None of my friends are calling at 2:30 p.m. They are all too busy pinning Weight Watchers recipes.
Sure enough, the caller ID reads Wake County Public Schools. Dammit. What did one of my kids do now?
There was an incident with Daniel today and I just wanted to call and let you know. He may have fallen down in P.E. and...busted his face.
Busted his face? What does that mean exactly? Oh, he's got a fat lip? That's cool. Is he okay? He's okay. He's not in pain, not crying. He's not bleeding and his teeth are all still there. Well, thank you for calling. Are you going to come pick him up? Umm, do I need to? You know, it's not considered a real day in our house unless one of our kids is bleeding from the mouth. Is that a joke? Sure it is, since you're not laughing. If he's not bleeding and not hurt and not crying, then...can't you just send him back to class? Well, I guess we could. [Pause for the asking of the Daniel if he wants his mommy to come pick him] Actually, he's getting emotional so you should probably come get him.
So there was no way I was bringing my floosie daughter into school while she was wearing a torn Barbie dress with enough make up to be in a Lady Gaga video. I didn't have the time nor inclination to start wiping the cheap red lipstick that Santa brought off of her cheeks which can really only be removed with pure acetone and sandpaper. I sent her on her way with the omelette and headed out to school on a very warm day in a very warm sweatshirt; pushing a muddy floosie on the backyard swing after a rainstorm meant I was muddy floosie's muddy mommy, but there was no time to shower, only to cover up with what was closest to the door. I had to get to the emotional one with the busted face.
And when I picked him up, I really did ask in an unnaturally loud and surprised voice what happened to Daniel's missing tooth, except no one was listening to the sweaty mom with the muddy pants. They would have paid attention if I had brought Eve, that's for sure. Although they may have also called a guidance counselor.
I didn't get Wednesday off, either, because Natalie had pink eye. So there went another day to pin creative DIY haircuts.
(Although the next day I did end up doing a do-it-yourself haircut on Natalie and Eve was so enthralled that I've had to remove scissors from her tiny hands on no less than four occasions.)
There are always fundraisers going on at school, and while I love-love-love our school, I could do with a little less monthly-eat-out-and-our-school-gets-15%-of-the-profits. Because I'd just rather give the school $3 than go out to one of these things. First, the kids were given plain pizza boxes at school to decorate. Then they were told that their parents needed to come to a pizza place and buy a pie so they could get their decorated pizza box with a pizza inside! Then they were told this again everyday for a week. Then I got the first automated phone call about it. Then the letters home from the PTA about it. Then the kids home with the stickers on their shirts about it. Then the second automated call from the PTA about it. Then I told them each pizza was $10 and I didn't have the cash on me. Then Natalie went upstairs to her piggy bank and counted out $10 in quarters. Then we ordered the damn pizza because I couldn't stand to hear about it anymore. And then a third automated call to thank those of us who were bullied into buying mediocre pizza and apologize for the parents whose children did not receive mediocre pizza in personalized boxes. So there would be more coupons for pizza going home.
Don't think you can get me to buy pizza because you had my kid color a pizza box; I throw their artwork away like used napkins, which a great deal happen to be. There are only so many toilet paper tubes made to look like penguins that I can keep around here. I ordered the pizza because I was so exhausted from your shock-and-awe pizza campaign that I was too exhausted to cook dinner.
And don't think for one second that I'm not an awesome homemaker just because I couldn't handle the ruthless tactics of the PTA to raise enough money to cover the letters and stickers and phone calls. I was just tired. From unpacking.
From January.
(2010.)
Let me put it this way: our bathroom is way too big for the two of us. It would be better suited for a small tap dance studio. There is no reason why we need so much open space between the sinks and the shower; the square footage could have been used better if the builder had just made a room with nothing but shelves for me to put stuff on. Like a closet, but bigger.
Yes, what I mean is we just needed a bigger closet.
Instead, we have this strangely odd giant bathroom, that is no albatross by any means, but still really unreasonable for two people who only go into the master bath twice a day for only as long as it takes to get showered and brush teeth. It's not like we're rich and have a wine fridge installed next to the bathtub so we can soak and read our gossip mags.
Although that is a very good idea.
So, the floor is big enough to make room for a little old suitcase that I would leave unopened for twelve months and use to pile dirty clothes on, because it was next to my hamper and my hamper had a lid. I liked the lid-less feature of the packed suitcase on the floor better. And I stepped over this suitcase for an entire year. Because I could. And it was there so long that I forgot it had stuff inside and that it shouldn't even be in the middle of the floor.
I finally opened it, only because I decided to catch up on my laundry and was reminded of its presence (it does look pitifully lonely without the shroud of pit-stained t-shirts, stretched-out bras, and holey socks). Inside was a treasure trove of Give Kids the World souvenirs. There were stuffed animals, My First Visit to Disney World! buttons, pictures, postcards, 18 candy canes (from the Christmas tree in our villa), puzzles, DVDs, photo albums, and Monopoly.
Monopoly.
Let it be recorded that I have never finished the board game of Monopoly in my entire life. I could plow through an entire game on our Macintosh Performa in the eighth grade but that doesn't count. When real people and real dice are involved, its unnaturally long for a board game. I think the people who invented it never had kids because surely they would invent a game that could be done in the span of time between being summoned to wipe a bottom.
Natalie saw the game in its shrink-wrapped glory. Can I play this? I dunno, it says ages 8 and up. You could probably play it but it's reeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeally long. Mommy has never finished a game. Well I'll finish it when I beat you! You probably will.
And that Sunday, we spent four-and-a-half hours playing Monopoly. And I remembered that I don't really like that game all that much. And Natalie had hotels on all of her properties, which included Park Place and Boardwalk.
I had to call it quits for the day. We took a picture of the game board and declared it to be continued. Natalie had $3092. I had $53. She would have bankrupted me a lot earlier if only she had charged me rent. I got tired of reminding her to look at her properties as we played, which would have been easy on her part because she owned everything but Baltic.
The game resumed two days later. I cursed the Pass Go, Collect $200 spot each time I landed on it, because that meant I was $200 farther away from being bankrupt. If Dr. Kevorkian were playing with me, he would have euthanized me long before I landed on a Boardwalk hotel ninety minutes later. No Baltic mortgage will come close to save you from that. Not even the rent on an unimproved Boardwalk property.
And there you have it. My first ever completed game of Monopoly. Now I need to go hide that in the back of a closet that the builder didn't build.
So I guess I'll go put it back in the middle of my bathroom floor.
But all winners must get their trophies, and for Natalie, I bought her a new mop. It's a very nice mop with a mircrofiber cloth cover and a built-in squirter so she doesn't have to haul around that heavy bucket anymore. It should make it easier for her to mop every evening after dinner, and just having the downstairs smell like Fabuloso is reason enough for me to have someone haphazardly mop my kitchen floor each night. And this is why I'm still Mom of the Year.
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