clickmom

zoo

I accompanied Josh's class on a class trip today. We went to the zoo. Josh was paired off with is best friend, which under normal circumstances would have been heavenly. I love this kid. But the friend was not at all into the zoo. He knew the hokey train ride was hokey and he pretty much didn't want to see anything that couldn't eat a person, so he wasn't impressed with vultures, elk, or monkeys, or even the two bald eagles. He wanted big ticket animals, like lions, the kind that were not to be found at this small scale zoo.

Also, another mother asked me if our two groups could wander the zoo together. This was in her best interest, since her son is most likely ADHD (she knows it too) and the other kid is just kind of constantly naughty. I had already said YES to the other mother when Josh's teacher approached me to ask if I could take the other mom's group in with mine, so I really had no choice at all. While I am flattered that I am recognized for my superior kid wrangling skills, instead of the relaxing zoo wandering trip I had planned for the day, I had to switch into teacher mode, and then there was little relaxing and much cajoling of the unenthusiastic, much reigning in of the wandering and there was also a constant like hawk like vigil over the child prone to mischief. By the end of the trip Josh (I am assuming) was feeling completely ignored, so he became hyper focused on the mostly healed scabby scrape on his knee insisting that the already healed scrape was somehow going to get his shorts bloody. I found the nurse and had her bandage the hard dry scab. It was the least I could do. I considered taking Josh home in my car with me, but decided I would send him off on the bus with the rest of his class and enjoy the 15 childless minutes alone with the other mother, who I imagine went home and broke open a case of beer or maybe even something with an even higher alcohol content after being held captive in my vehicle and having to listen to all my troubles. I figure it was a fair exchange.

I'm passing on a babes luncheon tomorrow in order to have some free time with Matt who will be home from school since he is not one of the band/chorus participants going on a class trip. (And how a school can plan a trip to an amusement park and not take the whole grade is beyond me.) I am really looking forward to just being alone with him. Now I have to try to convince him that he wants to hang out with me and not be on the computer trying to sneak a look at some porn the whole afternoon. Welcome to the teenage years.

reeding iz fuhndemantil

Josh: What begins with a G and ends with an A?

gaga?
grappa?
gondola?
Ghandi? (That was Evan's)

Josh: No! It's GAY!!

empty

I never slowed down much when I was pregnant with Matt. As a matter of fact, when I was 9 months pregnant with him we moved from Manhattan to Brooklyn, and having that 9 month pregnant inability to get a good night's sleep, I spent the early morning hours of my final month of pregnancy in Prospect Park tossing dog balls and chatting with the people who were there at the crack of dawn because they, for the most part, had to then abandon their dogs for the day and go off and spend a long hard day at work somewhere. When I bumped into a couple of my new dog owning friends a month or so after Matt was born, when I no longer prowled the park in the wee hours of the morning, they were shocked to see a baby on my chest. They had no idea that the new dog loving person in the park had been 9 months pregnant.

Then Matt was born and while he was an extremely happy baby, it was totally on his terms, and his terms were that I (and only I would do) held him 24/7. So, I had a very happy baby who was always in my arms. If you think I am kidding, I will tell you about the time I sat on the toilet debating with myself until I had to make the conscious decision that it was going to be all right to put him down while I wiped after bowel movements. Eventually (which seemed like forever back then, but a mere wink in time now) Matt learned how to crawl, and crawled away from me, looking over his shoulder, and became a very independent toddler. Then there were miscarriages, pregnancy with Evan, more "attachment parenting" a move to the burbs, followed by years of culture shock, a huge house renovation and another pregnancy for my Josh, "attachment parenting" for three now, and that kind of brings us to today.

I sure am tired.

I've never regretted the way I parent my kids. I did it the way I felt right doing it before I even knew it had a label. I breast fed, baby wore, co-slept, and the whole deal. I did it this way before I ever even heard of Dr. Sears or Mothering magazine. But you know, once I found them I was validated, so I just kept on doing what I had been doing all along. I have more patience, or used to have more patience, than one person has a right to, and it shows (or used to before all that patience was worn thin) It wasn't "easier" on me that way, I had no free time, and even things like getting my bi-annual haircut required ridiculous amount of planning. But the kids sure were happier with that arrangement, and I always say a happy kid means a happy mother. And my kids were very very happy. So, I was happy, but tired. I mothered that way because that is what came naturally to me. Today, 14 years after all of this began, I honestly like my kids. I have good salt of the earth, wouldn't hurt a fly morally sound kids. They make me proud, and any little complaints I might register about them I can always attribute to a genetic flaw from their father's side, so all in all, I wouldn't go back and do it any other way. That being said, I am feeling somewhat empty lately. I think I might have given all I have to give.

I'm not sure how to say what I am feeling these days, but I can sum it up with a story that Kitten shared with me. Kitten has a friend, who had an amazing mother. The amazing mother sewed all of her kids clothes, made home cooked meals, only gave at home parties, and always had a craft project planned for a rainy day. One day this perfect mother announced to her kids that she was done, and she just kind of stopped. The kids had to buy their clothes, and halloween costumes, they started eating out and ordering in a lot and the mom, while still around to advise and love and care about her kids, she was still a good mom, but she no longer did any of the above and beyond stuff that she had done for so many years. I think I might be there, at that point where I've given all I have to give.

snaggle tooth

Before I had kids I could never have imagined how just seeing their faces could take my breath away. I never could have imagined how I would spend hours just gazing at their soft perfect skin, counting freckles, memorizing every curve of an ear, every fuzzy lip hair, the very exquisite way their nose evolves into a cheek and a chin becomes a lip. I never knew I could boldly pick a crusty nose clean, treasure a little tiny tooth, or die a little inside just from seeing a tear stained cheek.

That being said, if he doesn't wiggle that damned disgusting dangling tooth (which makes me totally want to puke every time he smiles) out of his mouth in the next 24 hours then I am going to sneak up on him in the middle of the night with some pliers and finish the job myself.

dork

I burst into tears/cried like a baby when Jordin won.

dancing yeah

Walking around in this emotional void (necessary to prevent sudden crying outbursts) has made me hyper-aware of any non-foggy completely numb feeling I might experience in my day to day activities.

Sometimes during the day I park my truck only slightly in my driveway (as opposed to all the way around the back of the house) so that it can be in the shade that is found only in front of my house underneath some really big oak trees. That is where I left her this afternoon when I came home from dropping Josh off at his school. As I headed back out to pick Matt up an hour or so later, I walked right into a big silky-webby inchworm battalion that had all decided to drop them selves from my oak tree to along my front walk. Unprepared for the ghoulish spider web type assault, and completely creeped out by the ticklish touchy feelings of it all over my face and arms, I did a rather spastic looking dance down my walk on my way towards the car. I wondered of anyone happened to see me. I wondered what I could call this walk of torture I had just performed. I immediately thought of the scarecrow from The Wizard of Oz getting off the pole only to discover he not only had very loose limbs, but was also walking on some sort of electrified yellow brick road. That visual seemed to fit. And that made me smile.

psycho mom

I got hate-mail! Technically I got "a" hate mail, but hey- I didn't have to link to anyone's angry blog to get it! This what Mike Sellar had to say "YOU ARE A PSYCHO MOTHER!!!! i can't believe the shit i read on ur site! you are truly fucked in the head to try and have that much control over a child! stop sheltering him, he'll grow up to be a big fuckin' weirdo if he's mommy's little boy his whole life. let him be and do his own thing!"

Hahaha. He said I'm a "psycho mother"!!! You know, Mike honey, you can cut me down in oh so many ways, but you called me a "psycho mother" and now Mike the joke is on you! Hahaha, good one Mike Sellar.

fat again

I have been meaning to post about my weight for the longest time, but first it was so hard to admit that I had gained 20 of the 50 lost pounds back, and then it was 25 and then 30 and then 40 and now I have officially gained 43 of the lost 50 pounds back. (I was going to write 42, but decided to be honest) I realize that there has been a combination of stress and pity eating going on here with me for the past year. Suddenly, last spring, I was feeling all sorry for myself that I couldn't eat wheat, and then last summer rye started to give me the nasty symptoms, then I had the mysterious headache and nausea all summer and fall (and who, I would like to know, besides me can gain 2 pounds a week for months solid when constantly nauseous?) then school started and I had to pretend that having a mere hour and a half a day between dropping off kids and picking up kids wasn't going to do me in, and then I was recognizably sick with that intestinal thing and had to do all those tests for a month before finding out what it was and I found out that there were even more foods I couldn't eat like tea, tomatoes, strawberries and corn (and a dozen or so others that are less worth mentioning) and all the pity eating I was doing took itself to even higher heights. Cause ice cream wasn't on that list of taboo foods! Then, as if I needed more stress, someone had to do something about grandma and I decided to step in and be the responsible party. I knew taking care of grandma was going to be a lot of work, but what I hadn't planned on was how the resentment of of mommy dearest and the scum-cle was going to claw at me. And now, at the end of it all, I stand here, almost as heavy as I was when I turned 40 (and thought I could possibly die any minute from all the extra weight) and I can't see any let up in the amount of stress in my life coming, since grandma isn't going anywhere, mom and dad might both be sick with cancer, our even because home in utopia won't be finished being rebuilt by this summer, and right now every time I look in the mirror I want to be able to slap some sense (as in sensible eating) into myself.

All this good for nothingness in addition to the internet not being the same place of comfort and sharing it used to be for me. After last January's linking disaster (which I am not linking to, you can call it post-linking-stress disorder) I just haven't felt the friendliness and sense of community I thought was here. And I gotta tell you that probably the ugliest part of the whole incident, even uglier to me than the angry folks on that other web site telling me to perform sexual acts upon them, was when three of the internet's big time bloggers, all of whom I had been reading and commenting to, and feeling some connection with, for a couple of years, all decided to hop onto my site at the same time and comment. Normally I would have fallen on the floor from the excitement of seeing Melissa, Mrs. Kennedy and Alice (no links!!) all commenting on my blog, but to me it felt like some movie scene in which the cool-girl cheerleaders corner the clueless girl who dared to dream she could fit in and cruelly smashed/dashed her dreams. I had been cyber-bullied when I thought I was (or could be) one of them (as in:popular bog writers) and it felt horrible. Not that cool was what I was going for, what I wanted (and still do want) is some recognition as a writer. I enjoy writing so much. After the incident I thought about not blogging, I felt like everything I wrote for a while I had to force a bit, but then I reminded myself that the blog isn't for anyone I don't know, it's for my own enjoyment and maybe one day for my kids to get a glimpse of who I was and what I valued (you guys! I valued you, my children, more than anything!) and made the decision to keep at it, with very careful and limited linking. Also, I don't comment on other blogs nearly as much as I used to (and certainly not on those three), and that used to be fun for me. sigh. Is this why I haven't posted about my weight? Have I not posted because the internet turned on me? Not likely. I can't even fool myself into thinking it is, because really, why I haven't said anything is because I am disappointed in myself and also embarrassed. But I did imagine that there was some unconditional internet love fest that wasn't really there.

But, back to food, here is the very stupid thing that I can't get my mind around. I can't seem to wrap my mind around what a little amount of food people actually need to maintain a healthy weight. I weigh as much as two people because I eat enough for three people. Really, I do, I know that I do. Seriously, there is nothing wrong with my metabolism. I eat like I'm never going to see food again. And I do that every day. I'm great fun at parties, I never hold back. This past week two drug store magazines had articles on people who lost a ton of weight. They all did it the old fashioned way through diet and exercise. Both magazines had little boxes with what these weight problem conquering people ate each day and they ate hardly anything. They ate in an entire day what I manage to snack on between my three generous meals. And I notice my friends eating too. They leave things over on their plates. That is foreign to me. And they don't eat ice cream every day. And if they do, they aren't eating the whole pint. So, in this overwhelming time here, where I could literally eat 24/7, and I am pretty sure I would do it in lieu if actually literally really falling apart, I am trying to grasp and internalize the reality of my relationship with food and see my eating for what it really is, which is pretty much a crutch for every emotion I am capable of feeling. Happy? Eat! Anxious? Eat! Angry? Eat! Stressed? Eat some more! and the same goes for everything else. Since I am not going to have the smooth sailing summer I was anticipating to get myself together during then I am going to have to do it while everything is falling apart around me. Really, I don't feel like I have a choice. I have to deal with this issue. I have to deal with it now. I am tired of this issue infringing on the rest of my life.

Here I am, 50 pounds down, 43 pounds up, in the physically strongest shape of my life. I can run 3 miles, bike as far as I want, pump iron, and do endless sit ups, and yet, I am close to my heaviest weight ever. I can't pretend that being as strong as I am is going to protect me from all the obesity related diseases forever. Eventually it is going to catch up with me, and I'd like to put the weight behind me before that happens. I want to be healthy. I don't want to be sick. I have got to find a way to cope with what ever comes my way without reaching for the fridge. And if anyone is reading or not, I am going to try to work these things out in writing, because keeping quiet didn't do anything for me, so this time I am going to try being honest even if I am not having a good day.

adoration, cancer and messed up technology

Josh has a tight circle of preschool buddies that still get together at a local playground every Thursday afternoon after school. They are lovely kids with lovely moms, and I try to get there as often as I can. Normally, if I am headed over there, I'll pick up Josh, pick up Evan and then head over with Evan held captive in the car. I like to make Evan go because, even though he doesn't admit it, I think he enjoys how much the younger kids look up to him. The little ones are absolutely drawn to him, and besides I want Evan to get some exercise too, even if it has to come from running away from his little brothers friends. I know the younger kids enjoy Evan and the rough daring older guy games he plays with them, but it really hit home the other day when Josh and two of his friends were playing on a non-Thursday playground excursion when Evan wasn't there. The kids were on the swings and before they could begin they decided who would "be Evan" and that boy got to imitate the way Evan does his little dance in front of the swinging kids letting their feet just barely miss hitting him and cracking them up the whole time. Then on Thursday I dragged Evan back to the playground where all the friends go and all the boys circled him like flies to a piece of old meat, and they all wanted to touch him and chase him, and do what he did and watch him perform in front of the swing for them, and I hoped with all my heart that Evan, the boy who was born feeling gypped and the one who can never get enough love, attention or recognition, recognized just for a few seconds how sweet and pure the admiration and love from these little kids was, and that they were offering him enough little boy worship to fill anyone's love quota for the day.

But suddenly, that all seems so trivial because I spoke to mommy dearest on the phone today. The cancer that they removed from her in March 2006, the one that the surgeon assured my mother was just a fibroid and not cancerous, which turned out to be cancerous once the labs came back, seems to have returned somewhere else in her abdomen. I can't say anything for sure, but what I know is that mom had a cat scan because she was in pain and is being told that the same cancer that was found in the fibroid is back. More tests are needed. At the same time Dad, who has fought all kinds of cancer from melanoma to colon cancer has had a high psa reading for his testicular cancer checkup (originally diagnosed and treated in 1999). He needs more tests too. And now I am sitting here, hoping for the best, not believing it could ever happen, and wondering how I am going to explain all this to grandma.

As if I'm not all annoyed and worried to such a great extent that the rest of my life should be seamlessly sweet, the satellite service man just left. My appointment window was from 12 to 4 PM. He arrived at 5:30. Don't ya just love how that feels? I know I don't need to tell you how many errands I could have run in that time period, or that I gave up a babes lunch to sit around doing nothing all day, but that aside, my family has lived with this pain-in-the-butt moody service for years. I always have to get on the floor and plug it all out and then plug it all in and restart it all. We got some new remotes that were unprogrammable. We haven't been able to order a pay per view for ages. The guy takes a 90 second look at the receiver and says to me "This receiver is messed up, you need a new one". And it was as simple as that excpet now I feel like I have been the brunt of a big cosmic joke, cause I suspect that normal people would have sent their messed up receivers back from the get go, but I have wasted countless hours on the phone with their fricking automated support and also stomping around all angry and frustrated and possibly taking it out on the kids and the whole time it was all the fault of their sucky receiver.

I hate it that life isn't fair.

wild thing

When I was a first year teacher and had to fill out report cards for the first time I went to the local teacher's store and picked up a book of report card comments that could give a light hearted spin to the most delinquent criminal in the class. This book was priceless. It listed typical student traits and gave sample comments that a teacher could use, comments that sounded professional that would not incite a parent to slit your throat on the spot or follow you home and burn down your apartment building. That book was priceless, and I marveled at how there was something to describe each and every kid I had in my little (traumatized,emotionally disturbed, learning disabled) class.

Fast forward 19 years, and I happen to have the kinds of kids that (almost) always come through for me in public situations. In a restaurant my kids are ideal. Airplane? A dream come true. Play dates? They are remarkably polite and courteous. Even in school where they have to spend day in and day out with their teachers, they usually maintain that perfect child aura. I marvel at how the kids are able to charm the pants off of their teachers year after year. Naturally, I see a more, ahem, "relaxed" side of them at home and then I, perhaps mistakenly, attribute that to them being regular old normal kids. Knowing how well they are able to maintain the illusion of perfection for long periods of time, I still have my moments of doubt and sometimes find myself maybe praying a little in certain situations, like opening their report cards for example.

Today Evan's religious school report card came in the mail. His teacher seemed to have a good handle on just who Evan really is, (the real Evan, not the public persona Evan) and I can tell Evan's religious school teacher didn't get his comments from the book.

This is what Evan's teacher wrote:

"What a creative and imaginative young man! There were times when I struggled to keep Evan on point, or to pull his stories around so they connected to the ones we were studying. Truth is, much of The Bible is a parade of battles and military strategies, so Evan's knowledge of modern warfare helped the group relate to the ancient tales. The boy mind is a wild thing- his is wonderful to behold."

Evan, my little assualt rifle toting wild thing.

watching and worrying

One aspect of fourth grade that I just hate is "health" class. I just don't want the gym teacher explaining all that "health" related stuff to my kid, and I don't it all explained at 10 years old either. Honestly, I believe this job is a family responsibility. In a perfect world, I would control everyting Evan sees and hears in regards to his budding manliness and all the glorious changes that go along with it. Naturally, in a perfect world, I would control his every thought and behavior too, but we don't live in that world, do we? No, we don't, and Evan has to go to health class.

Evan brought home a little "boys bag" from health class. In the "boy's bag" were two things; an Old Spice Deodorant and a little pamphlet which pretty much says that during puberty a boy can expect to get pimples (and the pamphlet explains how, by counting the number of zits on your face and back, a boy should know wether he should use an OTC pimple cream, go to his internist, or see a dermatologist), oily hair (and the pamphlet thinks you that shampooing every day is a good idea, except for boys of color who might have delicate hair), smell bad (hence: the sample), get hairy, and experience wet dreams as well as jock itch. And, says the pamphlet, it is all perfectly normal! But, I would be remiss in not telling you, the pamphlet says he shouldn't worry if every one else's penis seems larger than his because size doesn't matter. (Look how young we start lying to our men!!!) I half expected to see some anti-anxiety medication taped on the back of the pamphlet because, seriously, if I was all hormonally pubescent about to go through all those horrifying physical changes and read a piece of crap like that pamphlet I might seriously consider throwing myself on the tracks.

Luckily Evan seemed cool about the whole ordeal. You have to watch the cool ones, though, they are the ones who are secretly scheming. Evan doesn't realize it yet, but I had him pegged from the beginning.

warning: it's long and angry (but in the bad way not the kinky way)

So, how was your Mother's Day?

Here is how mine went down:

6AM: My eye lids snap open like cheap spring loaded window shades. Why can't I sleep past 6? Ever? I go to the bathroom and pee, get back into bed and begin the morning ritual I refer to as: Pray for more sleep. Not another minute of sleep was anywhere to be found.
8AM: Non-teenaged children began to gather in my room. No one seems to recognize that I am supposed to be queen for the day. They crawl into my bed and begin fighting and injuring each other with their knees and elbows. I sign off: Mommy out- and make my exit from the bed.
8:30AM: Make french toast and fruit salad for the family. Serve who ever is awake and present.
9:45AM: Commence promised 15 mile bike ride with Evan, who has no sympathy for my still injured ankle. I reason with myself: we'll go so slow I won't hurt a thing. So, I am concerned that I won't be able to make it up that really big first hill for a couple of reasons. First, reason is all the weight that I gained this winter, and the second, my lack of aerobic activity since the ankle injury 3 weeks ago. The hill comes and I summon everything I have to make it up. I have to do some serious counting to make it all the way up (why do I count?), but I do. Then I realize Evan isn't right behind me. I dismount and see him walking up the hill. Good thing I have gotten off of my bike. My heart is racing (pounding in my throat, my head and every artery in my upper body is throbbing in rhythm) and my lungs are on fire. No, really, on fire, like ouch. Evan makes his way up to the top, gives me some excuse about a vehicle causing him to run into the curb, and we begin riding again. Once we are on a quiet stretch of street I give Evan permission to pass me so that he can set the pace. I begin coughing this curious little perhaps I forgot that I have smoked two packs a day for the last 20 years cough. Evan doesn't seem to notice the cough. The pace he chose this morning was chinese torture leisure. I couldn't figure out how to go that slow and stay upright. I'm still not sure how he did it. Also, watching Evan ride from behind is enough to cause me to fall into a mothering mass of nervous twitches/convulsions. Evan can't seem to ride a straight line for very long. This means that every now and then he swerves, mostly to the left, where the fast moving vehicles may or may not be. Most people around here are courteous, they slow down and stay far away from bikers, but there are others who drive faster than the limit and resent bikers so much that they pass so close a biker can feel the warmth radiating from under the hood. It was those drivers that I feared with Evan swervy rider just ahead of me. Sometimes he would ride straight as an arrow, curiously enough it was when there were obstacles in the road. I yelled from behind "Evan don't ride over fallen branches!" "Evan don't ride over gravel!" "Evan... Squished turtles!" "Evan...dead squirrels!" "Evan you can go around the flattened children's toys!" Yeah, there is some serious wildlife DNA and more on Evan's tires right now. I tried to coach him through being alert too, but it is hard to tell someone who is in a perma fog how to be alert so he can survive the bike ride. So, Evan was starting to get annoyed with my cheerful suggestions. Stuff like "Evan, use all your senses, Listen for cars coming up behind you!" "Evan Look both ways before you turn onto that street!" "Evan, try to ride around the pot holes!" You know, all that anal mother crap we like to spew. The low point (for Evan) of the ride happened about 11 miles into the trip when Evan must have fallen asleep at the wheel. Without warning he just rode off the street into a ditchy kind of area. Once he was off he began to yell and shout as he slowly careened into an overgrown brushy spot, narrowly missing a giant post and a bramble bush. When he stopped he was embarrassed and upset. He had a few scratches on his legs, but was otherwise unscathed. I stood on the road and told him to walk back up. There was no where to put my bike and I didn't want to lay it on the road and he was fine after all. Besides, there was poison ivy in the area and there was no way I was volunteering to hike through any of that. Evan's water bottle had landed in a brand new still shiny patch of it and we left it exactly where we saw it by the side of the road. Evan wasn't the same afterwards. On the way home we passed the OFH and saw the scum-cles car parked in the lot. What a creep.
11:45 finally get home from the ride. Evan is in a funk. Cross my fingers that the dishwasher has been magically unloaded. No such luck. I unload last night's clean dishes from the dishwasher. My cough has progressed to more of a two pack a day coal miner's cough, but again, no one seems to notice.
12:00 I shower and dress. My boobs are so PMS that I am sure you could drop me into a lake and the boobs would pull me the bottom and drown me. I try to lounge around and relax in my own room, but Evan who still doesn't get that this is MY day, is sulking in my room, inconsolable over the bike incident, looking for some kind of attention that I am unaware of how to provide, and getting on my very last raw nerve.
1:00 PM I load all the dirty french toast breakfast dishes (that for some strange reason didn't magically float into the dishwasher on their own) into the dishwasher.
1:30PM I try to get a little computer time to send in the lacrosse photos I took yesterday, but couldn't finish because Evan, the despondent bike boy, began lurking ariund me again and wouldn't let me concentrate.
2:00PM I clean out the fridge because tomorrow is trash day. And because there is an odor. And because no one else ever does it.
2:30PM I haul out two bags of trash and old left overs to the bins.
3:00PM I begin to sound like Kathleen Turner if she had smoked two packs a day and worked in a coal mine, but no one seems to notice.
3:30PM Evan and I head over to the OFH to grab grandma to take out to our early Mother's Day Dinner. I leave plenty of time because I want to make her change her clothes if she is wearing the same black pants that she wears every single day and doesn't let the laundry lady wash because she says "Black don't show dirt". Evan and I eat some Thai Flavored potato chips on the way over to the OFH and are walking around teary eyed because of the overwhelming amount of red chili powder on such chips. People think I am sentimental over mothers day. Grandma is not in her room. We look in the theater to see if she has lingered after the afternoon movie, but nope. We check the library and the gardens but she isn't there. The dining room guy saw her not too long ago, as did the nurse, so we know she can't be far. We know we can out run her, so we aren't worried. Evan suggests that maybe grandma has gone for a walk. The lady at the front door hasn't seen her but Evan and I go out side and begin to circle the building anyway. Half way around the building we run into grandma who had slipped out the back (Jack) and was making her way to the front of the building. By this time it's after 4 and we don't have time to go up to her room and make her change out of her black pants and striped cotton t-shirt that I hate. I consider running up to her room alone, grabbing some clothes and making her change in the restaurant bathroom, but grandma is exhausted from her walk around the building and I decide to just take her all drearily dressed to dinner.
4:30PM We are on our way to dinner.
4:45PM We sit down to dinner and grandma hears background noise for the first time in 15 years. She suggests she should take her $10,000 hearing aids out "so she can hear better". I tell her to keep them in.
5:00PM Waiter comes to take our drink order, and I consider ordering gin straight up and doing an imitation of Kathleen Turner drinking gin, smoking cigarettes, working in a coal mine, while sweeping chimney's on the side, but no one would notice anyways and Evan is spreading his moody funk all over the restaurant so I just mention to the family that we are going to be doing Mother's Day over again with a little appreciation for me, the mother, next time and Matt immediately feels guilty. So the Matt and mini twin Josh start toasting me, and Matt, he who knows all the right things to say and just needed a little reminder, says all the exact things I was thinking I would like to hear, and even coaches Josh on the perfect toast to me (Thanks for playing with me all morning and making me good healthy lunches before school) and stuff like that. Evan mopes some more and then grandma starts in on this guilt thing and saying that she doesn't belong there and that today should be about me and only me and other "I don't deserve nice things" crap and I want to punch her and make her eat.
6PM I drive grandma home and she is so tired she can barely walk.
6:15PM I come home start a load of laundry. The husband reminds me that Evan is drop dead exhausted after a very late night play date with Wildmom's kid last night, and I suggest that he and I change into our jammies and watch television in my bed upstairs in an attempt to lull him into a state of sleepiness he can longer fight off and also be horizontal myself, because even the caffeinated joe I had at dinner isn't going to be enough to keep me awake tonight.
6:45PM in an attempt to give me what I declared I needed at dinner Matt has gathered his brothers to write out pages of my good mothering skills. They staple the pages into a 14 foot long vertical banner and get Josh to fake falling down the stairs. I am on to the fake because I can see the husband suppressing the giggles, but I go to Josh anyway to see why he is fake calling and Matt, who is hiding directly above me on the second floor landing, unrolls the banner from above while I am pretending to tend to Josh the faker. It was entirely sweet and once again, Matt has managed to list every single thing that I do that I would like to be appreciated for. I hope he never changes.
7:00PM Evan and I do eventually lie down to watch AFV and Evan tries to use me as a pillow. It hurts, but I try not to say anything since my primary goal here is unfunking Evan and I am attempting to do this with unlimited patience, kindness, affection and understanding. Every time I giggle during the show I erupt into a deep and gravelly coughing jag and finally, 8 hours later, with his head on my chest, Evan hears and recognizes me coughing, and then he asks me to raise the volume on the television because he can't hear over my gasping for air.
8:45PM Transfer clothes to the dryer.
9:00 PM I finally gather the courage to call mommy dearest and we both pretend that the whole family protection and relocation issue from yesterday never even happened, and that's fine with me. I tell her about grandma's stinky clothes and bad attitude and we talk about nothing in general for a few minutes and then I am off the hook for another year.
9:02PM Husband puts Josh to bed.
9:30PM I put Evan to bed.
9:45PM I sit down to finally send the rest of the lacrosse photos to work and also download them onto my new website and pray that someone orders something and makes me a few more pennies. It takes forever to download.
10:59PM I call down to tell Matt goodnight and to turn off his light.
11:00PM I tumble into bed.

adoptable

I am pretty sure I pissed mommy dearest off big time last night. I was venting about the scum-cle who, true to form, found Mother's Day to be inconvenient and in a series of self centered phone calls, managed to screw up any plans for us to have a typical Mother's Day Brunch with the local family gathered around, bla bla... I'm too annoyed to go into details, just know that the man thought he had better things to do Mother's morning and made us rearrange our schedules for an early dinner, only to call me the day before Mother's Day at noon to announce his tennis partner had cancelled their morning game, driving in the middle of the day would be inconvenient for him and could I make brunch reservations after all. He asked me this 24 hours before Mothers Day. As if I could make reservations if I tried. I told him the only possible place we could eat was the diner. I said mean things to him and I hung up. On him. But I kind of announced my intentions so there was no doubt.

Scum-cle opted to eat with grandma at the Old Folks Home for an early lunch rather than to come later for dinner. We won't be seeing him today. I did however stalk around there at noon and spot his car in the parking lot. I'm glad he won't be here for dinner.

So, then it was later in the day yesterday and I was still boiling mad, and I was relaying this story to mommy dearest and I declared that I was joining a family protection and relocation program and getting myself a big happy not dysfunctional family. Mommy Dearest , fool that she is, (How many languages can you say DENIAL in?) asked me (and I suppose she was asking for it with this question...) "Well, you'd take me with me you wouldn't you?" to which I instantly answered in the negative and then it appeared to me that her feelings got hurt. At least I am assuming she wanted in on the relocation since she then asked me if I'd want to go with her if she packed up and found a new family. I didn't answer that. Cause I didn't want to actually rub salt in the wound. I'm more of the festering bottled up anger type than the confrontational type, so I figured I'd just change the subject and get off the phone real quick.

I haven't called her to fake wish her a Happy (abandon me with a babysitter) Mother's Day yet, I have 8 hours and 20 minutes to go until Mother's Day is over, so I figure I would wait until I get grandma for dinner and then I'd just make it quick. Grandma could be my get right off the phone excuse. But really, if you know of a kind and gentle mentally stable family who wants to adopt a cute pudgy house broken well mannered 42 year old then call me.

no matter how big I get I am never enough

I have been trying to be less on a schedule in seeing grandma because I was hoping that she would continue to hang out with her new heavily accented friend Carmen like she had been when we were on vacation. Today I showed up at 10:30 in the morning to discover grandma still in her night gown and still in her bed. I asked her what was wrong and she said she didn't feel right. She sat down with me at her little table while Josh made himself at home with her candy stash and her television remote. I took her hand in mine and said "Grandma, you look so sad. Are you sad?" She exhaled slowly and sorrowfully, hung her head and answered "I am sad. I have been thinking about my stupid life." "Why do you say 'stupid life'?" I inquired "I dunno, I guess I just think that I wasn't loved enough" she answered back.

I couldn't fight her on that one because we all know what big shits grandma's kids (mommy dearest and the scum-cle) are. Instead I felt my own eyes welling up and I said "But grandma, I love you"

website hot coals gold couch hair

Wow, I have been totally busy and entirely consumed with this new project of mine. I have been asking around to find a web host that will not only show my excess sports photos for me but will also sell my excess photos at a price that I determine and I finally found one! So I have been trolling the internet checking out the competition and comparing prices, bla bla bla, and it should be up and running in about a week! The thought that I have been working for virtually free all these years and now for a few extra minutes of downloading on each assignment I have the potential to rake in some extra cash that far exceeds what I get at the paper thrills me to absolutely no end. You can not imagine. I don't know how folks stare at these screens all day long because seriously, I have been sitting here until I can't focus anymore and it doesn't take all that long. The first one who makes a crack about my geriatric eyesight gets in right in the inbox! Pow!

That doesn't mean that I missed Pam declare her true feelings for Jim tonight, that screen was focusable. Go Pam! Woo Hoo! And man, I might have to walk on coals every once in a while because I have been holding some serious bad stuff in. Things one might hear me say if I were to have a Pam moment: 1. You send rude emails, bitch. Stop! 2. You are so boring. Shut up. 3. I don't care anymore! Go away. 4. Your photos suck. Don't talk to me. Yeah, there are more but, um... the other ones would be too obvious.

So, in a completely unrelated arena, costumes are totally big with my kids. Evan wore one almost every single day of his little life between the age of 2 and 3 1/2. Other mothers would be disappointed he showed up at school to pick up Matt in his regular clothes. I suspect they had a bookie and were betting on who he would appear as each afternoon. They had each costume inventoried. As a matter of fact, if you look closely at our holiday card from 1999 Evan appears to be chunky, but in reality he insisted on wearing the plush Simba costume and I just tugged his chunky knit sweater over it. His furry legs are only slightly visible. When Evan requested karate lessons at age 4 I wasn't sure if he actually wanted to take karate or if he just wanted the outfit. We used to buy Evan 3 or 4 costumes at every halloween. Then Matt got into movie making so we are always in need of hats, mustaches, any sort of disguises will do. In school Evan's class did biography project recently. The kids worked very hard reading biographies and pulling out all the pertinent information. As a culminating activity they got to participate in a "wax museum" where each child dressed as their biography subject stood around the gym as friends and family members approached the children would come to life as their characters and give a one minute speech about themselves. Evan was Neil Armstrong. As we drove to the costume shop for an astronaut costume Evan mentioned that Neil was blonde haired and blue eyed. I said "Evan you can't change your eye color so what are you really asking me?" And surprise surprise Evan wanted to bleach his hair. Well, let's just say we tried. I don't know much about hair bleach and I guess Evan's hair was too dark brown for Loreal. But, you know, platinum blonde or Liberace tacky gold couch, it's all the same to me, or what I really mean to say is that Evan didn't get platinum, only couch, See for yourself. I am such an easy mom, really, I deserve something.

boo

Done! All 820 pages finished. I couldn't wait to finish this one. The deeper I got into it the more I NEEDED to get to the end. I love the way Irving gets those oddball characters under my skin. There were only a couple of nights where I had book related bad dreams that I faltered on my determination to finsh. I used to be able to read or see anything and not be bothered by it. The scarier, weirder, and creepier the better, used to be my motto. As a matter of fact, once upon a time, I was a big Stephen King fan. The Shining? Loved it! Carrie? Read it every night before bed. But then I became a mother, and my usual favorite authors scared the pants off of me. I couldn't sleep after reading. I had to give it up. The scary books I read as a mother went more like this. No, don't laugh, I can barely get through that one without bawling my eyes out. I mean, the poor bird is motherless!! Have a little sensitivity! And another one that makes me cry and creeped out, is here. I mean, the whole thing from start to finish is just sheer emotional torture. First I cry over the whole baby thing. Then the baby grows up, and the mom has to sneak in his room while he is fast asleep to love him. Then she gets creepier and creepier as he grows with the whole ladder thing, in and out the window. Uh, Hello? Sanity Police? And then when the boy turns the tables around and begins to stalk his own mom? OMG open the flood gates and hand me a full bottle of sleeping pills. I always wondered why the mother in that story couldn't just tell the kid "I love you" to his face. Creepy.

decision

I've been sitting around wondering if I should let my hair grow super long and then cut it off and give it to that organization that makes free real hair wigs for kids with cancer and other diseases that cause hair loss. I did it once before and the last few months were rough with that long hair, but I gotta tell you, the feeling I had packing that braid of hair up and sending it out was big. I think I have nice hair for kids too, I mean it is pretty much now or never for me here since they don't want the kinky gray hairs that are slowly but surely taking over my head. I would probably have to not cut my hair for at least another year. This summer it'll be long and in the way but by next winter it will be an absolute hassle. The last time I did this I just had to keep it in a pony tail and tied up the last 4 months. Hmm, make the committment or not...

the wedding that ate my day

Someone who works for my husband got married today. We had to go to the wedding. I am not a fan of weddings. To be honest, if I have to wear uncomfortable shoes I'd rather go to a funeral, they are shorter. I do not have a romantic bone in my body. Not one. I am romantically defective. As a matter of fact, I didn't even want to have my own wedding. I begged the husband to impregnate me so we could go to city hall and have a shot gun wedding in our jeans, but being the party pooper he is (and always was) he made me have an actual wedding, with a party and everything. It was a very nice wedding. The food was good, I was thankful for that. I do recall wishing I wasn't wearing a big cumbersome wedding dress. My friends looked so much more comfortable. Luckily for my parents my wedding was over 16 years ago because I heard that what these people today payed for their band is what my entire wedding budget was, dress and all. Whew. Good to hear for a cheap girl like me. Also, I need to consider being a wedding photographer, apparantly they are raking it in. I hear a couple can pay $7,000 for a basic package! People, I don't make that in a year at my paper. I am asking for a raise.

So, the bride today was somewhat budget conscious. She made her own beach themed center pieces. They were easy to see around, didn't drop any pollen on my salad and even gave us a soft kind of flickery glow.

I

Since neither my husband or the two couples he works with were willing to dance, (I know, I know, what a waste- tell me about it. I would have even danced with a wife just to get off my butt) I had to sit down at the table for 3+ straight hours. When I finally got up to pee I had to work kinks out of my knees. So I did a lot of people watching. This wedding had one of every stereotypical wedding guest and more. There were the falling down drunk guests, there were the bad dancing since the 1970's guests, the "get a room" guests tonguing each other on the dance floor, there were the prom dress over dressed guests, and the "is that a t-shirt?" underdressed guests, there were black stockings with red shoes, short dresses on girls who like to bend forward, and hello cleavage guests. This newly married couple had some celebrity look alike guests, and one sat at our table.

I'm thinking Peter Boyle, how about you? Then there was one guy who could play Dwight K Schrute's father.

The absolute most riveting party guest today however was a woman I refer to as "tatoo" because once I got a glimpse of her in the church, I said "There goes tatoo" every time she breezed by or leaned over to make out with her date. The following picture is not for the faint of heart:

Serious, it was real as real can be and the freaky thing about it was that it kind of camoflagued in with her print dress so it looked as if she was armless at first, until I got a good stare in (because I stare, I know, rude) and much to my horror realized that tatoo had an arm it was just, I'm guessing mutilated is a bit harsh here, .... um .... discolored in such a way to blend in with small prints. Freaky.

Also, ladies of the world, we need to chat about about open toed sandals.

eating crow

So, I met Dina McGreevey today. I've been trying to get through her book, but then last night was my one and only favorite television night and I was totally tired and needed to rest and also really wanted to see my shows, so I pretty much gave up on the book. Besides, the book was getting on my nerves. I wanted anger and venom and in the first third of the book she seemed to be trying to convince herself that Jim really did love her once. I don't think the guy is capable of that. When I went to McGreevey's table to have the book signed today my book mark was sticking out of the book. She noticed it so I said I had wanted to finish the book before meeting her but didn't have enough time. She asked "What do you think of me?" and I, much to even my own surprise, answered "I think you have a lot of courage." She gave me a weary smile and thanked me before signing my book.

McGreevey looked exactly like she has in every other interview and even every other photograph I have seen. After lunch she got up to address the room and she seemed the weariest and most worn out woman in the world. My heart broke a little for her. She said she is often asked why she wrote the book. I turned to Boops and rubbed my fingers together in the universal sign for money. McGreevey said she originally had no intention of writing a book but only did so after realizing that the public and the press weren't going to let her live privately and quietly ever after. She talked about having to escape through a neighbors yard with her daughter to avoid the press. How do you explain that to a kid? She also wasn't happy with all that was being printed which wasn't true. By the end of her speech, I felt guilty for my money signal and only wanted to cradle her in my arms, hold her while she had the good cry she seemed to very badly need, and then let her take the long nap she deserved.

shopping and peeling

The networks are messing with me, It is the only night of the week that I bother to watch television because The Office and Grey's Anatomy are both on and somehow tonight they manage to overlap. This sucks.

I should be reading. I have put Until I Find You aside to read Dina McGreevey's book because tomorrow I am going to a luncheon where she is speaking. Thank goodness I won't have time to read the whole book because I get more nauseous with each page. She is another chick I would like to slap in the face. The (gay American) guy used her for the entire length of their relationship and she just isn't getting it. I dunno, if I were her I'd still be in the shower trying to wash the dude off me. Shivers. Nasty.

Anyway, I had to shop today. More nasty, how I hate shopping, and even nastier was the trail of dead skin sun burn peel that I left in every garment I tried on. Oh yes, the peeling has commenced and it ain't pretty. There has not been a cream/lotion invented that can combat this kind of peeling. I am going the daily loofah route, but there seems to be no end to it. Needless to say there will be no exposed shoulders, chest or upper arms of mine at the wedding this Saturday. That is typical, but this time it is more aesthetically necessary than usual.

While at the mall I also picked up a new camera! Cause if I happen to be in a photo situation with McGreevey tomorrow I am totally getting a shot. Cross your fingers for me, I really want a shot. I dunno why , because I am under the impression she is tiny, which would surely make me look absolutely gargantuan, but the freak factor is too high for me not to get a photo if I can.

I hope they dance

When I was in fourth grade some square dancing guy came to our elementary school to teach us square dancing. All us fourth graders were brought down to the cafeteria, the tables had been folded and pushed aside and the guy told us to get partners. Being somewhat slow and clueless before I knew it I was the only girl left and the only boy left was the boy they called David Garbage. They called him this cause, well, to be blunt, he always looked dirty. He was kind of like Pig Pen, only more outspoken and with a real gravelly voice. I resigned myself to whiling away the hour with David Garbage (made plans to wash my hands after the dancing) took his sticky hands in mine and listened to the caller tell us what to do. Before I knew it, I was having a fabulous fun time dancing away with David who was enthusiastic and a pretty good dancer as far as this totally uncoordinated 10 year old could tell. I remember having such a good time that my face began to ache from all the smiling. Then I looked around at the other kids and realized that David Garbage was the only boy who was really dancing and every other kid, tortured boys and humiliated girls alike, in the cafeteria had that unhappy look of "they are making me do this" on their faces. I wanted to square dance every week, the other kids unanimously hated it. The next week came and I looked for David Garbage to be my partner, but he been quickly nabbed by some other girl. The third and final week came and our dance class got cancelled. I was crushed while the others cheered.

I tell my boys about David Garbage all the time because I want them to know that being the kid that dances (takes a chance/let's his hair down/isn't afraid of being his own person) is a great thing. I tell my boys all the time "Chicks love guys who dance." And I really hope they get the bigger picture.

Today I photographed a sixth grade class being taught to Waltz. The 6th grade boys were freaking out about touching the 6th grade girls. Everyone was uncomfortable. There were only 2 boys who sincerely danced. One was the class clown (You know, the class clowns turned out to be great guys didn't they?) and the other was the studious quiet type. As I made my way around the room trying not to interrupt the lesson while photographing the kids, I did manage to whisper to both the clown and the quiet type. I told them both "Chicks love guys who dance." and they both smiled back at me like they knew exactly what I was talking about.

grandma has a friend

When I got back from calamity vacation the good folks at the Old Folks Home had some news for me. It seems that in my absence grandma, who hasn't had a friend in over 20 years, made a friend! I suppose I looked absolutely shocked (because that was pretty much my reaction) when I heard the announcement so the good folks who look after grandma laid it out for me. There is a lady named Carmen, (I might just love her since she has befriended my otherwise friendless grandmother) who many of the other residents shy away from because she is so loud (but what a great attribute to have when hanging with my hard of hearing grandma!) and apparently Carmen and grandma have been doing some serious hanging around! They eat together, they take walks outside together, they go to the thrilling daily scheduled events together and Carmen even drags grandma to exercise class! Today when I stopped by to see if grandma wanted to hang out with me and the kids she was all bundled up and on her way out of the place with Carmen. She came over to our house, but was anxious to get back to the OFH, so I brought her back in time to have dinner with Carmen. Since I was feeling all warm and fuzzy about Carmen being a friend to grandma I wanted to go over and say "Hello" to her. Carmen smiled broadly when she saw grandma walk into the dining room, and greeted grandma with a warm "Glad to have you back Helen!" which was really enthusiastic and great, except grandma's name in Estelle, but hey, who cares since it turns out Carmen has a thick Brazilian accent and I doubt grandma understands a word she says anyways, but when push comes to shove I am sure I still love Carmen.

wondering

So, are you ever just kind of sitting around, maybe checking in with all your favorite weblogs or something, when suddenly you feel like someone or thing is pushing on the side of your boob except when you look down no one and nothing is there and then you ask yourself if you really do feel the pressure on your boob, and you acknowledge yourself in the positive and you come to the conclusion that the house you live in, which you bought from a mobster and you suspect people may have died in the basement of, is haunted and you just got felt up by a ghost. Or is it just me?