Repeat Week- If I had the energy, I would have said this...

On our final day of repeat week, I bring you one little post from my perspective. I hope you’ve enjoyed rehashing some old posts (or, perhaps, new-to-you posts) this week, and I solemnly swear that new posts will be back up starting next week! Now, this post shows what many mothers wish they had the energy to say…

Damn straight. Photo Source

Thursday, February 18, 2010

If I had the energy, I would have said this... 

Dearest Boys:

Here we are at the end of another long week. It has been busy for the past few days, with sickie germs, and with birthdays, with big projects and presentations at work, and Sophie eating our couch at home. As you might be able to tell, I get awfully tired by the end of the week, and this week is no exception! I’m sure you’re tired too, at the end of your busy week. I know you won’t admit it. I’ll just take the arguments and rough housing and fits as your way of telling me you’re worn out too.

I don’t have a problem with people tell me to do things at work, because, well, they pay me. Also, they say thank you. Thank you is really important, especially when you work at a state school. I doubt anyone’s getting a merit raise at a state school in the nation this year, so thank you goes a long way.

You could take a lesson or two from this, you boys! My boss also says please.

SHE SAYS PLEASE. Are you writing this down?

At work, they do not ask me to fix three different dinners in one night. Or throw coats and backpacks on the ground, and socks on the floor, and homework folders on the dining room table.

Or demand poster board and markers and felt for the homework project that is due tomorrow. I know, you forgot. Again.

Or balance on one dining room chair leg to see the TV in the den, which you surreptitiously left on mute, hoping that I would ‘think’ you turned it off when I asked…

Or come home from work, flop down on the couch, talk about the hectic day you had, and then ask if I “did anything interesting today.”

Please remember that I love you all dearly, and by this weekend, with a full night’s sleep, I’ll be back to good ol’ mom again. Until then, please, no sudden moves, no loud noises, and if you must approach me, you better bring chocolate!

Repeat Week- The Making of Termite, No. 5

Day five of repeat week brings us to Ant, man of the  supernumerary, mocker of older, brooding teenage brothers, food critic and dinnertime score keeper, fish in the water and dancing king. Oh, and how can we ever forget when he was a termite? Or a thug. 

This is not from when he was a termite, FYI.

Wednesday, December 15, 2010

The making of Termite, No. 5 

I could have also titled this post, “Less termite, more gangsta rapper.” Seriously. More on that later.

When Ant came home with the speaking role of Termite, #5 for his school’s annual pageant, I was, well, a bit confused. I’m all for keeping the Baby Jesus (or whomever) in church (or your local place of worship) and out of school. I know many people aren’t but, frankly, there’s no need for that in school. You can teach kindness, empathy, caring, etc, without having to involve God in a classroom of 22 diverse second graders.

But termites? Even insects, in general? Okay. It’s something new. I can suspend disbelief and roll with it. I am cool like that.

Ant had no trouble in memorizing his lines or making it to rehearsal or knowing where he was supposed to be. We even worked on expressing emotion on stage while keeping your lines straight. I think he might actually be a natural on the stage—but of course; I can’t make my judgment until he’s actually up there.

I, on the other hand, had immense trouble with the costume. I even had help, and several someones pumping me full of termite ideas. It was a no go.

Even better—after struggling with the costume for awhile, I finally got the bright idea to call the music teacher and get her input on the costume-making. Calling her sooner would have saved me a lot of grief.

Why, do you ask? Did she have termite costumes at the ready? No. It was because the teacher was not really looking for termite costumes. She was looking for something else, completely.

Teacher: Well, since they are the bad boys of the bug world, I was hoping we could, um, reflect that in their costume. Perhaps with black clothes, and sunglasses, and gold chains…
Me: Gold chains?
Teacher: Yes! I know some of the parents are making wings, but I would like the termites to dress darkly, and look like bad boys—you know, like rappers.
Me: Rappers?
Teacher: Yes.
Me: As in, thugs?
Teacher: Yes. Now keep in mind, they end up getting invited at the end and all…

I lost my words then, as I struggled to take all of those stereotypes and wrap them into one, and so there is no reason to relay the rest of the conversation. Plus, I’ve already given a huge part of the plotline away… I did find my words later on though, when I called everyone who was in the know about the termite costume, and expressed my confusion to them.

Favorite response: So, you’re the fairy gangsta mother?

That one’s timeless. I feel the need to sign my Christmas cards with that tagline.

Long story short—it became about making a thug with wings, and not about making a termite. While much more manageable, wing-making is still a bit above my pay-grade. It took a lot of time, contemplation, cursing, chocolate, and some Egyptians Pharaohs to get the job done, as witnessed here.

As for the performance, you’re just going to have to wait for that post!

Repeat Week- I Bet This Will Offend Someone

It’s day four of repeat week! Today, our focus will be drawn to my firstborn; the individual who made me a mother. Or a sleep-deprived, worry-addled zombie. Depending on how he’s behaving in a particular day…

And let me bring you up to speed on the interactions K and I have…

Mithras, in the flesh...er...stone. Photo Source

Thursday, December 9, 2010

I bet this will offend someone

Since I seem to be on a snarky roll as of late, I thought I would share with you a little convo I had with the first son about the holidays and religion. Please, feel free to send me hate mail; I likely deserve it since I appear to be subverting my children’s spiritual life.

K: So, why do we celebrate Christ’s birthday if he was, in fact, born six months after John the Baptist, and John was born in October?

Me: Well, because it was an effort by the early church to incorporate those multi-theistic pagans by hosting the birth of Christ on a holiday they recognized—Saturnalia. 

K: Well, why was that holiday on December 25th?

Me: Well, to celebrate the birth of Mithra, of course.

K: Who’s Mithra? 

Me: Oh, he was very popular in the Roman legions. He’s a Sanskrit god who was first recorded about 1400 hundred years before Christ. Plus, he had a lot of similarities with Christ.

K: Like what?

Me: Well, um, primarily, being the only son of a god, and then being crucified and resurrected, and there is the whole last supper/ banquet thing…

K: You’re an academiac, you know that?

Me: *SIGH* Yeah, I know.

K: Is this why we don’t go to church or mass?

Me: No, we don’t go to church or mass because when I was about your brother’s age, they asked your Nana not to bring me back to Sunday school. I don’t know if that means I was banned for life.

Does it count that the planned conversation in my mind was to, in fact, discuss the true meaning of the season, as opposed to the overwhelming desire on my son’s part to receive a go cart for Christmas?

Parenting fail.

Repeat Week- Tales of a Super Dog

Welcome to day three of repeat week! I’ve reintroduced you to the Nana, and Jasonisms, and now….

It’s Super-Sophie’s turn. This is the dog who I KNOW can see in color, since she hates (and by hates, I mean fears) all things green. Including trees. And grass. And the refrigerator magnets of that color. You cannot even imagine what decorating for Christmas is like…

Saturday, March 6, 2010

Tales of a Super Dog

 

It’s not easy being a big, black, misbehaved dog.

We were a little concerned when we first moved. It was uncertain how Sophie would handle the new digs. Granted, she’s young, and an indoor dog, and very much part of the family. The pack would be there with her, the pack’s things as well. It’s just that she happens to be neurotic.

It’s not enough to call her neurotic. To understand the full depths of her neuroses, one must describe some of Sophie’s life.

Sophie thinks the kitchen table is her domain—her secret cave. She hides there in the new house, just as she did in the old. It is the touchstone of her secret power. This is all to say that she gets very angry when you approach the kitchen table.

You know, like when you plan to eat, or something.

Also, Sophie does not understand why we continue to place socks in the hamper. The hamper is not where socks belong, in Sophie’s world.

Where do they belong? Under the table, of course.

She also does not like to eat food over her bowl, or over the tile, for that matter. She prefers to eat her food over the carpet, so that I can vacuum afterwards.

Sophie really wants to play with other dogs in the neighborhood. She is really friendly, when there’s something like glass, or a fence, or a TV screen separating her and the other dog. Once they are close enough to sniff, however… Well, we think that she’s afraid that she will be confused for a dog if she associates with other dogs.

When Sophie is angry, she turns her back to you. When she finds you to be boring, or not following her directives, she shakes her head from side to side, flapping her ears. When she thinks you’re being an idiot, she cocks her head to one side and gives you a withering look.

See- you have a better idea of her now, don’t you?

The worst thing about the move for Sophie was completely unexpected. We got a place with two stories, and well, at the old house, Sophie was scared of stairs. Read: In over two years at the old house, Sophie did not go downstairs. So, naturally, we thought the stairs would be a problem. Secretly, I thought this may keep her out of our bed, so I was a tad bit excited.

She mastered the stairs on the second day. The draw of the bed was enough to overcome her fears.

The worst thing about the move for Sophie has been the cat. Not our cat. J has severe allergies (think immediate respiratory inflammation and gasping for breath) so cats are not an option. The cat in question is a resourceful old Tom who doesn’t really belong to anyone in the neighborhood. He doesn’t need to belong to anyone; he’s doing just fine on his own, thank you.

He likes hanging out around here. He likes the willow tree in the front yard. He likes the neighbor’s trash. And he likes tormenting Sophie through the front window.

Tom: Oh, hello! Me? Are you barking at me? Why, I’m just a little kitty, sitting in front of this tree here! I think I may need to wash my face. Oh, and now I feel the need to preen, just a bit. That’s better. A stretch, now, and then a claw scratch on the bark of the willow. What? Am I BOTHERING you?

Sophie: BARK, BARK, BARK, Whine.

Tom: I’m sorry; I can’t seem to hear you through this glass. I’m going to come closer now, and you just speak up. I’m going to stand within two feet of your window, certainly in your pack’s territory, and you just bark loudly, and maybe we can understand each other.

Sophie: BARK, BARK, BARK, Whine.

This goes on for hours, each day, and that’s just what I can account for when I’m home. How does one remove a resourceful old Tom from your neighborhood? How do you convince him to move along? Well, you don’t. He can’t be caught, cajoled, or swayed in any way. He’s very resourceful. It has fallen to us to learn how to change the inherent behavior of our neurotic dog instead.

Wish us luck!

Repeat Week- Introduction to Jasonisms

Yesterday we started repeat week. Life be crazy-busy right now, and while I cannot even begin to fathom blog-post worthy material, I thought a week of reruns would be welcome. You play catch-up reading posts from way back, and I play catch-up with work and laundry and bills…

Today is the first Jason post…It explains a lot, actually.

We're gonna create a diversion here, see... Photo Credit

Tuesday, February 23, 2010

Introduction to Jasonisms 

Many people think my husband is sweet, charming, gentle. Mellow. Quiet. A teddy bear, really, in a giant’s body. Only I know the real J.

J has the amazing gift of being able to bring humor into any situation. He doesn’t share it with the outside world often—it’s often rather vulgar. He’s very private. Which is why I’ve decided to blog about it. You know, because his rare gift needs to be shared with the world, whether he likes it or not.

He has a thing for play on words and one-liners. We call them Jasonisms. Remember- this is the man who has diagnosed me with “early-morning Tourette’s”. I tend to curse in the mornings, if you attempt to engage me in any way…

Most of them are wildly inappropriate, and not for blog consumption. Sheesh, someone’s already reported me for objectionable content—I don’t need to quote some of those gems and get shut down.

You’ll just have to take my word for it when it comes to those.

We’re watching the Olympics right now, and the inevitable commercials. Ever see the one where the female narrator is talking about how easy family travel is now that she has the iPhone app that turns off the house lights?

Tangent: J has a thing for not leaving things unfinished, unless it involves folding a putting away laundry. He hates the idea of a light being left on or the car doors left unlocked. Ever want to have some fun at his expense? Wait until he gets into bed, with the lights off. Let him get snuggled up and comfortable, and then say something like this:

“Hey, hon, did YOU lock the front door? Really? Are you sure it’s locked?”

This is a good way to get the better pillows by switching them while he’s up checking.

J is enamored with this commercial. He wants an iPhone, just to have this app. I ruthlessly mock him, because, well, that’s what married couples do, right?

J: That would be so cool. You could be away from the house, and turn the lights on! The bank robbers could be right there, at your front door, and then whoosh! The lights are on! Their plans are foiled. All because of one little app.
Me: Huh. Yeah, that would be cool. Except…
J: What?
Me: Well, what would BANK robbers being doing at the house? They’re bank robbers, not…
J: Well, duh. They are creating a distraction, so they can get the real job done with no interruptions.
Me: You know, this—what you just said-- it is either going to end up on my Facebook, or on my blog.
J: Yeah, that sucks.
Me: Really, why?
J: Well, I would prefer it if you gave me a cool name. The other mommy-bloggers give their husbands cool names.
Me: What?
J: You know, that one blog you’ve read for years? She had that name, f-ball…
Me: That is Damomma, and that was her husband’s name for the cat. Not for her husband.
J: Well, I’m just saying…
Me: You want me to call you f-ball on my blog?

These are the private, inner sanctum conversations of married life. You know, that secret, private spouse language that all the relationship gurus talk about. The thing that is supposed to make your marriage last and last. It all comes down to the super-cool name your husband wants on your blog, and the fact that you use the front door as a ploy to get to sleep before he starts to snore…

Because you know that once you suggest one door is unlocked, he has to check them all.

And then I think, maybe that is the secret to a successful marriage. I had a dreaded dentist appointment today, and a sore mouth this evening. I’ve been in a bad mood all day, either in anticipation of the dentist’s office, or as the response. My husband picked up on it, and came up with something humorous to distract me.

Then he made fun of me as I tried to fulfill my craving for fruity cheerios without causing too much pain…