Now that we are on the second month of We Band of Mothers, I figure it is a good time to answer some of the burning questions that linger with my loyal fan base. Are you there, mom?
Okay, I'll fess up. As my goal is to write in this blog every day for a year, I'm struggling today with a little writer's block. So I'm taking a cue from various reality shows and conducting my very own Q&A session to stall until the Blog Gods inspire me with another topic. These are real questions posed by friends and readers.
Q: When you had strep(t), did your husband go in to scrape the colonies per your doctor's recommendation?
A: Yes. And I don't want to talk about it. Let's just say it involved a Q-tip and a lot of cackling/gagging noises.
Q: How much is it to laminate at Lakeshore Learning?
A: I think it's 29 cents a foot if you're a teacher and 39 cents a foot if you're a crazy mom. I'll double check this weekend.
Q: Do the other mothers in your carpool know you're playing the music from Rent in your car?
A: No, why? Do you think they'll be upset? Crap. Nobody tell them.
Q: Can you post a picture of your short hair cut?
A. I had my husband take a picture, but I didn't like how many chins I had in the photo. Once I get the Brazilian lipo on my neck, I'll be happy to post.
Well, that pretty much sums up all my fan mail questions. I would really appreciate some more for the next time I get a little stuck.
Thank you for attending. Sorry I didn't order any coffee and donuts for the session, but I had a feeling it would be short. Stupid writer's block.
Friday, May 6, 2011
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Breaking News: Blog is Hit in Denmark
As I'm new to this whole blogging thing, one of my favorite things to do is to check "stats." You can see how many people read your blog (thank you, my 8 loyal readers) and what country they are from. Every few days, I get a hit from some faraway person in Russia, Denmark, or England. I can only assume they accidentally mistyped my website while searching for porn.
But still I can pretend. Wasn't David Hasselhoff huge in Germany? Dare I only dream to have the kind of global appeal as "The Hoff?" A decades-long career spanning music, television and home-video footage involving a sloppy burger? Isn't this why my ancestors came to America?
I've taken to reading some blogs recommended by friends. Some are well-researched discussions of politics and the state of the world. Others are perfectly written thoughts on life and the pursuit of happiness. Even others are insider takes on celebrity news and happenings.
Then there's mine. Neither perfectly written or even remotely profound. Yet I remember what a college professor told me once when I was in too deep on a topic I neither liked nor felt all that comfortable discussing: Write what you know.
And what do I know? My life is steeped in carpool, laundry, and bathroom-related issues. So I'm writing what I know. I remember Erma Bombeck once wrote about a mother who battled serious depression and wrote Erma from prison. Prison Mom wished she could have learned to laugh at the thousands of absurdities and frustrations that frequent mothers everywhere. Had she known to look for the humor, she wrote that maybe she wouldn't have committed her horrible crime. That sentiment always stuck with me, even though it was well before I had children. It just sometimes takes a well-rested pair of eyes or very large cup of coffee to realize the hilarity of mind-numbing repetition sprinkled with random poo.
I'm sure many mothers enjoy being needed and providing endlessly for their children. Not me. While I love and provide for them, I won't feel truly rewarded until they are grown and prove to be self-sufficient and kind people. The stuff I do now is grunt work (wiping noses and tooshies). Later, there will be some finesse work (puberty and heartache). While my grand reward of successful adults (fingers crossed) is years away, I do enjoy the corporate perks of today: limitless hugs & kisses, and great material for the holiday newsletter. You just can't make this stuff up.
Like today for instance. For several months, we have been trying to teach Joey his birth date. He refuses to learn it, insisting his birthday is "under the sidewalk." Yet today we had a breakthrough. As I was talking about the weeds and grass I needed to kill that were coming up under the sidewalk, Joey got very excited. After all, that's where his birthday is.
Then I put it together. When all the boys ask when their birthdays are, my response is always, "it's coming up" (said because I got tired of doing the exact month/day/hour calculation to their next birthday). In other conversations, I would talk about what was "coming up under the sidewalk" (usually meaning weeds and grass). As Joey only thought of his birthday as "coming up," naturally it would be located under the sidewalk.
Mystery solved.
Perhaps one day, I'll again be able to discuss foreshadowing in Shakespeare and the fly as a symbol for death in all 19th century poetry. I'm just not capable of it right now. Yet when the highlight of one's week is decoding 3 year-old jargon, there just might not be any turning back.
But if that day ever arises, I will be sure to rename the blog and strive for literary greatness. Until then...shout out to Denmark!
But still I can pretend. Wasn't David Hasselhoff huge in Germany? Dare I only dream to have the kind of global appeal as "The Hoff?" A decades-long career spanning music, television and home-video footage involving a sloppy burger? Isn't this why my ancestors came to America?
I've taken to reading some blogs recommended by friends. Some are well-researched discussions of politics and the state of the world. Others are perfectly written thoughts on life and the pursuit of happiness. Even others are insider takes on celebrity news and happenings.
Then there's mine. Neither perfectly written or even remotely profound. Yet I remember what a college professor told me once when I was in too deep on a topic I neither liked nor felt all that comfortable discussing: Write what you know.
And what do I know? My life is steeped in carpool, laundry, and bathroom-related issues. So I'm writing what I know. I remember Erma Bombeck once wrote about a mother who battled serious depression and wrote Erma from prison. Prison Mom wished she could have learned to laugh at the thousands of absurdities and frustrations that frequent mothers everywhere. Had she known to look for the humor, she wrote that maybe she wouldn't have committed her horrible crime. That sentiment always stuck with me, even though it was well before I had children. It just sometimes takes a well-rested pair of eyes or very large cup of coffee to realize the hilarity of mind-numbing repetition sprinkled with random poo.
I'm sure many mothers enjoy being needed and providing endlessly for their children. Not me. While I love and provide for them, I won't feel truly rewarded until they are grown and prove to be self-sufficient and kind people. The stuff I do now is grunt work (wiping noses and tooshies). Later, there will be some finesse work (puberty and heartache). While my grand reward of successful adults (fingers crossed) is years away, I do enjoy the corporate perks of today: limitless hugs & kisses, and great material for the holiday newsletter. You just can't make this stuff up.
Like today for instance. For several months, we have been trying to teach Joey his birth date. He refuses to learn it, insisting his birthday is "under the sidewalk." Yet today we had a breakthrough. As I was talking about the weeds and grass I needed to kill that were coming up under the sidewalk, Joey got very excited. After all, that's where his birthday is.
Then I put it together. When all the boys ask when their birthdays are, my response is always, "it's coming up" (said because I got tired of doing the exact month/day/hour calculation to their next birthday). In other conversations, I would talk about what was "coming up under the sidewalk" (usually meaning weeds and grass). As Joey only thought of his birthday as "coming up," naturally it would be located under the sidewalk.
Mystery solved.
Perhaps one day, I'll again be able to discuss foreshadowing in Shakespeare and the fly as a symbol for death in all 19th century poetry. I'm just not capable of it right now. Yet when the highlight of one's week is decoding 3 year-old jargon, there just might not be any turning back.
But if that day ever arises, I will be sure to rename the blog and strive for literary greatness. Until then...shout out to Denmark!
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Misty Water Colored Laminates
I'm on a bit of lamination kick. You know the stuff - that plastic covering you can put on ID's and photos. It started out harmless enough. The boys had made some beautiful paper Easter eggs I wanted to keep for decorations, so voila! Lamination was the easy answer. Then I started going through my boxes of saved artwork, carefully selecting pieces that might not make it through the ages.
Honest Abe is a good example. He looks more like Jack Skellington in A Nightmare Before Christmas than our 16th president. Those spindly paper legs would certainly not survive without an inadvertent amputation sometime over the next 50 years. So Abe has been added to the laminate pile for this weekend. The people at Lakeshore Learning think I'm a teacher instead of a crazy mom, so mum's the word on that one. I think I get a discount.
The nice shiny flat aesthetics of a laminated piece appeal to my OCD/sensory nature. Everything feels the same. Tears are mended under the forgiving heat of laminate. Abe can live forever in this state, like King Tut but without all the curses and molten guts and such. Hope no one is eating by the way.
I have never kept a piece of hair from a first haircut. I have never recorded anything in a baby book. I am not sure what each of their first words were. But their artwork? I hoard it in droves. I have a feeling my house is going to look like that scene in Raiders of the Lost Ark where they wheel the ark into that big storage facility. That will be my house - all the boys' artwork cataloged and kept forever.
Honest Abe was a recent creation by Jack. He's developed a keen interest in presidential history and can give you some detail about each president. I told him that Lincoln was my favorite and he made this paper version at school as a gift to me. When Jack is a teenager one day and doesn't want me anywhere near him, I will dig up Abe and remember the sweet little boy who always just wanted to make his mom happy. No tuft of baby hair could fill me with that kind of warmth.
And that is why I laminate.
Honest Abe is a good example. He looks more like Jack Skellington in A Nightmare Before Christmas than our 16th president. Those spindly paper legs would certainly not survive without an inadvertent amputation sometime over the next 50 years. So Abe has been added to the laminate pile for this weekend. The people at Lakeshore Learning think I'm a teacher instead of a crazy mom, so mum's the word on that one. I think I get a discount.
The nice shiny flat aesthetics of a laminated piece appeal to my OCD/sensory nature. Everything feels the same. Tears are mended under the forgiving heat of laminate. Abe can live forever in this state, like King Tut but without all the curses and molten guts and such. Hope no one is eating by the way.
I have never kept a piece of hair from a first haircut. I have never recorded anything in a baby book. I am not sure what each of their first words were. But their artwork? I hoard it in droves. I have a feeling my house is going to look like that scene in Raiders of the Lost Ark where they wheel the ark into that big storage facility. That will be my house - all the boys' artwork cataloged and kept forever.
Honest Abe was a recent creation by Jack. He's developed a keen interest in presidential history and can give you some detail about each president. I told him that Lincoln was my favorite and he made this paper version at school as a gift to me. When Jack is a teenager one day and doesn't want me anywhere near him, I will dig up Abe and remember the sweet little boy who always just wanted to make his mom happy. No tuft of baby hair could fill me with that kind of warmth.
And that is why I laminate.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
The Strep(t) Man Cometh
For the last couple of weeks, I've felt as though a big piece of popcorn was stuck in the back of my throat. Seeing as I had popcorn right around the time this started up, I kept gargling in an attempt to loosen the little sucker from his evil grips. Nothing seemed to work, so yesterday morning, I decided to go in.
I got the two older boys off to school and set up a mining operation in the bathroom with a flashlight and spoon. But one quick look into my throat proved my earlier assumptions incorrect. This was no popcorn. This was strep. I recognized the big white pulsating pockets instantly.
Strep and I have a very on-again, off-again relationship. Strep is the reason I still don't know all my cursive letters because it was my BFF in 3rd grade - keeping me out of school repeatedly. Strep went with me to London and Ireland. Traveling with my friend the doctor, I thought she would be able to instantly diagnose and treat me. Our conversations went along the lines of:
Me: "I think I have strept."
Dr. Friend: "Have some Sudafed."
Me: "My strept is really bad today."
Dr. Friend: "We're going to the Guinness factory. A beer will make you feel better."
Me: "This strept is going to kill me."
Dr. Friend: "It's not going to kill you, and for the love of God, it's STREP...not 'strept.' There's no 't.'"
Me: "You think you could have mentioned that three days ago?"
Dr. Friend: "It was funny then. Now you're just annoying."
If strep was Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, then I would be Kansas. There's no place like home.
So I marched off to the nearest Prompt Care for my antibiotics. The doc-in-the-box there gave me the strep test (positive) and had an interesting suggestion. He said I had a bunch of "colonies" of strep that needed to be scraped out. He suggested my husband for the deed.
After entertaining the very non-romantic image of my hubby scraping out the back of my throat, I got an even bigger laugh from the "colony" description. Were these little strep colonists seeking religious freedom in my throat? Were they wearing little pilgrim hats and making turkey in there? Did they come over on the Strep-Flower? I got the giggles. The doctor thought I was on something.
On my way out of Prompt Care, the doctor handed Joey an opened blue freeze pop. Now that was just mean. Give poor strep mom a big, blue sticky mess to deal with on the ride home.
So I'm feeling a little better today while enjoying the final hours of my imperial reign. It's not always good to be queen.
I got the two older boys off to school and set up a mining operation in the bathroom with a flashlight and spoon. But one quick look into my throat proved my earlier assumptions incorrect. This was no popcorn. This was strep. I recognized the big white pulsating pockets instantly.
Strep and I have a very on-again, off-again relationship. Strep is the reason I still don't know all my cursive letters because it was my BFF in 3rd grade - keeping me out of school repeatedly. Strep went with me to London and Ireland. Traveling with my friend the doctor, I thought she would be able to instantly diagnose and treat me. Our conversations went along the lines of:
Me: "I think I have strept."
Dr. Friend: "Have some Sudafed."
Me: "My strept is really bad today."
Dr. Friend: "We're going to the Guinness factory. A beer will make you feel better."
Me: "This strept is going to kill me."
Dr. Friend: "It's not going to kill you, and for the love of God, it's STREP...not 'strept.' There's no 't.'"
Me: "You think you could have mentioned that three days ago?"
Dr. Friend: "It was funny then. Now you're just annoying."
If strep was Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, then I would be Kansas. There's no place like home.
So I marched off to the nearest Prompt Care for my antibiotics. The doc-in-the-box there gave me the strep test (positive) and had an interesting suggestion. He said I had a bunch of "colonies" of strep that needed to be scraped out. He suggested my husband for the deed.
After entertaining the very non-romantic image of my hubby scraping out the back of my throat, I got an even bigger laugh from the "colony" description. Were these little strep colonists seeking religious freedom in my throat? Were they wearing little pilgrim hats and making turkey in there? Did they come over on the Strep-Flower? I got the giggles. The doctor thought I was on something.
On my way out of Prompt Care, the doctor handed Joey an opened blue freeze pop. Now that was just mean. Give poor strep mom a big, blue sticky mess to deal with on the ride home.
So I'm feeling a little better today while enjoying the final hours of my imperial reign. It's not always good to be queen.
Monday, May 2, 2011
A Drink to Everymom
Even though I sometimes tease my husband about preferring life at the firehouse (all guys, big shiny red truck, fresh-cooked meals, no wives or kids), I understand that it is a tough job. I certainly would not be willing to run into a burning building no matter how much you paid me. My husband's brother still isn't recovered from a nasty fall off a roof over a year ago fighting a fire. It got me thinking about the book To Sleep with Angels. It's the true story of a 1958 elementary school fire in Chicago.
I remember the story was terribly sad, but the only detail I can recall is the young boy who had been dragged out by his belt and dropped from the second floor as a fireman desperately tried to save as many lives as possible. The boy, disheveled and bruised, walked home. His mother saw him and quickly began scolding him for getting into a fight and forgetting his coat. He sat there at the kitchen table, dazed and bleeding, as his mother read him the riot act, refusing to believe his story until she saw the black soot under his nose.
When I read the book, I remember thinking what a horrible mother she was to not appreciate the gravity of the situation and instead go right into "Mom the Admonisher" mode. Now that I have 3 sons of my own, I see only myself in that mom. I imagine what it would have been like for us aboard the Titanic:
Son: "Mom - wake up! The boat is sinking!"
Me: "Knock it off, I'm sleeping."
Son: "Really, Mom! We've got to go above deck!"
Me: "Get out of here NOW."
Son: "MOM!"
Me: "If I have to wake up your father to yell at you, you're going to be sorry."
We'd all invariably perish.
When I first read To Sleep with Angels, my sympathy was with the poor boy whose mother didn't believe him. If I were to read it again tomorrow, my sympathy would be with the overwrought mother who made an honest mistake and probably had it thrown in her face for the rest of her life. I think I'm going to pour a cocktail tonight and toast that mother. Probably doing laundry, probably tired, probably worried about the world.
I hope that young boy has forgiven his mother. I hope that mother has forgiven herself. And somewhere, over the years of guilt, perhaps she can hear one giant pomegranate martini raised in her honor. The second martini will be poured in an effort to forget the laundry that calls my name. Here's to Everymom.
I remember the story was terribly sad, but the only detail I can recall is the young boy who had been dragged out by his belt and dropped from the second floor as a fireman desperately tried to save as many lives as possible. The boy, disheveled and bruised, walked home. His mother saw him and quickly began scolding him for getting into a fight and forgetting his coat. He sat there at the kitchen table, dazed and bleeding, as his mother read him the riot act, refusing to believe his story until she saw the black soot under his nose.
When I read the book, I remember thinking what a horrible mother she was to not appreciate the gravity of the situation and instead go right into "Mom the Admonisher" mode. Now that I have 3 sons of my own, I see only myself in that mom. I imagine what it would have been like for us aboard the Titanic:
Son: "Mom - wake up! The boat is sinking!"
Me: "Knock it off, I'm sleeping."
Son: "Really, Mom! We've got to go above deck!"
Me: "Get out of here NOW."
Son: "MOM!"
Me: "If I have to wake up your father to yell at you, you're going to be sorry."
We'd all invariably perish.
When I first read To Sleep with Angels, my sympathy was with the poor boy whose mother didn't believe him. If I were to read it again tomorrow, my sympathy would be with the overwrought mother who made an honest mistake and probably had it thrown in her face for the rest of her life. I think I'm going to pour a cocktail tonight and toast that mother. Probably doing laundry, probably tired, probably worried about the world.
I hope that young boy has forgiven his mother. I hope that mother has forgiven herself. And somewhere, over the years of guilt, perhaps she can hear one giant pomegranate martini raised in her honor. The second martini will be poured in an effort to forget the laundry that calls my name. Here's to Everymom.
Sunday, May 1, 2011
Wain Wain Go Away
My middle son Jack has always had funny little speech imperfections. During his first 3 years, Jack was incapable of pronouncing the first letter in any word. This proved highly problematic one day when I loaded the two younger kids in the minivan. Joey was still in his scream-through-his-entire-life mode, so I was exhausted. As I pulled out of the driveway, 2 year-old Jack started going crazy.
"OOOR, Mommy, OOOOR!"
"What's that, Jack?" I asked as I adjusted my mirrors.
"OOOR! OOOR!"
"I don't know what you're saying, Jack," I replied as I tried to find a good song on the radio.
"OOR! OOR! OOR!"
I started going through the alphabet to try to figure out why he was so hysterical. It didn't take me too long to get to the letter "D." I had left the the minivan doors wide open and was speeding along with little Jack getting the brunt of wind and snow.
Fast-forward to kindergarten. Jack had started the year omitting "R's" and "L's" from all words:
"Mommy - I'm wiwee (really) hungwy."
"I can't weach the Wegos (Legos)."
"Can I bwing my umbwewa when it's waining?"
I never bothered correcting Jack because I thought it was cute and figured he'd grow out of it. One morning a few months ago, Jack was getting ready to carpool with his older cousin, Drew ("Dwoo"). As Jack loaded up his bag, he stopped and asked:
"Mommy, I really want Drew to let me sit in front."
I started telling him that 5-year olds can't sit in the front seat, but then I realized his speech had changed. Drastically. A few weeks ago, it would have been:
"Mommy, I weally want Dwoo to wet me sit in fwont."
And so I lost that cute little boy speech. Without a warning. Without a chance to embrace it one last time. Why didn't someone give me a head's up on this one?
I willy would have appweciated it.
"OOOR, Mommy, OOOOR!"
"What's that, Jack?" I asked as I adjusted my mirrors.
"OOOR! OOOR!"
"I don't know what you're saying, Jack," I replied as I tried to find a good song on the radio.
"OOR! OOR! OOR!"
I started going through the alphabet to try to figure out why he was so hysterical. It didn't take me too long to get to the letter "D." I had left the the minivan doors wide open and was speeding along with little Jack getting the brunt of wind and snow.
Fast-forward to kindergarten. Jack had started the year omitting "R's" and "L's" from all words:
"Mommy - I'm wiwee (really) hungwy."
"I can't weach the Wegos (Legos)."
"Can I bwing my umbwewa when it's waining?"
I never bothered correcting Jack because I thought it was cute and figured he'd grow out of it. One morning a few months ago, Jack was getting ready to carpool with his older cousin, Drew ("Dwoo"). As Jack loaded up his bag, he stopped and asked:
"Mommy, I really want Drew to let me sit in front."
I started telling him that 5-year olds can't sit in the front seat, but then I realized his speech had changed. Drastically. A few weeks ago, it would have been:
"Mommy, I weally want Dwoo to wet me sit in fwont."
And so I lost that cute little boy speech. Without a warning. Without a chance to embrace it one last time. Why didn't someone give me a head's up on this one?
I willy would have appweciated it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)