Confessions

My Super Power

I finally figured out how to add birthdays to the Google calendar on my iPhone.  (You have to add it as ‘extra’ info to individuals in your contacts list, FYI.)  Whenever I’m outside with the kids, I need a mind numbing activity to make my otherwise malaise afternoons feel more productive, you know?  So I went through my entire contacts list and added as many birthdays as I could remember.  Don’t quote me on this as a hard and fast fact, but I’d like to report that of all my friendships, pre-marriage and definitely pre-babies, I could remember nearly every single birthday.  I could probably recall about half of those who were added to my already-full-of-useless-information, post-baby brain.  It dawned on me, about three-quarters of the way through this process, that if I can actually remember birthdates, why add them to my calendar?  I don’t know.  It felt productive.

For this reason (among so many others), I hate Facebook.  By publishing and announcing in advance that one of my friends has an upcoming birthday, my “Look, I remembered your birthday,” has completely lost its value.  One of the best things about birthday wishes is the surprise of who actually remembers and takes the time to announce it.  And the thing is, it isn’t that I expect people to remember my birthday just because I can remember theirs.  I actually just love being being that one person who remembers everyone’s birthdays.

I used to be the same way with phone numbers.  I owned my first cell phone at the age of 22, and even then, it was on short-term no-contract* basis.   I never even took the time to create or update contacts because I could remember everyone’s phone number faster than I could scroll through the list.

Today, though I have shared it, written it on a form, or typed it on a computer at least fifty times, every time I have to give John’s business phone number, I have to look it up.  I know my father’s social security number, still, by heart, but I don’t even know what John’s ends with.  Sounds crazy, but these are the kinds of numbers stay-at-home moms have to recall at important events like Pre-School registration and annual physicals.  Truth be told, though she was born on her due date (the one date I had engrained in my mind for exactly 40 weeks), I still have to think about it when someone asks me Eliott’s birthday.  February 8, 2007.  (It’s so much easier to just write 2/7/2007 that I my mind has often mistaken this as the day she was born.

I haven’t completely lost my knack for numbers, however.  I’ve simply replaced my memory for dates and phone numbers with a memory for prices.  I’ve also become scarily adept at mental math, especially where percentages are concerned.  I seriously need to be a contestant on The Price is Right.

 

*A friend from college was moving to an area that didn’t have Cingular coverage and still had four months left on his plan.  This was obviously before the times of free cancellation if you move out of our coverage zone (or maybe we were all just too naive at the time to demand this).  I kept the phone for about 9 months, then decided it wasn’t worth the $40 a month while I was working at Eckerd with no time nor reception for cell-phones.  I didn’t sign my first real cell phone contract until I was 25, when I had to borrow the phone of a stranger after totaling a rental mini-van on the highway on my way to work.  The rental was the result of a different not-my-fault fender bender with the one car I shared with John.  1st year of marriage: 1 car, 1 phone, no TV, no microwave, no kitchen table.  And you call this America!?

Confessions, Eliott

Take a Number

People.

Old people?  Crafty people?  Or just people who work at JoAnn’s Fabrics?

I had a moment of creativity recently and decided to put my 8th grade home-ec skills to the test and make Eliott an apron which she can wear while painting or coloring with markers.  It has a little pocket to hold things, and when unworn, ties up in to a neat little carrying case.  I’m calling it an “Art Apron” and seriously considering opening my own little Etsy page (I know nothing about how this works so I probably didn’t even say that right) and selling these bad boys for $20 a piece.  Seriously.

Anyway, I had one of my rare good-Mommy moments, and actually took Eliott with me to JoAnn’s to pick out her fabric.  It was exactly as fun and exciting as you can imagine it would be for a 4 year old, and for once, I’m not being sarcastic at all when I say that.  Anyway, the minute we parked, dark clouds rolled in and I realized we probably needed to kill at least 30 but maybe 45 minutes inside because I did not have an umbrella.

We were two of perhaps nine people in the entire store.

After fiddling through all of the random treasures on the clearance rack for far too long, oogle-eying the crayola section twice, and touching every single bolt of pink fabric that existed, the brief thunderstorm finally seemed to be letting up.  Eliott settled on two surprisingly complimentary patterns and we were ready to go.  Though this may come as a bit of a shock, I actually know my way around a fabric store and I’m surprisingly comfortable with the whole measuring and cutting before buying part.  But I seriously wish I had been with someone other than Eliott to witness to the final order of events.

We approach the cutting table where one older scissor-wielding-woman is helping no one, but tidying up her space and talking to a younger, male associate (who, from his conversation and body language, seems to be as excited about the sale on some Cinderella blue fringe as Eliott would be).  I approach the table and make eye contact with the woman, holding my two bolts of fabric, and start to say, “I probably only need half a yard…” when she interrupts me with, “Just a minute, ma’am.  Did you take a number?”  She taps the little red box with the number strips poking out the front, possibly for the purpose of demonstration.

My face clearly reads, “Is this a joke?  I’m the only one here.  Or, is there some line I’m somehow missing, made up of one of the other eight people in this store right now?”  So of course I laugh a little.  When her eyes go from slightly annoyed to straight stern, I pull my number and take exactly two steps back.  She then informs me that if I have any other shopping to do (“Maybe you need some notions?”) I could take care of that over on aisle 14.

Clearly she’s unaware that my 4-year-old and I have already taken a mental inventory of the entire store.

“Nope.”  I say, trying not to smirk because I feel like a 7th grader again.  “Just need the fabric.  I’ll wait.”

At this point, Eliott declares somewhat emphatically and with certainly no concern for volume control, “What are we waiting for Mommy?  There’s no one here.”

“Excellent question, Eliott-my-four-year-old,” I comment to no one in particular.

I’m holding number 27.

Number 26 is lit up in red dots on the screen over the cutting table.  The woman puts her scissors in her adult-sized Art Apron pocket (I knew there was a market for these things), walks around the small counter in the center of the cutting area, and the number clicks to 27.

“27?”  She says a little too loudly, and actually looks around curiously.  Her eyes slowly pan back to me (who hasn’t moved), raises her eyebrows and says, “Is that you?”

I swear to you I had to bite my tongue to keep from squinting at my number strip and saying, “Nope.  Not me,” and intently looking around with her for the other number 27 in line.

Number 27? Is that you?
$20 Limited Edition
Confessions

First World Problems

As a general –but by no means written– rule,  I try to avoid overly journalistic blog posts.  As of recently, several people have commented along the lines of, “You blog.  Awesome.  Is it kind of like writing an online journal?  I just think I’d feel weird letting the entire world read my diary, you know?”  Of course I’m thinking, “Actually, no, that has always been my secret dream.  To die, and have all of my old journals published and devoured by the mass market.”  But maybe that’s just me.  I don’t really blog in the same way that I journal or no one would read my blog.  Meanwhile, I’m simultaneously aware that even my worst journal entry has a pretty high chance of being more entertaining than the average human’s best entry.  Again, just me?

The truth is, most of my journals are actually pretty boring.  I’m a lot more introspective than I let on (both in this blog and in my daily face-to-face conversations), and when I journal, I tend to be really wordy and emotional.  (This surprises no one, I’m sure.)  So forgive me, if this post isn’t written with my usual wit and whimsy.  I actually worked out at the gym today (and sweated a little) and now I’ve just settled down with a plate of baked brie and something akin to a walker’s high in my veins.

I’m feeling a little introspective.

My neighbor and I sit at little outdoor bistro table in the “breezeway” between our houses almost every afternoon, watching not only our own children, but the children of at least three other families while they terrorize play with each other in the cul-de-sac .  On many occasions, one of us (usually me) has just woken up from a nap.  I’ve never really told her this, but I really love this afternoon ritual which has developed slowly over the past 5 or 6 months.

Often we spend the time complaining about our 1st world problems, which have recently included “The problems with crappy dental insurance,” “You paid how much to have a baby last year?” and “I didn’t get the 20% discount on my brie last night but it would probably cost $1.60 in gas to take it back and correct it, so whatever.”

I’ve been struggling with disappointment, discontentment, and lack of personal and social satisfaction lately, and I’ve been embarrassed to admit it.

Falling asleep last night I was stricken with The Undertoad (which turned out to simply be a final surge of PMS) and what was left of the rational side of my brain was scolding the other 90% with, “Will you just get over yourself already?”

There are entire groups of people who must go all the way to a 3rd world country to have their life-perspective turned upside down in order to be changed.  Without signing up for a mission trip, I’ve decided what I need today is to count my blessings.

So I’m going to go do that right now.

Confessions, Eliott

Verklempt

I sort of hate watching movies with John.

I have a little problem with my emotional involvement in movies.  It does not matter how dumb the story, how poorly made the movie, or even how bad the acting.  I cannot remember the last movie that didn’t bring me to tears.  In my life.  Movies always make me cry.  (There was likely at least one scene in “Something About Mary” and “Meet the Parents” that even got me watery, that’s how bad this problem is.)  And here’s the thing.  For the most part, I don’t mind it.  I actually enjoy getting emotional over a movie.  I don’t even care when it is a completely feigned emotion brought on by rainy first kiss scenes and heightened with teenage love music.

Obviously, when watching movies in groups, I prefer to be ignored, but I can handle the occasional snicker.  I can usually even block it out when someone taunts me with, “Wait a minute?  Are you crying?  This is making you cry?”  Now that I’m married, I don’t go to the movie theater much anymore, and since having children, I’m not watching movies with a lot of groups anymore.  It seems like my secret would be safe in the comfort of my own living room.  But does my own husband adhere to either of these unspoken social graces for me?  When I get to the scene (on my one-hundred-and-tenth viewing) in The Little Mermaid, when she hugs King Triton on her wedding day and whispers, “I love you, Daddy,” does he laugh at me or just pretend not to notice?

No he does not.

Instead, he makes weird little affirming coos and exclamations of how cute I am.  It is worse than being made fun of.  On a normal movie night, with lights dimmed or not, it usually starts with a few sideways glances, then progresses to full head turns.  A little smile (not even a smirk, but more like that endearing little smile a person gets when reading an unexpected love note) creeks into the corners of his mouth, and suddenly, I feel myself start to sweat.  “Don’t ruin this for me,” I’m willing him through my glands, “And stop looking at me.  Just let me have this moment to myself.”  His receptors never get the message.  If the mood isn’t completely lost simply through the knowledge that he’s gazing at me with the same affection given to Dalmatian puppies at PetSmart, he never fails to seal the deal with this: “Ohhh, honey.  You’re crying?  That is so cute.”

“Nope.  Not crying.  Just blowing my nose on my upper lip.  For fun.  It sort of tickles and I’m trying to see how long I can stand not to wipe it off.  Just a little exercise in self-control, thought I’d take a moment to work on it, considering my current runny nose, and everything.”

This afternoon I watched Tangled with Eliott.  Despite the fact that the 90 minute animated film –with a main character whose eyes are literally as large as lemons– was interrupted once by neighborhood kids at the door (and joining them for 30 minutes to ride bikes) and again by dinner preparation, it still managed to make me cry.  But then the most wonderful thing happened.  Eliott started crying too.  And not crying about something else, or because she was scared, or angry, or bored.  She was whimpering and oozing a real emotional connection to the characters on the screen.

And I did exactly what John does to me.  I sort of hated myself for it, but I just couldn’t help it.  It was the cutest thing, um, ever.  She crawled into my lap and we cuddled through the lantern release, the old lady stabbing the hot guy, the dramatic hair cutting, and the tear that saves his life (which Eliott clearly didn’t understand, evidenced by her question, “Is she sad because she lost all her hair?”).

The emotional moment was short lived.  A little later she came outside and we had this conversation:

Yeah, but how come he chopped all her hair off?

Well, her hair was magical and people were going to try to take her to steal the magic so he did it to save her life.

And he died?

Well.  Yes.

So how did her tears make him come alive again?

Uh… Because he’s her husband.  And she loved him so much that when she cried, he came back to life.

Oh.  One day, my husband’s going to die.

Oh yeah?

Yeah.  My husband’s going to die, and do you know how I’m going to save his life, Mommy?

(Would I ever like to know, Eliott.)

I’m going to take him to the doctor.  Yeah.  And he’ll be fine.

We may be emotional, but do not mistake that for stupid.  No.  Definitely no stupid here.

Confessions

Just One More Reason to Hate AT&T

I know it has been done before.  In fact, I believe it has been written about and actually published and then endorsed by Clark Howard.  But today it is my turn to complain on a strictly personal (and mostly economically, professionally, or otherwise academically uninformed) level.  As if being the biggest asshole in the name of customer service wasn’t enough, today I have discovered yet another reason to add to my growing list of reasons to hate AT&T.

Reasons I Hate You, AT&T

  1. You seem to hire predominantly incompetent and, generally speaking, rude people.  I can actually handle rude.  I can often handle incompetent.  It is the two-for-one that gets me.  You cannot be both stupid and mean at the same time.  Pick one.  Hell, be both, just consider rotating days.
    Example: MWF = idiot days.  TRS = asshole days.
  2. When we signed up for $14.99/month Internet but no cable you charged us something like $52 for what was loosely labeled “start-up fees.”  What this covered was the sending of a representative out to the house to check out our “DSL hookup capabilities.”  I’m fairly certain the only thing he checked out that day was noting the fact that an actual house existed at the address provided.  You then charged us the start-up fee for the first three months.  (See complaint #1 for how those phone calls went.)
  3. Dropped call percentage rate.  No details necessary.  Your entire wireless customer base would back me on this one.
  4. Coverage area.  I cannot understand how my phone seems to work with full bars in the gravel parking lot at church, but round the corner and hit some pavement and blammo, down to a half a bar if I’m lucky.  There are no trees.  The building is only one story tall.  It’s like you’ve purposefully planted little AT&T black holes around the globe to secretly suck the soul from my cell phone at the exact moment I was considering complimenting you.
  5. The fact that I have to locate and click “View Bill” on three different pages for a total of three times before I’m actually able to view my bill online, and then, I have to expand each individual charge area to read exactly why I have a new $0.86 charge this month that wasn’t there last month.  Which leads me to today’s addition of…
  6. Random charges which fluctuate monthly without warning nor explanation.  Today I discovered the $3.74 Federal Universal Service Charge.  *Aside: A little Google search taught me that this is a government mandated tax, basically, for the subsidizing of telecommunication fees to schools and libraries, and provision of affordable telecommunication for low income customers.  In short, I have come to believe that you are a socialist, AT&T.  (It could be noted here that the likelihood of your coverage area actually extending to within the walls of any public school on the planet is wishful thinking, at best.  I’m also wondering why I’m not on the receiving end of such provisions.)  You are also the only company actually charging customers a separate fee for this tax rather than simply building it in to the monthly service fee.  This is like offering a salad as part of a meal then arbitrarily charging for croutons.  And then changing the price of each crouton and varying the amount on the salad every month.  Meanwhile, brother next to me is eating all the free croutons he can stomach and I’m apparently paying for it.  All I’m saying is, not only will I pass on the croutons today, but I’d also prefer that I’m not hosting free-premium-salad-fixins-fest for a bunch of people who would be just as happy with saltines.  Am I clear?

Rant for the day, over.  Unfortunately, I can’t even speak personally to the upwards of three hours a week, four months in a row, wasted on the phone with AT&T over problems with our Internet bills.  I automatically sic my professional bully on that job and once again thank my lucky stars that I married a man with the intestinal fortitude to handle it and the sadistic-sixth-bully sense to actually enjoy it once in a while.

Tomorrow, back to our regularly scheduled lighthearted posts, this time including reindeer.

Confessions

Big Plans for 30

Anyone who knew me in college knew that every Monday night at 8 o’clock central time, I was at someone’s house with a TV, eating their food and watching Ally McBeal.  I remember the episode where Ally turns 30.  The entire thing is mostly about gray hair, wrinkles, and her plight over getting old.  Despite the fact that she has a fabulous career, a more fabulous apartment, a group of cool (enough) friends, and a nightly meet-up at a bar that only television could create, she is unhappy about turning 30.  Why?

Because she’s single.

And she has no children.

At 18, 19, and 20, when my view of the world was a delicate balance between the truths of Ally McBeal and Baptist Youth/College Ministry, I considered myself pretty open-minded about that little phenomena known as the biological clock.  I have to admit, the security that comes from accomplishing all of my most major life goals before the age of 30 is something that I never planned for and that I certainly take for granted.  It probably helps that many of my close friends will be turning 40 before I’m 35.  (Some already have.)  I have mostly always felt like the baby of my peer group, and though I’m not complaining about that, I cannot express how excited I am to be done with my twenties.

It is probably in my favor that most people who do not know me very well generally assume I am already well into my thirties.  This is because I adhere to the belief that the twenty-something decade is, for all intents and purposes, junior high #2.  It is exactly as awkwardly transitional.  And with a psuedo- sense of comparative inward security raging, most people in their 20’s are exactly as idiotic as they were during puberty.  Unfortunately, the consequences are arguably more serious for what could basically be considered the same types of mistakes.  As a result, non-twenty-somethings look at twenty-somethings with the same sort of half-pity, half-disdain as the entire world looks at middle school students.

With that in mind, and without going into gruesome detail of all of the mistakes I made in the last 10 years, I do have a few goals for the next 10 years:

  1. Avoid totaling another mini-van.
  2. If I find myself in a principal’s office as a result of…
    –  a “poor work or performance attitude” bordering on disrespect and “negatively affecting general morale”
    –  a broken nose resulting from a punch in the face
    –  a misconstrued Ellen DeGeneres comment
    –  several misconstrued comments resulting from a brief disruption of security on a well-known social media site
    …make sure the meeting concerns one of my children and not myself.
  3. Know when I’ve outgrown something, accept it, and move on (to include cars, houses, clothes, and possibly relationships).
  4. Learn how to ride a unicycle.

On the positive side, looking at my biggest successes of the last 10 years, I might remind the future-me to consider the following:

  1. More fully love and appreciate John.  Consider allowing him to do all of the talking on my behalf at extended family functions.
  2. Spawn more offspring.
  3. Go back to school and/or teaching one day.
  4. Learn how to ride a unicycle.

I’m not sure what Hallmark’s motto for 30 is, but I assume it has something to do with a hill.  In running and biking, I always dread hills, tell everyone I hate them, and attempt to avoid them.  Truthfully, I am really good at them.

♥HAPPY 30th BIRTHDAY, CLAIRE,  WITH LOVE FROM YOUR PRODUCERS AND EDITORS.♥

Confessions

Nevermind, Tina Fey

When I was teaching, I used to give a true/false quiz in the very first minute of class, all about myself. Besides the sadistic thrill of telling my honors classes it would “definitely count” (and never smiling) it was an easy way to get new classes seated and quiet, and then force them learn all about the most important thing in the room. I don’t actually remember what a typical score on this 10 question quiz looked like, most teenagers are exactly as dumb as they look when it comes to thinking practically or making inferences on an adult level. But I do remember one question that nearly always threw them:

True | False: Mrs. Wait enjoys staying up late at night reading books.

Of course they all assume that because I teach English I must love to read. (Fact.) And many of them who knew me or knew of me had heard for a long time that I did not own a TV. (Fact, for my first 2 years of teaching.) So naturally, most assumed that this meant I was up till the wee hours indulging my brain in the classics. (Opinion.)

The truth is, I’ve never been one who could read in bed (or really even on a couch for that matter, no matter what time of day it is, unless it is the couch in Starbucks, et. al.) and I’ve also never been one to sit down and read an entire book in one sitting.* I do like reading. And if I had my way, I would read a lot more, but as it is, perfect conditions have not presented themselves with regularity since I was in college. When I was teaching, Fridays were mandatory 45-minutes-of-silent-reading-in-my-classroom days, which allowed to me read about 7 books a semester (imagine, silent reading three times a day!), and when I commuted 30 minutes one way to work, I read several audiobooks in the car.

So despite my current lack of cable TV and the fact that I can basically be home, all day, if I want, the only time I really read anymore is at the gym. Yes, truthfully, I enjoy the couches in the lobby (and have been since my Gold’s Gym coffee and reading time LAST summer) but if I’m feeling adventurous, I’ll actually pedal a stationary bike and drink water with my book. For my $30 a month membership, what do I care whether I actually get a “work out” or not? This is $1 a day babysitting people. And there’s coffee.

I’m currently in the middle of Tina Fey’s book Bossypants.

Yeah, okay, it’s mostly funny.

I might have actually snorted and shot water out of my nose and onto the heart rate monitors yesterday.

So naturally, the kindhearted and friendly folks at the Jerry Long YMCA are curious. What could she possibly be reading that has her so giggly? On a stationary bike no less!?

Every single time someone asks me, “What are you reading,” and I explain that it’s Tina Fey’s book and “Yes, it’s pretty funny, if you think Tina Fey is funny,” I feel like I’m doing anyone over the age of 50 (which most of them have been, so far) a disservice by my failure to include the disclaimer: “But I might actually suffer from the maturity of a 13 year old.”

Today, on a small couch in the lobby, one social-security recipient asked, “Who do you think would enjoy that book more, me or my wife?”

Well that depends, sir. How much does your wife enjoy fart jokes?

I’m not about to explain that as I read Tina Fey’s book I feel like I completely understand her because SHE IS ME. Or I’m her, or whatever. But as I’ve said in the past, when I identify myself with a famous female sense of humor, Tina Fey immediately comes to mind. If I wrote a book, I’d probably do a little less name-dropping and butt kissing (I gather that her self-deprecating humor comes from a true sense of insecurity and not a feigned one), but I’m not sure that I’d do any less bathroom humor.

I do think what a person finds truly humorous does say a lot about that person and I’ve only found myself embarrassed of my sense of humor in front of a handful of people (Christian school administration comes to mind). But today at the gym, I simply couldn’t go on reading and giggling and promoting this book, knowing that this kind, conservative man, who was probably somebody’s grandfather might one day be privy to exactly what I was laughing at, and shudder.

Sorry people. It doesn’t matter how old you are. Farts are funny.

* With the exception of one book, Ender’s Game, which is exactly how I recommend it as my favorite book: it is the only book I’ve ever read in one sitting, as well as the first book I ever re-read, and the one book I’ve read the most times.

Carter, Confessions, Eliott

The Poop-Sponge

I came down to breakfast this morning and John said, “I’m having a bad day. I don’t know what’s wrong. I just feel angry. I’m experiencing your kind of irrational anger and I don’t know what else to do, so I’m just going to express myself.” He then went on to vent about the two things which had him completely wound up by 9:30am on a Saturday morning: my burning dinner in his griddle (which is actually a non-stick skillet) the night before and the fact that I did not delineate clearly enough which sponge was the “poop-sponge.”

Let me back up.

Carter has been using the “potty-chair” all week. As an instrument in potty-training, it is debatable whether cleaning the potty chair is in fact preferable to changing a poopy diaper. I have to admit, I’m glad Eliott never took to using it. Carter, however, immediately recognized it as the one thing in the house that could only possibly be fully hers, and loves it. So I got out a new sponge to clean the potty-chair all week, and casually mentioned this fact to John. Unfortunately, there is no visible difference in the poop-sponge and the other sponge. They are both relatively new, blue, and located near the kitchen sink.

So part B of his anger this morning was over the fact that my poop-sponge directions had caused confusion, to say the least. Paranoia was the natural result of my inattention to detail in both location of sponge, and explanation of location. (It turns out he did mistakenly clean the entire kitchen with the poop-sponge. In hindsight, I might not have pointed this out today ever and/or attempted a better job of convincing him otherwise.) It also does not matter to John that the possibility of even a trace of Carter-feces on the sponge in question was negligible at best. I had, after all, mostly cleaned the potty chair with the flushable wipes first, and then merely disinfected it with a sponge and anti-bacterial soap. Seriously.

But remember, this is the man who refused to allow me to wash cloth diapers in the same machine that his own clothes would also be washed. Nevermind the logistics here and the fact that clothes and diapers would never actually intermingle within the machine. Remember too that the entire conversation started this morning with the disclaimer that John was experiencing my irrational anger, which cannot be appeased with logic, no matter how hard one tries. I actually understand this.

For the first time in my life (I dare admit), I responded in a way that put only John’s interests at heart. This is to say, I did what he always does to me, when I’m in such a mood. (Because, as my mother oft explains, this is how men work. They communicate best by showing, rather than telling, and treat others as they wish to be treated, rather than taking the female verbal cues to “LEAVE ME THE EFF ALONE WHEN I’M IN THESE MOODS!”)

Completely against my nature and desire, I climbed on top of him and enraptured him in a full body bear hug, right there at the kitchen table. I soothed him with loving reassurances that “Everything will be okay, honey,” and “It is all my fault if the entire family contracts Hepatitis-C,” and finally, the clencher, “Don’t worry.  I still love you.” Unsurprisingly, he reacted exactly like I do, which is to stiffen, whine, and attempt to back out of the hug. Though my size is no advantage in such a situation, I did have him pinned to the chair. This is about the time Carter noticed someone usurping her spot, became jealous, and proceeded to angrily kick at me saying, “No Mommy.  Stop it.  No hugs.  NO HUGS!” (I thought, where are you when I’m the recipient of such torture, huh kid?!)

Unfortunately, the hug had little to no real effect on The Undertoad, which has lingered throughout the day, bouncing back and forth between Dad and Mom, Mom and Dad, 2 out of 3 meals, and plans to have the house clean by bedtime.

I’m not sure how they do it, but children manage to pick up on these sorts of “I got nothing today” moods. It’s even worse when Mom and Dad are experiencing it at the same time. The children develop a vague awareness of control, who has it and who does not. John and I both admit, the best thing to do on days like this is to just mentally hunker down, whisper when we feel like yelling, laugh when we feel like crying, and close our eyes a lot. Oh. And whiskey doesn’t hurt.

There is a light at the end of this tunnel. With the girls both in bed at exactly 8:01, John opened the Netflix envelope downstairs to reveal Project Runway Season 8 Disc 1.

Take that, Undertoad.

Carter, Confessions, Eliott

Just So I Don’t Forget

When I was about 10 years old, I got on a chair in my closet and brought down a very old box which had been through a couple of moves without being re-opened. Inside were a handful of relics from my childhood: my christening gown, a children’s china tea set, my baby book, and a small box of various cards, newspaper clippings, and pre-school awards.

As the 2nd of four children with a fairly meticulous (and possibly somewhat bored at the time) mother, every single page of my baby book is filled out. Besides pictures (of which there are plenty), my mom documented all of my first doctor visits, saved a lock of hair, and even filled out the date of every single tooth on that weird tooth chart. She admits now that she never got that far with my little sisters’ baby books.

Eliott and Carter each have a baby book. Sadly, though they are my first two, their baby books are more empty than those of my younger sisters. It isn’t that I don’t have enough time, energy, nor creativity to do it. No. I’m blaming modern technology for this. First, when is the last time I actually developed a roll of pictures? (Answer: college.) Second, when the majority of the universe is documenting everything from what we’re eating for dinner tonight to where we’re hanging out RIGHT NOW (and with whom) via Facebook and Twitter, it’s no wonder we don’t see the point in writing down the exact moment that 2 year molar poked through. (For the record, I will say the tooth chart with Eliott seemed stupid until Carter started cutting teeth and then I really did wish I’d had some sort of a guide to go by from the previous child. I’m over it now though, which means, the task was exactly as important as I originally deemed it.)

That said, there is much about my own baby book that I really do love and want my own children to be able to experience for themselves one day. The difference is that rather than piling a chair with books to reach the tops of their closets, they’ll have to search through the archived bowels of Google (if it even still exists by then) to find THIS. Very. Blog.

So here are a few nuggets that I’d like to not one day forget:

Eliott:

I’m not sure if this is true for all 4-year-olds, but it is certainly true for my 4-year-old. You have an imagination and can make things up that reasonable adults would wonder where you first heard them. Likely, you heard them nowhere. Also, you have dreams, remember them, and can talk about them the next morning. Your dreams, in fact, very similar to adult dreams, speak volumes of the things in your life which are important to you and the things you worry about. (Example, one morning last spring you woke up clearly upset and proceeded to explain that you were dreaming about “circle time” but none of the kids were following directions. This had you, my just-like-your-Dad-type-A rule-follower, seriously stressed out. You went to school later that morning and explained the exact scenario to your teacher, all details intact.)

Also, though you don’t fully understand many social conventions yet (such as the true meaning of the word “friend” and the difference between “friend” and “best friend”) you seem to have a very keen grasp on who likes you and who does not. On the other hand, you are completely oblivious to the fact that the 10 and 11 year old boys next door are clearly not interested in your pink princess shoes. It’s pretty cute.

You like to play house with your sister, whom you have pet-named “Gancia” (pronounced Gayne-cee-ya). The two of you pretend like the downstairs powder room is an elevator and the cabinet is your car. You often fight over who gets to drive.

You have already begun to plan your princess wedding to your husband Peyton, which is strange considering you have not yet been to a real wedding. Yesterday you asked if you were old enough to get married and I said no, you have to be a grown up. When you asked why, I explained that there are a couple things you should probably do before you get married. Some examples included: go to school, learn to drive a car, move out of your mom and dad’s house, and probably go on a couple dates. You agreed and said you’ll be ready to get married when you are six. You and Peyton could ride your bikes to the wedding.

Finally, about a month ago, I was getting you and Carter ready for bed and I forgot to grab your underwear after baths. When I told you to just wear your PJ’s without underwear you squealed and giggled, “No! That is SO weird.” Off-hand, apparently I responded with, “No it’s very liberating,” because you are now currently really into not wearing underwear. And every time you do it, you announce, “It’s very liverating.”

Carter:

At the beginning of the summer you could hardly speak two syllable words. Now you are stringing entire sentences together and actually using most prepositions correctly. A few of your cuter common phrases currently include:

“Where did Eliott go?”

“I take a nap.”

“Mommy. Hey, Mommy. Right there. Uh-huh.”

“Daddy not home. Daddy at work.”

“Here! Thank you. Thank you, Mommy. Thank you.”

On the surface you appear to be very polite, somewhat in your own world, and obliviously self-confident. Daddy and I agree that this might work out in your favor one day, as long as you don’t completely lose the love of the big sister who adores you enough to run from any room in the house to fetch your Boo anytime Mommy scolds you. The fact is, you are a bit spoiled, completely by nature and not nurture, which I predict to one day manifest itself in true Paulus style arrogance. Again, not a bad thing in my opinion. You laugh a lot and sometimes it surprises me the things you pick up on that seem funny. You scold the dogs next door with the authority of an 8 year old, but secretly, all animals freak you out. (Even cats. Tiny benign ones.) You have learned from Eliott how to say “Yes, Mommy” or “Yes, Daddy” at exactly the right moments and you seem to know that apologizing instantly after doing anything wrong will get you almost anywhere.

You are scary smart. And like your big sister, you are really stinking beautiful.

I continue to pray that both of you intimidate all men until you are at least 24, when you meet the one who is enough like your father to marry you.

Confessions, Eliott

Mid-Summer Vacation Alternate Read

*The following was written yesterday and lost before publication, hence the condensed version you saw published. Somehow I recovered this today (on my iPhone no less) and like it enough to get over the repetition in subject. I’m also over my inability to figure out how to do italics while typing on a phone.*

For the record, both of my little sisters are getting married this year. Truth be told in entirety, in three months I can say that all three of my siblings got married in 2011, which is kind of like my worst nightmare as a parent, and I’m surprised my parents’ heads haven’t exploded yet. (Though, John and his one brother also got married exactly 2 weeks apart and his parents also survived, so it is nice to know that it can be done, should similar circumstances befall me one day in 2032.)

I seem to remember a few weeks ago (a few?) the onset of anxiety as a result of imagining an entire summer without preschool. This was about a minute before I was reminded that my manifesto to “never be in another wedding after my own” doesn’t extend to immediate family.

Tomorrow, July will be exactly half over. So far, I haven’t had even one entire week of kid-entertainment planning duty. Awesome.

First it was two weeks of swim lessons, which, although we got stuck in the what-almost-killed-us 9:15am class, turned out to be shared with two very cool women from church and a new friend named Hilary who ended up on my porch for book club before the lessons were over. Then, the girls went to Michigan with Daddy and I made dress decisions with Laura. The next week was Vacation Bible School (only for Eliott) which is the first time I’ve noticed exactly how rarely Carter is not running her mouth. The location of VBS also resulted in the discovery of my new favorite grocery store. While Eliott was filled with the Holy Spirit, our freezer with filled with discounted meat. Amen.

Then, John and I had our first weekend together and without kids since our honeymoon (which was actually last summer). We spent two nights away visiting two different sets of friends, celebrated first pregnancies on both ends, and drank on behalf of the moms-to-be. We checked in on the un-sold condo and two hours later (in the middle of Ikea), our realtor called to tell us after almost 11 months, someone finally wanted to buy it. There is a very delicate emotional balance of relief and disappointment that comes with selling property at a loss, but I’m guessing that this is another one of those big picture moments of life that I will not actually be looking back on one day and regretting. In the meantime, I’m trusting the difference will be made up in the form of business for my genius, not to mention dead-sexy, and competent, attorney husband. (No pressure darling.)

Carter’s birthday came early with Grandma and Grandpa (and fireworks), came again on time with just us, and came yet again with Mimi and Pop Pop in Tennessee. The kid now associates lighting the citronella candles on the back porch with singing “Happy Birthday.” While my children were in Tennessee, I was in Las Vegas for more sister/wedding celebrations, which I graciously forgot was three time zones away. I turn 30 in exactly one month and one day and am not for one minute embarrassed to admit that I’m possibly a little too old for staying out until 3am. (But apparently I’m not too old for 4 inch heels, trading clothes with 25 year olds, and blonde wigs.)

The recovery has been made easier by the fact that while I was gone, my type-A-in-denial husband had fully gutted the three most disorganized rooms in the house and put them back together in a way that would make the producers of Hoarders proud. Our moms will be happy to know that if we have any more tornadoes this year, we can now fit in the closet under the stairs and won’t be forced to brave the wind in the middle of the night to run next door for safety. Eliott, who permitted me a three hour nap yesterday afternoon, exclaimed simply: “Daddy made the house FUN!” This was her response to finding that an entire closet of “lost toys” had been found. Nevermind that more than half of them are Happy Meals prizes.

So we have three weeks ahead of a rigorous schedule balancing time at the gym, the pool, the park, and the library, before Erica’s wedding in Spokane. Oh and I might have a few books to read for book club. My life is difficult.

Today, I’m eating the first tomatoes out of my garden with mozzarella cheese.