I have a 5-year-old daughter who for some reason takes pleasure in snipping a single fringe (can that word even be used in the singular?) off our authentic Turkish carpet every few days. Every time I sweep the dining room floor (about twice a week), I find one (just one) severed string from our pretty rug, which happens to be the only nice thing we have left in this dump we call home. Today I also noticed a deep scratch in the glass of our storm door (too high for Susie to reach). I am assuming Rachel has decided to adopt a stealthier approach than she has employed previously in order to achieve her goal of destroying everything we own. And there is nothing I can do about it. If I bring attention to it, experience tells me that she will escalate.
Isn't there some sort of homeowner's insurance I could buy that would cover us for vandalism of this nature? I'm sure that it would more than pay for itself.
Susie is not adjusting well to Standard Time. She stood at my elbow while I tried to edit photos and screamed for over half an hour, because she thought it was bedtime. My ears are still ringing, even though she went to sleep (finally) 2 hours ago. I'm not as resilient as I used to be.
Larry wants to escape on a Boy Scout backpacking trip with Theo. I told him it was fine with me, as long as he brought Anna along too. They could enjoy some of that positive daddy-daughter bonding that parenting-book authors seem so fond of. I mean, if she would deign to talk to him. She might be a bit upset, since sleeping outside and peeing in the woods isn't exactly her idea of a good time. Which is why I want her to go, of course. Plus, I wouldn't have her glaring at me all weekend. A win-win situation, right?
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
Monday, November 05, 2007
The Way We Were
Anna asked me to take her shoe-shopping this evening, and she was shocked, shocked, to hear me say, "No." The floor of her room is still littered with the refuse from her tantrum last night, including broken shards of plastic and approximately a zillion teeny tiny beads that fell victim to her indignation at being made to catch up on her geometry assignments. It would also be nice if she put the sheets on her bed. I am quite the exacting housekeeper.
I hope that these Anna stories make someone feel better, just knowing that at least his/her teen doesn't act this way. Somebody has to benefit from this craziness. So go ahead, pat yourself on the back at my expense. I don't mind.
We're still coming down from the candy high which was engendered by the holiday-that-must-not-be-named-again-in-this-blog-until-next-October. Rachel wept all through dinner because Brian still had 4 Skittles left and she had nothing. It is beyond my organization skills to make sure that my kids all eat their candy at the same rate. I may be a control freak, but I still have to draw the line somewhere.
I just finished uploading all my photos (a conservative estimate puts the number at 2000) from the entire year onto Snapfish. Now I have to edit them. I really don't know how I fell this far behind. I didn't even have a baby this year. Maybe if I give up sleep....
Wait, I've already done that. Oh, dear. Maybe I should give up the digital camera instead. With film, I didn't have this many pictures to deal with. Remember film? How every event pretty much amounted to 24 snapshots, and at least 8 of those weren't any good? And you didn't know that until you paid for them? Now film photography seems as quaint as driving around with a horse and buggy. Or listening to lp's. Remember those?
I'm feeling nostalgic for simpler times tonight. For lousy photographs and scratched records, ugly Tupperware and boring evenings when there was nothing good on all 3 channels. We had some tough times back in the 70's, even without Watergate hearings pre-empting all the Saturday morning cartoons. Maybe I'll wake up the kids and tell them that. But I know they won't believe me. They don't even believe I was ever a kid. Heck, I don't believe it myself. It used to be that having children made me feel young. But now it does the opposite. Can someone explain that, please?
It occurs to me that I could get more photos edited if I didn't persist in wasting time maundering on about my own mortality. Let me test that theory. Good night, all!
I hope that these Anna stories make someone feel better, just knowing that at least his/her teen doesn't act this way. Somebody has to benefit from this craziness. So go ahead, pat yourself on the back at my expense. I don't mind.
We're still coming down from the candy high which was engendered by the holiday-that-must-not-be-named-again-in-this-blog-until-next-October. Rachel wept all through dinner because Brian still had 4 Skittles left and she had nothing. It is beyond my organization skills to make sure that my kids all eat their candy at the same rate. I may be a control freak, but I still have to draw the line somewhere.
I just finished uploading all my photos (a conservative estimate puts the number at 2000) from the entire year onto Snapfish. Now I have to edit them. I really don't know how I fell this far behind. I didn't even have a baby this year. Maybe if I give up sleep....
Wait, I've already done that. Oh, dear. Maybe I should give up the digital camera instead. With film, I didn't have this many pictures to deal with. Remember film? How every event pretty much amounted to 24 snapshots, and at least 8 of those weren't any good? And you didn't know that until you paid for them? Now film photography seems as quaint as driving around with a horse and buggy. Or listening to lp's. Remember those?
I'm feeling nostalgic for simpler times tonight. For lousy photographs and scratched records, ugly Tupperware and boring evenings when there was nothing good on all 3 channels. We had some tough times back in the 70's, even without Watergate hearings pre-empting all the Saturday morning cartoons. Maybe I'll wake up the kids and tell them that. But I know they won't believe me. They don't even believe I was ever a kid. Heck, I don't believe it myself. It used to be that having children made me feel young. But now it does the opposite. Can someone explain that, please?
It occurs to me that I could get more photos edited if I didn't persist in wasting time maundering on about my own mortality. Let me test that theory. Good night, all!
Thanks For The Memories
Yup, we're all mixed up, time-wise. In case you were wondering. And I had the pleasant experience of being woken up by Anna yelling at Rachel to "Get out! Just get out!" because Rachel was trying to get dressed at the early hour of 8 (well, 7, but I'll stick to Daylight Savings Time for this little anecdote, since Anna went to bed in DST, and really, 10 hours should be enough not to get too annoyed).
I don't remember when I agreed to relive high school. I had to spend an hour and a half in the car with 3 14-year-old girls this afternoon and I hated every minute of it. Funny, but until today, I had assumed that parents tell their kids that screaming and yelling in the car (at least over the age of 2) is out of bounds. And, while they're at it, that listening to an IPod when no one else in the car has one is sort of rude and immature. Maybe they could even find time to tell their darling little IPod-wearer that her hearing could be damaged when that thing is playing loudly enough to make the driver think that the car radio is on.
Okay, I'm jealous. I don't have one. Yet.
Do you remember in high school, hating being near the obnoxiously popular kids and praying they would not notice you and make you feel even nerdier and less cool than you already felt? Now, imagine that you feel like that at home, all the time. I'm living a nightmare and I can't wake up. And Anna thinks that the time until she can go away to college is passing too slowly? I am so ready to send her.
Tell me, is there anything - anything at all - about raising teenagers that is rewarding? I mean, babies and little kids are lots of work, but then there are those moments when they laugh and smile and say, "I love you" that make it all worth it. And when they are learning to walk and to run and to ride a bicycle, it is all so exciting and I feel so proud of them. I just don't get those same warm fuzzies when I'm teaching Theo to drive, or when Anna is getting visibly annoyed by my mere presence. Where's the fun part?
I got started on my next pair of socks while waiting for the girls to finish flute choir rehearsal. I'm very proud of myself for learning how to knit socks this year, and I've showed them off to lots of people; but I must admit that no one is exactly begging me to gift them with some handknitted socks for Christmas. I haven't quite learned the technique whereby the socks actually look attractive. They each have a heel, and an interesting-looking toe, and they sort of fit; but they lack a certain je ne sais quoi. But no matter - I start each new pair with hope springing afresh that these will be the ones that make people ooh and aah in admiration (right now my friends just sort of stare at my finished product in a puzzled fashion and then exclaim, "Oh! It's a sock!"). You know, Edison tried a hundred different materials for the innards of his incandescent light bulb before he hit on tungsten; and I'm only on my 5th sock.
That wasn't a great analogy, but it was the best I could do. I'm tired, because although the clock says 9, it is really 10. And I wish someone would just abolish this clock-switching routine, it gets on my nerves. As if life weren't complicated enough....
I don't remember when I agreed to relive high school. I had to spend an hour and a half in the car with 3 14-year-old girls this afternoon and I hated every minute of it. Funny, but until today, I had assumed that parents tell their kids that screaming and yelling in the car (at least over the age of 2) is out of bounds. And, while they're at it, that listening to an IPod when no one else in the car has one is sort of rude and immature. Maybe they could even find time to tell their darling little IPod-wearer that her hearing could be damaged when that thing is playing loudly enough to make the driver think that the car radio is on.
Okay, I'm jealous. I don't have one. Yet.
Do you remember in high school, hating being near the obnoxiously popular kids and praying they would not notice you and make you feel even nerdier and less cool than you already felt? Now, imagine that you feel like that at home, all the time. I'm living a nightmare and I can't wake up. And Anna thinks that the time until she can go away to college is passing too slowly? I am so ready to send her.
Tell me, is there anything - anything at all - about raising teenagers that is rewarding? I mean, babies and little kids are lots of work, but then there are those moments when they laugh and smile and say, "I love you" that make it all worth it. And when they are learning to walk and to run and to ride a bicycle, it is all so exciting and I feel so proud of them. I just don't get those same warm fuzzies when I'm teaching Theo to drive, or when Anna is getting visibly annoyed by my mere presence. Where's the fun part?
I got started on my next pair of socks while waiting for the girls to finish flute choir rehearsal. I'm very proud of myself for learning how to knit socks this year, and I've showed them off to lots of people; but I must admit that no one is exactly begging me to gift them with some handknitted socks for Christmas. I haven't quite learned the technique whereby the socks actually look attractive. They each have a heel, and an interesting-looking toe, and they sort of fit; but they lack a certain je ne sais quoi. But no matter - I start each new pair with hope springing afresh that these will be the ones that make people ooh and aah in admiration (right now my friends just sort of stare at my finished product in a puzzled fashion and then exclaim, "Oh! It's a sock!"). You know, Edison tried a hundred different materials for the innards of his incandescent light bulb before he hit on tungsten; and I'm only on my 5th sock.
That wasn't a great analogy, but it was the best I could do. I'm tired, because although the clock says 9, it is really 10. And I wish someone would just abolish this clock-switching routine, it gets on my nerves. As if life weren't complicated enough....
Saturday, November 03, 2007
Drive Me Crazy
Do I hate this woman, or what? Here I am gimping around, dragging one foot behind me like Marty Feldman in Young Frankenstein, and she's 40 weeks pregnant and running marathons? Show-off. It only takes a few women like her to ruin pregnancy for the rest of us.
It was Larry's turn to take Theo on the road today. In fact, I think it is going to be his turn from now on. We'll settle for traditional gender role assignments here - I give birth to the kids, and Larry teaches them how to drive. That's fair, isn't it? And, you know, that Lamaze breathing that everyone learns at childbirth classes that doesn't do squat when you are actually in labor? It does come in useful when you are in the passenger seat and the "baby" is driving. I sure hope Larry paid attention to how to do it.
Well, it's time to set half the clocks in the house back and then get distracted and leave the others as is and be really, really mixed up when we get up tomorrow morning. Maybe we just shouldn't bother to change any of them until tomorrow. But then we'll get up in the morning and ask each other, "Did we set them back last night or not?" It isn't easy, living with early-onset dementia.
By the way, I have no idea what's going on with some of the comments on this blog - I just found this whole page of comments I must have missed, and I don't know how. So if you're thinking I was ignoring you, you're right - but I didn't mean to. And now I'm having a hard time typing while trying to listen to Garrison Keillor, so I have to go. I do have some of my priorities in order, you know. And listening to A Prairie Home Companion outranks goofing off in the blogosphere. Unfortunately, reading Curious George for the millionth time comes in dead last, which could explain why Rachel is still sitting on the couch waiting for me to read to her and tuck her in. Bad Mommy, bad!
It was Larry's turn to take Theo on the road today. In fact, I think it is going to be his turn from now on. We'll settle for traditional gender role assignments here - I give birth to the kids, and Larry teaches them how to drive. That's fair, isn't it? And, you know, that Lamaze breathing that everyone learns at childbirth classes that doesn't do squat when you are actually in labor? It does come in useful when you are in the passenger seat and the "baby" is driving. I sure hope Larry paid attention to how to do it.
Well, it's time to set half the clocks in the house back and then get distracted and leave the others as is and be really, really mixed up when we get up tomorrow morning. Maybe we just shouldn't bother to change any of them until tomorrow. But then we'll get up in the morning and ask each other, "Did we set them back last night or not?" It isn't easy, living with early-onset dementia.
By the way, I have no idea what's going on with some of the comments on this blog - I just found this whole page of comments I must have missed, and I don't know how. So if you're thinking I was ignoring you, you're right - but I didn't mean to. And now I'm having a hard time typing while trying to listen to Garrison Keillor, so I have to go. I do have some of my priorities in order, you know. And listening to A Prairie Home Companion outranks goofing off in the blogosphere. Unfortunately, reading Curious George for the millionth time comes in dead last, which could explain why Rachel is still sitting on the couch waiting for me to read to her and tuck her in. Bad Mommy, bad!
As Time Goes By
A fellow blogger (who is very funny, by the way - check her out) mentioned in passing that she is 35 years old. And it got me to thinking, what wouldn't I give to be 35 again? Not any younger, mind you, because 34 was the Year of the Head Lice around this house, and there is no way I could repeat that. But 35? If I were 35 right now, I could start yoga and then, when I would be 44 again, I wouldn't be pulling my back out lifting a jack-o-lantern off the porch and maybe my wrists wouldn't hurt when I try to brush my hair, and perhaps I would be so limber that I never would have done whatever it is I did to my hip a couple of weeks ago that is making my leg be all weird and numb for most of the day.
Also, my kids would all be young enough to worship the ground I walk on.
In short, I am rapidly falling apart here, and there doesn't seem to be anything (aside from time travel) that I can do about it. I do yoga now, and I walk in the mornings, and I give birth regularly; but things just aren't working the way they used to. Youth is wasted on the young, I'm afraid.
The entire house smells like burned pumpkin. Don't ask.
I am hating the New Yorker right now. They never pick my entry for their cartoon caption contest. Sometimes I can't even understand the entries that they do pick. And I'm originally from the New York City area, so it's not as if I'm some rube from the Midwest who doesn't get sophisticated East Coast humor. Dammit, I want to win. It's the only way I'm going to get something decent to hang on my walls that doesn't cost a mint.
[Whoops, looks like I insulted every Midwestern reader I have (all 3) - but remember, just because there are some rubes in the Midwest doesn't mean that everyone from the Midwest is a rube. (The converse of a true statement is not necessarily true - I know that because I've been helping my teenagers with their geometry this year.) So assume that I am talking about someone else. Someone not intelligent enough to enjoy the oh, so sophisticated humor of this blog, for example. Thanks.]
Where was I? Oh, yes - my walls. Larry has been having a stressful time at work lately, so I figured it was time to pile on and let him know that we need him to paint our living room and dining room in time for the New Year's party I'm planning to have. It's not a New Year's Eve party, because I can't stay up late enough. I'd have to go upstairs to bed while everyone else was still here and ask people to make sure to turn out the lights and lock the door when they're done. And I don't want to do that. So I thought an Open House sort of gathering on New Year's Day for the entire neighborhood would be a good idea. These things always do seem like good ideas, until, say, the night before when you are up late trying to hang the curtain rods and curtains that have been lying behind the couch ever since you moved in 6 months ago. And the paint on the walls is still wet. So maybe I should rethink this. But I don't want to. I'm stubborn that way.
Wow, it's quiet here - everyone fell asleep before me. That's surprising, considering I've been letting the kids sleep late this week, in preparation for turning the clocks back this weekend (yes! an extra hour of sleep!). Twice a year I plot and plan to make the transition go smoothly, and it never works. One particularly memorable spring, we had a baby a week after we switched to Daylight Savings Time, and nothing got back to normal (schedule-wise) for 6 whole months - just in time to switch the clocks again. Ouch.
Also, my kids would all be young enough to worship the ground I walk on.
In short, I am rapidly falling apart here, and there doesn't seem to be anything (aside from time travel) that I can do about it. I do yoga now, and I walk in the mornings, and I give birth regularly; but things just aren't working the way they used to. Youth is wasted on the young, I'm afraid.
The entire house smells like burned pumpkin. Don't ask.
I am hating the New Yorker right now. They never pick my entry for their cartoon caption contest. Sometimes I can't even understand the entries that they do pick. And I'm originally from the New York City area, so it's not as if I'm some rube from the Midwest who doesn't get sophisticated East Coast humor. Dammit, I want to win. It's the only way I'm going to get something decent to hang on my walls that doesn't cost a mint.
[Whoops, looks like I insulted every Midwestern reader I have (all 3) - but remember, just because there are some rubes in the Midwest doesn't mean that everyone from the Midwest is a rube. (The converse of a true statement is not necessarily true - I know that because I've been helping my teenagers with their geometry this year.) So assume that I am talking about someone else. Someone not intelligent enough to enjoy the oh, so sophisticated humor of this blog, for example. Thanks.]
Where was I? Oh, yes - my walls. Larry has been having a stressful time at work lately, so I figured it was time to pile on and let him know that we need him to paint our living room and dining room in time for the New Year's party I'm planning to have. It's not a New Year's Eve party, because I can't stay up late enough. I'd have to go upstairs to bed while everyone else was still here and ask people to make sure to turn out the lights and lock the door when they're done. And I don't want to do that. So I thought an Open House sort of gathering on New Year's Day for the entire neighborhood would be a good idea. These things always do seem like good ideas, until, say, the night before when you are up late trying to hang the curtain rods and curtains that have been lying behind the couch ever since you moved in 6 months ago. And the paint on the walls is still wet. So maybe I should rethink this. But I don't want to. I'm stubborn that way.
Wow, it's quiet here - everyone fell asleep before me. That's surprising, considering I've been letting the kids sleep late this week, in preparation for turning the clocks back this weekend (yes! an extra hour of sleep!). Twice a year I plot and plan to make the transition go smoothly, and it never works. One particularly memorable spring, we had a baby a week after we switched to Daylight Savings Time, and nothing got back to normal (schedule-wise) for 6 whole months - just in time to switch the clocks again. Ouch.
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