Sundays with Stretchy Pants

It’s like Tuesdays with Morrie, without all the wisdom.

Archive for the ‘I have some daughters’


Just Wondering…

Am I the only mom who is unable to put band-aids on the right way? You know, by holding the paper thingies and deftly peeling them apart while sticking the adhesive parts to the skin at the very same time. Like magic. Whenever I try to do that, I get the sticky parts too close together, so the non-adhesive part that is supposed to be on the cut sticks way up in the air. It looks like this ___-___ It makes me feel bad about myself. Isn’t part of the fun of getting a new band-aid the thrill of seeing your mom perform that fancy magic trick? I can’t remember the last time I had to put a band-aid on Maya because she just does it herself. My technique bores her.

I have to peel the paper off of both sides before I can even think about trying to stick it to the skin. Even then, the amount of concentration needed for me to do that causes my brow to furrow and my tongue to hang out of my mouth. I’m pretty sure this indicates a deeper, more troubling issue with my mothering skills in general.

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Maya Has a Library Card

She’s addicted to the self-scan checkout thing at the library, which is fine, but I don’t have a truck with which to haul her freshly-scanned books home. She walks into the library, card in hand, and randomly grabs and tosses books at me to shove in the library bag as if the bag is like a magic, bottomless bag that can never be filled to capacity. There are usually 3-4 other people who need to shove books into the bag, too, but she hogs it up all for herself. And then I strain my shoulder trying to carry it. And then I take her home and force her to listen to every single book over and over until she cries. I’m passive-aggressive that way.

Maya isn’t the only one who got a new card; all of the girls updated their cards to the fancy new color ones and we got my niece all signed up with one of her very own, too. I really don’t mind lugging home a giant bag of books. I do mind the fact that each child has her very own library bag, but they all claim their bags are “toooooo heeeeaaavvvvyyyyy” *whine, stomp* and when I make them carry their own, they check out books based on weight and ease of carrying. Not cool.

You might have noticed by how rarely I update my sidebar that It takes me forever to finish a book, but that doesn’t stop me from adding books to my pile. I’m a fast reader, but I really only have time to read my own stuff at bedtime. If I’m reading during the day, it’s kid stuff. You know, to the kids. Or toilet stuff, like magazines. You know, on the toilet. (What? Is that TMI? But Everyone Poops. It’s no big deal.)

We usually have a family book going at all times and I used to let Lena and Liberty read ahead if they wanted to, but that got too annoying and hard to keep track of and then they would fight over who got to read it first and I like to have them not fighting and not annoying me at all times, so now they can’t read ahead in the family book, which makes them a little desperate. If I sit down on my own bed, behind closed doors and start to read my own book, it’s only a matter of a few minutes before somebody comes in and says, “Oh, you’re reading? Then you won’t mind reading this to us,” as if my piteous life has no purpose unless I’m serving them in some capacity. Which, of course, it doesn’t.

I long for the days when I had a breastfeeding infant/toddler/pre-schooler and I could retire to my bed with just that wee little one and, under the guise of trying to get the baby to sleep, just read and read and read to my heart’s content, only to emerge from the bedroom hours later with a shrug for Bryan that said, “Whaddya gonna do? Darn baby didn’t wanna sleep. What’s for dinner?” Now the darn baby has her own library card and, even worse, if I tried to take her to bed and put her down for a nap, her mouth wouldn’t stop running long enough for me to read a sentence. Darn baby with her fancy new library card.

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No Experience Necessary

Watching Bryan become a father has been one of the highlights of my life. The first time he changed a diaper was when Lena passed some meconium in the NICU within her first hours of life and the nurse just handed her to him and walked away. It was fricking sticky meconium and the man just figured it out on the fly. Sink or swim. I remember when my now 10-year-old niece was born and we visited her together for the first time. We had been married for almost 2 years and we were on our way to being ready to start trying to have a baby. I thrust that 3-day-old baby at him despite his desperate protests of, “I’ll practice holding my own kid!” With my sister videotaping the scene, Bryan just kind of let the baby flop around on his chest and, if you watch that video, you can hear me saying shrieking, “She’s gonna cry, Bryan! Hold her up, Bryan! Get her comfortable, Bryan! Watch her neck, Bryan!” Sure enough, the baby wailed and Bryan failed the test. It was a silly test, but I couldn’t help but wonder.

slidebryll

If I knew then what I know now, I never would have had a doubt. Those first days and weeks and months he was thrown into the thick of things and he picked up all of the essential skills with ease and grace. Those skills that we can measure are one thing, but seeing him develop all of those intangible good-father skills has been the most amazing thing. And he treats me pretty well, too. I’m sure treating the mom right is an essential component of fatherhood that will come in so handy for these girls when they’re older.

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Happy father’s day, Bryan. You have truly mastered this gig. I couldn’t be prouder to call you my husband, and I couldn’t be happier for the girls who get to call you daddy.

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Ugly, Precious Afghans and Youtube

You would think the abundant sunshine would allow me extra time to get everything done, but all it does is allow extra time for goofing around. It’s a seductress, that sun. It’s a tease, too. Did I get to have my iced java chip at Java Central on Tuesday? No, I didn’t because it was cold and rainy at the coffee shop, so I had to have my same ol’ chai because me old bones can’t handle the cold outside of me combined with some cold inside of me. Cold and rainy calls for hot drinks with an afghan. Preferably an afghan made lovingly by Bryan’s grandmother. She makes the warmest, cuddliest afghans and, to this day, Bryan’s favorite cuddle-up blanket is one that was made by her more than 30 years ago, with all of the colors that defined the 70s: Orange, brown, green, and gold. It’s a beauty. We have other ones that aren’t so offensive to the eyes, but there is something special about that hideous blanket. It’s the best.

Anyway, Lena and Liberty have been hogging up the computer because they figured out that they could make me upload videos to Youtube for them. They’re bossy. I’m working on teaching them how to do it on their own because, well, I’m lazy and easily frustrated. Plus, the laundry doesn’t wash itself, much to my dismay.

So even though we’ve been enjoying some nice weather, Lena and Liberty have been inside making movies and watching other people’s movies to steal ideas get inspiration. I know some of you might think I should feel bad about that, but I don’t. I do have a very unschooly side, even though I’m not creative and they do math papers. (The secret to the math, though, is that I want them to be good at it is so they can be good at gambling.) It’s hard to see the value in something like this Youtube thing, especially when it goes on for days, but it’s there. (This vid is from Lena’s Youtube channel. If your kids know my kids and you want links to the rest of their videos, just ask.)

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OMG, Thrifting!

Kristen and Dawn have introduced me to the wonderful world of thrifting. You would think it would be a no-brainer for me: I’m poor, I should buy used clothes on the cheap. But I don’t like to shop and I absolutely hate to shop in chaos. I <3 T@rget so much when I absolutely have to buy something, not because it has good stuff, but because it is neat and orderly. Order soothes.

I thought the thrift store would be very chaotic, but it was lovely. Everything was sorted by color, which I didn’t think would be a good enough system, but it was. I kept getting butterflies every time I saw something that I liked that was in my size for $1.50.  A dollar and a half! I had to really work at keeping my excited squealing under control. We ended up spending more than 4 hours in a single store. I don’t spend more than 4 hours Christmas shopping without a food break. Actually, if I were ever to shop in regular stores for 4 hours in a row, that would involve 1 lunch break, 1 coffee break, 7 potty breaks, and a cheesecake break. And I would spend 3 times the amount of money and come home with 1/8 of the stuff.

By the time I came up for air and decided to look at my watch, I thought it might be around 2:00ish. It was 5:15. I was in a thrifting-related time warp of some sort, the likes of which I haven’t seen since 1991 when Bryan bet me I couldn’t drink a fifth of Jack Daniels. (The last thing I remember from that night is slamming down the empty bottle, standing up and saying, “Somebody owes me TWO DOLLARS!” And then I woke up and it was 1993).

Anyway, yeah. Thrifting is fun. You should totally do it. But set an alarm or something because the time warp will get you and then you’ll realize that you’re starving and you didn’t get groceries like you planned to and then you’ll decide that you and your thrifting friends and their husbands and children should all go to the Chinese buffet for dinner (since you saved all that money at the thrift store) and then you’ll try to run the next morning with a pile of buffet food in your guts. Not a good idea. But the thrifting was totally worth it.

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We’re Supposed to do Things Right?

Dawn tagged everybody with this meme about 3 things we do well as mothers, and then she verbally assaulted me at the park yesterday and threatened my life if I didn’t do it. (Not really, she just asked me to do it and so I am. Because she’s the boss of me. But you can totally see her verbally assaulting me, right?)

1. I take an interest in what they find interesting even if I find it horrendous. You know, so we can talk about it and I can be excited about it with them. I think they like that.

2. I cuddle with them endlessly.

3. I’m teaching them that their feelings matter and that they don’t have to go along with something just to avoid hurting a friend’s feelings.

Number 3 has been more uncomfortable for me than anything I’ve ever done as a parent. And that includes saying the word vulva. This seems to come naturally to Maya so far, but for the rest of us, it is hard to say no to people we like. It is hard for me to allow my kids to say no to playdates or birthday parties, but if they don’t want to go, I’m not making them go, despite my extreme discomfort. It literally goes against my make-up as a precious pleaser to do this (right now, my Ohio friends are saying, “What? You’re the biggest bitch I know!” and I’ll take that as a compliment, thankyouverymuch.) In the past, Lena and Liberty have asked, “What if so-and-so gets mad at me because I don’t want to go to his birthday party?” And, while my instinct is to say, “You’re right! We don’t want people to get mad at us. What will we do if somebody gets mad at us? I guess we better just ignore your feelings for the sake of somebody else’s feelings. Get in the car,” I have choked down that sentiment, broke out in a cold sweat and said, “Well, darlings, it’s like this: Your feelings matter. If your friend gets mad at you just because you’re not comfortable going to his birthday party, that is your friend’s issue, not yours. You aren’t in charge of other people’s feelings. Chances are, your friend will come to understand and respect your feelings. If he doesn’t, then he’s not a true friend.” And then I passed out from the effort of conveying this most basic truth of humanity. Our own feelings matter? WTF?

This trip is hard. Dawn is right when she says other parents make all the difference in the world. We need other parents who can be open and honest about the struggles in their parenting, the struggles in their marriage, the struggles in their lives. And you know what? We need to be able to talkabout the good things without setting off a competition. If it comes up in conversation that I cuddled with Lena while she talked about her Pokemon DS game for ten minutes, it makes me uncomfortable when another mom comes back with, “Well, I cuddled with my precious for even longer while she was talking about something even more boring to me.” It makes me feel like I made her insecure with my very small good thing and I didn’t mean to do that. And then it makes me feel like I’m in a competition that I didn’t know I was in. I usually get a free t-shirt whenever I sign up for a competition. I don’t have one, so I didn’t sign up. Stop it.

This is not a new idea, but we really, really do just need to be able to share and not be judged or fixed or competed with. It’s amazing how many of the posts for this meme start off with something to the effect of, “I’m supposed to say what I do right as a mother, but there are so many things I do wrong,” even though the instructions clearly say we’re not supposed to say that. We can’t help it. We’ve been burned too many times by the mommy olympics and we’re afraid that if we say we’re doing three whole things right, 800 other mommies are going to feel insecure and point out exactly what we’re doing wrong, or what they’re doing better. Stop it. We don’t need that shit. Let’s celebrate ourselves because, no matter what we do, our kids are going to be pissed at us. Let’s just be there for each other when it happens.

Oh, I’m tagging Mechelle, TooTightPonytailGirl, Sharon, Alissa, and Kristen. Five chicks who are ever so hard on themselves and deserve to talk about what they do right because there is a lot. A whole effin’ lot.

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Is There Something on My Face?

It could be guacamole. God bless avocado season. I regularly pay $1.50 for avocadoes, so I’m in heaven when they’re 66 cents! Or it could be frosting from my birthday cake yesterday. My lovely husband and children baked me a white cake with chocolate frosting. My favorite. I’m special. I’m 33 now, which is how old Jesus was when he died, in case you were wondering. I could be at risk for crucifixion. I could be. You don’t know. I’m definitely at risk for leaving the house with frosting or guacamole on my face. That’s a given.

I had a good birthday until my stupid van started smoking. Effin’ machinery. Pontiac piece of crap. We’re supposed to go to West Virginia this weekend to visit my brother and his family and see The Weber Brothers
play. For free. They played at my brother’s wedding. I have a picture of them, but I can’t make it show up in my stupid blog. Effin’ blog. Do you hear me, Dawn? I say, I can’t get a picture to upload. I was yelling that, but I didn’t put it in all caps. Just trust me. So, we assume the mechanic will want to be paid for fixing the stupid van, which might mean no free Weber Brothers for us since we’ll have to spend the billion dollars of gas money that we were saving for the trip on fixing the stupid van. I hate budgets. Except for the part where they help us be debt-free, budgets suck. And they’re lame.

Now I want more guacamole and I’m going to have some because our budget allows for unlimited avocadoes when they’re 66 cents each.

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Maya Makes Me Proud

This morning as cd 101.1 was playing Yellow Ledbetter as the soundtrack to Maya’s snack time, I listened from the kitchen as she sang along. *sniffle* A little tear ran down my cheek as I whispered, “That’s my girl. That is my girl.” Though, I don’t really know what she was singing since the lyrics are famously indecipherable.

I spent much of the 90s trying to find the lyrics to this song. You know, before the internet and before Eddie Vedder would ever talk about any song. Ever! What does it mean? What is he saying? It was tough to sleep at night. I was certain the lyrics would give me a peek into the pain that made Eddie Vedder so damn irresistible. See, he mumbles because of the pain. The pain that could be healed by me, if only he’d let me. Left unsatisfied, I decided to get a tattoo of that little guy from the Alive single in order to experience physical pain that would match Eddie’s emotional pain.

I’m sure Maya knows on some child-like enlightenment-type level what that song is all about because she was actually at a Pearl Jam concert in utero. It was July 2003. I was 8 months pregnant and after 11 years of trying and failing to get tickets to a Pearl Jam concert, Bryan and I finally got some tickets. General admission lawn tickets, but still. I didn’t care that it was going to be outdoors in the sweltering Michigan humidity, with a bunch of sweaty, smelly idiots who were all so young that they didn’t even have one single piece of flannel hiding in their closets, and were only going to the concert to be all retro and stuff. Their favorite PJ songs were probably Alive and Jeremy and Black. Ugh. I hate those songs, like any true fan would. If it’s been played on the radio, then we don’t like it. We don’t. Because we’re better than the radio. Just ask us, we’ll tell you.

No, I didn’t care that I would have to share the hill with pseudo-fans. Well, I didn’t care until we actually got there and they took our blankets at the door because, “Pearl Jam concert goers tend to start fires so we don’t want blankets in there being piled on the fires,” and I looked at the huge, smelly crowd of people standing on the very steep, very muddy hill and said, “Huh.” I couldn’t imagine any scenario in which I would be able to lug my giant belly up that very crowded hill. I could, however, imagine that once I got up there it would only take the wind from a pothead’s exhale to send me tumbling through the crowd to the bottom of the hill, with my considerable girth leading the way. I said, “I’m not doing that. No.” And then we found a bouncer and told him that I was told on the phone that I’d be able to sit in the handicapped section. They slapped a handicapped bracelet on our wrists so fast, we didn’t even miss a single opening mumble. Eddie came out on stage and said, “Hey, mmbl fuble phrmbl DETROIT!” and we were there, in the comfort of folding chairs on level ground, in the very last row of real seating, 20 yards in front of the stupid hill! It was awesome! I felt like such a rebel and I decided that it was just as exciting to dupe the bouncers as it would have been to be in the mosh pit with a bunch of flannelless teenagers.

If you weren’t given the gift of lyric deciphering in utero by the gods of grunge, please enjoy this person’s guess. I think they’re as close as anybody can get:

Now watch this one and tell me you don’t want to lick the sweat off of his face. Ok, now I’m walking away from the computer because I just spent 2 hours going, “Watch this one you guys!” and Lena and Liberty are going to kill me. I’m going to go find my copy of Singles on VHS and rewind the scene with Eddie, Stone Gossard, and Jeff Ament in it over and over and over again.

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Sizzle.

Liberty still has a fever. She usually lingers quite a while, but she hasn’t had this kind of episode in over 2 years. There was a time when every little cold sent her into the hospital with bacterial pneumonia. Mucous settles in her lungs like carnies in a public park during state fair time. And even when the hospitalizations stopped, there was always, always the high, long fever and the nebulizer. And the cough. Holy shit, the cough. On a normal day, if Liberty so much as clears her throat in the grocery store, old women will come from far and wide to diagnose her with croup and shame me for bringing her out into daylight. Or at least give me a dirty look. But when she has a little mucous to contend with? She sounds like a werewolf choking on a femur. You know, kind of barky in a supernatural, murderous way.

Everybody else is all better and I was hoping Liberty would be better by today so we could go to the homeschool park day tomorrow, but it’s not looking good. If I accidentally stab myself in the eye with a citrus peeler, don’t be surprised.

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Plays to Win

And gets very giddy when she’s about to lay a Draw Four on your sorry ass. I know you can’t hear it, but she’s giggling like one of those viral video giggling baby things. This child is never happier than when she’s causing an opponent emotional pain during a heated game of Uno. Even if she doesn’t win, it’s enough that she made you draw, or skipped you, or reversed it away from you. And then you will hear about it for the rest of the day. “Remember when I skipped you? That was a good play! You couldn’t even go!” And when the tables turn, and you think you’re getting one up on her by giving her a Draw Two, she says, “OK, but you have to smell my feet!” She will punish you. She will punish you so hard.

Lena and Liberty and Bryan are all sick sickies today. Send patience. And listen to Handlebars by Flobots. Yummy for your brain.

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