It's like Tuesdays with Morrie without all the wisdom
Archive for August, 2008
I Will Marry Michelle Obama
10August 26, 2008
by Abby
in I like politics?
Her husband will make it legal, and then we’ll get married. It will be teh awesome. Ok, maybe I’m not going to marry her, but I want to have her over for coffee and be friends. And I promise I won’t stalk her. Did you see her? Wasn’t she great? Did you cry? This:
The Barack Obama I know today is the same man I fell in love with 19 years ago. He’s the same man who drove me and our new baby daughter home from the hospital 10 years ago this summer, inching along at a snail’s pace, peering anxiously at us in the rearview mirror, feeling the whole weight of her future in his hands.
And especially this:
And as I tuck that little girl and her little sister into bed at night, I think about how one day, they’ll have families of their own. And one day, they — and your sons and daughters — will tell their own children about what we did together in this election. They’ll tell them how this time, we listened to our hopes instead of our fears. How this time, we decided to stop doubting and to start dreaming.
Oh, and I love her brother Craig as well. New plan: My official story will be that I’m an orphan on the streets of Chicago and if Craig and Michelle’s mom doesn’t adopt me, I’ll turn to drugs and stuff. That’ll do it. I’ll be their sweet baby sister who is way dumber than they are, but they’ll be nice to me anyway and we’ll have Christmas together in the White House and we’ll laugh and laugh together all through the holidays. Because that’s what families do. God bless us, every one. Sorry, Mike and Tracey, but I’m gonna go be somebody else’s baby sister. I bet Craig and Michelle wouldn’t ever have put horseradish in my mouth if I fell asleep on the couch when they were babysitting. Repeatedly. Also, they probably would never have chanted, “Abby wears bobby socks! Abby wears bobby socks!” over and over again to make me cry. Most importantly, Mike, I’m sure Craig wouldn’t have recorded some devil music crap over the darling tape of a 3-year-old me singing “Beth” and “Hot Blooded.” See ya, suckers. I’ll write. Maybe.
Well, it sounded big.
8August 25, 2008
There was an animal in our wall for a couple of nights in a row. I swore it was a raccoon or something worse, like an escaped gorilla from the zoo. Bryan figured it was a squirrel or a mouse, but it sounded really big and slow to me. I felt I had more experience in these matters, having lived through the great red squirrel invasion of ’82 when our old farm house became home to several families of little guys. This animal didn’t scurry when we pounded on the wall. I figured that was because whatever kind of animal it was knew that it was big and bad and rabid, and when you’re big, bad, and rabid, you don’t have to lower yourself to scurrying when some random human pounds on your new home. So I declared it an emergency and made Bryan call the rental company yesterday afternoon. Oh, our rental company apparently does not have an emergency number for weekends and holidays. I was upset about that yesterday. Until we found the empty hamster cage in Lena’s room. Then I was just grateful that we didn’t call Varmint-Gard and pay them to come rescue our frickin’ hamster out of our own wall.
After discovering that our neglected beloved Choji was missing, Bryan thought it would be a good idea to announce it very crassly in front of all 3 very sensitive girls. Right before bedtime. The girls then proceeded to throw themselves on the floor and wail, “Chooojiiiii! NOOOOOO!” and “Chooooojiiii! I LOOOOVVVVE YOOOUUU!” and “Oh, God, WHY? Why did you take Choji? You should’ve taken me instead!” and “Why didn’t we play with you more? WHY?” Why he couldn’t have waited 2 minutes until every kid was in bed, is beyond me. It’s not even like he told them in a very serious, funeral director way. No, he was laughing hysterically while he announced to his children that their very first pet was in the wall. Lucky for us, Choji chose a wall that had a removable panel so we could get to him easily, which we did. And then the children took off their sackcloth and ashes and ceased beating their chests in anguish and remorse. And then Bryan and I got down on our hands and knees and thanked the good Lord that our rental company indeed does not have an emergency number. We would have died from embarrassment.
Would it Be Wrong?
8August 20, 2008
by Abby
in I homeschool
Do you think the kids could review, say, wine on Kids Know Stuff? I mean, obviously they couldn’t drink it, but maybe they could tell everybody how much more fun their mommy is when she’s pouring a glass or two of Charles Shaw Merlot. And then maybe we could get free wine delivered to our door so I wouldn’t have to fight traffic to get to the nearest Trader Joe’s. It would be wrong to use the kids that way, wouldn’t it? *sigh* I thought so. How about if they could get me some free coffee? Still wrong? Bummer. I want some free mommy stuff. The Hannah Montana that’s playing in the background right now brings me no joy.
I’m trying to get on a new schedule for fall homeschooling. I’m all gung-ho and inspired in the fall, before the holidays come and I get complacent. And by “holidays” I mean Labor Day. Having a schedule involves actually scheduling things, which involves heart palpitations when I’m behind schedule. I don’t like that. But instead of abandoning the schedule, I’m going to just decide that it’s ok if I’m a little bit behind schedule from time to time. I tend toward the all-or-nothing, so if I have a schedule, I feel like it must be followed to the minute. That’s not true, though, right? I didn’t think so. Not in my line of work, anyway. Kids can feed themselves if they’re hungry and lunch is behind schedule. So says I. And if they don’t like that, they can try to figure out a way to get mommy some wine delivered right to her door. Then I would feed them on time. Probably.
The Olympics Hurt Parents the Most
12August 19, 2008
In the summer of 1984, my father built me a hurdle. And then he tried to teach me how to jump over it while running. I was 9 years old and there was nothing in my physical make-up that would have lead him to believe that I would be able to hurdle things. Mostly, I was the sort who would run into things, lumbering solidly, not gliding swiftly. I didn’t have long limbs that could stretch and snap over a hurdle in just the right way. My body was made for sturdiness, not grace.
The same day he made the hurdle, he also gave me just a plain piece of wood, explaining that I was to run up to the wood and then, just as my foot hit the board, I was to jump and hurl my body through the air, hopefully landing far away from the board. Yes, he made a long jump marker thingy.
I’ve often thought back to that one day that summer and wondered what in the hell my dad was thinking. At that point in time, I was playing softball and I was pretty good at it. I didn’t need another sport, and Track and Field wasn’t even an option for an extra-curricular activity until high school. Finally, after 24 years, I think I know what my dad was thinking. Watching the Olympics this year has given me a little bit of insight into his psyche during that time. Yes, I was a good little softball player, but softball wasn’t an Olympic event back in 1984. I think my dad had a brief bout of Olympic fever and he dealt with it by building a hurdle and a long jump board. For me, his short, sturdy little girl. It hit me while I was watching Misty May and Kerri Walsh play volleyball. I found myself looking at Lena and Liberty, thinking, “We should really buy a volleyball.” In that instant, I knew that watching Carl Lewis in 1984 had affected my dad the same way. My brother and sister would have been 15 and 14, way past their prime. All of his hopes rested with me. And then I dashed them. Just like my children are dashing my Olympic dreams for them.
I didn’t buy a volleyball because I’m sure they would just whine about how it hurts to hit it. And I don’t know why they can’t do a perfect cartwheel, let alone an entire floor routine. I don’t know why they won’t even attempt synchronized diving. And I don’t know why they insist upon running all willy-nilly, limbs swinging about with no rhyme or reason. They don’t pace themselves; they just sprint and then collapse giggling in the grass. That’s not technique! That’s just tom-foolery! The Olympics have taught me that my children don’t care about me and my needs, just like I didn’t care about my dad’s needs. That Michael Phelps’ mom is a lucky woman. You can tell how much he loves her just by looking at all of his gold medals. *sigh*
