Sundays with Stretchy Pants

I wanted to play drums in middle school band class, but they wouldn’t let me because they had a rule that we had to know how to play the piano first. Dumb rule because, isn’t that what middle school band class is for? Learning? And Dabbling? How could I learn the stuff before band class? Assholes. I didn’t want to learn piano because, my god, the piano is so fine-motor skillish and I’m more of a gross-motor type. So I didn’t take band class, I took choir instead where I lip-synced and messed around and did drugs. Ok, I didn’t do drugs, but I could have and I would have been justified.

*sigh* We watched Girls Rock last night at the Wexner Center and I cried all through it because it was awesome. And then I yelled at Bryan because, well, he’s a boy and he didn’t even have to learn that he rocks. And it’s not fair! But then, Dawn’s Girls Rock post makes a good point about boys and their struggles and whatnot, so I guess I won’t yell at him today. For being a boy.

The movie inspired my girls to play the drums (Liberty), play guitar and drums (Lena), and play guitar and drums and sing (Maya). And Bryan and I were inspired to pay for stuff that would enable those endeavors. Finally, the girls are doing what they’re supposed to by living out my dreams so that I can live through them. Er, maybe it’s not supposed to be about me and my dreams? I can’t remember. The world is so confusing after seeing Girls Rock.

Anyway, Kids Know Stuff is giving away a Washburn guitar soon and now I wish we could win it. Except it’s kind of ruined because it has either Hannah Montana or Camp Rock paint splashed all over it. I’m sure a kid would like it, but whatever.

We’re going to the Wexner Center to watch two more movies today: Jump and Children of Heaven. I’m sure Jump will inspire a jump rope purchase. I just hope Children of Heaven doesn’t inspire me to make the children share one pair of shoes. I’m easily swayed by visual media.

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I think I might be a sci-fi/fantasy fan. I don’t know. I’m not sure. There are signs. My love for Buffy the Vampire Slayer, for instance. I thought that was just dabbling, you know? Everybody dabbles, right? But then I read an interview with Neil Gaiman on Goodreads and I thought, “My, but Good Omens sounds like a wonderful book.” And so I read it. And it was the best book I’d read in a long time. And I read Preludes and Nocturnes. (A comic? Shut your mouth!) And now I’m reading everything Neil Gaiman. After Good Omens and Preludes and Nocturnes, it was Coraline. I made the girls listen to the audio version on the Halloween road trip to Michigan. They were creeped out, but once they heard the ending, they wanted to hear it again and I was filled with glee. I’m not a re-reader or a re-listener, but I couldn’t wait to listen to Coraline again. And then Lena found a graphic novel version of it at the library and did a review of it on Kids Know Stuff. In the meantime, I checked out American Gods (excellent) and Neverwhere (extra excellent).

You would think that just the fact that I’ve been reading all of these books would tip me off to my new genre obsession, but it wasn’t until I saw that Neil Gaiman linked to Lena’s review of Coraline that I realized my true feelings. The thrill I felt upon seeing that was completely uncalled for. First, I did a little dance. Then, I sang a little song. Next, I reserved more Neil Gaiman from the library. Finally, I admitted to myself that I am a sci-fi/fantasy fan and it’s time to watch Battlestar Galactica and the complete X-Files.

I’m just surprised because I usually read Ya-Ya Sisterhood-type books, you know? Because that’s who I am. But it’s super refreshing to read these books with plot points that don’t revolve around an abused woman/child who finally learns her worth and sets her husband/father on fire or something. It’s a whole new world.

So fill me in. If I like Neil Gaiman, who else will I like?

And another giveaway at Kids Know Stuff will post today at noon. I’m not revealing anything, but it will have something to do with super healthy, tasty and fun Goji cereal. (Cereal for Christmas? Shut your mouth!) Trust me, you want to win this giveaway!

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Lena and Liberty start a paper route today. Now maybe they can buy their own damn food and gas. Kidding! I know they would choose to buy video games and starve to death, clinging to the warm screen of the DS.

Anyway, we’re terribly busy because we all have jobs now, except Maya who is very quickly learning to read so she can get a job. She’s sitting on my lap as I type this and she just said, “Why does it say ‘Maya’? And why does it say ‘job’? I’m glad I didn’t type effin’ job or something like that. I’d hate for the first sentence she ever reads on my blog to contain profanity. (I wouldn’t really mind that, but I felt I needed to say that for that part of my audience which is comprised of good mothers.)

Um, anyway, yeah jobs. And we’re going to Michigan this weekend so the girls can trick-or-treat with their cousin so I have to make sure there are things to pack and stuff. Lena, Liberty, and Riley are all going to be characters from the Naruto books. (I gotta get this kid off my lap, she just said told Lena and Liberty, “Mom typed your name on the computer!”) And Maya is going to be a princess/cheerleader.

I’m kind of glad that we’ll be spending the last weekend before the election in Michigan. Hopefully, I’ll be able to pretend there is no election coming up, which will enable me to sleep the sleep of the non-swing-state citizen. We have election stuff to do on Monday when we get back, though. I did phone banking a few days ago again only this time we were calling democrats who have absentee ballots and telling them to mail the suckers in. It was way more fun than last week because everybody was all, GOBAMA! and stuff.

Ok, that’s all I got. It’s time for laundry now.

And just in case you don’t know what my title is talking about, here’s a video for you. Ok bye.

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I made some calls for Obama again last night and it was brutal. People aren’t supposed to answer their phones at this point in the election. They’re supposed to be so sick of getting calls that when they see the caller ID pop up with a number they don’t recognize, they’re supposed to mutter, “Dadgum political calls!” and walk away. How else can people like me feel like we’re helping the campaign without really doing anything? I love leaving messages and stuff, but I’m not so good with the talking to strangers.

I don’t want to discourage people from volunteering, but last night was hard. The first time I did it, I talked to about 7 people out of almost 70. Last night, almost half of my 48 calls were answered. By grumpy people. There were some bright spots, but my very first call started with, “That bastard isn’t getting my vote!” which I thought was rude even for a McCain supporter. Some of the people who answered just wanted to keep their vote private, which I understand so we just chatted a little bit, and I tried to suck up to them and make rainbows and unicorns travel through the phone lines, but I don’t know if that works when I’m calling from a cell phone. (By the way, Lena drew a picture yesterday and the caption was, “I HATE UNICORNS!” Is this the beginning of the slippery slope to being goth?) Sometimes I found myself randomly shouting, “COLIN POWELL!” which would make the person kind of stutter and say, “Uh, yeah, he’s a…he’s a real good guy…and I respect him a lot,” and then I would try to convince them that if Colin Powell says so, we should vote for Obama. But most of the people I talked to claimed to be undecided. And when I was talking to those people, I really wished I hadn’t seen this clip from The Daily Show because I really felt like saying the things that Samantha Bee and Jason Jones start saying at about 2:30 in this video:

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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.

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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*

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ETA: I put the right video on this time; I don’t know how that other RATM vid got on there. FAIL!

My brother will be proud.

My children think they can tell me what songs to listen to when we’re in the car. This might be because I usually let them listen to what they want to listen to. These days, I generally only provide songs that I enjoy, but back when Lena and Liberty were babies and young toddlers, I let them listen to Barney and Raffi and Sesame Street. It couldn’t be helped. They were car cry-ers and I wanted them to shut it. Barney works so well because he makes little kids stop and go, “What the f*ck is this sh*t?” I wanted them to shut their traps, so I listened to what they wanted to hear over and over and over. Then they grew a bit and decided that car rides were just a touch more tolerable than a trip to the dentist, so the need to make them shut it was less. And they learned to fear me, so they shut it no matter what was on the radio. I’m kidding, gosh! These days, we generally listen to a rotation of CDs that are agreeable to everyone in the car.

Now to the part where my brother will be proud: The other day when we were driving home from the pool in Bryan’s car without our previously-agreed upon CDs, I was repeatedly hitting the seek button in order to find something, anything to listen to. Every time the radio stopped on a song, it was a light and poppy little diddy and I heard 2 light and poppy little voices yell, “NO!” from the backseat. This went on for song after song until the radio finally stopped and I heard no objections. Then one of the little voices said, “Leave it here!” What was the song? I’m glad you asked. It was “Renegades of Funk” by Rage Against the Machine. What happened to my timid little girls who were soothed by Barney’s voice? When I was a little girl, I thought the mixture of screaming and loud guitar and drums coming from my brother’s hi-fi was dangerous and scary. I preferred gentler music like Cyndi Lauper and Madonna and Debbie Gibson. Some people might argue that that was because those artists are who was marketed to me, but I think it’s because they weren’t screaming at me. My taste for grunge and heavier stuff only came later when I was a hard-livin’ young lady. My brother always tried to introduce me to new, better music, but it never stuck. Now his nieces are following in his footsteps musically. Of course, his joy may be short-lived because I will surely ruin Lena and Liberty’s love of this song by turning it into the Best History Lesson Ever! Lookie:

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As of two days ago, if you come across Maya she’s very likely to say something like, “I gotta show you sumfin. It’s cool!” And then she will take you out to the swingset and show you how she can get herself swinging and keep herself going by pumping her legs. And then when you give her the appropriate props for that, she’ll say, “CanWeGoToThePool?CanWeGoToThePool?CanWeGoToThePool?CanWeGoToThePool?” where she will show you her other brand-new feat of jumping in and going under the water. Under it! “Where people can’t even breeeeve, so I have to hold my breff! Isn’t dat cool?” And then she’ll swim around under the water with a great big smile on her face and tell you over and over that she doesn’t need her life jacket anymore and she’s ready for swimming lessons. You’ll agree with her that she’s cool, because she is.

It’s been a big weekend for amazing feats of pool bravery for all of the girls. Lena has been regularly jumping off of the 8-foot springboard after previously going off of it once and deciding to never, ever do it again. Over the weekend, she jumped off of it for about 2 hours straight, adding little tricks like a half-twist with a peace sign flash. Liberty (after the horrible influence of Dawn’s older kid) has been going off of the 16-foot platform. She went off it for the first time when Noah was there a few days ago and I really thought she wouldn’t do it again, but she did it several times yesterday. All my girls are bad asses. Watch out for them.

One teensy hard part about this is trying to convince Lena that she can be proud of jumping off of the 8-foot board. An age difference of more than a minute would come in handy here. I think Lena might feel like it’s not a big deal anymore because her sister, who is the exact same age as she is, jumped off of the 16-foot platform. Indeed, when Liberty went off the platform, Bryan and I walked all the way over there to congratulate her. We did that with Lena when she went off the 8-foot for the first time, too, but that had been days earlier and I’m pretty sure the glow from that moment had worn off. It’s tough to balance one girl’s feel-good feelings with the other’s feelings that her good thing isn’t good enough, when it really is good enough. This is one of those times when being a twin would so suck. We try to teach them that they can’t compare themselves to each other or to any other people, there’s always going to be somebody who can do more or less, blah, blah, blah. But I think it’s hard to live that lesson sometimes. I think it’s sinking in, but I just think it’s hard. Still, they’re bad asses. Total bad asses.

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Guess where I’m going tomorrow. Guess. I’ll give you a hint: I’m not going to West Virginia.

OMG, how did you guess that I’m going to Michigan? You’re so smart.

All the girls are going camping with my inlaws this weekend. They’ll be about two hours away from Chesaning for two nights and then I’ll join them for one night, unless it’s absolutely necessary that I join them sooner. I don’t think Maya has spent more than one night away from me at a time, but I’m not really worried about her. She digs my inlaws (and my inlaws’ food) and I know that if she’s having issues, they’ll call me. We used to camp with them for a weekend every summer when we lived in Michigan, but this will be the first time it’s happened since we moved to Columbus. Excitement abounds. I told my inlaws to just tell me when they want them, and I’d be sure to drive them up there. They requested this weekend, which turns out to be very convenient for me because my cousin is getting married Saturday. Wasn’t it lovely of her to plan her wedding around when we would be up in Michigan anyway? She’s always been sweet like that. I think I’ll put another $3-5 in her gift card just to show my appreciation.

So I’ll be packing today. I did my laundry and grocery shopping and baking yesterday. Baking? Yes, baking. My father-in-law needs to be compensated with chocolate chip cookies. He’s diabetic, so maybe I shouldn’t bake for him, but when I don’t bake for him, he whines about it. On the other hand, when I do bake for him, he tells me he’s diabetic and he shouldn’t be eating stuff like that. At least, I think that’s what he’s saying. It’s hard to understand him when he’s cramming cookies into his mouth.

Anyway, I’m going away again. I’ll miss you. I’ll be back Tuesday. And I’ll miss you.

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1. It’s Thursday. Park, peeps and potluck day.

1(a). Homeschooling. Lots of times it’s stressful and worrisome for me, and I don’t like to recommend it to people, but I really, really like it. And it’s not just because I get high on homeschooling when it’s Thursday, either. Even in my darkest times of homeschool doubt, I like it and I know it’s all going to turn out just fine. There, I said it.

2. Seeing Lena and Liberty type with their fingers on the right keys. I don’t know why it tickles me so. Just watching Liberty, I think she can type, like, 50 wpm. Lena ain’t no slouch, but she doesn’t like to have to go back to fix mistakes, so she types extra very carefully. Liberty just types the shit, hits spell-check and deals with it. No surprises there.

3. Our new kitty. She’s sweet and cuddly and she poops in the right spot. And she hardly ever jumps on my head when I’m sleeping. And when she does, it’s very cute because she’s just a sweet little baby kitty. And when she lounges on Maya, it makes my heart bleed with ooey-gooey lovey juice.

4. Bryan’s new-to-us old lady car. I call her Mrs. Merriweather because she’s a Buick and she is silvery blue. We don’t do the new-car thing and we drive our cars until they’re almost dead. In fact, this purchase marks the first time ever we’ve owned a car that was made in the same decade as we were living. It’s a 2000. In the late 90s, our newest cars were 1989 models. We bought our minivan (the only car we have ever financed, which we’ll never do again) in 2003, but it was a 1999 model. The car Bryan just got rid of was a 1991 Bonneville, which was given to us in 2001 by a lady who was either a) my mentor or b) somebody who had an affair with my dad in the 70s and never got over him. It depends on who you ask, but either way, that worked out really well for us.

5. The fact that I still have beer leftover from Kristen’s 4th of July party.

6. The fact that all that beer will be gone tonight. Because it’s Thursday. And we homeschool. And have potlucks. THURSDAY!

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