strange bedfellows

Suffice it to say, my kids spend a great deal of their time at odds, and there are more Bigfoot sightings than there are those of Quinn and Reilly being affectionate with each other. Quinn is quite tender-hearted, and tries to reach out, but Rei's a pistol and pretty much only gets mushy with Mama. So imagine my surprise yesterday when I discovered that they had both crawled in bed with me, and after unwittingly squeezing me out into the cold harsh morning much too early, were left together, as though by choice. I got a little misty.

My sleeping beauties:


All that time sleeping next to each other must have altered their biorhythms or something, because after dinner I noticed Reilly giving Quinn a make-over, to which he was more amenable than I'd have expected. They were laughing and parting his hair on the wrong side, putting in ponytails, and even a sweet little pink bow.

I think maybe we need to cut back on Will & Grace...

viewer discretion

Okay I'm taking a major risk by even mentioning this, but as a parent, I am compelled to share a little landmark occasion in the life and consciousness of my first born.

I'm certain 99% of you will storm my house, torches ablaze, but sometimes I let my kids stay up and watch a little grown-up prime time tv with me. Our favorite shows in syndication are Will & Grace and Frasier, the latter being the drier and more cerebral of the two. I have very specific reasons for allowing my kids to view these programs, and I always love to hear them chuckling over the subtleties and soaking in whatever cultural/social diversity they can.

We have this rule in our house, though I LOATHE television in the daytime, as well as most other times, especially Disney Channel propaganda bullshit, but we have this rule that if for some reason I oversleep, my kids can watch tv until I wake up. This rarely happens, as I am a serious early bird. But this morning, as well as a couple weeks ago, I did oversleep, and Quinn was watching the tube. As I fumbled around for my coffee, I noticed he was watching Frasier, as opposed to the various "children's" channels. This morning, in fact, he was suffering through ten minutes of the Golden Girls just waiting for Frasier to start. Strike me down, but it warmed my heart. I still hate tv, but it signifies that his sensibilities are becoming more sophisticated, and frankly, I think the "kid" channels are more damaging for them than anything aimed at adults. The way in which these children speak to adults, and to each other, as well as their obsession with drama, fashion, and status, makes me want to bomb the networks, whereas the well-scripted, adult debauchery seems better suited to its cast(s), and of course, its audience.

It's not so much that I'm proud of my son watching adult programming, it's that his preference is showing some refinement, and exquisite taste I might add. I know most of you will disagree with me on principle, and I can take it, mostly because there's a Frasier marathon on...

take my breath away. please.

OMG you guys, I live for these golden moments in parenthood:

While toiling away on the computer this morning, my Reilly appeared with a tin of Altoids and offered me some. I took one, and she put a few more on my desk before flitting away in her sunglasses.

A little while later she was back, picking up one of the mints she had left, trying to put it in my mouth.

"That's okay honey," I said. "I was going to have breakfast, and don't want the mints to make it taste funny."

To which she replied:

"Trust me mom, you need to." I feigned hurt feelings, sticking my lip out, and she was immediately sorry and said, in the most tender voice you've ever heard, "Mom, it's just that...I don't want someone else to tell you..."

(Picture me laughing, with my hand over my mouth of course!)

pescacide

You'd never know it by looking at us, but we love to kill fish. Particularly sweet, innocent, 7-for-a-dollar goldfish purchased by our eager 8 year old, proudly, and with her own money. Our neighbors would tell you we are quiet, and keep to ourselves, and that aside from our egregiously neglected landscaping, we are normal folk. They'd be aghast to know that we have been flushing corpses by the dozen. It all started when Reilly caught some minnows in that sludge, er, pond at Wallace Marine Park, and brought one home. We were forced to house this rags-to-riches fishy, and Todd bought him a sweet little condo outfitted with many accoutrements. For all the lavishing, this silvery ingrate lasted about two weeks. To soothe Rei's ever-animal-loving heart, we bought what she calls, "like these weird red minnows," who also keeled over, one by one. Well, three by three, really. Next up were scads of guppies, too many to name, which is just as well since they were a really dysfunctional lot. The way Reilly remembers it, "Well, the dad died, and the lady at the pet store said it was because the mother annoyed him to death, so I bought another dad and he also died of annoyance. That's when the babies all died." I guess the mom croaked out of loneliness. I know what you're thinking, that we were careless in our treatment of these fish. Nothing could be further from the truth. Todd is meticulous in the maintenance of the tank, the pump, the lights. Hell he probably would have given these bastards full body massages if he could have caught them. It wasn't our fault.

With every death I suggested we throw in the towel and get the fucking obtuse tank off of my counter, but Rei would invariably come bounding in with fresh hope in a baggie. This is when she changed course and bought the seven goldfish. First I was really irritated at the arbitrariness of selling seven of something for a dollar. When I finally got over that, I hoped against hope that at least some of these little guys would survive our death chamber. Rei's favorites of these were Click and Fin. They outlived their tank mates by several weeks, but alas, just last Tuesday I found Rei sitting at the counter, by the tank of death, head in arms. Upon closer inspection, I saw that she was drawing a goodbye card for Click, shown above, who had croaked in the night. With tears in her eyes, she dated it and did her best to accept that we kill every fish that swims into our lives. Even the ones we name. We have one left, her beloved Fin, and I am absolutely dreading the moment that Fin becomes Finito. You know? What did we do wrong? We did everything by the book, tried several kinds of fish, food, etc., and still no dice. Did we miss something really obvious, like fish don't thrive in manufactured homes??? Ugh. As much as it's a part of life, and part of nature (in our case, science for the year, lol), I hate seeing Rei well up every other day. She's losing faith. I'm tempted to buy her a pony just to cheer her up. (Yes, of course it would be a Shetland Pony, what with our cramped living room.) Anyway, if anyone has any ideas, p-l-e-a-s-e let me know so I can put the kibosh on this serial killing.

This is Fin, and our tank of doom.

when the mice are away...

Suffice it to say, we all need breaks from parenthood now and then. And I think I might be scalped if I don't cop to getting more than my fair share of time out, compared to my friends. This is not a rant about needing to get away. This is a strange confession that I am likely to regret. Thankfully, I have a pretty thick callous where shame and regret are concerned. The thing is, I have marginal anxiety about being away from my kids, we all know this. I am hugely fear-driven, and thusly worry endlessly about their safety, plus I just like having my little monsters around. Nevertheless, I do permit them to spend time with others, quite frequently actually, and I do derive pleasure from the chance to do some chillaxin with my grown-up homeys. This is especially true if there is alcohol involved. So I've learned to trust in the kids' security so that I might enjoy my adult time.

The nature of this confessional is that I am almost completely incapable of being in my house without them. So consumed with nerves when faced with having the house to myself, I go to absurd lengths never to be in that position. Sometimes I'll come home from errands and Todd will be loading Quinn and Reilly up in the truck to go bike riding or something, and they'll screech away before I have the chance to ask if maybe I could strap myself to the ski rack. So my eyes well up and I mope my way inside. I swear this time I will revel in the silence, take a hot bath, read, listen to my music, loud, with no guilt. Alas, I pace. I turn on iTunes, and immediately every tear-your-own-throat-out David Gray and/or Tracy Chapman song will play. Even though I put it on shuffle, it only plays songs that test my will to live. You know it's bad when Elton John's Sacrifice affords a little lilt. You're probably thinking one of two things: A) Shut up you fucking bitch for getting the house to yourself, or B) Shut up you fucking bitch for getting the house to yourself; why don't you just leave? I never leave because I always think this will be the time I can appreciate the moment. Typically I crank up some of my suicide prevention playlists, and start cleaning. Yes, when I follow my bliss, as Gabrielle puts it, I always end up holding lemon-scented Lysol. Now, if I truly follow the bliss, I might drink some of it, but that's a whole different post.

So I'm scrubbing away (things that are already clean, B will tell you), and my heart is racing because my kids are gone. The house isn't quiet, it's empty, and deafening. I'm okay laughing at Starbucks with you primo ladies, but stick me in my house with nary a soul and I am liable to freak right out. Invariably, B calls to ask what I'm up to, and I tell her I drew the short straw and wound up alone at home. She pauses (undoubtedly to curse the stupid ungrateful bitch who refuses to appreciate the time alone), and then gives thoughtful, helpful suggestions, such as, "Turn off Tracy Chapman, go to Borders, or come over." I'm usually too immersed in disquietude to understand her, and refuse all reasonable ideas in favor of scrubbing the bathtub, all the while knowing I am one second closer to my kids coming home to me.

Is this weird? I think it is.

Last night Quinn and Rei spent the night at my mom's, and for the first time ever, I awoke to an empty house. No competition for the shower (Quinn), no requests for cartoons (Reilly), no nothing. At first I was really panicked, but it occurred to me I could slip some flip flops on and drive to Starbucks, which I never do because, as you may have noticed, I would ever leave my kids for ten minutes. So I kicked off my solitary confinement with an Americano and a scone. Not too shabby for an unappreciative bitch, right? I proceeded to languish online, not something I'm prone to doing, fold nine (count 'em nine) baskets of laundry, clean the kitchen, post this blog, all the while blasting my music. Shuffle was decidedly kinder to me today. Not that Tracy doesn't hurt. She does.

So that's it. I just wanted to vent this, another oddity in the sea of oddities that is Cheyenne. I'm also curious if anyone else has a problem being home alone? I pose the question, in spite of fearing the onslaught of readers chomping at the bit to put me in my place. But go ahead. My music is too loud for me to hear you.

she slices, she dices, she juliennes...

When Mama got whacked, Quinn and Rei were on the case. They cleaned, they kept my rice pack hot and my water bottle full, and they tried to fight at a slightly less audible level than normal. (Operative word being slightly.) Reilly has always been much more capable than we've given her credit for, but this week she has blown me away with her ability to anticipate my needs, prepare my meals, and generally kick ass. She brings me a menu every three hours or so and leaves a blank section at the end for special requests. I'm not kidding. For instance, she'll offer soup, a frozen entree, or quesadillas, but I am welcome to request a pb&j. Kapeisch?

This kid. She makes me tear my hair out, but she also brings me to my knees, weeping with joy at the miracle of being her mom. It's the same with my Quinny. (More on him soon. Getting misty-eyed.)

Today she made me quesadillas with zucchini, four to be exact, a soda with the all-important pink straw, napkin, and the oh-so-essential mealtime accoutrement, my phone.

And, in case you're wondering, yes she can spell quesadilla.

idk, rofcrying?

I'm just going to say it: Internet lingo and text-ese are beneath me. That is to say, I am too good to speak that way. Aside from the occasional "lol," you will never get a text from me that says, "c u soon" or "plz dnt be l8." I shudder to think of just how low the bar has dropped since cell phones and computers have become so ubiquitous.

This is not to say I am not aware of this vernacular, spreading like a rash. I don't like getting "w/e" any more than the next guy, though "j/k" has brought relief from time to time. Lately though, the language seems to be escalating from abbreviations to full-on phrases, represented by a letter or sound. Adam recently showed me a series of online skits that revolved around Gen-Xers speaking solely in this fucked-up verbage, and while the grouchy grammarian in me slit its throat, I wound up laughing until I peed on their couch, shrieking, and begging for more. Amidst shouts of "first," "false," and the supremely entertaining demonstration of "roflol," my personal favorite, and the cause of the faulty bladder, we kept hearing what sounded like "poned." Being that all three of us are too good for this form of "speech," we had no recourse but to look it up. It's actually "pwnd," a derivative of "owned," which means, quite logically, to get the better of someone. So we began teasing each other with random (until it wasn't random) interjections of "pwnd!"

This charming little trend bled over into a few nights later when B and I had dinner with some friends, one of whom was our beloved Jacob, whom we "pwnd" until he became a trifle less friendly. The next morning I was instant messaging with Jacob, using my correct English in all its luster and glory. Suddenly Jacob typed, "POWNED!" I laughed so hard. Quinn walked over and totally laughed, mostly because he thinks he's the one cool enough to have an inroad into this scintillating world of broken down junk speech. He is at once endeared to my knowledge of such things, and disturbed that I think I can pull it off. Anyway, he fully appreciated that I got owned by Jacob, and walked away laughing.

Cut to this morning, in the very wee hours, when I moved Quinn to his bed after finding him on the living room floor. As I tucked his covers around him, he raised his head all wobbly-like, eyes closed like a newborn mouse, and said, "Mama? Can you please tell Jacob pwnd is spelled p-w-n-d, not p-o-w-n-e-d?" Dear God. "Okay honey, I will tell him." I mean really, does a mother laugh or cry at that? On one hand, this child, whom I struggle everyday to educate, knows about pwnd. On the flip side though, he cares that it is spelled correctly. Part of me thinks he'll benefit from being so versatile, that he'll have the best of both worlds. But truthfully, there is no "best" in that junk heap world, and I want both my children to rise above it. Jacob calls me a "Nazi bitch," which I take a compliment.

When it comes to language, I've been owned by propriety...or is it ownd?

(Adam? Can you hook us up with the link? I couldn't find it anywhere.)

twisted

Let there be no ambiguity here, I hate streamers. Hate them. I hate taping their unsightly tattered edges to various moldings around the house, I hate trying to perfect the aesthetic of beautifully, seemingly effortless twists, and I hate the way they taste, since I am so retarded as to still taste them every time, in hopes that the battery acid flavor has suddenly been replaced by strawberry shortcake.

Thanks to the loving dedication of my own mother, there is a certain birthday ritual that I've carried out for each of my children's combined 17 birthdays. Sometimes we have a party and sometimes we don't, but they always wake up to a house full of balloons, a few wrapped gifts, and goddamned streamers. Not just one or two strands mind you, but sometimes as many as six, all coordinated with the wrapping paper and balloons.

Also in the "poor me" category, my kids are nightowls like their mama, so I must outlast them every year in order to decorate. This makes me resent streamers even more. Poor Reilly could not fall asleep last night, and was even crying because she just couldn't get sleepy. So I, along with my elf, Quinn, had to creep around, trying not to crinkle packages or rub balloons, knowing Rei was trying so hard not to hear anything.

At last we got everything wrapped, twisted, taped, and brought the balloons in to fill the living room (my favorite part). I'm happy to report that Reilly was really impressed by the presentation, and adored the wrapping paper, the pattern of which I found equal parts super-cute and pimento loaf.
I have only just granted myself (and Sam) permission not to kill ourselves having parties every year, but I think it will take some serious reconditioning to skip the streamers. They're just so gratifying. So glorious. No true party is complete without them. I'd just rather eat them than hang them.

going coastal

Todd's family has a shabby little bungalow at the beach. And by bungalow I mean rusted out 30-foot trailer held together by duct tape, memories, and scads of useless relics packed into dank corners. As you may have ascertained, this place holds virtually no endearment for me. Except that Todd and the kids love to go there. Ten times a year or so, he rattles off the weather report, at which point I pretty much flat-line, and tries to stir up a "go team go!" attitude about spending the weekend there. Immediately my gears begin whirring in an effort to get me out of it. Obligations? (Generally a series on dvd with B and A) Cramps? Hangnail? I absolutely dread being faced with this proposition. My kids dash into their rooms and pack immediately, and then serenade me with loves songs in hopes that I will drag my misery along. They know I hate it, and they have plenty of fun with just their dad, but you know, it's better when Mom's there. So they slather on the guilt and I dangle in torment until I either assert myself and stay home, or surrender. This past weekend I did the latter because I had skipped the past few trips, and the guilt was eating away my guts.

Suffice it to say, I get very little, well, no, sympathy from friends when I bemoan an impending trip to the beach. I quickly realized it's a bit like grousing about my fillet mignon to the starving man on the street. B offered to smack the scowl off my face, and ordered me to smile and refrain from all swearing and hissing for the entire trip. Talk about tough love.

So we pile in the Jeep, and several of our various familial idiosyncrasies emerge immediately. Reilly got carsick, I forgot my iPod, skipped breakfast, hate the roaring engine of Todd's Jeep, and lament the fact that for him, music while driving is not a given. Then of course, I am further dismayed to discover that our option is a boxed set of Jimi Hendrix. For shame. So roaring engine it was. That is, until Reilly boldly asked Todd to put in her cd, an assortment of music much-maligned by Todd. You know, a little Daft Punk, some Eagle Eye Cherry, Bill Withers, and Shania Twain, for whom Todd has an inexplicable tolerance. In every other capacity, he is the Grinch of music.

We ate at Burgerville, and no sooner did I place my order and B texted to remind me "no soda, no fries...not even one." We're dieting you see, so she was being helpful, but it felt like the kind of help where someone twists the knife once you've jammed it into your heart.

I should mention that in addition to not needing music on a trip, Todd also doesn't speak. Can you see how paradise was unfolding before my eyes? We finally make it to Newport, at which point I will cop to feeling a surge of nostalgia, having grown up there. We hit Starbucks, and I was recognized by the barista from the Obama video, I asked T if we could drive up 101 to see what has changed. He flatly denied my request and we headed south. Destination: rusty lean to. Hoo-fucking-ray!

I must qualify this whole excessive tirade by adding that I have torn the meniscus in my left knee, on top of the arthritis I already have in both knees, and am currently undergoing a battery of testing to determine whether I am candidate for...you guessed it! Another surgery! Anyway, I was in agony, and I should mention the 208 stairs that separate the dungalo from the sand. Just what the doctor ordered. When we first arrived, Todd spent ten minutes trying to get his key to work, worried that his sister may have changed the locks. I fell to my shattered knees and prayed that we'd be forced to go home. (Mother of the Year, I'm telling you.) It might help for you to know that I have a weird form of beach narcolepsy, and the minute my feet hit the sand I fall asleep for two hours. No matter what. Todd and several others theorize that it's because in my real life, the life wherein there is no sand in one's unmentionables, I am always running, always going, always in search of new ways to busy myself. So at the beach, stripped of these diversions, I go into a coma. Anyway, I finally awoke, and gave my Rip Van Winkle beard a good swipe before joining my kids at the shoreline. After frolicking happily, despite the shards of glass that had become my knees, we were ravenous. We favor a particular eatery in Waldport, called Grand Central, and we were all eager to get there. In an effort to win the prize for most qualifications ever in a story, I must interject a bit more back story. My best friend in high school, Zach, still lives at the coast. We had a bitter divorce wherein I abandoned him with no warning. And, he is just petty and malicious enough that he would relish seeing me with sandy wind-swept hair, 100 pounds overweight, with wet jeans rolled up and my mascara running down my face. So I make a point never to venture out unless my clothes are impeccable and my hair is straightened, make-up perfect, etc.


WARNING: Don't read what's next while drinking a beverage. Gail, I'm sorry.

Once at Grand Central, Todd and Rei scurried inside and Quinn waited for me. As I manipulated my knee-like things out of the car, and stood up, I felt a rock hit my head and shatter, like clay. Alarmed, I looked up, only to find a motherfucking seagull swooping past, smirking. That's right, it was not a rock. And it was not a rock running down my head. It was not a rock that I reached up and touched with the very hands I was planning to wrap around a veggie grinder. Quinn was horrified, alternately laughing and crying. Seriously. I ordered him into the restaurant to fetch his dad, who was less than pleased to be pulled out of line for yet another Cheyenne drama. And I was equally jubilant to have to say to him, "Um. A seagull shit on my head." I must confess, that despite wanting to curl up and drown myself in a scalding hot bath full of Ajax, it was satisfying to see him smile. Well, guffaw, actually. Sprinting to the car dodging imaginary birds as though they were torpedoes, we got back in the car so I could go wash my hair before Zach sauntered out from behind from corner all sparklingly, gay-ly clean. We've now reached the 4,085th reason I hate the coast: The microscopic bathtub/shower at the lean to. I swear it was built for a doll house. It is the length of a bread box, the height of a space heater, and as inviting as a fucking cactus. I wasn't about to disrobe and stuff myself into this Houdini chamber, so I bent down on my former knees, and scrubbed my hair until it was nearly gone. I then had to put it up wet, as I'd forgotten my straightener, and resign myself to seeing Zach (though I never did). We sped back to the restaurant and devoured our sublime food, then headed to the store for s'more fixins, snacks for later, and some movies.

Back at the beach, I managed to stay awake, and in spite of my prediction, my knees did not fall out. I read the local paper, watched my kids run, and ate my very first s'more, which I must say was so scrumptious I immediately ate another. I don't like chocolate, nor gooey marshmallow oozing out onto my hand, nor graham cracker crumbs running down my shirt, so I've avoided these absurd things for 30 years. Man was I wrong. The smoky marshmallow flavor, with the thin, cold layer of chocolate snapping in the middle. OMG. I'd have given both knees for a third.

We settled back into the boxcar, watched a movie, and then went to bed. The next day we hit our favorite breakfast place, where I promised B I'd be good, and only ate four bites of French toast, along with my vegetable hash. Onto Starbucks, and then next stop: the outlet mall. With the trip mostly behind us, and the mall around the corner, I was in pretty good spirits, except that we had just learned of the circumstances surrounding the birth Pam had been attending all night. The baby was not doing well at all, and I couldn't shake the gravity of the situation. At the GAP, as I schlepped 75 pounds of clothes around, a text came in saying the parents had opted to let their new baby boy go, and I literally collapsed to the ground sobbing. I didn't know these people, but it really struck a cord. Clothes went flying, people were staring, and I had been under fluorescent lights so long I had lost all concept of time or reason. Not to mention that my knees were the size of watermelons. After a 45-minute debacle at the register, wherein the new girl had been deprived of food for too long to know how to do her job, and with Todd this close to slitting his throat, we left the mall.

The drive home was uneventful, with the one Shania Twain song we could all agree on on continual loop. We pulled into Chez Fitzpatrick, which I hate almost as much as the bungalow (I know I know, I am a wretched, unfathomable ingrate). Got everything unpacked, some laundry going, and met B at the gym for a MUCH-needed swim and soak in the hot tub. As we sat, in our redunkulous matching Fantasia bathing suits, I pleaded with my knees not to ditch me just yet, that I needed them, that I would be more attentive from now on, and say kinder things to them. Suddenly, B pierced the serenity by asking what my worst indulgence was on the trip. A film strip of coffees, s'mores, and various bites of things played in my head. With my head lowered, I confessed that my "bites" of French Toast were the size of footballs.

"Hm." She said. "That's okay. You earned it. I mean, a bird shit on your head."

(I wish I had known she'd be that understanding. I'd have eaten all the French Toast, and the bacon!)

Now can I get a little more understanding next time Todd turns to me and says, "Hey the weather is supposed to be 75 at the coast this weekend?"

couldn't have said it better

I've just guzzled my 99th ounce of espresso today, and as such, I'm very excited to give you way too much back story for the priceless little anecdote at the end.

Mornings at our house are a roll of the dice. Sometimes everyone does just what s/he is supposed to do, and sometimes I have to threaten to burn their toys in a burn barrel to get some cooperation. I myself am the model of misbehavior, so I certainly don't blame my kids when they stray from the perfectly-straight line I've etched into our lives. Today was just fine. We all got showered, dressed, and fed without incident. (Unless you count me calling my 15th low-cal smoothie in a row a "son of a bitch" as an incident...) Long story short, I get my gas money on Friday mornings, so our tank was bone dry today. Thus, we were house-bound, and I think that's when we began to deteriorate. No sooner had my kids exchanged one too many barbs in that shitty Disney Channel tone of voice, and I lost it. I yelled that they were obviously too immature to have their own computer (the object of their duel), and banished them to their beds for 15 minutes. This gave us all plenty of time to calm down, and when they emerged, we had a clean slate, which lasted all day. I was so encouraged by the sudden about-face in our collective mood, I threw myself into a full-fledged mania, and designed an incredibly ingenious (and horrifyingly stupid) plan. I decided we would get into our sputtering jalopy and seeing just how many errands we could accomplish on the atom of gas we had left.

I was immediately overwhelmed by the dismal schematic of my plan, and ended up taking the LONGEST way possible to Mission street to get a blood draw. (Note: Don't ever wear flip flops to a blood lab. You can literally feel the hepatitis crawl up your feet.) Then we took several wrong turns on a street we drive daily, and finally got to Blockbuster to return a movie. Next up was a two mile double-back to Del Taco, where I treated my kids to a much deserved lunch. (And, because I couldn't have any, I upped the ante and called my earlier smoothie a "mother fucker.") The kids were happily unwrapping their tacos, and oblivious to the fact that I would have slit my own jugular to have one, when my sweet Quinny piped up with, "Hey Mama I'm really glad we turned our morning around, and that you're feeling better." To this I responded, "Me too honey. I'm sorry I got so upset. You guys know I take a lot of medications to prevent that from happening, but every now and then it creeps up on me. Again, I'm really sorry."

"Oh that's okay Mama," said Quinn seriously, "I know you have Random Fireworks Syndrome."



When I stopped laughing three hours later, I wondered if maybe "Dynamite Syndrome" wasn't slightly more accurate. After all, fireworks have a certain aesthetic that my outbursts sorely lack.

lady of the rings--fellowship of the rings

I was all ready to let Pam stick her 14 gauge needle through my ear cartilage tonight, but when I went to buy the ring yesterday, I was assailed with horror stories about the perils of doing it myself, and how I'd die of infection, but not before going blind, etc. Ultimately I found myself in Addictions, a fab little shop downtown, where my fears were allayed, and this bitchin waif named Megan made me an offer I couldn't resist. I couldn't betray too much fear, as Quinn and Reilly were with me, but they knew I was nervous and Megan spent a long time putting me at ease. At long last, I was in the chair. Giant swells started rolling across the walls, my blood turned into lava, and I became mostly unable to decipher English, but I was brave for my kids. Rei was poised with the camera phone, and Quinn, my priest-in-training, was in the corner, emitting disapproval. By this point I was hoping to get two done, one representing each of my children. This seemed like a peculiar homage, given Quinn's solemnity about the situation, but it made sense to me to honor them that way, just like I incorporated their initials into my tattoo. (Quinn was less than bowled over by that gesture as well.) I was waiting to see how bad the first stab was before I committed to a second, but it was surprisingly tolerable. I immediately told her to do it again. Holy crap the second one hurt so much more! ("You can't sneak up on the body twice in a row," explained Megan.) And so it was done. Rei picked out a black jewel, and Quinn, in spite of major reservations, finally picked out the green one. ("Having your cartilage pierced makes you seem young and unresponsible," he told me that morning.) Sigh. The adrenaline rush was really intense, and I can definitely see why people go back for seconds...and thirds. But for me, two rings is just young and "unresponsible" enough for me.

even better than crepes

Ever since Quinn's glorious haircut, he has had has his dad's turtle cap welded to his head, and I have yet to catch a single glimpse of his freshly shorn locks. I've tried to sneak into his room a couple times to peek, but damn if that hat isn't tightly affixed. When I asserted my motherly right to peel it off last night, he bolted upright and pulled it back on, like a reflex, and then burrowed too far down in his blankets for me to chase after him.

Today I finally figured out what currency will buy me a gander at his head: An extended turn on his video game! I highly recommend this, once you've accepted that the Mother of the Year Award will never adorn your mantle.

I just love this kid so much, and am so happy and proud to be his mama, I have to show him off again, now that we can see all of him.



Is it any wonder why I'm so in love?

no fair!

Reilly's lunch: Crepes. A decadent stretchy, flour-y, BUTTERY masterpiece with sugar on top! (Please note her Obama pin. She wears it every single day.)

Why God?

(Oh, in case you were wondering, I was left to eat a bag o'salad while gazing at her little piece of heaven.)

yo ho homeschooling

There is always much interest surrounding the various methods of homeschooling practiced by those of us crazy enough to have chosen that path. I have friends who use Sonlight, Abeka, the Charlotte Mason approach, The Well-Trained Mind, and many many others.

The truth is, I can scarcely even say we homeschool with a straight face. So delinquent are we that even the unschoolers are on their way to my house to issue a misspelled demerit. I have a ready supply of disclaimers, depending on the skeptic with whom I am talking, but they're all bullshit. The truth is, I don't particularly relish doing lessons, and I am really lazy about them. We have spurts of shining productivity, and then droughts that resemble the great potato famine. I console myself with various lies, and some cherished truths, like, my kids are learning all kinds of things each day, whether they're doing drills or depositing money into their savings accounts. (They certainly know how to make withdrawals!) They're excellent readers, which is the most important thing to me, and they're right on target (or a little ahead) in math. Those are kind of my fundamentals, and the rest is gravy. I know, I know, I can't wait to polish my Cop-Out of the Year trophy. (Also, mmmm...gravy...)

If pressed to claim one method over the others, I'd have to go with ... the piracy method, I think. For the first two years, Brandy, goddess of all things homeschooling, tailored a curriculum specifically for my kids, and we adhered to that for dear life. That is, on the days we did anything. Her material was mostly aligned with The Well-Trained Mind, as well as her own seasonings mixed in. It suited us beautifully. My kids learned to read quickly, and the math program (Singapore) couldn't be going better. But I've grown complacent.

Hence having resorted to piracy. Since we roam the homeschooling seas with no place to call home, we dabble in a little bit of everything, and lots of nothing. If I find myself in a group of moms chirping about various successes, I make mental notes and see what of their regimen I might steal. When two of my friends happen to be reading The Secret Garden to their kids, I race to Borders to buy it too. When Brandy is tiring of her military-style routine, and wants to become all artsy in her instruction, I declare an indefinite holiday for my kids, and wait to see what the changing tide will bring. Everything intrigues me, and everything overwhelms me, so each day is a roll of the dice. We're still using B's outline as our trusted standard, though it is subject to my vigilantism. Sometimes, our lessons are folding laundry and learning how to bake biscuits, other days find us learning just how many miles we can eke out of $4.55 worth of gas, while other times we do a unit study on all six seasons of Northern Exposure. (It took 6 weeks!) And yes, for the stickler types, my kids know the parts of speech and their times tables. Reilly can count/divide/save/convert money like nobody's business, and Quinn's penmanship and spelling are virtually error-free. (And as a bonus, his hair is short again, which I know is OT but it makes me so happy to report it!)

While our lackluster attitude may seem unschooly to you, I am pretty fiercely opposed to being called an unschooler. We know and love plenty of them, but I am far too controlling, neurotic, and competitive to have a hands-off approach. But we're no beacons for homeschooling either. We're just a roving band of semi-schoolers. Some days kick our asses and some days we're kicking ass, just depends. I usually issue days off for things like rain, sunshine, wind, definitely hail, and those cozy grey days, but we've also been known to stay up until midnight finishing books, correcting math, and preparing displays for the various fairs for which B is constantly signing us up.

(I can just feel all my libra friends grinning and nodding at the dichotomy that is our education process. Except for Gail, who sets her curriculum in a stone tablet and follows it with careful precision, and by the way, was an actual teacher, so we can all feel just a trifle less inferior, lol.)

There is a modicum of guilt and shame that comes with being unaffiliated, as it were. I definitely know what we're not, I just don't know what we are. Some days it's liberating, while others find us searching for any port in the storm, you know? I assume my little buccaneers will embark upon adulthood with at least one or two marketable skills with which to earn enough doubloons, and they'll always have the warm memories of being wanted and home with me everyday. If it doesn't pan out, I guess I'll be walkin' the plank...


Blimey! We all showed up for school wearing the same thing.

hellelujah

You'd pretty much have to be Helen Keller not to know how unhappy I've been with my son's hair. He has long wanted to grow it out (groan), and I have long asserted my right to veto. But during the tumor episode last August, when I was gorked out on Dilaudid and Todd was manning the ship alone, Quinn's monthly haircut slipped through the cracks. My recovery was long and intense, and by the time I noticed, his hair was over his ears (gasp!). Somehow he had gotten the idea that we had let him grow it, and frankly, I was so delighted not to be dying of ovarian cancer that I went along with it.

It has taken many forms in its growth, all of which have prompted my OCD to careen into a ditch, but recently I reached my threshold. The look he was aiming for, that sort of skater-shag-with-a-rad-flip-thing he wanted never came to fruition. What he got instead was a static clinged-to-his-face wedge with a budding mullet in the back. Kind of Carol Brady-meets-John Denver. Now, I have struggled since that fateful month of August to make peace with, and/or radically accept, the hair, but I can't. I realize he is old enough to deserve some measure of autonomy regarding his appearance. I realize that it is just hair, and that it doesn't reflect on me. I realize that a lot of his security was derived from having long hair. What is a mother to do?

(If only he wanted plates in his lips or a bull ring in his nose.)

Anyway, we made him a sweet deal and set out today to do away with the clingy shag that made going out in public so painful. But, when it was time to go, Quinn freaked out. I won't go into great detail, but 50 years later, he got it cut, fighting tears the whole time. He hates it, and immediately put on this plastibell-looking hat, presumably because it is better than the haircut. When I returned from our Obama meeting, he was still wearing the odd hat (from his dad's collection, naturally), and has vowed to keep it on until roughly the second coming. He is asleep with it on now.

I have mixed feelings about the way this went down. On one hand, I am the mother and I wanted it short. But now that it's short I can't help but wonder why my preference for his hair should supercede his preference. So I slathered myself up with a generous helping of guilt, and am on the brink of tears. (I know, what's new?) It seemed I was sparing him the humiliation of looking like a neglected orphan, but I have traded that for a significant drop in his self-worth. It never ceases to amaze me how we can be so motivated to do right by our kids, only to fall on our faces and bring them down with us. Or does that only happen to me?

So what do you guys think? Do I buy him a wig or defend my right to control my kids' appearances?

I suppose I could always get him a weave...


Before: (You can't see how it is a shelf in the back.)


After, with the penis-y hat:



When I forced him to take it off for 2.5 seconds:

voila!

i'm into chicks

I've been wondering, amidst the flurry of excitement surrounding my recent engagement to Barack Obama, what on earth I would write about next. What could possibly distract me from our courtship?

You're thinking, tender reflections of motherhood, perhaps?

Think again.

It's these:



That's right. Brach's Chicks and Rabbits. I have been obsessed with these since I was six years old, and my grandmother made sure my Easter basket was bursting with them, as well as their obese, FAS cousins, Peeps, whose blank stare never changes, even as you bite their stomachs off. Creepy. But delicious. Still though, it's the Chicks and Rabbits that transport me straight to my grandma's house 24 years ago, where I would find a corner, and hork out until my hippie mama came to offer something sensible like sprouts or the dreaded falafel. I couldn't tell you why this queer confection has won my heart over such obvious contenders as Lindt chocolate and Reese's peanut butter eggs. After all, they're just a shriveled old circus peanut dressed up for Easter. But I love them. I do.

Most of you know that yadda yadd yadda, we don't celebrate Easter with the kids. This isn't particularly difficult for any of us. That is, until I find myself unexpectedly roaming the candy aisle like a lioness, waiting to devour the weakest specimen. Believe it or not, I always hold strong, resisting jelly beans, chocolate carrots, even Peeps. But then I spot the Chicks and Rabbits. They're always in the ghetto of the aisle, far away from Reese's, Lindt, Hershey's, and Cadbury, and there are seldom more than five bags, because I am, apparently, the only wretch alive who wants to eat them. Every year I weave some bullshit story in my mind about how it is an homage to my grandma to consume them, and every goddamned year I get so sick on them that I pray, with my head in the toilet, to join her in the afterlife. I should mention I have always had really bad luck with Easter candy. I have eaten crates of Peeps until I threw them up out of my nose, and become so sick thinking that the inside of a Cadbury creme egg was like mucus, it makes me gag to this day. But somehow I will always find it in my heart to give the Chicks and Rabbits another chance. I'm nothing if not a good glutton.

Cut to tonight. I spent some time fondling the 50% off candy at Fred Meyer today, texting B furiously, begging for justification to buy a bag. No, she lovingly reminded me, we're fat, and trying to do something about it. Have fruit. Obviously that answer sucked really bad. I tried bribery, bringing her down with me, everything, to get her endorsement, but she wasn't budging. I had even inspected the bags to see which had the most yellows, in case she relented, but she ordered me out of the store, and I slumped out, knowing she was right. Then tonight, when she picked me up to go to the gym, what did I behold on the car seat? This:


She and Adam had conspired to bring me some! I squeezed the bag like it was a long lost relative, and decided to eat them after our work out. They were all I could think about during our mile hike, weight training, sauna, and showers, and when we got back in the car I ripped them open like the lioness I am and began mangling their carcasses.

But it didn't stop there. I kept eating them long after they stopped tasting good, which is only ever the first one, until they were a knotted cluster in my mouth. I couldn't get enough saliva going to break the mass down, so I started to choke. B asked if I was okay and I managed to gulp it down the way a python eats a rabbit. When she suggested she take the bag, I snatched it away like Gollum, and immediately ate more. She dropped me off feeling disbelief, pity, and disgust, but I didn't care. I staggered inside, on the brink of a coma, and sat down to answer email. At one point I started to cry because I felt so sick. The next thing I knew, Reilly had spirited away the bag and hid them in recesses unknown. I begged her for them, and she just smiled. Later, when my head is in the toilet, she will bring me a washcloth and remind me that this has happened every year of her life. I will moan some flimsy excuse between heaves, and thank her for being there, like a heroin addict in withdrawal. Then she will tuck me into bed, and heat up my rice bag-thing, and kiss me goodnight. Quinn will kiss me too, and refrain from asking what the fuck is wrong with me, lol.

Then I will drift off, and dream of Barack Obama, serving me Chicks and Rabbits on a silver platter.

(Followed by Michelle Obama kicking my ass. Yeah, I'm a realist.)

seeing stars

Sibling rivalry was pretty much ruining my life as of a few weeks ago, and my options were either to sell the children into slavery, or to conceive of a way to motivate good behavior. I chose the former, but couldn't get Todd on board. He misses out on most of their corrivalry, and is thusly quite attached to them. So I embarked upon a journey to locate, and lure, whatever inner angels had withstood all the gruesome battling. It is with some shame that I confess to you that I have relegated my 8 and 9 year olds to a chart system.

The only chart we have ever used was for potty training a million and one years ago, but it was a wild success. Each kid trained in under a week. Nevertheless I felt a little like I was insulting them to implement these charts, but they have responded so incredibly well, I'll take anyone to the mat about it now, lol.

So Quinn and Rei each have a small chart, with 80-something squares, and they get a star sticker (those ones that our teachers used) for showing exceptional effort to be kind/considerate/tolerant/patient/non-violent towards one another. They do not get stars for adhering to a base level of courtesy or manners, nor for making their beds, doing schoolwork, or brushing their teeth without being asked, for these things are all expected of them. They get stars for walking away from a fight, compromising, negotiating, being generous beyond expectation (giving up the front seat), and for going long periods of time interacting peacefully, and in a way that doesn't make me want to slit my wrists. They may not ask for stars, or point out their good behavior. As you can see from the picture, I am not liberal in doling them out, though secretly, I do delight in it. I love the way they beam when I recognize their achievements, and I am proud to say that chivalry is becoming the norm around here. When their cards are full, they will receive $20, which isn't that much, so I'm surprised at how hard they're working. I'd like to think that underneath all the surliness are two kids who want to please their mama.

Anyway, that's what we're doing, and it's working wonders.

Oh, my kids have code names for some odd reason, don't ask me why. Reilly goes by "Fathom," and Quinn by "Zerix."

bad boy bands 101 (isn't that redundant?)

Quinn and Reilly are way into You Tube. They've seen every crazy cat dancing to Old Time Rock and Roll, as well as every tactical Halo scenario played out a hundred times over. So as You Tube was left open today, following our most cacophonous and eclectic music fest at breakfast, I slid into the deejay chair and grabbed the kids for a jaunt down memory lane.

Inspired by Quinn's fondness for George Michael's Faith, I also put them through:

You've Got it (the Right Stuff)--New Kids on the Block
Step by Step--New Kids on the Block
Girl You Know it's True--Milli Vanilli

It was pretty much mutiny by this point. They had lost all faith in me, pardon the pun. Sure, yesterday Quinn was having a regular ho-down to John Denver's "Thank God I'm a Country Boy," (his very first favorite song, age 1) but he was so afraid of Milli Vanilli's shoulder pads he almost called 911. They denounced all the lyrics, dance moves, and "costumes," and accused everyone of lip-syncing. They were decidedly underwhelmed. But I made the most out of our time travel, and counted this and our subsequent dialog as our music and/or history for the day, which I think is ingenious thank you.

this spud's for you

I have famously opined that potato bugs are so ugly they will make you cry. Inexplicably, this fact came up in Quinn's therapy appointment today, and I declared, with great gusto and authority, that these insect-like demons are too awful to behold. Anthony, the therapist, looked at me with the same quizzical expression I've seen on the faces of so many native Oregonians. The reason being that Oregonians call sow bugs "potato bugs," for some mind-boggling reason, and as such, they are forever wanting to defend their endearing roly poly little critters against my vehement slander.

But a potato bug is another story my friends. The last time I saw one I was about six, and my older brother found one in the yard. It was all nestled into a hole, on its back, and when we peered at at, the gruesome fucking thing reared its head and screamed, and by God, it had its eyes trained on us! I am not kidding. So abhorrent are these beasts that even though I have often wondered if my childhood memory bore any resemblance to reality, I have refused to look them up. For 24 years. Until today. After it came up in the session, Quinn's interest was piqued and he felt a great need to see one, so I cleverly convinced myself that doing so would be our science for the day (hooray Mom!). I literally trembled as I typed the words into Google, and I quickly prayed to die as I hit go. And there they were. A whole page of these monsters, all ready to hiss, curse, and look at us. Naturally I felt them crawling all over me, and Quinn too shuddered from head to toe. But we looked. We were brave. And now we want to share them with you, if you think you can stand it. I do have to qualify this by saying that they are 1,000% uglier, meatier, and crunchier in person, when they are screeching obscenities at you. But at least this way you're safe. Can you dig it? Potato bug. Sow Bug.

good-bye, ruby tuesday...check

Sometimes even a serial over-scheduler outdoes herself, and today is one of those days. I say is because, well, there are many ways in which to interpret 'is,' as we learned from President Clinton, but I used it because my days is still in progress. My Tuesday looks like this.:

Wake up early and not resent everything

Clean my house, including hanging 4,500 of my wet garments so they don't shrink.

Get kids up and ready without yelling.

Post a blog for Gail.

Answer four urgent emails, despite running late.

Straighten my hair (talk about tedium).

Drop the kids off with my mom, after mediating the fight over the BACK SEAT!?!?!?!

Go to the dentist for a cleaning; force them to reiterate how beautiful my teeth are.

Pick up my gym clothes.

Buy .7 cents worth of son-of-a-bitchin' gas.

Hit Old Navy in search of more of a certain kind of elusive socks for Quinn.

Drop in to B's to rifle around for some grub.

Rendezvous with my FANTABULOUS psychiatrist; confirm that I am still crazy.

Return to B's to wait for (K).

Write this blog.

Have dinner with (K), and hopefully drinks.

Have tea with Megan at Starbucks, DON'T FORGET MORE COFFEE GROUNDS for B's garden.

Drop off B's dad's birthday gift in NE Salem.

Hit the gym with B, work our guts out.

Drive B home.

Call Todd to tell him to let the kids stay up so they remember who I am.

Come home and kiss them until they push me away.

Read chapters 3 and 4 to them.

By then it will be sunrise and we'll have Wednesday's list to contend with.