Hey Mom,
On my way out now. There’s tuna in the fridge left over from making my lunch. I hope you have a good Day!!!!!! Someone ate all the salami, though. Wasn’t me, and Nick doesn’t have a motive. I love you!!!!!!
Xoxoxoxoxoxo
Dear Daughter,
I confess!!!!!!!!! I ate the salami for dinner last night! I’m so sorry!!!!! It was so good!!!!!!! I am so evil!!!!!!!!!!!!
Love,
Mommy
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Quitting the this blog for now
I am suspending entries on this blog for the time being. Thanks for reading.
Wednesday, June 6, 2007
Shot Glasses of Milk
Okay. So my kids are out of school for the summer. And I'm a writer who works from home. Recently my concentration and ability to get things done has been destroyed like a comet impacted planet. The latest interruption came from an argument over the shot glasses.
For some reason, my children love these tiny glasses and pick them up in gift shops and arcades. So. My son had three and my daughter could only find one. She insists one of the son's is hers. She even labled hers with masking tape, but of course, the tape came off when it was washed.
I give them the look. It does not stop my daughter from demanding a shot glass from my son. I ask him as a personal favor to me to give her one of his three glasses. Then I cry. He relents. I'm not sure how long the crying strategy will work. I doubt it lasts through the next argument before they become immune.
But for now, they are in the kitchen drinking their shot glasses of milk. I'm not sure what this says about me as a parent, other than I'm desparate for some silence. I'm going to use it while I can.
For some reason, my children love these tiny glasses and pick them up in gift shops and arcades. So. My son had three and my daughter could only find one. She insists one of the son's is hers. She even labled hers with masking tape, but of course, the tape came off when it was washed.
I give them the look. It does not stop my daughter from demanding a shot glass from my son. I ask him as a personal favor to me to give her one of his three glasses. Then I cry. He relents. I'm not sure how long the crying strategy will work. I doubt it lasts through the next argument before they become immune.
But for now, they are in the kitchen drinking their shot glasses of milk. I'm not sure what this says about me as a parent, other than I'm desparate for some silence. I'm going to use it while I can.
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Baseball Blues
My son planned to be a pro baseball player when he grew up. Until he got hit by a ball last week. One fractured eye orbit later, and he doesn't want to play baseball again. Ever.
I am trying to figure out what to do. He loved baseball. He loved going to practice, he loved wearing a uniform, he loved batting. And now he doesn't want to play.
Do I make him ease back into it? Would it help show him how to overcome his fears? Or is it just being cruel? If he didn't like baseball so much, I wouldn't sweat it, but he was passionate about it.
This is one of those parent moments when I feel like there's no right answer. Any way I go about it, I'm going to screw it up. I just love those moments. I wish I could wave at them as they go by, but I'm the mom. No free pass for me. You gotta make the hard decisons when you're a mom. It sucks.
I am trying to figure out what to do. He loved baseball. He loved going to practice, he loved wearing a uniform, he loved batting. And now he doesn't want to play.
Do I make him ease back into it? Would it help show him how to overcome his fears? Or is it just being cruel? If he didn't like baseball so much, I wouldn't sweat it, but he was passionate about it.
This is one of those parent moments when I feel like there's no right answer. Any way I go about it, I'm going to screw it up. I just love those moments. I wish I could wave at them as they go by, but I'm the mom. No free pass for me. You gotta make the hard decisons when you're a mom. It sucks.
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Field Trips
Among other places, I have been to the Butterfly house three times, the Weldon Springs radioactive materials storage site, Hannibal, MO, the St. Louis Symphony, the zoo, and a local park.
It's field trip season. I have mixed feelings about field trips. When the kids were younger, I dreaded the sheer energy drain involved in keeping track of elementary age kids. They always acted like they'd never been let out of a school before and had to make as much noise and touch as many things as possible before someone realized the mistake they'd made and put them back in their school cage.
As my children have grown, I've been more ambivalent. I've enjoyed quite a few field trips, but I'm still pleasantly surprised by this fact. I don't quite know why. Probably because I'm always there in the capacity of lion tamer, and I have to keep my eye on everything.
I do know my favorite part of every field trip, and its not the bus ride back. It's lunch. First, the kids are always starved by the time we sit down for lunch, so they are ecstatic. Second, I get to sit and talk with them. My kid always shows me off like a cool rock they found that they'll let their friends see if they're good.
They giggle and wiggle, and I get to just watch them being kids. The most supervision I have to do is making sure they throw away all their trash. I open yogurt containers and pull open chip bags. As we break bread, I look at the weird and wonderful things they bring in their lunches - all manner of lunchable type concoctions, yogurt that changes colors - and I store up what my kid is like at this age. That's the best part.
So wish me luck. Friday is a field trip. I'm packing a bologna sandwich, chips, and grapes.
It's field trip season. I have mixed feelings about field trips. When the kids were younger, I dreaded the sheer energy drain involved in keeping track of elementary age kids. They always acted like they'd never been let out of a school before and had to make as much noise and touch as many things as possible before someone realized the mistake they'd made and put them back in their school cage.
As my children have grown, I've been more ambivalent. I've enjoyed quite a few field trips, but I'm still pleasantly surprised by this fact. I don't quite know why. Probably because I'm always there in the capacity of lion tamer, and I have to keep my eye on everything.
I do know my favorite part of every field trip, and its not the bus ride back. It's lunch. First, the kids are always starved by the time we sit down for lunch, so they are ecstatic. Second, I get to sit and talk with them. My kid always shows me off like a cool rock they found that they'll let their friends see if they're good.
They giggle and wiggle, and I get to just watch them being kids. The most supervision I have to do is making sure they throw away all their trash. I open yogurt containers and pull open chip bags. As we break bread, I look at the weird and wonderful things they bring in their lunches - all manner of lunchable type concoctions, yogurt that changes colors - and I store up what my kid is like at this age. That's the best part.
So wish me luck. Friday is a field trip. I'm packing a bologna sandwich, chips, and grapes.
Sunday, May 13, 2007
Mother's Day Rant
It's Mother's Day. I do not require breakfast in bed, flowers, chocolates, or a guest spot on Oprah for being a stellar mother. However, I do require a few basic things I've found lacking today.
1. Children get dressed without being reminded 47 times.
2. Children wear decent, non soiled clothing, wash their hair/body, and comply with requests for assistance without sullen rebellion.
If they were toddlers, this might be unreasonable. But an eleven and thirteen-year-old are capable of these activities. They thought they were going to get away with this. But no. As the meanest mom in the world, I have a responsibility to teach them how to treat other people. So they spent a lot of time doing chores today and (voluntarily?) made me a card to apologise for their behavior. I'm not sure yet whether the latter was to get out of the former, but I'm taking it at face value right now.
Bottom line: If I don't value myself and how I'm treated, how will they know how they deserve to be treated? Most of the time my children are helpful and compassionate. But every once in awhile they become devil spawn just to test the waters. Can I get away with this? Will anyone call me on it? So even on this day, I have to be the mom, even though it feels like I've been struggling all day to fight the french rebellion. So I'm sucking it up. It's part of being a mom. But I don't have to like it.
1. Children get dressed without being reminded 47 times.
2. Children wear decent, non soiled clothing, wash their hair/body, and comply with requests for assistance without sullen rebellion.
If they were toddlers, this might be unreasonable. But an eleven and thirteen-year-old are capable of these activities. They thought they were going to get away with this. But no. As the meanest mom in the world, I have a responsibility to teach them how to treat other people. So they spent a lot of time doing chores today and (voluntarily?) made me a card to apologise for their behavior. I'm not sure yet whether the latter was to get out of the former, but I'm taking it at face value right now.
Bottom line: If I don't value myself and how I'm treated, how will they know how they deserve to be treated? Most of the time my children are helpful and compassionate. But every once in awhile they become devil spawn just to test the waters. Can I get away with this? Will anyone call me on it? So even on this day, I have to be the mom, even though it feels like I've been struggling all day to fight the french rebellion. So I'm sucking it up. It's part of being a mom. But I don't have to like it.
Wednesday, May 9, 2007
Why do My Kids Keep Breaking Themselves?
So. We'd managed about seven months since last night's emergency room visit. Seven months ago my daughter decided a go-cart made a great flying missile - at least until it hits a solid object and breaks your wrist. Seven whole months.
Six months before that, my son tripped over the dog. Tripped. Over. The. Dog. He tripped over the dog and broke a bone in his foot. This required me to take him on crutches to a baseball game by myself because my husband was out of town. On his final doctor's appointment, we got trapped in the elevator. In the summer. With an alarm blaring at brain melting levels. Two emergency people had to pry to doors open to release us.
Before that, the last one was, let's see, Nick's arm broken below the shoulder when some kid stepped on him in Tumble Drum play place. Said place happened to be hosting my daughter's eight birthday party. Thank god for grandparents.
Before that, Nick again and his collarbone. He was three, jumping on the bed, fell off. Broken collar bone.
Before that. My daughter broke her three-year-old wrist when my former sister-in-law's mother accidentally caught her between a shopping cart and a post outside the front entrance of Wal-Mart. This is the same wrist she would break in exactly the same place while riding a go-cart in 2006.
So last night. My baseball loving son has had his last two games and three practices rained out. The weather is clear. He finally gets to play. He gets up to bat. He's looking great - Albert Pujols stance, rotating bat. He's ready. The pitcher winds up and throws once, twice, thrice. Nick strikes out. Ah ha. You thought something was going to happen there, didn't you? But no.
It's time for his team to take the outfield. He's assigned to first base, one of his favorite positions. Everyone is getting warmed up. He rolls a grounder to the third baseman, who catches it and throws it back to Nick. Hard. And into his right eye. Nick lost the baseball in the lights, but it found him.
He goes down like he's been shot. I run out to the field. They sit him up. The nose piece on his glasses has cut a gash in the corner of his eye and its bleeding. And his nose is bleeding. And his eye, in the space of ten seconds, has swollen shut and attainted a bright purple shade, much like eggplant.
So off to the emergency room we go again. He's probably fine. Right? Just a precaution. They check his eye, make sure the cornea isn't scratched. Probe around a bit to see if there is any pain in the bone around his eye. No worries. Let's do a CT scan to make sure, the doctor says. It's probably not broken.
The second the doctor walks in, I know it's broken. I can see it in the surprise on his face. Nick's orbital bone around the eye is fractured. In two places. We've spent three hours in the emergency room - actually quite short given our history. We get home about 1 a.m. Today I took him to the eye doctor and he referred us to a plastic surgeon who will decide if he needs surgery. The short end to this long story of my children's brokeness is this. I'm tired of going to the emergency room.
Don't get me wrong. Thank you god, that we have insurance and good medical care here in the good ole U.S. of A. But I'm tired of being thankful for it. I tired of calling to make doctor's appointments and having them tell me, don't call us, we'll call you back when we have nothing better to do. Sit there by the phone. No, you may not talk to a human being.
When we got stuck in the elevator, I tried to call the doctor we had just visited for help. Couldn't get a human. Thought no one was going to know we were trapped. Ever. We would just mummify in this hot box in the parking garage while people actually ignored my cries for help
But that's okay. My baby is going to be fine. I'm going to be fine. We're all going to be fine. But it ends here. I forbid any more injuries. I will have it no more. I shake my fist at the universe and give it an evil look. Cut it out or I'll... I'll.... Well, I don't know. But universe, you don't want to find out.
Six months before that, my son tripped over the dog. Tripped. Over. The. Dog. He tripped over the dog and broke a bone in his foot. This required me to take him on crutches to a baseball game by myself because my husband was out of town. On his final doctor's appointment, we got trapped in the elevator. In the summer. With an alarm blaring at brain melting levels. Two emergency people had to pry to doors open to release us.
Before that, the last one was, let's see, Nick's arm broken below the shoulder when some kid stepped on him in Tumble Drum play place. Said place happened to be hosting my daughter's eight birthday party. Thank god for grandparents.
Before that, Nick again and his collarbone. He was three, jumping on the bed, fell off. Broken collar bone.
Before that. My daughter broke her three-year-old wrist when my former sister-in-law's mother accidentally caught her between a shopping cart and a post outside the front entrance of Wal-Mart. This is the same wrist she would break in exactly the same place while riding a go-cart in 2006.
So last night. My baseball loving son has had his last two games and three practices rained out. The weather is clear. He finally gets to play. He gets up to bat. He's looking great - Albert Pujols stance, rotating bat. He's ready. The pitcher winds up and throws once, twice, thrice. Nick strikes out. Ah ha. You thought something was going to happen there, didn't you? But no.
It's time for his team to take the outfield. He's assigned to first base, one of his favorite positions. Everyone is getting warmed up. He rolls a grounder to the third baseman, who catches it and throws it back to Nick. Hard. And into his right eye. Nick lost the baseball in the lights, but it found him.
He goes down like he's been shot. I run out to the field. They sit him up. The nose piece on his glasses has cut a gash in the corner of his eye and its bleeding. And his nose is bleeding. And his eye, in the space of ten seconds, has swollen shut and attainted a bright purple shade, much like eggplant.
So off to the emergency room we go again. He's probably fine. Right? Just a precaution. They check his eye, make sure the cornea isn't scratched. Probe around a bit to see if there is any pain in the bone around his eye. No worries. Let's do a CT scan to make sure, the doctor says. It's probably not broken.
The second the doctor walks in, I know it's broken. I can see it in the surprise on his face. Nick's orbital bone around the eye is fractured. In two places. We've spent three hours in the emergency room - actually quite short given our history. We get home about 1 a.m. Today I took him to the eye doctor and he referred us to a plastic surgeon who will decide if he needs surgery. The short end to this long story of my children's brokeness is this. I'm tired of going to the emergency room.
Don't get me wrong. Thank you god, that we have insurance and good medical care here in the good ole U.S. of A. But I'm tired of being thankful for it. I tired of calling to make doctor's appointments and having them tell me, don't call us, we'll call you back when we have nothing better to do. Sit there by the phone. No, you may not talk to a human being.
When we got stuck in the elevator, I tried to call the doctor we had just visited for help. Couldn't get a human. Thought no one was going to know we were trapped. Ever. We would just mummify in this hot box in the parking garage while people actually ignored my cries for help
But that's okay. My baby is going to be fine. I'm going to be fine. We're all going to be fine. But it ends here. I forbid any more injuries. I will have it no more. I shake my fist at the universe and give it an evil look. Cut it out or I'll... I'll.... Well, I don't know. But universe, you don't want to find out.
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