I attended a party this weekend. One of my dearest friends is moving away. Far away. Away from Oklahoma.
*sad face*
As sad as that is, I was so excited to have an excuse to buy one of Marek's hand-sewn original pillows. THEY ARE SO ADORABLE!! All of them have some sort of nod to Oklahoma. Perfect for my soon-to-be displaced Okie bestie.
I want one for myself. Real *real* bad. What's that you say? You need one too? I KNOW! CAN YOU STAND THE CUTENESS??
Go on over and check out Marek's Etsy shop. And you may buy me any of her items. I'm not picky!
http://www.etsy.com/shop/marekalaine
OR! If you live in OKC, you can go to Collected Thread in the Plaza District and gitcha one. And then git ME one! Or TWO. Or ten.
*no, Marek did not pay me or ask me or bribe me to say nice things about her stuff. In fact, Marek barely knows me! And now I sort of feel like a stalker. Or something.
Today I heard crying coming from the backyard. I was working upstairs, but thought to crack the window enough to monitor the kids. I took the stairs two at a time and approached the back door just as William was sprinting toward it. He ran along beside me explaining that Paige and he had bonked heads on the trampoline. By the time I wrestled her off and assessed her noggin, she was finished crying and asking for a snack.
"Good idea. Let's all go in for a snack", I said. But once inside, I realized William hadn't followed. I went back outside and found him looking grim. On the edge of tears. "You're sad you hurt sissy?" I asked. "Yes", he said.
This is not uncommon. He cannot stand it if he hurts her. In fact, in many instances his reaction to her pain is significantly worse than the actual pain, which results in me comforting them both simultaneously.
I told him sissy was fine. I reminded him that it was an accident. I told him to come in for a snack. He did. Then I went back upstairs trying to remember where I'd left off on my work project.
Twenty minutes passed, then William came upstairs. I turned to him intending to discuss our remaining homeschool work, but at the sight of him I stopped. He was still looking grim.
"What's wrong buddy?".
He collapsed into tears. He curled into a tiny ball on the floor and refused to he held or comforted. He was sad that he'd hurt his sister, and I was realizing he was also ashamed to be crying. He didn't want me to see him.
He's almost 8 years old. And someone somewhere told him that Boys Don't Cry.
I wondered if this would be he last time I'd see it. If he would save the rest of his tears for the middle of the night, or the privacy if the shower. Because boys our society are only allowed to show one emotion: anger.
I patted his back until he felt better. I kept Paige at bay knowing he didn't want to see her. I told him to snuggle down in his bed and read until he felt better.
And while he was reading, and Paige was busy with her snack, I snuck away to cry.
I debated whether to tell you, Internet, because I am truly not sure if I can do it. I have never gone a whole DAY without actual food. I mean it. Not ever. No really! No! Not even that time I had the stomach flu! Not even THEN!
But I mean, people do this, right? If not for health reasons, then for say, a medical procedure. It can be done: The Not Eating.
So tomorrow I'll try.
I was inspired by a documentary. The host proclaims that many of our food issues are really addictions... Which are impossible to stop without a period of time for the body to "reboot".
So tomorrow I'll be over here rebooting. And perhaps weeping? Or punching things! Who knows? The suspense is killing me!
Check back in tomorrow and we'll see what has become of me. Will I die? Will I drive to the donut shop by 10am? Only time will tell!
*Update! Well, it's 7pm, and I haven't broken my fast or died. So, um, go me! (?)
I HATED the green juice, so I subsisted on a mixture of fruit juices. Not good. Tomorrow I will go to the store and buy the ingredients for a new (hopefully tastier) juice. That is, if I live until morning.
Ok, you know that feeling you get when you meet a first-time mother-to-be? And she is teeming with excitement and anxiety about "her body and how it will never be the same" and "what if labor hurts". And you say nice things about how it will all be fine because that's what we veteran mothers do: we lie like DOGS to these poor women, because who wants to hear the truth in that vulnerable state?
No one.
We veteran moms want to grab those pregnant mothers by the shoulders and say LABOR IS NOTHING, wait until you haven't slept more than 90 consecutive minutes IN WEEKS and talk to me about pain. Wait until the baby coughs like a seal and his little lips turn blue and you rush to the hospital praying like mad the whole way... that, girlfriend, is anxiety.
Well, I've been wondering if mothers of grown children are keeping a dirty secret from ME. Because lately, I feel like my children are just so cute and funny and adorable - Paige with her pigtails and sparkly pink toenails that are so tiny they look like specks of dust, and William with his constant questions about the universe coupled with a smattering of freckles across his nose the sight of which makes my eyes mist over. I wonder if those mothers of grown children are looking at me when I cross the parking lot holding both of their wee little hands and thinking "enjoy it woman, because this is as good as it gets".
I worry that's what they're thinking. "Wait until they're teenagers", they mutter under their breath. "Wait until that little pigtailed girl says she hates you". I worry that they're not telling me because I don't need to know - that it would ruin this for me - they think I shouldn't know, because what good does it do to know this is all so fleeting? And that it's going to get worse from here.
Kind of like we veterans never, ever tell new moms about The First Three Months. Because it's too late for them now. They'll know soon enough. No need to worry them. It is what it is.
Are you worried about what lies ahead? About parenting adolescents? Because I'm terrified. Truly.
Oh my GOSH, you guys, I just watched the MOST disturbing documentary about our food chain. I know I KNOW I'm late to this game. And I know I should be the most disgusted by the junk they put in the feed for these animals, by the hormones and antibiotics that eventually end up in ME (and my children).
But here's what got me: THOSE POOR ANIMALS.
Did you know they cut the TOES OFF of chickens WHILE THEY'RE ALIVE so that they won't scratch each other? DID YOU KNOW THEY CUT THEIR BEAKS OFF for the same reason?
I'm horrified. Totally totally horrified.
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Moving on. Here in the next few days I'm going to be writing my first ever product review. For a wonderful local company. How do you feel about this, my dear reader?
No really. Tell me.
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And finally, I worked my buns off today. But I still managed to take the kids to the park. I love them. They're so cool. And funny. And sweet.
So hey! Let's talk about the bird-related bad things that happened today! Yeah. You heard me. I said BIRD-RELATED.
So, the kids and I went to the zoo first thing this morning where a mutant-possessed-evil bird (specifically, a Lorikeet, or as I like to call him "bastard") BIT ME UNTIL I BLED. So, naturally, I stomped him to death and ate him for dinner.* He was delicious.
While we were at the zoo we wandered into "The Aviary". The aviary is not where the evil biting birds live. As best I could tell, it's where they keep the birds who need a vastly different climate than the Oklahoma outdoors can provide. The Aviary is kept MUCH warmer and damper. Which meant that the, uh *droppings* and other bird-related funk seemed to almost cling to your very soul. SUCH a potent aroma, you all. So potent, in fact, that Paige immediately BEGAN RETCHING when we entered THE ONE-WAY DOOR to the aviary. I was trapped! With Madame McRetchington! I just knew I was going to have to call for a "cleanup on aisle seven", so we ran(!) through that exhibit, past other moms with strollers, past children dawdling with the blue-billed ducks (which were so cool! Ducks! With BLUE bills!)... All while Paige is WHARFWHARFWHARFING.
It was awful. And now, hours later, a little funny. My girl. She has a very delicate sense of smell. This combined with a very strong gag reflex makes for good good times!
But hey! She didn't hurl! Just a LOT of loud dry heaving. So see? A happy ending.
*I am exaggerating. I did not eat the bird. We had a long talk and he apologized. Then he begged me not to tell the Internet. Chuh. As if, dude.
I once had this friend who had many MANY children. (Of course, I consider anything over two to be "many" children... Because the parents? OUTNUMBERED.) This friend of mine disciplined with a soft voice and a calm disposition. Rarely did she do more than give a verbal warning to these many children. And on the occasion that one of her many was really misbehaving, she'd grab a wooden spoon out of the drawer in the kitchen (she was always in the kitchen... Because she had many children to cook for!) and she'd whack their hineys. (Gently! She was never ever cruel.)
I know about this mother's wooden spoon because once we were out somewhere (dinner maybe?) without our kids and as she was digging through her purse I spied amongst the contents a long wooden spoon. When I asked about it, she explained that when her children are particularly rowdy- say when they're driving down the road- all she has to do is grab her spoon and wave it around. Apparently the children had a Pavlovian response to it.
I found this to be hilarious. I imagined seeing this soft-spoken momma driving around town (in her giant car.. Because remember: MANY children) shaking a spoon. Hoo boy! Funny!
My friend also said that once she left the house without The Spoon and wouldn't you know her kids decided THAT was he day to act up? Fortunately for my friend, she was in the grocery store. She simply drove her little cart to the wooden spoon aisle and threatened to buy every one on the rack.
Look, I'm a lifetime Oklahoma girl. Which means that I'm no stranger to violent springtime storms involving tornadoes. I've spent a lifetime dashing in and out of my "hidey hole" when the tornado sirens go off. It's not pleasant. But it's always been more annoying than terrifying to me. All the drama on television, all the buildup for what usually turns out to be nothing.
Usually.
But then I went and had myself a couple of babies, and as soon as those creatures began growing in my body tornadoes took on a whole new meaning. All of a sudden my hidey hole in the closet seemed laughably simple. I dreamed of a fortified bunker seventeen stories beneath the earth. Sadly, bunkers are unavailable to me, so I'm left with my measly cupboard under the stairs. And two wee little bicycle helmets. And a puffy quilt.
Now I feel like I'm fighting a dragon with a toothpick.
All week the newscasters have been frothing at the mouth about the "perfect storm" brewing. And sure enough, several tornadoes touched down late yesterday afternoon. And since it was afternoon, my husband was still at work. ON THE THIRTY-SIXTH FLOOR OF A SKYSCRAPER. Which is 1)not good 2)not good at all and 3)far away from me which is 4)not good.
I was so glad when he eventually arrived home safe.
We put the kids to bed and curled up ourselves because Dave was scheduled to do volunteer work at 5am Saturday morning. We drifted off to sleep only to wake to blaring tornado sirens at 2:30am.
I leaped out of bed and ran for the children. Dave stopped me. He quickly checked in with the television and was able to convince me that the storm was headed away from us.
So I crawled back in bed and prayed for all those families in harms way. I prayed they had enough toothpicks to fight the dragon.
Did I ever tell you that I knew my dad was going to die way before it happened? I dreamed it. Only, it wasn't like any other dream I'd ever had. It was so REAL. Not so much the dream itself. I only remember flashes of it. But I woke up with, I don't know - I can't even describe it - it was like the feelings I experienced in the dream were REAL, real-er than a normal dream.
That was 2 weeks before he died. I told my husband, my friends, my mother. I told them about this dream I'd had. All I could remember was him lying there and I knew he was dead. And his skin was weird. Sort of purplish-red. That was the image that flashed through my mind when I thought of the dream. His skin. Him just laying there. In a coffin? I think so. But now, so many years later, I'm not even sure of that part.
So then he died. He was 55 years old. Super healthy. Active. But he had a brain aneurysm and died. Well, that's not technically true. My step-mom performed CPR until the ambulance got there. He was rushed to the hospital and put on life-support. After many tests, it was determined that his brain was so badly damaged that there was no hope of recovery.
As we said our goodbyes, I held his hand and stroked his hair and then I noticed his skin. It was the most peculiar reddish-purple color. I'd seen it before. Exactly. EXACTLY like my dream. The nurses explained that his brain was having trouble regulating his blood pressure. That the inflated blood pressure was causing his skin to flush and discolor.
There were other odd events that day. Things that happened that just defy explanation. But the dream is what I go back to. How did that happen? WHY did it happen? I think I know - I think I believe that I needed a taste of the devastation so that the real devastation wouldn't do me in. That there must be SOMETHING out there greater than me that shielded me. The one dream is the thing I lean on when my faith in God becomes shaky.
Someone whispered a warning to me. Something's out there. And whatever you call "it" (God, The Universe) sent me a love note - one that I re-read when I need reminding.
Oh you guys! Hi! I'm here! I miss you! You're going to have to bear with me for a little while. I love writing. I love this blog. I love YOU. But I'm struggling to find balance with my new job. I thought I could easily find 3 hours per day to work. Three measly hours! How hard could that be?
OHMYGAHSOHARD.
It's not that I didn't HAVE the three hours to spare. It's that those three hours are sprinkled throughout my day. You see, I thought (INSANELY) that I could carve out three CONSECUTIVE hours each day. Oh HAHAHAHA! What the heck, me? Turns out, it's an hour here, 15 minutes there, 30 minutes over here. Which means every moment I even CONSIDER sitting down to write on my blog, I start feeling guilty that those are minutes I could be working.
Or volunteering.
I also didn't realize how committed I was. I'm so OVER-COMMITTED you guys! How did this happen? I'm on the board of directors for my neighborhood homeowners association. I have volunteered to run the monthly parent's luncheon at William's school. I provide (creative! thoughtful!) gifts to the teachers at each of their staff meetings. Speaking of which, lookie here at what I did for a gift on Monday:
you cannot believe how hard it was for me to come up with a "mint" pun.
I KNOW! So cute! And also completely stolen from Pinterest. I am such a good plagiarizer!
This week and last I've been setting my alarm for 6am so that I can have 30 uninterrupted minutes alone with my hot cup of coffee and my iPad. I do things like read blogs and peruse Twitter. Such frivolity! Then I spend the rest of the day Doing Only Productive Things.
Oh POOR ME! Only productive things! HOW WILL I SURVIVE IN THIS ENVIRONMENT?
Ok, the truth is that I already feel like I'm getting into a groove. And it's only been 3 weeks, right? Learning an entire new job (especially after NOT working for a zillion years) is supposed hard, and when I know things a little better I'm certain I will be back to blogging more regularly.
Yes! I will survive to blog another day!
In the mean time, tell me you missed me as much as I've missed you.
Look, I know we all think OUR kids are the cutest ones at Easter. And I want you to go on believing your kids are the cutest.
Meanwhile I'll be over here confident in the knowledge that my kids are so very dang cute. I mean, would you please look at the hat? And don't even get me started on the fact that my 7 year old is wearing a necktie. A TIE. I die!
(The one in the middle is my niece. She has a hat AND pink braces. Top THAT, people!)
I've decided to provide you with a scintillating pile of photos from my iPhone. I know! You are so thrilled! This is like a riveting tale of "A Week in the Life of Rita". Fascinating.
Chief among these photos are images of children displaying nearly dead fish.
Allow me to explain: you see, Dave has been taking the children to our tiny neighborhood pond to fish. They situate themselves directly below the very large, very clearly illustrated "No Fishing" sign and cast their lines into the water. Such an example of law-abiding citizenry! I am so proud.
Today was crazy you guys! First of all, I had to dress myself IN BUSINESS ATTIRE. What IS that? I've totally forgotten. Does it involve a blazer? Do they even call it a "blazer"? Either way, I don't own a blazer-type outfit. Well, that's actually not true. I do have two basic pantsuits from way back when. And they're not even that dated looking! However, it turns out that a pantsuit from 2003 doesn't really fit my 2012 thighs. Hmph.
I was able to cobble together an outfit consisting of a pencil skirt, a button-down shirt and a cardigan. And I had the PERFECT leopard print heels to pull it all together. I tried on the outfit and stared at myself in the mirror. Y'all, I'm not going to lie: I looked pretty good.
But here's the problem: my feet aren't accustomed to heels. For 8 years I have worn shoes that are flat. And cushy. And soft. In the short time that I stood there adoring my gorgeous leopard heels in the mirror my feet were already in protest and threatening full rebellion.
The Old Rita (the younger, more vain one) would have ignored those protests, tucked some band aids in her purse and left the house looking cute. The New Rita (the older one with no shame or fashion sense) ripped those heels off and put on her most comfortable ballet flats.
I looked frumpy, unfashionable, and a tiny bit fat. But dang, my feet felt gooood.
As I stood there people-watching (I was at a women's business conference) I noticed a very distinct line of demarcation - the *ahem* mature women ALL had flats on their feet. And they all looked a little frumpy. The younger women, on the other hand, looked amazing. Long beautiful legs ending in perfect, stylish heels. And I could almost feel them scoffing at all of us oldies in our frump shoes.
But I have learned that one cannot be pretty (no matter your wardrobe choices) if you are limping and grimacing in pain. So there.
mommy's little pharaoh - in the back wearing the red crown
I had what might be my greatest parenting surprise today. A watershed moment where everything I *thought* I knew about my kid was redefined. Replaced by a whole new image.
It was out-of-body weird.
And I'm not sure I'm a good enough writer to properly convey exactly what happened. I suppose the best way to say it is that I woke up thinking I had a sort of wallflower boy. The kind who who has stood - all of his life - on the back row during school musicals and soundlessly mouthed the words to the songs while half-heartedly performing the accompanying hand motions a few beats late.
I thought I had a wallflower boy because this was the way he'd performed at every school function up to today.
I should have known something had changed when another mother commented recently that her children "just think William is so funny". I remember coming home and discussing this with Susan. I wondered if perhaps the other students were laughing AT William. Because OBVIOUSLY he wasn't being funny on purpose. I mean, this is William we're talking about. William. My serious boy. My steady, quiet, serious boy. He's SO not the class clown type. Not even close.
And I should know, right? I'm his mother! I spend a LOT of time with this kid. More than most moms- what with the partial homeschooling and all.
Which is why is was KNOCKED OFF MY FEET today when I attended a little play put on by the first grade students.
William was slated to play the part of the pharaoh during the Biblical plagues. His classmates acted out various kinds of pestilence while begging William to "let his people go". I arrived expecting to quietly cringe while William refused to sing with the class. Instead, my kid had the crowd ROARING with laughter while he hammed it up on the stage. His part was the MAIN part. Lots of speaking. LOTS. There were many MANY improvisations, all of which were perfectly timed and executed.
I am so stunned at this turn of events. Who IS this child? This goofball who is perfectly comfortable in front of an audience? Certainly not the one I've known for nearly 8 years. No way.
And as I think about it, I realize that I am often told I am funny. And my husband is extremely quick-witted. Not to mention, he was voted class clown ALL FOUR YEARS of high school.
Maybe the fact that my kid is funny shouldn't surprise me. But you guys, this is WILLIAM we're talking about. William!
After the play, when we were climbing into the car, I told Will I thought he'd done a nice job. He replied while fastening his seat belt in the most deadpan voice, "Mom, I wasn't nice, I was hilarious."
Clearly it's the dawn of a new era.
ps. What's that you say? You want to see a video of Mommy's Little Ham? No need to beg! Here you go:
1. I went on a date with my husband on Friday night. We ate all of the carbs. On planet earth. There cannot possible be any left. I'm sorry.
2. In addition to consuming Earth-sized portions if pasta, we also discussed religion. Dave just finished reading the entire Bible in 90 days. It made for good dinner conversation. No really! It did!
3. I cleaned and organized my house on Saturday in order to feel more prepared to work on Monday. The house stayed clean until Saturday afternoon. It is now Sunday evening and the house looks the same if not worse than it did on Friday. *sigh*
4. I bought myself a bright Easter dress at the Ross Dress For Less. I spent $22.99. I am so fancy.
5. I am making William wear navy and white seersucker pants AND a tie for Easter. I'm taking bets on whether he will punch me on the nose.
6. I am going to do everything in my power to get a photo of me with my children next weekend. One where everyone is: a) not wiggling and therefore blurry, b) looking at the camera, c) smiling, d) NOT sticking out his or her tongue. I will achieve this with a carefully planned strategy of threats followed by bribery.
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