We're leaving early tomorrow morning for Bar Harbor, Maine. I don't know who's more excited, me or the girls. We're sitting here at the table, and Matilda has a million questions, because, well, because it's what she does. Here's one:
Matilda: How old will I be when we go to Bar Harbor?
Me: Uh, five, we're going tomorrow, you'll still be five. Tomorrow.
Matilda: Oh.
Steve can't come with us, but don't feel sorry for him, soon he will be climbing the peaks of MachuPichu in Peru. Instead we're going with Tim and Andrea and most of Andrea's family to stay in this enormous house that her mother's rented for the week. I haven't been on a vacation that didn't involve tents since before the girls were born. This is gonna be great!
Even with a broken foot.
And just so you know, the title of this post is from this book, which my girls and I highly recommend.
29 June 2007
27 June 2007
Karma's a Bitch, A Small, Furry Little Bitch
Right around 10:00 pm is the kitten's regularly scheduled insane-freaking-cats time. They run into each other, try to eat each other's heads, catch imaginary mice that apparently live in my hair and leap across the bed where I am trying to read. Every. Freaking. Night. It's just what they do. Then, when I'm ready to turn the light off and don't want a small animal playing claw-the-foot with me as I try to sleep, I throw them all out and close the door.Which is what I did. Which went fine. But then I remembered that I had left the girl's new books, for our upcoming 7.5+ hour car trip, on the table, and I didn't want the girls to find them when they woke up, so I had to open the door.
They always try to sneak back in. Always. They press their furry little bodies low to the ground and sneak, but right in front of me. I don't think they think I can see them coming, but I can. (But we've already established how brilliant these little things are.)
So I kick my foot in their general direction and shoo them away while sliding my body through the smallest possible gap between door and doorway. But last night, as I attempted to kick a small, adorable kitten in the face, I slammed my toes so hard into the doorway that I almost fell over.
I'm pretty sure I broke something. Like a toe. Or three. Just in time for today, when I am going over to help my friends move everything they own into a large truck. Wow. I am like the best friend ever, and I have the best timing, and did I mention that I was trying to kick a kitten in the face? Damn.
25 June 2007
A Sponge Bed of Her Very Own
This evening, after dinner, Matilda informed me that she wants a new bed. But not just any bed...
Matilda: ...a sponge bed.I am SO tempted to say yes to this request, SO tempted.
Me: A what?
Matilda: A sponge bed, made out of sponges.
Me: Um, how would that work?
Matilda: Well, [she explains with hand gestures] first you would go to the store, and buy a lot of sponges. A lot. Then we would lay them out on the floor upstairs so I can sleep on them.
Me: Uh-huh.
Matilda: And then, [more hand gestures], when I wake up, if I want to clean the floor I can just [she mimes picking a sponge up off the floor and cleaning with it, then shrugs] and if I needed a sponge bath, I'd be all set.
She assumes the I'm-all-set-right-now body posture, arms crossed over her chest, leaning back on her heels. She has made her case.
Then she makes the big eyes and moves slowly and creepily toward me.
Matilda: Please, please may I have a sponge bed so I can wash the floor whenever I want?
Hows about some rockin'?
Yesterday was not the greatest day, oh it had its moments, but I discovered that not one, but two short stories that I submitted were rejected and some other things just seemed kind of blah as well, and I was feeling oh-so-sorry for myself until I was just fell asleep. But then this morning, something amazing happened - The Queen of Shake-Shake gave me this ultra fabulous badge and told me I rock! And Heather's the Queen, so she knows.
As thrilled as I am to be told that I rock, this also means that I now have to pick some Rockin' Girl Bloggers out there, and that part is hard. Really hard, because, I mean, how do I choose? I've been thinking about this all day, in between cleaning mud and feeding children, and I came up with a few that I think rock the hardest.
And even though Megan tagged the people who were tagged with her and she's even more rockin' for breaking the rules, I think I will pick some others, and to all of you who have already been informed of your rockingness, I second it. You rock.
And so do these:
My friend Annika at Through the Looking Glass is a completely rockin' girl blogger. We were friends a long time ago, and lost touch and now, through the wonderful world of the blogosphere and the solidarity that is motherhood, we have reconnected and I adore her. I think one of my favorite memories of us, together, was the summer she worked at GenArt in NYC and I came to help her with a film festival they were doing. We were seventeen and listened to ABBA and Blondie (who Annika was shocked to discover I hadn't already been listening to) and we were probably the youngest girls at the festival and got served at every bar and hit on by every cute guy under forty, and maybe a few over forty too, if I remember correctly. (And I'm pretty sure she's blogged about the experience, but Annika, your links are being weird right now, so when you fix them, I can find it, and link to it.)
I would also like to tag Jenn at Breed 'Em and Weep, who I was lucky enough to get to meet the other day and whose blog posts are the ones that I save for last when working my way through the Google reader list. She's funny and smart and writes like I wish I could. I kept relaying the Lick My Tongue, Twisty story to everyone I met until Steve made me stop, it was just too funny. And when she went on sabbatical a few weeks ago and after a while I had to go poking around in the archives, cause I couldn't wait. I found this post, which was very apt.
And Stepherz, who has the most adorable children and really fun adventures and makes me feel like I can live vicariously through her blog. She was one of the first bloggers that I started reading regularly and her blog just made me feel welcome, you know? This story about her mother was amazing and left me speechless, which is really quite an accomplishment.
There are so many more of you all that my Google Reader overflows with joy every single day, but in choosing only a few I want to make sure that I had a really good reason for tagging each of these Rockin' Girl Bloggers, so there you goguys gals, you rock! Because I say so, and I know.
As thrilled as I am to be told that I rock, this also means that I now have to pick some Rockin' Girl Bloggers out there, and that part is hard. Really hard, because, I mean, how do I choose? I've been thinking about this all day, in between cleaning mud and feeding children, and I came up with a few that I think rock the hardest.
And even though Megan tagged the people who were tagged with her and she's even more rockin' for breaking the rules, I think I will pick some others, and to all of you who have already been informed of your rockingness, I second it. You rock.
And so do these:
My friend Annika at Through the Looking Glass is a completely rockin' girl blogger. We were friends a long time ago, and lost touch and now, through the wonderful world of the blogosphere and the solidarity that is motherhood, we have reconnected and I adore her. I think one of my favorite memories of us, together, was the summer she worked at GenArt in NYC and I came to help her with a film festival they were doing. We were seventeen and listened to ABBA and Blondie (who Annika was shocked to discover I hadn't already been listening to) and we were probably the youngest girls at the festival and got served at every bar and hit on by every cute guy under forty, and maybe a few over forty too, if I remember correctly. (And I'm pretty sure she's blogged about the experience, but Annika, your links are being weird right now, so when you fix them, I can find it, and link to it.)
I would also like to tag Jenn at Breed 'Em and Weep, who I was lucky enough to get to meet the other day and whose blog posts are the ones that I save for last when working my way through the Google reader list. She's funny and smart and writes like I wish I could. I kept relaying the Lick My Tongue, Twisty story to everyone I met until Steve made me stop, it was just too funny. And when she went on sabbatical a few weeks ago and after a while I had to go poking around in the archives, cause I couldn't wait. I found this post, which was very apt.
And Stepherz, who has the most adorable children and really fun adventures and makes me feel like I can live vicariously through her blog. She was one of the first bloggers that I started reading regularly and her blog just made me feel welcome, you know? This story about her mother was amazing and left me speechless, which is really quite an accomplishment.
There are so many more of you all that my Google Reader overflows with joy every single day, but in choosing only a few I want to make sure that I had a really good reason for tagging each of these Rockin' Girl Bloggers, so there you go
if you wash a fly...
does that make it clean?
As I transfered the laundry from the washer to the dryer, a big dead fly fell to the floor. What does this mean?
As I transfered the laundry from the washer to the dryer, a big dead fly fell to the floor. What does this mean?
24 June 2007
Evidence that makes it hard to deny my official status as a Control Freak.
Friday morning we packed up the cooler with sandwiches and watermelon and carrot sticks and hit the road. Atlantic ocean, here we come. I drove, because I always drive, and it wasn't until half an hour in that it occurred to me to mention the expected thunderstorms and 60+ degree weather to Steve. After another half hour of indecision, we changed our plans and stayed on the Pike.
We drove to Boston and took the girls first to the Aquarium where I thought maybe we should just look at the nice harbor seals and avoid paying to see fish, but no luck. $45.00 later we were ogling sharks and giant sea turtles.
It rained on us - hard - as we walked the three blocks to the Children's Museum. But we made it (and saw jelly fish in the bay) and the girls had a blast climbing on things and touching everything, because taking them there was kind of like releasing tame animals back into the wild.
At 5 we walked back (and yes, it rained again) and piled the children back in the car, headed home through rush hour traffic. I drove again, because I always drive and even though I asked Steve to drive home, I knew that Steve Driving Home did not include getting us out of the city, which is fine, it's my job. We told the girls we were going to eat Road Food on the way home and spent the next hour in traffic convincing them that we were going to eat food scraped off the street. It was a tough sell.
After we stopped and ate, Steve took over the driving, and with nothing to keep it busy, my brain began to atrophy. First I played with Freya's feet for a while, then the iPod. I talked to Matilda until she passed out and craned my neck to see the rainbow behind the car. Eventually, I ran out of things to do, and that's when it happened.
Steve is a better driver than me. Hands down, ask anyone, he's better. I have a terrible driving record that you really just don't need to hear about, it's been better since I had the girls, but still. So know that what happened next was completely irrational and uncalled for.
We were boxed in by eighteen wheelers and fast idiotic little drivers who thought that three feet was about the right distance to leave between their cars and ours. Steve was annoyed and tense, sitting forward in the seat and focused on the road. But I was in the passenger seat, helpless, there was nothing I could do, NOTHING.
So I used my imagination.
I started picturing car wrecks, I pictured myself flying head first through the windshield and landing somewhere in the meridian, blood everywhere. It would probably start with someone sliding into the guard rail and flipping over. No one would be able to stop.
At least twelve or eighteen cars would be involved and it would take until four o-clock in the morning to sort out who belonged to who and what car had hit what. The lights would flash red and blue as I lay on my back trying to see the sky.
I turned to Steve and asked, "If we're the sixth car in a massive pile-up, who's responsible? Do you think our insurance would go up?"
It was only after this pressing question that I wondered if, after the crash, I would be cognizant enough to ask for my children first. I even imagined how sad I would be if they both died. Tragic, I pictured myself in black, Steve would be there of course, but our lives together would be irreparably damaged, we would be irreparably damaged. Our friends would tiptoe around us, avoid mentioning the children by name and shake their heads and whisper to each other about how sad our lives has become when they thought we weren't looking.
I turned to the back of the car to make sure that Matilda, sleeping, still had her seatbelt buckled and wasn't slumped over in a terribly dangerous sort of way. She was fine. Freya was also strapped in tight and trying to eat her own feet.
We pulled out of the tangled traffic and onto the clear road again.
"I love you," I said to Steve, and made myself relax and sit back in my seat. I can do this, I can not-drive, I thought. "Do you want me to drive?" I asked.
We drove to Boston and took the girls first to the Aquarium where I thought maybe we should just look at the nice harbor seals and avoid paying to see fish, but no luck. $45.00 later we were ogling sharks and giant sea turtles.
It rained on us - hard - as we walked the three blocks to the Children's Museum. But we made it (and saw jelly fish in the bay) and the girls had a blast climbing on things and touching everything, because taking them there was kind of like releasing tame animals back into the wild.
At 5 we walked back (and yes, it rained again) and piled the children back in the car, headed home through rush hour traffic. I drove again, because I always drive and even though I asked Steve to drive home, I knew that Steve Driving Home did not include getting us out of the city, which is fine, it's my job. We told the girls we were going to eat Road Food on the way home and spent the next hour in traffic convincing them that we were going to eat food scraped off the street. It was a tough sell.
After we stopped and ate, Steve took over the driving, and with nothing to keep it busy, my brain began to atrophy. First I played with Freya's feet for a while, then the iPod. I talked to Matilda until she passed out and craned my neck to see the rainbow behind the car. Eventually, I ran out of things to do, and that's when it happened.
Steve is a better driver than me. Hands down, ask anyone, he's better. I have a terrible driving record that you really just don't need to hear about, it's been better since I had the girls, but still. So know that what happened next was completely irrational and uncalled for.
We were boxed in by eighteen wheelers and fast idiotic little drivers who thought that three feet was about the right distance to leave between their cars and ours. Steve was annoyed and tense, sitting forward in the seat and focused on the road. But I was in the passenger seat, helpless, there was nothing I could do, NOTHING.
So I used my imagination.
I started picturing car wrecks, I pictured myself flying head first through the windshield and landing somewhere in the meridian, blood everywhere. It would probably start with someone sliding into the guard rail and flipping over. No one would be able to stop.
At least twelve or eighteen cars would be involved and it would take until four o-clock in the morning to sort out who belonged to who and what car had hit what. The lights would flash red and blue as I lay on my back trying to see the sky.
I turned to Steve and asked, "If we're the sixth car in a massive pile-up, who's responsible? Do you think our insurance would go up?"
It was only after this pressing question that I wondered if, after the crash, I would be cognizant enough to ask for my children first. I even imagined how sad I would be if they both died. Tragic, I pictured myself in black, Steve would be there of course, but our lives together would be irreparably damaged, we would be irreparably damaged. Our friends would tiptoe around us, avoid mentioning the children by name and shake their heads and whisper to each other about how sad our lives has become when they thought we weren't looking.
I turned to the back of the car to make sure that Matilda, sleeping, still had her seatbelt buckled and wasn't slumped over in a terribly dangerous sort of way. She was fine. Freya was also strapped in tight and trying to eat her own feet.
We pulled out of the tangled traffic and onto the clear road again.
"I love you," I said to Steve, and made myself relax and sit back in my seat. I can do this, I can not-drive, I thought. "Do you want me to drive?" I asked.
23 June 2007
Um, Thanks, Freya. I Think.
Freya comes running into my room where I am hiding from everyone and reading blogs.
Freya: I won't tickle you, Mommy.
Me: Thanks.
Freya: And I won't put frogs in your belly.
Me: Thanks.
Freya throws herself at my legs and hugs them.
Freya: I love you! I don't want to kill you!
Freya: I won't tickle you, Mommy.
Me: Thanks.
Freya: And I won't put frogs in your belly.
Me: Thanks.
Freya throws herself at my legs and hugs them.
Freya: I love you! I don't want to kill you!
21 June 2007
No school 'til fall? Seriously? I don't think I can wait.
In September I will enter The Wonderful World of Being the Parent of a Public School Kid. Matilda got into the school that we wanted her to go to! I am very happy about this.
It wasn't some kind of ultra competitive thing or anything, just an out-of-district transfer to a school that I think she will do really well in. It's about half the size of the school in our district and it has a very involved parent community. Besides, when we went to visit one day last month Matilda didn't want to leave. Ever.
She and I both jumped up and down when we got the letter. We'd been waiting to hear ever since we got our transfer application in late and it was one of those things that was just so far outside the realm of my control that I had stopped thinking about it all together. But - Yay! Even though I haven't been thinking about it, now I won't have to think about it, if that makes any kind of sense.
Freya will be going to school as well, just two days a week, and only four hours each day, but still. The idea of having eight whole hours a week all to myself to do whatever I want is... well, breathtaking. It's months away, and if you count driving time, we're not even talking eight hours, and I know I will probably have to do work during those less-than-eight hours, but I still plan to spend the rest of the summer dreaming of all the luxurious things I could do with my time. Like sleep. Or eat food without getting up fifty-six times. Or take a bath. Mmm, a hot bath. Maybe I'll even start drinking a glass of wine every Thursday and Friday morning as I relax with a trashy magazine in my steaming hot bath for four hours, oh,and chocolate, don't forget the chocolate. That I won't have to share! Mwa-ha-ha-ha!
I can see this ending badly already:
Steve will get a call at work. No one has come to pick Freya up from school! She will have forgotten her "e" and she will be tired and cranky and sad. Steve will be in a meeting, he will try to call me, but I will have locked myself in the bathroom and barricaded the door with chocolate wrappers and empty wine bottles. The second call will come while he's still desperately trying to reach me, or his mother, or freaking anyone who can take Freya so he can get some work done for Christ's sake: Matilda has also been forgotten at school. It will be the day she was supposed to have a friend over. Probably the daughter of the ultra-involved head of the PTA, who is scheduled to pick up her nice, sweet, well-cared-for child around five and maybe stay for a little chat.
In the bathroom I will start doing really bad things, naked, like smoking cigarettes and writing on the walls. I will tear the nasty yellow wallpaper down in little curling shreds and sing Cyndi Lauper songs to myself as I wait for my family to come home, I will hear the phone, but I will choose not to answer it. I am an island.
Inevitably everyone will arrive at once, like a situation comedy. My mother will be worried, my dad will just "happen to be driving by," Steve will arrive with three tired, cranky girls in tow, one of whom doesn't even belong to us, and the head of the PTA will come in last, just as the door to the bathroom has sprung off its hinges and hit her cute little daughter in the shins.
Maybe it's a good thing school doesn't start until September. I don't think I'm ready. I think I'll go run myself a bath, the children should be asleep for at least another eight hours...
It wasn't some kind of ultra competitive thing or anything, just an out-of-district transfer to a school that I think she will do really well in. It's about half the size of the school in our district and it has a very involved parent community. Besides, when we went to visit one day last month Matilda didn't want to leave. Ever.
She and I both jumped up and down when we got the letter. We'd been waiting to hear ever since we got our transfer application in late and it was one of those things that was just so far outside the realm of my control that I had stopped thinking about it all together. But - Yay! Even though I haven't been thinking about it, now I won't have to think about it, if that makes any kind of sense.
Freya will be going to school as well, just two days a week, and only four hours each day, but still. The idea of having eight whole hours a week all to myself to do whatever I want is... well, breathtaking. It's months away, and if you count driving time, we're not even talking eight hours, and I know I will probably have to do work during those less-than-eight hours, but I still plan to spend the rest of the summer dreaming of all the luxurious things I could do with my time. Like sleep. Or eat food without getting up fifty-six times. Or take a bath. Mmm, a hot bath. Maybe I'll even start drinking a glass of wine every Thursday and Friday morning as I relax with a trashy magazine in my steaming hot bath for four hours, oh,and chocolate, don't forget the chocolate. That I won't have to share! Mwa-ha-ha-ha!
I can see this ending badly already:
Steve will get a call at work. No one has come to pick Freya up from school! She will have forgotten her "e" and she will be tired and cranky and sad. Steve will be in a meeting, he will try to call me, but I will have locked myself in the bathroom and barricaded the door with chocolate wrappers and empty wine bottles. The second call will come while he's still desperately trying to reach me, or his mother, or freaking anyone who can take Freya so he can get some work done for Christ's sake: Matilda has also been forgotten at school. It will be the day she was supposed to have a friend over. Probably the daughter of the ultra-involved head of the PTA, who is scheduled to pick up her nice, sweet, well-cared-for child around five and maybe stay for a little chat.
In the bathroom I will start doing really bad things, naked, like smoking cigarettes and writing on the walls. I will tear the nasty yellow wallpaper down in little curling shreds and sing Cyndi Lauper songs to myself as I wait for my family to come home, I will hear the phone, but I will choose not to answer it. I am an island.
Inevitably everyone will arrive at once, like a situation comedy. My mother will be worried, my dad will just "happen to be driving by," Steve will arrive with three tired, cranky girls in tow, one of whom doesn't even belong to us, and the head of the PTA will come in last, just as the door to the bathroom has sprung off its hinges and hit her cute little daughter in the shins.
Maybe it's a good thing school doesn't start until September. I don't think I'm ready. I think I'll go run myself a bath, the children should be asleep for at least another eight hours...
Note: This did start out as a serious post, and I am looking forward to some free time, kind of. Let's just hope it doesn't go to my head...
My Evil Darling
Last night at bedtime, past bedtime, actually.
Freya: I'M! NOT! TIRED!
Me: The excess screaming and crying says otherwise dear.
Freya: I'M! NOT! TIRED!
I put her in her bed, sang her one short little song and it was all over.
This morning, she slept until 7:30, and then:
Me: Good morning, Freya.
Freya: I'm not tired anymore.
Me: No? That's good, did you sleep well?
Freya: Yeah, now I'm your evil darling.
Me: Ooh, how evil are we?
Freya: Super evil!
My super-evil darling, oh how I love you.
Freya: I'M! NOT! TIRED!
Me: The excess screaming and crying says otherwise dear.
Freya: I'M! NOT! TIRED!
I put her in her bed, sang her one short little song and it was all over.
This morning, she slept until 7:30, and then:
Me: Good morning, Freya.
Freya: I'm not tired anymore.
Me: No? That's good, did you sleep well?
Freya: Yeah, now I'm your evil darling.
Me: Ooh, how evil are we?
Freya: Super evil!
My super-evil darling, oh how I love you.
19 June 2007
18 June 2007
Suddenly, WHAM! I'm spoon feeding her.
Today Steve took Matilda to work with him, and Freya and I were left alone. We had a good day, a low key day, a day in which I got lots of work done and every time I checked on her she was being good and she'd smile and say, "Go away Mommy, I'm playing," so I'd go away again.
Later that day...
The Scene: About 6PM, kitchen, a little too warm, still just me and my adorably coy and condescending two year old, two bowls of noodles, tofu and broccoli with garlic, pink lemonade.
She ate it eventually, but only when I offered to feed it to her. The more I think about this, the more I realize that she's completely in control of this situation. It's all about maneuvering me where she wants me and then, even as the words, "I never feed you," are actually coming out of my mouth, I find myself lifting the fork to her cute little lips. Damn.
Apparently this is what you get when you name your daughter after a very powerful goddess.
Later that day...
The Scene: About 6PM, kitchen, a little too warm, still just me and my adorably coy and condescending two year old, two bowls of noodles, tofu and broccoli with garlic, pink lemonade.
Freya: I am going to eat ALL my noodles.
Me: Okay, but don't forget you have to eat your tofu and broccoli, too.
Freya: No, I am just going to eat ALL my noodles.
Me: Three tofus, and three broccolies.
(what is the plural of broccoli? broccolae?)
Freya: No. Here's the deal. One tofu and one broccoli.
Me: Um, nooooo.
Freya: That's the deal.
Me: No it's not.
Freya: One tofu and ALL my noodles, that's the really point.
Me: Uh...
Freya: You sillyhead. That's the point.
She ate it eventually, but only when I offered to feed it to her. The more I think about this, the more I realize that she's completely in control of this situation. It's all about maneuvering me where she wants me and then, even as the words, "I never feed you," are actually coming out of my mouth, I find myself lifting the fork to her cute little lips. Damn.
Apparently this is what you get when you name your daughter after a very powerful goddess.
Look--> Steve Airbrushed Me!
Before:
After:
No more eight billion freckles, splotchy redness, weird unruly eyebrow hairs, that ultra feminine mustache that I never think about except when I look at pictures of myself in the "Actual Pixels" setting in Photoshop, no circles under my eyes, shiny patches, or weird chin wrinkles. But I still have my crazy hair. Nothing anyone can do about that, not even with the miracle of Photoshop.
The whole thing kinda creeps me out. Thanks, honey.
After:
No more eight billion freckles, splotchy redness, weird unruly eyebrow hairs, that ultra feminine mustache that I never think about except when I look at pictures of myself in the "Actual Pixels" setting in Photoshop, no circles under my eyes, shiny patches, or weird chin wrinkles. But I still have my crazy hair. Nothing anyone can do about that, not even with the miracle of Photoshop.
The whole thing kinda creeps me out. Thanks, honey.
17 June 2007
Wow, That Was So Mushy I Almost Made MYSELF Puke.
Don't worry, Dad, I still love you, but it's only been about thirty seconds since I posted this and I think my head might explode. Wow. Sorry about that Everyone Else, don't know what came over me.
Oh, and the other father in my life? Steve? He'd kill me himself if I was ever that sappy on his behalf. Thank God. So yeah, honey? I love you, you're a great fucking dad, I mean that, now come here and hold my hair back for me.
I feel like I need to go roll around in the mud swearing to myself to get clean. Okay, stopping now.
Oh, and the other father in my life? Steve? He'd kill me himself if I was ever that sappy on his behalf. Thank God. So yeah, honey? I love you, you're a great fucking dad, I mean that, now come here and hold my hair back for me.
I feel like I need to go roll around in the mud swearing to myself to get clean. Okay, stopping now.
This One's For You Dad
Even when you drive me completely nuts,even when I'm supposed to know what you're thinking and I don't,
even when you forget to buy wine for dinner,
even when you completely embarrass me in public,
even when you get all mushy and sappy,
even when you make the most off-color jokes I have ever heard,
AND
especially when you cuddle my kids,
especially when you know what's bugging me without me even having to tell you,
especially when you hug me when I need you to,
especially when you put up with me when I'm totally cranky and bitchy,
I love you Dad, happy father's day.
Dear Hoochie-Mama Pushers,
Hi, we don't know each other very well, but I'm one of those mothers who doesn't buy all that crap you're trying to sell. While I can appreciate that the market demands a certain amount of trash in the form of The string bikinis and glittery mini skirts are bad enough without you elbowing your way into the shoe market as well. See, the thing is this. High heels
are not even good for grown up adult women to wear all the time. Yeah, okay, I wear high heels occasionally. But I have seen the diagrams, I know what they're doing to my back, and I can feel what they do to my feet after about fifteen minutes. But we're talking children here, come on, their little bodies and minds are all soft and malleable, you should be ashamed.
Not only do the clothes and toys that you push fuck with their sense of who they are as girls and who they will grow to be as women, but now you want them to develop scoliosis? Seriously.
Oddly enough in most cases it has not been the style of the shoes that has pissed me off, just the fact that they have a heel. Just hack the heels off the shoes and my beef with you will diminish considerably.
Maybe you don't understand. My daughter is five. She does not need high heels. The other girls her age don't care what she is wearing on her feet and the boys are too busy with whatever it is that they do to care either. She's not trying to impress anyone and she sure as hell doesn't need to pretend she's taller than she is, because, come on, she's five, being short is just the way things are. Why, I bet even you were short when you were five.
So while I realize that my opinion might not count for much with you people, since I'm not a customer of yours, I'd still really appreciate it if you'd do me a favor and back the fuck off. At least when it comes to the shoes. I'm not going to start buying my two year old string bikinis, but if you just do me this one teensy weensy little favor, I promise not to use my really loud oh-my-fucking-god-can-you-believe-they-are-trying-to-sell-us-this-shit voice the next time I am shopping in one of your aisles.
Thank you in advance for your thoughtful consideration of this matter.
16 June 2007
In Which Freya Uses Her Amazing Two-Year-Old Logic On Me
The girls were making art this morning, an activity that takes place at least several times a day. It was only 6:47. I wasn't really awake. There hadn't even been any coffee yet. I was reading blogs.
Completely without me seeing her, Freya stuck a couple dozen ladybug stickers to the kitchen table.
Eventually, I noticed them: "Freya, you need to take those off the table. We don't stick stickers on the table."
Freya: "But Mom, they're decorations. Decorations are good."
Me: "Please take them off, I don't want my table decorated."
(pause)
Freya: (with two handed back-off gesture) "Okay, I will take half of them off."
Completely without me seeing her, Freya stuck a couple dozen ladybug stickers to the kitchen table.
Eventually, I noticed them: "Freya, you need to take those off the table. We don't stick stickers on the table."
Freya: "But Mom, they're decorations. Decorations are good."
Me: "Please take them off, I don't want my table decorated."
(pause)
Freya: (with two handed back-off gesture) "Okay, I will take half of them off."
14 June 2007
I love you because you taste like newspaper.
Last night Freya fell asleep on the floor. The kitchen floor; face down in a sea of crumbly-been-out-all-day Play Doh that she was supposed to be picking up. It was only five o-clock, but we decided to risk it, and put her to bed hoping she'd sleep straight through 'til morning. It kind of worked.
Steve and I ate dinner with Matilda, and then I escaped since my head was exploding from a killer combination of being home all day with the girls, work related issues, All. Day. Long. and a little PMS thrown in for good measure. I didn't do anything fun, just ran errands, and when I got home I was more than ready to collapse and let my good friend the television invade my ailing brain. Which I did just as soon as Miss Matilda was tucked in and kissed goodnight.
Half an hour later we heard cries from upstairs so I went up to investigate. Freya was awake and sad, Matilda was still awake and determined not to be left out of any cuddles or sympathy that her baby sister was set to receive. So the three of us went downstairs and we all crawled into bed with Steve for a good cuddle together.
"Matilda," I said, "I love you, because your hair smells like broccoli." Freya and Matilda both shrieked and giggled as if I had made the funniest joke ever, because, you know, they're 2, and 5.
Hence began the latest of our family games in which we find the silliest possible reasons why we love each other. I think my favorite was Matilda's: "Daddy, I love you because I can stuff you full of pumpkin guts."
Steve and I ate dinner with Matilda, and then I escaped since my head was exploding from a killer combination of being home all day with the girls, work related issues, All. Day. Long. and a little PMS thrown in for good measure. I didn't do anything fun, just ran errands, and when I got home I was more than ready to collapse and let my good friend the television invade my ailing brain. Which I did just as soon as Miss Matilda was tucked in and kissed goodnight.
Half an hour later we heard cries from upstairs so I went up to investigate. Freya was awake and sad, Matilda was still awake and determined not to be left out of any cuddles or sympathy that her baby sister was set to receive. So the three of us went downstairs and we all crawled into bed with Steve for a good cuddle together.
"Matilda," I said, "I love you, because your hair smells like broccoli." Freya and Matilda both shrieked and giggled as if I had made the funniest joke ever, because, you know, they're 2, and 5.
Hence began the latest of our family games in which we find the silliest possible reasons why we love each other. I think my favorite was Matilda's: "Daddy, I love you because I can stuff you full of pumpkin guts."
12 June 2007
First Murder in Fifteen Years
Yesterday morning, in Great Barrington, Massachusetts, before most of the town was even awake, Reverend Esther Dozier was murdered in her bed. The last murder here was the 1992 shooting of two Simon's Rock college students by Wayne Lo, another student, one of the first school shootings in what soon became a national epidemic.
Esther Dozier was a pastor and very active in the community. Several years ago she worked closely with a good friend of mine and my one of my younger brothers to create a memorial to the civil rights leader W. E. B. DuBois, who was born in Great Barrington in 1868. In fact she worked tirelessly for recognition and community tributes to DuBois before and after I met her. Her husband has been arrested and charged with her murder.
There a lot of things that are strange about this for me. Aside from the fact that it's just shocking when an upstanding member of a small community is stabbed to death in her bed, I am strangely fascinated by murder and the reasons why some people do the bad things that they do.
Yesterday's murder holds many mysteries, most of which lead me to believe that her husband may be suffering from some form of mental illness. But of course I am no expert.
According to an article in today's Berkshire Eagle, at 4:50 am Henry Dozier, Sr. was in a minor car accident a few miles from his house. The police found him wandering away from the scene of the accident and took him home. Why was he wandering? He called his son and asked him to come over around 6 or 6:30. The son came, and when he arrived, passed his father in the front hall. When the son went upstairs he found his dead mother in her bed. Why did he call his son and then leave? About an hour later the police found the husband sitting in his car in a parking lot a few towns over. He told them he had ingested poison and he was taken to the hospital. Poison? At his arraignment yesterday afternoon, he was still wearing the gown he had been given at the hospital.
What happened in that house? What happened to that family? Esther Dozier was a really nice and loving person according to members of her congregation and friends who worked with her in the community, and so was her husband. How do you kill the woman that you loved and lived with and were married to for over thirty years? How did no one see that this was even a possibility?
It makes me sad, but it also fascinates me. I want so badly to understand what happened, to travel inside his head, inside their marriage, adding up the moments that led to yesterday morning. I know it's not nice to stare, but it is human. There is a need to know what others are doing, a self-conscious urge to model our behavior based on that of the people around us, to define ourselves by what we do and by what we do not do. For writers, or at least for me, this urge translates also into a need to understand not only what people do, but why.
About two years ago, Jan Stackhouse, a woman from Brooklyn, was visiting a friend of hers who lived a couple of miles from our house (in a neighboring town). The last day of her visit, a few hours before she was going to head home, she went for a walk and was found on the side of the tiny dirt road with her throat slit. The police never figured out who did it. Five months after her murder I traced her steps and wrote an article about the experience. It was creepy, but not in the way that I expected.
I always wonder about people's motivations, try to figure them out: Why did that woman cut me off? Is she rushing someone to the hospital? Driving while sobbing? Just a bitch? -- Tracing the steps of a murder victim seemed like a way to get close to an experience that I hope to never actually have.
Do you think that I, and anyone else who is not a muderer, can ever really understand what it means to take the life of another person? To understand, really understand, the thoughts and feeling that preceed an act like that? I'm not sure that we can, and maybe that's why it's so hard to help people who do terrible things and hurt other people, and why it's so hard to prevent something like this, why no one saw it coming.
Reverand Dozier will be deeply missed in our community, and although I did not know her well, I will hold her in my thoughts.
Esther Dozier was a pastor and very active in the community. Several years ago she worked closely with a good friend of mine and my one of my younger brothers to create a memorial to the civil rights leader W. E. B. DuBois, who was born in Great Barrington in 1868. In fact she worked tirelessly for recognition and community tributes to DuBois before and after I met her. Her husband has been arrested and charged with her murder.
There a lot of things that are strange about this for me. Aside from the fact that it's just shocking when an upstanding member of a small community is stabbed to death in her bed, I am strangely fascinated by murder and the reasons why some people do the bad things that they do.
Yesterday's murder holds many mysteries, most of which lead me to believe that her husband may be suffering from some form of mental illness. But of course I am no expert.
According to an article in today's Berkshire Eagle, at 4:50 am Henry Dozier, Sr. was in a minor car accident a few miles from his house. The police found him wandering away from the scene of the accident and took him home. Why was he wandering? He called his son and asked him to come over around 6 or 6:30. The son came, and when he arrived, passed his father in the front hall. When the son went upstairs he found his dead mother in her bed. Why did he call his son and then leave? About an hour later the police found the husband sitting in his car in a parking lot a few towns over. He told them he had ingested poison and he was taken to the hospital. Poison? At his arraignment yesterday afternoon, he was still wearing the gown he had been given at the hospital.
What happened in that house? What happened to that family? Esther Dozier was a really nice and loving person according to members of her congregation and friends who worked with her in the community, and so was her husband. How do you kill the woman that you loved and lived with and were married to for over thirty years? How did no one see that this was even a possibility?
It makes me sad, but it also fascinates me. I want so badly to understand what happened, to travel inside his head, inside their marriage, adding up the moments that led to yesterday morning. I know it's not nice to stare, but it is human. There is a need to know what others are doing, a self-conscious urge to model our behavior based on that of the people around us, to define ourselves by what we do and by what we do not do. For writers, or at least for me, this urge translates also into a need to understand not only what people do, but why.
About two years ago, Jan Stackhouse, a woman from Brooklyn, was visiting a friend of hers who lived a couple of miles from our house (in a neighboring town). The last day of her visit, a few hours before she was going to head home, she went for a walk and was found on the side of the tiny dirt road with her throat slit. The police never figured out who did it. Five months after her murder I traced her steps and wrote an article about the experience. It was creepy, but not in the way that I expected.
I always wonder about people's motivations, try to figure them out: Why did that woman cut me off? Is she rushing someone to the hospital? Driving while sobbing? Just a bitch? -- Tracing the steps of a murder victim seemed like a way to get close to an experience that I hope to never actually have.
Do you think that I, and anyone else who is not a muderer, can ever really understand what it means to take the life of another person? To understand, really understand, the thoughts and feeling that preceed an act like that? I'm not sure that we can, and maybe that's why it's so hard to help people who do terrible things and hurt other people, and why it's so hard to prevent something like this, why no one saw it coming.
Reverand Dozier will be deeply missed in our community, and although I did not know her well, I will hold her in my thoughts.
10 June 2007
INT. ANDREA'S HOUSE - BEDTIME
SCENE: Matilda and Freya have chosen to sleep on the floor (and I do mean The Floor) of Eden's room rather than the nice cozy bed in Eamon's room.
ME: It's time to go to sleep Til, settle down.
TIL: What are we doing tomorrow?
ME: Andrea said she'd take you guys to the museum.
TIL: Andrea's the best mommy ever.
ME: Yeah, she's pretty good.
TIL: How come she never gets mad?
ME: Um, I guess she's just, uh, magic.
TIL: *sigh* I wish you were magic.
ME: It's time to go to sleep Til, settle down.
TIL: What are we doing tomorrow?
ME: Andrea said she'd take you guys to the museum.
TIL: Andrea's the best mommy ever.
ME: Yeah, she's pretty good.
TIL: How come she never gets mad?
ME: Um, I guess she's just, uh, magic.
TIL: *sigh* I wish you were magic.
09 June 2007
For Real In About Seven Years, But Starting Today
"It's not a race, Honey," I say to Matilda in the back seat. We have been to dinner at my parent's house and are on our way home. Freya is already passed out.
"But if it was I would win," she replies.
"But, it's not. We could race in the back yard sometime," I tell her.
"We could. I would beat everyone, 'cause I'm really fast. I would beat Freya and Daddy, and you."
"You're fast," I say, "but my legs are longer than yours, which kind of gives me an unfair advantage."
She shrugs. I can hear her shrug. "Yeah," she agrees," but you have lyme disease."
She totally beat me. There was no contest. If it's like this now, what's it gonna be like when she hits those wonderful teenage years?
"But if it was I would win," she replies.
"But, it's not. We could race in the back yard sometime," I tell her.
"We could. I would beat everyone, 'cause I'm really fast. I would beat Freya and Daddy, and you."
"You're fast," I say, "but my legs are longer than yours, which kind of gives me an unfair advantage."
She shrugs. I can hear her shrug. "Yeah," she agrees," but you have lyme disease."
She totally beat me. There was no contest. If it's like this now, what's it gonna be like when she hits those wonderful teenage years?
08 June 2007
My New Job At Burger King
I have decided to go look for a job at Burger King, because at least then I would receive adequate training. They probably even have corporate training videos that I could watch in the manager's cave-like office that smells of greased pickles.
I'm not sure who to complain to about this, but my children did not come with instructional videos and I really don't feel like washing dishes that seem to breed every time I turn my back and that I sure as hell am not getting paid to wash.
At Burger King I would be trained to serve people crappy food, but damn, would I be trained well. The manager, let's call him Ronnie, would be in his late-thirties. He's wanted to be the manager of this particular Burger King since he was just a kid, so he takes his job really seriously. It actually hurts him deeply if an employee feels that he did not train them properly, and he's not afraid to make them feel guilty for upsetting him.
But Ronnie and I will get along great. I'm not like all those high school kids who think that this is just a place to make a few bucks on the way to the rest of their lives, oh no. Of course I can't bring the same kind of enthusiasm to my work as Ronnie, but I have a deep appreciation of the important work we all do here.
Of course the thorough employee training is a huge attraction, but there are other benefits as well. For one thing, no one breaks two glasses in a single day at Burger King because they have cleverly eliminated glasses all together. Brilliant.
No one knocks over the lamps at Burger King and then pretends they have no idea what happened, this is because the lamps are tied to the ceiling. I am thinking of stealing this idea for my home actually. Don't tell Ronnie, he might feel it was his duty to report me to corporate headquarters.
Also (and I'm guessing here because I don't have the statistics handy) I'd be willing to bet that children and kittens don't regularly pee and poop on the floor at Burger King. Oh sure, there might be the occasional accident, but I can smile sympathetically at the poor mother of the unfortunate toddler as I clean the floor with my over sized mop because, hey, it wasn't my toddler. Besides, I will be getting paid to clean that shit up.
I can offer the same exact smile for the following: screaming children, crying children, unfuckingbelieveably whiny children, and children who are served food and then refuse to eat it. My calm and sympathetic demeanor will be absolutely zen. Ronnie will probably want to promote me to assistant manager, but unfortunately he already promised the position to eighteen-year-old girlfriend Veronica.
But this too is okay, because I don't want to be a manager, in fact, part of the attraction of my new job is the total lack of responsibility. I know Ronnie tells me I have an obligation to make our customers happy, but I don't have to balance the books, keep the fridges in the back stocked with an assortment of meals and snacks, wash every one's uniforms, or clean the whole place all by myself without so much as a thank-you. Ronnie will always say thank-you.
Maybe if my children had come with a few of the benefits that my new job includes I might feel differently. But as it is I think that everyone will be happier if I am happier, and so I have decided to leave my family and work 12-18 hours a day at Burger King. I think I will be a more relaxed and balanced individual and I'm pretty sure that if I am relaxed and happy, I will be a better mother as well.
I'm not sure who to complain to about this, but my children did not come with instructional videos and I really don't feel like washing dishes that seem to breed every time I turn my back and that I sure as hell am not getting paid to wash.
At Burger King I would be trained to serve people crappy food, but damn, would I be trained well. The manager, let's call him Ronnie, would be in his late-thirties. He's wanted to be the manager of this particular Burger King since he was just a kid, so he takes his job really seriously. It actually hurts him deeply if an employee feels that he did not train them properly, and he's not afraid to make them feel guilty for upsetting him.
But Ronnie and I will get along great. I'm not like all those high school kids who think that this is just a place to make a few bucks on the way to the rest of their lives, oh no. Of course I can't bring the same kind of enthusiasm to my work as Ronnie, but I have a deep appreciation of the important work we all do here.
Of course the thorough employee training is a huge attraction, but there are other benefits as well. For one thing, no one breaks two glasses in a single day at Burger King because they have cleverly eliminated glasses all together. Brilliant.
No one knocks over the lamps at Burger King and then pretends they have no idea what happened, this is because the lamps are tied to the ceiling. I am thinking of stealing this idea for my home actually. Don't tell Ronnie, he might feel it was his duty to report me to corporate headquarters.
Also (and I'm guessing here because I don't have the statistics handy) I'd be willing to bet that children and kittens don't regularly pee and poop on the floor at Burger King. Oh sure, there might be the occasional accident, but I can smile sympathetically at the poor mother of the unfortunate toddler as I clean the floor with my over sized mop because, hey, it wasn't my toddler. Besides, I will be getting paid to clean that shit up.
I can offer the same exact smile for the following: screaming children, crying children, unfuckingbelieveably whiny children, and children who are served food and then refuse to eat it. My calm and sympathetic demeanor will be absolutely zen. Ronnie will probably want to promote me to assistant manager, but unfortunately he already promised the position to eighteen-year-old girlfriend Veronica.
But this too is okay, because I don't want to be a manager, in fact, part of the attraction of my new job is the total lack of responsibility. I know Ronnie tells me I have an obligation to make our customers happy, but I don't have to balance the books, keep the fridges in the back stocked with an assortment of meals and snacks, wash every one's uniforms, or clean the whole place all by myself without so much as a thank-you. Ronnie will always say thank-you.
Maybe if my children had come with a few of the benefits that my new job includes I might feel differently. But as it is I think that everyone will be happier if I am happier, and so I have decided to leave my family and work 12-18 hours a day at Burger King. I think I will be a more relaxed and balanced individual and I'm pretty sure that if I am relaxed and happy, I will be a better mother as well.
07 June 2007
Another Stellar Moment in My Parenting Career
The girls and I went down to my parent's house for dinner the other night. It's a half hour drive down a tree lined country road, through a couple of small towns and down into tourist laden south county.
It was five o'clock, and Freya hadn't taken a nap. This is an issue because we all know how cars put babies right to sleep, and while she has pretty much outgrown her nap in general, sticking the girl in a car at five o'clock in the evening is a surefire way to have a cranky kid at dinner and find yourself hanging out with a cheerful toddler at 10 pm.
Luckily, I had anticipated this problem and brought a small stash of m&ms. I know, I know, but wait, it gets better. Ten minutes into our trip the m&ms were gone and Freya was well on her way to passing out.
"Freya! No sleeping!" I was yelling from the front seat, and, "Matilda, keep your sister awake!"
Nothing was working.
"Do you want me to sing to you? What should I sing?"
Nothing.
"Should we listen to the numa numa song? What song do you want?"
Nothing.
"Come on, let's listen to some music."
I braved Steve's iPod to find something nice and loud to listen to keep the kid awake, my desperation growing with every turn in the road. I'm not so good with the iPod, but I found a designated car play list and hit the button.
First it was "I Wanna Be Like You."
Still nothing. I opened all the windows, her wispy blond hair was slapping her in the face and still she was falling asleep. So I turned the stereo volume all the way up. And I do mean All The Way Up.
Since apparently Freya didn't wanna be like me, or anyone else who was still awake, I hit the forward button a couple of times until suddenly a pounding bass filled the car and I thought I had found The One.
Matilda and I bounced up and down in our seats and sang and danced to "My Humps" by The Black Eyed Peas with all of the windows down and the music blaring and still
Freya slept like a baby, all the way to grandma's house.
I'm not sure exactly what kind of message "My Humps" is supposed to be sending. Is this woman empowered by using her "lovely lady lumps" to get guys to buy her shit? Whatever. It was loud and it failed me when I needed it. That is all.
It was five o'clock, and Freya hadn't taken a nap. This is an issue because we all know how cars put babies right to sleep, and while she has pretty much outgrown her nap in general, sticking the girl in a car at five o'clock in the evening is a surefire way to have a cranky kid at dinner and find yourself hanging out with a cheerful toddler at 10 pm.
Luckily, I had anticipated this problem and brought a small stash of m&ms. I know, I know, but wait, it gets better. Ten minutes into our trip the m&ms were gone and Freya was well on her way to passing out.
"Freya! No sleeping!" I was yelling from the front seat, and, "Matilda, keep your sister awake!"
Nothing was working.
"Do you want me to sing to you? What should I sing?"
Nothing.
"Should we listen to the numa numa song? What song do you want?"
Nothing.
"Come on, let's listen to some music."
I braved Steve's iPod to find something nice and loud to listen to keep the kid awake, my desperation growing with every turn in the road. I'm not so good with the iPod, but I found a designated car play list and hit the button.
First it was "I Wanna Be Like You."
Still nothing. I opened all the windows, her wispy blond hair was slapping her in the face and still she was falling asleep. So I turned the stereo volume all the way up. And I do mean All The Way Up.
Since apparently Freya didn't wanna be like me, or anyone else who was still awake, I hit the forward button a couple of times until suddenly a pounding bass filled the car and I thought I had found The One.
Matilda and I bounced up and down in our seats and sang and danced to "My Humps" by The Black Eyed Peas with all of the windows down and the music blaring and still
Freya slept like a baby, all the way to grandma's house.
I'm not sure exactly what kind of message "My Humps" is supposed to be sending. Is this woman empowered by using her "lovely lady lumps" to get guys to buy her shit? Whatever. It was loud and it failed me when I needed it. That is all.
04 June 2007
At Last, Drug Prevention That REALLY WORKS!
Oh. My. God.
The self-publishing industry is not the place for me.
Put me in the fucking zoo.
You have to go read this right now, and make sure to scroll all the way through the comments to the end, because there is a quiz. It takes a minute to load, but I swear to God it will change the way you look at horses forever. Oh, and the reviews over here are also fucking hilarious. But read them second.
Thanks, Steve!
03 June 2007
Die or Be Stuck Forever
And then there are our really smart kittens who demonstrate the necessity of federal regulations governing the distance between bars on infant cribs:
Poor kitteh. It gotz all stuckd. I know there's a good caption for this, but I'm not sure yet what it is. Erika, maybe you have an idea.
I had to squeeze her ears down and squash her little head back through the hole with Matilda sitting way too close to me, crying that the kitty was going to die and how she Didn't Want The Kitty TO DIE AND SHE LOVED THE KITTY AND WAS IT REALLY GOING TO DIE OR BE STUCK FOREVER!?
It is hard to focus on not crushing a small mammal's skull with your bare hands while your five-year-old is wailing in your ear about death.
WILL WE HAVE TO BRING IT FOOOOOOOOOD?
Trust me, I know.
MOMMMYYYYYYYY! GET IT OUT!
Plus thestupid thing poor little kitten kept sticking her paw through the hole with her head.
[manic laughter] (yes, that would be Freya)
I was all set to leave it until Steve got home, but I was pretty sure he'd be annoyed that there was something stuck in his computer chair so... I managed. Without sawing through anything or pulling anything's head off.
Poor kitteh. It gotz all stuckd. I know there's a good caption for this, but I'm not sure yet what it is. Erika, maybe you have an idea.
I had to squeeze her ears down and squash her little head back through the hole with Matilda sitting way too close to me, crying that the kitty was going to die and how she Didn't Want The Kitty TO DIE AND SHE LOVED THE KITTY AND WAS IT REALLY GOING TO DIE OR BE STUCK FOREVER!?
It is hard to focus on not crushing a small mammal's skull with your bare hands while your five-year-old is wailing in your ear about death.
WILL WE HAVE TO BRING IT FOOOOOOOOOD?
Trust me, I know.
MOMMMYYYYYYYY! GET IT OUT!
Plus the
[manic laughter] (yes, that would be Freya)
I was all set to leave it until Steve got home, but I was pretty sure he'd be annoyed that there was something stuck in his computer chair so... I managed. Without sawing through anything or pulling anything's head off.
The Quiet (and not cleaning anything) Side of My Day
When it comes to craft projects, I really do best with the ones that get finished just minutes after I have started them. So these skirts worked out really well today, the first one (Freya's) was so fast that I actually had the patience to make a second one for Matilda:
I never use a pattern. This is because every time I have tried to sew something using a tissue paper cut out that I snag a bunch of times on nothing, rip, tape back together, then painstakingly pin along the edge of the fabric, I fuck it up. Always. Then it ends up in my closet and disappears forever. I think the squirrels eat my unfinished projects, I'm not sure.
Maybe there's a whole family of squirrels living in my closet (this is so not outside the realm of possibility, just so you know) who get really excited when pretty fabric gets shoved into through the baby's bedroom window. They all gather, nibble the corners, taste the leopard print together, and thank the spirits for blessing them with yet another pair of unfinished human sized pants.
Honestly, I don't really want to know. That's why I never use patterns anymore. There were too many damn squirrels.
Also, if there is no pattern, there can be no other-worldly standard of perfection. I have my own brand of perfection, I call it adaptability. I measure the fabric by holding it around the girl's waist and squinting. It might not be the most professional method, but it works for me.
Stay tuned for summer sundresses. Have I mentioned I have a thing for the little girl sundresses?
I never use a pattern. This is because every time I have tried to sew something using a tissue paper cut out that I snag a bunch of times on nothing, rip, tape back together, then painstakingly pin along the edge of the fabric, I fuck it up. Always. Then it ends up in my closet and disappears forever. I think the squirrels eat my unfinished projects, I'm not sure.Maybe there's a whole family of squirrels living in my closet (this is so not outside the realm of possibility, just so you know) who get really excited when pretty fabric gets shoved into through the baby's bedroom window. They all gather, nibble the corners, taste the leopard print together, and thank the spirits for blessing them with yet another pair of unfinished human sized pants.
Honestly, I don't really want to know. That's why I never use patterns anymore. There were too many damn squirrels.
Also, if there is no pattern, there can be no other-worldly standard of perfection. I have my own brand of perfection, I call it adaptability. I measure the fabric by holding it around the girl's waist and squinting. It might not be the most professional method, but it works for me.
Stay tuned for summer sundresses. Have I mentioned I have a thing for the little girl sundresses?
02 June 2007
And Then We Were All Alone
We had a nice, relaxing day today, spent a few hours at the lake with friends (where I got totally sunburned - a side-effect of the antibiotics) and then sent Matilda off on a sleepover with her bestest friend, Aurora.
Then, it was just Freya and I. All alone, with nothing to do. It was so nice to hang out with her all by herself. As the second child she has so often been deprived of Mommy-Daughter alone time, and I forget how smart and independent she can be without her big sister around to take charge.
We went shopping for a new sunhat for Freya, (I was looking for something in a self-adhesive, unremovable toddler hat, but apparently they don't make them with staples, or superglue. I think I have found my niche!) and a new bra for me. Successful on both counts, we left the car for Steve and walked through a light drizzle to my parent's house for dinner. Freya pushed her stroller the whole way, which meant that it took us 30 minutes when it should have taken only 6, but I was patient and waited and we made it eventually.
In the car on the way home we ate chocolate bread from the farmer's market and Freya was sticking her finger in the chocolate parts and then licking the chocolate off her fingers.
"Look, Mom!" she kept yelling from the backseat.
"Oh," I said, "I see, you're licking it off."
"No," she corrected me, "I don't lick, I suck."
Then, it was just Freya and I. All alone, with nothing to do. It was so nice to hang out with her all by herself. As the second child she has so often been deprived of Mommy-Daughter alone time, and I forget how smart and independent she can be without her big sister around to take charge.
We went shopping for a new sunhat for Freya, (I was looking for something in a self-adhesive, unremovable toddler hat, but apparently they don't make them with staples, or superglue. I think I have found my niche!) and a new bra for me. Successful on both counts, we left the car for Steve and walked through a light drizzle to my parent's house for dinner. Freya pushed her stroller the whole way, which meant that it took us 30 minutes when it should have taken only 6, but I was patient and waited and we made it eventually.
In the car on the way home we ate chocolate bread from the farmer's market and Freya was sticking her finger in the chocolate parts and then licking the chocolate off her fingers.
"Look, Mom!" she kept yelling from the backseat.
"Oh," I said, "I see, you're licking it off."
"No," she corrected me, "I don't lick, I suck."
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