Dancing Without Rhythm

Well, I'm back in my routine where I have lots of fodder for blogging (or so I think) and no time to really do it. I mean, I have time, but that would require giving up some slothing around on the couch and fewer snacks and interrupting very important yelling-at-my-kids time. I do have priorities.

Just now I was happily redeeming an Amaz0n gift certificate and Benja caught me perusing the toy section. He immediately jumped on my lap and asked to join me in this most pleasurable of activities---coveting and drooling. He does it quite well. Where I say, "holy moly, who'd pay $64.99 for that piece of hud toy" he presses his yogurt-cereal-lego-germed finger to the screen and adds an emphatic "I NEEEED that!" to his list of must haves. I realized he didn't have any credibility when he pointed to a laptop adapter as a must have for his train set. But only then.

However, in the middle of this, he turned his face up to mine and said, "Yo so nice mom!" See now, learning that kind of stuff at 3 is deadly for the mom. I would have swooned if I hadn't been sitting. Little does he know, I left the site with only 2 things in my cart. Short term memory, don't fail me now.

I just have random tidbits of stories, conversations that I'd like to write about.

My brother and his wife had a little container with Mexican Jumping Beans in them. I've never seen them before---didn't even really know they were real. I was sitting on the couch reading and kept hearing a strange pop-pop sound. When I asked what I was hearing, my brother informed me of what they were. He and J were in the kitchen making rootbeer. Yeah, he's that cool, he makes rootbeer at home. Anyway, I picked up the little container and was intrigued. "What makes them jump?" I ask. He tells me there are little worms inside. Little Mexican worms, I assume, because I've seen American ones, and they barely move, let alone jump. So, as I'm looking at these beans I start to think, "Yikes, that's my own personal hell, being trapped inside something and not able to get out---do people put them in there for kicks or are they naturally in there and this is their lot in life?" Those thoughts aren't so bad for an intelligent woman, are they? But what I SAID was, "Are they happy in there?" As the words escaped my mouth I slunk down further on the couch and immediately regretted uttering those words. J said nothing. There really isn't much you can say when for 4 and a half years you've been married to a woman you were SURE would never utter such inanity. But then again, that's me, keeping the surprise alive in our marriage. However, my brother, not so quiet, not so surprised, says, "That's a woman question if I've ever heard one." Sadly, I made that stereotype indisputable.

At the airport on the way home, at 12:30 am, a man accidentally went the wrong way down the expansive and so clearly marked "secure" area of Dallas Love. Sirens, alarms, and a loud blaring voice immediately let the entire Northern Texas area know of this mistake. J loudly observed, "Making air travel safe for the world" or something similarly sarcastic (we had just witnessed a 10 year old girl getting "stripped" of her lip gloss an hour before---I can't tell you how much security that brought to me as I boarded the plane ahead of her). Several people behind us chuckled and Benja noticed. "Why did you say that daddy!?" He asked several times, but Daddy was too focused on getting from point A to point B so I answered, "He was just being funny Benja." After a few seconds to take that in, Benja said loudly, "Why does dad always be funny at that man, but he never bees funny to us at home?" Then I laughed loudly. In some ways, the airing of our dirty laundry from the mouth of a three year old, terrifies me. But when J gets to be the brunt of it, I thoroughly enjoy it. For the record, J is quite funny. Just not generally to a 3-year-old audience. I, on the other hand, appeal to the masses.

We had a 3 hour layover in Kansas City and both my parents and J's parents (and brother) and my very pregnant sister and her husband came up to spend it with us. J's and my mom had a full on buffet of leftover Thanksgiving fixings. It was really quite darling and a nice reprieve from dry roasted peanuts. The kids had a great time being fawned over and followed around the airport by someone who thought it was cute when they ran around and touched every blessed thing in the aiport. Benja plunked himself on my dad's lap and said, "Aw you my grampa Fmiff?" My dad didn't hear him, but that's why their relationship works. Benja just went on, "I know you aw, because you have a biwd." Grampa Smith harumphed because I think he was aware the boy was making noice, but he doesn't understand that mumbling. I've been a mumbler since I was 14. Or around the time his hearing started to go.

Anyway, the next morning, Benja was trying out his newly acquired family tree labeling skills.
"J, yo dad is my grandpa. Yo mom is my grandma. Mom, yo grandma is my grandma."
"But what about my dad, isn't he your grandpa?" I ask.
"No, yo dad is dead," He says matter of factly.
"What?! Are you kidding, you sat on his lap yesterday! He has a beard!"
"Yes, I know," he says with an exaggerated sadness, "But now he's dead."

Speaking of dead parents, this is a little bit---uh----I really don't know the word...you can decide after I tell you the story.

Last night, the cousins returned from their trip to visit family. This morning, the six year old noted, "Mom, there are a lot more Browns than there are Smiths" (some names are changed to protect the innocent). It's true, there are five kids in her family and nine in the Smith family. She agreed, but he wanted to expound on his findings. He continued, "Well, if you count your dead mother..." I really don't know what he said after that, I burst out laughing. I really have been laughing all morning. He of course doesn't know people don't say things like that. And, he was sweetly trying to up the numbers for the Brown family.

Speaking of names, No Cool Story googled my name before we met and found my wedding announcement that was posted in our parent's local paper. I just want to say, that I have googled my name 27 different ways and have found NOTHING. I think No Cool should be a detective. Only, don't do anymore research on me---that announcement will be the nicest thing you'll find.

Okay, that's enough random free association typing for one post.

Posted by Angela on Monday, November 27, 2006 at 11/27/2006 | Permalink