Dancing Without Rhythm

So, I have this friend. She's my best friend, actually. She lives in another state, but we talk nearly every day. And even though our lives are one fascinating round of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and cleaning up, after another---we somehow manage to find stuff to talk about for hours throughout the week. And we have a good rhythm. She can talk right through one of my battles with The Queen without missing a beat and I can talk right through her neighbors knocking on her door, her answering, and them telling her the most recent Southern Utah gossip. We're good like that.

In some ways, Jen and I are so completely alike. We got similar degrees in college. We served our missions together and had very similar approaches to what we did there. Except she ran at 5 in the morning by choice and I would rather have an un-anesthetized root canal. We're both tall. She's sassy, I wish I was. And we have very similar perspectives on life. And on people. All the people we talk about and make fun of in our long phone conversations. We both have red haired children.

In other ways, we couldn't be more opposite. She's very fashionable without really trying. She loves to shop. She has a beautiful home which she decorates beautifully and keeps immaculate. Need I tell you how I differ? I think not.

One major difference we have is the Internet.

I spent hours in the computer lab on campus when I was in college. Sometimes just staring at the web browser, in awe of all that it could do for me. I was one of those people who compulsively forwarded every forward I got. "This is SO funny" I would preface the most recent political joke that had already circled the entire planet 14 times before I read it. Or "If this doesn't melt your heart, you are cruel and heartless and in ten minutes your worst nightmare will happen." In the early days, they didn't give you the option of forwarding it to 27 people to save yourself. Those days were hard.

After college the only real expense I knew I had to have was high speed internet. Some days my refrigerator had one grapefruit, a bottle of ketchup and a jar of pickles, but I had high speed.

When J and I were married---this necessity was a given. Our only fights were over who's turn it was to play on the internet. With our high speed connection.

When J went back to school and we slimmed down our lifestyle extensively---high speed, our dear friend high speed, remained.

And now, I fill my days of being a SAHM with delightful interruptions at the computer reading blogs, online shopping coveting, and sending racey nagging emails to my out-of-town husband.

What more could a girl want?

And then there's Jen. For the past decade the girl has had DIAL-UP INTERNET SERVICE.

Sometimes when she'd call I would refer to something I saw on the internet, just moments before she called and suggest she check it out. "Send me the link, but not if it's too long, it will take too long to open my email. I'll check it out this weekend when my husband is home and has three hours to watch the kids while I sign on and check my email."

You can't imagine the pain this has caused me. The toll it has taken on our friendship. I have harped incessantly on this matter. "Come ON Jen, it's worth the $20 extra dollars a month, I PROMISE." She'd always reply the same, "You know how much joy I get pinching pennies, why deprive me of that joy?" And so we'd agree to disagree, for a short while.

Well, it appears that those small towns in Southern Utah are catching up with the times. A few weeks ago she told me she found a smoking deal that entailed long distance, other phone "luxuries", 142 channels of cable tv, and high speed internet service, all for one low price. She was going to take the plunge. I won't even tell you the countless conversations we've had where she "couldn't really watch that show because they don't really 'get' that channel" or how 43 minutes of her day were lost when she innocently answered the phone without knowing who'd be on the other end. Maybe another time I'll share my testimony of caller ID with y'all.

So, Jen got all the goods on Friday. I didn't remember, but I called her yesterday afternoon for a nice leisurely chat while I sat outside with the kids. No answer. I got my loyal, best friend butt kicked to voicemail. But it was voicemail. Not her 1982 answering machine that blared my message to the ever-living world. Like the time I called and accused her of screening my call like she screened everyone else's and how I couldn't believe I was finally one of "them" that she didn't care to talk to, etc. All the while, she was trying to conduct a presidency meeting 3 feet away. With a group full of past-screened people. :)

I can't say it didn't hurt, people. It did. I knew I had been passed up for the joys of endless internet browsing whilst talking on the phone to people she WANTED to talk to.
All these years, those "hellos" when I called, I thought they were willing.

Oh, don't worry about me too much. She called me back. After my accusatory message, she really didn't have much choice. And to add insult to injury she confessed, "I was on the phone, I got to see that it was you because I have caller ID WITH my calling waiting, and I decided not to click over."

Welcome to the 21st Century Jen. Oh yeah, this probably means she'll read my blog now and actually get a taste for what blogging means instead of saying, "Did you blog today?" like it's a close relative of a colonoscopy.

Posted by Angela at 2/27/2007 | Permalink | Comments

Several months ago Benja's aunt showed him a Spiderman trailer on Youtube and he's been a junkie ever since. He recognizes the screen immediately and asks for a "Spidohman Chwayloh" every time. So I put one on for him and walked away to microwave him a nutritious frozen burrito for lunch. When I came back a short 5 minutes later he was halfway through a trailer of the movie "Lucky Number Slevin" I don't know anything about that movie, only that it didn't hold my interest in the previews because it looked dark and violent. I immediately start my mama chant, "uh-uh-UH!" and quickly start clicking the back button on the internet browser. Where I learned he already made it through a preview for Terminator 4 before getting an eyeful of Lucky Number Slevin. Yeah, I'm a good mom.

He asks me why I'm making all his movies go away and I tell him it's not stuff for little boys to watch. Well, Spidohman isn't for little boys "eelo"(either), says he, but he's not like other little boys. Perhaps we may need to ease up on the positive reinforcement of every little thing and start teaching humility and modesty.

On another note, I am so blessed tired ALL THE TIME lately. The first wave of it hit me in the doctor's office last Wednesday when I had two blissful hours away from my children and pages and pages of Britney Spears sludge to catch up on. In the 4 minutes between the nurse taking my blood pressure and the doctor showing up to listen to the baby's heartbeat, I curled up on that comfortable, paper covered, exam slab table and fell asleep. I think I showed sincere annoyance at the doctor disturbing my sleep when he came in. He asked me if I was taking my prenatals, like that ever solves any problem. Just kidding. Since that incident, I have gone to bed around 9:30 every night, gotten really great sleep, taken naps, limited my activities such as, getting up to get a handful of cashews every 20 minutes, to just bringing the entire container to the couch with me. I hope it passes because this parenting in a drunken stupor is going to come back to haunt me, I'm sure.

I watched a little bit of the Oscars last night. I was really excited for Jennifer Hudson. That's about it for me. However, I did notice something I have never noticed before, the really ticked off faces of the nominees who didn't win. Particularly after Jennifer Hudson, there were two faces (I don't know who they were) and then I noticed it after Alan Arkin won. I thought that was thoroughly enjoyable. Sore losers. Heh.

The other thought/emotion I had was, since when did Al Gore become such a superstar? Dude! And I sure wish I could have been there when Ellen made her joke about him being robbed of his presidency SEVEN YEARS AGO!! Geez louise. Talk about sore losers.

Oh yeah and that Will Ferrell/Jack Black performance was classic. I was really glad I got to see that. In case you didn't see it:



I laughed pretty hard when they threatened to beat up all these nominees and then got to Mark Wahlberg and were all, "You're cool, you're talented, good luck." THAT was good stuff.

Posted by Angela at 2/26/2007 | Permalink | Comments

Last week Jay caught me sitting at the computer with about 15 different windows open, looking at every type of bedding set known to man. Maybe this is my type of nesting. I don't nest, but I do, every six months or so (pregnant or not), wish I had a nice matching, luxurious bedding set. So, looking at different bedding for an hour at a time on the computer is for some reason very enjoyable for me.

J stood behind me for about 42 seconds, trying to be interested in what I'm interested in, heaved a big sigh and said, "I cannot believe this is holding your attention." I could say the same about Command and Conquer, but we still make it work in our marriage.

Well, I unwittingly snagged myself a minion. Tonight while taking a bath, Benja was flying a little plastic boat around the tub and through the air, yelling, "To Bed, Bath and Beyooooooond!"

When J and I were first married, we lived in St. Louis and worked at the same office. We had a young coworker who loved nothing more than to be compared to Britney Spears. And she used to use a phrase all the time that made both of us laugh. A lot. She'd say, "I hate wearing the color green, I look like a$$ in green" or "Oh sick, what are you heating up, it smells like a$$" or my personal favorite, "Ugh, this tastes like _______" You get the point. I guess we think using that "simile" is both vulgar and hilarious. At least I do.

So, today at lunch...

Benja was sharing some of his Shrek go-gurts with a friend. He handed him a "Fiona" tube and said, "This is Fiona, but it tastes just like donkey."

I couldn't agree more when referring to flourescent green "yogurt" in a tube.

And of course I laughed heartily to hear my 3 year old talking like my former coworker Britney wannabe.

Posted by Angela at 2/22/2007 | Permalink | Comments

Today's post is about faith. If you feel like you have a very shaky grasp on faith, or don't believe in faith, or anything like that, stick around. You are going to see faith in action.

You see, I have NOTHING TO BLOG ABOUT. Absolutely nothing. I start a thought and either lose it completely or realize it's not a thought worth having and throw it out myself. But I really, really, really want to blog. I love the therapy it's been for me. I love the documentation I have had for nearly the last year of my life. I'm in love with an idea.

I have nothing to write, but I have faith. A hope for things not seen. I believe I can write. I believe I can touch the keyboard. I think about it every night and day, spread my hands and just type away...

I really don't like going to the park. Well, I guess I like the park just fine, 'specially on a nice day like today after such a long cold spell. But park activities mostly annoy me. I don't like pushing kids on swings. I don't like "watching me" every blessed second. I don't like having to get off my rump to retrieve a child from a place she has no business being at her size. Yes, only her. He has more caution than she. I don't like the limited availability of comfortable seating. A butt-splintering picnic table or butt-numbing metal one. With no back support or ottoman. And it gets old looking at the same kids running up and down and around the play structures. If there was a remote, I could find a bit more enjoyment, I'm sure.

When I was in my late teens and early twenties I would take my nieces to the park at times because that is what nice aunts do. And I was most surely a nice aunt. I remember one particular time in Sacramento watching my nieces romp happily around the play area. I was bored out of my mind. I looked around at other moms reading, staring into space, chatting with each other and I thought to myself, "I really hope some kind of maternal thing kicks in with my own kids because this is ridiculously boring and I'm not gonna do this willingly with my own kids." I had genuine concern right then for the future mother Angela. I should have been more worried about how giving birth would eliminate every charitable feeling I had toward children. But who could have known? And notice how the young, naive, childless Angela actually thought going to the park was a choice the mom made? Sweet, sweet girl.

Something maternal did kick in, so that's good. Plus the whole---being trapped in a house with kids for days on ends will do wonders for what becomes desirable to you. But, as I was standing on a pile of wood chips that stealthily crept into my shoes and down my socks, and up my shirt and stabbed me just below my sternum, I remembered just how much I really have always disliked the park. My grouchiness went away for small moments at a time when Avee giggled heartily at the thrill of swinging. But only small moments. Because after falling out of the swing two times and landing on her head and making other moms gasp and secretly call me a bad mother who should burn in hell---I refused to let her get back in the swing. And then the screaming. Oh the screaming. You can understand why I don't let those small grouch-free moments make me delusional.

So, is it just me? Do other moms really enjoy the park because, if they do---I'll have what they're having. I'd like to medicate this bad attitude right out of me.

Uh, chocolate doesn't work. Although, it does provide some insulation on those ever-uncomfortable picnic tables. Ottoman-less picnic tables.

Posted by Angela at 2/20/2007 | Permalink | Comments

Ben, do you want an apple with your sandwich?

Yes!

Do you want a yellow or red one?

Yellow. Yellow. Yellow! Hey mom, check it out, I can say yellow!

Good for you (I say, but think---alert the press boy---you sure can find joy in the simple things)

Yeah, it IS good for me. I used to say "lellow" all the time when I was a baby. Well, yesterday.

Ohhhhhhhhh. That's right! I didn't even realize.

{Scene ends with audible sound of the mama's heart breaking.}

Posted by Angela at 2/19/2007 | Permalink | Comments

Posted by Angela at 2/17/2007 | Permalink | Comments

15: Hours Avee slept last night

4: Days we have been sick

5.3: Hours I've spent in the bathroom those last 4 days

12: Number of times I've taken each of my children's temperatures

0: Things I've done around my house

5: People who hand delivered Valentine treats to our door yesterday. (Holy moly I say!)

12: Number of days it feels like this week has had already.

4: Times that I have said, "If you don't stop ___________ I am going to throw up all over you.

3: Times that I've actually meant it.

7: Phone calls I've made to J for absolutely NO REASON but to let him hear my poor miserable sick self

1: Times that Benja has said, "Do you like my new shirt? UPS gave it to me."

23: Hours before J gets home

722: Number of times I have looked at my son this week and thought, "Could you possibly get any cuter!?"

5: Days (at least) before I will blog anything of substance

Yours Truly

Posted by Angela at 2/15/2007 | Permalink | Comments

There's an aspect of adulthood, maybe more specifically motherhood, but definitely something not present in my youth, that has come into my awareness slowly, unpleasantly, and what seems to be, unavoidably.

My childhood experiences were somewhat colored, by my obvious physical imperfection of having a fat lip. I was used to being looked at, stared at, sometimes made fun of, but always at the very least, noticed. It's hard for me now, looking back, to determine if my childhood was "hard" or harder than average with or without this. I'm referring to when people talk about how cruel kids can be and how hard 4th grade was, or 7th grade, etc. I can't really tell because I was aware from an early age that there were stupid people in the world who would judge me for my appearance and try to make me feel like less of a person.

And another really amazingly mature part of me was able to separate that from my reality and realize it was their problem, not mine. I'm not trying to toot my own horn, believe me, I'll let you know when I do. I just know that I was conscious of this at a young age and I realize now that those kinds of thoughts couldn't be further from my own child's mine. "He says I'm a turtle head TELL HIM I'M NOOOOOOOOOOT!". My whole point is: I don't think I can look back at my past, my childhood and determine if it was as fraught with as much judgmentalism as I feel like I face now, as a 31 year old adult. And a mother.

As mothers we have this job that is nearly impossible to define. We've all said it at least once, "why isn't there a manual for this?!" or something of that nature. We all sort of know what we are doing, or at least have an idea of what we want the end result to be, and come up with ideas, follow suggestions, and do our darndest to meet that end. There are no yearly interviews or job-performance feedback forms. There are no raises or promotions if we get it right. A good day is not having to wipe yogurt off the walls or 6 uninterrupted hours of sleep. Or not getting bitten by a 3-toothed bandit. Or shot in the eye with a foam bullet that flies at unnatural speeds from a plastic gun your three year old fires. And makes you cry.

What it all comes down to is, each of us really trying to do the best that we can. When we know better, we do better----right? At least that's the hope for all human beings making their way through life. Parent or not.

What I don't get is how nearly every conversation I engage in, since becoming a mother has almost ALWAYS entailed some aspect of apology or "confession" for how things are done. I remember feeling pretty big shame that my almost 2-year-old still took a bottle. I had no intention of taking it away until I was ready and he was ready. That bottle brought him true joy. He swaddled it, cuddled it, sang it lullabies. But when people found out he still had it at 22 months, I was embarrassed. Why? Did that negate how deeply I loved this child, how desperately I wanted the best for him, how hard I worked to be the best mom I knew how?

A couple of weeks ago, at the grocery store I passed a woman who had a small child in her cart. He was about 20 months and absolutely darling. Big mess of dark hair, vibrant brown eyes, chubby cheeks and an infectious smile. I couldn't help myself and as I passed her (I was childless as my own preshies were at home oozing from the eyes) I said, "He is darling!" He nodded in a agreement and she quickly turned and fumbled about his face, offering some apology for the condition of his face. Apparently it was covered in crusties from having a bit of a cold. She quickly started dabbing at his face, never once acknowledging the compliment for what it was. She had a cute son. That was it. I didn't even notice the dried snot, mostly because I am certain it was a drastic improvement from the oozing that was going on at home with my own children. I sort of felt stupid as I walked away that what I felt and stated was completely abated by her embarrassment or almost involuntary reaction to another mother or woman commenting on her child.

A few weeks ago at the park a young mother "confessed" to me that her children (2 years and 3 months) sleep with her. She apologized that that's just the way they do it in their home. It was weird to me only because why on earth should I care where her child sleeps? As long as he's not kicking MY ribs, I don't give a dang dittly. I have friends who won't let their kids in or near their beds with a ten foot pole. That's their prerogative. I often pull Benja into my bed for snuggling or comfort that he needs. Or I need. I won't let Avee near my bed with a ten foot pole because I know her well enough to know I'll never get her out. And she has a wicked nocturnal left jab.

The other night I took my kids to a restaurant and a mother across from us had two large bags filled with toys to entertain her son. He was probably a little less than 2 years. She looked at me, alone with my two angelic children, who were actually so hungry from neglect that they couldn't stop eating long enough to even think of misbehaving, and shrugged apologetically saying, "It's the only thing I can do to make him be good." Why have we created a culture where this woman felt like she had to justify her method of parenting to a complete stranger?

Most of the people I know or talk to don't really judge other mothers for their parenting methods. I guess sometimes we have "better solutions" in our heads but in my mind, that is different from judging. I have a friend who has a daughter 7 months younger than Benja. She is a little spitfire, so full of life, and energy, and entered this world with opinions. Juxtaposed to Benja, she made him look like a pliable little blob of babiness (oh-oh, I just called my child a blob, alert the press).

One time I was over at my friends house at lunchtime. Benja was probably just under two and so little S would have been almost 18 months. My friend put her in her highchair where she stood for her entire meal. My friend worked around it and got her child fed. She explained she had tried everything and couldn't get her to stay seated and would rather just have mealtime be pleasant and nourishing. I remember thinking, "yeah, I don't think I could be as flexible---my kid would sit because I would MAKE him sit." Fast forward a year, I have my own opinionated spitfire that makes up the rules everyday and I silently obey them. Do I strap her into her highchair? Yes. Is she skinny enough to get out of even the tightest restraints? Yes. Am I just happy to have her just eat and not stand on her tray with one foot in the apple sauce? Yes. I realize now that when we do make judgments, it is mostly out of ignorance. I had no idea what life with a girl was like when I formed my opinion about how children should eat. This friend reads this blog. She knows I think she's a phenomenal mother, and that I have repented of ALL my sins since having Avee.

What has me thinking about this is the recent Today show piece on mothers who drink at play dates. Another fairly famous blogger (I don't know her, but my world is very, very small you see) was on there, as one of the moms who participates in such play dates. I think she was blindsided---where she thought it was going to be more of a "this is how we do it and it's great" it turned into this thing where she's barely more competent than a hired babysitter and a lush to boot.

I don't drink. I don't really hang out with people who drink. Not so much because I avoid that, as much as, again, my world is very, very small. :) I'm also pretty sure I would not be entirely comfortable at a playgroup where drinking was going on because alcohol and its effects are a complete enigma to me. My earliest and longest running exposure to a drinker was very unpleasant and gave me nightmares until the subject finally died from kidney failure when I was 12. Clearly, I don't have a skewed perspective of alcohol...

What I also don't do, is begrudge a mother her right to do something she clearly feels is okay and is not impairing her ability to parent. One little bit of the piece on the Today show had this author talking about her drinking with her friends at play dates. She made a good point about this just being another thing women use to judge each other. That crap really should stop. However, in her defending of this choice she sort of made a judgment on people like me. She said, something to the effect of "I'd like to see a mother who stays sober 15-16 hours a day watching her kids, and I'd like to see if she's a great mom." That sort of surprised me. Here I was being open minded about something I wouldn't choose to do, and suddenly, my choice to "remain sober" brings into question whether I can be a good mother. That's absurd. Besides I have significantly bigger impairments to being a good mother than remaining sober. CSI:Miami reruns, David Caruso, you'll never know the amusement you bring to me...

To the mother in the grocery store who's 4 year old is lying on the floor screaming for a package of pop-tarts. I'm not judging you. I'm looking to make sure it isn't my son and I've forgotten he's with me. I want to say, "been there" or "will be there" or "hey, I know he's not always like this" but there's no way to really say that.

To the man at the rec center who kindly turned off the fire alarm my child set off while teasing about there being a spare closet I could leave them in if I needed a break. And for kindly kneeling down and talking to my children like human beings and shaking their hands, thank you. It's Thursday, I'm beat by Thursday---you'll never know how much your kindness and not judging me for not keeping a better handle on my children was appreciated.

To the mom who thinks any "imperfect" development her child has is her fault or something she's not doing right, it's not. Unless you beat them or have pit bulls that chew off their toes. Then it is your fault and you should be judged. And have your toes, and ovaries chewed off.

To the mom who worries she's not doing enough. You are.

To the mom who worries she's messing up. You are. But it's okay. We aren't required to be perfect in anything else, why should you expect it in one of the hardest "jobs" you'll ever have? I don't remember the mistakes my mom made but I do remember her loving me. Always. Everyday. Even after I was a teenager. And even after I said that really bad word when I was 4. I remember her making me practice the piano and the cello and how I hated that and how I love it now. I remember her teaching me not to stare, not to be unkind, to change my underwear, to have self-respect, to stop beating up my brother. Maybe sometimes in teaching these things she made mistakes, but I don't remember them. I also don't beat up my brother anymore, so I'd say there was some definite success.

To the mom who doesn't know how much her children weighed at birth. This makes me laugh every time I think about it. Most women, myself included--fo sho---throw around our children's birth weights like badges of honor, as though ANY size coming out of ANY part of your body is easy or comfortable. "I was a 6 cow wife" "And I was a 9 lb birthing machine..."

Except my sister. That baby was huge.

To the mom who has a martini at her play date---you're the boss. I won't judge you if you don't judge me for getting drunk on Hershey syrup straight from the bottle before noon. I'm still a good parent.

To the dad who is oblivious to this whole culture of judgment and never has conversations with other dads while golfing about how your 3 and a half year old still isn't potty trained and the anxiety it causes you that you're doing something wrong or that other people are judging you for toting around a diapered 3 year old, you're a lucky sonofa gun and we'd be wise to learn a thing or two from you.

Posted by Angela at 2/08/2007 | Permalink | Comments

AHHHHHHH OW OW OW OW OW OW! AHHHHHHHHHH! HELP ME!!!

Wha? What happened? What's the matter?

(wimper, fake sniff, wimper again) A fire ant bited me.

Oh no, those really hurt! Here, sit up here and let me see.

It's, it's, it's right there, see, right there!

No, actually I don't see it.

Help me! It's bleeding, I need a bandaid, hurry, hurry!

Benja, it's not bleeding, I don't even see where you were bit.

Right HERE!

Here?

Yes. No. I mean, there, I think. It REALLY HURTS.

You don't need a bandaid for an ant bite. You just have to wait for it to to feel better, and it will soon.

But, but, it's bleeding all over!

No it's not.

Well, some nice people can still give bandaids to other people who aren't bleeding. Yet.

Posted by Angela at 2/07/2007 | Permalink | Comments

At 12:23 AM I was awoken by loud thumping above me. I awoke so abruptly that it was hard to turn over and fall back asleep. Fortunately for me, if I had, I would have missed these pearls of wisdom yelled in an obvious fight in the apartment upstairs. My first introduction to our new neighbors...
"But money cain't buy you luuuuuuuuuve, it cain't. buy. you. luuuuuuuuuuve!" I had so many thoughts on that subject in the wee hours of the morning that it was impossible to go back to sleep. Money can buy me love at this point in life. I loooooove minivans. I love personal trainers. I love dropping $300 at Target without batting an eye. I love a non-traveling husband. I love chefs. But since we can't afford any of these things, I have to disagree that money can't buy you love.

It really is all beside the point because well, it wasn't my fight, I was in fact eavesdropping. And if any man used that line on me in an argument about money, I think I would have MUCH bigger problems in my life than no personal trainer.

At 3:52 AM when I was still staring mindlessly at the neon numbers on my clock, I tried to chant myself to sleep, "money cain't buy you sleep either, money cain't buy you sleep either..." but that also was unconvincing in my gravitus insomniacal state.

At 6:40 AM Avee woke me up yelling for the "doe" to be opened. This is the same girl who figured out how to not only reach doorknobs she shouldn't be reaching, but how to turn them, over a month ago. The first time, she declared to all who would hear, "I got out!" And so she has, time and time again. Buuuuuut, she got some catch-up immunizations yesterday, 2 shots in each leg, to be exact. She was quite the trooper about it and fortunately got in some good running around before she took a nap and the stiffness set in. And today she has declared herself an invalid and insists on being transported in my ever-lovin' arms from place to place. When I do insist on her walking, while assisting her of course, she walks like a bowl-legged toddler who just experienced the world's largest movement. And I'm not talking Beethoven's kind.

While driving to pick up Benja from his once a week "Little Learners" class, I spotted an unruly white hair, growing from MY head. I plucked it out and swore. Avee imitated me 5 times before I got to Benja's classroom. I thought I had learned my lesson with "dammit" at the bishop's house with Benja when he was 2.

I went shopping at Target today and I was clearly the token "I Just transferred from Wal-Mart" shopper. There were 67 other moms there with exactly one child just like mine, within at least 6 months in age. And 32 of them were about as pregnant as me. However, I was the only one who's daughter was singing loudly about "daddy's" and "cute shirts" and I was the only one wearing faded maternity sweatpants with an unmatching yellow sweater that I got at a second hand store 3 years ago. And I can't remember if I brushed my hair or not, but I definitely had the scroungiest hair either way. In my defense however, I was NOT the mom who was saying to my 2 year old, "Are you sure you want this yellow bus? It's just like the one you have at home, but it is your birthday money." This surprised me for several reasons. I thought "birthday money" for children under say, 8 years old was actually code for "hey mom, go get yourself a little something." Am I wrong?

I just read this first paragraph over the phone to J because it made me laugh out loud. He says, "And instead of jail time, we will instead let everyone know what you've done."
How Embarrassing.

That's all. I have a 22 month old whimpering for me and a 44 month old throwing dirt at people. And I'm hungry.

Posted by Angela at 2/06/2007 | Permalink | Comments

So, I've started 4 posts in the last two days, in a valiant effort to be a blog posting kind of girl. I get halfway through and reread what I've written and realize that I, who think I am fascinating, scintillating, brilliant, and very pretty, was bored to tears. So---I realize I can't do that to the blogosphere. At least not knowingly.

I think my problem is, I reread some past posts and see how much more interesting life,and my spin on it was in my former, non-pregnant life and I just can't meet that standard these days. This pregnancy has been going quite smoothly and easily, and aside from leaning over and accidentally squishing the little butternut before I remember, I really don't feel physically pregnant most of the time. Oh, that and the gut when I walk by the mirror. I can't be bothered with maternity pants most days because I've learned that one needs more of a rearend to keep those on, and I just cain't do it. So I walk around with regular pants riding below my belly and an oversized sweatshirt---in true redneck, beer belly fashion.

So, I'm going to do an NCS kind of post with just the random thoughts floating around in my head. And, if you are reading this, and there's a question mark at the end of what I write---I would LOVE for you to answer as much as you can. Because these aren't filler questions, these are burning questions in my life.

With that, I'll start off with a question:

Does anybody's children like "Big Big World" on PBS. Benja gets offended when it comes on and Avee turns the tv off.

Benja: Why did dad go to Nohf Carowina---he's supposed to go to Boston.
Mom: No, he is done in Boston, now he's going to North Carolina.
Benja: No, his boss said to him,"Jay everyday I want you to go to Boston foh wohk!" so he shouldn't be in Nohf Carowina.
Mom: Okay, I'll let him know.

Does anyone have a crib that they absolutely love and think everyone should own? We need to buy one and the last one we had was a hand me down that was hashed and the creaking and swaying was enough to almost have me institutionalized.

Benja quotes:
While looking at our token ultrasound photo where nothing is distinguishable to me:
"Yeah, that's a boy foh sho, because boys come from cans, not girls, and this is a boy in a can.

"When I take karate I will be with other kids my age. Then I will beat them all with my karate kick and be alone in the class."

"Where's that one Grandma that smiled at me?"

On Sunday I put Avee in the most adorable little turquoise mock sweater and plaid pleated skirt. She had her darling black boots and I even managed to keep little pigtails in her hair for about 30 minutes at a time. Now, juxtaposed to this was Benja wearing one dark brown shoe, one black shoe, both of them left shoes. He of course didn't notice or care. But his father who dressed him should have. I discovered this at church. Hopefully no one will notice, I tell myself---at least the kid I dressed looks adorable. As I was heading out to our various classrooms a nice man stopped me and asked, "He's so cute---how old is he?" I turned to motion toward Ben, who is three and a half and realized he was asking about Avee. In a skirt. And pigtails. And black boots for crying out loud. That's what I get for being vain.

Avee has taken to calling all males daddy and all females mommy. It's a sweet perspective of the world, and of course I'm just proud of her brilliance in noting the differences already. So far she hasn't made an misidentifications of gender---but a few times her exuberance in declaring what she sees is a little embarrassing. Today as we entered the rec center a very large, bald, much older, sweaty black man was exiting at the same time. Avee pointed and yelled "Daddy!" I sort of blushed and looked away, as it looks like my poor, 2 shades shy of albino, red-haired daughter is desperately seeking any sort of substitute for a father. But the real color didn't come to my face until Ben laughs sort of loudly and says just as loud, "That's funny Avee, he's waaaaay too sweaty to be our daddy."

Posted by Angela at 2/01/2007 | Permalink | Comments