It didn't bug me when my little ones took all afternoon to eat lunch because if they were confined to the table, so were their messes. I could clean something and it would stay tidy for a whole hour. Hunneypunkin, however, was annoyed that lunch was still being had when he got home from work for supper, and demanded to know why lunch took so long every day.
So I spied to learn what nonsense was afoot at lunchtime, and that's how I learned to play "Broken or fixed". When no one was looking, Lefty would tear his sandwich in half, press the halves together, then hold it up and ask, "Is my sandwich broken or fixed?" The Precious and the sisters would cast their votes as to whether the bread was torn or whole, and Lefty would pull the two halves apart to show who was right.
Then Angel Doll would hold up a baby carrot with both hands and ask, "Broken or fixed," wait for responses, and then let go of the carrot with one hand to prove that the carrot was whole.
Pixie would repeat the act with a cheese stick, scolding anyone who cheated by trying to lean in for a closer look, and The Precious would take a turn with his sandwich.
The game could get rather complex, what with trying to break apart a carrot without anyone else seeing, or pretending to tear a cheese stick in half without actually doing it, or wrapping one's entire body around the plate to hide the breaking--or not--of the food.
The "Broken or fixed" game was forgotten as the People reached double-digit birthdays. Adolescent appetites replaced the childhood necessity of playing with one's food. Recently, however, someone remembered the game, and for a short time it was revived. The only thing more entertaining than watching Jeremy Renner interviews on Youtube, is watching my teenagers playing "Broken or fixed" with their lunches.
Friday, May 31, 2013
Tuesday, May 7, 2013
Annual Clan Chili Feed and Fashion Show
Back when I was nice, there was a standing invitation (requirement) to attend the Annual Clan Chili Feed and Fashion Show every month. Now, some families are close-knit, and others are just...anyway, Hunneypunkin and I attended the yearly event every month for a long time, thinking eventually we would find our place.
The trouble wasn't only that Drunckle picked arguments even more than his nose, or that Auntie Grandma baited him. It wasn't just that Matriarch blamed the third-generations for the second-gens' bickering. Or that Matriarch would cry and scold everyone for acting like this when today could well be Great-Great-Grampa's last meal. I could have even handled the fourth- and fifth-gens biting my shoestrings and running with scissors and painting my diaper bag with gravy.
My sister-in-law Lovesme would try to engage me in pleasant conversation or at least telepathic empathy. My sister-in-law Hatesme would try to occupy me with condescension or maybe critiquing my babies against hers. Dromiquine was always there to spread or start gossip, and Cousin Antipath was always there to pants people, play with matches, and pass gas. Hunneypunkin just stuck his head under somebody's car hood and checked their oil. Eighty-six times.
The last time we attended the monthly Annual Clan Chili Feed and Fashion Show, it started as usual: avoiding the second-hand smoke, the hand-me-down hostility, and the direction of Great Aunt Chub who really needed a blankie when nursing her newest infant. Matriarch complained about the food that people contributed and about the people who didn't contribute any. The day ended as usual too, except this time it wasn't just my children huddled in the farthest corner from the fray, rocking themselves and sucking their thumbs, I was right there with them.
Finally I said to Hunneypunkin, "I'm not sure I can go anymore. I just don't fit in, and there's never any chili. But if we don't go, the clan is going to hate us."
Hunneypunkin said, "If you don't want to go, we won't go. What difference would it make? They already hate us."
I hadn't thought of that. So we walked away like Jeremy Renner, and the only thing I miss is seeing Great-Great-Grampa's dementia disappear just long enough for him to grin at me and wink.
The trouble wasn't only that Drunckle picked arguments even more than his nose, or that Auntie Grandma baited him. It wasn't just that Matriarch blamed the third-generations for the second-gens' bickering. Or that Matriarch would cry and scold everyone for acting like this when today could well be Great-Great-Grampa's last meal. I could have even handled the fourth- and fifth-gens biting my shoestrings and running with scissors and painting my diaper bag with gravy.
My sister-in-law Lovesme would try to engage me in pleasant conversation or at least telepathic empathy. My sister-in-law Hatesme would try to occupy me with condescension or maybe critiquing my babies against hers. Dromiquine was always there to spread or start gossip, and Cousin Antipath was always there to pants people, play with matches, and pass gas. Hunneypunkin just stuck his head under somebody's car hood and checked their oil. Eighty-six times.
The last time we attended the monthly Annual Clan Chili Feed and Fashion Show, it started as usual: avoiding the second-hand smoke, the hand-me-down hostility, and the direction of Great Aunt Chub who really needed a blankie when nursing her newest infant. Matriarch complained about the food that people contributed and about the people who didn't contribute any. The day ended as usual too, except this time it wasn't just my children huddled in the farthest corner from the fray, rocking themselves and sucking their thumbs, I was right there with them.
Finally I said to Hunneypunkin, "I'm not sure I can go anymore. I just don't fit in, and there's never any chili. But if we don't go, the clan is going to hate us."
Hunneypunkin said, "If you don't want to go, we won't go. What difference would it make? They already hate us."
I hadn't thought of that. So we walked away like Jeremy Renner, and the only thing I miss is seeing Great-Great-Grampa's dementia disappear just long enough for him to grin at me and wink.
Monday, May 6, 2013
Gunner Has Two Mommies
The wiggly little puppies were so precious that it seemed righteous to take two of them. They would keep each other company and perhaps be less likely to find trouble. Right? So then they got big real soon.
They were both female, so we planned to have them spayed at an appropriate time. That would have worked out well, but the hippo from a nearby homestead beat us to the punch. I almost swallowed my tonsils when I strolled out to feed the dogs one day and came face to face with a giant stuffie hanging out with our dogs for a smoke.
Oh, well, I told Hunneypunkin, it's the first litter for both of them, so they won't have very many babies. A couple months later we found out I was right, of course. I mean, they could have each had ten or twelve pups. Instead they each had eight. On the same day. At the same time.
A couple of them were stillborn which was simultaneously sad and relieving. They were all indescribably adorable. So then they got big real soon. We were able to give a few away, but ten of them we had to pay to have the humane society take. That was trauma. But the only other option was to sell our own children to feed the dogs. That's illegal, plus I'm pretty attached to our own children.
The vet had advised us to take the mommadoggies on a short car trip as soon as the puppies were weaned. Homestead Hippo, however, was again too quick for us. I was seriously cheesed about being outsmarted by a neighbor dog. Twice.
This time we were blessed with seventeen puppies. On the same day. At the same time. But that wasn't even the best part. The very most exciting part was that Hunneypunkin chose a puppy. I might have freaked out just a little bit over that at first, but doggone it it's too stinkin hard to turn down a puppy. Or Hunneypunkin when he puts on his puppydog face.
So then they got big real soon. Hunneypunkin managed to make a deal with the humanes, for the society to sell the puppies, their profit, no charge to us. Way better arrangement than the first round. We outsmarted the hippo this time, whose master himself took one of the pups off our hands.
Hunneypunkin named his puppy Gunner, and Gunner grew up to be bigger than his mommies--we were never completely certain which one actually birthed him--though he never got quite as big as his father the hippo. Gunner's a handsome fellow, a mellow, friendly, low-maint kind of pet. If Jeremy Renner were a dog, he'd be Gunner.
They were both female, so we planned to have them spayed at an appropriate time. That would have worked out well, but the hippo from a nearby homestead beat us to the punch. I almost swallowed my tonsils when I strolled out to feed the dogs one day and came face to face with a giant stuffie hanging out with our dogs for a smoke.
Oh, well, I told Hunneypunkin, it's the first litter for both of them, so they won't have very many babies. A couple months later we found out I was right, of course. I mean, they could have each had ten or twelve pups. Instead they each had eight. On the same day. At the same time.
A couple of them were stillborn which was simultaneously sad and relieving. They were all indescribably adorable. So then they got big real soon. We were able to give a few away, but ten of them we had to pay to have the humane society take. That was trauma. But the only other option was to sell our own children to feed the dogs. That's illegal, plus I'm pretty attached to our own children.
The vet had advised us to take the mommadoggies on a short car trip as soon as the puppies were weaned. Homestead Hippo, however, was again too quick for us. I was seriously cheesed about being outsmarted by a neighbor dog. Twice.
This time we were blessed with seventeen puppies. On the same day. At the same time. But that wasn't even the best part. The very most exciting part was that Hunneypunkin chose a puppy. I might have freaked out just a little bit over that at first, but doggone it it's too stinkin hard to turn down a puppy. Or Hunneypunkin when he puts on his puppydog face.
So then they got big real soon. Hunneypunkin managed to make a deal with the humanes, for the society to sell the puppies, their profit, no charge to us. Way better arrangement than the first round. We outsmarted the hippo this time, whose master himself took one of the pups off our hands.
Hunneypunkin named his puppy Gunner, and Gunner grew up to be bigger than his mommies--we were never completely certain which one actually birthed him--though he never got quite as big as his father the hippo. Gunner's a handsome fellow, a mellow, friendly, low-maint kind of pet. If Jeremy Renner were a dog, he'd be Gunner.
Saturday, May 4, 2013
What Doesn't Kill Ya
Five weeks from the stork dropping Lefty on our doorstep, The Eighteen-month-old Precious broke its femur which landed it in a cast from its toes to around its waist for a month. At the same time, Hunneypunkin's boss broke his almost entire self which landed Hunneypunkin filling in the blanks at work every waking minute till stork night. This left me and my basketball belly taking care of The Broken-baby Precious all by myself. In the middle of Ice Storm '96. I'm not making this up.
My good friend (or whatever), Dromiquine, determined--against the pediatrician's and orthopedic surgeon's diagnoses--that the fracture was a result of my failure to provide adequate nutrition to The Precious, and told our friends and family so.
One year in my twenties, I decided to bake myself a birthday cake. It was, after all, my birthday, and the children weren't yet old enough for Hunneypunkin to order them to bake me a birthday cake and then take credit for it, so I had to take care of myownself. I mixed up a thick and rich and chocolatey batter and preheated the oven. The preheating oven started to smell weird. I didn't know Hunneypunkin had sprayed oven cleaner and left it to do its wonders. Hunneypunkin sent me to the park with the babies while he tried to air the toxic smokey fumes out of the house and cool down the oven and clean out the toasted oven cleaner grime.
My sister-in-law Hatesme found the situation quite humorous and told me she was a very lucky wife whose husband always took her out for her birthday, plus she was ever so sad for me that I didn't have a self-cleaning oven like she did. That made me feel WAY better.
A few years ago, I was terminated from my beloved job. Though I adored my job, losing it would have been a relief, because I was about to drop dead from three years of migraines and chronic sinus infections...except that we'd bled our savings dry while Hunneypunkin had been out of work for ages, and his unemployment had run out--the day before my termination. Not even kidding. Dromiquine and my sister-in-law Hatesme agreed that they were SO glad they weren't in our shoes.
If it's true that what doesn't kill you makes you stronger, then after some of the incredible experiences I've survived and the inconceivable people who have taken the opportunities to kick me when they thought I was down, I oughta be tougher than Jeremy Renner. I'm absolutely invincible. True story. There's absolutely no way at this point that I can possibly be vinced. You've been there too, I know it.
My good friend (or whatever), Dromiquine, determined--against the pediatrician's and orthopedic surgeon's diagnoses--that the fracture was a result of my failure to provide adequate nutrition to The Precious, and told our friends and family so.
One year in my twenties, I decided to bake myself a birthday cake. It was, after all, my birthday, and the children weren't yet old enough for Hunneypunkin to order them to bake me a birthday cake and then take credit for it, so I had to take care of myownself. I mixed up a thick and rich and chocolatey batter and preheated the oven. The preheating oven started to smell weird. I didn't know Hunneypunkin had sprayed oven cleaner and left it to do its wonders. Hunneypunkin sent me to the park with the babies while he tried to air the toxic smokey fumes out of the house and cool down the oven and clean out the toasted oven cleaner grime.
My sister-in-law Hatesme found the situation quite humorous and told me she was a very lucky wife whose husband always took her out for her birthday, plus she was ever so sad for me that I didn't have a self-cleaning oven like she did. That made me feel WAY better.
A few years ago, I was terminated from my beloved job. Though I adored my job, losing it would have been a relief, because I was about to drop dead from three years of migraines and chronic sinus infections...except that we'd bled our savings dry while Hunneypunkin had been out of work for ages, and his unemployment had run out--the day before my termination. Not even kidding. Dromiquine and my sister-in-law Hatesme agreed that they were SO glad they weren't in our shoes.
If it's true that what doesn't kill you makes you stronger, then after some of the incredible experiences I've survived and the inconceivable people who have taken the opportunities to kick me when they thought I was down, I oughta be tougher than Jeremy Renner. I'm absolutely invincible. True story. There's absolutely no way at this point that I can possibly be vinced. You've been there too, I know it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)