I always foolishly assumed I would grow up, and I planned that when I did, I would be the neighborhood cool mom. Though I failed to grow up, I still make every effort to be the best Mama ever.
I try to have an immediate solution for any problem. Lefty: "Have you seen my water bottle?" Me: "Want me to kiss it and make it better?" Lefty: "Uh..."
Pixie: "The Precious smacked my left ear." Me: "I'll smack the right one and they'll be even." Pixie, "Never mind, I'm good."
It's difficult to gauge my cool mom status from my children's responses, because, as they are teenagers, it isn't always easy to read their ultra-cool random hormonal standoffish-hood.
When I was a teenager back in the late nineteen hundreds, my parents were incessantly griping that my music was too loud. I couldn't wait to grow up and move out, so I could do whatever I wanted. Someday I would hatch my own begottens and let them play their music too loud.
Now I do have teenagers of my own, who are incessantly griping that my music is too loud. I still can't wait to move out so I can do whatever I want. (No, the children moving out won't be good enough. Hunneypunkin will still be here, incessantly griping that my music is too loud. Unless he goes deaf in his other ear too.)
Balancing parental coolness with child safety grows increasingly challenging as the begottens' talents grow increasingly diverse. "Pixie, if you can see Great Grandma's house, you're too high up the tree. Easy with the power tools, Angel Doll. The Precious, be careful parkouring, and wash your shoeprints off the ceiling. Also Daddy says to fill in that nine-foot deep four-foot diameter hole you dug in the backyard before you really do trap a coyote or a small cougar in there. Or a neighbor. Lefty, take that live bat back outside. No, don't bring any dead ones in either."
I encourage my begottens toward activities that interest them, and I try to get involved with them. I learned oil painting with Pixie last month and knitting this week with Angel Doll. For The Precious, it's movies, as well as everything and everyone involved in their making. I now know a lot of fascinating facts about Tom Cruise, Robert Downey, Jr., Chris Hemsworth, and Jeremy Renner. I have yet to venture into Halo 4 with Lefty.
Thursday, December 13, 2012
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
Weight a Minute
"Put the mirror on this wall," was not the brightest command I ever decreed. The arrangement of my cubicular master bathroom is such that the only space big enough for the giant mirror is the wall facing the toilet. This is also the only logical home for the bathroom scale.
I'm a big fan of multitasking, so as early as I can drag my limbs out of the barracks in the mornings, I like to weigh in, try to recognize myself in the mirror, and check myself for a pulse all at once. (I haven't figured out yet how to simultaneously use the potty.) Unfortunately I'm also getting ready for a shower at the same time so without the cover of a giant sweatshirt or a decent pair of jeans, the sum of all this is something like, "Ooh, look, 164.3 pounds of epic fail. What happened to my face? Does this blubber make my butt look big?"
I don't even know why I use a bathroom scale. It's not like I'm motivated to diet. I suppose if I weigh myself daily, I can honestly say that I'm watching my weight. I don't have to add, "steadily incline".
I'm not convinced that the number of a person's body weight is necessarily indicative of one's overall well-being anyway. I consider myself in pretty good health because I read a lot of internet articles about physical fitness and proper eating habits, plus I own a yoga video, and, I throw down turkey subs and sixteen-ounce caramel mochas with friends as often as I can. That has to be good for you.
In a few weeks when I become famous and wealthy, I'll buy a renovation from Jeremy Renner with a large enough bathroom that the toilet and the scale will not face the bathroom mirror. Until that day, when I step on the scale every morning and try to recognize my reflection while verifying the presence of my heartbeat, I'll try to change my inner dialogue to something like, "Ooh, look, 165.2 pounds of epic friend. There's a half hour of laughing still stuck in the corner of my eye. Is that a sandwich in my hip?"
I'm a big fan of multitasking, so as early as I can drag my limbs out of the barracks in the mornings, I like to weigh in, try to recognize myself in the mirror, and check myself for a pulse all at once. (I haven't figured out yet how to simultaneously use the potty.) Unfortunately I'm also getting ready for a shower at the same time so without the cover of a giant sweatshirt or a decent pair of jeans, the sum of all this is something like, "Ooh, look, 164.3 pounds of epic fail. What happened to my face? Does this blubber make my butt look big?"
I don't even know why I use a bathroom scale. It's not like I'm motivated to diet. I suppose if I weigh myself daily, I can honestly say that I'm watching my weight. I don't have to add, "steadily incline".
I'm not convinced that the number of a person's body weight is necessarily indicative of one's overall well-being anyway. I consider myself in pretty good health because I read a lot of internet articles about physical fitness and proper eating habits, plus I own a yoga video, and, I throw down turkey subs and sixteen-ounce caramel mochas with friends as often as I can. That has to be good for you.
In a few weeks when I become famous and wealthy, I'll buy a renovation from Jeremy Renner with a large enough bathroom that the toilet and the scale will not face the bathroom mirror. Until that day, when I step on the scale every morning and try to recognize my reflection while verifying the presence of my heartbeat, I'll try to change my inner dialogue to something like, "Ooh, look, 165.2 pounds of epic friend. There's a half hour of laughing still stuck in the corner of my eye. Is that a sandwich in my hip?"
Monday, November 26, 2012
Three Strikes Program
Hunneypunkin's dog thinks he's a house pet. I think he's not. And since I'm Caesar of this empire, he's not. But he's a decent dog and I'm a decent emperor, so I agree to let him visit the great indoors on occasion. I do, however, keep him on the three strikes program.
The dog has a corner of his own in the living room, and that's the only spot he's allowed to be. We have an old blanket that we spread on the floor in his corner to keep his doggie smell from melting into the carpet, and he does a good job of staying on his blankie (except for that one sly paw that he stretches jusssst off the edge.) He'll sleep there for hours. Like the children, he seems to have adapted his version of the Jurassic Park scene--"Don't move. They won't see me if I don't move. Then they'll let me stay."
Though he generally seems to be sleeping, he definitely notices if everyone leaves the room. Then he'll go silently lurking through the house sniffing for people. It's usually me that he finds...with his velvety and slightly damp muzzle against my elbow while I'm at my computer all thinking I'm alone. Once I've recovered from a mild heart attack and threatened to send him back outside for leaving his blanket, I never fail to accidentally make eye contact with him, at which point I'm susceptible to his telepathic message, "Llllet meeee staaaay, llllet meeee staaaay," and even though Jedi mind tricks don't work on me because I'm practical and logical, I always choose to llllet himmm staaay.
The three strikes program, however, overrides even the big brown puppy-dog eyes. It doesn't matter how sweetly the dog stretches out on his blankie, or how adoringly he stares into my face, or how telepathically he begs to stay in the house, the third time the air turns green and people start pulling their shirt collars up over their noses because the dog dropped an SBD, he's out. Now don't go all animal rights on me, I'd even kick out Jeremy Renner if he floated three air biscuits.
The dog has a corner of his own in the living room, and that's the only spot he's allowed to be. We have an old blanket that we spread on the floor in his corner to keep his doggie smell from melting into the carpet, and he does a good job of staying on his blankie (except for that one sly paw that he stretches jusssst off the edge.) He'll sleep there for hours. Like the children, he seems to have adapted his version of the Jurassic Park scene--"Don't move. They won't see me if I don't move. Then they'll let me stay."
Though he generally seems to be sleeping, he definitely notices if everyone leaves the room. Then he'll go silently lurking through the house sniffing for people. It's usually me that he finds...with his velvety and slightly damp muzzle against my elbow while I'm at my computer all thinking I'm alone. Once I've recovered from a mild heart attack and threatened to send him back outside for leaving his blanket, I never fail to accidentally make eye contact with him, at which point I'm susceptible to his telepathic message, "Llllet meeee staaaay, llllet meeee staaaay," and even though Jedi mind tricks don't work on me because I'm practical and logical, I always choose to llllet himmm staaay.
The three strikes program, however, overrides even the big brown puppy-dog eyes. It doesn't matter how sweetly the dog stretches out on his blankie, or how adoringly he stares into my face, or how telepathically he begs to stay in the house, the third time the air turns green and people start pulling their shirt collars up over their noses because the dog dropped an SBD, he's out. Now don't go all animal rights on me, I'd even kick out Jeremy Renner if he floated three air biscuits.
Monday, November 19, 2012
Reindeer Games
I'm cheesed at the controversy over the existence of Saint Nick.
I bust my butt year round on projects from live plants to wooden gadgets to fabric creations to kitchen productions. I make my lists, I check them twice. No matter how tired I get, I'm still obligated to be lively and quick.
I shop carefully for the best deals, even when the weather is colder than a witch's wit, my cheeks are like roses and my nose like a cherry, running all over the map with a bundle of toys flung on my back.
I slave over whichever burners of my stove work, and my oven if it chooses to function. (Major appliance manufacturers could consider building their products to last if they want to get off the naughty list.) I make holiday goodies and test them till I have a little round belly. It shakes when I laugh. I hate that.
The cost of reindeer fodder is out of control, but I speak not a word. I go straight to my work. I'm up way too late filling stockings every Christmas Eve because I have to wait till all the rodents and other creatures are unconscious.
I value my anonymousness and privacy every bit as much as Jeremy Renner, but doggone it, it yanks my chain when I work so hard year round to make the world a better place and people don't acknowledge I even exist. I get how God feels.
Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. On Christmas Day I'm going to put my feet up and take my annual twenty-four hours off, and the next day, even if some people don't believe in me, I'll be back to my work again.
I bust my butt year round on projects from live plants to wooden gadgets to fabric creations to kitchen productions. I make my lists, I check them twice. No matter how tired I get, I'm still obligated to be lively and quick.
I shop carefully for the best deals, even when the weather is colder than a witch's wit, my cheeks are like roses and my nose like a cherry, running all over the map with a bundle of toys flung on my back.
I slave over whichever burners of my stove work, and my oven if it chooses to function. (Major appliance manufacturers could consider building their products to last if they want to get off the naughty list.) I make holiday goodies and test them till I have a little round belly. It shakes when I laugh. I hate that.
The cost of reindeer fodder is out of control, but I speak not a word. I go straight to my work. I'm up way too late filling stockings every Christmas Eve because I have to wait till all the rodents and other creatures are unconscious.
I value my anonymousness and privacy every bit as much as Jeremy Renner, but doggone it, it yanks my chain when I work so hard year round to make the world a better place and people don't acknowledge I even exist. I get how God feels.
Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. On Christmas Day I'm going to put my feet up and take my annual twenty-four hours off, and the next day, even if some people don't believe in me, I'll be back to my work again.
Saturday, November 17, 2012
Saturday Night Lifelike
I'm going to have to take a nap today. Jeremy Renner is hosting SNL which is way past my bedtime, and I feel the need to be awake, alive, and alert for that. Might have to listen to Skillet's "Awake and Alive" CD to stave off my imminent temporary 9pm nightly zombification.
Tuesday, November 13, 2012
Hitting a Stud
I told Hunneypunkin I needed a shelf built. After whipping around a tape measure and pondering the proposed construction site he said, "You'll have to hit a stud." So I smacked him. I thought something miracley would happen, like when Moses brought forth water from the rock for the thirsting deserted nomadic Israelis...but he just looked at me weird. And that's not miracley at all, that's just plain normal.
God must have moved the moon into some rare kind of configuration with Saturn, the Pluto formerly known as a planet, and Uranus--that's funny because I just spelled anus--because only that kind of gravitational pull can suck Hunneypunkin into agreement with one of my evil schemes of home improvement at the same time as we possess the reserves of both cash AND time to complete it in fewer than eighteen months.
Makita, Craftsman, Black & Decker showed up to assist while Pixie, Angel Doll, Lefty and The Precious re-enacted their version of the Jurassic Park scene: "Don't move! They can't see us if we don't move. Then we won't have to help."
By some twist of fate I managed to locate some leftover paint so I could make my new shelf match the rest of the room, and someone actually knew where the paint tray and roller were.
Within a couple of hours my lovely project was not only complete, but cleaned up after as well. It was unbelievably honeyful and perfect as if Jeremy Renner had starred alongside a sweet labrador retriever in a delightful Hallmark made-for-TV holiday movie about the redemption of a long-lost individual with a romantic subplot and a fireplace, wearing a comfy yet stylish wool sweater.
So perhaps hitting a stud can cause a miracle after all.
No animals were harmed in the building of this shelf.
God must have moved the moon into some rare kind of configuration with Saturn, the Pluto formerly known as a planet, and Uranus--that's funny because I just spelled anus--because only that kind of gravitational pull can suck Hunneypunkin into agreement with one of my evil schemes of home improvement at the same time as we possess the reserves of both cash AND time to complete it in fewer than eighteen months.
Makita, Craftsman, Black & Decker showed up to assist while Pixie, Angel Doll, Lefty and The Precious re-enacted their version of the Jurassic Park scene: "Don't move! They can't see us if we don't move. Then we won't have to help."
By some twist of fate I managed to locate some leftover paint so I could make my new shelf match the rest of the room, and someone actually knew where the paint tray and roller were.
Within a couple of hours my lovely project was not only complete, but cleaned up after as well. It was unbelievably honeyful and perfect as if Jeremy Renner had starred alongside a sweet labrador retriever in a delightful Hallmark made-for-TV holiday movie about the redemption of a long-lost individual with a romantic subplot and a fireplace, wearing a comfy yet stylish wool sweater.
So perhaps hitting a stud can cause a miracle after all.
No animals were harmed in the building of this shelf.
Wednesday, November 7, 2012
My Stand on Politics
Though I have strong political opinions, I rarely discuss them. You're not going to change my mind, I doubt I'm going to change yours, and that makes verbal exchange pointless in my estimation. I must say, however, that this morning's election results were incredibly disappointing to me.
I wrote in "Jeremy Renner/Suzanne Wilson" for United States President/Vice President on my ballot, which I mailed promptly WITH postage, and here I sit this morning, NOT in office.
Epic fail on Phase Two of my Personal World Takeover Plan.
I admit I attempted to drown my sorrows in a sixteen ounce caramel mocha at The Grainery this morning https://www.facebook.com/pages/The-Grainery/270676199452?ref=ts&fref=ts and after that miraculous little potion I do feel much better. In fact I'm inspired to carry on.
Renner/Wilson 2016!
I wrote in "Jeremy Renner/Suzanne Wilson" for United States President/Vice President on my ballot, which I mailed promptly WITH postage, and here I sit this morning, NOT in office.
Epic fail on Phase Two of my Personal World Takeover Plan.
I admit I attempted to drown my sorrows in a sixteen ounce caramel mocha at The Grainery this morning https://www.facebook.com/pages/The-Grainery/270676199452?ref=ts&fref=ts and after that miraculous little potion I do feel much better. In fact I'm inspired to carry on.
Renner/Wilson 2016!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)