Some Pig

Maternal Instincts

"I think I'll make my Mother's Day gifts ahead of time!" India announced merrily one afternoon a few weeks ago, laying her containers of Model Magic out on the table. 

[An aside:  That is how you can tell she is Warren's child.  She is a capital-P Planner.  I, on the other hand, am guaranteed to forget Mother's Day unless I happen to pop into the drugstore beforehand for some Tums and then am confronted by the card display rack when OH HOLY CRAPBALLS IT'S MOTHER'S DAY dammitdammitdammit will the cards make it on time if I buy the cards and mail them RIGHT friggin' NOW?!?][Actually, I did send mine this year, thank you very much.] [But only because I had to go to the drugstore for something else anyway and then I remembered.]

[Another aside:  I hereby nominate the inventor of Model Magic for canonization, or at least a Nobel Peace Prize, that peace being within the walls of my happy home.  Oooh, I loves me some Model Magic:  So clean!  So non-crumbly!  So easy to take out and put away!!!  The inventor of Play-Doh is going to have to be satisfied with a century or two in Purgatory, while I will gladly stoke the flames of whatever eternal fires roast the bones of the creator of Moon Sand.  Why?  It's in the very name:  Moon SAND. Who...WHO thought it would be a good idea to create a toy that mimics the texture AND scattering capacity of damp sand???  Did someone go for a stroll along a beach and think, "Hey, you know what people really like?  They really like walking across the floor and getting sand all over their feet!"  Because that person?  Would be identically WRONG.  When the girls were little, they couldn't have Moon Sand because the baby would eat it, and when the girls got older, they couldn't have Moon Sand because it wound up in every crack and crevice in the floor before transferring to the bottoms of my feet, upon which point I stuck it on top of the fridge way in the back where they couldn't see it until they forgot about it and I could throw it out.  So you're welcome, American Psychiatric Association, for the future therapy sessions my girls will no doubt require to get over being deprived of developmentally appropriate play materials because their mother can't stand the feeling of grit on her feet.]

Anyway, I digress.  Soon Celeste joined in the fun, and at the end of one of the pleasanter pre-dinner-hours we've spent together, they presented me with their magnum opi.  (Sorry.  I can't even think about typing "magnum opuses".  My high school Latin teacher would hunt me down and kill me, and even though she's a retired nun who stands about four-foot-ten, I'm still terrified of her.) Here is India's:

No, I don't know why the picture insists on turning sideways.  Damn you, Picasa! And curse you, Warren, for downloading Picasa, which won't let me use our old and perfectly fine photo software!  

Does this not just scream "first born child"?  There is nothing - nothing - out of the box with my elder girl, who is, for all intents and purposes, a very conventional child.  Who is this for?  MOM.  What is the appropriate emotion?  LOVE.  The applicable symbolism?  A HEART.  Done and DONE.

Then Celeste proferred her wares. 

Here is gift #1:

I would give you some kind of noun, proper or not, to describe this, but I'm sadly bereft of words.  Is it a polka dot?  A mushroom cap?  A genetic sport of a ladybug, sans wings?  I dunno.  But wait!  There's more! 

Gift #2:

Again with the sideways.  Sorry, folks.

"Here you go, Mommy!" Cici chirped, placing the above... object in my hand and running off.  Let's look at it again:

It's some kind of ...oblong... thing.  With one big - what? eyeball? - on its... head?  arse? 

Wait, let's take one more look:

Then it struck me.  My daughter, in celebration of Mother's Day, made me, with her very own hands.....

 

...........wait for it..............

 

 

.....a one-eyed trouser snake. 

Because nothing says "I love you" on Mother's Day quite like a Freudian gesture.

I've Fallen And I Can't Get Up

Well, I was meaning to post a couple more entries this week, but events kinda got away from me - and by "events" I mean, "disasters," and by "got away from me" I mean, "occurred to me."  But!  The blog must go on!

On Wednesday, I made a concerted effort to be double-super-extra efficient.  There was a shitton of work to be done chez Pig; errands to run, food to procure, rooms to tidy, laundry to fold.  So I hustled my muscles out of school at the earliest possible moment, picked up the youngest from pre-K, zipped over to the elementary school to nab the elder child, threw everyone in the car, and ferried my happy threesome hither and yon to get! stuff! done!!!!  With the brutal efficiency of a CIA hit man, I executed all the necessary tasks until the only thing left was a visit to the local grocery.   I was especially glad my appointed rounds were almost complete because an unexpected rainstorm left us all a little damp and cold.  As I walked into the store, I looked forward to a quick whip-round the aisles before hustling home to my sweatpants and tshirt. 

I set my left foot inside the door, no problem.  Then I set my right foot down on what must have been a gross of ball bearings, because my right leg went flying out at a tangential angle to my body, leaving me windmilling in the air a la Wile E. Coyote right after he strolls off a cliff into thin air.  Unlike Wile E., unfortunately, I did not pancake into a neat accordion shape when I hit bottom and bounce back up.  All I know is that one second, I was on my feet, asking Celeste if she wanted yogurt pops with her lunch, and then the next there was a lump of a person lying on the floor crying in pain, and that person happened to be me.  Lovely.  Better yet, I managed to fall just inside the sweep of the automatic door, so someone had to hold it open lest it keep trying to shut on my head over...and over....and over...while potential customers had to step over and around me to get inside.  Hey, when I humiliate myself, I do it ALL THE WAY, BAYBEE. 

Three One-Act Plays With My Children

A Keen Grasp of the Obvious:

 “Mommy, I love Oreos,” India says dreamily.

“Really?  What’s your favorite part?”

“My favorite part’s the chocolate outside.  And the cream filling in the middle.”

“So basically, your favorite part’s the whole cookie.”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

*****************************************

The Buddha Would Be So Proud:

Cici:  “MUMMA!  Plastic bottles aren’t good forda'erf!” [NB:  I’m just spelling it the way she says it.]  “It’s bad to use plastic bottles!  Because the bottles hurt nature!  My teachers said one of the best things we could do forda'erf is have a regular bottle!”

“Yes, honey, I know!  That’s why you have a water bottle. 

"I do?"

"Yes, dear, you do.  It's the one you’re holding in your hand right now.”

**********************************************

Ad Infinitum, Ad Nauseam:

Either child: “MOM!  Lookit!  Look at this, Mom!  Mommy, look at this!”

Me:  “I can’t turn around and look at things while I’m driving, sweetheart.  I have to keep my eyes on the road.”

[two minutes elapses]

Child:  “MOM!  LOOKIT THIS!!!!”

Me:  “What am I about to say to you?”

Child (in small voice): “That you’re driving?”

“Yeees….”

“And you have to pay attention?”

“Mmmm-hmmmmm.  And?”

“You can’t turn around and look right now?”

“That’s right, honey.  I’ll have to look at that when we get home.”

“Okay.”

….one minute goes by….

….two minutes….

….three min-

“MOMMMMM!  Look at THIS!”

*facepalm*

Credit Where Credit Is Due

So, as threatened, I stormed through the kids' crap like the Huns thundering across the Mongolian plains, wreaking order from chaos wherever I went.  Not only that, but I did laundry, ran errands, finished the week's grocery shopping, bought Christmas cards, AND set up Sunday night's dinner in the crock pot.  By 7 p.m., I was sitting down in front of the TV to fill out cards; by 9:30, I was tucked up in bed.  The house, I might add, was immaculate.  If I took something out,  I put it back.  If I dirtied it, I cleaned it.  If it needed folding or storing or filing or recycling, I folded or stored or filed or recycled it.  The house was an oasis of serenity and calm.

Fast-forward 24 hours later.   We had just finished dinner, the remnants of which were smeared across the plates that stood stacked in the sink waiting to be washed.  The counter was strewn with pieces of the mixer, waiting for Warren to replace the stripped gears and reassemble it so he could START making the bread for the next day's sandwiches.  Celeste had recreated a Jackson Pollack painting out of chicken and dumplings  on the dining room table, while her sister screeched about some transgression, real or imaginary, that we all had committed against her.  The day's outfits were scattered the length of the hall, next to the damp towels left on the floor. Yet another load of unfolded laundry sat in the living room, while stacks of folded, clean laundry teetered on top of every bureau.  At regular intervals, the dog got up, shuffled across the floor, and slumped back down with a heavy sigh, just to let us all know that, sheesh, some of us need to go outside to go potty, yanno.  Needless to say, the Zen-like calm that permeated the premises 24 hours previously?  Was gone.  Or more like, annihilated. 

That's when I realized something:  IT'S NOT ME;  IT'S THEM.  They are the reason why our house always looks like a documentary about the aftermath of a natural disaster!  It's no wonder I sound like one of the adults in a Charlie Brown tv special when I have to say the same damn things every damn day about fifteen gajillion times!  Pick up your clothes.  Pick up your books.  Pick up your laundry.  Pick up your damp towels.   Please don't leave your stuff there.  Please put your plate in the sink.  Please don't antagonize your sister.  Please do what I just asked you to do instead of making me repeat it until my head blows up.  Please just do whatI ask you to do the first time I ask you to do it, instead of engaging in huge philosophical and teleological debates about why you have to do everything, anyway.  Because you know who's really doing everything?  ME, that's who!  And if ya keep asking, I'll be more than glad to give some of it to YOU. 

So, in a way, I'm actually heartened by this turn of events.  Why?  Because it proves beyond a shadwo of a doubt -  It's not me, it's them.  This means I get carte blanche to ignore all the chaos and clutter hanging around the happy halls of my home, because, hey!  That ain't MY mess!  If you can't find your stuff anymore because the level of disorganization is unlivable, well, good luck and vaya con Dios, cuz I ain't helping ya. 

And with that, I believe I have a date with my pillow and a nice, lengthy book. 

Oh, Silent Night

At this very moment, guess what is happening?

My husband is in the car, on his way to visit my parents.

My children are in the car, on their way to visit my parents.

My dog is in the car, on his way to visit my parents.

You know who is not in the car? 

ME.  I am not in the car!  I am not on the way to visit my parents!

And you know what?

That is just fine by me.

When my darling husband, who is too wonderful for words, mentioned that it would be nice to see my parents before the holiday rolled around, all I could think of was all the eleventy jillion chores, errands, and tasks that would get pushed off yet again, only to be added to the next weekend's already-burgeoning to-do list, and it was all I could do not to sob.  Plus, I had been invited to a coworker's party, and every time I get invited to do something social with other grownup friends, it gets pre-empted by one family-centric obligation or another.  So, feeling both guilty and truculent, I took a stand. 

"I'm not going," I announced, preparing for a - well, not a fight, really, but a prolonged negotiation session.

"That's okay," said my hubs, who is too wonderful for words, and he proceeded apace with plans to go without me.  And whole vistas of me-centric behaviors are now open to explore!  To wit:

I get to listen to Christmas music featuring original instruments from the 1700's, not the original cast of the PBS show Arthur.

I get to fall asleep, stay asleep, and wake up by myself, on my own, without anyone needing a drink of water, a cuddle, help falling asleep, or someone to close their door. 

I get to spend an entire weekend without being woken up at 4 a.m. by Murphy the Co-dependent Dog, who prefers going on his 5 a.m. walks with me at the other end of the leash.  (Thanks, mother's instincts, for gracing me with the ability to wake up on a dime as soon as I hear him shuffle down the hall, the way I used to snap awake when the baby cried.  Murphy's figured that out and uses that like a weapon against me.  Damn it.)

I get to spread out on the couch and correct papers the way I like, without having to move my stuff, answer a question, referee a fight, or worry about any interruptions other than our paper-loving cat trying to sit on the papers - the uncorrected ones, of course.

I get to watch History Boys, which I have been dying to see, instead of hiding from Breaking Bad, which Warren loves and I absolutely cannot watch. 

I get to indulge in ALL my naughty, illicit pleasures AT ONCE.  Like turning the heat up to 65 and leaving it there!  Eating cereal any time of day!  Drowning everything in Thai peanut sauce!  Reading in bed without someone assuming that "still awake at 10 pm" equals "open for business"!  Listening to music on the computer in the kitchen, where I'm working, instead of on the stereo, which requires a traverse across the room and operating three different remotes, thanks to Captain Technology.  (That last one?  Makes him bonkers.)

There's a price to all this, of course.  I promised Warren I would march through the downstairs toy room like the wrath of God, and divest ourselves of a couple metric tons of outgrown and unloved toys before Santa dumps another sh!tton of crap on us.  (And yeah, I know, I know, but when you have the only two grandkids on one side of the family, they tend to get a little overly gifted at the holidays.) I have to deal with Christmas cards now, or they will never get done.  I have to sort out the contents of the girls' closets and figure out just what the heck they still can wear, what needs to be packed away, and what can get the heave-ho to the next family of small ones. 

Having said all that, I have to admit, things around here are a little... weird.  A little TOO peaceful.  Usually we spend our Friday nights in post-long-week-meltdown mode, with a lot of sibling squabbling, some mental anguish over figuring out what's for dinner, the dog shuffling around in the background and one of us playing the NewsHour at volume 11 like Nigel Tufnel (because you can't understand what Margaret Warner's saying about the latest euro crisis unless it's blasting through your head like an air raid siren, apparently).  Most Fridays, I catch myself thinking at least once that it would be nice if Calgon would show up and take me away, or better yet, take them away.  Who knew I'd actually miss it? 

(PS Don't worry - I'll struggle through somehow.)

In Which Several First-World Problems Collide

Okay, first, a disclaimer:  Every single thing I am about to share with you?  Is a first-world problem.  I know, I am thankful for all the many, many blessings I have of hearth, home, and health.  So lest you read this and think, sheesh, what a self-absorbed, shallow whiner, keep in mind:  I am a self-absorbed, shallow whiner with perspective!

The back story:  Several weeks ago, I happened to mention to Warren that I would like my own iPad because there are lots of cool educational apps out there I could use and it would be nice to have connectivity without having to lug my school laptop thither and yon (because another first world problem I have is that the school buys the cheap laptops, which are lunky and heavy).  

The back-back story:  Warren just bought himself a car.  It was a used car, and he got it for a good price, but the point is, this man LOVES buying cars and will buy one at the least provocation.  In the ten years we've been married, he has bought and sold six cars, many of which were purchased with what I consider to be marginal justification.  However, he loves the whole process.  He loves the hunt, he loves the wheeling-dealing, he loves fixing them up.  Since he is careful with our money and is a good husband and provider, my attitude has been, knock yourself out.  That means I have to endure participate in more discussions about torque and horsepower relative to frame size and differential slip than I ordinarily would (which is none), but if it makes him happy, then it makes me happy.

Meanwhile, I've discussed here before that what *I* like is small and sparkly and comes in carat weight. However, since my husband is relentlessly practical, and since jewelry admittedly has very little application in daily life unless you're using it as portable wealth, he has steadfastly ignored my subtle hints and oblique comments (e.g., "I'd love a diamond ring for our tenth anniversary!"). In his view, he had to get me a diamond in order to get engaged, and now that the necessity for diamond procurement is gone, so he is off the hook.  Whenever I point out that at least three of the car purchases we've made have been superfluous, at least technically, he gives lengthy justification for his actions that somehow manages to portray my acquiescence to this frequent car procurement as active participation in the process, and acceptance for the necessity thereof.  Which is a nice bit of barracks lawyering, as far as I'm concerned. 

Fast-forward back to the present moment.  A couple of days ago, I was tidying up way too late at night when Warren came in the kitchen.  "What color iPad do you want?" he asked, in the same tone of exasperation in which he'd say, "where is the checkbook," or "what do we need at the store?"

"Way to ruin the gift-giving experience," I replied. 

"Look, it's like ripping off a band-aid," he continued.  "Let's just get this over with."

!!!!!

?????

Um, exsqueeze me?????????  Let's just get this over with???????????  That's what he thinks about giving his loving wife a present - that it's an onerous chore to be disposed of as handily as possible? Isn't the point of giving a present that you WANT the other person to have something that they will like and appreciate, to show that you like and appreciate THEM?  If it's about the color of the iPad cover, after ten years of marriage, could he not make SOME kind of educated guess about what color I'd like?  For the love of Steve Jobs, when Warren got HIS iPad, he asked me to order him a cover and warned me sternly not to order a pink one, which you think would be a PRETTY SOLID CLUE which color I'd like, but even that is BESIDES THE POINT.  The point is, if he's going to get me an iPad as a GIFT, then how about choosing it for me based on the fact that he'd like me to have it instead of acting like it's some kind of obligation he can't get out of?  And now that I KNOW about it, it doesn't seem very GIFT-LIKE - would it have been all that hard to, oh, I don't know, buy it and wrap it and put it under the tree?  Now I don't even WANT the stupid iPad anyway, SO THERE.

[NB:  This is the point in the story where my ever-quotable coworker looked at me and said, "I hate you."  Then he took out a piece of paper and made a list:  "First-world problems - my husband got me an iPad."  Another coworker chimed in and said, "No - it's 'I don't want the iPad my husband got me.'"  And yeah, I deserve that, a little bit.]

So here's my argument:  Warren seems to feel perfectly justified in going out and procuring 'new" cars because it makes him happy.  Let's say that over the course of buying and selling all these cars, he's shelled out maybe $5k out of pocket that didn't get any kind of return on investment other than his increased happiness and satisfaction.  I consider that $5 grand well spent, in that case.  So if that's the case, and if the above scenario is indicative of his approach to gift-giving (which it is), then why the hell don't I just go out and buy myself the big-ticket item I'd like that he clearly is never going to get me?  $5,000 would buy a very nice ring, I do believe, and I wouldn't turn around and sell it in three years, either.

His Fifteen Minutes Must Be Up

While we were lolling about, watching the Macy's Thankgiving Day parade, the now-famous "men screaming for Justin Bieber" ad came on.

"What do you think of Justin Bieber?" I asked my eldest.

"Eh," she said in her best, been-there-done-that, world-weary tone, "He's not as big as he used to be.  He's losing fans by the minute!"

"Oh, really?" I responded. 

"Yeah!  He's lost Brynn," she continued.  Brynn is one of her little seven-year-old buddies at school.

"Oh, Brynn doesn't like him anymore?"

"Well, she still likes him, but she doesn't like him as much as she used to.  He's not that big anymore," India said, summing up the situation dismissively. 

They're a tough crowd, primary schoolers.  Once you lose them, you might as well hang it up. 

 

PS Once the Biebs cut his iconic 'do?  I knew it was over. 

In Your Dreams

Last night, I had one of those dreams that makes you wonder just what the heck your psyche is trying to tell you, anyway.

It started with some very typical weird-illogical-dream sequence that's besides the point.  The real juicy stuff began when a young, shirtless Adonis with a mop of sun-blonded curls suddenly appeared.  He caught my eye and a knowing grin spread across his face.  As he sauntered closer, I shot him my best flirtatious sidelong glance.  He responded by leaning in closer to me, and...

"What's that," he asked, his smile turning into a frown.   He pointed to the skin just under my left eye. 

"Those are bags.  Under my eyes.  Because I'm old, and I'm tired all the time," I explained.

"...oh," he said, clearly nonplussed.  "It doesn't matter," I continued.  "I'm married, so I shouldn't be flirting anyway."

So do you all get this?  Are you picking up what I'm putting down???  If not, here it is:  I'm old, married and boring all the way down to my subconscious.  And if that ain't a sorry state of affairs, I don't know what is!

 

Man's Best Friend, Indeed

If you are childless, pet-free, and wondering whether or not you should change that status, here is a sample of what to expect from each option.

The end of the day arrives.  After a long, wearying day in the salt mines, I look forward to nothing as much as being in the bosom of my family, receiving succor against the day's wounds.  When I walk in the door, here are the reactions I get:

The cat:  Oh.  You're home.  My bowl is empty.  Let me out.

The fish:  Glub.

Girls:  MOM!  I'm hungry!  You packed me the wrong lunch!  What's for dinner?  I don't like that.  Why can't we ever have something I like???   Can you make something else?  I need stuff for tomorrow.  I don't want to do that.  Why do I have to?  How come you're always making me do stuff?  Why do I always have to do it?  I don't waaaaant tooooooo.

Dog:  YOU'RE HOME!  You're home you're home you're home you're home you're HOME!  HOORAY!   Let me wiggle in delight until my back end oscillates back and forth!  Let me gaze at you adoringly!  And snuffle!  And snort!  And follow you around, out of sheer devotion!  Oh, you want to sit?  I'll sit with you!  I will!  I will!  You want to go over there?  I'll go too! You want dinner?  I will wait lovingly by your side because I want to hug you and kiss you and call you Master.

Okay, I exaggerate.  A little.  But only a little. 

A Forgetful Dog Walker's Prayer

Oh no!  I forgot the poop bag!    

Please don't poop.

Please don't poop.

Please don't poop.

Please don't poop.

Please don't poop.

Please don't poop.

Please don't poop.

Please don't poop.

Please don't poop.

Please don't poop.

Please don't poop.

Please don't poop.

Please don't poop.

Please don't ............... rats.

By the by, this is remarkably similar in content to another prayer I used to offer up with rather alarming frequency,  the Prayer of a Forgetful Mother Who Didn't Restock the Diaper Bag.