Breaking news: I DO NOT have sunshine beamin' out of my ass at all times. I'll give you a minute to absorb this information. Shocking, eh?
I don't do "fake" very well. If I'm not really feelin' something, I can't express it. I've tried. All of the "fake" happiness I can muster goes in to the care of my six-month-old. Don't get me wrong, he is the source of a tremendous amount of joy for me. He's such a good and sweet-dispositioned baby, it's hard not to want to make him smile and coo. If that means I cheerfully sing "Three Little Fishies" for the umpteenth time, that's what I do. Happily.
I am a creature of habit. A slave to a routine. I am convinced one of the reasons Riley is such a happy baby is because I implemented a routine when he was about six weeks old. And we stuck to it, for the most part. Now, I'm not a complete Nazi about how we spend every minute of our day. I am flexible. In general though, you can pretty much set a clock by our daily activities. The hum-drum monotony of our schedule is enough to drive the most obsessive-compulsive person insane.
This is not a complaint. I am grateful I get to stay at home with him and soak in everything I missed when my other two were his age. Every new squeal, smile, laugh, and milestone is worth it. Our routine day in and day out gets a little old.
John just came tra-la-la'ing in tonight from another business trip, gallivanting all over Louisiana. Okay, so it's less gallivanting and more working, but try telling that to my more-than-bored psyche. His travels elicit a tricky realm of emotions in me. Yes, I understand it's necessary for his job. Seeing as how his is the only income, this is important. It's also the source of a simmering resentment and has been for some time. Ask me where I want to be, what I want to be doing, and taking care of my son is the response you'll get. That's the tricky part. I don't want to be doing anything else, I just resent the fact that he goes and comes as he pleases, guilt and worry free. And he gets a change of scenery as often as he wishes.
For those reasons, I have no desire to throw him a effin' ticker-tape parade when he returns from his trips. Yes, I miss his face and his helping hands when he's not here. At the end of the day, though, it just pisses me off. And my ability to "fake" anything resembling a happy homecoming is zapped by 7 p.m.. Gone.
There's an expectation that I am supposed to be ever-cheerful and eager to please. Search though I may, I have yet to find any "Perpetually Happy!" pills in the drug store. If you find any, how 'bout let me know. Maybe then I could sport one of those eery, plastered permagrins a-la The Stepford Wives. Or cook a five-course gourmet meal and simultaneously starch his shirts.
All while smiling, of course . . . .
=))))))
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Lucky Dog
We acquired Sandy, my eleven-pound Pekingese, about six years ago. She was a scrawny pup given to Beba as a gift. And, like most children's pets, she quickly became my responsibility. After the vows and promises that Morgan would be her primary caregiver, it was no time at all before she was mine to take care of. I am the only one she'll listen to and the only one she begs for love and attention. She allows the other members of the family to live here--in her house. She's a bitch, but we love her dearly.
I grew up with Cocker Spaniels and had zero experience with other breeds. Pekingese would not have been my breed of choice, to say the least. They're yappy, hyper, and ultra-possessive. After doing some research, the advice I got about house-training was something akin to "Yeah, good luck with that". We eventually got it done, though.
On the flip side, she is one of the most loving and loyal creatures I have ever known. She takes up with one, maybe two, members of the household and is loyal to them 'til the end. She would spend her last breath trying to save me from a perceived threat.
Most of my homeys lovingly refer to Sandy as "Satan". When they see her, she is in the throws of following her instincts to protect her domain, her things, her food, and me. Mostly her. She has a fierce case of "little dog syndrome" and is not afraid of anything . . . . except losing my affection.
When John and I started dating, it was no time at all before he was head-over-heels in love with the little bitch. He is drawn to them. Bitches, I mean. I guess that speaks volumes about his love for me. Ha! I used to tease that Sandy was the only reason he was in the relationship. He showers her with love, affection, toys, and treats. She has more toys than Riley (John being the biggest one), and I dare say probably always will. Even that's not good enough though. Twice in the last week I have caught her sneaking toys out of Riley's toy basket. Bitch. She is one of two princesses in this house, and she gets treated accordingly. By John, at least. My mother-in-law swears she gets treated better than most kids.
I have read that canines can sense when their beloved humans are injured or ill. They sense pregnancy as both. She was by my side all those nights I tossed and turned or was up pacing the floors because I couldn't get comfortable enough to sleep. Or because the baby chose 3 a.m. to treat my uterus as a Jungle Gym. If I was up, she was up. If I paced, she paced. She even endured my daily two mile walks in the freezing cold, trying to coax my body into labor. By the end of my pregnancy, she and I became inseparable. I cried on my way to the hospital because I had to leave her behind. And because somehow I knew things would never be the same between us. I was right.
I treated Riley's homecoming with the utmost care where she was concerned. We took the advice of pet experts and brought something home that smelled like him, so she could get used to it before we actually brought "the thing" home with us. I didn't dare cross the threshold of the house for the first time carrying the baby. I immediately dropped down on the floor to get my kisses and welcome home. And then we introduced her to Riley.
At first she was ultra-protective of him. At times, she wouldn't even let John near me or the baby. It was no time at all before she was letting me know Riley needed something when he cried. She would look at me as if to say, "You hear him, right? Um, you gonna DO something?". She was protective and wary of him. She didn't dare go near him. It's amazing what their instincts tell them.
I try, and mostly fail, to divide my attention between the two of them. Several times a day as I am cheerfully playing with or talking to Riley, I catch her giving me this look. As if to say, "How could you? I was here first". She's killin' me.
As Riley becomes more active, mobile, and vocal she is becoming more and more threatened by him. This is evidenced by her "claiming" her things by running interference when he gets close to them. Or by "checking" him when I put her food out. This is when she goes up to him and butts her head against some part of his body, to let him know that this is HERS. I guess she thinks he's taken everything else she loves, why not this too. It breaks my heart and makes me want to "check" her at the same time.
It's gonna be no time at all before Riley is crawling and walking and is really able to get close to the things she loves. How is she gonna act then? I am trying to prevent being in the position of having to entertain the thought of getting rid of her. It would kill me, but I can't have her bein' ugly to the baby.
In the battle of bitches, I can assure you I'm gonna win this one.
Suggestions or similar experiences are welcome, as I am fresh out of ideas. I hope there's a clear and simple way to fix this. I'm afraid I will be seeking legal counsel if I threaten to get rid of John's beloved.
I grew up with Cocker Spaniels and had zero experience with other breeds. Pekingese would not have been my breed of choice, to say the least. They're yappy, hyper, and ultra-possessive. After doing some research, the advice I got about house-training was something akin to "Yeah, good luck with that". We eventually got it done, though.
On the flip side, she is one of the most loving and loyal creatures I have ever known. She takes up with one, maybe two, members of the household and is loyal to them 'til the end. She would spend her last breath trying to save me from a perceived threat.
"You talkin' to me?"
Most of my homeys lovingly refer to Sandy as "Satan". When they see her, she is in the throws of following her instincts to protect her domain, her things, her food, and me. Mostly her. She has a fierce case of "little dog syndrome" and is not afraid of anything . . . . except losing my affection.
When John and I started dating, it was no time at all before he was head-over-heels in love with the little bitch. He is drawn to them. Bitches, I mean. I guess that speaks volumes about his love for me. Ha! I used to tease that Sandy was the only reason he was in the relationship. He showers her with love, affection, toys, and treats. She has more toys than Riley (John being the biggest one), and I dare say probably always will. Even that's not good enough though. Twice in the last week I have caught her sneaking toys out of Riley's toy basket. Bitch. She is one of two princesses in this house, and she gets treated accordingly. By John, at least. My mother-in-law swears she gets treated better than most kids.
I have read that canines can sense when their beloved humans are injured or ill. They sense pregnancy as both. She was by my side all those nights I tossed and turned or was up pacing the floors because I couldn't get comfortable enough to sleep. Or because the baby chose 3 a.m. to treat my uterus as a Jungle Gym. If I was up, she was up. If I paced, she paced. She even endured my daily two mile walks in the freezing cold, trying to coax my body into labor. By the end of my pregnancy, she and I became inseparable. I cried on my way to the hospital because I had to leave her behind. And because somehow I knew things would never be the same between us. I was right.
I treated Riley's homecoming with the utmost care where she was concerned. We took the advice of pet experts and brought something home that smelled like him, so she could get used to it before we actually brought "the thing" home with us. I didn't dare cross the threshold of the house for the first time carrying the baby. I immediately dropped down on the floor to get my kisses and welcome home. And then we introduced her to Riley.
At first she was ultra-protective of him. At times, she wouldn't even let John near me or the baby. It was no time at all before she was letting me know Riley needed something when he cried. She would look at me as if to say, "You hear him, right? Um, you gonna DO something?". She was protective and wary of him. She didn't dare go near him. It's amazing what their instincts tell them.
I try, and mostly fail, to divide my attention between the two of them. Several times a day as I am cheerfully playing with or talking to Riley, I catch her giving me this look. As if to say, "How could you? I was here first". She's killin' me.
The Princess on her Throne in the van on a road trip.
As Riley becomes more active, mobile, and vocal she is becoming more and more threatened by him. This is evidenced by her "claiming" her things by running interference when he gets close to them. Or by "checking" him when I put her food out. This is when she goes up to him and butts her head against some part of his body, to let him know that this is HERS. I guess she thinks he's taken everything else she loves, why not this too. It breaks my heart and makes me want to "check" her at the same time.
It's gonna be no time at all before Riley is crawling and walking and is really able to get close to the things she loves. How is she gonna act then? I am trying to prevent being in the position of having to entertain the thought of getting rid of her. It would kill me, but I can't have her bein' ugly to the baby.
In the battle of bitches, I can assure you I'm gonna win this one.
Suggestions or similar experiences are welcome, as I am fresh out of ideas. I hope there's a clear and simple way to fix this. I'm afraid I will be seeking legal counsel if I threaten to get rid of John's beloved.
Friday, August 26, 2011
Escape
I have my Mother to thank for my love of reading. Almost out of annoyance, she thrust me in to literature one summer. Growing up in Tarboro, summers were hot, long, and boring. My hometown is not quite the end of the world, but you can see it from there, so to say there's not a lot to do would be putting it mildly. I remember whiiiining to her one hot July day about not having anything to do. She shoved a book under my nose and I scoffed, "Reading? School is out, I'm not reading". Out of desperation, I conceded and opened the book. By the end of that summer I read just about everything on our living room bookshelves.
It is still one of my favorite things to do. Particularly when I'm bored, sick, or just want to slow down. On a cold gray morning, there's nothing like a fresh cup of coffee, a good book and a blanket. Reading works well for me when I'm not feeling well, because I have a tendency to camp out on my pity pot when under the weather. The diversion of someone else's life, problems, and fantasies are appreciated. I especially love books I can completely get lost in. The ones I pick up and am totally entangled from the first page. The characters seem to jump out of the book and take on faces and voices of their own in my head. I have been so enthralled in some stories that when I put them down, I have to snap myself back in to reality. Ahhhh, brain candy.
I have always been fascinated by the power of the written word. How transformative, liberating, or thought-provoking a good piece of literature can be. I love when I read something that makes me think or peer in to the crevices of my being that usually stay repressed for whatever reason. Or make me ask some not-so-pretty questions of myself. All of that can happen by someone sitting down and putting their thoughts, dreams, or experiences down on paper. Amazing.
I have devoured a 522 page novel in the past thirty-six hours. Uh-huh, it was one of those. I stayed up waaaaay past my bedtime lastnight, and though I was close to finishing, forced myself to put it away to get some rest. I was ravenously devouring every word, hungry to find out what happens next.
I finished it up this afternoon, and now I am sad. It's over. It's always bittersweet to find a good book and have it come to an end. I can't wait to get my hands on another one. So now, some crowd participation . . . . what good brain candy have you come across lately? What are your favorite page-turners? Leave me a comment and lemme know!
It is still one of my favorite things to do. Particularly when I'm bored, sick, or just want to slow down. On a cold gray morning, there's nothing like a fresh cup of coffee, a good book and a blanket. Reading works well for me when I'm not feeling well, because I have a tendency to camp out on my pity pot when under the weather. The diversion of someone else's life, problems, and fantasies are appreciated. I especially love books I can completely get lost in. The ones I pick up and am totally entangled from the first page. The characters seem to jump out of the book and take on faces and voices of their own in my head. I have been so enthralled in some stories that when I put them down, I have to snap myself back in to reality. Ahhhh, brain candy.
I have always been fascinated by the power of the written word. How transformative, liberating, or thought-provoking a good piece of literature can be. I love when I read something that makes me think or peer in to the crevices of my being that usually stay repressed for whatever reason. Or make me ask some not-so-pretty questions of myself. All of that can happen by someone sitting down and putting their thoughts, dreams, or experiences down on paper. Amazing.
I have devoured a 522 page novel in the past thirty-six hours. Uh-huh, it was one of those. I stayed up waaaaay past my bedtime lastnight, and though I was close to finishing, forced myself to put it away to get some rest. I was ravenously devouring every word, hungry to find out what happens next.
I finished it up this afternoon, and now I am sad. It's over. It's always bittersweet to find a good book and have it come to an end. I can't wait to get my hands on another one. So now, some crowd participation . . . . what good brain candy have you come across lately? What are your favorite page-turners? Leave me a comment and lemme know!
Sunday, August 21, 2011
A Case of the Crazies
I stumbled out on to the deck Friday morning to drink my cup of coffee. I was clinging to it as if my life depended on it. I was trying to snap out of my sleep-deprived, medicine-induced hangover. Riley and I had been up all night and I had taken something to help me sleep before he awoke all sickly. I was sipping my coffee and talking myself through my necessary to-do list for the day, when I heard someone scream. Four times. This wasn't an excited, I-just-won-the-lottery!-scream. Nuh-uh. This was a blood-curdling, horror movie shriek. Like someone just stumbled upon a dead body. There. That did it. I am awake. Seeing as how I didn't hear sirens, I came to the familiar conclusion that the Crazy Lady was off her meds. Again.
The Crazy Lady earned her well-deserved nickname. I have witnessed symptoms of her psychosis first-hand and on several occasions. She rides up and down the streets of the neighborhood on patrol. Looking for vampires? Zombies? Aliens? I'm not sure. This probably wouldn't be all that weird, except she hangs a towel on the driver's-side window and pulls the side of it over to peek out. Nuts. Then there's the conversations she has . . . with someone. I'm pretty sure it has to be with the voices in her head, because I certainly don't see anyone accompanying her. She likes to ride her bike around the 'hood (in a sundress--always in a sundress. If it's twenty degrees outside, she's in a sundress . . . . and a turtleneck.) while having this dialogue. The Wicked Witch of the West music from The Wizard of Oz always runs through my head when I see her do this. Off. Her. Rocker. It's a little unnerving, to say the least. (She recently ran for local public office. Fantastic. She lost . . . . whew!).
I was on my way to run an errand and meet a girlfriend* for coffee this afternoon, when this idiot comes barrelling down the road at lightning speed and is riding inches from my bumper. He lays on his horn several times. As if I can go any faster than the car in front of me will allow. Oh naw. Hell naw. Somebody is figna get cut. Today ain't the day, and I ain't the girl, asshole. This infuriated me. To the point that I honestly contemplated pulling over and following his punk ass to wherever it was he was in such a hurry to get to, and . . . . . and, what? I didn't know. I just had an overwhelming urge to cuss somebody. Or hurt somebody. Bad. Whoa. Waitaminute. How did I get here?? In this mental state?? Ready to cut a stranger for bein' a jerk?? And then I remembered. No sleep in three days+sick baby+not feelin' so hot myself=loony mama.
It has been a harrowing weekend. Riley has been great, for the most part. He's certainly not acting sick . . . . until naptime or bedtime. He can't breathe through his snotty little nose, which makes falling asleep a little frustrating for him. Then he gets overly tired and nothing will do. Not singing, not music, playing, rocking, bouncing, his cherished swing, nothing. My baby crying gets under my skin. It's not just any cry, it's a certain cry. The crying, oh the crying. He had a stint so long this afternoon he's hoarse. Pitiful.
My husband tries to help. "Do you think it's ___________?", he offers.
Um, I've already unsuccessfully attempted to fix the fifty things I thought might be the cause of his displeasure. If I honestly had a clue as to what it was, I'd be in the process of trying to fix it, now wouldn't I? Yeah, I'm fresh out of ideas here, pal.
He's only trying to offer me some assistance, I know. This line of questioning only fans the flame of my frustration and adds to my feelings of inadequacy.
My baby's been sick, I am sick, and have had no sleep. While contemplating all of this in the midst of my road rage this afternoon, I feel all of the frustration, fatigue, and anger rise to a peak in my chest. Heart pounding, chest-tightening anxiety. I haven't felt panic-y in quite a long time. I needed a release, and quick.
I screamed. Screeeeeaaaamed. Alone in my car, while driving down the road. It felt so good I did it again. This reminded me of Crazy Lady and then I laughed out loud. I laughed 'til tears were streaming down my face.
From one lunatic to another: I feel ya Crazy Lady. I feel ya.
*Pat, you probably saved a life today. Or kept me from going to jail.
The Crazy Lady earned her well-deserved nickname. I have witnessed symptoms of her psychosis first-hand and on several occasions. She rides up and down the streets of the neighborhood on patrol. Looking for vampires? Zombies? Aliens? I'm not sure. This probably wouldn't be all that weird, except she hangs a towel on the driver's-side window and pulls the side of it over to peek out. Nuts. Then there's the conversations she has . . . with someone. I'm pretty sure it has to be with the voices in her head, because I certainly don't see anyone accompanying her. She likes to ride her bike around the 'hood (in a sundress--always in a sundress. If it's twenty degrees outside, she's in a sundress . . . . and a turtleneck.) while having this dialogue. The Wicked Witch of the West music from The Wizard of Oz always runs through my head when I see her do this. Off. Her. Rocker. It's a little unnerving, to say the least. (She recently ran for local public office. Fantastic. She lost . . . . whew!).
I was on my way to run an errand and meet a girlfriend* for coffee this afternoon, when this idiot comes barrelling down the road at lightning speed and is riding inches from my bumper. He lays on his horn several times. As if I can go any faster than the car in front of me will allow. Oh naw. Hell naw. Somebody is figna get cut. Today ain't the day, and I ain't the girl, asshole. This infuriated me. To the point that I honestly contemplated pulling over and following his punk ass to wherever it was he was in such a hurry to get to, and . . . . . and, what? I didn't know. I just had an overwhelming urge to cuss somebody. Or hurt somebody. Bad. Whoa. Waitaminute. How did I get here?? In this mental state?? Ready to cut a stranger for bein' a jerk?? And then I remembered. No sleep in three days+sick baby+not feelin' so hot myself=loony mama.
It has been a harrowing weekend. Riley has been great, for the most part. He's certainly not acting sick . . . . until naptime or bedtime. He can't breathe through his snotty little nose, which makes falling asleep a little frustrating for him. Then he gets overly tired and nothing will do. Not singing, not music, playing, rocking, bouncing, his cherished swing, nothing. My baby crying gets under my skin. It's not just any cry, it's a certain cry. The crying, oh the crying. He had a stint so long this afternoon he's hoarse. Pitiful.
My husband tries to help. "Do you think it's ___________?", he offers.
Um, I've already unsuccessfully attempted to fix the fifty things I thought might be the cause of his displeasure. If I honestly had a clue as to what it was, I'd be in the process of trying to fix it, now wouldn't I? Yeah, I'm fresh out of ideas here, pal.
He's only trying to offer me some assistance, I know. This line of questioning only fans the flame of my frustration and adds to my feelings of inadequacy.
My baby's been sick, I am sick, and have had no sleep. While contemplating all of this in the midst of my road rage this afternoon, I feel all of the frustration, fatigue, and anger rise to a peak in my chest. Heart pounding, chest-tightening anxiety. I haven't felt panic-y in quite a long time. I needed a release, and quick.
I screamed. Screeeeeaaaamed. Alone in my car, while driving down the road. It felt so good I did it again. This reminded me of Crazy Lady and then I laughed out loud. I laughed 'til tears were streaming down my face.
From one lunatic to another: I feel ya Crazy Lady. I feel ya.
*Pat, you probably saved a life today. Or kept me from going to jail.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Proud Mama
Forgive me for using this outlet to do one of my favorite things: brag on my churen. Nothing too long or all that obnoxious, I hope.
First off, Chucker will be starting on his varsity soccer team as a sophomore. We are really excited about this. Last year while watching one of his games, I quickly learned the boy has talent. And a following. Of course, his family members who attended the game were cheering him on . . . . and so were a swarm of teenage girls. "Good play, Chuckie!". If I heard that once, I heard it at least twenty-five times. Chuckie? Who the hell is "Chuckie"? After the game we were headed to the car and several girls we passed said, "Great game, Chuckie!".
"Who's that?", I asked.
"I don't know her." (Uh-huh. The boy's a rock star, apparently.)
"What's up with all these girls calling you 'Chuckie'?"
"I don't know, they just do".
I don't imagine he cares what they call him, as long as they call him. I found myself in the awkward position of wanting to harm some teenagers and not embarrass my son. I'll see if I can't do a little better this year.
First off, Chucker will be starting on his varsity soccer team as a sophomore. We are really excited about this. Last year while watching one of his games, I quickly learned the boy has talent. And a following. Of course, his family members who attended the game were cheering him on . . . . and so were a swarm of teenage girls. "Good play, Chuckie!". If I heard that once, I heard it at least twenty-five times. Chuckie? Who the hell is "Chuckie"? After the game we were headed to the car and several girls we passed said, "Great game, Chuckie!".
"Who's that?", I asked.
"I don't know her." (Uh-huh. The boy's a rock star, apparently.)
"What's up with all these girls calling you 'Chuckie'?"
"I don't know, they just do".
I don't imagine he cares what they call him, as long as they call him. I found myself in the awkward position of wanting to harm some teenagers and not embarrass my son. I'll see if I can't do a little better this year.
That's Chucker in the red . . .
On to Riley . . . . I decided to teach him sign language. We started at two months. I learned all the signs relevant to our daily routine and started incorporating them. Every. Day. I felt like an idiot most of the time, as he would watch my hands and get this really confused look on his face. We've been at it for months, with no sign of him being all that interested. He started recognizing a few of the signs a couple of weeks ago, but wouldn't even attempt to sign them himself. Monday, whilst eating his carrots for lunch, he started signing "milk", unprompted. I don't dare say m-i-l-k without being ready to deliver, 'cause he gets REALLY mad. Piglet. Apparently, carrots were not what he wanted for lunch, and he was telling me as much. Over and over and over again. I was fortunate enough to capture this picture . . . .
That chubby little right hand is signing "milk"!
In other news, Beba tooootally perfected her round-off back handspring. In the world of high school cheerleading, this is huge.
That is all. Now that was pretty painless, admit it!
Monday, August 15, 2011
Rocky Top
I just got home yesterday from our anniversary trip. John decided we should spend it in Kodak in the Smoky Mountains of Tennessee. I was in it strictly for a change of scenery. Traveling with an infant is far from romantic or a vacation, so my expectations were low. Our getaway far exceeded them, and I'm finding out I kinda dig the Volunteer State.
We arrived Thursday afternoon after a four hour car ride, that I must admit, wasn't all that bad (I HATE riding in a car for long periods of time). The ride went quickly and was pretty uneventful. We stopped at a gas station for a potty break and I really thought we were gonna be taken hostage by some pretty mean lookin' mountain folk, but other than that it was smooth sailing. Once we got into Tennessee, I noticed something foreign . . . people actually know and obey the rules of the road. Slower traffic actually merges in to the right lane to allow faster cars to pass. What the hell? This happened over and over again. Yeah, this is lookin' like my kind of place, for real.
That night we made our way in to Sevierville for dinner. I had fried chicken that tasted just like my Mom's, which is no easy feat. It was scrumptious. We were served apple fritters as a starter. These were big hushpuppy-looking things that tasted like apple bread and served with warm homemade apple butter. To. Die. For. We mighta accidentally ordered some to go. Oops.
Friday morning we went shopping. Yes, I went shopping. There were numerous outlet malls and I am an outlet whore. We ducked in to a burger joint to feed the baby, after I scored some great deals at my favorite stores. In a sea of orange (everyone in Tennessee wears orange) I barely noticed this young man wearing an orange t-shirt, until he walked by me and I saw the front of it. It was a Browns shirt. We talked briefly and turns out Cleveland has a huge following there. Who knew? These people are serious about their football--it's a mainstream religion in Tennessee. Now I'm really diggin' this state.
We made our way in to Knoxville that evening, which was about a half-hour drive from where we were staying. The motherland. The college football mecca. At least for John. I was promised ribs, so I happily complied. If a picture is worth a thousand words, I really needn't say more . . .
We arrived Thursday afternoon after a four hour car ride, that I must admit, wasn't all that bad (I HATE riding in a car for long periods of time). The ride went quickly and was pretty uneventful. We stopped at a gas station for a potty break and I really thought we were gonna be taken hostage by some pretty mean lookin' mountain folk, but other than that it was smooth sailing. Once we got into Tennessee, I noticed something foreign . . . people actually know and obey the rules of the road. Slower traffic actually merges in to the right lane to allow faster cars to pass. What the hell? This happened over and over again. Yeah, this is lookin' like my kind of place, for real.
That night we made our way in to Sevierville for dinner. I had fried chicken that tasted just like my Mom's, which is no easy feat. It was scrumptious. We were served apple fritters as a starter. These were big hushpuppy-looking things that tasted like apple bread and served with warm homemade apple butter. To. Die. For. We mighta accidentally ordered some to go. Oops.
Friday morning we went shopping. Yes, I went shopping. There were numerous outlet malls and I am an outlet whore. We ducked in to a burger joint to feed the baby, after I scored some great deals at my favorite stores. In a sea of orange (everyone in Tennessee wears orange) I barely noticed this young man wearing an orange t-shirt, until he walked by me and I saw the front of it. It was a Browns shirt. We talked briefly and turns out Cleveland has a huge following there. Who knew? These people are serious about their football--it's a mainstream religion in Tennessee. Now I'm really diggin' this state.
We made our way in to Knoxville that evening, which was about a half-hour drive from where we were staying. The motherland. The college football mecca. At least for John. I was promised ribs, so I happily complied. If a picture is worth a thousand words, I really needn't say more . . .
Neyland Stadium
John's Disneyland--the UT Bookstore
He showed amazing restraint in the store. He bought Riley a hat (in case y'all couldn't tell from the ridiculous number of pictures I uploaded to Facebook), Sandy a toy, and himself a t-shirt at my insistence.
Too cute for color TV!
We then headed down to a popular restaurant on the river. We waited for nearly an hour for a table. This should speak volumes, as I am rarely willing to wait at all, much less forty minutes. Keith Urban was in town and this place was busier than a one-legged man in an ass kickin' contest. There were folks everywhere. We were finally seated and I ordered a full rack of ribs with mac 'n cheese and slaw. I'm glad there was no chance of running in to someone I knew, as I tore in to them like I was eating my last meal, 'cause I'm classy like that. Dee-lish. This meal alone justified the four hour car ride.
It was well worth the wait . . . and me looking like a pig.
Saturday we had a chance to visit with family. We spent the rest of the day at the hotel in the pool or napping. Most of the time it seems John and I are more roommates than husband and wife, so it was nice to slow down and spend some time together. Awesome.
I have visited Tennessee a few times and have always found the people to be super friendly. Riley was oohed and aahed over everywhere we went. Everyone was nice and helpful. On a previous trip to Tennessee, I stopped at a gas station to use the facilities and ask for directions. Upon walking in the store, the man at the register said hello and asked how "mama 'n 'em" were doing. I immediately looked over my shoulder to see who he was talking to, as I knew he didn't know my "mama 'n 'em". I was surprised by it and found it ridiculously charming. By the end of my stay I had grown accustomed to answering, "Just fine. Thanks for askin'". How can you not love a place like that?
Yesterday, we decided to come home by way of Boone, so we could check out my brother-in-law's new digs. The quickest route was closed due to construction, so we detoured through some beautiful countryside. Our detour took us north to Virginia, back in to Tennessee, and finally in to North Carolina. Lush green trees, winding roads, and breath-taking views of the mountains made the thirty extra minutes more than tolerable. The digs were nice too. He has a gorgeous rustic condo with a stellar view . . . . that I will be visiting again. Soon. I'm sorta taking it upon myself to make this my winter vacation home.
I called him a whore. Several times.
This little escapade was well worth my efforts and made me feel slightly guilty for bitchin' in the first place. I mean, any state that is the subject of a John Denver song has to be a goodtime, right?
Absolutely.
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Letting Go
As a teenager, I remember desperately seeking two things: freedom and the trust of my parents (specifically my mother). Would I have honored that trust? Maybe. Okay, probably not. But I would have appreciated the opportunity.
My folks have five children. By the time I reached my adolescence, they'd been through this three times already. Scratch that, two times already. We are nominating my eldest sister for sainthood, as she never did anything wrong. But apparently my other two older siblings made up for her angelic teenhood. When my turn came, Mom's proverbial hold was tighter 'n Grandma's girdle. It didn't work (love you, Mom!). This would be when my tendency to rebel began. The tighter her grip, the more I was determined to do exactly what I wanted. I still have quite a rebellious streak and I'm almost thirty-five.
Recalling this all too well, I have changed my approach with Beba. Now, she's not me (thank God), and to date, she's been a typical teen. She's not exactly a saint, but she's not a hellion either. She is well-prepared for adulthood. She can cook, do her laundry, manage her checkbook, is employable and has proven her leadership skills in school and beyond. There's one life skill that still eludes her and consequently drives me insane: time management. Whew! In general, the clock revolves around her, not the other way around. She has her own time zone. PDT: Princess Diva Time. Everything I have done to help her learn this essential key to life has not helped. Revoking privileges hasn't worked: the car, the phone, her time. It's gotten worse. I refuse to micromanage her every move. She's almost eighteen. She's going to have to learn this one the hard way.
A very wise person once told me that as a mother, my job is to give my children two things: roots and wings. So, I have loosened the reins. She has a social outing and a commitment early the next morning? She decides if she goes, how long to stay and when to be up to meet her obligations. Errands to run before work? She decides how to prioritize and manage them so she can get to work on time. As I type this, she is snoozing away and is 'posed to be at practice (have fun runnin' all those laps, dearheart). She decides. And she faces the consequences of her decisions. Like a big girl.
My refusal to attempt to control her makes my mother vibrate out of her skin. And my husband. Some of my girlfriends, too. I doubt this strategy is in any of the numerous parenting books available, and I'm not exactly holding my breath for a "Mother of the Year" nomination. But the way I see it, better for her to learn this now, even if she has to trip and fall. I'd rather her fall now, while I am still here to pick her up, dust her off, and lovingly reinforce the life lessons that cause her to stumble. Before too long, I'm not going to be there to catch her . . . .
I have spent a lot of time and energy preparing her for her adulthood. Notsomuch me. I have a girlfriend whose sweet-n-precious is leaving for college soon, and I am taking notes (I'm watchin' you, Shercee). Next year this time, we will be dropping Morgan off at college. If I fall off the face of the planet, please come by to check on me. You'll be able to find me in a corner in the fetal position, rocking. Just remind me to be a big girl.
My folks have five children. By the time I reached my adolescence, they'd been through this three times already. Scratch that, two times already. We are nominating my eldest sister for sainthood, as she never did anything wrong. But apparently my other two older siblings made up for her angelic teenhood. When my turn came, Mom's proverbial hold was tighter 'n Grandma's girdle. It didn't work (love you, Mom!). This would be when my tendency to rebel began. The tighter her grip, the more I was determined to do exactly what I wanted. I still have quite a rebellious streak and I'm almost thirty-five.
Recalling this all too well, I have changed my approach with Beba. Now, she's not me (thank God), and to date, she's been a typical teen. She's not exactly a saint, but she's not a hellion either. She is well-prepared for adulthood. She can cook, do her laundry, manage her checkbook, is employable and has proven her leadership skills in school and beyond. There's one life skill that still eludes her and consequently drives me insane: time management. Whew! In general, the clock revolves around her, not the other way around. She has her own time zone. PDT: Princess Diva Time. Everything I have done to help her learn this essential key to life has not helped. Revoking privileges hasn't worked: the car, the phone, her time. It's gotten worse. I refuse to micromanage her every move. She's almost eighteen. She's going to have to learn this one the hard way.
A very wise person once told me that as a mother, my job is to give my children two things: roots and wings. So, I have loosened the reins. She has a social outing and a commitment early the next morning? She decides if she goes, how long to stay and when to be up to meet her obligations. Errands to run before work? She decides how to prioritize and manage them so she can get to work on time. As I type this, she is snoozing away and is 'posed to be at practice (have fun runnin' all those laps, dearheart). She decides. And she faces the consequences of her decisions. Like a big girl.
My refusal to attempt to control her makes my mother vibrate out of her skin. And my husband. Some of my girlfriends, too. I doubt this strategy is in any of the numerous parenting books available, and I'm not exactly holding my breath for a "Mother of the Year" nomination. But the way I see it, better for her to learn this now, even if she has to trip and fall. I'd rather her fall now, while I am still here to pick her up, dust her off, and lovingly reinforce the life lessons that cause her to stumble. Before too long, I'm not going to be there to catch her . . . .
I have spent a lot of time and energy preparing her for her adulthood. Notsomuch me. I have a girlfriend whose sweet-n-precious is leaving for college soon, and I am taking notes (I'm watchin' you, Shercee). Next year this time, we will be dropping Morgan off at college. If I fall off the face of the planet, please come by to check on me. You'll be able to find me in a corner in the fetal position, rocking. Just remind me to be a big girl.
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Getaway = GET AWAY!
- Monday: shopping. Four different stores. 94 degrees was the high Monday. With a baby. Need I say more? Making arrangements for the teenager in our absence*. Various other random to-do's: call to the insurance agent, making appointments, schedule Sandy for grooming and boarding. Ironing. Laundry. The usual.
- Tuesday: aaaaahhh, the day of appointments, with my poor Skinky in tow (he was a trooper though). Morgan had her first GYN visit at 8:30, followed by a root canal at the endodontist at 10:00 (True story. Welcome to womanhood, sweetheart!). I also had the task of nursing Beba back to health and checking on her at least every 20 minutes 'cause they gave her Vikes for pain. Side note: did you know that North Carolina ranks in the top 10 for highest incidence of two of the most common STD's in the U.S.? If that don't make ya proud . . . it's amazing what a girl can learn from her gyno. Maybe we should invest in billboards advertising this information at the state lines to welcome visitors . . . . . .
- Wednesday: more shopping. Blech. Laundry, 'cause at my house it's a DAILY occurrence. Get the mama-mobile inspected and tags renewed ('cause my husband is a champ at waitin' 'til the LAST EFFIN' MINUTE!), blow up the baby float (which required a trip to the gas station, long story), more ironing, resolving more Beba issues, packing . . . .
At this point, John has invested a phone call and some clicking to this trip. He's just getting home and he left at 8:00 this morning. THIS would be why it's easier to just stay home . . . .
I was able to squeeze in a little fun. I sent my sustas a text they're going to spend the next month wishing they'd never read ('cause I'm a good sister like that) and played Tetris on Facebook like I was gonna claim a million dollar prize. But all in all, I need a vacation from my vacation and we haven't even left the driveway . . . . I am certainly lookin' forward to makin' this trip worth my effort. ;)
*To my Winston peeps: if you wanna ride by the house, just to see what's goin' on, it wouldn't hurt my feelings in the slightest . . . . just sayin'.
Sunday, August 7, 2011
Class-less
Formal situations make me twitchy and nervous. It's not that I wasn't raised right. I was (Hi, Mom!). I just lack experience in knowing exactly what to do in these settings. Growing up with four siblings, dinner time was more of a "come and get it" sorta gig. Not napkins-in-your-lap-make-sure-you-use-the-proper-fork kinda deal. Half the time Mom ate her meals standing up, if at all. I remember my father leaning over to me during our rehearsal dinner to ask which fork to use for his salad. He was askin' me. Ha! Blind leadin' the blind.
I never fully appreciated formal dining until our honeymoon. We had three formal nights that I was dreading. "What's the point?", I complained, "It's just dinner". The real deal was, I would be uncomfortable. My husband and I differ in this area. He knows of prim and proper etiquette and how to conduct himself in these situations. I do not.
Much to my surprise, I enjoyed myself. I don't think I did anything to embarrass myself. "This is something I could get used to!".
Today is our anniversary, and my husband being who he is, made us reservations at a very nice restaurant. I wasn't feeling it at first. With all the trouble of getting a sitter, preparing for being gone for a while, and all the logistic complications that come with both, my vote was to order a pizza and call it a night. I relented and actually got excited about the prospect of getting all dressed up and dining out. (I will get to sit at a table and eat an entire meal! Woo-hoo!). I was looking forward to it.
Beba was watching Riley. We both showered and were able to get all spiffed up. We made our escape after feeding the baby his dinner. On time. I was patting myself on the back for all of this, until we actually got there.
I started getting nervous and fumbl-y. It's been a while since I have been in this setting. Most days, I don't do my hair, I don't put on make-up, some days I don't even get dressed. I take care of a six-month-old (he doesn't care if my hair is a mess) and rarely leave the house. Sad but true.
After attempting to carefully place my menu out of the way (so I could dig in to the bread, of course!) I spilled John's glass of tea all over the chair and the floor. Oops. I ordered a salad. I knew better. For anyone else, this wouldn't be a problem. I had oral surgery a couple of years ago and have no sensation on the left lower side of my mouth. Picture a cow chewing hay, and you'll get some idea of the gross spectacle this is. My husband was tolerant but I could tell he was ready to crawl under the table. Bless his heart, he loves me anyway. Unconditionally. At some point he'll learn. You can take the girl out of Edgecombe county . . . . . notsomuch the other way around.
We are at home and I am comfortable. Make-up gone, jammies on, contacts out, getting ready to tear in to our dessert. With the wrong effin' fork, I'm sure.
I never fully appreciated formal dining until our honeymoon. We had three formal nights that I was dreading. "What's the point?", I complained, "It's just dinner". The real deal was, I would be uncomfortable. My husband and I differ in this area. He knows of prim and proper etiquette and how to conduct himself in these situations. I do not.
Much to my surprise, I enjoyed myself. I don't think I did anything to embarrass myself. "This is something I could get used to!".
Today is our anniversary, and my husband being who he is, made us reservations at a very nice restaurant. I wasn't feeling it at first. With all the trouble of getting a sitter, preparing for being gone for a while, and all the logistic complications that come with both, my vote was to order a pizza and call it a night. I relented and actually got excited about the prospect of getting all dressed up and dining out. (I will get to sit at a table and eat an entire meal! Woo-hoo!). I was looking forward to it.
Beba was watching Riley. We both showered and were able to get all spiffed up. We made our escape after feeding the baby his dinner. On time. I was patting myself on the back for all of this, until we actually got there.
Yes, I actually wore make-up, lipstick and all.
I started getting nervous and fumbl-y. It's been a while since I have been in this setting. Most days, I don't do my hair, I don't put on make-up, some days I don't even get dressed. I take care of a six-month-old (he doesn't care if my hair is a mess) and rarely leave the house. Sad but true.
After attempting to carefully place my menu out of the way (so I could dig in to the bread, of course!) I spilled John's glass of tea all over the chair and the floor. Oops. I ordered a salad. I knew better. For anyone else, this wouldn't be a problem. I had oral surgery a couple of years ago and have no sensation on the left lower side of my mouth. Picture a cow chewing hay, and you'll get some idea of the gross spectacle this is. My husband was tolerant but I could tell he was ready to crawl under the table. Bless his heart, he loves me anyway. Unconditionally. At some point he'll learn. You can take the girl out of Edgecombe county . . . . . notsomuch the other way around.
We are at home and I am comfortable. Make-up gone, jammies on, contacts out, getting ready to tear in to our dessert. With the wrong effin' fork, I'm sure.
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Lessons
My hubby just informed me that I need a sitter for Sunday night for about two hours. Our anniversary is Sunday and apparently, we're going out. With it upon us, I started thinking about things I've learned over the last year.
1. Twisting an ankle and falling in the Seattle airport is not a great way to start your honeymoon. Subsequently sobbing through the lifeboat drill as you're about to embark on your fabulous Alaskan cruise ain't so peachy either. (Loudly sobbing. You would have thought someone just died). For the rest of our voyage I would inevitably hear someone say, "Wasn't that the girl . . . . " as I passed them. Not to mention this little episode caused my husband to seriously reconsider his life choices.
2. Being on the opposite seaboard from my children for a week is not an option. Next time, they'll have to come with. By day three I was constantly pointing out things they would love about what we were doing and getting ultra-paranoid about "what if something happens".
3. I come from a remarkable family. My husband's is pretty fantastic as well. I am amazed at how much moral support we received and continue to get from both. My girlfriends rock too.
4. My parents are getting too old to be trusted to go to the doctor by themselves. Clusterf*#k if I ever did see one.
5. Raising teenagers is not for the faint of heart. Whew! I have been thrilled and contemplated boarding school within hours of one another. The good news is, neither Morgan or Chuck are as bad as I was. I can do an entire post on this statement alone. Ohmygoodness . . . .
6. Babies come when they are good and damn ready. Walking, Texas Pete, sex, and all of that other crap did not work for me. I tried all of them. Several times. He wasn't budging.
7. My eleven-pound Pekingese can put any doula or midwife to shame. She was by my side at every moment, eager to please. Although she has yet to forgive me for bringing "the thing" home with me six months ago.
8. I am old. My body, emotions, nor mental state is what they were when I had my first two children. I was ill-prepared for the roller coaster that is childbirth and the postpartum period. Bat. Shit. Crazy. Apparently, pregnancy hormones morph me in to a scathing bitch. I'm still workin' on my excuse for that currently, as I can no longer blame my body chemistry. Dammitall.
9. The incoherent babble that comes out of my mouth when communicating with babies or animals is inexplicable. If someone overheard my "conversations" with Riley, they would think I was an escaped mental patient. I call my son "Skinky", who the hell comes up with stuff like that?
10. Too much of my identity is wrapped up in my career. I miss certain aspects of my job terribly. Being unemployed is something I am still having to become accustomed to, and it's been well over a year.
11. Every time I think we are well on our way to getting ahead or having a little nest egg squirreled away, something inevitably happens. Our savings account balance being above a certain amount is a sure-fire way to invite disaster of some sort.
12. Giving a teenager a driver's license and some keys to a car changes their personality. True story.
13. I did not marry the only brainless man on the planet (sorry, honey). They are all effin' clueless about certain things. The things I think he "should know" because they are BLATANTLY OBVIOUS often require pen and paper for me to spell them out for him. Turns out "penis" and "forethought" don't exactly go together. Sheesh. But . . . .
14. My husband is teachable and has come a looooong way in the last six months. Just this morning he decided to work from home today so I could sleep late (Riley is discovering new and exciting things that just have to be done at 2 a.m.). Uh-huh. A long way. Housework? Yup, he does that. Errands, groceries, you name it. All without me having to break out the notebook and Sharpie. Yippee!
15. Babies have the ability to turn the most reserved people in to babbling idiots . . . it's amazing to watch.
16. Having an MBA does not guarantee one a lucrative job in this economy. I really thought I was going to have to be institutionalized during John's job search last Fall.
17. Asking one's spouse to join you at a family function at the 'rents' while the Reds are fighting to clench the title in their division is not going to get a favorable response. Ever.
18. Motherhood is by far the most challenging and yet the most emotionally fulfilling job I have ever had. It's also the most thankless . . .
19. When caring for an infant, "me-time" isn't optional, it's mandatory. For real.
20. My sister and I excel at bein' band whores and throw kick-ass house concerts. Just sayin'.
21. Do not make statements such as "I'll never (insert sanctimonious statement here)". I think about that every time I get in to our minivan that we swore we would never own. (I LOVE that van. LOVE IT!).
22. True friends are hard to come by, so cherish them. You know, the I've-got-your-back-no-matter-what friends? The others seem to scatter to the four winds when the goin' gets tough.
23. Fatherhood makes my husband more attractive. I can't really explain this one, as it defies logic.
24. As much as we have been through in the last year, the wedding, job searches, teenage drama, pregnancy, childbirth, etc. I still could not imagine my life without John.
Here's to many more life lessons . . . . as long as we can learn them together, I think we'll be just fine.
1. Twisting an ankle and falling in the Seattle airport is not a great way to start your honeymoon. Subsequently sobbing through the lifeboat drill as you're about to embark on your fabulous Alaskan cruise ain't so peachy either. (Loudly sobbing. You would have thought someone just died). For the rest of our voyage I would inevitably hear someone say, "Wasn't that the girl . . . . " as I passed them. Not to mention this little episode caused my husband to seriously reconsider his life choices.
2. Being on the opposite seaboard from my children for a week is not an option. Next time, they'll have to come with. By day three I was constantly pointing out things they would love about what we were doing and getting ultra-paranoid about "what if something happens".
3. I come from a remarkable family. My husband's is pretty fantastic as well. I am amazed at how much moral support we received and continue to get from both. My girlfriends rock too.
4. My parents are getting too old to be trusted to go to the doctor by themselves. Clusterf*#k if I ever did see one.
5. Raising teenagers is not for the faint of heart. Whew! I have been thrilled and contemplated boarding school within hours of one another. The good news is, neither Morgan or Chuck are as bad as I was. I can do an entire post on this statement alone. Ohmygoodness . . . .
6. Babies come when they are good and damn ready. Walking, Texas Pete, sex, and all of that other crap did not work for me. I tried all of them. Several times. He wasn't budging.
7. My eleven-pound Pekingese can put any doula or midwife to shame. She was by my side at every moment, eager to please. Although she has yet to forgive me for bringing "the thing" home with me six months ago.
8. I am old. My body, emotions, nor mental state is what they were when I had my first two children. I was ill-prepared for the roller coaster that is childbirth and the postpartum period. Bat. Shit. Crazy. Apparently, pregnancy hormones morph me in to a scathing bitch. I'm still workin' on my excuse for that currently, as I can no longer blame my body chemistry. Dammitall.
9. The incoherent babble that comes out of my mouth when communicating with babies or animals is inexplicable. If someone overheard my "conversations" with Riley, they would think I was an escaped mental patient. I call my son "Skinky", who the hell comes up with stuff like that?
10. Too much of my identity is wrapped up in my career. I miss certain aspects of my job terribly. Being unemployed is something I am still having to become accustomed to, and it's been well over a year.
11. Every time I think we are well on our way to getting ahead or having a little nest egg squirreled away, something inevitably happens. Our savings account balance being above a certain amount is a sure-fire way to invite disaster of some sort.
12. Giving a teenager a driver's license and some keys to a car changes their personality. True story.
13. I did not marry the only brainless man on the planet (sorry, honey). They are all effin' clueless about certain things. The things I think he "should know" because they are BLATANTLY OBVIOUS often require pen and paper for me to spell them out for him. Turns out "penis" and "forethought" don't exactly go together. Sheesh. But . . . .
14. My husband is teachable and has come a looooong way in the last six months. Just this morning he decided to work from home today so I could sleep late (Riley is discovering new and exciting things that just have to be done at 2 a.m.). Uh-huh. A long way. Housework? Yup, he does that. Errands, groceries, you name it. All without me having to break out the notebook and Sharpie. Yippee!
15. Babies have the ability to turn the most reserved people in to babbling idiots . . . it's amazing to watch.
16. Having an MBA does not guarantee one a lucrative job in this economy. I really thought I was going to have to be institutionalized during John's job search last Fall.
17. Asking one's spouse to join you at a family function at the 'rents' while the Reds are fighting to clench the title in their division is not going to get a favorable response. Ever.
18. Motherhood is by far the most challenging and yet the most emotionally fulfilling job I have ever had. It's also the most thankless . . .
19. When caring for an infant, "me-time" isn't optional, it's mandatory. For real.
20. My sister and I excel at bein' band whores and throw kick-ass house concerts. Just sayin'.
21. Do not make statements such as "I'll never (insert sanctimonious statement here)". I think about that every time I get in to our minivan that we swore we would never own. (I LOVE that van. LOVE IT!).
22. True friends are hard to come by, so cherish them. You know, the I've-got-your-back-no-matter-what friends? The others seem to scatter to the four winds when the goin' gets tough.
23. Fatherhood makes my husband more attractive. I can't really explain this one, as it defies logic.
24. As much as we have been through in the last year, the wedding, job searches, teenage drama, pregnancy, childbirth, etc. I still could not imagine my life without John.
Here's to many more life lessons . . . . as long as we can learn them together, I think we'll be just fine.
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