Double booked

I think I'm gonna have to resort to that old standby, writing things down.

I managed to double book myself today.  I was so caught up talking with Mr W at his desk yesterday (he hates being stuck at the station, and I dropped by with a couple new CDs and some of his favorite snacks...finally got to see his cube...) that we when we agreed to go out to lunch today, I forgot I already had plans with my friend Jane.  

Even worse, I totally forgot, and it was Mr W that reminded me as we were emailing back and forth this morning.  Ooops.

So we decided to do it early, so I can do both.  Whoohoo!  Lunch and the mall, somebody pinch me.  If Audrey knocks out (highly likely today) during either event, I'm kissing someone.

I hope it's Mr W.

 

Here we go again

As I put the kids to bed earlier, I started to really think about what was making me so nuts.  I know one of the reasons, but the other was eluding me, until I let my mind really wander and hit it.

It's Mr W. 

He has to have surgery on his knee again for an old injury (long story) that he acquired at work.   Before I go on, bear in mind that this old set of injuries required four (?) different surgeries already, along with recovery/phys therapy/the works.  It was a long haul to get back to work to being with, not to mention back out on the street.  And although the next hurdle he's facing is supposedly not a big deal, it is. 

It's another six weeks or so of light duty, which he hates.  So he'll be extra special to be around, lol.  It's another few days of him being loopy on meds.   It's another couple of months of me holding my breath hoping that this'll be it.  Silly, I know that it's probably not, but I hope nonetheless that he'll be ok, feel as himself as possible.  No one tells you when they say 'hey, we can fix this' that what you get is an approximation of what you started with, as close as they can get, sure, but not the same. 

I have remained positive and supportive for him throughout all of this.  Hey, that's my job, right?  I don't want him to see me sweat, I want him to concentrate on healing.  I think I'm pretty good at it, too.  I'm so supportive, in fact, that I let him do what he got hurt doing to begin with a second time without batting an eyelash.  Encouraging him to go for it, breathing a sigh of relief every night when he got in.  (I get really annoyed when Mr W comes home with a story, like: "So-and-so said he wants to do narcotics/motors/whatever but he won't do it because his wife won't let him."  WTF??  Man, I don't get that, for a lot of reasons.  They're big boys, their job's dangerous no matter what their current 'specialty' is, let them do what makes them happiest, because happy is a good frame of mind to be in when you carry a gun to work.  But maybe that's just me.)

Anyway.

Today, I got a call from the dr's office telling us when they've got him scheduled for his procedure.  While his ortho is total eye candy, I am not looking forward to this at all. 

I'm sweating.  I'll admit it to myself, if not to him.  Luckily, I have friends that'll hold my hand when I need it, and won't think I'm not uber-wife when I let them really know what's going on in my head.

Whew.  Who can't use a few of those?

 

 

 

 

Only in my house

Only in my house--

can a purple tutu bring so much joy and body hair so much distress.

The reign of the princess continues, when today her mother caved and bought her her "dancy ballerina" ensemble.  It's lilac, sleeveless with velvet trim at the neck and armholes.  There's an applique of toe shoes on the chest, and the tulle has sparkles with ribbon trim on the tutu part.  I even got her little socks that look like ballerina shoes.  They don't match, but she doesn't care.  She twirls around in it anyway, arms outstretched, and then lifts them up over her head like she's posing.  She is quite pleased with the whole deal, and I am anticipating that this is gonna replace the pink Barbie nightgown as her new favorite.  Which, I'm sure you can guess, means I'll have to spring for another one; to have one to wear, one to wash.  I don't know where she gets this from, this fascination with all things 'dancy.'  But I know that there'll be a class on down the road sometime, with mini-ballerinas twirling together.  Given her penchant for dancing around naked, I can only hope that this isn't the first step in an illustrious career on the marquees of "gentlemen's" clubs.  I'm not worried...afterall, her brothers all outgrew this stage, and they'd no sooner dance around naked at this point then sport a big pink bow on their heads to school.

Speaking of brothers, tonight the big guy is feeling the weirdness that comes along with your body marching to its own tune.  "Mommy, look--there's hair on my toes.  Do you think I have some kind of disease that's making me age faster?"  Oh, man.  He has no idea how much fun we're in for.  "Mi vida, that's perfectly normal.  You're a guy.  Guys have more body hair.  And all this is happening for you at the time it's supposed to, don't worry, it's not some disease."  "But I'm bigger."  "Yeah, and aren't some of the other boys in your class getting bigger too?  I can't predict puberty, but I can assure you that you are not the only one at its door."  This is the same child that thinks he has a unibrow and has asked me to wax it.  OY!  First of all, it's not that bad, but to him, it's a full-on unibrow.  Secondly, my sweet is 11.  I'm not about to wax an 11 yr old!!  Thirdly, I am suspecting a female influence here.  One offhanded comment from a girl is, I'm sure, enough to strike fear in the heart of a preadolescent.  I remember when he first started wearing glasses, a little girl in his class told him he looked better without them; he's been after contacts ever since.  Mom-tuition tells me this unibrow idea came from a girl.  He's such a cute boy, so sweet...why can't he see it??  Oh, man, the insecurity of this age on up, holy cow~~I signed up for potty training, and conveniently (?) forgot this is part of the deal too!!  Where's that confident Mom who tells all her friends that "I just want to raise boys that turn into good men." ??  I'll tell you where...mentally, I'm hiding in a semi-cower in the closet; physically, I'm taking a big gulp and trying to look like I've got all the answers.  Hey, it works for now. 

Only in my house--

can my bad mood be assuaged by a walk and a pitcher of tulips.

I've been struggling lately.  My mind is all over the place, sometimes where it shouldn't be.  It's making me really cantankerous, cranky, annoyed at myself.  Earlier today I went to Trader Joes for pizza dough, and came home with that and the most perfect shade of blush/peach/pinky tulips I've ever seen.  I love tulips, so graceful, but I'm not brave enough to attempt to grow my own.  I knew I'd be thinking about them even tomorrow if I didn't bring them home with me, so I bought 'em for myself.  They're really the prettiest color, I wish I could carry them around by my face like some lost little Dutch girl all day.  The kids are fascinated, and keep sitting at the counter in the kitchen to get a closer look.  So far, looking, no touching... 

I remained a bit on the grouchy side, so after we got settled early this evening, I grabbed Shadow's leash and took off.  I cranked up the tunes and in the state I was in, probably would've just kept on walking...but my feet found their way home because it was late and I knew everyone was probably hungry.  Cranky, but not irresponsible, haha.  Selfish enough to keep the tunes on, though, so I wouldn't hear the beginnings of every little fracas!  Besides, that way I could dance around the kitchen stretching the pizza dough and only look like half a loon...except I caught myself singing out loud a couple of times :)   Fortunately, no one said anything about it, and all that stretching must've been therapeutic to some degree, because although my evil hormonal twin still lurks within, I've once again prevailed.  She's been sent away with a back issue of GQ and a chocolate bar.  (No, it's not pms. Really. Can't say.)

And to reward you for putting up with that little rant above:

Only in my house--

can my heart feel like it's gonna burst with pride, twice within the span of 15 minutes.

Today, Ben had a running club race at school.  He was really nervous about it.  We got there before they started, and so I went up to pep talk him.  Ryan and Audrey hugged him.  But when Nolan came up, he and Ben approached each other, too cool to hug.  They give each other the chin-tilt-up and five.  Then Nolan says, "Do I know you?" but smiles and pep talks him too.  YES!  They really do like each other!

Mr W arrives at this point, but Ben's gone back with his group.  We're chatting, our kids running all around us, and Audrey starts fussing.  Nolan steps up to the plate, "Hey, Mom, I got her.  I'll take her to swing."  ??? Wow.  "Ok."  So I'm kinda enjoying chatting with Mr W, but getting a kick out of him at the same time.  He does this thing, where he's talking to me, but not looking at me.  I'm used to it, and he's not ignoring me.  It's a cop thing, to be looking at all the people in the crowd, back, forth, constantly.  There were a lot of people there, so I wasn't surprised, and the fact that I find this amusing is probably one of the reasons we're still married, lol.  One of my friends (also a cop) once said if you get two cops together, and they're talking, they're facing different directions, not looking at each other, but all around.  It's so true, it's comical.

I look over at Nolan, and the princess is sitting in his lap on the swing.  As the swing goes up, she breaks out a smile as bright as the sun.  I'm filled with happiness at this little scene.  I look away for a minute, at Ryan on the next swing, amazed he's actually not asked for a push.  When I look back at Nolan and Audrey, I can't believe it.  They are swinging still, but now Audrey has leaned back onto Nolan and raised her arms overhead (like you see people do on rollercoasters.)  They're both smiling, and I'm convinced I won't be forgetting this moment, even though I don't have a camera in my hand. 

And with that memory, folks, I think my evil hormonal twin is willing to let me have some peace.  For now.

She knows she can't compete with that degree of cuteness.

 

Girly, and I asked for this

First, let me say, I adore my boys.  I actually thought Audrey was another boy, even though I was hoping she was a girl.  I'll admit it. 

At first, I resisted the urge to go all out and paint the house pink.  I was afraid people would give me a hard time about overshopping for her--like I didn't overdo it for the others.  Silly.  I finally gave in, because she is the only girl, I'm not having anymore (really), and this is a one time deal.  No little princess again when she turns into a teenage girly terror.

And I'm so enjoying it!!!  I can admit that too.

She cracked me up today.  This morning, she announced she needed to go to Target.  To get more "Hey-o Kitty lippy," of course.  I am outside, wheeling the cart into Target, and she gets all excited.  "Lippy!  Tights!"  Clap, clap, giggle.  She loves her tights, to death, and we needed to replace a couple of pairs that were beyond help.

She got barrettes too.  More excitingly, however, she saw the undies in the girls section, and we got some too!  Maybe the pull-ups will go soon.  Then again, maybe not, but that's ok.  Hello Kitty again, after she looked at Barbie, Finding Nemo, and the Princesses.  Whatever happened to the days of the week pack, lol?  She's running around the house 'em right now, in her second outfit of the day.  My money's betting we'll be up to four outfits by bedtime. 

Earlier, I also got a laugh out of her.  It's only fair that I get a giggle after she scared the hell out of me and tipped over the stroller with her in it by standing up--I've seen that one coming for a while, but she caught me off guard today.  She's fine, not a scratch on her.  Phew.  We were perusing the makeup counter, I was trying something on, and BANG!  At any rate, she calmed down enough to let the lady put makeup on her.  And ask for a mirror, so she could see it.  (It wasn't anything garish, and it's just for fun, don't worry, folks.)

Mr W should just put bars on her window now, lol.

"Sparkly!"  she told him, when we went by to see him at work a few minutes ago.  I told him she had tarted up at the makeup counter, so of course we had to show him too.

Ever hear a grown man say "Sparkly!" ?? 

Where's my tape recorder??

When she unwraps him from around her finger, he enjoys the girly girl too. ;)

 

 

 

Three dirty words

Mood:  happy, but frustrated, like only the mother of a toddler can be-

When I first started being interested in boys, I remember wondering if I'd ever hear those three little words, feverishly whispered into my ear on a warm summer evening, before I reached the spinsterish age of 18.  You know, when 18 seems a lifetime away, and 'I love you' seems like an improbable string of words to be said together in your presence.  Those three little words, an overactive imagination, and too many pilfered romance novels fueled many a daydream back in the day.  Little did I know then that those three little words would pale in comparison to these: 

"I do it."

These are the three little words that fuel my days now.  They instill a sense of dread that can only be compared to the sense of dread brought on when accompanied by "scoot down please" at the doctor's office.

When spoken by a toddler, they are the most accursed words in the English language. 

"I thought you said you'd be here in 10 minutes," my friend said to me.  "I do it,"  I say, gesturing to Audrey.  "Oh."  There is no need for further explanation.  'I do it' suffices because anyone that's ever dealt with the whims of a 2 yr old daily understands what 'I do it' really means.

It means "I'll put on my own shoes," even if you have everyone else ready to go and are running a few minutes late.  Okay, so at least the shoes match (this time), but still...ever watch a toddler put them on the wrong feet first, then struggle with the (easy) Velcro, then insist on taking them off, putting them on the right feet, and struggling with the Velcro again?  It's agonizing.  While you listen to the garage door going up and the car starting? (Start for the medicine cabinet now, you'll be needing something extra strength.)  No amount of 'hurry up, we gotta go' will break their concentration.  I have a friend who used to put the kids shoes on after they were already strapped in their carseats just to avoid this.

It means "I'll brush my own teeth," and the walls, and the floor, and the sink...while making a fresco out of toothpaste on front of the bathroom cabinets.

It means "I'll dress myself today," in shorts when it's cold; in clothes that don't fit (but you haven't put away yet); in colors that don't match; in a bathing suit and patent leather Mary Janes; in my pajamas (when you are heading to the mall); or in tights (in the summertime.) 

It means "I'll comb my own hair," parting it like a bad comb-over; combing it so it sticks straight up;  omg, is that red gel, and will it wash out?  I have comb duels with her every day, and as for the boys...if it's laying flat, why mess with a good thing?

It means "I'll pour my own drink," even if there's no one else around, and then it means "I'll clean my own mess," while exploring the finger painting qualities of white grape juice.

All this independence, surely it is not a bad thing.  On some days, it can even be adorable.

However, on other days, "I do it" can be surpassed by its uglier, teeth-gnashing cousin, "I help you."

On these occasions, I not only need something extra strength, but also something 80 proof.

"Mommy, I yuv you." 

Okay, that works too.