Conversations with a 31 Year Old or Why I Married My Husband

Last night, The Husband was really tired and went to bed early. I was really interested in watching Happy Town, and stayed up late. Er. I mean later. Because, clearly 11:00 p.m. isn't LATE, late. Just, erm, later.

Anyway, went I crawled in bed at 11, my husband and I had the following conversation:
The Husband is in itallics. I am not.

So, Jensen Ackles is the same age as me.

Hm. I would have figured he was younger.

Yeah, I mean, he looked like a baby on Dark Angel.

I forgot he was on that.

But, this is good news, because now, if I ever meet him, I could totally hit on him and not be a dirty old lady. No one could really call me a cougar, because we're the same age. I'm actually a couple of months younger.

Good call.
___________________

This conversation may seem pretty much not a big deal. But, that's the charm. Because it could have been a huge deal. With someone else. It could have gone more like this:

Hypothetical nonHusband is in itallics. I am not.

So, Jensen Ackles and me are the same age.

Who?

Jensen Ackles.

Who?

Jensen Ackles. From Supernatural. You know, the one I'm not-so-secretly in love with. Jennnnsennnn Acccckkkkllllessssss.

Oh. Why is this news?

Because, I could totally hit on him and not be a dirty old lady. Because we're the same age.

Yeah, but since he lives in Hollywood and films in Vancouver, it seems like your chances of hitting on him are slim to none.

That's so not the point.

3 Things that Perplex Me

40,000 men and women everyday - This line repeats multiple times during "Don't Fear the Reaper," by Blue Oyster Cult. It's one of my favorite songs, and I have no idea about what the 40,000 people are doing every day: dying? fearing? I just don't know.

Fighting with Family on Facebook - I'm going to call this FFF, but I just don't understand why people would feel the need to broadcast their arguments, especially with those they love. The past couple of weeks, I have watched three separate families get downright poisonous with each other on wall posts. It makes me want to defriend them all. Or quit Facebook. Unfortunately, I am one of those insane souls that is totally addicted to Farmville, so I'm staying where I'm at.

Charging for condiments - I get why chain fast food restaurants have to put limits on condiments. I mean, I'm sure someone down the line has demanded 27 packets of barbeque sauce. But if I order a chicken sandwich and fries and ask for two packets of honey mustard, I don't understand why I have to pay 20 cents for them. And if I do pay my 20 cents, you damn well better give me both packets. It's a thing I have. Everything is better with honey mustard. Just trust me on this.

Pain

Last year, my teeth started breaking like glass. It was like one of those teeth falling out nightmares, except that I never woke up. I thought I had the situation all taken care of, but apparently, my teeth beg to differ.

I have a dead nerve in one of my teeth and it hurts like you wouldn't believe. You would think that when a nerve dies, it would quit doing it's job and there wouldn't be any pain. You'd be wrong.

This is quite possibly the hardest pain I've ever dealt with (physically, at least). You are talking to a woman here, who has twice over had a foot long gash sawed in her abdomen and a baby yanked out of it. I know pain. And this is worse.

Of course, I inherited a high pain threshold from my grandma and so when I do feel real pain, I tend to get whiny about it. But still. Bad, pain, bad.

The kicker is that I have been crying all night. First, Temerity Jane wanted to know about having kids. I cried a little reading her post and the responses and then I cried buckets writing my response. I don't even know why. Then, my mom posted about her truck. And my kid brother's truck. And I cried all over again. Because I made her give up her truck. Because I don't have a classic car to sell to take my kids to Disney. Because she and D have this incredible bond over these big trucks and I just want an overhead console because I love the freakin' toys. Seriously, I try to care about engines and safety features and such, but ultimately, I'm afraid that what I care most about is change dispensers and the car seat mirror.

I think we should assume that I am hormonal. Because I don't usually cry like this. Okay, yeah, I do. But not quite this easily.

But, for now, the crying is making my sinuses swell and press against my teeth. My head may explode from the pain. So, people - quit it, just quit it. I want nothing but funny YouTube videos and snarky celebrity commentary until this toothache goes away. Okay? Okay. Thank you.

Please feel free to use the comment section to make me not cry.

What's In My Crochet Bag - Bookmark Edition

Last night, I did something amazing. Something revolutionary. Something totally unexpected and furthermore astounding. Are you ready? I sewed on a button.

Not just any button, though. The button for Suze's gift for last year's craft meme. That's right! I have finally completed and shipped all, count them ALL of my craft meme gifts that were supposed to be completed and shipped by last December. I am the awesome.

I know, I know. No applause needed.

In the meantime, I have been working on a veritable plethora of crochet projects and can't wait to finish one and show you my brand new energy and amazingness. (Am I painting it on a bit thick yet? No? Good.) But, in the meantime, I'm a little low on finished projects. I fully intend to post the fabulousness of Suze's gifts next week, but I want to give them time to get to her. (By the way, Suze, if you don't get your gift this week, send me a holler so I won't post and ruin the surprise, kay?)

Last night, I was trying to think of some sort of discussion to start or thing to ramble about, since I have no finished projects and I pulled out the gifty with the missing button to finish it up and found a bookmark.

I really love to crochet bookmarks and I've been doing it for some time. Typically, I do them in thread and they are sort of useful doilies. All about the pretty. Every year for Christmas, my bookclub does a white elephant exchange, which is hilarious. But, we also tend to bring little whatsit type gifts for everyone. Last year, while I was in the hospital recovering from a c-section, I did scarves for everyone. And then made sure they understood that this was a one time gig. Scarves are a little more time than I was willing to donate on a yearly basis.

So, this past year, I decided to do bookmarks. I have a book of nothing but thread crochet bookmark patters (yes, a little overkill, I'll admit) and I went through it with post it notes in hand, "Perfect for G!" "For M, maybe?" and "Would this be masculine enough for GH if it wasn't pink?" littered the pages. I finally chose a pattern for everyone, made a list of threads that I needed to buy and then, well, then I promptly forgot about the whole project. So, I found myself, days before the meeting in full panic mode. Some very complicated thread crochet patterns in one hand and well, nothing in the other because I never bought the stupid thread.

So, this is what I did.
Cute, huh?

Yeah, I was impressed.

(Oh, and yes, yes that is a thesaurus of which my bookmark is marking the page. No, I am not reading a thesaurus. I actually forgot to take a picture and brought the bookmark to work and it was either this or a very boring book on farm easements.)

I did this with the amazing bright green Kool-Aid dyed yarn that Suze sent me last year. So, you can't have any, no matter where you look, but it is sock weight and I'm thinking wool. Any type of yarn would really work, though, so long as it is a lighter weight. You could also do this with thread or cotton.

As for pattern, I can't help you there, either, because I didn't use one. I basically chained however many stitches I wanted and then single crocheted back down the row. I used a small hook (like maybe a C or D) and then ran the ends through a bead and built a tassel on the thread ends. Note: You will want big beads and ones with big holes in the middle, otherwise you will have dinky sad little tassels.

(Also note, this is not a utilitarian bookmark. This is all about the showy. If you try to close a book on this monster, you will break the spine. You could very easily do a much longer cord and have something where the bead could hang out the bottom. It's up to you and what you hope to accomplish. This bookmark could probably be used the same way in a paperback, now that I think about it, just not in a big book. End: Warning that you could have figured out on your own anyway.)

Every one is a little different because I used different beads and I sort of tweaked how I was doing it with each one. I tried to do one with two rows, one in the front loop only and one in the back loop only. This gave me a really cool triangular shape to the bookmark, but also made it sort of twisty. I probably could have fixed that with blocking, but I would rather it just work.

Basically, it's a trial and error kind of thing. Hope you like it!

Global Schmorming

Last night, I was watching TV (I'm not telling you what show because I have my pride) and this guy was bragging about how "ungreen" he is. He proudly displayed for the camera the four "herbies" of trash that his family produces each WEEK (we have a baby in diapers and it takes us two weeks to get one full enough to bother with), talked about their determination to not conserve water or electricity and pointed out how his children are encouraged to be wasteful. "I just don't believe in global warming" was his explanation.

Okay, first off, a little sociopolitical ranting: If you choose to believe a scientist paid by a non-green government over decades of independent researchers, you are probably the proud owner of a certain bridge in New York. They lie, people. They lie. And okay, global warming is a stupid name, since it doesn't actually mean that things are going to feel warmer. Which is why most scientists have changed the terminology to global climate change. It's the politicians that keep saying global warming. Why? Because they don't want you to believe in it. If you believe in it, you might demand that the government freakin' do something about it.

Okay, end rant and taking off the tinfoil hat.

Here's my response to wasteful guy: So freaking what? You don't believe in global warming. Global Schmarming, you say? Fine. So what?

Do you not believe in half a million acres of land being covered in landfills (This is, by the way, only the active landfills, there are no accurate acre counts on abandoned landfills because there are so many ranging from actual municipal landfills to "dump" areas)? Do you believe in most of these landfills resulting in toxic chemicals leaking into the water supply? Do you believe in acid rain (a concept pretty much as old as industrialization? Do you believe in smog? Do you believe in the Pacific Garbage Patch?

Because it seems to me that global climate change (which I totally do believe in, personally) is just the tip of the iceberg (see what I did there?). Climate change is a serious problem and we need to deal with it, but even if you don't believe in it, or don't care about it or whatever, we still have other problems. Problems that can't be blamed on anyone but us. I mean seriously, cows did not dump all that plastic in the Pacific ocean.

I frankly, don't see what excuse anyone has to be that "ungreen." I am not super green. I am going to admit that I don't recycle. I feel terribly guilty about this. We don't have roadside pick up and we never have aluminum in the house. I have other excuses, but none of them are especially convincing. Brynna and I have agreed to set up paper and plastic centers in the basement this summer. We also have a sort of kind of compost pile. Okay, there is no compost in that pile, however, we still dump our vegetable waste in it and even though I have not managed to make anything useful out of it, it doesn't smell, it doesn't take up much room and it biodegrades in my back yard instead of in the local landfill, so I'm sticking with it. Maybe one day I'll work out the whole turning thing.

There are certain things, though, that seem like an obvious choice. CFL bulbs for one. When they first came out, I hated them. I bought them, because of the whole not recycling guilt, but I hated them. They took so long to warm up and the color of the light was weird. Trust me, people, it's fixed. They don't so much do the warming up thing anymore and the color of the light is now completely normal. And, you can get generic brands. I pay about $4 per lightbulb in my house. There is a light in the basement that is always on (for various reasons, mostly they involve me not breaking my ankle) and I replace it about once every two years. The rest, well, we've lived here three years and I haven't replaced any yet. On the other hand, the girls both have these lamps with tee tiny bulbs and I replace those things about once every two weeks. Not really, but it feels like it.

Reusable shopping bags for another. If you think that's crap, you haven't used them yet. They are stronger, you can put the milk in them and it doesn't end up pouring through the deck, you can fit more groceries in a single bag and the bags stand up. Why we ever started using those crappy plastic bags in the first place is beyond me.

There are some things (I am thinking water conservation, programable thermostats, turning off the freakin' lights) that are economical, in addition to being green. It seems to me that anyone who would say, "You know what, screw the planet, leave the faucet and the light on and use some of those overpriced paper towels to clean up," is just doing it to spite someone. You're paying for this crap, dude. Does it make you feel important to spend all that money on cluttering up the world?

The fact is that global climate change can be affected by the choices we make, but really, the major difference has to be made by government and corporations. The changes we make, the green actions we take in our homes have little to do with climate change and a lot to do with wastefulness. Using your disbelief in global warming to justify using disposable paper products at every meal is like saying that you don't have a cat because your car has a flat tire. It makes no sense whatsoever.

The simple fact is that like it or not, we are responsible for this world. There's lots of room to debate about certain facets of that statement (is it okay to destroy part of that world for fossil fuel extraction, are we causing climate shift, is it better to focus on finding alternate fuels or alternate sources of fuel, to name a few) but there are some things that are just not up for debate.

As a society, we used to teach our children not to waste things. "Waste not, want not," was a popular refrain. Reusing wasn't a green initiative, it was a matter of common sense. Why has that suddenly changed? Why is waste now the norm?

My mother in law recently bought me a case of paper towels. I laughed and said it would take us five years to use all those paper towels and she looked at me a little funny. The truth is that I've just never really seen the point. You know what I use paper towels for? Soaking the grease off of bacon. That's pretty much it. I use a dishrag or a kitchen towel to clean up spills, wash the high chair tray, etc. etc. I'm guessing that in addition to saving some landfill space, I've saved myself probably $500 over my married life.

I don't do everything I should for our home (I am referring to the Earth, where we live, which is another thing, we live here people, would you throw all this trash in a room in your house?). I need to get on this recycling thing. I need to use organic cleaning products. I should always carry reusable shopping bags, instead of just at the grocery. I ought to drive something more fuel efficient than my minivan. And all that's important, but seriously, just start with acting like your parents. Use a little more and waste a little less. It worked for them.

The Country House and the Town House

When I was a kid, we lived on a farm. It was, by no stretch of the imagination, in the middle of nowhere. We lived just about four miles outside of town and on one of the only straight stretches of a major US highway.

This meant a few things for me. First of all, there was no one in my neighborhood, because there was no neighborhood. There was no riding my bike somewhere fun because people flew by our house at 80 miles an hour. It was just plain dangerous.

I watched shows like Sesame Street and the Cosby Show and longed for the density of the city. Where people were so surrounded by people that they couldn't help be near a friend.

I watched shows like The Torkelsons and Boy Meets World and I longed for suburban life with quiet roads and kids on bikes and scooters.

I watched shows like Little House on the Prairie and longed for a farm town where kids could run anywhere they wanted and not be in any danger.

I watched a lot of TV, I guess.

When I had Brynna, we lived in town. In a little house on a little court. It was a good place to ride a bike or a scooter, but there were no kids around. I never thought of it as unsafe, but I wouldn't have let Brynna run wild there, either.

She was only three when we moved to the World's Smallest Town. Here, we live in town, too. Except there are only like 20 houses in the whole town. We live in a pretty good spot for bike riding. And there are kids around us. There were kids next door that Brynna got along with pretty well, but they moved. There are a couple of boys up the street, though, and the next door kids just moved a couple of blocks, so when I can trust Brynna to leave our street, she can go see them. This is pretty much what I wanted as a kid.

She's too little right now, but in a few years, she'll be able to go anywhere in town. I'll say, "Be home before dark!" and she can go wherever, hang with other kids, whatever.

Except that now that I have what I wanted when I was little, I want what I had when when I was little. I don't know my neighbors and frankly, I don't know how to meet people who never seem to leave their house. I feel guilty when my grass gets more than a couple of inches long. I don't like to go outside and holler for Brynna because I'm worried that I'll disturb people.

And even though it's the World's Smallest Town and Brynna has a better chance getting kidnapped from a deserted isle, I still feel like I should make sure she's there every few minutes.

The thing is, now, I'd like to live in the middle of nowhere. Now, I'd like to be where the neighbors are half a mile away and I can holler as loud as I like. Where chasing butterflies or catching fireflies isn't a spectator sport, where home is a space all mine, not to be shared with anyone else.

Maybe someday I'll have room to roam. In the meantime, I'm going to enjoy what I've got. I'm going to sit on my deck in the dark and look at the million stars that I can see because those 20 houses don't throw much of a glow. I'm going to listen to the waterfall across the street and the bats in the trees and the crickets in teh grass and enjoy the sounds of the country around me.

And someday, I'll have a little piece of nowhere all my own.

Bored

Once a month, I have Board meetings for the Montessori Board. Because I am going to Brynna's school, to sit in Brynna's class and talk to Brynna's teachers about things that affect Brynna, she wants to come. I can't let her. Because of rules. And because of distractions. And because of my sanity.

So, I've taken to calling them my Boring Meetings. As in, "Oh, honey, stay here and play with Papaw, because I'm going to a Boring Meeting."

Twice a year, I have a Board meeting for work. My small, nondescript nonprofit hosts our national board. It's a to do. Since we are a tiny organization, we don't have a space for more than about four people to meet. So, we borrow a space. And we often bring in food. Sometimes there's a caterer and sometimes there's me.

There's technology to coordinate and copies to make and it's all very mundane event planning type of stuff. The fact is that I love this event planning type of stuff. I really love the details that go into a perfect meeting. Cookies from the bakery and a screen that comes down out of the ceiling. Remembering that the former board chair likes milk in her tea and that the current board chair believes that nondairy creamer is an abomination. I love it when it comes together. I love that moment when the panic and stress and worry resolves into assurance that I've. Got. This.

Unfortunately, that moment then dissolves nearly seamlessly into the actual meeting. During which, I take notes. Which is really the Boring Meeting in my life.

I mean, there's no such thing as a really excellent, totally interesting, fascinating and fun Board Meeting. At least not in my experience. I've worked for three nonprofits and served on one Board and it's all pretty much the same crap. Financials and approval of minutes. Then there's some overwrought discussion about something that matters just a little in the grand scheme of things. The big stuff, the really important stuff, usually gets handled in about seven minutes and then you get a 45 minute discussion on CD rates.

It's pretty much a comedown. But not a comedown I can make a big deal out of. I have to sit there with a smile on my face and check the water bottles to make sure they're still cold and hold the pile of extra agendas.

It's not that I'm bashing my org. You have to understand, I adore my former board prez and my the current one isn't so bad, either. The VP has grandkids the same age as Maren and he is precious with his iPhone full of pictures. One of the board members is Irish and has the most beautiful accent in history and is almost as snarky as the voice in my head. I enjoy seeing these people. It's lovely. Delightful. So boring it gives me a headache.

So, that's where I am today and tomorrow and then sweet freedom, Board meeting cleanup and pretending that it'll be eons until the next one. Think of me. Think of me fondly.

Some Days are Better than Others

A Warning: This post starts with some weird fashion and shopping talk. Suffer through it. Because the end involves slapstick humor and my complete embarrassment. Carry on.

A few weeks ago, I went shopping. I desperately needed jeans. You know, ones that would stay up without a belt and had no paint on them. I really wanted good jeans. Jeans that I could wear with high heeled boots or strappy sandals and nice tops. Jeans that are like denim trousers. (Trouser, by the way is kinda a ridiculous word. I'm just sayin'. Say it a few times. Trousers. Trooouuuuussssseeerrrs. See. Or maybe I'm tired. Who knows?)

I went to my go-to store and found nothing. Which sucked. Then I went to the store where I never find anything I like, but inexplicably keep going there. I saw these jeans on a rack there. Dark, with cuffs and sort of lightweight. I pulled them off the rack and saw an elastic inset in the back and put them back. Because, see, in my world, only old ladies wear elastic waisted jeans. Yes, nearly every other pair of pants I have happen to include some elastic, but not jeans. NOT JEANS!

But, as I was putting them back, I saw that they were sailor fronted jeans. Man, I love sailor pants. Especially sailor jeans. I've included a picture for those who don't know or care about sailor pants. Anyway, I've wanted a pair for years. Years. I don't know why. I have never even found a pair to try on, though. I don't know if it's the sort of thing that people don't think big girls should wear or what.

So, I tried them on. And then I fell in love. For a couple of reasons. In the first place, they are sooo the sort of thing that a big girl should wear because they have a nice flat front with no zipper placket to pucker your shirt. Secondly, they rock. That is all.

I bought them. I had trepidations about the elastic waist and the fact that they were coming from this store that I hate, but they happened to be 70% off, so it's not like I was out a lot. I was very excited to wear them the first time. I got twenty bazillion compliments. Or two. But there's only two people in my office, so that's still good.

Anyway, when I got home at the end of the day, I bent over to put up the baby gate and BROKE all three buttons on one side. Notice that I didn't say that I popped the buttons. No, I broke them. They had these large covered buttons and the backs just popped off. I had people coming over and no other plan for an outfit so I safety pinned them up and went with it.

Today, I was desperate. So, I wore the safety pinned pants. I should have known better.

At 12:45, my boss and I realized that we hadn't even considered the possibility of lunch. So, she offered to drive her huge, monstrous truck to Subway. When we got there she parked straddling a line and taking up two parking spaces. I was all prepared to just keep my mouth shut, but then she asked and I had to tell her that she was smack in the middle. She backed up and moved over into one space.

Then, she asked again. I couldn't see, because it's seriously a HUGE truck. So, I opened the door a little. And there was the stupid running board. Big, shiny chrome running board. So, I leaned over. And felt it. Three buttons. Snapping in half. On my side.

"Ow." I didn't actually mean to say anything, but I was totally surprised and taken off guard.

"Are you okay?" I'd like to take this opportunity to point out that I injure myself at work approximately once a day. We only have fire doors in my office. I don't know why. Anyway, I run into the door frames (not like face first, just like clipping my elbow) and rip off huge hunks of skin. Today, I wacked my hand into the copier and pulled off a strip of hand skin that looked like a snake just wriggled out of it. I also turn over my chair, pull down the box pile on my head and hit my head on my desk while trying to pull things out from under it. Ow is my default reaction to these things. Never has she expressed any interest. But, here I am in her monster truck from Mars and she wants to know if I'm okay.

"Yeah. Well, not really. All my buttons just broke." I pulled up my fist full of buttons and put them on the dashboard. "I don't guess you have any safety pins?"

We looked through about seven tiny miniature First Aid Kits that she has stashed away. I would say that she must be paranoid, except that in addition to the fact that none of them contained safety pins, I can tell you that I also didn't see a single solitary Band-Aid, so maybe not.

Luckily, the Subway we were going to was located in a gas station. I ever so carefully climbed out of the truck and walked very calmly into the gas station. Holding my pants up. Which had overpriced safety pins. Which I purchased. With my credit card. Meaning that I had to sign the slip left handed. Did I mention it was my right side.

So, my pants now have 6, count them 6 safety pins holding them up. And nothing else. But prayers. I'm telling you this now, at 10:46 p.m. because I'm about to take them off and can no longer be pantsed. Thank you.

Suckage

A few things you should know:

1. I'm sick. Weirdly and inexplicably. It comes and goes. It tires me out.
2. I'm preparing for a Board meeting, a national event, 2 or 3 grant writing deadlines and a few other miscellaneous projects at work. Which means that there is just no way to get away with blogging at work.
3. It's almost 11. My eyes feel like they are going to bleed.
4. I feel really bad about not writing since what last Wednesday? Just not bad enough to spend the hour or two I need to craft the next fabulous piece of writing I have planned.
5. You should never get so lazy that you do a google image search based on the term "suckage." It's a bad idea.
6. Some people apparently have waaay too intimate a relationship with egg rolls.

Just so you know.

A Photographic Tour of My Easter

On Saturday, we went to an Easter Egg Hunt. Which was a lot of fun. Brynna found a lot of eggs.

A Lot of Eggs. They all had candy in them, and somehow, we made it home with like three pieces of candy. Last year, we were a little overwhelmed with candy, so this year, we tried to reduce the amount coming into the house and there was so little, The Husband and I had none to steal. So, candy-wise, this Easter was a disappointment.

Maren was not quite as talented an egg finder. She found four. Which was fine, because she had a great time wandering around and trying to figure out why everyone was so worked up about picking up toys. When you think about it, I think that this was the purpose of egg hunts: to teach kids that it can be fun to pick up toys. Unfortunately, since we don't typically hide candy in the kids' toys, it hasn't worked out for us.

In this picture, both of my kids are zeroed in on the same egg. Maren, who at this point, has one lonely green egg in her basket, is bending to get it and Brynna, who is running out of room, is zooming in. Brynna won, snatching it from in front of Maren. Before I could figure out whether or not to intervene, Brynna, dropped the egg in Maren's mostly empty basket and kept running. A couple of minutes later, she informed me that she had found enough and the rain was cold.


My husband was in charge of putting the kids to bed on Saturday night and I went out for a couple of hours with the girls. Apparently, he doesn't quite understand the concept of wearing nice pajamas for the pictures. Or there may not have been any clean. Anyway, just pretend that Brynna's pajamas do not consist of a tank top that no longer fits and shorts that never fit.
Moving on, the Easter Bunny, in his infinite wisdom, did not bring Brynna a single, solitary toy this year. To my house. And Brynna did not freak out. Her basket is a mixing bowl and is filled with baking tools. She's been very into cooking lately and so now she has some of her own stuff. Including a very cute apron.

We made pancakes for breakfast. They were shaped like teddy bears and Mickey Mouse's head. Which is sort of morbid, when you really think about it. Also, check out the heart-shaped measuring cups. Man, that Bunny is good!


This is apparently the best picture I took of Maren's basket. I don't know why. Whatever. It was cute and had a farm animal theme. Pretty much everything in it has been a hit except for the ball that looks like a pig and vibrates when you push his nose. (And who wouldn't?) I thought she'd be all over that thing, but she seems mildly freaked out by it.


This is Brynna trying to give the cat a spatula hat. Is it any wonder she prefers to be outside? Seriously.

After church, I tried to bribe them to take a picture together. This is the outcome. There are actually about 20 of these.

Followed by the family picture, in which no one is looking at the camera.


We went to my mom's for the rest of the day, where I got lovely pictures of the girls individually.


Even if that did occasionally involve me shoving one of them in a tree and then bribing her into laughing. Since she wouldn't smile otherwise.

However, this is the only picture of the two of them together I managed to get there. In this shot, Brynna is crying because no one will play with her and Maren is crying because her shoe is falling off.


For some strange reason, the Easter Bunny also leaves presents for my children at my mom's house (can you say "Spoiled?" I knew you could.) So that sort of saved the weepy day.


And there was much baby-doll induced rejoicing. Yay!

Now, don't ya just feel like you were there?

Conversations with a Five Year Old

I know I've been doing a lot of these lately, but you gotta cut me some slack. She's been a gold mine lately...

The Husband: Next time you decide to yell at me while I'm yelling at you like that, I'm gonna spank you right there in front of God and everyone.*
Brynna: Well, not everyone. I mean, people in Asia won't be able to see it. Or Africa, or Europe, or... What's the little continent over by Asia, mommy?
Me: Australia?
Brynna: Yep. They won't be able to see either.

*I can't even begin to explain the logic behind this. I don't understand it. If you don't want her to yell, don't yell. But you know, united front. Yadda yadda.
Ed. Note: At this point, it's impossible to punish her. Really.
_________________________

Me: Are you still mad at Daddy?
Brynna: Yep.
Me: Me too.
Brynna: Why?
Me: Well, you know how sometimes I tell you that you aren't making the best choices with your behavior.
Brynna: Yeah?
Me: Well, right now I don't think Daddy's making the best choices with his behavior.
Brynna: Hm.
Me: But, I've been thinking about this, and it seems to me that we only really have two choices here.
Brynna: What are our choices?
Me: Well, we can stay mad about it and have a miserable Easter, or we can forgive Daddy and have a nice day.
Brynna: I think I'd rather be miserable than forgive Daddy, thank you.

Ed. Note: The conversation went on and we eventually agreed to just pretend the whole thing had never happened. This was either a stroke of horrible parenting where I let that united front slip and then didn't talk her into forgiving her father or a stroke of brilliant parenting where I taught her the valuable lesson that you can't always agree and sometimes you just move on with your life anyway. I'm gonna go with brilliant.
_____________________________

Brynna: Are you going to drop me off this morning?
Me: Yes.
Brynna: Why?
Me: Because you have to go to school and get ready for the Parent Luncheon. The luncheon isn't until lunch time. I'll come then.
Brynna: You promise.
Me: I'll be there with bells on.
Brynna: Who's Bellzon?
Me: Um. It's an expression. It means I'll be really happy to be there. I'll actually be there with Daddy.
Brynna: So, Daddy is Bellzon, here.
Me: Yes.

The Worst Day of Brynna's Entire Life

So, all in all, we had a very nice Easter weekend. There will be more posts about it. I promise. Some may have pictures. Maybe.

But, yesterday, Easter, was the worst day of Brynna's life. I offer the three items that made yesterday the worst day of Brynna's life.

Item the One: My mom has a fish pond. It's very cute. It's small and has flowers planted all around it and a fountain in it. This winter was very cold. Her fish froze to death. So, yesterday, we cleaned out the pond. I mean, she took the fish out as they died, it's not like we were hunting for fish carcases, but we were pulling out leaves and trying to get the pond to drain and yadda yadda. At one point, I was sitting on her steps trying to help and both of my children were climbing me like a tree.

This behavior frustrates me to no end. In fact, on Saturday, I may have at one point shouted to the living room and all of it's inhabitants that I required to not be touched at all by anyone for five freakin minutes. They may have only lasted about fifteen seconds.

Anyway, I was really worried about Maren falling off the steps as she tried to climb me. I was kinda focused on keeping her on the steps and Brynna was eating a cupcake and hanging out and all the sudden she wasn't. She was sprawled on the ground, under a bush and crying.

I couldn't wrap my brain around the fact that the wrong kid had fallen. I asked her what happened like it somehow wasn't obvious and then I got all hung up on why she needed another cupcake when she had just eaten one. The cupcake was pretty much moist morsels of mouthwateringness in the dirt. Between the fall, the lack of cupcake and my grim determination that she not have another one, it took us about ten minutes to get worked out.

Item the Two: My mom got a new patio table. Not really, but it would take me eons to describe how she has had this patio table that she loves and adores for almost five years and it was still in its box, so I won't. It was new, okay. The Husband and my stepdad put it together and there were these two, huge cardboard circles there that protected it from something. Shipping, maybe.

Anyway, The Husband suggested the biggest game of Frisbee in history, which was fine and good until Brynna and Uncle D decided to, in fact, play the world's biggest game of Frisbee. Brynna threw to Uncle D. Uncle D caught the near perfect throw and tossed it back. Only instead of gliding right into Brynna's hand, it glided right into her throat. With alarming force. Enough force to collapse a four or five inch section of corrugated cardboard disk. Enough force to send her sprawling on her back. Enough force to give her a nifty little abrasion on her neck and make us look like child stranglers for all eternity. Yeah. Good times.

That time, pulling the family back on track required Coke and a little mollycoddling. Only I'm not sure it's mollycoddling when it's a real live injury and everyone was pretty much scared by it.

Item the Three: After the cookout was done, the pond was filled and the mess was cleaned, we were gathering our stuff to go home. Maren and Brynna were running around and generally enjoying the cooling air and setting sun. It was pretty idyllic. Until, Brynna decided to do some climbing. She was holding onto a tree limb and standing on a dog kennel when she suddenly fell backward, sprawling (once again) on her rear this time. The miracle is that this one, had the potential for the most injury. She fell right between two big heavy metal parts of things that could have majorly wrecked her little skull.

I stood her up, dusted her off, saw just how close it had been and explained to her that sometimes you just have a klutzy day and the best way to deal with it is to go lie down with a cool cloth over your eyes. She kinda looked at me like I had just suggested she go skydiving and metaphorically got back on the horse. Before I even knew what was happening, she was back on the kennel and preparing to swing down. Which just goes to show you that sometimes your kids may be smarter than you. Sometimes they may also be more accident prone that you ever were, though, and maybe you should lock them in their rooms with a cool cloth.

I think she was pretty glad to go home and go to bed, to be honest.

The Story in my Head

I started writing a novel in November. For NaNoWriMo. Then, I stopped. I stopped for a lot of reasons, but one of them was Stephen King.

Do you, my lovely blog-reading public, remember when Steve (which is what I call him when we have long talks in my head) was hit by a van? It was pretty horrifying. I spent days sitting on the edge of my seat, praying desperately for a man I've never met.

I could spend some time telling you how much I feel like I know Steve. How I am roughly the same age as his kids and I loved it best when books were dedicated to them. How I read Tabby's books just so I could understand what kind of woman it takes to keep up with him. How I listened to the Rock Bottom Remainders and always think of him when I see the Castle Rock logo. How I felt like he was talking TO ME every time he wrote the words "Constant Reader." It might make me look like a stalker and, oh crap, it does make me look like a stalker. Steve, don't go. I promise I've never even been to Maine. I went to Florida once or twice but it was before you lived there (I think) and I am not one of THOSE fans, I promise.

Anyway, I was worried, is my point here. I was worried about him. Partially because I felt like I knew him. Partially because I had read everything he had written and I really, really wanted him to finish The Dark Tower series.

And as he recovered, I celebrated. I read On Writing and I danced with joy. Really. I did. Then Dreamcatcher came out and I was so excited for a new novel I wet my pants. (Not really. It's an expression, ya'll.) And the, well, I hate to say I was disappointed, because, Steve, you know, but I was kind of, sort of, a little. Well, disappointed.

And here's the thing. I know that every word you write is colored by your experiences and nothing happens to a person as big as being hit by a freakin' van that doesn't seep into their work. I get that. I have known that since I started writing stories when I was nine.

So, it's not that the accident showed up, but that he was so bitter about it. And, I don't know. What did I expect, there to be pink puffy hearts and flowers growing all over the van accident? No, it's not what you live, it's how you live it and if there is something people are almost never happy about it's being hit by a van.

But, it seemed to color the story so heavily. It seemed to live and breathe in the story and for me at least, it took me right out of the world of the story. For those moments, I wasn't fearing aliens or watching in horror as my best friend became something else, I was reading as Stephen King, horror writer extraordinaire ranted about being hit by a van.

That's what stopped my story in November. You see, it's a dead baby story. A story about a woman living with loss, wrecked by her own self-loathing and misery, wallowing in the fields of death. It's a story about what I could have turned into. It's a story of all the women I have grieved with and then watched be overtaken by the grief. It's a story of coming to terms with life after losing the only thing that mattered.

And I am terrified to write it. I am terrified to relive the loss, for one thing. Although Ethan is my always-with-me baby, I get by a lot by not dwelling and this is going to require some good old fashioned dwelling.

But I am also scared because I am going to enter that territory. That territory where I write about how I been done been done wrong. And I don't want to be too bitter. I don't want to slide out of the story and into me. I have known, almost since October 19, 2003 that I would have to write this story. Not really this story, it's evolved over time, but some story about Ethan and me. I have to write about it. I have to put it on paper, because that, my friends, is what I do. Put stuff on paper.

But, how, I ask myself, can I do that? How can I walk back through that valley and come out on the other side without doing a little wallowing? A little feeling sorry for myself? If Stephen King, a much better writer than I, can't do it, then how can I?

I don't know. But what I do know is that I have to try. And maybe, it'll suck. Who knows. But since everything Steve has written since Dreamcatcher has been phenomenal, maybe it doesn't even matter.